The Hundred Best English Poems | Page 7

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 midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your
fancies free,
Will they pass to where--by death, fools think,
imprisoned-- Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,
--Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!
What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?
Like the
aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel
--Being--who?
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never
doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were
worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight
better,
Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time
Greet the unseen
with a cheer!
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,

"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,--fight on, fare ever
There as here!"
1896 Edition.

ROBERT BURNS.
9. The Silver Tassie.
I.
Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie,
That I
may drink before I go
A service to my bonie lassie!
The boat rocks
at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,
The ship

rides by the Berwick-Law,
And I maun leave my bonie Mary.
II.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankèd
ready,
The shouts o' war are heard afar,
The battle closes deep and
bloody.
It's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad mak me langer wish to
tarry,
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar:
It's leaving thee, my bonie
Mary!
10. Of a' the Airts.
I.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the west,
For there the
bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.
There wild woods grow,
and rivers row,
And monie a hill between,
But day and night my
fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
II.
I see her in the dewy flowers--
I see her sweet and fair.
I hear her in
the tunefu' birds--
I hear her charm the air.
There's not a bonie
flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or