University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I. TO COLERIDGE.

As one who lies, when day is almost done,
Rocked in a little boat upon a sea
Whose glassy billows heave eternally
Albeit the winds are lulled, watching the sun
That sinks behind those billows, and anon
Uprises, while the orange gleams that dye
The long, low windows of the western sky
Are imaged in the waters smooth and wan;
Coleridge! thus hang we on the mystic traces
Of that one Thought which feeds thy soul with light;
Thus falls the ‘Idea of the Infinite’
Dazzling our spirit-eyes, and up-turned faces;
Thus sinks, and reappears, and mocks our sight,
Absorbed once more in the great deep's embraces.

II. TO E.—1.

Sweet tears commingling with our youthful smiles
Made them more balmy in life's happy dawn:
Ah, friend belovèd, whither is it gone,
That power whose infant tenderness beguiles
Our childhood's sorrows with its lovely wiles?
Still lies the dew upon our own green lawn;
The peaceful gleam can never be withdrawn
From yon dim lake, and all its glistening isles:
Yet on all these how vainly do we gaze
Seeking for something nowhere to be found;
And in the wind we listen for a sound
That now is buried with departed days;
And wonder at the smiles that strangely pass
Over the tears that lie on either wildered face.

III. TO E.—2.

No more, O never more in wood, or wold,
Mountain, or ocean's many-coloured plain,
Or in the manners or the minds of men,
Shall we the ancient loveliness behold.
An apathetic languor, calm and cold,
Hangs upon all things with a cast of pain;
And a community of self-disdain
Is all the young inherit from the old.
Earth, full of years, and in old age forlorn,
Laments the dewy beauty of her prime,
Laments with tears, and would of thee implore
A restoration, unrestoring Time!
A restoration of her glorious morn,
And Love which, once rejected, comes no more.

IV. TO E.—3.

Sorrow and joy mature the growth of love:
Love, nursed by joy alone, is poor and weak:
'Tis not that we together sought and seek
Those streams of song whose fountains are above;
It is not kindred minds alone which move
In us a love that must for aye endure;
Nor kindred hopes that blend in rhythm pure,
Nor charm of childish memories interwove,
Nor those sweet names of sister and of brother,
Alone; the grave endears us to each other;
The mournful separation which must come
When eyes wax dim, and fondest lips are dumb:—
We love the golden calm before the storm,
And turn to clasp once more the hand which yet is warm.

V. TO E.—4.

The ocean murmurs on his circling shores—
Where is the ear that catches as a whole
That never-ceasing sound from pole to pole?
The sun upon a thousand empires pours
At once his beams in unexhausted stores;
But who—what mortal eye, what human soul,
Beholds that light on all those empires roll,
And on the intermediate ocean floors?
We see but the detail of things; too near
We stand to comprehend their harmony:
Hereafter happy in some nobler state
Of being we shall turn and contemplate
The moral planet of Humanity
In the bright fulness of its perfect sphere.

VI. ART AND SCIENCE.

A wild swan and an eagle side by side
I marked, careering o'er the ocean-plain,
Emulous a loftier zenith each to gain,
Circling in orbits wider and more wide:
Highest, methought, through tempest scarce descried,
One time the bird of battle soared;—in vain;
So soon, exhausted 'mid their joy and pride,
Dropp'd the bright rivals, vanquished, to the main.
Then, o'er the mighty waves around them swelling,
That snowy nursling of low lakes her song
Lifted to God, floating serene along;
While she that in the peaks had made her dwelling
Struggled in vain her wings to beat and quiver,
And the sea closed o'er that bright crest for ever.

VII. TO POWER.

Where art thou? In the winds when they awake
Man's soul, and with their sevenfold harmonies
Admonish him from regions far, and break
The frozen trance in which his spirit lies.
Where art thou? In all Nature while her hues
Sink into Man's deep spirit; thence to rise
In branching thoughts, as evening's buried dews
Emerge from earth in flowers of heavenly dyes.
Where art thou? With the Muse when she is raising
Unto the Poet's ear her unseen shell,
Which charms to movements smooth with potent spell
The Visions from his brain their progress tracing!
There—not in battle-fields—O Power, thou art—
An Eagle brooding o'er the world's wide heart.

VIII.

A tranced beauty dwells upon her face,
A lustrous summer-calm of peace and prayer;
In those still eyes the keenest gaze can trace
No sad disturbance, and no touch of care.
Peace rests upon her lips, and forehead fair,
And temples unadorned. A cloistral grace
Says to the gazer over-bold, ‘Beware,’
Yet love hath made her breast his dwelling-place.
An awful might abideth with the pure,
And theirs the only wisdom from above.
She seems to listen to some strain obscure
Of music in sidereal regions wove,
Or to await some more transcendent dower
From heaven descending on her like a dove.

IX.

She sat amid a soft-eyed company
Of little children, whom she taught to love
That God who deigned a child on earth to move,—
And, loving Him, to fear. Hand, lip, and eye,
And many a smile and sometimes a short sigh
Were beautiful to incite and to reprove;
And with that holier wisdom from above
Enlarge our sorrowful humanity.
And yet, O blameless, and thyself a child!
How canst thou teach? Thy rosy lips make sweet
The faults they fain would chide! Of all that group
The timidest such wrath as thine would meet
Gladly, if so that dovelike hand might droop
Upon her shoulder or her tresses wild.

X.

Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even,
Parting the hair upon thy forehead white:
For them the sky is bluer and more bright,
And purer their thanksgivings rise to Heaven.
Happy are they to whom thy songs are given;
Happy are they on whom thy hands alight:
And happiest they for whom thy prayers at night
In tender piety so oft have striven.
Away with vain regrets and selfish sighs—
Even I, dear friend, am lonely, not unblest:
Permitted sometimes on that form to gaze,
Or feel the light of those consoling eyes:
If but a moment on my cheek it stays
I know that gentle beam from all the rest!

XI.

She whom this heart must ever hold most dear,
This heart in happy bondage held so long,
Began to sing. At first a gentle fear
Rosied her countenance, for she is young,
And he who loves her most of all was near:
But when at last her voice grew full and strong,
O! from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear
Leaped the bright notes abroad—a rapturous throng!
Her little hands were sometimes flung apart,
And sometimes palm to palm together prest;
While wave-like blushes rising from her breast
Kept time with that aerial melody;
A music to the sight !—I standing nigh
Received the falling fountain in my heart.

XII.

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;
(For loving these would make thee love the bearer)
But sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:—
A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,
And all old poets and old songs adore thee;
And love to thee is nought; from passionate mood
Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!

XIII.

Let me be near thee, and I will not touch
Thy hand; or grieve thee with reproach or praise;
Or look into thine eyes. Is this too much?
Sweet Lady, say not so, for I would gaze
On thee for ever. Be but what thou art,
A Beauty shrined within a silver haze;
And in the silence let me fill my heart
With memories calmly stored for wintry days.
O Lady! there is sorrow here below;
And gladness seldom comes, and cannot last:
Thou art all summer: thou wilt never know
The cold and cloudy skies which I forecast:
Deny not thou long years of future woe
Their comfort sad and sole—a happy Past.

XIV.

You say the Past is dead. It cannot die:
Life makes immortal what it breathes upon.
Last night, whilst I was slumbering restlessly,
Dark Forms, attired like mourners, one by one,
Drew near, and bound me with unaltered eye.
They stood a long and melancholy train:
At last I spake: ‘Ye ministers of Pain!
I know you, and your aspect stern and high.
Ye are the Phantoms of departed Hours.’
They sank; but sent, instead, a dense array
Of shadows gathered from their dreariest bowers—
Forms, faces, scenes forgotten many a day,
That seemed before my eyes to reel and swim,
Like objects seen through sounding harp-strings dim.

XV.

Silence and Sleep, and Midnight's softest gloom!
Consoling friends of fast deelining years;
Benign assuagers of unfruitful tears;
Soft-footed heralds of the wished-for tomb!
Go to your master Death, the Monarch whom
Ye serve; whose majesty your grace endears;
And in the awful hollows of his ears
Murmur, O ever murmur,—‘Come, O come!’
Virginal rites have I performed full long,
And all observance worthy of a bride.
Then wherefore, Death, dost thou to me this wrong,
So long estranged to linger from my side?
Am I not thine? O breathe upon my eyes
A gentle answer, Death, from thine Elysian skies!

XVI.

Pause, lovely Lady, pause: with downward eye
Regard this humble tomb awhile; and read
The name of him who loved you well, now freed
From pains of love—Ah, mournful liberty!
Sigh forth, too late, an unavailing sigh:
And, if thy spirit be to pity moved,
Pray that a ceaseless dream of her he loved
Abide upon him everlastingly.
Stay, lovely Lady, stay: O stay for hours:
I feel thy tear-drops falling one by one.
Yet do not stay, for grief and shame it were
That tears should fall so fast from eyes so fair;
And feet that scarcely bend the meadow flowers
Linger so long upon the chilling stone.

XVII. TO A SCEPTIC.

How oft that haughty and far-flashing eye,
Have I not seen thee to the wide heavens raise,
Or on the dark earth root thy tyrannous gaze
As on a scroll with piercing scrutiny!
Great scorn it seemed and great indignity
That aught should mock thy search:—and yet that haze
Which veils the loftiest, deepest things, obeys,
Be sure, the cloud-compelling Power on high.
Our life is finite—let the mind be so;
And therefore bound the Spirit's appetites:
Some things we cannot, some we should not know;
Wisdom there is that weakens, lore that blights—
He too that walks among the eternal lights
Casts, as He moves, His shadow oft below!

XVIII. A CHURCHYARD.—1.

It stands a grove of cedars vast and green,
Cathedral-wise disposed, with nave and choir,
And cross-shaped transept lofty and serene;
And altar decked in festival attire
With flowers like urns of white and crimson fire;
And chancel girt with vine-trailed laurel screen;
And aisles high arched with cypresses between;
Retreats of mournful love, and vain desire.
Within the porch a silver fount is breathing
Its pure, cold dews upon the summer air:
Round it are blooming herbs, and flowers, the care
Of all the angels of the Seasons, wreathing
Successively their unbought garniture
Round the low graves of the beloved poor.

XIX. A CHURCHYARD.—2.

But when the winds of night begin to move
Along the murmuring roofs, deep music rolls
Through all the vaults of this Cathedral grove;
A midnight service for departed Souls.
Piercing the fan-like branches stretched above
Each chapel, oratory, shrine, and stall
Then a pale moonshine falls or seems to fall
On those cold grave-stones—altars reared by love
For a betrothal never to be ended;
And on the slender plants above them swinging;
And on the dewy lamps from these suspended;
And sometimes on dark forms in anguish clinging,
As if their bosoms to the senseless mould
Some vital warmth would add—or borrow of its cold.

XX. TO------.

Armoury of impenetrable mail
Is thine; and hath been ever from the womb:
Loosen not, till thou loosenest for the tomb
The sevenfold harness of that iron scale:
For many are there watchful to assail
The mighty, and to speed the flying doom
In all those fits of weakness or of gloom
Which o'er the loftiest head at times prevail.
Not only Passion's Furies—Jealousies,
The heart's Hell-fires; Suspicion, Fear, and Hate:
But Languors unheroic; Sympathies
That, promising to soften, enervate;
Desires that over earth and ocean roam;
And Love, which here beneath should never make her home.

XXI. FAME.

Aspiring souls! henceforward without blame
Revere in faith, and fearlessly obey
That generous impulse which inspires your way:
Glory your spur may be, though not your aim.
Love hath its archetype, nor less hath Fame
In Heaven; there shines the light whereof one ray
Is Fame below: re-echoed thence for aye,
Spread the great echoes of God's sacred Name.
God's living Words through all the worlds sent forth,
Support those worlds by them ordained and made:
True Glory is God's sentence, rightly weighed:
His Lips establish all things: and His Eyes
Kindle the universal sacrifice,
And everlasting, of the Heavens and Earth!

XXII. TO A JUST LAWYER (EDWARD O'BRIEN).

This sonnet was addressed to my dear early friend, Edward O'Brien, on the publication of his work, ‘The Lawyer,’ (Pickering.)

Defrauded Justice, long a wanderer driven
From Law, her Temple, holy kept of old,
Though now the money-changers' strongest hold,
Invoked not vainly aid from thee: and Heaven
To thee that voice heroical hath given
Wherewith to all thy brethren thou hast called,
Standing alone among them disenthralled,
All chains of custom, fear, and interest riven.
Young Priest of Justice, what was their reply?
‘Justice herself this human sacrifice
Requires: if thou wouldst serve her, rob and lie,
So keeps the State function and equipoise’—
Such answer thou didst scorn; and hast for this,
Attained, fully to see its utter hollowness.

XXIII.

Virgin from Fame, and widowed of his Love,
As for life's baser objects all too high,
He lived alone, and fixed a steadfast eye
On the fair prospects of the world above.
Over earth's foreground poor of hill and grove
The streams of sunset, and the starry sky
He watched; and he had heard that harmony
Which Spirits leave behind where'er they move.
Men said he was a Visionary. True:
He was such, for the deep and precious things
Most real, ever stood before his view:
His tendency was upward: without wings
His sympathies ascended—yet below
Where Duty called him, he was prompt to go.

XXIV.

Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways
Of secular delights, nor learned the lore
Which loftier minds are studious to abhor:
Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise
That perishes, the rapture that betrays;
Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war
His youth; and found, a schoolboy at fourscore,
How fatal are those victories which raise
Their iron trophies to a temple's height
On trampled Justice; who desires not bliss,
But peace; and yet when summoned to the fight,
Combats as one who combats in the sight
Of God, and of His Angels, seeking this
Alone, how best to glorify the right.

XXV. THE CHRISTIAN FAMILY.

A cedar-cone from Carmel! stored with seeds
Which, might they ripen in the sun and dew
Of our ungenial West, ere long would strew
Our desolate mountains, and o'er-shade our meads
With forests such as earth no longer feeds!
Could man once more that primal growth renew
Then God's immortal breeze would wander through
Their midnight boughs—that vital spirit which breeds
Life without end. And be it known to you,
Ye who would build, that with this wood alone,
Sacred, eternal, incorruptible,
That House in which the Holy One will dwell
Must shape her chambers; and with blocks of stone
As noiselessly raised up as those great forests grew.

XXVI. THE SPIRITUAL TIES REHEARSED IN THE NATURAL.

Father!—the childless Angels cannot call
Upon their God, by that most sacred name!
Brother!—the seed of Adam, one and all,
With Christ Himself true brotherhood we claim.
King, Prophet, Priest! the whole predestined frame
Of life in one symbolic mould is cast;
To prove of Heaven a mystic antepast,
And a pure language to reveal the same.
But we have scorned that old and simple life;
And, building social Babels, fain to reach
Yea storm high Heaven itself, through hate and strife
Confused that Catholic and Godlike speech:
Therefore God's face is dark as in a glass
To us: the Patriarchs saw Him face to face.

XXVII. ‘THE FLESH IS WEAK.’

What man can hear sweet sounds and dread to die?
O for a music that might last for ever
Abounding from its sources like a river
Which through the dim lawns streams eternally!
Virtue might then uplift her crest on high,
Spurning those myriad bonds that fret and grieve her;
Then all the powers of Hell, rebuked, would quiver
Before the ardours of her awful eye.
Alas for Man with all his high desires,
And inward promptings fading day by day!
High-titled honour pants while it expires;
And clay-born glory turns again to clay.
Low instincts last: our great resolves pass by
Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends but in a sigh.

XXVIII. THE DYING PLATONIST.

Fain would I call that night which spreads so fast
Out of the vault of Death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blind-fold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of Death
Which sound so like each other at their close.
The least of Sins is Infinite: it throws
A shade into the face of the Most High.

XXIX. RELIGIOUS LITERATURE.

Stranger! yet friend! who from the ways unblest
Of common life retired, art pleased to rove
The autumnal alleys of this ‘Golden Grove,’
By woodland odours, sportive gleams carest,
That lure thee forward in thine easy quest
Of Wisdom bowered with Beauty and with Love;
Beware! a presence that thou deemest not of
Is here concealed. From out the air-rocked nest
Of every leaf, looks forth some Dream divine:
The grass thou treadest—the weeds, are cyphered o'er
With mystic traces, and sibylline lore:
Each branch is precious as that golden bough
Hung by Æneas, ere he passed below,
Upon the sable porch of Proserpine.

XXX. RELIGIOUS ANTIQUARIANISM.

I saw a wild-swan flying toward the West,
Following the traces of a sunken Sun:
The sky grew momently more pale; yet on
She urged her indefatigable quest;
Faint crimson lights suffusing still that breast,
Out of whose deep recesses forth she flung
Exhausted wailings of immortal song,
Wind-scattered dirges, psalmody unblest!
Sad lover of the Past! in vain that flight!
A law there is that bids the earth roll round,
And marvellously marries day and night,
The first, and last. Yet drop not to the ground!
Once more the orb thou lovest on thee shall rise,
Far-shining from the East of thine abandoned skies.

XXXI. STORM AND STABILITY.

Now, now, ye kings and rulers of the earth,
Lift up your eyes unto the hills eterne,
Whence your salvation comes. From Earth's dark urn
The great floods burst! From each ancestral hearth
Look forth ye bold and virtuous poor, look forth:
The meteor signs of woes to come discern;
And whence the danger be not slow to learn:
Then greet it with loud scorn, and warlike mirth.
The banner of the Church is ever flying!
Less than a storm avails not to unfold
The Cross emblazoned there in massy gold—
Away with doubts and sadness, tears and sighing:
It is by faith, by patience, and by dying,
That we must conquer, as our sires of old!

XXXII. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—1.

Glad childhood's dream of marvels past, we rise,
Still on our cheeks the flush of sleep remaining;
And roam the waste of Earth, our eyelids straining
The glories of that dream to realise.
Nor seek in vain. Stream, bird, or cloud replies,
Echoes that mock young passion's amorous feigning,
Fancy shines starlike forth 'mid daylight waning,
And Hope the night-bird sings 'neath shrouded skies.
At last the charm is broken: day by day
Drops some new veil, until the countenance bare
Of that ice-idol, blank Reality,
Confronts us full with cold, and loveless eye—
Then dies our heart, unless that faith we share
Whose touch makes all things gold, and gives us youth for aye.

XXXIII. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—2.

Hail Earth, for man's sake cursed, yet blessing man!
The Saviour trod thine herbage, breathed thine air:
Henceforward, not alone through symbols, fair,
Thou showest, delivered from thine ancient ban,
Memorial bloom withheld since death began:
Thy Maker's glory formed at last to share
Even now that light transfiguring thou dost wear
For us, which once adorned His forehead wan.
‘All things are new.’ O sing it, heavenly choirs!
And ye, the choir of God's great Church below,
The Poets! sound it on your deep-toned lyres:
From every mountain-top the tidings blow:
‘All things are new.’ The Earth hath thrown aside
Her mourning weeds, and sits a pale, and veilèd bride.

XXXIV. THE BEATIFIC VISION OF THE EARTH.—3.

Cowering beneath a semilucid veil,
A semilucid bridal veil of snow,
Which from the wreath that binds her temples pale
Down to her white and slender feet doth flow,
She sits. I hear her breathings soft and low:
They shake the vine-leaves in that garland frail—
Like Mary's when she heard th' Angelic ‘Hail,’
Dimly I see her blushes come and go.
And now, that veil thrown back, her head she raises,
Fixing upon the stars her starlike eyes:
As though she felt that Heaven on which she gazes
Her bosom rises: lo! her hands, they rise:
She also rises. Time it is to meet
Her Lord, and bless ‘the light of His returning feet.’

XXXV. THE CONSTELLATION OF THE PLOUGH.

Type of celestial labour, toil divine,
That nightly downward from the glistening skies
Showerest thy light on these expectant eyes,
Around thee in their stations ever shine
Full many a radiant shape and emblemed sign,
Swords, sceptres, crowns, bright tresses, galaxies—
Whatever Song can raise, or Thought devise,
Yet none, methinks, so truly great as thine.
On, ever on! while He who guides thee flings
His golden grain along the azure way
Do thou thy sleepless work, and toiling, say,
‘O men, so sedulous in trivial things,
Why faint amid your loftier labours? Why
Forget the starry seed and harvests of the sky?’

XXXVI. HUMAN LIFE.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing,
In current unperceived because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing;
And still, O still, their dying breath is sweet:
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left us
A nearer Good to cure an older Ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.

XXXVII. FORTITUDE.

Man's mind should be of marble, not of clay:
A rock-hewn temple, large, majestic, bare;
Not decked with gewgaws, but with life-long care
And toil heroic shaped to stand for aye:
Not like those plaster baubles of the day,
In which the lightest breath of praise or prayer
Crumbles the gauds wherewith they garnished are:
In which we dare not think, and cannot pray;
In which God will not dwell. O Constancy!
Where thou art wanting all our gifts are naught!
Friend of the martyrs—both of those who die,
And those who live—beneath that steadfast eye
The breast-plates and the beaming helms were wrought
Of all our far-famed Christian chivalry!

XXXVIII. MEDITATION.

What is more glorious than a noble Thought?
What is more blessed?—In that thought to dwell!
To build your bower within it; scoop a cell;
Inlay with precious ores a secret grot
With mossy seats around: to wander not;
But lean in peace above its caverned well,
Passive to that pure runnel's murmuring spell,
Or sound of sighing forests heard remote.
Such holy promptings moved of old our sires
Those vast cathedrals cruciform to raise
Which make us dwell within the Cross: and still,
Sweet as the gradual breeze from all their choirs
Moving with dawning day o'er wood and hill,
The thoughts by those grey Minsters quickened to God's praise!

XXXIX. SORROW.

Count each affliction, whether light or grave,
God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou
With courtesy receive him; rise and bow;
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave;
Then lay before him all thou hast: Allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality; no wave
Of mortal tumult to obliterate
The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be,
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate,
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free;
Strong to consume small troubles; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

XL. EVANESCENCE OF THE PATRIARCHAL RELIGION.

Hermes! unearthly were those melodies
That closed the lids of Argus! one by one
His hundred orbs, by a sweet force pressed down,
Yielding successively, like Heaven's bright eyes
When moonlight spreads along her glistening skies:
Smiling he sank, more pleased the more undone,
Inebriate, while through those thin lids the sun
Shone warmly without light!—thy sorceries,
Faith of the Pagan world, so fair of old,
Worked like those songs! Procession, Legend, Rite,
Sapped thus transmitted Truth by spells of Art:
Till the ever-waking spirit in man's heart
Relinquished at the last its sacred hold
Of God's prime creature, beatific Light!

XLI. VIGILANCE.

Virgin! at placid morn, and when the airs
Of evening fan her flushed and throbbing sky,
Send up, like doves, thy homeward thoughts on high,
And mingle with those gentle thoughts thy prayers.
Blameless thou art: but One there is who dares
Assail for ever, and remorselessly
The soul of finest grain and purest dye,
And in the softest herbage sprinkles tares.
Virgin! that Power which sends the winds of Even
To rock the blossoms on the boughs of May,
That Power the Spirits of the Mind obey,
And come and go at His command alone:
Yea, but for Him the loftiest star of Heaven
Would drop, supplanted, from his glittering throne.

XLII. PROVIDENCE.

Providence is that thread on which are strung
Like beads, all Acts and Epochs great and small,
Where diamonds glitter at wide interval
The sanguine and the sable gems among.
‘Wreathe it to one wide crown, and be it hung
Henceforth aloft in Time's memorial hall,
Suspend it o'er the symbol of the Fall;’
This is the burden of the angelic song.
But we must live by Faith: waiting the time
Solemnly set apart in God's great plan
For joining the beginning and the ending:
Then Truth and Love and Joy with choral blending
Shall chaunt the mythic tale of Earth: then Man
Shall mark the metre and recurrent rhyme.

XLIII. UNIVERSAL HISTORY.

Methought I gazed upon a dusky Round,
Our mortal planet's monumental urn:
Around its orb with many a spiral turn
Ascending, a Procession slowly wound:
There saw I laurelled poets, kings renowned;
Prophets I saw from earth's remotest bourne:
There saw I maids and youths, old men forlorn,
And conquerors full-armed, and captives bound.
A Funeral pomp methought it seemed far down
In pale relief; and, side by side, therein
Hooded, there paced, a Sorrow and a Sin:
Midway in ampler ring, and vision clear,
A Sacrifice embraced that mighty sphere:
Above, a lovely Bridal was its crown.

XLIV. TRUTH.

Centre of Earth; keystone of Heaven's great dome!
In thee the world's vast arches rest suspended:
Within thy zodiac's belt round all extended
The orb of Knowledge evermore doth roam:
Thou art the lamp and hearth of each man's home—
How many wondrous powers in thee are blended!
By thee we live; by thee from death defended
We find a second cradle in the tomb.
In thee all good things breathe, without thee die:
Strength, Justice, Loyalty, Truth's noble thrall,
Song, Science, all the Loves; yea most of all,
Though deemed too oft thy rival, Charity,
Whose golden arrows swift as sunbeams fly,
And scatter seeds of life where'er they fall!

XLV. NATIONAL STRENGTH.

What is it makes a Nation truly great?
Her sons; her sons alone; not theirs, but they:
Glory and gold are vile as wind and clay
Unless the hands that grasp them, consecrate.
And what is that in man by which a State
Is clad in splendour like the noontide day?
Virtue: Dominion ebbs, and Arts betray;
Virtue alone endures. But what is that
Which Virtue's self doth rest on; that which yields her
Light for her feet, and daily, heavenly bread;
Which from demoniac pride, and madness shields her,
And storms that most assail the loftiest head?
The Christian's humble faith; that faith which cheers
The orphan's quivering heart and stays the widow's tears.

XLVI. HONOUR.

Bright and majestic Spirit! faithful mate
Of all true Virtue, and that generous Fame
Which guards a spotless, seeks a glorious name
From Love not Pride; but seeks content to wait
And prompt to share it: Angel of the State!
Sanctioning Order with religious awe;
Taking the harshness and the sting from Law,
Scorn from the lowly, envy from the great:
Come to this region of thine ancient sway!
With thy heroic and inspiring smile
Illume our perils and our fears beguile!
Was it not here that Alfred built his throne,
And high-souled Sidney waived a throne away?—
The land is strong which thou hast made thine own.

THE FALL OF RORA.

Caverned rocks in the mountains above Rora.—Chorus of Virgins and Wives—Old Men, Children.
A GIRL.
It thunders!

AN OLD MAN.
No, it is their meeting.

A WOMAN.
Ah!
Thus far, beyond the sight of this great onset
To wait the issue in suspense, and hear
No sound, but those fierce shouts, and our hearts' beating!
Hurl down, O wind, yon rocks! their jagged pines
Leave half the vale exposed, yet hide the battle!

SECOND WOMAN.
A tenfold shout—now, now they meet. O heaven!

CHORUS.
Clouds above the dark vale streaming!
Onward rushing, swift and free!
Oh! that, as a mirror gleaming,
You might show us all you see!
Glittering heralds you should be
Of a sun-bright victory!

FIRST SEMI-CHORUS.
Now the battle hosts are meeting;
Tangled now in mazy error;
Like whirlpools down a river fleeting—
I am blind with doubt and terror.
Better death, than doubt. O cease!
Be still, my heart, or burst. Peace, peace!

SECOND SEMI-CHORUS.
Darkness and storm before him driven,
Ascending ever high and higher,
Yon Eagle cleaves the clouded heaven:
Lo! now sun-smitten, like a pyre
He burns! auspicious omen! we
Behold our Fate and Fame in thee!

FIRST GIRL.
Have we judged well?

SECOND GIRL.
To give up all at once!
The thought is glorious—

WOMEN.
But the act! woe, woe!

FIRST SEMI-CHORUS.
I heard a voice: the clouds were fled;
All heaven hung vast and pure o'erhead;
The mountain rock, and mountain sod,
Lay steadfast, as the throne of God!
I heard a voice: it spake to me,
Far murmuring, ‘One hath died for thee,
That thou shouldst live both just and free.’

SECOND SEMI-CHORUS.
‘For how,’ that deep voice murmured—‘how
Shall man to God his forehead bow,
If, bent beneath a Power unjust,
For aye it grovel in the dust?
Or how expand a chain-worn breast
For Christ therein, an equal guest,
To find his temple and his rest?’

FIRST WOMAN.
(Children pass through the caverns singing.)

CHORUS.
Hark, hark the Storm! the voice not long
Outstrips the Presence: see you now,
Not leaves alone, but branch and bough!
They roof the glen, a rushing throng,
Fast borne in current fierce and strong:
The cliffs that wall the vale are shaking:
The forests to their heart are quaking:
Crouch in caves who will: but I
Exulting pace this platform high!
My panting soul, with joy o'er-awed,
I cast upon the storm abroad:
And soon will hurl, inspired by wrong,
Thereon my vengeance and my Song!

A WOMAN.
Is it the gasping of the storm
That makes her wan cheek red and warm?
Lo! how she fixes now her eyes—

CHORUS.
Catching the quickening impulse from those kindling skies!
See, see the storm grows radiant now,
As radiant as a lifted brow
Too long abased! lo, fast and wide,
Avenging Forms the tempest ride;
And answer, round, above, and under,
With choruses of rapturous thunder!
Burst on the tyrant, Storm from God!
Hurl them like leaves from rock to rock!
Trample them down through clay and sod:
From dark to dark!—their banners mock
The purple and the blood-stained gold
Thy clouds have righteously unrolled—

A WOMAN.
She lifts her hands, and far away
Flings forth the ban!

CHORUS.

FIRST WOMAN.
How her high passion teems with thoughts as high;
Like fire from Earth's deep heart quickening the seeds
In some volcanic soil to stateliest growth!
Flushed is her cheek with crimson as she cow'rs
Beneath their umbrage!

CHORUS.
Ha! how well
That Chief made answer. At the door
The herald stood, and shook all o'er;
And spake: ‘These tumults thou shalt quell;
Or else, a deep oath I have sworn,
Thy wife, the children of thy joy,
With fire in vengeance to destroy.’
Then made he answer, without scorn:
‘Their flesh thou mayest consume; Time must:
But I commend their spirits
To God, in whom we trust.’

WOMEN.
See, see that man! he's hurt—how goes the battle?

MESSENGER.
Thrice have they rushed upon us: thrice fled back:
They form for the last onset. Arnold sent me—
He prays you to remove.

WOMEN.
We will not stir!
Why should we move?

MESSENGER.
The fight is worse than doubtful:
Fresh troops are pouring on us—Christoval—
Mario—the rest—have burst into the valley
From every entrance. We are girt—surrounded—

CHORUS.

FIRST WOMAN.
She sings aright: this music of her anger
Makes my blood leap like founts from the warm earth:
My chill is past.

SECOND WOMAN.
'Tis well. We shall die free!

CHORUS.
As though this Freedom they demand of us
Were ours, at will to keep or to bestow!
To them a boon profane, a gift of woe;
For us a loss fatal and blasphemous!
This Freedom—man's dread Birthright of the Soul—
It is not man's, nor under man's control:
From God it comes; His prophet here, and martyr;
Which when He gives to man, man's sword must guard:
No toy for sport; no merchandise for barter;
A duty, not a boast; the Spirit's awful ward!—
Dread, sullen stillness, what art thou portending?
Once more each word I mutter on mine ear,
Forward in anguish bending,
Drops resonant and clear—
The forest wrecks, each branch and bough,
O'er voiceless caves lie silent now:
No sound, except the wind's far wail,
Forth issuing through the portals of the vale,
Now low, now louder and more loud,
Under the bridge-like archway of yon low-hung cloud!

FIRST WOMAN.
O God, what light is that? See, see, it spreads!
The vale is all one flame—the clouds catch fire—
Our hearths, our homes! all lost—gone, gone, for ever!

SECOND WOMAN.
It wakes another tempest! From the gorges
And deep glens on all sides the winds come rushing,
And mate themselves unto that terrible flame,
As we shake hands fiercely with our despair!
Lo, once again that sound! that flame, behold!
Once more it leaps off from its burning altar
Up, up, to heaven—

CHORUS.
To be our witness there!

A SECOND MESSENGER.
Arnold is dead! He felt the wound was mortal:
Then stood he up from slaying of his foes,
And smiled, and gave this staff to me, and said:
‘If there be yet one free spot left on Earth,
Let them plant there this staff—
And there, not on my grave, remember me!’

FIRST SEMI-CHORUS.
Boast not, haughty conqueror!
Not from thee hath fallen this woe:
He, the Lord of Peace and War,
He alone hath laid us low.
Boast not, haughty conqueror!
Slay, but boast not. Woe! Woe! Woe!

SECOND SEMI-CHORUS.
From Heaven the curse was shaken
On this predestined head:
From thy hand the plague was taken;
By a mightier vengeance sped.
Mine is the sorrow,
Mine, and for ever;
Who can turn back again
A mighty archer's arrow?
Who can assuage my pain?
Who can make calm my brain?
Who can deliver?

CHORUS.