Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

"WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING"

So, we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

SONG

SING the old song, amid the sounds dispersing
That burden treasured in your hearts too long;

Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name her:

She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing

High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal songBend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim her!

In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses,

She shades the bloom of her unearthly days;

And the soft winds alone have power to woo her:

Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses;

And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her.

The Question

That Spirit charged to follow and defend her,-
He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain;

847

And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing:
And yet that face is not so sad as tender;
Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain
From the heaved heart is gradually dying!
Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]

THE QUESTION

I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;
And gentle odors led my steps astray,

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,

The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-

Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cowbind and the moonlight-colored may, And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; And flowers, azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,

And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand;—and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it-O! to whom?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

LONG, LONG AGO

TELL me the tales which to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago;

Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago, long ago.

Now you are come, all my grief is removed,
Let me forget that so long you have roved;
Let me believe that you love as you loved
Long, long ago, long ago.

Do

you remember the path where we met,
Long, long ago, long, long ago?

Ah, yes, you told me you ne'er would forget,
Long, long ago, long ago.

Then, to all others my smile you preferred,

Love, when you spoke, gave a charm to each word;

Still my heart treasures the praises I heard

Long, long ago, long ago.

Though by your kindness my fond hopes were raised,
Long, long ago, long, long ago;

You, by more eloquent lips have been praised,
Long, long ago, long ago.

The Water Lady

But by long absence your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,

Blest as I was when I sat by your side,

Long, long ago, long ago.

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Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

THE WATER LADY

ALAS, the moon should ever beam
To show what man should never see!
I saw a maiden on a stream,
And fair was she!

I stayed awhile, to see her throw
Her tresses back, that all beset
The fair horizon of her brow
With clouds of jet.

I stayed a little while to view

Her cheek, that wore, in place of red,
The bloom of water, tender blue,
Daintily spread.

I stayed to watch, a little space,
Her parted lips if she would sing;
The waters closed above her face
With many a ring.

And still I stayed a little more:
Alas, she never comes again!

I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she's divine!

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

"TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH"

TRIPPING down the field-path,

Early in the morn,

There I met my own love

'Midst the golden corn;
Autumn winds were blowing,
As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets

Backward from her face;

Little time for speaking

Had she, for the wind,

Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
Ever swept behind.

Still some sweet improvement
In her beauty shone;
Every graceful movement

Won me, one by one!
As the breath of Venus

Seemed the breeze of morn,

Blowing thus between us,

'Midst the golden corn.

Little time for wooing

Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing

What we sought to bind.

Oh! that autumn morning
In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning

With its dream of dreams:

Still, like waters flowing

In the ocean shell,
Sounds of breezes blowing

In my spirit dwell;
Still I see the field-path;—
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty

Lost is now to me!

Charles Swain [1801-1874]