 | Under The Aspens |  |
125
A SONG OF SPRING.
With the flying scud, with the birds on the wing,
We wandered out at the close of day;
Our faint hearts swelled with the life of the spring,
As the young buds burgeon on branch and spray.
As we heard the sheltering coppice ring
With a burst of joy too full for words,
Our hearts sung too, but of what strange thing,
We knew no more than the singing birds.
We wandered out at the close of day;
Our faint hearts swelled with the life of the spring,
As the young buds burgeon on branch and spray.
As we heard the sheltering coppice ring
With a burst of joy too full for words,
Our hearts sung too, but of what strange thing,
We knew no more than the singing birds.
We stood 'mid the gorse on the golden hill
While the sun went down in a sea of mist;
Though its glory was lingering around us still,
We were sad at heart, for the end we wist.
A homeless breath that was wandering chill
Had found a voice in the evening breeze,
And the silent birds that had sung their fill
Were asleep in the shade of the feathery trees.
While the sun went down in a sea of mist;
Though its glory was lingering around us still,
We were sad at heart, for the end we wist.
A homeless breath that was wandering chill
Had found a voice in the evening breeze,
And the silent birds that had sung their fill
Were asleep in the shade of the feathery trees.
126
‘Soul of the younger springs gone by,
Why haunt us with that breath forlorn,
Avenging with a ghostly sigh,
Too sad for words, the words we scorn?’—
We said, when lo, the coppice nigh
Gave forth a voice, and we had done,—
It seemed to touch the stars on high,—
It almost might recall the sun.
Why haunt us with that breath forlorn,
Avenging with a ghostly sigh,
Too sad for words, the words we scorn?’—
We said, when lo, the coppice nigh
Gave forth a voice, and we had done,—
It seemed to touch the stars on high,—
It almost might recall the sun.
Dear bird of love, fond nightingale,
That firest all the grove with song,
Till we who catch the fervid tale,
Forget the years that do us wrong;
Glad birds that no lost springs bewail,
Sweethearts that are not sad and wise,
Wake the spring night, young nightingale,
And we will see it with thine eyes!
That firest all the grove with song,
Till we who catch the fervid tale,
Forget the years that do us wrong;
Glad birds that no lost springs bewail,
Sweethearts that are not sad and wise,
Wake the spring night, young nightingale,
And we will see it with thine eyes!
127
THE BOWER AMONG THE BEANS.
We had a bower among the beans,
My little love and I,
Where by his side as kings set queens
He throned me graciously;
The branching stalks made honied screens
For two who were but half as high;
We had a bower among the beans,
My little love and I.
My little love and I,
Where by his side as kings set queens
He throned me graciously;
The branching stalks made honied screens
For two who were but half as high;
We had a bower among the beans,
My little love and I.
We sate and toyed there hour by hour,
My little love and I,
Above our heads the beans in flower,
Above the beans the sky.
How softly fell the summer shower,
How softly rose the sea-wind's sigh,
As there we dallied hour by hour,
My little love and I.
My little love and I,
Above our heads the beans in flower,
Above the beans the sky.
How softly fell the summer shower,
How softly rose the sea-wind's sigh,
As there we dallied hour by hour,
My little love and I.
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And up that flowery avenue
At whiles my love and I
Would see, enlarging on our view
A subject train draw nigh.
Each brought for tribute something new,
A cowrie-shell, a butterfly,
Or starfish, which we took as due,
My little love and I.
At whiles my love and I
Would see, enlarging on our view
A subject train draw nigh.
Each brought for tribute something new,
A cowrie-shell, a butterfly,
Or starfish, which we took as due,
My little love and I.
The bean-flowers velvet-black, and white,
My little love and I
Found sweet to scent, and fair to sight
Beneath the morning's eye;
But oft with fallen blossoms dight
At eve, my love and I
Would pine, as sick with long delight,
And weep, we knew not why.
My little love and I
Found sweet to scent, and fair to sight
Beneath the morning's eye;
But oft with fallen blossoms dight
At eve, my love and I
Would pine, as sick with long delight,
And weep, we knew not why.
And later, in the golden gloom,
My little love and I
Would hear the sea-waves sadly boom,
And, gazing up on high,
Would see that parti-coloured bloom
Grow dusk upon the molten sky,
And feel it charactered with doom,
My little love and I.
My little love and I
Would hear the sea-waves sadly boom,
And, gazing up on high,
Would see that parti-coloured bloom
Grow dusk upon the molten sky,
And feel it charactered with doom,
My little love and I.
129
The sea has made our realm his own
Since then; my love and I
Have seen the barren sands, our throne
And kingdom, overlie.
For me alone the waves long moan,
For me the sea-winds idle sigh;
My love is only dead and gone:
I live—and I am I!
Since then; my love and I
Have seen the barren sands, our throne
And kingdom, overlie.
For me alone the waves long moan,
For me the sea-winds idle sigh;
My love is only dead and gone:
I live—and I am I!
130
SONG.
Black, leafless thorn, that once hast borne the rose,
Long is the year, but short the time of flowers;
Dreams the sad life that hides beneath the snows
Of joys that sped those all too-fleeting hours,
Long is the year, but short the time of flowers;
Dreams the sad life that hides beneath the snows
Of joys that sped those all too-fleeting hours,
When sunbeams kissed your roses lips apart,
When sighs still hovered near, and healing dew
Stole in where love had laid too bare the heart,
And all things seemed more glad and sweet for you?
When sighs still hovered near, and healing dew
Stole in where love had laid too bare the heart,
And all things seemed more glad and sweet for you?
Gone is the gracious morn that knew no morrow,
Long seems the winter day, long is the night;
And yet who would not brave the life-long sorrow
That expiates such moments of delight!
Long seems the winter day, long is the night;
And yet who would not brave the life-long sorrow
That expiates such moments of delight!
131
THE CRUSE OF TEARS.
A RUSSIAN LEGEND.
There went a widow woman from the outskirts of the city,
Whose lonely sorrow might have moved the stones she trod to pity.
Whose lonely sorrow might have moved the stones she trod to pity.
She wandered, weeping through the fields, by God and man forsaken,
Still calling on a little child, the reaper Death had taken.
Still calling on a little child, the reaper Death had taken.
When, lo! upon a day she met a white-robed train advancing,
And brightly on their golden heads their golden crowns were glancing;
And brightly on their golden heads their golden crowns were glancing;
Child Jesus led a happy band of little ones a-maying,
With flowers of spring, and gems of dew, all innocently playing.
With flowers of spring, and gems of dew, all innocently playing.
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Far from the rest the widow sees, and flies to clasp, her treasure;
‘What ails thee, darling, that thou must not take with these thy pleasure?’
‘What ails thee, darling, that thou must not take with these thy pleasure?’
‘Oh, mother, little mother mine, behind the rest I tarry,
For see, how heavy with your tears the pitcher I must carry;
For see, how heavy with your tears the pitcher I must carry;
‘If you had ceased to weep for me, when Jesus went a-maying,
I should have been among the blest, with little Jesus playing.’
I should have been among the blest, with little Jesus playing.’
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