The Betrothed Maggie, my wife at fifty-gray and dour and old- 861 And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket. Open the old cigar-box-let me consider awhile; Which is the better portion-bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? Counselors cunning and silent-comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear that my harem is empty, will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship, and Pleasure, and Work, and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box-let me consider anew Old friends, and who is Maggie, that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; Light me another Cuba-I hold to my first-sworn vows, LOVE'S SADNESS "THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES" THE night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. .1 I SAW my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of Woe, But such a Woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; And all things with so sweet a sadness move O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in Woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow. Unknown LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright When my dream of life, from morn till night, New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frowned before, He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear No, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's wingèd dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream; Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream. Thomas Moore [1779–1852] The Grave of Love 865 "NOT OURS THE VOWS" NOT ours the vows of such as plight While leaves are green, and skies are bright, But we have loved as those who tread With clouds above, and cause to dread That thorny path, those stormy skies, Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, It looks beyond the clouds of time, By faith and hope immortal. Bernard Barton [1784-1849] THE GRAVE OF LOVE I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, I pressed them down the sod beneath; |