757.

OF

WILLIAM PHILPOT

Marita Sua

I

F all the flowers rising now,
Thou only saw'st the head
Of that unopen'd drop of snow
I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast,
Thou hast no further part,
Save those the hour I saw thee last,
I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl,
A primrose blown for me,
Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl
From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave,
And made these tokens fast
With that old silver heart I gave,
My first gift and my last.

II

I dream'd, her babe upon her breast,
Here she might lie and calmly rest
Her happy eyes on that far hill

That backs the landscape fresh and still.

1823-1889

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs
Where careless birds on love carouse,

And gaze those apple-blossoms through
To revel in the boundless blue.

758.

But now her faculty of sight
Is elder sister to the light,

And travels free and unconfined

Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete

Hath found new channels full and meet-
Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er,
If fairer than they were before!

WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY

YOU

Mimnermus in Church

1823-1892

You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,

So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
Your chilly stars I can forgo,

This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:

Back from that void I shrink in fear,

And child-like hide myself in love:
Show me what angels feel. Till then
I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
You bid me lift my mean desires

From faltering lips and fitful veins
To sexless souls, ideal quires,

Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
My mind with fonder welcome owns
One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.

Forsooth the present we must give
To that which cannot pass away;
All beauteous things for which we live
By laws of time and space decay.
But O, the very reason why
I clasp them, is because they die.

759.

THE

Heraclitus

HEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remember'd how often you and I

Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

760.

COVENTRY PATMORE

The Married Lover

WHY, having won her, do I woo?

Because her spirit's vestal grace

Provokes me always to pursue,
But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;

Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects kiss
The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch
Affirms no mean familiarness;

1823-1896

761.

Nay, rather marks more fair the height
Which can with safety so neglect
To dread, as lower ladies might,

That grace could meet with disrespect;
Thus she with happy favour feeds
Allegiance from a love so high
That thence no false conceit proceeds

Of difference bridged, or state put by;
Because although in act and word
As lowly as a wife can be,
Her manners, when they call me lord,
Remind me 'tis by courtesy ;
Not with her least consent of will,
Which would my proud affection hurt,
But by the noble style that still
Imputes an unattain❜d desert;

Because her gay and lofty brows,

When all is won which hope can ask,
Reflect a light of hopeless snows

That bright in virgin ether bask;
Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine
Sacred to Heaven; because, in short,
She's not and never can be mine.

'If I were dead'

"IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake,

And the tears brake

From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child!

1 seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.

It is not true that Love will do no wrong.

Poor Child!

And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,

And of those words your full avengers make?
Poor Child, poor Child!

And now, unless it be

That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,
O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!

Poor Child!

762.

IT

Departure

T was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent

Of how, that July afternoon,

You went,

With sudden, unintelligible phrase,

And frighten'd eye,

Upon your journey of so many days
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun's rays,
You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.

Well, it was well

To hear you such things speak,

And I could tell

What made your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,