The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 123

And put gold fetters on her golden hair.

Oh! the vain joy it is to see her lie Beside me once again; beyond release, Her hair, her hand, her body, till she die, All mine, for me to do with what I please!

For, after all, I find no chain whereby To chain her heart to love me as before, Nor fetter for her lips, to make them cease From saying still she loveth me no more.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

AULD ROBIN GRAY

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the kye was stown awa'; My mother she fell sick,--and my Jamie at the sea-- And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith,--for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame to marry thee."

O, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]

LOST LIGHT

My heart is chilled and my pulse is slow, But often and often will memory go, Like a blind child lost in a waste of snow, Back to the days when I loved you so-- The beautiful long ago.

I sit here dreaming them through and through, The blissful moments I shared with you-- The sweet, sweet days when our love was new, When I was trustful and you were true-- Beautiful days, but few!

Blest or wretched, fettered or free, Why should I care how your life may be, Or whether you wander by land or sea?

I only know you are dead to me, Ever and hopelessly.

Oh, how often at day's decline I pushed from my window the curtaining vine, To see from your lattice the lamp-light shine-- Type of a message that, half divine, Flashed from your heart to mine.

Once more the starlight is silvering all; The roses sleep by the garden wall; The night bird warbles his madrigal, And I hear again through the sweet air fall The evening bugle-call.

But summers will vanish and years will wane, And bring no light to your window pane; Nor gracious sunshine nor patient rain Can bring dead love back to life again: I call up the past in vain.

My heart is heavy, my heart is old, And that proves dross which I counted gold; I watch no longer your curtain's fold; The window is dark and the night is cold, And the story forever told.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

A SIGH

It was nothing but a rose I gave her,-- Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill-- Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Stays, and thrills them still!

Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold,-- Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

HEREAFTER

Love, when all the years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast, When no morrow is before us, and the long gra.s.s tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed--

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers, Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth.

That's our love. But you and I, dear--shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dew-drop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net-- On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

Or, beloved--if ascending--when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry s.p.a.ces, toward what awful, holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled?

Only this our yearning answers: wheresoe'er that way defile, Not a film shall part us through the eons of that mighty while, In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of G.o.d's great smile.

Harriet Prescott Spofford [1835-1921]

ENDYMION

The apple trees are hung with gold, And birds are loud in Arcady, The sheep lie bleating in the fold, The wild goat runs across the wold, But yesterday his love he told, I know he will come back to me.

O rising moon! O Lady moon!

Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.

The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The gray wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom.

O risen moon! O holy moon!

Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me.

False moon! False moon! O waning moon!