The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 73

When youth had flown did hope still bless Thy goings--or the cheerfulness Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VI But from our course why turn--to tread A way with shadows overspread; Where what we gladliest would believe Is feared as what may most deceive?

Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned But heath-bells from thy native ground, Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from Thee; For in my Fancy thou dost share The gift of immortality; And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, The Votaress by Lugano's side; And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The cote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tower Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showed Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- "Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you looked 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry--"Why if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pa.s.s A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten gra.s.s Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, "The flower O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour."

William Barnes [1801-1886]

A PORTRAIT "One name is Elizabeth" Ben Jonson

I will paint her as I see her.

Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes unders.h.i.+ne, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,-- Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-- Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly--just as she, When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,-- Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.

And her smile it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair.

And if reader read the poem, He would whisper--"You have done a Consecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger,--when he sees her In the street even--smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth, whereon she pa.s.ses, With the thymy-scented gra.s.ses.

And all hearts do pray, "G.o.d love her!"

Ay and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure HE DOTH.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

TO A CHILD OF FANCY

The nests are in the hedgerows, The lambs are on the gra.s.s; With laughter sweet as music The hours lightfooted pa.s.s, My darling child of fancy, My winsome prattling la.s.s.

Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosing Twin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, Voice lightsome as the merle.

A whole Spring's fickle changes, In every short-lived day, A pa.s.sing cloud of April, A flowery smile of May, A thousand quick mutations From graver moods to gay.

Far off, I see the season When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath the growing sun, And the rose begins to redden, But the violets are done.

And further still the summer, When thy fair tree, fully grown, Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid With blossoms of its own, And the fruit begins to gather, But the b.u.t.tercups are mown.

If I should see thy autumn, 'Twill not be close at hand, But with a spirit vision, From some far-distant land.

Or, perhaps, I hence may see thee Amongst the angels stand.

I know not what of fortune The future holds for thee, Nor if skies fair or clouded Wait thee in days to be, But neither joy nor sorrow Shall sever thee from me.

Dear child, whatever changes Across our lives may pa.s.s, I shall see thee still for ever, Clearly as in a gla.s.s, The same sweet child of fancy, The same dear winsome la.s.s.

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]

DAISY