No More Learning

And when the sun is westwardly declining,
Our flocks and we
Will homeward flee
And rest ourselves until the sun's next shining.
Author Unknown.


## p. 16616 (#316) ##########################################

16616
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
WINIFREDA
A**
WAY! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing -
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors
With pompous title grace our blood ?
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.
What though from Fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess ?
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.
I
Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
1
Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung,
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
And when with envy Time transported
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.
Author Unknown.


## p. 16617 (#317) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16617
PRISCILLA
PRIS
RISCILLA hath come back to town
A little bandit queen;
Her cheek hath robbed the berry's brown,
Her eye the dewdrop's sheen.
Upon her lips there brightly glows
The poppy's crimson hue;
With autumn music in her toes
She charms the avenue.
Alas! how wildly hearts will beat
That late kept slowest time;
Alas! how many a snowy sheet
Will meet its fate in rhyme!
Laugh, Cupid, laugh, with saucy glee
At all the pangs in store;
But never point thy dart at me,-
My heart was hers before.
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
PEPITA
U”
P in her balcony where
Vines through the lattices run,
Spilling a scent on the air,
Setting a screen to the sun,
Fair as the morning is fair,
Sweet as a blossom is sweet,
Dwells in her rosy retreat
Pepita.
Often a glimpse of her face,
When the wind rustles the vine,
Parting the leaves for a space,
Gladdens this window of mine:
Pink in its leafy embrace,
Pink as a roseleaf is pink,
Sweet as a blossom I think
Pepita.
I who dwell over the way
Watch where Pepita is hid,
Safe from the glare of the day
Like an eye under its lid:


## p. 16618 (#318) ##########################################

16618
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Over and over I say -
Name like the song of a bird,
Melody shut in a word -
« Pepita. ”
Look where the little leaves stir!
Look, the green curtains are drawn!
There in a blossomy blur
Breaks a diminutive dawn
Dawn and the pink face of her;
Name like the lisp of the South,
Fit for a rose's small mouth,-
Pepita!
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
THE WITCH
C"
HILD! attend to what I say:
Do not turn nor look away.
Roguish eye! you must not wink -
I shall tell you all I think.
Here! Hallo! Don't look away.
Child! attend to what I say!
You're not homely, that is true!
You've an eye that's clear and blue;
Cunning mouth and little nose
Have their merits, I suppose.
Charming is the word to fit it,-
Yes, you're charming; I admit it.
Charming here and charming there,
But no empress anywhere.
No! I cannot quite allow
Beauty's crown would suit your brow.
Charming there and charming here
Do not make a queen, my dear.
For I know a hundred girls,
Brown as berries, fair as pearls,
Each of whom might claim the prize
Given to loveliest lips and eyes —
Yes, a hundred might go in,
Challenge you, sweet child, and win.


## p. 16619 (#319) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16619
A hundred beauties, did I say?
Why, what a number! Yet there may
A hundred thousand girls combine
To drive thee from this heart of mine;
May try together, try alone,
My empress they cannot dethrone.
Whence, then, this imperial right
Over me, your own true knight?
Like an empress is your reign
In my heart for joy or pain;
Death or life, your royal right,
He accepts — your own true knight.
Roguish lip and roguish eye,
Look at me and make reply.
Witch! I wish to understand
How I came into your hand.
Look at me and make reply:
Tell me, roguish lip and eye.
Up and down I search to see
The meaning of this mystery.
Tied so tight by nothing, dear?
Ah! there must be magic here!
Up and down, sweet sorceress, tell!
Where's your wand, and what's your spell ?
GOTTFRIED AUGUST BÜRGER.
Translation of James Freeman Clarke.
I WONDER
I
WONDER, in those dear old days departed,
Whose was the foot that wore this tiny shoe;-
A slipper just as small as Cinderella's,
But not of glass - of faded satin blue,
I'll say it was a princess, tall and stately,
And rather haughty, but not overmuch.
I see her walking through her garden alleys:
How rose-hearts beat to feel that light foot's touch!
I see her treading through her row of pages,
That small foot lifted high with haughty grace;


## p. 16620 (#320) ##########################################

16620
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
A knight beside her, whispering tender speeches, -
She hears them all, with silent, downcast face.
I see her in the dazzling ball-room stepping
Through stately minuet or swifter dance,
Her small foot slipping through her rich robes sweeping,
Or even not perceived — divined, perchance.
How many knights adored you, little slipper,
And knelt before you - fine and fair and blue!
How many you have fled from — too bold suitors!
How many hearts you've trod on, tiny shoe!
CORA FABBRI.
A TWELFTH-CENTURY LYRIC
W"
ILL ye attend me, while I sing
A song of love, - a pretty thing,
Not made on farms:
Nay, by a gentle knight 'twas made,
Who lay beneath an olive's shade
In his love's arms.
A linen undergown she wore,
And a white ermine mantle, o'er
A silken coat;
With flowers of May to keep her feet,
And round her ankles leggings neat,
From lands remote.
Her girdle was of leafage green, -
Spring foliage, with a fringing sheen
Of gold above;
And underneath a love-purse hung,
By bloomy pendants featly strung,
A gift of love.
Upon a mule the lady rode,
The which with silver shoes was shod;
Saddle gold-red;
And behind rose-bushes three
She had set up a canopy
To shield her head.


## p. 16621 (#321) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
1662 1
As so she passed adown the meads,
A gentle childe in knightly weeds
Cried, “Fair one, wait!
What region is thy heritance ? »
And she replied: "I am of France,
Of high estate.
“My father is the nightingale,
Who high within the bosky pale,
On branches sings;
My mother's the canary; she
Sings on the high banks where the sea
Its salt spray Alings. ”
“Fair lady, excellent thy birth;
Thou comest from the chief of earth,
Of high estate:
Ah, God our Father, that to me
Thou hadst been given, fair ladye,
My wedded mate! »
Author Unknown.
Translation of Edward T. McLaughlin.
A NINETEENTH-CENTURY LYRIC
Cº
OULD I answer love like thine,
All earth to me were heaven anew;
But were thy heart, dear child, as mine,
What place for love between us two?
Bright things for tired eyes vainly shine:
A grief the pure heaven's simple blue.
Alas, for lips past joy of wine,
That find no blessing in God's dew!
From dawning summits crystalline
Thou lookest down; thou makest sign
Toward this bleak vale I wander through.
I cannot answer: that pure shrine
Of childhood, though my love be true,
Is hidden from my dim confine;
I must not hope for clearer view.
The sky, the earth, the wrinkled brine,
Would wear to me a fresher hue,
And all once more be half divine,
Could I answer love like thine.
Author Unknown.


## p. 16622 (#322) ##########################################

16622
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
A MODERN PSYCHE
She Speaks
B
Ut do not go — I like to have you near me;
Not quite so near — -sit there, sir, if you please.
The orchestra is silent; you can hear me:
And distance puts us both more at our ease.
I missed you yesterday past all expression,
Though winged with song and mirth the bright hours flew;
Because I think — pray mark my frank confession -
That no one loves me quite so well as you.
-
It may be as you say, that I am taking
A false step that I never can retrace;
Perhaps some day will come a bitter waking,
When love has filed with youth and youth's sweet grace.
Listen! there's some one singing “Traviata':
«Gayly through life” - ah, yes! 'tis apropos!
Your arm, mon ami. A swift waltz will scatter
And turn to blissful breath those sighs of woe.
'Tis strange! I do not care to take your heart, sir,
In fair exchange; and yet, strong jealous wrath
Would kindle all my soul should you depart, sir,
To lay it in some other woman's path.
“Selfish,” am I, and «void of feelings tender"?
Perhaps; but then, I'm sure you can but own
That for a foot so finely arched and slender
A heart is just the fittest stepping-stone.
And if you bade me cease my idle playing
On the tired chords my hands have swept for years,
I think the moonlight o'er my pillow straying
Would find it slightly wet with “idle tears. ”
And yet I love you not. Nay, do not start!
The reason, sir, you never could discover:
Another mystery of a woman's heart,-
I love the love, but cannot love the lover.
ELIZA CALVERT HALL.


## p. 16623 (#323) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
166 23
PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME
O"
H WHAT a plague is love!
I cannot bear it.
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it;
It so torments my mind
That my heart faileth.
She wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth;
Please her the best I may,
She looks another way:
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillida flouts me.
I often heard her say
That she loved posies:
In the last month of May
I gave her roses,
Cowslips and gilliflowers,
And the sweet lily,
I got to deck the bowers
Of my dear Philly:
She did them all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore 'tis flat and plain,
Phillida flouts me.
Which way soe'er I go,
She still torments me;
And whatsoe'er I do,
Nothing contents me:
I fade and pine away
With grief and sorrow;
I fall quite to decay,
Like any shadow:
Since 'twill no better be,
I'll bear it patiently;
Yet all the world may see
Phillida flouts me.
Author Unknown.


## p. 16624 (#324) ##########################################

16624
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TO HIS COY MISTRESS
H".
AD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges's side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews;
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow:
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest —
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near,
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turned to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
ANDREW MARVELL,
ALL ON ONE SIDE
S"
He is like Nature: and I love
Her ever-changing, wayward moods,
As I adore the sky above;
The far blue hills; the dark, green woods;


## p. 16625 (#325) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16625
The noisy brook; the torrent's roar;
The glamour of a moonlight night;
The never-ending ocean's shore;
The fleecy cloud-heads, soft and white.
She is like Nature. Much she cares,
Though I should love a thousand years!
If I am sad when sunlight glares,
Will cloudless skies weep scalding tears?
And will my gladness dry th rain
Will Nature smile and join my glee?
Will Nature love me back again ?
I think not- and no more will She!
HARRY ROMAINE.
DELAY
TAS
ASTE the sweetness of delaying,
Till the hour shall come for saying
That I love you with my soul:
Have you never thought your heart
Finds a something in the part,
It would miss from out the whole ?
In this rosebud you have given,
Sleeps that perfect rose of heaven
That in Fancy's garden blows:
Wake it not by touch or sound,
Lest perchance 'twere lost, not found,
In the opening of the rose.
Dear to me is this reflection,
Of a fair and far perfection,
Shining through a veil undrawn:
Ask no question then of fate;
Yet a little longer wait
In the beauty of the dawn.
Through our mornings, veiled and tender,
Shines a day of golden splendor,
Never yet fulfilled by day:
Ah! if love be made complete,
Will it, can it, be so sweet
As this ever sweet delay ?
LOUISA BUSHNELL.
XXVIII-1040


## p. 16626 (#326) ##########################################

16626
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
SONG WRITTEN AT SEA
IN
THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, JUNE 2D, 1665, THE NIGHT BEFORE AN
ENGAGEMENT
T°
ALL you ladies now on land,
We men, at sea, indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost,
By Dutchmen or by wind:
Our tears we'll send a speedier way,–
The tide shall bring 'em twice a day,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind;
Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:
'Tis then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la. .
But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away:
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play;
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,


## p. 16627 (#327) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16627
When we for hopes of honor lose
Our certain happiness:
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity from your tears:
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea,
With a Fa, la, la, la, la.
CHARLES SACKVILLE (Earl of Dorset).
GLEE
A.
BLOSSOM wreath of rich perfume
I for my fairest wove:
She to her beauty gave its bloom,
Its transience to her love.
I sent her then a pearl to prize:
With much she soon did part,
But kept its brilliance in her eyes,
Its hardness in her heart.
T. M. DOVASTON,
THE WHITE ROSE
SENT BY A YORKSHIRE LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS
II
F This fair rose offend thy sight,
Placed in thy bosom bare,
'Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian there.
But if thy ruby lip it spy,
As kiss it thou mayst deign,
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye,
And Yorkshire turn again.
Author Unknown.


## p. 16628 (#328) ##########################################

16628
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
MY LOVE IN HER ATTIRE DOTH SHEW HER WIT
M'
y Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on;
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.
Author Unknown.
WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES
Wh
HENAS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes!
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free –
O how that glittering taketh me!
ROBERT HERRICK.
THE TIME O' DAY
IK
F I SHOULD look for the time o' day
On the rose's dial red,
I should think it was just the sunrise hour,
From the flush of its petals spread.
And if I would tell by the lily-bell,
I should think it was calm, white noon;
And the violet's blue would tell by its hue
Of the evening coming soon.
But when I would know by my lady's face,
I am all perplexed the while;
For it's always starlight by her eyes,
And sunlight by her smile.
ALBION FELLOWS BACON.


## p. 16629 (#329) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16629
DEFIANCE
C"
LOTHO, Lachesis, Atropos!
All your gain is not my loss.
Spin your black threads if you will;
Twist them, turn, with all your skill.
Hold! there s one you cannot sever!
One bright thread shall last forever.
You are defied, you, Atropos!
Draw your glittering shears across,
One still mocks your cruel art!
From the fibres of my heart
Did I spin the shining thread
That will live when you are dead.
Fate, but hark! one thing I'll teach:
There are wonders past your reach,
Of the heart and of the soul,-
Woman's love's past your control!
These are not threads of your spinning,
No, nor shall be of your winning.
ANNIE FIELDS.
IF LOVE WERE NOT
I'
F LOVE were not, the wilding rose
Would in its leafy heart inclose
No chalice of perfume.
By mossy bank in glen or grot,
No bird would build, if love were not,
No flower complacent bloom.
The sunset clouds would lose their dyes,
The light would fade from beauty's eyes,
The stars their fires consume.
And something missed from hall and cot
Would leave the world, if love were not,
A wilderness of gloom.
FLORENCE EARLE COATES.


## p. 16630 (#330) ##########################################

166 30
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
PRAISE OF LITTLE WOMEN
N A little precious stone what splendor meets the eyes!
In a little lump of sugar, how much of sweetness lies!
So in a little woman love grows and multiplies:
You recollect the proverb says, A word unto the wise.
I
A peppercorn is very small, but seasons every dinner
More than all other condiments, although 'tis sprinkled thinner:
Just so a little woman is, if love will let you win her,-
There's not a joy in all the world you will not find within her.
And as within the little rose you find the richest dyes,
And in a little grain of gold much price and value lies,
As from a little balsam much odor doth arise,
So in a little woman there's a taste of paradise.
The skylark and the nightingale, though small and light of
wing,
Yet warble sweeter in the grove than all the birds that sing;
And so a little woman, though a very little thing,
Is sweeter far than sugar and flowers that bloom in spring.
JUAN RUIZ DE HITA (Spanish).
THE HEART OF A SONG
DA
EAR love, let this my song fly to you:
Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.
Only beware — when once it tarries,
I cannot coax it from you then:
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.
For if its silent passion grieve you,
My heart would then too heavy grow;
And it can never, never leave you,
If joy of yours must with it go!
GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP.


## p. 16631 (#331) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16631
<BRING ME WORD HOW TALL SHE IS »
WOMAN IN 1873
-
«How tall is your Rosalind ? » — «Just as high as my heart. ”
-As You Like It. )
WTH
ITHIN a garden shade,
A garden sweet and dim,
Two happy children played
Together he was made
For God, and she for him.
Beyond the garden's shade,
In deserts drear and dim,
Two outcast children strayed
Together - he betrayed
By her, and she by him.
Together, girl and boy,
They wandered, ne'er apart;
Each wrought to each annoy,
Yet each knew never joy
Save in the other's heart.
By her so oft deceived,
By him so sore opprest,
They each the other grieved;
Yet each of each was best
Beloved, and still caressed.
And she was in his sight
Found fairest — still his prize,
His constant chief delight;
She raised to him her eyes
That led her not aright,
And ever by his side
A patient huntress ran
Through forests dark and wide,
And still the Woman's pride
And glory was the Man.
When her he would despise,
She kept him captive bound;


## p. 16632 (#332) ##########################################

16632
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Forbidding her to rise,
By many cords and ties
She held him to the ground.
At length, in stature grown,
He stands erect and free;
Yet stands he not alone,
For his beloved would be
Like him she loveth, wise, like him she loveth, free.
So wins she her desire;
Yet stand they not apart:
For as she doth aspire
He grows; nor stands she higher
Than her Beloved's heart.
DORA GREENWELL.
1
UNDER THE KING
Lº
OVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,
Love with the lily throat and hands,
Is done to death, and free as air
Am I of all my King's commands.
!
How shall I celebrate my joy?
Or dance with feet that once were fleet
In his adorable employ?
Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet?
1
How can I at his lifeless face
Aim any sharp or bitter jest,
Since roguish destiny did place
That tender target in my breast?
1
Nay, let me be sincere and strong:
I cannot rid me of my chains,
I cannot to myself belong:
My King is dead — his soul still reigns.
ETHELWYN WETHERALD.


## p. 16633 (#333) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16633
LIGHT
TH
He night has a thousand eyes,
The day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
F. W. BOURDILLON.
“A THOUSAND YEARS IN THY SIGHT ARE BUT AS ONE DAY »
EITHER joy nor sorrow move
The figure at the feet of Love;
Light of breathing life is she,
Spirit of immortality.
N"
Lead me up thy stony stair,
O Spirit, into thy great air!
For his day of pain and tears
Is to man a thousand years.
ANNIE FIELDS.
FOR A NOVEMBER BIRTHDAY
W*
HEN first our rose of love disclosed its heart,
Thy natal day (I thought) comes with the spring,
When from the sky the doubting clouds depart,
And rare, rathe blossoms o'er the woodland Aing
A mystic sense of joy.
Yet bitter tears
Will start unbidden at the touch of May.
Love's ecstasy begets love's longing and love's fears,
And naught of these may mar thy natal day.


## p. 16634 (#334) ##########################################

16634
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
When I had learned the richness of thy gift,
Surely the happy month (I thought) is June,
When full and strong the waves of life uplift
The heart upon their surges.
Yet too soon
The ebbing tide will leave the lonely shore;
Full soon the rose must let her beauty fall;
Love's torch will burn to ashes. But no more
May any change our changeless love befall.
Lo! spring and summer faded, and the year
In all their sunny round brought not the morn;
But now, 'mid autumn's melancholy cheer,
'Mid soughing boughs and pallid light, 'tis born.
So drear, thou sayest ?
- Love may the clouds dispel.
So brief?
- With eve our passion shall not cease.
So still?
- Oh let the day this message tell:
Not rapture is love's crowning gift, but peace.
GEORGE M. WHICHER.
THE SURFACE AND THE DEPTHS
LO"
OVE took my life and thrilled it
Through all its strings,
Played round my mind and filled it
With sound of wings;
But to my heart he never came
To touch it with his golden flame.
Therefore it is that singing
I do rejoice,
Nor heed the slow years bringing
A harsher voice;
Because the songs which he has sung
Still leave the untouched singer young.
But whom in fuller fashion
The Master sways,


## p. 16635 (#335) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16635
For him, swift-winged with passion,
Fleet the brief days.
Betimes the enforced accents come,
And leave him ever after dumb.
LEWIS MORRIS.
LOVE BRINGETH LIFE
F
OND hands laid sweet Ophelia softly low
In that small straitened grave beneath the yew;
Thenceforth the world a little sadder grew,
Seeing one lover's footsteps come and go,
And wander in a sudden drear amaze
Through all the winter days.
In darkness lies white-robèd Juliet,
With slender hands close folded on her breast,
On the quick-throbbing heart at length at rest
In the forsaken tomb of Capulet;
And earth hath one more mourning for, a bride,
One other grief to hide.
And what of thee, O tender Marguerite ?
Long dead thou art, and thy lone grave is deep,
But scant to hide from us thy maiden sleep
Loose held within a moldered winding-sheet;
Thou still awakest, and canst not forget,
And pray'st assoilment yet.
And thou, Francesca ? On the open page
Of thy dark history a rose-spray lies,
As though to hide thee from unrighteous eyes,
Whose evil looks are all thy heritage.
Thou art love's victim. On thy pensive face
Grief finds abiding place.
These died for love's sake. Many such there be:
Yet best for thee, O little maid, whose vows
Were made last eve 'neath blossomed cherry-boughs,
Were love, though death shall follow. Best for thee!
Love bringeth sorrow, yet unto our need
Love bringeth life indeed.
CAROLINE WILDER FELLOWES.


## p. 16636 (#336) ##########################################

16636
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE POWER OF BEAUTY
T
HOU needst not weave nor spin,
Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in,
Nor, forth afield at morn,
At eve bring home the corn,
Nor on a winter's night
Make blaze the fagots bright.
So lithe and delicate,
So slender is thy state,
So pale and pure thy face,
So deer-like in their grace
Thy limbs, that all do vie
To take and charm the eye.
Thus, toiling where thou'rt not
Is but the common lot:
Three men mayhap alone
By strength may move a stone
But, toiling near to thee,
One man may work as three,
If thou but bend a smile
To fall on him the while;
Or if one tender glance -
Though coy and shot askance -
His eyes discover, then
One man may work as ten.
Men commonly but ask,
“When shall I end my task? ”
But seeing thee come in,
'Tis, “When may I begin ? »
Such power does beauty bring
To take from toil its sting.
-
If then thou'lt do but this,-
Fling o'er the work a bliss
From thy mere presence,- none
Shall think thou'st nothing done:
Thou needst not weave nor spin,
Nor bring the wheat-sheaves in.
JAMES HERBERT MORSE.


## p. 16637 (#337) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16637
A DANCER
I
N THE lamplight's glare she stood, -
The dancer, the octoroon, —
On a space of polished wood
With glittering sand-grains strewn;
And a rapid rhythmic tune
From the strings of a mandolin
[din.
Leaped up through the air in viewless flight and passed in a strident
Her eyes like a fawn's were dark,
But her hair was black as night,
And a diamond's bluish spark
From its masses darted bright,
While around her figure slight
Clung a web of lace she wore,
In curving lines of unhidden grace as she paused on the sanded floor.
Then the clashing music sprang
From the frets of the mandolin,
While the shadowy arches rang
With insistent echoes thin;
And there, as the spiders spin
Dim threads in a ring complete,
A labyrinthine wheel she wove with the touch of her Aying feet.
To the right she swayed,- to the left, -
Then swung in a circle round,
Fast weaving a changing weft
To the changing music's sound,
As light as a leaf unbound
From the grasp of its parent tree,
That falls and dips with the thistle-down afloat on a windy sea.
And wilder the music spell
Swept on in jarring sound, -
Advanced and rose and fell,
By gathering echoes crowned;
And the lights whirled round and round
O'er the woman dancing there,
With her Circe grace and passionate face and a diamond in her hair.
ERNEST MCGAFFEY.


## p. 16638 (#338) ##########################################

16638
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE LONGING OF CIRCE
T"
THE rapid years drag by, and bring not here
The man for whom I wait;
All things pall on me: in my heart grows fear
Lest I may miss my fate.
I weary of the heavy wealth and ease
Which all my isle enfold;
The fountain's sleepy plash, the summer breeze
That bears not heat nor cold.
With dull, unvaried mien, my maid and I
Plod through our daily tasks:
Gather strange herbs, weave purple tapestry.
Distill in magic flasks.
Most weary am I of these men who yield
So quickly to my spell,
The beastly rout now wandering afield,
With grunt and snarl and yell.
Ah, when, in place of tigers and of swine,
Shall he confront me whom
My song cannot enslave, nor that bright wine
Where rank enchantments fume ?
Then with what utter gladness will I cast
My sorceries away,
And kneel to him, my lord revealed at last,
And serve him night and day!
CAMERON MANN.
CIRCE
W"
a
THAT fate is mine, who, far apart from pains
And fears and turmoils of the cross-grained world,
Dwell, like a lonely god, in a charmed isle
Where I am first and only, and like one
Who should love poisonous savors more than mead,
Long for a tempest on me, and grow sick
Of resting and divine free carelessness!
O me! I am a woman, not a god;
Yea, those who tend me even are more than 1,-


## p. 16639 (#339) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16639
My nymphs who have the souls of flowers and birds
Singing and blossoming immortally.
Ah me! these love a day and laugh again,
And loving, laughing, find a full content;
But I know naught of peace, and have not loved.
Where is my love ? Does some one cry for me,
Not knowing whom he calls ? does his soul cry
For mine to grow beside it, grow in it ?
Does he beseech the gods to give him me,
The yet unknown rare woman by whose side
No other woman, thrice as beautiful,
Should once seem fair to him; to whose voice heard
In any common tones no sweeter sound
Of love made melody on silver lutes,
Or singing like Apollo's when the gods
Grow pale with happy listening, might be peered
For making music to him; whom once found
There will be no more seeking anything?
O love, O love, O love, art not yet come
Out of the waiting shadows into life?
Art not yet come after so many years
That I have longed for thee? Come! I am here.
.
Nay, but he will come. Why am I so fair,
And marvelously minded, and with sight
Which flashes suddenly on hidden things,
As the gods see who do not need to look ?
Why wear I in my eyes that stronger power
Than basilisks, whose gaze can only kill,
To draw men's souls to me to live or die
As I would have them? Why am I given pride
Which yet longs to be broken, and this scorn
Cruel and vengeful for the lesser men
Who meet the smiles I waste for lack of him,
And grow too glad ? Why am I who I am,
But for the sake of him whom fate will send
One day to be my master utterly,
That he should take me, the desire of all,
Whom only he in all the world could bow to him?
O sunlike glory of pale glittering hairs,
Bright as the filmy wires my weavers take
To make me golden gauzes; O deep eyes,


## p. 16640 (#340) ##########################################

16640
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Darker and softer than the bluest dusk
Of August violets, darker and deep
Like crystal fathomless lakes in summer moons;
O sad sweet longing smile; O lips that tempt
My very self to kisses; O round cheeks,
Tenderly radiant with the even Aush
Of pale smoothed coral; perfect lovely face
Answering my gaze from out this fleckless pool;
Wonder of glossy shoulders, chiseled limbs, -
Should I be so your lover as I am,
Drinking an exquisite joy to watch you thus
In all a hundred changes through the day,
But that I love you for him till he comes,
But that my beauty means his loving it? .
1
1
1
Too cruel am I? And the silly beasts,
Crowding around me when I pass their way,
Glower on me, and although they love me still
(With their poor sorts of love such as they could),
Call wrath and vengeance to their humid eyes
To scare me into mercy, or creep near
With piteous fawnings, supplicating bleats.
Too cruel? Did I choose them what they are ?
Or change them from themselves by poisonous charms ?
But any draught - pure water, natural wine –
Out of my cup, revealed them to themselves
And to each other. Change ? There was no change;
Only disguise gone from them unawares:
And had there been one right true man of them,
He would have drunk the draught as I had drunk,
And stood unchanged, and looked me in the eyes,
Abashing me before him. But these things -
Why, which of them has ever shown the kind
Of some one nobler beast ? Pah! yapping wolves
And pitiless stealthy wild-cats, curs and apes
And gorging swine and stinking venomous snakes, —
All false and ravenous and sensual brutes
That shame the earth that bore them,- these they are.
1
1
AUGUSTA WEBSTER.


## p. 16641 (#341) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16641
A FORECAST
W"
HAT days await this woman, whose strange feet
Breathe spells; whose presence makes men dream
like wine;
Tall, free, and slender as the forest pine ;
Whose form is molded music; through whose sweet
Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat,
Keen, passionate, and full of dreams and fire:
How in the end, and to what man's desire,
Shall all this yield — whose lips shall these lips meet?
One thing I know: if he be great and pure,
This love, this fire, this beauty, shall endure;
Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm:
But if not this, some differing thing he be,
That dream shall break in terror; he shall see
The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.
ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
CROSS OF GOLD
T"
he fifth from the north wall;
Row innermost; and the pall
Plain black - all black - except
The cross on which she wept,
Ere she lay down and slept.
This one is hers, and this
The marble next it - his:
So lie in brave accord
The lady and her lord,
Her cross and his red sword.
And now, what seek'st thou here,
Having no care nor fear
To vex with thy hot tread
These halls of the long dead, -
To flash the torch's light
Upon their utter night?
What word hast thou to thrust
Into her ear of dust?
Spake then the haggard priest:
In lands of the far East
XXVIII-1041


## p. 16642 (#342) ##########################################

16642
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I dreamed of finding rest —
What time my lips had prest
The cross on this dead breast.
-
And if my sin be shriven,
And mercy live in heaven,
Surely this hour, and here,
My long woe's end is near
Is near — and I am brought
To peace, and painless thought
Of her who lies at rest,
This cross upon her breast,-
Whose passionate heart is cold
Beneath this cross of gold;
Who lieth, still and mute,
In sleep so absolute.
Yea, by the precious sign
Shall sleep most sweet be mine;
And I at last am blest,
Knowing she went to rest
This cross upon her breast.
DAVID GRAY.
THE WEB
O
MOONLIGHT spider-web,
Filmy and fine and fair!
A cloud of dewdrops blown
From rose-hearts overgrown
Transfixed upon the bosom of the air.
O moonlight-colored web,
That some rude hand has torn!
Each broken, lifeless thread
Hangs downward, gray and dead,
Caught on the sharp edge of a red-rose thorn.
O frail, fine web of Life,
Woven 'mid stars above,
Shattered on earth one day!
Mine lieth dead and gray,
Caught on the sharp edge of the Thorn of Love.
CORA FABBRI


## p. 16643 (#343) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16643
DOUBT
TH
HOUGH that which made my life is fled,
I still could live and still could smile,
Were I but sure thy love now dead
Once lived a little while.
The future I can bear to lose,
But not the past – oh, not the past !
Ah, love! do not this prayer refuse,
And it shall be my last.
Ah, love! when 'neath the oak we stood,
The moon pale-gleaming through her tears
Showed your stern face and altered mood,
Which first awoke my fears.
As grows the storm-cloud on the blast,
My darkening fears have grown and grown;
But let, oh, let me keep the past,
Though hope and love have flown.
Again in dreams I silent stand,
As that pale night, black leaves beneath;
Against your side you press my hand,
I feel each throbbing breath.
The night wind moans in the long grass;
By it, or thee, was the tale told
Which niade the ghost of true love pass
Wringing her white hands cold ?
Though side by side, arm linked in arm,
It swept between us bitter chill;
And now in blinding sunshine warm
I shiver with it still.
Here in the same long grass I lie,
The selfsame branches overhead;
I watch the pitiless blue sky;
Would it shone o'er me dead!
Author Unknown.


## p. 16644 (#344) ##########################################

16644
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
TWO ROBBERS
WEN
'HEN Death from some fair face
Is stealing life away,
All weep, save her, the grace
That earth shall lose to-day.
When Time from some fair face
Steals beauty, year by year,
For her slow-fading grace
Who sheds, save her, a tear ?
And Death not often dares
To wake the world's distress;
While Time, the cunning, mars
Surely all loveliness.
Yet though by breath and breath
Fades all our fairest prime,
Men shrink from cruel Death,
And honor crafty Time.
F. W. BOURDILLON
LOVE AND DEATH
A
LAS! that men must see
Love, before Death!
Else they content might be
With their short breath;
Aye, glad when the pale sun
Showed restless Day was done,
And endless Rest begun!
Glad when with strong, cool hand
Death clasped their own,
And with a strange command
Hushed every moan;
Glad to have finished pain
And labor wrought in vain,
Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.
But Love's insistent voice
Bids Self to flee:-
«Live that I may rejoice;
Live on for me! »


## p. 16645 (#345) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16645
So, for Love's cruel mind,
Men fear this Rest to find,
Nor know great Death is kind!
MARGARET DELAND.
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH
O"
H, LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits in Neidpath's tower
To watch her love's returning.
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.
By fits a sultry hectic hue
Across her cheek was flying;
By fits so ashy pale she grew
Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seemed in her frame residing:
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned
She knew and waved to greet him,
And o'er the battlement did bend
As on the wing to meet him.
He came – he passed
an heedless gaze
As o'er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing. –
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
SIR WALTER SCOTT


## p. 16646 (#346) ##########################################

16646
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
MADRIGAL TRISTE
I
f we should meet,
You and I,
My sweet,
In some fair land where under the blue sky
The scents of the fresh violets never die,
And Spring is deathless under deathless feet,
Should we clasp hands and kiss,
My sweet,
With the old bliss ?
Would our eyes meet
With the same passionate frankness as of old,
When the fresh Spring was in the Summer's gold ?
Ah, no, my dear!
Woe's me! our kisses are but frore;
The blossoms of our early love are sere,
And will be fresh no more.
II
1
If we should stand,
You and I,
My sweet,
On that bright strand
Where day fades never, and the golden street
Rings to the music of the angels' feet,
Would our rent hearts find solace in the sky ?
Should we lose heed,
My dear,
Of the sad years?
Would our souls cease to bleed
For the past anguish, and our eyes grow clear
In heaven from all the furrows of the tears?
Ah, no, my dear!