Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there,
Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.
And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,—
"How tranquil is nature reposing," he said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade,
"How lonely," quoth he—and his footsteps he stayed!
He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows,
—Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.
1863.
These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales.
The town despises modern lays:
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were—as Love is still—
Content with bow and arrow.
But why should we the fancy chide?
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
And how, when errant-knyghte or erl
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take—and, ay, with gratitude—
His lady's silver chiding.
We love the "rare old days and rich"
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the "good old times" with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
"Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!"