Šrift:Väiksem АаSuurem Aa
O Fairest of the Rural Maids
O fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thine infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
Were ever in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
Are not more sinless than thy breast;
The holy peace that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes, is there.
Louise on the Doorstep
Half-past three in the morning!
And no one in the street
But me, on the sheltering doorstep
Resting my weary feet,
Watching the rain-drops patter
And dance where the puddles run,
As bright in the flaring gas-light
As dew-drops in the sun.
There's a light upon the pavement,
It shines like a magic glass,
And there are faces in it
That look at me and pass.
Faces – ah! well remembered
In the happy Long Ago,
When my garb was white as lilies,
And my thoughts as pure as snow.
Faces! ah, yes! I see them —
One, two, and three – and four —
That come in the gust of tempests,
And go on the winds that bore.
Changeful and evanescent,
They shine mid storm and rain,
Till the terror of their beauty
Lies deep upon my brain.
One of them frowns; I know him,
With his thin, long, snow-white hair, —
Cursing his wretched daughter
That drove him to despair.
And the other, with wakening pity
In her large, tear-streaming eyes,
Seems as she yearned towards me,
And whispered "Paradise."
They pass, – they melt in the ripples,
And I shut mine eyes, that burn,
To escape another vision
That follows where'er I turn —
The face of a false deceiver
That lives and lies; ah, me!
Though I see it in the pavement,
Mocking my misery!
They are gone, all three! – quite vanished!
Let nothing call them back!
For I've had enough of phantoms,
And my heart is on the rack.
God help me in my sorrow!
But there, – in the wet, cold stone,
Smiling in heavenly beauty,
I see my lost, mine own!
There, on the glimmering pavement,
With eyes as blue as morn,
Floats by the fair-haired darling
Too soon from my bosom torn.
She clasps her tiny fingers,
She calls me sweet and mild,
And says that my God forgives me
For the sake of my little child.
I will go to her grave to-morrow,
And pray that I may die;
And I hope that my God will take me
Ere the days of my youth go by.
For I am old in anguish,
And long to be at rest,
With my little babe beside me,
And the daisies on my breast.
Our Skater Belle
Along the frozen lake she comes
In linking crescents, light and fleet;
The ice-imprisoned Undine hums
A welcome to her little feet.
I see the jaunty hat, the plume
Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale, —
The cheeks lit up to burning bloom,
The young eyes sparkling through the veil.
The quick breath parts her laughing lips,
The white neck shines through tossing curls;
Her vesture gently sways and dips,
As on she speeds in shell-like whorls.
Men stop and smile to see her go;
They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise;
They ask her name; they long to show
Some silent friendship in their eyes.
She glances not; she passes on;
Her steely footfall quicker rings;
She guesses not the benison
Which follows her on noiseless wings.
Smooth be her ways, secure her tread,
Along the devious lines of life,
From grace to grace successive led, —
A noble maiden, nobler wife!
Augusta
"Handsome and haughty!" a comment that came
From lips which were never accustomed to malice:
A girl with a presence superb as her name,
And charmingly fitted for love – in a palace!
And oft I have wished – for in musing alone
One's fancy is apt to be very erratic —
That the lady might wear – No! I never will own
A thought so decidedly undemocratic!
But if 'twere a coronet– this, I'll aver,
No duchess on earth could more gracefully wear it;
And even a democrat – thinking of her—
Might surely be pardoned for wishing to share it!
Lord Ullin's Daughter
A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief, – I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.
"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,
When, oh! too strong for human hand
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore:
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,
"Across this stormy water,
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! O my daughter!"
'Twas vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.