Four Years 1069 TOO LATE "DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU" COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Never a scornful word should grieve ye, Oh, to call back the days that are not! I never was worthy of you, Douglas; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887] FOUR YEARS AT the Midsummer, when the hay was down, At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, It is Midsummer-all the hay is down, Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise, On the Sabbath-day, BARBARA Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organcalms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara. My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine Gleamed and vanished in a moment-O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara! O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: Barbara 1071 The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist--A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara! I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara. 'Mong angels, do you think. Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticebars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara? In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara? In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mourntul fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara! Alexander Smith [1830-1867] SONG WHEN I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember And haply may forget. Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894) TOO LATE From "The Prince's Progress" Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate. Too Late The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face The frozen fountain would have leaped, The warm south wind would have awaked Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now there are poppies in her locks, Must wear a veil to shroud her face We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown. 1073 |