Minniebel

Where the willow weepeth
    By a fountain lone, -
Where the ivy creepeth
    O'er a mossy stone, -
With pale flowers above her,
    In a quiet dell.
Far from those who love her,
    Slumbers Minniebel.

There thy bed I made thee,
    By that fountain side,
And in anguish laid thee
    Down to rest, my bride!
Tenderest and fairest,
    Who thy worth may tell!
Flower of beauty rarest,
    Saintly Minniebel!

Weary years have borrowed
    From my eye its light,
Time my cheek has furrowed,
    And these locks are white;
But my heart will ever
    Mid its memories dwell,
Fondly thine forever,
    Angel Minniebel!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Pamela S. Vining, also known by her pseudonym J. C. Yule, was an English poet whose work was recognized in the 19th century. Despite her significant contribution to English poetry, detailed information about her life, including her birth and death dates, remains elusive. She remains a noteworthy figure in the canon of English literature for her emotive and thought-provoking poetry.

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

The Silent Messenger

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

Song - Oh, take me where the wild flowers bloom!

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

The Ploughman

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

At The Grave Of A Young Mother

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule), Simple Poetry

English

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Marguerite

Lightly the shadows
Play through the trees,
Green are the meadows,
Soft is the breeze, -
June's early roses,
Pensive and sweet,
Droop where reposes
Lost Marguerite!

Meeting thee never
In the green bowers, -
Missing thee ever
'Mid the fresh flowers, -
Till the long hours die -
Hours once so fleet -
Hopelessly wait I,
Lost Marguerite!

Day has grown weary
In the blue sky,
Summer is dreary,
Melodies die;
Lowly the willow
Droopeth to meet
And kiss thy pillow,
Lost Marguerite!

Flower the fairest
Of sweet summer time,
Rosebud the rarest
Plucked ere its prime,
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Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Minnie

    "And Jesu called a little child unto him."
                MATT. xviii. 2.


Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed,
Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny    head;
Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake,
I stretch my empty arms for thee,--my heart--my heart will break.

The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill,
The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still;
And the little feet that chased them as frolicksome and light,
Have lain beneath the...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Johanna

'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,
In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,
When from out the quiet woodland
Sounds of rustling leaves came only -
Leaves that floated softly earthward -
And the streamlets had a murmur
Such as wanders through our visions
In the hushed and starry midnight -
Low, soft murmur, full of music.

With the small hand of her darling
Clasped in her's, there came a mother
To an Artist - fondly asking
For the picture of her pet-lamb -
Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,
Full of merry, ringing laughter -
Laughter that went up unceasing
Like the happy chime of streamlets
Singing thro' some mountain valley, -
Like the bird-song in the forest
In the time of early roses, -
Like the tinkle of sweet waters
Dripping o'er a marble fou...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Roses Of June.

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down
On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet
As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet,
White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies,
And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair,
Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair,
Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day
From the lordly groves of her palace home afar,
But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light of a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of sp...

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The Minstrel's Grave.

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
    In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
    May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
    Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
    And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
    The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
    May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
    Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs ...

Frances Anne Kemble

Claribel

Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.

Alfred Lord Tennyson