Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

A broad stream, smooth with deep-grassed fields,
Through rushy turnings winding slow;
A dam where stirless waters sleep
Till shot on the mossed wheel below
A dusty mill, whose shadows fall
On the stayed waters, white o'er all.

A vine-climbed cottage, redly-tiled,
Deep-nooked within an orchard's green,
Past which a white road winds away,
That hedgerow elms from summer screen;
A busy wheel's near sound that tells,
Within, the thriving miller dwells.

A cottage parlour, neatly gay,
With little comforts brightened round,
Where simple ornaments, that speak
Of more than country taste, abound,
Where bookcase and piano well
Of more than village polish tell.

A bluff blunt miller, well to do,
Of broad loud laugh—not hard to please;
A kindly housewife, keen and sage—
And busy as her very bees;
A bright-eyed daughter—mirth and health,
Their pride—their wealth above all wealth.

A tripping, fair, light-hearted girl,
Not yet the ripened woman quite,
Whose cheerful mirth and thoughtful love
Light up the cottage with delight,
And with a thousand gentle ways
With pleasure brim her parents' days.

A titled slip of lordly blood,
A few weeks' lounger at the Hall,

To gain new zest for palled delights
And squandered waste of health recal;
An angler in the milldam's water;
A chatter with the miller's daughter.

A meeting 'neath a summer's night;
Soft smiles—low words—impassioned sighs;
The trembling clasp of meeting hands;
The hot gaze met with downcast eyes;
Foul perjuries that pollute the air,
With burning hopes and doubts heard there.

A thin pale face, where Autumn sees
No more the smiles that lit the Spring;
A foot less light upon the stair;
A low voice heard no more to sing;
One now that lost to all things sits,
Now starts to over-mirth by fits.

Dear tongues that ask a gasping girl
Of what to utter were to kill;
Looks that she feels upon her fixed;
Eyes that with tears pursue her still;
Care in the old accustomed place
Of mirth, upon her father's face.

A dark small whitely-curtained room;
A form flung on the unopened bed;
Quick sobs that quiver through the gloom;
Tears rained from hot eyes swoln and red,
And words that through their wild despair
Still strive to shape themselves to prayer.

A winter midnight's starry gloom;
A pausing tread so light that steals
Across the landing—down the stairs,
That scarce a creak a step reveals;
A stifled sob—a bolt undrawn;
A form—low words—a daughter gone.

A fresh-turfed narrow hoop-bound grave,
Heaping a country churchyard's green,
On whose white headstone, newly carved,
The mill's old master's name is seen,
The wayside mill's, that bears no more
The well-known name so long it bore.

A stooping woman scarcely old,
Yet with the feeble walk of age,
The dull faint sense of whose blank mind
No thing around her can engage,
Yet who, when into speech beguiled,
Will mutter of some absent child.

A costly-furnished west-end room,
Whose mirrors—pictures—all things show
A stintless and abounding wealth,
An easeful luxury few can know;
A flaunting thing its glare within;
A thing of shame, remorse and sin.

A noise of quarrel; keen reproach,
Fronted with taunt, loud oath and curse,
Heaped out with such vile store of scorn
That hate in vain might seek for worse;
Meek pleadings, stricken to a close
With, shame to manhood! brutal blows.

A thing that once was woman; white,
Thin—haggard—hollow-eyed and wan;
A horror that the shuddering eye
Starts back aghast from resting on,
Whose only joy now left is drink,
Whose fire burns out the power to think.

A bridge all Winter keen with gusts,
On whose cold pathways lies the night;
Stony and desolate and dark,
Save round the gas-lamps' flickering light,
And swept by drifts of icy sleet
That numb each houseless wretch they meet.

A wintry river broad and black
That through dark arches slides along,
Ringed where the gaslights on it play
With coiling eddies swirling strong,
That far below the dizzy height
Of the dark bridge swim through the night.

A crouching form that through the gloom
Paces its stones a hundred times,
That pausing—glancing keenly round,
The dark high balustrade up-climbs;
A plunge—a shriek. From all its woes
A weary soul hath calm repose.

A long bright suite of stately rooms,
Where to soft music's changeful swell
Keeps time the beat of falling feet,
And all things but of pleasure tell,
Where, partner gay of noblest hands,
The suicide's seducer stands.

A DIRGE.

CONCLUSION TO “SKETCHES FROM A PAINTER'S STUDIO.”

Here let never wild winds rave;
Winter howl not o'er her tomb;
Only come anigh this grave
Summer shade and gentle gloom,
And round it ever soft low winds keep moan,
And sobs flow by,
And faint airs sigh
Sad murmurs of the fading year alone.
Low we laid her, cold and pale,
Whiter than her folding shroud,
With a grief not told aloud,
Sudden sob and smothered wail;
Withered violets tell her tale—
Tender blooms, the gleam swift lost,
The fleeting breath

Of early Spring tempts forth to blighting frost
And icy death.
Unoped lilies o'er her tomb
strew—
Primroses—the purple bloom
Of hyacinths and faint perfume
Of every frailest star that peeps the April through.
Fair she was and sweet as they,
With azure laugh within her eyes
That tears and sadness gleamed away,
A thing we said unmade for sighs,
Till, woe, love came!
Oh, tears, that love, life's best of worth,
Love, joy of the rejoicing earth,
Her days should claim
From girlhood's mirths and careless sports and gay
Light-hearted laughs and low-breathed prayers away,
For gaze-drooped shame,
For sobs and death—the cold, still tomb's decay,
An unbreathed name.
Yet ever in our thought she lies
A memory all reproof above,
On whom reproach turns not its eyes,
But only love:
Love with a misty gaze of gathering tears,
That no accusing word of chiding memory hears.
But unto him
Comes she not in the watches of the night,
The chamber's gloom,
Thronging the dim
And spectral room
With wan, felt presence, that the shuddering sight
Aches out upon through the dim taper's light,
Till cold damps start
On his dank forehead, and through his keen ears
Throng palpable the utterings of his fears,
And, ghastly fright
Scourging his spotted soul, again he hears
In the old tones that the remembered years
Thrilled with delight,

The grave-closed sorrow of her tale of tears?
Such wages win
The accursed sin,
The serpent sin that on her pureness stole,
Sliming its track across her spotless soul,
Poisoning to ill the holy peace within.
Yet there is rest for all,
Sleep for the weariest eyes:
In peace she quiet lies
Where chequered shadows fall
Across her low-heaped grave,
Where the wild winds in grief forget to rave,
And ever the loud gusts of winter blow
In moanings low,
Wailing for her our sorrow might not save.
The hueless rose,
The pallid lily plant upon her tomb,
So shall their vestal glory light its gloom,
Its shadowing gloom, with the pure gleam of snows,
And their white beauty shall the summer show
Our weeping love for her who sleeps below.

THE TEARFUL CORNET.

To-day, arresting the passers' feet,
A cornet I heard in the hurrying street.

Common the cornet and man that played it;
What was it so telling and plaintive made it?

I couldn't get from it. What could be its spell?
There was one I knew; that I could but feel well.

Often I'd heard our Kœnig play,
But never the cornet before to-day.

Strange was its charm, it must be confest;
Whence was its power you'd little have guessed.

The player was one not worth a rap,
With a broken hat and a coat with no nap.

Out at the elbows—with shoes that let
Out, his bare toes and, in, the wet.

Wrinkled and old—too aged by half
To be standing for pence amid jeer and laugh:

Though many I saw, to my elbows nigh,
Thought little of laughter, as moved as I.

What could the cause be that all of us made
Not able to stir while that tune he played.

'Twas a common street-air, I shouldn't have lingered,
Except I'd been forced, to hear uttered or fingered.

One—why, a month past each urchin had hummed it,
No organ but ground it—no scraper but strummed it.

And yet as it swelled now and died through my ears,
My heart, it beat to it and praised it with tears.

You'll think me maudlin; I wasn't a fool
To let that cornet my feelings rule.

For the powers that ruled in that cornet's breath
Were not age and want, but misery and death.

Away in a dirty lane of the town,
A close court where never the sun comes down,

Up reeking stairs, if you'll pick your way,
You'll come to a garret, so high, there's day.

Neat, to your wonder—cleanly though bare,
Though with half of a table and hardly a chair.

Though the rusty grate seems little to know
Of coals, and the cupboard no bread can show;

Yet the room is furnished, as better ones are,
In city and country—ay, near and afar.

For a silence is there that is hushing your breath,
And throned, on the bed in the corner, is death.

The sunshine seems dim and the day full of awe
As it touches with reverence that old bed of straw,

And the withered face on it, and hair thin and gray,
To pay for whose coffin that cornet must play.

Yes, to pay dues to death for his aged old wife,
That cornet is suing for pence there to life.

Who wonders—not I—my heart to it beat,
When grief and love played it afar in the street!

Who wonders—not I—I never had known
A cornet like that for tears in its tone!

That I felt in its music a terrible sense
Of a something beyond a mere playing for pence!

The heart it was played it—the heart it was heard it,
And therefore it was that old wretched breath stirred it.

God send that few players may play so well
The cornet, such grief and such want to tell!

That the ears of few passers be startled again
By a cornet that grief plays, a coffin to gain!

FROM INDIA.

“O come you from the Indies, and soldier can you tell
Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well?
O soldier, say my son is safe—for nothing else I care,
And you shall have a mother's thanks—shall have a widow's prayer.”

“O I've come from the Indies—I've just come from the war;
And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are;
From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well,
And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell.”

“And do you know my Robert, now? O tell me, tell me true,
O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you!
His very words—my own boy's words—O tell me every one!
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son.”

“Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;
In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share;
Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball,
And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all.”

“O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,
The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare!
O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away!
And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?”

“Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done;
In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your son;
A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say,
And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day.”

“Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue; O husband, that you knew
How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through,
All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!
But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said.”

“He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame,
We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same;

For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune,
But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon.”

“O is he really coming home, and shall I really see
My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it be?
Did you say soon?”—“Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here.”
“O Robert, my own blessèd boy!”—“O mother—mother dear!”

THE STAR OF THE BALLET.

A SKETCH FROM THE SOUTH.

For hours, what crowds have throng'd its door!
From pit to gallery, what a sight!
St. Carlo holds its hundreds more
Than e'er it held before to-night.
From Scotland is she? Well, the South
At length is by the North outdone!
Her name's alone in every mouth;
They're here to see but one—but one—
But one—but one.

They say all London's at her feet;
Gay Paris worships only her;
Her steps' wild charm to fever heat
Even Moscow's sluggish soul could stir.
From West to East, all Europe through,
One round of triumph has she run;
Now here we crown this wonder too,
And Naples flocks to see but one,
But one—but one.

Alike from palace, quay, and street,
Her worshippers to-night are brought,
As if this dancer's glancing feet
Were sunny Naples' only thought;

Who is not burning to adore?
Unseen, her triumph's yet begun.
She comes; her fame has flown before,
And all are here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Look round before the curtain's raised;
How well that beauty acts it there,
In front, to have her white arm praised,
And flash the diamonds in her hair!
But that one face, what does it here?
Its sternness well each eye may shun!
Her countryman? Ah, then 'tis clear,
He too is here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Our Norma's good; yet much I fear
To-night no thunders wait for her;
And scarce, I think, were Grisi here,
Or Lind herself, a hand would stir;
Their favourite air—'tis all in vain;
They would the ballet were begun;
Of her alone a sight they'd gain;
To-night they've only eyes for one,
For one—for one.

She comes! she comes! that wreath of girls,
How fair they float adown the stage!
Now, swift the rosy circle whirls;
Now, breaks, one form to disengage.
'Tis she whom all are hush'd to see!
What thunders, still and still begun,
But hush'd to burst, proclaim, 'tis she!
A thousand eyes are strain'd on one,
On one—but one.

How wondrous fair! and yet, how cold
The perfect oval of her face,
Where all of beauty we behold,
And yet of triumph scarce a trace!

She bends; now, all unmoved, she stands,
As if her right she only won,
Her due, the rapture from our hands
That, well she knows, would greet but one,
But one—but one.

Away—away—her quivering feet
The raptured eye can scarcely trace,
Where all the forms of beauty meet,
And every motion's rarest grace.
She bounds; she whirls; with floating arms
She poises; each by each outdone;
Now proudly pants in all her charms
Amid the plaudits hail'd on one,
On one—but one.

Rain down your wreaths—your rarest flowers!
Heap'd to her feet, let blossoms fall!
Her queenly gaze is raised to ours,
Her lighted eyes are thanking all;
What brought that flush to breast and brow,
That flush that ne'er the dance had done?
That start? She saw each face but now;
Now, now, she sees—she sees but one,
But one—but one.

What does he here? why has he sped
O'er sea—o'er Alps, to front the gaze
Of her, to him but as the dead,
So loved—so lost in early days?
Can she, this bared thing of the stage,
From God and her youth's worship won,
This wept-for sin—can she engage
One thought of his—one thought, but one,
Even one—but one?

Are her old father's thoughts less stern?
Perchance his aged eyes grow dim
In watch for her; his heart may yearn
At last for her who yearns for him;

O baseless hope! he has not sent.
His daughter? Daughter he has none;
He knows not her, from God who went;
He has no child—no child—not one,
Not one—not one.

His home's old Bible holds her name,
Yet, nightly, when 'tis open'd there,
For her who brought his grey hairs shame,
For her, so loved! he has no prayer.
Prop of his age! how could she turn
From God, the world's vain ways to run!
O bait of hell! its fame to earn
With his old curse, but heap'd on one,
On one—but one!

His curse! his curse! O would his heart
Could feel, what unto Heaven is known,
No touch of vice need spot the art
His stern faith holds as sin alone!
Ah, could he know, who brought that start,
What paths of peril she has run,
Unstain'd in thought—in act—in heart,
Would still his sternness spurn the one,
The loved—the one?

'Tis he, her lover of the days
Ere yet she scorn'd her girlish home,
Ere yet she nursed a thought of praise,
Ere yet she knew a wish to roam;
And here, enchantress of the hour,
Her memory's thought has backward run
To the clear burn—the thorn in flower,
The gloaming meetings, shared with one,
With one—but one.

Fame whisper'd, and she weakly thought
She well could thrust her pride above
Her stifled heart, nor e'er be taught
No pride, for long, can conquer love;

Through joy—through triumph, soon that heart
Its deeper tones would ever run,
Till from all other love she'd start,
Through all her temptings, true to one,
To one—but one.

O doubt it not! there have been hours
When raptures pall'd, and praise was pain,
When, crown'd with pleasure's rosiest flowers,
She yearn'd for that still vale again,
Half loathed the city's feverish life,
Half wish'd the hopes of years undone,
To flee the fame—the thirst—the strife,
For some poor home, with him, the one,
The loved—the one.

Ah! still that home she yet may win,
Woo—win it through the world's applause;
To-night, will he not drink it in,
And, ere he dare to spurn her, pause?
She starts; away in air she springs,
Her every former grace outdone,
Till, round one storm of plaudits rings,
She heeds it not; she heeds but one,
But one—but one.

He rose; he's gone; even while, with him,
To leave that life of life she yearn'd;
He only saw before him swim
A scorn, his latest hope that spurn'd,
A fallen shape, that, in his sight,
Dared vaunt the heights its shame had won;
Of whom, to win to God and light,
Remain'd no hope—no hope—not one,
Not one—not one.

He's gone; all vainly may she look,
Through years, shall look for him in vain,
Whose love she once for fame forsook,
And now would give that fame to gain;

That fame, that scarce a pulse can stir,
To gaze on her, though thousands run,
Those gazing thousands—what to her
Are they? Still—still she looks for one,
For one—but one.

He's gone; amid her native hills
He dwells, no more to name her name,
A thought of whom with sternness fills
His heart, grown bitter with her shame;
He little thinks that worshipp'd star,
While crowds around her chariot run,
In thought, how oft! is wandering far
To that loved home—to him—the one,
The loved—the one.

A NEW GRISELDA.

Say you that there's no food for poetry
In all the life around us—that our age
Is too prosaic and mechanical
To find a subject for the poet's pen?
Tush! as well might the blind old beggar say,
Who walks in night through this majestic world,
That all the wonders that he cannot see
Have no existence; trust me, friend, in you,
Not in the manners—spirit of our age,
Or what else you have named, the reason lies.
The want is yours; a Shakespeare yet would find
In many a drawing-room and busy street,
Nay, in the squalid alleys of our towns,
And in our very jails and workhouses,
Full many a pale Ophelia with her doom
Struggling in vain, in wordless agony.
Ah, if you had a Chaucer's eye to see!
How many a meek Griselda round us bears,
With uncomplaining misery of heart,
The load her nature was not fashioned for!

Why, if I were a poet, I could tell
A tale of every-day unvarnish'd life,
That should upon the common heart of all
Knock, and bring tears for answer. In our place,
A quiet village in the heart of Kent,
There lived two families well known to all;
For, through the country, not the oldest man
Could tell the time when first to settle there
The earliest of the Blakes or Hills had come.
There had they, in their two white cottages,
Father and son, dwelt on beyond the reach
Of even our oldest memories; the boy
Growing into labour as the aged man
Grew out of it and laid him down to rest.
A widower long, Nathaniel Blake was now
Not old, but yet some half score years beyond
The point where life slopes downwards, at the time
My tale begins. How plain I see him now
As if he were before me, tall and stern,
With a firm step and an unbending gait,
Though toiling years had touch'd his hair to gray;
His eye—'twas like a hawk's, as sharp and bright,
An eye that few amongst us cared to meet,
Even in its friendly greetings, so it seem'd
To look the man it gazed on through and through.
'Twas said by those who knew him in his youth
That none then show'd an eye or laugh'd a laugh
More brimming over with a light heart's mirth
Than he; his tongue dropp'd jokes and moving jests
On all he met with; so he moved, a sun,
To all our neighbourhood; with him gladness came,
And often quoted sayings—harmless mirth,
A very wealth of laughs remain'd behind.
These were his boyish days; but manhood came,
And with it, all the usual cares of life,
And many most men know not; he was tried,
They say, most sorely; surety for a friend
His trusting kindliness could not refuse,
He lost the little wealth his father left,
And sank at once almost to beggary;

He struggled hard with fortune, though his life
At times was harder than he well could bear;
Through want of needful comforts, want of friends,
Of even bread itself, he struggled on.
The first pale streak of daylight call'd him out
To labour, and night found him still at work.
He struggled manfully, and well, at length
He fought his way right up with his own arm
To needful comfort, if not competence;
But, in this sore-fought fight with fate, he lost
All the light-hearted buoyancy of youth,
Its laughs and playful mockeries; in their stead,
Men saw a settled calm, that, if not stern,
Was cold and distant far from his old mirth.
His words were few, and as we could but know,
Even in his very kindliest moments, cold,
Though it was said his heart beat warm beneath.
This was his common temper; but when roused,
'Twas shown how much the world had soured its tone;
His language then was harsh to one and all,
Even to those who knew he loved them most.
He brook'd not opposition; argument
Would lash him into fury that would threat
To root the best affections from his heart
And fling them by, the victims of his will.
One only child, a daughter, bless'd his home.
Now, at the time I speak of, she had grown
Into fair womanhood, but neither plain
Nor very lovely could she well be call'd,
But rather she was neither in extreme,
Excepting when she smiled, and then but few
Could say that Mary was not sweeter far,
And better worthy note and praise than some
Who took the eye more when her smile was gone.
'Twas a sweet smile—so full of human love,
Of gentle tenderness and kindly heart,
Of meek and self-denying charity;
It doubly bless'd her giving to the poor
When weigh'd against the stooping-down disdain
That fell with larger doles from other hands;

She won on all that knew her, so that none,
I'm bold to say, amongst us, harbour'd one
Ungentle thought towards sweet Mary Blake.
The very outcasts of the village, those
Who lived the butts of every other's scorn,
Receiving gentle services from her,
Still felt they were not sever'd from their kind,
And, feeling it, grew worthier; so they sought,
As pleasures to be prized, to do her will,
And run her little errands through the place;
The very chickens of our village green
Flock'd round her footsteps for her gracious gifts,
And cats would try to nestle in her lap,
And bleating lambs thrust noses in her hand,
To find the bread they seldom sought in vain.
You knew her window that the jessamine
And honeysuckle hung with draperies rare,
By the brown sparrows on the garden trees,
That hopp'd and twitter'd, perked their knowing heads,
Or sharpen'd on the bark their tiny bills,
In waiting for her morning shower of crumbs,
That never was forgotten; the mazed bee
That beat its wings against the sunny glass,
And humm'd its longing to be our again,
Her hand threw up the window for, and sent
Through bed and border, noisy in her praise.
I've seen her, twenty times, set free the fly
From the fine meshes of the spider's web,
And do a thousand acts as full of love,
Towards the dumb brute creatures in her way.
So she was loved by everything that lived;
And, loved by strangers, I need hardly say,
That she was dear as sunshine in her home;
And, as she grew, grew tenfold in the love
Of her stern father, and became his pride.
When but a child, her prattling tongue had been
The only thing that brought his own old laugh
Back on the coldness of her father's face;
And, when she grew a girl, there hardly seem'd
A thing that gave him such true, real delight,

As anything he did that pleasured her;
For her the thrift that all his long, hard strife
With poverty had used him to, and made
A natural habit of his life, until
Those knowing not the virtues whence it sprung,
Call'd Blake hard names, close-handed, and so forth,
His thrift, I say, with her became a thing
Forgotten, or, if thought of, beaten down
By the still growing love he bore his child.
So lived she, loving and beloved by all;
And, as years came and went, the prattling child
Grew up into the girl; the laughing girl
Became the calmer woman. Now, perchance,
You ask if such a heart, so form'd for love,
Still treasur'd all its wealth of heart for home?
If her unsumm'd affection were confined
To acts of sisterly regard for all?
Found she no one among our village youths
To harbour some yet deeper feeling for?
I answer, Yes; and so, I could be sworn,
Young Edward Hill could then have answer'd too;
For playmates in their childhood they had been,
Twin hunters of the hiding violet,
Trippers together through the April lanes,
To find the treasures of their earliest May.
They, in the summers of their childish days,
Would roam the bright, green meadows, hand in hand,
And bring a very wealth of king-cups home,
Of silver daisies and pale primroses;
There might you see them many a summer's day,
Their sunny curls half-buried in the grass,
With mighty heaps of field-flowers by their side,
Sorting from all the ones they loved the best,
And tossing with a pretty, sweet disdain,
The lowliest of their gather'd hoards away;
I've watch'd them often, and a sweeter sight
I dare believe the summer never saw.
At shearing-time, together still you found
The tiny playmates, running in and out
Among the thick-fleeced, shaggy, bleating sheep,

And hiding from each other, oftener found
By their own laughter, not to be kept down,
Than anything besides; still were they seen
At hay-time, side by side, in the heap'd fields,
Rolling among the new-mown swathes of grass,
And happy to their very heart's content;
And when the last cart came in triumph home,
Piled up to heaven with all its golden sheaves,
Leaving but stubble for the seas of grain
That dimpled in the dances of the wind,
In the full corn-field—at our harvest-home,
'Twas Mary Blake and little Edward Hill
That rode together on old Dobbin too,
Straddling, with little outstretch'd naked legs,
Not easily across his broad old back,
And laughing through the sunshine, not all blind,
If I mistake not, to the many words
Of admiration round them.

So they grew,
And long the changing pleasures, hopes, and fears,
The changing years brought with them, found the two
Sharing alike their laughter and their tears,
True honest partners in the game of life,
The gains and losses of their ripening hearts
Dividing; long the passage of each day,
Changing so many, wrought no change in them.
As the child loved, the boisterous boy loved on;
The youth, the boy's affection treasured up,
With all the usury by the heart laid by
To swell its sum with every season's growth.
Ah, well I mind the scene when then a dance
Together call'd our village neighbours round,
To laugh away a frosty winter's night,
And kill its quiet with their boisterous mirth.
How noisy then were all! how to its height,
Enjoyment leapt, till all was merriment,
And ceaseless motion, and unmeasured talk!
How the cold hearts of aged folks beat fast
In the tumultuous laughter of the hour,
And young again, and thoughtless of their years,

Half thrust them off their soft old quiet seats,
To join the happy dance they idly watch'd
From the red blaze of the huge piled-up fire,
Whose crackling logs out-roared the very wind
Without, and drown'd its voices in their own!
In such a scene, when every heart was glad,
And sadness, finding theirs no place for it,
Went moaning off to wait for fitter time,
You'd little need, if Mary Blake were there,
To run your eye along the lusty line
Of our young bachelors, a-tiptoe all,
Waiting their turn to whirl their partners off,
To tell if Edward Hill were there or no;
For, in her absence, in her vacant gaze,
That, though it looked on all the scene around,
Seem'd not to see it, straying somewhere else,
In the neglect her partner's questions met,
That, steeped in rustic flattery to the full,
Yet for a moment, honied as they were,
Drew not a word of notice, till at last
Their recollection woke upon her mind,
And brought some sudden answer, short reply,
Some single word, a hurried “Yes,” or “No,”
Which said, the blush that just had stain'd her cheek
With sweet confession of her short neglect
Died off again and left her as before—
In all these things, to those who chose to mark
Their presence, lay the words, “He is not here,”
And round for Edward you might look in vain.
But O how different was the look she wore
When he was present! Lip and eye and cheek
And the full rush of her young glad heart's mirth
Let loose to pour its treasures on the sight,
And dance and wanton in the eye of night,
Why all and each a hundred answers gave
To tell to every one that he was there,
There, there, her partner, facing in the dance,
An Easter sun among the lesser lights
That, sparkle as they might to others' eyes,
By him were dim and lustreless to her.

These were their childish days: but little change
Their youth found in them, save that, it may be,
Edward found pleasure in far more pursuits
That were not shared by her than when a boy.
His dog—a gun—a horse—a hundred things
Had power to draw him from her gentle side,
And to divide his thoughts and hopes with her;
Hence did it happen that whole days would come
And go, without his entering once their door,
While Mary moved like sunlight, sadden'd through
The weeping clouds of April, through the house,
With looks that spoke his absence, which her talk
Dwelt not upon, though now and then a word
Would drop by chance, or, it may be, a sigh
Would tell too well the current of her thoughts,
And how her heart was brooding over him.
But then he came; the April clouds were gone,
With all their twilight showers, that seemed to serve,
Now they were gone, to render but more bright
The bursting splendour of the cloudless day
In the deep joy of sunshine, flooding all,
Till very sadness brighten'd in its touch
And sparkled into gladness in the light.

There are some natures in this world of ours
That walk the earth with spirits wing'd for heaven,
So meek, so wholly strange to selfish thoughts,
That injuries in them wake no sense of wrong.
You might as soon to fierceness stir the lamb,
Or from the soak'd fleece strike the granite's fire,
As draw a spark from gentleness like theirs;
Heap on them ills on ills so numberless
That patience hardly could the load endure,
And, like the o'erladen camel, they shall sink,
But never murmur. Gentle souls like these
Do move among us, and of such was she.
Hence she of Edward's absence took no note
As of a thing to marvel at or blame;
One meek strong love her being so possess'd,
Such sense absorbing of her low desert,

That she had bought him smiles with weary tears,
With heaviest sobs had told her days away,
To lighten his, nor dreamed he owed one thought,
One poor, short, passing memory to her;
His love she never took as gift for gift,
Affection for affection, thought for thought,
But as man takes the charities of heaven,
As bounteous blessings, rain'd without a claim
On our unworthiness, and fitly own'd
With praise and lowliness and humble joy.
Not so her father. Mary long had grown
A want so needful to his widow'd home
That, stinted of her presence, his old years
Had been as peaches hidden from the sun,
Mark'd, not for mellow ripeness, but decay.
No thought had he, long after years had borne
Her childhood from her, of a coming time
When his old ears for her accustom'd foot
Should listen vainly, and his aged eyes
No more would lose their dimness, following her.
And, when at last, time show'd the truth it hid,
The bitterness of his old life came back,
Hardening yet more his nature, hard before.
Strange it had been if Edward, bleakening thus
To winter the mild autumn of his days,
Had found that favour in the father's sight
That met him in the daughter's; natural 'twas
The want of him should, in the old man's eyes,
Be dearer than the presence; so you'd guess,
And so, at last, we plainly saw it was;
Yet all of this was felt far more than said,
For, though his tongue familiar was with words
Harder and harsher than the thoughts they spoke,
And though his speech could little brook a curb
On the straight utterance that its purpose told,
Yet for the doting love he bore his child,
And, if I err not, it may be, perchance,
From something of old fondness for the boy,
Blake ever stay'd the quick, harsh words, that rose
At Edward's coming, and had, utter'd, bid

The youth to never cross his threshold more.
And so the change towards him show'd itself
In alter'd tones, and want of the old smile,
And hearty joke, and greeting when they met,
More than in open speech; and still the house
That had, through happy years, been to the boy
Another home, to him remain'd the same
In all but in its altered owner's looks,
And lack of cordial welcome, when he came;
And so it had remain'd, but for an act,
The very turning-point of this sad tale,
That brought a crisis in poor Mary's fate,
And gave the old man's smother'd passion vent.

Now cursèd be the tyrant laws that set
The worth of game above the good of men,
That for the matter of a wild bird, crowd
Our loathsome prisons with the pride and youth
Of all our villages, and turn to shame,
To vagrancy, and crime, lives that had else
Borne to their country fruit of worthy deeds,
Of honest industry and useful toil;
Bootless it were to try to prove to such
That God's wild creatures, fresh from out his hands,
Are but for luxuries for the favour'd few,
And never meant to be a joy to all.
The man that from a plain and open theft
Would start in horror—ay, would turn to starve,
Will see, in this, no act of shame or wrong,
While even the daring that the crime demands
Adds a wild pleasure to the poacher's life.
Around our village lay wide-spread preserves,
Own'd by the reverend guider of our souls,
And by our squire, both dealers out of law,
Both deeply sworn to put all poachers down;
Adjudging their own wrongs, their vengeance wrung
Its sternest reading from the vengeful law;
And many a felon at the gallows' foot

Could trace up his career of crime to them—
An honest labourer, ere their sentence thrust
Him nameless out to herd with desperate crime.
Now Edward poach'd, as all his fellows did,
And, bold and daring, laugh'd to scorn all fear,
Till, mark'd and watch'd, on one September night,
The keepers came upon him; overpower'd,
He fronted justice, a convicted man.
What boots it to repeat a common tale,
How, fair in fame, before the jail be trod,
He blasted left it, poor in honest hopes,
And rich in promise of despair and crime!
Ah! I remember, as 'twere yesterday,
That bright September morning when I call'd
At neighbour Blake's, and learn'd the bitter truth
From weeping Mary, while, through sobs that burst,
Convulsions of her being, rose, in words
As broken as the heart that utter'd them,
Her father's stern command that never more
Should Edward's name be spoken in their home,
That never more, if she held dear his love,
Should word of Edward Hill be heard by her.
Well might her tears be rain'd like wintry hail,
Her sobs came thick and fast as Autumn's own!
Often, thank God! the madnesses of wrath
The kindly sense of memory will not hear,
And time forgets them; but who knew him best
Knew well, let who would carve resolves in air,
Her father's sunk in marble, hard as life,
By time less worn than deepen'd; therefore, well
Did Mary see how misery bade her weigh
Loss against loss, and treasured love with love,
A father's blessing with a husband's faith,
Each won with agony of such a want
As beggar'd all to come of perfect joy,
And dimm'd the future's dearest smiles with tears.
There stood she; and, through blinding mists of grief,
Saw life depart from father, comfort, home,
All early fondnesses and old respects,
Or, through all after-being, take its way

Afar from hope, youth's fondest dreams and love;
O dull in heart is he who, ask'd her choice,
Ponder'd to tell; need have I to repeat
How love, in its great passion, trod o'er fear,
And prostrate joy and duty, to its end?
The feeblest, in its mighty strength, are strong,
And fears are reckless in its hardihood.
So she quail'd not to look with steady eye
On partnership in shame and blacken'd name,
In chance of penury, and dread of want,
And misery, scorn'd of pity and relief;
Beyond them look'd her eye, to where love stood,
And all between was as she saw it not.
She left her home; she left her father's sight,
Dogg'd with his curse, to share a felon's fate;
For joy and sorrow, she became a wife;
And time stole on, until their names became
But as the remnants of a half-told tale,
That rose with pity and conjecture sad,
When the eye fell upon her father, now
A childless, broken, solitary man,
More worn with stern and tearless strife with grief,
And silent agony of heart, than years;
Never her name was known to pass his lips,
But all who look'd upon him, saw his love,
Laughing to scorn his will, dared hoard it still;
Long afterwards it was, before we knew
How, spite of all, his stern old purpose held;
Little we guess'd that his firm heart had brook'd
To hear his dear, dear girl—his darling child—
His Mary beg, in bitterest want, of him,
Closing all ear of pity to her prayer;
Yes, she had written—written in despair—
In want of bread had written. First, it seem'd,
Turning their steps towards London, Edward hoped,
Flying the knowledge of his guilt, to gain
Honest employ, that so long diligence
And upright years again might make his name
A thing to utter with no sound of shame;
Of yet calm days hope babbled; but, alas!

Hope is no constant prophet of the truth.
Who once has breathed of prison air, henceforth
Loathed of his fellows, walks a tainted man;
To him all paths of good are ever closed,
All ways to crime unbarr'd and open wide.
Dogg'd with a felon's name, he sought for work,
And sought it vainly; month on month went by,
Lowering their slender stock of means and hope,
Till front to front with utter want they stood;
Then Mary wrote; she told of faults atoned
In hunger, disappointment and despair,
A future—fear; a present—misery.
Came there no answer? Yes; “Come back,” it said,
“Leave you your husband, daughter, and return!
“My home is yours, but it is none for him,
“And all shall be forgotten; else henceforth
“Know not your father, girl!” Tears drown'd the note,
And nevermore from her the old man heard.
But let me hasten; for a time again
All trace of them we lost, save that there came,
I know not how, a rumour to our ears,
That Edward, urged of want, to evil ways
Had turn'd, a drunkard and a ruin'd man,
Familiar with all modes of crime and sin;
And often, round our evening cottage fire,
Our thoughts would be of Mary, and our talk
Shape darkest fancies of her state of life,
Her sufferings and her sorrows. Well we knew,
Bred in the strictness of a pious youth,
Much had she changed, if guilt and vice to her
Had grown familiar, and conjecture closed,
Almost with hope's half prayer, that, ere this,
Within the quiet of the grave she lay,
Where grief is not and weariness hath rest;
Alas! alas! how otherwise it was!
O Power Supreme! thy ways are hard to man,
And faith alone has strength to read them right,
Good out of suffering brought—from evil, good.
Business to London call'd me, when, it chanced,
Running my eye across the morning's Times,

What should it light on but poor Mary's name,
Prologue to such a bitter tale of wrong
As memory yet companions with quick tears.
It seems that Edward, bitter with despair,
Turn'd on the cold hard world that on him trod,
And headlong threw him down the depths of crime,
Till he had fathom'd, ere yet well a man,
The last abysses of all guilt and sin;
Herding with vilest lives and shameless ill,
His being shaped itself on all around,
Till he, in will and inward impulse, moved
A thing his sinless soul had shudder'd from.
Oaths, desperate as his days, were words with him,
And, hour on hour, the hellish fire of drink
Raged in his brain and burnt along his blood,
Fled of remorse, of meekness and of good,
Till love, their fellow, desolate and lone,
Last lingerer, with slow steps and turn'd eyes, pass'd,
Leaving to savage thoughts and brutal deeds
The unholy life that it no longer stirred
To acts and words that had some touch of heaven.
And Mary, how bore she the spites of fate?
Lower'd she to his level, day by day,
Soiling the spotless whiteness of her soul,
Dragg'd down by love's own strength from purity?
Or kept she still her sinlessness of youth,
Girt in from ill with childhood's Sabbath ways,
Its infant piety and holy prayers?
The closing horror of her hapless fate
No utterance gave distinctly, yet led on
The following thought, by glimpse and broken hint,
To all but surety that her latter life
Held swerveless on its early blameless way,
Till murder with strange horror strode her path,
And, even for her pureness, smote her down.
'Twas known the law's grasp, closing upon him,
Had never laid its wrathful hand on her,
And, in the night of blood to which I tend,
The dwellers in the house, before her shriek,
Caught threats and curses and disjointed words,

As of one urging to some deed of sin
Another vainly, while prayers, pray'd in vain
By Mary, gave refusal to his will;
Then came fierce bursts of wrath, and then a shriek,
And heavy feet that fled along the stairs;
And, as they rush'd towards the sight of death,
A parting glance of him proclaim'd them his;
Upon the bare room's bloody floor she lay,
A sight that to the flying murderer's eyes
Should have been madness; he had struck her down,
And they who found her in her senseless form
Saw little life; even while I shuddering read,
Within a hospital she dying lay,
Within a prison, he. No time I lost,
Urged by strong interest in her hapless fate;
In haste I went, and, as a well-known friend,
Urged my request to see her. I had come
Most opportunely, for, the by-gone night,
After a weary strife of sense with death,
Life for a moment won; that morning, Sir,
I found was order'd for the solemn act
Of her accusal of her murderer;
For, though life with a fitful brightness shone,
It was a farewell flicker ere it sank,
We saw. O Sir, O Sir, it was a thing
To flood the eyes with sorrow for a life,
To stand, as I did, by her dying bed,
Looking upon the wreck that lay below.
Poor thing! poor thing! through what a thorny track
Of agony and sickness of the heart
Must she have wander'd ere she sank to this;
So changed from her old times of joy and smiles,
That memory hardly on her face could find
One feature of its knowing; worn and thin,
With an unnatural lustre of the eyes,
Through which, with ghostly fire, the parting soul
Peer'd through its mortal dwelling on the world,
She lay, with pinch'd sharp features, whiter than
The ghastly bandages around them bound,
And lips that, moving, utter'd not a sound,

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As though the spirit communed with itself;
Her eyes met mine, and once the old sweet smile
A moment trembled on her hollow cheek,
And a weak shadow of her happy self
Stole back a fleeting moment and was gone;
She named my name, and would have spoken; alas!
A coming tread had fix'd her eager eye
And struck all else into one utter blank,
In which the world, all circumstance and time,
Were blotted out and nothing. O'er her face
The ghastly memory of that fearful night
Shudder'd, and in her sight her murderer stood.
No, not the Edward of her girlish love,—
No, not the husband of her woman's faith,—
He stood before her, one whose sullen front
Was reckless sin; half master of its dread,
To hers his fearful eye stole struggling up,
But, daring not the accusal of her look,
Fell from the depth of love within her gaze,
That love that trembled through her faltering words,
“Edward, my Edward—I accuse you? I?
“O gentlemen, he could not—'twas not he—
“A dream—a shuddering dream—it's all forgot.
“O husband, kiss me—kiss me once again,
“Your own fond wife—and, Edward, when I'm gone,
“Husband—my husband, think of me but as
“That Mary, she that smiled your heart away
“In the old years—that loved you to the last,
“O Edward, Edward, how, no words can say.”

Upon her pillow back she sank, her eyes
Shut in exhaustion; but about her lips
Wander'd the blessedness of such a smile
As gladden'd with its joy the songs of heaven,
A smile that told of injuries forgiven,
And all of earth but peace and love forgot;
A moment more, that glory on her lips,
Without a sound, she pass'd to find that rest
The weary find within the quiet grave.

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Now there's a tale that by our Mitford told,
Our Wordsworth, or in the haunting music sung
Of him who wrote of Dora, should have power
And reign eternal o'er the hearts of men,
Wedded unto the sweetest tears of time.
Go, study them, and see how life is life,
Despite of clothings, customs, forms and creeds,
To eyes that see, as theirs, our nature bare.
Trust me, the heart still throbs and breaks the same,
Laughs with the laugh and lives the very life
Of all the ages. Go—go—study them!

THE BOAT-RACE.

“There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
“I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,
“Or wait a twelvemonth. Books—for ever books!
“Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!
“I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
“To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,
“No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,
“She needing yours. There—there—I love you, Ned,
“Both for your own, and for your mother's sake;
“So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
“And you shall have her.” With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,
He left the subject; and, across the wine,
We talked,—or rather, all the talk was his,—
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others—Clare, the boast
Of Jesus',—and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,
There was young Chester might be named with them;
“Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
“Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins;
“Small chance for you, boy!” And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,

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But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one
Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,
There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond
Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her—found her there,
A summer blossom that the peering sun
Peep'd at through blossoms,—that the summer airs
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold,
Warm as that rain'd on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path
I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming, (was I her thought?) my murmur'd “Kate”
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek,
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest
Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears
Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went,
And in my College rooms what blissful hopes
Were mine!—what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams,
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes,

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Even my new tragedy upon the stocks,
I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight,
Its by-laid cunning back; so, day by day,
From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars
And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,
Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I fear'd but Chester—him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,
And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden greenness of the fields,
And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh,
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,
My eye saw only; one, that morning, left
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart,
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears—
One, that upon my neck had parting hung
Arms white as daisies—on my bosom hid
A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart,
Fill'd with what fondness! yearning with what love!
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine!
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?

104

There was a murmur in my heart of “Yes,”
That sung to slumber every wakening fear
That still would stir and shake me with its dread.
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach,
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn—
A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags.
And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went,
As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd;
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off,
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar,
Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength
Held on, enduring,—mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard,
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick,
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words:
“What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?
“The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
“No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win.”
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry
Burst: “Kate, O dearest Kate—O love—we lose!”
“Ah! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win,”
He answered: “Faith! my boy, I pity you.”
“Oh, if you lose,” I answered, “you but lose
“A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
“I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
“Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness—
“What years with her that I might call my wife!
“Winning, I win her!” O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;
I saw the flush of pride die into one

105

Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke; one only look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, “Chester foil'd at last!”
O how I turn'd to him! with what a heart!
Unheard the shouts—unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.

PYGMALION.

How the white vision shaped it in my thought,
How shall I tell! how in my nightly dreams
I knew its presence, though I saw it not,
In solitude—in cities—'mid the hush
Of forests—'mid the throng and crush of men,
With untold longings, thirsting more and more,
Yea, hungering for its beauty! how with time
I wrestled for that prize, yet won it not!
How even to agony my soul was wrought,
To tears and frenzy, yet I won it not!
I felt its glory flooding through my soul—
The chaos that should bring this wonder forth
I brooded o'er—how long! how long in vain,
Watching and waiting ere its beauty came!
Faint as a rainbow first it wander'd forth;
Misty and vanishing it met my gaze,
Nor came, nor went, the creature of my will.
Yet seems it not with gradual growth it grew,

106

But in one golden moment leapt to light.
O thrice-blest hour that bore her! In a breath
The veil was rent, and lo! before my gaze,
My thought's rapt gaze, that worshipped as it saw,
She stood; and was it given to me to fix
Its haunting shape before my actual sense,
Giving mine eyes its beauty? Then I took
Marble, and wrought, and wrought, how long in vain!
Leaving the marble, marble, and not life.
O blessed Gods! yet knowing not despair;
O blessed Gods! still grasping flying hope;
And one by one, I wrought her beauties forth,
Clearing white brow, and breast, and lustrous smile,
From gross embraces of the entombing stone,
Till at the last, in still perfection, stood
The white sweet wonder, silent in the sun;
Silent, and yet how tuneful with sweet speech,
Utterance divine, that from the listening soul
Drew echoes, though the dull ear heard it not!
And ever, as the summer breeze lays hand
Upon the harp, and shakes its music forth
In passionate sobs, and swells, and dying falls,
So through me did that mystic spirit pass,
Till all my being vibrated with love,
And all my heart's hopes flutter'd round that stone,
And my days wail'd unto it, white and cold,
Silent and wordless, for a mortal love,
Ever, with passionate moanings, for sweet love,
Till life grew to one thought—one throbbing hope,
And the great Gods heard but this prayer in heaven:
“O let her live, and my blest knees shall grow
“Unto your altar-steps in thankfulness!
“But let her live, and all my life shall be
“One sacrifice—thick incense steaming up
“Unto your footstools! not with empty breath,
“O awful Gods! ye know, I pour this prayer!
“I cry, even as the blinded cry for light,
“Even as wild mothers, in a slaughter'd town,
“Shriek o'er their babes for mercy! Spurn me not,
“Dread powers, within whose lips are fearful joys,

107

“Are bliss unutterable—despair, and death!
“Ye crown'd eternities, whose will is fate,
“Ye, sitting in your high Olympian halls,
“Know only bliss for ever—not as we,
“Shades of an hour, whose days are dark with death,
“That perish with the lapse of fleeting years.
“What is our life to your eternity?
“What were it, though we sat on golden thrones,
“And lived the lives of heaven? a passing dream.
“Have mercy, Gods! I sought not for this life,
“This mortal capability of pain:
“Ye gave this air-drawn being to my frame,
“This hunger of the soul ye gave to me,
“Unasking. Gods! from you, I took this thirst
“Of beauty, which, unquenched, what prayers were mine,
“But for forgetfulness—for peace and rest,
“Deep ease, sweet rest, within a peaceful urn!
“What were it, Gods, though ye should bid her live!
“O let her live! What were it unto you
“To lift this cup of joy unto my lips?
“O sweeter draught than ever Hebe bore!
“That I might drink and be even as a God,
“Knowing nor care nor sorrow of the earth,
“But only bliss—bliss for how brief a space,
“Ere Hades hold me, shade amid pale shades,
“Yet, spite of Lethe, wailing still for her,
“Ever for her—for her—alone for her!
“Why are ye deaf? my prayer is in your ears
“In the still night—at rise and set of sun,
“And through the glaring watches of the day,
“Crying this cry for ever—let her live!
“Olympian! throne above all thrones of Gods!
“Hear me! for thou hast known this fire of love,
“This burning passion to be clasp'd of one:
“Panting to Danaë in a rain of gold;
“Protean, in Amphitryon's bearded form,
“Quaffing deep raptures in Alcmena's arms.
“Did not Eurotas see thee as a swan
“Burn unto Leda? Thou whom Semele
“Saw a consuming splendour, hear thou—hear!

108

“In dear remembrance of those fever'd hours
“Of supermortal passion, make this shape
“Perfect with motion and all gifts of sense,
“Feeling, and thought, that I may know her love!
“O thou, foam-born! thou, whom the heavens have heard
“Wailing the lost Adonis! unto thee
“I turn, beseeching! Goddess! unto thee
“This beating fever of the burning blood
“Is worship, and pale passion's pains and tears
“Thou view'st exultant; therefore, Goddess, hear!
“And I will worship thee—thee, only thee,
“Grasping thy snowy altars evermore.
“Lo! a deep vow I vow thee; hear my vow!
“Give this white silence breathing to my arms,
“And ever shall a chorus chant thy praise,
“With solemn songs, within thy temple's bounds,
“Heard of the heavens, and earth, and rounding sea;
“And, in the sunshine, Aphrodite, here,
“Shall Cyprus bow before thy robeless self,
“Perfect in marble, by my chisel wrought,
“Fair as the blue waves saw thee, from the sea
“Rising, the glory and desire of earth.”
So rose my prayer ere the cold morning glared
Athwart the east, and when the last faint flush
Of latest evening died from off the west,
In the hot noon and through the hush of night;
And lo! I cried not unto deafen'd ears
Regardless. O my joy, sing forth their praise,
And let thy thanks go up, even as my cry
Pulsed from the inmost beatings of the heart!
She lived! she lived! O life above all life
Heaven-sent! I gazed on life; along her cheek
Life flushed; life beat within her bosom's swell,
In quivering eyelid and in softening lip,
In rosy limb and every violet vein.
Gods! what a soul dreamed from her dewy eyes!
What life within the tendrils of her hair
Awed me with joy—with joy, even as I gazed,
To stillness—but with joy—excess of joy!
What could I do but gaze—but gaze and gaze,

109

With fearful hope, beholding that fair dream?
Breathing to heaven, if it were but a dream,
So might I dream for ever! But that fear
Each moment mingled more its night with light,
Hope-drawn; joy whispered that I lived awake;
Awake! O never slumber had such dream!
The sculptured creature of my hands was gone;
A new Pandora there before me stood.
Gods! what a beauty sat upon her brow!
Not the white glory on great Herè's own,
Not laughing Hebe's whiter! O that smile—
The very smile that burns love into Gods
From Aphrodite's face! O glistening smile!
O burst of sunlight on a darken'd world,
That smites its sobs to gladness! Lips as red
As Hyacinthus' blood! Ye heavens! her words—
Honey more sweet than ever Hybla hived,
You heard the Sirens seize Odysseus' ear
With Circe's breathings! Such a rounded arm
Won Zeus to Maia! Tresses—nets of gold,
Fit as lorn Ariadne's streaming hair
To catch flush'd Dionusus! One such look—
For one I had laughed to outdare Alcides' self,
And beard swart Hades! Blessed gods! she lived,
And I had hearing but to drink her words;
Mine eyes had vision but to feed on her.
Hope—memory—thought—existence—from my brain
She smote the world—earth—heaven—and all but her,
And joy and grief—life—death—and all but her!

110

A CHARACTER.

IN TWO SCENES.

Lina Merton .............. A Creole.
Helen Merton ................... Her English Half-Sister.
Sir Vivian Mordaunt ............ A Poet, engaged to Lina.
Ninette ........................ Companion to Lina.

Scene I.—

England.
Night.—A Bed-Room.
Lina and Ninette.
Lina.
You hear me, Ninette; not a word of this!

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
If they ask you why I left
So suddenly, and wish'd not one good-night,
Say—say—say anything: I'm reading—tired—
I'd try this dress on—I am nervous—vexed—
But not a word of this—this foolish fit.

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
And—I dare say he'll not ask—
But tell me if Sir Vivian ask, or not,
The reason of my leaving. Mind, I'm well.
Good night. (A pause.)
Ninette! yes, put my pearls away
Into their case. That's right. (A pause.)
And, stay! before
I sleep (I'll read a little), let me know
How long Sir Vivian stays. And—'tis a whim—
See if he talks much, Ninette—if he talks
To any one for long. 'Tis a mere whim,
A foolish fancy; but you'll let me know.
He has not gone?

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
No?—why no?
You speak as if he stood here; I have left

111

An hour; what makes him stay? There's in your eyes
A something that I'd hear straight out in words.
Speak out! I'd know why you are sure he's here.

Ninette.
Madam, I saw him, as you left the room

Lina.
Speak to my sister—well?

Ninette.
The casement's open;
A moment since I'm certain that I caught
Their whispers on the terrace.

Lina.
Whispers! fool?
They talk—they talk aloud; why should they whisper?
Then it is so; at last, I am not blind.

Ninette.
Madam, I only said, I thought

Lina.
Speak out;
I will know all.

Ninette.
All? That is all—what

Lina.
All?
Well—you may go; good night! Put by that book;
I will not read. The night is strangely hot;
Throw wide the casement. All? You do not go!

Ninette.
O Madam! Madam! will you let me speak?

Lina.
None of your pity—I've not fallen to that.
Not to have seen it! Slighted! spurn'd! cast off!
And she—this sister—smiling in my face!
I know your meaning: well, what would you say?

Ninette.
O Madam, have some pity on your sister!
I've known her from a girl, for we were girls
Together; and her nature is as kind
As

Lina.
Mine is hard?

Ninette.
Madam, I said not that.

Lina.
You only look'd it. Well?

Ninette.
She would not tread
Upon a

Lina.
Sister? Ends the sentence so?
Girl, I'm no worm; and let them have a care
On what they tread! The fiery South has fangs—
I'm of the South—that, trodden on, you die.

Ninette.
O talk not so, my lady! I have watch'd,
Shuddering to think that it must come to this,
This evil love from its first growth. Believe me,

112

Though you may blame, you well may pity her.
He is a thing of change; as unstable
As the shifting wind; one, weak—infirm of will—
Who veers with every fancy. You must know well
He cannot bind his purpose down to the act
His reason urges; so his love for you,
Firm for some months, and therefore hot for change,
The rather that she was your opposite,
Flutter'd to her when she again was nigh,
Through struggling scruples, that I could but see.
And she, poor girl! with tears and self-reproach,
Urged on by passion—caught by the very looks—
The very utterance that was dear to you

Lina.
Enough of that: you'll spare to speak of me;
Speak of this sister, and of her alone.

Ninette.
She

Lina.
Stay; I'll tell you what this meek one did,
All heart—all anything that I am not—
She, that will daintily set free a fly,
Balking the hungry spider, spite of God—
This petter of canaries and of pups—
She, knowing this Sir Vivian sworn to me,
With virtuous reluctance—sweetest ruth,
A thousand things are plain—I see them now—
Took pains to snare him; will she hold him too?
And did her best to break her sister's heart;
Though perhaps she guessed my heart was not quite such
As novels deal with.

But, too much of this;
The curtain rose so quickly for their play,
I've been more wordy much than is my wont.
But you've too milky blood—too little fire—
To chat my secrets; you've a wholesome fear,
Seeing me more thoroughly for what I am,
Than most; though little do I wear a mask,
And little do I care how much you've heard.
Yet see you talk not; you'd not earn my hate.
I've only said what, curse her! all must see—
Will see—do see. O stone-blind dolt! ere this,
Had I had natural eyes—you saw it plain—

113

I had—when I forget it, bless her, Heaven!
Not set a step—look'd in a face—not breathed
At home—out—anywhere, but the meanest groom
That ever crouched to the dust I trod, my scorn,
I'd seen, had met me with his sneering pity,
Looking to see me thankful for his alms,
His charitable doles, of “poor” and “poor,”
As if I were a beggar at the gate,
Whining for scraps! And I'm to love her still?

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Off! why should I talk and talk,
As if I were a school-girl, novel-bit?
Go, now; but as the play will be played out,
And all our sex since Eve have been the same,
Curious to learn whatever's from them hid,
I'd know, Ninette, whate'er your sharp eyes see.
You think I'll wince to hear of what their love
Must grow with—sugar'd words, and mingling sighs,
And secret meetings—secret—mark you that!
I scare them, trust me! always in their thoughts!
But tell me all—tones—whispers—looks and smiles.
I know her Vivian's well. Fear not for me!
The spasm pass'd for good that shook me first;
And for the future you'll but see myself,
No whimperer, but just one with curious eye
(Perhaps a bitter one—by nature that),
Who'll see each act through; just Faust's ancient friend,
Much in his spirit—eyeing all their plans
To fashion to my taste this strange surprise
They quake to show me. We'll enjoy it, girl,
And study gentle spirits' gentle ways
(Meek Walton's gentle hooking through his frog
As though he loved him), reading for our jest
Another leaf from nature's puzzling book,
And marvelling, in their case, what ending time
Will give their story; tragic-wise, you know,
Some plots do end with sorrows and with death,
Not closing pleasantly as others do,
All tangles straighten'd, and all wrongs forgot,
With marriage, comfort, and a world of sweets.

114

“What will be, will be,” so the proverb runs;
Time hides and shows much; Ninette, we shall see.

Ninette.
I knew—I know 'twill have an evil end.
What good could come of it? what end but ill?
It must—it will

Lina.
Nay, if you prophesy,
A croaking raven, of revenge

Ninette.
Revenge!
I never named it.

Lina.
Well, of ill, then—ill
To this sweet pair, their sister must not hear.
Not one word more: Ninette, I said good-night.

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Close the door. [Exit Ninette.
O God! she's gone,
And, for to-night, this mad self-mockery ends.
I must be calm; I must be calm; there's fire
Within my brain, but I must not go mad.
What's “mad?” To act no purpose out—a reed,
To bend to every gust that passion blows,
And yet not act—act all that reason wills;
That were a hell to shrink from. Let me think:
He loves—he loves her—loves her! Let me say
The words again. I speak them, and my ears
Hear them. Loves her! They scarce have meaning yet;
Loves her, not me. O Vivian, yesterday
Through flowers and sunshine—now one bleak sharp turn
To utter barrenness that cannot end,
For ever—ever! O that burning tears
Would rain this weight of sorrow from my brain,
And let me think unfrenzied of this blow!
Weep? weep and groan? I will not shed a tear,
Not one—not one. May the fierce fire I feel
Blast them. O—O that I were God, to turn
Their every day to sorrow! God, to scorch
Their hopes to blackness! God, to make their love
A hatred and a loathing! Am I mad,
To rave and babble? What are storms of words,
Unless, like the red hail that Egypt smote,
They burnt and blister'd! O sweet sleep! sweet sleep!
When shall I know the sleep of yesternight?

115

Scene II.

Morning.—A Library opening on to a Garden.
Lina alone.
Lina.
O how I thirst and hunger, face to face,
To curse them! not to have seen it! not to have seen
What all were loud of! I to be made the jest
Of all in the house, down to the very scullion,
The kitchen's merriment—a moving joke—
The jeer of the stables! would that I could stab him!
And be the rabble's wonder, days and weeks?
The news of papers, and the talk of taps—
Closed with the rope and hangman? Stab her? why,
That, if one weighs it, is but poor revenge,
Perhaps a loss of that for which one seeks.
No; be not rash; yet rein your passion in,
Though it should choke you, till occasion shriek
“Loose it!”—then—then? Why, here her Vivian comes
I'll scare my Damon. [Enter Vivian Mordaunt].
What you, Vivian, here?

Vivian.
Why, is it strange to see me?

Lina.
But so soon
What miracles cannot that boy effect,
The pigmy Cupid! to have made you rise
By this! by nine! nay, trust your eyes! an hour,
A whole full hour, before you saw the sun,
Unsmitten; then too, sir, your stay was late,
Or I'm mistaken, so the marvel's more;
What brings you? Why, the bees are hardly out,
And larks alone and labourers yet abroad;
Come, tell me why you're here?

Vivian.
Are you not here?

Lina.
How sweet a compliment! most neatly turned.
Ah! there you poets distance others so!
Still, there's this trifling drawback from the worth
Of all your flatteries, you so deal in lies.

116

Vivian.
I—lies?—Miss Merton?

Lina.
O I crave your grace,
Sir Vivian Mordaunt, Baronet, M.P.—
(Title for title)—if bare words affright,
We'll mask them; this one shall have dainty trim;
Your nerves being weak, we'll fit it for your sight,
And call it—fiction; that's poetic phrase.
Now, own you're false.

Vivian.
As false as all my tribe.

Lina.
No falser? Well, you're of a lying crew;
I'd best have shunn'd you.

Vivian.
[Aside].
Does she know the truth?
Or only banter in her bitter vein?
[Aloud].
You'd best have shunned me? Why, your talk is strange.

Lina.
The world is strange, Sir Vivian. Men are strange.
Life and its ways are stranger than I dream'd.
We live to learn strange wisdom.

Vivian.
Come—you deal
In riddles; I

Lina.
Can guess them? can you? Do!
Do!—Nay, where's Helen? Helen shall be here
To praise your quickness; she might guess them, too.
Ah, here she comes; she has a pleasant face;
I know you love that it should bless your dreams. [Enter Helen].

Ah Helen, did you feel your ears a-fire?
I see your cheeks are burning; Vivian and I
Were talking of you. Why, how quick you're pale,
But now a poppy! I but told you, sister,
We talked of you. What could we say but good?
I love you—don't I? Vivian, do not you?
You love my sister?

Vivian.
Love?—your sister?—yes.

Lina.
Why there you two stand, tongue-tied—red and white,
As if, poor children, you were girl and boy,
And feared a scolding. What have you to fear?

117

Come, have you written anything of late?
What, poet, not a sonnet, good or bad?
Hand me that purple volume from the shelf!
Not Tennyson—the next—a poet too—
The gentler Browning; how I hoard them both!
You've read her masterpiece—her Geraldine?
Her Duchess May—that has the antique ring?
She's great, because she's earnest.

Vivian.
True—her heart
Throbs through her sentences, and so they live.

Lina.
Ah, here's a poem that is talked of much;
You know it surely—Bertha in the Lane?
What think you of it? Sure you know it, sister?
The tale's a wild one—not a jot from life—
It must be fancied. On her dying bed,
The elder of two sisters,—as 'twere I,
You listening, sobs into the younger's ears
The untold sorrow that had made her die,
Heart-broken—how, hedge-hidden, in the lane
That names the tale, her own betroth'd she heard
Wooing her sister—both so false to her;
How she had locked this sorrow in her heart
From all but heaven, and in her tender love
For this false sister, she had made them one,
And died to bless them,—blessing them, content.
What think you of the story? Vivian, you?
Surely a touching one, with tenderest love,
And woman's noblest teachings over-brimm'd;
One to fill eyes with purifying tears,
And leave all hearts but better'd? Come,—I'd hear
A poet's judgment of a poet's tale;
Mind, of the tale—the story; for its form,
Spare our poor ears a talk of rhymes and rules
Obey'd or broken.

Vivian.
Why, what can I say
But echo your opinion? Who can praise
Enough the pen that such a wonder drew
Of angel meekness? Who can

Lina.
And you think
This patient sufferer was no puling fool

118

To take her wrongs so lightly? Do you so?
What thinks our Helen? Does she think so too?
What not a word? Why, it is but a tale
We talk of, sister—it is but a tale;
There never was a sister was so false.
Nor ever yet a man, forsworn, so base
As to make a sister turn a sister's days
To bitterness. Have you a word for them?

Vivian.
O Lina, Lina, 'tis an erring world,
A world where all must suffer and forgive
Much—evil, call it—who would win to heaven.
And for this story that this poet tells,
Might there not, Lina, might there not be said
Something—a something even for those who erred?
Say that a man who thinks he truly loves,
And in that thought has pledged his faith to one,
While yet he can change

Lina.
While yet he can change?
I thought you said his faith was pledged?

Vivian.
Yes—yes—
But not at the altar.

Lina.
And what matters that?
The whole earth is truth's altar. Palter not;
There's not an instant but we front a God,
Here—everywhere. Think you—think you that heaven,
Heaven asks of where and when a lie is lied,
And holds speech nothing, spoken in the sight of God,
And for eternity, false—true or false—
As eternity shall teach each soul to learn?
O palter not; faith plighted 'neath a roof,
On some square feet, made holy by a priest,
Is not a whit more damning, being broke,
Than troth sworn freely elsewhere on God's earth,
That God has blessed and sanctified himself.
Go on.

Vivian.
I did not say I did not blame

Lina.
Blame?

Vivian.
Ay, condemn.

Lina.
Condemn?

Vivian.
What should I say?

119

Lina.
Loathe—hate—curse—curse such falseness—foul in him,
But fouler in the sister, base of heart—
(Give me that water!) she that did not spurn him
At the first breath of his baseness, but could plot,
And plot, and plot, against a sister's heart,
Stealing the very thing that made life sweet,
Without which life were but a thirst for the grave,
And days but lived for vengeance. Curse them! Curse them!

Helen.
O Vivian—Vivian!

Vivian.
Look! your sister faints!
Helen—sweet Helen—drink, sweet Helen—Helen!
Sprinkle her forehead—Lina—Lina—mercy!

Lina.
Mercy? I? Why it's but a poet's tale—
Is't not—we talked of? You excusing breach
Of oaths, and those who broke them—I but speaking
Even as my nature prompts me;—I'm not one,
You know, for boudoir nicety of phrase—
And spoke, in natural words, what such a baseness
Would move me to—not being perfection quite,
And weakness, like this wonder in the song,
But a mere woman—flesh, and blood, and fire—
That, stung, will sting, and trodden on, will turn.
It moved her strangely, though. What could so move her?
Well, here's Ninette, and, as I like not scenes,
I'll to the sunshine, and henceforth take care
To criticize my favourites and their songs,
Seeing we treat them so as if they were truths,
By myself. Au revoir! see—she's coming to.

IN PARIS.

'Tis a neat little garret au sixième; cares
Don't trouble themselves to mount so many stairs.

So it's said by Béranger and others in song;
Well, sometimes they're right perhaps, but sometimes they're wrong.

120

O quite of the people are sorrow and sin;
As soon as to palaces, here they'll come in.

St. Antoine's as dear to them—ay, just as dear
As the gilded saloons of the Tuileries near.

In fact, though they home with the Emperor I grant,
They just as soon hobnob with misery and want.

Here now, perhaps, to this still little home,
With its bed in the corner, they've recently come.

Though you'd doubt it, to look at the two figures there,
Who motionless sit with a strange vacant air.

Hand in hand, two quaint maskers, a girl and boy, young,
Too tired to undress, there themselves they have flung.

As they danced from to-night's ball, and yelled through the street,
Quainter masks in our Paris you'd not often meet.

He, a skeleton—she—here all whims are allowed—
The semblance of death, in her straight-flowing shroud.

How still there and ghastly they sit, and how deep
And terrible, one scarce knows why, is their sleep!

There they sit gay and blank-eyed, and never they move;
Ah! if not mere slumber, but death it should prove!

How merrily through the mad dances they'd flown,
As if they but lived for wild frolic alone!

But as they out-did even the wildest, they knew
'Twas the last masked ball that their eyes would view.

He was a student—a milliner she;
Three years or so since they met in a spree.

You know well our Paris—our quartier well;
A student yourself once, its ways need I tell?

They struck up a friendship forthwith—Celestine
And Auguste—and at night never separate were seen.

121

When his lectures were finished—her day's work was done,
Their day then began, with the moon for their sun.

Then for living,—they didn't hold living the rest;
Then only they lived when together and blessed.

And a student and grisette, you know, knowing such,
To make them supremely blest never need much.

A few francs for a dinner and vin ordinaire,
Then for pleasure and mad frolic just anywhere.

A roam round the Boulevards, quays, or lit streets,
Where surely the eye something wonderful meets.

As a conjuror's marvels with cup and brass ball,
Or five piled-up tumblers—a child high on all.

Even the streets are amusing—the crowds and the fops,
The faces—the dresses—the cafés—the shops.

Or, if on the quays, you stay, once and again,
To see the moon silver Notre Dame and the Seine.

Then the Champs Elysées are Elysian with lights,
And buzzing with chatter and heavenly with sights.

And the Cafés Chantant with light jest and laugh ring,
Except when the talkers are hushed while they sing.

Then the play—the Porte Martin—the Opera Comique,
These, when francs can be found for them, often they seek.

But the dances—the balls at the Château Mabille!
Always there—there the full rush of young life they feel.

Never dull there or weary—at care there they scoff;
If they know him elsewhere, here he's waltz'd or polk'd off.

But the Carnival—heaven of all heavens! we ask
Why joy should be trebly joy under a mask?

And can't tell; but that 'tis so no one can deny,
If seeming saints do so—we know that they lie.

122

Auguste loved it dearly—so did Celestine—
They loved it—the holiday crowds—the whole scene.

The time seemed to banish all sadness from earth,
For then all was madness—one wild whirl of mirth.

Day and night, while it lasted, forgotten was all
But masking and spending—the street and the ball.

So three summers have flitted—three winters have flown,
And at last they must part if she's not all his own.

Yes—yes—the time's come when from Paris and life,
He must part for Bordeaux and a practice and wife.

So his parents have written; their letter the two
Have read—soaked with tears—read again through and through.

No—nothing shall part them; they swear it; they part!
What were life if they couldn't live still heart to heart?

Here—here in the height of the Carnival too!
O how dear that she is, that his parents but knew!

But they've laughed off his love when he's written of her;
To his prayers—his beseechings, all heartless they were.

On Wednesday—next Wednesday, his father will come;
On Thursday—next Thursday, he goes to his home.

Tuesday night is the grand Opera ball; come what will,
That last night they'll have of old pleasure their fill.

Then, after? why after be troubled with breath?
If they'll part them in life, they can't part them in death.

So the charcoal in plenty is bought; in the room
Every crevice is stopped, and they dress in their tomb.

For the Ball—for the Ball; let their masking be drear,
Wild and strange as the future, so dark and so near.

As they waltz through the streets—as they whirl through the crush,
Let the passers breathe death—let the awed dancers hush.

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Let the flower-beds of masks in the ball-room's whirl feel,
As the doomed meet their eyes, a strange thrill through them steal.

An air of chill grave-yards—of dim coffined rooms,
That the rainbowed scene darkens and dulls in its glooms.

So, wild drunken thought in each half-frenzied head,
They whirl through the living, dread shapes of the dead!

'Twas the sight of the ball-room—the talk of the night,
Their ghastly array and their frenzied delight.

With strange joy they seemed mad—with some devil's drink drunk;
From their yells—from their laughs, dreader still, the worst shrunk.

Night brightened to morning; mask after mask past
From the frolic, but there were those two till the last.

Then they left; sought their garret; the charcoal was lit;
Hand in hand they grew hushed soon, and there, see! they sit.

When his father to-morrow (he has their address)
Comes here, what his first thought will be, can you guess?

Perhaps that still girl for a wife would have done!
Perhaps she had better have gladdened that son!

It's too late now to alter it—but, perhaps, it seems
Those two silent masks will be ugly dread dreams:

That those ghastly gay ones it won't do to think of—
That his cup will be one that he'd rather not drink of.

But the past is the past; he must manage as well
As he can with such sights, though they seem sent from hell.

And some fathers I know would perhaps lose their wits,
To see a son sitting as that son now sits.

139

ARIADNE.

Morn rose on Naxos,—golden, dewy morn,
Climbing its eastern cliffs with gleaming light,
Purpling each inland peak and dusky gorge
Of the grey distance,—morn, on lowland slopes
Of olive-ground, and vines, and yellowing corn,
Orchard, and flowery pasture, white with kine,
On forest,—hill-side cot, and rounding sea,
And the still tent of Theseus by the shore.

Morn rose on Naxos—chill and freshening morn,
And scarce the unbreathing air a twitter heard
From eave or bough,—nor yet a blue smoke rose
From glade, or misty vale, or far-off town;
One only sign of life, a dusky sail,
Stole dark afar across the distant sea,
Flying; all else unmoved in stillness lay
Beneath the silence of the brightening heavens,
Nor sound was heard to break the slumbrous clam,
Save the soft lapse of waves along the strand.

A white form from the tent,—a glance,—a cry.
“Where art thou, Theseus?—Theseus! Theseus! where?
“Why hast thou stolen thus with earliest dawn
“Forth from thy couch—forth from these faithless arms
“That even in slumber should have clasp'd thee still!
“Truant! ah me! and hast thou learnt to fly
“So early from thy Ariadne's love?
“Where art thou? Is it well to fright me thus—
“To scare me for a moment with the dread
“Of one abandon'd! Art thou in the woods
“With all that could have told me where thou art!
“Cruel! and couldst thou not have left me one,
“Ere this to have laughed away my idle fears!
“He could have told thee all—the start—the shriek—
“The pallid face with which I found thee gone,
“And furnish'd laughter for thy glad return;
“But thus! to leave me, cruel! thus, alone!

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“There is no sound of horns among the hills,
“No shouts that tell they track or bay the boar.
“O fearful stillness! O that one would speak!
“O would that I were fronting wolf or pard
“But by thy side this moment! so strange fear
“Possesses me, O love! apart from thee!
“The galley? gone? Ye Gods! it is not gone?
“Here, by this rock it lay but yesternight!
“Gone? through this track its keel slid down the shore;
“And I slept calmly as it cleft the sea?
“Gone? gone? where gone?—that sail! 'tis his! 'tis his!
“Return, O Theseus! Theseus! love! return!
“Thou wilt return? thou dost but try my love?
“Thou wilt return to make my foolish fears
“Thy jest? Return, and I will laugh with thee!
“Return! return! and canst thou hear my shrieks,
“Nor heed my cry! And wouldst thou have me weep?
“Weep! I that wept, white with wild fear, the while
“Thou slew'st the abhorrèd monster! If it be
“Thou takest pleasure in these bitter tears,
“Come back, and I will weep myself away,
“A streaming Niobe, to win thy smiles!
“O stony heart! why wilt thou wring me thus?
“O heart more cold unto my shrilling cries
“Than these wild hills that wail to thee, return!
“Than all these island rocks that shriek, return!
“Come back! Thou seest me rend this blinding hair;
“Hast thou not sworn, each tress thou didst so prize,
“That sight of home, and thy grey father's face,
“Were less a joy to thee, and lightlier held?
“Thy sail! thy sail! O do my watery eyes
“Take part with thee, so loved! to crush me down!
“Gone! gone! and wilt thou—wilt thou not return?
“Heartless, unfearing the just Gods, wilt thou,
“Theseus! my lord! my love! desert me thus?
“Thus leave me, stranger in this strange wild land,
“Friendless, afar from all I left for thee,
“Crete, my old home, and my ancestral halls,
“My father's love, and the remember'd haunts
“Of childhood,—all that knew me,—all I knew,—

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“All—all—woe! woe! that I shall know no more.
“Why didst thou lure me, craftiest, from my home?
“There, if, thy love grown cold, thou thus hadst fled,
“I had found comfort in fond words and smiles
“Familiar, and the pity of my kin,
“Tears wept with mine,—tears wept by loving eyes,
“That had washed out thy traces from my heart,
“Perchance, in years, had given me back to joy.
“O that thy steps had never trodden Crete!
“O that these eyes had never on thee fed!
“O that, weak heart! I ne'er had look'd my love,
“Or, looking, thou hadst thrust it back with hate!
“Did I not save thee? I? Was it for this,
“Despite Crete's hate—despite my father's wrath,
“Perchance to slay me, that I ventured all
“For thee—for thee—forgetting all for thee!
“Thou know'st it all; who knows it if not thou,
“Save the just Gods—the Gods who hear my cry,
“And mutter vengeance o'er thy flying head,
“Forsworn! And, lo! on thy accursed track
“Rush the dread furies; lo! afar I see
“The hoary Ægeus, watching for his son,
“His son that nears him still with hastening oars,
“Unknown,—that nears him but to dash him down,
“Moaning, to darkness and the dreadful shades,
“The while thy grief wails after him in vain;
“And, lo, again the good Gods glad my sight
“With vengeance; blood again, thy blood, I see
“Streaming; who bids Hippolytus depart
“But thou—thou, sword of lustful Phædra's hate
“Against thy boy—thy son—thy fair-hair'd boy?
“I see the ivory chariot whirl him on—
“The madden'd horses down the rocky way
“Dashing—the roaring monster in their path;
“And plates and ivory splinters of the car,
“And blood and limbs, sprung from thee, crushed and torn,
“Poseidon scatters down the shrieking shores;
“And thou, too late—too late, bewail'st in vain,
“Thy blindness and thy hapless darling's fate,
“And think'st of me, abandoned, and my woe;

142

“Thou who didst show no pity, to the Gods
“Shrieking for pity, that my vengeful cries
“Drag thee not down unto the nether gloom,
“To endless tortures and undying woe.
“Dread Gods! I know these things shall surely be!
“But other, wilder whispers throng my ears,
“And in my thought a fountain of sweet hope
“Mingles its gladness with my lorn despair.
“Lo! wild flush'd faces reel before mine eyes,
“And furious revels, dances, and fierce glee,
“Are round me, tossing arms and leaping forms,
“Skin-clad and horny-hoofed, and hands that clash
“Shrill cymbals, and the stormy joy of flutes
“And horns, and blare of trumpets, and all hues
“Of Iris' watery bow, on bounding nymphs,
“Vine-crown'd and thyrsus-sceptred, and one form,
“God of the roaring triumph, on a car
“Golden and jewel-lustred, carved and bossed,
“As by Hephæstus, shouting, rolls along,
“Jocund and panther-drawn, and, through the sun,
“Down through the glaring splendour, with wild bound,
“Leaps, as he nears me, and a mighty cup,
“Dripping with odorous nectar, to my lips
“Is raised, and mad sweet mirth—frenzy divine
“Is in my veins; hot love burns through mine eyes,
“And o'er the roar and rout, I roll along,
“Throned by the God, and lifted by his love
“Unto forgetfulness of mortal pains,
“Up to the prayers, and praise, and awe of earth.”

A VILLAGE TALE.

The rooks are cawing in the elms,
As on the very day,
That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;
And April's pleasant gleams have come,
And April's gentle rain;
Fresh leaves are on the vine, but when
Will Lucy come again?

143

The spring is as it used to be,
And all must be the same;
And yet I miss the feeling now
That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
The sweetness of the year;
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.

A year—it seems but yesterday,
When in this very door
You stood, and she came running back,
To say good-bye once more;
I hear your sob—your parting kiss,
The last fond words you said;
Ah! little did we think—one year,
And Lucy would be dead!

How all comes back—the happy times,
Before our father died,
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied;
His loss, and all our struggles on,
And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.

How often do I blame myself!
How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
From which she did not shrink!
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain,
And say, she might have lived, I think,
How can I smile again!

I dread to be alone, for then,
Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;

144

Slow rolls the waggon down the road;
I watch it disappear;
Her last “dear sister,” faint “good-by,”
Still lingering in my ear.

Oh, mother, had but father lived,
It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
She would have died with us,
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
Around her dying bed,
Our hands to press her dying hands,
To raise her dying head.

I'm always thinking, mother, now,
Of what she must have thought,
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
That was not strange, to see;
Have longed one moment to have set
One look on you and me.

Sometimes I dream a happy dream;
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church,
Where we so often played;
And I can sit upon her grave,
And with her we shall lie,
Afar from where the city's noise
And thronging feet go by.

Nay, mother, mother, weep not so;
God judges for the best;
And from a world of pain and woe
He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again?
Oh, freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God's love
Ere long to join her there.

148

THE EXECUTION,

AND HOW IT EDIFIED THE BEHOLDERS.

A Sketch.

He staggered on upon the drop; oh, who that saw his look
Can forget it, as his place beneath the gallows first he took,
Can forget the deadly shivering that shook him when his eye
First rested on the heaving crowd agape to see him die,
On the mass of upturned faces that had waited hours below
And cursed the sluggish jail clock whose minutes crept so slow;
Though brutal jokes and laughter were bandied fast about
To serve to pass the time away until he was brought out,
Yet spite of slang and merriment and choice St. Giles's wit,
Of guesses how the dead man's clothes the hangman's form would fit—
Though through the crowd from time to time the roar of laughter ran
As puns upon the dangling rope were tossed from man to man,

149

Though still fresh source of pleasure high for ever new was found
In the murderer's words and doings that from mouth to mouth went round,
And still, with offered bets and oaths, his best admirers stuck
To their calm reliance on him that he'd die with honour—pluck
Though now and then some minutes yet more jollily were spent
In laughing down some milksop fool who hoped he would repent—
Though turpin's rides and Sheppard's feats, rehearsed with pride and glee,
Taught young aspirers to their fame how great they yet might be—
Though now a pocket picked—a row—a women's fight or so,
Served to keep the crowd in humour, still the time was damned as slow,
And when before their straining eyes the dead man staggered there,
With shouts and yells of gladness they tore the shuddering air;
A thousand tongues took up the roar—a thousand rolled it wide;
Ten times it sank and rose again flung back from side to side;
Then silence fell upon the crowd—a hush as of the dead;
You might hear the platform creaking beneath the hangman's tread;
You might hear the paper's rustle where the painter's hand would try
To seize a fine convulsion—a striking agony;
You might catch the poet's mutter of his rhymes in murmurs faint
As he strove in taking measure the wretch's fear to paint;
Of one reporter's pencil a scratch you might not lose,
As smiling he his tablets gave a crowns-worth good of news.
Still on the glaring multitude unbroken stillness lay
Till with a shriek for mercy the felon tried to pray,

150

Then suddenly from out the crowd burst up a scoffing yell,
Their scorn of this, his utter lack of manly pluck to tell,
Nor ceased it when the quivering wretch first felt the hangman's touch
And swooned from out his agony, for nature's strength too much,
But fiercer rose the mingling roar of curse and yell bestowed
Upon the craven dastard who so poor a spirit showed,
And gin-shop pals and jail-birds who had looked with pleasant pride
To see how to the very last the law he still defied,
Who'd boasted how with bow polite the cheering crowd he'd greet,
And how his friend, the hangman, with jeer and jest he'd meet,
That high in gallows' annals would live his honoured name,
A spur to all who'd tread his steps, like him, to finish—game,
Now cursing deep his agony and mocking his despair
The fiercest yelled—the thickest filled with howls the reeling air;
Nor many a damn and many an oath, to roar were hundreds slow
'Gainst him whose chickenheartedness stole from them half the show,
Ay, hundreds swore 'twas cursed hard that out of half the fun
They'd waited there five hours for, at last they should be done;
And women who'd for windows paid, were sure 'twas never right
They should turn the man off fainting and spoil their paidfor sight;
But through the ghastly hell of sound—of curse and howl and yell,
The hangman lifts the senseless wretch from where he fainting fell,
And down the clammy forehead—and down the ashen face,
The cap is drawn, the tightened noose is settled in its place;

151

Now God have mercy upon him upon whom men have none!
A swinging form—a quivering corpse—a stillness—all is done;
A minute more, the sunshine is merry once again
With the buzz of talk and laughing of those who still remain,
With the settling by noisy knots of idlers through the street,
Of which shall be the gin-shop to finish off the treat;
Some, deep in plans of crimes to do, are lounging off to find
Fresh gallows' food, to virtue, to awe the public mind,
And lovers of the good old times and gibbet walk off loud
In praises of the moral good the hanging's done the crowd.

THE MATE'S RETURN.

On the quay, the young mate jumps from the boat;
Three long years has he seen afloat.

Three weary years, and at length he lands;
Yes, there, with his sea-chest again he stands.

Three long years, the world has he ranged;
Well, the black old seaport seems all unchanged.

Now, for a time, no more will he roam;
Money he has, and he'll not from home.

Comfort he'll have, and his toil shall cease;
Hardly he's earned some pleasure and peace.

Now for some land-life and joys ashore,
And one, than all others, to him that's more.

More than his old mother's face, though he
Longs to see that, that no dearer can be.

But there's one to his heart that's dearer still,
One always that's with him, go where he will.

Whose is that thought-of name and face?
Whose but those of his darling Grace?

Grace, the girl that, the long years through,
Always his heart has been constant to.

152

Grace, the dream that has guarded him
Always from sin, in frolic and whim.

Grace, the whiteness, that made him endure
Scoffing and sneer from his shipmates, pure.

Grace, without whom, life joyless were;
And, in a few moments, he'll be with her.

Grace, in a mist his glad eyes swim,
As he thinks of her cry that will welcome him.

Grace, no, flaunting wanton,—away,
Nothing to you has his tongue to say.

Off! stand from him! to her he's true;
To her, his darling, he shudders from you.

Wild was her laugh, but shrill is her shriek;
How does it dare his name to speak!

How does this outcast—this thing of shame,
Know him, and, shivering, shriek his name!

He reels; as if dead, he lies on his face;
God! in that wanton, he's seen his Grace!

THE TRIUMPH FOR SALAMIS.

The Sea-shore of Attica opposite Salamis: Two Choruses, one of Athenian Youths, the other of Athenian Virgins, circling the Trophy.
BOTH CHORUSES.
Joy, Athene—let thy hymns,
Tempest-voiced, exulting rise,
Virgin choirs and bounding youths
Shout thy triumphs to the skies;
Good is of the mighty Gods;
Mortals it becometh well
All their joy and thankful praise
Thus in holy songs to tell.

153

Shout we then a song of gladness
Unto earth and sky and sea;
To the eternal ones our praises
Hymn we—red from victory.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Hark—the measured tramp
Of armëd feet I hear;
Comes the billowy toss of crests,
The gleam of many a spear.
Hark!
Through the gorges of Taurus
The countless hosts pour;
Lo, Sardis hath feasted
And rolled on the war;
Over Helle's bridged billows
The horror accurst,
Over Thrace's fierce borders
The tempest hath burst;
Through wild Macedonia
The deluge hath swept,
And trampled Pieria
Its ravage hath wept;
Base terror Bœotia
And Argolis know;
Thessalia is swelling
The hosts of the foe;
Shakes the earth with their tramp;
With their oars foams the sea;
Yet dareth Athene
To boast her the free?

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!
Crouched for his spring comes stealing on the foe;
Wrath's red right arm is lifted up to slay;
Who save the Gods its threatening fall may stay,
Who save the gracious Gods may shield thee from the blow?
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!

154

Hark! it comes—the storm of war,
Clang of mail and clash of spear,
Swelling on with deepening roar;
Fear behind—before it, fear;
Lo! the brazen waves of shields,
Surge on surge, along they pour;
Blazing towns and ruined fields
Groan the march of Asia's war;
There the chariots' thunder's rolled;
Crested Media's spears are there;
There the Persians' helms of gold
Throng with dread the trembling air.
From the glare of Afric's sands,
Far to farthest India's coasts,
Swarm the tongues of myriad lands,
Mingling in the mighty hosts;
Far from reedy Oxus' tide,
Wandering Scythia's tribes have come;
Hosts of Thebes—the Nile's great pride,
Swell the unnumbered nations' hum.
And he whom all obey,
High on yon ivory car
Whose gems burn back the fiery glare of day,
He comes—the Great King—like to Gods in sway;
Who—who shall dare his onward road to bar,
Who from his wrath shall shield his destined prey?
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Yet this unto the wise is known,
Who loftiest stand are marked to fall;
The envious thrones of Heaven for ruin single all
Whose mortal state has quaffed unmingled good alone.
Lo, blown with swelling pride,
Unknowing aught of ill,
Along the current of their life they ride
Exultant—blind to what the breakers hide,
Till dashed upon the rocks, with awe the wise they fill,
Telling how mortal good with ill is mingled still.

155

So should the prosperous tread
Their way with trembling dread
Nor with insensate pride
Misfortune dare deride,
Beyond whose hate are none except the untroubled dead.
Shall he then 'scape whom power hath taught,
Insane beyond the flight of thought,
To hurl his insults 'gainst the throned Gods?
O'er him the Thunderer nods
Ruin, and on his state
Shame and destruction wait,
And swift he headlong falls, the mock of vengeful fate.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Ah, thrice unhappy we,
Wretches to whom 'twas given
To writhe beneath the heaviest doom of fate!
Land of our birth, to see
Thy dwellers from thee driven,
Thy pleasant homes in flames—thy cities desolate,
Sounding the strangers' tread—prey of the strangers' hate;
O miserable day
That tore our grief away
From the green sun-bathed haunts where we no more might dwell!
O Earth!—O Heaven! ye saw,
With woe and shuddering awe,
Temple and shrine crash down, loved of the Gods so well.
Where's now each murmuring grove
Through whose dim shadowy depths the wood-dove's wail
Stole softly clear,
Where our young feet so long had loved to rove
What time the plaint of the lorn nightingale
Through the hushed night to hear,
The floating moon paused 'mid her radiance pale!
In vain—in vain
The swallow seeks the well-known nested eaves;
The happy homestead, hid in sheltering leaves,
No foot shall tread again;
Where green it stood but ashes heaped remain.

156

Hewn are the fruitful trees;
The bunched vines uptorn;
In fields that plenty heaped, sits want forlorn,
And nought around but desolation sees;
Mourn—mourn, Athene, mourn!

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Hence afar be sadness,
Thought of woe and pain;
Thrilled be all with gladness;
Joy be every strain;
What though, accursed of God,
The fell barbarian trod,
Unsparing, hill and plain,
Loosed was the fury on his track;
His bloody due he might not lack;
Triumph and vengeance unto us remain.
Joy—joy exultant swells
The laurelled hymn that tells
The wonders of our might;
Trumpet-voiced, it burns to shout
Vaunting Asia's hideous rout
And Salamis' red fight.
Io Pæan—on they sweep;
Foams with wrath the angry deep
Beneath their flashing oars;
Io Pæan—fierce the song
Bursts our gallies' ranks along;
Loud Io Pæan, shout the fierce exulting shores.
Swift, brazen beaks on beaks
Dash roaring and with shrieks
And wreck and gurgling groans, the war reels to and fro;
By the strong swoop of Tyre,
'Neath fierce Athene's ire,
How many a spear-thronged bark is hurled the waves below!
Hark—bathed in slaughter, where
Swart Ares fires the air
And hungering still to slay, grim, thunders through the roar;
And see not human eyes
Your more than mortal size,
Ye sprung of ancient Telamon, amid the hurtling war?

157

Thou sea beneath us spread,
Flesh-gorged, with victory red,
How burden we your waves with heaps of ghastly slain!
Buckler and helm of gold,
How are they plunging rolled
Adown thy stormy depths, O ever-sounding main!
Io Pæan—on their prey
Loosed are the avengers now,
Choking gory gulf and bay
With broken oar and shattered prow;
Wedged within the crowded strait,
Crushed, the foe but strive to fly;
Victims bound, their doom they wait;
'Mid the slaughtered press they die.
Swarthy Egypt's courage pales;
Purpled Sidon turns to flight;
With flying Caria's pirate sails
Far the ploughed Ægean's white.
Ha—heard we not them say,
Vaunt of their boastful tales,
Hellas' free strength their hands should prostrate lay,
Athene should the tyrant's breath obey?
Lo,—soon their purpose fails.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Let there be weeping and a sound of woe,
Of wailing and despair;
Rending of robes—in dust a crouching low;
A scattering of bright hair.
How many in the bloom of youth we saw,
In manhood's golden prime,
Go forth, whose noble forms we see no more,
Death-stricken ere their time!
The ears of those who loved them pine in vain
To drink their stately tread;
No footfall from them shall be heard again;
Low lies each dear-loved head.
The god-like, where are they who bounded by,
The shapes whose golden hair,
Like young Apollo's, the soft breeze on high
With joy uplifted? where?

158

They come not back whom we had looked to see
High o'er the mighty throng,
Proud conquerors in the holy games, with glee
And triumph borne along
With linked dance and song and flashing torch,
The veiled bride we thought
For them through flower-strewn streets—through each white porch
With shouting should be brought.
The daughters of Athene who shall tell
Of their untimely fall,
So well beloved by those they loved so well,
For ever lost to all!
How will they rend their braided hair with shrieks!
For them no Phrygian flute
By Samian virgin touched, of nuptials speaks;
For them the hymn is mute.
Up to the unpitying heavens let shrieks ascend,
The cry of ceaseless woe;
Beat your white breasts—your cherished tresses rend;
Weep—in the dust lie low.
No more Ilissus by thy mazy stream,
By green Cephissus' side,
More fair than forms that haunt the maiden's dream,
Shall bound Athene's pride;
The river nymphs in many a sparry grot,
In many a dewy cave,
Swell their bright streams with tears for their sad lot
Whose limbs they loved to lave.
Dumb be the voice of love, that voice so sweet;
The tongue of joy be mute;
Let, through the dance, no snowy tinkling feet
Bound to the deep-voiced flute.
How wearily will life—how sad and slow
The drooping hours go by!
Alas—alas—of old they went not so
When those we mourn were nigh!
Oh, for the pleasant hours that never more
We now again may know!
Oh, for the vanished hours!—shrieks wildly pour,
The fondly loved lie low;

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How through the city's streets the laughing throng,
Through the high tower-crowned gate,
With jest and whispered word and mingling song,
Swept on, unfearing fate!
How in the time of blossoms did we love
Far from her towers to rove,
While bent the cloudless sapphire sky above,
Through field and shadowy grove!
Then fled the winged hours lightning-sandalled by;
No more, alas, they climb
Hymettus' grassy sides or basking lie
Where haunts the bee the thyme;
No more their hands the many-tinted flowers
In wreaths sweet-scented weave
To deck their high-arched brows or garland ours;
Weep; for the fallen grieve.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Wherefore mourn the dead;
In glory now they sleep;
Lulled by ocean's tread,
They slumber by the deep;
Mourn them not—mourn them not.
Fortunate alone
Are they who happy live;
Every good they own,
All the Gods can give,
The Gods in wrath may, envious, take and hapless make their lot.
Only blest are they
Who tread the earth no more;
Their last their happiest day;
Their chance of evil o'er;
Beyond misfortune's utmost reach, in life o'ershadowing all.
But who, oh who as they are blest,
The loved of heaven—the band
Who smiling sank to endless rest
While battling for their land,
Rejoicing 'mid the storm of fight in freedom's cause to fall?

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Tell me not of life's sweet pleasures,
Thrilling love and maddening wine;
Who such joys with glory measures?
Who to change them would repine,
Nor for all after-coming time, life's few short years resign?
What is life? a feverish dream;
Pleasures? shadows fleeting by;
Blest his lot who would not deem,
Grasping deathless fame, to die,
And in his country's festal songs to live unendingly?
Life is short and onward fastly
Speed earth's dwellers towards the tomb;
Lightning feet the hour hath, lastly
Seen before we seek the gloom,
The night that haunts the nether realms and learn our endless doom.
Life is passing; death comes leaping
Towards us, beckoned on by fate;
Why goes up the voice of weeping?
Swift the end comes, soon or late,
For numbered are our earthly hours nor far their latest date.
Rejoice—we will not mourn the dead;
No tears shall dim our eyes;
Be theirs the fame for which they bled;
Our choral songs shall rise,
Our voices swell their god-like deeds in triumph to the skies.
The hurlers of the beamy spear,
The lifters of the shield,
How poured with them red flight and fear
And slaughter through the field?
Who with their resistless might
Through the thickest throng of fight
With reeking falchion, storm-like, cleft their gory crimsoned way?
What voices thundered out
As theirs, the horrid shout
That smote the warring foe with fear—with terror 'mid the fray?
When spear on buckler rung,
And the pæan from each tongue

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Leapt, hurling flight and dread dismay our charging ranks before,
Who joyed as they, to pour
With the wintry ocean's roar
Upon the fierce embattled foe and plunge amid the war?
Sought we the fallen? there
We surely found them where
Was rent by howls of agony the hell of sounds in air;
The short sharp wild death-shrick,
The groan told where to seek
The lowly-laid whose battle-path was trodden by despair.

BOTH CHORUSES.
The mighty Gods are just,
The power of those who lust
To crush the guiltless and the free, they tumble to the dust;
With awe and gladness raise
The hymn of thankful praise
To those who proudest kings confound with fright and dread amaze.
Ægis-bearer—Zeus—to thee,
Lowly bending thus the knee,
At thy feet we bow;
Let—oh let our praise and prayer
Not in vain be poured in air,
Thunderer, hear us now.
God of Gods, thee, all who dwell
In the dread abyss of hell
Or ocean's depths, obey;
All the halls of heaven behold
Throned on high in burning gold,
Trembling own thy sway.
Zeus—deliverer—thee before,
Earthward bending, we adore
For all for Hellas done;
Giver thou of matchless might
In the armour-cleaving fight,
We thank for freedom won.
If the odours that uprise,
Steaming from the sacrifice,

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Grateful be to thee,
Grant that all in Hellas born
Life with chains for ever scorn
And bear the future free.
And thou in thine own city's love,
Goddess, shrined all Gods above,
Pallas, to thee the many-voiced hymn
Grateful we raise
Fond offering of our praise,
Telling how in thy honour the white steer,
Flushed with wreathed blooms, the brightest of the year,
Shall quivering fall
And the thronged city hold high festival,
With incense burned to thee the white air making dim.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Tread we yet a blither measure,
Timed to joy, while flute and voice
Fling abroad abounding pleasure,
Bidding earth and heaven rejoice.
See—upon the raptured sight
Bursts a vision of delight;
Gone are war and war's alarms;
Rusting are the soldier's arms;
Laughing valley—jocund hill
Song again and gladness fill;
Tasked again, the glad earth yields
Plenty to the jocund fields;
Cot and barn and homestead green
Peeping through their leaves are seen;
In the vale the anvil rings;
On the wave the fisher sings;
Morning hears the horn once more
Fright to bay the foaming boar;
Through the shadowing olive grove
Evening woos the feet of love;
Mirth and music fill the air
Home the blushing bride they bear;
Flowers again the sunshine crowd;
Orchards with their fruit are bowed;

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Summer smites the clanging brass
Lest her swarming bees should pass;
Heaped upon the labouring wain,
Creaks the harvest home again;
Drunk with sport and wine and song,
Roars the vintage rout along;
Happy hours and happy earth!
All is sunshine—all is mirth,
Mirth and joys that never cease,
All the bliss that dwells with peace.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Back the wild rejoicing strain
Toss we swift in joy again;
Lo—a vision too I see
Of the glory that shall be;
List—the sound is in mine ears
Of the sights of coming years;
Hark, the crowded quarries hum;
Down, the snowy blocks, they come;
Saw and chisel din the air;
Rises slow the temple fair;
On the lofty rock-hewn base,
Step and glistening floor they place;
Columns white in stately row,
Round about in beauty go;
Architrave and cornice lie
In their strength in majesty;
Colours bright as eyes behold
Streak them 'mid their shields of gold;
Hush thee, song, nor strive to tell
What no mortal hymn may swell,
Beauty unimagined; thought
Fairer than was ever wrought;
Forms that only heaven have trod,
Each an earth-created God;
From the marble's white womb rent,
Throng they frieze and pediment;
Over all, the mighty roof
Rises, glistening in the sun,

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Rises, to the thunder proof,
And the wondrous work is done,
Where for aye, in praise unending,
Is the holy hymn ascending
Unto her—the azure—eyed,
Joy of Zeus—her city's guide.
Nor blind thee yet, O hymn, but with far-seeing eye
The coming glory all descry;
Mast-thronged port and towered wall;
Game and gorgeous festival;
Dionusus' stately rite
In the seated city's sight,
While the laurelled victory
Mightiest bards with contest buy,
And in lofty verse are told
Deeds of heroes—woes of old,
And gods and god-like forms with awe their eyes behold.

BOTH CHORUSES.
Thine, Hellas, is glory
All glory transcending,
Till earth's brightest story,
Till time have an ending,
Till dim grow the memory of all, lustre lending
The world's mighty being,
Till o'er the past flow
The future, unseeing
The deeds hid below,
The glory of Hellas—the shame of her foe.
And thou of fair lands
That engirdle thee round
The fairest—where stands,
Over all high-renowned,
Ionian Athene—through earth sweeps the sound
Of thy triumphs, high swelling,
Swift-leaping along;
The nations are telling
Thy glory in song,
And tongues that thou know'st not thy praises prolong.

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Enshrined in the wonder
Of strangers afar
That broad regions sunder,
Thy mighty deeds are;
When the gloom of the past shall be round thee, thou star,
The robe of their fame thou
Shalt wear and the light
That haloes thy name, thou
Shalt flash down the night,
Till with awe the earth's dwellers bow down in thy sight.

THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.

I love that box of mignonette;
Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,
My mignonette I prize;
Thank heaven, not yet I've learned on that
A money worth to set;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,
My box of mignonette.

I know my own sweet mignonette
Is neither strange nor rare;
Your garden flaunters burn with hues
That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms
No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,
My box of mignonette.

Why do I prize my mignonette
That lights my window there?
It adds a pleasure to delight;
It steals a weight from care;
What happy daylight dreams it brings!
Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,
With you, my mignonette?

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It tells of May, my mignonette,
And as I see it bloom,
I think the green bright pleasant Spring
Comes freshly through my room;
Our narrow court is dark and close,
Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,
My box of mignonette.

What talks of it, my mignonette?
To me it babbles still
Of woodland banks of primroses,
Of heath and breezy hill;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,
Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip as when a girl,
Through you, my mignonette.

For this I love my mignonette,
My window garden small,
That country thoughts and scents and sounds
Around me loves to call;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts
Your worth and love be set,
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS.

Hear what Apollo sang, and what, rough Pan,
To Midas, listening, dull-eyed, judging each,
Beneath the coolness of a stirless pine,
What time the noon its heaviest shadows threw
Down Ida's slopes, and, save each voice and pipe,
Alternate, not a sound the valley heard,
Save only where one hot cicada sung.
First sang Apollo, shaking lightly back
From the high whiteness of his swelling brows,

167

The golden glory of his clustering curls:
“Hearken, O Midas! not to thee I sing
“As to one fetter'd by thy golden gift
“Unto the low delights and hopes of earth;
“But as to one, earth-born, yet above men
“Favoured—one, lifted by the Gods, a God,
“Dealing the good or ill thou will'st to man.
“What are the pleasures and delights of sense
“That I should sing them unto such as thou?
“Not with such, grovelling, will I soil my song,
“Brutish or flesh-defiled; O Midas, hear
“Thoughts that a God should hear—a God should speak.
“Evil and good, what are they unto thee!
“Not sounds that falsely image to thy soul
“The thoughts and things they show to sights impure;
“Their evil not thy evil, nor their good
“Thy good shall be. Not sloth, not restful hours,
“Thy gold shall grasp, rejoicing!—unused life,
“If that thy sumless treasures to thee gave,
“Better wert thou the neediest of thy slaves,
“That fate, with bitter goad of all men's wills,
“Scourges to labour, so, from out thy toil,
“Should help and some poor good for man be wrung;
“Oh, heed not thou the false and luring voice
“That whispers of the poor delights of ease,
“Of slumbrous nights, and dull, unfruitful days,
“These thou shalt loathe, enjoy'd,—enjoy'd and past,
“Leaving no after-life of glorious thoughts
“Of labours garner'd—the full harvest won.
“Lo, gold is power, or power for good or ill,
“And oft, o'erweighted with the lustrous load,
“Have high resolves, white-wing'd, full-plumed for heaven,
“Waver'd aloft, o'erburden'd, but to fall,
“To flutter in the miry ways of life.
“Spurn thou its rule. Rule thou its strength. Thy slave,
“So shall it minister to loftiest ends,
“And lift thee, mortal, to that higher life
“Of nobler toils and struggles for thy kind
“Than others compass, such as strain'd the strength
“Of Herakles, ere yet he rose, a God,

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“O'er labours, vanquish'd, toiling up to heaven.”
Ceased the full song, yet still the sultry noon
Listen'd, even as when Philomel hath ceased
Beneath the moon, the rapt night hearkens on,
Ravening for more of her melodious swells
And gushings of rich sweetness. Then two sounds
Throbb'd through the silence; one, the deep-drawn breath
Of Pan, recovering from the God's strong sway,
And one, far deeper, by dull Midas drawn,
Roused by the stillness from his sultry doze.
Twitching a hairy ear—a mocking laugh
Round his brute mouth and wrinkling all his cheeks,
Lover of cream, the goatherds' God began:
“Earth-born, O Midas, live alone for earth,
“Nor miss its pleasures for an untried heaven.
“Sweet are the plenteous gifts earth has for thee,
“And dear the joys that every season brings,
“The young spring's brightness—the hot summer's shade—
“The autumn's harvests, fruits, and vintage mirth,
“And winter's ruddy gatherings round the hearth,
“While the loud tempest, howling, beats without.
“Ease is thine own; thine, gold; why should'st thou toil?
“Swift comes the day, when to the dreadful shades
“Thy steps descend; live!—yet thou livest; live!
“Live!—wise are they that wring from out their days
“The wine of joy—the nectar of delight.
“Crown thee with roses, Aphrodite's flower,
“The violet and the jasmine, newly blown!
“Wreathe thee with arms more white than Ida's snows,
“But, O, more warm than these deep valleys' noons,
“With wild hot throbs through every violet vein
“Pulsing delight. Sun thee 'neath azure eyes,
“Dewy with passion,—languid with sweet love,
“Brighter than frostiest stars,—lit with desire.
“What joy more sweet than, from the fiery glare
“Shadow'd, beneath the cool of forest boughs,
“Or in some ivied cavern's mouth to lie,
“With honied whispers murmuring in thine ears
“And burning kisses evermore rain'd down
“On half-oped eyes and brow and lip and cheek—

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“Mouth sealed to mouth, the rich breath breathing in,
“In golden dreams forgetting all but joy!
“Wreathe me with sun-bathed droopings of the vine!
“Bind me, O Dionusus, in thy chains!
“Thy slave I would be—ever, be thy slave;
“Brim me this beechen bowl with wild delight!
“Wine—give me wine—fierce wine, the drink of gods!
“Drink, mortal! draughts, more sweet than Hebe bears,
“Earth, in these violet clusters, stores for thee,
“Nor dearer sound has, than the gurgling flow
“Of the bright gladness, from the wine-bag's mouth
“Leaping; drink—laugh and love! lo, these are life!”
Then Midas, brute-like, gave the prize to Pan,
And, in the moment that he stretch'd it forth,
A golden pipe, chased by the lame God's hand,
On his dolt's head he felt the dull ears rise,
And in the stream, he saw himself, an ass.

176

HER JESSAMINE.

PART I.

There's the jessamine she loved so; ah, a curly child she set it
When this garden porch from which it trails so greenly, first was made;
Oh, her joy in its first summers, who that saw it can forget it,
How she wondered at its white sweet stars and shouted in its shade!

Oh, that jessamine—that trellised porch—I never look upon it
But up before me all her little days it seems to bring;
How, brown and bare, her little hopes still prattled blossoms on it,
Still looked for leaves in winter and still watched for buds in spring.

That jessamine—its every spray to her was a green sister,
For, sisterless, her all of unclaimed love on it was spent;
To her its faint sweet odours still were glad fond lips that kissed her,
Its murmurs, living tongues that whispered back the love she lent.

That jessamine—oh, how she prized the pleasure of its training!
No hand but hers, its year's new shoots might to its trellis bind;
'Twas a sound to gladden any heart—her laugh to see it gaining,
May by May, still up the porch's height, along the roof to wind.

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We country folks have fancies, friend, and, to our simple seeming,
'Twas as though for it her fondness still so more than natural were,
That across our evening cottage talk, there'd often float a dreaming
Of a bond beyond the thought of man betwixt that flower and her.

You smile; 'tis but a fancy; true; but so they lived together,
That ever with the thought of her, came memory of the flower,
And yet I doubt, so strongly still the charm is on us, whether
An eye here, without seeing her, looks on it to this hour.

Ay, sights are 'neath that jessamine that your eyes are not seeing;
Each leaf, but a mere leaf to you, to us is a dear thought;
For us, forms move within its shade, to you that have no being,
And whispers wander to our ears, by yours from it uncaught.

'Twas there, in that soft golden shade with which June's sunlights fill it,
That she with Edwin played and laughed through many a girlish day;
'Twas there, the girl no longer now, she heard the flushed air still it
To catch the yes that murmured her young heart to him away.

And there, when our consent was won, how many a glad still hour,
How many a white night star above their lingering partings past,
While, sweeter than the sweetness far of every folded flower,
Through their low words, murmured up a love through all their years to last.

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Her jessamine—her jessamine—a bride before the altar
Of our gray old ivied church she stood and yet 'twas with her there;
They who heard her low sweet murmurs there the holy service falter,
Saw a spray of its pure silver stars wreathed in her soft brown hair.

Her jessamine — her jessamine — years come and go, estranging
Hands from hands and hearts from hearts, but still her love for it's the same;
Nay, even now a letter scarce can love for love be changing
Betwixt her new and old homes, but 'tis sweetened with its name.

PART II.

'Tis but a sprig of jessamine, yet, Ellen, more I treasure
That withered and discoloured spray, than things the most I prize;
'Tis not alone a memory of some young evening's pleasure,
A whisper of some sweet ball of my girlhood there that lies.

Ah, Ellen, on those faded leaves your eyes are calmly falling,
As if no throng of troubled thoughts—no sights were of them born,
But, seen by me, those blossoms sere, the long-gone past recalling,
Are deep thoughts in the records of the heart's far history worn.

I would that here, my own dear child, here with your mother only,
The page of life before us now, by your eyes should be read,
So shall that spray of jessamine, when I am gone and lonely
You walk the world, be as a voice of warning from the dead.

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O summers of my childhood! days so loved of fancy's dreaming!
O Mays that basked in sunshine hardly crossed of lightest shade!
How little to your simple thought, the coming years were seeming
For griefs unguessed and weeping and for care and trial made!

O green home of my girlhood! low your leaves are rustling o'er me,
As in chequered shades and sunbursts 'neath your mossed old trees I lie,
While ever some sweet blossom slow comes wavering down before me,
Floating down from your old orchard boughs before my half-shut eye.

Your garden—it's before me; the old casements looking on it
Through the leafy gold-green sunlight of their thick o'ermantling vine;
Your gables quaint; your trellised porch; the jessamine upon it,
To watch and train whose sweet growth was a girlish love of mine;

Was a love that strangely gathered strength with every changing season,
That strangely grew to weave itself at last through every thought,
Till fancy seemed to know of bonds beyond the gaze of reason,
In tangling meshes of that strange sweet love, unstruggling, caught.

Ah, I see myself as then I was, a laughing girl, lighthearted,
Tossing back a flood of golden curls from off my young blue eyes,

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As with leap and shout and broken song, its tangled shoots I parted,
Spring's sweet gifts to my sweet jessamine that so I'd learned to prize.

Ah, I see myself as soon as I was, in lilied summers after,
Still a girl, but numbering other years—a knitter, while the sun
Poured a mellow slanting splendour through that odorous porch, and laughter,
Still your father's mocking mine, betrayed our days of love begun.

O those old remembered evenings! all their stillness is around me,
All the odorous purple twilights of those shadowy nights of June,
When through that green porch's trailing sprays, whitestarred, the sweet hours
found me,
Found us, arm-enwreathed together, watching on the crescent moon.

But other—far, far other thoughts that withered spray is bringing,
Another face—another voice—a dance of those sweet years,
Ere yet, a bride, I left the home whose leafy memory's clinging
To all my thoughts—whose old sweet sounds are ever in my ears.

How fair a young thing then I was! long—long has gone the beauty
That in those happy winters won from all, the ball-room's gaze;
Long—long—ah, long has changed the heart that found the paths of duty
Too narrow for its wayward steps, allured to folly's ways.

How vain a young thing then I was! for triumphs only living;
Still restless if there reigned not in all eyes, my beauty's sway;

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Still grudging unto brightest eyes a phrase of flattery's giving,
Each watching gaze another's from my sweetness smiled away.

Ah, I hear again those murmured words amid that dance that fluttered
The pulses of a young heart as the music swelled and died,
That strove against the true thought of the many a vow she'd uttered
Of love for ever unto one—to one and none beside.

And is her partner, dance by dance, he who, than any other,
Has truest right to claim her hand, his own through all the ball,
Or smiles she, thoughtless of him, to the whisperings of another,
Another whom her purity should fitter shun than all?

Has she not startled from his path? has she not fled his gazing,
That, a prophecy of evil, long has crossed her, day by day?
And dares she now the dance with him, her eyes, untrembling, raising
To looks from whose bold insult hers have dropped so oft away?

Yes—he was bowed to—noble—of a brow and lip of beauty
That had fixed the eyes of woman, had he lacked the pride of birth,
Had he lacked the height of station to which reverence seemed a duty,
And ancestral wealth that stood him in the place of honest worth.

And is the love of all her years, for his, a moment slighted?
The love that with her ripening life to fairest growth had grown,
The love so many a summer star had lingered to hear plighted,
Forgot for a false passion that were shame and sin alone?

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Ay, blush for her, my own pure child; blush for a maiden, daughter,
Who spurned not his base flatteries back with instant honest scorn:
Alas for youth's weak vanity! the triumph's pride had caught her,
A titled partner for the night from every rival borne.

And still, as hour chased throbbing hour, sank doubt and scruple under
The insult of his homage that was never from her side,
Till her young ears grew sullied with his flatteries, without wonder
That she stooped to listen to them with a joy she scarce would hide.

The dawn is gray, and in her home, before her glass, unwreathing
The spray of her own jessamine from out her hair, she stands;
“You'll come?” were they his parting words? why stills her startled breathing?
What sees she in the drooping wreath that trembles in her hands?

The past—the past is with her; with a rush of recollection
Throng before her all the pure hours those sweet stars have dreamed above,
All the story of her young heart, dawning into glad affection,
All my girlhood's gentle fondness as it blossomed into love.

Self-abased, I faced the vision of the truth that I had plighted,
Of the trusting love that so had grown to live and breathe in mine;
Throbbed my temples with a flushing shame, to own such truth I'd slighted
For a homage, O my Edwin! worthless, buried love, to thine.

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A moment—all the bonds of shame in which that night had bound me,
The pure thoughts of my girlhood and its fair flower have undone;
Wrong might not home amid the dreams its sweetness summoned round me;
A moment—my sweet jessamine and truth and love had won.

Then wonder not, my gentle girl, that withered spray I treasure,
That lifted me the tempting of an erring pride above,
A pride that fain had lured me on with wildering lights of pleasure,
Through ways that wandered into shame, afar from hope and love.

CHORUSES FROM AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY ON THE FALL OF MESSENIA.

CHORUS OF ACHÆAN SLAVES.

Epode 1.

O shame! O fear and pain! ye make life weary,
A burden hard to bear;
The way of death at times seems not more dreary
Than ours through dark despair.
What is our lot? Toil; toil that knows no ceasing;
Toil wrung by those we hate;
Our conquerors' heaped-up stores of wealth increasing,
Our hands upbuild their state.

Strophe 1.

Fair land unto our chainless fathers giving
The wealth they freely gave
To every stranger, who in thee are living?
The Dorian and the slave.

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The mighty race that, in old days departed,
Gave kings to thee alone,
For strangers till thy valleys, broken-hearted,
Thy fields no more their own.

Antistrophe 1.

Clear broad Pamissus! still, with many a winding,
Through vale, by vine-clad hill,
Go, wandering on, thy sunny waters, finding
All green and lovely still;
Still on thy banks the bright wild-flowers are growing;
They gaze from out thy waves;
But now the grassy banks that watch thee flowing,
Give back the tread of slaves.

Epode 2.

And thou, strong-walled Andania! heaven-founded,
Our heroes' dwelling-place,
No more within thee, as of old, surrounded
By glory, rule our race.
Within thy stony halls, at ease reclining,
Their feast the strangers hold;
For them our maidens' hands are garlands twining,
The wreaths we wore of old;
Our old ancestral goblets, high o'erbubbling
With wine we may not taste,
For them they crown, while thoughts, old thoughts are doubling
Their shame, with trembling haste.

Strophe 2.

Our race no more the brazen helm are clasping;
The shield no more they raise;
No more their hands the freeman's sword are grasping,
As once, in bygone days.
No; we whose sires, the slaughtered foeman spoiling,
Away the rich arms tore,
Or hew the wood or at the corn-mill toiling,
Of glory dream no more.

185

Antistrophe 2.

O life! O load too heavy for our bearing!
We fain would lay thee by:
Alas! alas! bereft of hope—despairing,
At times 'twere sweet to die!
And why then live? The hope of vengeance, swelling
Within us, lights our lot:
Oh! might our tongues but of their woes be telling,
Our own were then forgot.

CHORUS OF ACHÆAN SLAVES.

Epode 1.

Many a kingly hall hath heard,
Poured in many a burning word,
Our deeds in other days;
Many a bounding choir hath sung,
While the golden lyre hath rung,
Achaia's heroes' praise.

Strophe 1.

Who like them for glory burned?
Ease inglorious from them spurned,
Or joyed, with deep-mouthed hound
And woodland spear, at break of dawn,
To rouse with jocund shout the morn,
While echo laughed around?
Bounding on, Taygetus, who
Fleetlier thy untrodden dew
With flying footsteps beat?
Woody glen and rocky height
Saw outstripped the stag's hot flight
By their pursuing feet.

Antistrophe 1.

Vainly fled the panting hare;
Vainly, glaring in his lair,
At bay the gaunt wolf stood;
Whetted tusk and foamy jaw,
Nought availed the bristly boar,
The monster of the wood.

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Rushed they on, unknowing fear;
Needed their devouring spear
No second thrust to deal;
On the mountain's shaggy side,
Red, of old, Achaia dyed
In blood the beaming steel.

Epode 2.

Hurler of the thunder, thou,
Zeus, to whom the nations bow,
Whom trembling gods obey;
Thou dost all our triumphs know,
Won ere yet our race lay low,
Our glory past away.
Where the groves of Altis rise,
Oft our fathers won the prize
That life, in worth exceeds;
Oft assembled Hellas there
Saw, from all, our heroes tear
The meed of mightiest deeds.

Strophe 2.

Where Alpheus winding flows,
Whelmed beneath their crashing blows,
The cæstus-wielders fell;
Over hallowed Pisa's plain
Strove the swift of foot in vain
Our heroes' hopes to quell;
Oft the pride of Hellas hung
O'er the rushing car and flung
Unheeded vows in air,
Toiling towards the goal, behind,
While, before, our steeds of wind
The victory gathered there.

Antistrophe 2.

Many a brawny wrestler there
Poured in vain to heaven the prayer
To foil our might of yore;

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Writhing in our strangling clasp,
Hurled from out our deadly grasp,
They fell to strive no more.
Oft the spear by others thrown
Sought, while, quivering, found alone
The prize the one we hurled;
Oft the ponderous iron, flung
O'er thy plain, Olympia, sung
From us the farthest whirled.

Epode 3.

Many a mighty bard hath told
How, when through the battle rolled
The thunder of their shout,
God-sprung heroes, smote with dread,
Trembling stood, or, turning, led
The pale and shrieking rout.
Battling from the whirling car,
Burst they through the ranks of war;
Who durst their onset stay?
Sank the iron wall of shields;
Fled the dread of fighting fields
Before their onward way.

Strophe 3.

Gods, they cleft the stormy fight;
Backwards rolled the battle; flight
The herald of their path.
On, where danced their sable plume,
In their brazen bucklers' gloom,
Marched devouring wrath.
There the howl of slaughter rang;
There, of falling arms the clang,
Achaia's vengeance told;
Glory there with foot of wind
Tracked by heaps of slain, behind,
Our battle-path of old.

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Antistrophe 3.

Nought might helm or shield avail,
Nought the strength of iron mail,
When fled their thirsting spear;
Death the quivering javelin strode;
Fell the chief who battling rode;
Fell the charioteer.
Graspers of the golden hilt,
Who like them the keen sword gilt
In darkly rushing gore?
Vaunted arms of proof were vain;
Prone through helm and bone and brain
Its way their blue steel tore.

MOTHER AND SON.

“Mother, the storm, how it shrieks without!”
“Fit night for the work, son, we're about.”

“Mother, the razor's smeared with blood.”
“Fling it far where the river comes down in flood.”

“Blood on these hands, blood will be seen.”
“Water, my son, will wash them clean.”

“What will whiten the sheets and bed?”
“I'll wash them in peace now your father's dead.”

“They'll see where the new-turn'd earth looks brown.”
“Son, with my feet I trampled it down.”

“O that dead face! O hide it, night!”
“The quick-lime I strew'd will soon eat that sight.”

“God! I can see his mangled throat!”
“Silence, boy! how you drivel and dote.”

“Mother, his blood, it sears my soul!”
“Son, on mine alone be the whole.”

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“O would that my father were here again!”
“Thank God! that wish is wish'd in vain.”

“Here, even to drive us mad with blows.”
“Thank God! from his heart his life-blood flows!”

“Here, though mad-drunk, to kill us he swore.”
“Thank God! such oaths he'll swear no more.”

“Here again, though he starved us dead.”
“Thank God! now my work will bring us bread.”

“Here again, to repent his sin.”
“Thank God! to heaven never he'll win.”

“O that he were living, and dead were we!”
“Sleep, sleep, my son, and comfort me.”

“How dare I sleep! how dare I dream!”
“Without him, our lives like heaven will seem.”

“Heaven!—hell, hell, is for you and me!”
“God help us! there will your father be!”

“Hell hereafter! hell here!” “Forgot
“Will be hell's pains if we're where he's not!”

THE TREASURE-FINDER.

“Wander forth into the sunshine—go thou, wander in the woodlands;
For the forest's haunts of greenness, leave the toiling town behind:
Here, O mortal, worn and wilder'd, thou art poorest of the poorest—
There, in leafy ease and stillness, lo! a treasure thou shalt find.”

So in dreams the voice spake to him: and the sleeper, eager-hearted,
Woke, and from the dreary striving of the city took his way;

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Breathing hopes in with the sunshine—hopes as golden as the morning,
With a light foot hastening onward—on, to where the treasure lay.

Ah! how want shall lie behind him! in the streets' loudclanging mazes,
He no more shall lack his station in the thronging haunts of men;
He, now vainly seeking burdens that his spirit groans not under,
Searching vainly, scorn'd and hunger'd, shall be served and honour'd then.

Quicker beat his pulse, and quicker; ever pleasure swam before him,
As he near'd the forest's shadows, as beneath its leaves he laugh'd,
As his heart went bounding onward through its glooms and verdurous alleys,
As his soul, its calm and coolness, ever deeper, deeper quaff'd.

On, through ferny dell and hollow—on, by oaken foliage shaded—
On, through sun-fleck'd paths he linger'd, with the woodbines tangled o'er;
Under beechen boughs reclining, lapp'd in odours, songs, and murmurs,
Spake the tongues of Nature through him, as they never spake before.

Swell'd they out in clearest music—swell'd in tones of murmuring sweetness,
Into harmonies transfusing all of beauty pour'd around;
Hues and odours, forms and shadows, sunny bursts of summer brightness,
All that ear and eye were drinking, pouring forth in measured sound.

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And the darkness of his spirit, to the glad tones of his singing,
Pass'd, as pass'd the gloom when David sang, from the dark soul of Saul;
Lo! a glory brightens round him—round him Heaven's own hymns are ringing;
From his kingly thought, Earth's bitter cares and weary burdens fall.

Home returns he; home returning, how the world's keen scoffings meet him—
All the purse-proud scorn of riches—all the sneers of titled birth!
Ah! he brings a treasure back, that makes him heedless how they greet him;
Poor, despised, the Poet knows himself God-chosen great on earth.

CASSANDRA SPEAKS!

With finger raised, with starting eye,
With streaming hair, who wanders by?
With ashen lips, who shuddering shrieks?
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! roaring flames and gleaming arms!
“Woe! rushing feet and wail'd alarms!”
Still—still of woe, but woe, she shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Nods not your Ilion to its fall?
“Nod not high tower and God-built wall?”
Of wreck, but wreck, that wild voice shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Up! in your streets are hid the foe!
“Up! ere they smite and spare not! Woe!”
That cry its frenzied warning shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

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“Blood—steaming blood, on hearth and floor!
“Blood where your knees the Gods adore!”
Of death that cry for ever shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! woe! ye pamperd and ye high!
“In vain ye wake—ye strive—ye fly!”
For your deaf ears that warning shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Years did the Gods to ye ordain,
“That ye should purge ye pure from stain!
“Gone; gone! the hour with vengeance reeks!”
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! gleaming arms in every street!
“Woe! vengeful arms, these wild eyes meet!
“Hot blood—your blood, upon them reeks!”
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

O doom'd! and do ye only flock
About her steps, to scoff and mock?
To hear but dreams in all she shrieks?
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

O awful Gods! ye close their ears!
O wrathful Gods! they know not fears!
To deafen'd ears in vain she shrieks!
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

195

THE ROBIN.

A TALE OF EMIGRATION.

ENGLAND.

My thoughts are like our April,
Now sunshine, and now tears,
As I think I leave for ever
This pleasant home of years;
But, cheer you, sweetest wife,
Ay, be of blithesome cheer;
As happy days we'll spend afar
As ever we knew here.

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They say the land we're going to
Yields corn that turns to gold;
None need, they say, to labour there
Till years behold them old—
Till leisure's self is pluck'd
All blasted with the blight
That's eat away its very heart,
Its power to yield delight.

Come, dry your eyes; your garden, wife,
For that, nay, never grieve;
There kingly flowers shall bloom for you,
Shall shame the ones you leave;
Who'll think of the wan daisy—
Who'll the primrose pale recal,
In the presence there of regal flowers
That bow in wonder all?

There the waratah holds its state
Deep in the forest's shades,
And with the glory of its pride
Lights up the lonely glades;
The indigo there droops
Its crimson from the trees,
And there the cactus' queenly charms
Lure back the passing breeze.

Weep not, no more our woodlands
And our hedge-row elms to see;
Forget them; our adopted land
Has many a statelier tree;
The palm-like zamia there
Endiadems its cone
With bending leaves, whose mateless grace
Our willow's self would own.

There the dark gum-tree's polished leaves
Fling back to heaven the sun;
There, Titan pines upscale the sky,
Uptower'd to here by none;

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The orange garlands there
Its form with odorous snow,
And round the grass-tree's banded trunk,
Its sweeping tresses flow.

Ay, blithely sing my prison'd thrush,
Full soon shall you be free,
For the bell-bird's note outsweetens yours
Beyond the swelling sea;
And, scarlet-vested almsman,
Your latest dole I cast;
For, robin, on your English face,
I look, perchance, my last.

Yet, scarlet one, so long I've loved
Your painted form to know,
There's a dainty gift at parting—
Ay, more than crumbs I throw;
For a pleasant daylight dream
Have you ever been to me,
And my thanks and love I fling you
Ere I pass the rolling sea.

AUSTRALIA.

Oh, parch'd—parch'd are the long grey plains
That stretch from round us here;
In vain the sound of coming rains
The dry air pines to hear;
Along the river's bed
The earth is crack'd and dry,
Save where, in hot green pools,
The fishes, gasping, die.

No rain—no rain—still hot white dust
In blinding clouds sweeps by,
And still the hot wind burns along
Beneath the scorching sky.
Alas, where, fresh and green,
Arose our young year's wheat,
But fields of wither'd stalks,
Stand, blackening in the heat.

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Our garden flowers—our English flowers—
So tended, that the thought
Of happy hours afar we spent
Might often back be brought—
The daisy 'twas my pride,
To water day by day—
The primrose—all have died,
Or wither fast away.

Oh, for green England's gurgling brooks!
The herdsman has to tell
That far away the cows he drove
To try the chalk-pit well;
Their latest hope was there,
But they found it parch'd and dry,
With its hot depths glaring blinding white
Against the burning sky.

No sound that tells of freshness—
Of coming rain—alone
The rattle of the fiery dust
Against the casement, blown,
The dingo's howl for water—
Our parch'd cows moaning there,
And the locust's wither'd song, that seems
To sear the very air,

Oh, weary, weary was the day
That happiness we sold,
And the pleasant light of England,
For the hopes of sudden gold—
And weary is the weary thought,
That never, but in dreams,
We shall tread again her meadow-paths
Or wander by her streams!

Oh, for the fresh, cool airs
That, round the temples, blow,
Of those, through England's orchards,
Through England's woods, that go!

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Oh, would I were again
Where never more I'll be,
In the land I've left for ever—
In my home beyond the sea!

AUSTRALIA.

The robin lighted on the tree,
And merrily he sang,
Till, with his cheerful minstrelsy,
The lonely clearing rang;
The song came clear and shrill
Through the open window near,
And hush'd grew all and still
That strange sweet voice to hear.

Upon his broad and horny hand
The settler leans his brow,
And far from his adopted land,
His thoughts are wandering now;—
With finger raised—fixed eye—
Lips parted for a word,
The wife sits listening by—
What sings it of, sweet bird?

Oh, dwellers in the southern sea,
'Twas thus the redbreast sung,
Full well are known the cots to me,
Green England's lanes among;
The homesteads, well I know,
Whose blue smoke's curling still
From all her thymy downs and vales,
From ev'ry grassy hill.

Oh, pleasant is the green, green Spring,
They heard the redbreast sing,
In England's woods and verdant lanes
How pleasant is the Spring!
How, through the soft warm sunshine
Of April's golden hours,
Laugh up to heaven her villages,
Ingarlanded with flowers!

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There, noisy of its happiness,
The brook is bubbling by,
And there, in pastures green and deep,
The happy cattle lie;
The daisy lights the meadow—
The speedwell stars the lane,
And the glory of the golden furze
Burns on her heaths again.

Oh, for the pleasant primrose banks
That bask beneath her skies!
Oh, for the thousand silver streams
Her summer never dries!
Oh, but for one sweet hour,
In happiness to roam
Among your farms and villages,
My own green island home!

No withering winds beneath her skies
Her fields' fair hopes destroy,
For, gentle as the airs of May,
Her breezes bring but joy;
The wealth her Spring has told
His treasuries shall win,
By Autumn's banded sickles
With songs is garner'd in.

Then, dwellers in the southern sea,
Away before the wind,
And bless the swelling sails that leave
This streamless land behind;
Again, again, seek happiness,
No more from it to roam,
And bless the redbreast's simple song
That taught the worth of home.

ENGLAND.

Oh, Mary, there's the robin;
Quick—throw the window up,
For, while I have a meal to share,
With me he's free to sup;

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There—there—let daintiest crumbs
In part your guerdon be,
For the song that lured us back again
Across the surging sea.

Oh, fair is nature everywhere,
In heaven—on land and sea,
But loveliest in my own green land
Is nature still to me.
And still dear shall be the song,
Still the singer shall be dear
That taught me that the constant home
Of happiness was here.

Oh, England—England, land of lands,
Thank heaven! I've wisdom earn'd—
Through sorrow and heartsickness, well,
Thy worth, green land, I've learn'd;
Now blessings track the song that taught
The girdling billows foam
Around no land that mates with thee,
My own green island home.