Fringilla: Some Tales in Verse by Richard Doddridge Blackmore (black books to read TXT) 📖

deigned his good stock to deliver
From all their woes.

So long the twain had strayed apart,
That each as at a marvel gazed,
With eyes abashed, and brain amazed;
While heart enquired of heart.

III

Our God hath made a fairer thing
Than fairest dawn of summer day--
A gentle, timid, fluttering,
Confessing glance, that seeks alway
Rest for its wing.

A sweeter sight than azure skies,
Or golden star thereon that glideth;
And blest are they who see it rise,
For, if it cometh, it abideth
In woman's eyes.

The first of men such blessing sued;
The first of women smiled consent;
For husband, wife and home it meant,
And no more solitude!

IV

We trample now the faith of old,
We make our Gods of dream and doubt;
Yet life is but a tale untold,
Without one heart to love, without
One hand to hold--

The fairer half of humankind,
More gentle, playful, and confiding:
Whose soul is not the slave of mind,
Whose spirit hath a nobler guiding
Than we can find.

So Eve restores the sweeter part
Of what herself unwitting stole,
And makes the wounded Adam whole;
For half the mind is heart.

THE WELL OF SAINT JOHN

The old well of Saint John, in the parish of Newton-Nottage, Glamorganshire, has a tide of its own, which appears to run exactly counter to that of the sea, some half-mile away. The water is beautifully bright and fresh, and the quaint dome among the lonely sands is regarded with some awe and reverence.

He

"THERE is plenty of room for two in here,
Within the steep tunnel of old grey stone;
And the well is so dark, and the spring so clear,
It is quite unsafe to go down alone."

She

"It is perfectly safe, depend upon it,
For a girl who can count the steps, like me;
And if ever I saw dear mother's bonnet,
It is there on the hill by the old ash-tree."

He

"There is nobody but Rees Hopkin's cow
Watching, the dusk on the milk-white sea;
'Tis the time and the place for a life-long? vow,
Such as I owe you, and you owe me."

She

"Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well?
I shall drop the brown pitcher if you let go;
The long? roof is murmuring like a sea-shell,
And the shadows are shuddering to and fro."

He

"Tis the sound of the ebb, in Newton Bay,
Quickens the spring, as the tide grows less;
Even as true love flows alway
Counter the flood of the world's success."

She

"There is no other way for love to flow,
Whenever it springs in a woman's breast;
With the tide of its own heart it must go,
And run contrary to all the rest."

He

"Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love,
And pledge me your maiden faith thereon,
By the touch of the letter'd stone above,
And the holy water of Saint John."

She

"Oh, what shall I say? My heart sinks low;
My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat,
Is love to be measured by handfuls so;
And you know that I love you--without that."

* * * * *

They stooped, in the gleam of the faint light, over
The print of themselves on the limpid gloom;
And she lifted her full palm toward her lover,
With her lips preparing the words of doom.

But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell,
And the pledge of her faith sprang sweet and clear,
From a holier source than the old Saint's well,
From the depth of a woman's love--a tear.

PAUSIAS AND GLYCERA; OR, THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER

A STORY IN THREE SCENES

(Plin. Nat. Hist., xxxv. ii)


Scene I:--Outside the gate of Sicyon--Morning. Glycera weaving garlands, Pausias stands admiring.

Pausias

"YE Gods, I thought myself the Prince of Art,
By Phoebus, and the Muses set apart,
To smite the critic with his own complaint,
And teach the world the proper way to paint.
But lo, a young maid trips out of a wood,
And what becomes of all I understood?
I stand and stare; I could not draw a line,
If ninety Muses came, instead of nine.
Thy name, fair maiden, is a debt to me;
Teach him to speak, whom thou hast taught to see.
Myself already some repute have won,
For I am Pausias, Brietes' son.
To boast behoves me not, nor do I need,
But often wish my friends to win the meed.
So shall they now; no more will I pursue
The beaten track, but try what thou hast shown,
New forms, new curves, new harmonies of tone,
New dreams of heaven, and how to make them true."

Glycera

"Fair Sir, 'tis only what I plucked this morn,
Kind nature's gift, ere you and I were born.
Through mossy woods, and watered vales, I roam,
While day is young, and bring my treasure home;
Each lovely bell so tenderly I bear,
It knoweth not my fingers from the air,
Lo now, they scarce acknowledge their surprise,
And how the dewdrops sparkle in their eyes!"

Pausias

"Because the sun shines out of thine. But hush,
To praise a face praiseworthy, makes it blush.
I am not of the youths who find delight,
In every pretty thing that meets their sight
My father is the sage of Sicyon;
And I--well, he is proud of such a son."

Glycera

"And proud am I, my mother's child to be,
And earn for her the life she gave to me,
Her name is Myrto of the silver hair,
Not famed for wisdom, but loved everywhere."

Pausias

"Then whence thine art? Hath Phoebus given thee boon
Of wreath and posy, fillet and festoon?
Of tint and grouping, balance, depth, and tone--
Lo, I could cast my palette down, and groan!"

Glycera

"No art, fair sir, hath ever crossed my thought,
The lesson I delight in comes untaught.
The flowers around me take their own sweet way,
They tell me what they wish--and I obey.
Unlike poor us, they feel no spleen or spite
But earn their joy, oy ministering delight.
So loved and cherished, each may well suppose
Itself at home again just where it grows.
No dread have they of what the Fates may bring,
But trust their Gods, and breathe perpetual Spring."

Pausias

"Fair child of Myrto, simple-hearted maid,
Thy innocence doth arrogance upbraid.
Ye Gods, I pray you make a flower of me;
That I