Happiness

O Heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,
The blithe bird's strain, and understood
The song it sang to leaf and bud,
What dost thou in the wood?
O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,
The glad brook's word to sun and moon,
What dost thou here where song lies low,
And dead the dreams of June?
Where once was heard a voice of song,
The hautboys of the mad winds sing;
Where once a music flowed along,
The rain's wild bugle's ring.
The weedy water frets and ails,
And moans in many a sunless fall;
And, o'er the melancholy, trails
The black crow's eldritch call.
Unhappy brook! O withered wood!
O days, whom Death makes comrades of!
Where are the birds that thrilled the blood
When Life struck hands with Love?
A song, one soared against the blue;<...

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings,
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty,
Where Love's a grown-up God,
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued wit...

    On every bush are roses blooming, everywhere the nightingale
    To his love again is warbling plaintively his oft-told tale.
    Now within our balmy garden dances the tall cypress tree,
    And the poplar never ceases clapping his slim hands in glee.
    From the height of every bough-tip you can hear the turtle sing,
    With loud voice proclaiming gaily the glad coming of the spring.
    On the head of the narcissus gleams as bright his diadem,
    As the crown of China's Emperor decked with many a costly gem.
    Here the west wind, there the north wind, in true token of their love,
    At the feet of yonder rose lay treasure poured down from above.
    All the earth with musk is scented, and musk-laden is the air.
    Everything proclaims that daily now draws nearer spring t...

But yesterday!...
O blooms of May,
And summer roses - Where-away?
O stars above,
And lips of love
And all the honeyed sweets thereof!

O lad and lass
And orchard-pass,
And briered lane, and daisied grass!
O gleam and gloom,
And woodland bloom,
And breezy breaths of all perfume! -

No more for me
Or mine shall be
Thy raptures - save in memory, -
No more - no more -
Till through the Door
Of Glory gleam the days of yore.

Oh, that I were the spirit of these wilds!
I'd make the zephyrs dance for my delight,
And lead a life as happy as a child's.
Echo should tremble with unfeigned affright,
And mock its own weird answers. I would kiss
Eliza's cheek, and touch her lips with dew
Stol'n from the scented rose. And Carrie's laugh
Should be a portion of the silver rills'
Sweet music, breathed mellifluously through
The hearts of generations. She should quaff
The nectar of inspired song, and thrills
Of sweet remembrances of her should strew
The woodland air, as sand-grains strew the shore;
And these two hearts should be my joy for evermore.

When the lad for longing sighs,
Mute and dull of cheer and pale,
If at death's own door he lies,
Maiden, you can heal his ail.

Lovers' ills are all to buy:
The wan look, the hollow tone,
The hung head, the sunken eye,
You can have them for your own.

Buy them, buy them: eve and morn
Lovers' ills are all to sell.
Then you can lie down forlorn;
But the lover will be well.

    He frowned and shook his snowy head.
    "Those clanging bells! they deafen quite
    With their unmeaning song," he said.
    "I'm weary of it all to-night -
    The gladness, sadness. I'm so old
    I have no sympathy to spare,
    My heart has grown so hard and cold,
    So full of self, I do not care
    How many laugh, or long, or grieve
    In all the world this Christmas eve.

    "There was a time long, long ago -
    They take our best, the passing years -
    For the old life, and faith, and glow.
    I'd give - what's on my cheek? Not tears!
    I have a whim. To-night I'll spend
    Till eyes turn on me gratefully -
    An old man's whim, just to pretend
    That he is what he used to be;
    For this one night, not want nor pain...

There is not anything more wonderful
Than a great people moving towards the deep
Of an unguessed and unfeared future; nor
Is aught so dear of all held dear before
As the new passion stirring in their veins
When the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.

Happy is England now, as never yet!
And though the sorrows of the slow days fret
Her faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.
Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summer
That turns to bitterness turns then to gladness
Since for this England the beloved ones died.

Happy is England in the brave that die
For wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;
Happy in those that give, give, and endure
The pain that never the new years may cure;
Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,
Her hi...

This world is made a witchcraft place
With gazing on a woman's face.
Now 'tis her smile, whose sorcery
Turns all my thoughts to melody.
Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,
That makes my day a page of prose.
And now her laugh, or but a word,
That in my heart frees wild a bird.
Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,
Will lift from my dumb life the curse
Of longing, inarticulate,
That keeps me sad and celibate.

Gray towers make me think of thee,
Thou girl of olden minstrelsy,
Young as the sunlight of to-day,
Silent as tasselled boughs in May!

A wind-flower in a world of harm,
A harebell on a turret's arm,
A pearl upon the hilt of fame
Thou wert, fair child of some high name.

The velvet page, the deep-eyed knight,
The heartless falcon, poised for flight,
The dainty steed and graceful hound,
In thee their keenest rapture found.

But for old ballads, and the rhyme
And writ of genius o'er the time
When keeps had newly reared their towers,
The winning scene had not been ours.

O Chivalry! thy age was fair,
When even knaves set out to dare
Their heads for any barbarous crime,
And hate was brave, and love sublime.

The bugle-no...

To J. A. C.


Fresh from his fastnesses
Wholesome and spacious,
The North Wind, the mad huntsman,
Halloas on his white hounds
Over the grey, roaring
Reaches and ridges,
The forest of ocean,
The chace of the world.
Hark to the peal
Of the pack in full cry,
As he thongs them before him,
Swarming voluminous,
Weltering, wide-wallowing,
Till in a ruining
Chaos of energy,
Hurled on their quarry,
They crash into foam!

Old Indefatigable,
Time's right-hand man, the sea
Laughs as in joy
From his millions of wrinkles:
Laughs that his destiny,
Great with the greatness
Of triumphing order,
Shows as a dwarf
By the strength of his heart
And the might of his hands.

Master of masters,
O make...

As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,
As I wended the shores I know,
As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land of the globe.

Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those slender windrows,
Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,
Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me...

I'm happy, I'm happy,
I saw my love to-day.
He came along the crowded street,
By all the ladies gay,
And oh, he smiled and spoke to me
Before he went his way.
My throat was tight with happiness,
I couldn't say a word,
My heart was beating fast, so fast
I'm sure he must have heard;
And when he passed, I trembled like
A little frightened bird.
I wish I were the flower-girl
Who waits beside the way,
I'd give my flowers all to him
And see him every day;
I wish I were the flower-girl
Who waits beside the way.

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your doll, I know;
And your tea-set blue,
And your play-house too,
Are things of the long ago;
But childish troubles will soon pass by.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know;
And the glad, wild ways
Of your school-girl days
Are things of the long ago;
But life and love will soon come by.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your heart, I know;
And the rainbow gleams
Of your youthful dreams
Are things of the long ago;
But heaven holds all for which you sigh.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

Who stops the Minister of State,
When hurrying to the Lords' debate?
Who, spite of gravity beguiles,
The solemn Bishop of his smiles?
See from the window, "burly big,"
The Judge pops out his awful wig,
Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While
both the Sheriffs and the Mayor
Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And
who detains the Husband true,
Running to Doctor Doode-Doo,
To save his Wife "in greatest danger;"
While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger
Another hour from life and light,
To gape at the bewitching sight.
The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret,
Despite his poetry and merit,
Stops in his quick retreat awhile,
And tries the long-forgotten smile;
E'en the pursuing Bum forgets
His business, and the man of Debts;

'A Library in a garden! The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.' - Mr. EDMUND GOSSE in Gossip in a Library.

A world of books amid a world of green,
Sweet song without, sweet song again within
Flowers in the garden, in the folios too:
O happy Bookman, let me live with you!

This life is jolly, O!
I envy no man's lot;
My eyes can much admire,
And still my heart crave not;
There's no true joy in gold,
It breeds desire for more;
Whatever wealth man has,
Desire can keep him poor.

This life is jolly, O!
Power has his fawning slaves,
But if he rests his mind,
Those wretches turn bold knaves.
Fame's field is full of flowers,
It dazzles as we pass,
But men who walk that field
Starve for the common grass.

This life is jolly, O!
Let others know they die,
Enough to know I live,
And make no question why;
I care not whence I came,
Nor whither I shall go;
Let others think of these,
This life is jolly, O!

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,
Her e'en as black as sloas;
Her hair a flyin thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowin rooas.
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,
But nah mi love is crost;
An aw mun wander on alooan,
An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine,
Wi' poverty at th' door:
Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine
Wi' love for one so poor;
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But nah ther's summat i' mi breast,
Tells me aw miss'd mi way:
An lost that lass I loved the best
Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn,
An oft i'th' dar...