Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 107

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd; Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd; She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: O, foul is the slander!--no chain could that soul subdue-- Where s.h.i.+neth thy spirit, there Liberty s.h.i.+neth too!

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

584. The Light of Other Days

OFT, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me.

Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

Thomas Moore. 1779-1852

585. At the Mid Hour of Night

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. 1781-1829

586. May

MAY! queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours?

Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead?

Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us, Or pipe or wire; Thou hast the golden bee Ripen'd with fire; And many thousand more Songsters, that thee adore, Filling earth's gra.s.sy floor With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame and free-livers; Doubt not, thy music too In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight Warbling the day and night-- Up at the gates of light, See, the lark quivers!

Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849

587. Battle Song

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the c.o.c.k crows--hark!

To arms! away!

They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem.

What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear-- What pension'd slave of Attila, Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar?

They do his will.

Nor ta.s.sell'd silk, nor epaulet, Nor plume, nor torse-- No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire!

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, And G.o.d's right hand!

Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod!

Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of G.o.d!

Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave.

Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849

588. Plaint

DARK, deep, and cold the current flows Unto the sea where no wind blows, Seeking the land which no one knows.

O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes The mingled wail of friends and foes, Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes With millions, from a world of woes, Unto the land which no one knows?

Though myriads go with him who goes, Alone he goes where no wind blows, Unto the land which no one knows.

For all must go where no wind blows, And none can go for him who goes; None, none return whence no one knows.

Yet why should he who shrieking goes With millions, from a world of woes, Reunion seek with it or those?

Alone with G.o.d, where no wind blows, And Death, his shadow--doom'd, he goes.

That G.o.d is there the shadow shows.

O sh.o.r.eless Deep, where no wind blows!

And thou, O Land which no one knows!

That G.o.d is All, His shadow shows.

Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842

589. The Sun rises bright in France

THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.

O, it 's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the dear Marie I left behin'

Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, And smiled my ain Marie; I've left a' my heart behin'

In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back, O never, To my ain countree.

O, I am leal to high Heaven, Where soon I hope to be, An' there I'll meet ye a' soon Frae my ain countree!