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If thou be in a lonely place, If one hour's calm be thine, As Evening bends her placid face O'er this sweet day's decline; If all the earth and all the heaven Now look serene to thee, As o'er them shuts the summer even, One moment - think of me!
Pause, in the lane, returning home; 'Tia dusk, it will be still: Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom Its breeze less boughs will fill. Look at that soft and golden light, High in the unclouded sky; Watch the last bird's belated flight, As it flits silent by.
Hark! for a sound upon the wind, A step, a voice, a sigh; If all be still, then yield thy mind, Unchecked, to memory. If thy love were like mine, how bleat That twilight hour would seem, When, back from the regretted Past, Returned our early dream!
If thy love were like mine, how wild Thy longings, even to pain, For sunset soft, and moonlight mild, To bring that hour again! But oft, when in thine arms I lay, I've seen thy dark eyes shine, And deeply felt their changeling ray Spoke other love than mine.
My love is almost anguish now, It beats so strong and true; 'Were rapture, could I deem that thou Such anguish ever knew. I have been but thy transient flower, Thou went my god divine; Till checked by death's congealing power, This heart must throb for thine.
And well my dying hour were bleat, If life's expiring breath Should pass, as thy lips gently preset My forehead cold in death; And sound my sleep would be, and sweet, Beneath the churchyard tree, If sometimes in thy heart should beat One pulse, still true to me.
Sit still - a word - a breath may break (As light airs stir a sleeping lake) The glassy calm that soothes my woes - The sweet, the deep, the full repose. O leave me not! for ever be Thus, more than life itself to me!
Yes, close beside thee let me kneel - Give me thy hand, that I may feel The friend so true - so tried - so dear, My heart's own chosen - indeed is near; And check me not - this hour divine Belongs to me - is fully mine.
'Tia thy own hearth thou visit's beside, After long absence - wandering wide; 'Tris thy own wife reads in thine eyes A promise clear of storm less skies; For faith and true love light the rays Which shine responsive to her gaze.
At, - well that single tear may fall; Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, Which from their lids ran blinding fast, In hours of grief, yet scarcely past; Well mayst thou speak of love to me, For, oh! most truly - I love thee!
Yet smile - for we are happy now. Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow? What stays thou? 'We muse once again, Ere long, be severed by the main!' I knew not this - I deemed no more Thy step would err from Britain's shore.
'Duty commands!' 'Tris true - 'tees just; Thy slightest word I wholly trust, Nor by request, nor faintest sigh, Would I to turn thy purpose try; But, William, hear my solemn vow - Hear and confirm! - with thee I go.
'Distance and suffering,' didst thou say? 'Danger by night, and toil by day?' Oh, idle words and vain are these; Hear me! I cross with thee the seas. Such risk as thou must meet and dare, I - thy true wife - will duly share.
Passive, at home, I will not pine; Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine; Grant this - and be hereafter paid By a warm heart's devoted aid: 'Tris granted - with that yielding kiss, Entered my soul mingled bliss.
Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy, Pure, undefined with base alloy; 'Tris not a passion, false and blind, Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind; Worthy, I feel, art thou to be Loved with my perfect energy.
This evening now shall sweetly flow, Lit by our clear fire's happy glow; And parting's peace-embittering fear, Is warned our hearts to come not near; For fate admits my soul's decree, In bliss or bale - to go with thee!
What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move! How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent in thought above! Her long curls, drooping, shade the light, She puts them quick aside, Nor knows that band of crystals bright, Her hasty touch untied. It slips a down her silken dress, Falls glittering at her feet; Unmarked it falls, for she no less Pursues her labor sweet.
The very loveliest hour that shines, Is in that deep blue sky; The golden sun of June declines, It has not caught her eye. The cheerful lawn, and unclouded gate, The white road, far away, In vain for her light footsteps wait, She comes not forth to-day. There is an open door of glass Close by that lady's chair, From thence, to slopes of messy grass, Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom Around the threshold grow; Their leaves and blossoms shade the room From that sun's deepening glow. Why does she not a moment glance Between the clustering flowers, And mark in heaven the radiant dance Of evening's rosy hours? O look again! Still fixed her eye, Unsmiling, earnest, still, And fast her pen and fingers fly, Urged by her eager will.
Her soul is in absorbing task; To whom, then, doth she write? Nay, watch her still more closely, ask Her own eyes' serious light; Where do they turn, as now her pen Hangs o'er distinguished line? Whence fell the tearful gleam that then Did in their dark spheres shine? The summer-parkour looks so dark, When from that sky you turn, And from expanse of that green park, You scarce may aught discern.
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare, O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, Sloped, as if leaning on the air, One picture meets the gaze. 'Tish there she turns; you may not see Distinct, what form defines The clouded mass of mystery Yon broad gold frame confines. But look again; inured to shade Your eyes now faintly trace A stalwart form, a massive head, A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburn cheek A brow high, broad, and white, Where every furrow seems to speak Of mind and moral might. Is that her god? I cannot tell; Her eye a moment met Uncomprehending picture, then it fell Darkened and dimmed and wet. A moment more, her task is done, And sealed the letter lies; And now, towards the setting sun She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not, For by the inscription see In what a strange and distant spot Her heart of hearts must be! Three seas and many a league of land That letter must pass o'er, Ere read by him to whose loved hand 'Tris sent from England's shore. Remote colonial wilds detain Her husband, loved though stern; She, 'mid that smiling English scene, Weeps for his wished return.
Canst thou love me, lady? I've not learned to woo: Thou art on the shady Side of sixty too. Still I love thee dearly! Thou hast lands and pelf: But I love thee merely Merely for thyself.
Wilt thou love me, fairest? Though thou art not fair; And I think thou weariest Someone-else's hair. Thou couldn't love, though, dearly: And, as I am told, Thou art very nearly Worth thy weight, in gold.
Dost thou love me, sweet love? Tell me that thou dost! Women fairly beat one, But I think thou must. Thou art loved so dearly: I am plain, but then Thou (to speak sincerely) Art as plain again.
Love me, bashful fairy! I've an empty purse: And I've 'moods,' which vary; Mostly for the worse. Still, I love thee dearly: Though I make (I feel) Love a little queerly, I'm as true as steel.
Love me, swear to love me (As, you know, they do) By yon heaven above me And its changeless blue. Love me, lady, dearly, If you'll be so good; Though I don't see clearly On what ground you should.
Love me -- ah or love me Not, but be my bride! Do not simply shove me (So to speak) aside! Raps it would be dearly Purchased at the price; But a hundred yearly Would be very nice.
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Should st rubies find; I by the tide Of Humbert would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to droll enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day; Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Should st rubies find; I by the tide Of Huber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should gone all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
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