THE WOOING-SONG. On pleasant is the fisher's life, And pleasant is the sailor's life, On the seas abiding! But, oh! the merry life is wooing, is wooing; Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! The hunter, when the chase is done, Laugheth loud and drinketh; The poet, at the set of sun, Sigheth deep, and thinketh; The sailor, though from sea withdrawn, The fisher dreameth of the dawn, He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing; Never overtaking, and always pursuing! Some think that life is very long, A short, false, fleeting pleasure; But we'll ne'er think it gloomy, maids! For, sure, the merry life is wooing, is wooing; THE OWL. Is the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away! Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then is the reign of the Horned Owl! And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom! Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, Oh, when the moon shines, and dogs do Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl! Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight! The Owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Hath rent them from all beside ! So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl. THE HUMBER FERRY. BOATMAN, hither! Furl your sail! He blows about the bud or berry; Now, bold fisher, shall we go With thee o'er the Humber River? Hear'st thou how the blast doth blow? See'st thou how thy sail doth shiver? Wilt thou dare (dismayed by naught) Wind and wave, thou bold sea-liver? And shall we, whom Love hath taught, Tremble at the rolling river? Row us forth! Unfurl thy sail ! Let us breast the waters flowing! Though the North rush cold and loud, Love shall warm and make us merry; Though the waves all weave a shroud, We will dare the Humber ferry! A REPOSE. SHE sleeps among her pillows soft, (A dove, now wearied with her flight), And all around, and all aloft, Hang flutes and folds of virgin white: Her hair outdarkens the dark night, Her glance outshines the starry sky; But now her locks are hidden quite, And closed is her fringed eye! She sleepeth: wherefore doth she start? All day within some cave he lies, Dethroned from his nightly sway Far fading when the dawning skies Our souls with wakening thoughts array. Two Spirits of might doth man obey; By each he's wrought, from each he learns: The one is lord of life by day; The other when starry Night returns. MAUREEN. THE Cottage is here, as of old I remember; The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been; I LOVE MY LOVE, BECAUSE HE LOVES ME. MAN, man loves his steed, For its blood or its breed, For its odor the rose, for its honey the bee, His own haughty beauty From pride or from duty; But I love my love, because-he loves me. Oh, my love has an eye, Like a star in the sky, On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright And breath like the sweets from the hawthorn ember; But where is Maureen? tree; And his heart is a treasure, Whose worth is past measure; The same pleasant prospect still shineth before And yet he hath given all—all to me! Or-I contrive to borrow them By merry starlight! Oh, the tradesman he is rich, sirs, The alderman's an ass; We cumber the earth for a hundred years; We learn, we teach; We fight amid perils, and hopes, and fears, Fame's rock to reach. We boast that our fellows are sages wrought Yet the common lesson by Nature taught, Oh! all things here go ranging, &c. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. How many summers, love, Some weight of thought, though loath, Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears-a soft regret Sweet looks we halt forget; Ah! with what thankless heart WHAT SAY THE CLOUDS ON THE HILL AND PLAIN? WHAT Say the clouds on the hill and plain? "We come, we go." What say the springs of the dreaming brain? "We shrink, we flow." What say the maids in their changeful hours? "We laugh, we cry." What say the budding and fading flowers? And thus all things go ranging, From day into night, from life into death, A fable is good, and a truth is good, And loss, and gain; And the ebb and the flood, and the black pine Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmuring Life! She hath seen her happy day; She hath had her bud and blossom; She hath done her bidding here, Bear her perfect soul above, Seraph of the skies-sweet Love! Good she was, and fair in youth, And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth; Take her, then, for evermoreFor ever-evermore! A BRIDAL DIRGE. WEAVE no more the marriage-chain ! Life and years of hope are over! No more want of marriage-bell! Gone-with all the love he gave her! Paler than the stone she lies; Colder than the winter's morning! Wherefore did she thus despise (She with pity in her eyes) Mother's care, and lover's warning? Youth and beauty-shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow? No: a prayer, and then forgot! This the truest lover's lot; This the sum of human sorrow! THE RHINE. WE'VE Sailed through banks of green, We've threaded the Elbe and Rhone, The Tiber and the blood-dyed Seine, But what is so lovely, what is so grand, On the Rhine River were we born, Midst its flowers and famous wines, And we know that our country's morn With a treble-sweet aspect shines. Let other lands boast their flowers, Let other men dream wild dreams; Let them hope they've a land like ours, And a stream, like our stream of streams; Yet, what is half so bright or so grand As the river that runs through Rhine-land? Are we smit by the blinding sun, That fell on our tender youth? That we owe to our noble Rhine! Oh, the Rhine! the Rhine! the broad and the grand, Is the river that runs through Rhine-land! THE HIRLAS HORN. FILL high, fill high the Hirlas horn, Warriors, heroes, Cambrian-born, Hide with foam the golden tip; To dead Roderick's name be quaffed! Bards and heroes, Cambrian-born, Fill the horn to Madoc's name, All hearts shuddered when he died! Cambrian people-Cambrian mountains, (Where the Druid seers are dwelling) Drink, all spirits, Cambrian-born, AN EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB, ON HIS EMANCIPATION FROM CLERKSHIP, WRITTEN OVER A FLASK OF SHERRIS, DEAR LAMB, I drink to thee to thee, The quill that traversed their white field? Come-another mighty health! Oh! happy thou-whose all of time Wondering what thou seest to prize. Speak-in what grove or hazel shade, Or, dost thou, in some London street Happy beyond that Man of Ross, Whom mere content could ne'er engross, Art thou--with hope, health, "learned leisure," Friends, books, thy thoughts—an endless pleasure! -Yet-yet-(for when was pleasure made Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest With an idler's careless look, Turning some moth-pierced book, For visions vanished long ago! And then, thou think'st how time has fled Of music where the discords vie So, perhaps, with thee the vein Ay, so't must be! E'en I (whose lot COME! LET US TO THE LAND. COME-let us go to the land Where the violets grow! Let's go thither, hand in hand, Over the waters, over the snow, To the land where the sweet, sweet violets blow! There-in the beautiful South, Where the sweet flowers lie, Thou shalt sing with thy sweeter mouth, That Love never fades, though violets die! THE PAST. THIS Common field, this little brookWhat is there hidden in those two, That I so often on them look, Oftener than on the heavens blue? No beauty lies upon the field; Small music doth the river yield; And yet I look and look again, With something of a pleasant pain. 'Tis thirty-can't be thirty years, Since last I stood upon this plank, Which o'er the brook its figure rears, And watch'd the pebbles as they sank? It cometh back :-so blythe, so bright, As though but one short winter's night Had darkened o'er the world since then. It is the same clear dazzling scene; Perhaps the grass is scarce as green; Perhaps the river's troubled voice Doth not so plainly say " Rejoice." Yet Nature surely never ranges, Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown; But, ever joyful, merely changes The primrose for the thistle-down. Then, why should not the grass be green? When I was here an urchin strong? So be it! I have lost and won! For, once, the past was poor to meThe future dim: and though the sun Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not-knew no grateful pleasure : All seemed but as the common measure: But Now-the experienced spirit old Turns all the leaden past to gold! I LOVED HER WHEN SHE LOOKED FROM ME. I LOVED her when she looked from me, I loved her too when she did smile The light within them rounding "like I loved her!-Dost thou love no more, To some far-distant-distant shore, Peace, peace! I know her; she will come |