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67

MISCELLANEOUS.

69

THE SONG OF THE WIND.

List the Lay Æolus sung me,
From his ever changing lyre,
As 'neath shadowing trees I flung me,
O'er me swung the sounding wire.
First a prelude sweet
Soft his fingers beat—
Tones which come, and then retreat;
Tones might guide the Faries' dance,
When Queen Mab and court advance
Surly Oberon to greet.
70

Then loud the flashing chords he rung,
And thus the Storm God proudly sung:
“I am he whose lonely dwelling
Is within the caverned sky,
There a shepherd, cloud compelling,
Forth my fleecy flocks drive I.
Though a crownless king,
Loud my glories ring
Over earth and startled ocean,
When I rush with headlong motion.
“O'er fields that teem with the waving grain,
Smiling, the Peasant points his Wife,
Counting the sum of the harvest gain,
While fancy shapes their future life—
‘No longer we'll bend 'neath aching toil,
No longer till the stubborn land;
But crown our lot with the bounteous spoil
That gilds the fields on every hand.’
71

Then sadly the Housewife points her hand
Where the red harvest moon uprose,
Begirt with a dim and watery band,
While in her path dark storm clouds close,
That chase her on to her zenith's height,
Dogging her steps in dusky pack,
There hide from the earth her sober light,
And blot her noon with misty rack.
That night I come in my stormy powers,
The rich fields bow beneath the shock,
I scatter the corn like withered flowers,
In terror fly the timid flock.
Against me struggles the steadfast doors,
Fencing their garnered wealth of grain,
I burst them, scattering the hoarded stores
Prey to the ruthless hurricane.
I lift in my might the roof aloft,
Tearing the Homestead's ancient beams—
Those very rafters on which so oft
Rested his eyes in waking dreams,
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Till every cranny and knot he knew
Upon their smoke-browned faces dim,
And deemed that in any storm that blew
Those beams of might would shelter him—
That roof, which in childhood seemed so high
He doubted 'twas the work of art,
But grew more lowly as days went by—
Strikes terror through his frozen heart.
Morn comes, and the Homeless stands alone,
Gazing on cheerless, wasted land;
No! not alone, for with ceaseless moan,
His dog licks his unconscious hand.
Where, where are the dreams of yester-even?
Where is that dimpled, laughing child,
That fondly he called his load star, given
To cheer life's nights with radiance mild?
And where, O where is the blue-eyed One,
Who shared his dream of wealthy bliss,
Who shared his toil, and, at set of sun,
Made home twice home with welcome kiss?
73

‘Ah! the sun may set, the sun may rise,
His beams gild nothing now for me;
For all things are dark before my eyes—
The past hangs on my memory.’
“Haste we from the mourner weeping,
To the placid, rolling sea,
Murmuring like a giant sleeping,
When in dreams unvexed by me.
Soft the rose-lipped shells
Sing, like faint toned bells,
Round their mighty Parent's pillow,
Choral songs to lull his billow.
“See, slowly from her moorings starting,
Moves, sea-ward bound, a stately ship;
Tears, and the latest words of parting,
Fall from reluctant eye and lip;
While the harsh grating chain's ascending,
Urged by the sailors' massy beams,
74

And the huge spreading yards are bending,
With rattling blocks and iron's screams.
Then outward towards her native ocean,
Like some vast sea-bird flying home,
She dashes on, with headlong motion,
Cleaving the rushing billow's foam.
While 'mong the vocal ropes I'm glancing,
And rustling in the swelling sail,
The Sailor's heart, with pleasure dancing,
Scorns whisperings of the coming gale.
Far from the watery east I'm driving
Huge, blackening clouds of ruthless rain,
With bickering lightning 'mong them striving;
No zephyr now, a hurricane.
Sea-ward my dusky squadrons turning,
I tear the tops from crested waves,
And their white masses, 'neath my spurning,
Fly like a rout of pallid slaves.
Down on the death-doomed vessel dashing,
The masts snap like a rotten branch,
75

While through the storm-tossed waters flashing,
The ship bursts like an avalanch.
Half smothered by the raging ocean,
The Captain braves the rushing tide,
But o'er his brow in constant motion,
Like wreathed snakes, the furrows glide.
All skill is vain; for see appearing
Black, jagged rocks beneath the lee,
Their savage heads in scorn uprearing,
Round which hoarse breakers laugh in glee.
Now hardened man his clenched hand offers,
And raves to Heaven a fruitless prayer,
Shrines, vows and wealth uncounted proffers,
Then sinks in frozen, mute despair.
The Mother high her child extending,
By a half frantic faith subdued,
Upbraids the billows for not bending,
As 'fore the Host a multitude.
And there the Maiden, meekly bending,
Breathes prayers her mother taught her Child;
76

Pure thoughts, like gentle doves ascending,
Then o'er the maddened billows smiled.
A crash! the steadfast ship is sundering;
One cry of human agony,
And the wild elements are thundering
Over a lone and shipless sea.
“Towards the land my wings I'm pluming,
Where the desert wide expands,
With unfrequent verdure blooming,
Island like, among the sands.
Type of destiny
Spreads the sandy sea:
Unlimited the wastes are seen,
The green spots glimmering far between.
“Towards the night's dim strand extending,
Surges slow the tide of day,
Where yon bright-browed hills are fending
From the earth morn's glittering spray;
77

Till the golden breakers dashing
O'er the light o'erbrimming shores,
On the plain, in splendor flashing,
One vast inundation pours.
Morn o'er that dull plain is shedding
Savage beauties not its own,
As her golden feet are treading
Lightly on from stone to stone.
Sounds of life are faintly breaking
O'er the sullen desert sands,
As the Caravan, awaking,
Slowly forms its varied bands:
Like a torpid snake unbending
'Neath the warming vernal ray,
And his lenthening form extending,
Glides along his sluggish way.
Foremost, filled with home's soft yearning,
Yeman's wealthy Trader bore,
While his mind is idly turning
Memory's changing circle o'er.
78

Mounted on a steed that never
Scourge or goading rowell knew,
Bounding, light as leopard, ever
At his rider's wild haloo:
Tala's taintless blood extended
To those mighty steeds of yore,
With no baser current blended,
Which the Genii's monarch bore.
‘Long'st thou,’ said the Trader, ‘Tala,
For green Yeman's fruitful land;
Where e'er rests the smile of Alla,
Where e'er falls his bounteous hand?
Think'st thou of the sloping valley
Where the chaunting streamlets bound,
And the long, leaf covered alley
Softly shades the springing ground;
Where the thieving winds, that rally
To pluck the flower's perfume rare,
79

On the bosom of that valley
Sink beneath the load they bear?
Ah! without my Arab maiden,
Field, and rill, and shading tree,
Flower, and breezes perfume laden,
Would lose half their charms for me.
Fairer than she, famed in story,
Who the boy of Canaan won —
Desert palm! thy leafy glory
Shades me from life's burning sun.
Where yon swelling hills are blended
With the many tinted skies,
Where the sun in pomp ascended,
Yeman's fruitful valley lies.
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One short hour, and pining sadness
Shall forever leave my side—
Care shall don a mask of gladness
When I clasp my Arab bride.’
Ha! the faithful camels utter
Low, instinctive moans of dread,
And the reeking steed's sides flutter,
As he, snorting, lifts his head;
Fear the stoutest bosom seizes,
Stifling heat o'erwhelms the air,
Die the faintest cooling breezes,
Heaven sheds forth a copper glare.
Faintly the sick sun is beaming
Light which scarce a shadow throws,
Like a dim, eclipsed moon seeming,
And his size portentous grows.
Hark! a wild, ear-startling moaning
Fills the heavy, stagnant air,
As if Nature's self were groaning
O'er a deed she'd fain not dare.
81

Then afar the sandy ocean
Moves before the fearful storm;
Columns vast, with spiral motion,
Into mighty armies form,
With their lofty plumes ascending
'Mid the stooping, murky clouds,
As their gloomy front extending,
Glimmering daylight sadly shrouds.
Now the banded ruin dashes,
Shouting 'mid the darkness dread,
O'er the trembling plain which crashes
'Neath the storm God's awful tread.
Gathering terrors as it courses;
For the startled, heaving sands
Shake their manes, like desert horses
Bounding 'fore pursuing bands.
Hasty prayers the Trader mutters,
Then to earth his body flings;
'Gainst the plain his bosom flutters,
Like a wounded eagle's wings.
82

While his sense and spirit tremble
O'er eternity's dark stream,
Buried memories reassemble,
Thick as forms that crowd a dream;
Shaking their pale, spectral fingers,
And their solemn warning heads,
Round his soul each shadow lingers,
In its steps another treads.
Ay! each deed of smallest moment,
That had brought him joy or pain,
Since forgot in life's fierce foment,
He in thought lives o'er again:
Thus is memory's chain oft shaken
By Death's pallid, trembling hand,
Thus the ringing links awaken,
Ere he bursts the silver band.
Into one dread view is crowded
Childhood, youth, and manhood's days,
As some landscape, night has shrouded
Gleams beneath the lightning's rays;
83

And as suddenly evanished
'Mid the awful night of death;
For the choking sand had banished
Thought, and sense, and struggling breath.
Sadly, now, the death diminished
Wend their way, for half the band
Has fore'er its travel finished,
Resting 'neath the yellow sand.
Who shall tell the maid,
That beneath the shade
Of tamarinds roaming,
With a longing heart,
Whence would not depart
The hope of thy coming,
That thy body lies,
Hid from human eyes,
Where sand slowly creeping,
Like the drifted snow
When the north winds blow,
Is over thee heaping?
84

Not the ruthless man
Who with ataghan
Thy girdle's band parted,
And, like vulture, tore
Forth the golden ore,
Then o'er the plain darted.
Not the mournful band,
Who to Yeman's land,
Without thee, departed;
For full well they know,
By the tears that flow,
She'd fall broken hearted.
And the caravans
Still the maiden scans,
Beneath her long lashes;
While her soft eyes gleam,
Like the mountain stream
That o'er the rock dashes.
Fixed, then, grew her look,
Fixed as that pale brook
85

Ice bound by December;
And gay songs she sings,
Poor disjointed things,
Tears fall to remember.
O'er the desert waste,
Rapt in thought, she paced—
Ah! thoughts without meaning;
Tottering o'er the tomb,
Robbed of all her bloom,
The poor lily is leaning.
On a little mound,
Rising from the ground,
She oft is seen weeping;
As her tears it drinks,
Little the maid thinks
Beneath He is sleeping.
86

Ceased the lay, the storm God chaunted
From the wild Æolian lyre;
Yet by solemn fancies haunted,
Through the noontide's scorching fire,
Till the purple ray
Of departing day
Warned me of my lengthened stay,
'Neath the spreading branches' shade,
Gazing 'mong the leaves I laid;
Musing if the mighty hands,
That in equilibrium's bands
Hold Water, Fire, and raging Wind,
Should one curbing chain unbind,
Loose a single element,
To an uncontrolled extent,
What pale terror then
Would overpower men,
When back to primal chaos hurled,
Disjointed fell the shattered world!
 

Solomon whom the Arabs believe to have been supreme ruler of the Genii.

Potiphar's Wife, Zuleikha. The loves of Joseph (called by Haufez, “The Moon of Canaan,”) and Zuleikha form the subject of some of the most beautiful poems in the Arabic language. They are there represented as types of all constant lovers. The Arabic version of the story differs entirely from the original Mosaic narrative; making Joseph anything but “The Joseph,” we are proverbially taught to believe him.

87

THE DUMB GENIUS.

[_]

I believe it is the elder D'Israeli who says, that Genius consists in the power of giving expression to ideas.

Once I half credited the Israelite,
“That in expression Genius consists;”
That on the earth no Poet mute e'er lived,
Whose thoughts, most musical, were only hid
In dark, o'ershadowing silence from our ears,
Because he lacked Expression's subtle power.
But me a lesson a Dumb Genius taught,
That swept all relics of such thoughts away;
That sunk into my soul, and still is there;
And, like a spectral shade, will haunt my mind,
88

Till its most secret history shall be told,
To mortal ears, in ever moving verse.
Lately a youth I saw, dumb from his birth,
With a strange wildness in his roving eyes,
Which ever filled with tears of huge delight
When on a form of earthly beauty resting;
Or on a sweet, harmonious work of art—
Painting or sculpture; or some lesser thing,
Which scarce a glance could draw from idle eyes.
Not one but saw that in his breast there dwelt
A potent spirit, which from those orbs looked,
And of each thought and act was master sole.
For when in power this spirit bright appeared,
Sweet tones came bubbling to his unclosed lips,
And there, all inarticulate, they broke,
Scattering their glory on the barren air—
Fragments of melodies; notes rudely strung;
Now half a prelude to some plaintive air;
Then over every elementary form
That music owns, his rapid lips would run,
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With a strange sound, unlike a human tone;
Till all its forms and sweetest notes I heard,
Only in chaos—with surprise I heard.
One day to him a clarinet I gave;
And ere by signs I could its use explain,
He understood it. When next time we met,
With a wild triumph flashing in his eyes,
And the poor toy strained in a close embrace,
He stood before me. I know not whether
By some finer sense, which feeling seems like,
Ever deaf men hear—for the Creator,
Whose almighty hand had placed its finger
On his silent tongue, had closed the portals
Of his ear, and thence shut out all music;—
But I have heard, if 'tween a deaf man's teeth
Be placed a sounding instrument, he hears it.
How this may be I cannot surely tell:
Yet, if the Dumb Boy heard no sound he made,
At least, he felt the harmony, which came,
Like a long ray of purest light, upon
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His listeners, and their beaming faces lit
With inspiration kindred to his own;
As he stood 'mong us, like melodious Pan
Amid a herd of rude, uncultured clowns,
Swaying our minds, whichever way he list,
By strains which seemed to come from other worlds;
So unlike earthly music were his airs,
So different, and, to me, so far above
All cultivated tones. Eye, hand and foot
Kept measure to the notes, seeming to follow
Some orchestra vast that roared within him.
Or, with low murmuring tones, sought to fling wide
The silver gates of tears, and flood the soul
With every feeling kind of sympathy,
Which, in such moments, man can feel for man.
Surely these tender melodies were formed
From pre-existent mental harmonies
Which slumbered in his breast; from feelings mute,
91

Or not existing even, in other men.
How such a one, on whom all sound was lost,
Should, by mere force of untaught genius, thus
Such wonderful creations, body forth,
I leave to those who deem all equal born!
Long ere they found expression, I had seen
These powers and feelings starting into life,
Spreading their influence o'er the total man,
And vexing his strong spirit. Had not I
To the Dumb Boy that little wind toy given,
The great desire t'impart to other men
Part of his melody, unslaked had lain,
And all his world of music had been hid,
For want of mere expression; though not less
Having existence in his inmost soul.
With that poor gift, his utter destiny
Seemed to himself fulfilled. Nor more he roamed,
With discontented look and glaring eyes,
And found no place to rest his thought-tossed form.
92

Happy, contented, now, he musing sits
Beneath the sill of his low cottage door,
Wrapt in the cloud of natural perfumes
A thousand flowerets from their censers swing,
Teaching his instrument the varied tones
That rise, unbidden, in his placid breast;
While o'er the tranquil scene his mild eyes roam,
Filled to the brim with waters of pure love
For all he gazes on. Oft here the Clown,
At evening journeying home, throws down his spade,
Or stops his home-sick team, and lists to airs
That bear him, on their wings, back to fair flowers
And songs of sweetest birds: so wild his notes,
So like the natural tones we ever hear,
In fields and groves, on warm, sunshiny days,
That I, when giving loose to fancy's vein,
Say a skylark is prisoned in his soul,
That, wheeling in its aëry circles, mounts
93

Towards the closed portals of his voiceless mouth.
Yes! grateful, will I thank thee, poor Dumb Bard!
Who taught this lesson for a paltry toy;—
For he on me as benefactor looks—
O! rich exchange! That I could ever add
Such joy to sense, such wisdom to the mind,
At cost like this, the price I e'er would find!
94

THE CALENDAR.

Here emblemed, on this printed page,
Is fickle Man from Youth to Age.

JANUARY.

Lo! from beyond the chill and dusky north,
The primal month, which leads the rolling year,
A Youth in snowy robes brings proudly forth,
With ruddy cheeks and look of careless cheer;
Nor on that Youth's bright face dwells anxious fear;
Or aught, upon his smooth and trustful brow,
Than brave resolves an ordered course to steer,
95

And towards some glittering port his way to plow;
Which course he registers with many a solemn vow.
Full gaily looks he o'er the ice clad ground,
Not deeming ever other robe it wears
Than gilded snows, which everywhere abound:
So forth with confidence the Youngling fares,
Breathing the rare invigorating airs,
Which seem to give his sinews giant force;
Nor 'tween his hopes and him stand threatening cares,
To daunt him in his destined, onward course;
And his heart treads its bosom like a new loosed horse.
Towards the dim future turns his brightened eye
To found a kingdom in the coming time;
And shapes himself a glorious destiny—
Heroic deeds, and mighty aims sublime,
96

To be accomplished in his manhood's prime;
Which win the dazzling heights of fame and power
That, gold and roseate, deck the distant clime,
And on th' horizon beckoning seem to tower:
Thus show those glittering peaks to Youth at sunrise hour.
He joins in sports to cheat the lagging day;
Where on the surface of the frost-stilled lake,
Which the high hills and lofty woods embay,
To fence from ruffling winds the freezing flake,
The merry skaters now their pleasure take;
And start the echoes in the stiffened trees,
As their loud laughs the icy barrier shake,
At some skilled comrade who before them flees,
And, by a well ta'en turn, avoids the band with ease.
Then group in knots the late born news to hear,
Of battles fought beneath the sourthern skies;
97

When cracks the ice, and, with but half felt fear,
Apart the crowd of gossips shouting hies,
Buzzing away, like swarms of startled flies,
To join with them who hurl the bounding ball;
While He, alone, the graceful pastime plies,
And sweeps, like bird, in circles large or small,
As from his steel-shod heels the flashing ice-drops fall.
Next, by the hearth-stone's red and crackling blaze,
Cons o'er some tale, and all the moral skips;
Or with bent brow, which half his scorn betrays,
Lists to grave truths which fall from aged lips;
But nought of honied wisdom there he sips,
Nor by advice will any danger shun;
He, confident, the well meant lesson slips,
And vows the Aged have into dotage run,
That lengthening shadows ever mark the setting sun.
98

He deems our Life is not the dreary thing
Which care-worn men, with tearful faces, tell;
That honied Hope bears not both sweet and sting;
That they who weep have by their folly fell,
And, with weak tears, their fancied sorrows swell;
Seeking to daunt, with threat of darker hour,
Those minds whose powers their little mights excel;
That all must yield to Youth's resistless power:
Thus oft miscalls Hope's gift prophetic Reason's dower.

FEBRUARY.

Now to its second term strides on the year,
And lenthening days foretell mild Spring is near.
One day's warm sunshine clears the frozen earth
Of ice and snow, until another birth
99

Of the rough north whitens the softening land,
And binds the plains and streams in Winter's numbing band.
Now on the smoking ground falls spring-like rain,
And hub deep sinks the rocking, labouring wain;
While, to their knees, the panting horses plunge,
Striving, with constant strain, or sudden longe,
To free the ponderous car; and then, ere night,
The earth puts on the chilling, wintery white;
While, o'er the scarred and deep indented ground,
The jarring waggon flies with rumbling sound.
Impatient of control, the high fed team
Strain at their bits, and snort the jetting steam
From their raised heads; while scarce a shallow dint
Their iron-shod feet can make—the ground, like flint,
Rings 'neath their clattering tread. The shuddering stream,
Sporting, erewhile, beneath the sun's warm beam,
100

Shrinks, murmuring, in its icy bars, and 'plains
Like some proud spirit who, amid his chains,
Has had one distant glimpse of liberty
Eclipsed by ruthless, twofold slavery.
Winter seems sporting with the genial smile
Of budding Spring; and to his cave awhile
Draws his rough form, to tempt the Maiden forth;
Then, shouting, rushes from the icy north,
And drives her southward to her torrid plains,
Followed by all her frighted twittering trains.
Where are thy high resolves and solemn vows,
Whilom thou mad'st thou Youth with thoughtful brows?
Now is the time to strike the destined blow,
Now pluck thy laurels, ere the chances go!
“Ah! no, I'll rest till gentle, balmy Spring
Nerves my young arm; for failing efforts bring
Scorn, hard to bear, upon the youthful head.
Wait till rude Winter's snows and winds have fled;
For now the season's face is dark and chill—
101

Who danger tempts stands friendless, if in ill.”
So half through bashfulness, and half through dread,
From his great aims the shrinking Youth is led.
Thus ofttimes Chances 'cause they seem not fair
Are lost: such Fortune Time again may never bear.

MARCH.

March the reeling trees is shaking,
And their withered twigs is breaking
In his nervous hand;
While the new loosed streams are dashing,
Round their rocky barriers flashing;
Or the frost-rent strand
Crumbles 'neath their furious rushing,
And above the banks they're gushing
Deluging the land.
102

From adown the quaking mountain,
Fed at snow's dissolving fountain,
See the torrent gleam!
Rending oak, and bordering willow,
With its rushing, roaring billow,
As, with awful scream,
Part both clinging roots and branches,
Ere the earth-born giant launches,
Helpless down the stream.
Now the snow capped hill o'erpowered
By the icy mass, which towered
'Bove it, like a crown,
Slowly its huge burden sunders;
Casting off the load which thunders,
Crashing, dragging down
Earth and rocks, in mingled masses,
Till the solid tempest passes
O'er some fated town.
103

Now while change o'er all is going,
Dreaming Youth arise, be doing!
Out of dreary storms,
Out of elemental foment,
In the wildest, darkest moment,
Sprang all beauteous forms.
Where the moral strife is raging,
Where the panting war is waging,
Manly greatness warms.
Ever Anarchy presages
Better days to coming ages,
Days of calm repose.
After Pain has had her measure,
Trips upon her heels soft Pleasure,
Smiling as she goes.
Out of rank corruption coming,
Spreading incense with its blooming,
Springs the fragrant rose.
104

Timid Youth, to wounds a stranger,
Chides, yet shuns the threatening danger—
“Mad or blind are they
Who upon the treacherous ocean,
In the tempest's fierce commotion,
Make their first essay.”
Thus the Youth who fear was scoffing,
Now his boasted courage doffing,
Weakly turns away.

APRIL.

To April glides the changing year,
The Month which laughs amid her frown;
Now on her lids there hangs a tear,
Or weltering showers the meadows drown;
Then half a smile the earth cheers up,
And nectarous draughts the sun-beams quaff
105

From the young blossom's brimming cup;
Or, with one universal laugh,
Nature's young, giddy scions shout.
Birds scream from out the dancing trees;
The blue-eyed violets wink about,
And toss their odours on the breeze;
The gurgling streams suck in the springs,
And seem to leap along more fleet,
As on the rocky pathway rings
Sound of their twinkling silver feet;
The grass steals forth with face all wan,
By the life-giving sun beguiled,
To see if surly March is gone—
All Nature, like a new-born child,
Leaps on its fruitful mother's lap,
To win by its innoxious wiles—
If such a gracious thing may hap—
Its great Creator's golden smiles:
For there's a glory in the hour
Beyond what e'en the sun can lend,
106

Beyond the grass and opening flower,
A something in which Heaven must blend.
Creative Power is on the earth;
Through the wide laboratory ring
Sounds which announce each wondrous birth,
As ply the busy hands of Spring.
Now, while warm sunshine sheds a light
Upon the flower decked, grassy meads,
No winter blast thy hopes to blight,
Say Youth, where are thy mighty deeds?
The sun calls forth from out the earth
A warm and fructifying steam,
That to each senseless thing gives birth—
Leaps not thy heart beneath its beam?
Can it not wake thy sluggish mind,
Can it not stir thy nerveless hands;
Or drowsy sloth's strong chains unbind,
And melt their stringent, icy bands?
“Oh! yes, within my soul I feel
The trumpet call of glorious Spring;
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Its breathings o'er my senses steal,
And make my quivering heartstrings ring
In concord with the joyous day.
Now my crude schemes I'll shape anew,
To smooth the rougher parts away,
Ere trust them to the world's keen view.”
While thus in dreams the Weakling strays,
Which bring not either ill or good,
To dreams his first resolve decays:
But still rolls on Time's awful flood,
And bears along the heedless Boy
Where new, more tempting sights arise;
Who deems each whirling eddy joy,
Slights Good to grasp some present prize.

MAY.

What Witch could shape this balmy day
But buxom, blue-eyed, sweet-breathed May!
108

Peeping from the roses sheen,
Peeping from the grasses green,
Peeping through the ether blue,
And heard when shouts the blithe cuckoo;
Or when the blue-bird's quivering cry
Drops, like a sunbeam, from the sky;
Or when the swallow's scolding note
Seems in the very ear to float,
Then, in a moment, far away,
You scarce can catch its distant lay.
All is life, and all is joy!
Art thou he, thou truant Boy!
Who planned thyself a wondrous fate,
Above the vulgar herd's estate;
To soar far o'er the nether crowd,
And bathe thy wings in glory's cloud?
Now while life wakes all around,
Why stand with looks upon the ground;
Why sigh and blush with eye-lids wet,
Like Venus caught in Vulcan's net?
109

What have such tender signs presaged?
Is thy heart's thirst for Fame assuaged?
“Ah, no! Within yon forest's shade
I have wooed a blue-eyed Maid;
Fairer never trod dull earth,
Fairer never gave love birth!
'Neath yon holly's spreading green
Maids have crowned her Beauty's Queen.
There a May-day feast is held
Which blends our sports with vanished eld.
There Robin Hood with bow in hands,
Though outlaw, next his Sovereign stands,
To shoot, with all but Robin's skill,
The arrows winged with gray goose quill;
As drawn to ear, with ancient art,
From the long bow they whirring dart.
There Morrice Dancers quaintly dight,
With measured step, show Kemp's delight;
110

As to the flute and tabor's sound,
With gartered bells, the Dancers bound.
There too the youthful Wrestlers strain,
Sole prize, their Sovereign's smile to gain;
Or make the echoing forest ring,
As ponderous bar or sledge they fling.
And when the ruder sports are o'er,
The Maids and Youths shall skip the floor
Of springing turf, by Nature spread,
In many a wild and mazy tread.
Ale's foaming cups our sports shall close,
With feast that wakes no after throes
In throbbing head or burning toe;
So strong our healthful blood will flow.”
Thus love and rustic revelry
Ambition's dreams have forced to flee.
111

JUNE.

June, when roses deck the ground,
Scatters sweetest smells around;
Flowers which choicest breath exhale,
Bushes, trees, and vines that trail
On trellis or along the ground,
In full blown majesty abound.
Birds, within the close leaved groves,
Whisper to their near perched loves;
'Neath the graceful panther steals
Purring at his coy dame's heels;
While the now all fearless deer
His agile foeman passes near,
Trailing towards the herded does;
Or, with locked horns, and sharp hoof's blows,
Wrestles with some rival bold,
Tangled in his antler's hold.
The eager bull attempts the wall,
With many a smothered deep-mouthed call,
112

As he scents the meek faced kine,
Gazing with their full-orbed eyne
On him sundered from them far
By an envious stony bar;
Uncropped the tender grass he yields,
And roars around the trampled fields.
From his knotted forehead glow
Eyes which ask but for a foe;
While the froth in spotted flakes
From his gnashing muzzle breaks.
Filled with rabid love he burns;
And on his master boldly turns,
Driving the frighted, trembling clown
Headlong to the neighbouring town.
See, where comes a white robed train,
Winding through the hawthorn lane!
She within that merry band,
With chaplet crowned and flower in hand,
I deem some youthful village Bride
Moving by her Bridegroom's side.
113

He who on her fondly gazes,
Ever as her eyes she raises,
Is the Bridegroom, is the Man
Whose hopes his powers to do outran.
Tell me fickle, changing Boy,
Is this Ambition's stern employ?
“I have won the blue-eyed Maid
From her native sylvan shade;
Bound her youthful heart to me
By Love's eternal mystery.
Now to the village church we wend
To bind those bonds time ne'er shall rend—
Happy captives! willing slaves!
Love his wing in triumph waves,
And fans the foggy airs away,
That nought may mar our wedding-day;
Banishing each boding fear
By words which she and I can hear—
Just hear, as the low accents start
Bubbling upward from the heart;
And spread a warm and joyous glow
114

As through the thrilling form they flow.
Hymen, in saffron mantle dight,
Beckons on the lagging night;
Whose rosy torch shall lend a ray
More welcome than the glaring day.
Then, while life is blessed by Love,
Let not stern Ambition move
His iron hand, to quench a fire
Lit by genial, soft desire!
Let not Wisdom's sudden chill
All the shuddering senses fill,
To nip that earliest, brightest bud
Which, like a lily o'er the flood,
Shows that the turbid stream of Life,
Dark with the rushing Passions' strife,
Yet bears upon its troubled breast
One flower which, star-like, swims at rest,
Clings to the hidden depths below,
While 'bove the wave its blossoms show!”
Thus led by Hymen's luring ray,
Excuse is found for each delay.
115

JULY.

Now wakes the busy hum of insect life,
Beneath the glowing sun's prolific heat,
And all the air with moving forms is rife,
That with their gauzy oars the thin tide beat,
In myriad swarm which, like a vapour, swims,
And flickers dimly o'er the damper ground;
Or, like a bark, some bulkier voyager skims,
Fanning along with a low droning sound.
Now ply the ne'er tired bees their honied trade,
Rocking upon the robbed, yet unmarred flowers;
The four-winged dragon's rapid course is staid
On some tall stem which o'er the streamlet towers;
Pale butterflies seek out the half dried pool,
To rest their yellow wings upon the brink;
The beetle nods within the thicket cool,
And seems, a grave philosopher, to think
O'er all the little world beneath his view.
Golden, and green, and red, and dusky brown,
116

Twitter and hum the motley, joyous crew;
Like sensual men who would their short life drown,
'Cause of its briefness, in a round of joy;
Seeking to shut those avenues of thought
Which work their silken spirits sad annoy;
Not heeding that through suffering peace is wrought.
Who toils beneath the burning noonday sun,
With hardened hands by frequent work embrowned;
Lest the first promise which his labour won,
With full success be not at harvest crowned?
Who bends to pluck the rank and choking weed
From out the bosom of the springing corn;
Lest canker or the blighting rust they breed?—
For of dull sloth are half such evils born.
Is this Fame's Votary strayed so far away,
E'en from the broad, oft travelled, beaten road?
Why toil you here in menial array?
Can work like this your steps to honour goad?
117

“Ah no! but I with bended back must win
That which will nourish from the well tilled earth.
Each coming day sees a new care begin;
Till half despairing of my labour's worth,
I well nigh throw aside the useless spade,
Thinking my life dear bought at such a price,
By which but famine's awful jaws are staid:
Then dreams of self-dealt death my thoughts entice,
As, all o'erwearied, I move musing home;
Where soft eyes on me from the spindle beam,
And chubby faces round me lisping come,
To drive away the dark and selfish dream.
Urged on by these, another day I toil;
For who will feed those mouths when I am gone?
Thus homely ties may guilty actions foil;
Thus man to good is oft by children won!
Cheered on at home, I still my work resume,
And daily toil, and daily win a smile;
But here, I ween, Ambition has small room
From Duty's path a Father's steps to guile.”
118

AUGUST.

The dusty grass hangs down its languid head,
And on its stalk dries up the sun-burned flower,
The vernal green from the curled leaves has fled,
All verdure shrinks beneath the sun's fierce power;
It seems as if a nipping frost had passed
From the north's puffed and chilling cheeks, to blast
Poor Nature slumbering in her summer bower.
The kine stand restless in the shrunken stream,
Lashing the flies with oft reverted tail;
Or 'neath the trees escape the sultry beam,
Leaving the pasture where tumultuous sail
Inflaming gnats, that dance in myriad crowds;
Deep in the grove the listless bird enshrouds,
And stills his warbling to a plaintive wail.
119

The springs are dried upon the mountain's head,
And sheep steal down where erst a torrent roared;
While opening seams within its blackened bed,
Like dumb mouths, beg that moisture may be poured,
To cheer its banks, and glad the withering lands;
The bordering shrubs bend down with folded hands,
And one still prayer goes upward to earth's Lord.
All sounds are hushed, save the sharp rattling cry
Of grasshoppers, and the shrill crickets' trill;
Or when the swift winged bees go booming by;
Which sounds but make the hour appear more still,
And wake no notice in the listless ear;
For that we note not which we ever hear;
Or Nature's voice might move Man's stubborn Will.
120

It seems as if the noontide ne'er would pass;
The blinding sun hangs fixed above our heads,
Encompassed by a sky of burning brass,
That on the land a fiery terror sheds;
Driving the labourer from his half tilled field,
To seek the drowsy grove's protecting shield,
Where sleep's light foot upon his eyelids treads.
But who stands gasping in the sultry air,
Which nigh o'ercomes him ere his sinews tire,
And seems to flicker like the vapour rare
That rises o'er some huge and scorching fire?
Close by his side two puny children delve,
With tiny hands, that scarce can grasp the helve
With which they imitate their labouring sire.
Lo 'tis the Dreamer! Man what do you here;
And why toil here these tender children twain?
Wakes not the sun thy heart's paternal fear,
Lest his fierce beams should sap the youthful brain,
121

And fatal madness on your offspring shed;
Or sudden strike the opening blossoms dead,
Never on earth to live and bloom again?
“I fear; but ah! 'tis sullen Fate's command
That they by work their painful bread shall earn;
Nor loitering idly by the wayside stand,
Though summer's fires like living embers burn.
Here must I point the rough, laborious way,
And lead the march while beams the lucid day;
Or, loosing me, where might their footsteps turn!”

SEPTEMBER.

The yellow leaves which now appear
Upon the trees' green heads,
Like those first warnings, wan and drear,
Which Time departing spreads
122

Among the locks, from day to day,
To warn us of the tomb,
Foretel how Autumn's slow decay
Shall rob them of their bloom.
The tasseled maize has ceased to grow,
And nods its ripened ears
In many a rustling, serried row;
No flower the landscape cheers;
But from the black and withering limb
The bursting seed-pod falls;
While through the stubble stiff and grim,
The merry partridge calls,
In tones so like man's whistled notes,
His prim clad dames to share
The scattered buckwheat, rye or oats
Which 'scaped the gleaner's care.
No buds put forth, no sprouts appear
In pale but healthy green,
All things proclaim the waning year,
In all decay is seen.
123

Nature in listless posture stands
Among the falling leaves,
Nor plies her empty, hanging hands,
Nor aught on earth achieves.
Ah! soon the maid, in slumber deep,
Amid the snow shall fall;
Nor break her heavy, torpid sleep
Till rings the blue-bird's call;
When scattering ice and chilling snow
With arms revived by rest,
Across the land she'll tripping go,
In vernal blossoms drest.
Who rustles through the withered corn,
And plucks the yellow ears?
While fitful on the breeze is born
The song with which he cheers
His spirits at the tedious work—
A childish melody!
By signs which in my memory lurk,
I know Fame's Votary.
124

Still labouring at thy servile trade,
Forgetful of thy vow,
Still wielding plough, and scythe, and spade—
Say! what can daunt thee now?
“Thus Man with careful hand must reap
That which his labour sowed;
Nor sadly o'er his task should weep
Though thoughts of honour goad;
Or tempt with golden visions bright,
His footsteps to betray;
Which dazzle but to cheat the sight,
Arise but to decay.”
And thus with silly ancient saws,
Which Time has set for fools,
To use instead of reason's laws,
His fickle mind he schools.
125

OCTOBER.

Is this the great millennium day
When holy Saints, in bright array,
To greet their Lord shall rise;
Or have our wandering footsteps found
The Cherub guarded, sacred ground
Of primal Paradise?
Ah! no; the hectic of decay
Is what gives beauty to the day,
And lends it all its charms:
As oft its sweetest smile will grace
The dear, departing, heaven-lit face,
When fading in death's arms.
But O how fair the prospect seems!
Fair as the misty land of dreams
In which I've wondering stood:
It seems as if the evening skies
Had downward shook their gorgeous dyes
Upon the nodding wood.
126

Golden, and red, and blue, and green,
With every varied tint between
That from art's mingling springs,
Appear the motley coated trees,
As stooping, soaring in the breeze,
They shake their rainbow wings.
Half hidden 'neath the yellow leaves,
The sun-burned, portly apple heaves
Upon its bending branch.
The blooming peach, the smooth cheeked pear,
The purple grapes, in clusters rare,
Downward their sly looks launch;
And nod and wink, as blow the gales,
Exhaling spicy breath that sails
The loaded air along,
To mingle with the robin's voice,
Till all the echoing vales rejoice
In rich perfume and song.
127

Beside the hearth-stone's ruddy blaze,
Which o'er his toil-worn features plays,
Again the Dreamer see!
Long silver locks are in his hair,
And on his brow, once smooth and fair,
A bygone misery.
But smiles, that hide all trace of woe,
Adown those thought-worn channels flow,
And speak a happy mood;
As with his parted, froth-wreathed lips
The stiff October ale he sips,
His bustling Housewife brewed.
While o'er the heaped and spotless board,
With all of Autumn's dainties stored,
His gloating eyes are bent;
And ever, as he bends to quaff,
Comes from the can a smothered laugh
Of gratified content.
128

What ho! what thing shall balk thee now—
Thou who once wore the thoughtful brow
The mighty ever wear—
In working out thy glorious schemes,
Thy golden, hopeful, youthful dreams,
Now that thy life goes fair?
“What, have I toiled from morn till eve,
But in my elder days to leave
The joys which crown my lot!
No, I will taste the fruits of toil,
Enjoy the rich, but hard won spoil
My aching sinews got.”
Thus floats he down the stream of life,
Nor struggles in a manly strife,
Nor tries to breast the tide;
But onward where the current bears,
With all the herd he listless fares,
Without a star to guide.
129

NOVEMBER.

Dark days and short, with fogs and sleety rain,
Foretell stern Winter soon will tread the plain;
Though yet in mists, he o'er the land has blown,
He hides the horrors that engird his throne:
But morn and eve the chained and sluggish brook
Reflected shows its tyrant's icy look.
No herb puts forth; the sapless trees are bare,
Nor wave their boughs upon the gusty air;
But stiff and grim, all life and beauty gone,
Their bony shapes make drear the withered lawn.
Unless, perchance, the freezing rain-drops beat
On the brown trunks, and all the branches sheet
In one thick coating of clear, glittering ice;
When Winter shows a dazzling, gay device,
That shames bright Summer on her fairest day—
If o'er the scene the wizard sun should play;
For instant from a silver ocean rise
Shapes which make earth an Eastern Paradise.
130

Trees all of gold with pendent rubies hung,
Great rows of pearls on bending branches strung,
Huge evergreens with precious emeralds dight,
Carbuncles, amethysts, and diamonds bright,
With all the gems which men esteem most rare,
Commingled flash upon the frosty air.
Once more upon a cheerful fire-side gaze,
And see the Dreamer nodding o'er the blaze;
Now sunken far in garrulous old age,
He wastes, unheard, his thoughts and precepts sage.
Goes o'er his life from youth's first sunny hour,
Through manhood's noon, till age's shadows lower.
O'er scenes of youth his roaming thoughts most brood,
When Hope her blossoms on his pathway strewed;
And ever memory sheds a clearer ray
On these first deeds than acts of yesterday:
131

As when a traveller some high hill has won,
And turns his back against the setting sun,
To see if haply he can trace the way
O'er which he toiled throughout the weary day,
Dark grows the late trod valley 'neath his gaze,
While far away the long past summits blaze.
Or gains, perchance, some Youth's impatient ear,
Who restless stands the tedious Sage to hear,
And tells to him his varied tale of life,
His youth's fair hopes, his manhood's eager strife;
Warns him what paths to choose, and what to shun,
Shows on what rocks unconscious voyagers run;
Then breathes a sigh of heavy, heart-felt pain,
And wishes he might live his life again.
Nor knows that he the selfsame course would tread,
For all the snow that crowns his sapient head;
Or with some more fantastic follies stray,
In untried paths, which lead as far away
132

From noble aims. Or having gained his end,
The seeming substance might to vapour blend;
For oft the distant fair is present foul,
And 'neath a palm a lion's foot may prowl.

DECEMBER.

At last, 'mid bleak December's awful ice,
The earth-worn Wanderer sadly sits him down.
But earthly joys no longer him entice,
Eternal thoughts his palsied senses drown,
And gathering doubts around him darkly frown.
High on a beetling crag he takes his seat,
Whose rocky base with countless wrecks is strown;
Beneath he hears the sullen waters beat,
As on the land they dash their many trampling feet.
133

His eager look across the billow strays,
Sees now a light, and now a passing sail;
Which ever as he on them rests his gaze,
Like cheating phantoms, into darkness fail:
At which his care-wrung brow turns ashy pale;
And more intent he pries into the gloom;
While fiercer still dread doubts his soul assail,
And louder still the thundering waters boom,
And mists arise, that chill like a new opened tomb.
Yes! seated high on Time's perplexing rock,
Beneath Eternity's dark waters roar,
Whose sights and sounds his quailing spirits shock—
Sees now a helpless babe cast safe ashore,
Now a strong man engulfed for evermore;
There swims a martyr with a brow of hope,
There sinks a king amid his precious store,
There sage philosophers at rushes grope,
And think with them to reach that dreadful ocean's scope.
134

Low sounds of woe, and dying wails arise;
And shouts of cheer above the tumult soar,
Mingled with strains which seem from Paradise,
That, for a moment, still the deafening roar,
And calm the billows till the tones are o'er.
These sights and sounds his wakeful senses drink—
But where go they who reach the mist wrapped shore,
Where they who in the boiling current sink?
No faith, no hope is his, he can but doubting think.
Then peers he wondering o'er the dizzy steep,
On that wild sea where he must erelong swim,
Whose thickening horrors coldly round him creep;
Till, lost in dread, his straining eyes grow dim,
And heavy woe-drops down his pale cheeks skim.
Or on his knees in dull despair he falls;
135

For not a ray of hope comes up to him,
Though, mad with fear, he to the billows calls,
Whose dark, mysterious depth his staggering heart appals.
For comfort then he earthward turns his eyes,
But sees one line of long, unbroken snow;
All cheerless round him the cold landscape lies,
While all the world seems laughing at his woe;
Each old familiar object bids him go;
Or on his fears in solemn mockery smiles.
Then turns he where the ceaseless waters flow;
For nought on earth his sinking heart beguiles,
And every glimpse of life new sorrow on him piles.
On him he feels a cold and ruthless hand,
That ever urges towards the fearful brink;
Nor can he the relentless grasp withstand,
Or from the firm locked fingers slyly shrink;
Now o'er their balls his palsied eyelids sink,
136

Blindly he clutches at the slippery shore—
My God! what can the mind at such time think!
A plunge, half swallowed in the angry roar,
And the big waves roll on as darkly as before.
 

William Kemp, a celebrated Morrice Dancer of the reign of Elizabeth.

137

THE SHARK.

A BALLAD.

A sailor leaned o'er the vessel's side,
And gazed in the rippling sea—
“Christ save us!” said he, and started back,
“A shark swims under the lee.”
His comrades looked close under the lee,
With a fixed and glassy stare;
They saw a fin and a glittering back
Now sink, and now rise in air.
138

Ho! bait a strong line, the captain cried,
Then muttered a passing curse;
For the greedy shark still followed on,
Like mourner the gloomy herse.
All day, all night, the daintiest bait
Towed close to the shark's fell jaw—
“He follows the ship, and not the bait!”
“Yet,” quoth Ned, “he'll fill his maw.”
The sick man lay on his restless bed,
A fever had scorched his brain;
While the hot blood gushed in lava tides,
And hissed through each bursting vein.
Black Edward leaned o'er the sick man's bed,
And glared on his enemy;
His head, like a coiléd snake, he bent—
“A shark swims under the lee!”
139

Great God, but it was a fearful thing
To hear the poor sufferer rave!
To see the red flushes come and go,
Like sun-beams over the wave!
And ever he muttered in low tones
Of the bitterest agony,
While his heart boomed like a tolling bell,
“A shark swims under the lee!”
He bounded up from his narrow bed,
And fell on his bended knee;
“Christ save me,” cried he, and loudly wept,
“From the shark under the lee!”
Black Edward laughed o'er the vessel's side
As the sun set bloody red;
The shark lept up as for very joy—
Quoth one, “The sick man is dead.”
140

They poised the corse o'er the rushing waves;
Alas! how their spirits sank!
“Don't throw him,” they cried, “to yonder shark!”
Black Ned kicked over the plank.
With a bound sprang forth the greedy shark,
And his horrid jaws upraised,
He tore the shroud like a rotten rag—
The crew in pale horror gazed.
He dragged the torn body from the shroud,
And the sea was red with gore—
“God shield us!” they cried, and closed their eyes;
But the shark was ne'er seen more.
141

SONG OF THE SCORNFUL LADY.

Ah! my Love hath left my side,
How I smiled when we two parted!
He hath fled his grief to hide;
Proud he strode, but broken hearted.
His heart was my little lyre;
O'er its strings my fingers flinging,
I woke notes of misery dire;
Though the tones his breast were wringing.
142

Know ye maids what secret bliss,
Lurks in notes so agonizing,
When Man proudly bends to kiss
Lips that quiver with despising?
Ha! I played it o'er and o'er;
Every note that misery raiseth—
How I'd laugh to see him pour
Tears, when he deems no one gazeth!
But, ah me! I needs am sad:
Those last tones too well betoken
That no more my ear they'll glad;
For alas! my lyre is broken.
Cheer me! why have I repined?
Beauty hearts will ever render;
But I fear I ne'er shall find
Heart 'twill utter tones so tender.
143

SONNET.

What trophies of lost splendor line the way,
That sad, laborious path which lies between
Expression and Idea! Where words are seen
As sunrise mists appear, which hide the ray
That, unobscured, might break to perfect day;
Though glow the clouds with red and golden sheen,
Beneath a sun, far brighter, shines we ween,
Hid by the mists that form this prospect gay.
Thus when vague words the thoughts of Genius light,
144

And spread a splendor o'er the else dark mass;
Though they may glow, the pure Idea is lost,
And nought but dim reflection meets the sight.
Sad is it that such light from earth should pass!
For want of language to oblivion tossed.
145

SONNET.

MUSIC.

Sweet Poesy's twin Sister—perfect Art!
Thou only can'st express the harmonies,
The marvellous ideal melodies,
That from Thought's wonderful orchestras start,
And roll in torrents o'er the Poet's heart!
Thou only, ere the subtle idea flees,
Can, note by note, take down the symphonies,
Ere their fresh glories from the mind depart!
Thou dealest not with words, but sounds; nor dies
146

Full half the lustre of the burning thought,
Ere fixed by art among realities;
But every glorious tone and note is caught!
Ah! from poor Poesy what splendor flies
In that sad passage—what decay is wrought!
147

SONNET.

“Show me a miracle,” the Atheist said,
“And I'll believe!” Does he not truly see
A miracle appear in every tree,
When by the sap the budding leaves are fed;
Or when by spring the teeming fields are spread
With vernal flowers? Or can the abject plea,
That places law o'er God, avail? In me
A constant, never failing trust is bred,
Not by their violation, but by laws
'Neath which all Nature moves. Should the laws fail,
148

I then might doubt the great, directing Cause;
Might then the Christian creed unawed assail,
And give blind Chance the credit, without pause;
But not while Power and Harmony prevail.
149

SONNET.

O tell me not that gloomy solitude
Reigns o'er the desert vast, or hermit's cell!
Nay, but in cities, where together dwell
Hearts with discordant principles imbued.
He who hath made it willingly his choice
'Mid nature's smiling wilderness to dwell,
May hear, from lofty crag and woody fell,
Tones sweeter far to him than e'en Man's voice.
But oh, the hell that lurks within the heart,
When soul with soul in union bound we see;
150

Yet stand, like banished men, far, far apart,
Forbid to join that joyful company.
Oh, 'tis a sight would draw from Hate a tear,
To see one standing thus—as I stand here!
151

SONNET.

[WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.]

Here Nature's voice speaks from the glowing page;
Now with high melody the numbers swell,
Now murmuring low, soft as Proteus' shell.
Here may'st thou learn from Wisdom's lofty Sage,
Those secret yearnings of the inmost heart,
Which the rapt soul, soaring beyond its clay,
'Mong the harmonious spheres, in upper day,
Breathes to itself in music. Here thou'lt start
To see thoughts inexpressible to thee,
152

Murmurings in holy contemplation's hour,
Whisperings of high angelic rhapsody,
Which Man's weak voice to utter ne'er had power,
Till heavenly Wordsworth, holy Nature's Tongue!
Struck his seraphic lyre, and musing sung.
161

A SNOW STORM IN APRIL.

Old Winter's last greeting,
As slowly retreating,
Snow flying, hail beating;
The warrior grim
His last stand is making,
His last lance is breaking,
His last vengeance taking,
His glories grow dim.
162

On green grass he's hailing,
At young leaves is railing,
His banners are trailing
From yon dusky cloud;
But young leaves dance sprightly,
Gay blossoms gleam brightly,
The rills laugh full lightly
At th' old monarch proud.
Though the flowers are quaking
At stern Winter's shaking,
Bent almost to breaking,
They lovelier are;
For on their leaves dancing,
Their beauties enhancing,
Bright jewels are glancing,
And flashing afar.
Gay sunbeams are falling,
Old Winter appalling;
The blue-bird is calling
The Spring's battle-cry.
163

Though snow drifts are sleeping
'Neath hedges, see peeping,
And over them weeping
The violet's soft eye!
Each snow flake descending,
The sun's rays are blending
To rain drops, ere ending
Their fall to the earth.
The blossoms' cheeks burning
The hail-stones are spurning,
Their cold terrors turning
To tears of bright mirth.
Hark! Winter is beating
A mournful retreating,
Through forests is fleeting
Before the Sun's might—
Whose banners are streaming,
Whose trophies are gleaming,
Whose smile is soft beaming
O'er valley and height.
164

JULIA'S SLIPPERS.

A FAIRY TALE.

Fairy Mab and Oberon
Sat a moon-lit bank upon.
Mab upon a daisy soft
Rocked her tiny form aloft.
Tired of dance and elfin play,
At her feet King Oberon lay;
Cursing in his moody mind,
The whole race of womankind.
For anew the Queen began
That same story, on which ran
165

All her thoughts and all her powers,
Which had robbed of many hours
Weary Oberon's noon-day sleep;
Till his very flesh did creep,
When the wanton Queen still chose
This dread subject of his woes.
Wiles and smiles the Queen was throwing,
Darker Oberon's brow was growing,
Curses hovered on his lips:
Round his neck his Fairy slips,
On his mouth her kisses fall—
Which to Oberon taste like gall.
What was all this coil about,
'Tween Queen Mab and Oberon stout?
All about a robe of green,
That the Fairy Queen had seen,
By the thieving Robin ta'en
From a butterfly he'd slain.
Not a common moth I ween,
Such a fly is seldom seen;
166

Brought here by a learnéd man
From far distant Hindostan,
Whose bright plumes, and monstrous size
Filled the Fairies with surprise;
This with peril and with pain,
Single-handed, Rob had slain.
Then torn off its matchless skin
Light as gossamer, as thin,
Green flecked o'er with burning gold;
On each wing two great eyes rolled,
Burning like twin spots of fire—
This was Fairy Mab's desire.
For this robe she'd gladly given
Half her birthright under heaven.
But sly Robin, cunning elf,
Asked no store of hoarded pelf;
No! he chose a greater prize,
Seldom such met Fairies' eyes,
Never had passed common lip,
Draught like Robin longed to sip—
167

A butter cup of honey-dew,
Gathered when the moon was new,
By the tributary bees
Brought great Oberon to please,
Once each year, with solemn rite;
For which he preserved from blight
All the flowers that deck the field,
All the buds which honey yield.
Such the price that Rob had set,
Which alas! Mab ne'er could get;
This the cause that bred the strife
'Tween the Fairy King and Wife!
Till vexed Oberon vengeance dread
Vowed on Rob's audacious head.
What! should he, aspiring clown,
Guzzle liquor of the crown
With his filthy crony Rush,
Hidden 'neath the holly-bush,
While in vain their Sovereign roared
For the drink that, drunk as lord,
168

Oft, with dizzy, reeling head,
Sent him to his rose-leaf bed!
How the blood imperial boiled
As he thought of nectar spoiled
When gulped down with vulgar haste,
Lost upon the blunted taste
Of a senseless, curious clown,
All to gain a gaudy gown!
Should such profanation be?
No! in limbo he would see
Mab and all her Fairy train,
Ere submit to such a stain.
Then of patience quite bereft,
Royal dignity all left,
Up he bounded from the ground—
While the trembling daisies round,
Shuddering, shrunk in pallid fear,
Dreading Oberon's words to hear;
For the King had worked his mind
Into passion almost blind—
169

High in air he raised his fist;
When the Queen cried, “Husband, hist!
Hark! the footsteps of my train
Hither come like pattering rain.
Do not, 'fore your Court, expose
My poor form to cruel blows!”
“By the Gods! you'll drive me crazed!”
Oberon cried—his features blazed.
“Did I ever in my life
Raise my hand against my wife?
Thus, with taunts, you still repay
Kindness, and my lenient sway.”
These endearments conjugal
Now needs met a sudden fall;
For the Fairy Court drew near,
In their centre, filled with fear,
Yet half in oblivion lost
By the foaming ale he'd tossed,
From the gleaming pewter can,
With his friend the tailor's man;
170

Now, with red and blinking eye
Filled with maudlin gravity,
Which ill hid his growing fears,
'Fore the King a Clown appears.
From King Oberon's brow all wrath
Vanished, like the serpent's path,
When its subtle form is hid,
Stealing the rank grass amid.
While Queen Mab upon his arm
Rested, as to shield from harm—
By a mortal touch profaned—
The dear lord who o'er her reigned.
Soon the silence Oberon broke,
And to Sib the Fairy spoke.
“What is this unseemly jest
That breaks on our royal rest?
Why bring here this drunken Clown,
To tread new-sprung flowrets down,
With his clumsy hob-nailed shoon
Trampling on the sweets of June?
171

Shall we scourge with thistles keen
From the presence of our Queen,
Frighted by your clamorous shout,
Your whole rude, unmannered rout?”
Here a glance of mortal sin,
Something 'tween a scowl and grin,
Not of fondness, as he meant,
Towards his royal Spouse he sent.
Pausing for a seemly space,
Sib bent 'neath the frowning face;
Then with faltering tongue, began
To relate, how the poor man,
Wandering, was by Fairies found,
On a piece of marshy ground;
Thither lured by tapers bright,
They had brought their path to light.
He a Cobbler was by trade,
And two tiny shoes had made,
Which he carried in his hand;
And in vain the Fairy band
172

Had the little slippers tried;
For too long, or all too wide,
Had each Fairy found her feet.
Then they deemed the slippers neat
Had for royal Mab been made;
Though the Cobbler stoutly said
That to maid of mortal mould
He his tiny freight had sold.
With a high imperious look,
Mab her well shaped slipper shook—
A curled leaf a moth had knit,
Labouring long the Queen to fit—
From the royal foot and cried,
“Bring the shoes, they shall be tried,”
But in vain the Fairy strains;
Nought but heat rewards her pains;
And, with ruth, abashed she feels
She can ne'er get on the heels;
There the straining slipper clings,
While a laugh from Oberon rings.
173

Then with wrath the Sovereign burned,
To the trembling Clown she turned,
Spurned the slippers from her feet;
Scorn for royalty unmeet,
Flashing in her blazing eyes,
As in choking voice she cries—
“Ill betide thy ugly face!
Who our foot would fain disgrace.
This I know is Oberon's act;
He and thou are slyly pact,
Thus before the Court entire,
To contemn what all admire.
Or thou'st tried for fancy's sake,
With microscope eyes to make
Shoes so small, the like of which
Ne'er before held mortal stitch.”
Meekly bowed, the Cobbler said,
“Madam, as I live, a Maid
Dwells near by your Fairy hold,
To whom I these slippers sold.”
174

“Now,” broke in the haughty Queen,
“This fair maid shall sure be seen.
If they fit not, my whole Court
Of thy carcass shall make sport.
Puck shall pinch thee black and blue,
Thorns and nettles pierce thee through;
Nightmare Gull thy bosom ride;
Blight thy corn and kine betide;
Every ill that Fairies know,
On thy hated head shall flow.
Should they fit, our blessing take;
From this night thy fortune make.
Now unto that lady fair
Bend thy steps, and dog beware!”
Quick as wink, the Fairy Court
Changed its shape to other sort,
Oberon now a bulky bat,
On his back his Consort sat,
Like a yellow butterfly
Sailing through the moonlit sky.
175

Puck a mighty beetle rolled,
And a ball before him bowled;
Rush a dragon sailed at ease;
Some were moths, and some were fleas;
Each changed to an insect form
As to Julia's door they swarm:
Entered with the man of shoes,
And ranged 'round their mirthful crews.
Beaming like the morning light,
'Mid them sat the Lady bright.
All unconscious of the Sprites
Whom her mortal form delights;
Radiant with those wondrous charms,
That had beaten love's alarms
On a band of human hearts,
Without efforts, without arts.
Every feature was a trap
By which gazers met mishap—
Pitfalls in her rosy cheek,
Snares within her tresses sleek,
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Poison in her violet breath,
'Tween her lips lurked honied death,
Mantraps in her lily hand,
But her eyes who could withstand?
They were armed with very fangs,
Cause of many cruel pangs;
Barbed with love's most deadly darts,
Bright as those which Phœbus starts
From his sounding bow, when day
Shoots o'er the eastern hills its ray;
Full of mischiefs, full of loves,
Now a falcon's, now a dove's.
Such the little, charming witch,
In whose presence stood poor Stitch.
In her hand a butterfly,
Such as Oberon would deny
His Queen, with curious look, she held—
Mab the prize with joy beheld;
And as Stitch towards Julia went,
Down the butterfly she sent.
177

Quickly Mab, with beaming eyes,
To her bosom hugged the prize,
Owning gratitude and love
To fair Julia far above
Envy, though her mortal foot
Should slide in the tiny boot.
Now the Clown, o'erwhelmed with fear,
To the lovely Maid drew near,
Shuddering at the awful curse
He Queen Mab had heard rehearse;
Took a foot he scarce could see,
Placed it on his trembling knee,
Then drew forth the tiny kid,
And its latchet slight undid—
Praying in his agony
A Cind'rella she might be—
On the little slipper slips:
Julia turned with scornful lips,
Stamped her foot in anger down,
Raised her finger, as to drown
178

The rude Clown's apology;
And unto him thus spoke she—
“Thou hast made my shoes before,
But if e'er within my door
Thy rough figure comes again,
Forth thy back my men shall cane!
This the fault I always find—
Ill beshrew thy stupid mind!
Shall a lady waste her breath
On an ear as deaf as death?
Gave I not especial charge?
Lout, thou'st made my shoes too large!”
Oberon seized a little shoe
As with shouts the Fairies flew.
When her boastful voice Mab raises,
At some flattering Courtier's praises,
And she struts with regal state,
In her full blown pride elate,
High he lifts the tiny shoe;
When her glory melts, like dew
179

From the sun-kissed rose's cheek,
And she shrinks to gestures meek.
Fortunes great poor Stitch befell;
As his knightly shield can tell—
Argent moon on field of blue,
Crested with a proper shoe;
Underneath this legend writ,
Ex minimo maximum fit.
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