University of Virginia Library

Epigraph.

This is the first Stone from the Quarry—small,
As fits humility and lowly use;
The first “step,”—to be trodden with abuse,
Perhaps, and scorning, should some on it fall
Or stumble, and the “use” in question call.
'Tis for that purpose squared, makes no excuse,
But, fashioned to be trod on, doth refuse
No usage, bad or good, but taketh all,
Like Patience! But if, walking haughtily,
Their ways not heeding, some should fall on it,
Hard as the nether millstone verily
'Twill prove, and, if it on them fall, 'twill hit
Still harder, for 'tis called “Humility,”
Hard stone! and with “hard fall” Pride be well quit

DEDICATORY.

O Muse! if I in vain take not thy name,
As oft my fear, contending with my hope,
And giving back from prize of so large a scope,
Would prompt; oh pardon! put me not to shame;
And, if thou own me not, at least not blame.
Sorrow enough it were if thou not ope
The gates of thy proud temple on the slope
Of Fame, to one who humble suppliant came.
Long have I sat beside, a fugitive,
Thy oracles in search of, and that rest
Which she, who serves thee not—the World—can't give.
Oh cast me not, then, off; I serve thee best
I can, and love thee most. For thee I live;
For thee would die to fúlfil thy behest!

THE DOUBLE LIFE: ESOTERIC.

Perplexing, baffling lot indeed is his
In whom two díverse natures cross, as 'twere.
A twofold life his; in himself a pair
Of beings, not true single. Nothing is
But what is not, to him. Still must he miss
That he would have; it is not here, but there,
Far in the Future, bright mirage in air.
Thus Janus faced his life, works, pains, and bliss.
Without metempsychosis there can be
To him no future: like strange face in dream,
Yet living face, which he will never see!
The Present seems. Thus, misfit in life's scheme,
In the strait-waistcoat of the Present he
Writhes as “possessed,” and mad to some may seem.

HOMUNCULUS, OR THE LORD OF CREATION.

Forgive me if I smile, O Man, proud Man;
'Tis sadly. Prick this bladder with a pin,
And thou of evil know'st the origin.
A little wine the idiot Laughter can
Set grinning in those eyes whose salt rheum ran
A breathing-while ago. Take opium; win
A crown; and, waking, hide thy pate within
A fool's cap. Rage with henbane a brief span.
Forget, with belladonna, thou art fool
Or knave. Take subtle morphine: a few grains
Will loose beyond the rhetoric of the school
Thy voluble tongue. This drug a hell contains,
A heaven that: in this a fiend doth rule,
In that an idiot drivels in thy brains!

“CONSCIENCE MAKES COWARDS OF US ALL.”

If thou would'st bid the angel Sleep attend
Thy pillow, let not, adder-like, Thought sting
That dove, when peace should nestle 'neath her wing,
In that mysterious pause where life doth blend
With death, yet either neither comprehend.
A mind void of offence still with thee bring,
Best anodyne; and let the past day sing
An evening hymn, and bless thee in its end.
But if thou sin 'gainst man, and so 'gainst God,
Thy pillow shall be full of ears and eyes,
And blabbing tongues. Darkness shall hold a rod
Of scorpions o'er thee. Terror shall surprise
Thy dreams, and Conscience slumber not nor nod,
But face to face with God search out thy lies.

HANDEL.

Mighty, as mighty in thy birth; as all
That's strongest should be; nay, a twofold birth,
And throes reduplicate, t' íncarnate such worth,
Were needed, and a twofold spirit-call.
Thee from thy mother's womb prophetical,
Great Armenie, whose large loins know no dearth,
Religion called, to harmonise the earth
And heavens, and both worlds alike enthral.
Twice parented, a second mother here,
Our England, went in labour with thee long;
Gave thee a spiritual birth, and drew thee near
To her great Protestant breast to make thee strong.
Thus of two nations born, and doubly dear,
Each parent claims, nor does nor suffers wrong.

ON THE MOMENTOUS SOCIAL UPHEAVALS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

Life's tide is high and working, heady and strong;
The deeps are broken up, and at full flood.
The human billows. wave on wave, for good
Or evil, break in thunder-foam along
The strand of Time; o'erwhelming wrong with wrong,
And right with might; and righting, but with rude
And raging Polyphemus' one-eyed mood,
The World's old wrongs and ills, a motley throng.
The Nemesis of History, serene
But stern, with face Memnonian or of Sphinx,
Propounds her dread enigmas—what has been
Or shall be: as he runs, the missing links
Time spells. The “writing on the wall” is seen,
And from the dread doom king or nation shrinks.

ON NOT RECOGNISING MY OWN COMPOSITION.

We may forget ourselves—nay, in a sense
Forget that we have been, it seems! I read
A poem lately, and if, from the dead
Appearing, one had whispered in past tense,
“You wrote it, far in place and time from hence,”
I had replied, inclining low my head,
“Good Sir Defunctus, art thou sure thou'st said
The thing that is? they should, who come from whence
Thou dost, say sooth!” Man's being has strange turns
And contradictions; in himself he is
Out of his depth, and, like spent swimmer, yearns
For something tangible—a straw—to miss
Which is to sink. Little the Past concerns,
As seems, the Present—lips that coldly kiss.

GREECE, THE MEDITERRANEAN, AND ROME.

Thou glorious mirror, from whose blue expanse,
Like her own Cypris, Greece in beauty rose,
Earth's fairest vision; and from rise to close,
Through each harmonic phase of change and chance,
Saw her bright image on the surface dance
Of thy great magic glass, where still it glows
Changeless 'mid Time's more transitory shows,
An autotype divine, en permanence!
There Judah saw the image of her God,
Abidingly as sky and ocean; Tyre
Purpled the waves, with Carthage counting gold;
There too her mighty outline, at whose nod
Impérial, earth shook, traced as with fire:
But Hellas glows, cast in diviner mould.

ON THE SAME.

Thou mirror, kingdom-framed, o'er which so long
The huge Colossus Rome her shadow threw,
And with her fragments all thy shores did strew;
When, like a potter's vessel, in the strong
O'erheated furnace of her sin and wrong,
She flew to pieces, and in ruin drew
A world behind her; strangely Old and New,
Hopes, memories, each on other crowding, throng.
But oh, the magnet that most draws our hearts
Is not that of “The Seven Hills;” 'tis thine,
Jerusalem! thou goal towards which still starts
Each pilgrim soul; or to its other shrine,
Athens, the eye of science and of arts,
The first to see man's heritage divine.

THE RAVEN.

With darkness clothed, as if begot of night,
How proud he walks, a plumed aristocrat.
With bold, frank eye, he looks straight forthright at
His opposite, as tho' “Upon my right
I stand,” he'd say;—nay, says—tongues lie, not sight.
With keen, sagacious look, reserved, sedate,
He knows his place, and keeps a certain state.
In mind and plumage the mere opposite
Of Harlequin jay. What strange similitudes
(Ay, in man's inner as his outward moods)
Challenge in “fellow-creatures” sympathy!
When ran “the noble savage wild in woods”
Some “galled his kibe,” methinks, and touched him nigh;
But God looks out and awes in human eye.

“COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.”

From smallest things to greatest by degrees
My soul hath grown; and as, in wondering glee,
I placed the sea-shell at my ear, to be
The mouthpiece of the ocean; till the sea's
Far, multitudinous roar came on the breeze,
And not alone to hear I seemed, but see:
So to the inner ear of soul I thee
Do place, O World, and hear thy voice with ease.
And harmony beyond the Orphean lyre
I catch. The “still small voice,” high over all
The tumult of the rushing ages, higher
And fuller, more articulate—God's call!
Not in the unconsumèd bush of fire,
But in this wondrous world, in great and small.

DITTO IN ANOTHER KEY.

When first my quickened soul gave heed and ear
To the World's wondrous inner harmony,
“A still, small voice” ran, like an undercry,
From star to radiant star, sphere answering sphere.
Scarce audible at first, but ever clear
And clearer, as their light unto my eye,
Until the whisper soft filled earth and sky,
And listening Nature knelt in awe and fear.
The earthquake and the tempest have swept past
And drowned that “voix céleste” in crime and wrong.
But still I catch at each pause in the blast
Of strife its call, more clear, more gently strong.
'Tis God's own voice; and far and near at last
It sounds the keynote of the world's great song.

DITTO TRANSPOSED INTO A MINOR KEY.

The sound of many waters fills my ear;
The growing thunders of the falls of Time;
As o'er the dark brink, many-voiced, sublime,
They sweep this fleeting century, in fear
And hope, beneath the rainbow arch of clear
Unshaken faith; while wisdom, folly, crime,
Old things fast passing into musèd rime,
And new, prepare man for a larger sphere.
The pulses of the world are quick and strong,
At fever-heat; drunk, not with wine but dreams,
Fools deemed true seërs, lead the many wrong.
But from this stir and hum confused, which seems
A Babel, heavenward shall rise one song;
One mighty flood be all these confluent streams!

IMAGINATION.

A headstrong steed art thou, ill-trained, to ride,
Imagination! Well he needs to use
Both bit and spur, for thy hot blood doth chuse
Strange paths, in spleen of speed and flush of pride.
One might almost as lief the wind bestride,
As thee, thou wingèd Pegasus, when loose;
That know'st not time nor space, nor dost refuse
To go to Heaven or Hell, whate'er betide.
Yet what were Man without thee! Light, wind, wing,
Fire, flame, are poor comparatives for thee.
Thou dost into the lap of Pleasure fling
Unknown delights, and touchest those we see
And feel to finer issues. Thou dost bring
The dead to life, and mak'st Man spirit-free!

REPLICA.

A noble steed art thou, kept well in hand,
Imagination! Nor dost thou despise
Traces or rein, wing'd Pegasus of the skies,
When capable hands thy utmost powers demand.
Loads of dull lore, by common brains ill spanned,
Thou mak'st with feet to move, with wings to rise;
And when a Milton all thy mettle tries,
As proud thou to obey, as he command.
But when a Shakspear strides thee, 'tis as tho'
The twain were, Centaur-like, incorporate.
Thy mighty wings from under thee do blow
The earth, and with their motion renovate:
Thou winnowest the chaff of Custom from the slow
Dull path of Time, and dost anticipate!

INTERCOMMUNION.

Break down these barriers which separate
Man from his fellow-man, and Him above;
Bring all together in the embrace of Love,
That Peace may reign, and leave no room for Hate.
The lowly violets in humble state
Embalm the earth, and e'en the proudest move
To stoop and set them with the rose, to prove
How mingled sweets their sweets reciprocate.
Love is the Jacob's-ladder of the sky;
And those who have climbed highest on it show
Like angels, as in close vicinity
To heaven; angels reach to them below
Their hands, and they in loving sympathy
Reach down to earth, and draw it upward so!

OLD AGE.

‘The Many-sided,’ who all qualities
Knew with most subtle spirit, and man's heart
Could prove in its most hid and tenderest part,
Has painted Age “sans teeth, sans taste, sans eyes;”
The visible and outward these comprise—
Sad emblems how and with what sapping art
Time with decay debateth; but worse smart
Within do work his cruel subtleties.
There like an Inquisitioner he strains
Age on the rack! If wretched Poverty have
Than ridicule no worse ill in its pains,
How much more Age, that seeks a déspised grave!
The lion, old, is kicked; Wit's drivelling brains
The idiot Laughter mocks; the base the brave!

A SUNSET.

The sun o'er Langdale Pikes is setting bright
And cloudless, and their twin peaks burn like fire,
Molten, yet unconsumed—a funeral pyre
Sublime, on which, slow burning from our sight,
The dying day in ashes falls with night.
A few light vapours float, like incense, higher
And higher, and in rainbow hues expire,
As darkness gently sets the eye of light.
O God, how holy is this calm! the winds
Hold their hushed breath, as when love watches death!
The awe and beauty sink into our minds;
A Spirit seems to draw our mortal breath,
And in our inmost souls a résponse finds,
Yet can we not interpret what it saith.

THE LANGDALE PIKES.

Who carved those lions, couchant in the sky,
Their base a mountain; that so grandly seem
T' o'erlook the world's imagined edge, and dream
Of things to come, or hoar antiquity?
Have they coevals in geology,
Mastodon, Megatherium, supreme
Of monsters? Can Memnonian Sphinx, the theme
Of dedicated wonder, with them vie?
No bones or fossils huge, prefiguring these,
Has science yet discovered or divined;
No Michael Angelo did ever seize
The rock, and thus constrain it to his mind;
But Nature in her mood can shape with ease
A mountain or a pebble in its kind.

METEMPSYCOSIS.

Could we clothe on with flesh the mighty dead,
And bid them live again such as they were;
Could we our magic circle so prepare,
And use such spells that Done must follow Said;
Unsphere great Plato's soul, the halo'd head
Of Shakspear, or from “Hell” make Dante fare,
With smell of “penal” fire on his hair,
Or Cæsar, o'er spurned Rubicon Fate-led,—
How should we know the men? What shaping part
Had circumstance or outward hap? The age
Begets its children in its likeness; heart
And head are to the actors and the stage
Conform: change these, the stream takes other start,
And leaves another track on History's page.

TO THE INCOMPARABLE M. L.

Oh in what lilies of thy forehead, say,
Doth Chastity withdraw, yet draw our gaze?
Methinks if Love his velvet lips should place
Thereon, it were sweet question whether they
Their glow would cool, or that chaste snow give way!
Oh, with the living roses of thy face
What roses vie, poor shadows of their grace,
Thro' which soft, shifting under-lights still play
In roseate flushes. On those parted lips
Speech lingers, as if loath to leave those sweets
Whose honey, like the bee, he hives and sips!
And oh, those eyes, where morn with evening meets
In pensive lights and shadows, there Love tips
His arrows, and to finest temper heats!

GENIUS.

How is Man's mind built up? A palace now,
With half-angelic occupants; a shrine
Where God might almost deign to say, 'Tis Mine;—
And now a hell, where foul fiends mop and mow.
Some reap where others went before to plough;
Some only glean, not knowing Mine from Thine;
A far-off soul some quickens, as may shine
Some far-off star, lighting we know not how,—
A father, mother, grandsire, a soul
Before the Flood, a nation's Composite,
May fashion one to act heroic rôle,
Like Briareus with hundred-handed might:
Another, Argus-eyed in brain, this Whole
To read, whom God bids say, Let there be Light!

POESY.

O my belovèd! Muse of my young days,
Come to my arms once more, thou only true
And constant! I our loves do nothing rue,
Altho' thou hast not brought me even bays;
Oh yet be thou thrice blessed, for thy ways
Are ways of pleasantness; thou dost renew
Me in perpetual youth—in thee I view
Venus Urania clothed in heavenly rays.
Thou hast not brought me gold nor praise of men:
I could not write for hire, for I should be
A hireling, with thy curse upon my pen.
No gall is in it; sweet as Hybla's bee
'Tis in thy honey dipped: God bless thee, then,
For whose sweet sake I love all things and thee!

NEAR DAWN ON A STILL NIGHT.

The earth rolls noiseless eastwards—one by one
The stars are lost to view, that measure flight
Of time and lapse of space; and now 'twixt Night
And Day a narrow isthmus lies, upon
One end whereof, dark, by comparison
Darkness itself, privation mere of light,
Night, spectrelike, withdraws; while faintly bright,
With rosy step the other end anon
The angel, Light, will tread! 'Tis like life's goal,
Where nothing is but what is not! This pause
Cæsural is as if this wondrous Whole
Held in its breath: through silence that o'erawes
I feel the pulses of the World's great soul,
And, lost in it, nor know nor seek the cause!

ENGLAND.

Fair art thou, in thy sweet undress of green,
Which Spring with flowers purfles—the great Sea
Stretched smiling at thy feet, caressing thee,
His head laid in thy lap, with thy sweet sheen
And glamour ta'en, as Samson's once had been
In his Dalilah's. Yet oh, not as he!
For thou wouldst thy Beloved's locks so free
Not clip; they are thy strength as his, I ween.
O passing-fair! and fair, too, is that love
Which jealously doth guard thee from surprise;
A blessing sealed the union from above—
For from those mighty loins the Free arise,
The procreant womb of Nations, who shall prove
Worthy of both great parents' destinies.

ITALY.

Proud, with his Adriatic arm, the Sea
Draws, Neréid-like, his Venice to him; twines
His great caressing hand with all its brines
'Mid her soft tresses; proud of her, as she
May well be of such lover. Once more free,
O God be praised, on her fair forehead shines
A star of promise, lighting up the lines
Of her old glories, to which new shall be
As echoes. With his other azure arm
He clasps twin-sistered Genoa, nor knows
Which most to cherish, each so much doth charm!
Between the twain fair Italy wakes and glows
In Freedom's arms. Oh draw her to thee close,
True Romeo, shield thy Juliet from all harm!

SHAKSPEAR: A TRIAD.

SIR JOHN HANMER'S POEMS.

True man, true poet, large of brain and heart;
How lightly dost thou wear Convention's chain,
And Custom fling'st, as eagles fledg'd disdain
The eyrie; thou art of all, yet apart.
Great Nature was at strife for thee with Art;
But as wise Solomon made Nature gain
By the true mother's dread of infant slain,
So Nature from thy birth gained a fair start.
Oh if, one of the least, I do not take
The Muse's name in vain, disdain not this
Enforcèd praise, whose echo yet shall wake
Far louder rounds: I grieve the world should miss
High service—the dull world, so slow to make
Just measure of those heights the heavens kiss.

THE SAME.

Why “hold a candle to the sun?” O slack
Of heart! not unto him I hold, but you;
That by degrees ye may perceive, as do
The blind (tho' not the worst), the born so! Black,
Ay, outer darkness lies upon their track
Who will not see; the critics base, whose view
Is barred by envy, amaurosis true;
Stone-blindness to God's light, that leaves no crack,
Chink, cranny for its entrance! No, not e'en
The shutter-baffling ray philosophy
First analysed into its rainbow-sheen!
If quenched, 'tis not by darkness; in it I
Shine on unnoticed; I have done and been:
A man may light an angel's ministry!

DAWN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Darkness that might be felt, from roof to ground,
Made Silence hold her breath—the mighty dead
In it, as in one tomb, lay burièd.
The lofty vaults, their very stones around
Haunted and musical with holy sound
Of bygone chaunt and prayer, viewless o'erhead
Up-pillared darkness in the vaulted stead
Of roof, but without form, a void profound.
Then through the windowed east the angel Light
Stole in; creative Light, the architect;
Stealthy at first, as when the blind get sight.
And glancing here and there, as to connect
Tomb, pillar, vault, and corbel, flooded height
And depth, and built it up for God's elect.

THE SPRING-HEAD.

Just born, with bees and heather its lisp to greet!
The maiden fills her jar and stays it so!
The child o'erleaps it further on. Yet go
A Sabbath-journey, 'tis a mill-stream fleet;
Works with a will, and sings with voice as sweet
As glad; that gladness Work alone doth know!
Anon, like Median vein, with healthful flow,
Some Metropolitan heart it makes the seat
Of Commerce, as with civic mural crown
O'erbridged. With tidal pulses the great sea
Meets it half-way in welcome; lower down
Invests it with his “freedom,”—makes it free
Of the wide world, with share in all renown
And all great work done for Humanitie!

THE FUTURE.

HIDDEN THINGS.

Is shining bright behind a cloud a scorn?
Is breathing perfume where are none to smell?
Or what the right hand does, and left won't tell,
And serving God in secret, lot forlorn?
Poets there are who soar, as lark to morn,
And sing at heaven's gate, whose throats yet swell
Far out of sight and hearing with a spell
To which God listens as to soul new-born.
Some in their hearts a livelong poem are,
Yet without recognition, save on high;
They shine in secret beauty, like a star
Far off, which yet lends light to guide us by.
And while dull mists of earth from worldlings bar
Its light, it shines to consecrated eye!

THE SONNET.

In this strait-waistcoat of poor fourteen lines
Our Shakspear cramped his mighty intellect.
'Tis as if Ocean should confines elect,
Like tributary streams; Golconda's mines
Contract their splendours to one gem that shines
With fraction'd lustre; or great kings reject
Th' imperious sceptre, and instead select
The pastoral crook. But genius all refines.
He in that circumscription still could move
A chartered libertine, and spirits raise,
By his “so potent art” all rules above,
In that small charmèd circle; to the rays
Of his fine wit it did a focus prove—
A wheel, whose rondure close confine doth brace.

THE SEA.

Well I remember what I felt, a child,
When first I saw the Ocean; when his wave
My youthful soul its first true baptism gave,
The baptism of the spirit undefiled.
Oh how my soul sprung forth to meet the wild
And cleansing waters, and all taint to lave
By that ablution, as if thus to have
A new birth, tho' in rituals not so styled.
Of ritualistic ceremonies, whereby
The Devil and the flesh I had forsworn
Vicariously, I had faint memory;
But the sea's baptism sent me forth new-born.
And when upon me Custom's yoke doth lie,
I think of that, and fling it off with scorn.

GREAT AUTHORS.

I love to read a work of mighty mind
Off at a spell, and master it—a Whole,
Ay, “one entire chrysolite;” a goal
Wherein my soul sustaining sense may find
Of loftiest work completed, end designed.
Then build I up a temple for my soul,
Not piecemeal, with no fixed plan to control;
And contemplating I grow like in kind.
Noiseless the work, as angels went about;
No sound of axe or hammer, in some sense
Like thine, Jerusalem! No worldly rout
Doth enter there; but with fit audience,
Tho' few, I worship, and the pure incense
Fills all within—and some too passeth out!

“ENTAIL TO HEIRS SPECIAL.”

Oh strive not thou, vain Man, to tie the feet
And hands of Time! His mighty wings do make
Free spaces, that Humanity may take
New leases of itself, nor grow effete
From numbing custom, stiffening in one seat,
One posture. Like a reed his strong wings break
Thy poor self-ends, and forecast for self's sake:
He flies, not thine, but God's work to complete!
Vain schemers, with your parchments and your deeds,
That “work on leases of short-numbered hours,”
And would “entail” the world on outworn creeds!
Blind moles, that work in earth for higher powers!
Ye work your folly outwards for the seeds
Of Truth to take root with God's sun and showers!

THE PREMATURE DEATH OF KEATS.

O prodigal Nature! wherefore didst thou make
This pearl of price, this gem of poesy,
Worthy the diadem of the Most High,
And set it, as if for more mock and ache,
Upon the forehead of the age; then break,
With thousandfold worse waste than that whereby
Famed Cleopatra drank, in mockery,
Th' historic pearl, her thirst of pride to slake?
'Twas little unto thee! Thy treasuries
Are ever full, or refilled at thy will:
Thou sweep'st the board—king, knight, pawn; what not? wise
Or fool;—and their brief parts re-mak'st to fill:
Yet thy regardless hand but seldom tries
Its utmost art, in seeming waste, to kill!

THE “STRONG-MINDED WOMAN.”

VENICE.

Great Venice, in her pride of time and place,
Grand actor on large stage, and with a soul
High-pitched, to match her high historic rôle
And rule amphibious, that with Janus-face
Looked each way, and in east and west left trace
Perdurable; to bind to her control
The mighty sea, and make him hers and whole,
Cóntract in solemn nuptials, did embrace:
With fateful ring and ceremonial high
Majestic, she was wedded to her sea,
Beyond divorce, Fortune to lease thereby!
But seas are fickle! Thy fresh love sought he,
O England, tho' no ring the union tie:
God grant it be not paramours with thee!

“EPICŒNE,” OR “STRONG-MINDED WOMEN” AGAIN.

ON THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, MAJOR G. P. THOMAS.

The Pagans offered victims, ox or sheep
Or goat, on sensuous altars, grossly reared
To fabled gods; but he, oh he! endeared
To all by gifts of spirit sweet and deep,
Himself a ready sacrifice did keep
For nobler altar, nobler victim, cheered
By “Duty;” in such hearts sublimely sphered,
Tho' cypress crown, not laurel, all they reap.
Alas! were children orphaned but for this,
For this wife widowed? Even so! repine
Not at the price of all that noblest is;
No dross of earth e'er purchased aught divine.
This star its rays of purest light would miss,
Did it less purged for our beholding shine!

ON THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, G. P. THOMAS.

O noble hand that traced these pencilled lines!
Hand that the sword and pen alike could wield,
And serve the gentle Muse in Mars's field,
Working her royalties in Eastern mines.
Soon set, thy sun, not on the ordained confines
Of night, but suddenly eclipsed, did yield
His place; that darkness then first seemed revealed,
As when for wonted light the blind eye pines.
Was Mars then jealous of divided suit
And service? did he question of thee make,
And drown with trumpet-blast the Muse's lute?
Not so! the bravest ever doth he take,
And spares the coward; tho' he struck thee mute,
Thou dearer art to both for either's sake!

WISDOM.

O Time, if in those furrows of the brow
And cheek the seeds of Wisdom late be sown
(Folly's wild-oats long withered or o'erblown),
Small space have they to bear fruit here and now!
Methinks 'twere better in the heart to plough
Furrows of early wisdom, to be known
By earlier fruits, from seeds in time there thrown
The early and latter rain of grace t' allow.
Poor Wisdom! late and little thus to bear;
Against its own thorns its sad heart to press,
Not teaching wiser use of all things fair:
Goodness is counterpart of happiness.
Our passions, wild, rear, plunge, and beat the air;
Trained, life in act, use set, nor wisdom less.

“NEC FONTE LABRA PROLUI CABALLINO,”&c.

My Helicon flows from no fabled height,
No Pegasean stroke the ground doth need;
Lowly its source, but as it doth proceed
Come inspirations full of song and light.
With music like a hymn and willing might,
Full many a mill it turns, and toils to feed
The hungry, clothe the naked, and to breed
Plenty and peace, in the taskmaster's sight.
Grass springs; herds, golden furrows, stately trees
Arise; the cottage, hamlet, steepled town;
And citied Commerce, mirrored in it, sees
Her face, in confluent majesty as down
It sweeps to life's great ocean, not to cease
From toil, but earn anew toil's noble crown.

THE FURNACE TEST.

Into this oven do I put this clay
Of frail mortality, with twofold fire
Of Faith and Genius, making it transpire
And sweat its frailties out; that so it may,
A vessel purified, be fit to lay
On Truth's high altar, ever sweeter, higher
The incense of its every desire,
The while the earthlier part slow burns away.
Alas! it may not stand the heat divine,
But cracks and flaws; and the old Adam shows
His image in it, Lord, instead of Thine,
Which in the cooling like the vessel grows;
As duller from within that light doth shine,
And duller in that heat the coarse clay glows!

PLATFORM WOMEN.

O Woman! half-unsexed when loud and bold,
Mooting, on Modesty's o'er-balanced edge,
“Questions” most epicœne—the quickset hedge
Of nice regard disposed full cheap to hold;
'Twill prick thee, tho' the safeguard of the fold
To those within, great Nature's solemn pledge,
Thy sex's ægis and high privilege,
The very Cestus of thy manifold
And blushing graces! Oh, thy smile, sweet mouth,
Should only ope to utter gentlest things
Of blessed influence, like the sweet South:
When it does other, Love shows he has wings;
'Tis as the rose's lips should breathe, from drouth
Of heavenly dews, ill odours, and not Spring's.

LONDON.

Stand in Hyde Park when darkness sight doth bound,
And hear the roar subdued of that vast life,
And say, is Ocean more sublime in strife
And calm, or pealing thunders? No! that sound
Falls on the inner ear, hath more profound
Significance, with inner meanings rife;
It is the ceaseless hum from that vast hive
Of industry, that swarms out all around,
Over the earth; the ebb of that great sea
Of souls, whose tides are human hopes and fears,
Concentric with all Being's wider spheres.
The hither shore is Time: tho' hidden be
The other, thence, thro' all else, my soul hears
The far-borne ground-swell of Eternitie!

MIND AND MATTER.

You talk of things “material”—disparage
The work of hand as mere “mechanical,”
Mere craftsman's work, compared with what you call
Genius, the mental instruments. Each stage
Is needful—leads to next. A pupillage
Man's mind must pass thro'; ere fly, crawl
And walk: low aids make great things out of small;
The kind hand which flings wide the door o' the cage!
Look at the types, so quaint and primitive,
Of Guttenberg and Faust! yet in them lie
Those “wingèd words” the “gift of tongues” that give
To Thought; speech to the dumb; to the blind, eye.
The “Rail” makes one man many lives to live;
And Thought itself is Electricity!

HORA FUGIT; HOC QUOD LOQUOR INDE EST.

Like whirling wheel-spokes days on days run round;
While the great “driving-wheel” of all, the year,
With lesser “wheels within wheels,” sphere in sphere,
Tho' slower, works with all his might, with sound
Of sphery thunder, as to time strict-bound,
“Indentured,” under eye of overseer,
The great Taskmaster, who permits none here
To idle, or doth punish, if so found.
A “treadmill” to the idle is that wheel;
“Pleasure” sought for itself is “toil:” unearned
Man nothing claims; it were as easy steal
Our daily bread as bliss. This lesson learned
Is more than fortune, for 'tis health and weal.
Thus opposites meet and extremes are re-turned!

THE RANGE OF BEING.

When I look up to those bright orbs on high,
Through boundless interspace of region-blue;
Like calm, all-searching eyes they look me through
And through, and crush me with immensity!
Amid a fathomless abyss stand I,
Above, below. The Milky Way like dew
Soft strews the azure; telescopic view,
The eye of Science, doth but multiply!
And what is Man? In the God-conscious grade
The least; upon that Jacob's-ladder he
Stands on but the first step; he has but made
One move from Beast, the next-wise in degree
Doth “gall his kibe,” nor room between we see!
Upwards, the range at God alone is stayed!

TOO FAR AND FAST.

O ye precursive minds, that run before
The age, and take Time by the forelock, ye
Hard lines must look for, and as hidden be,
Till Time shall solve your hieroglyphic lore.
Ye must shine inwardly, content thro' door
And window some few rays should pass out free,
Enough to light the darkness, not to see
The way, to work that new vein of fine ore.
Pass on! tho' those ye serve do heed ye not,
While those whose gods of clay ye overthrow
Would curse you, and your name from memory blot.
That name shall be a word of power, and grow;
And strangers from afar shall seek the spot
Where “his own” did not the true prophet know!

FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT.

Step out, with “right face forward;” keep the line,
Ye Nations, of combined Humanity!
“Peace” is the banner's watchword; the Most High
Hath traced it there in characters divine;
'Tis writ with stars, with living light doth shine
Upon that field of azure legibly,
The true “star-spangled banner” of the sky—
“Peace upon earth, goodwill to men,” its sign!
On then, ye Nations, to new victories;
Of knowledge over ignorance, of good
O'er evil, of God's truth o'er human lies!
No need of violence, no drop of blood;
The stars fight with you in their courses: would
God, then, not mercy have, but sacrifice!

POESY.

O Poesy, to this the daily bread
Of our dulled spirits thou the leaven art,
Raising and sweetening it in every part,
Till we seem as with manna to be fed.
And as to Christ angels once ministered,
So thou, at humblest distance, balmèst smart,
To finest issues touchest brain and heart,
And liftest, as with wings, our heavy tread.
Oh what were Life without thee! what were Love
Itself! 'Tis thou distill'st his rose-dew breath,
And featherest his arrows from the dove;
And when, in this our trial with Time and Death,
His roses fall, Immortelles from above
Thou intertwinest with Earth's fading wreath!

THE UPRIGHT JUDGE.

O thou, who steadiest Right 'twixt voluble tongue
And tongue, who know'st when Half is more than Whole,
And rather lean'st towards Equity's large goal
Than Law's fox-shifts and windings, which make long
The road, best travelled by the rich and strong,
Whose many gates of poverty take toll
So oft, 'tis like the game of knave and fool,
Where Justice, blind of one eye, winks at wrong
With the other. Thou hold'st poised above the land,
With firm, yet nicest equilibrium,
Those scales, upon whose beam Justice doth stand;
The stay of this world and the world to come.
Thy ermine should to touch of angel's hand
Be spotless, as the Church's lawn to some!

“SACRI VATES, ET DIVÛM CURA VOCAMUR.”

True Seërs, benefactors of mankind,
High is your mission! ever in the van
Of Time, with him ye trace the mighty plan,
And put the clue, like those who lead the blind,
In laggard hands, that grope for Truth behind.
That spark divine Prometheus' torch began,
With airs from heaven Poesy must fan,
And mould Man aye afresh with fire of mind!
Faith and Imagination are your wings,
Of equal stroke, nor less can lift above
This earth; the gift of tongues large knowledge brings,
Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove!
Who seeks the sun of Truth with less, shall prove
His wings, like Icarus, poor waxen things!

KINDLY AGE.

Some grow old with a grace; the “Christmas-rose”
Blooms on their bare December—almost seems
Of a new spring precursive; their eye gleams
Like sunsets of good promise, kindly shows
Their lusty winter, cheery 'mid its snows.
Nature her elements mixèd well; no dreams
Distempered blur their minds' Serene—no themes
Scare, teasing out of thought, Sleep from their brows.
Their pulse makes temperate music, unto which,
Their truest measure, Health and Pleasure dance;
And their contented minds are more than rich!
Ambition gnaws not, nor that game of chance,
Called “Fortune,” strains to its mad “concert-pitch”
Their heart-strings; nor wild Passion's dalliance.

UNKINDLY AGE.

But some do wrestle every inch o' the way,
For life and death, with Time, and pluck him by
The forelock, his untiring speed t' outvie;
Their hearts before their heads oft turning grey!
And tho', if fighting “the good fight” he may
Not quite prevail, yet doth he smite their thigh,
Like Jacob's, and to death they then come nigh;
Yet haply “face to face” with him may say,
“I have seen God!” Like him in this form then
Time, ere they let him go, doth bless them too,
Blessing beyond all bless and bliss of men!
They shall prevail with God, and under new
And grander name their name come back again,
As Jacob Israel, for they wrestled true!

WORLD MUSIC.

The finer music of Humanity
Is seldom heard; it rolls far overhead,
That solemn harmony of all the dead
And living, filling earth and reaching sky,
And joins the concert there responsively,
The concert of the spheres—that quire led
By God Himself; by those interpreted,
The chosen few, who listen inwardly.
On thro' the ages strong it sweeps the sphere,
And those who have its deep harmonics caught,
Are high-commissioned, ordain'd singers here.
They are the accepted poets, who have brought,
Transposed in minor key, some snatches clear:
The rest is lost; beyond all ear, all thought!

ON SHAKSPEAR'S POEMS.

Oh when in blank that all-divinest page
Lay charactérless, who could have divined
The thoughts that breathe which that creative mind
Set there, in words that burn, with noble rage,
Presaging “all the world should be his stage!”
'Tis as a space of blue, all-undefined,
Shone all with stars one by strange chance might find,
Or, out of hope, a goodly heritage.
And such was thine, my England! Chaucer's star,
Thy morning-star, rose on a lurid sky,
Streaked red for civil war, and clouds that bar
The fuller day; but Shakspear fell on high
And palmy days, which Art's best nurses are:
Nature had rest, on him her hand to try!

THE SERVICE OF THE MUSES.

O Pegasus, whose hoof most musical
From the charm'd rock struck the responsive spring;
Who mak'st, with wafture of thy rhythmic wing,
Sweet airs from heaven cæsural rise and fall;
Thou art not splénetic, wild and fantastical,
As some report, when thou, enfranchising
That neck the Muses' selves caress, dost fling
The rein in scorn from unpoetical
Presumptuous hands! Docile art thou, tho' proud
And mettlesome, to the true poet-hand,
In motion gentle as a summer-cloud;
Ready at noon of day or night to stand
Or fly; or when Parnassus' top mists shroud,
And dewy Morn stands tiptoe, zephyr-fanned!

A SPRINGTIDE SUNDAY.

They pass before my window, young and old,
Along the street, with Sabbath talk and dress:
Infant in arms its mother's heart doth bless,
That blessing ever new, yet never old!
The father walks beside; the youth doth press
His sweetheart's hand, and dreams of happiness;
The children sport; and life with its sweet stress
Constrains man's heart, like the flowers, to unfold.
God bless them all, and “grant their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort!” Tho' my heart be lone,
Yet from the fulness of their joy it fills
Itself, and makes their happiness its own.
'Tis selfishness which dries up all and kills;
Love strikes the rock, the living waters run!

A HINT TO POETS.

A SPRINGTIDE MORNING.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of bliss
Complex, unspeakable;—not only mine,
But that of many; man, bird, flock, herd, kine;
Tame and free livers; to the lark which is
Missioned by earth, glad messenger of peace,
At heaven's dewy gates to sing. Divine
The occasion; decked is Nature like a shrine;
For heaven doth bow itself the earth to kiss,
A kiss of peace! O God, my heart o'erflows;
Full, like a cup of sacramental wine,
With sense of all Thy mercies! The wine glows
And kindles; 'tis all Thine, O God, not mine;
And so I drink, for Thy hand holds it close!
Thyself, as thro' “the burning bush,” dost shine!

SHAKSPEAR OLD.

O Shakspear, had life's precious lease but run
To Sophoclean span, or even to
The threescore years and ten, the common due,
How had its golden pilgrimage thy sun
Mellowed to solemn splendour, till, its course done,
It set to man, having lighted him well thro'
His “Seven Ages;” leaving to our view
Completed Whole, for great comparison!
With age e'en thy large soul had much to gain;
Eye see; ear hear; heart feel; long memory,
Bee-like, full-fill that precious hive, thy brain!
Thou taught'st us how to live; but age hath high,
Hard revelations man's proud heart to train:
Then haply thou hadst taught us how to die!

HINT TO POETS.

Store thy mind full of knowledge; hive aright
The honey of experience; thy heart
With feelings gathered from life's every part;
Great, small; high, low; ear, taste, touch, smell, and sight;
Like the sea-sand, one and yet infinite.
And as the rude sea that doth beat athwart
Till flood, then falls from height, be counterpart;
So hold thine own, the world's rude shocks and spite
Against, as undefiled! Be as the diamond,
Which nothing of less temper cuts or mates;
With that serener light filled from beyond,
Be your eye single, looking thro' all states
To God. High is your calling, then respond;
Spare not your sweat, your blood; love, tho' the world hates!

ON A MISSING PORTRAIT.

The picture-frame is empty! fair the brede
Of flowers, scrollwork, carven imageries;
Casket most precious, fit for gem of price.
But where is that the formless blank doth need,
Which wanting, 'tis a clasped book none can read?
On my mind's eye, Aurora-like, there rise
Form, features, face divine, that might entice
A Raphael's hand to outdo all it did.
Greater than he the painter, and than her
The painted; her, his Fornarina: Love
Tried his own hand there—Love, the flatterer,
Those chestnut-locks with sunshine interwove,
To those sweet eyes did all himself transfer,
And fluttered in that heart, a gentle dove!

SCEPTICISM.

O Faith, if once thou fall'st, thou fall'st, alas!
Colossus-like, and strewest far and wide
The world with ruins! Erst, between thy stride,
To harbourage the world's great fleets did pass,
And struck their sails, safe 'neath thy towering mass.
To all who o'er Life's region-waves would ride
Safe on great quests, grand sea-mark and sure guide!
Which that Colossus famed of Rhodian brass
But faintly imaged; and as that, laid low
By earthquake, little fetched as metal old,
The disbelieving world would sell thee so;
Head turned with sophistries, and heart grown cold,
For a vile mess of pottage it would throw
Away thy heritage, and count the gold!

OLD AGE.

If it be hard to learn, how harder far
To unlearn! This is the sad lot of age;
The hardest penance in that pilgrimage—
Either with dull Oblivion to war,
And with those younger strengths that placèd are
On the forefront and vantage of the stage,
Or fall into the abject rear, and page
The heels of Time, and cast-off fashions wear!
'Tis a hard lot, yet needful; all moves off,
Or on. Life, like a mighty whirlwind, blows
From the great threshing-floor the dust, and chaff,
And wastes of Time, who doth old texts new gloze,
Rewrite old histories, at fables laugh,
And mortgages in his own right foreclose!

ANCIENT GREECE.

That noble race that struck the precious ore
Of human thought, and the best veins o' the mine
Well nigh worked out, and wrought it up so fine
That we can neither better nor add more;
With that large wisdom of which they had store,
Did not to mind alone their cares confine,
But perfect made th' outward and visible shrine,
Sound mind in body sound, sound to the core.
Wiser than we whose “sterling” worth is gold;
Who give “to dust that is a little gilt,
More laud than gold o'er-dusted;” running full tilt
'Gainst God's wise laws; with empty names cajoled!
Dwellers pale in cavernous cities, built
For Mammon's serfs, not freemen strong and bold!

BEING.

Man moves on inner circles; very small,
And yet concentric with that mighty Whole
Where worlds on worlds, like wheels within wheels, roll,
And music in their motion make, to all
For whom the eye hath music to enthral,
As the ear others. Some still higher goal
Of Being reached, that music our poor dole
Of speech may shame, language majestical,
Of soul expressive! Music even here
Sounds as a mystic, unlearned language might,
A language as of gods; beings all ear,
All eye; one both the telescope their sight
And microscope; to them no Far or Near;
Their sight is single: all is God; all light!

PROGRESS.

None can keep up with Time. The greatest minds
In some sort are “the fly upon the wheel,”
As to mere knowledge: noiseless Time doth steal
A march on them; the famed discoverer finds
(Who from new lights aside draws Nature's blinds),
His own discoveries himself conceal,
And grander truths to lesser minds reveal,
Explorers vantaged by these great trade-winds.
Yet some shine on, grand sea-marks unto all
Who the great deeps of knowledge navigate;
Colossus-like, beneath their stride the small
Adventurers shorten sail and lessen state.
Yet but for these, and of each the rich freight,
The greatest would show less majestical!

PHYSICAL DEVELOPMENT.

This body is the temple of the mind,
Which industry in beauty should uphold,
As the great Architect designed, t' unfold
His image in. Almost as well be blind,
As when the mind and body themselves find
At odds. With morbid senses, growing old
Before his time, Man looks on all with cold
Lack-lustre eye and heart; blindness in kind
As in degree the worst! The Genius mark,
Whom a club-foot, as fiend's to him, could blast
And warp, and that excess of light make dark,
With sad eclipse: hence scoff and sneer came fast;
Slander to woman, scorn to man; with cark
And care; a Future lost, and marred a Past!

BEN JONSON.

“O rare Ben Jonson!” rare at fence of wit
And foil; match for all foes with sword or pen;
For the Devil with the one, with t'other men.
For the Devil too in 's best disguise, when it
Assumes a virtue, tho' with an ill fit;
Or masks a sin so well, it tricks his ken,
Tho' soon or late he comes by his own again,
And “Hypocrite” writes large; “Sir Biter Bit!”
Ay, “Volpone,” well in thee that mask he lifts!
He too in qualities was learned, well versed
In human dealings, and great Nature's gifts
Put to large interest: he had rehearsed
I' the rough and ruck of life, that spirits sifts,
Its many parts, and knew Man's best and worst!

THE LOOKS.

The face is the heart's autotype: 'tis there
In shorthand writ in every lineament;
In moods and scowls, that wrap up ill intent
As black clouds thunder. Impudence doth stare
Unwinking; anger flush up brow, and flare
In eye; sweet Peace looks calm, Truth innocent;
Love, still at hide and seek, to cheek hath sent
That tell-tale blush; sour Envy thence doth scare
Or force the smile. Then with all diligence
Keep thou thy heart, O Man! Wear not a mask;
Let honest face show in 't without pretence
Like heart. Truth in that sunshine loves to bask;
For truth, in Man or Woman, hath most scent
And taste of goodness; this Life most doth ask!

THE ENGLISH DRAMA.

Thou didst not crawl to slow maturity,
Muse of the mask, with buskin on one foot,
Sock on the other, face to either suit;
With smiles upon thy lip, tears in thine eye;
Now holding both thy sides, now heaving sigh
“Nine fathom deep,” and sad as funeral-mute;
All things to all men; now in motley coat,
Now cassock, Tartuffe-like, demure and sly.
Thou didst not creep long in thy petty pace,
But fly almost as soon as walk the stage.
Need was of all thy growth as all its space,
When Time cried, marking “Shakspear” on the page
Just turned, foreshadowed in his magic-glass,
“My ward this, till, Fame's heir, he come of age!”

ALL IS CHANGE.

O God, this whirl and rush of change the brain
Half stun, and, like a millstream, drive each wheel
Of thought, till with the noise and motion reel
Our very senses, and to think is pain.
There is no Sabbath-rest; that holy gain
Of health to body, and the soul's all-heal,
The world doth filch, and more than good name steal,
That without which good name itself is vain,
Good name's intrince! But Good comes out of Ill;
A wiser race, unto the manner born,
Shall music draw from locomotive's shrill
Harsh whistles, tuneable their wheels shall turn!
And Labour, measurable, raise, not chill
Man's life, and Man be neither scorned nor scorn!

POESY.

O Poesy, they take thy name in vain,
Who think to understand thee with low wit,
And wings that, bat-like, in poor twilight flit,
Of “Common Sense.” To blind men we in vain
Delights of sight describe, the rich domain
Of eye—to deaf, of ear: unraised they sit.
So, Poesy, with thee; thou dost not hit
Dull sense, and worst dull are dull heart and brain.
But he whose wit is quick and forgetive,
Whom her least breathings lift above this dim
Low earth with airs from heaven, free to live
An elemental life, where space and time
Are not, and the world's flaming bounds o'erstrive,
That spirit, dumb to those, will speak to him!

LIVINGSTONE AND WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

ENGLAND.

Thy two great paps are full and overflow,
Commerce and Agriculture; milk thou out,
That those may suck that hang thy breasts about,
And climb about thy knees; apace they grow,
And like true fruit of thy large womb they show.
Sea-Cybele, thy breasts know yet no drought,
Nor shut thy womb: have thou no fear nor doubt,
But round the world thy great arms, zonelike, throw!
Oh may that Sea, who holds his flattering glass
To empires, till, Narcissus-like, they fall
In love with their own images, and pass
Away like vanities, not so enthral,
But show thee thy defects, and thou have grace
To mend them, till the World thee perfect call!

THE MUSES AND HYGEIA.

TO MILTON; ON HIS TRACT AFTER CROMWELL'S DEATH.

And hadst thou none to cry to, thou great soul,
But, like the Prophet old: “O Earth, Earth, Earth!”
As the dumb soil had ears which gave thee birth,
When those it bore had none! The late-reached goal
O'erleapt of freedom, t'other side did roll
I' the dirt of slavish sense and frivolous mirth,
Those whom thy life, tongue, pen had taught its worth,
Whom, tho' thou mad'st once, thou could'st not keep whole!
Baleful eclipse! that forced thee hide that light
Under a bushel: 'twas as if the sun,
Untimeous set, made way for things of night.
Yet not in vain that cry, tho' heed gave none:
The dumb Earth caught and treasured it; the height
Of Heaven heard, and echoed back “Well done!”

NATURAL SELECTION.

TO M. L.

O blessèd Soul, in whom all gentlest things
Do meet as at Love's trysting-place: as meet,
In a concerted piece of music sweet,
All instruments, lip-breathèd or with strings;
While each from other gains, and to each brings,
A crescive sweetness, all in all complete;
Or as all hues in union blend and greet
In purest light, more clear than crystal spring's.
If I should call thee “Rose,” the lily might,
Thy next comparative for purity,
Grow jealous; if the violet have right
To claim thy breath, the rose might fetch a sigh
Perfumed, from envy. So, all to unite,
I'll call thee “Self:” what more need you or I?

A WARNING.

Still may'st thou sing to chorus of thy waves,
O greatest of the Oceanides,
Thy song of Freedom, whose great bulwarks, seas
And mountains, should be freemen's homes or graves;
Best bulwarks, next to heart that all things braves
For her great sake. Oh may'st thou never cease
Right well to please her, as she thee to please.
But Mammon—worst invader!—too makes slaves.
There lies thy danger, England! Bulwarks vain
Are seas and mountains against Luxury;
Thou dost in thy own bosom entertain
Thy worst of foes, whose love thy gold doth buy;
The false Dalilah, who will shear again
Her Samson's locks, and make his strength a lie!

TO POETS—HAVE A GOOD LEADING-OFF RIME.

Take not, poetic souls, a word amiss:
I mean the unweanèd spirits of the age,
Male, female, epicœne—'tis all the rage
To write; the gentler sex, all-licensed, kiss
The Muse's hands, one serving that, one this,
In lyric, ode, song, pastoral; on the stage,
In sock or buskin—lively, sad, gay, sage;
Strings of its own their lyre has, which his,
Proud man's, still lacks. When many sequent rimes,
As in the Sonnet most, offend the ear
Or please, as jangled or well rung the chimes,
With bells each under other answering clear,
Ring ye cæsural pauses, rhythmic times,
Following sure lead, well-chosen pioneer.

BOOKS.

I love to see them, serrièd file on file,
Truth's meteor “oriflamme” above their head,
The glorious host of Living and of Dead:
Living, who cannot die; Dead, who the while
Yet speak, and dead and living reconcile.
Thought's noble army of martyrs, who have led
Men's minds, not bodies; and whose “Word” once said,
Shines like the stars, and inextinguishable!
A humble volunteer, in awe I seek
Companionship, as who the Red Cross bore,
Crusaders these, whose good swords cannot break,
Ithuriel-spears, that pierce to Falsehood's core.
A mighty shout comes down the ages: streak
On streak foretells the dawn, the night is o'er!

THE SPIRIT-TEMPLE; OR, A NEW ACT IN THE WORLD'S DRAMA.

An awed Communicant, this temple vast,
Not built with hands, I enter; through a gate,
Fairer than that by which the “lame man” sat,
Shadow of this, “The Beautiful!” Light cast
From the blue dome, showed lamps self-kindling fast
And thick; and sweetest voices, in elate
Yet solemn, fateful strains did match and mate—
World-voices, which of things to be forecast!
The foremost Spirits of all times were there,
All climes; a goodly congregation; as
With tongues of fire they thrilled, till glowed the air.
The “Amen” burthen of their anthem was:
“Ye Heavens, bow down! Thou Earth, for change prepare!
The Spirit of the Lord doth move and pass.”

WOMEN'S RIGHTS AGAIN.

VERSIFICATION.

If you have trained your Pegasus aright,
He'll pace it easy as steed in a sleigh,
With merry bells sweet-jingling all the way,
About his compassed neck, curved like the light
And bended bow of Phœbus, taking sight
And aim; or Cupid's, in his gentler play;
But when, “ventre à terre,” as the French well say,
In a fine phrenzy, scorning all that's trite,
Give him his head, or—what? he'll fling you, like
A prosy “Philistine”! In such rare mood,
When at each bound his hoof doth fire strike,
Or Heliconian fountain in full flood,
You must be Centaur after the antique,
Then sparks electric fire the brain and blood.

FRIENDS INDEED!

POESY.

The kingdom of the Muses (and in this
'Tis like a higher) “suffereth violence;”
We must do outrage unto common sense,
As 'twere, ere that attain which higher is;
Yet as extrémes meet, these make peace and kiss.
If I may speak in figures without offence,
'Tis like to Jacob's ladder; we commence
On earthlier rounds, but angels stoop from bliss
High up to meet us! So, with gentle force,
We do constrain the Muse's first embrace,
But love grows from permitted intercourse.
And if the issue be of any grace
Or promise, she will not disclaim their source,
But own the mother in the true child's face!

THINGS TO BE.

Dream ye the world is stereotyped, to print
Copies ad infinitum to the end
Of time of your poor selves; “repeats,” to spend
Base life for Mammon, and to set like flint
Your face, till Mercy her sweet self can't see in 't?
Whilst fools and knaves get Devil's dividend;
And Sybarites their caterer, Luxury, send
East, west, to buy new pleasures without stint
For jaded lives! Another frame of things,
Fashion and scope of being, God designs;
Views clearer of Life's ends will give Man wings
To reach them—purer ore yield nobler mines—
Motives change ends; new, true, the Future brings—
Life, which all true wealth, without mock, combines!

POETS.

Poets there are of chisel, brush, style, pen.
One can with brick and stone shape forms divine,
Sublime the whole, grace in each flowing line,
Whose very stones preach, stir the hearts of men,
And make them feel on earth from heav'n not alien;
The Painter comes—dull walls no more confine,
Landscapes expand and glow, in whose sunshine
Hearts city-caged, like freed birds, take wing then!
The Sculptor from rude block of marble calls
Forms that scarce need the gift divine of speech
The Poet gives; then from their pedestals
Their “word” goes forth, and far their hands do reach!
But greater he whose life to earth's poor thralls
(Best poem) how to live and die can teach!

TRUTH.

TO SHAKSPEAR, UPON HIS PLAYING “KNO'-WELL” IN BEN JONSON'S COMEDY.

As one who into sunshine from the shade
Comes sudden, may misjudge of magnitude,
Proportion, which in the false glare elude
True seeing, and, in consequence, hath made
False estimate and measure; so I said,
When Shakspear's sun from poor self-shade I viewed,
Dazzled, and not from where I should have stood,
That he as “Kno' well” but a small part played.
Forgive my misappreciation, thou
Whose greatness I weighed by my littleness,
Having no counter-weight such bulks to show!
The stage's repertory doth possess
No greater part than that which thou play'dst so;
That part the man made great, not th'actor less!

POETICAL ACCOUCHEMENTS.

Gestation of the spirit, in its kind
The birth-throes, smooth or ill delivery,
With th' other sort hath some analogy.
The issue safe delivered, the freed mind
Like the body, feels relief, therein doth find
A satisfaction and serenity:
Can trace the parentage; the father's eye,
Speech, trick of action; kindly blind
To doubtful birth-marks. Sometimes there is need
Of a Cæsarean operation, when
The parent issue leaves of posthumous pen
And brain. Still-born sometimes; or, better dead,
Half-idiot! Sometimes, too, the Muse ails; then
Were barren womb less evil than ill breed.

MY LIBRARY.

A DEFENCE OF POESY.

JUSTICE.

“Be just and fear not.” Statesman, hold the scales
Of justice firm. The Commonweal in one,
What counterweight can make comparison?
Neither with popular breath fill thou thy sails,
Which fall calm sudden, swell to sudden gales;
Treacherous in both, by both thou art undone.
Take thou no side; be like the midday sun,
Whose equal light warms all, o'er all prevails.
So shalt thou prosper. Thy ambition then
Shall not pluck down that pillar of the State
Like a blind Samson. Thou shalt praise of men
Have surely, tho' base factions thwart and hate.
Justice can hearts estranged and alien
Unite, and healing Peace doth on her wait.

REVISITING THE SEA.

Thou glorious Ocean! thou art still the same
As when thy salutary brine, my brow
O'er-dashing, first baptised me, then as now.
True baptism that; ay, tho' not in the name
Of godfathers and godmothers, when I came,
And by thy sublime summons stirred, made vow
And dedication of myself, which thou
Didst hear, and with thy waves seem to acclaim.
Calm as a mirror art thou now; the Earth,
Making her springtide toilet, gazes there
On her sweet self, as after her sea-birth
Venus of old. The calm of sea, earth, air,
My soul partakes—peace beyond joy or mirth,
Which passeth understanding, is its share.

LIFE UNSTABLE.

The simple souls, and those who overwise
In the world's ways—its foxes—hold them themes
For scoff and spoil; while oft (as meet extremes)
Their folly keeps word to the ear, but lies
To the mocked hope; to-morrow think will rise
As yesterday: and fooled by waking dreams—
Worst dreamers—caught in toils of their own schemes,
See not a Nemesis in Fortune's guise!
As men at sea, who, marking but the waves
And skies, think all is going as before,
While Death ahead prepares them sudden graves,
Or Fortune waits (misfortune!) on strange shore.
So in her dicebox shaken fools and knaves,
Turned upside down, she reckons in one score.

INFUSORIA; OR, THE MARVELS OF CREATION.

THE GOLDEN MEAN.

When Fortune turns her wheel, and whirls along
Kingdoms and individual atomies;
As, with earth rolled, oceans and mountains rise
And sink, while earth keeps time to her sphere-song;
Shun the circumference; whence, rudely flung,
The greatest bulks are hurled at greatest size;
And seek, for Wisdom can herself suffice,
The steadfast centre, gently-moving, strong.
Move must thou still, for all is change below;
Yet in that golden mean dwells happiness.
There only can she stand rude Fortune's blow,
Nor lose her balance; while the ambitious press
To th' extreme edge, and thereon dizzy grow,
Whether she raise her circle or depress.

THE MAN AND HIS TIMES.

The greatest minds, tho' far above their age
In much, are of it, by it, in still more.
Great Plato's soul, tho' 'bove his Zeus to soar
Well able, and from mists to disengage
God's Being, figured in that sublime page
As Truth, and Light his shadow, with mere lore
And questionings of words perplexed, still bore
The shackles of his earthly pilgrimage.
Like his Prometheus he his torch did light
At the true source, and quickened man's poor clay,
And led him many steps up Being's height,
To glimpse of “Promised Land” at break of day.
Yet to our science, bless'd with twofold sight,
Her earlier essays seem but wise child's play.

GRADATION.

What measurement, proportion, nice degrees!
What adaptions exquisite in all!
How fine, yet firm, precise the line 'twixt small
And great—'twixt reason which in Human sees
Before and after, and doth still increase
Its hivèd store, and that we wrongly call
In animal mere instinct; which doth gall
Man's kibe at times, yet itself never frees
From due degree! Concentric they all move
As bells each under other ringing “prime.”
Give the dear dog, who hath so large of love,
As large discourse of reason, and what time
Or measure would he keep with man above
Or beast below? 'Twould jar sweet Nature's chime!

LIFE ACCORDING TO NATURE.

True child of Nature! Blessed is the breast
That gave thee milk, the paps that suckled thee,
And left thee strong, when weaned, with spirit free
And simple tastes, which whoso hath is blest.
His unbought pleasures never lose their zest;
Not for high-days and festivals wears he
His singing-robes, but, Nature's true priest, she
Doth for her daily service him invest.
Oh blessed service! Service which is true
And perfect freedom. He is free, indeed,
Of no mean city! Those who leave thee, too,
An ignis fatuus astray doth lead;
Mind, body feeble, feeble grows the breed,
And feebly lives, cursed with more than their due.

MODERN SCIENCE.

Go, soar; dive; watch; in act of life surprise
The new Prometheus, Electricity;
Go, decompose with thy prismatic eye
Yon sunbeam; on thy palette spread the sky's
Grand rainbow-tints, in miniature comprise!
Light cannot hide itself, (strange phrase!) tell lies,
To thee; tho' 'tis a harlequin, and by
A Jacob's coat of many colours tries
To cheat identity. Thou hast, as guides,
Two wondrous eyes reverse, and canst with these
Life track when in invisibles it hides,
Or count it in a waterdrop with ease;
Or make some star, in azure seas that glides,
Its distance write in light, its properties!

MY MUSE.

My Muse is humble, as 'tis fit she should,
Both in herself and for Humility's
Sweet sake, who lieth perdu in her eyes—
Her downcast eyes of contemplative mood,
That lowly look for unregarded good.
No bays adorn her brows, but, Flora-wise,
She violets wears, and deems them flowers of price
Because they sweeten lowly neighbourhood.
She needs no Pegasus to prance and pace,
Yet in each stream she finds a Helicon,
And with the nymphs disports in each mill-race;
And sings to it, while sweetly running on
The water turns, as 'twere a work of grace,
The wheel, with blessing earned by work well done.

AULD LANG SYNE.

I love the pleasures which old faces wear;
Old friends, our second selves, reduplicates,
Partners in genial loves and healthy hates;
Who, in our joys and sorrows taking share,
Make the one life seem many; mirrors are
To show its many-sidedness. The states
And stages of our being, its kind fates,
Or other, of old places haunt the air:
A local presence. Most I love of all
Old books; those missals rare, whose every page
Old Time “illuminates;” full on which fall,
As thro' old painted windows, rich with age,
The many-coloured tints; which raise our small,
Poor life, and school it on the world's great stage.

MAKE READY; PREPARE!

Fond Man! When Time draws near with stealthy foot—
Grim Death's apparitor—and holds in hand
That summons which no judge can countermand,
No counsel counter-plead, look thou well to it,
That th' actor's part in life's last act may suit!
For tho' thine hour-glass run golden sand
As of Pactolus' self, it still must stand;
And Death will not thy wealth, but thee, compute.
O Memory, thou art full of tongues and eyes!
Let not those whisper what will nightmare sleep,
Nor these glare looks might make thy flesh to creep!
The cozening flatteries and close-hugged lies,
Which to thine ear their promise seemed to keep,
Like fiends, will mock thee then with perjuries!

HOMER.

As when we sudden come upon the sea,
And the great measured waves sweep up the shore,
And the great winds, refreshing themselves, o'er
It sport, and dip their wings so strong and free;
And look we where we will, all seems to be
Boundless, horizonless; so I explore
The wide expanse Homeric, with rich store
Hid in its choral depths: epitome
And sum of all things. In that mirror clear
And large his Greece beheld herself full length—
A Venus Anodyomene, to cheer
Man's sight, and run in beauty and in strength
Her course, till, as in her own Helen's ear,
Seducers, whispering flatteries, drew near!

BRICK AND MORTAR HUMANITY.

“THE FELL ARREST WITHOUT ALL BAIL.”

O Man, when thou with Death stand'st face to face,
With none to step between, and tenderly,
Yet sternly, Love itself, tho' kneeling by,
He puts aside, and thy few sands run race;
See that thy deeds smell sweet, and “herb o' grace”
Send up its incense blent with thy last sigh!
Bless'd thoughts, like angels, gently close thine eye
On this, and open on a better place.
On that dark threshold a dim form doth stand,
(Not Fortune) veiled, in act to lift her veil.
Oh let it not be Nemesis at hand,
Medusa-like, to scare with looks of bale;
But thro' death's shadowy vale an angel bland
And bright, to lead, like Peter, out of jail.

ON A SEAT BY AN ANCIENT TOMB.

Seat thyself, passer-by, and while brief rest
Thy limbs, brief rest give to thy busy mind.
Repay the kindness of the dead in kind—
From that unending pause, as to attest
Their sympathy still with the living, lest
Their very names should pass away, consigned
To dusty death, they bid thee rest, and find
Time for a thought of passing interest
In them. Read then their epitaph, and go
Thy ways not thankless. So tho' dead they speak!
The dead in many ways are with us; show
The paths we else should miss or toilsome seek.
Their spirits work with us; within us glow
Their thoughts: thus Past and Present know no break.

DAY AND NIGHT.

Lo! swiftly rolling upwards from the west,
From the great eye of light Earth turns one face,
And, star-veiled, with an Ethiop beauty's grace
Clasps Sleep, her dusky babe, hushed on her breast.
Anon, with the other, Janus-like, all drest
In smiles, Aurora-like, she glides thro' space
To greet him in her álternate sphere-race,
While light and dark her wondrous form invest.
Eastward she turns, impatient in that eye,
With which her beauty suns itself, to bask.
Here, with the bat, soft Sleep glides down the sky;
There, the lark sings man to the new day's task.
This measured span of time and space gone by,
The Janus-faces change their wondrous mask.

SUNSET ON THE LAGO MAGGIORE.

Is this some wondrous pageant? Doth the sky
Then hold high festival? The earth below
Put on her singing-robes and glorious show,
As if transfigured by the Almighty's eye!
All colours that on Nature's palette lie,
All rainbows since the Flood there melt and glow,
As if God in His crucible would throw
Yon Alps, and all earth's gems, to fuse thereby
One sun-like jewel! All, the lake below
Reduplicates, as th' image it would keep
For ever. No vain vision this of sleep—
No poet's dream; all real, and waking breath.
O God! this daily life hath sights, I ween,
Might make an apotheosis of death!

EXTRA FLAMMANTIA MŒNIA MUNDI.

LOSE NOT TIME.

With bee-like industry fill thou the hive
Of knowledge. Let no flower of the spring
Escape thee. From the slopes of Hybla bring
Those finer flavours they alone can give,
On which the bees of poesy must live.
Therewith thy daily bread too sweetening,
Thou'lt raise and leaven it to be a thing
The Muse may bless, and thy soul on it thrive.
Lay up rich fuel for poetic use,
And when thou hast enough to make a pyre,
And sacrifice would'st offer to the Muse,
She will send down her own celestial fire,
And with articulate breath the flame diffuse;
One spark of which will thy whole heart inspire.

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

Blotted with holy tears shed long ago,
When pain and joy play tricks in youthful eyes
On slender prompting, here before me lies
The page divine, self-opened. Bending low,
I read; and, moved by mingled feelings, flow
Some added tears. Time takes me by surprise.
Thus lies he still in wait; and, if he dries
Some tears, makes others just because 'tis so!
Andromache! those tears of thine still run;
A spring-head of all pity, human love,
And tenderness was struck when they begun,
And flows for ever; for 'tis from above.
Yes! countless hearts have drunk there; Love thence won
A fuller life, at large to breathe and move.

MENTAL DIGESTION.

How strange, díverse, the powers of the mind!
E'en as the stomach can assimilate
And to itself subdue to affin'd state
Mere opposites of food and drink, divined
In bitter, sour, sweet; fish, flesh; coarse, refined,
Unerringly as needed; so create
Our minds from objects of our love and hate,
Their differences in degree and kind.
Poison to some, to others is as food;
Some will on garbage prey, tho' nectar were
At hand. One's evil is another's good.
From Dan unto Beersheba one will fare
And find all barren; while another would
In stones find sermons, and good everywhere!

DAWN IN A CATHEDRAL.

It is the break of day! The angel Light
Steals thro' yon eastern window's gorgeous hues,
And his pure wings, Aurora-gemmed with dews,
Take rainbow-tints, which hide their perfect white.
Timid he steals along, half hid from sight
Behind some pillar, which, defined, doth lose
Its formless outline. Here awhile doth muse
By some old tomb, not showing himself quite.
About he peers and peeps, as if he'd play
At hide-and-seek with darkness; touching here
A frieze, there coign of vantage, corbel grey;
Till, reassured, yet with a holy fear,
He all himself reveals, and pours the day,
God's blessed light, o'er all, and shows all clear.

HUMAN INCONSISTENCIES.

Some, of imagination all compact,
Armed cap-à-pie, and winged like Perseus, fly,
Self-high-commissioned, thro' the earth and sky—
Knights-errant and crusaders in the abstráct,
Making, in vacuo, with death a pact!
Whilst others, without wings, but aims as high,
Unconscious they are heroes, live or die,
And what the former dream the latter act.
Partition strange of human qualities!
A Centaur here, half man, half animal;
A Woman there, fishy extremities
With woman's bust. Reason, the crown of all,
Set oft on a Priapus! Truth tells lies,
And with her honey Charity hath gall!

ON THE EXQUISITE FRENCH PICTURE OF PERSEUS AND MEDUSA.

THE TRUE ALCHYMIST.

Dreamers, their hearts set on life's vanities
And gauds, sought to transmute by alchymy
And ape great Nature, and jilt Fortune tie
With golden love-knots to them; but the wise
Smile at the fools who'd take her by surprise,
And filch, not earn, life's blessings. Time we by
The forelock take, and opportunity
Is Fortune's smile, but Chance her dice-box plies
For fools! Yet truest alchymy there is,
And into more than gold it turneth all.
Contentment, thou art sovereign in this!
In thy true scales how things despised and small
Weigh heavy! with thee life's Best none need miss,
Work, love, think, pray, these neither cheat nor pall!

THE PLAGUE OF BOOKS.

This plague old Egypt's list did not include!
As “the wood hides the trees,” so, too, among
This Babel-plague of books in every tongue
Our view is blurred; assimilation's crude;
Our minds, like Jacob's coat, are many-hued;
Like chimes on cracked bells, or by crazed hands rung,
Our brains whirl, and, like hot steeds gad-fly stung,
Run wild—starve, surfeit, amid too much food.
“Beware the man,” saith proverb, “of one book.”
His eye is single, and from such motes clear;
Mind calm; not like theirs who, distracted, look
This way and that, and all would read, see, hear.
His mind a focus—river—self-fed brook;
Theirs, scattered rays—brief torrent—stagnant mere.

HOW TO READ GREAT AUTHORS.

Fling off this daily life and petty cares,
As did his winter-cloak the traveller
In the old fable; like a usurer
His money-bag, the more the rude wind tears,
The more he hugs his cloak, till unawares,
Coaxed by the warm sun, gentle flatterer,
He all-unbosoms. In some great soul's sphere
So warm thee; in his sunshine and sweet airs
Cast off mere self; betake thee to some wood,
The sounding sea-shore, or far-visioned height,
With him, the spirit of thy solitude,
Share his large life, and, like a satellite,
Move round him; then, in lower neighbourhood,
Thou may'st still shine with somewhat of his light.

THE WONDROUS PHENOMENA OF THE NORTH POLAR NIGHT AND DAY.

Faint shimmers mark the dawn of what a night!
Six months those stars have circled round the Pole,
And, in the zenith (like some steadfast soul
Whose calm eye looks us through) one fixed star bright
As Faith; such night brings forth like opposite!
A day with three months' full growth to its goal
(Summer's brief pause), and three back; six the whole;
With dawn, to herald such large lease of light,
By weeks, not hours, timed! Then the world's eye
Looks o'er th' horizon with one long survey,
One day, for task of godlike energy.
Up in vast spiral sweep he winds his way
To brief solstitial pause, then backward by
A twi-month twilight to night long as day!

THE SONNET “AT A HEAT.”

'Tis a short trip, just fourteen “measured” miles.
Our Pegasus, tho' not the wingèd steed
That struck the famous spring, is of good breed,
And well his fiery pace the road beguiles.
Of Science born, he with the older styles
Braves frank comparison; a Muse, indeed,
Of fire he asks, for on fire doth he feed,
By land and water, continents and isles.
He can strike fire too; and when his steam,
His inspiration, 's up, that old-world horse
He caps. How grand his starting snort! I seem
By one of the Sun's horses o'er the course
Whirled on with all the Muses in full force,
And Phœbus' self to cap our trip and theme!

MAN.

Thou little-great, great-little! thou mere fly
Upon Time's wheel, yet whose circumference
And motions thou canst measure; trace from whence
And when yon planet comes—where in the sky
'Twill, like a diamond-point, first meet the eye
Of Science; of eclipses, ages hence,
Point time and place; thy own intelligence
Forth-setting as God's works and constancy!
Would that thou could'st thyself concentric run,
In thy small orbit, steadfast with yon sphere;
Thy reason suffering no eclipse but one,
In His, to make it brighter reappear!
Thy passions trained to warm thee as yon sun,
Not scorch like fire, and prematurely sear!

A FUNERAL.

Slow winds the train along Death's great highway;
Of life and man sad, strange epitome!
The Young, too young to know what death may be,
Tho' tears, and sobs, and gravestones seem to say;
The Old, who in Death's footsteps of to-day
Measure their own to-morrow's. There walks she,
The widowed mother, whom Death has set free
By rude divorce, without fee'd Law's delay!
With nicest shade he touches in each face:
Rembrandtish-dark, with silvery high-lights
Of faith, in that; here, a scarce-conscious trace;
While the heir's griefs congratulate his rights!
The curious crowd, awed out of commonplace;
The priest, who Death to moralise invites!

THE CONSTELLATION LYRA.

Why shin'st thou there, so beautiful and bright,
Thou brightest of our Northern hemisphere,
And yet so lonely, like a spirit clear,
Making itself a solitude of light,
And worshipping, a starry anchorite,
Thy Maker there! From us poor mortals here
Thou seldom absent art, therefore more dear
For that, as for thy radiance, in our sight.
What is thy mission in that sea of blue,
Or what thy dwellers? Some high-favoured race
Set with their planet all apart, in view
Of all thy sister-stars, to do thee grace?
I wist not, thou bright wonder, yet am through
Thy glory brought with God more face to face!

THE POET.

The Poet's brain, quick, forgetive, and deep,
Its flame with self-substantial fuel fed,
On high philosophy well nourishèd;
With wings to soar, yet, meekly-folded, reap
From common things that wisdom which doth keep
Our brains and bloods sound, not bemaggoted
With whims and social taints, nor fungusèd
With rotting growths that things worn-out o'ercreep.
Noble that brain is, and with noble heart
Well-matched; its pulses like th' electric wire,
Thrill to earth's ends, that so he may take part
In all; with spark electric, set on fire
Men's hearts, and make them into new life start,
And, like Prometheus' clay, new breath respire!

MISAPPRECIATION.

“USED-UP.”

O rose, soft-blushing on that sweet maid's breast,
Art thou used up, because three thousand years
Ago his Helen's breath her Paris swears
Out-pérfumes thee? Has Love then lost all zest,
Because ere now it hath so many blest?
Is spring used up; all smiles replaced by tears;
Is Truth a mock; Faith mark for cynic sneers;
Is man himself used-up and past his best?
Oh no! it is thy heart, thy heart alone,
Which is used-up. Thou hast no honey laid
Up in the hive, nor left the bees their own.
Life's Eden, a miráge, behind doth fade,
A waste before thee; wild oats hast thou sown;
Of these the “bread of life” was never made!

THE ALABASTER VASE LIT UP.

How cold the figures on the vase appear;
How flat, unraised, dead, mere-mechanical!
No lights and shadows nice-defining fall,
Or throw them out in bold relief; all mere
Hard outline, without softening atmosphere.
No subtle undershot lights glow thro' all,
Transfigure, touch the cold, dead forms, and call
Th' ideal sense forth spiritualised and clear.
Put light within, and darken that without;
The figures live! Within is all true light.
So without Poesy to move about
Within, to finer issues touch sense, sight,
And soul, is Man; not that we mouth and spout,
But th' unbought grace of life we live, not write!

ON THE STRANGELY BOTCHED ENDINGS OF SOME OF SHAKSPEAR'S SONNETS.

O lame and impotent conclusion! 'Tis
As some full stream should run not to the sea,
But lose itself in sand, or stagnant be;
Or proud steed his last winning leap should miss,
And fall flat t'other side; or lovers kiss,
And with their last word quarrel; or the bee
Taint all the honey by the flower he
Last sucked from; or dove's coo end with snake's hiss!
'Tis like Adonis with a cloven foot;
Fair woman fish-like ending; richest vein
Of gold “at fault;” coarse patch in rarest suit;
Mere discord in last notes of voice or strain
Angelic—strange all these! That he should do it,
Who wrote what went before, more strange again!

THE SONNET.

The Sonnet should be like a waterfall:
The full, deep body of the thought should flow
Broad, clear, unbroken; and then onely go
In grand, smooth sweep beyond sight and recall;
A perfect whole—greatness in compass small.
'Tis like a wheel, compact, well rounded, so
That all the spokes into one centre throw
Their strengths, to one circumference true all.
Again, 'tis like to well-set compasses;
The centre thought, the fixed foot, ruling by
Its firmness all, yet not unbendingly,
True keeps the circle, and doth all compress;
The other moves more free, discursively,
Yet comes true by the centre's steadiness.

THE LIGHTS OF THE WORLD.

The great precursive souls that light the age
With the full intellectual day they shed,
Are in due course of nature heralded
By a long dawn, ere full on the world's stage
They rise, and from all mists can disengage
Their radiance. So with faint lights long o'erspread
(Dawn as of resurrection from the dead),
Through the long night of its dark pilgrimage
The Pole emerges. Then in sight of all
(God's lights) they shine, reveal, and prophesy;
And at meridian the shadows fall
Away from mortal things; from the world's eye
The scales remove; things that seemed great show small,
And the world breaks its idols, for they lie!

THE ORGAN-GRINDER.

I love to hear in some sad street forlorn,
On which the very sun takes shame to shine,
'Mid Nature's exiles (who the low of kine
At sunset never heard, nor lark at morn,
Of all her unbought grace their sad lives shorn),
The harsh street organ “grind” some air divine
(Tho' it make Music doubt her origin),
And pause to see the children as new-born.
That is the music! played on instrument
Of finest touch and widest range—the heart!
And he who hears it not has never lent
An ear to that which is beyond all art;
In highest harmony incompetent,
The music of Man's life, to take a part!

“FREE LOVE.”

Free Love! Vile creed of fools and reprobates!
Swine, who with snout of bestial appetite
Grub i' the lusts of the flesh for love's delight,
And sniff it in life's kennel! “Love” not mates
With “free” in sense of license. Loves grow hates;
License foul thraldom; ay, of such the light
Is darkness; their sweet, bitter; to their sight
Mole's eagle's; cursed their lives, and brief their dates.
O holy name of Love—of mother, child,
And father! O all ye bless'd charities
And bonds of life, rent, poisoned, and defiled!
Confusion's master-work; lusts, hatreds, lies,
Sodom, Gomorrah! Man, a beast run wild;
Sewer, choked with its own filth, where all life dies

SHAKSPEAR'S SONNETS.

Great Shakspear poured into this little mould
His o'er-fraught heart in fever-glow of youth;
As at white-heat with love divine of truth;
An ingot melted down of sterling gold,
Coined for man's use; in finest gold-leaf rolled
To gild things coarse and common, else uncouth,
Ill-prized; a golden trumpet in his mouth,
Sounding a réveille, with a note to hold
Till Time himself grow deaf. The mould seems small,
Yet greatness is not measured by mere size.
“Let there be light,” God said, and light was all.
So genius hath creative mysteries,
And one Promethean spark electrical
Can make the dull clay breathe, the dead arise.

MY BOOKSHELVES; OR, THE LIGHTS OF THE WORLD.

Close up your serrièd ranks, your noble files,
True warriors, best Crusaders for the right;
Let your great Word go forth to quell the might
Of Ignorance which still the world beguiles,
The cruel Sword which God's fair earth defiles.
True messengers of peace, heralds of light,
Oh blessed be your steps in all men's sight,
Who to the Promised Land lead earth's exiles.
Like disembodied spirits ye are near,
A real, though viewless presence. 'Tis your thought
That thinks in me; by your light I see clear.
From many tongues and lands together brought,
A cloud of witnesses, one voice I hear
Without interpreter, like God's, exhort.

THE POET'S RULE OF LIFE.

Set thou no idols up: worship not gold,
Nor who it worship: cast not in thy lot
With such; they're not of thee or thine, thou not
Of them. In service of the truth be bold,
In word and, harder, thought; cleave to it, hold
It as thy life of life. Keep free from spot
Thy garments, pure from earthly taint and blot.
Be thou true man in all, nor bought nor sold.
Live thy life simply; all that's great is so.
As perfect health repels infectious touch,
Let thy soul's purity around thee throw
A charm, which forfeit not; it is worth much.
Thy mind a temple make where thou may'st know
God face to face: He shows Himself to such.

THE SONNET.

To a bright planet with its satellites
The Sonnet bears resemblance; in it glows
And shines an orb, the central thought, which throws
Its steadier radiance on the lesser lights,
The thoughts subordinate, and airy flights
Centrifugal of fancy, apt from close
Connection and coherence to cast loose,
And fly off into space, dazzling weak sights.
But under control of the central thought,
Imagination shines divinely strong;
Revolving round their primary, and brought
In order due within its light, along
Move all the parts, harmonic as they ought,
Receiving, giving, mutual light and song.

WORLD-MUSIC.

I hear a concert like that of the spheres
Of which 'tis part; upswelling to the stars,
It blends with that which Heaven from those bright Lars
And clear Penatés of God's mansions hears
Quiring for ever their ordained careers.
The World's great household harmony, thro' wars
And strifes, and creeds, wrongs, hatreds, prison-bars,
It passes on, well pleasing in God's ears.
Grand voices sound clear above all the rest,
The choir-leaders of Humanity;
Prophets, and saints, and martyrs, and the best
And wisest teachers how to live and die:
Who struck the chains from Mind, and taught man, by
The service which is freedom, to be blest.

FORTUNE.

Thy wheel, O Fortune, doth but brief while stand,
Or rather seems, for it doth not quite stay,
But like the sun at solstice and mid day,
Deceives the heedless eye and hasty hand
Would seize and stay thee to its rash command.
But thou dost slacken pace, and with such play
Awhile; that, on the summit dazzled, they
May balance lose, and, like ships nearing land,
Be wrecked in sight of port! Shrewd turn indeed!
While climbing they did use and need all skill
To keep their balance, with much toil succeed;
But what they hardly gain lose light and ill.
As who a pilot think they no more need,
But let wild Chance their spread sails puff and fill.

CRITICS OF THE BASER SORT.

Ye Pharisees of the pen! ye acted lies;
Ye lettered hypocrites, who veer and trim
To every puff. Who make your anonym
A mask 'neath which her base trade Envy plies,
And spits her froth and venom. Like meat-flies,
Ye taint and fly-blow all ye can; make dim
And 'neath your bushel hide the light of him
In whose true dawn your farthing-rushlight dies.
Worst hypocrites, who lie against the light
And knowledge, against your own souls: ye praise
And puff each other to the echo; write
Your “mutual admirations;” bray your brays;
Your “bark is after all waur than your bite;”
The ass in lion's skin that part ill plays!

THE TRUE CRITIC.

Lie there, thou lion's skin, thou travesty!
Now for the lion. Come, thou critic true,
Who lov'st to recognise, give worth its due,
Severe but upright judge. As Error by
Ithuriel's spear once touched, falsehood and lie
Show in true shape by thee pierced thro' and thro'.
But Truth and Nature thou dost homage to,
Speak'st in their name, and mak'st thine office high.
All excellence thou mak'st thine own, and more,
Set forth, reduplicate in thy clear glass,
Shone on with rich appreciative lore.
The greatest pens seem themselves to surpass
When thou dost show their heights, their depths explore,
And for us measure them from top to base.

HEALTH.

Thrice blessèd Health! Sum, substance of all good:
Thyself chief blessing; thou of all the rest,
Dost grant long lease and touch to finer zest.
Joy's smile, Love's rapture, Beauty's rose, the flood
Of light which fills the eye's diviner mood
Of inspiration—these thou, and thy guest,
Sweet co-supreme Contentment, thy next best,
Twin guardian-angels, never seen at feud,
Alone can give; and that which crowns all these,
Life's salt, its perfume and quintessence fine,
Sound mind; by which, most like, man most doth please
His Maker, and doth rise to things divine;
And, poised in those true scales, maintains with ease
His balance on life's equatorial line.

THE SONNET AGAIN.

The Sonnet is a spring-head full and clear;
Not shallow pool, slight splash, or strip of stream,—
Least, water run to waste; not Poet's theme,
But scorn: by Pegasus (if some more near
Parnassus-top, yet this well in that sphere,
And fed in secret from that source supreme)
Was struck in playful mood; and poets dream
Beside it, and the Muses deign t' appear.
Its source is higher up, itself in reach
Of lowlier thirsts and needs. As to the eye
One golden thread drawn thro' some leafy breach
Of woods o'erarched gives clue to sun and sky;
So, full of large suggestion, this doth teach
And tell us of the main of Poesy!

THE POET'S TEST.

For a vile mess of pottage sell not thou
Thy birthright, heir of treasures beyond kings;
Crawl not thou, to whom God hath given wings.
Serve not the World, nor moth and rust allow
To enter in and spoil, thou on whose brow
God hath writ “immortality,” which clings
Thro' true and false to thee: in the one, stings
Of scorpions; in the other, good men's now
And God's “Well done!” hereafter. Wealth seek not;
It is to thee at best a golden chain;
And fetters, tho' of gold, thy soul hath got;
Thou'st gained a loss, and lost a priceless gain!
Thou canst not god and Mammon both retain;
One must thou serve, or both will cross thy lot.

TIME.

If Time's great wheel, revolving, from it flings
Into th' oblivious Past the dust and dross
And cast-off of the World, as at a loss
How to dispose of such old worn-out things,
Yet in his treasure-house lie offerings
Of untold value, from which he the gloss
Not wears, but heightens and keeps bright for us,
Brushing the dust off with memorial wings.
Yet tho' he takes away he brings no less;
And mighty as the mightiest shall come
In their due course; for Nature lays a stress
And strain upon her, and her procreant womb
Responds with some great birth, when Time doth press,
And Expectation tiptoe stands and dumb.

“FREE LOVE” AGAIN.

Free Love, free Hate! loathing, contempt, and scorn!
Brief is lust's dream; the pleasures of mere sense,
Lusts of the flesh, are short-lived if intense:
Ephemera at best, and oft stillborn;
Roses rude-grasped which, fading, leave the thorn.
For the weak victim the next social fence
Yields sticks; thou, Woman, sinn'st at own expense,
Left, 'mid the wastes of time, a thing forlorn.
Not wife; the toy and plaything of a day;
Not mother; like the brute beasts of the field
Thy travail; shaming, shamed, and put away.
No father; lust sweet child-love cannot yield.
The mirror to reflect these forms with ray
Divine in true Love's fires must be annealed!

SCHOOL-BOARD WRANGLES.

While fools and knaves, and rabid sectaries
Would education bring to a dead-lock,
Leaving to chance, or worse, the poor lost flock,
In steals the Devil, in the shepherd's guise,
And turns it back while pointing to the skies:
Lest tender consciences nice points should shock,
And Faith find common-sense a stumbling-block,
Religion starves on empty “'ologies.”
Ye hypocrites! ye would set up your stones
And stocks in place of God, and truth, and love,
And give us for the grace of life dry bones!
Religion, which is from, to draw above,
Must speak with other voice; ay, as with tones
And tongues of angels, and have power to move!

OUR NOW.

Live in thy Present: take it not amiss,
But understand it; make the most of it,
And of thyself, else art thou a misfit,
A sentence bracketed, hyphen 'twixt some bliss
To be or been, which, therefore, neither is;
“Let the dead bury their dead,” if thou hast wit
To take it so; and let Time-to-be fit
Itself, bear its own children, as does this.
I speak in figures—from thy field of view
The Past hath joined the years before the Flood;
The Future's not in sight, affords no clue:
Man should not raise that veil e'en if he could;
'Twould, like strange looks in face one never knew,
Perplex, with things not to be understood.

SACER VATES.

Let thy mind as a goodly temple be—
Not only, like that famous shrine of old,
Built without sound, as sacred pens have told,
Of axe and hammer, but withoút hands; free
From the world's strife and din: that thou may'st see,
Rapt in the visions of god, such things unfold
Their meaning, as vouchsafed to Prophets old,
And God in figures deign to speak with thee!
And His Word shalt thou utter, not thine own;
(On peril of thy soul), no more, nor less;
Thy lips shall be His oracles alone.
Then, haply thou, like Balaam, shalt bless
When others curse; and give, where they a stone,
The Bread of Life to Man in his distress!

THE SONNET.

The Sonnet in the Muse's wide domain
Is but a small estate, but it lies well
In a ring-fence, all tilth and arable:
No barren stretch of dull, prosaic plain;
No wastes, to hand ingrate, to sight a pain.
Its furrows all in wavelike order swell,
And golden mists at dawn the sun foretell,
Whose alchymy turns all to golden grain.
'Tis like an egg, or should be, full of meat;
The ring, whose two ends hold life's double bliss;
A daily care, imperative, yet sweet;
A task, done against time, tide, hit or miss;
An inspiration, struck off at a heat;
“Totus, teres, atque rotundus;” Love's first kiss.

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE VERSUS PARIS AND HELEN.

“FREE LOVE” AGAIN.

Oh most unnatural, that Woman's hand
Should lift itself against the majesty
Of Love! 'Tis to put out the very eye
Of Being. Let Love's rose, with all its bland
Life-sweetening perfume, from her fair brow banned,
Be réplaced with a blister! 'Tis to die
By her own hand, and blast with obloquy
The name of “Woman,” and a bye-word stand.
O Love, not the weak, wanton Cupid thou,
But that diviner form to whom his dart
And torch are playthings, and himself I trow,
Venus Urania! who dost touch the heart
With quenchless altar-fire, touch Woman's now,
And save, for thou her guardian angel art!

THE EARLY DEATH OF KEATS.

As in her goblet Cleopatra threw
The pearl of price, and drank it to her love,
So throws the Poet something far above
That pearl, a gem far rarer and more true,
Into Life's mantling cup, and drinks it to
The Muses in libation, tho' it prove
Oft but as sweet-lipped poison, one remove
From envious Death, and Love's last sad adieu.
His heart that pearl of price is; for the Muse
Proves sometimes jealous where least need to fear,
And grudges to an earthlier passion use
Or share of that which she holds onely dear.
Making therefore of her great love excuse,
She takes him to herself, for ever near!

THE MUSE'S SERVICE.

O Muse, for greatest things the strife is great,
And needs must be: the happy warrior
Is trained in battle, crown'd a conqueror,
When he hath gained with much toil and full late
That highest crown, the crown of Man's estate,
Self-victory! Therefore, wise Monitor,
Thou dost, severely kind, thrust backward for
A season, till great means with great ends mate.
As Jacob with the angel, with bent knee
I wrestle with thee, thro' the darkness hope;
Thou hast put me out of joint, and made me see
That without thee none well with Fame may cope.
Oh let my name prevail, and changèd be;
Called after thine, as having power with thee!

PROGRESS.

Each generation of the human mind
Needs larger swaddling-clothes; the very breast
Of Science now gives milk to babes: babes blest
With scientific toys, express-designed
To rouse them to draw further Nature's blind;
The young philosopher his drum must test,
The sound and fury of Life's later quest
Forestalling; one same moral both behind.
The worn-out mental garments of the past
Make rags for paper for new theories.
Ideas tabooed once take root and grow fast
In larger brains; while Science creeps, dives, flies:
Life is but electricity at last;
One missing link Man to Gorilla ties!

RAPHAEL'S MADONNA DELLA SEGGIOLA.

The very pressure of those arms we feel
Round her dear babe, who, nestling like a dove
On her soft bosom, throbs back love for love;
The vague unconscious-consciousness of weal
Seems from itself almost itself to steal
The sense of bliss, so perfect that above
Its cause and instruments it seems to move
And have its being, and itself reveal
In very essence. Yes! the Present is;
Past, Future are not; instant happiness
Is all in all. Hope, merged in perfect bliss,
Sleeps (fluttering dove), in self-forgetfulness.
Love's circles here, concentric run with His
Above—the great, the lesser, and still less!

ON A TOMB.

Dost thou, O Tomb, speak truth, or petrify
A falsehood? With engravèd breath give praise
To proved deserts, or if of what it says
The stone were conscious, would it blush to lie
In sight of all men, and insult the sky?
It were all one! Time with oblivious days
Hath blotted out that life, and now its place
Not knows it, true or false, or how, or why.
Time stays not to gloze epitaphs! he sweeps
With his great wings oblivious dust behind,
And to the instant business sternly keeps.
A few grand names, seërs where all are blind,
Speakers where dumb, watchers in world that sleeps,
The lights of God, shine on to guide mankind.

MAN-PROUD SPARTA.

Noblest of boasts! true boast of men and states!
Without this Earth's base is but rottenness,
States rest on sand, a masquerading dress
Their tinsel-civilisation; brief their dates;
Wrath 'gainst the day of wrath, and angry Fates.
Ay, in the very flattery and caress
Of strumpet Fortune they Destruction press,
And Nemesis sits at their city-gates!
“Man” is the corner-stone of all: on this,
Ye Statesman, build: where this is, all is; where
'Tis not is nothing. “Man” the true gold is;
Without that 'tis base coin. Ay, tho' it bear
Image and superscription, even His
Above, 'tis counterfeit, and will not wear!

KEATS.

At thy dear birth the Muses, present all,
Assistance gave and happy augury;
And, tho' celestials, did loving vie
In mortal offices, and deigned to call
After themselves, and of their great and small
Large-handed gave thee. Poet's tongue and eye,
Imagination's wings; humanity
Open and warm as day in Spring, as Fall
Rich, mellow-fruited. But, alas! there stood
Another Presence near the Muses, one
Stronger than they, and of far other mood,
And gave his fatal gifts, beheld of none!
Is there, O Death, so much of rarest good,
That all they do by thee must be undone?

WORLDLY WEALTH.

How instant Sorrow treads upon the heel
Of Happiness, and Care doth gall his kibe
At top of Fortune's wheel; and Envy's gibe,
Like shadow after substance, makes him feel
Its sting—while thieves that would but dare not steal
His treasures lie in ambush; and that tribe
Whose poor lip-service golden hours bribe,
Ephemera, in sunshine of his weal,
Who fly-blow when 'tis gone. Better than this
The simple fare where leal hearts meet in love,
True friendship's honest handshake, pure love's kiss;
High strivings day upon day to improve;
True wage of hand or pen; and that which is
The crown of all, heart set on things above!

MODERN WARFARE.

O War, accursèd idol, still thy car,
Like Ind's foul Juggernaut (idolatry
Less hateful than thine own), rolls crashing by,
'Mid widows', orphans' wails, to blast and mar
God's image; while, 'neath Mars' lurid star,
Glaring, ascendant in th' ensanguined sky,
Earth bleeds, and gentle Ceres made to fly
Drops plough and sickle, while the Sword doth scar
Her fruitful bosom! Science, too, of Peace
The gentle minister, perverted, turns
Upon herself, deviceful to increase
Death's armoury: as natural fire scarce burns,
Hell-fire she invents that scourge to please;
And teaches War, while Peace forgets, unlearns!

POESY.

As well the altar take from out the shrine
As Poesy from Life—put out the fire,
The sacred household flame, and bid retire
From desecrated hearthstones their divine
Penatës, who its glow sustain, refine;
As well pluck out man's hearts and make a pyre,
True funeral pile! and burn it with the lyre;
For this the goblet is without the wine!
I mean that Poesy in largest sense,
From earth to heaven, from cradle to the grave;
Which perfumes this our life like sweet incense,
And like the salt o' the earth from taint can save.
Cast it not out; oh break not down that fence;
That swine their styes may in the temple have!

HEALTH.

O blessed Health! thou mak'st the passing crow
Of Chanticleer the trumpet of the morn,
The soul's réveille, all sluggardise to scorn,
To shun delights, and by the forelock so
To seize swift Time as not to let him go,
Till Fortune, in the side of fools a thorn,
Transfers to more deserts what they were born
To undeserving, nor to use did know.
O precious antidote! reward thrice blest!
That makes a charm from sweat of hand and brain,
To turn bad into good, and good to best!
O dew and perfume of Man's life, how vain
Without thee wealth and power, and ease, and rest:
A crown of gilded thorns, a golden bane!

TO ------

O purest Lily; dew-drop; dawn of day;
A robe of light thy innocence; a bright
Pure emanation of a soul all white;
Soul-light, one, indivisible, pure ray
Of God Himself—which, passed thro' prism, may
No colours show, but still remaineth quite
And onely pure; a diamond, which God's light
Shines thro' and passes unchanged on its way!
Not only pure thyself—nought can endure,
While near thee, to be otherwise, whereon
Thy light transfiguring falls; from evil-doer
The spirit, as if exorcised, is gone!
Whilst things of light turn towards thee, pure to pure,
Like kindred lilies, to be shone upon!

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

This Age of ours, with Mars i' the ascendant, born,
Ensanguined planet! and its infancy
Made tuneable with War's soft lullaby,
Had a grand dream of Peace and Love, a morn
Of promise. Knowledge blew her magic-horn
To wake the Seven Sleepers; to her high
And holy quests to rouse from apathy
A world distraught, and make Earth less forlorn.
'Twas a grand vision, with horizons wide
And forms divine; but as the Age gained years,
Like Youth's illusions, Time thrust these aside,
Reduced to man's proportions—dashed with tears
And blood the page of knowledge, and her pride
Rebuked, and put to shame her purblind seers!

OCCUPATION.

Of all the shapes Protean the Devil takes,
The worst is Idleness. Here largest scope
For wickedness, the widest door doth ope
For sin; tho' just ajar, she by it makes
Her entrance, and, once in, possession takes.
Possession “nine points of the law,” with hope
Strong of the tenth, is: give an inch of rope
She'll hang you with it; bind you, like a snake's
Close cincture, hand and foot. Give her no place,
Then, in thy thoughts; insidious thief, thy heart
She then beguiles and lulls in her embrace.
Let her not take thy hand and lead apart
In dalliance; but with blessing and with grace
Of labour earn thy bread, and make life's start.

THE BOOK YOU MAY HOLD OVER THE FIRE.

Come to my hand once more, old well-thumbed book;
Friend of my youth, companion of long years;
Thou hast soothed many aches, dried many tears;
From out thee as an old friend's eye doth look,
And opening thee, it is as if I took
An old friend by the hand: each page appears
Illuminated with joys, hopes, and fears,
(Like an old missal), clasped with Memory's lock.
Unlock thy heart, then! howsoe'er I be,
Sick, sad, or sorry, thou art still the same;
No flaws of temper, ups or downs with thee.
When Fortune, like a sorry jade, falls lame,
And hearts turn inside-out that we may see
Their hollowness, thou puttest them to shame!

SHAKSPEAR.

As on some morning of assurèd Spring,
When Winter spends himself; with peevish wind
Puffs out his cheeks, vexed to be left behind;
While yet his last rude efforts do but fling
The leafy curtains wide, and help birds sing
His sweet farewell, the Sun his ways unkind
Rebukes, and, scattering clouds of sky and mind,
Sweet airs from heaven and golden looks doth bring!
So on the rearward clouds of troublous times
Our Shakespear sunlike rose, towering in the van
Of mighty spirits, while the morning-chimes
Rang out of day more than Virgilian.
Chaucer, our lark—fit harbinger—sang Primes,
And Matins, and that fuller day foreran.

IDEAS.

The thoughts that come of themselves to the mind;
That like sweet, skittish faces, pique and play
At hide-and-seek, just show, then run away
With a faint elvish laugh: voices that find
In our souls' depths strange echoes; leave behind,
Blent strangely, awe and wonder, yet betray
No whereabouts; or wood-nymphs, who waylay
In forest dim, and with their glamour blind
Yet draw us on. Such are they: passing-strange!
Whispers from heaven; seeds dropped by angel-hand,
Of scent, and hue, and yield beyond the range
And reaches of our souls. From Holy Land
The sacred soil e'en so of growths brought change,
And Pisa, wondering, saw strange flowers expand.

TO ENGLAND.

O greatest of the Oceanides!
Well may the mighty Neptune let thee lay
Thy hand upon his locks, and with them play,
Whilst he, caressing with his loving seas,
Encircles thee, and studies still to please.
For thou no Mermaid's song, no Syren-lay
Hast chanted to the isles; but shown the way
Of toil, in song and deed, not sloth and ease!
Oh still thy lofty-chanted part fulfil,
And, true choirleader, lead off in all toil
And song for good, that he may love thee still,
Still cleanse thy garments from earth's stain and moil,
And like a spotless bride watch o'er thee, till
He can present thee without spot or soil!

THE EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF WELLINGTON ON CONSTITUTION HILL.

Ride on, old iron Duke, ride forthright on
Into the ages, leap this gulf of Time!
Iron thy steed; thyself true steel, ay, prime
As best Damascus blade: nought else e'er won
A nation's heart, or set thee there upon
Thy charger! Ay, let London smoke begrime,
And dust besmirch thee, thou art still sublime;
'Tis gilt o'er-dusted, not gilt dust, with none!
I love to see thee 'mid the fog, and smoke,
And sweat of toiling London; greatness shows
Itself, and Duty, who by thee still spoke.
Oh may such never fail; true hearts, like those
At Agincourt, those “happy few,” who broke
The French, nor Time the noble roll e'er close!

TO ------

Of medicínal cup, to cheat the same,
We honey-touch the rim; but when I this
Of cordial wine uplift, and my lips kiss
The beaded edge, and with the wine thy name,
Thy dear name mingle, oh methinks, Love's flame
Plays round the cup of Bacchus, and less his
Than Love's, while thy sweet health I drink, it is;
So Love and Bacchus play odd-even game.
Bacchus is but cup-bearer unto Love;
The wine serves, like the honey, to disguise;
And only when Love quickens it doth move
And stir itself aright, and cordial prove!
Then more than healing med'cine in it lies,
Life's true Elixir, all else far above!

SACER VATES.

He dwells apart, in the large solitude
Of his own heart; few love, few understand;
His soul, an isthmus, with untrodden strand,
Bridges that Future, otherwise which would
Be sundered quite from the dull Present's mood;
That so the forward spirits who command
Time's passes and approaches, of that Land
Of Promise, o'er which sun-touched clouds dark brood,
Catch sight. His soul is as a Sinai;
No common feet may mount; and on that height,
That height of God, lo! the Lord passeth by!
His Word is put into his mouth with might
To utter, ay, with thunders of the sky,
And he descends transfigured in that light!

HYGEIA.

The temple of that blessèd deity,
Fast friend to Virtue and Religion
(Nay, they are triune, either, neither, none;
In essence one, as colours in light lie),
Is seated on a height, with purest sky,
The approach direct, yet not too easy won;
The “Open-Sesame,” at rise of sun,
Then only, “Labour, God be praised thereby,
Therefor!” Her simple, potent talisman
Is, “Moderation in all things;” yet is
She no ascetic, nor constrains she Man
To put hard bit in Pleasure's mouth: nay, this,
True Pleasure, she doth hold in largest span;
And, without her, were taint in Love's own kiss!

TO ------.

The roses there, the dewy, on thy cheek,
Do put to shame their namesakes, which but seem
Figures and shadows; wide-awake to dream!
Oh who would in Spring's garlands ever seek
A fairy-flower like this, to breathe and speak
Thro' living roses; thus to shine and gleam
Brighter and purer, with the soul's true beam,
Than all the lilies which perfume then reek.
Oh how those eyes (where Love, the fowler, lies
Perdu, and weaves, with tangles of thy hair,
His nets and meshes of most rare device),
Most wound, intoxicate, when most they spare!
Thy doves may (ay, those doves of Paradise),
Prove fatal, as Medusa's snakes once were!

POLITICAL MILESTONES.

Only a bigot or a fool would make
Consistency, in sense of fixedness,
The Statesman's touchstone: 'twere mere littleness,
Blank incapacity of things to take
Just measure, thus to stand tied to a stake,
A formal ass! while Time doth forward press,
Changing all things, from mind's to body's dress;
And circumscription and confine doth break
Like Samson's withés. In a world where all
Doth change and move, we must be changed, or change,
Not to change were change as unnatural
As shadow to stand still upon the wall!
Yet need we not the compass, vanelike, range,
Nor Jacob's motley wear at fashion's call.

HAPPINESS FROM WITHIN.

Set not thy heart on outward things; oh, trust
Not to them, they will play thee false; a reed
To pierce thy hand, and break at sorest need.
Too much but feeds the moth: base metals rust;
O'er-dusted gold is gold still; gilt-dust, dust.
Betimes seek Wisdom; early sow her seed,
That both th' early and latter rains may feed;
Only ripe years round off her circle just.
Keep to the truth of things; nought interpose
Between. As we say “suns set,” or “stars rise,”
Yet 'tis not they that move, as he well knows
To whom divine Astronomy lends eyes,
But this Earth-ball which sun-revolving goes;
So to the Real submit thou all Life's shows.

EARLY OPPORTUNITIES LOST.

As on a lovely morning of the spring,
When some great work is toward, and all the air
Is full of stirs and hums; each thoroughfare
With metropolitan crowds doth shout and ring
Again, and its great temples pray, and sing
Hosannas, and the world is debonnair;
The sluggard wakes, who should have borne his share
In that unacted, now past-acted thing!
Up jumpeth he, while Time's reproachful hand
Marks “too late” on the clock; then doth he rage,
And curse his “evil stars,” and maketh grand
Resolves; ay, will “turn over a new page.”
So runs to waste, like dross, youth's golden sand,
While Folly turns the hour-glass of age!

BEETHOVEN AND HANDEL.

One deaf; the other blind! Strange destiny!
Nature showed here less than a mother's mind,
A little more than kinn'd and less than kind;
Nay, a stepmother's, to put out the eye
Of Genius! 'Tis like making light's self die.
Did she do so as heartlessly we blind
The nightingale, a sweeter song to find;
Or gave too much, and grudged it by and by?
The other's ear, which she so wondrous wrought,
Then marred!—that ear divine to which, applied
Like the sea-shell, the world its voices brought,
With mystic murmurs, sound of ebb and tide
Of Life's great ocean. Strange, perplexing thought,
To mar that in which she might take most pride!

SACER VATES.

As when the Mind's reverted inwardly,
The genius, and the outward instruments
Of ear, eye, sense, all seconding its intents,
Subordinate and overmastered by
One all-possessing image, the rapt eye
Gives shape to airy nothings, represents
In form and substance outwardly, consents
To mere illusion, as reality;
So, with strong image of the Future, he
O'ermastered, the creative Poet, broods
Over that chaos void, and bids light be;
Then so the vision his rapt sense deludes
That the dull Present he no more can see,
But the grand Future, which all else excludes!

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

When at the various gates, ill-guarded yet,
The passages confused and intricate,
The entrances ill-lit, scarce adequate
To the great press and throng which to them set,
And, inexperienced, the gatekeepers get
Perplexed, and find out their mistakes too late,
A motley crowd assembles; at each gate
Of the new palace knock, and fume, and fret;
Oh, then let Wisdom, Argus-eyed, o'erlook
That mansion, and that household of the mind,
That graceless guests come not by sense, or book,
Or picture; oh, for none let Memory find
A lodging, save for guests of gentle kind,
Nor evil spirits pass in angels' cloak!

ENVY.

Of all the thieves and robbers, beyond doubt,
The worst of all is Envy, cursèd name!
That livid wretch, whose heart gnaws like a flame
At sight of excellence. Oh cast him out,
Ye ill-possessed, with all his hideous rout;
From hell all evil spirits with him came,
Who rob their victims, torture, put to shame,
And, capping injury with insult, flout.
Others but rob your purse, this wretch your heart;
The treasure too intrinse for vulgar thief,
This éxpert filches with consummate art;
The love of excellence, the crown and chief
Of good in man, which quickeneth every part,
He deadens, and destroys therein belief.

A BREAK-DOWN.

My Muse now “crescive in her faculty!”
Alack! how, as an antick plays his old
Stale tricks, his jests discounted ere they're told,
Must I tag on some “purple patch;” thereby
Get Shakspear to eke out my penury,
And lace my threadbare jacket with his gold!
While, like a peacock, in his feathers bold,
I think my screech the Swan of Avon's cry!
Blush, blush, my Muse! take not that name in vain;
Take not the word from his great mouth, as tho'
He common were: give him his own again.
He is so rich that, making a brave show
In his chance-feathers, common birds may strain
Their throats, and fools the difference scarce know!

TIME.

Time, like an almsman, carries at his back
A wallet, into which all sorts of things
He—old and new together jumbled—flings;
New that were old, and white that now are black,
And black deemed white, and Master who was Jack;
Old, old enough to be now new! So rings
He still his changes, and Life circling brings
Thro' all the signs of its strange Zodiac!
Give him “good-morrow” and “good-den”—entreat
Him gently, with kind words and deeds to suit;
And let thy charity answerably meet
His needs without enforcements, and salute
As if an angel passed—he that conceit,
At his last visit, may to thee impute!

THE FASHIONABLE WORLD.

Is this, then, Life? or doth it take in vain
The name of Life—mere blank, rank blasphemy!
Mere Death in Life! Ay, Death, if passing by,
Might ask: “Are these alive, or do they feign?”
What boots to slay the already-dead again!
Lay-figures, puppets of Humanity,
That trip, strut, dress, lie, gossip, paint and dye;
Killing that Time which makes your pleasure pain!
Wretched Ephemera, in the morning-sun
Of pleasure glancing, heedless of her stings
Of scorpions, when this her brief day is run.
Moths, at that fire ye'll singe your angel-wings!
Poor flies! buzz, shine in tinsel, Life begun;
Ye stink and fly-blow long ere it be done!

LIGHT AND SOUND.

As Light hath in its magic weft and woof
A sevenfold strand, or mesh of colours, wrought
In th' elemental loom, subtle as thought,
Which make, united, light of purest proof,
To fret with golden fire by night heaven's roof,
And quicken earth by day; so Music, brought
From heaven, with like sevenfoldness fraught,
Her rich harmonics blends for man's behoof.
There is a music of eye as of ear;
A picture is an unheard melody;
And p'raps some time the latter too may hear
That melody in sounds which with tints vie!
Three tones each sound, three tints each ray make clear:
There is a prism of the ear as eye!

OLD AGE.

Old Age creeps in his petty pace from day
To day, and pettier every step he takes;
As if he now by inches and by aches
Crawled on, and measured painfully the way
From that to which with bounds of hope, so gay
And debonnair (unconscious how Time makes
Fine promises, how readily he breaks)
He leaped, when youth's hot blood was in its May.
His wallet now choke-full of cares and pains,
Strange odds and ends, and reminiscences,
Fag-ends of hopes, moth-eaten memories, gains
Now viewed reversely losses; with all these
O'erborne, and maggots in's poor aguey brains,
He drops his load, and prays to Death for ease!

PATIENCE.

“Like Patience seated on a monument.”
Pretty conceit! This grace (this Christian grace
I mean, not one of the old Pagan race,
All “three” together no equivalent
For this: of earth they; this from heaven sent)
In sooth, is on a tomb not out of place,
Rebuking with divine uplifted face
Death and the Grave, while Love kneels crushed and bent.
Yet this debt paid to Death, Life claims its due.
Arise, sweet Patience, then! resume thy task
With those who fight the good fight, with the true,
Who toil for Love and Truth, nor seek, nor ask
The false world's fickle favours, but of you,
And Hope, sweet helpmate, would the loss sore rue.

THE PURE IN SPIRIT.

O ye, gatekeepers of that mansion fair
With many chambers, hall of audience
For God's ambassadors; and towers whence,
Looking before and after, prospects rare
Open on all sides, with delightsome air;
Keep ye strict watch and ward; on no pretence
Let enter those, by any gate of sense
Or fancy, without license to be there.
The chambers swept and garnished keep in it,
For angels' visits, coming unawares,
For to such ye may open, and admit
Unwitting, till they leave with heavenly airs;
Yea! God Himself to enter may think fit
(Thus purified), when they tell how it fares.

LUXURY AND SCEPTICISM.

“Off, off, ye lendings!” Ay, that's the right tune,
If we can sing to 't—have enough of voice
To make our poor selves heard through all this noise
And worldliness. The rock whence we were hewn,
The clay we're made of we forget, and soon
Shall in our philosophic balance poise
The God who made us; with our vile alloys
Debase His coin, His image there (rich boon
Of grace) disfeature! Thou false World, unmask;
For this once make thy toilette in Truth's glass!
In purple and fine linen, thou doth bask
In Fortune's smiles; thy luxury doth pass
Itself each day; more gold yet dost thou ask
To spend in sloth what by toil gotten was.

ENGLAND.

A hundred-handed Briareus art thou,
O England! long thine arms are, strong and long;
They clasp, sea-like, the world; but most where throng
The merchants upon 'Change, with wealth of plough
And loom, of forge and mine; well know'st thou how
The golden tides of commerce run; slack, strong;
Here, there; their set still shifting; seldom wrong,
For wise forecast thy ventures doth endow.
Therefor, and as well-loving gentle Peace,
Though not for self all, but part for her store,
Fortune hath filled thy sails with her full breeze.
Cast then thy bread still on the waters; power
Will from above return it with increase,
And Peace, for her own sweet sake, seek thy shore.

THE DOG.

'Tis worthy of remark, and of deep thought,
How that most loveable and noble beast,
The Dog, with an affection still increased,
Drawn closer, is to finer temper wrought
And raised, when with Man in close contact bro ug
Some crumbs fall to him still from Reason's feast,
And for his great love, Love, Nature's high priest,
Gives him her benison and grace unbought.
The higher nature educates the less;
And his affection for his master, Man,
Both in degree and kind is more express
Than for his fellow: nay, sometimes his span
Love shortens; and he finds in mute distress
A winding-sheet in his dead master's dress.

SAPPHO.

It were a loss unto the Muses, were
A void in life; a chord that mute remains,
With subtle-sweet vibrations, joys and pains,
Were Woman Museless. Man doth little care
To know, nor could he, many things which are
In Woman's heart and being; loves, disdains,
Hopes, aspirations, subtleties of brains
And hearts more finely strung with fancies rare.
Our life is from a different stand-point seen;
More rainbow-hued; of less circumference,
On inner lines, it yields a rich demesne,
Its centre, Love, supreme in soul and sense.
Take then thy lyre; Love be, as it hath been,
Thy prompter, in its strength and innocence.

THE TRUE BRAVE.

As with dogs, so with courage, every kind;
And as with them too, nice esteem doth part
And parcel off their havings, courage, art
And subtlety, strength, trustiness, long wind,
Detective nose and eye, or ear refined;
So with Man and his courage: touch of heart,
Or bent of mind, or fancy apt to start
Like a shy steed, or knowledge, training, mind,
Or no mind,—all these give it still its less
Or more. But crown me him, with steadfast ken,
Who in Truth's even balance weighs success
Or failure, be it with the sword or pen,
And, taking crown or cross alike, doth press
Forward for God, unseen, or seen of men.

LABOUR VERSUS LUXURY.

Sweet is the bread of Toil; it hath true salt
Of relish, and is daintier sauced thereby
Than epicure's chefs-d'œuvre seasoned high,
A poor man's fortune! his dull pleasures halt
And stumble o'er themselves; his heart's at fault;
Gout, ennui, evil spirits! apathy
Possess him; used-up, no dews vivify!
His gods of clay can curse, not bless, exalt!
O happy Toil! fair as Hyperion to
A satyr, to this travesty of Man
Art thou—this flaw in Nature's holy plan—
This discord in the anthem ever due
From Man to Maker, Labour! which began
The world, and can alone uphold, renew.

THE MUSIC FROM WITHIN.

I know not how, 'tis merest foolishness
(But highest things now foolishness are thought,
What can't be touched and handled, sold and bought),
An angel seems to whisper; and with stress
Divine, and emphasis of gentleness
Un-nay-able, things with strange meaning fraught,
Though little thereof to my ear is brought,
Which I must utter, be it more or less.
I am but as the mouthpiece of a flute,
On which inspirèd breath would realise
A melody too subtle, absolute;
Which not within such narrow compass lies.
With larger hearing, ye who listen to it,
Eke out its vague Æolian sounds and sighs!

AFTER A LONG FOG-SPELL; LONDON-XXX.

Earth, put on steam, and roll this plague away;
This mask which smoke-begrimèd Nature wears;
Making Day hideous; who brings not airs
From heaven, but blasts from hell, to choke, waylay
Himself; while Night scarce breathes awhile to pray
Against it, ere her mouth is stopped. Gas flares
To show poor blear-eyed Light the way. Scarce dares
The sun peer through enough for fools to say
“Good morrow!” Civilisation, thou art grand;
And Science, in thy cloak of darkness; yet
This fiend thou canst not exorcise! Hard set
As mouse in an “exhauster,” I would stand
On Mont Blanc, mount in a balloon, to get
A gulp of ozone, and God's air command!

APPRAISEMENT OF LIFE.

With philosophic sneer, a cynic said,
“Life were but for its pleasures very well;”
Those who apart in air serenest dwell
Of sweet Philosophy, the low scene spread
Beneath deem paltry; such high pleasures tread
Her summits; but poor folks who buy and sell
In air less rarefied, and scarce can spell
Her alphabet, fare ill on such fine bread.
For my part, life were very well indeed
Without its knaves and fools; correlatives,
Often identical; who each other breed
In damnable iteration, without wives;
Hermaphrodites, in short! yet life may need
Variety, as drones are found in hives.

THE BEST PHYSICIAN.

O blessèd Labour! true balm of hurt minds;
Pain's panacéa, sorrow's cordial;
Elixir potent, yet most natural;
No necromantic spell thy secrets finds,
But Nature, of her boon-grace, for all kinds
Of ills, of mind and body, great and small;
Her blessed All-heal! Thee, too, Health doth call
Preserver; thy phylactery she binds
On her pure forehead. Even more than sleep
Balm and restorative; for without thee
Her poppies in oblivion may not steep
Our aching sense; but let her potion be
Presented by thy hand, Care then doth keep
No longer watch, her poor thralls are set free.

IN, NOT OF, THE WORLD.

Deal with the World as with one who if friend
May enemy become, or friend, if foe.
The gates of thy heart's sanctuary throw
Not too wide open; that stronghold defend;
Safe, save from treason. Thou must with it wend
Perforce, else art thou but a shadow, no
Real being, in the present only so;
But make not its ways thine, its ends thy end.
Use it as not abusing it; the good
It yields take, and make better; best, if thou
Canst use for God, with self-denying mood.
Rather act high-pitched thoughts than speech allow;
'Tis gold for copper change. Man's brotherhood
Exalt, and truth as thy life's life avow.

IMPULSIVE CHARITY.

Though thou a hundred hands, sweet Charity,
May'st have, a very Briareus of alms,
A bane would lurk in thy most healing balms
(That heavenly dew of our humanity),
Unless thou, hundred-eyed, like Argus, pry
Through all disguises. Pious knaves sing psalms,
Villains repent with simulated qualms
Of conscience; hypocrites to Truth's face lie.
Then, Charity, throw open wide thy heart,
Ay, as the temple-gates, for pity is
As th' altar, which doth hallow every part;
But make wise Labour thy gatekeeper; his
Fine-winnowing fan will test the tricks of art
And idlesse, where thy pity makes remiss.

THE HEALING ART.

Our cunning leeches, with prescriptive skill,
Life's stronghold guard against Death's fell array,
With herbs medicinal, whose virtues may
Each gate of sense secure, and sústain still
The vital forces and self-centred will;
Simples of field and wood which th' operant ray
Of sun and moon make sovereign 'gainst decay
Of nature, and elixirs fine distil.
Iron to fill the veins, and paint the rose
On Beauty's cheek anew, or light the eye
Of Love and Genius; henbane, which grows
On Lethe's edge; the liquid subtlety
Of silver, cause and cure of aches and woes—
Spells to make grim Death rise, or pause, or fly.

ENDOWMENTS AND MORTMAINS.

Poor scheming Man the present Time would bind
With parchment bonds and law's nice subtleties,
And tie him up from use of feet and eyes,
Like babe in swaddling-clothes; and thinks to find
The infant Hercules shaped to his mind.
Vain hope! he grows apace, in mind as size,
Large brain, with new ideas, and rends these ties
As Samson the green withs about him twined;
They dream the Future may enfeoffed be,
Like lands and houses—that be which hath been:
Dull Custom's thralls, seeing, they have not seen
How from old sloughs the World itself doth free:
How from rude chrysalis, in Hope's bright sheen,
It spreads wide wings, and singeth jubilee!

CONTINUITY.

As in a paper-mill, worked up again,
All the old rags and paper-wastes of time,
Refashioned, reappear in prose and rime—
A tabula rasa for the Age's brain;
That, like its vehicle, though in new vein,
Recast, rings the old world's memorial chime;
With lark-like notes of hopes high-pitched, sublime,
As hearing and admission to obtain
At heaven's gate. So passes on the Old
Re-made: so Time doth, like a motley, wear
A Jacob's coat of many colours—gold,
Gold still bedusted; tinsel, that doth flare
And tarnish; old and new that scarcely hold,
And shame poor human nature when they tear!

UNHEARD MELODIES.

If music be in sound, what harmony
Unspeakable in silence! When above
I gazing see majestically move
Those countless orbs, that music of the eye,
That wondrous concert, fills my soul with high
And ravishing delight, as, interwove
In subtle maze, they to my sight approve
The time and measure of Infinity!
As swept thro' ether on Earth's whirling ball,
That music makes in motion with the rest,
Yet with no sóund as loud as a leaf's fall,
I watch them one by one left in the west;
Awed by their silence, upon God I call;
That sound alone can ease my o'erfraught breast!

THE SONNET.

The sonnet is, in small, epitome
Of that writ large might fill a poem—'tis
The Muse's single gem, Love's one snatched kiss,
Not necklace, diadem, or Love made free
O' Venus' realm, at large. As we may see
In the least ray, upon analysis,
All colours of the rainbow, so in this
Pure beam of mental light all colours be,
Intense in oneness. And as photograph
Inversely may in nutshell give large Whole;
Grand life be summed up in grand epitaph,
So may in Sonnet breathe a mighty soul.
Great bulks hold much unwinnowed dross and chaff,
But essences small compass can controul.

THE BEST PRESCRIPTION, NOT IN THE PHARMACOPŒIA.

Our leeches have a wondrous armory
Of weapons to foil Death with in fair fight.
His Deathship does not stoop to read and write,
Or gravestone-morals point as he goes by;
Yet did he, from chance curiosity,
E'er of the Pharmacopœia get sight,
He'd take out a diploma, M.D.'s right
To practise his own speciality!
Drugs there for every human ache and pain
That civilisation doth, self-sickened, make.
Nay, drugs to cure drug-aches; bane, counterbane!
But that best cure, preventive, for whose sake
Death latest, gentlest comes, we seek in vain:
Labour—worth all, if quantum suff. we take.

MAMMON.

“The poor, benighted, ignorant Hindoos,”
With elephant and tortoise symbolise
And stay their world; our legend, scarce more wise,
Builds it on money-bags, and if the Muse
For golden theme as golden pen not use,
To blazon above all idolatries
This the one saving faith, she but belies
Her function, and blasphemes the god we chuse!
Think ye this “Tower of Babel” then will stand?
That the world's “final cause” is endless wealth?
On larger lines of being it is planned;
On minds and bodies wrought to perfect health,
To serve Him by life homely, pure, yet grand,
Who Himself grandly doeth good by stealth!

SHAKSPEAR'S SONNETS.

In the strait-waistcoat of the Sonnet he,
The mighty; he, the “chartered libertine;”
His genius did “cabin, crib, confine.”
'Tis as we Sampson in his withes should see;
Or earth on a small globe's epitome;
Or as a star should like a glow-worm shine!
Did he these cramping fetters round him twine,
To show close prisoners may still be free?
Yet greatness is not measured by mere size.
Keystones for Truth's great arch we there may find;
Corner-stones, whence grand temples may arise;
Fragments, which yet give measure of the mind;
Blocks, which Titanic strengths alone suffice
To shape and lift up to the place designed!

TO ------.

Methinks the Graces had thee in joint care,
And, at thy birth receiving thee, gave heed
That only sweetest influences should feed
Thy fancy; that the gates of sense, which are
Then opening, should admit none but most rare
And delicate conceits; and every need
Of mind and nature with all best to speed
Of gentlest, sweetest, in its kind most fair.
Small wonder then that such a paragon
Love saw, and, seeing, fell himself in love!
Played his own game, and aimed his darts anon,
But found their fire quenched by one above;
So puts, like me, the humble suitor on,
Nor strives to conquer, but, as Love, to move.

TOO LATE!—TOO SOON!

Would I were later born, or Time his pace
Could quicken, that I might the things to be
Behold, which in a glass I darkly see,
As thro' smoke-darkened glass the sun's bright face!
My sight is dazed; unsteadily I trace
The outlines of that large Humanitie
Which, on the horizon of the Future, free
And grand, doth move in fuller strength and grace.
In hieroglyphics I seem thus to read:
“No poverty is there; no drones infest
The hive, and on vicarious plenty feed.
All work, for work is health, what each knows best.
Wise distribution no excess doth breed,
And Common Weal is Private Interest.

ENGLAND.

The lines in pleasant places unto thee
Have fallen, O thou favoured of the isles!
The Ocean, Janus-like, divides his smiles
'Twixt thee on one side, and thy starry-free
And mighty daughter on the other; he
Of him and his makes free, and reconciles
Your loves, and cleanses from all that defiles
Your robes of freedom sweeping either sea.
Happy thy sons, whom threefold heritage,
Three mighty lands, call with one mother-speech,
To whom earth offers on each side a stage.
In thy grand life and toil no break, no breach!
Sea-Cybele, with many breasts; at each
Great offspring hast thou reared to stay thine age.

DANTE'S “FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.”

“That day we read no more.” Nature doth speak
By Dante's lips. She spoke, and held her tongue.
No more was to be, could be, said or sung
Of that pathetic theme! But wits more weak
Play, dally with the passion o' 't, and with freak
Of fancy overlay it; it is flung
To and fro like a ball, till that which wrung
The heartstrings like Prometheus' eagle's beak
Pecks like a dove! O noble reticence!
With more than gift of tongues that left unsaid
Doth say itself with passion's eloquence;
And hearts untold have read that line and bled
For pity, pleading with that cry intense.
O Genius! thou canst almost raise the dead!

SUDDEN PROSPERITY.

When Fortune on the necks of her proud steeds
Hath flung the reins, as if to reach the goal
All in one heat, and o'er all letts to roll
Her chariot-wheels, and seems to spurn all heeds;
And, on her mad course maddened, thy soul treads
On air, and grasps at either golden pole,
As children at the moon. That race, fond soul!
Like Phaeton's, to splendid ruin leads.
Thou no more these than that rash fool could guide
Those fiery coursers thro' the Zodiac,
The Balance-sign soon passed, she sits beside
And with soft smiles befools thee, while the black
And vanward clouds of evil threat thy pride,
Then hurls thee down, like a demoniac!

TO A FRIEND.

O noble spirit and impartitive!
Thou'dst give thy very self away, if need
Thereof were. Thou dost broadcast sow the seed,
Nor seekest who shall reap, to whom Time give
The glory, so long as it thrive and live.
True labourer in the vineyard, thou thy meed
Shalt miss not; tho', like stars by day, we heed
Thee not; nor, tasting, know what bees the hive
Have for us, thankless, filled. Go on! Thy light
Shall not be hid beneath a bushel; yet
Set on a hill, it shall shine forth in sight
Of God, tho' unto men it seemeth set!
Tho' others enter in, and reap, with slight
Endeavour, where thine all the heat and sweat.

WHAT WEATHERS THE STORM.

Along Life's troubled shores the waves of Time
Cast up its wastes and wreckage; shores thick-strewn
With old-world waifs; not shone upon by moon
Or sun, but light ideal (more sublime
Than these comparatives, which make us clime
And season), of God's truth the steadfast noon,
With which those lustral waters in attune,
By ebb and flow, still cleanse from sin and crime
Humanity's foul shores. On that wild sea
What haughty ventures have puffed forth their sails
With golden breaths of Fortune, soon to be
Her jest and mock, and point historic tales;
While, bound on nobler quests, the argosie
Of Truth by compass steers that never fails.

WEALTH.

The rich do fight with shadows, and, as one
That beats the air, with unrealities.
They spend themselves in vain; weak Fancy sighs
Over herself; tears sentimental run
At very trifles; Sorrow looks upon
Her image in the glass with dreamy eyes
And idle tears; while Labour hers soon dries,
For, where “needs must,” must comforts “must be done!”
Then welcome, thou true life of flesh and blood,
In contact close with nature! Stern may be
Thy trials; but thro' trials comes all good;
And strength to do and bear makes the true free.
Away with dreams! Life's crown must thorns include,
And without sweat there is no victorie.

THE MUSE IN THE DUMPS.

My heart is sad; my Pegasus, alas!
Has fallen lame, and, like a sorry hack,
Trudges the dull high-road, in spite of thwack
And spur; all sorts of sorry jades do pass
Him by; nay, even the despisèd ass
May teach him patience—lesson he doth lack.
'Tis well; no fire strikes he from his track;
Yet, that grand lesson learned, he may surpass
His betters yet. Then, Patience, get
Thou up behind me; let's ride dos à dos;
Thy pace is very sure, if it be slow.
Without thee greatest genius never yet
Achieved the top o' Fame, made lasting show.
He shone a meteor; not calm planet set
'Midst stars in heaven, with steadfast light to glow!

DO AS YOU WOULD BE DONE BY.

Sweet Charity, permit me, tho' small need
To ask thy kind allowance, whose prompt will
Doth ever urge, where others would sit still,
To run, and give the breast, and orphans feed,
Or any gracious task of love to speed;
To cover with thy robe, which doth distill
Such heavenly dews and sweets the place to fill,
This poor lost sheep, lest unto death it bleed.
Thy robe a multitude of sins doth hide;
Let me then humbly hope, while covering this
Stray sheep's, I, with humility allied
To thy diviner attribute, and His
Above, may cover o'er my own beside;
Forgiving, and forgiven, double bliss!

DAME NATURE.

Wise Mother thou; severe, yet truly kind!
In thy large lap thy sturdy children lie,
And tug thy breasts in lusty infancy,
And knead and press thy bosom, like the blind
Rough lion-whelps, as not so much to find
As force their mother-milk. Soon hand and eye
Astir, thou thrust'st them forth to strive and try;
Necessity best whetstone of man's mind!
Not so in Fortune's lap the dainty-bred,
Spoilt by their purblind mother; others' eyes
See for them still, with others' hands they're fed;
On crutches lean of others' wits; their bread,
Without Toil's noble leaven, will not rise;
Knaves dupe, and idleness doth paralyse.

TO ------.

Thy presence is as gracious and as sweet
As to condemnèd sinner a reprieve;
Such blessed message seem thy looks to leave!
So ministering angels, angels greet.
As a May-morning fresh; whose tempered heat
Sweet airs from heaven variably relieve;
The dews and perfume of thy pure dawn cleave
Unto thee, and thine eyes are Love's retreat.
Methinks the nightingale to tune thine ear
Sang to thy cradle—in all blessèd sights
And shapes good fairies did to thee appear;
Thine eyes the focuses of all delights.
And to thy cradle, wondering, Love drew near,
And dreamed he saw his Psyche by their lights.

NIGHTINGALE AND POET.

Setting his sweet throat 'gainst a thorn he sings,
And bleeding sings, and singing ever bleeds,
Melodious depletion! The Swan's song precedes
And préludes death. With such imaginings
Fond legend hath endowed these twain with wings,
Of air and water; but the Poet reads
Between the lines, interprets to his needs,
And home unto himself the moral brings.
He beats his wings against the cage's bars,
And on the thorn of Doubt, with inward smart,
His heart bleeds, and still opens its old scars,
He must believe and love, or all the stars
Are eyeless sockets—Life, sea without chart,
A Life-in-Death; numbed, paralysed at heart!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE.

The wine is rich, and stirs itself aright,
Lipping its margent with a ruby smile;
Hope's bubbles freely rise, and burst the while;
And Pleasure mantles it to taste and sight.
'Twill set the heart on fire, and fill with light
The airy brain; make friendships, reconcile,
Revive; Care of self-consciousness beguile;
Love's pulses to the “double-quick” excite.
The wine's right generous, up to the brim
The goblet filled; “Health and Long Life” the toa!
But tho' so sweet about the honey'd rim,
A dísguised bitter half belies its boast.
Ay! Death has mixed therein a foretaste dim
And vague, which but with the last dregs is lost!

WHO'S RIGHT?

“A dreamer of vain dreams.” It may be so;
But there are dreams and visions. Some dreams pass
Thro' th' ivory gate, which closes on them as
On one, who forth will into darkness go
On a fool's errand, whose end none e'er know,
Or care for: some, as in a magic-glass,
Foreshadow that which yet no being has,
But which, like Jonah's gourd, may sudden grow,
And change the world. My dreams will realise
Themselves, as shadows which high mountains cast
Far off at sunrise show real bulk and size;
Mine thro' the horn gate pass to light. Full fast
This old day's sun doth set; a new will rise
On a new world, with light not of the Past!

THE QUESTION.

THE ART OF KEEPING YOUNG.

Old fable, dabbling in “black art” and spell,
Life's ebbing tide re-turned in Æson's veins,
Gave youth's hot pulses back, and seething brains.
We too can magic circles draw, compel
Spirits to rise, and Death and Time repel;
Enlarge our being with vicarious pains
And joys, till more than “Plutarch's Lives” it gains,
And Nestor's years, our many lives to tell!
Did we not dream with Jacob in Bethel?
Hear Hector cheer his wife?—Love's choicest theme!
With Dante, disembodied, safe-pass “Hell;”
With Shakespear live all life, and dream all dream?
O true Magicians, Time and Death ye quell;
Re-youthed, immortal, while with you we seem!

CRITICS, EXPLAIN YOUR EXPLANATION; OR, VARIORUM READINGS.

A knotty point indeed! Like a “blind knot,”
Whence in a tree a true branch should have grown,
So from this some right sense; but none is shown—
Nay, for one knot a dozen we have got;
Some commentators, too, blow cold and hot—
Amid so many meanings meaning none;
They jostle, cross, renege, affirm, disown;
Confound themselves, and say “Let light be not.”
Amid so many doubts poor Truth's hard set;
Nay, almost doubts her own identity,
So many views she of herself doth get,
Full, side, back, profile—do these mirrors lie?
If not, is she Truth, or a vile counterfeit?
Few of us on all sides ourselves descry!

THE INNER LIFE.

Oh, there are eyes that look from out the Past
With sweet reproachful glances, and then close,
As if they half reproached themselves for those
Sad loving looks, which more than lightnings blast!
And there are shadows 'cross the sunshine cast,
Which intercept Hope's light; and—no one knows
How, whence—sad, sudden a chill thro' us goes,
As of Death's shadow, fore- or after-taste!
And there are still, small voices in the pause
Of passion and self-love; soft as a flower,
Which yet have that which more than thunder awes,
Fierce lightnings, from memorial clouds which lour
O'er sleep, of outraged Truth; before whose power
Mortality's coarse clay cracks, flies, and flaws!

TO A MERE ANATOMY OF A MAN.

Thou shrivelled wind-bag! Take thee all in all,
There is not fat enough to fry a sole
About thee,—fish I mean, thou parchment-roll,
Not th' other sort of soul, the spiritual;
Thou might'st be all soul, for anything we call
A body proper. Thou'rt the merest droll
And scrabbled form of man; papyrus-scroll
Of mummy; man writ backwards, very small!
The best use one could turn thee to would be
To bind in parchment (vellum thou'dst not make)
Jest-book, or treatise on anatomie.
How thou may'st feel within it makes one ache
To think. How thy poor soul must long to flee,
If soul thou hast, like martyr tied to stake!

DISILLUSION.

Man's inner education, of his mind,
Of the self-life, ends with his life alone.
In rainbow hues Hope's bubbles bright are blown
By Youth. Imagination, passion, blind
The eye of Reason, with their glamour bind
And trick the senses; painting the Unknown
And Future like Life's drop-scene; all being shown
Buskined, be-masked; larger than life behind
The scenes. With time those gaudy colours fly
And fade; the original clay of his false heart
In Passion's furnace cooling rapidly,
Cracks, flies, and flaws. His life now acts a part;
Costume and mise en scène; and, by and by,
Behind the scenes, Nature yields all to Art.

REALIZATION.

Self-education is the lifelong school
Of inner Being. In our youth we live
The life of Sense: those gates, wide open, give
To Fancy's masquerade, Unreason's rule,
Free entrance; maskers, mummers, motley, fool,
With bells and rattles; strolling players; who thrive
On glamoured Youth, whom Pleasure doth contrive
To dance along and hoodwink, till bloods cool.
Then, one by one, this gay and tinsel rout
Reason thrusts out o' doors; to her high task
Herself addresses; solves Life's aim and doubt;
Strips off from Error's face her shifting mask;
And in the grace and light, brought fully out,
Of Truth's grand countenance, sublime doth bask!

“TO BE OR NOT TO BE?”

Oh, to what cross our poor Humanity
Is nailed and crucified! Death worse than His,
The good, the pure, the perfect Man! Of bliss
Undying the hope sustained Him thus to die
The brief death of the flesh: eternity
Before; behind, the hope that He by His
Great sacrifice had reconciled with kiss
Of peace, sealed with His blood, the Deity
And sinful man. But this cross is “Despair:”
And on it many deaths we die; our hearts
(Worse than Prometheus' fabled vulture) tear
Fell doubts, and Hope at her own shadow starts;
And joys, which but for this pure virgins were,
Deflower'd come, or still-born issue bear!

PROCRASTINATION.

O weak, unstable mind! on purpose still
Lags execution ever, like the hind
On the forewheel, which runs on like the wind
Ever away from thee! Still up the hill
Thou lazy creep'st, 'twixt “I won't” and “I will,”
To see thy purpose (almost as well blind)
Adown the facile slopes of wishes wind
Its futile way; whilst thou dost, gaping, spill
Life's golden sands. So runs the stream away
From him who thus beside it sits and dreams,
Who forward with it doth in fancy stray
And sees it turning mills, with deepening streams
Bearing its burdens and the heat of day;
While he, still purposing, in vacuo schemes!

“TRESPASSERS BEWARE.”

“Holloa there! can't you read? What business
Have you here, Sir; pray, what are you about?”
“Excuse me! from the high-road I turned out
Just to enjoy the landscape-loveliness
With which the all-greatest Painter here doth bless
The eyes of those not of the vulgar rout;
Who seeing see not, hearing hear not, doubt
Of all that hand can't handle, purse possess.
Alas! Nature's own child's a trespasser!
He is not, like the lark and nightingale,
Free of his own, tho' his heart worship her!”
Begone, poetic fool! “The Golden Vale”
Is Law's, not Nature's; she herself doth err,
And, for self-trespass, is thus put in jail!

A HINT TO POETS.

As a shrewd breeder, when he taketh stock,
And purposeth to raise a generous race
Of steeds, in strength excelling as in pace,
A noble strain of mingled bloods; or flock
Of silken-fleecèd sheep, with close, fine lock
Of wool on forehead; looketh well to place
The pick and prime of all for limb and grace,
That the form-harmony no discords shock:
So take thou, Poet, of thy thoughts stock too;
Set them in rank and file, and plumed array;
Fit well thy rimes and phrases, oft review.
Some rimes assist ideas, others delay;
Some dead-lock; others, like dance-partners gay
And musical, deftly move the mazes thro'.

THE “CITY” AT HIGH BUSINESS.

The human tide runs now at top of flood,
Close upon turning-point; and by and by
'Twill ebb, and leave its human foreshores dry.
The main of Life is heaving here for Good
And Evil, high and working; rough and rude,
The jostling waves 'whelm some, some lift on high;
While foam and bubbles of Man's vain hopes fly,
The scud and scum of Fortune's shifting mood.
Upon that seething tide rich argosies,
And thriftless ventures challenge Fortune's smile,
Dangling her golden lures in greedy eyes
Of gambling knaves and fools, both alike vile;
'Mid cries of agony that bubbling rise
From victims, catching at her straws, the while.

THE CLEOPATRA OF SHAKSPEAR AND DRYDEN.

A doughty tussle! and 'tis “All for Love;”
A mighty theme for mightiest pens indeed;
Not the weak bleatings of the pastoral reed;
The lisping loves and cooings of the dove
Of Corydon and Phyllis; far above
As Pegasus to livery-stable steed,
“Hack'd out;” ay, Love and Death here interplead,
Like mighty opposites their full strengths prove!
'Tis like Antæus with great Hercules;
Strife tho' not of the flesh, but spirit; dead
With dead before, for Fame immortal's lease,
And Fame must hold, or crown each honoured head.
'Tis Antony and Cæsar; such are these,
No lesser strengths; with Cleopatra's lead!

THE EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF THE “GREAT DUKE.”

Wilt ever thou dismount, old “Iron Duke,”
From thine old iron steed? He sniffs in air
Ethereal, with thee Fame's breath doth share
Up yonder; where thou thro' all time dost look,
Stern and unmoved, like prophet, with the book
Of Fate spread out before him; as thou there
Didst read thine England's future, yet not care
To tell us truths our false pride ill could brook.
If thou could'st speak, thy voice would in our ears
Sound ominous as from his steed of bronze
The Grand Commendatóre's statue once!
Base mother of base bastards, shames and fears,
Thou'dst tell us Luxury was—Self-will denounce,
And Self; which sap great nations' grand careers!

SIR ISAAC NEWTON'S HOUSE.

If sermons be in stones, and God doth preach
To listening ears and eyes in everything,
Should not men nearer to their hearts then bring,
In daily walk of life, in present reach
And recognition, those grand souls who teach
What God taught them; that so may cleave and cling
To things material some hallowing,
And e'en the very bricks get gift of speech?
Behold unmarked his house, whose soul could climb
God's heights; read heaven's hieroglyphic scroll;
And say, “Be light, thou Dark! be clear, thou Dim!”
Beneath it Mammon's tides still heave and roll;
While of that larger day in which, through him,
We walk, we reck not, but pay Mammon's toll!

TEARS.

If precious tears should lachrymatories
Enrich and consecrate to memory,
Those rarest tear-drops of the Poet's eye,
The Muses' tears, should be as pearls of price!
Seldom they come; rare thunder-drops from skies
Dark with the clouds of some great agony;
Yet rent with lightnings of the soul, which fly
From pole to pole, 'thwart Life's dread mysteries.
When with the shadow of Death, an angel fair
Of light, he wrestles, and prevaileth nought,
Such tears his straining eyeballs in them bear.
Or when, to top of inspiration wrought,
His soul o'erflows the senses, which then are
The golden bowl with Life and Love o'erfraught!

“FREE LOVE,” WRIT LARGE.

In this Cloaca Maxima, this sewer,
This human vice-sewer, fouled Humanity
Would stink i' the nose; pollute the earth and sky
With its miasma; and as to the pure
All things are pure, inversely so, be sure:
Life's spring-head tainted, tainted would thereby
Be all derivatives;—Sword rust; Pen lie;
Fall Altar; the Penates not endure
Their Hearth polluted! No! the Heavens would send
Avenging angels; ay, the loathsome State
Would scourge itself, self-rotting to its end.
All bonds unloosed, love be transformed to Hate
Freedom would scorn; the World it doth offend
Blot out the page, and Time blush to relate!

“FREE LOVE,” WRIT SMALL.

O poor, deluded fool, what art thou now?
Thou who should'st be clothed on with chastity
And innocence, pure garments of the sky,
Those robes of light; a spell on thy pure brow
Such as the lilies of the field not know
In all their beauty; on whose breasts should lie
Thy little cherubs, and, as matronly
Thou walk'st, men bless thee, and to Virtue bow!
What art thou now? Scorn points her finger; Shame
Hath for the lily on thy pure brow set
A leprosy; thy sisters scorn thy name;
Men spurn; of thy own no love dost thou get!
Withered within, without; spent Passion's flame
Thy heart in ashes leaves, dead, ere dead yet!

ENGLAND'S IDOLATRY.

'Tis writ large in the awful book of Fate,
In golden characters that gleam and shine,
As bright as Hope, in Mammon's eyes, divine;
As stereotyped; a blank draft without date
On Fortune's bank, discounted, and too late
“Protested.” Happy England, such lot thine!
Beyond the nations favoured; long thy line
Shall run, nor of its glory jot abate!
Yet something is there “writ between the lines”
Which Forecast trembles at: thy history
Is written on a palimpsest; there shines
Through it what scared erst Babylon the high,
“Mene, mene!” “Carthage” was there too by
Time writ beneath thy name. Beware the signs!

TEARS.

O Love, thy tears are precious legacies,
Better than gold, for thee gold cannot buy;
And bitterly some hearts thou hast passed by,
An angel in disguise, bewail the lies,
The gilded chains they took for thy sweet ties.
The gold of Midas feasteth but Hope's eye
Awhile, to pine the heart and petrify;
Whilst mocking fiends laugh at their own device!
Yet are there tears more precious than thine own,
Which still without thine could not better thine.
Such tears in the rapt Poet's eyes are shown,
When drunk, but not with wine, with thoughts divine,
Some quintessential drops of power unknown,
Run o'er the cup, his heart's elixir fine!

“TO BE OR NOT TO BE.”

O complement of all our happiness,
While here we are, and in expectancy;
And, if attained, the bless'd reality
And substance of all best we here possess;
Mere shadows all to that all-shadowless!
Mere dim prefigurements, to which all eye
Hath seen, ear heard, or heart in ecstasy
Of vision felt, is but a dream, or less.
O God, to what a height that hope doth raise,
But to make deeper, darker the abyss,
Which its denial opens to our gaze.
If éxtremes meet and opposites may kiss,
To make the fearful opposites of this
Dread circle meet, Thy Grace alone finds ways!

MOZART.

If Harmony, descending from above,
Should condescend to our Humanity,
It is thy form she would put on; 'tis by
Thy soul she would enable us to prove
Some echoes of those concerts up above!
Dost thou bring them down to this earth, or high
Above lift us up to them in the sky?
'Tis one or other, and but small remove!
If such, and so supernal, be the spell
That binds us, poor derivatives of thee,
What must the spring-head be when first it well
From such a soul, pure, elemental, free!
So high its source that we, who low down dwell,
While within hearing seem in heaven to be!

LOVE.

O Love, e'en more than Reason, heavenly spark!
If aught our poor, cracked, flawed clay-nature can
Make sound; if furnace from the clay of man
Can bake aught perfect, showing clear the “mark”
Of the Great Potter, “Dove flown back to Ark,”
'Tis thine, thine only. Angels' wings still fan
Thy holy fires, and breaths Elysian,
Lest they go out, and leave all cold and dark.
I mean not Love which, of the flesh, partakes
Of like infirmities, but that pure Love
Which bears and fórbears; heals our wounds and aches;
“Wise as the serpent, gentle as the dove,”
Which not in showing, but concealing takes
A pride; forgives, and leaves to Him above!

TO ------.

Oh if thy beauty ádmit parallel,
Or sole-superlative comparative,
What substance or what shadow can me give
Or one or other, thee or thine to tell,
And cheat blank absence with some semblable!
If substance, Perfects for perfection strive,
Yet thy love betters every Best alive;
If shadow, Best to thy Best is but Well,
But in so poor degree! I will not seek
To parcel out in poor particulars
Thy single excellence; all speech were weak,
All figures: as the moon with all her stars,
So all thy handmaid graces to thy meek,
Pure soul, whose beauty nothing earthly mars!

TIME.

Of spendthrifts, worst of all who squander time.
Who squanders wealth may gain by losing it;
But time once lost, nor gold recalls, nor wit;
You may e'en write its epitaph—a crime,
Lése-Majesty it is 'gainst that sublime
And holy loan of Life, for angels fit,
If for God's service and Man's benefit
We consecrate our “talent” all to Him.
Then waste not, but put out at interest
In holy thoughts and works of love and peace;
So, as with many lives shalt thou be blest;
Thy time with compound interest shall increase,
And the grand total He who lent invest
As He thinks fit: Him only strive to please.

IMMORTALITY.

Do we, as, with a little painted air
And shapely vapour mocked, Ixion thought
He clasped Junonian charms, so strongly wrought
Abusèd fancy, like delusion share;
Do we, beglamoured, dream that we too bear
Exulting, with ethereal beauty fraught,
Venus Urania, yet are only caught
By a mirage, that mocks our blank despair?
Alas! the nearer we approach, the more,
Dislimning, air to air, that radiant shape
Eludes our closer grasp, though struggling sore.
Is it as when blank vacancy doth ape
That with which (sense subdued) the mind runs o'er,
Or mortal thought Life's subtleties escape?

SELF-RELIANCE.

Fret not thy soul at trifles; to do so
Were greater wrong far than what causes it.
'Tis as with owls and bats that in dusk flit:
Disperse them, and their true proportions show
In Reason's daylight; brooded o'er, they throw
Their shadows far beyond themselves;—as, lit
By waning suns, we in the shadows sit
Of distant mountains—thus, Far Near doth grow.
Think not what others think of thee; for 'tis
Not thee, but their idea of thee they think:
Their glass distorts, and shows its own amiss.
Dare to be thine ownself, and let fools wink
And sneer: of thine own substance is thy bliss;
Not shadow, with their thoughts to stretch and shrink.

ON HEARING BEETHOVEN'S CHORAL SYMPHONY.

My soul is stirred up in its depths; the springs
Of Being at their head are set aflow!
From deepest well Artesian as go
The silver columns up, the fountain wings
With larklike bound its upward way, and flings
Athwart the sunny air a rainbow glow,
Then falls in melody and spray below,
And grateful, like a captive set free, sings!
Long without music my heart starved doth pine,
And turn, and gnaw itself; a tuneless lyre,
Whose strings not played on lose their áccord fine.
As to parched Earth the rain it doth desire,
The first full notes are to this heart of mine,
Big thunderdrops, aglow with Passion's fire!

THE TEMPLE OF THE SOUL.

Build up thy soul on all sides, firm and strong;
Thou know'st not on which side the strain may come:
Strength lies not in a part, but in the sum;
One flaw may set all else well-cared for wrong,
Make wide the portals for processions long,
High-days and festivals of thought, with hum
Of congregated worshippers, struck dumb
At first sight of the temple and the throng.
Let the dome rise and commune with the sky,
On all sides getting light, that none be lost,
But most above, direct from the Most High,
And for His glory spare nor pains nor cost,
That in the Holy of Holies, even thy
Own soul, He may be present, and there most.

SHAKSPEAR.

The highest compliment we unconscious pay
To this great Spirit, circumambient
As th' atmosphere, as th' ocean continent,
Whence Earth, and all that breathes on it allay
Their thirst, nor aught abate. Proof in this way
Appears, that we to breathe him are content,
Like the common air a common good; and sent
For larger life, a spiritual day.
We find in him, as others at the sea
From change of air, refreshment for our minds;
The sanative waters of Humanitie,
Stirred ever, healthful made, by God's great winds;
By the pure Salt of Life kept sweet and free;
Mirror, where, calm, Man his true image finds!

AS THE LIGHT SO WE SEE.

As is the light (thy Reason); as the same
Is held, so do we view and judge of things.
Life's lights and shadows, as thus held, it brings
Out into more or less relief. The flame
May flicker, flare, burn with a steady aim,
Or dimly, with Rembrandtish umberings,
Or gleams, as flashed some passing angel's wings,
And 'thwart the light in flight fiends darkening came!
Great difference, too, as seen approached or passed;
As the light may be held in Reason's hand,
Or Fancy's: golden lights of morning cast
O'er all on the one side, with Hope's smiling band;
On th' other, cold and grey, and, lengthening fast,
Memorial shadows, with night sad and grand.

A VISION.

Methought a wondrous form, all radiance,
With coruscations like the Northern lights,
To herald and prepare weak mortal sights
For after glories, sudden took my glance.
Odours undreamed of pérfumed its advance,
With airs from heaven dispersing bales and blights,
Sphere-music, on which souls might take their flights,
And looks—but oh! light hid the countenance,
Aud put out light! Dazed, and recovering
As one from trance, I turned once more to look—
O Horror! canst thou name the ghastly thing?
Behind, the form of skeleton it took;
And, backward, eyeless sockets withering
Smote me like Death, that I with ague shook!

TRUTH.

O terribly in earnest, Truth, art thou!
In vain we simulate, dissimulate,
With thee; pretence and seeming thou dost hate.
Medusa-like, with terrible grand brow,
Thy look doth wither up all mask and show,
And petrify all False; that its real state,
Mere death in life, thy scathe may indicate,
As lightning shows in blasted bole or bough.
But all that's pure thou shinest harmless through,
Transfiguring; as unconsumèd in
The burning-bush God shone on Moses' view!
Is thy heart false? Pluck out thy darling sin;
Melt out the dross, re-coin the residue,
And let Truth stamp it of pure origin!

LABOUR IN VAIN.

Think ye that Sisyphus' blank, aimless moan,
Rolling his writhing stone with bootless strain,
His heart still maddened, whirling still his brain
With the still-whirling torture, made him own
The sinner? Did Ixion's wheel at-one
His soul with justice, or the balm contain
Of mercy, which, while wounding for our gain,
Drops in the wound, and melts the heart of stone
To flesh again? O dull of brain! O blind
Of heart! for Wisdom's eyes are in the heart;
To Justice Mercy must lend hers, or find!
Wise-purpos'd Labour more than heals its smart;
Doth rouse, raise, soften, thaw the heart, unbind;
Not outrage and embitter at first start.

“KILLING TIME.”

This Life, or, rather, Death-in-Life; this mock
And travesty of life, where life doth turn
And gnaw itself; nought toiling for, doth earn
And relish nought, as it deserves; doth shock
All moral sense! Like idiot doth it knock
And ring at Pleasure's gates, yet will not turn
Away, nor “Not at home,” writ large, discern
On all the empty house and stand-still clock!
O fools! who at the shadow clutch, and lose
The substance in the lapsing stream of Time.
True Pleasure, whose high name ye thus abuse,
Ye know not—your lése-majesty and crime
'Gainst her, and all that in Man's life's sublime,
She thus resents, and by loss teaches use!

INVITÂ MINERVÂ.

Severely beautiful, a virgin pure,
Set high in spirit, with all daintiest skill
Of hand; all craft of brain, and subtle thrill
Of passion and imagination; sure
And steadfast as the stars; above all lure
And flattery, thy love and favour till
Full proof are slack; but, once secured, distil
Sabæan balms and odours, that make poor
The temple-incense! Nothing without thee
Can Man achieve; thy subtle spirit thro'
His brain doth course, like electricitie.
Lo! then, high raised in soul, he sees anew;
All delicate fancies come to him, and he
Hath gift of tongues, and utterances true!

INFLUENCE FOR GOOD.

Rebuke not over harshly, even Wrong;
“The still, small voice” be thine, that after thee
Conscience may speak, and thunder if need be.
Chide lesser errors gently with light thong
Of Censure's lash, and that not over-long.
Rouse not the rebel will to mutiny,
Lest seven evil spirits, worse than he
Thou would'st expel, return, and prove too strong.
Use not thy own words, but let Charity
Speak by thy lips, and with her gentle hand
Cover the sins we do and suffer by.
When thou would'st speak as one having command,
Stand not on right, but as commissioned by
Conscience, who in the place of God doth stand!

TRUTH.

Art thou then ready, with Diogenes,
In search of Truth, to say, “No stick shall me,
How hard soe'er, drive from pursuit of thee?”
This were not much for one who scorneth ease;
Whom Sybaritic loves and roses please
Less than the sweat that makes and keeps men free.
But if “Wilt thou give life my face to see?”
Medusa-like she ask, would'st thou then cease
From search of her? The whole heart she doth claim;
Thine eye must single be; in thine own breast
Thou must stand naked, nor ashamed nor shame,
Before her; there must thou show at thy best.
No idol there must cheat thee in her name,
Else Nemesis, not Truth, shall be thy guest!

THE SELF-DUBBED “IMMORTALS.”

These mutual-admiration-mongers, each
“Posing” before the glass of his self-love;
Self-smit to death, Narcissus-like; above
His fellows on Fame's heights, far out of reach,
Self-glorified; unto each other preach
That faith in each and all alone can prove
Of saving virtue. So they pass round, and move
The glass to show them off, and loudly teach
Their Shibboleth! Poor apes! Fame, up on high,
Smiles as their penny-trumpets puff and blow,
Their scrannel-pipes of self-idolatry,
And think them her grand trump, from forth which go
The World's great voices! From whose blast they'll fly
Like chaff from threshing-floor, and no more show!

RECOVERED HEALTH.

Oh how my thoughts do bound and rush along!
'Tis Pegasus, just mounted for a run,
The Muses, Phœbus' self, to see the fun,
And on Parnassus' slopes the scent how strong.
'Tis Helicon in “spate,” with confluent throng
Of many waters, now drear Winter's gone,
And all the mountain-tops have felt the sun,
And hill and valley break forth into song.
How all the pulses of Man's life do beat
And throb, as if this fair world were re-made;
Life bursts at every pore, as at a heat;
Its thirst divine at fuller founts allayed,
The true Elixir-vitæ, nectar-sweet,
Intoxicating like first love repayed!

ABSORBING OCCUPATIONS.

Thrice blessèd Labour, how thou sweetenest all!
True honey-bee that fills the human hive
Without with sweets, as that by which we live,
The heart, within; pure sweets that never pall;
True bag o' the bee, all honey and no gall!
Nay, thou dost make Life's very bitter give
Sweetness and tone to minds, as bodies thrive
On herbs bitter i' the mouth, medicinal
And sweet i' the belly! God be praised for thee!
With thee I have but one slight difference:
Time's sands run so, all golden tho' they be,
Life seems begun and ended in a sense:
Extremes thus meet; Toil, Idleness agree;
Both seem a blank; one is—a void immense!

THE SONNET.

The Sonnet is precisely as 'tis made.
A random, crippled thing, with halting gait.
A dwarf, who cannot carry off the state
And air assumed. Conceited prig, betrayed
By trick of voice and manner, ill arrayed
In pompous phrases, without sense to mate.
Prim fop, who daintily his breath doth bate,
And smooths all down, flat, without light and shade.
'Tis of small stature, but of perfect size
And shape, with every limb symmetrical;
A lofty forehead, and expressive eyes;
A voice sustained, full, and most musical;
Lips on which Hybla's fine-wrought honey lies,
From which, like manna, wise words passing fall.

THE ANGEL OF TRUTH.

Oh how that awful look, and in thy hand
That flaming sword, like his who from the gates
Of Paradise, to death and unknown fates,
Drove that first pair whom Sin did ban and brand,
Drives me forth from this temple, wherein stand
And stare like blocks the idols which God hates;
Stocks, stones, 'mid which Mammon gesticulates,
And nods his golden head with assent bland!
It drives me from these vile hypocrisies,
These lies, these draped lay-figures of Man's life,
Into God's light, and Life's realities;
Where, plainly heard above this Babel-strife,
He bids Man, called to higher destinies,
Put off knave's mask and mumming fool's disguise!

“THE MISSING LINK;” OR, THE FETISH OF SCIENCE.

In a deep vision's high-symbolic scene
Methought a temple rose; for sacrifice
All seemed prepared; but to what Deities,
Uncertain. The high altar there had been
(By Science's own learnèd hand, I ween)
Set forth with emblems and deep imageries
Of Nature's creatures and her mysteries,
In sequent order; Man and these between
All links, save one! Thereon a legend shone,
Not “To the Unknown God,” but, strange to say,
“To the Unknown Link!” Shortly came blandly on
High Priests, but not priest-like; and, to atone
“Sin of Omission,” oh most strange! there lay
The victim, Man; and Science by to slay!

REFLECTIONS ON THE PRECEDING.

I had a glorious vision, not in dream,
But wide-awake; as lark who, on his wings
Morn's dews, a day of golden promise sings.
Like hive at swarming time, my brain did scheme,
And stir, and hum with thought: Hyblean theme
Of Fancy; heart on fire, kindling all things;
A live coal from Faith's altar. All the springs
And fountains of Life's deeps aflow did seem,
And broken up! Alas! that glorious day,
With the stirred ashes of its hopes scarce warms
The frost at heart! Those bees no longer lay
Up honey; Hybla's flowers have lost their charms;
Faith's radiant form I clasp—it falls away,
A skeleton, from my blank heart and arms!

THE COST OF TRUTH.

Dub me mere coward, and afraid to look
At mine own shadow, if I start aside
From Truth, or shrink to pluck out all my pride
Holds dearest, by the roots, as if I took
A viper up, like Paul, and it off-shook
Not from my hand, but heart! By Truth abide
I ever; tho' she, with swift Time, outstride
Man's petty pace and forecast, Life or Book!
High is her service! In her altar-fire,
If our right hand offend, that must we hold,
Like the great Roman—burn our heart's desire,
Like incense; hold its ashes above gold!
Hard, too, her service! There let none aspire,
Not in this furnace baked, cast in this mould!

PLATFORM MOUNTEBANKS.

'Tis bad enough when breechèd fools bestride
Their hobby-horse and on the “Platform” trot;
Showing by what they are, what they are not;
With blatant utterance asinine, and pride
That apes humility, the wordy tide
Of nonsense, shallow Commonplace, and “rot”
Of sickly sentiment all smoking hot,
Tickling fools' ears, while the vexed walls deride!
But when a petticoated fool mounts bold
Behind male folly, or trots out her own,
Unsexing Reason as herself; all told
I' the feminine gender, and en chignon shown;
Saturn himself need both his grave sides hold,
Minerva blush for women, and disown!

A TRUE MAN.

It does one good, the pleasure is so rare,
To meet a noble, simple man, who is
All that he seems, and seems no more than this;
Who shows 'fore God and fellow-man four-square,
Turn him which way you will, and lay him bare:
Nay, the more naked, on analysis
We that perceive which we before did miss;
A naked soul, seen in Truth's mirror, where
She herself holds the light! It does one good
To warm one's heart at him; to touch pure gold
Coined, now and then, in God's similitude.
His image there, His superscription, bold
And free, writ large; or e'en the nugget rude,
Yet sterling, as yet neither bought nor sold.

TRIAL BY JURY.

Twelve men “packed” in a box! Men, pray mean you,
Or dummies? Well, they are not of the best;
They would not stand, I fear, his searching quest
Who went about for one good man and true,
Lanthorn in hand, by day. And, pray, what do
These twelve wise, with whom England is thus blest
(Greece had but seven Wise Men), 'bove the rest
O' the world, with fools so many, wise so few?
A sort of twelve-brain power unanimous,
A mind collective, 'tis set to decide
Vexed questions, which six ne'er agreed on thus.
Yet to this pillar the State's roof is tied;
Let no blind Samson bring it down on us!
'Tis Justice' symbol, and the People's pride.

THE JURY-BOX.

The Jury-box is but a packing-case,
With twelve men packed inside like geese, and geese:
Not to eat, drink, sleep, leave until they cease,
Or else agree, to differ, with one face;
Like Janus, looking, with a wise grimace,
Two ways, yet going all one same, to please
Grave Justice, who doth hum, and haw, and sneeze
At the quaint humour o' 't, yet with a good grace.
In Reason's light 'tis thus. But Time makes more
And less, and adds and takes; to shadow turns
Substance; to substance shadow, and throws o'er
Old forms (else skeletons in funeral urns),
These flesh and blood belongings, this old lore
And faith, to which the popular heart still yearns.

THE BALLOT.

With the old-fashioned Jury-box—so old,
The oldest antiquary could invent
Scarce anything more to his heart's content—
We've got the Ballot-box, where Truth blindfold
As Justice, need not blush at nor behold
Attempts to frighten, bribe, or circumvent
Our model voter, but, tho' somewhat pent,
Nestle, and turn up her sweet nose at gold!
Alas! 'tis all “about it and about it.”
Shams, substitutes in place of the real thing.
As a bad woman careth not a whit
For virtue, but unto its name will cling!
O Honesty! Man's pride! thy clothes fools fit
Lay-figures with, but thyself thou must bring!

TRUTH.

With fear and longing blent I raise thy veil,
Dread-beautiful, and beautiful as dread,
If inward-aught from outward may be read.
Yet my hand trembles; Expectation pale
A-tiptoe stands, and Hope doth sudden fail,
Chameleon-like, with Fear altérnated;
Like him, betrothed from childhood, when first led
To his veiled bride, for lifelong weal or bale!
O Beautiful! Not larger or more grand,
With level glance at sunrise as beheld,
With calm and beauty aweing all the land,
The face of Memphian Sphinx! And yet, repelled,
A poor ephemeron of to-day I stand
In thy eternal presence, awed and quelled!

TOO LATE.

Oh how much golden fruit of sweetest taste,
Of prophylactic, rarest excellence,
Or rich memorial aromas, whence
The days then future, now, alas! long past
(Fruits light-esteemèd then, and left to waste),
Might have been so embalmed to heart and sense,
Their flavours so conserved and so intense,
That even now their virtues would outlast
All sequent sweetnesses! O ye divine
Hesperian apples! golden fruitage sweet
Of youth and love, no more can ye be mine,
Intoxicating heart and brain! That heat
Divine yields but one crop, of taste so fine
The tree of Life no second can repeat!

THE STARS, OR POSSIBILITIES OF EXISTENCE.

As those bright worlds in mystic circles fly,
In sequent order Life on Life doth rise,
Being on Being; with strange subtleties
Of sense, and scope of brain, of ear, of eye.
Who knows but we ourselves may be watched by
Beings to whom we are mere atomies,
Crawling on this poor molehill here, ant-size,
To their amusement, when they deign to spy
Our motions! Limits there are none until
We come to God, the Be-all, End-all One!
Eyes there may be that in one sense fulfil
Both telescope and microscope; Sense none
E'er dreamt of, not five sense-lets. What God will
He makes; Archangel or ephemeron!

A NEW ACT OF THE LIFE-DRAMA.

When this old World shook as with ague-fit,
Its mighty framework and compacted form
Was rent and riven, like ship in a storm.
Dim fear of Change perplexèd Human wit,
And the World's magic-glass reflected it
In forecast shadows; and their fatal term
Old worn-out Faiths, gnawed out at heart by worm
Of Doubt and Change, had reached, when God saw fit:
There went a loud wail over sea and land,
As Nature were in throes of Birth and Death
Co-instant; Time did listen but not stand;
“Great Pan is dead,” all Nature languisheth!
Lo! now through all again there goes God's breath
Of Change, and Life and Death are hand to hand!

TO ------.

O all ye little rosy Loves that flit
And flutter round my heart, and all ye too,
Ye tender, melting doves that bill and coo,
As if ye meant to build your nests in it;
Are ye forerunners—and oh, what more fit?—
Of her to whom is dedicated true
The temple of this heart? Oh come then to
And build about it, nor your sweet nests quit:
That for her coming so all ready be.
And, seeing, by your lov'd mansionry, the air
To be so delicate, and all so free
For gentlest things to harbour, how and where
They please, and all things else so well agree,
To make all perfect, her sweet self lodge there!

THE DEATH OF NELSON.

When that great spirit from its tabernacle
Of flesh departed through the gates of Fame
And Death, they stood as mutes, till thro' he came,
Then both with joinèd breaths his name did swell,
And blew it forth, a word of power, a spell,
A talisman, while England is the same.
His Country gasped, as if that blow did aim
Right at the heart, and for awhile could quell.
England was stunned: the news of victory
Read like an epitaph; between the lines
Of the “All-hail” Death wrote “All's vanity.”
So artist, when some great work he designs,
Some passionate piece, to fill heart, mind, and eye,
High lights, deep shadows, grandly massed, combines.

THE BALLOT.

The salt of life, of life political,
As social, is outspoken manliness;
To be, not seem; to set forth the express
And absolute presentment, image, call
It what you will, of our true selves, in all
Things honest and of good report, no less
In deed than word, and not to mask and dress,
Deceiving and self-hypocritical.
Concealment is in kind dishonesty,
And cowardice, where public duty calls:
Such taints soon spread. The State's grand outline by
All secrecy is dimmed; its image falls
More shadowy; Public yields to Private tie;
First downward step, till, Freedom lost, Life crawls.

CHANGE.

Time out o' mind, that quaint old lunatic,
In second childishness, with backward look
And crablike gait, cons, like a riddle-book,
This Present, changing like a juggler's trick,
Or a sensation-play; with pace so quick
And weighted safety-valve. Ill can he brook
Its fast, new-fangled ways; and, all-forsook,
Maunders, of himself and all else heart-sick.
“Finality” is not writ on the sky,
Nor on the earth; it is a word unknown
In Life's vernacular. Writ large on high
Stars on that azure scroll write “Change;” change shown
While writing; writ small here is earth's reply.
One changeth all, Himself unchanged alone!

PLAYING OUT.

Oh whence that music, of such range and sweep
That if Archangels strike the lyre, it might
(So absolute the touch, so infinite
The chords) be theirs; so lap the soul and steep,
And cheat Death's stroke, or still arrested keep!
So far beyond our thoughts in depth and height,
That Being itself seems indefinite,
Suspended midway, in trance sweet and deep!
But once that harmony is heard by Man.
It plays his life out; plays it o'er again!
Transposed in minor key, time changed, and plan,
“The original theme” in the pathetic strain
Still reappears; what ends with what began;
And something more, which these cannot contain!

TRADE VERSUS WAR.

Fair Commerce, many-breasted, and with lap
Filled with earth's varied store from pole to pole,
All winds thy wings are, for thee all seas roll.
Thine the true cornucopia; thine to wrap
The naked savage, spin his cotton, shape
His life by lower wants for higher goal;
And clothe, as erst his body, then his soul,
And near to God draw him not far from ape!
Handmaid of Civilisation, in thy train,
Tho' not of thee, nor calling themselves thine,
The Muses and the Graces, to thy gain
For recognition of their gifts divine
Indebted come. By thee sweet Peace doth reign,
And Earth's waste places laugh with corn and wine!

THIS BALL OF EARTH.

Earth heaves herself up out of darkness, strong
And swift, and, like a garment flings aside;
To put Morn's beauty on, and, like a bride,
Meet the great Sun, who once again doth long
To see her face. So, singing her sphere-song,
With all her seas in ebb and flow of tide,
Her mountains, rivers streaming far and wide,
With nations at her breasts, she whirls among
Her sister-planets! O most wondrous sight!
As on, with music in her motion, there
She moves, I soar, a disembodied sprite.
With this, then, His all-seeing view compare
Before whom countless worlds roll in His light,
Like motes, Himself the Sun, and everywhere!

THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

When Faith and Hope lead Death in by the hand,
To take surrender of our mortal lease,
Lease not “renewable on lives,” with these
Two forms angelic he a presence bland
Assumes, of suasion rather than command.
A dísguised angel himself, one who frees;
Like him who did from durance vile release
The Apostle, wisting not, so doth he stand.
Then gently these his mask a little raise,
And show not that which freezes mortal blood,
But a calm, fathomless, Sphinx-riddle face.
But should these twain be absent, then his mood
Were terrible indeed; his look affrays,
And makes us shudder as doomed spirits would!

DAWN OVER THE ATLANTIC IN KERRY.

I'm drunk, but not with wine! This air, so free
It seems as for the first time Being drew
In breath, so pure, elastic, fresh, life-new,
Intoxicates; the breath of the great sea,
Whose salutary brine from leprosy
Of Custom cleanses; with refreshments too
Of soul, (as body's health,) in boundless view
Self-imaged: as God just said ‘Let light be.’
'Tis like the World's first act—all-glorious,
As from creation's furnace reddening,
The mountains rise; then cool down, luminous
In virgin light. God is in everything,
Sky, ocean, sun, earth, soul, ubiquitous!
O moment, like the first wave of Time's wing!

THE IRONY OF LIFE.

The light of long-set suns is in thine eyes.
Hope, like a spendthrift, his inheritance
Hath mortgaged, spent his substance in advance:
Grim Death, by his apparitors, applies
Now for his bond, with o'er-due usuries,
And shrewdly will foreclose, with the first chance.
With doting Memory thou dost romance,
And thy old stocks and stones dost canonise
In niches of the Past! Thy treble-voice,
“Excelsior” once shouting, scarce would blow
A penny-trumpet: thou, whom Fame did noise
Abroad, the mock of passing fools shalt grow.
Eat dirt, O Pride; 'tis diet with large choice!
Or for Gorilla sit, and Man forego!

ACTUALITIES AND POSSIBILITIES.

How many splendours dost thou quench, O Sun!
Thou showest but the Little and the Near;
The Vast, the Countless, in thine absence clear,
Thy presence makes a blank of light, and none!
As darkness is thy light! By it we run
Our petty daily human course down here,
But see no more those wonders of the sphere,
Which, like the countless eyes of Night, late shone.
If Earth rolled due-round, not obliquely, we
Might then behold, but for the sun so bright,
The Southern Cross, and all the galaxy
Of constellations which that pole delight;
Which, blinded by like cause in like degree,
Would miss, like us, half the transcendent sight!

ECLIPSE.

A horror of great darkness all around
Lies on my soul; darkness that one may feel;
It interpenetrates, through all doth steal
Like a dead, icy, heart-chill; so profound
And numb, that very Being seems ice-bound!
O God! in mercy Thyself now reveal;
Break of this living tomb the sevenfold seal:
Buried alive, I feel as underground.
Cast me not off! from this dumb, living tomb
My muffled anguish hear: in mercy give
A resurrection from this awful doom.
My soul is heavy unto death; I live
(If life it be where Hope no more doth come)
To wrestle with Despair, with Death to strive!

WIT AND HUMOUR.

If Wit, the brilliant of such temper fine,
To such sharp facettes cut, and prism-like wrought,
And to cut which like diamond must be sought,
Were soft as it is hard, could melt as shine,
And interchangeable tears and smiles combine,
Like a sweet April-day, with rainbow thought
(Like dying dolphin), light- and shadow-fraught,
'Twould be like Humour, as good wine to wine.
But subtle Humour is an essence rare,
Touches to finer issues than mere Wit;
Which, like the Northern lights, leaves cold the air
Through which its brilliant coruscations flit.
Humour is as the thunder-clouds, which bear
Heat, quickening drops, and flashes of light emit.

THE OLD.

What ails thee, poor old man? Thy heart is sad;
Bowed is thy head, thy soul more bowed within;
'Tis full of human-kindness, but the sin
(Not thine) of Age turns the milk sour and bad!
Thou lov'st God's little ones; their sunshine glad
Would make thee sunshine, but thy smile can't win
An answering smile—they life for thee begin
In thought, but thought of age they none have had.
Youth shuns thee, on its path a shadow thrown;
The strong despise, who in thy age not see,
As in a glass, sad forecast of their own.
Woman, who should console, shuns, mocks at thee;
She hateth age, and all by which 'tis shown:
Age, too, itself doth shun, its shadow flee.

PRODUCTION OF SPECIES BY SELECTION.

Nature begins her wondrous series
Of being so low that the microscope
Itself is key not fine enough to ope
The complex wards of the chamber, where at ease
She works her wonders; rising by degrees
So nice, that Fancy in her widest scope,
With all art's, reason's aids, is forced to grope
For the lost clue of her fine subtleties.
Ascending in her scale, we come to Man,
Her “opus magnum;”—did she stay her hand
In blind self-consciousness of finished plan,
Or could no more materials command?
Could her great hand no higher Being span,
Or higher worlds alone give scope more grand?

THE MILKY WAY.

At distance (the bare thought of which meseems
Like leaning o'er some fathomless abyss,
Where the brain reels and the sight dazzled is),
Like some strange shore of Fancy's airy themes,
Whose sands are diamonds, far beyond far, it gleams
And shimmers, like some mystic isle, in this
All-boundless azure ocean, where we miss
Our way in truths stranger than wildest dreams!
My soul is crushed beneath immensity.
Not only does Man's reason prostrate fall,
Imagination droops her wings, to fly
Unable and afraid—greatest how small,
Wisest as fool, before this mystery,
Whence echo none answers our yearning call!

PROGRESS.

If the great spirits, who in bygone days
Moulded Man's life with their Promethean thought,
And handed on the torch, by one now caught,
Now by another, till all shared its rays,
Were raised again; how would they stand at gaze,
And shade their eyes, and stare like men distraught;
Unlearn, and go to school, who all once taught;
Giants bechilded: such are time and place!
Nature would with strange births in labour seem,
Chimeras, portents, wonders! Plato's brain
With its first issue would, reissued, teem,
New-birth'd: some, like Empedocles, again
After three thousand years would find their theme
The rage, and need no proxy to explain.

ESSENTIAL LIFE.

Are we like rain-drops falling in the sea,
Which re-absorbs and re-evaporates,
Giving these particles new terms and dates
Of function and of Being, thus set free?
Or is Life some electric subtletie,
Some “callida junctura,” which creates,
By atoms nice-affined, our loves and hates,
Wit, wisdom, folly, madness, sorrow, glee?
The needle-point of nice experiment
Has touched the nerve of Life, and made it thrill.
Yet were it matter all-indifferent
Whêr Matter think or not. This cannot kill
The Soul: He who makes Matter competent
To think, can make it think on if He will.

DEATH NOT IN THE POT, BUT PEN.

Some have been rimed to death; some killed outright
By shrewd Iambics: that fair trinity
Lampooned of old, Lycambè's daughters three,
Preferring halter to the viperish spite
Archilochus in his Iambic bite
And snarl infused; so on his tomb we see
Wasps settle; not the Muse's honey-bee,
With hivèd sweets, whose stings are few and slight.
Our peril is of being Newspapered,
Be-magazined, be-booked to death. It were
A mercy if some uncreating Word
Would strike half dumb; or, our poor wits to spare,
Make quintessentially be read or heard,
Or, as by Aaron's rod the serpents, fare!

THE “SELECTION” THEORY.

If Nature, tentative through ages long,
Gaining experience, and, so to say,
Trying her 'prentice-hand in every way,
Strove all to fashion best, and not go wrong;
Corrected errors, weak replaced with strong,
Imperfect with more perfect, till the play
Of elements so subtilised this clay,
That Man was made, with reasoning brain and tongue;
If thus far, why not further? Why should she
Stop thus at Man, nor further trial make?
Why should her Be-all and her End-all be
A Being, who conceits that for his sake
All else is made; when Mind in him we see
Its first self-conscious upward step thus take!

ILLUSIONS OF SENSE.

The narrow senses over-ride Man's mind,
And into circumscription put his Thought;
Tie up the wings of th' Imagination, caught
And birdlimed, by the shows of things confined;
Strike flat the Earth's rotundity, and bind
Him down with countless threads by Custom wrought,
Like Gulliver by Lilliputians caught,
That seeing he sees not, or but purblind.
Our senses serve us well; but when, as here,
They have no correspondence with true sight,
'Tis like blind leading blind. Far o'er the clear,
Calm sea, a vessel's topmasts thought invite;
And the grand mirror convex doth appear,
Not flat: thus Science may set Nature right.

UNITED ITALY.

Thy fair head resting on the Alps; thy feet
Dipped in the blue waves betwixt thee and Greece,
Which undecided flow, yet both would please,
Thou liest, basking in thy sun thy sweet
And gracious form, full of divinest heat
And procreant force, coquetting at thine ease
With thy own beauty in those twofold seas,
Two mirrors, where thy lines of beauty meet.
Beautiful Juliet! beautiful and free,
Arise, and make thy toilette in the glass
Of Freedom! Lo! thy bridegroom comes to thee,
Thy Romeo; let the Circe-cup then pass
For ever from thy lips—thou his, thine he;
And let your kiss the seal of Freedom be!

LORD ROSS'S TELESCOPE.

If Argus' hundred eyes were all in one,
And five times multiplied, and all those five
One'd in a single Cyclop's eye to give
A cumulative glance; even such, and none
Of weaker sight, could hold comparison
With that of mechanism superlative,
That eye of Science, which doth Space deprive
Of distance, and look through Creatiòn.
'Tis wonderful! Yet when we contemplate
That measurelessly-greater wonder still,
The problem to be solved, our breath we bate,
And feel that Man no larger space doth fill—
Is no more, at his best, and best estate,
Than fly upon the wheel, with all his skill!

THE ILIAD.

In that grand poem Homer showed his Greece
Her “very form and pressure;” to her face
Held up the mirror, caught her in her grace
And strength of mood, idealising these
Into heroic attitudes, to please
And to instruct Mankind. Of time and place
The fleeting scenes and figures he did trace,
And fix for ever on the stage, with lease
Of larger life. Troy did not fall in vain,
Nor were ten years in Time's great count ill spent,
That gave the world a Homer, and such gain.
In that grand mirror too, Greece, well content
To see herself, thenceforth did strive and strain
To rise to height of that great argument.

TIME.

Time is the worst of foes, or best of friends;
Make him the last then. How unwise it were
To be on ill terms, not bear and forbear
With one who still stays with us, with us wends,
Sits at our board, by our bed-side attends,
In health or sickness, good or evil fare!
We cannot cut him, bow, or coldly stare;
The acquaintance once begun here never ends.
Serve him in youth well, he will thee in age.
No change of fortune puts him from our side;
Still is he with us, on or off the stage;
Barefoot in rags, or in our coach doth ride!
In jail, like debtor; and at court, like page;
Plenty of proofs he'll give, however tried!

THE BOUNDLESS.

When gazing at the sky with thought intense,
I spread Imagination's wings, and soar,
And see this planet shine with countless more;
The Milky Way, with stars begemmed so dense,
Yet distant, that the blended shimmer thence
Seems but a mist—handful of diamonds, o'er
The azure flung, yon Pleiads—without shore
This space, this ocean, beyond thought immense;
I lose myself, and know not what or where
I am. Like a phantasmagoria
All seems: myself; this universe so fair
And wondrous! Yet realities these are;
'Tis I that, like a passing shadow, dare
Not ask the Whence or Whither, or how far!

MUSIC.

As magnet atoms, draws the crowd to hear
The music; moved in his or her degree
And kind, to sadness, pity, love, joy, glee,
As now some stop of Hope's clear pipe may cheer,
Or Memory's string just steal half-conscious tear.
As plays that outward music it sets free
The deeper, inner, of Humanitie,
Which the heart hears with its fine inner ear.
The music plays unto the crowd, the crowd
Plays unto me; each human instrument
In perfect tune, or softly played or loud:
Pipes of strange stop, through which life-breath is sent;
Strings, heart-strings fine, to touch which might make proud
Whoso hath that most rare accomplishment.

WHAT MAKES A GREAT NATION.

Rank poison in the veins lurks of the State,
And taints the social life of all its blood,
When law, miscall'd; Civil-war, rather, of Good
And Evil—contravenes (thus breeding hate
And harm) that higher law which doth create
True Body-Politic, with lofty mood
And recognition by the multitude
Of Right and Wrong, perdurable as Fate!
He is the statesman who, with single eye
To this and God, makes Conscience his one rule:
Whose laws writ large, like the stars in the sky,
Are seen of all; a nation's noblest school
To teach Right, Order, Law, and set it high
In soul, yet proud to kneel at Law's footstool.

INFANT-TRAINING.

Let the first sounds that greet the infant ear
Be pure and healthy: tones of voice may teach,
And looks are lessons fully within reach.
The A B C of love, long ere they hear
The sweet word syllabled, may be learned clear:
The thing itself will better sermons preach
Than pulpits; its observance spare the breach
Of God's commandments more than threats and fear.
Let their first songs be bird-like melodies,
Simple, yet beautiful; Mozartean!
And ever, larklike, rising to the skies.
That pure taste, formed, remain as it began.
Print, picture, floor-tile, in dumb-eloquent wise,
Reach heart through eyes, and form the future Man!

THE LIGHTS OF ALL TIME; A LIBRARY— SUGGESTION.

As o'er the shelves my eye, embodying, roams,
First one then other Fame o'er-halo'd name,
Like beacon-lights along Time's headlands flame.
Or as, in place of consecrated tomes,
Shrines of Man's thought, and spiritual homes,
Star on star from imagined darkness came;
Fixed stars, self-luminous, and aye the same,
From each of which a region-radiance comes!
Some shine in clusters, like the Pleiades;
Some with a splendour all their own; alone,
Like Lyra, shining for some end express:
A constellation in themselves; and known,
Like the Pole-star, of all. Shakspear 'mid these
Shines with a light diffusive, all his own.

HEALTH.

Thou pure and perfect diamond, one, sole,
And single; sum and complement of bliss,
All-self-containing, most of all-else is.
O Health! Thou indivisible, pure Whole!
Once lost, Life's light unfocus'd is and dull;
And all we see shows false, or tastes amiss.
From thee Love filched the Nectar of his kiss,
And Beauty from thy matchless palette stole
Her living roses! Nay, the Poet's pen
Loses its flourish and its flow divine;
No more stirs Eloquence the hearts of men.
Wit has no point or edge, Fancy no fine
And larklike flights, but mopes in batlike den,
And Soul itself is a forsaken shrine.

SWITZERLAND.

Lift up, O ye that are free, and make free,
Ay, “free of no mean city,” all who here
Can feel their souls at sight of you grow clear,
And breathe the breath ye breathe, and Custom flee;
Lift up your heads, ye Mountains; let Man see
In you and your lake-mirrors far and near
The grandeur and the beauty which endear
This Earth to us, and make us bend the knee
As at God's altar! Sing aloud His praise,
Ye thunders, rolling as to wake the dead;
Ye torrents, voicing Him in choral race;
Ye forests, whisper Him in solemn dread.
Earth hath still, here and there, a holy place,
Wherein her beauty may be worshippèd.

MODERN LUXURY.

THE LOVE THAT WANETH NOT.

For his sweet Rachel Jacob seven years
Of service passed, and thought them but a day;
Gilded by Love and Hope, his work seemed play,
His sands all golden. Love, who all endears,
Filled his heart's treasure-house with those rich years;
As the seven years of plenty did purvey
For Egypt's granaries, and kept away
All dearth, so Love made good all life's arrears!
So much can love for Woman! But there is
Love beyond Woman's or for Woman: Love,
Which not some seven years will bide its bliss,
But seven times seven will its truth approve!
The Muse may coldly smile, may oft dismiss,
But the true Poet's love at length will move!

“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE,” AGAIN.

THE INNER LIFE.

Thy good deeds, like a spring-head out of sight,
Unknown, its pure source fed with heavenly dews,
And present only in the blessèd use
Men have of it, tho' few that use requite,
Should flow unto themselves, with a delight
As secret, pure, intrinsic (lest they lose
Their blessing), as the Poet's with his Muse,
Or prayer that would to Heaven uplift its flight.
Like green oasis in some else parched waste,
A hidden fountain of delight, this keeps
The heart fresh, gives Life its diviner taste.
Oh then defile it not. If other reaps
Where thou hast sown, or with thy praise is graced,
Such voyàge but Life's shallows, thou its deeps!

DEATH AND THE PUBLISHER.

Our fashions alter as our manners turn:
'Twas “body-snatching” and anatomy;
Science was “subject”-stinted, and bid high.
'Tis right the living from the dead should learn,
When dead fetch more than they could living earn!
We've changed the fashion somewhat; when men die
We dig them up, but metaphorically;
“Soul-snatch!” lest Death their memory inurn!
Well, 'tis a “resurrection” anyhow!
Perhaps the only one defunct will have!
If a man's name an honest penny now
Be worth, his “friends” to “snatch” his memory crave.
Well, let “celebrities” to fashion bow,
And, leading better lives, their credit save!

MAN, PROUD MAN!

Man is a very Icarus; with wings
Of waxen self-conceit he soars on high,
As he true denizen were of the sky,
To the manner born! But the Old Adam clings,
Th' original clay cleaves to him, and down brings
Headlong this angel in expectancy;
Poor, featherless biped! his sham wings wofully
Singed by Truth's light, which beats fierce on and flings
This moth back, scorched, to Nothing! Then he blows
His fancy-bubbles with “immortal” breath,
And puffs into Eternity! Fair shows,
Hope-touched to wish! on bladders swims, and saith,
In pride of heart, “I cannot sink;” but Death
With a mere pin-point pricks, and out all goes!

THE PAST.

As the years fall behind us, in the rear
And backward of our time, 'tis like the tide
When it has ebbed far out, and left a wide
And lonesome waste of sand and seaweed drear;
With waifs and strays of lost ones, wreck of dear
And precious freightage, cast for aye aside
Amid Time's wastes; and (more) what it doth hide,
That cold, remorseless sand, which we shall ne'er
Again have sense of! Hollow sound the waves,
More muffled, distant; voices of the Past,
Dim, vague, and sad, as they ebb out o'er graves,
With gathering darkness and the moaning blast,
To that dread Deep, where Hope all-vainly craves,
With seaward gaze, glimpse of returning mast!

THE GRASSHOPPER.

If there be drunkenness of joy, not wine,
And true “teetotallers” on water may
Get tipsy, and the harmless fact betray,
Intoxication so pure and so fine
Must thine be, earth-born sprite! drunk on sunshine
And dew, Aurora's vintage; morning-ray
Distilled with dewdrops, to make thy heart gay;
Blithe as lark's voice in sky, on earth is thine.
Ay, Nature's ear would have one joy the less,
If of thy cheerful song Earth were bereft,
And Man have less to bless him and to bless.
Thou art a link, which lost, a blank were left
In Nature's concert; and, tho' small the stress
She lays on thee, ill would she brook that theft!

YOUTH.

How short, O Youth, thy lease! Flower overblown
Ere we can dream it needed gathering!
Brief draught of Nectar, yet so ravishing
That the intoxication is not known,
The sweet delirium recognised, till gone!
Elixir-goblet, drained ere we can bring
Our lips away, and, anguished, from us fling
The empty cup, incredulous 'tis done!
Time draws his mortgage, shrewd old usurer!
With Hope, confiding Hope, to witness it,
Who takes all in good part, tout de bon cœur:
While Youth, all present pleasure and small wit,
Draws on the future, and doth debts incur;
Then Time forecloses soon as he sees fit!

DIVINE PHILOSOPHY.

In the thin air of fine Philosophy,
At such great altitudes too rarefied
For mortal sense, Man's wits, without a guide,
Like a puffed bladder, mount him up so high
Above this nether world's reality,
That to himself he almost in his pride
Archangel seems, to whom God might confide
His secret counsels, and Life's mystery.
Vain insect, brief ephemeron, poor mote
In the Eternal sunbeam! the pure light
Intense of Truth doth make thy weak brain dote;
With blindness worse than owl's at mid-day smite.
Back to thy Earth! That too with thee doth float,
Fly on the wheel, speck in the Infinite!

THE DARK SIDE.

Than fox more cunning, lecherous than goat;
Than tiger cruel, subtle beyond snake;
Than peacock vain! These instances for sake
Of analogue, not parallel, I quote;
Poor, weak comparatives! Brute doth not gloat
On fellow-slaughter; leopard note doth take
Of kindred spots; Man prey of Man doth make:
He only slayeth self, alone doth dote!
This “paragon of animals” doth yield
In friendship to the dog; no friend e'er died
For friend. Pock-mark the face; see Love revealed
As Lust, who under that sweet mask did hide
His leprous brows! Keep thy heart's secret sealed
From bosom-friend, ay, from wife by thy side!

CONSISTENCY.

There's something scarcely “canny,” in a sense;
A sort of incantation-scene, a “scare,”
With magic circle, spells for foul or fair,
Just as “the Spirits” give or take offence,
Willing or subpœnaed to give evidence,
In summoning our “Fetch” to upper air,
Our former Selves: just to see what we were;
'Twixt shadow, substance what the difference!
How Self and quasi-Self would mutual stare,
Not realising quite “Identity!”
Allowing for Time's needful wear and tear,
Our coat of many colours, fit to vie
With Jacob's, our pure “Double” ill could bear,
So Quaker-like in drab consistency!

EVENING.

O Hesperus, thou sprinklest with thy dews
Love's wings, frayed somewhat by the garish day,
And fresh'nest-up his pinions for soft play.
Now of his starry eyes having full use,
And other light not needing, nor excuse
Save thy sweet signal, lighting by the way
Thy glow-worm lamps, forth flies he to purvey
Delights which would Aurora's cheeks suffuse
With blushes not of dawn! O Hesperus,
Thou bringest more than garish day; thy light
So tender, súbdued, and ambiguous,
Throws around Love that charm indefinite,
Which leaves Imagination full scope thus
To paint his portrait to the inner sight!

AT HOME.

How many dare to knock at their own door,
And have with Self a quiet tête-à-tête,
Quite to themselves, and quite dispassionate;
A quiet “at home;” with only that One more
Who must be, just to help make up the score!
Thy soul “in undress” dar'st thou contemplate,
In Truth's sunflattering glass, thy naked state,
That which behind is as well as before?
Happy the man who there can Self survey,
Nor, looking down, behold “the cloven foot;”
Nor up, the Satyr's horns; nor in the clay
Of poor Humanity such flaws, that brute
(Say our Gorilla-coz.) would turn away,
And “Man” disown, scorning to follow suit!

AURORA VERSUS BACCHUS.

The gifts of Bacchus precious are; the vine
Hath healing, more than simples of the wood;
It gladdeneth man's heart, reddeneth his blood,
Makes his brain forgetive, his wit to shine;
Nay, Truth is not more in a well than wine.
All things are, just as used, evil or good;
Good in excess hath evil neighbourhood,
And ill things, well-conditioned, well incline.
Bacchus and Æsculapius, then, are friends.
But Health in person present, and most is
Where fresh Aurora's rosy vintage blends
Morn's dews and rays electric, at which his
Life-torch Prometheus kindled, and she lends
To this elixir a Nectarean bliss.

WOMEN'S RIGHTS.

Ye are self-judged; ye your ownselves arraign,
When loss of rights imagined ye lament:
Had ye the duties which are complement
To these fulfilled, as blessings ye would gain
Those rights, which barren else must come and vain,
Life's unripe fruits. For Mothers ye were meant;
And with that master-key might be content
To hold the treasure-house of heart and brain.
Had ye that reverence for woman's name
Ye claim for it, your reverence would beget
The like; your practice would attest your claim.
On your pure brows, a true phylactery set,
Virtue would awe, and put cheap wits to shame,
With “grace divine” and Rights not counterfeit!

NATURE BELOW THE SURFACE.

Round every Human Soul, now dim, now clear,
More or less distant from circumference,
According to the centre-point from whence
'Tis drawn, a magic circle lies, a sphere
Of ignored Being, till therein appear
The evil Spirits, on some dark pretence
Of passion, some blind motion of brute sense;
Then yawn the depths beneath us, black and drear!
Ay, in Man's secret Soul, in sullen den,
The evil Spirits, spell-bound, lie in wait,
Till, like wild beasts at taste of blood of men,
They start to life, evoked by rage or hate.
Then, as possessed, he maddens out; and, when
They're laid, the shrine leave rent and desecrate!

SAPPHO ANTIQUE.

Bright star of eve! by thy sweet light beguiled
All sweet things come. The roseate innocence
Of Love, that dares to be without pretence,
And wear its truth, like garment undefiled.
Not above sense, and yet soul-reconciled
And raised; pure, primitive, direct, intense:
Innocent as the flowers; the heart's incense;
Morn-dews of Love, yet guileless as a child!
Large-hearted Woman! with the articulate
And perfumed breath of thy most passionate song
Thou didst a flame of Love so pure create,
Didst fan it up so high, blow it so strong,
That the mere reflex warms the world thus late,
With after-glow so lingering and so long!

METEMPSYCHOSIS, OR SAPPHO MODERN;

(ELIZABETH BARRETT).

Did Sappho's large soul pass on into thee,
In search of tabernacle feminine
As her own sweet embodiment; a shrine
As exquisite, whose fine-pitched nerves might be
Living lyre-strings of subtlest harmonie?
Twin-emanation both of One Divine,
Your tuneable sweet spirits in one twine,
One Womanhood, one Soul of Poesie!
Methinks if Hamadryad, among men
Deigning to sojourn, sought a fit disguise,
She would in such sweet form, with such fine pen,
Enrapture (lying perdue) and surprise!
Sweet Nymph! twofold thy nature; denizen
With men, yet Spirit-free of earth and skies!

HUMAN PERFECTIBILITY?

Shall we breed pigs or angels, men or sheep?
All chance of a Millennium lies here,
And whether of Gorilla Man keep clear!
Whether we reach our Being's height, or creep
Still pigmies, and made faces at by ape;
Such in comparison! If Men we'd rear,
Perfect as pigs, we must to rules adhere,
And strict to “species by selection” keep.
Hope, like an angel, holds ajar this door,
And gives us glimpses of the Promised Land.
But “I will” and “I won't,” as evermore,
There wrangle; while Love, jealous, waves his brand,
And with sweet rhetoric beyond schoolmen's lore,
Draws half the host of heaven from Wisdom's band.

WEALTHY AND LUXURIOUS OLD AGE.

A laughing devil holds the cup to thee;
The wine doth move itself aright; it glows
As thy young blood ere Age “at zero” froze:
'Tis Tokay, Chambertin—a doctor's fee
Each bottle; but the best things disagree
When on the horse's neck Indulgence throws
The reins; so this “gods' Nectar” mocking flows,
A Tantalus-cup thy pinèd lip must flee.
Thy doctor too doth at thy table sit,
A moral scarecrow, and thy feast doth make
Like Sancho Panza's, who, with hunger bit,
Dined by the eye, and fast on fancy brake!
So that of all thy wealth thou wert well quit,
To fill thy belly, and thy thirst to slake!

PEACE.

Oh blesséd be the conquerors of Peace,
Crowned with the olive dropping fatness o'er
The lands; who with the gentle plough restore
The war-scarr'd Earth to plenty and to ease;
Make her hills laugh with vine, with corn her leas!
Blesséd the hands that drop the grain and store
The sheaf, and Ceres' horn-of-plenty pour
O'er the waste places, with the golden fleece!
And blessed be the hands that spin and weave
To clothe the naked; blessed be the steam
Which peace-begirdles Earth, and still doth leave
The world behind it changing like a dream!
Blessed the Word, sacred and lay, doth heave
Man's mind up from its depths, and make it teem!

ALLEGORY OF THE FUTURE.

The World's agape with portents, prodigies;
Faith quails; for nothing is but what is not!
Time labours with some wondrous self-begot
New birth, after his kind, Prometheus-wise,
Creation half of earth, half of the skies;
Which from his large brain, fervid and glowing-hot,
With mighty throes and high-ordainèd lot,
Minerva-like, a fateful birth, shall rise!
Cast in a larger, nobler, grander mould,
Larger of heart and brain, with wider range
Of Being than the births he bore of old,
Which, Saturn-like, he doth devour and change;
This later birth shall a new world unfold,
Peace and Goodwill on earth, Man before Gold!

A FAMILIAR COLLOQUY.

Said I, sore puzzled, in a tête-à-tête,
To myself confidentially, “Whence,
Pray, camest thou, and whither goest hence;
Thy former what, and what thy future state?”
Self paused in thought, as if consulting Fate,
Or casting some dark horoscope—all's dense
As outer darkness to blind groping sense;
Said he: “There's neither time, nor place, nor date!”
Said I: “We have lived long enough, I trow,
In the same house together; slept in bed
And sat at board, and yet each other know
No more than perfect strangers or the dead!”
“'Tis true,” adds he; “we come as shadows, so
Depart; self by self as blind by blind led!”

A FASHIONABLE DINNER SET-OUT.

Ye gods, what dazzling splendours! Is this then
The hall of Plutus and his treasury?
Has Midas been here, turning all things by
His touch to gold, the most befooled of men?
To take an inventory would need a pen
Of gold, a style blazoned like heraldry;
But my poor pen of steel is hard and dry,
Fine flourishes to it are alien.
O bless'd Diogenes! I'd rather wear
Thy thread-bare cloak, with a good appetite,
Than all this load of empty, splendid care!
Life's vain “impedimenta” crush out quite
The relish of Humanity; ay, tear
The heart out, and all Love and Friendship blight!

“TIME-KILLERS.”

Strong on the wing is Time, and hard to kill!
He dozes not, nor pauses in his flight.
Whoso seize opportunity aright,
(As one who vaults upon a steed that's ill
To catch), may take him by the forelock; till
He bears them to their purpose hold him tight:
Such only keep him even well in sight;
Who miss, run ever hind to fore-wheel still!
And deem ye such an one will serve your turn,
Ye drones of Pleasure, whom the true bees keep
Who in her treadmill nought produce nor earn?
No! with the rush of his great wings he'll sweep
Ye off into his wastes, still just if stern,
To rot on the great Human refuse-heap!

“TO BE OR NOT TO BE.”

As one who with the sea all round about,
While not a speck upon the horizon wide,
That hope can shape a sail of is descried;
And the fierce waves come tumbling in mad rout,
Swallowing the strip of sand whence he looks out,
Too anguished, fear-confused, to quite decide
Whether the tide has turned, or on which side
O' the balance Life and Death hang still in doubt!
Such is Man's outlook, when the waves of Time
Have narrowed thus his standing-ground, unless
He reach that Rock which rears its head sublime.
But oh! what waves of doubts upon him press,
The rock how slippery! Faintheartedness
Comes o'er him, and he sinks, afraid to climb!

“ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE.”

'Tis very pretty fooling on the stage
Before the footlights here! The piece is well
Placed on the stage too, quite vraisemblable:
The actors passion well their parts; fool, sage;
Young, old, to the life; laugh, drivel, weep, or rage,
Love, plot, cheat, quarrel; that one scarce can tell
The trick o' 't. See Buskin now stalk, spout, and swell;
Now the light Sock, aping, like antick page,
“My lord's” fine airs. So runs Man's life away;
Farce, tragi-comic; tragedy; now “mad
As a March-hare;” anon “sick, sorry, and sad.”
Then comes old “Sour” behind the scenes so gay,
Makes a wry face at spangles, paint, and pad;
Prick'd the big child's big drum, played out the play!

REASON.

Not with the pride which apes humility,
But with magnanimous submission, bow
Thy head to Reason, that she on thy brow
May set her seal, and single make thine eye,
To see (not darkly as thro' a glass we spy
The sun) how she supreme in all is, how
She shines; nor other than her weights allow
In her fine scales, the poise to falsify.
Upon her true high-altar sacrifice
Thy heart's eidola, tho' they with the grace
Of Circe plead; tho' anguish be the price
Like Jephthah's, when he saw his daughter's face!
These, with the Beautiful which never dies,
The True which ne'er deceives, she will replace!

TIME A MERELY HUMAN IDEA: A NIGHT-THOUGHT.

Unutterably grand, in so profound
And absolute silence that it doth oppress;
To which voice like his in the wilderness,
Crying, “Repent, repent,” would be a sound
And sense of deep'st relief,—ay, tho' we found
Our Judge awaiting us; greater and less
Yon worlds move on with countless throng and press,
Yet so symmetrical, on their vast round!
There is no Time nor Space, Beginning, End!
Upon this whirling ball of Earth we men
By day and night and year, as it doth wend,
With time and season, the brief “Now” and “Then”
Of our poor span mete out, nor comprehend
The mighty Circle, without “Where” or “When!”

HARMONIC PAUSES IN MUSIC.

The music pauses; holds its breadth, as 'twere:
'Tis Music listening to itself awhile.
Yet, thro' the pause, imagined strains beguile
The listening ear of Silence, with a rare
And sweet ad libitum; snatches of air
Divine, in which, in its own higher style
(Sweet as old yearning home-tune to exíle),
The soul preludes and doth itself prepare.
As fabled Arethusa, lost to sight,
With all her flowing beauties in the sea,
Her fountained head beyond reared up more bright
And full; so, lost to ear, the melodie
Flows on thro' depths of silence and delight,
T' unlock its heart with Music's golden key!

AN ALLEGORY.

Dark is the entrance, gloomy is the way;
Downward it seems to point, beyond all guess;
No triple Horror barks to bar ingress,
No Cerberus; no visible let or stay;
No Gorgon dire. No place here for the play
Of fancy; dread realities oppress:
Here, naked, Terror doth herself undress,
Vague-flitting amid darkness and decay!
But a short way the Light of Nature throws
Its flickering gleam, only to make more dread
The shadows; Reason somewhat further goes;
But her light, too, is soon extinguishèd
In the dense air; Faith with her torch more shows,
But, with her light soon lost, gropes 'mid the dead!

PRIDE OF WEALTH.

Proud soul! put off thy pride, thy pride of place,
The purple and fine linen of thy high
And palmy state, which hide Humanity.
Put on, for once, the lowly garb of grace,
Humility, in thy esteem as base
As sackcloth and as ashes; physic thy
Proud stomach with sight of mortality,
And lift the mask which hides its and thy face!
Go strip thee naked, and thyself behold
In that plain-spoken glass, and therein see
With thy own eyes what thou hast ne'er been told.
Poor forkèd thing; thou mere anatomie!
Thou dead-alive, mummy in cloth of gold!
Go, prick thee with a pin—feel and flesh be!

SHAKSPEAR'S SONNETS.

Thy thoughts and fancies are so exquisite,
It seems as if, like the sweet flowers, they grew,
With Phœbus' sunshine, Heliconian dew,
Immortal growths; tho' blooming in men's sight,
Yet growing to themselves, for self-delight;
To be their only end and aim, and through
Perfection of all perfume, shape, and hue,
To show self-growth at its supremest height.
Methinks the phrase and thought so sweetly fit,
That they no more a different form could wear
Than the rose other than what maketh it;
Its perfume, colour, and belongings fair;
Take one away, and “Rose” were wrongly writ:
So these self-same must be, uniquely rare!

NO ANSWER!

Like him i' the fairy-tale, I've laid mine ear
Close to the earth and listened; not indeed
To hear the grass grow, but for greater need;
If haply some Earth-whisper I might hear,
As from her old Trophonian cave, brought clear,
Oracular response; that hope to feed,
For which my soul doth more intensely plead
Than sentenced prisoner for poor life here!
And I have listened if some sound might come
From those blue depths, those orbs so silent-bright,
As still as Death; but they, like Earth, are dumb;
And strained my eyes to see if traced in light,
In moving hieroglyphics wondersome,
That “Word” the Hand Divine might cursive write!

THE NEW PROMETHEUS, AFTER J. S. MILL'S “PRESCRIPTION.”

Our “Frankenstein” of Brain compact! No beat
Of heart, no fancy, twinkle of the eye,
No human weaknesses, false notes, belie
Our New Prometheus; sheer from crown to feet
Cast-steel'd, in brain-proof panoply complete!
No tribute of a tear, no passing sigh
For victims claimed by stern Philosophy;
Hers the sole altar, hers the incense sweet!
Pluck “the old woman” out! broomstick and cat
Were sent to the Devil long ago, I trow;
Let “Devil” follow suit, with owl and bat!
No hankering for Old Egypt's flesh-pots; vow
And prayer to gods of clay! Reason holds at
The Temple's gates the keys, not Peter now!

THE NEW PROMETHEUS AND ERÔS.

Alack! poor Cupid! thy imagined reign
Will have brief lease: Venus and all her doves;
Billings and cooings, kisses and rosy loves,
And all thy sweet belongings; all the pain
And bliss embalm'd in fine, erotic strain,
Like flies in amber; nymphs, swains, flowers, groves;
Our New Prometheus with a breath removes
And blights, as Winter Flora's painted train!
Use well thy time then, shoot thine arrows true;
Let Procreation thrive while yet it may,
Our New Prometheus breeds as Jove would do,
By the brain—th' antique, Hermaphroditic way,
Minerva-like brain-offspring, all brain, too;
Not like our brats, after this flesh of clay!

ON SHAKSPEAR'S PROFOUND SONNET (CXXIII), “NO! TIME, THOU SHALT NOT BOAST.”

Great Soul! with what an unregarding hand
Thou holdest up old Egypt's wonderments!
And measuring not by inches, but intents
And inwards, with a most assurèd stand
And self-stayed equipoise, like grains of sand,
Or children's playthings, these chief arguments
Of that weak wonder which the eye contents,
Dost weigh, and of Time's juggleries demand
A shrewd account! He is a conjuror,
And with his glamour all things double grow;
What thus is now is not so in an hour!
Mere appertainings make things such and so
To light esteem; but thou, wise Monitor,
The “More” in “Less,” and “Less” in “More” dost show!

HAMLET.

Ay, 'tis the shadow thrown upon the wall!
His autotype; great Shakspear's own profile.
As Hamlet stands bemused, see! it doth steal
Beyond him, darkly on the sunshine fall,
The light of Reason; intercepting all
Life's warmth and glow! the depths themselves reveal,
Yawns the old chasm nothing can conceal;
Whence rises th' Evil Spirit at Man's call,
“Diabolus,” the Doubter! deeper far
Than that i' the Forum, Curtius' feignèd leap!
Higher he swells than from th' Arabian deep
The Genj rising mist-like from his jar!
At the Sphinx-gate thy soul did knocking keep
Like meaner wits, with them there on a par!

CONSISTENCY.

A Jacob's coat of many colours rare
Our Statesmen's! With a new patch every now
And then, as fashions change. That anyhow
Looks queer; for New and Old but ill compare;
And the “reversible Palëtot” may tear!
A pretty coat, “Consistency,” I vow;
“All wool;” self-colour, fast too, I allow:
But who are they that make it, and who wear?
Such garment quaint 's not kept in stock or store;
'Twould be moth-eaten ere it found a sale.
If Life at end wear what at start it wore
Words for such “in-consistency” would fail!
Time “fits” us as we grow—still one patch more!
Fools motley wear! and Wise too, tho' Fools rail!

THE FUTURE.

The World is waking up! the herald-lark
At widest stretch of wing and strain of throat
Doth cap all former flight, all highest note,
To sing-in the New Morning, from the dark
Like an angel of light's foreshining presence! Hark!
The notes fall full from clouds that golden float,
Like the big thunder-drops the Earth doth gloat
And quicken on, when parched, and baked, and stark.
The scales are falling from the eyes long-blind
Of groping Faith, touched by the light divine;
She grasps the angel Hope, and fast doth bind;
Like Jacob, looses not, till he a sign
Makes likes the vision'd angel, and behind
Leaves, thus constrain'd, a blessing on Mankind!

HAMLET.

We lift the mask! “Hamlet, the Dane,” is gone;
'Tis our own Shakspear, with a moody eye,
Grim humour in 't; not the light pleasantry
To shake a Falstaff's sides, and wounding none,
But lightnings which make corpse and skeleton!
Strong is the earth-taint of Mortality
O'er all. Love, Madness, Crime, Death, blindly ply
Their mortal instruments, till Death has won!
Ay, thy grand soul was high and working there;
The strong old “leaven” made thy thoughts to rise
And swell. Prometheus-like, with that Despair
To strive; put “speculation” in its eyes;
And make the clay-form breathe immortal air;
Th' inflated chest just heaves, mocks Life, and dies!

“LET US EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY FOR TO-MORROW WE DIE.”

Ay, ye may play “Diabolus,” gibe, sneer,
Out-Mephistopheles himself, and scoff;
Like Faust, your fine Elixir-vitæ quaff
Of wit, all lusts of flesh, passion, good cheer;
And o'er the brimming cup of Pleasure leer
At harlots: hollow soon will grow your laugh,
Empty the cup, and, the feast-dress put off,
With filthy spueings end your brief career!
This were not Life, were Death all ye suppose.
Sternly the Moral Law upholdeth Good:
Life's circle from this centre only knows
Coherence, strength; without this bond it would
Soon fall away from Human neighbourhood,
And fitly with a Pandemonium close!

HAMLET AGAIN.

“To be or not to be!” Ay, there we have
The key-note of the symphony; 'tis all
In “flats,” like prelude to a funeral!
One from, doth usher many to the grave!
'Tis like a funeral procession; save
That those who walk in it, whom we should call
Chief mourners, in the grave themselves all fall!
While thou, pure swanlike victim, Love, dost rave
And make Death sing! Full of that question dread
Was Hamlet; yet the black sheep doth the rest
O' the flock not taint; they might elsewhere be bred.
E'en the gravediggers, 'i the thick o' 't, jest!
The players laugh and rant, and earn their bread;
His soul like Lethe clogs, on its dark quest!

AN ENIGMA.

My Psyche! have I then at last caught sight
Of thy sweet Self, revealed by light divine!
Am I then worthy of thy love—of thine,
Adorable, supremely-exquisite!
Not Hope all-flushed and roseate in the light
Of youth and morning; not, with eyes that shine,
Twin evening stars, and lips fresh from the brine,
In beauty's halo, Venus half so bright!
At last! and wilt thou deign, a denizen
(Angel disguised) of this dull Earth, to cheer
With thy celestial presence now and then?
Hope holds thee by one hand, by th' other Fear,
And each seems other! No! thou art with men
No dweller; take me hence, then, to thy sphere!

OUR “WAR SPECIAL.”

How daintily they paint the sickening scene!
With quaint, picked terms and nicely-balanced phrase;
Wreathing with cypress bloody as their bays
Each battle-field where Death has reaped so clean!
And sniff the scent of carnage; from some screen
Of safety with their “glass” the horrors trace,
And dog Death on his rounds; and catch the face
Of flawed Humanity, and o'er it lean
And gloat! And mixing on their palette blood
And tears, Man turned to fiend with zest portray;
And Earth to Hell, not Hell's similitude!
While lively “skits,” quaint humours (as beasts play
With mangled bones), relieve War's darker mood,
Lest from “her vomit” “Sensation” turn away!

DITTO.

Armed cap-à-pie in golden panoply
Of Mammon, with that passe-partout, that key
To unlock doors and hearts, to bind and free,
Our new Knights-errant on their mission fly
To encounter, pen in rest, vicariously,
Perils and strange mischance, with bug and flea.
Curare cutem (hide and belly), see
Apt “legend” of this Paper-chivalry!
If they do sweat, 'tis, dog-like, at the tongue;
Not one o' Hercules' labours; if they wound,
'Tis reputations; ne'er themselves among
The wounded, with the kites and crows they're found,
Carrion Death leaves in scorn; and when are sung
The Pæans, loud their penny-trumpets sound!

WORK.

No Phantom this, that mocks as we pursue
And flying wounds us, Parthian-like, with dart
Of disappointment rankling in the heart;
No “treasure-trove,” that glitters in our view,
But glides, like quicksilver, our fingers through:
Gift of blind Chance to her blind counterpart,
Folly, who thinks to clutch at life's first start
(Blind leading blind) the laby'rinth's dark clue.
No! thou dost neither mislead nor betray,
Wise Labour! Thou dost on thyself rely,
Not “treasure-trove,” and mak'st blind Fortune stay
Her wheel, and take the bandage from her eye;
And Time for thee doth store each passing day,
The aftermath of happy Memory!

THE PIANO-FORTE.

How smooth, expressive, and symmetrical,
So tempting touch, and so alluring sight!
No ripple of sweet sound their surface bright
Disturbs, that yields to lightest finger-fall.
Silent those warbling voices, great and small:
Those larklike trebles, mounting airy-light,
Like the bird's sweet notes lost in heaven's height;
Those basses which like deep unto deep call.
How, when a Mozart's spell upon them lies,
They flow on waves of region-harmony,
Or simple-subtle, bird-like melodies!
Or when Beethoven mingles low and high,
The depths are stirred, preluding thunders rise,
And Harmony, like Jove, descends the sky.

PRIDE.

I am not proud: I have looked on the sea
In calm sublime, and felt its grand rebuke,
As if God in His shadow thence did look!
In storm, rebuking with dread majestie
Man's impotence; vain shadows his and he!
I have looked on the stars, till I could brook
No longer their dread silence, like the book
Of Fate, strange hieroglyphics with no key!
From heaven, as gently as Love plucks a flower,
I've seen the sun withdrawn, and seem to cease:
Man, shaken like a reed, in anguished hour;
Crush'd moth! surrendering to Death Life's lease!
Humbler than threshold of the temple-door
My soul is, when God passes through in these!

THE ALTAR AND THE VICTIM: ESOTERIC.

Since the first dawn of reason; ay, since first
My mind unclosed, like flower to the sun,
As yet a lily pure, and colours none;
On dews of youth and light's clear effluence nurst;
I have to thee, O Truth, turned with a thirst
Unquenchable; surrendering one by one,
Self-victims at thine altar to atone,
My cherished faiths, and held my Best as Worst!
Held all of dearest cheap exchange for thee;
The Life of Life with life of flesh to earn!
O cruel! bitter is thy mockery!
Thine altars worse than Moloch's, Baal's be.
They asked but human victims; thou dost yearn
For Souls; and slay'st outright while setting free!

OLD CLO'!

Time, like an old-clothes-man, hath in stock and store
All sorts of garb and gear; all fashions, old
And new, threadbare and recent; tinsel; gold;
All “properties” of all stage parts played o'er
And o'er again, and those now played no more,
Or shortly to be as a tale that's told.
Mitres, crowns, ermines, lawn-sleeves; garments rolled
In blood; Fool's cap and bells; odds rich and poor.
All the “make-up” of Life's great masquerade:
With Joseph's-coats of many a colour pied;
And patched from Sire to Son, of every shade.
Even that robe for purest virgin-bride,
Truth's dove-white robe, is there so long uplaid,
'Tis oft, when aired, moth-eaten found and frayed!

NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN.

How many minds have with the self-same thought,
In divers ages, distant regions, gone
In labour; brain-throes many, the child one!
Jove-births, Minerva-like! brain-issue, wrought
In Jove-like brains, with self-conception fraught!
Yet “damnable iteration” sees the sun,
With pre-gestation, pre-delivery; none
Sole-self. Empedocles “Selection” taught.
Truths by Cæsarean operations too
Th' accoucheur Time saves from the dead Past's womb!
Second gestations, after-births, deemed new;
Th' old fœtus dormant there as in a tomb!
Empedocles his child re-born might view,
And both as father and god-father come!

MODERN LITERATURE, OR DELUGE NO. II.

'Tis hard work now to get a breathing-space,
And keep our heads above the water! Wave
On wave the daily papers come, and crave
The swimmer's skill to keep up in the race.
Next a “trikumia”, 'gainst which we brace
Our nerves; a roller huge, of matter grave;
With lighter crest of foam, in which we have
Reviews, tales, poems, 'whelming us apace.
Like a spent swimmer we must sink at last
In the great sea of ink. “Cave ab homine
Unius libri!” Ah! his day is past!
Had we all Argus' eyes vain would it be;
And brains to boot—not Hercules so vast,
Not Pallas' self so wistful, task did see.

YOUTH'S ILLUSIONS.

Upon the threshold, hand upon the door,
In eager attitude of straining eye
And listening ear, as if by harmony
Rapt from within, and glories there in store,
A-tiptoe, pauses a bright form, before
She turns the handle; lest the mystery
Should disappoint, the radiant vision fly,
And fade in commonplace for evermore!
So Psyche saw her Cupid; saw and lost!
'Tis Hope upon Life's threshold, heart on fire;
Fire that, soon cooled down, scarce thaws the frost
At heart fulfilled or unfulfilled desire
Alike must bring! Alas! of Truth the cost
She knows not; Truth deceives too like a liar!

“MORS SOLA FATETUR,” ETC.

Into the water cast a stone, and mark
The bubble rise and burst, the water close;
Such gap thy death will cause! Love, perhaps, owes
A tear “obsequious,” a sigh-quit cark;
But a new dawn sings-in the heedless lark;
Love dries her eyes; upon her cheek the rose
From pale to blush will turn. Perennial flows
No fount of grief, else were Life's stream as dark
As Acheron! “The surly, sullen bell,”
Death's herald, summons to forgetfulness;
Drily the stereotyped, old tale doth tell:
Not thine, but common lot; it doth address
Itself to all; each hears with awe thy knell,
For the tu quoque which it doth impress!

AN ALLEGORY.

Contentment, seated on thy doorstep, see!
Humble and meek, and plain in her attire:
Fain would she enter; at thy least desire,
With cheapest entertainment, welcome free,
(Nought else), she blessings brings to thine and thee:
Will make thy Little Much; ay, more and higher
Than all which they who spurn her would require!
Whose wishes, as their shadows to them, be!
Thou spurn'st her from thy door! And presently
Trips by Dalilah Fortune, with her smile,
Her harlot-smile, gewgaws, and bravery,
And thee and thine doth cozen and beguile,
With fawns and flatteries; but by and by
She'll shear thy strength, spit at thee, and revile!

YOUTH KEEPS THE WORLD A-GOING.

'Tis well, O Youth, thou hast, like Mercury,
Wings on thy feet, and Fortunatus' cap
Upon thy head, and dream'st that in her lap
One of her curlèd darlings, such as thy
Sweet self, Dalilah Fortune will let lie
And dally with her love; that golden hap
With bays of pen, or tongue, or sword will warp
Thy temples round with immortality!
'Tis well that Hope should beckon up the steep
Of Fame, tho' few her lofty temple reach.
'Tis well that Love should swear, tho' ill to keep,
Eternal vows, and scorn Time's envious breach!
Without such faith Man would not sow nor reap,
Nor Hope spread sail, but tremble on the beach.

ECLIPSE.

If mere eclipse of the material sun,
Of th' outward light, seem portent of the sky,
Like amaurosis of the world's great eye,
Which through men's hearts with chill and dread doth run,
Like the shadow of Death or the World's end begun;
What outer darkness must eclipse imply
Of th' inner! as God looked away—thereby
Darkening that light the shadow of His own!
Then is our light as darkness; then we grope
Like shadows among shadows; scarcely feel
Ourselves. Man's outline dim, without that hope,
Becomes; lost the grand atmosphere ideal,
Which showed him a Prometheus fit to cope
With Death and Fate, and fire from Heaven steal

DEATH AND TIME.

On, on he strides, his scythe right sharp and strong;
Heavy each swathe that falls, and wide each sweep.
He tireth not, but aye at work doth keep;
Stays not for heat o' day, nor evensong,
Matins or midnight, ne reckoneth he wrong.
A mighty mower truly! He doth reap
Where others sow, and wake when others sleep;
His barns, I wot, are full, and will be long!
He moweth in the blade and in the ear,
Ripe and unripe, the tares and eke the wheat:
Clean work he makes, and they who in his rear
Would glean, must be right quick of sight and feet.
I'd back him 'gainst all odds, save his compeer
And fellow-worker, Time, the World to beat!

LONDON.

Around me throbs the region-city vast,
The Metropolitan heart, whose complex beat
Thrills with electric pulse and vital heat
The Earth's extremities; shadows of past,
And coming things beforehand, darkly cast,
Like high-charged thunderclouds which threatening meet,
(The weird, electric circuit thus complete),
Spread, lighten on Time's path, with rising blast,
And thunder-track of Change! The busy hive
Of nations is astir, like swarming-time;
With hum of mighty changes all-alive,
Whose sound goes forth thro' all the Earth, sublime,
But vague, perplexed: the atoms blindly strive;
God shapes their course, not their own folly or crime!

FORECAST AND RETROSPECT.

Whilom, as if Archangel blew the note
From out the trump of doom, a sound was brought
Which all the pulses of my being wrought
To a new measure. E'en the utmost throat
Of Time unequal to that then remote
But mighty theme did seem, which my ear caught
A little of; yet with such meaning fraught,
That like a two-edged sword Man's life it smote
And cut asunder! Present from dead Past
Seemed severed, like the living from the dead.
A new Prometheus in a new mould cast,
The Coming Man, larger of heart and head.
Again that sound! Earthquake and whirlwind blast!
He cometh! Lo, his shadow! Hark, his tread!

OPHELIA.

O pure, pale Rose, whose perfume exquisite
Might stay the sense of Death, if Death had sense,
Smell, taste, or touch of youth and innocence!
Where but to see would leave no sense but sight.
O too sweet bud, to meet such early blight!
Love, who with his too subtle eloquence
And voluble tongue bewitched thee, gave pretence
To Death, half self in love ere he did smite.
Yes! thy fell suitor dallied with his stroke;
Thy wits, like sweet bells jangled, thy blank look,
Half stayed him, when the “envious sliver” broke,
Life's last frail thread 'twixt thee and Lethe's brook.
When in thy sweet throat the swan-notes did choke,
Each blamed, repented each the part he took.

THE GLORIFICATION OF YOUTH.

How proud Man paces forth, his head in air,
As if he scorned to breathe this atmosphere
Of Earth that nursed, and Time that did him rear!
A demi-god he seems, and thinks to bear
A charmèd life, and Time himself outwear.
Hope open holds the door with smile-bland cheer;
While Fear, unheeded, and yet ever near
Like his own shadow, dogs his steps, with Care
As Pleasure masked. A wingèd Mercury,
He seems to scarcely touch the earth; tiptoe
On it to stand, and spurn it ere he fly.
And “making mouths” with brave words and fine show
“At the invisible event,” goes by
Old Time, a-digging graves hard-by below!

SUICIDE.

In a strange land a stranger; like a grain
Of sand in the great Desert, in this waste,
This human wilderness; where Life, effaced
By Life, is lost, like track in Egypt's plain,
With sand o'erblown, all treacherous-smooth again;
She asked to earn that bread whose blessed taste
Keeps the mind sound, the body pure and chaste,
The noble toil of hand, and heart, and brain.
Her heart on fire, her poor brain in a whirl;
All stay, all hold lost, torn up by the root;
The rush of Life remorseless here; the swirl
Of the dark Lethe there—dead mother's mute
Appeal to Virtue! Then Despair did hurl
This poor, lost lamb to death, like a dumb brute!

MEN.

Some minds self-furnaced are; red-hot or cool
They fire or temper hearts with iron will:
Anvils on which hard Fortune hammereth still
Steel for Damascus blade or tempered tool,
To cut or work the way to place and rule.
Like fabled Arethusa, they fulfil
Their destined course, self-flow thro' good and ill;
To either fortune trained, in either school.
These are the few, who in their rude embrace
Force Fortune's favours, backward still to grant,
And all the more for this thrive in her grace.
While the dull herd she still doth stint and scant;
Who, shaped by accidents of time and place
To pattern, grow where and as she doth plant.

VIRTUE.

Humbly I kneel thy pure robe's hem to kiss;
Adorable! I dare not touch thy hand,
Held out, with sweet enforcement of thy bland
Forgiving smile! Oh, take it not amiss;
The beauty of thy presence, and the bliss
Of such full view of thee, so reprimand
And overawe offence, I dare not stand
Before thee, my unworthiness such is!
By my abasement I perceive thy worth!
By depth of fall the height from which I fell!
By these sweet gushings from the rock the dearth
Of the waste places of my heart I tell!
Thy presence, as light darkness from the earth,
Doth exorcise things evil, and expel!

HUMAN NATURE'S DARKER SIDE.

Like cavern deep, wherein the gross, rank air
Clogs all the lungs, and light and life burn faint;
Where the heart takes a chill, and the thought taint
From unimagined horrors may be there:
So are there like dark places of despair
I' the heart of Man, no Rembrandt-shades can paint,
No words Dantesque charácter—fiend with saint,
Devil with angel, alternate and share!
Even to some, too, Evil is their Good!
“Possessed” by devils, as in human swine,
Who drive them headlong down in phrenzied mood
Into the depths! The moral sense divine
(Deaf and dumb fiend in Man's similitude),
More inarticulate than in dumb kine!

DOUBT.

As a long winter-dawn breaks dim and slow;
The light and darkness undecided long;
The dumb light yet too weak, Darkness still strong,
Neither yet saying plainly Yes or No;
Presence of things we note, yet no forms show.
The outlines dim and blurred yet, fancies throng
And piece out, like Chimeras, guesses wrong
From this and that; and nought is, but seems so!
So, in this twilight of incertitude,
My soul, perplexed, disparts not False from True;
Nor whether this be evil or that good,
So they resemble, yet so differ too!
Whether dark forms of Error's gloomy brood,
Or Truth divine, not yet shone clearly through!

USE WELL THY YOUTH.

Thy sands run golden now; the precious hours
Distil Life's very essence; like the dew
Of Hermon in its freshness, on thy new
And opening youth, with all its fairy-bowers,
Hope sheds her sunniest drops, most crescive showers.
Before all else that bloom of fairest hue
And quintessential virtue, keep in view,
Rare “Opportunity,” which seldom flowers.
Thou think'st all will, as now, be such and so:
Like the Garden of Eden life is in thy sight;
But all for use, not pleasure, there doth grow;
Yet all for pleasure, if but used aright!
Ill used, it lies behind a waste, to show
Lost opportunity in after-blight.

SHAKSPEAR.

What hidden process operant, of mind
And matter; what rare cumulative powers,
And subtle-fine accretions, through the hours
And seasons; what, precedent, of thy kind
And breed, co-operant and all combined,
With all united strengths and sum of dowers,
With all quintessence of all Nature's stores,
In thee their last, sublime compléx did find?
Hadst thou, full-born, leapt from some Jovian brain,
With the large utterance of such origin,
Apollo and the Muses all to train,
We had not wondered; but thus to begin,
Might make us think great Nature did disdain
To frame a giant like a mannikin!

TO-MORROW!

“To-morrow;” ay, To-morrow! That grand day;
The very pick of Time, that day of days!
That like a Jack-o'-lanthorn with us plays
Such “devilish cantrips sleight;” still doth waylay,
Yet never caught; “To-morrow” still for aye!
That day upon whose forehead, with the rays
Of each new dawn, Hope writes delusive praise,
New, flattering prologue to a stale, old play!
Some in To-morrows live, To-day dropt out;
Nor in their Yesterday To-morrow know;
Nor yet its Janus-face of mock and flout!
To-morrow, like clowns at a raree-show,
A-tiptoe gapes, for wonders stares about,
And, gaping at the “Fool,” befooled doth go!

OUT, DAMNÈD FIEND!

I cannot lay this Spirit! It will rise
With “damnable iteration;” like the Ghost
That scared Macbeth's five wits, till Reason lost
Her balance—fell o' t'other side, fool-wise.
This fiend no circle, spell can exorcise;
It rises—still within, ay, where I most
Potential drew the lines; chills more than frost,
Benumbs more than Medusa's stony eyes!
Starts up at bed and board, stalks in at feast,
Drops the slow poison in Joy's lip-raised wine;
Murders sweet sleep; heeds not the dawning East;
Clear, as at midnight dark, in mid-day shine!
It recks not ban, or bell, or book, or priest.
O God! This Spirit none can lay but Thine!

HAMLET'S EXALTATION OF MAN, “THE PARAGON OF ANIMALS.”

Ay! thou hast clothed him on with robes of light;
A little lower than the angels set;
Piled him sky-high with strainèd epithet,
Pelion on Ossa, to the top and height
Of ‘Almost’! Make him god or angel quite,
Not here below, in poor confine, to fret:
Clap wings on, puff him skywards, let him get
(Too grand for earth) to heaven, out of sight.
We creep between his stride, and feel quite small;
As much he more than Man as we seem less.
But prick him with a pin, and, lo ye! all
This self-swollen windbag is but emptiness!
Touch him with hunger, cold, his withers gall,
And this lay-figure of a god undress!

A SUPREME AGONY!

How had he felt, when fiery fold on fold
Enwrapped him, and, fierce-hissing, flame on flame,
With serpent tongue, and forkèd fury came,
Had a fell doubt then crossed him, ague-cold
And deathlike chill (anguish not to be told),
To match that hot-fit, and a moment tame
Its fiery agonies with very shame
And pang revulsive, thunder-crashing rolled!
That twofold hell, without him and within;
This flame his flesh, and that which gnawed his soul;
That quintessential torment; sense of sin;
The one stay lost which could support, console!
Might seem as if fiends laughed their prey to win,
And hell had yawned, when heaven seemed his gaol!

THE NEMESIS OF LUXURY.

Ye shrink with horror from the rack and stake;
From zealot's faggot, and “converting” flame!
Nor tortures dread yourselves, or like or same;
And yet for your own flesh and blood ye make
Worse martyrdoms; but not for conscience' sake!
Worse racks; not for your glory but your shame.
Belly, not God, the sacrifice doth claim,
On which ye crawl, and “eat dirt” like the snake!
By many a quiet bed grim Death doth pause,
Less merciful than rack or flame—the pain
Unraised, unsanctified by noblest cause;
The Body burning out the Spirit's stain!
Gout, worse than rack, the nerves can stretch and strain;
And the coarse clay in baser fires flaws!

THE LAST QUEST OF ULYSSES.

A speck upon the horizon of Time's vast
Illimitable ocean, there it lies,
Famed Ithaca; looming in Memorie's
Large sight and wide discourse large in the Past,
Tho' small in present Having! Lo! the top-mast
Of sage Ulysses, streak'd against the skies,
Shows for a moment; spectral breezes rise,
Waves spectral flow, Fame puffs th' ideal blast!
On, on he sails, and saileth evermore,
With thirst divine of great discovery!
Aye fades th' horizon, aye recedes the shore;
Those “Fortunate Isles” greet never mortal eye!
Yet faint not, noble heart! The World explore;
The Past hath done its work, the Future try!

THE MARTYRDOM OF LATIMER, RIDLEY, AND CRANMER.

O God! and can it be such agonies,
That cry with voice so loud, importunate
To heaven, they might force its close-barr'd gate,
No recognition have, no auguries
Of things divine, no promise of the skies?
Can flames like these die out, and share the fate
Of common fires; no heat divine create,
To warm the world, and thaw e'en Polar ice?
Methinks such faith and attestatión,
Sealed with such seal; Humanity's poor clay
Made soft, receptive (all dross burnt away)
Of God's true image, might towards His own
Have moved Him, such devotion to repay
With some sublime Self-declaratión.

ON THE OMISSION OF CROMWELL'S STATUE.

Ye thought to pass him by, between whose stride
A generation of such mannikins
Might creep to dull oblivion, with your sins,
Save this of crawling meanness, which shall 'bide
To gibbet you, in chains hung of false pride.
Ye thought this light, which, beacon-like, thus shines
Upon the heights of Time, and never tines,
To put beneath your bushel, and so hide!
Ye would not place his statue in men's sight
Lest they should think of him whom ye would ban,
Who against “Right divine” set Dívine Right!
But History at large hath drawn the Man
On her grand canvas; there we see his height,
Full-length: by what he did judge what ye can!

DECAY OF FAITH.

When antique Faith invoked of old, to aid
In holy work of Minster-bell and chime,
Statue of gold or silver, spell sublime
Of self-denying piety obeyed;
Things the most precious at the feet were laid
Of Holy Mother Church; the things of Time
For things eternal. Faith to heaven did climb
The lighter, by less dross of Earth delayed!
But things more precious far, things precioús
Beyond all measure of so much, we throw
Into a Witch's caldron, curious
Still over-much, and to self-bane to know!
Faith's self, and all her heir-looms glorious,
Like vilest, mortal things, into it go!

CONTINUED.

And must we, then, part with this heritage!
This high, imagined birthright, God's prime gift,
The very thought of which our souls did lift,—
Which seemed in its sole self assured presage,
A present foretaste, and a future gage,—
For Earth's vile mess of pottage! Must we drift,
Mere waifs and strays, brief respite and no shrift,
On this drear waste of mortal pilgrimage!
Are all these tongues of fire, this eloquence
Divine, mere sound and fury, and no more?
The faith which could move mountains mere pretence?
The flames which, like a car of fire, bore
Martyrs to glory, things of merest sense?
O God! give Thou some sign; the stroke is sore!

AN ALLEGORY.

SHAKSPEAR.

Thy heart is as the sea, with ebb and flow
Around Humanity's true human shores;
Of all it taketh, gives all of its stores.
Upon its face the breath of God doth blow,
His Spirit over it, like Life, doth go!
There's healing in its waters for the sores
And sorrows of Man's heart; and who explores
It most doth find it most upon him grow.
There's room there for great venture and for small;
And “Fortunate Isles” for Spirits of the Blest;
And Heliconian springs into it fall
From off a thousand hills—sweet nooks of rest,
And flowery slopes of mountains, whose tops call
(The heights of God) His name from crest to crest!

ON THE UNIFICATION OF ITALY.

Too long, too long, O beauteous Italy,
Forgetting thy right hand and act of arms,
Hadst thou, enamoured of thyself, thy charms
And thousand graces, posturing lovingly
Before thy great sea-mirror, fed thine eye
With thy own beauty; scared by rude alarms,
That beauty cause, not shield, of hurts and harms,
Thy virtue sick with self-idolatry,
Narcissus-like! But, no more posing now
Before a flattering looking-glass, arise,
O Beautiful! Thy noble forehead bow,
And, with the brine of thy great sea, baptize
Thyself anew to Freedom; 'tis, I trow,
True “Holy Water,” though no Pope applies!

AN ALLEGORY OF SCEPTICISM AND ITS EFFECTS.

How faint the outlines grow, how dim the hues!
The “high-lights” of the glorious cartoon
Are blurr'd; foreground, perspective, out of tune;
No breadth, no atmosphere, no far-drawn views,
Where Earth's horizons heavenly lights suffuse!
No heights, where raised Humanity may prune
Her ruffled wings, and Heaven importune,
Till Faith, to angel turned, her flight pursues!
O God! how poor upon the foreground show
The figures that erewhile loomed out so grand;
That seemed like demi-gods to come and go!
While, forms sublime! took Faith and Hope their stand
Beside the gloomy gate, and lit it so,
It seemed two angels led Man by the hand!

THE “EASTING” OF THE EARTH.

On whirls, with light and dark alternate crown'd,
Round the great Sun, this Earth; like any stone
(Oh wondrous stretch of gravitatión),
Whirl'd in a sling! And, as it on doth bound,
With twofold revolution, sphery sound,
With the world-choir in mystic unison,
Makes day and night with motion of its own,
And, with the Solar, the grand Seasons'-round.
From West to East it rolls, and whirls along
With it, in sympathy unconscious, all
That moves upon it,—Eastward Ho! the song.
The great seas sway with it, in rise and fall,
Earth's balance-weights; the winds obey the call,
Shifting to fan Earth's heats too long or strong!

ON SHAKSPEAR'S PORTRAIT.

Rich humour gleams from that deep-thoughted eye,
But sadness underlies it; lightning-play
Glancing athwart the thunder-clouds which lay,
Anon, the rais'd dust of Humanity
With the big drops of passion! Sympathy
So wide with all that stirs our mortal clay,
Needs like the rainbow must all hues display,
All smiles, all tears, and all between doth lie.
That sadness speaks with pathos infinite!
That look is not the look of the one man;
'Tis “Man,” who, over-curious, holds the light
Too close to his own Self, yet cannot span
Himself; ne sound the depths, ne reach the height;
Nor, rising from those depths, the spectres ban!

SYMBOLICAL.

There stood an old-world temple by the shore
Of the great Sea, that moaned as in unrest,
As if 'gainst sense of change forefelt, opprest,
Seeking assurance. But the Earth had store
Of her own troubles. The grand columns bore
The earthquake's shattering marks, the lurid crest
O' th' altar angry lightnings did invest
For holy fire; gods' statues strewed the floor.
The wind came moaning in long soughs and sighs;
The thunder-step of storm with tread of fire
Moved on dark, van-ward clouds of sunset-skies.
“Great Pan is dead,” came, mournful as a lyre
Whose last chord breaks: an echo sad replies
From out the ages, dreader far, more dire!

A HINT TO SONNET-WRITERS.

Choose well your rimes: have ready by your side
A quiver-full, well-tipt with Phœbus' fire.
Feathered from Venus' doves, if warm desire
And rosy Loves thy theme be: if thy pride
Stoop not to cooings, but adventure wide
And region-flights, still circling ever higher,
Till thy rapt ear catch sound of Phœbus' lyre,
With swan's or eagle's plumes thy flight provide.
Then shalt thou mount with beat of even wing,
Twin-pinioned, winnowing the charmèd air
In wake of music, and, still soaring, sing.
But a cross-rime, like rock or shoal, as 'twere,
Stays thee; till ebbs the flood from top of spring,
Which should to “the fair Havens” of the Muses bear.

ESOTERIC.

Ah cruel! thus to draw the scalding tear
Into the eye, with bitter-sweet recall
Of love and hopes, that, like the leaves which fall
In autumn, still are beautiful though sere!
Then, with cold irony and cynic sneer,
To freeze it into ice! To raise up all
Of dearest, o'er it but to throw a pall,
And stretch sad Memory, corse-like, on the bier!
Ah cruel! 'tis as if the heart made thrill
Through every fibre, and surchargèd most,
Were seized with syncope. Could'st thou not kill
Direct; not through remembrance of the Lost!
Could'st thou not spare what Death himself spared still;
But, mocking Fiend! heart-blight with inward frost!

EVOLUTION.

As under Nature's cunning hand combined
Atoms and particles still change their state
Of single, and together fitly mate
In lawful marriage, as they stand affined
And true-conjunctive in degree and kind;
Thus with new Being, new-drawn lease, things late
Repulsive, by addition One create,
The Enchanter's spell which things divérse can bind!
So with Man's subtle mind and qualities:
A novel strain of blood, from other breed,
Makes weakness strength, turns foolish into wise,
Coward to brave, and each thing to its need.
This makes a Shakspear above Human rise,
As far as that a fool from it recede.

THE YEAR IN OUR NORTHERN HEMISPHERE.

Earth coyly turns “cold shoulder” to the sun,
And sidles off o' t'other side, and makes
Estrangèd courses. Capricornus aches
At thought of his cold penance; that well done,
Aquarius' thawing jars o'er Pisces run.
But when the Ram, half white, half black-wooled, takes
The lead, she with the Sun's warm kisses slakes
Her vernal glows, bride newly-wooed and won.
Then with that May-long kiss her womb doth teem
Conceptive, in its many-childedness:
And when scorched Cancer faints from heat's extreme,
As erst from cold's chill Capricorn no less,
A many-breasted Mother she doth stream
And milk out in autumnal fruitfulness.

MAN “DARWINISED;” OR, THE ANTI-CLIMAX.

I had a glorious vision once. Methought
A form angelic kept me company:
Wings had it; whether to or from the sky
Its flight, whence come, or whither going, naught
Assurance gave; yet all things from it caught
Suggestion beyond sense. Mortality
Seemed but a garment soon to be cast by,
In forms divine after that pattern wrought!
But as some Bird of Paradise, that pines
In harsh, unsunned confine, and moulteth fast
Its heavenly plumage, fainter grew the lines
Of form Divine, into mere Human past!
Soon too, showed through the Human mask sad signs
Of change, Gorilla's coming form forecast!

HYDE PARK IN A DECEMBER SMOKE: TRANSITION SCENE FROM THE “RIDE” AT 6 P.M.

O ye dread Powers of Darkness! Has your reign
Commenced? With “devilish cantrips” lay ye wait
And glamours blear, and your dark hour foredate;
And earth and earthly things so blur and stain,
That sense to recognise them strives in vain?
Are these the Stygian groves (where, leafless, late
Grew earthly trees), that loom in murky state,
With shadows, as of Death, of bale and bane?
Like bale-fires gleam the lights, and downward throw
A sickly, ghastly haze; the breathed-out reek
Of the dread pit, more vaguely-dreadful so!
Upward, a wall of darkness without break,
Shutting out Mercy, sheer to heaven doth go.
O Dante! in thy hell such scenes we seek!

ON THE WELL-KNOWN ANECDOTE OF MILTON ASLEEP UNDER A TREE.

The Lord o' the mansion keepeth watch no more;
He hath cast off the burthen and the pack
Of yesterdays, like wallet from his back;
He slumbereth in his inner chamber, o'er
His treasures, like a miser o'er his store:
Not gold or silver—of these he doth lack—
But his high thoughts and yearnings; on their track
Pausing, like nestling eaglets ere they soar.
The watchmen of the ears lie fast asleep;
The sentries of the eyes dose at their post;
The voluble tongue Morphean fetters keep.
Haply before him pass the heavenly host;
And yawns beneath him the abysmal deep;
With “Paradise Regained,” the Found and Lost!

ON THE INCOMPARABLE “CUPID” OF M. ANGELO, IN THE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM.

O exquisite! what beauty and what power!
Beauty, with no suggestion of mere sense;
No touches base of fleshly influence:
The beauty from within; the spirit's dower;
Like the aroma of some rarest flower,
Restorative, most subtle, and intense;
Impartitive of its own excellence,
That through all passeth, passing makes all pure!
Not the weak, wanton Cupid this; the toy
And rosy plaything of an hour! The wing
Of this divine and heaven-commissioned boy,
Like stray down from the eagle's plumes would fling
That wanton off! Pure fire without alloy
Tips his shot dart, for true heart-soldering!

ON THE SAME.

O debt of gratitude for gift so rare!
I kneel and kiss the ground which thou hast trod;
'Tis sacred, to old Heathen as some god
Had passed, and left believèd imprint there!
O Beautifier and Exalter, where
Shall Love, doomed 'mid dull earthly things to plod,
To droop his volant wings, and kiss the rod,
Get heart o' grace, hadst thou and thine no care
To raise and leaven! Oh, what airs divine
Glow round him! No incertitude of aim!
The shaft just sped, whose fire can refine
And fuse two hearts in one, one still, still same:
Love strong as Death; Love vowed in holy shrine;
Two hearts on one same altar, one self-flame!

THAT CHARMING LOCALE, LEICESTER-SQUARE AS IT WAS.

Has that eccentric Dame, Old-London, been
This way, and some of her old garments cast
Aside, and left these rags here as she passed?
Her filthiness is in her skirts, I ween;
Though by her Thames she sit and seem a queen,
And send her ventures forth both full and fast,
She trails her grandeur, grimed with her smoke-blast,
And hides her sins beneath that sooty screen!
Half filth, half finery, wallowing and display;
Styes, stews, and palaces of gin and gold!
But should some warning prophet to her say,
“Wash and be clean,” as Naaman was told;
Would she from her own Thames not turn away,
And loathe, as Egypt blood-changed Nile of old!

DISILLUSION AND ESTRANGEMENT.

O Time, rude Time! thou disenchanter; thou
Breaker of vows, foreswearer, juggler, cheat;
That contradictories, contraries, mak'st meet
With Judas-kiss, and innocent-seeming brow,
Ay, as of very Truth; who plightest Now,
Poor dupe, to Then, and wedd'st all in a heat;
And smear'st the edge o' the cup of thy deceit
With Nectar, and beguil'st we know not how!
Are Love and Friendship but thy bait and snare
For hearts, as lim'd twigs for poor birds! Thee, thee,
With whom of the heart's freshness I did share
Th' o'erflowing cup, two rare wines mingling free,
I coldly pass; each greeting doth forbear,
And (though both hearts are full) seems not to see!

THE FAMILY “TRIAD,” FATHER, CHILD, AND MOTHER.

Sweet trichord of true Human harmonie!
Note threefold, yet one, to the inner ear;
Which Life's deep, subtle harmonies can hear:
“Sonata Pathétique” in minor key;
Or spherelike-rolling “Choral Symphonie!”
A charming piece of “chamber-music” here
I listen to; the instruments so clear,
So tuned, they seem one, kind in and degree!
A single chord sounds synchronous and true,
In Treble, Bass, and Alt, at once and one;
One not in selfness sounds, but all three do,
And each in other; singleness is none!
Sweet triune Love! Three loving hearts throb thro'
One large self-breast, and in one full beat run!

THE DEATH OF MOZART.

Hast thou no posthumous blush, post-obit tear,
Proud Germany? Go on thy knees, and wear
Sackcloth and ashes, nor of penance spare
For that thy sin; o'er which sad Memory ne'er
Shall close her eye, nor Scorn's slow finger e'er
Forget to point at! Oh that thou should'st bear
This shame, who art so proud now of thy share
In him, whose share in thee was,—Pauper's bier!
Proud art thou of thy Mozart; so am I;
So proud, I should have deemed it honour great
To bear his pall. Yet didst thou let him die,
Die like a dog; buried in Pauper-state!
Go kneel, if thou canst find his grave, there-by;
And, if thou canst there, proudly contemplate!

MAID AND MOTHER.

But now a girl, life's purpose unavowed;
As full of starts and flaws as April-day;
Playful in earnest, sudden-sad in play;
Now clouding o'er, now sunny-bright—now bowed
Like rose-bud just a-blooming, meekly proud
In dewy beauty—now with coy display
Of lights, hues, shadows, changeful and as gay
As rainbow melting off an April cloud!
How changed that heart when Mother marks the time,
Love's deeper pulses and more measured beat;
Not the dance-music of its May-day prime!
Stirrings she feels, which awe e'en when most sweet;
A new world, with horizons more sublime;
And forms with larger outlines—Life complete!

TENURE OF LIFE.

Poor Soul! poor tenant mere “at will;” thy lease
Not upon “lives” “renewable,” but “Go!”
Sole notice of ejectment, without “No.”
Look closely to thy clauses, lest it cease
And straight determine, while thou at thine ease,
Poor Soul! dost dwell, and all things make fair show.
Take heed no breach of covenant doth grow
To grave offence and “forfeit,” 'gainst all pleas.
Thy tenure brief at best is; no fixed date:
While many flaws creep in by negligence;
Many inherent in mere life-estate.
The great Lessór interprets in strict sense;
Nought doth on plea of ignorance abate,
But holds thee to thy bond, as Himself pens!

LONDON IN DEAD OF NIGHT.

The mighty City sleeps! A vague, dread sense,
Awe which can hear the throbs of its own breast,
Fill the deep pause of silence and of rest;
Strange contrast with the life late so intense!
The mighty Heart, hushed in the innocence
Of Sleep, lies gentle as an infant press'd
On mother's bosom, of its Worst and Best
Unconscious; Being's merest Present-Tense!
Across the isthmus of dark, silent Night
Steals the dim Purpose of the coming day,
Like a vague dream; anon, a form of light,
The dawn's bright threshold crossed, it takes its way.
A still, small voice goes up! The temples might
Seem for and with the City's self to pray!

MISSIONARY EFFORTS IN INDIA, AND SCEPTICISM AT HOME.

O England! think'st thou with thy cast-off dress
(Which thou hast altered oft, and worn so well,
Not with ill grace; tho' History, asked, would tell,
And blush at stains which her keen sight distress:)
To clothe, lay-figure-like, the mightiness
Of Ind, when her great limbs shall freely swell;
When she shall stretch her bulk, and take an ell
For every inch of thy concededness?
Alas! art thou not putting, one by one,
Aside, the pure white garments without stain
Of the meek Jesus, till they all be gone!
And think'st thou that great heart, and mighty brain,
When they have burst, like Samson's withes, and thrown
Thy leadings off, will pick up thy disdain!

SACER VATES.

Dumbly thou goest, with a mystery
At heart, still striving for large utterance;
Though wide awake, yet as one in a trance:
Seëst visions; dreamest dreams; things eye
Not seen hath, nor ear caught the harmony,
Nor heart the pulses, of. Thou seëst in advance
The lightning hoofs o' the Sun-steeds, as they prance
And pace forth with new dawns and action high!
Yet is thy heart, for all this, as a tomb
Beside which watch the angels, Faith and Hope,
Waiting the dawn which shall disperse the gloom,
Through which, though joined their lights, they dimly grope.
Strange whispers, visions of the night, thence come;
Yet ne'er for thee those mystic portals ope!

THE END!

Is thy soul schooled at notice short to quit;
Nor quail at any form that Proteus dread
(Whose shapes are fearful as unnumberéd),
Grim Death, may take, of fever, flux, or fit;
Or aught else flesh may bring or may commit?
Canst thou, undaunted, hear thy heart, instead
O' the healthful tune to which we work, feast, wed,
Beat “The Dead March,” Death marking time to it?
If thy soul, self-sustained and all alone,
(No loving heart to cheer), on that dark way
Can “Step-out” (enfant perdu!) to th' Unknown,
By that dread “March” played out from hence for aye;
If to such temper wrought, thou'rt steel or stone,
And “Death! where is thy victory?” canst say!

CLARISSA HARLOWE.

O incarnation of true Womanhood!
As beautiful without as pure within;
Angel in form and spirit, from whom Sin
Stands off, and Evil, seeing, would be Good!
What graces, what beatitudes, what mood
Angelic, halo thee around, to win
All hearts to Good! True to its origin,
Pure as if it in God's own presence stood!
Bless'd be the genius which clothed thee on
With Womanhood so perfect and so fine;
A glass for Woman there to look upon
Herself, as made by virtue half-divine!
The coarse clay of our nature, so through-shone,
Glows from within, in “high relief” doth shine!

LOVELACE AND CLARISSA HARLOWE.

How could the wretch behold, and fail to love?
How love, and, though to all else blind, not see
Thy virtue, but another name for thee?
How, seeing that, unto himself approve
To soil the plumes of such a spotless dove!
Whose touch unto the pure of heart would be
'Gainst all uncleanness a phylactery;
Nay, even where it was, the stains remove!
O Reprobate! thou would'st thyself not raise
To that pure angel, but drag down to thy
Sty's level—tenfold lower and more base
As against Virtue's self lése-majesty.
Thy sin is as the fiend's, who hates, betrays,
Virtue rebuking his deformity.

MODERN LIFE FOR SHOW.

Look in this hand-glass, and therein behold,
In profile and in small, this motley age.
What seëst thou? An actor off the stage,
Tearing his part to tatters; blowing cold
And hot, the ape of Fashion, just as told?
A pipe for any stop; parasite to page
My Lady Fortune's heels for patronage,
Stand cap in hand, with “May I make so bold?”
Thou dost not recognise thy own sweet face.
No; 'tis our old friend “Nobody,” poor fool!—
That social Ape; shadow of substance base;
Frog o' the fable. In dull Mammon's school
Life hath no inward joy, no unbought grace;
There, slavish “estimation” slaves doth rule.

PYGMALION REVERSED.

Did I not, after my own heart's desire,
Fashion, like him of old, and lavish all
The treasures of my love so prodigal
Upon thee; till my inmost heart caught fire
At thy immortal charms, still burning higher,
Stronger, and purer? Oh, did I not fall,
Thou angel! at thy feet, and on thee call,
And at thy lips immortal breath inspire?
I did, I did! I strained thee to my breast
With dateless bonds of never-to-end love,
And lay in Paradise; my soul had rest.
O God! my arms unclasp, and I remove
From my blank heart that mocking shadow drest
As angel; th' angel's self fades up above!

THE SINKING OF THE “WARRIOR,” ARMOUR-PLATED VESSEL.

O Death! thy handmaid, Science, serves thee well,
She púrveys for thy bloodhounds daintily;
Her hecatombs with those of War may vie.
Right-worthy rivals, trumpet-tongued they tell
War, Pestilence, and Famine grim, to swell
Their lists, or she their places will supply.
Fame's trump should spread their names who for her die;
But a “Sic itur ad”—whither?—sounds a knell!
Coffins of lead thou smil'st at, while thy worm
Feasts on proud flesh within; but huge as this,
And iron, the mere novelty of form
Tickles thy fancy! Yet thy dealing is
Most just, if stern, since they who raise the storm
Must bide, and with thee reckon, hit or miss.

REITERATION OF OLD, WORN-OUT THEMES.

Why hark ye back, and summon up the dead
(Like necromancers)?—who, e'en if they come,
Speak inarticulately, or are dumb,
Or unknown tongues, must be interpretèd.
Utterances strange as Friar Bacon's head;
Oracular, like voices from the tomb;
Shadows, poor spectres, who have heard their doom,
From whose blank eyes all speculation's fled!
Let the dead bury their dead! The Present's veins
Must with the lifeblood of the Present run;
Pulse with its joys and woes, throb with its pains:
Those lengthening shadows mark the set of sun.
Life's toils of Hercules, the Future's strains,
In morning's strength and freshness must be done!

THE GLORY OF WOMANHOOD.

THE DREAD “LOGIC OF FACTS:” A PASSING SHADOW.

In self-despite; with struggles desperate
As for dear life—death instant, as, o'erhead,
That sword of Damocles, held by a thread;
Or lightning-flash would write in fire, “Too late,”
Should I, 'twixt life and death, one least breath bate
From fear or favour!—have I utterèd
The dreaded Thought, which all-but strikes me dead;
To unsay, unthink which would make my state
As hell to heaven! Whether God or Fiend
Urgeth me on, I know not; for I am
But as in giant's grasp a child unwean'd!
Yet Truth is Truth; and its stern touch all Sham
Tests, like Ithuriel's spear, however screened,
Let Balaam bless, or Balak curse and damn!

MAN'S POWER OVER NATURE.

Storms ravish the soft bosom of the air,
And procreant Earth miscarries, scar'd, below;
The clouds, that should drop fatness as they go,
Sweep on; the tilth left parched, the pastures bare:
Nor weave their Iris-scarves around the fair
And forest-mantled heights. Left drouthy so,
The many-breasted hills their overflow
Of fount and spring-head stint: the Nymphs despair!
Man on the scene appears; he lays his lines
Of burnished steel, kept bright in act and use,
Last, finest polish of all high designs!
His wondrous wires thrill, and bind, and loose
The Genj of the Air! Earth no more pines;
Heav'n's clouds drop fatness, and her breasts produce!

FOR EVER!

And must we part for ever? Dreadful day,
And dreadful word! For, tho' no dagger 'tis,
It stabs—ay, to the very heart—all bliss,
And lets the life o' life out, leaves but clay!
O God! is this the last time that I may
Clasp that dear hand, and, with an anguished kiss,
Seal those dear lips, and then for ever miss
Thy loving look, thy sweet voice, hushed for aye?
Death, cruel Death! who gives away the bride
At this dread altar, puts thy hand in mine,
And, mocking, joins, for ever to divide!
My heart he freezes, while he deadens thine!
One last, long kiss; then, ere away life glide,
Draw my last breath, and clasp me to thy side!

TIME.

O Time! thou turnest Earnest into Jest,
Jest to grim Earnest, Sacred to Profane,
And things despised to reverence again.
Thou arch-buffoon! Thou makest far the best
Of jokes, and laugh'st at thyself with the rest.
Tho' History pass them by with grave disdain,
Thou “writ'st between the lines” with a sly vein
Of irony, more pungent thus exprest.
Mocker and Scoffer, Desecrator rude!
Thou hallowest what thou turnest into dust,
And what thou scorn'st to keep mak'st Wisdom's food.
Enchanter, Disenchanter! Thou dost rust
The sword that shed, to medicine, the blood;
Yet, thro' all, Truth in thee puts her sure trust!

CHRISTMAS.

New-mingled, all Life's bloods and currents run
In one direction, in one common stream
Of our Humanity; once more all seem
Akin; the old, hard lease run out and done,
And Life with kindlier covenants begun.
The Old, now meeting, with memorial theme
Grow young; the Young, of things in hope yet dream,
Which Memóry will ne'er look back upon!
In wider sense of things and scope of view,
We see the tide of Life at slack and dead
Of ebb; soon full on flood to run anew.
Men's hopes take out new leases; overhead
They hear the winds which golden ventures blew
To port, and all their sails to Fortune spread!

TO ------.

She passes in her beauty, with a trail
Of light behind, like some particular star
In heaven's depths, to which all others are
But foils by distance, or their fires pale—
Mere borrowed light which they from her retail.
Nor with mere beauty halo'd, but as far
Doth she excel in each particular
Of Goodness, in the gross as in detail.
Her beauty is her mind made visible;
Body transfigured with the Spirit's grace,
Where every line and lineáment tell
How her sweet soul is writ in form and face.
Yet in her eyes the sum and total dwell
Of all her charms, focus and trysting-place!

GÖTHE'S “FAUST” NOT AN “ACTING-PLAY” OR A “SENSATION” MELODRAMA.

Not thine the buskin, nor the formal stage,
Thou ill-betided, ill-betiding soul;
In worse than felon's bonds, a dreader goal
Before thee, devilish pledge, redeemless gage!
Let the mere menial eye, asserviced, page
“Sensation's” heels, and lose all self-control;
While “devilish cantrips sleight,” and “scenes,” cajole
The groundlings, and in teapots tempests rage!
Thy stage is in Man's stretchèd mind; and there
Thou wrestlest with the Fiend for evermore!
In thy dread drama every soul doth bear
A part, yet leaves the mystery as before.
Too grand that drama for mere strain and stare
Of eyes, and coarse “spectacular” “encore!”

LOVE STRONGER THAN DEATH.

Death cannot sunder us! our twofold thread
Is so close intertwin'd, so intricate
And so intrinse, that, were the two strands hate
And love, they scarcely could be severèd;
How then, repulsion none, love sole instead!
Or as two streams, scarce ever separate
(So near their sources joinèd their estate),
Flow on together, once and ever wed!
We could not think of severance! That thought
Itself were as a death: by that small breach,
Imagined, Death would enter; thence were wrought
A chasm to rend our twi-une heart, and each
O' t'other side would stand, with anguish fraught,
And in the gulf fall, straining to o'er-reach!

TO A FRIEND.

Thy soul is as a river; affluents small
And great it takes, and to itself subdues,
Whatever soil imparts whatever hues:
All their impurities to bottom fall,
As it flows on, full, deep, majestical!
Its banks still opening out expanding views,
Not merely pastoral or scenes recluse,
Men magnify, and by some great name call!
Thou shalt not flow to lowing of mere kine,
Nor glide, with dreamy lapse, 'mid sheepfold's bleat,
Nor to poor pastoral pipes thy course incline!
But, swelling, seek the spring-heads deep and sweet
Of Laws and Learning, blend their streams with thine,
And with them the great main of Knowledge meet!

THE FUSION OF NATIONS; OR, THE FUTURE OF AMERICA.

Great mould, to cast anew Humanity!
Grand, procreant Womb! All bloods, all qualities,
All strengths of Brain and Sinew, harmonise,
Raise, balance, supplement, and qualify
Each other in thee, to produce thereby
The highest “strain” of Man; Humanity's
Most absolute form and fashion, to surprise
The Future, questioning Man's identity!
Ay, when those mingled bloods have blended well
The full-ripe flavour of each breed and clime,
How full those veins will run, those outlines swell!
What pulses then will beat the World's true time
And measure, with the music audible
Of that great Heart, world-filling and sublime!

ON THE “MECHANICAL” HORRORS AND DIABLERIE IMPORTED INTO “DER FREISCHÜTZ.”

THE PORTRAIT. TO ------.

Soft from the canvas rose that peerless face,
And seemed less painted, than to grow, expand,
To shaping music, or enchanter's wand,
Rosebud to rose, crescive in some sweet place,
Addition taking (as we gaze) of grace!
Hope took the pencil from the painter's hand,
And parted those sweet lips with his most bland
And sunny smiles, as sunbeams sunbeams chase!
Then Charity touched in her looks with soft
And tender pity, gentle as a dove;
Faith raised them, as in ecstasy, aloft.
But, lest the Woman pass to Angel, Love,
All arts essaying, and re-touching oft,
Hid himself in her eyes, nor would remove!

PITT AND THE POLITICAL LILLIPUTIANS.

Too high, too high! above your sympathies!
When ye crawl up such intellectual heights,
Your dull ears by strange sounds, eyes by strange lights
Are stunned and dazzled. World-wide views arise
Beyond your narrow ken; God's lightning flies,
Scathing your petty lives, blinding your sights;
Your breathing there grows hard! Back, parasites!
Back to your flesh-pots, and your politic lies!
Ye crawled between his stride, and scarcely dared
To call your souls your own; with petty spans
And callipers ye measured and compared.
Like children in a “maze,” in his great plans,
Ye lost yourselves, for few those heights have shared;
Who come thence from God's presence come, not Man's!

THE CHILD OF THE GUTTER AND THE CHILD OF THE FIELDS.

He plays among the wild flowers, and, like these,
His young, fresh life gives out a perfume sweet
And natural; the birds make music meet
To teach him his first lesson: then he sees
(School'd by example) wise toil of the bees,
Of mole the engineering: low and bleat,
Sunset and sunrise, seasons change and fleet,
Man's work and Nature's grace in all degrees!
He plays in alleys foul, a child of sin;
No flowers sees, nor hears the song of bird;
Nor Nature's threshold treads, still less within
Her holy temple; act unclean and word
Defile; “Man” fallen from his origin;
“God” more in cursing than in blessing heard!

CHRIST.

O blessèd Jesus! at Thy feet I kneel;
Pure incarnation of Humanity!
Thou who could'st live—task harder than to die—
To stay its weakness, and its wounds to heal!
And as from sweet-herbs bruisèd most most steal
Their fin'st aromas, so distil from Thy
Self-dedication unto suffering high,
The perfume of Man's life, his súpreme weal!
Oh, if Divinity dwell not in Thee,
Divine Thy mission, and divinely done!
Thou hast raised up the Poor, set the Bond free,
On Earth's dark places, without light else, shone.
When Man shall cease to strive like Thee to be,
Write “Beast” instead, on all-fours let him run!

TO ------.

Whose silkworms spun that robe for thee so fine,
To make thee fairer than the lilies are,
In purity if thou be on a par;
If virtue through thee, as light through them, shine!
Who lit those gems would make thee half-divine
In radiance like some bright, particular star,
Could'st thou as bright shine near, as it afar;
And glorify the Maker, theirs and thine!
O beautiful, in spite of all thy pride!
But clothe thee on with sweet humility,
And that, like fold of angel's robe, shall hide
Thy faults, to virtues half-transformed thereby.
Then might'st thou almost seem, by angel's side,
Angel thyself, deceiving mortal eye!

SHAKSPEAR'S EARLY DEATH.

Might not we, antecedently, suppose
That Providence by such would set more store
Than by the common strain, and guard it more?
As of the precious spring whence healing flows
More count is, than of that which unnam'd goes.
Or as strict clauses to uphold, restore,
Some mansion fair are drawn, as “heretofore,”
Should not the lease of such a life have those!
Not so! dull fools live on, and Shakspears die:
Run-out the term, or forfeiture of lease.
O Nature, thy rich prodigality
Counts not a Shakspear even! with like ease
Thou could'st re-make, to common multiply:
Ours is the loss; thy sum knows no decrease!

THE LAST WORD.

For ever! Must it be so! Whose sad tongue
Shall say first, whose sad ear first hear it said?
To say, to hear, alike, is like half-dead!
To say it first is like to being stung
To death—to hear first, like to being flung
Headlong o'er some dark precipice; so dread
The thought, that consciousness itself seems fled,
Hold lost of the last stay to which it clung.
O my beloved! if one of us two
Must say that word, let us like lovers be
Who call on Death to witness bond of true
And dateless love; that sentence then to me
Will from thy sweet lips fall like Pity's dew,
And that thought take the sting of death from thee!

DIVINE POWER.

O God! Thou openest Thy hand, and lo!
Like clustered diamonds, regardlessly
Scattered therefrom, the Pleiads gem the sky!
Stars countless at a wafture Thou dost throw
Along the Milky-Way, their interflow
Of radiance a cloud of light: still high
And higher, far and farther, beyond eye
And telescope, and thought itself, they go!
As beyond sight Thy power is Infinite,
So, also, in Infinitesimal.
In least as greatest great, in depth as height.
The infinitely-small is only small
In term: Creation unto which the mite
Is huge, for very smallness great we call!

POETIC INSPIRATION.

Constrain not thou the gentle Muse, but take
Her precious favours when they offered come,
And use well that sweet license; else be dumb,
As oaths should, or Discretion; for thy sake;
Lest, putting her to shame, she with thee break!
For without her a cypher all thy sum,
Thy art all trick, mechanic “rule of thumb;”
She adds the “figures” which the value make!
When she is pleased, all common'st sounds and sights
Are inspirations, riches fineless, thy
Own heart a cornucopia of delights.
Then senses hast thou 'bove Humanity;
Canst dive into all depths, ascend all heights,
And hear the World's great pulses audibly!

SCIENCE AND FAITH.

JOY AND GRIEF.

The present sorrow, being in the deed,
Still distances those in expectancy;
And casts into the rear the griefs gone by,
Though Memory make afresh the old wound bleed,
And their ghosts haunt us still, never quite laid!
The coming griefs, like thunder in clear sky,
May startle, or on the foreboding eye
Their shadows cast before, yet less we heed.
The present wine doth sparkle in the bowl
More bright than that in which we pledged the health
Of our “first love,” wherein his very soul
Youth cast, the madcap! prodigal of wealth,
Like Cleopatra's pearl! That prize Love stole;
But Time can steal e'en Love, cap stealth by stealth!

THE MALIGNED NEGRO.

O our Humanity! what is thy hue,
What thy true colour, say! Art black or white?
A half-faced entity, dusky as night;
Or white as day; or, Janus-like, the two!
The Negro white, from his white “Brother,” drew
The Devil; for that colour in his sight
Was synonym for cruelty. Black quite
The White Man his; but white as well would do!
He of his poor black “Brother” made a brute
And slave, then justified his sin thereby;
And, blackening his own heart, struck Love blind, mute!
Denied him sense—forgetting History;
How he himself ran wild in ochre-suit,
Beasting his now proud-fleshed Humanity!

WHITE AND BLACK.

Because the sun in heaven is not too proud
To kiss more warmly and more lovingly,
And umber his despised Humanity,
But in his face and blood proclaims aloud
“Child of the Sun,” fire-dipt and dusky-browed,
And that on thee he looks with colder eye,
Canst thou, “Pale-face,” extenuate cruelty
Which darkness blacker than his skin should shroud!
Thou hypocrite, who call'st thee “Christian!”
Go, ask the Devil for certificate,
And he will “write thee large” there “fiend,” not Man!
For thou God's bond of love hast turned to hate,
Put half thy “Brethren” under curse and ban,
For what Day might as well with Night debate!

HALF SEAS OVER.

Put but a little wine into thy brain,
And what an antic dances in thine eye,
Or Devil laughing at mortality!
Thy stature grows, and straight thou dost attain
The thews of Hercules, and would'st constrain
The dread Lernæan Hydra; scale the sky,
Heap “Pelion on Ossa;” nought too hard, too high;
Lay hand on the Nemæan lion's mane!
Whose strength is then as thine, whose wit as rare,
Who sets the table in a roar? Then, then
Thou'dst ride a-tilt at windmills or the air;
Confront the world in arms with sword or pen!
Thou art “possessed;” a subtle spirit there
Works in thy brain, 'clept “Alcohol” of Men!

REVELATIONS.

Yonder, like diamonds on a robe of blue
(Such as Uranian Venus might have worn
When old Mythology would her adorn,
After its fashion figured to Man's view),
The Pleiads sparkle the soft ether through.
There, in lone splendour, yet without that scorn
Of lesser things with greatness often born,
Far Lyra shines, to some grand mission true!
Poised on this speck of Earth in soul I stand,
And fling its dust off, spurning it aside,
Like prisoner whose freedom is at hand.
A throb of consciousness runs through the wide,
Wide world. Its spirit wondrous and so grand
Thrills through my soul the thought, “It doth abide!”

NECK OR NOTHING.

We wonder at the gambler when he takes
His frantic, last embrace of Fortune; clings
To her false, harlot-lips, and madly flings
Into her lap the all that makes or breaks;
The hope that, like a fever, reckless slakes
Its fierce excitement at those poisoned springs,
Whose bitter-sweet draught leaveth scorpions'-stings
And dregs of life, brain-phrenzies and heart-aches!
But what of him who gambles, life in hand,
With grim Death face to face, forfeits or quits;
While his dread partner in the game the sand
Turns in the hour-glass, and still outwits!
Whose lusts and passions, like foul fiends, demand
Body and soul, their twofold perquisites!

AMERICA AND ENGLAND.

Step out! Right faces forward, “at the double!”
Strike up the “Band of Hope,” unfurl the “old rag”
Of Freedom, let the Nations never lag.
Clear heads, high hearts, strong hands! As fire in stubble;
Or as the wave of Progress bears the bubble,
Forward! beneath that grand star-spangled flag,
With star on star quick rising; without brag
Or vaunt, through sweat and toil and Human trouble!
On! noble army of toilers in the van
Of Human Brotherhood; we well abreast
Of ye will keep, and back ye man to man;
We “noble English” all, both most and least!
Not “few,” as we at Agincourt began,
But all, from sea to sea, North, South, East, West!

MAN AND BRUTE.

Man, “social,” “reasoning,” “articulate;”
Proud Man, “in likeness of his Maker made;”
First-cousin to “Gorilla;” just a shade
This way from Brute; and that way, not to bate
His proud additions, little less in state
Than angel; when his fleshy parts degrade
His rational, to salve his pride hath said,
“He makes himself a beast,” this angels' mate!
But let his pride take physic in the thought
That he alone is vicious. Not a Brute
On two or four legs e'er gave p—x or caught.
Even “Gorilla” never “followed suit!”
The Beasts disclaim him! He himself hath taught
All vice; in this most sole and absolute!

THE TRUE POET.

O Poet! if thou, like the aspen-leaf,
Which quivers to the Zephyr's tenderest sigh,
Dost wear the heart of thy Humanity
As light-responsive to each joy and grief;
Thy roots draw deep from common Earth (and chief
That downright one and main, which lifts thee high,
In foliage rich and branched majesty),
The sap of all true Being, high belief!
Without this thou art as a stream which, ere
It reach the sea, doth lose itself in sand,
And misses its great end, its true rest there:
Or as a stately tree that looketh grand
In outward flourish, but doth nothing bear;
Which men cut down for burning and for brand!

DON'T “GIVE IN.”

If thou hast suffered wrong; gone, or done, wrong,
Worst ill of all, and leaving the worst sting
Behind it in our wounds, in thoughts that cling
To memory, and keep them open long:
(Worst “heal-all” Self-reproach): say, bold and strong,
“Get thee behind me, Satan:” that foul thing
Behind leave, like bleak hills whose shadows fling
Heart-chilling glooms. On! to Life's press and throng,
And the warm sun beyond. Shun thou that shade,
Deepening and lengthening as thy day slips by;
There lurks Despair, who many hath betrayed.
Push on! those four roads, meeting yonder, try;
Hope points (best finger-post!) the path: with aid
Fortune, to meet Self-help half way, will fly!

DE PROFUNDIS: A NOCTURN.

SHAKSPEAR.

Thou each surpassest in his best of kind,
Most of degree; in that self-quality
Which makes him single, and himself thereby;
And in one higher summ'st-up all combined!
O wondrous complex! Sunlike-central Mind!
Would'st laugh? A merry antic in his eye
Will make thee hold thy sides! Would'st weep, or sigh?
Till breath fail sigh, tears Pity fail to find!
Wisdom, or be it in Particular,
Or General; bee-shrewdness; eagle's flight,
As high as heaven, sure as the lode-star!
Heart, beating truest measure, heavy or light;
Child-like, yet with world-pulses thrill'd afar;
All-in-all, for all, with all—Infinite!

TO ------.

Her sweet mouth melteth like a downy peach,
On which the golden kisses of the sun
Still linger—melts in sweeter smiles—nay, one
Sweet smile her face entire, without breach
Of continuity; her eyes smile each
At other, and the smiles there first begun,
Her bright Aurora-face like dawn o'er-run,
Till those of her sweet answering mouth they reach.
Her face is like the magical revealing
Of a soft April-day, when all things sweet
Are blending, and in lights and shadows stealing;
And all with sweetest interchanges greet.
Now a bright thought, now touch of tender feeling;
Sunshine now chasing cloud, cloud tempering heat!

THE NIGHT-KNELL.

Hold thy harsh iron tongue, thou sullen bell!
Thou hast no touch of human sorrow, though
Thou lend'st a tongue to tell us it is so,
And dumb Death speak by thee! Of thy stern knell
Each stroke upon our bruis'd hearts seems to tell
As hammer-stroke on anvil, blow on blow,
Beating out life, remorseless and so slow,
With measured torture on each pang to dwell!
Too well dost thou interpret to the ear
Th' Unutteráble of the dumb-struck heart,
Whose inarticulate anguish seems to hear
A muffled utterance of its choking smart.
Like some poor animal in pain and fear,
Whose dumb moans tell all and yet the least part!

WARNING ON THE SPREAD OF LUXURY.

This body (lodging and fit instrument
O' the Mind—with all its cunning aptitudes
To put in act and use Man's many moods
And faculties divérse) was not thus lent
To rust unused, with down and ease content.
Not at such breasts hang Nature's stalwart broods,
Not from such paps strong Freedom's milk exudes,
Not such the hands fulfil her great intent!
As iron upon anvil, heart of Man
On hard endurance must to tempered steel
Be wrought, for essays of great pith and span.
Belly be servant still; mouth made to feel
The bit; the passions, sustained breath to fan
The fire of high Intent, and wing his heel!

SELF-MASTERY.

'Tis hard to salve the lash on our own back
With aphoristic Heal-all, and wise saws
For “instances” so near! To moralise the flaws
When poor Humanity's coarse clay doth crack
I' the furnace of temptation; when not slack
It burns, and we the fuel and the cause
Supply. To praise the justice of the laws
Which punish; of the pains which rend and rack!
Yet for this strive! Here lies self-mastery;
The master-key, slow Fame and Fortune's wards
To turn; forelock of Opportunity!
Achiev'd, thou spurn'st the World's gilt toys and gauds
Hold'st thyself at arm's-length; constrain'st thereby
Fortune herself, not by her pimps and bawds!

ANOMALIES OF HUMAN NATURE.

How seldom speech and act, and word and deed,
Own one self-same belonging! One man does
The deed heroic, scarce his greatness knows;
But wears it lightly, like a summer-weed,
Put on and off at pleasure, without heed.
Another will describe it, with his Oh's
And Ah's, all admiration; but, at close,
Would creep out of his skin rather than bleed
By a pin's point! In Man such contraries—
Nay, contradictories—are often seen.
One man will point his fellows to the skies,
Like Virtue's finger-post, yet is he mean.
At the first touch of trial cracks and flies
The gilding, and the coarse clay shows between!

THE MYSTERY OF BREED.

When two sweet souls, of outward presence fair
To match their inwards, and thus, after kind,
Reduplicate of body and of mind
All strengths and graces, issue still more rare,
Conspire, with sweet'st conjunction, for repair
Of Human-kind; we seem to see behind
These fair presentments and high “strains” combin'd
Sure pledges to the world of some great heir
Of Fame and Fortune. Yet not always so.
One and one make small count; Marriage supplies
The “o” between, whence hundredfold they grow!
How to a Shakspear doth the grand sum rise?
The One before, One after the great “O”
(Itself nought) sire, mother, and what else? comprise.

THE END.

If on the edge of some high precipice
The rock should rend, and sudden at thy feet
A dark, dread chasm, cutting off retreat,
Should, like some wild beast, taking by surprise
His fated prey, gape for thee: would thine eyes
Not start, thy heart the “double-quick” not beat,
At sight below, as 'twere thy winding-sheet,
Of foaming torrent, that to darkness hies?
On edge of such a precipice dost thou
From day to day, and hour to hour, stand;
Time the swift torrent rushing past, called “Now!”
Instant, that chasm which no bridge e'er spanned,
May open 'neath thy feet! Bethink thee how
The end will find thee, from its dread brink scanned!

THE HEAVENS AT NIGHT.

Oh wondrous sight! that strikes me dumb, and yet
Constrains to speak! That in the very dust
Humbles; and yet exalts, with súblime trust;
Makes me feel nothing, yet doth still beget
A sense of thronedness, that will not let
My soul feel little; though perforce it must
Such exaltation wear, like greatness thrust
On one against his wish and worth high set
'Bove all deserving! O ye brilliants rare
That gem the star-set diadem of Him
Whose Presence all, in all is, everywhere!
Whose glory through ye shines and makes yours dim;
Sense of abiding might ye shadow there,
The burthen of Creation's silent hymn!

TO ------.

Without thy “figure” I am “ciphered” quite;
I behind o, a mere nonentitie!
Place thy rich count before, thou makèst me
A hundredfold myself, and count aright.
I'm nought, can do nought, have no sense or sight,
No relish of the fairest things that be;
All sweetest favours come and go with thee;
Thou, hearing to my ear, to my eye light!
Oh if, in less Intrinse, thy presence make
All unto Least, addition unto Most,
And Best be bettered for thy thought and sake;
In Innermost what Loss above all Lost,
If thou, or worst of Fortune, thee thence take!
Then even that poor “One” quite out were crost!

THE SPELL OF THE TRUE POET.

Dost ask wherein the Poet's secret lies!
As well go ask the Magnet why it draws
The iron; or the Needle by what laws
(Better than had it Argus' hundred eyes)
It points the Pole, and sense and sight supplies!
As well ask Beauty's sweet effect and cause;
Why grace charms; the Sublime, like thunder, awes
Why chord, in unison, to chord replies!
The Poet plays an obbligato sweet
And rare upon the grandest instrument
Of all—Man's heart; which catcheth dívine heat
And kindleth from the inspirations sent
Along its chords, whose far vibrations meet
Th' Eternal echoes, and with them are blent!

SPIRITUAL AGENCIES.

How subtle-strange the interplay of Mind
Through eye, ear, touch, and will, impartitive
Thereof, by aptness to receive and give!
Here, subtle emanations access find,
Where unto others all seems deaf, dumb, blind!
Soft spells for madness Woman will contrive,
And silken bonds, where strengths in vain would strive,
The roused snakes of the Furies to re-bind!
This man with bated breath, and action mild
As soft Persuasion's self, a crowd will sway,
Where that with sound and fury drives it wild.
Oppugnancies, as strong as night and day,
By subtle interagents reconcil'd,
May harmonise, as tints make light's pure ray.

THE “TO BE!” STROPHÉ—FAITH.

How beautiful the Temple! The design
How grand! How finely massed the light and shade!
To what a point of far perspective fade
The long-drawn aisles; outward and visible sign
Of th' Endless, the Continuous, and Divine!
How each in other run the lines, and aid
The grand result, until the Whole is made
To flow in numbers and proportions fine,
With visible cadence! Precious are the stones,
Not wrought with hands, than diamonds more rare;
And splendours from within stream out; far tones
Of ecstasy, that thrill the outer air.
And grand the steps, worn more than those of thrones,
With tread of Faith and Hope, and knees of Prayer!

OR “NOT TO BE;” ANTISTROPHÉ—DOUBT.

Grand is the Temple! Ever towards the gate
Called “Beautiful” the Faithful press, with song
And hymn, Time's grand procession, all along
“The sacred way” that leads up to its state;
Where nigh two thousand years do pray and wait!
And like her secular ways which Rome did throng
With press of life long lines of dead among,
This (those in Small), in Grand and Consecrate!
But the last step of all that noble flight
Which leads up to the portal, and, once past,
Would blessèd make the feet, and entrance light,
A stone of óffence in the way is cast!
A stumblingblock that step; too great its height
For Man, who o'er it falls, and breathes his last!

THE RAVING BACCHANTE.

Oh what fine inspiration wrought the stone
To madness, and though dumb made speak; though cold,
Insensate, into life, with touch so bold,
Promethean kindled from itself alone!
It raves and rages, as if it had known
No other function; as those eyes had rolled
In phrenzy, those wild gestures ever told
How marble may go mad and Furies own!
O Geníus! thee all things still obey!
Hardest grow soft, the heaviest light as air,
And Motion's self things motion'd least convey.
Not wings could, like thy thought, that weird form bear
And whirl along; nor could, on its mad way,
Re-turn to stone Medusa's stoniest stare!

MAMMON.

Not even for itself (ignoblest end!)
Does the mere lust of wealth, and its low schemes,
With all fox-cunning wisdom-for-self deems
(Means as the end ignoble), comprehend
The creed and service, most directly tend
To Mammon's glory. Even he hath themes
Above these things; and those “high-priests” esteems,
Wise in their generation, who still blend
Their greed with larger scopes! He too claims; has
“A reasonable service” in its kind;
With other image than his own would pass
His mintage, larger usance thus to find.
Hypocrisy doth dress in Virtue's glass,
And Greed does homage to her, when least blind!

“UNSEAWORTHY” ENGLAND!

“WITH WHAT I MOST ENJOY CONTENTED LEAST.” SHAKSPEAR'S SONNETS.

O Heart, that holding all, held itself least!
Thy thirst divine then nought could satisfy!
Thou whose abundance and variety
Could suit all tastes and surfeit; still increas'd
By giving, and who craved most still most pleas'd!
Where every humour fed itself full-high,
And left the table graced, and gracèd by;
Thou only not, the Master of the feast!
We who are by the very crumbs that fall
From thy great table satisfied, may hence
Take measure of thee, measuring great by small.
Heights, which sublime our lesser natures call,
To thee are only stepping-stones from whence
To take still higher flights above our sense!

“DESIRING THIS MAN'S ART AND THAT MAN'S SCOPE.” SAME SONNET.

How more than Cæsar's robe imperial
Becomes thee this sweet robe of simplest grace,
Whose every line Humility doth trace;
Lessening the gulf 'twixt so great and so small!
Drawing thee down to us, raising us all!
That touch of nature is as an embrace,
In which we feel thy heart beat and displace
The high-set figure on Fame's pedestal!
Ay, there we touch, we Lilliputians!
With all those common, sweet humanities,
Those little holdfasts, petty handbreadth spans,
We bind our “Gulliver,” lest he should rise
'Bove our Humanity, which loving scans
Him near in Little, close in sympathies!

PARIS.

O Beautiful of the Cities! thou dost hold
Thy head high, settest still the fashión;
And all thy sisters make comparison
With thee, and hold them fair, as they behold
Resemblance more or less, in dress and mould.
Yet, tho' thou robes of rich device dost don,
Thy filthiness is in thy skirts, and on
Thy brow we miss, 'mid lesser gems and gold,
The Priceless—Purity! Thou art full of stirs
And tumults; Peace, scar'd, flees thy bloodstain'd streets;
Old sins unto thy splendours stick like burs,
Repeat themselves in new: cold chills and heats,
Like ague-fits, still make thy last state worse
Than former, and thy heart Change mocks and cheats!

LONDON.

O blessèd City! though sins not few stain
Thy pavements, and Crime walketh in thy ways;
And Righteousness might from thee turn her face,
And shake thy dust off, and ne'er seek again;
I bless thee still, for that from civic vein,
In feud intestine, civil war of race,
No blood hath flowed yet, on thy streets left trace,
That Memory should along them walk in pain!
Oh keep thy garments pure and undefil'd
From this pollution, which not all thy Thames
Could wash out! Still let Reason, wise and mild,
All differences heal; cover thy shames
From stranger-eyes, as Parent's the wise child!
Pour balm into thy wounds, and quench thy flames!

SHAKSPEAR.

Doth thy great heart, or thy as wondrous brain
Most shape and colour those rare thoughts of thine?
Is't thy great heart that, with its beats divine,
Doth send the mighty pulses of its pain
And joy through all, and make as large again
As life; or is't thy brain that so the line
Doth raise, and make to tread with buskin fine,
Or humorous sock, that stage which doth contain
Man's Life “writ large?” Those joinèd strengths make one
All-self-sufficing world. Thy mighty heart
With central heat doth warm all, like the sun;
And thy quick brain doth to creation start,
And, like the virgin Earth, exuberant run
To flower, and fruit, and seed, in every part!

FAITH. THE SCEPTIC “MALGRÉ LUI.

If I do wound thee, 'tis as those who lit
The funeral pyre, in fashion of old Rome;
Who, when consigning Dearest to the tomb,
Anguish'd and looking-back set light to it:
As holding sight of such sad act unfit!
So, under cónstraint of more dreaded doom,
In veriest shadow, not mere semblable,
Of Death himself, I deed enforc'd commit,
Entomb and kill! First, lest I see the thing
I do, put out my very sight of sight,
Belief; although my inmost soul it wring!
Then, as not bearing loss so infinite,
I light the pyre, and by Faith's dead side fling
Myself thereon, by her death slain outright!

TO ------.

She stealeth on her way, and halloweth
Life's lowly duties; known best for and by
The violet-sweetness of Humility,
Which hangs round all she doth and all she saith;
Still shunning, still betrayed by its sweet breath!
She passes, and, we know not how or why,
All sweeter, purer seems; and in her eye
Love, heavenly, transfigured, stronger than Death!
And should some angel in her clear soul deign
To look, as in a glass, therein he might
Behold so much that, pleas'd, he'd look again.
Low is her voice; a voice to soothe, set right;
God's truth shines through her without spot or stain,
As through the virgin-lilies shines His light!

TO ------. A CONTRAST.

She steals upon her way, so innocent!
Sweet thief! and filches hearts at every turn!
Her gazers (as poor, witless children burn
Their fingers, or moths on bright lights intent)
Scorch their poor hearts; while she, sweet penitent!
As plenary absolution so to earn
For artless wrong, wounds, though to heal she yearn,
With dainty pity, ruthful self-content!
Sweetest of thieves, yet worst! “Who steals my purse
Steals trash;” who steals my heart, steals that which naught
Enriches her, but makes me poorest-worse!
Thine eyes the trick of April-skies have caught,
And well their alternations they rehearse!
Love suborns Pity! Oh, malice aforethought!

A SPLENDID NIGHT ON THE MOUNTAINS.

Methinks such boundless thirst for free-breathed air
As makes one dungeon'd long like drunkard reel
So mighty and so masterful I feel,
That I could drink in (as against despair
Elixir-vitæ), till expanded were
My lungs with mighty breaths and sense of weal
Beyond mere Human, ills of flesh to heal,
The taintless purity of this most rare
And starlit ether! O my Soul, believe,
If but for passing comfort of such thought,
That thou dost from those glorious orbs receive
Influence which by this blessèd air is brought!
Expand, my lungs! expand, my Soul! and leave
This Earth: 'tis Life of Life; Time, Space, are nought!

THE DEADLY SIN OF UNSEAWORTHY SHIPS. TO ENGLAND.

If, by concealing, I could heal thy shame,
And cover from rude mock of stranger-eyes,
And thy unworthier sons', of sweetest ties
And holiest recking not; I would, the same
As Noah's two pious sons, with like high aim
(Not turning on thy faults regards unwise),
With backward step, and filial piety's
Blind reverence, hide from ill tongues and worse fame
Thy nakedness! Oh, dear my England! Oh,
My most dear Parent! drunk, but not with wine,
Art thou. Not from that lesser cup, although
Not wanting, flows this shame. This cup of thine
Is full of blood and tears! Therefore I show
Thy shame to Man's wrath, to appease Divine!

SELF-EXPERIENCE.

No man e'er yet from proxièd wisdom gained
Self-wisdom; nor yet from his path the stone
Of óffence put, save of himself alone.
No poet e'er his Pegasus well reined,
Save from himself the manége he attained.
The Present, too, hath motions of its own,
And never can be set to paces gone;
Time by his forelock only is retained.
Nations may for each other's warning play
“The drunken Helot,” and the moral point;
The point is turned, the moral thrown away.
Fools with proverbial wisdom may anoint
And salve their neighbours' wounds, yet not less “pay
The piper,” their own times being out of joint.

THE MYSTERY OF BEING.

Do we pass through this wondrous world of ours,
(So beautiful, that the heart aches to think
Even from transient blindness we should drink
Its sunlight in no more, nor see its flowers)!
As through enchanted halls, where magic powers
Call apparitions forth, that o'er the brink
Of dread eternity still rise and sink;
Glamours, diábleries too; Eden-bowers,
And Shades of Hadès! Oh, the Mystery!
Is't we, who see all this, or dream all this,
Are mere presentments, shadows flitting by,
“Raised” i' this “magic circle!” that nought is
But what is not; and with these presently,
We puppets, like “ghosts laid,” pass to th' abyss!

CHRIST FROM THE MERELY HUMAN POINT OF VIEW.

O Incarnation of th' Eternal Mind!
That in which Infinite doth nearest Man
Approach, and Creature most Creator scan!
As in the absence of the sun we find
His presence most vouchsafed (the same in kind,
Though so less in degree, so small in span)
In full of moon; so Thy light in the van
Of all humanity; so far behind
All lesser phases! All else in degree,
Or less or more, in íncrease or in wane;
Thou only at the full; a Light to be
To this sad Earth, which else had darkling lain,
Half, quarter-lit. But by Thy “full” we see,
Vicarious, the greater light again!

MILTON'S “PARADISE LOST.”

These figures gigantesque and lurid, thrown
On the grand epic canvas by thy brain,
Phantasmagoriás seem to my plain
Truth-cleaving wit; to Earth and Heaven unknown;
Which neither, nor yet both conjoined, would own.
Chimæras dire, which poets, when they feign
Most, dream; bizarre, fantastical, and vain,
As the quaint forms by magic-lanthorn shown.
This Satan, with his “thundering words of threat,”
Like some high-buskin'd braggart on the stage,
Who takes all odds; these “engines dire,” which set
Bellona tittering, and this nether rage,
Time leaves behind, and Truth, now come of age;
Touch with Ithuriel's spear, they're counterfeit!

THE LAST SAD SCENE OF ALL.

Lay thy heart low, poor, weak, despisèd Age,
E'en as a threshold which the meanest foot
Doth pass contemptuous, with act to suit;
'Tis part o' the penance of thy pilgrimage!
Humiliation, poor abjéct! to page
Thy kibèd heels, with downcast look and mute,
Ashamed those offices to execute
Which none else render to thy last sad stage.
O bitter drop! that makes the cup run o'er!
O bitter draught! not e'en medicinal,
No healing in it for thy deadly sore;
Not honeyed even at the edge; all gall!
Lethe's black wine Death, pledging thee, doth pour,
And for thy last toast, with grim humour, call!

“THE HORSE AND (NOT) HIS RIDER” IN LEICESTER-SQUARE.

Why stand'st thou riderless, mysterious Steed!
'Mid waifs and strays, and wastes; while cross hard-by—
Strange contrast!—Life's quick currents? Will none try
To mount thee, test thy mettle and thy breed?
Thy long arrears demand thy strain of speed
To fetch thee up abreast o' the times, which fly
Swift by thee: fall'n i' th' abject rear far, lie
Old memories, rider, worn-out faith, and creed!
It seems he could not sit thee, and is gone
Where all go, who ride not well up with Time!
Bold rider needs thy back! With such an one,
“The coming Man!” With thundering hoof sublime,
Ventre à terre, and, straining every limb,
Thou'dst leap the Future. Hark! he comes anon!

THE LOST: IN MEMORIAM.

Upon this bier (ere th' other half o' the debt
To Death be paid), whence that beloved form
Was rendered to the cold earth and the worm,
And all that wars with love and makes forget,
I strew these withered roses, once, fresh, set
About the brow of Hope. Gone all their charm
And perfume; all, save one, beyond the harm
And scathe of Time; pale, dashed, and dimmed, but yet
Not touched corruptibly! The rest are naught!
Poor evanescent flowers of Youth and Hope!
But this an “everlasting” is—if aught
Of Man be such, who for lost things doth grope
'Mid ashes: from the heart its life is wrought,
And tears for dew embalm it, shut or ope!

LONDON AND THE THAMES.

O thou, aye-pulsing and true median vein
Of the great Metropolitan heart, which beats
So full, and glows with fervours and with heats
Of its Humanity, to Freedom's gain;
So pulse thou, ever; and to the great Main
Those pulses time; that, whether it retreats,
Or thy great effluent love with largesse greets,
Thy grand world-pulses thou may'st still retain!
No little island-throb, no feeble beat,
As at th' extremities, is this of thine;
“Great heart in little body,” with thy heat
The world is warmed, and touched to issues fine.
Freedom, elsewhere as dead, sprang to her feet,
At thy electric touch, from ocean's brine!

THE VANISHING-POINT.

In the perspective of those dim, long years,
That stretch beyond into Futurity,
And lose themselves, we know not where or why,
What vanishing-point of Being there appears?
By golden mists of Hope, or dimming tears,
Made indistinct; as gorgeous sunset-sky
With bright presentments charms, yet cheats the eye;
Or vague, chill mist the landscape dims and blears.
As we advance no clearer grows the view;
Th' horizon, still beyond us, still recedes;
To the dread “Sphinx” still leads the avenue,
Devouring whoso the dark spell not reads!
No brain those hieroglyphics pierceth through;
The “vanishing-point” of human faiths and creeds!

CHARING-CROSS, AND THE REGICIDES EXECUTED THERE.

Time, Time “forgetting and forgiving” still,
Who healeth wounds of human hearts as he
Material ruin softens, till it be
Enamoured of itself, and so fulfil
Its last end, and the Beautiful instil;
Time, and kind Heaven, who in this agree,
With Holy Water cleanse, with winds sweep free,
This spot from stain of blood, from taint of ill!
Here rose, the weights transpos'd, that other scale,
Which Nemesis inclines still, turn about:
Deceived deceiver, slayer slain; all bail
To Fortune give, till Time the cause try out.
Then sweeps he clean the board; to that old wail
Turns a deaf ear, and “On!” cries, with a shout!

NO. 50, ALBEMARLE-STREET; MR. MURRAY'S RESIDENCE.

Here Scott and Byron for the first time met;
Two planets in conjunction bright awhile,
Yet whom one orbit could not reconcile,
Or joinèd, or in opposition set.
'Twere merest waste, excess of light, to let
Two suns shine for one day; or thus to pile
“Pelion on Ossa” in a novel style,
To the “heav'n of Invention” so to get!
So these two dazzling lights from their first close
And conjunctival perigee passed on;
In wider and more distant orbits rose,
And filled the heaven of Inventión
With region-splendours, and with sunset-glows,
And trails of glory after they were gone!

ON THE 57TH REGIMENT (THE DIEHARDS) TAKING THEIR OLD COLOURS TO ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.

When the brave “Diehards” 'neath Paul's mighty dome
The “old rag,” their dedicated colours, bore;
For breeze and battle's tough strain fit no more,
Only to stir great thoughts of heart at home;
Through the proud city, where men go and come
On other errands, and make golden store
Of Peace, which, but for these, War long before
Had stuffed his maw with, through its press and hum
Marched past those brave, proud few! But, by wise law,
Ere they fixed bayonets, with harsh display
Of force, in recognition of the awe
And majesty to Peace and Freedom owing, they
Asked Civic leave, with power of yea and nay;
Thus doubly honoured each Power the other saw!

THE POET AND THE CUP OF TRUTH.

He would have Truth! Yet first the cup must smear
With choicest honey from Fancy's flowers made
By his own bees of Hybla, to evade
The bitter-sweet!—with flavours not known here
On Earth, herbs grown high up, to heaven near,
Fine-herbs of grace, which wither in Earth's shade!
Thus daintily disguised, he sips, afraid
To drain it: bitter flavours still adhere!
Yet drink! and wish no Circe's cup instead:
Bareheaded, humbly-kneeling, drink—to God!
'Tis sacramental; wine from pure grapes, fed
With blood of Martyrs; from soil holy, trod
By all Earth's noblest, best, living and dead!
Tho' bitter, cordial 'tis for heart and head!

THE HOUSE OFF TAVISTOCK-PL., TAVISTOCK-SQ., WHERE FRANCIS BAILY WEIGHED THE EARTH.

Here Baily in the subtle scales of Thought
Placed Earth, with all her balance-weights of seas,
Her mountains and Man's molehills, poles that freeze
And torrid zones that scorch; here, patient wrought
At his grand problem, till the Earth was brought
By spell of subtle numbers, nice degrees,
As spells raise spirits, though far less than these,
To tell her weight and bulk, as it were nought
But pound-weights in the balance! In his hand
He held it—as a very little thing
In the so fine esteem of Thought! How grand
Those few small figures, with which now we bring
To mind this bulk of Earth! O'er sea and land
What light, like break of a new day, they fling!

NELSON'S COLUMN, TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

Doth of thy face the shame not cover thee,
O England! or must thy dull cheeks be made
To tingle by vicarious shame's sharp aid?
Shall Strangers' senses be more graced to see
And blush for thy shortcomings! or shall he
Who, moved by noble emulation, laid
His offering on that shrine, say or hear said—
“Thou grudgest little where he gave so free,
And he a stranger!” Pocket thy false pride;
The gift take, but put out at interest!
Thy Nelson's glory 'neath thy “bushel” hide!
Then, when his fame (shield to thy thankless breast),
And very shame, thy lagging action chide,
Stick up a “Guy,” and at the cost protest!

BOOKS: THE CHILDREN OF THE BRAIN.

If it behoves thee of thy body's fruit
To take account, that from thee there be bred
No devil i' the heart, madman i' the head,
Through sins inherited and following suit;
Or lusts, obliterating Man in Brute;
How much more of those births deliverèd
From thy clear brain, Minerva-like, instead
Of fleshly process, gross compared to it!
Immortal and ubiquitous, to death
And accident not servile, they may play
Most “devilish cantrips sleight;” be as the breath
Of life; blessings and cursings may convey;
Pillory thy name to scorn, or make it aye
To shine, like star, that for thee witnesseth!

SAPPHO.

O Heart, all love; Soul, all aglow like fire!
Thy heart, like incense, burning sweet away,
And self-consumed, in its own ashes lay;
Those ashes, thy own poems (where Desire,
E'en at its lowest, purer than Sense, far higher,
So sweetly-human, yearneth), glow for aye;
So that if stirred, ay, e'en to this our day,
They kindle, as of some great funeral pyre!
O mighty Love! to whom was dedicate
That pure, fresh antique life, that lived and died,
As the sweet flowers unsophisticate;
Thou hast embalmed that memory far and wide;
And graced observance still doth on it wait,
As on a shrine o'er which thou dost preside!

THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851.

Like a bright exhalation from the ground
It rose, and Wonder wondered whence, how, when;
Wondered with pencil, pen, eyes, tongues of men.
Like wingèd Mercury, Hope hover'd round,
And Iris, Heaven's messenger! Peace found
A resting-place, or thought to, there and then;
Not scared from land to land, but denizen
Of Earth, sole-thron'd, with endless olives bound!
Sweet dews from heaven refreshing fell on all
Man's faded hopes, while Peace shook from her wings,
Her gentle, dovelike wings, at every fall
And wafture, balmy drops and minist'rings.
Yes! the Prophetic Soul in great and small
Stirred the World's pulses, and to that Faith chings!

BOOKS.

A wise and noble book is as a friend,
A bosom-friend; one to whom we may trust
Our secret thoughts, securer than if thrust
Under strong wards and locks: he free doth lend
His “talent,” and leaves thee as free to spend.
No flaws of temper his bright humour (rust
On steel) doth show; and, when thou please, he must
Hold tongue, and give long story a short end.
Always at home, yet never in the way,
He soothes thy humours with unruffled smile;
When thou conversest with him thy thoughts play
Like innocent childhood, that knows nothing vile.
Truer than Woman's love, that shifteth aye;
Or friend who only goes with thee a mile!

NELSON'S COLUMN IN TRAFALGAR-SQUARE BEFORE IT WAS FINISHED.

“In a deep vision's intellectual scene,”
What time ghosts cock-crow dread and “laying” sun,
Ere Day hath o'er the Africk Night yet won
His win-lose game; and Silence shy, between
Rare footfall and clock-strike, her solemn mien
Resumes, I passed that column not yet done;
Like ill-told tale, that halts still 'twixt begun
And ended, bétwixt “To-be” and “Has-been!”
I started! By the base a figure sate,
In veiled dejection; awed, I paused and stood.
Then came a low, grand voice disconsolate,
Fateful, and such as doth grave haps prelude:
“Lo I, Britannia, pondering here on Fate,
Warn this my people 'gainst ingratitude!”

SIC ITUR AD?

His lease nigh run, Death shortens his dim sight,
Shortens his inching pace, lest he should see
And overstep the narrow trench, to be
His “Thus far and no farther.” Close-drawn, night
Hangs like a “drop-scene” o'er the Infinite;
Strange gleams come through, strange shadows flit and flee,
Phantasmagorias: retrospectively
Like curtain o'er the Past, shutting out light,
Oblivion's blank falls! Second childhood creeps
Along the narrowing neck between two seas,
Fine line, 'twixt Past and Future, two dread deeps;
Its “vanishing-point” the meeting-place of these!
There falls he, as one falls, who dreams and sleeps,
Over a cliff, and dreams Death more than sees!

THE DESIGN OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

Did the wise bee (deviceful architect),
Nature's Commissioner of Industry,
Pleased with the Human hive's analogy
To that which he doth with such skill erect,
Art could not otherwise nor more effect;
Suggest to Man adaptive mimicry,
With difference in resemblance to apply
His hexagon, and simplest means select
For grandest ends? So rose the fairy-place;
Cube cube reduplicating, square on square;
Where rule, as dials time, apportions space!
And, lest the Beautiful be wanting there,
The long perspective miss its crowning-grace,
Light's tints converge in opalescent air!

A CATHEDRAL FUNERAL-SERVICE.

Her heart is full to overflowing, as
A cup just running over; one big tear,
Than Cleopatra's pearl more precious-dear,
Falls, and its purple bounds it doth o'erpass!
With the warm precious drops Death, wasteful, has
Bedewed his sterile path so blank and drear:
Too costly dew! in vain shed there, o'er sere
And broken hearts, and hopes cut down like grass!
The organ's vast, deep, mournful thunder-roll,
But muffled (like the ground-swell of the sea,
At distance, sad-presaging), fills the soul:
Collective utterance of Mortality!
As if, in yearning sympathy, the Whole
Bewailed, with that poor one, the dread To-be!

IMMORTALITY.

O Beautiful yet fleeting! Most divine
Urania, thou true Venus of the soul!
Thou whose transcendent beauty might console
All pangs and voids, could we but once enshrine
In one immortal clasp that form of thine,
(O sum of bliss and Being's utmost goal!),
Through which the Light eterne, which fills this Whole,
Too dazzling shines for Mortals to define
Thy form and presence. Oh, before thee here,
Poor worm of Earth, I fall; while, passing by,
With music in thy motion like the sphere,
And crown'd as with the starry galaxy,
Thou blindest with excess of light too near,
And mock'st me; still a splendid mystery!

THE OPENING OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE AT SYDENHAM.

It looks as it had sprung up in a night,
Like Jonah's gourd! As if the Elements
(In furtherance of Heav'n's benign intents),
With magic powers co-operant (a sight
To dumb-strike Wonder and to startle Light),
Presented it to view: all sweet'st consents
And joinèd strengths, all favouring instruments
Conspiring to produce a new Delight!
Earth holds it up, like diamond, to the sun;
Parades and shows it off, a thing of joy,
And a new pleasure, capping all else won!
As a proud child some beautiful new toy.
So in her lap kind Heav'n drops one by one
Its God-sends, to delight her and employ!

TO ENGLAND.

When on thy form, belovèd England mine,
I look, as thou art featured in the map,
And muse on all thy good and evil hap;
Of all thou hast of Human and Divine,
Plough, loom, sword, altar, pen, the sacred Nine,
With thy great Shakspear all (not Heaven's) to cap;
Even as a lover do I seem to wrap
Thee round my heart, and thy dear form enshrine!
In the material presentment thou
Dost truly but a little cantle show
Of this great world; but on thy sea-girt brow
Sits Power like a halo; there doth go
A virtue from thee unto which men bow,
And far thy shadow doth thy glory throw!

THE DEATH OF SPINOZA.

Hast thou a thought to spare, a tear to shed,
Not yet bespoken, not already paid?
Approach! 'tis over! grim Death hath just made
His last dread summons; there he lieth, dead!
Alone, self-centred, that brave spirit fled.
Solved now the mystery, with which he laid
So calmly his account; nor yet afraid,
Nor self-possessed, but God-possessed, God-led!
On truth he looked with fixed and single eye,
Unwavering; never turned his stedfast gaze
Therefrom, nor ever winked, confusèd by
The motes of error floating in its rays.
His soul was focus'd true to Deity,
Whose truth through him, as light through diamond, plays!

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

Methinks this dome diaphanous, this flood
Of light, exalts the function of mere eye,
And fills the soul with sense of purity,
With light clothed as a garment. None but good
And purest thoughts, methinks, should here intrude;
Such as may bear the light; such as ally
The mimic crystal with congenial sky,
Conformed, themselves, to the similitude
Of their fair palace! All things here to fair
Should turn, and baser touches base not know.
Methinks the portals this device should bear,
“Wash and be clean;” the very place says so!
If window-in-the-breast Truth's semblance wear,
Such mansion should with such like tenant go!

THE TRUE AMBITION.

Ambition, like the eagle, buildeth high
His eyrie, often lost amid the cloud,
His plumage ruffled, tempest-beat; too proud
He to consort with lesser fowl, would fly
At highest game, and fain would keep the sky;
But oft, himself o'er-flying, finds a shroud,
Not apotheosis, with pointing crowd,
And capital letters of Humanity!
But when sunward his eagle-sight doth bend;
And, moulting lesser feathers of desire,
His wings on greatest efforts only spend
Themselves, his flight demands a Muse of fire.
Not sitting on low perch, for earthly end,
But borne, true Phœnix! from Hope's ashes higher!

THE TRUE WIFE.

How shall I praise thee, and yet not offend
That modesty which is thy sum of grace;
The lily on thy brow, rose on thy face;
Blush-rose, which would not to itself commend
Itself, still less to other condescend!
Yet must I piece thee out, and loving trace
Thee in particulars, tho' not keep pace
With thy deserts, but breath superfluous spend
In poor superlatives! O Evening-star!
That bringest all sweet things to house and home:
Thy husband feels thee draw him from afar;
And when he hears thy voice his cares are dumb;
Thy children call thee blessèd—blessèd are;
And ill things coming near thee good become!

WHAT THOU DOEST, DO WITH ALL THY MIGHT.

Flinch not! Though hard the strife, the battle seem
Of life, fall not into the abject rear,
For baser things to pass, and, passing, jeer.
Up, and be doing! Those who sleep may dream,
And, waking, glide to ruin with the stream.
Make thy heart as an anvil, ringing clear,
To hammer thy purpose on; till there appear
No flaws, but like hard steel it be and gleam!
Then art thou clad in proof of harness, head
To heel—canst Fortune's blows take in good part,
As training for all who must win their bread;
Then, like the Spartan, proud of strength, not art
Or fence alone, thou worthy art to wed
Dame Fortune, who loves such with all her heart!

INTELLECTUAL LABOUR.

Dogs at the mouth sweat; so do many men,
More women still themselves by mouth do spend,
And, with much labour, neither make nor mend!
But they who think by brain sweat and at pen;
And their sweat-drops are pearls, or pearls' worth, when
They crystallize, and, in brave words set, send
(True gems of thought) forth lustrous light, and lend
New grace to grace, grace things ungraced till then.
This sweat, no product of the common blood,
But wrung from the fine ichor of the brain
By long gestation, birth-throes, such as should
Precede, with mingled ecstasy and pain,
Minervalike-delivery, nought could
Save Jove-like labour yield, and with like strain!

VIVE MEMOR LETHI!

When thou hast trained thy soul so steadfastly,
And to that true and even balance wrought
That neither one way nor t'other sways thy thought
At Death presentive; when on him now nigh
(As on a mere To-morrow, followed by
And following Yesterday), thou, fearing nought,
Canst look; and hear (as stage-aside is caught
By lingering actor), his, “Now must thou die,”
The true, the dread “aside!” When thou canst hear
Unmov'd that whisper, to thee sole addrest,
The while (the stage all stir) the audience cheer
Some present actor at his present best;
Then, like the dial's shadow, steal from here,
And leave thy place in sunshine for new guest!

PARIS.

Blood cries up from thy streets; stone unto stone,
And beam calls unto beam from out thy wall!
Stol'd History trails her skirts as of a pall
Athwart thy ways, and maketh still her moan;
And dips her pen in blood of martyrs gone
To tell the tale of those who yet shall fall;
And keeps a large page blank, to write thee all
At length, when Nemesis shall claim her own!
O bright and beautiful! Yet with foul stain
Of blood on thy so dainty hands, I trow:
“Out, damnèd spot!” thou say'st still and again,
But, as before, it cleaves unto thee now.
Thou, of the nations beautiful—Insane,
Medusa-like, hast snakes about thy brow!

HAPPINESS IN REACH OF ALL.

If of Man's happiness capacity
True measure be, and not large-mawed Desire,
How little have we need of! All that's higher
And better, Best, becomes so mostly by
Ourselves; by estimation and Mind's-eye:
As that is focus'd, ever clearer, nigher
Our happiness; or dimmer, less entire;
Fire on the hearth, or Northern lights in sky,
Dazzling, but cold, far off! For health, pure food
But simple—toil; best sauce to appetite—
Partner for heart, to halve Ill, double Good;
Sweet toil for children, love toil to requite.
God for thy Soul, which doth all Good include;
With Knowledge, cheap, yet precious as the light!

THE VIOLENT CONTRASTS OF NATURE.

Oh, how caressing in her gentlest mood
Is Nature! With her sweet May-breath she blows
Asunder the soft petals of the rose,
Gentle as infant's breathing, lest she should
Rumple the blushing lawn, whose texture would
Put Dacca's looms to shame! Noiseless, she throws
The shuttle of the elements for those
Her flower-soft robes, as if to clothe some nude
And brine-emerging Venus! Who would think
Those cheeks could puff like Boreas? That Sea,
Fondling his bride-like Earth, lipping her brink
As lovers kiss, could “Hercules furens” be?
That Earth, which this To-day with heaven might link,
To-morrow more like link with hell may see!

TO ------.

Oh could I see thy face again! to gaze
On which was cordial and restorative;
As if it said “Fret not thy soul, nor strive
After a vain thing in the world's crooked ways;”
As if of Peace the very resting-place,
Peace in degrees not, but superlative;
At peace with self, at peace with all who live,
With God; His very Peace thy very face!
Oh could I hear thy voice again! Soft, low,
Yet steadfast, with a very inwardness,
As thy sweet soul with every word did go,
With power who heard thee, as thyself, to bless.
Vain thought! Yet what thyself, if such and so,
Thy memory, poor lay-figure! we thus dress!

TRUE GREATNESS.

Sweat upon brow is good, and toil of hand,
That shapeth outwardly the thought of Man;
But nobler far that which eye may not scan,
The inward sweat, which greatest things demand,
Of heart and brain, sole title to command
In word or deed: labour Herculean
Is greatness which would take large lease and span
Of Fame, and, seen of all, the searching stand.
Yes! through this furnace of high suffering
And doing thou must pass thy very heart,
And keep it at white heat, till the true ring
It get, from crack, flaw free in every part;
Let Fortune sound it then, it will not start;
'Tis fit (to God or Man) for everything!

TO MAY, ON A LOVELY, DREAMY DAY.

O thou soft Siren full of flatteries!
With honey-breath, with lazy hum of bee,
Not Industry's blithe pipe now, but to me
Turned to its opposite, in drowsy wise;
And, for more spells, more subtle witcheries,
Soft rustle of the leaves, birds' melodie,
With falling waters, making sense to flee,
And Time, to keep awake still, rub his eyes.
O thou sweet Sybarite! I lay my head
On thy voluptuous breast, whose Siren beat
Unstrengths, as Samson shorn Delilah led!
Like the beats of doves' wings the moments fleet;
I lie on heap'd up roses, Nectar-fed,
Lapped from all cares in some divine retreat!

PERSONAL IDENTITY.

OLD AGE.

ON A LOVELY, STILL MAY-DAY.

Rest, rest! all seems to be, and feel, and say.
The soft and balmy air has but just stress
Enough t' imprint a kiss of happiness
On the half-parted lips of odorous May,
And, with her sweet breath mingling, fade away.
The leaf scarce stirs, in pleasure's restlessness,
For sense of change. Nature, as in undress,
Her toilette leaves half-finished for one day.
The sun shines as if he had nought to do,
Who does so much (His Maker imaging),
By look and light. The clouds are still and few,
Like ships becalmed. So resteth everything.
So rest, my Soul! and let this pause, like dew,
Refresh thee, inward peace recovering.

“HEU! QUANTO JUCUNDIUS EST TUI MEMINISSE QUAM ALIIS VERSARI.”

FIRST LOVE.

O rose, full of the primy dew of morn,
Life's virgin-morn, just bursting into flower;
In freshness of thy youth, fulness of thy dower
Of beauty; not one charm dashed, one grace shorn;
No forecast thou canst ever be forlorn;
Canst fade and shed thy leaves in ordained hour,
Like canker-blooms; or worm of grief devour
Thy budding beauty till it be a scorn!
One breath of thy so ravishing perfume
Intoxicates the sense, until we seem
Immortal and beyond the reach of doom!
It hangs around us yet; and e'en the dream
Of that enchanting time, 'mid later gloom,
Like morn re-risen on dark noon doth gleam!

THE SERVICE OF THE MUSE.

Those meeting fervours, that prevenient grace
Of inspiration, when the heavenly Muse
To thy low state doth condescend, well use,
And grace, so being graced—let all give place
Thereto; to that revealing of her face
Divine; for thou canst not the moment chuse
(Oh neither then neglect it nor abuse),
Nor yet the manner of her rare embrace!
As Juno to Ixion, with a cloud
That barren passing drops nor rain nor dew,
She mocks th' incapable, self-seeking proud:
But Venus to Anchises unto you
She'll prove, if with a spirit high yet bow'd,
Thou love her for herself, and serve her true!

INNER FREEDOM.

Many are slaves, or slavish, who would shake
Their chains indignantly to prove them free,
Should'st thou but hint that such or so they be,
Not “free of no mean city.” It would take
Far other strengths than Samson used to break
His withies; for their bonds these do not see;
Invisible, self-forged—Idolatrie
And worship of false gods they themselves make.
Of subtler forms of servitude we find
Men's natures narrowed to a book, a creed,
A sect, a Shibboleth; blind leading blind:
A capital sin in Nature's page to read
God's law, “writ large” by Himself, Who doth bind
His creatures only to what He doth need!

TO ------.

Love to those lovely eyes, twin stars of light!
Flew from the furthest sky direct as thought,
And like a moth by sudden radiance caught,
Sought at all points if there he enter might.
But finding that thy chaste soul held him slight,
About he hovers, yet prevaileth nought;
At most, a tiny mote, he there hath wrought;
But with his wonted blindness failed to smite!
'Tis not a mote “to trouble thy mind's eye;”
Yet on such tenant “notice” serve, for there
He'll lodge, and for all quit-rent pay a sigh;
While he spreads for thee some insidious snare!
Till by degrees that tiny mote all thy
Sweet vision film, and thou Love's blindness share!

THE REVERSIBLE POLITICAL PALETÔT.

“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”
Distinction without difference almost,
The vanishing-point where finally, ere lost,
Meet Tory and Liberal lines, and acquiesce.
By what defect here, there by what excess
Each becomes other; with how little cost
Of principle the mongrel-“strains” are crost,
For a new hybrid, he who runs may guess!
As Jacob's sheep and cattle did conform
To the ring-streak'd and spotted rods, so place
And office Liberal and Tory form.
Placeless, the Liberal shows the dull flock-face;
The Tory crawls, as like as worm to worm:
But sight of those will speck and spot each race!

MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO.

Can there worse folly be than—“pearl to Swine?”
Yes! we may with a worse superlative
Cap that, and kill the bees that fill the hive.
As health 'bove pearl, 'bove earthly the divine;
That folly in such measure is of thine,
O Man, who sacrificest Life to live;
The most Enduring for most Fugitive;
The pearl o' price for refuse of the mine!
Thy health of soul and body thou dost spend
In fleshly lusts and worldliness, as though
But base commodities men buy and vend.
Thou let'st the precious spring in waste o'erflow,
Which green thy life should keep unto the end,
Aad through waste places, led by Death, dost go!

GENIUS; ITS CREATIVE POWER.

When minds conceptive and original
Delivered are, with Nature for midwife;
Gestation perfect, nought with her at strife,
Self-birthing, without forceps surgical;
How strong and lively doth the issue fall
From their so teeming brains; as full of life
As eke Minerva, with a wit as ripe
As her great sire's, answering every call.
Nothing so “flat, stale, and unprofitable,”
But they can set a gloss of novelty
Upon it—th' earthy Caliban compel
To serve some dainty Ariel of the sky;
Make the heart beat, laugh ring, the tear to swell;
“One touch of Nature” all they conjure by.

LOVE'S DIALECT.

Why call ye, blushing messengers, to each
Fair cheek Love's living rose of modesty?
Seeks, then, that eloquent soul which in her eye
Beyond the Bar doth plead, the Pulpit preach,
By dumb expressive signs beyond dull speech,
(Painting the cheek with Love's own heraldry,
Gules, gules; the crimson substitutes whereby
Her blood doth speak), o'er Mediates to reach,
Direct from soul to soul! It must be so;
O truthful messengers! who, blushing, say
(And leave no doubt like spoken “yes” or “no'),
I need not fear a yes-misconstrued-nay!
Bear from my eyes to hers the answer; go!
And, without words, say all my heart would say!

GENIUS; ITS STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS.

Insatiate still, thou stretchest out thy hand;
Hands to which Kings, though long, have not like thine
Such reach and grasp of Human and Divine.
And yet the Yearn'd-for, Coveted (like sand
Too largely clutched), slip through thy grasp so grand,
And fall in fragments! Precious they may shine,
Yet not the sunlike diamond single-fine,
But its fine dust, things which all else withstand
To polish still sole-fit! Thou must in all,
Of all, with less content be; satisfied
To polish, at new angle set, in small,
Some facette of God's truth—to trail thy pride;
And hear, when thou with base things dost foul-fall,
Who strivest as with angels, fiends deride!

THE SWAY OF GREAT AUTHORS.

I love to let some mighty soul of old,
Some Spirit true-Promethean, with the heat
Of his grand contact (like a furnace meet
The Potter's finest clay to bake and mould),
Heat me right through and through, so that I cold
May never grow again, but still defeat
Time's frost and numbness, and retain complete
The “brand” of the great Potter, clear and bold!
I love to let the intellectual flood
Rise on my mental shores to top of spring,
O'erflow “with might of waters unwithstood”
Each bay and creek, and float each stranded thing,
Beat back the petty streams of my heart's-blood,
And brim the channels with the tides they bring!

TO ------.

Where are those eyes in which Love gathered all
His ardours, fervours, and conjunctive rays,
And fused, as in a focus, in one blaze,
To scorch all hearts on which their glance might fall;
Had he not, such dread issue to forestall,
Blent melting pity with them, and their gaze,
As April drops, soft dews, and tender haze
The sun, attempered at sweet Mercy's call!
Where is that voice which took the listening air,
And made it hold its breath as if spell-bound?
To hear which Silence would herself forswear,
And Echo with repeats prolong the sound.
Gone, gone! and Love himself forlorn must fare
Sore wounded, when he only thought to wound!

TO A YOUNG LADY.

On that fair page, thy face, Time hath not writ
Thee yet at large; the lines there still are few
And cursive; and the characters, yet new
(Not stereotyped to thy more settled wit
And purpose), various readings may admit.
The text, not yet collated, on review
Of new editions, with corrections due,
Time will revise, and both add and omit!
So, most fair book! since I may not turn o'er
The page to see what's writ o' t' other side,
I read between the lines, and try t' explore
What good, or (if must) ill hap thee betide!
But o'er the page a mist spreads as I pore;
The Future writes in cipher privacied!

TO ------.

SHAKSPEAR'S WONDERFUL ASSIMILATIVE POWER.

In the grand furnace of thy genius
What vessels rare of finest porcelain,
Vessels of grace, vases for heart and brain
Themselves to empty in (surchargèd thus,
More unto Most, Excess to Overplus,
With thy additions; cumulative gain);
Have been kept at white heat by thy full strain
Of inspiration, gracèd for the use
And service of the Muses! Through that fire
Oh let me pass my poor untempered clay,
And, keeping still that heat of high desire,
Come forth a vessel for the Muse to lay
Her holy hands on; and, like urn on pyre,
All that is earthy in it burn away!

THE TEMPLE.

With “Evidences,” proofs, “Analogies,”
The rough ways ye make smooth, the crooked straight,
That from Earth's ends lead to the Temple-gate:
To which those steps majestically rise,
Worn by the tread of holy centuries!
The spacious portals seem to stretch, dilate,
To welcome the great hosts, early and late,
Which stream to hear that message of the skies!
Oh, will it stand the earthquake and the shock
Of Change, before which venerable things,
Clothed in the sanctities of ages, rock
And reel, while sadly to her Cross Faith clings!
Alas! Time goes past with a rush, and mock
I' the tongue, and with the whirlwind of his wings!

LIFE ETERNAL.

Blessèd are they who fallen have asleep
In the Lord Christ, untroubled by a doubt;
To whom Death comes, like gaoler, to let out
From this vile prison-house of flesh: who weep
Most precious tears, and with His pure blood steep
And medicine the wounds they bear about
In the World's warfare; with His scorn their flout
Console, their deep wound with His deepest wound!
O blessèd faith! without thee what were Man!
Poor, naked wretch! stript without and within;
(Worse than when, wild yet credulous, he ran),
With all to lose, nought here or there to win!
A howling wilderness this Life! a span!
And that too long for selfishness and sin!

TO ------.

How shall I paint thee? Shall it be with pen
Or pencil? With weak, dedicated phrase,
Strainèd and stretch'd to measure of thy praise;
With windy rhetoric which fails most when
'Tis needed most? Not in the tongues of men
Thy commendation dwells; such praise gainsays
Thy worth; too loud for thy meek, gentle ways;
Sweet, but like violets, most most out of ken!
Shall I, then, in a Titian's palette dip
The pencil; paint thee radiant as the morn,
With dewy eyes, and mouth where bees might sip?
No! with the modest lilies I adorn
Thy stainless brow; set truth upon thy lip,
True Rose of Sharon! Rose without a thorn!

GENIUS ISOLATED—“VÆ SOLO ET SINGULARI.”

TO THE SWEET NYMPH ------.

Coy Lily-of-the-vale! whoso would find
Thy whereabouts, must turn aside, and play
At hide-and-seek with Nature by the way;
And ask the wandering and perfum'd wind,
Sweet innocent tell-tale, where, perdúe, behind
Some verdurous covert, thou mak'st coy display,
Yet prodigal for thee, if but a ray
Of sun betray thee through its leafy blind.
The rose upon thy cheek is pale, save when
It blush at praise of its own loveliness;
Like some sweet Dryad thou the ways of men
Dost shun, and lovèst Nature in undress,
And, as without within, thou alien
In soul dost seem, beyond dull earthly guess.

DOUBT.

TO A YOUNG MOTHER.

Yes! Love hath writ him large in that sweet face,
Writ with his freest hand, his best of styles:
Methinks the sweet name, “Mother,” in those smiles
Is character'd; none others own such grace;
None those can counterfeit, none take their place.
Love with all others mingles some sweet guiles,
With baser touches Passion oft defiles,
But these are pure, of earth show scarce a trace.
Yes; thou hast seen them in the tiny glass
Of infant-faces sweet reflections meet,
From large to small the recognition pass.
So, in smooth sunlit waters, ripples fleet,
From centre stirred, in tiny dimples as
They laugh in sunshine, and, in small, repeat.

THE EARLY DEATHS OF RAPHÁEL, MOZART, KEATS, &c.

O Death, thou terrible reaper! why such speed?
Could'st thou not spare the stately ears that stand
Above the level grain, so full and grand;
That take the first and latter sun, and lead
The hopes of harvest; but must like the weed
Low lay them, and destroy them out of hand,
Ere they could ripen to full self-command,
And gloriously mellowing run to seed?
Why dost thou spare mechanic hand and brain,
That scarcely parts his function from the brute,
To let us see, then snatch away again,
And hear, an angel, but to strike him mute!
Haply such gifts (too precious to retain)
Heaven's loans are; brief, their value so to suit!

AN ASPIRATION.

O thou grand Lyre of the Muses, have
Or have I not—is it a vain conceit
That I have—stirred by your great borrowed heat
Of inspiration, tried a chord that gave
New tones, and new-attunèd ears doth crave?
A sound went forth, and echoes strange did meet
With grand reverbs; o'er Time and Space they fleet
Into Eternity, beyond the Grave!
And I have shrunk from them. My petty cry
(As when, oppressed with mountain-solitude,
Echoes reduplicate and magnify)
Startles strange sounds that Evil bode, as Good.
Little mine ear receives; all's mystery;
So much more that World-echo doth include!

SHAKSPEAR.

ON A VERY MILD FEBRUARY.

NAPOLEON I.

To fit the air for healthy breathing need
Of storm and whirlwind is, with world-wide wing
To stir the stagnant atmosphere, to fling
And toss the yeasty ocean, lest it breed
Corruption. Like a fire-manèd steed,
Through region-clouds electric slumbering,
The lightning leaps with thunder-bound and spring,
To fit the air for life, the earth for seed.
And such, in this our human atmosphere,
That thunderbolt of war, Napoleon;
Shattering old “stocks and stones,” and making clear
Large spaces for Mankind to move upon.
A meteor (though men held their breath from fear)
Which cleared the air, and Nations breathed anon!

NIGHT ON LAND.

The car of Sleep is waiting for thee; still,
And black as night, the steeds prance not nor neigh;
Each on his frontlet bears a starry ray;
While from their nostrils dews of night distil,
And poppiéd breaths that prisoners take the will
And sense: with noiseless hoofs they beat away
The flakèd darkness, and the mists that play
About them, shapes Morphean, good and ill.
Not seen those vision'd steeds by mortal eye,
Which o'er that mid-space of Oblivion
Bear thee; that Lethe on whose each shore lie
Thy past and future. Horses of the Sun
Some dream them; wing'd like Pegasus they fly;
Some, Hippogriffs, which mad fiends ride upon.

NIGHT ON WATER.

Now noiseless, stealing up to the dim shore
Of this day's ebbing life, that fleets away
In hopes and fears, in earnest and in play;
Like a dim gondolier with muffled oar,
And shadows thickening round him more and more,
Sleep, a vague form, his mystic bark doth lay
Alongside Lethe's wharf, from the past day
To ferry thee, Oblivion's waters o'er,
To the dim further bank! The shore recedes;
Faint grow the sounds of life; faint, fainter gleam
The lights, till nought thy steeped sense longer heeds:
As silent as the stars the voyage doth seem.
That other shore draws near; where Hope precedes
Thy coming, and Aurore dispels thy dream!

TO THE ADDRESSEE OF THE SONNET P.

Oh if Truth in the bottom of a well
Her habitation have, and there doth lie
Perdu, to see and to reflect but sky,
Sure in those wells of light, thine eyes, which tell
Her whereabouts, she now, for change, must dwell!
And, bettering what was best, in either eye
Reduplicates its and her purity,
Twofold, yet one, in either crystal cell!
If purest lymph in crystal vase seem pure,
And hard to say which purest, the contained
Or the containing; in those eyes, oh sure!
Thy soul hath suchlike purest medium gained.
For there we, free from all that could obscure,
Behold it in itself, and self-explained!

UNDER A CLOUD, OR IMMORTALITY AND PERSONAL IDENTITY.

LOOK IN THIS GLASS.

There is a mirror of such purity
That the least breath would dim it; blur within
The clear reflections which its origin
And truth attest: for, should it falsify
The image, 'twould give its own self the lie!
So fragile, the distempering touch of Sin,
Nay, the mere image, aught thereto akin,
Would unanneal, and cause to flaw and fly.
So should it poorly, brokenly reflect
Thy image, perfect, there so pure and grand,
Thy “glass of fashion!” which, wise, circumspect,
Self-awed, O Woman dear! should ever stand
Before thee, show at large, and, so, correct,
Mirror of Chastity, held in Truth's hand!

REMORSE.

Oh, how the harsh word, with the gentle speech,
Which turneth wrath aside, encounterèd,
Recallèd after, and of tongues now dead
And silent, makes with two-edged stroke sore breach
I' the heart; no longer one-edged! and how each
Cuts to the quick! Oh how rebuked we tread
The turf that covers some belovèd head,
Forgiving and forgiven beyond reach
Alike! How sad that worst of knells, “too late!”
When yearning Memory leads availless Love
To weep o'er graves that bear untimely date!
Oh how the eyes that only looked above,
To ask sweet Heaven for patience, make us hate
Ourselves, and feel as viper to the dove!

GREAT MEN STOOPING TO PEERAGES.

O littleness in greatness, meanness in pride!
Under “the bushel” of a coronet
To hide a light like star in heaven set!
To petty pace conventional the stride
As of a giant dwarf, with “red-tape” tied;
With ceremonial forms and epithet
Of poor additions and mere counterfeit;
Belittled inwards, outwards magnified!
To set as star of the first magnitude,
Merged in an artificial galaxy!
The old name lost, the new not understood;
The great, which in men's mouths he was known by,
Obscured; true homage, due but unto Good,
Transferr'd, or render'd but vicariously.

LONDON MENDICANCY.

This mendicant spirit, like a leprosy,
Eats out the social heart, all life doth sap.
Weak Charity, through every human hap
Of weal or woe, as midwife must be nigh,
Nurse, doctor, teacher, preacher, by and by
Too undertaker, and in coffin clap;
At the last scene as first; then bait her trap
Again, and those still bury bodily
She killed in spirit! Oh, the shame and sin!
Sublimest Duty lays no holy stress
On such. Life's claims, ties, children, all things, came
Mere waifs and strays, which, unbless'd, cannot bless!
No self-denial, forethought, worthy aim:
No duty done, therefore no happiness.

ON AN EXQUISITE BYGONE FEMALE FACE.

Oh, but to think that such a face could pass
Clean out of sight, and be for aye forgot;
That men should now say 'tis, and now, “'tis not!”
Nature did in thy make herself surpass;
And herself, drawn at full, as in a glass
Perfection viewed in thee, and found no blot;
That thou Perfection's self wast, thy sole spot,
And mad'st it doubtful which Perfection was!
Oh, through those eyes, which dull the diamond's ray,
What lights of soul, from depths unfathomèd,
Divine as through diaphanous ether, play!
Sweet lips, which that sweet soul interpreted!
O lavish Nature! thus to throw away
Perfection, and not keep the mould instead!

MAN.

Thou poor, conceited Ape, in rags of pride!
A little lower than the angels, eh!
Far less above Gorilla than thee they,
Thou quasi-tail'd! Thy “proud-flesh” heart goes wide
O' what thou art, and, self from self to hide,
In star-fleck'd robe immortal wraps thy clay,
And 'fore high heaven fantastic tricks doth play,
Trailing it i' the mire, with the stride
And strut o' a peacock! Pardon if I quote
“The wish is father to the thought,” the thought
“Still-born;” or, if live-born, from birth doth dote:
Too close in likeness to the parents wrought!
'Tis honest Madam's issue, and no poet
Hath any Jove in golden shower here caught!

DE PROFUNDIS.

O God! that I could cast this flesh aside,
Like a moth-eaten garment, and renew
My spirit, feel at heart the quickening dew
Of Faith undoubting—once more at my side
Hope, prompt to show (himself the offered guide)
The path that leads the labyrinth sure through;
Adventurous guide! too confident, and too,
Too sanguine for a world where far and wide
Run Error's cross-roads! And, oh worst of all!
When Faith halts, and Hope lags towards the end,
False and deluding voices to us call,
This way and that, and on wild errands send.
While, to make the way more equivocal,
Doubt, in disguise, to show it doth pretend!

OUR PUBLIC MONUMENTS TO NELSON, HAVE-LOCK, ETC., AND OUR ART JOBBERY.

O noble souls! whose grand lives burn away
Like holy incense on the altar laid
Of God and Fatherland; by fire conveyed
Direct from heaven lit, such as did play
On Abel's offering, and God's grace convey;
Hard were your lot by Fame herself betrayed,
Thus “hung in chains” and “Guys” for ever made;
The fame Life gained Death helping to bewray!
Can we not then commemorate in stone
Or bronze as nobly as we do the deed;
Or are we great in act and deed alone,
And two such crops the same soil cannot breed?
Not so! immortal Greece in both kinds shone;
But Art and Life with her one breast did feed!

TO ------.

Oh thou dost dazzle me! thine eyes my eyes,
And through eyes thy soul my soul dominates.
Through mere degrees and intermediates
To top o' spring (as sea to moon) I rise;
Love urging set of tide with all his sighs!
Poor soul! thou flutterèst, like the dove that mates,
Caught with the lures and captured with the baits
Set in those heart-traps with such sweet disguise!
Be merciful, and let thy loveliness
Kill, like an opiate, while we dream of bliss,
And to our hearts th' executioner press;
One mortal wound give with immortal kiss!
Let Pity in those sweet eyes acquiesce
With Love, by gentlest sentence to dismiss!

CULTURE.

Thy reason nourish; let the diet be
Solid, yet generous, less words than things;
Facts more than speculation, which oft brings
Earth's mists about it, leaving thee as he
Who grasped a cloud and thought it Deitie.
Feed thy imagination; 'tis Man's wings;
And from its rainbow pinions quickening flings
Dew of the spirit; keeping Life fresh and free,
Not servile, flat, mechanic. Let their beat
Be balanced, else they will not rise, with airs
From heaven fan, and lift thee off thy feet.
Last, but not least, to give thee nobler cares,
To Life its fullest light, most central heat,
Love! which Man's life exalts, upholds, repairs!

TO A RAY OF LIGHT.

O thou bright messenger of light, to whose
Swift motion wingèd speed is but snail's-pace,
And lightning lags, and thought, which else the race
Might win, doth in a labyrinth confuse
Itself, and in so boundless prospect lose;
Since thou didst leave thy wondrous starting-place
Five hundred courses hath the sun through space
Accomplish'd, surely then thou bring'st strange news!
That wondrous orb which sped thee on thy way
May be meanwhile burnt out, lost to the sky,
Or changed, like Sirius, from Mars' red ray
To settled light of gracious augury!
'Twixt leaving and arriving Nations may
Have run their course, nay, Earth's own end draw nigh!

THE “TICHBORNE” TRIAL.

Credulity, thy maw is wondrous wide!
The Boa-constrictor nothing is to thee;
He may be gorged, but thou canst never be.
Could'st thou throw up the messes rank supplied
By that huge knave-fool World to stuff thy hide,
Thou to thy vomit would'st return, and see
The same huge “cram” in kind both and degree,
Yet swallow, as if for the first time tried.
Thou bloated monster! Surely for one meal
That (in fat) Falstaff “Claimant” might suffice!
Thou with him as Boas with their “gorge” didst deal;
Didst slaver him all o'er, lick into nice
Presentable shape, so down thy maw to steal;
Yet gap'st for more, with open mouth and eyes!

THE STARS.

Oh, when I gaze on that transcendent sight,
Whose beauty ravishes and grandeur awes,
Whose mystery confounds in end and cause,
Between which, as between th' opposèd might
Of th' upper and nether millstones, Self is quite
To atoms ground; my petty life doth pause,
And, as constrainèd by a Power which draws
Mysteriously, in Being's Whole takes flight!
Yes! gently, yet resistlessly as stream
(With ocean meeting) merges in the tide,
I lose my “Self:” recalled from that grand dream,
I think on graves, and all that we would hide:
I crawl again; and basest creatures seem
To trail with slime of Earth o'er all Man's pride!

OLD AGE.

Oh, here we enter on the Desert; here
The Great Saharas of the Heart, sad, dry,
Waste, springless, loveless, blank before us lie!
Sad prospect! sad at distance, most sad near!
We enter it alone in soul, whate'er
Of love abideth with us outwardly
(Outward itself too oft, lip-service, eye-
Observance), losing still ourselves, with Fear,
Ill guide in evil place! Few springs are there,
Round which some stray Forget-me-nots may grow,
Which Memory plucks, and fain would with her bear;
But they too fade. Death breathes on them—they go,
And we go too. Fear stumbles o'er Despair;
And Death alone remains the way to show!

THE UNIVERSE.

All changes (changed while changing), Greatest, Least.
We Men, we measure by our timèd state
The spans of the All-Being without date,
And Nature's book with Man have frontispieced.
This Self-evolving Whole, never increased
Nor lessened by one atom, doth create
In circle, endless and reciprocate,
Ne'er ending, aye-beginning, nought surceased,
All changed, yet but in mode: Means mating ends,
The Grandest is wrought as the Easiest.
As through its safety-valve an engine sends
Excess, an Ætna's burst relieves Earth's breast;
And a small change of axis, as Earth wends,
Will change her seasons, times, and all the rest.

THE GRIEF APART.

Oh if such 'mid our dear ones sorrow be,
Where all hearts join to lighten common woe,
All tears make up one sympathetic flow,
And hearts are eased when tongues can set them free,
(As prisoners, who glimpse of heaven see
Through their cell-windows, sense of freedom know,
Suggestion supplementing little show),
And loves drawn closer gain in some degree;—
If this be so, what then the grief that lies
Coiled like a viper round the secret heart,
Which stings within, and smothers up its cries,
Gulps its “hysterica passio” down, adds smart
To smart, in inarticulate anguish dies,
Pressing the wound, and driving home the dart!

MUSIC IN EXCELSIS.

Has it then ceased? So soft the melody
Dies out, that it and Silence scarcely part
Their function; nor can nice-apportioning art
The interval debateable (like sky
And water meeting) clearly certify.
This is the spell of Music; echoes start
To being at its call, and in the heart
The stirred chords vibrate on, long ere they die.
That is the wondrous-subtle instrument,
Of countless stop and string, and compass wide,
On which she playeth to her full intent;
With Poesy, rapt listener, at her side!
Yes! sweet consoling angel, heaven-sent,
Down its true diapáson she doth glide!

GERMANY AND “ARMED PEACE.”

MEMORIES.

The sweet-sad thoughts of bygone happy days
Steal o'er me; bygone voices, laughter sweet,
Gone, like their echoes, never more to greet
The ear or thrill the heart: as, through soft haze
Of sweet May-twilight, in still lonesome ways,
Faint evening-chimes, all-unexpected, meet
The ear, from distance into distance fleet,
And thrill our heartstrings, as some stray air sways
Æolian chords! As through some magic hall
In memory we wander through the Past;
With awe we tread, for solemn echoes wall
And roof return, lights, shadows solemn cast:
With music solemn-sweet; as at the last
Sad rites some Minster-anthem's dying fall!

THE ASHANTI WAR.

When our high-civilised Minerva, cased
In proof of harness, brain-wrought panoply,
Demanding Science of both hand and eye,
Brute force with art and rare device replaced,
And warlike crest with skill, the serpent, graced,
Armed cap-à-pie, with thunders of the sky,
With the Bellona rude of savagery
In contact comes, the naked goddess placed
At sore odds is. Yet, certes, she shows well
In the true raw material of “Man,”
Although her deeds no “sacer vates” tell!
Betwixt the two no bridge the gulf can span:
Civilitie must Savagerie still quell
In savage sort, if but to prove she can!

TINTERN ABBEY AND THE WYE.

Thy waters, as before Man named them, flow;
Thy hills, as erst, put on their full-dress suits
Of leafy June; thy birds their woodland flutes
Pipe more sedately, and their loves forego,
And thoughtful o'er their procreant cradles grow.
Thy Abbey, where with ruin Time disputes,
And beauty reconciles, and awe salutes,
Blends with and like great Nature's work doth show.
And so it is: sermons are in those stones:
Time preaches with more than Man's eloquence!
The Spirit that dwelt here its cradle owns,
Hallows and haunts: Religion spread from hence
Her fair Humanities o'erawing thrones,
And giving daily Life its reverence!

MUSIC.

All instruments of stop, breath, touch, wire, string,
Even that Colossus musical of sound,
In whose vast lungs th' imprisoned winds are bound
To suit and service, and like angels sing,
Or with pent strengths, in basses thundering
Hearing o'erawe; all these do but expound
The inward harmony, too grand, profound
For such confine and outward fashioning.
Oh what a concert, without audience,
Within that shrine of Music, his own mind,
Mozart performed, when with his finer sense
He heard all instruments as one combined:
Not this or that, in varying excellence,
But One divinest, in degree and kind!

THE TRAGIC AND HIGH-PASSIONED BUSKIN.

They lead more lives than one, who on the stage
Play many parts, and spend their heart and brain
On proxièd sorrow and vicarious pain:
Who doubly bear, with Lear, madness and age,
Or, with distraught Othello, love and rage;
Who muttering, crazed, “Out, damnèd spot!” sustain
The load of crime, or poor Ophelia's bane,
Or with “To be or not to be” war wage!
With these, that Life upon a stage more real,
With many parts too, many hard to play
Before stern critics, through its woe and weal,
The feign'd and reál often in one day.
Life's light thus burning at both ends must sweal
And flare, and in its own heat waste away!

LIFE-TRAINING.

An anvil make thy heart: ring back the blows
Reduplicate of Fortune: who would test,
Of all good metal make the most and best;
With her hard hits and haps, she beats out close
And tempers fine (as Vulcan did, with those
His Cyclops, Mars' armour and proud crest),
True proof of harness, for Life's nobler quest,
'Gainst inward treacheries and outward foes.
If thou hast not been passed thus through the fire,
Beaten and buffeted, and at white heat
Of suffering wrought to Better and to Higher,
Thou wilt not bear the shock, the trial meet;
Like unannealèd glass, thy weak desire,
Cooling too quick, shall flaw—like water fleet!

GENIUS.

This will the rainbow, ere it from the sky
Fades off, spread on his palette, and suffuse
His landscape with its iridescent hues;
That with some form divine fill heart and eye.
Another stocks and stones will vivify;
Or on true lawful marriages of Use
And Beauty call down blessings from the Muse;
Or give to Fictions more reality
Than flesh and blood. Such, Genius, is thy spell!
True Proteus! thou all forms as thine canst take.
The deeds of one another's words shall tell;
Translate in colours; monumental make
In marble; act them on the stage as well
As done; or Music grandly with them wake.

A CHRISTMAS WAIL, NOT CAROL: THE BELLS THAT RANG IN RING OUT.

O mournful sound! more dreary than the bell
(Mere minor key to this!) whose iron tongue
Tells us our best-belov'd have just among
The lost been numbered! Thou art the true knell!
Thou mak'st my heart even to bursting swell!
O fatal summons! dreaded death-bell rung
O'er all of best and holiest said and sung
By Prophet, Poet, Saint, in oracle,
In lay- or holy-writ! Wrap, poor lost soul,
Despair around thee like a winding-sheet;
Be darkened, Nature, and eclipsèd roll,
Thou Sun! for chillèd is that greater heat,
Darkened that greater light of this great whole;
That blessèd Faith is dead and obsolete!

LIBERATED ROME—A SUNSET VIEW FROM THE HEIGHTS.

The City seems, as in a furnace set,
All at red heat, in the fierce sunset-glow;
The dying fires of day like embers show,
Burnt through and through. Darkness and Light, as yet
At odds, as o'er some smouldering city met
Opposing powers, pause; the waters flow
With molten gold and crimson; while, below,
The City-spaces, as if cooling, get
Deep lurid umberings. Domes, roofs, towers, heights,
Redden awhile, then darken into shade.
'Tis a grand furnace! and, in Fancy's flights,
Rome through it passed, Rome unclean and decayed,
A vessel purified for Freedom's rights,
By her great moulding hands may be remade!

PERFECTION.

O Beautiful! transcending mortal thought
And Man's capacity! Though Hope and Youth,
Each other fooling, yet untaught by Truth,
Dream thy bright shape Protean may be caught,
And within brief confine of time be brought,
Divine Perfection, thou thyself in sooth
Show'st, Iris-like, touched as with heavenly ruth,
Bright through poor Mortals' tears, through which, when sought
With close embrace, thou fadest! Out, alas!
Like mock'd Ixion's cloud Junonian,
Thou from our yearning hearts and grasp dost pass,
Too beautiful for Earth, not made for Man!
Yet looking back with ruth; for thy love was
And is the soul of all he does and can!

THE STARS.

O ye bright orbs! how beautiful ye are
In limpid light, pure diamonds of the sky,
Eternal jewels, gems of the Most High,
In your grand sapphire-setting! Near and far;
Some with self-splendour, more particular,
Shine on the front of Distance; some, more nigh,
In radiant fellowship keep company;
Or gleam, as from deep azure caverns spar.
Ye raise yet baffle wonder! How my soul
Yearns to unlock your secrets! What lives there?
How? with what finer senses, loftier goal?
Existences with which ours but compare
As the first upward step in the great Whole,
Where God im-beings Himself everywhere!

TO ------, CONVALESCING.

Kind Sleep hath shaken from his downy wings
Balmy Lethæan dews o'er thy dear head,
Lulled thee with fanning pinions, whisperèd
Sweet lullabies; with th' opiates he brings
Honey'd Thought's gall, ta'en out Pain's waspish stings.
Not sucking, vampire-like, thy lifeblood, fed
Thereon, but all thy troubles; which are fled
With those beyond the Flood, memorial things.
Sleep on! Should Death, who threatened thee erewhile,
Returning, this deep sleep mistake for his
Which knows no waking, of thy sweet mouth's smile
Enamoured, he would stoop to kill and kiss!
But find (so close the imitation is)
That Sleep can even Death himself beguile!

FALSE PRIDE OF INTELLECT.

Thou dost not “write for bread,” forsooth! Thy Muse
Must feed on manna dírect from the sky;
On Temple-shewbread! the World standing by
To pick the crumbs up, schooled not to abuse
The privilege to any vulgar use.
Thou, raised above our poor Humanity,
A halo round thy head hast, that none nigh
Thy presence come who homage would refuse!
Go! the Muse scorns thy self-idolatrie.
Go! knead thy daily bread with sweat of hand
Or brain; and if the leaven bitter be,
The bread will all the better rise and stand.
'Tis sacramental if God's hand thou see;
Daily Communion-bread, each day's demand!

HUMILIATING ASPECT OF OLD AGE.

The World doth leave the greatest still behind.
Old age (Man's second childhood) after it
Doth toil, but ever with arrears of wit,
Shortcoming alway; even as the mind
Of his first Childhood leading-strings confined
In rear of eldership; schooled bit by bit,
Precept on precept, line on line, to fit
And piece its knowledge. But Old Age doth find
Unlearning harder still! 'Tis a harsh school,
To put our pride of Knowledge off, as 'twere
A quaint, old garment, which men ridicule;
Gone out of fashion, worn out, or threadbare;
The while, with gloss of novelty, some fool
In borrowed feathers struts, and makes compare.

CUPID AND PLUTUS.

Poor Love! thou wilt be bankrupted ere long!
Sighs, kisses, billets-doux, bow, œillades, all
Thy stock in trade (if such things we may call
By name so vulgar), not worth an old song!
Thy imaged Self, too! melted down (worst wrong!)
In earthly fires, not heats ethereal
Like thine, into a frying-pan, that shall
Sweet-breads, not sweet-hearts, fry (base use!) among
Things mere-mechanic. O poor Love! thou art
No match for Plutus; thou dost keep thy “books,”
Like billets-doux, mere matters of the heart;
Writ'st not thy bad debts off; discountest looks
And promises to pay “at sight.” Ye start
Not even; thine the baits, but his the hooks!

TO ------.

Methinks I see, when gazing in thine eye,
As through a telescope some beauteous star,
Else only guessed at vaguely from afar,
Thy very soul shining perspectively
Through that long vista as of purest sky!
Through its blue depths, which clear as crystal are,
Thy soul shines forth withouten let or bar,
As through thy soul God's light, Truth, we descry.
If from a space-lost star, far Halcyon,
A ray of light five hundred years doth take
To reach this Earth, by what comparison
Shall we that ray, which from thy soul doth make
Its way to mine, then measure? There is none:
Of God, 'tis measurable by God alone!

THE LIGHTS OF THE WORLD.

'Tis well that some (great Souls) should stand aside,
From the dull World apart, like mountains grand,
The heights of God, o'erlooking all the land;
Above all intervenients, which hide
The view of lesser men, and swell their pride;—
Heights which rebuke its littleness, and stand
In light and glory, glowing like the brand
Of Truth, passed on high overhead, while wide
O'er all else darkness lies;—Heights first to take
The dawn, and last to lose the afterglow;
Up which the foremost spirits, who off shake
The dust of Custom to the Winds that blow
Like God's own breath, and the tall cedars break,
Climb in their strength, God's hidden things to know!

TO A NOBLE FRIEND.

O Friend! with whom one wound makes two hearts bleed;
So full o' the milk of human kindness, which,
Enriching others, maketh thee most rich;
E'en as a fount which many sources feed,
Turns many a mill, yet bateth not of speed,
Nor suffers decrement, like the dull ditch
That stagnates in itself. If Fame no niche
Reserve for thee, thy name “writ large” we read
In a diviner Scroll! Methinks thou hast
By that sublime arithmetic of Love,
“Division and Subtraction,” so Self cast
Aside, that Self now can thee nothing move.
By thy “addition” (while thou, than thou wast,
No less art), I am greater, yet less prove!

TO ------.

No “Patience on a tomb” wert thou, but Pain,
Patience-transfigured, through that agony,
The sublime proxy of Humanity,
Whose greater did thy less exalt, constrain,
And made thee suffer as if loss were gain!
As if some angel, missioned from the sky,
Had proffered thee the cup, as erst to thy
Divine Exemplar, thou didst nought complain,
But drank'st, as saying grace! They who stood near,
And saw thee, through Him, conquer Death and Time,
Might, on thy part, have said—O Shape of fear,
“Where is thy sting?” when thy meek eye grew dim!
But that he proxy-wounds through one so dear,
For having, through that Proxy, conquered him!

OLD AGE.

What parasitic growths upon thee wait,
Poor fungus'd Age! thou ruin time-toned-down
And ivied o'er with things which have outgrown
Their needs and uses;—ideas out of date,
Old books, slow methods, antiquated hate
And love; quaint prejudices, all things known
Before the Flood, and in that Noah's-ark shown,
Museum, curiosity-shop, thy pate!
Thou'rt a mere dust-heap of the wastes of Time;
Old odds and ends, cobwebs, grubs, waifs and strays:
He jogs not now like dullards' measured rime.
The Wheels of Change whirl the World on its ways
As mad as Phaeton, if less sublime;
And fling thee off amid its whirr and blaze.

TO THE DEPARTED: AN ANSWER.

How should I write that which I scarce can think?
Words which, if I could utter them, would break
Asunder, and no sense or meaning make;
Like types unset, mere letters without link,
Not words of grace; to hear which was to drink
In bliss, and all things bless for their dear sake!
Sweet jangled chimes, which music no more wake,
But make with thought thereof the sad heart sink!
Gone, gone! a Name, in perishable stone,
And in a few sad yearning hearts, sums thee,
Whose sum of love eked all from its full own.
O dread Abyss! o'er whose dark brink I see
The immeasurable void of the Unknown,
That void where thou art not: All-void to me!

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MAJOR G. P. THOMAS.

O Friend! methinks thou would'st the life to come
O'erleap, as 'twere a ditch, in boyish play,
At Duty's call sublime; though grim array
Of deaths in many shapes made up a sum
Of terrors, which might strike the bravest dumb.
O noble Spirit! if Death by the way
And Honour meeting, one should bid thee stay,
The other go, thou would'st choose martyrdom,
Nor think twice o' it! Ay, tho' in the scale
Wife, children, fortune, all joys of man's state,
That make the one incline, and still prevail,
The other mount up light; thou adverse Fate
Would'st challenge at all odds, nor ever quail,
But i' the other leap, sole counterweight!

THE WORN-OUT ORGAN-GRINDER.

Tied to his organ till it grows a rack,
On which in spirit if in body not
Still stretched, he hourly curses his hard lot,
Of Music's dreary treadmill the worn hack;
He grinds old tunes with dull mechanic knack,
Whose sure returns of weariness besot,
His memory with monotonousness blot,
And blank his brain with endless click and clack.
Poor wretch! The iron hath eat into his soul;
His corner-drawn-down mouth, lack-lustre eye,
Tell at what cost he earns his sorry dole.
They of his merry waltz the call belie,
To him ‘a dance of death’ to no far goal.
He dreams of home; yearns for one in the sky.

TRUTH SUPREME.

I love not Fiction, save as the apt dress
Of Truth; her outward having, complement;
To set forth, not to hide her high intent;
If other, in her very nakedness
I'd have her, to my heart of hearts would press;
Take her ‘for better or for worse,’ as sent
By Heaven, and for Man by Heaven meant,
His guide divine, to raise him and to bless.
Off, off, ye lendings, then! Come, then, my bride
Clothed all in purity, as never was
The Antique Venus, by that sanctified;
Through sin and sorrow still unsullied pass!
And make my soul a mirror clear, its pride
To show thee as thou art, in its true glass!

BELIEF.

Without his faith in God, the Life to come,
That crowns his brow, and writes there—“Infinite!”
Mosting his most, besting his best delight;
Articulate as with speech of gods (not dumb
Like brute), the lispings of a nobler home;
Oh, what were Man! What, falling from that height,
But a crushed reptile, wriggling out of sight
In some earth-hole, to blind Fate to succumb?
Oh, what his Life then? Death “writ large;” the trail
Of the vile earthworm over all! Not then
A “Hallelujah Chorus,” but the “scale”
Resolved into unmeaning “notes” again!
'Twere “Paradise” then “Lost”—an idler tale
“Regained;” mere flourish of a glozing pen.

MY POETRY.

SLEEP AND DEATH.

How fearless and confidingly to sleep
We trust ourselves! E'en as the nestling child
On the dear Mother-bosom lulled, beguiled
Of all its fleeting cares, we in that deep
Oblivion of self our Being steep.
Gently as, when his last the sun hath smiled,
The flower folds its silent life up, wiled
Away we Life's cæsural pauses keep!
What if Death take Sleep's proxied shape, and make
His poppies mortal with Lethæan dose;
Turn bed to bier, cause winding-sheet to take
The place of that which promised but repose!
One portal serves! if ne'er again to wake,
Death were but Sleep, Sleep Death the way but shows!

THE WORKS OF GOD.

TO ------.

Thou art not beautiful; no Venus thou:
No poet in the tangles of thy hair
Would twine, to set off his fair with thy fair,
The sham pearls of his rime, nor crown thy brow
With stars, and down to his Urania bow.
Yet round thee is a halo, as it were
An emanation of thy virtue rare,
Which all hearts feel, unconscious all allow.
No haughty curl of lip, no flash of eye,
No step Junonian; but sweetest smile,
Such as the lips of Truth might be known by,
Whose mirror thy sweet face is, without guile;
Eyes like the wells where she is said to lie,
In whose clear depths thy soul is seen the while.

PLEASURE-HUNTERS.

Ye butterflies! for ever on the wing,
That flutter up and down, now here, now there,
Stern Time shall brush ye off into the glare
Of fierce consuming truth, and to nought bring;
Like moths, when housewives in the fire fling
Moth-eaten finery! your idol fair,
This “Pleasure,” her own votaries will not spare,
But at last, “like snake i' the bosom,” sting.
Ye sweat hard after her, yet seldom see
More than her disappearing skirts, the trail
Of disappointment or satietie.
While in Toil's strong embrace, ere they grow stale,
She yields her virgin-charms up, proud as he
Of vigorous issue, like their parents, hale!

ELIXIR VITÆ.

EARLY SPRING.

The mighty winds are stirring, like the breath
Of God; the big trees shake themselves out free,
And fling their arms abroad and laugh in glee.
Nature is weaving herself a new wreath;
New garments out of old; Life out of Death!
The willow trails its tresses fair to see,
Soft as a Naiad's hair! O'erhead, clouds flee
On their glad missions; waters stir beneath.
The birds are busy with bill, throat, and wing,
With stress of life—joy that will not be dumb.
And Happiness, like some glad new-born thing,
In heart of man and beast doth go and come,
Ne'er resting; while through all a voice doth ring,
As if God spake, “Amen'd” with life's great hum.

THE FOUNTAIN-VASE.

How Nature, even when by Art constrained,
Asserts her will and freedom in one way
Or other, and makes sport of man who'd lay
His hands upon her! Lo, like diamonds rained
From crystal vase, therein no more contained,
She flings her trammels off in glittering spray;
Then comes the wind, and tosses it in play
Like Indian jugglers' balls, as he disdained
The formal thing. When Æolus hath done
His fit of spleen, she waves the vase's side
Like moulded crystal flickering in the sun,
And curves its lip with beauty's curve of pride;
Then weaves in finest wicker-work anon.
Oh cleave to her then; by her still abide!

MOORE'S SENTIMENTAL, “BOUDOIR” VEIN.

'Tis like a nosegay, which, the while we smell,
Intoxicates the one sense with perfume,
While dazzling with all Flora's rainbow-bloom;
Yet, small abidance is of either spell:
Mainly mere charm of sense. And, sooth, 'tis well
That such things pass; for fleeting is their doom,
Mere outward flourish. And but little room
The heart for such spares where its Holies dwell.
The hand of Labour crumples up such flowers,
Crushes these butterflies with merest touch.
They flutter round the mind's more masculine powers
Like moths round a strong flame, and fare as such.
Not amid Lotus-eaters, fairy bowers,
Throbs the great heart-beat, which stirs long and much.

THE SONNET. TO ------, A CAVILLER.

The sonnet, eh! Thou turnest up thy nose
At sonnets; yet, when thou hast had thy fling,
I'd say, that better is a lesser thing
Well done than greater ill: great soul that goes
In small, than what no great in greatness knows.
Bee that stings, yet can sweets from bitters wring,
Better than hornet, which can only sting;
Or drone, who honey steals, and slanders thos
He, lazy, robs. The fable says: of old,
A sorcerer, pitying a cat-scared mouse,
Transformed it to a cat; yet, not more bold,
A dog-scared cat; turned dog, a tiger cows.
So would thy soul its littleness unfold
In all, whatever body were its house.

SLEEP.

FUGIT HORA.

Oh, take thy passing hour at its best,
Inhale its pérfume, revel in its sweets,
Store it for heart and memory, ere fleets
The exquisite aroma, the first zest,
Dew on the flower, freshness of the breast.
Strike while the iron's hot; ere Life's first heats
And holy ardours cool; ere its deceits
And frauds chill nobler purpose and high quest.
Love; love with all thine heart; pure love of maid;
(But once man in his life can say “I love!”)
Wife-love; fast love, on love of children stayed;
And let a noble Life that love approve:
Save by thyself thou canst not be betrayed,
Nor from thyself removed, save thou remove.

TO ------, THE DEPARTED.

MY MUSE—FICTION.

My Muse, though as the lily inly-pure
(In visible light, like Purity, sole-clad),
And modest as the violet in the shade,
Is no fine lady, with a look demure,
With nice regards and dainty nouriture.
She is a child of Nature, and hath had
No other midwifery; content, nay, glad
Her procreant throes, self-childed, to endure.
As the wild Indian mother by the way,
With Nature's couch of leaves or harbourage
Of prairie-grass, child-bearing as child's-play,
My Muse delivered is, like the first Age;
Girds up her loins, and in her breast doth lay
Her issue, Nature-taught from Life's first stage.

CHILD-TRAINING BY PERAMBULATORS, ETC.—FACT.

O Nature! art thou grown too proud (I ask
In thy own name, that all-sufficing plea)
To rear thy children at thy breast and knee
In the old fashion, thy true Mother-task;
In sunshine of thy Mother-smile to bask,
To crawl, and roll, and stretch themselves as free
As the young kittens, with like natural glee;
No limbs straitwaistcoated, on face no mask.
Art thou supplanted, that thou dost to Art
(Ill foster-nurse, mechanic substitute)
Their limbs hand over, formalise the heart;
For feet give crutches, with lame minds to suit;
And mechanise their young lives at first start?
Thy voice divine or disobeyed or mute!

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE.

THE GOLDEN MEAN.

He wise is who being rich can be as poor
Not poor in spirit, but, with wise desires,
No more than genial Nature asks requires;
Who for her unbought grace would love and woo her,
Not outward tricks and toys, and gilded lure.
She kindles, then, pure virgin! holy fires;
And temperate loves, not hasty flames inspires;
And bears true issue, pleasures that endure.
Therefore he waves aside the harlotry,
The Sirens would enchain him; stops his ears:
No Lotus-eater he! Humanity
Doth call him; and, so long as toils and tears
Are human, on base down he will not lie,
Nor bask in Fortune's smiles or Pleasure's leers.

SELF-APPRAISEMENT.

Held at arm's-length and not too curiously
Surveyed, and with a nicely-focused light,
Defects to soften and assist the sight,
Self whispers unto Self, well pleased—“'Tis I!
In sooth, fair module of Humanity!
Statue of gold, almost, if 't be not quite;
No nether parts of clay; a brow to write
‘Let there be light’ on, and light shines—that eye!”
Now pass we this brave image through the fire,
The furnace of affliction: one by one
The features melt in dross, and lose the higher
Image and superscription stamped thereon.
The base alloy base value may acquire,
As copper coin to gold—pure gold is none!

LABOUR.

Best leaven of “best bread,” to make it rise
To top o' height, and relish still aright,
And satisfy Man's daily appetite;
Which best the craving heart and brain supplies,
Best fits for true hand-work, thoughts for the skies.
O blessed Toil! Sole leaven that maketh light
The bread of Life, sweet, wholesome, requisite;
Sweat, Sweat best prayer, best offering in God's eyes!
O daily work of hand! for daily use
Good “household” bread art thou, and strengthen'st well;
But nobler leaven than in bread for thews
And sinews, something as of miracle
(Manna and Bread in one), doth God infuse
In thoughts oracular, perdurable.

THE WIFE'S BIBLE.

THE STARS AND THE MYSTERY OF BEING.

As with unnumbered eyes, from every side,
The Heavens look on me, search me through and through;
Those eyes of God, who holds all in His view!
If from those eyes I see my soul could hide,
By unseen seen (poor caitiff!) multiplied
Beyond, still, from itself 'twould shrink anew.
The Mind's eye like the Body's falls blind too;
Thought gropes in outer darkness and goes wide!
Reason, confounded in itself, doth creep
Back to its “earth,” and throws up (like the mole)
Its dust and pride, mock-mountain and mole-heap;
A child's card-house, to represent this Whole!
Some theory (a pebble in the Deep
Cast by a babe) to fathom the World's Soul!

DRUM-MAJOR.

Thou! thou, a drum! thou base comparative,
Thou parchment drum-head, thou; impertinent,
Assuming, arrogant, incompetent!
Thou passive sound-case, mere intransitive,
For nothing's in thee that doth hear or give
A résponse, nought there conscious, sentient;
One prick o' a pin, and all the breath is sent
Out o' thy body; thou dost cease to live.
Now, Mars, strike up the tattoo on thy drum,
The Soldier's ear; Love wake the dreaming bride
With soft “reveillies,” like the sweet bees' hum.
Death, beat thy “Dead March” too, that quells Man's pride,
The rattle i' the throat, that strikes him dumb;
Drum o' the ear! Sham are all thee beside!

“A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.”

Write “Poor” upon thy brow, though most would say
Thou might'st as well be branded from a jail;
Yet “write it large,” that none to read may fail.
So shalt thou go untroubled still thy way
By knaves and fools, nor stay'd by them nor stay;
Two evils thus escaping which assail
Wealth and wealth's vain repute; names which prevail
With fools; things for which knaves find when they may
Proverbial wings! The wise and good are few;
Best have been poor; the Best the poorest known!
None envy. Envy, without true self-hue,
Takes all, chameleon-like, and spoils her own.
Covet not wealth; but think all wealth can do
Is in Hic jacet on a tombstone shown!

ROME ANTIQUE.

When Rome to pieces fell, her mighty frame
And bulk disrupt strewed half the hemisphere:
There, lay large limb, leg, arm, benumbed; and here
Hand, foot; yet mighty even in her name.
The head was sick; the heart, which glowed like flame,
And beat with restless pulsings and high cheer
Against the ribs o' the World, which pressed too near
And cramped its large ambition, went and came
As an asthmatic's! Like a corpse she lay—
A spirit then of other origin
“Possessed” her; souls, not bodies, claimed to sway;
The pride that apes humility its sin:
And with Christ's sacramental cup did play
And juggle; drunk oft on the wine within!

ROME MEDIÆVAL; POPE AND KING.

“Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die,”
Of Mortals is fair question; for whoso
Divided fealty would claim or show
Must needs election make, and stand thereby.
Not so with Popes; they may serve equally
Mammon and God! Souls disembodied go
With a turn o' Peter's keys, but bodies owe
Their “Peter's pence,” and temporality.
Up the tiara-Papal's triple crown
Ambition Spiritual climbs; like Mercury
A-tiptoe there, calls Heaven and Earth her own.
The while the nether parts, draped scenically
In robes Pontifical, are clay all down;
Hands in Men's pockets, on the lips a lie!

TO ------.

Dwells Love most on thy lips or in thine eye?
Is he divisible, yet in each part
Still all himself? Oh, what then in thy heart
Must he not be, in his entirety;
When perdu there, wings folded, he doth lie
As in his very nest; the point o' his dart
Turned inwards, and inflicting that sweet smart
Which from thine eyes he scatters far and nigh?
If I in Love's arithmetic had skill,
With all thy severals and items rare
I could Love's inventory more than fill.
Such a “sum in addition” I'd prepare,
That Love (debtor from creditor) his will
Would make, and leave thee all he had to spare.

THE BIBLE.

SILENCE.

O breathless Silence! timid as the hare
That hears the bay of hounds, and perdu lies
In grassy “form,” all quivering ears, strained eyes;
Whom e'en the motion of a cloud in air,
Shadow on earth, with sound suggested scare:
'Twixt name and echo thy brief being dies
(O Fearful-Innocent! so Guilt, called, flies!)
Thou hast no voice to pray, no ear for prayer!
Yet, if speech be to thy disparagement,
How, save by silence, pay thee thy just due!
By true Love's silence, which gives sweet'st consent?
The heart's “full stop,” Death near, so silent too?
The Poet's silent, breathless ravishment?
Or, gazing up to Heaven, feel God in you?

SELF-CONTROL.

Let not thy passions, like wild horses, bear
Thee headlong, like another Phaeton,
From Reason's path of light, but keep thou on
Her ordered Zodiac; and start with fair
Prefigurement of joys which lasting are,
From her wise balance-sign; so, well begun,
Thy course shall make more fair comparison,
Light, like the sun; not, like a comet, flare.
Then shalt thou towards th' horizon mellow sink,
And Time, who writes in cypher on Man's face,
And charactérs him in look, frown, and wink,
And moody mouth, much set forth in small space,
Shall write thee fair; no scrabbled form in ink
On parchment old, but age thy youth retrace!

LUTHER.

To few is it vouchsafed to wield The Word,
And cut asunder with it, as it were
A two-edged sword, the Past and Present; bear
It as a panoply of proof, and stirred
With holy ardours, by hosts undeterred,
Challenge all odds. As thunder in the air,
It flashes, lightens, clears the atmosphere,
And, when 'tis gone, the “still small voice is heard!”
Such didst thou make it, thou great rough-hewn soul,
Thou rock, which God-struck, gave forth the sweet spring
Of Life, whose flowings nothing could controul.
Thy Word was as the stone in David's sling,
And in the dust made Rome's Goliah roll,
And gave to Human Thought freedom of wing.

SPHERE-MUSIC.

The Music of the Spheres; that is the grand;
That music of the eye, the star-scored sky:
Or, rather, Music comprehensively,
Itself and absolute; which Angels stand
Entranced at; music beyond Man's command.
Yet some with finer sense have (ear and eye
As interchangeable) heard seeingly,
And the World's diapason well-nigh spanned.
Such was our Herschell when, rapt into Space,
He watched the shining hosts of heaven pass,
And God's own outline in Creation's glass
By aid of those grand lights, o'er-awed, could trace!
And heard the planets in their orbits, as
They quiring went, exalt their Maker's praise!

A MUSE OF THE “JUST MILIEU.”

As he so nobly of his earthly Love
Once wrote, whom, like a pearl on dung-heap thrown,
The World let perish, as none of its own,
Die like a dog!—“Did I not more approve
Honour than Love, thou could'st not in me move
Love half so much!” So would the Muse look down
(My heavenly bride), on all my efforts frown,
Were her love shared, still more aught set above!
Used I her inspirations so divine
Like vulgar breaths, to blow an earthlier fire,
She'd strike me dumb in scorn, thereof in sign.
Yet is the labourer worthy of his hire;
Her wages first, appreciation fine;
And “daily Bread,” by that “raised” and made higher!

COLONEL LOVELACE.

O noble Spirit! with that master-key
Of “Honour, Honour bright,” we can unlock
Thy true heart's every ward: let Fortune knock
In whatsoever guise, enter can she
Without that “pass” not, nor that keeper fee!
Nay! thou dost hold Love himself (though it shock
His pride, who doth at oaths and fealty mock)
State-prisoner, serving yet with bended knee,
Safe under that true lock! Like the sweet chime
And holy from some skyward Minster-tower,
The same aye through all chance and change of Time,
The shifting scenes and actors of the hour,
Thou heard'st it, like a voice from Heaven sublime,
To Duty call thee from Love's silken bower!

LOVELACE AGAIN.

Oh, that of such a heart Fortune should make
Her tennis-ball, to knock it to and fro
In her rude game of chance, now high, now low;
Catch it at the rebound, with nought to break
The fall; and when best aimed still cause to take
The bias, and deliver foul her blow;
And when she's got thee down to keep thee so,
Because for Honour more than for her sake
Thou took'st the odds! Base Arbitress is she;
False balances she hath, uses false weights.
Because with honey of their Hybla bee
The Muses reared, and sweetened so thy Fates,
She took thy best at worst, and wrangled with thee
For basest things 'gainst greatest, in sore straits!

THE EVIL SPIRIT OF DOUBT.

Like an old Sorcerer essaying spells,
Who stumbles on some cabalistic word,
Some potent formula, and sudden, stirred,
Earth cleaves; 'mid dreadful sounds, shrieks, groans, and yells,
Rise evil Spirits, dread his spirit quells:
He dare not leave his “circle,” but immured
Therein, the Spirits whom he hath adjured
He cannot lay, nor knows what ban expels
Their dreaded presence!—so I, shut within
The magic circle of my Thought, see rise
This Spirit dread of darkness, doubt, and sin.
I cast about, I shudder, agonise;
I call on Reason; it doth gnash and grin;
On God, it trembles and believes, and flies!

LOVE.

Thou hast wide diapason, Love! dost speak
With utterance manifold to one self-end!
In chorus of thy praises too all blend.
Thou mak'st the weakest strong, the strongest weak.
Some thou dost like a gadfly sting and prick,
Nature's great primal purpose to befriend;
Here Venus' Philtres Bacchus' “Drops” transcend;
Nor needs thy fire other fuel to eke
And super-heat it. Some warm best on wine,
And spice the draught with kisses, as lewd Rome
Spiced her rank cups. Some thou dost touch to fine
Ethereal issues, to their hearts dost come,
And fann'st with wings and airy breaths divine
Thy flame upon that hearth, its altar-home!

“EVERLASTINGS” AND NEVERLASTINGS.

O ye “Immortelles,” flowers of heavenly bloom,
Ye Amaranths, that fade not aye, like our
Frail growths of Time, which spring up in an hour,
And pass like Jonah's gourd, whose brief perfume
But hides awhile the odour of the tomb!
On which are writ (as on that fabled flower,
Dear to the Muses), woeful words and dour,
“Ai, Ai,” the wail of Nature o'er Man's doom!
Ye are vouchsafed awhile, to charm Man's sight,
With Eden-perfumes to intoxicate,
And steep him in oblivious delight,
Sweet dreams of Youth and Love, 'bove Death and Fate;
Life, like the temple-incense, ye fill quite
For a brief while, then leave it desecrate.

TEARS.

Of tears that should be cherished, kept in store,
In fine memorial lachrymatories,
By jealous Love, heir-looms beyond all price,
With nicest guard and conservation; more
In worth as tears than pearls since or before;
Few precious thus, shed as from his own eyes,
That should embalm, like dews of Paradise,
And, if aught could, whate'er they touch restore,
Hath Love laid up! Too precious, precious brine
Of Death and Love, joint vintage and most rare;
Men store Falernian, true Poets thine!
One precious lachrymatory Time doth spare,
That which embalmed (preservative divine)!
Andromache's pure tears for aye doth bear!

THE LAST LOOK.

Dost thou know what it is to take the last,
Long, lingering look at all which thou dost love
The best on earth, and prizest far above
All else, though all else in the scale were cast?
Hast thou, with breaking heart and eyes aghast,
Marked the last faint smile quiver, cease to move
The dear lips, which their love can no more prove,
Which forced, while over them Death's shadow past,
A smile, last gleam of love? Oh, bitter sight!
Methinks that Death, with pity touched, his dart
In Lethe steeped, as to disguise the smart,
And came as sleep comes with dreams of the night!
Sad Memory owns no such Lethæan art,
While to forget would make a blank outright.

THE SONNET-RACK.

Poor Thought! stretched on Rime's Procrustean bed,
And threatened, saving that it doth not kill
Outright, with every mortal ache and ill
By Thought, Thought in the flesh, inherited,
Clothed on with Words, its mortal weeds. First head
And neck must crane and stretch; then feet, until
Of préscribed length, or lopped, sometimes with skill
Surgeonly, oftener hacked, till well-nigh dead.
So liest thou on the rack, Body and Soul,
At odds, in dread of rimèd Death, who waits
At every turn, and mocks each twist and roll,
While words unsesquipedalian curse thy Fates!
Now 'tis thy racked brain can't the thought control,
Now thy lame feet won't go; curs'd in both states!

THE LAST KISS.

I took my lips from hers; against my breast
I felt her heart (for lips could make no sign)
Throb faint and low, life's last, last beat; divine,
As close of solemn music, which if ceased
Or sounding still we mark not; so, released,
Death in his arms received her out of mine;
And lovingly, and, as with a most fine
And nice regard, o'er his dark threshold eased
Her gentle passage! Like a breath of air
That stirs the tree-tops, or cloud's passing chill,
So passed she; and a silence deep fell there,
As when God's presence doth a Temple fill.
And that last kiss, as clasp-lock Missal rare,
Locks my heart's tablets, and their cóntents still.

SURROUNDINGS AND BELONGINGS.

How subject and how servile unto Time
And Place is mortal shaping! not the cloud
Now by the fanciful Wind y-bent and bowed
To this shape, now to that, is less allowed
Of licence and self-mouldage. Man's sublime
Creative Genius is but endowed
With the soil's touch it grows on, as the proud
And stately oak would, elsewhere, scantly climb
And top his fellows. In our formal days
Milton had “Epic” neither lived nor writ,
Nor “Paradise Regained” would “Lost” replace.
Great he needs must have been; but, made to fit
Another sphere, his Muse would change her lays,
His week-day life the high-raised buskin quit!

THE SUEZ CANAL, OR THE MARRIAGE OF THE RED SEA AND MEDITERRANEAN.

With high-symbolic and expressive rite,
Great Venice linked her Fates unto the Sea,
With ring and Holy Wedlock, so to be
As one, for better and for worse unite.
And long, as bride and spouse, they took delight
In other each: as Rome, with Peter's key,
In Spirituals, she could bind and free
In Temporals, by her amphibious might.
But She of Earth with Ocean ill may mate;
Sea-change came o'er her, and her great spouse sought
A Daughter of the Waters, whose high state
And having Oceanic union brought.
To his new Indian bride he stretched his great
Right azure hand, troth with world-changes fraught!

A WISH.

O that I had a mind capacious, wide,
Free as the wind, above impediment
Of feeble utterance and weak intent;
A mind “in fee,” not to conditions tied,
Absolute, lord of self, and self-supplied:
Not in poor severals, nor yet content
With petty exhibitions, and soon spent;
But general as the air, all-propertied.
Thoughts that, like wingèd Mercuries, scarce touch
The Earth, God's messengers 'twixt Earth and Sky;
Their very off-start out of sight to such
As I, to whom the Muse scarce deigns so much
As whisper, “Learn to walk before you fly;”
Souls to which Spirits, dumb to us, reply!

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

That heart makes muffled music; that dear heart,
Lute, on which all his finest stops Love taught;
Which of its fulness gave where love ran short,
Nor ever stinted, whether whole or part.
A low, sad music, fitful, now with start,
With pause now, of Humanity high-wrought
And touched to unknown issues, only caught
By the inner ear, “transposed” with Love's fine art
In deep, pathetic “Minors!” Love stands by,
And plays his own divine accompaniment,
To the last music of Mortality:
While Death advancing, near, with fell intent,
By his “Dead-March,” slow, solemn, mystic, high,
Foretells himself with dread presentiment!

THE SLAVE-TRADE IS SAID TO BE ALREADY REVIVING SINCE LIVINGSTONE DIED!

O best knight-errant! more than Rod-cross Knight;
Real lions thine, a Una dark thy prize.
More than St. George, with fabled victories
O'er dragons won, for thine will bear the light!
Ay, we may turn the sun on them, God's sight
Itself, for thou wert ever in His eyes,
Thou good and faithful servant! Earth and Skies
(How seldom can they!) in thy praise unite.
And is it so? Hast thou heroic life
Then lived in vain?—the Hydra, Slavery,
Its heads re-grown, with havoc once more rife!
No, in Men's mouths thy name shall never die;
A call divine to more than carnal strife,
Grand spiritual warfare's battle-cry.

CAST NOT PEARL TO SWINE.

O thou divinest Muse! if any think
For the mere bread that perishes alone
To serve thee, for thy Manna thou a stone
Shalt give them; nor let such as love the clink
Of gold more than of rime conceit to drink
The living waters of thy Helicon;
Divinely they intoxicate thereon
Ne'er meet thee, in fine phrenzy, at its brink!
They who would call the Muse forth on the Lyre,
Must purify their hearts, free from all dross,
Like gold thrice-furnaced, passed thrice through the fire:
And count for gain all that is earthly loss.
Thee sole must serve, to thee sole their desire;
For Worse, for Better, both their crown and cross!

SOURED? EH!

Soured? not yet, thank God! Neither the wine
Of Life runs thin nor on the turn; nor yet
Doth the Falernian require to be set
A-tilt, to get enough to warm the Nine
With Bacchus o'er his cups, and nod divine.
Nor doth the milk of Human Kindness get
Soured or taint with keeping; you might let
A mother suckle babe on it in fine.
'Tis well. When in that cup, my heart, which Love
For his divine libations filled erewhile,
The wine doth neither stir aright, nor move
To Love and Friendship, sour 'tis and vile.
And if that milk of kindness too so prove,
Then break the cup, which Life's mere dregs defile!

A SUDDEN BURST OF SPRING.

Hey, presto! like a transformation-scene
Spring leaps, as through the window, at a bound,
Lithe Harlequin, and waves his wand around
And all transforms! In glister and in sheen
Sweet May, like Columbine with tricksy mien,
Trips after him; in Pantaloon is found
Old Winter's semblable, late all-befrowned,
Who lags behind, and threatens fits of spleen.
No formal, stereotyped part our Earth plays,
Nor doth she in the Seasons' treadmill run,
But shuffles like a pack of cards the days;
And should she change her axis to the sun,
Black may grow White, White Black, for still her ways
She changeth, ever doing, never done.

WOMAN AT HER BEST.

O Woman! when in purity of soul,
With blended mien of majesty and grace,
Thou standest forth, and virtue in thy face,
Fair mirror! sees herself full-length and whole;
Her we adore in thee, and to that pole
Of sweet attraction, in her pride of place,
All hearts are drawn, and the sweet likeness trace
To that divine Original, the goal
And crown of Womanhood! And when, enthroned
On thy fair brow, in softened majesty,
Thought sits, Uranian Venus, by all owned;
And thy wise heart interprets errlessly
The oracles of Love, in thee atoned,
“Woman” is glorified and set on high!

BACK-ENTRIES IN A DIARY.

Here are the days looked forward to with fear
Or hope: the pleasures that, ere from their face
The mask of presence dropt, lured with such grace,
Yet jilted us: the joys, (too precious-dear!)
Which came, all smiles, yet left us with a tear
Still in their eyes; smiles which the courses trace
Of future furrows! There the dull, blank space
Of days which followed like sad mutes some bier!
Strange retrospect! as is some sea-swept shore
At lowest ebb unto the same at flood,
With waifs and strays, and wreckage strewed all o'er.
How hard to realise the bygone mood!
We pick some old memorial waif up, pore
Upon it, Self by Self scarce understood!

THE UNCORRUPTED AFRICAN.

LIVINGSTONE'S PICTURE AND APPRAISEMENT OF THE UNSOPHISTICATED AND FREE AFRICAN.

O noble Soul! as in a mirror true,
Drawn at full length, each native lineament
Expressive of high purpose and intent,
We see thee here, and self-portrayèd too;
We look, we love, still more the more we view!
It does our hearts good; for thus are we sent
Back to great Nature and her sweet content,
Like prayer to Soul 'tis, to the Sense like dew!
Thou hast so long, so unsophisticate,
Thy grand life shaped to hers, that from thine eyes
All scales of Custom fall, and they dilate
Their vision to Man's highest destinies.
Thou dost the swarthy image there create,
That White in Black may “Brother” recognise!

LIVINGSTONE.

If he had crossed the threshold of my door,
I should have called it blessèd, as if trod
By angel high-commissionèd of God;
Nay, had he my own body passèd o'er,
A living threshold, I had held it more
A place and mark of honour and of laud,
Than when to the very echo crowds applaud,
Gregariously, their idol of the hour!
His work too great is to be measured yet;
Himself too, great as simple, thorough “Man.”
He hath raised up the outcast Negro, set
As on a pedestal, and freed from ban;
And paid the large arrears of that great debt,
Humanity's debt to the African!

SHAKSPEAR.

OLD AGE.

Poor Age! thou like a beggar go'st about,
With wallet at thy back, for scrap and dole,
Kind word and look, to cheer thy saddened soul;
Full often met with wounding gibe and flout.
Thy life before thee hangs in fear and doubt,
For thou dost sit with grim Death cheek by jowl,
Still hob-a-nob with him o'er Lethè's bowl:
What Present pours in Past letting run out!
Ay, broken is “the golden bowl;” no more
It holds the wine of Life, but lets it run
To waste, like drunken spilth upon the floor;
'Tis run to Memory's dregs, and well-nigh done.
Age, like a drunken tapster, still doth score
The reckoning, though of wine he draweth none.

THE PRISM.

Who turned thee from thy path, and made thee show
Thy Jacob's-coat of many colours, Light!
Celestial Harlequin, disguised in white,
And yield thy secret whêr thou wouldst or no;
His spell a bit of glass shaped so and so!
He drew no circle; used no magic rite,
No Spirits called but the One Infinite
Of Knowledge, to which all submission owe!
No glass but one shaped so that sprite had shown;
No eye but his the subtle elf had seen;
And in such different shapes for one same known:
To most he a stage-harlequin had been,
A tricksome sprite; and had glass ne'er been blown,
He would have tricked e'en Newton's eye, I ween!

TO MRS. ------.

Too beautiful art thou to be beheld
Of mortal eyes without suggestión
Of that should be unthought, still more undonc,
Unless the Earthly by Divine be quelled:
For Sin is both attracted and repelled!
Whiles Beauty, like a magnet, draws us on,
And steel can no more that than hearts th' other one
Resist; by Adoration Sin expelled
Is touched to that it worships! In such case,
Thy beauty and thy virtue both combine
In one pure heavenly beam of light: two rays,
Or like two chords of music to so fine
And perfect pitch attempered, that no place
For discords is, but unison divine!

UNFULFILLED LIVES.

Some souls are like an instrument ill-played,
Or seldom played, and seldom in accord.
Deep harmonies lie in them (like the word,
Thought's Incarnation, unwrit and unsaid),
But (still-born melodies) unutterèd
Pass out of Being; or if ever heard,
Like a note inarticulate of bird,
Murmur of wood or stream, vague sense conveyed,
Guessed at, not understood! So live they as
Enigmas to themselves—pearls in a deep
By diver never sounded; o'er a glass
Shadows that glide; forms half-grasped as in sleep.
Fortune turned not the key nor gave her “pass”
To action, but their hearts fast locked did keep.

TO ------. PROTEST AGAINST A BASE ACTION.

Oh, let not thy own hand inflict a wound
On thy fair fame, which Time, who heals nigh all,
Shall but enlarge and make perennial;
An ínjury so íntrinse and profound
That it shall bleed hereafter, be still found
Imposthumate and posthumous, and shall
So taint thy memory beyond recall,
That scorn shall track it still as carrion hound!
Wounds from without bleed outwardly, but this
Bleeds inwardly, and leaves thee all-unmanned!
He who his own life takes may with a kiss
Of peace salute the brow of Death, and stand
Absolved by Mercy; but life's life this is,
Thy own fair fame to slay, thyself to brand!

LIVINGSTONE'S GRAVE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

'Neath this Dead-stone lieth the Living-stone!
The “text” of one is, all that perishes;
The portion of the Worm; of Tears; which says
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust are gone!
Knock at this narrow door; answer is none!
Knock at the gates of heaven, and always
As from the mouths of angels sounds his praise,
From angel-trumpets to the four winds blown!
Of the other, “He dead is not—is not here,
But risen!” From this stone of Grace shall come
(This Living Stone, to saints and martyrs dear)
A Temple-cornerstone; true stone, not dumb
But crying from the wall, “Be of good cheer,
Ye Bond! God builds the fold and calls ye home!”

THE DISBELIEF OF A FUTURE LIFE.

ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑ! ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑ!

Once more, oh once more have I sight and sense
Of thee, thou boundless Ocean! Once again
Thy sound is in my ears, that mighty strain
Of multitudinous waves in one immense
And boundless utterance of omnipotence.
The sense of freedom seems to fire my brain,
And fill my heart with joy almost to pain,
A tongueless rapture, wordless and intense.
Up the stern cliff the wave comes bounding still,
Like a great shaggy hound that leaps to kiss
His unregarding master's hand, and ill
Denial brooks. O God! methinks it is,
'Mid the worn years and hollowness that kill,
And blight Man's life, like the remembered bliss
Of Hope and Youth's indomitable will!

CURSE NOT.

I will not curse, whatever may betide;
But bless, like Balaam, bless for evermore;
Ay, though the Balak of the world before
Me stood, with all his frowns, his bribes, his pride,
And bade me take his idols for my guide,
And bow to them; by what it stores set store;
Curse what it curses; bless all and adore
That it does; and what it sneers at deride.
I would not curse; not even the poor ass
That Balaam cursed; for unto each and all
Must come that “narrow way” which all must pass!
Well if an Angel only stop and call
Us to account, and not a Devil, as
All cursing brings, and has brought since the Fall!

FIRST TRUE LOVE.

“PROCRASTINATION IS THE THIEF OF TIME.”

To-morrow! poor To-morrow! broad thy back
Should be, and tough thy sides, to bear the goad
Of aye-behind-time-Purpose, with his load
Of “Good Intentions,” that huge motley pack!
Crushed ass with panniers, worn-out carrier's hack,
Ne'er did so little, so much service owed,
As, with his “Stolen Goods” and ill-bestowed
Thou, whom Procrastination still doth thwack,
Belated and o'erweighted! Sorry jade!
Scape-goat of Yesterdays! poor fool of time!
Betwixt you, as betwixt two stools, betrayed,
To-day the sins of both finds laid on him!
Our Yesterdays (Mime mocking counter-mime)
Fool our To-morrows, and fools of are made.

MIGHTY IN VACUO.

In speculation bold, he would dethrone
A Jupiter—on Ossa Pelion pile;
Scathe like the lightning with his very smile,
Scare like the thunder with his very tone.
As by the light of his achievement shown
The toils of Hercules seem almost vile;
While nothing less than sesquipedalian style,
Pegasus at top of speed would suit his own.
But view him when “reduced” to flesh and blood;
His seven-league-boots put off, his waxen wings
And feathers moulted; in his waking mood,
Brought face to face, not with “the shows of things,”
But with the things themselves, evil and good;
“A lion in his path” each shadow flings!

A SPRINGTIDE THOUGHT.

My heart is sad (they say extremes do meet),
In very plenitude of happiness
Runs over, spills itself in tears, which less
Of pain than joy have, yet are bitter-sweet!
The thought that all these glories so soon fleet;
This crush and crowd, this instant throng and press
Of ear, eye, senses, all this loveliness,
O'ercomes me, as when in a breath we greet
And say farewell to Dearest! Oh, my Heart,
With the rich wine of Life thus running o'er,
Shall I now drain thee brimful as thou art,
Or make libation upon Earth's green floor?
'Twere sacramental, to Him to give part
Who gives all, and Whose blessing makes less more!

NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS AND BEVERAGES.

Had Bacchus nurtured our old English brains,
Not upon barley-bree but pure grape-juice,
The inspirations of our island-Muse,
Her mighty issue and renown'd birth-pains,
Might have ta'en other shape, yielded new “strains”
Of bloods and genius—a finer use
And turn of wit; less rudeness to excuse;
A Pegasus who less the bit disdains.
For manly vigour, independent thought,
John Barleycorn may hold his own with all;
The Muses with the tankard spells have wrought
As with the wine-cup, high-potential;
But the more subtle flavours, which are caught
By Taste's fine palate, for Falernian call.

TIME “ON ENTAIL.”

Fool! think not thus to tie up either foot
Or hand of Time, or stop him on his way;
From the dírect forthright to turn or stay,
With parchment, red tape, seal, and sign unto 't,
And cabalistic words to strike fools mute.
He laughs at these and makes of them child's-play;
Rends, as a Samson his green withies may;
Aside casts, like an old moth-eaten suit.
He goes apace; none stop him nor he stays;
And those who by the forelock him not take
He leaves behind, like fools who at four ways
Stand at a loss. The Gordian-knots knaves make
And fools cut with the sword, he gently frays,
And lo! they're gone, like eddies in barque's wake.

A MIDDLE-AGE PASSION.

Oh, had I sooner known, or not at all!
Yet not to know thee were to gain a loss!
'Twere both to suffer and be spared a cross.
Loss, should thy sweet name on th' ear not fall;
That “Open-Sesamé,” spell musical,
Keynote to thee, the Music! Gain (yet worse
Than loss) to know thee, and yet know perforce
Love's harmony hath no such “interval!”
Hard choice, where either, chosen, seemeth worst!
'Tis as if one an-hungered should be told
Of choicest wine wherewith to quench his thirst,
Or the reverse. My heart, with love o'er-bold,
Drawn towards thine orb more close than else it durst,
Conceits it young because no longer cold!

TIME WAS: TIME IS: TIME'S PAST.

When is To-morrow? never—ever—still
To be; for when it is, it is To-day;
When past, 'tis Yesterday. So doth it play
At hide-and-seek, and with vague hopes doth fill
The hearts of Men, yet have they not their will.
Each shapes it beauteous as a morn in May,
Aurora-like, but when he thinks to lay
Hand on it, it dissolves in vapour chill.
How different, laid out upon the bier
Of Yesterday, while the late-bridesmaid hours,
Now mourners, weep the bride's brief, bright career!
To-morrow every virgin-joy deflours,
Nor unto full fruition cares to rear
His bastardy, but Saturn-like devours!

THE DAYS THAT ARE FEW AND EVIL.

Old Age is like a shipwreck: first we fling
Our unconcerning havings overboard,
(Not those which as dear life itself we hoard,
But its impedimenta); then some thing
Memorial, to which we closer cling;
Next, with a pang that like a two-edged sword
Our hearts in twain cleaves, something loved, adored,
Which kills with many deaths and lingering!
Then comes the touch supreme; the wrench for dear,
Dear life itself: down goes that heavy scale
O'er-weighted; up the other, emptied, clear
Already; e'en the antic, Hope, doth fail
To flutter o'er it: Death himself is near,
And Charon's the sole “life-boat” within hail!

THE SELF-RIGHTEOUS.

Heaven hath set its seal on him, and owes
Perpetual benediction; in his face
Shines forth, and unmistakeably, its grace;
Haloed (like Moses from the Mount) it glows.
And in the dark one might, if but held close,
The Bible read by it, and find the place.
Divine interposition he can trace
Though “cold the scent,” so fine his pious nose!
Blessing and bless'd, spending and spent, his life;
As brimstone Satan's, airs from heaven reveal
His presence; theologic blasts of strife
His going; his discretion as his zeal.
Yet no Saint he, alack! is to his wife;
No hero to his valet dare appeal!

DEAD SILENCE.

There is a padlock, worse than lock and key,
Upon Man's lips; when heart bids hold the tongue;
A silence, through which, like a far knell rung
In midnight stillness, wails a voice which we
Would shun by deafness too, if that might be:
Better be deaf and dumb than to be stung
By that cold adder, Memory, inly wrung
And gnawed at heart, and without power to flee.
Though we were deaf, the inner ear would hear
That cold, sepulchral oubliette sound, “Alone!”
Like echo wailing through some ruin drear,
That worst of silence, of dear voices gone!
Spells to unlock sealed heart, open deaf ear;
Keys to dumb lips, with answering tone to tone!

ELIZABETH BARRETT'S SONNETS.

How like, in their own purest inner light,
A diamond, thy thoughts shine on my soul!
A spiritual lamp to some high goal
To lead it, held as by an angel bright.
Yet since no diamond can to such height
Of pure illumination and so sole
Attain, or what it shines on so control,
Say, they are angel's looks in upward flight!
Dull owls complain thy fancies are obscure,
Blind in thy light; their darkness calling thine.
Yet as unto the pure all things are pure,
All clear are in that inner light divine.
Thy soul, transfigured, its sweet portraiture
Here photographs, for God doth through it shine.

TO-MORROW.

For what grand picture is such frame designed!
So rich in emblems and devices rare
The border, that less hand might well despair
Than Raphael's to fill it in in kind,
And match such matter with a bettering mind.
So wide the field that from his palette there
Rubens the rainbow might translate to air,
And Iris-scarf around his landscape wind.
Alas! 'twas in such gorgeous picture-frame
Ixion saw in bright “dissolving view”
His Juno fade: each dreamer does the same;
Reduced to Disappointment's scale and hue,
“To-day's” poor easel-picture puts to shame
The grand cartoon Hope for “To-morrow” drew!

AN AIRY VISION!

LOVE “WRIT LARGE.”

How rich is Love! Love, the true Beautifier,
The Consecrator! who embalms a flower
Touched by loved hands beyond base Fortune's dower.
Self-offer'd, through his heaven-lit altar-fire
The Human Heart must pass to all that's higher.
Sole Exorciser! whose diviner power,
Like Aaron's rod, can all ill things devour,
And that worse Spirit, Self (as Truth a liar),
Cast out and ban! O Love, confineless Love!
Thou scorn'st the gauds and gewgaws of the World;
For thy inheritance is from above!
Thou breakest down its barriers; unfurl'd
Thy flag by Him, who, gentle as the Dove,
Yet wise as Serpent, mountains can remove!

NEAR A FOUNTAIN IN ITALY.

I hear the water plashing o'er the brink
Of the bright fountain: from the marble-mouths
Of Dolphins flows, to quench the summer-drouths,
The sixfold jet, Hygeia's own pure drink;
Too seldom joined with Bacchus, praised with ink;
To lave and wash, and foster her fair growths;
The maidens fill their jars; while the sweet South's
Soft breath, the plash, the murmurs, make me wink.
Half-dreaming now, with one wave of his wand
Morpheus transforms the scene: I hear the sound
Of that old Grecian tongue, so sweet yet grand;
To Hypereia's fount my way I've found;
The maidens sing around it as they stand,
Or tell Andromache's sad tale renown'd.

ON A VERY HOT SUMMER'S DAY.

No Zephyr opes a lip or stirs a wing;
The scorched leaf flickering falls straight to the ground;
The silence scarce is broken by the sound
Of broom or gorse-click, as they jerk and fling
From the split pods their seeds: soft-flickering
And lambent, as aflame, the air around
Glows visible; while on the horizon's bound
An azure mírage of calm sea doth bring
Suggestion of relief. Yon river's flow
Keeps, too, fair look of promise to the eye
But cheats the lip; one sense befooling so
The other: so some tell truth and yet lie!
And since, awake, I thirst, with dreamy show
Morpheus, Vice-Bacchus, shall my fancy ply.

LIVINGSTONE'S GRAVE IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Open thy maw, insatiate Death! and take
All that thou canst of him (how little 'tis!)
For whom Memorial grander far than this
Old Abbey his own Africa shall make.
In her own heart embalm him, for His sake,
Who by his lips, by that grand life of his,
And Martyr-death, seals with vicarious kiss
Of Peace, anew, His Gospel, which can break
(That only) all Man's bonds! Take there his bones,
And, like some grim, gaunt Afric lion, cram
Thy maw! he dieth not; his Spirit owns
Immortal life; through the dark Land of Ham
Like dawn it goeth, quickening stocks and stones,
And shall, till lion lieth down with lamb.

THE BLESSED RETROSPECT OF GOOD DEEDS.

How little, at the moment, we appraise
Some gentle deed of Grace, whereto His love
Who bade us conquer Ill with Good may move
Those hearts that yearn to follow in His ways,
Though from afar; and catch sight of His face,
As 'twere, in some good deed may lift above
Ourselves both and the World, and so approve
Itself, a faint reflection of His Grace.
As at a spring we may, unweeting, drink
And save our lives thereby, so may good deed
Our souls; each in long chain mysterious link.
In its first chrysalis-state, 'tis as a seed;
But by and by that meaner form will shrink,
And thence towards Heaven like a wing'd Angel speed.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

REALITIES AND SEMBLANCES.

TEARS.

Trouble and grief bring tears; and many too,
And bitter, ay, as Marah's waters were;
Yet e'en to sweeten such need none despair,
But may, if with like faith, like Moses do.
And when these waters (even as earthlier through
Fine soils) through heavenly strainers passèd are,
And all impurities have settled there,
Troubled no more but clear, they gather to
And fill Truth's deepest wells. Into such “pool”
Angels go down: the waters thereof heal!
Childhood hath April-tears; and ever full
Are Rapture's eyes who some from grief doth steal!
Oh that we such could store, when hearts grow dull,
In lachrymatories, to make them feel!

THE BORE OF THE SEVERN.

Hark! what a sound is here! It is the roar
Of Neptune's grand sea-horses (for they neigh
Not like the steeds of Earth), on their mad way
Plunging with foamy manes, high-rearing o'er
The river's banks: hark! 'tis the Severn's “bore!”
Mighty One of the Waters! What then may
This inland roar betoken, which makes stay
Their river, and the Naiads all adore
Their dread Supreme? Com'st thou thus far inland,
As mightiest Potentates do sometimes use,
With lessened majesty, yet ever grand,
To “beat the bounds,” and claim thy inland dues;
Or make us Mortals aye in awe to stand,
When e'en “writ small” thy grandeur we peruse?

TEARS AGAIN.

Some tears are precious, and as pearls should be
In estimation, if worth íntrinse were
Measure of value; tears than pearls more rare!
Such (priceless) as, wrung out from agonie
Of contrite hearts (in kind 'bove as degree
Kings' ransoms), ransom sinners from despair:
Such as dark stains remove, to write out fair
Once more God's saving Name, cursive and free,
On the heart's tablets! Some, too, are as dew
In gracious eyes, and seem from heaven to fall;
Blessèd, and blessing all eyes they come to,
Like Mercy's. Rare, too, those which raptures call
To Poets' eyes, when they clothe on the True
With Beauty; Makers (Maker-like) in small!

DOUBT: AN ALLEGORY.

A cloud an infant's hand might compass, and
At first unseen 'tis, or seen slightingly,
In the circumference of Pleasure's eye;
Who, heedless pilot! at Life's helm doth stand,
Not recking hidden rocks or nearing strand.
Nor less by unregarding Youth, as fly
The rosy Hours, strewing flowers, by,
Like Bridesmaids, in soft dalliance hand in hand
With dreamy Love! Alas! aye grows that speck,
Dread, stealthy, like a pall around all wound;
And Pleasure starts at Death ahead and wreck!
Swift, too, those rosy Hours run their round;
Youth pines, and Love's full pulses Time will check,
And Doubt's high notes through Death's “Dead-March” resound!

THE “MISSING LINK.”

Methinks, Friend Darwin, thou dost throw away
Much labour in thy search; doest as some
Who far afield go for what lies near home!
For does not our “Homunculus,” I pray,
Go low enough to “hob-a-nob” with, nay,
To cousin-German your “Gorilla;”—dumb
Though this be, that articulate, and come
In Christian fashion, of baptizèd clay?
Clap this one on a tail, and straight we find
A passable “Human” fox, articulate!
And rudimentary tails some of Mankind
Have had; and, quite in keeping with their state,
Still more might: “laughing” Hyenas to my mind
Some are; and “Man” may every beast translate!

SHAKSPEAR'S PORTRAIT.

O noble countenance! Humanity,
Like a soft light through alabaster vase,
Raises the features and tones down the flaws
Wrought in the Potter's finest clay still, by
The o'erheating and the cooling suddenly
Of our Life's furnace. On that brow the Laws
Of God “writ large,” both in effect and cause,
Set, like the Tables of the Law, on high
In sight of all are! From those eyes the soul
Looks forth like Seer's rapt in second-sight;
The lips seem made expression to controul;
And in the face interpreted aright
Line upon line, the “short-hand” of the Whole,
“Writ large,” would make a volume infinite!

SHAKSPEAR'S UNIVERSALITY.

Some shine out in particulars, in this
Or that, like stars of varying magnitude
On the dark ground of night; brighter thus view'd
Against their faults; conspicuous by what is
Their mere defect, one-sidedness, and miss
Of thy all-compassing and sunlike mood,
Which, like day, universal, doth include
And show all things as in that light of His
Who made them! Hence the difference between
Their partial lights and thine; now on this side,
Now on that shining, by which things are seen
Only in part; both show themselves and hide:
But thy light from above illumes this scene
Of Human Life on all sides, far and wide.

WHAT IS COMING?

Methought I saw a hand mysterious
In act to turn the page of History,
And half a name on either side did lie;
As one who to a hill-top drawing close,
Sees all behind, but forward view doth lose.
A sentence in the turning caught my eye,
That like a flash of lightning trenchantly
Cut, as a sword, the Dark from Luminous!
The leaf is moving; 'tis the hand of Time!
Deep hieroglyphics gleam about the page,
And through the letters shines Truth's light sublime;
Like “Mene, Mene,” seems it to presage
Some day of Wrath; but none God's heights may climb,
Or Hierophant be to the Coming Age.

TRUE SELF-DENYING GOOD DEEDS.

These are the trees of God! which deep and wide
Spread, and strike down into Humanity
Their hold-fast roots—unseen, yet crescively
Yield to the Lord; not with mere show and pride
Of outward flourish, which will not abide,
Which wither at the top, and at root die,
With the first frostbite of adversity,
Like Jonah's gourd, that fleeting lived and died
To its brief Self! But these, as deep they go,
So, high they rear their heads in God's own light,
And bear to Him, surpassing all below;
Of so fine flavour, so fair in His sight,
That even Angels nothing higher know,
Nor can God Himself Man with more requite!

TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW!

Thou very ass of Days! o'er-loaded sore;
Thou aye-belaboured, over-laboured Beast!
Thou should'st have wings, like Pegasus, at least,
As well as four poor feet; for on all four
Thou seldom goest, lamed in one or more,
Whether it be to funeral or feast;
By Fools bestridden and with load increas'd,
Who still their “Purpose,” ever on before,
Spur yet ne'er overtake! Proverb paves Hell
With “Good Intentions,” needing oft repair!
Methinks with such thy heavy panniers swell;
And if our ways Macadamisèd were
With such, thou too might'st journey on right well;
For self and all the World thou hast to spare.

ON A FAR-OFF STAR.

Oh to have cognizance, if not with eyes
And sense, if but in visions of the night,
Revealings mystical of second-sight,
Of that far Life, that glow-worm of the skies,
That diamond-point, which we poor atomies,
Measuring by Nothingness the Infinite,
Do call a “Star;” what wonder and delight
To doubt if dreams were or realities
The things revealed! How we should go about
As with a twofold life, a mystery
Unto ourselves, of our own selves in doubt!
Oh, what a yearning curiosity
Gnaws at my heart, and like a fiend doth flout,
“Excelsior” whispering in mockery!

THE OVERCROWDED “SLUMS” OF LONDON.

Of Evil how the leaven this vast mass
Doth leaven of pent-up Humanity;
Whose atoms in their contact putrefy,
Spread and ferment fungoidal, and pass
Into corruption and foul taint; e'en as
With body so with mind; till yeastily
The Human dough doth rankly rise, and high
To Heaven stink, offending God, alas!
Above, as Man below! Oh, evil case,
When Human Nature on itself doth prey!
In Childhood's very heart and open face
Sweet Purity no part hath, scared away
By brazen Vice; o'er all, the Serpent's base,
Foul trail, who doth the innocent Dove betray!

TO ------.

O most sweet vision! In thy blessèd face
Thy soul as in a mirror doth express
Itself; and in that outward loveliness
It photographs in light its inner grace;
Basks in the sunshine of thy beauty; plays
As with its shadow there, though shadowless!
And as Heaven's limpid light might seem Truth's dress,
So is thy Beauty thy Soul's jewel-case.
Fair casket—fairer jewel! Beyond price!
Thrice happy (beyond mortal lot) were he
Who should unlock the same with rare device
Of love, and wear that jewel thyself, thee,
In setting of his heart, till in the skies
Re-set, as all God's jewels needs must be!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

O thou grand Prayer of Stone! for all things share
That sense and sentiment, and mutely pray!
How, from the lowly pavement which doth lay
Its humble stones the poorest tread to bear,
And for Death to write on them “Life,” “Beware!”
Steals up inaudible (yet spirits may
Hear feelingly) that prayer; and far away
Thrills up each column, monumental there,
Perdurable. If sermons be in stones,
As with the voice of Men and Angels these
Do preach, while Death amid the mouldering bones
Of Greatness the World's pulses seems to freeze.
Yet stop they not. All dead and living tones
Join in that prayer, its volume to increase.

OLD AGE.

O Death! thou holdèst that dread door ajar,
Whose threshold, worn by unreturning tread,
Points but one way to Living and to Dead;
The downward way to goal so near yet far,
Which none can guess, though all aye-guessing are.
The dread Sphinx-riddle which hath swallowèd,
And aye will swallow (self-interpreted
Alone) the Guessers, who both make and mar,
And solve Death but with Life! With trembling hands,
And fixed and glassy gaze, Old Age would peer
Into the darkness, while his ebbing sands
Run from the hour-glass and disappear!
In vain ajar that door mysterious stands;
No glimpse beyond he sees, no sound doth hear.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY AGAIN.

Lift up thy stones in prayer; lift up on high
Groining, and vault, and skyward-yearning tower,
To bear it up as far as Earth has power.
Till Heaven stoop to hear it and reply,
And God's grace ekes out Man's infirmity.
Kneel, holy Pile, beneath the weight and dower
Of hallowing ages, on thy grave-paved floor,
And with thy Great and Good pray who there lie!
Tall clustered columns, weak reeds singly, strong
Re-knit, re-bound, Religion'd, and at-one'd,
Lift, lift your strength and beauty up like song
And anthem, let your capitals be crowned
With Amen of God's grace, that so ye long
May bear the weight of glory on ye throned.

OLD AGE, THE SITTER.

Methinks the Portrait-painter at his best
Hath wrought, and con amoré; sour Old Age,
Dull as the last miles of Life's pilgrimage,
With mouth all down at corners; with much zest,
And touch satirical most manifest;
With harsh lines which no softening lights assuage,
With the worn look and pace of the last stage,
He touches in; suggestion of the rest
Subtly conveying. Dark Rembrandtish tones
He dashes in maliciously, and takes
Such shadows from Death's palette as gravestones
At sunset cast, with these the “high-lights” breaks.
Unflattering Time, who “fine effects” postpones
To Truth, and photographs au naturel makes.

PROGRESS.

DER DOPPELGÄNGER; OR, MAN AND HIS “DOUBLE.”

Dar'st thou beneath the surface look; away
The varnish and French polish o' the outside,
The “hack” conventional lendings, the false pride,
Strip off, and closely scan the natural play
O' the features, and let Self itself betray?
And in Truth's glass, not seeking aught to hide,
Scan thyself “back and front,” and then confide,
In tête-à-tête, to Self, what Truth might say?
Would Conscience shrink from the similitude?
Would Self at Self start, as at a scarecrow?
As thy surroundings art thou—so and so.
Some, too, who smell like millefleurs, would exude
From their inner selves a stench, such as might flow
From an untrapped street-gully, if stript nude!

AN INVOCATION.

O Muse belov'd, adorable! whom I
Have sought with love more than for woman felt;
For whom I gave up all, to whom I knelt
As some at altars kneel for wealth, thereby
With granted wishes cursed, which cog and lie
Like flatterers, and Fortune but “mis”-spelt
Bring mocking! Not with me so hast thou dealt,
With wealth of heart, and pleasaunce of ear, eye,
All, all-enriching. And if thou sometimes
Dost touch in minor key-note thy grand lyre,
Which our poor mortal utterance sublimes,
'Tis that those deep harmonics may inspire
Our sadder thoughts (like heaven-wafted chimes,
Dispersed in air), transposed to something higher.

CHARITY.

Pass not the wretched dumbly. Charity
Hath not a hand open as day alone;
She hath an open mouth, too, with kind tone
To cheer and comfort; in her ready eye
Tears, precious beyond pearls, of sympathy;
Smiles on her lips, like gleams of sunshine thrown
On clouded hearts, whence Hope hath all but flown;
Words, which give more than gold could bring or buy;
Words, gentle words, thawing some poor chilled heart,
Frost-bit, alone, at distance from its kind,
Doubting if God have given it a part
To play; and, in despair the clue to find,
Wandering a poor, lost waif, lost at first start,
In Life's great labyrinth where blind lead blind.

THE LAST SAD STAGE OF ALL.

In the blank vacancies of those old eyes
Dulled Speculation dozes; Thought there dwells
(If Thought at all) as one who doting tells
Moth-eaten tales, and aye with oft premise
And retrospect confusing tells o'er twice;
Like cold hearths where some ember scarce dispels
With a faint, dying flicker, but not quells
The chill and darkness, so the life-glow dies
And smoulders out in them. Dim, colourless,
The outline of the Past there ghost-like flits,
While Death still, from behind, doth urge and press,
Like a poor phantom scared out of its wits;
That over the dark brink of nothingness
In gibbering terror, scarcely conscious, quits.

ON A PHOTOGRAPHIC LANDSCAPE.

'Tis Nature holding to herself the glass,
And taking her own likeness; frown and smile,
And look still shifting with her mood the while,
As light and shade with subtlest touches pass.
She sits to her own self, self-painted; as
Of old, with large hand and in her own style,
Vinci or Raphael, prompted to beguile
Oblivion with perpetuated face.
But 'tis no “picture” yet. Light, which lets see,
Sees not itself; though making visible,
Reveals not what the picture's self should be.
That must pass through the mind of Man as well;
In that fine furnace all aglow, while he
Submits the forms of things unto its spell.

TO-MORROW.

Oh may it never come, that unique day,
To-morrow, but for ever be To-morrow!
What plausible excuse without, to borrow
Of that old usurer, Time, who makes fine play
And baits with it for fools, as anglers may
With sham flies for poor fish; though to our sorrow
He only gives us line, and doth forgo
In Present to make Future smart and pay;
A very Shylock! Thou most slippery
Of days! Thou very Proteus, changing shape
E'en when we seem to fix thee 'neath our eye;
Thou play'st as many antics as an ape.
Occasion's forelock we may seize, but thy
Elusive hold all grasp doth still escape.

TRUTH.

Shrink not from Truth, but meet her face to face;
Aye, though she look thee through, and make thee know
And feel thy life a lie by doing so.
Her look is terrible, though full of grace,
Medusa-like, it withers all that's base.
She is a flame of fire, and doth go
Cleansing the earth, and smiting high and low,
Yet scathing only foul life and foul place,
Cities of men and kingdoms. Shut thine eyes
Not to her; nor yet, like the ostrich, hide
Thyself from her, while, forward, dangers rise
And gather, and o'ertake the slow beside
In rear. Keep with her though she sorely tries;
Yea, when most thwarting most in her confide.

THE STATE CHURCH.

The sea is high and working, top o' flood;
With gales schismatical; or, worse by far,
Blasts that from no point in particular
O' the compass blow, winds of Free Thought, right-rude,
That strike at all beliefs, evil or good
Alike. Dark clouds obscure Faith's guiding star;
And coldly shine false lights and secular,
Like ignes fatui, only to delude.
The vessel of the Church now labours sore,
And yielding to the storm, flings overboard
Some precious heritage it, ark-like, bore,
By loving hands held, loving hearts adored.
The Faithful strain their eyes, and fain once more
Would on the waters walking see their Lord.

THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE QUEEN'S CORONATION.

Time, who three decades since, placed on thy young
And virgin brow of temporal crown the weight,
On which, amid the many gems and great,
No jewels there a purer radiance flung
Than those pure pearls which Nature herself strung,
Of youth and innocence. Time doth abate
The earthlier glories of thy birth and state,
To foil those heavenlier Graces, not among
His Givings or his Takings. He 'twas not
That placed on thine anointed head beside
That purer crown of Womanhood, thy lot
High-raised, with sanctions, graces that abide
To hallow, and with titles without blot,
“Wife,” “Mother,” capped and crowned thy crownèd pride.

THE SUPERNATURAL.

BELIEF.

Oh how, though nipped and cut down o'er again,
By frosts of Doubt, e'en to the very root,
My Faith puts ever, ivy-like, new shoot
And tendril forth, and labours to retain
On that sustaining pillar of the fane,
Which underprops the corner-stone unto it,
Its hold tenacious; lovingly to suit
Each flexure, till it on the top obtain
Sure coigne of vantage. But oh! what, alas!
What if the Temple, itself shattered, fall,
And like Earth's old memorial ruins pass
Into Time's wastes, tower, altar, pillar, wall!
Earthquake and whirlwind shake the grand old mass;
What will “The still, small voice” say after all?

AN ALLEGORY.

Inspired by Love, Hope his too facile hand
And self-indulging, dreamy fancy tried
Upon the canvas; youth bemused, beside
The picture, rapt in visions sweet and grand,
Those touches after his own heart too scanned;
As in the painter threw, and loving eyed
His airy rainbow-tints that not abide;
Too dainty-fine, too delicate to stand.
The fickle trio, called by Pleasure, left
The unfinished picture; when Time stealthily
Took up and of its charms the brush bereft:
And Death his shadow cast in passing by,
A dread eclipse! As misers at a theft,
The three, returned, askaunce each other eye.

LATE-RIPE INTELLECTS.

Has Age no share or portion of true song?
Scorn, then, the Muses Wisdom's furrows, where
She sows her best wheat and most free from tare?
Watered with tears, for which she waiteth long,
The latter rains of grace, which fill out strong
The brain's maturer growths. May Age not wear
A steady halo; genial heat, not glare;
May not their inspiration quicken tongue
In time-fraught oracles? Yes! their fine fire
Still in such hearts may glow, burnt to a clear
Strong heat, in which all dross and low desire,
Like gold thrice-furnaced, melt and disappear:
And in the truth of things a mastery higher
True Poet wields; God whispers in his ear!

TO A NOBLE-HEARTED COSTERMONGER.

True-generous Soul! that needs must overflow,
Like a fountain, being full, on all around!
Like sapful tree that bark-bursts, being hidebound,
Thy generosity doth overgrow
Its self-confines, and still abroad doth go,
Until in its surroundings it hath found
Whereon to spend itself; not on the ground,
Barren, to Self, in selfishness to throw
Its wasted superflux. True Millionnaire!
Who seek'st thine own in others' happiness;
And gainest cent. per cent. by that most fair
Investment! Hard thy hand is, coarse thy dress;
Heart homespun, too, yet large; it hath to spare:
May God thee with what He to spare hath bless!

FIRST LOVE.

Oh happiness beyond not words alone,
Too large, too deep to be articulate;
Which can but dumbly sit as at the gate
Of speech, and murmur, and with signs make known
Its ecstasy, when first Love first doth own
And recognise itself. Oh bliss too great,
When heaving hearts on hearts reciprocate,
And on their rise and fall, his wavy throne,
Love broods in Halcyon-calm! Oh, in what thought,
Like precious essence in like-costly vase,
Shall Memory embalm thee as it ought?
Or, being gone, what tears that vital pause
Shall register; or from what shall be wrought
Fit lachrymatory to match the cause?

WOMAN'S VOICE.

Sweet laughter trilling clear and silvery,
Half song, half speech, and allto' musical;
Sweet voices, soft and low, like angels' call,
That whisper to us, as they murmur by,
Of blessèd things, reflections of the sky;
Love, peace, devotion, patience, bearing all,
All conquering; great victories in small,
And gentlest influence, not authority.
Not these the loud of tongue, sharp, shrewish, shrill,
And argumentative, the “Platform” tribe,
Who argue fiercely as they reason ill;
Who ape male-manners and would gall Man's kibe;
But those sweet characters which Men transcribe
With pen and heart,—angels, yet human still!

ON A VERY PECULIAR AND SPLENDID SUNSET.

Did some Archangel, giving the full rein
To fancy, and with from his own great wing
A feather, write some grand imagining,
Some passing thought, beyond Man's speech and brain,
Upon yon sky, on which I gaze, in vain
Th' interpretation seeking? Do they sing,
Those tongues of fire, each like a wingèd thing,
Hosanna in the Highest, while I strain
Both eye and ear? Is it another day
Of Pentecost?—for though I nothing hear,
So like to tongues are they, they needs must say
Something which eye interpret may to ear.
Yes! I hear seeingly: Thy glory they,
O God, declare, beyond all language clear!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY AGAIN.

How light those columns bear the complicate
And many-thrusting roof; which, cheating sense,
Leans lightly on them, as if its immense
And ponderous load were but an airy weight:
So on the Graces thrones the Muse her state!
The brute stones seem as with intelligence
To fit themselves with mutual reference,
Types of the strength which union can create!
The fluted columns, like reeds joined in one,
With corporate strengths sustaining one and all
The common burthen, make it seem as none,
Because apportioned and symmetrical.
One Thought pervasive doth throughout it run,
Which lifts our souls yet on our knees makes fall!

PEGASUS.

A goodly steed, in sooth! An eye of fire,
That kindles, like a subtle flame, the air;
Hoofs that strike fire and water from rocks bare
And cold; yet musical as Amphion's lyre,
That stones could make harmonic, like a quire,
In rhythmic unison! Nostrils most rare
And subtle ether breathing, which few dare
Of Mortals, save in vision rapt, respire!
Wings too he hath, whose wafture airs divine
Attend, to lift him out of Mortals' ken.
Such, when great Homer made constraining sign,
And so, he stood, obedient; and then,
With Epic neigh, like that all-famous line,
Upbore the glory and despair of Men!

IMMORTALITY.

UNDER THE SURFACE.

TIME AND CHANGE.

TRUTH AT ALL COST, AND AT THE COST OF ALL!

O terrible, Medusa-like, thy look,
When, in thy naked majesty of mien,
And face to face, without disguise or screen
To temper it (without which few can brook,
Of mortal eyes, thy searching gaze, which shook
Belshazzar on his throne), O Truth, thou'rt seen;
And all that's False upwitherest with thy keen,
Fierce light, that smites and beats on straight and crook!
Alas! there is a terror in thine eyes,
Beyond their wont when I on thee did dote
In youth; and, though love still o'er fear doth rise,
They scare with meanings which I scarce dare note.
So in loved looks we mark, with dread surprise,
The wandering thought, in the mind's eye the mote!

LIFE AS A WHOLE.

THE STEAM-ENGINE.

Off, ye Mastodons, Megalosauroi vast
And monstrous, Nature's ruder tentatives;
Her clumsier essays, of which nought survives
But fossil-bones—dread nightmares of the Past,
Which her less skilful hand in rude moulds cast,
Then brake them; as a 'prentice tries and strives,
Until the cunning of his hand arrives
At full perfection, forms matured, to last;—
Off to dark Night and Chaos! And, instead,
Come thou, true creature of intelligence,
Warm-blooded, on Promethean fire fed;
Born of Man's brain, partaking of his sense;
By Science out of Civilisation bred:
Mightier than these whom thou would'st drive from hence!

CORDELIA'S TEARS.

Of tears to store in lachrymatory,
Each drop more precious than a pearl of price;
Beyond those liquid pearls of the sunrise,
Aurora's gems, in very purity;
Directer distillations of the sky;
Holier than drops baptismal, sacrifice,
Burnt-offering, incense; after the Deity's
Own heart, thine—thine, Cordelia—defy
Comparison! Why were they then not caught,
And treasured up in fit receptacle?
For this; that Pity's eye might still be fraught
With that divinest moisture and its spell;
Never grow dry, but, in great Shakspear's Thought,
Flow still, and quicken all whereon it fell.

THE DOG OF CIVILISATION; OR, ANIMAL EDUCATION.

O thou dear Dog! the very synonym,
In name as nature, of fidelity;
Affection looks out from thine honest eye,
And sparkles as it would the diamond dim!
From Man, unspoilt by his caprice and whim,
Some of his Good thou learn'st, untainted by
His Ill; nor, like poor Human Savagery,
Infect, becom'st vile caricature of him,
Kaffir or Indian. In great Nature's scale,
In contact with Man's higher intelligence,
Thou by degrees dost rise; and, if speech fail,
Almost articulate is thy keen sense:
So supplemented by ears, eyes, paws, tail,
Methinks the use of tongue must soon commence.

ON AN INFANT.

He lies upon his Mother's heaving breast,
Soft-swelling and responsive to her love;
Like Halcyon on calm waters, or white dove
On summer-wave, caressing and carest!
Peace, Innocence, and Love, supreme, exprest
In Great, in Small: Earth vies with Heaven above
Which shall the most approv'd be or approve;
Which, copy or original, be best.
As in the little alabaster-vase,
That inexpressive face, Humanity's
New-kindled light burns faintly, and doth pause,
The figures on it scarcely show or rise;
But by degrees 'twill glow, through faults and flaws,
Divinely clear, and show them full life-size.

ON AN EXQUISITE CLOUD-APPEARANCE, JULY 9th.

Oh for what purpose were those flocks of cloud,
Beyond the Coan fabric's rarest proof,
Spun out so fine that Fancy holds aloof
From touch, and fairy hands should be allowed
Alone to finger them; and might be proud
To work them up in magic weft and woof
To form an awning or pavilion roof
For Queen Titania, or fairy shroud
For Puck “laid out” in state? How exquisite
Those long-drawn-out and gossamer-like streaks
Of fleeciness, too fine for touch, nay, sight;
Though one sense th' other supplements and ekes!
Of the loom of the elements that so light
And wondrous woof the unique work bespeaks!

OUR LOST.

The objects of our worship, false and true,
Idols and real presentments, joys, loves, hopes,
Beliefs, Time shatters: distraught, Memory gropes
To set the statues which the temple strew
On their old pedestals; sometimes with new
Replaced, with better; larger aims and scopes,
With which, through that dark hour of Doubt, Faith copes,
Like Jacob with the angel, to subdue.
But some, too beautiful for earth, alas!
Are dashed before our faces to the ground;
Some fall, self-unsupporting: first they pass
Out of our sight, their place is no more found;
Then fade they off from Memory's magic glass,
And, parting, with sad Parthian glances wound!

A LIFE-COMPARISON.

As looking down some quiet side-street, still
And staid, back-water of the mighty stream,
We see the main of citièd life by-gleam
And glance, by-thunder; crowd, crush, pulse, and thrill,
And its great median vein with life-blood fill;
So, from Time's still, retirèd ways, where dream
Old Age's dwellers o'er past hours, seem
The fever-pulses and the heady will
Of forward Youth. On sweeps the Human flood,
High-working, with side-eddy and main flow,
Casting on either side, in changeful mood,
Its waifs and strays, with many a wreck below;
Then o'er Time's falls, in foam and thunder, strewed
With Man's proud ventures, borne and bearer go.

THE EMBRACE.

Come to my arms, Belovèd! come once more,
And let me feel thy heart, respónse divine,
Answer'd and answering, once more on mine;
Bliss beyond all the Future has in store,
Unless it could repeat what went before;
Unless deceiv'd, deceiving Hope entwine
Fond Memory in his arms, and twain combine;
As rarest cordials some together pour
For an Elixir. Oh, let us Love's fee
Pay down in full, and, in one long embrace,
Forgetting both the Has-been and To-be,
The sorrow which doth look with Janus-face
Both ways, as in a golden cup poured free,
Empty our hearts, and single have no place!

A DE PROFUNDIS OF OLD AGE.

Fill me a goblet full—no! not of wine;
Though Bacchus broach his own Falernian “brand,”
Or other best, Man's shut heart to expand,
And make his brain hum, in a phrenzy fine,
With thoughts (like bees at swarming time) divine
With inner stir. While runs the hour's sand,
And while I hold my life as in my hand,
Fill me a cup of Lethe, and be thine
The toast, Oblivion! Oh, thou gentler Death!
Close me the straining eye of Memory;
My throbbing brow calm with thy poppied wreath;
Forgetting and forgotten, let me lie
In thy embrace, and what of this poor breath,
Called Life, remains, in thy ear let me sigh!

GÖTHE.

When Nature opened for this mighty birth
The gates of Life, she ushered his advent
With a full flood of light, as with th' intent
This child of Light in measure of his worth
So to prefigure, this new light to Earth.
In mid-light and mid-time this tenement
Of clay he leased, and when the tenant went
The sacred fire from its earthly hearth
Divinely passed. “More light, more light,” he cried,
True to his origin; and when the blind
Nature in one direction drew, and died
The sunset splendours which he left behind,
This new Prometheus, to the last Man's guide,
More light, though more might blind Man, yearned to find!

THE COMPENSATIONS OF EXISTENCE.

How cunningly doth Nature in her scales
Adjust her weights, to balance, equipoise,
And “set off” Human lots! She hath alloys
For golden haps, as morals point fine tales,
And Fancy's aches where nothing really ails.
With many little weights and lesser joys,
The pleasure which, more measured, never cloys,
She balances the greater which entails,
From Too-much, surfeit! If you overfill,
The cup runs o'er; Man's heart doth do so too,
That goblet overbrimmed with Wishes ill.
Drop Cleopatra's pearl into it, you
Mere spilth and waste make, poison heart and will;
'Tis pearl to swine, for as swine all such do.

TRUTH AND FICTION.

The evanescent fragrancies how fix
Of Beauty's rose, which too, too oft, alas!
With their own brief intoxication pass?
Hope's rainbow on what palette or how mix
Unfading? As the dreaming fool o'erkicks
His fragile wares, i' the fable, like an ass,
Aye-brittle Fortune shattering with his glass,
So in Hope's arms, as in a Lunatic's,
Rubbing his eyes, Youth wakes. 'Tis wise, 'tis well
That dreaming cease, though waking rudely come;
That Truth should break vain Fancy's wand and spell;
Mightier Magician she! Before her dumb
Those Sirens stand; with her Life's issues dwell,
She bringeth the great working World's grand hum!

IMMORTALITY.

O breath of Life! that makes respirable,
Vital, and salutary, this most mere
And common air, this else most poor life here;
Thou only Heaven, thy loss the only Hell!
Oh how that sense assured would fill and swell
My heart, in bliss unspeakable insphere!
But Doubt, with dread collapse, from eye the tear,
From heart the life-blood forces, with most fell,
Convulsive grasp! Oh if it be not so;
If this most glorious ether sparkling o'er,
Around, beneath us,—through which earth doth go
A gleaming, sunlit ball for evermore,
With night and day, like its sea's ebb and flow,—
Be but a crystal bell; like larks we soar,
To gasp in th' exhausted, airless void below!

TO A HAUGHTY BEAUTY.

O Beautiful! and dazzling as the light!
For, as with that, we need to shade our eyes,
Lest the full blaze with blindness should surprise;
Look not so scornful; let not lightnings smite
Our sense, but those soft fires of delight
In which Love plumes his wings, and basking lies.
Tip not his dart, which so directly flies
To mark, and wounds when honeyed most its flight,
With rankling gall too! Haply in thy thought
Pity hath place, and thou would'st something show
Medusa-like, beauty with terror fraught.
Thou could'st not; yet if, could'st thou not e'en so
Insensate make; for heart of stone y-wrought
To flesh would turn, nor stone again could grow.

CONVENTIONALISM.

'Tis well that Nature break from Art's cramped rounds;
Fling loose her locks dishevelled, bare her breast;
Cast off the lendings wherewithal opprest
She scarcely knows herself; how her voice sounds
At its true pitch; how her lithe footstep bounds
Free and self-paced; how beautiful, most drest
When most undrest that form, and aye at best
When Art its unbought graces least confounds!
Nay! let her strip herself, for she can bear
The light like Truth; though few love to set eyes
On either naked, or their full looks dare,
Ithuriel-spears to pierce hypocrisies!
Blessèd the sight can view them as they are,
Naked, yet clothèd in diviner wise!

ESOTERIC.

Touch not those chords; they're out of tune, and jar.
Love, whilom passioning in phrenzy fine,
On a mere mortal instrument divine
Préludes essaying, stretched those chords so far
Tow'rds concert-pitch with those which star on star
In diapáson discordless combine,
That, overstrained, those heartstrings since small sign
Or résponse make, to tones whose “motives” are
Beyond their compass. Yet sometimes, at best,
Like some vague-murmuring chords Æolian,
They give, in answer to his high behest,
Response deep, mystic, yearning, none may span.
As if from (mighty sound-board!) the deep breast
Of all Mankind vibrations heavenwards ran.

THE APPROXIMATION AND CO-OPERATION OF MANKIND.

The World is drawing to one focus: Past
And Present; Distant, Near; all minds, all days
Before and since the Flood, converge their rays
In one aye-growing light, o'erspreading fast
The Earth's dark places. Coming 'tis at last,
That new revealing of the Eternal ways,
A new apocalypse as of God's face,
His look, as over Chaos, once more cast,
And Light is, new-create! In one grand sight,
All lesser there combined, Humanity,
Sublimest one-eyed Cyclops, full of light
And single, fixed on God, and led thereby,
(As guides in fixedness the Pole-star right),
Shall see its way, for “single” grows its eye.

KEEP THY BODY IN SUBJECTION.

Let not thy senses tyrannise thy mind;
Nor do as th' unwise master of the house,
Who lets his hirelings at his cost carouse,
Winks at their faults; till led by, leading blind,
A double penance double error find.
Good servants are they, its ubiquitous
(And manifold for pleasure and for use)
Powers and presence to unloose and bind,
Put into act and function. Then let not
The Served be Servitor; eye play the bawd
To mind; the swinish palate stain and blot;
'Gainst sirens lock, by reason overawed,
Thine ear; and when the senses would besot,
View them like drunken Helots, things abhorred.

TO A LAUGHTER-LOVING, BUDDING BEAUTY.

Sweet, loving smile, sweet Cupid in the eye
First cradled; babe of love and laughter born,
Expanding, as full day from rosy morn,
From eyes to mouth; thy pretty mimicry
(Yet inarticulate) with speech might vie,
With dumb shows, pretty antics, seems to scorn,
Until the smiles which did thine eyes adorn
Dimple thy cheeks, and thy sweet lips untie
In laughter audible. Sweet Ambigue!
She-Proteus, betwixt girl- and woman-hood;
Sweet evanescent Iris, light and dew;
Half-tone in Music's sudden-changing mood;
As sweet bells rise from soft to loud, so too
Thy visible smiles to audible laughter do.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Oh, save me, Saviour! Stoop unto my need,
For most sore is it! From that cross of Thine,
Those double pangs, the fleshly and divine,
Stoop, stoop unto me, for my heart doth bleed
Most inwardly. On a sharp, broken reed
I lean, and not alone this hand of mine,
But heart it pierces, and the “worm” doth twine
About and lap the blood, and on it feed!
Oh, I am crucified within; there, there,
The stigmata bleed inwardly, altho'
No outward sign that spirit-strife declare.
Thou, Christ! Thou even, could'st such pangs not know!
My soul is crucified; worst cross I bear,
Of Doubt, who but a Golgotha can show!

AN ALLEGORY OF GOOD AND EVIL.

Over the dark edge of a precipice
A form bent, half divine, with anguished gaze,
And ever and anon it turned its face,
Yet still reverting thither with fixed eyes.
For in those depths obscure forms seemed to rise
And writhe, that scarce of human bore the trace,
Demoniac half; obliterate the grace
Which should have witnessed high affinities.
Shrink not, bright form, from contact, for their mould
Is thine, and fashioned in the self-same way,
Though flawed in fiercer fires. All is not gold
That glitters, nor all porcelain Man's clay.
A false step, and thou too may'st lose thy hold,
And not look down on them, but on thee they.

ON A BEAUTIFUL STARRY NIGHT.

O Wonder ever new! O Wonderment,
Like a vast sum at compound interest,
Must still with higher figures be exprest
Each time, until the sum and continent,
Boundless, outgrow all sense and sentiment.
Meseems as, other blessing each and blest,
The eyes of all Creation on me rest,
Of that All-seeing but the complement!
All looks that I have looked, as blent in one
Intense, concentrate, till I seem in some
Mole-fashion faintest insight to have won
Into the thoughts of God. Strange flashes come
As the Soul's telescope points towards that Sun,
Which shines unseen, speaks through All, itself dumb.

THE NEW-MARRIED.

He started from his sleep, and in his thought
His dream (an inner-life reality)
Still dogged his steps; stern Nemesis's eye
Blasted his sight, and in her meshes caught
He struggled, and, with conscience overwrought,
Rousing his bride: “Seest thou,” he asked, “hard by
“A third one?” and, to her aghast reply,
With fixed gaze through the dark th' “Unseen” sought.
She feigned to sleep, and heard him, bending o'er,
Apostrophise her: “Sleep, thou Innocent!
The innocent sleep I never shall sleep more;
But blabbing tongues, and tell-tale eyes, and (rent,
Shroudlike and spectral, night) there stands before
My sight a form, with gaze aye on me bent!”

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Lift up your voices, ye that sermons preach,
Better than lips; ye Stones, that have the gift
Of tongues, and speak all languages; uplift
Your voices, ànd to listening spirits teach
What Time hath whisper'd secretly, as each
On other surged the centuries, with shrift
Or without for their sins; like wrecks adrift;
Or anchor'd safely, well of port in reach,
Of Truth's “Fair Havens.” Earnestly ye pray;
Not audibly to sense, but as the soul
Too inward-stirrèd what it feels to say.
From each meek trodden stone, with pious dole
Of adoration, each of tower gray
And wall, it swells sublime, one prayer the whole!

COMING EVENTS.

Oh, if my voice were not, as it meseems,
A passing breath, a momentary blast,
“Forlorn Hope's” roll-call merely, but a vast
Archangel-loud reveillie, I such themes
And so would stir, that Men should rouse from dreams
(Like sleepers scared by thunders rattling past)
To things which shall themselves make heard at last
In thunders, seen in lightnings, not faint gleams
As now, and whispers! Though into the ear
(With all my breath of life to emphasise)
Of this blind generation, slow to hear,
I trumpet it, to its hypocrisies
'Twould cleave; till back the dread reverb come clear
And thousandfold, as from a precipice.

REFERENCE TO A BYGONE YEAR.

It sounds, looks, just like any other year;
Like one sheep of the flock, as commonplace
As all its fellows. Looking at its face,
In the lack-lustre eyes I see nor tear
Nor smile; no touch of quality or cheer;
Yet hath it left in heart and brain its trace,
Writ small between the lines for want of space
In capitals, full many a character.
Ay, it is there! The tablets of the brain,
Though it be writ as with invisible ink,
And in Time's cypher, still the lines retain;
Nay, it is in the very thought I think!
Though written over, Memory's art makes plain
The cypher, and brings out each missing link.

THE LIGHTS OF THE WORLD.

Oh how, entranced in self-absorbing thought,
I view, with rapt and introverted eye,
Th' horizon of Time's intellectual sky;
O'er it, like stars with varying radiance fraught,
Clustered or single, into view see brought
The Lights o' the World, each after other, high
And higher, bright and brighter, till thereby
My eye all single, soul all light, is wrought.
Ray upon ray from all sides, beam on beam
They draw into the focus of my mind,
Intense, concentrate, single, till they seem
As through a lens all things to search and find,
While I to all that light divine, supreme,
Am but the lens, the medium, else purblind!

TO THE SWALLOW.

Glad Bird! thou makést music to the eye,
And motion tuneable. If correlates
Motion and sound be; if one sense translates
Another's language, as a bright trill by
The visual, “glittering,” we aptly try
To paraphrase; and light, which seeing grates,
Mimics “hoarse” sound; so intermediates,
Subtle equivalents of song, are thy
Most rhythmic motions. Airiest of wing
Of all the plumy flight, methinks of air
More than of earth thou art; and if air sing
(As it moves viewless) unheard, as it were,
Thou its twofold embodiment dost bring,
And mak'st the eye both sight and hearing share.

TO ------.

All things become thee and becomen are;
Lending thee grace, reduplicate their own.
As colours complementary take tone
And tint, each after his particular,
From primary; as lesser stars some star
Enconstellation; as of flowers one
Supreme all other foil; at distance shown
Against thy peerless grace all less seem far
And faint reflections. If thou mov'st, sweet Love,
Perfection seems in motion to reside;
If sit, the Graces so would sit, so move;
Where'er thou art that place seems purified
And dedicate; and Innocence, the dove,
From heav'n alighting, nestles at thy side.

“THE TREES OF THE LORD ARE FULL OF SAP.”

Are ye not glad, ye beautiful and grand,
Ye Trees of God, that climb the mountain-steep,
And answer to the sea-waves with your deep
And solemn roar; green billows of the land,
That surge and toss on it, as those on strand?
Are ye not glad, when His great winds which sweep
And cleanse earth, sea, and air, bid ye too keep
Your green robes pure, and only those to stand
That bide the buffet? When Aurora's lips
With dewy breathings clear the path of day
From vapours, and the light winds stir your tips,
Murmurs each leaf its morning-hymn, each spray;
The flowers are glad and gladden, while soft sips
The bee; the weed is glad, too, in its way.

SONNETS.

“IL DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”

Wide open stands the gate where Pleasure sits,
And with decoying speech and baited smiles
Her poor, deluded votaries beguiles
To an imagined Eden. She admits
All comers without question; but, ere quits
She cries, the dupes whom her embrace defiles,
Wi' t'other o' her double tongue reviles,
And thrusts them forth, stripp'd to their very wits.
But at the exit stands a shape severe,
Like that which drave from Eden the first twain;
And Pleasure, Janus-faced, shows other cheer,
And on them turns her other face of Pain.
Sure if slow Nemesis claims all arrear,
Pleasure is labour too—labour in vain!

CHANCE AND CHANGE.

O Time, rude Time! thy dread, obdurate foot
Treads into dust, and tramples into nought
Things around which our heartstrings are enwrought
Like ivy round the ruins, which preach mute,
Yet eloquent, how out of mind the fruit
Of Man's brief labours passeth; how his Thought
Still shifts and veers, like waves which now have caught
This wind of doctrine and now that, to suit
Thy passing humour! Thou art up the flight
Of the grand Temple's steps now hurrying,
And shakest with thy thunder and thy might
The altar to which priests and people cling!
Oh, stay thy step! There, there thou hast no right,
Time! where Eternity is everything.

SHAKSPEAR.

Soul like the sea! tidal, circumfluent,
Manifold, océanic; flowing all around
The shores of our Humanity; profound,
Self-lawed; all who go down to and frequent
Thy waters, fishers of men, as is their bent,
Divers for pearl, or such as further try
Their fortune, round them the grand blank of sky
And thy great main, voyage and are content.
Thou castest riches fineless on each shore,
And fillest every creek, and flowest in
And out, to every much still adding more.
The sick in soul from thee refreshment win,
As our sick bodies ocean's brines restore;
All things to all in thee end and begin.

FORECAST OF THE END.

Hast thou, as years flow on, and thou canst feel
The current draw, the underdraught commence,—
Canst catch, as 'twere, with strainèd, anxious sense,
The thunder of the waters as they reel
O'er th' abyss, nor now unnoticed steal;
Hast thou bethought thee of the “Whither,” “Whence”
Or dost thou blindly float, poor waif! from hence,
As if 'twere Lethe, and did all conceal?
Hast thou e'er, moralising thy “threescore
And ten,” and looking forward to that date,
Whispered “Thus far;” “So many,” and no more
Then, like one o'er a precipice too late
Aroused, despair behind and death before,
Thou in that year wilt see dread Hades' gate!

TRUE LOVE AND LOVE PAR AMOURS.

Though soft the cooing of his doves, their beat
Of wing as gentle as the breaths that blow
The roses open, and their beauties show;
Though honeyèd his darts, delicious-sweet
Their very wound; so genial the heat,
Unquenchable, which on their tips doth glow,
Thrilling the heart and marrow; yet e'en so,
In these all-gentlest, opposites may meet.
Love can avenge himself, make false hearts rue,
That take his name in vain, profane his rites.
His flame can scorch to ashes; his darts, too,
Are lethal when they strike their opposites.
Nay, like Prometheus' vultures, hearts untrue
His very doves will rend for broken plights!

SCIENTIFIC THEORIES.

O Science! proud Iconoclast, thy way
Is strewed with fragments of our reverence
And love—idols with small or no pretence,
Right oft, upon their pedestals to stay,
The light oft intercepting of God's day,
E'en in His Temple! Light too pure, intense,
Which puts the eye out, dazzles the weak sense
Of mere Humanity, after its clay
Shaping its images. But take thou good heed
Thou dost not, in self-blindness and self-pride,
Pluck down the Temple's self, and, in its stead
And on its ruins, strewèd far and wide,
Building as not for Living but True-dead,
A cenotaph for Man's lost Soul provide!

NATURE LEARNING HER A. B. C. IN MASTODONS, &c.

Methinks that Nature, groping out her way
From Chaos, feeling after what she meant
As in the dark, making experiment
Of this and that, as potter with his clay,
And putting forth her brute strength as in play;
Forth-fashioning, with untried element,
Scarce knowing it yet or her own intent,
Created monsters huge in mere display
And prodigality! Her procreant womb,
In gross conceiving, brought forth the mere Vast,
For boundless waste of waters, earth-wide room;
But that first burst tamed down, about she cast
For finer fancies, until Man did loom
In view, her grandest effort and her last!

Ϝεσπερε, παντα φερεις, οσα φαινολις εσκεδασ' αυως.—

Where is that voice, whose sweetness even now
Seems still to tremble, after thousand years,
Upon the lip of passion? Where the tears
Of rapture or of anguish?—the pure brow,
On which God set His, visible enow
For all who run to read, and know His Seers,
Image and superscription; whose careers
He blesses, and though Men ban doth avow?
Absorbed in His that Being thenceforth is
A Spirit-presence, of which ever we
Do breathe, whose souls are capable of this.
Come, then, sweet Eventide! thou same which she
Invoked, from, with, pure lips a spirit-kiss
Oh let me steal, and so her “Medium” be!

DE PROFUNDIS.

As the poor snail, who feelingly his way,
Not seeingly, fore-searches, now by this,
Now that repelled, nor knoweth what it is,
Save that him “stones of offence” let and stay;
So strives my spirit, yet ne can ne may.
Poor prisoner, aye yearning for lost bliss;
Pining, as in an oubliette, for His
All-light, yet catching merest glimpse of day.
Up to the narrow grating doth it leap,
Poor peep-holes and poor air-holes of dull sense,
Panting and gasping, life hard-set to keep:
While ever and anon a cloud intense
Of outer darkness doth across it sweep,
Like the Shadow of Death, and life hangs in suspense.

THE MUSIC OF HUMANITY.

O noble concert of attunèd minds!
Melodious organs, into which the Muse
Immortal airs and breathings doth infuse;
Through whose full diapason Music finds
Voice plenary; heavenly harmony unwinds
Her “endless band,” which still itself renews:
Strings of the lyre God deigns Himself to use;
Choir-leaders, who in all degrees and kinds
Lead off the grand All-anthem. In that swell
And sweep of harmony, for ever borne
Athwart the ages, drownèd is the knell
Of poor Mortality, seems not to mourn
The Lost, but hail the Living; let thy spell
Lie on my soul, world-wearied else and worn!

WHAT IS POETRY?

VÆ SOLO ET SINGULARI.

True hearts there are that beat in solitude
And singleness, at distance from their kind,
Like fountains in lone places, which men find
By chance, and prove, when tasted, sweet and good.
Yet flow they to themselves, and, though they should
Be drinkable and drunk of, are consign'd
To mere forgetfulness, and, as if blind,
Men pass them by, and from their midst exclude.
Sahara-spots are found in cities vast;
Thirst worse than that of Tantalus, the thirst
Of heart, at sense of loneliness aghast;
Want of all, 'mid all sympathy, the worst!
Then Lethe draws, and, petrified at last,
The chilled heart sinks like stone into it cast!

SCIENTIFIC DISILLUSION.

Alas for old Beliefs which had become
Part of our being: something, as it were,
We lived by, breathed by, in the very air!
At Science's harsh touch, death-struck and numb,
Precipitated, like a “caput mortuum,”
They fall in dust, the Beautiful! (a bare,
Blank skeleton all that, to mock despair,
Remains), dust laid for aye with tears of dumb,
Heart-struck Mortality! Her telescope
Towards heaven Science turns, and lo! the form
Angelic, wing'd, of Faith proves but a “trope;”
The fell old Serpent writhes a déspis'd “worm;”
And Man, bereft alike of awe and hope,
Of earth all earthy turns, and all-deform!

THE ARCH-EVIL-SPIRIT.

Deep down, as in a gloomy oubliette,
Like some fierce, inarticulate, dumb brute,
Chained by the Will, and hindered from pursuit,
Though seeking whom it may devour yet,
In every soul, worldling or anchoret,
An Evil Spirit lurks; and, following suit,
If it releasèd be, join themselves unto it
Others and like, and o'er Man mastery get.
It clanks its chains, sometimes will howl and leap
Up at the grating, glaring at the eyes;
Yet one arch-fiend all else in hand doth keep.
All others bann'd, if Idleness surprise
The watchers, though ye garnish all and sweep,
All will return: that one doth all comprise.

HOPE.

'Tis not in Nature's drops or tearful shower,
All iridescent, like strewed opals, smit
With sunlight through and through, that Hope doth sit
And smile on Mortals with her súpreme power;—
Not that her chosen emblem. Dark when lowr
The clouds of ill, by Faith divinelier lit,
While fast the tears fall (yet aglow with it)
Of poor Mortality, that is Hope's hour
And type supreme! Then let them fall and clear
The air, sweeten, make breathable; with rain
Of Grace this dull Earth quicken, till appear
(Its odours giving back to Heaven again)
Those flowers divine, without which Man's life here
Is but a howling waste of sin and pain!

“KNOWLEDGE SHALL INCREASE;” OR, THE POWER OF STEAM.

True plough of land and sea, with furrows wide
And deep thou ploughest either teeming breast
Of Earth, from north to south, from east to west,
For Knowledge, broadcast-sown and vivified.
Each span of time, wind-shift, and turn of tide,
Draws rushing train its furrow without rest,
Ideal-real, of drill-machines all-best,
While Sail, Screw, Wheel, the azure plain divide.
Invisibly the network of Man's Thought,
With threads electric thrilling, meshes fine,
Shall all about his Planet-home be wrought.
Then to his Mind, thread on thread, line on line,
Imperial, central, one'd, shall all be brought,
All threads, thrills, pulses of the grand design.

THE WORN-OUT ORGAN-GRINDER; A “REPLICA.”

THE STARS.

Shall that grand, endless scroll, writ all in light,
Letter on letter, small or capital,
(If aught which that expresses can be small);
Cursive, or stationary to Man's sight,
Line upon line extended infinite;
Star upon star, with His light, who is all
Light of light, shone through, then asunder fall,
Like scattered types, nor legibly there write
The Name of God? Forbid it Eye that sees,
Enraptured, dazzled, on the darkness flung
Those diamonds of the sky, that milky fleece
Of light, like lappet of His star-robe hung
Aloft! Forbid it Soul that cannot cease
To yearn! Forbid it Wonder without tongue!

UNAVAILING PRESCIENCE.

O thou precursive soul, whose larger ken
O'erlooks this ignorant Present, as one who
Of unknown world hath telescopic view,
From natural sight hid and his fellow-men;
Thou art as having wings, yet neither when
Nor where shalt use them knowing, nor their true
Adjustment, nor what use to put them to;
So of wing-feather mak'st a Poet's pen!
On the weird curtain of the Future, vast
Yet dim thou seest the shadowy outlines thrown,
Unweeting whence projected or how cast;
Shadow 'mid shadows thy life stands alone.
When they are present thou shalt long be past;
Both lives shall miss; twain live, yet no true one!

THE VANITY OF MAN REBUKED BY THE STARRY HEAVENS.

Oh, why are all these splendours of the sky,
These wonders which make Wonder lose all sense
Of itself in that of the mere-Immense,
Flaunted in sight of poor Mortality?
Which worm-like writhes and in the dust doth lie,
Crushed in the presence of Omnipotence;
The dread Sphinx-facèd Mystery, the Whence,
How, Wherefore, searching still, till it says—“Die!”
Alas! poor worms! we talk as if we were
Of such importance in Supernal view,
That thought of us in all of these had share!
As the fly on the wheel makes much ado,
So while this whirling ball of Earth doth bear
Us with it, wheel and fly, to us all's due!

NAPOLEON I.

Thou human Juggernaut, incarnate War;
Minister of the Furies, Deputy
Of Nemesis, better vicariously
By thee served than by self! In thy red star
Of Fortune trusting, thou didst make and mar,
Break the World's gods of clay, the ground thereby
Clear for the Temple of Man's Liberty;
Yet ne'er that other temple's gates didst bar
For her blest sister, Peace. Thou Sword of God!
With which He smote, two-edged and terrible,
Nations debased, and those who on them trod.
So sweeps the whirlwind, making breathable
The chokèd air; so in His hand that rod
Scourged into life, broke the World-numbing spell!

ANTHROPOMORPHISM, OR THE ENIGMA OF LIFE.

Man, in his pride of intellect, brought face
To face with Nature, dark, inscrutable,
Sphinx-like, with steadfast eyes, that none can spell
The meaning of, gazing through Time and Space;
Yearning his end and origin to trace
By those seal'd lips which ready seem to tell
The secret, yet ne'er utter syllable,
Shadow himself doth his own shadow chase!
So with fine cobweb “systems” salves his pride,
The tether-length of his own intellect;
And, gauging this vast Whole from but one side,
The Human sees the mirror still reflect.
His little image aye doth there abide,
And the grand outlines break and intersect!

SWORD AND LEDGER KEEP TOGETHER.

O England! some would put into thine hand
A Ledger, and let use of Sword decay,
Most needed lost, of most use put away;
Thy law here of supply and of demand
At fault, for Pen turns not at need to brand!
Some would discrown thy brow Imperial, lay
That Koh-i-noor of Empire, India's sway,
Aside, and Custom sue, and not command.
These know but ill the power that doth dwell
In a great Name built up with mighty deeds,
Which cónjures Fortune like a magic spell.
That lost, material strengths are but as reeds;
Thy brow that halo wears still visible,
My England! keep it greatly for great needs!

FAITH AND HOPE IN VIEW OF THE “AUTOMATIC ACTION OF MATTER” THEORY.

And shall that Flower of rarest growth, with dews
Of heaven reared, towards heaven lifting high
Its head, and pérfuming Humanity
With efflorescence so divine, profuse,
Its vital air and sap sustaining lose;
At top be blighted and at root too die,
And like a vile weed, cast on dunghill, lie,
Disclaimed of Heaven, to Earth of no more use?
And with it too must die that other bloom
Of earthlier growth, but yet perennial,
Which, dying out on Earth, seeds in the tomb
Flowers of Amaranth that ne'er shall fall!
O Thought, which turns all light to outer gloom,
Prayer to the Desert-lost's despairing call!

LOVE UNDER THE SAME CONDITIONS.

And how with thee, pure Hymen! bond of love
Alone deserving of that sacred name;
On whose high altar only burns the flame
That warms Life through and through as from above:
Cónfine, which freedom in the end doth prove;
Which holds Life all together to its aim;
Inhoops the golden circle, keeps the frame
Entire, and makes it all-harmonious move.
Droop thy pure wings, turn down thy torch like Death;
No more that altar-fire shall it light,
Whose flame Faith blew up with her purest breath!
No more “For better and for worse” the plight
Shall be; but wanton Love toy with a wreath
Of roses, and as fleeting be his flight!

RELIGION UNDER THE SAME BAN.

And thou, Religion! how shall we behold
Thy abject state, as, sitting by the way
Men pass thee by with scoffs, and mocking say
“Behold her! she that was erewhile so bold,
Who held herself so lofty, and foretold
The wrath to come, and none dared say her nay!
Who built so high her temples; let her pray
And stir the stones thereof than hearts less cold!”
Thus shalt thou sit, poor Perdue! all alone;
The rapture from thy erst-uprais'd eyes fled;
Earthwards thy look, from brow the halo gone.
They that pass by shall spoil thee, science-led,
Now this, now that; till, scarce own'd by thine own
Or recognised, thou shalt be left for dead!

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

I would, old Abbey, thou could'st thy gravestones
Upheave, and sift the unworthy dust of some
Whose Memory (Blank?) no more tongue than the dumb
To stir the Living hath with living tones.
Would thou could'st both their memory and their bones
Cast in the highway where Life's mighty hum
Would drown the one, and feet that go and come
The other grind (for Time their claim disowns)
To common dust! All-hallowed then, what awe
Would wrap thee round, halo each monument!
Stone unto stone, as 'twere, would closer draw
In holier bonds, in one all strengths cement;
“Holiness to the Lord,” wrought without flaw
Or break, a monolithic sacrament!

TO ------.

On thy chaste brow, as on the lily, hath
Thy Maker set the seal of purity.
On that fair virgin page writ large as by
The Hand Divine it shines; like the soft path
Of light, Heaven's Milky-Way, doth it enwreath
Thy brows, with sweet suggestion of blue sky
From azure eyes; large yield and promise vie
Of virtues cardinal, with aftermath
Of lesser graces. Yes! as in a veil
Of tender light suffused, stars numberless
There blend, a common radiance partake;
So nought in thee unduly doth prevail;
But all thy virtues blending join to dress
Thy soul, and round it a soft halo make!

THE STARS AGAIN.

What are those countless worlds, self-lit, or bright
With borrowed ray, aye-moving lamps o' the sky;
What, what in presence of Eternity,
But each a sparkle in th' Almighty's sight;
A flash across, then lost in, th' Infinite?
What the far trail of glory, which we by
The name of “Milky-Way” call humanly,
But coruscations, brief, as Northern Light
To us, those to The “Timeless” One? Yet these
Are each a world more wondrous than our own
Perhaps, through unimagined fine degrees
From Better rising to some Best unknown;
Beyond conception of all that eye sees,
Ear hears, brain feigns, by Human sense alone.

HYGEIA.

ENIGMA.

I have sent forth my soul, as Noah of old
The dove from out the ark, over the waste
Wide waters of the Future, for foretaste
Of that which shall be, in lone flight yet bold,
And, like that dove, a blank did it behold,
A blank of sky and waters, land effaced.
Again, an Olive-leaf of Peace, retraced
Fresh flight, it brought, earnest of things foretold.
Shall it go forth again, returning not
Unto the ark of this poor Present; find
Rest for itself in some foreyearnèd lot?
It hath gone forth again, and left this blind
And ignorant Present for that happier spot,
Whose whereabouts it by that leaf divined.

PITT, BURKE, FOX, AND SHERIDAN.

Oh what a constellated galaxy
Of Mind was there, by whose excess of light
The mole-eyed world nigh (dazzled) lost its sight!
Quadrupled sun to light a fourfold sky,
Whose light and heat men still live in and by!
Had one but shone, or been a satellite
To other, it were wonder infinite;
Here four superlatives revolve and vie
In one self-orbit! What if such suns show
Some spots, or in eccentric courses strain
Their orbits, not the less the debt Men owe.
Yet Lights like these, as if ill to sustain,
Thou hiddest, England, 'neath the bushel, so
To shine and shame thee more, removed again!

FOX AND PITT LIE ALMOST SIDE BY SIDE, NEAR TO CHATHAM, IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

If aught may make, that Man can do or be,
Immortal, and embalm this dust of ours,
And make a handful worth more than the dowers
Of thrones and Empires, such dust here we see.
Theirs almost mingles; and thought of the three,
At once, the grasp of Wonder overpowers.
These Cyclops of the Brain, who shape the Hours,
Instant and at red-heat, as past they flee!
O hallowed Pile! how precious is the dust
Consigned to thee, as to some old-world Saint
Faith antique might her relics rare entrust.
O England! kneel thou here, and be not faint
Of heart, but lift thine eye from grave to bust
Of these, who put on thee divine constraint!

MY SONNETS.

Oh that, like some creative architect,
These loose “stones from the quarry,” here and there
Thus strewed about, now one and now a pair,
Or triune block, I skill had to connect
In one design, my purpose to reflect,
Whole, clear, complete, as in a mirror fair;
As some grand temple lifteth high in air
And stereotypes in stone, heavenwards-direct,
Its aspiration! Or, in humbler strain,
Would they were such Cyclopean stones as those
Which built Mycene's wall or Neptune's fane,
And grand beginning, grand end presuppose.
How, put together, Wonder they'd constrain,
When o'er such fragments she so loves to gloze.

THE AUTOMATIC ACTION-OF-MATTER THEORY.

And must we cast away our heritage,
Our heritage divine, like him of old,
For a vile mess of pottage! The hard, cold,
Drear Nihilism of this even-now turning page
Of Nineteenth-Century-Science, over-sage;
In prying into mysteries over-bold;
Turning the key o' the closet which doth hold
“The Skeleton,” to scare this questioning Age!
O vanity of vanities indeed!
Sight in the very act of seeing blinds:
Light puts the light out, even as we read
The dread Sphinx-riddle, which hath vexed all minds.
O knowledge worse than ignorance! O Creed
Which Life to dust, like the nether millstone, grinds!

“BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER!”

THE SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.

THE DEPTH AND THE HEIGHT.

THOUGHT.

Thou tyrant! on whose Procrustean bed
We are o'erstretched and strainèd till we break
In reaching after that which we can take
No measure of, nor touch with feet or head;
Or lopp'd and curtailed, when we yearn to spread
Imagined wings, like poor birds which men make,
By clipping, all their high flights to forsake,
With mock of wings, by Earth weighed down like lead;
Why dost thou prick us on and tug us back,
Making thy “jesses of our dear heart-strings,”
Until, or overstrainèd or too slack,
We miss our quarry, fall, or break our wings?
O thou that art Man's pride, and yet his rack,
Inquisitor! why these dread questionings?

PROPHETIC.

The hand of Time is moving towards the hour
That strikes dread note of Change; the shadow dim,
Yet in full outline traceable, of Him,
The Coming Man, the Spirit, and the Power,
'Neath which the lesser instruments will cower,
And bend or break; as fixed Resolve and grim
Fell Purpose master Will unstay'd and whim.
Like a dark-gathering thunder-cloud doth lour,
It draws athwart the light, and grows more strong
And dark, as by degrees it that obscures.
As the beasts cower and the birds cease song,
And seek from coming storm their covertures,
So at this chill and shadow, guessing long
And yet unweeting, Man vague dread endures.

TRUE UNION OF HEARTS.

Come to my heart, belovèd Wife, thou best
Of all my Best, still bettering my worst;
As an ill-grainèd nature if well nurst
May take some bent of good, though ill-exprest.
Thou crown of all my joys, whose added zest
Into a finer element, they durst
Not else disport in, lifted from the first,
Where, Dolphin-like, they show o'er all the rest.
Thy heart is as my treasure-house; and love
The key to turn the wards—“safe bind, safe find.”
Treasures which rust eats not, nor thieves remove;
Treasures to take with us, not leave behind;
Wise as the serpent, gentle as the dove,
Peace unto Heart, and guiding-light to Mind!

THE “AUTOMATIC ACTION OF MATTER” THEORY, AND ITS ISSUES.

O unwise Science! too inquisitive,
Too curious-prying; like the child who takes
His drum to pieces, or the sea-shell breaks
To find what may that Ocean-résponse give:
To take to pieces life is not to live.
'Tis ill to touch, for the fine works' own sakes,
Too oft the delicate mainspring which all makes
Keep time; 'tis worst “survival” to “survive”
Our better Selves! As on a muffled drum,
Thou beatest on this hollow ball of ours
A mufflèd roll of death that strikes Man dumb;
And crown'st not with “Immortelles” but poor flowers
Of Earth, that fade as into bloom they come,
Humanity's dead brow and baffled powers.

DESECRATION WITHOUT THEREFROM: WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

DESECRATION WITHIN THEREFROM.

Oh our dead Past, our Beautiful, our Dream!
Which all-to' seemed, was half reality,
Because we all-believed in it, thereby
Making it to ourselves to be, not seem:
Too Beautiful! it did so glow and gleam,
Set in its rainbow-framework of the sky;
Man's Being to transfigure, glorify;
Apocalyptic vision, too supreme!
That bow dissolvèd is in tears and cloud;
That Beautiful upon the bier is laid;
And Hope, with face averted, draws the shroud
Around it, like a spectre pale doth fade!
We turn to kiss its beauty once so proud,
As dead lips living kiss, chill-struck, affrayed!

CONSCIOUSNESS.

The wondrous-fashioned wards, so complex-fine,
Of that fast lock, our Human Consciousness,
How shall we open, and ourselves possess
Of the dread mystery of its design?
Some would with searchings of the heart divine
The secret, and the brain with questions press;
The lock pick, cut the key to pattern, guess
The trick o' 't, but the lock doth still decline
To turn or yield. Art, force alike are vain:
Now on a fine-stretched nerve it seems to dance,
As on a tight-rope, one end in the brain,
One nowhere! Atoms blend in consonance,
And lo! we think and feel! Yet who, again,
Designed, and fixed “The thus far” in advance?

IN VAIN!

As 'twixt two ages timèd lapse nor makes
Or less or more the interval, so 'tween
My hope and its fruition like is seen;
Distance not all my effort overtakes.
The mocking vision, looking backward, shakes
Its head, and glittering in rainbow-sheen,
All smiles, then through tears, with Protean mien,
Like mistress coy eluding lover, breaks
From straining grasp. Alas! 'tis ever so;
Still, lured on by that ignis fatuus,
We, like explorers after sunset, go
Through regions aye-remov'd and fabulous.
The path o'er lands or waters seems to glow,
But, reached the spot, a grave remains to us!

TRUE WEDDED LOVE.

Would'st thou the mingled wine of wedded Love
From that two-lipped, two-handled goblet, where
Life's finest flavours at their purest are,
Taste still at best, and, at most lasting, prove;
Draught of Elixir-vitæ, one remove
From Heaven, as might seem? Oh then beware!
With purifièd lips, pure heart, thy share
Thereof to take, and drink to Him above.
No Circe-cup to intoxicate the brain,
And fire the heart with fierce consuming glow,
To smoulder then in ashes stirred in vain:
From the pure grapes of God that wine doth flow,
A true Communion cup, whereof hearts twain,
Drinking to God, one in His image grow!

MAN'S RELATION TO GOD.

If boundless range of spacèd distance make
Those wondrous worlds (which with immensity
Our Thought within as sight without defy,
Among them “Koh-i-Noors,” vastness to break
A-many Earths from) diamond-points to take
In handfuls seem, Golcondas of the sky,
To yield for Beauty's brows a galaxy,
How far, in spirit-distance, Soul might ache
To feel itself from God! How less than small;
Were 't not that as those orbs the outward sight
Perceives, Him, inward-seen, in us, in all,
We aye discern, finitely-Infinite;
The eye of Conscience, focused to recall
Him still, “reduced” to Human requisite!

THE BEST PREACHERS.

SELF AND TRUTH.

TO ENGLAND.

O England, all thou touchest turns to gold;
Yet heed thou well thou not as Midas prove,
And, to gold turning things all gold above,
So “gain a loss” when these are bought and sold!
Accumulating means, thou losest hold
Of the true end towards which Man's life should move
To its own inner music, human love
And fellowship; mechanic else and cold.
Thou things imponderable dost price and weigh
By scales untrue 'gainst the gewgaws and gauds
O' the World; thy ledger 'neath thy head dost lay
For pillow, nightmared with dreams of thy hoards.
Go! make thee healthy homes, with sweet child-play,
Schools, not for Mammon's teaching, but the Lord's!

AGRARIAN MURDERS IN IRELAND, AND ATONEMENT.

CONSCIOUSNESS.

How like a two-edged weapon, Consciousness,
Thou cuttest both ways, wounding who thee use!
Thou art Man's special pride, yet poor excuse;
Since thou both greater makest him and less.
He only this 'bove all claims, in excess,
Yet in defect—he only may not choose
T' ignore that Terror, Death; who doth bemuse
His happiest thoughts, startles Love's sweet'st caress!
This shadow still attends thee—aye, e'en there,
On heaven's blue scroll those starry characters
But trace thy epitaph “writ large” as 'twere!
They shine thee down to earth; with her and hers
As best thou may, proud Consciousness, to fare.
She makes her graves; her own therein inters.

WISDOM.

LIVINGSTONE AND WESTMINSTER ABBEY. TO ENGLAND.

Why didst thou, with misplaced and posthumous zeal,
Scrape his poor bones together, and make moan
For him, not self? His loss small, great thine own;
For Death, who crowned him, made thee little feel,
With tears apocryphal, which sought to steal
A grace from him dead not to living shown.
So holy thieves steal “relics,” and atone
The fraud by “Sainting” thémselves, for their weal!
So! have ye buried him? He is not here,
But risen; far out of this generation's sight.
Go! count thy gold—he's lost; thy gain is clear!
This Abbey is almost, aye, if not quite,
His cenotaph—his voice its dumb stones hear,
Yet thou wast deaf, who hadst both speech and sight!

SEIZURES AND INSPIRATIONS.

NEMESIS.

Dread Powér! they who own the fearful gift
Of “Second-sight,” see in the mirror vast
Of History, in Future as in Past,
Thy shadow; though they tremble to uplift
The veil; and rather with the tempest drift
Than point the thunderbolt or guide the blast.
Thou smitest ere almost thy shadow cast
Hath warned, and dost like chaff the nations sift.
With thy great wings, clothèd in thunder-gloom,
The long-laid dust of poor Humanity
Thou raisest up, as at the Day of Doom,
In whirlwinds, till it blindeth Mercy's eye,
And blood and tears must lay it in the tomb
Where Nations expiate apostasy!

THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.

How fresh seems that old grief—that beat of heart
How full and strong, as but of yesterday!
It thrills our heart, and feelingly doth say,
“Thou creature of a day,” like us thou art,
Though years, a triple thousand, stand apart.
How freshly still those tears our mortal clay
Moisten with Pity's holiest drops for aye,
And wet the page still with their fresh-old smart!
Blessings be on the genius that let
Those precious drops not run to waste, which, lost,
Had left the eye of Pity still in debt;
Unshed, a spring dried up or sealed by frost.
In precious lachrymátory they yet
Keep Pity's eye moist, “drops” beyond all cost.

ON REPERUSING THE SONNET, “A SPRING-TIDE SUNDAY,” PAGE 24.

PAINTED FROM LIFE.

Some at fair faces pictured on a wall
Fall into raptures, painted flesh and blood,
Of feignèd Saints, or sainted Womanhood,
With haloed heads, more than apocryphal.
Before no “Fornarina” do I fall,
Though Raphael painted, ne would an I could:
I bow before a living face, where Good
Beyond a niched Madonna's doth enthral:
A face which does one good to gaze upon;
No “Palette” stereotyped beatitude,
But with our living flesh and blood clothed on,
Yet purified and touched to heavenly mood;
Where “Woman” raises with suggestión
Of “Angel,” “Angel” still as “Woman” view'd.

SHE BLUSHED.

Across her most fair and all-radiant face
There passed a blush, as pure as if a rose
Blushed at itself to be viewed as it grows,
And thereof in a deeper tint showed trace;
A flash of the inward Spirit, which doth chace
And kindle in the blood, in sweetest glows
And flushes soft; ethereal as those
Might, could she blush, Uranian Venus grace!
She blushed: then blushed, because she blushed, again!
And the two (roses) on her pure cheeks blent,
Made sweet'st confusion, neither one nor twain.
The second rosy messenger was sent
As to recall the first, but sent in vain;
And, truant, on the self-same errand went.

THE AUTOMATIC ACTION OF MATTER.

THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION.

What are those ruins which far-travelled Sight
Encounters, haunts of old-world memories,
With spiritúal filling Mind, as eyes
With visible grandeur to the top of height;
Athens, Palmyra, Thebes, Baalbec, might
And majesty of Ruin, where it lies
Colossus-like; thy grander destinies,
Jerusalem! the Soul's, the Infinite?
What are all these to that supremest fall,
Whose thunder-crash rend quite asunder would
That heaven-high dome and keystone of it all;
The Worshippers, whose name is “multitude,”
Imploring crush; that last, which Faith doth call
Her grandest Temple, in World-ruin strewed!

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

What sacrilege, what hand thrice-curs'd, hath here
Broke open the Lord's Temple, stolen thence
Not cope and chasuble, censer and incense,
Cup Sacramental, jewels that insphere
Something more precious far, to Faith more dear;
Relics that were as charms, and raised mere sense,
Touch, sight, to act of prayer and penitence;
Nor these alone, but things more dear and near!
Into the Holy of all Holies some
God-scorner hath an entry forced, and ta'en
The Ark of Revelation. As struck dumb,
“Dumb dogs,” the Keepers scarce their sense retain;
While strange reverb of emptiness doth come
And go, like “Dead-march” upon muffled drum.

SELF-CHEATING.

A man may wear the mask so long and well
That, stripped, himself he owns not, scarcely knows;
Nor, though to others, stinks in his own nose.
Polecat or Skunk sweet to himself may smell:
Tartuffe in his own glass looked passable.
Loth at itself Man's heart to look too close;
Some e'en in Conscience's Confessional “pose,”
And only half, and that the better, tell.
Our vices have so many “aliases,”
So colourable, so respectable,
Each under some slight-affined virtue passes;
Excess mere or defect—but rightly spell
The name, rank slander! None are knaves or asses;
Nay, rogue 'gainst rogue takes up his parable.

THE TRUE HOME.

Happy the man who calls her his, the good,
True Wife, pure-minded Woman! When he home
From toil and moil of th' outer life doth come,
His threshold makes him music, where she stood
To smile him forth, the House's livelihood;
Mosting his Best with her true-added sum!
Her well-come makes his doorposts never dumb;
There stops “dull Care,” within loth to intrude!
Sweet Order reigns throughout; whose harmony,
Grander than anthem, up to God ascends.
Taught by “example” to exemplify
The Mother's virtue with the children's blends.
Sweet picture! light and shadow, earth and sky;
We scarce where Heaven begins know or Earth ends!

LOOKING TOO FAR AHEAD.

Like him who on the stretch'd rope's dizzy height,
Stunned by the thunders of Niagara,
Death instant, poised like vulture, in the air,
As in the waters open-jawed, to affright,
Paced forth,—is he who by faith, not by sight,
Doth on Imagination's stretch'd line dare,
Time's dread stream thundering on below, to fare
Towárds the Future's thither shore, by light
From wíthin only! On his dizzy course
Midway he pauses—back he may not go,
Yet fails to reach the thither shore his force:
The hither faintly, that more dim doth show!
The dark stream's end he knows not, nor its source:
Forefeel true Poet must, though not foreknow.

THE SUBLIME.

The quality of true Sublimity
Unstrainèd is as Mercy; gentle as
Christ, thorn-crowned, to His persecutors was.
It violenteth not, but passeth by,
Likest the “still, small voice,” after the high
Strong wind and earthquake: no rocks shiver'd like glass,
Cedars o'erthrown; but, like the soft-stirred grass,
Our souls are bowed before its majesty.
It loves the Simple, Forthright, and the True;
Defect it and excess both alike miss;
It says, “Let there be light,” and full in view,
As light through prism, revealed through light it is.
But overstep it, fall we then as who
From top o' height fall to depth of abyss.

ENIGMA.

It lieth in small compass, serpent-like,
In ringèd deadliness; yet touch it, let
It but its coils unfold, sting forth-jet,
And it will grasp all Life, Humanity's
Heart's blood out-squeeze, freeze all vitalities.
Thus hath it lain since Man on Earth first set
A human footstep, comatose, but yet
Alive, though Mortals ne'er did realise
Its deadly presence! But, alas! it now
Begins to stir, dilate its folds, and move.
Science, too curious in Why and How
Of all in Earth below and Heaven above,
Hath warmed it at her breast, and like, I trow,
The fabled viper to her will it prove.

WEALTH.

There are who rich are, yet both wise and good;
Their hearts, set off by, setting off their gold,
Themselves the jewels, values add untold.
Of rarest Jacinth in similitude,
Which inward fires kindle, warm glows flood,
Their hearts with holy ardours burn; they hold
Their wealth but as God's stewards, of His fold
True shepherds, shearing not as hirelings would.
But many more there be whose setting is
The better part of them—paste-jewels these,
In which the inward brilliance we all-miss:
They glitter, but the more looked at less please.
They other might and better be, but this
Addition makes their state more, themselves less.

PEN VERSUS SWORD.

Poets the many dangers which beset
The man who meddles with cold iron swell
In chorus; I will the far greater tell
That threat man, pen, not sword in hand, and wet
With ink, not blood; should he the risk forget
Of pen and parchment, and a “rat not smell,”
Caught in the legal trap, and kept, fed well,
Like confidence in others to beget.
The letters of thy honourable name
Like a Phylactery keep; for, once lost, this
Will bring thee, like “The Shadowless Man,” to shame;
To find thy “name” the same as thy self is,
As he his “shadow.” Good name and good fame
Substance and shadow are: miss one, both miss.

ORIGINATION.

Man, finite Man, would know his origin;
He asks the ancient rocks, and they reply
With a vague echo to Geology.
He pieces fossil bones, and puts therein
Imagined life: where atoms first begin
To coalesce, and Consciousness thereby
Evoke, he strives with microscopic eye
To trace, yet still from Nature's lips can win
No answer. Why so curious, O Man,
In that direction? What concerns thee most
Is how life end will, not how it began!
To know that thou need'st not call up a ghost;
If thou dar'st, face to face, thy own Self scan,
And without circumlocution dar'st accost!

THE DYING HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.

“Kiss me once more, Belovèd! set that seal
Of Life, thy coral lips' warm pressure, here
On this pale wax of Death, my mouth; which fear
Hath blanched, o'er which his chills already steal!
As seal their last wills they who death forefeel,
Seal this last ‘deed of love,’ with seal that ne'er
Shall opened be, till that Last Day appear
Which shall the secrets of all hearts reveal!”
So spake he. Then her wifely lips she bent,
And gave that last impress and seal of love;
While Love and Death seemed to hold argument
Awhile, in doubt which should the stronger prove.
But Death that hour claimed, by Higher sent
Than both: Death's triumph now, Love's up above!

HOFER, THE TYROLESE PATRIOT, AND HIS BETRAYER.

Why in the scales of our Humanity,
True weights in one, must the other play false, light
Still kick the beam, the balance never right;
Still in the picture light and darkness vie?
Rembrandtish-dark here, there a break of sky;
'Thwart which, or seeming such to Fancy's sight,
Forms half-divine to and fro Earth take flight;
While th' other doth fit element supply
To fiendlike opposites. See Hofer here,
Battling for Right, heroic Soul, in vain,
On that “High-altar” offering all of dear.
Turn, and a human fiend's true features pain
Thy sight, of him who sold him, neighbour near,
Yet far apart as heaven and hell again.

NEMESIS.

Make thee no Nemesis, by grave offence,
Committed sin, foul lust of flesh or mind,
To dog thee, like fell sleuth-hound, sure to find;
Which thou think'st of as past, in the past tense,
“Have-beens,” which not concern thee, in a sense.
She will start forth, an eye among the blind,
Ear among deaf, foe amidst kith and kind,
A hand to smite thee, far from Now and Hence!
Make, then, thy peace with her betimes—long friends
Short reckonings make; and hers are very long;
High interest she charges, on loan lends,
And grace gives, but to make her claim more strong.
Yet is she placable, to mercy bends,
If thou fall on thy knees, and cease from wrong.

ON A MOST IMPRESSIVE SUNSET.

O God! methinks 't might be the eve of Doom
To this sin-hardened Earth; that to it, there,
Thy Angel of Destruction and Despair
Held the great torch, yon sun, to make its room
In space a vacancy. The mountains fume
And catch the penal fire; their summits bare,
Glow as red-hot, and region-embers flare,
Would in an instant cities vast consume!
'Tis but a brief “Memento Mori” to
This Earth, but on a scale commensurate.
But, lo! it changes; seeming, to my view,
Like some large solemn eye there to dilate,
And o'er the World's edge look, as it foreknew
The doom to come, and did compassionate.

TRUE WEDDED LOVE.

Oh when on that soft pillow of thy breast,
Filled with all gentlest thoughts and sympathies,
I lay my heart, as on that other lies
My head, of mind and body perfect rest;
Peace, of some blessèd harbourage in quest,
Stays her uncertain flight, no longer flies,
But drops, her image catching with surprise,
Like Halcyon on her sea-becalmèd nest!
Each ache of heart, each throb of brow is stayed,
By that sweet anodyne of perfect love,
Which, dear Physician of my soul, so made
By thee, doth an Elixir-vitæ prove.
True Woman-heart! Love, ne'er by thee betrayed,
May neither be removed not yet remove.

LUXURY.

Worst waster, robber, thou dost spoil or steal
Life's zest, and under show to amplify;
Thou makest éxtremes meet, and Poverty
Join hand on with Excess: both alike feel
Void, want, and what cures one would th' other heal.
This in Too-much (worst suicide!) would die;
That in Too-little, but Necessity,
Invention's mother, out of ill draws weal!
Go, sweat! that thou may'st feel, as Labour does,
The luxury of rest: bear heat and cold;
The luxury of fire, shade, know as it knows.
Purchase with it what is not bought with gold;
Sweet sleep, content, health, beauty like the rose;
To wish and have is give yet still withhold!

FREE-WILL.

Are we mere puppets, worse than on the stage
Strut, fret, and fume, with dedicated phrase,
Who passion it to the life, t' amuse, amaze,
With semblable presentment of the Age,
And of themselves their fellows? Do we rage,
Storm, love, hate, madden, go each his own ways,
Thus tricking-tricked; our lives mere farces, plays,
Words put i' the mouth, thoughts i' the heart, t' engage,
Distract, from Self, attention! Are we free
To will and do, or do we but as bid;
Seem, with a circumlocution, so to be.
Is this a mystery, others dread amid?
As Time, Beginning, End, are Humanly,
So may this cheat in human mask lie hid.

BORROWED LIGHTS.

Oft he who for his Kind first needful ways
To some great good or gain, some vantage-ground
Of thought, invention, usage, practice found,
The penalty of a mere milestone pays;
By him forgotten soon who, missing, strays,
O'erlooked, laughed-down, and hand and foot as bound
By Custom; later, luckier, petted, crown'd,
His thoughts purloins some Undeserve, his praise!
So bears the top of flood less ventures on,
At better turn of tide, with fairer wind
Of popular favour, and its ebb, anon,
The greater, earlier, which did wreckage find,
Sweeps 'mid Time's wastes; and then they seem as gone
To present sight, which looketh not behind.

THE TRIUNE SAPPHO OF THE FUTURE.

APPROACH TO THE SUCCEEDING SONNET.

Oh, my full Heart! thou'rt even as a hive
Which breed and increment plethoric make,
And some must needs swarm out and fresh start take.
Thou hast been growing full, in vain dost strive
To hold thy peace; Silence now way doth give,
Who long at Speech's gates did watch and wake,
Dumb Portress! and the flood-gates thou dost break
Rather than open, lips asunder rive!
Out at the eyes oft peered the Prisoner, Thought,
Long listened oft at ears; but none doth come;
Deliverer is none, thou art distraught!
And now, with cry of anguish, thou long dumb,
As Samson on the Philistines when caught,
Would'st pluck the roof down, though thyself succumb!

“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE” DURING SEVERE ILLNESS.

I struggle in the meshes of this net,
Which Death, like the “Retiarius” of old,
“Fisher of Men” i' Rome's bloody Circus, fold
On fold flings round me, in sore straits, hard set.
Plays with my anguish (for his hour's not yet),
As with mouse cat; now, mocking, doth he hold
A breathing-while at arm's length, and now, cold
As himself instant, close, in a death-sweat!
And with him comes his Shadow, worse than his
Own self by far; eye fixed on vacancy,
No speculation in it, drear abyss
Of Nothingness; blank, blanking equally.
Thrice welcome Death, would this let say: “Where is
Thy sting; O Grave, where is thy victory?

LOOK NOT TOO CLOSE.

Make me a very stepping-stone; as'twere
A door-sill, and let it be trodden by
The very foot of meek Humility.
I cannot be more humbled, or more bear
Of shame, than when I think of what things are
In Man, and what a thing Man is—a lie
His life so oft, acted hypocrisy;
Self-knave, self-fool, in turn; both, at once, share,
And play at heads and tails for, him! Christian
Himself he vaunts; while six days of the week
He worships Mammon, and the seventh span
A blessing on the other six doth seek.
He calls on God Himself to curse and ban,
As Balak Balaam, and as Man makes speak.

THE SERVICE WHICH IS FREEDOM.

Reason, thou art, by undisputed “Right
Divine,” my Master; low to thee I bow;
Like a Phylactery about my brow
Thy words I bind, for they are health and sight:
Thy lips are as a well-spring of delight.
If thou, vain Man, thereof hast share enow,
Thou wilt to him precedence aye allow,
Though meanest Usher herald, or Kings smite!
Ay! He himself ere now hath beaten been
With stripes, from palace-gates cast out, but aye
Hath back in triumph come, and his turn seen!
That Folly most is which can guide its way
By him (through wiser counsels) yet will lean
On Self, and trust its self-made gods of clay!

DARWIN, “SPECIES BY SELECTION,” AND EMPEDOCLES.

Could that great genius start to life again,
After two thousand and odd hundred years,
And see the first-born of his hopes and fears
The heir of fame, who stature did attain
But small in his own Greece, such growth now gain,
Through our new Science here, à la moderne, who rears
Her nurslings on fine “patent food” of hers,
He'd get his principal, which so long has lain
At interest, back. But soft there; not so fast!
Another parent lays claim to the child;
This new brain-born Minerva, not the past;
The true sire after all may be beguiled!
A Solomon must lots between them cast,
The child be after the real parent styled.

A SPLENDID AND PECULIAR SUNSET.

The mountains, molten as by furnace-blast,
Glow red; as all their entrail'd wealth of mine
And metal, silver, gold, and marble fine,
Rich-vein'd or statuáry; gems that cast
Colour or light; colours ablaze, or fast;
In-glowing Jacinth, Opal's rainbow-shine,
Fast Ruby; Diamond, Light's “fixed star” shrine,
In confluent splendours flowed, single or massed.
Yonder a lake of iron glows, with gold
Soft fused, Earth's two prime motive powers; there,
With amethystine tintings manifold,
Silver expanse. Earth glows; melts Iris-Air.
O wondrous scene, for work-day sight unrolled,
As God Man's sense of Beauty would repair!

ALCESTIS: OF THE INNER LIFE.

O my Alcestis! beautiful as are
The stars of Heaven wert thou; all too high
For me, hadst thou so condescendingly
Not stooped!—now too, alas! too like a star,
Far out of reach, and sight too Earth's mists bar.
Hast thou, then, broken faith with me? To die
Left me, alone, when I had thought to lie
In thy immortal arms, above Death far,
With thee immortal? With that monster fell
I would have strived, a second Hercules,
For thy dear sake, to baulk the Grave and Hell.
But thou once lost, if thou thus pre-decease,
And break thy promise; I might then as well
Yield me to Death at once as seek release.

THE ONE TRIAL.

Beat me with many stripes, brand me with fire,
So outward agony deaden that within,
Greater from lesser pain some respite win.
Mind greater, more than Flesh, bears, as far higher;
Self-racked, self-immolated on self-pyre.
Oh, could it thence, from Earth cleansed and Earth's sin,
Rise, Phœnix-like, unto its origin,
From its own ashes, 'twould, o'erjoyed, expire
By many deaths for one. With that intense,
Consuming, one desire it doth burn,
Exhaling all its Highest, like incénse
From some slow-kindling, pyrèd funeral-urn.
Alas! will some cold ashes show, when thence
The urn is drawn, how that did burn, this yearn?

TO ------, ON HER RETURN FROM THE SEASIDE.

Flora hath painted thy sweet cheeks in grain,
And set thy lilies blushing at the rose,
That they, which pale were, redden now like those.
Aurora's pure dews on thy brows have lain,
Best “Milk of Roses,” Panacea of pain.
The bath of Beauty, from which Venus rose,
Hath re-baptized thee; and Hygeia glows
In thee re-born, calls thee thyself again,
After herself! Methinks, if substitute,
Or sweet comparative she condescend
Unto, thou might'st with all the claim dispute;
And if I (anxious to keep each sweet friend)
Forced to award, like Paris, were that fruit
Of strife, halved Apple neither need offend.

PLATFORM-WOMANKIND.

THE PRINTING-PRESS.

Grand Art! Thence, Thought! thy region-wings to fly;
Thy Briareus hands, longer than proverb'd kings',
Swifter, to lay fast hold on Men and Things;
Feet Hermes-winged; to give Time the go-by!
Not musing in a corner mopingly
As erst, thy autumns scant, backward thy springs;
Speaking with bated breath, in whisperings;
Parables, sealed tongues, mere quaint Antiquity.
Thou speakest now the bold vernacular;
Go'st i' the Market, walkest i' the street;
Ubiquitous thy presence, near and far;
A “Hyphen” links, makes the world's ends to meet!
Best Helicon the Printer's “Fount;” thence are
The springs of Thought, which keep all going and sweet.

PATIENT GENIUS.

Long striveth he against th' opposing stream,
The greater hindrances, the lesser lets,
The steady vis inertiæ, the dead-sets
Of envy, prejudice; still doth he seem
Small way to make, and less to do, than dream.
Yet with his patient tide which meets, not frets
At obstacles, still keeping all he gets,
He vantage gains, and riseth, till supreme
O'er all he mounts. Then turneth he his tide
At top of flood, and, taking with him all
Good wills and wishes, confluent doth glide.
And when, as Greatness self-fulfilled must fall
From top of height, he bateth of his pride,
His ebb is but th' Eternal Sea's recall.

SOUL-YEARNINGS.

These “feelers” (say fore-feelers), all ways thrown
Athwart Time's waves, in vague search as of food;
These yearnings, oft mistaking ill for good,
Blind-cleaving, because that one thing alone
Seems to fill up the void that makes our groan;
This thirst for fame and name is but prelude,
Flourish on mortal trumpet; when it should
Be an “Excelsior,” on archangel's, blown
Heaven-high, to the very echo! Out, alas!
But there's not it. The poor Soul, all astray,
Mistakes the shadow for the substance, as
The fool'd dog i' the fable, and, this way,
Seeks (too late undeceived) the one to pass
Off for the other, till Death both gainsay.

WHERE GOD IS MOST REVEALED.

Some feel the awe of Temples, and are bowed
In soul, as if the Spirit of the Lord
Before their face passed, visibly o'erawed.
Some hear in thunder, see in thunder-cloud,
Him clothed in majesty, and speak aloud!
Outlined in Ocean's mirror calm and broad,
Or riding on the storm. Some in Earth flawed,
Like potter's vessel, see Him most avowed.
But louder far His whisper, far more near
His Presence, when I thus His Wisdom see.
Holding Creation's ends together clear.
With Jacob say—“O God, 'tis Thou, 'tis Thee
I saw, yet knew Thee not; but now see here
As face to face, with bowed head and bent knee!”

FRANCE, THE PROTEUS OF NATIONS.

All hast thou cast into the smelting-pot
Of Revolution, and re-cast again,
Yet, never satisfied, labour in vain.
Thou hast spued-up thy folly, and hast got
To eat thy vomit, whêr thou lik'st or not.
All hast thou melted down, of hand and brain;
The precious reliquáries which had lain
So near thy heart so long, as if to blot
Thy very Self out! Therein didst thou fling
Tradition's golden chain, Faith's image rare,
Cup Sacramental, baptist'ries, marriage-ring,
All the stored Past most treasured, nought didst spare!
And thought'st to make thee some new-fangled thing
Of Hope; but the Past's Nemesis is there!

ALL MUST BE, NOT SEEM.

'Tis not my Muse's cue to play the Grand!
She is no “Φωσφορος,” to light up sky
With star-lamps à la Chinoise; pageantry
Hath none, nor can the elements command,
But lights her glowworm truths on either hand.
She'll quote thee,—“Honesty's best policy,”
For States as Men; else Life to God doth lie;
That nought save as it is hath chance to stand.
On all that's False there waits a Nemesis;
Truth will avenge herself on all that's sham.
In “Ballot-Box” Freedom a cage-bird is;
At large but in Men's hearts; gentle as lamb,
Yet fierce as flame, scorning confines like this!
She is Herself and Place—God is “I Am!”

WHAT TRUTH DEMANDS: ESOTERIC.

THE WIFE.

Thou pour'dst into this goblet of my heart
Thy love, belovèd Wife, withouten stint;
And so drained I it, and left nothing in 't;
And now 'tis emptied, 'tis as set apart,
Never to be refilled; for thou, thou art
No more—the source! Against this ache like flint
I set my face, hardened my heart, by dint
Of apathy to deaden; so the smart
To bear or to forget. In vain, alas!
Both alike vain! I cannot, cannot bear,
While to forget doth all my power pass;
And, could I, like Death's blank Life itself were!
The crystal goblet's drained, within which was
A pearl than Cleopatra's far more rare!

SELF-LOVE AND LOVE.

There is worse canker than, in damask rose,
The heart of promise made unto Hope's eye
Untimeous eats; the maggot, vanity,
Full oft in female bud, ere it disclose
Its beauties fully, an ill presence shows.
With all fair outward flourish, inwardly
Is rottenness; if Love alight to try,
Bee-like, the sweets, empty away he goes.
He Self, which snakelike round the heart coiled lies,
Must strangle early, in the cradle; task
Harder than Hercules', nearer the skies;
Else will the Basilisk, allowed to bask
I' the light o' his eyes, prevail; he dies or flies!
True worm i' the bud of love, under its mask.

THE STUDY OF SHAKSPEAR.

In forward youth (now wiser) I once tried
A fall with that grand Athlete; genial Soul!
With whom defeat itself hath to console;
So gained a loss; for sore pate, wounded pride,
Plaster and salve, and something more beside.
For as, when on their Mother-earth did roll
The Giants, they gained fresh strength, were made whole;
So, answerable, my fall like need supplied.
Thus 'tis with him! E'en as true Mother's breast
To mere hand-fed; milk of Humanity
To Custom's poor, thin, mere skim-milk at best!
They who long keep that great Soul company,
Unconscious make his presence manifest:
Their moons, at fullest, his grand sun shine by!

HIATUS VALDE DEFLENDUS.

Between me and the Future there doth rend
A deep, dark chasm, bottomless and dread,
Eye penetrateth not, it turneth head:
It gapes, like wild beast's maw, as forth to send
Devouring roar. As one who doth extend
'Cross such a gap his stride, yet with a tread
Too insecure and too unsteadièd
To either backward draw or forward wend,
So fareth it with me! I cannot quit
The Present, nor the Future reach, in whole;
The one holds back, the other draws to it.
Time, like a torrent, 'tween the two doth roll,
Through that dark gap of Death; o'er which doth flit,
On the cloud-spray, Hope's rainbow, to console!

BROKEN HEARTS.

What! broken heartstrings! Broken fiddlestrings!
Catgut will sooner break! These stretch and bend,
Like a very tight-rope, from beginning to end
O' Life, for Hope and Fear to make their springs
And falls on; Love his somersaults—whose wings
Oft save his neck, the mountebank! God send
No heavier strains, (wife to betray, false friend)
They'll hold till Death his dead-weight on them flings!
Yet some there are, which Nature's cunning'st hand
Hath strung, tuned up to highest “concert-pitch”
With the spheres of Heaven, in key-note more grand:
These, having played those harmonies so rich
Of Psychic Love, snap by touch coarser spanned;
Or only listening Love, heaven-leaning, witch!

FREE-WILL.

I am no Necromancer, use no spell,
Weird incantation, cabalistic rime;
Yet I a circle round thee for a time
Will draw, and tether thy Free-will as well.
And, for the potent formula, I tell
Thee flatly thou canst not move foot or limb,
Nor stir a step, save as I thy sublime
Self-willing Free-will thereunto compel.
Thou smil'st contemptuous; and, like a horse
From bit and harness freed, at will dost move,
Or seem'st—but, friend, I gave the casting force
By what I said, and so my saying prove.
Three forces sway each human Being's course;
Self; fellows; circumstance: all, One above!

THE BRITISH MIDAS.

O Midas! thou should'st pray on bended knees
That Heaven, than thyself more kind and wise
(For oft Supernal Mortal wisdom tries
By touchstone of wish granted), now would please
Thy two-edged blessing to recall. Thy geese,
Thy very geese (so fool fool multiplies),
Lay golden eggs. “More fools they,” gravely cries
Minerva's owl. Not so; the breed will cease
The sooner! Thou hast touched all into gold,
And made it marketable; holiest things
Are with and like that “standard” bought and sold.
E'en to men's hearts the golden leprosy clings!
'Tis time (ere Time on iron the changes rings)
To turn to flesh, ere Life grow dead and cold.

ON THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851.

O Heart, full-fraught, how canst thou hold all this,
And not break bounds? Can one poor several Heart,
Of all these countless many counterpart,
Though in so Small, Diminutive, as his
Who strives to grasp it all, nought thereof miss,
All comprehend? As through clutched fingers start
The sands the closer held, for all our art,
So fractioned all this mighty sum here is!
So to the Many is the One—must be!
It draws, as little burning-glass to sun,
Some rays to focus, magnifies to see:
Gives light and heat which else in space were gone.
Milk out, milk out, Breasts of Humanitie!
The Past is weaned, a new Race hath begun.

AN ALLEGORY.

There stood a lone Tomb in a lone, waste place,
That Solitude of her own company
Would weary, could from shadow substance fly;
For of her veriest self all there bore trace:
Tomb might it seem of last of éxtinct Race!
On earth no footprint, Man or Beast, no cry,
Motion of wing or bird's voice in the sky;
Blank Solitude, with Sphinx-Memnonian face,
Gazed sole there, as for Ever! Thereon name,
Device, was none—'twas marble, black as night;
O'er it moved to and fro a little flame,
Dumb tongue of fire, yet most lambent-bright;
Self-fed, self-elemented, aye the same;
Promethean spark, whereat new Life to light!

CRITICS.

“They only criticise who cannot write;”
So said some “owl,” not of Minerva's breed,
Who felt the lash, and of it much had need;
Who wrote himself “ass,” “fool's-cap” did indite.
Critic, to author no mere satellite,
Shines with light of his own, and theirs doth feed;
Holds no mere candle to the sun indeed,
But lifts, is lifted to full view, like height.
Creative power he hath; prevenient love,
Like tinder catching fire at every spark;
With breath articulate blows it oft above
Itself, and makes all light what else were dark.
The finest flavours, which fine palates move
Alone, theirs bring out, and make leave their mark.

ATLANTIC “ROLLERS” AND CALM.

How grandly dost thou curve thyself, and poise
Thy flashing crest, like balanced monster-snake,
Coiled to the top of height, sure stroke to make,
Ere he unroll himself upon his choice
Of spring; so thou, with thunder and with noise
Of many waters, on the sands dost break,
Sea-cataract!—scoop shipmen's graves, and take
Thy utmost stretch of power and of voice!
Anon, and, gentle as a lover's lip,
Thou coaxest Earth with whisper'd flatteries,
Thy “Venus Anadyomené,” to dip
Her beauties in thy brines; and, as it lies,
With crystal touch and finest workmanship
The pebble polishest, to catch her eyes!

THE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN!

O Genius! thy privilege is great
And glorious, above the Sons of Men;
'Midst whom thou movest as an alien,
As outcast, though with more than kingly state.
Thou meet'st but now and then thy match and mate;
As highest mountains view each other when
The sun takes leave or greeting of them, then
As glorified, and their lone heights collate,
'Bove lesser altitudes. The worshipp'd eyes
Of kings command obeisance of the herd,
But ye go by in your Humanities
Unmarked, Lords Spiritual of the Word!
'Tis well! not of the World, but of the Skies,
Your kingdom; theirs of Earth, and soon transferr'd!

KEEP SHORT RECKONINGS WITH SELF.

If, to thy home returning, thou should'st find
Not a graced hearth with cheerful Order there,
With Industry, of all things having care
And heed; not words of welcome, but unkind,
With drunken spilth and godlessness of mind;
Would'st thou not be aghast, and stand at stare
Like one distraught, and do as they who are
Outraged, disgraced, cast out, chastise, and bind?
How then, if to that innermost of all,
The chamber of thy Soul, sole home of Peace,
Thou, with the key of Conscience, without call
Or notice, let'st thyself in, seeking ease,
But find'st unruly passions, uproar, brawl,
And Evil Spirits, holding on long lease!

THE TRUE WIFE.

Come to my heart! that heart let mine once more
Feel on it beat; but half heart this of mine
Without, one and whole only when with, thine.
Then is it “harmonised” and “in full score;”
Not “single part,” accompaniment, played o'er
On poor pipe of few notes, “Solo” in fine,
God listens not to, nor Men ear incline;
But which thy rich addition doth restore
To place and pitch i' the Concert! Oh, 'tis bliss
Enough to feel thy true heart's “true-pitch” beat;
Key-note which runs throughout, never false is;
Which keeps each bar to rhythm, time, complete.
Seldom in “Minors,” ne'er “transposed” from this
True Key-note, “God-is-Love,” set Womanly-sweet.

DOUBT.

To those who are set high in spirit, Souls
Insatiate, whom Perfection in degree
Suffices not, if short of Heaven it be;
To whom that Hope doth ever higher goals,
Like Jacob's ladder, show, for all consoles;
This Doubt unto their sense doth make the Tree
Of Knowledge as the “Upas,” which they flee,
More lethal than to drink of poisoned bowls!
To those of other temper it will sound
As the death-bell that in the “Plague” still rung,
When the dread Bell-man, Death, ne'er ceased his round.
Ye doomed, “eat, drink, and be merry,” old and young,
The “text” which Death, grim Preacher! will expound,
“Ye die to-morrow,” dirge-like, by all sung!

FOOLS.

Avoid a Fool—like Samson, in one thing,
(Though Samson used a borrowed implement,
The fool his own, yet full equivalent),
He'll slay thee with (what alway he doth bring)
The jaw-bone of an ass! Short reckoning
Keep here; brief speech, less act; no argument;
For 'tis like on “fool's-errand” being sent;
Their folly to thy sense, like burr, will cling,
Ill to shake off. Some are fools simple, “pure,”
True correlate to knave, echo to sound.
Some, could they, would be knaves, 'twixt “done” and doer
Small choice, save that the one “done” still is found.
As Nature preys on Self by force or lure,
So knaves (on fools) keep folly within bound!

NON OMNIS MORIAR.

'Tis something, nothing, merest piece o' conceit;
Shadow to substance, maggot i' the brain,
Which, that alive, on it doth living gain,
Dies with it, and the kernel out doth eat.
'Tis as we take it, bitter i' the mouth and sweet
I' the belly; to both bitter, to both pain
And sorrow, as is all “labour in vain!”
Bitter first taste and “cud,” howe'er we see't.
'Tis Rue, “sour herb,” and yet a “herb o' Grace,’
If we so eat, digest it. Shakspear lives,
In the best sense, to all Time and all Place,
Not to himself, to us he still survives.
Then strive to leave in thy degree like trace;
No atom's lost, in vain for Good none strives.

SCIENTIFIC “QUINTAINS.”

ON CONCLUDING THIS VOLUME, WRITTEN IN A YEAR.

Dear Mother of dear Babe, and both, dear Muse,
Dearer for both; thy full gestation done,
And thou delivered safely, wilt thou own
The child thus fathered? Wilt its faults excuse
By his, or as a changeling quite refuse,
Or love in spite; as mothers oft are known,
By kind provision, on their most ill-grown
To dote, most loving who love most abuse.
If thou, who in such matches of mere love,
Love at first sight, on my part though not thine,
Art “Better-half” far, do not all approve,
How shall I rear if thou the charge resign!
Hand-fed, this sickly ape will pity move,
And not thy likeness show, but only mine!

ON THE SAME THEME.

On this unmothered issue of the brain,
Minerva-fashioned, solely in the head;
Neither with mother's milk nor nurse's fed;
A twelve-month birth, gestation and birth-pain,
I gaze, and scarcely know my own again!
The quickening and gestation perfectèd,
Easy delivery maketh smooth child-bed
And Pleasure godfathers the lusty “strain.”
Twelve months! scant date for perfect mental birth!
Longer gestation true brain-fœtus needs.
Ay, but life-preparation giveth worth
And stamina; whole life short act precedes.
Minerva born, Jove's full brain nor knew dearth,
Nor she defect—so when a whole life feeds.

SLEEP.

When slumber o'er thine eye doth stealthy creep
Like softest down, and one by one each sense,
Like ebbing wave on wave, thy soul draw hence,
And gently float it towards th' Eternal Deep;
Ere thou lose sight of land, and still dost keep
The dim shore near, as one who would commence
A voyage he knows not whither, scarcely whence,
Commend thy course to Him who doth not sleep.
How that dark voyage of mystery may end,
On what strange shore, or, shoreless, in mid sea,
No forecast hast thou, message none canst send;
The telegraphic wires it mocks and thee.
Death's counterfeit did thee on board attend,
But, ere land sighted, Death may helmsman be!

TO MRS. THOMAS, ON THE RETURN OF HER HUSBAND FROM THE CRIMEA, APRIL, 1856.

In that sweet book, thy face—if other eye
Therein may read, divinely legible,
The characters which Love alone may spell,
Who only so could write beneath the sky,—
I trace a something 'twixt a tear and sigh,
Some added lines of grief: yet grief so well,
So nobly borne, that in Love's crucible,
Like thrice-refinèd gold, it doth defy
The test! That cloud is gone; those tears are shed;
That storm hath passed off in an April shower.
And in that well of love thy heart, thus fed
Anew, those tears calm-settled, with their dower
Of faith and hope, reflect clear overhead
The eternal stars in their enduring power!

THE POETICAL HIVE.

Come home, ye busy bees, home to the hive,
And fill with honey the remaining cell.
Oh may it prove Hyblean both in smell
And taste; the Muses' honey which doth live;
Which makes sweet and keeps sweet, on which souls thrive.
Ye have not culled your sweets mere bulk to swell;
But toiled for best, leastways to better well;
Oh may the honey proof in tasting give.
This hive, poetical-hexagonal,
Is built in cells all equal, regular,
And like, as those of the real bee-hive are;
For strength, convenience, best form of all.
Such may it prove, and bees from near and far
Fill it with honey at the Muses' call!

TAKE THE WILL FOR THE DEED.

Thus much of work is done; labour not slight,
Yet sweet as honey unto homeward bee.
Oh how the days and weeks unheeded flee,
Like Time's wheel-spokes, too swift to count by sight,
Yet each with passing gleam touched in its flight!
Sleep oft hath waved her poppy-wreath, yet me
Her dark noon waking found; Aurora's glee
And glance surprised with unexpected light.
The Muse's work is not that airy task
That shallow wits conceit: the Poet throws
His Life's Best into it; he doth not bask
In sunshine, sniffing daintily a rose!
Heart-ache, heart-break, toil, sweat, the Muses ask;
All this, and more, to make true Poet goes!

THE LAST STONE.

Here lie they, rough, yet ready to the hand,
“Stones from the quarry,” shaped as best I can,
Four-square, and all of the requirèd span.
Some harder, wear and weather meant to stand,
And lay foundations, not (I trust) of sand;
Blocks from the brain, rough and Cyclopean,
With softer shapings for the inside plan,
From the heart's quarries finer wrought and planned.
And should they in Thy Temple, O my God,
Be fit for use, where lowest is not base,
Help build, though out of sight, yea, though but trod
By unconcerning feet, as without grace;
They “precious stones” shall be, when towers nod,
Keep, when kings' palaces topple o'er, their place!

ODE TO THE STATUE OF A MUSE PLAYING ON A LYRE AND ENTITLED “EUMOUSIA,” IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

TO THE INCOMPARABLE VENUS OF MILO.

Three are, or were, the Graces, all agree;
Now are they one, for all are summed in thee:
And, as the ingot doth surpass the ore
In severals, thy sum holds each, and more.

ON ANNIBALE CARACCI'S LANDSCAPE IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY: A WATER SCENE WITH PLEASURE PARTIES.

THE WIDOWER.

THE WIFE: A SONG.