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Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me; 'All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion—
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

SONG

Emily Brontë [1818-1848]

THE linnet in the rocky dells,

The moor-lark in the air,

The bee among the heather bells
That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast;
The wild birds raise their brood;
And they, her smiles of love caressed,
Have left her solitude.

I ween that, when the grave's dark wall
Did first her form retain,

They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
The light of joy again.

Song of the Old Love

They thought the tide of grief would flow

Unchecked through future years;

But where is all their anguish now,

And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honor's breath,

Or pleasure's shade pursue:

The dweller in the land of death

Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep
Till sorrow's source were dry,

She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
Return a single sigh.

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, summer streams!

There is no need of other sound

To soothe my lady's dreams.

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Emily Brontë [1818-1848]

SONG OF THE OLD LOVE

From "Supper at the Mill"

WHEN sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,

My old sorrow wakes and cries,

For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,

And a scarlet sun doth rise;

Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,

And the icy founts run free,

And the bergs begin to bow their heads,
And plunge, and sail in the sea.

O my lost love, and my own, own love,
And my love that loved me so!

Is there never a chink in the world above

Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,
I remember all that I said,

And now thou wilt hear me no more-no more
Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;

Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail,
And the end I could not know;

How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
Whom that day I held not dear?

How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee anear?

We shall walk no more through the sodden plain
With the faded bents o'erspread,

We shall stand no more by the seething main
While the dark wrack drives o'erhead;

We shall part no more in the wind and the rain,
Where thy last farewell was said;

But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again

When the sea gives up her dead.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

REQUIESCAT

STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes:

Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required:

She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit,

It fluttered and failed for breath.

To-night it doth inherit

The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]

Four Years

1069

TOO LATE

"DOWGLAS, DOWGLAS, TENDIR AND TREU"

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do:
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh, to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few:
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you:

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

FOUR YEARS

Ar the Midsummer, when the hay was down,
Said I mournful-Though my life be in its prime,
Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time,
O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown;
It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down,
Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair,
With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair-
Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown-
That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down,

Crept she a willing bride close into my breast;

Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west,
Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town;
It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer-all the hay is down,
Close to her forehead press I dying eyes,

Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise,
Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown,
And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

ON the Sabbath-day,

BARBARA

Through the churchyard old and gray,

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:

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