Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 103

What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone?

I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter'd size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take suns.h.i.+ne from thine eyes!

Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life 's a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old!

That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist.

Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

553. Time, Real and Imaginary AN ALLEGORY

ON the wide level of a mountain's head (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place), Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother!

This far outstripp'd the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind!

O'er rough and smooth with even step he pa.s.s'd, And knows not whether he be first or last.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

554. Work without Hope

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-- The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing-- And Winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!

And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.

Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!

With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?

Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

555. Glycine's Song

A SUNNY shaft did I behold, From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold-- Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll'd Within that shaft of sunny mist; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang: 'Adieu! adieu!

Love's dreams prove seldom true.

The blossoms, they make no delay: The sparking dew-drops will not stay.

Sweet month of May, We must away; Far, far away!

To-day! to-day!'

Robert Southey. 1774-1843

556. His Books

MY days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful grat.i.tude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears; And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

557. The Maid's Lament

I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone, I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him; I now would give My love, could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death.

I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears.

'Merciful G.o.d!' such was his latest prayer, 'These may she never share!'

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, O, pray too for me!

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

558. Rose Aylmer

AH, what avails the sceptred race!

Ah, what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

559. Ianthe

FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles pa.s.s Like little ripples down a sunny river; Your pleasures spring like daisies in the gra.s.s, Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864

560. Twenty Years hence

TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow, If not quite dim, yet rather so; Yet yours from others they shall know, Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence, though it may hap That I be call'd to take a nap In a cool cell where thunder-clap Was never heard,