The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| III. |
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| V. |
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| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
195
THEE FIRST, THEE LAST
Because thou wast the first
To waken passion's thirst
When all the morning youthful air was sweet;
Because while skies were blue
And fern-fronds fresh with dew
Thine eyes were morning's eyes for me to meet,
Thy name first, last, in song-land I repeat.
To waken passion's thirst
When all the morning youthful air was sweet;
Because while skies were blue
And fern-fronds fresh with dew
Thine eyes were morning's eyes for me to meet,
Thy name first, last, in song-land I repeat.
Because the seas were fair
With breath of morning air,—
Because enchanted sunlight filled the bays;
Because in vale and dell
Young springlike petals fell
And dreams were sweet in many a woodland maze,
Thee first, thee last, in song to heaven I raise.
With breath of morning air,—
Because enchanted sunlight filled the bays;
Because in vale and dell
Young springlike petals fell
And dreams were sweet in many a woodland maze,
Thee first, thee last, in song to heaven I raise.
196
Because the woods were green,
Because thou wast my queen
Long ere pale sorrow haunted with sad eyes
The autumn desolate rills,
And thunder-smitten hills,
And wild moors which the purple heather dyes,
Song's light outlives the sunshine of the skies.
Because thou wast my queen
Long ere pale sorrow haunted with sad eyes
The autumn desolate rills,
And thunder-smitten hills,
And wild moors which the purple heather dyes,
Song's light outlives the sunshine of the skies.
Because thou wast my Bride,
Young, beautiful, soft-eyed,
Long ere the voice of other woman spoke;
Because thou wast the flower
First sent in life's first hour,
White as the seas that round our footsteps broke,
Both first and last I bow me to thy yoke.
Young, beautiful, soft-eyed,
Long ere the voice of other woman spoke;
Because thou wast the flower
First sent in life's first hour,
White as the seas that round our footsteps broke,
Both first and last I bow me to thy yoke.
Because no woman's face
Had, then, the same sweet grace,
Nor had the eyes of woman magic then
To lead astray my heart;
Because the crown of Art
Thou wast, and my life's mission among men
Thou madest plain, I hymn thee, love, again.
Had, then, the same sweet grace,
Nor had the eyes of woman magic then
To lead astray my heart;
Because the crown of Art
Thou wast, and my life's mission among men
Thou madest plain, I hymn thee, love, again.
197
I hymn, sweet lady, thee,
With voice of our old sea,
With passionate surge of song-wave on the shore
Of fast-receding time;
I seek thee in my rhyme,
Beautiful, tender as thou wast, once more.
I loved thee in silence. Now my songs adore.
With voice of our old sea,
With passionate surge of song-wave on the shore
Of fast-receding time;
I seek thee in my rhyme,
Beautiful, tender as thou wast, once more.
I loved thee in silence. Now my songs adore.
Because in the early glow
Of morning thou didst throw
A glamour o'er my life that never yet
Hath faded quite away,
Though shades of evening grey
Are in the west, and cold years must be met,
Upon thy brow this wreath of song I set.
Of morning thou didst throw
A glamour o'er my life that never yet
Hath faded quite away,
Though shades of evening grey
Are in the west, and cold years must be met,
Upon thy brow this wreath of song I set.
I bring thee, love, again
A soft memorial strain;
A memory as of morning o'er the sea:
Pale flowers for thee to wind,
With love-glance flung behind,
Within thy tresses ere swift years that flee
Banish the morning thoughts, and thoughts of me.
A soft memorial strain;
A memory as of morning o'er the sea:
Pale flowers for thee to wind,
With love-glance flung behind,
Within thy tresses ere swift years that flee
Banish the morning thoughts, and thoughts of me.
198
Thee first, thee last, I crown
And lay my singing down
Just as of old for blessing of thine hand;
Again, in dreams, a boy,
Full of love's fiery joy,
Watching the sea-shades of thine eyes I stand,
While miles of meadow-sweet scent all the land.
And lay my singing down
Just as of old for blessing of thine hand;
Again, in dreams, a boy,
Full of love's fiery joy,
Watching the sea-shades of thine eyes I stand,
While miles of meadow-sweet scent all the land.
1880.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |