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

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the grass, beneath the tree,
That summer cloudless diamond day
We were together: when I lay
Content her peerless face to see.

“Sleep, love, and let the ages run their weary
Wild way as they have hastened heretofore,
But do not thou be busy any more

With social schemes, and systems dusty, dreary,—
But stay with me and I will be thine eerie
Witch-Lady, thine Enchantress of the Shore.

“Yea, I will kiss thee—once—no more—contented
With this thou hast to be, if thou wilt go
To be a bubble on the ebb and flow
Of that strong tide of action man invented,
Because his soul was loveless and consented
Not pure passivity of life to know.

“But if thou wilt abide with me, soft laughter
From morning until even, and delight
That thou hast little dreamed about, my knight,
Is ours, and, careless what may come hereafter,
But as the wind a creaking loosened rafter
Shakes gently, shall the World our quiet smite.”

Such was the song she sang to me
Beneath the listening silent tree.
The leaves left fluttering as she sang:
My heartstrings so responsive rang
Dead I had been content to be.

II.

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the sand, beside the sea,
That dreamy burnished autumn noon
When, like a sleeper in a swoon,
I, languid, rested next her knee.

“Peace, love, and listen to a soothing ditty
That I will sing to thee, and close thine eyes
And ponder all things slumbrous—sunset skies,
Long shores at nightfall, or some Arab city
Wherein myself shall find thee and take pity
And be thy good magician. Come, be wise!

“For what is fame, and crowns of glory, golden
Or green or grey or coloured otherways,
The warrior's laurel or the poet's bays?
Why shouldst thou be to any man beholden,
Once having known sweet lips that wax not olden,
Feet having trodden once Love's mystic maze?

“I sing to thee, and hath my voice no power
To send the hot blood round thy forehead fair,
And art thou not enamoured of my hair?
See, I will give thee, sweet one, even this flower,
If thou wilt tarry with me in my bower,
This rose that I have been content to wear.”

Such was the song she sang to me
Beside the rippling of the sea.
Their voices mingled passing sweet
And bound a chain about my feet,
And glad was I in prison to be.

III.

This is the song she sang to me,
Upon the cliff, above the sea,
That blue delightful summer morn.
Along its eddies I was borne
Wrapped in a silent ecstasy.

“Rest thou, and I will shield thee and caress thee.
Thou shalt not need to wander any more
Along the barren sad sun-stricken shore,
Nor unto weary labour to address thee,
For I am thine, and here am I to bless thee:
Thou hast love, what hast thou to do with war?

“Thou hast not heard me sing before, my simple
Strong hero with the iron arms and heart:
If thou wilt stay with me and not depart,
I will let loose my hair, cast off my wimple,
And singing, honey-sweet, shall surely dimple
The airs, and I will use my mystic art

“To soothe thee, and to lull thee, and to prove thee
Whether thou art a lover true indeed.
Thou hast been strong to struggle and to bleed
Wearing my colours,—listen, doth this move thee?
Or must my lips make plainer that I love thee?
I thought my eyes had left them little need.”

Such was the song she sang to me
In that green nook above the sea.
The sun was softened, for her face
Stole all his fire and added grace,
And as the sun she seemed to be.

1870.