The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 142

"HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD"

From "The Princess"

Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry.

All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and n.o.blest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee,-- Like summer tempest came her tears, "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour.

That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the gla.s.s.

Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pa.s.s Save two long rays through the hinge's c.h.i.n.k.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till G.o.d's hand beckoned unawares,-- And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew-- And, just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told?

We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for G.o.d above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake!

Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,--at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay?

Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!

What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.

So, hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep: See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep!

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern sh.o.r.e, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy n.o.ble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless pa.s.sion-- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]

SONG

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue: The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams!

There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte [1818-1848]