THOMAS HOOD.

1798-1845.

BALLAD. I. I t was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed; II. That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet:— Oh, no—the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met! III. ’T was twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses,— We plucked them as we passed.—
SONG. O Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestrie: There ’s living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree; Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. ’T is like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume; There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue— The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers. There ’s fairy tulips in the east, The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run: While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, Lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The vi’lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now ’t is little joy To know I ’m farther off from heav’n Than when I was a boy.
BALLAD. S he ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl! And robbed my failing years; My blood before was thin and cold But now ’t is turned to tears;— My shadow falls upon my grave, So near the brink I stand, She might have stayed a little yet, And led me by the hand! Ay, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill, ’T is nothing but the heron’s cry, And plover’s answer shrill; My child is flown on wilder wings, Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widened when she fled. Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine; Her meat was served on plates of gold, Her drink was rosy wine; But now she ’ll share the robin’s food, And sup the common rill, Before her feet will turn again To meet her father’s will!
SONG. I. T he stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time; The sun will never fail; But follow, follow round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover’s heart, Wherever he may be. II. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he ’s away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES
(LORD HOUGHTON).

1809-1885.

THE BROOKSIDE. I wandered by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill,— I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beside the elm-tree, I watched the long, long, shade, And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,—no, he came not,— The night came on alone,— The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,— But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind,— A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer—nearer,— We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

THE VENETIAN SERENADE. W hen along the light ripple the far serenade Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, She may open the window that looks on the stream,— She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream; Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, “I am coming—Stalì[*]—but you know not for whom! Stalì—not for whom!” Now the tones become clearer,—you hear more and more How the water divided returns on the oar,— Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair? Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare? Oh! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, “I am passing—Premì—but I stay not for you! Premì—not for you!” Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear, Then awake not, fair sleeper—believe he is here; For the young and the loving no sorrow endures, If to-day be another’s,—to-morrow is yours; May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, “I am coming—Sciàr—and for you and to you! Sciàr—and to you!”

[* ] The words here used are the calls of the gondoliers, indicating the direction they are rowing. “Sciàr” is to stop the boat.

FROM LOVE AND NATURE. T he Sun came through the frosty mist Most like a dead-white moon; Thy soothing tones I seemed to list, As voices in a swoon. Still as an island stood our ship, The waters gave no sound, But when I touched thy quivering lip I felt the world go round. We seemed the only sentient things Upon that silent sea: Our hearts the only living springs Of all that yet could be!