| A chieftain to the Highlands bound |
| Cries ‘Boatman, do not tarry! |
| And I’ll give thee a silver pound |
To row us o’er the ferry!’
|
| ‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle |
| This dark and stormy water?’ |
| ‘O I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, |
And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.
|
| ‘And fast before her father’s men |
| Three days we’ve fled together, |
| For should he find us in the glen, |
My blood would stain the heather.
|
| ‘His horsemen hard behind us ride— |
| Should they our steps discover, |
| Then who will cheer my bonny bride |
When they have slain her lover?
|
| Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, |
| ‘I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready: |
| It is not for your silver bright, |
But for your winsome lady:—
|
| ‘And by my word! the bonny bird |
| In danger shall not tarry; |
| So though the waves are raging white |
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’
|
| By this the storm grew loud apace, |
| The water-wraith was shrieking; |
| And in the scowl of heaven each face |
Grew dark as they were speaking.
|
| But still as wilder blew the wind |
| And as the night grew drearer, |
| Adown the glen rode arméd men, |
Their trampling sounded nearer.
|
| ‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries, |
| Though tempests round us gather; |
| I’ll meet the raging of the skies, |
But not an angry father.’
|
| The boat has left a stormy land, |
| A stormy sea before her,— |
| When, O! too strong for human hand |
The tempest gather’d o’er her.
|
| And still they row’d amidst the roar |
| Of waters fast prevailing: |
| Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,— |
His wrath was changed to wailing.
|
| For, sore dismay’d, through storm and shade |
| His child he did discover:— |
| One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, |
And one was round her lover.
|
| ‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried in grief |
| ‘Across this stormy water: |
| And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, |
My daughter!—O my daughter!’
|
| ‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, |
| Return or aid preventing: |
| The waters wild went o’er his child, |
And he was left lamenting.
Home they brought her warrior dead.
Alfred Tennyson.
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life
Song: Sweetest love, I do not go
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!
But come bad chance,
And we join to'it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to'advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
|
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