All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"Forever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet, That whenever a March-wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.

"BARRY CORNWALL."

1787.

["English Songs." 1832.]

THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

How many Summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind

When 't bends the flowers,

Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;

Some lines of care round both

Perhaps he weaves;

Some fears, a soft regret,

For joys scarce known;

Sweet looks we half forget;

All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart

I mourn and sing!

Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!

With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,

They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!

GOLDEN TRESSED ADELAIDE.

A SONG FOR A CHILD.

1831.

Sing, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!

Neither sad nor very long:

It is for a little maid,

Golden tresséd Adelaide!

Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,

Mother dear!

Let it be a merry strain,

Mother dear!

Shunning e'en the thought of pain:

For our gentle child will weep,

If the theme be dark and deep;

And We will not draw a single, single tear,

Mother dear!

Childhood should be all divine,

Mother dear!

And like endless summer shine;

Gay as Edward's shouts and cries,

Bright as Agnes' azure eyes:

Therefore, bid thy song be merry: dost thou hear,

Mother dear?