So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew: 
  Then should we part and live as twain,
Love-time would bring me back to you
  And build our happy nest again.

GONE FOR EVER

O happy rose-bud blooming
  Upon thy parent tree,
Nay, thou art too presuming;
For soon the earth entombing
  Thy faded charms shall be,
And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing
  Up to the broad blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing, 10
  Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life’s shine and shower
  We shall have joy and pain;
But in the summer bower,
And at the morning hour,
  We still shall look in vain
For the same bird and flower.

UNDER THE ROSE

‘The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.’

Oh the rose of keenest thorn! 
One hidden summer morn
Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name
Who wrought my Mother’s shame,
And gave me life forlorn,
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
I know her from all other. 
My Mother pale and mild,
Fair as ever was seen, 10
She was but scarce sixteen,
Little more than a child,
When I was born
To work her scorn. 
With secret bitter throes,
In a passion of secret woes,
She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed
Took me from the first:—­
’O nurse, let me look upon 20
This babe that costs so dear;
To-morrow she will be gone: 
Other mothers may keep
Their babes awake and asleep,
But I must not keep her here.’—­
Whether I know or guess,
I know this not the less.

So I was sent away
That none might spy the truth: 
And my childhood waxed to youth 30
And I left off childish play. 
I never cared to play
With the village boys and girls;
And I think they thought me proud,
I found so little to say
And kept so from the crowd: 
But I had the longest curls
And I had the largest eyes
And my teeth were small like pearls;
The girls might flout and scout me, 40
But the boys would hang about me
In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood
A long mile from the town,
A mile of windy down
And bleak one-sided wood,
With not a single house. 
Our town itself was small,
With just the common shops,
And throve in its small way. 50
Our neighbouring gentry reared
The good old-fashioned crops,
And made old-fashioned boasts
Of what John Bull would do
If Frenchman Frog appeared,
And drank old-fashioned toasts,
And made old-fashioned bows
To my Lady at the Hall.