An Ancient Rhyme

He came across the meadow-pass,
That summer eve of eves —
The sunlight streamed along the grass
And glanced amid the leaves ;
And from the shrubbery below,
And from the garden trees,
He heard the thrushes' music flow
And humming of the bees ;
The garden gate was swung apart —
The space was brief between ;
But there, for throbbing of his heart,
He paused perforce to lean.

He leaned upon the garden gate ;
He looked, and scarce he breathed ;
Within the little porch she sate,
With woodbine overwreathed ;
Her eyes upon her work were bent,
Unconscious who was nigh ;
But oft the needle slowly went,
And oft did idle lie ;
And ever to her lips arose
Sweet fragments sweetly sung,
But ever, ere the notes could close,
She hushed them on her tongue.

Her fancies as they come and go,
Her pure face speaks the while,
For now it is a flitting glow,
And now a breaking smile ;
And now it is a graver shade
When holier thoughts are there —
An Angel's pinion might be stayed
To see a sight so fair ;
But still they hid her looks of light,
Those downcast eyelids pale —
Two lovely clouds so silken white,
Two lovelier stars that veil.

The sun at length his burning edge
Had rested on the hill,
And save one thrush from out the hedge,
Both bower and grove were still.
The sun had almost bade farewell,
But one reluctant ray
Still loved within that porch to dwell,
As charmed there to stay —
It stole aslant the pear-tree bough,
And through the woodbine fringe,
And kissed the maiden's neck and brow,
And bathed her in its tinge.

"O beauty of my heart," he said,
" O darling, darling mine,
Was ever light of evening shed
On loveliness like thine ?

Why should I ever leave this spot,
But gaze until I die ?"
A moment from that bursting thought
She felt his footstep nigh.
One sudden, lifted glance — but one,
A tremor and a start,
So gently was their greeting done
That who would guess their heart ?

Long, long the sun had sunken down,
And all his golden trail
Had died away to lines of brown,
In duskier hues that fail.
The grasshopper was chirping shrill —
No other living sound
Accompanied the tiny rill
That gurgled underground —
No other living sound, unless
Some spirit bent to hear
Low words of human tenderness
And mingling whispers near.

The stars, like pallid gems at first,
Deep in the liquid sky,
Now forth upon the darkness burst,
Sole kings and lights on high ;
For splendour, myriadfold, supreme,
No rival moonlight strove ;
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam,
Nor more majestic Jove.

But what if hearts there beat that night
That recked not of the skies,
Or only felt their imaged light
In one another's eyes ;
And if two worlds of hidden thought
And fostered passion met,
Which, passing human language, sought
And found an utterance yet,
And if they trembled as the flowers
That droop across the stream,
That while the silent starry hours
Wait o'er them like a dream :
And if, when came the parting time.

They faltered still and clung ;
What is it all — an ancient rhyme
Ten thousand times besung —
That part of Paradise which man
Without the portal knows —
Which hath been since the world began,
And shall be till its close.