Lo! an old song, yellow with centuries!
She, she who with her young dust kept it sweet;
She, in some green court on a carvëd seat,
Read it at dusk fair-paged upon her knees;
And, looking up, saw there, beyond the trees,
Tall Helen through the darkling shadows fleet;
And heard, out in the fading river-street,
The roar of battle like the roar of seas.
Love, weeping, laid this song when she was dead
In that sealed chamber, strange with nard and musk.
Outliving Egypt, see it here at last.
We touch its leaves: back rush the seasons sped;

Come all you hustling gamblers,
Who have one dollar to spend.
Tomorrow my pockets will be empty,
I'll be without money or friends.
Just see that pretty girl coming,
With curls all around her head.
I think how well I love her,
And I wish that I was dead.

I'm just a hustling gambler,
I've staked my last red cent.
If fortune goes against me,
My last thin dime is spent.
I'll meet that pretty young damsel,
I'll take her by her hand.
She'll whisper to her mother,
“I love that gamblin' man.”

Come all you hustling gamblers,

The fountains serenade the flowers;
Upon their silver lute—
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
'T is now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower.

The day we dedicate to care—
To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given—

Love oped a vista rare with stars
That overshone a dewy height;
Glad-Heart enwrapt in dreams, saw naught
Save radiance and bloom and light.

The fairest dove sang in the boughs
The sweetest songs that e'er were heard;
Glad-Heart strayed reckless down the glades,
Lured strangely by the cooing bird.

Yes! strangely lured, till suddenly
The dove did moan and wail, and lo!
The stars went out in darkness: all
Was bitterness and gloom and woe.

Ah! haste, Glad-Heart, go back, go back!
The vistas are not bloomy now;

O Rama, thy nature to thy servant is loving kindness.
Of cast and clan, of family or name he recks not—nor whether he be king or beggar.
Brahma and his train, and Siva, what is their caste, O Lord? I know not in my ignorance.
Where there are lords many, there the Lord is not—why then put faith in gods?
The tongue is but one, Rama's praises numberless—how then can I recount them?
O Sur Das, all glory is the Lord's: Vedas and Puranas bear witness.

He said he would come at moonrise;
The moon is out, but he has not come.
Perhaps he lives among high hills
Where the moon comes up late.

So tall she is, and slender, and so fair,
So like a child for play, a queen for grace,
So pale and proud she is, with that bright hair
Blown in a storm of gold about her face;
So gay she is, and with such pretty words,
So like a thrush for making a sweet note,
And then her hands, like little anxious birds—
My heart to watch her trembles in my throat.
So that I am all wonder to behold her,
I being I, she being what she is,
And dare in reverence alone to fold her,
And touch her cheek and forehead with a kiss;
All loveliness she is, the whole world over,

I laughed, and you echoed my laughter,
I wept, and you mirrored my tears,
But when life is over, and after
The tender enchantment of years,
Is there aught in high Heaven to discover
That our intimate joy may transcend,
For I found in the heart of a lover
The faith of a friend!

It may be the part that was spirit,
God lent as a shield for our fight,
And we who were worthy to bear it
Shall lift it aloft in our flight
To the ultimate regions of ether,
Where Faith holds the key to the throne,
And Love, kneeling proudly beneath her,

Music's meaning first is known,
Though the bird sing all day long,
When the last faint-falling tone
Divides the silence from the song.

Not in absence, nor when face
To face, thy love means most to me,
But in the narrow parting-space,
The cadence of felicity.

What ! no more favours? Not a ribband more,
Not fan nor muff to hold as heretofore?
Must all the little blisses then be left,
And what was once love's gift become our theft?
May we not look ourselves into a trance,
Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,
Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there
Whisper a love that only yes can hear?
Not free a sigh, a sigh that's there for you?
Dear, must I love you, and not love you too?
Be wise, nice, fair; for sooner shall they trace
The feather'd choristers from place to place,