 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
298
OPHELIA
Lost in a wilderness of ill,
Wan with a yearning never still,
O tell me where, most tuneful rill,
Can I recover rest?
Wan with a yearning never still,
O tell me where, most tuneful rill,
Can I recover rest?
Thy waves roll under meadows brown,
And draw the thirsty daisies down;
It cannot hurt them much to drown,
In death's green water-nest.
And draw the thirsty daisies down;
It cannot hurt them much to drown,
In death's green water-nest.
Among the meads of dædal May,
Around the roots of aspens grey,
Thy ripple holds delicious way,
A couch where dreams are sweet;
Around the roots of aspens grey,
Thy ripple holds delicious way,
A couch where dreams are sweet;
Thy lilies shall my pillow be,
My coverlet the water free,
My sheet the white anemone,
My lullaby thy beat.
My coverlet the water free,
My sheet the white anemone,
My lullaby thy beat.
Gone without warning otherwhere
My lover leaves me to despair;
Sorrow and love are sore to bear,
Love goes and sorrow stays.
My lover leaves me to despair;
Sorrow and love are sore to bear,
Love goes and sorrow stays.
O father dead; O love untrue,
Lips at whose touch mine own grew new,
As pallid buds expand, if dew
Drop after droughty days.
Lips at whose touch mine own grew new,
As pallid buds expand, if dew
Drop after droughty days.
My father in his grave is fair,
The shroud is round his silver hair;
I love the hand that laid him there,
And wrought my bosom's woe.
The shroud is round his silver hair;
I love the hand that laid him there,
And wrought my bosom's woe.
O pale dead father laid in night,
My bud of spring is slain with blight,
My soul is weary of the light
And lonely; let her go.
My bud of spring is slain with blight,
My soul is weary of the light
And lonely; let her go.
I weep indeed; and both are gone—
Ah, most I love the cruel one,
Who loved me once, now loves me none,
Dear author of my fears.
Ah, most I love the cruel one,
Who loved me once, now loves me none,
Dear author of my fears.
299
And so I wander by the brim,
And gather buds to think of him,
And find their eyes are dewy-dim,
As mine are, wan with tears.
And gather buds to think of him,
And find their eyes are dewy-dim,
As mine are, wan with tears.
The sad sweet avens as in dream
Bends o'er the bosom of the stream,
And hangs her rosy head: I seem
Like this deserted bloom.
Bends o'er the bosom of the stream,
And hangs her rosy head: I seem
Like this deserted bloom.
The fishes watch her, amber-eyed,
The tide-grass swims from side to side,
As sweetly will the river glide,
And kiss me in my tomb.
The tide-grass swims from side to side,
As sweetly will the river glide,
And kiss me in my tomb.
And he—God knows!—when nestlings break
Their eggs next summer, and the lake
Is sown with snowy hawthorn flake,—
May wander one day here,
Their eggs next summer, and the lake
Is sown with snowy hawthorn flake,—
May wander one day here,
The darling of my troth and trust,
When he is crowned and I am dust,
May lean and weep—Ah, but he must—
At least one little tear
When he is crowned and I am dust,
May lean and weep—Ah, but he must—
At least one little tear
Into my crystal urn, when bees
Are roving, and the skies at peace,
And love, my pain, at ease, at ease,
In my sweet river-bier!
Are roving, and the skies at peace,
And love, my pain, at ease, at ease,
In my sweet river-bier!
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |