Not the lute only felt her hands, but she Played on my heart-strings, till the sounds be-
Incarnate in the pulses of my frame.
Speech left my tongue, and in my tears alone Found utterance. With stretched arms I implored
Continuance, whereat her fingers poured
A tenderer music, answering the tone
Her parted lips released, the while her throat Throbbed, as a heavenly bird were fluttering there,
And gave her voice the wonder of his note.
His brow,' she sang, is white beneath his hair;
The fertile beard is soft upon his chin, Shading the mouth that nestles warm within, As a rose nestles in its leaves; I see
His eyes, but cannot tell what hue they be, For the sharp eyelash, like a sabre, speaks The martial law of Passion; in his cheeks
The quick blood mounts, and then as quickly goes,
Leaving a tint like marble when a rose
Is held beside it ;- bid him veil his eyes, Lest all my soul should unto mine arise, And he behold it!' As she sang, her glance Dwelt on my face; her beauty, like a lance, Transfixed my heart. I melted into sighs, Slain by the arrows of her beauteous eyes. 'Why is her bosom made' (I cried) 'a snare? Why does a single ringlet of her hair Hold my heart captive?'
It is that you are mad with love, and chains Were made for madmen.' Then she raised her
With answering love, that led to other strains, Until the lute, which shared with her the smart,
Rocked as in storm upon her beating heart. Thus to its wires she made impassioned cries: I swear it by the brightness of his eyes; I swear it by the darkness of his hair;
By the warm bloom his limbs and bosom wear; By the fresh pearls his rosy lips enclose ; By the calm majesty of his repose; By smiles I coveted, and frowns I feared, And by the shooting myrtles of his beard, I swear it, that from him the morning drew Its freshness, and the moon her silvery hue, The sun his brightness, and the stars their fire,
And musk and camphor all their odorous breath: And if he answer not my love's desire, Day will be night to me, and Life be Death!'"
I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE.
I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet Has led me - who knows how?-
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream, The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art !
O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
BENDING between me and the taper,
While o'er the harp her white hands strayed, The shadows of her waving tresses
Above my hand were gently swayed.
With every graceful movement waving, I marked their undulating swell;
I watched them while they met and parted, Curled close or widened, rose or fell.
I laughed in triumph and in pleasure - So strange the sport, so undesigned ! Her mother turned and asked me, gravely, "What thought was passing through my mind?"
'Tis Love that blinds the eyes of mothers;
'Tis Love that makes the young maids fair! She touched my hand; my rings she counted; Yet never felt the shadows there.
Keep, gamesome Love, beloved Infant, Keep ever thus all mothers blind; And make thy dedicated virgins, In substance as in shadow, kind!
SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME.
THOUGH, when other maids stand by, I may deign thee no reply, Turn not then away, and sigh, Smile, and never heed me! If our love, indeed, be such As must thrill at every touch, Why should others learn as much? - Smile, and never heed me!
Even if, with maiden pride, I should bid thee quit my side, Take this lesson for thy guide,
Smile, and never heed me! But when stars and twilight meet, And the dew is falling sweet, And thou hear'st my coming feet, - Then - thou then
- mayst heed me!
CHARLES SWAIN
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore, . . . Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
THE face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, O still, beside me, as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink, Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shall be, there or here; And this... this lute and song... loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear,
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost, I should not love withal, unless that thou Hadst set me an example, shown me how, When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak Of love even, as a good thing of my own. Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, And placed it by thee on a golden throne, And that I love (O soul, we must be meek !) Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
IF thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile... her look... her way Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day.” For these things in themselves, beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee, and love so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
I NEVER gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully I ring out to the full brown length and say "Take it." My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee. Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle tree, As girls do, any more. It only may
Now shade on two pale cheeks, the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs asid Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral- shears
Would take this first, but Love is justified, — Take it thou,... finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died.
THE Soul's Rialto hath its merchandise; I barter curl for curl upon that mart, And from my poet's forehead to my heart, Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,
As purely black, as erst, to Pindar's eyes, The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, Thy bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,
Because thy name moves right in what they say. Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!
INDEED this very love which is my boast, And which, when rising up from breast to brow, Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost.
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath, I tie the shadow safe from gliding back, And lay the gift where nothing hindereth, Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead, Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine? And would the sun for thee more coldly shine, Because of grave-damps falling round my head? I marvelled, my Belovéd, when I read Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine- But... so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range. Then, love me, Love! look on me... breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange, For love, to give up acres and degree, I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange My nearsweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!
My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said,... he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it! this, ... the paper's light . . . Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, I am thine, and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this... O Love, thy words have ill availed, If what this said, I dared repeat at last!
I THINK of thee! my thoughts do twine and bud About thee, as wild vines, about a tree, Put out broad leaves, and soon there's naught to see Except the straggling green which hides the wood. Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! rather instantly Renew thy presence. As a strong tree should, Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare, And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee Drop heavily down,... burst, shattered, every- where !
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee And breathe within thy shadow a new air, I do not think of thee, I am too near thee.
THE first time that the sun rose on thine oath To love me, I looked forward to the moon To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one For such man's love! more like an out of tune Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note, I did not wrong myself so, but I placed A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced, And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.
FIRST time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O list!” When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height. The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. O, beyond meed ! That was the chrism of love, which love's own
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
["This beautiful tale of woman's love," wrote Dr. Robert Chainbers in 1829, "beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching narrative, and equally beautiful in the pathos of its simple and touching language, was first published by Percy, as an English ballad, under the title of "Childe Waters."]
LORD JOHN stood in his stable door,
Said he was boun' to ride: Burd Helen stood in her bouir door,
Said she'd run by his side.
"The corn is turning ripe, Lord John;
The nuts are growing fu':
An' ye are boun' for your ain countrie; Fain wad I go with you."
"Wi' me, Helen! wi' me, Helen! What wad ye do wi' me? I've mair need o' a little foot-page, Than of the like o' thee."
"O, I will be your little foot-boy, To wait upon your steed; And I will be your little foot-page, Your leish of hounds to lead.'
"But my hounds will eat the breid o' wheat, And ye the dust and bran;
Then will ye sit and sigh, Helen,
That e'er ye lo'ed a man."
"O, your dogs may eat the gude wheat-breid, And I the dust and bran;
Yet will I sing and say, weel's me, That e'er I lo'ed a man!"
"O, better ye'd stay at hame, Helen, And sew your silver seam; For my house is in the far Hielands, And ye'll ha'e puir welcome hame."
"I winna stay, Lord John," she said, "To sew my silver seam; Though your house is in the far Hiclands, And I'll ha'e puir welcome hame."
“Then if you'll be my foot-page, Helen, As you tell unto me,
Then you must cut your gown of green An inch abune your knee.
"So you must cut your yellow locks An inch abune your e'e;
You must tell no man what is my name : My foot-page then you'll be."
Then he has luppen* on his white steed, And straight awa' did ride; Burd Helen, dressed in men's array, She ran fast by his side.
And he was ne'er sae lack* a knicht, As ance wad bid her ride; And she was ne'er sae mean a May, As ance wad bid him bide.
Lord John he rade, Burd Helen ran, A livelong summer-day; Until they cam to Clyde-water, Was filled frae bank to brae.
"Seest thou yon water, Helen," said he, "That flows from bank to brim?" "I trust to God, Lord John," she said, "You ne'er will see me swim!"
But he was ne'er sae lack a knicht, As ance wad bid her ride;
Nor did he sae much as reach his hand, To help her ower the tide.
The firsten step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee; "Ochone, alas," quo' that ladye fair, "This water's no for me!"
The second step that she wade in,
She steppit to the middle: Then, sighing, said that fair ladye, "I've wet my gowden girdle."
The thirden step that she wade in, She steppit to the neck;
When that the bairn that she was wi'. For cauld began to quake.
"Lie still, my babe; lie still, my babe; Lie still as lang's ye may :
Your father, that rides on horseback high, Cares little for us twae."
And when she cam to the other side, She sat down on a stane; Says, "Them that made me, help me now, For I am far frae hame!
"O, tell me this, now, good Lord John; In pity tell to me;
How far is it to your lodging,
Where we this nicht maun be?"
"O, dinna ye see yon castle, Helen, Stands on yon sunny lea? There ye'se get ane o' my mother's men: Ye'se get nae mair o' me."
"O, weel see I your bonnie castell Stands on yon sunny lea;
But I'se hae nane o' your mother's men, Though I never get mair o' thee."
"But there is in yon castle, Helen, That stands on yonder lea,
There is a lady in yon castle,
Will sinder* you and me."
"I wish nae ill to that ladye,
She comes na in my thocht:
But I wish the maid maist o' your love, That dearest has you bocht."
When he cam to the porter's yett,+
He tirled at the pin ; ‡
And wha sae ready as the bauld porter, To open and let him in?
Many a lord and lady bright
Met Lord John in the closs; But the bonniest lady among them a' Was hauding Lord John's horse.
Four and twenty gay ladyes
Led him through bouir and ha'; But the fairest lady that was there Led his horse to the sta'.
Then up bespak Lord John's sister; These were the words spak she:
"You have the prettiest foot-page, brother, My eyes did ever see
"But that his middle is sae thick, His girdle sae wond'rous hie: Let him, I pray thee, good Lord John, To chamber go with me."
"It is not fit for a little foot-page, That has run through moss and mire, To go into chamber with any ladye That wears so rich attire.
"It were more meet for a little foot-page, That has run through moss and mire, To take his supper upon his knee,
And sit doun by the kitchen fire."
When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men boun' to meat, Burd Helen was, at the bye-table, §
Amang the pages set.
"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy,
The white breid and the beer." "The never a bit can I eat or drink; My heart's sae fu' o' fear."
"O, eat and drink, my bonnie boy, The white breid and the wine."
"O the never a bit can I eat or drink ; My heart's sae fu' o' pyne." ||
But out and spak Lord John his mother,
And a skeely * woman was she : "Where met ye, my son, wi' that bonnie boy, That looks sae sad on thee?
"Sometimes his cheek is rosy red,
And sometimes deidly wan: He's liker a woman grit wi' child,
Than a young lord's serving man."
“O, it maks me laugh, my mother dear, Sic words to hear frae thee;
He is a squire's ae dearest son,
That for love has followed me.
“Rise up, rise up, my bonnie boy; Gi'e my horse corn and hay." "O that I will, my master deir, As quickly as I may."
She took the hay aneath her arm, The corn intill her hand;
But atween the stable door and the sta' Burd Helen made a stand.
"O room ye round, my bonnie broun steids; O room ye near the wa';
For the pain that strikes through my twa sides, I fear, will gar me fa'."
She leaned her back again' the wa'; Strong travail came her on; And, e'en among the great horse' feet, She has brought forth her son.
When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men boun' for bed, Lord John's mother and sister gay
In ae bouir they were laid.
Lord John hadna weel got aff his claes, Nor was he weel laid doun, Till his mother heard a bairn greet, And a woman's heavy moan.
"Win up, win up, Lord John," she said; "Seek neither stockings nor shoen: For I ha'e heard a bairn loud greet, And a woman's heavy moan!"
"Richt hastilie he rase him up,
Socht neither hose nor shoen; And he's doen him to the stable door, By the lee licht o' the mune.
"O, open the door, Burd Helen," he said, "O, open and let me in ;
I want to see if my steed be fed, Or my greyhounds fit to rin."
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