love poetry

I.

A H ! wretched, vile, ungrateful heart,
That can from Jesus thus depart,
Thus fond of trifles vainly rove,
Forgetful of a Saviour's love!

II.

In vain I charge my thoughts to stay,
And chide each vanity away,
In vain, alas! resolve to bind
This rebel heart, this wandering mind.

III.

Through all resolves, how soon it flies
And mocks the weak, the slender ties!
There's nought beneath a power divine,
That can this roving heart confine.

IV.

Time will light a candle at your head,
Time will fold your hands across your breast.
Is it enough, the high and candled bed,
Enough that weary hands are caught in rest?

If it be not enough,
Shadowly lift upon your elbow, rise;
Fling out your arms, demanding for them love;
Demanding wrested beauty, lift your eyes.
Listen into the silences for sound
That made a music of your mind, and for
Your feet demand the sweet warmth of the ground,
For your too quiet hair, the wind once more.

And if it be enough,

Life hath its memories lovely,
That over the heart are blown,
As over the face of the Autumn
The light of the summer flown;
Rising out of the mist so chilling,
That oft life's sky enshrouds,
Like a new moon sweetly filling
Among the twilight clouds.

And among them comes, how often,
Young love's unresting wraith,
To lift lost hope out of ruins
To the gladness of perfect faith;
Drifting out of the past as lightly
As winds of the May-time flow:
And lifting the shadows brightly,

Tell me not that thou dost love me,
Though it thrill me with delight:
Thou art, like the stars, above me;
I — the lowly earth, at night.

Hast thou ( thou from kings descended)
Loved the Indian cottage-born;
And shall she, whom Love befriended,
Darken all thy hopeful morn?

Go, — and, for thy father's glory,
Wed the blood that's pure and free:
'Tis enough to gild my story

What thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O! dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim.

That found thee when thy sunny mouth

Laugh not, nor weep; but let thine eyes
Grow soft and dim, (so love should be);
And be thy breathing tender, quick,
And tremulous, whilst I gaze on thee.

And let thy words be few or none;
But murmurs, such as soothe the air
In summer when the day is done,
Be heard, sweet heart, when I am there.

And I — oh! I, in those soft times
When all around is still and sweet,
Will love thee more a thousand times
Than if the world was at thy feet!

 Two fleeting shadows cleft the dusky air,
Once—an impassion'd youth—and melting fair;
Their glowing fancy had surviv'd the tomb,
Recall'd their bliss—and cheer'd its penal doom;
Nor guilty Fear—nor self-accusing Shame,
Had yet extinguish'd their unhallow'd flame.
Together bound—as when the murdering steel
Pierc'd with avenging Honour's last appeal.
I saw the tears diffuse their streams in vain,
I heard the anguish of Despair complain;
With horror struck I fell upon the earth,
And rent my heart for Love's ill-fated birth;

Where lies the maid — the Mason's Daughter;
Where is her tomb?
Down by the softly flowing water —
There is her long, long home.
Sounds of the flowing water breathing
Peace o'er her bed;
Vines in a tender sorrow wreathing
Bowers for the early dead.

CHORUS .

Sister, oh, farewell forever!
None are left like thee;
Weep, Brothers! o'er the dark, dark river
Fades love and light far away!

Last night I took the hillside path to you —
One chariot cloud swung radiant before
To herald me — with evening bells brimmed o'er
Our well beloved valley's heart of blue;
Day from your hallowing silences withdrew —
Night fell and peace — all dissonance forbore;
Over your grave I heard the thrush outpour
Love's dulcet unrelinquishing anew.
Such risen beauty disembodied me.
Before such answering compassionate
All save this death-lit hour of love was not,
When with young moon for kin and company

As I came homeward
At merry Christmas,
By the old Church tower
Through the Churchyard grass,

And saw there circled
With graves all about,
The Yew-tree paternal,
The Yew-tree devout,

Then this hot life-blood
Was hard to endure,
O Death! so I loved thee,
The sole love sure.

For stars slip in heaven,
They wander, they break;
But under the Yew-tree
Not one heartache.

And ours, what failure
Renewed and avowed!
But ah, the long-buried
Is leal, and is proud.