THERE is a smile of Love,
And there is a smile of Deceit,
And there is a smile of smiles
In which the two smiles meet.
And there is a frown of Hate,
And there is a frown of Disdain, And there is a frown of frowns
Which you strive to forget in vain,
For it sticks in the heart's deep core
And it sticks in the deep backbone.
And no smile ever was smiled
But only one smile alone
(And betwixt the cradle and grave
It only once smiled can be),
That when it once is smiled
There's an end to all misery.
BENEATH a white thorn's lovely May,
Three virgins at the break of day:
:-
'Whither, young man, whither away?
Alas for woe! alas for woe!'
They cry, and tears for ever flow.
The first was clothed in flames of fire,
The second clothed in iron wire;
The third was clothed in tears and sighs,
Dazzling bright before my eyes.
They bore a net of golden twine
To hang upon the branches fine.
Pitying I wept to see the woe
That love and beauty undergo-
To be clothed in burning fires
And in ungratified desires,
And in tears clothed night and day;
It melted all my soul away.
When they saw my tears, a smile
That might heaven itself beguile
Bore the golden net aloft,
As on downy pinions soft,
Over the morning of my day.
Underneath the net I stray,
Now intreating Flaming-fire,
Now intreating Iron-wire,
Now intreating Tears-and-sighs.—
O when will the morning rise!
'AWAKE, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother's only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
O wake! thy father doth thee keep.
'O what land is the land of dreams?
What are its mountains and what are its streams?'
O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.
'Among the lambs clothed in white,
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn—
O when shall I again return!'
Dear child! I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the land of dreams,
But, though calm and warm the waters wide,
SWEET Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the ball-room among the fair;
The young men and maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue :
'An angel is here from the heavenly climes, Or again return the golden times;
Her eyes outshine every brilliant ray,
She opens her lips-'tis the month of May.'
Mary moves in soft beauty and conscious delight,
To augment with sweet smiles all the joys of the night,
Nor once blushes to own to the rest of the fair
That sweet love and beauty are worthy our care.
In the morning the villagers rose with delight,
And repeated with pleasure the joys of the night,
And Mary arose among friends to be free,
But no friend from henceforward thou, Mary, shalt see.
Some said she was proud, some reviled her still more,
And some when she passed by shut-to the door;
A damp cold came o'er her, her blushes all fled,
Her lilies and roses are blighted and shed.
'O why was I born with a different face,
Why was I not born like this envious race?
Why did heaven adorn me with bountiful hand,
And then set me down in an envious land?
'To be weak as a lamb and smooth as a dove,
And not to raise envy, is called Christian love;
But if you raise envy your merit's to blame
For planting such spite in the weak and the tame.
'I will humble my beauty, I will not dress fine,
I will keep from the ball, and my eyes shall not shine; And if any girl's lover forsakes her for me,
I'll refuse him my hand and from envy be free.'
She went out in the morning attired plain and neat;
'Proud Mary's gone mad,' said the child in the street;
She went out in the morning in plain neat attire,
And came home in the evening bespattered with mire.
She trembled and wept, sitting on the bed-side,
She forgot it was night, and she trembled and cried;
She forgot it was night, she forgot it was morn,
Her soft memory imprinted with faces of scorn.
With faces of scorn and with eyes of disdain,
Like foul fiends inhabiting Mary's mild brain;
She remembers no face like the human divine;
All faces have envy, sweet Mary, but thine.
And thine is a face of sweet love in despair,
And thine is a face of mild sorrow and care,
And thine is a face of wild terror and fear
That shall never be quiet till laid on its bier.
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