Part 33 (1/2)

People will think I'm gone away; But, dear, I shall be seeing you.

People will say that I am dead; But we'll pluck roses white and red: People will think I'm lost for aye; But we'll pluck roses, you and I.

All the little daily incidents are beautified by love. Here is a lover who thanks the mason for making his window so close upon the road that he can see his sweetheart as she pa.s.ses (p. 118):--

Blest be the mason's hand who built This house of mine by the roadside, And made my window low and wide For me to watch my love go by.

And if I knew when she went by, My window should be fairly gilt; And if I knew what time she went, My window should be flower-besprent.

Here is a conceit which reminds one of the pretty epistle of Philostratus, in which the footsteps of the beloved are called _[Greek: erereismena philempta]_ (p. 117):--

What time I see you pa.s.sing by; I sit and count the steps you take: You take the steps; I sit and sigh: Step after step, my sighs awake.

Tell me, dear love, which more abound, My sighs or your steps on the ground?

Tell me, dear love, which are the most, Your light steps or the sighs they cost?

A girl complains that she cannot see her lover's house (p. 117):-

I lean upon the lattice, and look forth To see the house where my lover dwells.

There grows an envious tree that spoils my mirth: Cursed be the man who set it on these hills!

But when those jealous boughs are all unclad, I then shall see the cottage of my lad: When once that tree is rooted from the hills, I'll see the house wherein my lover dwells.

In the same mood a girl who has just parted from her sweetheart is angry with the hill beyond which he is travelling (p. 167):--

I see and see, yet see not what I would: I see the leaves atremble on the tree: I saw my love where on the hill he stood, Yet see him not drop downward to the lea.

O traitor hill, what will you do?

I ask him, live or dead, from you.

O traitor hill, what shall it be?

I ask him, live or dead, from thee.

All the songs of love in absence are very quaint. Here is one which calls our nursery rhymes to mind (p. 119):--

I would I were a bird so free, That I had wings to fly away: Unto that window I would flee, Where stands my love and grinds all day.

Grind, miller, grind; the water's deep!

I cannot grind; love makes me weep.

Grind, miller, grind; the waters flow!

I cannot grind; love wastes me so.

The next begins after the same fas.h.i.+on, but breaks into a very shower of benedictions (p. 118):--

Would G.o.d I were a swallow free, That I had wings to fly away: Upon the miller's door I'd be, Where stands my love and grinds all day: Upon the door, upon the sill, Where stays my love;--G.o.d bless him still!

G.o.d bless my love, and blessed be His house, and bless my house for me; Yea, blest be both, and ever blest My lover's house, and all the rest!

The girl alone at home in her garden sees a wood-dove flying by and calls to it (p. 179):--

O dove, who fliest far to yonder hill, Dear dove, who in the rock hast made thy nest, Let me a feather from thy pinion pull, For I will write to him who loves me best.

And when I've written it and made it clear, I'll give thee back thy feather, dove so dear: And when I've written it and sealed it, then I'll give thee back thy feather love-laden.

A swallow is asked to lend the same kind service (p. 179):--

O swallow, swallow, flying through the air, Turn, turn, I prithee, from thy flight above!