THE MUSIC-LESSON.
A thrush alit on a young-leaved spray,
And, lightly clinging,
It rocked in its singing
As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay;
And with liquid shakes,
And trills and breaks,
Rippled through blossoming boughs of May.
And, lightly clinging,
It rocked in its singing
As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay;
And with liquid shakes,
And trills and breaks,
Rippled through blossoming boughs of May.
THE TEAMSTER.
With slow and slouching gait Sam leads the team;
He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years;
One only passion has he, it would seem—
The passion for the horses which he rears:
He names them as one would some household pet,
May, Violet.
He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years;
One only passion has he, it would seem—
The passion for the horses which he rears:
He names them as one would some household pet,
May, Violet.
He thinks them quite as sensible as men;
As nice as women, but not near so skittish;
He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then,
Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British:
You hear him call from dawn to set of sun,
"Goo back! Com on!"
As nice as women, but not near so skittish;
He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then,
Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British:
You hear him call from dawn to set of sun,
"Goo back! Com on!"
Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate,
Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round;
On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate,
For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground,
Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone,
And still as stone.
Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round;
On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate,
For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground,
Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone,
And still as stone.
Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem,
Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild
Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream.
Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild:
Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale
Still tell the tale.
Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild
Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream.
Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild:
Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale
Still tell the tale.
In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid,
A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks
That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made
Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks,
And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl:
A fresh-blown girl.
A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks
That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made
Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks,
And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl:
A fresh-blown girl.
Sam came a-courting while the year was blithe,
When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune,
With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe,
Smote down the proud grass in the pomp of June,
And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway
With loads of hay.
When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune,
With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe,
Smote down the proud grass in the pomp of June,
And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway
With loads of hay.
The elder bush beside the orchard croft
Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream;
From out grey nests high in the granary loft
Black clusters of small heads with callow scream
Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along
To feed their young.
Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream;
From out grey nests high in the granary loft
Black clusters of small heads with callow scream
Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along
To feed their young.
Ripening towards the harvest swelled the wheat,
Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes;
The roads were baking in the windless heat,
And dust had floured the glossy country lanes,
One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon
The last of June.
Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes;
The roads were baking in the windless heat,
And dust had floured the glossy country lanes,
One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon
The last of June.
When, with his thumping heart all out of joint,
And pulses beating like a stroller's drum,
Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point
And asked his blushing sweetheart if she'd come
To Titsey Fair; he meant to coax coy May
To name the day.
And pulses beating like a stroller's drum,
Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point
And asked his blushing sweetheart if she'd come
To Titsey Fair; he meant to coax coy May
To name the day.
But her rich master snapped his thumb and swore
The girl was not for him! Should not go out!
And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door
Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without
In the fierce sunshine, blazing in his path
Like fire of wrath.
The girl was not for him! Should not go out!
And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door
Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without
In the fierce sunshine, blazing in his path
Like fire of wrath.
Unheeding, he went forth with hot wild eyes
Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover;
Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies,
Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover;
Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound
Whirred from the ground.
Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover;
Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies,
Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover;
Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound
Whirred from the ground.
On, on he went by acres full of grain,
By trees and meadows reeling past his sight,
As to a man whirled onwards in a train
The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight;
At last he stopped and leant a long, long while
Against a stile.
By trees and meadows reeling past his sight,
As to a man whirled onwards in a train
The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight;
At last he stopped and leant a long, long while
Against a stile.
Hours passed; the clock struck ten; a hush of night,
In which even wind and water seemed at peace;
But here and there a glimmering cottage light
Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees;
Or from some far-off homestead through the dark
A watch-dog's bark.
In which even wind and water seemed at peace;
But here and there a glimmering cottage light
Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees;
Or from some far-off homestead through the dark
A watch-dog's bark.
But all at once Sam gave a stifled cry:
"There's fire," he muttered, "fire upon the hills!"
No fire—but as the late moon rose on high
Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills:
No fire—but moonlight turning in his path
To fire of wrath.
"There's fire," he muttered, "fire upon the hills!"
No fire—but as the late moon rose on high
Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills:
No fire—but moonlight turning in his path
To fire of wrath.
He looked abroad with eyes that gave the mist
A lurid tinge above the breadths of grain
Owned by May's master. Then he shook his fist,
Still muttering, "Fire!" and measured o'er again
The road he'd come, where, lapped in moonlight, lay
Huge ricks of hay.
A lurid tinge above the breadths of grain
Owned by May's master. Then he shook his fist,
Still muttering, "Fire!" and measured o'er again
The road he'd come, where, lapped in moonlight, lay
Huge ricks of hay.
There he paused glaring. Then he turned and waned
Like mist into the misty, moon-soaked night,
Where the pale silvery fields were blotched and stained
With strange fantastic shadows. But what light
Is that which leaps up, flickering lithe and long,
With licking tongue!
Like mist into the misty, moon-soaked night,
Where the pale silvery fields were blotched and stained
With strange fantastic shadows. But what light
Is that which leaps up, flickering lithe and long,
With licking tongue!
Hungry it darts and hisses, twists and turns,
And with each minute shoots up high and higher,
Till, wrapped in flames, the mighty hayrick burns
And sends its sparks on to a neighbouring byre,
Where, frightened at the hot, tremendous glow,
The cattle low.
And with each minute shoots up high and higher,
Till, wrapped in flames, the mighty hayrick burns
And sends its sparks on to a neighbouring byre,
Where, frightened at the hot, tremendous glow,
The cattle low.
And rick on rick takes fire; and next a stye,
Whence through the smoke the little pigs rush out;
The house-dog barks; then, with a startled cry,
The window is flung open, shout on shout
Wakes the hard-sleeping farm where man and maid
Start up dismayed.
Whence through the smoke the little pigs rush out;
The house-dog barks; then, with a startled cry,
The window is flung open, shout on shout
Wakes the hard-sleeping farm where man and maid
Start up dismayed.
And with wild faces wavering in the glare,
In nightcaps, bedgowns, clothes half huddled on
Some to the pump, some to the duck-pond tear
In frantic haste, while others splashing run
With pails, or turn the hose with flame-scorched face
Upon the blaze.
In nightcaps, bedgowns, clothes half huddled on
Some to the pump, some to the duck-pond tear
In frantic haste, while others splashing run
With pails, or turn the hose with flame-scorched face
Upon the blaze.
At last, when some wan streaks began to show
In the chill darkness of the sky, the fire
Went out, subdued but for the sputtering glow
Of sparks among wet ashes. Barn and byre
Were safe, but swallowed all the summer math
By fire of wrath.
In the chill darkness of the sky, the fire
Went out, subdued but for the sputtering glow
Of sparks among wet ashes. Barn and byre
Were safe, but swallowed all the summer math
By fire of wrath.
Still haggard from the night's wild work and pale,
Farm-men and women stood in whispering knots,
Regaled with foaming mugs of nut-brown ale;
Firing his oaths about like vicious shots,
The farmer hissed out now and then: "Gad damn!
It's that black Sam."
Farm-men and women stood in whispering knots,
Regaled with foaming mugs of nut-brown ale;
Firing his oaths about like vicious shots,
The farmer hissed out now and then: "Gad damn!
It's that black Sam."
They had him up and taxed him with the crime;
Denying naught, he sulked and held his peace;
And so, a branded convict, in due time,
Handcuffed and cropped, they shipped him over-seas:
Seven years of shame sliced from his labourer's life
As with a knife.
Denying naught, he sulked and held his peace;
And so, a branded convict, in due time,
Handcuffed and cropped, they shipped him over-seas:
Seven years of shame sliced from his labourer's life
As with a knife.
But through it all the image of a girl
With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear,
And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl,
Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year,
Like to a bit of lavender long pressed
In some black chest.
With hazel eyes like pebbled waters clear,
And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl,
Kept his heart sweet through many a galling year,
Like to a bit of lavender long pressed
In some black chest.
At last his time was up, and Sam returned
To his dear village with its single street,
Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned,
As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat,
The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow,
Blow upon blow.
To his dear village with its single street,
Where, in the sooty forge, the fire still burned,
As, hammering on the anvil, red with heat,
The smith wrought at a shoe with tongues aglow,
Blow upon blow.
There stood the church, with peals for death and birth,
Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees,
And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth,
Gathered like little children round its knees;
There was "The Bull," with sign above the door,
And sanded floor.
Its ancient spire o'ertopping ancient trees,
And there the graves and mounds of unknown earth,
Gathered like little children round its knees;
There was "The Bull," with sign above the door,
And sanded floor.
Unrecognized Sam took his glass of beer,
And picked up gossip which the men let fall:
How Farmer Clow had failed, and one named Steer
Had taken on the land, repairs and all;
And how the Kimber girl was to be wed
To Betsy's Ned.
And picked up gossip which the men let fall:
How Farmer Clow had failed, and one named Steer
Had taken on the land, repairs and all;
And how the Kimber girl was to be wed
To Betsy's Ned.
Sam heard no more, flung down his pence, and took
The way down to the well-remembered stile;
There, in the gloaming by the trysting brook,
He came upon his May—with just that smile
For sheep-faced Ned, that light in happy eyes:
Oh, sugared lies!
The way down to the well-remembered stile;
There, in the gloaming by the trysting brook,
He came upon his May—with just that smile
For sheep-faced Ned, that light in happy eyes:
Oh, sugared lies!
He came upon them with black-knitted brows
And clenched brown hands, and muttered huskily:
"Oh, little May, are those your true love's vows
You swore to keep while I was over-sea?"
Then crying, turned upon the other one,
"Com on, com on."
And clenched brown hands, and muttered huskily:
"Oh, little May, are those your true love's vows
You swore to keep while I was over-sea?"
Then crying, turned upon the other one,
"Com on, com on."
Then they fell to with faces set for fight,
And hit each other hard with rustic pride;
But Sam, whose arm with iron force could smite,
Knocked his cowed rival down, and won his bride.
May wept and smiled, swayed like a wild red rose
As the wind blows.
And hit each other hard with rustic pride;
But Sam, whose arm with iron force could smite,
Knocked his cowed rival down, and won his bride.
May wept and smiled, swayed like a wild red rose
As the wind blows.
She married Sam, who loved her with a wild
Strong love he could not put to words—too deep
For her to gauge; but with her first-born child
May dropped off, flower-like, into the long sleep,
And left him nothing but the memory of
His little love.
Strong love he could not put to words—too deep
For her to gauge; but with her first-born child
May dropped off, flower-like, into the long sleep,
And left him nothing but the memory of
His little love.
Since then the silent teamster lives alone,
The trusted headman of his master Steer;
One only passion seems he still to own—
The passion for the foals he has to rear;
And still the prettiest, full of life and play,
Is little May.
The trusted headman of his master Steer;
One only passion seems he still to own—
The passion for the foals he has to rear;
And still the prettiest, full of life and play,
Is little May.
A HIGHLAND VILLAGE.
Clear shining after the rain,
The sun bursts the clouds asunder,
And the hollow-rumbling thunder
Groans like a loaded wain
As, deep in the Grampians yonder,
He grumbles now and again.
The sun bursts the clouds asunder,
And the hollow-rumbling thunder
Groans like a loaded wain
As, deep in the Grampians yonder,
He grumbles now and again.
Whenever the breezes shiver
The leaves where the rain-drops quiver,
Each bough and bush and brier
Breaks into living fire,
Till every tree is bright
With blossom bursts of light.
The leaves where the rain-drops quiver,
Each bough and bush and brier
Breaks into living fire,
Till every tree is bright
With blossom bursts of light.
From golden roof and spout
Brown waters gurgle and splutter,
And rush down the flooded gutter
Where the village children shout,
As barefoot they splash in and out
The water with tireless patter.
Brown waters gurgle and splutter,
And rush down the flooded gutter
Where the village children shout,
As barefoot they splash in and out
The water with tireless patter.
The bald little Highland street
Is all alive and a-glitter;
The air blows keen and sweet
From the field where the swallows twitter;
Old wives on the doorsteps meet,
At the corner the young maids titter.
Is all alive and a-glitter;
The air blows keen and sweet
From the field where the swallows twitter;
Old wives on the doorsteps meet,
At the corner the young maids titter.
ON A FORSAKEN LARK'S NEST.
Lo, where left 'mid the sheaves, cut down by the iron-fanged reaper,
Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat,
Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her
As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet.
Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat,
Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her
As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet.
Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken,
Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering,
That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken,
Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing.
Closely packed in the shell, awaited love's fostering,
That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken,
Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing.
Ah, what pæans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure,
Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb,
Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure,
Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.
Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb,
Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure,
Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.
REAPERS.
Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together;
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat,
Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather
Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.
Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure:
Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops;
Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;
Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops;
Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure;
Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;
APPLE-GATHERING.
Essex flats are pink with clover,
Kent is crowned with flaunting hops,
Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover,
Yellow wave the Midland crops;
Kent is crowned with flaunting hops,
Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover,
Yellow wave the Midland crops;
Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on,
But, for me, I love to stand
Where the Herefordshire beacon
Watches o'er his orchard land.
But, for me, I love to stand
Where the Herefordshire beacon
Watches o'er his orchard land.
Where now sun, now shadow dapples—
As it wavers in the breeze—
Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples
On the heavy-laden trees:
As it wavers in the breeze—
Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples
On the heavy-laden trees:
Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,
Russet-coated, pale or brown—
Some are dipped in sunset glory,
And some painted by the dawn.
Russet-coated, pale or brown—
Some are dipped in sunset glory,
And some painted by the dawn.
What profusion, what abundance!
Not a twig but has its fruits;
High in air some in the sun dance,
Some lie scattered near the roots.
Not a twig but has its fruits;
High in air some in the sun dance,
Some lie scattered near the roots.
These the hasty winds have taken
Are a green, untimely crop;
Those by burly rustics shaken
Fall with loud resounding plop.
Are a green, untimely crop;
Those by burly rustics shaken
Fall with loud resounding plop.
In this mellow autumn weather,
Ruddy 'mid the long green grass,
Heaped-up baskets stand together,
Filled by many a blowsy lass.
Ruddy 'mid the long green grass,
Heaped-up baskets stand together,
Filled by many a blowsy lass.
Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,
Pile them on the granary floors,
Till the yule-log's flame in glory
Loudly up the chimney roars;
Pile them on the granary floors,
Till the yule-log's flame in glory
Loudly up the chimney roars;
THE SONGS OF SUMMER.
The songs of summer are over and past!
The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves;
Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves
The nests are rudely swung in the blast:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves;
Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves
The nests are rudely swung in the blast:
And ever the wind like a soul in pain
Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
AUTUMN TINTS.
Coral-coloured yew-berries
Strew the garden ways,
Hollyhocks and sunflowers
Make a dazzling blaze
In these latter days.
Strew the garden ways,
Hollyhocks and sunflowers
Make a dazzling blaze
In these latter days.
Marigolds by cottage doors
Flaunt their golden pride,
Crimson-punctured bramble leaves
Dapple far and wide
The green mountain-side.
Flaunt their golden pride,
Crimson-punctured bramble leaves
Dapple far and wide
The green mountain-side.
Far away, on hilly slopes
Where fleet rivulets run,
Miles on miles of tangled fern,
Burnished by the sun,
Glow a copper dun.
Where fleet rivulets run,
Miles on miles of tangled fern,
Burnished by the sun,
Glow a copper dun.
GREEN LEAVES AND SERE.
Three tall poplars beside the pool
Shiver and moan in the gusty blast,
The carded clouds are blown like wool,
And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast.
Shiver and moan in the gusty blast,
The carded clouds are blown like wool,
And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast.
The leaves, now driven before the blast,
Now flung by fits on the curdling pool,
Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last
As if at the whim of a jabbering fool.
Now flung by fits on the curdling pool,
Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last
As if at the whim of a jabbering fool.
THE HUNTER'S MOON.
The Hunter's Moon rides high,
High o'er the close-cropped plain;
Across the desert sky
The herded clouds amain
Scamper tumultuously,
Chased by the hounding wind
That yelps behind.
High o'er the close-cropped plain;
Across the desert sky
The herded clouds amain
Scamper tumultuously,
Chased by the hounding wind
That yelps behind.
THE PASSING YEAR.
No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves,
The meadows are as stirless as the sky,
Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie
Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves.
The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves,
Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh,
As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye,
On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.
The meadows are as stirless as the sky,
Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie
Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves.
The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves,
Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh,
As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye,
On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.
THE ROBIN REDBREAST.
The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill
The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower
Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower
In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still.
Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill
Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower,
Have in adversity's inclement hour
Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.
The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower
Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower
In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still.
Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill
Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower,
Have in adversity's inclement hour
Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.
THE RED SUNSETS, 1883.
The boding sky was charactered with cloud,
The scripture of the storm—but high in air,
Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare,
A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed
And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed
The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare,
That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare
On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd.
The scripture of the storm—but high in air,
Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare,
A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed
And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed
The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare,
That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare
On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd.
THE RED SUNSETS, 1883.
The twilight heavens are flushed with gathering light,
And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below
Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow
On the black fringes of the wintry night.
Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight
Of him to whom on Patmos long ago
The visionary angel came to show
That heavenly city built of chrysolite.
And o'er wet roofs and huddling streets below
Hang with a strange Apocalyptic glow
On the black fringes of the wintry night.
Such bursts of glory may have rapt the sight
Of him to whom on Patmos long ago
The visionary angel came to show
That heavenly city built of chrysolite.
ON THE LIGHTHOUSE AT
ANTIBES.
A stormy light of sunset glows and glares
Between two banks of cloud, and o'er the brine
Thy fair lamp on the sky's carnation line
Alone on the lone promontory flares:
Friend of the Fisher who at nightfall fares
Where lurk false reefs masked by the hyaline
Of dimpling waves, within whose smile divine
Death lies in wait behind Circean snares.
Between two banks of cloud, and o'er the brine
Thy fair lamp on the sky's carnation line
Alone on the lone promontory flares:
Friend of the Fisher who at nightfall fares
Where lurk false reefs masked by the hyaline
Of dimpling waves, within whose smile divine
Death lies in wait behind Circean snares.
CAGNES.
ON THE RIVIERA.
ON THE RIVIERA.
In tortuous windings up the steep incline
The sombre street toils to the village square,
Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear
Dumb witness to the Moor. Afar off shine,
With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine,
The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair,
With wave-green olives rippling down to where
Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine.
The sombre street toils to the village square,
Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear
Dumb witness to the Moor. Afar off shine,
With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine,
The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair,
With wave-green olives rippling down to where
Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine.
A WINTER LANDSCAPE.
All night, all day, in dizzy, downward flight,
Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow,
Till every landmark of the earth below,
Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight
Were blotted out by the bewildering white.
And winds, now shrieking loud, now whimpering low,
Seemed lamentations for the world-old woe
That death must swallow life, and darkness light.
Fell the wild-whirling, vague, chaotic snow,
Till every landmark of the earth below,
Trees, moorlands, roads, and each familiar sight
Were blotted out by the bewildering white.
And winds, now shrieking loud, now whimpering low,
Seemed lamentations for the world-old woe
That death must swallow life, and darkness light.
LOVE IN EXILE.
"Whatever way my days decline,
I felt and feel, tho' left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine."
I felt and feel, tho' left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine."
Lord Tennyson.
SONGS.
I.
Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light
Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight,
Thou walkest with me still.
Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight,
Thou walkest with me still.
II.
I was again beside my Love in dream:
Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining;
The muffled voice of many a cataract stream
Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining,
Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.
Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining;
The muffled voice of many a cataract stream
Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining,
Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.
The wind lay spell-bound in each pillared pine,
The tasselled larches had no sound or motion,
As my whole life was sinking into thine—
Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean
Of infinite love—uncircumscribed, divine.
The tasselled larches had no sound or motion,
As my whole life was sinking into thine—
Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean
Of infinite love—uncircumscribed, divine.
Night held her breath, it seemed, with all her stars:
Eternal eyes that watched in mute compassion
Our little lives o'erleap their mortal bars,
Fused in the fulness of immortal passion,
A passion as immortal as the stars.
Eternal eyes that watched in mute compassion
Our little lives o'erleap their mortal bars,
Fused in the fulness of immortal passion,
A passion as immortal as the stars.
III.
I am athirst, but not for wine;
The drink I long for is divine,
Poured only from your eyes in mine.
The drink I long for is divine,
Poured only from your eyes in mine.
I hunger, but the bread I want,
Of which my blood and brain are scant,
Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.
Of which my blood and brain are scant,
Is your sweet speech, for which I pant.
I am a-cold, and lagging lame,
Life creeps along my languid frame;
Your love would fan it into flame.
Life creeps along my languid frame;
Your love would fan it into flame.
IV.
I would I were the glow-worm, thou the flower,
That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light;
I would I were the bird, and thou the bower,
To sing thee songs throughout the summer night.
That I might fill thy cup with glimmering light;
I would I were the bird, and thou the bower,
To sing thee songs throughout the summer night.
I would I were a pine tree deeply rooted,
And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock,
Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted,
To cleave to thee and weather every shock.
And thou the lofty, cloud-beleaguered rock,
Still, while the blasts of heaven around us hooted,
To cleave to thee and weather every shock.
V.
Dost thou remember ever, for my sake,
When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake?
How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray
About our brows like blossom-falls of May
One memorable day?
When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake?
How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray
About our brows like blossom-falls of May
One memorable day?
VI.
O moon, large golden summer moon,
Hanging between the linden trees,
Which in the intermittent breeze
Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!
Hanging between the linden trees,
Which in the intermittent breeze
Beat with the rhythmic pulse of June!
O night-air, scented through and through
With honey-coloured flower of lime,
Sweet now as in that other time
When all my heart was sweet as you!
With honey-coloured flower of lime,
Sweet now as in that other time
When all my heart was sweet as you!