A Library of Poetry and Song: Being Choice Selections from the Best Poets

ELIZA COOK

And she must die!

Why looks the lover wroth,

ing?

Reply, reply!

the friend upbraid

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!

BARRY CORNWALL

THE DYING GERTRUDE TO WALDEGRAVE.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING."

CLASP me a little longer on the brink
Of fate while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat,

think,

And must this parting be our very last?
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look! - and now repeat the

past.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,

He had his wish, had more: I will not paint
The lovers' meeting; she beheld him faint,

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, With tender fears, she took a nearer view,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth

Of one dear pledge; - but shall there then be He tried to smile; and, half succeeding, said,

YES! there are real mourners, — I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed ;
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ;

But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;
In every place she wandered, where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave; that place
With double interest would she nightly trace!

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message, "Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go!- if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake: Yes! I must die blow on, sweet breeze, blow

Give me one look before my life be gone,

prayer."

Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;

"Yes! I must die "--and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching

head:

She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer, Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,

Yet said not so- "Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ;---
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people, death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest.'
"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the
sound;

Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above, Neatly engraved, - an offering of her love: For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead;

She would have grieved, had friends presumed to

spare

The least assistance, 't was her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit:
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hours employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy

GEORGE CRABBE.

中

ABSENCE.

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But, with her heart, if not her ear,
The old loved voice she seemed to hear;
"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer
For all is well!"

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

TO LUCASTA.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that, when I am gone,

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

But I'll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,

Or pay a tear to 'suage

The foaming blue-god's rage; For, whether he will let me pass I'm still as happy as I was.

Or no,

Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,
Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet, Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.

So, then, we do anticipate

Our after-fate,

And are alive i' th' skies,
If thus our lips and eyes

Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven,

their earthly bodies left behind.

COLONEL RICHARD LOVELACE.

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN

BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill's between ;
Bat day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air; There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green, There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me of my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

I AM undone there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. "Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him ev'ry hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table, heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.

SHAKESPEARE.

O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY?

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her forever;
For nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,

Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee,

Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face,

And say 'I canna wrang thee !'

The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
Thou 'rt like themselves sae lovely
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !
That we may brag we hac a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane c'en
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi' tears:
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, ''T was then we twa did part ;

Sweet time sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trickled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young,' When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness.

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygone days and me!

THERE lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

Died, praising God for his gift and grace:
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said,
"Live"; and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.

O brother, the gods were good to you.
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures.
Be well content as the years wear through ;

Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures;
Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath,
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.

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