S

eek not the tree of silkiest bark

And balmiest bud,

To carve her name—while yet ’t is dark—

Upon the wood!

The world is full of noble tasks

And wreaths hard-won:

Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,

Till day is done.

Sing not that violet-veinÈd skin,

That cheek’s pale roses;

The lily of that form wherein

Her soul reposes!

Forth to the fight, true man, true knight!

The clash of arms

Shall more prevail than whispered tale

To win her charms.

The warrior for the True, the Right,

Fights in Love’s name:

The love that lures thee from that fight

Lures thee to shame.

That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves

The spirit free,—

That love, or none, is fit for one,

Man-shaped like thee.

A

cross the grass I see her pass;

She comes with tripping pace,—

A maid I know,—and March winds blow

Her hair across her face;—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

The March winds blow. I watch her go:

Her eye is brown and clear;

Her cheek is brown and soft as down

(To those who see it near!)—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

What has she not that they have got,—

The dames that walk in silk!

If she undo her ’kerchief blue,

Her neck is white as milk.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill!

For me, from June to June,

My Dolly’s words are sweet as curds,—

Her laugh is like a tune;—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!

O tall Lent-lilies, flame!

There ’ll be a bride at Easter-tide,

And Dolly is her name.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,

Or blooms the eglantine.

I.

S

weet mouth! O let me take

One draught from that delicious cup!

The hot Sahara-thirst to slake

That burns me up!

II.

Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,

Within that darling frame must bloom;

My heart revives so at the rare

Divine perfume!

III.

—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,

A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;

Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,

That fragrance fine!

IV.

I drank—the drink betrayed me

Into a madder, fiercer fever;

The scent of those love-blossoms made me

More faint than ever!

V.

Yet though quick death it were

That rich heart-vintage I must drain,

And quaff that hidden garden’s air,

Again—again!

I

 ’m sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat, side by side,

That bright May morning long ago

When first you were my bride.

The corn was springing fresh and green,

The lark sang loud and high,

The red was on your lip, Mary,

The love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,

The day is bright as then,

The lark’s loud song is in my ear,

The corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

Your breath warm on my cheek,

And I still keep list’ning for the words

You never more may speak.

’T is but a step down yonder lane,

The little Church stands near—

The Church where we were wed, Mary,—

I see the spire from here;

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,—

My step might break your rest,—

Where you, my darling, lie asleep

With your baby on your breast.

I ’m very lonely now, Mary,—

The poor make no new friends;—

But, oh! they love the better still

The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride;

There ’s nothing left to care for now

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When trust in God had left my soul,

And half my strength was gone.

There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow.

I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you can’t hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break;

When the hunger pain was gnawing there

You hid it for my sake.

I bless you for the pleasant word

When your heart was sad and sore.

Oh! I ’m thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can’t reach you more!

I ’m bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary—kind and true!

But I ’ll not forget you, darling,

In the land I ’m going to.

They say there ’s bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there;

But I ’ll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair.

And when amid those grand old woods

I sit and shut my eyes,

My heart will travel back again

To where my Mary lies;

I ’ll think I see the little stile

Where we sat, side by side,—

And the springing corn and bright May morn,

When first you were my bride.

W

ait but a little while—

The bird will bring

A heart in tune for melodies

Unto the spring,

Till he who ’s in the cedar there

Is moved to trill a song so rare,

And pipe her fair.

Wait but a little while—

The bud will break;

The inner rose will ope and glow

For summer’s sake;

Fond bees will lodge within her breast

Till she herself is plucked and prest

Where I would rest.

Wait but a little while—

The maid will grow

Gracious with lips and hands to thee,

With breast of snow.

To-day Love ’s mute, but time hath sown

A soul in her to match thine own,

Though yet ungrown.

O

 Lady, leave thy silken thread

And flowery tapestrie:

There ’s living roses on the bush,

And blossoms on the tree;

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand

Some random bud will meet;

Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find

The daisy at thy feet.

’T is like the birthday of the world,

When earth was born in bloom;

The light is made of many dyes,

The air is all perfume;

There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue—

The very rainbow showers

Have turned to blossoms where they fell,

And sown the earth with flowers.

There ’s fairy tulips in the east,

The garden of the sun;

The very streams reflect the hues,

And blossom as they run:

While Morn opes like a crimson rose,

Still wet with pearly showers;

Then, Lady, leave the silken thread

Thou twinest into flowers!

I

 remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now ’t is little joy

To know I ’m farther off from heav’n

Than when I was a boy.

S

he ’s up and gone, the graceless Girl!

And robbed my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold

But now ’t is turned to tears;—

My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand,

She might have stayed a little yet,

And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill,

’T is nothing but the heron’s cry,

And plover’s answer shrill;

My child is flown on wilder wings,

Than they have ever spread,

And I may even walk a waste

That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,

But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,

Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she ’ll share the robin’s food,

And sup the common rill,

Before her feet will turn again

To meet her father’s will!

W

hen along the light ripple the far serenade

Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid,

She may open the window that looks on the stream,—

She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream;

Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom,

“O

h, Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee;”

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,

And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o’er and o’er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:

And never home came she.

“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress of golden hair,

A drownÈd maiden’s hair

Above the nets at sea?”

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes on Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home

Across the sands of Dee.

T

hree fishers went sailing away to the West,

Away to the West as the sun went down;

Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And there ’s little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;

They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it ’s over, the sooner to sleep;

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

W

e heard it calling, clear and low,

That tender April morn; we stood

And listened in the quiet wood,

We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,

A friend, but from a far-off land;

We stood and listened, hand in hand,

And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy,

And so it seemed as ’t were the Bird

That Helen in old times had heard

At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!

It came to her in that hush’d grove,

It warbled while the wooing throve,

It sang the song she loved to hear.

And now I hear its voice again,

And still its message is of peace,

It sings of love that will not cease—

For me it never sings in vain.

A

s Gertrude skipt from babe to girl,

Her Necklace lengthen’d, pearl by pearl;

Year after year it grew, and grew,

For every birthday gave her two.

Her neck is lovely,—soft and fair,

And now her Necklace glimmers there.

So cradled, let it fall and rise,

And all her graces symbolize.

Perchance this pearl, without a speck,

Once was as warm on Sappho’s neck;

Where are the happy, twilight pearls

That braided Beatrice’s curls?

Is Gerty loved? Is Gerty loth?

Or, if she ’s either, is she both?

She ’s fancy free, but sweeter far

Than many plighted maidens are:

Will Gerty smile us all away,

And still be Gerty? Who can say?

But let her wear her Precious Toy,

And I ’ll rejoice to see her joy:

Her bauble ’s only one degree

Less frail, less fugitive than we,

For time, ere long, will snap the skein,

And scatter all her Pearls again.

I

 made another garden, yea,

For my new love;

I left the dead rose where it lay,

And set the new above.

Why did the summer not begin?

Why did my heart not haste?

My old love came and walked therein,

And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile,

Just as of old;

She looked around a little while,

And shivered at the cold.

Her passing touch was death to all,

Her passing look a blight;

She made the white rose-petals fall,

And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,

Seemed like a snake

That bit the grass and ground, alas!

And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate;

And there, just as of yore,

She turned back at the last to wait,

And say farewell once more.

I

 had a Message to send her,

To her whom my soul loved best;

But I had my task to finish,

And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven;

Oh, so far away from here,

It was vain to speak to my darling,

For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,

So tender, and true, and sweet,

I longed for an Angel to bear it,

And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening,

On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;

But it faded in golden splendour,

And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,

And I watched it soar and soar;

But its pinions grew faint and weary,

And it fluttered to earth once more.

To the heart of a Rose I told it;

And the perfume, sweet and rare,

Growing faint on the blue bright ether,

Was lost in the balmy air.

I laid it upon a Censer,

And I saw the incense rise;

But its clouds of rolling silver

Could not reach the far blue skies.

I cried, in my passionate longing:—

“Has the earth no Angel-friend

Who will carry my love the message

That my heart desires to send?”

Then I heard a strain of music,

So mighty, so pure, so clear,

That my very sorrow was silent,

And my heart stood still to hear.

And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,

At last the sure answer stir:—

“The music will go up to Heaven,

And carry my thought to her.”

It rose in harmonious rushing

Of mingled voices and strings,

And I tenderly laid my message

On the Music’s outspread wings.

I heard it float farther and farther,

In sound more perfect than speech;

Farther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.

And I know that at last my message

Has passed through the golden gate:

So my heart is no longer restless,

And I am content to wait.

S

ing!—Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?

Ah, who is this lady fine?

The Vine, boys, the Vine!

The mother of mighty Wine.

A roamer is she

O’er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!—Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?

Ah, who is this maid of thine?

The Grape, boys, the Grape!

O, never let her escape

Until she be turned to Wine!

For better is she

Than vine can be,

And very, very good company!

Dream!—Who dreams

Of the God that governs a thousand streams?

Ah, who is this Spirit fine?

’T is Wine, boys, ’t is Wine!

God Bacchus, a friend of mine.

O better is he

Than grape or tree,

And the best of all good company.

S

he was not fair, nor full of grace,

Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;

No wealth had she, of mind or face,

To win our love, or raise our pride:

No lover’s thought her cheek did touch;

No poet’s dream was ’round her thrown;

And yet we miss her—ah, too much,

Now—she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,

As one that mingled in our mirth;

We miss her when the evening falls,—

A trifle wanted on the earth!

Some fancy small or subtle thought

Is checked ere to its blossom grown;

Some chain is broken that we wrought,

Now—she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,

Is marred now she hath sunk in night;

And yet the strong immortal Mind

Is stopped in its triumphant flight!

Stern friend, what power is in a tear,

What strength in one poor thought alone,

When all we know is—“She was here,”

And—“She hath flown!”

C

ome sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,

And the fame that now hangs o’er him,

Who once did sweep o’er the vanquish’d deep,

And drove the world before him!

His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,

And the sea was his park of pleasure,

Where he scattered in fear the human deer,

And rested,—when he had leisure!

Come,—shout and sing

Of the great Sea-King,

And ride in the track he rode in!

He sits at the head

Of the mighty dead,

On the red right hand of Odin!

He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,

And soared on his victor pinions,

And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,

When they gaze on their blue dominions.

His whole earth life was a conquering strife,

And he lived till his beard grew hoary,

And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,

And now—he is lost in glory!

So,—shout and sing, &c.

A

wake!—The starry midnight Hour

Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:

In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;

And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!

Awake! Awake!

Look forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead, and thorny brake;

Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,

And like the tender morning break!

Awake! Awake!

Dawn forth, my love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee;

Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour

What wealth of love thou hid’st from me!

Awake! Awake!

Shew all thy love, for Love’s sweet sake!

Awake!—Ne’er heed, though listening Night

Steal music from thy silver voice:

Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,

And bid the world and me rejoice!

Awake! Awake!

She comes,—at last, for Love’s sweet sake!

K

ing Death was a rare old fellow!

He sate where no sun could shine;

And he lifted his hand so yellow,

And poured out his coal-black wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

There came to him many a Maiden,

Whose eyes had forgot to shine;

And Widows, with grief o’erladen,

For a draught of his sleepy wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

The Scholar left all his learning;

The Poet his fancied woes;

And the Beauty her bloom returning,

As the beads of the black wine rose.

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

All came to the royal old fellow,

Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine,

As he gave them his hand so yellow,

And pledged them in Death’s black wine.

Hurrah!—Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

S

it down, sad soul, and count

The moments flying:

Come,—tell the sweet amount

That ’s lost by sighing!

How many smiles?—a score?

Then laugh, and count no more;

For day is dying!

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,

And no more measure

The flight of Time, nor weep

The loss of leisure;

But here, by this lone stream,

Lie down with us, and dream

Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same:

We love—for ever:

We laugh; yet few we shame,

The gentle, never.

Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;

Then—hope and happy skies

Are thine for ever!

D

rink, and fill the night with mirth!

Let us have a mighty measure,

Till we quite forget the earth,

And soar into the world of pleasure.

Drink, and let a health go round,

(’T is the drinker’s noble duty,)

To the eyes that shine and wound,

To the mouths that bud in beauty!

Here ’s to Helen! Why, ah! why

Doth she fly from my pursuing?

Here ’s to Marian, cold and shy!

May she warm before thy wooing!

Here ’s to Janet! I ’ve been e’er,

Boy and man, her staunch defender,

Always sworn that she was fair,

Always known that she was tender!

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!

Let them with the champagne tremble,

Like the loose wrack in the sky,

When the four wild winds assemble!

Here ’s to all the love on earth,

(Love, the young man’s, wise man’s treasure!)

Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!

Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

P

eace! what can tears avail?

She lies all dumb and pale,

And from her eye,

The spirit of lovely life is fading,

And she must die!

Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?

Reply, reply!

Hath she not dwelt too long

’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?

Then, why not die?

Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,

And hopeless lie?

Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?

Reply, reply!

Death! Take her to thine arms,

In all her stainless charms,

And with her fly

To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,

The Angels lie!

Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?

Reply,—reply!

T

he Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth’s wide regions ’round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;

Or like a cradled creature lies.

I ’m on the Sea! I ’m on the Sea!

I am where I would ever be;

With the blue above, and the blue below,

And silence wheresoe’er I go;

If a storm should come and awake the deep,

What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh! how I love) to ride

On the fierce foaming bursting tide,

When every mad wave drowns the moon,

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,

And tells how goeth the world below,

And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,

But I loved the great Sea more and more,

And backwards flew to her billowy breast,

Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;

And a mother she was, and is to me;

For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,

In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;

And never was heard such an outcry wild

As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

I ’ve lived since then, in calm and strife,

Full fifty summers a sailor’s life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,

But never have sought, nor sighed for change;

And Death, whenever he come to me,

Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

I

 looked and saw your eyes

In the shadow of your hair,

As a traveller sees the stream

In the shadow of the wood;

And I said, “My faint heart sighs,

Ah me! to linger there,

To drink deep and to dream

In that sweet solitude.”

I looked and saw your heart

In the shadow of your eyes,

As a seeker sees the gold

In the shadow of the stream;

And I said, “Ah, me! what art

Should win the immortal prize,

Whose want must make life cold

And Heaven a hollow dream?”

I looked and saw your love

In the shadow of your heart,

As a diver sees the pearl

In the shadow of the sea;

And I murmured, not above

My breath, but all apart,—

“Ah! you can love, true girl,

And is your love for me?”

C

hristmas is here;

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,

Little care we:

Little we fear

Weather without

Sheltered about

The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs

Birds of rare plume

Sang, in its bloom;

Night-birds are we:

Here we carouse,

Singing like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport,

Boys, as we sit;

Laughter and wit

Flashing so free.

Life is but short—

When we are gone,

Let them sing on,

Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,

Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!

We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,

Lurks at the gate:

Let the dog wait;

Happy we ’ll be!

Drink, every one;

Pile up the coals,

Fill the red bowls,

Round the old tree.

Drain we the cup.—

Friend, art afraid?

Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.

Mantle it up;

Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!

Life and its ills,

Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite,

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree.

I

nto the Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splashed

With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropped a crust,

And stared at the guests with a frown;

Then drew their swords, and roared for a toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,

Their sword blades were still wet;

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,

As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirred the crusts,

And cursed old London town;

They waved their swords, and drank with a stamp,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

The ’prentice dropped his can of beer,

The host turned pale as a clout;

The ruby nose of the toping squires

Grew white at the wild men’s shout.

Then into their cups they flung their crusts,

And shewed their teeth with a frown;

They flashed their swords as they gave the toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

The gambler dropped his dog’s-ear’d cards,

The waiting-women screamed,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,

On the wild men’s sabres gleamed.

Then into their cups they splashed their crusts,

And cursed the fool of a town,

And leapt on the table, and roared a toast,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse;

The eldest muttered between his teeth,

Hot curses—deep and coarse.

In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts,

And cried as they spurred through the town,

With their keen swords drawn and their pistols cocked,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”

Away they dashed through Temple Bar,

Their red cloaks flowing free,

Their scabbards clashed, each back-piece shone—

None liked to touch the three.

The silver cups that held the crusts

They flung to the startled town,

Shouting again, with a blaze of swords,

“God send this Crum-well-down!”