Harry | Page 5

are equally dear;?The earth at our feet of an emerald hue,?The Heaven above us incredibly blue,?The flowers baptiz'd with miraculous dew.
While yet the sky blushes to welcome the sun,?Through the gay gardens we stroll and we run;?In fields where lambs gambol less happy than we,?Glittering grass makes a sheen like the sea;?Birds unexpectedly set up a chant,?Adding a joy that the world seem'd to want.?Creation is made for our pleasure alone:?Adam and Eve, with no sin to atone,?Knowledge untasted, less rapture have known!
Keeping by Harry, a friend who is fond?Follows as closely as follow he can:?Is there an earthly affection beyond?The love a good dog feels for a good man?
If twenty people fling down twenty gloves?Our Rover has never been known to fail;?He picks out the glove of the man he loves,?And brings it triumphantly, wagging his tail.
Rover and I, under shadowy yew,?List'ning for Harry's dear step on the path--?He always hears it the first of the two,?Which gives me a feeling half joy, half wrath.
By divers states can our spirits be mov'd?Our hearts will answer to many a touch;?We love one creature for being much lov'd,?And we love another for loving much.
By delicate touches our souls are stirr'd,?Fraught with a meaning life never reveals:?I wonder the Bible says not a word?Of the faithful love that a good dog feels.
Good are the mornings for birds in a nest,?Fluttering out from a beautiful home;?Good are the mornings, but evenings are best,?Seeking its shelter nor asking to roam.
Life, like a secret, is too much for one--?May be too little where numbers are great--?All may be vanity under the sun,?But all is_ charming when done tête à tête_.
Neighbours will call--what a trouble it is!?Dinners and parties are made for our sake:?Why must society trouble our bliss??Dinners and neighbours are quite a mistake!
Drest as a bride, I must dine at the Grange;?Harry beside me, I have not a care;?Only it seems so exceedingly strange?Not to be thinking of meeting him there!
Jane does my hair with a skill, I confess,?Smilingly thinking of days that are gone,?When for a party I ran up to dress?With neither a husband nor maid of my own.
Life that is past, did you certainly pass??When were you actual? how did you change??Who is this girl that I see in the glass?Thinking of things that are happy and strange?
Who is this man who may enter the room,?Placidly certain his presence must please,?Settle her colours, select her perfume,?Hands in his pockets serenely at ease:
Who can the girl be, and who is the man??Light-hearted creatures who live but to love!?'Tis the result of the Angels' kind plan,?One of the marriages made up above!
Hand laid in hand to the stairs we advance,?Feet scarcely touching the carpet at all:?Why should they walk who are able to dance??Clasping each other, we waltz through the hall!
Pleasant the drive in the twilight's soft gloom;?Dazzling the change to society's light;?Proud of my Harry I enter the room,?Every eye on my gallant young knight.
Lovely the welcome around me I see--?Will it be thus through a beautiful life??Everybody attentive to me,?And only because I am Harry's wife?
Dear to my heart are the glitter and grace;?But nothing so charming, or bright, is here?As the gracious smile upon Harry's face,?Or his manly voice as it greets my ear.
As from the banquet the ladies depart?I hear two gentlemen murmuring low--?'The Captain has got an excellent start?But he won't set the Thames on fire, you know!'
Then I look back and attempt to decide?Who is this Captain who must not aspire;?I meet Harry's eyes, and I smile with pride,?For I know he could set the Thames on fire!
Afterwards music; he sings and I sing,?She sings and they sing, and minutes flit past:--?Harmony certainly quickens Time's wing,?And the lark sings loudest when flying fast.
HIS SONG.
Must he toil beneath the sun?Who has nothing else to do??What's the use of such a one??I know not--pray do you??Skies are not aflame for him;?He converses not with elves;?Primroses on river's brim?Can be nothing but themselves.
Need he interfere with me,?Who care only to be blest??Go thy way, unhappy bee,?Leave a butterfly at rest.?Butterflies with painted wings?Are a part of Nature's plan;?Is not every bird that sings,?Wiser than a busy man?
Harry's rich tenor delighteth my ears?Oft as I hear it; 'tis ever the same;?Brings to my eyes a soft _soup?on_ of tears,?Sends from my heart little thrills through my frame.
MY SONG.
When the sea?Speaks to me,?Sure I may reply to it;
When the skies?Catch my eyes,?I must smile a little bit.
When the trees?Try to please?With their buds and blossoms new,
Shall I dare?Not to care?For a world so bright and true?
Earth and sky,?Tell me why?Sorrow ever comes between?
Is it you,?Heaven blue??Is it you, my earth so green?
Is it there?In the air?That you neither of you touch?
Is the wind?So unkind?When I love its kiss so much?
Let it be?Earth