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Text on one page: Few Medium Many
who that looked could help but love?
Not I, sweet soul, not I.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

1844-1881.


_A LOVE SYMPHONY._

Along the garden ways just now
I heard the flowers speak;
The white rose told me of your brow,
The red rose of your cheek;
The lily of your bended head,
The bindweed of your hair:
Each looked its loveliest and said
You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon,
And heard the wild birds sing,
How sweet you were; they warbled on,
Piped, trilled the self-same thing.
Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,
The burden did repeat,
And still began again because
You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea,
And heard it murmuring too,
Part of an ancient mystery,
All made of me and you.
How many a thousand years ago
I loved, and you were sweet--
Longer I could not stay, and so
I fled back to your feet.


_I MADE ANOTHER GARDEN._

I made another garden, yea,
For my new love;
I left the dead rose where it lay,
And set the new above.
Why did the summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?
My old love came and walked therein,
And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile,
Just as of old;
She looked around a little while,
And shivered at the cold.
Her passing touch was death to all,
Her passing look a blight;
She made the white rose-petals fall,
And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe, clinging to the grass,
Seemed like a snake
That bit the grass and ground, alas!
And a sad trail did make.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

She went up slowly to the gate;
And there, just as of yore,
She turned back at the last to wait,
And say farewell once more.

[Decoration]




[Decoration]

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

1825-1864.


_THE LOST CHORD._

Seated one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant Life.

It linked all perplexèd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,--
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.


_SENT TO HEAVEN._

I had a Message to send her,
To her whom my soul loved best;
But I had my task to finish,
And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven;
Oh, so far away from here,
It was vain to speak to my darling,
For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,
So tender, and true, and sweet,
I longed for an Angel to bear it,
And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening,
On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast;
But it faded in golden splendour,
And died in the crimson west.

I gave it the Lark next morning,
And I watched it soar and soar;
But its pinions grew faint and weary,
And it fluttered to earth once more.

To the heart of a Rose I told it;
And the perfume, sweet and rare,
Growing faint on the blue bright ether,
Was lost in the balmy air.

I laid it upon a Censer,
And I saw the incense rise;
But its clouds of rolling silver
Could not reach the far blue skies.

I cried, in my passionate longing:--
"Has the earth no Angel-friend
Who will carry my love the message
That my heart desires to send?"

Then I heard a strain of music,
So mighty, so pure, so clear,
That my very sorrow was silent,
And my heart stood still to hear.

And I felt, in my soul's deep yearning,
At last the sure answer stir:--
"The music will go up to Heaven,
And carry my thought to her."

It rose in harmonious rushing
Of mingled voices and strings,
And I tenderly laid my message
On the Music's outspread wings.

I heard it float farther and farther,
In sound more perfect than speech;
Farther than sight can follow,
Farther than soul can reach.

And I know that at last my message
Has passed through the golden gate:
So my heart is no longer restless,
And I am content to wait.




[Decoration]

B. W. PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

1787-1874.


_THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE._

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

How many Summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the wingèd wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears,--a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget;--
All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!

[Decoration]


_A PETITION TO TIME._

1831.

Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,--as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are We,
Husband, wife, and children three--
(One is lost,--an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!
We 've not proud nor soaring wings:
_Our_ ambition, _our_ content
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are We,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime:--
Touch us _gently_, gentle Time!


_A BACCHANALIAN SONG._

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.

Sing!--Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?
The VINE, boys, the VINE!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she
O'er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.

Drink!--Who drinks
To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah, who is this maid of thine?
The GRAPE, boys, the GRAPE!
O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she
Than vine can be,
And very, very good company!

Dream!--Who dreams
Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah, who is this Spirit fine?
'T is WINE, boys, 't is WINE!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O better is he
Than grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.

[Decoration]


_SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE._

She was not fair, nor full of grace,
Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
No wealth had she, of mind or face,
To win our love, or raise our pride:
No lover's thought her cheek did touch;
No poet's dream was 'round her thrown;
And yet we miss her--ah, too much,
Now--she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls,--
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy small or subtle thought
Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,
Now--she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,
Is marred now she hath sunk in night;
And yet the strong immortal Mind
Is stopped in its triumphant flight!
Stern friend, what power is in a tear,
What strength in one poor thought alone,
When all we know is--"She was here,"
And--"She hath flown!"

[Decoration]


_THE SEA-KING._

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,
And the fame that now hangs o'er him,
Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep,
And drove the world before him!
His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,
And the sea was his park of pleasure,
Where he scattered in fear the human deer,
And rested,--when he had leisure!
Come,--shout and sing
Of the great Sea-King,
And ride in the track he rode in!
He sits at the head
Of the mighty dead,
On the red right hand of Odin!

He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,
And soared on his victor pinions,
And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,
When they gaze on their blue dominions.
His whole earth life was a conquering strife,
And he lived till his beard grew hoary,
And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,
And now--he is lost in glory!
So,--shout and sing, &c.

[Decoration]


_A SERENADE._

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Awake!--The starry midnight Hour
Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!
Awake! Awake!
Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!--Soft dews will soon arise
From daisied mead, and thorny brake;
Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break!
Awake! Awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!--Within the musk-rose bower
I watch, pale flower of love, for thee;
Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!
Awake! Awake!
Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!--Ne'er heed, though listening Night
Steal music from thy silver voice:
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake!



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