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Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I 'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget.
[Decoration]
_SUDDEN LIGHT._
I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the gra.s.s beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the sh.o.r.e.
You have been mine before,-- How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our loves restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more?
_THREE SHADOWS._
I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair, As a traveller sees the stream In the shadow of the wood; And I said, "My faint heart sighs, Ah me! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude."
I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream; And I said, "Ah, me! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And Heaven a hollow dream?"
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I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart,-- "Ah! you can love, true girl, And is your love for me?"
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT.
1812-1890.
_PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN._
Last time I parted from my Dear The linnet sang from the briar-bush, The throstle from the dell; The stream too carolled full and clear, It was the spring-time of the year, And both the linnet and the thrush I love them well Since last I parted from my Dear.
But when he came again to me The barley rustled high and low, Linnet and thrush were still; Yellowed the apple on the tree, 'T was autumn merry as it could be, What time the white ships come and go Under the hill; They brought him back again to me, Brought him safely o'er the sea.
[Decoration]
[Decoration]
JOSEPH SKIPSEY.
1832
_A MERRY BEE._
A golden bee a-cometh O'er the mere, gla.s.sy mere, And a merry tale he hummeth In my ear.
How he seized and kist a blossom, From its tree, th.o.r.n.y tree, Plucked and placed in Annie's bosom, Hums the bee!
_THE SONGSTRESS._
Back flies my soul to other years, When thou that charming lay repeatest, When smiles were only chased by tears, Yet sweeter far than smiles the sweetest.
Thy music ends, and where are they?
Those golden times by memory cherished?
O, Syren, sing no more that lay, Or sing till I like them have perished!
[Decoration]
_THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE._
The Violet invited my kiss,-- I kissed it and called it my bride; "Was ever one slighted like this?"
Sighed the Rose as it stood by my side.
My heart ever open to grief, To comfort the fair one I turned; "Of fickle ones thou art the chief!"
Frowned the Violet, and pouted and mourned.
Then, to end all disputes, I entwined The love-stricken blossoms in one; But that instant their beauty declined, And I wept for the deed I had done!
[Decoration]
J. ASHBY STERRY.
_REGRETS._
I.
O for the look of those pure grey eyes-- Seeming to plead and speak-- The parted lips and the deep-drawn sighs, The blush on the kissen cheek!
II.
O for the tangle of soft brown hair, Lazily blown by the breeze; The fleeting hours unshadowed by care, Shaded by tremulous trees!
