Art and Fashion :: :: University of Virginia Library

Love said to Apollo one day,
Can't you paint me a likeness of Venus?
If not by yourself, I dare say
We might manage to sketch her between us.
But Venus declared, when she saw
The image o'er which they'd been teasing,
That a child might be able to draw
A portrait more perfect and pleasing.

Ah me! not e'en the gods can Beauty please!
Who'd be a portrait painter? Better slave

At any trade . . . . . better . . . . .

(singing)

“A child might be able to draw.”

Could I but realise Imagination,
Give permanence to Fancy, it were well;
But brighter visions visit me in dreams
Than, waking, I can execute. Sleep, sweet sleep!
Thou seem'st the soul of Art; king of a world
In which all others but resolve themselves!
Thine is the key to the impossible,
The wonderful, the magical— (a knock at the door).

Come in!

If sprite or fay,
Make good thy way,
And what thou mean'st by coming, say!

Enter Augusta, dressed in the extreme of fashion.
FERDINAND.
Ah! Cousin mine, a thousand, thousand welcomes!
My eager hand hath scarce thy portrait left.
Methinks the head doth credit to my skill;
It fills the room with life—effuses light;
When cover'd, all seems dark. How lik'st thou it?

AUGUSTA.
Why, yes: 'tis like, no doubt, . . . . but . . . .

FERDINAND.
But!—
“A child might be able to”—
Your pardon, coz;
I deem that portrait, sketchy though it seem,
As near the sweet perfection of thy face
As hand can limn; the likeness free and true.
But for the dress—I am a bungler there;
The trimming is fantastic, and the rest
Needeth some toning down.

AUGUSTA.
Oh, that is easy!

FERDINAND.
You think 'tis easy, then, to catch “a likeness,”
Copy a nose, a mouth, a chin! You're right.
But copying nature is not all that's needed;
Something behind, unfeatured and unnamed—
The dewy light that rims the morning cloud
And lends a life to what was dull and cold—
Such is the light the Artist hath to find,
Else may the portrait show but spiritless.

AUGUSTA.
Certes, a face is like a lamp unlit

Without the mind; it is the living mind
That shapes expression.

FERDINAND.
I know an Artist—
Ay, a great one too, his name still famous—
Who to each sitter took the callipers,
And measured, inch by inch, each feature's place,
Position, and proportion; after that—

AUGUSTA.
He took his canvas

(smiling).
FERDINAND.
No such thing, my coz!
He made a drawing, finish'd and exact,
So bold, so vigorous in execution,
The after painting scarce could rival it;
In fact, the drawing beat the canvas oft.
There was a subtle sentiment he lost
In the translation: still he persevered,
Slowly, yet all determined to excel.
No toil thought he too much; knowing right well
Mere feature's truth is not true portraiture.

AUGUSTA.
You paint not thus?

FERDINAND.
No: I rub in at once;
Yet question if 'tis quicker in the end.
I alter and re-alter; at my whim
Touch and re-touch. That mouth, which seems so slight,
Cost me some hours; I've had it in and out
Full twenty times: at length I took a book,
When, all at once, I saw the matter clear;
A few light touches, and the lips had life;
The portrait spoke: that is—

AUGUSTA.
It should have done!
But this would seem a thing of chance, not Art;
One happy moment, worth ten studious hours!

FERDINAND.
Right—and yet wrong; the myst'ry deeper lies.
The thing to catch is not the outward shape;
Mere form a common copyist may reach;
But inward feeling, sentiment, emotion—
The mind that in its subtle currency
Illuminates each lineament, and gives
At different moments different effects—
'Tis this the Artist tries. . . . .

AUGUSTA.
No doubt, no doubt;
One cannot reach the soul with compasses,
Nor take its depth, nor breadth, nor altitude.

FERDINAND.

You've seen my Hamlet? Well, it cost some thought;
The critics gave me credit for the “Ghost.”
A presence, vague and supernatural—
A shade majestic, worthy of the realm
It left for earth: for that they proffer'd praise
Which cost the slightest trouble. 'Twas the mien,
The mind of Hamlet task'd my utmost power;
Again the mouth proved difficult to hit,
And for a week it ran a daily change.
At last, one touch: lo! 'twas the right effect;
A nervous, sensitive, expressive mouth.
The critics lent no echo to my Hope
That therein would my better fame be found,
But praised the Ghost!—

The Ghost!—well, Fame's a ghost,
And Hope, too oft, a false Astrologer.
Talking of that—of Hope—you like not then
The portrait?

AUGUSTA.
If tongue may freely breathe it,
I much the portrait of our Aunt prefer.

FERDINAND.
Our Aunt dress'd simpler. What can mortal do
With all this heap of frill and frippery?
Art hates gay trimmings: they distract the eye.
What lovelier to a lovely countenance
Than plain attire—simplicity of garb?
I tell thee, Fashion, like a climbing weed,
Destroys the very thing it feeds upon!
Saw'st thou e'er graft upon a nobler stock,
On alder, oak, laburnum, sycamore?
The active root develops its own life
In vigorous shoots from out the parent stem
But these, at once, the gardener destroys:
The nature of the tree is sacrificed
For the more gaudy, showy, flaunting graft!
'Tis thus with you the graft of Fashion shows
Upon a nobler nature.

AUGUSTA.
Indeed! I . . .

FERDINAND.
Nay, stay and hear the rest. As feeds that graft
On qualities superior to its own,
Shoots, born to rise and soar, and drink the air
That circles nearer heaven, so Fashion preys,
So feeds, on Nature's purer elements.
Nature and she are foes. She, Fashion, stands
Cold, artificial, ever in extremes;
She dwells within the world without a heart;
Convention is her god, all vulgar else,
And than be vulgar better not be born.

AUGUSTA.
I'll hear no more.

FERDINAND.
Vulgar! what means the word?
Nothing's so vulgar as the light of day,
Which sits in hovels and lies down with rags;
Nothing's so vulgar as the breath of life,
Which e'en a rat holds equal with one's self;
Nothing—

AUGUSTA
(passionately).

I thought you'd end in nothing!—
Now hear me. Fashion—grant me patience!
'Tis profanation thus to libel her.

She's the world's mirror: people see themselves
As she reflects them, or they see not life;
They breathe but in the presence of her power.
Beauty lends homage due, which she repays
By making Beauty still more beautiful,
Form more attractive, feature more divine;
A grace inspired by her supremacy,
And reach'd but by her vot'ries.

[Walks about.

Fashion! yes:
A thousand servants wait upon her steps:
All hands are busy for her. Ships at sea,
Freighted with charms, obey her welcome summons.
She keeps the “World” in busy agitation;
Shore, quay, and bustling wharf, warehouse and shop,
Teem with her queenly orders. She keeps state,
And every stone grows hot with rolling wheels;
She languishes, and every trade falls dull.
Fashion, indeed! you teach where you've to learn.
I tell thee, Painter, let but Fashion take
Thy genius by the hand—let her but speak—
And she will turn thy palette into gold,
Transmute thy colours into costly gems;
Patrons, in throngs, shall lounge about thy doors,
And Peers outbid each other for the next
Great effort of that hand which Fashion crowns
With her supreme distinction. Fashion!

FERDINAND.
What humour's this? lo, what a heat you're in!—
Eye, cheek, and lip, glowing with lovely fire;—
A moment sit and let me paint you thus, [Augusta walks about.

Each ringlet trembling with strange brilliancy;
Passion becomes you; what a look was there!

AUGUSTA.
Ferdinand! . . . .

FERDINAND.
Well, Cousin!

AUGUSTA.
Speak where you will,
But never more to me; never . . . .

FERDINAND.
For what?
Well may sincerity be rare on earth.
The face belie the feeling, tongue shun truth— [A pause.

Nay, if thus hurt then am I grieved indeed.
Augusta!

AUGUSTA.
Taunts, taunts, taunts, nothing but taunts!
For ever rating me, and scouting Fashion.

FERDINAND.
Because I love—nay, patience—Nature best!—
And yet not Nature more than I loved you,
Ere Fashion won you! Loved you! yes, love still—
Though Fashion seek to cast my quiet life
Too far apart from its divinity!
I worship—but the shrine finds other fires,
And burns to other gods!—

AUGUSTA.
To be so school'd!

FERDINAND.
You'll give your hand?

AUGUSTA.
To be so lectured!
Ever we meet to rail, even now you rail—
You that should kinder be than any one.

FERDINAND.
Well, let me own there's truth in what you spoke
Of Fashion and her power; yet I prefer
To satin robes, and lace, rich gems and flowers,
Some Indian village, by some shore remote—
Some Mohawk, with his arrow and his bow,
Full of that fire immortal Nature lit

When she created Man, whose bounding limb,
Instinct with power—alive with energy—
Ennobled every motion with a grace,
To which—now pardon me—to which, dear coz,
Fashion is manner'd, artificial, cold;
An image, not a being—sign, not fact:
A symbol, not a soul! But I have done—
Now on my last work give me your decree.

[Brings forward a picture, showing village home, with garden, field, and lane, and distant spire.]
AUGUSTA
(after a pause).

Our cottage-home—our dear old cottage-home—
The spot a mother's early love made holy!
The very lane my school-led footsteps stray'd,
Rough with tall fern, and early fox-glove bells,—
The mossy spring round which the village maids
Would tell their merry secrets; whisper tales
Of moonlight meetings,—stories out of school,—
Things little birds had told them—happy days!
That gather'd pleasure from the simplest source.
Sweet days, so fresh with memory's morning dew,
What have ye left like that ye took?

Oh Home!
We never prize thy worth till thou art lost,
And then—how dear, how exquisitely dear!—

FERDINAND.
All things are dear when sorrow shows their worth;
Let but a moment be the scanty space
Between farewell and absence from the loved,
Unknowing the far period of return;
And every simple, trivial, common thing
Becomes array'd with triple interest.

AUGUSTA.
The gate, the tree, the little garden-chair,
The shady corner where the bird-cage hung;
A leaf—a flower—how do they spring to worth
When the heart pains to lose them? Would that all
Could learn to prize before compell'd to lose!
How many would be rich that think they're poor?
How many happy that are discontent?
How many pining, fretful natures blush
To show themselves before true sorrow's face?—
Oh home! oh mother!—oh too early lost!
I seek ye, but a grave is all I find!

FERDINAND
(aside).
Nature speaks now.

AUGUSTA.
That mother, Fred, you loved her dearly once.

FERDINAND.
May memory scorn me when I love her not:
All that I am is owing to her worth;
An orphan 'neath her care,—her brother's child!
She must have loved that brother passing well,
For oft I've known her gaze on me with tears,
And wet my cheek with kisses! When she died—
No, no! not died, such goodness never dies!—
But when God's angels bore that saint to heaven,
A letter on her pillow lay, address'd
“To her young painter,” whom she pray'd might win
A name among Earth's gifted. On one page
(I've read it oft, dear cousin, oft 'mid thoughts
That blinded me with tears)—on one page
She gave her daughter to a heart she knew
Honestly loved her with a manly truth,
Deep, firm, and lasting as the pulse within,—
But you—you have discarded the poor painter.

AUGUSTA.
You would not have a hand without a heart?
Such legacy could not enrich the heir!

FERDINAND.
Enforced affection? What? Against thy will—
Receive a cold, reluctant, backward heart?

Never! Oh God, that letter! [He seizes the letter, and attempts to destroy it.

And yet, thy mother's last, last written lines,
That loving, tender—no, I cannot tear,
But I can yield it! Never more my cheek
Shall sweetly slumber o'er the hope it gave;
My pillow never more its seal shall press
Whilst far in dreams I clomb the steep of fame,
And offer'd name and fortune at thy feet:
Dreams—oh delusions!—dreams that break the heart!
One kiss, dear seal—old friends should kiss at parting.
Now . . . . quickly . . . . take it!

AUGUSTA.
Alone?

FERDINAND.
How mean you?

AUGUSTA.
Not take the honest hand which holds the letter?

FERDINAND.
Be merciful—be candid—be sincere:
Mistake not sudden sympathy for love.
You hesitate, . . . . you do not take the letter.

AUGUSTA.

Not hesitate—if, if you think my life
Can make your own more happy; if my love
Can make existence brighter in your sight;
Can—can reward you for the love I know
You cherish for your giddy, graceless cousin,
Then . . . .

FERDINAND.
Then . . . .
Oh, sainted shade—inheritor of heaven—
Who wert my friend, my one true friend on earth,
My parent when I needed parent most,
Look down, sweet saint, and bless thy grateful children!

AUGUSTA
(after a pause).
This picture—

FERDINAND.
Well?

AUGUSTA.
It never must be sold.

FERDINAND
(struggling to recover his usual tone and feeling).
So; every artist his own purchaser.
'Twere pleasant could it last; but much I fear
Such system scarcely may become the “Fashion!”

AUGUSTA.
Fashion? again, again!

FERDINAND.
An artist's wife . . . .

AUGUSTA.
Seeketh no fleeting aid of ornament.
But how we talk!—you were defeated, Sir:
The victor, not the vanquish'd, proffers terms!

[Exeunt.

REYNOLDS.

Scene—Dining-room in Sir Joshua's house, Leicester Square.
Enter Reynolds and Goldsmith.
REYNOLDS.
But when was this?

GODSMITH.
Less than an hour ago.

REYNOLDS.
Garrick and Johnson quarrelling on Art,
And questioning “the Beautiful”—what then?

GOLDSMITH.
Johnson declared all Beauty was a dream—
A fiction merely; something people saw
But through their fancy; and as Fancy chose
The jade misled her idle votaries.

REYNOLDS.
Pleasant, indeed! How came the subject on?
Johnson lacks faith in painting: he avers
That pictures are but toys—things to please babes.

GOLDSMITH.
The Doctor's weak of sight, and roughly speaks.

REYNOLDS.
But strong of mind; and, 'faith, he argues well.
Proceed with their discourse—how prosper'd it?

GOLDSMITH.

“Beauty,” quoth Garrick, “is not definite;
There are no general principles for Beauty.
The features which delight us in one face
May suddenly displease us in the next.
Beauty is not a thing for square or rule.”
“Sir, I deny it,” Johnson, growling, broke;
“There is a settled principle of Form,
Which, injured, you beget deformity.
Rule?—Nature, Sir, submits herself to rule!
One thing is needed you to judge aright—
Discrimination.”

“I cannot comprehend,”
Said David, stiffly, . . . .

“Of course you cannot—
People, too oft, are slow of comprehension.
Beauty, good lack! what knowest thou of it,
Except in paint and foil? Beauty, with thee,
Must at the side-scene make her entrances,
Or move 'neath groves cut by the carpenter;
Her song-bird is an orchestra—her stars
The stage-lights; knowing nought of seasons, but
As shown by bill or prompter's calendar;
Her seasons are theatrical—her fruits,
Her flowers, spring not from Nature's treasury,
But make-believes—peaches of wood and wax;
Not from the green-house, David, but the Green-room!
Beauty!” stormed he, “i'faith, when saw'st thou it,
Save through the tube of operatic glass?”
At which, indignant, Garrick turned aside
And left the Doctor victor.

REYNOLDS.
Pooh! mere stuff,
The loveliest women born have trod the stage!

GOLDSMITH.
But, after all, who knows what Beauty is?
Is it a type of feeling, fancy-like?
A question of localities—of shores?—

Of nationalities?—To Caffre's eye
The Black is beautiful.

REYNOLDS.
And why not Black?
Of the Ideal, Beauty is the centre:—
Imagination, genius, feeling, passion,
Pay homage to the greatness there enshrined.
Art seeks to penetrate the inner veil
Where beauty sits concealed, but oftener fails
Than finds the hidden labyrinth to her feet.
Every creation of victorious Art
But vibrates to that centre; finest tones
But echo that interior harmony;
The loveliest conception doth but shape
A feeble image of the beauty shrined
Within that vast ideal . . . .

GOLDSMITH.
This for Art:
Yet simpler illustration may be found.

REYNOLDS.
Ever the old question, “What is Beauty?”
You say, as thousands say, a presence fair,
Of easy elegance, elastic step,
As bounding as the sparkling foot of Spring;

Expression that takes captive every grace,
And glads the sense to gaze, as though the world
Narrowed its orb to where one being moved,
And all the rest were barren! If 'twere thus,
Then to be thus were sure to be admired:
But there's a charm the gazer's self must find
Within himself, a portion of his life—
His own conception, feeling, sentiment,
Or Beauty's power is wanting. Some affect
A slender, delicate, half-girlish form,
Which fills them with a dream of loveliness,
Of purity, and maiden innocence;
Others select a full, round, regal shape,
Reflecting some ideal of their own,
Some Juno of their heart's mythology,
And slenderness is silliness to them!

GOLDSMITH.
'Tis true,
Each loving heart hath in its central core
Some fair imaginary sketch, some shape,
Some dream angelic of the bride to be,
Some unknown wonder, which shall yet appear;
Crossing the travel of their daily life
Find they but one, one charm, of those conceived
And shaped within—their eyes create the rest!

They see, in fact, what others cannot see;
And what seems “plain” to cold, unloving eyes,
To those that love, enzone beatitude.
As there is music which awakes no chord
Within some breasts, all perfect though it be,
So is there Beauty which affects us not,
While plainer faces thrill us with a joy
Unfelt, unimaged, unbelieved before!
Who can interpret, then, what Beauty is?

REYNOLDS.
Woman's a riddle—Beauty is the same.

GOLDSMITH.
To me,—nay, do not laugh,—in sooth, to me
There is a spirit in creation which
Seems cognizant of Art! The woodland stream
Ripples its sylvan course by mead and rock,
By nest of moorland lark, by park of deer,
Or sedgy nook, that would a painter choose;
The smallest flower that decks the hem of Spring
Seeks, as by instinct, some romantic spot,
Some shady slope, to dress its beauty in.
Earth closely knits in universal Art
The commonwealth of seasons, and their change;
Nature, a colourist—supreme as truth—
Paints with a pencil dipped in setting suns!

REYNOLDS.
You sail in Fancy's barque, and touch on shores
Seen by the dreamer's eye:—beware the rock!

GOLDSMITH.
Nay, dream it is not;—but a certainty!
The wild rose climbs the gate, or slyly seeks
Some old white gable to display herself;
Conscious of contrast, or, in playful mood,
Toys with the sun, and kisses her own shade.

REYNOLDS.
Why, this is sketching!—you've a soul for Art.

GOLDSMITH.
From youth I grew a lover of that light
Which warms the altar of “the Beautiful!”
I loved Mythology; for it to me
Was the religion of the Beautiful!
But Thought is ever in advance of Action,
Could we achieve what we in thought perceive,
Then Greatness were a step of easy reach!

REYNOLDS.
Within the mind of man there glows a fire
Which hath its source from some diviner orb
Than warms our world—spark of a higher sphere;

There, in its full integrity, exists
What we may term, for lack of better name,
The “Central Form”—the principle of Taste.
'Tis this that to the flagging fancy gives
Sense of a nobler mark—something beyond
What it hath yet achieved—some loftier step
Than it hath yet ascended: promptly as
This “Central Form” exerts its influence,
So its possessor moveth on to Fame;
Retaining this, in its divine perfection,
No man, no artist, actor, sculptor, bard,
Can rest content with failure: no, 'tis this,
This inward sense of something unachieved,
Felt, vaguely seen, and difficult of aim,
Upward invites us, till the mounting mind
Catches the light that can immortalise!—
This sudden power, not in itself a thought,
Yet aye compelling thought;—not Beauty, but
Extracting it; that Beauty unto which
Each particle of universal life
Is more or less related:—this is Genius,
Or 'tis the guide of Genius—'tis the Judge
That, though reproving, still encourageth!
You are an artist, every poem shows—
Simple, descriptive, earnest, full of grace
And manly tenderness; your pen excels

The painter's pencil; surely then you feel
That inward sense of something unperform'd,
Which yet your thought may grasp with diligence!

GOLDSMITH.
Conscious full often am I of a charm
In word or thought which yet I fail to reach;
And can believe it may be thus with Art.
Paintings! how they lead the mind to nature,
Inspire the spirit, lift the thought to God!—
All that in woman's life is beautiful,
All that is innocent and sweet in childhood,
All that is high, heroic, great in man!
Of fancy and reality—of taste
And truth—of glory and enthusiasm:—
How they illuminate the life of life!
Paintings to me are Prophets of Advancement!

REYNOLDS.
Poet thou art—and Nature form'd thee such;
But all too wild a spirit for that art
Where Judgment, more than Fancy, sits and acts.
Who wins must labour! not await the hour
Of some descending vision, some fair muse,
Seen in the dreams of foolish votaries.
To know one's object, and to learn the mode
Of reaching best that object; profiting

By every study ancient Art hath left;
By contemplation, and laborious zeal;
These, humble as they show and poor in sound,
Have royal right to epithets divine!
These will achieve what Dreamers ne'er achieve,
Led by the hope of some propitious star!
Some power, not won by labour, but a gift!
Alas, these gifts, how many a churchyard tells
Of broken hearts, of tears, of blighted homes!
The Halls of Fate are crowded by the Gifted;
The very dust is consecrate to woes,
Which found their birth in the insane belief
That untaught genius wins a world's renown,
Labour in Art scorn'd as mechanical:
Would that my voice each ardent youth might reach,
Who by his parent's table draws and dreams
Of heaven-born genius and the stars of Fame.
The only spirit worth the listening to,
Is that which bids men Work!—toil, study, learn.
This, Inspiration flouts as something low,
Unworthy her diviner attributes!

GOLDSMITH.
All men are not alike; whether it be
In brain or blood, in muscle or in nerve.
A power, to man inexplicable, still

Infuses nature; pulses of a life
As yet unveil'd: nay, hath not temperament,
Organisation, something still to do
With those emotions which translation seek
In Art, Invention, Sculpture, Poetry?
Thoughts come uncall'd for, and exert a power
Of which we are the servants, not the master.
Some hearts can vibrate to the simplest chord,
Others an orchestra may fail to rouse.
Beauty? It dwells in Truth, in Goodness, Grace;
Beauty is mental more than physical!
You laugh, you think not thus?—now, what's amiss?

REYNOLDS.
Keep that, my Goldie, for some future verse.

Enter
Servant.
So please you, Sir, the little girl attends
You met with strawberries, and bade to call.

REYNOLDS.
Strawberry Girl,—well, let her call at ten.

[Exit Servant.
GOLDSMITH.
The Strawberry Girl, pray let me see her.
I have a tenderness for childish life:
A man—yet something of a child myself.

Imagination builds her paradise
Deep in the wondering nature of a child:
The great, the wise, heroic, fortunate,
How shine they in the books that childhood reads!
There is a land but known to children's feet,
Wherein grow flowers that never bloom elsewhere;
As some child-angel, passing by, had thrown
The garment of her glory over earth!
Birds sing therein, whose notes, we know, were brought
From groves by fairies haunted; brooklets flow
In music such as heard Aladdin, when,
Full to the lips, in fortune he returned!
Oh, joy, to tread the ground of child-romance!

REYNOLDS.
Come, see the girl, and tell your story out,
Or write a book—a second Blue Beard tale,
A Cinderella, or new Riding Hood;
Some other story of a Wondrous Lamp!
Something to rank with Giants of the Past!

[Exeunt, Reynolds bantering.

GAINSBOROUGH.

Scene—The room of an old-fashioned house in Sudbury.
Enter young Gainsborough, with his mother, speaking earnestly.
GAINSBOROUGH.
Well, but, dear mother, I dislike these looms—
Treddles and shuttles, steaming vats and stoves.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Speak with respect, dear boy, and quietly.

GAINSBOROUGH.
I would not hint a feeling otherwise
Than kind, and most respectful to my sire;
Others, however, may have feelings too.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Forget your feelings, and remember fortune.
Think what a life of industry may yield,—
Wealth to command the highest influence;
Wealth to assist the poor—to raise the weak;
To be a benefactor and a friend
Unto the town that bred you! That were well!

GAINSBOROUGH.
But to inhale the sickly breath of crowds;
Exchange the fresh glad breeze of early morn
For the close atmosphere of carded wool;
Sweet Nature's quiet face, for the quick whirl
And everlasting din of shafts and wheels!
No; Nature's manufactory for me:
She moves on silently, though reproducing
Faster than man, with all his new-found helps.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Your brother Humphrey would not argue thus.

GAINSBOROUGH.
Make Humphrey, then, the weaver; let him be
The right hand of my father; let his name
Continue on the trade of “crapes” and “says.”
I'll carve out fortune with my palette knife;

A brush shall be my engine; and for steam,
For steam, I'll get up perseverance—yes,
High-pressure perseverance. I'll not fail!
Never believe I'll fail.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Consider this:
A tenth-rate fortune is a thing to prize;
A tenth-rate reputation—what is that?

GAINSBOROUGH.
But I'll be first!—

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
First?—my poor boy—be first?

GAINSBOROUGH.
I will work out the poetry of Art;
Make painting read as easily as a book;
Illustrate life and the intents of life;
Bid Nature sit for likeness of herself,
And fix the evanescent, by a wand
Potent as young Aladdin's. You will see!
My colours, these poor colours, shall be actors,
And with each day's performance bring me fame.
Kings, queens, and nobles, warriors, ministers,
Shall tread the stage, and keep it with applause.

The world itself shall be my theatre!—
Mother, there is a bond between us twain
Which makes affection but one common pulse
Guiding two hearts—'tis instinct, some would say:
Mother, there is an instinct to be great—
And that I feel!—throbbing each ardent pulse,
Coursing my veins as if to win the goal.
Can Nature err who thus reveals herself?

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Your father's disappointment—think of that!

GAINSBOROUGH.
He'll not be disappointed—or, if so,
But for a time—a very little time.
What is this wealth, of which he talks so much?
Death, that can make even a Crœsus poor,
Cannot deprive the artist of his gains!
No man hath more than a life-interest
In what his toil amasses. Death stays all,
Nothing he taketh with him: not so Fame—
It lends a halo even to the tomb,
Crowns the dead brow, honours the lifeless hand,
Enrobes the mortal with immortal worth:—
Death cannot rob the artist of his due,
For it enricheth e'en his very dust!

And for his life—think of his glowing life!
To linger in the light of golden eves;
Take lessons of the clouds, the streams, the hills;
Ramble 'mid woody rocks and winding glades;
To watch the panorama of the roads,—
The rustic cart to distant market bound,
The harvest waggon on its rumbling way,
Children beneath the hedgerow gathering haws,
The ploughman and his team, or tripping lass
With wicker basket and her weekly eggs.
All country pictures have a charm for me!
The sheep that spot the mead, like drifting snow;
The lowing kine within the sedgy pool;
Crows wandering home before the dusk of eve;
The aged woodman shelt'ring from the storm;
Even the shepherd dog, by meadow gate,
Waiting some well-known footstep, are enough
To fill my mind with pictures yet to be!

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Manhood succeeds to youth—and manhood sighs
To find youth's world a dream! Could I but think
Thy way were sure!

GAINSBOROUGH.
Be sure I'll bring you fame;
My name shall be an honour to your years,

And, as you walk, people that pass shall say,
That is the mother of young Gainsborough.
Oh! what a joy, some day to hear you own,—
But once my son proved backward to my wish;
But once—and after that no son more true;
My wish rose not so high as he did mount.
Fame then how sacred—how divinely dear—
How doubly welcome, if my mother's heart
But share the harvest which her son hath won!
Could I yet live to hear you own at last—
My son, your choice was right! You were my hope;
But now you are my pride!

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
You are my pride!
And God make good your hope.

[She falls on his neck, weeping.

HAYDON.

(THE TWO EXHIBITIONS.)

Scene—A room in the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, engaged by Haydon for the exhibition of his two important pictures, “The Banishment of Aristides,” and “The Burning of Rome.”
HAYDON.
The world may say I've fail'd; I have not fail'd:
If I set truth 'fore men they will not see,
'Tis they who fail, not I. My faith holds firm,
And time will prove me right; meantime I feel
As martyrs feel who suffer for the Truth!
Art should illustrate principle; give strength
To virtue; lift the soul to God! It claims
A higher, nobler province than to deck
The walls of lordly owners; than to be
Mere furniture for mansions. Art—High Art—

Should foster the intelligence of nations,
Commemorate the loftiest deeds of man!

Enter Lady Ethgrove and Party.
LADY ETHGROVE.
La, bless me, not a creature—I declare;
How vastly awkward—'tis a change, indeed,
To leave the General for Mr. Haydon.

PARTY.
A change, indeed; but surely you'll not stay?

LADY ETHGROVE to HAYDON.
You see I've call'd,—I promised you I'd call.
The pictures?—ah, I see;—how forcible!
Especially “The Burning,”—or, in fact,
I scarce know which is best, both are so good.
The Banishment of . . . Let me see the bill—
Of Aristides—hum!

HAYDON.
Contemptible! (aside.)

Your ladyship, I fear me, hurried here
From metal more attractive—General Thumb?

LADY ETHGROVE.
Oh, such a treasure, such a little dear!
Ladies were off'ring guineas for a kiss.

HAYDON.
Indeed!

LADY ETHGROVE.
So said: though, 'faith, I offer'd none.
Charm'd as I am, I must perforce away.
These pictures quite enamour me; but still . . .

HAYDON.
Your ladyship prefers the General.

[Walks about.
Enter Lord Lovel.
LADY ETHGROVE.
Ah, my Lord Lovel, have you seen the “rage,”
The wonder of the world?—so perfect, too,
From crown to heel a miracle of form!

LOVEL.
A miracle?—wherever to be seen?

LADY ETHGROVE.
General Tom Thumb—you must, indeed, go there;
The whole world's hurrying there; nothing is heard
But sayings, doings, speeches of Tom Thumb!

LOVEL.
Dwarfs suit not with my humour: when I pay
'Twill be for seeing giants, not for dwarfs.

[Haydon stops in his walk and regards Lord Lovel.
LADY ETHGROVE.
You'll go, I know; come, see him for yourself.
Say yes—but “yes”—and straight we will return;
Though, 'faith, we've spent the whole long morning there.

LOVEL.
Excuse me; nothing less than man gigantic!
Not an inch less than nine full measured feet
Would tempt me to attend.

LADY ETHGROVE.
Ah, you but jest!—
You'll see—you'll change your mind—we go with crowds:
Where fashion is, there go the fashionable!
And 'tis the fashion to admire Tom Thumb.
Adieu! I'm sure you'll go—quite sure you'll go.

[Exeunt Lady Ethgrove and Party.
LOVEL
to HAYDON.
You seem annoy'd—yet wherefore thus annoy'd?

What need to fret at mere frivolity?
If weak, 'tis harmless, and not worth a thought.

HAYDON.
Not quite so harmless as your lordship deems.
This puny prodigy—this wondrous mite—
This dwarf—this minikin—this scrap of flesh—
This turnip-radish of a man, attracts
In myriads, while I gain in units.
Last week twelve thousand hurried to the show—
One hundred honour'd me with their regard:
Twelve thousand to one hundred—desperate odds!

LOVEL.
Your name and service will survive the time;
You are the prophet of a new Art-creed;
It taketh years to inculcate the “New”—
The “Old” had its believers ere we came,
And will have when we're gone.

HAYDON.
In fact, this world's
A riddle, and success an epigram.
Forty-two years I've battled for the cause,
Through harassments, anxieties, and loss—
And what is the result?

LOVEL.
A great result; and greater yet to come.
The Elgin Marbles gave fresh force to Art,
And your impassion'd advocacy made
Them known and loved, when scorn'd and misconceived.

HAYDON.
Kindly remark'd, my lord; spoke all like you,
My heart—and more, my home—had suffer'd less.

LOVEL.
The years to come shall pay for sorrows past;
Meanwhile, let patience minister to peace!

HAYDON.
The years to come! I hear the knell of Hope
Dolefully ringing 'neath the spectral veil
Which hides the future! In my dreams I hear
Nothing but dirges. Hope loves youth, not age!

LOVEL.
Some pulse of Goodness centres in all life;
Open the door, and let the Angel enter.

HAYDON.
Goodness! the revelation of God's love;
Yes; I have faith in goodness, though unfound!

And equal faith in evil influence!
No man more earnestly beseecheth God
For strength in weakness, for support in grief,
For aid to finish greatly what his mind
Greatly conceives, than I. Ere canvas find
A line upon its surface, my heart's prayer
Ascends to Him who is the help of all!
To Him who grasps eternity, and holds
All nature in the hollow of His hand.
Then in such mood, I feel that I could seize
E'en Samson by the throat, and conquer him!
Nothing's too vast, too high, too difficult:
I walk the level of colossal thought,
And mate with heroes in the world of Art.

LOVEL.
Proceed; I'm all attention.

HAYDON.
For a time,—
This for a time; but other moods take place:
The glory narrows to a final speck,
And darkness, thick as Erebus, succeeds:
Out of this mist of horror comes a breath—
A whisper—scarce a voice—a small thin tone
That shakes me like a reed, and makes the air

Quiver as if with dread. I try to think
Of home, of children, all endearing things
That gladden labour through the task of life;
But still that breath grows hotter in mine ear;
The darkness thickens, and an utterance,
More dread than any presence man ere saw,
Chafes my roused spirit into hate and scorn!
Infects me with a pride beyond all pride,—
Intense disdain—unequall'd arrogance—
Unmatch'd assumption of transcendent powers.
Ambition, vast as was the Morning Star's
Ere quench'd in night, possesses every nerve.
I feel the world would crush me, if it could,
But that its malice lacks the needful might:
And then I brave the worst it can perform—
Mock its opinions—crucify its idols—
Unmask its falsehoods, and expose its shams—
Counters that would be coins—mere dross for dupes!
All tongues against me—I against all tongues!
Till life appears a mesh, from which to 'scape
Were paradise—and then . . . .
I dare not think what then!

LOVEL.
'Tis but the penalty of shatter'd nerves—
O'erwrought imagination. You need rest,

Freedom and relaxation: quit the town,
And pass a month with me at Loveltower.
Let Nature turn physician, and prescribe
As only Nature can, whose power's supreme.

HAYDON.
There's a prescription every one must take,
Sooner or later, and that sombre draught
With me seems close at hand—a grave-like phial!

LOVEL.
Come, come, be glad; discard this monkish mood.
Nature's a queen, whom God himself hath crowned:
Grace, Beauty, Sweetness, are her maids of honour;
They bear her train, rich with the vernal gold
And diamonds of the morn; and forth she moves
With Pow'r and Grandeur for her ministers:
A thousand servants wait upon her steps,
And kings are her retainers! Come, we'll change
This scene for one of peaceful, woodland life.
I'll be the prompter, at whose magic call
Prisons are changed to palaces. You'll return
Strong to achieve; and Fame will banquet you!

HAYDON.
Fame is a myth—a ghost that wanders ruins!
A phantom that deceives, misleads, and mocks;

What sorcery compels me to pursue
This vision?

LOVEL.
Fame is the star of Labour,
Without it effort dies—existence pines.
Fame, or the hope of Fame, hath led to deeds
Which elevate the world,—say nought 'gainst Fame;
Fame is to Mind what Love is to the Heart,
The goddess of its worship, and its wealth:
You have no heresy 'gainst Love, we hope?

HAYDON.
Love is the law of all things visible;
From Love doth emanate the beautiful;
And from the god-like beautiful springs Form—
Form, the exponent of all majesty!

LOVEL.
We carry beauty and proportion with us;
The visual eye asks guidance from within,
And as that cometh is its power increased.
Some men see form the first, the colour next:
Mere outline hath to them a grander charm
Than harmony of tone or grace of hue.
Others would sit unquiet if there hung

A picture out of square, and forthwith rise,
Compell'd by impulse to adjust it right.

HAYDON.
Taste is the gold of life, where'er 'tis seen,
Though but in cottage-home, it lends a light
Not wealth itself, if wanting taste, can match.
Art, as a teacher and a benefactor,
As yet is unacknowledged: give me rule,
And Schools of Art I'd raise in every town.

LOVEL.
You pause.

HAYDON.
The wheels fast rolling to Tom Thumb!
Hear you the inmates hurrying to the scene?
They crush—they scream—they faint. Your Lordship finds
The number here needs no arithmetic!

LOVEL.
Methought you had forgotten “such small deer!”

HAYDON.
Who feels for others can forget no step
By which their happiness may be involved:
Failure in this neglected exhibition
May bring down desolation upon those

I'd gladly die to serve. But wherefore grieve?
'Tis but one heartache more! Let me proceed.

LOVEL.
Schools of Design, you say . . . .

HAYDON.
Had I the means,
Schools of Design I'd build in every town;
Make Art an element of education
Common to all—the lowliest born of man;
A new community should spring around,
Refined, improved, advanced in social worth;
“Design” ere long would forth reveal itself
In every mercantile, industrial craft;
Iron and wood, nay, e'en the potter's clay,
Would offer forms of elegance and taste.
A graceful style adds nothing to the cost;
'Tis odds if more material be not used
To mould the vulgar than the graceful form!
A saving! there's attraction in the word,
Could I but prove this to the Government:
What say you?

LOVEL.
Simply this—petition Peel.

HAYDON.
I have; and he most courteously declines.
Yet Peel means well, and has a heart to feel;
Would fain do right, and yet is slow to act.
Melbourne but shrugs, and shakes his laughing sides,
And says, “What need to paint the House of Lords?
Many might say too much Art there already!
Schools of Design? What, more designing men?
Call you this, Haydon, serving well your country?”
So, with a joke, he laughs at argument,
And quits the question.

LOVEL.
We'll not quit it thus;
Assistance shall be had, and now, for once,
Close doors, and come with me: I have a scheme
Perchance may make a fortune; meanwhile, deem
My house a debtor by your sojourn there.

HAYDON.
Had not your lordship better ask Tom Thumb?
If he were absent—I might then succeed!

LOVEL.
The river of success runs ever clear!
All flock to see what all can understand.

If I read Shakspere, it is plain to sense,
I read to what's Shaksperian in the man.
If he be wanting in dramatic taste,
I might as well harangue the Monument!
Come, staying here doth but embitter thought.
Nay, cease to hesitate.

HAYDON.
Embitter thought?
Thrice happy they whose expectation's small,
And hope but little, if they hope at all!

[Exeunt.

From T. Taylor's Life of Haydon.

“Advertisement.—Haydon's New Pictures.—On Easter Monday next will open for exhibition at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly (admission 1s., catalogues 6d.), two large pictures, viz., ‘The Banishment of Aristides, with his Wife and Children,’ to show the injustice of democracy; ‘Nero Playing with his Lyre while Rome is Burning,’ to prove the heartlessness of despotism.

“April 4th. It rained the whole day. Nobody came except Jerrold, Bowring, Fox Maule, and Hobhouse. Twenty-six years ago the rain would not have prevented them, but now it is not so. However, I do not despair.—6th. Receipts, 1846, £1 1s. 6d.; Aristides. In God I trust, Amen.—7th. Rain. £1 8s. 6d.—8th. Fine. Receipts—worse, £1 6s. 6d.—13th. Easter Monday. O God! bless my receipts this day for the sake of my creditors, my family, and my Art, Amen. Receipts (22). £1 2s.; catalogues (3) 1s. 6d.; £1 3s. 6d.

“They rush by thousands to see Tom Thumb (exhibiting in another room in the same building). They push, they fight, they scream, they faint, they cry help and murder! and oh! and ah! They see my bills, my boards, my caravans, and don't read them. Their eyes are open, but their sense is shut. It is an insanity, a rabies, a madness, a furor, a dream!”

LEONARDO DA VINCI.

Scene

—Gallery of Paintings in the Palace of Fontainebleau; a flight of steps descending to the garden.
Enter Raimondi, Filippo, and Ginevra.
RAIMONDI.
Seven hundred crowns a year! Well, Fortune's son
Improves upon his early heritage.

FILIPPO.
A welcome boon—worthy the generous hand
And kingly heart of Francis. A wise gift!

RAIMONDI.
So after time may say: but hold you not
More than a common interest in this act,
Knowing Da Vinci long?

FILIPPO.
From childhood, Sir.
I am ten years his senior. Neighbours' sons

Were we—wild, rambling, thoughtless, truants oft.
Val d'Arno, and the mountain tracts beyond,
Beheld us link'd together dawn and eve.
Bright days were those, Raimondi; bright but brief—
Scenes that have passed to sounds—mere things of air—
Voices that have no echo, save a sigh:
Little remains to bid us now rejoice.
Pleasure finds many doors, and knocks full loud;
She hath her youthful comrades as of yore:
Age from the casement views her tripping by,
Calling no more as erst she used to call;
Singing no more as she was wont to sing!

RAIMONDI.
Well, Leonardo is advancing, too.

FILIPPO.
Genius counts days by deeds! Him I remember—
A handsome, gifted, earnest, active youth:
There was persuasion in his honest look;
None saw him but to love him.

GINEVRA.
Love him—a madcap! Sooth, I lov'd him not—
A giddy, hare-brained, noisy, reckless lad,
Ever in mischief! Never imp alive
Contrived to plague me as that rogue Da Vinci.

RAIMONDI.
I knew him when such school-day sports had ceased,
When thought made thin his cheek, when full of hope,
Full of the painter's ardour—young and warm,
Trembling with aspirations yet untold,
He loved to stand and gaze, full hour by hour,
Upon a Giotto or a Masaccio:—
Hearing no tongue save that which stirr'd the soul
With restless promptings unto noble deeds;
Seeing a vision canvas never showed
Lying beyond, apart, and far above
The painted scene on which he seemed to gaze—
A world wherein dwelt name, position, fame!—
Oh, hope of Genius, how divine the air
Which wraps thy presence—how intense the joy
That agitates the step that seeks renown!

FILIPPO.
Gladsome it is to mark a gifted mind
Step from a lot, by circumstance confined,
Narrowed by poverty, and in pure force
Of self-reliant, honourable will
Make circumstance give way,—and the steep path
Which leads to station, dignity, and power,

Take, as 'twere native to the soul within,
A spirit born to climb and to ascend! [A pause.

Oh! golden city of the land of Hope,
What hast thou not in store for those who strive
And toil, and mount, and wrestle for the wreathes
Whose leaves are—

RAIMONDI.
What?

FILIPPO.
Worthless, me thought to say;
But I am old, and aged eyes wax dim.

RAIMONDI.
And yet I've seen them gladden when thou spak'st
Of the first painting Leonardo wrought—
His famed Medusa . . . .

FILIPPO
(with excitement).

Think, my Raimondi—in a low-built room—
On scrap of common wood—with clay and paint,
Of which as yet he'd scarcely learnt the use,—
Without a friend to cheer, to aid him on,
Or whisper courage,—silent and alone,
Unfriended, unassisted,—he sent forth

A work whose novelty, whose force and depth,
Astonished Florence!

Then his modest worth;
His noble person,—handsome countenance—

GINEVRA.
A little louder speak,—I'm somewhat deaf.

FILIPPO.
A handsome lad—

GINEVRA.
Ay, ay, a franksome lad—a ne'er-do-well;
I often said he'd never come to good.
Always devising—ever constructing,
Making, unmaking;—doing, undoing;—
Mills, bridges, boats, and other carpentry—
Leaving a litter, which he called “Invention.”
Out on Invention!—'tis untidy work—
Keeps a house dirty, slovenly and rough . . . .

RAIMONDI
(interrupting her).
You'd need to speak more fittingly of one
So high in worth, in honour, as our Painter!

GINEVRA.
Painter, forsooth!—and where's the good of it?
What's the end of it? Who profits by it?

Painting? efecks! give me a Pantry, Sir!—
Sketching, say you—Kitchen, say I; Kitchen!—
The Light of Genius—can you see by it?
The Fire of Genius—can you cook with it?
What hath his genius done?

RAIMONDI.
Created works that will outlast thy grave;
A plate from one such work were worth a sum.

GINEVRA.
Plates, marry, plates! give me good dinner plates!
Burnished like silver, glittering in a row,
Making a dark place light;—Painting! mere stuff!
The painting on a clock but spoils the dial;
'Twould better go without it;—Painting! Plates!
Leonardo's a fool.

[Exit, grumbling.
FILIPPO.
That woman would speak evil of a saint,
As obstinate as . . . .

RAIMONDI.
What?

FILIPPO.
An old woman!—

RAIMONDI.
Mere prejudice, my Filippo, mere cant;—
True obstinacy is young as oft as old;
As often seen in ringlets as in wigs;
As firmly sits upon a snowy brow
As though it found ten wrinkles for a seat;
Speaks with smooth lip as boldly as with rough;
Ascribes a hundred motives for an act,
Not one of which is temper, passion, spleen.
No 'faith, 'tis “proper pride,”—'tis a “self-respect,”—
A rightful spirit suffering things unjust;
A brave resolve not to be “trampled on!”
Your true-born stubbornness is something great;
A mixture of the martyr and the saint!—

FILIPPO.
The world hath sat in judgment and declared . .

RAIMONDI.
Tut, tut!
The world must then reverse its law.
The old? no, no!—the stubborn are the young!
Twenty things granted cannot make them grateful;
One thing denied sufficeth to provoke them;
The young . . It galls me to the quick . . . .

FILIPPO.
Ha! ha!
A Preacher of “submission” losing patience!
But of Ginevra, who has just retired,
Nothing seems right to her distorted view;
Why sent Da Vinci for her?

RAIMONDI.
Doubtless to render service; place her well;
Where her old age might meet with fitting care.
E'en I have much to thank his friendship for.
No favour promptly offer'd to his youth
Escapes his heart—eludes his memory;
The hand that did him kindness when a boy—
That hand, if needing help, he thrice repays.

FILIPPO.
God bless him for it!
See, Da Vinci comes.

RAIMONDI.
And with the King.

FILIPPO.
'Twere better to retire.

RAIMONDI.
Two Kings:—
One has his throne within this realm of France;

The other, crown'd by Fame, ascends a throne
Acknowledged by all peoples, and all realms.

FILIPPO.
Still so enamour'd: one may bend the knee
To kingly worth—a thousand unto Kings
Without the worth! Still nearer they approach.
We may offend.

[They descend the steps leading to the garden.

Scene II.

—Enter Francis the First and Leonardo.
LEONARDO.
Your Majesty outvalues much my skill.

FRANCIS THE FIRST.
Nay, good Da Vinci—not a jot too much;
Kings find few pleasures half so pure or high
As those true Art invites them to partake;
'Tis pleasant to seek refuge from the cares,
Inquietudes, and vanities of state,
Within a world where talking is unknown:—
A world whose star hath set—whose day hath gone;
Whose rank and power, whose pomp and arrogance
Are painted visions hanging 'gainst a wall!—
'Tis something to behold a human face

That asks not office, favour, or control,—
Here, conquests, glories, spoils, ambitions, all
Shrink into silence;—beauty lifts her gaze,
In immortality of loveliness,
Yet craves nor title, pension, nor reward:
Sworn foes frown face to face, yet draw no sword;
The envious cease their scandals; and the false
Have done with stratagems and low finesse.
Oh, World of Art, thou dost rebuke the life
We prize so much, yet pass so peevishly!
Say, my Da Vinci, what drew first thy thought
Unto this sphere of thy divinity?
Art, we remember, was thy second choice.

LEONARDO.
In youth my great ambition was the Muse;—
To leave a poem that might shrine my name
For centuries; to represent the mind,
The spirit, manners, progress of the Age;
To pioneer the path to higher aims
And holier aspirations,—to advance
The Arts and Science of my country,—these—
These were the thoughts that, like unbearing trees,
Show'd many leaves, but never came to fruit;—
A few light sonnets, a few passing songs,
And the strings jarr'd, and all again was mute.

FRANCIS.
Some sonnets we have seen, yet scarce regret
The Poet lost for the true Painter found.

LEONARDO.
Ah, my liege—
Some hundreds enter the wide boat of Fame,
But in few years Time throws full many out;—
Pass half a century, and half remain;—
A hundred years, and you may count their heads
By twos and threes—the multitudes are gone:
And still the Immortal City shines afar;
Still longer centuries must intervene
Ere on that coast to Genius consecrate
The Pilgrim's name may live for evermore,
Writ high above the casualties of time!—
Such height, I fear, my name may never reach.

FRANCIS.
Great men know not their greatness—'tis the air,
The daily element, which they respire;
Greatness is habitude, and strikes them not!

LEONARDO.
My next ambition was to cope with Time;—
Anticipate the future, and invent
Machines that should achieve what human hands,

By tens of thousands, could not execute;
To bring the poor cheap bread, and better garb,
Healthier homes, and life at lesser cost;
And partly 'twas accomplish'd;—my next step,—

FRANCIS.
And best—

LEONARDO.
Would I could think so; but, my liege,
What yet is done seems small to the “to be”—
That grows, enlarges—but 'tis ever so:
The prize of time is in the years to come,
The time we have we prize not!—

FRANCIS.
Say not so!
One work is done which every heart must prize!
Art is the bridge that leads from years of time
To the eternal years whose sun is Fame!
To speak not of the female heads thy skill
Hath dower'd with beauty and perpetual grace,
Whose tender playfulness, expression, power;
Whose purity, refinement, breathe a life—
A stamp of truth, unequall'd erst in Art,—
Omitting these, one great achievement stands
To guard thy name from man's forgetfulness—

One noble labour—“The Lord's Supper!” whence,
Whence rose the seed of this? A sudden thought,
Or long premeditation?

LEONARDO.
Good, my liege,
The painting honour'd with such special praise
Was my sole thought for years:—full oft the hope
Of its accomplishment died in my breast,
Again to be renew'd—with higher zeal
And bolder impulse; then again delay'd.
The day my hand, irresolute and slow,
Dared the commencement of so grand a theme,
A solemn sense of some companionship
Compell'd my pencil silently to paint;—
Fused feeling into colours;—soon this pass'd,
And my whole being own'd some presence gone.
Still day by day, week, month, and year, I strove;
Onward, though slow, till each Disciple's head
Before my mind, as in a mirror, came,
And lived upon the canvas as they rose;
When each received my last, half-lingering touch,
I turned to that, which made reflection ache,
To that—the one untouched—all else complete:—
The head of our Redeemer—the Divine,
Incarnate Saviour,—Ransom infinite!

How dared I execute those lineaments?
With what expression might I mould that face—
That head, which God himself had glorified—
That hand which angels worshipp'd in their spheres:
That hand!—Oh, miracle of gracious love,—
Which gave itself to wounds, our souls to heal,
And lift them pure before the face of God?
I paused and wept:—what could I else but weep?
What other offering had my soul to yield
For such self-sacrifice—such love supreme?

[A pause.
FRANCIS.
Emotion is the spring of excellence;
He must feel deeply who'd make others feel.

LEONARDO.
Oh! my mind long'd—yet fear'd the wondrous theme—
To mark each scene and circumstance that left
A glory round Jerusalem—that endow'd
The everlasting tongue of love with truth,
That lifted man to an inheritance
Surpassing earthly kingdoms—made the grave
A gateway unto light!—a path o'er which
Shone the unsetting day of righteousness!
To portray Him who trod the wilderness
And held communion with eternity:—

He who loved Martha, Mary, Lazarus;—
Who on his breast received the slumb'ring brow
Of his disciple John;—whose tenderness
Broke forth in syllables that live insphered;—
Who to the universal Mother called,
With voice that thrills each matron-heart e'en now,
“Suffer little children to come unto Me!”
Oh, lips Divine—oh, words omnipotent,
Solace unmatch'd, and comfort unconceived—
How could man's pencil seek to realise
An image that could live—resembling Thee?
But I forget the presence of my King,—

FRANCIS.
Thy King would have thee still forget;
Proceed.

LEONARDO.
Then pass'd a vision, or perchance a dream,
I know not what, but vision it appear'd!
In which I seem'd spectator, and not actor:—
Coming and going without thought of mine—
A vision that surprised me unto tears!—
As music to the ear—so to my soul
Rang the innumerable harmonies
Of heaven, of angels, and the hosts of God!

FRANCIS.
We have felt painting thus ourself, Da Vinci,
As voiceless sermons—silent psalms to God—
Mute and yet eloquent:—they bade us feel
What words were powerless to communicate.

Enter Officer.
FRANCIS.
What interruption now? Who waits without?

OFFICER.
My liege, the deputies of Burgundy
Entreat an audience . . . .

FRANCIS
(aside).
What broil's abroad?
What fresh chagrin, vexation, discontent,
Trouble our deputies? Well, 'tis some gain
To snatch an interval, though brief as this,
From frets of rule and jealousies of state.
The State is King, and sovereigns are its slaves. (To Da Vinci.)

You to your canvas—we to council go.
Happier your realm than any realm we know.

GIULIO ROMANO.

Scene—Giulio in the Hall of Constantine, steadfastly regarding Raffaelle's picture of “Justice and Mercy.” To him enter Donatini and Francesco.
GIULIO.
Now, Donatini, what's the latest news?

DONATINI.
Cardinal Tortoso has been chosen Pope,
And with new title fills the papal chair.

GIULIO.
Adrian the Sixth—the news is six hours old!

DONATINI.
Adrian the Sixth—and further, in your ear
Let it be whisper'd,—Angelo's recall'd!

GIULIO.
Recall'd! That's news, and welcome news to Art.

DONATINI.
You fear no rival, Raffaelle being dead:
Others, less lib'ral, perchance had thought
Bad news, and most unwelcome.

GIULIO.
Rival, no!
Art hath no rival, save unrivall'd Nature:
Each gifted mind is a new strength to Art;
New wealth, new capital; and weak is he
Who dreads a brother greater than himself.
He knows not Art, nor Art's exalted aim.

FRANCESCO.
What is the aim of Art?

GIULIO.
It is to teach
Through power of beauty the eternal power!
It is to feel our own humanity
Enlarge with Science, to evolve out of
The perishable the imperishable!
'Tis to give feature to imagination,
Set clear the visionary forms of fancy,
Make shadows real, hold the fleeting fast!
To snatch the spark that can illuminate.

FRANCESCO.
By this we must conceive you designate
The highest order of Inventive Art;—
Nature hath other schools and colleges,
Other degrees and honours.—Is't not so?

GIULIO.
Reigns, customs, manners change, but not so man:
The spirit of the old humanity
Invigorates the new; Man changes more
In symbol than in essence;—and the thoughts
That thrill'd Apelles in long ages back
Thrill Grecian breasts e'en now; and to the end
The grandeur and the majesty of Art
Shall wake grand thoughts, and Truth and Justice
Keep their primal state and regal dignity.

FRANCESCO.
To follow up this subject. It would seem
Art, in its highest form, hath province here
But second to religion—that is, to raise
And spiritualise our nature!—thus—

GIULIO.
Time hath made pictures altars! they've received
The homage vouchsafed to divinity:
It is the soul's prerogative to soar!

An impulse God implanted from the first,
When he created man: as it is nature
In the earth to feel the influence of spring,
So is it nature in the soul to feel
The influence of Art.

DONATINI.
Thought all like you
It might be well.

GIULIO.
Who's the true patriot,
He who sets himself above his country,
Or he who, for that country's sake, would see
Self, power, possession—everything—forgot;
And, scorning death, with his last effort cry,
Make way for Rome, ye nations?—so with Art.

DONATINI.
Give me your hand—right nobly said, Romano.
Less self, less thought of self, less show of self,
More thought of that which teaches love of all;
More love of that which teaches thought for all.

GIULIO.
Ah! who so just, unenvious; who so kind
As noble Raffaelle? Oft I've heard him say,
“Thank God I breathe the air of Angelo!”

And Angelo, whene'er he visits Rome,
Will see no spot more precious to his thought,
More touching to his heart, than the dear earth
Which wraps the form of Santi Raffaelle.

FRANCESCO.
From what dire circumstance arose the fact
That Michael, that great mark and pride of Rome,
Was forced to visit Pietra? 'Twas most strange!

GIULIO.
Leo the Tenth, whose brief pontificate
Made a new era in the world of Art,
On his accession to the papal throne
Profess'd regard for Michael Angelo;
Love for his fame, and zeal for his success;
Desired his genius for his native city;
And Angelo, as if foreboding ill,
Reluctantly obey'd the Pontiff's call.

FRANCESCO.
'Tis true; but thence to Florence order'd, forth
To build, of Saint Lorenzo, the façade.

GIULIO.
What follow'd next? 'Tis known throughout the realm,
Instead of the façade—unfinish'd yet
Since the old Cosmo time—instead of this,

Great work and fit for Genius to perform,
He, Michael Angelo, the soul of Art,
Was straight dismiss'd to Pietra, to decide
Between the quarries of the mountains there
And the pure marble of Carrara—thus
For eight long toilsome years he fashion'd blocks,
Constructed roads o'er marshes to the sea,
Travell'd with rafts and fascines! Believ'st thou?
He—Rome's great architect and ornament,
True Painter, Poet, Sculptor—left to toil
Like common mason—a mere blank in life;
His time consumed—his glorious talents lost
During the whole, hard reign of Leo Tenth?

DONATINI.
It mocks belief!—myriads, as yet unborn,
Will read, yet doubt; and ask, can this be true
Which wars 'gainst sense?

GIULIO.
You saw me gazing here
On Justice and on Mercy!—shadows both:
They have no living semblances on earth!
To think of eight years in such labour spent!

DONATINI.
A loss no Pope of Rome may e'er compute:
A loss posterity will long deplore!

GIULIO.
Years, generations, empires and their crowns,
Follow each other to the end of time:
All things of earth are reproduced by earth;
Genius hath no successor!—knows no heir!—
Angelo dead—what centuries could replace
The grand old spirit of that master-mind?
Angelo living—any puny power
May cramp and fetter. Rome! it makes me mad
To think of Michael and Pietra Santé.

DONATINI.
Go where ye will, this is the fate of Genius!
Ever the stream of life is full of turns
And rough impediments; to chafe at fate
Is but to sink the deeper.

GIULIO.
Sad as true,
The path of fame finds many a weary foot,
And aching head, and disappointed heart;
Many ascend, few reach the toilsome height!

DONATINI.
Whate'er the Present owes the Future pays!
Towards the Pantheon let us hasten now.

GIULIO.
First meet we Angelo—conduct him there;
There, 'neath its cupola, survey the tomb
Of Raffaelle:—let Genius mourn for Genius;
A tear from Michael Angelo would soothe
That spirit, call'd too early from the world,
Too early from that sphere which he adorn'd.

DONATINI.
Too early, yes; too soon for Art! and yet
That is not Death which brings not death to fame:
He lives, who leaveth an immortal name.

[Exeunt.

SONGS AND POEMS.

THE CHAPEL-BELL.

The wintry winds blow wild and shrill,
Like ghosts they shriek across the moor,
Or howl beneath the window sill,
Or shake with gusty hands the door;
And, hour by hour, from some lone bell
A wizard sound at night doth steal—
Sometimes 'tis like a funeral knell,
Sometimes 'tis like a marriage peal!
I know it is some fiend that stands
Within the belfry's ghastly gloom,
And with its stark and fleshless hands
Rings out dead souls from tomb to tomb.

I long to weep—I pray to sleep,
But through the haunted house it sounds,
And through my flesh the chill veins creep
Like wintry worms in burial-grounds.

A weight is on my heart—my brain,
A shadow flits across the floor;
And then I know it is in vain
To pine, or pray, or struggle more!
Well, let the foul fiend ring till morn—
Till the red sun awakens men:
Yet, though thus tortured and forlorn,
What then I did—I'd do again!

He thought it fine to feign a love
Which woo'd my spirit to his feet;
He raised his false, false eyes above,
And vow'd, what's useless to repeat.
Whate'er he vow'd, there is no name
So black on earth as his deceit;
Whate'er he vow'd, there is no shame
So vile as in his heart did beat!
Ring out, thou bitter fiend, till morn
Awakes the prying eyes of men;
Yet prison'd, madden'd, and forlorn,
What then I did—I'd do again!

Not slightly was I woo'd or won;
For years the whisp'ring false one came,
And nought a saint might fear to shun
Forewarn'd me of the villain's aim.

I loved him—loved? I would have died,
If dying ought to him might spare;
I would have every pain defied
To save him from a single care!
Toll, toll, thou fiend, ring out, and tell
The murd'rous deed from goal to goal!
I know my name is writ in hell—
I feel there's blood upon my soul!

The dawn arose, but not for me
The bridal train did wait and smile;
As slowly, stately, three by three,
They swept in beauty down the aisle.
I crept behind the pillar'd base;
The bride's white garments fann'd my cheek;
The blood rush'd madly to my face;
I dared not breathe—I could not speak!
Laugh out, thou fiend, laugh out and scorn,
With mocking sounds, my weary ear!
Is there no other—lost—forlorn,
No other wretch whose life's a tear?

There rose a whisper deep and low—
A sound that took away my sight;
All things around me seem'd to flow,
And wander in a demon light!

I nerved my hand to grasp the steel;
I stepp'd between him and his bride.
Who'd think so black a heart could feel?—
Could pour so warm, so red a tide?
Is there no sinful soul but mine,
Thou endless fiend, that thou must make
These serpent sounds to hiss and twine
Around me till my senses ache!

I had not stabb'd him, but I saw
My noble father's thin gray hairs;
And that, perchance, which tears might draw,
Drew blood upon me unawares.
I flung the shrieking bride apart;
I sprang before him in his guilt;
The steel went quivering to his heart—
Would God my own blood had been spilt!
Laugh out, dark fiend! beside me then
A wilder sound than thine was spread;
A cry I ne'er shall hear again
Till every grave gives up its dead!

Twelve months—dark months—I groan'd in pain
A curse lay heavy on my head.
They tell me I have ne'er been sane
Since that wild hour the bridegroom bled!

They say no shadow stalks the room—
No midnight tolling haunts the air.
'Tis false! You hear it through the gloom;
And, see, the phantom passes—there!
Mad—mad? 'Twere blissful but to lose
One hour from self—one moment free
From thoughts that every hope refuse—
From life whose lot is misery!

Mad—mad? As if the sense could leave
The form it tortured! Never more
Shall I do aught but rave and grieve,
And wish—vain wish—this life were o'er!
Away!—a thousand lives have gone,
A thousand phantoms glide in hell;
But not one perish'd—no, not one
So black in guilt as he who fell!
Night after night, 'mid sounds aghast,
That fiend, that spectre, haunts my way.
What shall I see when life hath past,
And Night is mine that knows no day?

ENDURANCE.

I

Ever struggle and endurance:
“Is there no repose?” I cried;
Gives the world but this assurance,—
Others thus have lived and died?

II

On the broad highway of being
Crowds on crowds still ever go;
Nothing more beyond them seeing
Than to toil with foreheads low.

III

To a spot I wander'd dreary,
With thick branches overlaid,
For the sunlight made me weary—
There seem'd solace in the shade.

IV

On a bank my limbs reposing,
Found a momentary balm;
Spirit worn, my eyelids closing,
Sought forgetfulness and calm.

V

Still that thought, for ever present,
Came with purpose unexprest;
As beneath the moon's dim crescent
Glides some ghost that cannot rest.

VI

Seeking hint or clue to guide me,
As I leant upon the earth,
I beheld a flower beside me
Struggling, midst the soil, to birth.

VII

Through the winter's wrath and rigour,
Pent in dust, and prison'd fast,
Had it forced its path with vigour,
Till obstruction ceased at last!

VIII

Now within its emerald bosom
All the future life reposed—
Swell'd the rich and golden blossom
That the morn would see unclosed.

IX

Then my heart, with sudden motion,
Lost the weight so hard to bear;
And some new and sweet devotion
Soothed and sanctified its care.

X

He who thus the flower hath moulded,
Sphered its being to this span;
He, too, hath the future folded
In the living soul of man!

XI

For a time the soil is round us,
For a time we feel the thorn;
When the spirit-hour hath found us,
Inner glories shall be born!

XII

Welcome struggle and endurance—
Welcome toil, to this allied;
Welcome the divine assurance,—
Others thus have lived and died!

XIII

Toil, I kiss thee with affection,
Never more shall mortal say
That I view thee with dejection—
That I murmur on my way.

XIV

Through the soil and earthy ember,
He who raised the flower from dust—
He will also man remember;
And in Him I move and trust?

YEARS TO COME.

I

A day will dawn I ne'er shall see;
A night will set I ne'er shall know;
The wave-tide of humanity
Thus ever surges to and fro.

II

The dew with gems shall bead the flower,
The bird make rich the morn with song;
And Mind, still climbing hour by hour,
Find worlds beyond the starry throng.

III

Years shall return to future years
What ages unto them have given,
And that high power which Faith reveals,
Grasp the fixed points of earth and Heaven.

IV

The boy shall loiter through the lane,
With school-ward footsteps short and slow;
Afraid each moment to remain,
And yet still more afraid to go!

V

Ah, priceless years! if boyhood knew
The mark and value of such time;
Ah, happy school! could youth but view
The future and its paths sublime.

VI

What younger Howard then might feel—
What other Wilberforce arise—
What Burke assert the general weal—
What Rosse or Newton span the skies!—

VII

The joys, the hopes, the interests,
That animate the bosom now,
Shall lend their glow to other breasts—
And flush the young enthusiast brow.

VIII

The majesty of manhood then
May aim at some diviner worth;
And progress grant to future men
A wider brotherhood on earth.

IX

What theory shall then succeed?
What deeper power—what newer theme—
What fresh discovery supersede
The electric flash—the steed of steam?

X

Who'll be the bard to England dear,
When centuries have filed and fled?
Or who the statesmen crowds will cheer,
Worthy the Peels or Chathams dead?

XI

The passions that distract mankind—
The pride, the envy, and mistrust—
Shall they be scatter'd on the wind
That lifts the banner of the just?

XII

Shall Christian sense e'er sheathe the sword?
Shall simple Justice rule the land?
Shall Law its shield of right afford,
A right that all may understand?

XIII

The languid sun fades in the sky;
The sap within the tree droops low;
The cold wind whispers winter nigh,
And soon the last lorn leaf must go!

XIV

Yet he who in all change can find
A providence of goodness shown—
He who is ruler o'er his mind
Is more than he who rules a throne.

XV

A day shall come I ne'er shall see,
A day when heart and tongue lie dumb;
That day, O Lord, be Thou with me—
And oh, on earth, Thy kingdom come!

“NIGHT” AND “MORNING.”

[_]

[The title of “Night” and “Morning” is given to two excellent paintings by Sir Edwin Landseer. Few of the fine works, even of this our modern master, demand greater attention. The subject is simple in both pictures. In the first we perceive a couple of deer contending for the mastery, on an elevated piece of moorland adjoining a lake; the moon has risen above the distant hills which form the horizon. “Morning” shows to us the result of the combat—the animals are dead.]

Afar o'er the mountains the mists are unroll'd,
And the wings of the Morn scatter crimson and gold;
The voice of the torrent is heard on its way
Proclaiming the power and the glory of day;
While each object the soul with magnificence fills,
And the heart seems to echo the joy of the hills.
What cry comes so swift from the solitude vast?
What feet sweep the glen like the rush of the blast?

'Tis the stag of the desert—the monarch whose throne
Is girt with a grandeur to cities unknown;
He was up with the dawn, over heather and fen—
Over corrie and cairn—over moorland and glen;

From bold Ben-y-chatt to Loch Dirie he flew,
Nor stayed he his hoof at Glenbruar nor Chroo;
With the foam-speed of passion he bated no breath,
But away—still away—to the combat of death!

Where shrieks the lone eagle, where skulks the lean fox,
And the wolf holds her watch from her home mid the rocks;
Where the spray of the torrent is hung like a shroud,
And the pine soars aloft through the rack of the cloud;
Still onward he rushes, still bounds at a pass,
Each rugged and stern and precipitous mass;
Up, upward, he toils, by no danger deterr'd,
'Till his rival appears in the midst of the herd!

One glance—and together they spring o'er the path—
One moment, each eye-ball is gleaming with wrath;
Now butting, now goring—their haunches they bow;
Now tossing in fury, clash antler and brow;
'Till the fire of their passion falls faint by degrees,
And panting and foaming they sink to their knees;
Still horn linked in horn, still contending with fate,
While the moonlight looks down on their fury and hate!

But the moonlight hath gone; and the Morning hath thrown
Over mountain and river a spell of her own:—

A freshness that sparkles with heavenly light,
A beauty that glorifies hollow and height:
The gold of the summits is tinctured with rose,
And the air with a gladness and holiness glows;
Above—springs enchantment in every breath,
Below—there's the rock—and the vulture—and death.

Who recks what that Night of contention hath seen?
Who recks what the rage of the rivals hath been?
As, hour after hour, gash'd and gory they stood,
From the fetlock to neck plash'd with foam and with blood,
With antlers so lock'd, that no strength could unclose
The clasp that in life they had fasten'd as foes!
Now the fox to his banquet in silence may prowl,
And the wild eagle shriek to the wolf's hungry howl.

THE BEST ESTATE.

The Heart it hath its own estate—
The Mind it hath its wealth untold;
It needs not fortune to be great,
While there's a coin surpassing gold.

No matter which way Fortune leans,
Wealth makes not Happiness secure;
A little mind hath little means—
A narrow heart is always poor.

Stern Fate the greatest still enthrals,
And Misery hath its high compeers;
For Sorrow enters palace halls,
And queens are not exempt from tears.

The princely robe and beggar's coat,
The scythe and sword, the plume and plough,
Are in the grave of equal note,—
Men live but in the eternal “Now!”

100

Still Disappointment tracks the proud—
The bravest 'neath defeat may fall;
The high, the rich, the courtly crowd
Find there's calamity for all.

'Tis not the house that honour makes,—
True honour is a thing divine;
It is the mind precedence takes,—
It is the spirit makes the shrine!

So keep thou yet a generous heart,
A steadfast and contented mind;
And not, till death, consent to part
With that which friend to friend doth bind.

What's utter'd from the life within
Is heard not by the life without;
There's always something to begin
'Twixt life in faith, and life in doubt!

But grasp thou Truth—though bleak appears
The rugged path her steps have trod—
She'll be thy friend in other spheres;
Companion in the world of God.

Thus dwelling with the wise and good—
The rich in thought, the great in soul—
Man's mission may be understood,
And part prove equal to the whole!

101

We know not half we may possess,
Nor what awaits, nor what attends,—
We're richer far than we may guess,
Rich as Eternity extends!

The Heart it hath its own estate,
The Mind it hath its wealth untold;
It needs not fortune to be great,
While there's a coin surpassing gold!

102

IN MEMORIAM.

Day after day, the angels say,
Innumerable souls ascend;
Day after day, we mourn and pray
For some departed friend;
Yet never kinder heart than thine,
And never truer breast
E'er soar'd unto a world divine,
Or won immortal rest.

O school-companion, playmate, friend!
I muse the long years o'er,
And weep to see the shroud descend
Which folds thee evermore:
I shrink to yield thee to the dust—
To mark the funeral pall;
And strive to teach my heart to trust
In Him who feels for all!

103

And can it be that thou art dead,
And I left to deplore?
I almost seem to list thy tread—
To hear thee at the door:
The path, it was thy wont to cross,
I gaze upon, and wait;
And scarce can realise my loss,—
A loss so deep—so great!

Our school-days seem to dawn again;
Again the same light beams;
A different light than falls on men,
A radiance full of dreams.
The future—what it was to be!
When all our hopes seem'd truth;
Alas, the things we live to see
Are not the dreams of youth!

Is there a childhood in that sphere
To which thy soul hath fled?
Do we begin the spirit-year,
New-born from out the dead?
Tread we eternity at first,
As we trod time of yore?
Or, does immortal glory burst
At once from God's own shore?

104

O gate of death! O gate of life!
O mystery sublime!
With everlasting wonders rife,
And marvels of all time;—
Say, shall affections still remain?
Shall memories endure?
And links of friendship's endless chain
Eternity secure?

Shall truth find truth, and love find love,
Within that better world?
Shall all the tears and pains we prove
Be ever earthward hurl'd?
Shall friend meet friend in that blest hour,
Before their Saviour's sight,
And feel that Death no more hath power
To separate or blight?

My heart hath faith—my soul hath hope,
Once more to see thy face;
A few brief years with time to cope,
Then newer worlds to trace!
A few brief years on earth to roam,
And then, when death is o'er,
Angels for friends—and Heaven for home—
And love for evermore!

105

THE WANDERER.

Three dreary years in peril tost—
Three years upon a polar sea:
Ice-wreck'd,—and half his comrades lost;
Once more his native land treads he.

While westward from the sandy height
He views where, far, his cottage lies,
A father's transport fills his sight,
A husband's joy o'erflows his eyes!

He speeds by each remember'd way,
Each turning brings him still more near;
He sees his first-born child at play—
And calls—but cannot make him hear

Fast as he speeds his child appears
Still distant as it was before;
At length, with bursting, grateful tears,
He sees his young wife at the door.

106

She takes the sweet child by the hand,
She kisses him with loving joy;
The gazer deems in all the land
There's no such other wife or boy!

She lifts him fondly to her cheek,
Then leaves the narrow wicket gate;
The Wanderer thinks he will not speak,
But gaze and wait—if love can wait!

But from that gate, to open view,
Come never more those feet so light;
There grew no covert, that he knew,
Whose leaves might hide them from his sight.

A sudden terror fills his veins
And chills the rapture in his eyes;
With eager spring the gate he gains;
And calls, but not a voice replies.

The door—it does not stand ajar—
The casement, too, is closed and dark;
Across the path is thrown a bar—
And all wears desolation's mark!

He shrieks in fear each name so dear—
The garden plot is waste and wild;
O God! why doth his wife not hear?
O love! why cometh not his child?

107

He strains to catch the slightest trace
Of form or raiment; nought is seen;
As, with a wild and spectral face,
The gray boughs groan and intervene!

The leaves bend trembling to their root,
The frail grass mutters to the flower;
With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot,
While tolls the bell the vesper hour.

He turns bewilder'd at the sound—
Again his wife, his child, appear;
They move across the churchyard ground,
And beckon the pale Wanderer near.

A few steps more and he may hold
The twain within his trembling arms:
Why seems his sinking heart so cold?
What shakes him with these dread alarms?

Pale, in the dreary moonlight, gleams
Each mound and monumental stone;
He stands distraught—as one that dreams—
Was he again alone—alone?

Alone—they've pass'd—yet nothing stirr'd!
He thought that thro' the spectral air
There rose one low, one little word,
Faint echo of some infant prayer!

108

He thought that name, which erst had mov'd
His pulses with a parent's joy,
Came softly—as in hours beloved—
When on his glad knee sat his boy!

Yet all had fled: and on the stone
Beneath his feet two lines were read;
Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown,
Do break the heart; that's better dead!

He press'd his hot lips to each name—
He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er—
They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame;
They sear'd his worn heart to the core.

For this—he cried—for this was won
My way thro' tempests!—this—to bear;
Still—still, O God—Thy will be done!
Yet one—not one! not one to spare!

Morn stepp'd from out the mists of heaven,
And coldly lit each hallow'd spot;
Another morn to him was given—
Another world, where death was not!

109

A DAILY SCENE.

A dim light in the window,
Deep straw around the gate,
And silence lingering as in pain
Some closing breath to wait.

Is it a mother that departs?
A sire, whose course is o'er?
A child, mid tears and breaking hearts,
That speeds to death's mute shore?

Doth friend lose friend? Some comrade old
That early boyhood knew—
When like a lamb from Nature's fold
Life drank the morning dew.

We know not. This alone we know;
There is no home but tells
Some sorrow in this world below
Of graves and funeral bells.

110

Some flower beloved that bloomed in vain,
Some joy that could not last;
Some hope that darken'd into pain;
Some grief that shrouds the past.

Another sun hath bathed the lawn
In light, and golden air;
The dead hath found another dawn,
A dawn which angels share.

Around the house a sadness steals,
A weight that pains the brow;
There is no fear of rolling wheels;
No need of caution now.

No need of blind-drawn windows,
Nor deep straw, borne aside,
To tell us in that darken'd home
Some heart hath loved and died.

111

THE VICAR'S BLIND DAUGHTER.

Lone, yet never feeling lonely,
For her spirit peace can win;
Blind she is, but darkness only
Dwells without, and not within.
Face of friend or brother never
Lent their image to her eyes;
Yet the world seems kindly ever,
And its love wears no disguise!

Let us sit awhile beside her—
Watch her life a single day;
See the angel that doth guide her
Gently through her darken'd way:
Nature hath but one concealment—
All that eloquence can yield
Meets her soul in rich revealment;
Voice of stream, and wood, and field!

112

E'en the Summer flowers, though lowly,
Gather their whole heart's perfume
With a sweetness still more holy,
As to sanctify her gloom.
Charm of hue they cannot send her;
Yet her gentle touch they meet
With a softness far more tender,
And a sweetness still more sweet.

Not a rustic in the village,
Not a ploughman labouring nigh,
But, forgetting toil and tillage,
Blesses her as she goes by:
She knows all the children's voices,
Calls their young names o'er and o'er;
Every mother's heart rejoices
As she standeth by the door.

For she feeleth for their sorrow,
Careth for them in their care;
Helpeth them to meet the morrow
With the little she's to spare.
In their sickness she is near them,
In each trial of their lot
She is first to aid and cheer them;
None in sorrow are forgot!

113

So she fills her daily mission
With unwearied heart and mind,
Helping all in hard condition,
Leaving sorrow more resign'd!
So each night, by angels tended,
Finds she Nature's rest increase;
And that days in duty ended
Bring the spirit perfect peace.

Call you life like this privation?
Hath not God's own word supplied,
Ev'n in darkness, consolation—
Joys, through Jesus, multiplied?
Light, which earthly vision never
Yet beheld on sea or shore,
Hopes, no darkness can dissever,
Lift her soul for evermore!

114

CRADLE SONG.

Near a chin, like bank of snow,
Dwells a lip where kisses grow;
Eyes, where little angels dwell,
Each within its azure cell;
Tiny dimples in each cheek
Seem, in Fancy's ear, to speak:
So, at least, the mother sings—
Wond'ring babies have not wings!

Strange what mothers can believe;
Strange how human eyes deceive:
Nothing seem'd, as I stood by,
More than right in chin and eye.
As for infant lips, we know
Where they come, there kisses grow!
But young mothers think such things—
Fancy, babies born with wings!

115

THE WOODLAND WAY.

“Still day by day the woodland way,
I wonder you're not weary, Jane.”
“I go to hear the woodlark, dear,
And list the linnet's merry strain.”
“The lark soars in the sun's warm ray,
The linnet's heard in every lane;
But day by day the woodland way!
There's sure some other reason, Jane?”

Jane turned aside with wounded pride,
And left her friend without a look;
She knew each turn by moss and fern,
Each narrow winding of the brook:
But still a voice within would say,
A conscience-voice, that whisper'd plain,
“Still day by day the woodland way!
There's sure some other reason, Jane?”

116

Still through the glade, in light and shade,
She wander'd far, until she found
An aged thorn,—where time had worn
Deep rents and hollows near the ground:
There, soft and white, just hid from sight,
A small seal'd note her fingers gain:
Ah, never bird, that love e'er heard,
Had note so sweet, so dear, to Jane!

117

NOT MY OWN.

I told my lips they must disguise
The secret of my soul;
But oh, my heart flew to my eyes,
And told almost the whole!

Oh, eyes too swift of love to speak,
No more such thoughts reveal!
'Twas vain: Love next upon my cheek
Wrote all I would conceal!

And thus, by every glance betray'd,
My hidden love made known,
I'm of my very heart afraid,
For it seems not my own!

118

FREAKS OF FATE.

Things congenial lose each other,
Life and love are incomplete;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet!
Where's the reason? Tell me whether
'Tis Fate's star that thus decides;
That brings opposites together,
And the similar divides!
Spirits suited lose each other;
Time is but a long deceit;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet.

Fortune seems to make alliance
Where conformity rebels;
As in Nature's plain defiance,
Matching where no fitness dwells!

119

What is this which chains existence
To an uncongenial state?
Should the soul not make resistance
'Gainst this tyranny of fate?
Spirits suited lose each other,
Life and love are incomplete;
Hearts akin to one another
Rarely are the hearts to meet.

120

WATCHING AND WAITING.

Ever weeping at the casement,
Ever looking, leaning out;
While the village, in amazement,
Wonder what this grief's about!
With the morn-light, gray and dreary,
Long ere waketh bird or bee,
Mary stands, with spirit weary,
Gazing out upon the sea.
There, until the west sun gloweth,
Lists she to each breeze that blows;
But the wind, though much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows,—
No one—no one—what it knows.

On a coast forlorn, forsaken,
Dug by hard and hasty hands,
Near a low cross, rudely shapen,
Rests a grave upon the sands!

121

Never wing of bird comes near it,
Nothing but the billows' roar;
And a voice—the night stars hear it—
Sighing, “Mary, never more!”
Still, until the west sun gloweth,
Mary lists each breeze that blows;
But the wind, though much it knoweth,
Telleth no one what it knows,—
No one—no one—what it knows.

122

PAN'S DEW-DROP.

PAN.
Hither, Sylphs and Satyrs, hither!
Here's a secret going to wither:
Stand around and answer true,—
Is't a gem or drop of dew?
Is its birthplace high or low,—
Sky or ocean? Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Guess and tell me ere it go!

SYLPHS.
'Tis a tear from Luna's eye;
'Tis a star from some lost sky;
'Tis a fairy pearl—a thing
Fallen from Titania's ring!
'Tis a gem from Cupid's bow.

123

PAN.
Cupid! Cupid! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Cupid leaves no jewels so.

SYLPHS.
'Tis a spangle from the shoe
Which Queen Mab at Somnus threw;
'Tis a spark of Terra's spar!
Silver stud from Juno's car!
'Tis a rare and tiny shell
Gather'd from some Mermaid's cell!

PAN.
Mermaid! Juno! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
'Tis but dew that's frozen so.

SYLPHS.
Who knows what it may conceal?
Atoms can great truths reveal!
Is't a glowworm, fast asleep,
Caught and spell-bound ere't could creep?
Is't an egg some insect knew?

124

PAN.
Nothing else but frozen dew!
A bud! a berry! Guess who can:—
'Tis frozen dew, or I'm not Pan!

SYLPHS.
Winter ne'er such gem could show:
'Tis pearl!

PAN.
It is not! Ho—ho—ho!
Ho—ho—ho!
Here's a coil 'bout frost and snow!

127

BE SURE YOU CALL.

It was a rustic cottage gate,
And over it a maiden leant,
Upon her face and youthful grace
A lover's earnest eyes were bent.
“Good-night,” she said, “once more, good-night,
The evening star is rising high;
But early with the morning light
Be sure you call as you pass by,
As you pass by,
Be sure you call as you pass by.”

The spring had into summer leapt,
Brown autumn's hand her treasures threw,
When forth a merry party swept
In bridal garments, two by two;
I saw it was the maid that bless'd
The evening star that rose so high:—

128

For he, as I suppose you've guess'd,
Had often call'd as he pass'd by,
As he pass'd by,
Had often call'd as he pass'd by.

Oh, blissful lot, where all's forgot,
Save love, that wreathes the heart with flowers!
Oh, what's a throne to that dear cot
Whose only wealth is happy hours?
And oft, if o'er the woodland way
The evening star is rising high,
I fancy still I hear her say,
“Be sure you call as you pass by,
As you pass by,
Be sure you call as you pass by.”

129

FALSE AS WATER.

Flow on, thou faithless stream,
That maketh all things seem
As deep within thy heart:
Fern, bell, and drooping tree,
Behold themselves in thee;
And yet thou canst depart.
Alas! thy little span
But mimics faithless man!
Like thee, too, he can stray;
Like thee a charm reveal—
Reflect, but never feel—
And singing pass away.

Flow on! thou canst not touch
The wounded heart so much
As man's inconstant breath;
Thy false tongue ne'er deceives
Like his, who loves, and leaves;
Takes life, and brings us death!

130

What though within thy face
Our very looks we trace;
Thy falsehood's not so deep
As his whose lips can sigh,
Yet leave the heart to die,—
And, till it dies, to weep!

131

LOVERS' WALKS.

Ah! once I liked not lovers' walks,
Nor wanderings by the hill,
When star to star at midnight talks,
And all the world is still:
I laugh'd at all romantic souls,
That half in rapture stood;
I hated strolls—those moonlight strolls—
And always thought I should!

I vow'd by all the world e'er knew
Of beautiful or bright,
No love on earth should tempt me to
A rambling walk by night;
But, ah! one's mind can little guess
To what one's heart is born!
Who'd thought a month, or even less,
Had found me so forsworn?

132

But when I loved nor star, nor moon,
Nor wanderings through the glen,
My song of life was out of tune,
I knew not Mary then:
Now, I would rather roam till light
Bloom'd o'er the Morn's sweet breast,
Than ever breathe those words, “Good Night!”
Or ever think of rest.

135

PLAIN FACES.

Neither feature nor complexion
Can the law of liking prove;
We see all things through affection—
All is lovely seen through love!

How we love, or what attraction
Wins us, who hath power to learn!
Beauty, 'tis our satisfaction,
Love can this in all discern!

Plainer faces win election,
Plainer forms to passion move;
Joy, that through the heart's affection,
Beauty lives in all we love!

136

NEVERMORE.

Whither, spirit, whither?
Let me weep alone:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?
All that was Elysian
With herself hath flown;
Tears are in the vision
Of that shrine o'erthrown.

Do the roses whisper
Sweet, as she were nigh?
Do the linnets warble
Music, like her sigh?
Neither rose nor linnet
Can the charm restore;
Life hath but one language,
One sad word—“Deplore!”

137

Just as he that dreameth
Starts, and wakes in tears,
So the present seemeth
Girt with doubts and fears:
Still, 'mid hopes that wither,
Sorrow liveth on:
Wherefore bring me hither,
Knowing she is gone?

138

DID YOU KNOW HER?

Did you know her?—any station
Might become her—high or low;
She was fond of admiration,
Few the arts she did not know:
She could droop her eyes, as dreaming,
With a tender, quiet grace;
Then, with sudden, upward beaming,
Flash their lustre on your face!

Did you know her? She was never
Fond of saying what she meant;—
You'd confess her words were clever,
But a riddle their intent:
She'd a puzzle of expression,
Half of nature, half of art;
And a perfect self-possession,
Visible in every part.

139

Free and graceful in the morning,
Pensive in the afternoon;
Changing moods without a warning—
Weeping now—yet laughing soon:
Various as the moments show her,
Still, each moment finds a charm;
And, indeed, if you should know her—
Guard your heart—if it be warm!

140

NEVER FOUND.

There's an image we enshrine
In the heart's young days;
A form we deem divine
In the heart's young days;
But that fancy of the mind,
We may seek—but never find:
'Tis a dream we leave behind
With our heart's young days.

But who can dreams control
In their heart's young days?
They're the shadows of the soul,
In our heart's young days:
And, though the living grace
May escape from our embrace,
Yet sweet's the vision'd face
Of our heart's young days!

141

'Tis the purity that waits
On our heart's young days;
That such loveliness creates
In our heart's young days:
The angel, that we drew,
Remain'd while life was new;
Then back to heaven flew
With our heart's young days!

142

SMALL GIFTS.

I care not how simple
The offering may be,
If it come from the heart
It is welcome to me:
'Tis not in itself
That the value resides;
The jewel is love—
Worth all jewels besides.

Affection is something
Beyond what is bought:
'Tis the growth of the heart—
'Tis the wealth of the thought!
And often we find,
'Mid the gifts of the earth,
The smallest in value
Is greatest in worth!

143

LYRIC.

[There's a spirit of fancy flowing—]

There's a spirit of fancy flowing—
Flowing in dreams of night;
Sweeping the shores of darkness,
Yet bearing an angel's light.

Restless—questioning ever—
Reaping the fields of time,
Counting the unsown harvests,
Longing the stars to climb.

What is the soul's true nature?
What is the spirit's birth?
What is the mind's great sequel?
Is it to end on earth?

Are we to love unceasing,
There in that region of souls?
Sweetly the vision of heaven
On to the Life-giver rolls!

144

That spirit of Fancy flowing,
Flowing in dreams of night;
Sweeping the shores of darkness,
Yet bearing an angel's light.

145

ROUND THE CORNER.

Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way:
Village tongues are ever
Ready with remark;
Eyes are at the casement
If a dog but bark.
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way.

When the Church hath bound us,
Link'd two hearts in one,
I shall care but little
How their tongues rail on;

146

But until the bridal,
Never let them find
Aught to cause me blushes—
Hurt my peace of mind!
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
Manly hearts should ever
Take a manly way.

Fifty things are stated,
Things you'd ne'er suppose,
If but something secret
In a neighbour shows:
Boldly take the pathway,
And their lips are stayed;
All are quick to censure
If you seem afraid.
Round the corner waiting—
What will people say?
If you wish to see me
There's a proper way!

147

THE BRITISH PRESS.

What's nobler than the Press?
Where else may Freedom find
The ready hand that can redress
The wrongs of human kind?
It is a people's power—
The terror of the strong:
Abler than armies in the hour
Of tyranny and wrong.
The sword may strike oppression down;
But sharper than the sword,
And mightier than a monarch's crown,
The Press maintains its word!

It marks the footsteps of the age,
The progress of the time;
Its seal is stamp'd on every page,
In every land and clime:

150

It setteth principle above
The brutal hand of force,
And forth, in usefulness and love,
It runs its glorious course!
And they whose meaner minds can scheme
To crush its honest sway,
As well, in fruitless hate, might dream
To check the light of day.

What's dearer than the Press
To every manly heart?
What voice is first the right to bless,
To act the patriot's part?
The spirit, manners, customs, arts,
Opinions, changes,—all
That worth to human life imparts,—
Its columns can recall.
It moves—and every bar is hurl'd
Athwart its path like weeds!
It speaks—and it divides the world
In parties, powers, and creeds!

The textures of our social state,
The aspects of the past,—
When different creeds fed mutual hate,
And conscience overcast,—

151

These live within its potent lines,
And ancient errors show;
From these a guiding spirit shines
Which every man should know.
When stood the Press with front of steel,
While meaner champions fled?
When it was crime to set the heel
Upon the serpent's head!

What's holier than the Press,
Which hallows every home;
Which lifts the darkness from distress,
And points the light to come!
Which teaches faith when hope is dull;
And, onward as we plod,
Reveals to us the beautiful,
Uprising like a god!
For not uncared for, in his day
Of sorrow, man hath been:
Angels have watched his troubled way,
And helped him when unseen!

'Tis true the men are few
That turn with grateful hearts,
To names where every meed is due
That human fame imparts;

152

'Tis easy to forget
The patriot debt we owe;
But there are dates in history yet
Time cannot overthrow!
The men that battled for the right
When right was hard to win;
Who braved the axe, and laugh'd at might,
When Might called Freedom sin.

Great hearts have girt thee round,
O Press, revered of yore!
Burke, Milton, More, have crown'd
Thy rule for evermore!
Their sacred banner was “Advance!”
Integrity their guide,
And Truth the consecrated lance
That swept each bar aside!
Such are the names our land should bless!
The song of age and youth
Should still be, Honour to the Press,
And Victory to Truth!

Then, if thy power be great,
Great be thy justice too;
Be fearless in thy place to state
Whate'er to man is due.

153

Be thou to every heart a guide,
A lamp to every mind;
So shall thy course be sanctified—
Teaching, as God design'd;
And never be thy power abused,
Thy mission here misled;
Oh, never may thou stand accused
Before the Patriot Dead!

Lend Education aid
Where'er thy voice can reach;
No text is more obey'd
Than that the Press can preach.
Bid trade the wide earth span;
Speed labour to its due;
Bid mind-enlightened man
God's Eden-world renew.
Still every good befriend,
And every ill enthral,
Till man's improvement end
But with the end of all!

154

BIRTHDAY LYRIC.

Down the ladder of Aurora,
When she hath the day before her,
And the East is clasp'd in gold,
Saw I angels swift descending,
With a glory never-ending,
And a majesty untold;
And I whisper'd lowly—slowly—
“Whither tend ye, angels holy?”
Spake they forth—“We bring affection
To a heart of our selection—
To the birthday of a being
We, afar from heaven seeing,
Loved: and bear, by Faith's direction,
One pure, priceless gift—Affection!”

Then the scene, like music, fainted
Far away in waves of light;
And a vision like one sainted,
In some old cathedral painted,
Flash'd its wonder on my sight!

155

Down a silvery pathway gliding,
In a robe of starry binding,
Moved the Presence upon earth;
And I sought my fear to banish,
Lest, in speaking, it might vanish,
Saying, “Whither, angel fair?”
And it whisper'd, soft as air,
“I bring gifts to one, whose spirit
Well deserveth to inherit—
Friendship, that departeth never!
Love, still faithful, fond for ever!
Equal to a life's endurance—
To another world's securance!
So, when death to heaven may guide her,
Love shall linger still beside her,
Friendship mourn o'er days departed,
Nature weep for the true-hearted;
Virtue every gift commendeth,
May she keep them till life endeth!”

Fled my dream;—for Morn, the singer,
O'er my couch her sunbeams held;
And with touch of golden finger
All my angel-world dispell'd!
Ah, methought, if love were given
Thus, how we should prize its worth—

156

In its nature all of heaven
That might enter aught of earth!
Ah, if friendship falter'd never,
Heart to heart, and thus for ever!

Yet ourselves within must find
Charm to gain, and skill to bind;
Soul must shine ere friendship's won—
There's no summer without sun!
Heart must glow ere love can rest,
And call God's angel to the breast!

157

CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN.

If there were language in each star,
A voice in every onward wave;
If every breeze that travell'd far,
An ever-during utterance gave;
They yet must fail to tell the worth
Of those blest words Christ spake on earth.

Oh morn, it was no light of sun
That left such glory on thy face!
It was a light in Christ begun—
A sun that ne'er will run its race!
A light—a sun—whose endless ray
Shall cheer affliction's darkest day!

Blest words, that wider circle fill
Than frail humanity can span;
That thrill—and shall for ages thrill—
The universal heart of man:
Words with eternal comfort rife—
Words throbbing with immortal life!

158

Though weak the little feet that came
Half coyly to the Saviour's side;
Though small the lips that lisp'd His name,
Though check'd by His disciples' pride,
He, who beholdeth all things, saw
In each child's face God's written law.

As in the seed we know the flower
That future suns shall wake to birth;
So, in the child, Christ saw that dower
Which speaks of other worlds than earth!
That germ which sleeps in quiet might
Till God shall call it into light!

Though they could neither see nor hear
What then our Saviour saw and heard—
The glory of another sphere!
The music of Jehovah's word!
To His divine humanity
All things of heaven were open'd free.

Oh, fitting theme for painter's art,
That brings the Past before man's eyes;
That bids him from no portion part,
Till angels meet him in the skies!
What worthier theme for painter's skill
Than hope which Christian truths fulfil?

159

He, who did little children bless,
Will still receive and bless them now:
Kneel to Him in your loveliness—
Pray for His hand to press your brow:
That hand which life to all hath given,
That welcomes all from earth to heaven!

Christ waiteth!—shall your Saviour plead,
And you, with children at your knee,
Still pause, their little steps to lead,
To Him who loves them more than ye?
Teach, father, teach the way He trod;
Lead, mother, lead thy child to God!

162

LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MISS FLEMING.

Inscribed to William Fleming, Esq., M.D.

There's a land where hearts united
Live, unknowing change or time;
Where the leaves and flowers unblighted
Speak of an eternal clime:
There's a land that knows not sorrow,
Sees not tears of anguish flow;
Fears no trial for the morrow—
To that land, oh, let us go!

Here affection still is weeping
Over friends that must depart;
Here we love—but there's no keeping
Those we love around our heart.
Where's the home that death bereaves not?
Where's the heart that ne'er felt woe?
To that land where friendship grieves not—
To that land, oh, let us go!

163

From the morn a ray is darting,
Which must end in clouds of night;
On the earth we read but “Parting!”
Leaf and flower the same word write.
To that land where Morning dies not,
Where the skies immortal glow,
Where the heart in parting sighs not—
To that land, oh, let us go!

There—where angels are repeating
Hymns to God, who doth restore
Heart to heart in endless meeting—
Boundless love for evermore.
Mother, 'tis a child that names thee,
'Tis a seraph whispers low;
Brother, 'tis a sister claims thee—
To that land, oh, let us go!

In affliction's hour of trial,
Let our faith more perfect rise;
Teach our love a brief denial,
Ask that peace which God supplies!
So the future shall grow dearer,
Knowing what it can bestow;
So our mission shall be clearer
In that land to which we go!

164

HELP EACH OTHER.

I never knew a kindness yet,
But, as Time's seasons ran,
Some seed of hope from it was set
That promised good for man:
I never knew a feeling heart,
In needful cases shown,
But it a spirit could impart
Congenial to its own!

For kindness is a power divine,
An essence not of earth;
It wreathes the everlasting shrine
Where holiest things have birth:
It hath a life beyond to-day;
And, when this life is o'er,
'Twill meet us smiling on our way,
And good for good restore!

165

I never knew a generous hand
Grow poorer for such deed;
A power we all can understand
Still bids that hand succeed.
Whate'er a noble act may cost,
Whate'er the service given,
A kindness done is never lost;
Neither on earth nor heaven!

166

A DAY AGO.

A day!—a thing but few regard—
A drop upon the stream of life—
A flower upon the summer sward,
Where thousand other flowers are rife!
Yet o'er the dial of our fate
There is a finger moving slow;
How long 't will move, what tongue can state?
What's death was life a day ago!

Ah! solemn task, to teach the soul
The value of a moment's space;
Our thoughts and wishes to control,
And look on Truth with fearless face!
To strip from Hope its rainbow dress,
Its false, false glitter, and its show:
All life—to man—is littleness!
All time—to God—a day ago!

167

Use time, and use it wisely, then;
Esteem it at its proper worth;
Nor say, were years to come again,
We would act differently on earth.
Be grateful for the bounties sent,
And patient when they cease to flow;
Soon—soon—we learn how much is meant
By those brief words—A day ago!

168

GOOD ADVICE.

Who receives advice with kindness—
Marks its simple, plain intent?
Who, discarding selfish blindness,
Taketh counsel as 'tis meant?
Ah! too often, what was merely
Urged to caution or improve,
Toucheth vanity too nearly,
Hurts our feeling—pride—self-love

Surely, hearts of wiser feeling,
Should be joyed to find a friend
Any hint or thought revealing,
Formed to warn, instruct, amend.
Courtly phrase and false pretences,
Outward smile and servile show,
May indeed avoid offences:
Friends a higher office know!

169

What, though other lips may pander
To each weakness of our youth,
Better to receive with candour,
Honest, open, manly truth.
Take, then, truth without resistance,
Use it, and its worth discern;
To the last day of existence
All have something yet to learn.

170

THE MERRY HEART.

'Tis well to have a merry heart,
However short we stay:
There's wisdom in a merry heart,
Whate'er the world may say.
Philosophy may lift its head
And find out many a flaw,
But give me the philosophy
That's happy with a straw.

If life but bring us happiness,
It brings us, we are told,
What's hard to buy, though rich ones try
With all their heaps of gold.
Then laugh away, let others say
Whate'er they will of mirth;
Who laughs the most may truly boast
He's got the wealth of earth.

171

There's beauty in a merry laugh,
A moral beauty, too:
It shows the heart's an honest heart,
That's paid each man his due;
And lent a share of what's to spare,
Despite of wisdom's fears,
And made the cheek less sorrow speak,
The eye weep fewer tears.

The sun may shroud itself in cloud,
The tempest-wrath begin;
It finds a spark to cheer the dark,
Its sunlight is within.
Then laugh away, let others say
Whate'er they will of mirth;
Who laughs the most may truly boast
He's got the wealth of earth.

172

THE MAGIC GLASS.

Hither maidens, merry maidens!
Come and view my magic glass!
I can tell you many marvels,
All things as they're sure to pass!
I can see adventure growing,
Through a mystic power sublime;
Watch the hand of Fortune throwing
Treasures in the lap of Time!
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and see my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
True as time, are sure to pass!

Time, that like a seed appeareth,
Dry and dark, and hard to view;
I can show you how it reareth
Leaf, and bud, and flow'ret too:

173

Leaf of friendship, coyly hidden,
Flower of love, that shuns the sight!
Things to other eyes forbidden,
Unto mine are clear as light!
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and view my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
True as time, are sure to pass!

Like a stage I see the future,—
Signs and symbols o'er it crowd,
Wild as wintry stars at midnight,
And they speak to me aloud:
Tell me secrets worth believing,
Secrets with instruction rife—
What the loom of Fate is weaving
From the mingled threads of life.
Come then, maidens, merry maidens!
Come and view my magic glass!
All the wonders I shall whisper,
Sure as time, shall come to pass!

175

THE FORTRESS.

What fortress spans this rock forlorn?
What sea mourns at its feet?
Its walls “might laugh a siege to scorn,”
Its tide engulph a fleet!

Yet rusted swing its iron gates;
Scant guard the warder keeps;
One at the portal stands and waits,—
One stands, and waits, and weeps.

The banner lifts its batter'd crest
Above the shipless tide;
The harbour seems in little quest,
Nor pilot here, nor guide.

Ho! tell me who this fortress claims?
Who claims? the watcher saith—
One who with joy each angel names,
The heir of all is Faith!

176

And 'tis the banner of our God
That floats upon the morn;
This is the Rock that all have trod
Who've sprung, through Faith, new born.

Though few the feet that enter in,
Yet shall a day appear,
When God shall strike the gates of sin,
And all shall enter here.

177

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN POTTER, M.P., FOUNDER OF THE FREE LIBRARY.

Life and Death—two words containing
More than human thought can span:
What is Death?—the dust remaining
Utters no response to man.

We behold:—but earthly vision
Cannot compass that domain,
Cannot climb that world Elysian
Where the dead new life attain.

Life is duty!—noblest therefore
He who best that course selects;
Never waiting, asking “Wherefore?”—
Acting as his heart directs!

Feeling, that through Education
Lies the secret of all good;
That to make a happy nation,
Men must first be understood!

178

Know each other—aid each other—
Short the space 'twixt life and death,
When the lowest shall be brother
To the highest that have breath.

Thou who felt for human labour,
Knew its means and pleasures few,
Thou that sought thy humbler neighbour;
Teaching others what to do!

Thousands,—in the far to-morrow,—
Shall survey this hallowed ground,
And with tears of silent sorrow
Bless the friend their fathers found!

All that is of power or beauty
Passeth from our steps away;
In the path of Faith and Duty
Honour lives, though Man decay.

179

Oh! 'mid the old friends,
I no more see,
Is there a kind thought
Ever for me?

180

If there's but one hope,
One wish, though vain;
If there's but one sigh,
I'll not complain.
Thus in the twilight
Tears oft will stray,
Thinking of old friends,—
Friends far away.

183

TO THE YOUNG.

If a dower to man were granted,
Free and boundless in extent,
Hills on which renown was planted,
Soil for widest culture meant;
What would be the donor's sorrow
If that unattended earth
Show'd no promise for the morrow,
Nothing but defect and dearth?

Or, if some small cultivation,
But in patches scatter'd o'er,
Flowers—a few for decoration—
Just in front, and nothing more!
All the vast extent behind it
Left without one seed to grow;
Left—as Time ought ne'er to find it,
Since God bade the sun to glow!

184

Oh, the gift of mind is greater
Than the gift of land can be:
Nothing from our kind Creator
Breathes so much of deity;
Nothing through the world's extension
Equals that eternal dower;
Scarce an angel's comprehension
Spans the vastness of its power!

If, then, but a thin partition
Of that mind true culture knows,
If no tillage gains admission,
Nought that right advancement shows,
Is it grateful to the Donor
Who—some purpose to fulfil—
Made ye of such power the owner,
To be careless of his will?

Is it grateful to the spirit
Poorly thus its worth to scan,
To neglect what you inherit,
Disregard God's gift to man?
Is it wise to rest contented
With this half-instructed state?
Lost time ne'er was unrepented,
But regret may come too late!

185

Work then, youth, while yet 'tis morning,
Broad the land before you lies,
Neither task nor labour scorning;
Which the fruit of thought supplies;
As you work so choose your station,
Knowing life and its demands;
Knowing 'tis through cultivation
That the living mind expands!

186

A HEART FOR EVERY ONE.

Oh! there's a heart for every one,
If every one could find it;
Then up and seek, ere youth be gone,
Whate'er the toil ne'er mind it!
For if you chance to meet at last
With that one heart, intended
To be a blessing unsurpass'd,
Till life itself is ended,
How would you prize the labour done,
How grieve if you'd resign'd it;
For there's a heart for every one,
If every one could find it.

Two hearts are made, the angels say,
To suit each other dearly;
But each one takes a different way,
A way not found so clearly!—

187

Yet though you seek, and seek for years,
The trouble's worth the taking,
For what the life of home endears
Like hearts of angels' making?
Then haste, and guard the treasure won,
When fondly you've enshrin'd it;
For there's a heart for every one,
If every one could find it?

190

THANK GOD FOR ALL.

Beside yon oak a rustic roof appears,
A cottage garden leads unto the door,
A few wild plants the lowly casement cheers,
And all around looks neat, though all is poor.
There Philip dwells, and takes a neighbour's part,
Though little be the means his help to test;
Yet still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart,
'Tis well to labour,—and that God knows best!

The hare flits by him with her dewy feet,
As blithe of heart he quits his cottage gate;
The golden village lane with dawn is sweet,
And Philip feels content, though low his state;
For labour unto him can joy impart,
'Tis independence to his honest breast;
And still, though poor, he says, with grateful heart,
'Tis well to labour,—and that God knows best!

191

His wife beside the door waits his return,
His children's voices meet him half the way,
And while the sun within the west doth burn,
And bird and brook sing sweet the close of day,
Philip forgets his toil, his chair to find,
By little arms and little lips caress'd;
And gazing round, exclaims, with grateful mind,
Thank God for all,—thank God, who knoweth best!

192

THE CROSS OF CHRIST.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. J. M. BELLEW, S.C.L.

O Cross of Christ! first rear'd 'mid scoff and scorn,
Cherish'd in secret 'gainst a bad world's hate;
Now on the neck of maiden beauty worn—
Blazing 'mid arms and banners of the state—
The flags of navies, crown'd and consecrate!
Erst type of persecution, shame, and blood;
Now the bow'd knees of nations on thee wait;
And kings adore, where burning martyrs stood,
Like Faith amidst the flames, unchanged and unsubdued!

O blest of Heaven, Religion, God-born guide!
Not thine the torture and the bigot chain,
Not thine the unsparing creed, the zealot pride
That would, through persecution, Christ attain!

193

Thou hast no heavenly joy in human pain;
But ever com'st by love and mercy led;
Yet wert thou parent call'd by many a Cain,
Who from the altar struck his brother dead,
And pray'd with gore-stain'd hands, as if 'twere incense shed!

Come to our souls and make us all thine own;
Come with thy brow of truth, thy lip of grace—
Thy peace, which is the light of Jesus' throne;
Thy hope, which beameth like an angel's face;
Oh, come, Religion, all the world embrace!
For all are brothers, and God's home would seek:
Back to thy breast our erring footsteps trace;
Teach us with Christian charity to speak,
Nor crouch to high estate, nor trample on the weak!

To preach the Gospel!—to illume the dark,
Strengthen the weak, upraise the poor and low;
To seek in humble breasts the struggling spark,
And with the breath of truth to bid it glow:
To lead the frail, irresolute, and slow
Unto the fount of everlasting light!
To teach them to believe what God doth show
In every dawning day and setting night:
To call the erring back, and guide their feet aright.

194

This is to preach the Gospel of our Lord!
To lead through love, persuade through Mercy's tongue:
And thou, to whom I dedicate each word,
Whose zeal, whose genius I have honour'd long,
Still, arm'd with eloquence, convince the throng;
Assure the doubtful—win the heedless breast,
Bid lips, long mute, thrill with Jehovah's song!
Show the afflicted where their griefs may rest,—
So shall thy name be loved, and thy true mission blest!

195

THE OLD EVENINGS.

I wander'd by the old house,
But others now live there;
I thought about the old times
And all we used to share.
How happy 'twas our wont to meet,
When friends came frank and free.
Ah, when shall we such faces greet
As once we used to see
In those old merry evenings,
Those pleasant friendly evenings,
Beneath the old roof tree?

But what though we'd the old house,
We still should lack old cheer,
The old friends in the old house
Were all that made it dear!

196

And these are fled, or changed, or dead,
And never more may we
Revive the music of their tread—
The joys that used to be
In those old friendly evenings,
Those long-departed evenings,
Beneath the old roof tree!

197

THE CHARITIES OF LIFE.

If thou hast pass'd an aching heart,
Turn back a little way,
Let not “thy giving” be a part
To act another day!
Give whilst the weary eye is dim,
And if a tear should fall,
'Twill be in gratitude to Him
Who heard the mourner's call.
Oh, in the charities of life
This impulse still obey;
And if thou'st pass'd an aching heart
Turn back a little way!

It is not far the feet can go;
The shadow cometh fast;
And whether we move fast or slow,
'Tis to one bourn at last.

198

When thy “to-morrows” all have died,
Kind actions will appear
Like angels waiting at thy side
To bless thee, and to cheer!
Then in the charities of life
This impulse still obey;
And if thou'st pass'd an aching heart
Turn back a little way!

199

LITTLE REQUIRED.

'Tis little indeed we require,
A cot just removed from the way,
All cover'd with woodbine and briar,
And Norah still with me each day.
We can live upon nothing at all,
For what do we care for display?
Love can smile though his income be small,
Yes, that's what he used to say!
Ah, me! that's what he used to say!

Then love before marriage could see
No figure so fair as my own;
Now figures in columns of three
Perplex him and alter his tone!
He wonders how bills can come in
In this strange unaccountable way;
And frowns, with his hand to his chin,
And forgets what he used to say,
Ah, me! forgets what he used to say!

200

He says that he loves me the same,—
There's nothing, at least, I detect;—
But a maid when she changes her name
Hath many a change to expect.
I wish better times would appear,
That Harry again might be gay,
And whisper once more in my ear
The words that he used to say,
Ah, me! the words that he used to say!

201

EVERYBODY'S GIPSY.

Hope's the Gipsy queen of life,
Fortune's hidden light revealing;
Whisp'ring better stars are rife
In the depths the cloud's concealing:
She is seen at many gates—
Many sighs to her are given;—
If we credit all she states,
She's her knowledge straight from heaven.
More than any gipsy known
She sets all things in confusion:
She's the one whose power alone
Keeps the whole world in delusion!

Kings and peers her voice obey,
High and low her spells she tosses;
E'en the poor and aged stay
When their path of life she crosses:

202

Soldiers on the tented field,
Sailors on the stormy ocean,
Unto her their secrets yield;
None on earth have such devotion.
More than any gipsy known
She sets all things in confusion;
She's the one whose power alone
Keeps the whole world in delusion.

203

WHAT'S YOUR OPINION?

'Tis my belief, that if you show
Your heart to any one you know,
Or let your cheek with blushes glow,
You shorten Love's dominion:
But if you pause, or seem to be
Indifferent to his urgent plea;
The colder you—the warmer he:
Now tell me your opinion,
Your opinion;
Do tell me your opinion.

'Tis hard when feelings' pulse beats strong
To guard the word that seeks the tongue;
And hide the secret well—and long:
But who would lose dominion?

204

Who let a little word defeat
The hopes that in their bosoms beat?
Whate'er I felt—he should not see't!
At least, that's my opinion,
My opinion;
At least, that's my opinion!

'Tis said that some are far too nice,
Too over-proud to take advice;
I only pray you to think twice
Before you quit dominion:
The more your looks, your lips, express,
The more you sigh, he'll sigh the less;
'Till he proposed I'd ne'er confess!
At least, that's my opinion,
My opinion;
At least, that's my opinion!

205

THE WHEREWITHAL.

A man may have wisdom and worth,
And humour and wit at his call;
But what do these matter on earth
If he has not the wherewithal?
His home may be circled with friends,
If he only can keep up the ball;
But friendship soon changes and ends
If he has not the wherewithal.
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends
If you have not the wherewithal.

The purse is the dial whose face
Shows best where the sunlight doth fall;
He always is first in the race,
Who is first with the wherewithal!

206

Some say that the high can be mean—
Some hint that the great can be small;
But trifles like these are not seen,
If bless'd with the wherewithal!
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends,
If short of the wherewithal.

Love smiles on the casement that shows
A picture within to enthral;
When gold's in the heart of the rose,
There's love in the wherewithal?
Yes; men may have wisdom and worth,
And humour and wit at their call,
But what do these matter on earth
If they have not the wherewithal!
Then seek for the wherewithal—
Make sure of the wherewithal,
For pleasure, like friendship, soon ends,
If short of the wherewithal!

207

PASSING AWAY.

I

Look from the casement!—look, and tell
What's passing, mother, dear;
Since dawn I've heard a funeral bell,
Slow pealing on my ear;
And now there comes the solemn fall
Of footsteps sweeping nigh.
Look down the street, I hear their feet,
Some funeral's passing by.
The mother gazed with anxious face,
But nothing there was seen,
Except each old accustom'd place,
And what had always been.

II

A moment yet, dear mother, stay;
Strange sounds are on the air,
Like angels singing on their way
Or voices deep in prayer!

208

Oh, lift my pillow high—more high—
For I am faint and low;
Help me to look upon the sky,
And bless them ere they go!
The mother raised her daughter's head,
But no word could she speak;
The hope that from her bosom sped
Left tears upon her cheek.

III

The night look'd through the casement old,
And saw a cheek so pale—
A form so wasted, thin, and cold—
No skill might there prevail;
But that which conquers Death yet beam'd
Upon her wasted brow;
And sweet, as though an angel dream'd,
The sufferer rested now!
Ah, who the mother's grief may tell?
Or who may comfort bring?
Yet, high above the funeral bell,
She heard the angels sing!

209

DEAD, YET UNDIVIDED.

They are together still,—
The parted still are one!
Their love our being's home can fill,
Although the loved be gone!
The mystery of the spirit's birth
Outfathoms human skill;
Though one's in heaven, and one on earth,
They are together still!

For there's a feeling that unites
The distant and the dead;
The last sweet bloom that winter blights,
Yet leaves the odour shed:
And thus affection lives beyond
Death's dark and withering will;
No power hath he to part the fond,—
They meet, in spirit, still!

210

In quiet thought, in lonely prayer,
That spirit all pervades,
It lends a glory to the air
When every planet fades;
It circles all with holiness,
It blunts the barb of ill;
And e'en the parted it can bless,
And link together still!

211

THE HOPES GONE BY.

The hopes gone by—the hopes that made
A golden path to other years;
Ere yet our hearts had known a shade,
Or life had lost what life endears:
The bounding heart—the spirits' play—
The thoughts that seem'd on wings to fly—
We ask in vain,—ah, where are they?
The days, the dreams, the hopes gone by!

The brightness and the bloom have fled,
And life seems cold as wintry snow;
For some are changed, and some are dead,
That knew and loved us long ago!
Those golden visions come no more
As once they came, when hope was high,
Yet dear, till life's last pulse is o'er,
Will be the days, the hopes, gone by!

212

FLOWERS.

Flowers, sweet Flora's children!
How ye sport and spring,
Smiling between bank and brook,
Mossy marge, and woody nook,
Where the linnets sing;
Climbing hedgerow, bush, and brier,
As your spirit ne'er would tire,
Thorough lane and lea:
Full of life, and full of mirth.
Ye alone enjoy the earth,—
Happy children ye!

Flowers, sweet Flora's children!
How ye roam and race,
By the valley—up the hill,
With an everchanging will,
Haunting every place;

213

Hanging half-way down the steep,
Where the wild stag dare not leap,
In your reckless glee;
Or, where snows eternal blanch,
Listening to the avalanche,—
Bold adventurers ye!

Flowers, sweet Flora's children!
How ye dance and twine
With the loveliest born of Spring,
Moving in an endless ring—
An exhaustless line!
Sometimes shy and singly seen,
Like some nun, in cloister green,
Offering incense free;
Sometimes over marsh and moor,
Resting by the cottage-door,—
Welcome comers ye!

Flowers, dear Flora's children!
How ye love to meet
Far away from human sound,
Making Nature hallow'd ground—
Even loneness sweet;
Where some fount, 'mid mountain-springs,
Singing falls, and falling sings

214

In melodious key;
Blooming where no step is heard,
Save the light foot of some bird,—
Favour'd children ye!

Flowers, sweet Flora's children!
Loved by moon and star;
Loved by little ramblers lone,
Seated on some grassy stone,—
Many a footstep far!
Loved by all that God hath made,
All that ever watch'd and pray'd:
For ye seem to me,
In your bright and boundless span,
Silent speakers unto man
Of the world to be!

217

MORN.

See morn o'er the heavens
Is sailing divine;
Her barque is all golden
And purple each line;
Her flag blue and crimson;
And over the skies
She sweeps in her beauty,
To gladden all eyes.

The chequer'd horizon
Spreads wide on the sight,
Like islands of glory
Where angels alight!
And the barque dashes onward
O'er billows of clouds,
Whilst the lark, like a sailor,
Sings high 'mid the shrouds!

218

Oh! that man through life's voyage,
Whatever storm wars,
Would keep his soul's pennant
Still fix'd 'mid the stars!
Till the harbour appearing,
For which he had striven,
Life's vessel might rest,
Safely anchor'd in Heaven.

219

THE HIDDEN DELL.

O'er a wide heath whose purple bloom had fled,
Or fallen low for winds to sweep about,
Just as Aurora show'd her drowsy head,
As if to wake or slumber still in doubt,
Straight from the path—the rude, broad path, scoop'd out
Abrupt and startling—there appear'd a dell,
From whose green mouth, as from some shrine devout,
The panting waters seem'd with pride to swell,
Then down the rocky cleft with rapid music fell.

By root, or rock, or hanging bush I sped,
Until a broken arch and gate were seen,
That to a strange deserted garden led;
O'ergrown, and all one melancholy green,
Save here and there some flowery shrub between,
Or ancient statue from its column cast,—
A majesty of grandeur that had been
A memory of the proud and prosperous past,—
Stood haughty in decay—still stately to the last!

220

With sighs the woods unto my step replied,
And from the trembling leaves hung many a tear,
Which the stern winds, as angry, brushed aside—
For what might tears avail gaunt ruin here?
Nor grief could change, nor gleam of gladness cheer
The desolation and the blight around:
Yet one lone flower, like infant beauty near,
Kiss'd with its honey'd lip the wither'd ground,
And smiled upon the thorns to which its bloom was bound.

Something, I know not what, detain'd me there:
'Midst grandeur and neglect I wander'd on,
Till, all at once, the path show'd touch of care;
In golden groups the tended flowrets shone,
Bright as Love's footsteps, and as swiftly gone;
A broken rose-stem, with a ribbon tied,
Told of a maiden's hand—some lovely one
Perchance still near: quick sought I every side,
But still nor fluttering veil, nor vestment white espied.

Anon the pathway turn'd—a steep ascent—
Then lost itself in venerable shade;
My very breath with toil seem'd almost spent,
When shot a gleam of silver through the glade.

221

Some bird its home and happy nest had made
By path which human footstep rarely chose;
Willing to seek, and yet to stir afraid,
Tiptoe I followed where the dim boughs close,
And looking down beheld my Maiden of the Rose.

Half hid 'mid waves and weeds the maiden stood,
Bathing her beauty in the happy brook,
Whose waters clasp'd her in a pearly flood;
Or, flowing fondly, stole an upward look,
As of her beauty they some portion took;
Then, turning, leapt unto her waist: whilst she
From her white hands the liquid sparkles shook,
And cast them in the air, like diamonds free,
A thousand times more pure, more beautiful to see.

Straightway a swan came sailing up the stream,
To which she call'd, and with a timid grace
It sidled near her—quiet as a dream!
The nymph kept, like a statue, in her place;
Then sudden stoop'd, and scatter'd in its face
A thousand wave-drops—back it fled in fear,
Ruffled its brilliant feathers from the chase,
Then slowly round its sidelong course did steer,
Stretch'd its broad wings, and boldly darted near!

222

As flew the swan so flew the maiden fair;
Then caught a scarf, with which the boughs were drest,
And flung it o'er its wings—it sprang in air!
Flash'd the white waters from its panting breast,
Whilst she laugh'd loud, and mock'd its ruffled crest!
Seeming some creature of ethereal birth;
Ere long a butterfly besought her quest—
Up flew the scarf in light and playful mirth,
The butterfly and maid seem'd both too bright for earth!

Lured by the sound of waters, soft and shy
From 'neath the woods, a dappled fawn tripp'd slow;
Gazing askance with ever restless eye,
Until half gain'd the singing stream below;
Anon he listen'd—unresolved to go.
Then did the merry drops in music sink:
Onward he leapt all eager for its flow,
And bent his beauteous head as if to drink,
Unconscious he of nymph close watching at the brink.

Swift flew the scarf—the dappled fawn was caught!
It plunged, it swerved—away the wavelets flew;
With matchless grace the maid her captive brought
Amidst the weeds, and kept it struggling through;

223

Then tighter round the silken bandage drew:
It rear'd, it leapt!—the stream in fountains spread!
Oh, Love, the sport, the strife, between the two!
At last a rush of waters o'er her head
O'erpower'd the laughing nymph, and free the glad fawn fled.

Swift with the racing fawn I hurried thence,
Nor let one breaking branch my haunt betray,
But left to sweetness and to innocence
The Beauty and her bath, and stepp'd away.
Guarded by angels be her sanctuary!
Still her companions prove the swan and fawn,
Still happy with the butterfly to play,
Bathe in the brook, or dance upon the lawn,
Or meet with lips of song the golden grace of dawn.

224

THE SOUL.

What is the Soul? It may not be
A light which chance hath waked to birth;
Nor is that power, Necessity,
The mother of the earth.
Materialists in vain may teach
That Nature form'd this glorious whole;
In worlds which science cannot reach,
“God!—God made man a living soul!”

What is the Soul?—A deathless ray—
A gift of that immortal Hand
Which from blind chaos struck the day,
And held, unpoised, the sea and land;
Who o'er the earth shed beauty rife,
Who gave the Elements their might,
Who waked the planets into life,
And bowed the starry globe of night.

225

From stern Necessity call grace—
Call order from the dreams of chance—
Bid your material god replace
The heavenly fountain we advance:
The seasons would return no more,
The erring planets lose their track,
Confusion stalk from shore to shore,
And Ruin shout to Chaos back!

Can knowledge, then, oppress the brain,
O'erload the reason's glorious might;
Imagination's wing restrain,
And blind our intellectual sight?—
No: the rivers of the world combined
Have never fill'd the boundless sea;
And what is ocean to the mind?
Like time unto eternity!

Not knowledge hath debased the sense,
But vice—that, even in our youth,
Saith to Religion's light—“Go hence!
I will not, dare not, know the truth!
If I deceive myself, 'tis well:
Let me live on, and still deceive;
If sinners tread the brink of hell,
'Twere death to Tremble and believe!”

226

O God, the Father of the Soul!
O Jesus, Saviour of the world!
Bid knowledge spread from pole to pole,
Be Faith's bright banner wide unfurl'd.
For whatsoe'er the soul may be,
Or wheresoe'er the soul may dwell,
To live for God's eternity
Is better than to live for hell!

227

AN EARLY VISITOR.

The dewy morn, with golden feet,
Came sighing fond, and blushing sweet;
And o'er the casement's flowery stand
Reclined her warm and brilliant hand;
Stole from the rose its rath perfume,
And leapt, all glowing, in the room;
Shook gold upon the carpet round,
Each printed form, with sunthreads bound.
Anon—as if half weary there—
Her golden limbs adorned a chair;
And flashed a hundred brilliant hues
On classic Reynolds' “Tragic Muse;”
Pressed golden kisses o'er the pearl
Of Christall's lovely “Shepherd Girl;”
And, spite of Shakspere's verse of old,
Kept gilding still refinèd gold!—
At last a little over-free,
She threw herself upon my knee;
In beaming glances met my looks,
And blinded me for reading books:

228

Red, green, or orange spots were all
I found where'er my sight could fall;
'Till, half provoked, I wish'd the maid
Were fairly buried in the shade!
For, jealous of the least advance,
She struck the fire out with a glance;
Then, as with music's gifts to please,
Her sparkling fingers touched the keys!
'Twas something to be seen, not heard,
Too eloquent for note, or word:
Cecilia's hand, though oft admired,
Had ne'er such brilliancy inspired;
Could ne'er intenser gaze enthral;
But then, alas, the touch was all!

So I to business hurried then;
Engagements with commercial men
Sped swift the time; whilst Morn withdrew
To vernal scenes and pleasures new;
Through lanes with honeysuckle sweet,
Through many a sylvan, calm retreat;
Danced with the ripple of the brook,
Still gilding every path she took;
And, oh! till we again may meet,
May Heaven bless those golden feet!

229

BLAME ME NOT.

They blame this changeless brow of care,
This silent woe they blame:
They little know how sweet's despair,
If it but breathe thy name!
They little think how passing dear
Is sadness unto me;
How sweet the sorrow, sweet the tear,
In silence shed for thee!

Life hath no home, no hope, no love—
The dove hath lost her ark—
The very face of heaven above
Seems hopeless now and dark:
Yet little think they, still how dear
Is sadness unto me—
How sweet the sorrow, sweet the tear,
In silence shed for thee!

230

THE DEAD SWAN.

(THE STREAM LAMENTETH FOR HER LOST COMPANION.)

Darkly now and lonely
Night on me descends;
Once and but once only
We've been parted friends!
What doth Life inherit
That can Hope impart?
Oh, sweet Bird, or Spirit,
Tell me where thou art!

With a troubled feeling
Came the Night profound;
With a sigh revealing
Sorrow all around!
Sounds too sad to lose them
Through the forest crept,
Whilst upon my bosom
Thou in beauty slept!

231

Ill could ne'er betide me,
Through the wildest night;
There thou lay beside me
Like a beam of light!
Till the dark hour ending,
To thy happy stream,
Forest deer descending
Woke thee from thy dream!

Then thy beauty darted
All its rays of light,
Like a sylph thou started
In thy sparkling flight!
Whilst the deer—though frighted
From the water's brink—
Paused, as half delighted,
And forgot to drink.

O ye Stars, that often
In my heart have slept,
Fate's decree now soften:
Long and lone I've wept!
Where is she whose brightness
Lent the rash delight;
Know ye, in your lightness?
Answer, Stars of night!

232

Not a voice repeateth
Tidings where thou art,
Save the wave that beateth
O'er my troubled heart;
Save the winds that slowly
'Neath the sedges rise,
Every feeling holy
Into silence dies!

Not the stars can bring her
Back to life and day;
Why should I then linger?
Waste, poor Stream, away!
What doth Life inherit
That can Hope impart?
Oh, sweet Bird, or Spirit,
Tell me where thou art!

233

THE LOST ONE FOUND.

The mother's hearth is lone, her child hath roam'd away—
A truant from the morning meal, till now the close of day;
And whither he hath wandered, what field-path he hath cross'd,
She knows not, but distractedly is seeking for her lost!

He used to play so cheerfully about the cottage-door,
No wanderer after bee and bird—he loved his mother more!
And now, though every spot she'd search'd within the village ground,
She dared not meet her husband's face until his boy was found.

234

Where wild nuts grow, and blackberries their tempting treasure bear,
She sought; she ask'd each cotter's girl—but none had seen him there;
She told them of his fair young face, his sunny curls, his years;
But when she strove to tell them more, she could not for her tears.

Away she sped o'er upland field, and by the orchard bank,
Until she near'd a rushy brook, whose bridge was but a plank;
And, half afraid to look therein, she hurried o'er and found
Two foot-prints small—the mother knelt and kiss'd the grassy ground!

Two little foot-prints o'er the bridge, beside the golden plain;
And 'midst the grass a flower-crush'd spot as where a child had lain;
And scatter'd rushes wild about show'd where his feet had stray'd—
Her child had cross'd the dangerous brook, and must have reach'd the glade.

235

The forest glade, that lonesome track, where 'neath dry leaf and weed
The viper hides his venom'd fang, and noxious insects breed;
Where—ah! was that a garment moved? She rush'd into the wood,
Alas! 'twas but the hawthorn gray before whose boughs she stood.

By thicket and wild brake she search'd, but every trace was gone;
It could not be so mere a child thus far had rambled on:
And, sinking down bewilder'd, unknowing how to stir,
She heard a voice, a little voice, but, oh! 'twas bliss to her!

And forth he ran, the truant one, and clasp'd his mother's knees,
Put up his fruit-stain'd lips to kiss, and tried each art to please;
And bade the weeper not to cry, although his own poor cheek
Show'd traces of his day's-long tears in many a piteous streak.

236

And in that wood the mother sat, and pointed to the sky,
And bade her boy remember Him who'd watch'd him from on high!
Had sent his influence down to guard his little footsteps there;
So with her child, the mother knelt—and blessed her God in prayer.

237

TORQUATO TASSO.

[_]

[Torquato Tasso, one of the most celebrated poets that Italy ever produced, was born at Sorrento in 1544. His works show him to have been a philosopher, an orator, a logician, a critic, and a poet, excelling in every kind of composition. While he was at the court of Alphonso, Duke of Ferrara, he incurred that prince's anger by his passion for the Princess Leonora of Este, his patron's sister; and being somewhat disordered in his intellect, he was ungenerously shut up in a madhouse for seven years, where he underwent the most illiberal treatment. Tasso himself says that every rigour and inhumanity it is possible to conceive were practised towards him. The remonstrances of several Italian princes at length procured his release; and when Cardinal Aldobrandini ascended the papal chair by the name of Clement VIII., he invited him to Rome, resolving to confer upon him the laureate crown in the Capitol. While, however, the preparations were going on for this ceremony with the greatest magnificence and pomp—promising to be the most splendid pageant beheld in Italy for centuries—Tasso was taken ill, and died in 1595.]

'Twas in the minstrel clime of Italy,
The hour which marries twilight to the stars;
When Memory speaks to Beauty, and the air
Seems languishing for silence; at that hour,

238

Beside a classic fount, whose broken arch
Portray'd the poet's fortune, Tasso slept.
The dying day oft through the parted clouds
Shot sudden gleams, and o'er the slumberer's cheek
Now light, now shadow swept; and haply these
Might touch or influence the poet's dream;
For, as he said, two spirits sought his side,
And each, alternate, pictured to his mind
Visions immortal. Fame and Truth were they,
And thus address'd the poet's slumbering ear:—
SPIRIT OF FAME.

It is the voice of Fame
Which greets thee on her flight;
The star that shall illume thy name
Now trembles into light:
Around thee glories wait
In long triumphal line;
The classic throne, its crown and state,
Laurel and lyre, are thine.

Thrill, soul of song, with fire!
Pour, heart of love, thy lay!
Hopes that immortal minds inspire
Shed triumph on thy way.

239

The eternal hours prolong
The music of thy name;
Wake, Tasso, wake! thou heir of song!
It is the voice of Fame.

SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

Avoid that syren voice,
Shun the betrayer's tongue;
When did the laurel e'er rejoice
One victim heart of song!
Soar thou the topmost height,
Attain the classic leaf,
But know the hours of loftiest flight
Are ever the most brief.

Go, waste thy bloom of years
To grace a monarch's state,
And nourish Fame's frail flowers with tears,
And learn repentance late!
Go, court the vain of earth,
Seek praise from Beauty's eyes;
Then learn how little is the worth
Of that thy soul did prize!

240

SPIRIT OF FAME.

Oh, charm'd thy lyre shall be,
And fill'd with power to move
The loftiest minds to chivalry,
The noblest hearts to love;
And they on whose renown
A nation's shouts attend
Shall be the first thy lyre to crown,
The first to call thee friend.

The tournament and feast,
The banquet and the ball,
These of thine honours shall be least,
Thy fame transcend them all:
The proud and princely throng
Shall worship at thy shrine,
Assert the sovereignty of song,
And own its gifts divine.

SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

Oh, fickle is the breath
Of popular acclaim;
And purchased often but by death
Is an illustrious name!

241

Fame, like the rainbow's glow,
Is but the type of tears;
And Glory's harvest, like the snow,
Dissolves and disappears.

The envy and the scorn,
The penury and pain—
Oh, better hadst thou ne'er been born
Than wake the poet's strain!
That voice doth but deceive:
Avoid ambition's goal,
Nor let the fire of fancy leave
Its ashes on thy soul.

SPIRIT OF FAME.

Great Rome shall hail thee son!
Link'd with the glorious twain,
With triumphs Ariosto won,
With Dante's matchless strain;
For unto thee are given
The thoughts that angels breathe;
And Tasso's song of heaven
The light of hosts shall wreathe.

242

The loveliest of the land,
The high-born and the young,
Shall deem it fame to kiss the hand
That wrote Jerusalem's song.
Shake off this soulless thrall,
And arm for victory's field;
When beauty, love, and glory call,
Can Tasso's spirit yield?

SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

Hark! 'tis the captive's shriek,
A voice that loads the air
With wrongs too terrible to speak,
With madness and despair.
It tells of genius lost,
Of beauty unattain'd,
Of love pursued at reason's cost,
Of glory sunk and stain'd.

Dimm'd is that noble mind
That wing'd to heaven its flight;
The frenzied eyes, far worse than blind,
Blaze with delirious light:
That hand, the Muse inspired,
'Gainst phantom-horror strives;

243

Now starts from hell's imagined fires,
Now flees the maniac's gyves.

SPIRIT OF FAME.

The imperial streets resound,
Rome's banners wave on high,
And garlands belt the classic ground,
As though a king swept by.
The hero-bard ascends
His coronation throne;
And hark! is that a shout which rends
Those oracles of stone?

The choral voices float
In hymns of joy and praise,
Cittern, and lyre, and clarion note,
Their lofty triumph raise;
The Capitolian throng
With music sound thy name;
Wake, Tasso, wake! thou heir of song!
It is the voice of Fame.

SPIRIT OF TRUTH.

By St. Onofrio's shrine
Dark sounds of grief arise;

244

And weeping eyes in woe decline
Where a dying minstrel lies.
Ah, what are shows or state
To that pale drooping head?
The tardy triumph comes too late
Which comes to crown the dead.

Can Rome's proud chaplets now
One meed of grace impart?
Can Fame relieve the anguish'd brow,
Or bind the broken heart?
With misery rack'd and bow'd
Illustrious Tasso lies;
And what avail the applauding crowd,
Or shouts that rend the skies?

And is't for this reward
Thou'lt spend thy soul's rich power!
Alas, unhappy bard,
Thine is a fatal dower!
Yet when were hearts e'er found
By Fame's proud breath unstirr'd?
Woe that Delusion should be crown'd,
And Truth so little heard!

245

ADAM.

“And God created Man in His own image.”

The Mind is victor over Time;
The dial of the brain
Points not to hours, but years sublime,
That o'er oblivion reign!
Immortal as its primal source,
It scatters centuries in its course—
Explores the worlds of thought;
Nor folds its heav'n-enfranchised wing,
Till reach'd that intellectual spring
Which crowns the shore it sought!

The Spirit of the Past appears—
The Present fades—is gone!
The feelings of unnumber'd years
Are centred into one!
A radiance o'er my vision glows,
While spreads that Eden of repose

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Ere Sorrow's sway began;
I see that morn, whose light unfurl'd,
Woke the first Sabbath of the world
Upon the soul of man!

No cloud hangs o'er the far serene,
Earth smiles amidst her flowers,
As though that moment God had been
In her Elysian bowers!
Yet holier than the earth or sky,
A presence born of Deity,
With grace-illumined brow,
Glorious, as from Jehovah's hands,
The parent of earth's millions stands
Before my vision now.

Erect—ere sin had bow'd his frame,
And struck his forehead dim;
Ere, exiled to eternal shame
By swords of cherubim,
He heard the voice of God complain—
Saw branded on the brow of Cain
The mark with murder red;
Knew all the horrors guilt must know,
Which, like an avalanche of woe,
Swept ruin on his head!

247

I mark those lineaments divine,
In their immortal bloom;
Unmarr'd by one degrading line
Prophetic of their doom;
I gaze—and back the steeds of thought,
Midst years of blood one act had wrought;
Then trace the steps of time
Through all that sad mortality—
The universe of graves to be—
From flood, disease, and crime!

The cities of the earth display
Their toil-oppressed race;
Merit neglected on her way,
Whilst Pride usurps her place:
There lies the plague-polluted corse,—
Envy, and Hatred, and Remorse,
The Passions' burning flow;
There lurks Revenge with poinard bare—
Terror that darkens to despair—
And Infamy, and Woe!

Where now is that imperial form,
That majesty of glance,
That brow o'er which the soul's wild storm
Of passions ne'er advance?—

248

Alas for Sin!—Through ages past
Mark Adam's seed in sorrow cast,
Still mourners upon earth:—
Then, on the Cross of Calvary,
Thy crucified Redeemer see,
And learn Man's second birth.

Rise! rise! ye everlasting spheres,
And wake the hymn of life!
Praise Him, ye Eighteen Hundred Years
With man's salvation rife!
Though sin, and woe, and death prevail,
The Rock of Ages shall not fail
Whilst Faith on earth may dwell;
The soul baptised in Christ shall rise
Triumphant to its native skies,
Despite the powers of hell!

249

WAITING FOR THE COUNTESS.

(FROM LANDSEER'S DRAWING OF LADY BLESSINGTON'S FAVOURITE HOUND.)

'Tis sweet to watch the morning break
O'er mountains bleak and bare,
To view the clouds, like vessels, take
The azure sea of air!
To watch morn's magic pencil touch
Each golden stream and grove;—
And sweet it is, when loving much,
To wait for her we love.

Man speaks of “friendship, faith, and truth,”
But oft his acts declare
His friendship is a dream of youth,
His faith a thing of air!
And if an honest heart on earth
Is really to be found,
'Tis not so oft in human worth
As in the worthier hound!

250

Oh! never knight to ladye bright,
Nor bard's impassion'd breath,
Nor cavalier in maiden's ear,
Ere seem'd more true to death
Than this half-reasoning, noble brute,
That puts Man's truth to shame;
This creature—eloquent though mute!—
And friend—in more than name!

Thou, loved as genius must be loved;
And famed as beauty's famed;
Admired wherever thou hast moved,
Renown'd wherever named;
Not one of all the friends thou'st found,
Whose words and looks were sweet,
Ere loved thee better than this hound
That waits thy coming feet!

Rank—station—beauty—what are all,
If all yet fail to win
A heart still true to friendship's call,
Still warm with love within?
Oh, Life is lone, and little worth,
Unless affection meet
A faithfulness like his on earth,
That waits thy coming feet!

251

YOUTH AND AGE.

The proudest poetry of youth
Is—“Would I were a Man!”
The golden years that lie between
Youth, like a dream, would span:
'Tis in its thought—'tis in its heart—
'Tis ever on its tongue;
But oh, the poetry of age,
It is—“When I was young!”

Thus, in the morn of life, our feet
Would distant pathways find;
The sun still face to face we meet—
The shadow falls behind!
But when the morn of life is o'er,
And Nature grows less kind;
The length'ning shadow creeps before—
The sunlight falls behind!

252

With many a murmur, slow and sad,
The stream of life flows on;
That which we prized not when we had
Is doubly prized when gone!
And many a sad and solemn truth
Lies written on life's page;
Between the “Poetry of Youth!”
And “Poetry of Age!”

253

RIVA DI SAN MARCO.

[_]

[It must be borne in mind that the legend which we are about to produce is recorded by more than one authentic chronicler, and that it was sufficiently believed to give birth to a public religious ceremony. In the year 1341, an inundation of many days' continuance had raised the water three cubits higher than it had ever before been seen in Venice; and during a stormy night, while the flood appeared to be still increasing, a poor old fisherman sought what refuge he could find by mooring his bark close to the Riva di San Marco. The storm was yet raging, when three persons approached, and offered him a good fare if he would convey them to the two castles of Sido. Scarcely had they gained the strait, when they saw a galley, rather flying than sailing up the Adriatic, manned (if we may so say) with devils, who seemed hurrying, with fierce and threatening gestures, to sink Venice in the deep. The strangers conjured the fiends to depart: at the word, the demoniacal galley vanished, and the three holy passengers were quietly landed. “Go to the Doge,” said one, “and the procuratori, and assure them that, but for we three, Venice would have been drowned. I am St. Mark; my two comrades are St. George and St. Nicholas.” On the morrow the fisherman did as he was told, and he not only received his fare, but an annual pension to boot. Moreover, a solemn procession and thanksgiving were appointed, in gratitude to the three holy corpses which had rescued from such calamity the land affording them burial. —Abridged from Sketches of Venetian History.]

Thrice honour'd be St. Nicholas, St. George, and good St. Mark,
And blessings on the fisherman who steer'd the gallant bark;

254

When lower'd the mighty firmament—one black foredooming page:—
And wild and high the waves howl'd by, foaming and white with rage!

The thunders clamour'd to the blast, the lightnings flash'd about,
Like flaming brands by demons forged amidst that hellish rout;
The proudest halls of Venice rock'd unto their very base,
And mothers gazed in agony upon their children's face.

Still eastward swept the sainted bark, and smote the billows back,
Calm as the eagle floats along its cloud-beleaguer'd track;
The whirlwind own'd the spirit-grasp of some superior sway,
And, shrieking, vanish'd like a fiend defeated of its prey!

Then gazed the aged fisherman upon the glorious three,
And moved the helm with trembling hand, and marvell'd silently;
For rays of light upon his sight in angel-beauty gleam'd
From brows more eminently fair than poet's fancy dream'd!

255

Now blacker vapours choked the breath, and sadder sights appear'd,
As through the Adriatic strait the venturous vessel steer'd!
A galley throng'd with demons foul was scudding o'er the wave,
Which deeper grew, and faster flew, at every sign they gave!

And horrid conjurations there, and curses long and wild,
Doom'd to the last and worst despair, mother, and sire, and child!
Devoted towers, and palaces, and temples, to that tide
Whose dreadful billows leap'd around in their tempestuous pride!

But lo! the sacred bark wore on, the galley shook with dread,
The demons stretch'd their wings of flame, and howling, turn'd and fled!
The horrors of that spectral sea at once were put to flight,
As the morning stole, like a parting soul, from the grave of the buried night!

256

Joy! joy for Venice!—fast and far the song of gladness flows;
The grateful mother clasps her child, and half forgets her woes:
The sea hath moan'd itself to sleep within the tranquil bay,
And sunny is the welcome sky, and beautiful its ray!

Now bid the voice of prayer arise, and wreathe the holy shrine,
For shielded hath our city been by influence divine!
Thanksgiving to the Virgin pour beside this hallow'd bark;
And glory to St. Nicholas, St. George, and good St. Mark!

257

THE ANGEL'S CALL.

IN MEMORY OF JULIANA ANNE TAVARÉ.

To the green grave newly made,
Sisters come!
To the churchyard where she's laid,
Sisters come!
When the ninth day downward dips
Will the spirit leave her lips;—
Bear her home!
Earth and shroud may then be spared,—
Angels have her house prepared,—
Bear her home!

She was purer than the morn,
Sisters come!
Spotless as a flower new born,
Sisters come!

258

All who saw her near could part
'Till her image fill'd each heart,—
Bear her home!
Never death kiss'd maiden's eyes
Fitter for our Father's skies,—
Bear her home!

There is grief with her to part,—
Sisters come!
Anguish in the Mother's heart,—
Sisters come!
Teach the mourner's faith to rise
To that Mansion in the skies,
Where she's gone;
Teach the Mother's lips to say,
'Mid the tears that must have way,
Thy will be done!

259

ALL THINGS FOR GOOD.

Nothing we see, but is for good;
No sight, no shape throughout creation,
But hath, if rightly understood,
Some wise and spiritual relation.

Throughout all worlds, throughout all time,
The outer of the inner telleth;
Each seed is but a germ sublime,
Where wisdom, love, and beauty dwelleth.

And I can ne'er the thought forego
That flowers, and trees, and all that groweth,
Have sympathy with hearts below,
And love the hand that love bestoweth.

Who knows how link by link we draw
The slender chain which life enforces?—
A drop of dew may show some law,
That guides the planets in their courses.

260

Perchance the very sand we pass
May teach a truth without our seeing;
And e'en a simple blade of grass
Proclaim the Universal Being.

261

THE FLOWER SPIRIT.

When earth was in its golden prime,
Ere grief or gloom had marr'd its hue,
And Paradise, unknown to crime,
Beneath the love of angels grew,
Each flower was then a spirit's home,
Each tree a living shrine of song;
And, oh! that ever hearts could roam—
Could quit for sin that seraph throng!

But there the spirit lingers yet,
Though dimness o'er our visions fall;
And flowers that seem with dewdrops wet
Weep angel-tears for human thrall;
And sentiments and feelings move
The soul, like oracles divine;
All hearts that ever bow'd to love
First found it by the flowers' sweet shrine.

262

A voiceless eloquence and power,
Language that hath in life no sound
Still haunts, like Truth, the Spirit-flower,
And hallows even Sorrow's ground.
The wanderer gives it Memory's tear,
Whilst home seems pictured on its leaf;
And hopes, and hearts, and voices dear,
Come o'er him—beautiful as brief.

'Tis not the bloom, though wild or rare,
It is the spirit power within,
Which melts and moves our souls, to share
The Paradise we here might win.
For Heaven itself around us lies,
Not far, not yet our reach beyond,
And we are watch'd by angel's eyes,
With hope and faith still fond!

I well believe a spirit dwells
Within the flower! least changed of all
That of the pass'd Immortal tells—
The glorious meeds before man's fall;
Yet, still, though I should never see
The mystic grace within it shine—
Its essence is sublimity,
Its feeling all divine.

263

THE SHIP OF HEAVEN.

A DREAM.

'Tis day, but sun or sky
No human eye may see;
Like a mighty shroud, the heavy air
Hangs dim and drearily!

'Tis day—yet on the rock
The falcon sits forlorn,
Awaiting, cold and restlessly,
The coming of the morn.

A ray, as of the sun,
Flashes along the deep,
And, hark! dull whispers of the blast
Through the old forest sweep.

Yet all is calm, as lull'd
By some magician's wand:
It is no sun that lights the deep—
No blast that sweeps the land!

264

Like mountains that have been
By ancient tempests riven,
Opens in wild sublimity
The lofty arch of heaven!

The giant clouds dissolve
Mysteriously away,
As darkness melts to radiance
Before the power of day.

Innumerable beams
Of variegated light
Burst, from that everlasting sphere,
Upon my trancéd sight.

Temples of living fire,
Mild as the lunar ray—
Fountains that overflow with stars,
Shine up the open way!

Suddenly, from the vault,
Like lightning when storms rave,
A bow of atmospheric hues
Spans the vast heaven and wave.

A Ship!—a heavenly Ship!—
Her sails are clouds of snow,
Fine as the summer moon shines through,
On pleasant eves below.

265

From the miraculous cleft
She takes her beauteous flight;
And launching on the tide of air,
Speeds down the waves of light.

Gushes the trumpet's breath
With organ melody;—
And, at the sound, ten thousand shapes
Spring from the groaning sea!

The sea gives up its dead—
Its brave, its honour'd dead;
Their thronging footsteps press the deck,
But soundless is their tread!

The aged and wither'd brow,
The stately and the fair,
The warrior-knight and lowly hind—
The prince and slave—meet there.

They gaze on me, with eyes
That evermore dilate,
As if with the thin gelid air
Engross'd—incorporate.

Their forms glide, like star-rays
Upon a rapid stream—
Pale, shadowy, changeful—still in all
Identical they seem!

266

Again the Ship of Heaven
Her wondrous path doth take;
Silently she moves o'er the sea—
Her vast stern leaves no wake!

Vain is my wish to move:
A ponderous column, bound
With demon-chains upon my breast,
Confines me to the ground.

Vain is my hope to speak:
Language denies the power
To tell the bitter agony—
The terror of this hour!

'Tis past!—back to my heart
The fever'd blood springs, now,
And the illusions of dark sleep
Fast leave my aching brow!

267

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN.

She waiteth by the forest stream,—
She sitteth on the ground;
While the moonlight, like a mantle,
Wraps her tenderly around!
She sitteth through the cold, cold night,
But not a step draws near,
Though his name is on her trembling lips,
His voice meets not her ear!

Hist! was't the haunted stream that spoke?
What droning sound swept there?
She listens!—still no human tone
O'erhears she anywhere!—
Oh! was't the forest bough that took
That sad and spectral mien?
She looketh round distractedly,
But there is nothing seen!

268

Dark, in the quiet moonlight,
Her shadowy form is thrown;
With a strange and lonely mournfulness,
It seems not like her own!
She glanceth o'er her shoulder fair,
The moon is gleaming wide;
She turneth—Jesu! what is there
Pale sitting by her side?

She pauseth for a single breath—
She hearkens for a tone;
And terror pains her chilling veins,
For breath or sound—is none!
The silence—oh, it racks her brain,
It binds it like a chord!
She'd given worlds though but to hear
The chirping of a bird!

The shadow rose before her—
It stood upon the stream:
“O blessed shadow, ease my soul,
And tell me 'tis a dream!
Thou tak'st the form of one they vow'd
Mine eyes should see no more!”
The shadow stood across the stream,
And beckon'd pale before.

269

The shadow beckon'd on before,
Yet deign'd her no reply;
The ladye rose, and straight the stream
To its pebbly breast was dry!
It pass'd the wood—it cross'd the court—
The gate flew from its chain—
The gentle ladye knew she stood
Within her own domain!

And still the awful shadow glid,
Without or breath or tone,
Until it came to a sullen sluice
'Mid yellow sand and stone,
But the rock and sand disdain'd to stand,
The water scorn'd to flow;
Thus blood was seen down the rift between,
And the dead reveal'd below.

The dead was seen, in the space between,
And the ladye knew it well!
She kiss'd its cheek with a piercing shriek,
With a woe no tongue may tell,
The gory shadow beckon'd on,
And still her steps implored;
But she follow'd not, for on that spot
She found a shiver'd sword.

270

She grasp'd the hilt—its silken thread
Her own fair skill had wove;
A brother's hand had struck the dead—
His sword had slain her love!
She took the corpse upon her knees,
Its cheek lay next her own;
Like sculpture fair, in the moonlight there,
Like misery turn'd to stone!

No food to seek for the raven's beak—
The gibbet serves them true,
With young, and sweet, and dainty meat,
As e'er the ravens knew;
And few they see near the gibbet-tree,
For a bleeding form glides on,
From the haunted stream, in the moon's cold beam,
On the Eve of good Saint John!

271

NOT TO-NIGHT.

There's a shadow falling
In the moonlit street;
There's a fond voice calling,
Calling low, and sweet:
To and from the window,
To and from the gate;
Half resolved to enter,
Half inclined to wait!
While the chimes of midnight
Float upon the gale;
Thus the shadow passeth
In the moonlight pale.

Brightly in the cottage
Burns the Christmas fire;
Round its flame are seated
Daughter, son, and sire:

272

Oft a glance is centred
On the casement pane;
Oft a step is ventured,
Then returns again.
Still the shadow falleth,
Still the moments go,
Still that low voice calleth
How to let him know!

Two lights in the window,
One light on the stair;
Well the Watcher knoweth
Wherefore they are there!
Slowly—very slowly—
'Neath the moonlight ray,
Passeth voice and shadow,
From the path away:
While the chimes of midnight
Following still his feet,
Whisper of the morrow,
When they two may meet.

275

THE TEMPLE.

Know'st thou the temple of Song?
The harps of all Nations are there
The hymn, and the anthem, and song,
God's voice and the music of prayer!
The visions of ages surround
That temple of beauty and grace;
And the stream that encircles the ground
Reflects in each wavelet a face!

Know'st thou the temple of Song!
Lov'st thou its banner of fame!
Where is the being whose tongue
Speaks not in praise of its name?
While spirits with liberty glow—
While hearts with affection are rife—
The song of that temple shall flow,
And its voice be the music of life.

276

THE HEART.

Oh, the Heart is a troublesome thing!
Its fancies and follies are more
Than the dews which fall round us in spring,
Or the wind-beaten sands of the shore:
Though fed upon kindness—it pines
The moment you wander away;
It is merry as long as Life shines—
As long as Love smiles it is gay!
Then pause ere you threaten to part,
Reflect ere you bid it adieu;
Ah! what can one do with a Heart
So fond, yet so changeable, too?

One moment inconstant and vain,
Its follies the kindest would try;
The next, if it see but your pain,
To solace that pain it would die!

277

Then oft it each feeling employs
In seeking new ways to excel,
And angels might envy the joys
In the core of its being that dwell:
So pause ere you threaten to part,
Reflect ere you bid it adieu;
Ah! what can one do with a Heart
So fond, yet so changeable, too?

278

THE CAPTIVE.

There was joy in my home—there was beauty and light,
For, fair as their mother first smiled on my sight,
My daughters around me in innocence bloom'd,
And my sons the free bearing of manhood assumed;
While Christmas came round with mirth, music, and song,
And their sire was the proudest of all that gay throng.

But a sound filled the land with suspicion and dread,
And the guiltless from home to a prison were led!
From the arms of my children they tore me away,
No anguish could move them—no mercy had they!
And Christmas came round—but, ah! changed were its strains,
To the clank of my fetters—to darkness and chains!

And years crept away; still I hoped, as of yore,
To behold my sweet home—kiss my children once more!

279

Whilst a record of days midst the darkness I kept,
I prayed to the God of the captive, and wept!
Till memory grew wearied, and blighted its power,
And Christmas came round, and I knew not the hour!

Still years and years fled—no impression they gave;
'Twas a void, a delirium, a life in the grave—
A chaos of thought—a dream, wild yet awake;
But, alas! such a dream as no morning could break;
And Christmas came round, but its brightness was o'er;
It found not the captive, he knew it no more!

At last, when the hairs on my temples were gray,
When my form had grown feeble and bent with decay,
The door of my cell grated open—for me!
I was dragg'd into day and there told I was free!
It was winter: the wind whistled cold o'er my brow;
But methought it seem'd Christmas, and welcomed its snow!

I was free! I beheld the glad sun once again;
Though its light was but torture—its loveliness pain.
I was free! I forgot the sad years that had roll'd;
I forgot I was poor, and decrepid, and old!
And methought that sweet Christmas again would appear
In the home of my heart, with the beings most dear!

280

I drew towards the spot where my home used to bloom;
But its walls lay in dust, and my wife in the tomb!
My daughters were scatter'd the wild waters wide,
And my sons midst the wars for their country had died!
So I turn'd to the dungeon, and craved for my chains,
For the captive no home and no Christmas remains!

281

EARTHLY BEAUTY.

There was an angel loved the flowers,
Who brought them dew from sainted springs;
And came with heaven's own glowing hours
Upon her white and sparkling wings;
Then sat enamour'd all the morn,
Lone gazing on her bower of bliss;
For, oh! she thought Love's self was born
In some sweet paradise like this.

And all her fond affections grew
In beauty round her flowery bands.
That seem'd almost as if they knew
Their buds were fed by angel hands.
And thus she half forgot the sky,
Such feeling warm'd her spirit fair!
Till one by one they droop'd to die,
And left the angel weeping there.

282

“Alas!” she mourn'd, “who love could place—
Who let the heart's affections rest
On forms that have such heavenly grace,
Yet fade away when loved the best?
Alas! that beauty such as thine
Should die, O Earth, and love deplore!
From thee I wing my way divine,
Where beauty blooms for evermore.”

283

DESPONDENCY.

Why thus cast down and grieved?
Why anxious ever?
Is boding Care believed,
And sweet Hope never?
Look, ere the day's amount
Of woes confound thee,—
Look up, sad heart, and count
Thy friends around thee.

Stars, which the Day conceals,
Shine on unheeded;
'Tis only Night reveals
How much they're needed!
Is there no heavenly fount
Whose dews have found thee?
Look up, sad heart, and count
God's blessings round thee.

284

FAITHFUL AND FAITHLESS.

A little knot of summer flowers
Hung drooping o'er the streamlet side;
But ah! the sear and sultry hours
The shallow rippling stream had dried!
So many a trust on earth is lost—
So many a human friend deceives:
The flow'rets found it to their cost,
In wasted bloom and wither'd leaves.

In vernal hope and love they grew,
And, twined in one another, thought
That whilst the breath of life they drew,
The stream would feed them as it ought!
And yet, alas! for earthly trust,
For all reliances below,
Their roots were pining in the dust,
And still the stream no aid could show!

285

But, like a blessing o'er the plain,
The morn on wings of cloud descends;
And fast and fresh the bounteous rain
To every thirsting leaflet sends!
Then woke the flowers to second birth;
A second life to them was given:
Oh, mortal, is thy trust on earth?
Then change thy heart, and trust in Heaven!

286

ANGELS.

Though the beauty of Eden hath wither'd and fled,
And Angels may visit Man's pathway no more;
Oh, still o'er our lot is their influence shed,
With a feeling as radiant and sweet as of yore!
Yes; Angels, bright Angels, still hallow our sight,
Still speak to our souls thro' the dreams of the night!

Not fled, and for ever, the bloom of those days;
A shadow of glory yet mantles our birth;
For Seraphs smile over the child as he strays—
And Heaven is beaming around us on Earth!
Yes; Angels, bright Angels, still hallow our sight,
Still speak to our souls thro' the dreams of the night!

287

LOVE THEE?

Love thee?—if thou wert but a song
I'd learnt in earlier day,
Thou ne'er shouldst leave my lips for long,
Be from my thought away!
No; thou shouldst be my theme at morn,
My bird of love at noon;
And I—the happiest lover born—
Would let none list that tune!

In every stream I'd hear thee, love,
In every fountain-fall;
The birds around, the stars above—
Oh, thou shouldst live in all!
The last sweet rose that dew might sip,
In summer's fading breath,
Should hear that song upon my lip,
Companion sweet in death!

288

If thou wert nothing but a voice
In Memory's pensive ear,
Still wouldst thou be my only choice—
A sound for ever dear.
But loving, blooming, all mine own,
And all Life's bliss to prove,
How couldst thou, in so sad a tone,
E'er question if I love?

289

MY LIFE WAS LIKE A FOUNTAIN.

My life was like a fountain
From Nature's heart that flows,
And ripples down the mountain,
Still singing as it goes;
The flowers sprang all around it,
The sun illumed its way:
The lark's glad music found it
And every wave was gay!

My life was like a garden,
Where Love would often roam;
And Time sit down and tell me
Of some ideal home!—
Some home that true affection
And youthful Hope might win;
With roses climbing o'er it,
And happy hearts within!

290

My life was like a rainbow,
That even out of storm
Could gather tints of beauty,
Some arch of hope to form!
But now the fount hath taken
A wider, darker shore;
Love's garden is forsaken!
Life's golden light is o'er.

291

THE FALSE ONE.

And it could please a vacant hour
To woo him, win him, to thy side;
Play with his heart as with a flower,
Then change, and all his hopes deride:
And it was triumph to impart
Such woe as language ne'er exprest;
Oh shame upon the cruel art
Which thus could wound one human breast!

Though thou wert beauteous as the ray
That beam'd on Eden's bower of yore;
Though thou wert . . . oh, away, away!
May heart of man ne'er love thee more!
Would that the angel-hand of Truth
Might straight unveil thy syren brow;
Disrobe thee of thy bloom of youth,
And show thee false, as thou art now!

292

We had been brothers in those years
Ere life as yet had known a shade;
And I could weep unmanly tears
To see the wreck thy arts have made.
But go!—assume thy gayest dress—
Sport lightly with the pleasures nigh;
Why shouldst thou wear one smile the less
Because a breaking heart must die!

295

WILL HE COME?

The snow is falling deeply,
The wintry winds blow drear,
The gloomy day is waning,
And yet he is not here!
The old lamp in the casement
But dimly throws its light;
The way is wild and lonely—
Do you think he'll come to-night?

A step is on the snow-path,
A hand is at the door;
A voice—I know each whisper—
And love it more and more:
He comes—though dark the hill-side,
And long its weary height:
You know I never doubted,
I said he'd come to-night.

296

THE CAMP IS UP!

The camp is up, 'tis break of day!
The drums arousing beat,
The signal trumpet's martial bray,
The tramp of myriad feet,
Still call me from thy last fond kiss,
And all I deem divine!
For, not in Heaven, where beauty is,
Can be such charms as thine!

'Twas not the drum—'twas but the gale
That beat the troubled air;
The trumpet!—'twas the eagle's wail
Above her rocky lair!
But go—if fame be greater bliss,
If honour brighter shine—
I'll ask the stars what glory is,
And that I'll say is thine!

297

Though Morn's sweet breath doth bid us part,
And earth and sky seem fair,
Yet night, deep night, is in this heart—
There is no morning there!
But go—if over love and youth
Still darkly fortune lowers,
We'll ask the Angels what is truth,
And that we'll say is ours!

298

LITTLE THINGS.

Do something for each other,
Though small the help may be;
There's comfort oft in little things,
Far more than others see!
It takes the sorrow from the eye,
It leaves the world less bare,
If but a friendly hand come nigh,
When friendly hands are rare!
Then cheer the hearts which toil each hour,
Yet find it hard to live;
And though but little's in our power,
That little let us give.

The poorest hand, if earnest,
Some service may achieve;
The humblest voice, if kindly,
Some sorrow may relieve:

299

We reck not how the aged poor
Drag on from day to day,
When e'en the little that they need
Costs more than they can pay!
Then cheer the hearts that toil each hour,
Yet find it hard to live;
And though but little's in our power
That little let us give.

300

SOIL OF ENGLAND.

I bless thee, soil of England!
Where'er thy power prevails;
A grandeur robes thy greenwood—
A glory crowns thy dales!
Oh, place me wheresoe'er ye will,
With but one sod of thine,—
And Freedom's self shall hallow it,
As 'twere her native shrine!

And Eloquence shall wreathe that soil
With England's proudest name;
And Nelson's spirit start therefrom,
In all its naval fame!
A sound shall thrill that sod of Earth
As swept a host to war;
And Wellington's unconquer'd sword
Gleam o'er it like a star!

301

Yes; all that elevates the soul
To things of higher worth;
The genius of my Native Land
Would grace that treasured Earth!
I need no charm of mount or vale,
No glimpse of England's sea—
A shred of her immortal soil
Is eloquent to me!

304

THINKING OF OTHER DAYS.

I was thinking of days, dearest Mary,
When we met on those long summer eves,
And the flowers took you, love, for some fairy,
So lightly you tripp'd o'er their leaves!
But now 'tis a mem'ry of sorrow,
To muse over joys that are o'er;
Though beauty may come with the morrow,
There's a beauty it brings me no more!
Where pleasure once smiled there is aching,
Each month passes by like a year;
And my heart if it be not now breaking.
May break but too soon, Mary dear,
Mary dear,
May break but too soon, Mary dear.

Since the hour, the sad hour, of thy leaving,
The village has ne'er look'd the same;
The flowers seem as if they were grieving,
The winds as if sighing thy name!

305

I roam through the ev'ning dejected,
I call for a letter in vain;
Each spot that thy fancy selected
I wander again and again!
Where pleasure once smiled there is aching,
Each month passes by like a year,
And my heart, if it be not now breaking,
May break but too soon, Mary dear,
Mary dear,
May break but too soon, Mary dear.

306

LET NOBODY KNOW.

Ah! long is the light
Of the warm summer day,
And it's only at night
One may venture away;
But think when the shadow
Falls dark from the tree,
There is one near the meadow
That's waiting for Thee:
But although you may love me
It secret must be,
For no mortal must know
You are waiting for me.

The villagers all
Are so fond of their talk;
They'd jest for a month
If they saw us two walk;

307

They'd jest for a month
And a something would find,
If we even shook hands,
Or but look'd the least kind;
So whate'er they may guess,
Or pretend they may see;
Still let nobody know
You are thinking of me.

308

WAIT TILL I PUT ON MY BONNET.

My father loves counting his cattle,
My mother, she's fond of her chair,
But I, oh! I dote upon moonlight,
Sweet walks, and the soft quiet air;
The field with the dew-star upon it,
The scent of the newly-mown hay;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.

The day was intended for labour,
But night was a gift to the heart;
When neighbour might visit with neighbour,
And love have its whisper apart:

309

Then life finds a bloom still upon it,
And time walks in silver array;
Oh, wait till I put on my bonnet,
Night's sweeter by far than the day!
There are bonnets with ribbon and feather,
But mine's like a gipsy's, so brown;
A bonnet that's careless of weather,
But happy's the head 'neath its crown.

310

THE GARDEN STREAM.

A stream that pass'd a garden side—
A wild young stream, for ever singing—
Where bloom'd a rose-tree in its pride,
With crimson buds around it springing:
Oh! tell me why the streamlet flows,
With notes so sweet I fear to lose 'em?
Is it because the blooming rose
Is imaged on its tuneful bosom?

Yes; Beauty fills the world with song!
The stream's young wave had flow'd in sadness;
For what is life, however long,
Without the love which yields it gladness?
What charm can make the hours so blest?
What wing so fair hath so much fleetness?
O Love! thine image in his breast,
First fill'd the life of man with sweetness.

311

THE HAND OF A FRIEND.

Oh! Life's humble dwelling would seem indeed bare,
If the bright rose of Friendship entwined not its door;
And Misery's self would find residence there,
If Friendship's glad voice might inspire it no more!
Then, wherever the star of my destiny shine,—
Whether pleasures await me, or perils attend,—
Whilst one lingering pulse of existence is mine,
Oh, give me the hand and the heart of a Friend!

If sorrow sit dark on our spirit, what sound
Like the footstep of Friendship to chase it afar?
If danger surround us, still safety is found
In the light and the guidance of Friendship's true star.
Then, wherever the light of my destiny shine,—
Whether pleasures await me, or perils attend,—
Whilst one lingering pulse of existence is mine,
Oh, give me the hand and the heart of a Friend!

312

WIFE OF THE PIRATE.

'Gainst the rocky ribs of the rolling sea,
The foundering vessel wore,
And many a heart in agony
Grew cold and palsied o'er,
As rush'd the fate, which none might flee,
Athwart that stormy shore!

Still many a distant beacon threw
Its friendly light in vain,
And youthful eyes, to sorrow new,
Gazed on in hopeless pain,
As wild the foamy billows flew
Along that dreadful main!

Yet not more loving heart than thine,
Joanna, sought that strand!
Thy beacon, like affection's shrine,
Shed brightness o'er the land,
But none might light that stormy brine
Save Heaven's almighty hand!

313

Slow fled the weary hours of night,
As they would never go;
'Till pale upon the topmost height
Morn show'd her face of woe,
As though she wept the bitter sight
Of aching hearts below!

Still Oscar came not—still no sail
The distant waves display;
But fast the morn grew calm and pale,
The winds lull'd with the day,
'Till the last murmur of the gale
Died slow and sad away!

At length a lorn and shatter'd barque
The night breeze swept ashore;
'Twas marvel how, amidst the dark,
Without or mast or oar,
It found the Pirate's rocky ark,
Or saved the crew it bore!

Joanna rush'd—she gain'd the place
Where they the storm-boat cast—
She rush'd to clasp in fond embrace
Her loved—her lord—at last!
And wild she gazed upon each face,
'Till every hope had past!

314

Oh, Oscar! Oscar! where was he?
A prisoner!—and alone!
And they could leave him, thus to be
In Wolfe's stern dungeon thrown!
She heard—a shriek was on the sea
Far wilder than its own!

315

THE DAWN.

'Tis sweet when the twilight descends like a maiden,
With star-sandall'd feet and cloud-mantle of gray;
When the skies seem with grandeur and mystery laden,
But there's nothing so sweet as the dawn of the day.

Oh, if there's an hour to man's spirit appealing,
An hour that can all his devotion repay,
'Tis when harmony, beauty, and grace are revealing
Their charms at the dawn, the bright dawn of the day!

For it beam'd on the birth of Eve's fairest of daughters,
It woke the first breath of the lark's matin-lay;
When the Spirit of God moved the face of the waters,
All Eden lay blest in the dawn of the day.

316

Though the Noon, like a monarch enthroned, may assemble
His sun-banner'd hosts in their gorgeous array;
Though the Moon may win hearts they are hearts that dissemble;
For there's nothing so fair as the dawn of the day.

The dawn of the day, when the old man is waking,
World-weary and languid, bereft of each stay;
When he turns to a dawn yet immortally breaking,
The God-promised dawn of a heavenly day.

Oh, if harmony, beauty, and freshness are blending
Their charms for the dawn of our care-compass'd way,
What bliss must be theirs who, through Jesus ascending,
Behold with archangels the dawn of His day!

317

VOYAGE OF LIFE.

The golden sails of Thought,
Fill'd with enchanted wind,
Swept to the land they sought—
Each shore and realm of mind!
Youth sat the helm above,
And mark'd each glorious trace—
All beauty—feeling—love—
All poetry and grace!

The weary sails of Thought
Were out upon the dark,
'Neath sky of storm inwrought,
With, wild and wide, a spark:
A star that might prevail
To point where dangers heaved.
'Twas Manhood reef'd the sail,
And mourn'd for Youth deceived.

318

The shatter'd sails of Thought,
All riven, went aground;
No shore that Youth had sought,
No port that Manhood found,
Proved like that heaven which shone
On golden sails of yore!
No; Life's romance was gone!
Youth's poetry was o'er!

319

THE LONELY HOME.

There's none to say “good night” to me—
No friend my little fire to share;
The old hoarse clock ticks drearily,
And makes the silence worse to bear.
Gone! all are gone!—the fondest, best,
And loveliest that I call'd mine own:
After brief suffering they're at rest;
They—they lived not to wail alone!

Alone, alone—morn, noon, and eve
I see the cold chairs keep their place;
I watch the dusty spider weave,
Where once there shone a household grace.
The brightness of my home is dull—
The busy faces all are gone;
I gaze—and oh! my heart is full—
My aching heart, that breaks alone!

320

I ope the Bible, gray with age—
The same my hapless grandsire read;
But tears stain fast and deep that page
Which keeps their names—my loved—my dead!
The wandering stranger by my door—
The passing tread—the distant tone—
All human sounds but deepen more
The feeling I am lone—alone!

My cot with mantling ivy green,
Its pleasant porch, its sanded floor—
Ah! Time's dread touch hath changed the scene,
What was, alas! is now no more!
The key hath rusted in the lock,
So long since I the threshold cross'd:
Why should I see the sun but mock
The blessed light my home hath lost?

Oh! would my last low bed were made!
But Death forsakes the lone and old;
Seeks the blithe cheek of youth to fade,
To crush the gay, the strong, the bold.
Yet sometimes through the long dull night,
When hours find supernatural tone,
I hear a promise of delight:
Thou, God! Thou leav'st me not alone.

321

The wintry rain fell dull and deep,
As slow a coffin pass'd the road;
No mourner there was seen to weep—
No follower to that last abode!
Yet there a broken heart found peace—
The peace that but in death it knew!
Alas! that human loves increase
Our human woes and miseries too!

322

WHICH HOME?

Oh, none shall have a better home,
Or brighter lot than thine!
None richer dress wherein to roam,
Or jewels more divine!
Attendants gay shall lead the way,
Where'er thy steps appear;
And life shall be a dream of May—
And May last all the year!

A lofty home would suit me not;
My heart would lonely be;
And pine to gain its humble cot—
Its humble friends to see!
And oh, there's one—though far he's gone
Across the severing wave;
For whose dear sake, I'd die ere break
The parting vow I gave!

323

Should I, for gold, my faith withhold,
And blight a heart so true,
What proof have ye I should not be
As false, ere long, to you?
A gem more fair than queens can wear
Is truth in woman's eye;
That gem so dear, so sweet, sincere,
I'll keep until I die!

324

THE WORLDLY VOICE.

Ye early Dews of Morn,
Sweet wanderers from a bright and better sphere,
Why weep ye o'er the rude leaf, worn and sere—
Ye that in heaven were born?

Oh, thou weak, spendthrift Rose,
Why waste thine odours on the careless night?
Exchanging perfume for unwholesome blight—
Rubb'd by each wind that blows!

Sad Ivy, quit this spot!
Nor wander lorn by porch and abbey;
Why o'er the dead must thy fond shadow fall?
The Dead can serve thee not!

“Peace, peace! thou Worldly Voice:
The Dews of Morn have their brief mission given;
Their part fulfill'd, they soar again to heaven,
And bid new spheres rejoice.”

325

“Be hush'd!” replied the Rose.
“Like deeds by generous hearts in secret done,
I glad the path of those the selfish shun,
And lend what Heaven bestows!”

“Oh, Voice from love debarr'd!”
Rejoin'd the Ivy—“Voice the World respects—
I love to shield the Worth which Pride neglects,
And serve without reward!

“Return, thou Voice, and prove
One simple truth to calculating Man—
Without reward, to do what good he can,
Is God's first law of love!”

Heard where'er life hath trod—
Dew, Flower, and Leaf, that holy theme convey:
Oh, what were Man, if Man would but obey
Thee, Nature—and his God!

326

NE'ER WILL I FORSAKE THEE, MOTHER.

Ne'er will I forsake thee, mother,
Dear thy closing life shall be;
Never will I love another
As my heart now loveth thee!

Say'st thou that I speak but blindly?
For its truth I here engage:
Thou my youth hast nourish'd kindly,
And I will console thine age!

Live we for our own good only?
Still receive yet nothing give?
Shall I leave thee old and lonely?
Never, mother, whilst I live!

Still with thee I'll roam the wild wood,
Still thy growing cares assuage;
What thou wert unto my childhood,
That I will be to thine age!

327

A LAMENT.

Go, number the clouds which the winds rend apart,
Count the raindrops which fall o'er the desolate leaves;
They are light to the sorrows that visit the heart,
They are few to the tears which no solace relieves.

Alas! for the man who devotedly twines
Every chord of his heart round one object alone;
Yet must watch o'er her life as it hourly declines,
That life which is dearer by far than his own!

Oh! teach me, great Nature, less feeling to keep;
Strike the heart with some barrenness yet undescried:
For affection is sorrow,—to love is to weep,—
Man never placed fondness on aught—but it died!

328

FIRST EMOTIONS.

If to be wishful still to linger near thee,
And in thy absence every moment tell—
If when thou speak'st, it is new life to hear thee!
If this be love—why, then, I love thee well.

If to gaze on when unaware thou seemeth;
Toying with hawk or hound, by rock or fell;
Moving or lingering still like one that dreameth!
If this be love—then do I love thee well!

To deem him blest, who, as his own might claim thee,
And round thy path be privileged to dwell;
To be all tremor, if I hear one name thee!—
If this be love—I love—and love thee well!

329

THE DOOMED CITY.

'Twas midnight on the waveless sea,
Which bathed the citadel;
Over ocean and over land,
The calm of slumber fell.

A light dawn'd in the scowling west;
A red and flashing light,
Like a star—but it broader spread—
It was no star of night.

A spirit came rushing through sea and cloud,
On wings of might it flew;
And a glory over the soundless deep,
Like a robe of lightning threw:

Broader and broader spread that flame,
As it swept to the shore more near;
Earth and sky seem'd voiceless with awe,
Before that thing of fear!

330

A ship! I beheld her skeleton sides,
And her deck with beings rife;
Whose hearts through their fleshless ribs appear'd,
Throbbing, and warm with life!

A ship! a ship! like a meteor she pass'd,
With ruin upon her speed;
Her tatter'd sails, like dead men's shrouds,
To the silent night were freed.

There was not a wave on the sea,
There was not a breath of air,
Yet rapidly, rapidly sail'd that ship,
As both wind and tide were there.

It seem'd as some horrible spell,
On my fear-fraught vision lay;
Worlds I'd have given to quit that spot,
Yet I could not turn away.

There was one man gain'd the shore—
And the earth grew black and rank—
There was one wild rush of wind and wave,
And the ship and her dread crew sank!

Then swiftly I fled the city,
In deep and fearful pain;
And many dark months flew over my head,
Ere I saw her proud towers again.

331

Meanwhile Death had despoil'd her halls,
Through her wide streets grass had grown;
And of all her grace and majesty,
Her strong towers remain'd alone.

I saw the dead lying in heaps,
The aged, the young, and the fair;
I ask'd what that sight might mean,
They told me the Plague had been there.

They told me the night and hour
When the pestilence first spread:
I knew 'twas the night I had seen the ship;
I knew 'twas the hour I had fled.

And a curse came over that city,
The strength of her towers fell low;
And over the pride of her palaces,
The dark waves of ocean flow.

332

LOVE UNTOLD.

My joy, yet grief! my rose, and yet my thorn!
My soul's sweet day, and yet my spirit's night!
While thou stand'st by, I sigh as one forlorn—
Yet when afar, I languish for thy sight.
Apart from thee, my heart can find no cheer,
Yet starts with tremour when thy step is near!

I dream of thee, yet lose thee in my dreams,
And waking, ask of fate if this must be?
The realm of feeling hath unnumber'd streams,
And every stream but bears my thought to thee:
Yet did thy form appear—my feet would stray,
As if they loved thee not, another way!

There is a constant fever in my breast,
A something hoped, which dies when hope is given;
A sweet delight, and yet a strange unrest;
A thought that trembles betwixt earth and heaven.
Would I loved less; or would the power were here
To own my love—and triumph over fear!

333

THE SNOW SHIP.

Far within the Northern main,
Belted thick with ice and snow,
Fetter'd by a frozen chain,
Many a fathom down below,
Fix'd 'mid hills and vales of Frost,
See a stately ship appears!
Long amidst the glaciers lost—
None may say how many years!
Wildly gleams that ship of snow,
Where the northern whirlwinds blow!

Set with stars the slippery sail,
Strung with gems each rope and line;
Shimmering in the polar gale,
Like some brilliant crystal mine.
Arch o'erhanging arch, between
Stands a solid bridge of glass,
Midway earth and heaven seen,
As for angel feet to pass

334

Down to save that ship of snow,
When the Arctic whirlwinds blow!

Many a breaking heart was there,
Lock'd within that realm of death;
Many a long, imploring prayer
Pass'd, with many a passing breath;
Never yet might mortal tell
Whom that fated vessel bore;
Ocean keeps her secrets well,
Deep and dark for evermore!
Whilst the mast, like spire of snow,
Points to heaven from human woe!

335

THUS NATURE SPEAKS.

Thus Nature speaks—thus, since the world began,
Her spirit led the aspiring thought of man!
Whether the Star of Science lit the way,
And oped the gates of an immortal day,
Or moved by Harmony's celestial hand,
The poet's song first triumph'd o'er the land,
It matters not—to Him be all the praise,
Who spread this heaven of stars to human gaze;
Lavish'd the wonders of Almighty thought
Over that world His word in glory wrought:
Who to the artist lent a spark divine,
And said—“Behold, this beauteous earth is thine!”
To Him should poetry uplift its gaze,
To Him philosophy still utter praise;
It matters not which first, which best, we find,
If Truth exalt and Wisdom rule the mind.
Let not contention jar man's fleeting hour,
But give the praise to Him who gave the power!

336

HYMN TO THE CROSS.

Of the world-redeeming Cross,
Hear, ye nations of the free,
Where Atlantic billows toss,
List, ye dwellers on the sea,
For the mission of our Saviour hath pass'd;
And hath scatter'd o'er the plain
Its false temples, rent in twain,
With their idol gods profane,
Like the blast!

In no chariot of cloud,
With its whirlwind-wheels of flame,
Whilst the conscious mountains bow'd,
He, the great Messiah, came!
But the meekest star of heaven shed its glow,
And the leafless boughs did wave
O'er the Mightiest to save,—
O'er the Conqueror of the grave,—
Sleeping low!

337

He spoke—and demons fled
From the vengeance of His word;
And the wild graves of the dead
Shrank and trembled as they heard,
For the mystery of God was on His breath:
Although priest and scribe denied,
In the madness of their pride,
What the gates of hell knew wide,—
And deep Death.

My Saviour is my song,
Who the mount of faith hath rear'd;
Who hath stricken down the strong,
And the lost and lowly cheer'd;
Descending like a dove upon their souls!
When the orphan's wail was sore;
And the wreck'd and wind-beat shore
Heard the cry of those no more,
Christ consoles.

And they to whom the morn
Brought no beauty—lent no light—
At His touch their world was born:
For their Jesus gave them sight;

338

And the lame through the flow'ry meads could run;
And the deaf, who never heard
A fond mother's grateful word;
And the dumb—sang like the bird
To the sun!

Yet He, the Son of God—
That immortal blessings shed,
Whilst the wilderness He trod—
Knew not where to lay His head,
Though the wild lynx and leopard had their lair.
But the heavens bow'd, and came
At a whisper of His Name;
And sleep mantled His worn frame,
Even there!

The Eastern monarch lay
Amid gold and purple bound,
Whilst a myriad lamps, like day,
Shed a summer softness round;
And vassals throng'd in thousands at his tone.
But the mockery that lies
In rich gems and ophir dyes,
When Jehovah opes the skies,
Will be shown!

339

As was prophesied of old,
So its coming soon may be,
When the arrogant and bold
Shall grow weak o'er land and sea;
And the conquest-shout of empire be unknown;
The devouring sword no more,
Nor war's arrows, drunk with gore,
Scatter carnage, as of yore,
For a throne!

Wild shouts through Sion ran,
Mid the zealot's scoff and gibe,
When the “cursed” of God and man,
Sold his Saviour for a bribe!
Where the fatal tree frown'd dark 'neath the sky,
As, all bruised and bound, they led
Their Redeemer, blood to shed—
The heavens veil'd their head
Upon high!

And the mighty mountains fell
With an earthquake-voice of woe;
And the buried rose to tell
All the horror guilt must know;

340

But, lightning-writ, it spoke where'er they trod:
“Let the shuddering seas proclaim,
And the hills, struck dark with shame,
In their far depths own the name
Of their God!”

348

GOD HELP THE ORPHAN.

God help the orphan,
Homeless and desolate,
Few to commiserate,
God help the orphan!
Sad to be brotherless,
Woe to be motherless;
God help the orphan!

Thou, in whom love doth dwell,
Deeper than tongue can tell;
Help Thou the orphan!
Fatherless none can be,
Whilst in eternity
Ruleth the Deity,
None can be fatherless!
Dews of Thy mercy shed
On the poor orphan's head;

349

Bid him still kneel to Thee,
Look up to heaven, and see,
Though those he loved are gone,
Still there is ever One
Feels for the fatherless!

Blest be the Prayer Thou'st given,
“Father, who art in heaven;”
Oh, in our utmost need,
Father art Thou indeed;
Ever when lonely thus,
Sending some friend to us;
Soothing, consoling us;
Thou, who art still the same,
Thou, whom our prayers doth claim,
“Hallowed be Thy Name,”
God of the fatherless!

Thou, whom all hearts doth hold,
Touching with love the cold,
Prompting sweet pity's tear,
Ever in spirit near,
Guarding each tender frame,—
Bless'd be Thy holy Name,
God of the fatherless!

350

Still through all life may we
Gratefully cling to Thee!
Thou, who from Heaven thus
Kindly hast given us
Friends, that like parents feel,
Watching the orphan's weal;
Friends, who commiserate,
Feel for the desolate:
Friends Thine own hand hath given,
“Father, who art in heaven;”
Ever Thy Name we bless,
God of the Fatherless,
Guide of the Motherless,
Help of the Orphan!

351

LINES ON THE DEATH OF HENRY DRINKWATER BIRCH, AGED SEVEN YEARS.

Oh! the lost—they leave life drear,
Evermore—evermore:
Nothing can restore
That which made existence dear;
Pass'd—like music on the ear—
Evermore!
With the angels evermore,
Evermore!

Darkness hath the soul o'erspread,
Ever dark—ever dark;
Lost Hope's latest spark:
For the beautiful hath fled—
And a shadow wraps the dead—
Ever dark!
But God's Word, to mourners said,
Lights the dark!