They drank to the saints and martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remember'd one saint more;
And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac
And Saint Basil's homilies,
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomaus,
Proclaim'd the midnight hour.
And the yule-log crack'd in the chimney,
And the abbot bow'd his head,
And the flamelets flapp'd and flicker'd,
But the abbot was stark and dead.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutch'd the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, "Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one saint more!"
The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravell'd pathway
The light and shadow play'd.
I saw the nursery window
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He look'd for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walk'd not under the lindens,
They play'd not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches
With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walk'd beside me
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I press'd his warm soft hand.
MEET ME TO-NIGHT.
Meet me to-night in the path which lies
By the side of the woodland hollow;
The moon will have open'd her silver eyes,
And tell thee which path to follow.
Then tripping along to thy footstep's sound,
Thy lip to thy heart will be humming;
If thy glance for a moment turn around,
"Twill assure thee, love, I'm coming.
Oh, do not fear, do not fear, not a tone will break, On earth or in air, that can chide thee;
If a lonely rose perchance to awake,
"Twill droop its bloom beside thee.
STARS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT.
Stars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Moon of the summer night!
Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Wind of the summer night!
Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
Dreams of the summer night!
Tell her her lover keeps
Watch, while in slumbers light
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!
THE STAR OF THE DESERT.
[S. LOVER.]
In the depths of the desert, when lonely and drear,
The sands round the desolate trav'ler appear;
The splendour of day gives no aid to his path,
For landmark nor compass the traveller hath.
But when night sheds her shadow and coolness around,
Then hark, how the bells of the camel resound;
For the trav'ler is as when the star sheds its ray,
"Tis the light of his hope, 'tis the guide of his way.
And what is this world but a wilderness vast,
Where few leave a trace o'er the waste they have pass'd;
And many are lost in the noonday of pride,
That shines forth to dazzle, but seldom to guide?
Oh, bless'd is the fate of the one who has found
Some loved star to guide through the wilderness round;
And such have I found, my beloved, in thee,
For thou art the star of the desert to me.
SISTER, I HAVE LOVED THEE WELL. [SOANE.]
Sister, I have loved thee well,
More than poet's verse can tell,
When it sings with golden tongue,
And the harp with gold is strung.
Yet, though dear to me as sight,
Though I prize thee as the light,
Check me not, or find too late
Warmest love can keenest hate.
Beauty's eye is ne'er so bright
As when mildness lends it light;
Beauty's voice is ne'er so sweet
As when love and duty meet.
Sister, though I have loved thee well
More than a poct's verse can tell,
Check me not, or find too late
Warmest love can keenest hate.
Be nine, dear maid; my faithful heart
Can never prove untrue;
'Twere easier far from life to part,
Than cease to live for you.
My soul, gone forth from this lone breast,
Lives only, love, in thine;
There is its only home of rest,
Its dear, its chosen shrine.
Then turn thee not away, my dear,
Oh! turn thee not away, love;
For by the light of truth I swear
To love thee night and day, love.
"Tis not mine eye thy beauty loves,
Mine ear thy tuneful voice;
But 'tis my heart thy heart approves,
A life enduring choice.
The lark shall first forget to sing,
When morn unfolds the east,
Ere I by chance or coldness wring
Thy fond confiding breast.
Then turn thee not away, my dear, &c.
THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
The mountain maid from her bower has hied,
And sped to the glassy river's side,
Where the radiant moon shone clear and bright,
And the willows waved in the silver light.
On a mossy bank lay a shepherd swain,
He woke his pipe to a tuneful strain,
And so blithely gay were the notes he play'd,
That he charm'd the ear of the Mountain Maid.
She stopp'd, with timid fear oppress'd,
While a soft sigh swells her gentle breast,
He caught her glance, and mark'd her sigh,
And triumph laugh'd in his sparkling eye.
So softly sweet was his tuneful ditty,
He charm'd her tender soul to pity,
And so blithely gay were the notes he play'd,
That he gain'd the heart of the Mountain Maid.
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