Craigcrook Castle :: :: University of Virginia Library

Craigcrook Castle

By Gerald Massey

Massey, Gerald (1828-1907)

[dedication]

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

CRUMBS FROM THE TABLE.

ONLY A DREAM.

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CRAIGCROOK CASTLE.

I.

Life is at most a Meeting and a Parting;
A glimpse into the world of Might-have-been.
And standing rapt on some new-trodden height,
We long to build a tabernacle there.

A sudden glorious glimpse, a nestling face,
Will bid the kingly moment live for ever.
Ah, could we paint their picture in the mind,
And breathe the blesséd breath of Beauty back!

We think how on some heavenly day the Sun
Gathered his glory for a grand repose;
And with her folding stillness Eve came down,
So meek and shadowy, bringing healing dews,
While Angels walkt our garden of the soul.

How on a summer morn the dewy lanes
In sunny England kist us with the breath
Of their green mouths, and took us in cool arms.
Or, in a wondrous Moonlight long ago,
The face of early Love upturned to us
Two human stars that swam in bridal dew;
With brow of virgin white, and cheek's warm touch;
The full heart's sweetness parting young red lips;
And, caught by sweet surprise o' the tender time,
Our Deity half forgot her veiling cloud,
And pure soul all in silent beauty smiled.

So Memory maketh rich the house of life,
Where our great moments come as gorgeous guests;
At Fancy's touch the walls with pictures bloom,
And rosy recollections rise around.

Even so I linger o'er my perfect day,
Whose fruitful round of ripe and crowded life
In its sole glory summed a golden age;
Whose stirred precipitate sweetens all my days;
Whose whispering memory cometh like an air
Of heaven wafting warm immortal breath;
Then leaves me softly as the Dove of Day,
That shakes down dews of freshness as it goes.

II.

In that sweet season when the Year is green,
And hearts grow merry as spring-groves full of birds,
While life for pleasure ripples as it runs;
And young Earth putteth forth the lovely things
She hath been dreaming through long winter nights;
Taking the May-tide in a golden swim,
Her blithe heart singing for the flooding cheer;
And field and forest clothed in tender leaf,
Shower after shower, out-smile a livelier green;
With dainty colour the kindling country dawns;
Death lieth low; his hidden footprints bloom;
Upon his grave Life dances all in flowers:
And lying shell-like on our shore o' the world,
Thinking to music played by hidden hands,
We are caught up to listening ear of Heaven,
That leaneth down maternal meek to hear
Our inner murmurs of the eternal sea:
Then Craigcrook puts its budding glory on.
An emerald Eden nestling in the North:
To which the mariner worn on life's salt wave,
Might point his prow and find a conqueror's home;

And storm-tost Love up-fold his wearied wings,
Warm on the bosom of mellifluous Rest.

A happy island in a sea of green,
Smiling it lies beneath the azure heaven,
Well pleased, and conscious that each wave and wind
Is tempered kindly or with blessing rich:
And all the quaint cloud-messengers that come
Voyaging the blue glory's summer sea
In barks of beauty, built o' the powdery pearl,
Soft, shining, sumptuous, blown by languid breath,
Touch tenderly, or drop with ripeness down.
Spring builds her leafy nest for birds and flowers,
And folds it round luxuriant as the Vine
Whose grapes are ripe with wine of merry cheer:
The Summer burns her richest incense there,
Swung from the censers of her thousand flowers:
Brown Autumn comes o'er seas of glorious gold:
And there old Winter keeps some greenth of heart,
When on his head the snows of age are white.

Mid glimpsing greenery at the hill-foot stands
The castle with its tiny town of towers:
A smiling Martyr to the climbing strength
Of Ivy that will crown the old bald head,
And Roses that will mask him merry and young,
Like an old Man with Children round his knees.
With cups of colour reeling Roses rise

On walls and bushes, red and yellow and white;
A dance and dazzle of Roses range all round.

The path runs down and peeps out in the lane
That loiters on by fields of wheat and bean,
Till the white-gleaming road winds city-ward.
Afar, in floods of sunshine blinding white,
The City lieth in its quiet pride,
With castled crown, looking on Towns and Shires,
And Hills from which cloud-highlands climb the heavens:
A happy thing in glory smiles the Firth;
Its flowing azure winding like an arm
Around the warm waist of the yielding land.

III.

I rose betimes upon my day of days;
Through faery forests of the lady fern,
Went up the wooded height to see the Dawn,
That new, eternal Picture fresh from God,
Quicken and colour into perfect life.
Quietly, quietly slept the world beside
The sepulchre of the dark, till Light awoke.
The haunting spirit of each lonely place
Seemed passing through the still and solemn wood.

What breath of life the breeze of morning blew!
What dewy smell and after-sense of showers
Came kissing like rich airs from secret shores
To those who sail into the eternal dawn!
Bird after bird the sweet sharp stillness stirred,
As Earth were warbling some new tune of joy
With which her heart gusht, and its radiance fired
Her face, as she arrayed to meet the morn.
The meek and melting amethyst of dawn
Blusht o'er the blue hills in the ring o' the world;
Up purple twilights came the golden sea
Of sunlight breaking in a silent surge;
And Morning like the birth of Beauty rose,
With sunny music up the sparkling heaven,
While, at a rosy touch, the clouds that lay
In sullen purples round the hills of Fife,
Adown her pathway spread their cloaks of gold:
The silvery-green-and-violet sheen o' the sea
Changed into shifting opal tinct with gold:
And like an Alchymist with furnace-face,
The sun smiled on his perfect work, pure gold.

The breath of Dawn brought God's good-morning kiss
To bud and leaf and flower, and human hearts
That like pond-lilies open heaven-ward eyes.
Sweet lilies of the valley, tremulous fair,
Peep through their curtains claspt with diamond dew
By faery jewellers working while they slept:

The arch Laburnum droops her budding gold
From emerald fingers, with such taking grace:
The Fuschia fires her fairy chandelry,
And flowering Currant crimsons the green gloom:
The Pansies, pretty little puritans,
Come peering up with merry elvish eyes:
At Summer's call the Lily is alight:
Wall-flowers in fragrance burn themselves away
With the sweet Season on her precious pyre;
Pure passionate aromas of the Rose,
And purple perfume of the Hyacinth,
Come like a colour thro' the golden day.
A summer soul is in the Limes; they stand
Low murmuring honied things that wing forth Bees;
Their busy whisperings done, the Plane-trees hush!
But lo, a warm wind winnowing odour-rain
Goes breathing by, and there they curtsey meek,
Or toss their locks in frolic wantonness,
While a great gust of joy runs shivering thro' them;
All the leaves thrill and sparkle wild as wings.
Voluptuously ripening in the sun,
The Meadows swell their bosom plump with life,
To pasture sauntering sheep, and ruminant kine;
And Kingcups spread their tiny laps to take
The lavish largess showered down from heaven;
And, garnering the warm gold, nod and laugh.
The Birds low-crooning o'er their sweet Spring-tunes
Still touch them with a riper luxury:

That Blackbird with the wine of joy is mellow,
And in his song keeps laughing, he's so jolly,
To think how summer pulps the fruit for him.
His Apple-tree hath felt the ruddying breath
Of May upon her yielding leafy lips,
And broke in kisses trembling for delight;
Look how her red heart blushes warm in white!
Deep after deep the generous heart of Spring,
So golden-full of glad days, flusht in bloom,
Ripe with all sweetness.

Crown us, lusty leaves!
Shake down your gathered coolness, O green leaves!

IV.

At Craigcrook Castle all a Summer day
We had rich talk and sweet society,
To floating filled with bright Olympian life.
Under the tender trees we sat, and watcht
All nature couchéd in a calm day-dream;
The rich World in her blooming airy nest,
Warm-burnishing her colours like a Bird
O' the Sun, to soar on silent wings of light;
And Heaven brooding down with golden eye,

Where Sunlight, seeking hidden Shadow, toucht
The green leaves all a-tremble with gold light,
And rippled grass caressed us with its smiles.
While One whose looks were mild as they had drawn
A Christ-like sweetness from the face of Babes,—
His brow the triumph-arch of royal soul—
A Prodigal of Freedom whose great heart,
Big as the world it floods with wealth to-day,
Must eat to-morrow of the Stranger's husks—
Prometheus on his rock of exile—told
The vision passing solemn thro' his soul.

Ah! how they drank the breath of Battle, won
Its swarthy bloom, those spirits fiery-fine!
O, gallant hearts, how stalwartly they stood;
How fought the faithful, how the deathless died!
And there in saviour sepulchres they sleep,
Crowned with the diadem o' the kingly Dead;
Green graves on earth,—high memories in heaven.
And how the night came down with treachery dark,
But reddened with the light of burning homes,
That lit the Hangman while he knit his noose:
Then silence, at the hush of Death, above;
Nought but a ghastly Golgotha below.

And O, but hearts flew out, like Freedom's bird,
To flap their wings upon the flag of war.
And fierce looks flasht, and prayers went up to God,

In fiery chariots of our fervent hearts.
And eyes were frenzed with noble tears to see
That Exile by the hounds of torture trackt;
Who, while they tore his stricken life, still drank
His cup of trembling, smiling very calm.

Fight on, thou Hero! Heaven's glooming look
Frowns only on the wrong. This dark shall break
In resurrection hour. The chariot wheels
Of coming Vengeance spin too swift for sight.
The Nemesis of Nations only waits,
Until the glass of Destiny runs out,
To wake the Murderers with her whip of fire,
Caught by the hair in sudden hands of Hell!
While in a ruddy rain old Earth laughs up.
O, we shall see a sight ere England's sun
Goes down behind her hills of gathered gold!
The time of times, the year of years is nigh!
When Spring's young hopes lie dead, and her sweet buds
Are low in the dust, our Autumn fruitage comes.
Princes shall meet thee in thy Country's gate;
Thy Banner yet shall crown her topmost height,
And all the world shall see it waving there.

V.

In the green quiet of a neighbouring knoll
There sat and sang a beauteous company;
Surging a soul-ache of deliciousness.
Aurelia with the royal eyes, and breast
Bounding with hurrying heart, wave-wanton, for
A ripe repose on some Elysian shore:
A glorious passion-flower of Womanhood
Come, golden-natured, to its summer throne:
Her eyes, the stars of burning dreams, so rapt
The spirit moth-like for their fire, you might
Have gone to death by sword-light for their smile,
And sullen beauty of her mouth's ripe bloom.
And Mabel, saintly sweet and fairily fine
As maiden rising from enchanted mere;
Pale as a lily crowned with moonlight calm:
A queenly creature with her quiet grace,
And dazzling white hand veined cerulean:
Upon her warm-waved hair the rippled light
Played soft, and toucht it into cloudy gold;
Her eyes of violet-grey were coloured rich
With gloom of tender thought, and mirrored large
Within them, starry futures swam and shone:

Ah! what a smile to light a life with light,
And make the waking heart to sing in sleep!
Ah! what a lamp to light some heaven of love;
The perfect pearl of her star-purity!
And stately Charmian with her grander calm,
Like a Greek Goddess Statue that had raised
The veil of being in some diviner dawn,
And yearning Love did woo her into Woman,
His burning kiss budding her dainty rose;
With merry melting mouth and subtle eyes,
And warm heart smiling her white silence through,
She rose up in her crown the Queen of Smiles
With all the old majesty, unweeting of
The old worship conscious hearts in silence pay;
Our English vesture cannot mask her mould.
Above her brow the star of Genius shed
A tender radiance in her night of hair.
And She, with dancing sparkle in her eyes,
Like sun-kist waters twinkling sapphirine,
Our Seeress with whose soul the Spirits walk:
Who told strange mysteries in Waking Sleep,
And held your hand and read your Book of life;
Whose presence weirdly took the throbbing heart
Bird-like, as it were caught in spirit-hands;
Whose visioned face would shine so glorified,
You lookt with heavenward instinct up to see
Whence came such beauty as brake thro' Raphael's dream.

They sang those wailing old Scotch songs that set
The heart-strings all a-tremble for their harp:
In which melodious Passion breaks its heart
For evermore, and finds no spousal words.
And crossing in the music's airy storm,
Spirit with spirit toucht in tingling kiss;
Till every nerve stretcht like a telescope
For Life to draw the moving heaven down.

VI.

Some played at bowls upon the velvet sward,
And drank old ale with ruby flame in it,
Where sunny laurels twinkled silver lights;
While others traced the footprints of old Time,
Long fossilized: some by the Sea—that glowed
In living azure and inviolate calm—
Peered in the portal of its wonder-world.
We showered playful palms down in the path,
And deckt with flowers the marriage-robe of One
Who brought his beauteous Bride in triumph home:
A jolly Briton, princely to the poor.
His rich heart-warming ruddiness of look
Might make an east wind reel off mellow and mild:
So sunnily his inner ripeness smiled:
And stalwart stood the sheltering wall of his life,
For climbing flower and fruit to bud and bear.

Her fragrant weight of warm and rosy life,
That dwined with tender want of folding arms,
Half-sad with sweetness like a dew-droopt flower,
Stirs in his smile and rises ruddy and calm,
With breath that maketh dim his dallying eyes:
A young Aurora of warm womanhood
Glowing imperial as the sun-toucht Rose!
Her eyes wide-wakened by Love's quickening kiss,—
Sweet-drunken with the wine of tears,—foreshow
How Love hath hived his honey in her heart.
And there they walk their rosy marriage time,
With gracious words that brighten listening brows
Like crowns of splendour, as the first pair walkt
Their morning of the world in paradise.

Our Poet, Rubens, laught at Wedded Love,
And drew a piteous picture of our friend
In harness, drawing the matrimonial car,
Heavily laden, along the ruts of life.
But in his voice there hissed a thirsty sound,
As when the dry leaves rustle for the rain.
With longing eyes he mockt the glowing grapes,
And six weeks after held out eager hands,
To take the bonds that bind for evermore:
And quietly joined the herd of pastured Slaves,
Where nuptial Love thro' sweet tears on him smiled.

Up spoke our Host. A sunny life was his

Among his children, breathing blooms of health,
He, like a rennet Apple wrinkle-ripe,
Hived full of sweetness, fragrant to the taste,
Tho' Sorrow's tooth should strike the brave heart's core.
He had the happy soul which, like the Bee,
Rocks with delight upon a thistle-top,
Or finds voluptuous honey on wild moors.
And cheerily he chirpt of Wedded Love,
And Home our refuge from the mad-world-strife,
Where we may keep the spirit-sandals clean,
We soil so on our treadmill of a world;
And open heaven in the shut up heart:
Where Love may help us hand-in-hand across
The dark stream of Eternity, as Life
On starry stepping-stones goes up to God.
Just now the Flower of England made a crown
To garland whoredom's apotheosis;
Revelling, with unhallowed light of eyes,
Upon the Wanton's glance, and wicked grace,
All honeyed with warm witchery of Sin:
Circe enchanted with lewd sorceries
That slide into the whitest sanctuaries;
Befoul the palace-chambers precious-lined,
And canker all the virgin flower of life
I' the delicate sweetness of its budding time!
Ah! how it made him turn to his dear nest,
And proudly yearn o'er his sweet marriage guest,
Who made their little world so bright with bliss,

It drew God's Angels blessing-laden down.
And as he spoke, the dead flowers in our hearts
All pressed and precious, softly stirred with life;
Bloomed on our brows, and shed a fragrance round.

In silence sat our Crimean Hero, he
Who told us how they fought at Inkermann:
His heart swam up in tears at thoughts of Home.
The roar and rack of Battle over and gone;
No more surprises in the bloody trench,
Where midnight swarmed with visions horrible,
And earth was like a fiery coast of hell!
All that long aching wintriness of soul,
Warm-melted in the arms of Wedded Love,
That drew him from the bloody battle-press,
And claspt him safe in their serene of heaven,
Where Past and Future crown him as they kiss.
And with dumb eloquence his poor armstump moved,
As it were dreaming of a dear embrace.

VII.

A silvered Sage like some old pictured Saint,
Smilingly took the crucial hand of Doubt,
And thrust stern fingers in his spirit-wounds;
And told us how he hunted shadows once,

And felt his spiritual pulse ten times a day,
With thoughts of Self fatal as Herod's worms.
And how the Child rose up and led the Man
Back very lowly to their Mother's knee:
Worshipping God as in the dear old days.

“‘They wrought in faith,’ and not ‘They wrought in doubt,’
Is the proud epitaph inscribed above
Our glorious Dead who in their grandeur lie,
Crowned with the garland of eternity.
Because they did believe, and conquered Doubt,
They lived great lives and did their deathless deeds,
Who in the old time walkt their perilous way,
With the grey hairs of kingly sorrow crowned:
Who laid their heads upon the bloody block
For their last pillow: who amid the flames
Bore witness still, and with their quivering hands
Sowed every wind with sparks of fiery thought.
Because they did believe, we kneel to read
Where men and angels mingle tears of joy.
Because he did believe, Columbus sailed
For that new world his inner eyes had seen.
He found: so Faith its new worlds yet shall find,
While Doubt shakes its wise head and stays behind.
Newton believed for many a year before
The Hand in heaven shook the Apple down.
Because we have believed, our knowledge comes:
Belief, not Doubt, will touch the secret spring.

Belief is that soul-attitude which sees
How the pure distance of some infinite sea
Relieves the dark ground of our inland life,
And feels the fresh spray make its roses bloom.
But Doubt turns from the light, and only sees
The Shadow that it casts, and follows it;
For Doubt is ever its own Deity:
The Shadow still dilates on darkened eyes,
And lengthens as the awful night comes down.

“Life is a maze, but God i' the centre sits.
I wailed and wandered in the winding ways;
Against the thorns with bleeding bosom beat,
And vainly shouted to the passing stars,—
Those silent spirit-vanishing-points of space,—
That voyaged Ship-like on nor saw my wreck.
I shriekt out with the scorners, ‘There's no God!’
Sat in the womb o' the world like Babe unborn,
And blindly said, ‘There is no life to come.’
Then my Beloved came, and drew me in
A little nearer to the heart of light.
A lightning-glimpse from out the cloud of Death
Stern revelation rifted, and I fell
Prone on my face, heart-broken in the dust.
Her vase of love was broken at my feet,
And all the precious perfume filled my life.
Breathed thro' the dark a still voice low and sweet:
“Let Faith but climb the tree of prayer, and watch

And wait, the Lord will surely pass that way.”
And down a dream of peace a spirit hand
Slid into mine, and at its dewy touch
Existence melted in the dawning heaven,
And human flowering of divine delight.
It led me to my kneeling-place among
The pilgrims of the world who sought in vain,
And closed their eyes in tears, to suddenly find
God sitting in His temple of the soul.”

A soul of sweetness from each wrinkle smiled!
There was strange glory in the old Man's eyes,
Which, with Life's setting splendour, shone a-glow,
Like windows lighted in a sinking sun
That paints fair morrow. Pleasant was the sight.
For he had reacht the shining Sunset Isles
That fade into the eternal Heavens, and Lo!
The Hesper of a happy memory smiles.

VIII.

Now Sunset burns. A sea of gold on fire
Serenely surges around purple isles:
O'er billows and flame-furrows Day goes down.
Far-watching clouds with ruby glimmer bloom;
A scattered crowd, that on its face still wears
The splendid light and life of some brave show.

Dews swarm upon the flowers like silent bees,
And quiet fire-flies glittering in the grass.
Husht woods grow solemn dark; the blue peaks fade;
Weird mists rise white, and gracious Twilight comes.
Sweet is the mystery of her loveliness;
And all things feel her dim divinity.

“Now for a rouse within the house, and there
Shake off the purple sadness of the night,”
Cried one: “Come let us a Symposium hold,
And each one to the banquet bring their best
In song or story; all shall play a part.”
So, rapturously we hailéd lord o' the feast,
Our great Messiah in Midwifery, He
Who wrestled with the fiend of corporal pain,
And stands above the writhing Agony,
Like Michael with the Dragon 'neath his heel:
Who is in soul—Love riding on a Lion;
In body—a Bacchus crowned with head of Jove:
The keen life looks out in his lighted face
So fulgent that the gazer's brightens too:
He grandly towers above our fume and fret,
Like the old Hills whose feet are in the surge,
And on their lifted brows the eternal calm:
For he is one of those prophetic spirits
That are the World's night-dreams of things to come.
And thus he broacht our garrulous Hippocrene;
And round and round the chalice went till morn.

LADY LAURA.

I.

Midsummer Morn her silvery-gray
Rain-veil uplifteth fold on fold;
And, purple-flusht, and topt with gold,
The white clouds kindle and float away

O'er violet-shadowed hills that stand
In cloudy crowns, and soft attire;
And, in a fragrancy of fire,
Midsummer Morn floods all the land.

The Rainbow with its living arch
Of glory brightens in the blue;
Like Spirit-Bridge Earth rolled up through,
Unconscious on her midnight march.

Into quick flames of emerald break
The woods against the ruddied light.
A dance of radiance bickers bright
As laughter o'er a dimpling cheek;

In sapphire rain heaven ripples down:
The sweet south-winds waft opened wide
The glory-gates of Summer's tide;
A starry sweep of flowers is strown

Through the green meadows; white and gold,
It laughs along the glowing ground:
Such throng of blessings dance around
The old World's heart; lo, these unfold.

At emerald palace-portals peer
Quick eyes of Birds that in the sun
All singing sit, sing every one;
Listens each leafy forest-ear.

Wee cups of faery-wine brim high,
By the way-side, on brier and bush;
As lifted in a holy hush
By unseen hands for passers by.

Her ripe cheek on the air, red Rose!
She leaneth from her fragrant bower;
Like lady from her latticed tower;
And by sweet force of beauty blows!

Bright-hearted with a golden dream,
The little daisy lifts its head;
Its wee lips glister wet and red;
Its smile is as a thankful hymn.

The wildest weed the wind hath sown,
The commonest grass, are glorified,
Even as the Tulip in her pride;
The trumpet of her beauty blown.

All Life lies in a bath of balm,
Feeling the lavish glory flow;
With nought to do but thrill and grow
In strength, and joy, and luscious calm.

Now Love breathes dewier delight,
In cool green ways, and tender gloom;
Being hath such a dazzling bloom;
Its sun of bliss is over-bright.

O balmy Morn! O tender type!
What tearful wooings of the May
Have brought about this bridal-day
Of Earth the rath, with June the ripe.

But, we must turn where Greed for Toil
Hath closed and claspt Morn's pictured book;
Where Nature hath a Gnome-like look,
And from her features dies the smile.

II.

Pleasantly rings the Chime that calls to the Bridal-hall or Kirk;
But the Devil might gloatingly pull for the peal that wakes the Child to work!
“Come, little Children,” the Mill-bell rings, and drowsily they run,
Little old Men and Women, and human worms who have spun
The life of Infancy into silk; and fed, Child, Mother, and Wife,
The factory's smoke of torment, with the fuel of human life.

O weird white face, and weary bones, and whether they hurry or crawl,
You know them by the factory-stamp, they wear it one and all.
The Factory-Fiend in a grim hush waits till all are in, and he grins
As he shuts the door on the fair, fair world without, and hell begins!
The least faint living rose of health from the childish cheek he strips,
To run the thorn in a Mother's heart: and ever he sternly grips
His sacrifice; with Life's soiled waters turns his wildering wheels;
And shouts, till his rank breath thicks the air, and the Child's brain Devil-ward reels.

From cockcrow until starlight, very patiently they plod;
A sea of human faces turning sadly up to God.
O wan white winter world that hides no coloured dreams of Spring!
No summer sunshine brightens; no buds blossom; no birds sing.

In at the windows Nature looks, and sings, and smiles them forth,
To walk with her, and talk with her, and see the summering Earth:
And drink the spicy air in perfumed pathways dim with dew;
While the miracle of Morning raises glorified life anew.
But they are shut from the heavenly largess; they must stint and moil,
Tho' Death stares ghastly in their face, and life is endless toil.
Did you mark how vacantly they eyed this land of loveliness,
The Flower of Sleep into their eyes, your heart would ache to press.
The moving glory of the heavens, their pomp, and pageantry,
Flame in their shadowed faces, but no soul comes up to see.
They see no Angels lean to them; they stretch no spirit-hand;
Melodious Beauty sings to them; they cannot understand.

Yet here, where the sweet flower of life may hoard no precious dew,
To feed its heart of greenness, keep the glory of its hue;

Here, where the fingers of Work and Want keep writing silent, slow,
Their warrant for the grave on many a Mother's darling's brow;
Here, where the Fiend doth trample out the soul-sparks day by day;
Here, where such seed of God is rotting in the killing clay;
Some Saviour-Seraph walks the waves of sorrow and of sin,
And some poor wrestler doth not sink the wrecking gulfs within;
And aye she rises with her charge in loving arms caressed,
As Morning rises out of night, her love-star on her breast.

III.

In a grand old Gothic Palace,
The Lady Laura dwells:
It crowns the warm green vallies,
High as their summer-surge swells.

There, with her emerald chalice, Spring
Kneels, offering beauty's wine;
There, in a land of enchantment, sing
The birds thro' shower and shine.
'T is a noble solitude serene,
Where the sudden glory glows!
'T is a happy nook of nestling green,
Where that virginal flower blows,—
Just in the sweetness of the bud,
Brimming with brightness and balm;
The tenderest glimpse of Womanhood
Golden, and sweet, and calm.
She is the Lily of the land;
Born neither to spin nor toil:
She can rest her fair cheek on her dainty white hand,
While the human honey-bees moil.
O the world of rich visions that peer in her eyes!
Around her what fantasies dance!
As she leans in her air of paradise,
And her bower of dalliance:
But her earnest life is sorrowfully
O'ershadowed from above:
She feels the ache of Life's mystery,
And she feels the hurt of Love.

The Lady Laura's soul is sad
For the suffering under the sun:
She looks on the world, and is only glad
For the duties to be done.
She might have moved by in the pageant grand,
Sweet slip of a lordly line!
Nor soiled the glory of her white hand,
And fairy fingers fine;
And swam in this world's wine and oil,
With those who sink for the next,
Faint with delight, and plundered Toil
With no strange thought perplext.
O the burnisht stream would have bravely borne
Her, dancing down in its whirl;
And the dark wreck-kingdom have proudly worn
On its bosom the pure queen-pearl.
But Sorrow hath toucht her young, young years,
When their rose-light was smiling and fair;
And her eyes have wept the sharp, sharp tears,
That pierce through all mirage of air.
Ah, the Poor! with her finer sense she hears
How they moan in their cloud of care.
They will tell you down in the vallies
What the Orphan Heiress hath done;

How the grand old Gothic Palace
With Love's new wine doth run.
She's a light on the cold hill-tops that divide
The poor from their neighbour Rank;
The first bright wave of a sluggish tide,
That hath overleapt its bank.
And to Lady Laura by window and door,
Hearts climb with the Roses up,
Their blessings to breathe, and their pride to pour,
In many a brimming cup.
Rebel hindrance she treads queenly down,
Where it stands in her high Throne's way.
O Factory-Fiend with the fearful frown,
She will bloom in your desert to-day.

IV.

The lady Light hath Daughters seven,
In wedded calm sit smiling fair
On their cloud-throne; and down the air
They float from arms of clasping Heaven.

For they their lofty home will leave,
To winnow, on their golden plumes,
Through ocean-bowers, and water-glooms;
And wondrous spells of beauty weave

To clothe the sea-shells in their trance
So lone and cold, with coloured lights,
And jewel-flames; till their dense Night's
Alive with shapes of radiance.

On Alpine heights a little Flower
From its snow-cradle soft doth reach;
And with its tiny hands beseech
The vesture-hem of Eternal Power:

Then straightway help of heaven descends,
And vital influences run
Down golden ladders of the sun,
And pleading life wins spirit-friends.

Thus souls in barrenest solitude
Oft bring the kindly powers down,
To lighten on them with a crown,
Or banquet of immortal food.

And thus on one poor Worker's sight
The Lady Laura through the mirk
Dawns, marvelling how there may lurk
A presence toucht with tender light.

His life stands still to hear what fate
Comes with the step of mystery;
And husht for some event to be,
In conscious calm the waters wait.

She sees a prayer for rest and air
In every face, but, in his eyes
Alone, are childish memories;
And his the only spirit there

That waves the Seraph-wand of fire,
To fright the Serpent flickering near.
One jewel in that dark Mine! and clear
It flashes as she brightens nigher.

And all beside how dull and grim!
O saintly show of maiden grace!
From out a golden mist, her face
Seems floating, floating on to him.

Daughter of Light! she seems to swim,
As on the wings of a mighty love;
Sad-smiling that blind world above;
Sunning that human forest dim.

She speaks to him; she takes his hand;
With such a gracious tenderness!
The tears up in his eyes will press;
Life's desert in sudden flower doth stand.

As when the spirit of Winter old
Passes away in a dream of spring,
The quick buds burst, and fluttering
All into shimmering wings unfold,

And wave so strong, and thrill so free,
As they the wakened world would wing
Along the warm way of the Spring,
Where they are drawn deliciously:

So from his life a burst of wings
Is fluttering leaf-like for the light;
And in that Splendour's wake of white,
They make melodious murmurings.

At her soft touch ethereal dies
The old dark, as Morning's spear of light
Doth gently touch the dying night,
And from it Day, a white Spirit, doth rise.

Light, Music, Fragrance, seem to kiss
And swathe him in a bloom of fire;
Make shining beauty his attire,
And bury his dead past in bliss.

V.

The Lady Laura took him, in her kind and queenly way,
From out that cruel iron world, to the tender human day.
There all the folded bloom of life like a banner rich unfurled,
And waved luxuriant in the air of a glad and glorious world.

She fed his mind, she led his mind, thro' phases strange and sweet;
Ah, blesséd boon to toil and lay the fruitage at her feet!
She took his widowed Mother; bless her full and flowing hand!
To rest her weary bones from toil, and live upon her land.

Their barren world of poverty with flowers she girdled round,
Till life that toiled with bleeding feet can walk on softer ground.
My Lady comes; my Lady goes; his being doth rejoice,
A breaking sea of rapture; every wave uplifts a voice.

Like dungeoned foe that seeth the King's daughter walking nigh,
He blesseth the revealing dark for the beauty thronéd high.
And in the beating of his heart, and flashing of his eye,
His new life standeth waving glory as she passeth by.

My Lady comes; my Lady goes; he can see her day by day,
And bless his eyes with her beauty, and with blessings strew her way.
My Lady comes; my Lady goes; she passes from his sight,
As daylight dies into the skies, and at her gate stands Night.

VI.

Ah, little thinks my Lady
Of the subtle seedling sown;
But, fruitful was the silence
Where its secret life hath grown.
'T was nurst with sweet love-rain;
At her eyes it drank rich springs;
And 't is fed on hidden manna
That her fragrant beauty brings.

Ah, little thinks my Lady,
As the days and seasons roll;
How she took him by the hand,
To pass in to his soul.
There she lies in a light of smiles;
And like a soft caress,
Her voice goes feeling, feeling
With a kiss of tenderness.

O Love, tho' shut without, will laugh
All barriers above;
And higher as they soar, still towers
The stature of mighty Love.
And bud by bud, the climbing seed
Into a tall tree springs!
Ah, little thinks my Lady
What the Bird in the branches sings!

VII.

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me,
And I walk in a glory now;
'T is writ on my cheek in a rose of pride;
'T is read in a light on my brow.

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me,
And my soul with bliss doth ache;
So many a clue to happiness,
I know not which to take!

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me,
And the human world goes by—
In a sound as of Angels talking
'Neath the palms of Paradise nigh.

“She stoopt to kiss me with her smile,
Thro' the clouds where I darkly lay;
As she glided thro' my night, Sweet Moon!
High on her heavenly way.

“She stoopt to kiss me with her smile,
And life soared up in flame!
But, for my worship, not my kiss,
The glorious phantom came.

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me,
I think as I sit alone;
And my heart o'er its tender secret
Is brooding with love's sweet moan.

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me,
And that surging smile of light,
In a happy silence, thro' my life
Goes circling out of sight.

“She smiled on me, and my heart like a Bird
In dreams of the night doth go
To make its bride-bed where the little buds red
Peep warm from the white, white snow.

“She smiled on me, she smiled on me;
Ah me, that in her smiles,
My heart might break, in a wide love-wave,
On her bosom's happy Isles!”

VIII.

As earliest flowers, the sweet first-love of Spring,
Are tenderest in their fragrance—saintliest pure,
Love's firstlings, budding in the heart, unfold
Most precious sweet of all the lusty year;
And all his life is with their fragrance filled.
In shy and shady nooks he steals, to brood
O'er what his heart for kisses lifteth up.

With a ripe glow in his warm face the Dawn
Uplifts the veil of dew-mist from the shape
Of Beauty sleeping on the lap of Earth:
So down into his secret soul he peers,
To see the veiléd Beauty thro' its mist,
And bows to bless her where she lies alight,
Unconscious of the reddening dawn of love.

A face, like nestling luxury of flowers;
Soft hair, on which Light drops a diadem;
Twin eyes that smile,—ah, when in their far heaven
Shall Love stand up and wave the Victor's palm?—

A mouth of roses wet with damask wine:
And all the beauty hid from mortal eyes,
Like lily-bud in leaves of cool green light.

His happy eyes brim with voluptuous dew,
Gathered in the rich air of secret love.
Anon his heart goes wandering like a wind
That reels thro' meads of spice, o'er hills of myrrh,
Drunk with flower-fragrance, and the wine of love,
And making music at the lightest touch,
Till faint with sweet it wearies into rest.

IX.

Lady of the forest
Is the Silver Birk;
Shimmering in the sunshine;
Shivering at the mirk;
Rocking in her rapture;
A dancing Psaltress slim!

Her hair a shower of beauty!
Her motion a glory-swim!
Or, when dewy twilight
Pours its chrism of balm,
And her tremulous bosom
Fills with a tender calm.
'Mid the dance of colours,
And semitones of green,
Gleams this daintier Spirit
That in leafdom is the Queen.
Of all the trees o' the forest,
He loves the Silver Birk,
Shimmering in the sunshine,
Shivering at the mirk.
So like the Lady Laura
In her purity and grace;
Dreaming in its shadow,
Often rose her face!
And as when a Sunburst
Goldens the green aisles,
The woodland water smileth,
So his heart within him smiles.

X.

“Just a smile i' the face of Nature;
Just a mirror of May-morn;
Is the shining, comely creature,
Worshipt by the peasant-born.
Beauty has no rarer blossom,
Budding fain, or flowering fair;
Nestling to a Mother's bosom,
If a lover's hand should dare.

“She is graceful as the greenly
Waving boughs in summer wind;
And her beauty calm and queenly
Wears its royal crown of mind.
O were I the prince of plenty;
O were she my own wed Wife;
Love would bring the crowning dainty,
To the banquet of my life.

“Might I bear Love's shield above her;
Might I snood her silken hair;
How my heart would round her hover
On the tender wings of care!
Ah, dear Heaven, all blessings shower
On her sweet life's balmy bud;
Till it lift immortal flower,
In the blooming fields of God.”

XI.

A dazzling wonder in the dark of Dreams,
His heart-hid Jewel gleams;
And for a peerless richness it doth range
The zones of radiant change.
Breathing soft hues the glorious thing doth shine,
With lustres Opaline.
The shifting Sapphire lovingly beguiles,
With dewy azure smiles.
The Ruby now with eye of crimson yearns,
Or like a blood-drop burns.
The Amber in transparent hand doth hold
Imprisoned flame of gold.
Now twinkles from soft shade the Emerald tender,
A drop of cool green splendour.
Or, with love-drooping eye, the Pearl o' the deep
Melts in a sea of sleep.
And now, wide ope, it lights the inner night,
A starry Chrysolite.
And aye, for a peerless richness it doth range
The zones of radiant change.

XII.

One of the silent Poets of the world who find no word
To utter their dumb soul of love, so, like the shy night-bird,
They break their hearts in music; die in sorrow's solitude;
One Autumn eve he sat beneath the Beauty of the Wood;
Where Birds of Thought so often brought his love ambrosial food;
When all the spirits of the flowers stole forth i' the hush of night,
And all the greeny silence slumbered in a dream of light.

The world lay in a purple calm, and tenderness of tears;
In every pulse of being lived the tenderness of years.
He had wrestled with his passion,—caught up in its wild caress—
Voluptuous as a Bride of Fire, with arms as pitiless.
He had wept his pain in a fiery rain, and a calm came o'er his tears,
As a vision of sweet Peace comes treading down War's cruel spears.
Then in a trembling confidence of love to himself he talkt,
And sang above his whispering heart, that felt what Spirit walkt.

“We cannot lift the wintry pall
From buried life; nor bring
Back, with Love's passionate thinking, all
The glory of the Spring.
But soft along the old green way
We feel her breath of gold;
Her radiant vesture ripples gay,—
She comes! and all is told.

“So in Her absence Memory
Aye strives, but cannot paint
The Vision of sweet Majesty;
The beauty of my Saint.
She comes! like dawn in spring her fame!
My winter-world doth melt;
The thorns with Roses wave a-flame!
She smiles! and all is felt.”

Is it a vision! or the pure pale face
Of Lady Laura, blossoming from the trees?
Strange fire consumes the rich dew of her eyes!
Trembles her lip; her soul, tho' very calm,
Gleams like a naked sword from its soft sheath.
Ah, she has found his secret in its nest?
And will she crush him with her silent scorn?
He dare not know. She speaks; he scarcely hears;
So loud the blood goes singing through his brain.

“I am no longer mistress at the Hall;
False friends usurp my title and my lands,
And keep them till the Law shall do me right.
I leave to-morrow morn. I think you have
The mounting spirit to rise where'er you fall,
And shall rejoice to mark your fortunes shine.”

She paused; he raised his eyes to hers, and saw
The unuttered something that could not be told.
Her rustling robe thrilled all his life, and soft
Her fragrant footsteps died upon the night.

XIII.

Like one caught in the Tempest's arms unseen,
Dasht overboard unheard, and left all night
With the mad waves, blindfolded by the gloom,
All thro' that desolate dark he wrestled lone;
Tossing tumultuous in a storm of soul;
And lived his life o'er in the agony stern;
As on the drowning rushes all the past.

Again he saw her in the Silk-mill stand.
Complete in beauty, crowned with meekest calm,
As missioned Angel down to Hell wings when

Some suffering spirit's time is up in heaven.
He went with her among the Poor where fell
Her smile as sunshine on a ripening land;
And from the folded flowers of thorny life,
Her presence charmed a kindlier spirit forth.
He hoarded up their blessings in his heart.

He saw her in the spring-dawns gliding down,
Like Morning on the world, to tend the flowers
That from her touch sprang thrilling with delight.
Darkened into himself, he watcht, all eye,
Like Spirit that sees its mortal love go by,
Itself invisible.

In languorous noons
Of summer, when, a Shape of fragrant warmth,
Nature seems glowing thro' her sumptuous robe;
Her softened beauty rounding tenderly;
And from behind the tapestry of flowers,
Her pantings take you with ambrosial breath;
He in the cool, green shadows would lie down,
O'er him the leaves a lowe of glimmering gold,
To kiss where the beloved foot had toucht,
With lip of crimson fire, and fondling cheek,
All tingling thro' and thro' with costly life.

He saw the visible Divinity

O' the time and place, taking her twilight walk,
All starrily moving in an air of smiles;
The serious sea-blue dreaming in her eyes;
Her lofty beauty robed about with heaven.
He fed upon her fairness daintiest-hued,
And drank the wine of wonder as she went.
So tender hour by hour, love grew in his heart;
A dew-drop in the flower's cup held toward heaven.

Ah, happy times, when on the top of life
He saw her beauty's daily sunrise, heard
Her voice, breathed holy air made fragrant by her,
And in her presence cloud-like sunned himself,
With such sweet silent awe; while all his heart
With rich love trembled as 't would break for bliss;
Like shaken dews in jewelled cups of morn!

Ah, happy nights, and lustrous darks, in which
He watcht her casement when the house was mute,
Where the tall Chestnuts husht her beauty round,
Uplifting in their hands a light of flowers!
And Silence took the place in loving arms.
There with its speechless yearning strove his heart,
O'erflowing till the night was filled with love.

How often thro' the winter wind and rain,

His spirit fluttered to her winged with blessings.
And he stood clothed and warmed with thoughts of her;
And thro' the darkness and the cold, his love
Glowed like a watch-fire in a wilderness;
Or glistened upward in a light of tears;
Soul-diamonds of the purest water—tears
Such as the Angels wear for jewels in heaven;
Trembling with tenderness, alive with light.
Ah, happy times that wave their sad farewells,
To come no more, no more, O Nevermore!
To him, who, tasting the forbidden tree,
Now sat at Eden gates, and they were closed.

Sudden a thought struck new life thro' him as strikes
Land on the swimmer's feet who gives up lost!
He who could die for her, could he not live
For her, and help her win her rightful throne?
He sat not down on shore to mourn his wreck;
Not his the heart to wail when he might work.

That night hath passed; but from its death-bed rose
A Star, to sing and sparkle in his soul,
And light him to some crowned accomplishment.

XIV.

O mighty mystery London, there be children still, who hold
Her palaces are silver-rooft, her pavements are of gold;
And blindly in that dark of fate, they grope for the golden prize,
For somewhere hidden in her heart the charméd treasure lies.
Such glory burning in the skies, she lifts her crown of light
Above the dark, we see not what we trample in the night.
O merry world of London! O aching world of moan,
How many a soul hath stoopt to thee, and lost its starry throne!
There Circe brims her sparkling ruby, dancing welcome,—laughs
All scruples down with wicked eye, and the crazed lover quaffs,
Until the fires of Hell have left white ashes on his lips;
And there they pass whose tortured hearts the worm that dies not grips.

The stricken crawl apart to die. There, many a bosom heaves
With merry laughters mournful as the dancing of dead leaves.
There griping Greed rich-heaps the yellow wealth of Bank and Shop,
As Autumn leaves grow goldenest when rotten-ripe to drop:
And many melt the marrow of their Manhood, burn its bloom,
In Passion's serpent arms, and with her kiss of fire consume:
And sideling Vanity seeks a mirror in each passing face.
But through the dark some luminous lives flash up and pray Heaven's grace.

All beauteous stand her Idols shining on their azure height,
And from their fairy heaven lean veiled Shapes, half-dim, half-bright;
They draw us with a dream delicious to the aching sight;
Armfuls of warm delight, white waists, ripe lips, and merry Brides;
Life-dew in melting roses, low sweet music, worlds besides!
And day by day, on each highway, from many a sunny shire,
The country life comes green to wither for the hungry fire.

All into London leaping, leaping flows the human sea,
Where, a wreck at heart, or a prize in arms, the waves flash merrily.
With a prayer to God on high, he sees the tumult, hears the strife,
And dives, from out the gulfs to snatch a nobler-crownéd life.
The Lady Laura leaneth like a bending heaven above,
And his life is safely steadied with the anchor of his love.

Three times into the City's heart there ran the news of Spring:
Sweet primrose-time is come again, and the silver showers sing.
The cloudy imagery of heaven sails o'er him day by day,
He watches parching as the Palm when the rain floats far away,
All thirsty, as the Hero's soul with glory's burning drouth!
And yearning, as the dying yearn for a death-bed in the South!
For Spring's warm breath, and bright caress, and pleasant feel of leaves,
And all her beauty wet with morn, his heart within him grieves.

The country memories rich inlaid, so fragrantly are stirred,
As spice-winds whisper something low, or sings a careless Bird.
The green-woods beckon spirit-like thro' a dream of azure sky;
All heaven looks out from a flower as from the Beloved's eye,
And visions of a lovelier-lighted life move glimmering by.

Above that wilderness of life he often sat alone,
Watching the surges of his soul, which, ever and anon,
Revealed the proud wave-wrestler Hope forever battling on!
And ever thro' the dark the Lady Laura's star-smile shone.
Ah, the dear night was all his own, then life rose starry-towered;
Full-honeyed with its folded Spring, his shut heart budlike flowered.
Upon the stream that pines all day, the calm of heaven doth rest,
And its Star of love, tho' far above, keeps bridal on its breast.
Pure, painéd, Loveliness! she walks a world of wrong and guile,
Yet nightly looketh in his face with the same sweet, patient smile.

While ever and for ever goeth up to God for doom,
The City's breath of life and death, in glory or in gloom;
And there it rings each spirit round, of light or darkness woven,
And they shall wake and walk their self-unfolded hell or heaven.
Nightly a merry harvest-home the Devil in London drives,
And gathers on the shores of hell the wreck of human lives.
While God sits over all, in heaven, and in His hand doth hold,
The Flower of Silence shedding worlds like seed of sunny gold.

XV.

A lonely life, a lonely lot;
He climbs his mountain day by day;
But finds beside the stoniest way
Love's wild rock-honey, and fainteth not.

He sees the Vision shine afar;
Sweet wedded lives in happy home;
And strains his eyes against the gloom,
Like Nuns that throb at prison-bar,

Wooed by a dear and dazzling dream,
When thro' the mirk Love's glory burns.
The hearth of Home warm welcome yearns;
His face is glowing with the gleam

And sparkle of their brimming cup,
Who round the home-altar dance and sing,
All in a golden marriage-ring,
And light with love Life's picture up.

They sit in nestling nook, and see
The ripening promise of the years;
The budding quicks, the springing ears;
Flowers honey-wet, and fruits to be.

As bridal-gifts from God above,
The Children bring their glad new spring;
Past joy's refrain their voices ring,
All loud with mirth, or lown with love.

Fine actions feed Love's holy fire,
Like sandal-wood of fragrant gold;
Till heaven-ward, glorious to behold,
It breaks, in many a splendid spire.

There, hand in hand, they reach across
A double range of rich delights;
And climb in safety where the heights
Of Life have many a chasm of Loss.

A happy soul in song doth gush,
Ere closes their day-book of bliss,
So softly claspéd with a kiss,
While eyes with tears of trembling flush.

“O blesséd Bird that soars and sings,
And moves in heaven on triumphing wings;
Then drops to rest
Within my breast,
And aye some balm of blessing brings.

“O Flower of mine, Life's stream may start
Thy trembling leaves, but cannot thwart
Love's calm below,
Where wed roots grow
In twin strength, smiling heart to heart.

“O crest of beauty on my brow;
O light of love upon my prow;
To the death-dark,
I row my bark;
You gild with glory as we go.”

'T is merry to walk the deck of life,
Tho' billows beat, and the wild winds blow;
And proudly feel they rest below;
That precious freightage, weans and wife.

But, he drifts on, in lonely bark,
Past shining home, and singing isle.
Fine Apparition, with a smile
Like spirit-music! in the dark

Thy sudden beauty lightens near,
And bows him to the knees in prayer.
He needs long draughts of heavenly air,
Who dives to clutch a pearl so dear.

XVI.

To-day, 'mid fall of palms the Victor stands;
His brows are bound by Lady Laura's hands.
He conquered. To her feet he brought the prize;
Twin worlds of bliss rose throbbing in her eyes.
Sparkled her smiling soul like that of a child,
And, smiling, all her luminous body smiled.

The lilies, white upon her stream of life,
Heaved with the sweet feel of its dancing strife.
She, glowing happy as the languorous South,
When Spring doth kiss her on the flowery mouth.
From out her heart's heaven a sweet simple Grace
Came blushing all the secret in her face,
And dyed her beauty daintier for embrace.

He lookt into the windows of her eyes,
To see Love, sitting by the hearth, arise
And let him in, and lead him to his throne,
For love and worship thro' all worlds his own.
Her virgin tree at a trembling touch doth move;
Into his bosom drops the fruit of love.

Upon his life now leaneth dewily
The rose of her ripe beauty rare to see.
In honeyed light, and sweet with pleasant showers,
Lies all the land, a coloured flame of flowers;
And with a sidelong grace smiles of the sight;
Heaven shakes its bridal torch and laughs delight.

On her white holy hand the ring of gold
Exults its branch of glory to enfold.
Comes forth in greeting all the country side,
To welcome Lady Laura home, a Bride.
Ring, merry bells, ring, blithesome bridal bells!
To the tune of happy hearts your triumph swells.

XVII.

“My life lay like a Sea-bud, dark upon the watery wold,
That feels when Spring is in the world, and striveth to unfold,
The breath of Love passed o'er me, and the Spring went laughing by,
Till on a sudden I was 'ware, Beloved, thou wert nigh!
The Bird of Love to my window came, and sang a strain divine.
Sweet Bird! he makes his nest, I said, 'neath other eaves than mine:
But many a day hath come and gone, and still he sits and sings
His song of happy futures, and of dear remembered things.

“My life went darkling like the Earth, nor knew it shone a Star
To that dear Heaven on which it hung in worship from afar.
O, many bared their beauty like brave flowers to the bee;
She might have ranged thro' sunny fields, but nestled down by me:
A King upon his Throne might have smiled her to his side;
But, with a lowly majesty she came to me, my Bride,
And grandly gave her love to me, the dearest thing on Earth,
Like one who gives a jewel, all unweeting of its worth.

“O, was it an Immortal Child, left by a fair Dream-Bride,
Seen in a world of vision with mine eyes stretcht spirit-wide?
Or was the Image pictured, by the sun of another life,
In secret soul, that I might know its living like my Wife?
I know not; but, when luminous she floated on to me,
Methought she flamed from out the mist of some far memory.
The hidden Love just stirring the spring-roses of her face;
The picture of sweet Saintliness; the glory and the grace.

“'T was when the Earth her green lap spreads for Summer's gorgeous gifts;
And plump for kisses of the Sun, her ripened cheek uplifts;
When maiden May was caught and kist in lusty arms of June;
She newly strung my harp of life, and played its sweetest tune.
O, I had been content to live in a cottage of the clay,
So I might see and bless her, when she chanced to pass that way;
But she swam down from her heaven, with a look of glorious pride,
And I clasp my heart's sweet Vision; lo! a nestling human Bride.’

XVIII.

Calm is their sheltered shore of life, caressed
By gentle tides of peace, whose murmurs are
Of storms at rest, and sorrows sanctified.
But not for them alone the honey-time,
And bliss of being! hearts were all too full
Of lusty longing for all human good,
And happiness was only meant to share.
That luminous revealer, hallowing Love,
Gave them the seeing eye, not drooping lid.
His chosen are but caught up into Heaven,
For wider vision of a suffering Earth.
Their lavish bliss ran over to make rich,
And kindle with a spring of laughing life
The poor world kneeling at the feet of theirs.
And not forgotten was that Factory-world,
Which like a doomed Ship far away i' the night
Pleaded—each port-hole lighted up for help!

Christ on the Cross for eighteen hundred years,
And still His Poor their long redemption wait—
Still tempted of the Devil in the Desert.
Still are they, crouching by the fireless hearth,
In the dead winter often driven to burn
The bravest hangings of their house of life,
To scare the gaunt wolf Hunger, whose eyes glare
In at the window lit with bloody lust!
Sometimes a cry runs throbbing thro' the night,
As tho' Creation quickened with the birth
Of new life strange and monstrous, in our world.
Then startled Fear from his high lattice looks,
With face as white as death-toucht Want's below:
There rage a people like a forest of fire!
Grim on the banner Labour's challenge flames,
“Leave to live working, or die fighting.”

Fear
Sends forth his Guards, and to his pillow slinks.
Red Murder leaps up sudden in their midst;
The gathering of fierce suffering breaks in blood:
Begins again the old long agony,
And Order reigns! tho' many a day the Ghost
Of Revolution at his banquet sits,
And standeth Sentry at his door o' nights.

O hopeless Poor, and impotently Rich!
O hurrying host of battling enmities,
That, fighting, feel no earthquake rock the ground!
O human world, panting without the pale
Of harmony, the universal law,
Like Soul, with troublous wail, shut out of bliss!
Shall it not come, the time of which we dream
To crown long years of strife, and blood, and tears,
When from the Book the Poet's thought shall step
Clothed on with human lineaments, and live?
And this Ideal of our hopeful Brave
Come down and dwell with us in daily life,
And Earth and Heaven lie in each other's arms?

They deem so, who, with visionary eyes,
Have held communion with that world to come;
Our wedded pair: their faith made quick by love;
They look within—its Shadow comes that way.
And they will make their outer life a dial,
On which the inner light may rise and shine;
And touch with radiance soft some sullen spot
Where falls the Devil's shadow, till a smile
Is on its face as it turns up to God.
Sing Ho for the New World and its golden age
Of delicate dream-work, and of rich romance.

They bought the Factory: turned its stream of toil
To a flood of Joy, on Lady Laura's lands.
There Life, whose dark and stagnant waters swarmed
With hideous things, in merry radiance runs;
Brightens with health, and breaks in frolic spray;
Peeps thro' a garland green, and laughs in light;
Its rest, blesséd as tho' the calm high heavens
Had lookt it into a transfiguring trance,
Then with light-hearted morrow sparkling on—
So to the dark arch Death, thro' which the stream
Will bicker or darken for the shoreless sea.

They built their little world, wherein the Poor
Might grow the flower of Hope, and fruit of Love;
And human trees, with outstretcht arms of cheer,
Might mingle music, wreathe in bud and bloom,
And in their branches nest the birds of God,
That in immortal beauty whitely hover,
But come not down to build while boughs are bare.

They bought and sold, they ploughed, and sowed, and reapt.
Cheapness, Free Trade, and such Economy
As suck their strength from human blood and tears;
Feeding on beauty's waste, and Childhood's spring;
Shredding with wintry hand life's leafy prime;

100

They bowed not down to—Baal of the strife
That gives the Devil his own vantage-ground,
Where each man's hand is at his brother's throat;
The knight in golden mail combats the naked!
And hearts must run with never-tiring wheels!
The weak go down; the Victors merciless
Still wield the Sword of Selfish interest,
To win their crown of Individual gain,
And throne of Isolation cold and lone.

Not this, but life of freedom, law of love;
The wine-press trod by each, the cup for all;
In this serener world—this morning star
That rises out of chaos and the night,
Like throbbing heart of some Millennial Day.
Here, life is no soul-sickening round of toil;
No need to blink the Spirit's longing sight.
Here, simple Childhood opens vernal eyes,
And young blood dances thro' the veins of Age.
White Cottage homes rise from the sea of green,
Like clouds where happy spirits sit and sing.

The old wild-brier, Labour, from which spring
The radiant Roses of a warmer world,
With kindlier nurture blossoms forth anew,

101

A glory of Flowers, and wears immortal green;
Breaks the stern granite, sparkling into beauty,
And precious jewels glow from common stones:
Soft white hands smoothe the brow of wrinkled Wrath;
The gentle balm of Love makes hard eyes soft,
And melted hearts to swim thro' woe-worn looks,
With sweet and delicate human tenderness.
The trampled battle-field of sin-scarred faces
Is healéd with the harvest of ripe love;
Its frowning furrows crowned with ridgéd smiles.

Over their World where Passion hurtled down
Burning instead of beauty, as its sun,
And all around was black eternal night;
Love's radiant shadow sheds an atmosphere
Of soft celestial brightness, calm, and peace.
And Life goes hand in hand with happy things;
In lovely shadow-lands with spirits talks;
There with all gracious Shapes of Beauty walks,
And wins their motion, majesty, and mien;
And rears his temple rich for God, inlaid
With precious jewels and colours fair, and cries,
“Behold how good and joyful a thing it is
To dwell together in peace and unity.”

Thus Lady Laura and her peasant lord

102

Built o'er the dead past their proud monument,
That signals to far times their message of love:
And God was with them smiling on their work.
They wrought not without hindrance, sorrow and pain:
Who work for Freedom win not in an hour:
Their cost of conquest never can be summed!
They toil and toil thro' many a bitter day,
And dark, when false friends flee, and true ones faint.
The seed of that great Truth from which shall spring
The forest of the future, and give shade
To the reapers of the harvest, must be watcht
With faith that fails not, fed with rain of tears,
And walled around with life that, fighting, fell.

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GLIMPSES OF THE WAR.

I.

Like peering Children down some distant lane,
What time with pealing pomp and pageant shows
The Battle in its bravery blazons by,
We peered into the passing world of War—
Its crowning Heaven pulst with starry hopes—
Its crowded Hell of red and writhing pain;
With hearts that ached or burned, as kindled cheeks
Flamed up in reddening shame, or bloom of pride,
And told the story as the pictures rose.
How England swooned beneath the kiss of Peace,
And languisht in her long voluptuous dream,
While weed-like creatures crept along her path.
Where leapt of old proud waves of glorious life,
The sluggish channels choked with golden sand.

106

The hills of light rose shining far away,
Where she should stand and touch the hem of Heaven;
But, day by day she darkened deeper down.
The cold, grim Shadow stretcht o'er half the earth,
Came freezing round her watchfire's dying flame,
While spirit-finger-pointings signalled her,
And spirit-rustlings surged the air in vain.

A tearless anguish flamed from Poland's eyes
When the red Deluge closed above her head:
Sodden with suffering and unwept tears,
The heart of Hungary pled in silence stern:
Poor Italy lay in her guarded grave,
Her life all crouching in one listening sense,
To catch aught stirring in the upper world:
Out of the North the brute Colossus strode,
With grimly solemn pace, proud in the might
That moves not but to crush, and terribly towered
Its growing shape thro' Battle's bloody gap
Where Nations fell; and like a Cyclops' eye
Its one idea lit it to the prey:
While pale Expediency paltered for
Our peaceful chance of being eaten last.

And England slumbered in the lap of Peace,

107

Beneath her grand old Oak, which, hale and strong,
Rode down the storm, and wrestled with the winds,
To rise in pomp of bloom, and pæan of song,
Green with the sap of many hundred springs;
And tossed its giant arms in wanton life,
Like Victory smiling in the sun of Glory.
She saw not how the worms eat out its heart.
Life deftly masks the hiding-place of death;
And Ruin leads his Bride in a garland green
For sacrifice. So England slept in peace.
And in the glamour of her dream she saw
Brave fancies foot it holding Freedom's pall,
Waving their funeral links for bridal lights.

Came Nemesis, her lightnings stabbed the dark,
To show the way, and startled England woke!
Behold the glorious creature leaping from
Delilah's lap, to the battle-chariot,
Like Sternness stript for strife. Grim-wooing War
Mirrors his terrible beauty in her face;
Her heart is dancing to a loftier tune,
On fire to bring the death-strokes hand to hand,
The brightness of her look consumes the cloud.
Ah, God hath called His Chosen once again,
And the Old Guard of Freedom takes the field.

108

Rejoicing in the glory of her strength,
Like some proud cataract she shouts for the strife,
And hurls her hurrying waves of valour down.
The glorious shudder of intrepid blood
Hurtles thro' all her veins, and Victory's voice
Cries from the inmost oracle of her soul.
Her swift avenging armaments shall flame
O'er land and sea, sublime as when of old
With a colossal calm she rode the waves
Of war, that heaved magnificent in storm.
The noble prophecy of ripened age
Was on her youthful brow; fulfilment comes.
She lifts the Ark of Freedom in her arms,
Safe thro' the deluge of a warring world.

II.

For Freedom's battle march auld Scotland's brave,
And Edinburgh streets are piled with life to-day.
High on her crags the royal City sits,
And sees the files of war far-winding out,

109

And with the gracious golden Morning smiles
Her proudest blessing down. Old Arthur's Seat
Flings up his cap of cloud for brave success;
The Pentlands lift their veil and lean to see;
But the old Castle standeth staidly stern,
As some scarred Chief who sends his boys to battle:
While the Sea flashes in the sun, our Shield,
So rich in record of heroic names!

The gay Hussars come riding thro' the town,
A light of triumph sparkling in their eyes;
The Music goeth shouting in their praise,
Like a loud people round the Victor's car;
And Highland plumes together nod as though
There went the Funeral Hearse of a Russian Host:
The bickering bayonets flutter wings of fire,
And gaily sounds the March o' the Cameron Men.

The War-steeds sweeping—men to battle going—
Singing the freeman's songs of fatherland—
The banners with old battle-memories stirred—
The wave of Beauty's hand—meed of her eyes—
The thrilling Pibroch, and the wild war-drum,
The stern sword-music of our grand Hurrah,
And answering cheer for death or victory—

110

All make me tingle with a triumph of life,
And I could weep that I am left behind,
To see the tide ebb where I may not follow.
And there they march afield, those gallant men;
To win proud death, or larger life, they leave
Home's rosy circle ringed with blessings rich,
For the far darkness, and the battle-cloud,
Where many have fall'n, and many yet must fall,
In spurring their great hearts up to the leap,
For such brave dashes at unconquered heights.
The shadow of solemn Sorrow falls behind,
Where sobbing Sweethearts look their loving last,
And weeping Wives hold up the little ones.
The sun sets in their faces, life grows grey,
And sighs of desolation sweep its desert.
The winter of the heart aches in the eyes
Of Mothers who have given their all, their all.

And yet methinks the Heroic Time returns,
Such look of triumph lit the meanest face
To-day: there seemed no heart so earthy but
Had some blind gropings after nobler life,
With hands that reacht toward God's Gate Beautiful.
Our England bright'ning thro' the battle-smoke,
Had toucht them with her glory's lovelier light.

111

And though their darlings fall, and tho' they die
In this death-grapple in the night with Wrong;
The memory of their proud deeds cannot die.
They may go down to dust in bloody shrouds,
And sleep in nameless tombs. But for all time,
Foundlings of Fame are our beloved Lost.
For me, this day of glorious life shall be
One of the starry brides of Memory,
Whose glittering faces light the night of soul.

III.

Twine a garland for the grave
Of our Beautiful! our Brave!
And their names in glory grave
Who have died for us.
High the battle-banner wave!
They have perisht but to save,
They have leapt a Curtian grave
In their pride for us.

112

IV.

Our old War-banners on the wind
Were dancing merrily o'er them;
Our half world husht with hope behind—
The sullen Foe before them!
They trode their march of battle, bold
As death-devoted freemen;
Like those Three Hundred Greeks of old,
Or Rome's immortal Three Men.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

With towering heart and lightsome feet
They went to their high places;
The fiery valour at white heat
Was flashing in their faces!

113

Magnificent in battle-robe,
And radiant, as from star-lands,
That spirit shone which girds our globe
With glory, as with garlands!
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

They saw the Angel Iris o'er
Their deluge of grim fire;
And with their life's last tide they bore
The Ark of Freedom higher!
And grander 't is i' the dash of death
To ride on Battle's billows,
When Victory's kisses take the breath,
Than sink on balmiest pillows!
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

Brave Hearts, with noble feeling flusht,
In ripe and ruddy riot
But Yesterday! how are ye husht
Beneath the smile of Quiet!

114

For us they pour'd their blood like wine,
From life's ripe-gather'd clusters;
And far thro' History's night shall shine
Their deeds with starry lustres.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

We laid them not in Churchyard home,
Beneath our darling daisies:
But to their rude mounds Love will come,
And sit, and sing their praises.
And soothly sweet shall be their rest
Where Victory's hands have crown'd them;
To Earth our Mother's bosom prest,
And Heaven's arms around them.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

Yes, there they lie 'neath Alma's sod,
On pillows dark and gory,—
As brave a host as ever trod
Old England's fields of glory.

115

With head to home and face to sky,
And feet the Tyrant spurning,
So grand they look, so proud they lie,
We weep for glorious yearning.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

They in Life's outer circle sleep,
As each in death stood Sentry!
And with our England's Dead still keep
Their watch for kin and country.
Up Alma, in their red footfalls,
Comes Freedom's dawn victorious;
Such graves are courts to festal halls!
They banquet with the Glorious.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

Our Chiefs who matcht the men of yore,
And bore our shield's great burden,—
The nameless Heroes of the Poor,—
They all shall have their guerdon.

116

In silent eloquence, each life
The Earth holds up to heaven;
And Britain gives for Child and Wife,
As those dear hearts have given.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

The spirits of our fathers still
Stand up in battle by us;
And in our need, on Alma hill,
The Lord of Hosts was nigh us.
Let Joy or Sorrow brim our cup,
'T is an exultant story,
How England's Chosen Ones went up
Red Alma's hill to glory.
Ah, Victory! joyful Victory!
Like Love, thou bringest sorrow;
But, O! for such an hour with thee,
Who could not die to-morrow?

117

V.

VI.

How they conquer, gallant guarders, with the red wet sword in hand!
How thy life, at their brave ardours, crimsons high with health, Old Land!
How they run the race of glory! how they light these darkened years!
In our land's heroic story, 't is the proudest tale of tears

118

In the Alma's vineyards ruddy, did they toil for our increase;
In the fields of battle bloody, they shall plant our palms of Peace.
They may rest by Alma river; they may die in deserts drear:
But for ever, and for ever, shall our country hold them dear.

With her smile the Angel Duty lit their brows as with a crown;
And for love of her dear beauty they to death go grandly down.
Eyes may weep the unreturning; hearts will break with Mother and Bride:
But, on Britain's front no mourning glooms for those who thus have died.

119

VII.

VIII.

Sit proud in your saddles! grip tighter each blade!
We ride, ho, we ride a magnificent raid!
To-day win a glory that never shall fade.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

O the lightning of life! O the thunder of steeds!
Great thoughts burn within us like fiery seeds,
Swift to flame out a red fruitage of deeds.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

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O the wild joy of Warriors going to die,
All Sword, and all Flame, with our brows lifted high!
Ride on, happy band, for the glory swims nigh.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

Chariots of fire in the dark of death stand;
Down thro' the battle-cloud reaches a Hand
To crown all who die for their own dear land.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

The Sea of Flame wraps us now! take one long breath,
And plunge for the prize of Immortals, beneath.
Shout to the cannonade, shouting to Death:
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

Spring to now! dash thro' now! and cleave crest and crown!
For each foe round you strown now, a wreath of renown!
In a red rain of Sabres ride down, dash them down.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

Charge back! once again we must ride the death-ride,
You Victor-few smiling in terrible pride!
Charge home! smoking hell of horse, grim, glorified!
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

121

Now cheer for the living! now cheer for the dead!
Now cheer for the deed on that hill-side red!
The glory is gathered for England's head.
Old England for ever! Hurrah!

IX.

Ah, weep not for the Heroes whom we never more shall see;
Ah, weep we were not with them in their ruddy revelry!
God of Battles! but 't were glorious to have mounted Victory's Car,
When the Chivalry of Europe smote the squadrons of the Czar!

'T is brave, while banners wave, to be where Freedom's Champions are,
And burst upon the Enemy like Gods from clouds of war!
Our Old Land beauteous leans above her darlings as they die,
And, bosom'd in her arms of love, her slain ones richly lie

122

We blessed them for the Battle, who but marcht to the Bier;
Some were riper for the Bridal—some were Fathers gray and sere;
With a kiss for Child and Wife, some went out in War's red wrack;
And to the land that gives us life, Who'd grudge to give it back?

I had a gallant Brother, loved at home, and dear to me—
I have a mourning Mother, winsome Wife, and Children three—
He lies with Balaklava's dead. But let the Old Land call,
And we'd give our living remnant, and we'd follow one and all!

We speak a few weak words; but, the great hearts gone to God,
They have fought with their Swords—won our battles red wet-shod!
While we sat at home, brave laurels for our Land they went to win;
And with smiles Valhalla lightens as our Heroes enter in.

123

They bore our Banner fearless to the death, as to the fight,
They lifted England peerless to the old heroic height.
We weep not for the Heroes whom we never more shall see,—
We weep we were not with them in their ruddy revelry.

X.

124

XI.

“You brave, you bonny Nightingale,
You are no summer Bird;
Your music sheathes an Army's wail
That pierces like a Sword.
All night she sings, brave Nightingale,
With her breast against the thorn;
Her saintly patience doth not fail,
She keepeth watch till morn.

“Ah, sing, you bonniest Bird of God,
The night is sad and long;
To dying ears—to broken hearts—
You sing an Angel's song!
She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
And weary warrior souls
Are caught up into Slumber's heaven,
And lapped in Love's warm folds.

125

“O sing, O sing! brave Nightingale,
And at your magic note
Upon Life's sea victoriously
The sinking soul will float.
O sing, O sing! brave Nightingale,
And lure them back again,
Whose path is lost and spirit crost,
In dark wild woods of Pain.

“She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
She breathes a gracious balm;
Her presence breaks the waves of war,
She smiles them into calm.
She sings, she sings, brave Nightingale,
Of auld Langsyne and Home;
And life grows light, the world grows bright,
And blood runs rich with bloom.

“Day unto day her dainty hands
Make Life's soiled temples clean,
And there's a wake of glory where
Her spirit pure hath been.
At midnight, thro' that shadow-land,
Her living face doth gleam;
The dying kiss her shadow, and
The Dead smile in their dream.

126

“Brave Bird of Love, in Life's sweet May,
She rose up from the feast,
To shine above our Banner,
Like God's Angel in the East.
Brave Bird of Life, wave healing wings
O'er that gray Land o' the Dead;
God's heaven lie round you like a shield
Earth's blessings on your head.”

The Rose did lift her veil, and blush
At her bower-door like a Bride;
The shy brown birds came back with Spring,
In our merry green woods to hide.
But there she sang, our Nightingale!
Till War's stern heart grew mild;
And, nestling in the arms of Peace,
He slumbered like a Child.

127

XII.

'T was Midnight ere our Guns' grim laugh at their wild work did cease,
And at the smouldering fires of War we lit the pipe of peace.
At Four, a burst of Bells went up thro' Night's Cathedral dark,
It seemed so like our Sabbath-chimes, we could but lie, and hark!
So like the Bells that call to prayer in the dear land far away;
Their music floated on the air, and kist us—to betray.
Our camp lay on the shadowy hill, all silent as a cloud,
Its very heart of life stood still—and the white Mist brought its shroud;
For Death was waking in the dark, and grimly smiled to see
How all was ranged and ready for his sumptuous jubilee.

O wily are the Russians, and they came to their wild work—
Their feet all shod for silence in the best blood of the Turk!

128

While in its banks our fiery tide of War serenely slept,
Their subtle serpentry unrolled, and stealthily they crept!
In the Ruins of the Valley do the Birds of Carnage stir?
A rustle in the gloom like wheels! feet trample—bullets whir—
Blessed God! the Foe is on us. Now the Bugles with a start
Thrill—like the cry of a wrongéd Queen—to the red roots of the heart;
And long and loud the wild war-drums with throbbing triumph roll,—
A sound to set the blood on fire, and warm the shivering soul.

The war-worn and the weary leapt up ready, fresh, and true!
No weak blood curdled white i' the face, no valour turned to dew;
Majestic as a God defied, arose our English Host—
All for the peak of Peril rusht—each for the fieriest post!
Thro' the mist, and thro' the mud, and o'er the hill-brow scowling grim,
As is the frown of Murder when he dreams his dreadful dream.

129

On Bayonets and Swords the smile of conscious victory shone,
And down to death we dasht the Rebels plucking at our Throne.
On, on they came with face of flame, and storm of shot and shell—
Up! Up! like heaven-scalers, as we sent them back to Hell.

As Bridegroom leaves his wedded Bride in gentle slumbers sealed,
Our England slumbered in the West, when her Warriors went a-field.
We thought of her, and swore that day to strike immortal blows,
As all along our leaguered line the roar of battle rose.
Her Banners waved like blessing hands, and we knew it was the hour
For a glorious grip till fingers met in the throat of Russian power.
And at a bound, and with a sound that madly cried to kill,
The Lion of Old England leapt like lightning from the hill.
And there he stood superb, thro' all that Sabbath of the Sword,
And there he slew, with a terrible scorn, his hunters, horde on horde.

130

All Hell seemed bursting on us, as the yelling Demons came—
The Cannon's tongues of quick red fire lickt all the hills a-flame!
Mad whistling shell, wild sneering shot, with devilish glee went past,
Like fiendish feet and laughter hurrying down the battle-blast.
And thro' the air, and round the hills, there ran a wrack sublime
As tho' the Eternal's Ark were crashing on the shores of Time.
No Sun! but none is needed,—Men can feel their way to fight,
The lust of Battle in their face—eyes filled with fiery light;
And long ere dawn was red in heaven, upon the dark earth lay
The prophesying morning-red of a great and glorious day.

Like the old Sea, white-lipped with rage, they dash, and foam despair
On ranks of rock, and what a prize for the Wrecker Death was there!

131

But as 't were River Pleasaunce, did our fellows take that flood,
With a royal throbbing in the pulse that beat voluptuous blood:
The Guards went down to the fight in grey, but now they're gory red—
Christ save them, they're surrounded! Leap your ramparts of the dead,
And back the desperate battle, for there is but one short stride
Between the Russ and victory! One more tug, you true and tried!
Glory to God! They are here! with bloody spur, Ride, Bosquet, ride!
Down like a flood from Etna foams their valour's burning tide.

Now, God for Merrie England, cry! Hurrah for France the Grand,
And charge the foe together, all abreast, and hand to hand!
He but caught a shadowy glimpse across the smoke of Alma's fray
Of the Destroying Angel that shall smite his strength to-day.

132

We shout and charge together, and again, again, again,
Our plunging battle tears its path, and paves it with the slain.
Hurrah! the mighty host doth melt before our fervent heat;
Against our side its breaking heart doth faint and fainter beat.
And O but 't is a gallant show, and a merry march, as thus
We sound into the glorious goal with shouts victorious!

From morn till night, we fought our fight, and at the set of sun
Stood Conquerors on Inkerman—our Soldiers' Battle won.
That morn their legions stood like corn in its pomp of golden grain!
That night the ruddy sheaves were reapt upon the misty plain!
For we cut them down by thunder-strokes, and piled the shocks of slain:
The hill-side like a vintage ran, and reel'd Death's harvest-wain.
We had hungry hundreds gone to sup in Paradise that night,
And robes of Immortality our ragged Braves bedight!

133

They fell in Boyhood's comely bloom, and Bravery's lusty pride;
But they made their bed o' the Russian dead, ere they lay down and died.

We gathered round the tent-fire in the evening cold and gray,
And thought of those who rankt with us in Battle's rich array,
Our Comrades of the morn who came no more from that fell fray!
The salt tears wrung out in the gloom of green dells far away—
The eyes of lurking Death that in Life's crimson bubbles play—
The stern white faces of the Dead that on the dark ground lay
Like Statues of old Heroes, cut in precious human clay—
Some with a smile as life had stopt to music proudly gay—
The household Gods of many a heart all dark and dumb to-day!
And hard hot eyes grew ripe for tears, and hearts sank down to pray.

134

From alien lands, and dungeon-grates, how eyes will strain to mark
This waving Sword of Freedom burn and beckon thro' the dark!
The Martyrs stir in bloody graves, the rusted armour rings
Adown the long aisles of the dead, where lie the warrior Kings.
To the mighty Mother England came the radiant Victory
With Laurels red, and a bitter cup like Christ's last agony.
She took the cup, she drank it up, she raised her laurelled brow:
Her sorrow seemed like solemn joy, she lookt so noble now.
The dim divine of distance died—the purpled Past grew wan,
As came this crowning Glory o'er the heights of Inkerman.

135

XIII.

Czar Nicholas called to North and South,
“Come, see the world's great show!
I'll thrust my head in the Lion's mouth,”
And he laught, “Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!”
“I am the Lion-Tamer dread—
I make the old brute quail!”
The Lion he shook his incredulous head,
And wagged his dubious tail.

O the Lion lay down in the pride of his might;
'T was a brave, magnanimous beast!
O the Lion leapt up to his shaggiest height;
The lord of a bloody feast!
Now hold, now hold, thou desperate man,
Or thy braggart cheek may pale;
Lo! Terror tow'rs mighty in his main,
And Vengeance tugs at his tail.

136

Like a statue of Satan, Nick, alas! stood,
And he chuckled a low lying laugh:
“The world is my Knoutship's whipping-top:
Hot blood for wine I quaff!”
He called to North, he called to South,
“Come, see the old brute quail:
I'll thrust my head in his mumbling mouth:”
The Lion he wagged his tail.

He thrust his head in the Lion's mouth:
Ho! Ho! but the sport was rare!
The Lion smelt blood in the giant's breath,
And his clencht teeth held him there.
Then he cried, from between the gates of death,
With the voice of a Spirit in bale,
“Now God-a-mercy on my soul!
Does the Lion wag his tail?”

Then each one strove to say him Yea,
But each one held his breath;
For the fires of hell lit the Lion's eyes,
And his looks communed with Death!
The Giant's heart melts like snow in his mouth,
His voice is a woman's wail;
The Avenger knocks at the door of his life,
In that lash of the Lion's tail.

137

A low, dread sound, as from underground,
Now signals the realms of the dead;
And the Tamer lies tamed on the earth full-length;
That is, except—a head.
And the poor old beast, at whose aspect mild
The meanest thing dared rail,
Shakes his mane like a Conqueror's bloody plumes,
And—quietly wags his tail.

XIV.

“Around us the night closes dense as a wood,
The Stars down the darkness like eerie eyes brood;
While out through the nightfall my fearless thoughts flee
To him who is fighting far over the sea.

“Across the mirk moorland the birds of night cry;
A wind stirs my flesh as of Ghosts gliding by;
Oh, clasp thy hands, pretty one, kneel down with me,
And pray for thy father far over the sea.

138

“O, brave is my Donald, and gallant and gay
He'll flash through the fight in the wild, bloody day;
He'll crest the high waves upon Valour's red sea;
God shield him! God send him back safely to me!”

He's lying, poor Wife! with the valiant and tried,
Who to-night poured their life on a ruddy hill-side:
And still she sings tenderly, “Over the sea,
Blow, breezes, and bring back my darling to me.”

Her soul it sat smiling, all meek as a dove,
In her pure perfect face that was lighted with love;
Her child to the full heart endearing she drew,
And bowed like a Flower 'neath its blessing of dew.

Some luminous Beauty glides over the place,
A white mist of glory! a white spirit-face!
And a starry shape comes slow and sweet from the gloom;
God help thee, poor Widow! thy Husband is home!

She knows not the Presence that hovereth nigh,
Nor whence fell the slumber that healed her heart's-cry;
But she weeps in her vision, and prayerfully
Still murmurs, “God send him back safely to me!”

139

XV.

Wild is the wintry weather!
Dark is the night, and cold!
All closely we crowd together,
Within the family fold.
A mute and mighty Shadow flies
Across the land on wings of gloom!
And thro' each Home its awful eyes
May lighten with their stroke of doom.
Life's light burns dim—we hold the breath—
All sit stern in the shadow of Death,
Around the household fire—
This Winter's-night in England,
Straining our ears for the tidings of War,
Holding our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

140

We talk of Britain's glory,
We sing some brave old song,
Or tell the thrilling story
Of her wrestle with the wrong.
Till we clutch the spirit-sword for the strife,
And into our Rest would rather fall
Down Battle's cataract of life,
Than turn the white face to the wall.
Sing, O, for a charge victorious!
And the meekest face grows glorious!
As we sit by the household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,—
Our souls within us like steeds of War!
And we hold our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

And oft in silence solemn
We peer from Night's dark tent,
And see the quivering column
Like a cloud by lightning rent.
For death, how merry they mount and ride!
Those swords look keen for their lap of gore!
Such Valour leaps out Deified!
Such souls must rend the clay they wore!

141

How proud they sweep on Glory's track!
So many start! so few come back
To sit by the household fire,
On a Winter's-night in England,
And with rich tears wash their wounds of War,
Where we hold our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

We thrill to the Clarion's clangour,
And harness for the fight:
With the Warrior's glorious anger,
We are nobly mad to smite:
No dalliance, save with Hate, hold we,
Where Life and Death keep bloody tryst,
And all the red Reality
Reels on us through a murder-mist!
Wave upon wave rolls Ruin's flood,
And the hosts of the Tyrant melt in blood,
As we sit by the household fire;
This Winter's-night in England,
And our colour flies out to the music of War,
While we hold our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

142

Old England still hath Heroes
To wear her sword and shield!
We knew them not while near us,
We know them in the field!
Look! how the Tyrant's hills they climb,
To hurl our gage in his grim hold!
The Titans of the earlier time,
Tho' larger-limb'd, were smaller-soul'd!
Laurel, or Amaranth, light their brow!
Living or dead, we crown them now!
As we sit by the household fire,
This Winter's-night in England:
From the white cliffs watching the storm of War,
Holding our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

O! their brave love hath rootage
In the Old Land, deep and dear,
And Life's ripe, ruddy fruitage
Hangs summering for them here!
And tender eyes, tear-luminous,
Melt thro' the dark of dreamland skies,
While, pleading aye for home and us,
The heart is one live brood of cries!

143

Old feelings cling! O how they cling!
And sweet birds sing! O how they sing
Them back to the household fire,
This Winter's-night in England,
Where we wait for them weary and wounded from War,
Holding our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar!

Ah, me! how many a Maiden
Will wake o' nights, to find
Her tree of life, love-laden,
Swept bare in this wild wind!
The Bird of bliss, to many a nest,
Will come back never, never mo!
So many a goodly, gallant crest
That waved to victory, now lies low!
We pray for them, we fear for them,
And silently drop a tear for them,
As we sit by the household fire;
This Winter's-night in England,
Each life looking out for its own love-star!
Holding our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who are fighting afar.

144

But, there's no land like England,
Wherever that land may be!
Of all the world 't is king-land
Crown'd, by its Bride, the Sea!
And they shall rest i' the balmiest bed,
Who battle for it, and bleed for it!
And they shall be head of the Glorious Dead,
Who die in the hour of need for it!
And long shall we sing of their deeds divine,
In songs that warm the heart like wine,
As we sit by the household fire,
On a Winter's-night in England,
And the tale is told of this night of War,
How we held our hearts, like Beacons, up higher,
For those who were fighting afar.

145

XVI.

Sitting in her sorrow lone,
Still our Mother makes her moan
For the Lost; and to the Martyrs' Hill our thoughts in mourning go.
O, that desert of the Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow!

Into glory had they rode
When the tide of triumph flowed,
Not a tear would we shed for the heroes lying low.
But our hearts break for the Dead,
In their desolate death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

146

Praying breath rose white in air,
Eyes were set in a stern stare,
Hands were stretcht for help that came not as they sank in silence low:
Our grand, our gracious Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Now the winter snows are gone,
And Earth smiles as though the Dawn
Had come up from it in Flowers—such a light of grace doth glow
All about our darkened Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

But, never, never more,
Comes the Spring that will restore
To their own love, their own land, the dear ones lying low
On the Martyrs' Hill, our Dead
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

147

Till with victory God replies,
Shall our Battle storm the skies,
And our living heroes think, as they grapple with the foe,
Of our perisht, peerless Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

Through a hundred battles red,
Shall their fame float overhead:
Into everlasting flowers shall their martyr memories blow.
So we crown our glorious Dead,
Who lay down in their death-bed,
With their winding-sheet and wreath of winter snow.

148

XVII.

How shall I help thee, Mother, in thy need?
I cried, and lookt my life out thro' mine eyes,
Across the smoke of thy great Sacrifice.
Give me some perilous post, or daring deed.
O might I breathe in Song heroic breath,
And strike my harp, as Lightning smites his wires,
To bear God's message with celestial fires!
Sing how the Glory of our land hath risen;
Sing midnight pæans by the Martyrs' graves;
Walk War's red highways, voyage grim wide waves:
Or in an English cheer go down to death,
Where the soul bursts in wings on Battle's wind!
No! England waves her Minstrels forth to find
Our Lion Heart again in Austria's prison.

149

XVIII.

They have died, our true and tried, ere Our flag victorious flew
O'er the burning battle-hell, we must ride to conquest through.
But they died, our Glorified! on the field of their renown;
And they died when the pride of the Foeman's power went down.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 't is a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill with our bravest Brave!

A proud flame in the Death-wind waved the Warrior's soaring plume:
Stern in his shroud of fire, the Foe glared from his burning tomb!
Victory's shouts were ringing as they flasht from out the strife,
To meet God's angels bringing garlands for the Kings of Life.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 't is a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill with our bravest Brave!

150

Bear them to that grave in a solemn march and slow,
Let Music talk in tears o'er the great ones lying low;
They will sleep calm and deep when the battle-bugles blow;
A sumptuous monument they shall have when next we meet the Foe!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 't is a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill with our bravest Brave!

We quaff our cup o' the vintage, and from darkened depths arise
The bubbles, like the tears that plead in Desolation's eyes;
Yet there's glory in our grief,—'t is a glory that shall grow
When our Sorrow hath no morrow, and 't was centuries ago.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 't is a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill with our bravest Brave!

Bury them on Cathcart's Hill,—their glory from its crest
Shall flame, a terror to the North, a watchfire to the West!

151

They have done with their work, lay them down to their rest,
In their hand the battle-brand, with the banner on their breast.
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill, 't is a famous grave!
Bury them on Cathcart's Hill with our bravest Brave!

XIX.

O suffering people, this is not our fight,
Who called a holy crusade for the right.
The Despot's bloody game our tricksters play,
And stake our future, chance by chance, away.
O darkened hearts in desolate home-stead!
O wasted bravery of our mighty dead!
The flower of men fall stricken from behind:
The Knaves and Cowards stab us bound and blind.
With faces turned from Battle, they went forth:
We marcht with ours set stern against the North.
They shuffled lest their feet should rouse the dead:
We went with resurrection in our tread.

152

They trembled lest the world might come to blows:
We quivered for the tug and mortal close.
They only meant a mild hint for the Czar:
We would have bled him through a sumptuous war.
While they were quenching Freedom's scattered fires,
We kindled memories of heroic Sires.
They'd have this grand old England cringe and pray,
“Do n't smite me, Kings; but if you will, you may:”
We'd make her as in those proud times of old,
When Cromwell spoke, and Blake's war-thunders rolled.
They to the passing powers of darkness fawn:
With warrior joy we greet this crimson Dawn.
To crowned Bloodsuckers they would bind us slaves:
We would be free, or sleep in glorious graves.
State-Spiders, Here or There, weave webs alike;
These hold the victims, while the others strike.
The Dwarfs drag our great Banner in the mire:
We ask for men to bear it high and higher.
O stop their fiddling over War's grim revel,
And pitch them from your shoulders to—the Devil.

153

XX.

There was a poor old Woman once, a daughter of our nation,
Before the Devil's portrait stood in ignorant adoration.
“You're bowing down to Satan, Ma'am,” said some Spectator civil:
“Ah, Sir, it's best to be polite, for we may go to the Devil.”
Bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

So England hails the Saviour of Society, and will tarry at
His feet, nor see her Christ is he who sold him, curst Iscariot.
By grace of God, or sleight of hand, he wears the royal vesture,
And at thy throne, Divine Success! we kneel with reverent gesture,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

154

O when the Sun is over us, we venerate the sunlight;
But when Eclipse is over it, we venerate the dunlight.
No matter what is uppermost, upon all-fours we revel,
And when Hell triumphs over heaven—conciliate the Devil,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Ah, Louis, had you come to us despiséd and rejected,
You might have gone to—Coventry, unnoticed and neglected:
But as you've done one Nation so, and left another undone,
We kiss you Sire at Windsor—crown you more than king in London,
And bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Our Idol's hands are red with blood, with blood his eyes are sodden,
But we know 't is only Russian blood which he has spilt and trodden!
He wears the imperial purple now, that plotting prince of evil;
He lets us share his glory if we bow down to the Devil;
And we bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

155

With hand to hilt, and ear to earth, waits Revolution, breathless,
To catch the resurrection sound of Liberty the deathless!
But we see no Danger hug us round—no Sword hang o'er us gory,
While to this mocking Mirage in the sunset of our glory
We bow, bow, bow:
We may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

Back, back, you foolish Peoples, slink into your weeping places,
Quench Freedom's torch in tears, and put her light out in your faces:
The heart of England beats no more to the old heroic level;
The poor old Woman bows before her Portrait of the Devil.
Bow, bow, bow:
She may go to the Devil, so it's just as well to bow.

156

XXI.

Fades the New Aurora
That so glorious shone afar,
We but saw its fair face smiling
In the wreck-fed waves of war.
The peace-fool to his pillow
Now may sneak, and sleep:
But a glory gone for ever,
We must weep; let us weep.

Sleep the buried thunders;
Their reverberations cease:
And the grim old War-God
Must smile—a painted Peace.
Wild eyes are mad-house windows
Of Souls that plead in vain!
Over their old dark sorrow
Greeneth the soft spring-rain.

157

Cowards in the Council!
Heroes in the field!
Is our short sad story,
By the blood of Martyrs sealed.
On those lone Crimean ridges
In the night our dead arise,
And the Norland winds come wailing
With their curses, and their cries.

Sublime in all her suffering!
In the fight so brave!
Poor old England's victories
Bow her to the grave.
On the Sea she keeps her Eden,
But the Snake is curled
Round her heart, that will beguile her
Of her crown of the world.

Had we struck for Freedom
One immortal battle-blow,
Like the men who rose for England,
Two hundred years ago,—

158

The dead Nations lying
Where they fought and fell of old,
Would have risen from their prison,
And their buried flags unrolled.

For the dwellers in the vallies,
A returning Spring
O'er the hills will break and beacon;
They will go forth conquering!
When our poor, proud England
Low and lone shall lie
On her sea-rock bound; and Tyrants
Mock her riding by.

175

CRUMBS FROM THE TABLE.

185

CRAIGCROOK ROSES.

Craigcrook Roses! ruby, golden,
Glowing gorgeous; faint with passion;
To the sweet flower-soul unfolden:
Wreathe me in the old Greek fashion.
Queen of sweetness, crowned with splendour,
Every rich round bud uncloses;
Yet so meek and womanly tender
Are you royal Craigcrook Roses,
Warm and winy Craigcrook Roses.

Leaning with some unknown yearning,
You would make a lover sin, you
Pretty wooers, archly turning
As you climb to make us win you.
Ripe perfection of fair fulness
In your gracious bloom reposes;
And an emerald bower for coolness,
Summer builds my Craigcrook Roses,
Amorous-dreaming Craigcrook Roses.

190

When the year is old and hoary,
And the day is dark with dolours;
Still you come, my guests of glory,
In voluptuous dance of colours.
And—tho' Earth like Age is toiling
In the snowdrifts—perfumed posies
Kiss me, crown my spirit smiling
Down a dream of Craigcrook Roses,
Dear, delicious Craigcrook Roses.

Fairest 'mong Light's daughters seven,
With your dainty dreamy graces;
You might light with loving leaven
Smiles of spring in wintriest faces.
At the solemn shut of daylight
When the fair life-vision closes;
May my spirit float away light
On a cloud of Craigcrook Roses,
Cooled and crowned with Craigcrook Roses.

191

DIRGE.

O happy tree;
Green and fragrant tree;
Spring with budding jewels deckt it like a Bride!
All so fair it bloomed,
And the summer air perfumed;
Golden autumn fruitage smiled in crowns of pride.

O human tree;
Waesome wailing tree;
In the winter wind how it rocks! how it grieves!
On a little low grave-mound,
All its bravery lies discrowned:
O'er its fallen fruit it heaps the withered leaves.

197

ONLY A DREAM.

The silvery veil of Sleep came trembling down
Like sweet snow white and warm in a silent world,
And softly covered up the face of life.
The nurse-like Spirit laid my body to rest,
And went to meet her Bridegroom in the night,
Who comes like music o'er the star-shored sea,
And clasps her at the portal with a kiss.
When lo, a hand reacht thro' the dark, and drew
Her gliding silent on, and looking up
The unfeatured gloom grew into Charmian's face.
I read her look, and we two wandered forth
In the cool glory of the glimmering night:
The Earth lay faint with love at the feet of Heaven:
Her breath of incense went up thro' the leaves
In a lown sough of bliss. Warm winds on tip-toe
Walkt over the tall tree-tops. Above us burned
The golden legends on Night's prophet-brow;
The Moon rose o'er the city, a glory of gold;
Around us Life rehearst Death's mystery.

198

And Charmian wore her luminous loveliness
As in a stole of sorrow; by day she moved
In some serene elysium; queenly-sweet,
And gracious; breathing beauty; a heaven of dreams
In her large lotus eyes, darkly divine:
Warm wingéd Ardours plumed her parted lips.
But now her blooming Life's luxuriant flower
Seemed withered into ashen spirit-fruit,
And like a spirit flasht her white, lit face!
Portentous things which hid themselves by day,
Sweet-shadowed 'neath her sunning beauty-bloom,
Came peering thro' the dim and sorrowy night.
Her lips, red-ripe to crush their fire-strong wine,
Pouting persuasive in perpetual kiss,
Were thin with anguish, bitter with pale pain.
And from the windows whence her Beauty laught
As Age went by, a life of suffering lookt,
And perisht visions flasht their phantom light.
White waves of sea-like soul had climbed, and dasht
The red light from its heaven of her cheek.
Her bounteous breast that breathed magnificence,
And billowed with proud blood, sighed meekly now.
The flowers her Spartan spirit crowned her with
For the life-battle, dropt about her dead.
Diaphanous in the moonlight grew her life
With all its written agony visible;
Down the dark deep of her great grief I stared,

199

And saw the Wreck with all its dead around.
And my heart melted in its mournfulness;
She moaned, as hers were breaking in its pain;
And then her voice vibrated piteous as
A Spirit wailing in a world of tears,
But stifled half its pathos not to hurt.
“Earth sleepeth in the moonlight's mystic grace,
The breath of blessings round her; and all heaven
Is passing thro' her dream; it trembles near;
She feels the Seraph-kisses on her face;
But she will wake at morn in tears to find
The glory gone—all was a dream o' the night.
And thus my young Life slumbered, dreamed, and woke!

“It ran in shadow like the woodland brook,
Feeling its way, with yearnings for the light,
Until it surges flashing in the sun,
And takes a crown of glory on its head.
Even so I found him whom my soul had sought,
And fled into his breast with a cry of triumph,
Who lit up all things beautiful for me.
And thro' my happy tears there lookt in mine
A face as sweet as morning violets,
A face alight with love ineffable,
The star-like heart-hid wonder trembling through:
And o'er me leaned,—as Spring-heaven over earth,
Dropping her love down in a rain of flowers,—
To feed me with all flowers of delight,
And crown me as his queen of all delight.

200

“Light hung a garland grace about his brow;
His voice, like footprints in the yielding snow,
Sank deepest with its softest fall of words.
He gave the casket of his happiness
Rich with Love's jewel for my hands to keep.
Around his stalwart beauty twined my life,
In golden oneness, and in proud repose;
And like a God he claspt me with his strength!
And like a God he held me in his heaven;
And all the air was golden with my God.

“Alas, that Woman's life divorced from Man's,
And seeking to be one again in love,
So often flies back thro' the grim wide wound!
Alas, that Time should crown with fruit of pain,
That seed from Eden whose fair flower is love!
They tore me from my Love! they thrust him forth,
Spurned his rich love, and scorned his poverty;
Rent all the twining tendrils of my life
To shrink back bleeding in their desolate home.
My heart was shivered like the charméd cup
That, breaking, brings the Hall in ruins round;
And every fragment mirrored the great wrong!

“And while my mind yet wandered dark and dumb,
They sold me to a Worldling wrinkled, rich
And rotten, who bought Love's sweet name for gold.
They drest me in bride-flowers who should have worn
The white and wimpled weeds of widowhood,

201

And led me forth, a jewelled mockery!
'T was like a wedding with the sheeted dead,
In silent hurry, and white ghastliness.
No bosoms beat Love's cymbals music-matcht;
No blisses blusht, no bridal-kisses burned.
The ring was on my hand, few saw the chain
By which my Husband drew me to his home,
And many envied me my happiness.
That night as we sat alone I felt his eyes
Burningly brand me to the core, his Slave.

“I dwelt within a golden world of wealth,
Which flamed a glistering glory, bloomed a warmth
Without, within was cold as a fireless hearth.
The Image of Nuptial Love to which they led me
A maiden sacrifice i' the Sanctuary,
That should have raised me, smiled my tears away,
And into quickness all my coldness kist,
And fed with precious oil the lamp of love
That in my heart, as in a tomb, burned on,
Was a gaunt Skeleton whose grave-like arms
Glaspt me for ever to a loveless breast.

“He was a cruel Tyrant, just too mean
To murder, altho' pitiless as the grave;
A human ink-fish spreading clouds around
When eyes of tender ruth would come too near.
He had a thin-lipt lust of power which lookt

202

On torture in no rage of fiery blood,
But with infernal light of gloating eyes.
And yet I strove to love him. O my God!
While reaching from the heights of blessedness,
To pluck the rainbow-fruit Heaven held to me,
How had I fallen into a chasm that closed
Its dark inevitable arms, and crusht
Me, bruised and blind! I struck, and struck, and beat
With bleeding strength, in vain. A hundred hands
Fought in the gloom with mine as water weak.
At every step there stirred some hissing snake.
I felt as one that's bound, and buried alive;
The black, dank death-mould stampt down overhead,
And cried, and cried, and cried, but no help came.

“I heard the sounds above me far away;
The feet of hurrying Life, and loitering Love;
Rich bursts of music, hum of low sweet talk;
The dance of Pleasure dancing in her heaven,
And rustling rain of a thousand dear delights.
I knew the pictured world was lighted up,
And bloomed, like bridal-chamber, soft and warm:
How sang the merry, merry birds of bliss;
How Beauty's flower-guests stood crowned and drank
The health of Heaven in its own golden wine.
But not a crumb of all the glad life-feast,
Nor drop of all the wanton wealth for me.
And if I stretcht weak arms to clasp my world,

203

A wormy mouth to my wild warmth was prest.
And if I turned to lift a prayer to God,
Above me burned two eyes like bottomless pits
In which a nest of devils lurk and leer.
And down my night there stoopt no smiling heaven,
With golden chances of a starry throne,
And beckoning looks to bid me come be crowned.

“Around me rose the phantoms of the dark,
The Grave's Somnambules troubled in their dream,
Who walk and wander in the sleep of Death,
And cannot rest, they were so wronged in life.
The crownless Martyrs of the marriage-ring!
Meek sufferers who walkt in living hell,
And died a life of spiritual suttee.
They came to claim their kin in misery,
And show me, as they passed in solemn train,
Their symbols of unutterable woe,—
Scarred loves that bore the rack and told no tale;
Tear-drownéd hearts and stifled agonies;
The bleeding lips struck dumb by brutal hands;
Slow murders of the curtained bridal-bed;
The silent tortures and the shrouded deaths.

“I wandered with them in the pitiless night
Who seek the jewel fallen from Life's crown;
Oft stumbling, bled upon the cruel thorns,
But rose, and struggled on. I strained mine eyes

204

Upon the dark, and raised mine empty cup;
Surely with one gold drop of honey-dew,
Somewhere the heavens ran o'er t'enrich my life?

“Then came to me a thing most sweet and strange,
As tho' an Angel kist me in the night,
Or Magic Rose flusht sudden in the gloom.
A loosening charm wrought in my brain; the weight
That ached to be dasht out in utter death,
Was melting like a wintry clod in flowers.
In love's dead ashes burst a spark. I cried,
‘O sweet light-bringer, in a bloom of dawn
Rise, let me see what treasure I have found!
My little Bird shall hurry out the night,
Till all my world is toucht with rosy gold:
My little Bird of God shall sit and sing
The dear day long, the dearer for the dark!
My rich, warm jewel, crimson with sweet life,
Come shine where now I cross but empty palms,
And clasp the new love-raiment radiant round.

“‘If thou rise beautiful from Sorrow's sea,
As Venice, Sorrow's child, is Beauty's Queen,
Perchance thy little smiles, my Babe, may bring
Some human softness in his face, and I
Shall kiss the hand that hurts, for thy dear sake.
And I shall walk with thee, my Child, with thee,
Beneath new heavens, on an enchanted earth.

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When I enfold thee in my arms, sweet Babe,
My heart will scarcely breathe lest it should wake
The sleeping wings of its new-nestling bliss.
When thou art born, my Child, all will be well;
For surely Love but vanisht in the dark
To come back in the morning with my Babe;
And all the sweetness liveth on when all
The bitterness is past; and eyes that yearn
Wet thro' the gloom are glorified at last.
Soft baby-fingers feeling round my heart
Shall melt its frost; and baby-lips shall draw
My tears in milk, and suck my sorrows dry.
All hell may wrestle in one human heart;
All heaven will nestle in my drop of dew.’

“It came, my dazzling dawn's re-orient hope!
My tiny babe, with its sweet mournful eyes!
And the pale innocent but fanned his hate
To frenzy; for, in many a desolate day,
And midnight, lying with my heart awake,
I had turned tearfully to look upon
A precious picture worn by Memory,
And in its beauteous image grew my Babe:
Its luminous look had gathered all the light
That lost beloved Presence left with me.

“He poured his poison in the brimming glass
My babe-joy-bearer lifted to my lips,

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And dasht its golden vintage in the dust.
I ran the gauntlet of his hell for years,
And fell down on the threshold mad. My Child!
They took my Babe from me, my pleading Babe;
And when the pretty one pined for me, and cried,
Straining his dim eyes for me till he died;
They called the Mother in to see her child
That lay there in the little shroud with all
Its beauty folded up for God in heaven:
Dead! dead! its dear eyes closed by stranger hands.

“Much misery hath not made my spirit meek:
Mine agony rends the bridal-veil: I cry,
Come see what ghastly wounds bleed hidden here!
Behold where all the Tortures of the Past
Are stored by Law, and sanctified for use.
I drag my burthen to a nation's throne,
And pray deliverance from this Tyrant's power.
Pity me, all good people, as ye sit
Within the golden circle of sweet marriage,
Loving and loved, glorying and glorified;
Whose love makes life so dear, that when ye die
And sit on heavenlier heights, your eyes will search
To find the garden where Love's fruitage grew;
The nest from whence your pretty nurslings flew;
Our old World smiling thro' its cloudy fold,
And love it for the marriage love of old.”

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She ceased, and from afar methought there came
Across the night an echo sad and low,
Love answering love, heart crying unto heart.

“In the merry spring-tide when green buds start,
Wings break from the husk of care,
And the dead beauty blossoms again in my heart,
As I dream of the things that were;
The buried Past lifteth a radiant brow;
Some phantom-bark toucheth life's shore;
And it floateth me far from the sorrowful Now,
Into Love's happy Nevermore.

“She rises before me, that Darling of mine,
Whom I lost in the world so wide;
O come to me, come to me, let thine arms twine
About me, my life! my Bride!
Ah me! I am breaking my heart to see
But the Image enshrined at its core;
Yet Memory's sighs bring a balm to me,
Out of Love's happy Nevermore.

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“How I poured all my life in a beaker of bliss
For her! how I held the cup,
As the leaves, though the wanton winds will kiss,
Their tremulous dews hold up!
And my mind it walkt in a raiment white,
Where starry thoughts reared a dome;
And the feast was spread, and the chamber alight
For the guest that never came home.

“Lovely she was as the lily is white,
When the beauty of morn it wears:
Pure she was as the perfect light
That haloeth happy tears.
Hearts straightway rose from the shadow and cloud,
Where the light of her presence kist;
Yet over the might of the proudest she rode,
Like Music, as she list.

“Love, rosy clear, in her cheek's faint dyes,
Its first sweet bloom just took;
Love came trembling up in her eyes,
As the stars in a happy brook:
Dear eyes! they were dreams of heaven, with a dance
Of light in their deep rich gloom;
Whence the smiling heart lookt like the golden glance
From the pansy's purple bloom.

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“O Darling of mine! does she ever think
Of the old-time thoughts and things?
O Darling of mine! does she come to drink
At these wormwood spirit-springs?
For I sometimes dream as I bend above,
That the kiss of her lips clings there,
And the fading balm of her breath of love
Is eloquent in the air.

“If we met unaware, just to ease her heart's pain,
Would she fall on my bosom and sob?
Or would old memories glide thro' her brain
With never an added throb?
Is her pillow e'er wet in the dead night-hours?
When the heat of the day is o'er,
Does she turn, like me, for a handful of flowers,
Into Love's happy Nevermore?

“O there is no heart that loves on earth
But may live to be loved again:
Some other heart hath the same dear birth,
And aches with the same sweet pain.
And Love may yet come with a golden ray
Shall lighten my life's despair:
But Love hath no second shaft can slay
The first love nestling there.

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“In the merry spring-tide when green buds start,
Wings break from the husk of care,
And the dead beauty blossoms again in my heart,
As I dream of the things that were:
The buried Past lifteth a radiant brow,
Some phantom-bark toucheth life's shore:
And I am borne far from the sorrowful Now,
Into Love's happy Nevermore.”

All this was but the imagery of dream;
For when the Morn in restless radiance rose,
Her breath of beauty palpitating light,
With clouds of colour smiling from the ground;
A sparkling ecstasy in the blue air;
And I with marvelling eyes had broke the seal
Of slumber, read the letter of my Dream,
Lo, Charmian was a fair and smiling Woman!
And oft the dimple gleamed upon her cheek,
To vanish like a dew-drop in a rose;
And oft her laugh with reckless richness rung,
And shook a shower of music-pearls around.
I peered into the windows of her eyes,
As one might come by light of day to look

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Adown the glade where he had seen the dance
Of weird Elves in the night, but finds no trace
An aspect of the Graces! who could know
The wreathen face that writhéd in my dream?

But still, as in my Dream, I see her stand,
Too living for a picture in romance,
Telling the wild stern story of her wrongs,
Holding the great Curse up to heaven for ever,
To call God's lightning down, altho' it kill
Her with her wedded Curse. And in my Dream
The kings and queens of prospering love go by,
And little heed this Martyr by the way;
This poor weak woman trembling 'neath her load;
This life fast fettered to a festering corse;
This love that bleeds to death at many wounds:
This passing Tragedy of Soul within
Our five acts of the Sense, that breaks its way
Thro' human hearts i' the Theatre of a world.