A Library of Poetry and Song: Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets

Cp by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 1 That which he better might have shunned, if

griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnished board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth; And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed : And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!
O, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream !
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth 's past;
Though he win the wise, who frowned before,

To smile at last;
He 'll never meet

A joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame
As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,
And at every close she blushed to hear

The one loved name !

Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, - |
Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, ||
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and

feared
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love traced ;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste !

'T was odor fled

As soon as shed; 'T was morning's winged dream ; " 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream ! O, 't was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream !

THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies").

WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED.

He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not ;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

And there he would have knelt; but that his

knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

As music and splendor
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute, —
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

O THE days are gone when beauty bright

My heart's chain wove! When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Was love, still love !

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possesst.

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Why so pale and wan, fond lover ?

Pr'y thee, why so pale ?Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?

Pr'y thee, why so pale ? Why so dull and mute, young

sinner ? Pr'y thee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do 't?

Pr'y thee, why so mute ?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her :
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her: -
The devil take her!

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

And as abroad we walked,

As lovers' fashion is, Oft as we sweetly talked,

The sun would steal a kiss ; The wind upon her lips

Likewise most sweetly blew, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

Her cheeks were like the cherry,

Her skin as white as snow, When she was blithe and merry,

She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small,

The fives did fit her shoe, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time or winter,

She had her heart's desire ; I still did scorn to stint her,

From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about,

No cares we ever knew, But now, alas ! sh' 'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

As we walked home together

At midnight through the town, To keep away the weather,

O'er her I'd cast my gown ; No cold my love should feel,

Whate'er the heavens could do, But now, alas !.sh' 'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

Like doves we would be billing,

And clip and kiss so fast, Yet she would be unwilling

That I should kiss the last ; They're Judas kisses now,

Since that they proved untrue ; For now, alas ! sh' 'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

To maiden's vows and swearing,

Henceforth no credit give, You may give them the hearing, –

But never them believe ; They are as false as fair,

Unconstant, frail, untrue ; For mine, alas ! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

'T was I that paid for all things,

’T was other drank the wine ; I cannot now recall things,

Live but a fool to pine :

Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied ;
That stood the storm when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity!

A something light as air, - a look,

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

To the old glad life in Spain. 0, 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 ;

My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
To spread the breach that words begin ;

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,

Who died the richest and roundest of men,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
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 we stood '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 !

THOMAS MOORE.

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 jaşmine 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 over :

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 mc ?"

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

Where a mummy is half unrolled.

TRANSIENT BEAUTY.

THE GIAOUR.

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 woc a tear can claim, Except an erring sister's shame.

BYRON.

WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.

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. 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 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 !

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,

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.

To 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.

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

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

With the jasmine in her breast.

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.

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.

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.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say : For beauty is easy enough to win ;

But one is n't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth

and even, 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 O the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scorılar di me,

Non ti scordar di mc !

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON.

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