THE GOOD-MORROW

I WONDER, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be;

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two fitter hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or thou and I

Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die. John Donne [1573-1631]

"THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST"

THERE'S gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom;

There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,

And health in the wild wood's bosom.

Then come, my love, at the hour of joy,

When warbling birds sing o'er us;

Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in bustle and power,
The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,

The proud in their pomp surrounding:

Reflections

But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue,
And laverocks skimming o'er us;

The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew

Ch, the world is all before us!

1107

James Hogg [1770-1835]

THE BEGGAR MAID

HER arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say:
Bare-footed came the beggar maid
Before the king Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stepped down,
To meet and greet her on her way;
"It is no wonder," said the lords,
"She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen:
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.

So sweet a face, such angel grace,

In all that land had never been:

Cophetua sware a royal oath:

"This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

REFLECTIONS

LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD

I

WHAT change has made the pastures sweet,

And reached the daisies at my feet,

And cloud that wears a golden hem?
This lovely world, the hills, the sward,-
They all look fresh, as if our Lord

But yesterday had finished them.

And here's the field with light aglow:
How fresh its boundary lime-trees show,

And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea,

Below the level browsing line.

I see the pool, more clear by half
Than pools where other waters laugh

Up at the breasts of coot and rail.
There, as she passed it on her way,
I saw reflected yesterday

A maiden with a milking-pail.

There, neither slowly nor in haste,-
One hand upon her slender waist,
The other lifted to her pail,—

She, rosy in the morning light,
Among the water-daisies white,

Like some fair sloop appeared to sail.

Against her ankles as she trod
The lucky buttercups did nod:

I leaned upon the gate to see.

The sweet thing looked, but did not speak;

A dimple came in either cheek,

And all my heart was gone from me.

Then, as I lingered on the gate,

And she came up like coming fate,

I saw my picture in her eyes,—

Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties!

I said, "A tale was made of old
That I would fain to thee unfold.

Ah! let me, let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head: "I cannot heed it now," she said,

"For carrying of the milking-pail."

Reflections

She laughed. What good to make ado?
I held the gate, and she came through,

And took her homeward path anon.
From the clear pool her face had fled;
It rested on my heart instead,

Reflected when the maid was gone.

With happy youth, and work content,
So sweet and stately, on she went,

Right careless of the untold tale.
Each step she took I loved her more,
And followed to her dairy door

The maiden with the milking-pail.

1109

II

For hearts where wakened love doth lurk,
How fine, how blest a thing is work!

For work does good when reasons fail,-
Good; yet the ax at every stroke
The echo of a name awoke,-

Her name is Mary Martindale.

I'm glad that echo was not heard
Aright by other men. A bird

Knows doubtless what his own notes tell;
And I know not, but I can say

I felt as shamefaced all that day

As if folks heard her name right well.

And when the west began to glow
I went I could not choose but go-
To that same dairy on the hill;
And while sweet Mary moved about
Within, I came to her without,

And leaned upon the window-sill.

The garden border where I stood
Was sweet with pinks and southernwood.
I spoke, her answer seemed to fail.

I smelt the pinks,-I could not see.
The dusk came down and sheltered me,
And in the dusk she heard my tale.

And what is left that I should tell?
I begged a kiss,-I pleaded well:

The rosebud lips did long decline;
But yet, I think-I think 'tis true-
That, leaned at last into the dew,

One little instant they were mine!

O life! how dear thou hast become!
She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb!
But evening counsels best prevail.
Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads,
Green be the pastures where she treads,
The maiden with the milking-pail!

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

"ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY"

ONE morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved,

All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would

cease;

'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!"

And the lark sang, “Give us glory!"

And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

Then I hearkened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove;

When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!"

When the wren sang, “Give us beauty!"

She made answer, "Give us love!"

Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my beloved, my beloved;

Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the year's increase,