Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 137

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875

740. The Sands of Dee

'O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.'

The western wind was wild and dark with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

'O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?'

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.

They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.

Arthur Hugh Clough. 1819-1861

741. Say not the Struggle Naught availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!

But westward, look, the land is bright!

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

742. The Imprisoned Soul

AT the last, tenderly, From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks--from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth; With the key of softness unlock the locks--with a whisper Set ope the doors, O soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient!

(Strong is your hold, O mortal fles.h.!.+

Strong is your hold, O love!)

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

743. O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The s.h.i.+p has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red!

Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the sh.o.r.es crowding, For you they call, the swaying ma.s.s, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The s.h.i.+p is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor s.h.i.+p comes in with object won; Exult, O sh.o.r.es! and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

John Ruskin. 1819-1900

744. Trust Thou Thy Love

TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?

Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?

Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet; Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

Ebenezer Jones. 1820-1860

745. When the World is burning

WHEN the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning Round with face unscathed; Ere fierce flames, uprus.h.i.+ng, O'er all lands leap, crus.h.i.+ng, Till earth fall, fire-swathed; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows, Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden.

Though by bard beholden, When in calm dreams folden,-- Calm his dreams will bide.

Where the dance is sweeping, Through the greensward peeping, Shall the soft lights start; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it trick-playing, High their robes upswaying, O'er the lights shall dart; And the woodland haunter Shall not cease to saunter When, far down some glade, Of the great world's burning, One soft flame upturning Seems, to his discerning, Crocus in the shade.

Frederick Locker-Lampson. 1821-1895

746. At Her Window

BEATING Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes; This is Mabel's window-pane; These are Mabel's roses.

Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily?

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her.

Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating; If she hear me will she heed?

Mabel, I am waiting.

Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Happy zone! O hark to yon Pa.s.sion-shaken carol!