Volume Ii Part 160 (1/2)

”YES”

They stood above the world, In a world apart; And she dropped her happy eyes, And stilled the throbbing pulses Of her happy heart.

And the moonlight fell above her, Her secret to discover; And the moonbeams kissed her hair, As though no human lovers Had laid his kisses there.

”Look up, brown eyes,” he said, ”And answer mine; Lift up those silken fringes That hide a happy light Almost divine.”

The jealous moonlight drifted To the finger half-uplifted, Where shone the opal ring-- Where the colors danced and s.h.i.+fted On the pretty, changeful thing.

Just the old, old story Of light and shade, Love like the opal tender, Like it may be to vary-- May be to fade.

Just the old tender story, Just a glimpse of morning glory In an earthly Paradise, With shadowy reflections In a pair of sweet brown eyes.

Brown eyes a man might well Be proud to win!

Open to hold his image, Shut under silken lashes, Only to shut him in.

O glad eyes, look together, For life's dark, stormy weather Grows to a fairer thing When young eyes look upon it Through a slender wedding ring.

Richard Doddridge Blackmore [1825-1900]

LOVE

All thoughts, all pa.s.sions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

The moons.h.i.+ne, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed Knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!

She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and h.o.a.ry.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his s.h.i.+eld a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;