ALAS! who knows or cares, my love, If thou thy frailty, sweet, should prove, Yet merging sorrow in delight, None know, sweet love, nor care a thought Nor if our longing come to naught, Dread hope stripped dead from each soul's Cling closer, love, and close thine eyes! shame, Still comes a vision of blue-veined feet That stand forever on a pebbly shore; While round, the tidal waters flow and fleet And ripple, ripple, ripple, evermore. A SICILIAN NIGHT COME, stand we here within this cactusbrake, And let the leafy tangle cloak us round : How still the scene! No zephyr stirs to shake The listening air. The trees are slumberbound In soft repose. There's not a bird awake And, moving o'er the lilies circle-wise, A FOOTBALL-PLAYER IF I could paint you, friend, as you stand there, Guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed, Watching the tortured bladder slide and glide Under the twinkling feet; arms bare, head bare, The breeze a-tremble through crow-tufts of hair; Red-brown in face, and ruddier having spied A wily foeman breaking from the side, Clutch him, and collar him, and rudely cling For one brief moment till he falls — you fall: My sketch would have what Art can never give Sinew and breath and body; it would live. Map Probyn My little son was seven years old — the mint-flower touched his knees; Yellow were his curly locks; Yellow were his stocking-clocks; His plaything of a sword had a diamond in its hilt; Where the garden beds lay sunny, And the bees were making honey, "For God and the king-to arms! to arms!" the day long would he lilt. Smock'd in lace and flowered brocade, my pretty son of seven Wept sore because the kitten died, and left the charge uneven. "I head one battalion, mother — And when we reach'd the bee-hive bench We used to halt and storm the trench: If we could plant our standard here, With all the bees a-buzzing near, And fly the colors safe from sting, The town was taken for the king!" Flitting, flitting over the thyme, my bees with yellow band — My little son of seven came close, and clipp'd me by the hand; A wreath of mourning cloth was wound His small left arm and sword-hilt round, And on the thatch of every hive a wisp of black was bound. "Sweet mother, we must tell the bees, or they will swarm away: Ye little bees!" he called, "draw nigh, and hark to what I say, And make us golden honey still for our white wheaten bread, Though never more We rush on war With Kitty at our head : Flitting, flitting, flitting, my busy bees, alas! No footstep of my soldier son came clinking through the grass. Thrice he kiss'd me for farewell, And far on the stone his shadow fell; He buckled spurs and sword-belt on, as the sun began to stoop, Set foot in stirrup, and sprang to horse, and rode to join his troop. To the west he rode, where the winds were at play, And Monmouth's army mustering lay; Where Bridgewater flew her banner high, And gave up her keys, when the Duke came by; And the maids of Taunton paid him court With colors their own white hands had wrought; And red as a field, where blood doth run, Sedgemoor blazed in the setting sun. Broider'd sash and clasp of gold, my soldier son, alas! The mint was all in flower, and the clover I knew not how, ere the cocks did crow, the fight was fought in the dark, With naught for guide but the enemy's guns, when the flint flash'd out a spark, Till, routed at first sound of fire, the cavalry broke and fled, And the hoofs struck dumb, where they spurn'd the slain, and the meadow stream ran red; I saw not the handful of horsemen spur through the dusk, and out of sight, My soldier son at the Duke's left hand, and Grey that rode on his right. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing, my honey-making bees, They left the musk, and the marigolds and the scented faint sweet-peas; They gather'd in a darkening cloud, and sway'd, and rose to fly; A blackness on the summer blue, they swept across the sky. Gaunt and ghastly with gaping wounds(my soldier son, alas !) Footsore and faint, the messenger came halting through the grass. The wind went by and shook the leavesthe mint-stalk shed its flowerAnd I miss'd the murmuring round the hives, and my boding heart beat slower. His soul we cheer'd with meat and wine ; With women's craft and balsam fine We bath'd his hurts, and bound them soft, While west the wind played through the croft, And the low sun dyed the pinks blood red, And, straying near the mint-flower shed, A wild bee wanton'd o'er the bed. He told how my son, at the shepherd's door, kept guard in Monmouth's clothes, While Monmouth donned the shepherd's frock, in hope to cheat his foes. A couple of troopers spied him stand, And bade him yield to the King's command: "Surrender, thou rebel as good as dead, A price is set on thy traitor head!" space, And felt that it was not Monmouth's face. Crimson'd through was Monmouth's cloak, when the soldier dropped at their side"Those knaves will carry no word," he said, and he smil'd in his pain, and died. "Two days," told the messenger, "did we lie Hid in the field of peas and rye, Hid in the ditch of brake and sedge, With the enemy's scouts down every hedge, Till Grey was seized, and Monmouth seized, that under the fern did crouch, Starved, and haggard, and all unshaved, with a few raw peas in his pouch." Down the myrtled stairway of the palace, Ashes on his head, Came he, through the rose and citron alleys, In rough sark of sackcloth habited, And in a hempen halter-oh! we jested, Lightly, and we laughed as he was led To the torture, while the bloom we breasted Where the grapes grew red. Oh! so sweet the birds, when he was dying Piped to her and me Is no room this glad June day for sighing — He is dead, and she and I go free! When the sun shall set on all our pleasure We will mourn him What, so you decree We are heartless measure Nay, but in what Do you more than we? |