I miss thee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try, The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind, approving eye, Thy meek, attentive ear.
But when at morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me.
Then on! then on! where duty leads, My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor mild Malwah detain;
For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sca;
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!
Reginald Heber [1783-1826]
THE SHEPHERD'S WIFE'S SONG
From "The Mourning Garment "
AH, what is love? It is a pretty thing, As sweet unto a shepherd as a king, And sweeter, too:
The Shepherd's Wife's Song
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown, And cares can make the sweetest love to frown: Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night As merry as a king in his delight,
For kings bethink them what the state require, Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat His cream and curds, as doth a king his meat, And blither, too:
For kings have often fears when they do sup, Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween, As is a king in dalliance with a queen; More wanton, too:
For kings have many griefs, affects to move, Where shepherds have no greater grief than loye:
Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound As doth the king upon his bed of down;
For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill, Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Thus, with his wife, he spends the year as blithe As doth the king at every tide or sithe,
For kings have wars and broils to take in hand, Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land: Ah then, ah then,
Since country loves such sweet desires do gain, What lady would not love a shepherd swain? Robert Greene [1560?-1592]
“TRUTH DOTH TRUTH DESERVE”
WHO doth desire that chaste his wife should be, First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve: Then such be he as she his worth may see, And one man still credit with her preserve. Not toying kind, nor causelessly unkind; Not stirring thoughts, nor yet denying right; Not spying faults, nor in plain errors blind; Never hard hand, nor ever reins too light. As far from want, as far from vain expense (The one doth force, the latter doth entice); Allow good company, but keep from thence All filthy mouths that glory in their vice. This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest To virtue, fortune, time, and woman's breast. Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
From "The Angel in the House"
WHY, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect
To dread, as lower ladies might,
That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favor feeds
Allegiance from a love so high
That thence no false conceit proceeds
Of difference bridged, or state put by;
Because, although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be,
Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy;
Not with her least consent of will,
Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattained desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows
That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to heaven; because, in short, She's not and never can be mine.
Coventry Patmore [1823-1896]
Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;
No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly spot
That doth not in her sunshine share.
She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise:
For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is: God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Seems following its own wayward will, And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie;
It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
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