Part 21

William Douglas [1672?-1748]

TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

"A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE" From "Maud"

I A voice by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land.

II Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.

III Silence, beautiful voice! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find. Still! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SONG

Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught - speak truth - above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

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!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE HENCHMAN

My lady walks her morning round, My lady's page her fleet greyhound, My lady's hair the fond winds stir, And all the birds make songs for her.

Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers, And Rathburn side is gay with flowers; But ne'er like hers, in flower or bird, Was beauty seen or music heard.

The distance of the stars is hers; The least of all her worshipers, The dust beneath her dainty heel, She knows not that I see or feel.

Oh, proud and calm! - she cannot know Where'er she goes with her I go; Oh, cold and fair! - she cannot guess I kneel to share her hound's caress!

Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk, I rob their ears of her sweet talk; Her suitors come from east and west, I steal her smiles from every guest.

Unheard of her, in loving words, I greet her with the song of birds; I reach her with her green-armed bowers, I kiss her with the lips of flowers.

The hound and I are on her trail, The wind and I uplift her veil; As if the calm, cold moon she were, And I the tide, I follow her.

As unrebuked as they, I share The license of the sun and air, And in a common homage hide My worship from her scorn and pride.

World-wide apart, and yet so near, I breathe her charmed atmosphere, Wherein to her my service brings The reverence due to holy things.

Her maiden pride, her haughty name, My dumb devotion shall not shame; The love that no return doth crave To knightly levels lifts the slave.

No lance have I, in joust or fight, To splinter in my lady's sight; But, at her feet, how blest were I For any need of hers to die!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]