English

I.

However sad man's lot,
Despair should enter not
The suffering heart of man.
God by one single stroke
Can heal the heart he broke,
So carrying out his plan.

For no man sighs in vain:
The humblest creature's pain
Is known to God on high.
He hears the horse's neigh;
He hears his red-breasts pray;
He hears his throstles sigh.

He hears his violets plead,
And on the thirsty mead

Adam.

O Eve, the darkness deepens. Yet I see
Through the tall branches of this flowering tree
Faint streaks of light. 'Twas there the sun sank low.

Eve.

Adam, the sunshine made the sweet earth glad,
But now I tremble. Darkness makes me sad:
I thought the golden sun would never go.

Adam.

And yet, as fades the sun, the tender light
In thine eyes, Eve, seems ever to grow bright:
The sun is little, so that I have thee.

Eve.

Thou art my lord and king. I cannot fear:

I.

While in England, here enisled in sweetness,
Year by year the girl-soft spirit of Spring
Weaves her primrose-crown to pure completeness,
Mixing silver stars the wood-nymphs bring;
While o'er daisied vale and cowslipped hollow
Year by year the white-fleeced clouds float by,
There are those who seeking for Apollo
Seek in vain, and deem that song must die.

II.

There are those who deem the land grows olden;

Your dark eyes win a glory
From every passing day;
The longer grows love's story,
The sweeter 'tis, I say!
We conquer Time together;
For every flower we've seen
Has passed into our kingdom,
And made you ten times Queen!

We win the wealth of summers;
We rob the winter days;
You're Queen in your fur tippet,
Queen of the fireside blaze.
Strong love defies all weather:
While you and I are one,
While we walk on together,
We always see the sun!

More beautiful and holy

I.

Over purple leagues of shadowy water,
Heedless now of starshine or of storm,
Watched and wept for by a Sovereign's daughter,
Comes the relic of a princely form
Now from wave to wave in silence springing,
Not with sounds of battle or of glee,
Glides a lonely ghostlike vessel, bringing
Fever's victim o'er the lonely sea.

II.

Not for love of fame or lust of glory,

Dost thou remember me? It matters not!
My heart revisits every spot
Which, sweetheart, we have trodden together
In this blue perfect summer weather.

Dost thou remember me? Wilt thou forget?
Mine is the deep regret;
Mine is the undying pain. It sometimes seems
That love comes only in dreams!

Wilt thou remember? Will thy girl's heart keep
Treasured in store-house safe and deep,
Soft memories of the days soon-dying
Before love's laughter changed to sighing?

Wilt thou remember? Must it only be

The broad blue sky above me,
The sunshine on the corn
(Oh, had I you to love me,
This perfect August morn!)
Green tall trees overslanting,
With sunlight flashing through
(And yet one thing was wanting;
My heart cried out for you!)

Oh, were you with me, darling,
This perfect summer day,
Its glory were completer
Than tongue of man might say.
The green trees of the forest,
The bright flowers of the dell,
All longed for you, my darling;
And oh, I longed as well!

I.

Lo! another mighty century dying
Bears to deathland many a hero's form:
Some who saw Napoleon's banners flying;
Some who faced red Alma's leaden storm.
Yet in passing towards the shadowy portal
Fleeting years with fiery tongues proclaim,
" Ages wane, but England is immortal;
Deathless through each unforgotten name. "

II.

Deathless through her children crowned and deathless,

I.

There's not a flower that ever blows
But tells of blossoms fairer far.
Who ever saw the sweet queen rose?
What eye hath reached the furthest star?
There's not a joy that earth can bring
But tells of something holier yet:
Delight that bears no hidden sting,
And joy not followed by regret.
This is the gladdening word of time
To hearts that sorrow and despond;
Each hill-top that our footsteps climb

In the leafless sycamore
Lo! a winter nest.
Round it all the ceaseless roar
Of the storm's unrest.
Here love's palace once was seen
Swinging to the breeze,
Roofed and guarded by the green,
Full of melodies.
Here the sunset loved to rest,
Smiling on the thrush's nest.

In yon London attic room
Once a painter wrought;
All our dense November gloom
Darkened not his thought.
Woman's love was here as well;
Woman's loving eyes
Met the painter's when they fell
From the pictured skies.