Betrayal

"My stick!" he says, and turns in the lane
To the house just left, whence a vixen voice
Comes out with the firelight through the pane,
And he sees within that the girl of his choice
Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare
For something said while he was there.

"At last I behold her soul undraped!"
Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself;
"My God 'tis but narrowly I have escaped. -
My precious porcelain proves it delf."
His face has reddened like one ashamed,
And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a summering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are ...

Long ago and long ago,
    And long ago still,
There dwelt three merry maidens
    Upon a distant hill.
One was tall Meggan,
    And one was dainty May,
But one was fair Margaret,
    More fair than I can say,
Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose,
    And when May pulled the brier,
Half the birds would swoop to see,
    Half the beasts draw nigher;
Half the fishes of the streams
    Would dart up to admire:
But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,
    Or poppy hot aflame,
All the beasts and all the birds
    And all the fishes came
To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew
    In brisk morning air,
Strawberry leaves and May-dew
    Make maidens fair.
'I go for strawb...

One neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell,
But it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel.
Furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes,
Aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes.
Thinks aw - tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will!
But aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still;
Soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed,
Thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed.
When awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas,
Aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors;
Soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath,
An ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath.
When aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang,
For it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang;
It wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hu...

    They are gone away,
No prayers could avail us to longer keep
The ships called out on the unknown deep,
We saw them sail off, some lingeringly,
Some suddenly summoned put out to sea;
They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in,
But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin;
As they turned to whisper one last good bye,
We sent after each one a bitter cry;
    We knew on that track,
    They would never come back,
    By night or day.

    Ah, we've closed dear eyes,
But God be thanked that they, one and all,
Had the heaven light touch them before the pall;
They saw the fair land that we could not see,
And one said, "Jesus is standing by me,"
And one, "The water of life I hear,"
And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"
One, ...

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck;
Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence! is not the soul torn by it
From more than light, or life, or breath?
'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,
The pain without the peace of death.

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."

A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow -
The lad's a-winkin' at me now."

Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: "There's...

Where Is Seen A Young Maiden, Dead, In The Act Of Departing, Taking Leave Of Her Family.


    Where goest thou? Who calls
    Thee from my dear ones far away?
    Most lovely maiden, say!
    Alone, a wanderer, dost thou leave
    Thy father's roof so soon?
    Wilt thou unto its threshold e'er return?
    Wilt thou make glad one day,
    Those, who now round thee, weeping, mourn?

    Fearless thine eye, and spirited thy act;
    And yet thou, too, art sad.
    If pleasant or unpleasant be the road,
    If gay or gloomy be the new abode,
    To which thou journeyest, indeed,
    In that grave face, how difficult to read!
    Ah, hard to me the problem still hath seemed;
    Not hath the world, perhaps, yet understood,
    If thou beloved,...

Little brown face full of smiles,
And a baby's guileless wiles,
Liza May, Liza May.

Eyes a-peeping thro' the fence
With an interest intense,
Liza May.

Ah, the gate is just ajar,
And the meadow is not far,
Liza May, Liza May.

And the road feels very sweet,
To your little toddling feet,
Liza May.

Ah, you roguish runaway,
What will toiling mother say,
Liza May, Liza May?

What care you who smile to greet
Everyone you chance to meet,
Liza May?

Soft the mill-race sings its song,
Just a little way along,
Liza May, Liza May.

But the song is full of guile,
Turn, ah turn, your steps the while,
Liza May.

You have caught the gleam and glow
Where the darkling waters flow,
Liza...

Until thy feet have trod the Road
Advise not wayside folk,
Nor till thy back has borne the Load
Break in upon the broke.

Chase not with undesired largesse
Of sympathy the heart
Which, knowing her own bitterness,
Presumes to dwell apart.

Employ not that glad hand to raise
The God-forgotten head
To Heaven and all the neighbours' gaze,
Cover thy mouth instead.

The quivering chin, the bitten lip,
The cold and sweating brow,
Later may yearn for fellowship,
Not now, you ass, not now!

Time, not thy ne'er so timely speech,
Life, not thy views thereon,
Shall furnish or deny to each
His consolation.

Or, if impelled to interfere,
Exhort, uplift, advise,
Lend not a base, betraying ear
To all the victim's cri...

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express’d
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

    The angels guide him now,
    And watch his curly head,
    And lead him in their games,
    The little boy we led.

    He cannot come to harm,
    He knows more than we know,
    His light is brighter far
    Than daytime here below.

    His path leads on and on,
    Through pleasant lawns and flowers,
    His brown eyes open wide
    At grass more green than ours.

    With playmates like himself,
    The shining boy will sing,
    Exploring wondrous woods,
    Sweet with eternal spring.

(For Aline)



Now by what whim of wanton chance
    Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should dance
    Walk weary and laborious ways?

But rays from Heaven, white and whole,
    May penetrate the gloom of earth;
And tears but nourish, in your soul,
    The glory of celestial mirth.

The darts of toil and sorrow, sent
    Against your peaceful beauty, are
As foolish and as impotent
    As winds that blow against a star.

    "A land without ruins is a land without memories --
    a land without memories is a land without history.
    A land that wears a laurel crown may be fair to see;
    but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land,
    and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes lovely
    in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of the heart
    and of history.    Crowns of roses fade -- crowns of thorns endure.
    Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity --
    the triumphs of might are transient -- they pass and are forgotten --
    the sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations."



Yes give me the land where the ruins are spread,
And the living tread light on the hearts of the dead;

    O it was a lorn and a dismal night,
    And the storm beat loud and high;
    Not a friendly light to guide me right
    Was there shining in the sky,
    When a lonely hut my wanderings met,
    Lost in a foreign land,
    And I found the dearest friend as yet
    In my lovely Peggy Band.

    "O, father, here's a soldier lad,
    And weary he seems to be."
    "Then welcome in," the old man said,
    And she gave her seat to me.
    The fire she trimmed, and my clothes she dried
    With her own sweet lily hand,
    And o'er the soldier's lot she sighed,
    While I blest my Peggy Band.

    When I told the tale of my wandering years,
    And the nights unknown to sleep,
    She made excuse to hide her tears,
    And she stole aw...

Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter.
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

To read my book the virgin shy
May blush while Brutus standeth by,
But when he's gone, read through what's writ,
And never stain a cheek for it.

A man of kind and noble mind
Was H. Gustavus Hyde.
'Twould be amiss to add to this
At present, for he died,
In full possession of his senses,
The day before my tale commences.

One half his gold his four-year-old
Son Paul was known to win,
And Beatrix, whose age was six,
For all the rest came in,
Perceiving which, their Uncle Ben did
A thing that people said was splendid.

For by the hand he took them, and
Remarked in accents smooth:
"One thing I ask. Be mine the task
These stricken babes to soothe!
My country home is really charming:
I'll teach them all the joys of farming."

One halcyon week they fished his creek,
And watched him do the chores,
In haylofts hid, and, shouting, slid
Down sloping cellar doors:--
Beca...