My Heart and I

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak-thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave,—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking, too, of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

1083

Charles Wolfe [1791-1823]

MY HEART AND I

ENOUGH! We're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.

The moss reprints more tenderly

The hard types of the mason's knife,
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,

As if such colors could not fly.

We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said: I, smiling at him, shook my head. 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!

Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:

Rosalind's Scroll

Disdain them, break them, throw them by!
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used,-well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

1085

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

ROSALIND'S SCROLL

From The Poet's Vow"

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart,
A woman scarce in years:
I come to thee, a solemn corpse
Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs;
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look:
I meet it calm as thou.

No look of thine can change this smile,
Or break thy sinful vow:

I tell thee that my poor scorned heart
Is of thine earth-thine earth, a part:
It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ
By a living, loving one,

Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life,
The warm quick tears do run:
Ah, let the unloving corpse control
Thy scorn back from the loving soul
Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob
When passion's course was free;

I have prayed for thee with silent lips
In the anguish none could see;
They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft"-
But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more:
The corpse's tongue is still;
Its folded fingers point to heaven,
But point there stiff and chill:
No farther wrong, no farther woe
Hath license from the sin below
Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer,
And the dead's silentness,

To wring from out thy soul a cry

Which God shall hear and bless!

Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand,
And pale among the saints I stand,

A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my car,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath, warm on my cheek:
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 1087

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your restFor I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.

And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow--
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and soreOh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to:

They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there,

But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!