GEORGE MEREDITH. ["Poems." 1851.] LOVE IN THE VALLEY. UNDER yonder beech-tree standing on the green sward, Had I the heart to slide one arm beneath her! Press her dreaming lips as her waist I folded slow, Waking on the instant she could not but embrace meAh! would she hold me, and never let me go? Shy as the squirrel, and wayward as the swallow; Shy as the squirrel whose nest is in the pine tops; What can have taught her distrust of all I tell her? What can have taught her distrust of all my vows? No, she does not doubt me! on a dewy eve-tide Whispering together beneath the listening moon, I prayed till her cheek flushed, implored till she faltered, When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Often she thinks, "Were this wild thing wedded, I should have more love, and much less care." When her mother tends her before the bashful mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, "Were this wild thing wedded, I should lose but one for so many boys and girls." Clambering roses peep into her chamber, Jasmine and woodbine, breathe sweet, sweet, White-necked swallows twittering of summer, Fill her with balm and nested peace from head to feet. Ah! will the rose-bough see her lying lonely, When the petals fall, and fierce blcom is on the leaves? Will the Autumn garners see her still ungathered, When the fickle swallows forsake the weeping eaves? Comes a sudden question-Should a strange hand pluck her! Eye the village lasses, full of sprightly mirth; They see as I see, mine is the fairest! Would she were older, and could read my worth! Are there not sweet maidens if she still deny me? Clattering one note like a brown eve-jar? So I rhyme and reason till she darts before me, Through the milky meadows from flower to flower she flies, Sunning her sweet palms to shade her dazzled eyelids From the golden love that looks too eager in her eyes. When at dawn she wakens, and her fair face gazes Bursting out of bud on the rippled river plains. Pure from the night, and perfect for the day! Happy, happy time, when the gray star twinkles Then when my darling tempts the early breezes, She the only star that dies not with the dark! Powerless to speak all the ardour of my passion, I catch her little hand as we listen to the lark. Shall the birds in vain then valentine their sweethearts, Will not the virgin listen to their voices, Take the honied meaning, wear the bridal veil? Fears she frosts of winter, fears she the bare branches? Waits she the garlands of spring for her dower? Is she a nightingale that will not be nested Till the April woodland has built her bridal bower? Then come merry April with all thy birds and beauties! With thy crescent brows and thy flowery, showery glee; With thy budding leafage and fresh green pastures; And may thy lustrous crescent grow a honeymoon for me! Come merry month of the cuckoo and the violet! Come weeping Loveliness in all thy blue delight! Lo! the nest is ready, let me not languish longer! 456 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 1822. ["Poems." 1853.] A GLIMPSE OF LOVE. SHE came as comes the summer wind, Emotions which shall not depart. Unheralded she came and went, Like music in the silent night; Or, like the sudden April bow, That spans the violet-waking rain: Far sweeter than all things most sweet, MATTHEW ARNOLD. ["Poems." 1854.] EXCUSE. I TOO have suffered yet I know She is not cold, though she seems so: She is not cold, she is not light; But our ignoble souls lack might. She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men. But light the serious visage grew; She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our struggling wits, Our laboured puny passion-fits— Yet O, that Fate would let her see How deeply she who scorns can love. |