Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 153

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, Thy way is long to the sun and the south; But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, From tawny body and sweet small mouth Feed the heart of the night with fire.

I the nightingale all spring through, O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, All spring through till the spring be done, Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, Take fight and follow and find the sun.

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?

For where thou fliest I shall not follow, Till life forget and death remember, Till thou remember and I forget.

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, I know not how thou hast heart to sing.

Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?

Thy lord the summer is good to follow, And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?

O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, My heart in me is a molten ember And over my head the waves have met.

But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow Could I forget or thou remember, Couldst thou remember and I forget.

O sweet stray sister, O s.h.i.+fting swallow, The heart's division divideth us.

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow To the place of the slaying of Itylus, The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, I pray thee sing not a little s.p.a.ce.

Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?

The woven web that was plain to follow, The small slain body, the flower-like face, Can I remember if thou forget?

O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!

The hands that cling and the feet that follow, The voice of the child's blood crying yet, Who hath remember'd me? who hath forgotten?

Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, But the world shall end when I forget.

William Dean Howells. b. 1837

812. Earliest Spring

TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, Lion-like March cometh in, hoa.r.s.e, with tempestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift.

Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes-- Rapture of life ineffable, perfect--as if in the brier, Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.

Bret Harte. 1839-1902

813. What the Bullet sang

O JOY of creation, To be!

O rapture, to fly And be free!

Be the battle lost or won, Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love--the one Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his G.o.dlike front and grace; I shall hold him for a s.p.a.ce All my own!

It is he--O my love!

So bold!

It is I--all thy love Foretold!

It is I--O love, what bliss!

Dost thou answer to my kiss?

O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold?

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

814. Maureen

O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen!

Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asth.o.r.e, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen!

When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o' the World that day--only me?

My one true love, Maureen!

And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

815. Aghadoe

THERE 's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies, That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe!

When your throat fries in h.e.l.l's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe: O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould rest, Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe; Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.

O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!

There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!

Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

816. Song