But when the people saw how close they ran,
When half-way to the starting-point they were,
A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near
Unto the very end of all his fear;
And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel,
And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart did steal.
But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard
His flushed and eager face he turned around,
And even then he felt her past him bound.
Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there
Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair.
There stood she breathing like a little child
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep,
For no victorious joy her red lips smiled,
Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep;
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep,
Though some divine thought softener all her face
As once more rang the trumpet through the place.
But her late foe stopped short amidst his course,
One moment gazed upon her piteously,
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see;
And, changed like one who knows his time must be
But short and bitter, without any word
He knelt before the bearer of the sword;
Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, And he to hers upturned his sad white face; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night.
Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running place, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race; For now, beheld of all, Milanion
Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon.
But yet-what change is this that holds the maid?
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye
More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade,
Some happy hope of help and victory?
The others seemed to say, "We come to die,
Look down upon us for a little while,
That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile."
But he-what look of mastery was this
He cast on her? why were his lips so red?
Why was his face so flushed with happiness?
So looks not one who deems himself but dead,
E'en if to death he bows a willing head;
So rather looks a god well pleased to find
Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind.
Why must she drop her lids before his gaze,
And even as she casts adown her eyes
Redden to note his eager glance of praise,
And wish that she were clad in other guise?
Why must the memory to her heart arise
Of things unnoticed when they first were heard,
Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word?
What makes these longings, vague, without a
And this vain pity never felt before,
This sudden languor, this contempt of fame,
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er,
These doubts that grow each minute more and more?
Why does she tremble as the time grows near.
And weak defeat and woful victory fear?
But while she seemed to hear her beating heart,
Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out,
And forth they sprang; and she must play her part;
Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt,
Though slackening once, she turned her head about,
But then she cried aloud and faster fled
Than e'er before, and all inen deemed him dead.
But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there new And past the maid rolled on along the sand; And in her heart a strong desire there grew Then trembling she her feet together drew, To have the toy; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven.
Then from the course with eager steps she ran, And in her colorless bosom laid the gold, But when she turned again the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold, And mindful of her glory waxing cold, Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. Though with one hand she touched the golden fruft
Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear,
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize,
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair,
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes
Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries
She sprang to head the strong Milanion,
Who now the turning-post had well nigh won.
Just as he sets his mighty hand on it,
White fingers underneath his own were laid,
And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did fiit.
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid;
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid
Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay.
Then, as a troubled glance she cast around,
Now far ahead the Argive could she see,
And in her garment's hem one hand she wound
To keep the double prize, and strenuously
Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she
To win the day, though now but scanty space
Was left betwixt him and the winning place.
Short was the way unto such winged feet,
Quickly she gained upon him till at last
He turned about her eager eyes to meet,
And from his hand the third fair apple cast.
She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil,
That in her hand it lay ere it was still.
Nor did she rest, but turned about to win
Once more, an unblest, woful victory-
And yet—and yet—why does her breath begin
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily?
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh
The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow dim?
Why do these tremors run through every limb?
She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss: Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. WILLIAM MORRIS.
PLACE YOUR HAND IN MINE, WIFE.
'IS five-and-twenty years to-day,
Since we were man and wife—
And that's a tidy slice, I say,
From anybody's life.
And if we want, in looking back,
To feel how time has flown,
There's Jack, you see, our baby Jack,
With whiskers of his own.
Place your hand in mine, wife—
We've loved each other true;
And still, in shade or shine, wife,
There's love to help us through.
It's not been all smooth sailing, wife—
Not always laughing May;
Sometimes it's been a weary strife
To keep the wolf away.
We've had our little tiffs, my dear;
We've often grieved and sighed;
One lad has cost us many a tear;
Our little baby died.
But, wife, your love along the road
Has cheered the roughest spell;
You've borne your half of every load,
And often mine as well.
I've rued full many a foolish thing
Ere well the step was ta'en;
But, oh! I'd haste to buy the ring
And wed you o'er again.
'Twas you who made me own the Hand
That's working all along,
In ways we cannot understand,
Still bringing right from wrong,
You've kept me brave, and kept me true
You've made me trust and pray;
My gentle evening star were you,
That blessed the close of day.
Place your hand in mine, wife—
We've loved each other true;
And still, in shade or shine, wife,
There's love to help us through.
FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE
y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair,
A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair.
A sweet face pouting in a white straw bon net,
A tiny foot, and little boot upon it;
And all her finery to charm beholders
Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders,
The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow,
And sweet red petticoat that peeps below.
But gladly in the busy town goes she,
Summer and winter, fearing nobody;
She pats the pavement with her fairy feet,
With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street;
And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold,
A lucky sixpence and a thimble old.
We lodged in the same house a year ago:
She on the topmost floor, I just below-
She, a poor milliner, content and wise,
I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise;
And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love
The little angel on the floor above.
For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred,
Her chamber door would open, and I heard--
And listening, blushing, to her coming down,
And palpitated with her rustling gown,
And tingled while her foot went downward slow,
Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died below;
Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly,
I saw the pretty shining face go by,
Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet-
A sunbeam in the quiet morning street.
And every night when in from work she tript,
Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt,
That I might hear upon the narrow stair
Her low "Good evening," as she passed me there.
And when her door was closed, below sat I.
And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high-
Watched the red firelight shadows in the room,
Fashioned her face before me in the gloom,
And heard her close the window, lock the door,
Moving about more lightly than before,
And thought, "She is undressing now!" and, oh!
My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow!
And I made pictures of her-standing bright
Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white,
Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair,
Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ;
Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead,
'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed-
And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on,
Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone;
And saw her slumbering with lips apart,
One little hand upon her little heart,
The other pillowing a face that smiled
In slumber like the slumber of a child,
The bright hair shining round the small white ear,
The soft breath stealing visible and clear,
And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam
Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream.
How free she wandered in the wicked place,
Protected only by her gentle face!
But heavily I lay and did not stir,
And had strange images and dreams of her.
Then came a vacancy; with feeble breath,
I shivered under the cold touch of death,
And swooned among strange visions of the dead
When a voice called from heaven, and he fled;
And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed,
From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed.
And it was night, and I could see and hear,
And I was in the room I held so dear,
And unaware, stretched out upon my bed.
I hearkened for a footstep overhead.
But all was hushed. I looked around the room And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. The wall was reddened by a rosy light,
A faint fire flickered, and I knew 't was night,
Because below there was a sound of feet
Dying away along the quiet street-
When, turning my pale face and sighing low,
I saw a vision in the quiet glow:
A little figure in a cotton gown,
Looking upon the fire and stooping down,
Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed
She saw bad things-how could she choose but see?— Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side
She heard of wantonness and misery;
The city closed around her night and day,
But lightly, happily, she went her way.
Nothing of evil that she saw or heard
Could touch a heart so innocently stirred—
By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm,
And little flutterings that kept it warm.
No power had she to reason out her needs,
To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds;
But she was good and pure amid the strife
By virtue of the joy that was her life.
Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall,
Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall,
She floated, pure as innocent could be,
Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea,
Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro,
Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow,
While the clouds gather, and the waters roar.
And mighty ships are broken on the shore.
All winter long, witless who peeped the while,
She sweetened the chill mornings with her smile;
When the soft snow was falling dimly white,
Shining among it with a child's delight,
Bright as a rose, though nipping winds might blow,
And leaving fairy footprints in the snow!
'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow
Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow,
And girls were selling violets in the town,
That suddenly a fever struck me down.
Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see,
Her little hands clasped tight around her knee
The firelight gleaming on her golden head,
And tinting her white neck to rosy red,
Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure,
With childish fear and yearning half demurc.
O sweet, sweet dream! I thought and strained mine eyes,
Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs.
Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair.
And sweeter since a light like love was there,
Brightening, watching, more and more elate,
As the nuts glowed together in the grate.
Crackling with little jets of fiery light,
Till side by side they turned to ashes white-
Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear
For rapture that itself was radiance clear,
And would have clapped her little hands in glee,
But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me,
And met the face that yearned on her so whitely,
And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly,
While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee,
'Polly!" I cried-and grew as red as she! ́
It was no dream! for soon my thoughts were clear,
And she could tell me all, and I could hear:
How in my sickness friendless I had lain,
How the hard people pitied not my pain;
The world was changed, the sense of life was pained, How, in despite of what bad people said,
And nothing but a shadow-land remained;
Death came in a dark mist and looked at me,
I felt his breathing, though I could not see,
She left her labors, stopped beside my bed, And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; How, in the end, the danger passed me by ;
How she had sought to steal away before
The sickness passed, and I was strong once more.
By fits she told the story in mine ear,
And troubled at the telling with a fear
Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid,
Lest I should think her bold in what she did;
But, lying on my bed, I dared to say,
How I had watched and loved her many a day,
How dear she was to me, and dearer still
For that strange kindness done while I was ill,
And how I could but think that Heaven above
Had done it all to bind our lives in love.
And Polly cried, turning her face away,
And seemed afraid, and answered "yea" nor "nay;"
Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs,
Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes,
And seemed in act to fling her arms about
My neck; then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt;
Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing-
That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing.
Ah! ne'er shall I forget until I die,
How happily the dreamy days went by,
While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats,
Hearkening the pleasant murmur from the streets,
And Polly by me like a sunny beam,
And life all changed, and love a drosy dream!
'Twas happiness enough to lie and see
The little golden head bent droopingly
Over its sewing, while the still time flew,
And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew!
And then, when I was nearly well and strong,
And she went back to labor all day long,
How sweet to lie aione with half-shut eyes,
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries,
And think how pure she was from pain and sin-
And how the summer days were coming in!
Then, as the sunset faded from the room,
To listen for her footstep in the gloom,
To pant as it came stealing up the stair,
To feel my whole life brighten unaware
When the soft tap came to the door, and when
The door was open for her smile again!
Best, the long evenings!—when, till late at night,
She sat beside me in the quiet light,
And happy things were said and kisses won,
And serious gladness found its vent in fun.
Sometimes I would draw close her shining head,
And pour her bright hair out upon the bed,
And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold,
While "here," I cried, "I count my wealth in gold!"
Once, like a little sinner for transgression,
She blushed upon my breast, and made confession :
How, when that night I woke and looked around,
I found her busy with a charm profound—
One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed,
The other was the person she loved best,
And if they burned together side by side,
He loved her, and she would become his bride;
And burn indeed they did, to her delight-
And had the pretty charm not proven right?
Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said,
While her confessor, too, grew rosy red-
And close together pressed two blissful faces,
As I absolved the sinner, with embraces.
And here is winter come again, winds blow,
The houses and the streets are white with snow;
And in the long and pleasant eventide,
Why, what is Polly making at my side?
What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand,
We bought together lately in the Strand!
And wear right queenly 'neath a honeymoon!
What but a dress to go to church in soon,
And who shall match her with her new straw bonnet,
Her tiny foot and little boot upon it;
And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do?
Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new,
And she will keep, to charm away all ill,
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still;
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather,
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together!
E pledged our hearts, my love and I-
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,
But, O, I trembled like an aspen !
Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain !
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
T is the miller's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles at her ear:
For, hid in ringlets day and night,
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty, dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me
In sorrow and in rest:
And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs:
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.
ALFRED TENNYSO
YING her bonnet under her chin.
She tied her raven ringlets in.
But not alone in the silken snare
Did she catch her lovely floating hair,
For, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
They were strolling together up the hill,
Where the wind carne blowing merry and chill;
And it blew the curls a frolicsome race,
All over the happy peach-colored face.
Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in,
Under her beautiful, dimpled chin.
And it blew a color, bright as the bloom
Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume,
All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl
That ever imprisoned a romping curl,
Or. in tying her bonnet under her chin,
Tied a young man's heart within.
Steeper and steeper grew the hill,
Madder, merrier, chiller still,
The western wind blew down, and played
The wildest tricks with the little maid,
As, tying her bonnet under her chin,
She tied a young man's heart within.
O western wind, do you think it was fair
To play such tricks with her floating hair?
To gladly, gleefully, do your best
To blow her against the young man's breast,
Where he has gladly folded her in,
And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin?
O Ellery Vane, you little thought,
An hour ago, when you besought
This country lass to walk with you,
After the sun had dried the dew,
What terrible danger you'd be in,
As she tied her bonnet under her chin.
'IX skeins and three, six skeins and three!
Good mother, so you stinted me,
And here they be-ay, six and three!
Stop, busy wheel! stop, noisy wheel!
Long shadows down my chamber steal,
And warn me to make haste and reel.
'T is done the spinning work complete,
O heart of mine, what makes you beat
So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet?
I must have wheat and pinks, to stick
My hat from brim to ribbon, thick-
Slow hands of mine. be quick, be quick!
![[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]](https://books.google.be/books/content?id=d0UgAAAAMAAJ&hl=nl&output=html_text&pg=PA102&img=1&zoom=3&q=wind&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2am6tivMIACxfBv8-EHFYFcc4G7Q&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=513,119,431,650)
F all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
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