Songs of A Wayfarer :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tell me, roses, where ye grow,
If ye know,
In the haunts where Cupid stirs
And the painted io settles
On your petals,
Ruddier lips than those of hers?

Laden bees that buzz about,
In and out,
Where the choicest honey lies,
Tell me if ye ever find,
To your mind,
Wells of sweetness like her eyes?

Cheeks of peaches on the tree,
Ere ye be
Too much kissed by loving suns,
Would your tinctured scarlets dare
Make compare
With those other paragons?

Bright laburnums, are there any
Of the many
Golden tresses on your boughs
That are any longer so
When she doth go
Where the sportive west wind blows?

Almond blossoms white as milk,
Soft as silk,
Would your blanchèd texture stand—
Though ye should be newly blown—
Comparison
With the whiteness of her hand?

Ah! no, no. Ye may have got
Part and lot
With the glory of my queen;
But your splendours hardly shine
Half so fine
When with hers they would be seen.

Nor shall sparks oth' twinkling sea
Likened be
To her bright and love-like glance.

All things fair and fit and sweet
Blend and meet
In her beaming countenance.

Dost thou love a mouth of pearl,
And a curl
Venus twists about her finger,
And a forehead smooth and high
Of ivory?
Then come hither, do not linger.

Art thou thrallèd by an eye
Of majesty;
Or enamoured of a fairy
Foot that speaks when tongues are dumb?
Hither come,
Gentle heart, and do not tarry.

Doth for thee a perfect arm
Hold a charm?
Though there be who have assigned it
To some marble wonder from
Greece or Rome,
Here, believe me, thou shalt find it.

If you only saw her smile
'T would beguile
You to thinking Love lay there,
And he whispered boldly, shyly,
Laughing slyly:
Say you love not—if you dare!

If you might but hear her sing
It would bring
Tears of overflowing bliss
To your eyes; and you would say
That the lay
Sweetened every sound that is.

Voice of nightingale and lute
Must be mute,
Though they breathe their tenderest airs,
And the raptured soul be bound
With the sound,
If she do but warble hers.

Lovers' maidens have been known,
Many a one—
If you listen to their praises—
Fair as angels: I aver
Beside of her
They would lose their charms and graces.

Then her sweet and gentle ways
Who shall praise?
Who could tell them one by one?
Poet howsoever brave
He would have
To leave the arduous task undone.

There is something, if she show
But a bow,
Or a blossom on which glances

Silvery sunshine of her eye
Carelessly,
Which all other things enhances.

Once I met her in a glade
(Almost made
A garden, for the primroses,)
When the sun shone; and again
After rain,
Walking under leafy trees.

I have also seen her lean—
Scarcely seen—
Where a woodland rivulet
Did its thousand eddies vex:
Rush and kex
On its borders rankly set.

And the birds did sing so well,
'T were hard to tell:
Sun and shadow hand in hand,
Where that happy stream did flow,
To and fro
Danced a very saraband.

Then I met her in September,
I remember,
On a misty autumn morn
When the fruit through foliage yellow
Glimmered mellow,
Standing by the stooks of corn.

Some might say she is a goddess,
In her bodice
Broidered o'er with filigree
Of leaf and bloom: if it be so
I do not know;
But she is very fair to me.

Perhaps she is not all divine,
Since her eyne
Sometimes fill with human tears.
Thus her pity, more than grief,
Finds relief,
If my wisdom rightly steers.

Oh, my Lady's beauties be
Sands oth' sea!
Sweet my song go forth to meet her:
Say my true heart only stirs
One with hers,
Longing fervently to greet her.