Tune - "John Anderson, my jo."


I.

    How cruel are the parents
        Who riches only prize,
    And, to the wealthy booby,
        Poor woman sacrifice!
    Meanwhile the hapless daughter
        Has but a choice of strife;
    To shun a tyrant father's hate,
        Become a wretched wife.

II.

    The ravening hawk pursuing,
        The trembling dove thus flies,
    To shun impelling ruin
        Awhile her pinions tries:
    Till of escape despairing,
        No shelter or retreat,
    She trusts the ruthless falconer,
        And drops beneath his feet!

    Out at Woodruff Place - afar
    From the city's glare and jar,
    With the leafy trees, instead
    Of the awnings, overhead;
    With the shadows cool and sweet,
    For the fever of the street;
    With the silence, like a prayer,
    Breathing round us everywhere.

    Gracious anchorage, at last,
    From the billows of the vast
    Tide of life that comes and goes,
    Whence and where nobody knows -
    Moving, like a skeptic's thought,
    Out of nowhere into naught.
    Touch and tame us with thy grace,
    Placid calm of Woodruff Place!

    Weave a wreath of beechen leaves
    For the brow that throbs and grieves
    O'er the ledger, bloody-lined,
    'Neath the sun-struck window-blind!
    Send the breath of woodl...

Where art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?
With wing at either shoulder,
And smile that never left thy mouth
Until the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seem’d to whisper near
That thou and I must part;
I doubted it; I felt no fear,
No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was by
And roll’d it off again;
So, if there ever was a sigh,
’T was not a sigh of pain.

I may not call thee back; but thou
Returnest when the hand
Of gentle Sleep waves o’er my brow
His poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine,
Then lips once press’d invite;
But sleep hath given a silent sign,
And both, alas! take flight.

We stood where the fields were tawny,
Where the redolent woodland was warm,
And the summer above us, now lawny,
Was alive with the pulse winds of storm.

And we watched weak wheat waves lighten,
And wince and hiss at each gust,
And the turbulent maples whiten,
And the lane grow gray with dust.

White flakes from the blossoming cherry,
Pink snows of the peaches were blown,
And star-fair blooms of the berry
And the dogwood's flowers were strewn.

And the luminous hillocks grew sullied,
And shadowed and thrilled with alarm,
When the body of the blackness was gullied
With the rapid, keen flame of the storm.

And the birds to dry coverts had hurried,
And the musical rillet ran slow,
And the buccaneer bee was worried,
And the red l...

Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle
Repine as if his hour were come too late?
Not unprotected in her mouldering state,
Antiquity salutes him with a smile,
'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil,
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate
Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style.
Fair land! by Time's parental love made free,
By Social Order's watchful arms embraced;
With unexampled union meet in thee,
For eye and mind, the present and the past;
With golden prospect for futurity,
If that be reverenced which ought to last.

(Westminster, October 12, 1892)

Great man of song, whose glorious laurelled head
    Within the lap of death sleeps well at last,
Down the dark road, seeking the deathless dead,
    Thy faithful, fearless, shining soul hath passed.

Fame blows his silver trumpet o'er thy sleep,
    And Love stands broken by thy lonely lyre;
So pure the fire God gave this clay to keep,
    The clay must still seem holy for the fire.

Poor dupes of sense, we deem the close-shut eye,
    So faithful servant of his golden tongue,
Still holds the hoarded lights of earth and sky,
    We deem the mouth still full of sleeping song.

We mourn as though the great good song he gave
    Passed with the singer's own informing breath:
Ah, golden book, for thee there is no gr...

'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;
But, if the chill be too severe,
Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,
Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;
But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,
'Twill drop upon its bed, and die!

E questo 'l nido in che la mia Fenice.

THE SIGHT OF LAURA'S HOUSE REMINDS HIM OF HIS MISERY.


    Is this the nest in which my phoenix first
Her plumage donn'd of purple and of gold,
Beneath her wings who knew my heart to hold,
For whom e'en yet its sighs and wishes burst?
Prime root in which my cherish'd ill had birth,
Where is the fair face whence that bright light came.
Alive and glad which kept me in my flame?
Now bless'd in heaven as then alone on earth;
Wretched and lonely thou hast left me here,
Fond lingering by the scenes, with sorrows drown'd,
To thee which consecrate I still revere.
Watching the hills as dark night gathers round,
Whence its last flight to heaven thy soul did take,
And where my day those bright eyes wont to make.

The lily's withered chalice falls
Around its rod of dusty gold,
And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower
Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter, hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk
Are blown into a snowy mass:
The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.

When mourn the dark Winds o'er the lonely plain,
    And from pale noon sinks, ere the fifth cold hour,
    The transient light, Imagination's power,
    With Knowledge, and with Science in her train,
Not unpropitious Hyems' icy reign
    Perceives; since in the deep and silent lour
    High themes the rapt concent'ring Thoughts explore,
    Freed from external Pleasure's glittering chain.
Then most the understanding's culture pays
    Luxuriant harvest, nor shall Folly bring
    Her aids obtrusive. - Then, with ardent gaze,
The INGENIOUS to their rich resources spring,
    While sullen Winter's dull imprisoning days
    Hang on the vacant mind with flagging wing.

Dec. 7th, 1782.

I.

Ere wild-haws, looming in the glooms,
Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;
And in the whistling hollow there
The red-bud bends, as brown and bare
As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm;
From some gray hickory or larch,
Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March,
The sad heart thrills and reddens warm
To hear you braving the rough storm,
Frail courier of green-gathering powers;
Rebelling sap in trees and flowers;
Love's minister come heralding
O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers!
O brown-red pursuivant of Spring!

II.

'Moan' sob the woodland waters still
Down bloomless ledges of the hill;
And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang
In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang
Sharp beaks and talons of the wind:
Black scowl the forests...

I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink
Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains
From cloudy steeps; and I grew sad to think
Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains.
And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps
In dear remembrance, - lonely, and forlorn,
Singing it to herself until she weeps
Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn: -
And as I mused, in dull imaginings,
There came a flash of garments, and I knew
The awful Muse by her harmonious wings
Charming the air to music as she flew -
Anon there rose an echo through the vale
Gave back Enydmion in a dreamlike tale.

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere
    Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
    Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,
    The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear
Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;
    Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,
    Thy drench'd and heavy rose. - Yet pledg'd and dear
    Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year;
Suspends her anchor on the silver horn
    Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day,
    Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,
And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,
    Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours
    Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

Young I was, but now am old,
But I am not yet grown cold;
I can play, and I can twine
'Bout a virgin like a vine:
In her lap too I can lie
Melting, and in fancy die;
And return to life if she
Claps my cheek, or kisseth me:
Thus, and thus it now appears
That our love outlasts our years.

When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rock...

Love left one day his leafy bower,
    And roamed in sportive vein,
Where Vanity had built a tower,
    For Fashion's sparkling train.
The mistress to see he requested,
    Of one who attended the door:
"Not home," said the page, who suggested
    That he'd leave his card.--"Au Revoir."

Love next came to a lowly bower:
    A maid who knew no guile,
Unlike the lady of the tower,
    Received him with a smile.
Since then the cot beams with his brightness
    Though often at Vanity's door
Love calls, merely out of politeness,
    And just leaves his card.--"Au Revoir."

I.

The spirits of the forest,
That to the winds give voice -
I lie the livelong April day
And wonder what it is they say
That makes the leaves rejoice.

The spirits of the forest,
That breathe in bud and bloom -
I walk within the black-haw brake
And wonder how it is they make
The bubbles of perfume.

The spirits of the forest,
That live in every spring -
I lean above the brook's bright blue
And wonder what it is they do
That makes the water sing.

The spirits of the forest.
That haunt the sun's green glow -
Down fungus ways of fern I steal
And wonder what they can conceal,
In dews, that twinkles so.

The spirits of the forest,
They hold me, heart and hand -
And, oh! the bird they send by light,
...

I.
Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,
Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
Just where the sea and the Loire unite!
And a boasted name in Brittany
She bore, which I will not write.

II.
Too white, for the flower of life is red;
Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen
Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
And blossom in heaven instead.

III.
Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair!
One grace that grew to its full on earth
Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
And her waist want half a girdle’s girth,
But she had her great gold hair.

IV.
Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
Freshness and fragrance, floods of it, too!
Gold, did I say? Nay, gold’s mere dross:
Here, Lif...