SONG. 1. Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, ny mistress ? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, II. Because, you spend your lives in praising ; To praise, you search the wide world over ; Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught-speak truth-above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much! A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. I. THAT was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small : Life was dead, and so was light. II. Not a twinkle from the fly, Not-a glimmer from the worm. When the crickets stopped their cry, When the owls forbore a term, You heard music; that was I. III. Earth turned in her sleep with pain, Sultrily suspired for proof : In at heaven and out again, Lightning !—where it broke the roof, Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. IV. What they could my words expressed, O my love, my all, my one ! Singing helped the verses best, And when singing's best was done, To my lute I left the rest. V So wore night; the East was gray, White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers; There would be another day ; Ere its first of heavy hours Found me, I had passed away. VI. What became of all the hopes, Words and song and lute as well ? Say, this struck you—“When life gropes Feebly for the path where fell “Light last on the evening slopes, VII. “ One friend in that path shall be, “ To secure my step from wrong ; “ One to count night day for me, “ Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see.” VIII. Never say—as something bodes, “ So, the worst has yet a worse ! " When life halts 'neath double loads, “ Better the task-master's curse 66 Than such music on the roads ! IX. " When no moon succeeds the sun, “ Nor can pierce the midnight's tent, 6 While some drops, where lightning rent, “ Show the final storm begun X. “ When the fire-fly hides its spot, “When the garden-voices fail “ Shall another voice avail, XI. “ Has some plague a longer lease, “Proffering its help uncouth ? “ Can't one even die in peace? " As one shuts one's eyes on youth, 66 Is that face the last one sees ?” XII. Oh how dark your was, Where I stood—the iron gate YOUTH AND ART. I. It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. II. Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed “ They will see, some day, “Smith made, and Gibson demolished.” III. My business was song, song, song ; I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, “ Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, “ And Grisi's existence embittered !” IV. I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. |