The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 117 : But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

SONG

A violet in her lovely hair, A rose upon her bosom fair!

But O, her eyes A lovelier violet disclose, And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That's 'neath the skies.

A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command; But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth Can give to song.

And thus she moves in tender light, The purest ray, where all is bright, Serene, and sweet; And sheds a graceful influence round, That hallows e'en the very ground Beneath her feet!

Charles Swain [1801-1874]

EILEEN AROON

When like the early rose, Eileen Aroon!

Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon!

When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem?-- Eileen Aroon!

Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon!

Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon!

Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed harp's moan?

O, it is truth alone,-- Eileen Aroon!

When like the rising day, Eileen Aroon!

Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon!

What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe?

Only the constant know:-- Eileen Aroon!

I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon!

I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon!

Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade,-- Eileen Aroon!

Who in the song so sweet?

Eileen Aroon!

Who in the dance so fleet?

Eileen Aroon!

Dear were her charms to me Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy,-- Eileen Aroon!

Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon!

What should her lover do?

Eileen Aroon!

Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again,-- Eileen Aroon!

Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon!

Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon!

Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star,-- Eileen Aroon!

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]

ANNIE LAURIE

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true-- Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on-- That e'er the sun shone on-- And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet-- Her voice is low and sweet-- And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.

William Douglas [1672?-1748]

TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native sh.o.r.e.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla.s.sic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand!

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

Edgar Allan Poe [1809-1849]

"A VOICE BY THE CEDAR TREE"

From "Maud"

I A voice by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall!

She is singing an air that is known to me, A pa.s.sionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call!

Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land.

II Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.

III Silence, beautiful voice!

Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find.