Old Year Leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hark! from afar the deep-toned roar
Of the Atlantic surge—
Yon sail will soon be seen no more
Now light-illumed: 'tis fleeting o'er
The sea-scape's verge.

The stars appear—strange visions rise;
Of man's dim destiny
How typical are these calm skies!
While like to man the sad sea lies
Troubled though free.

No wingèd wanderer slowly cleaves
The silence in his flight;—
His burning throne the Warmth-King leaves
While the fair firmament receives
The crown'd Queen Night.

AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC, FRANCE.

April 18th, 1879.

Day hath departed, save a few faint streaks
Of light that fleck the bosom of the sky;
These, and these only, stay to testify
Of proud Night's conquest. Hark! that sound bespeaks
Our nearness to the Ocean, and I see
Its ripples at my feet;—a soft clear song
Is brceze-borne from a vessel's deck along.
The crew with musical monotony
Raise anchor swiftly, and the ship doth glide
In silence, save for the chant growing low
Wave-wafted landwards. Little doth she know
If calms will come, or fiercest storms betide:—
Alas, o'er life's strange sea we all must sail
Like her, nor know if calm or tempest will prevail.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF THE PYRENEES.

Majestic snow-crowned mountains distant far,
Yet to man's seeming near! How oft we feel
In life 'tis even thus! though there the view,
That seems so close before us full and fair,
May ne'er be realized, while here it needs
But purpose long-sustained to gain the goal
And prove the seeming real.

Whilst I gaze
Upon your cloud-capt summits, thoughts arise
Telling of eager spirits not a few
Who like to me have looked in ages past,
Filled with the selfsame dream of human change,
And your immutability compared
With man's brief mundane course. How many too
Have lounged and looked on your cloud-piercing peaks,
Nor felt the deep reflection such a scene

Is fitted well to give! Strange! but 'tis so,
And will be ever while the world endures;
That which to one seems passion-fraught, sublime,
Another views,—deems fine,—and passes on.

A DIRGE OF DECAY.

[_]

Near Argelez in the Department of the Hautes Pyrénées, France, are several ruins of old castles said to have been built by the English in the 15th century.

Within these walls
Now half-forgotten, lonely and decayed,
Only the birds their resting-place have made,
And scarce a step within them ever falls.

Yet doubtless here
Stupendous deeds of valour have been wrought,—
Deeds that to many thousands then were fraught
With heart-felt weal or deep and direful fear.

Brave of the brave
Our soldiers must assuredly have been,
So long to hold for our proud Island-queen
This land which then seemed far across the wave.

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Yes, far from aid,
From friends, from home, must have appeared their lot,
And yet (O courage great!) they faltered not,
Nor, filled with craven terror, were afraid;

Not even though
Full oft encompassed, like unto a stag
By hounds engirt; but rallied round their flag,
And kept its honour stainless from the foe.

Why is it then
That low in ruins are these castles laid?
It is because old courage had decayed,—
It is because old fire had left our men.

This should we learn
While earth remaineth thus,—wars cannot cease;
That everything hath limits,—even peace;
So let the lamp of ancient courage burn.

102

LINES ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF BARÉGES FROM ST. SAUVEUR, HAUTES PYRÉNÉES, FRANCE.

Lo! what a glorious prospect is revealed
Of mountains, snow, and verdant loveliness;
Upon the sloping sides of monarch heights
Reposes now the mist, most gracefully,
In wreaths almost transparent; presently
Its mass divides, and clear against the sky
Appears each giant summit grandly calm,
And seeming proud that its lone God-wrought strength
So long defies decay. One ever feels
In gazing on such scenes how weak is man,
Yet still how much his art hath made increase
To this rare store of beauty. Each small patch
Perceived upon the mountain-side, reclaimed

103

From barren wilderness, hath wondrous power
To cheer the eye. To me it often seems
As though no prospect were indeed complete
Without some trace of toil to leaven it.

104

FROM LA RAILLÈRE TO PONT D'ESPAGNE AND LAC DE GAUBE.

O path which seems to have a loveliness
More than of Earth,
How can one who has viewed thy scenes express
The thoughts that unto them have owed their birth?

How can he tell of all the wondrous way
Where grandeur vies
With beauty, rich and rare, to bear the sway
In winning and retaining ravished eyes?

How can he tell of rocks and ridges wild
Which lie around?
Of mighty mountain-peaks on high up-piled?
Of ceaseless cataracts' majestic sound?

105

How can he well describe rich-foliaged trees
That screen the sides?
Blown to and fro by gentle summer breeze,—
In chasms where the vale the rocks divides.

How can he well describe the stately pines
Steadfast and strong?
(True type of one whose sun not always shines,
And yet who bravely bears grief's load along.)

High-foaming Cérizet can he portray?
Beyond the power
Of language even feebly to convey
Its peerless beauty, wonder-working dower.

Much less the wilder falls at Pont d'Espagne
Truly sublime,—
Whose weird white floods sing songs of sturdy strain,
For aye the same in nature-ordered time.

106

When Lac de Gaube is reached, how can he tell
The silent sight
Of snow and glaciers? Soon our bosoms swell
With feelings half of fear, half of delight.

The fairy rainbow tints which o'er the falls
Glimmer and play,
The stilly clearness of the lake enthralls,
Yes this and all, in us soon holds full sway.

Though none can well describe these scenes, shall not
They in the mind
Remain to bring forth fruit, a gladsome spot
In memory, a gift for good designed!

109

AT ORTHEZ

SONNET

[_]

On seeing a Sham Fight of French Troops at Orthez, in exactly the same position as those occupied by the English and French Armies in the memorable action of February 14th, 1814.

A February day in years long fled,
A fiercely raging battle hour by hour,
At length gained by a mind of mighty power
Through wonder-working skill.

French troops are spread
Along the ridge of hills and fertile vales
Where that stern strife was once. For mimic war
They are arranged precisely as of yore,
Is the result as in the old men's tales
Who saw the real conflict? Nay, not so,
The French now hold the heights. Fictitious foes
Are beaten by the patriots who oppose.
‘The English hounds who wrought our pride's o'erthrow,’
Doubtless thinks many a soldier, ‘now would feel,
If they were here once more, the force of Frenchmen's steel.’

113

THE ESCORIAL, 1879.

[_]

The Escorial, a glooming pile, standing at the foot of the Guadarrama range of mountains, is the burial-place of the Spanish Kings, and it is so vast that it looks imposing even amid natural grandeur.

How sternly the Escorial stands,—
The burial-place of kings,
Who at disloyal Death's commands
Must leave their princely things,

And hie to this stupendous pile,
That looks so cold and lone,—
Where nature scarcely dares to smile,
And verdure seems unknown,—

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To this sad spot where Summer's glare
Beats fiercest and most strong,—
Where swooping from his mountain lair
Winter abideth long.

Ah, yes, it must be change indeed
From grandeur such as theirs
To such a spot to come with speed,
To be Corruption's heirs.

For evermore to lay aside
Insignia of power,—
All-humbled stately monarch pride
In death's still awful hour.

And yet 'twere better thus to be
Entombed 'mid marble walls,

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Where even his foot who comes to see
In seeming reverence falls,

Than to be huddled with the rest
In some dank burial-ground,
Where in a few years' time at best
One's place could not be found.

Men prate that Nature ne'er obtains
Her long-predestined dues,
And show that we with mighty pains
Should alter all our views

On points of sepulchre. For me,
Though o'er it fall Oblivion's frost,
I trust for aye my grave shall be
Neither disturbed nor lost.

119

LINES ON PASSING IN AN EXPRESS TRAIN THROUGH BADAJOZ,

NOTED FOR ITS FAMOUS SIEGE DURING THE PENINSULAR WAR.

And is this Badajoz? where once was heard
The clash of arms, and breaching cannons' roar,
Where from the dim-lit parallels came forth
The forlorn hope at Duty's stern command?
Where swords and bayonets bristled on cold walls,
And multitudes of marksmen sought to stay
The assailing columns in their onward course?
Where, when the town was gained, grim Plunder stalked
Amid its devastated streets, and made
Them ghastlier even than War?
Years yield strange fruit
Of alteration in forsaken paths;
Yet was I strangely struck with the great change
Wrought here in Badajoz.

Can it be true
That here a most prosaic railway-station
Is now erected, with its telegraph,

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Poor restaurant, and porters to be ‘tipped’?
And that of travellers, who tread its platform
When trains a moment stop, scarce any think
Of that bold siege which for all coming years
Has blazoned ‘Badajoz’ on Fame's high scroll?

122

CINTRA in 1879.

Cintra, our Byron gave thy name to fame
By his description grand, and sweet, and true;
But though thy ‘mountain's ever beauteous brow’
And many other objects are unchanged,
Yet altered are full many of the scenes
On which the poet looked, and mused and sang.
No ‘frugal monks their little relics show’
To strangers at ‘Our Lady's house of woe.’
One sees their tiny cells, their cork-wood walls,
Honorius's cave, and that is all.
The former home of ‘England's wealthiest son’
No longer has its ‘portals gaping wide,’
Its ‘halls deserted,’ or great ‘giant weeds’
Within its garden ground:—but it is fair,
Fair as the lordly traveller declared
It was of yore. While ‘Marialva's dome’
Is changed in that 'tis now historical,

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Its fame a lasting one, whilst in his day
Its interest was eclipsed by other themes
Of ever-varying War:—the deed performed
Within its gates too recent not to be
Left unto record of the daily gossip,
And comments of the press which rarely live.
All now is different:—a classic scene
Thou standest, Cintra, clothed with more of fame
(To English minds at least) from Byron's words
Than from thy matchless beauty, could that be.
And mayhap, in the years to come, some poet
Treading the self-same scenes will tell how one,
A writer of poor verses, tried to tell
What changes there had been since Byron wrote;
And he, in turn, with glowing eloquence
Will paint with poet's art the tide of Change
On Cintra since these lines were given forth.

127

A LESTÉ SUNRISE IN MADEIRA.

Many-hued the sky this morn,
Beautiful the day is born,
Fleecy clouds on every side
Sunshine's coming seem to hide,
But the other cloudlets stand
Ready waiting its command.

Ay, they are a gorgeous group,
Almost each tint in the troop,
Red, and light blue, and maroon,
And some white appearing soon,
And a glorious purple shade
Over all is deftly laid.

128

O'er the mountains purple clouds
Of deep colour hang, like shrouds;
Purple masses faint are shed
O'er the Ocean's wave-strewn bed,
Fine the light which now one sees,
On the palms and tropic trees.

Swiftly fades the splendid sky
To a dimly purple dye;
Gently stirs the landward breeze
Shapely-formed banana-trees.
Dawn's first freshness wears away,
And begins the balmy day.

129

MADEIRA—MOONLIGHT.

Stealing softly o'er the mountains,
Skirting Funchal's scattered town,
To the eastward, comes the moonlight
Flinging its effulgence down;
Making every object glitter
In its clear and tranquil sheen,
While the Ocean lately troubled
Seemeth lapt in peace serene.

Subtle moonlight! how thy radiance
With a magic often shown
Touches and refines a landscape
With a glamour all thine own!
So thou causest here the houses
Mean, nay squalid, in the light,
To appear a pearly pureness
Rather than a dirty white.

130

For the filth and streets so narrow,
With vile odours bred by day,
Save for Nature's glorious grandeur,
Takes admiring thoughts away;
But the moonbeam maketh all things
Gain at least a semblance meet,
Till at length the wide-spread prospect
Has an aspect almost sweet.

131

AT SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE.

Feb. 19, 1880.

'Tis fashionable now to say
That skill displayed in war is wrong,
That they who formed our England's sway,
And made her empire firm and strong,

Were callous cut-throats nothing less,—
Who joyed in war for its own sake,—
Who yearned to banish happiness,
Who loved with blood their thirst to slake.

And yet while landing here to-day,
On the same shore which years ago
Saw from its crag-encircled bay
Our Nelson's only overthrow,

132

I thought, Do those who grub and prose,
And by their lights their betters try,
Perform their life-tasks more than those
Whose task is but ‘to do or die’?

135

GIBRALTAR.

1880.

‘Sweet Seville’ has been sung—and Cadiz too
By Byron, for the beauty of her girls,—
Yet know I not that one hath given thy due
To thee on whose proud crest the cloud-wreath curls.

Let me attempt thy praise, then, for I know
That worthier pens will write of foreign towns,—
For now no place has praise with us, if so
It be mayhap a jewel of our Crown's.

‘Sweet Seville's’ Guadalquivir, famed in song,
Is nothing save a nearly stagnant stream.

136

The beauty of the Cadiz maiden throng
Exists,—but in a ‘poet's airy dream.’

Here in Gibraltar all retains an air
Of honest truth. Odourless streets are clean,
And everything is made the most of, where
Man's art avails to soften down the scene.

The gardens of the Alameda, full
Of semi-tropic plants and shady trees,
Pleasant to lounge in their recesses cool
On summer eves to catch the soft sea-breeze.

Yet great the toil and patience must have been
Before at last was made such rocky ground
To nourish shrub, or plant, or aught of green.
Cheering it is to hear the home-like sound

Of English tongues,—to see our cared-for men,—
Contrasted with the Spaniards wan and weak,
Guarding their posts, as they with eager ken
Look on our cannon, which have but to speak—

137

To put their lines to rout. How lovely gleams
The Rock at sunrise! The grey looming clouds
Glow in the new-born light like glorious dreams,
While Shadow still the tranquil bay enshrouds.

Ay, grim Gibraltar, thou indeed art fair!
And more than that, a place in which one may
Live with true home-like comfort, and a share
Of a good climate, brightening Life's dull day.

138

GRANADA.

Fair Granada, our masters of the pen
Have written much of thee, and not a few
Who ne'er have seen thee, hold dream-wrought and fair,
A city in their fancy by thy name
Seen clearly in their mental eyes, as if
'Twere mirrored in their senses. Thus with me;
But when I saw, my fond ideal fell.
It was not that thy famed Alhambra hill
Lacked grandeur, or its silent courts were void
Of architectural wealth, or that the Vega,
Shut in by mountains and the silent snows,
Was aught save fair; yet still the impression stays
Unceasingly within me, caused perchance
By narrow Spanish streets, dull, dirty, white,

139

Or likelier that the sight of scaffoldings
And fresh-wrought antique work amid the old
In the Alham bra's courts destroy their charm.

142

THE CERTOSA OF PAVIA;

A GREAT ITALIAN CONVENT, AND GRAND WORK OF ART.

Great monument of human skill!
How vast must be the power and scope
Of minds which can conceive,—of hands
That shape such edifices rare;—
And doth the splendid sight not show
Convincingly how wondrous is
The grandeur, mightiness of Man,
Despite his body frail, and train
Of weary woes, which almost ever
Attends him, ere King Death with sway
Imperious demands his spoil?
And do such sights not educate,
If we may phrase it thus, the soul,
Leading us far more to believe
In the proud majesty of Art?
The marble cuttings exquisite

147

Near the high altar, the mosaics
Gorgeous; yet though so finely wrought,
Designed in truly simple taste,
The stately stalls of workmanship
Replete with loveliness and rich
In cunning inlaid work. The aspect
Of the exterior, the carvings
So realistic near the door—
The outer door—of Roman coins
(Though strange to see these Pagan heads)
At entrance to a Christian church.
All, all make up a noble whole,
And fill the heart with feelings which
'Twere better that it ne'er forgot.