The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 39

Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat Where the least thornp.r.i.c.k harms; And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, Come thou before my lady and say this: Borgia, thy gold hair's color burns in me, Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; Therefore so many as these roses be, Kiss me so many times.

Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, That she will stoop herself none otherwise Than a blown vine-branch doth, And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, Ballad, and on thy mouth.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

A LEAVE-TAKING

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.

Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing time is over, And over all old things and all things dear.

She loves not you nor me as all we love her.

Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know.

Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?

There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.

We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying, "If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap."

All is reaped now; no gra.s.s is left to mow; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.

She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways how sore they are and steep.

Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.

Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care.

Though all the stars made gold of all the air, And the sea moving saw before it move One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; Though all those waves went over us, and drove Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, She would not care.

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.

Sing all once more together; surely she, She too, remembering days and words that were, Will turn a little towards us, sighing; but we, We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.

Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, She would not see.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

A LYRIC

There's nae lark loves the lift, my dear, There's nae s.h.i.+p loves the sea, There's nae bee loves the heather-bells, That loves as I love thee, my love, That loves as I love thee.

The whin s.h.i.+nes fair upon the fell, The blithe broom on the lea: The muirside wind is merry at heart: It's a' for love of thee, my love, It's a' for love of thee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

MAUREEN

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen!

Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it's pale you are, and the fear on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it's one complaint that's on us, asth.o.r.e, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen!

When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o' the World that day--only me?

My one true love, Maureen!

And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

John Todhunter [1839-?]

A LOVE SYMPHONY

Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair; Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon, And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were, they warbled on, Piped, trilled, the selfsame thing.

Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you: How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet-- Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]

LOVE ON THE MOUNTAIN

My love comes down from the mountain Through the mists of dawn; I look, and the star of the morning From the sky is gone.

My love comes down from the mountain, At dawn, dewy sweet; Did you step from the star to the mountain, O little white feet?

O whence came your twining tresses And your s.h.i.+ning eyes, But out of the gold of the morning And the blue of the skies?

The misty mountain is burning In the sun's red fire, And the heart in my breast is burning And lost in desire.

I follow you into the valley But no word can I say; To the East or the West I will follow Till the dusk of my day.

Thomas Boyd [1867-