“Here’s where horse and coach must wait—­
    You may think it odd, sir:—­
  But up yonder, lies my mate
    Underneath the sod, sir.

  “Better lad was never born—­
    (Sir ’twas God’s own pity!)
  No one else could blow the horn
    Half as shrill and pretty.

  “So I stop beside the wall
    Every time I pass here,
  And I blow his favorite call
    To him under grass here.”

  Toward the churchyard then he blew
    One call after other,
  That they might go ringing through
    To his sleeping brother.

  From the cliff each lively note
    Echoing resounded,
  As it were the dead man’s throat
    Answering strains had sounded.

  On we went through field and hedge,
    Loosened bridles jingling;
  Long that echo from the ledge
    In my ear kept tingling.

* * * * *

  TO THE BELOVED FROM AFAR[19] (1838)

  His sweet rose here oversea
    I must gather sadly;
  Which, beloved, unto thee
    I would bring how gladly!

  But alas! if o’er the foam
    I this flower should carry,
  It would fade ere I could come;
    Roses may not tarry.

  Farther let no mortal fare
    Who would be a wooer,
  Than unwithered he may bear
    Blushing roses to her,

  Or than nightingale may fly
    For her nesting grasses,
  Or than with the west wind’s sigh
    Her soft warbling passes.

* * * * *

  THE THREE GIPSIES[20]

  Three gipsy men I saw one day
    Stretched out on the grass together,
  As wearily o’er the sandy way
    My wagon brushed the heather.

  The first of the three was fiddling there
    In the glow of evening pallid,
  Playing a wild and passionate air,
    The tune of some gipsy ballad.

  From the second’s pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,
    He watched them melt at his leisure. 
  So full of content, it seemed the world
    Had naught to add to his pleasure.

  And what of the third?—­He was fast asleep,
    His harp to a bough confided;
  The breezes across the strings did sweep,
    A dream o’er his heart-strings glided.

  The garb of all was worn and frayed,
    With tatters grotesquely mended;
  But flouting the world, and undismayed,
    The three with fate contended.

  They showed me how, by three-fold scoff,
    When cares of life perplex us,
  To smoke, or sleep, or fiddle them off,
    And scorn the ills that vex us.

  I passed them, but my gaze for long
    Dwelt on the trio surly—­
  Their dark bronze features sharp and strong,
    Their loose hair black and curly.

* * * * *

  MY HEART[21] (1844)

  Sleepless night, the rushing rain,
  While my heart with ceaseless pain
  Hears the mournful past subsiding
  Or the uncertain future striding.