Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

a look,

[ocr errors]

A something light as air,

For one moment, under the old blue sky, A word unkind or wrongly taken,

To the old glad life in Spain.
O, love that tempests never shook,

Well ! there in our front-row box we sat
A breath, a touch like this has shaken!
And ruder words will soon rush in

Together, my bride betrothed and I ;
To spread the breach that words begin ;

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship’s smiling day ; And both were silent, and both were sad ;-
And voices lose the tone that shed

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, A tenderness round all they said ;

With that regal, indolent air she had ;
Till fast declining, one by one,

So confident of her charm !
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Like broken clouds, — or like the stream,

Of her former lord, good soul that he was, That smiling left the mountain's brow,

Who died the richest and roundest of men, As though its waters ne'er could sever,

The Marquis of Carabas. Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, Breaks into floods that part forever.

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ;

I wish him well for the jointure given
O you, that have the charge of Love,

To my lady of Carabas.
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the fields of Bliss above

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love
He sits, with flowerets fettered round; As I had not been thinking of aught for years ;
Loose not a tie that round him clings, Till over my eyes there began to move
Nor ever let him use his wings ;

Something that felt like tears. For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, Like that celestial bird, whose nest

When westood 'neath the cypress-trees together, Is found beneath far Eastern skies,

In that lost land, in that soft clime, Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, In the crimson evening weather ; Lose all their glory when he flies !

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);

And her warm white neck in its golden chain ;

And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
AUX ITALIENS.

And falling loose again ;
Ar Paris it was, at the opera there ;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ; And she looked like a queen in a book that

(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!) night,

And the one bird singing alone to his nest;
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the one star over the tower.
And the brooch on her breast so bright.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

And the letter that brought me back my ring; The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,

Such a very little thing ! The souls in purgatory.

For I thought of her grave below the hill, The moon on the tower slept soft as snow ; Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands orer :

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, And I thought, “Were she only living still, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, How I could forgive her and love her!” Non ti scordar di me?"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, The emperor there, in his box of state,

And of how, after all, old things are best, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower The red flag wave from the city gate,

Which she used to wear in her breast. Where his eagles in bronze had been.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, The empress, too, had a tear in her eye :

It made me creer, and it made me cold ! You'd have said that her fancy had gone back Like thescent that steals from the crumbling sheet again,

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

THOMAS MOORE.

TRANSIENT BEAUTY.

int, under the old lad

gland life in Spain. En our front row bus By bride betruthland!; fixul on my opara las n the stage hard by

And I turned and looked : she was sitting there,

In a dim box over the stage ; and drest In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,

And that jasmine in her breast !

THE GIAOUR.

I was here, and she was there ;

And the glittering horse-shoecurved between:From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair

And her sumptuous scornful mien,

e silent, and botto:n she leaned on her face al, indolent air she hat;

of her charm

Icubt she was thinking the er lord, goed soal that is richest and roundest da of Carabas.

To my early love with her eyes downcast,

And over her primrose face the shade, (In short, from the future back to the past,)

There was but a step to be made.

Το my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, I traversed the passage ; and down at her side

I was sitting, a moment more.

get to the kingdom obce setile's ere he had not te Il for the jointure gita of Carabas as thinking of my E been thinking of antik ves there began to more hat felt like tears.

As, rising on its purple wing, The insect-queen of Eastern spring, O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer, Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower, A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, With panting heart and tearful eye; So Beauty lures the full-grown child, With hue as bright, and wind as wild ; A chase of idle hopes and fears, Begun in folly, closed in tears. If won, to equal ills betrayed, Woe waits the insect and the maid : A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play and man's caprice ; The lovely toy, so fiercely sought, Hath lost its charm by being caught ; For every touch that wooed its stay Hath brushed its brightest hues away, Till, charm and hue and beauty gone, 'T is left to fly or fall alone. With wounded wing or bleeding breast, Ah! where shall either victim rest ? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ? Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No; gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame.

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again,

With the jasmine in her breast.

De dress that she work vwl'neath the cupratera nd, in that sort clime, on evening weather;

She is not dead, and she is not wed !

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! And the very first word that her sweet lips said,

My heart grew youthful again.

dress for the ere tal; m white neck in its it hair, just tied in a la Dose again;

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her . . . . well, we'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

BYRON

e flower in her fair to bring sveet smell of that jistie-2.7 ad singing alone to des star over the tower.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best ; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above

The brooch in my lady's breast.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

little quarrels and some r that brought me luke

the water

[blocks in formation]

ed then, Ettle thing!

I LOVED thee once, I 'll love no more,

Thine be the grief as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same ?

He that can love unloved again,

Hath better store of love than brain : God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away.

[blocks in formation]

Cher grave below the bil
ztine cypress-tre stato

Were she only living orgive her and lore bez thought of her this, in te biec fter all, old things are best

smell of that jasnilie din ed to wear in her breast

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But 0 the smell of that jasmine flower !

And O that music! and 0 the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,

If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine.

But thou thy freedom did recall,

That if thou might elsewhere inthrall ; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ?

and it smelt w start, rep, and it made met at steals from the cruz!lich mr is half unroled.

[blocks in formation]

Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath

been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone ; Tillthou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee and grief when away!

THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies").

SLEEP! - The ghostly winds are blowing !
No moon abroad, no star is glowing ;
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going !

We are going afar,

Beyond moon or star, To the land where the siuless angels are ! I lost my heart to your heartless şire ('T was melted away by his looks of fire), Forgot my God, and my father's ire, All for the sake of a man's desire;

But now we 'll go

Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

WHERE shall the lover rest

Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast

Parted forever ?

S.

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.

A SCOTTISH SONG.

e, through grores det 21 Ends the far billow,

in early violets die Lider the willos.

Elra loro it shall be his pillos.

The world is cruel, the world is untrue;
Our foes are many, our friends are few;
No work, no bread, however we sue !
What is there left for me to do,

But fly, — fly

From the cruel sky, And hide in the deepest deeps, — and die ?

BARRY CORNWALL.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ;
If thou 'st be silent, I 'se be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy !
Thy father breides me great annoy.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.

ere, through the summer day Cool streams are laring: ere, while the tenirati care are boughs wait ere the rest shalt thou take Parted forerer, er agiin to wake Fever, 0 nerer!

E eu loro
trer, 0 never!

When he began to court my luve,
And with his sugred words to muve,
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire,
To me that time did not appeire :
But now I see, most cruell hee,
Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.

re shall the traitor rest, 2, the deceiver, could win maiden's last in, and leare her? lost battle, me down by the dring - mingles war's rarile E groans of the dring; en loro

shall he be dying.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.
O, WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae,
And waly, waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.
I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak
Sae

my true love did lightly me!
0, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

A little time while it is new ;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew.
0, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me;
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree ?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency;
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see ;
My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin.
0, 0, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gac neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.
I cannae chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My luve with him maun stil abyde :
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee wcipe.

[blocks in formation]

But

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline;
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new ;
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.

[blocks in formation]

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee treipe.

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth!

ANONYMOUS

'll go

Taiers flor, ved Ushere dalle skal] 27

I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They 'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It gricves me sair to see thee weipe.

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame :
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

ANONYMOUS.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

I 'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break ; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ;
But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair !
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet !

How fast my life-strings break ! Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; And this green turf we 're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shiminerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

0, wae's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met, O, wae's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set ! 0, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae, And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

But 0, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be;
And O, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

« VorigeDoorgaan »