The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 140

But when I speak--thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been.

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave,-- And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking, too, of thee; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.

We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.

We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang gray and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head.

'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.

Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.

We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or G.o.d's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by!

And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,--well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL From "The Poet's Vow"

I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears.

I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou.

No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth--thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When pa.s.sion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft"-- But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which G.o.d shall hear and bless!

Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride.

The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek: And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near-- The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest-- For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in G.o.d had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow-- I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore-- Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true!

But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun s.h.i.+nes always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE

Word was brought to the Danish king (Hurry!) That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty n.o.bles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; (O, ride as though you were flying!) Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!