English Lyrics, Eleventh Set

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What part of dread eternity
Are those strange minutes which I gain;
Mazed with the doubt of fear and pain;
Whenas thy delicate face I see,
A little while before farewell?
What share of the world's yearning tide,
That flash, when new day bare and white
Blots out my half-dream's faint delight,
And there is nothing by my side,
And well remembered is farewell?

What drop in the grey flood of tears,
That time when the long day toiled through
Shows nought for me to do;
And nothing worth my labour bears
The longing of the last farewell?
What pity from the heavens above,
What heed from out eternity,
What word from the swift world to me?
Speak, heed and pity, O tender love,
That knew'st the days before farewell.

As I went down to Taunton Town,
Pondering thoughts of pain,
The very spirit of the Spring
Came glancing up the lane.
Violet eyes soft and wise,
A mien of matchless grace,
Fluttering feet that skimmed the street
Like swallows in the chase.

Upon her arm of moulded charm
A maund of nodding flowers,
A radiant crew, all drenched with dew
From Quantock's breezy bowers.
Primroses, violets,
Into my heart they shone;
Till in their gleam of golden joy
All my grief was gone.

As I went up a woodland walk
In Taunton Dene, when May was green,
I heard a bird so blithely talk,
The trembling sprays between,
That I stood still
With right good will
To know what he might mean.

No yellow horned honey-suckle
Hath e'er distilled the sweets he spilled
In one long dulcet dewy chuckle
That blackbird golden billed;
Ay piping plain,
"Hope, hope again!"
Till my heart's grief was stilled.

She hath grown cold, whose kindness won me to her,
Wherefore is this?
Wishing them more, I find her favours fewer.
What is amiss?

Shall I complain? O, no! true love complains not,
Being denied.
Shall I disdain? O, no! true love disdains not,
Only false pride.

If, when she liked, to love my friendship flowered,
With too fond haste,
Say why should hers, to scorn injurious soured,
As sudden waste?

Shall I less love her for her heart's denial?
Nay, year by year,
Since she is worthy, thou shalt find thy trial
Daily more dear;

Till, it may be, the faithful spirit in thee,
Fresh from love's fast,
Out of her eyes his look of looks shall win thee,
Lover, at last.

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Why art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death,
    To stop a wretch's breath,
That calls on thee and offers her sad heart
    A prey unto thy dart?
I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold;
    Sorrow hath made me old,
Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave
    Is quiet in my grave.
Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel,
    But to me thou art cruel
If thou end not my tedious misery,
    And I soon cease to be.
Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto me,
    In one short hour's delay, is tyranny.

She is my love beyond all thought,
Though she has wrought my deepest dole;
Yet dearer for the cruel pain
Than one who fain would make me whole.
She is my glittering gem of gems,
Who yet contemns my fortune bright;
Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn
Since mine has worn a stricken white.

She is my sun and moon and star,
Who yet so far and cold doth keep,
She would not even o'er my bier
One tender tear of pity weep.
Into my heart unsought she came,
A wasting flame, a haunting care;
Into my heart of hearts, ah! why?
And left a sigh for ever there.