I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

["Men and Women." 1856.]

EVELYN HOPE.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour.

That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,

Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think:

The shutters are shut, no light may pass,

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;

It was not her time to love: beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares ;

And now was quiet, now astir;

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?

What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew;

And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,

And creates the love to reward the love;
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;
Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, at last it will,

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,

And your mouth of your own geranium's red, And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me;
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? Let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

;

My heart seemed full as it could hold;

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold.

So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep,

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

1775.

["Works." 1846.]

ONE year ago my path was green,
My footstep light, my brow serene;
Alas! and could it have been so
One year ago?

There is a love that is to last

When the hot days of youth are past:

Such love did a sweet maid bestow

One year ago.

I took a leaflet from her braid

And gave it to another maid.

Love! broken should have been thy bow
One year ago.

I love to hear that men are bound
By your enchanting links of sound:
I love to hear that none rebel
Against your beauty's silent spell.
I know not whether I may bear
To see it all, as well as hear;
And never shall I clearly know
Unless you nod and tell me so.

Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach
Into the boat? now far beyond my reach!
Stand there a little while, and wave once more
That 'kerchief; but may none upon the shore
Dare think the fond salute was meant for him!
Dizzily on the plashing water swim

My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain
Thy lovely form, which tears bear off again.
In vain have they now ceased; it now is gone
Too far for sight, and leaves me here alone.
O could I hear the creaking of the mast!

I curse it present, I regret it past.

Here, ever since you went abroad,

If there be change, no change I see,

I only walk our wonted road,

The road is only walked by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is;
Was it of that you bade me tell?

I catch at times, at times I miss,

The sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here!
Two shortest months! then tell me why

Voices are harsher than they were,

And tears are longer ere they dry.

Little it interests me how

Some insolent usurper now

Divides your narrow chair;

Little heed I whose hand is placed
(No, nor how far) around your waist,
Or paddles in your hair.

A time, a time there may have been
(Ah! and there was) when every scene

Was brightened by your eyes.

And dare you ask what you have done?
My answer, take it, is but one;

The weak have taught the wise.

The maid I love ne'er thought of me

Amid the scenes of gaiety;

But when her heart or mine sank low,

Ah, then it was no longer so.

From the slant palm she raised her head,

And kissed the cheek whence youth had fled. Angels! some future day, for this,

Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.

Often I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.

When she kissed me once in play,

Rubies were less bright than they,

And less bright were those which shone

In the palace of the sun.

Will they be as bright again?

Not if kissed by other men.