The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

Greift nur hinein in's volle Menschenleben!
Ein jeder lebt's, nicht vielen ist's bekannt,
Und wo ihr's packt, da ist's interessant.
Faust — Vorspiel auf dem Theater.

BEXHILL, 1866.

Now, when the catkins of the hazel swing
Wither'd above the leafy nook wherein
The chaffinch breasts her five blue speckled eggs,
All round the thorn grows fragrant, white with may,
And underneath the fresh wild hyacinth-bed
Shimmers like water in the whispering wind;
Now, on this sweet still gloaming of the spring,
Within my cottage by the sea, I sit,
Thinking of yonder city where I dwelt,
Wherein I sicken'd, and whereof I learn'
So much that dwells like music on my brain.
A melancholy happiness is mine!
My thoughts, like blossoms of the muschatel,
Smell sweetest in the gloaming; and I feel
Visions and vanishings of other years,—
Faint as the scent of distant clover meadows—
Sweet, sweet, though they awaken serious cares—
Beautiful, beautiful, though they make me weep.

The good days dead, the well-belovèd gone
Before me, lonely I abode amid
The buying, and the selling, and the strife
Of little natures; ye there still remain'd

114

Something to thank the Lord for.—I could live!
On winter nights, when wind and snow were out,
Afford a pleasant fire to keep me warm;
And while I sat, with homeward-looking eyes,
And while I heard the humming of the town,
I fancied 'twas the sound I used to hear
In Scotland, when I dwelt beside the sea.
I knew not how it was, or why it was,
I only heard a sea-sound, and was sad.
It haunted me and pain'd me, and it made
That little life of penmanship a dream!
And yet it served my soul for company,
When the dark city gather'd on my brain,
And from the solitude came never a voice
To bring the good days back, and show my heart
It was not quite a solitary thing.

The purifying trouble grew and grew,
Till silentness was more than I could bear.
Brought by the ocean murmur from afar,
Came silent phantoms of the misty hills
Which I had known and loved in other days;
And, ah! from time to time, the hum of life
Around me, the strange faces of the streets,
Mingling with those thin phantoms of the hills,
And with that ocean-murmur, made a cloud
That changed around my life with shades and sounds,
And, melting often in the light of day,
Left on my brow dews of aspiring dream.
And then I sang of Scottish dales and dells,
And human shapes that lived and moved therein,
Made solemn in the shadow of the hills.
Thereto, not seldom, did I seek to make
The busy life of London musical,
And phrase in modern song the troubled lives
Of dwellers in the sunless lanes and streets.
Yet ever I was haunted from afar,
While singing; and the presence of the mountains
Was on me; and the murmur of the sea
Deepen'd my mood; while everywhere I saw,
Flowing beneath the blackness of the streets,
The current of sublimer, sweeter life,
Which is the source of human smiles and tears,
And, melodised, becomes the strength of song.

Darkling, I long'd for utterance, whereby
Poor people might be holpen, gladden'd, cheer'd;
Bright'ning at times, I sang for singing's sake.
The wild wind of ambition grew subdued,
And left the changeful current of my soul
Crystal and pure and clear, to glass like water
The sad and beautiful of human life;
And, even in the unsung city's streets,
Seem'd quiet wonders meet for serious song,
Truth hard to phrase and render musical.
For ah! the weariness and weight of tears,
The crying out to God, the wish for slumber,
They lay so deep, so deep! God heard them all;
He set them unto music of His own;
But easier far the task to sing of kings,
Or weave weird ballads where the moon-dew glistens,
Than body forth this life in beauteous sound
The crowd had voices, but each living man
Within the crowd seem'd silence-smit and hard:
They only heard the murmur of the town,
They only felt the dimness in their eyes,
And now and then turn'd startled, when they saw
Some weary one fling up his arms and drop,
Clay-cold, among them,—and they scarcely grieved,
But hush'd their hearts a time, and hurried on.

'Twas comfort deep as tears to sit alone,
Haunted by shadows from afar away,
And try to utter forth, in tuneful speech,
What lay so musically on my heart.
But, though it sweeten'd life, it seem'd in vain.
For while I sang, much that was clear before—
The souls of men and women in the streets,
The sounding sea, the presence of the hills,
And all the weariness, and all the fret,
And all the dim, strange pain for what had fled—
Turn'd into mist, mingled before mine eyes,
Roll'd up like wreaths of smoke to heaven, and died:

115

The pen dropt from my hand, mine eyes grew dim,
And the great roar was in mine ears again,
And I was all alone in London streets.

Hither to pastoral solitude I came,
Happy to breathe again serener air
And feel a purer sunshine; and the woods
And meadows were to me an ecstasy,
The singing birds a glory, and the trees
A green perpetual feast to fill the eye
And shimmer in upon the soul; but chief,
There came the murmur of the waters, sounds
Of sunny tides that wash on silver sands,
Or cries of waves that anguish'd and went white
Under the eyes of lightnings. 'Twas a bliss
Beyond the bliss of dreaming, yet in time
It grew familiar as my mother's face;
And when the wonder and the ecstasy
Had mingled with the beatings of my heart,
The terrible City loom'd from far away
And gather'd on me cloudily, dropping dews,
Even as those phantoms of departed days
Had haunted me in London streets and lanes.
Wherefore in brighter mood I sought again
To make the life of London musical,
And sought the mirror of my soul for shapes
That linger'd, faces bright or agonised,
Yet ever taking something beautiful
From glamour of green branches, and of clouds
That glided piloted by golden airs.

And if I list to sing of sad things oft,
It is that sad things in this life of breath
Are truest, sweetest, deepest. Tears bring forth
The richness of our natures, as the rain
Sweetens the smelling brier; and I, thank God,
Have anguish'd here in no ignoble tears—
Tears for the pale friendwith the singing lips,
Tears for the father with the gentle eyes
(My dearest up in heaven next to God)
Who loved me like a woman. I have wrought
No garland of the rose and passion-flower,
Grown in a careful garden in the sun;
But I have gather'd samphire dizzily,
Close to the hollow roaring of a Sea.

Far away in the dark
Breaketh that living Sea,
Wave upon wave; and hark!
These voices are blown to me;
For a great wind rises and blows,
Wafting the sea-sound near,
But it fitfully comes and goes,
And I cannot always hear;
Green boughs are flashing around,
And the flowers at my feet are fair,
And the wind that bringeth the ocean-sound
Grows sweet with the country air.

THE LITTLE MILLINER;

OR, LOVE IN AN ATTIC.

With fairy foot and fearless gaze
She passes pure through evil ways;
She wanders in the sinful town,
And loves to hear the deep sea-music
Of people passing up and down.

Fear nor shame nor sin hath she,
But, like a sea-bird on the Sea,
Floats hither, thither, day and night:
The great black waters cannot harm her,
Because she is so weak and light!

My girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair,
A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair,
A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet,
A tiny foot, and little boot upon it;
And all her finery to charm beholders
Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders,
The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow,
And sweet red petticoat that peeps below.
But gladly in the busy town goes she,
Summer and winter, fearing nobodie;
She pats the pavement with her fairy feet,
With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street;
And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold,
A lucky sixpence and a thimble old.

We lodged in the same house a year ago:
She on the topmost floor, I just below,—
She, a poor milliner, content and wise,
I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise;
And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love
The little angel on the floor above.

116

For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirr'd,
Her chamber door would open, and I heard,—
And listen'd, blushing, to her coming down,
And palpitated with her rustling gown.
And tingled while her foot went downward slow,
Creak'd like a cricket, pass'd, and died below;
Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly,
I saw the pretty shining face go by,
Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet,—
A sunbeam in the quiet morning street.
All winter long, witless who peep'd the while,
She sweeten'd the chill mornings with her smile:
When the soft snow was falling dimly white,
Shining among it with a child's delight,
Bright as a rose, though nipping winds might blow,
And leaving fairy footprints in the snow!

And every night, when in from work she tript,
Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt,
That I might hear upon the narrow stair
Her low ‘Good evening,’ as she pass'd me there.
And when her door was closed, below sat I,
And hearken'd stilly as she stirr'd on high,—
Watch'd the red firelight shadows in the room,
Fashion'd her face before me in the gloom,
And heard her close the window, lock the door,
Moving about more lightly than before,
And thought, ‘She is undressing now!’ and oh!
My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow!
And I made pictures of her,—standing bright
Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white,
Upbinding in a knot her yellow hair,
Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer;
Till, last, the floor creak'd sofily overhead,
'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed,—
And all was hush'd. Yet still I hearken'd on,
Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone;
And saw her slumbering with lips apart,
One little hand upon her little heart,
The other pillowing a face that smiled
In slumber like the slumber of a child,
The bright hair shining round the small white ear,
The soft breath stealing visible and clear,
And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam
Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream.

How free she wander'd in the wicked place,
Protected only by her gentle face!
She saw bad things—how could she choose but see?—
She heard of wantonness and misery;
The city closed around her night and day,
But lightly, happily, she went her way.
Nothing of evil that she saw or heard
Could touch a heart so innocently stirr'd,—
By simple hopes that cheer'd it through the storm,
And little flutterings that kept it warm.
No power had she to reason out her needs,
To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds;
But she was good and pure amid the strife,
By virtue of the joy that was her life.
Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall,
Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall,
She floated, pure as innocent could be,
Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea,
Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro,
Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow,
While the clouds gather, and the waters roar,
And mighty ships are broken on the shore.

And London streets, with all their noise and stir,
Had many a pleasant sight to pleasure her.
There were the shops, where wonders ever new,
As in a garden, changed the whole year through.
Oft would she stand and watch with laughter sweet
The Punch and Judy in the quiet street;
Or look and listen while soft minuets
Play'd the street organ with the marionettes;

117

Or joined the motley group of merry folks
Round the street huckster with his wares and jokes.
Fearless and glad, she join'd the crowd that flows
Along the streets at festivals and shows.
In summer time, she loved the parks and squares,
Where fine folk drive their carriages and pairs;
In winter time her blood was in a glow,
At the white coming of the pleasant snow;
And in the stormy nights, when dark rain pours,
She found it pleasant, too, to sit indoors,
And sing and sew, and listen to the gales,
Or read the penny journal with the tales.

Once in the year, at merry Christmas time,
She saw the glories of a pantomime,
Feasted and wonder'd, laugh'd and clapp'd aloud,
Up in the gallery among the crowd,
Gathering dreams of fairyland and fun
To cheer her till another year was done;
More happy, and more near to heaven, so,
Than many a lady in the tiers below.

And just because her heart was pure and glad,
She lack'd the pride that finer ladies had:
She had no scorn for those who lived amiss,—
The weary women with their painted bliss;
It never struck her little brain, be sure,
She was so very much more fine and pure.
Softly she pass'd them in the public places,
Marvelling at their fearful childish faces;
She shelter'd near them, when a shower would fall,
And felt a little frighten'd, that was all,
And watch'd them, noting as they stood close by
Their dress and fine things with a woman's eye,
And spake a gentle word if spoken to,—
And wonder'd if their mothers lived and knew?

Her look, her voice, her step, had witchery
And sweetness that were all in all to me!
We both were friendless, yet, in fear and doubt,
I sought in vain for courage to speak out.
Wilder my heart could ne'er have throbb'd before her,
My thoughts have stoop'd more humbly to adore her,
My love more timid and more still have grown,
Had Polly been a queen upon a throne.
All I could do was wish and dream and sigh,
Blush to the ears whene'er she pass'd me by,
Still comforted, although she did not love me,
Because—her little room was just above me!

'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow
Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow,
And girls were selling violets in the town,
That suddenly a fever struck me down.
The world was changed, the sense of life was pain'd,
And nothing but a shadow-land remain'd;
Death came in a dark mist and look'd at me,
I felt his breathing, though I could not see,
But heavily I lay and did not stir,
And had strange images and dreams of her.
Then came a vacancy: with feeble breath,
I shiver'd under the cold touch of Death,
And swoon'd among strange visions of the dead,
When a voice call'd from Heaven, and he fled;
And suddenly I waken'd, as it seem'd,
From a deep sleep wherein I had not dream'd.

And it was night, and I could see and hear,
And I was in the room I held so dear,
And unaware, stretch'd out upon my bed,
I hearken'd for a footstep overhead.

But all was hush'd. I look'd around the room,
And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom.
The wall was redden'd by a rosy light,
A faint fire flicker'd, and I knew 'twas night,
Because below there was a sound of feet
Dying away along the quiet street,—

118

When, turning my pale face and sighing low,
I saw a vision in the quiet glow:
A little figure, in a cotton gown,
Looking upon the fire and stooping down,
Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed
Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side,—
Her lips apart, her clear eyes strain'd to see,
Her little hands clasp'd tight around her knee,
The firelight gleaming on her golden head,
And tinting her white neck to rosy red,
Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure,
With childish fear and yearning half demure.

Oh, sweet, sweet dream! I thought, and strain'd mine eyes,
Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs.

Softly she stoop'd, her dear face sweetly fair,
And sweeter since a light like love was there,
Brightening, watching, more and more elate,
As the nuts glow'd together in the grate,
Crackling with little jets of fiery light,
Till side by side they turn'd to ashes white,—
Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear
For rapture that itself was radiance clear,
And would have clapp'd her little hands in glee,
But, pausing, bit her lips and peep'd at me,
And met the face that yearn'd on her so whitely,
And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly,
While, raised on elbow, as she turn'd to flee,
‘Polly!’ I cried,—and grew as red as she!

It was no dream!—for soon my thoughts were clear,
And she could tell me all, and I could hear:
How in my sickness friendless I had lain,
How the hard people pitied not my pain;
How, in despite of what bad people said,
She left her labours, stopp'd beside my bed,
And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die;
How, in the end, the danger pass'd me by;
How she had sought to steal away before
The sickness pass'd, and I was strong once more,
By fits she told the story in mine ear,
And troubled all the telling with a fear
Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid,
Lest I should think her bold in what she did;
But, lying on my bed, I dared to say,
How I had watch'd and loved her many a day,
How dear she was to me, and dearer still
For that strange kindness done while I was ill,
And how I could but think that Heaven above
Had done it all to bind our lives in love.
And Polly cried, turning her face away,
And seem'd afraid, and answer'd ‘yea’ nor ‘nay;’
Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs,
Look'd on my pale thin face and earnest eyes,
And seem'd in act to fling her arms about
My neck, then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt,
Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing,—
That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing!

Ah! ne'er shall I forget until I die
How happily the dreamy days went by,
While I grew well, and lay with soft heartbeats,
Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets,
And Polly by me like a sunny beam,
And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream!
'Twas happiness enough to lie and see
The little golden head bent droopingly
Over its sewing, while the still time flew,
And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew!
And then, when I was nearly well and strong,
And she went back to labour all day long,
How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes,
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries,
And think how pure she was from pain and sin,—
And how the summer days were coming in!
Then, as the sunset faded from the room,
To listen for her footstep in the gloom,

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To pant as it came stealing up the stair,
To feel my whole life brighten unaware
When the soft tap came to the door, and when
The door was open'd for her smile again!
Best, the long evenings!—when, till late at night,
She sat beside me in the quiet light,
And happy things were said and kisses won,
And serious gladness found its vent in fun.
Sometimes I would draw close her shining head,
And pour her bright hair out upon the bed,
And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold,
While ‘Here,’ I cried, ‘I count my wealth in gold!’
Sometimes we play'd at cards, and thrill'd with bliss,
On trumping one another with a kiss.
And oft our thoughts grew sober and found themes
Of wondrous depth in marriage plans and schemes;
And she with pretty calculating lips
Sat by me, cautious to the finger-tips,
Till, all our calculations grown a bore,
We summ'd them up in kisses as before!

Once, like a little sinner for transgression,
She blush'd upon my breast, and made confession:
How, when that night I woke and look'd around,
I found her busy with a charm profound,—
One chestnut was herself, my girl confess'd,
The other was the person she loved best,
And if they burn'd together side by side,
He loved her, and she would become his bride;
And burn indeed they did, to her delight,—
And had the pretty charm not proven right?
Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said,
While her confessor, too, grew rosy red,—
And close together press'd two blissful faces,
As I absolved the sinner, with embraces.

And here is winter come again, winds blow,
The houses and the streets are white with snow;
And in the long and pleasant eventide,
Why, what is Polly making at my side?
What but a silk-gown, beautiful and grand,
We bought together lately in the Strand!
What but a dress to go to church in soon,
And wear right queenly 'neath a honeymoon!
And who shall match her with her new straw bonnet,
Her tiny foot and little boot upon it,
Embroider'd petticoat and silk-gown new,
And shawl she wears as few fine iadies do?
And she will keep, to charm away all ill,
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still!
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather,
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together!

LIZ.

The crimson light of sunset falls
Through the gray glamour of the murmuring rain,
And creeping o'er the housetops crawls
Through the black smoke upon the broken pane,
Steals to the straw on which she lies,
And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks,
Her sun-tann'd neck, her glistening eyes,—
While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks.
But when it is no longer light,
The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark,
And dies upon the breast of Night,
Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark.

I.

Ah, rain, rain, rain!
It patters down the glass, and on the sill,
And splashes in the pools along the lane—
Then gives a kind of shiver, and is still:
One likes to hear it, though, when one is ill.
Rain, rain, rain, rain!
Ah, how it pours and pours!
Rain, rain, rain, rain!
A dismal day for poor girls out-o'-doors!

II.

Ah, don't! That sort of comfort makes me cry.
And, Parson, since I'm bad, I want to die.
The roaring of the street
The tramp of feet,
The sobbing of the rain,
Bring nought but pain;

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They're gone into the aching of my brain;
And whether it be light,
Or dark dead night,
Wherever I may be, I hear them plain!
I'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear
To wander, like a shadow, here and there—
As useless as a stone—tired out—and sick!
So that they put me down to slumber quick,
It does not matter where.
No one will miss me; all will hurry by,
And never cast a thought on one so low;
Fine gentlemen miss ladies when they go,
But folk care nought for such a thing as I.

III.

'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that—too bad!
Joe, though he's often hard, is strong and true—
And there's the baby, too!—
But I'm so tired and sad.
I'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad.
A man can fight along, can say his say,
Is not look'd down upon, holds up his head,
And, at a push, can always earn his bread:
Men have the best of it, in many a way.
But ah! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep
Decent and honest, tramping in the town,—
Their best but bad—made light of—beaten down—
Wearying ever, wearying for sleep.
If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder,
Why, Parson dear, they're happier being blind:
They get no thanks for being good and kind—
The better that they are, they feel the sadder!

IV.

Nineteen! nineteen!
Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old;—
I feel like fifty, Parson—I have been
So wicked, I suppose, and life's so cold!
Ah, cruel are the wind, and rain, and snow,
And I've been out for years among them all:
I scarce remember being weak and small
Like baby there—it was so long ago.
It does not seem that I was born. I woke,
One day, long, long ago, in a dark room,
And saw the housetops round me in the smoke,
And, leaning out, look'd down into the gloom,
Saw deep black pits, blank walls, and broken panes,
And eyes, behind the panes, that flash'd at me,
And heard an awful roaring, from the lanes,
Of folk I could not see;
Then, while I look'd and listen'd in a dream,
I turn'd my eyes upon the housetops gray,
And saw, between the smoky roofs, a gleam
Of silver water, winding far away.
That was the River. Cool and smooth and deep,
It glided to the sound o' folk below,
Dazzling my eyes, till they began to grow
Dusty and dim with sleep.
Oh, sleepily I stood, and gazed, and hearken'd!
And saw a strange, bright light, that slowly fled,
Shine through the smoky mist, and stain it red,
And suddenly the water flash'd,—then darken'd;
And for a little time, though I gazed on,
The river and the sleepy light were gone;
But suddenly, over the roofs there lighten'd
A pale, strange brightness out of heaven shed,
And, with a sweep that made me sick and frighten'd,
The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head;—
And down below me roar'd the noise o' trade,
And ah! I felt alive, and was afraid,
And cold, and hungry, crying out for bread.

V.

All that is like a dream. It don't seem true!
Father was gone, and mother left, you see
To work for little brother Ned and me;
And up among the gloomy roofs we grew,—
Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out,
With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,

121

While mother char'd for poor folk round about,
Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street.
Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair,
To make the time pass happily up there:
A steamboat going past upon the tide,
A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,
The sparrows teaching little ones to fly,
The small white moving clouds, that we espied,
And thought were living, in the bit of sky—
With sights like these right glad were Ned and I;
And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calling,
Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles,
And it was fine to see the still snow falling,
Making the housetops white for miles on miles,
And catch it in our little hands in play,
And laugh to feel it melt and slip away!
But I was six, and Ned was only three,
And thinner, weaker, wearier than me;
And one cold day, in winter time, when mother
Had gone away into the snow, and we
Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another,
He put his little head upon my knee,
And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb,
But look'd quite strange and old;
And when I shook him, kiss'd him, spoke to him,
He smiled, and grew so cold.
Then I was frighten'd, and cried out, and none
Could hear me; while I sat and nursed his head.
Watching the whiten'd window, while the Sun
Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red.
And I began to sob;—till mother came,
Knelt down, and scream'd, and named the good God's name,
And told me he was dead.
And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping,
Placed him among the rags upon his bed,
I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping,
And took his little hand, and felt no fear.
But when the place grew gray and cold and drear,
And the round Moon over the roofs came creeping,
And put a silver shade
All round the chilly bed where he was laid,
I cried, and was afraid.

VI.

Ah, yes, it's like a dream; for time pass'd by,
And I went out into the smoky air,
Fruit-selling, Parson — trudging, wet or dry—
Winter and summer—weary, cold, and bare.
And when old mother laid her down to die,
And parish buried her, I did not cry,
And hardly seem'd to care;
I was too hungry, and too dull; beside,
The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust—
It took me all my time, howe'er I tried,
To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust;
I had no time for weeping.
And when I was not out amid the roar,
Or standing frozen at the playhouse door,
Why, I was coil'd upon my straw, and sleeping.
Ah, pence were hard to gain!
Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain:
Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled,
And gave me money for my face's sake.
That made me hard and angry when a child;
But now it thrills my heart, and makes it ache!
The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do,
Fighting and starving in the wicked town,
But go from bad to badder—down, down, down—
Being so poor, and yet so pretty, too?
Never could bear the like of that—ah, no!
Better have starved outright than gone so low!

VII.

But I've no call to boast. I might have been
As wicked, Parson dear, in my distress,
But for your friend-you know the one I mean?—

122

The tall, pale lady, in the mourning dress.
Though we were cold at first, that wore away—
She was so mild and young,
And had so soft a tongue,
And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say.
She never seem'd to scorn me—no, not she;
And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me!
Not one of them that make a girl feel base,
And call her names, and talk of her disgrace,
And frighten one with thoughts of flaming hell,
And fierce Lord God with black and angry brow;
But soft and mild, and sensible as well;
And oh, I loved her, and I love her now.
She did me good for many and many a day—
More good than pence could ever do, I swear,
For she was poor, with little pence to spare—
Learn'd me to read, and quit low words, and pray.
And, Parson, though I never understood
How such a life as mine was meant for good,
And could not guess what one so poor and low
Would do in that sweet place of which she spoke,
And could not feel that God would let me go
Into so bright a land with gentlefolk,
I liked to hear her talk of such a place,
And thought of all the angels she was best,
Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face
Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest.

VIII.

Ah, sir! 'twas very lonesome. Night and day,
Save when the sweet miss came, I was alone,—
Moved on and hunted through the streets of stone,
And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay.
Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for;
I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong,
And often, very often, used to long
For some one I could like and keep alive for.
Marry? Not they!
They can't afford to be so good, you know;
But many of them, though they step astray,
Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go
Against what's decent. Only—'tis their way.
And many might do worsethan that, may be,
If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought—
It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me
Must sin a little, to be good in aught.

IX.

So I was glad when I began to see
Joe Purvis fancied me;
And when, one night, he took me to the play,
Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair
That we should take a little room and share
Our earnings, why, I could not answer ‘Nay!’
And that's a year ago; and though I'm bad,
I've been as true to Joe as girl could be.
I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad,
Joe never, never meant but well to me;
And we have had as fair a time, I think,
As one could hope, since we are both so low.
Joe likes me—never gave me push or blow,
When sober: only, he was wild in drink.
But then we don't mind beating when a man
Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight,
Works for his bread, and does the best he can;—
'Tis being left and slighted that we hate.

X.

And so the baby's come, and I shall die!
And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here,
Where folk will think him bad, and all's so drear,
The great Lord God knows better far than I.
Ah, don't!—'tis kindly, but it pains me so!
You say I'm wicked, and I want to go!
‘God's kingdom,’ Parson dear? Ah nay, ah nay!
That must be like the country—which I fear:
I saw the country once, one summer day,
And I would rather die in London here

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XI.

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife,
And took a sudden fancy in my head
To try the country, and to earn my bread
Out among fields, where I had heard one's life
Was easier and brighter. So, that day,
I took my basket up and stole away,
Just after sunrise. As I went along,
Trembling and loath to leave the busy place,
I felt that I was doing something wrong,
And fear'd to look policemen in the face.
And all was dim: the streets were gray and wet
After a rainy night: and all was still;
I held my shawl around me with a chill,
And dropt my eyes from every face I met;
Until the streets began to fade, the road
Grew fresh and clean and wide,
Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode,
And gardens full of flowers, on every side.
That made me walk the quicker-on, on, on—
As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes,
And all at once I saw, to my surprise,
The houses of the gentlefolk were gone,
And I was standing still,
Shading my face, upon a high green hill,
And the bright sun was blazing,
And all the blue above me seem'd to melt
To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing
On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.

XII.

I'll ne'er forget that day. All was so bright
And strange. Upon the grass around my feet
The rain had hung a million drops of light;
The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet,
It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around
Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through
A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue;
And there was not a sound,
Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies,
And the soft wind, that ran along the ground,
And blew so sweetly on my lips and eyes,
Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest,
Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, sighing,
I stole into a dewy field to rest,
And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying
Was fresh and living—and the bird sang loud,
Out of a golden cloud—
And I was looking up at him and crying!

XIII.

How swift the hours slipt on!—and by and by
The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky,
The air grew damp with dew,
And the dark night was coming down, I knew.
Well, I was more afraid than ever, then,
And felt that I should die in such a place,—
So back to London town I turn'd my face,
And crept into the great black streets again;
And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar,
Why, I was better, for in London here
My heart was busy, and I felt no fear.
I never saw the country any more.
And I have stay'd in London, well or ill—
I would not stay out yonder if I could.
For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good—
I could not bear a life so bright and still.
All that I want is sleep,
Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep!
God won't be hard on one so mean, but He,
Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound
There in the deep cold darkness under ground;
And I shall waken up in time, may be,
Better and stronger, not afraid to see
The great, still Light that folds Him round and round!

XIV.

See! there's the sunset creeping through the pane—
How cool and moist it looks amid the rain!
I like to hear the splashing of the drops
On the house-tops,
And the loud humming of the folk that go
Along the streets below!
I like the smoke and noise—I am so bad—
They make a low one hard, and still her cares. . . .

124

There's Joe! I hear his foot upon the stairs!—
He must be wet, poor lad!
He will be angry, like enough, to find
Another little life to clothe and keep.
But show him baby, Parson—speak him kind—
And tell him Doctor thinks I'm going to sleep.
A hard, hard life is his! He need be strong
And rough, to earn his bread and get along.
I think he will be sorry when I go,
And leave the little one and him behind.
I hope he'll see another to his mind,
To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe!

THE STARLING.

I.

The little lame tailor
Sat stitching and snarling—
Who in the world
Was the tailor's darling?
To none of his kind
Was he well-inclined,
But he doted on Jack the starling.

II.

For the bird had a tongue,
And of words good store,
And his cage was hung
Just over the door.
And he saw the people,
And heard the roar,—
Folk coming and going
Evermore,—
And he look'd at the tailor,—
And swore.

III.

From a country lad
The tailor bought him,—
His training was bad,
For tramps had taught him;
On alehouse benches
His cage had been,
While louts and wenches
Made jests obscene,—
But he learn'd, no doubt,
His oaths from fellows
Who travel about
With kettle and bellows,
And three or four,
The roundest by far
That ever he swore,
Were taught by a tar.
And the tailor heard—
‘We'll be friends!’ said he,
‘You're a clever bird,
And our tastes agree—
We both are old,
And esteem life base,
The whole world cold,
Things out of place,
And we're lonely too,
And full of care—
So what can we do
But swear?

IV.

‘The devil take you,
How you mutter!—
Yet there's much to make you
Swear and flutter.
You want the fresh air
And the sunlight, lad,
And your prison there
Feels dreary and sad,
And here I frown
In a prison as dreary,
Hating the town,
And feeling weary:
We're too confined, Jack,
And we want to fly,
And you blame mankind, Jack,
And so do I!
And then, again,
By chance as it were,
We learn'd from men
How to grumble and swear;
You let your throat
By the scamps be guided,
And swore by rote—
All just as I did!
And without beseeching,
Relief is brought us—
For we turn the teaching
On those who taught us!’

V.

A haggard and ruffled
Old fellow was Jack,
With a grim face muffled
In ragged black,

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And his coat was rusty
And never neat,
And his wings were dusty
With grime of the street,
And he sidelong peer'd,
With eyes of soot,
And scowl'd and sneer'd,—
And was lame of a foot!
And he long'd to go
From whence he came;—
And the tailor, you know,
Was just the same.

VI.

All kinds of weather
They felt confined,
And swore together
At all mankind;
For their mirth was done,
And they felt like brothers,
And the swearing of one
Meant no more than the other's;
'Twas just a way
They had learn'd, you see,—
Each wanted to say
Only this—‘Woe's me!
I'm a poor old fellow,
And I'm prison'd so,
While the sun shines mellow,
And the corn waves yellow
And the fresh winds blow,—
And the folk don't care
If I live or die,
But I long for air,
And I wish to fly!’
Yet unable to utter it,
And too wild to bear,
They could only mutter it,
And swear.

VII.

Many a year
They dwelt in the city,
In their prisons drear,
And none felt pity,
And few were sparing
Of censure and coldness,
To hear them swearing
With such plain boldness;
But at last, by the Lord,
Their noise was stopt,—
For down on his board
The tailor dropt,
And they found him dead,
And done with snarling,
And over his head
Still grumbled the Starling;
But when an old Jew
Claim'd the goods of the tailor,
And with eye askew
Eyed the feathery railer,
And, with a frown
At the dirt and rust,
Took the old cage down,
In a shower of dust,—
Jack, with heart aching,
Felt life past bearing,
And shivering, quaking,
All hope forsaking,
Died, swearing.

JANE LEWSON.

Clasping his knee with one soft lady-hand,
The other fingering his glass of wine,
Black-raimented, white-hair'd, polite, and bland,
With mellow voice discourses Doctor Vine:
He warms, with deep eyes stirr'd to thoughtful light,
And round about his serious talk the while,
Kindly, yet pensive—worldly wise, yet bright,
Like bloom upon the blackthorn, blows his smile.

[I.]

Ah, strong and mighty are we mortal men!
Braving the whirlwind on a ship at sea,
Facing the grim fort's hundred tongues of fire,
Ay, and in England, 'neath the olive branch,
Pushing a stubborn elbow through the crowd,
To get among the heights that keep the gold;
But there is might and might,—and in the one
Our dames and daughters shame us. Come, my friend,
My man of sinews,—conscious of your strength,
Proud of your well-won wrestles with the world,—
Hear what a feeble nature can endure!

A little yellow woman, dress'd in black,
With weary crow's-feet crawling round the eyes,

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And solemn voice, that seem'd a call to prayer;
Another yellow woman, dress'd in black,
Sad, too, and solemn, yet with bitterness
Burn'd in upon the edges of her lips,
And sharper, thinner, less monotonous voice;
And last, a little woman auburn-hair'd,
Pensive a little, but not solemnised,
And pretty, with the open azure eyes,
The white soft cheek, the little mindless mouth,
The drooping childish languor. There they dwelt,
In a great dwelling of a smoky square
In Islington, named by their pious friends,
And the lean Calvinistic minister—
The Misses Lewson, and their sister Jane.

Miss Sarah, in her twenty-seventh year,
Knew not the warmer passions of her sex,
But groan'd both day and night to save her soul;
Miss Susan, two years younger, had regrets
Her sister knew not, and a secret pain
Because her heart was withering—whence her tongue
Could peal full sharp at times, and show a sting;
But Jane was comely—might have cherish'd hopes,
Since she was only twenty, had her mind
Been hopefuller. The elders ruled the house.
Obedience and meekness to their will
Was a familiar habit Jane had learn'd
Full early, and had fitted to her life
So closely, 'twas a portion of her needs.
She gazed on them, as Eastern worshippers
Gaze on a rayless picture of the sun.
Her acts seem'd other than her own; her heart
Kept melancholy time to theirs; her eyes
Look'd ever unto them for help and light;
Her eyelids droop'd before them if they chid.
A woman weak and dull, yet fair of face!
Her mother, too, had been a comely thing—
A bright-hair'd child wed to an aged man,
A heart that broke because the man was hard,—
Not like the grim first wife, who brought the gold,
And yielded to his melancholy kiss
The melancholy virgins. Well, the three,
Alone in all the world, dwelt in the house
Their father left them, living by the rents
Of certain smaller houses of the poor.
And they were stern to wring their worldly dues—
Not charitable, since the world was base,
But cold to all men, save the minister,
Who weekly cast the darkness of his blessing
Over their chilly table.

All around
The life of London shifted like a cloud,
Men sinned, and women fell, and childien cried,
And Want went ragged up and down the lanes;
While the two hueless sisters dragg'd their chain
Self-woven, pinch'd their lives complexionless,
Keeping their feelings quiet, hard, and pure.
But Jane felt lonesome in the world; and oft,
Pausing amid her work, gazed sadly forth
Upon the dismal square of wither'd trees,
The dusty grass that grew within the rails,
The garden-plots where here and there a flower
Grew up, and sicken'd in the smoke, and died;
And when the sun was on the square, and sounds
Came from the children in the neighbouring streets,
She thought of happy homes among the fields,
And brighter faces. When she walk'd abroad,
The busy hum of life oppress'd her heart
And frighten'd her: she did not raise her eyes,
But stole along,—a sweet shape clad in black,
A pale and pretty face, at which the men
Stared vacant admiration. Far too dull
To blame her gloomy sisters for the shape
Her young days took, she merely knew the world
Was drear; and if at times she dared to dream
Of things that made her colour come and go,

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And dared to hope for cheerier, sunnier days,
She grew the wanner afterwards, and felt
Sad and ashamed. The dull life that she wore,
Like to a gloomy garment, day by day,
Was a familiar life, the only life
She clearly understood. Coldly she heard
The daily tale of human sin and wrong,
And the small thunders of the Sunday nights
In chapel. All around her were the streets,
And frightful sounds, and gloomy sunless faces.
And thus with tacit dolour she resign'd
Her nature to the hue upon the cheeks
Of her cold sisters. Yet she could not pray
As they pray'd, could not wholly feel and know
The blackness of mankind, her own heart's sin;
But when she tried to get to God, and yearn'd
For help not human, she could only cry,
Feeling a loveless and a useless thing,
Thinking of those sweet places in the fields,
Those homes whereon the sun shone pleasantly,
And happy mothers sat at cottage doors
Among their children.

Save for household work,
She would have wasted soon. From week to week
The burthen lay on her,—the gloomy twain
Being too busy searching for their souls,
And begging God above to spare the same.
Yet she was quiet thus, content and glad
To silent drudgery, such as saved her heart
From wilder flutterings. The Sabbath day
Was drearest: drest in burial black, she sat
Those solemn hours in chapel, listening,
And scarcely heeding what she heard, but watching
The folk around, their faces and their dress,
Or gazing at the sunshine on the floor;
And service over, idly pined at home,
And, looking from the window at the square,
Long'd for the labour of the coming day.
Her sisters watch'd her warily, be sure;
And though their hearts were pure as pure could be,
They loved her none the better for her face.

Love is as cunning as disease or death,
No doctor's skill will ward him off or cure,
And soon he found this pale and weary girl,
Despite the cloud of melancholy life
That rain'd around her. In no beauteous shape,
In guise of passionate stripling iris-eyed,
Such as our poets picture in their songs,
Love came;—but in a gloomy garb of one
Whom men call'd pious, and whose holy talk
Disarm'd the dragons. 'Twere but idle, friend,
To count the wiles by which he won his way
Into her heart; how she vouchsafed him all
The passion of a nature not too strong;
How, when the first wild sunshine dazzled her,
The woman loved so blindly, that her thoughts
Became a secret trouble in the house;
And how at last, with white and frighten'd face,
She glided out into the dark one night,
And vanish'd with no utterance of farewell.

The sisters gave a quick and scandall'd cry,
And sought a little for the poor flown bird;
Then, thinking awful things, composed their hearts
In silence, pinch'd their narrow nat res more,
And waited. ‘This is something strange,’ they thought,
‘Which God will clear; we will not think the worst,
Although she was a thing as light as straw.’
Nor did they cry their fear among their friends,
Hawking a secret shame, but calmly waited,
Trusting no stain would fall upon their chill
And frosty reputations. Weeks pass'd by;
They pray'd, they fasted, yellowing more and more,
They waited sternly for the end, and heard
The timid knock come to the door at last.

It was a dark and rainy night; the streets
Were gleaming watery underneath the lamps,
The dismal wind scream'd fitfully without,
And made within a melancholy sound;

128

And the faint knock came to the door at last.
The sisters look'd in one another's faces,
And knew the wanderer had returned again,
But spoke not; and the younger sister rose,
Open'd the door, peer'd out into the rain,
And saw the weary figure shivering there,
Holding a burthen underneath her shawl.
And silently, with wan and timid look,
The wanderer slipt in. No word of greeting
Spake either of the sisters, but their eyes
Gleam'd sharply, and they waited. White and cold,
Her sweet face feebly begging for a word,
Her long hair dripping loose and wet, stood Jane
Before them, shivering, clasping tight her load,
In the dull parlour with the cheerless fire.
Till Susan, pointing, cried in a shrill voice,
‘What are you carrying underneath your shawl,
Jane Lewson?’ and the faint despairing voice,
While the rain murmur'd and the night-wind blew,
Moan'd, ‘It's my Baby!’ and could say no more,
For the wild sisters scream'd and raised their hands,
And Jane fell quivering down upon her knees,
The old shawl opening show'd a child asleep,
And, trebling terror with a piteous cry,
The child awaken'd.

Pointing to the door,
With twitching lips of venom, Susan said—
‘Go!’ and the elder sister echo'd her
More sadly and more solemnly. But Jane,
Clinging to Sarah's skirts, implored and moan'd,
‘Don't turn me out! my little girl will die!
I have no home in all the world but here;
Kill me, but do not drive from the house!’
‘Jane Lewson,’ Susan cried, as white as death,
‘Where is the father o this child?’ and Jane
Moan'd, ‘Gone, gone, gone;’ and when she named his name,
And how, while she who spake in sickness lay,
He secretly had fled across the seas,
They shiver'd to the hair. Holding her hand
Upon her heart, the elder sister spake
In dull monotonous voice—‘Look up! look up!
Perhaps 'tis not so ill as we believed.
Are you a wedded woman?’ The reply
Was silentness and heavy drooping eyes,
Yet with no blush around the quivering lids;
And Sarah, freezing into ice, spake on
In dull monotonous voice—‘Your sin has brought
Shame on us all, but they who make their beds
Must sleep upon them; go away, bad woman!
The third of what our father left is yours,
But you are not our sister any more.’
Still moaning, shuddering, the girl begg'd on,
Nor ceased to rock the babe and still its cries,
‘Kill me, but do not drive me from the house!
Put any pain upon me that you please,
But do not, do not, drive me forth again
Into the dreadful world! I have no friends
On all the earth save you!’ The sisters look'd
At one another, and without a word
Walk'd from the room.

Jane sat upon the floor,
Soothing the child, and did not rise, but waited;
The agony and terror dried her tears,
And she could only listen, praying God
That He would soften them; and the little one
Look'd in her face and laugh'd.

A weary hour
Pass'd by, and then, still white, and stern, and cold,
The sisters enter'd, and the elder one
Spake without prelude: ‘We have talk'd it o'er,
Jane Lewson, and have settled how to act;
You have a claim upon us: will you take
The third of what our father left, and find
Another home?’ But Jane cried, ‘Do not, do not,
Drive me away; I have no friends save you;
And I am sorry.’ Trembling, for her heart
Was not all cold, the elder icicle

129

Resumed: ‘Take what is left you, and be gone,
And never see our faces any more;
Or if you will, stay with us here, but only
On these conditions: For the infant's sake,
And for the sake of our good name, our friends
Must never know the miserable child
Is yours; but we will have it given out
That, being lonely and unwedded here,
We have adopted a poor tenant's child,
With view to bring it up in godliness.’
Jane answer'd, with a feeble thrill of hope,
‘Anything, anything,—only leave me not
Alone in the dark world.’ ‘Peace!’ Susan said,
‘You do not understand: the child herself
Must never know Jane Lewson is her mother:
Neither by word nor look nor tender folly,
Must you reveal unto the child her shame,
And yours, and ours!’ Then, with a bitter cry,
And a wild look, Jane cried, ‘And must my babe
Not know me?’ ‘Never,’ Sarah Lewson said:
‘For the babe's sake, for yours, for ours, the shame
Must not be utter'd. See, you have your choice:
Take what our father gave you, and depart,
Or stay on these conditions. We are firm.
We have decided kindly, not forgetting
You were our sister, nor that this poor child
Is blameless, save that all the flesh is sin,
But not forgetting, either, what we owe
To God above us.’ Weeping o'er the child,
Not rising yet, Jane answer'd, ‘I will stay;
Yes, gladly, for the little baby's sake,
That folk may never call it cruel names.’
And the stern sisters took from off the shelf
The great old Bible, placed it in her hands
And made her kiss it, swearing before God
Never to any one in all the world,
Not even to the child itself, to tell
She was its sinful mother. Wild and dazed,
She sware upon the Book. ‘That is enough,’
Said Sarah; ‘but, Jane Lewson, never again
Speak to us of the evil that has pass'd;
Live with us as you used to do, and ask
The grace of God, who has been kinder far
Than you deserved.’

Thus, friend, these icicles
Dealt their hard measure, deeming that they did
A virtuous and a righteous deed; and Jane,
The worn and mindless woman, sank again
Into submission and house-drudgery,
Comforted that she daily saw her child,
And that her shame was hidden from the world,
And that the child would never suffer scorn
Because a sinner bore it. But her heart
Was a bruised reed, the little sunny hue
Had gone from all things; and whene'er she pray'd,
She thought the great cold God above her head
Dwelt on a frosty throne and did not hear.

II.

Yet He, the Almighty Lord of this our breath,
Did see and hear, and surely pitied too,
If God can pity,—but He works as God,
Not man, and so we cannot understand.

No whisper of reproach, no spoken word,
Troubled with memories of her sinfulness
The suffering woman; yet her daily life
Became a quiet sorrow. In the house
She labour'd with her hands from morn to night,
Seeing few faces save the pensive ones
Whose yellow holiness she bow'd before;
And tacitly they suffer'd her to sink
Into the household drudge.—with privilege
Upon the Sabbath day to dress in black,
Sit in the sunless house or go to prayer,—
So idle, that her thoughts could travel back
To shame and bitterness. Her only joy
Was when she gave her little girl the breast,
(They dared not rob her weary heart of that,)
When, seated all alone, she felt it suck,
And, as the little lips drew forth the milk,
Felt drowsily resign'd, and closed her eyes,
And trembled, and could feel the happy tears.

There came a quiet gathering in the house,
And by the gloomy minister the child
Was christen'd; and the name he gave to her

130

Was ‘Margaret Lewson.’ For the sisters said,
‘Her mother being buried, as it were,
The girl shall take our name.’ And Jane sat by,
And heard the pious lie with aching heart,
And ever after that her trouble grew.

Soon, when the sound of little feet were heard
In the dull dwelling, and a baby-voice
Call'd at the mother's heart, Jane thrill'd and heard,
But even as she listen'd the sweet sounds
Would seem to die into the cloud that hid
The great cold God above her. Margaret
Grew to a little wildling, quick and bright,
Black-eyed, black-hair'd, and passionate and quick,
Not like its mother; fierce and wild when chid,
So that the gloomy sisters often thought,
‘There is a curse upon it;’ yet they grew
To love the little wildling unaware,
Indulged it in their stern and solemn way,
More cheer'd than they believed by its shrill laugh
Within the dismal dwelling. But the child
Clung most to Jane, and though, when first it learn'd
To call her by her Christian name, the sound
Bruised the poor suffering heart, that wore away;
And all the little troubles of the child,
The pretty joys, the peevish fits, the bursts
Of passion, work'd upon her nature so,
That all her comfort was to snatch it up,
And cover it with kisses secretly.
Wilful and passionate, yet loving too,
Grew Margaret,—an echo in a cave
Of human life without; clinging to Jane,
Who never had the heart to fondle it
Before her sisters; not afraid at times
To pinch the thin, worn arms, or pull the hairs
Upon the aching head, but afterwards
Curing the pain with kisses and with tears.
So that as time wore on the mother's heart
Grew tenderer to its trouble than before.

Then later, when the little girl went forth
To school hard by, the motion and the light
Hied from the house; and all the morning hours
The thin face came and went against the panes,
Looking out townward,—till the little shape
Appear'd out of the cloud, and pale eyes grew
Dim to its coming. As the years went on,
The mother, with the agony in her heart
She could not utter, quietly subdued
Her nature to a listening watchfulness:
Her face grew settled to expectant calm,
Her vision penetrated things around
And gazed at something lying far beyond,
Her very foot linger'd about the house,
As if she loiter'd hearkening for a sound
Out of the world. For Margaret, as she grew,
Was wilder and more wilful, openly
Master'd the gloomy virgins, and escaped
The pious atmosphere they daily breathed
To gambol in a freër, fresher air;
And Jane would think, ‘'Twill kill me, if my child
Should turn out wicked.’ Mindless though she was,
And feeble, yet the trouble made her sense
Quick, sharp, and subtle to perceive and watch.
A little word upon the girlish tongue
Could sting her,—nay, a light upon the face,
A kindling of the eye, a look the child
Wore when asleep, would trouble her for days,
Carrying strangest import. So she waited,
Watching and listening,—while the young new life
Drew in the air, and throve, absorbing hues
Out of a thousand trivial lights and shades
That hover'd lightly round it. Still to Jane
The habit of submission clung: she watch'd
The wiser sterner faces oftentimes,
Trembling for confirmation of her fears;
And nightly pray'd that God, who was so just,
So hard to those who went astray at all,
Would aid her sisters, helping them to make
The little Margaret better as she grew,—
Waking her secret trouble evermore
With countless, nameless acts of help and love,
And humble admonition,—comforted
By secret fondlings of the little arms,

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Or kisses on the tiny, wilful mouth
Apart in childish slumber.

Thus the years
Pass'd over her like pensive clouds, and melted
Into that dewy glimmer on the brain,
Which men call Memory. Wherefore recount
The little joys and sorrows of the time:
The hours when sickness came, and thought itself
Tick'd like a death-watch,—all the daily hopes
And impulses and fears? Enough to tell,
That all went onward like a troubled stream,
Until the sisters, worn and growing old,
Felt the still angel coming nearer, nearer,
Scattering sleep-dust on uplooking eyes;
And Jane, though in her prime, was turning gray;
And Margaret was a maiden flower fullblown.

A passion-flower!—a maiden whose rich heart
Burn'd with intensest fire that turn'd the light
Of the sweet eyes into a warm dark dew;
One of those shapes so marvellously made,
Strung so intensely, that a finger-press,
The dropping of a stray curl unaware
Upon the naked breast, a look, a tone,
Can vibrate to the very roots of life,
And draw from out the spirit light that seems
To scorch the tender cheeks it shines upon;
A nature running o'er with ecstasy
Of very being, an appalling splendour
Of animal sensation, loveliness
Like to the dazzling panther's; yet, withal,
The gentle, wilful, clinging sense of love,
Which makes a virgin's soul. It seem'd, indeed,
The gloomy dwelling and the dismal days,
Gloaming upon her heart, had lent this show
Of shining life a melancholy shade
That trebled it in beauty. Such a heart
Needed no busy world to make it beat:
It could throb burningly in solitude;
Since kindly Heaven gave it strength enough
To rock the languid blood into the brains
Of twenty smaller natures.

Then the pain,
The wonder, deepen'd on the mother's heart,—
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother. As she might have watch'd
A wondrous spirit from another world,
Jane Lewson watch'd her child. Could this fair girl,—
This wild and dazzling life, be born of her?—
A lightning flash struck from a pensive cloud
The wan still moon is drinking? Like a woman
Who has been sick in darkness many days,
And steps into the sunshine, Jane beheld
Her daughter, and felt blind. A terror grew
Upon her, that the smother'd sense of pride
Lack'd power to kill. She pray'd, she wept, she dream'd,
And thought, if Margaret's had been a face
More like the common faces of the streets,
'Twould have been better. With this feeling, grew
The sense of her own secret. Oftentimes
A look from Margaret brought the feeble blush
Into the bloodless cheek;—creeping away
Into her chamber, Jane would wring her hands,
Moaning in pain, ‘God help me! If she knew!
Ah, if she knew!’ And then for many days
Would haunt the dwelling fearfully, afraid
To look on what she loved,—till once again,
Some little kindness, some sweet look or tone,
A happy kiss, would bring her courage back
And cheer her.

Nor had Margaret fail'd to win
The hard-won sisters; oft their frosty eyes
Enlarged themselves upon her and grew thaw'd—
In secret she was mistress over both—
And in their loveless way, they also felt
A frighten'd pleasure in the beauteous thing
That brighten'd the dull dwelling.

Oftentimes,
The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth

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In wilful act or speech or evil looks,
Deepen'd Jane's terror. Margaret heeded not
The sisters' pious teachings, did not show
A godly inclination,—nay, at times
Mock'd openly. Ah, had she guess'd the pain,
The fear, the agony, such mockings gave
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother! In her secret heart
Jane deem'd her own deep sorrows all had come
Because she had not, in her dreary youth,
Been godly; and as such flashes as she saw
Gleam from her girl, seem'd wicked things indeed;
And at such times the weary woman's eyes
Would seek the sunless faces, searching them
For cheer or warning.

In its season came
That light which takes from others what it gives
To him or her who, standing glorified,
Awaits it. 'Tis the old, sad mystery:
No gift of love that comes upon a life
But means another's loss. The new sweet joy,
That play'd in tender colours and mild fire
On Margaret's cheek, upon the mother's heart
Fell like a firebrand.

For to Jane, her friend,
Her dearest in the household from the first,
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not
To be her mother, Margaret first told
The terror—how she loved and was beloved;
And seated at Jane's feet, with eyes upturn'd,
Playing with the worn fingers, she exclaim'd,
‘I love him, Jane! and you will love him too!
I will not marry any other man!’
And suddenly Jane felt as if the Lord
Had come behind her in the dark and breathed
A burning fire upon her. For she thought,
‘My child will go away, and I shall die!’
But only murmur'd, ‘Marry, Margaret?
You are too young to marry!’—and her face
Was like a murder'd woman's.

And the pain,
The agony, deepen'd, when the lover's face
Came smiling to the dwelling, young and bright
With pitiless gladness. Jane was still, and moan'd,
‘My child will go away, and I shall die!’
And look'd upon her sisters, and could see
They pitied her; but their stetn faces said,
‘This is God's will! the just God governs all!
How should we cross such love?’ adding, ‘Beware,—
For our sakes, for your own, but chief of all
For her sake whom you love, remember now!
Pray, and be silent!’ And the wounded heart
Cried up to God again, and from the sky
No answer came; when, crush'd beneath her pain,
The woman sicken'd, lay upon her bed,
And thought her time was come.

Most tenderly
Her daughter nursed her; little fathoming
The meaning of the wild and yearning look
That made the white face sweet and beautiful;
For Jane was saying, ‘Lord, I want to die!
My child would leave me, or my useless life
Would turn a sorrow to her, if I stay'd:
Lord, let me die!’ Yea, the dull nature clung
Still into silence, with the still resolve
Of mightier natures. Thinking she would die,
Jane lay as in a painless dream, and watch'd
The bright face stir around her, following
The shape about the room, and praying still
For strength—so happy in her drowsy dream,
That she went chill at times, and felt that thoughts
So tranquil were a sin. A darker hour
Gloam'd soon upon her brain. She could not see
The face she loved; murmur'd delirious words;

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And in the weary watches of the night,
Moaning and wringing hands, with closèd eyes,
Cried ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ Then the sisters sought
To lead the girl away, lest she should hear
The secret; but she conquer'd, and remain'd;
And one still evening, when the quiet fire
Was making ghosts that quiver'd on the floor
To the faint time-piece ticking, Jane awoke,
Gazed long and strangely at the shining face,
Waved her thin arms, cried, ‘Margaret! Margaret!
Where are you, Margaret? Have you gone away?
Come to your mother!’ The wild cry of pain
Startled the maiden, but she only thought
The fever'd woman raved. Twining her arms
Around Jane's neck, she murmur'd, ‘I am here!’
Weeping and kissing; but the woman sigh'd
And shiver'd, crying feebly, ‘Let me die!
My little girl has gone into the town,
And she has learn'd to call me wicked names,
And will not come again!’

When, wearied out,
Jane sank to troubled sleep, her child sat still,
Thinking of those strange words; and though at last
She shut them from her thought as idle dream,
Their pain return'd upon her. The next day
She spake unto the sisters of the same,
Adding, in a low voice, ‘She talk'd of me,
And moan'd out loudly for a little child—
Has she a child?’ The first quick flash of fear
Died from the yellow visages unseen,
And they were calm. ‘Delirium!’ Sarah said;
‘But you, my child, must watch her sickbed less—
You are too young, too weak, to bear such things.’
And this time Margaret did not say a word,
But yielded, thinking, ‘It is very strange!—
There is a mystery, and I will watch:
Can Jane have had a child?’

That very day
The dark mists roll'd from the sick woman's brain,
And she awoke, remembering nought, and saw
The sisters watching her. Two days they watch'd;
And spake but very little, though they saw
The wan eyes wander with a hungry look,
Seeking the face they loved. Then Sarah took
Jane's hand, and spake more gently, sisterly,
(Such natures, friend, grow kinder as they age,)
Than she had done for many years, and told
Of those wild words utter'd while she was ill;
Jane moan'd and hid her face; but Sarah said,
‘We do not blame you, and perchance the Lord
Spake through you! We have thought it o'er, and pray'd:
Now listen, Jane. Since that unhappy night,
We have not spoken of your shame, yet know
You have repented.’ With her face still hid,
Jane falter'd, ‘Let me die!’ but Sarah said,
‘We do not think, Jane Lewson, you will live;
So mark me well. If, ere you go away,
You feel that you could go more cheerfully,
If you are certain that it is not sin,
Poor Margaret shall know she is your child;
We will not, now you die, deny you this;
And Margaret will be silent of the shame,—
And, lest you break your oath upon the Word,
Our lips shall tell her.’ Still Jane Lewson hid
Her face; and all was quiet in the room,
Save for a shivering sound and feeble crying.
But suddenly Jane lifted up her face,
Beauteous beyond all beauty given to joy,
And quickly whispering, press'd the chilly hand—
‘I will not speak! I will not hurt my child

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So cruelly!—the child shall never know!
And I will go in silence to my grave,
Leaving her happy,—and perhaps the Lord
Will pardon me!’ Then, for the first last time,
The sisters look'd on Jane with different eyes,
Admiring sternly, with no words of praise,
Her they had scorn'd for feebleness so long.

Even then the watchers in the chamber heard
A sound that thrill'd them through,—a rustling dress,
A deep hard breathing as of one in pain;
And pointing with her hand Jane scream'd aloud;
And turning suddenly the sisters saw
A face as white as marble, yet illumed
By great eyes flashing with a terrible flame
That made them quail. And in a dangerous voice,
As low as a snake's hissing, Margaret said,
‘I have heard all!’ Then the great eyes were turn'd
On Jane, and for a moment they were cold;
But all at once the breathless agony
Of recognition struck upon her heart,
The bosom heaved and moan'd, the bright tears burst,
And Margaret flung herself upon the bed,
Clasping her shivering mother; and at first
Jane shrank away,—but soon the wondrous love
Master'd her,—she could smile and kiss and cry—
And hear the dear wild voice cry, ‘Mother, mother!’
And see the bright face through her tears, and feel
That Love was there.

After the first strange bliss
Of meeting, both were stiller. Jane could weep,
And bear to feel so happy. Margaret
Clang to her mother, breathed her bliss upon her,
Fondling the silver'd tresses, covering
The thin hard hand with kisses and with tears,
Trying to say a thousand merry things
That died in sobs and tears, and only saying,
For all the utterance of her speechful heart,
‘Mother, my mother!’ Suddenly her shame
Came back upon the woman, and she turn'd
To seek her sisters' faces piteously,
But they had stolen from the happy room;
Whereon again she murmur'd, ‘Let me die!
I am a wicked woman, Margaret!
Why did you listen?’ But a second burst
Of love and blissful pain, and bitter things
Hurl'd at the cruel sisters, answer'd her;
And more tears flow'd, and more fond kisses brush'd
The tears away,—until at last Jane cried,
‘Dear, I could go away not weeping now—
God is so gentle with me!’

But He, who drew
Thus from His cloud at last and look'd so kind,
Will'd that Jane Lewson should not die so soon.
The agony did not kill her, and the joy
Sent a fresh life into her languid blood
And saved her. So that soon she rose from bed,
To see the sunshine on her daughter's face,
To see the sunless sisters, who again
Look'd cold as ever.

But a burning fire
From Margaret scorch'd them to the heart, because
They loved the girl; she heap'd upon their heads
Rage and reproaches, mockery and scorn,
Until they cried, ‘You are a wicked girl!
Jane Lewson's shame is on you. After this
We cannot dwell together any more.’
And Margaret would have answer'd fiercelier still,
But that her feeble mother, piteously
Gazing at them to whom in spite of all
Her heart was humble, begg'd her on her knees
For silence; and, thus conquer'd, Margaret
Answer'd her aunts with kisses and with tears
Shower'd on her mother's face.

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That evening,
Margaret held her mother round the neck,
And led her to her lover in the house,
And with her lips set firm together, saying,
‘This is my dear, dear mother,’ told him all,
Concealing nothing. For a time, the man
Look'd startled and appall'd; but being made
Of clay not base, he smiling spake at last,
And stooping softly, kiss'd the thin worn hand—
‘She is my mother, too,—and we will dwell
Together!’

And they dwelt together,—leaving
The dismal dwelling in the smoky square,
To dwell within a cottage close to town;
But Jane lived with them only for a year,
And then, because the heart that had been used
To suffering so long could not endure
To be so happy, died; worn out and tired,
Kissing her child; and as her dying thoughts
Went back along the years, the suffering seem'd
Not such a thankless suffering after all,
But like a faded garment one has learn'd
To love through habit;—and the woman cried
On her stern sisters with her dying breath.

LANGLEY LANE.

A LOVE POEM.

In all the land, range up, range down,
Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet,
As Langley Lane, in London town,
Just out of the bustle of square and street?
Little white cottages, all in a row,
Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow,
Swallows' nests in roof and wall,
And up above the still blue sky,
Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by,—
I seem to be able to see it all!

For now, in summer, I take my chair,
And sit outside in the sun, and hear
The distant murmur of street and square,
And the swallows and sparrows chirping near;
And Fanny, who lives just over the way,
Comes running many a time each day,
With her little hand's-touch so warm and kind;
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek,
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak,—
For Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she
Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes clear,
And I am older by summers three,—
Why should we hold one another so dear?
Because she cannot utter a word,
Nor hear the music of bee or bird,
The water-cart's splash, or the milkman's call.
Because I have never seen the sky,
Nor the little singers that hum and fly,—
Yet know she is gazing upon them all.

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly,
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low,
And I hear the water-cart go by,
With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row;
And the little one, close at my side, perceives
Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves,
Where birds are chirping in summer shine,
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she,
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,—
And the little soft fingers flutter in mine.

Hath not the dear little hand a tongue,
When it stirs on my palm for the love of me?
Do I not know she is pretty and young?
Hath not my soul an eye to see?
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir,
To wonder how things appear to her,
That I only hear as they pass around;

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And as long as we sit in the music and light,
She is happy to keep God's sight,
And I am happy to keep God's sound.

Why, I know her face, though I am blind—
I made it of music long ago:
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined
Round the pensive light of a brow of snow;
And when I sit by my little one,
And hold her hand, and talk in the sun,
And hear the music that haunts the place,
I know she is raising her eyes to me,
And guessing how gentle my voice must be,
And seeing the music upon my face.

Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer,
(I know the fancy is only vain,)
I should pray: Just once, when the weather is fair,
To see little Fanny and Langley Lane;
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear,
The song of the birds, the hum of the street,—
It is better to be as we have been,—
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen,
To make God's heaven more strange and sweet.

Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane!
There is always something sweet to hear;
Chirping of birds, or patter of rain;
And Fanny, my little one, always near;
And though I am weak, and cannot live long,
And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong,
And though we can never married be,—
What then?—since we hold one another so dear,
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear,
And the pleasure that only one can see?

EDWARD CROWHURST;

OR, ‘A NEW POET.’

I.

Potts, in his dusty chamber, writes,
A dilettante lord to please:
A ray of country sunshine lights
The foggy region ruled by these;
Flock, kind advisers, critics sage,
To damn the simple country clown,—
The mud of English patronage
Grows round his feet, and keeps him down.

‘This little mean-faced duodecimo,
“Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer,”
This coarsely-printed little book of rhymes,
Contains within the goodliest gift of song
The gods have graced us with for many a day:
A crystal clearness, as of running brooks.
A music, as of green boughs murmuring,
A peeping of fresh thoughts in shady places
Like violets new-blown, a gleam of dew drops,
A sober, settled, greenness of repose,—
And lying over all, in level beams,
Transparent, sweet, and unmistakable,
The light that never was on sea or land.

‘Let all the greater and the lesser lights
Regard these lines upon a Wood in Spring,
Or those which follow, call'd “the Barley-Bird,”
And then regard their laurels. Melody
More sweet was never blown through pastoral pipe
In Britain, since the Scottish Ramsay died.
Nor let the squeamish dreamers of our time,
Our rainbow bards, despise such song as this,
Wealthy in images the poor man knows,
And household chords that make the women weep.
Simply yet subtly, Edward Crowhurst works:
Singing of lowly truths and homely things—
Death snatching up a cotter's child at play,

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Light flashing from far worlds on dying eyes
That never saw beyond their native fields,
The pathos and the power of common life;
And while, perchance, his deeper vein runs on
Less heeded, by a random touch is waken'd
A scent, a flowër-tint, a wave of wings,
A sense of rustling boughs and running brooks,
Touch'd by whose spell the soul is stirr'd, and eyes
Gaze on the dark world round them, and are dim.

‘This Mister Crowhurst is a poor young man,
Uneducated, doom'd to earn his bread
By working daily at the plough; and yet,
Sometimes in midst of toil, sometimes at night,
Whenever he could snatch a little time,
Hath written down (he taught himself to write!)
His simple verses. Is it meet, we ask,
A nature so superb should languish thus?
Nay, he deserves, if ever man deserved,
The succour of the rich and high in place,
The opportunity to labour less,
And use those truly wondrous gifts of his
In modest competence; and therewithal,
Kindness, encouragement, and good advice,
Such as the cultured give. Even now, we hear,
A certain sum of money is subscribed,
Enough to furnish well his present needs.
Among the donors, named for honour here,
We note the noble Earl of Chremiton,
Lord Phidippus, Lord Gnathos, Lady Dee,
Sir Charles Toroon. But more must yet be done.
We dare to put the case on public grounds,
Since he who writes so nobly is, indeed,
A public benefactor,—with a claim
On all who love to listen and to look,
When the fresh Saxon Muse, in homespun gear,
The free breeze blowing back her loosen'd hair,
Wanders barefooted through the dewy lanes
And sings aloud, till all the valleys ring
For pleasure, and the echoes of the hills
Make sweet accord!’

—Conservative Review.

II. After Ten Years.

A homely matron, who has once been fair,
In quiet suffering old, yet young in years;
Soft threads of silver in her auburn hair,
And lines around the eyes that tell of tears;
But on her face there trembles peaceful light,
That seems a smile, and yet is far less bright,—
To tell of watchings in the shade and sun,
And melancholy duty sweetly done.

What, take away my Teddy? shut him up
Between stone walls, as if he was a thief?
You freeze my blood to talk of such a thing!
Why, these green fields where my old man was born,
The river, and the woodland, and the lanes,
Are all that keep him living: he was ever
O'er fond of things like those; and now, you see,
Is fonder of them than he was before,
Because he thinks so little else is left.
Mad? He's a baby! Would not hurt a fly!
Can manage him as easy as our girl!
And though he was a poet and went wrong,
He could not help his failings. Ah, True Heart,
I love him all the deeper and the dearer!
I would not lose him for the whole wide world!

It came through working lonely in the fields,
And growing shy of cheerful company,
And worrying his wits with idle things
He saw and heard when quiet out o' doors.
For, long ere we were wedded, all the place
Knew Teddy's ways: how mad he was for flowers
And singing birds; how often at the plough
He used to idle, holding up his head
And looking at the clouds; what curious stuff
He used to say about the ways of things;
How week-days he was never company,
Nor tidy on a Sunday. Even then
Folk call'd him stupid: so did I myself,

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At first, before his sheepishness wore off;
And then, why I was frighten'd for a time
To find how wondrous brightly he could look
And talk, when with a girl, and no one by.
Right soon he stole this heart of mine away,
So cunningly I scarcely guess'd 'twas gone,
But found my tongue at work before I knew,
Sounding his praises. Mother shook her head;
But soon it was the common country talk
That he and I were courting.

After that
Some of his sayings and his doings still
Seem'd foolish, but I used to laugh and say,
‘Wait till we marry! I shall make him change!’
And it was pleasant walking after dark,
In summer, wandering up and down the lanes,
And heark'ning to his talk; and pleasant, too,
In winter, to sit cuddling by the fire,
And whispering to the quiet firelight sound
And the slow ticking of the clock. Ere long,
I grew to care for many things he loved.
He knew the names of trees, and birds, and flowers,
Their races and their seasons; named the stars,
Their comings and their goings; and could tell
Strange truths about the manners of the clouds.
Set him before a hedgerow in a lane,
And he was happy all alone for hours.
The woods and fields were full of joy to him,
And wonders, and fine meanings ever new.
How, at the bottom of the wayside well,
The foul toad lies and purifies the drink;
How twice a year red robin sings a song,
Once when the orchis blows its bells in spring,
Once when the gold is on the slanted sheaves;
How late at night the common nightingale
Comes in the season of the barley-sowing,
Silently builds her nest among the boughs,
And then sings out just as the roses blow,
And it is sweet and pleasant in the moon.
Why, half his courtship lay in talk like that,
And, oh! the way he talk'd fill'd high my heart
With pleasure. Then, o' quiet winter nights,
With wild bright eyes and voice that broke for joy,
He often read aloud from books of songs;
One I remember, that I liked the best,
A book of pictures and of love-tales, call'd
‘The Seasons.’ I was young, and did not think
I only felt 'twas fine. Yet now and then
I noticed more, and took a sober fit,
And tried to make him tidy in his clothes,
And could not, though I tried; and used to sigh
When mother mutter'd hints, as mothers will,
That he should work more hard and look ahead,
And save to furnish out a house for me. . . .
For Teddy smiled, poor lad, and work'd more hard,
But save . . . not he! Instead of laying by,
Making a nest to rear the young ones in,
He spent his hard-won cash in buying books,—
Much dusty lumber, torn and black and old,
Long sheets of ballads, bundles of old rhyme,—
And read them, one by one, at home o' nights,
Or out aloud to me, or at the plough.
I chid at first, but quickly held my tongue,
Because he look'd so grieved; and once he said
With broken voice and dew-light in his eyes,
‘Lass, I'm a puzzle to myself and you,
But take away the books, and I should die!’
His back went bare for books, his stomach starved
To buy them,—nay, he pawn'd his jacket once,
To get a dreary string of solemn stuff
All about Eve and Adam. More and more
He slacken'd at his toil; and soon the lad,
Who turn'd the cleanest furrow, when he pleased,
Of all the ploughmen, let his work go spoil,
And fairly led an idle thriftless life
In the green woods and on the river side.

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And then I found that he himself made verse
In secret,—verse about the birds and flowers,
Songs about lovers, rhymes about the stars,
Tales of queer doings in the village here,—
All writ on scraps of paper out-o'-doors,
And hidden in an old tin coffee-pot
Where he had kept his cash. The first I heard
Was just a song all about him and me,
And cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing;
He read it to me, blushing like a girl,
And I was pleased, and laugh'd, and thought it fine,
And wonder'd where he learn'd to make the words
Jingle so sweetly. Then he read me more,
Some that I liked, some that I fancied poor;
And, last of all, one morn in harvest-time,
When all the men were working in the fields,
And he was nearly ragged, out it came—
‘They're reaping corn, and corn brings gold, my lass;
But I will reap gold, too, and fame beside,—
I'm going to print a Book!’

I thought him mad!
The words seem'd dreadful—such a fool was I;
And I was puzzled more when he explain'd:
That he had sent some verses by the post
To a rich man who lived by selling songs
Yonder in London city; that for months
No answer came, and Teddy strain'd his eyes
Into the clouds for comfort; that at last
There came a letter full of wondrous praise
From the great man in London, offering
Poor Teddy, if he sent him verse enough
To make a pretty little printed book,
To value it in money. Till I die,
I'll ne'er forget the light on Teddy's face—
The light, the glory, and the wonder there:
He laugh'd, and read the letter out aloud,
He leapt and laugh'd and kiss'd me o'er and o'er,
And then he read the letter o'er again,
And then turn'd pale, and sank into a chair,
And hid his bright face in his hands, and cried.

Bewilder'd though I was, my heart was glad
To see his happy looks, and pleased beside
That fine folk call'd him clever. I said nought
To mother—for I knew her ways too well—
But waited. Soon came other wondrous news:
The scraps of verse had all been copied out
On fine white sheets, written in Teddy's hand,
Big, round, and clear, like print; and word had come
That they were read and praised by other folk,
Friends of the man in London. Last of all,
One night, when I was ironing the clothes,
And mother knitting sat beside the fire,
In Teddy came—as bright and fresh and gay
As a cock starling hopping from the nest
On May-day; and with laughing eyes he cried,
‘Well, mother, when are Bess and I to wed?’
‘Wed?’ mother snapt, as sour as buttermilk,
‘Wed? when the birds swim, and the fishes fly,
And the green trees grow bread and cheese and butter
For lazy loons that lie beneath and yawn!’
Then Teddy laugh'd aloud, and when I frown'd
And shook my head to warn him, laugh'd the more;
And, drawing out his leathern ploughman's pouch,
‘See, mother, see!’ he cried,—and in her lap
Pour'd thirty golden guineas!

At the first,
I scream'd, and mother look'd afraid to touch
The glittering gold,—and plain enough she said
The gold, she guess'd, was scarcely honest gain;
Then Teddy told her all about his book,
And how those golden guineas were the price
The great rich man in London put upon't.

140

She shook her head the more; and when he read
The great man's letter, with its words of praise,
Look'd puzzled most of all; and in a dream,
Feeling the gold with her thin hand, she sat,
While Teddy, proud dew sparkling in his eyes,
Show'd me in print the little song he made
Of cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing,—
‘And, Bess,’ he cried, ‘the gold will stock a house,
But little 'tis I care about the gold:
This bit of printed verse is sweeter far
Than all the shining wealth of all the world!’
And lifted up the paper to his mouth
And kiss'd the print, then held it out at length
To look upon't with sparkling, happy eyes,
And folded it and put it in his pouch,
As tenderly and carefully, I swear,
As if it were a note upon a bank
For wealth untold. Why linger o'er the tale?—
Though now my poor old man is weak and ill,
Sweet is the telling of his happy time.
The money stock'd a house, and in a month
We two were man and wife.

Teddy was proud
And happy,—busy finishing the book
That was his heart's delight; and as for me,
My thoughts were merry as a running brook,
For Teddy seem'd a wise man after all;
And it was spring-time, and our little home
Was hung with white clematis, porch and wall,
And wall-flower, candituft, and London pride,
All shining round a lilac bush in bloom,
Sweeten'd the little square of garden ground;
And cozy as a finch's mossy nest
Was all within; the little sleeping-room
And red-tiled kitchen; and, made snug and fine
By chairs and tables cut of bran-new deal,
The little parlour,—on the mantel-piece
Field-flowers and ferns and bird's-egg necklaces,
Two pretty pictures pasted on the walls,
(The portraits of one Milton and one Burns,)
And, in the corner Teddy loved the best,
Three shelves to keep the old, black, thumb-mark'd books.

And if my heart had fever, lest the life
Begun so well was over-bright to last,
Teddy could cheer me; for he placed his arm
Around me, looking serious in his joy,
When we were wed three days; and ‘Bess,’ he said,
‘The Lord above is very kind to me;
For He has given me this sweet place and you,
Adding the bliss of seeing soon in print
The verse I love so much.’ Then, kissing me,
‘I have been thinking of it all,’ he said,
‘Holpen a bit by lives of other folk,
Which I have read. Now, many men like me
Grow light o' head and let their labour go;
But men can't live by writing verses, Bess.’
‘Nay, nay,’ cried I, ‘'twere pity if they could,
For every man would try the easier task,
And who would reap the fields or grind the corn?’
And Teddy smiling, said, ‘'Tis so! 'tis so!
Pride shall not puff my wits, but all the day
I will toil happily in the fields I love;
And in the pleasant evenings 'twill be fine
To wander forth and see the world with you,
Or read out poems in the parlour here,
Or take a pen and write, for ease o' heart,
Not praise, not money.’ I was glad tenfold,—
Put all my fears aside, and trusted him,—
And well he kept his word.

Yet ill at ease,
Restless and eager, Teddy waited on,
Until the night a monster parcel came
From London: twelve brown volumes, all the same,
Wide-printed, thin, and on the foremost page,
‘Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer.’
The happiest hour my Teddy ever knew!

141

He turn'd the volumes o'er, examined each,
Counted the sheets, counted the printed lines,
Stared at his name in print, held out the page
At arm's length, feasting with his mouth and eyes.
I wonder'd at his joy, yet, spite o' me,
I shared it. 'Twas so catching. The old tale!
A little thing could make my Teddy's heart
Gay as a bunch of roses, while a great
Went by unheeded like a cannon-ball.
The glowworm is a little common grub,
Yet what a pretty gleam it often sheds;
And that same poor, small, common-looking book,
Set on our table, kept around its leaves
A light like sunshine.

When his joy grew cool,
Teddy took up a book to read it through;
And first he show'd me, next the foremost page,
A bit of writing called the ‘Author's Life,’
Made up of simple things my man had told—
How he was but a lowly labourer,
And how the green fields work'd upon his heart
To write about the pretty things he saw—
All put together by a clever man
In London. For a time he sat and read
In silence, looking happy with his eyes;
But suddenly he started up and groan'd,
Looking as black as bog-mud, while he flung
The book upon the table; and I gript
His arm, and ask'd what ail'd him. ‘Bess,’ he said,
‘The joy o' this has all gone sudden sour,
All through the cruel meddling of a fool:
The story of my life is true enough,
Despite the fine-flown things the teller sticks
Around it—peacock's feathers stuck around
The nest of some plain song-bird; but the end
Is like the garlic flower,—looks fine at first,
But stinks on peeping nearer. Bess, my lass,
I never begg'd a penny in my life,
I sought the help of no man, but could work,
What then? what then? O Bess, 'tis hard, 'tis hard!
They make me go a-begging, book in hand,
As if I were a gipsy of the lanes
Whistling for coppers at an alehouse door!’

I, too, was hurt, but tried to comfort him;
'Twas kindly meant, at least, I thought and said;
But Teddy clench'd his teeth, and sat him down,
And wrote, not rudely, but as if in grief,
To him in London. Till the answer came,
The printed poems cheer'd him, though the book
Had lost a scent that ne'er would come again;
And when the answer came, 'twas like the words
A mother murmurs to a silly child—
A smiling, pitying, quiet kind of tone,
That made him angrier than violent speech;
And at the end a melancholy hint
About ingratitude. Teddy must trust
In those who had his fortune most at heart,
Nor rashly turn his friends to enemies,
Nor meddle with the kindly schemes of those
Who knew the great world better far than he.
Oh, Teddy's eyes were dim with bitter dew!
‘Begging is begging, and I never begg'd!
Shame on me if I ever take their gold!’
I coax'd him to be silent; and though soon
The bitter mood wore off, his gladness lost
The look of happy pride it wore of old.

'Twas happy, happy, in the little home,
And summer round about on wood and field,
And summer on the bit of garden ground.
But soon came news, like whiffs of colour'd smoke,
Blown to us thickly on the idle wind,
And smelling of the city. For the land
Was crying Teddy's praises! Every morn
Came papers full of things about the Book,
And letters full of cheer from distant folk;
And Teddy toil'd away, and tried his best
To keep his glad heart humble. Then, one day,
A smirking gentleman, with inky thumbs,
Call'd, chatted, pried with little fox's eyes
This way and that, and when he went away
He wrote a heap of lying scribble, styled
‘A Summer Morning with the Labourer Bard!’
Then others came: some, mild young gentlemen,
Who chirp'd, and blush'd, and simper'd, and were gone;

142

Some, sallow ladies wearing spectacles,
And pale young misses, rolling languid eyes,
And pecking at the words my Teddy spake
Like sparrows picking seed; and, once or twice,
Plump merry gentlemen who talk'd no stuff,
But chatted sensibly of common things,
And made us feel at home. Ay, not a day
But Teddy must be sent for, from the fields,
To meet with fine-clad strangers from afar.
The village folk began to open eyes
And wonder, but were only more afraid
Of Teddy, gave him hard suspicious looks,
And shunn'd him out-o'-doors. Yet how they throng'd,
Buzzing like humble bees at swarming time,
That morn the oil'd and scented gentleman
(For such we thought him) brought a little note
From Lord Fitztalbot of Fitztalbot Tower,
Yonder across the moorland. 'Twas a line
Bidding my Teddy to the Tower, and he
Who brought it was the footman of my lord.
Well, Teddy went, was many hours away,
And then return'd with cat's-claws round his lips.
‘See!’ Teddy cried, and flung a little purse
Of money in my lap; and I, amazed,
Counted ten golden guineas in my palm,
Then gazed at Teddy, saw how pale he was,
And ask'd what ail'd him. ‘'Tis the money, lass,’
He answer'd, groaning deep. ‘He talk'd, and seem'd
Right kindly; ask'd about my home, and you;
Spoke of the poems, smiled, and bow'd farewell;
And, dropping that same money in my hat,
Bade me go dine below. I burn'd like fire,
Felt choking, yet was fearful to offend,
And took the money, as I might have took
A blazing cinder, bow'd, and came away.
O Lord! O Lord! this comes of yonder loon,
Who sent the book a-begging!’ Then he talk'd—
How fiercely and how wildly, clenching hands:
‘Was not a poet better than a lord?
Why should the cruel people use him so?
Why would the world not leave his home in peace?’
And last, he vow'd to send the money back
But I, though shamed and troubled, thought him wrong,
And vow'd my lord was kind, and meant us well,
And won him o'er at last to keep the purse.
And ah! we found it useful very soon,
When I lay in, and had a dreadful time,
And brought our girl. Then Teddy put aside
All grief and anger; thought of us alone;
Forgot, or nearly, all the praise and blame
Of loveless strangers; and was proud and glad,
Making fond rhymes about the babe and me.

Ah! had the folk but let my man alone,
All would be happy now. He loved his work,
Because it kept him in the fields; he loved
The babe and me; and all he needed more,
To keep his heart content, was pen and ink,
And now and then a book. And as for praise,
He needed it no more than singing birds;
And as for money, why, he wanted none;
And as for prying strangers in the house,
They brought a clumsy painful sense of pride
That made him restless. He was ever shy
Of company—he loved to dream alone—
And the poor life that he had known so long
Was just the kind of life he suited best.
He look'd a fine straight man in homespun gear,
But ne'er seem'd easy in his Sunday coat.

What should his fine friends do at last, but write,
Bidding my man to London,—there to meet
A flock o' gentlefolk, who spent their days
In making books!-Though here we dwell so near,
That northward, far away, you see the sky
Black with the smoky breathing of the city,
We ne'er had wander'd far away from home,
Save once or twice, five miles to westward yonder,
To Kersey Fair. Well, Teddy fix'd to go;
And seeing him full bent, I held my tongue.
And off he set, one day, in Sunday black,
A hazel staff over his shoulder flung,
His bundle swinging,—and was sped by train

143

To London town. Two weeks he stay'd away;
And, when he came from London, he was changed.
His eyes look'd wild, his cheek was pale, his step
Unsteady; when he enter'd, I could smell
Drink in his breath. Full pain'd, and sick at heart,
I question'd him; but he was petulant,
And snapt me short; and when I brought the child,
He push'd her from him. Next day, when he rose,
His face was pallid; but his kindly smile
Came back upon it. Ere the day was out,
He told me of his doings, of the men
And places he had seen, and when, and how.
He had been dull in dwellings of the rich,
Had felt ashamed in great grand drawing-rooms,
And angry that the kindly people smiled
As if in pity; and the time, he said,
Would have gone drearily, had he lack'd the cheer
He chanced to find among some jovial folk
Who lived by making books. Full plain I saw
That something had gone wrong. His ways were strange,
He did not seem contented in his home,
He scarcely glinted at the poor old books
He loved so dearly. In a little time,
Teddy grew more himself, at home, a-field,
And though, from that day forward, he began
To take a glass and smoke a pipe at night,
I scarcely noticed. Thus the year wore on;
And still the papers praised him far away,
And still the letters came from distant folk.

And Teddy had made friends: folk who could talk
About the things he loved, and flatter him,
Ay, laugh aloud to see him drink his glass,
And clap his back, and shake him by the hand,
How wild soe'er he talk'd. For by degrees
His tongue grew freër, he was more at ease
With strangers. Oft he spent the evening hours
With merry-makers in the public-house,
And totter'd home with staring, dazzled eyes.
The country people liked him better now,
And loved to coax him out to drink at night,
And, gaping, heark'd to the strange things he said.
Ah, then my fear grew heavy, though his heart
Was kindly still, his head still clear and wise,
And he went wastering only now and then.

But soon his ways grew better, for his time
Was spent in finishing another book.
Yet then I found him changed in other things;
For once or twice when money as before
Was sent or given him, he only laugh'd,
And took it, not in anger. And, be sure,
Money grew needful in the little home—
Another babe was coming. Babe and book
Were born together, but the first was born
Quiet and breathless. 'Twould be idle talk
To speak about the book. What came of that,
Was much the same as what had come before:
The papers praised it over all the land,
But just a shade more coolly; strange folk wrote,
But not so oft. Yet Teddy was in glee,
For this time fifty golden guineas came
From the rich man in London.

Once again,
They coax'd him up to London; once again,
Home came he changed,—with wilder words of wit,
And sharper sayings, on his tongue. He toil'd
Even less than ever: nay, his idle friends,
Who loved to drain the bottle at his side,
Took up his time full sorely. We began
To want and pinch: more money was subscribed,
And taken:—till at last my man grew sick
Of working in the open fields at all

144

And just as work grew hardest to his mind,
The Lord Fitztalbot pass'd him on the road,
And turn'd his head away. A change had come,
As dreadful as the change within himself.
The papers wrote the praise of newer men,
The strange folk sent him letters scarce at all;
And when he spake about another book,
The man in London wrote a hasty ‘No!’
And said the work had little chance to sell.
Those words were like a sunstroke. Wild and scared,
My Teddy stared at London—all his dreams
Came back upon him—and with bitter tongue
He mock'd and threaten'd. 'Twas of no avail!
His fine-day friends like swallows wing'd away,
The summer being o'er; the country folk
Began to knit their foreheads as of old,
Save one or two renown'd as ne'er-do-wells;
And, mad with pride, bitten with shame and fear,
Teddy drank deeper at the public-house.

Teddy to blame? Teddy to blame? Ah, nay!
The blame be theirs who broke his simple pride
With money, beggar'd him against his will.
The blame be theirs who flatter'd him from home,
And led him out to make his humble ways
An idle show. The blame be theirs who smiled
Whene'er he play'd a wrong and foolish part,
Because he had skill to write a bit of verse.
The blame be theirs who spoil'd him like a child,
And, when the newness of his face was gone,
Turn'd from him scornfully and smiled elsewhere.
Teddy to blame!—a silly, ignorant man,
Not learn'd, not wise, not cunning in the world!

But hearken how I changed him yet once more,
One day when he was sick and ill with pain.
I spake of all our early courting days,
Full low and tender, of the happy time
When I brought forth our girl, and of the words
He spake when we were happy; last of all,
‘Teddy,’ I said, ‘let people be unkind,
The whole world hard, you cannot heal your pain
Wastering, idling; think of merrier days,
Of me, and of our girl, and drink no more.’
He gazed at me full long, his bosom rose
And flutter'd, and he held my hand in his,
And shivering, moaning, sank into a chair;
And, looking at the bookshelf at his side,
And at the common-looking thumb-mark'd books,
He promised, promised, with his poor cheeks wet,
And his voice broken, and his lips set firm.

True Heart, he kept his word. The public-house
Knew him no longer; in the fields he toil'd
Lonely once more; and in the evenings
Read books and wrote,—and all he wrote, I know,
Was sad, sad, sad. Bravely he work'd all day,
But not so cheerfully. And no man cared
To brighten him with goodly words. His face
Was stale with gentlefolk, his heart too proud
To mix with coarse, low men. Oft in the fields
They saw him turn his poor eyes London-wards,
And sigh; but he was silent of the pain
That grew upon him. Slowly he became
The sadden'd picture of his former self:
He stood at ploughtail looking at the clouds,
He watch'd the ways of birds and trees and flowers;
But all the little things he learn'd and loved
Had ta'en a sadder meaning. Oftentimes,
In spite of all he did to hide his heart,
I saw he would have been a happy man

145

If any one had praised him as of old;
But he was never sent for from the fields,
No strangers wrote to cheer him, and he seem'd
All, all, forgotten. Still, as true as steel,
He held his promise to our girl and me,
Though oft, I know, the dreadful longing came
To fly to drink for comfort. Then, one night,
I heard a stirring in the dark: our girl
Crept close to me, and whisper'd in mine ear—
‘Hark! father's crying!’

O 'tis terrible
To hear a strong man weep! I could not bear
To find him grieving so, but crept unto him,
And put my arms about him, on his neck
Weeping, ‘O Teddy, Teddy, do not so!
Cheer up, for you will kill me if you cry.
What do you long for? Why are you so sad?’
And I could feel him crush his hot tears down,
And shake through every limb. ‘O lass!’ he cried,
‘I cannot give a name to what I want;
I cannot tell you why I grow so sad;
But I have lost the pleasure and the peace
The verses brought me. I am sick and changed,—
I think too much of other men,—I seem
Despised and useless. If I did not feel
You loved me so, and were so kind and true,
When all the world is cruel, I should fall
And wither. All my strength is gone away,
And I am broken!’

'Twas but little cheer
That I could give him: that was grief too deep
For foolish me to understand or cure.
I made the little parlour bright o' nights,
Coax'd him to read aloud the books he loved,
And often he was like himself again,
Singing for ease o' heart; and now and then,
A poem printed in a newspaper,
Or something kind from people in the world,
Help'd me a little. So the time wore on;—
Till suddenly, one night in winter time,
I saw him change. Home came he white and pale,
Shivering, trembling, looking wild and strange,
Yet speaking quietly. ‘My head feels queer—
It aches a bit!’ he said; and the next day
He could not rise from bed. Quiet he lay,
But now and then I saw him raise his hand
And hold his forehead. In the afternoon,
He fell to troubled sleep, and, when he woke,
He did not seem to know me. Full of fear,
I sent for Doctor Barth. When Doctor came,
He found poor Teddy tossing on his bed,
Moaning and muttering and clenching teeth,
And Doctor said, ‘The ill is on the brain—
Has he been troubled lately?’ and I cried,
‘Ay, much, much troubled! He has fretted sore
For many months!’

'Twas sad, 'twas sad, to see
My strong man suffer on his dull sick-bed,
Not knowing me, but crying out of things
That haunted him. I will not weary you,
By telling how the Doctor brought him round,
And how at last he rose from bed, the ghost
Of his old self, and something gone away
That never would return. Then it was plain
That he could work no more: the Light had fled,
Which keeps a man a man despite the world
And all its cruel change. To fright the wolf,
I took in washing at the cottage here;
And people sent us money now and then,
And pitying letters reach'd us from the world,
Too late! too late!

146

Thank the good God above,
Who made me strong and willing, I could keep
The little house above us, though 'twas dear,
And ah! I work'd more hard because I knew
Poor Teddy's heart would break outright elsewhere.
Yet Teddy hardly seem'd to comprehend
All that had happen'd. Though he knew me well,
And spake full sensibly of many things,
He lack'd the power to speak of one thing long.
Sometimes he was as merry as a bird,
Singing wild songs he learn'd by heart when young;
Sometimes he wish'd to wander out afield,
But easy 'twas to lead his wits away
To other things. And he was changeful ever,
Now laughing and now crying; and at times
He wrote strange notes to poets that were dead,
And named himself by all their names in turn,
Still making verse, which I had sense to see
Was wild, and strange, and wrong—not like the verse
He made of old. One day for hours he sat,
Looking upon the bit of garden ground,
And smiling. When I spoke, he look'd and laugh'd.
‘Surely you know me, Teddy?’ I exclaim'd;
And up he raised his head, with shrill thin voice
Saying, ‘Yes, you are Queen Elizabeth,
And I am Shakespeare;’ and again he smiled
Craftily to himself; but when I hung
Around his neck, and wept, and ask'd again,
He turn'd upon me with so pale a look,
So wan, so sharp, so full of agony,
'Twas clear the cloud was lifted for a moment,
'Twas clear he knew that he was Teddy Crowhurst,
And that the light of life had gone away.

And oft, in sunny weather, he and I
Had walks in quiet places,—in the lanes,
And in the woods, and by the river side;
And he was happy, prying as of old
In little mossy nests, or plucking flowers,
Or dropping pebbles at the water-brim,
To make the speckled minnows start and fly
In little gleams of light. Ne'er had he been
More cunning in the ways and looks of things,
Though memory fail'd him when he tried for names.
The sable streaks upon the arum-flower
Were strange to him as ever; a lark singing
Made his eyes misty as it used to do;
The shining sun, the waving of green boughs,
The rippling of the river down the dell,
Were still true pleasure. All the seasons brought
Something to charm him. Staring on the snow,
Or making great snow-houses like a boy,
He was as busy when the boughs were bare,
As carrying home a bough of scented May
Or bunch of yellow lilies from the pond.
What had been pleasure in his younger days
Came back to keep him quiet in the world.
He gave much love to trees and birds and flowers,
And, when the mighty world was all unkind,
The little, gentle, speechless things were true.

True Heart, I never thought that he could bear
To last so long; but ten slow years have fled
Since the first book that brought the trouble and pain
Was printed,—and within the parlour there
Teddy is sitting, busy as a bee.
Doing? He dreams the world that knows him not

147

Rings with his praises, and for many an hour
Sits busy with the verse of later years,
Marks, copies, and arranges it with care,
To go to some great printer that he thinks
Is waiting; and from time to time he eyes
The books they printed, numbering the lines,
Counting the pages. Sometimes he is Burns,
Sometimes John Milton, sometimes other men,
And sometimes—always looking saddest then—
Knows he is Teddy Crowhurst. Thin he is,
And worn, and feeble,—wearing slowly down
Like snowdrift; and at times, when Memory
Comes for a moment like a mirror flash'd
Into his eyes, he does not groan and weep,
But droops the more, and seems resign'd and still.
True Heart, I fear the end is near at last!
He sits and hearkens vacantly and dreams,
He thrills at every knocking at the door,
Stilly he waits for light that never comes,
That never will return until the end.
And oft at evening, when my work is done,
And the dark gathers, and he holds my hand,
The waiting grows intenser, and becomes
The sense o' life itself. Take Teddy hence!
Show me the man will draw my hand away!
I am a quiet comfort to his pain;
For though his thoughts be far away from here,
I know he feels my hand; and ah! the touch
Just keeps his heart from breaking. 'Tis my joy
To work where I can watch him through the day,
And quiet him, and see he wants for nought.
He loves to sit among his books and flowers,
And wears away with little pain, and feels
The quiet parlour is a pleasant place;
And there—God bless him!—in a happy time
Teddy will feel the darkness pass away,
And smile farewell upon his wife and girl,
And Light that he has lost will come again
To shine upon him as he goes to sleep.

ARTIST AND MODEL:

A LOVE POEM.

The scorn of the nations is bitter,
But the touch of a hand is warm.

Is it not pleasant to wander
In town on Saturday night,
While people go hither and thither,
And shops shed cheerful light?
And, arm in arm, while our shadows
Chase us along the panes,
Are we not quite as cozy
As down among country lanes?

Nobody knows us, heeds us,
Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly
Than the moon on hedges and trees;
And people coming and going,
All upon ends of their own,
Though they work a spell on the spirit,
Make it more finely alone.

The sound seems harmless and pleasant
As the murmur of brook and wind;
The shops with the fruit and the pictures
Have sweetness to suit my mind;
And nobody knows us, heeds us,
And our loving none reproves,—
I, the poor figure-painter!
You, the lady he loves!

And what if the world should scorn you
For now and again, as you do,
Assuming a country kirtle,
And bonnet of straw thereto,
Or the robe of a vestal virgin,
Or a nun's gray gabardine,
And keeping a brother and sister
By standing and looking divine?

And what if the world, moreover,
Should silently pass me by,
Because at the dawn of the struggle,
I labour some stories high!

148

Why, there's comfort in waiting, working,
And feeling one's heart beat right,—
And rambling alone, love-making,
In London on Saturday night.

For when, with a blush Titianic,
You peep'd in that lodging of mine,
Did I not praise the good angels
For sending a model so fine?
When I was fill'd with the pureness
You brought to the lonely abode,
Did I not learn to love you?
And—did Love not lighten the load?

And haply, indeed, little darling,
While I yearn'd and plotted and plann'd,
And you watch'd me in love and in yearning
Your heart did not quite understand
All the wonder and aspiration
You meant by your loveliness,
All the faith in the frantic endeavour
Your beautiful face could express!

For your love and your beauty have thriven
On things of a low degree,
And you do not comprehend clearly
The drift of a dreamer like me;
And perchance, when you look'd so divinely,
You meant, and meant only, to say:
‘How sad that he dwells in a garret!
And lives on so little a day!’

What of that? If your sweetness and beauty,
And the love that is part of thee,
Were mirror'd in wilder visions,
And express'd much more to me,
Did the beautiful face, my darling,
Need subtler, loftier lore?—
Nay, beauty is all our wisdom,—
We painters demand no more.

Indeed, I had been no painter,
And never could hope to rise,
Had I lack'd the power of creating
The meanings for your sweet eyes;
And what you were really thinking
Scarcely imported, in sooth,—
Since the truth we artists fail for,
Is the truth that looks the truth.

Your beautiful face was before me,
Set in its golden hair;
And the wonder and love and yearning
Were shining sublimely there!
And your eyes said—‘Work for glory!
Up, up, where the angels call!’
And I understood, and I labour'd,
And I love the face for it all!

I am talking, you think, so strangely!
And you watch with wondering eyes!—
Could I utter one half of the yearning
Your face, even now, implies!
But the yearning will not be utter'd,
And never, ah! never can be,
Till the work of the world is over,
And we see as immortals see.

Yet bless thee for ever and ever,
For keeping me humble and true,
And would that my Art could utter
The wisdom I find in you.
Enough to labour and labour,
And to feel one's heart beat right,
And to wander unknown, love-making,
In London on Saturday night!

You think: ‘How dearly I love him!
How dearly he loves me!
How sweet to live on, and love him,
With children at my knee!
With the useless labour over,
And comfort and leisure won,
And clever people praising
The work that he has done!’

I think: ‘How dearly I love her!
How dearly she loves me!
Yet the beauty the heart would utter
Endeth in agony;
And life is a climbing, a seeking
Of something we never can see!
And death is a slumber, a dreaming
Of something that may not be!’

And your face is sweetly troubled,
Your little hand stirs on mine own,
For you guess at a hidden meaning,
Since I speak in so tender a tone;
And you rain the yearning upon me
You brought to my help before,
And I ask no mightier wisdom,—
We painters demand no more.

149

And we shall live, my darling,
Together till we grow old,
And people will buy my pictures,
And you will gather the gold,
And your loveliness will reward me,
And sanctify all I do,
And toiling for Love's sake, darling,
I may toil for Fame's sake, too.

Ah, dearest, how much you teach me,
How much of hope and of light,
Up yonder, planning and painting,
And here on Saturday night;
And I turn sad eyes no longer
From the pageant that passes around,
And the vision no more seems weary,
And the head may yet be crown'd!

And I ask no more from mortals
Than your beautiful face implies,—
The beauty the artist beholding
Interprets and sanctifies.
Who says that men have fallen,
That life is wretched and rough?
I say, the world is lovely,
And that loveliness is enough.

So my doubting days are ended,
And the labour of life seems clear;
And life hums deeply around me,
Just like the murmur here,
And quickens the sense of living,
And shapes me for peace and storm,—
And dims my eyes with gladness
When it glides into colour and form!

His form and His colour, darling,
Are all we apprehend,
Though the meaning that underlies them
May be utter'd in the end;
And I seek to go no deeper
Than the beauty and wonder there,
Since the world can look so wondrous,
And your face can look so fair.

For ah! life's stream is bitter,
When too greedily we drink,
And I might not be so happy
If I knew quite all you think;
And when God takes much, my darling,
He leaves us the colour and form,—
The scorn of the nations is bitter,
But the touch of a hand is warm.

NELL.

She gazes not at her who hears,
But, while the gathering darkness cries,
Stares at the vacancy through tears,
That burn upon her glistening eyes,
Yet do not flow. Her hair falls free
Around a face grown deathly thin;
Her elbow rests upon her knee,
And in her palms she props her chin.

See, Nan! his little face looks pinch'd with fright,
His little hands are clench'd together tight!
Born dead, that's comfort! quiet too; when one
Thinks of what kill'd him! Kiss him, Nan, for me.
Thank God, he never look'd upon the sun
That saw his father hang'd on gallowstree.
O boy, my boy! you're better dead and sleeping,
Kill'd by poor mother's fear, and shame, and weeping:
She never loved another living man,
But held to father all thro' right and wrong—
Ah, yes! I never turn'd against him, Nan,
I stuck by him that stuck by me so long!

You're a kind woman, Nan! ay, kind and true!
God will be good to faithful folk like you!
You knew my Ned?
A better, kinder lad never drew breath—
We loved each other true, though never wed
In church, like some who took him to his death:
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost
His senses when he took a drop too much—
Drink did it all—drink made him mad when cross'd—
He was a poor man, and they're hard on such.
O Nan! that night! that night!
When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candle-light,
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turn'd, and saw him standing yonder, white

150

And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!
And when I caught his arm and call'd, in fright,
He push'd me, swore, and to the door he pass'd
To lock and bar it fast!
Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,
And—Nan!—just then the light seem'd growing brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,
All red! all bloody red!
What could I do but scream? He groan'd to hear,
Jump'd to his feet, and gripp'd me by the wrist;
‘Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!’ he hiss'd.
And I was still, for fear.
‘They're after me—I've knifed a man!’ he said.
‘Be still!—the drink—drink did it—he is dead!’
And as he said the word, the wind went by
With a whistle and cry—
The room swam round—the babe unborn seem'd to scream out, and die!

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep—
All I could do was cling to Ned and heark—
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,
But breathing hard and deep.
The candle flicker'd out—the room grew dark—
And—Nan!—although my heart was true and tried,—
When all grew cold and dim,
I shudder'd—not for fear of them outside,
But just afraid to be alone with him.
For winds were wailing—the wild rain cried,—
Folk's footsteps sounded down the court and died—
What could I do but clasp his knees and cling?
And call his name beneath my breath in pain?
Until he threw his head up, listening,
And gave a groan, and hid his face again;
‘Ned! Ned!’ I whisper'd—and he moan'd and shook—
But did not heed or look!
‘Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!’
At that he raised his head and look'd so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
His arms around me, crying like a child,
And held me close—and not a word was spoken—
While I clung tighter to his heart and press'd him—
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken—
But kiss'd his poor stain'd hands, and cried, and bless'd him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold
With sound o' falling rain,—
When I could see his face, and it look'd old,
Like the pinch'd face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet.
And Ned leap'd up, and knew that they had come.
‘Run, Ned!’ I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!
‘Hide, Ned!’ I scream'd, and held him— ‘hide thee, man!’
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken'd, Nan!
And all the rest is like a dream—the sound
Of knocking at the door—
A rush of men—a struggle on the ground—
A mist—a tramp—a roar;
For when I got my senses back again,
The room was empty—and my head went round!
The neighbours talk'd and stirr'd about the lane,
And Seven Dials made a moaning sound;
And as I listen'd, lass, it seem'd to me
Just like the murmur of the great dark Sea,
And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown'd!

151

God help him? God will help him! Ay, no fear!
It was the drink, not Ned—he meant no wrong;
So kind! so good!—and I am useless here,
Now he is lost that loved me true and long.
Why, just before the last of it, we parted,
And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted;
And ah, my heart was broke! and ah, I cried
And kiss'd him,—till they took me from his side;
And though he died that way, (God bless him!) Ned
Went through it bravely, calm as any there:
They've wrought their fill of spite upon his head,
And—there's the hat and clothes he used to wear!

. . . That night before he died,
I didn't cry—my heart was hard and dried;
But when the clocks went ‘one,’ I took my shawl
To cover up my face, and stole away,
And walk'd along the silent streets, where all
Look'd cold and still and gray,—
Only the lamps o' London here and there
Scatter'd a dismal gleaming;
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
Ay, like a woman dreaming:
But just as ‘three’ was sounded close at hand,
I started and turn'd east, before I knew,—
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand,
And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo.
How I remember all I saw, although
'Twas only like a dream!—
The long still lines o' lights, the chilly gleam
Of moonshine on the deep black stream below;
While far, far, far away, along the sky
Streaks soft as silver ran,
And the pale Moon look'd paler up on high,
And little sounds in far-off streets began!
Well, while I stood, and waited, and look'd down,
And thought how sweet 'twould be to drop and drown,
Some men and lads went by,
And turning round, I gazed, and watch'd 'em go,
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
And drew my shawl more tight, and follow'd slow.
How clear I feel it still!
The streets grew light, but rain began to fall;
I stopp'd and had some coffee at a stall,
Because I felt so chill;
A cock crew somewhere, and it seem'd a call
To wake the folk who kill!
The man who sold the coffee stared at me!
I must have been a sorry sight to see!
More people pass'd—a country cart with hay
Stopp'd close beside the stall,—and two or three
Talk'd about it! I moan'd, and crept away!

Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place,
All in the falling rain,
I went, and kept my shawl upon my face,
And felt no grief or pain—
Only the wet that soak'd me through and through
Seem'd cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch—
It made the streets more drear and silent, too,
And kept away the light I fear'd so much.
Slow, slow the wet streets fill'd, and all seem'd going,
Laughing and chatting, the same way,
And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing,
Though still the rain fell fast and darken'd day!
Nan!—every pulse was burning—I could feel
My heart was made o' steel—
As crossing Ludgate Hill, I saw, all blurr'd,
Saint Paul's great clock and heard it slowly chime,

152

And hadn't power to count the strokes I heard,
But strain'd my eyes and saw it wasn't time.
Ah! then I felt I dared not creep more near,
But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill,
And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear
The people gathering still!
And still the rain was falling, falling,
And deadening the hum I heard from there;
And wet and stiff, I heard the people calling,
And watch'd the rain-drops glistening down my hair,
My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead,—
My shawl thrown off, now none could see,—my head
Dripping and wild and bare.
I heard the crying of a crowd of men,
And next, a hollow sound I knew full well,
For something gripp'd me round the heart!—and then
There came the solemn tolling of a bell!
O God! O God! how could I sit close by,
And neither scream nor cry?
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,
I listen'd, listen'd, listen'd, still and dumb,
While the folk murmur'd, and the death-bell toll'd,
And the day brighten'd, and his time had come. . . .
. . . Till—Nan!—all else was silent, but the knell
Of the slow bell!
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait,
And what I waited for I couldn't tell,—
At last there came a groaning deep and great—
Saint Paul's struck ‘eight’—
I scream'd, and seem'd to turn to fire, and fell!

God bless him, live or dead!
Oh, he was kind and true—
They've wrought their fill of spite upon his head—
Why didn't they be kind, and take me too?
And there's the dear old things he used to wear,
And here's a lock o' hair!
And Ned! my Ned!
Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call;—
God bless you, Nan, for all you've done and said,
But don't mind me! My heart is broke, that's all!

ATTORNEY SNEAK.

Sharp like a tyrant, timid like a slave,
A little man, with yellow, bloodless cheek;
A snappish mingling of the fool and knave,
Resulting in the hybrid compound—Sneak.

Put execution in on Mrs. Hart—
If people will be careless, let them smart:
Oh, hang her children! just the common cry!
Am I to feed her family? Not I.
I'm tender-hearted, but I dare be just,—
I never go beyond the law, I trust;
I've work'd my way, plotted and starved and plann'd,
Commenced without a penny in my hand,
And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham—
No! I'm a man of principle, I am.

What's that you say? Oh, father has been here?
Of course, you sent him packing? Dear, oh, dear!
When one has work'd his weary way, like me,
To comfort and respectability,
Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two,
And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew,
Can look the laws of England in the face,
'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace,
That one's own father—old and worn and gray—
Should be the only hindrance in his way.
Swore, did he? Very pretty! Threaten'd? Oh!
Demanded money? You, of course, said ‘No’?
'Tis hard—my life will never be secure—
He'll be my ruin some day, I am sure.

153

I don't deny my origin was low—
All the more credit to myself, you know:
Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp,
Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp,
Who travell'd over England with a pack,
And carried me about upon his back,
Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs,
Cheating the silly women with his wares,
Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food,
Pilfering odds and ends where'er he could,
And resting in a city now and then,
Till it became too hot,—and off again.
Beat me? No, he knew better. I confess
He used me with a sort of tenderness;
But would have warp'd my nature into sin,
Had I been weak, for lack of discipline,
Why, even now, I shudder to the soul,
To think how oft I ate the food he stole,
And how I wore upon my back the things
He won by cheats and lawless bargainings.
Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say;
But, without principle, what good are they?
He swindled and he stole on every hand,
And I was far too young to reprimand;
And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect,
And might have been committed for neglect.

Ah! how I managed, under stars so ill,
To thrive at all, to me is mystery still.
In spite of father, though, I got along,
And early learn'd to judge the right from wrong;
At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed,
He gave me lessons how to write and read,
I got a snack of schooling here and there,
And learn'd to sum by instinct, as it were.
Then, latterly, when I was seventeen,
All sorts of evil I had heard and seen;
Knew father's evil ways, bemoan'd my fate,
Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great;
Swore, with the fond ambition of a lad,
To make good use of what poor gifts I had.

At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down,
Hither I turn'd my thoughts,—to London town;
And finally, with little doubt or fear,
Made up my mind to try my fortune here.
Well, father stared at first, and shook his head;
But when he found I held to what I said,
He clasp'd me tight, and hugg'd me to his heart,
And begg'd and pray'd tha I would not depart;
Said I was all for whom he had to care,
His only joy in trudging here and there;
Vow'd, if I ever left him, he would die,—
Then, last of all, of course, began to cry.
You know how men of his position feel?
Selfish, at best, even when it is real!
I tried to smooth him over, and, next day,
I pack'd what things I had, and ran away.

I need not tell you all my weary fight,
To get along in life, and do aright—
How often people, when I sought a place,
Still push'd my blessed father in my face;
Until, at last, when I was almost stark,
Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk;
How from that moment, by avoiding wrong,
Possessing principle, I got along;
Read for the law, plotted, and dream'd, and plann'd,
Until—I reach'd the height on which I stand.

'Twas hard, 'twas hard! Just as my business grows,
In father pops his miserable nose,
Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress,
And worn tenfold with want and wickedness;
Calls me hard names because I wish'd to rise;
Here, in the office, like a baby cries;
Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace,
Till, red as fire, I coax'd him from the place.
What could I do under so great a blow?
I gave him money, tried to make him go;
But ah! he meant to rest, I plain could see,
His ragged legs 'neath my mahogany!
No principle! When I began complaining,
How he would be my ruin by remaining,
He turn'd upon me, white and wild, and swore,
And would have hit me, had I utter'd more

154

‘Tommy,’ he dared to say, ‘you've done amiss;
I never thought to see you come to this.
I would have stopp'd you early on the journey,
If I had ever thought you'd grow attorney,
Sucking the blood of people here in London;
But you have done it, and it can't be undone.
And, Tommy, I will do my best to see
You don't at all disgrace yourself and me.’

I rack'd my brains, I moan'd and tore my hair,
Saw nothing left but ruin and despair;
Father at hand, why, all would deem me low:
‘Sneak's father? humph!’—the business would go.
The labour of long years would come to nought!
At last I hit upon a happy thought:
Why should not father, if he pleased to be,
Be decent and respectable like me;
He would be glad and grateful, if a grain
Of principle were settled in his brain.
I made the offer,—proud he seem'd and glad.—
There rose a hope he'd change to good from bad,
Though, ‘Tommy, 'tis a way of getting bread
I never thought to come upon,’ he said;
And so I placed him in the office here,
A clerk at five and thirty pounds a year.

I put it to you, could a man do more?
I felt no malice, did not close my door,
Gave him the chance to show if he was wise:
He had the world before him, and could rise.

Well, for a month or more, he play'd no tricks,
Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six,
Not smart, of course, or clever, like the rest,
But trying, it appear'd, to do his best;
But by and by he changed—old fire broke out—
He snapp'd when seniors order'd him about—
Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk—
Would sit for precious hours before his work,
And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare
Out through the window at the empty air,
And watch the sunshine lying in the lane,
Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane,
And look as sad and worn and grieved and strange
As if he ne'er had had a chance to change;
Came one day staggering in a drunken fit;
Flatly refused one day to serve a writ.
I talk'd, appeal'd, talk'd of my honest name,
He stared, turn'd pale, swore loud, and out it came:
He hated living with that monkey crew,
Had tried his best and found it would not do;
He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears
Of people with the Law about their ears,
Would rather steal his meals from place to place,
Than bring the sorrow to a poor man's face—
In fact, you see, he hated all who pay,
Or seek their moneys in the honest way;
Moreover, he preferr'd a roadside crust,
To cleanly living with the good and just:
Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down,
He could not bear to stagnate in a town;
To stick in a dark office in a street,
Was downright misery to a man with feet;
Serving the law was more than he could bear,
Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air.

Mark that! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad!
His want of principle had made him mad.
I gave him money, sent him off by train,
And trusted ne'er to see his face again.

But he came back. Of course. Look'd wan and ill,
More ragged and disreputable still.
Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men,
I granted him another trial then.
Still the old story—the same vacant stare
Out through the window at the empty air,

155

More watching of the sunshine in the lane,
And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane,
Then more of tipsiness and drunken dizziness,
And rage at things done in the way of business.
I saw the very office servants sneer,
And I determined to be more severe.
At last, one winter morn, I went to him,
And found him sitting, melancholy, grim,
Sprawling like any schoolboy on his seat,
And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet:
Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits,
Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine-tails, labell'd ‘Writs;’
There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw,
Drinking a cup of poison, labell'd ‘Law;’
Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile
Of old indictments with a crafty smile,
And sticking Lawyers on an office file!
And in a corner, wretchedly devised,
A shape in black, that kick'd and agonised,
Strung by a pauper to a gallows great,
And underneath it written, ‘Tommie's fate!’
I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside,
Produced a bunch of documents, and cried:
‘Now, father, no more nonsense! You must be
No more a plague and a disgrace to me—
If you won't work like others, you must quit;
See, here are two subpœnas, there a writ,
Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-so.
Be sharp,—and mind your conduct, or you go.’
He never said a word, but with a glare
All round him, drew his thin hand through his hair,
Turn'd white, and took the paper silently,
Put on his hat, and peep'd again at me.
Then quietly, not like a man in ire,
Threw all the precious papers on the fire!
And turning quickly, crying with a shout,
‘You, and your documents, be damn'd!’ went out.

He came again! Ay, after wandering o'er
The country as of old, he came once more.
I gave him money, off he went; and then,
After a little year, he came again;
Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and poor,
And he will be my ruin, I am sure.
He tells the same old tale from year to year,
How to his heart I ever will be dear;
Or oft into a fit of passion flies,
Calls me ungrateful and unkind,—then cries,
Raves of his tenderness and suffering,
And mother's too—and all that sort of thing!
He haunts me ever like a goblin grim,
And—to be candid—I'm afraid of him;
For, ah! all now is hopeless, to my cost,—
Through want of principle the man is lost.

—That's Badger, is it? He must go to Vere,
The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here.
Say, for his children's sake, we may relent,
If he'll renew at thirty-five per cent.

BARBARA GRAY.

A mourning woman, robed in black,
Stands in the twilight, looking back;
Her hand is on her heart, her head
Bends musingly above the Dead,
Her face is plain, and pinch'd, and thin,
But splendour strikes it from within.

I.

‘Barbara Gray!
Pause, and remember what the world will say,’
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled,
When he was breathing on his dying bed;
But when, with heart grown bold,
I cross'd the threshold cold,
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead.

II.

And all the house of death was chill and dim,
The dull old housekeeper was looking grim,
The hall-clock ticking slow, the dismal rain
Splashing by fits against the window-pane,
The garden shivering in the twilight dark,
Beyond, the bare trees of the empty park,
And faint gray light upon the great cold bed,
And I alone; and he I turn'd from,—dead

156

III.

Ay, ‘dwarf’ they called this man who sleeping lies;
No lady shone upon him with her eyes,
No tender maiden heard his true-love vow,
And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow.
What cared John Hamerton? With light, light laugh,
He halted through the streets upon his staff;
Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace
And sweetness in his pale and quiet face;
Fire, hell's or heaven's, in his eyes of blue;
Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto;
Could win a woman's Soul with what he said,
And I am here; and here he lieth dead.

IV.

I would not blush if the bad world saw now
How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow!
Ay, kiss it, kiss it, o'er and o'er again,
With all the love that fills my heart and brain.

V.

For where was man had stoop'd to me before,
Though I was maiden still, and girl no more?
Where was the spirit that had deign'd to prize
The poor plain features and the envious eyes?
What lips had whisper'd warmly in mine ears?
When had I known the passion and the tears?
Till he I look on sleeping came unto me,
Found me among the shadows, stoop'd to woo me,
Seized on the heart that flutter'd withering here,
Stung it and wrung it with new joy and fear,
Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day,
Waken'd the dead heart, withering away,
Put thorns and roses on the unhonour'd head,
That felt but roses till the roses fled!
Who, who, but he crept unto sunless ground,
Content to prize the faded face he found?
John Hamerton, I pardon all—sleep sound, my love, sleep sound!

VI.

What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin?
Did he not think me fair enough to win?
Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none,
Living or dead, save he alone, had done?
Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne'er
The full of life and love had mantled there?
And I am all alone; and here lies he,—
The only man that ever smiled on me.

VII.

Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies,
The light all faded from his winsome eyes:
Alone, alone, alone, he slumbers here,
With wife nor little child to shed a tear!
Little, indeed, to him did nature give;
Nor was he good and pure as some that live,
But pinch'd in body, warp'd in limb,
He hated the bad world that loved not him!

VIII.

Barbara Gray!
Pause, and remember how he turn'd away;
Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay!
Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong
Of pining lonely in the dark so long;
Think of the comfort in the grief he brought.
The revelation in the love he taught.
Then, Barbara Gray!
Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will say;
But kiss him, kiss him, o'er and o'er again,
In passion and in pain,
With all the love that fills your heart and brain!
Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed,
For you have lived, and here your love lies dead.

157

THE BLIND LINNET.

τι γαρ εδει μ' οραν,
οτω γ' ορωντι μηδεν ην ιδειν γλυκυ;
Soph. Œd. Tyr.

I.

The sempstress's linnet sings
At the window opposite me;—
It feels the sun on its wings,
Though it cannot see.
Can a bird have thoughts? May be.

II.

The sempstress is sitting,
High o'er the humming street,
The little blind linnet is flitting
Between the sun and her seat.
All day long
She stitches wearily there,
And I know she is not young,
And I know she is not fair;
For I watch her head bent down
Throughout the dreary day,
And the thin meek hair o' brown
Is threaded with silver gray;
And now and then, with a start
At the fluttering of her heart,
She lifts her eyes to the bird,
And I see in the dreary place
The gleam of a thin white face.
And my heart is stirr'd.

III.

Loud and long
The linnet pipes his song!
For he cannot see
The smoky street all round,
But loud in the sun sings he,
Though he hears the murmurous sound;
For his poor, blind eyeballs blink,
While the yellow sunlights fall,
And he thinks (if a bird can think)
He hears a waterfall,
Or the broad and beautiful river
Washing fields of corn,
Flowing for ever
Through the woods where he was born;
And his voice grows stronger,
While he thinks that he is there,
And louder and longer
Falls his song on the dusky air,
And oft, in the gloaming still,
Perhaps (for who can tell?)
The musk and the muskatel,
That grow on the window sill,
Cheat him with their smell.

IV.

But the sempstress can see
How dark things be;
How black through the town
The stream is flowing;
And tears fall down
Upon her sewing.
So at times she tries,
When her trouble is stirr'd
To close her eyes,
And be blind like the bird.
And then, for a minute,
As sweet things seem,
As to the linnet
Piping in his dream!
For she feels on her brow
The sunlight glowing,
And hears nought now
But a river flowing—
A broad and beautiful river,
Washing fields of corn,
Flowing for ever
Through the woods where she was born—
And a wild bird winging
Over her head, and singing!
And she can smell
The musk and the muskatel
That beside her grow,
And, unaware,
She murmurs an old air
That she used to know!

`TIGER BAY:

A STORMY NIGHT'S DREAM.

I. The Tigress.

A Dream I had in the dead of night:
Darkness—the Jungle—a black Man sleeping—
Head on his arm, with the moon-dew creeping
Over his face in a silvern light:

158

The Moon was driving, the Wind was crying;
Two great lights gleam'd, round, horrid, and red,
Two great eyes, steadfast beside the bed
Where the man was lying.
Hark! hark!
What wild things cry in the dark?
Only the Wind as it raves,
Only the Beasts in their caves,
Where the Jungle waves.

The man slept on, and his face was bright,
Tender and strange, for the man was dreaming—
Coldly the light on his limbs was gleaming,
On his jet-black limbs and their folds of white;—
Leprous-spotted, and gaunt, and hated,
With teeth protruding and hideous head,
Her two eyes burning so still, so red,
The Tigress waited.
Hark! hark!
The wild things cry in the dark;
The Wind whistles and raves,
The Beasts groan in their caves,
And the Jungle waves.

From cloud to cloud the cold Moon crept,
The silver light kept coming and going—
The Jungle under was bleakly blowing,
The Tigress watch'd, and the black Man slept.
The Wind was wailing, the Moon was gleaming:
He stirr'd and shiver'd, then raised his head:—
Like a thunderbolt the Tigress sped,
And the Man fell screaming—
Hark! hark!
The wild things cry in the dark;
The wild Wind whistles and raves,
The Beasts groan in their caves,
And the Jungle waves.

II. 'Ratcliffe Meg.

Then methought I saw another sight:
Darkness—a Garret—a rushlight dying—
On the broken-down bed a Sailor lying,
Sleeping fast, in the feeble light;—
The Wind is wailing, the Rain is weeping
She croucheth there in the chamber dim,
She croucheth there with her eyes on him
As he lieth sleeping—
Hark! hark!
Who cries outside in the dark?
Only the Wind on its way,
Only the wild gusts astray,
In Tiger Bay.

Still as a child the Sailor lies:—
She waits—she watches—is she human?
Is she a Tigress? is she a Woman?
Look at the gleam of her deep-set eyes!
Bloated and stain'd in every feature,
With iron jaws, throat knotted and bare,
Eyes deep sunken, jet black hair,
Crouches the creature.
Hark! hark!
Who cries outside in the dark?
Only the Wind on its way,
Only the wild gusts astray,
In Tiger Bay.

Hold her! scream! or the man is dead;
A knife in her tight-clench'd hand is gleaming;
She will kill the man as he lieth dreaming!
Her eyes are fixed, her throat swells red.
The Wind is wailing, the Rain is weeping;
She is crawling closer—O Angels that love him!
She holds her breath and bends above him,
While he stirreth sleeping.
Hark! hark!
Who cries outside in the dark?
Only the Wind on its way,
Only the wild gusts astray
In Tiger Bay.

A silken purse doth the sleeper clutch,
And the gold peeps through with a fatal glimmer!
She creepeth near—the light grows dimmer—
Her thick throat swells, and she thirsts to touch.
She looks—she pants with a feverish hunger—
She dashes the black hair out of her eyes—

159

She glares at his face . . . he smiles and sighs—
And the face looks younger.
Hark! hark!
Who cries outside in the dark?
Only the Wind on its way,
Only the wild gusts astray
In Tiger Bay.

She gazeth on,—he doth not stir—
Her fierce eyes close, her brute lip quivers;
She longs to strike, but she shrinks and shivers:
The light on his face appalleth her.
The Wind is wailing, the Rain is weeping:
Something holds her—her wild eyes roll;
His Soul shines out, and she fears his Soul,
Tho' he lieth sleeping.
Hark! hark!
Who cries outside in the dark?
Only the Wind on its way,
Only the wild gusts astray
In Tiger Bay.

III. Intercession.

I saw no more, but I woke,—and prayed:
‘God! that made the Beast and the Woman!
God of the tigress! God of the human!
Look to these things whom Thou hast made!
Fierce and bloody and famine-stricken,
Knitted with iron vein and thew—
Strong and bloody, behold the two!—
We see them and sicken.
Mark! mark!
These outcasts fierce of the dark;
Where murmur the Wind and the Rain,
Where the Jungle darkens the plain,
And in street and lane.’

God answer'd clear, ‘My will be done!
Woman-tigress and tigress-woman—
I made them both, the beast and the human,
But I struck a spark in the brain of the one.
And the spark is a fire, and the fire is a spirit;
Tho' ye may slay it, it cannot die—
Nay, it shall grow as the days go by,
For my Angels are near it—
Mark! mark!
Doth it not burn in the dark?
Spite of the curse and the stain,
Where the Jungle darkens the plain,
And in street and lane.’

God said, moreover: ‘The spark shall grow—
'Tis blest, it gathers, its flame sha lighten,
Bless it and nurse it—let it brighten!
'Tis scatter'd abroad, 'tis a Seed I sow.
And the Seed is a Soul, and the Soul is the Human;
And it lighteth the face with a sign and a flame.
Not unto beasts have I given the same,
But to man and to woman.
Mark! mark!
The light shall scatter the dark:
Where murmur the Wind and the Rain,
Where the Jungle darkens the plain,
And in street and lane.’

. . . So faint, so dim, so sad to seeing,
Behold it burning! Only a spark!
So faint as yet, and so dim to mark,
In the tigress-eyes of the human being.
Fan it, feed it, in love and duty,
Track it, watch it in every place,—
Till it burns the bestial frame and face
To its own dim beauty.
Mark! mark!
A spark that grows in the dark;
A spark that burns in the brain;
Spite of the Wind and the Rain,
Spite of the Curse and the Stain;
Over the Sea and the Plain,
And in street and lane.

THE CITY ASLEEP.

Still as the Sea serene and deep,
When all the winds are laid,
The City sleeps—so still, its sleep
Maketh the soul afraid.

Over the living waters, see!
The Seraphs shining go,—
The Moon is gliding hushfully
Through stars like flakes of snow.

160

In pearl-white silver here and there
The fallen moon-rays stream:
Hark! a dull stir is in the air,
Like the stir of one in dream.

Through all the thrilling waters creep
Deep throbs of strange unrest,
Like washings of the windless Deep
When it is peacefullest.

A little while—God's breath will go,
And hush the flood no more;
The dawn will break—the wind will blow,
The Ocean rise and roar.

Each day with sounds of strife and death
The waters rise and call;
Each midnight, conquer'd by God's breath,
To this dead calm they fall.

Out of His heart the fountains flow,
The brook, the running river,
He marks them strangely come and go,
For ever and for ever.

Till darker, deeper, one by one,
After a weary quest,
They, from the light of moon and sun,
Flow back, into His breast.

Love, hold my hand! be of good cheer!
For His would be the cost,
If, out of all the waters here,
One little drop were lost.

Heaven's eyes above the waters dumb
Innumerably yearn;
Out of His heart each drop hath come,
And thither must return.

UP IN AN ATTIC.

‘Do you dream yet, on your old rickety sofa, in the dear old ghastly bankrupt garret at No. 66?’—Gray to Buchanan (see The Life of David Gray).

Half of a gold-ring bright,
Broken in days of old,
One yellow curl, whose light
Gladden'd my gaze of old;
A sprig of thyme thereto,
Pluckt on the mountains blue,
When in the gloaming-dew
We roamed erratic;
Last, an old Book of Song,—
These have I treasured long,
Up in an Attic.

Held in one little hand,
They gleam in vain to me:
Of Love, Fame, Fatherland,
All that remain to me!
Love, with thy wounded wing,
Up the skies lessening,
Sighing, too sad to sing!
Fame, dead to pity!
Land,—that denied me bread!
Count me as lost and dead,
Tomb'd, in the City.

Daily the busy roar,
Murmur and motion here;
Surging against its shore,
Sighs a great Ocean here!
But night by night it flows
Slowly to strange repose,
Calm and more calm it grows
Under the moonshine:
Then, only then, I peer
On each old souvenir
Shut from the sunshine.

Half of a ring of gold,
Tarnish'd and yellow now,
Broken in days of old,
Where is thy fellow now?
Upon the heart of her?
Feeling the sweet blood stir,
Still (though the mind demur)
Kept as a token?
Ah! doth her heart forget?
Or, with the pain and fret
Is that, too, broken?

Thin threads of yellow hair,
Clipt from the brow of her,
Lying so faded there,—
Why whisper now of her?
Strange lips are press'd unto
The brow o'er which ye grew,
Strange fingers flutter through
The loose long tresses.
Doth she remember still,
Trembling, and turning chill
From his caresses?

161

Sprig from the mountains blue
Long left behind me now,
Of moonlight, shade, and dew,
Wherefore remind me now?
Cruel and chill and gray,
Looming afar away,
Dark in the light of day,
Shall the Heights daunt me?
My footsteps on the hill
Are overgrown,—yet still
Hill-echoes haunt me!

Book of Byronic Song,
Put with the dead away,
Wherefore wouldst thou prolong
dreams that have fled away?
Thou art an eyeless skull,
Dead, fleshless, cold, and null,
Complexionless, dark, dull,
And superseded;
Yet, in thy time of pride,
How loudly hast thou lied
To all who heeded!

Now, Fame, thou hollow Voice,
Shriek from the heights above!
Let all who will rejoice
In those wild lights above!
When all are false save you,
Yet were so beauteous too,
O Fame, canst thou be true,
And shall I follow?
Nay! for the song of Man
Dies in his throat, since Pan
Hath slain Apollo!

O Fame, thy hill looks tame,
No vast wings flee from thence,—
Were I to climb, O Fame,
What could I see from thence?
Only, afar away,
The mountains looming gray,
Crimson'd at close of day,
Clouds swimming by me;
And in my hand a ring
And ringlet glimmering,—
And no one nigh me!

Better the busy roar,
Best the mad motion here!
Surging against its shore,
Groans a great Ocean here.
O Love,—thou wouldst not wait!
O Land,—thou art desolate!
O Fame,—to others prate
Of flights ecstatic!
Only, at evenfall,
Touching these tokens small,
I think about you all,
Up in an Attic!

TO THE MOON.

The wind is shrill on the hills, and the plover
Wheels up and down with a windy scream;
The birch has loosen'd her bright locks over
The nut-brown pools of the mountain stream;
Yet here I linger in London City,
Thinking of meadows where I was born—
And over the roofs, like a face of pity,
Up comes the Moon, with her dripping horn.

O Moon, pale Spirit, with dim eyes drinking
The sheen of the Sun as he sweepeth by,
I am looking long in those eyes, and thinking
Of one who hath loved thee longer than I;
I am asking my heart if ye Spirits cherish
The souls that ye witch with a harvest call?—
If the dream must die when the dreamer perish?—
If it be idle to dream at all?

The waves of the world roll hither and thither,
The tumult deepens, the days go by,
The dead men vanish—we know not whither,
The live men anguish—we know not why;
The cry of the stricken is smother'd never,
The Shadow passes from street to street;
And—o'er us fadeth, for ever and ever,
The still white gleam of thy constant feet.

162

The hard men struggle, the students ponder,
The world rolls round on its westward way;
The gleam of the beautiful night up yonder
Is dim on the dreamer's cheek all day;
The old earth's voice is a sound of weeping,
Round her the waters wash wild and vast,
There is no calm, there is little sleeping,—
Yet nightly, brightly, thou glimmerest past!

Another summer, new dreams departed,
And yet we are lingering, thou and I;
I on the earth, with my hope proud-hearted,
Thou, in the void of a violet sky!
Thou art there! I am here! and the reaping and mowing
Of the harvest year is over and done,
And the hoary snow-drift will soon be blowing
Under the wheels of the whirling Sun.

While tower and turret lie silver'd under,
When eyes are closed and lips are dumb,
In the nightly pause of the human wonder,
From dusky portals I see thee come;
And whoso wakes and beholds thee yonder,
Is witch'd like me till his days shall cease,—
For in his eyes, wheresoever he wander,
Flashes the vision of God's white Peace!

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY.

Who remains in London,
In the streets with me,
Now that Spring is blowing
Warm winds from the sea;
Now that trees grow green and tall,
Now the Sun shines mellow,
And with moist primroses all
English lanes are yellow?

Little barefoot maiden,
Selling violets blue,
Hast thou ever pictured
Where the sweetlings grew?—
Oh, the warm wild woodland ways,
Deep in dewy grasses,
Where the wind-blown shadow strays,
Scented as it passes!

Pedlar breathing deeply,
Toiling into town,
With the dusty highway
Thou art dusky brown.—
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
And by rivers flowing,
Lilac ringlets which the breeze
Loosens lightly blowing?

Out of yonder waggon
Pleasant hay-scents float,
He who drives it carries
A daisy in his coat:
Oh, the English meadows, fair
Far beyond all praises!
Freckled orchids everywhere
Mid the snow of daisies!

Now in busy silence
Broods the nightingale,
Choosing his love's dwelling
In a dimpled dale;
Round the leafy bower they raise
Rose-trees wild are springing;
Underneath, thro' the green haze,
Bounds the brooklet singing.

And his love is silent
As a bird can be,
For the red buds only
Fill the red rose-tree,—
Just as buds and blossoms blow
He'll begin his tune,
When all is green and roses glow
Underneath the Moon!

Nowhere in the valleys
Will the wind be still,
Everything is waving,
Wagging at his will:
Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean,
With her hand prest on it!
Lightly o'er the hedge so green
Blows the ploughboy's bonnet!

Oh, to be a-roaming
In an English dell!
Every nook is wealthy,
All the world looks well,
Tinted soft the Heavens glow,
Over Earth and Ocean,
Brooks flow, breezes blow,
All is light and motion!

163

IN LONDON, MARCH 1866.

To-day the streets are dull and dreary,
Heavily, slowly the Rain is falling,
I hear around me, and am weary,
The people murmuring and calling;
The gloomy room is full of faces,
Firelight shadows are on the floor,
And the deep Wind cometh from country places,
And the Rain hath a voice I would hear no more.
Ah! weary days of windy weather!
And will the Rain cease never, never!
A summer past we sat together,
In that lost life that lives for ever!

Ah! sad and slow the Rain is falling,—
And singing on seems sad without him.
Ah! wearily the Wind is calling!
Would that mine arms were round about him!
For the world rolls on with air and ocean
Wetly and windily round and round,
And sleeping he feeleth the sad still motion,
And dreameth of me, though his sleep be sound!
Ah! weary days of windy weather!
And will the Rain cease never, never!
A summer past we sat together,
In that lost life that lives for ever!

I sing, because my heart is aching,
With hollow sounds around me ringing:
Ah! nevermore shall he awaking
Yearn to the Singer and the Singing!
Yet sleep, my father, calm and breathless,
And if thou dreamest, dream on in joy!
While over thy grave walks Love the death less,
Stir in the darkness, and bless thy boy!
Ah! weary days of windy weather!
And will the Rain cease never, never!
A summer past we sat together,
In that lost life that lives for ever!

A LARK'S FLIGHT.

In the quiet City park,
Between the dawn and the dark,
Loud and clear,
That all may hear,
Sings the Lark.
Beyond the low black line
Of trees the dawn peeps red,—
Clouds blow woolly and fine
In the ether overhead,
Out of the air is shaken
A fresh and glistening dew,
And the City begins to awaken
And tremble thro' and thro';
See! (while thro' street and lane
The people pour again,
And lane and alley and street
Grow hoarse to a sound of feet,)
Here and there
A human Shape comes, dark
Against the cool white air,
Flitting across the park—
While over the dew-drench'd green,
Singing his ‘Hark! Oh, hark!’
Hovering, hovering, dimly seen,
Rises the Lark.

‘Mystery! Oh, mystery!’
Clear he lilts to lightening day.
‘Mystery! Oh, mystery!
Up into the air with me,
Come away, come away!’

Who is she that, wan and white,
Shivering in the chilly light,
Shadeth weary eyes to see
Him who makes the melody?
She is nameless, she is dull,
She has ne'er been beautiful,
She is stain'd in brain and blood,
Gross with mire, and foul with mud,—
Thing of sorrow, what knows she
Of the mighty mystery?

The Lark sings sad and low,—
‘The City is dull and mean—
There is woe! there is woe!
Never a soul is clean;
The City is dark, the wrong is deep;
Too late to moan, too late to weep!
Tired, tired! sleep, sleep!’

Who is he, the stooping one,
Smiling coldly in the sun,
Arms behind him lightly thrown,
Pacing up and down alone?
'Tis the great Philosopher,
Smoothly wrapt in coat of fur,
Soothly pondering, man-wit wise,
At his morning exercise.

164

He has weigh'd the winds and floods,
He is rich in gather'd goods,
He is crafty, and can prove
God is Brahma, Christ, nor Jove;
He is mighty, and his soul
Flits about from pole to pole,
Chasing signs of God about,
In a pleasant kind of doubt;—
What, to help the mystery,
Sings the Lark to such as he?

The Lark cries:
‘Praise to Nature's plan!
Year on year she plies
Her toil of sun and skies,
Till the beast flowers up in Man,
Lord of effect and cause,
Proud as a King can be;
But a Voice in the cloud cries, “Pause!”
And he pauses, even he,
On the verge of the Mystery.’

Oh, loud and clear, that all may hear,
Rising higher, with ‘Hark! Oh, hark!’
Higher, higher, higher, higher,
Quivering as the dull red fire
Of dawn grows brighter, cries the Lark:
And they who listen there while he
Singeth loud of Mystery,
Interpret him in under-tone
With a meaning of their own,
Measuring his melody
By their own soul's quality.

Tall and stately, fair and sweet,
Walketh maiden Marguerite,
Musing there on maid and man,
In her mood patrician;
To all she sees her eyes impart
The colour of a maiden heart;
Heart's chastity is on her face,
She scents the air with nameless grace,
And where she goes with heart astir,
Colour and motion follow her.

What should the Singer sing
Unto so sweet a thing,
But, ‘Oh, my love loves me!
And the love I love best is guarding the nest,
While I cheer her merrily,—
Come up high! come up high! to a cloud in the sky!
And sing of your love with me!’

Elbows on the grassy green,
Scowling face his palms between,
Yonder gaunt Thief meditates
Treason deep against his mates;
For his great hands itch to hold
Both the pardon and the gold.
Still he listens unaware,
Scowling round with sullen stare,
Gnawing at his under-lib,
Pond'ring friends and fellowship,
Thinking of a friendly thing
Done to him in suffering,
And of happy days and free
Spent in that rough companie:
Till he seeks the bait no more,—
And the Lark is conqueror.

For the Lark says plain,
‘Who sells his pal is mean:
Better hang than gain
Blood-money to save one's skin—
A whip for the rogue who'd tell,’
He hears the Singer say,—
‘Better the rope and the cell—
Better the devils of Hell!
Come away! come away!’

O Lark! O Lark!
Up, up, for it is light—
The Souls stream out of the dark,
And the City's spires gleam bright;
The living world is awake again,
Each wanders on his way,
The wonderful waters break again
In the white and perfect Day.
Nay! nay! descend not yet,
But higher, higher, higher!
Up thro' the air, and wet
Thy wings in the solar fire!
There, hovering in ecstacy,
Sing, ‘Mystery! Oh, mystery!’

O Lark! O Lark! hadst thou the might
Beyond the cloud to wing thy way,
To sing and soar in ceaseless flight,
It might be well for men this day.
Beyond that cloud there is a zone,
And in that zone there is a land,
And in that land, upon a throne,
A mighty Spirit sits alone,
With musing cheek upon His hand.

165

And all is still and all is sweet
Around the silence of His seat,—
Beneath, the waves of wonder flow,—
And melted on His shining feet
The years flash down as falling snow.

O Lark! O Lark!
Up! for thy wings are strong;
While the Day is breaking,
And the City is waking,
Sing a song of wrong—
Sing of the weak man's tears,
Of the strong man's agony;
The passion, the hopes, the fears,
The heaped-up pain of the years,
The human mystery.
O Lark! we might rejoice,
Could'st reach that distant land,
For we cannot hear His voice,
And we often miss His hand!
And the lips of each are ice
To the kiss of sister and brother;
And we see that one man's vice
Is the virtue of another.
Yea, each that hears thee sing
Translates thy song to speech,
And, lo! the rendering
Is so different with each!
The gentle are oppress'd,
The foul man fareth best;
Wherever we seek, our gain
Is full of a poisonous pain.
In one soft note and long
Gather our sense of wrong;
Rise up, O Lark! from the sod,
Up, up, with soundless wings,—
Rise up to God! rise up, rise up, to God!
Tell Him these things!

DE BERNY.

You knew him slightly. We, who knew him well,
Saw something in his soul you could not see:
A strength wherein his very vices throve,
A power that darken'd much the outer man,
Strange, yet angelically innocent.
His views were none of ours; his morals—well,
Not English morals at the best; and yet
We loved him and we miss him;—the old haunts
Seem dull without that foolish full-grown child;
The world goes on without him:—London throngs
With sport and festival; and something less
Than poor De Berny haunts us every-where—
The buying and the selling, and the strife
Of little natures.

What a man was that!—
Just picture him as you perceived him, Noel,
Standing beyond his circle. Spare and tall,
Black-bearded and black-eyed; a sallow face,
With lines of idle humour round the lips;
A nose and eyebrow proudly curved; an eye
Clear as a child's. But thirty summers old!
Yet wearied out, save only when he warm'd
His graces in the sunshine. What an air
Was his, when, cigarette in mouth, and hands
Thrust in the pockets of his pantaloons,
He took his daily walk down Regent Street,
Stared at the pretty girls, saluted friends,
And, pleased as any lady, stopp'd to study
The fashions in the windows of the shops!
Did he not walk as if he walk'd on thrones,
With smiles of vacant patronage for all?
And who could guess he had not break-fasted,
Had little chance of dining, since his purse
Held just the wherewithal to buy a loaf—
Change from the shilling spent in purchasing
The sweet post-prandial cigar!

He lived—
Ah! Heaven knew how—for 'twas a mystery!
While the sun shone, he saunter'd in the sun;
But late at night sat scribbling, by the light
Of a wax-candle. Wax? De Berny's way;
For, mark, this wanderer let his body suffer,
Hunger'd and pinch'd, rather than bate a jot
Of certain very useless luxuries:
Smoked nought but real Havannah, 'tis averr'd,
And sat at night within his dingy lodging,
Wrapt, king-like, in a costly dressing-gown
His mother gave him; slippers on his feet;
His cat, Mignonne, the silken-hair'd Chinese,
Seated upon his shoulder, purring low;
And something royal in his look, despite
His threadbare pantaloons!

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A clever man!
A nature sparkling o'er with jeux d' esprit!
Well read in certain light philosophies
Down from Voltaire; and, in his easy way,
A sceptic—one whose heart belied his brain.
Oft, leaning back and puffing his cigar,
Pushing his wan white fingers through his hair—
His cat Mignonne, the velvet-paw'd Chinese,
Rubbing her soft white cheek against his beard,
And purring her approval—he would sit,
Smiling his sad, good-humour'd, weary smile,
And lightly launch his random, reckless shafts
At English thrift, the literary cant,
The flat, unearnest living of the world,
And (last and lightest) at the tender sex,
Their little virtue and their mighty vows.

This was the man whose face went pale with pain,
When that shrill shriek from Poland fill'd his ear;
This was the man who pinch'd himself to send
A mite to Garibaldi and the Cause;
Who cried, or nearly cried, o'er Lamartine,
And loved the passionate passages of Sand;
Who would have kiss'd the ground beneath the feet
Of any shape called ‘Woman,’ plain or fair;
Gave largess royal to children in the streets;
Treated an unclean beggar seeking alms
To a clean shirt, and sent him off amazed;
And when he heard sweet voice or instrument,
Breath'd passionate breath, like one that drinks with pain
An atmosphere too heavenly rare and sweet.
Pleasure? Ah me! what pleasure garner'd he,
Who fasted oftener than ate; who pawn'd
His coat to serve a neighbour, and was cold;
Whose only little joy was promenading
On sunny summer days in Regent Street?
His talk? Why, how he talk'd, as I have said;
Incubus could not prove his neighbours worse,
Or himself blacker, or the cold world colder;
His jests so oft too broad for decent ears,
His impiousness so insolently strong,
His languid grace so callous unto all
Save the sad sunshine that it flutter'd in.
Yet, Noel, I could swear that Spirits—those
Who see beneath the eyes, and hear the breathing
The Soul makes as it stirs within the breast—
Bent not unlovingly, not angrily,
Above that weary, foolish, full-grown Child!

Weary—of what? Weary, I think, for want
Of something whose existence he denied;
Not sick of life, since he had never felt
The full of living—wearied out, because
The world look'd falsehood, and his turn was truth.

Well, late one morning in the summer time,
They found him lying in his easy-chair,
Wrapt royally in the costly dressing-gown
His mother gave him, slippers on his feet,
And something royal in his look,—cold, dead!
A smell of laudanum sicken'd all the air
Around him; on the table at his side
A copy of De Musset's Elle et Lui;
And close at hand a crumpled five-pound note,
On which was written in his round clear hand
‘Pour Garibaldi. Vive la Liberté!’

THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA.

(SEVEN DIALS.)

To the Wake of O'Hara
Came company;
All St. Patrick's Alley
Was there to see,
With the friends and kinsmen
Of the family.
On the long deal table lay Tim in white,
And at his pillow the burning light.
Pale as himself, with the tears on her cheek,
The mother received us, too full to speak;
But she heap'd the fire, and on the board
Set the black bottle with never a word,
While the company gather'd, one and all,
Men and women, big and small—
Not one in the Alley but felt a call
To the Wake of Tim O'Hara.

167

At the face of O'Hara,
All white with sleep,
Not one of the women
But took a peep,
And the wives new-wedded
Began to weep.
The mothers gather'd round about,
And praised the linen and lying-out,—
For white as snow was his winding-sheet,
And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet;
And the old wives, praising the blessëd dead,
Were thronging around the old press-bed,
Where O'Hara's widow, tatter'd and torn,
Held to her bosom the babe new-born,
And stared all round her, with eyes forlorn,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.

For the heart of O'Hara
Was good as gold,
And the life of O'Hara
Was bright and bold,
And his smile was precious
To young and old!
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry,
With a smiling mouth, and a twinkling eye!
Had ever an answer for chaff and fun;
Would fight like a lion, with any one!
Not a neighbour of any trade
But knew some joke that the boy had made;
Not a neighbour, dull or bright,
But minded something—frolic or fight,
And whisper'd it round the fire that night,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara!

‘To God be glory
In death and life,
He's taken O'Hara
From trouble and strife!’
Said one-eyed Biddy,
The apple-wife.
‘God bless old Ireland!’ said Mistress Hart,
Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart;
‘God bless old Ireland till all be done,
She never made wake for a better son!’
And all join'd chorus, and each one said
Something kind of the boy that was dead;
And the bottle went round from lip to lip,
And the weeping widow, for fellowship,
Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.

Then we drank to O'Hara,
With drams to the brim,
While the face of O'Hara
Look'd on so grim
In the corpse-light shining
Yellow and dim,
The cup of liquor went round again,
And the talk grew louder at every drain,
Louder the tongues of the women grew!—
The lips of the boys were loosening too!
The widow her weary eyelids closed,
And, soothed by the drop o' drink, she dozed;
The mother brighten'd and laugh'd to hear
Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier,
And the hearts of all took better cheer,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.

Tho' the face of O'Hara
Lookt on so wan,
In the chimney-corner
The row began—
Lame Tony was in it,
The oyster-man;
For a dirty low thief from the North came near,
And whistled ‘Boyne Water’ in his ear,
And Tony, with never a word of grace,
Flung out his fist in the blackguard's face;
And the girls and women scream'd out for-fright,
And the men that were drunkest began to fight,—
Over the tables and chairs they threw,—
The corpse-light tumbled,—the trouble grew,—
The new-born joined in the hullabaloo,—
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.

‘Be still! be silent!
Ye do a sin!
Shame be his portion
Who dares begin!’
'Twas Father O'Connor
Just enter'd in!—
All look'd down, and the row was done—
And shamed and sorry was every one;
But the Priest just smiled quite easy and free—
‘Would ye wake the poor boy from his sleep?’ said he;
And he said a prayer, with a shining face,
Till a kind of a brightness filled the place;

168

The women lit up the dim corpse-light,
The men were quieter at the sight,
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara!

KITTY KEMBLE.

‘All the world's a stage.’

Draw softly back the curtains of the bed—
Aye, here lies Kitty Kemble cold and dead:
Poor Kitty Kemble, if I steal a kiss,
Who deems the deed amiss?

Cold bloodless cheek whereon there lingers faint
The crimson dye of a life's rouge and paint;
Cold lips that fall, since thy false rows of teeth
No longer prop the toothless gums beneath;
Cold clammy brow that lies there bald and bare
No longer screen'd and shadow'd by false hair;
Poor Kitty Kemble! is it truly thou
On whom I look so very sadly now?
Lightest of ladies, is thy mortal race
Run out indeed, thy luminous laughing face
Turn'd to this mindless mask of marble dead?
And even thy notes of tinkling laughter fled,
Which, when all other charms to please were past,
Stay'd with thee till the last?

God bless thee, Kitty Kemble!—and God love thee!
Warm be the kindred earth that lies above thee—
Lightest of ladies, never sad or sage,
A glad coquette at sixty years of age,
And even with thy last expiring breath
Flirting thy fan at thy lean Lover, Death!

Tho' nature made you volatile and witty,
Your parents were most vulgar people, Kitty;
Hard work was daily yours, and trouble maybe
To mind the wretched house and nurse the baby,
While to the third-class Theatre hard by
Your father and your mother both did hie,
Mother as dresser, while with surly mien
Toil'd father as a shifter of the scene;
And thus it happen'd that you early grew
Familiar with the British drama too,
And thro' the dusty stage-door you would steal
With father's midday beer or evening meal,
Until that blissful day when to your glee
The keen-eyed ballet-master noticed thee,
And quickly, being a bright and clever girl,
You learnt from him to dance and twist and twirl,
Leaping ere long before the garish lights,
A smiling spangled creature in pink tights.
Aye, Kitty, and the common scandal says
The ballet-master in those early days,
Finding you quick and rapidly advancing,
Taught you love's dalliance as well as dancing!
But you were very clever; and ere long
Were brightest, smartest of the ballet throng;
No lighter trimmer leg was to be seen
When you were only rising seventeen,
And from the stalls to your sweet guileless eyes
Ogles and nods and smiles began to rise.
Then later, like a wise girl and a pretty,
You chose to bless a close man from the City,
Quiet, respectable, and most demure
With a stiff salary and prospects sure;
And him, my dear, you used for your ambition
Still bent of course to better your position.
For tho' so light and merry, you were ever
Ambitious, Kitty, quick and bright and clever;
And now you got your educated lover
To hear you read the British drama over,
To criticise your clever imitations
Of the tall leading lady's declamations,
And to correct your tone, and guide your tongue,
Whenever you pronounced your English wrong;
And tho' the fellow was in soul a bore,
And had no intellect to help you more,
You got in this Bohemian sort of college
Some gleams of grace and scraps of solid knowledge;

169

And while your silly sisters took repose
You grew grammatical, as grammar goes.

O Kitty, what a lavish little elf
Thou wast, yet economic of thyself!
So free, so merry, and innocent of guile;
And yet at heart so busy, all the while
You danced and dallied with those sparkling eyes,
In weighty speculations how to rise!
Yes, Kitty, and you rose; ere long you made
The prettiest, wittiest sort of chambermaid
(That saucy female elf of the stage-inn,
Chuck'd by each handsome guest beneath the chin;
A nymph oft carrying a warming-pan,
And sweetheart of the comic waiting-man)
Or haply, on extravaganza nights,
As a slim fairy prince in trunks and tights,
You pertly spake a dozen lines or so,
While just behind you, glaring in a row,
Your sillier sisters of the ballet stood,
With spleen and envy raging in their blood!
Thus, Kitty Kemble, on and up you went,
Merry, yet ill content;
And soon you cast, inflated still with pride,
Your City man aside,
Cut him stone dead to his intense annoy,
And, like a maiden coy,
Dropt, blushing crimson, in the arms scarce vital
Of an old man of title!
A sad dyspeptic dog, the worn and yellow
Wreck of a handsome fellow,
And tho' the lord of boundless rolls and lands,
Just a mere puppet in your pretty hands.

O Kitty Kemble, how you coaxed and teased him,
Nursed him and pain'd him, petted him and pleased him,
Drove him nigh crazy, made his slow blood start
With the glad beating of your burning heart,
Until he vowed, you managed him so neatly,
To marry you completely;
And with this view transmitted you, poor fool,
To a French boarding-school;
And there you taught, I fear, your power being such,
More than you learnt tho' what you learnt was much!
O you were still and patient as a mouse,
Much as your spirit hated the strict house,
The teachers grim, the insipid simpering misses,
The walks—so different from the coulisses!

There learning patiently did you abide,
Till one fine morning your protector died,
And once again, alas! as in times past.
On the hard world your gentle lot was cast.
But, Kitty, what a change in you was made
By those few seasons wintering in the shade;
In like a common moth you crept full sly,
But out you came a perfect butterfly!
A pretty little sparkling wench,
Prattling so prettily in French,
Or dashing off, with fingers white,
Gay little scraps of music bright;
Merry and wicked, and not wise,
With babies dancing in her eyes,
Most apt at quoting saw and joke
From Shakespeare and less famous folk,
Making the ignorant listener stare
With charming mots from Molière!

But, Kitty Kemble, 'tis not given to me
To write in full your fair biography.
About this very time from English sight
Your pretty little figure vanished quite;
And dainty rivals came and conquered here,
And the false world forgot you quite, I fear.
I think your next appearance in our view
Was in a blaze of splendour bright and new,
When, after many years of preparation,
Provincial trial, trouble, and vexation,
Out you emerged on the astonish'd City,
The town's delight, the beaux', the critics', Kitty!
The brightest wonder human eye could see
In good old Comedy:
A smile, a voice, a laugh a look, a form,
To take the world by storm!
A dainty dimpling intellectual treasure
To give old stagers pleasure!
A rippling radiant cheek—a roguish eye—
That made the youngsters sigh!
And thus beneath a tinsel'd pasteboard Star
At once you mounted your triumphant car,

170

O'er burning hearts your chariot wheels were driven,
Bouquets came rolling down like rain from heaven,
And on we dragged you, Kitty, while you stood
Roguish and great, not innocent and good,
The Queen Elect of all Light Womanhood!

Yes, Kitty Kemble, let the preacher cry
His word of ‘Vanity, O Vanity!’
But those, I think, were happy, happy days.
Indeed, yours was a life that throve with praise,
And brighten'd; passionate and eager; made
To love the lamp-light and to hate the shade;
To play with happiness and drink the beam
Till it suffused your substance gleam by gleam,
Making of elements past your control
The smiling semblance of a living Soul.
In sooth, you were a summer creature, one
Who never really throve save in the sun;
And take away its perfect self-content,
Your very beauty grew indifferent.
Further, you did not crave for love or fame,
Or that still colder shadow—a good name;
You were not even avaricious (tho'
'Twas sweet, of course, to see the guineas grow).
Nay, Kitty, all your care and your delight
Was to gleam past upon the public sight,
To gleam, to smile, to sparkle, and depart
Ere sympathy could reach your little heart;
To let the flaming footlights underneath
Light up your rouge, whiten your spotless teeth,
And to those eyes, so luminous and bright,
Dart beams of glorious artificial light;
To feel your bright and lissom body free
In brightly-hued theatric drapery;
And on your skin, as white as morning milk,
The clinging satin and the slippery silk.
In private life 'twas your delight to be
The beauty of Bohemian revelry;
To the smart little literary man
Whispering wicked jests behind your fan,
And not at all too nice in modesty
As to reject a dinner vis-à-vis
At Kew or Richmond, freely sipping port
With hirsute critics of the heavier sort,
And oft enough on such a holiday
Opening at last your own small purse to pay!
Beneath your beauty, rouged, and ring'd, and pearled,
You were at heart the woman of the world,
Not quite forgetting yet (tho' well content
Quite to forget) your very low descent;
And having gained your little life's endeavour,
You could, I know, have deemed it bliss for ever.

For ever, Kitty Kemble? Ah, my child!
(Surely thou art a child at last?)
When days and nights are glad and wild,
They whirl the quicklier past!
To Sorrow's faintest funeral symphony
Time lingers darken'd steps dejectedly
With sad eyes heavenward; but how fleet he flies
When Revel sings and Mirth doth melodize!
Thy merry laughter and thy gay delight
Quicken'd the Greybeard's footsteps day and night,
And Kitty, suddenly, to thy surprise,
The cruel crowsfeet gather'd 'neath thine eyes.

But paint is bright, and powder pearly white,
And many merry years, in that fierce light
Which beats on thrones and faces like to thine,
Thy ways were witching and thy lot divine.
Thy life was surely glad. The need was fled
Long since of choosing lovers for thy bread
Or thine advancement, and thou now wert free
To pick at will thy male society.
All that is dark. We laymen cannot tell
What amatory happiness befell;
We only know for certain Cupid's dart
Ne'er struck so deadly deep into thy heart,
As to befool our Kitty into passion
Of the mad vulgar fashion.
We only know thou, Kitty, ever wert
Lightest of ladies, delicate and pert,
Clever and quick, and horribly well read.
And as the happy seasons o'er thee fled
Thy bust swelled out, thy body fresh and fair

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Grew plumper, and thou didst assume thine air,
Round, roguish, royal, dazzling, plump, and good,
Of most delicious demi-matronhood.
I think we loved thee even better then
Than ever, Kitty; all the older men,
I know, adored thee! and thou wert supreme,
Yea, grand above all modern guess or dream,
In wanton Widows, those we love to see
In unctuous Shakespearian comedy.
Great wast thou also, Kitty, great and true,
As the bold Beatrice in ‘Much Ado’;
And all the mighty Town went raving mad
To see thy ‘Lady Teazle.’

Wild and glad
Rolled the years onward, and thy little heart
(Tho' certainly thy stoniest, toughest part)
Was just enough at least to act with. Well!
At forty summers still thy fortune fell
On pleasant places; for a little yet
The fickle British public loved its pet.
True, here and there, thy features, still so pretty,
Were sharpening into shrewish lines, my Kitty;
And nose and chin, though still most soft and sweet,
Seem'd slowly journeying on the way to meet!
A certain shrillness in the voice's tone,
Which from the very first had been thine own,
But rather pleased the ear than otherwise
When thou hadst fleeter feet and younger eyes,
Grew harsher and more harsh upon the ear.
Never, indeed, in any earlier year
Hadst thou performed so perfectly as now,
And yet the cruel British Critic's brow
Grew cloudy. Vain were trick of tone or smile
To hide the artful, artificial style,
The superficial tones, the airs capricious,
That in thy younger days had been delicious.
O Kitty, all thy being's constant pain
To win the heart once more was wholly vain;
Most vain, most piteous! Thy familiar airs
Were met by only vacant shrugs and stares,
Thy tricks, thy jokes, thy jests, thy wanton ways,
Awakened only pity and amaze;
And presently, when thou didst rashly try
A fair young part, as in the days gone by,
Down on thee came the cruel Critic's bludgeon,
Out spoke at last the oracular Curmudgeon,
Hinting out openly, in accents cold,
That thou wert passée, past thy prime, and old,
The ghost of loveliness and lightness, fit
To play old women,—better still to quit
The Stage for ever. O poor thing! poor thing!
The cruel knife cut deep enough to bring
The sad blood from your very heart at last;
You winced, you smirked, you struggled, and at last
You seem'd to triumph; and the bitter truth
That thou hadst spent thy previous years of youth
Was taken home indeed to thy fair breast,
And there, like to a very viper's nest,
It bred and flourish'd. Kitty, tho' thy face
Was merry still in many a public place,
Thy shrill laugh loud, thy manner brazen bold,
Black was thy soul and piteously cold.
Anon into the country thou didst fare,
And spend a brighter, happier season there;
Bearing about with thee from year to year
The shadow of thine earlier triumphs here.
That passed, like all the rest. Ah me! ah me!
Even the provinces deserted thee,
As we had done; so our poor Kitty came
To be the lonely ghost of a great name—
A worn and wanton woman, not yet sage
Nor wearied out, tho' sixty years of age,
Wrinkled and rouged, and with false teeth of pearl,
And the shrill laughter of a giddy girl;
Haunting, with painted cheek and powder'd brow,
The private boxes, as spectator now;
Both day and night, indeed, invited out
To private picnic and to public rout,
Because thy shrill laugh and thy ready joke
Ever enlivened up the festal folk;
Nor did such people woo thy service less
Because of tales of thy past wickedness

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Oh, thou wert very clever, keen, and bright,
Most gay, most scandal-loving, and most light!
Still greatly given to French literature,
And foreign feuilletons not over pure;
Still highly rouging up thy cheek so dead
Into a ghostly gleam of rosy red:
Still ever ready talking with a man,
To tap his naughty knuckles with thy fan
Coquettishly, and meanwhile with thy dim
Yet lustrous eyes to smile and ogle him!
Yet ever with a lurking secret sense
Of thine own beauty's utter impotence,
With hungry observation all the while
To catch the covert sneer or lurking smile—
A helpless fear, a pang, a sharp distress,
Curdling thy choicest mirth to bitterness.

Sad years, my child, sad years of lonely gloom!
Nor let the hasty Moralist assume
Neglect and age and agony could be
God's ruthless instruments to chasten thee.
Nay, Kitty Kemble, tho' thy spirit grew
Still bitterer as the seasons flash'd and flew,
Thy bright face ne'er one moment turned away
From the glad gaudy world of every day.
I know religion never moved thy thought,
Comfort in God was neither found nor sought.
Still thou wert happiest, happiest and best
By the old gaslight, rouged and gaily drest.
At each new play thy well-known face was seen,
Merry and quick, yet hiding secret spleen;
At each new brilliant débutante's success
Thy soul did wince for very bitterness;—
And all the taste of thy departed power
Was gall and wormwood on thy soul each hour;
And never, Kitty, till thy latest breath,
Didst thou remember God, the Soul, and Death.

Yet very quietly, one wintry day,
Death's pale and unseen footsteps past thy way,
And as Death swiftly sail'd upon the air,
He lightly breathed one breath upon thee there
As a reminder;—after that thy face
Changed very strangely; shrivell'd in its place;
One helpless eyelid fluttered, and thy faint
Dark cheek contracted underneath thy paint:
And after that same day thy speech was ne'er
Quite constant to thy thought, or wholly clear;
And ev'n thy very thought at times would seem
Suddenly to dissolve away in dream!

Yet, Kitty Kemble, to the last we found thee
Constant to the old haunts of life around thee,
Still in the public gaslight thou wert seen,
Tho' now upon a staff compelled to lean,
Thine eyes still black and quick, thy tones and words
Still gay, thy laugh shrill as a mocking bird's!
Ah! but I think thy heavenly Sire was near
His daughter's dwelling-place at last, my dear!
That quiet day I looked upon thee last,
I had called at midday as thy porch I passed,
Found thee ‘from home,’ and past the quiet door
Away was turning, when, from the first floor,
Thy quick voice called me; and upstairs I went,
To find my lady lying indolent,
Pillow'd in state upon her stately bed,
A pretty ribbon'd night-cap on her head,
While on her hollow cheeks false hectic bloom
Strange shade fell sadly from the darken'd room.
And there upon thy pillow, partly read,
Feydeau's last fever-piece; around thee spread
Old playbills, pink and yellow, white and green,
Whereon in mighty capitals was seen
Thine own triumphant name. Alas! alas!
Shall I forget till life and memory pass
Thy look of blended pleasure, pride, and pain,
Thy eager laughter, garrulous and vain,
Thy tremulous, feverish voice and fretful glee,
As thou didst prattle, pointing out to me,

173

With a lean, palsied finger, dead and cold,
Thy mighty triumphs in the days of old?
And suddenly (my child, shall I forget?—
The voice, the tone, the look, all linger yet!)
The feverish emotion grew too much;
And with a passionate, spasmodic clutch,
Thou didst against my shoulder wildly press
Thy cheek, once warm with life and loveliness,
And moaning madly over thy lost years
Hysterically break to bitterest tears!
What comfort could I give? ere, once more gay,
Thou with light hand didst sweep the tears away,
And break, with fretful wish and eager will,
To laughter sadder still;
Prattling, in thy most artificial tone,
Words to make Angels moan!

And here's the end of all. And on thy bed
Thou liest, Kitty Kemble, lone and dead;
And on thy clammy cheek there lingers faint
The deep dark stain of a life's rouge and paint;
And, Kitty, all thy sad days and thy glad
Have left thee lying for thy last part clad,
Cold, silent, on the earthly Stage; and while
Thou liest there with dark and dreadful smile,
The feverish footlights of the World flash bright
Into thy face with a last hastly light;
And while thy friends all sighing rise to go,
The great black Curtain droppeth, slow, slow, slow,

God help us! We spectators turn away;
Part sad, we think, part merry, was the Play.
God help the lonely player now she stands
Behind the darken'd scenes with wondering face,
And gropes her way at last, with clay-cold hands,
Out of the dingy place,
Turning towards Home, poor worn and weary one,
Now the last scene is done.

THE SWALLOWS.

I.

O Churchyard in the city's gloom,
What charm to please hast thou,
That, seated on a broken tomb,
I muse so oft, as now?
The dreary autumn wind goes murmuring by,
And in the distant streets the ragged urchins cry.

Thou holdest in thy sunless land
Nought I have seen or known,
No lips I ever kissed, no hand
That ever clasped mine own;
And all is still and dreary to the eye,—
The broken tombs, dark walls, roofed by a sunless sky.

Now to the murmur that mine ears
Catch from the distant lanes,
Dimming mine eyes with dreamy tears,
Slow, low, my heart refrains;
And the live grass creeps up from thy dead bones,
And crawls, with slimy stains, over thy gray gravestones.

The cries keep on, the minutes pass,
Mine eyes are on the ground,
The silent many-fingered grass
Winds round, and round, and round:
I seem to see it live, and stir, and wind,
And gaze, until a weight is heavy on my mind.

II.

O Churchyard in the shady gloom,
What charm to please hast thou,
That, seated on a broken tomb,
I muse so oft, as now?
Haply because I learn, with sad content,
How small a thing can make the whole world different!

Among the gravestones worn and old,
A sad sweet hour I pass,
Where thickest from thy sunless mould
Upsprings the sickly grass;

174

For, though the earth holds no sweet smelling flower,
The Swallows build their nests up in thy square gray tower.

While, burthened by the life we bear,
The dull and creeping woe,
The mystery, the pain, the care,
I watch thy grasses grow,
Sighing, I look to the dull autumn skies,
And, lo! my heart is cheered, and tears are in mine eyes.

For here, where stillness, death, and dream,
Brood above creeping things,
Over mine eyes with quick bright gleam
Shine little flashing wings.
And a strange comfort takes thy shady air,
And the deep life I breathe seems sweetened unaware!

TOM DUNSTAN; OR, THE POLITICIAN.

‘How long, O Lord, how long?’

I

Now poor Tom Dunstan's cold,
Our shop is duller;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost its old
Red-republican colour!
Though he was sickly and thin,
'Twas a sight to see his face,—
While, sick of the country's sin,
With bang of the fist, and chin
Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free!
And the money-bags be bled!
‘She's coming, she's coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!’

II

All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
Sat greasily grinning;
And here Tom said his say,
And prophesied Tyranny's death;
And the tallow burned all day,
And we stitch'd and stitch'd away
In the thick smoke of our breath.
Weary, weary were we,
Our hearts as heavy as lead;
But ‘Patience! she's coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!’

III

And at night, when we took here
The rest allowed to us,
The Paper came, with the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us;
And then, in his witty way,
He threw the jests about:
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and the gay!
How he turn'd 'em inside out!
And it made our breath more free
To hearken to what he said—
‘She's coming! she's coming!’ said he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!’

IV

But grim Jack Hart, with a sneer,
Would mutter, ‘Master!
If Freedom means to appear,
I think she might step here
A little faster!’
Then, 'twas fine to see Tom flame,
And argue, and prove, and preach,
Till Jack was silent for shame,—
Or a fit of coughing came
O' sudden, to spoil Tom's speech.
Ah! Tom had the eyes to see
When Tyranny should be sped:
‘She's coming! she's coming!’ said he
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!’

V

But Tom was little and weak,
The hard hours shook him;
Hollower grew his cheek,
And when he began to speak
The coughing took him.
Ere long the cheery sound
Of his chat among us ceased,

175

And we made a purse, all round,
That he might not starve, at least.
His pain was sorry to see,
Yet there, on his poor sick-bed,
‘She's coming, in spite of me!
Courage, and wait!’ cried he;
‘Freedom's ahead!’

VI

A little before he died,
To see his passion!
‘Bring me a Paper!’ he cried,
And then to study it tried,
In his old sharp fashion;
And with eyeballs glittering,
His look on me he bent,
And said that savage thing
Of the Lords o' the Parliament.
Then, dying, smiling on me,
‘What matter if one be dead?
She's coming at last!’ said he;
‘Courage, boy! wait and see;
Freedom's ahead!’

VII

Ay, now Tom Dunstan's cold,
The shop feels duller;
Scarce a tale is told,
And our talk has lost the old
Red-republican colour.
But we see a figure gray,
And we hear a voice of death,
And the tallow burns all day,
And we stitch and stitch away
In the thick smoke of our breath;
Ay, while in the dark sit we,
Tom seems to call from the dead—
‘She's coming! she's coming!’ says he;
‘Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!’

How long, O Lord! how long
Must thy Handmaid linger—
She who shall right the wrong,
Make the poor sufferer strong?
Sweet morrow, bring her!
Hasten her over the sea,
O Lord! ere Hope be fled!
Bring her to men and to me! . . .
O Slave, pray still on thy knee,
‘Freedom 's ahead!’

O'MURTOGH.

(NEWGATE, 18---)

‘It's a sight to see a bold man die!’

To-night we drink but a sorrowful cup . .
Hush! silence! and fill your glasses up.
Christ be with us! Hold out and say:
‘Here's to the Boy that died this day!’

Wasn't he bold as the boldest here?
Red coat or black did he ever fear?
With the bite and the drop, too, ever free?
He died like a man. . . . I was there to see!

The gallows was black, our cheeks were white
All underneath in the morning light;
The bell ceased tolling swift as thought,
And out the murdered Boy was brought.

There he stood in the daylight dim,
With a Priest on either side of him;
Each Priest look'd white as he held his book,
But the man between had a brighter look!

Over the faces below his feet
His gray eye gleam'd so keen and fleet:
He saw us looking; he smiled his last . . .
He couldn't wave, he was pinioned fast.

This was more than one could bear,
For the lass who loved him was with us there;
She stood in the rain with her dripping shawl
Over her head, for to see it all.

But when she met the Boy's last look,
Her lips went white, she turned and shook;
She didn't scream, she didn't groan,
But down she dropt as dead as stone.

He saw the stir in the crowd beneath,
And I saw him tremble and set his teeth;
But the hangman came with a knavish grace
And drew the nightcap over his face.

Then I saw the Priests, who still stood near,
Pray faster and faster to hide their fear;
They closed their eyes, I closed mine too.
And the deed was over before I knew.

176

The crowd that stood all round of me
Gave one dark plunge like a troubled sea;
And I knew by that the deed was done,
And I opened my eyes and saw the sun.

The gallows was black, the sun was white,
There he hung, half hid from sight;
The sport was over, the talk grew loud,
And they sold their wares to the mighty crowd.

We walked away with our hearts full sore,
And we met a hawker before a door,
With a string of papers an arm's-length long,
A dying speech and a gallows song.

It bade all people of poor estate
Beware of O'Murtogh's evil fate;
It told how in old Ireland's name
He had done red murther and come to shame.

Never a word was sung or said
Of the murder'd mother, a ditch her bed,
Who died with her newborn babe that night,
While the blessed cabin was burning bright.

Nought was said of the years of pain,
The starving stomach, the madden'd brain,
The years of sorrow and want and toil,
And the murdering rent for the bit of soil.

Nought was said of the murther done
On man and woman and little one,
Of the bitter sorrow and daily smart
Till he put cold lead in the traitor's heart.

But many a word had the speech beside:
How he repented before he died;
How, brought to sense by the sad event,
He prayed for the Queen and the Parliament!

What did we do, and mighty quick,
But tickle that hawker's brains with a stick;
And to pieces small we tore his flam,
And left him quiet as any lamb!

Pass round your glasses! now lift them up!
Powers above, 'tis a bitter cup!
Christ be with us! Hold out and say:
‘Here's to the Boy that died this day!’

Here's his health!—for bold he died;
Here's his health!—and it's drunk in pride:
The finest sight beneath the sky
Is to see how bravely a man can die.

THE BOOKWORM.

With spectacles upon his nose,
He shuffles up and down;
Of antique fashion are his clothes,
His napless hat is brown.
A mighty watch, of silver wrought,
Keeps time in sun or rain
To the dull ticking of the thought
Within his dusty brain.

To see him at the bookstall stand
And bargain for the prize,
With the odd sixpence in his hand
And greed in his gray eyes!
Then, conquering, grasp the book half blind,
And take the homeward track,
For fear the man should change his mind,
And want the bargain back!

The waves of life about him beat,
He scarcely lifts his gaze,
He hears within the crowded street
The wash of ancient days.
If ever his short-sighted eyes
Look forward, he can see
Vistas of dusty Libraries
Prolonged eternally.

But think not as he walks along
His brain is dead and cold;
His soul is thinking in the tongue
Which Plato spake of old;
And while some grinning cabman sees
His quaint shape with a jeer,
He smiles,—for Aristophanes
Is joking in his ear.

Around him stretch Athenian walks,
And strange shapes under trees;
He pauses in a dream and talks
Great speech, with Socrates.
Then, as the fancy fails—still mesh'd
In thoughts that go and come—
Feels in his pouch, and is refresh'd
At touch of some old tome.

177

The mighty world of humankind
Is as a shadow dim,
He walks through life like one half blind,
And all looks dark to him;
But put his nose to leaves antique,
And hold before his sight
Some press'd and withered flowers of Greek,
And all is life and light.

A blessing on his hair so gray,
And coat of dingy brown!
May bargains bless him every day,
As he goes up and down;
Long may the bookstall-keeper's face,
In dull times, smile again,
To see him round with shuffling pace
The corner of the lane!

A good old Ragpicker is he,
Who, following morn and eve
The quick feet of Humanity,
Searches the dust they leave.
He pokes the dust, he sifts with care,
He searches close and deep;
Proud to discover, here and there,
A treasure in the heap!

THE LAST OF THE HANGMEN.

A GROTESQUE.

What place is snugger and more pretty
Than a gay green Inn outside the City,
To sit in an arbour in a garden,
With a pot of ale and a long churchwarden!

Amid the noise and acclamation,
He sits unknown, in meditation:
'Mid church-bells ringing, jingling glasses,
Snugly enough his Sunday passes.

Beyond the suburbs of the City, where
Cheap stucco'd villas on the brick-field stare,
Where half in town, half country, you espy
The hay-cart standing at the hostelry,—
Strike from the highway down a puddly lane,
Skirt round a market-garden, and you gain
A pastoral footpath, winding on for miles
By fair green fields and over country stiles;
And soon, as you proceed, the busy sound
Of the dark City at your back is drowned,
The speedwell with its blue eye looks at you,
The yellow primrose glimmers through the dew;
Out of the sprouting hedgerow at your side,
Instead of the town sparrow starveling-eyed,
The blackbird whistles and the finches sing;
Instead of smoke, you breathe the pleasant Spring;
And shading eyes dim from street dust you mark,
With soft pulsations soaring up, the Lark,
Till o'er your head, a speck against the gleam,
He sings, and the great City fades in dream!

Five miles the path meanders; then again
You reach the road, but like a leafy lane
It wanders now; and lo! you stand before
A quaint old country Inn, with open door,
Fresh-watered troughs, and the sweet smell of hay.

And if, perchance, it be the seventh day—
Or any feast-day, calendar'd or not—
Merry indeed will be this smiling spot;
For on the neighbouring common will be seen
Groups from the City, romping on the green;
The vans with gay pink curtains empty stand,
The horses graze unharness'd close at hand;
Bareheaded wenches play at games in rings,
Or, strolling, swing their bonnets by the strings;
'Prentices, galloping with gasp and groan,
On donkeys ride, till out of breath, or thrown;
False gipsies, with pale cheeks by juice stain'd brown,
And hulking loungers, gather from the town.
The fiddle squeaks, they dance, they sing, they play,
Waifs from the City casting care away,
And with the country smells and sights are blent
Loud town-bred oaths and urban merriment.

178

Ay; and behind the Inn are gardens green,
And arbours snug, where families are seen
Tea-drinking in the shadow; some, glad souls,
On the smooth-shaven carpet play at bowls;
And half-a-dozen, rowing round and round,
Upon the shallow skating-pond are found,
And ever and anon will one of these
Upset, and stand there, wading to the knees,
Righting his crank canoe! Down neighbouring walks
Go 'prentice lovers in delightful talks;
While from the arbour-seats smile pleasantly
The older members of the company;
And plump round matrons sweat in Paisley shawls,
And on the grass the crowing baby sprawls.

Now hither, upon such a festal day,
I from my sky-high lodging made my way,
And followed straggling feet with summer smile;
‘Jog on,’ I sung, ‘and merrily hent the stile,’
Until I reached the place of revelry;
And there, hard by the groups who sat at tea,
But in a quiet arbour, cool and deep,
Around whose boughs white honeysuckles creep,
A Face I saw familiar to my gaze,
In scenes far different and on darker days:—
An aged man, with white and reverent hair,
Brow patriarchal yet deep-lined with care,
His melancholy eye, in a half dream,
Watching the groups with philosophic gleam;
Decent his dress, of broadcloth black and clean,
Clean-starch'd his front, and dignified his mien.
His right forefinger busy in the bowl
Of a long pipe of clay, whence there did roll
A halo of gray vapour round his face,
He sat, like the wise Genius of the place;
And at his left hand on the table stood
A pewter-pot, filled up with porter good,
Which ever and anon, with dreamy gaze
And arm-sweep proud, he to his lips did raise.

'Twas Sunday; and in melancholy swells
Came the low music of the soft church-bells,
Scarce audible, blown o'er the meadows green,
Out of the cloud of London dimly seen—
Whence, thro' the summer mist, at intervals,
We caught the far-off shadow of St. Paul's.

Silent he sat, unnoted in the crowd,
With all his greatness round him like a cloud,
Unknown, unwelcomed, unsuspected quite,
Smoking his pipe like any common wight;
Cheerful, yet distant, patronising here
The common gladness from his prouder sphere.
Cold was his eye, and ominous now and then
The look he cast upon those merry men
Around him; and, from time to time, sadeyed,
He rolled his reverent head from side to side
With dismal shake; and, his sad heart to cheer,
Hid his great features in the pot of beer.

When, with an easy bow and lifted hat,
I enter'd the green arbour where he sat,
And most politely him by name did greet,
He went as white as any winding-sheet!
Yea, trembled like a man whose lost eyes note
A pack of wolves upleaping at his throat!
But when, in a respectful tone and kind,
I tried to lull his fears and soothe his mind,
And vowed the fact of his identity
Was as a secret wholly safe with me—
Explaining also, seeing him demur,
That I too was a public character—
The Great Unknown (as I shall call him here)
Grew calm, replenish'd soon his pot of beer
At my expense, and in a little while
His tongue began to wag, his face to smile;
And in the simple self-revealing mode
Of all great natures heavy with the load
Of pride and power, he edged himself more near,
And poured his griefs and wrongs into mine ear.

179

‘Well might I be afraid, and sir to you!
They'd tear me into pieces if they knew,—
For quiet as they look, and bright, and smart,
Each chap there has a tiger in his heart!
At play they are, but wild beasts all the same—
Not to be teased although they look so tame;
And many of them, plain as eye can trace,
Have got my 'scutcheon figured on the face.
It's all a matter of mere destiny
Whether they go all right or come to me:
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad!’

And as he shook his head with omen sad,
I answered him, in his own cynic strain:

‘Yes, 'tis enough to make a man complain.
This world of ours so vicious is and low,
It always treats its Benefactors so.
If people had their rights, and rights were clear,
You would not sit unknown, unhonour'd, here;
But all would bow to you, and hold you great,
The first and mightiest member of the State.
Who is the inmost wheel of the machine?
Who keeps the Constitution sharp and clean?
Who finishes what statesmen only plan,
And keeps the whole game going? You're the Man!
At one end of the State the eye may view
Her Majesty, and at the other—you;
And of the two, both precious, I aver,
They seem more ready to dispense with her!’

The Great Man watched me with a solemn look,
Then from his lips the pipe he slowly took,
And answered gruffly, in a whisper hot:

‘I don't know if you 're making game or not!
But, dash my buttons, though you put it strong,
It's my opinion you're more right than wrong!
There's not another man this side the sea
Can settle off the State's account like me.
The work from which all other people shrink
Comes natural to me as meat and drink,—
All neat, all clever, all perform'd so pat,
It's quite an honour to be hung like that!
People don't howl and bellow when they meet
The Sheriff or the Gaoler in the street;
They never seem to long in their mad fits
To tear the Home Secretary into bits;
When Judges in white hats to Epsom Down
Drive gay as Tom and Jerry, folk don't frown;
They cheer the Queen and Royal Family,
But only let them catch a sight of me,
And like a pack of hounds they howl and storm!
And that's their gratitude; 'cause I perform,
In genteel style and in a first-rate way,
The work they're making for me night and day!
Why, if a mortal had his rights, d' ye see,
I should be honour'd as I ought to be—
They'd pay me well for doing what I do,
And touch their hats whene'er I came in view.
Well, after all, they do as they are told;
They're less to blame than Government, I hold.
Government sees my value, and it knows
I keep the whole game going as it goes,
And yet it holds me down and makes me cheap,
And calls me in at odd times like a sweep
To clean a dirty chimney. Let it smoke,
And every mortal in the State must choke!
And yet, though always ready at the call,
I get no gratitude, no thanks at all.
Instead of rank, I get a wretched fee,
Instead of thanks, a sneer or scowl may-be,
Instead of honour such as others win,
Why, I must hide away to save my skin.
When I am sent for to perform my duty,
Instead of coming in due state and beauty,
With outriders and dashing grays to draw
(Like any other mighty man of law),
Disguised, unknown, and with a guilty cheek,
The gaol I enter like an area sneak!

180

And when all things have been perform'd with art
(With my young man to do the menial part)
Again out of the dark, when none can see,
I creep unseen to my obscurity!’

His vinous cheek with virtuous wrath was flushed,
And to his nose the purple current rushed,
While with a hand that shook a little now,
He mopp'd the perspiration from his brow,
Sighing; and on his features I descried
A sparkling tear of sorrow and of pride.
Meantime, around him all was mirth and May,
The sport was merry and all hearts were gay,
The green boughs sparkled back the merriment,
The garden honeysuckle scatter'd scent,
The warm girls giggled and the lovers squeezed,
The matrons drinking tea look'd on full pleased.
And far away the church-bells sad and slow
Ceased on the scented air. But still the woe
Grew on the Great Man's face—the smiling sky,
The light, the pleasure, on his fish-like eye
Fell colourless;—at last he spoke again,
Growing more philosophic in his pain:

‘Two sorts of people fill this mortal sphere,
Those who are hung, and those who just get clear;
And I'm the schoolmaster (though you may laugh),
Teaching good manners to the second half.
Without my help to keep the scamps in awe,
You'd have no virtue and you'd know no law;
And now they only hang for blood alone,
Ten times more hard to rule the mob have grown.
I've heard of late some foolish folk have plann'd
To put an end to hanging in the land;
But, Lord! how little do the donkeys know
This world of ours, when they talk nonsense so!
It's downright blasphemy! You might as well
Try to get rid at once of Heaven and Hell!
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad,
Both rich and poor, man, woman, sad, or glad!
While some to keep scot-free have got the wit
(Not that they're really better—devil a bit!),
Others have got my mark so plain and fair
In both their eyes, I stop, and gape, and stare.
Look at that fellow stretch'd upon the green,
Strong as a bull, though only seventeen;
Bless you, I know the party every limb,
I've hung a few fac-similes of him!
And cast your eye on that pale wench who sips
Gin in the corner; note her hanging lips,
The neat-shaped boots, and the neglected lace:
There's baby-murder written on her face!—
Tho' accidents may happen now and then,
I know my mark on women and on men,
And oft I sigh, beholding it so plain,
To think what heaps of labour still remain!’

He sigh'd, and yet methought he smackt his lips,
As one who in anticipation sips
A feast to come. Then I, with a sly thought,
Drew forth a picture I had lately bought
In Regent Street, and begged the man of fame
To give his criticism on the same.
First from their case his spectacles he took,
Great silver-rimm'd, and with deep searching look
The picture's lines in silence pondered he.

‘This is as bad a face as ever I see!
This is no common area-sneak or thief,
No stealer of a pocket-handkerchief,
No! deep's the word, and knowing, and precise,
Afraid of nothing, but as cool as ice.
Look at his ears, how very low they lie,
Lobes far below the level of his eye,
And there's a mouth, like any rat-trap's tight,
And at the edges bloodless, close, and white.

181

Who is the party? Caught, on any charge?
There's mischief near, if he remains at large!’

Gasping with indignation, angry-eyed,
‘Silence! 'tis very blasphemy,’ I cried;
‘Misguided man, whose insight is a sham,
These noble features you would brand and damn,
This saintly face, so subtle, calm, and high,
Are those of one who would not wrong a fly—
A friend of man, whom all man's sorrows stir,
'Tis Mr. Mill, the great Philosopher!’

Then for a moment he to whom I spake
Seemed staggered, but, with the same ominous shake
O' the head, he, rallying, wore a smile half kind,
Pitying my simplicity of mind.

‘Sir,’ said he, ‘from my word I will not stir—
I've seen that look on many a murderer;
But don't mistake—it stands to common sense
That education makes the difference!
I've heard the party's name, and know that he
Is a good pleader for my trade and me;
And well he may be! for a clever man
Sees pretty well what others seldom can,—
That those mark'd qualities which make him great
In one way, might by just a turn of fate
Have raised him in another! Ah, it's sad—
Mankind is bad, sir, naturally bad!
It takes a genius in our busy time
To plan and carry out a bit of crime
That shakes the land and raises up one's hair;
Most murder now is but a poor affair—
No art, no cunning, just a few blind blows
Struck by a bullet-headed rough who knows
No better. Clever men now see full plain
That crime don't answer. Thanks to me, again!
Ah, when I think what would become of men
Without my bit of schooling now and then,—
To teach the foolish they must mind their play,
And keep the clever under every day,—
I shiver! As it is, they 're kept by me
To decent sorts of daily villany—
Law, money-lending, factoring on the land,
Share-broking, banking with no cash in hand,
And many a sort of weapon they may use
Which never brings their neck into the noose;
For if they 're talented they can invent
Plenty of crime that gets no punishment,
Do lawful murder with no sort of fear
As coolly as I drink this pot of beer!’

The Great Man paused and drank; his face was grim,
Half buried in the pot; and o'er its rim
His eye, like the law's bull's-eye, flashing bright
To deepen darkness round it, threw its light
On the gay scene before him, and it seemed
Rendered all wretched near it as it gleamed.
A shadow fell upon the merry place,
Each figure grew distorted, and each face
Spake of crime hidden and of evil thought.
Darkling I gazed, sick-hearted and distraught,
In silence. Black and decent at my side,
With reverend hair, sat melancholy-eyed
The Patriarch. To my head I held my hand,
And ponder'd, and the look of the fair land
Seemed deathlike. On the darkness of my brain
The voice, a little thicker, broke again:

‘Ah, things don't thrive as they throve once,’ he said,
‘And I'm alone now my old woman's dead.
I find the Sundays dull. First, I attend
The morning service, then this way I wend
To take my pipe and drop of beer; and then,
Home to a lonely meal in town again.
'Tis a dull world!—and grudges me my hire—
I ought to get a pension and retire.
What living man has served his country so?
But who's to take my place I scarcely know!

182

Well, Heaven will punish their neglect anon:—
They 'll know my merit, when I'm dead and gone!’

He stood upon his legs, and these, I think,
Were rather shaky, part with age, part drink,
And with a piteous smile, full of the sense
Of human vanity and impotence,
Grimly he stood, half senile and half sly,
A sight to make the very angels cry;
Then lifted up a hat with weepers on—
(Worn for some human creature dead and gone)
Placing it on his head (unconsciously
A little on one side) held out to me
His right hand, and, though grim beyond belief,
Wore unaware an air of rakish grief—
Even so we parted, and with hand-wave proud
He faded like a ghost into the crowd.

Home to the mighty City wandering,
Breathing the freshness of the fields of Spring,
Hearing the Lark, and seeing bright winds run
Between the bending rye-grass and the sun,
I mused and mused; till with a solemn gleam
My soul closed, and I saw as in a dream,
Apocalyptic, cutting heaven across,
Two mighty shapes—a Gallows and a Cross.
And these twain, with a sea of lives that clomb
Up to their base and struck and fell in foam,
Moved, trembled, changed; and lo! the first became
A jet-black Shape that bowed its head in shame
Before the second, which in turn did change
Into a luminous Figure, sweet and strange,
Stretching out mighty arms to bless the thing
Which hushed its breath beneath Him wondering.
And lo! these visions vanished with no word
In brightness; and like one that wakes I heard
The church bells chime and the cathedrals toll,
Filling the mighty City like its Soul.

Then, like a spectre strange and woebegone,
Uprose again, with mourning weepers on,
His hat a little on one side, his breath
Heavy and hot, the gray-hair'd Man of Death,
Tottering, grog-pimpled, with a trembling pace
Under the Gateway of the Silent Place,
At whose sad opening the great Puppet stands
The rope of which he tugs with palsied hands.

Christ help me! whither do my wild thoughts run?
And Christ help thee, thou lonely agëd one!
Christ help us all, till all 's that dark grows clear—
Are those indeed the Sabbath bells I hear?

LONDON, 1864.

I.

Why should the heart seem stiller,
As the song grows stronger and surer?
Why should the brain grow chiller,
And the utterance clearer and purer?
To lose what the people are gaining
Seems often bitter as gall,
Though to sink in the proud attaining
Were the bitterest of all.
I would to God I were lying
Yonder 'mong mountains blue,
Chasing the morn with flying
Feet in the morning dew!
Longing, and aching, and burning
To conquer, to sing, and to teach,
A passionate face upturning
To visions beyond my reach,—
But with never a feeling or yearning
I could utter in tuneful speech!

II.

Yea! that were a joy more stable
Than all that my soul hath found,—
Than to see and to know, and be able
To utter the seeing in sound;

183

For Art, the Angel of losses,
Comes, with her still, gray eyes,
Coldly my forehead crosses,
Whispers to make me wise;
And, too late, comes the revelation,
After the feast and the play,
That she works God's dispensation
By cruelly taking away:
By burning the heart and steeling,
Scorching the spirit deep,
And changing the flower of feeling,
To a poor dried flower that may keep!
What wonder if much seems hollow,
The passion, the wonder dies;
And I hate the angel I follow,
And shrink from her passionless eyes,—
Who, instead of the rapture of being
I held as the poet's dower—
Instead of the glory of seeing,
The impulse, the splendour, the power—
Instead of merrily blowing
A trumpet proclaiming the day,
Gives, for her sole bestowing,
A pipe whereon to play!
While the spirit of boyhood hath faded,
And never again can be,
And the singing seemeth degraded,
Since the glory hath gone from me,—
Though the glory around me and under,
And the earth and the air and the sea,
And the manifold music and wonder,
Are grand as they used to be!

III.

Is there a consolation
For the joy that comes never again?
Is there a reservation?
Is there a refuge from pain?
Is there a gleam of gladness
To still the grief and the stinging?
Only the sweet, strange sadness,
That is the source of the singing.

IV.

For the sound of the city is weary,
As the people pass to and fro,
And the friendless faces are dreary,
As they come, and thrill through us, and go;
And the ties that bind us the nearest
Of our error and weakness are born;
And our dear ones ever love dearest
Those parts of ourselves that we scorn;
And the weariness will not be spoken,
And the bitterness dare not be said,
The silence of souls is unbroken,
And we hide ourselves from our Dead!
And what, then, secures us from madness?
Dear ones, or fortune, or fame?
Only the sweet singing sadness
Cometh between us and shame.

V.

And there dawneth a time to the Poet,
When the bitterness passes away,
With none but his God to know it,
He kneels in the dark to pray;
And the prayer is turn'd into singing,
And the singing findeth a tongue,
And Art, with her cold hands clinging,
Comforts the soul she has stung.
Then the Poet, holding her to him,
Findeth his loss is his gain:
The sweet singing sadness thrills through him,
Though nought of the glory remain;
And the awful sound of the city,
And the terrible faces around,
Take a truer, tenderer pity,
And pass into sweetness and sound;
The mystery deepens to thunder,
Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud,
And the Poet, with pale lips asunder,
Stricken, and smitten, and bow'd,
Starteth at times from his wonder,
And sendeth his Soul up aloud!

THE MODERN WARRIOR.

O Warrior for the Right,
Though thy shirt of mail be white
As the snows upon the breast of The Adored,
Though the weapon thou mayest claim
Hath been temper'd in the flame
Of the fire upon the Altar of the Lord,
Ere the coming of the night,
Thy mail shall be less bright,
And the taint of sin may settle on the Sword!

For the foemen thou must meet
Are the phantoms in the street,
And thine armour shall be foul'd in many a place,

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And the shameful mire and mud,
With a grosser stain than blood,
Shall be scatter'd 'mid the fray upon thy face;
And the helpless thou dost aid
Shall shrink from thee dismayed,
Till thou comest to the knowledge of things base.

Ah, mortal, with a brow
Like the gleam of sunrise, thou
May'st wander from the pathway in thy turn,
In the noontide of thy strength
Be stricken down at length,
And cry to God for aid, and live, and learn;
And when, with many a stain.
Thou arisest up again,
The lightning of thy look will be less stern.

Thou shalt see with humbler eye
The adulteress go by,
Nor shudder at the touch of her attire;
Thou shalt only look with grief
On the liar and the thief,
Thou shalt meet the very murtherer in the mire—
And to which wouldst thou accord,
O thou Warrior of the Lord!
The vengeance of the Sword and of the Fire?

Nay! batter'd in the fray,
Thou shalt quake in act to slay,
And remember thy transgression and be meek;
And the thief shall grasp thy hand,
And the liar blushing stand,
And the harlot if she list shall kiss thy cheek;
And the murtherer, unafraid,
Shall meet thee in the shade,
And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak.

Yet thou shalt help the frail
From the phantoms that assail,
Yea, the strong man in his anger thou shalt dare;
Thy voice shall be a song
Against wickedness and wrong,
But the wicked and the wronger thou shalt spare.
And while thou lead'st the van,
The ungrateful hand of man
Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware.

With an agonisëd cry
Thou shalt shiver down and die,
With stainëd shirt of mail and broken brand;
And the voice of men shall call,
‘He is fallen like us all,
Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand;’
And thine epitaph shall be,
‘He was wretched ev'n as we;’
And thy tomb may be unhonoured in the land.

But the basest of the base
Shall bless thy pale dead face
And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair;
And over thee asleep,
The adulteress shall weep
Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere,
Shall bless the broken brand
In thy chill and nerveless hand,
Shall kiss thy stainëd vesture with a prayer.

Then, while in that chill place
Stand the basest of the base,
Gather'd round thee in the silence of the dark,
A white Face shall look down
On the silence of the town,
And see thee lying dead with those to mark,
And a voice shall fill the air,
‘Bear my Warrior lying there
To his sleep upon my Breast!’ and they shall heark.

Lo, then those fallen things
Shall perceive a rush of wings
Growing nearer down the azure gulfs untrod,
And around them in the night
There shall grow a wondrous light,
While they hide affrighted faces on the sod,
But ere again 'tis dark,
They shall raise their eyes, and mark
White arms that waft the Warrior up to God!

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PAN: EPILOGUE.

‘Pan, Pan is dead!’
—E. B. Browning.

The broken goblets of the Gods
Lie scatter'd in the Waters deep,
Where the tall sea-flag blows and nods
Over the shipwreck'd seamen's sleep;
The gods like phantoms come and go
Amid the wave-wash'd ocean-hall,
Above their heads the bleak winds blow;
They sigh, they shiver to and fro—
‘Pan, Pan!’ those phantoms call.

O Pan, great Pan, thou art not dead,
Nor dost thou haunt that weedy place,
Tho' blowing winds hear not thy tread,
And silver runlets miss thy face;
Where ripe nuts fall thou hast no state,
Where eagles soar, thou now art dumb,
By lonely meres thou dost not wait;—
But here 'mid living waves of fate
We feel thee go and come!

O piteous one!—In wintry days
Over the City falls the snow,
And, where it whitens stony ways,
I see a Shade flit to and fro;
Over the dull street hangs a cloud—
It parts, an ancient Face flits by,
'Tis thine! 'tis thou! Thy gray head bowed,
Dimly thou flutterest o'er the crowd,
With a thin human cry.

Ghost-like, O Pan, thou glimmerest still,
A spectral Face with sad dumb stare;
On rainy nights thy breath blows chill
In the street-walker's dripping hair;
Thy ragged woe from street to street
Goes mist-like, constant day and night;
But often, where the black waves beat,
Thou hast a smile most strangely sweet
For honest hearts and light!

Where'er thy shadowy vestments fly
There comes across the waves of strife,
Across the souls of all close by,
The gleam of some forgotten life:
There is a sense of waters clear,
An odour faint of flowery nooks;
Strange-plumaged birds seem flitting near
The cold brain blossoms, lives that hear
Ripple like running brooks.

And as thou passest, human eyes
Look in each other and are wet—
Simple or gentle, weak or wise,
Alike are full of tender fret;
And mean and noble, brave and base
Raise common glances to the sky;—
And lo! the phantom of thy Face,
While sad and low thro' all the place
Thrills thy thin human cry!

Christ help thee, Pan! canst thou not go
Now all the other gods are fled?
Why dost thou flutter to and fro
When all the sages deem thee dead?
Or, if thou still must live and dream,
Why leave the fields of harvest fair—
Why quit the peace of wood and stream—
And haunt the streets with eyes that gleam
Through white and holy hair?

L'ENVOI TO LONDON POEMS.

I do not sing for Maidens. They are roses
Blowing along the pathway I pursue:
No sweeter things the wondrous world discloses,
And they are tender as the morning dew.
Blessed be maids and children: day and night
Their holy scent is with me as I write.

I do not sing for School-boys or Schoolmen.
To give them ease I have no languid theme
When, weary with the wear of book and pen,
They seek their trim poetic Academe;
Nor can I sing them amorous ditties, bred
Of too much Ovid on an empty head.

I do not sing aloud in measured tone
Of those fair paths the easy-soul'd pursue;
Nor do I sing for Lazarus alone,
I sing for Dives and the Devil too.
Ah! would the feeble song I sing might swell
As high as Heaven, and as deep as Hell!

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I sing of the stain'd outcast at Love's feet,—
Love with his wild eyes on the evening light;
I sing of sad lives trampled down like wheat
Under the heel of Lust, in Love's despite;
I glean behind those wretched shapes ye see
In the cold harvest-fields of Infamy.

I sing of death-beds (let no man rejoice
Till that last piteous touch of all is given!);
I sing of Death and Life with equal voice,
Heaven watching Hell, and Hell illumed by Heaven.
I have gone deep, far down the infernal stair—
And seen the spirits congregating there.

I sing of Hope, that all the lost may hear;
I sing of Light, that all may feel its ray;
I sings of Soul, that no one man may fear;
I sing of God, that some perchance may pray.
Angels in Hosts have praised Him loud and long,
But Lucifer's shall be the harvest song.

Oh, hush a space the sounds of voices light
Mix'd to the music of a lover's lute.
Stranger than dream, so luminously bright,
The eyes are dazzled and the mouth is mute,
Sits Lucifer; singing to sweeten care,
He twines immortelles in his hoary hair!