Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 126

John Greenleaf Whittier. 1807-1892

690. Vesta

O CHRIST of G.o.d! whose life and death Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly Take home thy star-named child!

Thy grace is in her patient eyes, Thy words are on her tongue; The very silence round her seems As if the angels sung.

Her smile is as a listening child's Who hears its mother's call; The lilies of Thy perfect peace About her pillow fall.

She leans from out our clinging arms To rest herself in Thine; Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can we Our well-beloved resign.

O, less for her than for ourselves We bow our heads and pray; Her setting star, like Bethlehem's, To Thee shall point the way!

Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin. 1807-1867

691. 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'ning 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, O, 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-- O, 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.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 1808-1876

692. I do not love Thee

I DO not love thee!--no! I do not love thee!

And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!--yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!--yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!--yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!

Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pa.s.s, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

Charles Tennyson Turner. 1808-1879

693. Letty's Globe

WHEN Letty had scarce pa.s.s'd her third glad year, And her young artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old empires peep'd Between her baby fingers; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss; But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry-- 'Oh! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!'

And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849

694. To Helen

HELEN, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native sh.o.r.e.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla.s.sic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are holy land!

Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849

695. Annabel Lee

IT was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee, With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee, So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud one night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we-- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849

696. For Annie