A Little Book of Old Time Verse Part 8

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, m.u.f.fled and dumb like barefoot dervishes And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and f.a.ggots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will-- Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watch'd the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turn'd and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

--_Ralph Waldo Emerson_

A Hymn to Love

I will confess With cheerfulness, Love is a thing so likes me, That let her lay On me all day I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

I will not, I Now blubb'ring, cry, It (ah!) too late repents me, That I did fall To love at all, Since love so much contents me.

No, no, I'll be In fetters free: While others they sit wringing Their hands for pain, I'll entertain The wounds of love with singing.

--_Robert Herrick_

Adieu L'Amour

Here end my chains, and thraldom cease, If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace; Since for the pleasures of an hour, We must endure an age of pain; I'll be this abject thing no more, Love, give me back my heart again.

Despair tormented first my breast, Now falsehood, a more cruel guest; O! for the peace of human kind, Make women longer true, or sooner kind; With justice, or with mercy reign, O Love! or give me back my heart again.

--_George Granville_ (_Lord Lansdowne_)

My Little Pretty One

My little pretty one!

My softly winning one!

Oh! thou'rt a merry one!

And playful as can be.

With a beck thou com'st anon; In a trice, too, thou are gone, And I must sigh alone, But sighs are lost upon thee.

Art thou my smiling one, Art thou my pouting one, Art thou my teasing one, A G.o.ddess, elf, or grace?

With a frown thou wound'st my heart, With a smile thou heal'st the smart; Why play the tyrant's part With such an innocent face?

--_Old Song_

Song

Go, lovely Rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

--_Edmund Waller_

Song

The bee to the heather, The lark to the sky, The roe to the greenwood, And whither shall I?

O, Alice! Ah, Alice!

So sweet to the bee Are moorland and heather By Cannock and Leigh!

O, Alice! Ah, Alice!

O'er Teddesley Park The sunny sky scatters The notes of the lark!

O, Alice! Ah, Alice!

In Beaudesert glade The roes toss their antlers For joy of the shade!--

But Alice, dear Alice!

Glade, moorland, nor sky Without you can content me-- And whither shall I?

--_Sir Henry Taylor_

Song

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes.

Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn, Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.

--_William D'Avenant_

Rain on the Down

Night, and the down by the sea, And the veil of rain on the down; And she came through the mist and the rain to me From the safe warm lights of the town.

The rain shone in her hair, And her face gleam'd in the rain; And only the night and the rain were there As she came to me out of the rain.

--_Arthur Symons_

Down by the Sally Gardens