The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mountain-youths.
The high hills beckon us,—we must be climbing,
Not lingering in this valley-land, love-rhyming;
Our path is steep:

Valley-maidens.
Nay; rest awhile amid the valley-roses;
Soft to the weary eyelid are green closes,
And soft is sleep.

Youths.
Lo! the high sun upon the mountains yonder
Beckons; if foot be frail or heart would ponder,
What hope abides?

Maidens.
Within our arms are dreams that man may treasure,
And rest divine, and sweetness beyond measure;
Choose us for brides!

Youths.
Our brides are mountain-peaks and snow-fields colder
If not more white than white seductive shoulder;
Ye do not well:

Maiden.
Yet take this rose soft-scented from my bosom;
Amid the high peaks it may smile and blossom,—
Sweet is the smell!

Youths.
The flowers of noble labour 'mid the mountains
Are sweeter than your limpid bubbling fountains
And valley-dew:

Another Maiden.
My hair is black; will one of you not take me?
Are ye all cowards and heartless to forsake me,
Ye climbing crew!

Youths.
The sun's gold robe on the high peaks extended
With silver-tissued flying clouds is blended;
Our wings must soar!

Another Maiden.
My hair is gold; wilt thou not just once kiss it?
One kiss!—thou 'ilt never amid the high peaks miss it!
Just once; no more!

Youths.
Nay, far beyond these things our mission takes us;
Desire of lowly common joys forsakes us;
We seek a star:

Maidens.
Ah! there are women 'mid those high peaks surely;
Maidens who wait you,—and their eyes demurely
Watch from afar.

Youths.
No maidens; only the high blue sky's glances
And the swift light that round the hill-top dances
And the arms of death:

Maidens.
And here ye have the arms that never weary;
Forget the snow-clad wastes, the passes dreary,
The ice-fields' breath!

Youths.
And if we quit the mountains and their splendour
Can ye be true and pure of heart and tender
As were our dreams?

Maiden.
Kiss me, and cease the old mad perverse endeavour;
The highest hill-tops man shall traverse never;
Rest by these streams!

Youth.
Ah! ye are real, and all the dreams were meagre;
And ye are young and tender-lipped and eager;
How hard to choose!

Maiden.
See now I bare for thee my naked bosom,—
A white unkissed unblemished maiden blossom,—
Canst thou refuse?

Youths.
Ah! all the old dreams adown the wind are sailing
And ardour's plumes, alert before, are failing;
The mountains fade:

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Maidens.
And our rose-lips advance to hail and greet ye;
Our wondrous singing subtle mouths entreat ye;
Here is deep shade!

Youths.
Ah! spirits fair within your soft embraces
Fold us, and soothe the sad storm-beaten faces
In tight arms pressed:

Maidens.
Yea we will hold you, till the dream ye cherish
Seems but as last year's flowers that fade and perish,
Till tired hearts rest:

Mournful voices of the mountain-maidens heard dimly from afar.
We would have given you all ye sought of pleasure,—
Yea, even immortal passion's priceless treasure,
Nor wronged your quest!