ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Poems and Love Lyrics 1857}

                                                                                                                                                               116

WOOING.

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O, the wooing, endless wooing
     ’Mid the merry, merry May;
O, the am’rous glances golden
By the hawthorn, hoar and olden;
O, the merry maze pursuing
     All the live-long, sunny day.
O, the wooing, wondrous wooing—
     Wondrous wooing of the May.

O, the wooing, endless wooing,
     ’Mid the merry, merry May;
There’s a flame that burns despotic,
There’s a flower that blooms exotic
’Neath the fervid sun—embuing                                            117
     Heart and head the live-long day.
O, the wooing, wondrous wooing,
     ’Mid the merry, merry May.

O, the wooing, endless wooing,
     ’Mid the merry, merry May;
Hard to ;pine in am’rous leaven—
When all Nature swims in Heaven,
When each heart is mirth pursuing
     All the live-long, sunny day;
’Tis a hard thing to be wooing
     Marble all the merry May.

O, the wooing, fruitless wooing,
     Wooing ’mid the fickle May;
She has eyes as bright as star-beams:
From this face each gay glance far beams—
Yet far from it, is undoing
     All the heart that ever lay
In this breast—a-wooing, wooing,
     Frozen ’mid the golden May.

O, the wooing, bootless wooing,                                            118
     Wooing ’mid the fickle May;
Hard it is an eye o’erflowing
Never beams, one glance bestowing
On the trembling heart, pursuing
     The shadow through the live-long day
Of the smile that wakes its wooing
     ’Mid the madly mocking May.

O, the wooing, bitter wooing,
     Wooing ’mid the fickle May;
O, to see the locks out-vieing
Yonder mocking sun, a-dying;
Thou the dizzy dance pursuing,
     Smiling on some spirit—gay!
O, ’tis woeful, weary wooing,
     This wooing of the May.

O, the wooing, wistful wooing,
     Wooing ’mid the fickle May—
’Mid the dance I, yester-even,
Sought thy hand—’twere present Heaven;
But thy look was fresh undoing,                                              119
     As you tossed mine arm away,
Tossed away my heart, a-wooing,
     Dancing on it ’mid the May.

O, the wooing, painful wooing,
     Wooing ’mid the fickle May—
Icy wanton! never heeding,
Heart ’ill heal, though thus a-bleeding;
Dreary work! this shade pursuing,
     Casting all the hours away:
Some substantial thing for wooing
     Seek I, cold one, ’mid the May.

O, the wooing, wondrous wooing,
     ’Mid the merry, merry May—
There is one who’ll scarce abuse me,
There is one who’ll scarce refuse me—
One whose heart is fondly sueing;—
     Scarce so fair, or coldly gay,
Fondly, purer, yet a-wooing;
     She shall crown me ’mid the May.

O, the wooing, empty wooing,                                               120
     ’Mid the lesson-laden May—
O, the silly, vain coquetting,
O, the wanton heart’s blood-letting,
In the passionate pursuing,
     Empty shadows, cold as gay!
O, the moments lost in wooing
     Loveless daughters of the May!

[Note:
‘Wooing’ was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 26th September, 1857.]

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                                                                                                                                                               121

DOUBT.

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THICK gloom pervades the pervious sky
         And half a sun, it seems, is set;
         I peer into thy depths of jet,
Something, I feel, fades in thine eye.

Last Spring we met as strangers meet,
         Last Summer met as friends, or more;
         Last Spring you smiles of welcome wore—
Thine Autumn smiles seem scarce so sweet.

Thy cottage eaves are soaked with rain,
         My noisy doubts are choked with tears—
         Are, then, anticipated years
Of Hope to be dissolved again?

Beside thy door a birchen-tree                                                         122
         Stood verdant. ’Neath it in the Spring
         We vowed. It is a withered thing—
Ah! Mary, so would I not be.

If Love be changeless, Love be true—
         Ah, say, do gentle eyes grow cold?
         In one brief Summer, then, grow old
The hearts to Love and Nature new?

Ah, Mary!—but I would not think
         Too basely of thee—thou art fair;
         Though some style Beauty weak as air,
And say it lures on Falsehood’s brink.

Love’s ambient billows, rank with pain,
         From the warm strand of Joy recede.
         Alas, my doubtful heart must bleed—
Say, Mary, will it rise again?

Alas! each doubt, plunged to the hilt—
         A knife, stagnates my aching heart;
         ’Tis sore to weep, ’tis sore to part—
I would not deem my Mary jilt.

[Note:
‘Doubt’ was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 29th August, 1857.]

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                                                                                                                                                               123

LOVE’S HEAVEN.

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THE voice of enchantment pronounces thy name, Love!—
     High essence of Beauty, Divinity—Heaven!
The purest, the sweetest, the brightest, the dearest,
     By whose presence Elysian the cold clay is shriven!
A million of thanks, smiling beacon of beauty,
     For the gem from thy bosom munificent given.

All gentle and loving, with joy-jewels laden,
     Murm’ring a hymn, half a child of the skies,
Sweet as a primrose, my tender May-blossom,
     Couched on this bosom, all beautiful lies;
And I hear her heart beating and beating for ever,
     And soar in the truth of her luminous eyes.

Hark! each soft throb, wrapt in melody tender,                               124
     Like a bridal bell, tolls out its anthem of love,
See! how each glance, gushing forth like a moonbeam,
     In my heart of hearts nestles, a faith-nourished dove.
Closer come to my bosom, my pure one, my peerless,
     Thy life around mine, like an angel’s, is wove.

As farther we rove on our voyage of beauty—
     Two larks past the cloud-veil saluting the sun;
As nearer we come to the disc of all being,
     As closer to Heaven our destinies run—
Closer come to this bosom, my purest, my dearest,
     My moon of emotion, my beautiful one!

Sunbeams, like babes, in my welcoming bosom—
     Born of thy beautiful soul, lie serene;
The book of thy love I for ever bend over,
     And evermore fresh immortalities glean.
O grander than aught in the kingdom of visions,
     Closer come in thy vocal enchantment, my queen!

In the pure sparkling bliss of our holy communion,                           125
     In the kindred delights springing day after day,
I feel my soul growing, and soaring, and bright’ning—
     An April-bud opening into its May.
O purify, brighten, my purest, my peerless!
     We are elves of the air, not the children of clay!

I stand, a rough oak in a green Spring forest,
     Thou twinest the ivy, love—constant as dear;
I lie a poor heath-sprig, yet bright in my morning,
     Thou kissest the dewy-drop—stainless and clear.
Twine closer, O ivy, beam brighter, thou dew-drop—
     The goal of all loving, if gained not, is near!

The voice of enchantment pronounces thy name, Love!
     High essence of Beauty, Divinity—Heaven!
The purest, the sweetest, the brightest, the dearest,
     By whose presence Elysian the cold clay is shriven!
A million of thanks, smiling beacon of beauty,
     For the gem from thy bosom munificent given.

[Note:
An earlier version of this poem was published in The Glasgow Sentinel on 17th January, 1857:

LOVE’S HEAVEN.

The breath of enchantment is whisp’ring thy name, love—
     Thou grandest, most beautiful halo of heaven;
The purest, the sweetest, the brightest, the dearest,
     By whose beautiful kisses the cold clay is shriven!
A million of thanks! oh, thou beacon of beauty!
     For the pure, dainty gem by thy golden hand given!

All gentle and loving, with joy-jewels laden,
     Murm’ring a hymn, like a child of the skies!
Sweet as a primrose, my tender May-blossom
     On my fond bosom all beautiful lies!
And I hear her heart beating, and beating for ever,
     And soar in the truth of her luminous eyes.

Hark! each soft throb, wrapt in melody tender,
     Like a bridal bell tolls out its calm world of love!
See! how each glance, gushing out like a moonbeam,
     In my heart of hearts nestles—a faith-singing dove!
Closer come to my bosom, my pure one, my peerless!
     Thy being ’bout mine, pure as angel’s, is wove!

As farther we rove on our heaven of beauty,—
     Two larks part the cloud veil saluting the sun;
As nearer we come to the disc of all being,
     As closer to heaven our destinies run,
Closer come to my bosom, my pure one, my peerless!
     My moon of emotion, my beautiful one!

Sunbeams, like babes, lie serene in my bosom,
     Born of thy beautiful soul, oh, my Queen!
The book of thy love I for ever bend over,
     And fresh immortalities each moment glean.
Oh! grand as the light of the angel-wings glorious,
     Is the ray of the god-light of Love’s golden sheen.

Surely heaven is bursting, in music of glory,
     O’er our earth—shedding on us her wonderments bright;
Or you, love, and I, in some vision are sleeping,
     And the dream shall awake in the bosom of night.
Yet twine closer, my soul, tho’ there be an awaking,
     We’ll roam till it comes in our gentle sun-light.

Yet, fear we not: worship we purely and truly,
     Looking up in thine eyes, Love—thou monarch of all!
Of Earth and of Heaven, the Past and the Present,
     And the grand, looming Future, whose hope-shadows fall!
Thine eyes aye are changeless!—we’ll know no awaking,
     And the wine of our love will be ne’er changed to gall!

I stand a proud oak in a green, green spring-forest,
     Thou twinest the ivy true, closely and dear!
I lie a poor heath-sprig, yet bright in my morning!
     Thou kissest a dew-drop all stainless and clear!
Twine closer, thou ivy—kiss brighter, my dew-drop—
     The goal of all loving, if touched not, is near.

In the pure, sparkling bliss of our holy communion,
     In the pulses that kiss me in beauty alway!
I feel my soul glowing, and soaring, and bright’ning,
     Like an April-bud bursting bright into its May.
Oh! purify, brighten, my purest, my peerless!
     We are elves of the air—not the children of clay!

The breath of enchantment is whisp’ring thy name, Love
     Thou grandest, most beautiful halo of Heaven!
The purest, the sweetest, the brightest, the dearest,
     By whose beautiful kisses the cold clay is shriven!
A million of thanks! oh! thou beacon of beauty!
     For the pure, dainty gem, by thy golden hand given!

                               Jan. 11.                                                                            ROBT. W. BUCHANAN. ]

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                                                                                                                                                               126

A HOPE.

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MARY, my gentle love!—
Where the sweet flowers wave
Thy body has a grave;
High in the sparkling Heaven,
Home—bliss! to thee is given!
These stormy sighs bemoan thee—
Beautiful, I am lonely;
My heart is choked with tears;
Misery croaks in mine ears,
Eating the lays that strive
To keep my hopes alive;
Sleep broods aloof, pale with sorrow—
Coming—curdles my soul with horror;
Like a mocking bird, Life sings
By Memory’s fathomless sea,                                              127
Whose bosom evermore rings,
Angel! with shrieks for thee;
As on my couch of tears,
In a flush of pain, I sit,
Visions of burning years,
Like ghosts, through my bosom flit.—
I clasp’d an angel! I clasp a stone!
’Tis cold as snow, and I sob alone.

Beautiful! my star! my love!
Hang o’er this bursting brain,
Holy, in my soul’s pain;
Come, with those angel fingers,
To soothe the breath that lingers
Within this yearning clay.
Methinks thine eye is bright
In lustre for me—even
In thy mighty Heaven!
Come to my spirit’s door,
Breathe in thy spirit-lay
To the unhappy core;
Come thou down like a veil                                                   128
’Tween me and my mortal hell!
This cheek in Pain is pale—
O’er it in beauty dwell;
Sooth the hot storm to rest;
Grow like a flower in my breast;
As the unruffled deep
Bid my sad spirit sleep—
Until that day I share
A home with thee in the air!
Where seas of angels look
On the proud disc of bliss,
Beg thou for me a nook!
Loose these hot bands for me;
Bid my struggling spirit be free!
Ope those fond arms, when I shall soar above,
To clasp me ceaselessly.
Thou grand! accept my soul
Where the waves of all beauty roll
In bright eternity!
May, my Heaven! my love!

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RE-MET.

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THE shades of a desolate gloaming
     Envelope the frozen sky,
But, grey o’er the wild world roaming,
     I gaze in thy brighter eye;
As the fingers of Memory stir it
     I look till my heart half breaks,
Till it seems that the passionate spirit
     Of the Past in thine orb awakes.

In the morning of life did I woo thee,
     While my heart at thy feet was thrown;
I proffered my hopes unto thee
     ’Neath the gaze that turned them to stone.
As a soul at the threshold of Heaven,                                              130
     Forbidden, accursed, did I kneel—
And the heart of Affection was given
     To be crushed ’neath an iron heel.

Thou hast moved ’mid the listlessly radiant—
     A goddess—and who thy god?
Like a worm have I languished, obedient,—
     Sorrow has used her rod!
The bloom of the sapling is blighted,
     Dim without years is this eye;
’Mid the Night, yet am I not benighted—
     There’s a nascent moon on high!

Thou shalt paint a fresh rose on my cheek, love,
     As fresh as the summer, and new;
The bliss that the world couldn’t speak, love,
     Shall at length be unopened in you.
O departed the pangs of the lover—
     The path it is rugged to Heaven!
Joy and Love have at length deigned to hover
     Above me, and all is forgiven.

O sweet in Affection to hymn thee,                                                   131
     As the spirit co-mingling I see!
They say that thine eye now shines dimly—
     ’Twas never so bright for me;
They say that thy locks they are grey, love—
     For me they were never so golden.
O the sun of an exquisite day, love,
     Steals o’er us—with fondness enfolden.

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                                                                                                                                                               132

WAITING.

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’MID the sober Autumn shadows,
     In the healthy breezes airy—
Waking in thy cheek the blossom
Of the red rose—in thy bosom
         Lilies white;
’Mid the meditative meadows
     Half a stone cast from thy dairy—
Waiting for the lover’s light,
         Sit I, Mary.

Night of silence, Night of shadows,
     Smites the Day, departing fairy:
Birds are twitt’ring, leaves are laughing,
Flowers, ambrosial nectar quaffing,
         Kiss my feet—
I am praying ’mid the meadows                                            133
     For the instant that shall bear thee
Hither ’mid the darkness, sweet!
         Praying, Mary.

Very dear the tawny shadows,
     Quenching all the light, or barely:
Quenching all the dazzling daylight,
Save the soft, subduing fay-light
         Of thine eyes!
Bathed in tears the mourning meadows—
     Nature’s weeping by thy dairy—
Save the Nature that defies—
         Love’s Nature, Mary.

I could hug ye, genial shadows,
     Kindly guardians, rough and wary—
That to Night and Love awake us,
That our tawny temple make us
         Of delight.
Monarchs of the merry meadows,
     Warm old souls, in mantles dreary!
Could your hearts be less than bright—                                 134
         Kissing Mary?

Gentle, loving, genial shadows!
     Many be to-night and wary:
Closely in these arms enfolden
Were her locks but half as golden—
         ’Twere as well—
Sunlight streaming o’er the meadows,
     Sunlight o’er the dozing dairy,
Stabbing Night!—’twere strange to tell;
         Sunlight, Mary.

Grow in gloom, ye guardian shadows,
     Smother all the beam, or barely:
Men might want another sun, love,
I might lose my only one, love!
         ’Twere as well
Quenched this sunlight of the meadows—
     (Should I lose thee, life’s one fairy!)
Save a gleam or two to tell
         Thou’rt still Mary.

Hope is in ye, kindly shadows—                                           135
     Sprites that hover o’er my fairy!
Thought with tender thought will mingle:
Prattling urchins by the ingle
         Fill mine eye.
Babbling babes—here, ’mid the meadows,
     In my heart sublimely, dearly,
Thrusting hands, draw tears on high
         Of hope, my Mary.

’Mid the shadows, sister shadows,
     In the welkin dark and dreary—
Visions of a bright May morning;
Paths with sweetest flowers adorning,
         Greet me—grand!
Thou art mine amid the meadows.
     Sad the mocking dream as airy;
But the waving of thy hand
         Recalls it, Mary.

From her soul avaunt, ye shadows!
     Ye’ve been true, true love I bear ye—
Truer be in this, and let her                                                    136
Answer but be for the better;
         And no more
I’ll invoke ye ’mid the meadows—
     Hold aloof, be wise, be wary—
Ye may flee for evermore,
         Giving Mary.

Yet may we shake hands, old shadows—
     Many a loving thought I bear ye:—
I shall clasp her ’mid the daylight,
If her soul of sunshine may light
         My lone way;
But welcome, love-kings of the meadows,
     Auspicious spirits of the dairy,
We shall give ye, dead the Day,
         I and Mary.

’Mid the sober Autumn shadows,
     In the healthy breezes airy,—
Waking in thy cheek the blossom
Of the red rose—in thy bosom
         Lilies white;
‘’Mid the meditative meadows                                               137
     Half a stone-cast from thy dairy—
Waiting for the lover’s light,
         Sit I, Mary.

Constant, gentle, genial shadows,
     By the thankful love I bear ye,
Where my hopes and fears now wrestle
May a thousand lovers nestle
         In your arms;
Grow in passion, ’mid the meadows,
     Shepherd kings, queens of the dairy!
Blest be each lover in the charms
         Of some chaste Mary!

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ISABEL.

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NIGHT of silence, Night of gladness,
     O’er my evening chamber dwell—
Cool the eyelids hot with weeping:
She is creeping, hither creeping,
         Calmly, dearly!
Quench the fires of smould’ring madness—
     Smiles cast o’er me, smiles of glory;
     Tearful greeting were not well—
Tears, when thou and Heaven art near me,
         Isabel.

Vaguely, softly, but how brightly,
     Summoned from the narrow cell,
Comes she in the arms of moonlight,
Sisters dear, whose arms shall soon light
         This sad brow,
Sweet your gentle visit nightly—                                                     139
     All the thoughts of years to quell:
     Heaven triumphant over Hell—
Love and Memory below,
         Isabel.

Angel-darling, I remember,
     I remember, O how well!
We were boy and girl together;
Ah! the days of dear May-weather—
         Long ago!
Of the frowns of life’s December,
     In our souls no dream might dwell—
     Breathed the Spring a quick’ning spell:
Till her silent overthrow,
         Isabel.

Angel-darling, I remember,
     I remember, O how well!
Through the forest, those long rambles,
Sporting ‘’mid the glad May-brambles—
         Long ago!
Of the thorns of life’s December,                                                    140
     In our souls no dream might dwell—
     Breathed the Spring a quick’ning spell:
Till her silent overthrow,
         Isabel.

Memory yields back the vision
     That in early hours befel;
And I clasp the being lovely,
Hoard the soul so far above me,
         As of old—
Men may laugh in dull derision
     At the tales my tongue could tell,
     Mutter how the angels fell!—
High thou scorn’st the stoics cold,
         Isabel.

Though their every flower be blighted,
     Sweet still on dead years to dwell!
Simplest thing brings wisest pleasure:
Fill me up the mournful measure
         To the brim—
All the dreams (re-born) that lighted                                                141
     Up the Past again shall cast
     Joy, the storm of Present quell
Sing, O sing, the childish hymn,
         Isabel.

Often ‘’mid the twilight, lonely
     Where the social swallows dwell,
I beneath the cottage eaves, love,
’Mid the rustle of the leaves, love,
         Sit in thought;
There again thou art mine only,
     There again thy bosoms swell
     Close to mine as erst—and quell
All the pangs thy corse hath bought,
         Isabel.

A single hair divides the mortal
     From the immortal. Was it well—
I by Night Affection’s seed, love,
For the soil of Earth decreed, love,
         Set in Heaven?
Robed in calm you passed the portal—                                           142
     Died away the vernal spell!
     Weep I where the weepers dwell,
Waiting till the blow is given,
         Isabel.

Roving in the path of duty,
     Men shrink from me. It is well! —
Few may know the pangs I’ve borne, love,
And that few but know in scorn, love,
         Know in ruth.
Thanks! the wild unusual beauty,
     That a part was of thy heart,
     Still may in mine essence dwell—
Stand I, the child of age and youth,
         Isabel.

I am dubbed the child of Passion!—
     I within whose soul may dwell
Not a spark of ling’ring fire, love;
In whose frame no young desire, love,
         Life may trace!
Let the world—so will it—crash on—                                             143
     Need I fear?—Above thy bier
     Did each feature fondly dwell,
Catch the hue of Death’s own face,
         Isabel.

Hush! fierce thoughts, she comes, the midnight
     Shines—the noisy heart to quell!
In my chamber here alone, love,
Sit I sadly making moan, love—
         Weak in tears.
Come, my own, each dripping lid light
     With the gleams of melting dreams;
     O’er the eye and heart, O dwell—
Swathed in the melody of years,
         Isabel.

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                                                                                                                                                             144

SONG.

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BY the hour when the Morning
     And Night co-embrace;
When Cynthia, adorning—
     Calm priestess—each face,
Auspiciously scatters
     The garlands hymeneal,
By Clutha’s dark waters
     I worshipped—thy menial.
It, in song, bore along
     Far the passionate strain,
Spite of wrath, spite of wrong,
     Was I thine, dear Jane.

The vile and the bestial                                                         145
     Might riot afar—
The pure, the celestial
     Thou—thou! wert my star:
By one cup of Gladness
     Sure poorer was Heaven,
As in bliss, as in madness,
     Our kisses were given!
Gone the fears of long years,
     Gone the doubt and the pain—
As in exquisite tears,
     I was thine, dear Jane.

’Mid the splendour patrician
     On fond lowly knee,
Affection my mission—
     I’d bowed unto thee:
Thine eye beamed the brightest—
     I bowed the most duteous!
Thy foot was the lightest
     That danced ’mid the beauteous:
Gay and fleet blinked thy feet,                                              146
     Half in joy, half in pain,
On this heart did they beat,
     On this heart, dear Jane.

I wooed thee, I won thee—
     A passionate wooer;
And thou wert mine only,
     Fair queen of the pure,
The world had uprooted
     Each flower from my bosom—
Now little it booted,
     You opened, sweet blossom.
For the years—gone the fears
     And the prospects of pain—
Come smiles or come tears,
     I am thine, dear Jane.

__________

FINIS.

_____

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