Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, -
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, era her mother could bar, -
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume.
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far,
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Walter Scott [1771-1832]
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen" -
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen" -
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you the foremost o' them a'
Shall ride our forest-queen" -
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there:
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Walter Scott [1771-1832]
CANDOR
October - A Wood
I know what you're going to say," she said,
And she stood up, looking uncommonly tall:
"You are going to speak of the hectic fall,
And say you're sorry the summer's dead,
And no other summer was like it, you know,
And can I imagine what made it so.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I know what you're going to say," she said:
"You are going to ask if I forget
That day in June when the woods were wet,
And you carried me" - here she drooped her head -
"Over the creek; you are going to say,
Do I remember that horrid day.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I know what you're going to say," she said:
"You are going to say that since that time
You have rather tended to run to rhyme,
And" - her clear glance fell, and her cheek grew red -
"And have I noticed your tone was queer.
Why, everybody has seen it here!
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said.
"I know what you're going to say," I said:
"You're going to say you've been much annoyed;
And I'm short of tact - you will say, devoid -
And I'm clumsy and awkward; and call me Ted;
And I bear abuse like a dear old lamb;
And you'll have me, anyway, just as I am.
Now aren't you, honestly?" "Ye-es," she said.
Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]
"DO YOU REMEMBER"
Do you remember when you heard
My lips breathe love's first faltering word?
You do, sweet - don't you?
When, having wandered all the day,
Linked arm in arm, I dared to say,
"You'll love me - won't you?"
And when you blushed and could not speak,
I fondly kissed your glowing cheek,
Did that affront you?
Oh, surely not - your eye expressed
No wrath - but said, perhaps in jest,
"You'll love me - won't you?"
I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will."
And you believe that promise still,
You do, sweet - don't you?
Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes
Unfit for questions or replies,
You'll love me - won't you?
Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]
BECAUSE
Sweet Nea! - for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,
And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming!
Because we've passed some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because we love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances!
Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers;
Because I think your heart has cords
That vibrate to your fingers.
Because you've got those long, soft curls,
I've sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you're not, like other girls,
All bustle blush, and bodice!
Because your eyes are deep and blue,
Your fingers long and rosy;
Because a little child and you
Would make one's home so cosy!
Because your little tiny nose
Turns up so pert and funny;
Because I know you choose your beaux
More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you'd rather twirl
A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl,
And a coronet beside you!
Because you don't object to walk,
And are not given to fainting;
Because you have not learned to talk
Of flowers, and Poonah-painting;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse
To sew one on a button;
Because I know you sometimes choose
To dine on simple mutton!
Because I think I'm just so weak
As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you'll let me speak
My story - and my sorrows;
Because the rest's a simple thing,
A matter quickly over
A church - a priest - a sigh - a ring -
And a chaise-and-four to Dover.
Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]
LOVE AND AGE
From "Gryll Grange"
I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly -
How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The center of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth, your hand bestow;
O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, -
But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression; -
But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christened: -
But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire gray;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure, -
And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]
TO HELEN
If wandering in a wizard's car
Through yon blue ether, I were able
To fashion of a little star
A taper for my Helen's table; -
"What then?" she asks me with a laugh -
Why, then, with all heaven's luster glowing,
It would not gild her path with half
The light her love o'er mine is throwing!
Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]
AT THE CHURCH GATE
From "Pendennis"
Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming;
They've hushed the Minster bell:
The organ 'gins to swell;
She's coming, she's coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes - she's here - she's past!
May heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.
William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]
MABEL, IN NEW HAMPSHIRE
Fairest of the fairest, rival of the rose,
That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows.
Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows?
That's an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows.
Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes?
Just the age of beauty, as everybody knows.
Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes?
She is just the perfect height, as everybody knows.
What's the color of her eyes, when they ope or close?
Just the color they should be, as everybody knows.
Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose?
Both are radiant pictures, as everybody knows.
Do her ships go sailing on every wind that blows?
She is richer far than that, as everybody knows.
Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux?
That question's quite superfluous, as everybody knows.
I could tell you something, if I only chose! -
But what's the use of telling what everybody knows?
James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]
TOUJOURS AMOUR
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,
"I can't tell you if I try.
'Tis so long I can't remember:
Ask some younger lass than I!"
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
"Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of Love I can't foretoken:
Ask some older sage than I!"
Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]
THE DOORSTEP
The conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snow-birds willing to be mated.
Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes bitten,
Than I, that stepped before them all
Who longed to see me get the mitten.
But no! she blushed and took my arm:
We let the old folks have the highway,
And started toward the Maple Farm
Along a kind of lovers' by-way.
I can't remember what we said, -
'Twas nothing worth a song or story;
Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff
(O sculptor! if you could but mold it)
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,
To keep it warm I had to hold it.
To have her with me there alone, -
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended;
At last we reached the foot-worn stone
Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home:
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She shook her ringlets from her hood,
And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled;
But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.
A cloud passed kindly overhead,
The moon was slyly peeping through it,
Yet hid its face, as if it said -
"Come, now or never! do it! do it!"
My lips till then had only known
The kiss of mother and of sister, -
But somehow, full upon her own
Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, - I kissed her!
Perhaps 'twas boyish love: yet still,
O listless woman! weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give - but who can live youth over?
Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]
THE WHITE FLAG
I sent my love two roses, - one
As white as driven snow,
And one a blushing royal red,
A flaming Jacqueminot.
I meant to touch and test my fate;
That night I should divine,
The moment I should see my love,
If her true heart were mine.
For if she holds me dear, I said,
She'll wear my blushing rose;
If not, she'll wear my cold Lamarque,
As white as winter's snows.
My heart sank when I met her: sure
I had been overbold,
For on her breast my pale rose lay
In virgin whiteness cold.
Yet with low words she greeted me,
With smiles divinely tender;
Upon her cheek the red rose dawned, -
The white rose meant surrender.
John Hay [1838-1905]
A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS
When Spring comes laughing
By vale and hill,
By wind-flower walking
And daffodil, -
Sing stars of morning,
Sing morning skies,
Sing blue of speedwell, -
And my Love's eyes.
When comes the Summer,
Full-leaved and strong,
And gay birds gossip
The orchard long, -
Sing hid, sweet honey
That no bee sips;
Sing red, red roses, -
And my Love's lips.
When Autumn scatters
The leaves again,
And piled sheaves bury
The broad-wheeled wain, -
Sing flutes of harvest
Where men rejoice;
Sing rounds of reapers, -
And my Love's voice.
But when comes Winter
With hail and storm,
And red fire roaring
And ingle warm, -
Sing first sad going
Of friends that part;
Then sing glad meeting, -
And my Love's heart.
Austin Dobson [1840-1921]
THE LOVE-KNOT
Tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied her raven ringlets in;
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
They were strolling together up the hill,
Where the wind came blowing merry and chill;
And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race,
All over the happy peach-colored face.
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in,
Under her beautiful, dimpled chin.
And it blew a color, bright as the bloom
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl
That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.
Steeper and steeper grew the hill,
Madder, merrier, chillier still
The western wind blew down, and played
The wildest tricks with the little maid,
As, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
O western wind, do you think it was fair
To play such tricks with her floating hair?
To gladly, gleefully, do your best
To blow her against the young man's breast,
Where he as gladly folded her in,
And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?
Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought,
An hour ago, when you besought
This country lass to walk with you,
After the sun had dried the dew,
What terrible danger you'd be in,
As she tied her bonnet under her chin!
Nora Perry [1832-1896]
RIDING DOWN
Oh, did you see him riding down,
And riding down, while all the town
Came out to see, came out to see,
And all the bells rang mad with glee?
Oh, did you hear those bells ring out,
The bells ring out, the people shout,
And did you hear that cheer on cheer
That over all the bells rang clear?
And did you see the waving flags,
The fluttering flags, the tattered flags,
Red, white, and blue, shot through and through;
Baptized with battle's deadly dew?
And did you hear the drums' gay beat,
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet,
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash,
That rent the sky with sound and flash?
And did you see me waiting there,
Just waiting there, and watching there.
One little lass, amid the mass
That pressed to see the hero pass?
And did you see him smiling down,
And smiling down, as riding down
With slowest pace, with stately grace,
He caught the vision of a face, -
My face uplifted red and white,
Turned red and white with sheer delight,
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes,
Outflashing in their swift surprise?
Oh, did you see how swift it came,
How swift it came like sudden flame,
That smile to me, to only me.
The little lass who blushed to see?
And at the windows all along,
Oh, all along, a lovely throng
Of faces fair, beyond compare,
Beamed out upon him riding there!
Each face was like a radiant gem,
A sparkling gem, and yet for them
No swift smile came like sudden flame,
No arrowy glance took certain aim.
He turned away from all their grace,
From all that grace of perfect face,
He turned to me, to only me,
The little lass who blushed to see!
Nora Perry [1832-1896]
"FORGETTIN"
The night when last I saw my lad
His eyes were bright an' wet.
He took my two hands in his own,
"'Tis well," says he, "we're met.
Asthore machree! the likes o' me
I bid ye now forget."
Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing,
'Tis more I'd do for him!
I mind the night I promised well,
Away on Ballindim. -
An' every little while or so
I thry forgettin' Jim.
It shouldn't take that long to do,
An' him not very tall:
'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice,
A boy that's out o' call, -
An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain
As e'er a six-fut wall.
Och, never fear, my jewel!
I'd forget ye now this minute,
If I only had a notion
O' the way I should begin it;
But first an' last it isn't known
The heap o' throuble's in it.
Meself began the night ye went
An' hasn't done it yet;
I'm nearly fit to give it up,
For where's the use to fret? -
An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me
Wid mindin' to forget.
Moira O'Neill [18
"ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE"
How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,
As to the pipe of Pan,
Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride
Across the fields to Anne.
It must have been a merry mile,
This summer stroll by hedge and stile,
With sweet foreknowledge all the while
How sure the pathway ran
To dear delights of kiss and smile,
Across the fields to Anne.
The silly sheep that graze to-day,
I wot, they let him go his way,
Nor once looked up, as who would say:
"It is a seemly man."
For many lads went wooing aye
Across the fields to Anne.
The oaks, they have a wiser look;
Mayhap they whispered to the brook:
"The world by him shall yet be shook,
It is in nature's plan;
Though now he fleets like any rook
Across the fields to Anne."
And I am sure, that on some hour
Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower,
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower
With heart of tiny span,
And bore it as a lover's dower
Across the fields to Anne.
While from her cottage garden-bed
She plucked a jasmin's goodlihede,
To scent his jerkin's brown instead;
Now since that love began,
What luckier swain than he who sped
Across the fields to Anne?
The winding path whereon I pace,
The hedgerows green, the summer's grace,
Are still before me face to face;
Methinks I almost can
Turn port and join the singing race
Across the fields to Anne.
Richard Burton [1861-
PAMELA IN TOWN
The fair Pamela came to town,
To London town, in early summer;
And up and down and round about
The beaux discussed the bright newcomer,
With "Gadzooks, sir," and "Ma'am, my duty,"
And "Odds my life, but 'tis a Beauty!"
To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam,
Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry,
With cheeks of cream and roses blent,
With voice of lark and lip of cherry.
Then all the beaux vowed 'twas their duty
To win and wear this country Beauty.
And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit,
With whispers bold and eyes still bolder;
The warmer grew his saucy flame,
Cold grew the charming fair and colder.
'Twas "icy bosom" - "cruel beauty" -
"To love, sweet Mistress, 'tis a duty."
Then Jack Carew his arts essayed,
With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping.
Good lack! his billets bound the curls
That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping.
Next day these curls had richer beauty,
So well Jack's fervor did its duty.
Then Cousin Will came up to view
The way Pamela ruled the fashion;
He watched the gallants crowd about,
And flew into a rustic passion, -
Left "Squire, his mark," on divers faces,
And pinked Carew beneath his laces.
Alack! one night at Ranelagh
The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing;
And all the mettled bloods looked round
To see what caused that telltale flushing.
Up stepped a grizzled Poet Fellow
To dance with Pam a saltarello.
Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved,
With hand on sword and cutting glances,
That they would lead that Graybeard forth
To livelier tunes and other dances.
But who that saw Pam's eyes a-shining
With love and joy would see her pining!
And - oons! Their wrath cooled as they looked, -
That Poet stared as fierce as any!
He was a mighty proper man,
With blade on hip and inches many;
The beaux all vowed it was their duty
To toast some newer, softer Beauty.
Sweet Pam she bridled, blushed and smiled -
The wild thing loved and could but show it!
Mayhap some day you'll see in town
Pamela and her grizzled Poet.
Forsooth he taught the rogue her duty,
And won her faith, her love, her beauty.
Ellen Mackay Hutchinson Cortissoz [?-1933]
YES?
Is it true, then, my girl, that you mean it -
The word spoken yesterday night?
Does that hour seem so sweet now between it
And this has come day's sober light?
Have you woke from a moment of rapture
To remember, regret, and repent,
And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your
Unthinking consent?
Who was he, last evening - this fellow
Whose audacity lent him a charm?
Have you promised to wed Pulchinello?
For life taking Figaro's arm?
Will you have the Court fool of the papers,
The clown in the journalists' ring,
Who earns his scant bread by his capers,
To be your heart's king?
When we met quite by chance at the theatre
And I saw you home under the moon,
I'd no thought, love, that mischief would be at her
Tricks with my tongue quite so soon;
That I should forget fate and fortune
Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf -
That I'd have the calm nerve to importune
You, sweet, for yourself.
It's appalling, by Jove, the audacious
Effrontery of that request!
But you - you grew suddenly gracious,
And hid your sweet face on my breast.
Why you did it I cannot conjecture;
I surprised you, poor child, I dare say,
Or perhaps - does the moonlight affect your
Head often that way?
. . . . . . . . . . .
You're released! With some wooer replace me
More worthy to be your life's light;
From the tablet of memory efface me,
If you don't mean your Yes of last night.
But - unless you are anxious to see me a
Wreck of the pipe and the cup
In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia -
Love, don't give me up!
Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]
THE PRIME OF LIFE
Just as I thought I was growing old,
Ready to sit in my easy chair,
To watch the world with a heart grown cold,
And smile at a folly I would not share,
Rose came by with a smile for me,
And I am thinking that forty year
Isn't the age that it seems to be,
When two pretty brown eyes are near.
Bless me! of life it is just the prime,
A fact that I hope she will understand;
And forty year is a perfect rhyme
To dark brown eyes and a pretty hand.
These gray hairs are by chance, you see -
Boys are sometimes gray, I am told:
Rose came by with a smile for me,
Just as I thought I was getting old.
Walter Learned [1847-1915]
THOUGHTS ON THE COMMANDMENTS
"Love your neighbor as yourself," -
So the parson preaches:
That's one half the Decalogue, -
So the prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little labor,
For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.
Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial,
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial.
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,
Lingers round her lips, - you see
E'en the sunbeams love her.
So to make my merit more,
I'll go beyond the letter: -
Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better.
For she's sweeter than the breath
Of the Spring, that passes
Through the fragrant, budding woods,
O'er the meadow-grasses.