Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 148

788. Aloof

THE irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellows.h.i.+p seem'd not so far to seek, And all the world and I seem'd much less cold, And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

789. Rest

O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.

She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearth Of all that irk'd her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise.

Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

790. Dora

SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, My little girl of six years old-- He used to be so good and brave, The sweetest lamb of all our fold; He used to shout, he used to sing, Of all our tribe the little king-- And so unto the turf her ear she laid, To hark if still in that dark place he play'd.

No sound! no sound!

Death's silence was profound; And horror crept Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.

If this is as it ought to be, My G.o.d, I leave it unto Thee.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

791. Jessie

WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if G.o.d caress'd Twin babes upon His knees-- Twin babes that, each to other press'd, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.

But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled-- O then my heart! O then my useless heart!

Would G.o.d that thou wert dead-- A clod insensible to joys and ills-- A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

792. Salve!

TO live within a cave--it is most good; But, if G.o.d make a day, And some one come, and say, 'Lo! I have gather'd f.a.ggots in the wood!'

E'en let him stay, And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!

So sit till morning! when the light is grown That he the path can read, Then bid the man G.o.d-speed!

His morning is not thine: yet must thou own They have a cheerful warmth--those ashes on the stone.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

793. My Garden

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, G.o.d wot!

Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that G.o.d is not-- Not G.o.d! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure G.o.d walks in mine.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892

794. A Night in Italy

SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more: Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing s.h.i.+ps, Altho' they leave us on a lonely sh.o.r.e: Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dips Her hollow sh.e.l.l in Thought's forlornest wells: And sweet, tho' sad, the sound of midnight bells When the oped cas.e.m.e.nt with the night-rain drips.

There is a pleasure which is born of pain: The grave of all things hath its violet.

Else why, thro' days which never come again, Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret?

Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?

Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?

Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?

Why deem the dead more near in native land?

Thy name hath been a silence in my life So long, it falters upon language now, O more to me than sister or than wife Once ... and now--nothing! It is hard to know That such things have been, and are not; and yet Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, And goes upon its business and its pleasure, And knows not all the depths of its regret....

Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do The snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once more Wholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that 's new, With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.

Peace, peace! My wild song will go wandering Too wantonly, down paths a private pain Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain?

Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing

Tangled in Music's web of twined strings-- That started that false note, and crack'd the tune In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things Stumble back strangely! and the ghost of June Stands by December's fire, cold, cold! and puts The last spark out.--How could I sing aright With those old airs haunting me all the night And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?

For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft (Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she, That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left Memory comfortless.--Away! away!

Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, Hopeless regret! In thinking of these things Some men have lost their minds, and others may.

Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour!

One deep, deep draught of the departed time!

O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, To beat and breathe thro' all the valves of rhyme!

Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art The cup-bearer of G.o.ds, pour deep and long, Brim all the vacant chalices of song With health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart

One draught of what I shall not taste again Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm'd,-- One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain, And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm'd, Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to explore Undaunted; and to carve in the wan light Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height, The sad resemblance of an hour or more.

Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy!

Love in the land where love most lovely seems!

Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee, Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, The spirit of thy cypress-groves and all Thy dark-eyed beauty for a little while To my desire. Yet once more let her smile Fall o'er me: o'er me let her long hair fall....

Under the blessed darkness unreproved We were alone, in that best hour of time Which first reveal'd to us how much we loved, 'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime Hung trembling o'er us. At her feet I knelt, And gazed up from her feet into her eyes.

Her face was bow'd: we breathed each other's sighs: We did not speak: not move: we look'd: we felt.

The night said not a word. The breeze was dead.

The leaf lay without whispering on the tree, As I lay at her feet. Droop'd was her head: One hand in mine: and one still pensively Went wandering through my hair. We were together.

How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream, Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream: Whither? Together: then what matter whither?

It was enough for me to clasp her hand: To blend with her love-looks my own: no more.