Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 142

762. Departure

IT was not like your great and gracious ways!

Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise.

Well, it was well To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.

And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.

But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pa.s.s'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

763. The Toys

MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, --His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of gla.s.s abraded by the beach, And six or seven sh.e.l.ls, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd To G.o.d, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.'

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

764. A Farewell

WITH all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.

My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.

It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West.

We will not say There 's any hope, it is so far away.

But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

765. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston

THE murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, 'O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!'

Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood-- Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

766. Return!

RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning, All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning Bears witness that the absent can return, Return, return.

Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness To feed the sorrowy signal for return, Return, return.

Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings, I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, When Hope's late b.u.t.terflies, with whispering wings, Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-- Burn in the watchfire of return, Return, return.

Like it, the very flame whereby I pine Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn My soul becomes a better soul than mine, And from its brightening beacon I discern My starry love go forth from me, and shine Across the seas a path for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! all night I see it burn, All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn-- Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return.

Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn As warmly still for thy return; Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn Naught but that votive sign for thy return-- That single suppliant sign for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, And thou, who thro' the window didst discern The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair To find no wide eyes watching there, No wither'd welcome waiting thy return!

A pa.s.sing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn-- Burn out its lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, Return, return.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

767. A Chanted Calendar

FIRST came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she, And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, Dishevell'd in the wind.

Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a banner'd show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.

As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she.

With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

768. Laus Deo

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.