Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 146

George Meredith. 1828-1909

775. Love's Grave

MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave!

Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: In hearing of the ocean, and in sight Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white.

If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!

'Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited. I see no sin: The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, G.o.d wot, No villain need be! Pa.s.sions spin the plot: We are betray'd by what is false within.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

776. Lucifer in Starlight

ON a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose.

Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd, Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose.

Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.

And now upon his western wing he lean'd, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd, Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows.

Soaring through wider zones that p.r.i.c.k'd his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank.

Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

777. Love

THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest s.p.a.ce, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, 'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire.

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours When Love is born in each.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.

The world is very lovely. O my G.o.d, I thank Thee that I live!

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

778. Barbara

ON the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere, While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a prayer; But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- Gleam'd and vanish'd in a moment--O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face!

O earnest eyes of grace!

When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.

You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss'd, That wild morning, Barbara.

I search'd, in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.

O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone-- Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasp'd around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?

Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watch'd, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack'd: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.

Still I love you. Barbara.

Yet, Love, I am unblest; With many doubts opprest, I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest.

Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry sh.o.r.e, The hunger of my soul were still'd; for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know--things deeper than all lore You could teach me, Barbara.

In vain, in vain, in vain!

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish sh.o.r.es for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee-- Barbara!

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

779. Bride Song FROM 'THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS'

TOO late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late!

You loiter'd on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leap'd, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?

Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair.

Now there are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seem'd never soft to her, Though toss'd of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street.

There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead?

Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head.

Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

780. A Birthday

MY heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow sh.e.l.l That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.