Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands, And be damn'd their bitter drouth. With your dear face between my hands And the cup held to my mouth, My love, It's clean cup to my mouth! JENIFER'S LOVE Small is my secret--let it pass-- Small in your life the share I had, Who sat beside you in the class, Awed by the bright superior lad: Whom yet with hot and eager face I prompted when he missed his place. For you the call came swift and soon: But sometimes in your holidays You meet me trudging home at noon To dinner through the dusty ways, And recognized, and with a nod Passed on, but never guessed--thank God! Truly our ways were separate. I bent myself to hoe and drill, Yea, with an honest man to mate, Fulfilling God Almighty's will; And bore him children. But my prayers Were yours--and, only after, theirs. While you--still loftier, more remote, You sprang from stair to stair of fame, And you've a riband on your coat, And you've a title to your name; But have you yet a star to shine Above your bed, as I o'er mine? TWO DUETS _From "Arion," an unpublished Masque_ I _He._ Aglai-a! Aglai-a! Sweet, awaken and be glad. _She._ Who is this that calls Aglaia? Is it thou, my dearest lad? _He._ 'Tis Arion, 'tis Arion, Who calls thee from sleep-- From slumber who bids thee To follow and number His kids and his sheep. _She._ Nay, leave to entreat me! If mother should spy on Us twain, she would beat me. _He._ Then come, my love, come! And hide with Arion Where green woods are dumb! _She._ Ar-i-on! Ar-i-on! Closer, list! I am afraid! _He._ Whisper, then, thy love Arion, From thy window, lily maid. _She._ Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia Hath heard them debate Of wooing repenting-- "Who trust to undoing, Lament them too late." _He._ Nay, nay, when I woo thee, Thy mother might spy on All harm I shall do thee. _She._ I come, then--I come! To follow Arion Where green woods be dumb. SONG Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck, Arrow of Love--I bare my neck Down to the bosom. See, no fleck Of blood! I have never a wound; I go Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho! What 'neath my girdle flutters so? 'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings, 'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings; While in the wound it nests and sings-- Heigh-ho! _He._ Of Arion, of Arion That wound thou shalt learn; What nothings 'tis made of, And soft pretty soothings In shade of the fern. _She._ When maids have a mind to, Man's word they rely on, Old warning are blind to-- I come, then--I come To walk with Arion Where green woods are dumb! II