M. Like enough; I’m an old woman, and the girls and lads I used to sing to sleep o’ertop me now. What should I sing for?
G. Why, to pleasure us. Sing in the chimney corner, where you sit, And I’ll pace gently with the little one.
[Mother sings.]
When sparrows build, and the
leaves break forth,
My old sorrow
wakes and cries,
For I know there is dawn in
the far, far north,
And a scarlet
sun doth rise;
Like a scarlet fleece the
snow-field spreads,
And the icy founts
run free,
And the bergs begin to bow
their heads,
And plunge, and
sail in the sea.
O my lost love, and my own,
own love,
And my love that
loved me so!
Is there never a chink in
the world above
Where they listen
for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved
thee sore,
I remember all
that I said,
And now thou wilt hear me
no more—no more
Till the sea gives
up her dead.
Thou didst set thy foot on
the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields
and the snow;
Thou wert sad, for thy love
did not avail,
And the end I
could not know;
How could I tell I should
love thee to-day,
Whom that day
I held not dear?
How could I know I should
love thee away
When I did not
love thee anear?
We shall walk no more through
the sodden plain
With the faded
bents o’erspread,
We shall stand no more by
the seething main
While the dark
wrack drives overhead;
We shall part no more in the
wind and the rain,
Where thy last
farewell was said;
But perhaps I shall meet thee
and know thee again
When the sea gives
up her dead.
F. Asleep at last, and time he was, indeed. Turn back the cradle-quilt, and lay him in; And, mother, will you please to draw your chair?— The supper’s ready.
SCHOLAR AND CARPENTER.
While ripening corn grew thick and deep,
And here and there men stood to reap,
One morn I put my heart to sleep,
And to the lanes I took my way.
The goldfinch on a thistle-head
Stood scattering seedlets while she fed;
The wrens their pretty gossip spread,
Or joined a random roundelay.
On hanging cobwebs shone the dew,
And thick the wayside clovers grew;
The feeding bee had much to do,
So fast did honey-drops exude:
She sucked and murmured, and was gone,
And lit on other blooms anon,
The while I learned a lesson on
The source and sense of quietude.
For sheep-bells chiming from a wold,
Or bleat of lamb within its fold,
Or cooing of love-legends old
To dove-wives make not quiet less;
Ecstatic chirp of winged thing,
Or bubbling of the water-spring,
Are sounds that more than silence bring
Itself and its delightsomeness.