XVII. Go not, happy day, From the shining fields, Go not, happy day, Till the maiden yields. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. When the happy Yes Falters from her lips, Pass and blush the news O'er the blowing ships. Over blowing seas, Over seas at rest, Pass the happy news, Blush it thro' the West; Till the red man dance By his red cedar tree, And the red man's babe Leap, beyond the sea. Blush from West to East, Blush from East to West, Till the West is East, Blush it thro' the West. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. XVIII. 1. I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my And sweetly, on and on blood Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. None like her, none. 2. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more; But even then I heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 3. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honey'd rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And over whom thy darkness must have spread Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. 4. Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play, Who am no more so all forlorn, As when it seem'd far better to be born To labour and the mattock-harden'd hand, Than nursed at ease and brought to understand That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand His nothingness into man. 5. But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl |