Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 150

801. Love is enough

LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds pa.s.s'd over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

William Morris. 1834-1896

802. The Nymph's Song to Hylas

I KNOW a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillar'd house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to G.o.d, Her feet upon the green gra.s.s trod, And I beheld them as before!

There comes a murmur from the sh.o.r.e, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The sh.o.r.e no s.h.i.+p has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskill'd to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

803. The Water-Nymph and the Boy

I FLUNG me round him, I drew him under; I clung, I drown'd him, My own white wonder!...

Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful!

Under the water, Cold and so pale!

Could it be love made Beauty to fail?

Ah me for mortals!

In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and gray, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorn'd of the day!

Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Fill'd with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time.

Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

804. The Old

THEY are waiting on the sh.o.r.e For the bark to take them home: They will toil and grieve no more; The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind Like a dimly blending dream: There is nothing left to bind To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat; There is nothing left to do: What was near them grows remote, Happy silence falls like dew; Now the shadowy bark is come, And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest In the shadow of the tree: After battle sleep is best, After noise, tranquillity.

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

805. Meet We no Angels, Pansie?

CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The gra.s.s grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, 'We meet no angels now'; And soft lights stream'd upon her; And with white hand she touch'd a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender!

Then what said I? Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But--meet no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

806. To Two Bereaved

YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven.

Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule, Who only met her as she went to school; Who never heard the little lips so sweet Say even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meet As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, Who never clasp'd the small hands any day!

Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray.

Theodore Watts-Dunton. 1836-1914

807. Wa.s.sail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern

CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place, Where he goes with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, Where?

Raleigh. 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls, Whence, dear Ben, I come again: Bright of golden roofs and walls-- El Dorado's rare domain--

Seem those halls when sunlight launches Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches, Where the winter's feathery mantle blanches Field and farm and lane.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Drayton. 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave Through the boughs a lace of rime, While the bells of Christmas Eve Fling for Will the Stratford-chime O'er the river-flags emboss'd Rich with flowery runes of frost-- O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd-- Strains of olden time.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Shakespeare's Friend. 'Tis, methinks, on any ground Where our Shakespeare's feet are set.

There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd With his blithest coronet: Friends.h.i.+p's face he loveth well: 'Tis a countenance whose spell Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell Where we used to fret.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Heywood. More than all the pictures, Ben, Winter weaves by wood or stream, Christmas loves our London, when Rise thy clouds of wa.s.sail-steam-- Clouds like these, that, curling, take Forms of faces gone, and wake Many a lay from lips we loved, and make London like a dream.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Ben Jonson. Love's old songs shall never die, Yet the new shall suffer proof: Love's old drink of Yule brew I Wa.s.sail for new love's behoof.

Drink the drink I brew, and sing Till the berried branches swing, Till our song make all the Mermaid ring-- Yea, from rush to roof.

FINALE. Christmas loves this merry, merry place; Christmas saith with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: 'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: Rare!'