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| ON the Sabbath-day, | |
| Through the churchyard old and grey, | |
| 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. | |
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| My heart was otherwhere | |
| While the organ shook the air, | |
| And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; | 10 |
| But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine | |
| Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine— | |
| Gleamed and vanished in a moment—O that face was surely thine | |
| Out of heaven, Barbara! | |
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| 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 kissed, | 20 |
| That wild morning, Barbara! | |
| |
| I searched 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 clasped 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 watched, through latticed 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 hath ranged, | |
| And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; | |
| But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: | |
| 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 oppressed, | |
| I wander like a 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 stilled, for Death hath told you more | |
| Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore | |
| Will you 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! | |
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