Thomas Lovell Beddoes

1803-1849.

Dream-Pedlary.

I.

I

f there were dreams to sell,

What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life’s fresh crown

Only a rose-leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rung the bell,

What would you buy?

II.

A cottage lone and still,

With bowers nigh,

Shadowy, my woes to still,

Until I die.

Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.

Were dreams to have at will,

This would best heal my ill,

This would I buy.

III.

But there were dreams to sell

Ill didst thou buy;

Life is a dream, they tell,

Waking, to die.

Dreaming a dream to prize,

Is wishing ghosts to rise;

And, if I had the spell

To call the buried well,

Which one would I?

IV.

If there are ghosts to raise,

What shall I call,

Out of hell’s murky haze,

Heaven’s blue pall?

Raise my loved long-lost boy

To lead me to his joy.—

There are no ghosts to raise;

Out of death lead no ways;

Vain is the call.

V.

Know’st thou not ghosts to sue

No love thou hast.

Else lie, as I will do,

And breathe thy last.

So out of Life’s fresh crown

Fall like a rose-leaf down.

Thus are the ghosts to woo;

Thus are all dreams made true,

Ever to last!

Song from the Ship. From “Death’s Jest-Book.”

T

o sea, to sea! the calm is o’er;

The wanton water leaps in sport,

And rattles down the pebbly shore;

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,

And unseen Mermaids’ pearly song

Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:

To sea, to sea! the calm is o’er.

To sea, to sea! Our wide-winged bark

Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,

And with its shadow, fleet and dark,

Break the caved Tritons’ azure day,

Like mighty eagle soaring light

O’er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,

The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!

Song.

M

y goblet’s golden lips are dry,

And, as the rose doth pine

For dew, so doth for wine

My goblet’s cup;

Rain, O! rain, or it will die;

Rain, fill it up!

Arise, and get thee wings to-night,

Ætna! and let run o’er

Thy wines, a hill no more,

But darkly frown

A cloud, where eagles dare not soar,

Dropping rain down.

Song. From “the Second Brother.”

S

trew not earth with empty stars,

Strew it not with roses,

Nor feathers from the crest of Mars,

Nor summer’s idle posies.

’T is not the primrose-sandalled moon,

Nor cold and silent morn,

Nor he that climbs the dusty noon,

Nor mower war with scythe that drops,

Stuck with helmed and turbaned tops

Of enemies new shorn.

Ye cups, ye lyres, ye trumpets know,

Pour your music, let it flow,

’T is Bacchus’ son who walks below.

Song, by Two Voices. From “the Brides’ Tragedy.”

First Voice.

W

ho is the baby, that doth lie

Beneath the silken canopy

Of thy blue eye?

Second.

It is young Sorrow, laid asleep

In the crystal deep.

Both.

Let us sing his lullaby,

Heigho! a sob and a sigh.

First Voice.

What sound is that, so soft, so clear,

Harmonious as a bubbled tear

Bursting, we hear?

Second.

It is young Sorrow, slumber breaking,

Suddenly awaking.

Both.

Let us sing his lullaby,

Heigho! a sob and a sigh.

Song. From “Torrismond.”

H

ow many times do I love thee, dear?

Tell me how many thoughts there be

In the atmosphere

Of a new-fall’n year,

Whose white and sable hours appear

The latest flake of Eternity:—

So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love again?

Tell me how many beads there are

In a silver chain

Of evening rain,

Unravelled from the tumbling main,

And threading the eye of a yellow star:—

So many times do I love again.