Volume Ii Part 143 (2/2)

FOUR YEARS

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Said I mournful--Though my life be in its prime, Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time, O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown; It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair, With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair-- Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple gown-- That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down, Crept she a willing bride close into my breast; Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town; It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer--all the hay is down, Close to her forehead press I dying eyes, Praying G.o.d s.h.i.+eld her till we meet in Paradise, Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown, And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

BARBARA

On the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ calms, 'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like s.h.i.+ne Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- Gleamed and vanished in a moment--O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face!

O earnest eyes of grace!

When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.

You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.

O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone.

Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plas.h.i.+ng on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?

Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.

Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.

Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry sh.o.r.e, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain!

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish sh.o.r.es for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

Alexander Smith [1830-1867]

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