I 've a letter from mother today, boys,
A letter of love untold,
Tho' t'was hard to read all the words, boys,
For the dear eyes are dim and old;
Ah! sometimes, boys, when I read, I fear
My eyes grow dim, for I felt the tears
Springing up like rain from the words so clear,
For she said, she said she was praying for me.
Mother said she was praying for me, boys,
She said that she loved me still,
And she asked was I true to my words, boys,
All my promises to fulfill;
I promised, boys, when I said good-by,
I'd try to meet her beyond the sky;—

Loved, on a sudden thou didst come to me
On our own doorstep, still I see thee stand
In thy bleared welcome, with the grim command
From Heaven that we must sever presently;
And no farewell was in the misery …
So you condemned me; did not understand
O lovely and gay-coloured tulip-land,
I would not break on thee my wrathful sea;
Back to the flood-gates, firm to my defence—
So hard, as thou complainest, so apart;
But had I not held tight from thee my sense,
My memory, my will against my heart,
But one defeat, the rupture of one sigh

What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say or write that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head,
And let the Spring-time write her epitaph!—

As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet,
Wind-flower and columbine and maiden's tear;
Each letter of that pretty alphabet,
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.

She was a maiden for a man to love;
She was a woman for a husband's life;
One that has learned to value, far above
The name of love, the sacred name of wife.

Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,

O might I load my arms with thee,
Like that young lover of Romance
Who loved and gained so gloriously
The fair Princess of France!

Because he dared to love so high,
He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed
To where the mountain touched on sky:
So the proud king decreed.

Unhalting he must bear her on,
Nor pause a space to gather breath,
And on the height she will be won;—
And she was won in death!

Red the far summit flames with morn,
While in the plain a glistening Court
Surrounds the king who practised scorn

Sweet is the woodbine's fragrant twine;
Sweet the ripe burthen of the vine;
The pea-bloom sweet, that scents the air,
The rose-bud sweet, beyond compare;
The perfume sweet of yonder grove;
Sweeter the lip of Her I love!

Soft the rich meadow's velvet green,
Where cowslip-tufts are early seen;
Soft the young cygnet's snowey breast;
Or down that lines the linnet's nest;
Soft the smooth plumage of the dove;
Softer the breast of Her I love!

Bright is the star that opes the day;
Bright the mid-noon's refulgent ray;

By the Vizier's soul and the ancient right And the covenant firm I swear,
My wont in the dawn for thy happiness Is still to offer prayer!

My tears, that Noah his flood surpass, From the tablet of my heart
A vail not to wash the script of love For thee that's graven there.

Come, traffic with me and buy this heart; For, broken though it be,
An hundred thousand hearts 'tis worth, Unworn of love and care.

Blame thou me not for debauchery; For Love, the Pilgrim's guide,
The tavern, upon Creation day, Appointed me to share.

I send a message, my worthy Chief,
For I cannot come to thee now.
Though my heart is o'erwhelmed with its weight of grief,
At God's stern decree I must bow.
They tell me that thou hast fallen asleep,
That thou didst discharge thy whole duty;
They say it is folly to sit here and weep,
For thy life was complete in its beauty.
And purity crowned thy declining years,
And holiness circled thy head—
'Tis folly they say to sit down here in tears,
And grieve o'er the tomb of the dead.

I hear the soft tones of Thy fatherly voice,

Painter , thou who dost excel
All others in the Cyprian Isle,
Or Paphos, for thy dextrous skill,
Paint me absent Iris now.
Thou hast not seen her, thou wilt say,
What then, the better its for thee;
I'll in few words instruct thee what to do,
First mix the lilies and the rose,
Love's wanton looks and smiles;
But why each thing, for thou canst well
Of Venus Iris make,
And thou can make the traits so like
None shall know the mistake;
And of that Iris thou again
Can make the lovely Paphian queen.

I said to heaven that glowed above
O hide yon sun-filled zone,
Hide all the stars you boast;
For, in the world of love
And estimation true,
The heaped-up harvest of the moon
Is worth one barley-corn at most,
The Pleiads' sheaf but two.

If my darling should depart,
And search the skies for prouder friends,
God forbid my angry heart
In other love should seek amends.

When the blue horizon's hoop
Me a little pinches here,
Instant to my grave I stoop,
And go find thee in the sphere.

Into the golden vessel of great song
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.
Longing alone is singer to the lute;
Let still on nettles in the open sigh
The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute
As any man, and love be far and high,
That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit