The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 139

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT"

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

ON A PICTURE BY POUSSIN REPRESENTING SHEPHERDS IN ARCADIA

Ah, happy youths, ah, happy maid, s.n.a.t.c.h present pleasure while ye may; Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade, Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay; Ye little think there comes a day ('Twill come to you, it came to me) When love and life shall pa.s.s away: I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Or listless lie by yonder stream, And muse and watch the ripples play, Or note their noiseless flow, and deem That life thus gently glides away-- That love is but a sunny ray To make our years go smiling by.

I knew that stream, I too could dream, I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

Sing, shepherds, sing; sweet lady, listen; Sing to the music of the rill, With happy tears her bright eyes glisten, For, as each pause the echoes fill, They waft her name from hill to hill-- So listened my lost love to me, The voice she loved has long been still; I, too, once dwelt in Arcady.

John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]

THRENODY

There's a gra.s.s-grown road from the valley-- A winding road and steep-- That leads to the quiet hill-top, Where lies your love asleep....

While mine is lying, G.o.d knows where, A hundred fathoms deep.

I saw you kneel at a grave-side-- How still a grave can be, Wrapped in the tender starlight, Far from the moaning sea!

But through all dreams and starlight, The breakers call to me.

Oh, steep is your way to Silence-- But steeper the ways I roam, For never a road can take me Beyond the wind and foam, And never a road can reach him Who lies so far from home.

Ruth Guthrie Harding [1882-

STRONG AS DEATH

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand-- Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet arid subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]

"I SHALL NOT CRY RETURN"

I shall not cry Return! Return!

Nor weep my years away; But just as long as sunsets burn, And dawns make no delay, I shall be lonesome--I shall miss Your hand, your voice, your smile, your kiss.

Not often shall I speak your name, For what would strangers care That once a sudden tempest came And swept my gardens bare, And then you pa.s.sed, and in your place Stood Silence with her lifted face.

Not always shall this parting be, For though I travel slow, I, too, may claim eternity And find the way you go; And so I do my task and wait The opening of the outer gate.

Ellen M. H. Gates [1835-1920]

"OH! s.n.a.t.c.hED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM"

Oh! s.n.a.t.c.hed away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou,--who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

TO MARY

If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had pa.s.sed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain.