Part 87

I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will." And you believe that promise still, You do, sweet - don't you? Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes Unfit for questions or replies, You'll love me - won't you?

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

BECAUSE

Sweet Nea! - for your lovely sake I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake, And can't compose my slumbers; Because your beauty's gentle light Is round my pillow beaming, And flings, I know not why, to-night, Some witchery o'er my dreaming!

Because we've passed some joyous days, And danced some merry dances; Because we love old Beaumont's plays, And old Froissart's romances! Because whene'er I hear your words Some pleasant feeling lingers; Because I think your heart has cords That vibrate to your fingers.

Because you've got those long, soft curls, I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls, All bustle blush, and bodice! Because your eyes are deep and blue, Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little child and you Would make one's home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose Turns up so pert and funny; Because I know you choose your beaux More for their mirth than money; Because I think you'd rather twirl A waltz, with me to guide you, Than talk small nonsense with an earl, And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk, And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learned to talk Of flowers, and Poonah-painting; Because I think you'd scarce refuse To sew one on a button; Because I know you sometimes choose To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak As, some of those fine morrows, To ask you if you'll let me speak My story - and my sorrows; Because the rest's a simple thing, A matter quickly over A church - a priest - a sigh - a ring - And a chaise-and-four to Dover.

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]

LOVE AND AGE From "Gryll Grange"

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly - How dearly, words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year, And many a splendid circle found you The center of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth, your hand bestow; O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, - But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another: No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression; - But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened: - But that was twenty years ago.

Time passed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure, - And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night. The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866]

TO HELEN

If wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen's table; - "What then?" she asks me with a laugh - Why, then, with all heaven's luster glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

AT THE CHURCH GATE From "Pendennis"

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming; They've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes - she's here - she's past! May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it.