Myth and Romance Part 13

Why should I pine? when there in Spain Are eyes to woo, and not in vain; Dark eyes, and dreamily divine: And lips, as red as sunlit wine;

Sweet lips, that never know disdain: And hearts, for pa.s.sion over fain; Fond, trusting hearts that know no stain Of scorn for hearts that love like mine.-- Why should I pine?

Because all dreams I entertain Of beauty wear thy form, Elain; And e'en their lips and eyes are thine: So though I gladly would resign All love, I love, and still complain, "Why should I pine?"

_When Lydia Smiles_

When Lydia smiles, I seem to see The walls around me fade and flee; And, lo, in haunts of hart and hind I seem with lovely Rosalind, In Arden 'neath the greenwood tree: The day is drowsy with the bee, And one wild bird flutes dreamily, And all the mellow air is kind, When Lydia smiles.

Ah, me! what were this world to me Without her smile!--What poetry, What glad hesperian paths I find Of love, that lead my soul and mind To happy hills of Arcady, When Lydia smiles!

_The Rose_

You have forgot: it once was red With life, this rose, to which you said,-- When, there in happy days gone by, You plucked it, on my breast to lie,-- "Sleep there, O rose! how sweet a bed Is thine!--And, heart, be comforted; For, though we part and roses shed Their leaves and fade, love cannot die.--"

You have forgot.

So by those words of yours I'm led To send it you this day you wed.

Look well upon it. You, as I, Should ask it now, without a sigh, If love can lie as it lies dead.-- You have forgot.

_A Ballad of Sweethearts_

Summer may come, in sun-blonde splendor, To reap the harvest that Springtime sows; And Fall lead in her old defender, Winter, all huddled up in snows: Ever a-south the love-wind blows Into my heart, like a vane asway From face to face of the girls it knows-- But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

If Carrie smile or Maud look tender, Straight in my bosom the gladness glows; But scarce at their side am I all surrender When Gertrude sings where the garden grows: And my heart is a bloom, like the red rose shows For her hand to gather and toss away, Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes-- But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Let Laura pa.s.s, as a sapling slender, Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,-- Or Blanche or Helen,--to each I render The worship due to the charms she shows: But Mary's a poem when these are prose; Here at her feet my life I lay; All of devotion to her it owes-- But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

How _can_ my heart of my hand dispose?

When Ruth and Clara, and Kate and May, In form and feature no flaw disclose-- But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

_Her Portrait_

Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry; Not in the flesh, but spirit.

The canvas I would paint you on Should be a bit of heaven; My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawn And night and starry even.

Your form and features to express, Likewise your soul's chaste whiteness, I'd take the primal essences Of darkness and of brightness.

I'd take pure night to paint your hair; Stars for your eyes; and morning To paint your skin--the rosy air That is your limbs' adorning.

To paint the love-bows of your lips, I'd mix, for colors, kisses; And for your b.r.e.a.s.t.s and finger-tips, Sweet odors and soft blisses.

And to complete the picture well, I'd temper all with woman,-- Some tears, some laughter; heaven and h.e.l.l, To show you still are human.

_A Song for Yule_

I

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way, And the bells peal out, _'Tis Christmas Day_; The world is better then by half, For joy, for joy; In a little while you will see it laugh-- For a song's to sing and a gla.s.s to quaff, My boy, my boy.

So here's to the man who never says nay!-- Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas-Day!

II

Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow, And homes are hung with mistletoe; Old Earth is not half bad, I wis-- What cheer! what cheer!

How it ever seemed sad the wonder is-- With a gift to give and a girl to kiss, My dear, my dear.

So here's to the girl who never says no!

Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!

III

No thing in the world to the heart seems wrong When the soul of a man walks out with song; Wherever they go, glad hand in hand, And glove in glove, The round of the land is rainbow-spanned, And the meaning of life they understand Is love, is love.

Let the heart be open, the soul be strong, And life will be glad as a Christmas song.

_The Puritans'

Christmas_

Their only thought religion, What Christmas joys had they, The stern, staunch Pilgrim Fathers who Knew naught of holiday?--

A log-church in the clearing 'Mid solitudes of snow, The wild-beast and the wilderness, And lurking Indian foe.