Theodore Tilton Poems

Baby Bye,
Here's a Fly:
Let us watch him, you and I.
...

I SEE the star-lights quiver,
Like jewels in the river;
The bank is hid with sedge;
What if I slip the edge?
I thought I knew the way
By night as well as day:
But how a lover goes astray!

The place is somewhat lonely—
I mean for just one only;
I brought the boat ashore
An hour ago or more.
Well, I will sit and wait;
She fixed the hour at eight:
Good angels! bring her not too late!

To-morrow's tongues that name her
Will hardly dare to blame her:
A lily still is white
Through all the dark of night:
The morning sun shall show
A bride as pure as snow,
Whose wedding all the world shall know.

O God! that I should gain her!
But what can so detain her?
Hist, yelping cur! thy bark
Will fright her in the dark.
What! striking nine? that 's fast!
Is some one walking past?
—Oho! so thou art come at last!

But why thy long delaying?
Alack! thy beads and praying!
If thou, a saint, dost hope
To kneel and kiss the Pope,
Then I, a sinner, know
Where sweeter kisses grow—
Nay, now, just once before we go!

Nay, twice, and by St. Peter
The second was the sweeter!
Quick now, and in the boat!
Good-by, old tower and moat!
May mildew from the sky
Drop blindness on the eye
That lurks to watch our going by!

O saintly maid! I told thee
No convent-walls could hold thee.
Look! yonder comes the moon!
We started none too soon.
See how we pass that mill!
What! is the night too chill?
—Then I must fold thee closer still!
...

THOU who ordainest, for the land's salvation,
Famine, and fire, and sword, and lamentation,
Now unto Thee we lift our supplication,—
O, save the Nation!

By the great sign foretold of Thy appearing,
Coming in clouds, while mortal men stand fearing,
Show us, amid the smoke of battle clearing,
Thy chariot nearing.

By the brave blood that floweth like a river,
Hurl Thou a thunderbolt from out Thy quiver!
Break Thou the strong gates! every fetter shiver!
Smite and deliver!

Slay Thou our foes, or turn them to derision!
Then, in the blood-red Valley of Decision,
Clothe Thou the fields, as in the prophet's vision,
With peace Elysian!
...

I WON a noble fame;
But, with a sudden frown,
The people snatched my crown,
And, in the mire, trod down
My lofty name.

I bore a bounteous purse;
And beggars by the way
Then blessed me, day by day;
But I, grown poor as they,
Have now their curse.

I gained what men call friends;
But now their love is hate,
And I have learned, too late,
How mated minds unmate,
And friendship ends.

I clasped a woman's breast,—
As if her heart, I knew,
Or fancied, would be true,—
Who proved, alas! she too!
False like the rest.

I now am all bereft,—
As when some tower doth fall,
With battlement, and wall,
And gate, and bridge, and all,—
And nothing left.

But I account it worth
All pangs of fair hopes crossed—
All loves and honors lost,—
To gain the heavens, at cost
Of losing earth.

So, lest I be inclined
To render ill for ill,—
Henceforth in me instil,
O God, a sweet good-will
To all mankind.
...

O FAR-OFF darling in the South,
Where grapes are loading down the vine,
And songs are in the throstle's mouth,
While love's complaints are here in mine,
Turn from the blue Tyrrhenian Sea!
Come back to me! Come back to me!

Here all the Northern skies are cold,
And in their wintriness they say
(With warnings by the winds foretold)
That love may grow as cold as they!
How ill the omen seems to be!
Come back to me! Come back to me!

Come back, and bring thy wandering heart—
Ere yet it be too far estranged!
Come back, and tell me that thou art
But little chilled, but little changed!
O love, my love, I love but thee!
Come back to me! Come back to me!

I long for thee from morn till night;
I long for thee from night till morn:
But love is proud, and any slight
Can sting it like a piercing thorn.
My bleeding heart cries out to thee—
Come back to me! Come back to me!

Come back, and pluck the nettle out;
Come kiss the wound, or love may die!
How can my heart endure the doubt?
Oh, judge its anguish by its cry!
Its cry goes piercingly to thee—
Come back to me! Come back to me!

What is to thee the summer long?
What is to thee the clustered vine?
What is to thee the throstle's song,
Who sings of love, but not of mine?
Oh, turn from the Tyrrhenian Sea!
Come back to me! Come back to me!
...