Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Alexander Smith. 18291867778. Barbara
ON the Sabbath-day, | |
Through the churchyard old and gray, | |
Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; | |
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, | |
‘Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms, | 5 |
‘Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, | |
I stood careless, Barbara. | |
My heart was otherwhere, | |
While the organ shook the air, | |
And the priest, with outspread hands, bless’d the people with a prayer; | 10 |
But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine | |
Gleam’d a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine— | |
Gleam’d and vanish’d in a moment—O that face was surely thine | |
Out of heaven, Barbara! | |
O pallid, pallid face! | 15 |
O earnest eyes of grace! | |
When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. | |
You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: | |
The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist— | |
A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss’d, | 20 |
That wild morning, Barbara. | |
I search’d, in my despair, | |
Sunny noon and midnight air; | |
I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. | |
O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, | 25 |
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone— | |
Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, | |
You were sleeping, Barbara. | |
‘Mong angels, do you think | |
Of the precious golden link | 30 |
I clasp’d around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? | |
Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, | |
Was emptied of its music, and we watch’d, through lattice-bars, | |
The silent midnight heaven creeping o’er us with its stars, | |
Till the day broke, Barbara? | 35 |
In the years I’ve changed; | |
Wild and far my heart has ranged, | |
And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; | |
But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack’d: | |
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact— | 40 |
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. | |
Still I love you. Barbara. | |
Yet, Love, I am unblest; | |
With many doubts opprest, | |
I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest. | 45 |
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, | |
The hunger of my soul were still’d; for Death hath told you more | |
Than the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all lore | |
You could teach me, Barbara. | |
In vain, in vain, in vain! | 50 |
You will never come again. | |
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; | |
The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, | |
Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; | |
There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee— | 55 |
Barbara! |