Six Songs

Through the long days and years
What will my [loved]1 one be,
Parted from me?
  Through the long days and years.

Always as then she was
Loveliest, brightest, best,
Blessing and blest, --
  Always as then she was.

Never on earth again
Shall I before her stand,
Touch lip or hand, --
  Never on earth again.

But, while my darling lives,
Peaceful I journey [on,]2
Not quite alone,
  Not while my darling lives.

Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by.

Oh! her cheek, her cheek was pale,
Her voice was hardly musical;
But your proud grey eyes grew tender,
Child, when mine they met,
With a piteous self-surrender,
                           Margaret.

Child, what have I done to thee?
Child, what hast thou done to me?
How you froze me with your tone
That last day we met!
Your sad eyes then were cold as stone,
                           Margaret.

Oh, it all now seems to me
A far-off weary mystery!
Yet -- and yet her last sad frown
Awes me still, and yet --
In vain I laugh your memory down,
                           Margaret.

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As the billows fling shells on the shore,
As the sun poureth light on the sea,
As the lark on the wing scatters songs to the spring,
So rushes my love to thee.

As the ivy clings close to the tower,
As the dew lieth deep in a flower,
As the shadows to light, as the day unto night,
So clings my wild soul to thee!

As the moon glitters coldly alone,
Above earth on her cloud-woven throne,
As the rocky-bound cave repulses a wave,
So thy anger repulseth me.

As the bitter black frost of a night
Stays the roses with pitiless might,
As the sharp dagger-thrust hurls a king to the dust,
So thy cruelty murdereth me.

Yet in spite of thy queenly disdain,
Thou art seared by my passion and pain;
Thou shalt hear me repeat, till I die for it sweet
"I love thee! I dare to love thee!"

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums
  That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
  And gives the battle to his hands:
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
  He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
  And strikes him dead for thine and thee.