Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree
Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I.
Here may life on death or death on life be painted.
Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die!

Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber
Where there is no window, read not heaven or her.
'When she was a tiny,' one agèd woman quavers,
Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear.

Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled:
Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete.
Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy

Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet.

Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers,
Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise
High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger;

Yet am I the light and living of her eyes.

Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.— Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting,

Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names.

Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise.

Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye,
Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher,
Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly.
Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset.

Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring!
Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants,
Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing.

Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April

Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields,

Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry:

Fair as in image my seraph love appears

Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids:
Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears.

Could I find a place to be alone with heaven,

I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October;

Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

710

ALEXANDER SMITH

ON the Sabbath-day,

[1829-1867]

BARBARA

Through the churchyard old and grey,

Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organcalms,

'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,

I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere

While the organ shook the air,

And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people

with a prayer;

But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like

shine

Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on

mine

Gleamed and vanished in a moment-O that face was surely

thine

Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face!

O earnest eyes of grace!

When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.

You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on

your wrist:

The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mistA purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed,

That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair,

Sunny noon and midnight air;

I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.

O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,

You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link

I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?

Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and

guitars,

Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticed

bars,

The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed;

Wild and far my heart hath ranged,

And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact

Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest;

With many doubts oppressed,

I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.

Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,

The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told

you more

Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore

Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain,

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of

rain;

The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded

sea,

There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

7II

CHARLES DICKENS

[1812-1870]

THE IVY GREEN

Он, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:

And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he.

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!

And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round

712

713

The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.

The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN

[1830-1897]

MY GARDEN

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,
Fringed pool,

Fern'd grot

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

JAMES THOMSON (B. V.)

[1834-1882]

GIFTS

GIVE a man a horse he can ride,

Give a man a boat he can sail;

And his rank and wealth, his strength and health,
On sea nor shore shall fail.