Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 119

651. Time of Roses

IT was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet: O no--the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

652. Ruth

SHE stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen'd;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising G.o.d with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

653. The Death-bed

WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.

Thomas Hood. 1798-1845

654. The Bridge of Sighs

ONE more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fas.h.i.+on'd so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

O, it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even G.o.d's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and cas.e.m.e.nt, From garret to bas.e.m.e.nt, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and s.h.i.+ver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly-- No matter how coldly The rough river ran-- Over the brink of it, Picture it--think of it, Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fas.h.i.+on'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Thro' muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity.

Peris.h.i.+ng gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.-- Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

William Thom. 1798-1848

655. The Blind Boy's Pranks

MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, Love kentna whaur to stay: Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or string-- Wi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, He faught his lonely way.

'Is there nae mair in Garioch fair Ae spotless hame for me?

Hae politics an' corn an' kye Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!

I'll swithe me o'er the sea.'

He launch'd a leaf o' jessamine, On whilk he daur'd to swim, An' pillow'd his head on a wee rosebud, Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scud Down Ury's waefu' stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, But dowie when he gaed by; Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang, He sleepit fu' soun' and sail'd alang 'Neath Heaven's gowden sky.