English

Hail to thee, and fare-thee-well!
Unstable, cold as sleet,
Broken is the childish spell
That held me at your feet.

I know now how the land beguiles,
How cunning is the sea;
It was the magic of the isles
Alone enchanted me.

The birken trees, with sly intent,
Waved round your walk their grace,
Majestic mountains o'er you lean't,
Transfiguring your face;

Perfumes that from the moor arise,
I thought came from your hair,
It was the sea looked in your eyes,
And mirrored blueness there.

The great sea-roads to England
Have many little gates—
You saw some once—those bustling ports,
And winding ribbon straits;

And little foreign harbours
Tucked safely in from blasts;
And lighted dockyards, swaying ships,
And forests of straight masts.

And somewhere ever waiting
A slim grey Man of War,
To keep the peace for England,
Is never very far.

Between two pillared clouds of gold
The beautiful gates of evening swung—
And far and wide from flashing fold
The half-furled banners of light, that hung
O'er green of wood and gray of wold
And over the blue where the river rolled,
The fading gleams of their glory flung.

The sky wore not a frown all day
To mar the smile of the morning tide;
The soft-voiced winds sang joyous lay—
You never would think they had ever sighed;
The stream went on its sunlit way
In ripples of laughter; happy they

“Stond well, moder, under Rode.”
Behold thy sone with glade mode—
Blithe moder might thou be.’
‘Sone, how shulde I blithe stonde?
I se thine fet, I se thine honde,
Nailed to the harde Tre.’

‘Moder, do wey thy wepinge.
I thole deth for monkinde—
For my gult thole I non.’
‘Sone, I fele the dedestounde:
The swerd is at mine herte grounde,
That me bihet Simeon.’

‘Moder, thou rewe all of thy bern:
Thou woshe away the blody tern—
It doth me worse then my ded.’
‘Sone, how may I teres werne?

Gone art thou, then, O mystical musician!
Pure-thoughted singer of these sinful years!
No more shall dreams and doubts and hopes and fears
Pass and repass before thy stricken vision;
No more from thine high sorrowing position
Shall fall thy song-irradiated tears;
Alas! no more against our listening years
Shall new lays ring from thy lone lute elysian.
For unto thee at last has rest been given,
Whether in sleep eternal by the shore
Of Time's wide ocean or in song without
Or break or flaw, by the gold bar of that heaven

Catullus man, ye maunna gang sae gyte.
Scryve 't doun for tint, nou that ye see it's fled ye.
Umquhile the sun shone on ye, braw and whyte,
ye aye gaed eftir whaur the lassie led ye,—
‘I'll loena onie ither lass sae dear’.
Thon tyme ye'd monie a ploy to your delyte
that ye socht out,—the lassie wasna sweir.
Ay, ye had sunsheen yince, richt braw and whyte.
But nou she's sweir. Ye canna help it, sae
be thraward as weel. She flees, but dinna chase her.
Makna your life forfairn wi dule and wae,
wi tholesome sweirty ettle to outface her.

Oh very early all in the spring
I went on board for to serve the king,
Leaving my dearest dear behind,
She oft-times told me her heart was mine.

Oh then I hugged her all in my arms,
I thought I got ten thousand charms,
For promise vows and kisses sweet
Promised to marry next time we meet.

Oh when I was sailing all on the raging seas
Taking of all opportunities,
Sending of letters to my dearest dear,
But one from her could not I hear.

Oh then I returned back to old England,
I went unto her father's house.

Oh, what was it he meant
By his question as he went?
“I am making a loom,
'T will be up in April's bloom;
If you think it may be,
Spin for me!”

Oh, what shall I believe?
Does he think himself to weave?
And the yarn that I spin,
Lo, he thinks to weave it in?
And so soon as the Spring
Flowers shall bring?

And he laughed when he'd done;
Oh, he is so full of fun.
Dare I trust all my skein
To so young and wild a swain?—
May God help to bind in

Love has crept out of her sealèd heart
As a field-bee, black and amber,
Breaks from the winter-cell, to clamber
Up the warm grass where the sunbeams start.

Mischief has come in her dawning eyes,
And a glint of coloured iris brings
Such as lies along the folded wings
Of the bee before he flies.

Who, with a ruffling, careful breath,
Has opened the wings of the wild young sprite?
Has fluttered her spirit to stumbling flight
In her eyes, as a young bee stumbleth?

Love makes the burden of her voice.

Being tired—
Ah, the time I fall into the inn—
The wistaria flowers.