« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair,
He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixed in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusky purlieus of the law.
O joy to him, in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark 'The landscape winking through the heat.
O sound to rout the brood of cares,
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
A ballad to the brightening moon!
Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods,
Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
"And merge," he said, “in form and gloss
The picturesque of man and man.” We talked; the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couched in moss, Or cooled within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fallen into her father's grave,
And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honeyed hours.
THY Converse drew us with delight,
On thee the loyal-hearted hung,
The proud was half disarmed of pride;
To flicker with his treble tongue.
The stern were mild when thou wert by;
And heard thee; and the brazen fool
While I, thy dearest, sat apart,
And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art;
Not mine the sweetness or the skill,
But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will.
DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire,
Known and unknown, human, divine!
Strange friend, past, present, and to be,
Loved deeplier, darklier understood; Behold I dream a dream of good And mingle all the world with thee.
THY Voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.
What art thou, then? I cannot guess;
My love involves the love before;
My love is vaster passion now;
I seem to love thee more and more.
Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice.
prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee, though I die.
THE BUGLE SONG.
THE splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes-dying, dying, dying!
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going!
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying:
O love, they die in yon rich sky;
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying,
COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD.
COME into the garden, Maud
For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
All night have the roses heard
All night has the casement jessamine stirred