 | The Battle-Day and Other Poems |  |
3
THE COST OF GLORY.
I.—The Country-House.
There's a mansion old 'mid the hills of the west,So old, that men know not by whom it was built;
But its pinnacles grey thro' the forest hoar
Have glimmered a thousand years and more;
And many a tale of sorrow and guilt
Would blanch the cheek,
If its stones could speak
The secrets locked in its silent breast.
Its lords have been great in the olden day;
But the pride of their strength has been broken away:
They moulder unknown in their native land.
And their home has long past to a stranger-hand.
4
Present want with future need,
Had drawn the youth of their latest heir
In the viewless mesh of his subtle snare.
The careless boy he led astray
With the lure of lust and the thirst of play;
With low companions bade him sit,
Who spoke debauch and called it wit—
His passions fanned—employed his purse,
Took all he had, and gave—their curse.
Then, when he'd run his fortune thro',
He sought in debt a fortune new,
And, gambling high and drinking hard,
Threw down his acres, card by card.
The lawyer watched his victim bleed,
Secure in obit, bond, and deed:
At first with humble means began
The quick, obliging business-man;
But carefully picked up each stray feather
Till he was fledged for winter-weather,
Then massed his sordid gains together
5
He once had begged his daily bread:
Steadily opened pore by pore,
With a lulling lure and a winning word
Like the flapping wing of the vampire-bird,
And sucked—and sucked, till he bled no more;
Then changed his tone in a single hour;
He felt, and he let him feel his power,
Nor one poor drop of gold would fetch
To slake the thirst of the perishing wretch;
But when he found he had sucked him dry,
He turned his back and let him die.
Then rose the lawyer from his chair;
Ordered his barouche and pair;
Drove down and ransacked every store;
Sealed every chest; locked every door;
Counted all things o'er and o'er:
Acres, forests, manors, all—
From the family-portraits that clung to the wall,
To the old oak-chest in the servants' hall.
Ordered his barouche and pair;
Drove down and ransacked every store;
Sealed every chest; locked every door;
Counted all things o'er and o'er:
Acres, forests, manors, all—
6
To the old oak-chest in the servants' hall.
Next, since it ever forms his way
The frank and generous role to play,
He takes a condescending tone,
And kindly offers the widow lone
A few small rooms, for a passing day,
In the palace so lately all her own:
But takes very good care that she cannot stay;
And tells the servants, old and grey,
He'll soothe their life's unhoused decay:
But carefully drives them all away,
And bids behind them, evermore,
His own lean spaniels close the door.
The frank and generous role to play,
He takes a condescending tone,
And kindly offers the widow lone
A few small rooms, for a passing day,
In the palace so lately all her own:
But takes very good care that she cannot stay;
And tells the servants, old and grey,
He'll soothe their life's unhoused decay:
But carefully drives them all away,
And bids behind them, evermore,
His own lean spaniels close the door.
Now Devilson reaches his heart's desire,
And takes his place as a country-squire;
But since his origin all can trace,
Affects a pride in his origin base;
And since all in this land you may buy and sell,
Is determined to buy a good name as well:
He buys much, when he offers a five-pound reward
To the slave who'll starve longest and labour most hard;
He buys more, when he bids a whole parish be fed
On an annual banquet at twopence the head;
His character's rising by rapid degrees,
Till he pays a young saint at a chapel of ease,—
When the bargain's completed as soon as began,
And he's stamped a respectable, popular man.
And takes his place as a country-squire;
But since his origin all can trace,
Affects a pride in his origin base;
7
Is determined to buy a good name as well:
He buys much, when he offers a five-pound reward
To the slave who'll starve longest and labour most hard;
He buys more, when he bids a whole parish be fed
On an annual banquet at twopence the head;
His character's rising by rapid degrees,
Till he pays a young saint at a chapel of ease,—
When the bargain's completed as soon as began,
And he's stamped a respectable, popular man.
He's soon made Justice, and Sheriff in time;
And high, and still higher, determined to climb,
Looks around for an anchor to steady his life,
And from a poor peer buys a termagant wife.
And high, and still higher, determined to climb,
Looks around for an anchor to steady his life,
And from a poor peer buys a termagant wife.
The Lady Malice is tall and thin;
Her skin is of a dusky tan,
With black hairs dotting her pointed chin;
She's like a long, lean, lanky man.
Her skin is of a dusky tan,
With black hairs dotting her pointed chin;
She's like a long, lean, lanky man.
8
Her virtue's positively fierce;
Her sharp eyes every weakness pierce,
Sure some inherent vice to find
In every phase of human kind.
The simplest mood, the meekest mien,
She speckles with her venomed spleen,
Construing to some thought obscene;
Shred by shred, and bit by bit,
With lewd delight dissecting it;
Till sin's worst school is found to be
Near her polluting purity.
But oh! beware how you approach her!
No thorn so mangles an encroacher!
She'll lure you on, with easy seeming,
To drop some hint of doubtful meaning,
Then turn as hot as fire, to show
Her virtue's white and cold as snow;
And, dragging you forth in a storm of laughter,
Hurl the full weight of her chastity after.
Such, no line is overdone,
Is Lady Malice Devilson.
Her sharp eyes every weakness pierce,
Sure some inherent vice to find
In every phase of human kind.
The simplest mood, the meekest mien,
She speckles with her venomed spleen,
Construing to some thought obscene;
Shred by shred, and bit by bit,
With lewd delight dissecting it;
Till sin's worst school is found to be
Near her polluting purity.
But oh! beware how you approach her!
No thorn so mangles an encroacher!
She'll lure you on, with easy seeming,
To drop some hint of doubtful meaning,
Then turn as hot as fire, to show
Her virtue's white and cold as snow;
And, dragging you forth in a storm of laughter,
Hurl the full weight of her chastity after.
Such, no line is overdone,
Is Lady Malice Devilson.
9
Devilson's thick-set, short, and red;
Nine-tenths of the man are his paunch and head;
His hair is tufty, dense, and dark;
His small eyes flash with a cold grey spark,
Whose fitful glimmer will oft reveal
When a flinty thought strikes on his heart of steel.
He's sensual lips and a bold hook-nose;
And he makes himself felt wherever he goes;
He's stern to the rich, and he's hard to the poor;
But he's many a little, low amour;
And their cost is small—for he culls them all
From the Workhouse-yard and the Servants' Hall.
So Devilson lives with his titled bride;
And the saintliest pity him while they chide;—
For they feel the full force of his married bliss!
Oh! the peerage are more than avenged in this;
Since, if he once ruined an absentee race,
She tortures him endlessly, face to face.
Nine-tenths of the man are his paunch and head;
His hair is tufty, dense, and dark;
His small eyes flash with a cold grey spark,
Whose fitful glimmer will oft reveal
When a flinty thought strikes on his heart of steel.
He's sensual lips and a bold hook-nose;
And he makes himself felt wherever he goes;
He's stern to the rich, and he's hard to the poor;
But he's many a little, low amour;
And their cost is small—for he culls them all
From the Workhouse-yard and the Servants' Hall.
So Devilson lives with his titled bride;
And the saintliest pity him while they chide;—
For they feel the full force of his married bliss!
Oh! the peerage are more than avenged in this;
Since, if he once ruined an absentee race,
She tortures him endlessly, face to face.
10
II.—The Visit.
Chance lately made me spend a day
Beneath their roof:—'twill well repay,
Thro' those old cloistered walks to stray,
And float on Time's still waves away
Down History's dim romantic coast;
For the marks of many tides are there;
And all is great, and grand, and fair—
Except my hostess and my host.
Beneath their roof:—'twill well repay,
Thro' those old cloistered walks to stray,
And float on Time's still waves away
Down History's dim romantic coast;
For the marks of many tides are there;
And all is great, and grand, and fair—
Except my hostess and my host.
'Twas after dinner:—Thro' the room
The lamps diffused a golden gloom;
From the sideboard gleamed the plate;
The fire glared sullen in the grate;
Dark hung the draperies' crimson fold
Amid the oak-framed pictures old;
Bronzen forms of antique Greece
Grouped the massy mantel-piece;
The crystal glimmered on the board,
And glowed the tropic's luscious hoard;
While fruit and flower, with mimic stain,
Blushed on the fairy porcelain.
The lamps diffused a golden gloom;
From the sideboard gleamed the plate;
The fire glared sullen in the grate;
Dark hung the draperies' crimson fold
Amid the oak-framed pictures old;
Bronzen forms of antique Greece
Grouped the massy mantel-piece;
11
And glowed the tropic's luscious hoard;
While fruit and flower, with mimic stain,
Blushed on the fairy porcelain.
The wind howled wintry thro' the park,
And, breaking on the far-off trees,
Swung their leafless branches stark,
Like wreck upon autumnal seas;
And, now and then, a gust of rain
Swept, pattering, o'er the window-pane,
And then its distant sugh was heard
As the storm alternate stirred
And sobbed itself to rest again.
Beside the fireplace tête-à-tête
My host and I communing sate;
The conversation ebbed to nought—
He sank in sleep, and I in thought;
And then you would have smiled to see
His red face setting gradually
In his white stock's ample fold,
Like a sun in night fogs cold.
He struggled oft—and took a sip—
And pushed a word across his lip;
Vain courtesy!—he gave a snore—
Sank back resigned—and all was o'er.
And, breaking on the far-off trees,
Swung their leafless branches stark,
Like wreck upon autumnal seas;
And, now and then, a gust of rain
Swept, pattering, o'er the window-pane,
And then its distant sugh was heard
As the storm alternate stirred
And sobbed itself to rest again.
Beside the fireplace tête-à-tête
My host and I communing sate;
The conversation ebbed to nought—
He sank in sleep, and I in thought;
And then you would have smiled to see
His red face setting gradually
12
Like a sun in night fogs cold.
He struggled oft—and took a sip—
And pushed a word across his lip;
Vain courtesy!—he gave a snore—
Sank back resigned—and all was o'er.
III.—The Pictures.
Then to the panels roved my eye,
In search of better company,
And asked those paintings, nobly wrought,
To tell me their creator's thought;
Then those pictures dim and grey
Led my fancy far away.
Steel-clad knights, and bodiced dames
Leaning thro' their stately frames,
With their cold, eternal gaze
From the depth of other days.
In search of better company,
And asked those paintings, nobly wrought,
To tell me their creator's thought;
Then those pictures dim and grey
Led my fancy far away.
Steel-clad knights, and bodiced dames
Leaning thro' their stately frames,
With their cold, eternal gaze
From the depth of other days.
13
That stern, time-clouded race between
A shape of life and light is seen;
Cherub-lips and angel-eyes—
A paradise of smiles and sighs.
But why that tone
Of sorrow thrown
O'er features made for joy alone?—
A shape of life and light is seen;
Cherub-lips and angel-eyes—
A paradise of smiles and sighs.
But why that tone
Of sorrow thrown
O'er features made for joy alone?—
She was a child, and he was a child;
What was ever too young or too old for love?
But she was rich, and he was poor;
What was ever too high or too bold for love?
And their love with their growth unconsciously grew,
Till her kinsmen saw what themselves scarce knew.
They were parted from that hour;
He perished soon in a stranger land;
They gave her no line from his faithful hand,
And forced her to walk with the young and gay,
As slowly, slowly, she died away.
But love has faith tho' hate has power:
That was the balm of the folding flower.
And oft, in midnight's mystic gloom,
Her lover comes from his foreign tomb,
And prays the God of day and night
To send one beam of kind moonlight
On the pictured wall of that hallowed room
Then breathes a sigh, so sad and deep
The household hear it in their sleep,
And flits back lonely to his doom.
What was ever too young or too old for love?
But she was rich, and he was poor;
What was ever too high or too bold for love?
And their love with their growth unconsciously grew,
Till her kinsmen saw what themselves scarce knew.
They were parted from that hour;
He perished soon in a stranger land;
They gave her no line from his faithful hand,
And forced her to walk with the young and gay,
As slowly, slowly, she died away.
But love has faith tho' hate has power:
That was the balm of the folding flower.
14
Her lover comes from his foreign tomb,
And prays the God of day and night
To send one beam of kind moonlight
On the pictured wall of that hallowed room
Then breathes a sigh, so sad and deep
The household hear it in their sleep,
And flits back lonely to his doom.
Slowly I turned from the face divine
Of that buried rose of a ruined line,
To where a canvas lured my eye
From the narrow room and the clouded sky,
Away and away, to Italy!
With its crested ripples sparkling;
And its watery furrows darkling;
And its white sail like a swallow
Darting over the hollow;
And its sun intensely bright;
And its sea intensely blue;
And its crowds of lazy nations,
With nothing on earth to do;
And its old cyclopean ruins,—
Dust of empires dead,—
Footprints of the giants,
In which the pigmies tread;
And its white-domed cities lying
With the faintest veil of haze,
Like a dream of boyhood visioned
By the light of later days.
And its olive-leaf scarce trembling,
And its sky so pure and still;
Not a frown from earth to zenith,
Save one small cloud on the hill.
The olive-leaf scarce trembling—
The cloud so small and fair;
Just enough to say—the spirit
Of a storm is watching there!
Thro' the forest's leafy masses
You might see how the current ran,
As a thought in whispers passes
Thro' the myriad tribes of man;
And the cloud, like Jupiter's eagle
Looking down on his old Rome,
Perched waiting on his mountain
Till the thunder-day shall come.—
A Laurel in the foreground,
Lone and withering,
For ever stands expectant
Of its unreturning spring;
And a painter lies beneath it,
With his brush and palette near,
Catching Truth's white inspiration,
Like light in a prism clear,
And throwing it back in Fancy's
Rich-tinted atmosphere.
Of that buried rose of a ruined line,
To where a canvas lured my eye
From the narrow room and the clouded sky,
Away and away, to Italy!
With its crested ripples sparkling;
And its watery furrows darkling;
And its white sail like a swallow
Darting over the hollow;
And its sun intensely bright;
And its sea intensely blue;
15
With nothing on earth to do;
And its old cyclopean ruins,—
Dust of empires dead,—
Footprints of the giants,
In which the pigmies tread;
And its white-domed cities lying
With the faintest veil of haze,
Like a dream of boyhood visioned
By the light of later days.
And its olive-leaf scarce trembling,
And its sky so pure and still;
Not a frown from earth to zenith,
Save one small cloud on the hill.
The olive-leaf scarce trembling—
The cloud so small and fair;
Just enough to say—the spirit
Of a storm is watching there!
Thro' the forest's leafy masses
You might see how the current ran,
16
Thro' the myriad tribes of man;
And the cloud, like Jupiter's eagle
Looking down on his old Rome,
Perched waiting on his mountain
Till the thunder-day shall come.—
A Laurel in the foreground,
Lone and withering,
For ever stands expectant
Of its unreturning spring;
And a painter lies beneath it,
With his brush and palette near,
Catching Truth's white inspiration,
Like light in a prism clear,
And throwing it back in Fancy's
Rich-tinted atmosphere.
An army's homeward march
Crowds up yon glorious arch,
While, towering in victorious might,
Centring all the picture's light,
The veteran Leaders wait
The elders of the state:
For down the far-seen road
A joyous throng have flowed;
Some on wings of hope and fear,
In search of the loved and near,
Have flown on in advance:
Their eyes despairing cast
Thro' the thick ranks mounting fast,
Seeing none
Till they see the one,
And fly to rest
On his faithful breast:
Weeks in palsying terror sped,
Nights of agony, days of dread,
Racking hours that weigh like years,
Thousand thoughts, and hopes, and fears
All summed in a single moment,
And told in a single glance.
Crowds up yon glorious arch,
17
Centring all the picture's light,
The veteran Leaders wait
The elders of the state:
For down the far-seen road
A joyous throng have flowed;
Some on wings of hope and fear,
In search of the loved and near,
Have flown on in advance:
Their eyes despairing cast
Thro' the thick ranks mounting fast,
Seeing none
Till they see the one,
And fly to rest
On his faithful breast:
Weeks in palsying terror sped,
Nights of agony, days of dread,
Racking hours that weigh like years,
Thousand thoughts, and hopes, and fears
18
And told in a single glance.
And, through that living surge,
The battle's wrecks emerge:
Slowly their comrades bear them
To the graves the loved prepare them,
But they join the triumph they gave
To the city they died to save!
And, where that solemn line draws near,
Silent sinks the exulting cheer,
And inward drops the chidden tear;
The ground shall drink it never;
It shall lie on the heart for ever;
And all around they keep
A reverent silence deep,
For they think it sin to weep.
The battle's wrecks emerge:
Slowly their comrades bear them
To the graves the loved prepare them,
But they join the triumph they gave
To the city they died to save!
And, where that solemn line draws near,
Silent sinks the exulting cheer,
And inward drops the chidden tear;
The ground shall drink it never;
It shall lie on the heart for ever;
And all around they keep
A reverent silence deep,
For they think it sin to weep.
And as I wondered still
At the painter's matchless skill,
That work of buried genius,
With its mingled light and shade,
And its beauty's silent magic,
This tale of eld conveyed:
At the painter's matchless skill,
19
With its mingled light and shade,
And its beauty's silent magic,
This tale of eld conveyed:
IV.—The Painter of Florence.
At Florence in the dark ages
When Florence alone was bright,
(She has left on her marble pages
Her testament of light;)
When Florence alone was bright,
(She has left on her marble pages
Her testament of light;)
At Florence in the dark ages
When Florence alone was free,
(She rose, in the pride of her sages,
Like the sun on a troubled sea;)
When Florence alone was free,
(She rose, in the pride of her sages,
Like the sun on a troubled sea;)
While yet as an ark she drifted
On the Earth's barbarian flood,
And the wreck of the Arts uplifted
From the deluge of human blood—
On the Earth's barbarian flood,
And the wreck of the Arts uplifted
From the deluge of human blood—
20
Where many a feat of glory
And deed of worth were done,
From the links of her broken story
I've saved to the world this one.
And deed of worth were done,
From the links of her broken story
I've saved to the world this one.
Round Florence the tempests are clouding;
The mountains a deluge have hurled;
For the tyrants of nations are crowding
To blot that fair light from the world.
The mountains a deluge have hurled;
For the tyrants of nations are crowding
To blot that fair light from the world.
Like vultures that sweep from the passes
To come to the feast of the dead,
In black, heavy, motionless masses
Their mighty battalions are spread.
To come to the feast of the dead,
In black, heavy, motionless masses
Their mighty battalions are spread.
'Tis eve: and the soldiers of Florence
To meet them are marching amain;
The foe stand like Ocean awaiting
The streamlet that glides o'er the plain.
To meet them are marching amain;
The foe stand like Ocean awaiting
The streamlet that glides o'er the plain.
21
Then the blood of the best and bravest
Had poured like the rain on the sod,—
But the spirit of night stood between them,
Proclaiming the truce of their God.
Had poured like the rain on the sod,—
But the spirit of night stood between them,
Proclaiming the truce of their God.
It touches the heart of the tyrant—
It gives him the time to repent:—
The morn on the mountain has risen!
The hour of salvation is spent!
It gives him the time to repent:—
The morn on the mountain has risen!
The hour of salvation is spent!
The multitudes break into motion,
The trumpets are stirring the flood:—
An islet surrounded by ocean,
The ranks of the citizens stood.
The trumpets are stirring the flood:—
An islet surrounded by ocean,
The ranks of the citizens stood.
But the vanguard is Valour and Glory;
The phalanx is Freedom and Right;
The leaders are Honour and Duty:
Are they soldiers to fail in the fight?
The phalanx is Freedom and Right;
The leaders are Honour and Duty:
Are they soldiers to fail in the fight?
22
Then, hail to thee! Florence the fearless
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the mist from the mountain has faded,
What a triumph of arms shall be there!
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the mist from the mountain has faded,
What a triumph of arms shall be there!
The day that in heaven is burning,
Is the brightest a hero may know—
For it lights back the soldier returning
To the home he has saved from the foe.
Is the brightest a hero may know—
For it lights back the soldier returning
To the home he has saved from the foe.
'Tis the day that a recompence renders
For service past recompence great—
And proud to its gallant defenders
Thus speak the elect of the state:
For service past recompence great—
And proud to its gallant defenders
Thus speak the elect of the state:
“The hearts that now greet thee, shall moulder;
“The breath that now hails thee, shall fleet;
“Leaf by leaf, from thy garland, the laurel
“Shall mix with the dust at thy feet;
“The breath that now hails thee, shall fleet;
“Leaf by leaf, from thy garland, the laurel
“Shall mix with the dust at thy feet;
23
“But poesy, painting, and sculpture
“Survive with imperishing charms—
“Then glory to glory!—a triumph
“Of art to the triumph of arms.
“Survive with imperishing charms—
“Then glory to glory!—a triumph
“Of art to the triumph of arms.
“Three years for the task shall be granted,
“And great be the victor's reward;
“Praises, and riches, and honour
“To painter, and sculptor, and bard.”
“And great be the victor's reward;
“Praises, and riches, and honour
“To painter, and sculptor, and bard.”
Then loudly cheered the applauding throng,
And thrilled each child of art and song:
But 'mid the crowd was one, whose soul
Had long sighed vainly for a goal;
Men counted him a dreamer;—dreams
Are but the light of clearer skies,
Too dazzling for our naked eyes;
And when we catch their flashing beams,
We turn aside and call them dreams!
And thrilled each child of art and song:
But 'mid the crowd was one, whose soul
Had long sighed vainly for a goal;
Men counted him a dreamer;—dreams
Are but the light of clearer skies,
Too dazzling for our naked eyes;
And when we catch their flashing beams,
We turn aside and call them dreams!
24
Oh! trust me!—every truth that yet
In greatness rose and sorrow set,
That time to ripening glory nurst,
Was called an idle dream at first!
In greatness rose and sorrow set,
That time to ripening glory nurst,
Was called an idle dream at first!
And so he passed thro' want and ill,
And lived neglected and unknown:
Courage he lacked not—neither skill—
But that fixed impulse of the will
That guides to fame, and guides alone.
And opportunity ne'er smiled,
Without which, genius' royal child
Is but a king without a throne.
And lived neglected and unknown:
Courage he lacked not—neither skill—
But that fixed impulse of the will
That guides to fame, and guides alone.
And opportunity ne'er smiled,
Without which, genius' royal child
Is but a king without a throne.
And sad, indeed, his youth had been,
Had love not wound its flowers between
And helped him life's harsh griefs to bear,
By grafting them on a gentler care.
Shall art's own votaries live unloving?
Docile to an impulse true,
He, who thinks the beautiful
Shall feel it too.
Had love not wound its flowers between
And helped him life's harsh griefs to bear,
By grafting them on a gentler care.
Shall art's own votaries live unloving?
Docile to an impulse true,
25
Shall feel it too.
And thus the poor young artist loved
And wooed a loving maid:
Her father was an artisan
Who plied a steady trade,
And bowed before no mortal man,
For he lived by what he made;
Altho' his labour's price began
To shrink as his strength decayed.
And wooed a loving maid:
Her father was an artisan
Who plied a steady trade,
And bowed before no mortal man,
For he lived by what he made;
Altho' his labour's price began
To shrink as his strength decayed.
He sought not riches, rank, or fame:
But too much he himself had borne
In hunger, withering pain and scorn,
To let his daughter feel the same;
And he had said that very morn,
When timidly the suitor came,—
“To the ranks of the brave in the marches go!
“And carve a fortune from the foe!
But too much he himself had borne
In hunger, withering pain and scorn,
To let his daughter feel the same;
And he had said that very morn,
When timidly the suitor came,—
“To the ranks of the brave in the marches go!
“And carve a fortune from the foe!
26
“Or let me see thee at the loom
“When the shuttle rings in the merry room!
“Do anything!—but hang no more
“Like an idle soul at my daughter's door.
“Go! and God speed! and make thy way!
“Return in happier hour and say:
“‘I strove the strife, and I won the day.’
“And with my child 'mid blessings dwell—
“But now—till then, or for ever—farewell!”
“When the shuttle rings in the merry room!
“Do anything!—but hang no more
“Like an idle soul at my daughter's door.
“Go! and God speed! and make thy way!
“Return in happier hour and say:
“‘I strove the strife, and I won the day.’
“And with my child 'mid blessings dwell—
“But now—till then, or for ever—farewell!”
He heard the words with reverence due;
He owned them wise, and felt them true:
But his arm's too weak to grasp the blade;
Nor can he stoop to a plodding trade:
Why blame him?—we're what God has made!
And he turned him, sick in heart and will
That fortune and he had been matched so ill.
He owned them wise, and felt them true:
But his arm's too weak to grasp the blade;
Nor can he stoop to a plodding trade:
Why blame him?—we're what God has made!
And he turned him, sick in heart and will
That fortune and he had been matched so ill.
'Twas then he heard the state's decree,
Like the trumpet that sounds to a victory:
He starts from the spot an altered man,
For the gaol's revealed and the race began!
Like the trumpet that sounds to a victory:
27
For the gaol's revealed and the race began!
Then ardours new illume his eyes,
And visions proud come thronging fast;
In dreams he sees his labour rise;
In dreams he grasps his labour's prize;
Alas! in dreams time's treasure flies,
And the first short year has past.
And visions proud come thronging fast;
In dreams he sees his labour rise;
In dreams he grasps his labour's prize;
Alas! in dreams time's treasure flies,
And the first short year has past.
He trembles at the new-year chime,
And tries to grasp its fleeting prime:
In feverish haste
An outline's traced,—
Each new-born fancy seems sublime:
He rushes burning in the air,
To vent the expanding ardour there:
But doubt comes on and brings despair,
And all that morning-promise fair
Has left the cancelled canvas bare
And tries to grasp its fleeting prime:
In feverish haste
An outline's traced,—
Each new-born fancy seems sublime:
He rushes burning in the air,
To vent the expanding ardour there:
But doubt comes on and brings despair,
And all that morning-promise fair
Has left the cancelled canvas bare
28
Ere evening's shadows climb.
As swift the rapid sketches rise,
As swift the glowing triumph dies,
As light and shade alternate hies
O'er skies of April time.
And moments come, when cold dismay
Had bade for aye the labour stay:
But the thought of his love like a golden chain,
Drew him back, ever back, to his task again.
As swift the rapid sketches rise,
As swift the glowing triumph dies,
As light and shade alternate hies
O'er skies of April time.
And moments come, when cold dismay
Had bade for aye the labour stay:
But the thought of his love like a golden chain,
Drew him back, ever back, to his task again.
And, as they pass, each Sabbath-day,
By the spot where he waits on the churchward way,
Colder and colder the father grew;
The maiden smiled on a love so true,—
But her tears were many, her smiles were few.
And weeks roll on, and months flit o'er,
And still the mighty work's to do:
While fever, eating to the core,
Shines his transparent pulses thro',
And paints insidious, streak by streak,
With death's romance his flushing cheek.
By the spot where he waits on the churchward way,
Colder and colder the father grew;
The maiden smiled on a love so true,—
But her tears were many, her smiles were few.
And weeks roll on, and months flit o'er,
And still the mighty work's to do:
While fever, eating to the core,
Shines his transparent pulses thro',
And paints insidious, streak by streak,
With death's romance his flushing cheek.
29
'Twas on an eve of autumn pale
That first he felt his strength to fail.
The sun o'er Spain had shone its last;
The leaves around were falling fast;
The western clouds were turning grey;
And Earth and Heaven seemed to say:
“Passing away! Passing away!”
That first he felt his strength to fail.
The sun o'er Spain had shone its last;
The leaves around were falling fast;
The western clouds were turning grey;
And Earth and Heaven seemed to say:
“Passing away! Passing away!”
A wild conviction smote his mind:
And if unbidden sorrows blind,
One moment, eyes that still descry
In life so much that's worth a sigh,
The weaker mood remained not long,
And left him strangely calm and strong.
And if unbidden sorrows blind,
One moment, eyes that still descry
In life so much that's worth a sigh,
The weaker mood remained not long,
And left him strangely calm and strong.
The second year has flown away,
And shorter grows the wintry day:
But ever-toiling, unremitting,
At his task the painter's sitting;
Undisturbed by hope or fear;
Steady, conscious, calm, and clear;
For angels warn him every night
To labour while 'tis still life-light.
And is it Death, whose solemn hand,
Fettering fancy's rebel-band
And lifting up his spirit high,
Has touched it with sublimity?
Oh! say not so! the young are strong,
And bravely speeds the work along,
And Love's soft thrill and fame's proud feeling
Possess a wondrous power of healing.
And weeks roll on,—and months flit o'er;
The work is speeding more and more;
And rivals who, with smiling eye
Had watched the lost time hurrying by,
Now croak their raven prophecy
And, sneering, of his progress ask:
But pain and grief their magic trying,
Faith and fame his heart inspiring,
Love its godlike power supplying,
Sit by the canvas untiring:
They deepen the shade, and they heighten the light,
They force on the work with invincible might;
They toil through the day and they think through the night:
Are they workmen to fail at the task?
And shorter grows the wintry day:
But ever-toiling, unremitting,
At his task the painter's sitting;
Undisturbed by hope or fear;
Steady, conscious, calm, and clear;
30
To labour while 'tis still life-light.
And is it Death, whose solemn hand,
Fettering fancy's rebel-band
And lifting up his spirit high,
Has touched it with sublimity?
Oh! say not so! the young are strong,
And bravely speeds the work along,
And Love's soft thrill and fame's proud feeling
Possess a wondrous power of healing.
And weeks roll on,—and months flit o'er;
The work is speeding more and more;
And rivals who, with smiling eye
Had watched the lost time hurrying by,
Now croak their raven prophecy
And, sneering, of his progress ask:
But pain and grief their magic trying,
Faith and fame his heart inspiring,
Love its godlike power supplying,
Sit by the canvas untiring:
31
They force on the work with invincible might;
They toil through the day and they think through the night:
Are they workmen to fail at the task?
Then, hail to thee! Florence the great!
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the last sheaf of autumn is gathered,
What a triumph of Art shall be there!
And, hail to thee! Florence the fair!
Ere the last sheaf of autumn is gathered,
What a triumph of Art shall be there!
The bells in Florence are ringing all;
The third year has come to its close;
The Elders have met in the judgment-hall,
And swelling the sound of their festival,
Thro' the city the multitude flows,
The third year has come to its close;
The Elders have met in the judgment-hall,
And swelling the sound of their festival,
Thro' the city the multitude flows,
Within his narrow chamber high
The student waits the fated hour:
'Tis long since 'neath a freer sky
He felt the sun or braved the shower;
Toil kept him there—and now 'twas o'er
He had the heart and strength no more.
The student waits the fated hour:
'Tis long since 'neath a freer sky
He felt the sun or braved the shower;
32
He had the heart and strength no more.
From the casement might be seen,
The o'erhanging houses' breach between,
A distant span of country green:
And on that strip of earth and sky
Unswerving hung his lightless eye;
And as the hours, slow-wandering by,
With heavy stroke returning came,
They shook thro' his thin and tremulous frame
As autumn blasts, with boisterous call,
May shake the leaf that is near its fall.
Their iron tongues seemed all to say:
“Hie thee away! Hie thee away!
“Thou hast landed thy treasure secure from the wave;
“Thyself, thou bold swimmer! thou shalt not save.”
The o'erhanging houses' breach between,
A distant span of country green:
And on that strip of earth and sky
Unswerving hung his lightless eye;
And as the hours, slow-wandering by,
With heavy stroke returning came,
They shook thro' his thin and tremulous frame
As autumn blasts, with boisterous call,
May shake the leaf that is near its fall.
Their iron tongues seemed all to say:
“Hie thee away! Hie thee away!
“Thou hast landed thy treasure secure from the wave;
“Thyself, thou bold swimmer! thou shalt not save.”
But ere the morning's midward hour
Had brought the sun round the eastern hill
To touch the pale unopened flower,
That drooped upon his window sill,
A gentle hand tapped on his chamber door—
And a soft voice called:—'tis the voice of Lenore!
Spirit of Light! before passing the grave!
Angel of Life! art thou come to save?
Had brought the sun round the eastern hill
33
That drooped upon his window sill,
A gentle hand tapped on his chamber door—
And a soft voice called:—'tis the voice of Lenore!
Spirit of Light! before passing the grave!
Angel of Life! art thou come to save?
She knew the hours were hard to bear,
That the heart will fail and the spirit break
When life, and more than life's at stake—
And had won on her father to bring her there:
But he sat him down
With a silent frown,
Half angered to deem he had been so weak.
That the heart will fail and the spirit break
When life, and more than life's at stake—
And had won on her father to bring her there:
But he sat him down
With a silent frown,
Half angered to deem he had been so weak.
The painter's face with a smile is bright,
As he reads his hope in the maiden's eyes;
But her cheek turns pale as the lustre dies,
Till it hangs on his lip like the mournful light
On a wreck that may sink ere the proud sunrise.
As he reads his hope in the maiden's eyes;
But her cheek turns pale as the lustre dies,
Till it hangs on his lip like the mournful light
On a wreck that may sink ere the proud sunrise.
34
And his fancy was busy again within
To think how much better his work might have been
With a light brought there, and a shade thrown here:—
'Twas well that he had not the canvas near,
For the painters, then, were Despair and Fear.
To think how much better his work might have been
With a light brought there, and a shade thrown here:—
'Twas well that he had not the canvas near,
For the painters, then, were Despair and Fear.
But hark! a sound on the silence steals!
'Tis a shout—a shout in the distance peals!
It gathers—it deepens—it rolls this way!—
“Lenora!—Haste to the casement—say!—
“'Tis finished!—but—who has won the day?”
'Tis a shout—a shout in the distance peals!
It gathers—it deepens—it rolls this way!—
“Lenora!—Haste to the casement—say!—
“'Tis finished!—but—who has won the day?”
Near and more near
Is the loud acclaim:
You could almost hear
The victorious name:
“They come! by the beat
“Of their flooding feet!
“Now!—now—they are reaching the end of the street!”
Is the loud acclaim:
You could almost hear
The victorious name:
“They come! by the beat
“Of their flooding feet!
“Now!—now—they are reaching the end of the street!”
35
The maiden's heart is fluttering wild—
And even the father arose from his seat
And stood by his child,
But incredulous smiled:
“There's a way to the left. They will turn to the square.”
“No! onward!—right onward!—they pause not there!
“And the senators pass
“Thro' the multitude's mass!
“Scarce three doors off-they come!—they come!”
And even the father arose from his seat
And stood by his child,
But incredulous smiled:
“There's a way to the left. They will turn to the square.”
“No! onward!—right onward!—they pause not there!
“And the senators pass
“Thro' the multitude's mass!
“Scarce three doors off-they come!—they come!”
The maiden has sunk from the window-side:—
'Tis past a fear!—'tis past a doubt!
There's a stir within—there's a rush without—
They mount the stair—the door flies wide—
Oh! joy to the lover! and joy to the bride!
The eldest of the train advances:
In his hand the garland glances;
Gold—precious—glittering to the sight;
Pledge of hopes that are still more bright,
For love is wreathed in its leaves of light!
'Tis past a fear!—'tis past a doubt!
There's a stir within—there's a rush without—
They mount the stair—the door flies wide—
Oh! joy to the lover! and joy to the bride!
The eldest of the train advances:
In his hand the garland glances;
Gold—precious—glittering to the sight;
Pledge of hopes that are still more bright,
For love is wreathed in its leaves of light!
36
They call him:—is their voice unheard?
He rose not—as in duty bound;
He bowed not—as they gathered round;
They placed the garland on his head:—
He gave no thanks—he spoke no word—
But slowly sank like a drooping flower
Beneath the weight of too full a shower:
The Painter of Florence was dead!
He rose not—as in duty bound;
He bowed not—as they gathered round;
They placed the garland on his head:—
He gave no thanks—he spoke no word—
But slowly sank like a drooping flower
Beneath the weight of too full a shower:
The Painter of Florence was dead!
To the altar high they bore him;
And they hung his labour o'er him,
That in one short triumph's breath
Gave immortality and death.
And they hung his labour o'er him,
That in one short triumph's breath
Gave immortality and death.
The curious crowd soon melt away;
But evening dusk and morning grey
Behold one constant votary there:
Does she come for praise? does she stay for prayer?
Alas! she joins not the choral strain,
And the rosary hangs by her side in vain.
But evening dusk and morning grey
Behold one constant votary there:
Does she come for praise? does she stay for prayer?
Alas! she joins not the choral strain,
And the rosary hangs by her side in vain.
37
Long years passed by, and thro' them all
The painting hung on the old church wall.
Long years!—but few of their sum had flown
When the maiden sunk 'neath the cold churchstone.
And when Florence had fallen and bowed the knee
The painting hung on the old church wall.
Long years!—but few of their sum had flown
When the maiden sunk 'neath the cold churchstone.
To the golden pride of the Medici,
Then princes and bishops and cardinals tore
From her temples and trophies their coveted store;
And hung on the wall
Of their selfish hall,
What was meant for the eyes and the hearts of all.
Thus passed the picture from hand to hand,
Till it wandered away to a cloudy land,
And I found it lost in the barren gloom
Of a country gentleman's dining-room.
41
THE BATTLE-DAY;
OR, THE LOST ARMY.
I.
Lindsay castle's jutted forth
On the wild, old sounding sea,
And a gallant race of the hardy North,
As their mountains strong—as the billows free,
That monument of ancient worth
Through long, long centuries have held,
Bequeathed unto the modern earth
By the great dim hands of Eld.
On the wild, old sounding sea,
And a gallant race of the hardy North,
As their mountains strong—as the billows free,
That monument of ancient worth
Through long, long centuries have held,
Bequeathed unto the modern earth
By the great dim hands of Eld.
It is a mighty trust to bear
The memory of those that were;
To have a name of time to save,
And be worthy to sleep in a father's grave;
To dwell in halls of mouldering stone,
Though desert all, yet not alone!
With listeners to every word—
Each motion seen, each accent heard!
The long dim statues down the hall
And dark old arms on the oaken wall
Scanning everything you do
The while you pace your chambers through,
Where, still their jealous vigil keeping,
The dead, in niche and vault unsleeping,
Forth looming from the depth of time,
Startle their children back from crime!
The memory of those that were;
42
And be worthy to sleep in a father's grave;
To dwell in halls of mouldering stone,
Though desert all, yet not alone!
With listeners to every word—
Each motion seen, each accent heard!
The long dim statues down the hall
And dark old arms on the oaken wall
Scanning everything you do
The while you pace your chambers through,
Where, still their jealous vigil keeping,
The dead, in niche and vault unsleeping,
Forth looming from the depth of time,
Startle their children back from crime!
Thro' many a change that race had passed;
Both sin's and honour's pathways trod;
For wealth may like an heirloom last,
But virtue is the gift of God.
Both sin's and honour's pathways trod;
For wealth may like an heirloom last,
But virtue is the gift of God.
43
And years and wars, and storm and crime
Had worn that house of ancient time:
Its greatness waned,
As discord drained
The life-blood of its early prime:
Pageant in tournay—assault on the wall,
Valour in battle and slander in hall,
Treason at midnight and riot at noon,
Soon end an old house,—'tis forgotten as soon.
A breath blows the glories of ages away—
And now the last heir unto Lindsay's decay,
With the proud blood of heroes ennobling his will,
Mistrusted a world that had used him so ill.
Had worn that house of ancient time:
Its greatness waned,
As discord drained
The life-blood of its early prime:
Pageant in tournay—assault on the wall,
Valour in battle and slander in hall,
Treason at midnight and riot at noon,
Soon end an old house,—'tis forgotten as soon.
A breath blows the glories of ages away—
And now the last heir unto Lindsay's decay,
With the proud blood of heroes ennobling his will,
Mistrusted a world that had used him so ill.
II.
A fair maid came to Lindsay Hall:
Oh! grand was her array,
With liege and lord, and free and thrall,
And pomp of silken sway;
Oh! grand was her array,
With liege and lord, and free and thrall,
And pomp of silken sway;
44
And acres broad and castles high,
And famous old descent;
And heart with true nobility,
And mind with pure intent.
And famous old descent;
And heart with true nobility,
And mind with pure intent.
The mother smiled: “She brings thee gold!”
Lord Lindsay turned away:
“Twas steel that built my house of old,
Gold saves it not to-day!”
Lord Lindsay turned away:
“Twas steel that built my house of old,
Gold saves it not to-day!”
The mother smiled: “She brings thee love!”
Lord Lindsay turned away:
“So many said—to my fathers dead!
Tho' fair, yet false were they.”
Lord Lindsay turned away:
“So many said—to my fathers dead!
Tho' fair, yet false were they.”
The maiden heard: “Since love nor gold
“Thy brave great heart may gain,
Thou'rt worthy of the faith I fold
Around it like a chain.”
“Thy brave great heart may gain,
Thou'rt worthy of the faith I fold
Around it like a chain.”
45
Lord Lindsay's at the maiden's feet,
A cloud beneath a star—
Uplit by her.—Oh! love is sweet,
But faith is sweeter far!
A cloud beneath a star—
Uplit by her.—Oh! love is sweet,
But faith is sweeter far!
And as he weds that glorious bride,
Like night to morning wed,
She breathes: “To love is to confide,
“But doubt—and love is dead.”
Like night to morning wed,
She breathes: “To love is to confide,
“But doubt—and love is dead.”
III.
Oh! there were sounds and sights of pride,
When Lindsay welcomed home his bride:
As though a charm were in the place,
Fresh fortunes flashed on Lindsay's race;
High harpers sung—and revel rung,
And laughter from hot hearts was flung,
Stirred by passion's fiery breath
Like light foam dashed from depths beneath.
But oh! that Lady was too fair
To walk the earth without a care:
While sin's old sway must still abide,
Man brooks no angels by his side.
Though once with him they walked the sod,
Did they raise man up unto God?
Or was't not he, whose fatal spell
Dragged down the angels unto hell?
When Lindsay welcomed home his bride:
As though a charm were in the place,
Fresh fortunes flashed on Lindsay's race;
High harpers sung—and revel rung,
And laughter from hot hearts was flung,
Stirred by passion's fiery breath
Like light foam dashed from depths beneath.
But oh! that Lady was too fair
To walk the earth without a care:
46
Man brooks no angels by his side.
Though once with him they walked the sod,
Did they raise man up unto God?
Or was't not he, whose fatal spell
Dragged down the angels unto hell?
Thus, when for mortal's sinful night
Too sun-like proved her beauty's light,
A whisperer came with tale half-told,
Glance once too warm, and now too cold,
And, envying love he could not win,
To Lindsay breathed the fabled sin:
And he, with quivering lip and pale,
Listened—ay! listened to the tale,
Who, had he proved his ancient worth,
Had hurled the slanderer to the earth,
And haled him to his gentle bride
To own his slanders one by one,
And, as he spurned the miscreant, cried—
“That he hath said—this I have done!”
Too sun-like proved her beauty's light,
A whisperer came with tale half-told,
Glance once too warm, and now too cold,
And, envying love he could not win,
To Lindsay breathed the fabled sin:
And he, with quivering lip and pale,
Listened—ay! listened to the tale,
Who, had he proved his ancient worth,
Had hurled the slanderer to the earth,
And haled him to his gentle bride
To own his slanders one by one,
And, as he spurned the miscreant, cried—
“That he hath said—this I have done!”
47
But Lindsay listened—then believed,
Nay! gave the poison he received—
And, proof and argument without,
Began the deadly spell—to doubt!
Nay! gave the poison he received—
And, proof and argument without,
Began the deadly spell—to doubt!
Oh! Wrath will droop with wearied wing,
And Hate will yield to tears:
But Doubt destroys the fairest thing,
Creates the spot it fears.
And Hate will yield to tears:
But Doubt destroys the fairest thing,
Creates the spot it fears.
IV.
Then o'er their world began to rollThe gradual twilight of the soul.
No wind can wave that gloom away,
And backward waft the fading day;
'Tis not a summer-glory flies,
But 'tis the very sun that dies.
For Love, estranged by wavering fate,
Changes but once, and that—to Hate.
48
Oh! still more madly than before.
But Doubt, as with enchanter's art,
Placed its cold hand upon his heart;
Froze the warm glances in his eye,
And turned to ice the burning sigh;
Chilled the full ardour of his tone
To stony words from lips of stone,
And blighting thus another's fate,
Yet left himself most desolate.
At first, so slight the altered guise,
It woke no fear—scarce raised surprise:
But hour by hour, and day by day,
Something familiar died away,—
A smile, a sigh, a look the less,
A languor in the forced caress,
Those nameless nothings, that reveal
Tho' tongues be mute, what hearts must feel.
Though all unseen, they felt, they knew
A veil was drawn between the two;
49
Who silent stood on either side;
It hung between, so thin of fold,
And yet so chilly, dark, and cold,
The smiles of love could not shine through,
The kind glance lost its tenderest hue,
The soft endearments of the Past
Gleamed pale athwart its darkness cast:
Yet 'twas at first a thing so slight,
That mocked the touch, the ear, the sight!
Oh! it had yielded to a breath—
One little word of love and faith!
That little word was never spoken:
And souls were wrecked—and hearts were broken!
Long, long she mourned without a spot,
And where she sought love found it not;
And then she grieved, that such should be,
And anger tinged her cheek with flame;
Nor dreamed that Infidelity
Thus in the guise of Reason came,
And o'er her heart its shadow brought,
While still afar in lands of thought.—
When passion once asserts its sway
Fly swiftly from the strife away,
For in the struggle every hour
Waxes the wily foeman's power,
Who in the heart securely sits,
There hides, attacks, defends by fits;
Defeated to new strife invites,
And feeds upon the foe he fights,
As skilful warriors lead their band
To live upon a hostile land.
And where she sought love found it not;
And then she grieved, that such should be,
And anger tinged her cheek with flame;
50
Thus in the guise of Reason came,
And o'er her heart its shadow brought,
While still afar in lands of thought.—
When passion once asserts its sway
Fly swiftly from the strife away,
For in the struggle every hour
Waxes the wily foeman's power,
Who in the heart securely sits,
There hides, attacks, defends by fits;
Defeated to new strife invites,
And feeds upon the foe he fights,
As skilful warriors lead their band
To live upon a hostile land.
Then—when her heart was wearing slow,
A pendulum 'twixt wrath and woe—
A lover came with sweeter tongue,
Each word was music though unsung:
She turned her from the voice so cold,
From the dark, stern brow she turned
To smiles that sunlight round her rolled,
And eyes and words that burned.
She leaned her from her lattice high,
Her heart went down long, long before:
It was a brief, wild agony:
She followed when the strife was o'er.
A pendulum 'twixt wrath and woe—
A lover came with sweeter tongue,
Each word was music though unsung:
She turned her from the voice so cold,
51
To smiles that sunlight round her rolled,
And eyes and words that burned.
She leaned her from her lattice high,
Her heart went down long, long before:
It was a brief, wild agony:
She followed when the strife was o'er.
One throb of joy, one pulse of pain,
One moment's thought between the twain:
A heart that broke—a death that healed,
So wretched that it half annealed;
Yet sadder fate on Lindsay's head—
A heart that beat although 'twas dead.
One moment's thought between the twain:
A heart that broke—a death that healed,
So wretched that it half annealed;
Yet sadder fate on Lindsay's head—
A heart that beat although 'twas dead.
V.
Then the lot the most barren, the lot the most great,
Lindsay chose from the garner of treacherous fate:
To be hated by many, by few to be bless'd,
Do good unto all, and receive it from none,
To wake and to watch while all others may rest,
And die ere one half of his task has been done.
To die as he lived: all strange, great, and alone,
Mourned not in tears, but recorded in stone.
Lindsay chose from the garner of treacherous fate:
To be hated by many, by few to be bless'd,
Do good unto all, and receive it from none,
52
And die ere one half of his task has been done.
To die as he lived: all strange, great, and alone,
Mourned not in tears, but recorded in stone.
Soon the rumour crept and came,
Still and low as stifled flame,
That in some distant spot of earth
A vast great spirit had gone forth.
Wanderers strange from door to door,
And lands remote, the tidings bore.
Uncertain first, the echoes wild
Floated like dreams athwart a child:
A breath, a whisper, then a word
That grew familiar as 'twas heard,
Till quick achievement, pace on pace,
With giant march grasped time and space,
And clearer seen in glory's height,
Forth flashed the hero on the sight!
Then shouts the mass—it knows not why—
Save that another raised the cry;
Those living echoes of the crowd,
From hearts most shallow still most loud,
As answering notes are shrillest thrown
From barest rock and bleakest stone.
Still and low as stifled flame,
That in some distant spot of earth
A vast great spirit had gone forth.
Wanderers strange from door to door,
And lands remote, the tidings bore.
Uncertain first, the echoes wild
Floated like dreams athwart a child:
A breath, a whisper, then a word
That grew familiar as 'twas heard,
Till quick achievement, pace on pace,
With giant march grasped time and space,
And clearer seen in glory's height,
Forth flashed the hero on the sight!
Then shouts the mass—it knows not why—
Save that another raised the cry;
53
From hearts most shallow still most loud,
As answering notes are shrillest thrown
From barest rock and bleakest stone.
Thus steals on time a hero-name,
Deserved or undeserved, the same;
From million lips in thunder hurled,
Bursts the loud anthem o'er the world:
Then bow the nations, prostrate laid
Before the God themselves have made;
But, when temptation comes at last,
When power is strong, and peril past—
Then shall we know the workman's hands:
False greatness sinks—true greatness stands.
Deserved or undeserved, the same;
From million lips in thunder hurled,
Bursts the loud anthem o'er the world:
Then bow the nations, prostrate laid
Before the God themselves have made;
But, when temptation comes at last,
When power is strong, and peril past—
Then shall we know the workman's hands:
False greatness sinks—true greatness stands.
And thus, amid the din of war,
Thro' cloud and thunder flashed the star,
Lost for awhile in gloom and night
To re-appear with tenfold light;
From orbit small, reluctant sent
To grasp a wide-spread firmament.
Thro' cloud and thunder flashed the star,
Lost for awhile in gloom and night
To re-appear with tenfold light;
54
To grasp a wide-spread firmament.
Thus many a spirit that would rest
All humbly in a household breast,
Pale sorrow drives, in league with fate,
To claim its place among the great.
All humbly in a household breast,
Pale sorrow drives, in league with fate,
To claim its place among the great.
And Lindsay rose, as merit can
When tempest stirs the floods of man;
Till ranged afar in foreign land
An army owned his sole command,
And on the coming battle's die
Reposed a nation's destiny.
When tempest stirs the floods of man;
Till ranged afar in foreign land
An army owned his sole command,
And on the coming battle's die
Reposed a nation's destiny.
Along the misty heather grey
Lord Lindsay's vast encampment lay,
Gleaming upward on the night
Emblazoned tents of silvery white,
Like snowflakes by a Northern blast
A midnight o'er the champaign cast.
Lord Lindsay's vast encampment lay,
Gleaming upward on the night
Emblazoned tents of silvery white,
Like snowflakes by a Northern blast
A midnight o'er the champaign cast.
55
The leader's in his tent alone;
And, like a tent above it thrown,
The night lay o'er it fold on fold,
Heavy, dark, and still and cold.
The murmur from the camp around,
The muffled tread on grassy ground,
Question low and low reply,
The rustling banner's mournful play—
Like flapping wing of bird of prey
Impatient for the carnage-day—
Sudden laugh and roundelay,
Like windgusts passing by;
Neigh and stamp and clank of arm,
Shot at sentry-posts' alarm,
Then the single bugle-blast,
And the squadron skirring past,
Sent 'mid darkness to the fight
A living thundercloud through night:
In one deep hum, but dead and low,
Crept through the curtains' silken flow,
And shook them with its ominous breath,
Like the step of the coming death.
Those small, dull sounds, that fill the break
Ere long-expected thunders wake,
And start the listening watcher more
Than the loud storm's first opening roar,
Came freezing on the humid air;
While 'neath night's fingers, chill and damp,
The flame crouched down upon the lamp—
Scarce light enough to show 'twas there.
Thus Lindsay sat—all spirit-cold,
While night's dark hours the sun uprolled.
The battle's eve is hard to bear,
Its fears, but not its joys are there;
And Lindsay watched the moments fleet
One by one with leaden feet.
He counted them with beat of heart,
Slow to come and slow to part,
While on their silent wings they brought
Man's worst companion—anxious thought!
On every side—anear, afar—
Slept the tide of fiery war:
Countless hearts that, all aflame
Should kindle when the morrow came,
Now lay in slumber wrapt as death,
Calm as the sword within its sheath.
As from the scabbard leaps the brand
When drawn beneath the soldier's hand,
With one proud impulse Lindsay's call
Might rouse the slumbering thousands all.
But deem not that his eye was bright
With glorious calm of wonted light:
Or steady throbs each rising vein:
There was too much to lose and gain!
The goal of all his stormy life
Is centred in the morrow's strife:
The guerdon he had toiled for long,
The hope, that made the weary strong,
The moment, that should years outweigh,
Beyond whose loss 'twere vain to stay,
When time, on-pointing to the dead,
Forbade afresh his path to tread;
Past man's control—past thought's command—
The life—the death—'twas all at hand,
And he was sitting on the brink
With nought to do but think—and think!
And, like a tent above it thrown,
The night lay o'er it fold on fold,
Heavy, dark, and still and cold.
The murmur from the camp around,
The muffled tread on grassy ground,
Question low and low reply,
The rustling banner's mournful play—
Like flapping wing of bird of prey
Impatient for the carnage-day—
Sudden laugh and roundelay,
Like windgusts passing by;
Neigh and stamp and clank of arm,
Shot at sentry-posts' alarm,
Then the single bugle-blast,
And the squadron skirring past,
Sent 'mid darkness to the fight
A living thundercloud through night:
In one deep hum, but dead and low,
Crept through the curtains' silken flow,
56
Like the step of the coming death.
Those small, dull sounds, that fill the break
Ere long-expected thunders wake,
And start the listening watcher more
Than the loud storm's first opening roar,
Came freezing on the humid air;
While 'neath night's fingers, chill and damp,
The flame crouched down upon the lamp—
Scarce light enough to show 'twas there.
Thus Lindsay sat—all spirit-cold,
While night's dark hours the sun uprolled.
The battle's eve is hard to bear,
Its fears, but not its joys are there;
And Lindsay watched the moments fleet
One by one with leaden feet.
He counted them with beat of heart,
Slow to come and slow to part,
While on their silent wings they brought
Man's worst companion—anxious thought!
57
Slept the tide of fiery war:
Countless hearts that, all aflame
Should kindle when the morrow came,
Now lay in slumber wrapt as death,
Calm as the sword within its sheath.
As from the scabbard leaps the brand
When drawn beneath the soldier's hand,
With one proud impulse Lindsay's call
Might rouse the slumbering thousands all.
But deem not that his eye was bright
With glorious calm of wonted light:
Or steady throbs each rising vein:
There was too much to lose and gain!
The goal of all his stormy life
Is centred in the morrow's strife:
The guerdon he had toiled for long,
The hope, that made the weary strong,
The moment, that should years outweigh,
Beyond whose loss 'twere vain to stay,
58
Forbade afresh his path to tread;
Past man's control—past thought's command—
The life—the death—'twas all at hand,
And he was sitting on the brink
With nought to do but think—and think!
Few—few upon his musing break,
An augur from their chief to take.
An augur from their chief to take.
There was but one—and this a friend—
Who questioned of the morrow's end.
He would not the word betray,
The word, that lost the coming day!
'Twas but one friend! he bent his ear,
And then could scarce the answer hear;
The gusty winds were loud without,
'Twas scarcely breathed: “I doubt! I doubt!”
There was none else who could have heard
The scarce articulated word!
Who questioned of the morrow's end.
He would not the word betray,
The word, that lost the coming day!
'Twas but one friend! he bent his ear,
And then could scarce the answer hear;
The gusty winds were loud without,
'Twas scarcely breathed: “I doubt! I doubt!”
There was none else who could have heard
The scarce articulated word!
59
Yet through the curtain's silken fold,
Coldly on the midnight cold
It crept like messenger of ill,
From heart to heart with footstep chill.
Spoken lowly and alone,
Whence did echo win the tone?
From lip and eye, and brow and hand,
And deadness of the dull command.
O'er hearts, that every thought can hear,
Untold of tongue, unheard of ear,
In blighting circles widened out
The palsying spell—“I doubt! I doubt!”
Coldly on the midnight cold
It crept like messenger of ill,
From heart to heart with footstep chill.
Spoken lowly and alone,
Whence did echo win the tone?
From lip and eye, and brow and hand,
And deadness of the dull command.
O'er hearts, that every thought can hear,
Untold of tongue, unheard of ear,
In blighting circles widened out
The palsying spell—“I doubt! I doubt!”
The night passed by to beat of heart,
Like a funeral march to an open tomb;
When sunlight mapped the heaven's wide chart,
'Twas but a torch to show the gloom—
The gloom upon the war-helmed head
And breast imprisoned in bright mail:
Gleamed the crest on glances dead,
Flashed the steel on foreheads pale.
Like a funeral march to an open tomb;
When sunlight mapped the heaven's wide chart,
'Twas but a torch to show the gloom—
The gloom upon the war-helmed head
And breast imprisoned in bright mail:
60
Flashed the steel on foreheads pale.
Sullen broke the battle's roar,
Sultry dropped the cannon-flame,
The conflict to the midward bore,
The banners shook unto its breath,
Music swelled the voice of death,
And slowly rolled the long acclaim.
Sultry dropped the cannon-flame,
The conflict to the midward bore,
The banners shook unto its breath,
Music swelled the voice of death,
And slowly rolled the long acclaim.
Reeled the battle's midward shock—
Charges on the serried square:
As the earthquake tears the rock,
The horse the pausing column tear.
Charges on the serried square:
As the earthquake tears the rock,
The horse the pausing column tear.
But every arm is half unnerved—
Each rider in the onset swerved—
Rein half-tightened, lance half-thrust,
A palsy on the battle's lust,
For still each beating breast about
Is wound the web: “I doubt! I doubt!”
Each rider in the onset swerved—
Rein half-tightened, lance half-thrust,
A palsy on the battle's lust,
For still each beating breast about
Is wound the web: “I doubt! I doubt!”
61
Now, gallant Lindsay! turn the war!
The moment's come to make or mar.
Now send the rally to the charge!
The serried phalanxes enlarge!
For hot volcanoes, left and right,
Spit forth their iron hail—
Where battery flames from crenelled height
Make day's red flambeau pale.
The moment's come to make or mar.
Now send the rally to the charge!
The serried phalanxes enlarge!
For hot volcanoes, left and right,
Spit forth their iron hail—
Where battery flames from crenelled height
Make day's red flambeau pale.
As to winds sink scattered waves,
On that deathfield without graves
Down before the cannon-blast
Behold a living pavement cast.
And still they stood, and still they fell
Before the red advancing hell:
Then turned to Lindsay every eye,
Broke from the field one smothered cry
Demanding but that single sign
To crush the foes' up-gathering line.
Every horse is scarce held back—
Every heart is on the rack—
Every spirit on the rise:
It is the moment—and it flies!
On that deathfield without graves
Down before the cannon-blast
Behold a living pavement cast.
And still they stood, and still they fell
Before the red advancing hell:
Then turned to Lindsay every eye,
Broke from the field one smothered cry
Demanding but that single sign
To crush the foes' up-gathering line.
Every horse is scarce held back—
Every heart is on the rack—
62
It is the moment—and it flies!
Upon a height Lord Lindsay stood
And marked the turning of the flood;
And thrice he raised his arm on high,
Thrice turned to shout his battle-cry;
And thrice the gallant impulse dies
To fears that throng, and doubts that rise;
It is the moment—and it flies!
Delay and doubt did more that hour
Than bayonet-charge and carnage-shower.
And marked the turning of the flood;
And thrice he raised his arm on high,
Thrice turned to shout his battle-cry;
And thrice the gallant impulse dies
To fears that throng, and doubts that rise;
It is the moment—and it flies!
Delay and doubt did more that hour
Than bayonet-charge and carnage-shower.
Loud howls the battle like a gale:
But fast the fiery ardours fail,
And every brow is turning pale!
They have the heart but lack the word:—
Broke from Lindsay's lip no cry,
Flashed no signal from his eye,
He neither spoke, nor signed, nor stirred,
He thought but: “Should they fail!”
But fast the fiery ardours fail,
And every brow is turning pale!
They have the heart but lack the word:—
Broke from Lindsay's lip no cry,
Flashed no signal from his eye,
He neither spoke, nor signed, nor stirred,
He thought but: “Should they fail!”
63
Cold on his brow was writ despair,
His army saw it lettered there;
From rank to rank, from man to man,
Like a word that dead look ran.
The impulse flags,—the die is cast—
It was the moment—and 'tis past!
His army saw it lettered there;
From rank to rank, from man to man,
Like a word that dead look ran.
The impulse flags,—the die is cast—
It was the moment—and 'tis past!
Close! close the square! from every side
Hark to horsemen's hurtling shock!
Onward pours that living tide
Upon that living rock!—
Hark to horsemen's hurtling shock!
Onward pours that living tide
Upon that living rock!—
And up and down—and to and fro—
The battle reeled across the plain,
And when its force seemed stricken low,
Up burst the fiend afresh again;
With quivering arm and panting breath,
And battered bone and streaming vein,
But heart as fierce as it began—
A mass of horse, and steel and man—
Squadron hurtling,—shattered square,—
But still enough to do and dare;
Beat of foot and hard hoof prancing,
Now receding, now advancing,—
The ebb and flow of the tide of death!
The battle reeled across the plain,
And when its force seemed stricken low,
Up burst the fiend afresh again;
With quivering arm and panting breath,
And battered bone and streaming vein,
But heart as fierce as it began—
A mass of horse, and steel and man—
64
But still enough to do and dare;
Beat of foot and hard hoof prancing,
Now receding, now advancing,—
The ebb and flow of the tide of death!
Then, when his bands were falling fast,
That gallant spirit dared its last.
Then Lindsay rode the foremost rank
And drove his steed through war-pools dank,
And bravely waved his pennon high,
And loudly cried his battle-cry!
And minstrels heard the foeman say
Lord Lindsay had fought well that day.
A single rider from the field,
That gallant spirit dared its last.
Then Lindsay rode the foremost rank
And drove his steed through war-pools dank,
And bravely waved his pennon high,
And loudly cried his battle-cry!
And minstrels heard the foeman say
Lord Lindsay had fought well that day.
All worn with wounds, when day was low,
With severed sword and shattered shield,
But heart unbroken by the blow
That laid his life before his foe,
65
In the spot becomes a soldier best:
A warrior's grave on heather wild,
With the death of a man and the sleep of a child!
The sun was trembling on the sea,
Winds were low and clouds were high,
And one bird sang on the old oak tree
When Lindsay laid him down to die.
It sang a song of early days,
Rich—rich with childhood's fairy lays.
Thus the robin sang on the linden-bough,
In the home of his youth as it called to him now;
'Twas a carol of heaven it chanted him then,
And the self-same song it was chanting again.
Winds were low and clouds were high,
And one bird sang on the old oak tree
When Lindsay laid him down to die.
It sang a song of early days,
Rich—rich with childhood's fairy lays.
Thus the robin sang on the linden-bough,
In the home of his youth as it called to him now;
'Twas a carol of heaven it chanted him then,
And the self-same song it was chanting again.
But the world had rolled with its fiery blast,
Filling the gulf 'twixt the present and past.
'Mid the madd'ning and whirlpool and roar of its wave,
He knew not his cradle-song sung o'er his grave!—
And all the spirits of his life,
His Peace, his Hope, his Love, his Strife,
Float by him wan in that solemn hour,
Bearing each a withered flower.
Colourless spectres, they cast on his sight
Forms without beauty and smiles without light!
Filling the gulf 'twixt the present and past.
'Mid the madd'ning and whirlpool and roar of its wave,
He knew not his cradle-song sung o'er his grave!—
66
His Peace, his Hope, his Love, his Strife,
Float by him wan in that solemn hour,
Bearing each a withered flower.
Colourless spectres, they cast on his sight
Forms without beauty and smiles without light!
His useless life so wildly passed!—
So many deeds and none to last!—
A sigh of regret for his parting breath;
Of all that seed but one fruit—Death!
And the Beyond? To him unknown:
A tear—a knell—a prayer—a stone!
A sod wrapped round a soulless clay,
And a keyless gate to a trackless way!
For Death, to him all light without,
Was worse than agony—was Doubt.
So high a heart—so sad a fate!
Wanting but Faith to have been great.
So many deeds and none to last!—
A sigh of regret for his parting breath;
Of all that seed but one fruit—Death!
And the Beyond? To him unknown:
A tear—a knell—a prayer—a stone!
A sod wrapped round a soulless clay,
And a keyless gate to a trackless way!
For Death, to him all light without,
Was worse than agony—was Doubt.
So high a heart—so sad a fate!
Wanting but Faith to have been great.
67
Plough and Loom.
69
LEAWOOD HALL,
A Christmas Tale.
In a cottage on a moor
Famine's feeble children cried;
The frost knocked sharply at the door,
And hunger welcom'd him inside;
Famine's feeble children cried;
The frost knocked sharply at the door,
And hunger welcom'd him inside;
In the moonlight cracked the leaves,
As the fox across them passed,
And the ice-drops from the eaves
Rattled to the whirling blast;
As the fox across them passed,
And the ice-drops from the eaves
Rattled to the whirling blast;
On the black hearth glowed no ember,
On the damp floor lay the rime,
Elfin haloes of December
For the sainted Christmas-time;
On the damp floor lay the rime,
Elfin haloes of December
For the sainted Christmas-time;
70
And a pale girl sat there chanting
Mournfully to children twain,
Like some sweet house-spirit haunting
Old men's homes with childhood's strain.
Mournfully to children twain,
Like some sweet house-spirit haunting
Old men's homes with childhood's strain.
Ellen was a maiden fair
With that beauty meek and frail,
Softened by the hand of care
From the red rose to the pale.
With that beauty meek and frail,
Softened by the hand of care
From the red rose to the pale.
But the children had no feature
Of the blithe child's merry grace,
Still of spirit—small of stature—
Manhood's thought on childhood's face.
Of the blithe child's merry grace,
Still of spirit—small of stature—
Manhood's thought on childhood's face.
And a woman, thin and eager,
Tossed upon a litter low,
Lifting up large eyes of fever,
With a look of angry woe.
Tossed upon a litter low,
Lifting up large eyes of fever,
With a look of angry woe.
71
Harsh complaints and words unkind
To each and all in turn addressed,
For pain, with searching hand, will find
A bitter drop in every breast.
To each and all in turn addressed,
For pain, with searching hand, will find
A bitter drop in every breast.
Bearing all with passive mood
While her sharp invective ran,
In cold and fearful calmness stood
A silent, melancholy man.
While her sharp invective ran,
In cold and fearful calmness stood
A silent, melancholy man.
O'er his brow the moonbeam lingered
'Mid the lines that passion wrought,
Like an angel, glory-fingered,
Shewing heaven the dangerous thought.
'Mid the lines that passion wrought,
Like an angel, glory-fingered,
Shewing heaven the dangerous thought.
He had toiled in hope's assurance,
Toiled when hope had changed to fear,
Toiled amid despair's endurance—
These were sorry thanks to hear!
Toiled when hope had changed to fear,
Toiled amid despair's endurance—
These were sorry thanks to hear!
72
Yet he chid not her reproving,
Bore it all in quiet part—
Said: It is but misery moving
Pulses foreign to her heart.
Bore it all in quiet part—
Said: It is but misery moving
Pulses foreign to her heart.
Still in solemn silence bound,
Scarce a sign of life he gave,
But fixed his eyes upon the ground,
As though his look could dig his grave.
Scarce a sign of life he gave,
But fixed his eyes upon the ground,
As though his look could dig his grave.
Sudden through the broken pane
Faintly gleamed a ruddy light,
And something like a festive strain
Came thrilling through the heart of night.
Faintly gleamed a ruddy light,
And something like a festive strain
Came thrilling through the heart of night.
With flashing eyes that woman wan
Rose like a shade against the wall:
“Hark! hark! the festival's began!
“The tables groan at Leawood Hall!
Rose like a shade against the wall:
“Hark! hark! the festival's began!
“The tables groan at Leawood Hall!
73
“The Rich man feasts—and Leawood's near—
“What honey stores his golden hive!
“Go! bid him give those dying here,
“One crust to save their souls alive!”
“What honey stores his golden hive!
“Go! bid him give those dying here,
“One crust to save their souls alive!”
The night grew dark—but from a height
Afar the lordly mansion shone,
Shone pillar white and portal bright,
Like trellis-work of fire and stone.
Afar the lordly mansion shone,
Shone pillar white and portal bright,
Like trellis-work of fire and stone.
Along the roads, from every side
The blazing lamps were racing all,
As fast the guests invited hied
To share the feast at Leawood Hall.
The blazing lamps were racing all,
As fast the guests invited hied
To share the feast at Leawood Hall.
It was a Norman castle high—
It was a keep of ages rude,
When men named murder—chivalry,
And robbery was called—a feud.
It was a keep of ages rude,
When men named murder—chivalry,
And robbery was called—a feud.
74
There barons stern once housed in pride,
And coined the labourer's heart to gold:
On field and fell the labourer died,
While they were gay in holt and hold.
And coined the labourer's heart to gold:
On field and fell the labourer died,
While they were gay in holt and hold.
What they had lavished to replenish,
They o'ertaxed endurance' length,
Drunk his labour down in Rhenish,
And grew strong upon his strength.
They o'ertaxed endurance' length,
Drunk his labour down in Rhenish,
And grew strong upon his strength.
Men of haughtiness! unthinking
In their selfishness of caste,
'Twas his life-blood they were drinking!
But 'twould poison them at last.
In their selfishness of caste,
'Twas his life-blood they were drinking!
But 'twould poison them at last.
From the dust that they were treading
Some stood up by force or craft,
Till, the scutcheoned peer o'erheading,
In his face the trader laughed.
Some stood up by force or craft,
Till, the scutcheoned peer o'erheading,
In his face the trader laughed.
75
Then, his triumph once insuring,
This new conqueror fiercely rose,
Smote the people's neck enduring,
After they had crushed his foes.
This new conqueror fiercely rose,
Smote the people's neck enduring,
After they had crushed his foes.
And those mighty tyrant-blasters
Settled into slaves again;
They had only changed their masters,
And that change was worse than vain.
Settled into slaves again;
They had only changed their masters,
And that change was worse than vain.
Since then, a sterile-thoughted man
Had lorded it o'er Leawood fair,
Who as an errand-boy began,
And ended as a millionaire.
Had lorded it o'er Leawood fair,
Who as an errand-boy began,
And ended as a millionaire.
And his son, by slow degrees,
Mounted life with golden feet,
For the son knew how to please,
As the sire knew how to cheat.
Mounted life with golden feet,
For the son knew how to please,
As the sire knew how to cheat.
76
Before he rose, the people's friend,
He feigned at all their wrongs to burn;
Now, as he bent, made others bend,
And played the tyrant in his turn.
He feigned at all their wrongs to burn;
Now, as he bent, made others bend,
And played the tyrant in his turn.
Patronized each bible-mission;
Gave to charities—his name;
No longer cared for man's condition,
But carefully preserved—his game.
Gave to charities—his name;
No longer cared for man's condition,
But carefully preserved—his game.
Against the Slave-trade he had voted,
“Rights of Man” resounding still;
Now, basely turning, brazen-throated,
Yelled against the Ten Hours' Bill.
“Rights of Man” resounding still;
Now, basely turning, brazen-throated,
Yelled against the Ten Hours' Bill.
Oh! Leawood Hall was gay that night;
Shone roof and rafter, porch and door,
And proudly rolled the sheeted light
Its glory over Leawood Moor.
Shone roof and rafter, porch and door,
And proudly rolled the sheeted light
Its glory over Leawood Moor.
77
Full in the glare the labourer stood;
The music smote him like a blast,
And through the rich ancestral wood
He heard the fat deer rushing past.
The music smote him like a blast,
And through the rich ancestral wood
He heard the fat deer rushing past.
“While we are starving!” cried his love;
“But they are watching!” said his fear.
'Twixt hell below and heaven above—
What dost thou on the balance here?
“But they are watching!” said his fear.
'Twixt hell below and heaven above—
What dost thou on the balance here?
Through the hall the beggar spurning,
Menials drove him from the door:
Can they chide the torch for burning,
They cast smouldering on the floor?
Menials drove him from the door:
Can they chide the torch for burning,
They cast smouldering on the floor?
Say not: “This is no fair sample,
“This was but the menial's part!”
'Twas the master's past example
Filtered through the servant's heart.
“This was but the menial's part!”
'Twas the master's past example
Filtered through the servant's heart.
78
“Man is born—and man must live!”
Thus anger read its maddening creed:
“If I take what they won't give,
“Can heaven itself frown on the deed?”
Thus anger read its maddening creed:
“If I take what they won't give,
“Can heaven itself frown on the deed?”
That night a fierce and haggard man
From Leawood Hall was seen to run;—
But ere the fearful race began
The rifle's deadly work was done.
From Leawood Hall was seen to run;—
But ere the fearful race began
The rifle's deadly work was done.
Ye pampered drones! pursuit is vain,
Give o'er the godless, cruel strife!
As well o'ertake the hurricane:
Despair and love fly there for life.
Give o'er the godless, cruel strife!
As well o'ertake the hurricane:
Despair and love fly there for life.
Long the anxious wife sat waiting,
Fainter grew the children's cry;
E'en the wind, the desolating,
Slept to his own lullaby.
Fainter grew the children's cry;
E'en the wind, the desolating,
Slept to his own lullaby.
79
The father came—but hot and wild
The open door he staggered past;
His brow was knit, but still he smiled,
Like sunset over tempest cast.
The open door he staggered past;
His brow was knit, but still he smiled,
Like sunset over tempest cast.
“Food! food!” he cried, “they feast to-night,
“And I have brought our share as well;
“Wife! we were starving—'twas our right!
“If not—as God wills—heaven or hell!”
“And I have brought our share as well;
“Wife! we were starving—'twas our right!
“If not—as God wills—heaven or hell!”
Then spoke his wife with inward pride
To think her counsel proved so brave;
“I knew you could not be denied;
“Now bless the gentle hand that gave.”
To think her counsel proved so brave;
“I knew you could not be denied;
“Now bless the gentle hand that gave.”
He strangely smiled in wondrous mood,
And, with the haste of fever, quaffed
Down to the dregs a fiery flood;
And still he smiled—and still he laughed.
And, with the haste of fever, quaffed
Down to the dregs a fiery flood;
And still he smiled—and still he laughed.
80
He smiled to mark their spirits rise,
And that his wife had ceased to sigh,
And how the ardour in her eyes
Gave her the look of times gone by.
And that his wife had ceased to sigh,
And how the ardour in her eyes
Gave her the look of times gone by.
He laughed to think how small a cost
Might brighten poverty's eclipse;
But sudden silence strangely crossed
With blanching hand his quivering lips.
Might brighten poverty's eclipse;
But sudden silence strangely crossed
With blanching hand his quivering lips.
Then oft he kissed each little child,
And looked as one who'd much to say;
But, ere he spoke, some pinion wild
Waved the unuttered thought away.
And looked as one who'd much to say;
But, ere he spoke, some pinion wild
Waved the unuttered thought away.
And Ellen marvelled to behold
Such fitful change and sudden cheer;
He had so long been stern and cold,
This kindness seemed a thing to fear.
Such fitful change and sudden cheer;
He had so long been stern and cold,
This kindness seemed a thing to fear.
81
And fainter grew his smile and bitter,
And his face turned cold and grey,
While slow he sunk down on the litter,
And strength's last bravery broke away.
And his face turned cold and grey,
While slow he sunk down on the litter,
And strength's last bravery broke away.
Then they saw where, heartward glancing,
Deep the cruel rifle smote;
While death's gurgling march advancing
Sounded up his gasping throat.
Deep the cruel rifle smote;
While death's gurgling march advancing
Sounded up his gasping throat.
Clung, like leaves of Autumn's serest,
Wife and children to his side;
He turned his last look on his dearest,
And, thus sadly gazing, died.
Wife and children to his side;
He turned his last look on his dearest,
And, thus sadly gazing, died.
Courage now no more dissembled
Broken strength and baffled will;
The wistful children stood and trembled,
And the room grew very still.
Broken strength and baffled will;
The wistful children stood and trembled,
And the room grew very still.
82
THE FACTORY TOWN.
The night had sunk along the city,
It was a bleak and cheerless hour;
The wild winds sang their solemn ditty
To cold grey wall and blackened tower.
It was a bleak and cheerless hour;
The wild winds sang their solemn ditty
To cold grey wall and blackened tower.
The factories gave forth lurid fires
From pent-up hells within their breast;
E'en Etna's burning wrath expires,
But man's volcanoes never rest.
From pent-up hells within their breast;
E'en Etna's burning wrath expires,
But man's volcanoes never rest.
Women, children, men were toiling,
Locked in dungeons close and black,
Life's fast-failing thread uncoiling
Round the wheel, the modern rack!
Locked in dungeons close and black,
Life's fast-failing thread uncoiling
Round the wheel, the modern rack!
83
E'en the very stars seemed troubled
With the mingled fume and roar;
The city like a cauldron bubbled,
With its poison boiling o'er.
With the mingled fume and roar;
The city like a cauldron bubbled,
With its poison boiling o'er.
For the reeking walls environ
Mingled groups of death and life:
Fellow-workmen, flesh and iron,
Side by side in deadly strife.
Mingled groups of death and life:
Fellow-workmen, flesh and iron,
Side by side in deadly strife.
There, amid the wheels' dull droning
And the heavy, choking air,
Strength's repining, labour's groaning,
And the throttling of despair,—
And the heavy, choking air,
Strength's repining, labour's groaning,
And the throttling of despair,—
With the dust around them whirling,
And the white, cracked, fevered lips,
And the shuttle's ceaseless twirling,
And the short life's toil eclipse—
And the white, cracked, fevered lips,
And the shuttle's ceaseless twirling,
And the short life's toil eclipse—
84
Stood half-naked infants shivering
With heart-frost amid the heat;
Manhood's shrunken sinews quivering
To the engine's horrid beat!
With heart-frost amid the heat;
Manhood's shrunken sinews quivering
To the engine's horrid beat!
Woman's aching heart was throbbing
With her wasting children's pain,
While red Mammon's hand was robbing
God's thought-treasure from their brain!
With her wasting children's pain,
While red Mammon's hand was robbing
God's thought-treasure from their brain!
Yet their lord bids proudly wander
Stranger eyes thro' factory scenes;
“Here are men, and engines yonder.”
“I see nothing but machines!”
Stranger eyes thro' factory scenes;
“Here are men, and engines yonder.”
“I see nothing but machines!”
Hark! amid that bloodless slaughter
Comes the wailing of despair:
“Oh! for but one drop of water!
“Oh! for but one breath of air!
Comes the wailing of despair:
“Oh! for but one drop of water!
“Oh! for but one breath of air!
85
“One fresh touch of dewy grasses,
“Just to cool this shrivelled hand!
“Just to catch one breeze that passes
“From some shady forest land.”
“Just to cool this shrivelled hand!
“Just to catch one breeze that passes
“From some shady forest land.”
No! though 'twas a night of summer
With a scent of new mown hay
From where the moon, the fairies' mummer,
On distant fields enchanted lay!
With a scent of new mown hay
From where the moon, the fairies' mummer,
On distant fields enchanted lay!
On the lealands slept the cattle,
Freshness through the forest ran—
While, in Mammon's mighty battle,
Man was immolating man!
Freshness through the forest ran—
While, in Mammon's mighty battle,
Man was immolating man!
While the rich, with power unstable,
Crushed the pauper's heart of pain,
As though those rich were heirs of Abel,
And the poor the sons of Cain.
Crushed the pauper's heart of pain,
As though those rich were heirs of Abel,
And the poor the sons of Cain.
86
While the proud from drowsy riot,
Staggered past his church unknown,
Where his God, in the great quiet,
Preached the livelong night alone!
Staggered past his church unknown,
Where his God, in the great quiet,
Preached the livelong night alone!
While the bloated trader passes,
Lord of loom and lord of mill;
On his pathway rush the masses,
Crushed beneath his stubborn will.
Lord of loom and lord of mill;
On his pathway rush the masses,
Crushed beneath his stubborn will.
Eager slaves, a willing heriot,
O'er their brethren's living road
Drive him in his golden chariot,
Quickened by his golden goad.
O'er their brethren's living road
Drive him in his golden chariot,
Quickened by his golden goad.
Young forms—with their pulses stifled,
Young heads—with the eldered brain,
Young hearts—of their spirit rifled,
Young lives—sacrificed in vain:
Young heads—with the eldered brain,
Young hearts—of their spirit rifled,
Young lives—sacrificed in vain:
87
There they lie—the withered corses,
With not one regretful thought,
Trampled by thy fierce steam-horses,
England's mighty Juggernaut!
With not one regretful thought,
Trampled by thy fierce steam-horses,
England's mighty Juggernaut!
Over all the solemn heaven
Arches, like a God's reproof
At the offerings man has driven
To Hell's altars, loom and woof!
Arches, like a God's reproof
At the offerings man has driven
To Hell's altars, loom and woof!
Hear ye not the secret sighing?
And the tear drop thro' the night?
See ye not a nation dying
For want of rest, and air, and light?
And the tear drop thro' the night?
See ye not a nation dying
For want of rest, and air, and light?
Perishing for want of Nature!
Crowded in the stifling town—
Dwarfed in brain and shrunk' in stature—
Generations growing down!
Crowded in the stifling town—
Dwarfed in brain and shrunk' in stature—
Generations growing down!
88
Thinner wanes the rural village,
Smokier lies the fallow plain—
Shrinks the cornfields' pleasant tillage,
Fades the orchard's rich domain;
Smokier lies the fallow plain—
Shrinks the cornfields' pleasant tillage,
Fades the orchard's rich domain;
And a banished population
Festers in the fetid street:—
Give us, God, to save our nation,
Less of cotton, more of wheat.
Festers in the fetid street:—
Give us, God, to save our nation,
Less of cotton, more of wheat.
Take us back to lea and wild wood,
Back to nature and to Thee!
To the child restore his childhood—
To the man his dignity!
Back to nature and to Thee!
To the child restore his childhood—
To the man his dignity!
Lo! the night hangs o'er the city,
And the hours in fever fly,
And the wild winds sing their ditty,
And the generations die.
And the hours in fever fly,
And the wild winds sing their ditty,
And the generations die.
89
THE CORNFIELD AND THE FACTORY.
Oh! what is so blithe as through cornfields to roam,
When the lark is in heaven and laughter on earth?
Oh! what is so blithe as the glad harvest-home,
When the lads are all frolic—the lasses all mirth?
When the lark is in heaven and laughter on earth?
Oh! what is so blithe as the glad harvest-home,
When the lads are all frolic—the lasses all mirth?
Oh! what is so fair as mid breezes of June
To watch the long corn-billows sweep?
When the fields in their bloom sway like tides to the moon,
And from slender stalks drooping the soft whispers creep,
As though angels walked through them and prayed o'er their sleep!
To watch the long corn-billows sweep?
When the fields in their bloom sway like tides to the moon,
And from slender stalks drooping the soft whispers creep,
As though angels walked through them and prayed o'er their sleep!
90
Oh! what is so gay as the harvest-home dance,
When the moonbeams troop on the gray churchroof,
And the old men smile as they stand aloof;
The boys and the girls round them riot and race,
And the moon seems to laugh till 'tis red in the face
At the goblets that clank and the younkers that prance—
And the village-girls glance—at their partners askance,
As though heads and hearts too could be proof?
When the moonbeams troop on the gray churchroof,
And the old men smile as they stand aloof;
The boys and the girls round them riot and race,
And the moon seems to laugh till 'tis red in the face
At the goblets that clank and the younkers that prance—
And the village-girls glance—at their partners askance,
As though heads and hearts too could be proof?
Oh! what is so sweet as the Sunday morn?
When the bells on the breezes flow;
And the peasant lad walks with his bride through the corn
As church-ward they go—oh!—how slow—
Because—the blue cornflowers along the path grow!
And he and his lass bless the corn as they pass—
For they speak with a glance of the harvest-home dance.
When the bells on the breezes flow;
And the peasant lad walks with his bride through the corn
As church-ward they go—oh!—how slow—
Because—the blue cornflowers along the path grow!
And he and his lass bless the corn as they pass—
For they speak with a glance of the harvest-home dance.
91
Oh! what is so calm as the old man's joy,
When he walks by the field in its pride,
And talks of his feats in that field when a boy,
To the young boy who walks by his side?
How he mowed it down in one long summer's day:
When the labour was done how he knelt down to pray!
See! the flashes of boyhood from aged eyes glance,
For he thinks of his bride at the harvest-home dance.
When he walks by the field in its pride,
And talks of his feats in that field when a boy,
To the young boy who walks by his side?
How he mowed it down in one long summer's day:
When the labour was done how he knelt down to pray!
See! the flashes of boyhood from aged eyes glance,
For he thinks of his bride at the harvest-home dance.
'Twas merry in England in times of old
When the summer fields rolled their long billows of gold,
And the bright year had climbed to its noon;
The earth was song, laughter, and joyaunce and love,
And the Spirit of heaven sat smiling above,
From the orb of the red harvest moon.
When the summer fields rolled their long billows of gold,
And the bright year had climbed to its noon;
The earth was song, laughter, and joyaunce and love,
And the Spirit of heaven sat smiling above,
From the orb of the red harvest moon.
But where has it flown? Why less bright than of old
Does summer turn emerald fields into gold?
And the harvest moon struggle through mist faint and dim,
Like a pale ghost who peers round the charnel shroud's rim?
On the fair brow of woman a shadow is bent,
From the wild eye of man flashes forth discontent!
Say! Whence comes the change? Whence the curse has been sent?
Does summer turn emerald fields into gold?
92
Like a pale ghost who peers round the charnel shroud's rim?
On the fair brow of woman a shadow is bent,
From the wild eye of man flashes forth discontent!
Say! Whence comes the change? Whence the curse has been sent?
What is it, next the church-tower climbs the sky,
How more frequented far, and scarce less high?
What plague-cloud rolls across the darkened land,
And hurls the sun away with shadowy hand?
What wheels revolve in dungeons hot and black,
Of modern tyranny the modern rack?
What horrid birth from that unnatural womb?
The demon god of factory and loom!
Fierce, with a yell he bounds upon the land,
Writhes his thin lip and waves his yellow hand,
And points, where man's volcanoes through the skies,
His thousand temples' burning altars rise.
Curses and groans his ear like anthems greet,
And blighted lives are cast beneath his feet.
His sable banners o'er heaven's glory roll
The shades that blast the heart and reach the soul.
Care-stricken forms the street's long darkness fill,
Embodied dreams of misery and ill!
A more than Cain-like mark their foreheads bear,
For sin's their only respite from despair!
And in each sunken eye's unhallowed cell
The fever flashes, not of life, but hell.
Oaths upon infant lips, and, loathsome sight!
The eyes of childhood without childhood's light.
The laugh of youth a gibbering of art;
Larves of humanity without a heart!
How more frequented far, and scarce less high?
What plague-cloud rolls across the darkened land,
And hurls the sun away with shadowy hand?
What wheels revolve in dungeons hot and black,
Of modern tyranny the modern rack?
What horrid birth from that unnatural womb?
The demon god of factory and loom!
Fierce, with a yell he bounds upon the land,
Writhes his thin lip and waves his yellow hand,
And points, where man's volcanoes through the skies,
His thousand temples' burning altars rise.
93
And blighted lives are cast beneath his feet.
His sable banners o'er heaven's glory roll
The shades that blast the heart and reach the soul.
Care-stricken forms the street's long darkness fill,
Embodied dreams of misery and ill!
A more than Cain-like mark their foreheads bear,
For sin's their only respite from despair!
And in each sunken eye's unhallowed cell
The fever flashes, not of life, but hell.
Oaths upon infant lips, and, loathsome sight!
The eyes of childhood without childhood's light.
The laugh of youth a gibbering of art;
Larves of humanity without a heart!
The very sun shines pale on a dark earth,
Where quivering engines groan their horrid mirth,
And black smoke-offerings, crimes and curses, swell
From furnace-altars of incarnate hell!
The demon laughs, and still his arm he waves,
That thins the villages, but fills the graves.
Through bleak, deserted fields he loves to roam,
Where shines the furnace on hell's harvest-home.
'Tis this has stilled the laughter of the child,
And made man's mirth less holy, but more wild!
Bade Heav'n's pure light from woman's eye depart,
And trodden love from out her gentle heart.
'Tis this, that wards the sunshine from the sod,
And intercepts the very smile of God!
Where quivering engines groan their horrid mirth,
And black smoke-offerings, crimes and curses, swell
From furnace-altars of incarnate hell!
94
That thins the villages, but fills the graves.
Through bleak, deserted fields he loves to roam,
Where shines the furnace on hell's harvest-home.
'Tis this has stilled the laughter of the child,
And made man's mirth less holy, but more wild!
Bade Heav'n's pure light from woman's eye depart,
And trodden love from out her gentle heart.
'Tis this, that wards the sunshine from the sod,
And intercepts the very smile of God!
95
THE PEASANT.
Forth to the fight! thou shining sword of song!
Sing, sing the toil, that makes the toiler strong.
Sing, how the peasant, after well-fought field,
Where sun-gilt legions to his sickle yield,
Reluctant turns from willing work to part,
In body wearied, but yet fresh in heart.
His the glad labour, that but strengthens more,
Braces the frame and bids the spirit soar;
His the pure life, gives loftier feeling scope,
The harvest gratitude, the seed-time hope!
For him the orchards bloom, the corn-fields nod,
And these are altars where he worships God.
Not thus the pale mechanic, hapless slave,
Digs for a master's wealth his own dark grave,
Who sows in misery, and reaps in pain,
The harvest, garner'd for another's gain;
Unknown amid the bustling crowd sinks down,
A martyr! but without a martyr's crown!
Turn from the sight—and see what joys abide,
What comfort by the cottager's fireside:
Sing, sing the toil, that makes the toiler strong.
Sing, how the peasant, after well-fought field,
Where sun-gilt legions to his sickle yield,
Reluctant turns from willing work to part,
In body wearied, but yet fresh in heart.
His the glad labour, that but strengthens more,
Braces the frame and bids the spirit soar;
His the pure life, gives loftier feeling scope,
The harvest gratitude, the seed-time hope!
For him the orchards bloom, the corn-fields nod,
And these are altars where he worships God.
Not thus the pale mechanic, hapless slave,
Digs for a master's wealth his own dark grave,
96
The harvest, garner'd for another's gain;
Unknown amid the bustling crowd sinks down,
A martyr! but without a martyr's crown!
Turn from the sight—and see what joys abide,
What comfort by the cottager's fireside:
Before the expiring embers' fitful light
Watches a wife, a mother, through the night,
Her fair brow hung with care's cold drapery white;
Her thoughts upon a desert of hope's dearth,
A dying heart beside a darkening hearth.
Watches a wife, a mother, through the night,
Her fair brow hung with care's cold drapery white;
Her thoughts upon a desert of hope's dearth,
A dying heart beside a darkening hearth.
The deaf had known each sound that came and went,
By the quick shudder through her slight form sent
At the light footstep of the elfish blast,
Who tapped against the window as he passed;
Or hollow laugh from clouds, the stars' black hearse,
When dies their light before the thunder's curse.
By the quick shudder through her slight form sent
At the light footstep of the elfish blast,
Who tapped against the window as he passed;
Or hollow laugh from clouds, the stars' black hearse,
When dies their light before the thunder's curse.
97
Eager she listens every sound to catch!—
'Tis but the tempest's hand upon the latch.
Unconsciously she moves from spot to spot,
Or gazes on her babe, but sees it not!
Is that pale prison of an anxious life
The boast of womanhood—a peasant's wife?
At length a rude hand strikes the cottage door,
A boisterous foot is on the shaking floor,
A lofty form, but care-worn now and thin,
Enters, as though the tempest had poured in:
With fevered face, with glances fierce and wild,
The husband greets the mother and the child.
The babe starts from its sleep with cry of fear,
The fond wife casts a smile upon a tear,
And throws her arms around that form so proud,
As a pale moonbeam clasps a thunder-cloud.
His heart a prison, with a chaos fraught,
His hearth neglected, and his brain untaught,
Half-stifled curses smouldering in his breast,
'Tis thus the British peasant seeks his rest.
'Tis but the tempest's hand upon the latch.
Unconsciously she moves from spot to spot,
Or gazes on her babe, but sees it not!
Is that pale prison of an anxious life
The boast of womanhood—a peasant's wife?
At length a rude hand strikes the cottage door,
A boisterous foot is on the shaking floor,
A lofty form, but care-worn now and thin,
Enters, as though the tempest had poured in:
With fevered face, with glances fierce and wild,
The husband greets the mother and the child.
The babe starts from its sleep with cry of fear,
The fond wife casts a smile upon a tear,
And throws her arms around that form so proud,
As a pale moonbeam clasps a thunder-cloud.
His heart a prison, with a chaos fraught,
His hearth neglected, and his brain untaught,
Half-stifled curses smouldering in his breast,
'Tis thus the British peasant seeks his rest.
99
Cries of the Nations.
101
LIBERTY.
Thy birthplace where, young Liberty?
In graves, 'mid heroes' ashes.
Thy dwelling, where, sweet Liberty?
In hearts, where free blood dashes.
In graves, 'mid heroes' ashes.
Thy dwelling, where, sweet Liberty?
In hearts, where free blood dashes.
Thy best hope where, dear Liberty?
In fast upwinging time.
Thy first strength where, proud Liberty?
In thine oppressor's crime.
In fast upwinging time.
Thy first strength where, proud Liberty?
In thine oppressor's crime.
Thy safety where, stray Liberty?
In lands where discords cease.
Thy glory where, bright Liberty?
In universal Peace.
In lands where discords cease.
Thy glory where, bright Liberty?
In universal Peace.
102
THE CRY OF THE RUSSIAN SERF TO THE CZAR.
“Labour! Labour! Labour!—Toil! Toil! Toil!
With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of the mind;
Sink, like shrivelled parchment, in the flesh-devouring soil!
Pass away unheeded, like the waving of the wind!
With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of the mind;
Sink, like shrivelled parchment, in the flesh-devouring soil!
Pass away unheeded, like the waving of the wind!
“Be the living record of a tyrant's bloody fame;
Form the trodden pathway for a conqueror's career;
Give your breath, ye millions! to elevate his name,
And die!—when ye have shouted it till centuries shall hear.
Form the trodden pathway for a conqueror's career;
Give your breath, ye millions! to elevate his name,
And die!—when ye have shouted it till centuries shall hear.
103
“By right divine we rule ye.—God made ye but for us—”
Thus cry the lords of nations to the slaves whom they subdue,
Unclasp God's book of nature: its writings read not thus.
Hear! Tramplers on the many!—Hear! Benders to the few!
Thus cry the lords of nations to the slaves whom they subdue,
Unclasp God's book of nature: its writings read not thus.
Hear! Tramplers on the many!—Hear! Benders to the few!
God gave us hearts of ardour,—God gave us noble forms,
And God has poured around us his paradise of light;
Has he bade us sow the sunshine, and only reap the storms?
Created us in glory, to pass away in night?
And God has poured around us his paradise of light;
Has he bade us sow the sunshine, and only reap the storms?
Created us in glory, to pass away in night?
No! say the sunny heavens, that smile on all alike;
The waves, that upbear navies, yet hold them in their thrall;
No! shouts the dreadful thunder, that teaches us to strike
The proud, for one usurping what the Godhead meant for all.
The waves, that upbear navies, yet hold them in their thrall;
104
The proud, for one usurping what the Godhead meant for all.
No! no!—we cry, united by our sufferings' mighty length,—
Ye—ye have ruled for ages—now we will rule as well;
No! No!—we cry, triumphant in our right's resistless strength,
We—we will share your heaven—or ye shall share our hell!
Ye—ye have ruled for ages—now we will rule as well;
No! No!—we cry, triumphant in our right's resistless strength,
We—we will share your heaven—or ye shall share our hell!
105
THE ITALIAN EXILE TO HIS COUNTRYMEN.
My countrymen! why languish
Like outcasts of the earth,
And drown in tears of anguish
The glory of your birth?
Ye were a freeborn people,
And heroes were your race:
The dead—they are our freemen—
The living—our disgrace.
Like outcasts of the earth,
And drown in tears of anguish
The glory of your birth?
Ye were a freeborn people,
And heroes were your race:
The dead—they are our freemen—
The living—our disgrace.
You bend beneath your fetters,
You fear your foes to spurn:
March! when you meet your betters
'Tis time enough to turn.
Undam the tide of freedom!
Your hearts its godlike source;
Faith, Honour, Right, and Glory
The currents of its course.
You fear your foes to spurn:
March! when you meet your betters
'Tis time enough to turn.
106
Your hearts its godlike source;
Faith, Honour, Right, and Glory
The currents of its course.
And were it death awaits ye,
On! Death is liberty.
Then quails the power that hates ye,
When freemen dare to die.
We call him not a Roman,
Who brooks to be a slave:—
An alien to his country,
And a mockery to the brave.
On! Death is liberty.
Then quails the power that hates ye,
When freemen dare to die.
We call him not a Roman,
Who brooks to be a slave:—
An alien to his country,
And a mockery to the brave.
Down with the cup, untasted!
Its draught is not for thee:
Its generous strength were wasted
On all but on the free.—
Turn from the altar, bondsman!
Nor touch a Roman bride.
What? Wouldst thou bear her blushing
For thee, at thine own side!
Its draught is not for thee:
Its generous strength were wasted
On all but on the free.—
107
Nor touch a Roman bride.
What? Wouldst thou bear her blushing
For thee, at thine own side!
Back from the church-door, Craven;
The great dead sleep beneath,
And liberty is graven
On every sculptured wreath!
For whom shall lips of beauty,
And history's tablets be?
For whom Heaven's crown of glory?
For the Free! the Free! the Free!
The great dead sleep beneath,
And liberty is graven
On every sculptured wreath!
For whom shall lips of beauty,
And history's tablets be?
For whom Heaven's crown of glory?
For the Free! the Free! the Free!
108
ONWARD AND UPWARD.
Right onward the river is rolling,
Its fountains are pulsing below,
And 'tis not in human controlling
To turn but a wave of its flow!
Its fountains are pulsing below,
And 'tis not in human controlling
To turn but a wave of its flow!
Right onward the freeman may ride it,
And speed in the light of its course;
For faction no more can divide it,
Nor dam it by cunning or force.
And speed in the light of its course;
For faction no more can divide it,
Nor dam it by cunning or force.
Right upward the oak-tree is growing,
Forth-waving its leaves in the sun,
And deep in the green earth is sowing
The seed of a forest to come.
Forth-waving its leaves in the sun,
And deep in the green earth is sowing
The seed of a forest to come.
109
Right upward are striving the nations
With high-throned corruption to cope,
Preparing for new generations
This earth for the harvest of hope.
With high-throned corruption to cope,
Preparing for new generations
This earth for the harvest of hope.
Right onward the breezes are blowing
The rise of the forest and wave:
And onward the great thoughts are going,
Upkindling the hearts of the brave.
The rise of the forest and wave:
And onward the great thoughts are going,
Upkindling the hearts of the brave.
110
THE COMING DAY.
The midnight hour is passing—the sunrise is at hand,
The watchers on the mountain tops are looking o'er the land,
The world is all expectant for the first grey streak of light,
Where morning's gentlest breath shall break the mighty walls of night;
Then through that riven rampart's path what glorious rays shall pour,
When all its fiery lances rush in golden torrents o'er!
One little cloud of all that mass need but be forced away,
And night's old palsied hand no more can stem the march of day.
Thus despots over Europe brood, and thus shall freedom rise,
Down-scattering with her mighty hand old mouldering tyrannies.
Needs but one timeworn prejudice be given to the wind,
And soon successive truths will pass the gateway of the mind;
For fallacy is ever placed upon perdition's brink,
And sinks the ground beneath her feet, when men begin to think.
Oh! soon across the darkened earth that glorious morn will rise,
That takes the shadow from the heart, the dew-drop from the eyes;
Then man shall cease for aye to bend before each sceptred clod,
The knee that God made pliant but to bend unto a God;
Then, leading with a father's sway our mighty brotherhood,
By “right divine,” co-equally, the wise shall guide the good,—
And prouder pomps be theirs than swell a vain imperial state,
More safe their open threshold prove, than tyrants' sentried gate.
Who dares assail their power must scale a wall that God has wrought,
A rampart-wall of honest hearts manned by one holy thought.
No need of gun or grenadier to guard them where they dwell,
For 'tis the people's self becomes their glorious citadel.
These are the throneless kings that lead the chainless nations on,
The mighty dynasts who have reigned like Tell and Washington.
Then force, and fraud its demon-twin, together fall and cease,
And tyranny's war-glory dies beneath the feet of Peace,—
While settling down through priestish graves, 'mid mosses grim and gray,
Dim Superstition buries these, and sighs and sinks away.
Then Fear shall aye be banished hence, and Love resume its place,
And Earth become one country vast, and man one household race,
And God, a household God, who dwells in every home and heart,
Not sought alone in piles of stone, encaged by monkish art!
The watchers on the mountain tops are looking o'er the land,
The world is all expectant for the first grey streak of light,
Where morning's gentlest breath shall break the mighty walls of night;
Then through that riven rampart's path what glorious rays shall pour,
When all its fiery lances rush in golden torrents o'er!
One little cloud of all that mass need but be forced away,
And night's old palsied hand no more can stem the march of day.
111
Down-scattering with her mighty hand old mouldering tyrannies.
Needs but one timeworn prejudice be given to the wind,
And soon successive truths will pass the gateway of the mind;
For fallacy is ever placed upon perdition's brink,
And sinks the ground beneath her feet, when men begin to think.
Oh! soon across the darkened earth that glorious morn will rise,
That takes the shadow from the heart, the dew-drop from the eyes;
Then man shall cease for aye to bend before each sceptred clod,
The knee that God made pliant but to bend unto a God;
Then, leading with a father's sway our mighty brotherhood,
By “right divine,” co-equally, the wise shall guide the good,—
112
More safe their open threshold prove, than tyrants' sentried gate.
Who dares assail their power must scale a wall that God has wrought,
A rampart-wall of honest hearts manned by one holy thought.
No need of gun or grenadier to guard them where they dwell,
For 'tis the people's self becomes their glorious citadel.
These are the throneless kings that lead the chainless nations on,
The mighty dynasts who have reigned like Tell and Washington.
Then force, and fraud its demon-twin, together fall and cease,
And tyranny's war-glory dies beneath the feet of Peace,—
113
Dim Superstition buries these, and sighs and sinks away.
Then Fear shall aye be banished hence, and Love resume its place,
And Earth become one country vast, and man one household race,
And God, a household God, who dwells in every home and heart,
Not sought alone in piles of stone, encaged by monkish art!
The watchers on the mountain tops are looking o'er the land,
The midnight hour is passing—the sunrise is at hand.
The midnight hour is passing—the sunrise is at hand.
115
Echoes from Within.
117
THE BETTER HOPE.
A child of the hard-hearted world was I,
And a worldling callous of heart,
And eager to play with the thoughtless and gay,
As the lightest and gayest, a part.
And a worldling callous of heart,
And eager to play with the thoughtless and gay,
As the lightest and gayest, a part.
With a rich old name and a passionate thought,
The brightest or darkest to span:
But a struggle to fight for my natural right,
Of a place in the homes of man.
The brightest or darkest to span:
But a struggle to fight for my natural right,
Of a place in the homes of man.
My father's house in the lordly square
Was cold in its solemn state,
And the sculptures rare that the old walls bear,
Looked down with a quiet hate.
Was cold in its solemn state,
And the sculptures rare that the old walls bear,
Looked down with a quiet hate.
118
My father's hall was a dark old spot,
With a dark old wood around,
And large quiet streams, like watery dreams,
On the verge of a haunted ground.
With a dark old wood around,
And large quiet streams, like watery dreams,
On the verge of a haunted ground.
And the dwellers were filled in that solemn place,
With the trance of a sullen pride;
For the scutcheoned grace of a titled race
Is the armour the heart to hide!
With the trance of a sullen pride;
For the scutcheoned grace of a titled race
Is the armour the heart to hide!
Oh! the eye sees but half through a blazoned glass
The smile of the sunshiny earth,
And a laugh cannot pass through a marbly mass,
But it loses the pulse of its mirth.
The smile of the sunshiny earth,
And a laugh cannot pass through a marbly mass,
But it loses the pulse of its mirth.
And I thought: there beyond, in the broad, laughing world,
Men are happy in life's holiday!
And I passed one and all, through each old-fashioned hall,
And wandered away and away!
Men are happy in life's holiday!
And I passed one and all, through each old-fashioned hall,
And wandered away and away!
119
The trees, they shrunk back on my venturous track,
Old trees that my childhood had seen;
And the mansion looked dun in the light of the sun,
Like a grave its long grasses between.
Old trees that my childhood had seen;
And the mansion looked dun in the light of the sun,
Like a grave its long grasses between.
But alas! for the change of what might have been fair,
And the gloom of what should have been bright!
The wind weltered by like one great swelling sigh,
And the noonday was darker than night.
And the gloom of what should have been bright!
The wind weltered by like one great swelling sigh,
And the noonday was darker than night.
For a giant had risen, all grisly and grim,
With his huge limbs loud-clattering and vast!
And he breathed his steam-breath through long channels of death,
Till the soul itself died on the blast.
With his huge limbs loud-clattering and vast!
And he breathed his steam-breath through long channels of death,
Till the soul itself died on the blast.
And fibre and flesh he bound down on a rack,
Flame-girt on a factory-floor;
And the ghastly steel-corse plied its horrible force,
Still tearing the hearts of the poor.
Flame-girt on a factory-floor;
And the ghastly steel-corse plied its horrible force,
Still tearing the hearts of the poor.
120
Like a wine-press for mammon to form a gold-draught,
It squeezed their best blood through its fangs,
And he quaffed at a breath the quick vintage of death,
While it foamed with humanity's pangs.
It squeezed their best blood through its fangs,
And he quaffed at a breath the quick vintage of death,
While it foamed with humanity's pangs.
Oh! then I looked back for my cold, quiet home,
As the hell-bound looks back for the grave:
But I heard my soul cry, Who but cowards can fly,
While a tyrant yet tramples a slave?
As the hell-bound looks back for the grave:
But I heard my soul cry, Who but cowards can fly,
While a tyrant yet tramples a slave?
Then I bound on my armour to face the rough world,
And I'm going to march with the rest,
Against tyrants to fight—for the sake of the right,
And, if baffled, to fall with the best.
And I'm going to march with the rest,
Against tyrants to fight—for the sake of the right,
And, if baffled, to fall with the best.
121
THE POET.
THE POET'S MISSION.
Who is it rivets broken bands
And stranger-hearts together,
And builds with fast-decaying hands
A home to last for ever?
And stranger-hearts together,
And builds with fast-decaying hands
A home to last for ever?
From thunder-clouds compels the light,
And casts the bolt away,
Upluring from the soulless night
The soul's returning day?
And casts the bolt away,
Upluring from the soulless night
The soul's returning day?
Who is it calls up glories past
From tombs of churches old?
And proudly bids the hero last,
Tho' fades his grassy mould?
From tombs of churches old?
And proudly bids the hero last,
Tho' fades his grassy mould?
122
Who is it, with age-vanquished form,
Treads death's ascending path;
Yet stronger than the fiery storm
Of tyrants in their wrath?
Treads death's ascending path;
Yet stronger than the fiery storm
Of tyrants in their wrath?
Whose voice, so low to human ears,
Has still the strength sublime
To ring thro' the advancing years—
And history—and time?
Has still the strength sublime
To ring thro' the advancing years—
And history—and time?
Who is it, in love's servitude,
Devotes his generous life,
And measures by his own heart's good
A world with evil rife?
Devotes his generous life,
And measures by his own heart's good
A world with evil rife?
The Bard—who walks earth's lonely length
Till all his gifts are given;
Makes others strong with his own strength,
And then fleets back to Heaven.
Till all his gifts are given;
Makes others strong with his own strength,
And then fleets back to Heaven.
123
THE POET'S PARALLEL.
Down the hillside tripping brightly,
O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly,
'Mid the meadows rippling merrily, the mountain-current goes;
By the broken rocks careering,
Thro' the desert persevering,
Flowing onward ever, ever singing as it flows.
O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly,
'Mid the meadows rippling merrily, the mountain-current goes;
By the broken rocks careering,
Thro' the desert persevering,
Flowing onward ever, ever singing as it flows.
But oh! the darksome caves
That swallow up the waves!
Oh! the shadow-haunted forest and the sandy shallows wide!
Oh! the hollow-reeded fen,
Like the stagnant minds of men,
A desert for the silver foot of mountain-cradled tide!
That swallow up the waves!
Oh! the shadow-haunted forest and the sandy shallows wide!
Oh! the hollow-reeded fen,
Like the stagnant minds of men,
A desert for the silver foot of mountain-cradled tide!
And oh! the withered leaves
From the fading forest-eaves,
Pressing on its forehead like the signet of decay;
And the cold cloud's troubling tear
On its crystal waters clear,
Like a haunting sorrow gliding down the future of its way.
From the fading forest-eaves,
124
And the cold cloud's troubling tear
On its crystal waters clear,
Like a haunting sorrow gliding down the future of its way.
Oh! the quick, precipitous riot
That breaks upon its quiet,
When lingering by some shady bank in dream-engendering rest!
Oh! the stormy wind that mars
The image of the stars,
When they nestle, heavenly lovers! on their earthly wooer's breast!
That breaks upon its quiet,
When lingering by some shady bank in dream-engendering rest!
Oh! the stormy wind that mars
The image of the stars,
When they nestle, heavenly lovers! on their earthly wooer's breast!
But the wild flowers love thy side;
And the birds sing o'er thy tide;
And the shy deer from the highlands confidingly descends;
And to thee, the son of care,
With a blessing and a prayer,
From life's great wildernesses in a thirsting spirit wends.
And the birds sing o'er thy tide;
And the shy deer from the highlands confidingly descends;
125
With a blessing and a prayer,
From life's great wildernesses in a thirsting spirit wends.
And the fairies never seen,
Come tripping o'er the green,
To gaze into thy mirror the live-long summer night;
And the glory of the skies
That the blind earth idly eyes,
Fills the pulses of thy being with the fulness of its light.
Come tripping o'er the green,
To gaze into thy mirror the live-long summer night;
And the glory of the skies
That the blind earth idly eyes,
Fills the pulses of thy being with the fulness of its light.
THE POET'S PRAYER TO THE EVENING WIND.
Wild rider of grey clouds, beneath whose breath
The stars dissolve in mist, or rain, or sleet;
Who chariotest the scudding years to death,
Beneath thy driven tempests' clanging feet!
Thou child of mystery, terrible and strong,
Whose cradle and whose grave unfathomed lies.
Thou first of poets! Thou eternal song!
That born each moment, yet each moment dies!
The stars dissolve in mist, or rain, or sleet;
Who chariotest the scudding years to death,
Beneath thy driven tempests' clanging feet!
126
Whose cradle and whose grave unfathomed lies.
Thou first of poets! Thou eternal song!
That born each moment, yet each moment dies!
Keeper of life in ocean, earth, and air,
That else would stagnate in a dull despair!
Dispeller of the mists! whose airy hand
Winnows the dead leaves from the forest-band!
Teach me like thee to sing, untired and strong,
Flooding all earth with one great tide of song;
Heard through each clime, in every language known,
By kindred feeling set to one heart-tone!
That else would stagnate in a dull despair!
Dispeller of the mists! whose airy hand
Winnows the dead leaves from the forest-band!
Teach me like thee to sing, untired and strong,
Flooding all earth with one great tide of song;
Heard through each clime, in every language known,
By kindred feeling set to one heart-tone!
Like thee, now breathing soft from flowery trees,
Now striking tempests through the torpid seas;
Wailing low music on some lonely strand,
Or hurling lightnings with unerring hand;
Scatt'ring the chaff from forth the goodly grain;
Dispelling fears, and cares and doubtings vain;
Till hearts of men upon my impulse sail,
And falsehood's wrecked in truth's victorious gale!
Now striking tempests through the torpid seas;
Wailing low music on some lonely strand,
Or hurling lightnings with unerring hand;
Scatt'ring the chaff from forth the goodly grain;
Dispelling fears, and cares and doubtings vain;
127
And falsehood's wrecked in truth's victorious gale!
And while I live, oh! teach me still to be
A bard, as thou, brave, fetterless, and free.
Past cot and palace, to the weak and strong,
Singing the same great bold unfearing song!
And as thou bear'st sweet scents from strand to strand,
Culling the scattered treasures of the land,
So let me cull each isolated truth,
Where old bards left their thoughts' eternal youth—
Till man, while listening to the harp unseen,
Himself feels greater since the great has been.
A bard, as thou, brave, fetterless, and free.
Past cot and palace, to the weak and strong,
Singing the same great bold unfearing song!
And as thou bear'st sweet scents from strand to strand,
Culling the scattered treasures of the land,
So let me cull each isolated truth,
Where old bards left their thoughts' eternal youth—
Till man, while listening to the harp unseen,
Himself feels greater since the great has been.
And when the years bring labour's last reward,
Then sing my death-song, thou unequalled bard!
And tear my ashes from the clay-cold urn
To whirl them where the suns and planets burn,
And shout aloud, in brotherhood of glee:
“Like me to sing—and to be loved like me!”
Then sing my death-song, thou unequalled bard!
And tear my ashes from the clay-cold urn
To whirl them where the suns and planets burn,
And shout aloud, in brotherhood of glee:
“Like me to sing—and to be loved like me!”
128
THE POET'S INVITATION.
When the sea is still as glass,
And the whispering breezes pass
On messages from zone to zone, or waft from pole to pole
A dewdrop of Savannah sweet,
A particle of Arab heat—
Commingling Nature's essences in one harmonious whole;
And the whispering breezes pass
On messages from zone to zone, or waft from pole to pole
A dewdrop of Savannah sweet,
A particle of Arab heat—
Commingling Nature's essences in one harmonious whole;
When the bright magnetic stars
Seem leaning from their cars,
As drawn by some kind influence from clear familiar skies;
And thoughts, as dreams misprized,
Great truths unrecognised!
Strike sudden chords from forth the world's eternal harmonies;
Seem leaning from their cars,
As drawn by some kind influence from clear familiar skies;
And thoughts, as dreams misprized,
Great truths unrecognised!
Strike sudden chords from forth the world's eternal harmonies;
129
When the sun sets in the sea,
Like Time in Eternity,
And space beyond horizon seems stretching without end:
Then come to an arbour still,
Half-way up a western hill,
That I destined for such an hour, and planted for such a friend.
Like Time in Eternity,
And space beyond horizon seems stretching without end:
Then come to an arbour still,
Half-way up a western hill,
That I destined for such an hour, and planted for such a friend.
A cedar from Assyria,
A willow from St. Helena,
A vine from classic Tusculum, their branches intertwine;
A lily-rose from Mexico,
The vegetable southern snow!
Stands side by side—exotic bride!—with Norway's Scaldic pine.
A willow from St. Helena,
A vine from classic Tusculum, their branches intertwine;
A lily-rose from Mexico,
The vegetable southern snow!
Stands side by side—exotic bride!—with Norway's Scaldic pine.
The seat is formed of precious stone:
A fragment from old Babylon,
From Theseus' wall—Carthago's fall—perchance the Roman's seat!
From Theban Sphinx's heartless breast,
From Aztec ruin of the west,
And a cornice from the Capitol is spread beneath our feet.
A fragment from old Babylon,
130
From Theban Sphinx's heartless breast,
From Aztec ruin of the west,
And a cornice from the Capitol is spread beneath our feet.
And thence you may behold
A map of earth unrolled,
With the steamers on the ocean and the railways on the land;
And hear the city's hum
Up the hillside deadened come—
Like the last ebb of the waters on a far-receding strand.
A map of earth unrolled,
With the steamers on the ocean and the railways on the land;
And hear the city's hum
Up the hillside deadened come—
Like the last ebb of the waters on a far-receding strand.
Oh! there methinks 'twere sweet
To sit in converse meet,
With palpable progression before our vision spread;
And trace the mighty plan
Of the destinies of man,
Measuring the living by the stature of the dead.
To sit in converse meet,
With palpable progression before our vision spread;
And trace the mighty plan
Of the destinies of man,
Measuring the living by the stature of the dead.
131
THE POET'S DEATH.
A brave old warrior of poesy,
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Grown grey-haired in the service of his lyre;
A soul like an imprisoned Liberty—
A mind like an imprisoned fire.
Vain tyranny would chain his eagle wings,
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Vain malice would his heavenly visions tame:
Still through the prison-bars the angel sings,
Still breaks through dungeon-walls the flashing flame.
Forth, o'er the coldness of the outer world,
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Burst from his heart deep feeling's fiery flow;
Thus, from the volcano's rim unfurled,
The lava-banner waves o'er ice and snow.
Hail to the bard, who ever sang the right!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
Hail to the river on a desert rolled!
Hail to the veteran from the Titan-fight!
Hail to the heart that dies but grows not old!
133
Slow down the tide of the departing years,
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
The venerable shadow flits along.
No tears for him, who ne'er gave rise to tears;
His requiem be an echo of his song.
134
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
Darkness on the endless sea;
A wild, wild wailing cry;
And the sun came down—like a fiery frown
Cast from a god on high.
A wild, wild wailing cry;
And the sun came down—like a fiery frown
Cast from a god on high.
A barque stood o'er the shadowy tide,
All shattered, pale and dim,
With a countless crew—and such freightage too,
That it sunk to its gunwale rim.
All shattered, pale and dim,
With a countless crew—and such freightage too,
That it sunk to its gunwale rim.
A steersman gaunt sat at the helm,
A weird, wild phantom form;
His hand like a shade on the rudder was laid,
And he steered in the face of the storm.
A weird, wild phantom form;
His hand like a shade on the rudder was laid,
And he steered in the face of the storm.
135
His changeless eye on the changeless sea;
The crew around him herd;
But they stifled their breath—with the power of Death,
For their terror could find not a word.
The crew around him herd;
But they stifled their breath—with the power of Death,
For their terror could find not a word.
And the sea-roar fell-with a sullen swell,
On their hearts in a palpable fear,
For the name of the sea—was Eternity,
And the barque was the sinking Year.
The crowd seemed each moment to gather and grow,
And the foundering vessel to labour more low,
For the throngs on its deck were the millions of man,
The freightage it carried deed, prospect, and plan,
And Time was the spirit to steer.
On their hearts in a palpable fear,
For the name of the sea—was Eternity,
And the barque was the sinking Year.
The crowd seemed each moment to gather and grow,
And the foundering vessel to labour more low,
For the throngs on its deck were the millions of man,
The freightage it carried deed, prospect, and plan,
And Time was the spirit to steer.
Hark! to whirlwind-trumpet blast,
The wave-hosts, singing as they passed,
Their phalanx closed amain;
From black cloud-batteries, thunder-riven,
The forked artillery of heaven
Poured downward like a rain.
The wave-hosts, singing as they passed,
136
From black cloud-batteries, thunder-riven,
The forked artillery of heaven
Poured downward like a rain.
From the dark shroud dies the blast,
Sinks the pennon from the mast,
Leans the vessel o'er the wave,
Like warrior gazing on his grave.
The moon stands over the desolate shore,
A wave-herd, counting her sea-flock o'er—
And at times she descends the cloud-ladder of night,
Walking the deep in a mist of light,
And striking its waters when wearied to rest,
With her ivory wand on their thousand-fold crest;
And the heavy march of the billows fell,
As they counted the seconds with roll and swell—
Till the vessel sank, like a dream o'er fraught,
With its mighty freightage of heart and thought,
As the noon of night was knelling,
From the waters heavily swelling,
With a deep and sullen chime,
And the stars the hours were telling,
With silvery fingers dwelling
On heaven, the dial of Time!
Sinks the pennon from the mast,
Leans the vessel o'er the wave,
Like warrior gazing on his grave.
The moon stands over the desolate shore,
A wave-herd, counting her sea-flock o'er—
And at times she descends the cloud-ladder of night,
Walking the deep in a mist of light,
And striking its waters when wearied to rest,
With her ivory wand on their thousand-fold crest;
And the heavy march of the billows fell,
As they counted the seconds with roll and swell—
Till the vessel sank, like a dream o'er fraught,
With its mighty freightage of heart and thought,
137
From the waters heavily swelling,
With a deep and sullen chime,
And the stars the hours were telling,
With silvery fingers dwelling
On heaven, the dial of Time!
140
THE LANGUAGES.
Greek's a harp we love to hear;Latin is a trumpet clear;
Spanish like an organ swells;
Italian rings its bridal bells;
France, with many a frolic mien,
Tunes her sprightly violin;
Loud the German rolls his drum,
When Russia's clashing cymbals come;
But Britain's sons may well rejoice,
For English is the human voice.
These, with Eastern basses far,
Form the world's great orchestra.
141
THE HARPER WIND.
The wind's a bard—a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays.
He's the harper wild to the field and flood,
And sings them stirring lays.
He sings to the forest that slumbers in shade,
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
And the green boughs dance for glee,
And the dead leaves wake from their grave in the glade,
And whirl round the parent tree.
142
He sings to the mountain a shrill sharp tone,
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
And scatters its frosty snow;
The avalanche starts from its icy throne,
And bounds to the vale below.
He sings to the ocean a stormy song,
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
And wakes its waves to dance—
As it hears his voice the surf rolls strong,
And the white sea-breakers glance.
He sings to the tempest that sleeps on a cloud—
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
And it wakes as it hears his call,
And its thunder-mirth grows deep and loud
In the light of its flashing hall.
But his song is not ever so wild and rude—
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
In his lay there is softer power;
His voice is dread in his stormy mood,
But 'tis sweet in his calmer hour.
143
Hear him sing when the eve draws nigh:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
While the sun blushes deep o'er its fall,
And shadows like dreams on the pale earth lie—
There is love in his vesper-call:
When youth is gone with all its brightness,
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
And hope with its flowers is fading,
When the broken spirit hath lost its lightness,
'Neath care's untimely shading:
Who sings us a song of early days?
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
Of the hours too dear to last?
'Tis the wailing wind in his evening-lays,
That comes like a voice of the past.
When the mariner rests on the silent shore,
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
Who sings him a song of the main?—
'Tis the wind who tunes to the breaker's roar
His wild harp's boisterous strain!
144
When the mariner roameth afar from land,
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
And the night shines down from above—
The soft wind stealing from distant strand,
Sings to him of home and of love!
When fortune from our hand has passed,
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
And gladness from our heart,
Hear then how well the fierce proud blast
In our despair takes part.
When in the lighted and festal hall
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
We scorn the frivolous scene,
Hear how the wind comes and whoops at the wall,
As though mocking the triflers within.
When the lost one rests in the silent tomb,
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
And none draw nigh to mourn,
And none to cheer in the cold grave's gloom
Cast a floweret frail on his urn:
145
Who then will come with sigh and wail,
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
When all else are passing away?
'Tis the low sweet voice of the evening gale,
That mourns at the close of day.
The wind's a bard, a bard so rude,
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
And a many-toned harp he plays;
And a key that sounds to each human mood
He can strike in his endless lays.
146
MOONRISE.
What stands upon the Highland?
What walks across the rise,
As tho' a starry island
Were sinking down the skies?
What walks across the rise,
As tho' a starry island
Were sinking down the skies?
What makes the trees so golden?
What decks the mountain-side,
Like a veil of silver folden
Round the white brow of a bride?
What decks the mountain-side,
Like a veil of silver folden
Round the white brow of a bride?
The magic moon is breaking
Like a conqueror from the East,
The waiting world awaking
To a golden fairy-feast.
Like a conqueror from the East,
The waiting world awaking
To a golden fairy-feast.
147
She works with touch ethereal
By changes strange to see,
The cypress so funereal
To a lightsome fairy tree;
By changes strange to see,
The cypress so funereal
To a lightsome fairy tree;
Black rocks to marble turning,
Like palaces of kings;
On ruin-windows burning
A festal glory flings;
Like palaces of kings;
On ruin-windows burning
A festal glory flings;
The desert halls uplighting,
While falling shadows glance,
Like courtly crowds uniting
For the banquet or the dance;
While falling shadows glance,
Like courtly crowds uniting
For the banquet or the dance;
With ivory wand she numbers
The stars along the sky,
And breaks the billows' slumbers
With a love-glance of her eye;
The stars along the sky,
And breaks the billows' slumbers
With a love-glance of her eye;
148
Along the cornfields dances,
Brings bloom upon the sheaf;
From tree to tree she glances,
And touches leaf by leaf;
Brings bloom upon the sheaf;
From tree to tree she glances,
And touches leaf by leaf;
Wakes birds that sleep in shadows,
Thro' their half-closed eyelids gleams;
With her white torch thro' the meadows
Lights the shy deer to the streams.
Thro' their half-closed eyelids gleams;
With her white torch thro' the meadows
Lights the shy deer to the streams.
The magic moon is breaking
Like a conqueror from the East,
And the joyous world partaking
Of her golden fairy-feast.
Like a conqueror from the East,
And the joyous world partaking
Of her golden fairy-feast.
149
THE STEED AND THE RIDER.
In the morning's light advancing
Forward bounds a gallant steed,
Decked with Beauty's goodly housing,
Shod with Youth, Health, Strength, and Speed.
Forward bounds a gallant steed,
Decked with Beauty's goodly housing,
Shod with Youth, Health, Strength, and Speed.
Who will mount the fearless courser?
Who can ride him to the goal,
With the spur of Emulation
And the check of Self-control;
Who can ride him to the goal,
With the spur of Emulation
And the check of Self-control;
Perseverance' solid saddle,
Prudence' trusty bridle-rein,
Enterprise' elastic stirrup,
And Experience' curb of pain?
Prudence' trusty bridle-rein,
Enterprise' elastic stirrup,
And Experience' curb of pain?
150
Who will mount the gallant courser?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
But be wary! oh, be wary!
Long the road—the time unknown!
And at morn the rein is wanting,
And at eve the spur has flown.
Long the road—the time unknown!
And at morn the rein is wanting,
And at eve the spur has flown.
And, ere noon arise, the rider
Oft so far has gone astray,
That when evening's twilight deepens,
He has not recalled the way.
Oft so far has gone astray,
That when evening's twilight deepens,
He has not recalled the way.
Who will mount the gallant courser,
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
Who can ride him to the goal,
Thro' the paths of Life uneven
To the temple of the Soul?
151
THE LIFE OF A FLOWER.
Amid the bright'ning glories of the earth,I watched a humble floweret from its birth;
'Twas a pale blossom and a simple one
As e'er held converse with the godlike sun—
Yet e'en on that descends the beam divine,
And drinks the offering from its perfumed shrine.
Up sprung to life its small and tender form,
Amid a short pause of a vernal storm;
When spring once smiled between an azure rent,
Like hope thro' cares, 'mid winter's discontent.
Forth from its dark abode the young flower strove,
As though 'twere kindred to the light above,
152
Called that of earth into existence too.
Short time it raised in peace its tender head,
Smiling to God from forth its dewy bed;
Breathed the first sigh, whose perfume sweetly fell
As though an angel prayed within its cell;
And pilgrims passed, and passing paused to say,
“How fair a flower to cheer a wanderer's way!”
They lingered still, when came the chilly storm,
And drove the worldlings from that shrinking form;
Then, true to earthly law, approached to wreak
Its wildest wrath upon the fair and weak.
Then swept the frosty mist, then rose the blast,
And pitying snow entombed it as it passed,
While flying Winter placed in iron hour
An icicle where spring had raised a flower.
The skies were cold—the fields all bare,
And bare the trees, though the buds lurked there;
The birds were silent, the waves were still,
Those voices of forest and river and hill;
And the snow o'er the fountains and flowers was spread,
Like a marble gravestone for the fairy-like dead:
But where was that gentle young child of the sun,
Its sweetest, its first, its most beautiful one?
For what is so dear, howe'er simple its bloom,
As the first bud that brightens the path of our doom?
And bare the trees, though the buds lurked there;
153
Those voices of forest and river and hill;
And the snow o'er the fountains and flowers was spread,
Like a marble gravestone for the fairy-like dead:
But where was that gentle young child of the sun,
Its sweetest, its first, its most beautiful one?
For what is so dear, howe'er simple its bloom,
As the first bud that brightens the path of our doom?
The hours came thronging, the hours they passed,
On their chariots of sleet, storm and sunshine, and blast;
They drove over rock, plain and forest, and wave,
And each furrowed deep o'er that desolate grave;
Or with footsteps all careless above it they trod,
Nor reck'd of the pale bloom that liv'd in the sod;
And mortals forgot it had ever been there,
Nor talked they, nor thought, of that visitor fair;
They were thinking too much of what summer would bring,
To cherish the delicate gifts of the spring.
The hours passed by, and the sun shone again,
Writing in letters of green on the plain,
With finger of fire in tracery slow,
Promise of Summer on pages of snow.
On their chariots of sleet, storm and sunshine, and blast;
They drove over rock, plain and forest, and wave,
And each furrowed deep o'er that desolate grave;
Or with footsteps all careless above it they trod,
Nor reck'd of the pale bloom that liv'd in the sod;
And mortals forgot it had ever been there,
Nor talked they, nor thought, of that visitor fair;
They were thinking too much of what summer would bring,
To cherish the delicate gifts of the spring.
154
Writing in letters of green on the plain,
With finger of fire in tracery slow,
Promise of Summer on pages of snow.
The wanderer came with his wearisome lot,
And ever as sweet on the self-same spot,
The pale flower waving its beautiful head,
Like an angel returning to man from the dead,
With its bloom and its perfume still grew on his way,
And forced him to pause while it wooed him to stay.
And ever as sweet on the self-same spot,
The pale flower waving its beautiful head,
Like an angel returning to man from the dead,
With its bloom and its perfume still grew on his way,
And forced him to pause while it wooed him to stay.
The skies grew deeper, more dark and more bright,
More dazzling by day and more dreamy by night;
The Sun, like a god to his throne, mounted higher,
Struck the green earth with a sceptre of fire,
And quaffed from the river, the lake and the main,
As tho' they were goblets for godheads to drain.
The hills were parched and rent all o'er,
Like thirst-parted lips on a sandy shore;
The streams and the rivers were tarried and dried—
The veins of the earth that had shrunk o'er their tide;
And a brown burning ball, through the desert of space
The earth still rolled on its endless race.
The leaves fell dead from the motionless trees,
Straight and lank, for there came no breeze
To bear them soft with hand unseen
And sighing song to their grass-graves green.
The verdure was dust and the water was air,
The sun stood throned on a desert bare,
And the pale flower drooped its meek, delicate head,
Like a dying child on a lonely bed.—
The wanderer shrunk from the sun's assault,
'Neath cave and cleft, and arch and vault,
And saw the hot death of the world around,
The burning sky and the burning ground.—
And mortals forgot 'mid their pain and their care,
That the beautiful stranger had ever been there.
The hours they passed on their fiery flight,
More dazzling by day and more dreamy by night;
The Sun, like a god to his throne, mounted higher,
Struck the green earth with a sceptre of fire,
And quaffed from the river, the lake and the main,
As tho' they were goblets for godheads to drain.
The hills were parched and rent all o'er,
Like thirst-parted lips on a sandy shore;
The streams and the rivers were tarried and dried—
The veins of the earth that had shrunk o'er their tide;
155
The earth still rolled on its endless race.
The leaves fell dead from the motionless trees,
Straight and lank, for there came no breeze
To bear them soft with hand unseen
And sighing song to their grass-graves green.
The verdure was dust and the water was air,
The sun stood throned on a desert bare,
And the pale flower drooped its meek, delicate head,
Like a dying child on a lonely bed.—
The wanderer shrunk from the sun's assault,
'Neath cave and cleft, and arch and vault,
And saw the hot death of the world around,
The burning sky and the burning ground.—
And mortals forgot 'mid their pain and their care,
That the beautiful stranger had ever been there.
Driving their chariots through furrows of light,
156
And a banner of black overshadowed the drought.
'Twas the Thunder, who called on the wind and the rain,
And led his loud armies from highland to plain,
Till leaping with joy at his fiery glance,
The round rain came down with a festal dance.
And the steaming earth quickened its inward life
To gaze on the sun and the thunder's strife.
Then the triumph-note of the victor swells,
His deep drums rolling through the dells,
And waveth his banner all shattered and dun,
Right in the face of the sinking sun,
While with flashes of lightning in solemn array,
On a rainbow-bridge he marches away.
'Twas then the earth at still of night
Put forth its all of fair and bright:
Fountain and flower from stone and sod—
Myriads of altars to one great God.
157
Like a buried dream that floweret came;
Like a poet's thought, that long had passed,
Returning from its heaven at last;
As pale, as fair, as sweet of hue,
With perfumed cup and crown of dew.
It came to men's hearts with a throb of pain,
Like a tale long forgotten remembered again—
A something familiar that once had been dear,
That we greet with a sigh, that we leave with a tear.
But over the earth the rich autumn had rolled,
As a guerdon of wealth, its deep colours of gold.
With the fruit on the tree and the grain on the ground,
The vintage above and the harvest around,
The reaper with sickle, the vintner with shear,
To gather and garner the wealth of the year—
Man, who forgot his own heart in that hour,
Was too busy with fruit to remember the flower.
158
A shade on the earth and a chill on the air;
Dead from the mother-tree fell leaf by leaf,
While she stood o'er their graves with a statue-like grief;
And over the mountain the hoar frost spread,
Like snows of age on a furrowed head;
The streams crept slow with a hound-like moan;
The lakes were turning as fixed as stone;
All seemed dead but the cloud and the wind—
And where they had passed they left ruin behind.
Then, when all was gone and drear,
The harvest housed, the stubble sear,
With no more to hope in that desolate hour—
The wanderer thought of the young spring-flower:
And forth he went o'er the lonely plain,
Faltering on through a shroud of rain.
His cheek was hollow and wan of hue,
And his steps were many where they'd been few!
His brow was bent, his pace was slow,
His course was wavering to and fro—
159
Charged on the steeds of the hurricane-blast.
But the flower was gone where the best must go,
Showing us heaven and leaving us woe—
Gone for ever, that delicate thing,
That had outlived the summer, a child of the spring—
Modest and meek, through the rich autumn's pride
Neglected it blossomed, unheeded it died!
Type of the beautiful wrought in man's fate—
It was slighted too long, it was sought for too late!
161
PERCY VERE THE PEER'S STORY.
163
INTRODUCTION.
To my Readers,—
My Life has been a wild, strange life,
Now lulled in love—now wrapt in strife;
I've had my dreams as most have had,
Like others have been good and bad,
Like others have but lived to save
A wreck—a thought—a hope—a grave;
Have lived to see things fleet around me,
And fetters break—that once have bound me;
See hopes arise and hopes depart
Through that unguarded fort, the heart!
And things of strength and ardour pass,
Shattered and cold like broken glass;
Have heard men talk of wilful death,
And laugh with almost the next breath;
Then met them in life's later days,
Strong upon million-trodden ways;
Seen lovers lay them down to die,
Despair in heart and death in eye;
And seen the same in rich content
Wived, fathering, housed, and corpulent!
And if I asked them what became
Of passion, death, despair and flame,—
They smiled with red, full, puckering cheek:
“A boyish freak! A boyish freak!”
Seen manhood trample without ruth
O'er all the flowers that blest its youth,
And plodding onwards to the tomb,
Blush at their late remembered bloom;
Have met the young man, ardent all,
Starting on fire at glory's call;
Have heard him too with patriot grace
Refuse—yes! even refuse a place!
And, yet invincible to bribe,
Launch forth his noble diatribe;
Have heard him coughed and jested down
Alike in parliament and town:
For every one was held uncouth,
Who smacked of honesty and truth,—
Till drawn to fashion's shot-silk banners,
She taught him principles and manners;
False beauty's smiles like snares were spread,
Cold irony's keen arrows sped,
While bright before his eyes were set
Gay ribbon, star and coronet,
All—all the hopes of joy and ease,
At that one price alone—to please!
To please?—To dress by fashion's glass,
To serve the few and spurn the mass,
Cease to be bold, and frank, and hearty,
Abandon country for a party!
While dignities were let for hire,
The highest bidder still the buyer,
Till little of the man remained,
And country lost what party gained.
At first I have beheld him burn,
Then stand—then waver—and then turn!
How few could brave—how few could shun
The many bearing on the one!
Oh! who the tempting could withstand?
Who would not choose the safe left-hand,
Within the courtly harbour get,
And anchor with a coronet,
Held by a ribbon from afar
And blazoned—bondsman! by a star?
Now lulled in love—now wrapt in strife;
I've had my dreams as most have had,
Like others have been good and bad,
Like others have but lived to save
A wreck—a thought—a hope—a grave;
Have lived to see things fleet around me,
And fetters break—that once have bound me;
164
Through that unguarded fort, the heart!
And things of strength and ardour pass,
Shattered and cold like broken glass;
Have heard men talk of wilful death,
And laugh with almost the next breath;
Then met them in life's later days,
Strong upon million-trodden ways;
Seen lovers lay them down to die,
Despair in heart and death in eye;
And seen the same in rich content
Wived, fathering, housed, and corpulent!
And if I asked them what became
Of passion, death, despair and flame,—
They smiled with red, full, puckering cheek:
“A boyish freak! A boyish freak!”
Seen manhood trample without ruth
O'er all the flowers that blest its youth,
And plodding onwards to the tomb,
Blush at their late remembered bloom;
165
Starting on fire at glory's call;
Have heard him too with patriot grace
Refuse—yes! even refuse a place!
And, yet invincible to bribe,
Launch forth his noble diatribe;
Have heard him coughed and jested down
Alike in parliament and town:
For every one was held uncouth,
Who smacked of honesty and truth,—
Till drawn to fashion's shot-silk banners,
She taught him principles and manners;
False beauty's smiles like snares were spread,
Cold irony's keen arrows sped,
While bright before his eyes were set
Gay ribbon, star and coronet,
All—all the hopes of joy and ease,
At that one price alone—to please!
To please?—To dress by fashion's glass,
To serve the few and spurn the mass,
166
Abandon country for a party!
While dignities were let for hire,
The highest bidder still the buyer,
Till little of the man remained,
And country lost what party gained.
At first I have beheld him burn,
Then stand—then waver—and then turn!
How few could brave—how few could shun
The many bearing on the one!
Oh! who the tempting could withstand?
Who would not choose the safe left-hand,
Within the courtly harbour get,
And anchor with a coronet,
Held by a ribbon from afar
And blazoned—bondsman! by a star?
'Tis true at times the multitude
Grow harsh and turbulent and rude,
And, troubled with a fierce unrest,
Insult the man who loves them best—
While beckons from the distance, bland
With favouring grace, the courtly hand:
Oh! who can doubt between the two?
Why should not I as others do?—
Grow harsh and turbulent and rude,
167
Insult the man who loves them best—
While beckons from the distance, bland
With favouring grace, the courtly hand:
Oh! who can doubt between the two?
Why should not I as others do?—
Why? Because not for life's short day
On life's thronged stage our role we play.
Experience teaches—all who live
Must bear, but duty says, forgive!
Nor leave men in your pride of mood
For that they know not their own good!
What? do the prophets cease to preach
Because the ignorant they teach?
No! but with truth they meet reviling,
Curses with prayers and frowns with smiling,
Until at length the calm, strong word,
From sounding ever, shall be heard.
Faint pauses steal on stormiest weather:
You'll heed the stream that flows—for ever!
On life's thronged stage our role we play.
Experience teaches—all who live
Must bear, but duty says, forgive!
Nor leave men in your pride of mood
For that they know not their own good!
What? do the prophets cease to preach
Because the ignorant they teach?
No! but with truth they meet reviling,
Curses with prayers and frowns with smiling,
Until at length the calm, strong word,
From sounding ever, shall be heard.
168
You'll heed the stream that flows—for ever!
Life's fitful changes overpassed,
I've seen men settle down at last
With wealth and power and heaped up grace,
But all with such a dull, sour face!
It made me ask them what they wanted,
That favouring fortune had not granted,—
Ambition's craving? Glory's dream?
I read their answer: self-esteem!
'Tis wearisome to vegetate,
Still going downwards, slow and late,
With wealth and honour's bounteous store,
E'en such as fancy numbers o'er:
But not one bright Perspective, greeting
Between the Coming and the Fleeting!
Their great dim Future overcast
With shadows from their weary Past;
And those proud men with secret pain
Longed—how they longed—to live again!
Or else with thought and feelings blunted,
Ambition's fungus-growth half stunted,
They sat, unconscious all, and gave
Death's images before the grave.
I've seen men settle down at last
With wealth and power and heaped up grace,
But all with such a dull, sour face!
It made me ask them what they wanted,
That favouring fortune had not granted,—
Ambition's craving? Glory's dream?
I read their answer: self-esteem!
'Tis wearisome to vegetate,
Still going downwards, slow and late,
With wealth and honour's bounteous store,
E'en such as fancy numbers o'er:
But not one bright Perspective, greeting
Between the Coming and the Fleeting!
Their great dim Future overcast
With shadows from their weary Past;
169
Longed—how they longed—to live again!
Or else with thought and feelings blunted,
Ambition's fungus-growth half stunted,
They sat, unconscious all, and gave
Death's images before the grave.
Oh! how I mourned that such should be!
Oh! fetters—fetters for the free!
There's prison-life in open plain,
Without a dungeon or a chain;
Men may be slaves without a brand,
Nor dare to move a chainless hand.
Who says the mind is never bound—
That freedom still in thought is found?
Oh! Custom and Convention sure,
And artful lurer's artful lure
Will draw it to abjection's brink,
And teach the thinker what to think.
Few, few the men, who dare reply
The strong Truth to the stronger Lie!
And many those who pass their life,
In danger brave and bold in strife,
Yet dare not even bear a thought
Against the rules they have been taught!
Oh! fetters—fetters for the free!
There's prison-life in open plain,
Without a dungeon or a chain;
Men may be slaves without a brand,
Nor dare to move a chainless hand.
Who says the mind is never bound—
That freedom still in thought is found?
Oh! Custom and Convention sure,
And artful lurer's artful lure
Will draw it to abjection's brink,
And teach the thinker what to think.
170
The strong Truth to the stronger Lie!
And many those who pass their life,
In danger brave and bold in strife,
Yet dare not even bear a thought
Against the rules they have been taught!
Think not, my friends! I would intrude
On you the sourness of my mood;
Think not I am a misanthrope—
He still can love, who still can hope.
Much—much upon this teeming earth
Of great and high has sprung to birth;
Much—much, my friends! shall yet be born
To grace—ennoble—and adorn;
For patriots live among us yet,
Names history never shall forget;
There still are honest hearts and true,
And tongues to speak and hands to do;
With much to shun and much to cheer,
And much to hope, though much to fear:
Then ye, who rise to guard the Right,
March on by day and watch by night,
Lest stealthy foes, the victory done,
By cunning steal what valour won!
Though baffled oft, yet unrepining,
From sire to son the task consigning,
Through one great life, that knows no grave,
Live—none to injure—all to save!
On you the sourness of my mood;
Think not I am a misanthrope—
He still can love, who still can hope.
Much—much upon this teeming earth
Of great and high has sprung to birth;
Much—much, my friends! shall yet be born
To grace—ennoble—and adorn;
For patriots live among us yet,
Names history never shall forget;
There still are honest hearts and true,
And tongues to speak and hands to do;
171
And much to hope, though much to fear:
Then ye, who rise to guard the Right,
March on by day and watch by night,
Lest stealthy foes, the victory done,
By cunning steal what valour won!
Though baffled oft, yet unrepining,
From sire to son the task consigning,
Through one great life, that knows no grave,
Live—none to injure—all to save!
Another word—before I trace
My graceless life, demanding grace:
“My Life,” I purpose to portray—
Think not 'neath Egotism's sway—
There's much a worldly care would hush,
Much—much at which I still must blush:
But I am now an altered man,
Not haught of heart as I began;
And in my time, from low to high
I've seen so many do as I,
Methought it might a warning be,
And that save you which ruined me.
My graceless life, demanding grace:
“My Life,” I purpose to portray—
Think not 'neath Egotism's sway—
There's much a worldly care would hush,
Much—much at which I still must blush:
But I am now an altered man,
Not haught of heart as I began;
172
I've seen so many do as I,
Methought it might a warning be,
And that save you which ruined me.
If you should doubt my story's truth,
Look back—look back on your own youth!
Gaze round you upon friend and foe,
And much you'll find of what you know!
Perchance too, you and I have met,
Both struggling in life's mazy net,
For mine has been a talked-of name,
Slandered—till slander grew to fame.
Look back—look back on your own youth!
Gaze round you upon friend and foe,
And much you'll find of what you know!
Perchance too, you and I have met,
Both struggling in life's mazy net,
For mine has been a talked-of name,
Slandered—till slander grew to fame.
Again I'd pray you to forbear
If aught seems writ with lack of care:
I've half unlearned the Poet's art,
And only kept the Poet's heart.
They've told me too, when I were dead
'Twere better far my tale were said:
I've been in scenes of courtly state;
On iron walks of varying fate;
Seen huts and factories—camps and mines,
And priestcraft's curse on Christian shrines:
To-morrow steals but from to-day!
I fain would witness what I say,
And not, when I have met my doom,
Hear men come knocking at my tomb,
While shameless cowards may give the lie
To him, they know can not reply!
Nay!—Should they seek—I still am here
To dare—to prove.........and.........
PERCY VERE.
If aught seems writ with lack of care:
I've half unlearned the Poet's art,
And only kept the Poet's heart.
173
'Twere better far my tale were said:
I've been in scenes of courtly state;
On iron walks of varying fate;
Seen huts and factories—camps and mines,
And priestcraft's curse on Christian shrines:
To-morrow steals but from to-day!
I fain would witness what I say,
And not, when I have met my doom,
Hear men come knocking at my tomb,
While shameless cowards may give the lie
To him, they know can not reply!
Nay!—Should they seek—I still am here
To dare—to prove.........and.........
PERCY VERE.
174
I. PART I.—MY HOME.
My father,—he was proud and poor,
With much to boast and much endure;
That means—poor as the world doth go,
Upon six thousand a year or so.
'Twas hard!—He'd much to boast of too:
Not what he'd done—or still would do,
But generations he could trace,
All housing in the selfsame place,
All living, wedding, dying, peers
Through an unnumbered length of years.
With much to boast and much endure;
That means—poor as the world doth go,
Upon six thousand a year or so.
'Twas hard!—He'd much to boast of too:
Not what he'd done—or still would do,
But generations he could trace,
All housing in the selfsame place,
All living, wedding, dying, peers
Through an unnumbered length of years.
How I have marked his choler boil,
When heroes for their hero-toil
Were titled, knighted, high in grace,
Or more—in pension and in place!
And wonder what on earth they'd done
Could rank them with his father's son.
When heroes for their hero-toil
Were titled, knighted, high in grace,
Or more—in pension and in place!
175
Could rank them with his father's son.
I was a boy then, but my heart
In manhood's games took lively part;
I glowed at glory's blazonment;
Recked more of deeds than of descent—
And thus I had perchance grown up,
But poison mixed my boyhood's cup:
“What?—Bow to him!—Who was his sire?
I grant—'neath India's torrid fire
He's fought—and bravely too—for hire!
In Canada 'mid frost and snow
Has marched through a campaign or so;
I grant a gallant course he's run,
But I'm De Vere—and you're my son!”
In manhood's games took lively part;
I glowed at glory's blazonment;
Recked more of deeds than of descent—
And thus I had perchance grown up,
But poison mixed my boyhood's cup:
“What?—Bow to him!—Who was his sire?
I grant—'neath India's torrid fire
He's fought—and bravely too—for hire!
In Canada 'mid frost and snow
Has marched through a campaign or so;
I grant a gallant course he's run,
But I'm De Vere—and you're my son!”
And if bold patriots here and there,
Who shone to dazzle and—despair,
Roused in my heart one kindred spark—
How soon—how soon the light grew dark!
Who shone to dazzle and—despair,
176
How soon—how soon the light grew dark!
Then curled my father's lip with scorn:
“'Tis well for them, the basely born!
What, boy! Dost think that honour true
Alone has made them dare and do?
Leave Roman thoughts to dusty shelves!
By lowering us they raise themselves.
They play their game like other fools,
At once the workmen and the tools;
They bide their time—they have their price,
Bare virtue leads to gilded vice;
They mean themselves and shout the Nation!
And Patriotism is Calculation.”
“'Tis well for them, the basely born!
What, boy! Dost think that honour true
Alone has made them dare and do?
Leave Roman thoughts to dusty shelves!
By lowering us they raise themselves.
They play their game like other fools,
At once the workmen and the tools;
They bide their time—they have their price,
Bare virtue leads to gilded vice;
They mean themselves and shout the Nation!
And Patriotism is Calculation.”
Cold—cold the words sunk on my breast,
My patriot hopes went with the rest!
But still my fancy winged its way
Careering through eternal day:
I thought of life and dreamed of beauty,
And love that makes a joy of duty;
And rich, pale, lovely girls I met,
Like pearls in golden settings set:
And I beheld them bought and sold
In balance nice and barter cold;
Proud, beauteous, heartless, fragile things,
Like toys of glass for baby-kings!
And if one broke from forth the rest,
And chose the man she loved the best,
I marked the sneer of “common sense,”
And misery for her recompence.
And it was daily, hourly taught
That head was all and heart was nought,
And fools alone defiance hurled'
Against the customs of the world.
Thus precept schooled me for the stage
Where youth misguided ruins age,
And oh! Example—bitterer still—
Wrought its infinity of ill.
Our household gods were shadows cold,
Things that were trucked and bought and sold;
My mother ne'er had loved my sire,
She was for sale, and he—the buyer;
She craved a title's blazonment
And wealth enough for cold content,
The rest—'twas all indifferent.
Not prudery's self could e'er have found
Against her accusation's ground,—
Not pity's self could e'er have traced
One virtue that her heart had graced;—
'Twixt vice and virtue both sedate,
She only was—immaculate!
My patriot hopes went with the rest!
But still my fancy winged its way
Careering through eternal day:
177
And love that makes a joy of duty;
And rich, pale, lovely girls I met,
Like pearls in golden settings set:
And I beheld them bought and sold
In balance nice and barter cold;
Proud, beauteous, heartless, fragile things,
Like toys of glass for baby-kings!
And if one broke from forth the rest,
And chose the man she loved the best,
I marked the sneer of “common sense,”
And misery for her recompence.
And it was daily, hourly taught
That head was all and heart was nought,
And fools alone defiance hurled'
Against the customs of the world.
Thus precept schooled me for the stage
Where youth misguided ruins age,
And oh! Example—bitterer still—
Wrought its infinity of ill.
178
Things that were trucked and bought and sold;
My mother ne'er had loved my sire,
She was for sale, and he—the buyer;
She craved a title's blazonment
And wealth enough for cold content,
The rest—'twas all indifferent.
Not prudery's self could e'er have found
Against her accusation's ground,—
Not pity's self could e'er have traced
One virtue that her heart had graced;—
'Twixt vice and virtue both sedate,
She only was—immaculate!
And he, when time brought marriage-need,
Wooed, wed, according to his creed;
If love, or not, that none could tell,
He played indifference far too well;
If love—her coldness turned it cold
Before the marriage-moon grew old,
And Lady Caerleon went her way
As any other lady may;
Hers were the charms that, Juno-like,
Can never win but ever strike;
The chiselled face—the stately mien,
The grace and presence of a queen.
One of those forms whose faultless mould
Seems never—never to grow old,
Unchangeable, because—so cold!
Haughty, but too well-bred to show
The fearful pride that lurked below;
And affable—should she not bend
Whose kindness was—to condescend?
Wooed, wed, according to his creed;
If love, or not, that none could tell,
He played indifference far too well;
If love—her coldness turned it cold
Before the marriage-moon grew old,
179
As any other lady may;
Hers were the charms that, Juno-like,
Can never win but ever strike;
The chiselled face—the stately mien,
The grace and presence of a queen.
One of those forms whose faultless mould
Seems never—never to grow old,
Unchangeable, because—so cold!
Haughty, but too well-bred to show
The fearful pride that lurked below;
And affable—should she not bend
Whose kindness was—to condescend?
Her Lord—dined—drove—spoke here and there,
While all cried: what a happy pair!
They never jarred, who rarely met,
And lived by rules and rubrics set.
My sire a public man was deemed
And in that quality esteemed;
He never swerved—he had no need,
Why should the oak bend like the reed?
Spoke in the House, and ably too,
His sense was plain his words were few;
He dined at anniversary dinners
And gave to charities for sinners,
Because to do so was but right
And pleasant—in the country's sight:
Was staid in life, in church devout,
Pretenceless all, the same throughout;
And so with men his standard stood
Decent, respectable and good.
His presence roused nor love nor hate—
Calm, quiet, chilling and sedate;
Grey eyes, face ruddy, features full,
Stout, middle-heighted, stern and dull,
High-fronted, white and scant of hair:
He moved with grace and dressed with care.
While all cried: what a happy pair!
They never jarred, who rarely met,
And lived by rules and rubrics set.
My sire a public man was deemed
And in that quality esteemed;
180
Why should the oak bend like the reed?
Spoke in the House, and ably too,
His sense was plain his words were few;
He dined at anniversary dinners
And gave to charities for sinners,
Because to do so was but right
And pleasant—in the country's sight:
Was staid in life, in church devout,
Pretenceless all, the same throughout;
And so with men his standard stood
Decent, respectable and good.
His presence roused nor love nor hate—
Calm, quiet, chilling and sedate;
Grey eyes, face ruddy, features full,
Stout, middle-heighted, stern and dull,
High-fronted, white and scant of hair:
He moved with grace and dressed with care.
My brother too—was Lord de Vere:
I know not how to paint more clear.
Of sire uncared—caressed of mother,
He was—he was—my elder brother!
I know not how to paint more clear.
181
He was—he was—my elder brother!
But oh! a dream of childhood's day;
On winter sere one summer-ray;
One flower to plant above a tomb—
To warm the frost and light the gloom:
Grace! Grace! my sister, spirit-sainted,
Sweet visioned thought, all angel-painted,
That makes my worn heart leap and sing,
And memory turn to thanksgiving.
On winter sere one summer-ray;
One flower to plant above a tomb—
To warm the frost and light the gloom:
Grace! Grace! my sister, spirit-sainted,
Sweet visioned thought, all angel-painted,
That makes my worn heart leap and sing,
And memory turn to thanksgiving.
Dost thou remember that old room
Oppressive with ancestral gloom,
With heavy carvings quaint and dark
And windows opening on the park,
Through which the sunset-glades were seen
And old oaks trooped on pastures green,
Forthstanding in the golden glow
With clouds above and flowers below,
Like knightly champions set to screen
With leafy shields from charging storm
The tender blossom's shrinking form?
Oppressive with ancestral gloom,
With heavy carvings quaint and dark
And windows opening on the park,
Through which the sunset-glades were seen
And old oaks trooped on pastures green,
Forthstanding in the golden glow
With clouds above and flowers below,
182
With leafy shields from charging storm
The tender blossom's shrinking form?
Oh! Dost thou still in memory grieve
For that last, dear, heart-haunting eve?
For that last, dear, heart-haunting eve?
Dost thou remember?—Thou didst stand,
A dewy heath-flower in thy hand,
With elbow on the mantel leaned;
The sculptured wreaths thy face half-screened,
On which the slanting sunbeams shone
As the fairest thing to look upon.
A dewy heath-flower in thy hand,
With elbow on the mantel leaned;
The sculptured wreaths thy face half-screened,
On which the slanting sunbeams shone
As the fairest thing to look upon.
The hearth was cold and shadow-rife,
Fit emblem of our fire-side life!
And silent we, who ever yet
Had laughed and gambolled when we met;
And, stranger still, we who of yore
That dark old sullen room forbore
Fit emblem of our fire-side life!
And silent we, who ever yet
Had laughed and gambolled when we met;
And, stranger still, we who of yore
That dark old sullen room forbore
183
And forth to gladsome groves would rush,
Where merry birds sing and merry streams gush—
Now lingered there with loving look;
Scanned every arch and groin and nook;
Together paced it o'er and o'er
As if ne'er seen by us before:
But parting makes the dark grow bright
And wreaks a witchery on the sight,
Till old familiar things seem new,
And true seems false and false seems true.
The morrow ye would all be gone
For Italy, and I alone,
Not—not the favourite nor the heir,
Was left behind, unworthy care!
I told thee how thy heart was kind,
Noble thy soul, unwarped thy mind,
And thou so beautiful and good!
A lovely page in Nature's book,
With characters the vulgar look
Might long have scanned nor ever understood;
I told thee how the world would be
A false—false monitor to thee,
Through wild heart-dangers forced to roam,
And worst of all, the blight at home!
I grudged thee to my father's pride,
Who could command but could not guide—
To my hard brother's moods uncouth;
My mother's art-forced after-youth;
And prayed thee, by our young love-spring,
To change not in thy wandering,
But to return when time had flown,
The same dear girl I once had known.
Where merry birds sing and merry streams gush—
Now lingered there with loving look;
Scanned every arch and groin and nook;
Together paced it o'er and o'er
As if ne'er seen by us before:
But parting makes the dark grow bright
And wreaks a witchery on the sight,
Till old familiar things seem new,
And true seems false and false seems true.
The morrow ye would all be gone
For Italy, and I alone,
Not—not the favourite nor the heir,
Was left behind, unworthy care!
I told thee how thy heart was kind,
Noble thy soul, unwarped thy mind,
And thou so beautiful and good!
A lovely page in Nature's book,
With characters the vulgar look
Might long have scanned nor ever understood;
184
A false—false monitor to thee,
Through wild heart-dangers forced to roam,
And worst of all, the blight at home!
I grudged thee to my father's pride,
Who could command but could not guide—
To my hard brother's moods uncouth;
My mother's art-forced after-youth;
And prayed thee, by our young love-spring,
To change not in thy wandering,
But to return when time had flown,
The same dear girl I once had known.
And thou didst promise—promise kindly—
And I believed—believed thee blindly—
Oh! the recording angels heard—:
How couldst thou—couldst thou break thy word?
And I believed—believed thee blindly—
Oh! the recording angels heard—:
How couldst thou—couldst thou break thy word?
And still how present to my heart
The cause that bade our household part:
When Grace's girlhood asked for care,
The care that nature gives the Mother
The Lady tasked upon another.
Not long was she oft doomed to bear
Unrealized the wish she felt;
By some strange magic her commands
Found workmen ready to her hands:—
The cause that bade our household part:
185
The care that nature gives the Mother
The Lady tasked upon another.
Not long was she oft doomed to bear
Unrealized the wish she felt;
By some strange magic her commands
Found workmen ready to her hands:—
A poor old country aunt who dwelt
In a little cottage that peeped forth
From a little orchard in the North,
Had sent the country orphan down
To Hell's great masterpiece—the town,
And vouched she knew and loved her well,—
More she or could or recked not tell,
But said—what on my mother wrought—
Though poor, that salary was nought,
A kind home all.—'Twas pledged and granted,
At least so Lady Caerleon thought;
She had fair chambers fairly dight
And viands rich and sumptures bright:
What more was asked—what more was wanted?
In a little cottage that peeped forth
From a little orchard in the North,
Had sent the country orphan down
To Hell's great masterpiece—the town,
And vouched she knew and loved her well,—
More she or could or recked not tell,
But said—what on my mother wrought—
Though poor, that salary was nought,
A kind home all.—'Twas pledged and granted,
At least so Lady Caerleon thought;
186
And viands rich and sumptures bright:
What more was asked—what more was wanted?
She never said from whence she came;
They called her Clare—'twas not her name—
The North her birth-place—closely pressed,
Thus much one day she had confessed.
They called her Clare—'twas not her name—
The North her birth-place—closely pressed,
Thus much one day she had confessed.
She was so still! yet hidden woe
Seemed working those calm depths below;
Not beautiful—nay!—some there were
Had sooner deemed her plain than fair,
But then her smile!—'twas sadly sweet
As light, when day and evening meet;
She was so gentle and so kind!
Each action seemed a type of mind,
And angels looked through her deep eyes.
Upon a world that could not prize,
Her soul's deep beauties had been thrown
Like living flowers on heartless stone:
And thus that quiet, meek, soft thing,
That timid dove with wounded wing,
Within our proud stern home had dwelt,
And with an influence, scarcely felt,
Had grown the one bright pulse and part
Of that dark home's remorseless heart.
A bolder spirit had wrought less:
There is deep power in gentleness.
Seemed working those calm depths below;
Not beautiful—nay!—some there were
Had sooner deemed her plain than fair,
But then her smile!—'twas sadly sweet
As light, when day and evening meet;
She was so gentle and so kind!
Each action seemed a type of mind,
And angels looked through her deep eyes.
187
Her soul's deep beauties had been thrown
Like living flowers on heartless stone:
And thus that quiet, meek, soft thing,
That timid dove with wounded wing,
Within our proud stern home had dwelt,
And with an influence, scarcely felt,
Had grown the one bright pulse and part
Of that dark home's remorseless heart.
A bolder spirit had wrought less:
There is deep power in gentleness.
Meanwhile as changed the lordly train
From hall to square and back again,
A living clockwork—wheels by wheels—
That ever moves and never feels,
Dull monotone with action scant
Between two places pendulant—
She still dragged onward with the rest
A weary life in patient breast;
Than menial more—than lady less—
Convention's Helot—Governess!
Still seemed to live from all apart,
And for companion seek—her heart;
Though in our household there was one
Whom Nature's self, that, ever kind,
For each mind makes a kindred mind,
Had modelled her companion.
From hall to square and back again,
A living clockwork—wheels by wheels—
That ever moves and never feels,
Dull monotone with action scant
Between two places pendulant—
She still dragged onward with the rest
A weary life in patient breast;
188
Convention's Helot—Governess!
Still seemed to live from all apart,
And for companion seek—her heart;
Though in our household there was one
Whom Nature's self, that, ever kind,
For each mind makes a kindred mind,
Had modelled her companion.
Alone like her—like her depressed,
His brightest moments were but—rest;
Supple he was, and sought to please,
But did it with a careless ease,
That all as at a glance could see
Though he seemed chained he still was free,
And augur of his manhood's prime,
Time would serve him not he serve time.
A satire with his smile was blent,
Which told that he but played a rôle
And, while he to convention bent,
'Twas with the body not the soul.
He was a student pale and wan;
The boy had stolen from the man,
Too early thought unbidden came
And over-garrisoned the frame.
Although of stature scant and weak,
Yet high emprise would flush his cheek;
His favourite theme was war and strife,
Prone still to peril limb and life,
And when his strength was giving o'er,
The more he failed—he dared the more,
As though by this he would have shown
'Twas nature's failing not his own.
His brightest moments were but—rest;
Supple he was, and sought to please,
But did it with a careless ease,
That all as at a glance could see
Though he seemed chained he still was free,
And augur of his manhood's prime,
Time would serve him not he serve time.
A satire with his smile was blent,
Which told that he but played a rôle
189
'Twas with the body not the soul.
He was a student pale and wan;
The boy had stolen from the man,
Too early thought unbidden came
And over-garrisoned the frame.
Although of stature scant and weak,
Yet high emprise would flush his cheek;
His favourite theme was war and strife,
Prone still to peril limb and life,
And when his strength was giving o'er,
The more he failed—he dared the more,
As though by this he would have shown
'Twas nature's failing not his own.
And 'mid our circle as they dwelt,
We ne'er suspected that they felt
More than indifference at the most,
Thus each seemed on the other lost.
Nay, Clare was, if the truth be told,
To Warven more than others cold,
And Lady Caerleon oft would chide
With fine hard smile the menial pride,
And fathom with a shallow scorn
The meanness of the basely born,
Who, to the Secretary proud,
Unto the Lordling smiled and bowed.—
I knew not why, but yet I knew
The world-wise had not reasoned true:
World-wisdom has a shallow spring,
Heart-wisdom is a heavenly thing.
We ne'er suspected that they felt
More than indifference at the most,
Thus each seemed on the other lost.
190
To Warven more than others cold,
And Lady Caerleon oft would chide
With fine hard smile the menial pride,
And fathom with a shallow scorn
The meanness of the basely born,
Who, to the Secretary proud,
Unto the Lordling smiled and bowed.—
I knew not why, but yet I knew
The world-wise had not reasoned true:
World-wisdom has a shallow spring,
Heart-wisdom is a heavenly thing.
A change seemed stealing over Clare;
For day by day she grew more fair
And o'er her face of marble white,
Like a slight spirit to and fro
Came hovering oft a fairy-glow,
As though all suddenly revealed
Her heart's deep fountains so long sealed
Were gushing forth in liquid light,
That like an atmosphere enshrined her;
There was a lustre in her eye
And in her voice a melody:—
And Lady Caerleon, in her way
Still arguing, would often say
How much society refined her:
She knew not in her senseless pride
'Twas love alone that beautified:
It brought the soul into her face—
As a pure lamp of alabaster,
Engraved by some poetic master,
When lit within, shows trace by trace
The sculptured thought's entrancing grace.
For day by day she grew more fair
And o'er her face of marble white,
Like a slight spirit to and fro
Came hovering oft a fairy-glow,
As though all suddenly revealed
Her heart's deep fountains so long sealed
191
That like an atmosphere enshrined her;
There was a lustre in her eye
And in her voice a melody:—
And Lady Caerleon, in her way
Still arguing, would often say
How much society refined her:
She knew not in her senseless pride
'Twas love alone that beautified:
It brought the soul into her face—
As a pure lamp of alabaster,
Engraved by some poetic master,
When lit within, shows trace by trace
The sculptured thought's entrancing grace.
But one day all at once grew clear,
When little Eugenie de Vere,
A vision of a child's delight
Like an embodied sunbeam bright,
Was staying down at the old place
On visit to her cousin Grace.
When little Eugenie de Vere,
A vision of a child's delight
Like an embodied sunbeam bright,
192
On visit to her cousin Grace.
She and her greyhound were at play—
Inseparable comrades they—
While all were loitering listless round
The lovely child and noble hound,
And even cold hearts seemed to warm,
For childhood's mirth has such a charm!
I entered late and with me brought
Some wild-wood favourite I had caught:
“Another pet for Eugenie!”
Childlike she fondled it awhile
And thanked me with that happy smile
That makes another smile to see.
Inseparable comrades they—
While all were loitering listless round
The lovely child and noble hound,
And even cold hearts seemed to warm,
For childhood's mirth has such a charm!
I entered late and with me brought
Some wild-wood favourite I had caught:
“Another pet for Eugenie!”
Childlike she fondled it awhile
And thanked me with that happy smile
That makes another smile to see.
Then she drew back:—“Coz Percy, pray
Go, take that naughty bird away,
It is so pretty that I fear
I'd love it more than Norman dear.”
Then bending o'er the crouching hound,
Her white arms round its neck she wound
And then its large head nearer drew,
And whispered laughing: “I'll be true!”
And, as they heard, the listeners smiled
At this real wisdom of the child
That still temptation strove to shun;
Stronger have dared and—been undone!
And then she said with a half-sigh:
“I've no mamma now to love me,
No more”—to Clare—“they say have you,—
And no mamma to love, so I
Love bird and cloud, and flower and tree,
And my pet greyhound—he loves me.”
Of Clare then, with mock mystery:
“But she must far—far happier be—
For Mr. Warven loves Miss Clare
Miss Clare loves Mr. Warven too.”—
Oh! how the blood came rushing through
That maiden-cheek's transparent veil;
She bent and hid it with her hair,
And he turned very—very pale,
So that all saw the child said true.
Then thousand quick-remembered things
Tracked down to action's mystic springs;
Then that strange coldness seemed not strange
Beside the warm heart's deep love-change
That less revealed from feeling more!
And each one marvelled o'er and o'er
They had not noticed it before!
The worldlings had not, self-beguiled,
The keen observance of a child.
Go, take that naughty bird away,
It is so pretty that I fear
I'd love it more than Norman dear.”
193
Her white arms round its neck she wound
And then its large head nearer drew,
And whispered laughing: “I'll be true!”
And, as they heard, the listeners smiled
At this real wisdom of the child
That still temptation strove to shun;
Stronger have dared and—been undone!
And then she said with a half-sigh:
“I've no mamma now to love me,
No more”—to Clare—“they say have you,—
And no mamma to love, so I
Love bird and cloud, and flower and tree,
And my pet greyhound—he loves me.”
Of Clare then, with mock mystery:
“But she must far—far happier be—
For Mr. Warven loves Miss Clare
Miss Clare loves Mr. Warven too.”—
Oh! how the blood came rushing through
That maiden-cheek's transparent veil;
194
And he turned very—very pale,
So that all saw the child said true.
Then thousand quick-remembered things
Tracked down to action's mystic springs;
Then that strange coldness seemed not strange
Beside the warm heart's deep love-change
That less revealed from feeling more!
And each one marvelled o'er and o'er
They had not noticed it before!
The worldlings had not, self-beguiled,
The keen observance of a child.
Then had they marked, they might have seen
Hate blast my brother Philip's mien;
But quickly changed that aspect dark:
A smile stole in its sullen wake
Like the weird light that gilds a snake,
And turning suddenly aside
Beneath the petulance of pride
He gazed intently o'er the park.
A dull weight over all was thrown:
And from that hour an altered tone
Pervaded all—an under-scheming,
Forced moods and one eternal Seeming.
At times beneath oppression's sense
The truth welled forth in self-defence:
But all—'mid forms that strove to please—
Were worse than angered—ill at ease!
Save Lady Caerleon—still aloof,
Deliberate and excitement-proof;
For Lady Caerleon—self-serene—
Hated what people call a scene,
And when it chanced she ne'er took part
But watched it with a statue-heart:
My sire too—shadows of the past,
Badges of race and types of caste,
They stood alone, unchanged and proud,
Mute forms above a shifting crowd.
But most—some vague and restless thought
A sullen change in Philip wrought,
Who, erst so heavy-souled and dull,
Seemed lightning-rife and ardour-full.
At times—when he deemed no one nigh—
His burning glance on Clare would rest
With eager passion, ill-repressed;
Then—if he met another's eye—
He'd turn away as with a mask
And quick would comment, talk and ask
But never wait for the reply—
And as o'erflowed the pent-up flood,
On Warven wreak his bitter mood:
He ever treated him with scorn,
That meanness of the better-born,
But at such times in his address
Was something more than haughtiness.
Hate blast my brother Philip's mien;
But quickly changed that aspect dark:
A smile stole in its sullen wake
Like the weird light that gilds a snake,
And turning suddenly aside
Beneath the petulance of pride
He gazed intently o'er the park.
195
And from that hour an altered tone
Pervaded all—an under-scheming,
Forced moods and one eternal Seeming.
At times beneath oppression's sense
The truth welled forth in self-defence:
But all—'mid forms that strove to please—
Were worse than angered—ill at ease!
Save Lady Caerleon—still aloof,
Deliberate and excitement-proof;
For Lady Caerleon—self-serene—
Hated what people call a scene,
And when it chanced she ne'er took part
But watched it with a statue-heart:
My sire too—shadows of the past,
Badges of race and types of caste,
They stood alone, unchanged and proud,
Mute forms above a shifting crowd.
But most—some vague and restless thought
A sullen change in Philip wrought,
196
Seemed lightning-rife and ardour-full.
At times—when he deemed no one nigh—
His burning glance on Clare would rest
With eager passion, ill-repressed;
Then—if he met another's eye—
He'd turn away as with a mask
And quick would comment, talk and ask
But never wait for the reply—
And as o'erflowed the pent-up flood,
On Warven wreak his bitter mood:
He ever treated him with scorn,
That meanness of the better-born,
But at such times in his address
Was something more than haughtiness.
Warven—to others pliant still,
As he were part of their own will—
Assumed to Lord de Vere alone
A stern equality of tone,
And something through his accent ran,
Summoned the man before the man.
As he were part of their own will—
Assumed to Lord de Vere alone
A stern equality of tone,
197
Summoned the man before the man.
And Clare—who ever till that hour
Had veiled her holy love's calm power,
Like some deep fire-spring under snow,
Beneath a cold and heedless show:
Now—when De Vere was at her side—
Revealed its strength with conscious pride,
As though it were a shield to raise
'Twixt her soft face and his hot gaze.
Had veiled her holy love's calm power,
Like some deep fire-spring under snow,
Beneath a cold and heedless show:
Now—when De Vere was at her side—
Revealed its strength with conscious pride,
As though it were a shield to raise
'Twixt her soft face and his hot gaze.
And thus the daily trial came;
For lightly spoke the voice of fame
Of those once loved by Lord de Vere,
When even of an equal sphere.
Now through the house, in whispers heard,
A busy devil stepped and stirred:
The small still fiend who poison brews
In unseen corners, dark and sly,
Eludes the ear and mocks the eye
Yet ever flits and buzzes by,
Had breathed on Clare the festering dews—
The blight no sun can ever dry:
While judging others by themselves
With thought that but the surface delves,
Small-hearted women, hatred-fired,
Believed and scorned what they desired.
Then came the low familiar tone,
When baseness thinks it greets its own!
Contumely from the lofty cast
Unruffled still may be o'erpassed,
But poison lurks upon the lip
Of base presumption's fellowship.
Then came the scarce obeyed command,
By negligent familiar hand;
From tone and look the double meaning
As though 'twere hardly worth the screening;
From hireling lips the words of scorn
Or pity, sharper to be borne!
And then—the heart-annoying task,
The seeming not to understand,
The fear of silence, dread to ask,
And the false, calm, collected air,
To hide the throttling of despair:
This, and far more, have they to bear
Who fight the world unarmed like Clare.
For lightly spoke the voice of fame
Of those once loved by Lord de Vere,
When even of an equal sphere.
Now through the house, in whispers heard,
A busy devil stepped and stirred:
198
In unseen corners, dark and sly,
Eludes the ear and mocks the eye
Yet ever flits and buzzes by,
Had breathed on Clare the festering dews—
The blight no sun can ever dry:
While judging others by themselves
With thought that but the surface delves,
Small-hearted women, hatred-fired,
Believed and scorned what they desired.
Then came the low familiar tone,
When baseness thinks it greets its own!
Contumely from the lofty cast
Unruffled still may be o'erpassed,
But poison lurks upon the lip
Of base presumption's fellowship.
Then came the scarce obeyed command,
By negligent familiar hand;
From tone and look the double meaning
As though 'twere hardly worth the screening;
199
Or pity, sharper to be borne!
And then—the heart-annoying task,
The seeming not to understand,
The fear of silence, dread to ask,
And the false, calm, collected air,
To hide the throttling of despair:
This, and far more, have they to bear
Who fight the world unarmed like Clare.
At length from mouth to mouth a word
Reached Lady Caerleon—! nothing wrought
In outward sign the inward thought;
For she was one who in the dark
Sent her blind arrows to the mark.—
Her smile was still as coldly kind
As though no poison lurked behind:
While from my sister's ear this tale
The watchful mother strove to veil,
In silence worked, nor searched the truth
Lest sin revealed should poison youth,
Resolved to make some fitting case
For parting calmly Clare from Grace.
Oh! false-discerning sense of pride!
What must be known 'tis vain to hide;
The school to make the young heart strong
Is—show the bad but prove it wrong!
For wanton eyes no veil can cheat,
The shrine's no safer than the street,
While vice that ever takes disguise
Need scarce be seen by modest eyes,
And those who seek what they should shun
Undo themselves if they're undone!
Reached Lady Caerleon—! nothing wrought
In outward sign the inward thought;
For she was one who in the dark
Sent her blind arrows to the mark.—
Her smile was still as coldly kind
As though no poison lurked behind:
While from my sister's ear this tale
The watchful mother strove to veil,
200
Lest sin revealed should poison youth,
Resolved to make some fitting case
For parting calmly Clare from Grace.
Oh! false-discerning sense of pride!
What must be known 'tis vain to hide;
The school to make the young heart strong
Is—show the bad but prove it wrong!
For wanton eyes no veil can cheat,
The shrine's no safer than the street,
While vice that ever takes disguise
Need scarce be seen by modest eyes,
And those who seek what they should shun
Undo themselves if they're undone!
And Philip—thus could honour fail!
Philip it was who spread the tale,
Wer't idle boast or scheme deep laid—
(Though after years would prove the last,)
Her lot and fame alike to blast
And thus to force the helpless maid,
From forth the world's cold bosom driven,
To crave and take his proffered aid
And, hunted with a bloodhound's hate,
To sink at length, however late:
Unknowing, when the worst is past
And, by disaster's frost-winds cast,
From life's sere tree the leaves are riven,
The leafless branch shows most of heaven!
Philip it was who spread the tale,
Wer't idle boast or scheme deep laid—
(Though after years would prove the last,)
Her lot and fame alike to blast
201
From forth the world's cold bosom driven,
To crave and take his proffered aid
And, hunted with a bloodhound's hate,
To sink at length, however late:
Unknowing, when the worst is past
And, by disaster's frost-winds cast,
From life's sere tree the leaves are riven,
The leafless branch shows most of heaven!
Some there may be who as they read,
Deem I have erred against their creed;
That I should shield my near of kin
And gloss and veil a brother's sin:
Down with the specious cheating clause!
Pass through the world, unswerving laws!
Ye ties of blood should fail to ban
Eternal rights of God and man!
Defend a brother to the death
With thought and deed, and hand and breath:
But ne'er abet a brother's shame
To screen, in him, yourself in name!
Methinks I see your dooming look
Bode condemnation to my book
And threat with the neglected shelf:
Rail then—when I have spared myself.
Deem I have erred against their creed;
That I should shield my near of kin
And gloss and veil a brother's sin:
Down with the specious cheating clause!
Pass through the world, unswerving laws!
Ye ties of blood should fail to ban
Eternal rights of God and man!
Defend a brother to the death
With thought and deed, and hand and breath:
202
To screen, in him, yourself in name!
Methinks I see your dooming look
Bode condemnation to my book
And threat with the neglected shelf:
Rail then—when I have spared myself.
It was a summer-afternoon;
The wind was dead the flowers were drooping,
The sun from skies of gorgeous June
Seemed like a golden eagle stooping
With fiery talons o'er his spoil,
Tearing the parched and crackling soil.
Within the garden there was shade
Along the stately avenue,
But on the boughs the hot air weighed
Until it bent them and sunk through:
And languidly the fountains played
And thin warm gushes downward drew,
As drowsing to the sound they made
And longing their own stream to quaff;
The stately mansion in the glare
Stood like a pompous cenotaph,
For not a sign of life was there;
And not a sound of beast or man
Across the garden or the park;
No more the tide of music ran
In living fountain from the lark,
But thick the insect tribe began
Their busy murmurs, as to mark
That when the strong lie reft of power
The weakest still can have their hour.
And how they revelled! how they slid
From lid to lip and lip to lid,
And how they flapped, and touched and stung!
And how their triumph buzzed and rung:
And yet their dull and ceaseless tease
Stirred but the consciousness of ease!
The wind was dead the flowers were drooping,
The sun from skies of gorgeous June
Seemed like a golden eagle stooping
With fiery talons o'er his spoil,
Tearing the parched and crackling soil.
Within the garden there was shade
Along the stately avenue,
But on the boughs the hot air weighed
Until it bent them and sunk through:
And languidly the fountains played
And thin warm gushes downward drew,
203
And longing their own stream to quaff;
The stately mansion in the glare
Stood like a pompous cenotaph,
For not a sign of life was there;
And not a sound of beast or man
Across the garden or the park;
No more the tide of music ran
In living fountain from the lark,
But thick the insect tribe began
Their busy murmurs, as to mark
That when the strong lie reft of power
The weakest still can have their hour.
And how they revelled! how they slid
From lid to lip and lip to lid,
And how they flapped, and touched and stung!
And how their triumph buzzed and rung:
And yet their dull and ceaseless tease
Stirred but the consciousness of ease!
204
Within an arbour far apart
Sat Clare with happy trembling heart,
And One stood near her, in whose eye
Sweet faith had sealed love's dignity
With the proud glance of self-esteem—
The dream that is not all a dream:
For man feels raised himself above
When hallowed by an angel's love,
And to the lover's heart-charmed view
Worn, long-tried life seems opening new.
No spring e'er showed so freshly fair
As Life to Warven and to Clare:
Oh! those green walls seemed stretching wide
Revealing worlds on every side,
Achievements great and unions sweet,
All man dares face or longs to meet—
Concentred in one burning thought
That taught by love—to love had taught!
Sat Clare with happy trembling heart,
And One stood near her, in whose eye
Sweet faith had sealed love's dignity
With the proud glance of self-esteem—
The dream that is not all a dream:
For man feels raised himself above
When hallowed by an angel's love,
And to the lover's heart-charmed view
Worn, long-tried life seems opening new.
No spring e'er showed so freshly fair
As Life to Warven and to Clare:
Oh! those green walls seemed stretching wide
Revealing worlds on every side,
Achievements great and unions sweet,
All man dares face or longs to meet—
Concentred in one burning thought
That taught by love—to love had taught!
He kissed her hand—nor further dared,
Not even pressed the heart he shared;
Strange Providence! that thoughts most dear
Should wrap round Love a holy Fear
And give two hearts by ardours tossed,
Where most of danger safety most!
Not even pressed the heart he shared;
205
Should wrap round Love a holy Fear
And give two hearts by ardours tossed,
Where most of danger safety most!
And still she sat serenely bright
Beneath the arbour's clear green light,
A thing to worship, like a shrine
The God-soul's presence makes divine;
Nor flush nor pallor could impart
One shadow from that maiden heart,
But happiness in her did seem
One pure, calm, rich unvarying beam:—
Where winds are whist and storms are mute,
The ripening of a golden fruit.
Beneath the arbour's clear green light,
A thing to worship, like a shrine
The God-soul's presence makes divine;
Nor flush nor pallor could impart
One shadow from that maiden heart,
But happiness in her did seem
One pure, calm, rich unvarying beam:—
Where winds are whist and storms are mute,
The ripening of a golden fruit.
('Twas told me all in after years,
When memory melted into tears.)
Straight smote adown the garden-way
A hard cold step of common clay,
The heedless tread of heavy kind
Unlifted by a soaring mind,
That strikes so dead on sward or hall
As though each footstep were a fall!
Instinctive each to each drew near:
“Well met!”—said Philip, Lord de Vere.
“Lord Caerleon, sir! is not aware
You've so much idle time to spare.
Vast speediness of business men!
What! up to town and back again?”
When memory melted into tears.)
206
A hard cold step of common clay,
The heedless tread of heavy kind
Unlifted by a soaring mind,
That strikes so dead on sward or hall
As though each footstep were a fall!
Instinctive each to each drew near:
“Well met!”—said Philip, Lord de Vere.
“Lord Caerleon, sir! is not aware
You've so much idle time to spare.
Vast speediness of business men!
What! up to town and back again?”
“Not yet, my Lord! the noon of day
Makes a short tarry no delay.
Best travelling, sir! at evening's cool.”
Makes a short tarry no delay.
Best travelling, sir! at evening's cool.”
(“And thence at noon you play the fool.)
My father deemed you far away;
State-errands brook not overstay;
And sir! this house is not the place
To stigmatize with love-disgrace!”
“Ha! sir, you dare.........!”
“I've nothing said!—
Let the cap fit the owner's head.”
My father deemed you far away;
State-errands brook not overstay;
207
To stigmatize with love-disgrace!”
“Ha! sir, you dare.........!”
“I've nothing said!—
Let the cap fit the owner's head.”
A very tempest Warven shook,
But sunk to Clare's imploring look;
A thousand thoughts athwart his face
Sped lifelike with a carnal trace:
His father, who had sent him here
To act a fondly dreamed career,
For his sake too had bade him bear:
Two much-enduring years had flown,
Preferment almost seemed his own:—
And all his prospects thus to hurl
Beneath the insult of a churl,
And, most of all, to part from Clare—
To leave her in her helplessness
Exposed to wrong without redress!—
Hot through his brain the mad whirl flew,
He bowed—not bent—and slow withdrew.
But sunk to Clare's imploring look;
A thousand thoughts athwart his face
Sped lifelike with a carnal trace:
His father, who had sent him here
To act a fondly dreamed career,
For his sake too had bade him bear:
Two much-enduring years had flown,
Preferment almost seemed his own:—
And all his prospects thus to hurl
Beneath the insult of a churl,
And, most of all, to part from Clare—
To leave her in her helplessness
Exposed to wrong without redress!—
208
He bowed—not bent—and slow withdrew.
Clare turned to follow, following not—
A spell had fixed her to the spot
Beneath alternate feeling's sway,
To follow—shame, and fear to stay.
And Philip took her trembling hand,
His burning breath her flushed cheek fanned:
As from the coiling of an asp
She drew her hand from out his clasp.
“By heaven! I love you, and my will
Shall work to its one purpose still!
I cannot and I care not speak
My passion strong in language weak.
Untaught to sue, unused to sigh,
My love is fierce and so am I.
Be mine!—ask all you wish or want!
I've power to give and will to grant.”
A spell had fixed her to the spot
Beneath alternate feeling's sway,
To follow—shame, and fear to stay.
And Philip took her trembling hand,
His burning breath her flushed cheek fanned:
As from the coiling of an asp
She drew her hand from out his clasp.
“By heaven! I love you, and my will
Shall work to its one purpose still!
I cannot and I care not speak
My passion strong in language weak.
Untaught to sue, unused to sigh,
My love is fierce and so am I.
Be mine!—ask all you wish or want!
I've power to give and will to grant.”
209
She struggled in his fiery hold—
He felt her fevered hand turn cold,
While lapsed beneath the o'erstraining reach
Of grief, that fettered tears and speech.
He felt her fevered hand turn cold,
While lapsed beneath the o'erstraining reach
Of grief, that fettered tears and speech.
And Lord de Vere was fair to sight
With noble form and stately height,
Unconscious grace—commanding air,
But more—oh, more was wanting there!
The halo round his presence thrown
Was all his sires' and none his own.
That hard cold smile of inborn pride,
Made not to blandish but deride,
Seemed boasting gifts of wealth and art
And Nature's all—except a heart!
With noble form and stately height,
Unconscious grace—commanding air,
But more—oh, more was wanting there!
The halo round his presence thrown
Was all his sires' and none his own.
That hard cold smile of inborn pride,
Made not to blandish but deride,
Seemed boasting gifts of wealth and art
And Nature's all—except a heart!
And he mistook the veiled intent,
The anguished silence—for consent;
Her trembling form on his was leant,
Her brown hair o'er his shoulders strayed,
His wild arms clasped the fainting maid:
The hurricane the rose may break,
Whose perfume Zephyr dared not wake—
The lips, e'en Warven shrunk to press,
Strength rifled in a forced caress:
When stirred, as tempest stirs a flame,
The brave soul through the sinking frame,
And passed for one wild moment's space
A very June athwart her face,
Then settled in a solemn mood
Where even anger seemed subdued.
The anguished silence—for consent;
Her trembling form on his was leant,
210
His wild arms clasped the fainting maid:
The hurricane the rose may break,
Whose perfume Zephyr dared not wake—
The lips, e'en Warven shrunk to press,
Strength rifled in a forced caress:
When stirred, as tempest stirs a flame,
The brave soul through the sinking frame,
And passed for one wild moment's space
A very June athwart her face,
Then settled in a solemn mood
Where even anger seemed subdued.
“Nay! Fly not, Clare! One moment heed!—
What guerdon can repay that kiss!
If Warven's fortunes claim your meed,
Wealth—rank—all—all he craves are his”—
What guerdon can repay that kiss!
If Warven's fortunes claim your meed,
Wealth—rank—all—all he craves are his”—
“Oh! Lord de Vere, what word or deed
Gave warrant for a wrong like this?
Name one: I'll hold this insult light,
And scorn myself to give you right.”
Gave warrant for a wrong like this?
211
And scorn myself to give you right.”
Baseness may plan and might may do,
But weakness has its own power too;
Men all unchecked by threat or tear,
Those whom they've injured learn to fear:
Silent he stood beneath her spell,
But through his proud heart anger ran
While prouder still her answer fell:
“A Noble—not a Gentleman!”
But weakness has its own power too;
Men all unchecked by threat or tear,
Those whom they've injured learn to fear:
Silent he stood beneath her spell,
But through his proud heart anger ran
While prouder still her answer fell:
“A Noble—not a Gentleman!”
As slowly from the spot turned Clare
He eyed her with a yellow glare
Abashed in deed but not in will,
Deep in his cold heart sinning still.
And Clare in passing heard the talk
Of menials on the terrace-walk;
They fixed her with a jeering eye
As sped she all dishevelled by,
But grew to insolence their sneer
When lingering followed Lord de Vere.
He eyed her with a yellow glare
Abashed in deed but not in will,
Deep in his cold heart sinning still.
And Clare in passing heard the talk
Of menials on the terrace-walk;
212
As sped she all dishevelled by,
But grew to insolence their sneer
When lingering followed Lord de Vere.
With foot that fled and glance that shunned,
By those low whispers thunderstunned,
Clare, who upheld her pride of mood
When others witnessed, sank subdued
Within her chamber's solitude;
Her tears by their own flood repressed
Fell large upon her heaving breast,
As with an effort overgushed
From the poor throbbing heart they crushed.
And thus she sat a weary space,
Her white hand on her whiter face,
Until a meek smile softening stole
Like pale forthgliding of the soul
To meet the hopes in distance given,—
Orphans of earth but heirs of heaven.
And thus at times with Hope's fond art
She sadly soothed her fluttering heart;
For still she deemed that woman's worth
Might pass uninjured o'er the earth
And innate dignity disarm
The thought that dares, though coward, to harm:
Unknowing there are brutish souls
Whom nought restrains and nought controls,
Who love to wreck the good and fair,
If only—that it woos to spare;
And what repels, to them, invites
In strange perverseness of delights.
By those low whispers thunderstunned,
Clare, who upheld her pride of mood
When others witnessed, sank subdued
Within her chamber's solitude;
Her tears by their own flood repressed
Fell large upon her heaving breast,
As with an effort overgushed
From the poor throbbing heart they crushed.
And thus she sat a weary space,
Her white hand on her whiter face,
Until a meek smile softening stole
Like pale forthgliding of the soul
To meet the hopes in distance given,—
Orphans of earth but heirs of heaven.
213
She sadly soothed her fluttering heart;
For still she deemed that woman's worth
Might pass uninjured o'er the earth
And innate dignity disarm
The thought that dares, though coward, to harm:
Unknowing there are brutish souls
Whom nought restrains and nought controls,
Who love to wreck the good and fair,
If only—that it woos to spare;
And what repels, to them, invites
In strange perverseness of delights.
But strength o'ertasked began to fail,
Her tender cheek was growing pale—
And those few ties of early worth
That bound her aching heart to earth—
The cherished dead in blessed graves,
The friends afar o'er hills and waves,
How had they burned with anger's glow
Her slightest suffering to know!
Yet vain alike had been their pain,
Their pity and their anger vain—
For hers could be no better lot
And change be only—change of spot.
Her tender cheek was growing pale—
And those few ties of early worth
That bound her aching heart to earth—
The cherished dead in blessed graves,
The friends afar o'er hills and waves,
214
Her slightest suffering to know!
Yet vain alike had been their pain,
Their pity and their anger vain—
For hers could be no better lot
And change be only—change of spot.
Oh! other were it, if the poor
Had spirits modelled to endure,
And hardened souls no sin could soil—
Not framed to feel but made to toil!
Mere stubborn forms, thus wrought to prove
Tools of a caste—machines to move—
Untaught to hope—unused to love!
But while they still like us have feelings,
And glimpses true of bright revealings,
How can they bear the scourge's pain
And not be tempted to complain?
Plod life's hard way with bleeding feet
Nor curse the bitter thorns they meet?
Had spirits modelled to endure,
And hardened souls no sin could soil—
Not framed to feel but made to toil!
Mere stubborn forms, thus wrought to prove
Tools of a caste—machines to move—
Untaught to hope—unused to love!
But while they still like us have feelings,
And glimpses true of bright revealings,
How can they bear the scourge's pain
And not be tempted to complain?
Plod life's hard way with bleeding feet
Nor curse the bitter thorns they meet?
215
If still you ask why Clare remained
Where insult stung and slander pained,
I answer: it is well for ye
To hurl defiance at your peers,
Armed with wealth's golden panoply
Or, better still, the friends of years;
But she was helpless and forlorn,
Sent from a kind hand's fostering care,
Unused to wrong, neglect and scorn,
No home to seek—no heart to dare:
For could she now—in self-distress—
Increase that poor home's wretchedness?
It was a haven she had found,
Life but a whirlpool flashing round:
No wonder that she still should shrink
To quit the rough rock's sheltering brink
For waves where stronger swimmers sink.
Where insult stung and slander pained,
I answer: it is well for ye
To hurl defiance at your peers,
Armed with wealth's golden panoply
Or, better still, the friends of years;
But she was helpless and forlorn,
Sent from a kind hand's fostering care,
Unused to wrong, neglect and scorn,
No home to seek—no heart to dare:
For could she now—in self-distress—
Increase that poor home's wretchedness?
It was a haven she had found,
Life but a whirlpool flashing round:
No wonder that she still should shrink
To quit the rough rock's sheltering brink
For waves where stronger swimmers sink.
And while as yet irresolute,
'Twixt fear and indignation mute—
Sure time his shadowy quiet lent—
Barring the cold discomfort sent
Whenever social rules are rent,
That still avenge themselves and wreak
A watchful strange embarrassment
On all we look—or do—or speak;
And, wearing off by slow degrees,
Monotony returned with ease;
While Philip nor by sign nor word
To that strange meeting once recurred,
But coldly—studiously polite,
Seemed thus oblivion to invite.
'Twixt fear and indignation mute—
216
Barring the cold discomfort sent
Whenever social rules are rent,
That still avenge themselves and wreak
A watchful strange embarrassment
On all we look—or do—or speak;
And, wearing off by slow degrees,
Monotony returned with ease;
While Philip nor by sign nor word
To that strange meeting once recurred,
But coldly—studiously polite,
Seemed thus oblivion to invite.
'Tis rarely that we see combined
Great passions with a grovelling mind;
In such—revenge and hate, estranged,
Appear to spite and envy changed;
And, changed in names and natures all,
Creation to the Small seems small;
While quailing aye the eye of Sin
Shuns scrutiny as terror's twin:
But Philip, born beyond control,
Had still the giant in his soul;
No blood by frosts of fearing thinned,—
And when he sinned he greatly sinned.
Great passions with a grovelling mind;
In such—revenge and hate, estranged,
Appear to spite and envy changed;
And, changed in names and natures all,
Creation to the Small seems small;
217
Shuns scrutiny as terror's twin:
But Philip, born beyond control,
Had still the giant in his soul;
No blood by frosts of fearing thinned,—
And when he sinned he greatly sinned.
And thus it was that two dark forms
Rode billowed on his inward storms,
Alternate vanquished or elate,
But present ever,—love and hate;
And with that hatred he pursued
Warven in keen unsparing mood,
And sought, still ready to oppress,
To sting him unto self-redress;
Whilst he, by no false pride suborned,
Could brook the insult that he scorned,
And Clare, whom watchful love made mute,
Screened from his knowledge Philip's suit.
Rode billowed on his inward storms,
Alternate vanquished or elate,
But present ever,—love and hate;
And with that hatred he pursued
Warven in keen unsparing mood,
And sought, still ready to oppress,
To sting him unto self-redress;
Whilst he, by no false pride suborned,
Could brook the insult that he scorned,
And Clare, whom watchful love made mute,
Screened from his knowledge Philip's suit.
218
But love has eyes of vision keen—
Sees things by apathy unseen;
Thus through her cheek of stainless snow,
He read the heart that bled below,
And she,—with anxious ardour pressed,—
While striving to evade, confessed!
Sees things by apathy unseen;
Thus through her cheek of stainless snow,
He read the heart that bled below,
And she,—with anxious ardour pressed,—
While striving to evade, confessed!
Then burnt his very blood like flame,
That all Clare's tears could scarcely tame;
Full soon that tempest ill-subdued
Must fire his sullenness of mood:
He sought the moment, and—it came.
That all Clare's tears could scarcely tame;
Full soon that tempest ill-subdued
Must fire his sullenness of mood:
He sought the moment, and—it came.
Along the gloomy mansion spread
A heavy silence rested dead,
When on the still air wandering by
Arose a cry—a single cry!
And Warven heard—and Warven sped,
As though his feet were lightning-led—
Thought scarce more swift—speech far too slow—
It was a look—it was a blow!—
A twelvemonth's heaped-up anger pent,
One moment found electric vent:
Dashed backward with unequal might
Reeled Philip's form of towering height;
But in that blow the strength was spent—
Faded the flush from Warven's face;
On Philip's cheek a livid trace;—
He turned:—a cry—a heavy fall—
Up rushed the menials from the hall,
And lifted, senseless in his gore,
Pale Warven from the marble floor!
While Philip flushed, irresolute,
In the room's centre stood as mute;
And Clare with love's soft ministry,
Raised Warven's head upon her knee.
A heavy silence rested dead,
When on the still air wandering by
Arose a cry—a single cry!
And Warven heard—and Warven sped,
As though his feet were lightning-led—
219
It was a look—it was a blow!—
A twelvemonth's heaped-up anger pent,
One moment found electric vent:
Dashed backward with unequal might
Reeled Philip's form of towering height;
But in that blow the strength was spent—
Faded the flush from Warven's face;
On Philip's cheek a livid trace;—
He turned:—a cry—a heavy fall—
Up rushed the menials from the hall,
And lifted, senseless in his gore,
Pale Warven from the marble floor!
While Philip flushed, irresolute,
In the room's centre stood as mute;
And Clare with love's soft ministry,
Raised Warven's head upon her knee.
None question asked—none spoke a word—
All read at once what had occurred,
But Lady Caerleon's ready tact,
While others thought, taught her to act
And with a cold discerning sense
Embrace at once the consequence.
Then hung on Clare each menial's eye
With insolence of scrutiny;
And there she stood—dishevelled, pale,
A lily—trembling in the gale—
Her love profaned to vulgar sight,
While festering lips were breathing blight—
And Warven's wrong turned Philip's right.
But she, not deigning a reply,
Uplifted proud her clear blue eye:
“What means your presence? Lord de Vere!”
All read at once what had occurred,
220
While others thought, taught her to act
And with a cold discerning sense
Embrace at once the consequence.
Then hung on Clare each menial's eye
With insolence of scrutiny;
And there she stood—dishevelled, pale,
A lily—trembling in the gale—
Her love profaned to vulgar sight,
While festering lips were breathing blight—
And Warven's wrong turned Philip's right.
But she, not deigning a reply,
Uplifted proud her clear blue eye:
“What means your presence? Lord de Vere!”
“And what—ay! what means Warven's here?
For none will dare—where none invite!
Philip, my son! Why ever still
O'erruled by petulance of will?
We see the tale..of...love....surprised—
A menial's insolence chastised!”
For none will dare—where none invite!
Philip, my son! Why ever still
O'erruled by petulance of will?
221
A menial's insolence chastised!”
Oh! cold was Lady Caerleon's tone,
And oh! her bright eye coldly shone!
For she could smile opponents down
With smiles more cutting than a frown:
And, deepening still, the circle round
The low surmise in whispers wound,
While none replied—and none denied—
And Truth stood mute with grief and pride.
But Lady Caerleon changed her hue,
Dreading for once what might ensue,
When slowly over Warven's face
Death seemed to glide with freezing pace,
And, as she saw that look of stone,
It grew reflected in her own!
She learned to fear who could not feel,
Nor wished to cancel—but conceal:
Thence with bland words of wiling kind,
Essayed to soothe Clare's artless mind,
And, bribing silence, stifling hate,
All fairly spoke—but spoke too late!
For nature still will vanquish art,
And cunning sink before the Heart.
And oh! her bright eye coldly shone!
For she could smile opponents down
With smiles more cutting than a frown:
And, deepening still, the circle round
The low surmise in whispers wound,
While none replied—and none denied—
And Truth stood mute with grief and pride.
But Lady Caerleon changed her hue,
Dreading for once what might ensue,
When slowly over Warven's face
Death seemed to glide with freezing pace,
And, as she saw that look of stone,
It grew reflected in her own!
She learned to fear who could not feel,
Nor wished to cancel—but conceal:
222
Essayed to soothe Clare's artless mind,
And, bribing silence, stifling hate,
All fairly spoke—but spoke too late!
For nature still will vanquish art,
And cunning sink before the Heart.
Oh! then the wounded dove grew strong
With all the greatness of her wrong,
And: “No!” she almost shrieked to feel
The hand that wounded could not heal!
Then in a low soft voice she said;
“Thank heaven! my mother! that thou art dead!
And thy sealed sense is spared to know
This more than wrong, this worse than woe!”
With all the greatness of her wrong,
And: “No!” she almost shrieked to feel
The hand that wounded could not heal!
Then in a low soft voice she said;
“Thank heaven! my mother! that thou art dead!
And thy sealed sense is spared to know
This more than wrong, this worse than woe!”
But when dim life returning came
Like inward light to Warven's frame,
And maimed—scarce conscious yet he lay,
A soul half deadened into clay—
Then Lady Caerleon's brow grew clear,
Then curled her lip that scorned her fear:
Then Clare's pale face with brightening change
Confronted hers in contrast strange:
In either mien's revealing sense
Was joy!—but oh! the difference!—
They bore him thence in mute alarm—
She followed—drawn as by a charm—
And past them slowly—calm and slow—
She glided like a waif of snow,
So proud with love—so meek with care,
With such a wrapt angelic air,
Each seemed to feel with her depart
Something familiar from his heart.
Like inward light to Warven's frame,
And maimed—scarce conscious yet he lay,
A soul half deadened into clay—
223
Then curled her lip that scorned her fear:
Then Clare's pale face with brightening change
Confronted hers in contrast strange:
In either mien's revealing sense
Was joy!—but oh! the difference!—
They bore him thence in mute alarm—
She followed—drawn as by a charm—
And past them slowly—calm and slow—
She glided like a waif of snow,
So proud with love—so meek with care,
With such a wrapt angelic air,
Each seemed to feel with her depart
Something familiar from his heart.
And they became the village talk,
And gossips told in homeward walk,
How the pale student for a space
Abode among them, and was seen
Threading the woodland alleys green:
And how before renewing strength
Restored him to the world at length,
A ministering marble Grace
Beside his couch would silent sit
And tend him in his fever-fit;
And as it passed would glide away
Like soft light from a cloudy day;
And some said: one lone morning grey,
'Mid chill, and sleet, and Autumn weather,
They roamed out in the world together
And, unreturning, passed away—!
And Slander with their names made light,
While Reputation went with Might.—
And gossips told in homeward walk,
How the pale student for a space
Abode among them, and was seen
Threading the woodland alleys green:
224
Restored him to the world at length,
A ministering marble Grace
Beside his couch would silent sit
And tend him in his fever-fit;
And as it passed would glide away
Like soft light from a cloudy day;
And some said: one lone morning grey,
'Mid chill, and sleet, and Autumn weather,
They roamed out in the world together
And, unreturning, passed away—!
And Slander with their names made light,
While Reputation went with Might.—
I will not tarry here to tell
Of what was felt, but what befel:
Lord Caerleon's chiding in his son
Not what he'd willed—but what he'd done
As glaring in the public eye
And hurtful to nobility,
Bringing their name in disrepute,
And voicing tongues, had else been mute,
What time it best behoved their class
Unnoticed through the world to pass;—
Of what was felt, but what befel:
Lord Caerleon's chiding in his son
Not what he'd willed—but what he'd done
As glaring in the public eye
And hurtful to nobility,
225
And voicing tongues, had else been mute,
What time it best behoved their class
Unnoticed through the world to pass;—
Nor Lady Caerleon's joyous air
That Philip had “escaped the snare
Laid by a trickstress' wanton art,
Who sought the hand athwart the heart;
And when that failed, with plan more base
Strove to attach him with disgrace!”—
That Philip had “escaped the snare
Laid by a trickstress' wanton art,
Who sought the hand athwart the heart;
And when that failed, with plan more base
Strove to attach him with disgrace!”—
Nor how throughout their precepts ran
No fear of God, but dread of man.—
No fear of God, but dread of man.—
While yet uncertain Warven's life
And foulmouthed rumours gathered rife,
Lord Caerleon feared to face their spread,
And, vanquished by himself, he fled
To send from forth a foreign clime
Dim absence to the aid of Time,
While wealth and rank combined to awe
The kind conveniency of Law.
And foulmouthed rumours gathered rife,
Lord Caerleon feared to face their spread,
And, vanquished by himself, he fled
226
Dim absence to the aid of Time,
While wealth and rank combined to awe
The kind conveniency of Law.
And so, sweet sister! this wild strain
Has brought us to that hour again,
When in that old room side by side
We sadly stood at evening-tide;
And yet, methought, amid thy sighs
I saw a childish pleasure rise,
A tear to leave me, but a smile
For sights that stir and scenes that wile;
Oh! prophet-sign that, sadly true,
The shadow of the future threw,
While smiling, weeping—rainbow-showers,
Lit those last sad, dear, evening-hours.
Has brought us to that hour again,
When in that old room side by side
We sadly stood at evening-tide;
And yet, methought, amid thy sighs
I saw a childish pleasure rise,
A tear to leave me, but a smile
For sights that stir and scenes that wile;
Oh! prophet-sign that, sadly true,
The shadow of the future threw,
While smiling, weeping—rainbow-showers,
Lit those last sad, dear, evening-hours.
A storm but just had rolled away
And hung its gauds on flower and spray,
While that brave alchemist, the thunder,
Had wrought his mimicries of wonder
And turned the mists to diamonds brightening
Beneath the magic of his lightning.
And hung its gauds on flower and spray,
227
Had wrought his mimicries of wonder
And turned the mists to diamonds brightening
Beneath the magic of his lightning.
A fresh breath came from Nature's lip,
Hung with clear dews that gods might sip;
The forest-depths were all astir,
From pine-tassel to chorister,
And slanting sunlight through them wound
Embroideries gold on emerald ground:
When forth we went, we two alone,
With hearts that beat in unison
Like two lutes filled with one sad tone;
And when tears failed to give relief,
We laughed aloud from very grief!
And how we sported! Never yet
We'd gambolled thus—in very madness—
As though perforce 'twere to forget
Ourselves beneath that desperate gladness.
The house-clock rung the homeward toll—
Dusk shadow crowned the beechen knoll—
The mists crept round with large dim tears,
Forth-shadowings of uprising years—
The night drew in with darksome weather—
Thus passed our childhood's last together!
Hung with clear dews that gods might sip;
The forest-depths were all astir,
From pine-tassel to chorister,
And slanting sunlight through them wound
Embroideries gold on emerald ground:
When forth we went, we two alone,
With hearts that beat in unison
Like two lutes filled with one sad tone;
And when tears failed to give relief,
We laughed aloud from very grief!
And how we sported! Never yet
We'd gambolled thus—in very madness—
As though perforce 'twere to forget
Ourselves beneath that desperate gladness.
228
Dusk shadow crowned the beechen knoll—
The mists crept round with large dim tears,
Forth-shadowings of uprising years—
The night drew in with darksome weather—
Thus passed our childhood's last together!
THE END.
| The Battle-Day and Other Poems | |