GEORGE DARLEY. 1785-1849. SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love! Ah! where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have wound her, Opes she eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away! Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me; Come! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest, 417 ALFRED TENNYSON. 1810. ["Poems." 1832.] LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; At me you smiled, but unbeguiled Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name; Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown, Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers, In glowing health, with boundless wealth, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? O, teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. ["Maud." 1855.] Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of the morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. |