Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;-- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!

_SERENADE._

Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear, The while we dare to call thee dear, So may thy dreams be good, altho'

The loving power thou dost not know.

As music parts the silence,--lo!

Through heaven the stars begin to peep, To comfort us that darkling pine Because those fairer lights of thine Have set into the Sea of Sleep.

Yet closed still thine eyelids keep; And may our voices through the sphere Of Dreamland all as softly rise As through these shadowy rural dells, Where bashful Echo somewhere dwells, And touch thy spirit to as soft replies.

May peace from gentle guardian skies, Till watches of the dark are worn, Surround thy bed, and joyous morn Makes all the chamber rosy bright!

Good-night!--From far-off fields is borne The drowsy Echo's faint 'Good-night,'-- Good-night! Good-night!

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_ACROSS THE SEA._

I walked in the lonesome evening, And who so sad as I, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily pa.s.sing by.

To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee!

While the ripples fold upon sands of gold, And I look across the sea.

I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them?

I call,--thou repliest no word.

Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker Than the waving wings of a bird!

To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee!

For the tide 's at rest from east to west, And I look across the sea.

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There 's joy in the hopeful morning, There 's peace in the parting day, There 's sorrow with every lover Whose true love is far away.

To thee, my Love, to thee-- So fain would I come to thee!

And the water 's bright in a still moonlight, As I look across the sea.

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[Decoration]

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

1832.

_SERENADE._

Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?"

Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here, And wake to find it, as my love is, true; Then, when she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet, That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest, And my heart trembles when my lips are set.

Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies, Shine through the roses for a lover's sake And send your silver to her lidded eyes, Kissing them very gently till she wake; Then while she wonders at the lay and light, Tell her, though morning endeth star and song, That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.

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_A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE._

Come, rosy Day!

Come quick--I pray-- I am so glad when I thee see!

Because my Fair, Who is so dear, Is rosy-red and white like thee.

She lives, I think, On heavenly drink Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; Else--when I sip At her soft lip How smells it of ambrosia?

She is so fair None can compare; And, oh, her slender waist divine!

Her sparkling eyes Set in the skies The morning stars would far outshine!

Only to hear Her voice so clear The village gathers in the street; And t.i.tyrus, Grown one of us, Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.

The Graces three, Where'er she be, Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; And what she 'll say,-- Speak when she may,-- Is full of sense and majesty!

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[Decoration]

THOMAS ASHE.

1836-1889.

_NO AND YES._

If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss!

Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.

If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair;"

And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.

_AT ALTENAHR._

1872.

_Meet we no angels, Pansie?_