'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition

Mother of all the doves, when morning beams,
I see them circling round thy radiant head,
With rainbow-coloured wings about them spread,
While the glad sunshine on their plumage gleams;

Lo, from thy lips they take their daily bread,
And when through cloudy rifts of silver seams,
The moon and stars their purple pavement tread,
They nestle on thy breast in blissful dreams.

Mother of all the doves and happy things,
In thy soft heart all soft things find a nest,
To thee whate'er is sweet and helpless clings;

Ah, had I only childhood's right of rest,
And like thy doves a pair of heavenly wings,
Then would I fly as quickly to thy breast.

THE SERVICE OF SORROW.

When sorrow came upon me in a cloud,
And all that makes life beautiful was spent,
While the great glory of the earth seemed rent,
And turned into the shadow of a shroud;

When low before the knife of pain I bowed,
And bared my heart, till all my being went
Forth in an offering, with the life-blood blent,
Even as I knelt I nursed a spirit proud.

But ah! the knife of suffering pierced me sore,
It tore away the mask of dazzling lies,
And cut the old and gave me grander ties;

Till as I anguished on the altar floor,
Truth opened to me like the Temple door—
The sacrifice of meekness sanctifies.

702

TO THE MARCHIONESS C---.

Most noble thou, whose kind and gentle hand
Was laid upon my head in sickness brief,
And (while it smoothed my pillow) like a thief,
Stole all my heart from this poor will's command;

Thou broughtest joy so near akin to grief,
I felt the impress, like a burning brand;
Of that sweet touch, and all that soft relief
Was turned by fate to one great iron band.

But did I love thee? nay, my passion's fire
Burnt like a victim on the altar laid,
That has been dragged through misery and mire;

I sought no solace and I asked no aid,
But to serve on without thy heart for hire,
Drawn by thy beauty, yet of love afraid.

TO THE COUNTESS R---.

Oh, art thou gone, and I have never known
The sweetness of thy presence, and the light
That sat upon thy forehead as a throne,
And lent a power when nothing else was bright?

Yea, thou hast passed, fair Mother, from my sight,
(Ere I had learnt to feel thee all my own,
Or to the knowledge of thy gifts had grown),
To a serener home and grander height.

Yet hast thou left me something of thee still,
A portion of thy presence, and the thrill
Of mighty thoughts that anchor me to God;

That makes the humblest twig and meanest clod,
Glow like the stars that space celestial fill,
Wave like the waving of a prophet's rod.

VERNEY LOVETT CAMERON.

Great Traveller, whose firm and fearless will
Bore thee across a continent of shade,
From peril unto peril safe, and made
Like one man's heart the heart of Europe thrill!

703

Thy sword was kindness, and thou didst not wade
To glory through a sea of blood and ill;
And so thy honoured name will never fade,
It is thy country's pride and shall be still.

Go on and conquer yet, in thy grand course,
With patient faith and not by fraud or force,
New worlds for Truth from superstition's rod;

Go, where explorers' feet have never trod,
Track out the stream of knowledge to its source,
And carry with thee love of man and God.

XANTHIPPE.

I am sick of sweet-faced women and their ways,
Their sugared sentences, and sugared looks,
I know by heart like children's picture books,
And all the dulcet arts that poets praise:

I long for Nature without starch or stays,
For words that brawl and boil like winter brooks,
The deeds unclogged by social eyes and hooks,
That set old systems in a glorious blaze.

But me Xanthippe pleases far the best,
Flushed from brute triumphs o'er Socratic wit,
Whose tongue is not to trifle but to hit:

In her reluctant arms could I find rest,
Soothe her sour glance, tame her tempestuous breast,
And turn to kisses the cold lips that bit.

LESBIA.

I love thee, Lesbia, though I scarce know why,
For thou art old and ugly, and thy face,
With the dark terrors of that frowning eye,
Hath not one charm to wake one amorous sigh;

But still the very absence of all grace,
The fearless features that no arts embrace,
And flaunt their native nakedness on high,
Make half sublime their sorry dwelling-place.

I love, because thy soul hath dared to be
Its own and not another's, and is free
From false Convention and its fatal hold;

704

And though thou art a skinflint and a scold,
Thy graceless form is yet more fair to me,
Than harlot Custom with its pearls and gold.

“BONUS DORMITAT HOMERUS.”

St. Peter sometimes nods and drops his keys,
Before he shuts to eyes profane the gate,
And then all Heaven is in a dreadful state,
Like an upset and outraged hive of bees;

Till some archangel smites the porter's gate,
And brings him promptly yawning to his knees,
With half a smothered prayer and all a sneeze,
That snuffs the candles out as sure as fate.

But now the mischief is a finished fact,
That grows at once a miserable centre,
Where circle troubles and whence others enter;

For ere the culprit can deny his act,
Or with intruders make some sort of pact,
In rushes through the door some d---d Dissenter.

THE COMEDY OF DEATH.

Though the proud hero of a hundred battles,
And borne through all without a scratch or scar,
Upon the fierce and foaming waves of war,
No volley now but laughter round him rattles.

Upon his knee his little grandson prattles,
And what the fathers made the children mar;
While at his side his prudent partner tattles,
And scents the savoury dinner from afar.

And though the shades of life begin to thicken,
He feels no touch of overbearing age,
Nor have the days begun to dim and sicken;

Till comes a foe not writ in history's page,
And he succumbs to its more fatal rage,
Choked by the bone of an avenging chicken.

A Waterloo veteran was choked by a chicken bone—perhaps a drumstick of French extraction.

705

THE FERRYMAN.

A ferryman with wild and withered face,
With lean and hungry looks, and restless eyes
That long to hide but cannot find a place,
Away from earth and the pursuing skies;

A river that from darkness seems to rise,
And into darkness flows, within a space
Too short for weeping and too sad for sighs,
And ever rolls and never gathers grace.

A ferryman, a river, and a boat,
And sweet familiar forms I see, that float
Down into silence on the solemn stream;

And then a cloud comes o'er my bitter dream,
Yet as it breaks I cannot choose but note,
That even Charon ferries now—by steam.

THE DEVIL ABROAD.

The Devil now is quite a dainty fop,
He learns his lessons in the modern school,
And has his coat acutely cut by Poole,
While as to fashion he is at the top;

Of course he never, never talks of “shop,”
And fire and brimstone are no more his rule,
He lets such disagreeable subjects drop,
And goes abroad like men and plays the fool

You hear him in the drawing room of deans,
Discoursing low to maidens in their teens,
And dowagers he helps to cheat at cards;

He spins melodious nonsense off by yards,
Or if avowing little much be means,
And prompts the lies and lusts of barren bards

THE SOILED PACKET.

This soiled and sacred packet is my own,
To me more dear than any locks and lines,
And all the tender and delicious signs,
That still remain when love itself has flown

706

And though no more its creamy cover shines,
Since such caresses it has daily known,
Yet if my hungry heart at seasons pines,
I take out this and feel no more alone.

Love held the pen, and loitered on the page—
But it was love of money to be won,
When life had just a little course to run;

The hand that traced it trembled—but with rage,
The heart that breathed it cursed its coffined stage,
And glowed with all the passion of—a Dun.

PROBLEMS.

By every waft of change and wave of thought,
That sadly tax the meditative mind,
With ragged reasons it goes far to find,
Dread questions man must solve are daily brought;

Enigmas dire that issue out of nought,
And into nothing through the darkness wind,
By blasts of fate in brief consistence wrought,
And grimmer problems ever press behind.

But, ah, the question that confounds me most,
Is that which broods with hunger on my breast,
And enters in an uninvited guest;

It comes with bristling puzzles in a host,
And cries in accents all forbidding rest,
“Are babies better eating boiled or roast?”

THE ANGEL AND THE CROSS.

I had a cross to carry up the steep
That winds through wastes of shadow, to the Light
Which is the Face of God serene and bright,
Beyond the bitter rocks where mourners weep;

And faith had ever vigil sad to keep,
Against the music of temptation's might,
Pursuing me with delicate delight,
That well might lull the surest watch to sleep.

707

But as with patient prayer I bore it on,
By paths that martyrs' feet before had gone,
Through penitential purging lone and keen;

Lo, a fair angel where the Cross had been,
And light, that never yet round reveller shone,
Turned the dark desert to an Eden green.

POOR HEART.

Another string is gone, another tie
That bound me to these pleasant fields of flowers,
Snapt in mid music of the sweetest hours,
And I have nothing left me but to die;

To lay me down, where my beloved ones lie
Calm in the cradling of their sacred bowers,
Caressed by sunshine, kissed by tender showers,
And let this world of falsehood all go by.

No string remains to link us, O poor heart,
Yet longer to the earth whereon we stay,
For all have past the same sad silent way;

And thou hast lost the old unconscious art,
Which made each beauteous thing around, a part
Of melodies that deep in thee held sway.

WORKING—WORSHIPING.

I wished to worship God, and I was sad,
Because I knew not how to serve Him right,
Who filled my mouth with songs, my eyes with light,
And gave whatever made me rich and glad;

For all my offerings seemed so poor and bad,
And smitten to the core with evil blight,
My prayers were arrows shot into the night,
And even my praises lost the joy they had.

Then in despair I ceased to test my deeds,
If they were by some sterile standard wrought,
And purged from evil's misbegotten seeds;

I bared my heart to every noble thought,
And beyond reach of all the narrow creeds,
In work I found the worship that I sought.

708

MY MASTER.

I was apprentice unto many arts,
And many masters taught me all their skill,
From music with its deep mysterious thrill,
To the vast ventures of the mightiest marts;

In all I played no inconspicuous parts,
Passing from sphere to sphere with wayward will,
Baring my breast to love's unhurtful darts,
And yet I felt that I knew nothing still.

I only gathered folly, not true lore.
Mere pretty shells and pebbles on the shore,
Washed up from the unfathomable wave;

But when I to the Galilæan gave
My heart, as I had never given before,
The tree of wisdom grew on folly's grave.

SOFT CHEEKS.

I have a daughter, and her face is fair
As is the morning on the mountain top,
The sunbeams ever play about her hair,
And even at night will all that glory stop;

And when upon my bosom's weary crop
Of cares, no dews come through the sultry air,
And fields are pining for the clouds to drop,
She gives them of her tears a living share.

Her names are sweet and many as the weeks,
That in the heart of the glad summer fall,
And quickly doth she answer to them all;

My fond approval prettily she seeks,
And new endearing names, but most of all
She loves to take the title of “Soft Cheeks.”

TO MY WIFE.

True wife, who dost in thy benignant frame
Embody all that is most soft and sweet,
Making a music with thy measured feet,
That never yet from earthly footsteps came;

709

In thee strange graces beautifully meet,
With gifts that have not any mortal name,
And play about thy path like heavenly flame,
Sent down in pity suffering souls to greet.

I love thee altogether, every part,
From the pure eyes that mirror the pure heart,
To the light dust that flecks thy dainty skirt;

Thou dost transfigure even the clods and dirt,
By that bright presence which is more than art,
And all thou touchest is with glory girt.

ON JESUS' BREAST.

I tried a thousand spots on which to lay
My aching head, so harassed with the goad
Of little cares, that made the weary day
A lengthening and insufferable load;

From the damp dungeon with the snake and toad,
To dazzling seats that kept perpetual day,
I duly trod each glad and glorious road,
I tried them all and nothing found to stay.

I vainly sought with universal quest,
Through bowery valley and in bloomy lea,
In fair white arms that had a heavenlier plea;

And then I found, more sweet than woman's rest,
Softer and wider than the summer sea,
The place I panted for—on Jesus' breast.

THE HUMAN VOICE DIVINE.

(TO SISSY W---NT---R IN HEAVEN.)

Fair sister, up in Heaven by God's high seat,
Part of the brightness of the angel band
That round the central glory singing stand,
Where souls that are most pure and perfect meet;

Thy voice is sweetest in that lovely land,
Glad music waits upon thy moving feet,
It echoes from the waving of thy hand,
And without thee that choir were not complete.

710

When lights are low and darkness gathers fast,
While solemn searchings holy shadows cast,
Thou art a blessed portion still of mine;

And oft, if tender memories round me twine
Melodious tendrils of the undying past,
I hear from Heaven thy human voice divine.

INNOCENCE.

I met a Maiden who seemed wondrous fair,
As I was rushing headlong forth to win
The crownèd folly that is only sin,
Down the gay slopes of pleasure's golden stair;

She had a snow-white lily in her hair,
And though around her broke the eddying din
Of dancing feet, yet as she entered in,
All hushed and holy grew like summer air.

She stopped me, ere I gained the enchanted room,
That rioted with beauty and with bloom,
Whatever pampers the voluptuous sense;

She laid the lily on my bosom tense
With passion beats, and said “Seek not thy doom,
But wear this flower whose name is Innocence.”

THE BLISS OF IGNORANCE.

I met a Spirit in a human shape,
Whose mouth was music and whose eyes were light,
As I was drifting round the stormy Cape,
That leads to ruin and the lands of night;

I did not see the horror of the sight,
Behind the glory of the purple grape,—
The cup of poison and the breath of blight,
And the dread scourge no mortal may escape.

He took reluctant hands, and with sweet force
Stayed the wild steppings of my devious course,
And whispered counsel soft as summer wind;

True wisdom was, he said, to evil blind,
And looked straightforward like the battle horse,
While he was happiest still who could not find.

711

PURITY.

I met a daughter of the sons of men,
Whose face was sunshine, and whose feet were dew,
That comes at evening when the lights are few,
And whose sweet mouth was like a poet's pen;

And lo! our souls a moment touched, and then
I shrank confounded from the glamour new,
Which like the breath of Heaven about her blew,
And gathered every secret in its ken.

Her calm bright glance like sudden lightning came,
Illumed my being in its inmost shame,
While her soft footsteps on the evil trod;

Her gentle words fell like a judgment rod,
And I beheld with awe her solemn name,
As if unveiled I saw the face of God.

TO LADY J. HERSCHEL.

O Lady, mate with no unequal mind
Of him who, in his world-compelling glass,
A mighty master, made the planets pass,
And wonders to which mortal eyes were blind;

If he, who was far greater than his kind,
Is gone fresh marvels to record and class,
Their glory has not fled from sky and grass,
And other vaster worlds are yet to find.

Queen among women, thine is still the rod,
Before which open the most hidden bars
Of heavenly spaces, where no discord jars;

Though with unfaltering feet, as thou hast trod,
Thou treadest still the lowliest earthly sod,
Thy heart is yet among its native stars.

SWEET LIPS.

I have a child, with tresses fair and bright,
And happy eyes that ever upward look,
Wherein her thoughts are like a story book,
Written in tender characters of light;

712

And all her frame, so grateful to my sight,
Responds to every influence like a brook,
As if each rippling breath that passed her shook
Her soul, and turned to music in its flight.

Her lips are roses that retain their bloom,
And though all flowers are overcast with gloom
In winter, hers have yet no part in this;

They take fresh beauty from a Father's kiss,
And keep their radiance in the darkest room,
The home of sweetness, and the heaven of bliss.

THE CUP OF SIN.

That golden cup—she put it from her twice,
With hands indignant that no speck had stained,
And with a bosom pure, that fiercely strained
Against the semblance of the sweetest vice;

No splendid poison could one whit entice
Those virgin lips, by the poor pleasure gained,
To barter for the pangs with sin ordained,
The peace and freedom that alone suffice.

But late one evening, lo! an angel came,
Into her maiden sanctuary to sup,
And offered her once more the glittering cup;

And then at last she felt the burning flame
Of love within her woman's breast rise up,
And in the passion she forgot the shame.

THE PLUCKED ROSE.

I plucked a rose that in its glory grew,
Within the shadow of a cottage door,
The only riches of the inmates poor,
Bathed in the beauty of its summer dew;

It was unsheltered from the storms that blew,
And would surrender soon to some rude boor
Its graces, did I not those charms renew,
In golden courts and on a marble floor.

713

But lo! when it was in my eager grip,
The virgin bloom I deemed would ever last,
Seemed as if blighted by a winter blast;

It was no longer honey to the lip,
That could its sweetness any moment sip,
The freshness faded and the splendour past.

THE MARKED TREE.

It woke one morning in the summer dawn,
To spread its branches in the early light,
And wave its foliage o'er the flickering lawn,
As if the dancing leaves would fain take flight;

But in the midst of all that promise bright,
It paused and trembled like a frightened fawn,
Around whose lair the hunter's toils are drawn
Wrought in the silence of the secret night.

For on its stem no loving hand had laid
A little brand, that yet great shadows cast,
And showed the hour of doom was hastening fast;

Its gladness at the fountain head was stayed,
As light departs from some defloweréd maid,
For death had come and marked it as he pass'd.

THE FIRE FROM HEAVEN.

I raised an altar, built of costly stones,
Unto the God I worshipped, on a height
Which the first kisses of the morning light
Received, and heard the breezes' earliest tones;

And on these jewels plucked from royal thrones,
I laid an offering beautiful and bright,
The tribute of the fairest, richest zones,
And all that was most grateful to the sight.

And yet I built and offered still in vain,
For to my purest offering clove a stain,
And I could nowhere find a kindling spark;

But when I aimed at a more lofty mark,
And sacrificed my will, albeit with pain,
Fell fire from heaven and lit that altar dark.

714

THE DISCOVERER.

Before him stretched white lengths of shining shore,
Strange mountains raised their stormy heads on high,
Range beyond range, and in an unmapped sky
Flamed stars that lamps of unknown beauty bore;

And from the moonlight gleamed a boundless store
Of marvels new, and the deep forest's sigh
To him of mortal men first wafted nigh,
A wondrous music never heard before.

No human eye had ever fondly dwelt
Upon the mysteries, now about to ope
Their fair untrodden breadths of vale and slope;

No human heart had ever dreamed or felt
The troubled joy and awe, with which he knelt
Upon the threshold of this world of hope.

TO CONSTANCE—

O thou, who bearest a historic name,
Dear to the heart of England, and to all
Who love that land their mother-land to call,
Thy face to me as England's glory came.

For it reflects full many a noble dame,
Whose portrait hangs upon the pictured wall
Of memory, and nations risen to fame,
With woman framed like thee can never fall.

For purity is written on thy brow,
And breathes about thee, in a queenly state,
The holy spell that stronger is than Fate;

Nor is there safeguard like the solemn vow
Of consecration, and we ask not how,
While maidens live like thee, men must be great.

THE SECOND DAY.

The day had dawned on an enchanted space,
But stretched no barrier between earth and sky,
And on creation fell the solemn cry
Of benediction, that gave all its grace;

715

And then the heaven was lifted to its place,
While earth alone was left its lot to try
Divided, and yet not without a trace
Of the sweet union past—it knew not why.

And though the world unsoiled by sin or pain,
In the first freshness of its beauty stood,
Like a young maiden in her maidenhood;

God breathed no blessing, though He saw no stain,
For well He knew it was not wholly good,
That heaven and earth should ever thus be twain.

IN MEMORY OF Clementine Augusta, Marchioness Camden, Born 6th May, 1848, and Died 27th March, 1886.

No fading wreath for her, who was a “Flower”
Herself, and by a noble native right,
Turning her tender graces to the Light,
And drawing thence all beauty and all power;
But wreath of honour true, a fitting dower,
That knows not touch of winter's age or blight,
For her who rose where little glories lower,
And blossomed sweetest in the darkest night.

For her no sadness of the common doom,
A few false tears, and the yet falser line
Of flattery's leaves, that round the memory twine;
She is not dead, but from this gaslit gloom
Transplanted, into brighter heavenly bloom—
Beloved, bemourned by all, sweet Clementine;

She was only daughter of the 6th Duke of Marlborough by his 2nd wife the Hon. Charlotte Augusta Flower.

LEGEND OF THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

As on the Cross the dying Saviour hung,
With all the woes of all the ages worn,
And the great burden none but He has borne,
Which with its curse like midnight to him clung;
As in his ears the ribald voices rung,
And pierced the crown less sharply than the scorn;
A little bird one note of comfort sung,
And from His forehead plucked one bitter thorn.

716

And as it sweetly ministered to pain,
Fell on the humble breast that faithful beat,
A drop of blood, and left a crimson stain;
And there for ever it has kept its seat,—
To show, if Fame may sound the Hero's feat,
God deems no act of love though little vain.

THE GERMAN KAISER. (March 9th, 1888.)

No dreams of earthly splendour bade him draw
That giant sword, which gave him deathless fame,
And never once unsheathed by him in shame
Flashed, as it fell and wrought its righteous law;
And only he could wield it, he who saw
God's purpose in the cloud as in the flame,
Beneath Time's petty fumes and party flaw,
And fought for Him without a fear of blame.

That conquering sword was “bathed in Heaven,” and breathed
Its will to make divided peoples one,
To mould the feeble strong, despoiling none;
Greatly it shone and it was grandly sheathed,
When from red shadow with its glory wreathed,
Stept forth an Empire, and its work was done.

KAISER FRIEDRICH.

The blood is shed, the awful offering made,
Which gave an empire new its costly seed,
To flower and fruit in many a glorious deed,
When honour called and duty sternly bade;
Now let the bird build in the arméd shade
Of silent guns, and step the battle steed
To better triumphs of the conquering spade,
And harvests golden for a nation's need.

The Kaiser Friedrich reigns, who fain would fight
More peaceful frays, that never bosom shook
With fear, and but from toiler burdens took;
He seeks to govern with the gentle might
Of love, that knows no other law than right,
And turns the slaying sword a reaper's hook.

717

THE NORTH-EAST WIND.

Howl, fierce North-Easter, howl, and fiercer blow;
That art our roaming spirit's equal mate,
To keep the haughty spoiler from the gate,
And bid our sturdy nature stronger grow;
Still raise the stormy waves, that round us flow
In dreadful walls and fence us out from fate,
And make the heart of fire within us glow
Imperial yet, thou bulwark of the State.

It is the iron of thy bitter cold,
Wrought in the fibre of our English tree,
And our unconquered bosom comes from thee;
Yea, thus we walk the earth erect and bold,
Build up this grandeur not by craft or gold,
And with thy boundless breath wax fair and free.

OUTCAST ERIN.

Born in the purple, folded from the blast
That beats on labour in its iron mill,
To noble duties they alone can fill,
With grand traditions of a golden Past;
Erin's fair daughters shone, and at their will
Poured riches as if they would ever last,
Rank over them its shield of honour cast,
And Heaven and earth heaped blessings on them still.

Now hunted forth in want and shame they hide,
The dainty prey of factions' cruel ban,
To give a party government a plan;
Prest downward by the dark unsparing tide,
Called justice, which has thrust their rights aside,
They wait for death more merciful than man.

VIXIT! VICIT!

In Memoriam, Kaiser Friedrich, 15th June, 1888.

The gallant fight is fought, the victory won,
At last, through pangs, grief, woe—the long dark spell
Of doubt is broken, by the solemn bell—
To glorious father goes more glorious son;

718

For he has conquered death, as conquered none
Mortal, and wrung new wreaths from very hell,
To be immortal now his work is done,
Wrought out of pain endured—and it is well.

We would not weep, and even these natural tears
Fall at our bitter loss and severed ties,
But not for him who in God's mercy lies;
He suffered sore, with no complaint or fears,
And now he rests and speaks through endless years—
Yea, victor Friedrich lives, 'tis death that dies.

ANGELS' FOOD.

I knew not what it was in byegone years,
When passion was the most and faith the least,
The food on which the blessed angels feast,
Although I sought it carefully with tears:

Although I compassed it with hopes and fears,
Knocked at the golden portals of the East
With daily, nightly prayers that never ceast,
I sought in vain through long and lonely years.

But now, I know what is this holy food,
That makes the meanest nature great and good,
And can the pulses of Creation move;

Its universal name is only—Love,
And if it is not now quite understood,
Yet I shall taste its fulness all above.

EASTER EVE.

[_]

Prudentius (Cathem. 5. 125 “Sunt et spiritibus,” etc.) says that on Easter Eve there is temporary otium even for the damned.

Tradition says, that, in the depths of hell,
The dead and damned shut out from earthly gains,
Yet once a year put off their cursed stains,
While on their spirits falls a peaceful spell;

The fiery fetters then relax their pains,
And blessed hopes that every murmur quell,
Rise in the riven heart that most complains,
And fondly whisper, “All shall yet be well.”

719

For upon Easter Eve a silence falls,
Within the barrier of those burning walls,
And then the Blessed Saviour passes by;

Before His footsteps woe and sufferings fly,
Peace unto mercy musically calls,
And promise brightens darkest memory.

THE QUEEN OF SORROW.

Imperial maiden, whose majestic soul
By some great sadness is eclipsed and smitten,
As waves of trouble still against thee roll,
And leave their record on thy forehead written;

Remember these but bear thee to the goal,
Beyond the shores of shadow weather-bitten,
That is with calm and cloudless glory litten,
And are but bubbles of the boundless whole.

Bear then thy portion bravely to the end,
And from thy own grand heart the weapons borrow,
Which all the powers of evil cannot bend;

Thou needest but to wait until the morrow,
While we who suffer will thy court attend,
And gladly crown thee Queen—thou Queen of Sorrow.

ESTHER.

Three days she fasted, and no kindly food
Passed those deliberate lips, and nothing bent
The burning heart that all within her went
Forth in the fire of its avenging mood;

She recked not of the evil or the good,
She weighed not life that might be vainly spent,
In her deep eyes one settled purpose stood,
And on her brow was written one intent.

Then she arose, in all her royal state,
With solemn footsteps like the march of Fate,
That knows no barrier and regards no tie;

Though death itself should on her pathway lie,
She swept unswerving to the inner gate,
And murmured only, “If I die, I die.”

720

HEARTSEASE.

Sweet mother, on whose calm and candid brow,
Love makes its happy and abiding home,
As sunshine on the South's celestial dome,
Of all fair souls most beautiful art thou.

I gave thee love at first, but worship now
Springs from my heart, as lilies from the loam,
Or out of purple seas the flowers of foam,
And takes the shape of many a holy vow.

Let others style thee by thy wedded name,
Or by what pretty fantasies they please,
Culled from the kindly vales or laughing leas;

In all thy titles thou art still the same,
Followed by blessing and unscathed by blame,
But in thy household rites my own Heartsease.

SWEET SEVENTEEN.

Give me sweet kisses, maiden, give me smiles,
While thine can take the mould of other lips,
And that light footstep innocently trips
Down pleasant paths, as yet unstained with guiles.

Oh, ere the world has taught thee deeper wiles,
While hand in hand still naturally slips,
Give me that heart which nothing dark defiles,
Till fashion clouds it with a dire eclipse.

Give me thyself, so pure and simple yet,
Before bad custom upon thee has set
The sameness of its miserable seal;

Let no false shame thy dew and blossom steal,
While honest love with honest love is met,
Nor hide those charms thy frankness would reveal.

THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL, 1880.

God sent an angel, when my soul was sad
And torn with cruel and corroding fears,
To give me hope and wipe away my tears,
By making all my life complete and glad.

721

No wondrous wings, no radiant robes she had,
But a sweet cry that echoed through the years
And turned to brightness what seemed dark or bad,
With helplessness that heart to heart endears.

God sent an angel from the gates of Day,
To guide my footsteps on the better way,
As from the ark went forth the gentle dove;

Her name and nature were the same as love,
And though He bade her out of mercy stay,
He gave her eyes that ever looked above.

“SWEET AND TWENTY.” —Shakspeare.

Sweet Lady, who from thy gay girlish teens
Hast passed into a stage of grander good,
As from the shelter of a shadowy wood
The pilgrim enters on unbounded scenes;

Consider well what this strange magic means,
The mystery by none yet understood,
(Though love some scattered ears of wisdom gleans,)
The miracle of maiden womanhood.

Thy feet have crossed the threshold, and they stand
White on the borders of a brighter land,
Clogged by no touch of earth's polluting ill;

And if thou would'st be mistress of thy will,
Not the poor slave of this world's iron hand,
Then carry with thee childhood's freshness still.

THE LARGER HOPE.

O God, to whom all creatures look for light,
When their dim eyes on mysteries first ope
With which the human mind must bravely cope,
If it would gather what is good and right;

Above the lying tales of priest and pope,
Of pious fools that for delusions fight,
And think to settle creeds by fraud or might,
I fly to Thee and to the Larger Hope.

722

If pardon should not upon all men shine,
Or but one soul should be for ever lost,
Of the poor millions by temptation tost;

How would the final victory be Thine,
Which was achieved at such an awful cost,
Or how would'st Thou be still indeed Divine?

TO AGNES.

O Agnes, did I do thee wrong that harms,
Who scorned at first the riches of thy grace,
Nor dreamed of all the large imperial space
Where walks thy spirit, which no fear alarms?

But now I see the grandeur of thy charms,
The glory of thy proud and peerless face,
The poetry of every queenly pace,
The heaven within the circle of thy arms.

I feel the greatness of thy royal soul,
And when I bow my pride beneath thy feet,
I know such service is a freedom sweet;

And now, though mighty seas between us roll,
Accept the love I can no more control,
And let forgiveness my confession meet.

TO ISOBEL.

Tasmanian Witch, whose dark and dewy eyes
Shine forth beneath a cloud of glorious hair,
As from the heart of thunder-laden skies,
The moon steps out on her celestial stair!

Remove, I beg, the spell that deeply ties
My heart to thine with which it cannot pair,
And cease to be so pitilessly fair
To one who vainly from thy beauty flies.

Why dost thou waste on an unworthy aim,
Those sorceries which but torment my breast,
When loftier victims thy enchantments claim?

Oh, if that soul has ever known unrest,
Release me from thy charms which burn like flame,
And be most kind as thou art loveliest.

723

THE GOLDEN SCEPTRE.

Fair Queen, thy subjects are the hearts of all
Who see thy beauty and who know thy face,
With its imperious and unearthly grace,
That gleams like lightning from its thunder pall

And though the humblest in this earthly race,
I dare myself to offer as a thrall,
Whatever sentence from thy lips may fall,
And in thy love to crave the highest place.

I will be bold and cut my misery short,
By venturing all that may thy pity move,
The pleasure of thy haughty will to prove;

And if I enter that last inner court,
Hold out to me for a divine support,
The golden sceptre of thy queenly love.

MY BEAUTIFUL.

My Beautiful, and yet not fair to me,
Though that sweet heart was ever linked with mine,
Since young affection first began to twine
Its tendrils round the hope that might not be;

For other alien lips now mix with thine,
And other hateful kisses fall on thee,
While those bright eyes must now to order shine,
For one from whom thou would'st arise and flee.

My Beautiful, and yet I love thee still,
Though other hands with thee may work their will,
And force caresses that they cannot keep;

Yea, though another make thee laugh or weep,
Doth not my love and not another's fill
The circle of thy breast with passion deep?

THE FATAL GIFT.

I craved foreknowledge, and the fatal gift
Of bringing future scenes so clearly nigh,
That I might read the shadow and the shift
Of coming years, as from a watch tower high.

724

Fate heard my prayer, and not without a sigh
Gave me the power I long desired, to lift
Its veil from far-off destiny, and sift
The solemn secrets of futurity.

But, ah! I little knew the boon I asked,
Nor all the terrors that my being tasked,
When that dread foresight was indeed my own;

My pathway seemed with death and darkness strown,
And distant evils, once so kindly masked,
Arose each hour to torture me—when known.

A BROKEN HEART.

I gave the world the glory of the years,
The dew and blossom and the wealth of life,
Hope's yearning youth and sorrow's sacred tears,
The tender blade, the ripe and full-grown ears;

I gave to man the shoots with promise rife,
And pruned the budding branches with the knife
Of wise denial, forged by wholesome fears,
Till golden harvests crowned the fruitful strife.

And now on Thee, O God, what fitting part
In these poor dregs and leavings of the hours,
Can I bestow from all my wasted powers?

For though I see how beautiful Thou art,
More precious than the earth's most costly dowers,
Yet I can give Thee but—a broken heart.

THE LONDON CADGER.

An exile from the eyes of love and light,
He was the butt of vulgar hate and scorn,
And by the scourge of many winters worn,
A thing too vile for virtue's mark or slight.

The very stocks put forth their hands to smite,
And by the teeth of stones more cruel torn,
He wandered dimly into the dark night,
And every thought he leant on was a thorn.

The wind was wild and fought each feeble pace,
It clutched his throat and clogged his weary breath,
And its cold grip fell heavy on his face:

725

But when the snow had bound his bitter wreath,
It stripped his form of all that made it base,
And clothed him in the dignity of death.

SHADOWS ON THE WALLS.

They come, they come, as at Belshazzar's Feast,
Those strange unearthly shadows on the walls;
They bring a message both for prince and priest,
That on the careless heads in judgment falls.

The writing is sent forth, from west to east,
From festive palaces to funeral palls;
Each class and kingdom to its doom it calls,
And those that fly it most elude it least.

There is no noise of stern avenging feet,
We only see the mute memorial Hand,
With its sad summons from the Silent Land;

It strikes with equal step, where mourners meet,
And in the riot of the revellers' band,
In holy gatherings and the sinner's seat.

FALLEN STARS.

I went into the night, and watched the skies,
And saw the starry wanderers on their way,
That nought could hasten and no storm could stay,
Rejoicing in the race each planet plies.

I went into the world, and marked its cries,
The rapture of the battle and the play,
The hand that follows and the foot that flies,
Sweet lips that promise and refuse to pay.

But as I gazed and inspiration drank,
From heavenly radiance and from earthly rank,
The splendid spaces were with darkness strown:

For in the skies I saw the stars go down,
And in the world I saw the souls that sank,
Between the consecration and the crown.

726

THE TREE OF DEATH.

For weary ages has it sternly stood,
While hailed by men with false and flattering breath
The tree of life and universal good,
When it was truly but the tree of death.

The majesty of justice was the wreath
They hung around its head, though bathed in blood
That from it poured in one perpetual flood,
And fattened the cold graves which yawned beneath.

Hate planted it, and not the hand of God,
Fear watered it that held the judgment rod,
And madly strove to banish crime by crime.

It bore its bitter fruit in every clime,
And turning to a tomb each verdant sod,
It made a charnel-house and called it Time.

UNCROWNED QUEENS.

Fair crownèd souls, sealed with compassion's sign,
Go sowing through the world immortal seed
Of ministering mercy, that makes fine
Each effort, as the sun adorns the weed;

For these are Queens who, by a right divine,
Have won their glorious coronation meed,
In the large radiance of some lovely deed,
That shall for ever and for ever shine.

Thus have they sweetened toil by gentle sway,
And turned the midnight into more than day,
With honey-dew of love that patience hives;

And thus, as starlight with the darkness strives,
Still do they walk on their serener way,
In the soft lustre of their own pure lives.

HEARTSEASE.

'Twas on a country stage I saw her first,
A shape of beauty, and a thing of light,
So soon to shake fair pinions and take flight,
Just when the darkness was by love disperst.

727

For I was young, and yearning with the thirst
Of unknown throbs, that raised me to the height
Of human passions, not as yet accurst,
And all the world seemed beautiful and bright.

She sang some plain and tender ballad strains,
As artless as the airs of summer seas,
Sweet simple truths that could not choose but please;

They banished from my bosom all its pains,
And though the voice has fled, a scent remains,
As of the flower that lovers call Heartsease.

BAPTISED IN BLOOD.

He stood between the dying and the dead,
Soldier of science, armed with awful lore
And mystic charms, that blessed solace bore
To wounded bosom and to weary head.

The cloud of suffering vanished at his tread,
The thorn of sorrow pierced the soul no more
That opened to his touch its bleeding sore,
And his soft word made sweet the pauper's bread.

Between the dying and the dead he stood,
From shame's wan brow he wiped away the stain,
While taming hands that dared the deed of Cain:

But though he broke the power of evil's flood,
His forehead sadly was baptised in blood,
And ere he soothed it he first suffered pain.

THE BURDEN OF BURDENS.

Before the morning I began my toil,
And when the sun had set I laboured still
With steadfast hands, nor fled from that sad soil
Which winds around the world its hateful coil;

My spirit spared no effort, for the will
That bore me bravely through the flood of ill,
Was mighty on me as a holy oil,
To consecrate the most unworthy skill,

728

And through the night I drudged until the day,
While fair stars sweetly rose and sweetly set,
For faith upheld me with its deathless ray;

But when the seal of heaven my labours met,
Earth only cursed me for the thankless debt,
And turned again to its old sordid way.

ROCKINGHAM.

Gray pile, of grand and weather-beaten stone,
Standing so boldly on the steadfast height,
In thy proud beauty, calm, erect, and lone,
Watching the ages in their weary flight!

Time has not dimmed that crown of honour bright,
And even disaster hast thou made thy own,
Stooping a moment from thy starry throne,
To rise more radiant from the passing night.

Behold, thy towers for evermore shall stand,
A wonder and a witness to the land,
Though many a younger fabric round thee falls;

For in thy fair and hospitable halls,
God's work is duly wrought with ready hand,
And worship is the buttress of thy walls.

THE DOG'S HEART.

A friend I had, that seemed a priceless thing,
Like the fair friends in the heroic past,
When men were mighty or to slay or sing,
And their great deeds a greater shadow cast;

But when my love to him was rooted fast,
As cedars that to the earth's centre cling,
Lo, he turned false and faithless at the last,
And changed to winter all my glorious spring.

A dog I had, in many a trouble tried,
Who was to me a true though voiceless friend,
And never cared to wander from my side;

No pain nor peril could his staunchness bend,
And when death menaced me with sudden end,
Without a murmur for my sake he died.

729

UNDER THE CROSS.

Armed with the old and awful sign, that tells
A story such as never else was told,
Arise and conquer for the sacred fold,
The spirits chained by sin's accursèd spells;

Go forth, and face the misery that dwells
In dens of shame and palaces of gold,
And where voluptous vice its kingdom swells,
Proclaim the Love that never waxes old.

Beneath the Cross and its red banner stand,
Uplift the Gospel that is in thy breast,
And take the trumpet of the Truth in hand;

Give no uncertain sound to those opprest
By sin's sore burden, and then leave the rest
To Him who makes and breaks the heaviest band.

(LABORARE EST ORARE.)

I could not weep, nor raise a conquering cry
To heaven, above the insufferable years
That smote my life with shadow and with fears,
Nor let the burden of the past go by;
The bruisèd wings of faith refused to fly,
And though my heart was full of bitter tears,
While a great sound of sorrow filled my ears,
Yet no relief would come—I knew not why.

Then in the silence of the darkened days,
I bowed my head to meet some duty slight,
And set my hand to labour, as was right;
When in a moment fell a flood of rays
Upon my soul, till all was blest and right,
And as I worked a voice—“Behold he prays!”

BENEATH HIS WINGS.

A horror of great darkness on me fell,
And lay like midnight on my very soul,
While in my ears the thunder seemed to roll
For ever, with a sad and solemn knell;

730

A storm was gathering round my path, and stole
The strength that in my heart was wont to dwell,
It wrapped me round with its increasing swell,
And swept me onward to a gravelike goal.

Then lightning flashed, and lo! the clouds of doom
Were cloven through, and the reluctant gloom
Broke, as a mist which to the mountain clings;
And I beheld the Father's hand, that brings
Death unto life and barrenness to bloom,
And I was walking but beneath His wings.

THE DARK MOUNTAINS.

The plains of life but not the pangs are past,
The vales but not the peril and the press;
And trouble with a travail I but guess,
Paints on the present shadows vague and vast.

Fears on the future cold enchantments cast,
That more bewilder while revealing less;
And to their goal my feet are hurried fast,
Borne with a stern inevitable stress.

Above me loom the mountains dark and dread,
With night eternal on their summit spread,
And in their bosom blasts and thunders dire:

Yet through the fierce artillery of fire,
And in the dim encampments of the dead,
I stumble on the stores of life's desire.

“CLOUDS OF GLORY.”

And higher still in happier visions ope,
Vast ranges with their vistas of the morn,
And fragments fair of faith's expanded scope,
Beyond the regions by the tempest torn;

And in the armèd peace of passion born,
From clouds of glory on the climbing slope,
I hear above the strife and strains forlorn,
The trumpet notes of triumph and of hope.

731

And from the visions comes the voice of love.
Soft as the summer tidings of the dove,
And breaks the bitter spell that on me lay.

Unwind the dawning wonders of the way,
And, lo, the towers of Truth unfold above,
Their tops that tremble at the touch of Day.

“BRIGHT CLOUDS,”
[_]

—10 Zech., 1.

My heart is heavy with a troubled psalm,
With mist that for this life is fair and fit,
That by the links of dazzling light was knit,
And is its own exceeding precious balm.

I know the shade was by the altar lit,
And that my name is graven on His palm,
The book of life where God's redeemed are writ,
High up in heaven in the eternal calm.

The cloud of day becomes a fire by night,
And breaks into a thousand waves of light,
To show the Lord has yet His temple here;

And when the world is desolate and drear,
Then out of darkness dawns the sacred sight,
Which sees in hope the other side of fear.

THE CHILDLESS LAND.

There is a world no mortal hand can paint,
With no abatement by the ages brought,
The direst hell whose dreams could sadden saint,
Or sinner drive to higher holier thought:

The dolorous world where love is vainly sought,
And hearts for ever hunger and are faint;
Where every joy has yet a joyless taint,
And peace and kissing lips may not be bought.

It is a realm of dim and lonely lands,
Where waves of pleasure beat on sterile strands,
And yearnings of all young delight are pain;

Where chimes no sound of children's happy strain,
Nor thrills the touch of small caressing hands,
And mothers call but ever call in vain.

732

THE SEAL OF SORROW.

There is a crown no monarch ever wore,
In right of ancient and imperial blood,
With jewels that the wealthy do not store,
That has no measure in our mortal good.

It stands unstained and has for ages stood,
When other crowns the soil of baseness bore,
'Tis won by those, who love not living more,
The lowly hand of sorrow's brotherhood.

And on their foreheads is the solemn seal,
That stern baptisings of distresses gave,
The sign of suffering which destroys to save;

The stamp of love that only strikes to heal,
And sets on those it winnows for their weal,
The awful consecration of the grave.

THE JOY OF SORROW.

The taste of evil secret terrors cloy,
While bitter pangs are hid in pleasant sin,
And with each error trouble enters in,
But gladness is a maiden mute and coy.

Her welcome never lustful lovers win,
That woo her as a mistress or a toy;
But sued in sadness then her balms begin,
And he that sows in tears shall reap in joy.

There is a bliss in all our blighted hopes,
Which avenues of peace with patience opes,
To those that meekly bow to blasts of wrong;

When overcoming though they suffer long,
They wring from pain with which the promise copes,
The joy of sorrow set by faith to song.

THE TEMPLE OF SORROW.

There is a temple but not built by hands,
Of which the martyrs are the corner stones,
And whose foundations are of prophets' bones,
Who purchased with their blood the light of lands;

733

While in its courts are Sorrow's sacred thrones,
With robes of conquerors framed of captives' bands,
And none but suffering's diadems demands,
Nor asks for music save the mourner's tones.

There is a priesthood which by none is sought,
But those who that great sacrifice have wrought,
When they the altar and the victim yield;

The holy order of the sad and sealed,
That are themselves the offering that is brought,
To whom the truth by travail is revealed.

THE BAPTISM OF SORROW.

Blest are the souls that Sorrow marks from birth,
For the great empire where abasement lies,
And severs as the sanctuaries of worth,
When the red harlot Fortune from them flies.

They find a better treasure in the dearth,
Refreshing streams of purer promise rise
Even from the desolations of the earth,
And suffering while it crushes sanctifies.

Although the billows that beset us sore,
Between us and our earthly idols roll,
Pain is a path that has a glorious goal;

Its tempests toss us to a peaceful shore,
While separation but anoints the soul,
And crowns it as a king for evermore.

SORROW THE SAVIOUR.

There was a strain of weeping and of woe,
A noise of travail on the troubled night,
From hearts that throbbed with some convulsive throe,
And wearied for the never-coming light:

Dark were the sounds, yet darker far the sight
Of hands that parted but were loth to go,
And with the locks of beauty stricken low,
The warped and withered faces of affright.

But as I wept and trembled for the morn,
And sought for respite's calm and guiding clue,
I found a friend I never wished to woo;

734

And when my bosom was most sharply torn,
Of sin and suffering I again was born,
And then my sorrow was my saviour too.

THE GIFT OF TEARS.

With sighs perchance but without hesitation,
Vexed by the violence of unfruitful years,
Low Love descended from His lofty station,
Disdaining every gift but that of tears;

And mingling with the mortals not His peers,
He wrought of grief a grander education,
And in the habit of humiliation,
He wrestled with our weakness and our fears.

He left the walls of chrysolyte and beryl,
The Holy City and the sons of light,
And boldly entered in the place of peril;

He made the shadows beautiful and bright,
And though the earth was cold and dark and sterile,
He gave the dumb a voice and blindness sight.

THE CROWN OF SUFFERING.

He stood within the breach though uninvited,
He chose the death and danger not assigned;
Yea, when the world was old and sore benighted,
Then those that wandered gently He inclined.

When men waxed cruel and their hearts unkind,
When truth had fled to humble haunts affrighted,
And wayward wills were sick and promise blighted,
Then He transformed and glorified mankind.

From earthly pleasures He refused to borrow,
Yet bade us not without a hope to grieve,
As all the treasure that His love could leave;

He gave us nought but hunger for the morrow,
The crown of suffering and the throne of sorrow,
And tender light that only dawns at eve.

735

THE HUNGER OF THE HEART.

Fierce is the flame not nursed by sensuous fires,
Wherein our passions never have a part,
And which no spirit of the earth inspires,
Nor any glowing beacon light of art:

It is the faith whence fairer actions start,
That daily vows of purity requires,
And dedicates to heaven its high desires,
The never-sated hunger of the heart.

Its voice is in the penitential sigh,
Its seat in widows' robes and orphans' tears,
And hopes that are the birth of pious fears;

In every hour that passes panting by,
In souls that sicken and yet cannot die,
And sad and ceaseless yearnings of the years.

THE FIRST IDOL.

When I was young and radiant were the years,
I made an idol for my soul to serve,
I watered it with soft delicious tears,
And hedged its home with colour and with curve;

I wrung a tribute from my very fears,
And so I plied with every pulse and nerve,
That griefs at last from homage did not swerve,
And swelled its sweetness with their long arrears.

Then came the Fates to see my foolish bower,
By storms of trouble never torn nor tost,
Nor by the cloud of suffering to be crost;

And in the compass of a little hour,
When fortune smiled in all its perfect flower,
I lay among the ruins of the lost.

AGAIN.

Again I set an image on a throne,
And built it up a loftier lovelier shrine,
Where no rude blast of trouble might be blown,
And only seed of joy was ever sown;

736

I made the tendrils of the ivy mine,
And let them sweetly round the columns twine,
Till all the statues looked like flowering stone,
And every buttress was a bloom divine.

But, lo, the ivy strong and lusty grew,
Between the stone it thrust a hundred hands,
That crushed whate'er they grasped like iron bands;

While part from part it mercilessly drew,
And piece from piece it tore with mute demands,
Till shrine and image all it overthrew.

ANOTHER IDOL BROKEN.

But yet another idol did I raise,
And lifted it above the world on high,
I fed it with the pleasant food of praise,
And swore a solemn oath it should not die;

I clipped its wings that it should never fly,
Around it flashed a stream of starry rays,
While on it fell the dew of heavenly days,
And all the earth was mingled with the sky.

Behind it rolled the thunder, and the flame
Of flying lightning as its herald went,
And as it gathered grace men called it fame;

But when its name was noised abroad, and bent
The hearts of peoples to its own intent,
Lo, from a little stroke destruction came.

LAST NOT LEAST.

Though girt by shattered idols, yet once more
I left for one a niche within my life,
And gave it largely of my richest store,
For it was dearer far than child or wife;

And while the hours with goodly gifts were rife,
I brought it all the sunny seasons bore,
The purple raiment and the golden ore,
And walled it in from every wave of strife.

737

But trouble entered as a damnèd elf,
While all the beauty perished as it past,
And from its place the pampered god was cast;

It was a ruler throned by pride and pelf,
And though not least of idols it was last,
For, ah, the thing I worshipped was myself.

THE ANGEL OF THE DAWN.

I took a haughty love within my breast,
To make it merry with the songs of joy,
I brought it hopes that comely were and coy,
And gave it of my treasures what was best.

But when the gladsome strains began to cloy,
O then it sickened and was sorely prest,
It sought a refuge and it found no rest,
And ere the noon it was a broken toy.

I set a humble love upon my heart,
And to it daily sacrificed my pride,
Till at the setting of the sun it died;

It left me nothing but a bitter smart,
Yet when the dusk and dawn began to part,
I saw an angel sitting by its side.

THE HEART AND ITS TREASURE.

I throned an image on a silver seat,
And poured a wealth of curves and colours round,
I fenced it in with music sad and sweet,
And made the chamber sorrow's secret ground.

I bade the lights and shadows softly meet,
And added consecration's solemn bound;
But in the morning I arose, and found
My pretty idol fallen at my feet.

And then I mourned as men that love too well,
That dearly win what they so cheaply woo—
And theirs are helpless gods, they know not who;

For when my idol from its empire fell,
It was no less my haughty spirit's knell,
And when it broke my heart was broken too.

738

THE TREASURE OF THE TOMB.

Lo, with the burden of the passing bell,
That tolls the downfall of the reign of sense,
A purer comfort comes we know not whence—
Each headstone is a step to heaven or hell.

And every grave with mute memorial spell,
Has truth engraven on its guardian fence;
And when we break from bondage dark and dense,
The sweetest music is the saddest knell.

And where these earthly rays can have no room,
By buried hopes and passion spent and sped,
I see the tender Hand that wrought the doom;

Suns as they set the bow of mercy shed,
And with the solemn circle of the dead,
I found a living treasure in the tomb.

THE MARRIAGE OF LIFE AND DEATH.

The world is big with parables and signs,
And he who reads with reverence in its book,
Will be rewarded by the light that shines.
On every pure and penitential look;

For though the reign of wonder earth forsook,
It still in secret humble hearts inclines,
Who mark the mysteries writ between the lines,
With old enchantments of which heaven partook.

But was there ever miracle so sweet,
As that renunciation daily makes,
Which all the springs and spells of wonder wakes?

When he who lays his all at Calvary's feet,
A nobler dower and new existence takes,
When life and death in solemn wedlock meet.

ON THE PAVEMENT.

As on the pavement I am blindly borne,
And struggle with the busy stream of men,
I see the surface into eddies torn,
That toss and moan and pass beyond my ken;

739

And all a world of sin and suffering then,
As driving mists that blot the face of morn,
Breaks on my vision in a flood forlorn,
And sorrow seems the only citizen.

At every step I meet with misery's train,
While in each stone I read a page of pain,
And hear the story that is never old;

Yea, though the pathway be a tide of gold,
And every moment bring an age of gain,
I know that priceless hearts are bought and sold.

CURVES.

There is a magic in the flowing line,
There are high mysteries in the insect's wings,
And daily miracles in common things,
That through their mortal shade send shoots Divine;

Yea, in a roseleaf's curve strange meanings twine,
And to a tool's soft turn enchantment clings,
While in the moulding of the meanest sign,
Shines out the glory of its heavenly springs.

The rounded fancy and the rounded face,
The sculptor's chisel and the labourer's hod,
Attest alike the workmanship of God;

He left on blade and petal His own trace,
Who laid His hand upon the lowly sod,
And made the herb (like heaven) His dwelling-place.

COLOUR.

The painter draws the summer from the peach,
And snares the sunset lights with fancy's strands;
And in the compass of his cunning hands,
He brings the stars within the infant's reach.

He turns each little hue to living speech,
While binding heaven to earth with rainbow bands,
And learns with music of fair forms to preach,
The gospel of sweet colours to the lands.

Pure is the revelation of the rose,
That in the bowers of virgin faces glows,
And out of laughing lips in radiance looks;

740

All heaven is centred in the humblest nooks,
And in the vilest wayside weed that blows,
Breathes a religion never taught by books.

COME HOME! COME HOME!

I look abroad and see but exile sights,
Flowers that have dropped from far serener spheres,
And in the shadows lone mismated lights,
With joys that find a strange abode in tears;

I see that hopes have fellowship with fears,
That prisoned beauty for deliverance fights,
From stern eclipse which all its blossom blights,
The iron yoke of gray and grinding years.

However far my devious footsteps roam,
I seem to hear the same unceasing sigh.
From all the blooms that only blow to die;

And from the gardens under the cold foam,
Goes up to heaven one sad and common cry,
And silence answers, “O come home, come home!”

THE DOOM OF HELL.

'Tis not the searching fire, the worm that preys,
Which burn and gnaw and never never die,
Nor the unheard and the unanswered cry,
Nor cruel fear that doth not kill yet slays;

But though beholding every good go by,
And all the grace of all the summer days,
To know them not and let their blessings fly,
Beyond the reach of any prayer or praise.

To find no beauty, nor to feel the love
That dwells in bosoms like a brooding dove,
And gathers every wound beneath its wings;

This is the doom that hell its inmates brings,
They see no windows in the heaven above,
Nor hear its voice when Mercy to them sings.

741

THE CURSE OF HELL.

To see alone the ugliness and ills,
The baseness and the poverty of earth,
In garden splendour but the spots of dearth,
And only discord in the dancing rills;

To feel in nought the wonder and the worth,
What every turn of every trifle fills,
No gladness in the very heart of mirth,
No glory in the everlasting hills.

To hear no music when the world goes well,
But the fierce jarring of a jealous heart,
That deems a public joy a private smart;

And ne'er to dream what finer issues dwell,
In even what plays a sad and sordid part—
This is the horror and the curse of hell.

THE WORK OF HELL.

They drudge for ever as the slaves of sin,
And glean no rest nor lightening of their load,
Though gleams of heaven's sweet Sabbath enter in,
To find no footing and to claim no kin;

They tread for ever the same bitter road,
And reap the same sad crops that folly sowed,
While the sole change that they may ever win,
Is change of pain but not of pain's abode.

Too late it is for mourning or to mend,
And evil is the only faithful friend;
Whose hungry maw they feed but cannot fill

And as on earth they wreaked their wicked will,
The unjust then is unjust to the end,
And he that filthy was is filthy still.

THE THOUGHT OF HELL.

They dwell on all the love that hatred lost,
And dream of pleasure though they wake to pain,
And muse on freedom when they feel the chain,
The great gulf fixed that never can be crost;

742

Yea, in the fire they think of cooling frost,
Remember blessings in the midst of bane,
And when their spotted hands are torture-tost,
They see the streams that would have cleansed their stain.

Remembrance is their every picture's frame,
The point and edge of all their grief and shame,
That flits about their sores and will not fly;

And though the fleshly snare is its ally,
While every thought is a consuming flame,
The sting of all their woe is memory.

HEAVEN.

It is not rest nor joy nor any lot,
However bright and pure and free from pain,
Though emptied all of every ache and stain,
Where work is wanting and where change is not;

Yea, if at last we break our bondage vain,
And loose about our neeks the prisoner's knot,
'Tis but another service yet to gain,
And to work out the good on earth we got.

The only rest is liberty of change,
Where time is tuned to variations strange,
In toil that knows no staying of its store;

The only joy is still to gather lore,
Fresh sermons from a new and nobler range,
To labour and to learn for evermore.

DEFLOWERED.

The bloom was on the blossom of the plant,
The fire was in the bosom of the flower;
The scourging of the gale had been too scant,
To blow one petal from its dewy bower.

And in the depths of hope's unrifled dower,
For brighter beauties envy fain would pant;
When even the shaking of the thunder shower,
Left all the charms that all the world enchant.

743

But when the crest of pride began to grow,
The worm was working upward from the ground,
And dark decay was coldly closing round;

And while the storm had fairer feasts of woe,
A doom more deadly laid the blossom low,
Dispetaled and dishonoured and discrowned.

ANGELS' THRONES.

I see dim shadows and wild shapes, that pass
Beneath the garish gaslights, and the scars
With which they banish heaven and all its stars,
Like phantom figures in a magic glass.

And as between two nights, through iron bars,
I catch the writhings of the wretched class,
Whose discord mad with all our music jars,
For ever tossing in a troubled mass.

But though the misery darkly murmurs round,
Still seething with its sad eternal sound,
Yet there the angels plant benignant thrones;

These to the spirit speak in children's tones,
Who sweeten as they sway the bitterest bound,
And soften with their steps the heartless stones.

AMARANTH.

It grows not in the gardens of the land,
Nor in the books of science is its name,
And though o'ershadowed oft by ugly shame,
It needs no friendly eye nor fostering hand;

Its seed from earthly sources never came,
Nor is its growth by mortal breezes fann'd,
But yet it thrives beneath the captive's band,
And shoots its branches through the flood and flame.

Yea, I have found it even in childhood's form,
And seen its maiden blossom white and warm,
Beam forth in beauty that a falsehood gave;

It springs like Aphrodité from the wave,
It blooms in blood in revolution's storm,
And grows the sweetest on the martyr's grave.

744

THE CURSE OF BEAUTY.

When beauty only sees itself in all,
And has no thought of bliss beyond its own,
And hears in every voice a flattering call,
To come and woo or worship at its throne;

If praise of others is as bitter gall,
And jealousy comes in when peace has flown,
To rule and ravine in self-love alone,
Its fate is deadlier than its very fall.

But darker, deadlier is its lot at last,
When adulation's airs become a blast,
That blights the fruitful promise of its joys;

When even praise from its own surfeit cloys,
While flattery's sweetness is a pleasure past,
And what delights at first in time destroys.

THE VISION BEAUTIFUL.

To be like God and see things as they are,
To be like man and and see things as they seem,
To see an equal light in stone and star,
This is the poet's dower—the prince's dream.

He sees a hidden beauty in the scar,
That is to scorners but an ugly seam;
He knows the truth though trouble be its gleam,
And understands its message from afar.

O nought is base or common in his eyes,
And all the world is sown with secret grace,
Reflected sweetly from its Father's face;

And on the thunderous skirts of brazen skies,
He sees a fairer heaven and earth arise,
And gathers manna in the desert space.

THE TRAGEDY OF LIFE.

To toil for tyrants and to love for nought,
And unto thankless crowds to pipe and sing,
Nor yet to taste the daintiness of thought
While others fatten on the feast we bring;

745

To know our work is tainted at its spring,
That ashes are but found when joy is sought,
And that a curse by very victory wrought
Doth to our highest holiest efforts cling!

To see the ruins that our pathway pave,
The sweetest pleasure with its poison spot,
The brightest flowers that in corruption wave;

To feel our labour is a blank or blot,
Our fairest fruitage ripens but to rot,
And when we reap we gather for the grave!

THE STING OF DEATH.

Death is a friend who has a fairer mien,
Than any friend that life can give our lot,
If we have played our parts upon the scene,
Rejoiced that heaven was blue and earth was green

And though to-day we are and then are not,
While sin and sorrow still against us plot,
Death cannot kill the blisses that have been,
And only hallows what was once a blot.

But though a man should every joy have proved,
Wrung from reluctant fame the victor's bays,
Or mountains in the path of progress moved;

Yet if no love has lightened on his ways,
Ah, then the sting of death that nought allays,
Is to have lived and never to have loved.

THE VICTORY OF THE GRAVE.

To conquer death is but a little thing,
To spoil the grave is what ten thousand dare,
Whose name in honour never has a share,
Nor flies across the earth on glory's wing;

But time is long and death is loth to spare,
While life is short and shadows round it cling,
And what no powers of hell availed to bear,
The silent armies of oblivion bring.

746

If earth forgets the glorious souls, that gave
Their love and life and all their bosom store,
And sank themselves that other souls might soar;

And if the world is but the season's slave,
When man is less and circumstance is more,
This is alas! the victory of the grave.

THE DOOR AJAR.

When Hope in Mercy came to mate with fear,
And left her heavenly home without a sigh,
To teach a world of sufferers how to die,
She did not come to man without a tear;

And those she shed were not allowed to fly,
Some fell as dew on bosoms sad and sere,
And others rose as heavenly lights on high,
That send their saving lustre far and near.

She thought not of the worship she might win,
Nor of the fame that follows as a star,
The puissant hand that breaks the prisoner's bar;

She only marked the suffering and the sin,
That stood between to stop our entering in,
And fondly left the door of heaven ajar.

OUT INTO THE NIGHT.

Forth from her home she plunged into the tide,
Sped by the rebel tongue she could not rule,
In all the bloom of promise and of pride,
With lofty hopes that sweetly to her lied;

Fresh from her broken toys and baby school,
And cherished corner on her mother's stool,
The dangers of the world she now defied,
An easy prey and all too pretty fool.

And flowers sprang up to cheer her lonely flight,
While from the stones of peril flashed a spark,
That mocked so well the friendly beacon's mark;

And gaily on by precipices bright,
She went awandering out into the night,
And the great curtain fell—and all was dark.

747

THE RHYTHM OF LOVE.

There is a tide that ever ebbs and flows,
When other tides of time arise and flee
And yet no blast its mighty waters blows,
Save that which never was on lawn or lea;

Yet but the heart in all its fulness knows
The awful surging of that central sea,
Whose only font is love that comes and goes,
Whose only borders are infinity.

And love's sweet ocean makes the breast its bound,
When life is dreary and its springs run dry,
And every pasture is a barren ground;

While in the heart we hear it tossing high,
Set to the music of its own soft sound,
That is a portion of eternity.

THE FIFTH ESSENCE.

I seek I know not what, but something fair,
That ever flies before me, as I climb
The misty mountain range that men call Time,
And like a perfume haunts the upper air;

But now it glimmers in a woman's hair,
And then I trace it in some cloudless clime,
Where life is simple and the love sublime,
Or find its footstep on the altar stair.

Yea, under cottage roofs it is not mute,
And in the sunshine of a sweet repute
It has a note that never fails to speak;

And though its home be on the pathless peak,
The ecstasy and passion of pursuit,
Are treasures greater than the truth I seek.

AT HIS FEET.

The way was long and weary, and it led
Through dim untrodden paths of bitter gloom,
Where flowers rose up and blossomed without bloom,
And then again lay down ere Spring had sped:

748

I walked as in a vision to my doom,
My thoughts were fellows of the prisoned dead,
And seemed but echoes of the solemn tomb,
And there was weeping—but no tears were shed.

Then as I sought a sure and calm retreat,
I struck and stumbled on my journey's bound,
And what I fled was yet the Mercy-seat;

For, lo, it was the Shepherd I had found,
Who met me thus on Calvary's trysting-ground,
And I had fallen only at His feet.

IN HIS ARMS.

Low in the dust I lay, and dared not cast
One upward glance to meet an injured look;
While all my being with a tempest shook,
And endless ages seemed in penance past.

But as hope rallied in my heart, at last
I lifted eyes that justice could not brook,
And saw instead a mercy strange and vast,
Writ on His Face as in His Gospel book.

But then He raised me, as a mother takes
Her tender infant when in fear it wakes,
And gives it of the treasures it loves best;

He took me in His Arms, and bade me rest
From all my weary wanderings and their aches,
And make a home for ever on His Breast.

FALLEN.

Thou wast the glory of all times and lands,
And art thou fallen from thy fair estate,
Queen among nations, whom all men called great,
Though now they point at thee contemptuous hands?

Ah, dost thou stoop and hug thy hateful bands,
And in dishonour find a fitting mate,
When courage is the conqneror of fate,
And fortune gives what fortitude demands?

Know that there is a balm for every shame,
In each high hope that suffers well and long,
In each brave heart that bondage none can tame.

749

A common danger makes a country strong
And the fierce fuel of a common wrong,
When kindled once, will set the world in flame.

FROM GLORY TO GLORY.

Eternal progress is the law of man,
Eternal death is every falsehood's doom;
And though the flower of folly thrive and bloom,
It lies beneath a dark and fatal ban.

And should the evil mock the better plan,
Yet is its root in nothing but the tomb,
And if the arts of error well began,
They still must end in miserable gloom.

Though history all be but a lying story,
And graven in the chronicles of shame,
Or writ on battle fields in letters gory;

Earth soils no soul (if it defiles the name),
That simple love and purity enframe,
And it shall pass from glory unto glory.

STRONGER THAN DEATH.

There is a mighty passion, that defies
The powers of darkness and the hand of hell,
That most superbly on itself relies,
And to its forces even its foes allies;

It finds a music in the funeral knell,
And reads the ages written on a shell,
And when the term of time its march denies,
Though all is lost it deems that all is well.

It takes no heed of honour's dazzling wreath,
It scorns the meed of flattery's garlic breath,
Nor yet in want and woe requires it ruth;

It has a fair and everlasting youth,
And though it dies it stronger is than death,
Because it is the deathless love of truth.

750

MORE CRUEL THAN THE GRAVE.

The grave is cruel, and a greedy thing
That all the world could never soothe nor sate,
Nor all the bloody feasts prepared by fate,
That all the hours in sorrow to its bring.

And still beneath the vulture's sombre wing,
It gluts the hunger and the savage hate,
And where the curses of corruption cling,
It finds fresh booty sweet and delicate.

But there is something with a fiercer heart,
More grim than hatred's most infernal art,
Which is more cruel than the very grave;

And that is love, when honour is its slave,
And jealousy has taught its blackest part,
Which slays its victim with the sword it gave.

THE NAMELESS DEAD.

We lightly trample on a thousand graves.
Where rest the bodies of the nameless dead,
Whose lofty souls in little issues sped,
And whose remains no marble mourning paves.

And, lo, upon each dim and dreamless head,
That now no more the crown of honour craves,
Oblivion passes with a tender tread,
And what is lost in fame in service saves.

For silence is the sister of good fame,
While those are happiest who are never known,
And leave no legend for the storied stone;

But there are royal souls without a name,
Uncrowned by blessing and unscathed by blame,
Whose unowned deeds our hearts for ever throne.

STORIES IN STONES.

What honest books lie open through the lands,
In every stone on which the stream of life
Has stamped its record of unnoted strife,
And written lowly truths with trembling hands!

751

No rank memorials bastard worship brands,
With learned lies and laboured folly rife,
Reared by a thankless world or faithless wife,
The tardy dues of honour's just demands.

Our fleeting stories soon grow pinched and pale,
Like leaves that in the autumn fade and fly,
While human history seems but born to die;

And though our walls bear proof of falsehood's tale,
The everlasting rocks are never stale,
The chronicles of nature cannot lie.

WHAT IS TRUTH?

What is Truth? the old Procurator cried,
And What is Truth? the generations say,
That caught the question up, and vainly tried
To ease the yoke that pressed their weary way.

And some blasphemed, and some preferred to pray,
While others to their lands and conscience lied,
But all at last in darkness went astray,
And silence only What is Truth? replied.

Yea, What is Truth? is yet the cry of all,
It is the bitter burden of our youth,
And gives its point to Time's destroying tooth;

And when the nations into nothing fall,
Still will arise one universal call,
From every dying system “What is truth.”

THE SUPERSCRIPTION.

Lo, in the shadow of the shrine is cut,
A superscription that no eye can read,
With lines that from the dusk to darkness lead,
And in a maze of melancholy shut.

But here and there the letters outward jut,
And speak in lurid light to hearts that heed—
“Pain is the path to heavenly pleasures, but”—
And then the silence mocks our mortal need.

752

And all decypher it, with divers minds;
But those whose hands in innocence are laved,
Will see the meaning on their conscience graved.

Though fear within the perfect vision blinds,
Yet every path that charity has paved,
If lit by faith at last admission finds.

THE FORGING OF THE FETTER.

I had a dream of trouble and of tears,
That bound my heart in its remorseless hold,
Till very love had waxen dead and cold—
The forging of the fetter of my fears;

And all night long I heard the sound of years,
For ever hammering on their anvil old,
To seal with silence what life most endears,
And break my spirit with their iron fold.

But waking day the captive shadows clove,
And hope descended from its mountain height,
While faith looked up and lost itself in sight:

The fears but bonds of happy promise wove,
My whole horizon turned a line of light,
And every chain a tender link of love.

THE BURDEN OF THE BELLS.

Between the heaven and earth I hear them call,
And on the wind their tender tones are flung,
In melodies that speak the spirit's tongue,
And weary hearts with sounds celestial thrall;

They catch the notes the angels first have sung,
And on our gloom their gladsome voices fall,
Whenever Sabbaths rise and peals are rung,
With blissful tidings that are balm to all.

Sweet is the mediation of the bells,
That chime so softly with our saddening fears,
When hope is born and in the bosom swells;

Their peaceful strains the wayworn wanderer hears,
And bright the news their sacred music tells,
Which heaven interprets unto human ears.

University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

“MOTHER OF ALL THE DOVES.”

THE SERVICE OF SORROW.

TO THE MARCHIONESS C---.

TO THE COUNTESS R---.

VERNEY LOVETT CAMERON.

XANTHIPPE.

LESBIA.

“BONUS DORMITAT HOMERUS.”

THE COMEDY OF DEATH.

THE FERRYMAN.

THE DEVIL ABROAD.

THE SOILED PACKET.

PROBLEMS.

THE ANGEL AND THE CROSS.

POOR HEART.

WORKING—WORSHIPING.

MY MASTER.

SOFT CHEEKS.

TO MY WIFE.

ON JESUS' BREAST.

THE HUMAN VOICE DIVINE.

INNOCENCE.

THE BLISS OF IGNORANCE.

PURITY.

TO LADY J. HERSCHEL.

SWEET LIPS.

THE CUP OF SIN.

THE PLUCKED ROSE.

THE MARKED TREE.

THE FIRE FROM HEAVEN.

THE DISCOVERER.

TO CONSTANCE—

THE SECOND DAY.

IN MEMORY OF Clementine Augusta, Marchioness Camden, Born 6th May, 1848, and Died 27th March, 1886.

LEGEND OF THE ROBIN REDBREAST.

THE GERMAN KAISER. (March 9th, 1888.)

KAISER FRIEDRICH.

THE NORTH-EAST WIND.

OUTCAST ERIN.

VIXIT! VICIT!

In Memoriam, Kaiser Friedrich, 15th June, 1888.

ANGELS' FOOD.

EASTER EVE.

THE QUEEN OF SORROW.

ESTHER.

HEARTSEASE.

SWEET SEVENTEEN.

THE HOUSEHOLD ANGEL, 1880.

“SWEET AND TWENTY.” —Shakspeare.

THE LARGER HOPE.

TO AGNES.

TO ISOBEL.

THE GOLDEN SCEPTRE.

MY BEAUTIFUL.

THE FATAL GIFT.

A BROKEN HEART.

THE LONDON CADGER.

SHADOWS ON THE WALLS.

FALLEN STARS.

THE TREE OF DEATH.

UNCROWNED QUEENS.

HEARTSEASE.

BAPTISED IN BLOOD.

THE BURDEN OF BURDENS.

ROCKINGHAM.

THE DOG'S HEART.

UNDER THE CROSS.

(LABORARE EST ORARE.)

BENEATH HIS WINGS.

THE DARK MOUNTAINS.

“CLOUDS OF GLORY.”

“BRIGHT CLOUDS,”[_] —10 Zech., 1.

THE CHILDLESS LAND.

THE SEAL OF SORROW.

THE JOY OF SORROW.

THE TEMPLE OF SORROW.

THE BAPTISM OF SORROW.

SORROW THE SAVIOUR.

“BRIGHT CLOUDS,”
[_]

—10 Zech., 1.