Sweet Kate, who could view your bright eyes of deep blue Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly; Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,
Subdued by the smart of such painful, yet sweet, love; The sight leaves his eyes, as he cries with a sigh, "Dance, light, for my heart it lies under your feet love."
A Laughing Song
BY WILLIAM BLAKE.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.
When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,
With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha, ha he!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread;
Come live, and be merry, and join with me
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, he!"
Gypsy Song
The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
The deer to the wholesome wold;
And the heart of man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.
Nocturne
BY T. B. ALDRICH.
Up to her chamber window
A slight wire trellis goes,
And up this Romeo's ladder
Clambers a bold white rose.
I lounge in the ilex shadows,
I see the lady lean,
Unclapsing her silken girdle,
The curtain's folds between.
She smiles on her white-rose lover,
She reaches out her hand
And helps him in at the window-
I see it where I stand!
To her scarlet lips she holds him,
And kisses him many a time—
Ah, me! it was he that won her,
Because he dared to climb!
As sweet as the breath that goes
From the lips of the blown rose;
As weird as the elfin lights
That glimmer of frosty nights;
As wild as the winds that tear
The curled red leaf in the air,
Is the song I have never sung.
In slumber, a hundred times,
I have said the mystic rhymes;
But ere I open my eyes
This ghost of a poem flies;
Of the interfluent strains
Not even a note remains.
I know by my pulses' beat
It was something wild and sweet;
And my heart is deeply stirred
By an unremembered word!
I strive, but I strive in vain,
To recall the lost refrain.
On some miraculous day
Perhaps it will come and stay.
In some unimagined Spring
I may find my voice and sing
The song I have never sung.
Jack, I hear you've gone and done it.
Yes, I know; most fellows will;
Went and tried it once myself, sir,
Though, you see, I'm single still.
And you met her-did you tell me-
Down at Newport, last July,
And resolved to ask the question
At a soiree? So did I.
I suppose you left the ball-room,
With its music and its light,
For they say love's flame is brightest
In the darkness of the night.
Well, you walked along together,
Overhead the starlit sky;
And I'll bet, old man, confess it,
You were frightened. So was I.
So you strolled along the terrace,
Saw the summer moon light pour
All its radiance on the waters,
As they rippled on the shore,
Till at length you gathered courage,
When you saw that none was nigh.
Did you draw her close and tell her
That you loved her? So did I.
Well, I needn't ask you further,
And I'm sure I wish you joy.
Think I'll wander down and see you
When you're married, eh-my boy?
When the honeymoon is over
And you're settled down, I'll tryWhat? the deuce you say! Rejected?You rejected? So was I.
BY JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.
What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!
Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know
Where the summers go
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind and wailing, and alone,
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony—
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls-
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think, when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds—
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out of his little finger tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! down he goes!
See! he is hushed in sweet repose!
Originality
No bird has ever uttered note
That was not in some first bird's throat;
Since Eden's freshness and man's fall
No rose has been original.
|