The Hundred Best English Poems | Page 6

panes.?She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:?"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.?Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone.?The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."?But, ah, she gave me never a look,?For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.?"Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door."?Come away, children, call no more.?Come away, come down, call no more.
Down, down, down.?Down to the depths of the sea.?She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.?Hark, what she sings: "O joy, O joy,?For the humming street, and the child with its toy.?For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well.
For the wheel where I spun,?And the blessed light of the sun."?And so she sings her fill,?Singing most joyfully,?Till the shuttle falls from her hand,?And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
And over the sand at the sea;?And her eyes are set in a stare;?And anon there breaks a sigh,?And anon there drops a tear,?From a sorrow-clouded eye,?And a heart sorrow-laden,?A long, long sigh.?For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away children.?Come children, come down.?The hoarse wind blows colder;?Lights shine in the town.?She will start from her slumber?When gusts shake the door;?She will hear the winds howling,?Will hear the waves roar.?We shall see, while above us?The waves roar and whirl,?A ceiling of amber,?A pavement of pearl.?Singing, "Here came a mortal,?But faithless was she.?And alone dwell for ever?The kings of the sea."
But, children, at midnight,?When soft the winds blow;?When clear falls the moonlight;?When spring-tides are low:?When sweet airs come seaward?From heaths starr'd with broom;?And high rocks throw mildly?On the blanch'd sands a gloom:?Up the still, glistening beaches,?Up the creeks we will hie;?Over banks of bright seaweed?The ebb-tide leaves dry.?We will gaze, from the sand-hills,?At the white, sleeping town;?At the church on the hill-side--?And then come back down.?Singing, "There dwells a lov'd one,?But cruel is she.?She left lonely for ever?The kings of the sea."
1857 Edition.

ANNA L?TITIA BARBAULD.
3. Life.
Animula, vagula, blandula.
Life! I know not what thou art,?But know that thou and I must part;?And when, or how, or where we met,?I own to me's a secret yet.?But this I know, when thou art fled,?Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,?No clod so valueless shall be,?As all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly,?Where bend unseen thy trackless course,
And in this strange divorce,?Ah tell where I must seek this compound I??To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,
From whence thy essence came,?Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed?From matter's base encumbering weed??Or dost thou, hid from sight,?Wait, like some spell-bound knight,?Through blank oblivious years the appointed hour,?To break thy trance and reassume thy power??Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be??O say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we've been long together,?Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;?'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;?Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;?Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;?Say not Good night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good morning.
1825 Edition.

ROBERT BROWNING.
4. Song from "Pippa Passes."
The year's at the spring?And day's at the morn;?Morning's at seven;?The hill-side's dew-pearled;?The lark's on the wing;?The snail's on the thorn:?God's in his heaven--?All's right with the world!
5. Song from "Pippa Passes."
You'll love me yet!--and I can tarry?Your love's protracted growing:?June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,?From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seed?At least is sure to strike,?And yield--what you'll not pluck indeed,?Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,?A grave's one violet:?Your look?--that pays a thousand pains.?What's death? You'll love me yet!
6. The Lost Mistress.
I.
All's over, then: does truth sound bitter?As one at first believes??Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter?About your cottage eaves!
II.
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,?I noticed that, to-day;?One day more bursts them open fully?--You know the red turns grey.
III.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest??May I take your hand in mine??Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest?Keep much that I resign:
IV.
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,?Though I keep with heart's endeavour,--?Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,?Though it stay in my soul for ever!--
V.
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,?Or only a thought stronger;?I will hold your hand but as long as all may,?Or so very little longer!
7. Home-Thoughts, from the Sea.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;?In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; "Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
8. Epilogue.
At the