Part 164

But patches of the sea-pink shine, The pied crows poise and come; The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine, Where her sweet lips are dumb.

The passion of the wave is mute; No sound or ocean shock; No music save the trilling flute That marks the curlew flock.

But yonder when the wind is keen, And rainy air is clear, The merchant city's spires are seen, The toil of men grows near.

Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The shipyard hammers roll.

The world creeps here upon the shout, And stirs my heart to pain; The mist descends and blots it out, And I am strong again.

Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; And though mine eyes be wet, There's nothing in the world to me So dear as my regret.

I would not change my sorrow sweet For others' nuptial hours; I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers.

My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all.

Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest.

Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Set pure vale lilies at her head, At her feet lady-fern.

Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore.

Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen, Long lavender in flower; Gray wormwood like a hoary queen, Stanch mullein like a tower.

O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Let iron bounds be thine; Nor let the salt wave overflow That breast I held divine.

Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Nor dim her eyes with sands; No fluted cockle burrow where Sleep folds her patient hands.

Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Though tide-weight tear thy root, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Has bound my Darling mute.

Though cold her pale lips to reward With love's own mysteries, Ah, rob no daisy from her swand, Rough gale of eastern seas!

Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.

And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Resign this earth of woes, Forget the ardors of the west, Neglect the morning glows.

Sleep and forget all things but one, Heard in each wave of sea, - How lonely all the years will run Until I rest by thee.

John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895]

THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Aella"

Oh sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree!

Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow, Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briery dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.

Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren, flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.

With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be.