James Riley - The Old Soldier's Story - Poems and Prose Sketches

Ah! at last alone, love!
Now the band may play
Till its sweetest tone, love,
Swoons and dies away!
They who most will miss us
We're not caring for —
Who of them could kiss us
In the corridor?

Had we only known, dear,
Ere this long delay,
Just how all alone, dear,
We might waltz away,
Then for hours, like this, love,
We are longing for,
We'd have still to kiss, love,
In the corridor!

Nestle in my heart, love;
Hug and hold me close —
Time will come to part, love,
Ere a fellow knows;
There! the Strauss is ended —
Whirl across the floor:
Isn't waltzing splendid
In the corridor?

Louella Wainie! where are you?
Do you not hear me as I cry?
Dusk is falling; I feel the dew;
And the dark will be here by and by:
I hear no thing but the owl's hoo-hoo!
Louella Wainie! where are you?

Hand in hand to the pasture bars
We came loitering, Lou and I,
Long ere the fireflies coaxed the stars
Out of their hiding-place on high.
O how sadly the cattle moo!
Louella Wainie! where are you?

Laughingly we parted here —
"I will go this way," said she,
"And you will go that way, my dear" —
Kissing her dainty hand at me —
And the hazels hid her from my view.
Louella Wainie! where are you?

Is there ever a sadder thing
Than to stand on the farther brink
Of twilight, hearing the marsh-frogs sing?
Nothing could sadder be, I think!
And ah! how the night-fog chills one through.
Louella Wainie! where are you?

Water-lilies and oozy leaves —
Lazy bubbles that bulge and stare
Up at the moon through the gloom it weaves
Out of the willows waving there!
Is it despair I am wading through?
Louella Wainie! where are you?

Louella Wainie, listen to me,
Listen, and send me some reply,
For so will I call unceasingly
Till death shall answer me by and by —
Answer, and help me to find you too!
Louella Wainie! where are you?

The text: Love thou thy fellow man!
He may have sinned; – One proof indeed,
He is thy fellow, reach thy hand
And help him in his need!

Love thou thy fellow man. He may
Have wronged thee – then, the less excuse
Thou hast for wronging him. Obey
What he has dared refuse!

Love thou thy fellow man – for, be
His life a light or heavy load,
No less he needs the love of thee
To help him on his road.

"He bore the name of William Brown" —
His name, at least, did not go down
With him that day
He went the way
Of certain death where duty lay.

He looked his fate full in the face —
He saw his watery resting-place
Undaunted, and
With firmer hand
Held others' hopes in sure command. —

The hopes of full three hundred lives —
Aye, babes unborn, and promised wives!
"The odds are dread,"
He must have said,
"Here, God, is one poor life instead."

No time for praying overmuch —
No time for tears, or woman's touch
Of tenderness,
Or child's caress —
His last "God bless them!" stopped at "bless" —

Thus man and engine, nerved with steel,
Clasped iron hands for woe or weal,
And so went down
Where dark waves drown
All but the name of William Brown.

Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?
I catch faint perfumes of the blossoms white
That maidens drape their tresses with at night,
And, through dim smiles of beauty and the din
Of the musicians' harp and violin,
I hear, enwound and blended with the dance,
The voice whose echo is this utterance, —
Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?

Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?
I see but vacant windows, curtained o'er
With webs whose architects forevermore
Race up and down their slender threads to bind
The buzzing fly's wings whirless, and to wind
The living victim in his winding sheet. —
I shudder, and with whispering lips repeat,
Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?

Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?
What will you have for answer? – Shall I say
That he who sings the merriest roundelay
Hath neither joy nor hope? – and he who sings
The lightest, sweetest, tenderest of things
But utters moan on moan of keenest pain,
So aches his heart to ask and ask in vain,
Why are they written – all these lovers' rhymes?

Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf,
And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf —
But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.

Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night,
And light the first star's faltering lance of light
On glimmering lawns, – but lightlier loving hands.

And light the feathery flake of early snows,
Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows,
And light the dew, – but lightlier loving hands.

Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain,
Or down of snow or thistle – all are vain, —
Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.

'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit
Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete
Satisfaction I felt in the utter control
Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul.

So – we parted. I said it were better we should —
That she could forget me – I knew that she could;
For I never was worthy so tender a heart,
And so for her sake it were better to part.

She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad
As I held out my hand – for the ring that she had —
With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be
Resigned to look up and be happy with me.

'Twas a test, as I said – but God pity your grief,
At a moment like this when a smile of relief
Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize,
And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes.

Chant me a rhyme of Christmas —
Sing me a jovial song, —
And though it is filled with laughter,
Let it be pure and strong.

Let it be clear and ringing,
And though it mirthful be,
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos
Run through the melody.

Sing of the hearts brimmed over
With the story of the day —
Of the echo of childish voices
That will not die away. —

Of the blare of the tasselled bugle,
And the timeless clatter and beat
Of the drum that throbs to muster
Squadrons of scampering feet. —

Of the wide-eyed look of wonder,
And the gurgle of baby-glee,
As the infant hero wrestles
From the smiling father's knee.