1821-1895.
_A GARDEN LYRIC._
The flow of life is yet a rill
That laughs, and leaps, and glistens;
And still the woodland rings, and still
The old Damoetas listens.
We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft,
We have met under wintry skies;
Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft
Is the light in her gentle eyes;
It is bliss in the silent woods, among
Gay crowds, or in any place
To hear her voice, to gaze on her young
Confiding face.
For ever may roses divinely blow,
And wine-dark pansies charm
By the prim box path where I felt the glow
Of her dimpled, trusting arm,
And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled
A smile as pure as her pearls;
The breeze was in love with the darling Child,
As it moved her curls.
She showed me her ferns and woodbine-sprays,
Foxglove and jasmine stars,
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze
Of red in the celadon jars:
And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,
And roses of bountiful June--
Oh, who would think their summer spells
Could die so soon!
For a glad song came from the milking shed,
On a wind of the summer south,
And the green was golden above her head,
And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth;
Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt;
And the wings of Time were fleet
As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt
Life was so sweet!
And the odorous limes were dim above
As we leant on a drooping bough;
And the darkling air was a breath of love,
And a witching thrush sang "Now!"
For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew
As we listen'd and sigh'd, and leant;
That day was the sweetest day--and we knew
What the sweetness meant.
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_THE CUCKOO._
We heard it calling, clear and low,
That tender April morn; we stood
And listened in the quiet wood,
We heard it, ay, long years ago.
It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,
A friend, but from a far-off land;
We stood and listened, hand in hand,
And heart to heart, my Love and I.
In dreamland then we found our joy,
And so it seemed as 't were the Bird
That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.
O time far off, and yet so near!
It came to her in that hush'd grove,
It warbled while the wooing throve,
It sang the song she loved to hear.
And now I hear its voice again,
And still its message is of peace,
It sings of love that will not cease--
For me it never sings in vain.
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_GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE._
As Gertrude skipt from babe to girl,
Her Necklace lengthen'd, pearl by pearl;
Year after year it grew, and grew,
For every birthday gave her two.
Her neck is lovely,--soft and fair,
And now her Necklace glimmers there.
So cradled, let it fall and rise,
And all her graces symbolize.
Perchance this pearl, without a speck,
Once was as warm on Sappho's neck;
Where are the happy, twilight pearls
That braided Beatrice's curls?
Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?
Or, if she 's either, is she both?
She 's fancy free, but sweeter far
Than many plighted maidens are:
Will Gerty smile us all away,
And still be Gerty? Who can say?
But let her wear her Precious Toy,
And I 'll rejoice to see her joy:
Her bauble 's only one degree
Less frail, less fugitive than we,
For time, ere long, will snap the skein,
And scatter all her Pearls again.
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