The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 57

SERENADE

The western wind is blowing fair Across the dark Aegean sea, And at the secret marble stair My Tyrian galley waits for thee.

Come down! the purple sail is spread, The watchman sleeps within the town; O leave thy lily-flowered bed, O Lady mine, come down, come down!

She will not come, I know her well, Of lover's vows she hath no care, And little good a man can tell Of one so cruel and so fair.

True love is but a woman's toy, They never know the lover's pain, And I, who love as loves a boy, Must love in vain, must love in vain.

O n.o.ble pilot, tell me true, Is that the sheen of golden hair?

Or is it but the tangled dew That binds the pa.s.sion-flowers there?

Good sailor, come and tell me now, Is that my Lady's lily hand?

Or is it but the gleaming prow, Or is it but the silver sand?

No! no! 'tis not the tangled dew, 'Tis not the silver-fretted sand, It is my own dear Lady true With golden hair and lily hand!

O n.o.ble pilot, steer for Troy!

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar!

This is the Queen of life and joy Whom we must bear from Grecian sh.o.r.e!

The waning sky grows faint and blue; It wants an hour still of day; Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew, O Lady mine, away! away!

O n.o.ble pilot, steer for Troy!

Good sailor, ply the laboring oar!

O loved as only loves a boy!

O loved for ever, evermore!

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

THE LITTLE RED LARK

O swan of slenderness, Dove of tenderness, Jewel of joys, arise!

The little red lark, Like a soaring spark Of song, to his sunburst flies; But till thou art arisen, Earth is a prison, Full of my lonesome sighs: Then awake and discover, To thy fond lover, The morn of thy matchless eyes.

The dawn is dark to me, Hark! oh, hark to me,

Pulse of my heart, I pray!

And out of thy hiding With blushes gliding, Dazzle me with thy day.

Ah, then once more to thee Flying I'll pour to thee Pa.s.sion so sweet and gay, The larks shall listen, And dew-drops glisten, Laughing on every spray.

Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]

SERENADE

By day my timid pa.s.sions stand Like begging children at your gate, Each with a mute, appealing hand To ask a dole of Fate; But when night comes, released from doubt, Like merry minstrels they appear, The stars ring out their hopeful shout, Beloved, can you hear?

They dare not sing to you by day Their all-desirous song, or take The world with their adventurous lay For your enchanted sake.

But when the night-wind wakes and thrills The shadows that the night unbars, Their music fills the dreamy hills, And folds the friendly stars.

Beloved, can you hear? They sing Words that no mortal lips can sound; Love through the world has taken wing, My pa.s.sions are unbound.

And now, and now, my lips, my eyes, Are stricken dumb with hope and fear, It is my burning soul that cries, Beloved, can you hear?

Richard Middleton [1882-1911]

THE COMEDY OF LOVE

A LOVER'S LULLABY

Sing lullaby, as women do, Wherewith they bring their babes to rest; And lullaby can I sing too, As womanly as can the best.

With lullaby they still the child; And if I be not much beguiled, Full many a wanton babe have I, Which must be stilled with lullaby.

First lullaby my youthful years, It is now time to go to bed: For crooked age and h.o.a.ry hairs Have won the haven within my head.

With lullaby, then, youth be still; With lullaby content thy will; Since courage quails and comes behind, Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!

Next lullaby my gazing eyes, Which wonted were to glance apace; For every gla.s.s may now suffice To show the furrows in thy face.

With lullaby then wink awhile; With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, Entice you eft with vain delight.

And lullaby my wanton will; Let reason's rule now reign thy thought; Since all too late I find by skill How dear I have thy fancies bought; With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubts appease; For trust to this, if thou be still, My body shall obey thy will.

Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes, My will, my ware, and all that was: I can no more delays devise; But welcome pain, let pleasure pa.s.s.

With lullaby now take your leave; With lullaby your dreams deceive; And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby.

George Gascoigne [1525?-1577]