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

Men measured not the love,
Enbracing earth and skies,
Kindled from founts above,
Within her glorious eyes;
Nor dreamed a saviour's part
She took in every ill,
And heaven was in the heart
That suffered and was still;
For, though with battle chime
The thunders round her broke,
She looked beyond all time—
But never word she spoke.

Men saw not purpose pure,
Outshining falsehood's wraith,
That stooped but to endure,
In her heroic faith;
A purpose grand, and green
As springtide beauty spread,
Alone, to stand between
The dying and the dead;
Alone, to bear for all
The suffering, till woke
The sinner from his fall—
But never word she spoke.

Men knew not, woman's love
Almighty was and staunch,
And like the homeless dove
Brought them the olive branch;
When lesser souls might pine,
A patience lived in her
Immortal and divine,
To anchor feet that err;
To guide the pilgrim true,
Through doubt's Tartarean smoke,
By hope's unswerving clue—
If never word she spoke.

Men cared not, how supreme
She rose above the shock
Of wind and wave extreme,
Stablished on Christ the Rock;
How sorrows were her meat,
From evening unto morn,
With ban her burning seat,
And garland none but thorn;
Till, in the ripening years,
God drew aside the cloke
Of trouble and of tears—
And Goddess-like she spoke.

BALLADS, &c.

DEDICATION TO MY WIFE.

Life of my life, the better part
Of one harmonious whole,
Whence all the sunny fountains start
That water all my soul!
I cannot speak, I dare not tell,
However true it be,
One half the rapture of the spell
That links my soul to thee.

Thy heart is bare to human needs,
And never stirred by strife,
A home of pure and precious seeds,
That flower in faithful life.
Thy eyes are happy heavens of praise,
Whence thankless fancies flee;
Thy lips are thrones of prayer, that raise
My sinking heart to thee.

Thou art my guardian angel, sent
To bring me back to truth,
By giving virtues old and spent,
Another grander youth.
Thou art my guide, up rugged slopes,
To heights undreamed by me;
The inspiration of my hopes,
For ever flows from thee.

Great works that send their light from far,
Great words that strongly bind
The noble breast, rekindled are
When mirrored by thy mind.
High views that dying seem, or vain
To make their hearers free,
Turned into action sweet, regain
A larger life in thee.

I know thy inmost pulse is love,
A tender, tideless stream,
And that thy thoughts are far above
My highest, holiest dream;
I know thy face is wondrous fair,
Type of the grace to be,
And that all nature is a stair
By which I climb to thee.

The curve and colour of the rose,
Reflect thy radiant cheek;
And in the sweetest breath that blows,
I only thee hear speak.
While in the glory of the days
Thy presence still I see,
The moon that walks the starry ways,
But walks and shines like thee.

The freshness of the morning sun,
The fragrance of the flowers,
The strains that through the twilight run
And make melodious hours,
The holy sights and heavenly sounds,
That haunt the mount or lea,
All find their centre and their bounds
In orbing only thee.

The murmuring breeze, the laughing brook,
Keep singing of the same;
Earth's every charm is but a book,
In which I read thy name.
The vocal sweetness of the land,
The silence of the sea,
Are as the beckoning of a hand
That beckons unto thee.

The common light, the common air,
And each unstudied grace,
Whatever is most good and fair,
These body forth thy face.
And though the world has many a lock,
Yet thou hast every key;
The secret of the rill and rock
Is secret none to thee.

All that is beautifully strange
Or fresh from nature's mint,—
The glow, the glamour, and the change,
On thee their image print.
All fruitful thought, that kindly speeds
The better world to be,
I trace in thy own gentle deeds,
And mingle heaven with thee.

BETWEEN THE KISS AND THE LIP.

She was modest, pure of face,
And the sunrise on her brow
Gave a promise that was more than grace,
Grand as dedication vow;
And the eyes looked forward far,
Beyond this small earthly bound,
As if she beheld some guiding star,
Heard some secret heavenly sound;
As if she disdained the rest,
Sought by souls that feebly pine,
For the riches she by right possest
Of her womanhood Divine;
In the glow of beauty, bathed
By celestial flame and fount,
With the sweetness of a rapture swathed,
From high vigil on high mount;
Upward, onward, still she moved,
In the triumph of her trust,
Which embraced even what it had not proved,
Stamped the evil down to dust;
Knew not lust upon the way,
Would of such rare honey sip,
What delight with what destruction lay,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her name, her sires
Loyal unto Church and State,
Had been oft baptised in battle fires,
Chased the foeman from the gate;
Borne, defaced with shot and shell,
As was ever Talbots' wont,
England's banner through the jaws of hell,
Riddled, glorious, to the front;
Stood within the stern red line,
Which retired not save to spring
Farther forward, where the swords might shine
Brighter and more sharply ring;
Faced on many a famous field
Awful odds, that men could dare
Only, who had never learnt to yield,
And were always glad to spare;
Had not once a sword resigned,
Beaten, in the trench or flood,
Simply left great memories behind,
And the marks of noble blood;
And she knew not, tender hands
Yet might snare in iron grip,
And there could be bite of iron bands,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her nature, wrought
With the lessons, not from schools,
Of her fathers who had faithful fought,
Lessons never lived by fools;
Thus she gained a loving heart,
And a hospitable mind,
Which itself became a throbbing part
Of each mortal wave and wind;
Like the foam her feelings tost,
At the suffering sadly met,
Though when maiden pities she is lost,
Even ere the eyes are wet;
For the rashness in her race,
Better made to fight than fence.
While it poured the passion in her face,
Was not one for scraping pence;
And her ancestors, who served
Well their country and their God,
Could not help themselves, as those who swerved
From the path that honour trod;
But she knew not, headlong strain
Thrilling to the finger tip
Must bequeath its heritage of pain,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her life, as yet
None had tampered with the bloom
Of its virgin freshness, humbly set
Now within a cottage room;
Like a diamond for kings,
That has fallen from its place,
And is lowly laid with meaner things,
Meant to fill a larger space;
Poverty had seized the Hall,
Where for centuries they spread
Kindly branch and root, that shared with all
Shelter and the bounteous bread;
Unlet farms and lack of heed,
Drove them from the friendly door
Ever open to the orphan's need,
Welcoming the widowed poor;
Shut them with a remnant, saved
From the sad and bitter wreck,
In a nook which for old comforts craved,
As in sorrow they looked back;
Still the spirit in her strong,
Made a staff of penalwhip,
And forchoded not the stroke of wrong.
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her heart, went out
Unto every sufferer near,
To the baby that could only pout,
Not disclose its pain or fear;
To the beggar, whom her help
Rescued from the deed of sin,
And the straying dog whose starving yelp
Made her feel her wants akin;
She had injured none, and pure
In the purpose of her love
Faced a wicked world, that strove to lure
Her from aim that reached above;
Who could wish her ruin, plot
Once against that lofty life,
Cast upon her snowy fame a blot,
For her whet the murderer's knife?
Never, for a moment, thought,
Of a hidden danger, crost
Her unsullied threshold, as she wrought,
With its icy touch of frost;
Though she skirted deadly ground,
On which firmest feet may slip,
Where disaster stouter souls have found,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her words, replied
To the Tempter when he came
Kind, with form that blackest ends belied,
By the fairness of its frame;
Answered him with ready speech,
Doubting not the pretty mask
Of the mouth, that would regard beseech,
Eyes that did more plainly ask;
Listened to the tender tone
Murmured softly in her ear,
Flattery that melts a breast of stone,
While disarming it of fear;
Turned to greet the offering paid,
Ever to expectant heart,
Bait of honey delicately laid
On the hook, assuaging smart;
Hearkened to the fluent oath,
Sworn a thousand perjured times—
Boundless love and everlasting troth,
Wedding ring and wedding chimes;
Gazed upon the fruitage sweet,
Glowing rind, not poison pip,
Did not mark how feast and funeral meet
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her looks, returned
Falsehood foul with glance of trust,
Maidenly confiding, that discerned
Not infernal fire of lust;
Shone the fruitage ripe for food,
Pleasant to the eyes that saw,
Fraught with wisdom for her womanhood,
Glimpses of a higher law;
Thus she daily onward drew,
Daily sucked the venom in,
Love that seemed to open regions new,
Never dreamed as worlds of sin;
Thus the Tempter grimly wove,
Fatal coils around her breast,
And upon the taint her spirit throve,
In response that was not rest;
While he humoured all her will,
Grew more helpful in the strife
And the burden, that prest heavier still,
Necessary seemed to life;
Till she welcomed him, as one
To befriend her, should she trip,
And surrender now was nearly done,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

Innocence her wishes, longed
For some proved and sacred tie,
Not suspecting her true faith was wronged,
Or would word of honour lie;
Craved for a more solemn seal,
Ere she gave herself to him,
Ere she dared her passion to reveal,
Was not but an idle whim;
Begged, ere she threw freedom up,
To his clasp her beauty spread,
They should kneel and share the holy cup,
Kneel and share the holy bread;
Ere her virgin lips received
Homage, none had fondly set,
They should blessing pray, as they believed,
From the God she worshipped yet;
This she asked, as maiden's right,
Who would grant herself and all,
And in utter sacrifice delight,
If the Saviour heard their call;
Asked, and saw the Tempter's hand
Turned into the Serpent's grip,
Just in time to break the deadly band,
'Twixt the kiss and lip.

THREADING THE NEEDLE.

She was threading her needle, by the light
Of an angry setting sun,
And the cotton would not travel right,
But in false directions run;
While it twisted here and twisted there,
Though it always just shot bye,
And it sent a message everywhere,
Except through the narrow eye;
For her hand was moving now too fast,
And again it moved too slow
And her patience could not a moment last,
If a tangle chanced to grow;
And her flngers trembled, as they toiled
At their little lowly task,
As if serpent somewhere hidden coiled,
Just behind the cotton mask;
As if graver meaning deeper lay,
In the humble work she had,
And her heart as well had gone astray,
That she weary looked and sad;
But the sun sank lower round and red,
And foreboded nought save ill,
Like a warrior laid on his bloody bed,
And she threaded the needle still.

She was threading her needle, while the clock
Chimed out in the silence “Four,”
And she looked as if listening for a knock,
With a footstep at the door;
And the cat lay blinking by the hearth,
Where the feeble fire burnt blue,
In the frost that had fettered all the earth,
And it gave a ghastly hue;
And a solitary picture hung,
On the bare and yellow wall,
In the fitful draught it rose and swung
As though answering to a call;
And a tiny table, with three legs,
Held the homely evening fare
Of a loaf, some butter, and two eggs,
That another well might share;
And no carpet decked the naked boards,
With their crazy, creaking deal,
That had gathered stains in grievous hoards,
Which they cared not to conceal;
And the light turned lovelier in the sky
With a crimson glow and thrill,
Ere it spread its beauteous wings to fly,
And she threaded the needle still.

She was threading her needle, and the gust
Outside made a moaning sound.
Like a voice of sorrow from the dust,
That relief has nowhere found;
In the twilight twinkled dim the gas,
And a ghostly glimmer threw
On the window with its cracking glass,
And the sill where the lichen grew;
And the children babbled at their play,
With their ragged clothing girt,
As if formed anew from muddy clay,
In the gutter and the dirt;
And the feet which paced with heavy tramp,
At their grinding labour's bid,
On her heart that fluttered seemed to stamp,
And her idle efforts chid;
And the women lifted shriller tones,
As they hurried wrangling past,
And the history written on the stones.
Had the bravest left aghast;
And the frost waxed sharper, and the cold
Crept on with its icy chill,
Till their work her hands could scarce uphold,
And she threaded the needle still.

She was threading her needle, and the thought
Of the sin that kept drawing nigh,
In her troubled bosom chafed, and wrought
The remorse of a bitter sigh;
And her fingers bungled at the task,
That they only helped to spoil,
While accusing whispers woke, to ask
If the soul had gathered soil;
Should she sell her honour, for an hour
Of illicit joy or gain,
That would turn her life's young kindness sour,
And the virgin beauty stain?
And the step that now with false comfort came,
To her dark and dreary strife—
Was it bringing blessing, or a shame
That wonld shadow all her life?
And her childhood's prayer, long years unsaid,
For the tempted and the poor,
Bubbled up in the bosom sore afraid,
And she locked the traitorous door;
Then the sun went down with a glorious blaze,
But the home within had light,
While she broke from the grim, entangling maze,
And the needle was threaded right.

BAPTIZED BY FIRE.

In the dead of the night broke the clamour,
Upon horror-struck ears,
That yet found a delight and a glamour,
In the thrilling of fears;
When the last carriage now could scarce lumber,
Over crossing and stone,
In the silence and darkness of slumber,
Burst that terrible tone;
Amid howling of dogs as they trembled
At the glare splashing out,
And the shuffling of feet that assembled,
Came the sinister shout;
While policemen were bawling and running,
Rang that ominous din,
Of which even the deaf got no shunning,
Though they cowered within;
When the gas flickered faint, and seemed troubled
In strange daylight shed round,
The dread voice from all quarters redoubled,
With a funeral sound;
On the wings of dire tumult and terror,
To the turret and spire,
With no room for the fancies of error,
Rose the outcry of “Fire.”

With a laughter infernal and splutter,
In his mocking and game,
Up to attic and down to the gutter,
Sprang the Demon of Flame;
As a whirlpool, with famine of suction
That was cruel and short,
In the mirth that to man was destruction,
And to him only sport;
Danced on window sill now at his pleasure,
In great shinings and shrouds,
Like one stepping a festival measure,
Through dun rolling of clouds;
Bounded then to the roof, with a crackling
And a hubbub of blows,
That made light of the iron and tackling,
As of pasteboard at shows;
With a riot of roaring, the hissing
Of a myriad snakes,
Claspt the house with a passionate kissing,
Falling off in red flakes;
Ran upstairs wfth his frolicsome paces,
After forms that would flee,
At the doors knocked with ghastly grimaces,
In his devilish glee.

Dead asleep, but by vice's prostration,
He lay heavy and tired,
In the palace, upbuilt by starvation
Of the drudges he hired;
The proud merchant, who ate of the honey
And the fatness of all,
Nor perceived the doom, mocking at money,
Written red on the wall;
The dark hand of the Demon, who scribbled
(Drawing stertorous breath)
Hieroglyphics of ruin, and dribbled
With the droppings of death;
While he snored in his canopied slumber,
And in visions of gold,
With hot fingers kept trying to number
The curst pieces untold;
And yet dreamed not of kindness, nor sorrow
For the tyrannous ill,
And surmised how the gain of the morrow
Would be goodlier still;
Nor once thought of ineffable danger,
Overhanging his brow,
And the judgment, to which he was stranger
At his gate, knocking now.

Then he roused, with a wrench and a shudder
To his perilous fate,
Like a ship shorn of compass and rudder,
With the warning too late;
To hear shrieks, in his agonized waking,
As he started and rose,
Amid roaring of fire, and the shaking
That portended the close;
Then, in panic and trembling, he staggered
To the staircase, and fell
Down the steps up which gaily he swaggered
After feasting so well;
Lay there bleeding and broken, and huddled
On the crater's red brink,
With his brain in the fright no more fuddled
By the vapours of drink;
Face to face with the Demon, who cares not
For big title or purse,
In the march of disaster that spares not
At the crying or curse;
At first silent with dread, and by sifting
Of fierce suffering tost,
And then gathering strength, and uplifting
Wild lament of the lost.

All the servants had fled, not a laggard
Remained helpful behind,

While he grovelled thus hopeless and haggard,
As in coffin confin'd;
If his fancy, in crapulous vision,
Vaster profit yet shaped,
The avenger swooped down with derision,
Though the rats had escaped;
And the crimes he discounted as venial,
Came like ghosts glooming round,
The wrongs heaped upon hireling and menial,
With a menacing sound;
And he knew not a soul in the City,
Through that furnace's fog,
Would take one step to aid him from pity,
And not even a dog;
Evils long he had wrought, from refusing
The just wages, to sin
That was softer, returned with accusing,
Piercing deeply within;
And the child, he had torn from the bosom
Of her mother, to trudge
As an outcast, despoiled of her blossom,
Now arose as his judge

And drew nearer the Fire, with the blasting
Of its passionate breath,
Till it looked like the flame everlasting
Of damnation, not death;
While it blackened and blistered his features,
And the eyeballs turned dim,
With the bites of those serpentine creatures,
All so hungry for him;
And his shouting seemed fainter and sadder,
As of alien grief,
And no glimpse of a heavenly ladder,
Not a ray of relief;
And his labouring lungs now grew stifled,
In the volumes of smoke,
That curled slowly, as if it but trifled
With the terror it woke;
Up it coiled, with ambiguous paces,
That retired as it danced,
In its tardy ascent and embraces,
And yet ever advanced;
Noise outside ebbed away in the distance,
Through the darkness and pain
That waxed fiercer, defying resistance,
And he shouted again.

Who would help him, and hie as a brother
To his pitiful need,
When the fireman hung back, and no other
Had the courage to heed?

Lo, the flame in its fury was master,
That no mortal could chain,
For it leapt with its lightning still faster,
And the water was vain;
And the Demon with bluster and antic,
Set his seal upon all,
In his onset each moment more frantic,
Seizing window and wall;
Planting feet in the brick and the timber,
Gripping glass with the hands
That were lustful and cruel and limber,
And acknowledged no bands;
Howling scoff at the trumpery measures,
That his forces would strike,
And devouring the rubbish and treasures,
In his hunger alike;
Till he waved from the chimneys his banner,
That blazed boody and dire,
And spread out in demoniac manner,
Like a burial pyre.

Was there no one to rescue, no turning
To the swirling and swell
Of that flood, with insatiable burning,
Like an outburst of hell?
Was there none, who could cope with the Giant
In his murderous tread,
Growing grimmer, in ashes defiant,
And bestriding the dead?
Was there none, in that tragical station;
Who the peril would scorn,
With a courage though but desperation,
And a hope if forlorn?
And the hundreds behind them prest forward,
While the leaders shrunk back,
As the breakers on breakers roll shoreward,
And return on their track;
There was swearing of men, and the screaming
Of pale women who blenched,
In the stutter of engines and steaming,
At the furnace they drenched;
Here and there tiny voices shot, thrilling
Through the uproar that rose,
Of young children, who, scared and unwilling,
Waited yet for the close.

All seemed lost, as through smoke in dense masses
Crept a feeble last cry,
And a groan from that medley of classes,
Gave more hopeless reply;
When a figure still girlish and tender,
Like an angel, supreme,

Braved the fire that enswathed her in splendour,
At that moment extreme;
From the multitude stept, without staying
For a farewell or kiss,
And then plunged with her shawl's one arraying,
In that awful abyss;
While the gazers beheld, with a wonder
That escaped not in sound,
The red flames humbly breaking asunder,
And all fawning around;
Yea, preparing a path as for Moses
Once was parted the tide,
Strewing embers that burnt not, like roses
For a new-wedded bride;
But, lo, when through that that fiery portal,
As a maiden to play,
She passed on, a bright Presence not mortal,
Went beside all the way.

Who was she, that herself seemed scarce human,
Though so earthly of frame,
A sweet angel from Heaven, or woman,
That trod fearless the flame?
Who was she, that, so modest in meekness,
As in virginal flower,
Matched the dew of her delicate weakness,
With that horrible Power?
Who was she, that, with never a turning,
Thus adventured her life,
Moved unscathed through the blasting and burning,
Of the Demon's red strife?
But the child he in sport had sore cheated,
For a season of lust,
Then deserted and damnably treated,
Kicked below to the dust;
Though deceived and betrayed and discarded,
When his pleasure was cloyed,
She alone now with love him regarded,
Who her fame had destroyed;
She alone, in that beautiful fashion,
If her reason was dim,
From the infinite depths of compassion,
Still felt yearnings for him.

On her brow not a brand dared to kindle,
In its fury and wrath,
And the heat seemed to droop and to dwindle,
At her confident path;
Oh, the fire looked all baffled and blighted,
Fettered as by a band,
Like a dog that is beaten and frighted,
And came licking her hand;

Formed a ceiling for her to pass under,
Like a conqueror's arch,
Sank to whispers the roar of its thunder,
And illumined her march;
Dropt the head, that rose haughty and pressing
On the ruin it made,
With a slavish and abject caressing,
As if Some One forbade;
Stopped the footsteps, that ramping and rushing
Shattered stonework and wood,
Like a child, which its mother is hushing,
That essays to be good;
Into crevice and corner slunk hiding,
Before faith's unsaid plea,
And kept ever more lowly subsiding,
In an ebbing Red Sea.

Till she came, where in anguish and humbling
Her seducer yet lay,
Without staying one moment or stumbling,
On her glorious way;
Through the flames, that so lately imperious
Swallowed all in their pride,
With the might of that Presence mysterious,
Walking on by her side;
While she then, with a force not of maiden,
Raised the cripple, and bore
On the breast he with sorrow had laden,
Like a shipwreck to shore;
Just in time from the ill-fated mansion,
To flee judgment on sin,
Ere the pile in its pompous expansion,
Shrivelled up and fell in;
Just to live and escape the dread sentence,
That was dark'ning the stair,
To be led by his God to repentance,
And the evil repair;
Just to make her his wife, and confessing
All his vileness and harms,
While receiving her love's last caressing,
Die absolved in her arms.

MY CREED.—MY HEART AND I.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
Which guided me in youth,
And on the mire of earthly greed
Flashed its heroic truth;—
That every man should be the knight
Of every woman born,

To beauty and the love her right,
Or shame and cruel scorn;
Whatever be her form or face,
To make her sorrows mine,
And mark (though hidden in disgrace)
A dignity Divine.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
Whereby I learned to live,
And to this heart by suffering freed
A saintly service give;—
That woman, if she be a slave
To whom dishonour clings,
Hath in the gutter worse than grave,
A crown of better things;
And claims of me the kindly tear,
The glory of defence,
The ministry of holy fear,
The robe of reverence.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
A tender one and true,—
That every woman's bitter need
Should be her brother's due;
That she, of finer texture wrought.
And swayed to sweeter ends,
Should be girt round by kindly thought,
And stumbling stones find friends;
And, if she fret in prison bands,
Feel them the conqueror's wreath,
While leap a hundred helping hands
Like sword-blades from the sheath.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
For which I fearless fight,
Which sheds a halo on each deed,
Done for a sister's right;—
The very harlot fallen and low,
Whom ruin cannot kill,
Hath yet not lost her heavenly glow,
And is an angel still;
And may once more, by pious love
Be cleanséd of her stain,
And raiséd to the realms above,
To rank with stars again.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
By which I ever trod,
And living it is all the meed
I covet of my God;—
That woman is a precious gift,
If but in homespun clad,

To teach us gentler ways, and lift
Beyond this turmoil mad;
And we should stand—and nothing spare—
Between her and the strife.
To cherish her with awful care,
As one would cherish life.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
Inspiring all my aims,
To which my inmost heart gives heed,
When deaf to other claims;—
That woman was not made the fool
Of man, however high,
To be mere passion's fleeting tool,
Then hopeless left to sigh;
And her sweet purity was meant
To triumph over fate—
While generations on it leant—
A bulwark of the State.

I have a creed, a simple creed—
Deny it, if you dare—
The oak should shield the bruised reed,
And stay in stormy care;
That every man who is a man
Should be the spoiler's foe,
And link as part of every plan
The aid of woman's woe;
And, in her midnight hour of stress,
Should never leave her lone,
But with the lighting of redress
Rear up her radiant throne.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
Which all my work invests
With godlike splendour, and a speed
Which sordid acts arrests;—
That woman was not shaped to drudge,
And freedom idly crave,
The prey of every passing grudge,
The toy of every knave;
But, humbly served and fondly named,
Should sit at man's own side,
Plucked from the shadow, unashamed,
His comrade and his pride.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
A manly one and good,
Which hath transformed the wayside weed,
And battle shocks withstood;—
That woman is, for clown or king,
The wellspring of all dearth,

The fairest, noblest, sweetest thing,
God ever formed on earth;
And it is Christlike toil, to win
From evil's hateful hold,
The leper with her loathsome sin,
Who sells herself for gold.

I have a creed, a simple creed,
With many a sacred tie,
For which this heart hath chosen to bleed
And gladly even would die;—
That woman, veiled with glorious tears,
Is beautiful in all,
The unknown goddess of the years,
From whom the veil must fall;
And every man her fame should screen
From perjured lust or line,
Till every woman is a Queen,
Crowned by a right divine.

THE NEW CRUSADE.

Bind the token on thy breast,
Bear the cross upon thy heart,
Stoop not to voluptuous rest,
Toys of science, tricks of art;
Time enough to pause to play,
When the labour thou hast done—
Time to walk the roses' way,
When the weary fight is won;
Thousands even beside thee fall,
And thy fortune may be like,
And now God and duty call,
Strike.

They are many, they are strong,
And the world upon them smiles,
Smoothes the pathway of the wrong,
Which is glossed by golden wiles;
We are few in numbers, weak,
Not in mercy but in might,
And the tempest gathers bleak,
Turning tops of noon to night;
Yet the Truth is ours, and such
Hath omnipotence to give,
Only they that venture much,
Live.

Take the tempered shield of faith,
Take the holy sword, that cleaves
Rainbow bubble, silver wraith,
And the fact immortal leaves;
If for frailty be no room,
If for poverty no part,
In the earth's delight and bloom,
Ope to them thy greater heart;
Never for the soul's distress,
Life gave aught but iron glove,
But is pain, our God's caress,
Love.

Place is not for suffering here,
From the sordid hands of time,
Women falling, sad and sere,
Who disown the dogging crime,
Strive in vain to sunder bars,
Which yet worse than dungeon bind,
Stretching faces to the stars,
For the light they cannot find;
And if thou wouldst truly give
Freedom from the abhorrèd tie,
Thou must first—that they may live—
Die.

Never sound a note of truce,
Never sheathe the avenging sword,
When sweet falsehood would seduce
Souls repentant from their Lord;
While a tear there is to dry,
And despair weaves ghastly chains,
While a cloud dims any eye,
Or a sorrowing breast remains;
If but one abide the curse,
Which would close from blessèd light,
Be that one Thy universe,
Fight.

Mortal weapons soon must fade,
Soon must pass man's judgment rod,
But the breath of this Crusade,
Is the Spirit of our God;
Human wealth, however sure,
Moth and rust and worm despise,
Mercy's riches will endure,
Bidding fallen wrecks arise;
When the earth has ruin met,
And the suns in darkness grope,
Ours the heaven that cannot set—
Hope.

PUBLICANS AND SINNERS.

Whom did Christ come down to waken,
Come to give the conqueror's palm,
From their grave-like slumber shaken
Through the shadow into calm?
For whom rang that trumpet calling,
Melting even the hearts of stone,
As between the fallen and falling,
Beautiful He set His throne?
Whom lived He to choose and cherish,
Touch with loving healing hand?
For whom did He plead and perish,
Bear and break the deathly band?

Did He bid the whole, the healthy,
Fly unto Him to be healed,
With a gospel to the wealthy,
Or the mighty men, revealed?
Did He, in the modern manner,
Which is now His churches' will,
Summon to the blood-red banner,
Rank and titles or the till?
Did He count among His treasures,
Fame and glorious pedigree,
And accept our earthly measures,
Frigid saint and Pharisee?

Not the favoured few, that juggle
With the ignorant as they lust,—
But the men who daily struggle,
Just to earn the daily crust;
Not the ladies finely guerdoned,
Stepping unto ball-room chime—
But the women, over-burdened
With their own and others' crime;
Not the social pets, the winners
Of the prize in worldly race,—
But the publicans and sinners,
Heirs to nothing but disgrace.

These the jewels, Christ our Brother
Stooped to gather from the mire,
Maimed and halt and blind, no other,—
Sunk in order to aspire;
These his darlings, weary, smitten,
Tost about on earthly waves,
Brows on which the brand is written,
Nobodies and sots and slaves;
Yea, to loose the hangman's halter,
Came the Christ who worketh yet,
And could God this gospel alter,
Heaven itself would be to let.

Not the saints on marble niches.
Who to suffering breasts are blind,—
Not the rich who trust in riches,
Rubbish they must leave behind;
Still the poor man has the blessing,
Who doth choose the better part,
Still the children the caressing,
And the Magdalen Christ's heart;
Still the tired and troubled, laden
With the bondage of the years,
Woman seared in soul a maiden,
Find a Saviour from their fears.

Heads that seek no proud position,
Faces marked and marrcd with shame,
Girls of each diverse condition,
Every nature, every name;
Golden Maud and blue-eyed Alice,
Mabel of the fairy form,
Drinking deep the bitter chalice,
Blown about by chance and storm;
Ah! I see them sore afflicted,
Under load that galls and grieves,
Girls by baser man rejected,
Whom the Son of Man receives.

Hated by their own, and hunted
Into corners dark and drear,
Starved in plenty, crooked and stunted
By the unearned toil and tear;
Still they strive, and look for landing
Somewhere past the surging waves,
Somehow ask a solid standing,
Upon earth that gives but graves;
Though the world scarce deems them human,
Yet for them is mercy won—
If mere scorn from sons of woman—
Mercy from the Woman's Son,

Blighted buds, that bear their sentence,
Bow sublimely to the doom,
Show the shoots of grand repentance,
Shall put on immortal bloom;
Dark-haired Ada, red-lipped Charlotte,
Who confess their sins are such,
Even the publican and harlot,
Pardoned greatly, loving much—
These who make the Cross their centre,
Bend to rod and social flout,
Do the Heavenly Kingdom enter,
Which the Pharisee casts out.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

It is O for the bridegroom and the bride,
And the bosoms that give suck,
For the swimmer on the ebbing tide,
And the Dives by the labourer's side,
Who has had the gambler's luck,
And would trample down the ruck;
It is O for the greedy coffers, wide
To devour the gold, and not divide
With the moiler in his muck,
Which to honest work has stuck;
There is nothing false that may abide;
The Eleventh hour has struck.

It is O for the coward called a man,
With the treacherous oily tongue,
Who for just a moment's paltry span,
Has deflowered his God's most glorious plan,
And the heart that fondly clung
Unto him, in beauty young;
Who to evil curst so lightly ran,
Because he would never bear the ban,
That above his victim hung,
Like the hangman's necklace swung;
For he shall not end, as lust began;
The Eleventh Hour has rung.

It is O for the sister pinched and poor,
From whom fortune long has fled,
Since she oped for one her humble door
To the promise, which the basest boor
Would have honoured, if she pled—
Though to death alone it led;
It is O for the hunted in the moor,
When the hound is hard upon the spoor,
And the earth bestows no bed,
While the threatening skies are red;
For the Judge's feet now shake the floor;
The Eleventh Hour has sped.

It is O for the trustful woman, stayed
On a hope that idly swelled,
Who has lived her little hour, and played
With the flowers that hid the doom delayed,
By the waves that laughing welled,
And her coy misgivings quelled;
It is O for her in grief arrayed,
Who believed and only was betrayed,
By the friend who with her dwelled—
Though the Axe has thousands felled;
For the tree is barren and decayed;
The Eleventh Hour has knelled.

“WOMEN MUST WEEP.”

For men the triumph, and the joy of battle
With fellow men, who fain would keep
The well-springs and the fatted sheep,
And for themselves green pastures of the cattle;
For them the headlong rush, and iron rattle
Down the red line, the fiery sweep
Of forward squadrons dense and deep;
And then repose, the club, the evening tattle,
The flowers from which the fairies peep,
And children with their playthings and their prattle,
In proud possession of some tiny chattel;
Women must weep.

For men the golden prize, the lifted places
Above the tumult of the years—
The harvest of the yellow ears,
Bursting their barns—and those more splendid spaces,
Where statesmen look upon each other's faces,
And with the onset as of spears,
Amidst a nation's hopes and fears,
Stamp on the passing hour heroic traces—
The lightning law, that shines and shears
Through crumbling bolts and rotten braces,
And gives to honest day the hidden graces;
For women tears.

For men the rule, the glamour and the glory;
While others to their duty creep,
Or thinly babble in their sleep
Of the desired and still-delaying story,
Which glimmers far through shadow shy and hoary;
While others clamber up the steep,
To starry posts they cannot keep,
Or droop and fall halfway on pillows gory;
For men the laughter and the leap
Of winds and waves and galleys now not oary,
The banner spread on some new promontory;
Women must weep.

For men the ancient charter of oppressing,
That yet its hideous forehead rears,
And many a maiden bosom sears,
Meant for the right and rapture of caressing,
But shaken with the curse instead of blessing;
For men the tyrant sloth that hears,
When frailty in repentance nears,
And pities not the dire distressing,
Which weakness unto might endears,
But from the freedom of its foul transgressing,
In silence yields a demon's acquiescing;
For women tears.

MAN.

Strong in purpose, strong to dare
All that nobly may be done,
By a brother who would share
Burdens more than meet for one;
Strong to stand by failing friends,
In the anguished hour of need,
Working on to blessed ends,
Beauty of the righteous deed;
Strong to bear another's cross
Bravely, if in victory's van,
If through shock of shameful loss—
Such is Man.

Tender unto woman, still
Crowned with fortune and with fame,
Bending to imperious will
Others, as in idle game;
Tender to the wanton speech,
Born of folly not of vice,
Curling lips they must beseech,
Who her favours would entice;
Tender to the sister, spoiled
By the praises worse than ban,
Who has but for pleasure toiled—
Such is Man.

True in welfare and in woe.
To the humble as the high,
Whether matched against a foe,
Or attent to orphan's sigh;
True to exiles mute, who miss
Faith in hideous haunts of crime,
Never knew a husband's kiss,
Never hear the church-bell chime;
True to broken spirits, crushed
Out of all their glorious plan,
Which to heavenly flower had rushed—
Such is Man.

Merciful to frailty most,
To the stricken bleeding heart,
Carried fainting from the host,
Just to sob and die apart;
Merciful to weaker forms,
Sinking in unequal strife,
Tempted, yielding to the storms,
Made of passions into life;
Merciful to souls, that fall
From the ranks wherein they ran,
Marred, but womanly in all—
Such is Man.

GENTLEMAN.

There is a title beyond monarchs' reach,
Caged in their splendour blind,
And yet within the humblest grasp of each,
Who gentle is and kind—
With majesty of mind,
Which gives its greatness in the tender speech,
And acts that pasture find,
From the lone stand in the lost sufferer's breach,
And lessons large that none but children teach—
Whom laws unwritten bind,
Not codes that cowards grind
To one dull shape, like shingle on the beach.

There is a title, grander than the crown
So often won by fool,
Which sits as well on forehead seamed and brown,
With knowledge not from school,
As on the bloody tool,
Who only rose by trampling weakness down,
To gain his velvet stool;
A title purchased not by dead men's frown,
Nor the red murder of some helpless town,
Which like the evening cool
Fans some forgotten pool—
Whose simple kindness is its sole renown.

There is a title, all unknown to Lust,
Which behind golden screen
Would rob the orphan of her scanty crust,
And comfort that had been,
Had it not stepped between—
For him who faithful dares to be and just,
Though knaves should proudly ween,
Who greatly loves and lives, because he must
Uplift the fallen woman from the dust,
As who has ever seen
In outcast even a Queen,
And to enthrone her holds Divine his trust.

There is a title which through ages ran,
And lent our England grace
When clouds and darkness reared their threatening ban,
And left its heavenly trace;
Which spurning vulgar race,
Prefers its honour to the imperial plan,
And principle to place—
A title, rank and riches may but scan
And envy still, yet compass never can,
By tinsel, show or lace—
The brightness of God's Face,
First shown by Christ—the Christian gentleman.

THE TWO PICTURES.

I

Robed in beauty for her raiment,
Rich with every virgin charm
Given by Nature, without payment,
To protect her child from harm;
Growing, like the flowers, expanding
To the kisses of the light;
Homage from the world commanding,
As her own by royal right;
Crowned, by Heaven's supreme anointing,
With the spell of queenly dower,
In her innocent appointing,
Purity, the key of power.

II

Dark with prison brand, and stigma
Stamped by each devouring lust,
Loathing life's accurst enigma,
That would grudge the very crust;
Young, and yet in sin more hardened
Than the crone of seventy years,
Going forth uncleansed, unpardoned,
To the judgment with but fears;
Woman, though unsexed by vices
Which have left alone the name,
In the hideous fate, that prices
Souls sublime for hire of shame.

I

Day succeeded day, and heightened
Still the glory of her face,
And her path of pleasure brightened,
With a broader, fresher grace;
Nothing came amiss, and splendour
Fell wherever fell her glance;
Tempest could not wring surrender,
From the joy of her advance;
All that happened, to her fervent
Faith which ventured to aspire,
Yielded, and became the servant
Of her maidenly desire.

II

Night pressed upon night, and lower
Sank she in the fouling mud,
Staggering on with footstep slower,
Through a desert without bud;

Out of darkness into shadow,
Denser than the horrors past,
By no friendly stream or meadow,
Under skies more overcast;
Failing hourly sore, and deeper
Floundering in the hideous gloom;
Grimly conscious, yet a sleeper
Hurried blindly to her doom.

I

Early she her part had taken,
Chose the holy for her seat,
Counselled wisely, and not shaken
By the blast that others beat;
Fenced about with walls of pity,
Higher than the highest stars,
Bulwarks that give soul or city
Vaster strength than iron bars;
Still she prospered, as God's planting,
Gathered bloom from dimmest day,
Put forth lovelier shoots enchanting,
And the world beneath her lay.

II

Black at heart, and marred in feature,
By debauch that none can tell,
Hunted forth a homeless creature,
On the upper streets of hell;
Shorn of all—save rags of fashion—
Every tender woman's gift,
With no look to tempt compassion,
Or the arm that could uplift;
Moulded by the devil's nursing,
Gaol, disease, and famine's rod;
Dying, though long dead, and cursing
With last breath the Unknown God.

O how diverse are the pictures,
Painted on the scene of life,—
This the butt of scorn and strictures,
That beyond the breath of strife!
This by fortune sweetly guerdoned,
With what makes a woman fair;
That polluted, bowed and burdened,
Stumbling to the gallows' stair!
Yet, by flowery ways of sinning,
Surely was the ruin done—
Damnèd end from from blest beginning;
And the portraits are of one.

BEAUTY OR BEAST?

Clad in the purple and the gold,
Badge of a pampered class,
Proud of a lineage grand and old,
Calm as the glacier and as cold,
Changeless though all things pass;
Bright and bold,
Bought and sold,
Grace like the cheat of a magic glass,
Polished with lies, harder than brass—
Ah, is it Beauty's mould,
Or but the beast below the lass,
Flower of the graveyard grass?

Only half-clothed in hideous tire,
Filthy with stains, that stick
Closer than wounds of savage ire,
Deep in the heart that would aspire,
Spent as a candle's wick;
Marked by mire,
Scorched from fire
Fierce with affliction's flames, that lick
Costlier walls than wood or brick—
Say in the harlot's hire,
Where is the Beauty warm and quick,
Under the Beast so thick?

Followed about by flattery's gong,
Shielded from every harm,
Gaily excused for act of wrong,
Done in the right of custom long,
Counted in her a charm;
Soothed with song,
Riding strong
Over the slaves who kiss the arm,
Lifted to strike without a qualm—
Oh, is it Beauty's silken thong,
Or just the Beast, disguised with psalm,
Painted, not to alarm?

Driven by hate from purer haunt,
Banished where women weep,
Thrust by superior sinning's vaunt,
Brave in its crimes that unknown jaunt,
Down to the leper's deep;
Gray and gaunt,
Pierced with taunt
Framed in the breast where serpents creep,
Yet with a spirit firm to keep
Purpose, which none can daunt—
Is it the Beast, unpowered to steep,
Beauty that stirs, in sleep?

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

Fair with all the gifts of nature,
Perfect in each royal part
Of the wondrous legislature,
Chanted by the priests of art;
Sweet with every charm, that story
Gives the children of its choice,
Born in purple, to the glory
Thundered by a people's voice;
Delicate in features, moulded
By the spell of ages' flight,
Leaf and fruitage richly folded
In one marvel of delight;
Dainty figure, finely swaying
At the impulse of the mood,
Drawing life from earth, and staying
Sun and moon to furnish food;
But with passion fiercely mated,
Limping from the lustful feast,
Sad and sick and yet unsated;—
Is it Beauty? Is it Beast?

Splendid with the light of ages,
Written in each lofty look,
With a face like dazzling pages,
Out of Empire's mighty book;
Gathering to herself the lustre,
Of a dozen noble lines—
All that highest rank may muster,
All that from refinement shines;
Hoar romance in annals tragic,
Dew and fragrance of the flower,
Bud and blossom's mingled magic,
Offer unto her their power;
Loveliness puts on its vesture,
Proud distinction sets a seal,
To each queenly tone and gesture
Beggar rags could not conceal;
But she hears no trump of Duty,
Sounding solemn through the night;
Is it Beast, or is it Beauty
Fooled by pleasure's harlot sight?

Pure and polished but in manner,
That a world might render slave,
And is just a fairy banner,
Flaunting over woman's grave;
Hiding, under gloss of culture,
Fancy's glamour, glow of wit,
Taste more loathsome than a vulture
Which on secret corpse has lit;

Feeding, with the garb of fashion,
Off the pastures black and vile,
Decked by draping of compassion,
Tricked in tonder jest and smile;
Turning seat of service holy,
To an idle passing toy,
If by wanderings dim and lowly
She may suck some lawless joy;
Ah, it were the God asserted,
Grace that glimmers in the least,
Had not lie, and lust perverted;—
It is Beauty and the Beast.

BEAUTY IN THE BEAST.

Clothed—nay, unclothed in dismal rags,
Foul with yet filthier skin,
Haggard and thwart and thin,
As her shambling, shuffling footstep drags,
While her troubled breathing fails and flags,
Down in the hellish din;
Gray, with no human grin,
Is she Beast that still in darkness lags,
Clutching her like a gin,
That is driving on the iron crags,
Or awaits the hangman's grip and gags?
—Is there Beauty none within?

Wild, with the terror of the doom
Owned and deserved, but still
Hated with all her will,
She has found in London's length no room,
Nor a refuge in the deepest gloom,
Nothing but ache and ill,
Curses that slowly kill;
Is there not for her a beggar's broom,
Broken must life but spill,
And that heart which is a royal tomb
Never rise again to bud and bloom,
And a woman's empire fill?

Fallen, and yet she fain would reach
Hands so unsexed and dark,
Up to the glimmering spark
Of the heavenly hope, which sunbeams teach,
And the vesper breezes dimly preach,
Sung by the cagèd lark,
Breathed in the lordly park

If the storm would cast upon the beach
Wrecked, the poor foundering bark—
If there only were one God for each,
Or one measure fair for every breach,
And in Church indeed an Ark.

Dead, and she fights against her fate,
Catching, though love has ceast
Out of the sullen East,
At the wretched straw of the pulpit's prate,
And the cowards who misguide the State,
Profited not the least,
Governed that they may feast;
Though the worms alone would with her mate,
And the billows boil like yeast;
For if long in sin she wanders late,
Still for her may Mercy ope the Gate;
—There is Beauty in the Beast.

THE SONG OF THE SIBYL.

What is that solemn sound, which makes
Strange music in the hearts it wakes,
And wins to nobler choice?
It murmurs from the gates of morn,
And is with evening echoes borne—
It is the Sibyl's voice.

Through all the common cries of earth,
The wails of weakness and of dearth,
Above the victor shout;
O hear her message sad and sage,
The sum of every clime and age,
The key to every doubt.

She comes, she comes, superb and strong,
All higher wishes round her throng,
All hearts are to her drawn;
And on her pure prophetic lips,
Speaking in earthquake and eclipse,
Lo the red rose of dawn!

Her foot is on the pathless air,
The lightning licks her streaming hair,
She stands in stormy skies;
As one who in the future looks,
And reads its fate as writ in books,
With dark, deliberate eyes.

She is not dead, she cannot die,
Though nations prone in dotage lie,
There is no death for her;
We hear her when the night wind calls,
We see her when the darkness falls
On mighty souls that err.

Behold her brow in surges bright,
That break on broader lands of light,
When prostrate peoples rise;
When kindled by one common flame,
They burst the shadow of their shame,
And waken calm and wise.

She has put on a thousand masks,
The cowls of monks and warriors' casques,
A god-like place to fill;
And though the lands have wooed her long,
With bribes of gold and battle song,
She is a Virgin still.

Though moving with the march of Time,
The toil, the tumult, and the crime,
No mortal was her mate;
Unstained by all the lures of lust,
The crash of chaos and its dust,
Unvexed, inviolate.

She stood above the flux and strife,
None mingled with her maiden life,
And she was mixed with none;
She went on her majestic way,
Still without haste but without stay,
Unbending and unwon.

She heard the statesman's studied plea,
Who offered her the world for fee,
If she his counsel blest;
But from her purpose fixed and wide,
She never swerved one jot aside,
Nor let its justice rest.

Throned in the ruddy dawn of Change,
She whispers words of omen strange,
And shakes her lance of light;
Behind her leaps the laughing day,
With larger revelation's ray,
Before her flies the night.

She yokes the thunders as her steeds,
And tames the tempest for her needs,
The clouds her chariots are;

Her wings are the unresisting winds,
She walks upon the waves she binds,
And holds the morning star.

An ancient augur hath she been,
Who wore a gray and withered mien,
When youth was at her heart;
But yet her acts in history's page
Have never felt the blight of age,
And play a deathless part.

She bowed but not with blasting fears,
Waxed pale but not with snows of years,
Halted but not to rest;
Her nature changed not with her name,
And with a fierce unwaning flame
A fire burned in her breast.

And when she draws the robes away,
That light ineffable allay,
She seems immortal youth;
Her front is innocence, her mouth
Is the sweet music of the South,
Her every tone is truth.

Too tender for the sword that slays,
Too beautiful for bloody ways,
Too frail for aught but love;
And yet her look is more than law,
It hath a mighty charm to draw
The loftiest from above.

Young as the hours that blossoms bring,
Her face is fresher than the Spring
That trembles in the trees;
And yet her gaze is dim and cold,
Deep as eternity, and old
As everlasting seas.

Unfaltering is her step and true,
Her robes are heaven's own azure hue,
The twilight halls her home;
Her voice as soft as summer airs,
Sad as with universal cares,
Strong as the hates of Rome.

And all the varied notes of Time,
Summed in its subtle compass, chime
Each instant hour of change;
While up and down the scale complete,
With conquest now and now defeat,
The awful numbers range.

She talked with seers on solemn mounts,
She stood at Fame's primeval founts,
And cradles of great kings;
Mohammed, Attila, were stirred
By her intoxicating word,
To work such wondrous things.

Thus Alexander, Hannibal,
Found in the fight a festival,
Because they felt that flame;
The ravening Cæsars that unrest
Owned and obeyed, as slaves possest
By hopes they could not name.

Prophets and poets knew her well,
And stooped to her tremendous spell,
She fired their splendid speech;
And when the light of Learning died,
Save where in cloistered souls it sighed,
Yet she remained to teach.

Grand cities yielded to her yoke,
And sped to battle when she spoke,
With victory in their van;
She fashioned history as she chose,
And framed from Revolution's throes
Each universal man.

She sang afar the sack of Troy,
Untouched by human grief or joy,
Untroubled by its doom;
She sang how Hellas had its hour,
And then with broken pride and power
The coming judgment gloom.

She made eternal Athens, Rome,
Venice like Venus raised from foam
To wed the boundless sea;
Fair Florence felt her waving hands,
And rose ennobled through all lands
With an immortal plea.

For nations trained in war's wild shock,
Whose hearts were hewn of rugged rock,
She filled a larger space;
She drew more near to ancient creeds,
When words were few—colossal deeds,
And on them flashed her face.

The nurse of heroes, and the guide
Of freedom's flowing ebbing tide,
She broke the prison bars;

When evil gained its monstrous will,
Then, in the night of ruin, still
She pointed to the stars.

We see her, as they saw her then,
A mighty mistress among men,
With eyes serene and gray;
Beyond the present and its tears,
Above our paltry hopes and fears,
In visions rapt away.

Yea, she was known ere history's birth,
And gently rocked the infant earth
To her enchanting strain;
It was her touch that made it roll
For ever, to that glorious goal
Which is the death of pain.

The proudest tyrants were her tools,
War and religion formed the schools,
By which she held her sway;
She deals with empires as with toys,
She makes and breaks what she employs,
And casts the wrecks away.

And when rebellion rears its crest,
Swooping as eagles from their nest,
She steers its stormy flight;
And forth she pours her prophet tones,
Mid crumbling walls and tumbling thrones,
Till day is born of night.

When slaves are waking from their sleep,
Her gleaming paces swiftly sweep
The tempest-ridden skies;
Firm is the triumph in her glance,
And dark as destiny the trance
Of her untroubled eyes.

Before her mighty pageants pass,
Mirrored as in a magic glass,
In solemn scenes and sure;
With parted lips and floating locks,
She marks unmoved a thousand shocks,
All passionless and pure.

Forward she leans upon the gale,
Beholding still the Future's tale,
Even as a flower unfold;
She heard, as from the dawn of things,
Nor stays creation's perishings,
Could she the doom withhold.

When trampled races wreak her will,
Against the iron bonds of Ill,
And crush its grinding wrong;
O then across the chasm of Time,
We hear with thoughts and throes sublime
The Sibyl and her song.

It is not love, it is not hate,
It is the measured voice of Fate,
Divinely calm and clear;
It has no part in human lot,
And yet it touches every spot,
It knows not mortal fear.

It is not pleasure, nor is pain,
It never reckons loss or gain,
Nor stoops to earthly bounds;
And still it numbers all our bliss,
Desires we reap, delights we miss,
With sad and mystic sounds.

Each fortune of each path it proves,
And echoes every note that moves
The solemn harp of life;
It thrills with every passing wind,
But leaves our longest storms behind,
And bodes unceasing strife.

'Tis deep as hell, and high as heaven,
And big with all the wants that leaven
Man's broadest, wildest will;
It chants of madness, chants of mirth,
And blessing strangled ere its birth,
In accents stern and still.

And when the tempest muttering sends
Dire tumult in the breasts it bends,
With promise it has brought;
Then, in the agony of hope,
It scatters, thunders in the scope
Of some world-shaking thought.

If threatening fears be on the wing,
And passions from their primal spring
Fierce inspiration drain;
Then in the seething, social air,
In new resolve and purer prayer,
We catch her song again.

It calls above the cries of ire,
And shouts of spirits that aspire
Upon it idly fall;

It mingles every craving deep,
Each impulse in its mighty sweep,
And is apart from all.

Though their vain fellows were so blind,
Yet many a leader of mankind,
Its claim has clearly seen;
And left upon an early tomb
The living dream, that was his doom
Of that which should have been.

And now the Sibyl comes once more,
Wise with her old, unearthly lore,
Her awful book she brings;
And though the nations heed her not,
Though kingdoms rise and kingdoms rot,
Her song again she sings.

We pipe of tuneless touch or plan,
We babble feebly what we can,
She speaks because she must;
And while she speaks our splendours fly,
Our loftiest dreams are born and die,
Our temples turn to dust.

Onward, yet onward doth she speed,
Through every dim heroic deed,
Earth's slowly-dawning tracts;
Before she sends her voice, and still
She works her world-transforming will,
And fancies lead to facts.

Yea, to the present is she blind,
She never casts one glance behind,
But looks serenely on;
The streams of Time may ebb and flow,
And lay our golden cities low,
Yet when will she be gone?

We cannot hate her if we dread,
And though she dwells among the dead,
She is so wondrous fair;
She breathes the beauty of the earth,
The vastness of the desert dearth,
The ocean and the air.

We cannot love her if we would,
Nor has she portion in our good,
She is too cold and calm;

For Fate in all her features lies,
In the deep gulfs of her great eyes,
And in each waving palm.

Fate is the legend of her brow,
To which once seen the peoples bow,
It rustles in her robes;
Fate calls from every look and line,
In symbols dreadful and Divine,
As mapped on starry globes.

Why do we fear her, if we know
Her march must ever onward go,
Her empire never wane?
Ah, why not welcome her, and be
A link of high necessity,
And triumph in her train?

What if the clouds her curtains make,
And wild war trumpets round her shake
Earth's calmest field and flood?
Clouds are the cradle of the light,
While sweet are feastings after fight,
And creeds baptized in blood.

When suns go down in seas of gore,
Where peace and pleasure smiled before,
And moons go up in fire;
Lo, then she rides upon the gale,
Awful, inscrutable, and pale
With infinite desire.

Whoe'er has caught her kindling glance,
Is dashed into the fateful dance,
In which she gathers all;
Her presence sore mutation brings,
And mighty men and meaner things
Before her onset fall.

She catches fortune at its ebb,
And weaves each colour in her web,
The threads of rest and rage;
Mingled with mystical intents,
As swaddling-clothes and cerements
For infancy and age.

Her footstep sounds along the years,
When monarchs laid on stately biers
Are carried to their doom;

Her hand lets fall the sacred leaves,
When earth decaying greatness grieves—
Her seat is on the tomb.

And nearer still her shadow draws,
In shifting creeds and shattered laws,
When class makes war with class;
Yet when destruction, like the wind,
Old codes and customs casts behind,
Her skirts it cannot pass.

She seizes of all glories flown,
And with their spoils adorns her throne,
While death her pathway paves;
And round her roll the wrecks of man,
Frustrated force and blighted plan,
With ever-widening waves.

Before her winter blasts its way,
Behind sweet summer blossoms play,
That bloom when lands are free;
About her moves a murmur strange,
The prophecy of inward change,
Of fairer shapes to be.

There is a grandeur in her gaze
That soars above the human haze,
A vastness in her strain;
High thought, in her unfathomed soul,
That grasps the world in its control,
Broods with sore travail pain.

Ah, now we hear her garments glide,
Across that dim and formless tide,
Where fierce disunion strains;
And by her lips is shaped the spell,
That splits the darkest dungeon cell,
The direst despot chains.

Her song is on the evening borne,
And mingles with the breath of morn
Its incense old and sweet;
Her song is in the awful hush,
When warriors pause before they rush
In mortal grip to meet.

And in the arméd peace, that holds
The countries in its quivering folds,
O hear her warning word;
She comes, and though no wisdom heeds,
Opens each ancient wound and bleeds;
She speaks, and shall be heard.

THE MAIDEN WIFE.

Others have taken here and there
A magic or a might,
The fire of passion, or a prayer
That trembles into light;
The peace of sunset, or the power
And promise of the morn,
The freshness of the opening flower,
Its blushes and its thorn;
A page from pansies, or a line
From lilies ere they close,
A lesson from the eglantine,
Its rapture from the rose.

But thou, from ocean and from air,
Hast caught each wildest grace,
Turned into something yet more fair,
To triumph in thy face;—
The glory of the longest days,
The sweetness of the nights,
The hauntings of unearthly rays
That throb in Northern lights;
The snow lies on thy summer charms,
To make a perfect frame,
And in the heaven that is thine arms
The mingled frost and flame.

Others have eyes that quickly turn
To one of bolder hand,
And in his gaze with gladness burn
Or grieve at his command;
Red lips, that warm a welcome give
To fools that flattery teach,
And in those common kisses live,
With beauties ripe for each;
Caresses that are cold and cheap,
With favours free to all,
And bosoms that in laughter leap
At any lover's call.

But thou—thine eyes are never trained
To deck a public show,
By admiration yet unstained,
They guard their modest glow;
Thy lips, that all their treasures keep,
As they have ever done,
For passing strangers proudly sleep,
And waken but to one;
And, though thou art a wedded wife,
Thine is a maiden will,
That cannot lose its inner life,
And must be maiden still.

A CHRISTMAS CONTRAST.

I.

Mantled in silks and muffled in furs,
Rolling along in her carriage,
Luxury's child, like a kitten she purrs,
Borne as a bride to a marriage;
Daintily shod, each delicate hand
Gloved by Parisian makers,
All that she wants comes at every command,
Houses, unlimited acres;
Loudly she laughs at the weather, and pipes
Happy and free as a starling,
Sheltered from cold and the storm's iron stripes—
Somebody's darling.

II.

Limpling in rags that repel not the frost,
Down on the street or the pavement,
One against multidudes, lonely and lost,
Damned into life and enslavement;
Homeless and hungry she totters, to find
Somehow a hole where to huddle,
Scorned by the wealthy, scourged by the wind,
Mocked by the mire and the puddle;
Sadly she sobs, and her feet as they bleed
Beg just for rest not for pleasure,
Child but in name and unsexed by her need—
Nobody's treasure.

I.

Tempest may blow, and rain may come down
Wildly, but her's is a morrow
Curtained aloof from the fear of a frown,
Shutting out whisper of sorrow;
Never may shadow of labour draw near
Childhood like that, which has double
Portion of plenty, with never a tear
Dropt for one serious trouble;
Onward she moves to the music of love,
Careless and gay as a starling,
Roses beneath her and blessings above—
Somebody's darling.

II.

Downward in darkness the beggar may sink
Low as the mud, in her tatters
Carried a day and then pawned for a drink,
Drugging the frame that it shatters;
Christmas to her is unmeaning, a jest
Barbed with a poison that rankles
Deep in her bosom all chill and half drest,
Soiled as her naked brown ankles;
How shall she rise from the gutter, or change
Life of which woe is the measure—
Life to which living itself is most strange—
Nobody's treasure?

FIFTY PER CENT. ET CETERA.

It is down with the wages and up with the toil,
Though the sempstress is white
With the wearing of want, and her heart hath the soil
Which her miseries write
As in letters of fire, upon cheek, upon brow,
Burning, haggard and thin,
As they shrink from the gaze of her sisters and bow
With their burden of sin;
Let her slave, till the spirit with honour is spent,
While she skulks under shade;
It is all for the glory of Fifty-per-cent.,
And—the Trade.

She is paid, in a fashion, and body and soul
In the bargain were cast
By the Sweater who preys on her strength, like a ghoul
At his bloody repast;
Never mind, if she suffers from pinching and pain,
And more terrible thought,
While she piles up the dunghill of infamous gain—
She is honestly bought;
Trodden low she in rags, that are loathsome and lent,
In the gutter may squirm,
It is all for the glory of Fifty per cent.,
And—the Firm.

What if daily she droops in the anguish for life,
Swelling higher the heap,
Till at last she lays hold on the poison or knife?
Human chattels are cheap;
There are hundreds quite ready to step in her place,
And be ground unto dust,
While they eke out their mite with a little disgrace,
Just to butter the crust;
Were not drudges like her only made, to be bent
For the conquering Purse?
It is all for the glory of Fifty per cent.,
And—the Curse.

Ah, the Many must wince at the ravisher's rod,
To aggrandize the Few
Who would drive four-in-hand, and sing praises to God
In a prominent pew;
And this is but a drop in the Puddle, and need
Was her earliest cry;
Let her struggle and starve to the end and be d---d,
Ere a dog we deny;
If the torments, whose home is the lost, should be pent
In her agonized frame,
It is all for the glory of Fifty per cent.,
And—our shame.

PARTING.

I left her to the vulgar throng,
And in the staring day,
With waving hand, and whirled along
The cruel iron way;
But though her angel face is gone
From this poor outward sight,
A glory rests where once it shone,
That never can take flight;
Ah, if no more that beauty zoned
My hungry heart may thrill,
Deep in its bridal chamber throned
She is my Sovereign still.

I see her now against the sky,
As swaying oft she stood—
A morning radiance in her eye,
The pride of maidenhood;
The subtle movements of the form,
Reflecting every change,
Now struck as by some passing storm,
Now stirred to music strange;
The crimson lips, the crownéd hair,
The white and wondrous hand,
With all that makes a woman fair,
And beautiful a land.

Thou, sunbeam, flashing out of space,
To lighten many a load,
Shed lilies on my darling's face,
And roses on her road;
Thou, wind, now rippling on the sea,
And rustling through the grass,
Take sweetest waft of wave and lea
In perfume, ere she pass;
And tell her how I always miss
Her presence, if I err
To others, and O breathe this kiss
That faithful is to her.

Ah, everywhere some vestige lies,
A riband or a glove,
Just common things but sacred ties,
Which daily strengthen love;
While time, that friendship lulls to sleep,
And death with murderous knife,
Shall only render mine more deep,
And wake to larger life;
Divided yet we have one will,
No earthly bounds may part,
And we will walk united still
For ever, heart with heart.

THE OLD GOSPEL AND THE NEW.

Huxley, hierarch of Science,
Gospels out of stocks and stones
Puffs, and bids us put reliance
Now in gases and in bones;
Vaunts the victories of knowledge,
Wrung from tortured nerve and brain,
Wisdom's new and ghastly college
Reared aloft of blood and pain;
Points to progress of researches
Deep in hidden haunts of life,
Fruitful method that besmirches
Lore with the dissecting knife.

Huxley swears there is salvation
Sweet, in quest of surer truth,
Rays of brighter revelation
Frozen in a mammoth's tooth;
Brands the miracle a relict
Stupid of a barbarous age,
Sweeping off the hosts angelic,
Just to get a clearer stage;
Thinks that demons raise suspicion
In the reason guided right,
Scoffs at Scripture superstition
Whence he borrows half his light.

Huxley cannot bridge the chasm
Vast, that severs man from beast,
Prating of his protoplasm,
Scraps from vivisection's feast;
Brings us comfort unpacific,
For which brutes by myriads bleed,
But to make us scientific—
We prefer the ancient creed;
Heedless of his new relation
Man will take a nobler shape,
Though its proved to demonstration
Adam only was an ape.

None can shake the faith that fathered
Saints serene to do and dare,—
Faith that souls heroic gathered
Under its imperial care;
Sophists may delight to dabble
Yet in questions dark, nor see
Jewels there, and falsehood babble
On of oracles more free;
Let them find their Haman's halter
Is prepared for Haman's neck—
We will rally round the Altar,
Rock no earthly power can wreck.

SI VIS PACEM PARA BELLUM.

O my country, O my dearest,
Whom a child I learnt to love,
Throned among the nations, nearest
To the throne of God above;
Spreading freedom, as a river
Rolls the blessings of its wave,
Ever foremost to deliver
Heathen soul or fettered slave;
Home of right and truth, the charter
Royal which no king can give,
Bought with price of many a martyr
Dying that a land might live;
Meting mercy from its fountains,
Laws that equal compass keep—
Righteousness like lofty mountains,
Judgments like the mighty deep;
Girt with fear of God, as ocean
Bound, on which sun never sets,
Propt by people's firm devotion,
Not by bloody bayonets;
England, if thou wouldst be steady,
When the storms of battle break,
O betimes be armed and ready,
From thy fatal sleep awake!

Where the prudence, now, that gathers
Weapons good in wealthy stores?
Where the bulwarks of our fathers,
Gallant ships and fencèd shores?
Where the wooden wall, salvation
Proved, to guard the golden Shop?
Shall we stem war's inundation,
With a maxim or a mop?
Fools, to sit at ease and wrangle,
Splitting hairs and tying tape,
Drifting on the rocks that mangle
Keel and crew, with no escape!
Fools to let an empire's peril,
Closer yet, and closer stalk—
Toy with straw and motion sterile,
Still in aimless endless talk!
Fools, to leave defenceless treasures,
Arsenal and teeming town,
Continent and isle, for measures
Useless when the night comes down!
Will ye now not not see the beauty
Born of action, till too late?
But begin to think of duty,
With the foeman at the gate?

O my England, O the glory
Won for thee in larger days—
Won by men whose life was story,
Stept in the heroic ways;
Wake, arise, be up and doing
Deeds more worthy of thy name,
Leave the helpless dreamers wooing
Shadows, that will burst in shame;
Forth let din of dockyard labour
Echo, to the farthest Crown,
Where the rifle and the sabre
Beat the fretting masses down;
Heave the hammer, grind the axes,
Ring the chimes on every tool
Better pay the dearest taxes
Twice, than be a tyrant's fool;
Politicians wise may prattle
Big of splendours dead and gone,
Trusting in the God of battle
Stay no longer, up and on;
Build the fleet, the men are standing
Idle, who for modest fees
Would make cruisers world-commanding—
If ye build upon your knees.

Out upon the coward faction,
Poisonous bane of party feud,
Selfish aim, and separate action
Ended but to be renewed!
Must we still stoop low, and stumble
Tamely, where our fathers trod
Never, and give cringing humble,
At a foreign master's nod?
Up, and off with meddling stranger!
Up, away with petty strife!
Up, and let a common danger
Rouse us o a common life!
Every step be one and steady,
Every creek an armed port,
Every man a soldier ready,
Every ship a floating fort;
Girdle with a wall of iron
England's honour far from ill,
While our prayers to Heaven environ,
As of old, these homesteads still;
Each a patriot in his station,
Staunch with freedom that is might,
Stand, as if on him the nation
Leant, and God defend the right.

THE SHOP GIRL.

Day after day, she wakes to plod
The one same weary round,
Sport of each idle whim or nod,
Within her prison bound;
A slave to petty tyrants, urged
Hither and thither still,
By folly's insults hourly scourged,
At fashion's wanton will;
No rose of pleasure wreathes the chain,
That curbs her cramping part,
But ever a dull growing pain
Eats into her sick heart.

Week after week, with listless hands
The hateful task she plies,
Behind the dismal counter stands,
Repeats the stale old lies;
Takes down the parcel from the shelf,
And puffs its varied store,
Then puts it up to curse herself,
Just as she did before;
Drags to and fro her aching feet,
Through the dark endless day,
Envies the harlot on the street,
Who yet goes freedom's way.

Month after month, she bears a load
That breaks the feeble back,
And writhes beneath the labour's goad,
Along her dreary track;
Assumes the winning word and smile,
A mirth she cannot know,
And polishes with pretty wile,
The dirty work below;
Renews the sordid cares in sleep,
The haggling without stop,
While rise as ghosts, that shrouded creep,
Grim shadows of the shop.

Year after year, she drudges on,
Fettered to iron strife,
Though health her only friend is gone,
And nothing left but life;
The same mean duties bringing yet
The pittance, sneer or frown,
The same sad burdens daily set,
That grind her lower down;
Till, stript of beauty, hope and strength,
Stooping to the first knave,
She drops a broken toy at length,
Damned, in a harlot's grave.

BEAUTIFUL MAIDEN.

Beautiful maiden, wonderful, fair
Not with the gifts that fleet,
Graces for ever sweet,
Voice that is soft as the evening air,
Queen by the right of thy crownéd hair,
Thee I with reverence greet;
Beauty of builded street
Bright with its storied front, and stair
Stately that steps to a monarch's chair,
Crimson of banner sheet,
Stars in a summer night that pair,
All in thy beauty meet.

Delicate maiden, dainty and pure,
Throned above common things,
Venom that stabs and stings,
Rich with the kindness that is cure
Ready for broken heart, and sure
Royalty not of kings;
Heaven about thee clings,
Strong to unmask the damnéd lure
Hid in the virtuous veil demure—
Heaven within thee sings;
What, that is evil, may endure
Waft of thy angel wings?

Exquisite maiden, cunningly wrought,
Not by a mortal hand,
Not for the petty band
Binding the slaves of petty thought,
Daily in market sold and bought,
Meant for a larger land;
Meet for some lofty strand,
Stretching away from battles fought
Here for a vulgar prize, but brought
Down to our sinking sand;
Sphered with an honour all unsought,
Stooping but to command.

Glorious maiden, steadfast, and still
Walking thy own sweet way,
Lit from the endless day,
Shining beyond the shadowy ill
Heaped as the thunder on the hill,
Hanging with sword to slay;
Nothing thy step can stay,
Nothing withstand thy words that thrill,
Throb, through the burning breasts they fill
Ever with hopes that pray;
Humble I bend to thy holy will,
Proud to accept thy sway.

THE CHILD INNOCENTS.

—12th June, 1889

A hundred children, full of life,
They left the busy town,
The dreary din, the stubborn strife,
And labour's iron frown;
A hundred corpses now they rest,
In horror stern and stark,
And on each little tender breast
Is many a cruel mark;
Now all is silence dark and deep,
That thrilled with gay intents,
For they shall never wake from sleep,
Those fair Child Innocents.

Out on that fatal Wednesday morn,
With bosoms tuned to play,
On wings of mirth and music borne,
They went their frolic way;
With songs and dancing feet they flew,
With quick rejoicing breath,
So eager for their pleasure new,
To find their playmate Death;
The shouts of laughter turn to shrieks,
Woe that for none relents,
That blasting ruin on them wreaks,
Those fair Child Innocents.

A tiny shoe, a tattered glove,
The fragments wildly shed
Of baby frocks, made bright by love,
Now grimly gashed and red;
Yes, here a hat with ghastly stains,
And there a broken toy
A mother's hand but idly strains,
Sole remnant of her boy;
And everywhere the signs of doom,
In dreadful rags and rents,
That gathers in its funeral gloom
Those fair Child Innocents.

Ah, shattered out of human shape,
That shelter none could shield,
Sweet forms too fragile to escape
That bloody battle-field;
Sweet trifles worn in girlish way,
The tress with ribbon crost—
Soft fingers stretched as though to pray,
And stiffened into frost;
And faces just for kisses wrought,
Made strange with murderous dents,
By hungry hopeless gaze are sought,
Those fair Child Innocents.

The father oped his eyes, at last,
To plead his darlings' fate,
And knew not ere his spirit past,
His pleading came too late;
The strong man looked upon the woe,
He saw the sufferers lie,
And with one great heart-tearing throe,
Himself lay down to die;
What had they done, to suffer more
Than fancy even invents,
Crushed out of gladness sick and sore,
Those fair Child Innocents?

O was it that the Master dear,
Who yet feels childhood's will,
Found very Heaven without them drear,
And needed playmates still?
And thus, through bitter pangs, the bud
That else might sadly fade,
Purged from its clinging earthly mud,
Was perfect blossom made?
We cannot know, we hope, at least,
By agony's ascents,
They fitted were for glorious feast,
Those fair Child Innocents.

The mangled body, torturing pain,
The terror shutting in,
None—not a single ache—was vain,
To save from future sin;
And He, who walked the fiery flames
Of old with martyred men,
Perchance held up those writhing frames,
And stood beside them then;
We cannot tell?—nay, we are sure
Calm every soul contents,
And they are happy now and pure,
Those fair Child Innocents.

GOD BLESS THE QUEEN.

God bless the Sovereign of His choice,
Who governs by His will,
Speak words of wisdom through her voice,
Her heart with greatness fill;
May she but in His reign rejoice,
And be His Servant still.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign He has blest,
Who holds His earthly place;
Give her from every evil rest,
To rule His favoured race;
That she may guide our country best,
Encompassed by His grace.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign, whom He set
High on our ancient throne,
Strong with the faith no troubles fret,
With love as corner stone;
And may it gather glory yet,
That shines from His alone.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign of His hand,
His heavenly Law to teach,
Which is the charter of our land,
Within the humblest reach;
To guard and counsel and command,
As He would govern each.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign tried and true,
Who serves as woman must;
Who for her people holds the due,
Received from Him as trust;
Who hath no shameful deed to rue,
No laurels laid in dust.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign on His seat,
That rises without stain;
On which the waves of evil beat,
But threaten all in vain;
Which is the sure and one retreat,
For every subject's pain.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign at His side,
Partaker of His power;
Her empire be no ebbing tide,
Its truth no fading flower,
But ever still more free and wide,
Divine as is its dower.
God bless the Queen.

God bless the Sovereign proved so long,
In nothing found to lack;
May suffering she has turned to song,
Give to her blessing back;
And love, that makes her sceptre strong,
Light all her future track.
God bless the Queen.

CLARA.

Others may be fairer, moulded
In accordance with high art,
Prim with graces frank, or folded
Shyly, in each studied part;
Others may be coldly wiser,
Saying just the proper thing,
Calculating, as a miser
Tests his money by its ring;
Others may be better, given
More to pious turns and tone,
Passing not a day unshriven—
But my Clara stands alone.

Not for one brief moment steady,
Even in frolic or at food,
Always for the changes ready,
Never in a settled mood;
Shifting, like a shifting curtain,
Which at any time may fall,
Sweet, unstable, and uncertain,
She is loveable in all;
Now in some bright way surprising,
Now with trouble of a tear,
Ever true, if tantalizing—
Who as Clara is so dear?

Sometimes the big eyes will soften
Sadly, with a cloud of dew,
Sympathizing, and as often
Harden mischief to renew;
Then again the maiden blossom
Wilful grows, to cut and carp,
Piercing through my very bosom,
For the rose's thorns are sharp;
Ah, she wounds me, hurts me, never
Lets my love remain at rest,
Mocks the pains of my endeavour—
Yet I love my Clara best.

When I dream at last the distance
Traversed is, and won her heart,
Gone the grief of long resistance,
She is miles and miles apart;
When she seems most surely yielding
Now, to months of faithful love,
Fain to wrap her in its shielding,
Up she soars a star above;
All that man may give I offer,
All to gain her woman's will,
Though for nothing, to a scoffer—
But she is my Clara still.

ASK ETERNITY.

How I loved her, words can never tell—
Words that are no measure of the love,
Deeper than the lowest depths of hell,
Higher than the greatest heights above;
Words are but the shadows, cold and dim,
Of the fearful joyous thoughts that lie,
Far as planets, and as mighty swim
On eternally, and may not die,
From one infinite, past human sight,
To another, in an endless day,—
How I loved, with more than earthly might,
Words can never say.

Ah, I loved her, but no tender sign
Dropt she of the faintest love in turn,
Not one little word nor look benign,
Though the hidden fires might beat and burn;
Yet she tost aside her scornful head,
Face on which in wondrous ebb and flow
Flushed the colour, like the morning spread
Soft on summit fair of virgin snow;
How I loved her, with what patience still
Bore in silence the consuming pain,
Heart of fire, to conquer that proud will,
Words will speak in vain.

Ah, I loved her, ministered as slave
Gladly to each idle whim, and bent
Every aim to her who nothing gave
Simply on her services intent;
Though she laughed at my devotion, proved
Daily by her, and still daily found
Faithful, and as she in beauty moved
Trampled what I offered on the ground;
How I loved her, how she flouted all,
Such allegiance tried as tested gold,
Yet expected me to come at call—
Words may not unfold.

Then misfortune seized me, and I fell
Low and lower in despair like night,
Tolling hourly, as the mourner's bell,
While my treasures one by one took flight;
Then she softened, smiled on me, and held
Forth the glowing clasp of kindly hands,
And the pity sweet in her that swelled,
Broke the iron of my prison bands;
How she loved, as only woman can,
Though the other friends went falsely by,
Think not may be breathed by mortal man—
Ask eternity.

MY PICTURE.

Once a sculptor, in a fabric solemn,
Wrought bright cherub figures here and there,
Covered each fair cornice and white column
With his mighty art, flashed everywhere—
Waving wings or outstretched arms, and scattered
Flowers and fruits and leaves, in lovely strife
Which should fairest be, and even flattered
Dumb dead marble into breathing life;
But he carved, away from eye of scorner,
With that genius which could quicken stone,
One sweet angel face, in secret corner,
For his eye alone.

Long at this he toiled, on this he lavished
All the wealth of all his heavenly art,
Beauty that the earth and sky had ravished,
Pouring into it his very heart;
Yet aside from the parade and riches,
Spent upon the calm cathedral space,
Soft serene Madonnas, saints in niches,
Claspt beseeching hands and open grace;
In that quiet nook, unseen its story,
Far apart, as on a starry throne,
Thus he set that one sweet angel glory,
For his eye alone.

So I have a sacred separate treasure,
Still unknown to men who know not love,
One outside the range of mortal measure,
And the reach of common rules above;
Just a portrait, painted not for others,
Who at lesser works may carp and stare,
None of such are hidden from my brothers,
But in this they may not ever share;
Here it is, exposed to no cheap stricture,
Done in dainty lines and tender tone,
One sweet bright and more than angel picture,
For my eye alone.

Ah, the rapture of those eyes adoring,
Upward turned as to their native stars,
Holding commune with their God, imploring
Blest deliverance from our earthly bars;
Delicate ripe lips, so pure and parted
Red, some royal ministry to ask,
Moved as though the message just had started
Forth, upon its great and glorious task;
Queenly maiden, with the face averted
Shyly, as if Heaven upon it shone,
Yet it had not human ties deserted—
For my eye alone.

A BLEEDING BREAST.

Her garb is humble, and the stain
Of labour on her hand,
Yet speaks not of the silent pain,
Nor of the inward brand,
Which, in this crowded land,
Condemns her sternly to the chain,
A lonely prisoner, who in vain
Struggles to break her band;
While through her dark disordered brain
Come, not at her command,
The ghosts of fear she fancied slain,
Ghosts she cannot withstand.

Unheeded in that busy throng,
Unhonoured by the glance,
Which only courts the fair and strong
Carried to feast or dance,
The victim she of chance
Is driven to and fro, by wrong
Scourging her with its cruel thong,
And piercing with its lance;
For her no waft of soothing song,
But eyes that frown askance,
With weakness trailing shadows long,
And want that's no romance.

Ah, who shall read the hidden thought,
That tortures her, and sends
Its pangs of poison in her wrought,
And every fibre rends,
Till all her being bends?
What hand can give the solace sought,
When hourly some new grief is brought,
That life-blood spills and spends,
To leave the wearied spirit nought
But blank despair, that blends
With the old struggle idly fought,
Its blasted hopes and ends?

The sunlight comes, the sunlight goes,
But not the cruel guest,
The wakeful burden of her woes,
The secret rankling pest,
Like inquisition's quest,
Which shakes her as with earthquake throes,
And shuts her in like icy floes;
Though soft is others' nest,
And ladies pass with dainty toes,
Yet she may never rest,
With all her nature turned to foes,
Who bears a bleeding breast.

IN HONOREM —10 March, 1888.

Sphered above us, yet no strangers
Deaf to lowly name or need,
One with us in doubts and dangers,
One in every noble deed;
Prince and Princess true, and living
Fondly in the hearts of all,
Ever of your utmost giving
Gladly, at our country's call;
You to-day we crown with praises,
Babies' lisping, manhood's tone—
Crown with reverent love, that raises
Higher than an earthly throne.

Loved and loving, by affection
Ruling as we dare not ask,
Still devising new direction,
Good for mercy's glorious task;
Dear to each, by sorrow sifted,
Years to five and twenty told,
Tried and only more uplifted,
Shining out in purer gold;
You, who with no thought of swerving,
Truly chose for us to bow,
Royallest when freely serving,
We delight to honour now.

Trusted by the land, and trusting
That alike, and petty pride
Far away, with evil thrusting,
Us to gather at your side;
In each other and the nation
Blest, and skilled with equal hand
How to mingle ministration
With the habit of command;
Lines of peace have ye selected,
Less the eagle than the dove,
Not by bayonets protected,
But with loyalty and love.

Yours be every boon and blessing,
All that honours, all that charms,
Children's love, the grand caressing
Only in a country's arms;
Years of happiness, the beauty
None but God himself can send,
Bloom upon your path of duty
Brightly, to the brighter end;
You, whom threatens no Cassandra,
Greet our millions with one voice,
Albert Edward, Alexandra,
Wedded to a people's choice.

ALEXANDRA.

Yes, we love her, we are loyal
Each to Alexandra's fame,
Since with breast so true and royal
She to conquer England came;
Came, in trust her sole protection,
Strong to play a noble part,
Bringing fetters of affection,
Bonds for every willing heart;
Came, the child of ocean rangers
Who had plundered oft our shore,
Came and saw and conquered strangers,
None had conquered thus before.

Ah, she let no icy distance
Yawn between us and love's throne,
Ready still to yield assistance
Wanted, not to rule alone;
Drew us in fair woman's fashion,
Ministering grandly thus,
Close to her in large compassion,
She who rules by serving us;
Queenly, yet with modest carriage
Showing, where the poor man plods,
Heaven itself has made her marriage,
Sent a daughter of the gods.

Yet she moves, and takes her pleasure
Only in her subjects' need,
Shares with them her time and treasure,
Stoops to them in tender deed;
Fills with royal ease a station,
Rank may hold and never fill,
Worthy of her, and the nation
Dear alike in good and ill;
Yet she lives among us, going
In and out, as others crave,
Seeds of human kindness sowing,
Glad to be our sceptred slave.

When did truer, sweeter woman
Over people rule so well,
Rich in all the graces human,
Wrought into one radiant spell?
Where the lady Nature gifted,
Earth endowed with wealth or crown,
Who herself so high has lifted,
Just by stepping greatly down?
Like our own Princess, whose beauty
Lets the love within her shine
Out, and, doing but her duty,
Rules our hearts by right divine?

UNDER HIS WINGS.

Pretty were they, playful kittens
Once, though very soon they fared
Worse than those that lost their mittens—
Creatures for which no one cared;
Yes, alas, their loving mother
Left them, and perhaps she died—
Who can tell?—and now no other
Tenderly about them plied;
Off she went one summer morning,
Hunting after milk or mice—
Off for ever, without warning,
Or a word of good advice.

Hopeless then they lay, and huddled
Close together from the cold—
Ah, no longer softy cuddled,
In their gentle parent's hold;
Lay, as shades began to darken
Surely round, and wondered why
Straining ears should vainly hearken,
And no purring make reply;
Lay in silence there and trembled,
Sick as hours dragged slowly on,
Faint while ghostly sounds assembled,
Troubled for the guardian gone.

Then there came a friend, a stranger
Lonely kittens never knew,
Saw the sadness of their danger,
When they hardly dared to mew;
Just a hen, which had no chickens,
Though she felt the mother's heart,
That for helpless babies quickens,
And would play a mother's part;
Came with one desire, to cherish
Pets, that needed warmth and rest—
Pets that but for her might perish—
Took them to her feathered breast.

Wonderful her love, but vaster
His who suffered for our woes,
Ministered to us though Master,
Lived for blessing to His foes;
Wonderful her love, but story
Cannot measure his who laid
All aside His robes of glory,
Us to clothe with heavenly aid;
Wonderful her love, but stranger
His, who makes of beggars kings,
Shared our weakness in His manger
Gathers all beneath His wings.

APRIL SKIES.

Her eyes said yes, her lips said no,
And it was April weather;
Her heart went quick, her feet went slow,
And still they moved together.

She would, and yet she would not, take
The hand to her extended;
She could, and yet she could not, make
Believe herself offended.

And now she deemed him very dear,
Even hoped they might be mated;
But then she found him much too near,
And felt quite sure she hated.

And now she whispered low “I will,”
But then “I wont” she faltered,
And never in one mood was still,
And with the skies she altered.

And next she bade a long adieu,
And would draw down the curtain,
Then did the greeting old renew,
Consistently uncertain.

She called him rude, she thought him kind
And longed to be his blessing,
But never seemed to know her mind,
And shrank from his caressing.

She vowed he should not touch her lips,
Although her looks invited;
But she enjoyed the honeyed sips,
When once they were united.

She pushed him back and wished him nigh,
Then broke the tender traces,
But to recall him with a sigh,
And sink in his embraces.

What could she say? What should she do?
To let him go, were sinning;
While she was beautiful to woo,
And womanly for winning.

She wishes they had never met,
Detests his hounds and horses,
But loves to suck his cigarette,
And envies folks' divorces.

And still they quarrel and make friends,
When it is April weather,
Have different ways but common ends,
And hearts that beat together.

She fights against the golden band,
That yet she would not sever,
And hand in hand through Fairyland,
They courting go for ever.

BROWN BEAUTY.

She has striven with many a gallant steed,
And your children stroked Brown Beauty,
She was ever a faithful friend in need,
And she failed not once in duty;
Now the light from her liquid eye is fled.
And her step has lost its glory,
Must she die, and no tender tear be shed
For the fallen favourite's story?
Though she shone in a hundred famous fields,
And has princes known as backers,
Now the strength that was long unbeaten yields,
Must she go to the bloody knacker's?

She has carried your colours to the post,
When the odds were not in favour—
On the hardest course that tried her most,
Did you know Brown Beauty waver?
Ah, she never stumbled in her stride,
If the pace was hot and killing—
With the rush of her victorious pride,
She was always true and willing;
But now age has opprest her with its load,
Though you loved her as a daughter,
Must she limp down that dark familiar road,
With the rest, to the yard of slaughter:

She has brought the money for your hand,
And the prizes to your stable—
Oh, she answered quick your least command,
And you fed her from your table;
And she needed not the spur and whip,
If you showed just the direction,
And she let no rival past her slip,
For she served you from affection;
Though the fairest would her triumph cheer,
And her neck with roses fillet,
Must the kennels end her grand career,
And a bullet be her billet?

She has borne the burden of the strife,
All unwearied to the ending,
And has given you all—her very life,
In the fire of fierce contending;
For she only asked to be your slave,
In the majesty of motion—

Will you now requite her with the grave,
For the long sublime devotion?
Shall she pass from the flowers and festive arch,
From the petting and the plaudit,
In no conqueror's worthy funeral march,
To the shambles' final audit?

KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY.

They say we are far from ready,
With our shaky “thin red line,”
And our ships are only steady,
When the weather-glass is fine;
And we have no proper stations,
That our commerce wide can shield,
For the coal and renovations,
Should a foeman take the field;
Aye, our coats may get a dusting,
Though we are not going to cry,
But in Providence while trusting,
We will keep our powder dry.

They say we have not a notion,
How defenceless is our plight,
And we cannot put in motion
Just one army corps for fight;
And in spite of Derby courses,
If for accidents we count,
We are lacking in the horses
Half our cavalry to mount;
Well, if bayonets come thrusting,
Still our fortune we must try,
Put in Providence our trusting,
While we keep our powder dry.

They say all our party pleaders,
With their country's honour play,
And we now have not the leaders,
Who can soldiers guide the way;
And our officers though willing,
Have no worthy ordeal stood,
And want numbers and the drilling,
That would make them any good;
Well, if some things need adjusting,
We shall never need to fly,
But in Providence while trusting,
We will keep our powder dry.

They say, we are bad in shooting,
And may soon their bullets feel,
But with all their talk and tooting,
We will answer with cold steel;

Ah, and if to blows they settle,
As in other times they came,
When we proudly proved our mettle,
Two can always try that game;
And our swords are not for rusting,
We will conquer or can die,
And in Providence go trusting,
While we keep our powder dry.

OUR SISTER.

Fair the Island, crowned with splendour,
Home of heroes and the bard,
Where the hearts are true and tender,
And but their religion hard;
Set in silver, like a jewel
Bright, which hand Almighty paints,
Now defaced by blotting cruel,
Though the Island once of saints;
Erin is it, and she reaches
Fond to us her fettered hands,
For the Book which mercy teaches,
Which alone can break her bands.

And to us she sadly beckons,
Out of bondage and the night,
For the help on which she reckons,
Just to give the needed light;
Just to show her, with the danger
Born from hopelessness of sin,
What a welcome even the stranger,
Trusting, still from Christ may win;
Just to keep her steps from stumbling
Longer, and to shield from harms,
Guiding, through the wholesome humbling
Safe into the Saviour's arms.

Liberty she asks, to study
Truth, at present all unread,
Not from streamlets mean and muddy,
But the glorious fountain head;
Liberty for higher learning,
Earth itself may never give—
Earth that cannot slake the yearning,
Wakened by it, how to live;
When the kindling word is spoken,
Strong to flash the sunlight sweet,
Till with priestcraft's barrier broken,
Sinners and their Saviour meet.

Yes, she wants the world-wide Charter,
Written large in sacred lines,
Birthright that her priests would barter,
For tradition that confines;
Title-deeds, that make a nation
Beautiful and rich and strong,
Blessed yoke of free salvation,
Not self-government in wrong;
Till the Gospel, pure and holy,
Brings them in the better yule,
Born again to service lowly,
Resting but in Christ's “Home Rule.”

ERIN MA CUSHLA.

Once their life was crowned with blessing
Girded with the fairest powers,
Moved to music, and caressing
Fragrance of the sweetest flowers;
Once the sunshine on them lavished
All its light, the very cloud
Added to their gifts, that ravished
Every heart with beauty proud;
Once, as Queens who do no wronging,
Ruled they with belovéd sway,
Troops of subjects round them thronging
Only yesterday.

Now, where reeks the fetid puddle,
Thrust in dens and byeways lone
Wretchedly they hide and huddle,
Starving, on the clammy stone;
Now they mate with tramps, the sweeping
Vile of gutter and the jails,
Mingle mouldy bread with weeping,
Chained to work that only fails;
Now survives no single token,
Ray of former place and pride,
And discrowned, with sceptre broken,
Yet they Queens abide.

Once the fragile form, that winces
Shy at shame before not known,
Honoured by great peers and princes,
With the highest held its own;
Once the world, with all its pleasures,
Seemed a captive in their arms,
Gold and jewels poured out treasures,
Vying to enhance their charms;

Once their lightest mood or motion,
Even the pebble on the way,
Stirred the dullest to devotion—
Only yesterday.

Now with riches gone, and lonely
Laid, of rank and homage reft,
Fainting still they struggle, only
Their unconquered spirit left;
Now they wear no gems, but staining
Glorious from their servile lot,
Own no wealth but prayer and paining,
While they toil and murmur not;
Now the noble hearts are loyal
Unto duty, though they lie
Lowly, and their life is royal—
Shall they helpless die?

ERIN MAVOURNEEN.

Women, used to women's portion,
Walking in a world of grace,
Meant not for the grim distortion,
Rags and dirt, of beggars' place;
Made not for the iron rounding,
Want, that is an arméd host,
Blasts of rude contention, hounding
Weakness from its troubled post;
Now they clutch, with crampéd fingers
Weary, at the drudge's part,
What must memory be, that lingers
Just to stab the woman's heart?

Ladies, with each treasure gifted
Once, and delicately bred
Long, when fortune smiled, and lifted
High the pure patrician head;
Born to bless a lofty station,
Raised in luxury and rank,
Pride and glory of a nation,
Ere they through no error sank;
Now they herd with thieves, and borrow
Paupers' payment for the strife,
What must be their cruel sorrow,
Eating out the sap of life?

What if late their lot was shielded
Tenderly from touch of storm,
High and low with gladness yielded
Homage to the dainty form?

What if yesterday the petting,
Which is still sweet woman's right,
Strewed with flowers their path, besetting
All their duties with delight?
What if hands untrained to toiling,
Hands that no assistance ask,
Grandly take the noble soiling,
Earned by the ignoble task?

Sadly they at service humble
Work, and caged in cellar's gloom
Starve with outcasts, as they stumble
Feebly downward to their doom;
Old and helpless, in the straining
Struggle to which never reared,
Yet they battle uncomplaining,
Nothing but dishonour feared;
Shall we now refuse to cherish
Sisters, who deserve not blame,
Leave them thus to pine and perish,
But a witness to our shame?

LOYAL IRELAND.

Comrades were we tried in dangers,
Under Arctic skies and blue,
Not when bugle sounded strangers,
Not where bullets sang untrue;
Trouble only made us bolder,
Tost about by wind and wave,
Fought we shoulder unto shoulder,
Fell in one red soldier's grave;
Forward conquering sent us Duty,
Breathing one undaunted vow,
Scars bequeathe us the same beauty,—
Why disown true Ireland now?

When the bloody fray was ended,
Halting by the same camp fire,
We each other's wants have tended,
One in all things our desire;
Bound each other's wounds, and brightly
Sinking hearts with hope raised up,
Borne each other's burdens lightly,
Shared a common plate and cup;
Still to feast and fight we started,
With the same rejoicing brow,
Nothing then our friendship parted;—
Why forget true Ireland now?

Stirring times and stormy weather
Known have we, upon the flood,
Famous fields, we rode together,
Poured alike our brother blood;
One alone our glorious quarrel,
Filled by common martial thirst,
Which should win the fairest laurel,
Which the enemy strike first;
One our fear—the foe's retreating,
Ere attack, we cared not how,
We who recked of no defeating;—
Why betray true Ireland now?

Ah, these lives have shone out loyal,
Oft in England's utter need,
Oft again at bidding Royal,
Gladly would our Ireland bleed;
Now when men are nigh to perish,
Stript of every store but trust,
Now will honour fail to cherish
Comrades, proved so brave and just?
Men whose one sin is obedience,
Love of law whereto they bow,—
Must they starve for mere expedience?
Why desert true Ireland now?

THE NORTH EASTER.

Ho, hurrah for England's grim North-easter,
Hissing, howling from the Northern night,
Shouting onward like some battle feaster,
Fallen on the enemy in flight;
Dancing gaily to the banquet, drunken
With the fiery wine of fearless joy,
Shaking to new life the leaflet shrunken,
Stern to make the stoutest tree its toy;
Singing lusty strains of martial glory,
Strains that flower in gallant deeds at length,
Blasts that tell of England's ancient story,
Blasts that breathe in her unconquered strength;
Passionate, as madman from his prison
Bursting, when he knows his time is short,
Scattering brands that burn, in fury risen
Headlong to the ruin of his sport.

Ho, hurrah for the North easter, blowing
English navies on tempestuous flood,
With artillery of hail, and flowing
Fierce as flame into our English blood;
Hurling snow before it, as a banner
Waved to victory in van of fight,
Moulding in us the imperial manner,
Force supreme from its unmeasured might;
Shaping us with its own sturdy nature,
Will that never bows nor can retreat,
Fashioning from its grand legislature,
Hearts heroic that despise defeat;
Forging unto vaster use, the iron
Sword of character that rules the lands,
Out of frost and storm that us environ,
Tost and hardened by its awful hands.

Ho, hurrah for the North-easter, rushing
Forth to havoc on resistless track,
Stay to English breasts of steel, and crushing
Down the knave and driving foemen back;
Life to stalwart frame of honest toiler,
Nursed and dandled in its icy arms,
Death to onset of insulting spoiler,
Strangled in its grip before he harms;
Health to all who love the fray, the nation
Schooled in piercing cold and angry gust,
Buffeted by bitter education,
Wrought to rugged manhood brave and just;
Trammeled by no weakening pulse of pity,
Wasted on the fool that feebly frets,
Better than the walls of fleet or city,
Better-than ten thousand bayonets.

Ho, hurrah for the North-easter, heaping
Chains alone upon the coward slave,
Armed as Liberty's bright spirit, leaping
Up in grandeur from its winter grave;
Laden with the scent of Arctic ocean,
Wrung from regions terrible and dark,
Beating in us the wild love of motion,
Leaving every land its lordly mark;
Blessing, cursing now—now laughing, weeping,
In the riot of its giant life,
Striking down with dreadful stabs, and sleeping
Only to awake in madder strife;
Robed in whirlwind rage and shadow, making
Deeper spread its roots our old oak tree,
Crowning those that breathe it kings, and shaking
England into glory great and free.

COWARD'S CASTLE.

Snug behind his towers and trenches,
Hid the robber chief of old,
Fat with spoil of flocks and wenches,
Torn from helpless farm and fold;
Curtained in his secret study,
Skulks at ease the robber now,
Known but by the footstep muddy,
Dirty hand and broken vow;
Revels in his paid impurity,
Truth defamed and falsehood's hint,
Daily from his safe obscurity,
Death distilling cheap in print.

Lurks anonymous the coward,
Sheltered by the Press with bars,
Shoots alike at Hodge and Howard,
Reckless whom his arrow scars;
If he can but sow confusion,
Steal the cripple's only crutch;
Fool some dupe with fond delusion,
Leave a nasty smell or smutch;
If he may behind his journal,
Throw in neighbours' ricks a spark,
Sneer at precious facts eternal,
Stab a brother in the dark.

Ah, the knave, with evil unity
But in blots of poisoned pen,
Vents, beneath his veil's impurity,
Equal hate on God and men;
Strikes at every institution,
Hallowed by the love of years,
Leads a Church to execution—
Tempered with assassins' tears;
Draws bad bills upon futurity,
Others' wealth to labour doles,
Huddled in the rat's security,
Squirming from convenient holes.

Writers, to make sixpence from it,
Give the soul to endless fire—
Dogs returning to their vomit,
Swine that wallow in the mire;
Cheat the blind man in his trusting,
While they grant the swindler sway,
Yet for some new mischief lusting—
Worms that riot in decay;
Just to make a week's sensation;
Splash the Throne with traitor's ink,
Kill a lady's reputation,
Sell an empire for a drink.

WRIT IN WATER.

Shadowed with a mother's love,
Shielded by a father's caring,
Straight and strong she grew, above
Storms for weaker plants unsparing;
Jessica her name, the brow
Beautiful with light, and tender
Glowed as with a sacred vow
Eyes, that made her God Defender;
Child was she of many tears,
Each one's darling, England's daughter,
But her little life of fears
Writ in water.

Early died her parents, loath
Jessica to leave deserted,
Binding one to her by oath,
Trust that scarce could be perverted;
Prayers of hope before they trod
Sad the last dim pathway, breathing—
Her to England and her God,
Lone in orphanhood, bequeathing;
Charge of all with kindly hearts,
All who gave a thought to others,
Chose to play a Christian part,
Lived as brothers.

Jessica had pretty ways,
Dainty plumage as a pigeon
Shining in the morning rays,
Grace despised not by religion;
Piety was mocked, to win
Ignorance into the halter,
Flashed as flowers above the sin,
Lurking even behind the altar;
Yea, her guardian with his hands,
Wove the web of veiled temptation,
Spread around her silken bands,
His damnation.

Hospitality was slain,
Only that she might be humbled,
Only to entrap and chain
Feet, that never strayed nor stumbled;
Drugged she darkly fell, betrayed
By the coward, who should rather
Her's by his death have delayed,
Sworn to be a second father;
Thus was she enticed to shame,
Led a trusting lamb to slaughter
Innocent, and thus her name
Writ in water.

BUILT ON SAND.

Garda's mother, where the fountains
Flash beyond the ocean's flood,
Lived in lands of lakes and mountains—
Garda had Norwegian blood;
Came her mother, seeking better
Earnings from a friendly shore,
Fell into the flowery fetter,
Whence the victims rise no more;
Left no fortune but a blessing
To the daughter, whom her brand
Marked, nor home but hope's caressing
Built on sand.

Garda grew up somehow, taken
Here and there, while storms withstood,
Tost and tumbled on, and shaken
Sharply into maidenhood;
Fair and tall, with tresses yellow
Rippling round her head, and graced
With a form that had no fellow,
Trust that all alike embraced;
Struggling heavenward, in her story
Pinched and blighted from the first,
Bravely, for the brighter glory
Still athirst.

All against her seemed, no pity
Lightened on each tender bud
Straining higher, from the City
Dark with its defiling mud;
Everything turned hostile, corners
Wounded her with cruel fangs,
Struck her posts, and scowl of scorners
Pierced her worse with secret pangs;
All against her set conspiring,
Gave her bitter touch or tones,
Leagued to mock her least desiring,
Stocks and stones.

Nothing prospered, save her beauty
Yet assuming richer gloom,
Shining from the shadowed duty
Done, as flowers unfold in gloom;
Earth looked dim, and Heaven more dreary
Frowned upon the trembling shoot,
Shut from happier worlds, and weary
Climbing though with starvéd root;
Till, when wandering lost and lonely
Death the angel by the hand
Took her, since her life was only
Built on sand.

WORK! 1888.

Theorist, and bat-like student
Blinking feebly in the light,
Bid us nothing do imprudent,
Till this cursed mess comes right;
Aye, the antiquated scholar,
Smacking of his musty books,
Smirking through his classic collar,
But at things behind him looks;
All, in spite of trade dejection,
Think that we can only wait,
Swear the Devil is Protection,
Which will never put us straight;
Tell us we must humbly linger,
Rotting on our beds of straw,
Dare not even uplift a finger,
Doubting science and its law;
Boasting of their sole solution,
One for every strife and storm,
Quack receipt of evolution,
Which will yet the world reform;
Fools in phrases take enjoyment,
Party cant and cries be damned!
Soon on us, with no employment,
Will the Workhouse door be slammed.

All are now for forms and phrases,
Not the measures that assist,
Wandering through the fancy phases
Of the last mad theorist;
No one cares, if Truth and Honor
Die, and harlot falsehoods live,
But for any sham Madonna
Dives will his thousands give;
No one cares, while rogues are carving
Fortunes from the bleeding State,
If the honest men go starving,
Only have an empty plate;
No one cares, though some new notion
Bought with sacrifice immense,
Framed to furnish knaves promoting
Is worked out at our expense;
All are for the loaves and fishes,
Want their pile a little more,
Scraping, scraping dirty dishes,
That were scraped, and scraped before;
Is it duty to your neighbour
Asking bread to cut him short?
Give us just the rights of labour,
Ways and means of man's support.

Partisans must live, and prating
Politicians too will lie,
Though while they are still debating
Workers drop and hourly die;
Parliament each small division
Must effect, while we lack bread,
And the Queen's grand Opposition
Will not even inter our dead;
Yes, this great and glorious nation
Spends its precious hours in sport,
Splitting hairs in speculation,
On a rumour or report;
Something must be said, if only
Sounding breath an ass might bray,
While we languish sad and lonely,
Mocked by Government at play;
Something must be done, no matter
How contemptible and small,
Though beneath the cloud and clatter,
Needy servants faint and fall;
Time they make for any trifles,
If providing rich men spoil,
Murderous bayonets and rifles,
Not for simple men who toil.

Must we wait, while sots are dining
Who would grudge the very crumbs,
Till our pedants cease refining,
Only for the downturned thumbs?
Wait, for better days to nourish
Us, who feel the present pang,
Hoping trade again may flourish,
Though mean while we rot or hang?
Wait, perchance, till corn is dearer,
Genteel loafers learn to farm,
Fools their paradise bring nearer,
While its cunning leaves our arm?
Wait—when we no more can borrow
Bread, long wasted so by some,—
Blindly, for the brighter morrow,
Which will never never come?
Wait, though the black tide is flowing,
Fierce to carry us away,
While the promised food is growing,
And we famish with delay?
Give us not more words, when treasures
Countless lie in game-run lands,
Ill it is to mock with measures
Hungry men with idle hands.

Out upon the empty crazes,
Shibboleths of party tricks,
Dragging labour into mazes,
Where it only starves and sticks!
Out upon the wretched riddle,
Toyed by either side in turn,
Only that a few may fiddle,
While the many victims burn!
Out upon the greed of Mammon,
Capital that seeks afar
Interest, and us with gammon
Dares from proper rights debar!
Out upon the senile mumbling,
Oracles with lying lip,
Ministries that through their fumbling
Fingers let good fortune slip!
Out upon the statesmen, merely
Patriotic when it pays,
True for place, and so severely
Just in profitable ways!
Will your readjusting level,
Furnish food and speed the spade?
If Protection is the Devil,
What the Devil is Free Trade?

Change of front is no solution,
Fit for problem grave—you shout—
Ruinous—but Revolution,
Very soon will come without;
Idle hands are worse than stranger
Thirsting for a nation's blood—
Still they loom a standing danger,
Ready to burst forth in flood;
Idle brains, for which no Cupid
Now gives pleasure, yet will plot
Rulers' end, too rich and stupid
To perceive their fated lot;
Empty mouths, with children crying
Sorely, vainly to be fed,
Tamely will not stoop to dying,
Nor take pavement stones for bread;
Aching hearts, with outraged feelings,
Righteous pleas rejected long,
Passionate from hopeless kneelings,
Fly to arms for slighted wrong;
Is there now no room for others,
In unsetting England's day?
Ah, remember we are brothers,
Work alone is what we pray.

NATIONAL HYMN.

God bless His chosen one,
With all the riches in His store;
By her be blest each loyal son,
Each maid that loves as maids before;
Through her His battles yet be won,
And truth be purged to precious ore;
In her His heavenly will be done,
Now and for evermore.
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant's crown,
And hold her ministering hand,
To stem the storms that tyrants drown,
And break the helpless captive's band;
To guard our England's old renown,
Which makes the meanest subject grand;
And may she pass it fairer down,
Unto a fairer land.
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant's throne,
Which He who founded fosters yet;
Built not of perishable stone,
Nor even as suns that rise and set;
Which love hath fenced, that ever shone,
Not breath of fire nor bayonet;
Established on His Word alone,
Which she doth not forget;
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant's ways,
And give His glory to her halls,
To light the ignorant foot that strays,
And lift the weary frame that falls;
To turn dark hours to summer days,
While hope and worship are our walls,
With faith that every evil slays,
When duty arms and calls;
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant's might,
That it may scorn a vain pretence,
And ever ward with one delight
The wealthy's gold, the poor man's pence;
May it be with His favour bright,
And she His champion sworn, and thence
Defender of the good and right,
Strong in His high defence
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant's trust,
As founts that overflow their brim,
Who raiseth peoples from the dust,
And turns the noontide splendour dim;
That she may draw for service just,
And not in passion, not from whim,
The sword which never gathers rust,
Which sacred is to Him.
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant still,
Make her imperial realm as sure
As is the everlasting hill,
Like ocean wide, like heaven secure;
Shield her and hers from every ill,
Keep brave her sons, her daughters pure;
That one with His unerring Will,
We may in Him endure.
God bless the Queen!

God bless His Servant true,
With olive twine her royal rod;
And let her sky be always blue,
Green alway her earth's every sod;
His honour be the only clue,
To guide her as our fathers trod,
Along the road that is His due.
Amen: so help her God.
God bless the Queen!

THE FEAST OF SCIENCE.

It is God's own light, that through the room
Gleams, in the curtained space—
Gleams with its heavenly grace,
Upon early manhood's glorious bloom,
And the furrowed lines and reverend gloom
Of the philosophic face;
They have found for Science place,
At the crumbling threshold of the tomb,
With the daring that its trace
Has left in the land where spectres loom,
And has knocked at the very door of doom,
Nor recoiled from death's embrace.

It is God's own patience, whence they draw
The contempt that sports with pain,
And as garment wears the stain,
In the wild pursuit of blood-bought law,

From the quivering of the mangled paw,
From the oped and carven brain,
And the horrors, all their gain,
Of the living things that rent and raw
In their anguish fondly strain,
And beneath the probe and grinding saw,
Must reveal how long without a flaw,
The old love will yet remain.

It is God's own earth whereon they tread,
And His breath inspires the skill,
Which they dare abuse for ill,
While they bruise and break the throbbing thread
Of the precious life, and not for bread,
But at fancy's wanton will;
And His breath sustains it still,
Which has given such cunning to the head,
That delights alone to kill;
And the ghastly board is gaily spread,
For the festival but of the dead,
And the ruddy wine to spill.

It is God's own creature, witness grand
To the wisdom they would try
In their littleness to spy,
With the damnèd knives that bite and brand,
As the writhing victim frets its band,
And escapes a piteous cry
From the tortures it would fly,
That are done and done in a Christian land,
While the priest steps careless by,
And the women even admiring stand;
Lo, it licks the butcher's bloody hand,
In its helpless agony.

It is God's own message kind and just,
And the covenant not bound,
By the breast of mercy found,
That they trample low as if the dust,
In the scorn of their never-sated lust,
While the idle laugh goes round,
And the jests that jarring sound,
At the lolling tongue for pity thrust
In vain from the fetters wound,
And the loyal eyes that labour must;
They are murdering love's devoted trust,
And defiling holy ground.

It is God's own Truth they madly slight,
As behind their coward walls,
And in Learning's crimsoned halls,
Against faith and God Himself they fight,

Over Science cast a hideous blight
By research, that Nature galls,
And the heart of freedom palls;
And that stern forbidding shaft of light,
As of God's own finger falls,
On the outraged majesty of right,
With the menace of condemning might,
And the crime to judgment calls.

WHITE WINGS AND BLUE BREASTS.

White wings against the sky,
Blue breasts upon the cloud,
Ever through childhood's world they fly,
Bright in their beauty soft and proud;
Gladly their plumage gleams,
Over the meadows fair,
Over the forests wild and streams,
Free of the boundless earth and air,
Dainty and sweet,
Restless and fleet,
Borne on the breath of the morning wind,
Leaving the lands behind.

Blue breasts upon the cloud,
White wings against the sky,
Calm when the tempest wrangles loud,
Homeward their certain course they ply;
Bringing the olive branch,
Yet in their tender beak,
Bearing a precious balm, to stanch
Wounds that the tempest yet would wreak;
Comforting still
Waywardest will,
Pointing to peace for the battered ark
Drifting alone and dark.

Bruised wings against the sky,
Red breasts upon the cloud,
Fainting for some escape they try,
Blinded and stricken, starved and cow'd;
Blood flowing fast and sore,
Blood from the leaden hail,
Beating as waves that on the shore,
Hurry a torn and tattered sail;
Thirsty and sick,
Sobs coming quick,
O how they struggle and writhe with pain,
Seek for a resting-place in vain!

Cold breasts beneath the cloud,
Crushed wings below the sky,
Low on the grasses that enshroud,
Never again to utter cry;
Never between the heaven and earth,
Treading the steps the angels trod,
Carrying joy to woe and dearth,
Ministers sent to man by God;
Tumbled and tost,
Lonely and lost,
Huddled in feathered heaps of gore,
Never to call or flutter more.

OUR FEATHERED DARLINGS.

They have sung to us in our saddest days,
They have spoken in Holy Writ,
And they flutter along the flowery ways,
With the summer glory lit;
And their cooing calls,
Through enchanted halls,
Which we trod in our youthful prime;
With our early loves,
Came the plaintive doves,
They were one with that golden time;
And the glamour of their plumage gleams,
Through the larger world of our wondrous dreams.

They were part of our tender hopes and fears,
When we had no settled choice,
For their murmur broke on awaking ears,
And it mixed with a mother's voice;
While it laid a spell,
As if evening fell,
On the passion of later strife;
And the calm it breathes,
Like a Sabbath, wreathes
The leafage of sunset life;
And the music, that went with us so long,
Seemed an echo of sweeter Heavenly song.

And now they are butchered to our shame,
Just to give a pastime short,
After tortures that are dread to name,
In the guise of Christian sport;
And the bleeding things
With broken wings,

In their helpless anguish lie;
Or, for manly play,
They writhe away,
To despair and starve and die;
Though it was a dove, that from the dark
Brought an olive branch to the troubled Ark.

Shall the bird endeared to God and man,
By many a sacred bond,
Be a victim to the brutal ban,
Of which Fashion is so fond?
Must it suffer still,
At the idle will,
Of the pleasure that is blind?
May it meet with rest,
In a Royal breast,
That is ever great and kind?—
There is shelter for its misery lone,
In the mighty shadow of the Throne.

“BROWN HAND AND WHITE” IN 1886.

Under one heaven they meet,
Under one earthly dome,
In the bond that unites the wandering feet,
And makes England still their home;
Brown hand and white,
Dark face and fair,
From the realms where the bitter north-winds bite,
And the red rose streams on the icy stair,
On the snowy-mantled mount;
To the blue of the sunny sky,
Where the lava leaps from its fiery fount,
And the birds in glory fly.

Under one sheltering flag,
Under one Mother's care,
From the lowland plain and the highland crag,
Where they suffer and sing and dare;
White hand and brown,
Fair face and dark,
From the grimy depths of the gritty town,
Where the Cyclops moulds his giant mark;
They have come in their varied life,
To one hospitable shore,
And they join in the gentle friendly strife,
As they bare their treasure store.

Under one gracious law,
Under one equal ray,
They are banded close by the ties that draw,
On the same imperial way;
Brown hand and white,
Dark face and fair,
For a common cause they have loved to smite,
When they breathed a common freedom's air;
And they mingle now, to show
They are brothers first and last,
And no different thoughts in their bosoms glow,
While they share the immortal past.

Under one holy pledge,
Under one Woman's arms,
They would stand on the yawning earthquake's edge,
In the tempest gather charms;
White hand and brown,
Fair face and dark,
Though the storms arise as the storms go down,
They have rallied around the nation's ark,
And her honour's jewel bright,
With an undivided will,
They would keep in their universal might,
For a grander future still.

THE RUINED GAMESTER, 1886.

Darker and darker yet,
Deeper and deeper down,
He stoops in a world with his ruins set,
With the baffled gamester's frown;
Lower and lower still,
The sands in the hour-glass run,
For the blighted work and the traitor will,
That have had their shadowed sun;
Shorter and shorter now,
Is the shrift of the shameless plan,
For the perjured faith and the broken vow,
The eclipse of a fallen man.

Thicker and thicker cloud
Signs of the coming end,
As the awful folds of the funeral shroud
On the lifeless form descend;
Sadder and sadder, drawn
By the retribution dire,

Of the hopeless gloom that has no dawn,
He sinks in the dungeon mire;
Nearer and nearer dragged,
By the hands from beneath him thrust,
He recoils at the iron feet, that lagged
But to dig the burial dust.

Wilder and wilder, sped
Down by the rolling tide,
In the last dim ray on his pathway shed,
He clings to his fatal pride;
Faster and faster, swept
Over billows he could not lead,
He is hurried by wrath that only slept,
To the vengeance he failed to read;
Fiercer and fiercer loom
Menacing shapes that mock,
As he staggers to his appointed doom
Of the old Tarpeian Rock.

Closer and closer prest,
Clutching at every straw,
At the muddy stones with their moment's rest,
From betrayed and outraged law;
Driven to bay at length,
After desperate feints and slips,
He goes down in his still unbending strength,
With the curses on his lips;
From a present out of joint,
With a blurred and blotted past,
Beaten at every bleeding point,
But unconquered to the last.

THE FAMINE FIEND, 1886.

It comes over the ragged rolling waters,
It comes over the narrow restless sea,
The despair of poor Erin's suffering daughters,
With the starving children's piteous plea;
From the rocky coasts of her western islands,
Where the wild Atlantic billows beat,
From the lonely plains, and the crested highlands
That the greedy cormorants make their seat;
Out of every mean and mud-built cottage,
Out of every bleak and boggy moor,
Where they sink for the lack of the pauper's pottage,
Comes the cry of the faint and famished poor.

And amid the Pleasure that tastes so bitter,
As they groan beneath its gilded stress,
While they give their lives for an evening's glitter,
And two hundred guineas for a dress;
Where the slaves of the social form and fiction,
With their willing hands impose the chains,
That have bound them fast, in a worse affliction
Than the dreadest tyrant's dreadest pains;
Amid waste of wealth and the pampered vices,
From the land that seems under the curse of drouth,
When but half a meal for a day suffices,
Falls the feeble moan of the hungry mouth.

And athwart the strife of contending factions,
As the dupes of party lie for power,
In the fog of the dirty words and actions,
That are all a modern statesman's dower;
As they grin through their painted masks, and mumble
The old falsehoods long they have learnt so well,
While they cling to their ill-got place, and stumble
In costumes for which their souls they sell;
Athwart all the hateful slough of vermin,
Who will not relax their ravening grip,
Be it patriot knave or the fool in ermine,
Steals the murmur of many a dying lip.

We have been estranged, we will not be longer,
Now we know our brothers are sore in need,
And the weakened bonds will grow tight and stronger,
If we staunch the open wounds that bleed;
We will throw a bridge across the distance,
And fill up the yawning chasm with gold
Of the love, that is coined in rich assistance,
And is pining for just our brothers' hold.
But when once our hands are clasped, and whether
We set out on a new and nobler start,
Or we tread on the ancient lines together,
We will never, never let them part.

“UNDER THE RED, WHITE, BLUE.”

We are brothers, although we differ,
As we proved in our desperate plight,
When the dying lad grew stiffer,
And we carried him out of the fight;
When the bullets were fiercely raining,
On the dwindling ranks of men,
And each soldier his best was straining—
We thought of no parties then.

Under the blood-stained banner,
Under the red, white, blue,
Form in the famous manner,
Englishmen, do your due.

We are patriots, if we sever
For a season, after strife;
We are comrades still, whatever
Be the lot of our peaceful life.
We may sit upon separate benches,
We may bicker a bit and nag;
But we toiled in the same dark trenches,
And we honour the same old flag.
Under the glorious banner,
Under the red, white, blue,
Stand in the steadfast manner,
Irishmen, do your due.

We are strong when we keep united,
We are weak when we wildly part;
But if helping be once invited,
We were never twain at heart.
And we rode from a common stable,
While we knelt on a common sod;
We were fed at one Mother's table,
And are worshippers of one God.
Under the world-wide banner,
Under the red, white, blue,
March in the ancient manner,
Englishmen, still be true.

We may quarrel about our trifles,
And from sundered platforms see;
When we handle our swords and rifles,
We are friends and in all agree.
In the presence of public dangers,
When the empire is threatened sore,
We forget we were ever strangers,
We can quarrel then no more.
Under the Union's banner,
Under the red, white, blue,
Fight in the fearless manner,
Irishmen, still be true.

BEFORE DAWN.

God's honey-gatherers, like the bee,
Work better in the shade;
And sorrow, that no others see,
Is into sweetness made.

But they have only eyes for need,
When gone is earthly light,
Who on their acts of mercy speed
By faith, and not by sight.
And only, when the worldly glare
No longer vision bars,
From depths of more than midnight care,
They trace the heavenly stars.

And if, like Mary, who loved much,
By loyal service drawn
To Him, whose holy life was such,
We come before the dawn—
Like her, we never seek in vain,
And, for the darkened feet,
Will break a morning without pain,
When we the Saviour meet;
And angel hands shall lead us on,
While angel voices bless,
And show yet shining as He shone,
The Sun of Righteousness.

Before Him mortal splendour pales,
And yields a feeble spark;
And ever do God's nightingales,
Sing sweetest in the dark.
As Paul and Silas in their cell,
With faith of earthquake might,
Sang, till the shattered fetters fell,
Songs in the deepest night.
And prisoned souls in rayless gloom,
Where all seemed piercing scorn,
Have found a bright immortal bloom,
Burst from each bloody thorn.

There is a Light, that never lay
On any mortal sight,—
A Light that clearer is than day,
And softer than the night;
It is the Presence of the Lord,
Who bids the blindest be
Partakers, in one calm accord,
Of joys eye cannot see;
If we but look above to Him,
Out of our human pride,
To know the dusk however dim,
The shadow at His side.

God made the darkness and the day,
To both a blessing gives,
But He who hides His wondrous way,
In darkness chiefly lives;

And hearts, that in the thickest cloud
Yet humbly work and sing,
Feel only in the funeral shroud,
The shadow of His wing;
They learn, through all the murky strife,
That is with promise strawn,—
Hope is the lowliest before Life,
The darkest before Dawn.

ONE.

We were linked in the wildest weather,
And united deeds have done,
We have lived and loved together,
And our memories all are one;
We were scorched in the torrid regions,
We were chilled by the Arctic cold,
And abreast with our battered legions
Have we broken the tyrant's hold;
Shamrock and rose and thistle,
One while the sword-blades cross,
One where the bullets whistle,
One where the billows toss,

We have triumphed in battles gory,
When the enemy came as a flood.
And the sunshine of hard-won glory
Fell alike on our mingled blood;
For the fainting hearts grew bolder,
And our spirits gathered pride,
As we shoulder stood to shoulder,
As we galloped side by side;
Rose and shamrock and thistle,
One for the stormy fight,
One in the blotted epistle,
One through the darkest night.

We were joined and our foes derided,
When a common will had each,
And if parted were undivided
As we dashed up the deadly breach;
As we faced, in the fire and racket,
Iron tempest of shot and shell,
The red-coat and red-stained blue-jacket,
Closing up where a comrade fell;
Shamrock and rose and thistle,
One at the stubborn strife,
One of our bone and gristle,
One in the wedded life.

We have conquered as one our dangers,
In the darkness of all the lands,—
Shall we now step apart as strangers,
And unclasp our brother hands?
We have shared in each other's rations,
Through the grim and weary tramp,
We were one in the worst privations,
On the shipboard or in camp;
Rose and shamrock and thistle,
One to the farthest east,
One where the icebergs bristle,
One for the fight and feast.

MADE IN HEAVEN.

There is somewhere the red lips' blessing,
There is somewhere the joy for thee
Of the hands that move caressing,
And the feet that never flee;
There is somewhere the ancient story
That is always fresh and true,
That to heaven gives earthlier glory
And to earth a heavenlier hue;
Under the light unfading
Of a sweet unsetting day,
Under the overshading
Of the golden clouds at play.

There is somewhere a voice that trembles,
Like the wind in the aspen tree,
That in vain for delight dissembles
The one welcome it holds for thee;
There is somewhere a step that falters,
When another step draws near,
And a colour that fondly alters
With the faith akin to fear;
Under the rose's blossom,
Where the petals fall and rest—
Under the lily's bosom,
That is white as a maiden's breast.

There are somewhere the eyes that soften,
At the picture they frame of thee—
And that turn in their dreamings often,
To the face they cannot see;
There is somewhere a heart that flutters,
Like the wing of a wounded dove,
And that owns (if it hardly utters)
All its treasure of virgin love;

Under the sunshine stealing
Through the curtained window bars,
Under the purple cieling
That is strewn with diamond stars.

There is somewhere a spot of brightness,
Which is ever day for thee,
Where the load is turned to lightness
And the prisoner yet is free;
There is somewhere an endless summer,
Where the flowers unceasing bloom,
And the bird like a merry mummer
Has a song for the saddest gloom;
Under the arms so human
That like tendrils round thee twine,
Under the smile of woman
Who was made in Heaven for thine.

JACOB'S LADDER..

—AT THE QUEEN'S DRAWING ROOM

Was it only a dream, or a vision
Of the heavens laid bare?
A delight from above, or derision
From abysses of care?
While the world all around me looked sadder,
Through its lacquer of lies;
Yet again seemed upraised Jacob's Ladder,
From below to the skies—
Yet again streamed the wonderful glory,
From the figures that trod;
And I saw re-enacted the story,
Of the angels of God.
Shapes of beauty, surpassing narration,
Flitted up and down still;
With the faces that were revelation,
In the darkness of ill—
With the eyes, that looked out in the splendour
Of their womanly trust,
And the love ever truthful and tender,
Like the sunshine on dust.
With the chime of melodious voices,
As in summery caves,
When the sea is asleep, and rejoices
In the rippling of waves—
With the rustling of delicate dresses,
And the shimmer of gowns
In the shadow, and light that caresses
All it daintily crowns—

With the rapture of colour and movement,
And of jewels and lace,
Form and feature defying improvement,
The indefinite grace,
Those sweet gifts, that demand not the favour
Of mere fortune to bless,
Of false art with its counterfeit savour,
Which queens may not possess.
And I saw in their charms such a magic,
In their sceptre-less hands
Such a power over all that is tragic,
As would conquer the lands—
As would banish the sighing of sorrow
On our dolorous way,
And would bring in the happier morrow
Of a holier day.
They could give to earth's starving and straining
Its old innocent glow,
The lost Paradise richly regaining—
If they only did know;
They might make the gray world so much gladder,
And reform what is wry,
Just by being indeed Jacob's Ladder—
If they truly would try.

THE TWIN SISTERS.

They grew together side by side,
Two branches of one tree—
They grew together in their pride
And promise, fair and free;
Their arms were strong, their shelter wide—
As far as eye could see—
Where all who loved them might abide,
Though faithless friends should flee.

They toiled together in the shade,
Through lonely hours and loss;
They saw around them systems fade,
And heard the tempest toss;
While each bore out what either bade,
And rights refined from dross;
Though one stretched out the justice blade,
The other held the Cross.

They bled together, and the years
Waxed fruitful with their blood;
And the two fountains of their tears
Flowed in one healing flood,

Which cleansed the State from guilty fears,
Till it re-christened stood,
And gave the Church for pining years
A message glad and good.

They sang together in their joy,
And from horizons bright
Took the same hope that could not cloy,
And drew a common might—
Rose out of forces that destroy,
To one more holy height;
They purged each other from alloy,
And shared each other's light.

And still together now they stand,
Twin sisters free and fair,
Hand solemnly yet joined in hand,
As at the altar stair;
Bound in a sacred nuptial band,
They breathe no different air,
And have one blessing for the land,
A God-united pair.

They live together, and they will
No less together fall;
The shadow, that the one may kill,
Must be the other's pall;
Parted they cannot linger still,
If fate should either call;
And woe, that brings them mortal ill,
Dooms country, Crown, and all.

WONDERFUL SNOW.—JULY 1888.

There is snow on the rose-covered places,
There is snow fallen white at our feet,
And we laugh at the manifold graces
Of the summer and winter that meet;
In the green of luxuriant gardens,
Where the gay and the beautiful tread,
And the fruit that is mellowing hardens,
With its carpeting cold is it spread;
Up above in the cloudland of splendour,
On the hay in the pasturage low,
In the air, on the foliage tender,
Hangs the wreath of the wonderful snow.

There is snow on the head turning hoary,
As it bends with the burden of age,
With the crown of the years, that is glory
To the warrior leaving the stage;

Who has fought for his God and the nation
Of his fathers, and hero-like been
At the front, in the terrible station,
Ever faithful to conscience and Queen;
Sprinkled soft above wrinkles and hollows,
And the scars that the bayonet show,
Of the fame and the summer that follows,
Sweetly whispers the wonderful snow.

There is snow on the brow of the maiden,
On the delicate neck, and the arms
With their wealth of kind offices laden,
And it gives to her daintier charms;
On the hand, that caressingly lingers
At the ministry moving our thorns,
With its throb of angelical fingers,
And that all things it touches adorns
Breaking into a comelier blossom,
Hiding fire with its heavenly glow,
On the flower of the virginal bosom,
Lies the light of the wonderful snow.

There is snow in the life, that is purest
And enlinked with whatever is fair,
That from honour goes sacred and surest,
And can breathe but the loftiest air;
In the service that suffers, and lowly
Stooping down takes the weak to its side,
With the love that is humble, and holy
Rises up on the ruins of pride;
In the heart that is human and loyal,
Like the sea in its infinite flow,
And the home of Divinity royal,
Is the secret of wonderful snow.

HELL.

Just the dim distorted will to follow
Ever, from the dawning to the dusk,
Ignorant the glittering gain is hollow,
Worthless as the fruit that yields but husk;
Never once to feel the glorious bridle
Laid by service on rejoicing strength,
Still to wander aimless on, in idle
Pastime, to the pall that drops at length;
Still to lack the moulding of affliction,
Chisel keen that cuts and quickens well,
Free from saving loss, kind contradiction—
This is hell.

Just to tread the same old selfish journey
Day by day, to the same selfish end,
Broken not by fierce delight of tourney,
When brave spirits meet and may not bend;
Not to know the agony of fighting
For the true and beautiful, or seek
Bliss in others' bliss by others righting,
Wiping tears from the pale orphan's cheek;
Not to have the rapturous pain of rising,
Borne on purpose like the ocean swell,
Upward to the Cross, while death despising—
This is hell.

Just to live for folly, and untroubled
Yet to dance away the hours and jest,
Though the scourge with hateful lash redoubled
Falls upon the slaves who cannot rest;
Yet to frolic on the graves of better
Men, who gave the world a little more—
Dared to loose if but a captive's fetter,
Leave two blades of grass for one before;
Yet to pass untouched the ancient riddle,
Written new in dust and blossom's bell,
On the edge of solemn faiths to fiddle—
This is hell.

Just to flit, unchecked by noble serving,
On from flower to flower, in thoughtless haste,
Never for a petty moment swerving
Sweetly, to the founts that bitter taste;
Just to be a paltry peg for clothing,
Jewels, toys, and vanities, that shame
Our sublimer lot, and bring us nothing
But the knife of self-condemning blame;
Just to eat and drink, though thousands sorrow,
For to-day, and in the present dwell—
Glut one's way in all again to-morrow—
This is hell.

BROKEN WINGS.

Ah, they were once superbly bright,
Pluméd with silver and gold,
Graces that could not be told,
Scattering from them flakes of light
Far, as they flashed with heavenly flight,
Stars in a midnight cold;
Once they were sweetly bold,
Soaring in might
Upward to height
Hard for the pilgrim old,
Craving a glimpse of some better sight,
Blossoms above the mould.

Now they are caged in dungeon dark,
Huddled with hateful things,
Torn from celestial springs,
Never to hear the morning lark,
Never to see a quickening spark—
Wealth that the summer brings;
Now not a captive sings
Sorrows, that mark
Pathway and park—
Shade that to palace clings;
Look at them fluttering near no ark,
Birdies with broken wings.

Once they were maidens white and fair,
Maidens of modest looks—
Features like gospel books,
Drinking a loftier, larger air,
Steadfast as on a temple stair,
Breathing of flowers and brooks;
Once in the loveliest nooks,
Melody's lair,
Roses their hair
Decked, while the sleepy rooks
Echoed the rest that would all repair—
Toil of the reaping-hooks

Now they are women spoiled and spent,
Fools of the tempter's arts,
Hawked upon streets and marts,
Borne to their doom, as others went,
Pale with the rags and bosoms rent,
Playing their damnèd parts;
Now the hot teardrop starts
Vain, in descent
Paved with intent
Virtuous, leaving smarts;
Oh for the bonds that are all unbent,
Women of broken hearts.

Once they were angels, fresh from God,
Moving with magic tread,
Weaving a golden thread
Deeply in web of life, as they trod,
Wreathing it round the judgment rod,
Round the grey tombstone's nead;
Once were in blessing spread,
Over bare clod,
Burial sod,
Hands that transformed to bread
Stones of the curse, where labourers plod,
Hands that awoke the dead.

Now they are fallen, angels still,
Angels that cannot fly,
Cannot the errands ply
Meant for a world deformed with ill,
Following its own fatal will,
Dark with its duties wry;
Now would they vainly try,
Grinding at mill
Mighty to kill
Body and soul, to buy
Back the bright places they should fill,
Angels, but not from the sky.

Yet shall the birdie burst its cage,
Sever the storms that cling
Heavy above, and fling
Shadows beneath, and dimly wage
Battle with doves that dread their rage,
Droop at their frosty sting;
Yet shall the birdie sing,
Finding a stage
Fitter and age
Youthful again, and bring
Happier news of a holier page—
Birdie with glorious wing.

Yet shall the maiden rise, and shine
Fair without aid of art,
Fairer in nobler part,
Mingled of all things fond and fine,
Breath of the ocean, poet's line,
Light of the sunbeam's dart;
Ye upon men and mart,
Sweetly shall twine,
Garlands, where pine
Souls, love with lovelier start,
Love that doth make the earth divine,
Maiden with maiden heart.

Yet shall the angel forth from stone
Stand, at the Master's call,
Comelier still from fall,
Speak, with a softer, wiser tone,
Wonderful words for the lost and lone,
Veiled under worse than pall;
Yet, where the fetters gall
Womanly zone—
Sun never shone—
Breaking the prison wall,
Beautiful, strong, shall stand her throne,
Deep within breasts of all.

Love is the name of woman, made
Subtly of tear and sigh,
Things that are holy and high,—
Wrought of the star light, and the shade
Cast by the pure sharp battle blade
Flashing, when God is nigh;
Love, with its heavenly tie,
Gently shall lade
Outcasts that fade
Low in despair where they lie—
Yet shall exalt, as honour bade—
Love, that can never die.

“TURPE SENILIS AMOR.”

I seemed so old and she a simple child,
Who liked to be my plaything and my pet,
Though this old heart had feelings warm and wild
That human cravings still could not forget;
She told me how she loved another, fair
In her young eyes as was the rising sun—
How wedded were their lives, like word and air,
That long to music had together run;
And, all the while, deep down the sleeping fire
Kept gnawing at my heart, until at length
It woke in hungry madness of desire,
As wakes a raging giant in his strength.

And on she babbled in her artless way,
Nor dreamed her grace in me could kindle love—
In one so old, with head already gray,
Who should such earthly weakness soar above;
But, as she talked, the rosy colour came
And went, like radiance from a heavenly fount,
It trembled on her rounded cheek, as flame
Poured by the morning on a snowy mount;
It seemed to send its beauty through my heart,
Burning and beating, and each tender look
So innocent, yet made my passion start
Up in armed might, and all my being shook.

Each thrilling word was as a dagger thrust
Right in my breast, where bright her image dwelt,
And still I could not murder her sweet trust,
Nor dare to breathe a whisper what I felt;
I had to mete her sympathy, and give
Grave counsel, and act out a hideous lie—

To hope her lover long might love and live,
When my fierce yearning wished he then could die;
I had to listen calmly to his praise,
While my fond need I might not ever tell,
And him with honour of my own upraise,
When fain would I have dashed him into hell.

Her eyes grew bigger, brighter, as she laid
Her life's young dream all open to my sight,
In pleading frankness, pure, and half afraid,
As on her brow broke that unearthly light;
And her whole form, with its transforming glow
Seemed bathed in heaven, and gathered in its arms
Whate'er makes woman beautiful below,
And lifts us upward with its angel charms;
And still I heard, and strove with measured ease,
Strong (though I reeled) to play my hated part,
With tortured care to say but what would please,
While pains of damnéd souls were at my heart.

ONCE ONLY.

Once only—the large look beyond the stars,
The glimpse of God in the eternal shore,
As the free heart bursts through its prison bars—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the strong grip of earthly things,
When thou art master though the fight be sore,
The mighty sweep as of archangel wings—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the bold leap into the night,
Across the gulf that craven never bore,
When conquering love makes the mid darkness bright—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the swift bow of pure intents,
That send the certain arrows to the core,
With faith creating its own continents—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the firm plucking from the deep,
The inmost secret of its subtlest ore,
From lands of sunset where the thunders sleep—
Once only and no more.

Once only—the firm stand on tops of thought,
Above the strife and garments rolled in gore,
Where deeds heroic out of trust are wrought—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the sure insight into truth,
A beauty nothing mortal ever wore,
In the enchanted walk of wondrous youth—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—triumph over awful odds,
Against the world that vainly tost and tore,
In other vaster days when men were gods—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the long gaze in maiden eyes,
That leaves thee wiser than mere bookmen's lore,
And with a flash unveils new earth and skies—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the wild clasp of all the sweet
Warm palpitating grace in woman's store,
When flesh and blood and spirit madly meet—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the soft plea of virgin's voice,
Which as the breath divine went on before,
When thou didst let her make the better choice—
Once only, and no more.

Once only—the white hand in glory waved,
That opened to thee Eden's fiery door,
And from the curse in boundless pity saved—
Once only, and no more.

DAMAGED DARLINGS.

Yes, you see them daily flutter,
Gay within their gilded fence,
Daintily attired in utter
Pretty painted innocence;
Breathing artless airs, and smiling
Softly with promiscuous grace,
On the fools for whose beguiling
Borrowed roses deck the face;
Pleading to the highest bidder,
Hawked along from north to south,
Lovely—if you don't consider,
Don't look closely in the mouth.

Damaged Darlings, and yet vaunted
Free from every trick or vice,
Sound in character, undaunted
By the very lowest price;
Not too proud to seek a pleasure,
From the biggest donkey's bray,
Glad to be an old man's treasure,
Any dotard's, who can pay;

Scenting from afar the coffers,
Idly it may be abused—
Ah, no reasonable offers,
Once rejected, now refused.

Here they hover, at the doorway,
Marking out the man of gold,—
Hunted on to Nice or Norway,
Through extremes of heat and cold;
There they wander, young and simple,
Angling sweetly in the Park,
Rich with bait of blush and dimple,
Cunningly removed at dark;
Everywhere, as Fashion orders,—
Opera, the social room,
Race-course, even religious borders—
But for market do they bloom.

Damaged Darlings, in fair station
Elegantly posed and drest,
Not without a reputation,
Though perhaps not with the best;
Just a little soiled and faded,
Just a little worse for wear,
Not by slander overshaded—
If with other darlings' hair;
Dwindled down by sore reduction,
From old prices to a half,
Wooing dupes still to destruction,
Hungry for the fatted calf.

THE DANCE TO DEATH.

Whither, whither, O say,
Are they speeding away,
Youthful figures and old,
Over dead things not cold,
Scarce concealed by the flowers,
Staring stark through bright bowers;
Sober matron, sweet maid,
Not abashed, not afraid,
And the tenderest lewd,
With warm graces half nude,
That in modesty's pride
It were glory to hide;
With the waving of arms,
And those delicato charms,
Breathing roses and rest,
From white blossom of breast,
Coarsely bared to the glance,
In the rapturous dance,

Beauty linked to the beast—
Are they finding a feast?
Oh, to festival they
Carried are as its prey,
Like a bubble or breath,
—Unto death.

POCULA CIRCES.

They were gathered around the festive board,
At the wan and witching hour,
When the moon has a magic power,
And the trees shed their shadows deep and broad,
On the miser creeping to his hoard,
And the ivy athwart the tower—
On the swan in the silver wave that oared,
And it peeped through the lady's bower.

They were scions of many a lordly line,
And of commoners greater still,
Who their country had saved from ill,
With the deeds that kingdoms shake, and shine
Through the darkness they make more fair and fine;
They had different posts to fill,
But they each took delight in the red red wine,
As it flashed at their wanton will.

They were crowned with every gift and grace,
In their stature strong and tall,
And the treasures came at call
That unite to adorn a lofty race,
But in lowlier cottage find no place;
And they laughed at the dice's fall;
But one had a statelier nobler face,
And he was the king of all.

He was heir to a glorious ancient stock,
That had sprung of a crimson seed,
From the fights in which heroes bleed,
And was shaped by the iron wear and shock,
When the royallest heads rolled on the block,
And the stoutest were a reed;
Yet his fathers had stood, as a stalwart rock,
To which nations cling in need.

Yea, he was the chief of that brilliant band,
With the light of a larger morn
On the brow raised in regal scorn,
For he looked as if wrought to enrich a land,
Or to break a poor captive people's band,
Of their rights and freedom shorn;
And his voice breathed the habit of command,
That is theirs in the purple born,

And they jested and gaily slid the night,
As if earth could bequeathe no pain,
Nor the bosom put on a stain;
But they took no heed of the heavenly light,
And the beam that stared through the curtain bright,
While a pleasure was left to gain;
In the careless ease of their youthful might,
When the warning knocks in vain.

For the red, red wine went flowing fast,
And the mirth waxed louder yet,
As they bigger framed each bet,
And the cup its bewitching glamour cast,
That the future paints and obscures the past;
Till the hideous seal was set
Upon every soul, that would even at last
All the faiths of Heaven forget.

And the Circe with transforming spell,
Though unbidden shared the feast,
With her juggling never ceast,
Till the swinish lusts that darkly dwell,
In the heart so cheaply made a hell,
When the door is guarded least,
With the curse of discord fiercely fell,
And turned man divine to beast.

And the foremost in the drunken fray,
Who was marked for mightier things
A companion meet for kings,
Yet the farthest left the royal way,
And the lowliest down in miry clay,
Had defiled his angel wings;
When upon them broke the blushing day,
And remorse with venom stings.

CHORUS.

It is joyous, the cup,
Brimming o'er, flashing up,
Out of silver and gold,
That makes timid ones bold;
With red fire of the grape,
Giving substance and shape,
In its magical gleams,
To the lordliest dreams;
With insatiable flood,
Drinking deep of man's blood,
As drank never the knife,
Sucking out the rich life,
From the treasures of all,
Silly slaves to its call;

Sparkling on in the dance,
Through the changing and chance,
For each passionate lip
Not content with a sip,—
For each petulant hand,
Lifted high to demand;
Yet it kisses at last,
When the summer is past,
With delirious breath,
—Unto Death.

VENUS VICTRIX.

The lamps burn dim with their coloured light,
In a pale and purple glow,
And their shadows shyly throw
On a man rejoicing in his might,
And a woman wonderful and bright,
While her loosened tresses flow;
And the winds outside, in the solemn night,
Do their stormy trumpets blow.

He was once the first in the festive throng,
When the ruddy wine went round,
And its joy was maddening found,
While he stooped in his youth erect and strong,
From the starry heights to the bestial wrong;
Now he treads a fairer ground,
With red lips that move to murmuring sound,
And white arms' enchanting bound.

Though one of a lineage high and old,
To him gives her maiden heart,
That is huckstered not in mart,
For the broad broad lands and the precious gold;
He has taken the love so lightly sold,
And the glances sweet from art,
With the kisses richly paid and cold;
He has chosen the doomèd part.

Lo, her venal smiles upon him beam,
And her praises falsely steep
The infatuate soul in sleep;
And he basks in those eyes of perjured gleam,
Like a fool who floats in a dazzling dream,
While the fates yet closer creep,
Down the lazy breast of a lilied stream,
To some veiled and dreadful deep.

100

But her warm soft hands about him twine,
And her breath in perfume plays
With delight that stings, and stays
A delirious hour, like the damning wine,
In which fires of a hundred sunsets shine;
And a lock rebellious strays,
To the hungry hands that pant and pine,
For the lust that only slays.

And slowly her charms voluptuous slip,
As the dew on thirsty fields,
While he surely sinks and yields,
Through the yearning bosom and parchéd lip,
And they throb like flame to each flnger's tip,
Like flame that a sorcerer wields;
He forgets the Heavens that guide the ship,
And the holier love that shields.

He has only ears, in his prison pent,
As the hand within her glove,
For the voice that outcooes the dove,
While his thrilling form is spoiled and rent,
With the splendid beauty on him bent,
In a burning hell of love,
And the wanton grace profusely spent,
That would mock the skies above.

And her serpent limbs still tighter close,
On unmanned and pliant frame,
That no other touch would tame,
While the languid head in its luring pose,
And the mouth a ripe and perfect rose,
Have conspired to wreak his shame;
He is walking the path he wildly chose,
For the sunlit peaks of fame.

O she sucks the glory of his life,
And the blossom from his store,
What exceeds refinèd ore;
Till his being all with passion rife,
Is of honour reft, in the losing strife,
And the goodly fruits it bore;
Till she casts him off as a blunted knife,
Wherewith sin can work no more.

CHORUS.

Onward still do they haste,
Wanton bosom, wild waist,
And the paradise found,
In the arms softly wound,
And the dainty head tost,
Yet again to be lost,

101

As the glowing limbs part,
And leave aching the heart;
But in laughter and song,
Madly whirling along,
They are borne without stay,
Turning darkness to day,
Of the noon framing night,
And with sadness delight;
In abysses they drop,
But the rest never stop,
In their feverish tread,
On the dying and dead;
Though the honeyed lips press
Closer still, their caress
Is but glory of shame,
And the sting after flame—
Poison lurks in their breath,
—Unto Death.

JACTA EST ALEA.

He played for the highest chance, and staked
On a madman's throw his past,
And the future's promise vast,
With a passion winning never slaked,
And a conscience now that nothing waked;
He drew to the hazard last,
To the crumbling edge and the ground that quaked;
And the final die was cast.

He played with his honour, faith and fame,
As above the burial sod,
Which with stumbling feet he trod;
And he dragged his unsullied fathers' name,
Through the mire of the gambler's shade and shame,
At the bid of pleasure's nod;
And he played like a fool the Devil's game,
Like a fool against his God.

He played with the fortune his to spend,
And with others' lightly tost
Down abyss that none has crost,
In the lust that every bliss must bend,
Ere it flies, and as a demon rend;
But he counted not the deadly cost,
Till he came to the black and bitter end,
When he ventured his soul and lost.

102

It is over, then, the trumpet's call,
And the sunrise on his brow,
With the made and unmade vow,
While he owns he is but a helpless thrall,
Who has sold his birthright, life, and all;
And he wonders blankly, how
He could ever sink to such curséd fall;
There is nothing left him now.

He has had his morning swift and sweet,
Beneath skies of crimson glow,
By the laughing fountains' flow,
When the flowers leapt up his path to greet,
And in him each blessing seemed to meet,
And the breeze his praises blow—
When the world lay lovely at his feet;
He is now himself below.

He has danced his time in the festive crowd,
He has drunk his fill of art,
And has had a dazzling start;
Shall he murmur, if his head be bow'd,
And the glory gone that life endow'd,
At the judgment in his heart—
If the reveller's robe turn funeral shroud?
It is time he should depart.

And the friend who pledged his sacred oath,
He would never from him slip,
Though he lay in ruin's grip,
And to leave him always looked so loath,
Now regardless of the plighted troth;
And the woman with red lip;
Like the rats, they have failed and fooled him both,
And escaped the foundering ship.

And he stares at the litter in the room,
Here a cobweb, there a crumb,
As his groping hand grows numb,
That feels for some refuge from the gloom,
If a ray of sweet relief might bloom;
But he sees the downturned thumb,
In the picture's grim familiar doom,
That condemns with sentence dumb.

Then he turns from one gaze across the moor,
That bounds his beauteous land,
And the hills that purple stand,
To the damnèd cards that made him poor,
And the shattered glasses on the floor—
To the gnawing inward brand;
And he staggers blindly to the door,
With the pistol in his hand.

103

CHORUS.

Though they hurry so fast,
Sorrow seizes at last
On the gallant and fair,
With the grip of despair,
In the gliding of feet,
At the comedy sweet;
On the lovers that cling
To each other, its wing
Wrought of trouble and gloom,
Falls with folding of doom—
Falls on weakness that slips,
Between kisses and lips;
Ah, the hero with strength
Still unbroken, at length
To the last fatal throw
Must arrive, and below
Down be hurled in the deep,
Not of rest though of sleep,
And the woman's pure face
Worm and dust will embrace;
For the jubilant dance,
Making ruin romance,
Is, with rose-laden breath,
—Unto Death.

A BROKEN HEART.

She loved him, as a woman can,
Who gives but once affection out,
A single passion free from doubt,
Not tamely moulded on a plan,
Nor marred by fretful lips that pout,
Nor flirted lightly as a fan—
She loved him only, that one man,
Heard but his voice above the shout,
Saw but his face, where thousands ran
In headlong race and battle rout,
Had known him under beggar's clout,
The prison gloom, the exile's ban—
Loved to the last, as she began,
Though tost about.

He loved her fondly, as man will,
Who seeks his pleasure not her own,
And harvest reaps he has not sown,
That comes from fortune not by skill,
With fancy that had gaily thrown
Round her the movement of the rill,

104

The magic rest that haunts the hill,
And was as breezes wildly blown;
He loved her, nor intended ill,
While grace so delicately grown
Had spread its dainty wings and flown;
For, ah, his love was deadly still,
To him her beauty's inmost thrill
Was all unknown.

She loved him, as a woman must,
Who reckons not the price or pain,
Nor balances the loss with gain,
Who deems all others true and just
As she herself, nor thinks of stain
Left by the hideous grip of lust,
That kisses with the kiss of dust;
She loved, nor dreamed of secret chain,
The serpent coil, the preying rust,
With every trouble in its train,
Until she found her glory slain;
And so from home and honour thrust
She cannot, with her murdered trust,
Now love again.

He loved her idly, as man may,
Who buys for money on the mart
Some trifle scarce a work of art,
And would with it a little play,
To grace some folly at the start,
Or hasten on a weary day;
With fatal love, that could not stay
Steadfast in any noble part,
But dragged her down to miry clay,
And stabbed her with its venom dart,
That gave a bitter biding smart,
He loved her in the sunlight's ray;
Then, like a toy, he cast away
Her broken heart.

THE LAST STRAW.

Brave as the bravest are, and willing
Now for the daily load,
Now for the longest road,
Fired with the dauntless courage, filling
All who delight in passions thrilling,
True to what duty showed;
Ah, he would bear the sternest drilling,
If he might earn an extra shilling,
Ought that his master owed,
Yet, while the spirit flowed
Free in his breast, and, spite of spilling,
Life in its sunset glowed.

105

Once at the front, he flashed, in races
Bright with the gilded throng,
Glory of feast and song,
Sheen of the daintiest lawn and laces,
Showered on women's tender graces;
Sped without lash of thong,
Steady in conquering stride, and paces
Proud to be seen by angel faces,
Cheering the courses long,
Trusting he would not wrong
Hopes, that assigned him foremost places,
Once, in his sunrise strong.

Now in the cab that creeps and rumbles
Ever upon its way,
Ever from dawn of day,
Driven by trembling hand that fumbles
Oft on the reins, with oaths and grumbles
Deep after drunken stay;
Now, though the task his record humbles,
Now, though his faltering footstep stumbles
Striking on muddy clay,
Stoutly he toils and never tumbles,
On through the gaslight's ray.

Still he is weaker, slowly tending
Down to the common grave,
Only the rest of slave,
Darkly by devious circuits wending
Lower, to the one sombre ending,
Silent, where none can save;
Yet not a thought to spare the spending,
Yet not a sign of coward bending,
Respite he well might crave;
Till the last trifle gave
Just the repose it lacked, his rending
Life, to the finish brave.

WICKED OR WITCHED?

Grand with the splendour of youth, the pride
Born of an ancient race,
Breathed by the noble face,
Gaily he launched on the social tide,
Rippling with pearl and lace,
Dancing along with its welcome wide,
Flowers that fangs of serpents hide,
Spread on the charméd space;
Many a flatterer, none to chide
Footsteps that left a trace
Devious, dark, on the other side,
Down to the sunless place,

106

Rich in the treasures of earthly gift,
Treasures that rest on sand,
Silver and gold and land,
Heritage won by the ages' thrift,
Won without blame or brand,
Courted he was by the friends, that shift
Always with every turn and drift,
Wave of an idle hand;
Careless the false from the true to sift,
Garland from iron band,
Blind to the doom and the opening rift,
Fate with its dire demand.

Strong in the strength, that is given man
Yet unassoiled by years,
Stranger as yet to tears,
Indolent, prosperous, on he ran,
Making a jest of fears;
Sickness had found not a place in plan
Framed for eternity, not the span
Hedged as by hostile spears,
Blighted with sign of the curse, the ban
Tolling on mortal ears;
Merry each morn he anew began,
Under the sword that shears.

Dupe and delight of the Fortune, fair
Only to those that flout
Warning and honest doubt,
Shadows that darken and climb the stair,
Sighs beneath victor shout;
Favourite, fool of the summer air,
Tangled and tricked by a woman's hair,
Ruddy ripe lips that pout,
Dainty white hands that with his pair,
Eyes that would heroes rout;
Flattered at last into hell's despair,
Not to be flattered out.

DEATH IN THE CUP.

Around it goes, the cup of light,
With the old story of the years,
Dark in its glory as the night,
Mingled with madness, pain and tears;
Laughing, and lying in the mirth,
That heavenly sounds, but is of hell,
And binds the soul with fiery girth,
Which bound the angels when they fell;

107

He takes it fondly to his lips,
That drink, nor feel the fatal dart
Below, and with no measured sips
He sucks the poison in his heart.

Around it goes, the cup of joy,
Thrilling through all his human flesh,
That turns the sky a coloured toy,
And moulds the ancient earth afresh;
It tells of pleasure meant for youth,
That finds no burden in the task,
And hides the hateful serpent's tooth,
Under the paint and glowing mask;
It bids him look on faces fair,
And listen to the tompter's voice,
Play with red lips and radiant hair,
And revel while he can rejoice.

Around it goes, the cup of hope,
With wine that ruddy is and sweet,
That makes the gates of Eden ope,
And lays the world beneath his feet;
It points to pastures bright, and green
Spaces that break the curtained wood,
Where waters flash and sing, between
Hoar hills, that have for ever stood;
It leads him to enchanted rooms,
With lovely eyes and luring games,
Where curled behind the radiant blooms,
Murmur the black eternal flames.

Around it goes, the cup of life,
And hundreds league to charm and cheat
The frantic trust, while cold the knife
Is sharpening for his bosom's beat;
Smooth is the road, and smiling friends
Are there to hush alarm to sleep,
That veils the awful edge, and lends
The last wild plunge into the deep;
Downward he drifts and courts his fate,
Lulled by soft hands and Siren breath,
And (roused to danger) finds too late,
The cup of life is cup of death.

THE LAST KISS.

Old they called me, she was younger
Far, and fair in every part—
Not too old, though, then to hunger
Fiercely for her in my heart;
When was love, that laughs at distance,
Makes the infinite its stage,

108

Weakly stooping to resistance,
Limited by straw like age?
Paled the hour when we were parted,
As it ever ends with this,
And I gave her, broken-hearted,
The last kiss.

Sweet she was with human sweetness,
Taking little, giving much,
Touched with earthly incompleteness,
Yet more beautiful for such;
Shyly showing the affection,
Fools who knew not fancied cold,
Perfect in her imperfection,
Mixed of mortal clay and gold;
But at length upon the glory
Fell the mourning none may miss,
Came to close our tender story,
The last kiss.

Lovely in her faults, and reaching
Heights that others did not gain
With their virtues, and the teaching
Lightly won without a pain;
Proud and wayward and imperious
Still, and no one's easy thrall,
Maidenly and coy, mysterious,
But a woman true in all;
Ah, upon our Eden darkened
Change, and rose the serpent's hiss,
As I gave her lips, and harkened,
The last kiss.

Earth and heaven, of all their treasure,
Devil's gift and angel grace,
Joy and sorrow without measure,
Gathered in that moment space;
Day and night of wondrous fashion,
Ocean breadth and whirlwind sweep,
Every thrill of every passion,
Met in one delirium deep;
Life no fiction ever moulded,
An eternity of bliss,
Woe of hottest hell enfolded
The last kiss.

MY MANUSCRIPT.

The writing is not easy to be read,
So subtly traced, and dim
With mysteries that gather from the dead,
And clouds that sweetly swim;

109

That shine with woman's tender holy tears,
And look past earthly strife,
Beyond the vain blind yearning of the years,
The wonderment of life;
Its characters are strangely mixed, and spread
Dark in each diverse tone
None may interpret, which my love has read
Alone.

The lines are broad and bold with maiden strength,
And in their shadows bright
With the great purpose hardly won at length,
After the toil and night;
Cut on the calmness of the glorious brow,
By sorrow's chisel keen,
And wrought into one pure and perfect vow,
With awful lights between;
Stamped round the mouth so chaste and cherry-lipt,
In work of suffering done,
Unknown to others, and a manuscript
For one.

But all those letters bear the blotted mark,
That tells of danger trod,
And wild white hands uplighted thro' the dark,
To silence men call God;
And they are blurred with travail long, the sign
Of conflict healéd o'er,
The seal of her, who, tost on surge malign,
Struggles at last to shore;
What they have rescued from the fire they teach,
Not fancy's lying art,
The dread romance of truths, that only reach
The heart.

A manuscript that, big with grief and pain,
May not be public still,—
My manuscript for ever must remain,
Through blessing that is ill;
That grandly shows how good it is to live,
Though love in anguish lie,
And when the mocking world turns fugitive,
How beautiful to die;
A prophecy, when lesser joys have flown,
Of supreme bliss to be,
Hid from the gaze of vulgar eyes, but known
To me.

110

THE UNKNOWN GODDESS.

At first, I never guessed that such as she,
Who dwells among the stars,
Had stooped from dazzling heights to look on me
With all my ugly scars;
That one so heavenly could in pity shine
On one so earthly, mean,
And with her beauty human and divine,
Stop at a thing unclean;
I never dreamed a goddess on my fall
Had mercy's mantle thrown—
For though she was a goddess, she was all
Unknown.

I thought her only woman, white and fair,
Though with an angel's pride,
Till once to cheer the night of my despair,
She drew the veil aside;
And for a moment, just a little part
Revealed of purer grace,
The wonder of the love that was her heart,
The rapture of her face;
A glimpse of glory, for a life that ill
Instead of good had grown,
To comfort, though a goddess was she still
Unknown.

And now at times she visits me, in dreams
Of more than waking joy,
And flashes on my soul unearthly gleams,
To soothe my sad employ;
O when my treacherous flesh and blood would fail,
From onsets fierce of sin,
She lets me gaze a while behind the veil,
That shuts her beauty in;
And thus refreshed at work no more I fret,
If by the tempest blown,
Though with her gifts she is a goddess yet
Unknown.

She lets me touch the marvel of her hand,
At times, in lonely hour,
And then a light dawns on the darkest land,
The desert bursts in flower;
And once she gave my hungry lips a kiss,
That burnt into my heart,
And from the passion of that perfect bliss,
Life took a nobler start;
She is a goddess true, in ebbing tide,

111

When other friends have flown,
Though still when she has drawn the veil aside
Unknown

At times her face is cold, and shadows break
The brightness of her brow,
And waves of stormy trouble seem to shake
The head they cannot bow;
But still they do not hide the heavenly fire,
That lights my humble spark,
And blends it with her infinite desire
Leading me through the dark;
And while I cannot hope to read her heart,
Or render it my own,
I feel she is my goddess, though apart,
Unknown.

But still I know, what often grieves me sore,
When nearer would steal love,
That one like me may never love her more,
Who is so much above;
I may not in the compass of my ken,
Embrace the mystic star,
But watch its radiant risings, now and then,
And worship it afar;
And though the thought be bitter seed of pain,
Deep in my bosom sown,
To me she must a goddess yet remain
Unknown.

AT HIS POST.

The youngest of that brother band,
The best and noblest far,
He perished in a foreign land,
Beneath an Indian star;
None of his kindred there was near,
With offices of love,
To drop the tender human tear,
Or cry to God above;
And none was there to render aid,
Where it was wanted most,
When he, a soldier, not afraid,
Fell at his post.

But strangers' arms about him moved,
And swarthy faces bent
Upon him, in the furnace proved,
And by the torture rent;

112

Ah, strangers only raised his head,
Or gave but careless heed,
And ministered, with noisy tread,
To him in utmost need;
These tended him, though wounded deep
And carried from the host,
When he, who did late vigil keep,
Fell at his post.

He early entered on the strife,
To play a conquering part,
And though a boy in stormy life,
His was a hero's heart;
He bore the burden and the heat,
In battle lone and long,
Nor fainting once thought of retreat,
Because his faith was strong;
Because he would do all his due,
And made of Heaven his boast,
And to his God and country true,
Fell at his post.

And we shall never see his grave,
Nor plant memorial flowers,
Nor watch the petals ope and wave,
In those far foreign bowers;
And callous eyes will mark the spot,
Where he was coldly thrust,
But ours in utter grief may not,
Nor mourn the sacred dust;
Nor shall we now the relics take,
So sweet, to treasure most,
Since he, whom danger could not shake
Fell at his post.

His steed will whinny in the stall,
His dog whine at the gate,
But never answer to the call
Their master and their mate;
No hand to pet the glossy neck,
Or stroke the panting side,
Or brush away the white foam fleck,
That tells of glorious ride;
And broken was no common plan,
One princely in a host,
When he, though fighting still, a man
Fell at his post.

And one he loved will never know,
How dear was she to him,
Though others' tears in torrents flow,
And others' eyes are dim;

113

But she to colder love will turn,
And list to lighter vow,
Yet not for him her bosom burn,
Nor pale her radiant brow;
And others may be told, not she,
How on that Indian coast,
Her name was murmured last, when he
Fell at his post.

NOT ANOTHER.

In a country of clear streams she grew,
And with graces all her own,
If she borrowed freshness of the dew,
And its freedom from the breeze that blew,
With the light by flowerets thrown,
That into her life had grown;
O the fights our noble fathers knew,
And their deeds of daring, sown
In her heart that each great exploit drew
To it, and had truly known,
They had taken root and sprang anew,
Though the glorious days were flown.

She was true as lines of Gospel book,
She was sweet as mountain air,
And bright as the music of the brook,
As it steals on in its leafy nook,
Or steps down its rocky stair,
Where the fern trees find their lair;
And the beauty of all wild things she took,
With the sunset for her hair,
That in glints and gleams about her shook;
And the mosses wiought her chair,
While the moonlight gave the soft shy look,
And the morning made her fair.

With the courage not of women brave,
That is Nature's royal gift
To her favourites who an empire save,
Or could raise a people from their grave,
And the reefs whereon they drift,
And themselves of weakness sift;
She was strongest, if the winter wave
Of a ruin without rift,
In its awful march was heard to rave,
In the shadow and dread shift,
And the danger but more courage gave,
And would glorify and lift.

114

She was just herself, in splendid will,
Not a maiden carved of stone,
But a maiden pure through good and ill,
Who would every tender office fill,
And impress a warmer tone,
Where the sunlight never shone;
She was open to each earthly thrill,
Of our human flesh and bone,
That disaster would not turn, if kill,
Though the cross became her throne,
And remained a heavenly maiden still—
She was just herself, alone.

JUST A WOMAN.

Just a woman grimly slain,
Just a sister hacked and rent
By the knives, that left the murder stain,
And the wounds unclosing lips in vain
To the Heaven above them bent,
That no guardian angel sent;
With the hands that would some pity gain,
And uplifted staunch the warm red rain,
By the heart's deep fountain spent;
Till the spirit God had lent,
Like a ransomed prisoner burst the chain,
And to God its Maker went.

Just a woman stabbed and torn,
Just a sister gashed and gray
By the cruel lust, that in its scorn
On the body, once by angel worn,
Had its cursed will, and lay
Black on glory turned to clay;
Ah, the breast for love's caresses born,
And to beat in light of sunny morn,
Was cut short at opening day,
In its innocence of play,
Like a palace faded and forlorn;
And the world went on its way.

Just a woman, outraged, killed,
Just a sister brought to shame,
Who had dainty posts of duty filled,
And in martyr's grand devotion willed
To have lifted up the lame,
Out of dungeon or the flame;
Who in tasks of tender pity skilled,
Had to every touch of sorrow thrilled,

115

And in all her glowing frame,
For the right and rescue came—
But is now for ever stayed and stilled,
Though in mocking mien the same.

Just a woman, fair of plan,
Just a sister peace had shod,
Who went down in race she sweetly ran,
As a soul foredoomed by some dread ban,
That makes even the bravest nod,
With its iron judgment rod;
Who had lived and loved a tiny span,
And the scarréd world begun to scan,
Where the sufferers blindly plod,
To the grave beneath the clod;
Till she passed from cruelty called man,
To the mercy that is God.

HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER.

Oh, he was a soldier bold,
And she was his daughter fair,
Framed of sunshine and of air,
Never made for suffering cold,
Never meant to leave the fold,
Brave the wolf within his lair;
Up the easy velvet stair
Had she stept, and felt the hold
Soft of the luxurious chair—
Felt the joy of treasurers old,
Silk and satin, lace and gold,
Kisses warm on yellow hair.

But her father died, and went
With him all except his fame,
Simple cross and soldier's name,
Won beneath the banner rent,
Won by blood heroic spent,
Scars that graced the gallant frame;
All the goodly things that came
Freely, pleasant sound and scent,
Vanished now, as though a game
Just of rank and riches lent
Only, and upon her bent
Poverty that fools call shame.

Yet she was her father's child,
And she proved her spirit now,
Would not to misfortune bow,
Met the brunt of billows wild,

116

In her girlhood sweet and mild,
Which no enemy could cow;
Resolute her maiden's vow,
Not by baits to be beguiled,
Yet—although she knew not how—
Still, if cowards her revil'd,
To draw round her undefil'd
Robes, and bear a stainless brow.

On she struggled glorious still,
Took but scanty food and rest,
While by cruel labour prest,
With her grand undaunted will,
Lured by all the tempter's skill,
Not to swerve from pathways blest;
Still she firmly chose the best,—
Though her basket did not fill,
Hunger grew a daily guest—
Fought a losing battle, till
Friendly death that doth not kill,
Laid his cross upon her breast.

THE MODERN ARMADA.

Silently it came, in motion
Secret, not a shot was fired,
Not a soldier's grand devotion,
Forth to meet its march aspired;
Not a trumpet warning sounded
From the rampart, not an arm,
Though the walls were close surrounded,
Waved defiance or alarm;
Not a sentinel his duty
Did, or marked the solemn sight,
While the city flashed its beauty
Heedless, through the awful night.

Slowly on it rolled, in certain
Triumph, terrible to send
Waves of woe, in cloudy curtain
Wrapt, to its destroying end;
Feasted some, and some were sleeping
Mad, unmindful of their fate,
None was faithful vigil keeping,
With the foeman at the gate;
Grimly came the new invader,
Read not in prophetic scroll,
Mightier than the old Armada,
Bringing fetters for the soul.

117

Dreamed the watchman, at his portal,
Lapt in selfish ease and lust,
Ignorant of danger mortal
Near him, traitor to his trust;
Laughed the captain, as he revelled
Long, at banquet starvelings gave,
While with tresses all dishevelled
Crept the woman to her grave;
Sword and shield were gone, discarded
For the golden cup of sin,
And through avenues unguarded
Stern the enemy stole in.

Slumbered even the priest, whom honour
Called against the gathering host,
Checked not by the cheap Madonna.
Daub, that decked instead his post;
Though the temple needed purging,
Dust upon the altar lay,
Loud a thousand voices urging
Bade him now arise and pray;
Till the holy fire, that dwindling
Down in ashes hid its light,
Lower sank, and past rekindling
Suddenly went out in night.

Not a voice a challenge uttered,
Owning peril, to the last,
Not a banner flamed and fluttered
Out upon the stormy blast;
Not a step alert went faster
Yet, though nearer drawn to blood,
Strong to stem the dire disaster
Bursting on them like a flood;
Not a hand the armour buckled
Bright, round breast without a fear,
Brave for wife and babe she suckled,
Grasping battle blade or spear.

Though dark fingers came and scribbled
Judgment on the palace wall
Proud, where drunkards lounged and dribbled
Lies, that could not hinder fall;
Though unshaped a whisper, boding
Trouble, bred in ghostly gloom,
Clearer grew, and sharper goading
Conscience breathed of death and doom;
Though the earth denied not token,
Skies gave comets dread to hang—
Fell the Cross defiled and broken,
As they jested, cursed and sang.

118

In they slipt, with veiléd faces,
Frightful shapes that crept and crawled
Sidelong, sinister, with paces
Muffled, as they sped and sprawled;
Still, with hungry looks averted,
On they hurried to the prey,
Into bulwarks left deserted,
Creatures serpentine and grey;
Still they spread their snares, and tangled
Easy victims in the mesh,
Hugged the sleeping fools, and strangled
Souls of men and throbbing flesh.

Doubt, with famished form, and trailing
Dusky hair and garments dull—
Doubt, with appetite unfailing,
Grinning through a clammy skull;
Snakes entwined in twilight tresses,
Gnawing at the bosom stark—
Cold, with skeleton caresses,
Reaching blindly through the dark;
Horrid, stealthy, dimly laying
Everywhere the icy spell,
Worse than winter, more than slaying—
Doubt, that hissing came from hell.

Doubt, the shapeless shape, came gliding
Gauntly from a caverned cloud,
Clad in rayless gloom, and hiding
Hateful features with a shroud;
Shedding mist around, and leaning
Low and yet without a trace,
Blank, with sightless orbs unmeaning,
Staring into empty space;
Vaguely flitting here, and thither
Turning feet that made no sound,—
Made but blossoms fair to wither,
Left the earth a burial ground.

Doubt, the disenchanter, setting
Here and there its fingers foul,
Branding all, and black forgetting
Bringing, like a midnight cowl;
Still its presence evil thrusting
Into each most holy haunt,
Sapping sacred truth, and trusting
Tender blighting with its taunt;
Still disturbing bounds, and proving
Nothing to be great or good,
Shaking hoary faiths, removing
Landmarks that for ages stood.

119

Doubt, the formless phantom, mocking
Minds, with shifting show, and lure
Baseless as a vision, rocking
Old foundations sealed and sure;
Murmuring its moods, and living
Death-like in the fogs of fear,
Born of madness and misgiving,
Speaking nothing loud or clear;
Big with many an artful question,
Dreadful hints that stick and stain,
Skilled to drop the vile suggestion
Prodigal in fruit of pain.

Doubt, disturbing each, the spoiler
Thirsting for the life of man,
Eager to defraud the toiler
Simple of his heavenly plan;
Eager to mislead, in mazes
Murky reverent souls, and blind
Giant intellects, with crazes
Winding back to gulfs behind;
Sowing hearts with poison, ever
Rolling sad and sightless orbs,
Dragging down the warped endeavour
Into night that all absorbs.

Greed, with bloated bulk, came dragging
Splay misshapen feet, and clutched
Fiercely at its gains, unflagging,
On with steps that only smutched;
Raking up the mire, and groping
In the muck for treasure meet,
Out of any offal hoping
Still to gather something sweet;
Snatching booty from the gutter
Filthiest, with fingers wried,
Scraping, scratching, in its utter
Zest, but never satisfied.

Greed, with hundred hands, that pointed
Everywhere, and spared no bud,
Not by priestly rite anointed,
Splashed with crimson marks and mud;
Pitting one against the other,
Jealousy and lack of rest
Planting, till the very mother
Spurned the baby at her breast;
Parent but of deep division
In disordered will, and sped
Forth to rapine, to derision
Of the tears the orphan shed.

120

Lust, with shining garb, and glorious
Eyes, that sleeping souls would wake
Wild to passion—eyes victorious—
Lust, half-woman and half-snake;
Came and saw and conquered bosoms,
Witched by her strange beauty, blind
Still to doom beneath the blossoms,
Scattered by her to the wind;
Touched, and with her magic thrilling,
Sent the venom in a flood,
Cruel, hot as fire, and killing,
Mixed with madness, through the blood.

Lust, with every grace invested,
Wonderful and white, and strong
Natures weak to woo, arrested
Hardly in the road of wrong;
Soft and sinuous, and stealing
Dimly on the drowsy frame,
Under smile and blush concealing
All the harlotry of shame;
Lovely, nude, delicious, tempting
Saints with sighing honeyed breath,
None from her embrace exempting,—
Lust, whose parting kiss is death.

Many more, disguised and deadly,
Foes to man's diviner part,
Where the wine-cup flashing redly
Flowed, came fond into his heart;
Enemies, whose name is legion,
Foul as fiends, with angels' air,
Rich in spoils of every region,
Entered fast and seemed so fair;
Bringing bliss and rose-like vices,
Stript of every thorn, to suit
Timid tastes, with fragrant spices,
Veiling the forbidden fruit.

Yet no warning sign was given
Men, who woke but to despond,
While poor guilty souls, unshriven,
Past into the night beyond;
Lost their splendid faith the holy,
Left his wisdom even the sage,
Mighty warriors lamed and lowly
Fell, though not in battle's rage;
Widows stooped to the invader,
Maidens no more maidens wept,
Slew and slew the grim Armada
Still, and still the City slept.

121

A MAID OF DEVON.

Come, raise your hats, proud nobles, now
To one who never bent—
To a more noble maiden bow,
Whose name was Millicent;
A child of gentle blood and bold,
If yet unknown to fame,
Whose story should be writ in gold,
And she a household name;
Ah, bow the haughty head, and kneel
To this young queenly maid,
Who held her purpose firm as steel,
To death nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Down in the lovely Devon land,
Where women all are fair,
Where men are mighty to command,
And breathe a larger air—
It happened, what I tell in song,
This true heroic deed,
To show a maiden can be strong,
Though fragile as a reed—
There beats a heart in childhood's breast,
To do and grandly dare,
A spirit that can laugh at rest,
And fiery tortures bear.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Ah, mothers, when your pets run wild,
Thorns fret the floweret's stem,
Think of that tender woman child,
And gentle be to them—
Of her, who, as to burning stake,
A martyr dared to go,
And love all maidens, for the sake
Of her who suffered so;
Could those, who in a palace dwell,
And shielded are from wrong,
Stand under such a cross as well,
Such burden bear as long?
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

She numbered scarcely sweet ten years,
And dainty was and slight,
And mingled seemed of roses' tears,
Pure lilies, love, and light;

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The promise of the bud, that opes
Just to the morning's kiss,
Lay on her with its radiant hopes,
In prophecies of bliss;
Gleams as of sunrise in the east,
Glanced through her golden hair,
Found in her glorious eyes a feast,
And made her wondrous fair.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

One day, at school, in careless play,
Running to catch a ball,
She slipt on her impetuous way,
And had a grievous fall;
She broke her pretty arm, and quick
The cruel pangs that came,
Turned her brave bosom faint and sick,
And quivered through her frame;
And hardly could she rise, and drag
Feet lightly used to roam,
And oft she was obliged to lag,
Before she reached the home.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

She sought the mistress, sad and pale,
In quest of pitying art
And helping hands, with trembling tale,
And anguish in her heart;
But kindness none she met from her,
Who held a parent's place,
And should have been a comforter,
But turned a frigid face;
She called her “coward,” many a name
Child never tamely bore,
Till a fixed purpose fierce as flame,
Arose—to say no more.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Hard was the mistress, stern and cold,
Who treated suffering thus,
And only mocked the tale she told,
As if an idle fuss;
She laughed at falls, bade Millie try
To bear a trifling pain,
And not for “nothing” weakly cry,
Or baby-like complain;
Indeed, she said pride must be thrown,
Turned rudely on her heel—

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She had no children of her own,
Nor could for children feel.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

And then the resolution sprang
Splendid, in that young mind,
Still to endure the awful pang,
When duty was so blind;
Still to go on in silent grief,
Whate'er might be the harm,
Though hidden pain, with no relief,
Gnawed at the pretty arm;
Still to keep silent her sad plight,
The story how she fell,
And though at last it killed outright,
Yet never never tell.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

And so she did, she calmly went
From lessons to her play,
Though ceaseless tortures racked and rent
The broken limb, all day;
And all the night, on sleepless bed
She lay, nor uttered cry,
Though the wild throbbings never fled,
And rose to agony;
Day after day, with white set face,
She played her conquering part,
And gathered fresh angelic grace,
With misery at heart.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Grey.

No thought of yielding, though more faint
And feeble she became—
As if had stept some martyr saint,
Forth from a picture-frame;
Her large gray eyes seemed larger still,
Beseeching, soft, and fond—
Like eyes, that through this earthly ill,
Look into worlds beyond;
Love found fair missions for her feet,
With more than childhood's power,
And all that makes a maiden sweet,
Burst into glorious flower.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Companions thought her kinder, changed
To something gentler, new,

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From the wild darling who had ranged,
As each fresh fancy drew;
They scarcely marked the paler cheek,
To the old kisses turned,
Nor troubled in rude health to seek
The reason, why it burned;
Why oft from their caresses rough
She shrank, and even at noon
Of the old pleasures had enough,
And grew so weary soon.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Week followed week, and still she kept
Her bitter secret sure,
Nor wavered once, nor child-like wept,
Heroic to endure;
Heedless to count the loss or gain,
In her devoted part,
While waves of purifying pain
Swept through her virgin heart;
Till, without bowing broke the strength,
Compassion should have healed,
And death, more merciful, at length,
The dreadful truth revealed.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

The angels heard her call, one night,
Tost on her fiery bed,
And carried her to rest and light,
Whither the Saviour led;
That frame, for which no pity cared,
With all its wasted charm,
Showed then the broken bone, when bared,
Pierced through her pretty arm;
Tears fell from eyes unused to weep,
For that true noble maid,
Who so in silence dared to keep
Such woe, nor was afraid.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

Then let her give another name,
To our great golden year,
And be a portion of the fame
That makes old Devon dear;
And when we talk of gallant deed,
Done on the ocean wild,
By worthy men, in England's need,
Remember that fair child;

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Who chose to bear the bitter pain,
And the more bitter lie,
And rather thus than once complain,
To suffer and to die.
O ye who read this story, pray
For the sweet soul of Millie Gray.

“THE BEAUTIFUL NANCY.”

The heavens were all gritty and grim,
With the rain-spluttered splashes;
And the waters rolled ragged and dim,
In unmerciful crashes.

'Twas as though a mad painter had flung
On the sky and its vapours,
The gaunt shapes from his fantasy sprung,
Their caprices and capers—

The wild dreams of his frantic conceit,
In their writhings and rushes;
All the chaos his hand could complete,
With tempestuous brushes.

And the billows were wrapped in a mist,
They fell backward and forward
As they hustled each other and hissed,
With the spray driven shoreward.

How they grappled the seaweed they caught,
In their hunger and hurry!
How they mumbled and mouthed it and fought,
As do hounds what they worry!

They were yellow of feature and face,
And their fury was single;
While they clutched with a cruel embrace,
At the yellower shingle.

What a jostling and thumping of stone,
What a rattling of pebbles,
Made the seaboard look famished and lone,
With their storm-cleaving trebles!

Lean and lank lay the seaweed in lines—
Yea, it massed in to mountains;
And in ridges and ribs and inclines,
Whence the steam flowed in fountains.

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Down the wind swooped in passionate squalls,
Sowing ruin and sadness;
Till it sank into sinister falls,
In the midst of its madness.

Now it broke the broad spaces in lumps,
That were swollen and savage;
While they moved with cross jerkings and jumps,
To destruction and ravage.

Now it clotted the billows in curds,
With a fretting and foaming;
Or it draggled slant wings of the birds,
That it clipt in their roaming.

Now it whipped the white tops of the waves,
With invisible scourges
Or it drove like a ploughshare, that graves
Through the heart of the surges.

Now it crept through the cracks of the gale,
As through chinks in a hovel;
While the waters went crawling and pale,
With a serpentine grovel.

Then in zigs and in zags rushed the rain,
From its toppled down sluices;
Making mischief and mirth out of pain,
And a thousand abuses.

Here the shingle was scribbled and scrawled,
With the wreckage in acres;
There the sand-hills rose bitter and bald,
Save with scum from the breakers.

And the ships in the stress of the storm,
Growing laggard and craven,
Just as doves in a timorous swarm,
Were all huddled in haven,

Ah, they tugged at their anchors and strained,
With a horror of reeling;
And the hopes of the mariners waned,
To a desperate steeling!

By the edge of the sea where it broke,
A wan woman went pacing;
And yet never a syllable spoke,
To the strife she was facing.

In the teeth of the wind she stood fast,
Though it ever waxed bolder;
Though it tore at her garments, and cast
The wild hair on her shoulder.

127

Oft she shaded her eyes with her hands,
Through her tresses 'wet tangle;
Slewing round on the sea and the sand,
In the riot and wrangle.

Was her boy not the flower of the flock,
And the fool of her fancy?
Would he 'scape through that shadow and shock,
In the “Beautiful Nancy”?

She was due—and the seamen in doubt,
Stood with lean levelled glasses;
Sweeping still the horizon about,
O'er those perilous passes.

But the ships in the Downs lay all snug,
Full a thousand and over;
And not one braved the hurricane's hug,—
It was death to the rover.

Tossing up, tossing down, till they leaked,
Beating back to the ocean;
While the cordage all rattled and creaked,
With a dismal commotion.

Though the timbers no rivet had lacked,
Yet the sea was their master;
Into fissures and furrows they cracked,
That seemed doomed to disaster.

Though the framework was seasoned and sound,
The best bolts stirred and started;
Though the bulwarks with iron were bound,
Yet the clamps pulled and parted.

Through the canvas and rigging the wind,
Made a whistling and rushing;
Every angle and flap it could find,
Felt its rending or crushing.

Under shelter the water was slack,
Though the sea ran in wrinkles;
While the beacon through rain and through rack,
Shed the feeblest of twinkles.

Yet that woman went lonely and white,
For the fool of her fancy;
Would he come in the day or at night,
In the “Beautiful Nancy”?

Lo, her sea-sodden garments drip down,
And her hands twist and tingle;
And her feet tremble naked and brown,
As they gripe at the shingle.

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Open-mouthed and wide-eyed doth she lean,
In a gaze vast and vivid;
Taking in at a glance all the scene,
With her look long and livid.

Blow on blow, sheet on sheet, they hit hard,
Savage wind, savage water;
Till she bends as a mast or a yard,
In the whirl that has caught her.

Till she rocks as a drunken man reels,
Or a wight in a swooning;
While she hears with a whizzing of wheels,
The old songs of her crooning.

Till she sees, as she staggers still on,
Through a mist of mad spangles,
A young face that is weeping and wan,
That the storm strikes and mangles.

Now to larboard and starboard she sways,
Now backward and forward;
Then she mutters a charm or she prays,
Looking southward and nor'ward.

Far to east, far to west went her look,
Through the hurricane's churning;
While her bosom was tortured, and shook,
With an infinite yearning.

Is his sail, that the blast beats and caves,
The white crest in the distance?
Does he sink in the trough of the waves,
Beyond hail of assistance.

O she longs for a glimpse of her lad,
For the fool of her fancy;
Who went sailing so bright and so glad,
In the “Beautiful Nancy”!

What is this that the billows have clutched,
As a prey or a plaything;
That the foam flakes have yellowed and smutched,
With their creamy enwraithing?

What is this that they grind in their grip,
As do hounds in their hurry;
Which they mumble and mouth and let slip,
Like a bone that they worry?

Is it flotsam or jetsam, or corpse
With dank sea-braided tresses;
That the wild water strangles and warps,
In its cruel caresses?

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Is it waif of a wreck that has sunk,
And rolls rotting or rotten;
A brine-bitten plank or a hunk,
From abysses forgotten?

How they tumble the toy in their sport,
Do those tyrannous surges;
How the lashes rain sharper and short,
From those pitiless scourges!

Now it leaps with a plunge from the womb,
Of the wind-riven breakers;
Now it flies like a ghost to its tomb,
In the ocean's dim acres.

And nearer and nearer it drew,
On its storm-ridden pillow;
To a shape from a shadow it grew,
As it danced with the billow.

'Tis a plank or a rib from the side,
Of some sea-scuttled vessel;
That was torn by the fangs of the tide,
With the tempest to wrestle.

Ah, she buried her nails in her hands,
And she twined and untwined them;
Staring round on the sea and the sands,
And the gloom that confined them!

Ah, she bit at her lips in their blood,
Till her teeth met together;
While the rain's sheeted slants in a flood,
Blurred and blotted the weather!

Empty hands she reached forth to the plank,
As it rose and subsided;
As she touched it, it shivered and sank,
And her anguish derided.

Now it flowed on the cap of a wave,
And the back current breasted;
Now a flounder and wallow it gave,
And re-ebbed unarrested.

But at last to her prayers it was sent,
But in sorrow and pity;
By the rage of the elements rent,
And all grimy and gritty.

Through the surf with its passionate beat,
Drove the thing that she dreaded;
Till it lay like a log at her feet,
In the seaweed embedded.

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With a hubbub and hustling it came,
Read afar by her fancy;
For in letters of light ran the name—
Of the “Beautiful Nancy.”

DIOGENES IN SEARCH OF VIRTUE.

[_]

(Proverbs xxxi. c., 10 v.)

Come with me and tread close on the traces,
Where the land of fair womanhood lies;
With the gleam of voluptuous faces,
And the glance of unvirtuous eyes;
Where lust with decorum embraces,
In tremulous laughter and sighs.

Let us seek for some purity token,
In the blaze of the butterfly throngs;
Where the will of the proudest is broken.
With the magic of amorous songs;
Where if vice is a horror unspoken,
It is ever enactmg its wrongs.

Messalina the Queen has her histories,
And their secrets of shame and of shade;
The debauches of wanton consistories,
And the criminal kisses well-paid:—
While the flunky is fondling his Mistress,
See the Master caressing the maid!

Here's Augusta the beautiful Peeress,
Who has jewels as cheap as her charms;
With a heart that no libertine wearies,
And a bias to neighbourly arms;
Though a blot on her titular series,
Yet no scandal her character harms.

There is Constance whose delicate orgies,
Are inconstant to all but to lust;
The wife of a Member who gorges,
And yields her a port-witted trust;—
Lo, she sits at his table, and forges
Fresh fetters of falsehood and dust.

There is Faith with her pious discretion,
As a Quakeress pretty and prim;
While those eyes seem to play at confession,
Like her violets dewy and dim:—
Will she shrink from a tender transgression,
If absolved by a sermon or hymn?

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Look at Prudence the wife of the Rector,
A fair creature of crotchets and nerves;
Whose sentiment luscious as nectar,
From no path of propriety swerves:—
Look again, and (behold!) you detect her,
As a poacher on other preserves.

What of Innocent made for adoring,
Like a lily or sensitive plant?
With her manners and memory storing,
New maxims and modes to enchant:—
When her beef-nourished husband is snoring,
She belies all her exquisite cant.

Then the Ruth who went blithely and quickly,
Right away from the rout to her room;
When her mother was taken so sickly,
That she fell on the neck of her groom;—
If the notes in her chamber lay thickly,
Did she come for her mother or whom?

We have heard of the patience of Una,
In the midst of calamity sharp;
Is a saint to be found to impugn her,
Or at one of her actions to carp?—
Yet she has an affair with the Tuner,
Who plays more on her than her harp.

If the rest are offenders at seasons,
We are told Theodora is pure;
And for this of all possible reasons
To be slow is as well to be sure:—
Yet she hugs her French novels and treasons,
Though her face is devoutly demure.

Turn to Charity now in her dairv,
Where she shines as a star in the shade;
Was there ever a being so fairy,
In a world so deformed and decayed?
Say observers, whose glances are weary,
She is only the mask of a maid.

Zoë's bloom is of beautiful rareness,
And her source of seduction is deep;
Yet her sins have a ludicrous bareness,
And lasciviousness talks in her sleep:—
To be common is portion of fairness,
To be charming is still to be cheap.

If we search in the house and the hovel,
We shall find the disgrace is the same;
Yea, the fiction we damn in the novel,
May not half the reality name;—
There are vices too hideous that grovel,
Like serpents in shadow and shame.

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For the wife is a mistress of many,
Though the title be treasure of one;
If her bribe be a pound or a penny,
The disaster is equally done;
And the evils more awful than any,
Turn to virtue in luxury's sun.

From the palace we pass to the gutter,
And we tread on the track of the curse;
Though in one it may mumble and mutter,
In the other its silence is worse;
The depravement is deadly and utter,
For the person as well as the purse.

As I finished this infamous libel,
I saw saintly Irené go by;
Who (for sake of the rhyme) is a high belle,
With engagements less saintly than sly;
With one hand she was coaxing her Bible,
Yet adultery beamed from her eye.

Are there none then of virtuous bearing,
Who deserve not the scourging of scorn?
Not a few whose offences are sparing,
And whose garments are white and untorn?—
There is virtue, perchance, for the caring,
In the women untried and unborn.

O adult and adulterous sinners,
Who are bloated with purple and gold;
Ye delight in your delicate dinners,
And in dainty debauches untold;
But yet who (let me ask) will be winners,
When the breasts and the kisses are cold?

When the fire under amorous lashes
Has gone out, and the riddle is read,
And the love that its witchery flashes
From the mouth with its crimson is fled,—
Will ye toy with the worm and the ashes,
Or caress with corruption the dead?

A THREEFOLD CORD..

—July 10th, 1886

It was fashioned in courts of light,
It was formed by the angels' hands,
And the blessing that shone so fair and bright,
Was prepared in the holier lands,
And revealed to the maiden's wondering sight,
With the grace of its golden bands;
From the heaven it came,
Upon earth it fell,

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And it whispered of joy that has no name,
That was bidden with her to dwell,
By the Father whose love abode the same,
And declared that it was well.

They were made not by human art,
Nor united in earthly plan,
All the tender wealth of a woman's heart,
And the ruder might of man—
They were never meant to thrive apart,
Since the ages first began;
For a woman's trust,
And a man's right arm,
Are the treasures that can take no rust,
And possess a secret charm,
To defy the shock of winter's gust,
And the shade of evil's harm.

From the bowers of Eden's bloom,
And the early summer skies;
To the depths of the last and longest gloom,
That on weary bosoms lies,
There is still a place in the darkest room,
For the faith that upward flies;
On the sweetest lawn
May the sunbeam set,
But the spirits once together drawn,
Shall be undivided yet,
And will shine in a fairer fuller Dawn,
Though the days to rise forget.

In the name of the gentle Lord,
Who is still at the marriage feast,
And will frame of your bond a “threefold cord,”
That can kingly make the least,
With the love that is stronger than the sword,
And enthroned from west to east;
To your duties go,
In the larger life,
That by will Divine was broadened so—
Not unequal to the strife,
If the billows toss you to and fro—
As anointed man and wife.

QUEEN VICTORIA.

—20th JUNE, 1886

Queen of a nation's choice,
Queen of a vaster earth
Than the orb which obeyed the Cæsar's voice,
Where the eagles carried dearth—
It is well that thy people should rejoice,
In the Guardian of the Hearth;

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Altar and shrine,
Castle and home,
Thou hast made the cottage these and thine,
And as safe as the palace dome,
Till the darkest portals ope and shine,
In the happier days that come.

Queen for nigh fifty years,
Queen of a willing realm,
Thou hast shared thy subjects hopes and fears,
And stood steadfast at the helm—
Thou hast wiped away all the sufferer's tears,
When the storm would overwhelm;
Woman and tried,
Sister and true,
Thou hast halved the sorrows that sorely plied,
As if trouble were thy due—
Thou hast doubled the joys that would have died,
In a heaven no longer blue.

Queen of the loftiest line,
Queen by no foreign art,
By the gifts that engather and entwine,
The rude bosoms that else might part—
And enthroned by a tender right Divine,
In the love of each loyal heart;
Honoured by all,
Ruling as Guelf,
And yet ruled as thy servants' crownéd thrall,
With a hate of the gilded pelf,
That has made the mightiest sceptre small—
And the Sovereign of thyself.

Queen of the earth and sea,
Queen of the larger race,
That has flashed on the wildest wood and lea
The delight of freedom's face,
And has rolled the thunder of its plea
To the tyrant's farthest place;
Tighten the band,
Girding thy State,
With the woman's heart and the woman's hand,
That with Royal purpose mate,—
That are still the bulwarks of our land,
And have grown with Britain great.

THE ASSIGNATION.

Pitiful, pale,
Earthly, not good—
As the world counts mummery stiff and stale,
And the hypocrite's pious hood,

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That conceals what the graveyard should—
She remembered the old young tender tale,
That was murmured so long in that low vale,
And the answering of the nightingale,
As in wonderment she stood,
By the dimly-waving wood,
Looking up at the hill and down the dale,
For the loving that was her food;
Pitiful, pale,
In her snowy snood,
Was she weighed and found wanting in the scale;
Though she ventured all she could?

Trill, trill,
From the leafy shade,
Throbbed upon her heart with its maddening thrill,
Which the perjured Dives bade
Return to the wreck he made,
As they raced with the echoes o'er the hill,
And pursued the ripples that gemmed the rill,
Or displayed to the whispering ground their skill;
And she shook like the dewy blade,
Like the rose that began to fade
By her bosom, where he had vowed through ill
To abide, and be her aid;
Trill, trill,
From the haunted glade,
Like a sword arose that fain would kill
But her sin must first upbraid.

Beautiful, sweet,
Trustful and fond,
She was true herself with unswerving feet,
She believed that his hand was bond,
As it touched like a magic wand,
That the starlight could in the sunlight meet,
And the jewel match with the stone from street,
And the lightning would not blast if greet;
For her lesson was not conn'd,
How the mud of the foulest pond,
Is yet cleaner than the promise fleet,
Which has nothing save lust beyond;
Beautiful, sweet,
In the moonshine donn'd,
Which was wedding-robe and her winding-sheet,
Should she now so sore despond?

Hark! Hark!
O ye earth and sky,
He has sworn to the trysting in his park,
And the tempest that rolled by,
In its thunder made reply,
That the God who over-rules would mark,

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Who doth fan the faith with its dying spark,
And can feel for even the lap-dog's bark,
Or the woman-child's faint cry,
That with broken wings would fly,
To the heaven where sings the soaring lark,
From this hideous human sty;
Hark! Hark!
And she wonders why
It is dim without and within more dark,
And the world seems all awry.

Timid and weak,
Innocent, pure
In her purpose set as a sunny peak,
Of herself she was so sure,
Far above the vulgar lure,
Which in her would not find a faulty leak,
To her maiden spirit could not speak,
On her woman's will might never wreak
A wound that defies a cure,
To which time did not inure;
Should she deem his troth was a wayward freak,
That an hour might just endure?
Timid and weak,
Shy and demure,
She had slipt in the ruin she did not seek,
From which beauty could not secure.

Soft, slow,
From the hollow tree,
Came the measured hoot, like the hostile blow
Of the weapon that foot might flee,
If the eye could only see—
If the shadows did not creep and grow,
And the awful silence would not throw
Such a freezing spell on the blood's quick flow,
And the planets two or three
Would not bind her movements free;
For she felt like a puppet in a show,
Of which life itself is fee;
Soft, slow,
Sank her trembling knee
In the terror of the gloom and glow,
Which to mock could but agree.

Credulous, coy,
Foolish and fair,
She had been unto him a mere trifling toy,
While he played with her wondrous hair,
And the tresses tried to pair;
It was only to him a bubble's joy,

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That in later mood would as lightly cloy,
And no more his fickle fancy buoy—
Just a passing pleasant air,
Or a moment's helpful stair,
Which another moment might annoy,
When he sat in his lordly chair;
Credulous, coy,
In the lion's lair
She had fallen, and her he must destroy,
Who his Saviour did not spare.

Up, down,
Went the nodding grass,
Where it wavered coldly white and brown,
Like the shades in a magic glass,
As if eager to now let pass
The one form that oceans could not drown,
Nor the desert banish with its frown,
That to her was adorned with hero's crown;
For she thought in the common mass,
He outgrew his kind and class,
Yet she worshipped a king who was a clown
And an idol but of brass;
Up, down,
Went the flickering gas,
From the castle top and the far-off town,
And the night-wind sighed, “Alas.”

Maidenly now,
Delicate yet,
With the light of the passion on her brow,
And the eyes upturned and wet,
That so lately he would pet,
With the words which a virgin bosom bow,
Which no dream of death could avail to cow,
When the heart is given it knows not how—
She was promised and would be met,
And the sweet caress be set
As a seal, to remind him of his vow,
Or half payment of the debt;
Maidenly now,
Childish to fret,
If his promise was pledged—he did allow,
And he dares not nor shall forget,

Lost, lone,
At the trysting place,
She was lingering still and heard no tone,
And she nowhere saw the trace
Of that proud familiar face,
But the misty line of the starry zone,

138

As it struggled through a cloudy cone,
Though his loving looks within her shone,
With a strange and noble grace;
And his strong imperial pace,
As it sank in mosses or struck a stone,
Like the sun along its race;
Lost, lone,
In the ghostly space
Then her hand fell chill on some victim's bone,
Which survived the worm's embrace.

Terribly clear,
Sinister, grave,
Rang a voice in the chambers of her ear,
As the beat of a stormy wave
In a desolate ocean cave,
And it seemed just a sentence tolling near,
On a life that was blasted, black and drear,
While it syllabled solemn words of fear—
“I am coming but not to save,
Nor with kisses that women crave,
And I carry the doom of the judgment spear,
That descends on the fallen slave”;
Terribly clear,
Funeral stave,
Did it laugh at the penitential tear,
And the bosom that would be brave?

Lost, late,
In her human grief,
She had hoped through that weary watch the mate,
Who had played the dastard thief,
For a season base and brief,
Might yet come once more by the garden gate,
Nor would leave her to the outcast's fate,
While he ate and drank from his silver plate—
Could not make his pleasure chief,
And deny the pledged relief,
To the child he brought to that low state,
Who had erred from fond belief;
Lost, late,
With the dropping leaf,
Should she deem his delight now sere as hate,
And the harvest would have no sheaf?

Faithful to him,
Drooping the head,
That began with its weeping wild to swim,
In the anguish none had read
Of the dark hands dumbly spread,
She could only think of the pastures prim,

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And the moonlight stroll by the water's brim,
When he praised her figure tall and trim,
While he smiled away her dread,
With his firmer talk and tread,
As he swore she should leave her corner dim,
And be sharer of his bread;
Faithful to him,
Like a broken thread,
The poor life was cleft for a scoundrel's whim,
And an infinite heart lay dead.

Weep, weep,
For the woman's shame,
Which would stab her still in the troubled sleep,
Which would always be the same,
And around as a picture's frame,—
Which would always yet more ghastly creep,
And would gather gloom more dire and deep,
And the trustful soul in horror steep;
But a curse for the coward's game,
When he soiled his sister's fame,
Who is still decoyed as the simple sheep,
While she bears alone the blame;
Weep, weep,
Be the teardrops flame,
For the heart that could not its honour keep,
And the doom alone that came.

THE BUNCH OF FLOWERS.

Oh, why did she stagger, stop and reel,
In her blazing scarlet sin,
And swing round as if swooning on her heel,
From the mortal blow of a piercing steel,
Which had found a pathway in,
Through the pretty painted skin?
Had she slipt on a scrap of orange peel,
Or grown dizzy from the din
And the fiery gulp of gin?
Did a flash of sorrow bid her feel
In a moment all her shame, and kneel
To the God who is our Kin?

Lo, the prim policeman in his jaunt,
Who the helmet stayed to don
He had loosened to wipe his brow, and flaunt
In the face of the children it might daunt,
Gave a glance at her features wan,
Which he hardly cared to con,
As he blessed his lot with a selfish vaunt,
That the sunlight on him shone,

140

And his day was nearly gone;
While he thrust her back with a brutal taunt,
To the brothel and the drunkard's haunt,
And said foughly, “Girl, move on.”

But she saw him not in her utter need,
And she felt not the cruel hand,
And she heard not the bitter words to speed
Her away from the pavement, as a weed
That must fly from the garden land,
And is under the curse and brand;
To the passing world she had lent no heed,
If they bound her in prison band,
And the hour-glass with its sand
Had run out, and her forfeit life should bleed,
Which had sown for the gallows deadly seed,
That black fruit would now demand.

And if men should mock at her evil stress,
Or the earth refuse to pay
What it lavished upon the nobler dress,
Of the titled harlot none would guess,
Who was wrought of viler clay,
Though her head in the purple lay,
Which the purchased priestly lips might bless,
When in public she would pray;
Yet she marked not sinful sway,
If the riches' glow made the stain look less,
And to her was doled not one caress,
For her heart was far away.

Ah, why did she totter so and turn,
With the wild and wondering look
Of a soul, that this little stage would spurn,
And go back once more to its Orient urn,
When it laughed as a limpid brook,
And a purer channel took?
Did the fire from Heaven within her burn,
Which illumined her heart's black book,
And her shadowy bosom shook?
In that dreary life would her spirit yearn,
For the lessons that the children learn,
Who the fold never yet forsook?

She had sallied forth in her beauty's pride,
To the quiet evening hours,
And again on her sinful track would slide,
Where the gallants lounge and the toilers glide,
And the stately palace towers—
Where wealth of its glory showers,
And the knaves in their blazoned coaches ride,
That are bought with widows' dowers,

141

And were built of blood-won powers;
And she saw by a crossing in the tide,
Just a country child at her very side,
Who held out but a bunch of flowers.

It was only a bunch of hawthorn bloom,
Nothing more than the common sprays
From a country hedge, with the yellow broom
She had twined round the pony she would groom,
In the dim forgotten days,
When she walked in other ways;
But it carried her back to the dear old room,
And she sees the dusty rays
Fall again, as the shadow plays
On the cottage far through which faces loom;
And it looked like a solemn sight of doom,
When the parting spirit prays.

Just a handful of blossoms white and pink,
Such as she had often found
On the primrose banks, where the footsteps sink
Through the grass and dews that the mosses drink,
When there comes a singing sound
From the many-coloured ground—
Where the violets blue from their refuge blink,
And red lichens gather round
The decaying bar and bound;
But it wrought with the past a ghostly link
And she stood once more on the crumbling brink
Of the sea, that myriads drown'd.

In a moment all her life lay bare,
At the flash of that lurid light,
Which unveiled the form of every care,
And the direst memory would not spare,
Nor the tenderest secret sight,—
Like a thunder bolt at night;
Till her trembling reason did not dare,
As it grasped her bitter plight
In the lost unequal fight,
For a minute meet the accusing glare,
And the record that she would not share,
Which was hers by hateful right.

Oh, she seemed again a modest child,
In her little maiden cot,
Where her happy dreams were true and mild,
And her fancy did not wander wild
On the paths, that only blot
The repose of fairest lot;
And again her mother on her smil'd,
While she bathed her bosom hot,

142

Where the bruise still left a spot
Which was grace itself, to what defil'd
All the Godlike heart that its God revil'd,
When it woman's crown forgot.

For a while the staring street had fled,
With its rude and wrangling crowd,
With the idlers who on pleasure sped,
And the wounded souls that toiled and bled,
As they framed their funeral shroud,
That the revellers might laugh loud,
And the sunshine be more sharply shed
On the lonely sufferer's cloud,
In her innocence pure and proud;
And again the cooing doves she fed,
And watered the big geranium bed,
Or at homelier duties bow'd.

But a pulse or two of the fleeting time,
And her startled thoughts went back
To the bees that murmured in the lime,
And the breezes of a softer clime
Where the daisies hid her track,
And there gaped no earthquake crack;
Ah, she heard once more the harvest chime,
And beheld the rising stack
Which defied the wolf of Lack;
From her jewelled shame and gilded slime,
It all looked like a rainbow's foot sublime,
As it flies from a hopeless wrack.

And she then returned to the blasting stain,
Which had pierced into the quick,
And she felt an unfamiliar pain,
Like the gnawing of a prison chain,
Which doth ever drag and stick,
Till her spirit trembled sick;
And a darkness set within her brain,
She recalled the dastard trick,
And the serpent's loving lick,
Ere his victim felt the deadly strain,
When her wildest efforts proved but vain,
And the fangs began to prick.

And it all came surging on her gaze,
The old pavement she had trod,
As she blindly looked through the splendid haze
Of voluptuous sin—that maddening maze,
Which concealed the judgment rod,
Like the bones beneath the sod;
And it seemed so dreadful and to daze,
That she wondered how she still could plod

143

On that evil quest, at vice's nod,
And had never burst from the mocking blaze,
Which the courts infernal well might graze,
And was still afar from God.

And, behold, a fire within her burned,
That no charm would ever choke,
While the dazzling show it fiercely spurned,
And for something purer, fairer, yearned,
Than the gay and gilded yoke
With the ashes nought could cloke;
And a glimpse of peace that was not earned,
As remorse deep in her spoke,
From the Heaven above her broke;
And when once the guilt her love discerned,
To her better self her heart returned,
And the higher life awoke.

And the flowers long blighted in her breast,
With the graces she did not prize,
Were now shaken from their winter rest,
And the frozen soil that on them prest,
And shone out from her weeping eyes,
Into new-born earth and skies;
And she knew for her was a refuge blest,
In a hush of awed surprise,
Though the world would her despise,
That no prim policeman could molest,
If the loathèd sin were all confest,
And the Saviour said “Arise.”

There was joy in the lofty realms of Light,
And a new exultant sound,
At the sinner who returned that night,
In the dew of her repentance bright;
While the mud seemed holy ground,
And the captive pale and bound,
Took a courage fresh from the great sight,
Which reflected glory round,
And the gyves with roses wound;
The enfranchised soul regained its right,
And put on a sweet immortal might,
When the wandering child was found,

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

Her crimson lips the laugh may sunder,
And pouting may they plead
More eloquently, than the thunder
Which men would conquering lead;

144

The jest may give that dainty curling,
Which only woman wills,
Bright as the banner-like unfurling
Of morning on the hills;
The song may play in light and shadow,
Which flashes from her mouth,
With all the notes of wood and meadow,
And sweetness of the South;
The might of music, fain to capture
The hearts that coyly doubt,
May move her feet with rhythmic rapture
To let their passion out;
The hand may lightly toy and tremble,
Upon the silver strings,
In pride that can no more dissemble
The strength of eagle wings;
Her life may seem the same to others,
Who but rejoice and rest;—
And yet the smile so hardly smothers
A torn and bleeding breast.

Without her shines the lying story,
Which makes a woman fair—
The grace of form, the wondrous glory
Of colour, curve, and hair;
Within, the spirit bent and broken,
Consumed by the slow pain,
Which is its wealth, the bitter token
Of some accurséd stain.
Without, the pomp of queenly paces,
Which step to happy chimes—
The touch that leaves but golden traces,
And talks of nobler times;
Within, the falling of the curtain
Which wraps a guilty soul,
And sounds more grim because uncertain,
Which to its funeral toll.
Without the world's admiring clamour,
The rich unspotted dress,
The heaven of beauty, and the glamour
Of eyes with love's caress;
Within the self-accusing sentence,
The bosom no one heeds,
Which finds no place for its repentance,
And darkly burns and bleeds.

THE STRAYED ANGEL..

—9 SEPT. 1886

From Heaven she came, and therefore could not stay
Long on her earthly track;
She was an angel, who had lost her way,
Till Jesus called her back.

145

She heard the melodies, that round us lie,
The sweep of golden strings;
And passed through conquered death, but did not die—
She only spread her wings.

To Heaven she went, when she no more could win
New triumphs for her love;
The door was open, and God took her in—
One little step above.

Her home of peace and happiness was there,
Known if not fully seen;
And she would fain at last herself, be where
Her heart had ever been.

Ah, she was weary as a weary child,
Who does her Father's will;
Who braves the tempest, though the winds are wild,
Faint yet pursuing still.

And when she scarcely held, (nor port seemed nigh),
The heavy cross she bore;
The last rough wave just washed her safe and high,
Upon the Shining Shore.

And the last angry blast, that on her beat,—
Nor would she any miss—
But wafted her to the dear Saviour's seat,
And mingled with His kiss.

The gentle spirit, that was sorely prest,
Nor once her task denied,
Hath now returned as to her native rest,
And she is satisfied.

THE IRISH INTERDICT.

What is this that we see in the cottage,
What is this that we hear in the hall?
Not a faggot of sticks for the pottage,
Not a handful of oats for the stall.
Though the tiles from the chamber are tumbling,
Where the girl lies deserted and sick;
Though the dog that was pampered, is mumbling
The white bone which has nothing to pick;
Not a hand is upraised for repairing,
Not a doctor to stand by the bed,
Not a sound but the sob of despairing,
When all creatures but vermin are fled;
Not a heart with the hope of assistance,
Not a step on the mud-littered mats,

146

Not a sign of the meanest existence,
Save the sinister gnawing of rats.
Ah, the corpse waits unburied, untended
With the rites, that no savage could grudge
To the vilest, most lowly descended,
To the poorest most pitiful drudge.
Who are these that no mercy are giving,
While the orphan is crying for bread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

And the house that was splendid and spacious,
With the glory of silver and gold,
With the beauty of women so gracious,
With romances so awful and old,
Now is shut in the shadow of mourning,
Now is shorn of the jubilant feast,
While a shroud is the robe of adorning,
And the darkness is shared by the beast;
Not a scrap for the pets that are crying
After food, at which once they would spurn,
Not a chance for the dearest if dying,
That the tide of their ruin will turn.
For the mistress who is to be mother,
Not the commonest help of a nurse,
And one evening may follow another,
But each only makes deeper the curse.
And the friend must not brmg of her labour,
Which would lighten the troubles that lour,
Nor the breast of the tenderest neighbour
May relent and be human an hour.
Who are these that refuse even shriving,
And the burial block in its tread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

What is this that we see in the city,
What is this that we find in the field?
Are there bosoms all emptied of pity,
That but hate to be harvested yield?
Against brother the brother is plotting,
As his fingers catch hold of the knife;
And the husband the furnace is hotting
For his Moloch, to offer a wife.
And the servant so true to his master,
Now has hardened his breast as a stone;
And the saviour who drew from disaster,
Now is left in his anguish alone.
Yea, the landlord is struggling with tenant,
And the tenant is struggling with lord;
While the pirate has hoisted his pennant,
And the murderer sharpened his sword.

147

For the bonds of assurance are broken
By grim doubts, that devour as the rust,
And the word is not meant that is spoken,
And no man in his fellow can trust.
Who are these that old links have been riving,
To the grave pay no honour or dread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

O the creatures that batten and burrow,
In the gloom on the terrors of man!
O the ploughshare that halts in mid furrow,
And the sowing that brightly began!
For the horses are ruthlessly stricken
By the hands of the cowards, who fight
With the weak, or when sufferers sicken,
Gather courage to stab in the night;
Who are heroes behind their safe hedges,
And dare look at an enemy's back,
But who blanch at the ball and cold edges,
If avengers are hard on their track;
Who can mutilate old men and cattle,
And disfigure the maidens they shame,
Who with childhood and helplessness battle,
And do this in dear Liberty's name!
Aye, they carry a passion more cruel
Beyond time and the limits of all,
And for eternity glean a black fuel,
In the horror and woe of the pall.
Who are these so inhumanly striving,
With the veil in sweet charity spread?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

What is this, that is writ in the blazing
Of fair ricks and the homesteads of friends,
That would spare not the flocks in their grazing
If destruction but furthered their ends?
That respects not the high and the holy,
And in temples of God leaves a smutch,
That makes havoc of blind things and lowly,
And the cripple despoils of his crutch?
That regards not the surest possessions,
Nor the person of wealthy or poor,
Forms its samts out of bloody transgressions,
And assassins who grope at the door?
Is it fear of the despot and stranger,
Who heap fetters on souls that are free?
Is it chafing at taxes, or danger
Of the evils that patriots see?
Is it love of the captive and lonely,
Which has reddened the hands of the brave,

148

Who would dance to the gallows, if only
A new country might spring from their grave?
Who are these on base butchery thriving,
That yet outrage the corpse's pale head?
They are men that will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

Ha the ban has been uttered by treason,
And the interdict now may not rest,
For each crime has some hallowing reason,
And sedition by priestcraft is blest.
Not the rogue is accursed, but the loyal
Who desires to be faithful and true—
Not the tyrant, but Woman if Royal,
And the debtor who renders his due;
Not oppression for grinding is branded,
Nor the burden that hampers and blights,
But the courtesy never demanded,
And the simple confession of rights.
For now vice is the maxim of morals,
It is sinful for man to do well;
While mere mercies for babies are corals,
And religion comes hissing from hell.
And the snakes, on which banishment utter
Was imposed by St. Patrick so long,
Have returned—as the swine to its gutter—
With their venom more dreadful and strong.
For they poison the well springs of grieving,
When at last life has broken its thread;
They are men who will war with the living,
They are devils that war with the dead.

VICTORIA DEI GRATIA REGINA.

Well has she held the sceptre long,
Well has she ruled a happy land;
It was the Almighty made her strong,
Who held through all her human hand.
For else her woman's acts were weak,
Her woman's feet had vainly trod;
Had she not ever learnt to speak,
Just by the grace of God.

Well has she tuned her woman's heart,
To even the smallest tale of grief;
And been herself the sweetest part,
Of all her womanly relief.
Her power was rather felt than seen,
The blossoms hid the royal rod;
We only knew that she was Queen,
Just by the grace of God.

149

Well has she played the noble wife.
As wedded to her country's weal;
Who to it consecrated life,
And set her honour as a seal.
To all her greatness grandly true,
She failed not those that meanly plod;
Her humblest action took its hue,
Just from the grace of God.

Well has she all a Mother's care,
To all her countless children shown;
Who every burden ran to share,
And every sorrow made her own.
It was not that she stooped to us,
She raised the fallen from the sod
Unto her side, and gloried thus
Just in the grace of God.

Well has she kept her solemn trust,
For fifty bright and blameless years;
Erect in strife and stormy gust,
Unshaken by a world of fears.
From duty's path she would not swerve,
Though other thrones might round her nod;
Her people not herself to serve,
Just by the grace of God.

Well has she done what despots feign,
And nothing base or little thought;
Until we seemed with her to reign,
So queenly for us all she wrought.
Long may she live to govern yet,
Whom faith has shielded, peace has shod;
Who never did her rule forget,
Was by the grace of God.

THE SOCIAL DEMOCRAT.

Tories brag of broad dominions,
On their neighbours growing fat;
These are honest men's opinions—
I'm a Social Democrat.
I opine the State is rotten,
Destined to the fiery forge;
When the plunder so ill-gotten,
Thieves though titled must disgorge.
Though the workers too have stumbled,
Wandered far from track of right,
Masks, which mocked their hopes and humbled,
Grinned between them and the light.

150

Nay, we cannot blame the people,
It is falsehood that they read,
Hear proclaimed from tower and steeple,
By their guardians who mislead.
Ever was and ever will be,
While the Briton boasts a shop,
While cheap wine is sold by Gilbey,
Scum that rises to the top—
Froth that makes a show and glitter,
Froth that sputters and is spent;
While the gold, so fair and fitter,
Has no value and no vent.
Nay, we dare not blame the masses,
If they fancy night is day;
But the braying of the asses,
Who their dupes would guide astray.
Priests may err with pious kneeling,
Poets even lie in song;
But a nation's mighty feeling,
Never, never can be wrong.
It is knaves who play at schooling,
Be it parliament or pen;
Who, while Fate themselves is fooling,
Turn to beasts of burden men.
Dotards, who to reign have lusted,
Though they carry cap and bells;
Who, with sacred rights entrusted,
Poison all a country's wells.
Robbers, who remove the landmarks,
That took centuries to trace;
And but leave on fleeting sand marks,
Which the tide will soon efface.
Wreckers, who the State could weaken,
By their shameful hidden shocks;
And uplifting treacherous beacon,
Lure the vessel on the rocks.
Blood-suckers, who, but for gaining,
Chopping keep their tune and chimes;
And, old books of beauty staining,
Write the story of their times.
Sots, who, when a realm is sinking,
Split mere hairs and measure straws;
Pass the social bottle, drinking
To the health of class-made laws.
O the comic range of choices!
Some are filled with gallows chat,
Others hang on ducal voices—
I'm a Social Democrat.

There are Editors who edit,
There are Editors who don't;

151

Hirelings, who have lost their credit,
But their filthy money won't.
Soon they must accounts be making,
How they earned their monstrous fees,
To the masses now awaking,
That are final legatees.
They must stand before their master,
Answer for their trifling tricks,
If they build our bulwarks fast, or
Only deal with bogus bricks—
If, to float a lying journal,
They espouse the traitor's part,
While they toy with truth eternal,
And from gutters borrow art.
Ah, they pawn their country's honour,
They would welcome stake and curse,
And would burn their saints, like Bonner—
If it added to the purse.
They would sell a mighty nation,
And her glory brand with scars,
For the largest circulation
And the very best cigars.
They would hail a despot's wishes,
And indorse the crime he wooes—
Aye, lick up his dirty dishes,
And black all his bloody shoes;
If by paid and perjured treason,
And by wallowing as swine,
They might have a merrier season,
And might purchase better wine;
If they so could make a marriage,
That would foist them into fame,
And parade a prouder carriage,
For the shabby price of shame.
What is England's ancient story,
And her grand historic flag,
To the knave who turns a Tory,
Just to fill his Judas bag?
What are principles to places,
And consistencies to powers?
What renown to Derby races,
And a faith to hothouse flowers?
What are laws to social station,
What are measures unto men,
Who “scotch” England's reputation,
With the scratching of a pen?
What is duty to a dinner,
In the fashion, with a swell?
What is frailty, if the sinner
Duly paints and powders well?

152

What is justice to mere actors?
What is petted bird to cat?
Others are unsocial factors,
I'm a Social Democrat.

What is any d---d division,
In the pestilential House,
To the Editor's decision,
But the mountain and the mouse?
What are hoary creeds and morals,
Or the decalogues of schools,
If not jingling bells and corals,
Just to quiet babes and fools?
What are sacred place and portals,
What is even the Civil List,
To that monster, pest of mortals—
To the jaunty journalist?
If he chance to cut a finger,
If some tender tooth should pain;
Church or State affairs may linger,
Till he is himself again.
Perish India, wrecked be Ireland,
Empire suffer any cost,
Fall in misery and mire land,
Rather than his nap be lost.
Lower class may war with upper,
Feel starvation's hangman gripe;
If he simply wants his supper,
Or a casual quiet pipe.
Criminal may be his lenience,
None will dare to censure him;
All must bow to his convenience,
All must curtsey to his whim.
Pots that flow with milk and honey,
He reserves upon his shelf—
Aye, he only aims at money,
And he only loves himself.
Handling of the gravest question,
Though a Premier tug his bell,
Just depend on his digestion,
If he dines or slumbers well.
When his spleen is in ascendance,
Or his hobby wants a bait,
Kings and queens may dance attendance,
Parliament and people wait.
Birds of prey have stealthy manners,
Darkness love the owl and bat;
We fear not to show our banners;
I'm a Social Democrat.

This the stuff to make memorials,
Falsify a nation's tale!

153

Editors and Editorials,
Bottled infamies and ale!
Dreams and dreams from cushioned quarter,
Worlds observed from club and cab!
Sparkling spite and milk and water,
Judas kiss and coward stab!
Thanks to Fashion's yoke and Fortune,
Thanks to greed for social gain;
Thousands may for bread importune,
Thousands die and die in vain.
Teachers, who should fight our battles,
Purchased are by smile or gold—
By the Devil's bribes, as chattels
On the market bought and sold.
Good, to be a daily winner,
Putting something in the pan;
Best, be true, though growing thinner,
Starving still to be a man.
Bad, to be a drone consuming,
Adding nothing to the stock;
Worst, to be a light illuming,
Only to the fatal rock.
These, my comrades, are your leaders,
Who to shambles but decoy;
These the miserable pleaders
Who their clients would destroy!
These the gods we called upon us,
Worshipped in an evil hour—
Gods who, like King Stork or Chronos,
Slaves infatuate devour!
Once I liked the names with handles,
Once supposed the earth was flat;
Now I court the sun, not candles;
I'm a Social Democrat.

Once I styled myself a Tory,
Once burnt incense at the shrine,
Where the laurels all are gory,
Where the gods are crownéd swine.
Once I was a child, and cheated
By the semblance and the sound;
Once I was a fool, and treated
Shams and shades as holy ground.
Now, a man, I know the better,
Strike against the false and ill;
Now I broken have the fetter,
Which is myriads holding still.
But I see the gleam of morning,
Rifting the horizon gray;
Glimpse of Liberty, that, scorning
Lies, announces endless day.

154

For the Giant now is waking,
Out of long and sullen sleep;
With a shadow and a shaking,
From the turret to the deep.
When he rises thrones will tumble,
Stricken with avenging death;
Prison walls and shackles crumble,
At the blasting of his breath.
Ha, the mighty downtrod masses
Shall unite, and with their flood
Sweep away the bloated classes,
That have battened on their blood.
Then hurrah for Revolution,
For the bayonet and gun;
That is now the sole solution,
With its red and rising sun,
For the dark and damnéd riddle,
Which has blighted many a home,
When the ransomed slaves shall fiddle,
On the ruins of their Rome.
Once I was a foolish baby,
I have had enough of that;
Got my teeth, and wisdom—may be;
I'm a Social Democrat.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

We were four sisters, fair and free,
We blossomed like the flowers;
We knelt at one kind Mother's knee,
And made her wishes ours.
We drank from one pure sacred fount,
The precious draughts of life;
We climbed the same old solemn mount,
Which raises above strife.
We feasted at one banquet still,
When toiling hours were done;
Our labours had one common will,
Our pleasures all were one.

We were four sisters, free and fair,
One glorious home we had;
We breathed the same large liberal air,
One sunshine made us glad.
Our joys and sorrows too we shared,
Together learnt each art;
In storm and calm alike we fared,
And had no thoughts apart.

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We fashioned ever with one tool,
And with one vision saw;
We sat as pupils in one school,
Where honour was the law.

We were four sisters tried and true,
In triumph and in care;
The load one sister had to rue,
The other sisters bare.
Swept on the same advancing swell,
We suffered the same cross;
The gain of each to all befell,
And one was every loss.
And if we quarreled, just by chance,
Or differed in our ends;
It needed but a word or glance
And we were faster friends.

We were four sisters, true and tried,
And one was passing sweet;
Who with us had the world defied,
Or witched unto our feet.
The youngest of our gracious band,
One by the holiest vow,
She gave us long her willing hand;
Where is that sister now?
Has she but strayed a little while,
By foolish fancies tost,
Soon to return with brighter smile;
Or is our sister lost?

We were four sisters, one in hope,
Though wayward Erin seem;
We saw the same grand future ope,
The same brave banner gleam.
Our strife is but a fleeting wind,
Though friends may falsely plot;
We have a thousand links that bind,
And parted we are not.
Ah, though the shadows heavy lie,
And traitors pitfalls set,
No force can break our tender tie;
We are four sisters yet.

ONE FAITH, ONE FLAG.

We must be severed far,
By desert, wave, and crag;
We follow many a star,
But rally round one Flag.

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The mother and the child,
Though different be their name,
In storm or breezes mild,
Their spirit have the same:
To bring to peoples dead,
The lamp of holy oil,
Till every spot they tread,
Is free as England's soil.

We heard, if Duty bade,
From stubborn Maori pah,
To Burmah's grim stockade,
The old true wild hurrah.
The old true fearless will,
Is under foreign skies,
The boast of England still—
It conquers, or it dies.
The father and the son,
Draw the same soldier breath,
Divided yet are one,
In life and unto death.

We walk in different ways,
But show in every part,
The light of other days,
The same warm English heart.
Beneath the cloudless blue,
And in the Arctic night,
England is one and true,
The champion of the right.
Though parties rise and set,
Her love is ever fond;
Her word is given yet,
And taken as her bond.

The naked doth she dress,
And in that royal robe,
Which covers all distress,
And gathers up the globe;
The charity, that dares
Its freedom wide to stretch,
And its grand charter shares
With any hunted wretch.
Wherever one complains,
A comrade's voice is known;
For England still maintains,
All other wrongs her own.

False traitors are the knaves,
Who downward would us drag,
And over brothers' graves
Divide our English flag.

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We sundered are by sea,
And some may lowly plod,
But one great solemn plea
For justice goes to God.
However dread the cost,
United is our aim,—
If life itself be lost—
To honour every claim.

From Canada's black pine,
And gray Australian gum,
To India's golden mine,
Where beats the English drum;
Though arméd worlds may block,
Our purpose yet holds good,
To stand upon the rock,
Where firm our fathers stood;
To live the noble life,
Their faith established then.
To bridle barbarous strife,
And carry peace to men.

The mother and the child,
The father and the son,
Though winds may threaten wild,
In glory too are one;
A flag without a spot,
A venerable name,
Which never has forgot
Its heritage of fame;
To do their duty well,
By sowing lands of dearth
With kindly acts, that swell
The happy fruits of earth

A tide that ever flows,
A sun that never sets,
A power that alway grows,
A care that none forgets;
A pulse that truly beats,
With every noble thing;
A foot that but retreats,
To give a farther spring;
These are the lofty lines,
Wherever deeds are done,
That show how England twines
Of many heroes one.

One voice for valiant plan,
One hatred of a blot,
One verdict that we can,
If all the world cannot;

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One eye for Duty's part,
One ear for Honour's call
One hospitable heart,
Which open is to all;
One action without brag,
One empire more than Rome,
One faith, one glorious flag,
And everywhere one home.

“NO SPACE.”
[_]

(Editor.)

It was written in darkness and grief,
And conceived in the brooding of pain;
For his song was his single relief,
Though its refuge too often proved vain.
It was blotted and blurred with his tears,
As he trembled the verses to trace;
And his eyes were half blinded with passionate fears;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the gifted, who shone
Like a lamp in the shadowy night;
Who himself had no comfort alone,
Though all round with his beauty was bright.
But “space” for the ignorant fool,
Who had nothing but what he could steal;
And who copied his lore, as his lessons at school,
Yet his folly still could not conceal.

It was wrung out of rapture and woe,
Like a page torn away from the heart,
In the thought that creates with its throe,
When the body and soul seem to part.
It had cost him an earthquake of strife,
Ere it grew to its virginal grace;
It was shaken by death, and made splendid with life;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the poem that lives,
For the word that is wingéd and burns;
That receives but from Truth what it gives,
And in showers of blessing returns.
But “space” for the pestilent lie,
For the fancy that comes from the tomb;
That has nothing to do but to rot and to die,
And go back to corruption and gloom.

It was fashioned with fever and hope,
And it burst from his suffering strong;
As great doors in eternity ope,
And let out revelations of song.

159

For it spoke of new triumph and trust,
And it flashed as a prophet the face,
That had gazed upon God who doth quicken the dust;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the lofty and fair,
For the spell that turns water to wine;
And with secrets of sunshine and air,
Makes the garments that clothe the Divine.
But “space” for the lecherous tale,
For the work of the pander and beast;
For the horrible lust, that the holiest pale
Rushes through, to its damnable feast.

It was all he could offer, his life,
Just himself, as a continent new;
That had passed from the sacrifice knife
To the heaven, in glory and dew.
There were prayers and pinions of fire,
To uplift and ennoble a race;
With the yearnings, that ever and ever aspire;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the righteous and true,
Who alone can God's victories win;
Who alone is possest of the clue,
That will guide through the sorrow and sin.
But “space” for the villain and cheat,
And the japings of jester and fool;
For the man that is mighty to drink and to eat,
And the hand made iniquity's tool.

It was done, he had laboured for nought;
No one recked of the noble and good,
Of the world-changing lightning of thought,
That unveiled what in darkness had stood.
No one knew what a treasure was lost.
Though not blazoned in purple and lace;
No one counted the pangs of the infinite cost;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the spirit, that dares
To defy what is rotten and rank;
That for weakness and misery cares,
And would fill up the desolate blank.
But “space” for the coward and knave,
For the wicked if wealthy or bold,
Though he never had lifted a finger to save,—
But the hoards of his ill-gotten gold.

He had lived for his fellows in vain,
He had loved the forlorn and the low
But at last from the pitiful strain,
His brave genius snapt, as a bow.

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Though they shovelled him into the ground,
As a pauper, and grudged him a place,
Let us hope that in Heaven some room he has found;
If on earth there was only—“No space.”

Ah, “no space” for the Saviour called God,
And “no space” for the saviour called man;
And no home, save that under the sod,
For the heart with a holier plan.
But all “space” for the slayer of souls,
The destruction that leaves but a wraith;
And the palace and crown for the devils and ghouls,
Who grow fat on the ruins of faith.

He had written, as if with his blood,
And in letters of grandeur and flame,
Of the are that can brighten the flood,
And new marvels that yet had no name.
He had stood on the thundering mount,
With his harp, not with warrior's mace;
He had drunk of the bliss of the life-giving fount;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the singer, who struck
A fresh note on his wonderful strings,
From the Mother whose bosom gave suck,
To her child with angelical wings.
But “space” for the babbler of wrong,
The old falsehoods corroded and vile,
That dethrone the true bard with redemption his song,
And whatever they breathe on defile.

He had shared his small pittance and room,
With the brother who told him his lack;
To himself he had gathered the gloom,
To shed light on one sorrowful track.
Yea, his heart in magnificent sweep,
Took the world to its tender embrace,
Every hope of the height, every doubt of the deep;
But for him there was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the hero, who gave
Of his utmost, and all uttered well,
But the sombre six feet of the grave,
And a handful of earth for its knell.
But “space” for the spoilers, who prey
On the marrow and life of the best;
Who in ashes lay gardens like Paradise grey,
With the knowledge that kills, as the pest.

He had fought with the armies of night,
He had spoken the ransoming word,
He had seen the ineffable sight,
The last innermost mystery heard.

161

He had taken his stand on the seat
Of the highest, and stooped not an ace;
While his pulse with the laws of the universe beat;
But the answer was only—“No space.”

“No space” for the teacher and wise,
Who would lead to the pasture so green,
Where the down-trodden toilers arise,
And the drift of the ages is seen.
But “space” for the guides that go ill,
That draw ever more darkly aside;
And all honour to those that dishonour their skill,
And the man from his Maker divide.

No one dreamed he had wanted a crust,
No one heeded or wondered or wept;
And the world, in its lying and lust,
Went on dancing to doom—though he slept.
Though the mind with its music was dumb,
And the foot with its conquering pace;
Though the hand that had helped was now withered and numb;
And his epitaph only—“No space.”

“No space” for the kingly and grand,
Who had offered such jewels of love;
And whose heart was a heavenly land,
Like a star that had dropt from above.
But “space” for the haters of men,
And rewards for the sowers of loss;
Who the Temple had turned to the plunderers' den,
And their God again nailed to the Cross.

ST. COLUMB'S.

Prayer upon prayer it rose, God bade it rise,
Religious steps that claimed their kindred skies;
When Wealth looked far, and beautifully bold
Put blessing forth its pious wand of gold,
And into sacred marble turned the mud,
And made the glowing columns bloom and bud;
When work was worship, and in deathless layers
Strong men of old built up heroic prayers
And praise, stone upon stone, line upon line,
In characters that shall unclouded shine,
Celestial lamps . . So God's cathedral stept,

162

As to its native stars, and commune kept
And counsel sweet with God. . . But bitter years
Troubled its birth, with passion throbs and tears.
Fierce struck the storm of battle on its walls,
Descended leaden rain in curséd squalls,
And cruel blasts of bigot lust swooped down,
While Heaven itself seemed set in hostile frown
And leagued with earth, to mar that fabric bright,
Which into blossom changed the deadliest blight.
And yet again the ghastly thunder spoke
Wilder, and full its fatal terrors broke
Black on the Virgin City—woe and pain,
Hatred and wrath—but threatened yet in vain.
The young cathedral over Derry still
Spread benedictions, from its cone-shaped hill,
And ministrant in all things glad and good,
Above the winding Foyle unstainéd stood,
Baptized in blood and sighs and searching fire,
Nor scathed . . . . It had a King for nursing sire,
And royal care its cradle rocked, and lent
The voice that made its tower so eloquent,
Talking of God the Father. . . Silver lips—
After the horror of the long eclipse,
When all was lost but faith—in richer swells,
Rang forth the glory of the conquering bells.
Then strange new strains of deeds essayed or done,
Burst from a thousand mouths that all were one,
In reverend musie; rapt the organ pealed,
And mysteries of souls to souls revealed
And gave them tongues, and carried to the bound
Of those deep notes that through the centuries sound
Ever, and only come to beauteous birth
In thoughts that round the ages put a girth,
And mingle clime with clime . . . Erect and armed,
God's temple with God's weapons, unalarmed
At wars and rumours, seen and unseen foes,
Amidst an anguished world in earthquake throes,
St. Columb's fane, through the sad twilight shone,
A witness to the truth, when truth seemed gone;
While suns seemed darkened at mid-day, and Fear
More dire than death, grew hourly still more near,
Set fast its icy seal even on the brave,
Stilled stoutest throats, dug the live martyr's grave,
Palsied the arm, dogged the fleet foot, and lay
A shadow and a shroud across the way,
Which was no way; and still that ghostly Fear
Crept on in serpent folds, more dim and drear,
Wrinkling the brow, and clutching in its grip
Bridegroom and bride, and on the loyal lip
Freezing the prayer . . . It stood though terror called,
Unmoved, by might of daily worship walled,

163

Buttressed with love, on hope's foundation built,
Shielded with trust that scorns the slavish guilt
Of doubt; it stood, strong against Satan's harms,
Girdled but with God's everlasting arms,
And sentinelled by God, who knew his own
And kept them safe—if He were half unknown;
It stood, St. Columb's house, the one sure seat,
A fortress of the faith, a calm retreat,
For willing hands and hearts devout, that served
Their Sovereign and their Lord, and nothing swerved
From the rough path of Duty. Till the Dread,
Which by degrees waxed to Medusa's head—
A writhing horror with its crest of snakes,
And beams of blackness falling off in flakes—
The third and biggest wave of war, at length,
Dashed on the dooméd City in its strength.
A wave it was, that to an ocean grew
Grey, over which the funeral ravens flew,
Billow on billow, fast and faster still,
Blow after blow, and each a graver ill,
Trouble on trouble, sad and sadder yet,
Care after care; the pangs that gnaw and fret
Body and mind, the wants that seethe and surge,
Beat and kept beating with unpitying scourge,
Against the handful that fought pale and poor,
And knocked with skeleton fingers at the door
God had shut to; and high the grisly stair
Of corpses rose, and hands that would repair
Breaches could not. Wind blew, wave broke, and on
New foes and perils prest, when old were gone,
Like fronts of Hydras; loud and louder boomed
Black mouths, crashed roofs, men fell, wailed women, gloomed
The yellow sun on that starved desperate shout;
Friends fled, sour treason worked, and still held out
Derry, and still its calm Cathedral sang
Beneath glad tidings, and above it rang
Through iron throat grim messages, that broke
From the pale pulpit of the battle smoke—
God's temple and God's battery, its breath
Peace to the faithful, to the unfaithful death.
Bright flamed the beacon, red the banner waved,
As tighter round the coils of slaughter raved,
On that white rock. St. Columb pointed high
To heaven, which hourly seemed more sweet and nigh;
The anguish waxed to agony; they past
Through hell itself, and would not yield . . . At last,
When scarce were lifted piteous arms that prayed,
The help desired so long, so long delayed,
Came; and God listened to His soldiers' plea,
And rode in triumph on the avenging sea,
Himself. And fair St. Columb's guiding star
Shone forth again, though gashed with many a scar.

164

VENUS AND ASCANIUS.—1865.

“At Venus Ascanio placidam per membra quietem
“Inrigat, et fotum gremio dea tollit in altos
“Idaliæ lucos, ubi mollis amaracus illum
“Floribus et dulci adspirans complectitur umbra.”
1 Æneid 691–4.

Pillowed upon the bosom of a goddess,
And lightly laid to sleep in rosy rest,
Gentle Ascanius held unconscious flight;
Through dewy clouds, that, leaning from above,
Kissed and embraced his sculptured brow and breast,
And stirred his golden flood of mantling hair.
The soft airs made a music as they glided,
Sweetened with balm and scenting frankincense,
The breath of gods.

For Venus moved upon
His lissom limbs, bedewing them with mists
Of easy slumber; and, fondling him aloft
In arms divine, transported to her bower
To the tall woods Idalian and their shades,
Where the lazy lotus, breathing in his ear,
Lulling with odorous tears and charmèd dews,
Imprisoned him in leaves and wooing flowers—
The shades and flowers that bloomed and gloomed for him.
Blossoms of every hue around him smiled,
And languidly drew in the vital air,
Exhaled again in richer interest
Of perfume, which adown the swimming trees,
Wavered on swooning breezes, faint with love,
Laden with ministries of various use.
But from its skies the laughing blue stooped down
And made a roof of overshadowing light,
And looking down the tangled foliage seemed
Eyes of a goddess worshipping a god,
And meeting love with love, sweet interchange,
In some bright land where everything is love.
While birds, like wingéd sunbeams, went and came
With lightning presence through the lights and shadows,
So dimly separate in that holy place,
On hushed melodious pinions, momently,—
Expressing swiftest thought or fancy's flight,
When the rapt poet gives a loosened rein
To fancy's course and wild imaginings.
The murmuring life was as a music muffled,
And each soft sound stole like a guilty thing
Into the silence, sweet, ambrosial,
And folding all as in a magic cloak.

But Venus stood beside the flowery niche,

165

Beautiful Venus, statuesque and lovely,
Beautiful Venus, very sad and lonely,
With the warm light of prophecy in her eye,
And the fresh flush of promise on her lip,
And a wild glory round her ruffled head;
So still she seemed as carven out of silence,
So sad as if a part of frozen sadness,
So frail as woven from the threads of air,
Or in the marble sleep of breathing marble;
Dim as a mist, and yet more clear than morn,
Robed in the sunshine of her radiant hair.
She stood beside, as in a wondering dream,
(Like one that waits and watches for the dawn,
And sees even now its crimson finger pointing
To the immediate advent of the sun,
Who dallies with the darkness half in scorn)
And laid her hand upon his lovely forehead—
A golden sunbeam lighting on a fair
Round polished pebble—smoothing every crease
Or rippling shadow thrown athwart the light,
Drawing new inspiration from his dreaming,
Beauty from beauty; and whispering awful words,
She lifted a low voice and sang to him—
Sang of the budding future and its glory,
Of mighty empires—and her voice waxed stronger;
Of brooding love, and then—O then, she faltered;
Of melting tears, and in her eyes they trembled;
Of Roman matrons, and her white lips quivered—
She sang until the mighty passion moved
And shook her frame and seized the soul within,
Of the dream-future and its agonies,
The triumphs and victorious issuings;
Strong battles and the armies mustering
And meeting hand to hand, the shocks and griefs,
And the great Roman rising over all.
Thus then she darkly sang, while the boy slept.
The silver hours rolled radiantly away,
The pictured hours dropped in the lap of silence,
Slipping in music past the shores of Time;
And from below upstreamed an incense rich,
A rapturous dim chorus of far sounds,
Sweet tears, soft vows and prayers, and that appeal
Of wedded loves to the incarnate Love.
And, intermingling with the pleasant noise,
The tranquil notes within, the chorus rose,
In an eddying upward column of sick joy,
For ever into the deep and sublime Vast beyond.
Thus rolled the wheels of Time, and the boy slept
Set in a rosy sleep pure and profound.

166

THE SUNBEAM.

It upsprang, in the splendour of its track,
From the mercy-seat of God;
To scatter its radiance on the wrack,
And a glory on the clod.

And it came, on a mission of peace and joy,
With a message of love and bliss;
To say that the earth was only a toy,
And that death was only a kiss.

And it burst from the cloudland dark and drear,
Till its brightness filled the shade;
While it lit with a glow the falling tear,
And the cheek that began to fade.

And it warmed the heart that was dim and cold,
In the saddest, dullest land;
And whatever it touched it turned to gold,
With the magic of its hand.

And it lingered fondly, if it went,
To brighten and to bless;
And the wearied spirit nearly spent,
Was revived by its glad caress.

And it fell on the evil and the good,
With its grand impartial span;
And as with the bonds of brotherhood,
It united man to man.

And it seemed like a saviour in its flight,
When it glanced on the judgment rod;
And the flowers that were pining for the light,
Leapt up from the laughing sod.

And it gathered in its gracious smile,
All things that arose or fell;
It ennobled what was mean or vile,
With its soft transfiguring spell.

And it shed its shining on the peer,
As upon the beggar's face;
And it folded blooming lives and sere,
In the breadth of its embrace.

And it rested, a moment, on the crutch
Of the cripple helpless laid;
And it seemed to him like an angel's touch,
Sent down from the heavens to aid.

167

And it strengthened the faith that waxèd faint,
While it lightened the darkened eyes;
And it lay on the brow of the dying saint,
As a benediction lies.

And, at last, when the shadows were painted bright,
On the pathway of peace it trod;
It returned from the duty that was delight,
To the Goodness that is God.

THE STORM WIND.

It was born in a sable mass of cloud,
It was cradled in mist and gloom;
And the trump of its vengeful voice was loud;
Like the solemn trump of doom.

As the sun sank down in a sea of blood,
And the moon came up in fire,
It outspread its wings on the fleld and flood,
And went forth in its restless ire.

It was clothed in a sad and sombre hue,
And a knell was on its lips;
As if from the tomb its tones it drew,
And its garb from the eclipse.

Like a wandering earthquake forth it sped,
On the wings of woe and death;
And its path was dark with pain, and red
With the lightning of its breath.

And it lashed the spark from a cottage blown,
Till they burst into billows wild;
Into cruel flames that made their own,
Both the parent and the child.

And it seized two forms with a tiger's leap,
As they stood by a quarry side;
And it laid in one grim funeral heap,
The bridegroom and the bride.

And it caught the vessel, as she heeled
In the swell of the swirling main;
Till she shivered and shook and downward reeled,
And never rose up again.

And it tore the bridge, with its hungry teeth,
That was spanned by the iron road;
And it sank in the gurgling depths beneath,
With the shrieks of its living load.

168

And it rent the man from the helpless maid,
As she wildly to him prest;
While it swept the sick from the arms of aid,
And the baby from the breast.

And it strangled the feebly gasping breath,
That was sighing away from lack;
And it carried confusion, pain and death,
In the terror of its track.

And wherever it came it came like night,
With the shadows black it brought;
For it overcast the loveliest light,
And it laughed at the ruin wrought.

And the sights it found, though bright and sweet,
Yet it left them grim and gray;
Yea, it trod them down with furious feet,
And it turned them to decay.

And it swooped with the withering of its blast,
On the feeble and the fair;
And the drowning wretch, as it hurried past,
Saw the sentence of despair.

And it struck the monarch on his throne,
With its keen and piercing knife;
For it was resolved to rule alone,
In a kingdom without life.

And it robbed the beggar of his crust,
When his head began to bow;
And it laid him starving in the dust,
With its brand upon his brow.

And it lashed the wealthy and the poor,
With its loud remorseless scourge;
And it knocked at the barred and bolted door,
With its unresisted surge.

And it set its wounds upon weakness most,
If it spared the wicked long;
And it rushed like the tramp of an arméd host,
Over bulwarks of the strong.

And it left the humble lower still,
While it would not hear the proud;
And it broke on the valley and the hill,
With a bursting thunder cloud.

And it grew in fury as it went,
In hunger the more they gave;
And it seemed a thing incontinent,
Like the never-glutted grave.

169

And it gathered fuel from its wrath,
That was as a burning fire;
And the darker its destroying path,
The deadlier its desire.

And it wrote its tale in woe and tears,
On the beautiful and good;
And it wrung its toll from the coward's fears,
While the brave in vain withstood.

And it raged until it was spent with play,
Though its sport was only death;
Until it had stormed itself away,
With tired unsated breath.

Till it clothed the land, in its cruel strength,
With the pall of the funeral shade;
And then it lay down to rest at length,
In the mourning it had made.

THE SUMMER WIND.

It arose in the morning with light and with song,
It arose with the bubbling of brooks;
In the halls of the night it had lingered long.
In the tender twilight nooks.

It arose like a bridegroom to meet the bride,
With the glory of the dawn;
And it swept, in the swiftness of its pride,
The dews on the dainty lawn.

And it kissed the lovers on the cheek,
While they pledged the vows of youth;
And it spoke, as the things of nature speak,
With the pleasant tones of truth.

And it breathed a blessing on the pair,
As they gazed at the glowing East;
While it toyed with the maiden's shining hair,
And found on her lips a feast.

And it touched the pillow creased with pain,
Till the pangs released their hold;
And the sleepless sufferer dreamed again,
Of the painless times of old.

And it fanned the flickering spark of life,
As it stilled the struggling breath;
While it scattered the gloomy clouds of strife,
And realeased the prey of death.

And it flew on a sunbeam up the slope,
That climbed to a prison wall;

170

And it whispered the blessed news of hope,
In the ears long deaf to all.

And it brought a message for the man,
With a song for the weeping child;
And the downcast maid, as the breeze began,
Looked up to the heaven and smiléd.

And it filled the looks of woe with light,
When its quickening presence past;
And the world became a fairer sight,
To the eyes that were overcast.

And it called so sweetly to despair,
With the notes of a mated dove,
That the dumb found language to declare
The unmeasured works of Love.

And it swept the shadows from the blind,
With the sway of its gentle powers;
And the dreariest road it left behind
Was turned to a track of flowers.

And it laid a hand on the mouldering graves,
Till corruption lost its sting;
And the dead arose from their silent graves,
As they rise at the touch of Spring.

And wherever it went, with its lightsome tread,
It assuaged the angry smart;
While it softly soothed the aching head,
And made whole the broken heart.

And it fell like sunshine on the spot,
Which was darkest and most cold;
And the aged and infirm forgot,
That they ever had been old.

And it sped as a spirit through the land,
With the music of its voice;
While it told the fainting frame to stand,
And the mourner to rejoice.

And it took the blight from the barren ground,
With the curse from the troubled mind;
And whatever the care and grief it found,
Yet a blessing it left behind.

And on it went in its welcome flight,
Like the waving of angel wings;
While it changed the bitter waves of night,
To a thousand radiant springs.

Till it reached the white and wondrous shore,
At the noontide of the day;
And then it lay down to sleep once more,
Like a child that is tired with play.

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MY QUEEN.

Let others talk of golden tresses,
And eyes that glance and glow;
Of lips that curl with sweet caresses,
And shoulders white as snow.
I am not blind to beauty's treasures,
Nor cold to queenly charms;
And I have had my youthful pleasures,
In soft voluptuous arms.

Let others praise the bloom and brightness,
Which all the world can see;
Nor heed that lovely gifts and lightness,
Too often well agree.
I care not for those common graces,
As free as sun and air;
I seek not out such public faces,
So generally fair.

There is a spell in faultless beauty,
The coldest must confess;
It almost seems a woman's duty,
To please with prettiness.
But still, while this may give direction,
To others' fond desires;
I little prize that broad perfection,
Which every one admires.

The lure of fine harmonious features,
And the most radiant smiles,
May thrill the breasts of doting creatures,
But not my heart beguiles.
It is not needful for salvation,
To worship mere good looks;
Nor even a liberal education,
To love them out of books.

Though men may deem it dire transgression,
Against the rules of art;
Give me the beauty of expression,
That blossoms from the heart.
I value not the outward finish,
Which animals may show;
But gifts the years will not diminish.
That still more lovely grow.

Leave me the harmony of sweetness,
That marks a moral grace;
And I will give you the completeness,
Of the most perfect face.

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The poets long have piled their verse on,
The trappings of the troll;
Away with your mere pretty person,
I want a pretty soul.

I look not for, in any woman,
A mere fine weather form;
I wish her to be sweetly human,
To brave with me the storm.
The glow and colour, that will perish,
The senses quickly sate;
I choose to honour and to cherish—
No picture but—a mate.

The charms that stand the test of trouble,
Yet fly from social glare;
That age and trial only double,
I reckon the most fair.
And all this unobtrusive merit,
The pure and modest mien,
The qualities no kings inherit,—
I find them in my Queen.

WAITING.

It will dawn, the day of pleasure,
Shedding light on vale and hill;
Others wait not for their treasure,
I am waiting, waiting still.

She will come, my queen of beauty,
Come and scatter clouds of ill;
Let the world pursue its duty,
I am waiting, waiting still.

When she first admits affection,
I shall feel a secret thrill;
They may jest and raise objection,
I am waiting, waiting still.

All her face will sweetly soften,
Love will each misgiving kill;
Though my comrades chide me often,
I am waiting, waiting still.

All her heart for me will blossom,
Like the roses by the rill;
Men may court an easier bosom,
I am waiting, waiting still.

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Soon her breast but one emotion,
With its passion beats will fill;
Fools may laugh at my devotion,
I am waiting, waiting still.

Love will slowly, surely teach her,
Mould her with a sculptor's skill;
Wealth and rank will never reach her,
I am waiting, waiting still.

She is fair and she is mortal,
She has but a woman's will;
Hark! her feet are at the portal,
I am waiting, waiting still.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

(The Pessimist.)

O my brother, what is there on which we may rest?
For nothing but death can be stable;
And the wife that you clasp to your credulous breast,
She is only a beautiful fable.

And though all that is modest and good to your face,
While adorned with each gift and each talent;
Yet the charms you exalt, she delights to abase,
In the arms of some lecherous gallant.

For your children are only your children in name,
And begot by some luckier neighbour;
And if born in the purple are born in the shame,
That betokens the loss of your labour.

And the love that you fancy they give from the heart,
Is a matter of cupboard affection;
Wherein your good cook has a prominent part,
Though it cheats the paternal detection.

While the friend that you tenderly take to your arms,
And entrust with your welfare and credit;
He will rob you of wealth and work nothing but harms,
And survive your dishonour to edit.

For that friend is no less than an enemy masked,
Though you deem him a joy and a treasure;
Who in all the misfortunes with which you are tasked,
Finds a secret and exquisite pleasure.

While you hold him a man of the worthiest mark,
And invest him with wonderful virtue;
He will quietly stab your repute in the dark,
And seize every occasion to hurt you.

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And the butler for years in your confidence high,
So religious and ready and civil,
Will make off with your jewels when no one is nigh,
And will not go alone to the devil.

Aye, the daughter, the darling of many a prayer,
In professions of tenderness fervent;
She will not be reluctant the plunder to share,
And elope with that sanctified servant.

And the heir who was seldom denied for a day,
Though he has not one merit to bless him,
Yet will waste an estate on his ruinous play,
And on women who gull and caress him.

And the parson whose piety never grows faint,
Though his body gets sparer and thinner,
Plays only (believe me!) the part of a saint,
Because he dares not be a sinner.

Yes, he turns on the maid an adulterous eye,
As she flits with her mistress to matins;
While he wishes that fate had not made him so shy,
Or more proof against beauty in satins.

And the paupers for whom you have catered so well,
Though the pensioners all of your bounty,
At the weight of the debt that they owe you rebel,
And go cursing you over the county.

And the lawyer, with instances ever replete,
Who has stuck to your lands like a blister,
Just to crown all the years of his licensed deceit,
Will solicit the hand of your sister.

And the doctor, for whom, when a youngster at school
You fought that remarkable gipsy,
Is only at best a diplomatized fool,
And will poison you when he is tipsy.

And your widow will raise a most elegant tomb,
That proclaims to the public her sorrow,
To recount all your virtues and pitiful doom,
And will marry again on the morrow.

Then your college companions so true and so tried,
Who with protests affectionate girt you,
When they hear your poor memory basely decried,
Will lament and lament and—desert you.

Not a friend or relation will miss you the least,
If they write on the blackest of borders;
Though perhaps for a season some favourite beast,
Will go moping in vain for your orders.

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And the son who was youngest and dearest of all,
Who like Benjamin always was pampered,
Will abscond with the plate, in the shade of the pall,
By no folly like sentiment hampered.

And the outburst of grief which arose at your fate,
Which declared that it could not grow lesser,
In a week will be turned to a jubilant state,
To salute your ignoble successor.

Those who mourned you the loudest the day that you died
To your heir will be foremost to pander,
And will strive to exalt his contemptible pride,
By depressing your doings with slander.

For this is, O my brother, the way of the world,
If its systems are hollow and rotten;
When the banner of life has been broken and furled,
It is wept and abused and forgotten.

This is a fact.

COUNTRY NOTES.

Beside an ivied lattice, in the shade,
I sat; and so my recreation made
Of rural sounds, that floating far and near,
Found welcome access to my open ear.
A distant sheep-bell tinkled; and the lambs
Cried from the folded pastures to their dams,
Whose deep responses though remote and faint,
Kept pleasant concert with the sweet complaint.
The workman's trowel, busy on repair,
Clinked, and its echoes climbed the startled air.
A saucy chaffinch sang of leisure long,
With sprightly flourish winding up the song,
Poised on a tree-top; while his homely mate,
Low on a neighbouring nest reposed sedate.
A nameless bird, from some divided choice,
With hesitating desultory voice,
Performed a solo. Nature smiled. The axe,
Plied by the woodman, laid its wonted tax
Upon the timber. But at every stroke,
Faint snatches of a country ballad broke
From lips unskilled but hearty, keeping time
And cadence with the ringing axe's rhyme.
The shepherd-boy his rough and ready din
Expended on the chorus, chiming in.
A buzzing sound at intervals would come,
That made the happy little homestead hum,
From threshing-engines; and the lumbering wain
Rolled slowly onward as a thing in pain,

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Heaped skyward, heavy; at the turning-point,
It groaned and shook in every labouring joint.
Pigs grunted, poultry clucked; the carter's cry,
Instant and keen, rang out and scaled the sky.
A song-thrush warbled. On the landscape bent,
The brooding shadow of a vast content.
My soul was soothed and in no sadness sighed,
And without wooing sense was satisfied,
Not cloyed. A gentle hush, of heavenly kin,
Had found ajar the gates and entered in.
The genial fulness of the sounds and sights,
Not overflowing, bound me with delights
Of flowers and music that would not be pent,
And many a tender symphony and scent.
The tawny hare, half-hidden in the grass,
Crouched, trembling as the mirrored cloudlets pass,
And draw the heaven to earth. A snake obscene,
Glanced fugitive and sought the copse's screen,
Trailing his lengths of light—but from behind
Escaped the wail of some imprisoned wind.
Meanwhile I dreamed of worlds without a curse,
And sudden fancies took the form of verse:
But thus I fixed the fleeting waifs of thought,
By fond compulsion into order brought.
“From fields of sleep, the heavenly babes unborn,
In lands of shadow fairy and forlorn,
Send messages of peace and pleasant cheer,
As echoes wafted over waters clear.
They bid us still with jealousy prepare
The present means, to build a Future fair;
A fabric pure with every favoured nook,
Where wanderers rest, and quiet casements look
On spaces cool, in floating isles becalmed—
With twilight temples populous, and palmed
By tufted trees: yea, mixed with music deep,
Old oracles they murmur in their sleep.
Life with its men and maidens cherry-lipt,
Its undecypherable manuscript,
Leans forward; and we fill our costly shelves,
For generations nobler than ourselves,
More beautiful. They come, they come at length,
Star-bright, reposing in their god-like strength;
Crowned with their laurels, and with light of deeds
That settle not as perishable seeds;
But pave the glorious streets with stones of gold,
And bringing forth their fruit a hundred-fold,
They supersede by graduations blest,
Our broken knowledge, wonder, and unrest.”
Melodious nonsense muttering I woke,
And through my vision's veil the scenery broke.
Awake, I watched the reaper—now he ground

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His sickle on the whetstone, and around
The iron flashed, the herbage flew, the spray
Dividing right and left in beauty lay.
But as he dipped his brown and brawny hand,
A gentle ripple by resistance fann'd
Ran o'er the surface, loitering in the light,
And played a moment as a zephyr might.
Beneath the hissing hook succumbed the swathe.
The kine had straggled riverwards to bathe,
And belly-deep in troubled waters stood.
The noontide made a marvel of the wood,
With sunbeams woven into golden haze;
While scudding swallows swept the windless ways,
In zigzag fashion, swift, on slanting wings—
God knows I praised the innocent bright things.
I praised the hourly miracles of grace.
The sunset glowing on a woman's face,
The evening hush that orbs her actions round,
Her consecration of the vilest ground.
I praised the little prettinesses heard
In girlish laughter, and in wisdom's word
That falls by chance from children's lisping mouth,
And warmer breezes of the balmy south.
I praised the precious loveliness of light,
The sense of sound, the captivating sight;
That grand creative effort, which adorned
The admirable firmament, nor scorned
To labour in the lower world, but took
A living pen and wrote in Nature's book,
Sweet lessons to be learnt from idle days—
And was there anything I did not praise?
My heart was full of love, and humbly showed
Its love to Him from whom the loving flowed.
I praised mankind and God, without a thought,
And found a solace which I never sought:
The rich thanksgiving nourished in my breast
Rose to my lips, and gave enjoyment zest.
I blest the beasts, and every spark of life
That sleeps in stone or dreams in fruitful strife.
Still unawares my benediction fell,
And blessing all I blest myself as well.

GARDEN FANCIES.

It was a garden, fanciful and fair,
That showed an artist's hand, a lover's care,
The patient waiting of an iron will,
A nurse's watch, a calm physician's skill,
The master's moulding counsel and control,
While woman's presence purified the whole.

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For, lo, the blooms that ever youth renew,
In radiant robes and draperies of dew,
Were sure their magic mistress prized them much,
Her influence felt and trembled at her touch—
Smiled as she smoothed their glossy cheeks, and broke
In brighter blushes, when with praise she spoke.
Such was the garden, so serene and gay,
As if it ne'er declined from green to gray—
And never winter with its blasting breath,
Like sudden fear, had darkened it in death—
Nor change, as evil thoughts, would gnaw at root,
The russet globes and yellow spheres of fruit.
Here once I lingered, lying in the shade;
And near me rang the labourer's ready spade,
Striking a stone, that checked his eager toil,
To sweat an extra sixpence from the soil;
As some usurious farmer haply bound,
Who plagued his drudge and drained the weary ground
Of all its virtue, till its value ceast,
And honoured less his labourer than his beast.
Above I saw the flowers and foliage meet,
And heard the fir cones cracking in the heat;
Yet, higher still, there spread a gorgeous waste
Of leafy branches, sweetly interlaced
I was the centre of a fairy ring,
With Summer treading on the skirts of Spring,
And scattering fragrant freshness in its track—
As to embalm the fallen floweret's wrack.
Around me stretched the plants that climb and creep,
Put forth a hundred hands, and lightly leap
From bough to bough—where happy squirrels hide,
Or mad with frisky frolics swing and slide.
Below me daisies peeped in shyness up,
And rich with gold-dust gleamed the butter-cup.
'Twas sultry weather—yea, a gentle drouth
Had paled an unknown blossom's opening mouth,
Had marred the curve and colour of its lips,
And dimmed its white and purple, like eclipse.
Laburnum, lilac, pendulous in knots,
With fine confusion crowded splendid spots
Of sunlight; while on ravished sense and soul,
The hues fell softly and the odours stole.
And that bright wonder of the waving line,
The far horizon, dancing in the shine,
Surprised and pleased. But gleaming cattle graced
The belted pastures, which they cropped and paced,
In stately languor stalking—by the change
Of light and shadow, turned to phantoms strange.
Here hills arose, like visions of the True,
And languished seaward, beautiful and blue.
But there the ocean broadened, flashed and laughed,

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Burst into mirth and music, from the waft
Of passing wind, that made the vessels reel,
With glad white water leaping at the keel;
While tightened cordage creaked, and canvas strained,
And great hulls groaned like creatures, prest or pained.
Then in a lull the sailors' jocund cheer,
Was carried mild and mellow to the ear.
By fits the tune of tumbling torrents woke,
And every note a novel message spoke.
Each little leaf a meaning of its own
Murmured, yet indistinctly—every stone,
From out its frozen sleep, gave sermons new;
Nor prophecies, in shimmering pearls of dew,
Were wanting—while the dreaming plant and flower,
In lazy slumber lapt, a present power
Usurping held—the herbage green and crisped,
A separate precept unexpected lisped.
The very tree-tops, with their rookery bent,
Talked to me in a sigh intelligent,
That swept them—but the tenants, poised on high,
Seemed scribbled on the faint and sketchy sky.
Which (as I nodded) looked too blank and bare,
With curling vapours still and stagnant air—
A dismal reflex of the poorest part,
Projected by the baldest painter's art.
As by a craftsman prompt to interpose,
The rough and ready patches that he knows,
With sapient sameness—and in every piece,
His everlasting flower or flock of geese;
The flash of sunshine, or provoking blue
Monotonously bright, and breaking through
His old tame clouds—those miserable tricks,
At which though hackneyed now he never sticks;
And, lo, he gives us calmly as before,
The well-known waves that beat the well-known shore;
Eternal iteration of the past,
He reproduces still his first and last,
The academic picture. So, I thought,
Appeared that dulness which the spirit brought—
At least a moment—for from sightless nooks,
The intermittent clamour of the brooks
Rejoicing, roused me slightly—and, in vain,
Accord with outward life I strove to gain;
And listened fondly in a gentle drowse,
As May flowers fell and rested on my brows.
Uplifting, lo, its tall and taper stem.
O'er many a meaner bud and blossom gem,
The feathering foxglove, with its weight of bells,
Drooped in the wind and wove bewitching spells—
Where wind there was—for in the leafy ways,
Some waft forlorn and lost for ever strays;

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Though in the open space the air be still,
And weary grasses waver on the hill,
Left by the wandering breezes that they miss,
Vibrating yet to their last loving kiss.
And frequent strains of music, faint and far,
'Scaped from the forest as a door ajar.
The wood-dove's requiem told, in thickets coy,
Supreme content and consecrated joy;
And songless birds for their unblissful fate,
By emulous loudness tried to compensate.
In ordered utterance sweet, his fairy tale
Was poured in passion by the nightingale,
Now garrulous, and eloquently rang
The bloomy bowers with echoes, as he sang.
His plaintive call, his whistle clear and fine,
The tremor and the melody divine,
Suspense more vocal of the tones that hung,
To break in tempest from the trembling tongue;
Seemed accents as of mourners who condole,
Or wrung by terror from a tortured soul—
Forced with reluctance of relenting lips,
And labouring sore in deep and dire eclipse—
The outburst of a prisoned saint in pain,
His agony of penitential strain.
All sad emotions, every joyous note,
Were gathered in the compass of his throat;
The shout of victory in triumphant heat,
The wail of desperation and defeat.
The poles of passion, feeling's every form
Appeared to meet in stillness or in storm.
Yea, counter clamours blent in loving lease,
The cry of war, the lullaby of peace—
The soft low laughter of the whispering trees,
The pulse of bubbling brooks, the wash of seas;
And evening murmurs with the morning came,
The suppliant's sigh with revellers' wild acclaim—
The hymn of happy feasts, the dirge of doom,
The rival chords of gladness and of gloom—
The noise of torrents and the lisp of leaves,
With sobbings of the heart that broods and grieves—
The moan of wounded pines and cypress tops,—
With ripple from the raincloud on the copse—
The secret plaint of every clime and cult—
All mingled madly in one fierce result;
Joined without jarring, mixed within the soul,
A strange and stirring, but harmonious whole.
It was the voice of Nature and of Fate,
Prophetic, frenzied, full, articulate;
Now breathing mystic babble, in its whim,
Old oracles and psalms and sayings dim;
Now giving voice and volume to the dumb,

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And bodying forth the end of things to come.
The wayward cuckoo, wrapt in shades remote,
Denied his absence by a distant note;
Then chuckling past and gabbled, as he told,
With hoarse and husky voice his song was old—
That Spring was gone, and he the time mis-spent,
Foreboding changes after the event.
Between the bleatings of a peevish calf,
The shy woodpecker's idiotic laugh
Grated discordant, from his lonely ledge,
A blasted branch that broke the forest's edge;
Till frightened by his voice, as well he might,
Yet farther off he winged his heavy flight—
To tap fresh trees, where timid humour bids,
Like ghostly workmen nailing coffin lids.
But all the scenes, and every sound that stirred,
From me seemed flowing or to me referred,
The pivot of the play—my dreamy brain
Wound up the puppets, and unwound again—
Projected fancies, outward forms, at will,—
Selecting, colouring, and creating still,
To suit the impulse of the hour. Afar,
Across the sun a cloud's obtruded bar
Lay burning, smouldering in the smothered glare,
Which burst at times from its imprisoned lair.
Not many clouds the keenest gaze could spy,
Scrawled here and there and scattered on the sky.
But each one looked a thwart and thunderous sign,
With sanctions sad and imminence malign;
Like tragic pages from the book of doom,
And traced by trembling hands in hues of gloom.
While muffled notes and undertones exprest,
Some nameless sorrow with a vague unrest.
But silence haunted, unimpaired and whole,
The far-withdrawn and deep-sequestered soul.
For all the uproar of the mightiest mart,
Has not an echo for the hidden heart
Of tranquil minds, with treasures set above,
And lost in lapses of celestial love.
But as I stood betwixt the gloom and gleam,
Behold the revelation and the dream.

Subdued and sudden, as a conscious pause,
Which breeds expectance of a sounding clause
About to come, in some sweet period's swell,
Whose undulations softly rose and fell,
Like ocean murmurs, till the labouring throes
Ceased but to soar and sing a grander close:
Thus was the sleep that came in pregnant calm,
And o'er me shed the splendour of its charm.
I dreamed of lovely women. O how fair,

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Their figures in the mild and mellow air,
Serene and settled in their heavenly home;
As ships in shadow on the moonlit foam,
Which ride at anchor lightly. How they leant,
Between the crimson cloudlets' radiant rent,
Against the purple twilight, all aglow,
As listening to a tale of long ago—
A tale of love and soft as tender tears,
Mixed with the music of forgotten years.
They leant, and listening oftentimes they quaffed
From golden cups, and delicately laughed;
But bright the dew of dainty weeping still
At intervals would rise, and flooding fill
The glorious globes of their great eyes intent,
With looks of sorrow pure and penitent;
Till wonder wiped the healing drops away,
And joy succeeded. Without stint or stay
Each drank the living breezes, and her bust,
Transported with the rapture of its trust,
Heaved beautifully big; while sudden bloom,
Broke through the circles of the gorgeous gloom.
The sun, the moon, and many stars were there,
And quivered in the quiet of the air—
Not as on earth—of glare and dimness stript,
And deep in hues of pensive periods dipt.
The sea of separation was no more,
Inviting waves were welcomed by the shore
And played in pleasure, as they fondly roll'd
Fresh freights of diamond dust and dust of gold.
Then some one spoke. It was a voice so sweet,
I cannot charge my memory to repeat
The hidden riches, yet would I regain
Faint fragments of the bright and broken strain.
A miracle of sense was in me wrought,
And this expression of the song I caught.
“A happy period, as it orbs and grows,
Unfolds its years as petals of the rose.
The tears of trouble turn to glittering gems,
That make a nation's noblest diadems.
And she who fled through many a fiery flood,
Or trailed her modest robes in treacherous mud,
Now goes through pastures green, by placid streams,
And hears the waters babble in their dreams.”
Then cried another, from behind a cloud,
Whose voice vibrated trumpet-like and loud:—
“She is avenged of all the evil done,
Beneath the silence of the moon and sun,
By wise endurance; and her white-washed hands,
Baptized in blood, are strong as iron bands.
By suffering sifted, purified by prayers,
As priestess on the white-worn altar stairs,

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She stands repentant, clothed in raiment white,
Crowned with her sorrows changed to love and light.”
Yet more perchance I know, but wherefore harm
By repetition what will lose its charm?
Antiphony it seemed of anthem joy—
As in cathedrals calm man calls to boy
Across the holy interspace, and each
With emulation wrestles to outreach
His fellow, in the choral passion's height,
The challenge, answer, rapture, and delight.
Aud still in dreams of wonderment, I drew
Some testimony to the good and true,
In woman's world; I saw the figures list,
With floating limbs and draperies of mist
And leaning forms, to catch the uttered word;
While a low wind of laughter wavelets stirr'd,
That more than music were yet were not speech,
Like spell-bound waters washing on a beach.

I woke reluctant, yet refreshed, and round
The messages of modulated sound
Dropt down the wind. I saw the mower's scythe
Glance in the clover, like a serpent lithe:
Before him blossoms, climbing to the knee,
Retreated blood-red—ebbing as the sea.
And as I gazed, the hills and levels long,
Brimmed o'er with laughter and broke out in song.

THE OLD AND THE NEW MAGDALEN.

1.—THE OLD MAGDALEN.

Mute in large and mournful niches,
Stare her globes of glittering eyes;
Low her locks' redundant riches,
Trail in penitential guise.

Scars her brow the brand of sorrow,
Feed her breast the fires of pain;
Sees she night beyond the morrow,
On the stars a cursèd stain.

Drinking deep of troubled fountains,
Following fast the lying wraiths;
Stumbling on the darksome mountains,
O'er the rocks of barren faiths.

Dreading but a bastard sentence,
Forged of dead and dying facts;
Dreaming not the sole repentance,
Lies in fair and loving acts.

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Fraud and falsehood bend and blind her,
With decaying rubrics' reek;
Fear before and shame behind her,
Baulk the solace woe would seek.

Pale with hope that springs from terror,
Blighted at its very birth;
Nourished on a lofty error,
Strangling every strain of mirth.

Torture warps her withered duties,
With its hundred links of loss;
And her blossom's tender beauties,
Droop beneath the bitter cross.

Yet she serves the limping letter,
Yet she hugs the prisoner's part;
And her faith is but a fetter,
Eating, eating in the heart.

Chains of custom, loads of fiction,
On her weary shoulders fret;
And her service is affliction,
And her worship is regret.

Slave of systems, duped by shackles,
That the spirit cannot bind;
Scared when Convocation cackles,
O'er its eggs of addled mind.

Wringing by her pangs acquittance,
From the doubts that never cease;
Crowned at last with grudged admittance,
To the rest that is not peace.

Yet serene with grand assurance,
Kindling inward solemn rays;
While most crushed in gray endurance,
By the faith that saves and slays.

2.—THE NEW MAGDALEN.

Bright between the dusk and dawning,
Sweet with joys that utterance seek;
Fair while fervent shadows fawning,
Paint their changes on her cheek.

Purified by widows' blessings,
Cleansed with orphans' holy tears;
Reaping ever rich caressings,
From the sad and suffering years.

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Bursting from the blasted shelter,
Of old fossil forms and shades;
Where the fruits of wisdom welter,
Where the flower of fancy fades.

Breaking from the surface frozen,
Rank with doctrines doomed to rot—
Dim with laws that cramp and cozen,
Woman's lean and sterile lot.

Though the stunted stony present,
Yet with feudal rags be girt;
Heaping harvests pure and pleasant,
In the darkness and the dirt.

Lo, the desert red with roses,
Trembling heavenward at her tread;
While her hand like dew disposes,
Ministries that move the dead.

Thorns and thistles are her pillow,
Softened by the touch of tears;
And the passion of the billow,
Is the music that she hears.

Grim conventions sink before her,
Lust puts off its dazzling dress;
Eyes that would deny adore her,
Lips that cursed are turned to bless.

Bowed with bondage, prest by burdens,
That are liberty and love;
Gleaning in the dust the guerdons,
Foretaste of the bliss above.

Glorified by falls, that frighten
Doubt from paths each failure paves;
Wresting hopes that labour lighten,
From the grip of iron graves.

Trampling under starved transitions,
Fetters that can bind but fools;
All the bare and bleak traditions,
Of a thousand perjured schools.

Bones of dogmas damned despising,
Fleeting cries of phantom creeds;
Still rejoicing, still arising,
In the light of larger deeds.

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DIS-CROWNED NOT DIS-KINGED.

The day followed day, and the night
Came in turn;
And the waters went brawling and bright,
From their emerald urn;
While the moonlight was wavy and white,
On the breast of the beautiful fern.

The night followed night, and the day
Was not slack;
And the sunrise with moonrise had sway,
O'er the wanderer's track;
And the restless and fingering ray,
Led him on with the world at his back.

Still he travelled away with the sun,
To the west;
As a man who is mighty, and one
With the brave and the best;
As a torrent, whose passion is done,
To its home in the infinite Rest.

Still he journeyed in haste, with the moon
And the stars;
As a soul that will waver not soon,
Before perilous bars;
And he treasured the time as a boon,
With the light on his face and his scars.

He had sorrowed and suffered, as all
Who have fame;
He had made of his people a thrall,
And magnificent shame;
And their life beyond reach of recall,
Was the history writ in his name.

In a penitent's garb, he had gone
On his road;
And his forehead was weary and wan,
As oppressed by a load;
But the river was smiling, and shone—
Yea, it laughed as it frolicked and flowed.

In his hand was a cross, on his heart
Was a weight;
Not a trace of his empire and art,
Not a rag of his state;
And the thought of his greatness, was part
Of the innermost pangs of his fate.

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Though his path was beset, with the thorn
And the stone;
Yet he hailed them as crowns to be worn,
Or as steps to a throne;
On the wave of repentance upborne,
In his sin and his sorrow alone.

And his footstep was firm, and his brow
Did not fret;
On his lips lay a sacrament's vow,
As a seal was it set;
But the worst of the trouble came now,
That his people could never forget.

Though his God should forgive him, his pride
And his power;
Though the folly within him had died,
As a shade or a shower;
Yet he could not undo, if he tried,
All the evil that flourished in flower.

Could the lashes of scorn, or the scourge,
Give him peace?
If he trod on the sepulchre's verge,
Would his sufferings cease?
Could his prayers and his penances purge,
And extort for his spirit release?

Should he ever attain, to the goal
And the shrine?
Might he wring from his agonized soul,
But a hope or a sign?
Did he think to atone for the whole,
As with refuse and rinsings of wine?

Did he lay on the altar a gift,
That was nought?
Was his pilgrimage else than a shift,
And too tardily sought?
Was the heaven to come down and uplift,
Or with leavings of life to be bought?

Lo, before him a cloud seemed to swim,
In his eyes;
And a shape that was shapeless and dim,
Seemed to threaten and rise;
And no glimpse of their glory to him,
Stole in mercy from earth or the skies.

With the wayfare his feet were all sores,
And all blood;
While the sweat of his toil from the pores,

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Trickled down in a flood;
Yet he sighed not to taste of the stores,
He had brought to the fruit from the bud.

The sharp horrors of shadows arose,
In the way;
And yet keener within were the throes,
That no fasting could stay;
And forebodings of measureless woes,
Were more dark and more dreadful than they.

But he loitered not once on his course,
Nor waxed faint;
And he looked beyond time to its source,
As to Sion its saint;
And he plunged in the deeps of remorse,
To be cleansed of his terrible taint.

Though dis-crowned and dis-throned by his will,
Yet he reigned;
He was king in his purpose, to kill
All the passions that pained;
And he ruled with more majesty still,
As he stooped to the trial ordained.

“THE CHILD OF THE MADONNA.”

Great wondering eyes and golden hair,
The orphan's quiet blessing;
Soft lips that part in silent prayer,
And crave for lips caressing.

A face that mates with moonlit glooms,
Where blessèd shadows linger;
With lights that play on ancient tombs,
And touch with trembling finger.

A smile that haunts as holy airs,
It is so sad and solemn;
A brow that's carved with early cares,
Like tracery round a column.

A cheek with ever-shifting hues,
That tell-tale fancies dapple;
With now the glows of sunset dews,
And now the bloom of apple.

White dimpled hands that close in trust,
Like lily tendrils clinging;
That nestle round and nestle must,
And breed their faith in bringing.

189

Warm rippling veins that paint the throat,
With blue and wondrous windings;
An ear that seeks the truest note,
In all its tender findings.

A life that turns to love and bliss,
As blossoms to the morning;
That moves to music others miss,
Or steals a still adorning.

A voice which has a secret thrill,
With words that fall as kisses;
Which throbs with thoughts the visions fill,
From faint and far abysses.

A mouth that feeds on prayer and praise,
And wreathed with reverent chanting;
Or fondly rapt in sweet amaze,
For concords higher panting.

A shade of awe that broods at times,
With mild and mellowed shinings;
That saddens dreams it yet sublimes,
In troubled quaint refinings.

A shapely head that loves to stoop,
Adoring as it listens;
Where leavings of the violet droop,
And straying glory glistens.

A heart that dwells on summits dim,
And doats on waters pleasant;
While wander winds and vapours swim,
And more is felt than present.

A home of memories pure and bright,
Where snow-white doves are winging;
That's roofed with still and starry light,
And walled by solemn singing.

A soul that nothing here can stay,
But sacred shrines of honour;
That worships all its loving way;
“The child of the Madonna.”

THE TIDE OF TEARS.

There is a Tide that never ebbs,
And murmurs through the years—
That weaves its flowers in fatal webs—
The tide of human tears.

190

And fair it is with waving weeds,
That snare the straying feet;
With many a dancing light that leads,
To ruin dark and fleet.

It washes on the strand of Life,
And freshens as it flows;
For ever fed by streams of strife,
And widening with our woes.

With passion strange it sternly keeps,
Its dim and dreary track;
While every barrier only heaps,
New victims on its wrack.

Lo, mournful figures by the marge,
Go weeping to and fro;
And through its shadows dense and large,
Drop echoes sad and slow.

And tossing arms and trailing hair,
Come floating on its mist;
With faces warped by cruel care,
That vainly lean and list.

Its birth was in the budding times,
That were the birth of man;
And with the dawn of happy chimes,
Its murmur first began.

We see from far the weary sight,
While catching on the breeze,
Borne through the silence and the night,
The sound of solemn seas.

Till nearer yet and nearer heaves,
The torrent's barren march;
Through blighted ears and blasted sheaves,
That rainbows may not arch.

It deepens as it drags its course,
And angrier grows its beat;
And in the refuge of remorse,
Its foam is at our feet.

O think not, reveller, in thy joys,
This flood will never flow;
'Tis gliding without note or noise,
And sapping from below.

The less thy sorrow is at first,
When green is lifetime's leaf;
The more thy evening will be cursed,
With grayer hours of grief.

191

Fair is the morning of our youth,
And fond the noontide's gleams;
But settle round the roots of truth,
The broad and bitter streams.

There is a Tide that never stays,
And follows on our fears;
That waxes with the waning days;
The tide of human tears.

And drop by drop, and wave on wave,
It gathers strength and store;
And from the cradle to the grave,
It murmurs evermore.

We know not whence its rivers come,
Nor whither they may go;
For these are sorrowfully dumb,
And those are wild with woe.

While some in radiant daylight rise,
Where mirth is sweetly made;
Some wander under starry skies,
And wither bloom and blade.

And now the path is fringed with flowers,
Though trouble be not far;
And now it lies through lonely hours,
Or leaps some chafing bar.

And here there is a hungry rush,
Of currents loud and long;
And there they delicately gush,
With sudden bursts of song.

But all are restless still and sad,
And every fashion prove;
They have the strain they ever had,
And murmur as they move.

They pass from shadow into shade,
And hide their bourne and source;
We see our dreams and darlings fade,
And so we track their course.

And if they bear no common name,
Though dimly sharing much;
Their deadly nature is the same,
To darken what they touch.

But wave on wave, and drop by drop,
They surely hurry on;
And ere we strive its march to stop,
The fatal flood is gone.

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Yet holy still may be its track,
And fresh from wellsprings sweet
That after many days comes back,
With gladness to its seat.

Though salt and sad the waters taste,
And troubled be their sound;
Though wide and weary be the waste,
That marks their moving bcund.

But faith that follows to the fount,
Where never mortal trod;
Will trace them to the heavenly mount,
And to the throne of God.

Tears fill in Love their silver urns,
And flow from Mercy's feet;
And unto God their stream returns,
Where Love and Mercy meet.

CONFESSIONS OF A CLERGYMAN.

Confessions that have nothing to confess,
Or in the deed more darkly still transgress,
Not such are mine—I merely bring the load,
Wherewith I travel on my troubled road,
And set it down a moment by the way,
While at the restful shrine I pause and pray.
And here, while on the altar is my hold,
Part of my burden I will now unfold;
With Heaven above my words to blame or bless,
Whate'er my speech or silence shall confess.
Lo, I confess that I am human all,
That every day a hundred times I fall,
And every day a hundred times repent,
To pave my life with many a pure intent.
Yea, I confess my nights are dread with dreams,
And gloomier from the light that through them gleams—
That but the fetters of convention gilds,
And decks the living tomb the darkness builds.
While all my sunshine is by shadow prest,
And day is only night without its rest.
But I have lived and loved and suffered loss,
And cursed the ocean that I could not cross,
That leads to fairer fields of peace and light,
Where faiths are broad and every brow is bright;
While o'er its waves I stretched my starving hands
In hunger for the sweet and pleasant lands,
That rise in radiance from the farther shore,
Where sufferers feast and never hunger more.

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And I have blotted out the curse with tears,
That shed a verdure through the shadowy years,
And made the barren pastures bloom and shine,
As with the droppings of a dew divine.
O I have laboured in the heat of noon,
And weary vigils watched beneath the moon,
With wan white faces like a flickering flame,
That waited for the dawn which never came;
And hopes that trembling on the track of light,
Went sighing into silence and the night.
Oft I have bound in wedlock man and maid,
And to the dying borne consoling aid
I missed myself, and dimly longed to feel;
And while my own I fondly failed to heal,
I had a salve for alien wounds and sores,
For strangers only heaping up my stores;
And though the same fresh streams were flowing still,
I thirsted when the others drank their fill.
So one has plenty got and one has nought,
And they that find may never yet have sought;
While he who seeks shall haply find in pain,
Time is but trouble and devotion vain.
Yea, though I mixed myself with many fears,
And was a portion of the bitter years,
I felt for ever, in the weary round
Of awful vision and of solemn sound,
In all I heard, in every scene I saw,
The iron limit of a grinding law,
That ground the nations in its hungry teeth,
And drew them down to fiery gulfs beneath.
I saw the outcast shivering in the shade,
That kind and casteless nature never made—
Besotted rulers arming hideous hordes,
Who educate their slaves to be their lords,
And with the splendour of their gold and spice,
Adorn themselves for dreadful sacrifice:
When from a thousand thousand mines and mills,
Where vice its bosom long with vengeance fills,
The swart grim masses spurning thankless toil,
Swearing and sweating out their sin and soil,
Shall fall upon their masters like a flood,
And blot them out in blinding fire and blood—
When rooting up each rank and Royal weed,
The sovereign people shall be king indeed.

And I have learned from bitter cult and creed,
The blood of Martyrs is the Churches' seed.
For life is large, and deeper than our dreams,
And in its bosom gathers all extremes;
It is the sun of mortal hopes and fears,

194

And all the contradictions of the years.
The broadest of the systems framed by man
Has each a limit in its broader plan;
The lowliest joys and sorrows hold a place,
Within the ample bliss its arms embrace.
It takes account of every loving sigh,
And every cloud that darkens in our sky.
It bathes in beauty even the meanest plea,
As earth is girdled by the kindly sea.
For mere existence is a joy that gives
A grace and grandeur to each thing that lives,
And human nature in its heart has room
For every broken gleam and barren gloom.

Then shall religion, which is more than life,
With all our richest vows and visions rife,
Be cramped and coffined in an earthly shell,
By sanctions that of cemeteries smell—
The narrow catchwords of a noisy crew,
Whose tongues are many and whose faiths are few?
Dead bones may fashion doctrines but not deeds,
And fossil crotchets are poor stuff for creeds.
Religion is no form of frozen signs,
That prisons man in primly-lettered lines:
It is the dawn that with our darkness copes,
The best expression of the best of hopes—
The channel into which our choicest dreams,
Pour all the pathos of their starlit streams.
The bourne to which we dimly reach in prayers,
Through golden gates, up white-worn altar stairs—
The sweetest blossom of our saddest hour,
When love and wonder burst in perfect flower.
It feeds the purest passion of our strife,
And is the perfume and the dew of life—
The bloom of every pleasure, and the joy
That nought increases, and that nought can cloy—
It gives to pain its keenest edge and point,
And crowns the head that sorrow's hands anoint.
Faith is the fuel of its heavenly fire,
And yet it scorns not any dim desire;
While the misgivings of the darkest night,
Are but the plumes that wing its arrowy flight.

But bitter are the fruits of bloody cults,
While earnest erring garners grand results;
Yea, bleak and pinched are laws of human pride,
Though God's commandment is exceeding wide.
All honest doubts and fears are nobler tools
Than all the dogmas of a thousand schools;
And one sweet act that lightens humble needs,
Is better than the cries of all the creeds.

195

BABY.

Would you see our precious Baby?
Look around you on the rays
Of her playful sunny ways,
Shining, shining,
Twining, twining,
Round the hearts that once were pining
For the rapture and refining
Of a baby love;
Like a splendour,
Soft and tender,
Fallen from above;
In the midst of sunshine, may be,
In the midst of shade,
You will see our precious Baby,
Light of lights that never fade.

Would you hear our precious Baby?
Listen to the echoes sweet,
Of her soft melodious feet,
Patter, patter,
Clatter, clatter,
All about no earthly matter,
But her own bright childish chatter,
On the nursery floor;
Ever cooing,
And undoing,
What she did before;
In the midst of laughter, may be,
In the midst of tears,
You will hear our precious Baby,
Centre of our hopes and fears.

Would you find our precious Baby?
Seek about you in the wrack
Of her pretty wasteful track,
Papers scattered,
Pictures tattered,
Dolls most mercilessly battered,
And the strangest playthings flattered
With the briefest life;
All the treasures
Of her pleasures,
At a hopeless strife;
In the midst of fragments, may be,
Of her broken toys,
You will find our precious Baby,
Centre of our griefs and joys.

196

Would you have a precious Baby?
Do you hunger for the sound
Of a Baby's voice around,
Rattle, rattle,
Prattle, prattle,
Innocent and simple tattle?
Daily, hourly, loving battle,
With a pleasant pain,
Sweet as leaven
Of the heaven
Which you hope to gain?
When you least expect it, may be,
As you darkly plod,
You will have a precious Baby
Like a little piece of God.

ON THE HAYMARKET.

Sweet little piece of sin,
So fair yet touched with sorrow,
What devil bade thee this damned life begin,
A life with such a morrow,
Sweet little piece of sin?

Fair little piece of flesh,
Why make that beauty venal,
Which keeps its charms yet innocent and fresh,
And woo the judgment penal,
Fair little piece of flesh,

Frail little piece of life,
Remember thou art woman;
And though with guilty passions now at strife,
Thy bosom still is human,
Frail little piece of life.

Poor little piece of lust,
That mars thee like a blister,
With all thy failings honour thee I must,
For thou art yet my sister,
Poor little piece of lust.

Dear little piece of love,
As I would call thee rather,
In that wide heaven of mercy's home above,
Thou even hast a Father,
Dear little piece of love.

197

Lost little piece of woe,
Why lamb-like haste to slaughter?
High in the light that is for thee aglow,
God mourneth for His daughter,
Lost little piece of woe.

Saved little piece of hope,
Before the final sentence,
Lo, angels lead thee to that upward slope,
Whose name is called Repentance,
Saved little piece of hope.

Sweet little piece of sin,
Whose sweetness is corruption,
No better title canst thou ever win,
Than that of God's adoption,
Sweet little piece of sin.

THE OLD HOME.

There is a spot of hallowed earth,
That once was all my own;
Where birds make melody, and dearth
Is never known.

Embosomed in green hills, that bound
Those pure and pleasant lands;
As the Almighty Guardian round
His people stands.

And planted on a happy slope,
That mounts for weary miles;
As, even though clouds, a sunny hope
Looks up and smiles.

Here in the glory of the Spring,
Comes every tint of green;
All beauteous plants, that climb and cling,
Unfold their sheen.

It is a paradise, of park
And down and winding vale;
You hear, from foliage dense and dark,
The cushat's tale.

A marvel bright with waving wood,
And flowers of changeful face;
It stands, as it has ever stood,
A thing of grace.

198

Here was I cradled, and grew up,
A proud and wayward child;
I drank the overflowing cup
Of sweetness wild.

I mixed with none, but wandered lone,
A sad and separate thing;
My playmates were the mossy stone,
And insect's wing.

The child of nature, I was wrought
As is the devious rill;
Each rural sight and simple thought,
Moulded my will.

Now all has vanished, every bond
That linked me to my home;
I gaze, as exiles gaze, beyond
The bounding foam.

Another hand now plucks the flowers,
Whose fragrance haunts me yet;
Another footstep treads the bowers,
My tears made wet.

Another eye feasts on those charms,
Which me such solace gave;
While towards them I stretch empty arms,
That vainly crave.

Another fancy shapes, in play,
The shadows of the trees;
And rides, in undisputed sway,
On every breeze.

My heart is like a tender shoot,
Torn from its native sky;
With every bleeding spray and root,
Condemned to die.

And a strange world about me lies,
In doom and darkness wrapt;
And all affection's earliest ties,
Are rudely snapt.

For each familiar face is gone,
And each familiar sound;
And I tread dimly, toiling on,
A homeless ground.

199

TO A COLD BEAUTY.

Thou art formed in woman's fashion,
And dost play her social part;
But without one pulse of passion,
And without a woman's heart.

Thou hast eyes that sweetly soften,
But from languor not from love;
Thou hast pretty feelings often,
But which fit thee like thy glove.

Thou hast lips that curl and tremble,
Swayed as finely as a fan;
Coldness while thou dost dissemble,
Warmth is lavished on a plan.

Thou hast hands that match thy dresses,
White and delicate and fair;
But the clasp of their caresses,
Is as false as is thy hair.

Thou hast dainty feet, that follow
Victims of thy amorous art;
Feet as fickle as the swallow,
That would trample on the heart.

Thou hast glances, that are treasured
By each frantic dupe and fool;
But thy every look is measured,
Like a lesson learnt at school.

Thou hast words, which he who misses
Deems his is a bitter fate;
Though they fall as soft as kisses,
They are crueller than hate.

Thou hast ways that conquer blindness,
Melting even a heart of steel;
But thou dost in all thy kindness,
Feign a part thou dost not feel.

Thou hast artless arts, for buying
Golden praise at little cost;
But the name of them is lying,
And their nature is but frost.

Thou hast mercies duly meted,
And thy breast at seasons burns;
But thy petty soul is heated,
Just to suit its petty turns.

200

Thou hast pity's every fashion,
And thy voice the tenderest ring;
Every feature of compassion,
Thou hast richly, save the thing.

All thy virtues are but borrowed,
All thy vices are thy own;
Thou hast never truly sorrowed,
And thy bosom is a stone.

Sentiments are thine and reasons,
Neatly on the surface set;
Labelled for appropriate seasons,
Like a plot of mignonette.

But thou art not touched by troubles,
If they only fall on friends;
Nothing moves thee more than bubbles,
If it suits no private ends.

On thy cheek no colour kindles,
Like the sunrise on the hills;
When the day of others dwindles,
Not one throb thy being thrills.

But in youth's wild course remember,
Every triumph has its term;
June is followed by December,
And the roses by the worm.

And the charms that thou dost cherish,
Never dimmed by care or grief;
Will too quickly pass and perish,
Fading like an autumn leaf.

Then the suitors who have girt thee,
Given thee many a crown and throne,
One by one will soon desert thee,
All unhonoured and alone.

Then be sure, when thou dost languish
In the evil hour of dearth;
Those will only harvest anguish,
Who trust beauty more than worth.

When the days are dark and showery,
Thou shalt never, never know,
What are fields for ever flowery,
What are springs that ever flow.

When comes trouble's fiery onset,
Hatred, shame, and scorn of men;
When thy life is at its sunset,
Think of this and tremble then.

201

Thou shalt only wed affliction,
And despair shall be thy lord;
And the curse of malediction,
Shall pursue thee like a sword.

Go, thou thing of paint and powder,
False and rotten to the core;
Let them blow thy trumpet louder,
It will only damn thee more.

Go, reject a hundred lovers,
Weaving pleasure from their pain;
Till thy heart at length discovers
Love, that meets no love again.

Go, while life may yet be pleasant,
Ere the blossom's pride is shed;
Fashion from the foolish present,
The dark future's bitter bed.

Go, to ripeness that is rotten,
With the tinsel of thy rank;
Soon thy fame will be forgotten,
Leaving nothing but a blank.

Go, to meet the darkening seasons,
With no promise on their brow;
To the ruin without reasons,
Which is gathering round thee now.

Go, from sorrow unto sorrow,
Cheered by no relenting ray;
Let a bitterer to-morrow,
Wait upon each bitter day.

Go, with dancing and with laughter,
In the glory of thy bloom,
To the sorrowful hereafter,
With its fiery door of doom.

Go, till every trace is faded
Of thy conquering beauty's part;
Till each hope and joy is faded,
And the worm is at thy heart.

Go, to suffering and to sighing,
That no moment's respite give;
Live, when thou dost pray for dying,
Die, when thou dost pray to live.

WILLING BUT WEAK.

She had spent the last poor shilling,
She had scarcely power to speak;
And her spirit yet was willing,
But her flesh was weak.

202

In her ear a voice came thrilling,
Fell a hand upon her cheek;
And her spirit yet was willing,
But her flesh was weak.

Sunshine dawned, her shadow filling,
Like the morn on mountain peak;
And her spirit yet was willing,
But her flesh was weak.

Music rang, her bosom stilling,
With the heart-strings prone to break;
And her spirit yet was willing,
But the flesh was weak.

Pity came, till it seemed spilling,
Vengeance for her wrongs to wreak;
And her spirit yet was willing,
But her flesh was weak.

Love o'ercame her, conscience killing,
Warming life all bare and bleak;
Died her spirit that was willing,
For the flesh was weak.

LOVE.

Love might not picture, if it would,
A face as beautiful as good,
So shyly proud, so proudly shy,
As if her footsteps longed to fly
Back to the heaven that gave her birth,
But linger on the enchanted earth.

Love would not picture, if it might,
The shadow mingled with the light,
As from some blessed region borne,
Where it is ever eve and morn,—
Where sunrise blends with sunset fires,
And all delights with all desires.

Love could not picture, though it tries,
A charm which every test defies,—
That fixed and yet that fleeting grace,
Which has no settled name or place,
A moment here, a moment there,
And still bewitching everywhere.

Love only knows that she is fair,
With human eyes and crownèd hair,
And all about her glory lies
Of summer nights and southern skies;
And in her form is splendour strange,
Of perfect rest with perfect change.

203

Love craves not for the answering chord,
It is its own supreme reward;
It sees the head serenely high,
That nothing base could venture nigh,
As if it scorned earth's soiling leaven,
And communed with its kindred heaven.

Love sits and to itself it sings,
Of angel ways and angel wings—
The rose that vainly art would seek,
So restless on her radiant cheek—
The glance that falls like starry gleams,
And by itself it sits and dreams.

Love finds a message in the mouth,
Laden with sweetness of the South,
Even in its silence, from the years
Of younger hopes and nobler fears,
And in the vastness of its joy
Feels the old world an empty toy.

Love lingers on her precious gifts,
Each grand surprise that shines and shifts,
The purity of white-waved hands,
Like half-caresses, half-commands—
The dew, the colour, and the glow
Of northern lights on northern snow.

Love listens for a step, a sound
Of tinkling feet on pavèd ground,
The shiver of the shaken robe,
That, like the mighty silver globe,
Draw the deep waves of troubled bliss,
To the fair face they cannot kiss.

Love fondly takes what fortune brings,
The dainty views, the vanishings,
Like flashes of the unseen storm,—
The poetry of perfect form,
As the lithe body softly sways,
And every passing mood obeys.

Love whispers, “She is all my own,
And in my heart she reigns alone,
With magic as of moonlit seas,
And bloom of flowers on laughing leas,
With majesty of motion stayed
In its mid march, like dawn delayed.”

Love was not ever idly spent,
If it may live it is content—
If its own flame may brightly burn,
It asks for little in return:
To hear her voice, to touch her glove,
To look, to tremble, and to love.

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A LEGEND OF THE INQUISITION.

In the darkness of the dolorous time,
When simple faith was the only crime,
And the earth had lost its Gospel chime,
There was done a deed in Spain—
A deed, though generations old,
At which the very blood runs cold,
And the heart turns sick with pain.

In the time, when the Inquisition lay,
Like a thunder cloud upon the day,
And the iron grip of its grim sway
Into men's hearts had grown,
There was done this deed of bitter shame
On a woman fair of noble name,
Who called her will her own.

When she dared to love her husband best,
To be faithful still though sorely prest
By the priests, who, while she sins confest,
To worse sins tried to lure;
They denounced her, they denounced her lord,
Because she feared not rack or sword,
And kept her purpose pure.

They were dragged before that court so fell,
Which was but the upper court of Hell;
For they loved their honour all too well,
More than their living breath;
And the sentence of their secret doom,
Was recorded in the judgment gloom,
And the sentence it was death.

Then his wife was slain before his face,
Because she scorned to be so base,
As to yield to them her spotless grace,
What makes a matron strong;
And before his staring maddened eyes,
And beneath the veiled and silent skies,
Was done this damnéd wrong.

But first in the black defiling dust,
They wreaked on her all their hellish lust,
Though they could not break her woman's trust,
In the great God of love;
Though they laid her outraged body low,
Yet the angels came in the sunset glow,
And they took her soul above.

Then they bound the live man to the dead,
And they bound them fast from foot to head,
And they spurned him with their cruel tread,
As a master spurns the slave;

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And they left him in that ghastly life,
The husband with his butchered wife,
In the darkness of the grave.

They were wedded in a marriage strange,
And stern as the tomb that knows not change,
When the thought alone can freely range,
And madness is the thought;
They were wedded in that funeral place,
And they mingled in that last embrace,
That the hand of hell had wrought.

And the white lips lay upon his own,
But the spirit warm had from them flown,
And they spoke of mysteries unknown,
But they breathed no tender breath;
And their message he might never guess,
In the silence of that cold caress,
Which was the kiss of death.

And he listened as his heart beat on,
Till the last low lingering step was gone,
And the last dim lantern no more shone,
Till the light within went out;
And he looked as dying souls for day,
Till the last pale shadow passed away,
With the distant ribald shout.

And he was alone with his heart and God,
Alone like a man in the burial sod,
And the ghostly stillness on him trod,
Like the weight of the coffin lead;
And his thoughts ran high in a raging flood,
As he lay in the horror and the blood,
Alone with his precious dead.

For the key was turned and the bolts were shot,
And for him had fallen the changeless lot,
And the massive door would open not,
Till his pulse had ceased to beat;
And he cried for mercy, and the walls
Re-echoed his despairing calls,
From out their stony seat.

But he cried in vain from his iron cage,
And the moment seemed an endless age,
And the cell the universe's stage,
And his breast a battle ground;
There was night without in the rayless gloom,
There was night within in the dreadful doom,
That his soul with darkness bound.

And he felt the warm blood slowly drip,
From the corpse and each dumb crimson lip,
And each drop falling seemed to slip

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Into his heart's own tide;
And the hours went by, and there he lay,
In the tomb that slew, and did not slay,
With the dead thing at his side.

But, hark! a sound as of friendly feet,
Mustering many and mustering fleet;
If the message were God's, the voice were sweet,
For it would release the slave;
They are coming and coming, an army strong;
He has waited late, he has waited long,
In the grip of that living grave.

They will break his bonds, they will set him free,
The light will arise and the shadows flee,
And the blinded eyes again shall see
The woman he loved so well;
And the dreadful dream in which he lies,
It will pass like a thunder-cloud from the skies,
Or the throb of a funeral bell.

There is help for the helpless soul at last,
There is hope for the hopeless, fear is past,
And the burdened breast its cares can cast
On the Lord who bids him come;
There is rest for the restless grinding pains,
Remembrance of forgotten chains,
And for the weary home.

But what do they mean? For the sounds are strange.
Has his mind, in its maddened wandering range—
Has his mind gone through some awful change,
And mocked his brain with din?
Is the noise outside in the ghostly space?
Or is fancy but its dwelling-place,
And is its seat within?

Oh, is it the wind from his mountain moor,
Chittering, chattering,
Pittering, pattering,
Over the breadth of the bloody floor,
Out of the walls and under the door,
Hurrying, scurrying,
Flurrying, worrying—
Has the wind swept down to visit the poor?

Is it lapsing of raindrops on the leaves,
Tinkling and twinkling,
Calling and falling,
Fretting the edge of familiar eaves,
Flying in spray from the arméd sheaves,
Dripping and dropping,
Chipping and chopping
The pebbles to which the dust still cleaves?

207

Is he dreaming? Or are they waves that beat,
Leaping and lisping,
Creeping and crisping,
Shy in the shadow and bold in the heat,
Up to the foot of the castled seat,
Nearer and nearer,
Clearer and clearer,
Dancing to light from their dim retreat?

Are they feet of his children upon the mats,
Sliding and gliding,
Hiding and chiding,
That come flitting across the marble flats?—
Or are they the wings of the vampire bats,
Rustling and bustling,
Hustling and justling?—
Or are they—Oh, are they the damnéd rats?

At the gastly thought, his heart stood still
And he heard afar the laughing rill,
As it hastened down his native hill,
In its bright enriching track;
He saw it all in a moment's time,
And the music of its happy chime,
Brought his whole history back.

It all came back, with his childhood's toys,
And the mother's smile that caught her boy's,
And the splendour of his springtide joys,
And the service of the sword;
He knelt once more by his Inez' side,
When his love became a soldier's bride,
And he gave her to the Lord.

And then as the dreadful truth came nigh,
His breast was torn with a tempest sigh,
And his heart beat quick and his heart beat high,
Like a steed that longs to start;
And face to face with the frightful death,
He clenched his teeth and he held his breath,
To play a conqueror's part.

And lo! in a kind of trancèd daze,
Through the horror of the battle haze,
He saw the ranks in their rhythmic maze,
And many a noble Don;
He saw the red masses backward reel,
From a moving wall of flashing steal,
That still kept rolling on.

Then he felt the rats in their legions steal,
To the feasting of that funeral meal,
On the face his hands would fain conceal,

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Were they not in fetters tied;
And they peeled the precious tender flesh,
Grew tired, and the began afresh,
And were yet unsatisfied.

And they tore her tresses, shred by shred,
As the bloom of a glorious flower is shed;
But they lingered on the lovely red,
Where the red rose had been;
And God, in his mercy, veiled the night
Of the living man in dusky night,
From the things he might have seen.

For they crept and crawled, a hideous rout,
Laid bare the skull, and in and out
They swarmed, and revelled all about,
To find some feast to suit;
They gnawed and nibbled, rent the skin
To suck the sweetness from within,
As one might rend a fruit.

They fought and frolicked o'er their prey,
And none were better fed than they;
Till his jet black hair grew stiff and grey,
And his mind began to rave;
And he heard his teeth at work on her
He loved, like the pick of the grave-digger
Digging his own dark grave.

And the cruel greedy crunching sound
Went on, in its dull and ceaseless round,
As the busy fangs were sharper ground
On the once so lovely form;
And outside the walls of that dismal deep,
There came echoes as from the land of sleep—
Were they guns, or a gathering storm?

And he listened and listened, in breathless need;
But the feasting rats, they took no heed,
As they stript the frame in ravenous greed
Of the features that made it fair;
And when they were full, with emulous pace
Fresh troops poured in to take their place,
In the reeking fetid air.

And still they came in their hungry hosts,
They squeaked and moaned like gibbering ghosts,
And still drove in the outward posts
Of the army on the field;
They fought with frantic tooth and nail
For the dainty food, ere it should fail,
That none would lightly yield.

209

And his straining face was ashen gray,
As he cried to God for breaking day;
And the rats they gnawed and gnawed alway,
Till his starting eyes grew dim;
But the sun would rise and the sun would set,
And the mother might her child forget,
Yet nought would shine on him.

In the blackness of that bloody strife,
On the shapeless thing that was his wife,
It seemed each rent was the butcher's knife,
And was driven into his frame;
It seemed as if for him they fought,
On him the devilry was wrought
That had no Christian name.

Each tap of the feet that darkness hid,
As a rat was gorged and downward slid,
Was the hammer's tap on the coffin lid,
From a hand that would not spare;
And the work went on, and the work went fast,
Till the awful meal was done at last,
And they picked the body bare.

And now was a pause in the dreadful deed,
While fresh rats gathered still to feed,
And still they came in their cursèd speed,
And they all had to be fed . . . .
But then they turned to the living man,
And on him once more fresh hosts began,
While they tore him shred by shred.

And the lean grew fat and the fat grew more,
As they revelled in human flesh and gore,
And they gnawed and nibbled, sucked and tore,
And ground as the millstones grind;
For they plucked the meat to the very bone,
As a dainty girl, though she has but one,
From the apple sheds its rind.

And they gouged his eyes and gauged his lips,
They clove to the cheeks with relentless grips,
And tasted his throat with greedy sips,
In their hunger great and grim;
And they rent him piecemeal, till the bands
They rattled upon his fleshless hands,
And they fastened on every limb.

As he heard the grating rasping strain,
He laughed like a marked undying Cain,
And he laughed till the walls they laughed again,
And the rats one moment stopped;

210

For it seemed to him, as he maddened lay,
They were feasting on something far away,
That the battle had somewhere dropped.

He felt no pain in the cutting pangs,
And there was no edge to the cruel fangs,
For his sense was dead as the life that hangs
Over the pit of death;
Though he knew the damnèd rats were there,
And rats and rats were everywhere,
And he drank their short sharp breath.

Though he heard them picking, picking still,
And each one worked its savage will,
And each one ate its ghastly fill,
Till they could eat no more;
Though he saw the branding on his brain,
Yet never he felt a pulse of pain,
As he felt for her before.

And a fire within him seemed to burn,
As the embers in the funeral urn,
While fresh rats quarreled for their turn,
For the flesh of man is sweet;
And they had starved and waited long,
They were mad for food and fresh and strong,
And the famine winged their feet.

But again he heard that volleying sound,
That like a tempest wrapped him round—
Was it overhead or underground?
Or within his reeling mind?
And with those echoing thunder tones,
The teeth went on like chattering stones,
That cannot choose but grind.

It nearer drew and yet more near,
It clearer came and yet more clear,
Like a message to the mournful ear
Of the soul that fortune shuns;
And he strained till his ribs began to start,
For he knew it in his soldier's heart—
It was the sound of guns.

And onward still the tumult came,
With the clash of swords and the glare of flame,
Till it rolled unto those walls of shame,
And it thundered at the door;
And the rats they fled from that slaughter room,
And he heard them scattering through the gloom,
And plashing over the floor.

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A wonderment filled his soul! And then,
There trod into his troubled ken
The heavy tramp of arméd men,
With the clanking of the sword;
And it seemed to his poor clouded brain,
As if the old life had dawned again,
And he of himself was lord.

Then the tide swept in, till it reached the cell,
And the bars before its billows fell,
As the earthquake rends its earthen shell,
And vengeance flashed its light;
But the men who would rather die than yield,
And were blood-stained from the battle field,
Stood awestruck at the sight.

Lo, there was the dead to the living bound,
And the fleshless jaws they mumbled sound,
While the eyeless sockets stared around,
And the clean-picked head stood white;
For the thing half-eaten still lived on,
And jabbered to the skeleton,
And the fingers strove to write.

And there in the light of that judgment day,
In a resurrection cold and gray,
By the dead and the dying the live rats lay
So gorged that they could not fly;
And there was the man who would not sell
His soul, and the woman who loved too well
Her honour and purity.

The stones were strewn with knots of hair,
And bloody rags, that once were fair;
And bloody steps ran down the stair,
With more that did not show;
The air was thick with bloody fume,
And the red torch shone but to illume
The redder pools below.

And the rugged face turned sad and soft,
While the vow of vengeance trembled oft,
And many a sword was held aloft
By many a strong right hand;
And the hardened soldiers turned away
From the woe no mortal could allay,
As it passed to the silent land.

Then a cry of horror and of hate
The prison shook to its utmost gate,
When they measured all the accurséd fate
Of the grimly-wedded twain;

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And they hunted far and hunted wide,
For the fiends who had killed a woman's pride,
And a man had doubly slain.

Till they dragged them from their holes of shade,
At the point of the pursuing blade,
To every torture they had made,
And every hellish doom;
To see the future grow more black,
To lie on the more dreadful rack
Of memory's torture-room.

And they chained the murderers cheek by jowl,
In the reverend cassock and the cowl,
And laid them with their dying howl,
In the darkness with the bats;
With their gimcracks and their Devil's tricks,
Their crosses and their candlesticks,
They left them to the rats.

TO ESTHER (STAR.)

O Esther, if thou be a star,
Remember whence thy light is drawn;
Its lustre cometh from afar,
From no dull earthly clime or dawn.

Remember that it shines from Him,
Whose glorious beams alone can bless;
And thy poor feeble rays were dim,
But for the Sun of Righteousness.

Thy light will yet more brightly shine,
And on its course more gladly run,
And with a warmth yet more Divine,
The nearer thou art to thy Sun.

THE FRAGMENT FINISHED.

It stood for many years, a fabric shorn
Of half its beauty, like a creature born
Out of due season in an alien clime,
Where thought and speech have lost the common chime
Of their young marriage—like a gem unset—
A blotted page, a record of regret—
Unfinished. As from resurrection ground
It rose, like flame that laughs at every bound,
But in mid distance stayed its upward flght—

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A broken aim that would be infinite,
Though earth-fast. For He who alone could give
The crowning grace, whose love had made it live
And leap from marble, the great Master Mind
Had passed away, and had not left behind
The secret of his art. And thus it stood
Imperfect, in its utter orphanhood,
A thought half-spoken, hid in holy state,
A song unended, inarticulate—
God's temple still, but with no hand of hope
Uplifted to the golden gates that ope
To faith. It stood, while praises rippled round
Its walls, and made a sanctuary of sound.
Years followed years, and then a pupil came,
Who at the Master's feet had learned to frame
Stories in stones, that speech had never wrought,
And mould in marble the imperial thought
Too large for utterance, and could draw from mire
Music and passion and the tongue of fire.
And he had learned that nothing is so weak
Or worthless, but it can be tuned to speak,
And has within the angel's wings to fly,
That links its spirit with eternity.
He learned the gladness that is taught by tears,
And studied hope in the stern school of fears,
And so he know that to the open heart
No mystery lives, and in the meanest part
The whole lies hidden, and the touch of love
Can raise the earthliest to the courts above.
He came, and marvelled that the mighty plan
Had not borne out the glory it began,
And oft he wept: till, as he daily bent
In worship, lo! the walls grew eloquent
And to his reverence told the secret, long
Locked in their bosom like a silent song.
And on him flashed, to his puro sorrow given,
The finished fabric like a glimpse of heaven.
And so he wrought in prayer and with sweet pain,
Nor found his sacred labour was in vain
For the great Master, though the world was blind,
Translating into marble the great Mind,
That left its beauty like a watch-tower lone,
And building thoughts in everlasting stone.
Till the rich spire rose from the radiant whole,
White, pure, and perfect, like a cleansèd soul—
Like a glad spirit freed from prisoning bars,
Returning to its rest and native stars—
Embodied flame, rejoicing in its strength,
When its completeness had received, at length,
The last fair finish of the workman's hand,
To be a joy and wonder in the land.

214

THE FEAST OF PHILOSOPHY.—1866.

It was a mighty hall, a splendid space
Of pleasant twilight, an enchanted place;
A high-built palace hung in middle blue,
By arrowy rays without a mote shot through,
With sudden shafts, a multitudinous maze,
That interpenetrate it a thousand ways.
Without the deep and dark-blue circle spread,
Within faint purple light its lustre shed.
Calm was its grandeur as the sunset fire,
Of some heroic and supreme desire,
That bathed a world in beauty at its birth,
And dying left a glory on the earth
Living and growing. And its bulk was wrought,
Like the great compass of a kingly thought,
Above our blessing and beyond our curse,
Which is a part of all the universe;
Vast, measureless, and pompous, in suspense
Poised, in the central heart of the Immense;
By quintessential substance and the form
Of added art, made manifold and warm;
Glowing with wealth, and spiritual bloom
Mildly refulgent from the purple gloom.
Nor lacked it aught of fair and good, of grace
Which elevates and purifies a place.
And here the mighty men, who sometime were
The brain o' the world, had gathered without stir;
For all was calmly jubilant, and all
Sat silent in the shadow of the hall.
It was a pile no mortal builder made,
Mingled with many a solemn light and shade—
An awful fabrie knit of ghostly stones,
Made populous and venerable with thrones,
Running with flux of rainbow-coloured brooks,
And pierced by lightning of lascivious looks
From stately women, who danced to and fro
With flying feet as soft as falling snow—
Dabbled in tears and painted o'er with blood;
But ruined blossom and unvirgin bud
Clove to their head-gear pendulous, and filled
The hair with colour and sad scents distilled.
But immaterial stones upbare the frame
Of that o'ershadowing dome, and flowers of flame
Bloomed on the twilight, shaping into words;
And far away faint music as of birds
Sang; to its sound the amorous women kept
Responsive movements, and most lightly leapt.

About a mighty table, propt at ease,
Lapt in luxurious dreams and smeared with lees

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Of deep-drunk juices; on the lip above
And under, for the simple social love
Which charmeth revellers, drenched with vinous spray;
Their thronéd foreheads crowned with splendid bay,
And chapleted and filleted like gods—
Like them august with the imperial rods
Of judgment; grouped as gracious stars in heaven,
Here clustered two or three, there six or seven;
Ceased philosophic spirits, who on earth
Did coin their brain in thoughts of golden worth.
Here old Pythagoras, mystical and mild
(A sleeping ocean dim and undefiled),
Mate and mysterious, clothed with saintly white,
In vision wandered through successions bright
Of being, unconscious of his peers around,
Or numbered in great thought one self the ground;
Superbly fashioned, like the idea of man,
As it appeared to God ere He began
To make the work Fate after marred—a thing
Of noble act, and nobler purposing.
But many fair and giant forms abound,
And many holy lowly notes resound;
Not fleshly faces, but the informing fire,
Aspiring, full of hunger and desire,
Yet mitigated to wise impulse, tamed,
Free from old curbs yet not of law ashamed;
And not terrestial are the effusive notes,
The liguid tribute of sweet human throats—
Flesh hath no part in these serene retreats,
Which peace in God with happiness completes.
For through their being, with an influx vast,
The awful presence of the Maker past;
The silent power of a tremendous spell,
A rolling tide-wave, irresistible;
Creating still He all their nature shook,
Thrilled in each thought, and flashed in every look.
There Socrates rests, in a dark-browed group,
And dimly talks, and questioning doth stoop
His furrowed face, to meet their faces bent
And bowed toward him, in mild uncontent
Of upturned eyebrows and of lifted lids,
Of gathered lips and twitch that nor forbids
Nor praises; he, with studied ignorance,
And irony of Attic shield and lance,
Seems deprecating combat and yet fights—
Merging himself i'the method, he delights
In its victorious issue; they, perplexed,
Wear finer self-esteem than to be vexed.
And like the sighing of a summer sea

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Troubled in sleep, their voices rise and flee.

Now round an old man, garrulous and meek.
Who murmurs to his soul and doth not speak,
Who prattles like a child, and holds debate
In whispers as with sophists good and great,
Flit naked boys, with bloomy cheek and lip,
From which they tempt him honey-dew to sip,
To suck the blood of love and draw sweet breath,
That he may touch and drink the indwelling death;
Fair, waving flowers and fruits in eloquent
Uplifted hands, with artful bodies bent—
Flitting and flying round him and before,
Undoing what they do, for evermore.
The women too that weave the rhythmic dance,
Draw nearer to his words of wise romance,
Link lovely hands and feet and then unweave
Their woven work, and gracefully deceive—
Spin tangled webs of wondrous depth, to win
By rhetoric of radiant eyes, soft sin,
The innocent ancient sage, to their fond ways
Of blandishment and sweet libidinous gaze;
Revealing half, half hiding the wild charms
Of heretofore, and winding unwound arms.
But he far-seeing, unconcerned, urbane,
Secure and calmly catholic, humane—
Like some glad quiet brook through moonlight wan—
Smiles, flows, and garrulously babbles on,
For ever wandering in delicious dreams,
Down fancy's ancient and enchanted streams.
And the broad shoulders and the lifted brows
With cross-cut lines, the contemplative drowse,
The low lisped Attic syllables, betray
Plato's melodious maze and silver say.

The feast flows on, boys tempt, and women make
Music and motion—their lithe bodies shake,
And mingle like mixed serpents serpentine;
From thickest hair fall scents of flowers and wine,
From humid hair wine steams, and casual flowers
Drop, and reluctance chains the dancing hours.
Now in a double orb, a waving wealth
Of feet and hands, with subtlety and stealth
The dancers twine their snaky snares about
A holy figure, edging in and out,
Saluting him with gesture and soft sign
Of full-lipped love, as Father and Divine.
A form austere and chaste, and simply grand,
Is that grave pious man; a golden band
Coerces his great carven brows, a thing
Of royalest rare gold, as offering
Men dedicate to some dark god supreme,
Who stirs the human heart with fear and dream.

217

Most continent he seems and most devout,
Most full of love, yet emptied not of doubt;
His eye regards, or it appears to see,
The unveiled glory of Infinity,
In beatific vision; and delight
Fulfils his subtle soul, with light and might—
An inward glow possession cannot cloy,
An awful incommunicable joy.
But from his tremulous lips, half white, half red,
And wholly curled in prayer, this say is said—
As an ecstatic underbreath, a tone
Mixed with the indwelling God intensely known—
“Who loves but God he asks for nothing more,
For love it is sufficient to adore.”
The veneration and the trance, the gleam
Gladdening his wondrous eyes, the distant dream,
A mouth fed full of praise as breath, an air
And circumstance of vast benignant care—
All mark the upright seer, the outcast Jew,
Spinoza, who lost all to gain the True.

Ferrier's theory of the thought of Pythagoras.

But many other kindred souls of worth,
Who left a name and fame green on the earth
And growing still, shone there with softened light;
Some clothed like spring in green, some veiled with white
Like winter, all in stainless garments clad,
And wearing all (the splendours erst they had)
The soul's apparel, mien of vision clear,
And the sweet looks that man to man endear—
High faith and humble fear, that chymist love
Unites and integrates; of which the dove
And eagle, are fit everlasting signs,
Which passion separates and peace combines.
So in that purple sky which twilight wove,
Floated the shapes of eagle and of dove,
Mated; they urged the flight and the pursuit,
And ever shadow as with shadow, mute,
Made love and pastime; as winged arrcws speed,
Feathered, from twanging bow, so they recede
And then advance in fence of amorous feuds,
A mimic war of fond vicissitudes.
As fall their passing plumes athwart the light,
Low lilies laugh and turns the red rose white;
And from the belly of the silver bowl,
From rippling wine, wit finds a song and soul
Cousin to calmness; while the lips of truth
Speak, and its hearer is the heart of youth.
Though fairy women, instant, paced between
The bird-like music's pulses, each a queen
In lower spheres, and little love-boys leapt—
Though many linkéd notes did intercept

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The sovereign silence—yet 'twas silence still,
Ancient and vast, dim and ineffable;
With tender murmurs that interpreted,
Made audible to space, time's silent tread.

“O I LOVE THE GLEAM OF GOLDEN HAIR.”

O I love the gleam of golden hair,
And the glance of glorious eyes;
But the sight I ever find most fair,
Is a sight no others prize.

It is not the flower in regal bloom,
Though its blossoms proudly wave;
That has built its throne on another's tomb,
And was cradled in the grave.

It is not the sun of a system bright,
That irradiates wide and far;
For the sun has drawn its dazzling light,
From the death of many a star.

It is not the river with haughty looks,
That is rushing to the sea;
For the river had drained a thousand brooks,
Ere it rolled so fresh and free.

But it is the violet of the vale,
In its lowly beauty bent;
That is only known beyond its pale,
By the sweetness of its scent.

And it is the humble lamp of love,
With its lustre feebly shed;
On the night beneath and the night above,
And beside the sufferer's bed.

And it is the stream with meagre store,
When it waters a withered life;
That the barren feeds till it flows no more,
And with verdure clothes the strife.

O I love the ripple of rythmic feet,
As they lightly come and go;
But the sound I ever find most sweet,
Is a sound no revellers know.

It is not the laughter of a maid,
With a lover at her side;
When they wander through the wooing shade,
To the chime of a tinkling tide.

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It is not the carol of a voice,
When it climbs the peaks of song;
While the waves are glad and the winds rejoice,
As they waft its airs along.

It is not the murmur of the pine,
Nor the music of the sea;
Though they steal their tones from the strains divine,
And they both have charms for me.

But it is the breath of a prayer that slips,
As a melody from the tongue;
When it lingers lovingly on lips,
That by alien grief are wrung.

And it is the crown of gentle praise,
That enwreathes a bending brow;
When the hands of honour would upraise,
And the modest still would bow.

And it is the sigh of a troubled breast,
From a penitential heart;
When the worn and weary fain would rest,
Ere the demon will depart.

But the sound to me most dear of all,
Is the sound of joyous tears;
When the shadows flee and the barriers fall,
And when faith is born of fears.

LITTLE BROWN PATCH.

A POEM OF THE PAVEMENT.

Out in the rain and pinched by the cold,
Is she lost in the street and strayed from the fold?
Little Brown Patch,
With her hair like thatch,
Trippingly, slippingly, toddles along,
In a cloud of rags and a glory of song.

Over the pavement, under the lamps,
Breathing the winter bravely she tramps;
Little Brown Patch,
With no clothes to match;
Pattering, chattering wonderful things,
While the friendly mud to her features clings.

Into the gutter, now on the stones,
Mending her manners and bruising her bones,
Little Brown Patch,
None the worse for a scratch,
Provokingly, jokingly, rises from slips,
With the dirt in her eyes and a laugh on her lips.

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Jostled by constables, jolted by carts,
Picking her road with miraculous arts,
Little Brown Patch,
Takes them all in a batch—
Verily merrily, bears with them all,
With a blessing for blows and a rhyme for a fall.

Far from her friends and away from her nest,
From the sheltering arms and the motherly breast,
Little Brown Patch,
(What a chicken to hatch!)
Beguilingly, smilingly, nothing would shun,
While she reckons the bruises as buffets in fun.

Hear how she carols when grappling the gust,
That is homely to her with its halo of dust!
Little Brown Patch,
Whom the eddies all catch,
Mustering, blustering, still at the turns,
Where the wind is as wild as the spirit it spurns.

And what troubles she for the wind or the wet,
When all are good fish that come to her net?
Little Brown Patch,
At her life makes a snatch;
Splashing and dashing her vehement way,
With a sister's affection for commoner clay.

The cats and the curs that are straying as she,
That she takes to her heart without question or plea,
Little Brown Patch,
Has a spell to attach,
Hurriedly, flurriedly, sleeking their coats;
While, the truth must be told, upon donkeys she doats.

Is she ripe for a revel or off for a job,
That she scrambles along through the mire and the mob?
Little Brown Patch,
In such reckless despatch,
Hustles and bustles with impudent air,
While her clouts all misfit and her shoes do not pair.

Others have homes that they find at the last,
When their sad pains and their perils are past;
But will Little Brown Patch,
Ever light on a latch,
Lingering, fingering, yet at the door,
Where her touch was familiar and welcome before?

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NOVISSIMA VERBA

—IN MEMORY OF CHARLES DICKENS.

He is gone, with his hand on the pen,
Who was wisest and best among men,
Who moved us to laughter and tears,
Who kindled our passions and fears—
He bowed not, but breaking he fell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone with the roses of June,
Like a song that is sacred of tune,
Or old cadences homely and sweet,
Laid low in his fame at our feet.
To his Florence and Agnes and Nell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone in his beautiful prime,
Who was splendid with spoils of a time,
Who was used with enchantments to sing,
As a poet, a preacher, a king.
To the children who charmed with the spell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone to the dreamland of rest,
To the place of the perfect and blest;
With the laugh on his lip not expired,
And his eye by imaginings fired.
Do the heroes his presence repel?
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and the daughters of dreams
Take him home to their shadows and streams,
In the quiet and questionless place,
Where the righteous and peaceful embrace.
With the breath of the echoing bell,
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and we will not deplore,
Though we see him among us no more;
He remains unforgetting afar,
And he hears us through portals ajar,
Like a child with its ear at a shell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, who was goodly and brave,
But his poems shall conquer the grave,
As monuments simple and pure;
While his sermons for ever endure,
And his empire shall brighten and swell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

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He is gone, but by wonder of will,
Shall he live and enlighten us still;
For our country, our households and hearts,
Shall retain all his magical arts;
Though we would not, his witchcrafts compel
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, while his head had a crown,
With his hands full of joy and renown;
He bent not in weakness or age,
But he ceased as in turning a page;
And his services who can foretell?
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, with his hand on the plough,
While the honours were bright on his brow;
In the ripeness of manhood sedate,
He collapsed in the furrow of fate,
And the share he shall no more impel.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone to the music he proves,
For to harmony harmony moves;
In the midst of his glory and pride,
With the wonderful Harp at his side;
He has fled from the shadow of hell.
He is gone. Let him go, It is well.

He is gone, with the turn of the flood,
And forsaking a bloom in the bud;
But the flowers and the foliage and fruit,
Which he gave us, are rich in their root,
And the blossoms of Paradise smell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, whither monarchs descend,
For all have their haven and end,
Where nothing provokes or molests;
In the circle of greatness he rests,
With the glorious dead in his cell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and he shall not return,
Till the seal of the funeral urn,
Is dissolved in the furnace of gloom,
At the sound of the trumpet of doom;
And we will not, we dare not rebol.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and the roses may rise,
Rejoicing in radiance of skies;
And the summer will lighten again,

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But he cannot come in its train,
With his melody murmurs to quell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and why should we complain,
If our weeping be idle and vain?
But forgetting the sinking in night,
Let us think of the rising to light—
Of the trumpet and not of the knell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, but his words cannot go,
With the fashions and changeable flow;
For the Future will stamp them divine,
And in Memory's temple enshrine,
Like the daisies that hide in a dell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

He is gone, and his coming is dim,
But we shall be gathered to him,
In the fulness of time, with the years,
When we pass from this valley of tears,
Where the dear and departed ones dwell.
He is gone. Let him go. It is well.

AUTUMN HOURS.

O has the shadow clothed the climes,
Or is it on my heart?
And does the change in summer chimes,
From my own winter start?

For all has now a dimmer hue,
And wears a graver dress;
While labour covets more than due,
And pleasure asks for less.

I cannot wake as once at will,
The glowing hours of youth;
When every thought was Nature's thrill,
And every accent Truth.

Then all the windows of my frame,
Were open to the sun;
The beams and airs that ever came,
A dream of splendour spun.

My fancy ranged from sight to sight,
As flits a snow white dove;
And in the tender morning light,
I felt the dawn of love.

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And though the path was rugged ground,
That led me to my goal,
While night its curtain spread around,
No night was in my soul.

An odour breathed from apple bloom,
That now I sadly miss;
And in the Autumn's golden gloom,
The leaves would laugh and kiss.

The oak-tree offered ampler shades,
And better shelter then,
To gayer groups of rosier maids,
More just and generous men.

And love was like a mighty wave,
That mingled hearts it drew;
And even in grasses of the grave,
A secret passion grew.

For nought is dead to fancy fond,
That knows no fear or fence;
It gives to all a mystic bond,
Some sympathetic sense.

Then by the river waved the reed,
With fresher green and grace;
The dust that dimmed the wayside weed,
Fell on a fairer face.

Then every ill had something good,
And scorn was free from scoff;
And heaven was better understood,
That now is farther off.

My dreams with certain place and pose,
Took body, hue, and shape;
And music out of discord rose,
With soft and sweet escape.

And glorious types my landscape filled,
The humblest moved me much;
A nameless effluence through me thrilled,
From every tone and touch.

O happy sounds would lightly gush,
From sorrows on my way;
While blossoms had a maiden blush,
A charm they lack to-day.

The petals now have found a flaw,
And lost their power for me;
The curve and colour once I saw,
I can no longer see.

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The plants my folly wildly plucked,
To trace their growing roots,
A richer sap from ruin sucked,
And yet bore finer fruits.

The joys that all so quickly went,
Made merry days as hours;
Turned poisoned fumes to precious scent,
And common weeds to flowers.

For then my heart was never sad,
And only felt the good;
I painted darkness gay and glad,
And made it what I would.

Yea, every labourer was a lord,
And every maid a queen;
While hate was tardy to record,
And mercy quick to screen.

“The wish was father of the thought;”
And thought more potcnt still,
A wondrous revolution wrought;
And all was all my will.

Then pulsed a rapture with the spring,
Like fire in bough and bud;
It buoyed the wild bird on its wing,
And trembled through the blood.

It danced in swift and rhythmic feet,
And throbbed in storm clouds' breast;
It heaved in kindling bosoms' beat,
Or slept in passions' rest.

It loosed and bound the wandering wave,
And sped the falcon's path;
To quivering lip and nostril gave,
The spell of splendid wrath.

It made each field a fairy ring,
Each chain a silken mesh;
It lent each lonely wood and spring,
Enchantments ever fresh.

It brought a vision to the eye,
A brightness to the brow;
It turned to singing every sigh;—
Where is that rapture now?

It wreathed a glory round the nights,
A glamour over scars;
And drew the soul, through sudden sights,
To banquet with the stars.

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Then subtle forces stirred in streams,
And with the wind would blow;
They blended blithely with my dreams;—
Why have they ceased to flow?

The sun of half his beams is shorn,
The daisies lose their dew;
And in the magic of the morn,
Does earth its robes renew?

Can any sorcerer's potent wand,
Give life its colour back?
Or lend the weary who despond,
The flowers that fringed their track?

Stilled is that tremor of the trees,
Which flame-like flickerings cast;
And with the perished power to please,
Has all the freshness past?

Where is the voice that lightly led,
My fancy's footsteps on?
The roses of my youth are dead,
But is their perfume gone?

If boyhood left the shining East,
If dance and song have flown
Has manhood found no richer feast,
No fragrance all its own?

Are there no witcheries in the West,
When dimness brings decline?
Has then the thought of perfect rest,
No solace more divine?

Ah, fled for ever is the sheen,
That lit my early stage!
But life has changed its foliage green,
For sober fruits of age.

Breathe fairer flowers, that keep their bloom,
Sweet scents of brighter ground;
Sleeps fancy in its virgin tomb,
Dispetaled and discrowned.

Yea, o'er its head the sunbeams play,
And on its dreaming breast,
With memories of a milder sway,
The moonlight makes its nest.

And voiceless visions waving white,
Its troubled chambers fret;
And sealed with silence and the night,
It moves and murmurs yet.

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But from its grave grow blossoms sweet,
Of foresight and of trust;
That kiss and salve the climbing feet,
And glorify the dust.

Imagination now is seen,
Not as in treacherous youth;
It wears a graver, grander mien,
It waits and shines on truth.

The light is softer to the sense,
If sadder than of old;
And faith in strong intelligence,
Is calm as power controlled.

The freshness goes, the fragrance flies,
And outer forms are vain;
And colour after colour dies,
But yet the germs remain.

The smile, the glow, the halo fade,
And youthful pleasures pall;
But when the surface has decayed,
We see the source of all.

The mists that mantled on the sight,
The masks that flouted faith,
Have melted with the murk of night,
And every morning wraith.

The tinsel trappings once so sweet,
Have perished with the past;
And where the dawn and darkness meet,
An arc of azure cast.

Those tender shapes were all a show,
I saw a splendid sham;
But now, I see myself—and so,
By right divine, I am.

Now Art in earnest gathers grace,
While Science takes a heart;
And scattered parts and beams embrace,
When Science strengthens Art.

Now broadens Peace from shore to shore,
The dove and eagle mate;
Religions, rival now no more,
Forget their fears and hate.

The Stateman's craft, the Churchman's spite,
In specious garb and gaud,
And party rancour's withering blight,
Are doomed with force and fraud.

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The useless lore of narrow ken,
No longer crowds our shelves;
And those that trust their fellow men,
No more can doubt themselves.

From deeper insight now we see,
How ills are softly draped;
And troubles that we may not flee,
May still be kindly shaped.

A higher honour comes at call,
A better beauty wooes;
In just and gentle contact all,
Their rugged angles lose.

The early truth was just in name,
A shadow, symbol, type;
Refreshing draughts of wisdom came,
When time was rich and ripe.

A meaning like a lustrous belt,
Connects my every view;
I know what once I only felt,
I am what I but knew.

I see the streams that never stop,
The poise of equal force;
The law that guides a falling drop,
And keeps the planets' course.

I see how suns have slowly gone,
From darkness unto day;
The mighty systems carried on,
Their wasteless deathless way.

I see that order duly grows,
From warring creed and cult;
The solemn march and rapt repose,
Of process and result.

I see the moulding gleams of thought,
In cloudy chaos rise;
And perfect union sweetly wrought,
By sure and secret ties.

I see that mist in morning fades,
Divided duties kiss;
That fancied hindrance only aids,
The crowning synthesis.

I see the hidden springs and grooves,
The matter finding form;
While in its fiercest madness moves,
The method of the storm.

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I see the structure free from flaws,
With truth the builder's tool;
And forged of finer links and laws,
A new and nobler school.

I see discoveries dim and old,
Renewed in broader frames;
And knowledge, though a story told,
Made power by perfect names.

I see the strokes of ripened age,
Yet healing all they hit;
And flashing through a vaster stage,
The winnowing wing of wit.

I see the fancies born of fact,
Dissevered by the years,
United into living act,
And purged with precious tears.

I see the fountain's mystic shade,
Give forth a crystal flood;
And beauteous flowers that never fade,
Arise from martyrs' blood.

I see that falsehoods only cling,
Which steal from truth their germs;
And faith's beginnings sweetly spring,
From fear's unquiet terms.

I see the roses in the thorn
The seedling in the sheaves;
The sunset in the radiant morn,
The sunrise in the eves.

I see in empire of the heart,
A wise and worthier goal;
That prouder than a prince's part,
Is service of the soul.

I see how great and godlike minds,
As common centres pull;
And mixed of many curbs and kinds,
One cosmos fair and full.

The splendour bathing former years,
That gives their bliss a bloom;
Though warm its welcome then appears
Will lighten round the tomb.

Though fond and dazzling be the hue,
That wiles our opening eyes;
To wisdom's late and wider view,
'Tis only earth's disguise.

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Stript of its false and foolish glare,
The world more wondrous seems;
And knowledge in a purer air,
Reflects its rainbow beams.

Remoulding showers of lovelier lore,
To feed the fertile strife,
Their shining shadows evermore,
Shed on a larger life.

A purpose gleams, a progress glows,
In every sight and sound;
The march of many movements throws,
An orb of glory round.

And by the rays of Learning's lamp,
Shall truth not travel far?
Leave on the night its living stamp,
And push from star to star?

Then comes the ending glad and calm,
To those that still abide;
The breathing of a holy balm,
The hush of eventide.

Yea, though no outward discord cease,
The inner world has light—
The joy of philosophic peace,
The consecrated sight,

But on the brink of grander things,
A higher quest we try;
Like birds that wave their unproved wings,
And flutter ere they fly.

We see the glimmering tops of truth,
That lead to deathless day;
And glimpses of eternal youth,
Beyond the ages gray.

For all discoveries like a song,
To one great issue tend;
But life is short and science long,
And who shall guess the end?

LETHE.

There is a shore where shadows dwell,
With amaranth and the asphodel;
And lilies whiter far than snow,
With beds of nodding poppies blow;
While drowsy flowerets fleck the lea,
And lotos twines with latacé,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

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Oblivion's dim and lazy lands,
Where figures flit on solemn sands;
And dreamy currents idly drop,
Through meadows green from mountain top;
And on their borders softly press,
The waters of forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

No sun, nor moon, nor any star,
Within these restful regions are;
But reflex radiance in the sky,
And lights that droop but never die;
With humming like the distant bee,
Where Lethé widens to a sea—
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

The holy hush of old romance,
Religious scenes and circumstance,
For ever bind these beauties round,
And thrill and clothe the pensive ground;
No discord there, nor dark distress,
But witchery of forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

O Inez, when my footsteps err,
My beacon and my comforter,
The guardian angel of my walk,
With guileless ways and winning talk;
When thou hast ceased to bloom and be,
My sister, wilt thou come with me,
Forgetfully, forgetfully?

For we have toiled and troubled long,
And madness mingled with our song;
But there is converse pure and calm,
Beneath the tall and tufted palm;
And solace will not be the less,
Because we feel forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

We'll wander on the shadowy shore,
Where sin and sorrow pain no more;
Where blessed Lethé scatters joy,
And suffering ceases to annoy;
Together will we go, and flee
Our genius sad, Monemosynè,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

And hand-in-hand, my sister dear,
We'll drink the waters cool and clear;
The balmy petals will we pluck,
And herbs with sleepy juices suck;
Eternal secrets will we guess,
That slumber in forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

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Ah, brother, shall I know thee there,
When thou hast lost that brow of care;
And left thy anguish all behind,
Perchance to other breasts resigned?
And wilt thou pass, or bend on me,
Regardless looks of mystery,
Forgetfully, forgetfully?

It shall not be, if I repeat
The echoes of the anthem sweet,
We sang together when above;
Thine eyes will open to airs of love;
And then no music will express,
Our union of forgetfulness.
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

And fondly pressing, side by side,
We'll bury in the soothing tide,
The burdens of the bitter past,
When heavens were cold and overcast;
We'll sink our sadness, and agree
To bear in mind no memory,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

Yea, where the waves and margin meet,
We'll bathe our worn and weary feet,
And wash them white from dust and blood,
Within the soft and healing flood;
While brooding silence shall confess,
Our only creed, forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

There all is fragrant, fresh and fair,
With placid streams and purple air;
With golden lawns and levels green,
And happy hills that slope between;
There will we indolently see,
The fabrics of our fantasy,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

Contentment crowns the head of each,
And loads the lips with honeyed speech;
While precious showers of fairy dew;
The bosom ravish and renew;
And welcome is the warm caress,
The enchantment of forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

And O thou idol of my heart,
For whom these tender teardrops start,
Shall we not seek that sacred place?
And linger in a long embrace?
What enviable life, were we
To love through all eternity,
Forgetfully, forgetfully?

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Though parted now, we'll mingle then,
With gentler maids and juster men;
We'll marry where the meadows close,
With slumbrous Lethé as it flows;
And on each other's cheeks impress,
The kisses of forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

Thy bridal wreath shall not decay;
Though brighter blossoms be away,
Yet virgin flowers shall smile, and put
Their sober colours at thy foot;
While magic blooms shall comfort thee,
And bind thy brows immortally,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

Yea, fairy fruits shall yield thee rest,
And cool thy lips and calm thy breast;
Thy heart shall feel no hungry ache,
Nor throb of thirst thy soul awake;
But languor lightly shall oppress
Thy being, with forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

I long to haunt that harmless sphere,
With all that truly love me here;
And sitting on those ghostly sands,
To dip my soiled and sinful hands—
To lave my face and wipe it free,
From every mark of misery,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

With wavering wings and faltering breath,
The Zephyr in it whispereth;
But what it sighs no creature knows,
Nor whence it comes and whither goes;
So quiet all and questionless,
Lapt in a deep forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

My loved ones, leave these surging seas,
For tranquil bowers and groves of ease;
To greener pastures will we turn,
And drink our fill from Lethé's urn;
Ah, long and sweet that draught shall be,
Of waters still that lick the lea,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

Why labour ye, and till the loam,
When Lethé is our lightsome home?
Then fly from fields where gladness fades,
And enter in the peaceful shades.

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We are sick of earthly stir and stress,
And would put on forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

Ye kingdoms ever mild and meek,
Whose spirits murmur more than speak;
Where swooning mist and swimming cloud,
Above a stormless world are bowed;
We pine for pleasant lethargy,
And would throw off mortality,
Forgetfully, forgetfully.

Serener seats there will we fix,
And in a kinder commune mix;
And float with limpid waves, or lie
On lilies Lethè ripples by;
Robed in a new and nobler dress,
And filled with fine forgetfulness—
Forgetfulness, forgetfulness.

RUSHMERE AND HAZELDEN,

A SOUTH COUNTRY LEGEND.

Wrapt in the tender restfulness of home,
In cooling calm, the soft umbrageous dome
Of fluttering foliage, lipped by lambent airs—
Those restless wafts for ever free from cares,
Which wander through the avenues and glades
Of greenery—sheltered by incumbent shades,
I pause. Around me roll the whirl and strife,
The flux and reflux of the sea of life,
Left for a moment. Exiled from the press,
Lapt in the bosom of forgetfulness,
I muse: while gentle rivulets of sound,
Steal through my fancy as forbidden ground,
Meandering, murmurous, musical, divine,
With solemn march and numbers clandestine.
And, ah, to live for ever in the hush
Of haunted hazels, where the rustling rush,
Intruder on the margin of the mere,
Puts forth a fairy foot in waters clear,
And pushes through the mass of singing sedge
Its phalanxes of spears, and waving wedge
Armed and effulgent in the sun. O joy,
To linger in some indolent employ,
While weaving daisy chain and cowslip ball;
To watch the leaflet fluctuate and fall,
From windy tops of trees, that shine, and show
Their movements mirrored in the deeps below;

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With half-shut eyes, by links of leisure bound,
To seem the centre of the world of sound—
That hemisphere of separate sense, which fills
The intervals and hollows of the hills,
With mocking echoes multiplied; to hear
The laughing wavelets of the magic mere,
Lapping the edges, lazy—with its freight
Of floating moorhens, silent and sedate,
Scared at a whisper, beating by the bank,
And oft retreating in the herbage rank.
Even so I stay my wandering step, and glean
Some ears of wheat from harvests now unseen.

Not far a monstrous oak-tree, guarled and grim,
The growth of ages nor in grandeur dim,
Planted by Druids for some dreadful rite,
With half a hundred branches breaks the light;
Scarred by the thunder-bolt, beseamed and seared,
The child of Time and under tempests reared,
With ghastly weather-bruises gashed and rent,
Incomparably great, incontinent;
Encroaching on the earth that grudges space,
It crashes down the stems of meaner race.
Primæval is the Forest. Still it swarms
With monuments of past and perished forms,
Gigantic structures, tumulus and camp,
Which echoed back the fierce invaders' tramp,
And treasure heroes. Here the anchorite,
Slept in his coffin quaking through the night;
With circling rope and roughest horsehair girt,
Self-tortured, shivering in his sackcloth shirt;
Or lashed to heights of meritorious pain,
In heaven-assaulting penance, howled again.
Here robbers roved: and many a quiet blow
Of moonlit murder, laid its victim low.

Yet why awaken memories that sleep,
The misery of records buried deep,
Unconsecrated tales? . . . But let me tell,
One legend of a tragedy that fell,
Far in the Forest, on a City fair,
Whose pinnacles rose radiant through the air,
Where all was lovely. It was called, by men
Who rested in its porches, Hazelden.
Thus chanced it. Lo, they built the City ill.
On one side lay the shadow of a hill
Superincumbent, on the other spread
Broad spaces of a circuit dank and dead,
A foul morass; yea, under the fair town,
The quagmire burrowed deep and settled down,
Sapping foundations firm. What could they know?
The awful process moving on below,

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Mysterious, baffled all. At times was heard—
As mutterings of some inarticulate word,
Wrested from one that suffers anguish dire,
Extorted by the rack or roasting fire—
An ominous and intermittent sound,
That boded much and grumbled underground,
Tearing the bowels of the tortured earth.
But blinded by the madness of their mirth,
They thought it distant thunder, or the moan
Of sullen earthquakes in the heart of stone
That held them captive, struggling to be free;
Or else the sobbings of a central sea,
Locked in recesses nethermost. In vain,
The rumbling rose and died away with rain,
In premonitious dread. Meanwhile, they bought
And sold, and children to the birth were brought;
They married, feasted; tilled the soil, and sowed;
Made hovels houses; reaped the crops; and rode
With joy to battle; or returned in peace,
Splendid with spoils; waxed wanton and obese,
Like other states . . . The periods passed . . . At length,
Arising in their armies and their strength,
The prisoned waters burst their brittle bands,
And superseded the reluctant lands.
Down sank the City bright, in pomp and pride,
With tossing arms and faces warped and wried,
With agonizing limbs of wailing men,
And angry surges swallowed Hazelden.
Now nodding flags and crested speargrass wave,
While withered beldams mutter o'er its grave.

Once forth I wandered, in the great calm night,
By restless rage to see again the sight,
Hounded; and hurrying past the river's rush,
With many a quahn, I sought the solemn hush,
Where lay the buried city, stern and still.
I heard the foxes barking from the hill.
Earth slept. The lights and shadows played. A dance
Of fairy figures fled. A wild romance,
And awful consecration, seemed to sway
The land with sweetness. I compelled my way,
Dogged by nocturnal noices, and the shades
That shimmered in the moonlit forest glades,
Inconstant. But the sense of something weird,
Besieged my heart with fables. And I feared.
Before me, stretched the water; while behind,
I was aware of God's unfettered wind,
Bewailing in the pines and drawing near,
Most melancholy, terrible and drear.
Around appeared to rise a presence strange,
Which stole upon me with a wondrous change,

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Unearthly. In a moment, through the gloom,
The resurrection of the city's doom
Gleamed. And I saw the agony renewed,
Of all that miserable multitude.
The surface of the boiling pool was strown,
With dead and dying bodies eddying down—
With corpses—faces spent, yet spared to life,
Cadaverous, and in the tumbling strife,
More woe-begone than all—with bloated bulks,
That wallowed in the waves like mastless hulks—
With frames of frantic wretches, showing then
Decomposition's tooth—with sinking men,
And reappearing. How they strove for breath!
And wrestling with the tyranny of death,
They prayed, implored, and with no words besought;
Clutched at each other, clung, in frenzy fought;
Entreated, gasped and glared, for mercy wrung
Their strained and struggling hands, with lolling tongue,
But all in silence desperate and deep,
Like men that close with fiends in frightful sleep.
Then they subsided but to rise again,
And re-enact that carnival of pain.
It seemed the Devil's own peculiar den,
That dreadful water choked with drowning men:
Faces on which the anguish of despair,
In every form was stamped—the ghastly stare,
The writhing horror, and the livid look—
Unutterable woe, that hugged and shook
Its strangled prey. Then suddenly as sin,
The waves prevailed and sucked the sufferers in,
And washed them down and whirled them underneath,
Tormented in the unrelaxing teeth
Of furious currents. Camly as of old,
The playful ripples in the twilight rolled
Their tribute to the banks. That hideous store,
The horrid wrinkles which the ruin bore,
Had vanished. But I saw the well-known view,
And felt my forehead wet with midnight dew.
The frolic rabbit frisked. The beetle boomed.
Through silver mists the silver birches loomed,
Gigantic, ghostly. While the aspen sighed
And shivered, willows wept, and owlets cried.
The clouds looked frosty. Swimming in a swoon,
Earth glimmered through the glorious plenilune.

Again, by day, in search of summer flowers,
I rambled through the radiancy of bowers,
By noontide fired. Here shy forget-me-nots,
Sequestered grew; and there the crimson spots
Of clover blazed. God knows, I gladly found
His gracious footsteps graven on the ground,
And walking in the wind . . . Anon, by chance,

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I lighted on the lake of pale romance.
The sun was hot, and cooling looked the wave,
Inviting weary travellers to lave
Their languid limbs. So boldly swimming out,
To satisfy the cravings of a doubt
Importunate, I dived through fathoms deep,
Prone to disturb the City's oozy sleep,
And solve the secret . . . Unexpected truth,
Fair forms of perished things and faded youth,
Broke on bewildered eyes. I saw, I saw,
The level lengths of streets with little flaw,
And tops of towers; the palaces of pride,
The marble mansions wonderful and wide,
And most intact by time; some aptly graced
For entertainments, miracles of taste;
Some desolate by funerals, or worn
By frequent feet of dancers—all forlorn.
And many seemed not finished: slain as fools,
The builders worked and gripped their grimy tools;
Piled heavy burdens, blocks of granite shaped,
Or quarried; while their ribs in ruin gaped.
Tall edifices framed of costly stone,
Abominable things had made their own,
And paddled in them; on the portals sprawled
Weeds of corruption; loathsome reptiles crawled,
Within the comely precincts—leaving still
A line of slime and slaughter, at their will—
Upon each other feeding; and the walls,
Were scribbled over with no human scrawls.
But skeletons of mighty men untold,
Bleached by the bitter waters there were rolled,
Or lay reposing . . . One was rising up,
And in his hand he clasped a golden cup,
In act of drinking . . . Here a citizen,
With crooked fingers crushed an iron pen,
Convulsed by death when writing . . . By him prest,
A mother with a baby at her breast,
Feeding and fondling it; and in her look
Life lingered still, that never love forsook.
The market-place stood: huddled in a heap,
Were bones of cattle death had rendered cheap;
And by them idly lay the butcher's blade,
Among the victims it so newly made,
Fallen with the butcher . . . Horrid hands would peep,
From open windows, clenched; as though to keep
Doom and destruction off . . . Behind them peered,
The ghosts of men that eyeless sockets reared,
Fantastic . . . And with senseless skulls askance,
Seemed figures frozen in a frightful dance,
With twisted limbs . . . I marvelled much . . . At length,
Stretched out a giant stricken in his strength,

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Who rent a lion in his grasp of steel;
Yet he succumbed . . . And one with iron heel,
A mighty serpent mangled; but it curled
Circumvolutions vast . . . The water-world
Teemed with the fragments of the broken past,
And forms heroic . . . There a boy had cast
A winning disc, in beautiful address;
He had no shadow of the sharp distress,
That stiffened him; but like Apollo stood,
Erect and instant, pointing . . . Where a wood
Once sacred grew, a furious athlete strove,
Against a stubborn ilex which he clove,
Horribly grinning, with his hands. . . . Anear,
Two combatants had shattered shield and spear,
And menacingly struggled foot to foot,
Indignant . . . Elsewhere, lo, an artist put
The last fair finish to his pictured dream,
In contemplation rapt. . . A song supreme,
Seemed hovering round the mouth of one that clung
About a stringéd instrument, and swung
In swirling eddies, where a swollen jet
Bubbled and broke . . . I saw the currents fret
The sexless remnants of a wretched knave,
Who laid another in the wormy grave,
With frantic gestures . . . . One had stabbed behind
His fellow; turning fugitive, to find
The death he meted . . . . Here a sufferer sat;
And there a warrior fell, supine and flat.
But many prone, with grim confusion crowned,
With buried faces grovelled on the ground.
Some in defiant manner fixed their feet,
And grappled with their hands; for life was sweet;
They peradventure young, and wooing maids
Who waited for them in the shuddering shades,
Constant and calm . , . . A frame of slender mould,
With bridal gifts and ornaments of gold,
Crumbled—unsexed by death: I tore a tress,
(On her blanched forehead's lingering loveliness,)
From which the summer sunshine had not fled,
Where frost and fire in mockery seem to wed.

And still I laboured on . . . . I scarcely freed
My body from the shackling water-weed.
The clammy leech had fastened in my blood,
And vile abortions of the pregnant mud
Embraced me . . . Ever painfully I went,
Bathing with creatures cross and imminent,
That plagued my path. Why notice them? I saw,
I felt alone, the mystery and awe,
Which like a thunder-cloud with gloomy wing,
Had swallowed up the thought of every thing,

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And every sight but one . . . An iron room,
Made populous with engines dire of doom,
Encountered me . . . I paused . . . The prisoners rude,
In nameless orgies overtaken, strewed
The dismal depths; and some in made despair,
Had burst the bars to find destruction there—
Infatuate . . . I swept through golden gleams,
Lost in the lustre of forbidden dreams;
And found a store-house, piled with precious stones—
The amethyst, the emerald, and thrones
Inlaid with rubies, shapely—yellow crowns
With diamonds garnished, fretted into frowns
Of frosted art, by cunning workmanship—
And pitchers bossed with pearls, whose lucent lip
Once priceless liquors drank . . . In wild amaze,
I stood within the green and golden blaze,
While starry lightnings flashed . . . But then a skull
A regal head, but empty now and dull,
Wherein the maggot fed and mawworms played,
By sudden afflux at my feet was laid.
I started . . . Soon a gaunt and hungry arm
That held a dazzling sceptre, snapt the charm,
And challenged by a touch . . . Away I turned,
To fly a seething whirlpool, as it churned
A charnel-house to foam . . . I spied a bed,
Whereon an infant pressed its pretty head,
And one was watching; in her hand a bowl,
Of silver fine . . . A terror seized my soul
I rose . . . But in a minute brief I wrung
The treasured truths from secret Nature's tongue,
Reluctant . . . Round me rustled, as before,
The bulrush; laughing waters washed the shore;
And sedge-birds sang . . . The City slept below,
In dreamless rest, and weltering in woe.
And often now, when stormy grow the nights,
Belated wanderers catch those solemn sights,
That haunt the mere; and through the troubled gale,
They hear afar the sad and searching wail.

VERSES TO A MARCHIONESS.

O fairer yet than eye can see,
As clouds are purer than the clod;
My dreamland draws its light from thee,
And thou thy light from God.

Serenely settled as a star,
In splendid spaces of the sky,
Thy beauty shining from afar,
Still raises me on high.

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My fancy wavers in its flight,
To reach thy pure and lofty place;
A dazzling veil falls on my sight,
The glory of thy face.

Thou breathest in a larger air,
The brightness of the Orient beam;
And if thou art so wondrous fair,
What must thy Fountain seem!

But woe to him who wonders long,
And gazes much on spheres above;
Whose admiration waxing strong,
Shall deepen into love.

We cannot only fix our eyes,
The fettered heart will follow soon;
As ocean when it flows or flies,
Must follow still the moon.

I only bear what others bore,
And all my feelings fear to guess;
If thee I truly love the more,
Or seek myself the less.

Thy goodness lures me with its charm,
To grander forms from fabrics thin;
And awful were thy power to harm,
If gods could fashion sin.

Are suns as conscious of their might,
As those who revel in their rays?
And do they feel the joy of light,
Of making nights and days?

Ah, no, they never mete their strength,
Nor half their little kingdoms know;
They never dream the dreadful length,
A sunless soul will go.

O, when thou shinest, lovely orb,
And homage brings me to my knee;
Though thousands more thy gleams absorb,
Yet shine a while on me.

The humblest herb must have its share,
Of sunshine as of dewy shade;
Or killing grows the kindly air,
That lacks the sunshine's aid.

Some bow where lesser lustres are,
And every system has its sun;
I own no second sun or star,
I worship only one.

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There are who tribute fondly give,
To any dazzling cheat or thief;
To meteors that a moment live,
To visions bright and brief.

The falling stars and fallen light,
Have yet their courtiers by the score;
And wildly blaze the flames at night,
That burned by day before.

Let triflers talk of regal mien,
Of glorious eyes and noble brow;
To me there is no other queen,
One half as sweet as thou.

Though one has lips that shame the rose,
And one a blossom for her breast;
I honour every flower that blows,
I can but love the best.

THE STORY OF A SHELL.

PART I.—THE CRADLE.

It lay for ages on the shore,
Upon the shore;
And in the mighty waters came,
That fashioned it with frost and flame,
For evermore;
But not a creature knew its name,
For evermore;

It heard the ocean rise and roar,
And rise and roar,
But little recked it of the strife,
With weeping and with ruin rife,
For evermore;
It waited for the glow of life,
For evermore.

It saw the sand-beds soft and hoar,
So soft and hoar;
The seaweed glimmered red and white,
With ghostly colours in the night,
For evermore;
And there was many a solemn sight,
For evermore.

And still it gathered living store,
A living store;
Though yet it rested calm and lone,

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By dappled weed and polished stone,
For evermore;
A simple shell, a thing unknown,
For evermore.

Within it waxed a struggle sore,
A struggle sore;
For life was labouring in the shell,
With intermittent swoon and swell,
For evermore;
Just as the waters rose and fell,
For evermore.

The travail first but touched the core,
But touched the core;
Yet life kept fretting in its bound,
With fitful force and murmuring sound,
For evermore;
Until it won and widened round,
For evermore;

It looked not now as heretofore,
As heretofore;
It stirred and trembled in its seat,
And made a music low and sweet,
For evermore;
For life grew mighty and complete,
For evermore.

It breathed through every crimson pore,
Each crimson pore;
The heart had risen stout and strong,
The pulses bravely beat along,
For evermore;
An echo of the Ocean's song,
For evermore.

But still the weary centuries wore,
The centuries wore;
It felt the quickening seasons roll,
And shift and shape its heaving soul,
For evermore;
A perfect individual whole,
For evermore.

PART II.—THE BIRTH.

The moon was mellow on the shore,
Upon the shore;
And made it mystic, yellow, sad,
As though some sacred grief it had,
For evermore;
Yet through it gleamed a secret glad,
For evermore.

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And on the sea the moonbeams pour,
The moonbeams pour;
Their silver shafts beat up its shield,
And shimmer down its fairy field,
For evermore;
All round the softening waters yield,
For evermore.

A wanderer might have garnered lore,
Have garnered lore;
For figures moved in magic bands,
Rejoicing on the wrinkled sands,
For evermore;
With flying feet and following hands,
For evermore.

The pebbles glanced like golden ore,
Like golden ore;
O they were polished, smooth, and round,
And by the moulding ocean ground,
For evermore;
But some with water-blooms were bound,
For evermore.

And mazes such as children score,
As children score,
When tracing lines in dusk and doubt,
Went winding in and winding out,
For evermore—
Went winding all the shell about,
For evermore.

A strife its tender mansion tore,
Its mansion tore;
The sea had ebbed a mile away,
It might not further ebb or stay,
For evermore;
So mighty were the moonbeams' sway,
For evermore.

And then with joy-notes three or four,
Just three or four,
The shell flew open to the sight;
And, lo, a woman fair and white,
For evermore—
A woman beautifully bright,
For evermore.

She dallied with the open door,
The open door—
Framed in her glowing crimson cell,
While on her face a glory fell,
For evermore;
You saw her bosom fall and swell,
For evermore.

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A form to love and linger o'er,
And linger o'er;
Then tripped she on the yellow sands,
And mingled with the merry bands,
For evermore;
With floating hair and flitting hands,
For evermore.

OUT IN THE WORLD.

And must she leave her father's home.
That little patch of kindly loam,
The yellow soil she loves so well,
With alien hearts and homes to dwell?

Cold is the bitter wind and chill
The parting by the mossy rill;
But colder far the deepening doubt,
The darkness felt, the world without.

Yet forth she goes with aimless air,
Ill formed the rugged road to bear;
With feeble feet, with troubled mind,
And casting tearful looks behind.

Her love was better than her fate,
She found her deadly sin too late;
And half the cruel woes to be,
We dare not guess, we cannot see.

She goes to join the maddening throngs,
Which veil in vain their nameless wrongs;
Unsphered and rayless stars that roam,
For ever farther from their home.

THE NIGHT ROSE.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
She gathered lovers as she chose,
And crushed them with her feet.

They crowned her Queen of starless night,
She veiled her face by day;
But then they took a lesser light,
And basked in feebler sway.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
Her passions were as stormy throes,
When night and morning meet.

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They brought her royal gifts of gold,
To sate her cruel lust;
She drew the treasures from their hold,
And scattered gems as dust,

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
She spoiled the splendour of her foes,
And made their necks her seat.

They offered her their limbs and lives,
She was not glutted still;
She haled their children and their wives,
And tortured them at will.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
Her wrath was lightning to enclose,
And thunder to retreat.

They gave her service of their best,
Their thousands and their thrones;
She tore their babies from the breast,
And dashed them on the stones.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
She fired the cities in their woes,
And warmed her in the heat.

They grovelled at her chariot wheels,
They kissed her foot and skirt;
She spurned them with her horses' heels,
And ground them in the dirt.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
From tempests, ills, and battle blows,
She came more fresh and fleet.

They bade her wring her bitter fill,
From every goodly lord;
She wreaked on all her lustful will,
Then cast them to the sword.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
She blazed her shame at public shows,
And murder was her meat.

They paid her in the dearest kind,
With blood and sweat of men;
Some 'scaped her in her scornful mind,
Some fed the lion's den.

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They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
'Twere sin her many crimes to gloze,
'Twere madness to repeat.

They drained the world by power and pelf,
To build their god a shrine;
She blackened women like herself,
She herded men as swine.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
Her hatreds never knew repose,
And bridged the ocean's heat.

They added to their lives their lands,
And dowered her with their all;
She lightly weighed it in her hands,
And held the tribute small.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
What failed her empire to compose,
Her beauty to complete?

God mingled lightning with the gloom,
To make her perfect form;
He mixed the midnight's raven bloom,
With whirlwind, woes, and storm.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
Her bath was where the life-blood flows,
Her robe a winding-sheet.

But still her passions were not gorged,
Though worlds her hunger met;
She came from racks her fury forged,
If wearied craving yet.

They called her Night, they called her Rose,
She was so dark and sweet;
But now her lust more dainty grows,
And vice is more discreet.

THE LAST OF THE IMMORTALS.

I. [PART I.]

For years I toiled, a meditative man,
Since youthful reason born of sense began
Its course imperious, eager to find out
(Through thorny paths of speculative doubt)
The meaning of the mystery of Life,
With its strange riddles of destructive strife

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Unceasing. Muoh I longed and longed to know,
What boded all this wilderness of woe,
And whither tended; why the poor and weak
Who had no hands to help, no voice to speak,
More than the wicked suffered, and were blent
(Themselves so pure and just and innocent)
In judgment with the bad; if cosmic pain
Were purgatorial, and not borne in vain
By weeping millions who in sorrow moved,
A thing permitted, not by God approved;
If evil might be an imperfect form
Of undeveloped good, through stress and storm
Evolving into something better, and at length
Unfolding all the loveliness and strength
Of the completed work, though now it seem
A black defect in what we dimly deem
The orb of Nature; and if haply vice,
Though framed in subtle fashions to entice,
Might be the remnant of a bygone age,
The reminiscence of a lower stage
Or animal condition, which in time
By virtue with its aims and acts sublime
Would be removed. Thus did I reason long,
Sore troubled by the tyranny of wrong,
That like a plague spot to creation clings,
And the survival of unfittest things—
The wanton sufferings, and the fateful dance
Of misery that seemed to strike at chance
The undeserving, not the guilty lust,
With distribution idle or unjust.
My fond inquries farther still went back,
Upon a midnight and mysterious track,
To life's appearance—whether from within,
Or from without, its sources might begin—
If from some other distant planet hurled
A moss-grown fragment, to this formless world
Its fair commencement gave; or if at last,
When matter had through countless stages pass'd,
Life fashioned out of self-begotten throes,
By gradual change and stress essential rose
The grand result and necessary term
Of set conditions, which implied the germ.
I saw that life, which slumbered in the stone,
Dreamed in the plant, in animals alone
Awoke to active functions, more or less,
And in man only was self-consciousness;
That there was progress upward from the clod,
Through links angelic, to the perfect God.

Then the instructed reason higher drew,
And winged with many-coloured fancies flew

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On bolder quests, beyond our senses' lies,
Theosophies and grave theogonies.
Was the Supreme a Tyrant ruled by Fate,
Who governed as He could by fear and hate,
Inspired by wanton cruelty and lust,
And grinding creatures grimly into dust
From which he wrought them, like a brittle toy
Made to be broken, in His short-lived joy;
O'erruled by solemn Destiny, that lay
An awful burden on his empty sway?
Or was He truly, absolutely good
But not Almighty, and in vain withstood
At times the efforts of an Evil Power
That shared with Him the dread imperial dower,
And oft defeated by disastrous claims,
His schemes of mercy and benigner aims?
Did He create the universe, and give
Fixed constitutions by which all might live,
Then leave it darkly to the storms of chance,
The prey of strife and evil circumstance;
Led by that narrow rule and faithless friend,
Non-intervention, which frustrates its end,
Which serves no purpose but engenders hate,
While making self the measure of the State;
Like landlords who hold half a world in fee,
And drain its life-blood—proud and absentee?
Or was He—and I heard no glad reply—
Impersonal, a pale necessity,
Mechanically working out, by laws
That shaped and guided stars alike and straws,
His dark unconscious will, through heartless modes,
To some dim end, not moved by moral codes?
To universal chaos, or the doom
Of final fire, or equilibrium's gloom
And stagnant close, when forces all at length
Have stayed the burning fever of their strength?
A mere machine, both deaf and dumb and blind,
Heedless of what His progress left behind,
And dully pushing on, in cold calm ways
The inexorable course that spurned delays?
Was He the slave of His own system, fooled
By the strong laws He made but had not schooled?
For lo! I saw that philosophic thought,
Which every day a grosser darkness wrought,
Kept thrusting farther and yet farther back,
Beyond creation's broad and sunny track,
The near Creator into mist and shade,
For ever building up a barricade
Of laws between the creature and the God,
And blotting out the path by which we trod
To heaven of old, and giving in its stead

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Poor thin abstractions and negations dead,
The husks of mental food, that neither filled
The heart's deep hunger, nor one moment stilled
That innate passion which possesses all,
To find a God who answers to their call.

Long barren years I laboured in my mind,
Revolving much and tossed by every wind
Of every doctrine, as it wildly blew
In shy and shifting gusts for ever new,
From scientific quarters; till I found
Their boastful trumpets gave no certain sound,
While all were false or foolish—idle terms
And names, without the quick informing germs
Of principles or facts, a fruitless lore
That made no hearer wiser than before—
Mere learnéd jargon, theories of schools,
Not meat for men, but only food for fools.

Then I betook me, from the mists of doubt,
To exercise of prayers and dreams devout,
With faith and fasting, practices Divine
And all the ancient godly discipline
Of soul and body; wrapt in solemn trance
Which comes from sweet and serious governance
And self-effacement. From the Holy Book,
As drinks the pilgrim of the desert brook,
I drank deep draughts of spiritual life
And inward stillness born through clouds of strife
In blissful sunshine. There I read of One,
Who, as no earthly conqueror had done,
Lived, wrought, and ministered in every thing,
Without sin but not without suffering,
For human weal, and carried to its end
God's thought in man, which sin availed to bend
From its grand purpose, in the ages past
When that grim shadow over all was cast
And ever lengthened; who, as none of yore,
The burden of our cares and sorrows bore,
And bought us peace at a tremendous price,
Through life and death, by the dread sacrifice
Of perfect manhood, and that heavenly throne
Which He surrendered but to make our own
And seat us with Him; while by laying down
All that was won, He gained a brighter crown
Even in the darkness, when He offered up
His victeries and drained the bitter cup
Of anguish; for He conquered most in loss,
And triumphed as a King upon the Cross.
Him I accepted as the Perfect Man,
Who had fulfilled the fair eternal plan,
God's high idea, to educate our race

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And still exalt by stages that abase—
By fiery sufferings that alone refine,
Till human wills were one with the Divine.
Him I accepted as the Perfect God,
Who bowed His head to the avenging rod
Of wounded Justice long at war with Time,
Nor in His low estate was less sublime,
But greater than when, clothed in Royal robes
He stood in glory on the starry globes;
Who thus revealed that God was truly Love,
As well as Law, nor had a heart above
The little cares and stirs of daily strife,
But mingled freely with our common life.
From Him I learned a nobler track to try,
And yielding to the yoke of liberty
By willing service formed, I found the Truth
Which its disciples gives eternal youth
In rest and joy, and that serene content
Which is the faithful soul's enfranchisement.
To Him my homage I directed, urged
By burning hopes that in my bosom surged
With waves of promise, by assurance led
And with the blessed food of knowledge fed,
That filled my heart when I expected least,
With the rich dainties of a daily feast.
For Him I treasured every brighter thought,
That in my spirit holy music wrought,
With separation solemn, compassed round
By many a secret prayer and sacred bound
Of praises, till I had no other aim
Than that which bade me witness to His Name.
By Him transformed, in all my parts and powers,
I faced the fiercest onset of the hours
That bounded me, and conquered them at length,
Not in my own but with a vaster strength,
Which stirred my inmost pulse with feelings strange
And through my being sent the roots of change.
In him I lived and moved, in union sweet
That knit me closely to His blessed feet
By holy ties; and thence communion came
(As on the altar falls the heavenly flame)
With consecrating touch and kindly might,
Which flooded all my soul with saving light.
Through Him I access had to higher spheres,
Beyond the narrow circle of the years,
Above the grasp of even the greatest mind,
To mysteries of joy that lie behind
The cloudy veil that shuts the vision in,
And links us to a sordid world of sin.

Thus dedicated by devotion's choice,

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Which spoke aloud with no uncertain voice,
Self-offered, I to wondrous heights attained
In service willing yet not unconstrained
By the great love of Christ, which deeply wrought
Sweet revolutions in the realms of thought
And sentiment, till the old self was dead,
And only He reigned royally instead—
Till I had broken every cumbering chain,
That bound me to a mortal state of pain.
But now my soul seemed full of dazzling light,
And like a glorious planet in its might,
Revolving gladly round the central source,
Whence it derived its fairness and its force—
That sacred Sun which never seemed to set,
And as it broadened shone more brightly yet—
Rolled out along its holy, happy path,
Above the angry waves of human wrath
And tread of human tempests, and the call
Of fleshly claims that tempt and trouble all;
Put forth, as in the presence of its Lord,
Its every movement in complete accord
With Him, and in the sunshine of His Face,
Still gathered daily richer powers and grace,
And daily travelled farther from the round
Of sorrow; while I soared above its seat,
And trod it down with my triumphant feet,
And broke its bitter sway, and beat it back
Far, far beneath my own unsullied track,
Despoiling it of all its darkling pride,
That like a shadow ever at my side
Once haunted me, and dogged my devious way,
And like the pall of night upon me lay.
But when the last black lingering stain was gone,
And sin a fading memory lived on
A little season, just to point my bliss
By the deep contrast of that state and this—
A mere tradition or a doubtful dream,
Or flickering note in the resplendent beam
Of sanctity—when I had reached the height
Where reigned perfection in its own pure light
By faith unfaltering, agonizing prayers,
And all the arduous penitential stairs
That climb to glory—then my body took
The bright expression of the spirit's look,
And underwent a sweet and solemn change,
Transfiguration beautiful and strange,
As did my Master on the Holy Mount,
When He returned a moment to the fount
Of abdicated Godhead. Weakness fled
With all the sickness and the grief that shed
A dire eclipse on every human course,

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And flowed from sin as water from its source.
Yea, death itself and death's o'ershadowing shroud,
Passed from me like the passing of a cloud.
I was immortal, and my fleshly frame,
The avenue through which such suffering came
In elder days of evil, now partook
Of life immortal, when it once forsook
The yoke and bondage of Satanic sway,
To choose the noble and the narrow way.
And when the better law expelled the worse,
Then perished sin with all its power and curse.
And sorrow once for many years my mate,
Arising early and abiding late
To scourge my soul, now meteor-like had set
And left behind no record of regret
Nor lurid trail of troubled thought. I stood,
The centre of a sunny world of good
And sweetness, that yet never seemed to cloy,
While still expanding golden gates of joy
And vestibules of hope: as one who stands
Apart from earth in lonely mountain lands,
And sees around him curled the snow-white wreath
Of wrinkled clouds, and traces down beneath
And far beyond the limit of his ken
The dim and dusty ways of mortal men,
Who, from the watch tower of his glorious height,
Appear like insects sporting in the night.

Now faith and reason melted into one,
(As divers colours mingle in the sun
And by their sweet and kindly union make
A perfect beauty) when they learned to take
And give alike, and each to other lent
The one desired and destined complement.
And in the splendour of their wedded rays,
I caught the meaning of mysterious ways,
And all those dark and those defiant plots
Which underlay all life in tangled knots
And riddles. For my soul was full of love
Unbounded and unfolding, nor would move
To any lesser law, and its clear gaze
Resolved at once the thickness of the haze
And horror of the gloom, that o'er the earth
Spread the grey curtains of despair and dearth,
Poured still disorder and a deepening shade
And revelled in the misery they made.
Before my vision stretched the perfect plan,
That compassed all the history of man,
Which mortals view but piecemeal, and I saw
The majesty and moulding of the law
Which bound in one the scant and scattered parts,

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And covered more than sciences and arts
In grand connexions; which embraced the whole,
From the mean outset to the mighty goal,
And contradictions that were still at strife
Joined in the marriage of harmonious life;
Which showed how mortals, who mere fragments knew,
No semblance of the wondrous picture drew
In its broad branches, and outlying shoots
That nourished were by deep eternal roots;
Which proved that earthly happiness was small,
And carnal welfare not the end of all
But accidental, not the main intent
Of this world's work, but its embellishment
And casual trappings—while affliction grew,
As naturally as the breezes blew,
From the great heart of Love that is Divine,
To be a sweet and saving discipline
And steps of progress, and a kindly nurse
To guard the soul from some yet darker curse—
As wise physicians, shunning graver ill,
Strange poison into healthy frames instil;
Which taught me that the glorious aim of things,
Through agonies and overshadowings,
Was to illumine all the human sky
With the broad light of love and purity
And humble trust, and out of suffering's school
To bring these lessons as the living rule
And master motives of each word and act,
Transforming specious dreams to splendid fact,
Till self was blotted out of every soul,
And simple love of God possesst the whole.
I saw that only love could conquer vice,
By the sweet yielding of self-sacrifice,
Which (not destruction) is the vital truth,
Explaining what seems cruel or uncouth
In earth's stern struggle, and though creatures live
Upon each other yet they no less give
Life for each other as the final cost
Of mere existence, saved alone when lost;
Which all must pay, with or without their will,
Who would the part at birth bestowed fulfil,
As factors in that plan which cannot fall,
The grand organic unity of all.
For if perfection I at length had gained,
By many a tearful cry and footstep stained
With penal blood, 'twas only when my love
(Brooding o'er self a moment like the dove
About to leave for ever its sweet rest)
Flew forth abroad on mercy's noble quest,
Disdaining danger, and mid earthquake throes
Snatching an awful rapture of repose

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Upon the edge of storms, and misery's breath
Fanning to life even in the jaws of death—
The olive branch of peace and of good will
Bearing across the angry waves of ill
And sorrow—with the music of its voice,
Compelling hearts most hopeless to rejoice—
Following the raven, as day follows night,
And putting every shade of woe to flight
By its pure presence—bringing in its train
Each pure and pleasant gift and blessed gain
Unbought of gold—and dovelike to its nest
Took sick and helpless souls that needed rest—
Yea, gathered to it all created things,
Beneath the shadow of its sheltering wings.

Thus by devotion conquering years of strife,
I plucked the fruitage of the Tree of Life.
Which blooms where none before me ever trod,
Hard by the fountain in the throne of God,
That flows unceasing—thus I plucked and ate,
For nothing else my hunger now could sate;
While deep within me mighty pulses thrilled,
And the large spaces of my spirit filled
With melody and meaning all my own,
Of solemn joys till then undreamed, unknown,
And unconjectured. Fast I grew in grace,
As grows a stately plant in some green place
Of watered gardens, where the summers rest
With ripening rays that make it bright and blest
And fruitful. All my fertile being burst,
Through the dark fetters with which life was curst,
In fragrant flower and beauty; as the sun
Breaks through the clouds its glorious race to run,
Most jubilant. I drew from secret springs,
That lapt my soul in sacred murmurings;
And through my heart, as ages still went by,
I drank the fulness of eternity.

II. PART II.

Years followed years, men came and soon were gone,
Fresh kingdoms rose and fell, and I lived on
Immortal, calm and lone, untroubled still
By revolutions in their wildest will
And blindest fury. Russia's house of sand
All crumbled piecemeal at the avenging hand
Of judgment, and its military glare
Of glory died, with not one pitying prayer,
Before the indignant blaze of truth, and rule
Passed to the grasp of an imperial school
Of mighty-minded women, while the men

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Turned to the kitchen and the cattle pen
Their powers inferior, for the battle blade
Taking the housewife's broom and peaceful spade,
And taught by humble tasks and duty stern
The lessons pride so long refused to learn.
The torpid Turks from Europe moved their sway,
With harems, pipes, and sweetmeats swept away,
Absorbed in Asia, purged with sword and fire,
And trained by bitter trouble to aspire
To higher ends, and shaken into shape,
Like wine by ferment gathered from the grape.
France, like the vapours of a sputtering pot,
Boiled up and bubbled over, and was not,
Spent in vain dreams of conquest and of fame,
And lured to ruin by the lying name
Of reputation; while her prurient pride
And bloody laurels all were laid aside
For ever, with each miserable boast
That led her straying from her proper post
Of service; and the hands that could not lay
The storm they raised, consented to obey.
Then over earth the race Teutonic spread
Their mighty arms, and quickened lands long dead
With blood of commerce, and girt round with steel
Set on oppression's neck the indignant heel
Of justice, conquering as they went,
And making sea and sandy continent
A paradise of plenty, while they sprang
Into broad beauty and the deserts rang,
With cries of cities, that had learned to draw
Through freedom's lungs the breath of equal law;
And carrying with them on their fertile track,
Charters for slaves, chains for the tyrant's back,
And scourges; as they opened prison doors,
Or winnowed out the dusty temple floors,
And left behind them many a liberal plan
Of government, with love of God and man.
Trade on untravelled oceans bent its wings,
The wildernesses teemed with water springs,
Through isthmus and through mountain science clove
Its civilizing way, the people strove
With contests but of kindness, all was good
In the sweet light of common brotherhood.
Even as a giant tree puts proudly forth,
Vexed by no travail of the troubled north,
Its giant limbs, through which the sun and rain

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Can beat no entrance though they beat again;
While in its shadow thrives each weaker plant,
And on its branches birds whose songs enchant
Rest and rejoice, while offshoots from it grow
And gather grace from all the winds that blow;
Till through the forest they have stretched their stems
And crown the sky with leafy diadems.
So rose, so flourished the grand Teuton race,
Peopling with mighty men the empty space,
Till it o'erflowed in golden waves of wealth,
Bearing the lamps of truth and hope and health,
With love of right and hatred of the wrong,
Whatever makes a nation wise and strong
And steadfast. While the buds of freedom fair
Expanded in the pure and pleasant air
Of larger modes, and striking deep their roots
In nature's subsoil, yielded goodly fruits—
Such harvests as the arbitrary codes,
That on galled shoulders bound the bitter loads
Of artificial systems, could not reap,
Though lands on lands should all their folly heap.
Before the bar of justice, without fear,
On equal terms the peasant and the peer,
The clown and king, stood to receive their due,
Not by the faulty sentence of the few,
But the great public voice that dealt to vice
Its proper meed, nor knew one prejudice;
That had in nought an interested part,
And uttered from the universal heart,
Secured by every strong religious tie,
The verdict that could never, never lie.

Yet rolled the world on its refulgent track,
For ever trampling down and beating back,
The lines of darkness and the hosts of ill,
And customs changed, and I existed still,
The sole survivor of my house and name,
Outliving generations as they came
And went. I saw sad Erin pass away,
Merged in oblivion and the New Cathay,
To leaven a nobler nation, and to breed
A race of giants from her restless seed,
Mingled with milder blood, and thus retain
The splendid spirit she could not restrain,
Transfused in others, wedding fire to frost.
The ark of England, by the tempest tost,
And sorely strained, yet rode the roughest waves,
While others sank in revolutions' graves,
And jealous of her honour to the last,
Superbly braved the terrors of the blast.
And though sedition howled its hungry cry,

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Raised by the winds of lust and words that lie,
While envy's billows rose like raging hounds,
And dashed against the vessel's iron bounds;
Though every shape of shadowy fraud and force
Conspired to turn her from the even course
Of truth and justice; though, a period brief,
Wild agitation and blind unbelief
And all the offal demagogues had spread,
Seemed poisoning freedom at its fountain head;
Yet every effert of malignant frame,
Brought but confusion on the author's aim;
And while stern duty stood high at the helm,
Each danger when it could not overwhelm,
Advanced the vessel (if its aid were short,)
And only drove it nearer to the port.

But yet for ages I endured the change
Of forms and fashions, while the world waxed strange
And uncongenial—heedless of the cost,
Though loving much—and what I loved I lost;
Outliving all my comrades and my kin,
Who were but mortal as the slaves of sin;
Outliving what my heart looked kindly on,
For when again I looked, the light was gone;
Beholding in all spheres the present sway
Of pain and sorrow, though refined away
And long reduced by science and the arts
Of progress, which had conquered many parts
And powers of evil, but though vast of reach
Could never find an antidote for each;
While men submitted to the senses' yoke,
Or even but one of Christ's commandments broke.
In vain my fellows I essayed to show,
That all transgressions ever found in woe
Their penalties, and he alone was free
Who to the letter the Divine decree
Obeyed from choice and love, who fully gave
Not the reluctant homage of the slave
But willing service, and at any price
Made soul and body one sweet sacrifice.
In vain I proved that, if they hated sin
And burst its bondage, health would then begin
To drive out sickness with its brood of pangs,
And hungry sorrow would relax its fangs
Of iron, when the spirit's might arose
The troubled waves of passion to compose
With faith that flowered in action. All in vain
I preached protesting, while they fell again,
And after struggling yet would feebly swerve
From the strait track of truth, and in reserve
Kept back some darling vice, to which they still

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Offered their incense and abused their will,
Infatuate. I wondered at their choice,
And lifted up the sad and solemn voice
Of warning, while as madly as of yore
They sinned, repented, and then sinned once more;
The dreary round of failure to repeat,
And in the van of victory court defeat.
While had they watched and waited but their hour
Of trial, though it fell in tempest power,
With lighted lamps and loins girt up to fight,
The duty would have grown into delight,
And the stern task in strong devotion merged
Become a rock, against which idly surged
Temptation's seas. But ah! they would not heed
Although I simply preached the mother creed,
On whose great breasts more soft than any silk
Their infant faith was suckled, with the milk
Of love religious: they preferred to snatch
Its dew from every day that passed, and catch
The morning bloom of pleasure, ere it shed
Its shining petals and decayed and fled.
I seemed the teller of a foolish tale,
Told by the fireside in a winter gale.

And often in the rapture of the bliss
That bathed my soul, I somehow seemed to miss
The touch of human fellowship, and points
Of tender contact with the social joints,
By which I yet held converse with my kind,
That loosely linked but could not ever bind
My lot to theirs. And I aspired to lift,
Above the fleeting shade and changeful shift
Of time, congenial comrades to the height
On which I stood, to revel in the light
And share with me the glory and the power
Of pure perfection, in its God-like dower.
For while all earthly feelings from my mind
Had clean been purged, and left no trace behind
Of former empire—though no carnal pulse
Of passion lingered fondly to convulse
My breast with sensual throes, and the frail flesh
(With soft allurements that did once enmesh
The very soul) was crucified and dead,
Nor ever now raised np its stricken head,
And buried in the grave of that dear Lord
Who for us all and of His own accord
Died and was buried; though my loyal will
Was mine no longer, I was human still.
And though possessing every heavenly good,
In close communion with the Fatherhood
Divine, that like the universal air

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Environed me with blessings bright and fair
Of a continual Presence, and my soul
Swayed with the sweetness of a calm control
And strength restrained; and though I lacked no gift,
Nor one good thing that could the heart uplift
To holy joy, and peace in pleasant dreams
Poured through my being in refreshing streams
And watered all my life and made it glad
With spiritual fruits; and though I had
Whatever fancy craved or bodied forth,
Among the treasures of eternal worth,
And only wished and then the will was deed,
For will and power in their result agreed.
Yea, though a cloud of care I never knew,
And not a breath of pain or discord blew
Across my azure sky—though one with God,
Between the dead and dying still I trod
Myself immortal: yet began to grow
Within me what I felt long, long ago,
The sense of something wanting, and the need
Of human friendship though a bruiséd reed—
A thirst for any change, howe'er it fell—
If it but broke the rigour of the spell
Of everlasting rest, which in its zone
Girt round my glory with its monotone
Unalterably fixed, and on me lay
Like the great stillness of a summer day
Unclouded, when no wind its revel keeps,
And all the land in solemn silence sleeps.
The human in me could not wholly die,
Though it was merged in immortality
With undecaying vesture and I felt
Its stifled remnants still within me dwelt
And fretted more and more, as friendships fond
Were snapt by death, and ever some fresh bond
Of beauty was in time dissolved and passed,
While I endured of all new links the last
And sole survivor: till the mighty love,
Which steeped my heart from holy founts above,
Scarce dared to issue towards my mortal kind,
By strange misgivings in its seat confin'd,
Nor flowed to ought that crumbled with the clod,
And went unhindered forth alone to God,
From whom it came.

At first ecstatic joy,
That nothing more my rest could now annoy
By evil impact, so absorbed my soul
And permeated with its power the whole
Of my existence, that I seemed to dwell
On heights serene and inaccessible,
In a sublime and unimpassioned trance,

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Apart from men and the delirious dance
Of fortune; and the small affairs of time
Appeared remote, as if some muffled chime
Heard at a distance from recesses deep,
And breaking faintly through the bars of sleep.
Not that I loved my fellows less than erst,
But loved the Almighty more, with a great thirst
That drank and drank, at wellsprings of the truth,
Full draughts of wisdom and of wondrous youth,
And was insatiate still. But as time roll'd
That scattered on its pathway gifts of gold,
I seemed to weary of the victor's palm,
The cloudless light and the eternal calm
Of rapt repose. For all the outward shocks
Fell on me as the rain upon the rocks
Nor stirred my breast; I wanted inward throes
And thoughts which thrilled the mind as they arose,
With battle strains; yet not a wish would move,
To bid me pleasures so illicit prove
By test, I simply let my fancy range,
And dreamed how pleasant was the sound of change,
How grateful shadows though they sheltered grief;
And then I pictured moments of relief
From the unvarying measured march of things,
Even if it brought the mists and murmurings
Of human lot. I dreamed, how sweet to bear
With men the burden of their daily care,
To take the cross their feeble hands let drop,
And carry it in trumph to the top,
Of high success; to live, as lived my Lord,
When He as man in sympathy's accord
With all our sufferings ministered on earth,
And came like dew to universal dearth.
But yet I knew that this could never be,
So long as my pure soul continued free
From taint of sin—that God alone could hold
Such equal terms with man, nor be controlled
By ill. And though my spirit might aspire
To be a helper, it dared not desire
To undertake what Christ had richly wrought,
If a mere fancy framed in passing thought
This service. Nor could I the vision check
From reappearing, as an alien speck
In the broad splendour of unspotted day
That all around my life superbly lay
With an unsetting sun of joy. At last,
It grew and grew to such dimensions vast,
Till it assumed a fitful presence. Forth
It flashed, as the aurora in the north,
With troubled if with transitory power.
Till, in the weaknesses of an idle hour,

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A sudden wish the world once more to probe
With mortal state, and lay aside the robe
Immortal, in my secrecy of heart,
Obscuring even its highest holiest part,
Burned. But though wishing brought me every bliss
Consistent with the sacred synthesis
Of my new nature, and that life Divine
Which nothing now could raise or more refine,
Complete in Christ; it wholly failed to give
Capacity, while I should duly live
And fully all my holy functions ply,
To abdicate my immortality.

One thing, one only, might avail to win
The boon I sorely craved; and that was—Sin.
And through that door of darkness, like the grave,
Which yawned for all and took but never gave
One blessing, must I from my dazzling height
Dethroned go down to gain the world of night,
Where mortals blindly crawled and groped for day.
Through that abhorrèd and accurséd way
Must I, the pure and perfect, basely creep,
And my fair life with foul pollution steep
That stained both soul and body. At the thought
Of that descent and that dishonour wrought
By my own hand, the heart recoiled and reeled
And all its portals and its bulwarks steeled
With adamantine will, not to admit
Sin. Nay, my reason scarcely could acquit
The erring fancy, I impeached its aim,
Because it idly pictured evil's claim.
Sin! That was bondage of the blackest kind,
Which flesh and spirit both alike confined
With shades of hopeless night and prison dole,—
And chains whose iron pierced the very soul.
Sin! That was blindness, when the eyes were dim,
And could not catch one precious glance of Him
Who is the end of seeing, and the Sun
Into whose source all lesser lustres run.
Sin! That was deafness to the word revealed
By every law of nature, which concealed
Behind its gloomy veil the glorious truth
Meant to make free and yield eternal youth.
Sin! That was dumbness, when the stifled voice
Could never find a respite to rejoice,
And could not lift the langour of its cry
Beyond the bars of bitter destiny.
Sin! That was suffering, when the being felt
Its amosphere one malady, and dwelt
In poisoned chambers where no healing air
Blew, and the only breath was of despair.

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Sin! That was sorrow, which confessed no bounds
But those of its own melancholy sounds;
Which, if it had the mockery of a name,
Acknowledged simply the dire brand of shame.
Sin! That was death, the most profound of all,
When the sweet moral sense became a thrall;
When conscience gave no answer unto ill,
Nor made one sign to rouse the slumbering will.
Then how could I, the perfect and the pure,
Again corruption and decay endure?

And yet I sinned. But in what bitter way
The deed was done, I cannot, dare not say;
In truth, I hardly know. With one wild act
I plunged into the perpetrated fact,
The dread abyss of evil, depths of gloom
That carried with them their own grievous doom,
From truth's sublime and tranquil mountain tops
With purity and peace, that fall like drops
Of morning dew, on the ecstatic soul.
Stark madness made me lose the last control
Of my poor will, and fiercely spoke aloud,
And with the threatening of its thunder-cloud
Above me darkly, desperately near
Hung. Swayed by trembling moods of hope and fear,
I swore I had too long been proudly blind,
And cared not to be greater than my kind,
Content with mortals to rejoice and weep,
To live like them, and duly die and sleep
As they; being sick of separation wide
That parted us, yet not dissatisfied
With what I had, but like a weary wave
Most willing to lie down within my grave
Upon the shores of Time, to lay my breast
Where my forefathers found a welcome rest.
And yet the seed of sin was early sown,
In the first wish I fondly made my own
For some mutation—aye, in the first thought
Which to my mind the faded picture brought
Of days departed and imperfect joy,
So soiled and mingled with the earth's alloy.
Thus I took up the broken thread of life,
With all its strands of old and friendly strife,
Just where I let it drop, when on me fell
Transfiguration with its wondrous spell
And gifts divine and meed immortal. Pain
Like some familiar countenance again
Rose up. Once more I gaily laughed and wept,
And my light footsteps still in concert kept
With every pulse of change, and the wild dance
Which life and death beat out of circumstance.

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And now my own are as my fellows' hours,
Not without sunshine, watered with the showers
Of sorrow, darkened by the shadow deep
Which passing troubles cast; and winds that sweep
The atmosphere with useful ills, hold sway
And fill the barren years with fruitful play.
Yet I have sinned. Nor can I backward look
Upon the holy lot which I forsook
In madness for a meaner, lower sphere,
Where with corruption things are sad and sere,
And not be pierced with pangs of sharp regret,
For the fair past I never may forget.
Nor can I forward gaze, and snatch a glance
At the dim future, through the change and chance
Of lying fortune, that illusion brings
To mock the eyes with cruel vanishings;
I cannot face the judgment that draws near,
Nor be unshaken by the throes of fear.
Oh, I have sinned. And in some frightful shape,
The penal scourge how can I long escape?
Though oft remorse will wrestle with my choice,
And lift to heaven the penitential voice
Of anguish; while in all the joys of Time,
Rings out the solemn and reproachful chime
Of memory, with that accusing tone
Whose sound would shatter even a heart of stone.
Yea, I have sinned. And though reprieved I live,
This black confession I alone can give,
As seasons sadly come and then are gone,
And my dark steps are rudely carried on
By waves avenging, to the gloomy goal
That now awaits my poor polluted soul.

And when the closing scene of earth has come,
To me so dreadful, though desired by some;
When without warning the last woe of death
Falls on my frame, and strikes the struggling breath
With dire confusion, and the senses reel,
As dissolution's doom they shuddering feel;
When terrors round me throng and hopes are thinned,
My final utterance will be, “I have sinned;”
As I surrender life for ill or good,
To the great mercy of God's Fatherhood.

Craniology has proved that the skulls and brains of Slav women are larger than those of Slav men. In the recent outbreaks of Nihilism— no wonder, too—women as fearless as Charlotte Corday took the foremost place.

THE LITTLE ANGEL WITHOUT WINGS.

27th APRIL, 1880.

God sent an angel from the Land of Light,
Into a childless home;
He wanted it to be complete and bright,
And bade that Angel come.

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The Angel spoke a sweet but different voice
From that of common tone;
And yet its burden seemed to be, “Rejoice,
Ye are no more alone!”

Her language was a faint and feeble cry,
That touched the mother's heart;
The fountain of her tears had long been dry,
But now it made them start.

And forth they flowed in fertilizing streams,
With seeds of promise rife;
They mingled gently with her dearest dreams,
Enriching all her life.

That pleading cry which drew the mother's tears,
And told her not to pine,
Seemed but an echo through the empty years,
Of the great Voice Divine.

It filled with music all the silent strings,
And made them softly chime;
It sounded on in sacred murmurings,
Unto the end of time.

God sent an Angel from the Land of Love,
Into a world of care;
Faith brought that blessed Angel from above,
Upon the wings of prayer.

She had a message written on her face,
Proclaiming God is good;
And in each helpless act and tender grace,
Those words were understood.

And in the father's fond and anxious heart,
Affection bubbled up;
It grew, as joy poured into every part,
An overflowing cup.

And all the features of his life, it seemed
To beautify and raise;
Till back to Heaven the gift of gladness streamed,
In daily songs of praise.

This angel was a sign of pardoned sin,
Which wiped out every spot;
That from forgiveness love might yet begin
A new and nobler lot.

Nor was the angel's only utterance this,
That pardoned was the past;
But that He who had guided unto bliss,
Would guide unto the last.

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And linked together by this precious bond,
That knit their hearts to God,
The happy parents seemed upraised beyond
The narrow stage they trod.

Love in a purer life went forth to Him
Who gave that kingly crown,
Who saw their little home was cold and dim
And sent the angel down.

Once more the Holy Saviour seemed to live
In this dear firstborn child,
And by His Presence a fresh power to give
Which curbed their passions wild.

Till even the darkest sky looked bright and clear,
With blessings scattered round,
And every spot of earth however drear
Appeared as sacred ground.

All mortal things they once deemed poor and vile,
Seemed consecrated now,
By the pure radiance, that like God's own smile,
Streamed from that infant's brow.

And lest the angel should grow sad and pine,
Or fly from earthly things,
The Heavenly Father in His care Divine,
Took off that angel's wings.

THE PAUPER'S FRIEND.

No food had he, and scarce one kindly rag
Wherewith to clothe his sad and naked sores,
That ever wept at all their pleading pores,
And still his steadfast heart refused to flag.
He only passed by barred and bolted doors,
That opened but to Judas with his bag,
As feebly weary limbs he strove to drag
Through stony-hearted streets with golden stores.

Then came a Friend he long besought in vain,
Whom fears the wicked and the wealthy loathes,
And bore him beyond reach of taunts and oaths;
He gave repose for bread, and hushed the pain
Of hunger, when he broke the pauper's chain
And dressed him in the coffin's wooden clothes.

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THE STEP ON THE STAIRS.

A step for which I hearkened,
In hours of stormy airs,
Even now when skies are darkened,
Falls lightly on the stairs;
The step of one I cherished
In the unburied past,
Who dying never perished,
And loved me to the last.

I hear her softly clamber,
When stars begin to shine;
She comes unto my chamber,
And puts her hand in mine.
Yea, as with feet that flutter,
She gently to me steals;
And what I dare not utter,
She to my heart reveals.

NECESSITY.

Necessity on my sad soul was laid,
A grievous burden, since it leant for aid
On this vain world of falsehood, closely pent
With all its forces so incontinent
In uncongenial bounds, chained from its birth
(Like criminal and corpse in one grim girth)
To a poor narrow stage, though with full scope
For the free play of an unworldly hope;
Even at the portals of its being crushed
By earthly weights, when it would fain have rushed
In exultation to a grander goal—
Necessity was laid upon my soul.
It brooded cloud-like o'er my infant life,
And with the ferment of its hidden strife
It wrought within me, till my breast was rent
And the heart turned from its first fair intent,
Which aimed at higher ends, which deeply knew,
With every wave that rolled and wind that blew,
It had no portion here, but journeyed on
(As other passing souls before had gone)
From world to world of unconditioned Space,
Through the dim isthmus of earth's halting-place.
Yet conscience owns there was a glorious chance,
In all the iron bonds of circumstance.
Freedom I had, by which to die or live,
My very birth's sweet young prerogative,
The liberty of choice—a thing of awe—

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Stamped on my being as its primal law,
To stand or fall: to consecrate my will
And destiny's great purpose to fulfil,
Or to subside in sense and tamely bend
To sordid slavery and a selfish end.
I chose the latter, chose the rule of lust,
And now no longer what I will but must
I go on working—now I cannot check
Myself from sinning—like a helpless wreck
Tossed up and down by every wanton wind,
And drifting from its course, all deaf and blind,
To certain ruin, till the last sharp shock
Grinds it to powder on the hungry rock.
In vain I rally every power and skill,
And lash and spur my faint and fettered will.
No answer comes, no quickening of the pulse,
That now not even an earthquake could convulse;
I only hear the surging of the sense,
And writhe and curse my wretched impotence.
Still creeping on, shut out from influence fair
By habits worse than death, in blank despair,
I love the day and yet prefer the dark,
When vice can work its will and leave no mark;
I love clean ways, but wallow in the dust,
And sin and sin and sin—because I must.

For now I cannot see the light I love;
And the sweet sun, though it may shine above
In all its breadth of beauty, yet to me
Is like the rain clouds that arise and flee;
And I discern no brightness in its beams,
Beholding but its shadow, as it streams
And lengthens on my path, and darkly dips,
My soul itself in one extreme eclipse.
These eyes are dim and troubled with the blight
That is my nature now, and deep as night
Lies at the roots of being and has part
Even in the subtlest fibres of my heart;
Till that is also blind, and steeped in gloom,
And self-condemned awaits the last dread doom.
I see no beauty in the summer bowers,
No lustre in the fairest of the flowers,
Those vegetable flames that glow and burn,
And the cold earth to warmth and sweetness turn
With fragrant fires; no glory in the green,
When from its tomb the maiden spring is seen
In resurrection beauty bursting forth,
As some aurora in the sunless north,
While scattering garlands on a world of graves,
And overflowing all the earth in waves
Of tidal verdure, with rich music rife,

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And changing dearth to bloom and death to life.
Gone are these sights from me, for ever gone,
And in a crowded land I dwell alone,
With sin and sorrow as my constant mates,
And penal terrors knocking at the gates
Of my doomed heart, in one unceasing round,
And muttering to my ears their solemn sound
Like distant thunder, in sad thoughts that swell
With echoes awful, deep, ineffable.
Gone is their blessing from the plenteous fields,
That to pure minds the food of pleasure yields
An endless feast—yea, gone is every good,
From rippling river and from waving wood.
And meditation, that was used to nurse
Fair fancies at its breast, becomes the curse
Of apprehension which foreruns its fate
With wild misgivings, to anticipate
The final judgment. Now I simply see,
In hill and valley and in flower and tree,
A bare and blasted earth possest with fears,
And watered by the tide of human tears
That flows for ever, from which all the grace
And grandeur that made splendid every space
Are all departed, like a poet's dream,
Sent drifting down the melancholy stream
Of darkness which at last engulfs the best
And strongest work, with cold oblivion's rest.

Now ugliness and mockery rule the shade
Of universal evil, fear has made
From sin's foundation; and through clouded years
The ghastly earth of agony appears
A thing disjointed and deformed, and bent
From the sweet base of its Divine intent,
To some occult and miserable goal,
That shall extinguish at a stroke the whole.
I seem a part of the pervading ill,
And with it link the freedom of my will
That I have offered, for this poor world's price,
An incommensurable sacrifice,
To lose my soul, and gain in pampered sense
The surfeit of a sickly recompense.
Now suffering seizes me, and hell's fierce pangs
Have fastened on my soul their fiery fangs,
And made their prey each black accusing spot;
While restless craving for I know not what,
A maddening hunger, riots in my breast
And holds within a ghostly funeral feast.
I burn, I burn already, ere my doom,
And yet I revel in my prison gloom;
I loathe the light that shines like judgment flame,

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And glory in the greatness of my shame;
I hate the good, that merely mocks my call
And comes at times to my repentant call,
Like the departed, in a burial shroud,
And passes like the shadow of a cloud.
Necessity is now my spirit's choice,
The changeless law of its unbridled voice.
I err no longer sadly since I must,
For in the evil only is my trust.
And now my soul has nothing more to lose,
I sin and sin and sin—because I choose.

THE FOOL OF FORTUNE.

The iron Spartans in the grand old Past,
Men of heroic mind, whose aims were vast
And acts yet greater, deemed dishonour worse
Than any kind of pain or fleshly curse
Or death itself, and never from the fight
Returned unless as conquerors in their might.
Resolved that Victory, which at times withdrew,
Should lead them still to battle as she flew
Fair in their van, lo! on the temple's brow
They set her image, strong with many a vow,
And bound its beauty in a heavy chain.
But all their clumsy shackles were in vain,
They bound not her but the poor outward form.
And in the last dread shaking of the storm,
That broke for ever Sparta's iron day,
She spread her splendid wings and flew away.

The light Athenians, nursed in gentle codes,
And softened by the sway of sweeter modes,
No less decreed that victory should not fly
From their bright heavens, and the far brighter sky
Of glorious art that had not yet turned sere,
And culture with its kindly atmosphere.
And their keen wit, long bent on curious lore,
Hungering for somewhat new or somewhat more
Than they possessed, and versed in subtle things,
Set up her statue too—but without wings:
As if, when Fortune's favouring smile were gone,
Her fickle presence could not flit with none.
And so, when Athens suffered shame and loss,
Men looked in vain to Niké Apteros,
And filled her fanes; wave only followed wave,
Till what had been been her glory was her grave.

Thus I—who in my youth's proud joyous prime,
Seemed to have conquered death itself and Time,

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With my strong will, that owned no earthly bound
And some new help in each new hindrance found,
That still delighted storm-clouds to disperse,
Itself the centre of the universe,
King in the world of thought, and even when tired
Yet all insatiate then; that yet aspired
To inconjecturable heights of hope,
And those great steps that ever upward slope
To light through darkness—I who boldly faced
Most fearful odds, and hell itself embraced
As though my bride, who laughed at dangers' frown
In gay assurance, and who trampled down
Dread difficulties like the ocean swell,
And never knew what was impossible—
Who with firm footstep lightly crost
Fate's fiery gulf—who played and never lost
At every game of Fortune—I at length,
One day awoke to find my conquering strength
Gone like a dream of glory, gone for aye,
Like the sweet fruit you suck and throw away,
Gone with my hope and that exulting might
Which from defeat wrung victory as right,
Which never doubted, never faltered still,
Secure in its grand capital of will
And jubilant young pride—yea, all was gone
That made earth lovely; and yet I lived on.
Nay, I lived not, for I was wholly dead,
With hope's broad blossoms that so brightly spread
Their colours to the sun, and but my frame
Dragged out in dreary emptiness and shame
A vegetable being, like the ruck
Who eat and drink and curse their barren luck;
While from some dim and distant world of shade,
I saw my dreams of greatness flit and fade;
Snatched from the joy and fever of the strife,
To the cold funeral of my own fair life.
Smooth victory that smiled on me so long,
And made my pulses dance a measure strong
To the heart's music, now had turned and flown,
Ere I could woo her to abide my own—
Ere I could forge one fetter that might stay
The fickle impulse of her wanton way
And faithless flight—ere I could clip a wing,
Or to some fleeting straw of promise cling.
All, all was lost with fortune: I had failed,
In the old arms that once so well availed,
The dauntless courage, and the faith intent
That had created sea and continent,
If there were none to conquer—that had called
New worlds to light to live and be enthralled,
If the old perished. Yea, it was too late,

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To pluck the sting of shame from cruel fate,
Or make misfortune now unmeasured scorn,
Though big with pain a thing that might be borne,
And overcome with daily wear and wont,
By resolution's adamantine front
Which wrath and hate and every ill can tame,
And turns to crowns of glory crowns of shame.
Ah, could I, like the good old Hebrew king,
The stream of life roll backward to its spring
And have again my youth, then would I make
A prison-house that victory could not break,
And keep her captive behind golden bars,
Beneath the heaven of hope's unsetting stars.
But Fortune, with her painted harlot face,
With all her harlot tricks and bought embrace,
Has left me in the shadow of sharp need,
Sore bruised and broken, and with wounds that bleed
At many a gaping mouth, even unto death
That dallies grimly with my lingering breath.
Across the fiery surface of my mind
Flit fearful shapes I cannot loose or bind,
With veiled averted eyes, and hands that wave
My tottering footsteps to a shameful grave:
Shapes bodied outward by the sickly brain,
That haunt with terror though they are but vain.
And on my shoulders fall the fiery surge
Of woe that lashes me as with a scourge,
That still rolls on where mortal hath not trod,
And beats for ever at the feet of God.

PRÆTERHUMANUS.

I am not wiser better than my kind,
And all the interests that my fellows bind
Are likewise bonds to me, though not the same
In dignity and nature, as in name.
For among men a proper place I fill,
To my own private work apply the skill
I have acquired, bid with them on the mart,
And play no idle or ignoble part
In the affairs of state, join in the strife
For mere existence that is miscalled life,
Contend against them in the headlong race
For vanities of riches, power and place.
Like them I find a sort of cold relief,
In empty fanes they build to Disbelief,
By acts of worship and the pious props
Of forms and rites, while giving conscience sops
With penitential prayer. And in the shade,

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I see the dark and devious tricks of trade,
By which men prosper. At worm-eaten ports,
Where prostitution spawned by commerce sports
Its venal hour of misbegotten joy,
I know how soon the sins of sweetness cloy,
How soon the sense is glutted. Every ill
And every good have passed before my will,
Been tried and tested to the very lees,
And paid for in the costliest, bitterest fees,
Even the last farthing, and alike have failed
To hold me captive. Nor has ought availed,
That I should give myself entirely up
To labour's mill or pleasure's poppied cup,
For ever. And when I most wildly err'd,
I somehow felt I was not of the herd,
Though madly with the multitude I went,
Away from honour and its fair intent.
I still was different from the vulgar throng,
Not worse nor better; and I heard a song,
They did not hear, and saw unwonted sights
They could not see; and in the solemn nights,
Strange feelings touched me that they never felt,
And in another world my spirit dwelt;
Even when I most was with my fellow men,
And seemed most bounded by the common ken.
I am a stranger and a pilgrim here,
An exile banished from my proper sphere
Into an alien world, by some sad play
Of nature, that is not unused to stray
At seasons, falling into wanton freaks,
While her wild fancy all its folly wreaks
On new creations—poor mismated things,
Lone in the densest crowd that to them clings.
Yea, while companions make me their's by day,
My heart is fondly roaming far away,
I know not where, in wondrous realms of thought,
In which no mind but this an entrance sought
And found. Not that I ever simply see
The same old system different in degree,
But a new kind—a set of other joys,
And other hope that other powers employs,
While other fears and sins and sorrows shake
The bases of my being, and awake
Strange sentiments in me and stir the soul.
But, as for men, we have no kindred goal
Of inner object, interest, or aim;
No points of union or communion claim
Our undivided homage. When they droop,
No fellow-feeling bids me also stoop,
To seek repose with them; and if I rest,
Then they already have beyond me prest,

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And left me standing still. We have no mood
Of common measure, no true brotherhood.
I am a different creature, though the same
To all appearance, yet of other frame,
Cast in the fashion of a foreign mould.
And when constrained by outward cares to hold
Sweet converse with my heart, I speak a tongue
Not even by fabling poets ever sung,
Nor known to human hearing, yet to mine
Most sweet, familiar and a truth divine,
And spiritual food. In lonely nooks,
I read high teachings not in holy books;
And in the shadow of recesses shy,
Still do I trace some subtle memory
Not understood by mortals; and I find
Deep sympathies and social bonds, that bind
My soul to nature in a friendship fair,
Made fast by links of heavenly light and air,
And elemental forces strong as fate,
That shut and open life's mysterious gate.
I claim no sage's insight, nor the gift
Of powers creative, that the world uplift
Above the dull low level of its stage,
The vulgar platform of the vulgar age,
And send it rolling from the dirty ruts
Of common trade that man with meanness gluts,
To nobler ends, and makes the mortal know
That to immortal greatness it may grow.
No bard, self-blinded, prone to dream and err
With grand delusions, no philosopher
Or architect of thoughts that march through Time,
To the deep music of their own sweet chime,
And fringe our path with glorious flowers of truth,
That give the earth again its golden youth,
And make sublime the simplest acts of man,
With the broad sweep of their majestic plan.
Nay, I am none of these—a humble soul,
To whom this life can offer not a goal,
Who knows that he is severed from his mates
By different being and by different states
Of feeling, who is centuries in front,
Of the dim period's paltry use and wont,
Or else behind—a whole wide world removed,
From these cold thoughts his faith has not approved—
A thousand thousand windy leagues of space,
From all the fleeting hopes that men embrace,
Divided—who in faint unheeded signs
Finds daily food, and reads between the lines
Of human books, and gathers goodly sheaves,
From unknown harvests, and beneath the leaves
Of outward forms sees fruit no mortals mark,

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And friendly light even in the deepest dark—
Who differing thus from men this comfort draws,
He will be also judged by different laws.
Lo, I appeal from earth and earth's blind courts,
Where pedant lore with love and justice sports,
And loud coarse cunning wrangles down the right,
To that tribunal throned in perfect light,
Where sits the judge of judges, who from far,
At His serene and universal bar,
Weighs men and things in soales that cannot swerve,
And metes to all the measure they deserve.
Yea, I appeal to Truth from folly's rod—
Eternity from time, from man to God.

TIDE AND TIME.

Time onward travels pitilessly fast,
And leaves me nothing but a barren Past
With expectations bitter. I would stay,
To muse awhile, at least one little day,
On life and death and what we mis-call fate,
And all the mysteries deep of man's estate.
I hate this forward movement, and the flight
Of day so quickly followed by the night,
This ceaseless rush of things. But what I crave,
Is just to let the frantic tumult rave,
To step aside from these wild hopes and fears,
And fall asleep for full a thousand years
Of rest unruffled—or to watch awake
The fortunes of the world I thus forsake,
And yet retain my youth, abiding still,
Beyond the noisy eager throng and thrill
Of action and its passionate intents,
And all the foaming eddies of events.
As one unmoved by even its wildest act,
Stands on the brink of some fierce cataract
And calmly gazes, as its fury flings
Into the vortex wrecks of men and things—
Himself secure and fearless—while the cry
Goes up to God, and smites the laughing sky.
So too would I, while earthly discords rage,
Stand by the fiery current of the age
A mere spectator, and a season wait
Uninfluenced but observant, at the gate
Of its grand issues—though untouched, unbent,
Not all incurious nor indifferent—
With philosophic calm, that only heeds
The reign of law and love with fruitful seeds,
Beneath confusions and the maddest roar,

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And from their writhings gathers restful lore.
For I am sick of turmoil, and the strife
Of hourly cares, and this grim mill-like life
That grinds us into grace, and as by storms
Compels and tortures us to fairer forms.
May I not wrest one moment from the din,
One moment rid me of the weight of sin,
The jar and struggle, and for pity pause,
When crushed to earth by blind and cruel laws?
Am I the fool of earth's relentless dance,
The dupe and slave of wretched circumstance?
Not my own lord with my own meed of joy,
But some deaf tyrant's hopeless, helpless toy?
Oh, let me stay and rest my weary head,
Emancipated from the troubled tread
Of fevered myriads ever on the march,
Towards the fair and fleeting rainbow arch
Of some false promise—wealth or love or fame,
And mocking hopes that only lead to shame.
I spurn ambition as I would the dust,
No gold I need nor in affection trust;
And all the tinsel mummeries of rank,
To me are but a stale and stupid blank,
Made to be blotted by the same sad stains
Of vice and folly, or accursed gains.
What are these gauds and bribes of baited chance,
To one who has outlived his youth's romance,
Who in his day has tasted and has tried
The sweetest sins that ever lived and lied
And ruined, who, though rocked on pleasure's wave,
Has found the whole as bitter as the grave?
I want no phantom honours, nor would ask
For flattery, with its perjured painted mask,
Nor one small leaf of these poor fading bays,
To which men crawl by dark and dirty ways.
I beg but rest a moment from the rush
And frenzy of the rude earth's iron crush—
A breathing space in which to lie and dream,
Disturbed not by the world's broad glaring beam
And outward shocks, of shy and happy shades
In blooming fields with tender dewy blades,
Where it is always evening. I would creep
Within myself to some soft world of sleep,
The sacred hidden cloisters of the soul,
Far from the conflicts that around us roll,
To shrines in which the purest fancies meet.
As one who, passing from the staring street,
Enters a solemn church, whence every sin
Is fast shut out with every good shut in,
For evermore, by high and holy walls,
Beyond the clamour of these vulgar calls.

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Nay, I would hie not all from greed and pelf,
But from the hateful shadow of myself,
That haunts and dogs my footsteps as I go,
And broods within, a consciousness of woe,
An unlaid ghost, a sense of something dread,
Like wings of darkness round my being spread,
If to some shelter I could only fly,
And let the damnèd world of pain pass by.
Or I might rid me of this pressing ill,
Had I the power one moment to stand still.
But ah! I cannot from the seething tide,
Just for the little respite step aside,
To wait and watch these tossings to their close,
And snatch a gentle season of repose;
While the great wheels go working out their way,
And moulding brittle forms from brittle clay.
I am a part and parcel of the whole,
Not a self-centred individual soul,
A separate plan—to future links and past,
A thousand interlacements bind me fast,
The slave of systems and the sum of things,
To which against its will the spirit clings
Rebellious. Yea, I am a wretched straw,
Whirled by the current of some mighty law
From darkness unto darkness, catching still
At any hope that mocks my foolish will,
And dreaming I at every turn shall stay,
Though as I dream I yet am swept away.

ON A RAILWAY PLATFORM.

I stood beside the iron road
which runs from north to south,
And watched the iron horses load
that feed with fiery mouth;
That ever fretted to be gone,
and spurned their iron reins;
And when at length they thundered on,
tossed high their stormy manes.

I watched the people, as they pass'd
and hurried to and fro,
Till I appeared myself at last
part of the ebb and flow,
To enter into all their grief
and mingle with their minds,
Borne like a helpless autumn leaf
upon the rushing winds.

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Cast up and down by furious fears,
and robed with radiant hopes,
Now sinking in abysmal years
and now on mountain slopes,
Elate with every gust of joys,
and whirled with every woe,
With empty thoughts of idle toys
and blasts that passions blow.

Till all the windows of all hearts
seemed opened to my gaze,
And the most hidden aims and arts
stood out from stormy haze,
In naked strength and startling lines,
as when the morning breaks,
And bursting through the shadow twines
around the sunlit peaks.

Till all the doors of that retreat
in which abides the soul,
Expanded in that secret seat
their very inmost whole.
And I moved with the mighty streams
of many-coloured life,
Lit here and there with blessed gleams
or evil clouds at strife.

And in the thickest of the crowd
I saw unearthly shapes,
Some fair as angels brightly-browed
and some as hideous apes;
Both leading and misleading all,
for welfare or for woe;
And those that hearkened to their call,
were doomed like them to grow.

Till they became celestial forms
or into devils turned,
Who soared above the stress of storms
or with hell-torments burned.
While under some who blindly raved
would dread abysses yawn;
And gracious palms for others waved
with crowns of golden dawn.

And all about the restless throng,
lo! serpents as of flame,
In silence crawled, and most among
those of the fairest frame;
For still through all the stormy haze
that blurred the view in part,
I saw the fairest, with amaze,
had yet the foulest heart.

279

I marked a child with cherub eye,
and brow as bright as morn,
Tempted to listen to a lie
and darkly onward borne,
And hurried still from stage to stage,
till conscience none was left,
Down to the black and blotted page
of shameless hardened theft.

Though a fair white-robed being strove
to guide the guilty feet,
That still preferred astray to rove
on path ways all unmeet;
And tried to hold the erring hands
that hungered still for wrongs,
And murmured as from distant lands
forgotten cradle songs.

I marked a girl with maiden look
of modesty and joy,
Who pure and peaceful ways forsook,
to be a villain's toy;
Lured by the sin that whispering spoke
what loud it dared not say,
Until the pretty plaything broke
and then was thrown away.

But yet a guardian angel stood
by the unshielded side
Of sweet and tender maidenhood
in all its gentle pride;
With unshed tears that fain would start
and words that breathed of hope,
And knocked for entrance at the heart
that would not to him ope.

I marked a man of splendid mould.
who once had not a stain,
Driven by the maddening loss of gold
to sell his soul for gain;
To barter freedom even and fame,
his honour and his wife,
And then with the last shift of shame
to take his blasted life.

While had he only given an ear
to duty's kindly voice,
And conquered his unworthy fear
by a majestic choice,
He would have heard the rustling robes
of angels from the skies,
And glimpses seen of radiant globes
of pure immortal eyes.

280

I marked a youth with passion fed
and fond indulgence fired,
By dark and devicus footsteps led,
through byeways crookt and mired;
Until he reached that dreadful day
when into crime he fell,
And crushed in awful anguish lay
within the murderer's cell.

Yet even to the last dread scene,
there wrestled with his will,
A spirit form that would have been
his friend and helper still;
That spoke in conscience with a cry
which rang through many a dream,
And tolled with speechless agony
the solemn hour supreme.

And still with even these blessed aids
sent down from God to men,
The sinner chose the cursed shades
and things of guilty ken;
And the proud heart to all the hates,
when pity could not move,
Threw open wide the bolted gates
that yielded not to love.

While glorious woman and great man,
that should have lived and left
The lives of many a lordly plan
in the grand world's grand weft,
Yet hearkened to those hellish apes
that carried nought but night,
And saw in them more lovely shapes
than in the forms of light.

They felt no horror at their touch,
when serpents framed like fire,
Said if they only ventured much
to win their soul's desire,
The doors of Eden would expand,
behind those earthly clods,
Its treasures bright at their command,
and they should be as gods.

And up and down the masses swept,
like waters in the wind,
While all about their victims crept,
or followed fast behind,
Those phantom forms of ghastly powers,
in silence and in gloom,
To bind them in their weaker hours
with chains of death and doom.

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But then the veil that keeps apart
the spirit from the sense,
Descended on each troubled heart
with the old dazzling fence;
The portals and the windows closed,
that let my glances in,
And the smooth smiling fronts exposed
no semblance of the sin.

I only saw a glittering crowd
that eddied to and fro
I only heard the laughter loud
that killed the sigh of woe;
And knowing what lurked there to damn,
and held with iron tie,
I said the world was but a sham
and life was all a lie.

THE SOLDIER'S OATH.

Come, lay a soldier's hand in mine,
Old friend and true,
And swear, while suns arise and shine,
And skies are blue—
Swear, thou wilt ever faithful prove,
Whate'er betide,
To try the bases of our love,
That now abide
As steadfast as the very stars,
Unmoved by chance,
Which nightly veil the glorious scars
Of wounded France.
Our's has no common friendship been,
And we have fought
Shoulder to shoulder, and have seen
Great records wrought
Beneath our eyes, and helped to make
With steel and shot,
The history that no storm can shake,
No envy blot.
Aye, comrade, in the bitter breach,
Where hundreds fell,
If they might but the glory reach
They loved so well,
We smirched with battle smoke, in will
Of fearless pride,
Welcomed the fiercest odds, and still
Stood side by side.

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Our friendship from the winter morn
Its freshness fed,
And seas that beat on lands forlorn
Their wildness shed
On that frank fellowship in arms,
Baptized with blood,
Which found the wiles of women's charms,
Than fire and flood
More cruel, yet displayed to all,
Unstained by lust
Of place and power, and mammon's call,
Triumphant trust.

Come, lay a soldier's hand in mine,
Old friend and true,
And swear, while suns arise and shine,
And skies are blue—
While we such gallant memories keep
Of sword and lance,
And treason crushed by vengeance deep,
While France is France—
Swear, when the last great muster roll
Heaven's Captain calls,
On whichsoever soldier soul
The summons falls—
Swear that the other will the same
Clear answer give,
And not, for a divided fame,
His friend outlive.

He spoke, and in his iron grip
A hand was laid,
And an unfaltering grizzled lip
The promise made—
By stern remembrance of old frays,
And dangers faced
Together, and of glorious days
No flight disgraced.
The summer heard, how that dread plea
Was proudly borne;
And laughed, when before earth and sea,
The oath was sworn.

Time pass'd, and the Great Captain read
The muster roll,
And from the ranks stept with firm tread
One soldier soul.
Upon the corpse the other fell,
And kissed his brow;
The pistol shot, that rang his knell,
Fulfilled the vow.

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Thus the last grand promotion came,
For comrades true;
Who lived for France, and left one name,
When skies were blue.

CROWNS OF SORROW.

To sleep and dream of love,
And miss it on the morrow,
To find none here and none above—
This is a crown of sorrow.

To live and lack an aim,
And others' ends to borrow,
To die and leave no lingering name—
This is a crown of sorrow.

To want a settled hope,
And fear the coming morrow,
To have no fitting field and scope—
This is a crown of sorrow.

To forfeit honest fame,
And beggar's arts to borrow,
To lose the latest touch of shame—
This is a crown of sorrow.

To be and not to live,
To waste the day and morrow,
To take from all and never give—
This is a crown of sorrow.

To break a trusting heart,
To feign the love you borrow—
This is the deepest deadliest smart,
The crown of crowns of sorrow!

THE CURSE OF CADWALLADER

Cadwallader sat in his father's hall,
Erect on his father's throne;
And he heard the sound of the waterfall,
As it fell down its stairs of stone.
And he heard the sound of the singing birds,
As they sang in their blooming bowers;
And they spoke to him in wondrous words,
From the beauteous book of flowers.

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Cadwallader knew all creatures' speech,
And they knew he loved them well;
For his power was mighty over each,
And they owned his magic spell,
But the voices which he heard that day,
Awoke feelings kin to fears;
For they told of the glories past away,
And the new degenerate years.

Cadwallader had the mystic lore,
Which the spirits ever binds;
And out of his awful treasure-store,
He could bend the proudest minds.
But there was a force he might not bend,
By his strongest wizard rhyme,
Which moved to its lofty measured end,
And that was the march of Time.

Cadwallader mused on his father's fame,
Of the battles lost and won;
And there broke o'er his brow a flush of shame,
When he thought of his only son.
For he knew that upon the latest field,
In which his warriors fought,
He had left behind his father's shield—
There was madness in the thought.

Cadwallader called for his ancient bard,
Who had numbered a hundred years,
With a foot yet as active as the pard,
And an arm like iron spears.
While he bade him bring the harp he loved,
Ere he put his armour on,
As his hand and dagger lightly played,
In a solemn unison.

Cadwallader said to the hoary sire,
“There hath grievous shame been wrought,
And it burns within my bones like fire,—
There is madness in the thought.
For mine only son hath craven been,
And a dastard action done;
So open the gates of the future scene,
And curse, and curse my son.”

Cadwallader spoke through his bearded lips,
And his face grew dark with scorn,
And his words they fell like iron whips,
On the son that he wished unborn:—
“O curse him in bed, and curse him at board,
In the storehouse and the field;
And curse the hand with the coward sword,
That hath lost his father's shield”

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Cadwallader shook his conquering spear,
That made shadows long and dark;
While the ancient bard drew yet more near,
And his fingers felt the harp:—
“O curse him in all his going out,
And in all his coming in;
Let him shudder at the battle shout,
Let him strive but never win!”

Cadwallader rose from his father's seat,
And he stept where his father stood,
And the stamping of his fiery feet,
Sent its echoes through field and wood:—
“O curse him in all his rising up,
And in all his lying down;
Put the poison in his festive cup,
And weave of thorns his crown!”

Cadwallader paused for breath, to hear
Just a note of the Master's art;
And his hand grew closer to the spear,
There was murder in his heart:—
“O curse the son who lay on my knee
Whom a royal breast has nursed;
For he dared without his shield to flee;
He is cursed and he shall be cursed.”

Cadwallader thought of the youthful face,
That was wont on him to shine,
That a mirror seemed of kingly grace,
In its every look and line;
And a blessing wrestled in his soul,
With the thoughts like daggers sharp;
While afar he heard the thunder roll,
And a wail broke from his harp.

Cadwallader ceased, for he could not bear
The stress of that feeling strange;
And a rival passion arose, to tear
The heart that it might not change.
And a cloud came over the iron brow,
As he thought of his bridal bed;
And the memory of an early vow,
Brought a tear that abode unshed.

Then the solemn harp of the hoary sire,
Awoke on that stormy stream;
Awoke from its sleep at the touch of fire,
Like a soul from a troubled dream.
And its utterance first was soft and slow,
Nor a sure expression found,
And it gave in murmurs sad and low,
An uncertain solemn sound.

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And it told in fitful stammering tones,
Cadwallader's glorious prime;
While the waterfall stepping down its stones,
Broke in with a mournful chime.
Yet the strain was weak and the meaning dark,
As if the old bard delayed,
Inspired by a far off voice to hark,
Which was first on his heart-strings played.

But then, as the tempest grew more high,
And called with a clearer strain,
The harp burst forth in a wailing cry.
With a flood of pent-up pain.
While the harper's fingers glanced like flame,
Up and down the stormy strings:
Like the lightning in its cloudy frame,
While the thunder's trumpet rings.

And at last it broke with a human voice,
That spoke from a funeral pall,
As a soul that has made its solemn choice,
And upon it staked its all.
But it left the present at one leap,
Wherein arméd foemen trod,
And embraced the future in its sweep,
Like a seer who talks with God.

And it said, but said with many a sob,
That the reign of war would cease,
That the breasts of men would only throb,
In the gentle strife of peace.
And it said, but said with many a sigh,
That the law of force was gone;
And the law of love, now drawing nigh,
Would lead generations on.

And the harpstrings sent a deadly thrill,
Through the bosom of the king;
For the player played against his will,
And he sang what he would not sing.
For he struggled with the cruel fate,
That had bound him in its stress;
And his spirit was full of bitter hate,
But his voice constrained to bless.

And the sweat-drops gathered on his brow,
As he told with livid looks,
How the sword would be fashioned for the plough,
And the spear for pruning-hooks.
And an earthquake shook his mighty frame,
Which eclipse had given its gloom,
As he prophesied perforce his shame,
Like a man who fights with doom.

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But withal the harper harped and strove,
Though he knew the battle lost;
For a stronger power the fingers drove,
Than his spirit torn and tost,
And a benediction from him fell,
In a broken angry flood,
As he spoke of the shepherd's pipe and bell,
That would fill the old fields of blood.

And the white foam mantled on his lips,
As he saw in a vision far,
The trading tracks of the shining ships,
That displaced the keels of war.
While the people wrangled on the mart,
And contended but in word,
Who had once played well the soldier's part,
With the judgment of the sword.

And there, as the hoary sire sang on,
The death of the days of old,
The lightning around his forehead shone,
And the thunder wildly rolled.
And the monarch like an aspen shook,
While his hand forgot its clasp,
As he heard of the fate he could not brook,
And the spear dropped from his grasp.

And behold! in an agony of wrath,
The bard crashed on the strings;
And they broke, as an eagle in its path,
When it falls with broken wings.
He had sung the dirge of his glorious land,
And its gallant deeds were o'er;
Till the solemn harp slipp'd from his hand,
And the harper harped no more.

Cadwallader fell upon his face,
With a death note in his ear;
While his life seemed darkened with disgrace,
And the future big with fear.
And one who had braved a hundred fights,
Who was scarred with a hundred wounds,
Yet could not confront those peaceful sights,
Nor endure those peaceful sounds.

And the monarch lay just where he fell,
He loved but the warrior's art,
And the waterfall it sang his knell,
For the knife was at his heart.
And his spear that had carried woe and gloom
As he fell was snapt in twain;
But little he recked of his sceptre's doom,
For he never rose again.

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Cadwallader's son reigned in his stead,
And the gentler years went on,
And they buried his weapons with the dead,
For the reign of war was gone.
And the arts of husbandry he wrought,
While the weary land had rest;
For he tilled the fields where his father fought,
And the people called him Blest.

SWEET IMPERFECTION.

“SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS.”

Rosa is bright as summer's skies,
Adorned with every meetness;
And who will gentle Violet prize,
Rich with but incompleteness?

Rosa is without flaw, I know,
She has all woman's graces;
As fair and faultless as the snow,
As cold in her embraces.

But though poor Violet's charms be small,
Nor win the world's detection;
Yet give me Violet still, with all
Her precious imperfection.

Better a breast of human mould,
For every feeling fitted;
Than beauty that has gifts untold,
With just the heart omitted.

If I admire the radiant bloom,
The form of perfect splendour;
I love the sweetness, that no gloom
Can make less true and tender.

ON THE MARKET.

To many lovers is she known,
And all who loved have sorrowed;
Her vices only are her own,
Her virtues borrowed.

To gold she turns a ready ear,
And nothing else is treasured;
Her best devotions are but fear,
And faith is measured.

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Be certain, though she change her name,
Her nature cannot vary;
In drawing-rooms she is the same,
As in the dairy.

Her one endeavour is to trade
Upon her trustful neighbours;
To thrive on, what she never made,
Her victims' labours.

Some call her Love, who little dreamed
What hate is lying under;
Who boded not, whate'er she seemed,
Her life is plunder.

Grave Doctors say her heart is sound,
Divines declare it rotten;
A moment both are soothing found,
And then forgotten.

Golden opinions, loves, and joys,
She courts who never counted;
When won, she drops as broken toys,
The steps she mounted.

Each neighbour is a hope of gain,
The sport of speculation;
And, if it brings no private pain,
Of depredation.

Her dream of heaven is—shall I tell?—
To drive a lord and carriage;
And this is what she pictures h*ll—
A pauper's marriage.

Her sweetest words are duly weighed,
Her very smile is venal;
To “blush unseen” or else unpaid,
Alone is penal.

She owns to scarce a genuine dread,
But meeting poor relations;
Her tears are elegantly shed—
On expectations.

Of course her virtue, with its seed
In old and tried tradition,
(Like her complexion), is a creed
Beyond suspicion.

Some subjects are, howe'er they grow,
Mere food for idle fussing;
But maiden fame is, most men know,
Not for discussing.

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All that may swell her social gains,
She can affect at pleasure;
But when off duty she refrains,
And lies at leisure.

While still on sale, she goes as far
As goods sent on approval;
If bought, her charms conspicuous are,
By their—removal.

A LIBEL.

The world is ruled with little skill,
And man may rule for ever;
Who loves sweet woman, if he will,
But trusts her—never.

Put faith in foxes, April skies,
Or madmen given to murther;
And trust your wife—beneath your eyes,
But trust no further.

Religion, culture, every art,
From toilets unto dinners;
Make woman look the saint's pure part,
And live the sinner's.

Though man has turned old falsehoods out,
While new slip in securely;
She has but learned to be devout,
And lie demurely.

Then give to woman, if you wed,
Kiss, compliment, or science;
And let her share your board and bed,
Not your reliance.

Hawk is the natural foe of dove,
And woman of her master;
Her hate is better than her love,
Her praise disaster.

Whoever trusts her soon repents,
But deadly is detection;
When she destroys, she first dements
With false affection.

Her kindness is a common mart,
The richest buy her blessing;
And when she strikes she stabs the heart,
And kills—caressing.

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Dower her with every gift you choose,
Give her your life and labour;
She longs to settle in your shoes,
Some simpering neighbour.

Try what you will, do all you can,
She only grows more shameless;
Your friend, the enemy of man,
Untamed and tameless.

Her only weapon is her tongue,
A match for court or college;
Poetry oft its charms has sung,
But never knowledge.

Her lips have been the Tempter's seat,
Since Eve entangled Adam;
And when she tempts, she looks as sweet
As thou, fair madam.

THE PARADISE OF FOOLS.

I had a vision that was not a dream,
Of men turned to machines, and worked by steam,
In a strange country governed but by fools,
Where each one follows his own nose and rules
And leads the others, and is led in turn
(While all instruct, and nobody will learn)
Just by the nose; and, in a House of Glass,
Incense is offered to a Crownèd Ass,
Whose name is Humbug, and whose shoulders thin
Are covered with a mangey lion skin.
And praise ascends for ever, night and day,
From worshippers who only love to bray,
In old Egyptian style, when shrines were stables,
And men adored their beasts and vegetables.

Here men had grown to women and their ways,
And strutted out a little life in stays
Or petticoats, and with loose scented hair
Piped of the secret Pleasures of Despair
That spring from Culture and Refinement's march,
Made up of paint and agonies and starch,
With other raptures, and delicious woes
Nursed by high doctrines and—dyspeptic throes.
Here women, turned to men, affect their hats
And coats, and play with vices just like cats;
And breaking free from the frail schoolroom bars,
Drink the best wine, and smoke the best cigars,
Tell the best stories in the best-cut clothes,

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And drop from rosebud lips the roundest oaths,
Like honeydew; and please to gamble high,
And carry all before them with a sigh
Or sugared side-glance, when they choose to cheat
Some rustic lamb that love has taught to bleat.
Here all are writers—though results are nought,
And make by stealing what they lack in thought;
While fancies their duty do for absent facts,
And words more honour win than noble acts.
From prince to peasant, and from throne to gutter,
Pens worry paper, with a general sputter.

Nature will sometimes nod, and when she makes
Poor mortals, falls into absurd mistakes.
She gives a title old to rakes and sots,
And crowns the heads of peers with pewter pots,
Coins gentlemen of sharpers every hour,
And deals to billiard-markers place and power.
So noble patriots choose the jockey's bays,
To win a Derby—not a people's praise;
Lords are less jealous for their house than horse,
To clear their honour than to clear the course.
But still whate'er they do, they do on springs,
Like puppets moved by hidden wires and strings,
Wound up to work, regardless of the sense,
Results the greatest at the least expense.
But all is wrought by form and measure still,
Whether the matter be a prayer or pill,
A patent for new blacking or a peer,
An act of Parliament or pint of beer.
Some square their conduct by the tradesman's tape,
And shut emotions in a kitchen shape,
Pocket their feelings, hedge their fancies in,
And mete each day so many yards of sin.
They wear by regulation joys and loves,
And make them fit as neatly as their gloves,
And if in aught they differ, they agree
To settle all things by the Rule-of-Three.
They eat and drink, are daily bought and sold
In marriage, as from Noah's days of old;
And some of them seem wise, and some seem stupid,
But still in various masks all bow to Cupid.

Some pull the churches down, to make quite sure
The old foundations really are secure;
As children pull up flowers, that make no show,
To see if they are rooted and will grow;
Though, in the process, while they pry and gape,
The suffering life may happen to escape.
While others cook, and warm their hands or bed,
By burning their own houses overhead,

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Just for the humour of the passing hour,
To roast a pig or gain a moment's power,
And are indignant when they cool, and find
They have but aches and ashes left behind.
And every day the Master-Fool is seen,
Hacking some oak or institution green,
Which he deems rotten, or bestriding high
Some goodly branch he does not love too nigh,
And sawing hard between the tree and him,
While both his blinded eyes with sawdust swim;
Till down he rudely topples, branch and all,
And rubs his eyes and wonders at his fall.
Civilians play at sailors in their seats,
And give mere figures when they're asked for fleets.
The soldiers change their uniform and face,
And “military units” take their place.
The Commissariat is a farce, that acts
Only on paper, with rosewater facts,
And still collapses at the first small strain,
When warriors for Tobacco ask in vain
And get Red Tape; and horses have their hay,
Compressed indeed with refuse and decay.
But if high powers to jobbing are propitious,
What Expedition can be expeditious?

And hospitals, when comes the pinch of need,
Receive the patients whom they cannot feed,
Abound in every kind of forms and rules,
Prescriptions, precedents, and food for fools,
And rubbish dear to the official mind,
Though instruments and drugs are left behind.
While on his couch the gorged Inspector snores,
And dons lead armies and are led by whores,
The heroes are condemned to starve and die,
Ere cursèd customs loose their iron tie,
Or false contractors, thriving on the pain,
Forfeit one farthing of their ill-got gain.
The Transport, when it's tried, can nothing do,
A perfect form and perfect failure too,
That would work wonders—if it had but legs,
But breaking with a stench like rotten eggs.
And though the Senate (or the Asses' Pen)
Is filled with prigs, whose ancestors were men,
And did men's deeds—and though the leaders draw,
In long descent, a legendary awe;
Yet the bright honour they have never known,
If all the empty honours are their own,
And of that glory they are not the heirs,
Nor is that grand ancestral merit theirs,
And ne'er will be; while, though the country grieves,
Their Cabinet is but a den of thieves.

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But ancient names do not avail to make,
A politician from a spoon or rake,
And statesmen should give laws of better stuff,
Than will suffice to line a lady's muff,
And be an evening's gossip at the clubs,
Or point the drunkard's jest in village pubs.
What can to curs, or sots or fools give graces?
Not coats of arms, nor pedigrees, nor paces.

There was an Island, set in silver seas,
Whose every feature had some charm to please,
Where carth puts on her saddest sweetest smile—
Now, so diseased, it is the Emerod Isle!
Her patriots would their all (that's blarney) give,
And for their country die—not in it live.
Oh, here, too proud or indolent to dig,
The noble savage breeds the nobler pig;
The pampered paupers, and the rebel brood,
Whose breath is treason, who make crime their food,
Here hug their cruel murders, dastard deeds,
Done in the darkness of their coward creeds,
And under cover of protecting priests,
Prove Darwin's dream that men have sprung from beasts.
They pray and slay, and from absolving hands,
Let loose like hounds of hell their damnèd bands.
They praise their God, and practise every lust,
Adore the light and wallow in the dust,
Rise from their knees at human laws to mock,
And change the pulpit to the felon's dock.
The jaded libeller drops his poisoned pen,
And turns from killing time to killing men,
And finds, when lifted high on fortune's flood,
Less joy in spilling ink than spilling blood.
With the assassin's dagger grimly girt,
They cover blood with lies and lies with dirt,
Join force to craft, and stab in reverend stoles,
To save their pigstyes and to lose their souls.
And discontented still, whate'er they pluck
From folly's fears, these leeches ever suck
Their country's life away, and clamour yet
For every morsel that their greed can get.
Nor sated with the life, their hungry hands
Stretch farther even, and grasp the very lands;
And like the billows on a blasted shore,
Goes up the cry that murmurs still for more.
But while they drain the country with their bleeding,
No greater curse could seize them than—succeeding.

For lo! in this strange Paradise of Fools,
The workmen are the victims of their tools,
Do what they scouted, mean not what they say,

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And with the nation's fame and fortunes play,
Swear war is perfect peace, and black is white,
And ill is really good, and wrong is right,
An agent is no agent—should he fail,
And compacts are no compacts—made in jail.
And should their blood-built grandeur scale the sky,
Thanks to the helpful earth they then deny,
Who nectar quaff from the imperial fount,
And kick the ladder down whereby they mount.
Their glib opinions have a changeful hue,
And daily turn, at need, from buff to blue,
And back again—to please the fickle mob,
Or hide the shame of some more perjured job.
And what their doctrines are, no mortals know,
(Not they themselves) that like the breezes blow,
And shift with every shadow of the hour,
Or shine like blacking on the boots of Power.
But then this is the very kind of mystery,
To suit the mother of all lies—called History.

The women here have turned to third-rate males,
And among minnows play the part of whales,
And blow and spout and splash at every board,
That lets them air their little pocket hoard
Of virile wisdom, and some rapturous plan
For showing females are as mad as man;
While they would take their lords' superior place,
But only copy him in his disgrace,
And ape man's vices which they fondly preach,
Who find his virtues are beyond their reach.
Love now is often least of woman's charms,
She sets her husband's legs, and wields his arms;
The dark-eyed darling by her lover lies,
Prattles of bones or gaseous mysteries,
Or sighs of pretty “subjects” to her groom,
And treasures dear to the dissecting-room,
And flirts with scalpel as she did with fan,
And grows tenfold more masculine than man.
Ah! make them mothers true and virtuous wives,
Before you arm them with the surgeons' knives,
Before you soil the sweetness of their fame,
And soak their minds in Science and in shame.
Yea, leave them to their baubles and their brats,
Pet lions, lapdogs, clergymen and cats,
And if they cannot wed, and must be doing
Then let them turn the tables and go wooing.

Here man, like autumn flowers that run to seeds,
Strives to become like woman, and succeeds.
He lisps like school girls, mews in mincing tones,
And round the waspish waist draws virgin zones,

296

Pads the small bosom, frills the fancy shirts,
And trails what is most feminine in skirts,
Parts in the middle hair, that has all night
Lain in curl papers to rejoice the light,
Painted and perfumed with art's every aid,
The lady's man that is a lady's maid!
With whiskered grace the dapper coxcomb fares,
Big with his little stock of shrugs and stares,
Poises an eyeglass in his errant eye,
And puffs his breast and well-adjusted tie,
And as the choir of nymphs around him flocks,
Gives the last finish to his scented locks.
The buxom nursemaid trembles at his tread,
And streamers flutter from her windy head,
With joys unknown her rustic bosom glows,
Before such polished words and ways and toes.
Trim and triumphant in his dandy drill,
He weighs the claims of rival flounce and frill—
To this a smile, to that a courtly bow,
And to Parisian modes a passing vow,
One ribbon more or less, one style of hair,
Call from his ready store the appropriate air.
If fortune aids, he breathes an amorous gush,
And with demureness meets the maiden blush.
He sues his victims, each by rule and reason,
And modulates his sighs to place and season.

Lo! Medicine, now, has made a mighty stride,
And kills its thousands where but hundreds died,
In murderous drugs and drenches Progress rules,
And makes our bellies battle-grounds of schools.
Death is the fruit, and doctors are the stem—
Diseases somehow multiply with them.
'Tis “kill or cure,” the patient or the pain;
But if you die, by Science you are slain.
And people poisoned, or cut up with knives,
Find this the only solace that survives—
To be made out some startling theory's base,
And called no more a person but a “case.”
How differ quacks, from true physicians' skill?
These have credentials, those have not—to kill.
Diplomas are a licence, to insure
The art of murder being quite secure;
That fools may sufferers make the sport of chance,
And death beds cheer with chartered ignorance.
Of vital force they starve the struggling breast,
And breed a stupor which they christen rest;
Then bid the death-knell sound and joy-bells cease,
And in the churchyard spread the reign of peace.
The march of Reason were a charming sight,
If only Reason did not march by night!

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Now each prescription has its proper tang,
That veils its folly in a learned slang.
While ready terms for every cracked conceit,
For making torture more and more complete,
With easy methods and compendious rules,
To render faith the victim of the schools,
Come cropping up as quick as early clover—
Mere recipes for turning money over!

Though doctors' views may differ, like their fees,
And each the rest to contradict agrees,
Yet, Abernethy, Baillie, Marshall Hall,
Clark, Astley Cooper, Majendie, and all—
All who knew best the trade with every trick,
Have damned its impositions on the sick,
Have heaped on Medicine doubt, contempt, and shame,
And coupled death and dosing as the same.
The pet of ladies, the successful man,
Is an empiric or a charlatan,
And sometimes both, and always humbug still,
Whose remedies are worse than any ill.
The pestle and the mortar, scoop and scale,
Have slaughtered more than fire and sword and gale.
'Tis in the face of nostrums and of knives,
In spite of doctoring, that the wretch survives.
And why, beneath a cloud of curst prescriptions,
Revive the horrors of the plagued Egyptians?

But Doubt unhallowed, ever waxing more,
Goes death-like forth and creeps from door to door,
Steals through the tossing market-place, and still
Pursues its prey with blind unbending will,
Tracking its victim to the vilest lair,
And touching passers on the street or stair.
Hark! in the festive stir its step is heard,
Just in the breathing of some wanton word,
And in the silence of the solemn tomb,
Its presence has a tacit rank and room.
Its hand is heavy on the house of pride,
Knocks at the door, and will not be denied.
And when the weary watcher of the hour,
Calls through the shadow of the thunder shower,
It whispers to the pleading wail for light,
“We came from darkness and we go to night.”
While State Religion, in its lofty attic,
Looks down in wonder on a world erratic.

Alas! for laws that iron fetters wear,
And but incarnate a sublime despair,
Whose light is darkness, throwing over all
The bloom of glory, one great funeral pall.

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Better the lie that earth with beauty fills,
Than the cold comfort of a truth that kills!
The captive soul must either die or dance;
Is life worth living without one romance?
And where is Faith, to lay the grisly ghost?
—Brawling in print, or sleeping at its post,
Or run to farce with masquerading saints—
Wet piety that daily drips or faints,
That oozes into ears like leaking tubs,
Or crawls and casts the dirt about like grubs—
And brawny preaching, with a fistic leaven,
That knocks its hearers headlong into Heaven.

Think of the glorious age that Venice saw,
Whose blood was commerce and whose breath was law,
With veins distended by the pulse of Power,
And hands that plucked the passion of the hour!
But now the blessing, Trade, has grown a curse,
And merit takes its measure by the Purse;
The servants are the masters, means the end,
And misers hoard what charity should spend;
While bag-men get all that by greed is got,
And heaping riches heap up moral rot.
And noble lords their empty coffers fill,
By making shameless love unto the till,
And wed the counter, which has wondrous charms
For those who hide a faded coat of arms.
Or else they kick at each obstructing fence:
As Randolph storms and strives with Providence—
And Queensberry, given to suppers with the Stoics,
Damns us all round, and goes into heroics.

Where is the Poet, for a world so poor? . . .
Even now his awful feet are at the door
Of judgment, and the Dawn is round him spread,
And virgin lilies bloom beneath his tread,
As at St. Leonard's. Yes, he comes, he comes,
Not with a martial tramp and beat of drums,
But bearing Peace, and with a voice that sings,
As with the rushing of an eagle's wings.
He comes, whom, now the world is out of joint,
The dread extreme of troubled times anoint,
To be the saviour in an age of dearth,
And bring back beauty to a sunless earth.
He gathers volumes from a touch or tone,
And bids the statue start from prisoning stone;
He sees the Ocean in the tiny shell,
And shapes a palace of the dungeon cell.
He sweetens life with dreams no surfeits cloy,
In plenilunes of wonder and of joy.
Like Time, his mellow touch can turn to gold

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The thing most ugly and the thought most old.
The vermin blight, that gathers round the great,
Can leave no shadow on his high estate,
Which stands apart and shall for ever stand,
As some white peak that guards a holy strand.
He battles on through adverse flint and flood,
And wrings from tears and many a stain of blood,
The truth so darkly born of pain and strife,
The joy that trembles into troubled life.
The things that clamour, and the things that goad,
He kneads beneath him on his royal road;
Faint, yet pursuing his unfaltering way,
Towards the fair founts of Everlasting Day;
Though on his bosom, from the blush of morn,
The burden of an erring world is borne,
And the chill shadows of departing night,
Still wrestle in him with the powers of light.
But round him ripple breezes, soft and vernal,
And in his song the summer reigns eternal.

He sings, because he must and lays on all
The law of love, while errors round him fall
Discrowned and dying. Fairer earth and skies,
Fresh forms of grace at his enchantments rise;
And life grows riper, from the frost that prest
Its heart so long, and richer after rest;
Till faces, white with watching, catch from far
The mystic radiance of the Morning Star,
And unfolds Time, like Vestal rosy lipt,
The hidden meaning of its manuscript,
Which never ends its roll of wondrous acts,
Translating fancies into sacred facts,
And ceases but as carving round a column,
That crowds the unseen side with pictures solemn.

BY THE BANKS.

I stood on the bank of a River,
When the day was dawning fair;
And I watched the willows quiver,
In the dim and dewy air.
And through the mists of the morning,
I saw like a passing dream;
The young in their proud adorning,
As they floated down the stream.

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And the birds, they sang in the sedges,
With a playful pleasant tone;
As they sing in the April hedges,
When they sing for love alone.
And afar the forms of the cattle,
They loomed through the early light;
While the water's mystic prattle,
Seemed awakening from the night.

And the river from its sources,
Rolled on in its newborn strength;
Till the tide of its joyous forces,
Broke out into song at length.
With a free and frolic motion,
It told of the bliss in store;
It spoke of the glorious Ocean,
And the wonders of its shore.

All things appeared fair and tender,
And bright with the brow of youth;
They were fresh in their virgin splendour,
And sweet as the face of truth.
They had not a thought of sadness,
As they moved to the morning's call;
They lived—and to live was gladness,
They loved—and to love was all.

And I with a head that was hoary,
With a heart whose fires burnt low,
Looked on at the happy story,
That was mine in the long ago.
And I who had passed through danger,
Who knew that the flowers would fade—
I felt as a lonely stranger,
That is kept in the cold and shade.

Then I hailed a boat, that was trying
Its sails in the gentle wind;
For I felt that the time was flying,
And I should be left behind.
For I saw there was room for others,
And the maidens smiled at me;
And the men they were like my brothers,
In the hours that used to be.

And I begged—and not as a scorner,
But more as a grateful guest—
It was only a little corner
That I begged, in which to rest.
But they answered that time was treasure,
And declared they could not stay;
That youth was the age for pleasure,
And I—I had had my day.

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In vain did I seek my fortune,
In vain did I show my need,
In vain did I still importune,
For never a boat took heed.
They said I was old and a burden,
And my chances all were gone,
But that they had now their guerdon—
And away they went sailing on.

There were friends and beloved relations,
To whom I stretched my hands;
But they gave no salutations,
And they mocked at my demands.
Yet they seemed so full of kindness,
And so radiant and so free,
That I thought it must be blindness,
Which had turned their hearts from me.

And still did I cry and dally,
And still did the boats go by;
In vain did my courage rally,
When it quickened but to die.
The morn grew brave with its glory,
And the birds they were wild at play;
But they all told the same sad story,
And said I had had my day.

Then—though it's a sore confession—
I beheld my children last;
They mixed with the gay procession,
And they likewise floated past.
I called—but they never hearkened,
I wept—and they did not mind—
I prayed—till my hopes were darkened,
And I still was left behind.

I had toiled for them from the morning,
I had toiled for them till the eve;
They were clothed with my own adorning,
They had nought they did not receive.
And I never spared my drudging,
Though it cost me years of pain;
It was lavished without grudging,
If my children found it gain.

I was used to man's aspersion,
I expected nothing sweet;
And my oldest friends' desertion,
I had often risen to meet.
But it wrung my heart like dying,
And it killed my human love;
When I saw my darlings flying,
And the bliss for which I strove.

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I had borne them on my bosom,
And had fed them with my life;
I had given them fruit and blossom,
And had fenced them round from strife.
But they dropt me in the distance,
When my life was sere and sad;
Though they owed me even existence,
And whatever joys they had.

And there were they idly drifting,
Into perils dark and strange;
With companions always shifting,
While their parents could not change.
But they answered me with laughter,
When I begged them just to stay,
And it echoed sadly after
That I—I had had my day.

When the beast that knew my manger,
Were it only kept a week,
Would have felt I was no stranger,
Had it simply heard me speak.
But these, that were parts so vital
Of my very flesh and bone,
They thought it no base requital,
That I should be left alone.

Then I saw, as in a vision,
Though it came not at my call,
The meaning of this derision,
And the great end of all:—
That a man must build for others,
And must ask no sort of price;
That the burdens are our brothers,
And all life is sacrifice.

I saw it was education,
That the poor should always give;
And that death and separation,
Are the law by which we live:
That neither the hall nor hovel,
Can a grateful memory save;
And the child is but the shovel,
That will dig the parents' grave.

But with old affection's embers,
Still I feel the spirit strive;
And the past that love remembers,
It will somehow yet survive.
And if all my darlings perish,
And if nothing else should last,
Yet a treasure I can cherish—
Is the perfume of the Past.

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And when I awcke from dreaming,
Lo, the birds were babbling still;
And the day with a broader gleaming,
Had broken on vale and hill.
And the waters were leaping lightly,
While the early mists had gone;
And the boats that danced so brightly,
They went sailing, sailing on.

And still I stand by the River,
As it hurries to the Sea;
But though it will flow for ever,
It will flow no more for me.
For I know my day is over,
And my stream of life run dry;
But it passed through the fields of clover,
And their scent will never die.

“AURORA AUSTRALIS.”

There is a world of forest land and leas,
Girdled and guarded by the wash of seas,
That take the radiance of the Southern star,
And rise at once a bulwark and a bar—
A virgin world of joy, with wonders new,
That hitherto have kept their fairy dew,
Fresh with the fragrance of a nameless grace,
And revelations of a veiléd face;
While savage grandeurs in their sternness meet,
With all that is most delicate and sweet,
And pathless thickets threaten, dark and dire,
Uncrossed by any foot but that of fire;
Where linger on a thousand sylvan charms,
And towering gum trees spread their mighty arms;
Where green retreats and quiet shelter woo,
The wandering emu and the kangaroo,
Drawn to the refuge of these lonely lands,
As by the presence of protecting hands.
For yet a splendid spell is all its own,
The magic mystery of a world unknown,
Whose untrod spaces fancy peoples still,
With miracles of nature's wildest will;
And ghostly stories fill the outlines dark,
Which great explorers gave their lives to mark.
Here, on the borders of the trackless waste,
Fair flocks of sheep an alien pasture taste
And by their myriads, on the grassy run,
Grow to fresh beauty in a brighter sun.

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While wringing treasures from their rocky hold,
The miner works his way through paths of gold.

There is a spot, where summer never fades,
Besides these shy but hospitable shades,
A virgin city, crowned with joyous youth,
Not blighted yet by scathe or scar uncouth,
Where progress reigns and art puts forth its plea,
And winds the yellow Yarra to the sea,
A glory and a marvel to all time,
Where life is simple and the thought sublime;
Whose past is brief, but has a brighter page,
Than the dull records of ignoble age.
Here sovereign commerce holds its court, and sways
The varying fortunes of adventurous days,
And with calm fingers, that divine and probe,
Feels all the fickle pulses of the globe.
While in the free and friendly haven meet,
The gallant flags of many a merchant fleet.
To her the Future, with its boundless hopes,
A world of promise and of splendour opes;
While still unfold the hours their young romance,
And bid the child of victory advance.

THE SLEEP OF DEATH.

Death had been merciful to her, she lay
Even from the setting sun till blush of day,
As in a tranquil slumber with sealed lip,
That let cold moonbeams on the cold face slip
Delicately, and midnight's mourning breath
Murmured no music of the sleeper's death.
Fair stars went in and fairer stars came out,
And a low wind went whispering about.
The light leaves rustled with a ghostly noise,
All things seemed filled with intimated joys,
More than expressed; and still the hours went on,
Still breezes brushed her face, and planets shone
Serenely in their holy spheres on high,
The far faint blue abysses of the sky.
A soft wind rose, and as a mourner stands,
Played with the flowing tracery of her hands,
Breathed in her ear and rippled round her hair,
Yet ruffled not the lightest ringlet there.
One moonbeam stole through heavy-fruited boughs,
And open lattice, to the sleeper's brows,
But nowhere rested; with a wandering grace,
It glorified the glory of her face,
Made whiter still her forehead's unstained snow,
Then with a sudden sigh made haste to go.

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THE GREAT MYSTERY.

CHORUS OF GREEK MAIDENS.

What is Death?
Whispered all in accents low,
When the days have lost their glow,
And the hours like flowers uprooted,
Now no longer rosy-footed,
Big with heavy burdens grow.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Muttered in unwilling ears,
With a trembling as of tears,
By the passing of the story
Of this gladsome summer glory,
By the coming in of fears.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Murmured on the busy mart,
By a sickening of the heart,
In a rising up of terrors,
As the ghosts of all our errors,
When the actor drops his part.
This is Death.

What is Death?
When the river, on its course,
Feels a sinking at the source,
Dimly desperately boded
By the hopeless spirit, goaded
With the gadfly of remorse.
This is death.

What is Death?
Ask it of the gods, whose spells
Once made splendid woods and wells,
Now departing with a weeping
From the shrines they had in keeping,
From the shadowed rocks and dells!
This is Death.

What is Death?
Darkness to be felt, that drapes
All the bright and beauteous shapes,
Wrought by fancy or by Nature,
Raised by Art to nobler stature,
Darkness from which none escapes.
This is Death.

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What is Death?
See it, when the light is brief,
In the yellow falling leaf,
In the misting of the mountains,
In the poisoning of the fountains,
And the shadow on the sheaf.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Taste it, in the troubled hour
Of the sweetness rendered sour,
By the touch of frosty fingers
Laid upon the charm that lingers,
Loath to leave the Dryads' bower.
This is death.

What is Death?
Feel it in the drawing near
Of a presence dark and drear,
Over every bud and blossom,
Into even the throbbing bosom
Piercing, like a foeman's spear.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Hear it, in the broken strain,
Like the sough of autumn rain,
In the wailing voice of sorrow,
Crying that there is no morrow
For the gathering of the grain
This is Death.

What is Death?
In the breaking of the bond,
Long so tender and so fond,
When the sacred friendships sever,
That must part and part for ever
To the shades that loom beyond.
This is Death.

What is Death?
It is only whispered here,
But the winter sad and sere
Finds its footprints, in the turning
Of the blooms with sunshine burning,
On the meadow, by the mere.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Though we trick our rose, at will,
Trusting to avert the ill,
In the veil of fair disguises,

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Yet too soon with grim surprises,
Lo, the worm defieslus still.
This is Death.

What is Death?
It is known by many a name,
Some of terror, some of shame,
Thundered forth in battle schisms,
Sighed with gentle euphemisms,
But its sentence is the same.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Other evils have their sting,
This alone is truly king,
For it is the end of pleasure,
End of every earthly pleasure,
End of every living thing.
This is Death.

CHORUS OF CHRISTIAN MAIDENS.

What is Death?
Hope, by happy sufferers named,
Wherewith pictured life is framed,
Surging round us with its billows
Softer than all earthly pillows,
Hope that maketh not ashamed.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Comfort for the pangs that press,
Rainbow over stormy stress,
Bright and blessed expectation
Of the glorious transformation,
Which awaits our mortal dress.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Dawn that guides the faithful path,
Dawn no pagan pilgrim hath,
For the soldier in his tourney,
For the traveller on his journey,
Beaconing through the night of wrath.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Light for every upturned mind,
When the outward eye is blind,
Over earth with evil hoary,
Streaming from the gates of glory,
On the chains that cannot bind.
This is Death.

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What is Death?
Not a sinking in the tide,
But a purging of our pride,
Not a failure or miscarriage,
But a high and holy marriage,
When the Bridegroom takes the Bride.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Not a stumbling of the feet,
Not a parting ne'er to meet,
But a grand reunion's token
For the friendships, only broken
To be made for ever sweet.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Not an unsurmounted bar,
To a vision fair and far,
But a stepping-stone uplifting,
Though it be through weary sifting,
To the bright and morning star.
This is Death.

What is Death?
End of trouble, end of toil
Woven like a serpent's coil
Round the lives of man and maiden,
Resting for the heavy-laden,
Cleansing for the clinging soil.
This is Death.

What is Death?
End of every damning vice,
Bought at a tremendous price,—
Like a sanctuary solemn,
Calm with many a storied column—
Bought by God's own sacrifice.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Starting-point for purer strife,
Striven without the blood-stained knife,
End of sorrow, and of sinning,
Bright and yet more bright beginning,
To a new and nobler life.
This is Death.

What is Death?
But a bridge-way to the shore,
But the opening of a door,
When this sad and suffering mortal

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Bursts its wretched prison portal,
That shall hold it nevermore.
This is Death.

What is Death?
Treading, where the Conqueror trod,
On the tyrant's broken rod,
With earth's loving latest blessing,
And Heaven's tender first caressing—
Yea, it is the kiss of God.
This is Death.

What is Death?
As the shadows rise and flee,
And the eyelids ope to see,
It is life itself, eternal,
Breaking from the fount supernal,
When the soul begins to be.
This is Death.

THE GREATER MYSTERY.

(PART I.)

What is Life?
Wingèd hours with rosy feet,
All the dazzling, all the sweet;
Draughts of pleasure,
Without measure;
Flowers caressing, with their scent,
Faces half incontinent—
This is Life.

What is Life?
Days that cannot find a girth,
For the music of their mirth
Glad and glowing,
Overflowing
Into nights more rapturous still,
With a passion nought can fill—
This is Life.

What is Life?
Heights of philosophic peace,
Where the sounds of turmoil cease,
In the seeing
Of pure being;
Beyond travail, joys, and tears,
Above hopes and loves and fears—
This is Life.

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What is Life?
Art's creations pure and bright,
Rising from the silent night;
At life's portal,
Made immortal;
Forms of beauty, paths of bliss,
Where Divine and human kiss—
This is Life.

What is Life?
Stern intention like a bow,
Bent against a coming foe;
Straining ever,
With endeavour,
To add something to the stores
Of the gold its lust adores—
This is life.

What is Life?
Action with its leaping fire,
Kindled by a fierce desire;
Greed of glory,
Laurels gory
From the fields where thousands lie,
Slain that Honour might not die—
This is life.

What is Life?
Bridling seas, and bridging straits,
Barring storms with iron gates,
Levelling mountains,
Digging fountains
In the desert, wedding lands
With the clasp of kindred hands—
This is Life.

What is Life?
Firm controlling, calm as Fate,
Of the helm that steers a State,
Through the welter,
To its shelter
In the haven of the blest,
Freedom's richly chartered rest—
This is Life.

(PART II.)

What is Life?
Weeping at a world of sin,
At the fiends that enter in
Doubt's dark region,
Ills a legion;

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Tears remorseful, shed in shame,
O'er a desecrated name—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Watching for the souls that sleep,
And with those that vigils keep;
Carrying burdens,
Without guerdons.
Striving, in a thankless state,
With a love returned by hate—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Toil and suffering, hurt and scorn,
Madly given and meekly borne;
Blasts of troubles,
Thick as bubbles,
On the stormy stream of years,
Wrecking earthly hopes in fears—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Weakness, want, and bitter stress,
Growing, grinding weariness;
Pang and peril,
Pasture sterile;
Withered flower and dusty tomb,
Where the roses used to bloom—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Seed of promise in the breast,
Bearing fruit of better rest;
Love of neighbours,
Larger labours;
Rising still to richer ends,
Fellowship with foes for friends—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Insult, in its dastard part,
Trampling on the tender heart,
Coldly spurning
Every yearning;
With its deeds malign and fierce,
And the taunts that deeper pierce—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Darkness all with discord rife,
Waves of sorrow, winds of strife,
Ever crossing,

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Ever tossing
Man's frail bark, across the sea,
To its port, eternity—
That is Life.

What is Life?
Bearing still the cross of bane
Up the stony steps of pain;
Faint and ruing,
Yet pursuing;
Offering humbly hope's last breath,
To the veilèd angel, Death—
That is Life.

SHADOWS ON THE WALL.

At morning and at evening and at noon,
They flicker on my sight;
Beneath the magic silence of the moon,
And in the blaze of light.

They are the heralds of the secret fates,
Stern oracles they give;
Prophetic of the destinies of states,
That none may read and live.

But to the dying it is granted then,
When at the grave they stand,
To read the unwritten histories of men,
And break their mortal band.

And I that have already kissed the tomb,
With these most willing lips,
See from afar the mysteries of doom,
In earthquake and eclipse.

They tell me, that to-morrow I must track
The way we all must wend;
Nor do I give one glance regretful back,
Nor fear the fatal end.

And this is what the shadows on the wall,
Murmur with mystic breath;
That there is sorrow at the hearts of all,
And nothing sure but death.

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THE BULGARIAN'S BELIEF (A FACT), 1876.

The tributary tides,
That go to make the morrow,
All merge in what the present hides,
One sea of sorrow.

Upon the brow of morn,
Is written evening's story;
The blossom will be winter's scorn,
Though summer's glory.

And thou, whose tender frame
Is clothed in silk and ermine,
Wilt be a shapeless thing of shame,
A feast for vermin.

The stream oft travelled o'er,
Has yet its rocky shallows;
And they who never danced before,
Dance on the gallows.

The loftiest seats and souls,
Find soon a cursèd level;
There is a God who all controls,
But he's a Devil.

“SHE IS COMING.” (1876.)

She is coming, in all her glorious bloom,
She is coming in all her light;
Though she pass through the very door of doom,
And she enter the courts of night;
And she enter the courts of night—
She will tread as a conqueror on the tomb,
In her beauty strange and bright.

She is coming, with rapture in her gaze,
And with liberty in her hands;
From many a blind and bleeding maze,
Of the sad and suffering lands—
Of the sad and suffering lands;
Through the struggling gleams and the purple haze,
To the clear and cloudless strands.

She is coming, in all the power of good,
And she takes no menial hire;
Though the sun go down in a sea of blood,
And the moon rise up in fire—
And the moon rise up in fire;
Though alarms roll back in a mighty flood,
On the hopes that would fain aspire.

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She is coming, I hear the falling feet,
As they trample out the stains;
For the prisoners all her presence greet,
And her steps are broken chains—
And her steps are broken chains,
And the passions that once with purpose meet,
Are an end to ancient pains.

She is coming, the mourners mark her call,
And the princes in their pride;
While the thrones and dungeons fail and fall,
At the touch of freedom's tide—
At the touch of freedom's tide;
For the tyrant's pleasure is his pall,
And a skeleton is his bride.

She is coming, I see her ardent eyes,
As they flash from her flowing hair;
And her breath is as sweet to the heavy skies,
As a storm to the stagnant air—
As a storm to the stagnant air;
When the troubled winds and waters rise,
In a concert fierce and fair.

She is coming, our more than Love and Queen,
Who is all our Life and Lord;
To assuage the ills that, if unseen,
Yet fret as the captive's cord—
Yet fret as the captive's cord;
And her head has the olive's gracious green,
Though her hand has the judgment sword.

CHARLOTTE.

Thou wast fair and thou wast fickle,
And thy love was like a sickle,
Charlotte!
Keen and cold, and finding fuel
Ever in a pastime cruel,
Charlotte!

Yet I loved thy blemished blossom,
Bade thee welcome to my bosom,
Charlotte!
For I hoped the blight would perish,
Leaving beauty I could cherish,
Charlotte!

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So I made thy portals pleasant,
Made a Paradise the present,
Charlotte!
Smoothed thy way, the journey lightened,
All thy hours with music brightened
Charlotte!

Flowers and fruits for thee I treasured,
Nought I offered thee was measured,
Charlotte!
Winds of care I strove to banish,
Bade the clouds of trouble vanish,
Charlotte!

Then I left thee to the trial
Of one little hour's denial,
Charlotte!
Left to find my visions scattered,
Home and hope and gladness shattered,
Charlotte!

Now I dream of thee at seasons,
Dream forgetting all thy treasons,
Charlotte!
In my sleep the byegone living,
Perjury and shame forgiving,
Charlotte!

And I fancy that thy beauty,
Still is loyal unto duty,
Charlotte!
That the days with dew are tender.
And thy spring has yet its splendour,
Charlotte!

Have I lost thee, have I found thee?
Are my weary arms around thee,
Charlotte?
Then I waken from my visions,
To my darkened heart's derisions,
Charlotte!

Thou art fallen—lie and languish,
Thou art spotted—spare no anguish,
Charlotte!
Pass from all the hopes I cherish,
Pass into the night and perish,
Harlot!

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VANISHED VOICES.

They came, I know not how or whence,
Those voices fond and fair;
They mingled sweetly with each sense,
And had in all a share.
They spoke of love, they spoke of truth,
Those vanished voices of my youth.

I cared not for companions then,
When I had faith at heart;
I was not lonely, far from men,
In hope's more busy mart.
They gave me back what discord stole,
Those vanished voices of the soul.

I felt that once the world was wide,
And all things set to song;
That hope the winter frosts defied,
And summer was more long.
They sang of destinies more vast,
Those vanished voices of the past.

The angels then came down at times,
And mixed with mortal things;
They made me hear the heavenly chimes,
And drink eternal springs.
They said bright dreams could never die,
Those vanished voices from on high,

They came, and carolled in the morn
Of life's refulgent years;
They came with hopes of wishes born,
And went away in fears.
They left a halo round my head,
Those vanished voices of the dead.

But still when evening lights are low,
And shadows softly fall;
Those dear old innocences grow,
And send sweet shoots through all.
While with a deep ecstatic pain,
Those vanished voices thrill again.

And when the noiseless hours of night,
Have put the world away;
Those wondrous sounds that seem like sight,
The hungering heart allay.
And like the music of a star,
Those vanished voices call from far.

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But yet I know that they are gone,
And never can come back;
To lead my steps divinely on,
The old enchanting track.
Still let me dream, if they have flown,
Those vanished voices once my own.

What if they have not taken flight,
But are gone forth to roam;
And will return with richer light,
As birds to roost fly home?
What if when faith has conquered all,
Those vanished voices yet will call?

And when a better wish or thought,
Comes borne on angel wings;
Shall I not find as fondly brought,
The ancient visitings?
Yea, I will murmur to my heart,
Those vanished voices that depart.

Perchance, they may be granted now,
To comfort me once more;
When in some young and yearning vow,
I catch them as before.
From tender breasts that brightly burn,
Those vanished voices will return.

Then I shall live the past again,
In other fairer souls;
And join the jubilant refrain,
That round sweet childhood rolls.
And in its accents calm and clear,
Those vanished voices love will hear.

And with a higher holier tone,
My footsteps will be cheered;
And peace will reign upon the throne,
That faith and love have reared,
And when all other strains are gone,
Those vanished voices will sing on.

So may the evening of my years,
Become a brighter morn;
While from the tender dew of tears,
Will fruitful hopes be born,
Till at the call that Jesu's is,
Those vanished voices mix with His.

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THE RIVER.

I. THE RIVER'S COURSE.

There is a river stern and strong,
That flows through vale and lea;
That bears our faded hopes along
Into a silent sea.

'Tis fed with precious tears of man,
And fraught with woman's woe;
It tosses wrecks of plot and plan,
With loves of long ago.

'Tis born of sad and sacred springs,
And under Orient skies;
And though the death of prouder things,
Itself it never dies.

Far in the mists of ancient time
That solemn River rose;
It hath a strange and mournful chime,
And weepeth as it flows.

Our youths and virgins fill its urns
With sorrow's tender dreams;
But not a ray of hope returns
From those unjoyous streams.

By lawn and level on it winds,
Through pastures bright or bare;
Yet food from every field it finds,
And murmurs everywhere.

Its breast is full of many a bud,
And garlands fresh and green;
Its breath is felt before the flood,
And oftener heard than seen.

When life is in its loveliest pride,
Soft as a summer's day,
The River rolls its troubled tide
And sweeps that life away.

In vain our labouring hands we load,
And fashion bars or dykes;
It gives no knowledge of its road,
No warning till it strikes.

The children playing where it steals,
Hid under flowery wreath,
Ere seing what that wreath conceals,
Are wash'd and whirl'd beneath.

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Though gallant be the bridegroom's mien,
And dear the bride and true,
The cruel current slips between,
And cuts their bond in two.

The mother has her first-born love
Strained to her bosom's heat,
But with the happy heavens above,
The River licks her feet.

The young and old they hear its call,
And fondly try to flee;
It takes and carries one and all
Down to the silent sea.

We feed it with our costly tears,
From many a hallow'd rill;
And though we lavish hopes and fears,
It is insatiate still.

It turns the cradle to a grave,
And freezes laugh and kiss,
And with the shadow of its wave
It darkens every bliss.

Of ruin'd lives it takes no count,
Nor how its volumes grow;
And none can seize its fatal fount,
Or check its endless flow.

By town and hamlet forth it roams,
In sunshine as in shades;
It hales the fatlings of our homes,
The sweetest of our maids.

The depths of deserts feel its touch,
And know its presence wan;
It robs the cripple of his crutch,
And hurries, hurries on.

We all give tribute to its store,
And swell its weary sound;
It beats for ever on the shore,
And pushes back its bound.

And gnawing still at bed and bank,
It eats into our lives;
It makes a bitter blot or blank
Where'er its passion strives,

And deeper yet the channels sink,
And wider heaves the wave;
We tremble on the dreadful brink,
Some batter'd plank to save.

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O, if a moment it would hold
Its calm and ceaseless course,
Nor glide so pitiless and cold
From its unfathom'd source!

Lo, we have lost our comely wives,
To still its hungry fret,—
Have lost our children, lands, and lives;
It is not sated yet.

Ah, no, it never rests a while,
But flows through vale and lea,
Without the glimmer of a smile,
Into its silent sea.

It has a dreary strain of grief,
That wafts its freight along;
And as it rifles blade and sheaf,
This is the River's song:

II. THE RIVER'S SONG.

When Night was born
I fill'd my horn
With waters from the deep;
With dregs of death
I glut my breath,
And steal the charms of sleep.

I feast on joy,
And pleasures cloy,
With murmur'd sounds of woe;
And when the light
Is broad and bright
My fountains ope below.

I know not fear,
And hope I sear
With bitter blasts and chill;
Seas ebb and flow,
Men come and go,
My stream is never still.

No stop nor stay,
I slew and slay,
Destroying from the first;
Though deep I drain
From pang and pain,
Yet naught can slake my thirst.

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If to the birth
I came with earth,
I never now can die;
From early biers
And blighted years
My waves grow grim and high.

When Time has fled,
I shall be dead,
Till then I creep and kill;
With bone and blood
I feed my flood,
And raven at my will.

Ye chafe and cry
That summers fly,
And winter reigns instead;
With sombre mien
I roll between
The dying and the dead.

Alas, alas,
Your pageants pass,
And generations range;
Things rise and fall,
And perish all,
I only never change.

MAD!

I paced by the iron road that runs,
Round the curves of the surging sea,
To the music of the mighty guns,
Through waving wood and lea.
I was only one in a motley crowd,
That was tossing, struggling, shifting, loud,
Like the broken mass of the thunder cloud,
With its stern and stormy plea.

They were now in glitter, now in gloom,
While they hurried up and down;
And the youthful faces flushed with bloom,
Set off old age's frown.
And the moon looked on a maddened throng,
Of the sad and merry, weak and strong,
The lips that uttered curse and song,
Red coat and silken gown.

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But then through the clamour and the crush,
Came a figure slight and fair;
And there fell on the strife a sudden hush,
As when they call to prayer.
For a woman came in her beauty's might,
Like a star that trembles into sight,
But her face was sad as a winter's night,
And her head had a crown of care.

And forth she stept, like a holy thing,
Whereon God hath set His mark,
Like a fluttered bird with wounded wing,
From the tumult of the dark.
And she stared straight onward down the track,
Into the distance deep and black,
She stared straight onward, nor looked back;
As if a voice said, Hark!

And she listened for the well-known tramp
Of the iron horses on the road,
With their stuttering breath and eager stamp,
To discharge their living load.
For a heavy burden on her prest,
And a bitter pang that knew not rest,
That shadowed life, and shook her breast,
Which like a furnace glowed.

Her golden head was streaked with white,
And the quick breath went and came;
And in her eyes there burned a light
That had no earthly name.
The delicate form was bowed and weak,
And the quivering lips had woes to speak,
And fed about her faded cheek
A cruel crimson flame.

She stood upon the altar-stair
Of the gray and solemn Past;
While the soft wind kissed her loosened hair,
And the moon its glory cast.
But then rang from her poor pale mouth a cry,
Up to the stars of the purple sky,
And away to the throne of God on high—
“He is coming, my love, at last.”

“He is coming, and I have nothing spared,
That can comfort give, or grace;
The lamp is lit, and the feast prepared,
And his chair is in its place.
I have lingered long, I have lingered late,
On the threshold at the garden gate,
And now by the iron road I wait—
He is coming, I see his face.”

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She was one day's bride; the morrow shone,
And he left with morning light;
But she wept not for the husband gone,
For he would be hers that night.
She watched and wondered all in vain,
Hour followed hour and brought but pain,
Her darling she never met again—
His soul had taken flight.

And still, when the fateful day comes back,
When the garish gaslights burn,
She goes to her tryst by the iron track,
Where the great wheels champ and churn.
She stands, fresh from the bridal room,
And stares straight onward through the gloom—
She recks not of his long-sealed doom,
And bids her love return.

BROKEN HEARTS.

What is the burden of that plea,
The murmur like a hungry sea
I heard when first a child;
Now tolling as a burial bell,
Now shadowed to a tiny shell,
Which shuts the ocean wild?
For ever young, for ever old,
And awful as the hills, and cold
As the eternal frost;
If higher than the highest stars,
Yet deeper than infernal bars,
In the same surging tost?
And grimly keeping
Its watch unsleeping
Beside the cradle of creations new,
While under all the glorious flower,
The crown and rapture of rejoicing dew,
It bears the dark and solemn dower
Of the dissolving doom,
Even in the spring of bloom—
Foretells the crumbling of the giant tower,
At morn the midnight gloom?

It is the restless cry of need,
Wrung from the breaking hearts that bleed
Beneath their iron tie,
That pine for labour which is not,
For love which is the idler's lot,
And would but cannot die;

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The cry for daily work, more dread
From bosoms in which hope is dead,
Than any ghastly doubt,
Or (shaking pampered princely shades,
And from red reeking barricades)
Grim revolution's shout;
The cry of anguish,
From souls that languish
And lie in helpless want and worse than poor,
In the lone cellar dark and dim,
Or in the gutter at the rich man's door,
And not a morsel get from him;
Though petted crime doth feast,
Nor ever lack the least,
While dainty dogs may sate each greedy whim,
And plenty spoils the beast.

It is the cry of woman, torn
Into the night without a morn,
The world without a sun;
Because the breathing earth and air,
And heavenly light have made them fair,
And streams that singing run—
Because the grace, that they should hold
More precious than refinèd gold,
To serve God's holy plan,
Was blackly warped and waxed a curse
Direr than despots' blood-filled purse,
To them and guiltier man;
The cry of sorrow
That sees no morrow,
And sinks more sadly in the human mud,
And grows more passionate and shrill,
Because the life may not put forth one bud,
In its gray gaunt enchaining ill;
While none lifts helping hand,
And sisters fouler stand
Close to them, proud and undetected still,
Whose jewels hide the brand.

It is the cry of children weak,
Who only cry and cannot speak,
And children but in name,
Who unto Moloch's hideous lust,
Sacrificed in their maiden trust,
Pass through the hellish flame;
The cry of women-babes, that yet
Uncradled and unmothered fret,
And a chill shadow fall
Upon the banquet of the knave,
Whose love is fiercer than the grave—

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As on Belshazzar's wall,
The fate indited
Fell uninvited,
And the dark fingers of the Dark Hand traced,
Amid the shining of the show,
The judgment sentence which as night embraced
The pageant's pompous ebb and flow;
The cry of children, flowers
Snatched from their virgin bowers,
Who ere they pass to silent gulfs below,
Protest they yet are ours.

And shall that hopeless cry go on,
While titled harlots yet may don
Lace, that refines the shame,
And purple which is given as price
For varnished and protected vice,
Allowed to nobler fame?
Ah, must the humble who are frail,
For ever bear the ache and ail,
While men have human hearts?
Do we forget our sisters' cross
Is all our own exceeding loss,
And we have brothers' parts,
To do our duty,
And love is beauty,
Which still transfigures even the meanest lot,
And glory showers upon the dearth,
That was a howling blank or dismal blot,
And recreates the fallen earth?
Oh, to that bitter cry
Send back a blest reply,
Which to the dead shall give a second birth,
And ope the bolted sky.

THE CAGED BIRD.

Beating against the bars,
Fretting within the cage,
For the purple sky and the kindred stars,
Of a loftier lovelier stage,
In the bloom of her budding age;
She beholds the pomp of the princely cars,
And the shipwrecked wretches lashed to spars,
On the ocean's rage;
And she beats, though her bosom hides the scars,
Which are woman's wage,
At the prison bound which her being mars,
And no gilding can assuage.

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Pining for lack of air,
Fading away from light,
Though the sunbeam just may touch her hair,
Where it rested once so bright,
In her tresses' heavenly night;
Must she see the dog in its velvet chair,
And the vilest creature with a lair,
Nor possess the right
Of the very dust on the gallows' stair?
And enjoy no sight,
That with gleam of hope would her wrongs repair,
In the famine and the fight?

Shut in a narrow lot,
Shelved like a shameful thing,
Where the hatred strikes still against her hot,
As the blast the Siroccos bring,
And the love has a sharper sting;
She receives the praise which is but a blot,
And her spirit owns the accusing spot,
In the poisoned spring;
As the thoughts arise that can only rot,
And the broken wing
May not soar above, when the sky is not,
And the voice forgets to sing.

Beating her breast in vain,
Beating until it bleed,
On the painted bolt and the silver chain,
That despise the imploring need,
Nor her helpless flutterings heed,
She may wildly yet at the barrier strain,
Though she shall but gather the fruits of pain;
For the first black seed,
That was sown in soil of a wilful brain,
Bears the blacker weed,
Like a upas-tree which must kill the grain,
And the fatal harvest feed.

Only a bird which spread
Slendour of gold and blue
In the early dawn, and upraised its head
To the zephyr that it might sue,
And believed the wide world was true;
It was only a bird, with its tender tread,
Which looked up to heaven for the daily bread,
As its carthly due,
And had never tale of deception read,
That its victims rue,
Which would seek the living among the dead,
And have lost the saving clue.

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Woman and gentle clay,
Clothed in the glorious dress
Of the grace, which is a more sweet array
Than the robes that a monarch bless—
In her innooence could she guess,
That her sun would set in its dewy day,
And the hands that clasped be provoked to slay?
Or the last distress,
Would be born of blossoms upon her way,
Like a skull's caress,
And the worm in the opening petals play,
And make naught her loveliness?

Tempted with beauty's gift,
Fallen because so frail,
In the searching tests that the weakly sift,
As the stroke of a thresher's flail;
Must she ever mourn and ail,
And adown the fiery current drift
Of the passions, that shake but do not shift,
Till their fuel fail?
Must the awful bonds refuse to lift
To her hopeless hail?
Must the darkness nowhere ope a rift,
From the grip of her golden jail?

Petted and still a slave,
Pampered and yet less free
Than the sailor borne by the surging wave,
When no haven he may see,
And the rocks are on the lee—
Or the prisoner in his grimy cave,
Which to him is sealed as the solemn grave;
And no earthly fee,
Shall restore her now the pure forehead brave,
And the bended knee;
She has gathered of fruits that cannot save,
From the fair forbidden tree.

Curious and not vile,
Thirsting for something more
Than the vulgar stones of the vulgar mile,
Which were not of the precious ore,
As she burdens humbly bore
To the Town, which gave her a welcome smile,
And allured her with its enchanting wile,
To the deadly store;
Like the monsters of the mystic Nile,
Which its children tore;
For she dreamed not the lips would yet defile,
And the hands that did adore.

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Ignorant, but a lass
Filled with the fancies rare
Of a mind that outsoared its narrow class
And would higher ventures dare—
That had known not a single care,
And compelled all the blackest forms, to pass
Through the misty light of its magic glass;
She would fondly fare,
If the world beat round in its blinding mass,
And its glory share;
Though the earth was iron, the heaven was brass,
And no maiden might they spare.

Virginal, coy, and still
Mad for the larger room
Of the larger life, that would drink its fill
Of the dazzling dew and bloom,
And discard the cottage broom;
Where her cunning hand could show some skill,
And the hungry heart delight its will;
From the curbing gloom,
To the brimming cup that seemed to spill,
She pursued her doom,
In the lustful kisses that must kill;
And her freedom turned a tomb.

A PÆAN OF THE PAVEMENT.

They have sucked of the sweetness of labour,
And then spurned at the ladders that lift,
For they loved not their lowlier neighbour,
Who enthroned them by patience and thrift;
They have trodden us down to the pavement,
While they mocked at our pitiful need,
Though our lives with their utter enslavement,
Have conspired all their follies to feed;
They have played and abused their long innings,
As if never were turning of tide,
And the wretches who reaped them their winnings
Have been kicked as the rubbish aside;
They have fared on the cream and the honey,
And our drudging has loaded their shelves,
Not a piece of their ill-gotten money
Have they made by one effort themselves;
They have fattened on children left crying,
Whom they clothed not and plundered as prey;
And at length in their course they are dying,
They are brought to the judgment—yes, they;

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They have come to the sentence Supernal,
And lie helpless as prisoners bound,
They are weighed in the balance Eternal,
And have wanting in all things been found.

Shall we pity them, now they are troubled
By disaster not dreamed of or known;
While the burdens, that on us they doubled,
Have recoiled and are waxing their own?
If they worked for the wages of Fashion,
Which is fickle and chastens them thus,
Must we offer the sigh of compassion,
And the aid they denied unto us?
When the knell of confusion grows louder,
And is shattered their power as a toy—
When the faces grow pale through their powder,
Must we give them the roses of joy?
Though we hear the wild shout of despairing,
As of wrecks on an iron-girt shore,
Is it we who must lend them repairing,
Which will make them our masters once more?
Should they pass from all knowledge and perish,
If the earth ever wipe out their stain,
Must the girls, whom they swore so to cherish
And betrayed, raise their ruin again?
They are falling before the true voices,
Which their pride but so lately contemned,
And the heart of the people rejoices,
That their tyrants at last are condemned.

They have feasted on sorrow and famine,
Though the sob of the orphan rose up,
Which they liked not to own or examine,
If the wine only flashed in their cup;
From her home they have tempted the daughter,
With the promise which was but a lie,
As a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
And goes leaping and trustful—to die;
They have revelled, while bosoms were aching
For the solace that vainly they sought,
And have danced on the hearts that were breaking,
Because nobody gave them a thought;
The poor widow they thrust to a distance,
To escape her importunate wail,
And to beggars they showed no assistance,
Unless sometimes they helped them to jail;
They have drowned all the anguish of labour,
In the glory of music and song,
And with jubilant trumpet and tabor,
They have muffled the curses of wrong;
But the blight has now entered their border,

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And the paint is unmasked of its bloom—
Yes, the ancient and reprobate order,
Which has failed, is descending to doom.

Do we weep at the ravishers' ending,
Who are going the way of their class—
Who have nothing now left for their spending,
And discover their fortress is glass?
Can we mourn them, whose mercies were cruel,
And their victims ground into the dust;
When the virgins they robbed were but fuel,
For the fire of their infamous lust?
May we fence them from falling, who cared not
For the wolf at the cottager's door;
And who spoiled all the weaker, and spared not
The one little ewe lamb of the poor?
Shall we miss them, who grudged the mere pittance
That they paid for our terrible toil;
And who chose for themselves an acquittance,
From the darlings they boasted to soil?
Must we patch them up still with our struggling,
To return to their rapine and sloth;
And now harken to cowardly juggling,
When they broke without pity their troth?
No, the life of our rulers is rotten,
And the gilt cannot cover the knaves;
While the blood of our dead, unforgotten,
Cries for vengeance from thousands of graves.

AT THE FINISH.

Just fifteen—fifteen—that November,
When the black winter came
And caught us napping—I remember,
The story and her name;
Yes, she was fifteen, tall and stately,
For such a country child,
And went about her work sedately,
Even in that weather wild;
I see her now, my Jessie, standing
By the cracked iron trough,
As though the very storm commanding—
Confound this dreadful cough!—
And bidding wind and snow, that hurried
Around her shapely head,
Adorn the grace that was not flurried,
Nor quickened once its tread;
So proudly did she move, as hearing
Some loftier secret chime,

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Which raised her above common fearing,
Or petty hopes of time;
I see her now, as over billow
A ship goes grandly on—
Good God, there she is—by my pillow—
She beckons—she is gone!

Well, had I pitied her and cared not,
Nor followed to the end,
Another would such charms have spared not,
And proved a falser friend;
She had a woman's bane, her beauty,
Not hid in rustic gown—
It somehow seemed to me my duty,
To let her gently down;
You see, for her was no escaping
The vulgar fate, of all
Who have a finer show and shaping—
They certain are to fall;
And she was nothing more than woman,
With wondrous eyes and lips,
And softly richly weakly human,
To her pink finger tips;
So she was one, no man of feeling
Could ever doubt to woo,
And win—as sure as orange-peeling—
I did it kindly too;
And then I loved her—Jessie—truly,
At least one winter's day,
And though at first a bit unruly,
She went the usual way.

I bought her cheaply—for a shilling—
Sham gold, not precious ore—
But when was ever girl unwilling,
Who had no ring before?
It looked like gold, nor could her pleasure
Have worn a brighter hue,
If it to every test and measure
Had given a proper due;
Nor was she happy without reason,
Not made mere brutal sport,
To hear of higher life, a season—
Though it were somewhat short;
My love was not a rogue's in vention,
A sheathed and shameful knife—
I paid her also such attention,
I never paid my wife;
Yes, it was quite sincere, a passion
Worth shillings, even a crown—
I said she would be all the fashion,

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If she did visit Town;
I promised, nor meant to refuse her—
But O this cursèd pain!
And there she stands, the same accuser
And there she points again!

Of course, it grew a bit of scandal,
The parson too turned sour,
But then the game was worth the candle,
If only for an hour;
And were I tempted by a figure,
Moulded like hers, once more,
I fear my stock of moral rigour,
Would vanish as before;
It was not a cold-blooded playing,
Resolved at length to strike,
Nor could you call the case betraying,
When both were pleased alike;
I fancied her and lent position,
Thongh not for very long—
She took me thus, on that condition,
Nor question made of wrong;
It was a little bit of dealing,
In which each something gave—
Not, as the story ran, of “stealing,”
Or “driving to the grave”;
And as my deeds were always chatter,
And food for prurient doubt,
It's well I furnished' folks with matter,
At last, to talk about.

Let's see—the days so soon get darker,
The lines are scarcely read—
Save just the words, “Your Jessie Parker,”
And kisses

[_]

At this point in the text there is a small triangle of three asterisks.

freely spread;
It is her letter, full of blunders
And blots and little screams,
With hopes and fears, and all those wonders
Which make up women's dreams;
That dreadful perfume, which she vaunted
And wanted me to share—
Which ever since my steps has haunted,
And still declines to spare;
This is a crease, and that a staining
Where haply tears have dropt,
A silly muddle of complaining
And blessings, wildly stopt;
The writing—Oh, this cough is cruel,
Its tortures seem to grow!
As if my body now were fuel,
For bonfires down below!—

333

This writing really is too shocking—
Ah, there she crouches yet,
With threatening hands and glances mocking,
Which bid me not forget.

I did not kill her—lack of money,
Prescribed a change of air—
Swiss mountains, moderation, honey,
With all (but women) fair;
My debts had grown so big and pressing,
I had no other card,
They put an end to our caressing—
I also found it hard;
How could I comfort at a distance,
Or know her wretched fate?
In what a bankrupt give assistance,
With bailiffs at the gate?
And then a baby came, to double
The bother and to pine,
When she was quite enough of trouble—
Perhaps, it was not mine . . . .
O Heaven, have mercy, I am falling
Deeper and deeper down!
That's Jessie's voice, I hear her calling,
And blood is on her gown!
And now I see her, with the baby—
Ours—yes, I know it well—
I murdered faith and love—and, may be,
Them likewise—is this hell?

A FALLEN ANGEL.

“The other evening a girl of about 17, with a sweet voice and a face like an angel's, offered me her younger sister, assuring me that the child was a ---.” Letter from a Friend.

Beautiful, as treads the day
Through the purple courts of light—
Beautiful, as is the way
Of an angel through the night—
Pure and pleasant to the sight,
Crownèd with a heavenly ray,
Glorifying alleys gray,
Where the knowledge is not might,
And even hope has taken flight—
Forth she stept, from meaner clay,
From the horror and the blight,
Clasping hands that seemed to pray.

334

Was she human, or a guest
From the splendours of the sky,
Who would render bright and blest
Cursèd haunts, where demous ply
Dirty work, as pigs in sty?
Had she fluttered from her nest,
Hunting food, or seeking rest,
Ere her tender wings could fly,
Wandering she recked not why?
Oh, by love her bosom prest,
Craved for hearts with hunger's cry,
Refuge from the ravening pest.

Then she spoke with murmur sweet,
Words that fell as falling rain,
When the shine and shadow meet,
Just to kiss and part again—
Part with tears, but without pain;
Was it message, sent to greet
Earthly form with weary feet,
In a world of sordid gain,
And to soothe the bitter stain?
Thus the labour were not vain,
If though for a moment fleet,
Heaven looked down upon the chain.

Was it fancy? Did I dream?
Had my reason fled its throne?
Was that grace a mocking beam,
Playing on a breast of stone,
Which from fires infernal shone?—
Out of fairness without seam,
Pure as starlight on a stream,
Sighed in soft and silvery tone,
Offer, as to dogs a bone,—
Sighed from lips of scarlet gleam—
Virtue of a child left lone,
None to hear the outrage scream.

THE WOMAN'S HEEL.

Clothed in rags that do not cover,
Shod in boots that do not pair,
With a face that not one lover
Now could ever fancy fair;
Clothed in dirt that is no vesture,
Soiled by fingers fouler still,
Showing in each shadowed gesture
Blight of some polluting ill;

335

Clothed in shame, that gives but scorning
From the pampered and the proud,
With the sinister adorning,
Of the roses, that are shroud;
Clothed in pain, that fits like fetter
Dragging helpless prisoner down,
Who has found no fortune better
Than a world with hostile frown;
Clothed in sackcloth of the sorrow,
Which provides but famine's feast,
As in night without a morrow;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who loved and harkened
To the whisper now she lothes,
Till her sun at noon was darkened;
And it's thus the Devil clothes.

Stript of purity, the tender
Garbing of a maiden's brow,
Brighter than the dazzling splendour,
Which yet veils not broken vow;
Stript of honour, the rare jewel
Dearer than a diamond stone,
By the kindness that is cruel,
Though it steps from prince's throne;
Stript of beauty, the white blossom,
Every woman's sacred right,
In the fond and faithful bosom,
Which has modesty for might;
Stript of fame, that heavenly treasure
Which defies the moth and rust—
Just to yield a moment's pleasure,
To a coward's gilded lust;
Stript of all, that makes a woman
Sweet and lovely in the least,
The Divine within the human;—
Is she aught above the beast?
—She is one who lost her raiment,
When she touched forbidden lips,
But to get the curse repayment;
And it is thus the Devils strips.

Starving in the wild profusion,
Empty and without an aim,
Baffled only by illusion,
Lacking what the dogs may claim;
Starving, if the hands were loaded
With the bribes of wicked wealth,
Grimly by a hunger goaded
Which the guilty stabs in stealth;
Starving, when she most hath taken
Of the plenty earned by sin,

336

With the throes of famine shaken,
Which erects its court within;
Starving, in the rotten rankness
Which about her flames and flares,
With her pining heart's great blankness
For which no caressing cares;
Starving, with the richest ration
Of the daintiest flower and fruit,
In her awful separation;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who trusted, tasted,
Just to please the lower needs,
Which to utter dearth have hasted;
And it's thus the Devil feeds.

Bought, for kisses cold and venal,
Which despoil her of her strength,
By the pleasure that is penal,
And must surely kill at length;
Bought, for vice's cloying honey,
And the poisoned silver bowls,
With the bitter blood-stained money,
Which is ever price of souls;
Bought, when heavenly truth was calling,
By the gay and glittering lie,
For the worse than tomb's enthralling,
For a moment's feast to die;
Bought, by any careless rover,
Who the harlot's fee can give,
And again (though life is over)
With corruption's worms to live;
Bought, by praise that axe is whetting
Now, against the shining shoot,
To the woe beyond forgetting;—
Is she aught above the brute?
—She is one who weakly trifled
With the pretty primrose ways,
Woke to see her glories rifled;
And it's thus the Devil pays.

Sold, who had the high anointing
Of the holy virgin head,
To the dust of disappointing,
And a trysting with the dead;
Sold, who should have reigned for ever,
By the service of pure hands,
To the ties that only sever,
And the freedom that is bands;
Sold, who gave her hour of leisure,
Meant for calmer sweeter joy,
To false weights and scanty measure,

337

Though she were a monarch's toy;
Sold, to greedy lust that levels
Fairest fashion to its mire,
And in dance of corpses revels,
With her secret heart of fire;
Sold, by him who should have guarded
Grace just bursting from the bud,
As from button-hole discarded;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who lightly counted
Not the cost of passion's beats,
As the marble steps she mounted;
And it's thus the Devil cheats.

Fooled, just at the height of fortune,
On the homeless waters cast,
Left a shipwreck, to importune
Mercy vainly of the blast;
Fooled, when all seemed gained, and summer
Beamed on her with witching glance,
Sounding welcome, as the drummer
Bids a bannered host advance;
Fooled, though she had grown so wiser,
And turned every step to gold,
Sport of ruffian and despiser,
Or the pity that is cold;
Fooled, by friends with whom she mated,
And divided once her purse,
Chucked to wounds of foes unsated,—
Charity, whose gifts are worse;
Fooled, through lights she fain would follow,
Which no heavenly temple stud,
Only sky of Fashion hollow;—
Is she aught above the mud?
—She is one, who first but fingered
Just the hem of doubtful days,
Lost because she looked and lingered;
And it's thus the Devil slays.

Ah, now draw aside the curtain
Infamy has round her cast,
Out of horror, dim, uncertain,
Let her be herself at last;
Scrape off vices, which have rusted
Over the once queenly frame,
Moral filth and rot, encrusted
In the purple rags of shame;
Strike away the chains that cumber
Feeble steps in weary strife,
Till she starts from prison slumber,
Yet again to gracious life;

338

Salve with solace her poor blindness,
And unclose the clouded ears,
Feed her with the milk of kindness,
Wash her in compassion's tears;
For though sin hath set its token,
On her erring human heel,
Still her spirit is unbroken,
Still as woman she can feel;
Yea, the Seed of woman, glorious
Flowering from the awful dead,
Over sin and hell victorious,
Yet shall bruise the Serpent's head.

MAN'S WOMAN.

Cursing and curséd and fighting,
Filthy without and within
In yet filthier fancies delighting,
Reeking of poisonous gin;
Ragged all up to her chin,
Ragged all down with the writing
Of the dark and the dreadful indicting
Branded by letters of sin;
Haggard and thirsty and thin,
With her horrible thoughts, and the blighting
Of the general slurring and slighting,
Stamped in a maniac grin.

Hands that are grimy, and fumbling
Feebly with ill-fitting wraps,
Or the hair that hangs matted and tumbling
Down on the forehead, and flaps
Grimly and just as it haps;
Feet that go straying and stumbling
In tune and in time with her grumbling,
Bursting her slippers, through gaps
Showing the bruises and chaps;
In her ears a great terror of rumbling,
From the starving and struggle and humbling,
Years of brute buffets and slaps.

Eyes, that are bloodshot and blinking,
Turned from the sunshine of day,
If it glances where she may be slinking,
Low in the alleys so gray,
Ghastly, no sunshine can stay;
Brain all bemuddled and thinking,
Like a beast, of the next chance of drinking,
Could she discover a way—

339

Had she a penny to pay—
In the chains of that merciless linking,
And deeper and deeper yet sinking,
Ruin that is but man's play.

Heart, that is burnt up with shaming,
Under society's ban,
In the fortune past knowing and naming,
Out of the glorious plan
Meant for the victor, who ran
Bravely a time, and with taming
Of her passions in virginal framing;
Life, which its beautiful span
Spread for the angels to scan,
Now death deformed with the laming
Of its lusts, like hell-fire through it flaming;
Woman, the creature of man.

GOD'S WOMAN.

Blesséd and blessing, and lighted
Inward with heavenly grace,
Shown in the shades that are blighted,
Showered in pestilent place,
Ev'rywhere finding a space;
Ev'rywhere seeking the slighted,
Lifting the wronged to be righted;
Ev'rywhere leaving its trace,
Priest of a holier pace,
In the lives that were lost and benighted,
Among homes that were ever affrighted,
But for her woman's embrace.

Hands, that are busy, and flutter
White with the needle and thread,
Working for slaves in the gutter
Bowed by their burdens of lead,
Hardly with courage to tread;
Feet that forsake not the stutter,
Oaths of the outcast, in utter
Shame, that is only her bread—
Shame that envelopes the head
Thrust through the hole in the shutter,
From the haunts where shapes mumble and mutter
Dimly, as ghosts from the dead.

Eyes, that are truthful and tender,
Litten with lustre of skies
Breathing ineffable splendour,
Lovely wherever it lies,

340

Quick'ning wherever it tries;
Brain, full of thoughts for the spender
Spoiled of inheritance slender,
Cheated by fortune that flies—
Training celestial ties
For the soul, that but dares to surrender
Just itself, and will take as defender
Her, who would help it arise.

Heart, like a palace, whose glowing
Welcomes the pilgrims that plod
Darkly, while tempests are blowing,
Yet through the briar and clod,
Poorly and painfully shod;
Life, in magnificence flowing
Fresh, for the empty and owing—
Shoulders scarce lifting the hod,
Backs almost broken with rod—
A new life and new dignity throwing
Upon all, and more beautiful growing;
Woman, the creature of God.

JESSIE'S REVENGE.

All the heavens were blotted and black,
As in sackcloth and ashes,
Save where lightning just opened a crack
For its blue blinding flashes;—
As a door left ajar in a room
Of the regions infernal,
Shooting flame from the horrible gloom
In the burnings eternal;
For the storm was abroad and at strife
With tumultuous medley,
While its lashes cut keen as knife,
And their kiss was as deadly;
Yea, it churned the wild waters to snow,
Till the waves rose in mountains—
Past the highest high-watermark's flow,
Rushed the tide in fierce fountains;
Above scream of the tempest, a cry
Not of seabird or stranger,
Rang out clear as if scaling the sky,
From a seaman in danger;
Through the riot of shingle, and roar
Of the surf with its tearing,
Beyond rescue of rocket and oar,
Knelled the cry of despairing.

341

Ah, the tidings of sorrow soon flew,
Up that gray sloping village,
That the wind unto burials blew,
And the waves beat for pillage;
So they hastened and flocked far and near,
Old and young, and were carried
On the wings of confusion and fear—
Not a skulker who tarried;
To the strand did they gather and gaze
Out to sea, over travail
Of the labouring deep, through the haze
That they fain would unravel;
Flung the foam in their faces the spray
With its splashing, and fluttered
The shy maidens who cowered in the way,
Where it sported and spluttered;
Growled the surf, as it struggled with stones
It would grind into powder,
As do dogs that keep worrying bones,
Leaping higher and louder;
Hissed the gale that was cruel and cold,
With a venomous hissing,
As it snapped at their garments, and told
Of the man they were missing.

With the glass running down, and a curse
At the moon for not shining,
He had sailed over night, that his purse
Might get somehow a lining;
He had drunk a small fortune away,
At the sign of the “Dragon,”
And he now would not brook a delay,
To replenish the flagon;
With a scowl of intent on his brow,
And a laugh as if landed,
He had sworn (with a terrible vow)
No return empty-handed;
What was weather to mariner's pluck,
Or the buffet of billow?
What was surf to the seafaring luck,
That would make it his pillow?
So he sailed forth alone, not a lad
Would go with him from haven,
With a jest at the bodings so bad,
And an oath for the craven;
And away to the south ward he went,
Without bidding or blessing,
With his credit and character spent,
And not one girl's caressing.

342

But the tempest in shadow and shower,
From its lying and langour,
Like a giant awoke in its power
And arose in its anger;
Opened mouth that breathed fury and fire,
Poured fourth volumes of thunder,
With the hate that fulfilled dark desire,
And the night clove asunder;
Put forth hands that were ghastly and grim,
Through its dank trailing tresses,
That wove ruin and winding-sheets dim,
Out of cloudy recesses;
Flew on footsteps of passion and pride,
That sped fast and yet faster,
From its thousands of leagues on the tide,
In its unchecked disaster;
Grew in greatness of feature and face,
With its stride and its tangling,
Till it wrapt the whole world in embrace
Of a serpentine strangling;
Until sea and the skies were so mixed
With its devilish leaven,
None could guess, with all borders unfixed,
Which was earth, which was heaven.

Down it fell on the venturous boat,
In its ignorance lazy,
Like a toy thing in picture afloat,
Rocking helpless and hazy;
Full it swooped in its merciless march,
On the helm of the ranger,
With the infinite span of its arch,
As he dreamed not of danger;
As he huddled a fool at his post,
In a bestial slumber,
While the enemies gathered their host,
And drew near without number;
From the bosom that nothing could tame,
In gaunt cavernous windings,
It hurled arrows of rapine and flame,
Forged with sulphurous grindings:
And it struck the poor ill-fated craft,
Which forth boldly had swaggered,
Now before, now abeam, now abaft,
Till it stumbled and staggered;
Till it reeled, like a creature in pain,
And then moaned from its trouble,
As if conscious its labour was vain,
And itself but a bubble.

343

Went the mast by the board, and away
Flew the sails into tatters,
That made lately such gallant display,
In the peaceful regattas;
There was cracking of spars and the kit
Yet more lightsome and limber,
With a rattling of ropes that were split,
And a groaning of timber;
All the boat felt that sinister strain,
And grew hopeless and humble,
Fore and aft was it struck, and again
Did it stagger and stumble;
Ah, it bowed to the pressure and pinch
Of its pitiless foeman,
Through each innermost fibre and inch,
As a puppet to showman;
As a drunkard the worse for his cup,
And in raggedest clothing,
To the horrid debauch totters up
Yet once more, though with lothing;
Gone were canvas and sticks, and the shore
Showed no friendlier token,
Than the mountainous waves that broke o'er,
And the rudder was broken.

Not a man moved a footstep, no hand
To the rescue was lifted,
As the wreck within sight of the land
To destruction came drifted;
When a girl, with a glorious leap
In the fearless old fashion,
Through that mob as of timorous sheep,
Sprang with lightning of passion;
With a branding on brow, but the love
That had strength beyond terror,
Burning brightly and looking above,
For the pardon of error;
Without word, nor the care to revolve
The qualms others might cherish,
And but filled with one noble resolve,
Just to save him or perish;
With a force that descended from God,
And that never was human,
She in triumph and majesty trod,
Single-handed, a woman;
Ran a boat down the beach and thrust out,
With no help but her Maker's,
Through that hell, and towards the wild shout
Disappeared in the breakers.

344

It was frantic, that shout, at his doom,
When all hope seemed to languish,
As of one who alive from his tomb,
Fights for help in last anguish;
Tolled so bitter and dreadful the cry,
That the women they trembled,
And the men could not muster reply,
If their fear was dissembled;
It was pleading for life and for aid,
By an agonized spirit
To eternity passing, afraid,
Which but woe must inherit;
It was wail of a sinner, who long
Has been rebel and rover,
And who feels for his manhood of wrong,
Now repentance is over;
It was call of a sufferer in need,
Who was too still a brother,
And still clung to some desperate deed,
Hope forlorn, from another;
But what keel in that chaos could live,
Through the darkness and distance?
And what hero adventure to give,
The one wanted assistance?

For a moment the stillness of awe
Fell upon those rude fishers,
As the boat tost about like a straw,
And they merely well-wishers;
As it flashed from the smoke of the surf
Seething, which she put off in,
Into water more clear, heaped like turf
On the bed of a coffin;
As it swept up the swirling of tall
Great green rollers, and breasted
The full brunt of the tempest, whose fall
Had those “white horses” crested;
As it sank for a season like lead,
In the hell of the hollows,
Then arose like a ghost from the dead,
That some destiny follows;
As it toppled first this way, then that,
And was tumbled and shaken,
Like a derelict hulk, which the rat
Now at length has forsaken;
As it swayed in the whirlpools, and swung
In the grip of the giant,
Or shot high in the flashes, and hung
For a second defiant.

345

Then a burst of applause, from the men
So abashed and confounded,
Broke in thunder of rapture, and then
Yet again it resounded;
It was Jessie, the girl he had shamed
And consigned to damnation,
Who was only with whisperings named,
But now sought his salvation;
It was Jessie, the outcast and scorn,
And the dupe of seduction,
Who sublime in her purpose went, borne
To relief or destruction;
It was Jessie, the foolish and fair,
The despised of their daughters,
Who alone in her weakness would dare
The mad hubbub of waters;
It was Jessie, the fallen and frail,
Now by no one regarded,
Who replied to his pitiful hail,
Though he her had discarded;
It was Jessie, who thus from wild shore
Hurried out on waves wilder,
Who a boat never handled before,
To the wretch that defiled her.

In the glare of the lightning, they saw
The doomed man and the other,
Who would save, by the Gospel's grand law,
Her betrayer and brother;
Some believed they beheld in the boat,
With the earthlier feature,
Arms unearthly that kept it afloat,
A celestial creature;
When the billows seemed ready to whelm,
And to leave not a relic,
They thought surely was one at the helm,
Like a being angelic;
Others swore it was Christ, and His form
Who each obstacle scattered,
And would pilot the boat through the storm,
Which a ship must have shattered;
Others vowed she had sunk as she ought,
In that hurricane savage,
For the tempest waxed louder, and wrought
Direr ruin and ravage;
Others knew it was bootless, to mark
What could never be certain,
Or to read in that riddle so dark,
The sight veiled by its curtain.

346

And again a dead silence, the hush
Of suspense sorely troubled,
Fell upon them—they prayed—in the rush,
And the roar now redoubled;
O they prayed from compassion and fear,
In their hearts praying only,
To the God who is ready to hear,
And the God of the lonely;
Who is Lord of the tempest, to bind
Or unloose at His pleasure,
Who a bridle has set on the wind,
And gives all things by measure;
Yes, they prayed, who for years without thought
Had such Providence taken
As their right, and their welfare but sought,
Nor to praying would waken;
Prayed the men, for the mercy they hoped
Against hope, on the daring
Which unarmed and unaided yet coped
With the ocean unsparing;
Prayed the women, for pity on her
Whom He held in His keeping,
Who was His if she sadly did err;
Prayed the children, with weeping.

He was struck, by the falling of mast
And the shifting of lumber,
As he roused to the peril aghast,
From his stupefied slumber;
One arm broken, half stunned, and the blood
Dripping fast from the gashing
Of a splinter, he faced the dark flood,
And the storm in mid crashing;
Ah, a frenzy of dread seized his soul,
And the horror of panic,
As he eyed the stern strife past controul,
And the battle Titanic;
He was doomed, he who never had cared
For a penitent station—
He was dying and all unprepared
Going forth to damnation;
All his sins in their vileness came back,
To his tortured reflection,
And they looked now so loathsome and black,
In the gaunt recollection;
And the wrong last committed, stood out
In its pestilent badness,
Till he shuddered, and heaved that last shout,
Which seemed wrung out of madness.

347

It returned in a flaring of fire,
Like a late dying ember
Leaping up, her last burning desire,
Which he quailed to remember;
Ashy agony, stamped in the stare
Of the face, as if hunted
By the hounds of importunate care,
With life stiffened and stunted;
And the looks more entreating than speech,
With the dumb writhen gesture
Of the hands that essayed to beseech,
In her grief's ghostly vesture;
And the feet that just faltered one pace,
Then refused to go farther,
As if seeking for hiding a place,
Or that earth would ope rather;
He recalled it too well, every link
Of the crime, though confusing
Through the fumes of debauches of drink,
In its baseness accusing;
And he now was descending alone,
In woe none had depicted,
With no Christ for his sins to atone,
Self-condemned, self-convicted.

What was that in the dark drawing near.
Through the blast with its scourges,
Now aloft on the foam driven drear,
Now below in the surges?
Was it Jesus yet walking the waves,
As in Galilee story,
And yet shedding on shipwrecks and graves
The new life of His glory?
Was He coming again with the light,
Which the shadows would shiver,
And again in His mercy and might,
The damned soul to deliver?
Was it dreaming, and only the cheat
Of delirious fancies,
That had dragged from their dusky retreat
The old boyish romances?
And that figure, he knew it too well—
But his brain must be giving—
Was it heaven he felt? was it hell?
Was he dead? was he living?
The curst drink had unmanned him, its mist
Filled his mind with fond guesses;
Yet that hair flowing loose, had he kist?
And that face, was it Jessie's?

348

While he wondered and hardly believed,
What his fancies had painted,
As he pictured the girl he deceived,
For a moment he fainted;
Then he unclosed his eyes, and once more
It drew nearer and nearer,
And that vision of joy on him bore,
Growing clearer and clearer;
With her face all deflowered, and dim
From the tears beyond shedding,
She had sworn to wreak vengeance on him,
In a funeral wedding;
And yet now was she seeking him, she
Whom he marred in her blindness,
Fain to pluck him from ruin to be?
Was her vengeance but kindness?
Was she faithful, when nobody moved
For his succour one finger,
And the mates who his bounty had proved,
Were contented to linger?
Did the girl he dishonoured, and left
When he cared not to ravish,
Fly to rescue him lost and bereft,
And her own life to lavish?

Then he looked to his Father, and spoke
A brief stammering sentence;
For his heart was quite conquered, and broke
In a rush of repentance;
And he lifted his hands, and they met
Just the hands that they needed,
While she drew him within, nor would let
Him again toss unheeded;
And he opened his arms, and her name
From his lips fell in rapture,
And undoubting she hearkened, and came
To his passionate capture;
What of ruin the white waters churned,
Now his soul had been shriven—
Now the one he had outraged returned,
And their God had forgiven?
For the tempest, which robbed them of breath,
Bequeathed comelier graces,
Reunited and married by death,
In each other's embraces;
And the travailing ocean gave birth
To a marvellous blossom—
To a man who found Heaven in earth,
On a womanly bosom.

349

THE OLD ORDER.

Lo, they have had their day, a damnéd innings,
Played lightly for themselves alone,
And for those long and black arrears of sinnings,
No earthly penance can atone—
No human judge would dare condone
The crimes, which made a sport of widows' winnings,
And fattened out of foolish orphans' thinnings,
By tricks unknown,
And picked the bone
Before they chucked it to the dogs, whose spinnings
And tortured toil but fed their fiendish grinnings,
Of stone.

It has departed, the imperial story,
From their lascivious and dishonoured line,
To tried and truer hearts, to heads not hoary
In hells of passion and of wine;
They would not let the sunlight shine,
Save on the lordly Whig and landed Tory;
And hands that held the sceptre now are gory
From cruel mine,
Where women pine;
And that grim sentence old, memenlo mori,
Has stamped on every palace of their glory,
Its sign.

Ah, we for ages sad have borne the blighting,
That is no simple outward spot,
But spreads about the soul against it fighting
The poison of its hateful rot,
A dark inexpiable blot;
And we have suffered all the pain and slighting,
For which dawned never day of honest righting,
On helpless lot,
By men forgot;
And we, when shared should they have our benighting,
Have ministered for years to their delighting,
For what?

It totters, as accursèd, the old order,
With the avenging earthquake throes,
That shake from centre to the farthest border,
The kingdom of our passing foes;
Who would not set their haughty toes
Within the mud, where woman stands as warder,
Without the solace that they should afford her,
In winter woes,
Like icy floes;
And for the bloated priest and prince marauder,
Their time is sealed by change, the great recorder,
And goes

350

THE LAST OF THE GIANTS

He had outlived them all in every clime,
That band of mighty pleaders.
For there were heroes in the ancient time,
Though now are none such leaders;
And those were days when Truth itself came nigh,
And faith was big and bolder,
With men divine as Atlas, who held high
The spheres upon his shoulder;
When mountain forms stood out above the ruck,
And giant warred with giant,
And glorious hearts for honour grandly struck,
On love of right reliant.

And still he stood, a venerable tower,
Scarred with the tempest levin,
And still with more than Promethean power
Drew down the fire from Heaven;
While lesser souls gazed at the god-like plan,
And caught a reflex splendour,
Transformed by him who passed all human span,
And seemed a world's defender;
They wondered at his strange unearthly might,
Which oped each sacred portal,
And in the presence of that conquering light,
Themselves grew half immortal.

But when no open force could break the sweep
Of his sublime intention,
Then all the vermin hordes that crawl and creep
Conspired with vile invention;
They knew his spirit proud could not be bought,
By any bribe of money,
And flattery's jewelled poisoned cup they brought,
Which sweeter tastes than honey;
And this he drank while it became a rod,
Unto his own confusion,
Till he believed that he himself was God,
And lived upon delusion.

And when he lost his early loving hold
Of earth, which is our mother,
Vanished the touch that turned all clay to gold,
And made each man a brother;
The mocking mists of error round him drew
Their dim deceitful curtain,
And even familiar faces changed and grew
To other shapes uncertain;
And though the awful strength beyond his kind
Yet marked him out as Master,
It served no purpose now when he was blind,
But to beget disaster.

351

And thus he struck at random, and the blow
That should have raised a nation,
Laid only old and precious bulwarks low,
Or fools gave lordly station;
And thus when he no longer saw those ends,
Which once bade deserts blossom,
He wounded not his enemies but friends,
And pierced his country's bosom;
Till, in mad effort to redeem his fame,
Though by a land's seduction,
He brought upon his people nought but shame,
And to himself destruction.

THE DOOMED CLASS.

Too long, as unmerciful masters,
Have they trodden us down to the mire,
Without care for the women's disasters,
If they glutted their devils' desire;
Too long, in the pride of position,
They have used us as playthings and fools,
Though they sentenced our souls to perdition,
And our bodies degraded as tools;
Too long, with the license of money,
They have scorned for their sins to atone,
And grown fat on the milk and the honey,
While they gave us the bitter alone.

But, at last, has the judgment been spoken,
If it seemed to delay in its tread,
For the breakers themselves shall be broken,
And the curse but recoil on their head;
And, at last, shall the awful demerit,
Which has toyed with the glory of life
And the beauty God bade us inherit,
Feel the edge of the pitiless knife;
And, at last, though they render no thanking,
Is the prison preparing its gloom,
And we laugh at the dolorous clanking
Of the fetters which drag them to doom.

Too long, when they seemed yet securer,
In the insolence gotten of rank,
Have they feigned a religion demurer,
While the land with their lechery stank;
Too long, though the stewards of treasure,
Which they never disgorged for the shelves

352

Of their dupes, have they wantoned in pleasure,
And heaped favours on none but themselves;
Too long, without fear of detection,
Have they outraged the weak and the lass,
And made laws just for their own protection,
As they governed alone for a class.

But, at last, the deep vengeance, which muttered
In the heart of the woman and slave,
Has through earthquake its reckoning uttered,
Though they call on their idols to save;
And, at last, from the dungeon and tavern
Flock their jailers, and black for the end
Hell has opened the fires of its cavern
For the cowards and sots to descend;
And, at last, from the guilt of their station,
Which they only abused to its close,
They go down, with a long execration,
To the dirt from which first they arose.

REMEMBER THE CHILDREN.

From the forges black of labour,
Where the day is always drear,
And the night itself no neighbour
To the children full of fear—
To the children lone, and laden
With the burdens to which born,
Never meant for boy or maiden,
To the evening from the morn;
We, who lack a mother's nursing,
Ere our little wings can fly,
From the labour that is cursing,
Feebly cry.

From the workshop hushed, where toilers
Would, but cannot, earn the crust,
Grudged by hands of greedy spoilers,
Who have ground them into dust;
Where the hammer rests in stillness,
And the rust devours the steel,
Though poor sufferers pine with illness,
And in vain for pity kneel;
We, but babies for the bosom,
Who can scarcely stand or crawl,
In the dirt that does not blossom,
Faintly call.

353

From the crossing and the gutter,
Where we hopeless beg and creep,
In a night forlorn and utter,
For the pence we cannot keep;
Where we herd with dogs and vermin,
Fighting with them for the bone,
While sweet ladies wrapt in ermine,
Asked for bread, give pavement stone;
From the drunken woe and reelings,
Only for some tiny task,
We, who still have children's feelings,
Dimly ask.

From the hateful maze of error,
Winding down to prison walls,
And the hourly scourge of terror,
Which on broken spirit falls;
As we blindly starve and struggle,
Tottering on from bad to worse,
Lured by lights that only juggle
Ours, and fill another's purse;
We, whose lot has lost direction,
And without a friend to plead,
For some crumbs of your affection
Fondly plead.

From the awful oaths, and cruel
Kindness that would drug with gin,
And the poison, that is fuel
To more fiery bursts of sin;
As we ever stray and stumble,
Under skies that are not blue,
With the weary feet that fumble,
On their treadmill, for a clue;
We who did not choose our portion,
And would even prefer the grave,
For one smile, from life's distortion,
Sadly crave.

From the archway and the corner,
Where we snatch a haunted rest
From the parent, and the scorner
Who has not a parent's breast;
When in dreams of want and weeping,
The dark daily strivings close,
And we sink in dreaded sleeping,
With the mockery of repose;
We, who meet with nought but loathing,
Just on this the children's day,
For your scraps of food and clothing
Humbly pray.

354

“NO ROOM.”

With tottering steps that would not, yet did, blunder,
So worn and wearied by their endless tramp
Beneath the skies that frowned, on pavements under
The blistered feet that left a stony stamp;
She craved for shelter from the poor, whose portion
Was better than her own forsaken lot,
With lips that trembled in their gray distortion,
For help she needed and discovered not;
A roof to shield her aching head, a haven
Where she might lie a little, and have rest
From the rough blow and more rough word of craven,
For her sore weakness and the troubled breast;
A crust of refuse bread the dog discarded,
To ease the gnawing of the hungry pain,
Sapping the life of want so long unguarded,
That could not bear the torture of the strain;
It was not much she asked her humble neighbour,
Who still could call her own the humble floor,
And earned a pittance for the ill-paid labour,
That kept the wolf of famine from the door;
But from the hearth that gaped with scanty fuel,
Where the dim light but shed a ghastly gloom,
Came back the dirge-like answer, cold and cruel—
“No room.”

With frozen hands, that vainly seemed to wrestle
In its keen scourges with the scornful blast—
That once were warm, and tenderly would nestle
Within a mother's, loving to the last;
With fingers seamed and soiled, that strove to tighten
About her starving frame the paltry tags
Of faded ribands, that now did not brighten
The remnants foul of unprotecting rags;
She craved for kindness from the rich, whose glory
Was rudely thrust upon her dazzled sight,
And mocked the meanness of her stunted story
With insolence of overbearing might;
For just a harbour from the tempest, raging
Around her without promise of a check,
Which might afford one hour's serene assuaging,
To the spent spirit, now a battered wreck;
A smile of welcome for the homeless stranger,
Who had no prospect but the curse of ill,
And human greeting which disarmed the danger,
From hearts that pitied and were human still;
But no reply came from the lofty station,
With all their plenty and rejoicing bloom,
Save that which tolled like sentence of damnation—
“No room.”

355

With startled eyes that could not hide their terror,
She stumbled on in her ill-fated search
Of mercy for the long-repented error,
If she might find it in some friendly Church;
Within the cloistered refuge, where calm column
Goes upward in its awful prayer of stone,
And angel faces out of sadness solemn
Beam down compassion on the lost and lone;
If priestly mouth might plead for her affliction
With the closed Heaven that darkened on her dearth,
And over broken heart breathe benediction,
To ope again for her a grudging earth;
If in the precincts of the sacred portal,
Her dreadful woe she might at length lay down,
And rise once more to the true life immortal,
In the soft radiance of pure woman's crown;
If she might there give up the ghostly burden,
Which crushed her to a fellowship with mire,
And thence baptized go forth with fairer guerdon
Of hopes that must unto their fount aspire;
But in God's house for her was seen no corner,
Not even the clasp of the caressing tomb,
She heard but pious words that seemed to scorn her—
“No room.”

And still she staggered on by feebler stages,
With death unveiléd in her anguished look,
As one who grimly turned the closing pages
Of some forgotten and forbidden book;
For her from hall and hut no helpful savour,
While brutes received a proud and honoured seat,
And knaves were never once denied a favour
Sternly refused to her they chose to cheat;
And still she wandered forth to pine and perish,
To envy corpse in its black funeral coach,
Though wealthy shame its sin could lightly cherish,
And none would lift a murmur or reproach;
For her no pity from the high or lowly,
No cup of water and no draught of wine,
And the averted glance of bigots holy,
Who offered incense at a gilded shrine;
Until by madness hounded to the prison,
In desperation of State-aided crime,
Who unto glorious summits might have risen,
If she had only heard love's heavenly chime;
Though wretches who gave her contempt or wonder,
In Heaven itself shall find, by righteous doom—
When the great God speaks out in judgment thunder—
“No room.”

356

A WHIM.

Country girl from country corner,
Where the customs never change;
And the muffled face of mourner
Even is a feature strange;
Where the world rolls on for ever,
Slowly, as it did at first,
Nor do slaves their bondage sever,
And for higher freedom thirst;
Where the carter tends his horses,
As he tended them for years,
And the clouds upon their courses
Mingle with the sun their tears;
Where, when summer comes, the swallow
Builds its nest below the eaves,
And the autumn tints that follow
Lay a glory on the leaves;
Where the son lives, as his fathers,
On the crop the pasture yields,
And the same dull harvest gathers
From the same dull harvest fields;
Just a child, who, from the cottage,
Drest in her first woman's gown,
Dared to leave her mess of pottage,
For a visit to the Town.

Dazzled with the glare and glamour
Of a thousand thrilling sights,
Deafened by the wheeléd clamour
Never ceasing in the nights;
Lured to many foolish fancies,
Off the beaten track of things,
Doors that seemed to ope romances,
With the sweep of angel wings;
Cheated by the charm so novel,
Lifting her above the gray
Lights, that seemed to gloom and grovel,
On the old familiar way;
To temptation's plea she harkened,
Held by rapture of its voice,
Saw not how destruction darkened,
On the fair and fatal choice;
Heard not whispered words of chiding,
From the splendid flush of flower
Over the great gulf, dividing
Her from purity and power;
To her ruin lightly hasted,
In a maiden's idle whim,
And in one short moment wasted
Grace her God prepared for Him.

357

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON, 1888.

Greatest of the sons of woman,
Not for one small country born,
More than man, yet grandly human
To the feeble and forlorn;
Made in time, but meant for ever
To endure a beacon light,
In large deeds and calm endeavour
Of a consecrated might;
Gordon, with his faith's appointing,
Strong in darkest days to shine,
Lent to earth, by Heaven's anointing
Crowned to work the will Divine.

Cradled by a praying mother,
Drawing blood from soldier sires,
Trained to call the poor man brother,
Christened in Crimean fires;
Not in pomp of purple folded,
But by every buffet tost,
In red trenches schooled, and moulded
By the deadlier strokes of frost;
Never one false footstep taken,
As his purpose bodied forth.
Into manhood shaped and shaken
By the Giant of the North.

China saw him do his duty,
Leaning not on sword's defence,
Winning thousands, by the beauty
Of his child-like confidence;
Gaining victories, by magic
Of his presence in the breach,
Coolest in the hour most tragic,
First in fighting as to teach;
With no thought of fear or failing,
Faced he bayonet and ball,
Walked unharmed where shells were hailing,
Conquering the hearts of all.

King of men, to Afric's regions,
Still the same heroic man,
With his mightier love, not legions,
To redeem the wild Soudan;
Forth he went, by lofty living
Ruling breasts untamed before,
Without pause or one misgiving,
For the God he did adore;
Just and gentle, yet with iron
Of a plan unstained by pride,
From the death that would environ,
Raised the captive to his side.

358

Then, with his majestic sweetness,
He resought our shores to win
In strange haunts a new completeness,
By his conquests over sin;
By his war with vice more savage,
For the heathen of his land,
Till the lust that souls would ravage
Bowed to his kind, patient hand;
Yet a monarch, though so humble,
Who could lift from meanest things
Fallen lives, no more to stumble,
And of outcasts fashioned “kings.”

Still, on peaceful triumphs, lonely,
Under skies of bluer dome
Then he pitched his tent, who only
Found the spacious world his home;
In his quest for truth, by travel
That but endless love could bound,
Fain to read, and even unravel
Mysteries of sacred ground;
Yet, in quiet, as in storming
Of the breach, he simply trod,
Wrong redressing, ill reforming,
Fighting battles for his God.

Once again he braved the peril
Of the fever and the heat,
In the desert stern and sterile,
Where the tyrant made his seat;
Did his duty, held the city,
Though it should become his grave,
With a sleepless watch, in pity
For the wretched he would save;
Fell—deserted by the traitors,
Who had sent and promised most,
Sold to party ends of praters—
As a soldier at his post.

But, if England's walls are cotton,
And of paper trash her troth,
Gordon shall not be forgotten,
Nor the violated oath—
He, who in his grandeur lowly,
Walked but honour's upward way;
And in Mecca's holiest holy,
For him did the Moslems pray;
On the Nile and by the Jordan,
Wheresoever praise is heard,
Everywhere the name of Gordon
Is a blessed household word.

359

Noblest of the sons of woman,
Working not for span of time,
Just to show us how the human
Can be made like God sublime;
Prophet, missionary, reaching
Helping arms to all men's needs,
Never for himself, and preaching
By the glory of good deeds;
Claimed by every age and nation,
Shining like a heavenly fire,
With the light of consecration,
Men that follow to inspire.

Leaving Africa indebted,
Europe's tear and Asia's sigh,
Now he is at length gazetted
To the great command on high
After life's one long devotion,
Martyr faith and woman's love,
He has found his last promotion
In the radiant ranks above;
Taking nothing, always giving;
Unto each who asked his store,
Dying for the world, and living
In all hearts for evermore.

Fools for whom he grudged no aching,
Costly service unto blood,
With their guilty hands are breaking
Bulwarks, that keep back the flood;
Fools and cowards let him perish,
And in bitter mock, at length,
Build his sepulchre, and cherish
Foes that basely sap our strength
Write his epitaph, whose keeping
Never was for tower or till,
Swear true penitence, and weeping
Go and some new saviour kill.

“DECLINED WITH THANKS.”

What is all this endless prating,
Babblement from morn till night,
Fools with brother fools debating,
How to make the wrongful right?
Only just the same dull chatter,
Still about the same dull things,
Each new nasty mess or matter,
Each new nasty season brings?

360

Darkness, welcomed as a portal,
For the slippery boards and banks,
And the light with truth immortal,
That might save—“Declined with thanks.”

Why is all this weary walking,
Up and down the well-known mount,
Dipping, with the usual talking,
From the well-known muddy fount?
Nothing done but idle sinning,
Wasted pounds and hoarded pence.
And the stale old work beginning,
With the stale old impotence?
Drain upon the dwindling coffers
Fostered, though they leave such blanks,
And the great unselfish offers
Fain to bless,—“Declined with thanks.”

Whence the love of scoff or scandal,
If but black enough a lie,
Games that are not worth the candle,
While they let a nation die?
Study of unworthy trifles,
Pattern of a glove or boot,
Toys in bayonets or rifles,
That will break or cannot shoot?
For the wealthy knave promotion,
Though a coward in the ranks,
And the hero's grand devotion
Of a life—“Declined with thanks.”

Who has strength to hold the rudder,
Now the waters rise to whelm,
And with not a doubt or shudder,
Will stand steadfast at the helm?
Who is tainted not with leaven,
That is poison to a State,
And has still belief in Heaven,
To control a people's fate?
Who can pierce through falsehood's mystery
Padding its poor shrunken shanks,
Though to faith which made our history,
Thousands cry—“Declined with thanks.”

When shall men to Good give hearty
Homage, as their fathers trod,
Sink not principle in party
And unite to serve their God?
When will leaders really ruling,
Hold not sacred honour cheap,
Leave not lands the prey to fooling,
While we sow and others reap?

361

When will statesmen heed the anguish,
Where the labour's fetter clanks,
Think it shame that prophets languish,
Hearing but—“Declined with thanks”?

Whither is our England drifting,
As she turns a darker page,
By the shabby ways of shifting,
From her glorious anchorage?
Whither all the aimless babble,
Of the same familiar text,
Wild appealings from one rabble
Of electors, to the next?
Whither is our grandour falling,
While the enemy our flanks
Threatens, and our guides are calling
To true help,—“Declined with thanks?”

THE STORY OF THE STONES.

Ah, could they utter all they know,
Of that unceasing ebb and flow,
The awful tide-wave of the Town,
Which ever murmurs up and down,
And ever pining is and poor,
Nor finds a resting, save the door
Which opens once for prince and swain,
To shut and open not again;
And could they for a moment speak,
Just something of the sisters weak,
Who sadly wander to and fro,
And dream not whither they should go—
Those helpless children, loved and lost,
Upon the world's dark waters tost,
Who erred in passion or from pride,
And now stand on the other side
Hopeless, with hands that vainly reach
Across the never-closing breach,
Who blindly look and blankly yearn
For comfort, which they cannot earn;
Ah, could they utter all they know,
Of that dim troubled passing show,
In every stone would every stain
Just be, a weeping world of pain,

362

Ah, could they utter all they hear,—
The black regret, and blacker fear
Of sighs; that wrung from breaking heart
Leave paler yet the lips they part;
The sobs of baby forms, that creep
Down, deeper down, the ghastly deep,
Wherein the fires of anguish burn,
And whence no footsteps may return;
The moan of many a bleeding breast,
Which in its famine is a feast
To the undying worm and ghouls
That torture the despairing souls;
And drag from secret haunted graves
The buried sins of writhing slaves;
The wail of woman, still a child,
Plucked by a wanton hand, defil'd,
And trodden in the mud, by power
That only heeded the bright flower,
And not the spirit that was slain,
But would and cannot bloom again;
Ah! could they utter all they hear,
The stories not for mortal ear,
Each flint would have a knelling tone,
And be a curst sepulchral stone.

Ah, could they utter all they see,
The bitter pangs that only flee
For others to come on, and fill
The vacant spot with viler ill;
The serpent woes that with gaunt girth
Strangle the purest joys at birth,
From the sweet cradle, as they ope
Their heavenly eyes in tender hope,—
And twine their grim and greedy coil,
Round the frail arms of honest toil;
The hidden fretting wounds that gape
Beneath thin shawl and threadbare cape.
The outeasts meant for better things,
Who might have risen on angel wings,
Unto the hush of grander height,
And lived for ever in the light;
The sorrow that has not a name,
And leaves the scar of scorching flame
Where'er it falls, and sucks its food
From tears of blasted maidenhood;
Ah, could they utter all they see,
In bosoms bound that should be free,
Then every stone, for want or worse,
Would be a witness to the curse.

363

“AT THE MOUTH OF TWO OR THREE.”

Deut. 17, 6.

“At the mouth of two or three, shall every sentence
Established be,” saith God,
Whose name is Love, Who leads unto repentance
Those that have farthest trod
Away from Him, Who would not have a woman
By the mere idle word
Of but one witness, who is weakly human,
Consigned to shame, unheard,
And marked with brand that cannot be amended,
If it should ever lie
Athwart the honour, that is undefended,
And then must simply die.

“At mouth of only one, whate'er the vices
Himself hath wrought,” saith man,
“The life most pure and modest, it suffices
To lay beneath the ban;
So long as saving Law we somehow cherish,
And vindicate its might,
If innocents should sometimes chance to perish—
Who can be always right?
And it were better for the whole grand nation,
Which else might be condemned,
That some should suffer from false accusation,
Than Order be contemned.”

Thus he with God at variance is, revising
The justice of that plan,
Which girds the ages, every clime comprising
With universal span;
And still defacing, by the cruel nature,
Which woman has laid low,
Which renders sport of man-made legislature,
The image he would show;
While tearing statutes from the poor man's Bible,
Which is his charter deed,
To read in it the outrage of a libel,
Upon his sister's need.

But he who dares to give the Scripture scorning,
That any child may see,
And robs the maiden of that proud adorning,
Which fashions bright and free
The lowliest form—who thrusts his mortal error,
Before eternal Truth,
Shall wake himself at last to judgment terror,
Who pitied not his Ruth,

364

To hear the final doom of separation,
Because he slighted her,
At mouth of One who fixes condemnation,
And one who cannot err.

Note.—“Inspector Cuthbert stated to Sir C. Warren, that in South London the custom was, to accept the evidence of one constable against any woman! Hundreds were thus convicted!!!. And Magistrates were agreed about the propriety of this”!!!—Morning Post.

MAGNA CHARTA.

English men, who did their duty,
Have with thunder girt the throne,
English women walk in beauty,
Which is lent to them alone;
Where the Ganges rolls its waters,
To the farthest icy flood,
Shines the grace of England's daughters,
And is shed our soldiers' blood;
Oft the hero, who, as martyr,
At the post of honour dies;
But what glory, like the Charter
Of our ancient liberties?

This the jewel of the nation,
And the brightest in its crown,
Source of fame, our faith's salvation,
By the centuries passed down;
Handed on from fathers fighting
For the bulwarks of their age
Unto sons, who left their writing
Broader on each golden page;
This, more splendid than the Garter,
For which princes bow the knee,
The imperishable Charter,
Making us a people free.

Do we yield without a struggle,
Truth for which have thousands bled—
Yield what fools away would juggle,
For a party place or bread?
Can we now refuse its fitness,
To our sacred solemn right,
At the mouth of one frail witness,
Giving up our beacon light?
Shall the justice, which is parter
Between innocence and shame,
Be expunged from England's Charter,
Leave it but an empty name?

365

What was granted to the Roman,
We concede to even the slave,
To the murderer or foeman,
Who would right of hearing crave;
Shall we not then honest trial,
Mete the maidens of our land,
But to them alone denial,
While they bear the leper's brand?
Must we for oppression barter
Holy treasures of the State,
And renounce the mighty Charter,
Which has made our Britain Great?

VULGARIA.

Girt with gruesome walls of iron,
Walls no mortal eye can see,
That with fatal arms environ
Spirits meant for spreading free;
Where the gold is lightly scattered,
In the courts of careless ease,
And each idle sense is flattered
With the gifts that idlers please;
Rich it rises up, a City
Beautiful, from marble throne,
Blest with every grace but pity,
Hearts and palaces of stone.

Flourish pomp and pride, the glory
Of ten thousand goodly sights,
Flash of fountains, and the story
Told by ever-new delights;
Song birds delicately twitter,
Drowning ugly notes of pain,
Precious jewels with their glitter
Would conceal the prison chain;
No expense is spared to cover
Awkward hints of secret strife,
Where the husband is a lover
Faithful—to his neighbour's wife.

Yet it all is outward glamour,
But the mummer's ghastly grin,
And the artful glow and clamour
Do not veil the want within;
Do not, with their costly aping
Of the pleasure that is not,
Choke the shadow, and the shaping
Of the hidden poison spot;

366

Do not by their dainty varnish
Mask, in the polluted land
Deeds, that fame imperial tarnish,
With the leper's loathsome brand.

Here the fool steps to the title,
Which true merit might not crave;
And the hero gains requital
In far exile or a grave;
Here the place is given for money,
To the Dives on the mart,
And the drones consume the honey
Who in hiving took no part;
Deeper sinks the killing leaven,
With the honours bought and sold,
While each door (but that of Heaven)
Opens to the key of gold.

Wealthy scoundrels prove their courage,
On the humble and the weak,
And their lust finds ready forage
In the woes that cannot speak;
In the murder of the maiden
Cast in tomb of early care,
With the crushing sorrow laden
That they give but cannot share;
From the purity, that blighted
Laid its blossom in the dust,
And a passing hour delighted
The bleared eyes of hoary lust.

Here the paid and perjured scribble,
Safe in editorial gloom,
Dropping lies and venom dribble,
Meting out cigars and doom;
Doze in dim Olympic station,
Using brandy more than ink,
Kill a glorious reputation,
And go home again to drink;
Wake to set some nasty riddle,
Of a woman or a horse,
And though dying dance and fiddle
Over faith's unburied corse.

All is empty show, the shining
Of disorder and decay,
Mockery of gaud's repining,
When the life has passed away;
And beneath the specious splutter,
Purple hangings, foaming wine,
Writhe the revels of the gutter,
And the wallowing of swine;

367

Under sham of tawdry painting,
Flowers that baby fingers cull,
Lurks the skeleton of tainting,
Scowls the cold and clammy skull.

Here they serve one god in Fashion,
Have no virtue but degree
In each folly, crime or passion,
That their tyrant may decree;
Decked with silver, lace, and ermine,
Over rags and running sorcs,
Mingling diamonds and vermin,
Saints of slums and temple whores;
All is false and vulgar, pointing
Of the pageant of a breath,
And below the bright anointing,
Dirt and infamy and death.

A KING OF COMMERCE.

A sober silent man, who rarely speaks,
And sceptre-like his hand
Waves, as a watcher upon mountain peaks
Sighting a distant land,
And in one sweep of action swiftly wreaks
The custom of command.

A simple steadfast man, who knows his mind
And others' even as well,
Able to shut and open, loose or bind,
As fortune's turn may tell,
And fixed in farthest venture gain to find,
True as his dinner bell.

A calm and earnest man, whom nothing moves
From purpose duly weighed—
That more than giant sword which first he proves,
If purblind souls inveighed
Against it, flashed on sure triumphant grooves;
He speaks, and is obeyed.

A self-sufficient man, who leans on none,
And shapes the hindrance meet
To serve his object, ere the fight is done,
And deems brief failure sweet—
Who sees, as forth he steps, reliant, one
All markets at his feet.

368

A many-witted man, whom trial shakes
But to a firmer hold,
Whereby the tempest at its flood he takes—
Upon it stamps his mould,
And from its baffled wrath and refuse makes,
Serene, a bridge of gold.

A poised and prudent man, who looks all round,
While others dine and dance,
Feels every pulse, notes dim sedition's sound,
No handle leaves for chance,
Exactly tests the worth of each rebound,
That he may yet advance.

A wakeful working man, who not by pelf
Rules over realms that heed,
And lays no plans to moulder on the shelf,
Until dark days of need,
But what he wishes done that does himself,
And therefore must succeed.

A wise and kingly man, who patient bides
The season that will send
His will at last, and gloriously rides
On seas that nations bend,
And bids all winds and waves and adverse tides
Bring tribute to his end.

THE WILD ROSE OF DEVON.

Down in meadows, where the streams meander,
Bright, and laughing is the lea—
Loud, that many a great and good commander
Bore, to wed the virgin sea;
Where red apples hang, and stepping stately
Red rocks scale the azure sky,
And the red kine rest or feed sedately,
As the rushing world goes by;
Like a white rose that had dropped from Heaven,
Shaped by larger light and air,
Grew in glory the “Wild Rose of Devon,”
Fresh and fair.

Brave her fathers fought, beneath that banner
Called the Cross, which cannot yield—
Fought with sin, in the old fearless manner,
Proved on each old bloody field;
Soldiers of the Captain, who wins laurels
From a sterner better strife,

369

Giving a grand meaning to dead morals,
And to dying souls new life;
Schooled by them, she gathered truer beauty,
Hate of every ill and wrong,
Learnt to love and do whate'er was duty,
Pure and strong.

So she grew the darling child of Nature,
Drinking in, at every sense,
All good things of God's high legislature,
Each sweet wholesome influence;
Taught more truths by sunshine and the saddle,
Than the lore of dusty books,
Or from happy hours, when she could paddle
Fair white feet in bubbling brooks;
Trained to make her own her neighbour's distress,
Aching bosom, empty shelf,
But in mercy to remain the mistress
Of herself.

Yearly did she put forth rarer petal,
Softer bloom and daintier bud,
Free from meanness, as refinéd metal,
Purged of darkening dross or mud;
In the chase, though feebler wills might falter,
Gaining courage that was true,
And a deeper faith when at the altar
Kneeling for the holier due;
In the dance despising not the blessing,
Yielded by the spell of art,
And through all in patience yet possessing
Pure her heart.

Rich admirers courted her, and plenty
Offered of their own rich will,
Vainly to the joy of “sweet and twenty,”
Fond of maiden freedom still;
Vainly titles wooed, and fain would flatter
Fancied weakness with their bribe,
Coaxing her by false and fulsome chatter,
Fluent jest or playful jibe;
Vainly suitors pleaded the old story,
That the stoutest well might stir—
For no vision, even of gold or glory,
Tempted her.

Till, from worthless pomp and wicked splendour,
Which a frailer breast would storm,
Came a thing that yet had pulses tender
Creeping forth with crippled form;
Scarce of gentle blood, and marred in feature,
Without dignity or plan,

370

An unfinished and mis-shapen creature,
Mere apology for man;
Yet who dared to love her in his fashion,
With allegiance deep but dim;
And her heart, in greatness of compassion,
Turned to him.

Yes, to his poor stammering tale she listened,
Proudly placed in his her hand,
As in glorious eyes unwonted glistened
Tears that snapt his prison band;
And her breast untouched before by pleading,
Scorning to be prince's toy,
Loth to follow wealth or title's leading,
Gave to him its maiden joy;
While his stunted earth was turned to Heaven,
When she smiled upon his call,
And a cripple the “Wild Rose of Devon”
Chose from all.

But sore sickness, doomed to be his master,
Fell upon that feeble frame,
Brought him bridal portion of disaster,
Ere she could assume his name;
Broke the bending form, and wildly scattered,
Rising hope and radiant dream,
Till the fragile tenement was shattered,
By the shadow without gleam;
Though the God, whose wisdom makes no error,
Saw his little work was done,
When the angel, miscalled death by terror,
Claimed that one.

Then, as by a lurid flash of lightning,
On a pilgrim's midnight way,
Came a lesson all her future brightning,
With a new unearthly ray;
When she knew, the truth in trouble spelling
God alone must be her guest,
Royal hearts were the Eternal's dwelling,
And no other could give rest;
When she saw by intuition clearest,
Beauty, if it queenly trod,
Was not meant for any man, though dearest,
But for God.

Then, though had to her oped palace portal,
All the glamour earth can give
Fools, who think to cheat the sentence mortal
Thus, and make believe they live;
Though again hers might have been the treasure,
Rank and riches, and the light

371

Shed on darkness by each passing pleasure,
Ere it vanish into night;
Yet she chose the furnace fed by trial,
Which could her bring nowise gain,
Chose the sceptre of divine denial,
Crown of pain.

In the hospital she took her station,
By the bedside of the sick,
With the largeness of a dedication,
That to suffering's want was quick;
There she eased the tossing of affliction,
With the calm of queenly hand,
Moving like the peace of benediction,
In the love that was command;
There she fought the fight, and bore the burden
Left a weary world by sin,
Won through woe from Calvary the guerdon
Few may win.

Thus she gave her splendid life for others,
Let its beauty and its bloom
Shine upon her sick and suffering brothers,
Who without her had but gloom;
Gave her woman's wealth of grand devotion
To the souls in bondage set,
If to kindle just one glad emotion,
In one heart that men forget;
Gave the strength that might have been enstated
High in royal place and deed,
Liberty and love, all consecrated
Unto need.

There unnoticed and unfamed she wrestled
Boldly with disease and ill,
Nursed the babe that to her bosom nestled,
Dealt the vilest loving skill;
Waged the war, not trumpeted by story,
Studied not by public heed,
Carried out on fields of báttle gory,
But with pity's saving deed;
Waiting ever, as could woman only,
When seemed desperate the fight,
Shedding upon wretches lost and lonely
Heavenly light.

There, with scanty sleep and food, unswerving,
In the work that pleasure wrought,
On she laboured in her love, preserving
Life, with hers so dearly bought;
Smoothed the creases of the crumpled pillow,
Patient at her sacred post,

372

Let the onset of the angry billow
Spend itself on her the most;
Counting not the cost of all, nor living
In her welfare to be blest,
Still content to find repose, in giving
Others rest.

Thus for years she nobly toiled, and sorrowed
With the helpless and the weak,
Loftier grace from lowly service borrowed,
Which in acts alone would speak;
Ministered with patient hands, that lightly
Soothed the saddest in their loss,
And with reverent lips consoling, brightly
Turned the dying to the cross;
Till the Master plucked the perfect blossom,
Kissed away her parting breath,
Laid her softly on a Brother's bosom,
True to death.

But though dead she may not wholly perish,
If her face indeed be gone,
And in holy memories they cherish,
Yet her spirit liveth on;
Yet they give her name a niche of honour
In the temple of the just,
Look to her as to some pure Madonna,
Drawing upward love and trust;
Yet they talk of her who came from Heaven,
Brought its balm to evil's taint,
Crown with blessings the “Wild Rose of Devon,
Now a saint.

ONLY A WOMAN.

Only a woman, of name
Murmured with bating of breath,
Out in the shadow, and shame
Waiting the sentence of death;
Only another
Hounded, to smother
Under the darkness the sorrow of sin,
Big with its burden of darkness within
Deeper, and dragging
Lower the flagging
Feet, through the gaslight and gloom,
Stumbling along to their doom.

373

Only a woman, and all
Sadly unsexed, with the taint
Branded at heart from her fall,
Staring through jewels and paint;
Robbed of her purity,
Sacred security,
Given to guide with its lamp through the night,
Virginal souls to the infinite light;
Courting by stages
Downward, the wages
Woeful and awfully won,
But through the infamy done.

Only a wóman, and cast
Forth by starvation, and strife
Choking the desperate last
Stand for the leavings of life;
Reft of her rudder,
Fain not to shudder,
Though by the ocean that hath not a bound,
Tumbled and tossed in the misery round;
Flying, with haunted
Eyes, yet undaunted,
Out from the anguish of ill,
On to a fearfuller still.

Only a woman, but sweet
Now with the remnants of grace,
If are befouléd her feet,
If lies eclipse on her face;
Ragged, and trusting
Man with his lusting
Passion that makes her its victim and toy,
Hugged for a moment of damnable joy;
Over the pavement
Borne, in enslavement
Helpless, and sold to the first
Bid for the hopeless athirst.

Only a woman, and bought
Cheaply, no matter the suit,
Just for the pittance she sought,
Just for a handful of fruit;
Finding no pity
There, in the City
Bought with the blood and baptized with the tears
Poured by its toilers, repaid but in fears;
Blinded, a daughter
Led to the slaughter,
Masked with the feasting of love,
Mocking the light from above.

374

Only a woman, one more
Offered to Moloch by vice,
Laying her low in her gore,
Duped by that terrible price;
Faithful in error,
Dreaming no terror
Hunted her close, and the murderer's knife
Wooed with the kiss of a Judas her life;
Only a woman,
Tender and human,
Plunged in the merciless deep,
Rounded by sorrow and sleep.

THY SISTER'S KEEPER.

Sometime in the dead of night,
Sometime between moon and morning,
When the gas a ghostlier light
Gave, and silence dread adorning;
When the last cab crawled away
Heavy, as it homeward lumbered,
And the clocks that spurned delay,
Stoke by stroke their tidings numbered;
Sadder than through flame or flood
Ever broke the rest of sleeper,
Burst the helpless cry of blood—
Man, art thou thy sister's keeper?

Lust, the mockery of love,
Wooed her in the blossom vernal,
Drew its fashion from above,
Though its fire from depths infernal;
Lulled her by the dainty wiles,
Wont to win a tender woman,
Paid in perjury of smiles,
Yet with nought but semblance human;
Wrapt around her snaky charms,
Twining like a poison creeper,
Languished in her easy arms—
Man, art thou thy sister's keeper?

Hell had awful power that night,
Sterner than the stormiest billow,
And with all its devils' might,
Played around the victim's pillow;
Feigned the ravishment of bliss,
Yielding to the soft seduction,

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While beneath the honeyed kiss
Hid the horror of destruction;
Mimicked every throb of joy,
Palpitating faster, deeper,
Just to make a murder's toy—
Man, art thou thy sister's keeper?

Lo, again the crimson flood
Flashed, and one more erring daughter
With that silent cry of blood,
Sent a hopeless lamb to slaughter;
Tricked and flattered to her fate,
Fallen yet with sister tresses
Tangled round the hand of hate,
Turned to death in mid caresses;
Ah, no more let honour fly
Heedless from the sin of sleeper,
Her exceeding bitter cry—
Man, thou art thy sister's keeper.

“GIVE US THIS DAY,” ETC.

From court and cellar dank, and grim
With filth and figures gray,
Where upon night defiled and dim,
Follows the darker day;
From lips that tremble, white with need,
Nor words can fitly frame,
To picture how they bend and bleed,
In shadow that is shame;
Yea, in a hundred alleys lone,
That never saw the sky,
From bosoms harder even than stone,
Breaks forth the starving cry.

In attics bare beneath the tiles,
At mercy of the frost,
Where not a leaf or floweret smiles,
That look like regions lost;
On stairs by stumbling footsteps trod,
In drunken strife or play,
From mouths that often speak of God,
But not as those that pray;
Knells through the frolic and the feast,
As hours go gaily by,
From brothers lower than the beast,
The helpless hopeless cry.

376

From miry street, and archway old
Idly by outcast won,
That offers refuge from the cold,
It may bestow on none;
From pavement, corner, crossing, lair
Blackened with smoke and dust,
Where wretches suckled on despair,
Bear damnéd fruit of lust;
From withered hearts that years of ill
Have seen unskilled to fly,
And children's breasts more aged still,
Goes up the bitter cry,

“Week after week, through fog and rain,
Through sleet and stormy wind,
We work and pity seek in vain,
And nought but fasting find;
Week after week, with cruel fears,
We wander late and lone,
Our only cup is that of tears,
Our only bread the stone;
These hungry hearts are more than dead,
For love ye well might give—
‘Give us this day our daily bread,’
And let your brothers live.”

MISUNDERSTOOD.

Long she lived in her unuttered sorrow,
Within walls of frost,
Sanctified for some unearthly morrow,
Bought at bitter cost;
With herself, a snowy-mantled maiden,
Far from earthly mire,
Yet below the icy fetters laden
With a hidden fire;
In the hush of sacred sadness folded,
As in cloister hood,
Surely unto perfect beauty moulded,
If misunderstood.

Others thought her proud and cold, and centered
But in idle ease,
Careful only of the joys that entered
Just herself to please;
Judged her harshly by unequal measure,
All unlike the true,
Grudged her trust the poorest claim as treasure,
Charity her due;

377

As she toiled and suffered, separated
Simply for the good,
And to God's great service consecrated,
Though misunderstood.

Others thought her hard, denied her human
Pathways for her feet,
While she had whatever makes a woman
Beautiful and sweet;
Called her callous, from her spirit spurning
Vulgar heed and hire,
Though within her throbbed that ever-burning
Heart of holy fire;
Deemed her stubborn, if, when weaklings faltered,
She unswerving stood,
Who had never with an evil paltered,
If misunderstood.

One there was, who watched her long and lonely
Battling for the right,
Knew her mighty secret, as can only
Love with heavenly sight;
Saw beneath the ice the precious jewel,
Hatred could not see,
Took it to his heart with bondage cruel,
Set the angel free;
Gave her all that faith in reverence offers,
All devotion could
Lavish on her life, which, dark to scoffers,
Christ yet understood.

THE CRY OF BLOOD.

What is that crowd at the corner,
Tumult of hurrying feet,
Face of the mirthful and mourner,
Stopping the rush of the street?
Sullenly crying,
Eager and prying,
Fighting each other for space,
Wrangling and cursing, and yet
Elbowing on to the place
Haunted, that none may forget,
Once taken in with the sight?
Satin and homespun and rags,
Jostling each other for light,
Over the slippery flags?
Forms without shaping,
Grinning and gaping

378

Down into glimmer and gloom,
Shed by the gaslight that glares
Fitfully, marking with doom
Something that horribly stares
Upward and seeks
Mercy through tears
Idly rained on the white cheeks,
Frozen in agonized fears.

Ah, there is blood on the portal,
Splashed on the threshold that drips,
Blood of a beauteous mortal,
Spluttered about on the steps,
Written with ruddy
Letters, in muddy
Pavement, not hard as the breast
Black, that with damnable hate,
Worse than a devil or beast,
Fashioned that terrible fate;
Blood of accusing on stones
Branded, that cry with their stain
Out in dumb pitiful tones,
Vengeance for murder, in vain—
Hopelessly weeping,
Helplessly keeping
Watch for the judgment, that, strong
Refuge for rich men and high
Places, in poverty's wrong,
Heeds not the lowly one's sigh;
Blood upon Power,
Impotent all
Still to protect the bright flower,
Stricken to death in its fall.

Only the common old story,
Stranger than fancy, and thus
Scribbled with characters gory,
Pleading in silence to us,
Born to be brothers,
Careless of others
Weaker, less fortunate, frail,
Tumbled aside by the rush
Trampling the victims that fail,
Whispered perchance with a blush;
Only a woman gone down,
Deep in the darkness and mire,
Infamous dregs of the town,
Meant to ascend and aspire;
Wrought for no fetter,
Wrought to make better

379

Men, who want delicate feet
Moving among them, and hands
Soft with a ministry sweet,
Loosing the prisoner bands;
Only a child
Feeble and lost,
Reaping, through torturing wild,
Rest at such infinite cost.

Once she was dainty and fair,
Modest in maidenhood, bright
Haloed with glorious hair,
Catching the kisses of light,
Opening her bosom,
Pure as a blossom,
Full to the freshness of morn,
Beams that were blessed and true,
Rosebud that scarce had a thorn,
Roofed with a heaven of blue;
Now all disfigured and dark,
Wrecked by the passionate flood,
Sin, unrelieved by a spark,
There she lies dabbled in blood,
Scornfully scattered,
Poured from the shattered
Body, that should be a shrine
Shapely, and filled with the flame
Breathed by the Presence Divine,
Signed with the holiest Name;
Now unto dust
Shamefully ground,
Killed by the demon of lust,
Woman despoiled and discrown'd.

JIM GIVENS, 1889.

Wall, mates, I guess ye'd like to know,
How it chanced that Christmas Eve,
In the midnight darkness and the snow,
So I'll tell you by your leave;
How the “John H. Hanna” fared, worse luck,
In her last derned fatal trip,
And with all aboard her went amuck,
On the grave of the Mississip.

She were built like any steamer craft,
Not fur safety but to hire,
Heaped up with the cotton fore and aft,
As if fashioned fur a fire;

380

And her crew were stout but keerless men.
Whom I'm not agoing to blame,
Though they had a hero good as ten,
And Jim Givens were his name.

Now he weren't a pious chap, weren't Jim,
And he did not often pray,
But in danger ye could lean on him,
Fur ye knowed that child would stay;
Though he might not talk religion much,
And with oaths his speech would leaven,
Yet he lived religion, and of such
Aint the Kingdom, mates, of Heaven?

And he weren't no scholar, I've heerd tell,
In book larning and the like,
But he seen his dooty and did it well,
And he on'y fair would strike;
Aye, he looked you squarely in the face,
And fur any oped his puss,
While he arned and kep his proper place,
As an upright downright cuss.

They was fast asleep, when the fire bust out,
And it flew from starn to stem,
And there were a yelling and a shout,
When the hot wind walloped them;
Fur the flames with lightning fury spread,
As no mortal might could drown,
And upon the dying and the dead,
The soft white snow come down.

In the blinding smoke and scalding steam,
In the blazing cotton stuck,
They went shrieking down the hissing stream,
Till the slippery bank were struck;
But they bounded off, though the Cap'ain cleared,
When his voice were needed most,
And the pilot too as oughter steered—
But Jim Givens kep his post.

Fur he seen, as the life of every soul
Jest hung on the boat going back,
And her helm swong round with no controul,
And the fire were on its track;
But he weren't the boy to skulk and squirm,
And he had a heart to feel,
And there, with his pulses fit and firm,
Jim Givens were at the wheel.

381

So he brought her to, and fetched her nose
With a will agin the bank,
Though the hungry flames rushed on to close,
And their blasting breath he drank;
Aye, he lashed the wheel as it could not turn,
And he did it clean and well,
While his coat and hair began to burn,
In that raging howling hell.

Ah, he fought the fire, but it weren't no good,
Fur his checks was handed in,
If he grimly strove and gamely stood,
Though he weren't this bout to win;
But like 'lijah he weren't cradled soft,
And his grit ye could not tire,
And like him his sperrit went aloft,
In a charriot of fire.

Yes, that were the last of spunky Jim,
In his brothers' sarvice spent,
And I'd rather stood the side of him,
Than been 'lected President;
And he weren't as steady, mates, as some,
Excep in the hour of stress,
But if Jim aint up in “Kingdom Come,”
Then it won't be Heaven, I guess.

A CONVENIENT ARRANGEMENT. —(M. Post.)

Little can surprise me further,
Now I'm getting sere and gray,
Not the mystery of murther
Done the queer Whitechapel way—
Not the wonder in pomatum,
Bound to clothe the baldest head—
Not the latest ultimatum,
Gladstone's, that would wake the dead—
Not that target for the scorner
Throwing thousands on the street,
That delightful business “corner”
Where the filthiest fingers meet.

But I was surprised a little,
Feeling too a twinge of pain,
Spite of resolutions brittle
Not to be surprised again;
When at breakfast, in the Paper,
One that elevates me most,
Flashed my love's astounding caper,
Flourished in the “Morning Post”;

382

Yes, my heart was somewhat fluttered,
Not that I my garments tore,
But I ate my toast unbuttered,
For one mouthful—if not more.

She is young and fair, not twenty,
Bright with every charm and grace,
All that woman gifts, in plenty—
Yet no fortune but her face;
And I loved her, deemed the blossom
Opened only unto me,
Fancied mine the maiden bosom
Beat with happy hopes to be;
And I love her now, though selling
What should never thus be sold,—
Honour for a palace dwelling,
Beauty for a pile of gold.

He is old and ugly, burnished
Up to date like fattened pigs,
With a head to let unfurnished
And the wildest thing in wigs;
Has a mansion on the river,
Meadows winter turns to marsh,
Diamonds, a decaying liver,
Eskell's teeth, a dyed moustache;
Owning many a horse and carriage,
Scores of servants (weekly changed),
Millions thieved—and so “a marriage
“Is,” as you may read, “arranged.”

AN INCONVENIENT ARRANGEMENT.

He is fifty seasons older,
All a man should never be,
Somewhat crookèd in the shoulder,
Rather shaky at the knee;
Coarse and vulgar, given to using
Language but for pothouse fit,
Spurning grammar laws, confusing
Scurrilous attacks with wit;
Fat and foolish, and if sober
Hiccoughing how he can pay,
Dreary as a dull October
Dragged through fog and foul decay.

She is sixteen, April, human,
Rich in health and dainty charms—
Child, that, waking into woman,
Stretches out both eager arms;

383

Friendly, fond of dress, and dancing,
Wise in curious pugs and “Polls,”
Pressing forward, and yet glancing
Shyly back on tarts and dolls;
Plunging gaily into pleasure,
Midnight pranks, the moon, the stage,
Glad to share youth's golden treasure
Still with comrades of her age.

Hence an inconvenient puzzle—
Jack is always after her,
Jack who always wears a muzzle,
Married to his grandmother;
Should she, in the Row called Rotten,
Peradventure choose to ride,
One will not leave her forgotten,
Faithful Jack is at her side;
If a headache makes her martyr,
Posing sweetly on her back,
Who will (humming a sonata)
Casually drop in, but Jack?

And whenever she goes shopping,
Lured by Elise and her wiles,
Jack by accident comes popping
Out, all innocence and smiles;
Once they say—just like the scandal,
Talked in drawing-room and park—
Jack blew out decorum's candle,
Lit between her and the dark;
So poor “grandpapa” keeps fretting,
Dreams of poison and the knife,
Meditates divorce, while getting
Doubtful comfort from Jack's wife.

SOMEBODY'S PET—NOBODY'S PET.

This is Somebody's Pet—she has all that she asks,
While her life is made sunny and sweet
By the kindness that turns into pleasures her tasks,
And the riches that lie at her feet;
For society smiles on her, fences her round
With protection it offers but few,
And they daily remove the rude stones from the ground
That she treads on, and sweep it anew;
Yea, the thorns are cut down, if they venture too near,
And her pathways with blossoms are set,
Every weed is destroyed, every shadow of fear—
She is Somebody's Pet.

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This is Nobody's Pet—she has little she needs,
Just a cup of cold water, the crust
Of stale bread that is mouldy, and often she feeds
(Fighting hard) with the dogs in the dust;
For society frowns on her, eyes her askance,
Shuts her out from its pity and love,
And while framing her sorrows a pretty romance,
Would not touch her afar with a glove;
She may tramp on the pavement from morning to night,
Half the night too, a morsel to get,
But no table for her will be welcome and bright—
She is Nobody's Pet.

This is Somebody's Pet—she goes daintily drest,
Now in velvet, and now in warm furs,
And no winter would dare one small toe to molest,
She is covered so well that she purrs;
Cuddled up in her wraps she may laugh at the frost,
That can only give wings to her way,
As she dances decked out quite regardless of cost,
Like a kitten whose life is all play;
And grand meals of the best and whatever she will,
Are her portion—she has not to fret,
For they care for her tenderly, shield her from ill—
She is Somebody's Pet.

She is Nobody's Pet—she looks weary and old,
Flap the rags on her threadbare and scant,
Her poor forehead is crumpled and pinched with the cold,
She finds nothing to comfort but cant;
She is hungry and weak, and the world is too strong
For a baby half fed and half clad,
As she faces it fearfully, limping along,
In mute wonder the earth is so bad;
Not a word of compassion, though hundreds pass bye,
Though her cheeks are drawn, withered and wet,
And the tear of the orphan protests in her eye—
She is Nobody's Pet.

CENT. PER CENT.—UP.

Up the stately steps she goes,
In her hundred-guinea dress,
Wrung from toilers' dying throes,
Poverty and nakedness;
Bought with bitter orphan's tears,
Rainbow never graced or girt,
Shaped with shadowing orphan's fears,
Ground by spoiler in the dirt;

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Ah, she treads on famished frame,
Gyved with grief, with suffering rent,
Scornful in her scarlet shame,
Infamy of cent. per cent.

Every stitch has cost a sigh,
Done in weary woe and pain,
Killing hopes that would be high,
Coined into the sweater's gain;
Every seam that splendour's flood
Swells with sweet enchanting art,
Fashioned is of very blood,
Drawn from aching breaking heart;
Oh, the garment wrought in strife,
Earning scarce the crust of bread,
Sewn with precious threads of life,
Should be garment for the dead.

Up the stately steps she goes,
Heedful of the passing stain,
Loth to soil her dainty toes
With one tiny drop of rain;
Many a thoughtful arm is thrust
Round to clear away the road,
Lest she catch a speck of dust,
Or her fan become a load;
Oh, she enters queenly drest,
Proud the portals shut her in,
Rich and beautiful and blest,
With her glory and her sin.

All for her make abject way,
Rank rejoices in the smile
Which ennobles, and can pay
Well for each unhallowed wile;
Wisdom murmurs in her ear
Wit of every classic kind,
In her folly feigns to hear
Echoes of a loftier mind;
Ah, to her they grovel down—
Her on whom are thousands spent—
Creep before that devil's crown,
Majesty of cent. per cent.

A HALFPENNY AN HOUR.—DOWN.

Down the dirty steps she goes,
With a shambling shuffling pace,
In her heart a hell of woes,
Writhing outward to her face;

386

Clutching tight to peakéd chin
Ragged wraps that are not clothes,
Wise in every damnèd sin
Felt, that yet her spirit loathes;
Paid—nay mocked by wealthy thief,
As with refuse scraps turned sour,
That for dog were poor relief,
Doled a halfpenny an hour!

Down she totters to the cold
Den, that poisons as it must,
She who helps to gather gold,
All to sate a Satyr's lust;
Shabby, shivering, and faint
With the choking in her breath,
Striving hard to be a saint
Still in living that is death;
Late and lone, a driven slave,
Now the drudging work is done,
Longing for the kinder grave,
In the shelter that is none.

Down, yet lower, lower yet,
Dragged with bruised and broken wings,
On the path with snares beset,
Though to better thoughts she clings;
Leaving now the honest name,
Once through want she proudly bore,
For the refuge that is shame,
And the raptures that make sore;
Pierced with wounds that never heal,
Selling in the starving strife,
Maiden honour for a meal,
Woman's soul for very life.

Down, still deeper, deeper still,
Carried by the fiery flood,
On to blacker aim and ill,
To the awful end of blood;
Till by hate and hunger prest
Farther, to the prison wall,
Mad she slays the babe at breast,
Loved, but blossom of her fall;
Prosperous sinners deem her fate
Just, and pious foreheads lour,
Reck not of the doomèd state,
Doled a halfpenny an hour.

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BABY FINGERS.

Ah, the touch of baby fingers
Prest against the mother's cheek,
Softly as it chides and lingers,
Fain some solace thus to seek;
Fain to ask, and without fretting,
Shelter from the shawl so thin,
Just a little praise and petting,
Not the poison taste of gin;
As it throbs in that hard city,
Knocking gently at the door,
If there may be pulse of pity
There, although the garb is poor.

Ah, the baby fingers travel
Round the breast, the prey of crime,
Striving dimly to unravel
Mysteries of death and time;
Tenderly they woo and wander
Up and down the stricken frame,
Feeling, as if they did ponder
Shadows of the cursèd shame;
Blessing to the end the mortal
Mansion, sealèd eyes and brow,
Knocking vainly at the portal
Which can never open now.

Ah, the baby fingers wrestle
Now with hateful want and harms,
Find no haven where to nestle—
Not a drunken mother's arms;
Coldly grown and sadly thinner
While the sufferer creeps her way,
Toddling, trembling for the dinner
Thrown the pampered dogs at play;
Jostled is she, roughly jolted
Over stones, though tears may start,
Knocking at that barrier bolted,
Riches' sour and selfish heart.

Ah, the touch of baby fingers
Idly fights with cruel fate,
Falls on brutal hands, and lingers
Lightly at the guarded gate;
Till at length it turns in terror
Feebly, unto mercy's door,
Refuge from all wrong and error,
Ever open to the poor;

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Death, that for her cradle's rocking
From the first gave ghastly sin,
Hearkens to her patient knocking,
Comes and lets the baby in.

BABY FEET.

Hark, amid the oaths, what is it
Dropt like music from the skies,
Dearest of the sounds that visit
Earth with all its bitter cries?
Up and down, in drunken clatter,
To and fro, with horrors pent,
Tiny steps, that pace and patter
Through a world of wonderment;
Oh, across the strife infernal,
Swelling in reproaches sweet,
Echoing on as if eternal,
Chimes the fall of baby feet.

High and lo, they lightly wander,
As from dusty ground to gain
Joy, or in the sunbeam yonder
Shivering through the shattered pane;
Here and there, and not contented,
When the ghostly day has done
Mocking pretty wiles invented,
Seeking rest and finding none;
Oh, while human lives are spilling,
Where extremes of evil meet,
Through the tumult, softly thrilling,
Chimes the fall of baby feet.

On and back, in aimless vision
Flashed by love on orgies curst,
Always stopt in stern derision
By the bounds they cannot burst;
Round and round, in weary struggles
Still the prison bars to bend,
Buoyed by hope that only juggles,
Travelling darkly to the end;
Oh, if breasts are false, and blighting
Dogs each step with tempest fleet,
Yet, above the blasts of fighting,
Chimes the fall of baby feet,

In and out, so cold and naked,
Totter they along the road,
Sadly weak and rudely wakèd
Now, beneath the hourly load;

389

Leaving her that is no mother
Thankful thus the time to save,
Glad to have a home and other
Greater comforts in the grave;
Oh, if death the tie should sever,
Wrapping them in burial sheet,
Echoing on and on for ever
Chimes the fall of baby feet.

BABY LIPS.

Dost thou know the whisper of the waters,
Hast thou heard the babble of the brooks,
Low sweet laugh of innocence's daughters,
Murmuring love in shy and shadowy nooks?
Dost thou know, when bruised thy heart is sorest,
Message of the pines in sunset lands,
Secret of the old enchanted forest,
Waving in the dusk strange awful hands?
Then hast thou heard something of the story,
Soft as sleep that on the bosom slips,
Young as spring, and yet as hill-tops hoary,
Breathed so artlessly by baby lips.

All that is most sacred and most solemn,
All of beauty flitting to and fro,
Subtle as the carving on a column
Great with mysteries of long ago;
Told in twilight, when the doorways darken,
Calm the moon through curtained window looks,
Unto breasts that tremble as they hearken,
Records written not in earthly books;
All the tender sweetness plucked from sorrow,
All the sadness of which pleasure sips,
Dim to-day and promise of bright morrow,
Meet in melody on baby lips.

Ah, they talk a language high, but hidden
Deep from sordid ears that deafer grow,
Mocked by brutal mouths, and roughly chidden
Down by lives that cling to strains below;
Ignorant of sin, their lonely station
Prisoned close with ugly bolts and bounds,
But so faithful with their revelation,
Breaking through the night of savage sounds;
Rich in human hope, and mortal leaven
Dear as dew that from the rosebud drips,
Mixed with music only heard in heaven,
Only spoken by pure baby lips.

390

Still they give the grandeur of their message
Undefiled, in all the dirt and dust
Glooming round them, with its glorious presage,
Prattling gently on because they must;
Singing truth, that hath foundation surer
Far than hideous dregs of lust and lies,
And for souls unclean a garment purer,
Wrought of snow and azure from the skies;
Unregarded, yet for ever pointing
Homeward, as to harbour speed the ships,
Till, long set apart by God's anointing,
Blend with angel songs the baby lips.

BABY EYES.

Baby eyes look out in wistful wonder,
Out upon a world all new and strange
Rolling on, with rifts that close and sunder
Evermore, in gleam and gloom of change;
Dazzled yet by light, unknown to mortals,
Clinging to the brow in glorious beams,
Left by fairer lands and palace portals
Glimpsed in visions of unearthly dreams;
Unaccustomed to the garish glitter
Shed by gaslit courts, and ghostly day
Making ruin but more bright and bitter,
Lurid candles shining on decay.

Baby eyes look fondly into others,
Clouded by the seeing that is sin,
Catching no reflexion from a mother's,
Like the splendour yet unquenched within;
Round with awe, and tremulously oping
Wide and wider to the curse and blight
Staring round, and vaguely vainly hoping
On for something of their own delight;
Finding, in those mean and muddy fountains,
Only night of shame and evil scars,
Not the dawn that dwells on virgin mountains,
Tender rays of unarisen stars.

Baby eyes, in deep unuttered paining,
Turn from hers that cannot solace give,
Dim with disappointed love, and straining
Somewhere yet in kinder eyes to live;
Turning blankly in those blasted spaces,
Haunted by dark forms they idly woo,
With their sweet appeal to cruel faces,
Blind to all that is not blasted too;

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Fresh from gazing upon God, and longing
Now His image to behold in some,
Seeking now, amid the wrecks of wronging,
For the sight desired that will not come.

Baby eyes, like creatures wild and hunted,
Flee for refuge to the friendlier wall—
From the life so early starved and stunted—
Where the shadows making pictures fall;
Watching there, to hide the unhomed anguish,
Doors and windows breaking into light,
Though they cannot choose but pine and languish
Sorely, for the lost and better sight;
Waiting, while the barriers are unbolted,
That would bind the spirit unto clay,
Misery from which it has revolted,
Till they ope in everlasting day.

BABY BEAUTIFUL in the BLACK COUNTREE.

Whence, O little stranger,
Hast thou travelled here,
To a world of danger,
Yellow leaves and sere?
From what misty mountains,
Veiling virgin peaks,
Where the heart of fountains
To the spirit speaks?
From what blesséd altars
On a fairer sod,
Where the fragrance falters
Hourly up to God?
From what realms of glory
Hung in purple space,
Living the sweet story
We so dimly trace?
From what halls in splendour
Spreading, where with love
Angels true and tender
Watch us from above?
Dear to God and dutiful,
Lost, in foliage sere,
Whence, my Baby Beautiful,
Hast thou travelled here?

392

Why, O pretty angel,
Hast thou journeyed thus,
Bringing an evangel
All unknown to us?
Here are oaths of liars,
Cruel blows and words
Worse than flints and briars,
Stabbing breasts like swords;
Here, through windows broken,
Dreadful faces peep,
Fierce, with hate unspoken,
Cursing even in sleep;
Here, through holes and alleys,
Clutching stick and knife,
Dark and darker sallies
Forth the damnèd life;
Here, what shapes go shrunken,
Slinking out to slay,
As by stages drunken
Limps the ghastly play;
Fashioned fond and dutiful,
Smiling so on us,
Why, my Baby Beautiful,
Hast thou journeyed thus?

Why, thou child intended
Not for hideous toil,
Art so undefended
In this stony soil?
Here are thorns and thistles,
Weeds and pasture poor,
Hungry wind that whistles
Through the shattered door;
Here are women wasted,
Shrouds they only spin,
Since they fell and tasted
Fiery draughts of sin;
Here are more than devils,
Shambling through the gloom,
Shuffling in black revels,
Rotting to their doom;
Here are vermin crawling
Round thy maiden bud,
Spent with crime, and sprawling
In congenial mud;
Dainty flower and dutiful,
In the serpent's coil,
Why, my Baby Beautiful,
Set in stony soil?

393

Why, O birdie, beating
On those iron bars,
Sink to earth's mistreating
From thy native stars?
Here are lash and fetter,
Tortures for the slave,
Dungeons, nothing better
Than an early grave;
Here, while troubles quicken,
Creeps the dreary drudge,
Till she, starved and stricken,
Seeks the tyrant's Judge;
Here, on agéd shoulder
Is the burden piled,
And the young look older,
That have never smiled;
Here, the infant shaken
By the fever's throe,
Dreams of rest, to waken
Only unto woe;
Delicate and dutiful,
Face no evil mars,
Why, my Baby Beautiful,
Leave thy native stars?

Whither, little stranger,
Shut in shadowy bound,
Fleeing death and danger?
Where shall rest be found?
Gleams of sunset glisten
In those heavenly eyes,
As they look and listen,
Gleams from other skies;
Just as if the curtain,
Though we cannot see,
Parted, making certain
Better things to thee;
Just as if the numbers
Not for naughty men,
While their spirit slumbers,
Spoke to infant ken;
Hark, are voices calling
Thee to happier lands,
Where no tears keep falling
On the prison bands?
Dear to God and dutiful,
Broken is thy bound,
Thou, my Baby Beautiful,
Art of Angels found.

394

CONFESSIONS OF AN ACTRESS.

Ah, but then I knew no better,
Saw alone that primrose way
Out of want with iron fetter,
Woe, and weakness gaunt and gray;
Then to look at I was pleasant,
As you would not fancy now,
In this pale and sickly present,
With the wrinkles on my brow;
If possessing not a beauty
After pattern or the tape,
I had eyes that did their duty
With a lithe and dainty shape;
With a pretty mouth, and motion
That was ever true and sweet,
And a step that gave the notion
As of music in my feet;
I was needy, and his offer
Made in bitter stress and cold,
Came like opening of a coffer,
Pouring out its gems and gold;
Girls are fools, I was not twenty,
With my fortune at the dregs,
I believed his tale of plenty,
In the gaslights and the legs.

So I lost the life I guarded,
Plunged into the giddy whirl,
Maiden modesty discarded,
Putting on the ballet-girl;
Left my humble class and cottage,
Claims that yet would backward pull,
Sold as for a mess of pottage
Woman's birthright beautiful;
Callous, from this new disclosure,
Thus in figleaf fashion drest,
How, regardless of exposure,
Shame were advertised the best;
Learnt to curb, with ease surprising,
Guilty blushes on my face,
All my members advertising,
Marketing each timid grace;
Learnt to hawk the person venal,
Throwing pearls to lust of swine,
Drowning the regrettings penal
Deep in ardent words and wine;
Loved, at last, in posing graphic,
Publishing of breast and arms,
Gloried in the ghastly traffic,
Praise and pence for holy charms.

395

Thence I rose to places higher,
While, as victims surely wend,
Sinking in myself, and nigher
Drawing to the dreadful end;
Hugged the eyil to my bosom,
Taking now the bigger part,
Though it all the dew and blossom
Dashed from my defilèd heart;
Thus the book of golden pages
Opened to me, as I sung,
And, as I stept broader stages,
Royal hearers on me hung;
Though my spirit lost its unction
Heavenly, chose the falser smile,
Turned, no more with shy compunction,
Willing to the honeyed wile;
Till it seemed the scriptures moral,
Once awaking virgin's blush,
Were mere empty bells and coral,
Meant but baby minds to hush;
And I bade cold creeds defiance,
Drifting whither souls are wreckt,
Borne to deadly self-reliance,
From diviner self respect.

Yes, he swore a constant passion,
Met me at the acting's close,
Wooed, in his grand lordly fashion,
Love expanding like a rose;
As the boards I trod on, ever
His the hands that followed still—
His, that at each new endeavour,
Led the plaudits at his will;
At the footlights, when I waited
For the cheers I humbly took,
His the flattery sweetly baited
Sure to catch my hungry look;
Then, of course, his was the carriage
Ready for me at the door—
Murmured petting, hints of marriage,
When he was no longer poor;
Daily worked the poisonous leaven,
While he gave no saving rest,
Loud with arm upraised to Heaven,
And with murder in his breast;
Till I fell, by pity's cheating,
Fooled—by love with perjured breath,
Fell, and now is no retreating,
From dishonour worse than death.

396

SOME DAY.

Some day, thy breast will waken,
As yet I never knew,
Bright as a blossom shaken,
That drops its early dew.

Some day, thy face will alter,
In strange delicious fear,
And thy red lips will falter
Confessions I would hear.

Some day, the locks my finger
Would reverently clasp,
Unprized will roughly linger
Within a coarser grasp.

Some day, those eyes will soften,
To the old sacred strain,
And give what I so often
Have pleaded for in vain.

Some day, thy heart to other
And younger suit will bend,
And gain a more than brother,
To lose a more than friend.

Some day, thy hand will tremble,
Thy blush-rose cheeks turn pale,
And, though the mouth dissemble,
Will tell a different tale.

Some day, thy form so slender
In ruder arms will twine
The raptures of its splendour,
For lesser nature shine.

Some day, when shadows darken
Deaf on my downward way,
Those dainty ears will hearken
To what I idly say.

Some day, thy love, though danger
Around thee shed its gloom,
All lightly for a stranger
Will rush to glorious bloom.

Some day, the life I cherish
In honour's heavenly air,
With dreams but born to perish,
For folly will grow fair.

397

Some day, thy hope, to languish
In bondage mean and low,
Will dawn and mock my anguish,
Which thou wilt never know.

Some day, will troth be spoken,
In which I cannot share,
Though this poor heart is broken,
And thou wilt never care.

MY LADY BEAUTIFUL.

I sought her in the tumult fair and festive,
With rapture sweet,
Where passion burns and homeless hearts are restive,
And mad lips meet;
Where pleasure thrills, like Circe's magic potion,
Denying rest,
And life is one fierce mystery of motion,
To the young breast;
Where gay admirers frame in corner shady
The loving plot;
But there, in all the gilded throng, my Lady
Was not.

I sought her in the cradle of the fountains,
That fret in vain,
Where echoes answer to the ancient mountains,
Some secret strain;
Where nature weaves of branches gray and solemn
Cathedral piles,
The groinèd roof, the fluting of the column,
The pillared aisles;
Where leaves drop honey for the bruising sorest,
The saddest lot;
But there my Beautiful, in the calm forest,
Was not.

I sought her in the market, among masses
At greedy strife,
And in the hurly-burly of the classes,
Misreckoned life;
Where lust of lucre sounds its trumpet clearest,
And hirelings fall,
Who sell for cheapest price, and buy for dearest,
Honour and all;
Where noble spirits from pollution shamble,
With hideous blot;
But there my Lady, in the sordid scramble,
Was not.

398

I sought her in the sanctuaries only
By suppliant trod,
Where, in the hour of vigil hushed and lonely,
Man meets with God;
Where weakness makes of straw and rags its pillow
And silent plea,
And tosses feebly upon fiery billow
Worse than the sea;
Beside the sufferer that will have no morrow
On sacred ground;
And there my Beautiful, in lands of sorrow,
Was found.

THE CHILDREN'S CRY.

What are those nestlings so in need,
With feathers dull and torn,
With ruffled breasts that pant, and bleed
Against some cruel thorn?
They miss the light that gladness yields,
And makes the meanest fair,—
They hunger for green woods and fields,
And fret for freedom's air;
Their wings are bruised and broken now,
And thence they cannot fly,
But to each blast of suffering bow—
O hear the children's cry.

Shut in their cold and gloomy cage,
And beating on its bars,
They want the joys of tender age,
And see no heavenly stars;
They meet not ministry of love,
But bitter word or blow,
Their sky is only clouds above,
Their earth all pain below;
Their every tie a prison bond,
While pleasures pass them by,
And nothing still but chains beyond—
O hear the children's cry.

They have no peace however brief,
In watchful care or skill,
And know not respite from their grief,
But only change of ill;
The common kindness is not theirs,
When parents even are foes,
They come as sad unportioned heirs,
Into a world of woes;

399

They seek some friendly look or place,
And turn with wistful eye
To the blank wall and blanker face—
O hear the children's cry.

Yes, there is sickness without cure,
And helpless is that lot,—
No tiny pillow white and pure,
No warm and sheltered cot;
By suffering tost, in weakness laid,
They plead for hope and health,
At the one door that offers aid,
And opens wide to wealth;
Ah, rescue them from pain and sin,
A fairer part to try,
Unbolt the heart and take them in,
And hear the children's cry.

RED REVOLUTION.

Its home is in the haunted air,
It rides the gathering gloom,
Its breath is on the palace stair
And darkens prince's room;
It knocks at every golden door,
That duty has defied,
But brings a blessing to the poor,
By justice long denied;
It sits in rulers' crumbling seat,
And guides the statesman's choice,
Strong as the flowing ocean's beat,—
Red revolution's voice.

Its spirit speaks, in angry gusts
Shaking the tyrant's art,
Or fossil form that eats and rusts
Into a nation's heart;
It springs from cellars at our feet,
With sudden bitter cries
Of women, once as soft and sweet
As clouds in summer skies;
It stirs, in starvelings cooped and jammed
Behind the mouldering wall
Of institutions dead and damned—
Red revolution's call.

In murmurs—in the swarthy mine,
And out of sweating mill,
From throats of Christians kept as swine,
Their masters yet to kill;

400

In workshops foul, where drudge the slaves
Of systems false their hour,
And drop in early unknown graves,
To gild a lady's bower;
In courts and alleys grim, that pen
The masses drink doth maim,
That still beneath the beast are men—
Red revolution's claim.

It scowls—through every stubborn Strike,
That worlds together draws,
And proves the high and low alike
Are led by common laws;
In writhings, to be free from loads
That feudal fetters bring,
Till the pale toiler make new roads,
And of himself be king;
In fiery bursts of broken speech,
The poet's lurid line,
That unto Heaven for mercy reach—
Red revolution's sign.

It mutters—where the servants feel
Their labour is for nought,
And, ground below the rich man's heel,
Know justice must be bought;
Where sad they see the ancient right,
And public pastures, rent
Away from them by bloated might,
Themselves so impotent;
Where sop of suffrage given in name,
A jest and mockery still,
Is yet the landlord's to his shame—
Red revolution's will.

It sounds—when sots, called noble, sink
Down to the dirty clay
From which they basely rose, to stink
And strut their little day;
Where houses, that by crime were raised,
Adorned by pelf and all
For which the glorious thief is praised,
Are tottering to their fall;
In desperate blows, to ease the gripe
Of each blood-sucking tax,
And break the scourge's iron stripe—
Red revolution's axe.

It creeps—from darkness wrought by dearth,
To burst in lightning soon,
As falls the shadow of the earth
Upon the anguished moon;

401

On brows that want has sorely blanched,
On burning bloodless lips
Whose tale of wounds by wealth unstanched
Sows horror of eclipse;
On wasted arms, that fain would toil,
And nothing find but doom
From those who made them merry spoil—
Red revolution's gloom.

It hangs—a thunder cloud in air,
O'er faithless fool and lord,
As hung, suspended by a hair,
The legendary sword;
Athwart the tower of trembling state,
Athwart the church and spire,
That ripen for the one black fate,
From the one black desire;
Above the hoardings of the bank,
The plunder of the purse
That lives of men by thousands drank—
Red revolution's curse.

It rumbles—like the earthquake's throe,
Dissolving sacred bound,
That gulfs alike the friend and foe,
In one gray burial ground.
Through hoary structures, that have stood
For ages long, and laws
Abused and spent, and only good
To toss in Tophet's jaws;
Though sugar-plums and maxims mock
The eyes with watching wet,
And cobweb franchise veils the rock—
Red revolution's threat.

It rolls—while parties rise, and fall
Under its greedy tide,
And round it whining placemen crawl—
Or craven helmsmen hide;
While hobbies of the class-made code,
All foul with falsehood's brand,
Pass with the knaves that them bestrode,
As wrinkles on the sand;
While hate treads on the broidered hem,
Fear opes its ocean grave,
Which mops of measures idly stem—
Red revolution's wave.

It rings—below the widow's sigh,
That meets the master scoff,
And brings eternity so nigh,
But earth sends farther off;

402

Above the partial judge's word,
That gives with venal sway,
The pauper but the hangman's cord,
The rich his wicked way;
Around the triumph that is short,
The peer can cheaply buy,
Who curses God and sips his port—
Red revolution's cry.

It treads—with muffled steps, that pace
Down the complaining years,
That, flashing joy on withered face,
To smiles turn orphan tears;
With conquering feet, that broken chains
Leave wheresoe'er they fall,
And robbers stript of lawless gains
Below their levelled wall;
Till drops the writer's perjured pen,
Prompt with its poison stamp,
As at the march of armèd men—
Red revolution's tramp.

It waves—in sanguinary dawn,
When wretches dare to be
Themselves, and though their rulers fawn,
Yet purpose to be free;
In ruddy rose of maiden's cheek,
Who, smarting at her shame,
Would from the dastard spoiler seek,
Through fire, a surer name;
In dazzling dreams, that fool and fold
The Judas with his bag,
The mumbling priest in mask of gold—
Red revolution's flag.

It points—beyond false verdict's rod,
And sermon's o'erpaid fume,
Unto the Vengeance that is God,
Who doth His trust resume;
Unto the sceptred wrath, that rides
Far on the tempest's wing,
And in eternity abides,
Till every clown is king;
To fuel heaped, for centuried sin
Against a bleeding land,
The hell beneath the lava skin—
Red revolution's hand.

It whispers—in the solemn hush,
Before the purging storm
Awakes, and with its righteous rush
Sweeps off each useless form;

403

In secret tones of quiet songs,
That sharpen needs and knives,
Each on the whetstone of its wrongs,
Till the dread hour arrives;
In the mute grievance of the child,
Who plies the beggar's broom,
Petted, and dropped when once defil'd—
Red revolution's doom.

It warns—in cruel clash of steel,
The oath and dying sob,
When drilled battalions bend, and reel
Before the untaught mob;
When hand to hand, till chaos end
The strife that devils rouse,
With shot and cheer and thrust, contend
Red coat and ragged blouse;
When soldier and civilian meet,
And women even turn out
To barricade in bloody street—
Red revolution's shout.

It speaks—with mighty thoughts, that knit
Mortals to lasting youth,
In ordinances yet unwrit,
But honoured as the truth;
Where insight, with its heavenly gate,
Expands to earthly ken
Tremendous oracles of Fate,
And broadens hearts of men;
Where feelings, that no mould can frame
Nor measure, leap in awe
To one great impulse fierce as flame—
Red revolution's law.

It tolls—as through the troubled air,
From some dim distant height,
A mourning bell, that message fair
Singeth to souls in night;
If heroes, whom the world knew not,
Depart with white set lips
Into the silence, without spot,
As into haven ships;
If earthquake rocks, and despots fall
As despots ever fell,
Less missed than glandered steed from stall—
Red revolution's knell.

It echoes—in the solemn sound
Of falling truths and trees,
While saws and sentences are ground,
And each to slay agrees;

404

While capital takes fright, and flies
To other safer soil,
And labour for itself applies
The treasures of its toil;
In ghastly stabs, that make to reel
Our gnarled and and ancient Oak,
Done by the Traitor Woodman's steel—
Red revolution's stroke.

It throbs—through every noble deed,
Wrought though by nameless hand,
That sows the everlasting seed
Of a more Christian land;
Through beauteous words, the wondrous birth
Of better thoughts and things,
That round all classes put one girth,
White as an angel's wings;
Through tender signs, that soften hearts
Which hates and fears convulse,
With something more than Culture's arts—
Red revolution's pulse.

It grows—a fatal force, in breast
Big with a cancerous ill,
And doubly pledged to take no rest,
Ere bloodshed pay the bill;
A sickness in the camp and fleet,
That palsies loyal arms,
And sends through quaking shroud and sheet
The fever of alarms;
A trembling, in the golden ring,
On titled harlots cast,
Who sell their bodies to their king—
Red revolution's blast.

It spreads—a terror in the town,
And to the country woe,
That catches at the satin gown,
And is of Fashion foe;
A nightmare, that in college creeps,
Nor spares the very Court,
And wakes the sentinel, who sleeps
In every lazy port;
A thrilling throe, o'er flood and field,
And in the maiden's bower,
That shakes both couch and battle shield—
Red revolution's power.

It hardens—finding form and place
In baby minds, and text
In woman robbed of woman's grace,
By progress all unsexed;

405

Against the jades from palace door,
As daintily they tread,
Upon the bruised and bleeding poor,
Who butter all their bread;
Against the Science, that shapes worse
The troubled toiler's fate,
And only swells the sweater's purse—
Red revolution's hate.

It glows—a sunrise in the east,
A morning with no cloud,
That brings the famished soul a feast,
A wedding robe for shroud;
With fingers motherly, that take
The helpless sufferer's part,
And for the sorrowing outcast make
A home within a heart;
With kiss, that is to purer breath
Soft as the settling dove,
And to the wicked whisper death—
Red revolution's love.

It strikes—as on the anvil falls,
Just when the iron is hot,
The hammer, that a people calls
Unto a larger lot;
At last, at last, with brighter brow
When comes, and kingships flee,
The man, that is one nation, now
United to be free;
If tempest turn, a while, the milk
Of human kindness sour,
And homespun spurn the sin in silk—
Red revolution's hour.

STOLEN WATERS.

Sweeter they seemed than earthly draught,
Kinder than cup of Heaven,
Held to the lips that lightly quaffed,
Flushed with their fiery leaven;
Sweeter they seemed, than music drawn
Deep from the heart of mountains,
First to receive the kiss of dawn,
Kindling the poet's fountains;
Sweeter than treasure from the spring,
Guarded by Hesper's daughters,
Sweeter than life's last blossoming—
Rapture of stolen waters.

406

Sweeter he sought, a wicked love,
New, if it brought not better,
Tired of the old as faded glove,
Found for the time a fetter;
Drank of another's sacred well,
Pleasures of sin, confusion
Mixed with the madness of the spell,
Balm that was but delusion;
Drank with the hot voluptuous lip,
Moulded to lust and laughter,
Only to reap the Erinnyes' whip,
Death in the bowl hereafter.

Sweeter it seemed, what could not cloy
Hurried embrace or greeting
Snatched in the dark, the fearful joy
Wrung from a guilty meeting;
Passionate words in secret nooks,
Dearer from tread of dangers,
Fugitive signs, and furtive looks
Flashed and returned with strangers;
Twining of arms and bosom beats,
Sobbing and sighs, and hidden
Graces revealed in dim retreats,
Precious because forbidden.

Sweeter it seemed, the moment's bliss
Gone ere it grew quite certain,
Drowned in the serpent's damning hiss,
Coiled in the shadow's curtain;
Oh, but the sorrow came like night,
Followed like lava surges,
Changed to despair the wild delight,
Tender caress to scourges;
Honey, that mocked the hungry mouth,
Passed like the swallow's twitter,
Turned to the grave's devouring drouth
Life, with its ashes bitter.

THE CONQUEROR.

I am the spirit of the Silent Deep,
And at my quickening tread,
The ghostly sheeted dead
Start from the stillness of their centuried sleep,
Where the gray aspens ever watch and weep,
And hands to Heaven outspread.

407

The prophet sees me in his castled height,
Who breaks through earthly bars,
In commune with the stars,
And from the rapture of the solemn sight,
In awful unimaginable light,
Forgets his human scars.

The poet hears me from his cloistered nock,
In more than mortal dreams,
Through which immortal gleams
The passion of some new great gospel book,
Vast with its loving universal look
Beyond these muddy streams.

The thinker tracks my footsteps in the maze
Of systems, that would tie
Man to a splendid lie,
Till from the trouble of their travailing haze,
They burst in blossom, and a glorious blaze
That never more may die.

The lover knows me, as his throbbing heart
Beats out the blessèd chime,
The same in every clime,
Of which all nature is a living part,
That bids each waking soul arise, and start
Forth on a fairer time.

The maiden feels my presence, when she turns
The tumult of her eyes,
Which for caresses cries,
The flame that kindled once for ever burns,
And finds this world too small, and wildly yearns
For other earth and skies.

The baby owns the impress of my hand,
Your beauteous God-sent boy,
Half angel and half toy,
Who gazes out on glittering sea and land,
So strange and new, as if at his command,
In wonder and in joy.

The cowslip answers to my secret call
That stirs each golden glove,
And bids the drowsy dove
Rejoice, and laughs at the dividing wall,
Which else would darken between heaven and all;
For I am conquering Love.

408

“A MARRIAGE IS ARRANGED,” Etc.

It is settled, at last—I am thankful—
For papa is so poor;
He has millions, they say—quite a bank-full,
With a castle and moor.
It is true they were all made in shoddy,
By low trading and tricks;
And, I know, he is given to toddy,
While in grammar he sticks—
Drops his aspirates, and without reason
Puts them in at his will,
Like a bird or a beast out of season
He's determined to kill.
He is fat, too, and more than twice thirty,
With a horrible leer;
His complexion is vile, and as dirty
As some statesmen's career.
And he cannot tell who was his father,
If he ever was young—
Or, indeed, he had one—though I rather
Should suspect he was hung.
Never mind! For no life is all honey.
And I am not a bee,
But a drone, and with heaps of good money,
And a fool on his knee.
And I promised him only to marry,
Not a word about love;
And I'll teach him to fetch and to carry,
My last plaything or glove.
But I need not give up my old darling,
Though the shoulders you shrug,
Whom I like the next best to my starling,
And the Willoughby pug.
For he is such a beautiful stepper,
Knows my waltzes and walk,
And he tries not to put too much pepper
In his wickedest talk.
Though my likings go out all directions,
And I get little thanks,
And I doubt I've a heart and affections—
If I have, they are Frank's.
Are these tears? No, it's simply the weather,
For these changes do fret;
And the months we have frolicked together,
I can never forget.
Then he has but a younger son's pittance,
With an older son's pace;
And mamma would not give him admittance,
To a son-in-law's place.

409

He will be to me always a brother,
Or whatever it is;
And one man is as good as another,
When a fortune is his.
And, you see, in the case of estrangement,
I'm provided for well;
Ours is but a convenient arrangement—
Of the Purse and the Belle.

“UNTO BABES.”

Where are now the rapture and the vision
Of the larger times,
Given to hearts that through the world's derision,
Heard eternal chimes—
Heard the angels singing the old story,
Ever new as then,
Love, that links to earth unearthly glory,
Godlike maketh men—
Love, that leads the planet on its stages,
Pours on insect's wing
Dust of gold, and down the night of ages,
Sweetly murmuring,
Steps in beauty to that Christmas carol,
Which the centuries rolls,
Clad in innocence and white apparel
Worn by virgin souls?
Where are now the words, like doors and windows
Opening into Space,
To Chaldeans, Greeks, Egyptians, Hindoos,
Flashing forth God's Face?
Are they hushed by the sour tones of treason,
With assassin tread,
Or, beneath the blasting sneer of Reason,
Dead?

Monarchs thought, by fruits of others' travail,
Armed with sceptred sin,
They might awful mysteries unravel,
And thus enter in;
When they talked with seers, and hoped to ravish,
By some splendid vow,
Truth, that unto kings, though lordly lavish,
Never yet did bow;
When they would, by pious fits of fasting,
In their purple pride,
Force the oracles of Wisdom casting
Thrones and toys aside.

410

Sages, grey with lore of every college,
Wresting from the deep
Treasures hidden, deemed with cosmic knowledge
In its starry sweep—
Stuffed with all the facts of all Induction,
Logic and its rules,
Mad from triumph in wholesale destruction
Of the sacred schools—
They could hear the Voice, the Veil could sever,
By their subtle brain;
But their boast was idle, their endeavour
Vain.

Ah, philosophies to Love not loyal,
Bubbles are that pass,
And the ignorant king however royal
Is a crownéd ass;
Not to such the rapture and the vision
Granted unto few,
Not to learning, nor the sword's decision
Bathed in bloody dew;
Not for such, but for the meek and holy,
Babes of simple faith,
Who do hear in adoration lowly
What the Silence saith;
Yea, for these the Heaven keeps yet expanding
Doors in very dust—
Windows, that ope not to brute commanding,
But to childlike trust;
From their blesséd love no truth is hidden,
Nothing is held back,
And Infinity its stores unbidden
Strews along their track;
Time for them was alway young and vernal,
Death hath only smil'd,
Theirs is Christ, who is Himself the Eternal
Child.

“MEN MUST WORK.”

God, who made the muscle taut and knotted
On the sinewy arm,
Straight as rifle, ready, double-shotted,
With its athlete charm;
Built the shoulders broad and stiff, reliant,
Danger deeming play,
Fair and square, confronting all, defiant,
Holding worlds at bay;

411

Moulded deep the chest, with ribs of iron
Cased the supple form,
Stout, though devils should its walls environ,
Yet against the storm;
Wrought the columned back to carry burden
Even up Sinai's mount,
So to win through fire the priceless guerdon
Of the heavenly fount;
Carved as buttresses the legs, sustaining
All that glory, still
True to speed it, and without complaining
Tools of lightning will;—
God, who fashioned thus the man, and thunder
Harnessed for his spoil,
Bade him, cleaving rocks and seas asunder,
Toil.

God, who made the woman fair and tender,
Sweet with amorous might,
Poured into her eyes the spell and splendour
Of a Southern night;
Breathed the breath of violets enticing
In her curling lips,
All the dew of roses' soft sufficing,
Sunset's red eclipse;
Shaped of frost and flame, the eve and morning,
Beautiful her face,
Blent into the delicate adorning
Of one conquering grace;
Gave her breast of snow from summits maiden,
Heart of burning fire,
Sending on and up with blessings laden
Infinite desire;
Crowned the man with kingly strength for labour,
Whether mine or mill,
Armed with pick or saw, or peaceful sabre
Science girds on skill;
Bade him, not forgetting Earth, his mother,
Drawn from lowly soil,
While in heaven be found of God a brother,
Toil.

God, who set for man no sort of tether,
Save a boundless love,
Mating him and woman close together,
Thus to climb above;
Thus inspired with the same sacred leaven,
The same simple trust
One to journey to their kindred Heaven,
From their common dust;

412

Lent to him the triumph gained by wrestling
With dark giant fears,
And to her in prayerful corners nestling,
Victory of tears;
But to Man assigned the sterner portion,
None but cowards slight,
In the teeth of hate and hell's distortion,
Thankfully to fight;
Awful odds to face, and wring from Nature
Her long-hoarded Truth,
Thereby lifted to the Godlike stature
Of immortal youth;
Bade him, shielded with fair Woman's kisses,
Where the breakers boil,
Or where fiercer metal molten hisses,
Toil.

God, who deals His creatures nought for nothing,
Hides His wondrous ways,
Braces us to find the food and clothing,
After many days;
Who reveals to student or to lover,
Striving for the stars,
Nought that they by seeking can discover,
If through royal scars;
Willed that Man, by evermore pursuing
Sustenance of need,
Should attain the innermost imbuing
Of the heavenliest creed;—
Fortified by ordeal of provision
In the daily strife,
Should put on the raiment of decision
Magnifying life—
Should put off the lazy rust, that creeping
Eats into the soul,
Robs him of his birthright, in the sleeping
Of Divine controul;—
Bade him, though around the blackest peril
Knit its serpent coil,
And the desert mocked with menace sterile,
Toil.

Man, who feareth God, and in the wonder
Of a watchful awe,
Reads the message of His thought in thunder
Flashing out His law;
Finds in service of the thews and struggle
With the hourly task,
Solemn suns above the lights that juggle
Mind with glittering mask;

413

Reaps the harvest of the hands, whose strivings
Strenuous on way
Stony, to the last supreme arrivings,
Joined to reverence, pray;
Frames of work a worship, by salvation
Of the body's health,
And in joy of muscle's consecration
Spiritual wealth;
Gathers in the grand discharge of duties
Small, that round him lie,
Out of daily drudging, crown of beauties
That can nowise die;
Man, who in his labour helps to cherish
Lamp of sacred oil,
Must for ever, if that should not perish,
Toil.

Man, who loves and venerates the woman,
In his household shrine,
Seeing in that temple sweetly human
Door of the Divine;
Cares to girdle her about with honour,
Like a holy flame,
As if each were the one pure Madonna
Of the Blessèd Name;
Gleans in trudging of the feet, and straining
Arms that fashion things
Common to a richer use, through paining,
Glimpse of angel wings;
Hails the tops of Truth, afar no longer,
Fair white virgin peaks,
In the hurly-burly that makes stronger
Man, who God-like speaks;
Glories, that he needs in life's appointing,
Carry bitter cross,
Sweetness turned by maiden's love anointing,
Shed on every loss;
Man, who heeds no winds nor weather cruel,
In the miry moil,
Knows the one inestimable jewel,
Toil.

Man, who hears the children's pleading voices,
Out of empty night,
Dauntless in bread-winning strength rejoices,
Ready for the fight;
He delights to bear the brunt of danger,
Nature's fiercest mood,
Compassing the seas and lands, a ranger
For his nestlings' food;

414

He exults in want and woe, and pleasure
Plucks of sharpest pangs,
If for them he may but heap up treasure
Forced from lions' fangs;
He pursues his path through deserts dreary,
Suffers hunger first,
Faint and fainter, worn and yet unweary,
Lest his darlings thirst;
He bestows on them his every blossom,
Clasps himself the thorn
Stabbing to the very heart, through bosom
Gloriously torn;
Man, who bleeds to hush the children's crying,
Fate itself would foil,
Loves, although it rounded be by dying,
Toil.

Man, who doth respect himself, and others,
Labour cannot shirk,
Contemplating God and beasts his brothers,
Banded all in work;
Marking ever, with the One Divinity
Still inspiring each,
Every creature aiming towards infinity,
Higher yet to reach;
Must himself do something for the ages,
Add unto their store,—
If but leave two blades of grass, on stages
Where one grew before;
Must abate a little of the sorrow
Darkening earthly skies,
Though he may not see a brighter morrow
Laugh in human eyes;
Must build up, somehow, for happier nations
Broader bridge of trust,
If himself with the obscure foundations
Buried in the dust;
Man, the worker, sceptred servant, scorning
Idler's leprous soil,
Clothes him in that most divine adorning,
Toil.

THE RUSSIAN MOLOCH.

Tartar, still a black and blood-stained rover
Through the groaning lands,
With a little culture varnished over
Vice of iron hands;

415

Preaching the evangel of perdition
Unto worlds of slaves,
Marking bounds of savage superstition
But with crimson graves;
Giving grasp of fellowship, to throttle
Dupes that idly trust,
Leaving nought save broken vodka bottle—
God is just.

Bringing with thy Cossacks, to the nation
Sentenced out of joint,
Progress and the knout, and sure salvation
At the bayonet's point;
Drunken generals with starred initials,
Touching but to stain,
All the hungry horde of fierce officials
Ravenous for gain;
Vermin, red tape, justice to the bidder
Highest sold by lust;—
Tyrant, in thy cruelty consider,
God is just.

Tartar, rising red in ghastly vision,
Rack and strangling cord,
Meting matters by the grim decision
Only of the sword;
Still content thy Babel tower to fashion,
Tottering though it leans,
In the old style stript of fools' compassion,
The old same damnèd means;
Building up a grand and gory steeple,
On some murder's dust,
Levelling alike a path or people;
God is just.

Big with blessings looking large on paper,
Hiding shell and shot,
Proved at best but dirt from despot's scraper,
Rinsings of his pot;
Drowning bitter voice of myriads' crying,
Hopeless as they bend,
With official and officious lying
To the loathsome end;
Quenching the poor widow's dying ember,
Stealing orphan's crust,
Spoiler, in thy monstrous greed, remember,
God is just.

Tartar, what is this last helpless anguish,
Borne on feebler breath,

416

From the hopeless mines where thousands languish,
O thou crownèd death?
What is this weak wail of tender mortal,
Tortured, not for sin,
Knocking at the dread expanding portal,
Shutting vengeance in?
Fearful is thy passing reign, and shaken
With the dagger thrust,
And, though priests have long their faith forsaken,
God is just.

Oh, that pitiful appeal of woman,
Wrung from darkest night,
To the brother man that is not human,
Cries aloud to Right;
Cries aloud to earth that doth not hearken,
If her corpse it wreathe,
And to Heaven that will not, though it darken,
Mercy's sword unsheathe;
For redress, from violated bosom
Bearing shame it must,
That shall yet from tomb of martyrs blossom—
God is just.

Tartar, while thy hate's unsparing scourges
Rain on gentle form,
Hearest not the hissing of the surges
Gathering for the storm?
Hearest not the sullen sound of grinding
Knives in dungeons deep,
Knelling through the proud and fatal blinding
Of thy haunted sleep?
Deaf to sure signs of the retribution,
Hot infernal gust,
Beating muffled drum of execution,
God is just.

All the voices of the starved and stricken,
Men and maidens loath,
Meet in that one woman's call, and quicken
Revolution's oath;
Till, at length, to blast imperial error,
From that outraged frame
Sown in sorrow, leaps with thundering terror
The devouring flame;
Yea, though now men feast and dance demented,
Axe of judgment rust,
Broader spread the realm with blood cemented,
God is just.

417

TO FEAR IS TO GOVERN.

Linked to the resplendent wraith of error
Blind and beauteous, that wise men warps,
Is the shapeless shadow we call terror,
Cold as is the shadow of a corpse;
Dreadful as an arméd host, that, risen
Out of earth and with no travail pains,
Shrinks the haunted heart into a prison,
Dark with closèd doors and clanking chains;
But in that serene and sunny knowledge,
Surely marching on with lightning spear,
Never learned in crabbèd school or college,
Breathes a blessèd Fear.

Ah, thou canst not name the secret number
Written on the hem of nature's robe,
All that lies beyond the lands of slumber,
All that hid is in a dew-drop's globe;
Canst not guess the rapture of the vision,
More than death and deeper far than life,
Palpitating in the stern decision,
Wrought with blood through sacrificial knife;
Canst not tell or spell the splendid letters,
In the soul by penitential tear
Burnt, unless with free diviner fetters,
Perfected in Fear.

Never shalt thou see the side, my brother,
Turned away from thee by virgin moons,
Mysteries of spaces, and the other
Greater world with its unearthly boons;
Never catch the passion of the story,
Chanted by the stars, in silent nights,
When the heavens have lent their garb of glory
To the sea in bursts of solemn sights;
Never note the meaning of the message
Sighed at evening to the waiting ear,
Till instructed in more faithful presage,
Miracles of Fear.

Nay, thou canst not read that inner teaching,
Past the lying masquerade of form,
Dazzling vain philosophies, and reaching
Lower than the shaking of the storm;
Canst not stamp upon thy fleshly nature,
Dragging thee for ever deeper down,
One small line of that grand legislature,
Meant to gift thee with a monarch's crown;
Canst not start aright, nor shape a minute
Path across the desert lone and drear,
If thou hast not compassed, to begin it,
Masteries of Fear.

418

O thou may'st not heed the last glad sentence
Sung by angels that around us lie,
For the soul that by sublime repentance
Chose to live, because it chose to die;
May'st not see, when plumage of the pigeon
Brightens with the sun, the endless spring
Speaking to us in that old religion,
Still renewed on resurrection's wing;
May'st not rise when flowers and faiths are drooping,
And when heaven no longer seems to hear,
Till thou first hast climbed by humbly stooping,
Sinais of Fear.

Awe is wise, and reverence looks deeper,
Through the vision of its veilèd eyes,
Than the scoffing sceptic or the sleeper
Rocked to death upon his bed of lies;
Holy wonderment will steer the spirit,
Through the rocks and whirlpools that are rife,
To eternity it doth inherit,
Over ocean ignorance names life;
Yea, it saves us from a hair's breadth swerving,
Lights the nights to noontide calm and clear,
And imparts to us at length by serving
Government of Fear.

Fear alone can ope to us the portal,
The invisible that girds us round,
All the poorness of this purblind mortal,
With its walls of unknown sight and sound;
Shows us God, the Lowliest Being, seated
At our feet a glorious crownêd slave,
Only when false Science has retreated
Back into its native gloom and grave;
Makes us see, while slight and meretricious
Are the vistas of delusion dear,
Nought is like the view, in vast delicious
Loveliness of Fear.

Ah, thou know'st not God nor any learning,
Not thyself though more than mighty stars,
With thy lore, and that tempestuous yearning
Beating at its iron dungeon bars;
Till thou hast achieved the final issue,
Which is still the infant's earliest cry,
Worked into our nature's inmost tissue,
Stamped in flame upon the earth and sky;
Till by insight thou hast passed, not proving,
Into truth that tender is and near,—
God, whose name is Love, in all His loving,
Yet Himself is Fear.

419

MY SWEETEST HEART.

(Cordatus Homo to Cor Cordium.)

I lived and loved, as other men,
And snatched from blooming hours
The dew, with pageant and with pen,
That sprinkled earth with flowers;
I deemed each world was only wrought for me,
In frolic feast and play,
I at my passing pleasure bade it be,
Then lightly cast away;
For I had never found as yet,
In revel round or art,
The sun that risen cannot set—
My Sweetest Heart.

From time to time, I fancied now,
As mirth a moment stayed,
The one I wanted heard my vow,
Desired and long delayed;
But when I held her in my amorous arms,
And looked into her eyes,
I found the foreign touch of fleshly charms
The blue of alien skies;
Not her I hardly felt I missed,
My best and brightest part,
Whom in wild vision once I kissed—
My Sweetest Heart.

And still I wandered over earth,
From country unto town,
To gain within a growing dearth,
Without a darkening frown;
I danced and sang, as other idlers did,
And winged the wicked jest,
Or gambled careless on the coffin lid,
If it was gaily drest;
I brushed the bloom from Siren's mouth
And bought on sunny mart,
But met not in the mocking South,
My Sweetest Heart.

And on my devious footsteps strayed
By mountain, stream, and moor,
With riband, rose, and love I played,
And kittens knew my door;
Yes, pretty pussy creatures, flounced and furred,
That only owned my laws,
Fawned fair and wanton round, and, though they purred,
Betrayed their cruel claws;

420

And rattled on the iron road,
Or in the reckless cart,
I lacked the helpmeet of my load—
My Sweetest Heart.

It was not out of palace hall,
Nor in the purple clad,
At length she hearkened to the call,
No woman ever had;
It was not where the gilded laughing tide
Of fashion, through the park,
Or stately temples in their pillared pride,
Goes down into the dark;
But where I lay in sickness bound,
And pierced with deadly dart,
In shadow great and grim I found
My Sweetest Heart.

It was not when my fortune seemed
Bright as the Indian ray,
And glorious life I fondly deemed
One endless holiday;
It was not when rejoicing radiant youth
Drank in the liberal air,
And, far from thunderous wings of things uncouth,
Belonged to all things fair;
It was not then the maiden came,
But in the burning smart,
Stept out of the black furnace flame,
My Sweetest Heart.

When life was at his lowest dregs,
And horror mixed my mind
With phantoms, as a world that begs
The rest it cannot find;
O then in woman's more than human love,
She came with angel hand,
And from the noisome night raised me above,
To her own wonderland;
When Eden's sweet forbidden fruit
Had bitter turned and tart,
Uncalled she heard the silent suit,
My Sweetest Heart.

And now, though stript of every prize,
That folly reckons dear,
I walk for ever under skies
With summer all the year;
I seek in crowds no longer dark and lone,
To find my demon there,
And read a revelation in each stone,
While Heaven is everywhere;

421

My life, that withered looked and mean,
Has made a stronger start,
Because that life on her I lean—
My Sweetest Heart.

BY THE CROSS.

When the Saviour hung deserted
In his bitter need,
Finding pledge of man perverted,
None to render heed;
When in that dark hour of trial,
Heaven in darkness bound
Seemed to yield his prayers denial,
Who was faithful found?
Though by God and man forsaken,
He endured the loss,
Woman weeping stood, unshaken,
By the Cross.

Thus it was, and thus for ever
Is the woman's part,—
Though the end of her endeavour,
Be a broken heart—
Though the shop, by rats and vermin
Friends abandoned, reel
On the rocks that doom determine—
Still alone to kneel;
Loyal to the last, if gather
Reefs and ruin whelm,
Steadfast, looking to the Father,
At the helm.

Soldiers, to whom death no stranger
Is, by iron strife
Dandled on the breast of danger
Into hero life;
Yet at times, when grim defiance
Rears its awful arch,
Somehow lose their self-reliance
Like a conqueror's march;
Woman will be seen, commanding,
Whom no panics reach,
Shot and shell and hell withstanding,
In the breach.

If the coxcomb trim and dapper,
Sink beneath his load—
Even the pioneer and sapper,
Fail to fashion road;

422

If the veteran of stages
Trod in history's light,
Shrink from the last dreadful pages
Of the coming night;
Woman, then, with fearless beauty
Fresh from heavenly font,
Will shine out and do her duty,
At the front.

Should the furnace pile be heated
Seven times, and the frame
Which so often Death has cheated,
Blench before its flame;
Should a hopeless fight, or fortune,
Shape of darkness day,
And a thousand bribes importune
Her a safer way;
Woman delicate, and only
With divine desire,
Will not quail, if lost and lonely,
In the fire.

Sentinels may fail to number
Foemen round them prest,
Soothed by a voluptuous slumber
Into deadly rest;
Watchmen may desert the treasure
Of their station high,
Lured by honeyed lips of pleasure,
Wanton look or sigh;
Woman, if her life be breaking,
Overborne by host,
Still will stand erect, awaking,
At her post.

Pilgrims by the wayside sicken,
Dropping one by one,
While the threatening shadows thicken,
Fainting and foredone;
Statesmen, who, a nation moulded
To some mightier shape,
Fall at length, by doom enfolded
Power could not escape;
Woman, if the earthquake sunder
Paths, or whirlwind bend,
Walks serene through bolts and thunder,
To the end.

In eclipse of pain and peril,
At the birth or grave,
When the hours are starved and sterile,
There is woman brave;

423

When our wealth and health prove mortal,
When we suffer ill,
Lovely at the loveless portal,
There is woman still;
Heedless of the wounds, or wages
Unto her but dross,
Standing, as she stood for ages,
By the Cross.

NEW LIFE.

My life was darkness, though the varied bloom
Of rank and riches and of art
Their dazzling lustre gave me, for the gloom
Was in my very heart;
And, though around we throbbed a thousand charms,
That wooed me sweetly on
With the white waving of voluptuous arms,
The light was gone;
And, though my fortune slaked each wanton whim
Of glorious sight
Or gracious sound, my soul was truly dim
As night.

For I was old, and all my early grace
Had with my early comrades fled,
And time had stamped upon my furrowed face
The blight upon the dead;
I had outlived a hundred friends and faiths,
And found, though they did strike
Fair as the glimmer of mere corpses' wraiths,
Them false alike;
I had essayed to grasp the trick of Truth,
With mocking gleam,
And fancied it was with departed youth
A dream.

And all seemed hopeless, I went drifting down
From shadow to the darker shade,
That stared still at me like a murderer's frown,
And unto murder bade;
When from the midnight, and its framework wild
More dreadful yet to be,
Stept beautifully forth a maiden child,
And smiled on me;
And, lo, my golden path, that gave no rest—
That seemed but mire,
Grew soft and lovely, as I felt her breast
Of fire.

424

She breathed new hope in my cold withered heart,
With her young beauty glad and strange,
Which now became an undivided part
Of all my blesséd change;
Her touch of flame, in a caressing flood
Of laughter and of tears,
Poured through the summer of my quickened blood
Diviner fears;
And now I hold her, as a mailèd glove
Against the strife,
And drink in the deep passion of her love
New life.

THE BLOT ON THE 'SCUTCHEON.

Strong my ancestors, and stately
Took their feastings and their fights,
Walked through history sedately,
Calm as stars in stormy nights—
Beacon lights;
All they did was done so greatly
For the need, and nothing lately;
Noble sights
Somehow breathed on them their beauty,
As if set on heavenly heights,
Moulding, out of death and duty,
Rights.

In their annals proud was nothing
Dark, or with a doubtful air,
That might rouse a people's lothing,
Or appeal to judgment chair—
Scaffold stair;
Honour was their simple clothing,
Sweet as, bent to seal betrothing,
Woman's hair;
Ah, their banner had no smutch on,
Glorious deeds did not repair,
Nor was one blot in their 'scutcheon
Fair.

But I had no magic moly,
Such as wise Ulysses knew,
And I loved a maiden lowly,
Who round me enchantments threw—
Softly drew
By a secret passion, slowly
Turned to love, that high and holy
Upward flew;

425

Till I felt an Eden's thrilling,
Where no tempest ever blew,
On my weary heart distilling
Dew.

Then I thrust aside the glory,
Which had dimmed my better sight,
Gilded bonds, and passing story,
Purple patches in the Light
Paltry blight;
Dropt for her the grandeur gory,
Wingèd riches, falsehoods hoary
Taking flight;
Found my fame was but a crutch, on
Which I won a worthless might,
While the blot made all my 'scutcheon
Bright.

ONE MAD MOMENT.

Royal was she by her birth
On a royal stage,
Bounded by the cruel girth
Of a golden cage;
But I loved her with a royal love
While her subject, still
Dared, as with the eagle, though a dove,
Mate plebian will
With patrician might;
When with heavy eyes and wet,
One mad moment, our lips met;
Then came night.

Beautiful was she, with meed
Rank can never give,
Beautiful and fair indeed,
Not with fugitive
Graces, that are gauds of time or dress—
Beautiful in soul,
Beaming brighter through the darker stress,
In a self-control
More than monarch's might;
When I caught her glorious charms,
One mad moment in my arms;
Then came night.

Generous, and lowly too
From her lofty place
Bending, as if she would woo
With her queenly face

426

Our affections all unmeet for her,
Stooping lower still
Down to stay the footsteps that might err,
In their sunless will—
Wonderful and bright;
When I snatched an awful rest,
One mad moment on her breast;
Then came night.

Pitiful was she, and sweet
As a southern sky,
When the moon and morning meet,
And the shadows fly;
But a lovely terror round her lay,
With the blasting breath
Of that fire which is imperial sway,
Whose embrace is death,
To a creature slight;
When I drank eternal bliss,
One mad moment, in a kiss;
Then came night.

THE FIRST KISS.

Sweet it is, when men have parted
With a more than earthquake shock
Shattering the breast of rock,
Heavy-eyed and broken-hearted,
After years of yearning vain
Big with penury of pain,
Then once more by chance united,
Long delayed and long invited,
Yet again in joy to meet—
That is beautiful and sweet;
But there is a greater bliss—
The first kiss.

Grand it is, to be the pleader
Of some great and glorious cause,
Moulding new and truer laws,
Not as a mere party leader—
Laws that fit a nation's need,
And enshrine immortal seed—
Laws that myriads can cherish,
None would willingly let perish,
Bulwarks of a faith to stand—
That is beautiful and grand;
But more rapturous is this—
The first kiss.

427

Dear it is, before your brothers,
Pioneering thousands on,
Where no traveller hath gone,
There, beyond the bounds of others—
There, though cowards faint or lag,
First to plant the English flag—
After labour long and sorest,
First to cleave the virgin forest,
Opening out a golden year—
That is beautiful and dear;
But discovery may miss
The first kiss.

Good it is in summer season,
If authority is near,
In the luxury of fear,
With a friend to talk of treason;
But, beyond all old content,
Foremost prize and ravishment,
Past the count of vulgar measures,
More than any common treasures,
That is beautiful and best—
When the Goddess gives the blest,
Though a thousand serpents hiss,
The first kiss.

A WOMAN'S BREAST.

The wheels of iron Labour never rest,
That from their demon mills
Beat out, in lives of men all over-prest,
The grinding task that kills
Its countless tools and fools, unknown, unblest,
And heaps up bloody bills;
While callous Greed its dirty gain invests,
In dirtier tills.

Onward, yet onward speeds the shuttle, Thought,
Wherewith the spirit plies
Penelope's old web, so richly wrought
In glittering loves and lies,
With hope that every hour is sold and bought,
And vainly heavenward flies,
Mingling with monstrous dreams that are but nought
Eternal ties.

Faster, still faster rushes the grim race
For riches, or the spoil
Of party in the foremost honour's place,
Won by dishonour's soil,

428

Or the resplendent charms of some fair face
That like a serpent coil;
And no one heeds the goal or the disgrace,
In ceaseless toil.

To pause one moment is to be left out,
Within the dark and cold,—
Alone with baby lips, that plead and pout
For the lost mother's hold—
With shattered frames that die, and are in doubt
Of riddles dim and old—
With broken wings that, though the battle shout,
Cannot unfold.

The pace grows fiercer, as I long to stay
The feet, unwilling torn
From each new refuge in some blessèd ray
Flashed from some brighter morn;
How shall I dare to stop or even delay,
And victim be of scorn?
Ah, as I snatch at peace, I am away
More helpless borne.

Child-like with lessons that I scarce may con,
Or like a haunted guest
Hurried from banquet which a second shone
Above a blasting pest;
I know, though ages should have come and gone,
I never might find rest,
Unless I plucked it from the grave, or on
A woman's breast.

SOCIAL DEMOCRAT TO NIHILIST.

Brothers, from the icy forges,
Where the Russian winters hold
Evermore their cruel orgies,
Hammering out the killing cold—
Hammering out the lives of mortals
Trodden low by iron heel,
Driven from the tyrant's portals
Friendless to the friendlier steel;
Put no faith in prince, or others
Who would trade upon your ill,
Only wait—are we not brothers?—
We are waiting still.

Patient be, and measures bolder
Cast with rich and ruddy seed,
Till you feel us at your shoulder
Fighting, in the hour of need;

429

Freedom, votes, and constitution,
Which no despot would indite,
Can be won by revolution,
With a pinch of dynamite;
Long that too paternal Father
Gives you pap from wooden spoon;
Meat of suffrage, would you rather?—
We are coming soon.

Liberty its will hath spoken
From a thousand martyrs' graves,
Chains Siberian may be broken
By Divinity in slaves;
Rulers, subjects do not differ,
Fashioned equally of dust,
If in bondage we walk stiffer,
If the others gild their lust;
Tired of generals, who swagger
More, the more your fortune lours,
Whet your purpose and your dagger—
We are sharpening ours.

Change, that laughs at law and manners,
Tossing monarch's head on pike,
Waves at length victorious banners
Over hands that wait to strike;
Change, redressing wrongs, the Giant,
Bringing better things to be,
Smiles upon the self-reliant,
Simply daring to be free;
Nihilists, who know the prison,
Shake the jailor's purple pride,
Wait a little, till arisen
With the rising tide.

MY MOTHER'S HAIR.

I have a treasure no one else would prize,
To me more precious far
Than all the marvel of the sunset skies,
Or unconjectured star;
Worth nothing to the stranger, or the glance,
That careless falls on it,
But yet to me a world of real romance,
And passion infinite;
Blent as of moonbeams and the morning rose,
And something more than fair,
Nor without calmness of the evening close,
My Mother's Hair.

430

The tyranny of gray deflowering years
No portion had in this,
Soft as the trembling of an angel's tears,
Sweet as an angel's kiss;
A lock of heavenly light, it is a part
Of life's bright inward June,
And rests for ever on my heart,
That singeth it a tune;
Yea, though around me roars the surge of sin,
And evil is the air,
I find a balm of solace sure herein—
My Mother's Hair.

No portrait have I of her perfect face,
No relic but this tress
To picture all the glory of her grace,
In lonely loveliness;
And yet enough it is for me, I mark
From one pure petal's dower,
That sheds its lingering lustre on the dark,
What was the finished flower;
And in the wonder of the waiting night,
When spirits climb the stair,
I clasp that vision which is more than sight—
My Mother's Hair.

A fragile chain it is, and yet I feel
As much no ruler's rod,
And in dim corners when I humbly kneel,
It draws me unto God;
It binds me to whatever good and true
About my path may lie,
A link 'twixt this world and the other's due,
A sacramental tie;
Ah, when I pass to my eternal rest.
To leave an empty chair,
Will not some reverent hand lay on my breast
My Mother's Hair?

A WITCH.

Scarlet lips, and scornful mouth
Breathing of the languid South,
Night entangled in the hair
Stirred with starry gleams, that ran
Here and there without a plan—
All that makes a woman fair,
All that must allure a man
To despair.

431

Eyes with an unearthly fire,
Not delight and not desire,
Calm and fathomless and cold,
Looking through the masks of things,
Angel ways and angel wings,
Steeled against the bribe of gold,
And the curséd love of kings
To withold.

Hands, that like a sceptre wave
Over peace that is a grave,
Beautiful and white, and strong
Every soul to render slave,
Every empire she may crave,
Set as to a conqueror's song—
Hands, that never yet forgave
Any wrong.

I, who left the truer North,
Marked her proudly pictured forth
Thus in sunnier softer clime—
Knew the rapture of the spell
Dragged me downward, as to hell
Falls a spirit ere his time,
Yet rejoicing, if I fell
Into crime.

Thus I felt the curling lips
Strike me with their red eclipse,
Wrapping me in fiery wreath—
Felt the haunting of the hair
Stab me with its midnight air,
Heavy like a poison breath;
Though on sacrificial stair,
Courting death.

Thus I saw the burning eyes
Pour on me their thunderous skies,
As where lightnings laugh and thrill—
Owned the drawing of the hands
Robbing me of life and lands,
Though they then disdained to kill,
Holding more than iron bands,
Holding still.

Terrible her beauty lay,
With its sweet and cruel sway,
On the bondage of my breast—
Gloomed above me, like the sight

432

Of a deadly Southern night,
Soothing but not unto rest—
Dreadful beauty that was blight,
All unblest.

Surely did her sinuous frame,
Weave around me slow the flame
Of its passion's fatal frost—
Me, like wingéd creature wiled
To destruction, as she smiled
Darkly, counting not the cost,
Till dishonoured and defiled,
Loving, lost.

In the circle of her arms,
Only could I see the charms,
Only suck the sensuous heat
Melting even the rock of right,
With the magic of its might,
Driving conscience from its seat—
Magic I could make delight,
Not repeat.

Yet she had a maiden's form,
Still herself in every storm
That her blasting graces lit;
Womanly in all the ways
Of her delicate soft days,
Roses, idlesse, dainty wit;
But ran through her folly, rays
Infinite.

Suitors pleaded without end,
Vainly strove her will to bend
By rich offerings to their own;
Wooed with agonies of love,
Not so precious as the glove
Lightly to her servant thrown
As some mount her mind above
Stretched, unknown.

Now no other face I see,
And from tamer graces flee,
Which enchanted me before;
Hear no other music now,
Save her daily broken vow,
And no other eyes adore;
But to her alone I bow,
Evermore.

433

NO—YES.

Let the coward, let the fool
Take the slashing sword-cut NO—
Adverse weapons are a tool
Subject to me, as I go;
Waves, that frightful on me fling
Surf of sorrow, when I stand,
Creep, like a discrownéd king,
Tame and trembling to my hand;
Winds, that blow the craven craft
Wrecked upon the rugged shoal,
Yoked as servants, only waft
Mine in safety to its goal.

Let the coward, let the fool
Quail before the furnace NO—
It is but a shadow cool
Compassing me, as I go;
Fiery portals breathe no harms,
That to others were a grave,
And with sweet caressing arms
Open ever to the brave;
Warm me in the wintry blast,
Fears and frailties burn, and bend
Stubborn fancies, and at last
Light me to the glorious end.

Let the coward, let the fool
Halt outside the barrier NO—
It is but a blessèd stool
Striving upward, as I go;
Every hindrance is a help,
Curbed by courage—every lack,
Lions are but curs, that yelp
Idly on my forward track;
Giants melt in mist, and mounts
Carve their crosses into thrones,
Marahs yield refreshing founts,
Stumbling-blocks turn stepping-stones.

Let the coward, let the fool
Flinch before the ocean NO—
It is but a wayside pool,
Scarce regarded, as I go;
All the crests that cruel rise,
All the buffets, are as sport,
Speeding me unto the prize
Somewhere in a golden port;

434

Till the angel sent to slay,
Borne on clouds that blacker press,
Wrung from iron lips of NAY,
Falters the reluctant YES.

THE ANARCHIST.

Anything's better than stagnant monotony,
Anything's better than this—
Leap into darkness, a course of phlebotomy,
Flung at Divorce Courts a kiss!
Tumbling and twisting of humbugs and Harcourt,
Mares' nests so dear to the “Times,”
Labouchere who in reviving the Star Court
Only himself more begrimes!
Down with the palace of cards, and the steeple
Mocking at anguish of dearth!
Up with the pavement and sovereign People
Racy of primitive earth!

Sick of the tyrannous rule by the classes,
Drowning our cries with the drum,
Rise from the dirt in the might of your masses,
Men of the cellar and slum!
They must now wallow a while in the gutter,
Mumble the crust and the scraps,
Give up each privilege, thin bread and butter,
Broadcloth and all the best taps;
Time that such preaching, good news of damnation
Merely for poor men, should close—
Time, our misleaders and class-legislation,
Sank in the mud whence they rose.

Anything's better than fictions, like order
Made for protecting the rich—
Rifles and Balfours, that beat from their border
Outcasts to die in a ditch!
Justice, so-called, only jibes at our struggles,
Doling its service so dear,
Meant for the landlords and sweaters, and juggles
Basely with weakness and fear;
Give us a chance at the bloated metropolis,
Fog or Monro in a maze—
Warehouses, arsenals, banks and monopolies,
Pile up a glorious blaze.

Gladstone is whipping on Anarchy's chariot,
Selling his Master the State,
Perjured, a second and meaner Iscariot,
Bidding for office's plate;

435

Yes, he is active and useful a season,
Now the true actors must hide,
Varnishing with his great name what were treason,
Till we can kick him aside;
Changes may come, though our Princes are Royal,
Heads, institutions, may fall,
Soldiers and sailors are not over-loyal—
Dynamite equals us all.

THE MERCHANT PRINCE.

“I am a Merchant Prince, my sceptre is the pen
That governs thousands, since I learned to honour men—
The secret of their breasts, the weakness and the want,
Wherein my art invests all that may fools enchant,
I buy from cheapest mart and to the dearest sell,
And capital would part (if paying) unto hell;
Not at another's lamp I kindled this great light,
Which upon all I stamp, royal in my own right;
I built this glorious pile, raise fortunes at my nod,
Kings quarrel for my smile, myself I made—not God.
I am a Merchant Prince, and somehow sure to gain,
Nor do at losses wince, to bankrupt lands like Spain.”
But yet the hungry worms, that saw the foliage grey,
And smelled corruption's germs, were crawling to their prey.

“Their monarchs made the rest, the precious pauper lord,
Who carved his eagle's nest by fire and bloody sword;
Who purchased, with his soul, the tinsel of a time,
By giving coward toll—a falsehood or a crime;
Who rose from native dust, by playing but the pimp
For royal ravening lust, through centuries to limp;
Who washed the dirty clothes of Princes, called his friends,
With ready lies and oaths, to serve their Princely ends;
Who trades upon the past, dishonour of a sire
That dragged a nation vast thro' meanness and thro' mire;
Whose glory even if true, from far-off ages thrown,
To worth ancestral due, can never be his own.”
But yet the greedy worms, that harry all things high,
If man a moment squirms, were darkly drawing nigh.

“I am a Merchant Prince, if peerage-books say no,
Which bastard matters mince to blaze a better show;
A hundred pathways speed my freightage through the lands,
To nourish empires' need and bear to distant strands;
My arms are iron roads outstretched from west to east,
Which scatter countless loads, that everyone may feast;
The greyhounds of the wave, which daily grow more fleet,
To link (where'er I crave) the countries, are my feet;

436

And make the wondrous wires, that marry north and south,
And flash my grand desires in many tongues, my mouth;
No sovereign, though he ride on ruin for an hour,
In all his empty pride, hath half my solid power.”
But yet the conquering worms, about his splendour wound,
That knew the final terms of things, were closing round.

TO THE TSAR.

Crownéd Death, who sittest on the nations
At thy bloody bid,
Quenching starry strains and aspirations,
Like a coffin lid;
Shutting down the thoughts that look and languish,
For their kindred sky,
With the burden of an iron anguish,
Till they cannot fly;
Shutting up, in helpless hopeless rigour,
Hearts that Heavenward call—
Lance at point, and hand upon the trigger—
God is over all.

Crownéd Death, who with a breast not human
Hatest all things fair,
Waging cruel war with tender woman,
To the altar stair;
Flogging dainty frames, that at condition
Slavish faint and fret,
And with nothing for their soft petition
But the bayonet;
Blows and curses, and the coward thrusting
Of the Cossack spear—
Only these for woman weak and trusting—
God Himself is near.

Crownèd Death, who but with bonds and terror
Beatest down the lands,
And with crimson streams would'st drown the error
Done by butcher hands;
Throned among the waves and woes, that toss us
On their tempest tide,
Grinning like a Skeleton Colossus,
Which doth earth bestride;
Girt by brutal force, that sere and solemn
Mercy never gives,
Cracked and worthless as a crumbling column—
God Almighty lives.

437

Crownéd Death, thou thing of paint and patches,
Fighting against fate,
Thinkest thou to break the will, that hatches
Doom against thy state?
Thinkest thou, to stem the march of ocean
In triumphant flood,
By the mops of might and devils' potion,
Innocence's blood?
Ah, though thou exalted art, and savage
Heedest not the sigh
Wrung from prostrate realms thy armies ravage—
God Himself is high.

Crownéd Death, dost deem thy bolts and shackles
Can a moment bind,
If the gilded Folly round thee cackles,
Man's immortal mind?
Guns and generals, and brazen swagger
Blinding none but thee,
Are as fragile as a pasteboard dagger,
To the soul's decree;
If thou still dost scatter fears and fetters,
On the dreary drudge—
Nihilists and regicides, thy betters—
God Himself is Judge.

Crownéd death, the truth from tower and steeple
Now goes flashing forth,
Vengeance for a starved downtrodden people,
Wakes thy frozen North;
Women, children, man not man, arousing
At that conquering cry,
Catch the sweet voice, through thy mad carousing,
Of young Liberty;
Oh, they feel, though earth be clouded under,
Heaven above is blue,
And if all thy hangmen falsely thunder,
God Himself is true.

Crownéd Death, thy own dark days are numbered,
And the reckoning speeds,
Which too long for weary slaves hath slumbered,
While thy country bleeds;
Tyranny, at length, a black December,
Damned shall surely pass—
And an unwise king, O Tsar, remember,
Is a crownéd ass!
But, in spite of thy imperial braying,
And the drunken ring
Of grand dukes in scarlet sins' arraying—
God Himself is King.

438

Crownèd Death, who rulest but by killing,
Varnished o'er with lie,
With thy big battalion's murderous drilling,
Thou thyself shalt die;
Yet the slaves, against whom thy affection
Stubborn is as steel
Homicidal, shall in resurrection
Grind thee under heel;
While thou slayest love and all things holy,
Pitiless at strife
Still with unarmed right and justice lowly—
God Himself is Life.

QUEEN PUSSY AT PLAY:

Being the natural history of a fast and fashionable young woman of the day.

1.—HER MANNERS.

Of woman all have perfect knowledge,
With whom to be is bliss;
She is the toast of camp and college;
But who, I ask, is this?

What shall we say of her, who catches
Her colour from bad taste?
That odious thing of pins and patches,
Impertinence and paste?

Her life is false and lean and little,
By turns she hates and hems;
And scatters promises as brittle,
As are her bastard gems.

Her scattered wits, by dint of clubbing,
Have formed a plan of life;—
The charms, that all come off with rubbing,
With hues and hopes at strife.

And when she deals with sober matters,
Like sentences and towns;
She knows far less of globes than hatters,
Of grammar than of gowns.

And can she tell of meers and mountains,
As much as of her wraps?
Though quite at home with sparkling fountains,
Whose names are not in maps.

439

Fresh scandal is she always scraping,
All fashions she can find;
And gives more study to the shaping
Of mantles than of mind.

She thinks the end of education,
To dance and dress and ride;
And bounds her views of cultivation,
By what is just outside.

No heed she takes of fair creations,
But toilet scents and soaps;
And on her milliner's foundations,
She builds her brightest hopes.

To play on fiddle-strings and passions,
And love by étiquette;
To trick her hair in fifty fashions,
Is all her alphabet.

She wears a look so sad and simple,
When made a parson's pet;
Yet will at social dangers dimple,
And with a crime coquet.

In deadly flowers you see her flutter,
And to destruction trip;
And for white lies and bread and butter,
She has a loving lip.

At times she tries a truth or sonnet,
And will with prophets preach;
Then on a beefsteak or a bonnet,
She sprinkles pearls of speech.

For every form of every fashion,
She has a fancy face;
For this a prayer, for that a passion,
For all a dashing pace.

Her course is stranger far than fiction,
From nothing will she fly;
The sum of every contradiction,
From hoops to heresy.

From penitence she goes to pleasure,
And tears and tarts combines;
Her mind has never lack of leisure,
For dunces or divines.

Her plot of life she loves to dapple,
Not more with flower than weed;
From church she passes on to chape
From giving unto greed.

440

With ever shifting aims and ages,
More furious grows her fun;
She takes all characters and stages,
And mistress is of none.

O have you seen her in the Gardens,
Or passed her in the Park?
For every year her folly hardens,
And vices leave their mark.

And you can scarcely miss her manners,
In any festive throng;
Her colours fly with flaunting banners,
At every dance and song.

Nor does she hide them from detection,
Nor mince her meals of sin;
And is less careful of complexion,
In character than skin.

She has an easy sort of bearing.
Not all in custom's codes;
And at the point of playful daring,
She carries men and modes.

While in her judgments of the season,
She does not often err;
And kills with every form of reason,
A flea or character.

She spreads with all the spice of slander,
Men's fond affairs of heart;
And handles, with a charming candour,
Adultery and Art.

And if her talents do not travel,
Beyond her glass and gloves,
They only riband knots unravel,
With tangled lies and loves,

O who can count her aims and arrows,
The power that saps or rives;
The wounds and wiles, with which she harrows
Our unprotected lives?

She has the current love of scribbling,
And scandal wings her pen;
She likes a little toothsome nibbling,
At muffins and at men.

You meet her at the Prince's party,
In each subscription list;
She knows a knack about écarté,
A trick or two at whist.

441

Her private ways she has for beating,
And honours come at call;
And if you haply see her cheating,
Why, back her—that is all.

She plays her cards in many matters,
With equal art and luck;
And if she means to squeeze you, flatters
The orange she would suck.

And with her bleak and barren notion,
Of intellectual states,
No wonder she has small devotion,
Except for pots and plates.

She is but one of cupboard lovers,

And metes your merit, by the covers
You choose on her to spend.

A character she takes to shred it,
And brings you quick to book;
But does not trouble for your credit,
So much as for your cook.

II.—HER ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

Her brow is brass, her will is iron,—
And yet too yielding oft;
Though ribs of steel her sides environ,
Her heart is rather soft.

Her views are mainly silk and satin,
And ill together hang;
She stores a little stock of Latin,
And not a little slang.

She boasts a bastard French and German,
Strange phrases not a few;
And dotes, if not on dew of Hermon,
At least on “mountain dew.”

Her hunter has she every season,
Her hobby every hour;
Sweet Parnell's newest piece of treason,
And Tattersall's last flower.

She rides them both with equal vigour,
And takes her fences well;
She knows the way to cut a figure,
But not to count or spell.

She laughs at sordid computations,
And leaves accounts to cooks;
And pushes not her calculations,
Beyond her betting books.

442

Content is she, like folks bucolic,
To hedge, if not to ditch;
And keeps a corner alcoholic,
To cure of course the stitch.

But in the sphere of speculations,
And fortunes of a day,
Upon the brink of “backwardations,”
She is not loth to play.

The money mart and that of marriage,
She reads with all their rocks;
And buys or sells her horse and carriage,
As she may stand in stocks.

In brokers' consecrated jungle,
She breathes a fearful bliss;
Nor is she wont to wince or bungle,
At consols or a kiss.

The high and hidden springs of jobbing,
She loves to gauge and laud;
The bounds and base of royal robbing,
The poetry of fraud.

But most she likes her maiden pleasures,
Where man may never gaze;
Choice miracles of female treasures,
Chaste mysteries of stays.

The rise and fall of modes she guesses,
What winds from Paris blow;
The tides of dynasties and dresses,
As they are high or low.

A score of schools her talents treated,
And made them good for nought;
A score of masters well completed,
The ruin those had wrought.

At home she is with seals and sables,
With things that are no use;
And then in turning coats and tables,
She is the very deuce.

Her mind in Art is dimly grounded,
Though Science is her strength;
With frills and fancies cut and rounded,
The regulation length.

Yet all her meddling does not master,
The simplest facts of life;
The so-called polish is but plaster,
Rubbed off by real strife.

443

She cannot, though she learns flirtation,
Her dress or manners mend;
And such a costly education,
Has taught her but to spend.

‘Accomplishments’ she scarce can number,
Excepting mere good taste;
But most are only worthless lumber,
And all are money's waste.

What is the crowning of the building,
That rises to the stars?
A sportive dash of glass and gilding,
A lover vowed to Mars.

Her converse, like a flooded river,
Breaks through convention's pales;
Her memory is a bristling quiver,
Of little darts and tales.

And she has all the old assortment,
Of fashion's studied stage;
Her church and company deportment,
Her platitudes and page;

A taste for suicide and fiction,
A fair French lady's maid,
With cups of coffee and affliction,
And tradesmen's bills unpaid.

She duly makes her audience tingle,
With little screams and twirls;
And she can prance and patch and jingle,
Or daub like other “girls.”

At times she plays the part of teacher,
And scatters words and scent;
And owns she is a silly creature,
The soul of sentiment.

When radiant with the rosy blossom,
That blooms for every dance;
She sprinkles in her partner's bosom,
The dews of warm romance.

And when champagne has made her bolder,
And faster fly the hours;
She babbles freely on his shoulder,
Of poetry and bowers.

But ere the climax of the revel,
She shatters custom's bars;
And swears decorum is the devil,
And freedom flowers and stars.

444

Next day she is no longer jolly,
And proves how cheap her charms;
You find her weeping off her folly,
In some sleek curate's arms.

She follows fashion's utmost rigours,
Nor is her folly sparse;
Adores a whitebait lunch and niggers,
Hymnologies and farce.

A footman she has huge and hairy,
With most seductive calves;
A caged admirer and canary,
Heart-sores and patent salves.

For creditors, she keeps—cajoling,
For morning calls—a blush;
And trembles but at once controlling,
The tyranny of plush.

Her thoughts of life are rather rapid,
A whirl of dukes and debts;
She stamps the Christian creed as vapid,
And sucks her cigarettes.

Her gossip has a salt and savour,
That always are its own;
And Bacchus adds a crowning flavour,
To fancies highly flown.

She treasures sentiments for horses,
And port and pathos blends;
Strange bigamies and stern divorces,
Are at her fingers' ends.

III.—HER COUNTRY AMUSEMENTS.

The season o'er she turns agrarian,
And has a mealy mood;
Grows virtuous and vegetarian,
And steals her filly's food.

Her talk of oxen is and fodder,
And every mortal herb;
She grieves at snaffles growing odder,
And mystic kinds of curb.

Your rabbits she delights to capture,
To sports plebeian bends;
And feels a far more thrilling rapture,
For ferrets than for friends.

445

She has a weakness for all vermin,
Including rakes and rats;
And let the time of year determine,
Her habits as her hats.

In matters rural as in urban,
Her head she does not hide;
Affects an eyeglass and a turban,
And makes her groom her guide.

His choice opinions will she utter,
Upon her male allies;
She likes with little quips, to flutter
The bosoms she denies.

Discounting friends she does not falter,
And spite her memory jogs;
Sends single victims to the altar,
And puppies to the dogs.

Their private blots she gently handles,
And fondly treads on corns;
They almost bless the public scandals,
And hardly feel the thorns.

O'er buried sins she softly dances,
And fingers social sores;
And sheds the halo of romances,
Wherever virtue snores.

Her life, with all its selfish fashions,
Has philanthropic thrills;
And teems with venomous compassions,
And courtesy that kills.

So delicately served is malice,
With such a dainty screen;
You taste no poison in the chalice,
Of sugar plums and spleen.

You meet her gracious buffets blindly
And one you would not miss;
And take her tender kick, as kindly
As though it were a kiss.

The dagger she so well can dandle,
You must admire her art;
And count the diamonds on its handle,
When it is at the heart.

She bows you to the door with unction,
And strokes you down the stairs;
And turns you out with sweet compunetion,
That all the wrong repairs.

446

You see a mist of drooping lashes,
And locks that fondly flow,
With crimson flowers and starry flashes—
And there your senses go.

And then with such acute affection,
She gives the parting stab;
You quite forget your own direction,
And overpay the cab.

To vulgar scoffs she scorns to pander,
Or crippled anger's crutch;
And spurns the common tools of slander,
That leave a smell or smutch.

She lightly casts her defamation,
With low and loving tones;
You dream she builds your reputation,
When she is throwing stones.

To proper names she does not stickle,
To give improper play;
And tries with artful touch, to tickle
A character away.

Of peccadilloes will she rattle,
And why should truth be mute?
What if with laughter and with tattle,
She kills a good repute?

She knows how idols are unsainted,
How well can silence lie;
And when they laud a life untainted,
She slays it with a sigh.

A host she has of sad surprises,
And epigrams succinct;
With misty maxims moralizes,
O'er innocence extinct.

Her talk is never wholly trivial,
To gratify a grudge;
She blends with levity convivial,
The sentence of the judge.

Philosophy with dim distortions,
Makes social pleasures meet;
And mingles, in the same proportions,
Her claret and conceit.

The friendly toasts her talents double,
And fuel give to fire;
She sees in every bursting bubble,
Some purity expire.

447

But while she cuts such graceful capers,
In every giddy walk;
We hear the rustle of the papers
Through all her tight-rope talk.

We smell, behind the latest essence,
The vinous breath of Clubs;
And find her news a mere liquescence,
Of toilet dreams and tubs.

With pretty tints that never tire us,
The men she paints and decks;
But bottles all the choicer virus,
For her devoted sex.

Fair fame she takes from some poor sister,
And smirches with a smile;
Or breathes her blessing like a blister,
That drops but to defile.

She has her fling at unwashed preachers,
Whose missiles are of mire;
And hurls contempts at humid teachers,
Who piety perspire.

And next indulging in varieties,
She lets her fancy flit;
And scans the scatter-brained Societies,
Who spend more words than wit.

She reckons up what radiant blessings,
With stump-orations march;
Glad tidings of the new assessings,
Of ignorance and Arch.

The rate she knows of all the missions,
The price of every sin;
The cost of freedom and physicians,
Of justice and of gin.

Tobacco, opium, beads, and Bibles,
She is au fait of each;
The vulgar voice that culture libels,
Where spread our flowers of speech.

The reign of brotherhood and mammon,
And love's extorting hold;
The civilizing guns and gammon,
The godliness of gold,

448

Commercial gospels of salvation,
That savage souls impress;
The glorious British revelation,
Of rum and righteousness.

Our present pride and sweet fruition,
The manly modern creed,
Good news of progress and perdition—
“Believe, or else be d---d.”

She counts the luscious loaves and fishes,
That fill the converts' packs;
And says so many pounds and dishes,
Will whitewash any black.

But, ah! the Moloch of advancement,
Exacts more victims still;
And for religion's own enhancement,
Brings in its bloody bill.

And so she points to branching knowledge,
That raises, as it raves,
The dregs of cloister and of college,
Upon its rolling waves.

And then she turns to praise a pony,
Or cavil at a coat;
Hears one has cut his greatest crony,
Another cut his throat.

And this to baffle warm attentions,
Has sailed to lands more free,
From policies of interventions—
He always was at sea.

And that, before he well could borrow
So pressing an amount,
The partner of his joy and sorrow
Had left—say, on account.

And she, the more to aid solution,
But not from loving less,
Had given by way of contribution,
Her credit and—caress.

And he who swilled with swine and hunters,
And scorned connubial bliss,
Has found how cheap are steeds and grunters,
How costly is a kiss.

And now he fills domestic dramas,
Who never played a part;
And mourns the change from silken charmers,
To accusation's dart.

449

Instead of sweet voluptuous tresses,
He feels his cause's flaw;
And wakes, from fond and soft caresses
In iron arms of law.

He darkly broods on outraged duties,
The dirty court and case;
And leaves the warmth of pliant beauties,
For judgment's cold embrace.

These are our heroine's common trifles,
A round that never fails;
The morning with reviews and rifles,
The evening with fresh tales.

An estimation now she murthers,
That stood the storm and tide;
And now with friendly kindness furthers
Some social suicide.

She loves the byeways close and shady,
Where snaky rumour crawls;
And on a tripping lord or lady,
With tenfold relish falls.

And when she needs new recreation,
Or tires of daily shams;
She finds a fertile inspiration,
In morning calls and drams.

But then her mind has no connexions,
With vulgar views that pass;
Her brightest thoughts and best reflexions,
Are in her looking-glass.

But o'er her person most she muses,
And at her toilet purrs;
Yet sometimes by mistake confuses,
Another's spoons and hers.

Abstraction though of useless particles,
Her principles to reach,
Ends in abstracting alien articles,
Besides the parts of speech.

Her nerves at need are strong as iron,
When impulse holds its sway;
And then she goes to bed with Byron,
And gives Don Juan play.

We will not rashly raise the curtain,
Or shed a curious gleam;
Because we are a bit uncertain,
If there is but the dream.

450

And then there is the sacred mystery,
That seals such maiden nights;
Why ope that sacred page of history,
On shadowy robes and rites?

Though haply all the darkness covers,
Might be her dainty wraps;
Some locks of hair—but not a lover's,
No lips but—silver taps.

Then comes the day of various duties,
With rosy-fingered dawn;
That paints her cheeks with charming beauties,
And blushes not withdrawn.

And forth she goes on missions glorious,
To conquer fairer fields;
And ever vapouring and victorious,
New arms and objects wields.

To guide her she has magic crystals,
And balms for every scar;
Nor slights a powder-box and pistols,
To keep her foes afar.

Her bedroom is her strong position,
With warlike weapons set;
And when she wants fresh ammunition,
She makes a raid or debt.

The guns she points have heavy metal,
And there are shells to mount;
She knows the very shot to settle
Each onset and account.

Her boudoir teems with locks and letters,
With fractured fans and arms;
And here anew she forges fetters,
Or mends old chains and charms.

And here she notes insidious schisms,
Or at reunion tugs;
And hoards her strong cements and chrisms,
For broken hearts and jugs.

And she has chambers fenced and furnished,
Held under bar and ban;
And some with engines bright and burnished,
That mirror stars and—man.

And now the deadly lust of lucre,
She deems her tradesmen's doom;
And makes a pulpit or proseucha,
Of her reception-room.

451

And then in salons fresh and varnished,
She sees her worldly guests;
Or in a sanctum grimly garnished,
A prude or prelate rests.

She studies art for balls and dinners,
At least her person paints;
And now she is a saint with sinners,
A sinner now with saints.

And parlour wisdom lurks in whisky,
To move offending spots;
And sends her forth more fair and frisky,
To other brands and blots.

But then she is so blithe and nimble,
She soon repairs a stain;
And armed with thunderbolt and thimble,
Hies to the wars again.

She plays at cards and kindred pleasures,
While neighbours are in flames;
And sings among the tears she treasures,
The ruins of good names.

Such are her daily small diversions,
Backbiting's generous boon;
Though varied sometimes by excursions,
In science and the moon.

A little gardening now she favours,
Or mouths of model farms;
And now a surgeon is, and savours
Of broken legs and arms.

To-day she spends her hours in spinning,
Calumnious yarns, of course;
To-morrow she grows sick of sinning,
And plays at brief remorse.

Then fits of delicacy stop her,
And chords of candour strike;
She finds the Bible quite improper,
And truth unladylike.

But now she calls for chaste elision,
And coy and maiden deans;
To practise holy circumcision
On nude and naughty scenes.

Confession next when too auricular,
She visits with her hate;
And waxing more and more particular,
Thinks love indelicate.

452

And stern compunctions as to stockings,
With carnal promptings fight;
Misgivings as to midnight flockings,
In search of doubtful light.

A virgin scruple as to dancings,
Her modest bosom thrills;
And calls from captains' prurient prancings,
To cousins and quadrilles.

And then she takes to courses serious,
To making caps for friends;
And is most awful and mysterious,
About her kindly ends.

And next she has a bout of knitting,
New coats for scandal cold;
And is fastidious, as to fitting
Each little fib and fold.

IV.—HER RADICAL DEVELOPMENT.

As liberal is she as any,
And yet delights to dole;
And just to gain a point or penny,
Will lose her pound or soul.

She has her platforms of progression
With various views and jams;
And with a glorious indiscretion,
She rails at shifts and shams.

O have you heard her in the rostrum,
Declaim with bitter scorn;
And scream a new and simple nostrum,
For every fleshly thorn?

She has her ready furnished corners,
For all who suffer ills;
And for minorities and mourners,
Fresh parliaments and pills.

Her dream is of a common level,
When wrongs will lose their stings;
And man will hurry to the devil,
His cobwebs and his kings.

And in the darkness quite Egyptian.
That dawning climes would clog;
The suffrage is her sure prescription,
To set the world agog.

453

The franchise and the men who love it,
Her pitying spirit spans;
And as an ægis holds above it,
Her petticoats and plans.

In vain she swears to eat no supper,
Till each has bread and votes;
Till every damsel has her Tupper,
And all the cadgers coats.

She finds her crumbs of contributions,
Have less support than sound;
And breaks her fast and resolutions,
As every night comes round.

Cheap are her maxims for the masses,
That after fictions pant;
Red rags, that madden brutes and asses,
Of communes and of cant.

Nor does she fail to fling her babble,
At sacerdotal greed;
Nor do her fingers fear to dabble,
In any dirty deed.

She preaches pruning of pollutions,
And cutting to the quick;
And yet, with all her revolutions,
Faints at a needle's prick.

The caste distinctions we would cherish,
She harries with her hate;
And bids that poor abstraction perish,
Which stupid men call State.

Through others' fate she freely ranges,
With stern mutation's stress;
But she will never suffer changes,
Unless of duns and dress.

While pounds and views she vainly squanders,
And taunts high powers with pelf;
From bald prescription though she wanders,
When does she leave herself?

She gives good reformation lunches,
Where talk is fast and loose;
And dines with democratic crunches,
On guillotine and goose.

But first and last of all the courses,
And served with every meat,
Well spiced with sporting slang of horses,
Is her sweet sauce conceit.

454

Her Comte is always in her pocket,
And strange confusion stirs;
She shoots republics like a rocket,
Mid deans and dowagers.

For paupers she has ready rations
Cheap pity and police;
She pensions all her poor relations,
So much advice apiece.

What are connexions, does she clamour,
But parasites who grudge?
Espousing with indifferent grammar,
Fraternity and fudge.

She points to thankfulness, that savours
Of mercenary need;
The lively sense of future favours,
Of gratitude and greed.

Away she would with mere accretions,
That mar the general good:
And argues for the true cohesions,
Of common brotherhood.

Why have such wretched ties dividing,
That nobler instincts ban?
She opens wide her arms confiding,
To universal man.

What if she be a bit deluded
By agitation strikes?
The individual is excluded,
Their race is what she likes.

Of course the rule will sometimes vary,
To take exceptions on;
When she delights in John and Mary,
Especially in John.

And waxing deaf to dull orations,
That youthful yearnings flout;
She turns her back on cold negations,
If shutting “brothers” out.

Convention bars her large affinities,
With base restraints on wives;
Or dooms to virtues and virginities,
Poor women's barren lives.

But yet her words belie her actions,
Which often come out right;
Her soul is but a seat, where factions
Of wrong and reason fight.

455

And so sensations draw her hither,
While self-respect pulls back;
She sees her flowers and fancies wither,
Her heart and china crack.

And when to-day has lost its glamour,
She ranges through the years;
And hails the time when kings and grammar,
Will strike no foolish fears.

Beyond the billows of the present,
She sees a brighter port;
When even Parnells will be pleasant,
And bishops cease to snort.

Then statesmen will be true and tender,
Nor dogs and lawyers bite;
Then claimants be refined and slender,
And bloody Fenians white.

No courts divorces will adjudicate,
No churches dare to damn;
The Jesuit will lie down with Newdegate,
And lion graze with lamb.

On every side she sheds her graces,
And plays with secret springs;
She likes to pull at puppets' traces,
At heart and bonnet strings.

Vast is her vision of the nations,
When woman claims her due;
And to the rapturous revelations,
Her rouge-pots give a hue.

But still her heaven is Hyde Park Corner,
With powder, peers, and lace;
The country then, though none would mourn her,
She thinks the—other place.

She lets her crotchets do for reason,
And worships prigs and pugs;
And dearly loves to talk of treason,
Of Bradlaughs and of b*gs.

Her bouts she has of party ruffling,
And apes the Premier's pose;
And sees the end of Tory shuffling,
No farther than her nose.

Time-servers she receives with rating,
And scurvy trimming scorns;
And whets her knife, for amputating
Conservatives and corns.

456

Mere placemen she consigns to limbo,
Or makes them meals for mobs;
And with indignant arms akimbo,
Denounces Jews and jobs.

She leaves the knaves who twist and tumble,
And truckle every hour;
And bids them live and stink and stumble,
In perjury and power.

For worms of greed are growing bolder,
And seek in Senates meats;
While piecemeal politicians moulder,
And rot in royal seats.

In quest of revolution's powder,
In dubious soils she digs;
When sullied simply cries the louder,
For Windsor soap and Whigs.

She has a certain sort of knowledge,
Of all uncertain modes;
Her morals draw from camp and college,
Their sophistries and codes.

But if you try to sift her tenets,
They have no rhyme or rank;
Embracing Stopford Brookes and Bennetts,
And every mountebank.

She Irving thinks a glorious fact, or
Is Capel's honoured guest;
Opining each a perfect actor,
But Capel far the best.

Her views have yet one common measure,
Though with a method mad;
That in our old established treasure,
Whatever is—is bad.

While coupling rotten thing and royal,
She favours sounder pleas;
And calls it weakness to be loyal,
To any faith but fees.

Opinions quite as bold as Cato's,
She offers cut and dry;
Disease in patriots and potatoes,
Does not escape her eye.

She scoffs at military schooling,
That calls a desert peace;
And vows decided views on ruling,
By buckshot and police.

457

Sick Erin from her mate she sunders,
And soothes with landed sops;
And scatters thirty thousand thunders,
No rents, and lollipops.

Well versed is she in all the hobbies,
That folly brings in view;
The loves of placemen and of lobbies,
Republics' rosy hue.

She does not pipe without ideas,
If never quite her own;
And keeps her patent panaceas,
For every mess and moan.

But all, alas! are false and hollow,
And bred of bile and pelf;
And though she calls on us to follow,
She does not move herself.

They smell of midnight fumes and tallow,
Of bottled spite and Bass;
And prove as vain as they are shallow,
Gilt gingerbread and gas.

Her constitution is for cloisters,
Her paradise the pen;
Her measures not for states but oysters,
Or more for monks than men.

We see the stage and study taper,
And catch the well-known reek,
Of ink and print and foolscap paper—
Of Gladstone and his Greek.

The plans she has precise and handy,
For draining fens and bogs;
Elicits use and sugar candy,
From sewers and demagogues.

Sweet perfumes even from duns and dahlias,
She knows the art to press;
And draws from splendid fibs and failures,
True essence of success.

Her mind is wide, her wit is ready,
And ripe for port or pun;
And if a trifle over-heady—
Why, that is half the fun.

Her hands are ever quick to fiddle,
With human coats and chords;
She likes to finger every riddle,
And buttonholes her lords.

458

She has a lust for twilight mazes,
Unexpurgated books;
A stomach for strange fruits and phrases,
And cakes not known to cooks.

She styles Establishments corroded,
And even insipid love;
Theologies but dreams exploded,
That want a downward shove.

The claims she pleads of poor aspirants,
And cries that truth has flown;
That privilege is but for tyrants,
Excepting just her own.

She rails at feudal rags and fetters,
That blight where freedom blooms;
And hails the day, when so-called betters
Will wait upon their grooms.

A cheery word she has for Odger,
And pats him on the back;
And deems the devil and Sir Roger,
Are not so very black.

She keeps a whiskered Count and carriage,
A bishop and two pugs;
Holds Malthus better far than marriage,
And babies worse than b*gs.

She takes no trouble for the morrow,
Unless the beer goes sour;
Her platitudes and wardrobe borrow,
The rubbish of the hour.

What least she knows the most she honours,
Herself serenely piques
On spurious princes and Madonnas,
And yesterday's antiques.

All barbarous modes and bearded strangers,
Are foibles still she owns;
She revels long in bloody dangers,
And travels paved with bones.

From France she draws her dancing lesson,
Italians tune her voice;
A gentle German tries the dress on,
That Russia gives her choice.

A Pole with her is quite a passion,
The shadier be his shirt;
She swears by every foreign fashion,
That raises dust or dirt.

459

The chaste embraces of her garter,
An exiled patriot laves;
She finds a tonic in a Tartar,
A sedative in slaves.

And while her life is out a medley,
That rings the chimes of change;
Though this is dark and this is deadly,
She sticks to what is strange.

She covets as an educator,
The senatorial seat;
And stamps her startling imprimatur
On every cracked conceit.

And oft she argues with her fellows,
If babies should have votes;
While nameless nectar flows, and mellows
Their sweet and thirsty throats.

And folly's fabrics thinly shrouded
Her idle seasons knit;
Evolving systems weak and clouded,
From sorry wine and wit.

From Manchester come maxims rotten,
With goods of doubtful gear;
And propped on bales of cant and cotton,
She founds a fairer sphere.

She paints a new and nobler nation,
To ploughshares turning guns;
With joys of genial “cerebration,”
Attuned by port and puns.

Caressing all the forms of fiction,
From flower to flower she flits;
The sum of every contradiction,
She mocks and mourns by fits.

She loves to push her folly further,
Than those she calls to guide;
Who while they preach good news of murther,
Yet practise suicide.

Sweet is the “poetry of progress,”
With all its food for flats;
Which more unnatural than an ogress,
Devours its bastard brats.

Dear is the dupe in nonsense seething,
His weak and floundering wits;
Mistaking only mental teething,
For inspiration's fits.

460

When he should buy a penny rattle,
Stop singing through the nose;
And frighten with his tipsy tattle.
Old grandmothers and crows.

And still she seeks for fresh sensations,
New pulpits and new points;
And with strange strokes and combinations,
Her broken plans rejoints.

And now a friend to copes and cassocks,
She murmurs mystic sound;
And now she turns from tea and hassocks,
To slang the saints all round.

Hers is the superficial varnish,
That shines without a fire;
And hers the light-and grace that garnish,
Mere monuments of mire.

To lie with ease, and act a story
Equivocally good;
This is the climax of her glory,
The shame of womanhood.

And should she fail to hit the pigeon,
She does not miss the crow;
And tired of raptures and religion,
To billiards will she go.

She sees in Radical physicians,
A cure for Tory gout;
And when she cannot beat traditions,
She knocks the balls about.

But she prefers the fence of fancies,
The play of equal wits;
And turns from tedious games and dances,
To loftier hopes and hits.

The latest books her judgment pillow,
The wildest theories bind;
She traverses with breeze and billow,
The tideways of the mind.

She has her Mills and Herbert Spencers,
As pat as pat can be;
And prates of boilers and condensers,
And what it is to be.

In softer moods she has illusions,
Of rustic wealth and rank;
And dear deceits, with fond confusions,
Her pretty pictures prank.

461

Sweet fancies flit in flowery mazes,
Through her fair moonlit dreams;
Her visions are of deans and daisies,
Of counts and gliding streams.

But now her frequent revelation,
Finds “ethics” in “the dust”;
And grasps her grand imagination,
A kingdom in a crust.

She sees in each mad craze a credo,
And perished stars in stones;
In some poor dotard's daubs a Guido,
And poetry in bones.

Forth spring enchantments dim and docile,
Upon her magic stage;
And from a fragment or a fossil,
An elephant orage.

Just give her elbow-room and anvil,
And see the realms that rise;
From compromise she makes a Granville,
And Walpoles out of sighs.

And failing limping Whig and layman,
She has not far to haste;
From indiscretion comes a Hayman,
A Temple from bad taste.

Her strokes require no sort of planning,
Creations quickly grow;
And superstition breeds a Manning,
And littleness a Lowe.

While from a mist of wordy mufflings,
The king of cobblers hies;
And drifts, with shabby robes and shufflings,
In search of crowns and cries.

Vulgarity and bigot blunders,
A spitting Ayrton spawn;
And with weak jokes and weaker thunders,
Lo, trimming dressed in lawn.

For she has choicer bits to dish up,
And cattle fat to call;
From soap and water builds a bishop,
And from a stock a stall.

From rills of Plato rises Jowett,
With hoary jests and locks;
And obfuscation's ponderous poet,
Comes rushing from his rocks.

462

But should one doubt her fabries' crowning,
She takes in tears to bed;
Or hurls a heavy brick or Browning,
At his misguided head.

Yet all her smooth and flippant smatterings,
Are seeds but idly sown;
Her charms are cheaper than her chatterings,
And nothing is her own.

Then she has favourite sins and sauces,
To season hungry hours;
And never knows what real remorse is,
Save moods that surfeit sours.

A shrug she has for naughty graces,
A nod for jocks and grooms;
A pretty lisp for pretty faces,
A drawl for drawing-room.

But though she has her smiles by dozens,
How playful is her pout!
Which most rebellious nature cozens,
And wiles away the gout.

You see her at a certain distance,
And praise her pleasant guise;
What is she, stript of false assistance,
But impudence and eyes?

An amorous Jehu in the season,
She drives a team of loves;
And daily dons, with little reason,
New gallantries and gloves.

The gayest is her gilded carriage,
The freshest are her steeds;
And though she be averse to marriage,
She has provoking creeds.

Beside her, as attendant Cupid,
She seats a pretty page;
Her starry looks make suitors stupid,
And fail to ask her age.

She stores her ever-conquering quiver,
With each well tested shaft;
Knows when to burn and when to shiver,
And how a lie to waft.

Yes, all that's vulgar, cheap, and odious,
She gathers as her tools;
Caresses ardent, lips commodious,
And tender traps for fools.

463

But soon she quits the softer science,
And turns to broader fields;
Sets all her sisters at defiance,
And manly weapons wields.

She takes her seat with sapient guessers,
Who wondrous questions woo;
Makes friends of problems and professors,
Herself a problem too.

For, lo, she trains a mind prolific,
And has her loftier hours;
When she is sad and scientific,
And flings aside her flowers.

And yet, whatever be her poses,
There's oneness in her will,
And if she plays with rags or roses,
She is a woman still.

Her quibbles never raise a question,
More grave than fancy's grudge;
But half her doubts are indigestion,
And half are merely fudge.

Although she brags the march of Learning,
Will tenfold make our joys;
And forces now our bridle spurning,
Will be our children's toys.

But when she drops her rôle rhapsodic,
And vivisects her dogs;
She is as musty and methodic,
As twenty catalogues.

She raves of “energy” and “function,”
And pigeonholes each power;
The holiest hopes, with no compunction,
She makes dissection's dower.

Her views are bound in calf and vellum,
And ranged in order stand;
She murmurs of the “cerebellum,”
And of the “pineal gland.”

And every tissue she can ticket,
To which her faith to pin;
But keeps a transcendental wicket,
To let emotion in.

Of nerves she makes no reservation,
To stay the prying lens;
And falls in love with “innervation,”
And “ganglia”—chiefly men's.

464

She shows how chymistry is blowing.
And makes the dunghill bud;
The highest tide of reason's flowing,
Its watermark of mud.

And tracing garbage up to butter,
Or art from excrements;
She sings the gospel of the gutter,
And sewage sentiments.

Such is the circle of production,
That grinds our bones for bread;
And by a rather quaint refluxion,
Makes capital the dead.

Of progress often is her prattle,
And eke of woman's rights;
And from receipts for fattening cattle,
She draws no faint delights.

She decks her speech with purple patches,
Of metaphysic clothes;
And salves her controversial scratches,
With good round classic oaths.

One creed she calls a shameful shackle,
And hers are by the score;
She laughs at Convocation's cackle,
And bishops made to bore.

Of wit in cellar or in attic,
She feels an envy strange;
Episcopalian or schismatic,
With every breath of change.

For when does Genius have its lodgings,
In any middle sphere?
It creeps by grim and devious dodgings,
From pavement unto bier.

Now it's advanced in views and splutter,
And Nonconformist greed;
First puffs, then scrapes its bread and butter,
For every mortal need.

Yea, even in sleep it fain would snivel,
And dreams of dirty jobs;
And builds of lies and sties and drivel,
Its paradise of snobs.

It seeks a sermon in a bottle,
And cites Eusebius next;
Or to discourse from Aristotle,
Anacreon gives the text.

465

We see it sane and singing dirges,
In surplice or in bands;
Or rushing on erotic surges,
Unto the Siren's lands.

We know it drinks as deep of Bass's,
As of the waters wise;
And meet it marching after asses,
Or catch its prophecies.

We find it as a hedgerow artist,
On whom no sun has shone;
Or out of elbows as a Chartist,
With occupation gone.

But here it wallows in the gutter,
And makes the mud its mint;
And there we hear its drunken stutter,
In pothouse or in print.

And now it hoists more holy pennants,
Discarding dice and beer;
And prays till all Bohemia's tenants,
Come rushing out to hear.

But then it sweeps the road of party,
And sweats the Whigs and stones;
And swears, with affectation hearty,
At threadbare clouts and thrones.

And if, when hunger makes its entry,
It kicks at Custom's fence;
'Tis fed and clothed, with other gentry,
At Government expense.

At times it pawns its shirt and honour,
To dine for once at ease;
Or is as bloody as a Bonner,
And murders on its knees.

Our mistress has a prurient yearning,
For talent lame or lewd;
And still embraces outcast learning,
Though it be sometimes nude.

She has her idols, by the token
That some are silver spoons;
And likes her days and darlings broken,
Eclipse of men and moons.

466

HER RELIGIOUS RELAXATIONS.

She has her lapdog and her lion,
Pet curate and pet cat;
And smells, within the walls of Sion,
A heresy or rat.

No wonder deems she, doubts that enter
Are moving devilish fast;
The Devil was the first dissenter,
But who will be the last?

She knows not how the Grand Old Tory
Looks down on party strife;
And reads the lame and lying story,
Of dead religion's life.

When well she is a daring sceptic,
And steps where Huxley stands;
Devout as any when dyspeptic,
She gives the Church her hands.

And with the Vicar then she lingers.
To cheer his single soul;
And lets him fiddle with her fingers,
Or sigh of soup and coal.

For there are seasons when she falters,
And finds free thought a snare;
And will replace with saints and psalters,
False friendships and false hair.

And should a dun or toothache weaken,
The charms of worldly chat;
She singles out in some archdeacon
Most foolishness and fat.

The crown and glory of conversion,
To him she briefly lends;
And tempers hope, with hate's aspersion
Of all her bosom friends.

The saint, who must condemn transgression,
Will beauties find to bless;
And he who comes to hear confession,
May linger to caress.

But then her faith is young and tender
And he must soothe her soul;
And though he censure the offender,
He also should condole.

467

Besides, she is but a beginner,
And charity has place;
And while it may not touch the sinner,
The woman will embrace.

A littlé penance is sweet leaven,
And goes a mighty way;
To trip with such a guide to heaven
Is better than a play.

The farther fetched, the more ascendant,
The burden of her part;
A Baptist now, then Independent,
She hugs the Church at heart.

But then, like Eve, she sees the apple,
Forbidden fruits are sweet;
She takes a bite, and goes to chapel;
And tires both faith and feet.

She sips the sweets of every fashion,
From rural deans their dew;
And deals a measure of compassion,
To Gentile dog and Jew.

And fits she has of fish and starving,
Remembering all but self;
And leaves the flesh and worldly carving,
To shiver on the shelf.

Her debts she counts, and ponders payment,
And settles some that urge;
Yet, changing not her heart but raiment,
Is sensual under serge.

Of sermons dull she makes selections,
And dines on broth and bills;
Takes to dry toast and genuflexions,
To penitence and pills.

She turns to candlesticks and crosses,
From gaslights and from legs;
And broods on gloves and betting losses,
Or addled hopes and eggs.

In search of new and grave sensations,
She broiders stools and stoles;
And broadcast heaves illuminations,
In chaste and virtuous scrolls.

But in the atmosphere of slippers,
Her fingers love to range;
Cut ties and knots with holy clippers,
And find a rapture strange.

468

Then seeking refuge in the Rector,
She melts his breast with tears;
He claims the right to be protector,
And o'er his glasses leers.

Farewell she bids to lusts and larder,
And feigns their spells have ceased;
And bends her eyes with holy ardour
Upon her handsome priest.

His ear she charms and then confesses,
All scandals she can score;
And if he frowns at her excesses,
She tries her tender store.

She mourns she was the dupe of folly,
That those who serve it robs;
And storms his virtue with the volley
Of little sighs and sobs.

Prepared she is to pay for error,
Sweet dishes and sweet drinks;
If he, with all his eyebrows' terror,
At some pet vices winks.

She bows demurely to the sentence,
And takes her pinch of pain;
Performs with relish her repentance,
And goes and—sins again.

HER SAD RELAPSE.

But then she gibes at priests' oppression,
And knaves who kneel for hire;
Plucks off the bloom of indiscretion,
And minces in the mire.

She likes her wine in brimming glasses,
New gospels and good cheer;
And keenly condemnation passes,
On pulpits and small beer.

Religion she remits to table,
With grace and slops and soups;
And boasts, though more the fool of fable,
Her faith in scales and scoops.

True orthodoxy lies in Science,
And not in worn-out robes;
So deems she, with her gross reliance,
On pincers and on probes.

469

She bows to all the last inventions,
Strange gods of pot and pan;
And wields, with elegant intentions,
Her scalpel and her fan.

And now her worship shows us wonders,
That never were before;
Devotions that are worse than blunders,
And make what they adore.

A sermon draws she from a soaking,
Although the text be stale;
And staggers, from a bout of smoking,
More penitent and pale.

But then affecting sorrow's unction,
She goes again to Church;
Confesses sins, with no compunction,
Her neighbours more to smirch.

And so she has a rank rotation,
Of crops for ever fresh;
A sad and sickening oscillation,
From fanatics to flesh.

She goes to laugh at breezy Spurgeon,
But comes away with cries;
And for a week she has the surgeon,
And daily weeps and dies.

Convictions are abominations,
To such a fickle mind;
She acts on sudden inspirations,
Of vanity and wind.

She knows no principle for guiding,
But that of private ease;
No hearty love, or hate abiding—
Except of fools and fleas.

And yet she has a creed or crotchet,
She often likes to own;
A wild belief, howe'er she botch it,
In all that is unknown.

The wonders of the future widen,
On her ecstatic gaze;
When every driveller is a Dryden,
And honoured every craze.

Then music will be all our morals,
And sentiments our fees;
Our babes will have their Comtes and corals,
Their Tennysons and teas.

470

Good things she liberally offers,
In politics and pap;
And empties out her neighbours' coffers,
In every pauper's lap,

Of wings and wisdom is she lavish,
To all who cannot fly;
And feels an awful joy, to ravish
A virgin theory.

She has her charitable gushes,
And rags and ruffians courts;
And unto broth and blankets rushes,
When she is out of sorts.

Her outspread hand is never sparing,
Of others' goods at least;
And makes of all its pious paring,
A philantrophic feast.

Her heart is open to the pleading,
Of each improving plan;
She loves a little friendly bleeding,
When it is tried on—man.

She tells the fop to cede his locket,
If he can give no cash;
And picks a rosebud or a pocket,
With equal ease and dash.

She victimizes even the miser,
And bids his guineas drop;
And leaves the simpleton a wiser,
But not a richer, crop.

And with his plumage parts the dandy,
The glutton with his fat;
She has a programme always handy,
And reasons prim and pat.

And if he is not quite a statue,
What can a mortal do?
To one who throws Kamschatka at you,
And on it Timbuctoo?

But then she wearies of her notion,
Or finds some fatal leak;
And flies to dinners from devotion,
From begging to Bésique.

She has an ear for lovers' trouble,
And Continental jars;
And blows a kiss or warlike bubble,
To Venus or to Mars.

471

Astronomy is never slighted,
When she is one of two;
Nor does she dread to be benighted,
If Cupid holds the clue.

She notes the ebb and flow of nations,
And individual pests;
Compound and simple oscillations,
Of particles and breasts.

Each doctrine of the day she dockets,
With its appropriate mark;
And fresh impertinences pockets,
That flourish in the dark.

Our wooden walls she turns to faggots,
And blasts time-honoured stones;
Unfolds the mysteries of maggots,
And lisps of laws and bones.

She saps with smiles the solid floorings,
On which our fathers trod;
And drifts us from the ancient moorings,
That anchor man to God.

And if her course be somewhat heady,
She always finds a guide;
And is for either fortune ready,
A romp or regicide.

And then with sad and sapient presage,
She cleaves the coming storm;
And wrings from time its funeral message,
The future's final form.

But in the rising of redressers,
She partial comfort finds;
And swears by pipeclay and professors,
And milliners of minds.

She sings of Truth's refined attrition,
That moulds the meanest lot;
The solemn march and imposition,
Of calicoes and rot;

The splendid vice and spurious blurtings,
Of retrograde advance;
The charms of reason and of shirtings,
Of roast beef and romance;

The iron grip of Law, that throttles
The native's noble stay;
And monuments of broken bottles,
That bound imperial sway;

472

The coarse machinery for schooling
Fair freedom's struggling flower;
That mark a taste for rum and ruling,
With no backbone of power;

The spawn of claptrap's last abortions,
That preaches peace and rape;
And evolution's grim contortions,
That grind us into shape.

Afar she scents the coming schisms,
In parliaments and powers;
Says juries are anachronisms,
And judges leaning towers.

She sees the rifts of institutions,
In every bench and board;
And of the Comtist resolutions,
She keeps a ready hoard.

With wit from clubs and racing courses,
Her tongue is ever tart;
The things she damns she yet endorses,
And worships kings at heart.

She talks of headsmen and of axes,
And goes the same to Court;
Inveighs against the grinding taxes,
And pays though funds are short.

She calls oppressors food for faggots,
But thinks their cellars right;
She despots deems a meal for maggots,
And dines with them at night.

She vows that exile is for traitors,
And likes them rather nigh;
Terms gallows glorious educators,
And would not hurt a fly.

She chants the charms of lower classes,
But owns their odour bad;
Upholds the sovereignty of masses,
And could not touch a cad.

And while she breathes her fiery vaunting,
She screams should peril press;
And though she rails at waste, is flaunting
A fifty-guinea dress.

And then she weeps at wicked factions,
But picks from party store;
And mourns for rulers' gross exactions,
Yet screws her servants more.

473

THE TRANSFORMATION AND ANTI-CLIMAX.

But when she turns a tearful ranter,
And wails at statesmen's guile!
'Tis not distress but the decanter,
And less belief than bile.

And should she play at crime or treason,
The only cure is this—
To catch her in a softer season,
And conquer with a kiss.

And if she still her logic presses,
Then praise her hair and eyes;
And answer reasons with caresses,
Or arguments with sighs.

But should she yet have grievance cases,
Then smile her cares away;
And fight her fears with more embraces,
And doubt with love allay.

And matrimony then will smother,
Her discontented tone;
And when she is a wife and mother,
She will respect the Throne.

Her nursery too will teach her grammar,
When that republic comes;
And little radicals will clamour,
For rights and sugar plums.

And then the ending of the story,
Will strike the well-known chord;
And leave her truckling as a Tory
To her three-bottle lord.

“At the Paris Working Men's Peace Conference Arch spoke of France as still an Empire, in August, 1875!!”

474

POLITICAL POEMS.

QUEEN VICTORIA, 1887.

God bless our gracious Queen,
Who blest to us has been,
Through hopes and fears;
To labourer's lowly spade,
To soldier's battle blade,
In sunshine and in shade,
These fifty years.
God bless the Queen.

God bless our noble Queen,
In perils hid or seen,
In earthquake throes;
Victorious make her power,
Be unto her a Tower,
Though tempests darkly lower,
Against her foes.
God bless the Queen!

God bless our gentle Queen,
Whose Court's unspotted sheen,
Our beacon is;
Whose fair and lofty life,
As woman, mother, wife,
In stillness and in strife,
Was ever His.
God bless the Queen!

God bless our blameless Queen,
Her judgment sword make keen,
If fall it must;
Love be her Royal dress—
Her armour for distress,
Her breastplate righteousness,
Her buckler trust.
God bless the Queen!

God bless our loving Queen,
From scathe and evil screen,
Her happy throne;
Her head with glory crown,
And send her history down,
Written in true renown
Not crumbling stone.
God bless the Queen!

475

God bless our honoured Queen,
Preserve her memory green,
As England's soil;
Let song her triumph swell,
To children's children tell,
She wisely ruled and well,
And shared our toil.
God bless the Queen!

God, who is ever King,
Bless her and treasures bring,
Earth can but feign;
Make over sea and land,
Which lie within His hand,
Her people as the sand,
And by her reign.
God bless the Queen!

HOW THEY GOVERN US.

Two cronies were they and yet one,
That sat upon the stile,
As they for ages now had done—
It seemed a little while;
They sat upon the stile, because
It could not sit on them,
And talked of lollipops and laws,
And each new theorem;
Why little babes have little teeth,
Within their gums to bite,
And what's Society, beneath
Its sugar plums and spite.

They sat upon that ancient stile,
Awaking and in sleep,
It pleased the Popinjay to smile,
The Nincompoop to weep;
The Popinjay he smiled so long,
As often as he durst;
That soup and sentiments went wrong,
And every button burst;
He smiled, as one who fondly thinks
He backs the winning steed,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Came running out to feed.

That painted Popinjay was wise,
And scattered crumbs of wit,
Blue-books and precedents and pies,
That sometimes someone hit;

476

Benevolent and bland, he joked
At very good mammas,
Drank deep his neighbour's wine and smoked
Only his best cigars;
He saw the saint and sinner both
Were brothers off the stage,
How party ends determined troth,
And smiled upon the Age.

They talked of every rising pup,
In their peculiar way,
Why Irish noses will turn up,
And Irish patriots bray;
They wondered if the moon were cheese,
And maiden's eyes were stars,
Or why poor Poland made us sneeze,
And Cabinets had jars;
How Gladstone was, like famous bards,
In twenty places born,
Or gave but telegrams and cards,
And kicked at facts in scorn.

It did appear a curious fate,
None counted more than ten,
All dinner put before the State,
And measures after men;
While rulers, who a country led,
Though playing fast and loose,
Would take a Continent to bed,
And followed some sweet goose;
None cared for principles, but power
Or just the filthy pay,
To buzz and sting one little hour,
Or stack a little hay.

They marvelled, sages ran about
From fancy shops to farms,
And left their citadels without
The money and the arms;
And when the house was burning quite,
They quarreled about names,
And parties could not then unite
To quench the killing flames;
And how the leaders talked, and slid
Off with the dinner bell,
Then talked again and nothing did,
But did that very well.

Good Mrs. Grundy sometimes came,
To have a cup of tea
And tattle, or a quiet game
Of fiddle-diddle-dee;

477

She knew the proper thing to do,
In any time of stress,
And had such proper feelings too,
Behind her black silk dress;
The Popinjay, that best of men,
By her was sweetly wiled,
And, if she cheated now and then,
Yet only more he smiled.

They often made their neighbours' beds,
With thorns and ginger beer,
Or danced a hornpipe on their heads,
When nobody was near;
They played at war and stately tricks
Esteemed in camps and courts,
Puss-in-the-corner, politics,
And other little sports;
For Mrs. Grundy loved high jinks,
If they were but discreet,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks,
Sat gaping at her feet.

And still the Nincompoop would weep,
Whatever they might do,
He wept to farmers about sheep,
he wept to lace his shoe;
He wept because the crops were good,
He wept if they were bad,
He wept that no one understood
Who wrote the Iliad;
He wept because great England's Bank
A beggar's balance kept,
If judges cups of sherry drank—
As coffee-still he wept.

But yet upon the stile they sat,
That shut their treasures in,
The Popinjay was nice and fat,
The Nincompoop was thin;
His tears went flowing fast, he knew
His precious life was brief,
He saw but men and manners, through
His pocket handkerchief;
Although he had a patriot taste,
And throve on women's fears,
And pretty orphans loved to baste,
Behind his veil of tears.

The Popinjay he worked the State,
By subtle words and wire,
And fed it from a dirty plate
With maxims of the mire;

478

He made the silly puppets dance,
To every air he chose,
And called it only dear romance,
When treading on their toes;
He beamed on all with gracious blinks,
He beamed for many a mile,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Kept basking in his smile,

The Nincompoop, he plied the Church
With platitudes and pills,
And left the people in the lurch
To nothing but the bills;
But then he wept at their distress,
And wrung his reverend hands,
And tore his hair which still grew less,
While forging firmer bands;
He wept, and bade them only wipe
The outside of the dish,
And collared (with a casual pipe)
The fairest of the fish.

A rather festive time they spent,
Betwixt them and the pot,
In playing games of Government
And loo and idiot;
Champagne and oysters every day,
And likewise every night,
That wretched patriots had to pay,
Toiling with all their might;
Admiring crowds, an easy seat
In which they sweetly slept,
And practised how to drink and eat,
Or simply smiled and wept.

They talked of scandals, how Lord This
Made love to Lady That,
Who sold a kingdom for a kiss,
A rosebud and a cat;
How noodle Jack was made a peer,
And Tom enriched his shelf
By brewing fools the famous beer,
He never touched himself;
But if a creature passed, that, lo,
Had some productive frame,
They thought it sinful it should go
As heavy as it came.

It seemed a shabby trick, the twain
Should milk their neighbour's goat,
But Mrs. Grundy hid their gain
Behind her petticoat;

479

You see, she always made it right,
By her decorous dress,
That covered every sort of plight,
From killing to caress;
And then the Popinjay was fat,
He hoped for better days,
Passed round his comprehensive hat,
And solid went for stays.

It idle were, to tell the plans
By which they conquering went,
With mops and sops and kitchen pans,
That pair benevolent;
Though daring people said, the stile
Ere long would topple down,
For all the Popinjay might smile,
And crack some person's “crown”;
They fenced their power with further links,
And deeper struck its roots,
And all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Made blacking for their boots.

They always left a sort of loop,
By which they might recede,
The Popinjay and Nincompoop,
For they were wise indeed;
They had a useful box of salve,
To soothe the bitter brunt,
If ever through that safety-valve,
They made their exeunt;
'Twas wrought of butter and of jam,
Of legal writs that squash
Unpleasant things, mint-sauce and lamb—
And not unknown as Bosh!

They held a big Umbrella too,
Though badly soiled and seamed,
And a tall cock-a-doodle-doo,
That on his dunghill screamed;
Beneath that patched and palsied roof
Of soap and artful lies,
Flocked creatures that lived else aloof,
And called it compromise;
Their genius, which was highly paid,
Turned little what was great,
And fiddled over it—some said,
That dunghill was the State.

Their purpose was, to humour folks
With promises and buns,
With pretty toys and prurient jokes,
Or something new in guns;

480

To pledge whatever they might ask,
Who liked a thumping tale,
And running keep a goodly cask
Of soporific ale;
And so they choked Lord Randolph's lynx,
And members armed with maps,
While all the tiny Tiddlywinks
Fed humbly on their scraps.

POLITICS.

If you have a son, believing
Simply what he thinks will pay,
Scoffer, sceptic past retrieving.
But in siokness known to pray—
One who loves the true and solemn
Never, save for social need,
With the money-market column
Frames his temple out of greed—
One whose glory is to question
Pennies on the Gospel spent,
Pounds to give his d---d digestion—
Push him into Parliament.

If you have a son, so stupid
That he cannot learn at school,
Blind to his own faults as Cupid,
Just an utter downright fool—
One who scarcely knows his letters,
Always bottom of his class,
Hates and ridicules his betters,
But will follow any ass—
One who never grasped a notion,
Though as plain as man's descent,
Yet would back the wildest metion—
Push him into Parliament.

If you have a son, whose knowledge
Lies where vice and vermin creep,
Publicly expelled from college,
Very black among black sheep—
One who shines in dealing shady,
Blown by any doubtful wind,
Would an infant strike or lady,
Leads into the ditch the blind—
One who likes his cards and cheating,
Loaded dice and other tricks,
While you bet upon his beating,
Let him play at Politics.

481

If you have a son, a selfish
Seeker, deaf to other's pain,
Shut from duty as a shell-fish,
Opening unto nought but gain—
One who greedy is, and grovels
Down among the vilest mates,
Nursed on neighbours' wine and novels,
Rinsings out of dirty plates—
One who souses in the meanest
Mess, the boot avenging licks,
Happy only when uncleanest,
Let him roll in Politics.

If you have a son, who lying
Always on a settled plan,
Prejudice like truth defying,
Scorns to be an honest man—
One whose falsehoods too are clever,
Troubled not by pangs of gout,
Conscience often called, and never
In his worst excess found out—
One who laughs at honour's holding,
And against decorum bent,
He has got a statesman's moulding—
Push him into Parliament.

If you have a son, a trial
Daily, with the lips that store
Platitudes, nor take denial,
Grown a nuisance and a bore—
One who but delights to dabble
In the oldest tales and freaks,
Whose unceasing aimless babble
Empties rooms, whene'er he speaks—
One who, with the same dull paces,
Dances to the same intent,
Fossil cant and common-places—
Push him into Parliament.

482

If you have a son, a laggard
Proved in each respected line,
Though a ripe and ready blackguard,
Swilling from the trough of swine—
One who brazen is of feature,
Big and blatant in his voice,
Cruel unto every creature
In his service, and by choice—
One who sins and sins with unction,
And at deed of mercy sticks,
Never felt an hour's compunction—
Let him stew in Politics.

If you have a son, in revel
Still unsoiled and loving right,
Whom the world and flesh and Devil
Hitherto have failed to blight—
One who helpful is and human,
Whom the wine-cup cannot drown,
Strong against the arts of woman,
That might drag an angel down—
One who finely fills his station,
Building not with others' bricks—
If for him you seek damnation,
Let him plunge in Politics.

If you have a son, devoted
Mainly to the village pub,
Fond of gossip, and denoted
Bad by every decent club—
One who burns the midnight candle,
Rank with nameless orgies' reek,
Trumpet of the last new scandal
Bringing blushes to the cheek—
One who all your care has úndone,
Ruining your fame and rent,
Good for the worst club in London—
Push him into Parliament.

If you have a son, whose idle
Hands are always doing harm,
Kept not in by bit and bridle
Known to the paternal arm—
One who will not toil, or study
Useful things that cost him pains,
Wipes on you and carpets, muddy
Shoes and actions that leave stains—
One who spoils your nags' condition,
Fires with wild cigars your ricks—
He may yet lead Opposition,
Let him work at Politics.

483

A PERSONAGE IN POLITICS.

1

He read the Sunday lessons in his church,
He cut down trees and took to conjuring tricks,
He always left his comrades in the lurch,
Worked hard with toys, and played at politics.

2

A statesman without principle or plan,
A patriot who laid low his country's flag,
Great as a babbler, sophist, charlatan,
He left behind him but his “Gladstone Bag.”

3

An antiquary, casuist, divine,
He knew some sort of Greek, a little Latin,
Betrayed his brethren and his base design,
And (when once out) he could not get the cat in.

4

He loved of church and theatre to sip,
Protested foul was fair and night was day,
Knew every mortal thing but statesmanship,
And bullied bravely and then ran away.

5

He only had one friend—the “Daily News,”
He let no pledge his glorious freedom bind,
He hated honour, empire, truth, and Jews—
The cleverest, shiftiest, smallest of mankind

6

He failed to stand because on rotten ground,
He could not walk and yet attempted flying,
His life was noted less for sense than sound,
But the best thing he ever did was—dying.

7

He tried at every trade and failed in all,
He squandered goods that filled his neighbour's shelf,
He found a nation great and left it small,
And millions ruled who could not rule himself.

8

He trimmed and twisted, quibbled, sense defied,
Explained, distinguished, what he said denied,
He pawned his conscience for Iscariot's place,
And wove his glory of a world's disgrace.

9

He served his country while it served his ends.
To keep the traitors whom he called his friends,
And was so deeply moved by Erin's fate,
He chucked his brother's gold into the plate.

10

He changed his views with every passing gust,
He covered all he touched with dirt or dust,
Betrayed his fellows, stolen booty gave,
And paid his servants with the sack or grave.

484

11

He talked and talked but never did a thing,
He fiddled loudly upon every string,
His love of morning was the evening's hate,
His actions always (even his death) too late.

12

The slave of feeling, enemy to fact,
He broke his party, cause, and every fact,
Deserted all his friends, and lived and lied,
And only when his venom failed him died.

13

He sold his soul to get a bloody power,
With his own hand his comrades' funeral rung,
For lasting shame he won a triumph hour,
And over England's ashes piped and sung.

14

Shifting and drifting, shuffling on he erred,—
Office to honour, victory to right,
And party still to principle preferred—
Till cursing yet he sank in native night.

15

He picked the poor man's pocket, filled his own,
Who left a sullied flag, an empty purse;
He reaped the evil vanity had sown,—
To Church and State, allies and all, a curse.

16

He loved with passion—but he loved his own,
He laboured hard—but for the Judas pelf,
He knew all-save the duty left unknown,
He worshipped greatly—but it was himself.

17

He swore that black was white and ill was good,
Until the doom of blindness grew his fate,—
While fabries fell, that once augustly stood—
True to the last, the Devil's advocate.

18

He took the colour of the time and spot,
Pulled up his plans before they struck their roots,
Tied fast some purpose to untie the knot,
Imprisoned scoundrels first—then blacked their boots.

HOME CURED.

Long upon her suffering bed she lay,
Ever doctors came and doctors went,
Felt her pulse, prescribed a better way,
Dosed her, bled her, with the best intent—
Drugged her, drenched her, for her numerous ills,
Lavished medicines that they never took,
Gave heroic parliamentary pills,
All the remedies they learnt from book—

485

Poulticed, blistered, bandaged, picked her up,
Fumigated, tickled, pulled her down,
Stuffed her platter, filled her brimming cup,
Starved her, stript her, robbed of every crown.

Still her miserable bed she kept,
While each novice proved his 'prentice hand
On her wounds, and each reformer wept
Tears of anguish for the wretched land—
Swore they could and would the troubles mend,
Wherewith her afflicted frame was rife,
Big with theories to the bitter end
And at any cost—if it were life;
Bound to show the beauty of their skill
On the helpless body, they were sure
Art at least could elegantly kill,
If it did not happen quite to cure.

Strange to say, her sickness never ceased,
Though physicians all their cunning tried,
And as they in numbers yet increased,
Her diseases somehow multiplied;
Till from head to foot with bitter pain
Racked, she shook and groaned in fever sore,
While her piteous cries appealed in vain,
And the burden grew upon her more.
What the matter might be, it was clear
No one knew and no one truly cared;
If they all agreed to charge her dear,
And the gains from her misfortune shared.

Whigs and Tories, Radicals, and those
Who are champions of the wronged and poor,
Plied their trades about her as they chose,
And kept sweetly knocking at her door;
While the patient low and lower sank,
Weak and weaker turned, despoiled of wealth,
As her lovers prospered, ate, and drank
To the prospect of her better health,
Till, at last, the invalid got vext,
At the promises that lied and lured,
Took a preacher with a different text,
Saved her bacon and became Home Cured.

A CRY FROM THE GUTTER.

“Wot's the evenin news, me matey? Tell us;
Fur it's offul heer aloän,
Whon ther's summut broken in yer bellus,
An the mischief be unknoän;

486

Whan yer vice be loike a fiddle scrapin,
With a wheezin whustlin soun;
Or a rusty hinge as hangs, a shapin
Fur ter dror itsel aroun.

“Docter bin—ar knowed he were a cummin,
Cause the dip med coffin shells;
An ther were a curous kinder strummin
In me earn, loike funeral bells.
An he says, says he, “It's mainly pinin,
As is pinchin yer, ole chap;
An yer westcut wants a better linin,
Leastways not the loikes o' pap.

““Aint yer got no friends, excep the parrish,
As ken tide yer over this,
That yer croaks loike bull-frogs in a marrish?
Whar's yer clargy maam or miss?”
“An he larfs, “Ye've sich a constitootion,
As should be a Briton's pride,
Loike Ole England's, wuss fur Rivolootion,
An the rats that gnaws inside.”

“Thin he tries me tongue, an pokes his fisties
In me ribs an on me back;
Taks his watch (all gole) an feels me wristies,
Till the verra sinews crack.
“Wall,” says he, “ar knows a barn-door creakin,
Bets the beauties wot goes fast;
Pull yer through ar wull, if with some squeakin,
But this time muss be the last.”

—“Wot d'ye says? Mor fellers in the gutter,
Sacked, an by thez furrin blokes,
Prigs our bread, mate—let aloän the butter,
Whither we go hang an chokes?
Plague on thim, an cusses on the mortals
As is huntin north an south
Fur the labour, pinin at ther portals,
Takin food frum childer's mouth.

“Whoy doant furrin chappy stick ter his'n,
Kip hez crack-jaw lingo ter hez kin?
Whoy be ourn the poor-house or the prison,
If we're lucky ter creep in?
An ther aint no kinder use o' cryin
Fur the money, or a male—
Cep fur maggots, whan it coom ter dyin;
Yer ken on'y starve or stale.

487

“Seem ter me, ther muss be summut rottin,
In a country loike this heer;
Whan it's flesh and blood is all furgottin,
An the stranger drinks its beer.
Seem ter me, as this poor bleedin nation,
That they tickles jist with straws,
Wants a precious sight o' alteration,
In its leaders or its laws.

“Ar were allers peaceful, hated brawlin,
Niver keered as some ter roäm;
But ar doant loike an woant hev this crawlin,
Shunted out of house an hoäm.
Vittels we muss git, an fur our labour,
As shan't thus a-beggin lie;
Is't our guv'nors' duty ter ther neighbour,
If they lets un drop an die?

“Times is bad, in coorse, but hearts aint better,
If the bizness limp in chains;
It's the charity wot feel the fetter,
An ther's rogues as pockets gains.
Makin ev'ry 'lowance fur the saison,
Yet if 'ployers work ken give
Furrin hands, it sure-ly stan ter raison,
Us has stronger right ter live.

“Wot's the wuth of all yer rates an taxes,
Whan yer brother han't a boän?
If fur but a pauper's crust he axes,
An yer gives the pavement stoän?
Ah, ther's summut wrong as cries fur mendin,
'Pears ter pass our bosses' skill,
Though a million voices votes its endin;
If they woant, the people will.

SPUNKY TIM,

OR THE LAST OF THE CHARTISTS.

I were niver wot yer might call a scholar;
An I aint no better now;
But I knows the wuth of the cussèd dollar,
An am kinder fond of a row—
Won the coats goes off, an the stones comes flyin,
Like the hail in a winter morn—
Won the women weeps an the kids is crying—
Fur I were ter the manner born.

488

And I fust seed light in a London cellar,
Won the wolf howled at the gate,
Won the Chartist boys raised the red umbreller,
In the glorious forty-eight.
An I hearn the tale, not frum lyin journals
As is paid fur party spells,
But frum lads that cracked the nuts fur kernels,
Though they only got the shells.
It were fine an fast while the runnin lasted,
But the pace too hot ter stay;
Yet they singed the bigwigs they'd ha blasted,
If they'd gone the proper way.
An the nobs turned out, an that Frenchy feller,
Louis Nap frum cross the flood,
Who went in ter fight with his face all yeller,
Got the tiger taste fur blood.
I remember that April, by thes token,
As I entered the earth too quick,
An my dad had his smellin-bottle broken,
By a blow frum a special's stick.
But he says, says he, that he were a martyr,
And the wuld were out of joint;
While he med me swear ter keep the Charter,
An ter stan by every point.
An I kep it wull, in spite of hunger,
Though it niver did me no good,
An I b'lieved it too won days was younger,
With the faith as is human food.
An a hate fur them bloated upper classes,
With ther clothes-pegs of gran silk,
With ther jewelled swine an crownèd asses,
I sucked in with my mother's milk.
So the times wagged on, an I were at seven
Fur a rivolootion ripe:
An I dreamed my dreams of the Chartist heaven,
As I puffed at my daddy's pipe.
Thin they brought in a Bill ter starve us under,
An ter stop the Sunday trade;
An they mistook it fur the Jedgment thander,
Cause a pulpit donkey brayed.
So we rose agin at Dicky Grosvenor,
I went out myself that June,
An I lef my mark (as they calls a sovenir),
While we danced the Devil's tune;
Fur we smashed no end of palace winders,
An we riddled Grosvenor Place;
An if it was not chawed up ter cinders,
'Twern't us as given it grace.
Fur the fire it hung an only sputtered,
An the flame it would not stick;

489

But poor Dicky Grosvenor's bread were buttered,
With the broken glass an brick.
Ther were thin a long dead starvin quiet,
An they offered us sugared sops;
As if men would rest content ter diet,
On the likes of lollipops.
But it were no use ter tickle ailins,
While we lay in that slavish fix,
An we walked slap over Hyde Park railins,
In the summer of sixty-six.
But we split no heads, if we bust the fences—
Though we stirred a precious storm—
Ter show we was tired of sham pretences,
An we would have real Reform.
It seemed childer's work, an not meat fur artists,
Who had battles starn ter win;
But we helped the game along, us Chartists,
An I were the foremust in.
An the folks what scowled behind ther glasses,
Who was blin ter the bleedin sights,
Found a kinder kick in the downtrod masses,
As was goin to hev ther rights.
They kep chuckin bones, an crusts, an “measures,”
Won we wanted a decent coat;
An the swells went on at ther own derned pleasures,
With ther grip on the labourer's throat,
Won our hands it was as were all ther ladder,
That they scorned because we was poor,
While they climbed on us and us grew sadder,
An the wolf niver lef the door.
But they bragged, an ther words dropt sweet as honey,
That they'd cheapened the people's bread;
But the loaf's no meal without the money,
An it won't bring back yer dead.
So the years they pass'd, and our needs waxed riper,
An they dolin us crumbs an sich;
But the workin-man allers paid the piper,
An no hoppin med him rich.
An it were no grist jest ter call him brother,
If he only had things ter pay;
Won they give with one hand, with the other
They took better goods away.
Es, the bread were cheap, and the work were cheaper,
An the labourer did'nt look up;
Fur the honest arm as were the reaper,
Couldn't get a bite or sup.
Whar's the fun of they prices lower fallin
An a fiddlin we is free,
Won a chap who will can't ply his callin,
An there aint no Trade ter see?

490

I were niver wot yer might call a scholar,
But I knows extremes won't mix;
An agin with the boys I off my collar,
In the blesséd eighty-six.
It were time, fur matters turned all contráry,
An us thousands had the sack,
In the second week of Febuàry,
On the Monday they names Black.
But them plaguey thieves with their dirty manners,
As can only steal an shout,
They has lef a stain on our bright banners,
Which can sceercely be washed out
'Twas ther stones as killed that carriage beauty,
An not one of our Chartist pals;
I'd hit any man (fur I sticks ter duty),
But I niver struck the gals.
An I reckon ef Tim had nailed the varmint,
He'd a message which he culd tell,
An the cur that spiled her purty garment,
Would hev passed in his checks ter hell.
Fur my name it be Tim, as it's known ter Nunky,
Though I weren't baptized ter it,
An my mates purfixes likewise Spunky,
Along of my cussed grit.
But I can't git over that murdered woman,
Her as died the most frum fright;
Fur my heart be warm an I's very human,
An I'd like ter hev said “Good night.”
An it done no good, ef the rogues med plunder,
Though I cannot go out no more;
The fools is above an the slaves is under,
An the times as they was before.
Fur the bleak black fog it has stuck in my bellers,
An I notice is sarved ter quit,
Nor be life so kin' ter the workin fellers,
As they should object ter flit.
I hev fought my best, an said my notion
About men an maids an all,
An I guess it be arned this here purmotion,
If it were the Capting's call.
Fur I've starved below, like a fly in amber,
As has died fur an outward shove;
An I b'lieve this move's ter the Upper Chamber,
Leastways the great House above.
Though I've not sot foot in them pious borders,
Nor yet troubled my brains with Church,
I niver once disobeyed my orders,
Nor a comrade lef in the lurch.
I'd a mind fur the chapel meetins, rather
Then the parsons wot comed round;

491

An I on'y sings one tune, “Our Father,”
Though ther aint no sweeter sound.
I weren't the shape of yer prayin people,
With religion cut an dried;
I know more of the tiles of the parish steeple,
Nor the texes as is inside.
But I hopes the Lord, ef He beant no viction,
Won't furgit how I tried ter be
As a man should live, in his danged affliction,
An will chalk that down ter me.
An I niver shammed, nither shirked my labour,
Excep won I's on the shelf;
An I done my duty by my neighbour
Wot's more nor he done by myself.
I hev laid no finger on a hussy,
Nor picked pockets the ways ef some—
An I hearn as Christ on all souls has mussy—
An of sich is the Kingdom Come.
These is curous times, and the wuld be rollin
In permiscus sort of ruts;
Ther's knells in the air as of death-bells tollin,
An ther's Jestices an Butts.
Yer marks coves an coves, an some is bastards,
As goes shakey in ther jints,
Med of drunken sots an knaves an dastards,
An particler ter ther “pints.”
But they ben't the Five of the gran ole Charter,
Which was lights wharby ter steer;
An these swillin-tubs ther soles would barter,
Fur as many “pints” of beer.
They're a class of goods as is not negotiable,
Them Socialists yer sees,
As is all that's splash, but derned unsociable,
An nary man agrees.
I hev writ my name, with reformin artists,
On the ballot and sich like boons;
An, mebbe, I's the last of the true ole Chartists,
Wasn't born with silver spoons.
Fur the price be low an the glass keep fallin,
An so am poor Spunky Tim;
An, hark! ther's the Capting's trumpet callin,
Fur ter pipe the evenin hymn.

THE CURSE OF NO LABOUR.

1

It is not that we are idle,
It is not that we are proud,
If we slouch along or sidle
In the silence or the crowd,
With our pallid cheeks and hollow,
And the shuffling shambling tread

492

Of the steps that slowly follow
Other victims to the dead.
It is not that we are shamming,
Or would shirk the toiler's fate;
That we like the dreary slamming
Of the hateful workhouse gate,
With the pauper's brand and pittance,
And the patronising sneer,
Which bestows a grudged admittance
To the welcome without cheer;
If we creep with heavy paces,
Up and down the heartless street,
With a trouble on our faces
And a trembling in our feet.
And we beg not for your money.
Though we scorn not what you give,
We have heaped up for you honey,
And we only ask to live.

2

It is not the curse of labour,
Which we suffer day and night;
As we see each man his neighbour,
Sinking deeper in his plight.
For these hands are scarred with toiling,
And these brows are seamed and worn
By the burden of the broiling,
Which we long have gaily borne;
With the dim and dying ember,
And the scarcely broken fast,
To the fogs of dark December
Right from January's blast.
It is not that we are thriftless,
Or were skulking sots and knaves,
When we shabby go and shiftless
On the road beset with graves—
When our wives are bowed with weeping,
And lie smitten in the dust,
And the children pine for sleeping,
From the lacking of a crust.
I'ts the curse of no employment,
Which we sorely feel and dread;
And we crave not for enjoyment,
But for daily work and bread.

3

It is not that food is dearer,
Which our arms have helped to reap;
For though want was never nearer,
The food never was more cheap.
But we may not ply our calling,
And we must not use our skill;

493

And if bread is lower falling,
We are falling lower still.
And why mock us with the plenty,
Which we have no power to get—
Not a single man in twenty—
And with labour cheaper yet?
It is not that gold is failing,
For the coffers are too full;
But they do not aid our ailing,
Though the little fingers pull.
And the Trade (in Freedom's title!)
Has forsaken us and flown
To strange lands, without requital,
Which are careful of their own;
While we miss the means which nourish,
And the strivings mourn which stay,
Just that foreign hearths may flourish
And a Party have its day.

4

It is not that we would hanker
For the goods of richer men;
We despise the social canker,
Of the poisoned speech and pen.
But we weary and we sorrow,
For the wounds we cannot heal;
And if blacker were the morrow,
We would rather die than steal.
Though we stagger on and stumble,
And our loved ones fade and fall,
And we may be poor and humble,
We are honest before all.
From our dwellings we are driven,
By the bitter cry of need;
For the darlings, who were given
Unto us, we may not feed.
And we dare not watch them perish,
As the helpless never should,
When we swore and meant to cherish,
And would labour if we could.
We are loyal lowly brothers,
And the feast is grandly spread
In the happy homes of others,
While we starve for work and bread.

THE ADJOURNMENT. (26th May, 1882.)

I am weary of wishing discernment
In our rulers, like mine;
And I jump at the rest of Adjournment;
If it's only to—dine.

494

I am weary of talk and want resting,
If for but a few days;
And I laugh as I come to divesting
My political stays.

I am weary of Parliament's session,
And its wrangles grow dull;
And the flower of some sweet indiscretion,
I am eager to cull.

I am weary of Brummagem glory,
Of the Parnell and prig;
For the Bible says God is a Tory,
And old Satan a Whig.

I am weary of Pats that lead blindly,
And I hope for a hush;
Till sour Sexton has learnt to speak kindly,
And bold Biggar to blush.

I am weary of Dillon and murther,
And yet murther again;
Though the Devil can never go further,
Than the end of his chain.

I am weary of Gladstone's long fooling,
Who can only cry “mew”;
And I long for an hour of the ruling,
Of the heaven-sent Jew.

I am weary of bloodthirsty peasants,
And want rustics to woo;
I look forward to potting the phcasants,
And a Fenian or two.

I am weary of Jingo who travels,
That with Dukes he may sup;
Of the problem each season unravels,
For the next to tie up.

I am weary already of dances,
And the kisses are cold;
There remains not a rag of romances,
And the youthful look old.

I am weary of women, who blossom
In ambiguous charms;
Of the beauties, who boldly unbosom,
With rude shoulders and arms.

I am weary of fops with tight stays on,
And of ball-rooms and belles;
Of the flirts, who so lavishly blazon
Their unsaleable spells.

495

I am weary of lovely cosmetics,
And the prettiest pout;
And a twinge for a course of ascetics,
Comes from conscience or—gout.

I am weary of routs and want morè way,
Free from powder and plush;
From the overdressed crowd at the doorway,
And the drawingroom crush.

I am weary of treading a ladder,
Hung as Jacob's in air;
And the vision grows paler and sadder,
Though the angels are there.

I am weary of love in the abstract,
And too general a sweet;
And the passing from clubs to the cabs' tract,
Is my only concrete.

I am weary of fashions half-hearted,
And the rosewater strife;
For the grace (with the starch) has departed,
From the shirtfronts of life.

I am weary of hypocrites' faces,
Of the preachers who pant,
Through the mask of their lying grimaces,
For the charms they enchant.

I am weary of dowagers matching
Strange paces and legs;
And the humbugs, who ever are hatching
Matrimonial eggs.

I am weary of actresses' painting,
And ambassadors' pugs;
Of fine ladies addicted to fainting,
At Bradlaughs or—b*gs.

I am weary of tragedy dinners
And the organized lies;
And the raptures of delicate sinners,
Now no longer I prize.

I am weary of Luxury's plenty,
Though the source may be vague;
For the stir and the magic of Twenty,
Are to Thirty a plague.

I am weary of follies, that flutter
Not a pulse in my veins;
And the comfited compliments utter
The most tuneless of strains.

496

I am weary of wanton Belgravia,
Its voluptuous air;
And I forget to adjust my behaviour
To betitled Mayfair.

I am weary of elegant trifling,
Of the dawdling and bows;
Every pleasure is stupid or stifling,
From the Highlands to Cowes.

I am weary of Park and of carriage,
Of old china and Guelf;
And I poise between murder and marriage
Or—the killing myself.

I am weary of drawling the speeches,
That I drawled from the first;
Of pet vices that fasten like leeches,
And are ever athirst.

I am weary of all that is proper,
And Society's curbs;
Of Decorum that comes with a stopper,
For irregular verbs.

I am weary of life so unselfish,
And of padding my breast;
Let me shut out the world like a shellfish,
Davitt take all the rest.

“ONLY ANOTHER MURDER.”

“On Sunday night, a desperate murder was perpetrated, at King William's Town ------ County Cork. The victim is John Keefe ------ cause, disputes in reference to land ------ brother ------ nephew ------ arrested.”—Standard, 2nd May, 1882.

We wake, untouched by ill, and break our fast,
And on the papers careless glances cast—
What news to-day? We idly turn the page,
And nothing find our interest to engage
More than a passing moment.—Nothing?—Stay,
But is there really nothing new to-day?
And yet it is not new, the story told
Is not more dark and dolorous than old.
Just look again—the curse that never fails,
That bloody record in the Irish mails!
“On Sunday night” [the one day out of seven,
When man is nearest brought to God and Heaven]
“A desperate murder” [quite the devil's own]
“Was perpetrated at King William's Town.

497

The victim is John Keefe”—but listen!—“and
The cause disputes in reference to land.
His brother ------ nephew” [brothers sometimes fall
Out still] “have been arrested.”—That is all.
And is it nothing? Ask the widowed wife,
The children orphaned by this damnéd strife,
This hellish lust of land that nought may spare,
And call such murder nothing—if you dare.
But only Ireland—that's the usual way
In which they settle matters, do you say?
Only another murder, one more crime,
A human life cut short before its prime!

Only another soul, above all price,
Thus offered up in dreadful sacrifice,
By those false statesmen who their dupes befool,
Unto the bloody Moloch of misrule!
Only another “woe”—only another,
And friend kills friend, and brother butchers brother!
Only another cry, that common sound,
Sent up for pity from the crimson ground!
Only another blot on that black page,
That goes to make the shameful Gladstone stage!
And though poor Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Yet London dances gaily as before;
The shuffling Premier with due relish dines,
While over that dead body he refines;
And as he pens each too well-known initial,
Declares he has “received no news official.”

THE DEVIL AND THE PITCHFORK, 1882.

From his gridiron rose the old Devil in Hell,
With a splutter of fire and of brimstone;
And although he came up with a horrible smell,
Yet his voice was as sweet as a hymn's tone.

For his medical man, whosoever he was,
Had just ordered a visit to Ireland,
Prescribing a Fenian frolic, because
That country was like his own Fireland.

498

But, if I mistake not, the name of the Leech
Who had sent him to Erin to gad on,
Has been written at length, though in Scriptural speech,
By the ominous name of Abaddon.

And nothing averse, in the garb of a priest,
That he might not occasion a panic,
Prepared for a murder or torture at least,
Thus arose his great Highness Satanic.

And he said to the fool who was feeding his pigs
“Why go fattening a damned institution?
You must Boycott your masters, if Tories or Whigs,
And I will ensure absolution.”

And he said to the tenant just filling his purse,
“The land is your own, by your labour!
Don't pay, or the rent will only be made worse,
Your improvements enriching a neighbour,

“Even now you are just on the victory's edge,
In the war with the grinding of grand lords;
Stand bravely behind a convenient hedge,
And pistol the spoilers and landlords.”

“The night is your friend and it will not betray,
If you mutilate beasts or go further;
Do not mind if a woman should stand in the way,
For there never was logic like murther.

“Be gallant and merciless, quit you like men,
With your mightiest Macs and your great O's;
And the pigs will have plenty of feasting, and then
There will be such a crop of potatoes.”

So the tenants went forth in the moonlight and murk
To their deeds of destruction and evil;
And the blacker and bloodier waxed their bad work,
The more pleased and devout was the devil.

For they shot down the women and children, and preached
The good news of the Home Rule damnation;
And they thought that the era of Peace had been reached,
When they only had made desolation.

And they hamstrung the cattle of those who had paid,
And inflicted a hell-begot sentence
On the innocent sleepers, and butchered, and prayed,
Were absolved, and then butchered repentance.

And the Devil went with them, applauding their deeds,
Though in public the holiest pastor;
And he bade them sow widely the dynamite seeds,
For the reaping of death and disaster.

499

And for dolorous months they went doing their worst,
Between crime and confessional hassock;
Till the earth became hell, for so sore was it curst,
And the Fiend grew quite fond of his cassock.

But then all in the midst of that terror and sway,
As they murdered or questioned on which fork
Of those bloody dilemmas to spit their poor prey,
Lo, they met with a MAN and his PITCHFORK!

He was agéd, but weaponed not only with prongs,
But with justice on outrage agrarian;
And they fled, as their Master of old from the tongs,
From that sturdy old Octogenarian.

And the Devil himself went back howling to Hell,
Though Miss Parnell had kept a nice drop o'tea;
But for years there remained such a horrible smell,
That all bolted—at least, who had property.

And as long as the exploits of heroes are told,
With their lights and their shadows of evil,
There is one, I am sure, that will never grow old,
Of the hero who pitchforked the Devil.

On 12th April, 1882, in Ireland, the house of an old man, over 80, was attacked by moonlighters. Arming himself with a pitchfork, he boldly sallied forth, and sent the cowards flying. That pitchfork should be historical.

A PAGE FROM THE DEVIL'S DIARY.

[PART I.]

I was up with the lark, from my pillow of fire
And voluptuous visions of torment,
Though I go to bed late, and I never perspire,—
If it's summer I scarcely feel warm in't.
And I found a Great Personage at his cigar,
As I slyly peeped in at the window;
And the door of his heart he just stopped to unbar,
While he said to me kindly, “come in, do!”

Then our talk was of oxen and horses and farms,
Of pet kittens and rosebuds and races;
To his catholic mind all these topics had charms,
And especially beautiful faces.
He objected to women whose breasts were of stone,
And to Chinamen's ladies like Foo Sing;
But complained that the rest would not let him alone.
And that so there was really no choosing.

And I left him deflowering a maiden cheroot,
Lost in wonder at what dear Lord Charlie meant;
For I wished my Home Rulers' lost powers to recruit,
And the best of my pupils in Parliament.

500

While the taste of the Toddy had freshened me up,
And I always feel livelier, when I see
How my subjects delight in the kiss and the cup,
In the wives of their neighbours and Hennessy.

To the Commons I came and found Gladstone not gone,
In his happiest vein, I am blest if I
Did not leave him still speaking last night, and yet on
He went, ready to quibble and mystify.
They may call me the Father of lies, and I am,
And for lovers of truth I have nò mercy;
But the half-lie's my favourite weapon to damn
Souls, and nothing can beat his diplomacy.

If dishonoured a little is my poor old Bill,
And an article scarcely negotiable,
As a statesman long dead, though unburied, yet still
I have found him obliging and sociable.
I have lofty opinions of him, and his mind
Cannot fail in its flight to impress you, it
Is so free from all conscience, and veers like the wind,
And is subtler than that of a Jesuit.

Then I whispered to Dillon, who looked dark as hell,
And as if he had spent a night in it;
For his tongue is as good as a funeral bell,
And it tolls a new death every minute.
So he rose to explain that a crime has its charm,
And that all the great heroes were o' my side;
That evictions alone are the cause for alarm,
And mere “murther” is venial homicide.

“Stop evictions,” he promised, “and I will stop crimes,
And the rents must of course be just nominal;
There will then be no stabs, at inopportune times,
In the back or in regions abdominal.
The proprietors are the assassins, you know,
And our boys are not Teutons for toy-cutting;
For the Kelt is but good at the blarney and blow,
And is driven to force and to Boycotting.”

But then Sexton jumped up, with his face of som milk,
And his maxims I ardently furthered;
Undertaker-like, he, looking daggers at Dilke,
Rose to bury what Dillon had murthered.
“Mind, in killing the landlord, it is not the man
That they shoot at, but only the principle;
Which was rotten and curst, ever since it began;
And the truth must be always in vincible.”

501

No one ever was half so malign as he looked,
And I fondly stick close to my favourite,
As he scowled with his body all writhing and crooked,
While he hissed, “Now you Saxons must pay for it.”
He prcceeded, “Too long to the yoke have we bowed,
And been playing the victim and fainéant.”
Then he muttered a curse, as if weaving a shroud,
That was heard in my realm subterranean.

And then swaggering Healy, swashbuckler and all,
(Though he paused to adjust his affections,
Which were ruffled a little) arose at my call,
And gave some of his choicer selections.
Ah, if only such boys could take Erin in hand,
With sweet Parnell to play the harmonium;
It would truly be Freedom's most glorious land,
And a pattern for my Pandemonium.

I was egging on others to licence in speech,
Which would bear fruit of outrage agrarian;
When the pestilent Speaker came down upon each,
As if servants like Thomas and Mary Anne.
Though the boys were all mad and the Speaker got slanged
With abuse it is needless to mention,
It is fitting that as they were born to be hanged,
They should taste of the joys of suspension.

So I left them all snapping and snarling like hounds
That are baulked of their prey and barred from it;
That go fighting for offal, with sinister sounds,
Which they worry and mumble and vomit.
They have tasted the lash and yet smart with the pain,
And from blows they imagine keep swerving;
And with eyes that are bloodshot expect it again,
While they know they will get their deserving.

Then I went to a breakfast laid out by a lord,
In the bosom of languid Belgravia;
But the manners were all that his friends could afford,
And the morals were not of Moravia,
For the ladies were easy of virtue, and gave
Their sweet souls to the claims of Society;
Though a Bishop was there, at their chastity's grave,
With some Scriptural saws for propriety.

Then I picked up a duchess, to drive in the Park,
Who has turned from dear saint to dear sinner;
She met somebody there, I will merely remark,
And just told him to drop in at dinner.

502

Though the carriages shone with proud beauty and might,
Yet the hearts were my private monopolies,
And were on the Broad Road that is level and bright,
And goes down to my fiery metropolis.

I was next at a party where gathered the fair
And the frail, in a garden like Eden;
I suggested elopement which pleased an odd pair,
And the pastures forbidden to feed on.
And I said “Down below it could not be more fine
While the course of Society such is!”
But I did not forget my engagement to dine,
And the evening alone with the duchess.

On the whole I was pleased with the progress of all
The disciples who give me adherence;
Human nature is still what it was at the Fall,
Though it wears a more decent appearance.
I returned to my kingdom to find that some fool
(He was Irish and gray with hypocrisy)
Had persuaded his fellows to beg for Home Rule,—
So I gave them the hell of Democracy.

PART II.

“All is well,” said the Devil, as gaily he rose
From the smoke of his fiery pillow,
“Man is now (what he used to be) led by the nose
And fair woman as weak as a willow;
Things are mending a bit, and the Socialist craze
Is preparing the way for a better,
That will wrap this dead land in a h-ll of a blaze,
When I choose to slip Anarchy's fetter;
I must here take a peep, in my pastoral rounds,
At this sheepfold of cards and seduction,
And relax a few more of the bulwarks and bounds,
That some fanaties keep from destruction.

“In a clerical suit and got up like the deuce,
With a very long face and big “choker,”
I may pass as a Canon, if I am profuse
In my coat and come out as a joker;
With a sigh at command for the comely and frail,
And a sprinkling of texts from the Bible
Carried under my arm, and a whitewashing pail
For the swells, and for paupers a libel;
So here goes, I will pose, in this mummery drest,
Bought of Vanheems and Wheeler, as parson,
And no duke would refuse to receive me as guest,
Though I advocate outrage and arson.

503

“I see Somebody, ever a darling of mine,
Still a student of figures and faces,
In his paradise open to women and wine,
And sweet legs with the prettiest paces;
He will always be welcome, in spite of Papas
Who object to his amorous talent,
If he offers his friends the best soups and cigars,
And continues so youthful and gallant;
He shall have a warm place of esteem ere the close,
In my journal of richer variety
Than the scandalous chronicles favoured, and those
Which sneak up the backstairs of Society.

“Ah, the Church is yet helping me on as of old,
With its hypocrite pomps and professors,
So attached to the faith of the fathers, and gold
Pouring in from good solvent transgressors;
For they scramble or squirm, and they grovel or fight,
For the pick of the loaves and the fishes,
For the rinsings of millionaires' plates, and delight
To lick noblemen's dirtiest dishes;
Doctor Tinder my firebrand, has kindled a flame,
And a music-hall made of his Minster,
Fluent Charlatan, playing unconscious my game,
Just to scare any fool or old spinster.

And the State is fast drifting along to its doom,
Without helmsman or compass or rudder,
While the Rats that would bolt in the gathering gloom,
With their spoil, as they gloat on it shudder;
And the rulers demented by me, shuffle on
To the shame I assign them for napping,
But to wake with the worm when their empire is gone,
And when nothing remains but the trapping;
The sick Government, hopeless of finding a port,
After firing away with blank cartridge,
Now is idly its impotence hiding in sport,
And is faithful at least to the partridge.

But in Ireland the brimstone goes sweetliest up,
Where my cauldron of evil is hotting,
And I really to-night must find leisure to sup
With my pupils, and coach them in plotting;
Then they weary of Balfour, and he is so tough
That weak stomachs to tackle him question,—
They have grilled him, have roasted and fried him, enough
To impair the most hardy digestion;
I shall give them a change, something savoury, strong,
Such as Conybeare's skin or his diet,
A new grievance or lie showing England all wrong—
Wholesale murther alone can give quiet.

504

“As to money, Finance in its devious ruts,
Of my methods is proving the master,
While it drags my spent tools by the shabbiest cuts
To the end that they merit—disaster;
Mammon reigns, my vice-roy, and the death-bell he tolls
For the dupes that respond to his passion,
In the gambling that gives me so many d---d souls,
Now that swindling is fairly the fashion;
I am proud to record—for I prompted the Ring
By a tip which at Paris was spoken—
That I nearly pulled off an infernal good thing,
With the great Bank of England half-broken.

“My grand agent, Jack Frost, who must do as I like,
From lost labour his capital borrows,
Driving out all his victims to starve on the strike,
While he fiddles a tune on their sorrows;
Oh, for stirring up messes he bears off the wreath,
As a devilish downright hot poker,
And if Proteus gets cold, I will use him beneath
For my own special patent head stoker;
May he prosper, in each operation that blocks
London business by any bad stages,
Till he anchors at last in the “dock,” or the Docks
Where I pay the most liberal wages.

“But a woman for choice—mind, I mention no names—
If you fancy a tale full of pepper,—
For the rapidest goer, if masculine, frames
Never quite like a gentle high-stepper;
I confide in her still, through her beauty and charms
Backing up her own ardent opinions,
With the magical touch of her dainty white arms
And red lips, to extend my dominions;
Yes, a thoroughbred Peeress, when once she plumps in
For the fun, does not stick at a copper,
Yields herself soul and body entirely to sin,
And soon learns all the nouns most improper.

“Now perhaps I had better retire to my rest,
Though a figure of speech, for a season,
And I hope my disciples (like Frost) will be—blest,
For their little amusements in treason;
But I first must affix my particular brand
On a Lord, whose amours are all shady,—
I have got a delicious elopement on hand,
And should whisper a word to my Lady;
Ere I hie to my brimstone retreat, in the place
For which I need not make an apology,
Though no Science its seat has been able to trace,
Guaranteed by the soundest Theology,

505

PROTEUS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

So here I am, within these storied stones,
To choose a place for my illustrious bones
To rest, among the dead who had their fling,
And lived and cheated subject fools and king,
(As is my lot), and having had their day
And done their best (or worst) then passed away
Devoutly, or with the convenient aid
Of other adverbs, when the debt was paid.
And I am quite as good as any here.
Though my leaf may be getting somewhat sere
And sickly. Never mind! The yellow tones
Will not appear in the distinguished stones
Wherein I still can lie, as I have all
These fifty years, while I kept the great ball
Going. My features have the classic turn,
And will look glorious o'er a funeral urn
Of marble.

Hang those precious busts!
One lifts a foot, and one a finger thrusts
Indignant at me; just because they failed
To ruin England, and I have prevailed,
I have succeeded. How they seem to frown,
As if I came to cut the nonsense down
Of their untrue memorials! I could find
A joy in trimming them more to my mind,
And mending histories that my patience tax,
If I had only brought my trusty axe.
Confound that ugly knave, that Chatham there,
Whose angry ghost must meet me everywhere,
And haunts like conscience that I cannot kill—
So you are there, and you accuse me still!
I hate you, I defy you: out with fear,
While I have got the purblind people's ear,
And keep it! I shall fill a larger space
In public memory, than your threatening face.

Come, let me now be still. He cannot harm,
Although he knits his brow, and shakes his arm.
“Let's talk of tombs, of worms,” and mortal state,
It does one good at times to meditate
On death—I mean the death of others—fools,
Who were awhile my honoured toys and tools—
Not on my own: for Proteus cannot die,
If in this Temple he hereafter lie.
I've followed to the end my settled plan,
And killed them all, and buried the last man—
For duty's sake I packed them in the shell
Myself, poor Morley, Spencer, Harcourt, and Parnell
And all the rest. I undertaker am;

506

I snap my fingers now at Birmingham,
And Manchester, that bullied me so long,
With their eternal drivelling Caucus song,
And cant about the people's rights and cheer,
Who do not want more freedom but more beer.
This is a pleasant place, and fit for me:
How beautiful and blest it is to be,
Or rather not to be—it's all the same—
When you have neatly rounded off your Fame,
And got the headstone ready, and the Book
(Like magic views) through which the world shall look,
And read the picture done by your own hand,
With every shadow toned to the demand
Of eager dupes! And yet it's nice to live,
To show at least you never do forgive—
To teach the children in the Sunday schools,
And thunder lessons to religious fools
Who come to Church and never had a doubt,
And then to go away and feel devout
For half an hour! It's really quite divine,
So long as they don't ask me to resign,
Or even share my empire with some ass
Who sees the world through one small looking-glass,
And not through many. I will live and die
For my dear country, sunder every tie,
But this of Office; here the line I draw;
My service still shall be without the flaw
Of such a weakness. England's general voice
Chose me as chief, and I accept the choice,
But now what shall I do? The season calls,
And echoes answer from the holy walls.
My epitaph I'll write, and be no debtor
To ignorant men: and who could do it better?

EPITAPH.

“His acts were many, but his fame was most
That naught could shake his grasp of Duty's post;
And though he often shifted form and plan,
Yet he remained through all the Grand Old Man.”

THE CONFERENCE OF 1882.

There went forth a mysterious rumour,
That the Sick Man was bad;
Though some said it was only the tumour
That he always had had.
There were sounds in each surgical college,
Of the sharpening of knives;
With a furbishing up of old knowledge,
And of rusty old lives.

507

Lo, the Frenchman, with shrugging of shoulder,
Came the first to the front;
But his confidence somehow seemed colder,
Than before it was wont.
Operations, though often mere guesses,
He accounted a feast;
If he numbered but scanty successes,
He was brilliant at least.

Then the Englishman came in suspicion
Of his livelier friend;
And he swore that the patient's condition
Must now fatally end.
Dr. Granville prescribed a pomatum
Though his spirit was vext;
And protested this new ultimatum
Was the last—till the next.

The Italian came looking absurder,
For the grapes were so sour;
But his will, which was equal to murder,
Alas! wanted the power.
For his own constitution was rotten,
He had left on the shelf
His loved lancets, and had not forgotten
He took medicine himself.

All agreed that the patient was dying,
And would go before long;
But all measures suggested for trying,
All concluded were wrong.
Some advised of saltpetre a powder,
And of iron a pill;
The prescriptions grew longer and louder,
As the worse grew the ill.

For the ill required less of incision,
Than decision of deed;
While the Sick Man looked on with derision,
And objected to bleed.
Till the German, with wisdom Egyptian,
And grave shaking of head,
Said, “In vain is your grandest prescription,
For the patient is dead.”

THE FIRST SHOT

(July, 1882)

Lo, the Demon of drink went abroad on the blast,
In political messes he will be;
Goody Granville made this Ultimatum his last,
If it was not that conjurcr Gilbey.

508

For a very bad spirit had somehow got out,
And the better for all if it wère in;
As it knocked the poor Kingdom quite into a clout,
While it revelled in Egypt and Erin.

Yet it matters but little who first made the mess,
When the land was the prey of the Demon;
Though the Irishman swore he had gone to confess,
And the Scotsman denied it was he, mon.
And the Englishman said, he had stuck to his shop,
It was loudly disclaimed by the Cabinet;
And wise Gladstone had let foreign policy drop,
For he knew he was not a great dab in it.

Though abroad went the Demon through field and through flood,
At a chapel he stopped to have mass in;
For he scented afar the sweet savour of blood,
Yet he wished to absolve the assassin.
Then he kindly looked in on the Priest at his Psalms,
And took just one hot tumbler of toddy;
While he left a large case for assistance in alms—
To encourage, of course, the poor body.

He was loth to leave Ireland, and yet he must go
To the banquet of slaughter Egyptian;
In the face of Bright's Hat, and Ineffable Joe;
To let blood, was his only prescription.
He left Whig craft at strife with the Radical art,
And still trying to put a new gag on;
While poor Gladstone was posed in St. George's old part,
And the Cha-rlatan playing the Drag-on.

And he found the whole Fleet in a terrible rage,
The men more bloody-minded than Bonner;
While they fretted and chafed for the word to engage,
And to wipe off the stain of dishonour.
Ammunition was there, and the weather was hot,
And the sailors look vastly like winning;
So he said to himself I will fire the first shot,
And just set the great war-ball aspinning.

In the stillness preceding the storm, from beneath
In the Admiral's ship came a popping;
And all hands hurried forward, all armed to the teeth,
To give Arabi—O such a whopping!
And the first shot was fired with such fatal effect,
As was never before in a cámpaign,
That a horrible panic seized Egypt's elect—
Though it was but a bottle of chámpagne.

509

THE ROUSED LION. (1882.)

The grand old Lion lay within his lair,
At rest; and children hung upon the hair
Of his huge mane, and kissed the cruel jaws,
And stroked with fearful joy those massive paws,
Moulded like granite columns; round his neck
An infant clung, who came with flowers to deck
His awful head; and baby fingers swayed
The mighty beast, that hosts of men dismayed.

The lesser beasts grew bolder, as he lay
Still in repose, and took from every day
That passed fresh courage; till at last they stole,
Each from the darkness of his hiding-hole,
And crept into the light. They trembled yet.
They could not, if they would, at once forget
The terrors of the Past; they cowered and crawled,
Like beaten hounds, by the old spell enthralled.

Day followed day, and still the Lion kept
A calm unbroken. Then they thought he slept,
Gorged with the blood of victims, and would sleep
Till hunger waked him. So they ceased to creep,
And sported round him with defiant tread.
Then openly they cried that he was dead,
And spurned him, as the rider spurs the hack.
Curs, that once fawned, came snapping at his back.

“Is this the King we worshipped so,” they said,
“Whose every movement made us sore afraid,
“Whose face struck panic? Nay, it is an Ass,
“Clothed in a Lion skin, with lungs of brass;
“We will be slaves no longer.” Then, in pride,
They trampled him, and round each mountain side
Heaped heavy chains, and built an iron pen.
But still the Lion stirred not in his den.

Why did he bear those insults, who of yore
Made the earth tremble with his tempest roar,
And shook it with his tread? His keeper knew
Who, though a coward and a traitor drew
The hireling's wages, while he drugged the food,
And stupefied his charge. Darkly he stood,
Vaunting his victim's tameness . . . But, at length,
The damnèd poison lost its wonted strength.

A change came over him. He stirred, he stretched
His giant limbs. In vain the keeper fetched
Fresh dainties, and the old enchantments tried.
The captive King his poison dashed aside,
And crushed him with a blow. In royal rage,
He rose. And, lo! the bonds and iron cage
Crumbled and fell; and, at his dreadful roar,
They crawled and grovelled round him as before.

510

THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST.

The lamps were lit, the gorgeous Feast was spread;
And to their seats the guests, with thoughtless tread,
Trooped. Their proud hearts were dancing high with joy;
Though forth had gone the Angel to destroy,
Whose name is Death. They heeded not the cry
Of murder, that seemed only to make fly
Swifter and sweeter the dark hours of shame.
With looks elate to that high Feast they came.

The master's eye ranged over that rare sight,
A monument of beauty and of might
Made captive to his will, with fearful bliss.
He saw alone the hidden black abyss
Below, that poisoned all his curséd pride.
He saw a Shadow ever at his side,
And stared around, with thunder-laden brow;
Mumbling, unconscious, still the broken vow.

Fast flew the rosy hours, the mirth waxed high;
Wine flowed, wit flashed; the maiden morn drew nigh,
Trembling, to that flushed seene, and on it laid
One pure white shaft of light, as if afraid
To enter. Lovely women and famed men
Laughed, jested, drank to fairer times . . . But, then,
A solemn hush fell on the hearts of all.
Forth came a Hand, and wrote upon the wall.

Forth came a Hand, and then a gory Head,
And then a grisly Foot, that seemed to tread
Down their mad mirth and even the very life.
A horror, sharp as the assassin's knife
Pierced every soul. Deep darkness on them fell,
While a still Voice spoke with a funeral knell.
—“Weighed and found wanting; tried but never true;
“Gone is thy kingdom; take thy dreadful due.”

It ceased. And loud the Master laughed, and bade
No guests be troubled at a conjuror's shade,
And tricking sounds. “More dainties bring,” he cried,
“Pledge the bright Future, let faint hearts be plied
“With generous wine.” He spoke. And, at this hour,
Still his strong will retained its ancient power,
His words their wonted magic; and, once more,
They ate, they drank, they jested, as before.

But, lo! the laugh died on the curling lips,
And the cold shadow of a grim eclipse
Struck; as from plates uncovered seemed to start,
Here a pale head, and there a bleeding heart.
While snakes of fire hissed from each horrid light;
Skulls grinned from flowers; and a blue ghastly blight,
Like wan weird corpse-lights upon all was spread.
The Banquet was the Banquet of the Dead.

511

LIBERAL PROTECTION IN JUNE, 1882.

The great Oliver gave us Protection,
And he loved it right well;
Though, perhaps from excess of affection,
A head or two fell.
And if one, alas! chanced to be Royal,
At this blood-sprinkled feast;
No one doubted that Cromwell was loyal,
To his country at least.

But the Liberals now have succeeded.
To the sceptre laid down;
And think lightly to tamper, unheeded,
With the kingdom and crown.
They to Africa promised Protection,
And a respite from woes;
But, in some way, it lost the direction,
And went over to foes.

Then to Ireland they shifted its shelter,
Against crime at its flood;
And they swore that the country should welter,
No longer in blood.
They held out to the landlord Protection,
And accepted his pleas;
But the knife of paternal dissection,
Is far worse than disease.

Now they deem that the problem Egyptian,
Can be watered like milk;
And they offer our latest prescription,
Of palaver and Dilke.
And they brandish the shield of Protection,
That but crushes its friends;
And they boast, in disaster's complection,
Of victorious ends.

O Protection! While ministers blunder,
And add insult to lie;
While the ironclads dare not to thunder,
Though our countrymen die.
And what Moloch is worse than Protection,
For which hundreds must fall?
What is help that gives only rejection,
To the sufferer's call?

We are sick of this, Gladstone, and you, sir,
And your Liberal ways;
You protect as the wretched seducer,
Protects her he betrays.
We invoke the avenging Election,
For this trifling with fame;
To protect us from craven Protection,
Which is ruin and shame.

512

THE IRISH TELEGRAM.

It was heard in the clubs as a rumour,
And it knocked at the door;
While it silenced the noisiest humour,
Of the rich and the poor.

It was whispered with fear in the Lobby,
Like alarming of fire;
And the humbug forgetting his hobby,
Hurried out to enquire.

Then it gathered, in shape and complexion,
To the substance of sin;
It appealed to all human affection,
As it grimly broke in.

It was murmured at first by the members,
As some newspaper craze;
Till ere long the dark smouldering embers,
Burst out in a blaze.

Till at length it was openly uttered;
And the House looked a hearse;
And the orator stopt, as he muttered
What appeared like a curse.

For it seemed to leave nothing for error,
And to catch at the breath,
As the Telegram came in its terror,
With the burden of death.

It laid hold of the gay and the serious,
And each countenance fell;
And they bowed to the presence mysterious,
Of that murderous spell.

It went forth in the street that it troubled,
It was felt on the mart;
Every home had its misery doubled,
And sad searchings of heart.

'Twas repeated in sorrow and danger,
For all bosoms it rived;
And fine ladies forgetting their langour,
Then remembered they lived.

It increased in its meaning and motion,
Like a wave that is blown
By the blast of a storm-ridden ocean,
Till it reached to the Throne.

513

It was woe to the chiefs of the nation,
As in mourning they trod;
And the cry of a great execration,
Went up unto God.

There are chains for the brute and the savage,
That no kindness can bend;
And when nothing is left them to ravage,
Perhaps murders will end.

A STATESMAN OF 1882.

Act I—Ireland.

Proteus.

Peace, peace, at any price, my dearest friends,—
Although it cost us war to gain our ends!
I am your Premier—there's not much to do,
And Chancellor of the Exchequer too;
I would not mind another post—or more;
There never was so good a chance before,
For getting all that really can be got,
Indeed, I'd gladly undertake the lot,
But for ambitious men ... Well, so am I,
There's not a mortal thing I would not try.
Yes, there is gentle John, an honest fool,
And victim to the fossil Clapham school
Of virtue, dupe of Principle and Pat,
And so-called conscience: we have changed all that.
His matter is good stuff—too good for knaves,
Who twist his moral saws to drunken staves;
His manners might be mended, just a bit;
For, like his hat, they don't exactly fit
My polished Whigs, at our high festivals.
I'm sick of all those seedy Radicals,
Save gentle John: they give a world of pain.
There is that lump of venom, Charlatain;
He has the hungry, grim, and wolfish looks
Of the old Cassius; and his hands, like hooks,
Stretch out a greedy grasp. If I could drop
Him now, I would; but he expects a sop,
And it may choke him (that's a comfort!) yet;
He is a friend I dare not quite forget,
And seeks a seat that he can never fill,
Though he accomplish all his ugly will.
I'll give him something—he may sweep the shop,
And ply Reform, as housemaids ply the mop,
And sleep beneath the counter in the dust,
And live upon cold water and a crust.

514

I'll promise every earthly thing they ask,
And squeeze myself into whatever mask
They choose to make; but if conditions change
(As they are sure to) I shall re-arrange
The pretty programme more to my own will,
And at but little cost befool them still.
Badlaw again has tried to force his seat
Upon the Commons, but to court defeat
By a low trick. With his feline look
He entered, read the oath, and kissed the Book
Of Christ, betrayed once more with Judas kiss,
That had the semblance of the serpent's hiss.
It was a dirty trick; but why seek grace
In one who is but matter out of place?
He did some little jobs, and served, poor fool!
My purpose; now he is a worn out-tool.

[Receives telegram from Ireland.

So coaxing fails, and reason is no use,
Though from the first I have been most profuse
In promises! I care not what I say;
It's easy ever to explain away
Whate'er I said, when I don't it indite,
To something that is just the opposite.
Think you I am at all embarrassed yet?

[Produces a magical cabinet.

Observe the structure of this cabinet,
Which is my hope, my harbour, and my fort!
I bought it of the brothers Davenport
For a mere song; the public guessed their tricks,
But I apply them now to politics.
You see, I have a host of ready words
And quibbles, that will loose the strongest cords
Or pledges ever tied. Regard me now!
Just let them bind me with the firmest vow,
The heaviest rope that human hands can frame,
Or with the tightest knot that has a name;
And in a moment, by my magic wand
(Which men call Gammon), I will break each bond
And free myself, and, without scratch or fall,
Prove clearly I was never bound at all.

[Another Telegram is handed to him.

Attempt upon the Queen! Oh, if it's that,
She has as many lives as any cat;
I feared attempt was made upon my own,
Which is more precious far than even the Throne—
To me at least. It's but one more convulsion
Of the departing Devil—

Called “Compulsion”:
“Force is no remedy!”

Yes, Gentle John,

515

I always say so too; though I put on
The screw at times. And murders were but met
Not with more murders, but the bayonet
Of resolution; craft with greater skill,
Police and buckshot—buckshot does not kill,
It tickles. But it's all alike to me,
If Ireland is to be or not to be!
If they desire, I'll turn, as is my wont,
And to the Land League show the fairer front
Of mildness; we must change with changing times;
I always said, “Why punish crime with crimes?”
So the suspects I'll free. And notice, how
I burst the bond of the most binding vow!
Parnell would treason talk, and Dillon hint
At measures he denied when seen in print;
And then I clapped them in Kilmainham both,
Though to extremes I long was very loth.
I had good reason for this step, you see;
And after all, perhaps we shall agree
To settle something for the public weal—
“By compact?”—No, I care not to conceal
The honest truth from every honest man.
There was a purpose in my little plan
For sounding them, to see what they would do;
There may have been some “understanding,” too,
But not a formal “treaty”—not a bit;
To such I never would myself commit,
I'm far too careful . . . Groschen also went
Unto Berlin, but then he was not “sent,”
He had no more a mission than the fool
Who is his wiser comrade's toy or tool.
And the sole mission, that my creatures fill,
Is blind submission to my sovereign will.
I made another friend, who knew my mind
(Not a real “agent,” nothing of the kind)
A “recommended agent,” who might act
Informally—that's quite another fact!
He did not carry with him Peter's Pence,
But took instead a “note of confidence.’
How stupid people are! How they go on!
If I was Erring what was Errington?

[Another telegram arrives.

A telegram! How goes the Irish game?
No doubt, more heartless murders, with the same
Old bloody story? . . . No, the news is good:
Forcer resigns, who has so long withstood
My plans; because I called his measures rough,
And then refused to give him rope enough
To hang assassins; so he seeks the Shelf.
Go, Forcer, if you will, and hang yourself;

516

I never loved you, and I feared your will
Would clash with mine; although I keep the Till,
And mean to keep what you shall never gain.

Now, shall I give the post to Charlatain?
He would not take it; he's a prudent man,
And loves his person better than his plan,
Though plan he has. But there is dear Trevelyan,
Whose very face would crush the worst rebellion;
And Cavendish.

Yes, Cavendish will do,
A gentleman, and—a relation, too!

[Telegram again comes.

But there is something fresh ... Lord Sloper swerves
Like a raw curate jibbing, full of nerves
And sentiments. So he resigns as well;
Says he might govern earth, but cannot hell.
Thus rats, false friends, and other vermin fly
The doomèd house or ship, that may supply
No longer food and shelter. Let them flee!
More room (and more emoluments) for me.
Who shall have Ireland now? A Royal Prince
Could stop a bullet, and would never wince.
But Spencer's gone, he likes a stirring scene,
And with him takes once more his Fairy Queen.

[Another telegram.

What's this? Another telegram? Good news
Again, I hope, from those tempestuous stews
In rebel Ireland . . . O, the damnéd tale!
Has then the devil burst his fiery pale,
And armèd with all hell now broken out,
To reign in bloodshed over the dread rout
Of black assassins? He has got his wish,
But I have lost my soul in Cavendish
And Burke, in daylight done to shameful death,
Though speaking mercy with their latest breath.
Those knives are in my heart! Their edges fierce,
At individuals aimed, the bosom pierce
Of the whole nation, which for justice cries;
For in their death a mighty people dies.
My heart is bleeding. And, O God, I see,
Those bloody stains are on my hands and me!
But there is comfort still, and after all,
If princes pass, the Prince can never fall.
Though individuals go they cannot slay
My politics, which alter every day,
And will outlast a hundred mortal lives,

517

As the great Type its fleeting form survives,
Immortal yet. So, to tell truth, between us,
I am no mortal person, but a Genus—
At least a species!

And, as time has proved,
I flit from state to state, myself unmoved,

Coercion now—a Crimes Act! I will try
Force, even if it is no remedy.
Lest they misjudge me and my motive still,
I must disguise with jam the bitter pill;
This nice Arrears Act now comes neatly in;
Commissioners will good opinions win;
And I have blesséd opiates if you please,
That calm yet, if they do not cure, disease.
And open am I to Amendments too
Upon the Land Act, if they only woo
In humbler tone, and take their proper level;
I'd gladly give them all unto the Devil.
Here, as in Egypt, though good people fret,
The Tories left us a tremendous debt;
And all our troubles, through no fault of mine—
Well, I'll give all, but this—I won't resign.
I know my duty. Let them take by force,
And kill my colleagues—not myself, of course;
But I will fool them yet. I'm equal quite
To their most subtle craft, and murderous spite,
Aye, and the direst curse and deepest ill,
(And they shall have it), is their wicked will.
Let Parnell out; he is no more to fear,
Nor Dillon, like the Devil at his ear,
Still darkly whispering what he dare not say.
Let them have all, and go their damnéd way,
Though wretched Ireland bleeds at every pore,
Now that confounded Land League is no more.
Patience must win—they cannot tire me out,
Though I am free to turn and turn about.
They cannot shake the confidence I feel
In destiny; I laugh at shot and steel.
I'll not be tamely pistolled in the Lobby,
While by my side remains one faithful Bobby.

Every Day We Change Our Coats.

Every day we change our coats,
Every day we sing new notes,
But the burden is the same,
And we only change the name.
Say, what is a mere majority
But “a little brief authority”?

518

And minorities must be
Represented now, say we.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick, stick, stick!
Turn your coats, and, double quick,
Lick the dishes, lick, lick, lick!

They're “found out,” and we're found in,
So we cannot choose but win;
Party needs, of course, must range
“Down the ringing grooves of 'Change.”
For the Whig and for the Tory,
It is quite a different story;
We stop in and they go out,
While we dance our turnabout.
Stick to office, that's the trick;
Stick to office, stick—stick—stick.
Take their coats, and, double quick,
Pick the pockets, pick, pick, pick.

But “a rebellion is not necessarily of a condemnatery description!” —Gladstone, 26th October, 1882.

The Government suffered a defeat on the Procedure Bill, but showed more signs of patience than resignation.

When the Conservatives had gone to bathe, the Liberals came and stole their clothes.

Act II.—Egypt.

Proteus.
[Taking up his parable again.

“You promised peace,” my friends observe, “but now
The Alexandrian forts are, like your vow
Broken!” . . . But they once more mistake the fact;
I have not broken ever yet my pact,
And never will; nor shall my efforts cease
To pacify the land . . . “But is this peace?
“Peace!” not exactly peace, but still not war;
I always said, I would not go so far.
Let them define their terms: there is no doubt,
War only may be strictly carried out
With notice, when political pomatum
Has failed; and this is the last Ultimatum,
Of good old Granny! . . . They would rather not,
And call these “arguments of shell and shot,
And downright war.” . . It's nothing of the kind.
If they distinguish rightly, they will find,
There are so many different sorts of Peace;
And what they christen War is a fresh lease,
Or altering of the terms by which we hold.
There's Peace pacific—getting rather old;
And Peace aggressive—at the bayonet's point,
When the conditions have got out of joint,
And readjusting need, like a lame wife;
Extremities, we know, demand the knife,
And if it raise at times a little storm,
Their “War” is Peace in its most active form.

519

Ask common sense; it's but a change of face,
And War is simply Peace in the wrong place.
And though the bearings may appear extensive,
All these attacks are nothing but “defensive.”
Though Gentle John has fled and Tories fleer
At such secessions, yet I well can steer
The ship alone. His sentimental heart
Has ever hampered me in my great part,
Like France in Egypt. Nero burnt down Rome,
To build him up a true palatial home;
They say so, if you can believe it all—
I don't, of course. But still, at Party's call,
We may some day have to perform the same,
And such a bonfire kindle in the game,
As never shall go out!

Old Spain is dead,
Like Turkey; but still Russia rears a head
Of misty menace on the Persian front;
And Bismarck darkly plots, as is his wont;
Italians show how they repay the debt
Of gratitude, and they can hate us yet
But harm us not. And France, with sullen soul,
Hopes for a Dual state in the Control:
A duel were more likely. I've my heel
On Egypt, and I mean to make it feel
That bondholders can fight as well as fret,
And obligations must be honoured yet.
“But are these ruins Peace—the bloody creases
Branded in England's Flag?”—Well, call them Peaces.

Here comes my shop-boy, like a dustman's bell,
Who does my dirty work, and does it well.
What next?

Charlatain.
The final battle now is fought
And won at Tel-el-kebir, as we thought
It would be settled! Arabi is ours,
And waves our glorious flag on Cairo's towers.
The gallant men did wonders—marched all night;
And favouring fortune proves the folly right;
Then, in the foeman's face, they calmy formed,
And with one rush the fiery wall was stormed.
'Twas a mad scheme, but that should not be heeded:
The madness answered, as it has succeeded.

Proteus.
Thus barren sessions, if they have a root,
May yet with forcing bear some Autumn fruit,
And blind the people. My Procedure Bill
Must law become, and I shall work my will
About the Clôture, and can laugh at fate
When I have crushed the freedom of debate.

520

At present, too, there are no new Atrocities,
And folks will have to put up with Verbosities
Vulgarian.

Charlatain.
What of wounded Egypt's fate?
Brave Arabi, of course, you'll reinstate,
Like Cetewayo, and give Egypt back
To the Egyptians. . . . What if England lack?
Let's bravely bear the bitter cost and pain,
As in the Transvaal, and be kind again,
Surrendering all, and face the Tories' curse
With a full heart, albeit an empty purse.

Proteus.
This course may please—if only Caucus prigs;
And I shall lose those patronising Whigs,
With their traditions. Well, I can but burn
My former idols, now it suits my turn,
And change conditions—and they do, you know;
Transition is the law of things below,
And relative are all, both men and nations;
One might have even to sacrifice relations—
Go, tell those stiff-necked Whigs,

Charlatain.
I go, my friend;
But I would never say, of course, you “send.”

Proteus.
Whatever happens, it shall serve me still,
If only as the stuff of some new Bill.
I weary am of supercilious airs,
And social starch, and tramping up the stairs
Of duchesses, till this poor head is hoar,
Because I am a lion and can roar;
Not that they love me. It's too great a tension;
I'll drop them and their jewelled condescension.
What do they say?

Charlatain.
They all resign, and bid
You drive more nails in your own coffin lid,
Which you are making with your madness.

Proteus.
Well!
—But here is something novel yet to tell;
For I have changed my mind again, and plan
To govern Egypt for the Englishman,
That it may pay our little expeditions.
For there has been a change in the conditions,
Since you departed.

Charlatain.
Oh, the bitter cup!
Do you, indeed, at this late hour, throw up
Your truest friends, who gave you all you have,
And bury faith in this poor country's grave?
It cannot be. And yet I feel it's fact,

521

The final scene of the sad final Act.
“I and my colleagues” leave you to your doom,
While clouds of shame are gathering round in gloom,
Like winding sheets.

Proteus.

That's good! Now there is hope,
For I have really broken the last rope
That bound me, and ambition's wings can fly
Up to the Heaven of Power, in liberty.
I can discard them, now that things look calmer,
As I did Gill and Charrington and Palmer;
And dead men tell no tales.

No boys again!
I'll keep the shop more clean than Charlatain,
With all his mopping. Aye, let him go out,
And talk of conscience when it's really gout.
For I have lived to carry my intent;
I am alone the British Government!
Now I can breathe; at length I'm truly free,
And know how beautiful it is to be,
When all my friends are gathered to the Shelf,
And no one can oppose me but myself—
That's quite enough. ... And I may change the story,
And end (as I began) an honest Tory.

Turn and turn and turn about.

Turn, and turn, and turn about.
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.
Louder and yet louder shout.
Spoil the landlords, let them spout,
I will clean and clean them out;
Mine be plenty, theirs be drought,
Let them starve if I am stout.
Wield the Clôture like a knout,
On the head of Tory tout,
Fenian rebel, Home Rule rout,
Spare them not one honest clout.
Maddened Manchester may scout
Measures that it can but flout,
Birmingham and every lout
Grow (like dying knaves) devout.
Turn, and turn, and turn about,
They shall never turn me out;
Let the conscience pine and pout,
Conscience is a form of gout.

This very modest expression is historical.

Radicals even now, according to the newspapers, are liable to this infirmity.

522

HOW TO VOTE.

Vote for your glorious Church and Crown,
An empire all unrent;
For merry England's old renown,
And goodly government.

Vote for the men who reverence law,
And love each holy right;
Who will preserve our fame from flaw,
And keep our banner bright.

Vote for the men who honour hold,
Better than power and place;
Who do not sell themselves for gold,
Nor triumph in disgrace.

Vote for the men whose hearts are fond,
Who heed not slander's breath;
Whose word is sacred as their bond,
Who guard it unto death.

Vote for the men whose hands are clean,
Whose purposes are pure;
Who scorn the muddy ways and mean,
And of themselves are sure.

Vote for the men who will not swerve,
From virtues that have been;
Who deem their chiefest pride, to serve
Their country and their Queen.

Vote for the men who nobly act,
What they have nobly said;
Remember every broken pact,
And the forgotten aid.

Vote for the men who falsehood hate,
Nor work their comrades ill;
Remember Gordon and his fate,
And black Majuba Hill.

Vote for the men who still have stood,
True to the Nation's trust;
For all that ancient is and good,
The beautiful and just.

Vote for the men who fear their God,
And prize His solemn dower;
Who tread the path their fathers trod,
To progress and to power.

523

Vote for the men who promise homes
To children and to wives;
For peace to our endangered domes,
Our liberties and lives.

Vote for the happy days of old,
New federated might;
Let England hold what England held,
And Heaven defend her right!

THE MAN AND THE HOUR. (FEB., 1885.)

Lo, the hour has struck for action,
That requires a broader plan,
With an end to strife of faction,
And a hero of a man.
Yes, a man and not a mumbler
Of old sentences and saws—
Like a tempest in a tumbler,
Or a baby pulling straws.
He must truthful be, and tender
As a woman in her love,
And his brows must wear the splendour
Of anointing from above.
He must grandly serve the nation,
Though his person be the price;
His must be the consecration
Of the living sacrifice.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.

Lo, the time is for decision,
To remove the withering ban,
That has cursed us with division,
And the man that is no man.
Who has ruled and fooled the nation,
Till it half forgets its name,
And has cast it from its station,
To the shadow deep of shame.
Now we want a faithful leader,
Who despises place and pelf,
Not a petty special pleader,
One who cannot rule himself,

524

We must have a statesman hearty,
Who can cope with any fate;
Who will not be for a party,
But who will be for the State.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.

Lo, events are sternly moving,
While our ministers stand still;
They have failed to bear their proving,
To obey the people's will.
Our repute was high and royal,
They have brought our glory down,
Who have ever been disloyal
To the country and the Crown.
They have dragged our stainless banner,
Through the gutter and the mire;
They have lost the stately manner,
And the spirit as of fire.
We must have a sturdy statesman,
Who will paths of duty walk;
Not a mouther and debates man,
Who can only talk and talk.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the hero of Khartoum.

Lo, the spell at last is broken,
And the steed is on the strain;
While it listens for the token,
Of the guiding voice and rein.
For we only wait the mounting,
And we only want the man;
Who will dally not in counting
Just his pennies, not a plan.
He must be like our fifth Harry,
With a heart for every ill,
And an iron will to carry
Unto victory his will.
He will speak till nations hearken,
He will strike till nations fear;
Though the whole horizon darken,
And a thousand foes draw near.
Was there not a man, the warden
Of our honour unto doom?
Ah, remember England's Gordon,
And the Hero of Khartoum.

525

NO ONE AT THE HELM. 1885.

Hark! the winds are blowing shoreward,
And the rocks are on the lee;
But for England fair and forward,
Not a pilot can we see.
And the ship of State is drifting,
Where she has no ocean room;
And the stormy waves are lifting
Her all desperate to doom.
Ah, the planks they shake and shudder,
As they feel the coming fate;
If some captain takes the rudder,
Will he take it now too late?
For the bravest men are stricken,
From the precious help delayed;
And the noblest bosoms sicken,
For they know they are betrayed.
Every promise was perverted,
When our grandest heroes fell;
And when Gordon died deserted,
It was England's funeral knell.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish
There is no one at the helm.

Lo, the iron bolts are starting,
In the tempest's angry flail;
And the gods are all departing,
With a weeping and a wail.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With her broadside to the blast;
And the sides are slowly rifting,
And is cracked the straining mast.
Not a voice to give the orders,
Not a trump a certain sound;
Though we tremble on the borders,
Of destruction's hopeless bound.
When we ask for swift decision,
A commander for the ship,
There is nothing but division,
Or a lie upon the lip.
Though the flag is torn and tattered,
And is not without a stain,
Though our forces are so scattered,
We a leader ask in vain.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.

526

Yes, the shoals are creeping nearer,
And they show their awful shape,
With the breakers tossing nearer,
As if now were no escape.
For the ship of State is drifting,
To the unrelenting shore;
To which many pass through sifting,
But alas, return no more.
We can trust the words of strangers,
We can glorious battles win,
We can conquer giant dangers,
But not treachery within.
Oh, our Gordon, England's jewel,
And the bulwark of the State!
Oh, the mercy that was cruel,
And the help that came too late!
Must the country's pride be taken,
And his butcher darkly stand,
He himself alone unshaken,
And upon a ruined land?
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.

Ah, the last sad hour is tolling,
Like a muffled mourning bell;
And the billows fierce are rolling,
While we labour in the swell.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With no happy sign to cheer;
Not a heart with aim unshifting,
Not an honest hand to cheer.
Must we die without a struggle?
Must we fall without a blow?
Must we let the traitor juggle,
Who has laid our honour low?
We will serve a faithful master,
Who will nobly guide and feel;
We can yet defy disaster,
With a steersman at the wheel.
But the wind is growing higher,
And the clouds are gathering still;
And the curse is drawing nigher,
The inexorable ill.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in her realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.

527

THE WORST CLUB IN LONDON.

Once we boasted in pride, and believed to be true,
That our Parliament Club was the best,—
And the Home of the Commons, to give it its due,
Was a place which no cad could molest;
We believed that but gentlemen there held their own,
Who behaved still as gentlemen must,
And no law save the practice of honour was known,
With no stroke beyond courtesy's thrust;
We believed that the snob and the rowdy and rogue,
Though abroad they might purchase a seat—
And sedition, if elsewhere with traitors in vogue—
Would not find in one house a retreat.

We rejoiced that our Senate was sacred, and pure
From the breath of the blackguards who blight—
There was one spot where truth reigned supreme and secure,
As our charter of national right.
We were certain the bully, wherever he dropt
The coarse threats of his cowardly mind—
If he darkened the pulpit—yet there would be stopt,
And would leave not his brandings behind
We announced to the world, how the Commons retained
The grand style that had robed them with power;
And the justice, which ran through our annals unstained,
Blossomed there in its loveliest flower.

But where now is the glory, when foul is the change
Which has fallen as night on the scene,
With the antics and orgies to Englishmen strange,
In their dignity once so serene?
Have the sweepings of gaols, and of gutters been searched
To provide the most pestilent gang,
Who the ancient and awful and fair have besmirched,
With the reek of their ruffianly slang?
Have the back slums of Ireland been vomiting up,
The contents of their murderous maws,
Politicians who range between crime and the cup,
And acknowledge no manners or laws?

For the floor of our Parliament House is defiled,
With the strut of stipendiary knaves;
And the customs of decency wither, reviled
By the lip that conspiracy raves;
And the precincts once solemn as holiest bounds,
Now have sunk to a scandalous school,
Where the volley of low malediction resounds,
And the scoff of the liar or fool.
And though London has many a shelter for vice,
Whence the organised evil may burst,
And the gambler no lack of his hells to entice,
Yet the Club called the Senate is worst.

528

HUMOROUS POEMS AND POEMS FOR CHILDREN.

ROBIN REDBREAST,

OR THE DOLEFUL LEGEND OF THE BLOODY BREAST.

Now I'll tell you a story of Robin,
And how he got blood on his breast;
Why his voice has a tremor and sob in,
And his life is a life of unrest.

He was once a most exquisite gallant,
And was known by the bravest of names;
Who possessed a particular talent,
For paying attentions to dames.

He lavished the brightest of glances,
With sweetmeats and all that is nice;
And after voluptuous dances,
He always remembered the ice.

Champagne he would offer by dozens,
To all who were fond of the fiz;
And his sisters and beautiful cousins,
He was never so base as to quiz.

Yes, he was such a dear little man, Oh!
And he sang them the properest songs;
He performed on the harp and piano,
And adapted to music their wrongs.

So they loved him, and where is the wonder?
All the ladies were madly in love;
For he never committed a blunder,
In returning a glance or a glove:

Ah, the havoc he worked with deportment,
At the balls, in the street, on the stairs;
For he had such a dainty assortment,
Of postures and paces and airs.

529

But the worst of the mischief is coming,
The misfortune that led to his fall;
In spite of his harping and humming,
He could not be married to all.

Though he handed their chairs to the table,
And did just the service he should;
Like the excellent youth in the fable,
Who was always so steady and good.

Though he humoured the ladies with scandal,
And bowed them so brightly to bed,
That they scarcely had need of a candle,
Such a radiance around him he shed!

Though he said the right thing in a moment,
And did the right thing as he ought;
Though he knew what a feminine No meant,
And when his affections were sought.

Though he bore no repute as a sinner,
And his manners were polished and gay;
Though he always came sober to dinner,
And never went tipsy away.

Yet in spite of his charming addresses,
His elegant airs and his drawl;
In spite of ten thousand successes,
He could not be married to all.

So at length, all the ladies of fashion,
The ladies of blood and of birth,
Agreed to debate on their passion—
On Robin, his ways and his worth.

At the house of a thorough-bred lady,
That seemed made of sunshine and air;
Though her fame, as they whispered, was shady;
They met in a tournament fair.

There was many a beauty of title,
Who joined in the tilting of love;
Who felt that the question was vital,
For her happiness here and above.

And in short it was settled discreetly,
With tears and with amorous strife;
That she should be Robin's completely,
Who was taken by lot for his wife.

Then Robin was told their proceeding.
And he bowed with the lowest of bows;
And he smiled with such perfect good breeding,
That they saw not the cloud on his brows.

530

Then he handed them all to the table,
And helped them to ice and champagne;
His step was so buoyant and stable,
That none had the thought to complain.

But now they had come to the Drawing,
Which was held in decorum and state;
And with wonderful hemming and hawing,
They drew for poor Robin his mate.

Her name I can tell you was Jenny,
She was sprightly and tiny and trim;
But she had not the worth of a penny
And she vented her temper on him.

For, alas, she was artful and jealous,
She followed wherever he went;
Though his homage was constant and zealous,
Yet he never could make her content.

He tried a cocked hat like a beadle's,
He tried her with all that he knew;
But she pinched him and pricked him with needles,
And twisted his necktie askew.

He tried her with singing and dances,
He tried her with stories and scents;
But she cared not a fig for romances,
And tore all his wristbands in rents.

He tried her with billing and cooing,
He tried her with ice and champagne;
He tried her with sugar and wooing,
But all his devotion was vain.

And she plagued him so much with her odd kin,
While she never gave Robin a rest;
Then he stabbed her to death with her bodkin,
And she fell as a corpse on his breast.

But she spoke—and her voice had a sob in—
Before she surrendered her breath;
“My life-blood for ever, O Robin,
Shall accuse you of causing my death.”

By a process well-known to the sages,
He was slowly transformed to a bird;
Grew a bill in a couple of ages,
And some practical claws in a third.

His coat was turned drab, from the murther,
And where his poor Jenny had bled;
There Nature to punish him further,
Developed a waistcoat of red.

531

For this is the sages' solution,—
Could a better one too be desired?—
He was changed, by a calm evolution,
Though ages of course were required.

The grandest result of our Science,
Has taught us that nothing is strange;
That time, with a tender compliance,
Will account for all possible change.

So we'll hope that in right of probation,
And in spite of his terrible ban;
Through a course of judicious migration,
The bird may return to a man.

But now in the winter poor Robin,
When the gardens are frozen and hoar,
Must pipe—and his voice has a sob in—
His plaintive despair at our door.

He will sometimes peep in at the window,
When fretted with flowers of frost;
And we say to him, “Robin, come in, do!”
But he looks quite bewildered and lost.

With his jacket of drab like a Quaker,
And his criminal waistcoat of red,
He follows the track of the baker,
And gathers the crumbs that are shed.

Poor Robin! we feel he is human,
In spite of his feathers and look;
For he shows such a wondrous acumen,
In courting the love of the cook.

He is fond of the clergyman's daughters,
Who cater so well for his good;
He is fond of the babble of waters,
That steal through the leaves of a wood.

His voice is as sweet as a brooklet's,
That sings in the sunshine of June;
And he'll gossip all day, if the cook lets
Him freshen his throat for a tune.

The gardener himself, with a dead breast
To feelings of pity for birds,
Would not think of destroying a Redbreast,
Or of giving him scurrilous words.

The horse does not mind his advances,
And will let him alight as he jogs;
He has nothing to fear from the fancies,
Of any respectable dogs.

532

In the lapses of time he gets bolder,
If tempted with tid-bits of bread;
And he'll perch for a while on your shoulder,
Or settle perhaps on the head.

He is known to fly in at the window,
And to lead all the household a dance;
But he forfeits his caste like a Hindoo,
If he falls down the chimney by chance.

His notes that we love are not many,
Though a pretty performer is Rob;
But you hear them begin with a Jenny,
And end with a tremulous sob.

For the murther his quiet embitters,
And he broods on it early and late;
While he cocks up his tail as he twitters,
Bewailing his wife and his fate.

THE STORY OF A ST---K (Tellurium) .

I had once a friend, I deemed,
Whom I tenderly esteemd,
Of old;
For he really did inherit
A large amount of merit
And—gold.

There is nothing like a friend,
Who has money you can spend
At your will;
Who does not in conclusion.
Overwhelm you with confusion
And—a bill.

And his gentle name was Jones,
I can't speak it without groans
Like a knell;
For he sank below my level,
When he sold him to the Devil,
For—a smell.

Now there is an awful drug,
Which is worse than any b-g
That sneaks;
Take enough, though it's expensive,
It will make you most offensive,
For weeks.

533

And it has a ghastly name,
As befits a thing of shame
And worse;
I will tell it unto nó men,
For to think it (absit omen)
Is a curse.

But one day there came by post,
A strange letter like a ghost,
With the news;—
“I am happy beyond measure,
For I always eats at pleasure
What I chews.”

Then soon after up in Town,
We met at the “Sword and Gown,”
To make fun;
And I noticed an effluvium,
Like the vilest of alluvium
In the sun.

He responded with a shrug,
“I have eaten of the drug,
You malign'd;
And though it breeds an odour,
It leaves brandy even and soda
Far behind.”

But he was so far from sweet,
And besotted with conceit
In his choice;
That I begged for some assistance.
And the mellowing touch of distance,
To find voice.

So we parted still as friends,
While we had our different ends
In view;
I, before a month's expiry,
To make a grand enquiry,
He—to chew.

I read all the books I found,
That could anyone confound
With shame;
I grew sadder still and seedier,
As every cyclopœdia
Said the same.

And then in the open air,
It was Trafalgar Square,
Once again;

534

We met, hé with exultation,
And I in indignation
To complain.

For a pestilential breath
Hung over him like death
Or its blast;
And I marked even men like Moses,
Held handkerchiefs to noses,
As they passed.

And I said unto him, “Jones!”
In sad and solemn tones,
“Is it well?”—
(The truth is, what I stated,
Can hardly be related)—
“You smell!”

But I drew it rather mild,
And he looked at me and smiled,
As possesst:—
“I don't care if I am chidden,
The fruit that is forbidden,
Is the best.”

He even cracked a joke,
Because I sadly spoke,
With a wink;
So I talked a little longer,
And then put it rather stronger,
“You stink!”

But I could not make him grave,
He continued to behave,
Liko a wench;
So I shot a bitter arrow,
Though I knew its point would harrow,
“You're a stench!”

But he ventured still to stay,
And to boldly give me nay,
Till l said:—
“Though you wear the finest clothing,
You're a horror and a loathing,
Like the dead.

Then he turned upon his heel,
Like a ghoul that's made its meal
In the tomb;
He had sold his soul for ages,
And was drifting by dark stages
To his doom.

535

And unto this very day,
When people go that way,
Through the Square;
I mark even men like Moses,
Put handkerchiefs to noses,
And—swear.

For a fetid odour still,
Unremoved by human skill
And lime,
Yet haunts the spot, past mending;
And will haunt it till the ending
Of time.

And I saw, as in a dream,
Adown the mighty stream
Of life,
A chemical solution
Of every evolution
At strife.

For I saw how men and things,
And our high imaginings,
All fell,
Before the dread artillery,
Far worse than any pillory,
Of—a smell.

I saw constitution, throne,
And ministry, undone
In a wink;
Not by grape shot and old courses,
But by the direr forces
Of—a stink.

And I saw the grandest powers,
That we fondly think are ours,
Nor will blench;
Yet in a moment shattered,
And with all their engines scattered,
By—a stench,

And I said, “The future lies
With the cunning chemistries
That illume;
And with weeping and with laughter,
Men will pave the great hereafter
With—perfume.

With good odours landlords will
Their barren acres till,
And get rents;

536

And the world with little trouble,
Will be governed (be it double)
By—scents.

For the restless nations can,
As every prudent man
May suppose,
When their hearts are most divided,
Be only safely guided
By—the nose!

A LOVER'S JOURNAL,

OR THE D---Y OF A D---G---N.

A pain lay heavy on my heart,
And sorely racked my breast;
All day I felt the bitter smart,
All night I got no rest.

On Sunday at the solemn church,
I saw her golden hair;
But ah! she left me in the lurch,
And yet the pain was there.

Then Monday dawned, and with the sun
I prematurely rose;
Her presence still I could not shun,
And it increased my woes.

The Tuesday followed all too slow,
To soothe my fretful frame;
And every wind, that chanced to blow,
But breathed my darling's name.

By Wednesday ere the crisis dire,
Came to a ghastly point;
My very flesh seemed full of fire,
My bones were out of joint.

The Thursday brought my lawyer round,
With all his legal skill;
I chose a piece of sacred ground,
And calmly made my will.

On Friday had she seen me pine,
It surely would have shocked her;
At first I summoned a divine,
And then I called a doctor.

537

On Saturday a wondrous change
Upon my spirit fell;
The draught had sped, and (what was strange)
I felt completely well.

Perchance it may some pity move,
Though sad is the suggestion;
This was no diary of love,
But only of digestion.

THE STORY OF A STOMACH.

I suffered sore for many years,
With every kind of pangs;
And pains, that brought the bitter tears,
Struck deep their cruel fangs.

I sought physicians without end,
And emptied out my purse;
I wandered both to foe and friend,
But only made things worse.

My stomach, said they, was not sound,
And needed tone no doubt;
While on it, as a battle ground,
They fought their crotchets out.

With draughts my system all was soaked,
The pills I could not name;
But the more doctors I invoked,
The more diseases came.

I gorged myself, and then grew thin,
To please the different schools;
And when I had new helpers in,
They called the others fools.

They labelled me with learned terms,
And libelled me as well;
They talked of “symptoms” and of “germs,”
And things I could not spell.

One said I wanted measures rough,
And should be freely bled;
One vowed I had not sleep enough,
And bade me keep my bed.

Another cried, my blood was thick,
And treated it with gin;
Another urged, it made me sick,
Because it was too thin.

538

One told me never to take meat,
And live on fruits and air;
One swore, that flesh was the receipt
To turn me fat and fair.

This man said, acids were the cure
By which I might be saved;
That man knew sugar would be sure
To work the end I craved.

One thought, I wanted stirring up,
Another, stroking down;
One praised the country's honeyed cup,
Another puffed the town.

Another sang the use of change,
And ordered me to Rome;
Another deemed my case was strange,
And let me stay at home.

But though they differed in their way
Of driving out the pest;
They all agreed to make me pay,
And contradict the rest.

At length I felt that draughts and pills,
Were quite as vain as sad;
That drugs and doctors were the ills,
Which rendered me so bad.

I bade them and the medicines fly,
With all their specious pleas;
I told them, that the remedy
Was worse than the disease.

Now health and happiness are mine,
I eat and drink and revel;
And, in my freedom, I consign
The doctors to the devil.

THE “BRITISH ASS.” 1888.

There was a great nation so free,
That they could but in one thing agree;
For the worshipped an Ass,
In a Palace of Brass,
And they played to it fiddle-de-dee.

539

For they made it their guardian and god,
And burnt incense wherever it trod;
And whate'er it might bid,
Still they cheerfully did,
All the better because it was odd.

And they danced in its honour all night,
And belauded its beauty and might;
When they told it to bray,
It never said nay,
With lungs stethoscopically right.

And they treasured each saying so well,
Which from its omniscience fell,
That they spread it abroad
At the point of the sword,
To the sound of the funeral bell.

For this was their jubilant creed,
They imposed on the nations in need,
(Though they flattered with flowers
All the prosperous Powers),
“Believe in the Ass, or be d---d.”

It had prophets and priests not a few,
The Gentile and even the Jew;
And the Celt on it sat,
With his reasoning pat,
And expounded at length all it knew.

The people who listened were pleased,
They blessed it whenever it sneezed,
Though away with soft soap
It washed every hope,
And swore that their burdens were eased.

And they sang to it all the day long,
Though their language was certainly strong,
“O ye people who pass,
“Bow down to the Ass,
“That preserves us from ruin and wrong.”

In seasons of danger or drouth,
The Ass would then open its mouth,
And would lighten their fears
With its sapient ears,
Which it stretched from the north to the south.

Though learnèd in Art, yet in science
It inspired them with greater reliance;
For it humoured their pride,
And each prejudice plied,
And set common sense at defiance.

540

It said, with a dignified mien,
That man once a monkey had been,
Who lacked freedom of will,
And could only fulfil,
The part of a clumsy machine.

If its arguments ever were lame,
It would coin some new ponderous name,
And bid them all grovel
Before what was novel,
And glory the most in their shame.

And the prophets and priests, as was meet,
Sat in solemn array at its feet,
And applauded the Ass
In its Palace of Brass,
That made wisdom so simple and sweet.

And it had such an crudite store,
To varnish its ignorance o'er,
That even when it blundered
The people still wondered,
And believed it and honoured it more.

Now once in the course of the year,
It tickled the popular ear,
By propounding some riddle,
Whatever could diddle
The fools who delighted to hear.

And its votaries eagerly prest,
From the bounds of the east and the west,
To receive its last bray,
And some new-fangled way
Where with they were wont to be blest.

And at last when the Jubilee fell,
It had something especial to tell;
And all its chief men,
At the platform and pen,
Blew their trumpets uncommonly well

But the greatest, as any could see,
Was the mighty Sir W.T.,
The high-priest of the Ass
In its Palace of Brass,
Who discoursed on the wonders to be.

He predicted the glorious stage,
Of a new and electrical age,
When things would be done,
Without help of the sun,
From cooking to printing a page.

541

So he merrily beat on his drum,
And unfolded the glory to come,
When the others would plough
And go milking the cow,
By the light of the science of Some.

And at last he became so prophetic,
When he spoke of our stores energetic,
That he ventured to guess he
Could make posse be esse,
And our life all electro-magnetic.

His tale was of mystical forces,
That came from more marvellous sources,
And flew thousands of miles
Over oceans and isles,
And made useless our engines and horses.

He said at that jubilant hour,
There was nought like transmission of power,
And that even Niagara,
Which was thought such a staggerer.
Could be tamed for the parlour and bower.

Still he sang in his happier vein,
Of the triumphs of what he called brain,
As did Hoaxley and Spindle,
Who delighted to swindle
Poor starvelings with chaff they thought grain.

Though, alack! the few fools who would foster
Yet doubts, and yet said “Pater Noster,”
Swore the Palace of Brass
Was a plaything of Glass,
And the Beast was but an Impostor.

Not so many a prophet and priest,
Who all sounded the praise of the Beast,
And enlarged without fears
On the length of its ears,
And the reason it spread for a feast.

And before the decline of the day,
So supreme was the asinine sway,
That the folks of all classes
Were transformed into asses,
And themselves began also to bray.

“Bray! bray! bray!
While the enemy comes to the door;
Bray! bray! bray!
While our science is starving the poor.

542

It's oh! such a victory too,
To brag of philosoph's sway,
And if all we are going to do;
There is nothing like learning to bray.”

A VALENTINE.

Unprized, when all must be thy lovers,
Who know thy beautous woman's part,
I do not wear a mask that covers
The falsehood of a flattering heart.

My love is true, it may be little,
Compared with thine that is so vast,
And yet its bond is not as brittle
As louder loves, that do not last.

For thee no common gifts, that other
And lesser natures well may win—
I give thee all, myself, as brother,
Who reads a sister soul within.

I ask, in earthly moil and muddle,
To help thee to some holy end,
Between the thorn or miry puddle
And thee, to stand a steadfast friend,

I ask, when thou art sad and lonely,
To take the burden and make bright
The rough and shadowy road, and only
To bear thy buffets as thy knight.

I ask, though other vows be fervent,
And younger suitors seek thy trust,
To be at least thy faithful servant,
And brush from thee the fouling dust.

I ask, to share but in thy sorrow,
And not the gladness of the strife,
To raise thee still, and build thy morrow
More sweet from my own lavished life.

I ask, if angry beat the billow,
For thee the stormy strand to tread,
For thee to suffer, as a pillow
That rests a while thy aching head.

I ask for thee to live, and cherish
Whatever may be part of thine,
For thee some day with joy to perish,
And be in death thy Valentine.

543

A MODEL NURSERY.

Two tiny girls and two too naughty boys
Among a heap of shattered hopes and toys
And broken legs and arms, and dreams of dolls
That never lived nor will, and pretty Polls
And ugly apes, a Noah's ark, a pail
Without a bottom, and without a tail
A donkey, picture books all thumbed and torn,
With pages tattered scattered soiled and worn,
And manners queer (all wanting mending), carts
That draw their horses and defy the arts,
Four little voices and one big white lie,
Eight hands (just washed but dirty) in one pie
Of the worst mischief, and Dadda's best hat,
In peace a cradle for the Persian cat,
In war a drum and thunder-box of coals,
A tortoise and a bird, and shadowy shoals
For the unconscious nursemaid, scraps of buns
And soap and bread and butter and spring-guns,
White mice and marbles and Mamma's new dress,
Old boots and shoes and caps and every mess
Known and unknown, cups, brushes, combs, and knives
That threaten murder to unwary lives,
A three-legged chair, a topsy-turvy table,
The sights of Bedlam and the sounds of Babel.

THE POOR OLD VICAR.

I am only a poor old Vicar,
And my head is growing gray;
And the ladies pass me quicker,
Or they turn the other way.
For they say, we like them younger,
With their faces fresh and glad;
And our hearts they fondly hunger
For the compliments we had—
For the sugar plums and speeches,
And the fingers warm and white,
Not the hands that feel like leeches,
And the lips that don't invite.

I am only a poor old Vicar,
And the ladies think me slow;
And they say, Why not go quicker?
But, alas! I am no go.
Oh, they like them trim and tender,
When they have a verdant charm;

544

And they sigh, “What's our defender,
If not the Vicar's arm?”
If you give us but a Curate,
We will try to be content;
You can pay him with a pew-rate,
Encumbering incumbent.”

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A DONKEY.

Sweet Artist, long I burdens bore,
For many a tyrant lass;
But never had I wished before
To be a lady's ass.

Until I saw a donkey, wrought
By thy transforming hand;
Ennobled by the kindly thought
That gilds the coarsest band.

And now I gladly would be thine,
If painted I might be,
And feel the touch that must refine,
Transfigured all by thee.

Yea, I would bear the heaviest loads,
To gather, at thy gates,
The look that lifts to higher roads,
The love that educates.

What though the world should call me ass,
My fame be still decried?
Yet the lone hours would lovelier pass,
And life be glorified.

“IN A QUIET SORT OF WAY.”

I am very shy and modest,
And most careful what I say;
And I shrink from what is oddest,
In a quiet sort of way.

And when I go to dinners,
Or have leisure for the play,
I but glance at pretty sinners,
In a quiet sort of way.

545

To the poor I give a copper,
But I'll help not, if I may,
The nouns that are improper,
In a quiet sort of way.

I to verbs for conjugation,
When irregular, cry nay;
And use Cocker's calculation,
In a quiet sort of way.

I know Maud is “sweet and twenty,”
And frail man is only clay;
And a kiss or two are plenty,
In a quiet sort of way.

I am rather fond of honey,
And for what I purchase pay—
At least, if I have money,
In a quiet sort of way,

I am not averse to dances,
That turn darkness into day,
And to little ball romances,
In a quiet sort of way.

My heart is tuned to hopping,
Though my feet are somewhat splay,
And to tender questions popping,
In a quiet sort of way.

I live in good Society,
And you must observe I pray,
That I worship all Propriety,
In a quiet sort of way.

I keep a careful distance
From the darlings that are gay,
If they ask for my assistance,
In a quiet sort of way.

I am really most particular,
At visits not to stay,
When confessions grow aurioular,
In a quiet sort of way.

The correctness of my noddle,
Ought to carry off the bay
From the dearest saint and coddle,
In a quiet sort of way.

My coat is ever dusted,
And defies the broadest ray,
And my aims are well adjusted,
In a quiet sort of way.

546

My motions are as balanced,
As a blossom is in May;
My affaires de cœur are valanced,
In a quiet sort of way.

I like summer rambles nightly,
And making love and hay,
When the moon is shining brightly,
In a quiet sort of way.

There are lambs with golden fleeces,
For a tender hand to flay,
Among my country nieces,
In a quiet sort of way.

I like rural deans and scenery,
And a steady one-horse shay,
And the girls that peep from greenery,
In a quiet sort of way.

It is sweet to hear the birdies,
And that ass the Rector bray;
They recall the hurdy-gurdies,
In a quiet sort of way.

I am shepherd to the lonely,
That alas! has learnt to stray;
But I show attentions only,
In a quiet sort of way.

I like Annie but not hèr Aunt,
And the dragon I would slay,
For I am George night-errant,
In a quiet sort of way.

I was taught a little Latin,
By a dictionary fay;
But my books are bound in satin,
In a quiet sort of way.

Yes, in dainty silks they prattle,
And they laugh like silver spray;
Their contents are tea and tattle,
In a quiet sort of way.

For my library is woman,
From the Thames unto the Tay;
And my heart is very human,
In a quiet sort of way.

And at five I flutter often,
To the social tiff and tray;
Where the bright eyes beam and soften,
In a quiet sort of way.

547

For fair lances I've a liking,
And am eager for the fray,
When the attitudes are striking,
In a quiet sort of way.

I am not a crude abstainer
And I love the brewer's dray;
For this child's an old campaigner,
In a quiet sort of way.

When I go to Ascot races,
A small wager I can lay,
On the horse with winning paces,
In a quiet sort of way.

I have studied ornithology,
And distinguished duck from jay;
And am great at Anne-thropology,
In a quiet sort of way.

My locks are growing fewer,
And my head is turning gray;
But I use the “Hair Renewer,”
In a quiet sort of way.

A CLERICAL CAUCUS.

Forth they flocked from mews and mansion,
Horsey men with strange expansion,
Sheepish forms from shady pen;
Slaves of awful early rising,
Timid souls apologising—
Wondering if they were men.

Punctual man with virtuous visage,
Doubtful man (whatever's his age?),
Yellow leaf and foliage green;
Lovers from their love and cottage,
Not so provident in pottage,
As perhaps they might have been.

Bachelors, divided fractions,
Seeking better halves and actions,
Figures that enchant them most;
Winter pear just turning mellow,
And the jealous Moor, Othello,
With the late incumbent's ghost.

548

Stretching like a band elastic,
Came the pied ecclesiastic,
Black in nature, white in face;
Striving with some private leaven,
To commingle earth and heaven,
And in neither finding place.

Came the cockney from his villa,
Aquila without Priscilla,
And the poet in his pride;
Fanatics disposed to further
Force, and meditating murther,
But committing suicide.

Mean men on the via media,
Growing seedier and seedier,
Safe and sapient in vain:
Men indifferent to quarter,
Moderates of milk and water,
Chiefly water on the brain.

Maiden speakers, soft as crumpets,
Like small children blowing trumpets,
Little flourishes and shoots;
Evangelicals past mending,
Deeper, deeper, still descending,
Down into their native boots.

Men with just the right solution,
Radicals with revolution,
Voting things established null;
Men of peace with pious fables,
Fixed in views like vegetables,
Dear, delightful, good, and dull.

Prayer-book men, the smart and dowdy,
And alas! the reverend rowdy,
Souls of pleasure, souls of grief;
Men for party and for faction,
And short-tempered men of action
Ready to be “curst and brief.”

Pretty parsons coyly blushing,
Sentimental subjects gushing,
Greedy men who clutched at gain;
Heavy whale and sportive minnow,
Chaffy men like fans that winnow,
Sometimes too against the grain.

Idle fellows sat with active,
Ugly faces by attractive,
Though they inferences drew;

549

Unattached men stuck to fixtures,
Simple-minded men to mixtures
Of all matters old and new.

Came though redolent of sherry,
Bibulous Augustus Perry,
Panting for the pious fray;
Blending levity ethereal,
With the graver mode imperial
Of the lofty Roman way.

And from Dullford hied the Doctor,
Like a Convocation Proctor,
With amendments on the brain—
With interminable fussing,
The same question still concussing,
O'er and o'er and o'er again.

Leering over learned glasses
Came like Saul in search of asses,
Peeping up and peeping down,
The tremendous Oxford scholar,
Stiff emerging from his collar,
Only not to find a crown.

Wade, who loveth the “Girls' Friendly”
Came in eager haste from Wendly,
And brought with him his new broom;
Torn from parish teas and pleasures,
Ripe for the most sweeping measures,
In his young Induction bloom.

He who thinks the East position
Is the sure way to perdition,
Came with murder in his mouth;
Prompt to question or to quibble
Standing the North end of Kibble,
Strenuously facing south.

Spoke that ancient one, the Dodo,
With his suaviter in modo,
And his fortiter in re;
Proving like a pair of snuffers,
All who doubted him were duffers,
And the only sage was he.

He from Combe, the scourge of varmint,
Left, as Joseph left his garment
And fled, hounds and hunting lore;
But it must be owned, that Snarker
Only made the subject darker,
Which was not too clear before.

550

Came the saintly from his cloister,
Like a consecrated oyster,
Fresh from ceremonial tricks;
Swearing no State laws could bind him,
Looking like Lot's wife—behind him,
On his cross and candlesticks.

Pussy curates, to keep thè line
Taken, scratched in ways quite feline,
Sticking to it like a burr;
Caterwauling in surprising
Tones not feeling, catechising,
Though accustomed more to purr.

Quibblers with the dew of college,
Flaunting their degrees and knowledge,
Quick at thrusting and at fence,
Forced the pace and made the running,
Drawing their distinctions cunning
Without any difference.

Whigs with ample upper storeys,
And with cellars only Tories,
But good wine in them at least;
Latitudinarian peoples,
Longitudinarian steeples,
Stretched and soared at Reason's feast.

Pale dyspeptics, slow and sleepy,
Blinking bookworms, crabbed and creepy,
Dimly crawled into the light;
Owls and bats from country corners,
Huddled like a mob of mourners,
Sighing for their native night.

Literary stars, and fogeys,
Grammarless and scared by bogeys
Sprung from prejudice or beer;
Men who borrowed each conviction,
Martyrs to the last affliction,
From the Street whose name is Queer.

Prigs with nothing, prigs with sóme bent
Came, encumbrance and incumbent,
For the glory to be won;
Old and young each with opinions,
Squarsons proud of their dominions,
And unhappy men with none.

Lo the silent ate the chatty
And the lean devoured the fatty,
And the tall oppressed the short;

551

Poor men had their fling at rich men,
And proved facts and faces which men
Stuck to claret, which to port.

Came the widower in trouble,
Which his cat had rendered double,
By departing from this life;
Clothed in garments grave and shabby,
Mourning for his favourite tabby,
More than for his prudent wife.

Good companions, fond of lasses,
Breathed benevolence and Bass's,
And to hidden music moved;
Satisfied the Church was meetest,
And its present state the sweetest,
That could never be improved.

Imitators of old Sparta,
Free men fond of Magna Charta,
Slaves exulting in their chains;
Prophets like the trump of doom's tones,
Resurrectionists on tombstones,
Picking one another's brains.

Stern and lengthy was the struggle,
As they strove in vain to juggle
Simple words, and make them dark;
Crafty Greek was matched with Trojan,
And divine met theologian,
Like the creatures in the Ark.

Vicars tilted against Rectors,
And Diocesan Inspectors
Laid about them with a will;
Curate combated with curate,
And soft hearts grew quite obdùrate,
As they mauled each other still.

Never was there such a shining,
Such reflecting and refining,
Such displays of Logic's arm;
Inferences and inductions,
Stern conclusions and destructions,
That did nobody a harm.

And, pray, what was all this action,
Objurgation and retraction,
Agonies of learned lore?—
Why, they somehow were not able,
To agree about the Table—
If before it meant “before.”

552

Only one bold man was certain,
Who had drawn aside the curtain,
Which obscures the Rubric's frame;
With a private revelation,
From the Church Association—
Looking east is sin and shame.

After endless combinations,
Of their wits' exercitations,
It was passed without a No;
To let be the solemn question,
Which produced but indigestion,
Quietly in statu quo.

But what was the status ante,
None could tell—not even Dante,
Who knew earth and heaven and hell;
Yet, though he might so enchant age
And youth, he lacked the advantage
Of the Rubrics we know well.

It was passed without objections,
Save the doctor's grim reflections,
Who would croak till “crack of doom;”
And they left him at the ending,
Still protesting, still amending,
To the silent empty room.

The Rural Dean was “North” Kibble.

THE OMITTED INITIAL.

I had a friend of whom I speak
in pensive tones,
Whose honoured name was
A.B.C.D.E.F.Jones;
He was an upright man, I
never knew a better,
But fell a victim to
a miserable letter.

He did not pride himself
upon the gold he spent,
Or legendary glories of
a long descent;
Nor did he think it much
to rule among officials,
But on his private alphabet
of pet initials.

553

But even he was human, he
with all his pride,
And longed at last to place
a partner by his side;
A lady who would do some
credit to his story,
And be a kind of reflex
brightness of his glory.

She was young of course and fair,
and had no Irish rents,
But prattled of the sweetness
of the three per cents;
She had good teeth and hair
and all her own complexion,
But was a little short of
what is called affection.

Though rather bothered by his
ardent looks and loves,
She owned a lady's weakness
for perfumes and gloves;
And he wooed her patiently
in high official fashion,
In hopes that she would yield
at last from mere compassion.

He could not give her crowns,
(there were no vacant thrones),
But could make her Mrs. A.B.
C.D.E.F.Jones;
And what woman, who had any
pity in her bowels,
Could resist that long array
of consonants and vowels?

So he sent her many notes, which
had more sound than sense,
With every prefix set in all
its eloquence;
But though her maiden nose
liked well his scented paper,
She only tore it up to light
her evening taper.

But he could not work himself
up to the proper pitch,
And whenever he essayed
there always was some hitch;
For he had not yet the pluck
to make a formal offer,
Though he dwelt upon her virtues
and her golden coffer.

554

So as he courage lacked to
do the needful thing,
He gave his humour play and
bought a wedding-ring;
He made upholsterers all
his cottage sweep and garnish,
And on his manners put
an extra coat of varnish.

He bought a poodle dog, a
pug, and Persian cat,
And got the latest fashion
in a beaver hat;
He even went so far, in
prospect of his marriage,
To order horses two and
the appropriate carriage.

He wrote his groomsmen's names
upon a virgin sheet,
And set a score of shoemakers
to deck his feet;
He thought of every item down
to Nubian blacking,
And all was of the best and
only one thing lacking.

He had not yet proposed, to know
the lady's will,
For whom he thus ran up
so elegant a bill;
And though no mortal's fancy
could have been more supple,
There never was a marriage yet
without a couple.

In vain he purchased gloves
and novelties in scents,
And practised attitudes
and sighs and blandishments;
They only gave her nose a more
celestial turning,
And added fuel to the fire
within him burning.

And vainly in his home he
studied every style
Of courtship, that a woman's
bosom might beguile;
He knelt and made the lover's
prayer his daily portion,
And wreathed his face in every
amorous contortion.

555

But though he writhed and put
his body out of joint,
He could not bring his courage
to the sticking point;
He only grew more limp,
invertebrate and flabby,
While his behaviour people
said was really shabby.

At length in sheer despair
he called a helper in,
And asked how he the awful
question should begin.
His friend replied, “Would you
escape the vulgar scoffer,
Sit down at once and write a
plain and formal offer.”

So down he sat and wrote,
with many sighs and groans,
And signed himself, “Your A.
B.C.D.E.F.Jones.”
Of course he talked of love
and all that sort of twaddle,
And swore, were he her husband,
he would be a model.

Then it was sealed and sent, the
matter to illume,
And wafted to her shrine
with incense of perfume;
And every person cried, whose
judgment was of value,
“You think that you shall conquer
now, my boy, but—shall you?”

He argued to himself, that, if
his ardent love
The lady's frosty heart availed
not still to move,
She must bow humbly down,
as did his sub-officials,
To the majesty of those
invincible initials.

But his logic, as he found, was
not extremely good,
And the heroine of the three
per cents. his suit withstood,
Though the ring and pug and cat,
the horses two and carriage,
And poodle, would, he hoped,
insure a happy marriage.

556

And though his beaver hat was
burnished more and more,
And though such boots and shoes were
never seen before,
And though upholsterers' hands
were always at his cottage,
And always on the hob boiled
the lovers' mess of pottage.

The lady would not listen
to his tender vows,
But begged to be excused and
took a trip to Cowes;
She returned his locks of hair
and notes as never dreamt he,
And the bottles of perfume, but
somehow they were empty.

But he did not quite despair,
nor was his ardour less,
For he had read in novels
a lady's no meant yes;
He ordered two new coats, and
made Poole take the measures,
And wrote again at length upon
connubial pleasures.

But the lady still was firm, and
stuck to three per cent,
And fled for refuge to the
bearded Continent;
She said that she preferred
the sweet condition single,
And knew their spirits twain,
were never meant to mingle.

Then as he yet pursued her
maiden path with notes,
And ordered yet from Poole
A weekly brace of coats,
And spent one day of seven
in visiting his hatter,
She saw she must be stern
and punctuate the matter.

For she was wise and knew
wherein his weakness lay,
And what would quench his love,
as could no other way;
She wrote once more and hoped
that he would soon be better
But carefully left out his
last initial letter.

557

Her brief epistle reached him
by the early post,
He looked at it and stared as if
he saw a ghost,
And never ate the egg that he
was calmly cracking,
For on the envelope, lo!
there was something lacking.

For she had written in her most
decisive tones,
And addressed him only as
“A.B.C.D.E. Jones;”
He could have borne a “no,” if it
were soft and tender,
Not what would rob his name of
any of its splendour.

There is a certain point in all
mundane affairs,
At which the stoutest heart
at last perforce despairs;
For man must somewhere draw
the line, if (with Mercator)
He draws it large and only
stops at the Equator.

He wasted then away, in spite
of every hat,
His boots and shoes and coats
the wedding-ring and cat,
The savoury pottage and
the horses two and carriage,
And the polished manners
meant to make a brilliant marriage.

In spite of the pet pug, and the
upholsterers' sticks,
And even the poodle dog which
knew a hundred tricks,
And all the attitudes which
made him like a statue,
And the distracted eyes which
languidly looked at you.

In short he quickly died,
lamented much by all—
His creditors, who found that
his assets were small;
For since that fatal day he
never left his portal,
And why? Because the wound
he had received was mortal.

558

There was an inquest held upon
his blighted frame,
And the doctors all agreed
his illness had no name;
Some said that he succumbed
to dire routine official,
But most from the omission
of his sixth initial.

But his heirs redressed his wrongs
on monumental stones,
And blazoned proudly “A.B.
C.D.E.F.Jones”;
And the lady paled and pined,
as folks oppressed with sin do,
Though she set up in the Church
a chaste memorial window.

KILLED BY CONSCIENCE.

He hardly dared to ope his mouth,
Or act in things the least;
For if he said the wind was south,
It might be south-south-east.
Did any ask what was the time,
On answer none they reckoned;
For he esteemed it quite a crime,
To err by even a second.

And once he flew two weary miles,
To set a traveller right,
While over hedges, streams, and stiles,
He held his headlong flight;
Because he had, as people do,
Whose ways are not so thrifty,
Told him of minutes fifty-two,
When they were only fifty.

When friendly folks outstretched a hand,
And said, as they were wont,
“How do you do, good neighbour Bland?”
He cried, “How do you—don't!”
No person's hand he cared to hold,
In all the Queen's dominions;
Because he deemed, that thus he sold
Himself to their opinions.

559

And if a lady passing by,
A letter haply dropt,
He hastened with averted eye,
And not a moment stopt
To pick it up; because, he said,
(And he was not a thick-head),
He women knew and was afraid
The burden would be wicked.

And when you asked him his advice,
He hesitated long,
And scanned you with a look precise,
As if you meant some wrong;
And when at length he gave his views,
He qualified, and acted
As though he laboured to confuse,
And then the whole retracted.

Because he feared, by chance, to make
A slip in what he spoke,
Considering even the least mistake
As sinful as a joke.
And not a mortal knew his mind,
While as to earthly measure,
The wisest tailor could not find
Whatever was his pleasure.

And thus at length, by dire degrees,
He reached that ghastly pass,
He scarcely dared to walk or sneeze.
Or look at any lass;
Lest his chaste thoughts and modest glance
Should basely be reported,
And those pure paces as a dance
By slander be distorted.

He feared to eat, lest carnal men
Should him a glutton think;
He feared to quench his thirst lest then
He might be thought to drink.
So he proceeded to expire,
Some said from fever bilious;
But really from a deeper fire,
Consumed by pangs punctilious.

Phrenologists were all agreed,
About his secret ills;
Though doctors only doctors d---d,
And cursed each others pills.
They built him up a blessèd tomb,
Set off with golden staunchions;
Whereon the muse bewailed his doom,
And called him “Killed by Conscience.”

560

THE DEVIL.

He was a man no worse than most,
And as for that no better;
And held an ornamental post,
Within the Lane called Fetter.

But somehow he fell out of sorts,
Though sitting under Spurgeon,
And tried in vain the choicest ports,
The latest soup and surgeon.

He deemed himself supremely ill,
Nor knew what was the matter;
And as his head grew foggier still,
At first he blamed his hatter.

But when the ache went lower down,
And set at feud his bowels,
Upon his tailor's luckless crown
He heaped unholy vowels.

And then, as he grew rather worse,
He laid it to the weather;
Till pinching feet called forth a curse,
Upon the man of leather.

Yet still abode the sleepless pangs,
Uneased by “wet damnation;”
And set at work with all its fangs,
Most awful “Cerebration.”

It vexed his heart and reached his head,
From breakfast unto supper;
And over lunch a gloom it shed,
Like—reading Martin Tupper.

It was a pain he could not brook,
And yet a mental fidget;
In vain he told it to his cook,
Whose Christian name was Bridget.

He sighed in confidential tones,
Books failed from Punch to Plato;
She murmured, “Try a grill of bones,
And eke a roast potato.”

But still the anguish was not stayed,
Though he went on to pheasant;
And then (to term a spade a spade)
She styled it “d---d unpleasant.”

561

It turned him sad and often sick,
And made him drink like fishes;
He told it to his man called Dick,
Who offered his—good wishes.

While recommending change of scene,
And even a change of diet;
He thought his master had the spleen,
And only wanted quiet.

But though he moved from room to room,
From iron bed to oaken,
He could not thus escape his doom;
The spell remained unbroken.

And though he taxed the utmost powers,
Of all his pot and pan dom-
inion, throughout the weary hours,
His efforts were at random.

The cook was stumped, and that's a fact,
Although she slaved from morning
To midnight, till the dishes cracked;
And so she gave him warning.

Her culinary skill was great,
Fair trials could not dim it;
But who could stand this? cook or plate?
And then—there is a limit.

She went, bequeathing debts unpaid,
Accounts that would not tally;
And left him to the kitchen maid,
Whose Christian name was Sally.

But still his hunger would not stay,
And still he drank like fishes;
And wrought the dreadfullest dismay,
In stoutest hearts and dishes.

He thought it indigestion first,
Until he found it chronic;
The doctor, to assuage his thirst,
Prescribed a gentle tonic.

Still stuck his sickness like a leech,
Of the worst kind “Dissentery,”
It even impaired his powers of speech,
Which grew unparliamentary.

The man of many plots and pills,
Who knew what every dose is,
And throve upon his neighbours' ills,
Then made a diagnosis.

562

With sapient air and searching hand,
He all the organs sounded;
With “viscus,” “ganglion,” eyeglass, “gland,”
The patient was confounded.

The doctor slapped him on the back,
And poked him in the bowels;
He made his joints and muscles crack,
And used alarming vowels.

He punched his head and tapped his breast,
And, not without a stutter,
Said, “Put your troubled mind at rest.
The ailment is not utter.”

Adding with bright elated brow,
“Though you seem going òn drear,
Three cheers for glorious Science now,
It's hyp—hyp—hyp—ochondria!

And yet and yet, in spite of each
Big phrase and awful letter,
The wretch dared Science to impeach.
Nor was one whit the better.

Long words and learned jargon may
Suit quacks, whose aim to please is,
But though tremendous fees we pay,
They will not cure diseases.

The lord of many a pill and plan,
In which he was no miser,
Withdrew at least a richer man,
If not perhaps a wiser.

His victim still no comfort gat,
At breakfast, luncheon, òr tea.
And kept as foolish and as fat,
As any fool of forty.

He then invoked a holy seer,
Whose praise was great in Zion;
Who, after solemn draughts of beer,
Said, “You may me rely on.”

“For yours is quite a common case,
Indeed I call it simple;
I have marked it in a prelate's face,
And in a maiden's dimple.

“You are bitten by the “Devil's Dog,”
But I will leave you merrier;
For you shall shortly make good progress,
spite of even his terrier.

563

“It lurks within the manly spine,
But flies from Turkish towels,
Beer and cold water, though it mine
Right in the bow—wow—owels.

“Give up, my friend, all lesser loves,
Drink Bass, spar, rise at seven;
The Bible and the boxing gloves,
Will carry you to Heaven.

“Fear God, and walk a thousand miles,
In hours the same in number;
Go straight o'er, hedges, streams and stiles,
And trust to time and slumber.”

But then he leapt across two chairs,
And bowing like a Hindoo,
Despising doors and stuff like stairs,
Went flying through the window.

Thus back, and then his pious mouth,
He moistened with a bumper,
“This,” said he, “slakes the direst drouth,
And makes the finest jumper.”

And then, to still the pleasant strife
Of thirst, he drank another;
“Bread,” cried he, is the staff of life,
“But this is life, my brother.”

He grimly smiled, and truth to tell,
His very smile was muscular;
And rose six feet to bid farewell,
For it was now crepuscular.

Away he went, and at a run,
Cleared gates not to be reckoned;
Leaving a coat-tail upon one,
His hat upon a second.

And then the sufferer tried a course
Of beer and early rising,
Long walks, big jumps, and brutal force,
With patience quite surprising.

Renouncing all his lesser loves,
He never said, “Come in, do!’
But met his friends with boxing gloves,
And made them scale the window.

But still the demon would not budge,
But poisoned his hilarity;
Though he a thousand miles might trudge,
Evolving muscularity.

564

And though most bravely all along,
He tubbed and scrubbed and drank he;
And shouted every sacred song,
Within the book of Sankey.

In fine, each human hope seemed vain,
And sceptics clamoured “O 'tis
Mere fancy,” and to crown his pain,
The kitchen maid gave notice.

And still his symptoms nowise fell,
In spite of tubs and hymns' tone;
And there was a suspicious smell,
Which savoured much of brimstone.

And what was all the fuss about,
The roof of all this evil?
Though doctors and divines might doubt,
He said it was the—devil.

JENNY WREN AND ROBIN.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Saucy looked Miss Jenny Wren,
Coming through the wood;
Tripping down the mossy glen,
Nimbly as she could.

Happy shone her hazel eye,
Scarlet gleamed her cloak;
All that passed Miss Jenny by,
Kindly to her spoke.

Blossoms hung in both her hands,
Blossoms fair and sweet;
Never even in fairy lands,
Glanced such hands and feet.

Lightly up and lightly down,
Dainty shoes she put;
From beneath her russet gown,
Pretty peeped her foot.

Rang her voice a merry chime,
Rang in falls and swells;
Moved her hands to tune and time,
Like a peal of bells.

565

Browner than the nut her hair,
Softer than the silk;
Pink and white her colour rare,
Apple bloom and milk.

Swung a basket at her side,
Full of fancy things;
Fluttered out her mantle wide,
Like a pair of wings.

Oft she tossed her little head,
Oft she blushed and smiled;
While in concert to her tread,
Laughed the flowerets wild.

Leaves would blow against her face,
Petals too would fall;
Nature's magic gave her grace,
Sunset more than all.

Eve it grew, and Jenny sped,
Quickly through the shade;
Though the light was scantly shed,
Felt she not afraid.

Once indeed her scarlet cloak,
Waving as she went,
Caught the branches of an oak,
But it was not rent.

Robin met her by the way,
Robin bade good-night;
Robin seemed so glad and gay,
Jenny laughed outright.

Strange it is when fruitage sweet,
Tumbles in the lap;
Stranger far, when lovers meet,
Just by merest hap.

Robm took her by the arm,
Led her through the wood;
Jenny had no thought of harm,
Robin was so good.

Then they sat beside a stream,
Watched the lilies bob;
“Life is but a fleeting dream,”
Jenny sang to Rob.

Stole his arm around her waist,
Came a kind of mist;
“Cherries none so sweetly taste,”
Robin sighed and kissed.

566

Why should Jenny's lips be coy?
She had known him long:
Knew that from a very boy,
Robin did no wrong.

“Roses are not half so fair,
Though they please the eye,”
Robin said with tender air;
Jenny told him, “Fie!”

“Day has got its gladsome boon,
Night was meant for love,”
Robin murmured to the moon,
As it rose above.

Rose the moon above the twain,
Made the shadows less;
Robin wooed nor wooed in vain,
Jenny whispered, “Yes.”

Then they saw the starry gleam,
Heard the night-wind sob;
“Life may not be all a dream,”
Jenny lisped to Rob.

Robin answered by a squeeze,
Pressed her closer still.
Rustled round the nodding trees,
Rippled on the rill.

Broke a moonbeam on her brow,
Lightened on her face;
Happy was Miss Jenny now,
Sacred seemed the place.

Flew an owl with staring eyes,
Like a falling cloud;
Floated down the solemn skies,
Through an insect crowd.

Whirred the moths in circling flight,
Far the beetle boomed;
Faint were noises of the night,
Long the shadows loomed.

Wheeled the bats about the pair,
Brushed them with their wings;
Robin blest them unaware,
Blest the beauteous things.

567

“Were we but as free as birds,”
Jenny chanced to say;
Idle were her passing words,
Idle was her way.

Slumber on the lovers fell,
Silent slept the glen;
Came a Spirit with a spell,
Changed them there and then.

Shaped them like the wingéd throng,
Covered both with down;
Him he gave a silver song,
Her a golden crown.

When they woke they knew no change,
Joy their bosoms filled;
But they found the power to range,
Ever where they willed.

So they flit through woods and fields,
While the summers last;
Seize the peace the present yields,
Dream not of the past.

Loving names and hearty cheer,
Deal them maids and men;
Other birds God reckons dear,
These His cock and hen.

Coleridge's “Ancient Mariner.”

Golden-crested wren.

“The Robin Redbreast and the wren,
Are God Almighty's cock and hen.”

Old Rhyme.

MEN MUST WORK.

“Women must Weep?” . . . Pretty darlings,
When they never should have needs,
Free and happy as the starlings
Picking out your garden seeds;
Well, perhaps, they must; a Poet,
If he is a little blind
To their follies, ought to know it—
And if he's a little kind;
But though mistress is a dragon,
Though the master is a Turk,
Though no beer is in the flagon—
Men must work.

568

“Women must weep?” . . .. Dainty creatures
They of raptures and romance,
Feel the beauty of their features
Tears do only more enhance;
Languid on the couch they mutter
Broken words of hopes and fears,
Nibbling thinnest bread and butter,
With no other gift than tears;
But though in the lamp the benzoline
is low, and Tom would shirk,
Jim is mad with influenza,—
Men must work.

“Women must weep?” . . . In the poses
Best becoming graceful forms,
Curtained off with wraps and roses
From the breath of vulgar storms?
With the finest cambric folded
Softly, as a lily lies,
To the face discreetly moulded,
Just to show the lovely eyes?
But, though tired in silk or satin,
They go driving to the kirk,
Where's the pew to take poor Pat in?—
Men must work.

“Women must weep?” . . . Ah, no pleasure
Is there like a genial cry,
Which so thoughtfully they treasure
Till the favoured man is by;
Their one logic without reason,
Their one weapon to the close,
Fashion never out of scason,
Which no male thing can oppose;
But though they may sigh of marriage
By the fireside, peck and perk,
Sip sweet tea, or loll in carriage,—
Men must work.

HOW TO BE AN ANGEL.

“He needed only the handsome young lady model ------ some long white drapery, and a pair of goose's wings, and he would manufacture your popular modern angel with the greatest ease.”—G. D. Leslie, R.A.

If you have the usual charms—
Never mind affection—
Radiant eyes and rounded arms,
Pink and white complexion;
Though not strictly all your own,
Soft and sunny tresses,

569

Rippling as by breezes blown,
Meant for kind caresses;
Lips, that while they murmur nay—
This I should not mention—
As they sweetly pout and play,
Yet invite attention.
If your costume, comme il faut,
Just sets off your graces,
With the appendage of a beau
Broken to your paces;
Yet in this your dainty store,
Fashion is a fetter,
Need you find of beauty more,
Sigh for something better;
Fancy with the pink and white,
Which of Heaven is relic,
You have feelings fitted quite
For a course angelic;
Seek not doctor nor divine
For the one fair finish,
That your spirit will refine
Earthliness diminish;
Trouble not your favourite church,
Try not chosen chapel,
Push not far a doubtful search
For forbidden apple;
Help is at your very door,
Never dreamed by Wesley,
Freely offered the most poor—
Witness G. D. Leslie!
Yes, if you would angel be,
If no more capricious,
Worldly vanities you flee,
Piously ambitious;
If you do indeed aspire
For celestial sailing,—
Ever walk in white attire,
Snowy garments trailing;
And, whatever fortune bring,
Ere the day is older,
Clap—its cheap—a goose's wing,
On each pretty shoulder!
Then, above these earthly rocks,
Plumed by Art's prescription,
You can fly from stumbling “stocks,”
Plagues and “Bonds Egyptian”;
Ah, you then may yet attain
To a loftier stature,
If (what art cannot ordain)
Goose you are by nature.

570

MARRIED OR MARRED.

PART I.—THE SACRAMENT OF SORROW.

I am told, O my love, thou hast married,
And I guessed thou wast marred;
Could'st thou not for a season have tarried,
Ere thy freedom was barred?

I was poor, I was thwarted by distance—
Out of sight, out of mind;
There was no one to offer assistance
To the deaf and the blind.

For I heard not, I saw not misfortune,
I was voiceless and far;
Did I know, should I care to importune
So fallen a star?

Yet perchance had I dreamed of disaster,
I had spared not to speak;
I had flown to thy rescuing faster,
To print shame on thy cheek.

Dost forget all the vows that we plighted,
And the ring that we broke;
That thou among women hast blighted
The sweet life love awoke?

Dost remember the hours that we wandered
With hand clasped in hand,
And the fears for our future we pondered,
In the dusk of the land?

O the kisses, the sighs, the embraces,
With the tears that would start!
Have they left not a touch of their traces
In the hush of thy heart?

Hast thou gone into gloom of forgetting,
In the lapse of thy course?
Hast thou past beyond pangs of regretting,
Beyond reach of remorse?

In the past, or the future, or present,
Is thy haven of light?
Is the harvest about thee so pleasant,
That thou reapest delight?

And the churl that thy beauty has brightened,
In his parish and school—
Though the load on thy soul is not lightened—
Is he knave or a fool?

571

I am told he is rich and a rector,
Fond of pigs and of port;
And there's use in a saintly protector,
Up in heaven or at court.

After dinner, they say, he gets fuddled,
And he needs to be fanned;
While his tithings and wenches are muddled,
With the sermon on hand.

Then he dreams in his crapulous slumber,
What the beast in him must;
Prates of sins without name, without number,
Mixes learning and lust.

Then he wakes with the clatter of glasses,
And a sound like a curse;
Chucks his maid on the chin as she passes,
And jingles his purse.

But he seems, in the pulpit, so sober,
So devoted and sound;
And as mellow as pears in October,
When just frosted and browned.

Never mind, if he's ugly and narrow,
Or as old as thy sire;
Let him sport with his hoe and his barrow,
With his pigs in their mire.

O my love, I am jealous and bitter,
For the fate thou hast met;
For I hoped, like a fool, I was fitter—
O my playmate, my pet!

Thou hast left me so soon without warning,
That it's all like a dream—
Like a nightmare that comes before morning,
In the gloom and the gleam.

Yesterday we were friends, we were lovers,
And our faces were bright;
Yet to-day but the dawning discovers
The delusions of night.

And the morrow—I muse on the morrow
With an awe and a grief;
Will it heap on us sufferings and sorrow,
Will it bring us relief?

O the visions that rise and confound me,
When for solace I burn!
O the troubles that chafe and surround me,
Wheresoever I turn!

572

And thou—is there peace in thy bosom,
Is there light in those eyes?
Has thy life not gone out in its blossom,
And the sun in thy skies?

Will a child ever call thee its mother,
And climb to thy knee?
Will its fondlings and foolishness smother
All the yearnings to be?

Ah, the firelight will flicker and show thee
Fair tresses that shine;
Dim features will waver and throw thee
Their endearments divine.

In thy chamber no blessing to nestle
To the warmth of thy breast;
On thy pillow no darling to wrestle,
And to sweeten thy rest.

In the day a mute hunger and raving
For the lips and the hands;
In the night but a pitiless craving
For the childish demands.

Thou wilt hear but thy husband's dull tattle,
As he chokes with his bile;
But no mfantine lisping or prattle,
To provoke thee to smile.

When the babe of thy friend chides its mother,
Will it sting thee at last?
Wilt thou wish that thy fortune were other
Than the fortune thou hast?

Yet thou lackest no purchase of money,
At the beck of thy hand;
Thou hast stores of the milk and the honey,
Of the fat of the land.

For his animal eye in thy satins
Finds a luxury cold;
And he swells to survey thee at Matins,
In his purple and gold.

Is the title of wife such a treasure,
If the truth is not there?
Wilt thou find in his thoughts any pleasure,
That thou ever canst share?

Is it home where the household is saddened
By the plaint of thy dove?
Where the hall and the stairs are not gladdened,
With the laughter of love?

573

In the darkness and silence I wonder,
When thy dreams are at strife,
Wilt thou deem it a sin, or a blunder,
To have blasted thy life?

And in vain any hopes dost thou cherish,
Where the promise is not;
They will dazzle thy sight but to perish,
They will ripen to rot.

O I know how the shadows will thicken,
And thy bosom will quake;
Thou wilt cry for a rapture to quicken,
For a presence to wake.

Though thy sobs and entreaties were double,
Yet the storm would be still;
Shall God and His thunders have trouble,
To come down at thy will?

At each step thou wilt tremble and hearken
For the foot that has fled;
And the eyes in their anguish will darken,
As the eyes of the dead.

And for me—but I cannot uncover
Half the wounds of my heart;
It were idle to plead as a lover,
When a stranger's thou art.

If I dared for a moment to sever
From my passion its mask,
Should I find what I follow for ever,
Should I have what I ask?

Would my fire be availing to heat thee,
And to draw thee more near?
Wouldst thou mock at my weeping to meet thee,
Were I borne on my bier?

Thy hands would be surely averted,
In the maddening of pain;
And the tears would not leave thee deserted,
By their tempest of rain.

But, alas! as a fool I am dreaming,
As a knave I conspire;
To defraud thee of sanctity's seeming,
Is an impious desire.

Stick fast to thy holy supporter,
While he is still thy own;
Till the querulous days growing shorter,
Leave thee childless and lone.

574

Though its gossip wax flat in its flavour,
And his stories be stale,
And his breath have too often the savour
Of his snuff and his ale;

Though he stint thee and cease to be civil,
And be free with his oath;
Though in waking and dreaming he drivel,
Nor to lying is loath;

If, at last, when his senses are duller,
And his life in his paunch,
He should beat in thy paleness a colour,
Thou must bear and be staunch.

Is he not all thy husband and patron,
With his burden of fat;
And thou but the jest of a matron,
Who art wedded to that?

Do not fret at his vices and weakness,
His debauches of wine;
But put up with the scandal in meekness—
For, remember, he's thine.

But my lips, O they long so to bless thee,
And they thirst so to kiss;
And my arms, how they crave to caress thee,
The dear maiden they miss.

In the daytime thy image yet lingers,
And I grope in the night—
Ah, I feel for the touch of thy fingers,
That are wondrous and white.

I am hungry, and nought can appease me
But the words of thy mouth;
I am parched, and what medicine can ease me
But thy balm for my drouth?

I am faint, and the morning is dreary,
And the noon has a cloud;
Yea, at evening I mourn and am weary,
For the love that was vowed.

I am stricken, and no one is near me
To take count of my sighs;
I am dying, and nothing can cheer me,
Save the light of thy eyes.

Is it day? is it night? for I know not,
And my eyesight is dark;
Do they call me and chide? but I go not,
For my ears cannot hark.

575

O my darling, my sweet, I am thinking
Through the seasons of thee;
And thy voice I am ever enlinking
With the sound of the sea.

When I toy with the shell of the shingle,
That I lift to my ear;
My God! the soft murmurs that tingle,
And the name that I hear!

In the wail of the west wind it quivers,
With low pulses of grief;
In the chill of the east wind it shivers,
Like a storm-beaten leaf.

In the crowd I go foolishly chasing
Thy phantom or thought,
And alone I am always embracing
A form that is nought.

Shall I give of my hatred or laughter,
For the wrong thou hast done?
Shall we meet in the world or hereafter,
And apart or as one?

There is death with its sting and its scourges,
And the grave has its curse;
Yea, the sea has its funeral surges;
But thy love—it is worse.

PART II.—KINGDOM OF SORROW.

It is come, as I dreamed in a vision
Of the night that is past;
Brief with sunshine of dazzling derision,
Long with shadows to last.

Thou hast sent me a sign of thy hearing,
As a moan from the main;
I have read it with hope that is fearing,
With a pleasure like pain.

Thou hast written in sorrow not anger,
O my Beauty, my Queen;
I have broken the lull of thy languor,
With a tempest unseen.

It is, ah, such a thing for caressing,
This sweet flower of thy heart;
And perchance by my passionate pressing,
I my own shall impart.

576

I have covered the pages with kisses,
I have bathed them in tears;
With the sobs that unsealed the abysses,
That were buried for years.

Then I counted the words—aye, the letters,
Though the counting was vain;
Till I fashioned them all into fetters.
And their charm was my chain.

And the leaves had a musical rustle,
Like the leaves of a tree;
When they chime through the turmoil and bustle,
Of our life's troubled sea.

And the sheets that no ruler had levelled,
Ran in wrinkle and wave;
And I pictured the tresses dishevelled,
Of a pitiful slave.

Not a dot, not a line has escaped me,
And each dash has its doom;
In each crease I have cruelly shaped me,
Some imagining's tomb.

And I saw—could I miss them?—the traces
Of the tears that were thine;
But I folded their stains in embraces,
And effaced them with mine.

O the charms of the tremulous writing,
By that wonderful hand;
Hieroglyphics for one man's delighting,
With their darling demand!

They are symbols of sadness and travail,
That are bruising my breast;
And, ah, what but my love could unravel
All the utter unrest?

Yet the blots are the bloom of their beauties,
Are the crown of the whole;
And the slips and the slurs are but duties,
Scarce expressed by the soul.

Lo, in this is a voice above Fashion,
Is a cry beyond speech;
With the rush of a mighty compassion,
That no writing could reach.

And in that is a querulous paining,
For some delicate turn;
Or the stir of an infinite straining,
After words that will burn.

577

And just here is a mystical meaning,
A sweet trouble of mist;
Where the head was laid low in its leaning,
On its miseries' list.

And O there is a cross in the crying,
In the passion a pause;
When the sound of a sorrowful sighing,
Gave a clinch to the clause.

And the next is a shadowing shorter,
But more keen in its ken;
Where a joy was thy suffering's sorter,
And the point of thy pen.

And there now came a terrible struggle,
Where the strokes are so black;
While the heart had not courage to juggle,
With its ruin and wrack.

Then a blank with its sinister omen,
In the whirl of thy woes;
Like the parting of desperate foemen,
When they part but to close.

Till the waves of calamity's ocean,
That had spared for a space,
Sallied forth with a wilder commotion,
With a fiercer embrace.

Till the steeds of thy outraged convictions,
For a moment reined back,
Bursting out with yet deeper afflictions,
Swept them on in their track.

And forsooth in this beggarly nation,
In which some of us live,
There's a freshness in frantic sensation,
That no grinding can give.

All our pleasures we grudgingly levy,
Just as felons reprieved;
They not only are sombre and heavy,
But in coarseness conceived.

And the Venus we worship is stupid,
But a dowdy and drab;
While the wings and the arrows of Cupid
We discard for a—cab.

And we see but a dangerous faction,
In the play of our hearts;
For our love is a business transaction,
And a matter for marts.

578

So our feelings are labelled with prices,
And are loaded with lids;
And our wives and luxurious vices,
All are open to bids.

Though our maids be of milk and of honey,
And look lovely and sweet;
They are sold for a handful of money,
Like the scum on the street.

We so cling to the counter and grubbing,
And so smell of the shop;
That we ought to be grateful for rubbing,
That makes some of it drop.

There's a genius in perfect disaster,
Turns the wilderness green;
Moulds the clown a great tragedy master,
Paints the peasant a queen.

Every pain has an element scenic,
And gets rid of a crutch;
Going back to the glories Hellenic,
And a natural touch.

When we wallow in festering triteness,
And vulgarities' reek;
What a boon were the naked politeness,
Of the elegant Greek!

Go and study in sorrow your notions,
Learn from solitude thought;
You may purchase some bastard emotions,
But the true are unbought.

Then be thankful, my darling, for crosses,
That are crowns in disguise;
There are gains in the gloomiest losses,
If old fountains arise.

To have felt, at whatever the peril,
That our hearts are our own,
In a period so stony and sterile,
Is a joy to have known.

To return, if but once for a second,
To the Orient springs;
Is for ever a space to be reckoned,
Among holier things.

And to thee has been given the treasure,
From its sources above;
The sweet pain that is higher than pleasure,
That is deeper than love.

579

Thou art blessed of women who languish,
And anointed a chief;
Though thy sceptre is suffering and anguish,
Though thy kingdom is grief.

Thou canst say that thy crown was no trinket,
Nor thy empire a sham;
“I had bitterness' cup and could drink it,
And therefore I am.”

To thy feet all the sorrows come bending,
And thy subjects are sins;
Where the conquests of others are ending,
There thy triumph beings.

Then rejoice in the riches of mourning,
And in misery's hold;
For thy sackcloth is noblest adorning,
And thy ashes are gold.

Thou art robed in regalia lowly,
In remorse of the years;
While thy chaplet has charms that are holy,
And thy jewels are tears.

Thou hast seen the fair secrets of weeping,
And that fears have their flowers;
Thou hast wakened the truth that was sleeping,
With thy penitent showers.

I could guess how thy portion was meted,
I could picture thy pangs;
All the thoughts that were never completed,
Every sentence that hangs.

All the moans that are mute, I could finish,
All the shadows could show;
Not a spray would my wearing diminish,
In thy garland of woe.

I could fancy I looked o'er thy shoulder,
At each striving and start;
Saw thy face growing darker and colder,
Felt the beats of thy heart.

I could shape every wincing and shudder,
Every heave of thy form;
As a ship without compass and rudder.
Running wild through the storm.

I could trace how each letter was fashioned,
How it laboured or flowed;
In a stroke read a story impassioned,
In a line see a load.

580

I could follow the curves as they trembled,
In some petulant touch;
Mark when this a mere trifle dissembled,
And when that made too much.

Ah, the breaks with their eloquent hollows,
That were crowded with pain!
The erasure that uselessly follows,
A confession insane!

O defects, that, in spite of the railing,
Are yet dearer than law!
O ye faults, that are fairer in failing,
Than a face without flaw!

Give me life that at least has election,
With a blemish or two;
Give me love with its sweet imperfection,
In its tripping so true.

Give me frailties of natural cravings,
With a dash of the clay;
And some spots in the splendid behavings,
Or a star that can stray.

Give me lapses all human in meekness,
From the formalist fence;
And some segments of rich incompleteness,
In the circle of sense.

Give me taints in the temple's own portal,
And a faith that may fall;
I am earth-born and terribly mortal,
And have room for them all.

I have foibles for generous errors,
As I feel them within;
Nor am squeamish and troubled by terrors,
At magnanimous sin.

But away with your whitewash complexion,
And your prurient breath;
There is life in a tender deflexion,
While in dogmas is death.

From conventions of cant comes no issue,
Save a purulent sore;
Under dresses decorous of tissue,
Throbs the heart of a whore.

Who has patience with whining and snuffling,
Or with prudery's plea?
Have your fill of the shadows and shuffling,
But the substance for me.

581

I am weary of ways ceremonious,
And the mincing of feet;
I am sick of the looks sanctimonious,
Of the canonised cheat.

Take the forms, if you like them, to plague you,
With a frost-bitten creed;
But to some they give fits of the ague,
Or to lechery lead.

They that wash the outside of the platter,
While they wash not within;
When their washing should purge only flatter,
Where they end should begin.

He who plays the uncleanly ascetic,
Without shifting his shirt,
Recommends not by robe or cosmetic,
Either doctrine or dirt.

And a discipline nature avows not,
Rather hinders than aids;
And the torture, that Freedom allows not,
The whole being degrades.

All the racks and the scourges invented,
For the flaying of flesh,
Never made one poor doubter contented,
If they yet might enmesh.

I have tried with an infinite yearning,
All your perfecting pain;
But the penance had such a returning,
No perfections again.

Let the saints have their delicate dinners,
With a perfume of lust;
Shall I shrink from the dirt of the sinners,
Since I sprang from the dust?

There's a spark in the dingiest hovel,
That the palace may lack;
And the highest have natures that grovel,
In a bestial track.

Give me modesty, mewed in its cottage,
Not a rose-coloured shame;
Give me frankness, though starved upon pottage,
Calling things by their name.

Find me woman, with kindness untainted,
Of whose heart is no doubt;
Not a creature bepatched and bepainted,
And with loving left out.

582

And the glory of woman is weakness,
When the weakness is pure;
Though the blossom of maidenly meekness,
In the kennel endure.

Theologians may wrangle and bellow,
At our friendships with clay;
Give me rather the worm for my fellow,
Than the ass with his bray.

Call me heretic—guiltily lenient,
To the blight in the blood;
Though your codes may be cool and convenient,
There is warmth in the mud.

Turn away from the claims of the gutter,
The unfortunates bar;
Yet the stuff that you mumble and mutter,
It is fouler by far.

There's a filth of the surface, my brother,
That is often but shammed;
In the sanctuary's seat is another,
That is deadly and damned.

On the pavement is loftier cleanness,
And the mire has more truth;
There are touches of godlike sereneness,
In the mean and uncouth.

There are specks in the groundlings you spurn at,
But your spots are not known;
There are motes in the vision you turn at,
But a beam in your own.

And O all ye sweet sinnings and blottings,
Ye are welcome to me;
Behind piety's mask there are rottings,
That are viler than ye.

Ye are precious, O innocent blurrings,
Ye are holy at heart;
Your mistakes are the liberal stirrings
Of some Catholic part.

But enough of protesting at purists,
And at dogma's dead bones;
What's the use to attack sinecurists,
Or in striking the stones?

It is idle and pestilent treason,
To return to first acts;
And no right has so solid a reason,
As the logic of facts.

583

Things accomplished admit no solutions,
Though the rust to them sticks;
And to kick against institutions,
Only hurts him who kicks.

For, alas, in the shrines of society,
There's no god like the fool;
And whatever the minor variety,
It's the corpses that rule.

But untruths have an end—though it tarry,
And to that cannot lie;
And the systems that haunt us and harry,
They shall moulder and die.

Noble vices and splendid distortions,
With the fanatic's dream,
Shall be rounded with radiant proportions
Into virtues supreme.

Then the discords that flow from our greatness,
From our heaven-given speech,
Flowing back in a fuller sedateness,
To their sources will reach.

For the jarrings and jibbing and jolting,
Only rise from our haste;
There is nothing in tumbles revolting,
Nothing wrong but bad taste.

Is there dirt like the demon of coarseness,
Of a scatter-brained skull?
The sole sin of the sinner is hoarseness,
Of the wit to be dull.

Be the singer a Whig or a Tory,
That is not what we scan;
Be his errors the sting of a story,
Yet his voice is the man.

If the wit has no income for owning,
That is not to the point;
He can vex us alone by his droning,
By a joke out of joint.

Yet I blame not the rudeness and roughness,
Of the clods or the clouts;
Not that human and healthier toughness,
That our daintiness flouts.

Not the coarseness of primitive sprawling,
Or an animal roll;
But a withering mildew's enthralling,
That is sapping the soul.

584

Not the coarseness of channel and border,
When the rivulet swells;
But corruption of deeper disorder,
That which poisons the wells.

For the worst of a Bacchanal sousing,
Is defiling the skin;
There's no danger in common carousing,
With no plague-spot within.

And bad taste is an adequate measure,
Of the evil at core;
Which slips out when he lies at his leisure,
From the charlatan's store.

Who would care for the actress's history,
If she perfects her part?
If her birth was a blot or a mystery,
That is nothing to Art.

Antecedents and private excesses,
Her repute may have spoiled;
But our nature is large and transgresses,
While the soul is not soiled.

On the stage we may smile on the artist,
Though at home we must scowl;
If the man is a tippler or Chartist,
Or his linen is foul.

When he's true to his part, does it matter
If he limps in his life?
If he hails in his father a hatter,
Beats his carpet or wife?

What has nature to do with the scandals,
That a character smirch?
Why, the game is not worth half the candles,
That are spent in the search.

To be wicked no doubt is a blunder,
To be stupid is worse;
To be blind in the world and its wonder,
Is the deadliest curse.

To have with you the beauty and sorrow,
And to feel they are flat;
To see none of the mist of the morrow;
There's no pathos like that.

There are minds that are coarser than matter,
That in frost have their roots;
Who give birth to but imbecile clatter;
It is they that are brutes.

585

While above them and richly around them,
Yea, and under their feet,
Are the angels that fain would have wound them,
In investiture sweet.

But they will not, their ears are so darkened,
And in Heaven there are tears;
For the spirits that once might have hearkened,
To the yearning of years.

And the angels go grieving and mourning,
For the souls of their care;
If they would but have heard without scorning,
When the music was there.

God Himself is sore troubled in glory,
For the work of His hands;
As he lists to the pitiful story,
Through the night of the lands.

But they hear not the voices above them,
Or the mercies that pull;
And they heed not who hate or who love them,
If their bellies be full.

And they will not, they will not look higher,
To the palms that are waved;
They are deaf to the strains that draw nigher,
They refused to be saved.

And the rapture of suffering and losing,
Is no rapture to these;
And the dignity lent us in choosing,
Has no pathos to please.

They know nought of the glorified trouble,
That's the crown of the throne;
And their darkness is deadly and double,
Since it's all so unknown.

There are cloud-lands too gloomy to picture,
That encircle our souls;
But thy own gives a beauty to stricture,
That the censor consoles.

And the blots are thy majesty's blossoms,
That were blasted by fate;
Though when littleness lives in our bosoms,
It's a crime to be great.

Yet if blots have an eloquent pleading,
There is more between lines;
There are riches of passionate meaning,
In all absence of signs.

586

For the soul of the silence is laden,
With a burden of woe;
Like the wail of a death-stricken maiden,
At the ravisher's blow.

As he gloats on her infinite graces,
With libidinous breath;
And she flies from his brutal embraces,
To more merciful death.

And thy muteness is vocal with panting,
For a loftier air;
Which comes home with the ancient enchanting,
Of the ages so fair.

Ah, the times that to Nature were docile,
And with principles dwelt;
When they feared not a formula fossil,
When they spoke as they felt.

When the silence itself was a sermon,
That no pulpit could preach;
And the dews of Parnassus and Hermon,
Had a spell more than speech.

When the seer had his seat on the mountain,
And his sight on the star;
And the music that flowed from the fountain,
Sang of things as they are.

When each man heard the pulse of Creation,
In its throbbings through space;
And each maiden from eve's ministration,
Stole the flush of her face.

When the world had a wonderful colour,
With a stir and a glow;
Ere the shadow waxed darker and duller,
And the melodies slow.

When they worked to the rhythm of dances,
And the earth was in tune;
While the flame of their prodigal fancies,
Made of January June.

When they fought as they frolicked for pleasure,
And no pleasure was sad;
Yea, the clash of their swords beat a measure,
And their sorrow was glad.

Do I see not a sign that thou burnest,
With the searchings of light?
Not a glimpse of a grappling in earnest,
With the phantoms of light?

587

And between all the lines of thy letter,
In the spaces that yawn,
I imagine the crack of a fetter,
And the glimmer of dawn.

I can trace in the blankness a yearning,
For the altars of eld;
And there gleams a religious returning,
To the fire that they held.

When the altar was life at its highest,
And a faith was the fire;
And its offering the prayers that thou criest,
When they rend and aspire.

Shall I breathe in the barren hiatus,
All the passion to come?
When the blast of a mighty afflatus,
Gives a voice to the dumb?

Lo, the chains shall be broken in sunder,
The ice-barrier part;
And thine eye shall awaken in wonder,
To the wealth of the heart.

But I cannot, I will not unseal it,
What the future withholds;
Let the rapture of being reveal it,
When the spirit unfolds.

Yet I know thou art true and art tender,
And hast wings of remorse;
That thy nature will rise in its splendour,
To the height of its source.

It will rise? Nay, the struggle is ended,
And thy spirit is free;
From the deep of despair has ascended,
To the “mighty may-be.”

But O here is the thing thou has fingered,
With the warmth of thy hands;
And the light of thy glances has lingered,
Like the starlight on lands.

Here thy kisses as summer's have rested,
And I touch it with mine;
Touch the treasure thy lips have invested,
With a fragrance divine.

Here thy sanctified sighings have pondered,
And thy tresses have trailed;
Meditations like moonrise have pondered,
On the seas thou hast sailed.

588

Here has throbbed for a suffering season,
The sweet bloom of thy breast;
When desire had its struggle with reason,
And in bowing was blest.

Here the blush has come back to thy beauty,
As the dove to its home;
After moments of flitting from duty,
On the passionate foam.

Here thy tears, as the dewdrops when falling
On a desolate plain,
Have gone up to the Heaven of thy calling,
With the incense of pain.

Here the demons of darkness have pressed thee,
With importunate stings;
And the angels of day have caressed thee,
With the waft of their wings.

Here have fought for thy spirit's embroiling,
All the powers of despair;
And have fled at their baffled despoiling,
From the armies of prayer.

Here the night-wind has loitered and listened,
And the night-bird has peeped;
And the rays from the glooming that glistened,
In thy sorrow were steeped.

Here I have what thou had'st in thy folding,
While thy sobbings have swelled;
And mine eyes are not filled with beholding,
What thy own have beheld.

Here I hold in so hungry a hoarding,
Since the travail was such,
The sweet wealth of thy woeful recording,
And in mine is thy touch.

Here I feel all the grandeur of meekness,
When a sin has been slain;
And lay mine in a moment of weakness,
Where thy cheek may have lain.

Here I stand face to face with the nature,
That is better than bliss;
And from summits of goodlier stature,
I look down the abyss.

Here I bind the first fruits of our winnings,
In a shadowy sheaf;
And I measure the ends and beginnings,
With the measure of grief.

589

Here I know that my thirsting is slakèd,
For a season at least;
And the spring of my knowledge lie naked,
Before misery's feast.

Here I live and I move and have being,
And divine what I scan;
I rejoice in the richès of being,
In the fulness of man.

Here beliefs are no longer the creatures,
Of prescription or strife;
But stand forth with magnificent features,
On the canvas of life.

Here inspires not the motive of terrors,
And results do not cloy;
There abound no abuses or errors,
Save excesses of joy.

Here the modes of perception all mingle,
False distinctions all flee;
And the touching and tasting are single,
And to hear is to see.

Here the body no more is a clogging,
But extension of mind;
And the faculties never need flogging,
And to seek is to find.

Here the hand reaches out from within you,
Nor is reaching in vain;
And the feet are but powers that continue,
And that supplement brain.

Here there riot no chances or changes,
And the night is as day;
Never kiss of betrayal estranges,
And to work is to pray.

Here in regions made perfect by sorrow,
Every bane is a boon;
And the moon draws its light from the morrow,
And the sun from the moon.

Here each man is endowed with regalia,
And each maiden has rule;
And there breathes not the blighting of failure,
But the fall of the fool.

Here each one is the lord of his brother,
And each lord is a slave;
For they serve and they sway but each other,
And their crown is a grave.

590

Here no shadow is cast by contention,
But a shadow to shield;
Comes no strife but the strife of invention,
How the wounds may be healed.

Here is uttered no accent of wailing,
Save the weeping for sin;
Here to enter no fear is availing,
But that evil may win.

Here no vice has its ominous token,
And no passion has place;
And the chains of the tyrant are broken,
Into chaplets of grace.

Here has hatred perpetual prison,
Except hatred of wrong,
And the feet that were fallen are risen,
And the weakest are strong.

Here the thought is no beggarly factor,
In an advocate's case;
But shines out where the Truth is an actor,
And the theatre Space.

Here I seem not the world's nor another,
Nor the plaything of pelf;
If I doubt on the fate of my brother,
I am sure of myself.

Here I mark all the meanings of matter,
What no fumbling can find;
And I trace in the jewels they scatter,
All the mysteries of mind.

Here I see the divineness of bearing,
And the price of a pang;
On the fleetings so far from our caring,
What immensities hang.

Here I glean at the gateways of glory,
All the secrets they store;
While I read an unspeakable story,
And I pause and adore.

Here I dream on the threshold of Motion,
Why its swellings are sweet;
And the shells from its murmuring ocean,
Are thrown up at my feet.

Here I commune with Silence, that travails,
In the trouble of years;
And I catch at the clue that unravels,
All our beautiful fears.

591

Here I find that but visions are real,
And the darkness is light;
That the truth is the highest ideal,
And the faith is the sight.

Here the fancy is one with the feeling,
And the feeling is pure;
While the doubt is the dawning's revealing,
Whose revealing is sure.

Here the soul is at one with the senses,
And they chime in their plea;
Yea, the circle of seeing condenses,
And to think is to be.

Here the hope is the same as fruition,
And to guess to be right;
Its degrees are removed from transition,
And desire is delight.

Here the wish by the thought is incited,
Yet is later than act;
And the thought and the thing are united,
In a loftier fact.

Here is none that may dare to be jealous,
But for crowns of the cross;
And the seeker that fain would be zealous,
Must be zealous for loss.

Here the head that goes bowing and hoary,
For the slanders of fame,
Has a diadem dazzling in glory,
Be the diadem shame.

Here the flower that is fairest in blooming,
Is the blossom of pain;
And no prize can compare, with entombing
The gold baubles of gain.

Here the heaven that is forged by a fetter,
In the Beautiful Land;
And its world is enshrined in the letter,
That I hold in my hand.

Here a man can live only by dying,
And no cravings encroach;
All the songs are the music of sighing,
All the honours reproach.

Here the body is bruised by the scourges,
That invisibly hail;
And the cradles are passionate surges,
And the blushes are pale.

592

Here the evenings are gray, and the morning
Wears the red rose of storm;
And the day has that sombre adorning,
Which the cerements form.

Here the eyes are from sadness so tender,
And a blight is the bloom;
And the skies are supreme in their splendour,
But the splendour is doom.

Here is stillness more perfect than any,
Not annoyed by a breath;
And the multitudes in it are many,
Though the stillness is death.

Here is pity completed by knowledge,
By the wisdom of woe;
And the lore not of court nor of college,
Not a sham nor a show.

Here the child has the elder's discerning,
From the schooling of grief;
And a change in the place of the burning,
Is alone the relief.

Here all seasons with sorrow are wedding,
And all ages are one;
And the light of the sepulchres' shedding,
Is the firmament's sun.

Here is loving consummate in losing,
Rendered sacred by scars;
A renouncement the spirit's own choosing,
That upraises its bars.

Here the prizes of earth are as ashes,
And the buffets are balm;
For the thrones and the garlands are lashes,
And the pain is the palm.

Here has vanished all vestige of merit,
And denial is power;
Not a soul has a shred to inherit,
Save disaster as dower.

Here his tears are the sufferer's treasures,
And the darkness his bride;
Yea, the shadows of mourning the measures,
And its measures are wide.

No despair in this kingdom can enter,
Though the hope be not glad:
Yet is faith its immoveable centre,
If the circle is sad.

593

But distress is the bread of the nations,
And affliction their cup;
In long sacrifice grand education,
And abasement lifts up.

In the bosom of sorrow they nestle,
By its billows are tost;
They are blest who with misery wrestle,
He has lived who has lost.

Here they trample the wine-press of anguish,
In the heat of the noon;
Under infinite burdens they languish,
But the load is their boon.

Still they look from the dust of the valleys,
To the summits beyond;
Though they drudge in the dreariest alleys,
Yet they never despond.

They rejoice in no respite from labour,
For to work is to win;
No one needs to ask who is his neighbour,
Since the world is his kin.

They demand not the wages of toiling,
But the thorns for the breast;
Their reward is the enemy's spoiling,
And rebuking their rest.

They desire not a term to their trouble,
Save the limit of life;
Pray but torture its blows to redouble,
And make sharper its knife.

For their triumph is keen tribulation,
In their sicknesses gain;
And they covet no meed of mutation
But more winnowing pain.

They find peace in the searchings and siftings,
Of hostility's gales;
They aspire not to heights and upliftings,
Save the cross that impales.

In the print of the nails is their study,
On the stigmata looks;
Though the letters are livid and bloody,
Yet their wounds are their books.

On the point of the spear is their pillow,
In the mouth of the sword;
They are calm in the crash of the billow,
And of hurts is their hoard.

594

Their most precious possession is spending,
While the strokes are their hire;
And the joy of their substance is lending,
Be the borrower fire.

Of their righteousness rich is the raiment,
And to clothe us they bend;
When they take they give ten-fold repayment,
And they take but to mend.

If their service be sorrow and weeping,
Yet the sorrow is sweet;
If no kisses of lips be the reaping,
There is kissing the feet.

They have fruits that they gather and harvest,
But of stubble and stocks;
And when thou, O sad shepherdess, starvest,
They resign thee their flocks,

Ah, the worm is their friend and their neighbour,
And their fellow the grave;
Their repose is the rapture of labour,
Their refreshment to slave.

And their children are outcasts and strangers,
That no father will own;
While their waking is darkness and danger,
And their pillows a stone.

Still their life is the gift that they offer,
At calamity's call;
And their home is the hate of the scoffer,
And in nothing their all.

And the part of the doomed is their portion,
While their garment is grief;
And their greeting is slander's distortion,
When it comes as a thief.

In the beggar they welcome a brother,
And their kinsman is care;
And to misery looking as mother,
With its minions they share.

For esteem they have fagots and halter,
For reward they have rods;
And no glory is seen in their altar,
And no grace in their gods.

All their pride is the stooping of meekness,
All their profit is loss;
And their strength is the strength of their weakness,
And their crown is a cross.

595

They have thrones—but of thorns and despising,
They have drink—but of tears,
They have names—but not names of our prizing,
They have bread—but of fears.

Theirs is honour—that holds not of glory,
Theirs is wealth—made of woe,
Theirs is fame—that is infamy's story,
Theirs are stars—fall'n below.

O the right of this people is wronging,
And their privilege ills;
In their pangs are their dearest belongings,
And their cure is what kills.

They are here in the bounds of these pages,
And their voice is thy cry;
Yet they stretch through the measureless ages,
Beyond earth and the sky.

For in grief is the perfectest measures,
Of the land and the main;
Lo, it holds up its mirror to pleasure,
And the picture is pain.

Though the feet of the picture be shrouded,
To its sceptre they rise;
And eternity's cycles are crowded,
In a second of sighs.

And the multitude only of mourners,
By thy eloquence stirred,
In their farthest withdrawings and corners,
They have seen—they have heard.

For the silence has echoed thy troubles,
And the darkness has told;
And the stream breathed them out in its bubbles,
That the air might enfold.

Thou hast wept—and the shadowy races,
They have wept with thee still;
Thou hast throbbed—and in passionless places,
They have moved at thy thrill.

Thou hast called—and they muster their legions,
From horizons of shade;
And they rally from sorrowful regions,
Where the flowers ever fade.

And, behold, they are here in their numbers,
A mysterious mob;
Thou hast broken their visionless slumbers;
With the sound of a sob.

596

They have come—and no pleading can bring them,
That is fathered by fear;
They have flown with the mercies that wing them,
In the space of a tear.

In these leaves with their pitiful lisping,
Is the rustling of robes;
As if grave-clothes were creeping and crisping,
Round the presence that probes.

Yea, I fancy the trailing of fetters,
And the clinking of chains;
And the lines that are only thy letter's,
Look like blood-written stains.

Such a spell has the spirit of sadness,
To awaken the dead;
It gives form to the phantoms of madness,
And to horror a head.

It adds body to mists of the morning,
To despairing is light;
While the touch of its tender adorning,
Will transfigure the night.

It sheds softness on shackles of iron,
And on granite-bound shores;
It makes shapely the shades that environ,
And has beauty for sores.

It has substance for dreams and delusions,
That bewilder the hope;
And it guides, from the slough of confusions,
To the beaconing slope.

Lo, it lends of its balm to the panting,
When they fall in their vows;
And it wreathes a diviner enchanting,
Round the conquering brows.

And it breathes in the tempest a quiet,
Or in sepulchres life;
While the force of its terrible fiat,
Turns the stillness to strife.

It is here in this pinch of a paper,
All the empire of grief;
It has come and will go as a vapour,
But itself is relief.

It has come with a salve for thy scorning,
And with healing at core;
It will go in the fulness of mourning,
When the night is no more.

597

To the majesty beaming from sorrows,
No corruption can cling
And a hundredfold more than it borrows,
It will lavishly bring.

Here the bourne and the bases of being,
Are expressed in a prayer;
And the sight is as one with the seeing,
And to be is to bear.

Here the ground is so wondrous and holy,
That the foot may not tread;
Save with weeping and worshipping lowly,
And a heart that has bled.

Here the air is so silent and solemn,
That we catch at our breath;
As in ruins who read on a column,
That the reading is death.

And yet here—at the truth though I tremble,
At the truth to be told—
One has gazed that I fain would dissemble,
Like the blighting of cold.

Did I say that thy shelter was shaken,
“By a tempest unseen”?
That thy fate was a portion forsaken,
With a surface serene?

Here has lighted the look of a stranger,
Though thy nearest in law;
When thou hadst not a dream of the danger,
Of the spying that saw.

Here has gloated the hatred that scorches,
When the love has dropped off;
And has held its unholy debauches,
Of defiance and scoff.

When the sleep that is sleep of prostration,
Was disarming thy frame;
With a choking of choice execration,
The catastrophe came.

With the text for next Sunday just pointed,
By an exquisite oath;
The beloved of thy breast, thy anointed,
Came to murder his troth.

This assassin of hearts and of slumber—
Call him husband, not man—
Came thy tears and thy troubles to number,
All his malice could scan.

598

Lo, he crept to thy bosom's dissection,
With the scalpel of lust;
With the shuffling and shambling detection,
Of obesity's crust.

Then he warmed to his work of defilement,
Though his movements were slow;
And his limbs felt a novel beguilement,
In the foretaste of woe.

With a sliding and sinister winding,
Like the slot of a slug;
On he crawled to the grave of his finding,
What his hatred might hug.

There was mumbling and mincing of Latin,
With a rounding of Greek;
When he found there was faith under satin,
And a woman could speak.

There was shrugging of shoulders, though flavoured
With a favourite curse;
When he saw that thou simply hadst wavered;
He had hoped it was worse.

And his lips gave a blasphemous blessing,
But no blessing of thee;
And his fingers moved fondly caressing,
Not his wife but his knee.

On his tongue was the name of his Maker,
Not in prayer nor in praise;
And his mien while demure as a Quaker,
Hid the anger that slays.

And his teeth shut a trifle yet closer,
Lest some frailty should feel;
While he borrowed false weights from his grocer,
From the butcher his steel.

The short measures and shorter endurings,
That adulterate all;
He took up for his slander's securing,
And to soften his fall.

Then as grinding of heels on the gravel,
Or the rasp of a file,
Low he muttered some manglings of cavil,
With a terrible smile.

And his features relaxed for a season,
Not from changing of aim;
His lips watered with savour of treason,
At the banquet of shame.

599

Ere he soused in the rioting revels,
Of his venomous feast;
The carousal that manliness levels,
To the slough of the beast.

O the warping that was not a weakening,
Of calumnious eyes;
As they fell with a funeral beaconing,
On their innocent prize.

Yet they dallied awhile in derision,
With a prurient scowl;
And delay that was no indecision,
Stayed their scrutiny foul.

There was swaying of form and of fashion,
But no swerving of mind;
As the gusts of disfiguring passion,
Made him bitter and blind.

As in clouds they went chasing each other,
With their shadowy shoots;
The vile purpose no smiling could smother,
They confirmed at its roots.

All the shifting of face did not falter,
Nor with mercy might mix;
All the shaking of wrath could not alter,
And they shook but to fix.

Not a shade on his brow's resolution,
But the shade of dislike;
Not a pause in his grim execution,
But the pause how to strike.

So he stayed but to toy and to trifle,
And his appetite bait;
While his lusts rallied fiercely to rifle,
All the sweetness of hate.

As a serpent its victim involving,
With invincible rings;
Has a doubt for a moment's dissolving,
Where to fasten its stings.

Then the keener from lingering's unction,
Like a shaft from a bow;
Like a shaft that's not winged with compunction,
He delivered his blow.

And his mark was the soul of a mourner,
And her sleep would he slay;
As the hand of the perjured suborner,
Makes the helpless its prey.

600

But the angels that poise on their pinions,
Round the innocents' throne,
Drew her soul in their tender dominions,
And he harmed but his own.

For the stroke that he aimed at the dreamer,
Who divided his bed;
That recoiled with revenging supremer,
With its doom on his head.

And the sin that thy honour was seeking,
With the blackness of pelf;
It fell short of its infamous wreaking,
And he murdered himself.

What if treachery ransacked thy riches,
All thy dignity's boast?
Though defencelessness offered no hitches,
His he ransacked the most.

He despoiled his own soul of its beauty,
Of respect and of pride;
And when formless desire shaped his duty,
Then his manliness died.

He defrauded his life of its treasure,
The fair treasure of trust;
When he plucked from debasement his measure,
And his learning from lust.

He has dared with the devils to palter,
For betrayal of truth;
He has sacrificed faith on his altar,
To an idol uncouth.

What if then he has read the recesses,
Of thy glorious heart?
Not a gleam to his pestilent guesses,
Could thy glory impart.

He has seen but the symbols so blotted,
By the wrestling of grace;
With a sight too unpurged and besotted,
Such a breadth to embrace.

At his highest he halts in the letter,
On the surface and sign;
Yea, his freedom thy spirit would fetter,
And his candour malign.

He has searched but the visible striving,
Of invisible might;
But the shadows and outward derivings,
Not the intimate light.

601

Thou art silent and sealed to his vision,
As a volume unwrit;
For the fields and the fountains Elysian,
No corruption admit.

He has staggered and fall'n at the portal,
Without glimpse of the clue;
Of the key that unlocks the immortal,
Of the tender and true.

Let him dream in his impotent malice,
What he never may win;
Though he brood on the brim of the chalice,
He shall drink not within.

Let him dote with the longing of lovers,
On the plunder of hate;
Not thy doom is the doom he discovers,
But his own is the fate.

He has heard not the anthem of sorrows,
From the crosses made thrones;
And no catch from the pothouse he borrows,
Can interpret its tones.

On his feelings however he fiddle,
They are dumb to the air;
He is deaf to the ravishing riddle,
To the visitings fair.

With the strings he may finger and fumble,
They attune not his mind;
He may strike but he only will stumble,
On delusions of wind.

Let him heap up thy furnace with fuel,
And be glutted with ire;
Be his hatred as cunning as oruel,
Yet for him is the fire.

He is blind to thy beautiful cravings,
Revelations of woe;
To the wondrous celestial wavings,
And the summits that glow.

The fumes of debauchery fuddle,
His poor vapouring brain;
While he meddles with all but to muddle,
And thy bliss is his bane.

He is far from the sources of sweetness,
Where thy heart has its home;
Where the pain is but pleasure's completeness,
And no clown every clomb.

602

With the swine of his animal fashions,
Let him fatten on husks;
Till he fall as the food of his passions,
And is torn with their tusks.

They shall strip him with terrible spoilings,
With their hoofs they shall spurn;
They shall rest from their rendings and soilings,
With more wrath to return.

He has trod on the uttermost border,
Of the kingdom of grief;
He has come as a midnight marauder,
And has gone as a thief.

For by purity's sword is he thwarted,
And by modesty's shield;
And the arms that his darkness distorted,
Were not arms he could wield.

By the merciless storm is he shaken,
Which he called to his aid;
In the treacherous traps is he taken,
Which his villainy laid.

He is baulked, he is blinded for ever,
By excess of the light;
And the blight of his barren endeavour,
Has but blasted his sight.

He has groped in captivity carnal,
With his step on the stair;
He has fled as a ghoul to the charnel,
As a worm to its lair.

He is baffled, O Lady of Mourning,
By the depth of thy blots;
And the flash of his insolent scorning,
Turns to splendour the spots.

Does he think with his evil invention,
To make light of thy loss?
Lo, the fire of his burning contention,
Is but purging thy dross.

As in blackness of ruin and storming,
Without moon, without stars;
Comes the lightning with lurid transforming,
And ennobles the scars.

And the flower of a fairer creation,
From his earthliness grows;
And the crown of a great consecration,
His unholiness throws.

603

By the side of his heartlessness hoary,
In the dirt where he lies;
Thou art touched and transfigured with glory,
And raised up to the skies.

And O now with that halo surrounded,
Thou art drifting apart;
All the width of the world so unbounded,
Of the infinite heart.

Though your hands may be clasped in convention,
In the bonds that have been;
Ye are burdened with endless dissension,
As by ages between.

Ye may close in conjugal embraces,
And be friends in the street;
While estranged by unmerciful spaces,
If your souls never meet.

And hypocrisy widens the distance,
With its counterfeit coin;
And society's rigid resistance,
Can attach but not join.

Not a judgment whatever its meetness,
Not a formula's force,
Ever wrought with such fatal completeness,
So supreme a divorce.

No revulsion of scorn or of rancour,
And no jealousy's breath,
Could divide as your sacrament's anchor,
With its sentence of death.

And no hate has so cruel a carriage,
And no hold such a tie,
As the prison whose title is marriage,
And whose chains are a lie.

No divisions can utterly sever,
As the bondage of shams;
And no partings can banish for ever,
As the union that damns.

Thou art separate, clouded and cloven,
By the welding that warps;
Yet art bound by the web thou hast woven,
As a bride to a corpse.

Consolation may come for bereaving,
And a light to the lost;
Not to usage's solemn deceiving,
With its fetters of frost.

604

There are forms that will blossom and flourish,
Without sunshine or seed;
Ceremonial ashes will nourish,
And corruption will feed.

Are there idols so grim in adherence,
Or such blood-sucking ghouls,
As that monster whose name is Appearance,
And whose sacrifice souls?

There are despots too many and mighty,
Who devour us with strife;
They have bounds to their tyranny flighty,
They are sated with life.

But the empire of Custom is vaster,
And more bitter its breath;
It both kills with a hopeless disaster,
And destroys after death.

And Decorum its darling and minion,
Is as strong as its lord;
In our hearts is its hungry dominion,
And our joys are its sword.

It pursues us, on wings it has stolen,
From the breast of our doves;
And the ruin it deals us is swollen,
With the sweets of our loves.

And in this is what deepliest harrows,
Is the crown of your curse;
It is bad, when your own are the arrows,
But to speed them is worse.

Ye conspire with the plottings of Fashion,
To make faster your chains;
While the rivets are lent by compassion,
And by pleasure the pains.

But if calumny breaks with its slanders,
All the linkings of love;
A true hope to no ritual panders,
And has linkings above.

O my Beauty, I wander in ravings,
At the earth-cloud that clings;
I am clogged with the potsherds and pavings,
The unfitness of things.

Dost thou ask how I know of the treason,
Of the lord of thy life?
That he found thy extremity's season,
With occasions so rife?

605

How I know? I have written assurance,
What thy slumbers betrayed;
He has sent it, to test my endurance,
With his reasons arrayed.

Yea, he brags of his base prostitution,
At his dastardly skill;
I have tried to wash off the pollution,
But it sticks to me still.

For this hand has been soiled by the token,
Of his triumphing mean;
It is marred with its purity broken,
And can never be clean.

He has dared from my quiver to borrow,
His most excellent dart;
It is feathered with plumes of my sorrow,
It is here at my heart.

And what weapons were finer and fitter,
Than the gibes he has thrown?
And what wounds were more deadly and bitter,
Since unseen and unknown?

I am sorely distainèd and stricken,
And my soul is the seal;
And the bruises that sadden and sicken,
There is nothing to heal.

He is filthy with foulest obsceneness,
Both at heart and on hand;
And his brow, with its pitiful leanness,
Has no breadth for my brand.

O thou thing, beyond reaching of title,
Beneath hate and contempt;
Thou art surely from blows of requital,
By thy vileness exempt.

I have erred in my angry defacement,
From the goading of cares;
Thou art saved by thy very abasement,
And thy littleness spares.

Keep that peace, in the sloth thou dost cherish,
That ignobleness gives;
While the great in all wickedness perish,
Insignificance lives.

Ah, thy forehead is hopelessly narrow,
For the “fool” I would grave;
And thou hast not enough of the marrow,
For the making of “knave.”

606

And thy breast is too stony and stunted,
For the curse I would root;
And the beasts were with justice affronted,
If I dubbed thee a brute.

And thy life, were it creeping for ever,
Through its windings and mire;
Would not reach in its longest endeavour,
To the length of my ire.

And thy hatred though deep as the ocean,
When the storm is its mate;
Would not sound in its angriest motion,
Half the depth of my hate.

Should thy wrath be more fierce in its burning,
Than the raging of flame;
It would gauge not a tithe of my spurning,
At the shadow of shame.

Now go down to the latest December,
In thy self-woven net;
As a creature too base to remember,
And too black to forget.

Dost thou think that by gowns and by cassocks,
By thy bands and thy beard,
Or the tea that is tempered with hassocks,
Thy repute will be cleared?

Thou art big in the pulpit, no wonder,
Since the pulpit is small;
But no art can atone for the blunder,
Of thy being at all.

'Tis a sight, how he sputters and spatters,
If the subject is deep;
How the dust and the doctrine he scatters,
Would make jackasses weep.

For the cushion he shows no compunction,
When with sin he would cope;
While he washes his hands in his unction,
With invisible soap.

Then with “thirdly and lastly” he wrestles,
And belabours his book;
And concludes you are weaklier vessels,
Meant to breed or to cook.

He rates men as a nobler creation,
That you hamper or vex;
And reserves his more hearty damnation,
For the guiltier sex.

607

“Look at Eve” he will say, with a rolling,
Of his sensual lip;
“It was she in her scorn of controlling,
Made that terrible slip.”

Then he chuckles with sinister sleekness,
And looks round with a scowl:—
“To be woman is still to be weakness,
To be fair to be foul.”

While he swallows his words with a relish,
That their virulence lends;
With a purpose inhuman and hellish,
Though defeating its ends.

Here he snorts, and then crowning the libel,
That he likes not to leave:—
“As of old,” (and he bangs at the Bible),
She delights to deceive.”

“She was first in the fatal transgression,
And she is to this hour;
And the last she will be, without pressing;
It's her birthright and dower.”

Then inflicting with infinite ardour,
On his sermon a hug,
He expands with some utterance harder,
Which he caps with a shrug.

Then he turns to the feminine faces,
And makes play with his eyes;
He convicts them of pestilent graces,
Buries learning in lies.

If he hits on some heterodox bonnet,
He pronounces its doom;
Pours his vials of slander upon it,
Like a crapulous groom.

Then assuming the air of a mourner,
Who some wickedness stems;
He looks straight at thy innocent corner,
With a glance that condemns.

“I have suffered my friends,” he confesses,
“From these antics and airs;
Sad experience points my addresses,
And would warn you of snares.”

“There are women and women, my brothers,
And with numberless arts;
But one end every difference smothers,
And illumines their parts.”

608

“And the end, though by history chidden,
And rebuked in their sight,
Is a passion for courses forbidden,
And for stolen delights.”

So he recklessly bellows and blusters,
With a devilish aim;
And the raggedest reason he musters,
For the clothing of shame.

Now he chokes with his surfeit of malice,
And grows purple of mien;
As he drinks from the poisonous chalice,
Of his murderous spleen.

Now he flogs at some difficult turning,
Some recalcitrant noun;
With a hubbub of spitting and spurning,
And the voice of a clown.

Or he halts on the obstinate angles,
To recover his wind;
While his spite with his memory wrangles,
A new falsehood to find.

Then away he is off at a canter,
From the highway of sense;
Till he jibs in his boisterous banter,
At Theology's fence.

Still he covers his fiction with fable,
And avers them on oath;
Draws his facts from the pigstye or stable
And his feeling from both.

Yet he stammers at times in invective,
Not from pity or doubt;
But when choosing some arm more effective,
His poor victim to flout.

And he blushes, but not with the reddening
Of remorse or of fears;
For his souls has a desperate deadening;
And it's only his ears.

And he offers a laboured apology,
Which is not a pretence;
For some tragical trip in chronology;
Not, alas, for offence.

And he bows with a sweep consequential,
As if saddened and sick;
Yet his bending is not penitential,
But rhetorical trick.

609

And he ceases by fits from his fuming,
To consider a debt—
What he owes to a hatred consuming—
And not that of regret.

And he swerves from his murderous measures,
Not from vulgar concern;
But to seek in his calumny's treasures,
Some more terrible turn.

Should he drawl like a simpering waiter,
Or mock thunderbolts hurl,
He has still but the hand of a traitor,
And the heart of a churl.

Though his face so austerely be shaven,
And the tears come at call;
He is ever a pitiful craven,
He is abject in all.

If he glosses the evil he fuses,
With a varnish of good;
Yet the credit you grant he abuses,
And his hypocrite's hood.

When his sentiments savour the sweetest,
And his piety boast—
When his language is modest and meetest—
Then avoid him the most.

While he harps on the horror of meanness,
And is heavy on pelf—
Though his own gives the satire its keenness—
He is always himself.

Let him rave of the riches of trials,
And the lusting that kills;
Never mind all his praise of denials,
But what coffers he fills.

Let him bless the believer that anchors
Far from covetous gales;
But yet see for what harbour he hankers,
On what voyage he sails.

He may prate of the prize of salvation,
And the covenant pacts;
Look at home on his splendid negation,
And observe how he acts.

He may talk of the merits of manna,
Nor to flesh-pots be blind;
He may shout with the loudest Hosanna,
And be Judas in mind.

610

O ye fools, that delight to be taken,
With his clap-trap and cries,
With his mincing and mummery shaken,
When he lives in your eyes!

He is flowing with milk and with honey,
And celestial balms;
While he feathers his nest with the money,
That he wrings from your alms.

Though he screws from the pauper his pittance,
From the widow her mite;
Yet he deals them no righteous acquittance,
When they waken his spite.

If his balance is good with his banker,
He is thirsting for more;
And he nurses the deadliest rancour,
At a wealthier store.

Too unworthy to live with the meanest,
And too dirty to die;
Is there anywhere space the uncleanest,
Where in peace he may lie?

If Oblivion will have him and hold him,
Let him pack and be quick;
For the worm is no fellow to fold him,
And a coffin would kick.

Yea, the grave is too pure for his shelter;
And the vermin, that sup
On the refuse and rot where they welter,
They would vomit him up.

In the tombs of the homicides' city,
He shall never abide;
Nor his name will Contempt, in its pity,
With its excrements hide.

And the ghouls that go preying and prowling,
Where the vilest are lain;
They shall fly him lest theirs be the fouling,
And lest they be the slain.

He shall find not the filthiest portion,
With the hangman and whore;
He shall live as a putrid abortion,
Until Time be no more.

611

PART III.—THE CROWN OF SORROW.

Is it death or a vision of dying,
With a knell in the air?
Is the fate that in silence was lying,
Bodied forth from its lair?

Can it be that I peddle or palter,
With the rubbish of life;
Now my neck is so fast in a halter,
At my heart is a knife?

Do I pander to parts that are grosser,
Give my appetites scope;
When the point is still pressing me closer,
And more tightly the rope?

Is the doomsman of sorrow my brother,
Who has come as a thief?
Am I he who I was, or another
With a kinglier grief?

Is it day-time or night-time, I wonder,
That so hard on me lies?
For a dream of destruction and thunder
Is abroad in the skies.

Have I died and awakened, to harken
To a soul-stirring strain?
Are these tears or delusions, that darken
With their shadowy rain?

Is it rather a middle fruition,
Of a phantasy slow;
Between bliss and an utter perdition,
Neither pleasure nor woe?

Lo, I ask, but I know not the answer,
And I hear not a breath;
I am struck as a petrified dancer,
When his partner is death?

But around me the festival raises,
Its excess to its height;
While I move through the passionless mazes,
In a banquet of night.

I am wrapped in the silence as raiment
I am clad with the gloom;
I am bound by a bitter repayment,
In the fetter of doom.

612

There has come on my silence a vision,
On my waking a trance;
And before me are shut in derision,
The sweet gates of romance.

I was playing my part, in the juggle
Of deception and strife;
When there fell on my fatuous struggle,
The unmasking of life.

As of old, there was toiling and spinning,
And the world was a top;
The repentance was ousted by sinning,
And the grave had the crop.

And the weak, not the wicked, were falling,
In the scourging of Fate;
And the passions grew grim and enthralling,
And the criminals great.

There was lifting of hands in the churches,
But no lifting of hearts;
And a blighting made barren researches,
In the embers of arts.

And the State with its riches was cloying,
Waxing foolish and fat;
Like a garrulous dowager, toying
With her curate or cat.

They were married and giving in marriage,
And they bought and they sold;
While the fool had his hand on his carriage,
And the knave on his gold.

And the bride was as bright as a blossom,
In the sunnier South;
And, more fair than the rose on her bosom,
Was the rose of her mouth.

And the priest was pronouncing a blessing,
On the new-wedded pair;
And the lover had breathed his caressing,
To the bird of the air.

And the kiss was, though severed by distance,
On its way to the lip;
And the lily was feigning resistance,
To the butterfly's sip.

There were sounds of rejoicings and laughter,
Upon mountain and lawn;
There were beams of a better hereafter,
In the dews of the dawn.

613

And the lad had his step on the stirrup,
That would bear him to hope;
And the lass heard the nightingale chirrup,
On the whispering slope.

And the moon paid her silver transmuted,
From the gold of the sun;
And the stars with their magic reputed.
Had their missions to run.

And the bard at humanity's portal,
Seized the fancy that flies;
While he fixed it in colours immortal,
From the earth and the skies.

There was screwing and hoarding in hovel,
As in elegant room;
And the author so wise in his novel,
Was the gull of his groom.

And a horror of mourning and hunger,
Fashioned maidenhood gray;
And his joy made the patriarch younger,
Than the boy at his play.

And the trencher acquaintance was sidling,
Within scent of the pot;
And the king (like the corpse) in his idling,
Was beginning to rot.

There was scraping of fiddles and dishes,
And a pinching of shoes;
And the sum of the loftiest wishes,
Was how little to lose.

Just to steer beyond hail of the halter,
Was the pride of the waif;
And the miser with knee at the altar,
Kept his soul in his safe.

There was cackle of geese, at the wedding,
Of the title and till;
And the peer gave the packman his bedding,
With his eye on the will.

And the nobleman's bastard was puzzling,
How his belly to line;
While his three-bottle father was guzzling,
His debauches of wine.

And the truth had its throne, in the pillory,
Of a beef-witted race;
And the soldier to beauty's artillery,
Was abasing his face.

614

There was spreading of doctrines and dinners,
For old women to meet;
And the pulpit at war with the sinners,
Was their friend in the street.

And the drawing room's delicate hero,
And the idol of “drums,”
Found his level was lower than Zero,
Without scandalous crumbs.

And the pavement was ripe for a revel,
Be it feasting or wrack;
And would march to the dogs or the devil,
With a flea on its back.

And the world was a tragical medley,
Of starvation and gold;
While its tender embracing was deadly,
And its kisses were cold.

To the strong was no prize, in the battle,
Nor the race to the swift;
And the waves of a driveller's tattle,
Set an empire adrift.

And the waste that no weights could examine,
Had its seat on the throne;
While the heart of the people was famine,
And their bread was a stone.

And the gospel whose home is the gutter,
In the palace was preached;
And the vices that mumble and mutter,
To the sanctuary reached.

One was taken by justice desúltory,
And the other was left;
While the woman was caught in adultery,
And the man in his theft.

And the maid still her mistress was robbing,
Of repute and of gowns;
And the world was a pendulum, bobbing
Between crosses and crowns.

And the smock held a court in the cottage,
That was nobler than kings';
And the dupe bought a handful of pottage,
When his birthright took wings.

And the prince was a fool to his peasant,
And his love was his lord;
And the queen to his pillow so pleasant,
Was no queen of his board.

615

There was penury raised to the gallows,
And the bribe to the bench;
While the statesman was wrecked by the shallows,
And the wise by a wench.

As of old there were laughter and weeping,
Between liquor and lips;
Under roses the serpent was creeping,
Before kisses came slips.

And the lout who by day swept the crossing,
Was a lion at night;
And the mud of his beggarly crossing,
Turned to jewels and light.

And the dirt that was splashed on the chariot,
On the coronet's pride,
Was more clean than the gorgeous Iscariot,
Who was lounging inside.

And the dungeons of dogmas were battered,
By a famishing flood;
And the safeguards that tyranny shatters,
Were cemented by blood.

And the maiden so eager for marriage,
Was impaled on its horns;
While her life was a lie or miscarriage,
Her caresses were thorns.

And the past was the bliss of the matron,
But the present her bane;
And her future the nod of a patron,
When his revenues wane.

And the child of the saintliest mother,
To whom prayer was as breath,
Grew a stranger and infamy's brother,
And the darling of death.

And the widow had still to impòrtune,
For the justice that slept;
And the villain, whose smile was his fortune,
Still was hanged when he wept.

And the leech with his eye on the pocket,
And the pulse in his hand,
Every symptom was careful to docket,
Every luxury scann'd.

To be virtuous still seemed an error,
Unless virtue was paid;
To be chaste still the deadliest terror,
Both to man and to maid.

616

And the merchant whose credit was hollow,
Made the goodliest heap;
And the singer her sisters would follow,
Who was charming was cheap.

And the lawyer nonsuited by coma,
Yet eluded its grip;
And expired in the sweetest aroma,
With a lie on his lip.

And the churches with portals expanding,
Were a solitude still;
And the prisons though barred and withstanding,
Yet had more than their fill.

To be natural would have been duty,
Were cosmetics not known;
And the face of the actress been beauty,
If it had been her own.

The diplomatist finding his level,
All the length of a knave,
Still confessed and defrauded the devil,
And deflowered the grave.

Still the maw of the monk was a cavern,
And his pleasure in plot;
While the temple gave way to the tavern,
And the pyx to the pot.

And the actor whose part was deluding,
Though he died made no sign;
And the ass, with his ears so protruding,
Yet when dead was divine.

Still the tongue of the saint was an arrow,
And denial meant more;
And to put off the world and its marrow,
Was to put on the whore.

And the love for the soul in the cloister,
Still was leavened by lust;
And the nunnery still was an oyster,
That when opened was dust.

More than prudery nought was transgression,
And there well might be less;
And the fathers who came for confession,
Still remained to caress.

Still sweet vespers were sung by the willows,
And strange matins at morns;
While the penance was paid on the pillows,
But no pillows of thorns.

617

And to crucify joy and its fellows,
Was to darken the soul;
Was to banish the mingling that mellows,
And illumines the whole.

And to shut out the world and its angles,
Was to shut in the flesh;
And to trap the desire in the tangles,
Of a self-woven mesh.

And to pen up the feelings in panels,
Was to coffin the heart;
And to turn them in gloomier channels,
A more prurient plant.

And to torture delight at its sources,
Was to poison the fount;
And to crowd all its exquisite courses,
In one deadly account.

To make mountains of possible evil,
Was to render it sure;
And to open to worm and to weevil,
Every granary pure.

And to barter the sense for salvation,
Was to gain what is worse,
(Not a future but present damnation),
Both to kill and to curse.

To be poor was the worst of offences,
To be just was a sin;
And the nature with fairest pretences,
Was the foulest within.

To be good was a ludicrous blunder,
That the failure would mend;
To be honest was simply to sunder,
The success from the end.

To be sick, in the world of the strongest,
Was to go to the wall;
And for sorrow, though life were the longest,
There was room but to fall.

Where the mass was a chaos polluted,
To be clean was a crime;
For religion (save merely reputed),
There could never be time.

It was folly for man to be moral,
When reward was a wraith;
And a creed was the bells and the coral,
For the infants of faith.

618

A regret was as weak as compassion,
And remorse was to dote;
It was frenzy, when beams were in fashion,
To repent of a mote.

So was wagging the world in its madness,
As it rollicked of yore;
Still a premium was put on its badness,
Like the premium before.

Still the monkey was blowing his trumpet,
And the cat was his paw;
And the hand that could cosset a strumpet,
Yet would shrink from a straw.

Still the nun was a delicate morsel,
For an amorous mouth;
And while pity sat on the doorsill,
All inside there was drouth.

Still if satire would hope to exhibit,
Now a vice, now a curse;
There were virtues too vile for the gibbet,
And some blessings were worse.

Then the flood in its fury came rifling,
And the storm from its tomb;
And within and without was the stifling,
Of a horror of gloom.

Then the thunderbolt fell out of pity,
With a balm in its blows;
And a moaning went up from the city,
And a weeping arose.

And the brow of the bridegroom was darkened,
As the eyes of the bride;
And the ears of the roysterers harkened,
And the wailing replied.

And the song was despoiled of its glamour,
In the pride of its breath;
While a silence descended on clamour,
And the silence was death.

And the stream of the revels was frozen,
At the palace's gate;
By the shadow no juggler could cozen,
And the shadow was fate.

Though the flower in its glory was double,
It was stript of its bloom;
And there fell on the gardens a trouble,
And the trouble was doom.

619

Lo, the tempest was black in the byeway,
And in luxury's lair;
While its voice was a curse on the highway,
And its step on the stair.

And its knock was a knell to the portal,
As the call of the dead;
And the monarch, in majesty mortal,
Felt its hand on its head.

Then they rose up because of the lashes,
And they sat down to grieve;
And they grovelled in dust and in ashes,
But they did not relieve.

And the cry of the orphans was bitter,
But the answer was dumb;
Though they longed for the end that was fitter,
Yet the end did not come.

Yea, the widow put sack-cloth around her,
And a veil on her face;
But the breath of destruction enwound her,
With a darker embrace.

Then the infant was torn from its mother,
And the husband from wife;
In their sorrow they knew not each other,
And the friends were at strife.

In the night-time they prayed for the morning,
Then for morning to go;
And the scoffer whose hire was for scorning,
Had the wages of woe.

Then above them the heavens were confusion,
And the fountains were dry;
In their blindness they worshipped delusion,
And their god was a lie.

They believed that the mire was their father,
And their faith was in sin;
In the cleansing of surfaces, rather
Than the purging within.

And they bent to the phantoms of error,
Till their spirits were bowed;
And they made from the mockings of error,
Their own funeral shroud.

From the creeds they had buried beneath them,
Their consumings were lit;
And like serpents of shade to enwreathe them,
Rushed the knots they had knit.

620

Then the brother was nought to the sister,
And the son to his sire;
While the dripping of dew was a blister,
And the grave their desire.

For they heard not the accents of pleasure,
And they saw not its mien;
When the meting of pain was their measure,
And the night was their queen.

And they craved for the light that bedizens,
The disasters of shame;
But in hopes were undreamed of horizons,
And they knew not their name.

There was pining for buds that were blighted,
And dishevelling of hair;
And a gathering of tears they had slighted,
As of rain in the air.

Then the food of the seeker was sorrow,
And a pall was his dress;
While despair was the name of the morrow,
And to-day was distress.

Then the end of the maiden was madness,
And her dower was her doom;
And her bridal a bridal of sadness,
With the worm of the tomb.

Then the bed of the wealthy was bareness,
And his pillow a void;
While his gems were all shorn of their fairness,
And his daintiness cloyed.

For the pets that would never be playing,
There was wringing of hands;
And the light that is bred by decaying,
Was the light of the lands.

Then the sage could no grievance discover,
And the fool was as wise;
And the darling once sweet to the lover,
Was not sweet in his eyes.

And, alas, for the beautiful faces,
When their beauty was gone;
When the glow was put off from their graces,
And the gloom was put on!

There was beating of breasts, and a wailing
As the wailing of seas;
And the jester fell down in his railing,
And the knave on his knees.

621

Then their sleeping was suffering and anguish,
And their waking was woe;
And the mourner, whose life was to languish,
Found abysses below.

Then the loser was one with the winner,
And the mighty waxed faint;
While the saint was esteemed as the sinner,
And the sinner a saint.

And a wonder was seen in the tresses,
Growing gray of a night;
That had laughed to the wooer's caresses,
With but yesterday's light.

Then the usurer's gold was yet cheaper,
Than the market-place mire;
And the reveller shared with the weeper,
And their share was the fire.

Then the meek was as high as the highest,
And the haughty lay low;
And the farthest was near as the nighest,
To the ravager's blow.

And the masters their menials then followed,
And with ruin were girt;
Yea, the twain in their misery wallowed,
And they wallowed in dirt.

And the blossom was plucked in its splendour
From the delicate cheek;
And the lips that were dewy and tender,
They turned pallid and bleak.

And the peoples that strengthened their stations,
Under heaven and the stars;
They were struck in the night of the nations,
Behind bulwarks and bars.

And the swift met calamity faster,
Though more swift than the sword;
They were shaken with utter disaster,
At the blast of the Lord.

And the strong with the shield held before him,
And his hand on the spear;
He was shattered when shadows came o'er him,
With the shattering of fear.

And the feet that were fleet on the mountain,
Lo, they fell on the plain;
And the damsels that drew from the fountain
Were encompassed with pain.

622

Then the lord was to lowliness servant,
And the service was grief;
And the priest, in his ministry fervent,
Was no priest of relief.

For the day of avenging had spoken,
And the day was as night;
Yea, the pride of the spoiler was broken,
And the king in his might.

It was thus in my petulant sorrow,
When I dreamed not a close;
That the morning, (for ever the morrow),
Of my agony rose.

On the waters of weariness drifting,
I was wafted through air;
Until dashed by the tempest's uplifting
On the rocks of despair.

Ah, in truth I had played but with weeping,
And had grazed but its track;
I had painted its fanciful heaping,
With a border of black.

I was clipping the cypress of mourning,
To an elegant shape;
And was giving a tender adorning,
To my grievances' crape.

I was showing the willows I water,
A more tragical fall;
And the sables a daintier quarter,
On the pose of the pall.

I was teaching the dirge that I nourish,
A more delicate turn;
And was carving an exquisite flourish,
On my sentiment's urn.

I was toying awhile with the tassels,
On the fringes of care;
And was building most masterly castles,
In the funeral air.

I was trifling with misery's trappings,
With the pageant of pain;
And was fingering the edges and wrappings,
In imaginings vain.

I was feigning the sepulchre's scenery,
And the glamour it gave;
While I marshalled the graces and greenery,
With the flowers of the grave.

623

And I caught all the cheerier glances,
Of the tressels and biers;
And I sported with sorrow's romances,
And made music of tears.

And I marked every point that was telling,
And the poetry stole,
From the passions of pangs, that were swelling
My theatrical whole.

I was feeding a furnace ideal,
That I fanned with my breath;
And I lent it a fuel unreal,
While I flirted with death.

And I added the form of a finish,
From the costumes in store;
Did my vapouring ever diminish,
I could clothe it with more.

And I looked as an artist may ponder,
On a fantasy fair;
And I suffered my pencil to wander,
With a touch here and there.

And I tricked out the shade of the picture,
With the blue of the skies;
And I toned it with hints from the stricture,
Of hostility's eyes.

And I lavished the airs and the attitudes,
That might serve for a heart;
And I polished the usual platitudes,
On an object of art.

And I studied the dues of the statue,
As a sculptor may do;
And took care that its charms should look àt you,
With a figleaf or too.

And I ordered the tags and the trimmings,
And the drapery spread;
And I flitted with butterfly skimmings,
On the skirts of the dead.

And I tired not in all my inventing,
Where I filched not from bards;
And made capital out of lamenting,
O'er a coffin of cards.

It was but a delusion and medley,
Though delusion has weight;
And the semblance is often more deadly,
Than the substance of fate.

624

So I dreamed a mere fatuous vision,
And I clove to a cloud;
Until doom with an iron decision,
Wrapped me round in its shroud.

As I dallied in delicate fooling,
With the phantoms and forms,
Came the grimness of grief with its schooling,
And its strokes were the storm's.

Then the pliable fancies and feelings,
I had conjured in play;
Lo, they turned into stubborn revealings,
And of me made their prey.

And the thought I had thralled was my master,
As it grew into shape;
With a body of bane and disaster,
Which I could not escape.

And the forces I called to protect me,
With themselves were at strife;
And my dead foes arose to reject me,
With the friends I gave life.

And the mourning that once was luxurious,
And a joy to my soul;
Now an interest asked so usurious,
That it mocked at control.

And the figures I shaped as my creatures
That had gladdened my sight,
Now returned with implacable features,
Like a comfortless night.

And the willows of elegant weeping,
Became rods for my back;
And the hills of despair I was heaping,
Were the stones of my track.

And the roses I grew in my garden,
To make misery sweet,
Now accorded no place for my pardon,
And were thorns to my feet.

And the pity I squandered in fumings,
For the bastards of care,
Shed no dew on my cruel consumings,
Nor had solace to spare.

Thus it was and is now and for ever,
Since my darling is dead;
And the bloom of my lifetime's endeavour,
With its fragrance has fled.

625

Here I stand face to face with my duty,
And the seasons flow on;
Though the gleam and the glow and the beauty,
From their presence have gone.

I have passed beyond glosses of Fashion,
To the granite of grief;
I am tossed on the billows of Passion,
Like a storm-stricken leaf.

Now I grapple with issues of iron,
And my strife is with stone;
And though mercies my bosom environ,
Yet my heart is alone.

And the sky that was dull has waxed duller,
While the earth has grown gray;
And the throb and the thrill and the colour,
All have fleeted away.

I have sounded the hollow moralities,
Of the creeds and the cults;
And I close with the naked realities,
Of the final results.

What is man but a vanishing vapour,
With a dream for his dower;
What is life but the light of a taper,
When it burns but an hour?

I have measured the bounds of the mortal,
Where the yew-branches wave—
As I sat at the sanctuary's portal—
And its bounds were the grave.

I have heard the decree of the sentence,
On the pampered and poor;
When I knocked with the knock of repentance,
At the sepulchre's door.

I have seen that the end is inanity,
The beginning is pain;
That the upshot of life is its vanity,
It is empty and vain.

I have severed the fact from the fable,
With the winning of woe;
While I proved that no promise was stable,
If its roots were below.

I have handled the pulses of pleasures,
And I felt they were false;
I have drunk of the fountain of treasures,
And their savour was salse.

626

I am sure that the surface is hollow,
The adorning of lust;
There is nothing but famine to follow,
And the kernel is dust.

And I know that the casket is bitter,
Though it be not to taste;
Though it circles but leavings and litter,
And the jewels are paste.

I have learned the delusion is double,
For the thing and the thought;
That the tribute of seeking is trouble,
And the finding is nought.

O my voice with its weeping is weary,
And vexation its gain;
And my dreams are the echoings dreary,
Of the burden of pain.

While my waking is ghastlier vision,
And my sleeping not rest;
And a battle-ground torn by collision,
Is my sorrowful breast.

And my ears without music are lonely,
Without accents that cling;
And the tendrils entwining me only,
Have a funeral ring.

Yea, I hear but the sob of the surges,
And I drink but the brine—
Of the doom of disconsolate dirges—
And the dirges are mine.

Now the sun is despoiled of his splendour,
And the moon gives no light;
The caresses no longer are tender,
And the red cheek is white.

Disillusioned is time of its glory,
Disenchanted is space;
And the head of creation is hoary,
And her growth without grace.

We are dust and a handful of ashes,
Just a shadow and show;
And our truths are but transient flashes,
From horizons below.

She has fallen—has fallen—my Beauty,
When no storm-cloud was nigh;
Like a queen in the height of her duty,
Like a star from the sky.

627

Lo, the tempest has come without warning,
As it swoops in the South;
And the night that has never a morning,
It has opened its mouth.

Yesterday she was mistress of many,
And their worship was one;
But to-day, if her mourners are any,
She is mistress of none.

But the tomb has rejoiced to bereave her,
And the clods are her bed;
While the earth had made room to receive her,
With its dust on her head.

Now the silence alone is her sister,
And the darkness her spouse;
Ah, the worm that is clammy has kist her,
And embraces her brows.

Where the lips of a lover once rested,
A new wooer has hied;
And her blossoming breasts are molested,
By caresses untried.

Over features no calumny altered,
There has stolen a change;
And the heart that for others but faltered,
Now has stirrings more strange.

She had suitors their service to mingle,
And who hung on her breath;
But the service now offered is single,
And the suitor is death.

She is fondled by festering vermin,
And the queen is a slave;
While the grave-clothes her kingdom determine,
And her court is the grave.

Now the bosom with modest arraying,
Without fear, without spot,
Has the life that is only decaying,
Has the rest that is rot.

Now the mien that was growing in graces,
Like a flower in the light,
Has the growth that corruption defaces,
And the bloom that is blight.

And the brood of the clay are her lieges,
Who are more than their lord;
And their sapping her stronghold besieges,
With rebellious accord.

628

And the tribute no king is desiring,
Now her treasury fills;
And the homage whose name is bemiring,
Through her avenues thrills.

Now the grub dissolution has gendered,
In her palaces plays;
And to eyes that are darkened, is tendered
The allegiance that slays.

O her subjects may press her with sighing,
And her servants may come;
Yet she cannot concede them replying,
And her answer is dumb.

They may strike and she will not withstand them,
Nor give heed to their scorn;
They may pay but she does not command them,
Nor take tithes of their corn.

They may harass her hearing with praying,
Yet she knows not their vows;
Yea, their slanders and all their gainsaying,
No revenging will rouse.

They may fall at her feet with their wailing,
And with wringing of hands;
But she deems not, as once without failing,
Her delight their demands.

Now no more shall their suits from a distance,
Find their pleasure her part;
Ere they gathered a shape and consistence,
In the mould of the heart.

They shall ask, but in folly and blindness,
The petition they hoped;
They shall knock at the door of her kindness,
But it will not be oped.

They may bring of their splendour and spices,
All the brightest and best;
But no incense her nostril entices,
From its infinite rest.

Let them call and she gives no responding,
Let them weep if they will;
She can hearken not now to desponding,
To their tragedies' thrill.

When they weary her gates with oblations,
When they trip by her walls;
She shall reck not of false adulations,
Or how foul are their falls.

629

Do the courtiers troop to her porches,
With their gifts in their hands?
Do they trouble the darkness with torches,
Round her cerements' bands?

Yet she craves not for jewels to cherish,
Nor for silver and gold;
And the torches and darkness may perish,
Ere she break from her hold.

Shall they beg for the pitiful glances,
That were salves to their sores?
Shall they sue her with cymbals and dances,
And with melody's stores?

Yet she cares not for trumpet and tabor,
Nor for viol and flute;
And she tells not the tread of her neighbour,
And the music is mute.

They may throng in their masses, and thunder
At the door of her tomb;
Yet it shall not be riven asunder,
Nor disburden its womb.

And the mark of humanity mortal,
Shall still lie as it lay;
And the stone from her sepulchre's portal,
None shall roll it away.

They shall loose not the load of her fetter,
Nor the fangs of her chain;
Though their love with its labour beset her,
They shall labour in vain.

She is wounded, and where is the healing?
She is bruisèd of breast;
And her brow has the terrible sealing,
Strange embraces have prest.

She is weary of toiling and troubling,
With the weight and the heat;
But the balm of no rivulet's bubbling,
To her hearing is sweet.

With the shafts that are sure is she stricken,
With the arrows of fate;
In the swoon beyond help does she sicken,
In her passionless state.

She is sleeping and when will she waken?
Though we shout in her ears;
By the earthquake itself were she shaken,
It would fret not her fears.

630

Though the bolts of the lightning should volley,
Would they dazzle her eyes?
And the wisdom is one with the folly,
In the land where she lies.

The eclipse with its withering curtain,
And the shadows of doom,
Are to her as a message uncertain,
And she knows not from whom.

Ah, her windows are covered with mourning,
And with heaviness hung;
For the ashes are now her adorning,
And the silence her tongue.

And the wayfarers pass by her mansion,
But its glory is veiled;
And the dearth with its dreary expansion,
O'er its pride has prevailed.

Lo, her lovers go bowing in sorrow,
And her lovers are all;
While their wail from the waters they borrow,
From the breezes their call.

Since the elements chime in our chorus,
With an elegy sad;
For the fruit that is gathered before us,
And the harvest we had.

And the face of Creation is smitten,
With a trouble and blight;
And her features are wrinkled and bitten,
With the frosts of the night.

We go weeping and bending and lowly,
For the light of the skies;
Now the darkness has drawn from us wholly,
The desire of our eyes.

O the aspens are quaking and sighing,
And the flowerets are faint;
Yea, the harlots of Fashion are crying,
And grow pale through their paint.

And the sons of the house and the hovel,
Both have dust on their brow;
While her enemies groan as they grovel,
Nor are enemies now.

All the leaflets are troubled and tremble,
As they warp in the wind;
And the dews do not shrink to dissemble,
What a dimness they find.

631

And the blades of the grasses may shiver,
But they bring her no more;
And the sedges will quaver and quiver.
On a desolate shore

And unheeded the destitute shudders,
If the snowflakes should fall;
And the kine, with their pendulous udders,
Shall not come to her call.

And the dog that would leap to her whistle,
Shall be whining in vain;
And the spear of the thorn and the thistle,
Shall infest her demesne.

And the naked she clothed with her mercy,
Shall not mark in her tone,
All the chivalrous pride of a Percy,
With a love quite her own.

And the dove that would light on her shoulder,
Or would feed from her lips,
Now unsuccoured shall pine to behold her,
For the delicate sips.

It shall fly to the perch as it flitted,
But no perch will be there;
And its murmurs shall wander unpitied,
Over passage and stair.

And the pets that in plenitude flourished,
Within sheltering walls;
Shall go moaning unheard and unnourished,
Through the motherless halls.

And the pensioners dear to the bounty,
May her welcoming wait;
But the voice that was law to the county,
Shall not open their gate.

Let the death-bell be tolled in the steeple,
And the revelries bann'd;
For a mother has passed from the people,
And a queen from the land.

She was parent of joy to the saddest,
Though the daughter of grief;
And with heartsease her glances were gladdest,
When she most lacked relief.

She was empress by right the divinest,
Though the servant of all;
And no slander went out the malignest,
But came back as her thrall.

632

By a title of sanctions unwritten,
She was lord of our hearts;
Were our portions the smoothest or smitten,
Still she governed their parts.

O my Queen, dost thou reign in the regions,
Where thy beauty has flown?
Art thou chief among sorrowful legions,
With thy sorrow thy throne.

Thou hast followed the fasces and lictors,
That attend upon death;
And dost thou with the vanquished and victors,
Draw thy liberal breath?

Be the cottage thy innocent schooler,
Or the court of a Guelf;
Yet I know thou art ever a ruler,
Thou art queen of thyself.

But the masters of earth are thy minions,
Wheresoever thy lot;
And the praises of men thy dominions,
And thy spoils without spot.

For thy sway is the spell of thy sweetness,
And thy sceptre is love;
And thine unction has holy completeness,
From anointings above.

Thou art far from our passionate panting,
Yet with thee it is well;
Where thou art is a heaven of enchanting,
Where thou art not is hell.

Thou art first, from the fairest of reasons,
If the empire is grace;
And there blows not a flower of the seasons,
Like the flower of thy face.

Thou art foremost in every contending,
When they strive not with arms;
And the prizes, are only a blending
Of the bloom of thy charms.

Yet perchance thou art never so distant,
But art nearer than thought;
When it thrills as a healing assistant,
With the balm it has brought.

From the waving of woods hast thou beckoned,
In the hushing of airs?
Or as angels from sources unreckoned,
When they call unawares?

633

Thou art to me as dew in the dawning,
When it silvers the trees;
Thou art with me as eventide's fawning,
While it sets on the seas.

Thou art o'er me as skies with their arches,
Of imperial blue;
Thou art in me as spring, in the larches,
With their emerald hue.

Thou art on me as moons in the Maytime,
When they mellow the grass;
Thou art by me as brooks in the playtime,
When they pipe as they pass.

Thou art for me as one for his brother,
When to death is the strife;
Thou art sister and wife and a mother,
And the loadstar of life.

I am dead and it's thou that art living,
Whilst I sleep thou hast waked;
And my dreams of delight are thy giving,
And my thirst thou hast slaked.

Am I hungry with infinite yearning,
For the secrets of Time?
Thou dost feed me with fuller returning,
Of volition sublime.

Am I naked and lost on the ocean,
By its billowings rent?
Thou dost clothe me with tender emotion,
In the calm of content.

Am I cold and despairing and fearful,
In the winter of woe?
Thou dost warm me with memories cheerful,
How the summer will grow.

Am I sick with a sorrowful craving,
At the misery wrought?
Thou dost medicine my heart with the saving
Of a holier thought.

Do I reel in the faintness of anguish,
When the wickedness wins?
Thou dost sigh, it is better to languish,
Than to riot in sins.

Were I slain with the choice I have cherished,
Ere I sullied its seal;
Thou wouldst rather I many times perished,
Than imperiled my weal.

634

But O why hast thou entered before me,
In the kingdoms of shade?
When the moon of the morning was o'er me,
And the ear in the blade.

When my creed was as yet in its crescent,
Thine has grown to the full;
While for me there are doubtings incessant,
That to darkness would pull.

I am heavy of heart, and am burdened
With a pain-stricken breast;
And art thou in the shadow-land guerdoned,
With the garland of rest?

There are crowns for the victors in battle,
For the butchers of earth;
And the mother with children to prattle,
Has a crown of more worth.

There are crowns of a glory serener,
For the givers of ease;
And the crowns of the Martyr's arena,
Are yet brighter than these.

There are crowns of ineffable splendour,
For the orator's sway;
But the crown of a charity tender,
Has more radiance than they.

There are crowns for perverters of Science,
For the spoilers of man;
But the crown of a saintly reliance,
Is of mightier span.

There are crowns for reformers of morals,
That are woven by foes;
But in loving humility laurels,
Are diviner than those.

There are crowns with a grace never tarnished,
For discoverers' brows;
But a crown still more graciously garnished,
Comes from sanctity's vows.

There are crowns that for poets are shaded,
By the breadth of the bays;
But a crown that more broadly is braided,
Lies in poverty's praise.

There are crowns for the sculptor and painter,
Who adorn what they touch;
But if crowns of denial are fainter,
They are fairer than such.

635

There are crowns for the preacher of duty,
When the world heeds not right;
But the crown of a comelier beauty,
Lives in purity's light.

There are crowns that our treasuries muster,
For the ravisher's head;
But a crown of the loveliest lustre,
Follows chastity's tread.

There are crowns, without name, without number,
For the dreamers of night;
But the crowns for the watchmen of slumber,
Have a richer delight.

There are crowns for the merciless tyrant,
That are dazzling and cold;
But the crown won by mercy's aspirant,
Is of goodlier gold.

There are crowns that the victors may merit,
With the world at their will;
But the crowns that the vanquished inherit,
May be loftier still.

There are crowns for the day and the morrow,
But that last not for long;
But the crown of a conquering sorrow,
Is immortal as song.

This is thine, O my Lady of Mourning,
This is wholly thy own;
For thy kingdom was villainy's scorning,
And its scoffs were thy throne.

The defeat of desires that were idle,
Was a victory yet;
And on spells that thy spirit could bridle,
Not a sun ever set.

But O yet thou art more than a master,
And enfranchised from pelf;
And in death thou hast conquered disaster,
Who hadst conquered thyself.

Thou hast drudged with the servants and toilers,
For the wages of woe;
Thou hast given thy back to the spoilers,
And thy face to the foe.

And at length in the ripeness, that borrows,
All the fulness of years;
Thou art fall'n in the fruit of thy sorrows,
In the triumph of tears.

636

RELIGIOUS POEMS, ETC.

THE CHURCH CLOCK.

The church clock stands in the church tower,
It chimes alike in shine and shower,
And tells of seasons passing by—
That dearest things must fade and fly;
It sounds, as would an angel speak,
That carries comfort to the weak;
Throughout the night, throughout the day,
It calleth sinful souls to pray.
What is its Lenten cry?
Live to thyself, and die;
What message doth it give?
Die to thyself, and live.

The church clock striketh, when the bell
Hath ceased its solemn warning knell;
It hath soft tones for human tears,
And metes an end of mortal fears;
It bids us turn from earthly toys,
To penance and its purer joys;
Ah, let its stroke the dreamer raise,
And open careless hearts to praise.
What is its Lenten voice?
Let Mary's be thy choice,
To find the dust is sweet,
If at the Saviour's feet.

The church clock measures out the time,
Between two worlds with awful chime;
Its white face glimmers through the gloom,
Its lips toll like the trump of doom,
To the lost wretch outside the gate,
That to repentance flees too late—
It beats like scourges on his sleep,
And wakes him evermore to weep.
What is its Lenten text?
Thy soul shall be the next,
That did its tribute grudge,
Unready for the Judge.

637

The church clock pointeth with its hands
To brighter loves and better lands,
With solemn witness preaching on,
When other tongues are hushed and gone;
It speaks of grace, its deathless charms,
That girds us with unconquered arms;
Throughout the day, throughout the night,
It cheers the soldier to the fight.
What is its Lenten call?
Beware, lest thou shouldst fall;
The cross thy burden be,
And it shall carry thee.

The church clock stands, as it has stood
And shall through ages yet, for good—
Above the noise of petty strife,
Lifting to peace of holier life;
It speaketh now, as in the past,
Of lonely vigil, vow, and fast,
The sacraments that wash from soil,
And bids us share Christ's loving toil.
What is its Lenten tale?
The reddest cheek grows pale;
Nigh is the burial sod,
Prepare to meet thy God.

THE SECRET OF THE PRESENCE.

With the glow of the last dying ember,
As it flushed and flickered on the hearth,
And the cricket cried, I well remember,
When the snow's white robe enwrapt the earth;
When the fire made shadows dance and darken,
With their figures weird across the wall,
And the straining ear would fain not harken,
At the ghostly sounds that seemed to call;
In the boding darkness before morning,
In the cold of a wild winter March,
That had stript the heaven of stars adorning,
And with sackcloth hung its glorious arch;
While I could not sleep, and strove to number
The feeble sparks of the sputtering flame,
From the world within the world of slumber,
It came.

638

What it was I cannot utter,
For our human words are weak,
And the heart would vainly flutter,
That the wonder tried to speak;
But appeared at once a portal,
In eternity to ope,
From the fetters of the mortal,
And beyond the dreams of hope;
I was conscious of a Being,
That yet mingled with my own,
And a sight far more than seeing,
Into mysteries unknown;
What below is the most pleasant,
And what is most pure above,
All their rapture then seemed present,
And was Love.

And whatever now attend my fortunes,
I must yet be alway sure of this,
While the grief besets and pain impórtunes,
That my soul has tasted Heavenly bliss;
And whatever leaves me, this is certain—
I have Love Almighty seen and known,
And He drew aside the cloudy curtain,
Which divides His dwelling from my own;
There has passed between us something solemn,
Like a consecration's covenant seal,
And before me goes the fiery column,
That the path of Duty doth reveal;
I have drunk of joy the awful essence,
And I now can never be the same,
Since with all the Secret of the Presence,
He came.

It is whispered by the forest,
It is murmured by the stream,
When the troubled heart is sorest,
Thou shalt catch the gracious gleam;
In the mist upon the mountain,
When bestridden by the storm,
In the plashing of the fountain,
Breathes the beauty of that Form;
It is He and not another,
In each earthly tone and tide,
The sweet Man who is a Brother,
And who suffers at our side;
In the clamours that enfold us,
In the cooing of the dove,
He is present to uphold us,
And is Love.

639

THE TREE OF DEATH.

In the dead of the night the Christ came down,
To visit the earth He made;
And a cross of care was His only crown,
As He stood in the heart of a mighty Town,
In the dread of the prison shade.

Lo, his brow had the brand of the cruel thorn,
And His hands by the nails were rent,
And His face with a voiceless woe looked worn,
Though His eyes shone out like the light of morn
On a waking continent.

And He came, as a mourner comes to keep
His watch, till the shadows fly;
And the prisoner felt a solace deep,
As he turned in his hateful haunted sleep,
When the gracious Christ went by.

And the doors unlocked and the bolts shot back,
As He passed from cell to cell;
While a trail of glory marked His track,
And the walls they seemed to reel and crack
To their uttermost iron cell.

And the murderer dreamed, where he huddled lay,
That he yet again was free;
And he raised his blood-stained hand to pray,
For soft did a heavenly whisper say,
“Dark soul, I died for thee.”

And the creature with his years of crime,
Though he still was but a boy,
When he heard those words of pity chime,
In the midst of his visioned slough and slime,
Had the thrill of a purer joy.

And the woman fallen so long and low,
Who was all unsexed by sin,
In her wintry suffering found a glow,
And a sudden rapture through her flow,
As the Blessed One came in.

And the villain stamped with every stain,
With the scar of every lust,
Drew a respite from the galling chain,
As an unseen Hand relaxed his pain,
And upraised him in his dust.

640

And the wretch, who was ugly and old and lost,
Who the vice as of ages bore,
In his hopeless misery torn and tost,
When that unknown Step his wanderings crost,
Looked young and fair once more.

So the Christ passed on, as a presence bright,
In his vigil lone and dim;
And the gates, that mocked at the human might,
They bent to the power of that solemn sight,
And they opened wide to Him.

Then He came at length to the Gallows high,
Where it stood like a funeral stone;
And again he wept, as His feet drew nigh,
While there broke from His heart a human sigh,
As he gazed at the Devil's throne.

For it seemed as sackcloth on the sky,
As if all were under ban;
And its roots, for ever parched and dry,
Sucked food of the exceeding cry,
From the bleeding breast of man.

Till He spoke,—“I planted many a tree,”
But He spoke with troubled breath—
“And I framed them beautiful to see,
“And I called them good, but who made thee,
“O ghastly Tree of Death?

“And I know thee not, O sterile stem,
With thy harvest of grief and strife;
But I know the precious ore and gem,
And I love the flowers and fashioned them,
And I gave the Tree of Life.

“For thy branches reach to the farthest land,
And thy poison shade is spread,
Over mountain peak, over desert sand,
Like the midnight gloom, with its curséd band,
And it follows the bridal tread.

“I formed thee not, and I fed thee not,
Thou are bathed in no showers of mine,
And thou growest there as the one grim spot,
With the fruit that ripens but to rot,
Whereon no sun may shine.

“It was sinful man who sowed the seed,
When the first foul deed was done;
It was sinful man who let thee speed,
Who chose the barren tare and weed,
When I had planted none.

641

“Thou hast had thy reign, O blasted trunk,
In a blighted orb since then;
And though worlds have risen and worlds have sunk,
Thou hast thriven on sighs, and still art drunk,
With the blood of martyred men.

“Through the day and night of the dreadful years,
I have heard the cry of pain,
From the famished heart and the widow's fears;
And thou art fat with the orphan's tears,
And thy empire is in vain.

“Thou hast had no pity from the first,
If the poor before thee bent;
On the helpless thou hast wreaked thy worst,
And with all thy ravening yet dost thirst,
For the sweet and innocent.

“Thou hast only scattered the fiery brands,
That sunder man from mate;
And the shadow of thy shameful hands,
It has fallen upon the fairest strands,
With a heritage of hate.

“Thou hast hung the heavens with curtain black,
And hast mingled earth with moans;
For thou takest all, nor givest back,
And thou leavest but the one pale track
Of bleaching skulls and bones.

“And I bid thee go, thou withered stock,
With the laws that grind and slay;
And I swear thou shalt no longer mock
The hope of the penitent, nor block
The path of a kinder sway.

“Thou hast run thy course and had thy fill,
With the terrors that live and lie;
Thou hast had thy time to curse and kill,
With the plagues of hell and the powers of ill,
And now thyself must die.

“Thou art wanting found, and hast no lot
In the day from darkness born;
For thou canst not hold what thou hast got;
And I bid thee go, thou damnèd blot,
At the burst of a brighter morn.”

He spoke, and the gloom before me fled,
As a guilty thing that must;
And the bowing heavens a glory shed,
While the yawning earth gave up its dead,
From the depths of the coffin dust.

642

He spoke, and I saw them upward start,
From their tombs that flashed like flame,
As again to play a living part,
Through the battle stress, on the busy mart—
In a solemn host they came.

He ceased, and the night appeared to ope,
And out of its silent deep,
In a sorrow that had no ray of hope,
All the victims of the hangman's rope,
Arose from their awful sleep.

The old and young, the rich and poor,
They met in a ghostly mob,
From the crowded street, the quiet moor;
And the long-locked vault threw wide its door,
That the Conqueror came to rob.

They uplifted all their piteous arms,
But they never uttered sound;
While they stared behind at fancied harms,
And they huddled close in dire alarms,
As on infernal ground.

And they cried for mercy unto Him,
Who alone was strong to save;
Like sinking souls that fain would swim,
When they swoon upon the threshold grim
Of the inexorable grave.

And again He spoke, and His words were few,
But they breathed a holy balm,
And they fell as soft as the evening dew,
When it makes the weary meadows new,
In the happy twilight calm.

“Thou art doomed, O spoiler of the earth,
Thou hast held in bondage long
The lives of men, with the leperous dearth
Which has clcuded every household hearth,
And saddened every song.

“For the axe of Judgment at thy root,
It is laid and thou must fall;
That instead may spring a better shoot,
And a goodlier stem may bear the fruit
That a blessing is to all.”

But then in a moment it was gone,
And its rule with murmuring rife;
While the multitudes went laughing on,
And the sun in all its splendour shone
Around the Tree of Life.

643

Lo, its healing boughs stretched far and wide,
And the leaves their shadows threw,
Wherein the timid heads could hide;
And it took the sufferer to its side,
And beneath its shelter drew.

For the power of violence was past,
And the people knew their own,
And they all received their King at last,
While he turned to feasting every fast,
And made every heart His throne.

It was broken thus that bitter chain,
When the only law was love—
When the earth cast out the curse of pain,
And the heavens came down to cleanse each stain,
And the lands leapt up above.

And thus was shattered evil's might,
With its murderous penal rods;
The captives saw a blesséd sight,
And they walked rejoicing in its light,
And men became as gods.

OUR MOTHER.

Sweet as a vision of night,
Fair as the stars that stay,
She stood in the world with her beauty bright,—
She stood as the champion of the right,
And the darkness turned to day.

Strong with the Spirit sent
Down from the Heaven on high,
Brave on her ministering path she went
To the solace of the penitent,
And belief's departing sigh.

True was the story told
Of the love that cannot tire,
When the evil earth was growing old,
And the warmest bosoms had waxed cold
In their infinite desire.

Light to the lonely came,
With its tidings glad and new;
For it brought a hope to the desperate shame,
While it kindled a vast undying flame
That over the kingdoms flew.

644

Steadfast when all were faint,
She walked on her quickening road,
With a balm that drew the poison taint
From the direst wounds, and soothed the saint
Who was tottering with his load.

For the hungry she had bread,
And a shelter for the weak;
And the flowers arose on the blood-stained tread
Of her martyrs, and the mighty dead
Who yet to the faithful speak.

Mother of souls, and nurse
She waited by beds of woe;
With the poorest wretch she shared her purse,
And the cup of blessing for the curse
She gave to the bitterest foe.

Prophet, as one who saw,
Of the peace that scatters health,
She threw the bridge of her golden law,
Across the gulf of the hate and awe
That gaped between want and wealth.

Witness to Truth, and stay
Of the rights possest by all,
She flashed the breath of her burning ray
On the Powers of Ill, that barred the way
And the mind would fain enthrall.

Calm in her mission grand,
She called to the fettered slave;
And the touch of her liberating hand
Was the breaking of the iron band,
And the opening of the grave.

Guardian of every act
That is liberty and love,
She kept as a jewel each great pact,
That has root in everlasting fact,
And its glory from above.

The suffering ceased to weep,
The weary found a rest,
And a refuge the unfolded sheep,
While the helpless babe was rocked to sleep
On her universal breast.

Maker of heroes, still
She moulded the human mind,
Till it took the impress of her will.
And the hearts that only thought to kill
Bowed to her precepts kind.

645

And now is her bosom rent
By the strokes of their cruel rod,
After vigil, fast, and life-blood spent,
And the care that over the peoples bent,
Like the dear blue sky of God?

She carried the words that bless,
In the sunshine of one end,
For the welfare of no party less
Than the world with its dark wilderness,
To the enemy as the friend.

But the foeman whom she fed,
And the naked whom she clad,
And the thirsty who by her were sped,
And the feeble whom she surely led,
Have forsworn the help they had.

But alas! it grieves her most,
With a sorrow never feared,
To see in league with the hostile host,
Her soldiers fled from their duty's post,
And the children that she reared.

Yea, it wrings her heart-strings sore,
To hear in the ribald cry,
The voices that once Hosannas bore,
And by her were tuned to sing before,
Now shouting “Crucify!”

But her feet are on the Rock,
While the troubles round her twine,
And the brighter from the shade and shock,
If the bands of hell her pathway block,
She shall yet arise and shine.

For she yet is the Saviour's Bride,
And she treads as she firmly trod,
Though the waves may roar in their raging tide,
At the bulwarks built against their pride;
And they fight in vain with God.

THE CHURCH.

The ocean ebbs and flows,
The stars arise and set,
The flower to-day that blows,
To morrow we forget.

646

Things mortal, passing soon,
Leave nothing but their wraith;
God's Church outlives the sun and moon,
And God defend the Faith.

The summer has its time,
Its turn the yellow sheaf;
And man's majestic prime,
Falls into withered leaf.
Things human live their day,
God's Church hath ever light,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away,
And God defend the Right.

The strongest earthly power,
Must pine and suffer thirst;
The proudest Babel tower,
Was fated from the first.
But, glory of all lands,
Which only keeps its youth,
God's Church unchanged and changeless stands,
And God defend the Truth.

No sinful word is sure,
And nothing built on sand;
No falsehood may endure,
That forges prison band.
The iron bar and lock,
Are into ruin thrown;
God's Church is founded on the Rock,
And God defend His own.

The fabric raised by man,
Will wanting yet be found;
The thinker's giant plan,
Has yet a final bound.
The conqueror too must kneel,
Beneath the judgment sword;
God's Church on conquerors set its heel,
And God defend His Word.

The world is growing gray,
It is a fleeting breath;
The fairest lives decay,
The longest come to death.
Grace is a fading toy,
Fame is an ebbing tide;
God's Church is portion of His joy,
And God defend His Bride.

647

Creeds born of erring mind,
Betray the heart that trust
And blown by every wind,
Shall vanish into dust.
No rest for wounded will,
In labour's mire and murk;
God's Church is freedom's fortress still,
And God defend His work.

Our systems come and go,
Our temples rise and fall;
Doom, ravening to and fro,
Is written upon all.
And vanity the end,
Of every carnal search;
God's Church alone shall never bend,
And God defend His Church.

“THOUGH HE SLAY ME”
[_]

(Job xiii, 15)

Though He slay me,
I will lay me
In the dust beneath His feet;
What is trouble,
Were it double,
If it draws to death so sweet?

Let to-morrow
Bring me sorrow,
Let to-day be rife with wrongs;
In my anguish,
Let me languish;
When I'm weak, yet He is strong.

While I trust Him,
Nought shall thrust Him,
From His empire in my heart;
Hope may leave me,
Time bereave me;
Faith shall never, never part.

Wild misgiving,
Death in living,
Doubts may darken as they rise;
In my shrinking—
In my sinking—
Though I know not, He is wise.

648

If my yearnings
Lack returnings,
I can fix my love on Him;
In the Burden,
Hides the Guerdon;
He is Light, when life is dim.

Welcome losses,
Welcome crosses,
I will bear my master's doom;
Kiss the scourges,
Breast the surges—
Though they take me to the Tomb.

Days of scorning,
Nights of mourning,
Are but steps that guide to God;
Day is drearer,
When I'm nearer
To the summit Christ has trod.

While I suffer,
Night grows rougher,
But I suffer nought in vain;
Blest and lowly,
Sweet and holy,
Is the fellowship of pain.

Pain and pining,
Are refining,
For the severance of our sin;
Worldly trials,
Man's denials,
Do but make us rich within.

Gloom is deepest,
When thou weepest,
Yet the Dawning then is nigh;
Weeping, sighing,
Daily dying,
Are that we no more may die.

Come then, faster,
Woe, disaster,
If ye lead the way to life;
All your troubles
Are but bubbles,
On the healing stream of strife.

649

Though my pillows
Be the billows,
Though my bed the thorn and stone;
Sleep is broken,
As a token
That I do not sleep alone.

To have perished
For the cherished,
Is a precious gain from loss;
But a glory,
Passing story,
Crowns the bearers of the Cross.

Saviour, Brother,
Not another,
Ever shall divide my love;
Fears are treasures,
Pangs are pleasures,
If they fit for Thee above.

Though He slay me,
I will stay me
On the only Rock that is;
What is crying?
What is dying?
He is Life, and I am His.

MEMENTO MORI.

What says the Clock of Time,
With sad and solemn chime?
I see its white and spectral face,
I hear it through the halls of Space,
With muffled voice that seems to cry,
As the dim dreary hours go bye,
That ancient and familiar story,
“Memento mori.”

What says the clock of man,
Who lives his little span?
It tells of sorrow and of sin,
That suffering heart which beats within,
Which measures for each toiling day
The hopes that blossom to decay—
It speaks in dying dreams of glory,
“Memento mori.”

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What says the clock of God,
Above the greenest sod?
It strikes upon the walls of stone
The doom of its deep undertone,
At which all earthly splendours bow—
It spells for the most haughty brow,
Above the boldest promontory,
“Memento mori.”

What says the clock of Time,
That throbs through every clime?
The same calm ghostly knell gives out,
Beyond the strife of fear and doubt—
Beyond the cries that come and go,
And all this trivial ebb and flow,
While kingdoms sink in sunsets gory—
“Memento mori.”

What says the clock of man,
Who ends where he began?
I know it bids the teardrop start,
I feel it in this breaking heart—
Yea, childhood's happy years move round,
To the one grave and awful sound,
That tolls, as when the days are hoary,
“Memento mori.”

What says the clock of God,
Pointing with judgment rod?
It sighs, Things human turn to dust,
And nothing lives but love and trust—
Strong friendships fail, bright honours pass;
And grace, more fleeting than the grass,
Calls from earth's dark depository,
“Memento mori.”

THE HUMAN COMPASS.

One foot should centre in the Now,
Another compass the Unseen;
While the bent shoulders do not bow,
Beneath the weight of what has been.

One hand should grasp the present use,
And turn and shape it still to bear;
Another wrest in faith the clues,
Of Him whose hand is everywhere.

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Thus, broadening ever more and more,
By exercise of prayer and plan,
To beat the mark we hit before,
We come unto the perfect man.

TO MY FATHER DIVINE.

Father, though I thy laws have broken,
Have wandered often and run wild;
Yet Christ has died, and by that token,
With all my faults I am thy child.
I madly wanted to be free,
But now my heart hath need of Thee.

Father, I would be pure and holy,
As was Thy own most precious Son;
I have been proud, I would be lowly.
And do what I have left undone.
I thought it better to be free,
But now my heart hath need of Thee.

Father, I crave no higher pleading,
Than that dear Name's most sacred sign;
I know, Thy goodness has been leading
My soul, to see that it is Thine.
I vainly laboured to be free,
But now my heart hath need of Thee.

THE BOOK.

There is a book of sweet and solemn page,
Written by God's own hand;
With truths too vast for the most learned sage,
That babes may understand.

It tells a story clear to every time,
So simple is its plan;
While mysteries lie there, the most sublime
That ever spoke to man.

Unto the humble heart its tale is plain,
And lifts the lowliest mind;
While philosophic pride may read in vain,
And nought but folly find.

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The little child, that comes in love to hear,
Will learn some lesson wise;
Though to the critic's educated sneer,
But difficulties rise.

On faith it falls as softly as the dew,
And brings a living breath;
But unto reason's false perverted view,
Its savour is of death.

For docile students, it divinely opes
Its wonders new and sweet;
While the inquirers swayed with earthly hopes,
No help or comfort meet.

If unto some it never can grow old,
And still its guidance lends;
To some its ray seems only dim and cold,
And mortal aims offends.

And through the hands of many holy seers,
This goodly book has past;
They witnessed to it with their words and tears,
Nor grudged their lives at last.

They knew the Spirit of the Maker moved,
In every burning Line;
And by the signs of fruitful suffering proved,
The message was Divine.

'Tis sealed with blood of martyrs dead and gone,
Who passed through fiery strife;
Who left their record, and then handed on
The glorious lamp of Life.

For every golden Letter was the grave,
Of some heroic saint;
Who unto death his testimony gave,
That others might not faint.

And though through all pleads Peace with tender sound
That bids our passions fly;
Each blessed Passage was a battle ground,
Each Verse a battle cry.

Around the Ark of Rest the conflict raged,
Fought at a bitter cost;
And on its waters wild and unassuaged,
The precious Truth was tost.

But persecution and the vilest storm,
The darkest brand of blame,
Made only yet more beautiful its form,
Like gold refined by flame.

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The furnace and the tempest in their wrath,
The foaming of the flood,
Failed still to turn its conquering path,
Though that was bathed in blood.

And for each soldier fallen in the fight,
Sprang up a hundred new;
And the Great Book grew fairer and more bright,
From every blast that blew.

Its guardians did not sell, for sordid hire,
The words of Sacred Writ;
And on its blessed pages sits a fire,
No mortal ever lit.

For it was kindled at a heavenly fount,
And by no earthly spark;
And forth it shone from Sinai's mystic mount,
On ages drear and dark.

And freely was it offered unto all,
A blessing without price;
For those who heard its holy trumpet call,
What other could suffice?

It pierced the barrier that was built by shame,
Nor turned from aught but doubt;
The vilest soul that yet believed and came,
Was never once cast out.

The being that was most possest with sin,
And craved a holier lot,
Sought here and found a remedy within,
For cleansing every spot.

It gave the hungry heart the living bread,
Which hidden was at first;
From sepulchres of sin it raised the dead,
And quenched the dying thirst.

The lame leapt up at those rejoicing sounds,
The deaf began to hear,
The prisoner burst the iron of his bounds,
The coward ceased to fear.

It satisfied, as sages never did,
The mind's most angry throes;
And on the lost and troubled breast it slid,
With infinite repose.

The sufferer felt the soothing of its strain,
Caressing as a kiss;
And sickness listened and forgot its pain,
In all that new-born bliss.

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It stilled misgiving's voice which cried for light,
That it might look and live;
And to the blindest eyes it gave a sight,
No earthly sun could give.

Those stores a medicine had for every mood,
Beams for the darkest day;
And of the thousands who had come for food,
None empty went away.

The labouring, and the heavy-laden, took
Its comfort to their breast;
They laid their sorrows on the Sacred Book,
And lo, it gave them rest.

The curse from toiling, and the sting from grief,
Its revelation drew;
The worst affliction was its own relief,
When men this solace knew.

All weary souls that sin's oppression broke,
With guilt's accusing might,
Saw here the freedom of an easier yoke,
And found its burden light.

The slave who drudged in sad and sinless mines,
Nor dreamed that shadows flee,
Read in those living and imperial lines,
The charter of the free.

And as he searched his soul expanded fair,
With grace the promise gave;
He could not breathe its large and liberal air,
And yet abide a slave.

For when his feet were planted on the Rock,
Where bondsmen may not stand,
His fetters snapt, as falsehood at the shock
Of Truth's avenging hand.

And though the chains lay heavy on him still,
Gone was their bitter smart;
They could not bind the motions of his will,
His unimprisoned heart.

He felt that he was spiritually free,
In hope's eternal youth;
For there was none more fetterless than he,
Enfranchised by the Truth.

To heathens on a dark and distant shore,
The sweet glad Tidings came;
And thousands, rapt in bloody rites before
Now hailed the Saviour's name.

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The hard and savage nature owned His sway,
Though nothing else could move;
And hearts, the homes of murder, learnt to pray
Unto the Lord of Love.

And there were Gospel riches for the poor,
Given with no grudging hand;
The neediest, passing through that open door,
Entered the Golden Land.

Yea, those that lacked the common things of life,
Even if they laboured sore,
Found here an end of every toil and strife,
And wanted nothing more.

Weak women, trodden down by brutal force,
Gained comfort too at length;
And drew and drew from this unfailing source,
Unconquerable strength.

They learnt how victory waits upon God's will,
And faith can only save;
And how the beaten sufferers triumph still,
Who patient are and brave.

They saw the power of purity, the light
Which inward peace assures;
The majesty of meekness, and the might
Of courage that endures.

Hope gave them rank, and more than royal grace
Flowed from the Sacred Line;
And if from man they won the lowest place,
They had their thrones divine.

Ennobled thus they made the world their own,
With bonds that could not fret;
They governed all with gentle laws unknown,
And sweetly govern yet.

Such revolutions did the Blessed Book,
Work in the heart of man;
In all that cast a single faithful look,
Upon its wondrous plan.

For it proclaimed the doom of pain and death,
Of sorrow, fear, and sin;
If those who breathed one penitential breath,
Would fairer lives begin.

It made men brothers who before were foes,
That love might lands ally;
And as its sweet and solemn empire rose,
Fell ethnic enmity.

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Nor did it lower so much the loftiest pride,
Of monarchs in their might;
As raise the meanest subject to their side,
Upon one common height.

And from the throne of its sublimer thought,
There was no upper space;
The lords that ruled, the ministers that wrought,
All held an equal place.

Still on it pushed the rapture of its plea,
To earth's most distant bound;
And in the surging of the farthest sea,
Was heard Salvation's sound.

But now in all things human it has part,
In every human tone;
Its laws are written on the living heart,
Not perishable stone.

Its constitution is the mind of God,
And perfect is His path;
Revealed in the pure acts of Him who trod
The winepress of His wrath.

And thus it rules, with its sweet inner sway,
By codes that gently move;
And rolls the world on the rejoicing way
Of liberty and love.

While mortal law can only fears compel,
And moulds in iron forms;
It softly wins the passions that rebel,
And guides the headlong storms.

So tenderly it shapes and governs all,
Who follow its high track;
None ever knows he is a happy thrall,
Or asks his freedom back.

With hopes that quicken, and with words that heal,
It holds an even course;
Men bow unto that pitiful appeal,
Who would not bow to force.

And yet its kingdom may not find an end,
While there are hearts to thrill;
While there remain one savage soul to bend,
It spreads and conquers still.

Yea, it shall speed, till every breast is tamed,
And every will is won;
Not till each stony desert is reclaimed,
Its mission can be done.

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Then shall its Holy Spirit reign on earth,
And ills no more oppress;
While rivers brighten tracts that once were dearth,
And flowers the wilderness.

Far from its quickening presence then shall fly,
Whate'er is sad and sere;
All things shall drink in fresh vitality,
In its sweet atmosphere.

While with the calm of consecrating hands,
It holds the world in fee;
Till Christ's own glory covers all the lands,
As waters clothe the sea.

Till Truth is universal as the air,
And like the fruitful sod;
And Love has made the meanest things, as fair
As is the Face of God.

And then its duty will be done, when each,
Illumined by its lore,
Walks in the light that its grand lessons teach,
Rejoicing evermore.

When the last word comes down from heaven to time,
Which was its message first;
While the whole earth gives back the heavenly chime,
And souls no longer thirst.

When the Great Book is written in the life
Of all who bore the rod,
And every son of man redeemed from strife,
Becomes a son of God.

“UNTO ME.”

Late, late one evening to my door
A little child drew near,
His face was pale, his raiment poor,
He staggered on the cottage floor,
As though in mortal fear;
His mien was innocent and mild,
He seemed a lonely orphan child,
To no one dear.

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No word he uttered, but his look
Was full of sorrow grave,
As if he could no longer brook
The cruel breasts, that thus forsook
The sufferer they might save;
And still no anger formed a part
Within that warm and gentle heart,
Which all forgave.

I opened wide to him my arms,
And took him to my breast;
I gathered all his childish charms,
Far from the faintest breath of harms,
Safe in that home of rest.
I said, Thou shalt abide with me
For ever, and for ever be
My heart's own guest.

And then he spake in accents low,—
“Yes, I have wandered far,
With footsteps weak from pain and slow,
Seeking for love's bright beacon glow,
To find the prison bar;
In every house each eye seemed blind
To my distress, nor could I find
One door ajar.”

And as he told his bitter lot,
In sorrow free from hate,
A sudden glory, seemed to blot
Out with its light whatever spot
Upon his garment sate;
A wondrous change his features shook,
And as he rose his movements took
A heavenly state.

Strange light the room began to fill,
Which mortal scarce could see;
And solemn words that sent a thrill,
Fell from those blessed lips, that still
More beauteous seemed to be;—
“Love rendered to the humblest one,
In humblest acts, is kindness done
Even unto Me.”

THE INCARNATION OF INNOCENCE.

When Innocence came down to earth,
To scatter flowers o'er fields of dearth,
And sunshine on the storm;

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She with her brought a human mind,
But left her heavenly robes behind,
And found a humbler form.

She could not show her perfect grace,
But put a veil upon her face,
And bore another name;
She did not wear a dazzling dress,
But just the simple loveliness
That clothes the tenderest frame.

She might have come in angel might,
With brightness, blasting mortal sight,
No earthly cloud could drape;
She chose a lowlier, lovelier dower,
And weakness made a grander power,
And took an infant shape.

“NOT FOR MYSELF BUT THEE.”

I ask for riches, Lord that they—
May consecrated be,
To Thy dear service night and day—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for glory, Lord, that I
May more Thy greatness see;
To make the offering paid most high—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for power, that thereby, Lord,
I may from dangers flee;
To use it as a conquering sword—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for rank, O Lord, if it
May add a stronger plea,
One sinner to Thy side to knit—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for grace, O Lord, that thus
I may not bow the knee
In vain, for Him who died for us—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for health, O Lord, and strength,
To hold the world in fee,
Till all accept the Cross, at length—
Not for myself but Thee.

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I ask for victory, Lord that led
On by Thy guidance, we,
Who trust, may find our mission sped—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for knowledge, Lord, whose arms
Are mightier than the sea;
To snare the wicked in its charms—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask, O Lord, for human love,
Soft as the lilied lea;
Thy drooping souls to lift above—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for gladness, Lord, to bloom
Like an o'ershadowing tree;
To lighten sufferers wrapped in gloom—
Not for myself but Thee.

I ask for all, Lord, that is meet,
Of which Thou hast the key;
That I may lay it at Thy feet—
Not for myself but Thee.

I am ambitious, Lord, of fame,
And evermore shall be;
But only to exalt Thy name—
Not for myself but Thee.

I am most jealous, Lord, to tell,
That men may clearly see,
Thy honour is their own as well—
Not for myself but Thee.

I am possest, O Lord, with pride,
From which I would not flee;
Which has no room for ought beside—
Not for myself but Thee.

I am a greedy man, O Lord,
But righteous is my plea;
That all things tribute may àfford—
Not for myself but Thee.

I often quarrel, Lord, with souls,
And wrestle on my knee;
That they may learn thy love controls—
Not for myself but Thee.

I nourish anger, Lord, at sin,
Which dying has as fee;
Poor wanderers from thy fold to win—
Not for myself but Thee.

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I feel a hatred, Lord, of ill
Which dogs our path, lest we,
Who trust, should magnify Thy will—
Not for myself but Thee.

I am impatient, Lord, with hearts
That ope not to Thy key;
To ply them with a thousand arts—
Not for myself but Thee.

O Lord, I ever crave for more,
Till truth is like the sea,
And bathes the world from shore to shore—
Not for myself but Thee.

Lord, I would wish the earth my own,
And plant each barren lea;
Only to lay it at Thy throne—
Not for myself but Thee.

I have no will, O Lord, but Thine,
Make it a fruitful tree;
That every thought may be Divine—
Not for myself but Thee.

THE CHURCH.

The times are dark with danger,
The Church is wrapt in gloom;
The infidel and stranger
Are striving for her doom.
The guardians, whom she nourished,
Against her stand arrayed;
And friends, who by her flourished,
Have their high trust betrayed.
But shall she lose her glory,
Her fair immortal youth,
The dear old Church of story,
The grand old Church of Truth?

Lo, she has stood for ages,
Unharmed through storms of strife;
And England's brightest pages,
Are written in her life.
In country she and city,
The champion of the poor;

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And none who knock for pity,
Go empty from her door.
But shall she lose her glory,
Her fair immortal youth,
The dear old Church of story,
The grand old Church of Truth?

Yes, when the days were dreary,
She yet her comfort gave—
A refuge for the weary,
His freedom to the slave.
When came from woe and welter,
The cry of suffering weak,
Strong was her arm to shelter,
Ready her voice to speak.
But shall she lose her glory,
Her fair immortal youth,
The dear old Church of story,
The grand old Church of Truth?

We will not let her perish,
She shall not suffer ill;
Her loyal hearts shall cherish
The Mother they love still.
If foes against her sally,
In ever-deepening lines,
Her loyal hands shall rally,
Around their holy shrines.
She shall not lose her glory,
Her fair immortal youth,
The dear old Church of story,
The grand old Church of Truth.

“HE HATH DONE ALL THINGS WELL.”

“He hath done all things well.” The joy and sorrow
Flow from the fountain of Eternal Love;
The bright to-day and the forlorn to-morrow,
Both drew their sanction from His throne above.

“He hath done all things well.” The dower and duty
Are meted out by the same bounteous Hand;
The saddest blemish and the sweetest beauty
Obey alike His one Divine command.

“He hath done all things well.” The eyes that darken,
When all around is laughing in the light,
And the dim ears that nevermore may hearken,
Stand known and cared for in His holy sight.

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“He hath done all things well.” The baby fingers
That for a moment play a baby part,
And the broad grasp that o'er a nation lingers,
Touch chords within His universal heart.

“He hath done all things well.” The strong limb broken,
With the fleet footsteps has an equal share;
The shout of triumph, the dumb words unspoken,
Are numbered by His wise and watchful care.

“He hath done all things well.” The torrent rolling
Its flood of woe on helpless souls that fret,
The wedding chime and the deep death-hell tolling,
Are in the book of His remembrance set.

“He hath done all things well.” He heeds not rather
The hopes like sunbeams, than the fears like night;
Alike are shine and shade to the great Father,
Who dwells within the darkness as the light.

“He hath done all things well.” The sigh that trembles
Into the silence that is still no rest,
And the faint whisper that its woe dissembles,
Find a responsive echo in His breast.

“He hath done all things well.” The lip of pleasure
Is but the answering to His kindly call;
And voices weeping for the loved lost treasure,
Are just as dear to Him who fashioned all.

“He hath done all things well.” The cares that troubled,
Were halved by him who in our weakness trod;
The calm delights and conquering hopes are doubled
By the glad presence of the Son of God.

“He hath done all things well.” The watchman's patience
Is marked, and is the violated troth;
The happy meetings, the sad separations,
He counts and in His glory feels them both.

“He hath done all things well.” The stormy trying,
And the sweet summer of the settled mind,
The living lessons and the daily dying,
His calm hands weigh that only loose and bind.

“He hath done all things well.” The faith that bridges
Ocean and desert in its giant stride,
And doubt that stumbles at the lowliest ridges,
Have each a place and hearing at His side.

“He hath done all things well.” The timid paces
Just entering blindly a black world of harms,
And the bold plunge in far celestial spaces,
Are gathered in the compass of His arms.

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“He hath done all things well.” The bane and blessing
The mapped out life and the unwritten plan,
Are all but portions of His grand caressing,
Who is our Brother and the Son of Man.

HOLD ME!

Here am I, O Saviour sweet,
Cast by sorrow at Thy feet;
Take me as I am and bend
To some consecrated end;
Make me olive branch or sword,
Only do Thou hold me, Lord.

Here I am! I had no choice,
But to listen to Thy voice;
Use me wholly at Thy will,
Though for sadness use me still;
I can drink the bitter cup,
If Thou, Lord, dost hold me up.

Here I am! O take me all,
Body, soul—for Thou didst call;
I should deem it service meet,
Lying only at Thy feet;
Be it suffering, be it song,
Hold me—and I shall be strong.

Here I am! I fain would be,
Just what Thou dost fashion me;
Make me what Thou art, and then
Thee will I make known to men;
Silver ask I not, nor gold,
But that Thou my footsteps hold.

Here am I! And here I lay
All, and own no other sway;
Hold me waking, hold in sleep,
For myself I cannot keep;
When I triumph, when I bow,
Hold me ever—hold me now.

AT THE DOOR.

I stand in darkness at the door,
All soiled with sin;
Too faint to knock or wander more;
O let me in!

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Lord Jesus, open unto me;
For Thou hast said,
At evening time a light shall be
On wanderers shed.

And having left, for mortal fare,
The mansions bright,
Thou spentest off in pleading prayer,
The livelong night.

And Thou hast consecrated thus,
The darkest grade;
Transforming into light for us
The very shade.

But some there are who cannot see,
Whose eyes are blind;
Who dare not lift a look to Thee,
Or raise the mind.

And I am one whose spirit needs,
And feebly flags;
I reckon all my purest deeds,
As filthy rags.

I can but smite my troubled breast,
And hang my head;
So sad I feel with such unrest,
So cold and dead.

My wishes bless to love Thee more,
Though few they are;
Make all my dross as golden ore,
Each stain a star.

My strongest faith is strangely weak,
Nor seems to grow;
I know not rightly how to speak,
But Thou dost know.

O Saviour, let Thy voice be heard,
Some token give;
That I may catch the saving word,
“Look up and live.”

THE DOVE.

O'er the hills and through the valleys,
I was wandering far;
Where the flood its forces rallies,

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Ere it bursts its bar;
Where the mountain summit dallies,
With the morning star.

All unshepherded and shiftless,
All without a way;
Wrapped in darkness deep and riftless,
Night at noon of day;
Homeless, friendless, thoughtless, thriftless,
Ever more astray.

Only had I as my fellow,
Flint that tore my feet;
Only waters wan and yellow,
My conductors meet;
Not a gleam the gloom to mellow,
In its solemn seat.

Up above the sun was hidden,
In a hateful shroud;
Down below the breezes chidden,
Dared not pipe aloud;
All around was hope forbidden,
Everywhere a cloud.

Then when life was nigh despairing,
Sped the blessèd bird;
When my travail most was wearing,
Streams of gladness stirred;
Spoke when pain was overbearing,
Like a wingèd word.

Yes, when love was dimly treading,
Dawned that heavenly Dove;
Gentle drops of sunshine shedding,
Bright from springs above;
Wings of healing fondly spreading,
From the land of Love.

In its beak a tender token,
Olive branch and bud;
But its plumes were bruised and broken,
And its bosom blood;
Like a spirit that has spoken,
With the fire and flood.

And I lifted hand and took it.
Took it to my breast;
In the shelter nothing shook it,
But the heart it prest;
Till the throbbing all forsook it,
All but throbs of rest.

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Then a change came on my being,
Breathing shadows bright—
To my blinded eyes a seeing,
That was more than sight;
In the walls of darkness fleeing,
Opened doors of light.

O the rapture then that blended,
With a blesséd pain!
O the weary thirst that ended,
In refreshing rain!
O the glory that descended,
Starring every stain!

Softly pleading, sweetly calling,
Sang the voice of Peace;
Bade the evil stay its thralling,
Made misgivings cease;
Like the hush of evening falling,
On some soul's release.

And I knew that love had found Him,
Him it least had sought;
That these hands which once had bound him,
Now for Jesus wrought;
Now and evermore enwound Him,
In one kindly thought.

One fond deed of faithful straining,
To a brother blest;
One pure wish for simply gaining,
One poor bosom rest;
Hath for angels entertaining,
Maketh God the guest.

Waters coolly, sweetly welling,
Through the desert roll,
Rocks and hills in vain rebelling,
At their tender toll;
Peace erects its richest dwelling,
In the barest soul.

Christ hath breathed His larger blessings,
On the halt and blind;
And His hand its softer pressings,
Keepeth for the kind;
Heaven comes down with most caressings,
On the lowly mind.

O'er the hill and through the valley,
I was wandering still;
Where the torrent surges sally,
Like some wicked will;
Where in moans unmusically,
Hollow calls to hill.

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Every step was toil and trouble,
Every breath was pain;
Folly like a bursting bubble,
Died and left—a stain;
And the darkness was as double,
In the light to gain.

When the Dove in mercy speeding,
To those barren bounds;
Trembling, torn and tossed, and bleeding,
Came with saving sounds;
Only just its weakness pleading,
Only just its wounds.

Then my vices lost their splendour,
When I took this guest;
Gave it welcome true and tender,
Gave it of my best;
Though the whole that I could render,
Was an empty breast.

I who sought no path but pleasure,
Found alone its stings;
I who made myself the measure,
Of eternal things;
Having nothing now, have treasure
Greater far than kings.

Now when storm waves round me welter,
Peace has most its part;
He who but has truly felt her,
Feels no earthly smart;
And the Dove has still its shelter,
Nestling at my heart.

THE SUPPER OF THE SOUL.

Come, my soul, and set the dishes,
For the goodly meal;
Not a feast of loaves and fishes,
Nor of earthly weal;
But of higher hopes and wishes,
And of thoughts that kneel.

God, my soul, has spread the table,
With the Bread of Life;
Though thy foes are more than fable,

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And their wrath is rife;
He shall smite their pride like Babel,
He shall quench their strife.

Faith, my soul, with promise wrestles,
In the hour of need;
Till it brings the precious vessels,
That the fainting feed;
And the Dove of Mercy nestles,
In the wounds that bleed.

All, my soul, both food and platter,
Are God's gifts and care;
Time is but a little matter,
Yet thou hast thy share;
And the feasts that make thee fatter,
Are the fasts of prayer.

Christ Himself is plate and chalice,
Christ is drink and meat;
And we build the banquet's palace,
When we kiss His feet;
But the world's own meat is malice,
And its drink deceit.

Earth has only starving pleasures,
Food that frets and harms;
But with overflowing measures,
Christ our hunger calms;
Yet we never taste His treasures,
Till within His arms.

Earth is but a sorry planner,
When our wealth has ceased;
But our prayers are mixed with manna,
When we know it least;
And the heart that sings Hosanna,
Has the fairest feast.

Though I have no human mother,
Though no father be,
Heavenly Jesus, Holy Brother,
Bid my hunger flee;
Bring Thyself and not another.
Come and sup with me.

THE SHADOW
[_]

(Luke ix, 34.)

There is a Shadow deep,
That darkens with the years,
Where sufferers sadly watch and weep—
The shadow of our fears.

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There is a shadow dim,
That lightens as we look;
Shed by the brooding love of Him,
Who once our nature took.

There is a shadow bright,
That broadens as we go;
A shadow that is all our light,
When tears of trouble flow.

There is a shadow sweet,
That streams from Jesu's hand;
That stays the weary waiting feet,
And strengthens hope to stand.

There is a shadow soft,
By “clouds of glory” made;
And sinners seek that shelter oft,
Who once have felt its shade.

There is a shadow calm,
Poured from the gates of Life;
That for each bruise has precious balm,
In stillness as in strife.

There is a shadow fair,
That nothing false can give;
When Truth sets up its cross of care,
For those that look and live.

There is a shadow yet,
That has no part in night;
The shadow of the dreadful debt,
Which Love has changed to light.

There is a shadow cast,
On cruel scorn and scars;
By Mercy blotting out the past,
And turning stains to stars.

There is a shadow dear,
That draws us near to grace;
Told by the timid unshed tear,
The wan and wistful face.

There is a shadow shown,
Though ne'er a cloud is by;
From troubles that are all unknown,
And depths that round us lie.

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There is a shadow rare,
From overflowing rays;
When all the inner life is prayer,
And all the outward praise.

There is a shadow wrought,
Like that of temple walls;
The shadow of a holy thought,
That blesses where it falls.

There is a shadow felt,
When not a glimpse is seen;
From angels that have with us dwelt,
And joys that might have been.

There is a shadow glad,
Beyond the gloom of Time;
Left by the glorious deeds, that had
Their fount in faith sublime.

There is a shadow wreathed,
Round all our brightest bliss;
By gayest sounds of music breathed,
And in the sweetest kiss.

There is a shadow here,
In every act and aim;
It binds the cradle to the bier,
The shadow of our shame.

There is a shadow set,
For ever at our side;
When sickness haunts and sorrows fret,
Our truest, tenderest guide.

There is a shadow sure,
Though all the world be loss;
Where Christ has fixed His palace pure;
The shadow of the Cross.

There is a shadow thrown
O'er every living bloom;
Which He through dying made His own,
The shadow of the tomb.

There is a shadow still,
A new and nobler text,
For wanderers in this world of ill—
The shadow of the next.

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There is one shadow more,
To close this passing breath;
The burden that our Saviour bore,
The shadow that is death.

Then let us humbly pray,
While still the darkness lours;
That when the shadow flees away,
The substance may be ours.

Christ is the living Truth,
That all the shadows teach;
In gloomy age and clouded youth,
He is the Sun of each.

And in His city bright,
One shadow yet remains;
Shed in the sweet excess of light,
By Love that never wanes.

His gates are never shut,
On faith that waits and clings;
The shadow most we dread, is but
The shadow of His wings.

CHILDLESS.

Lord give me children or I die—I die!
Thou art not childless, and to Thee I cry,
For blessings of the breasts and of the heart,
Like streams of joy that sterile pastures part.
I only ask Thee for the bright soft head
Turned slowly upward, with the tears unshed,
In laughing eyes that peep through fingers pink,
That turn and move the heart with many a link;
I only ask Thee for the climbing hands,
And clinging lips with infantine demands;
I only ask Thee, Lord, (be Thine the choice),
For just the blessing of a living voice,
And common comforts that are idly tost—
So lightly taken, and so lightly lost—
From hearth to hearth in humblest homes and ranks,
As things scarce worthy of our daily thanks.

For I am as a sad and barren field,
That men have ploughed, and yet it does not yield—
That men have sown, and yet it will not bear—
That rain and sun and no unkindly air
Have visited, and yet the niggard earth
Brings nought but thorns and thistles to the birth.

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But (it may be) that to the latter dews,
Even at the last, it could not still refuse
A better growth—and as the seasons went,
Waxed fair and fruitful with glad sounds and scent;
And clothed itself with precious gold and corn,
To meet the pleasant kisses of the morn.

And I am childless among men, and go
Shamefaced and with a weight of voiceless woe,
And delicately tread in darkened ways;
Far from the trouble of rejoicing rays,
And childish prattle—fearing lest the dart
Of arrowy jests should pierce my stricken heart,
And mock my misery—hoping against hope,
The doors of mercy ere the night may ope.
While women taunt me, though they speak not loud;
And all my life is heavy with a cloud.
O Lord, have pity on my utter drouth!
And let me feel the little lips and mouth
Warm on my bosom, drawing life and love
(With sacred hidden joys) to light above,
From deep heart fountains. Blessed Lord, I long,
To murmur once the mother's cradle song;
To catch the baby kisses on my brows,
And sweet soft breath that answers tender vows
In mute caresses—yea, I long so much
To know the rapture of the kindling touch,
From something nestling in my happy arms,
And winning love with strange undreamed-of charms—
A portion of myself, this flesh and bone—
All, all my babe—my own, my very own,
And not another's. Give my hands to fold
The blind small fingers feeling for some hold,
And wandering dimly on their wondering way,
Half sounding the new world and half in play;
And grant the graces of the speaking eyes,
So round and big with pitiful surmise,
That plead for fondling. Grant the mother's name,
And trustful treasure of the loosening frame
That thaws in slumber, sliding to its rest;
Rising and falling on the heaving breast,
Life of my life. Let Mercy yield my prayer,
Bodied in leaping limbs and curling hair,
In lustrous glances—and the mimic show
Of striving, but with blessing in the blow,
More dear than salutations cheap and rife,
And careless kisses of the common life.
O Lord, I weary—weary for the sound
Of little feet that patter o'er the ground,
And echo on in many hopes and fears,
For ever and for ever through the years—

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Through the long chambers of the loving soul,
In melodies that ripple as they roll
With waves of welcome—through the dreamlit lands,
That open at the knock of little hands,
And flood the world with sunshine, when the day
Is blindly groping on its shadowy way—
Through hearth and home and the memorial breast,
And mingling with the music of the Blest.

Now send the latter dews and evening light,
And make the silence beautiful and bright,
With voices that a glamour backward cast,
That people with their chimes the empty past,
And knit it to the present—till I be,
A living part of all the joy I see:
With voices—voices—that I hear from far,
Between the moonrise and the morning star,
Like angels calling to the saint forlorn—
Those heavenly voices of the babes unborn.
And though the day be wondrous sad and long,
“At last” there surely “comes the evensong.”

Lord, give me children, or I die—I die!
Thou art not childless, and to Thee I cry:
O hear me, hear me from Thy perfect peace,
Ere in the stillness of the grave I cease!
Lest men revile Thee, saying, “Lo, she prayed,
And no one answered, none would give her aid;
She called and no one listened—none would come,
Her Heaven was deaf and Mercy's message dumb.”
I faint with crying, and my heart is old;
And life is bitter, dark, and cold—so cold.
Even though my hope should slay me in its birth,
And bring me nothing of the after mirth
Or mother's music, I would not repent;
But giving life by death, were well content
To lay me down and cease a little space,
And leave the gift an offering unto Grace.
O bless me with the blessings of Thy love,
And blessings of the earth and from above—
With blessings of the breast and of the womb—
Those blessings that are borne beyond the tomb
Or touch of Time, and never-ending rills,
And “the utmost bound of the everlasting hills.”

“FAINT YET PURSUING.”
[_]

(Judges viii., 4.)

Why, O sufferer, art thou craven,
When the Rock of Life is nigh?
Flee the sands that have no haven,
But to die.

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Whither art thou wildly going?
Is no Saviour still above?
Troubles are the overflowing
Of His love.

Art thou sick and sad and lonely,
Torn with passions and with pain?
Seeing doubts and darkness only,
Rack and rain?

Look beyond the gloomy spaces,
Look beyond the barren years;
Christ for crosses has embraces,
Joy for tears.

He is strong and ever waking,
From thy bareness reaping fruits;
And the storms are only shaking
Fast thy roots.

Stay not then by pastures sterile,
Hope not in the flowers that fade;
Times of peace are times of peril,
Shedding shade.

Green the palms and white the raiment,
That await the conqueror's march;
Bright the heavens, that are repayment,
Overarch.

What if battle be thy duty,
What if suffering be thy need?
Have not lasting bliss and beauty,
Sorrow's seed?

Gay the song and glad the token,
Warm the welcome after frowns;
When the swords of war are broken,
Into crowns.

Fear no danger, no disowning,
If thy feet have Calvary trod;
If each thought is an enthroning
Of thy God.

Christ has climbed the hill and hollow,
Crossed the billows to the shore;
And He calls to Thee to follow,
Evermore.

Fair is many an earthly fashion,
Great temptations still must be;
Greater far is His compassion,
Fairer He.

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Comes to me the message, bringing
Balm for bruises and for wrong;
Soft as children's voices, singing
Evensong.

Comes to me the watchword, crying
From the wrestlers in the fight;
Where among the dead and dying,
Day is night.

Past appealings, calls of pity,
Mingle with the battle waves;
From the Silence, and its City
Grim with graves.

And am I a slothful servant,
Playing but a feeble part?
Cold is faith that should be fervent,
Sad the heart?

Ah, my service is pretending,
While by weakness I am prest;
Aiding when I need defending,
Bad when best.

Still it is not all so dreary,
With the struggle and the care;
See, the wellsprings for the weary,
Shrines for prayer.

Though before my eyes is spreading
Dim discomfortable waste;
Yet I gather fruits, in treading,
Sweet of taste.

Do I weep and toil and wonder,
Full of clinging pangs that cloy?
Every sorrow has an under
Note of joy.

Has the sky no gleam of clearing,
As the shadows westward slope?
Past the shadows, past the fearing,
Shines a hope.

Am I mocked and am I hated,
By the serpent tongues that hiss?
Hate and mocking both are mated,
With a bliss.

Though the tempest is behind me,
Though the breakers are before;
Eehoes from beyond remind me,
Of the shore.

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Christ has bridged the angry billow,
And His print is on its brow;
He who made the storm its pillow,
Makes it now.

If I could but see Him rightly,
As He walked the waves of old;
All His steps are burnished brightly,
Steps of gold.

In the wilderness He wandered,
Hungry with the homeless beast;
Pearls of wisdom then He squandered,
At the feast.

Oft with wicked wills He pleaded,
Breathed on wounded souls a balm;
In the tumult when unheeded,
Shed a calm.

He has watched upon the mountain,
Till the Tempter's power should cease;
He has whispered by the fountain,
Words of peace.

He has paid our forfeits owing,
Bitter vows and vigils kept;
And when bitter tears were flowing,
Jesus wept.

He has stood beside the portal,
Of the never-glutted tomb;
He has bid the blossom mortal,
Live and bloom.

Woe and want and base denial,
He has faced and conquered all;
Every form of every trial,
Save our fall.

He has felt the victim's portion,
Felt the blackening of His name;
Seen the blasting of distortion,
Shade and shame.

He has drunk the cup of weeping,
Laboured over pity's plan;
Agonized when all were sleeping;
He is man.

Then shall I lose heart and tarry,
Now that He has known the worst?
Borne the burdens I must carry,
Pain and thirst?

678

Scorn and misery I may suffer,
He has tasted, He has dared;
My calamities, and rougher,
He has shared.

Words of solace He has spoken.
To the spirit trouble-tost;
Bread of poverty has broken,
With the lost.

What if He should tribute levy,
Of the treasures dear and dead?
If His hands be sometimes heavy,
On my head?

Let me bless the mercy slaying,
Let me kiss the rods that smite;
Waiting, watching, trembling, praying
For the light.

Christ I know has sought and found me,
Though I feel Him not as yet;
And His tender arms are round me,
While I fret.

Vainly woe on woe is thrusting,
Vainly shadows darker fall;
I am looking, listening, trusting,
For His call.

Do I doubt Him, shall I linger,
If my flesh is faint and bowed?
Lo, the flashing of His finger
Lifts the cloud.

Though a little while I languish,
Ere the never-ending day;
He, in all my wandering anguish,
Is the Way.

Though a little while I lose Him,
In the luring fields of youth;
If I only will but choose Him,
He is Truth.

Doubts a little while are stronger,
Death itself may close the strife;
He my sins has suffered longer,
He is Life.

Yet a little while of pressing,
In the labour and the heat;
Soon my head will feel His blessing,
At His feet.

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Death shall then be but a story,
Time a dream of happy hours;
Every tear shall turn to glory,
Thorns to flowers.

Nothing fairer, nothing fitter,
Than the arrow and the goad;
Than the thorns so sharp and bitter,
On my road.

Nothing shall have pain and stinging,
To the faith-transported eye;
Every sob shall sound as singing,
Every sigh.

Each disaster shall be counted,
As a harvest pleasure lacks;
Sore distresses prayer surmounted,
heavenward tracks.

Hard afflictions waxing pleasant,
Shall assume an aspect sweet;
Gates of glory, where the present
Angels meet.

What will then appear a trouble,
To the rapture of the saint?
Losing he was gaining double,
Strong when faint.

Heavy cross and hopeless burden,
Yet were richer far than rest;
Each misfortune was a guerdon,
Blows were blest.

Yea, when victory had retreated,
He was with the conquering host;
And when seeming most defeated,
Triumphed most.

Viewed from pure and perfect splendour,
Earth shall take a radiant hue;
Tears be visions true and tender,
Blight a dew.

Founts shall make the deserts gladd'ning,
Dust shall grow to paths of gold;
Every danger dark and sadd'ning,
Seem a fold.

All that hatred now addresses,
Hands that strike and feet that spurn;
Into kisses and caresses,
Then shall turn.

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Evil shall have good for leaven,
Scorn and shame a comfort hide;
Fancied hindrance help to heaven,
Grieving guide.

Mourning shall be changed to laughter,
Trials be transformed above;
Seen (as woes are seen hereafter)
Lit with love.

Dread not then the threatening morrow,
Christ has borne thy suffering years;
All His hours were hours of sorrow,
Tales of tears.

Aye, and He who knew no sinning,
Though He bare our passions thus;
Yet was made—salvation winning—
Sin for us.

Then I choose the thorns and scourges,
With the Blood He lavished wet;
Then I meet the cruel surges,
He has met.

O my Saviour, touch and take me,
From the misery and the guilt;
Mould me, as Thou art, and make me
What Thou wilt.

He shall hide me, He shall hold me,
Far from deadly thoughts and things;
He shall feed me, He shall fold me
With His wings.

Clothed in faith and love enduing,
I will beat the shadows down;
“Faint” and fainter ‘yet pursuing,”
Christ my crown.

MY BELOVED.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is fairest of the fair;
And His presence ever round me,
Is like the breath of prayer.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
There is mercy in His eyes
He is purer than the purest,
And all His words are wise.

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My Beloved, My Beloved,
He is better far than gold;
And the riches of His blessing,
Have never half been told.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is beautiful and bright;
And by faith that He has given,
I am walking in His light.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
In his comfort is no sting,
And the shaking of the tempest,
Is the hushing of His wing.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
My glory and my choice;
In the calm and in the tumult,
I can hear His welcome voice.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
There is rapture in His name;
A soothing of my sorrow,
And a blotting out of shame.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is all the world to me;
The treasures of remembrance,
And the perfect joy to be.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is never, never far;
He is present in the sunrise,
And with the evening star.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
In the solemn hush of night,
When the moon is dim and setting,
Then He rises on my sight.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
In the dark and silent hour;
He is stronger than the silence,
And the darkness is his dower.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is radiance and relief;
And though all His gifts are precious,
Yet is He Himself the Chief.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
O how pleasant is my part!
For when love would sing his praises,
It is He attunes the heart.

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My Beloved, my Beloved,
From His care I cannot roam;
Is not He my place and portion,
Is not He my heaven and home?

My Beloved, my Beloved,
I am fainting with delay;
When shall I see His glory,
And walk the shining way?

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He will come in pity down;
And for me He is preparing,
A kingdom and a crown.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
In His sorrow there is joy;
In His anger there is mercy,
And His pleasures do not cloy.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is music to the mind;
A shelter to the weary,
And enlightening to the mind.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
In the little cares of life,
He is great as in the greatest,
Both in stillness and in strife.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
How I long His face to see;
If the streamlets are so glorious,
What will the Fountain be?

My Beloved, my Beloved,
There are rivers of His love;
And the waters all are living,
But the ocean is above.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is in the stormy wind;
And when bitter blasts pursue me,
He is closer still behind.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is sweet as morning dews;
And the heart that is His Eden,
He refreshes and renews.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He will save my soul from doubt;
And with laughter and with singing,
He will girdle me about.

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My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is holy, He is blest;
In His arms there is a refuge,
And on His bosom rest.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
There is healing in His hand;
By His grace am I triumphant,
And in His strength I stand.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
O my Saviour and my Friend!
He was mine from the beginning,
And He will be to the end.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
I can feel His Presence now;
It is like the breath of evening,
When it trembles on the brow.

My Beloved, My Beloved,
He is Peace to all opprest;
While death is but a sleeping,
And a sinking on His breast.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
I am feeling for the fold;
For the shadow of His pasture,
For the shining gates of gold.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
Though my eyes are often dim;
Yet I know His voice is calling,
And I follow, follow Him.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
If a little while I wait;
He will bear me in His bosom,
And beyond the blasts of fate.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
Though I hear not He will come;
And His word will bid me welcome,
When my own at length is dumb.

My Beloved, my Beloved,
Let me only trust and pray;
Till the secret of the darkness,
Is discovered by the day,

My Beloved, my Beloved,
He is speaking—He is nigh,
Shall I doubt or be disheartened,
If to win Him be—to die?

684

SONNETS TO A CHILD (M. W. L.) 1874 .

“STORIED FRAMES.”

Shy maiden, with the form of glancing flame,
O dost thou in thy moonlight beauty rise,
Like some dim picture under deeper skies,
Divinely stepping from its storied frame?

For thine is passion that no touch can tame,
The tempest owns those dark mysterious eyes,
While in thy face a dreamy languor lies,
With strange still graces that deny a name.

A pure caressing perfume from thee breathes,
And with the sweetness of a Southern night,
Sheds a soft shadow that is more than light;

Which in the sullen surg that round us seethes,
Yet every heart a willing captive wreathes,
With flowery fetters woven of delight.

THE MUSIC IN THE SHELL.

Thou spirit child, with an unearthly spell,
Thy every limb is like imprisoned fire,
The burning heart of some white blessom bell,
That glows beneath its delicate attire;

And is thy charm a soft enchanted lyre,
Mixed in each mood as music in a shell,
That gently sways to every sweeter swell,
And bodies forth an infinite desire?

There is a glory in thy midnight hair,
That plays about thee with a holy air,
And thy pure presence is a dainty dew;

This gives to all it touches fragrance new,
And stealing from the stars its fulness fair,
It crowns our common lives with heaven's own hue.

685

FIRE AND SNOW.

O thou art more than beautiful, fair child,
And movest among maidens more than queen,
As flows a stream through deserts dark and wild,
And leaves pure tokens where its path has been;

Lo, laughing flowers and foliage glad and green,
Mark where around it throws a magic mild,
Nor yet may mingle with the passing scene,
And keeps its waters crystal undefil'd.

For thou art subtly framed of fire and snow,
And what is best of light and dew and shade,
This thou hast all thy tributary made;

And wheresoever thy fond footsteps go.
Thou takest every sweet from bloom and blade,
And givest back a warmer wider glow.

THE SUMMER IN THE SEED.

But words are weak to paint thee as thou art,
And what thou wilt be never dream could guess,
For thou hast every charm of face and heart,
The years to brighten and the world to bless.

A balm to make the bitterest burden less,
A smile to draw the sting from any smart,
A tear to wash the poison from the dart,
And tender hands to lull the stormy stress.

Yet well I know thy beauty in the bud,
Will gather grace from each succeeding hour,
And store fresh treasures in its virgin bower;

As hides the seed the summer in its blood.
And gains new life from even the winter flood,
To give the world at last a perfect flower.

“SMOTHERED FLAME.”

Didst thou bewitch me with thy wondrous charms,
When soft as sunset on my visions came,
Those dark and dewy eyes and twining arms,
That stood between me and a host of harms?

Thy pale pure face, set in its shadowy frame
Of tangled tresses, like a smothered flame,
Gives birth to hope and hateful thoughts alarms,
And shields my path from blasts of withering shame.

686

There is a message in thy wistful gaze,
And in the trembling of thy lifted lip,
As though some music from thy soul would slip;

But yet I see thee through a distant haze,
As one who wanders in a mocking maze,
And hears the singing waves he may not sip.

WHITE ROSE MAIDEN.

Thou white rose maiden, shining through the dark,
We voyage for a dim and distant port
In the poor shelter of a battered ark,
O'er these gray seas on which our lives embark;

To thee the tempest is but idle sport,
And all our troubles are a shadow short,
From which the beacon's lustre youth may mark,
And hear the gathering in the Temple's court.

But we are far from sunny morning hours,
And only feel the glooming of the night,
Which overflows to thee with waves of light;

For thou art fresh from Eden's fairest bowers,
A bud transplanted from its pleasant flowers,
To make our gardens beautiful and bright.

CHILD OF EVENING.

O child of evening, with thy flower-soft face,
Mild as the moonrise yet as morning's glow,
When winds that bode the storms their trumpet blow,
And gloom and gleam strive for the proudest place;

Thy track is like the midnight meteor's trace,
That dazzles us with dreams we do not know,
To leave us more in darkness and in woe,
As lovers who a fleeting cloud embrace.

Behold, thou art a mystery and a joy,
Repose and rapture in thy spirit meet,
And mingle in a mist of passion coy;

The clinging of thy trellised arms is sweet,
And glad the cadence of thy dancing feet,
And thou hast kisses sweet that never cloy.

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MOONLIGHT MAID.

I saw the picture of a moonlight maid,
And, lo, it stirred strange memories of thee,
A marvel woven out of shine and shade,
And in a mystic robe of stars arrayed;

It mixed the rippling of a summer sea,
With odours wafted from a flowery lea,
Till in a moment every strife was stayed,
And all my fettered hours waxed fair and free.

I dreamed a vision of a flashing form,
That fled for ever through a night of storm,
While round its feet the radiant clouds were roll'd;

And then I thought of places pinched and cold,
That drew from thee a glory rich and warm,
I smelled the roses rising from the mould.

GOSPEL OF CHILDHOOD.

Two upturned orbs of dark and lustrous dew,
Two worlds of light that have no human guise,
Like clouds of glory set in solemn skies;
For ever shifting into shadows new;

Such heavenly lessons are thy wondrous eyes,
With shimmering rays and sheen of varying hue,
Their fitful path of conquest to pursue,
While all the captive world before them lies.

More light I asked for in rebellion wild,
With brighter beams of sure and saving truth,
Till heaven, behold, on my petitions smil'd;

And giving ancient strains a tender youth,
It wrought amidst the gloom of ills uncouth,
A gospel in the glances of a child.

THE CROWN OF STARS.

Daughter of dreamland from the worlds of sleep,
Whose crimson petals in the moon are pale,
And laughing blossoms in the twilight weep,
Thine are all treasures of the hill and vale;

Thy glorious youth is an enchanted tale,
Big with the promise of its issues deep,
That yet their heavenly bloom and beauty keep,
When other sources ebb and fancies fail.

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Thou art so nigh in thy sweet crescent years,
The fair preambles of all thoughts and things,
Thou hear'st the waving of the angels' wings;

While thou canst trace the fountain of our tears,
And see, beyond the gathering clouds of fears,
The crown of stars that to the summit clings.

NO LONGER.

I turn the portrait's features to the wall,
And close the volume I may read no more,
Nor add one memory to the music score,
And now what pleasure yet will be my thrall?

For me no longer shall thy footsteps fall,
Like waves that wash on some celestial shore,
Nor will thy carol answer to my call,
The soft responses that it breathed before.

Thy portrait hangs with pictures of the mind,
Whose charms are chains the wildest heart to bind,
And ranks thy volume with unwritten spells;

And while its magic every murmur quells,
Lo, like the hushing of a heavenly wind,
Thy music swoons to sleep on passion swells.

YET AGAIN.

But yet again I take the Portrait down,
And gaze with reverent rapture on the grace,
That in no feature has a settled place,
Like wavering starlight on the waters strown;

For in the magic mingling of thy face,
No separate colour may another drown,
And white and red are mixed with darkest brown,
While dawn and dusk in wedlock pure embrace.

And moves about the mouth a subtle scent,
The spirit as of unembodied speech,
That trembles with the marvels it would teach;

And in the forehead is the vast intent,
With parted lips and looks of wonderment,
Of one who has the heavens within her reach.

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THE STARRY WAY.

Oh, there are seasons when the shadows flee,
And radiant morning rises on the soul,
As far away the baffled thunders roll,
And then, sweet maiden, I would bring my plea;

And in the silence I would talk with thee,
Of joys the Past has sculptured on its scroll,
And wonders of the world that are to be,
While earth is circling to its sacred goal.

And half my life I would with gladness pawn,
To see fair Freedom striking from their stay,
The creeds that fetter and the cults they spawn;

And while it purged the iron from the clay,
I still with thee would walk the starry way,
That leads to glory through the gates of Dawn.

TO HAVE SEEN.

But to have seen thee once is pleasure still,
That will be fragrance to my future years,
And all their barren spots with colour fill,
That nought may sever from my plighted will;

Thou art a portion of my hopes and fears,
For ever mingled with my joys and tears,
While giving every thought a deeper thrill,
And to each shadowy sheaf some brighter ears.

Yea, to have known thee even a little while,
Is education better than our books,
And true the teachings of thy lovely looks;

Theirs is no taint of any earthly guile,
They have the sweetness of the summer brooks,
And springtide's bliss when all its blossoms smile.

COME TO ME.

Come to me when the dew is on the grass,
And every tint is waking from its trance,
Nor let thy presence from the sunsets pass,
And mix thyself with moonbeams as they dance;

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And let the stream be yet a starlit glass,
Reflecting as of old thy radiant glance,
And when I weary in the moiling mass,
Refresh me with thy dreams of young romance.

Be with me in the burden of the noon,
When smitten with the shafts of glaring light,
A moment in my march I haply swoon;

And when the day has dipped from mortal sight,
I crave thy pity, with a gracious boon,
To blow soft kisses on the balmy night.

INFLUENCE.

I cannot see thy face nor feel thy hands,
Yet like a prayer thy influence folds me round,
With many a holy sight and solemn sound,
In dew-soft shadows of caressing bands;

And though thy tongue with silent spells be bound,
Yet is thy voice a light in all the lands,
While winds and waters sigh thy sweet demands,
And in the flowers and sunshine thou art found.

A song without a prelude or an end,
That the wild gusts of every wood-note bend,
With sudden sobs of delicate desire;

The wings of passion and the feet of fire,
All these divinely in thy being blend,
With faith's strong hands that evermore aspire.

MOONLIGHT KISSES.

O child of many marvels, bathed in dreams,
Thou art the offspring of the light and air,
Encompassed with the strains of gliding streams,
And mantled in a mist of twilight beams;

The stars bequeathed those eyes a perfect pair,
And in thy making every fountain fair,
Gave for thy glamour all its richest gleams,
And night was woven in thy wondrous hair.

Thy kisses in the moonlight come to me,
Through roses tossing in a scented sea,
And, lo, I hear thy footsteps at the gate;

But when I woo my darling and my fate,
Ah, then thy sweet white feet arise and flee,
And leave me all so dark and desolate.

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SHINING SHADOWS.

Thou standest dimly between day and night,
And stealest still from each its rarest grace,
The bloom of all the treasures dark and bright,
Darling of Hope and every heart's delight;

And richly rendered in thy varying face,
What holy thoughts with shining shadows trace,
The faith that yet is more assured than sight,
When love and awe in perfect bliss embrace.

Thy path is as the whisper of the west,
When earth is waking from its winter sleep,
That woos the violets from the valley's breast;

And time has ransacked all its riches deep,
The lands of laughter and the waves that weep,
To mould thy life so beautiful and blest.

ENCHANTED WALLS.

O mistress thou of many a prayer and song,
That cherish thee in their enchanted walls,
If life be short yet conquering love is long,
And over death and deathful weapons strong;

Then speed the triumphs of its trumpet calls,
Till every bolt of every barrier falls,
While blessings shield thee from the reach of wrong,
And crown that grace which even the grave enthralls.

Fair wreaths of love I fashion for thy head,
As light as petals by a blossom shed,
That to the evening Zephyr gently bows;

Thou art the heir of all my highest vows,
And were my power as fleet as fancy's tread,
What gems of joy should brighten on thy brows.

GOD IN CHILDHOOD.

Queen of my heart and every happy thought,
Behold the secret of the solemn spell,
That from thy effluence on my spirit fell,
And chastely hath such changes in me wrought;

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I found in thee the Saviour I had sought,
Who once in childhood was content to dwell,
And hallowed it with heavenly gifts He brought,
To teach the wonders wisdom could not tell.

And from thy tender youth transformed by Him,
I see the branches of His presence shine,
With loving tendrils that my life entwine;

Celestial glory lightens every limb,
And though my blindness makes its beauty dim,
The grace I worship is the grace Divine.

THE NEW SONG.

There is a song not syllabled by word,
That thrills the bosom of the virgin wood,
A language dear to butterfly and bird,
With which the bubbles of the brooks are stirr'd;

It is a strain of universal good,
That all the ages never understood,
But yet from children's lips its chimes are heard,
And sweetly breathed from budding maidenhood.

And thou this secret tongue canst call thy own,
For every mystery by the breezes blown,
Is only to thy ears a simple tale;

And whispers of the daisies in the dale,
Were, ere embodied, to thy spirit known,
And all the passion of the nightingale.

THE STEP ON THE STAIRS.

Thy step is on the stairs when evening falls,
When like a sacred sea the silence grows,
In mighty waves that murmur on the walls,
And faintly echo unto calls;

Ah, then thy balmy breath upon me blows,
And through the portals of the twilight flows,
Deep in the stillness of the shadowy halls,
With flowers of speech unfolding as a rose.

Thy hand is gentle in the hush of sleep,
Which broods at night and fondly wraps me round,
With raiment woven of soft scent and sound;

I feel thy touch when dawn's dim tokens peep,
And when about me twines the vision deep,
'Tis in thy arms I am so sweetly wound.

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AT THE GATE.

I wait in darkness at the golden gate,
To catch some gleams and glimpses of the truth,
From time corroding age with jealous tooth,
Now earth is fading and the hour is late;

I am denied the mercies thou dost mate,
So largely granted to thy glorious youth,
And wildly gather signs and sounds uncouth,
With dark foreshadowings of a future state.

While thou dost in the dazzling Temple stand,
One of the pure and white-robed virgin band,
Who wave the palm and wear the sacred seal;

I still in vain all sadly knock and kneel,
To these dim eyes and this deflowering hand,
Thy revelation nothing would reveal.

LIGHTS AND SHADES.

O flower-like face that art so much to me,
That takest brightest beauty from the shades,
And in the hueless years yet more wilt be,
When clouds arise and morning sunbeams flee;

Thine is a bloom that never falls nor fades,
And night that nestles in the dewy blades,
While all its vassal hours bear gifts to thee,
Has breathed its glory in thy tresses' braids.

Thine is the fairness of the moonlit foam,
The rapture of the petrels when they roam
And all the sweetness of the saddest hour;

Day gives to thee its perfume for thy dower,
While in the heart of silence is thy home,
And built of mist and music is thy bower.

WHITE ROBES.

Thou lovest well to linger in the light,
(Even while thou glidest through the glooming dark
Thy spirit kindles with a kindly spark),
At every sweeter sound and richer sight;

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And thou to hymns of happy souls wilt hark,
That keep their garments undefiled and white,
While misery which on thee can make no mark,
Yet draws a solace from thy sunny flight.

O thou the sister art of all that's fair,
Of every brighter bloom and softer air,
And each enchantment of each virgin thing;

The summer lustre of the cushat's wing,
Has been entangled in thy dreamy hair,
And from thee flows the freshness of the Spring.

DIVINE AND HUMAN.

Diviner art thou than a poet's dreams,
Who sees the sun set in the morning's mirth,
And in the radiance of red-litten streams,
Reads mirrored all the miracles of earth;

The blessings that have perished in their birth
Yet dying fired the lands with lurid gleams,
And unbegotten marvels, crown thy worth
With aureoles of the future's broader beams.

O sweet imperfect bud of tender days,
When even thorns put on a pleasant sheath,
And veil in velvet down their bitter teeth;

Yet thou art richly human in thy ways,
While every storm thy roots more surely stays,
And glorious are thy clouds with rainbow's wreath

THE BOOK BEAUTIFUL.

And yet again I break the solemn seal,
To bid the volume of thy beauties ope,
With tales of promise on the page of hope,
That when reserving most the most reveal;

As on shy waters deeper shadows steal,
And bluer skies put forth a fuller scope,
While greener pastures from the mountain slope,
And scars of morning evening mercies heal.

Lo, fire and air and earth's most dainty stores;
The golden glimmer of the eagle's crest,
The rays that ripple on the opal's breast;

So rare a reflex from the pages pours,
As though the very heaven rolled back its doors,
And with its splendours made thee bright and blest.

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IF ONLY—

If only I were thou and north were south,
And every bosom were the balm of rest,
And all kind maidens had one kissing mouth,
What sweet confusion then would be our guest!

For longing lips no more would pine from drouth,
And love unuttered would be love exprest,
While age would wax as free as frolic youth,
And sunrise windows open in the west.

If only I were thou and man were maid,
There would be strange low laughter in the shade,
With winding arms and arms again withdrawn;

While morning's feet would light the midnight lawn,
And weeping of its tears would be afraid,
If only I were thou and dusk were dawn.

THE GREAT GULF FIXED.

Between thee and the world wherein I dwell,
The holy presence of some purer power,
Sweet as the fragrance of an unseen flower,
Enfolds a rapture that no tongue can tell;

A portion that is blesséd childhood's dower,
On which no cloud of coarseness ever fell,
And yet it has the awe and brooding spell,
That part the shadow from the thunder shower.

It is the pathos turned to smile or tear,
The wondrous fount that flows with hope and fear,
And pours a halo round the hero's head;

The space which holds the dying from the dead,
A solemn hush, a sacred atmosphere,
Where loftiest angels dare not lightly tread.

DAY AND NIGHT.

O thou that breathest all the grace of each—
While sunlit pictures fret in frames of gold,
And marble brows are pure and pale and cold—
Hast learned from both their mute melodious speech;

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Thou dost roflect them in a richer mould,
Beyond the range of unillumined reach,
Though I whose eyes are dark can but beseech,
And hunger for the joys I would behold.

For thou art mingled of the night and day,
With balms for all our pains' accurséd probes,
Each restful shade and every kindly ray;

These thy sweet presence still around it globes,
And as thou walkest, thy benignant way
Is like the rustling of the angels' robes.

ANGELS UNAWARES.

There was a time when life itself was nought,
And in the circle of my troubled year,
The seasons only sadder changes wrought,
And fond desire indulgence vainly sought;

The pleasures dreamed of proved but sick and sore,
And pale was promise and each fancy fear.
While pain would throb in every passing thought,
And light was dim and clouds above were clear.

Days brought me brief delights and petty dowers,
Till on me breathed thy fresher fuller airs,
From hidden blossoms of enchanted bowers;

And taking thee with larger hopes and cares,
I found a halo round the darkest hours,
And entertained an angel unawares.

WALKING ON THE HEART.

I dreamed, alas, my heart was at thy feet,
The sole sad gift my poverty could bear,
And thou didst spurn it with thy paces fleet,
As one who walks upon the waves of care;

And at each footstep it arose to meet,
The conqueror's march that sped and did not spare,
And ever gave a loyal throb to greet,
The stroke that in its very fall was fair.

And when I see the bitter stripes, that part
The loving from the lost and work from will,
And promise from the power to solace ill;

I feel the world is walking on my heart,
And though Time's healing hand allay the smart,
Yet every step is stamped upon it still.

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THE BURDEN OF BEAUTY.

O ponder, darling, on the gift of graces,
That crown thy budding life with tender bloom,
And though they be not seen yet leave their traces,
As perfumes lingering in the mourner's room;

When withered Eden at the blast of doom,
God set its fairest flowers in children's faces,
That they might blossom in the sunless places,
And called them good and bade them break the gloom.

But, ah, the breath of passion and of pleasures,
Falls on their growth and warps it unto worse,
While cold corruption makes their heart its treasure;

It changes beauty's blessing to a curse,
Till folly wakes to find the tomb its measure,
And at the touch of truth its dreams disperse.

THE BANNER OF BLOOD.

The armies of the Night are breaking fast,
The mists are shattered and the shadows flee,
And on the silence of the earth and sea,
The spell of speech and melody is east;

Yet thine the songs I hear for peril past,
And in the sunbeams I behold but thee,
Disthroning darkness, to unveil at last
The splendid spaces of the world to be.

The waters wild at thy sweet footstep fawn,
And warring winds make peace and round thee play,
While bane is turned to blessing on thy way;

And in a dream I see thee upward drawn,
Beneath the blood-red banner of the Dawn,
And towards the gates of everlasting Day.

KNOCKING.

'Tis bitter work to beat against the rock,
(Yet never gain an entrance to the rest,
That bears the weary on its tender breast),
And at the portals of the light to knock;

But sore misgivings all approaches block,
And doubt, that darkens where its foot is prest,
Sets on the doors its sad and sullen lock,
And bars the way whose issue else were blest.

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But childhood has no barren quest of pain
Nor are its search and satisfaction twain,
Its faith is furthered by the prisoner's band;

While at one touch of its caressing hand,
Lo, every barrier is built up in vain,
And revelation's golden gates expand.

THE CHILDREN'S DAY.

Come to me, little one, and we will dream
Of all that on this happy day was wrought,
When love and life to earth were freely brought,
To lighten households with their broader beam.

Come, wake again the glad celestial gleam,
That ages past our pale horizon caught;
For truth is dark till it is truly sought,
And then its floodgates pour a dazzling stream.

For at this time a Heavenly Child was born,
When all the world in doubt and darkness lay,
To guide us in the everlasting way;

It opes the portals of a purer Morn.
And we whose brows by weary age are worn,
Delight to call it still the children's day.

THE PASSION OF THE PINES.

Go to the virgin forest, virgin child,
When breezes are abroad and storms are still,
And pluck the secret from the pinewoods wild,
That wave upon the hollow and the hill;

They murmur mysteries to the rock and rill,
But if thou callest with entreaties mild,
The woods will answer to a maiden's will,
By purity and faith alone beguil'd.

Thy spotless spirit there will find a mate,
In purer air that round thy temples twines,
And wooes thee with a thousand tender signs;

Till love unlocks the silent lips of Fate,
Translating into truths articulate,
The vague and voiceless passion of the pines.

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“I SLEEP, BUT MY HEART WAKETH.”

[_]

(Solomon's Song, 5., 2).

There is a day that has no beam of shining,
There is a night that is without a shade,
Though all the rays of earth's illuming fade,
And there is sorrow severed from repining.

My captive bonds are bonds still not confining,
But into tender links of mercy made;
While every suffering is a sure refining,
And all my steps are (when I stumble) stayed.

And if the night its chains of darkness maketh,
It cannot bind the soul whose faith is free,
And then the shadow in my spirit breaketh;

Yea, all my inner life begins to be,
And though I sleep, O then my heart awaketh,
For every dream is linked with love and thee.

THE HUMAN FACE ANGELICAL.

We met as strangers yet thy face was not,
But seemed familiar as a face I saw
In other worlds, where liberty was law;
And all the splendour was without a spot;

We parted friends but parted not our lot,
For mine from thine its beauty still doth draw,
And in thy fairness loses every flaw,
And even forgets it ever had a blot.

We shall not meet again as we have met,
When time was young and life was musical,
And love for ever kept high festival;

And though thou dost yet do not I forget,
But still through all the strife, sweet Margaret,
I see thy human face angelical.

“UN GRAND PEUT-ÊTRE.”

The secret which to solve we first must die,
The light to see which I must cleave the cloud,
And learn from silence what is in its shroud,
The enigma of the ages, now is nigh.

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Is it to loftier songs from sense I fly,
To rise at length my hopes are lowly bowed?
For will to grow, is not my will allow'd?
And enters pain, that pain may cease to sigh?

This world is no more with me, and the next
In lights and shadows that my being shake,
Blind motions in my breast begins to make.

My fluttering soul is strangely, sweetly vex'd,
And shall I from the silence never wake,
To strains for which ours are the broken text?

MORE THAN LIGHT.

O is this death? or is it larger life,
That bears me upward to a blissful state,
And stirs me with the stillness born of strife,
Till all I was is with new raptures rife?

What strange fruitions of the radiant fate,
That lies beyond the dark and dreadful gate;
And suffering's sad and separating knife,
Is edged by mercy that would find its mate.

But through the valley dost thou stay me still
With fearless footsteps and a presence bright,
I know the love that leads—the hopes that thrill;

Thy words of solace give me sweeter sight,
Than dawn's pure fountains when with fire they fill,
And in the shadow thou art more than light.

SABBATH BELLS.

The sound of Sabbath bells is in my ears,
And wings me upward to the pleasant land,
Where children's voices chime away my tears,
And chide my spirit with their hopeful fears;

I hear the call to burst my prison band,
As on the threshold of the stars I stand,
With echoes of the happier holier years,
Like wash of waters on a distant strand.

But through the glooming thou art still my guide,
And if I see thee not I feel thee yet,
As soft as sunbeams ever at my side;

And though the darkness is around me set,
My eyes still turn to thee, my Margaret,
Whose tender hands the gates of death divide.

701

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

“MOTHER OF ALL THE DOVES.”

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.

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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!

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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;

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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

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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.

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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.

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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;

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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.

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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.

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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;

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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.

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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:

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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.

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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,

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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.

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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;

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

753

“NOVISSIMA VERBA.”

THE INFINITE HEART.

I had loved with loving not of earth,
Fire divinely blest,
But delight to me was only dearth,
No attainment rest;
Though I wooed enchantments, as they lie
In imperial thought
Of the knowledge that will never die,
Into victory wrought;
I pursued the lily and the rose
Of enticing Art,
But I found not there the craved repose
For the boundless heart.

Then I turned from Reason's banquet spread
Free with splendid flowers,
Fruits that shall (when riddles all are read)
Still keep blooming bowers;
Left the Science, that with golden bridge
Fancies to things done
Links, and shows the Maker and the midge
Are most truly one;
Proved philosophy, with pathway rough,
Though of Heaven a part
Heavenly, yet alone is not enough
For the boundless heart.

So I fared to women, whence the King
Wisest among men
Drew the lore for his appareling,
Beyond human ken;
Deeming they, perchance, with insight pure,
Had some hidden gate
In eternity, that made them sure
Mistresses of Fate;
If they could, who in white vesture went,
Ease my bosom smart,
And reveal the secret of content
For the boundless heart.

754

Now I questioned oracles, that flash
Out of azure eyes,
Under canopy of midnight lash,
Opening sunny skies;
Sought upon the palpitating breast,
In voluptuous looks,
Refuge, and enfranchisement of rest
Not from dusty books;
Dreamed at length in minglings fond, to find
Peace of fairer start,
More than mere bewitchings of the mind,
For the boundless heart.

First I conquered Kate, the coy and fair,
Swore my ardent love,
Basking in the glory of her hair,
Fitted like her glove;
Circled her with honour, at her feet
Learned the blessèd ways
Only gained from glances bright and sweet
As celestial rays;
Till I proved the ripe and ready fruit,
Had a savour tart
Under, and in vain was all my suit,
For the boundless heart.

Next I wooed in Ada's gipsy face
Darkly shaded charms,
Won from her a welcome resting-place
In her winding arms;
On her heavy limbs and sleepy lids
Problems raised once more,
Which the Puritan his dupes forbids,
Stuffed with frigid store;
Till I felt her beauty burn and pierce
Like a poisoned dart,
And I knew no counter guard or tierce,
For the boundless heart.

Then to Mabel, passionate and proud,
Turned my amorous will,
Braved the terrors of the thunder-cloud,
Fire vouchsafed to kill;
Though my daring wings were scorched, and faint
Reeled my spirit back,
From her clasp, half-devil and half-saint,
On her meteor track;
But within that furnace respite none
Came, nor guiding chart,
Yet the labour was a deed undone,
For the boundless heart.

755

Clara then withdrew me, to the calm
Of her cold desires,
Tall and stately as an Orient palm,
Which to Heaven aspires;
Though I found, when once I boldly crost
Gulf of virgin shame,
If one side was fierce as Arctic frost,
One was torrid flame;
Still not here, in regulated love,
Measured as Mozart,
Got I peace, that lifted me above,
For the boundless heart.

Then in Marjory, I met a face
Tuned by elder times,
Music, stepping gravely to the pace
Of heroic chimes;
Bathed in other-worldly beauty, till
With no niggard dole,
All the waves that all the bosom thrill,
Overwashed my soul;
But I yet was as a passing guest,
Careful of the carte,
And in her embrace I felt no rest
For the boundless heart.

Gwendolen now took me, as a joy
For a leisure hour,
Made me thus half-ornament, half toy,
In her gilded bower;
From her varying fashionable modes,
Truth I sweetly sipped,
Such as into me by classic codes
Never had been whipped;
But dissatisfied too soon was she,
Greedy as a scart,
And no solace then remained to me,
For the boundless heart.

So at last to Floribel I turned,
To her venal smile,
Charms that like a public candle burned,
With a sugared guile;
In her studied raptures, and the rose
Of a borrowed grace,
Elegance and mercenary pose,
Sought a resting-place;
Yet, alas, though she was doubly paid,
Bought upon the mart,
Even in her I won no lasting aid
For the boundless heart.

756

Fools, who fancy any woman can,
Though superbly done,
Give all soft delights to any man,
Gathered up in one;
Fools, who dream one beautous woman will,
If she never tires,
Always with her fond allurements thrill
Man's complete desires;
Fools, who think that ought may satisfy,
Which is only part—
Fulness less than the infinity
Of the boundless heart.

“VINUM DÆMONUM.”

The grim old Father—was it gaunt Tertullian?—
Starved with gray-minded lore,
Who saw through life no further than a scullion,
Cramped in his kitchen store—
That hater of sweet wine, and sweeter woman,
Which him denied their part,
Possessed with every grace but what was human,
Devoid of head and heart—
Who on the Muse's romps and Graces' revels
His prison portal slammed,
God's poetry dared call the “wine of devils,”
And so himself has damned.

I never worked, like Huxley, at theology,
Save Watts's nursery hymns,
And little learned—though this is no apology—
Of texts and Cherubims;
And yet I deemed I was as educated
In liberal thoughts and things,
As monks and mannikins, with codes castrated
That cut away our wings;
Nor do I blush to own, the “wine of devils”
By me is oft desired,
And the gay nymph whose locks the god dishevels,
With water not inspired.

I thought the poet was a grand creator
Of lovely things and true,
A guardian angel, a crowned liberator
For wanderers without clue;
Who brought us draughts of wisdom, out of glory
By sophists never seen,
And left to meaner minds the garlands gory
That only stain earth's green;

757

Yea, all the noble deeds of Grants and Grevilles
Mix in the mighty bowl
Bright with the laughing dancing “wine of devils,”
That god-like makes the soul.

If Puritans, who whine for Heaven's best favour
In prayers that falsehoods fuse,
Delight in sops of milk, I love the savour
Of “devilled” meat and Muse;
I love the flowing feast, and in mad measure
Enterpe's flying feet,
And all the passion of the rhythmic pleasure,
That if profane is sweet;
And bright as grape-juice of a hundred Sevilles,
Where ripened music runs,
Is the pale prosing Father's “wine of devils,”
Lit by Olympic suns.

For I had dreamed—it's true, I was no Quaker—
The poet with his fire
Was more than mortal, and a Heaven-sent maker
To bid our speech aspire;
Who tunes our steps to the celestial dances
The stars in order tread,
And weaves of dew and light those love romances,
That quicken even the dead;
I fancied him a conqueror, who levels
Care with its lictor rods,
And crabbed Tertullian's poisoned “wine of devils,’
Was glorious wine of gods.

And this I hold, though each sour fusty Father
Should thunder at my creed
Anathemas, which piety may gather,
That all the world has d---d;
The celibate may hug cold consolation,
In musty dusty books,
And gloat upon a future of damnation
For errant lips and looks;
Give me the golden cup the binder bevels
With his enchanting art,
And I will drain and drain the “wine of devils”
Through my whole thirsty heart.

LACRYMÆ DEI.

We read in Holy writ, and doubt it not,
If still false Judas on it stab his blot,
Who creeps to murder as he always crept,
That twice in His great beautiful pure Life,
Which orbed with evening hush a world at strife,
Christ wept.

758

Once at the grave of Lazarus, the dear
Foredoomed disciple, fell the human tear,
Which woke the slumberer where he darkly slept;
And as He saw the black procession wind
Through ages, that one stricken group behind,
Christ wept.

Again, when on Him flashed in starry state,
Matchless, white marble front and golden gate,
That with the kindred skies proud concert kept,
When all around was triumph glad and bright,
And all within a sorrow deep as night.
Christ wept.

And we are sure, that in His childhood sweet,
While lay Creation curbed beneath His feet,
And awful angels at His bidding stept,
Yet then at times in natural tender grief,
Which even to Him gave some Divine relief,
Christ wept.

And still, in poet's universal thought
Of sadness, into song celestial wrought,
While vengeance He in vain foreboded creeps
Grim and unmarked, on fools that dine and dance,
Blown to and fro by wind of circumstance,
God weeps.

In thundering lines, that like a battle shout
Shake the close ranks of dim and stubborn doubt,
When the drugged soldier on his watch-tower sleeps,
That knocks at tombs, where splendid spirits lie
Bound with the grave clothes of a harlot tie,
God weeps.

In the wild ballad from the breaking heart,
Fashioned of flame and storm and iron dart,
At woman's woe that endless vigil keeps,
Flung like a firebrand in the gilded pelf,
With burning words that pierce the Heaven itself,
God weeps.

In the lone voice uplifted for the right
Against the rule of gold, and monstrous might
That innocents and all to ruin sweeps—
When lost the baby opens its pure eyes
To see but sin, and closes them and dies,—
God weeps.

759

SANGUIS CORDIS.

Wrung from depths of Nature's fiery fountains,
Sin and suffering, pain and grief,
Stirred by blasts that blow on unscaled mountains,
Cares beyond the world's relief;
Made of all the mystic sounds of sorrow,
Wandering through our doubt and dearth,
Dawnless days, and nights without a morrow
Habiting a homeless earth;
Mingled with the breath of boundless oceans,
Fed by tears of ages' flood,
Torn from bruiséd breasts and lost devotions,
Drops of blood

Yet but words in semblance, wisdom only
Hammered out on iron forge,
Where the sadnesses of exiles lonely
Sigh to Heaven from sunless gorge;
Hammered out red-hot by burning passion,
In the sweater's slaving den,
Jarring on the joys that fools of fashion
Frame from goodly lives of men;
Hammered into shapes, that shine for ever
Beacons on the foaming flood,
Shedding fruitful on each brave endeavour
Rays of blood.

All the sobs of children, chants of sages
Who of hope divine made part,
Gathered by the Poet, and like pages
Rent from his great troubled heart;
Wrought into one purpose pure, a token
Of deliverance for the slave
Manacled, who on the tyrant broken
Steps in grandeur from the grave;
Breathing promise for the souls that sicken,
At the march of famine's flood,
Till upstart from field and fortune stricken,
Flowers of blood.

Just a simple song, a new creation
Flashed upon the night of faith,
Bursting into blossom of salvation,
As a spirit from its spathe;
Out of inner empyrean glory,
Where the wheels of nature grind,
For discrownéd falsehoods, sceptres gory,
Speeding in the kingdom kind;
As the harvest sown by women tender,
Who endured the adverse flood,
Scatters from sweet cross of life's surrender,
Fruits of blood.

760

BEWITCHED.

Ah, she was her needle threading,
When upon me first
Flashed her face, so lovely to one treading
Wilderness of thirst;
And directly passion, spurning
Forms of frigid art,
Like Athena sprang full-armed and burning
From my eager heart;
Till, entangled in her labour,
As she Fate-like stitched,
I, forgetting duty to my neighbour,
Was bewitched.

For her hand, so softly closing
On my foolish life,
Was not then quite at her own disposing,
As another's wife;
Though she toyed with me demurely,
Like a Quaker's cat,
Which has caught and trifles with securely
Some too frisky rat;
While her legal old appendage,
Whom she early hitched,
Gave me welcome, nor would I offend age,
If bewitched.

She, besides, seemed ever willing
Listener to my tale,
And when it waxed nearer and more thrilling,
Sometimes turning pale;
And, may be, at favoured season,
She would sweetly glance
Up at me, without a glimpse of treason,
Really quite by chance;
Things went gliding on, and gaily
As in temple niched
Her I worshipped, growing deeply, daily,
More bewitched.

Till at last, Old Fogey caught me
Making curious curves
With my lips, and thus unkindly thought me
Poaching his preserves;
Ancient he, but yet with vigour
I could never match,
Seized me with a more than youthful rigour,
Heedless of her scratch;
Yes, a vulgar arm of iron
Me most rudely switched,
And I am no more by any Siren,
Now bewitched.

761

THE CROWNED ASS.

Once a very business people,
Eager to give Heaven a sop,
Clapt a whitewashed holy steeple,
On their old adulterous Shop;
Then, less reverent than Hindoos,
In a temple made of glass,
Brittle doors and broken windows,
Penned as god a Crownèd Ass;
Which, with tones of cracking trumpet,
Cried all night and every day,
Linked with a lewd painted Strumpet,
Let us bray.

Clad in mangy skin of lion,
Did this most astounding beast
Mingle sacred songs of Zion
With the oaths of brothel feast;
And the pious unwashed masses,
While they heaped their filthy coin,
Plotting whence to cheat the classes,
In the concert loved to join;
And the monster, as it mellowed,
Guzzling port which came that way,
Louder and yet louder bellowed,
Let us bray.

Editors, with pothouse manners,
Not concealed in white kidgloves,
Chanting most discreet Hosannas
Over their illicit loves,
Vied with spectacles and spinsters
How, while leaving in the lurch
Readers, to destroy the minsters
Old and bulwarks of the Church;
All uniting in the burden,
For which others had to pay
Much too often costly guerdon,
Let us bray.

Still the blind and stupid people,
Giving gold for worthless brass,
Only saw that holy steeple,
When they praised the Crownéd Ass;
Welcomed poets, if impurer
Than the very foulest pigs,
And in cesspools felt securer,
Dancing out their dirty jigs;
While the god, so dear to varlet
Who enjoyed lascivious play,
Thundered to the Thing in Scarlet,
Let us bray.

762

THE PENNY POPULAR.

It's just one penny, gentlemen, no more,
Come in;
And such a varied feast and damty store
Of sin,
Or scandal, never offered was to men,
And never will be by the gayest pen;
Here are
The latest stories of the loudest club,
The star
Beaming with borrowed gems of some one's cub,
Who heaps her harlot plate,
With all the old estate.

A trifle merely, ladies, never mind
The nude
And wanton figures, that would deem a blind
So rude;
Nor are they worse than that new evening dress,
A figleaf and the lovely nakedness;
These shapes
Despise the vulgar forms, which folly hides
And drapes,
And brazen forth their charms on Fashion's tides;
They would, for royal stare,
Their every limb unbare.

Dear innocents, too, let your tender hearts,
If pure,
Drink in the dew of these lascivious arts,
Demure,
And learn how well a mother or a sire,
Picks doubtful jewels from undoubtful mire;
The day
Has long departed, when the baby child
With play
And decent toys was honestly beguil'd;
Now, for the nursery, vice
Is sweetened and made nice.

And you, O blushing Puritan, poor maid,
Come in;
It cannot be, an English girl afraid
Of sin;
Fie, such is sacred now, the clergy look
With favour on the filthiest play or book;
Our time
Has swept away the stupid old restraints,
And slime
Or falsehood now it delicately paints;
Why, darlings should you pout,
When prelates don't stay out?

763

KING HODGE.

Squire assures me I am King,
Says the Sovereign Masses
Need not any longer cling
To the bloated classes;
But it cannot be, my mates,
For I hate aggression,
And he keeps the old estates
Tight in his possession;
No, he is not coming down,
From the swag and swilling,
If he offers me a “crown”—
I would take a shilling.

Papers lie, we know them well,
When they call us master,
Just to make their garbage sell,
Coined in money, faster;
Still I tramp about the fields,
Sweating, swearing, itching,
Heaping up what harvest yields
Not for my enriching;
Still I never have my ease,
As is bosses' habit,
Eking out the bread and cheese
With a casual rabbit.

True, at first I rather took
To my new position,
Bought a lying Gladstone book,
Playing politician;
Thought those acres and the cow
Lovely in the distance,
Liked the mercenary bow
Begging my assistance;
Fancied I was what they said—
Though unchanged my station,
And as vilely housed and paid—
Monarch of Creation.

Noblemen were “brothers” quite,
Ere the last Election,
Ladies all in pink and white
Showed me marked affection;
Swells came cadging for my vote,
Promised landed treasures,
Better wages, a good coat—
But they stopped at “measures”;
Lord Flapdoodle tried each dodge,
Introduced his sister—
Now I am but simple Hodge,
Though I then was “Mister.”

764

Yet they now salute me King.
Brag about the glories
Suffrage and the ballot bring
Slaves set free from Tories;
Though it always is but cant,
Not a bit for spending—
Only food and clothing scant,
Till the workhouse ending;
And I would, however queer
Seems my own opinion,
Barter for a glass of beer
All my new dominion.

SOPS FOR CERBERUS.

Old Cerberus has wakened from his sleep
In darkness deep,
He stretches giant limbs, and opens jaws
That menace laws,
And mocks at measures only passed to please
His iron ease—
The scraps and bones and futile fancy sops,
In dribbling drops
Of suffrage, ballot, education's cry,
To pacify
His appetite, that thirsts (a raging flood)
For blood.

He feels returning to his veins fresh life
For vaster strife,
Till, as he shakes his mighty frame, the towers
And golden bowers
Of painted wantons, sickening, reel and rock
With earthquake shock;
At every step each crazy bench and board,
With shameless hoard,
Trembles and turns to some escaping rift
Of shabbier shift,
As though to stay, with goose's quill or starch,
His march.

He sharpens now, as nearer judgment hangs,
His dreadful fangs,
On the grim whetstone of a tottering State,
That offers plate
Thrice-licked already by its greedy crew,
Gentile and Jew—

765

On false foundations crumbling to their doom,
Tartarean gloom,
Where perjured placemen and the fools of fraud,
Or purple bawd,
Lie till peals forth for England's headless Rump,
God's trump.

At every hissing breath or hungry growl,
Beneath his cowl
The hireling priest turns pale, and seeks for flight
From coming night;
Stewards and guardians, who betray their trust
In Judas lust,
Arise and call on Heaven, and find in earth
Nothing but dearth,
And not one refuge from the avenging slave,
Except the grave;
For Cerberus has waked, and knows his power
And hour.

KING CLOD.

Each day he early goes to toil,
As soldiers into fight,
Stiff as his native clayey soil,
Unconscious of his might;
Sunburnt and freckled is the face,
The purpose in his talk
Gives just the one redeeming grace,
To that slow slouching walk;
He serious takes the working knocks,
And serious is his play,
As runs through youthful raven locks
A streak of sober gray;
His faiths are few, but strongly held,
And seldom on his lip,
But generations passed to weld
These to their iron grip;
He knows the labour must be done,
By roadway or in field,
The rain and sunshine are all one,
And he will never yield;
His busy hands, by weather browned,
Move like a royal rod,
And this is why he stands, uncrowned,
King Clod.

766

Yes, every day, from morn to night,
He grapples with his tasks,
And often ere a ray of light,
But respite never asks;
The winter winds, that idly beat
The lady's curtained bower,
But teach him not to own defeat,
And grant him giant power;
The summer, if it bronze his brow
And cheek, yet cannot tire
The sinewy frame that scorns to bow,
Implanting heart of fire;
He feels the freshness of the dawn,
On dewy grass and tree,
Its boundless breath into him drawn
Makes his brave spirit free;
Love him his steeds, with striving worn,
And whinny, as they raise
Their noses buried in the corn,
To have his sweeter praise;
The seasons serve him with their might,
And subject is the sod,—
These crown him, not the suffrage right,
King Clod.

A quiet man, with honest aims,
While bloated Dives feasts,
He bears the burden, nor disclaims
A fellowship with beasts;
The birds his playmates are, he calls
Wild creatures to his ends,
The cattle feeding in their stalls,
Are every one his friends;
At home with Nature in each mood,
Whatever be the spur,
He loves to share his scanty food
With any starving cur;
Sometimes he feels the pinch of lack,
If his have little dearth,
But still as sturdy is his back,
As dear his Mother Earth;
And on he drudges, at his post,
Unfailing as the sun,
The hardest loads he covets most,
And counts the buffets fun;
No sovereign's sceptre yet he wields,
And he may meanly plod,
But he is ruler of the fields,
King Clod.

767

He gathers in his heart the lore
Of river, sky, and land,
And if but slender be his store,
He gives with open hand;
The glory of the summer day,
The stillness of the night,
Mix in his mind with equal sway,
And make one calm delight;
He has few thoughts, his daily toil,
His children's merry tricks,
The wife and home, the surly soil
That stoutly to him sticks;
To nought he looks for solid aid,
Save his own dogged will,
Though badly fed and badly paid,
He does his duty still;
Come cold or heat, he ever wakes
True as the Sunday bell,
And, sick or sad, he simply takes
All in a working spell;
And if a humble realm be his,
If coarsely drest and shod,
He changes dirt to gold, and is
King Clod.

THE GOSPEL OF DIRT. 1890.

I am a Poet, sir,
As every critic sees,
Who is a true philosopher,
And takes my golden fees;
Some for the scholar sing,
And deal in classic lore,
Or a fair snow-white mantle fling,
On any titled whore;
Let me the masses ply,
And show beneath his shirt,
How man is made of Deity
And dirt.

My last and greatest book—
A shilling is the price—
Takes a large comprehensive look,
On poesies of vice;
The pure romance of bawd
And unprotected sin,
It's my peculiar part to laud,
And genius note in gin;

768

I prove, if heroes hang,
They are with glory girt—
How every precious jewel sprang
From dirt.

The virtues are played out,
And at their sickly scent
Our maids and matrons only pout,
And won't be continent;
With marriage now they fight,
As with an iron glove,
And so I sketch them the delight
Of free, promiscuous love;
I follow good old Ham,
And draw aside the skirt
Of modesty, and mark how jam
Is dirt.

Let others stick to rule
Or stupid Decalogue,
And cold castrated bigots pule—
I play the ethnagogue;
I lead a nation on
Beneath a sunnier sky,
From shades where never comfort shone,
To lands of liberty;
Back to the blessèd fount,
With naked truth to flirt,
Where man and beast have one account
With dirt.

For I am human, sir,
To passions give the reins,
And like by ardent strokes to stir
The blood in woman's veins;
I raise the devil, too,
With bolder, brighter play,
Whom all the darlings rush to woo,
And find they cannot lay;
I draw the sinner nude,
Except his scanty shirt,
And etch the saint below the prude
In dirt.

I move behind the scenes,
Unmask the muddy source
To virgins in their early teens,
Who want a candid course;
French novels point my pen,
And yield me spicy food,
With nice if naughty ways of men,
In every wanton mood;

769

Divorces out I track,
With but a figleaf girt,
That teach how nature soon goes back
To dirt.

I read the people's heart,
And study thus to please,
With visions of a warmer art
And morals that don't tease;
I open wide all gates,
Nor keep the poorest out,
Demolish bolts and bars and hates,
And superstitious doubt;
I never hint at blame,
Cut short the clogging skirt,
Revealing how to creep to fame
By dirt.

My mission is quite clear,
To rub off pious paints,
And the old dull unreasoning fear
Of fanatics' restraints;
To make a wider stage,
With life and loving free,
That man and woman, youth and age,
Unfettered, may agree;
That lofty minds and low
With any filth may flirt—
Till there is nothing left to show
But dirt.

THE COUNTRY CADGER.

Yes, he works, if you are watching,
Or the famine at his door
Lifts a finger for unlatching,
That is terror to the poor;
But he does not love his neighbour,
And his very brow turns black
At the thought of steady labour,
With its burden on the back;
For he hates the horse's whinny,
Which at tardy feeding frets,
And his heart is in the spinny,
With the poaching traps and nets.

770

But he works for his own pleasure,
And is often out all night;
Though he cannot find the leisure
For one simple home delight;
He delays not in his vices,
And is never slow to sin—
Or the demon that entices
With the damning gulp of gin;
While he scamps the task allotted,
And would quarrel with the soil,
He will fly to feasts besotted,
And to aught save honest toil.

And he works as hard at begging,
As the tramp upon the road,
And his master still keeps egging
For a lightening of the load;
Ah, his tongue is never idle,
When his footsteps do not haste,
And he chafes at any bridle,
That pulls counter to his taste;
He will whine about his sorrows,
Or his weakness for the way,
While he pitilessly borrows
What he means not to repay.

And he works, at least, by others,
But enslaved to fill his purse.—
By the wife, whose tears he smothers
With the blow or fiercer curse;
By the children, whom he teaches
Only how to thieve or lie;
Though their conscience sadly preaches,
It were better far to die;
Till, at last, its vengeance wreaking,
Judgment falls with iron grip,
And he dies as he lived, sneaking,
With a falsehood on his lip.

IN ANGELLO CUM LIBELLO.

There my little book and I,
There we lay in shelter,
Roses made our scarlet sky,
Far from working welter;
Oh, the pretty book, it lay
Lightly on my bosom,

771

Bound in sweetest silk, and gay
As the rose's blossom;
Tenderly the lines I read
And between, in quiet
Bending low my loving head
To the dainty diet;
I had known the volume well,
Learned the fairy pages
Speaking in one master spell
Joys of all the ages;
Reverently I each grace
Marked, as was my duty,
Finding in each silent space
Some new secret beauty;
Thus I clasped those thrilling charms,—
In angello,
Cum libello,
Though the world might brawl and bellow—
In my arms.

There my little book and I
Bathed in sweet blue weather,
As the busy wind went by
Laughing to the heather;
Every leaf I knew by heart,
In my memory printed,
Lines that miracles of art
Flashed, and lines but hinted;
Never yet from classic press
Did a volume issue.
Clothed in such a dazzling dress,
Woven of tender tissue;
Never was a truer type
Set in living letters,
One with all enchantments ripe,
Forging welcome fetters;
Never, framed to soothe and serve
Passion's ardent story,
Fetched a fairer brighter curve
Characters of glory;
Thus I weighed each subtle tone,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
Jealous as the worst Othello,
And alone.

There my little book and I
With each other nestled,

772

Fastened with the golden tie
For which love had wrestled;
Holding it with fervent hand,
Treasure of my finding
In the world of fairy-land,
Oft I praised the binding;
Glow of darling white and pink,
Wealth of wondrous cover,
Each alluring look and link
Meant to chain a lover;
Breast that only to my gaze
Half revealed the rapture,
All removed, when my amaze
Held it as a capture;
Words that would invite a kiss,
With melodious sentence,
And to make more perfect bliss
Then required repentance;
Wit I drank from dewy lips,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
As his port a college fellow,
Softly sips.

There my little book and I
Plunged in varied vision,
While all Heaven seemed all to lie
Close, with breath Elysian;
Dreamily I found therein
Still diviner graces,
Gifts that had their origin
But in my embraces;
Gleamed the text with studies strange,
Readings bright and clever,
Mountain meanings rose, to range
On and on for ever;
Rock and river, earth and sky,
Lights in starry station,
Angels and sweet devilry,
Wrought one revelation;
Never were in wisest books
So bewitching fancies,
As in that dear volume's looks,
Big with young romances;
Thus I lay in languor bound,—
In angello,
Cum libello—
While the evening, mild and mellow,
Wrapt us round.

773

THE NEW SCANDALOUS CHRONICLE.

They say—we do not guarantee the truth,
If it is freely told—
That pretty Lady Splash, who played at Ruth,
Has wandered from the fold;
Eloped, with rich Lord Boaz, from a mate
Who reined her tightly in,
And wanted her sweet mind to educate,
But never could begin;
Gone off to Paris, with a China jug
Worth thousands and her maid,
Her husband's diamonds and his favourite pug—
And scores of bills unpaid.

They say—though it may be a shocking lie,
And careful must we be—
A peeress ate too much of cranberry pie,
Which did not quite agree;
Then talked of death, and formed a holy plan
Her errors to confess,
And sent for her pet pill, and clergyman
Who came but to—caress;
Who was indeed her lover, and abused
The grandeur of his task,
And penance and embraces all confused,
Beneath that blesséd mask.

They say—but dirty mud we will not fling,
On any noble dress—
Lord Fudge, who could not do a naughty thing,
Has got into a mess;
We name it simply to deny the fact—
That he, of sober age,
Took home a lady who can partner act,
Upon and off the stage;
Then overslept, and the next day at noon,
When dreaming not of harms,
Was caught by someone that returned too soon,
In the fair sinner's arms.

They say—but this is a most doubtful page,
At which we only hint—
A certain ardent Royal Personage,
Is rushing into print;
To tell the story of his thousand loves,
The honey from strange hives,
The cost each year of kisses, rosebuds, gloves,
And other persons' wives;
His ventures in new fancies and on 'Change,
Expenses of his cook
And pussy things with whom he chose to range,
His heart and betting book.

774

THROUGH YELLOW SPECTACLES.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And walked about the streets,
And heard the modern Babel's cries,
Where fraud with folly meets;
I saw the swindler rising up,
The hero going down,
And leaders between kiss and cup,
Who traded on the Crown;
And teachers tossed by every wind
I saw without a plan;
But, seeking, nowhere could I find,
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
Took lantern in my hand,
But read no rainbow in the skies,
No promise in the land;
I saw the ass who loudest brayed
Usurped the lion's power,
And rogues might plunder Christ, who prayed
With Him a little hour;
I saw a Constitution cooked
Within a kitchen pan,
But could not note (where'er I looked)
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And tried each Senate house,
But from such labour and such lies
Came only a meek mouse;
I saw how Parties would outbid
Each other, bought and sold
With bribes, and on the coffin lid
Of England played for gold;
I saw a nation, once so free,
Now doled its petty span
By foreign force, but could not see
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And through the Churches trod,
But they had broken all the ties
That bound them unto God;
I saw the worship at the best
Was but a gorgeous wraith,
With things in millinery drest,
Preserving forms not faith;
I saw but mummeries and rites,
Beyond what hope could scan,
But not (though midges fought with mites)
A MAN.

775

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And strolled into the Courts,
Where dirty fingers make mud-pies,
And spoilers have their sports;
I saw dear Justice hawked for sale,
And law was longest purse,
That whitewashed even the blackest tale,
And proved the country's curse;
I saw the needy had no right,
With poverty for ban,
But met not there, while triumphed might,
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And turned where beauty blooms,
Where from red lips sweet laughter flies,
In stately drawing rooms;
I saw the fairest felt no pain,
At the most damning vice,
While all had still some hidden stain,
And every one her price;
I saw the adulterer at play,
Behind the modest fan,
But spied not on that primrose way
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And wandered over fields
Whose soil, that niggard folly plies,
No more its fatness yields;
I saw the tenant treading yet
The ruts his fathers trod,
And simpletons who drew but debt,
Not increase, from the sod;
I saw the toiler, who would shirk
As much as cunning can,
But not in waste they miscalled work,
A MAN.

I put my glasses on my eyes,
And traversed fleets and camps,
Where the new statesman most will rise
Who most his duty scamps;
I saw the trooper without horse,
The navy served with guns
That burst on each new trial course
Which each new crotchet runs;
I saw the shores had no defence,
While traitors profit span,
But marked not in their loud pretence
A MAN.

776

THE LAST REVELATION.

We live in curious times, and even the fool
Who has his private pew
In earth or Heaven, and nothing learned at school,
Can scratch about and mew;
He has his fancies, which he only took
From some yet greater dunce,
Who with judicious extracts made a book,
And was quite famous once;
He thinks, because he deals with shining shams
And all the painted muck
That sells, God sends him special telegrams,
And goldmines he has struck.

The revelation came of old, on wings
Of awful searching fire,
Not to the gorgeous palaces of kings,
But to the pure desire.
It came, to those that opened simple heart
For every sacred truth,
And of their life it grew a living part,
And gave them endless youth;
It came with breath of recreating power,
In beauty that was love,
Till each new nature burst in glorious flower,
And glowed from founts above.

But, now, the driveller has his idols cheap,
And fashions by the score,
From cast-off harlots, and the rubbish heap
That beggars seek no more;
The scavenger has gone abroad, and waves
His banner dropping lice,
And steals the worms and carrion from the graves
Of each old buried vice;
He seeks in sewers fresh gospels dupes to bless,
Or crawls among the clods
And digs in dunghills for the nastiest mess,
Then cries, “Behold your gods!”

The women, too, if maidens, do not blush
To take the Devil's text,
And screaming, scolding, into print they rush,
All naked and unsexed;
Each has some doctrine suited for the age,
And inspiration draws
From lowest orgies of the lowest stage,
From breaking zones and laws;
And, though upon the sullied marriage tie
They cast a poet's wreath,
Their revelation of such lusts and lies
Is only from beneath.

777

CHEAP AND NASTY.

“Lt. Gen. Sir E. Wood, commanding the Aldershot Division, received yesterday the authority of the War Office to pay £88 15s.6d. to Mrs. H., of ---, as a grant, in consideration of her husband's death, having been in some measure attributable to the wound he received from a stray bullet, about three months ago.”—Morning Post.

He is dead, and if dead be the lion,
A live dog is far better than he,
Though his tomb were as sacred as Sion,
And he once set a Continent free;
He is buried and shunted and rotten,
And we only concerned are with life,
Not with tales of the past and forgotten,
Not with tears of a desolate wife;
What are husbands, when Budgets are brewing
For a kingdom of shopmen to hear,
Who delight in the skimping and screwing?
They are not, and will never be, dear;
They are common, domestic, colonial,
Foreign count and the patriot bore,
And purveyors of News Matrimonial
Will supply any void with a score;
What though Government bullets go straying,
And one, chancing a husband to wing,
Stirs up asses for recompense braying?
Yet economy still is the thing;
We must cut down such casual trifles,
If the harvest again we would reap;
And some fool may start costlier rifles;
Nothing pays like the cheap.

Cut the salaries down, say the Axes
And the Tools of the Government Gang,
We will pile on the burdens of taxes,
But our drudges may starve or go hang;
For the labouring world is extensive,
And our profits we care not to lose,
While a rope is not very expensive
For the suicide—never mind, whose;
We must stick to the loaves and the fishes,
With which Providence helps us to gains,
And will leave our successors but dishes
That are empty of all but the stains;
For who asks for the moral old manners,
That fought shy of the soiling and dust?
And cheeseparing is blazed on our banners,
Though the pauper may cry for a crust;
Cups of water suffice for the suction
Of the people, while we fill our bags,

778

Skinning flints, and applying reduction
To the Royal, as well as the rags;
Ah, retrenchment looks pretty on paper,
And the nation (or we) make a heap
From a practical use of the scraper;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.

All is cheap now, the man and his labour,
While the Sweaters rejoice in his need,
And his life (below trumpet and tabor)
Yet is offered the Moloch of Greed;
Bread is cheap—if you only can win it,
And your service you happen to sell,
Though, for death of a toiler each minute,
We keep tolling the funeral bell;
Lies are cheap, as the partisan's journal
With its politics sweetened to suit,
Bears a witness, that leaves out the kernel,
And retains but the husks of the fruit;
Votes are cheap, and the glory of backing
Just the dolt your employer may choose,
Though you gain not the price of the blacking
That would polish one pair of your shoes;
Words are cheap, good advice, consolation,
Merely meant at the best for a blind,
With free land and the free education,
While we kick the d---d masses behind;
Bribes are cheap, if no bread they may butter,
While the tide yet remains at the neap,
And King Demos abides in his gutter;
Nothing pays, like the Cheap.

Flesh is cheap—if it simply be human,
For a sheep is a different thing;
And none thinks of the honour of woman,
Should she go to the Devil or swing—
When she barters her person for raiment,
And the food in its beggarly dole
Is ill bought, with the terrible payment
Of a lost and a sacrificed soul;
Truth is cheap, and one Hurlingham pigeon
Would fetch more than the Bible, and all
The delights of each rival religion,
If you follow a Peter or Paul;
God is cheap, and where is there a Curate
Who will now not insure you a niche—
On receipt of a prayer or pew-rate—
In the Heaven reserved for the rich;
All is cheap, my dear friends, as the novel
For a shilling, though borrowed and bad,

779

Which goes down for its lord to the hovel,
To the bawdhouse for ladies to gad;
Dirt is cheap, and it really is pleasant,
If with scum to the surface you leap,
And of all worlds the best is the present;
Nothing pays like the Cheap.

THE DEAD CHIEF.

A child, I learned to reverence rank,
And deemed a noble must
Do noble things, if low he sank,
Who held a sacred trust;
I deemed the legendary lord,
Whose acts make history speak,
Had always ready hand and sword,
As champion of the weak;
I deemed he lived for duty's call,
With beggars shared his bread,
And opened wide his door to all—
But thou art dead.

A man, I still respected birth
And thought the prison band
Of patriot seers, had put a girth
Of glory round the land;
I bowed my head, to titles won
Bright in the country's need,
By sacrifices grandly done,
That sowed no mortal seed;
I dreamed, if others wore a mask,
That rank a golden thread
Ran through each great and gallant task—
But thou art dead.

To thee I looked, a worthy chief,
As seeks a tender child
His father, and had found relief,
If he just fondly smiled;
For sure I felt, thy noble name
A nobler nature hid,
And was not over thing of shame
A painted coffin lid;
I saw in thee no common life,
That would in beauty tread,
A part of every splendid strife—
But thou art dead.

780

My blood runs in thy niggard veins,
We claim a kindred stock,
But thou dost shrink from clansmen's pains,
And blench at battle shock;
The shadow of a craven pride
Pursues thy path, like night,
And stalks for ever at thy side,
And blinds thy better sight;
The course of thy heroic sires,
By wondering worlds was read,
Who passed for brothers through the fires—
But thou art dead.

I sought thee, in the arméd field,
Where serried squadrons fight,
But thou hadst cast away thy shield,
In safe and sordid flight;
I saw thee, in the Senate, girt
With peers that empire propt,
But only found the casual dirt
Thy fleeting foot had dropped;
I sought thee, where calm justice rears
Its awful equal head,
And fashions laws of blood and tears—
But thou art dead.

I sought thee, by the sufferer's bed,
Assuaging hopeless ill,
Whence all but comfort's voice had fled—
And thou wast dancing still;
I sought thee, in the busy hive
Of labour's iron charms,
And marked thee, not where toilers strive,
Laid in a wanton's arms;
I sought thee, in the holy courts,
Where praying hands are spread,
And heard thee cursing at thy sports—
But thou art dead.

Ah, I disown thee as my lord,
I will not follow him,
Who only wears a paper sword,
And swayed by every whim;
Who if not buried is a corpse,
To debts of duty blind,
That harlot Fashion fools, and warps
To its own harlot mind;
Who cannot bravely lead his clan,
And is by follies led
Or dainties of his kitchen pan—
But thou art dead.

781

Ah, what is nature crowned with joy,
With laughter in her breath,
Below the gilding of the toy,
But decorated death?
And what art thou, O recreant chief,
Beneath thy pomp, and might
Of rank and riches, but a thief
That filches honour's right?
For fallen art thou into deeps
Lower than plummet lead,
And over thee wan England weeps—
But thou art dead.

THE NEW REFORMATION.

Hark, the oracle has spoken,
But what promise it may bring,
Mumbling out its message broken,
That is quite another thing;
Misty words, that have no meaning,
Limp as strumpets without stays,
Doubtful sense and sentence, leaning
Half a dozen different ways;
Murky views of musty German,
Blinking blindly like a bat
Into day, though none determine
What the devil he is at.

Rénan, Reuss, and Strauss who spells mere
Pretty myths in Bible fact,
Boiled with watery Robert Elsmere,
Till the suffering kettle crackt;
Baur and Martineau and Spencer,
Huxley and his croaking frogs,
Mixed and muddled into denser
Dust, from fusty catalogues;
Learnéd nonsense, like Lux Mundi,
Or Nox Mundi—which is it?
With a dash of Mrs. Grundy,
Just to make the folly fit.

Ah, the oracle is vaguer
Far than oracles of old,
When through moonlight song and saga,
Ran a glorious thread of gold;
Then was method in the fables,
Pledge of an undying youth,

782

Not from red dissecting tables
Mangled limbs of murdered Truth;
Flashed then lightning with the thunder,
If the ore some rubbish girt,
And from clouds that burst asunder
Stept Divinity, not Dirt.

Now our Piety and Learning
Work, as scavengers, in gloom,
Leave the dust, and dogma spurning
Call to worship of their broom;
This is the “New Reformation,”
Destitute of light and love,
With a ragged revelation,
That can scarce be from above;
Lies at last will find their level,
Though false prophets' conjuring rod
Turn our God into the Devil,
And the Devil into God.

MY FOUR DARLINGS.

Ten and wayward, blithe and blonde,
Precious as a Louis
d'or, and boy-like shyly fond—
Such is little Cooey;
Proud, reserved, and glad to give
Of her tiny treasure,
Quite content a while to live
In another's pleasure;
Moody, prone to manage all
With a state to keep up,
And, though each one's willing thrall,
Tempest in a tea-cup.

Eight and fragile, small and trim,
Dainty, true and tender,
Face of glowing Seraphim,—
Such is little Wenda;
Blue eyes, that with wondrous tears
Overflow too often,
And when vanished are her fears,
Sweet to laughter soften;
Sociable and kind, and yet
Just a trifle selfish
Sometimes, with her toys beset,
Shut in like a shell-fish.

783

Seven and fair, with devious ways,
Fond of cats and guinea
Pigs, but not of any stays—
Such is little Winnie;
Not averse to dolls, and mud
Pies in quiet corners,
Dear, domestic, and a bud
Meant to brighten mourners;
Coy, but (breaking nurse's band)
Merry as a starling,
Everybody's torment, and
Everybody's darling.

Five and noisy, dark, and ripe—
As, we'll say, a strawberry—
For a bottle or a pipe—
Such is little Aubrey;
Given to analytic joys
And unearthly vowels,
With a hand that all his toys
Daily disembowels;
Plumping on his mother's best
Bonnet, then a rover
Some pet creature to molest,
Boy of boys all over.

THE GRAND OLD WOMAN.

Talk of woman, as you will,
She's a splendid creature,
Whether with a golden till,
Or a Grace in feature;
But, for subjects, there is one
We delight to honour,
Who has nothing dirty done,
Pure as a Madonna;
Queen Victoria (bless her name!)
Has a heart all human,
Without fear and without blame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.

Fifty years and more have proved,
In their service loyal
To her country, she is moved
By a nature Royal;
Fifty years and more, that brought
Cares and snares not lighter,

784

Yet for her have only wrought
Crown of glory brighter;
Fifty years and more have past,
Left her richly human—
Wife and Mother—to the last,
She's the Grand Old Woman.

Queens there are of every kind,
Some devoid of feeling,
Pulling down the window blind
At the first appealing;
Closing to the shutters hard
On the precious pocket,
If a beggar or a bard
Thinks he may unlock it;
Some are feminine in name
Merely, ours is human
Through and through her kindly frame—
She's the Grand Old Woman.

Long may good Victoria live
Yet, and with affection
Such as Royalty can give,
Show us God's direction;
Till, the soul no baseness thralled,
Soul the peril nigher
More heroic found, is called
To a kingdom higher;
True to trust upon her laid,
True with weakness human,
True in debts of duty paid—
She's the Grand Old Woman.

JENNY.

Sweet and shy,
Sweet and shy,
With the dusky locks and the blue-gray eye,
That has stolen its beauty from the sky
And the cheeks that are red roses;
With the head bent down,
As beneath a crown,
In the daintiest of poses;
Shy and sweet,
Shy and sweet,
With the delicate form and the tripping feet,
Where the sunlight and the moonlight meet,
And all golden as a guinea;
With the saintly look,
As of gospel book,
Is the Queen of maidens, Jenny.

785

Dark and soft,
Dark and soft,
As the midnight on a summer croft,
With the west wind low and the stars aloft,
She is true as steel, and tender
As the mating dove,
When it murmurs love
In the springtide at its splendour;
Soft and dark,
Soft and dark,
With a breast that hides a heavenly spark,
And a face where sadness sets its mark,
But as dewdrops in the spinny,
With a brighter hue
From the arching blue—
There is no one quite like Jenny.

Fond and fair,
Fond and fair,
With a halo on the glorious hair,
With an angel walk and an angel air,
And the lips of crimson coral,
The despair of Art,
That in music part,
With some pure delicious moral;
Fair and fond,
Fair and fond,
She has tones that bid you not despond,
And that echo up to heights beyond;
You would never note the whinny
Of your favourite steed,
Nor another heed,
If you only heard my Jenny.

THE BLUE HOURS.

My favourite season, you should know, sweet madam,
Is not when sunlight falls,
Nor when to stroll with some blest son of Adam,
Thee, darling, even calls;
It is not when the festive speech is spoken,
And friends are gathered round,
With jest and laughing sound,
To toast the fair, and social bread is broken;
But when with silent thrill
Each earthly voice is still,
And early morning brings with magic powers
Blue hours.

786

Yes, I am happy, if alone, unbothered
By the most tender talk,
When with bold front (in blanket base not smothered)
I hear the spirits walk;
In fearful rapture then I look, and listen
With ears both open wide,
As ghostly garments glide,
And in the glooming dreadful faces glisten;
My flesh begins to creep,
From haunted lands of sleep
Descend upon me, like uncanny showers,
Blue hours.

Then even the prettiest woman blue is painted,
By that cadaverous light,
The purest innocent is all unsainted
In nimbus of blue night;
And on round cheek the fairest reddest roses,
That shamed the sunset hue,
Are changed to ghastly blue,
That does not spare the most celestial noses;
The very snow, that slips
As kisses on dead lips,
Assumes, with awful and unearthly dowers,
Blue hours.

When one great darkness now all things is over,
And the church clock strikes two,
And like a flying cloud the belfry rover,
Goes, stuttering “Who are you?”
Then does my daring fancy love to revel,
And like a conjuror calls
Wild shadows on the walls,
And skeletons from graves, and plays the devil;
Then blue my candle burns,
And bluer still it turns,
While dimly grimly pass, as from blue bowers,
Blue hours.

LAUGHING PHILOSOPHY.

(“Life is to those who think a comedy.”)

Cares and snares are like a fetter
On the person and the purse,
But no moping makes us better,
It can only edge the curse;

787

Men are born to toils and trials,
And they may not banish fears,
Though the trouble of denials
Never was improved by tears;
Sorrow is the soul's anointing,
Pain our portion—more than half,
Every day is disappointing—
Therefore live and laugh.

Woes will come, and death is master
Over our poor bodies' ill,
But we yet may turn disaster
Into gain, by gallant will;
We may pluck a song from sadness,
Of which pleasure is not lord,
For the neck find wreath of gladness,
If within the hangman's cord;
But there is no food in fretting,
No despair doth comfort give,
Like the wisdom of forgetting,
Therefore laugh and live.

Some may reap a larger measure
Of the fishes and State loaf,
But a cheery heart is treasure
Shared alike by earl and oaf;
Some have meat without the gravy,
Some must merely drumsticks eat,
But the best confess Peccavi,
And the Devil cannot cheat;
Be not dragged by bane or Berry,
As to slaughter house a calf
Tamely, while you may be merry—
Therefore live and laugh.

Comes to all the ultimatum,
That snuffs out the Royal gas;
Vanitas O vanitatum,
Omnia sunt vanitas!
But, though every one is mortal,
Young as old, even prolix Pat
Ever knocking at our portal,
Do not be disturbed by that;
God is good—aye, God is better
Than the system or the sieve,
Which but keeps the lying letter—
Therefore laugh and live.

This title is copyright.

788

THE SQUEAMIST.

Have you seen the Squeamist lately,
Have you heard him talk,
Mincing up and down sedately
In his solemn walk?
Slow and sleepy,
Cold and creepy
With his pious frown
At some wicked noun,
Here he turns from fleshly dances,
There he sneers at games of chances,
Or the ribbons of romances
On a worldly gown.

Have you seen the squeamist, posing
Like a funeral bell,
Burying the truth, and nosing
Out some nasty smell?
Sneaky, snaky,
Rabid, raky
In the rotten hole,
He miscalls his soul,
How he masks in moral dresses,
Over all the vilest messes,
Which at heart he still caresses,
While he damns the whole.

Have you seen the Squeamist, playing
With his favourite pitch,
Till he tumbles, cursing, praying,
In the nearest ditch?
Sleek and slimy,
Grim and grimy,
He protests at vice,
Sins in secret nice,
Though the dungheap is his level,
And his fancy does the devil,
And beneath his sackcloth revel
All corruption's lice.

Have you seen the Squeamist, squirming
In a nobler air,
Worrying the great, and worming
Into lion's lair?
Stale and sticky.
Trite and tricky,
He disdains not pelf
From a richer shelf,
If he storms at starry teaching,
Worlds above his petty reaching,
He (while better men impeaching)
Only blacks himself.

789

“ALWAYS WRONG.”

Blind to all her beauty, without notion
Save of brutal selfish aims,
Taking as a thing of course devotion
Such as Russian despot claims;
Cold was he and hard, a master cruel
To his gentle faithful wife,
Heedless of the precious heavenly jewel
In that bright and blameless life;
Her he flung the scraps of the affection
Only for his stable strong,
Sure, if dog or man defied detection,
She was always wrong.

Her sweet ministries of office lowly
He to evil basely turned,
Careless how the lamp of loving holy
In her woman's bosom burned;
Truth was made of his false nature portion,
By a sordid narrow mind,
As by mirror cracked, with dark distortion
Into error most unkind;
Every note she struck he rudely strangled,
Like a discord in a song,
All she said or did he mocked and mangled—
She was always wrong.

Vain her tender service, vainly squandered
Loyalty that knew not bounds,
When his heart (in crib or kennel) pondered
But on horses or on hounds;
All her purest homage was mistaken,
Though she simply strove to please,
While abode he sensual, and unshaken
In his vulgar swinish ease;
Right to him the tending of his cattle,
Right the welcome dinner gong,
And most right the lying pothouse tattle—
She was always wrong.

Then she sickened, and the link was parted
Binding him to one so good,
Yet from no disease but broken-hearted,
Murdered and misunderstood;
Till the angel came whose face is hidden,
Though his presence still is rest,
And received her, bruised and spent and chidden,
In the refuge of his breast;
But she sobbed, her last breath feebly flying,
She who greatly served him long,
“If I erred in living, now, by dying,
Am I always wrong?”

790

TO A PURIST

Never go to foreign climes,
Where wild flowers and gentry
Always make their entry,
Naked, at most awkward times
Never stop in sculptor's pale,
Lest a naughty statue,
Naked should look àt you—
If you don't possess a veil
Never, when you go to bed,
Light a prying candle,
Lest some scurvy scandal
On your naked frame be shed.

Never, for domestic cats,
Take the Toms as mousers,
While you put in trousers
Table legs and pegs for hats;
Never look at Highland braves
Who have not our riches,
And march without breeches,
And kick out disgusting calves
Never heed barefooted boys,
Though their tears be recent,
Who are so indecent,
And delight in naked joys.

Never note a pretty face,
Stick to kit and curate,
And be most obdúrate,
To uncovered ball-room grace;
Never glance at undressed arms,
Rot with prudes and spinsters,
Ancient men and ministers,
Who can boast of sober charms;
Never go abroad at night
Lest the dainty garter
Of some Traviata,
Shock your unprotected sight.

Never call a spade a spade,
Bathe not in the water
Nude posterior quarter,
Shut the daylight out with shade;
Never in a volume look,
Lest the name of sinner,
(Harlot) spoil your dinner,
Though it be the Blessed Book;
Never own one manly creed,
Be a mere old woman,
Everything but human,
Still be proper and be d---d.

791

DONNA JUAN.

Old fogeys give me a bad name,
I really scarce know why,
And if my talk you ever blame,
You cannot call it dry;
Nor would I lightly care to vex
Good people, and be bold,
But then the freedom of my sex
Is what I must uphold;
The rights of woman, who has long
The burden borne too well,
And the deep burning sense of wrong,
Constrain me to rebel.

And so I mix on equal terms,
With pilgrims of the Park,
And study passion's hidden germs,—
If sometimes in the dark;
Of course, my uncurbed fancy takes
No orthodoxy's flight,
I liberally deal with “rakes,”
And call a “spade” aright;
Appearances I do not dread,
Nor words of solemn sound,
Archbishops could not make me tread
The stale old stupid round.

Let critics rather call me fast,
Than dowdy, dull, or slow,
For I have broken with the Past,
And its pale proper show;
Dead Institutions are my pet
Aversions, and the sham
Of fossil forms I don't forget,
And delicately damn;
I've left poor Custom and that fudge,
To babies led by string,
And forward hasten, and why grudge
Me just an honest fling?

Men have their innings had, and now
We turn another page,
And Donna Juan makes her bow,
And steps upon the stage;
We cannot do much worse than males,
Who keep us under ban,
And, lo, the Tripos tells us tales,
Of what sweet woman can;
And here, though every prude should pout,
I'll snap Decorum's chain,
And smoke and drink and flirt about,
Nor be a slave again.

792

DONNA QUIXOTE.

A champion I've been of the poor,
Since I began to weep,
And how to brighten their dark door
I babbled in my sleep;
I did not care for dainty dolls,
However long their hair,
And most excruciating Polls
To me were nowise fair;
Unlike all babes, I used to lothe
The bottle and the bibs,
And only dreamed that I could clothe
The babes in ragged cribs.

And ere I cut a single tooth,
I formed such serious plans
Of grants for beggars and Maynooth,
And broth in public pans;
Free education was my cry,
When first I practised thought,
And whence the State could best supply,
Old women news for nought;
I knew what perils lurked in beer,
While yet in girlish frocks,
And could (with any Premier) steer
Our country on the rocks.

My name is Donna Quixote, sir,
On platforms am I seen,
And ther's a little glow or stir,
Wherever I have been;
In each grand MOVEMENT do I take
A fine and foremost part,
And with my breezy whisper, shake
The masses' mighty heart;
I play with statesmen as with straws,
Who would the people rob,
And oft appeal from unjust laws
Unto the glorious MOB.

I have a Journal, too, to hold
The grounds whereon I stand,
And maxims great, by which I mould
The nation to my hand;
I flutter in the highest ranks,
And air new social creeds,
And grateful Princes murmur thanks
For all my noble deeds;
I don't believe in very much,
Though Spencer is my Sage
With Evolution, and of such
I build the Golden Age.

793

THE LOST LORD.

He clasps me in a husband's arms,
And gives me many a kiss,
He praises me and pets my charms,
Yet him I seem to miss;
I lie unsleeping by his side,
On our dear nuptial bed,
While, severed as by ocean wide,
His spirit far hath fled;
For, though the loving lips may sigh,
The soul doth not confess,
And he himself is never nigh,
And cold seems each caress.

He loved me once, his noble brow—
As blossoms turn to light—
For ever followed me, but now
He seeks some other sight;
We sit together at our meals,
We mix in social throngs,
Our voices blend, but all reveals
A discord in the songs;
Nor do we oft take different parts
In pleasure or in toys,
Though yawns a gulf between our hearts,
That saps the sweetest joys.

And when affection turns to him,
Where it would ever stay,
I know, if outward signs be dim,
His own is far away;
He duly drives me round the Park,
He duly walks with me,
And will to faintest whisper hark,
But still it is not he;
Our likings do not rudely rub,
He visits only where
I visit, not in any club,
And yet he is not there.

He brings me presents every day,
And makes my boudoir sweet
With summer flowers, but what are they,
When spirits do not meet?
The light that sparkled in his look,
And sparkled but for me,
Read clearly as in open book,
I now no longer see;
Though not by doom of cruel sword,
And not in darkness blind,
Have I not lost my dearest lord,
And shall I ever find?

794

“VICTA CATONI.”

O brother, why I cannot tell,
But ever from a child,
With instinct true if wild,
I learned to reason and rebel
Against the spur, and bridling span
That shut the noblest in
To sorrow and to sin,
And gave the reins to bigots' plan;
I learned, in Nature's wiser school,
A grand and godlike hate
Of that unequal fate,
Which crowned the coward or the fool.

I heeded not what rulers said,
Who treated man as dog,
Nor power of pedagogue,
If they but burdens on me laid;
I heeded not what preachers taught,
Who chafing peoples chid,
And nothing better did
Themselves, though hard their victims wrought;
I heeded not the penal blows,
And broke that petty box,
The dead and orthodox,
With all its windbags and vain shows.

Truth was my first and darling choice,
And my young fearless pride
Embraced her as a bride,
And caught each whisper of her voice;
But not the Thing, on bloody throne,
Tired in a harlot's grace,
With bold and painted face,
That long had lost the virgin zone;
Nay, rather Truth, that, under rags,
If with no honoured name,
Had kept a maiden frame,
Though stifled with the hangman's gags.

I loved the champions of the Right,
The suffering, and the weak
Who ventured not to speak,
But turned their foreheads to the Light;
And falsehood, aping what was good,
The foremost at the feast,
Upheld by prince and priest;
Though vanquished yet I still withstood;
I trod the troubled upward way,
While Baäls all of earth,
That temples made of dearth,
With all their thunders strove to stay.

795

PRINCESS RITA.

Dark-eyed, true and tall,
Clad in gipsy shawl
Flung like flame across the shapely shoulder,
Flashing, more than any speech,
Looks in which the lights of sunset smoulder,
Feared and yet beloved by each;
Dark-eyed, tall and true,
With an orient hue
Flushing, as a fire that burns its way
Into something fairer, sweeter
Than the earthly bounds of common clay—
Princess Rita.

Dark-haired, pale and proud,
Radiant as a cloud
Borne on magic wings of midnight splendour,
Marking all her conquering course
With the grace as of an infant tender,
Though with a restrainéd force;
Dark-haired, proud and pale,
Like a summer gale,
Wandering over sea, and land, and still,
As it wanders, waxing fleeter,
Bending all things to its devious will—
Princess Rita.

White-robed, soft and slight,
Mingling day and night
Into one superb and sudden sweetness,
While she gathers beauty more
From that two-fold world and its completeness,
Dusky dross as well as precious ere;
White robed, slight and soft,
As in niche aloft
Stands a saint, above yet of this life,
Pointing as to marvels, meeter
Than this hateful round of haggling strife—
Princess Rita.

Heavenly, though of earth,
Hungering in its dearth
For the freshness of the hidden fountains,
Where an angel at the first,
Walking in the rapture of the mountains,
Deep she quenched her holy thirst;
Earthly, though of heaven,
With the human leaven,
Savouring of the richness of the soil,
Muddy garment made to greet her
And be glorified by godlike toil—
Princess Rita.

796

BLOOD MONEY.

Hasten the old woman's tedious dying,
Hurry her off from the stage
Hung as in black with her querulous crying,
Made not for burdens like age;
She, on the milk of the land and the honey,
Long has been fattened, and we
Now want our share of the good things, and money
Meant for a funeral spree;
What if the doctor suspects, or is certain
Drugs should her sickness have cured?
Slip off the pillow, and draw down the curtain;
For she's insured.

True the old woman was not a bad mother
Once, but remember the gain,
And it were kind with a blanket to smother
Such grim contortions of pain;
Drink, girls, although there is blood on the bottle
Drink will support us the best,
Just in a minute that clamour to throttle,
Spoiling our comfort and rest;
Coroners are not severe on a sinner,
When to these doings inured,
Inquests too might interfere with a dinner—
And she's insured.

Hang the old woman, she keeps us all waiting,
Dying so long and so hard,
When I by rights should be else where, and baiting
Neddy (the ass) in the yard;
Who would suppose, with these days of starvation,
Stript of her bed-clothes, and reft
Clean of what's needful, save parson's oration,
Breath in her body was left?
Still she can bother us with her affection,
Woes for us children endured,
Plague us with Scripture and home recollection—
But she's insured.

Ah, the old woman, in spite of her bleeding
Wounds, bitter tears, and white hair,
Now, girls, at last must be helped by a speeding
Up to a happier air;
Choke her, the nuisance, she loves us and lingers—
Aye, and the meat getting cold—
No one will see the blue print of the fingers,
While we shall collar the gold;
There—it is done—and the fools must be juggled
Somehow, and we are secured,
Though she was game to the finish and struggled;
And she's insured.

797

QUEEN OF THE GIPSIES.

Brown as a berry,
Stately and tall,
Beautiful very,
Mistress of all;
Ah, she is queen of the gipsies, and goes
Hither and thither, and never finds foes
Finds none but friends in the lofty and least,
Playmate of Nature, the bird and the beast;
Each is aspirant,
Gladly to crown
Her, as sweet tyrant,
Beautiful brown.

Willowy, slender,
Perfect in plan.
Touched with a splendour
Hardly of man;
Star of the evening she moves, at her feet
Stones turn to kisses her passage to greet;
Over dark eyes fall dark lashes, and hide
Wonderful visions of womanly pride;
Sunny, not serious
Even her frown,
Softly imperious,
Beautiful, brown.

Born in a hovel—
Though crownèd queen,
Truer in novel
Nowhere were seen;
Royalty breathes in each gesture, and grace
Not of kings' palaces gives to her face—
Gives to the poetry framed in her form,
Calm of the Sabbath and strength of the storm
Wild as a plover
Haunting the down,
Won by no lover,
Beautiful, brown.

Brown as a berry,
Ripe without art,
Beautiful very,
Outward from heart;
Child of the moorland, and maidenly kind
Ever to others and free as the wind,
Taught but by labour and knowing not fear.
Yet unashamed of an innocent tear;
Dust of her toiling
Jewels the gown,
Noble with soiling,
Beautiful, brown.

798

A BABY'S PRICE.

First his little shoes I sold,
Then the knitted socks
Followed, then (in spite of cold)
All his broidered frocks;
There he shivers in his bed,
Under tatters thin,
Sheets and blankets long have fled—
For the cursèd gin;
None will lend me fitting food,
Howsoe'er I lie,
And though he is very good,
Baby now must die.

Soak I will, at any cost,
For I cannot think,
Character and all are lost—
But the power to drink;
Every stick at last is gone,
That a penny gives,
And the raging thirst gnaws on,
While my darling lives;
He's a burden too, and brings
Trouble in his track,
Nothing earns, and to me clings—
Baby now must pack.

He's insured, a pretty sum,
And one tiny twist—
Just a finger and a thumb—
Might the end assist;
That's not murder—he would go,
Shortly—it's too late,
Him to keep for sadder woe,
From a certain fate;
Children are so cheap, and this
Only death will buy,
Though he pleasant is to kiss—
Baby now must fly.

One more squeeze—another yet—
Fondly trusts he still,
Sure his mother won't forget,
Never means him ill;
Bless his pretty eyes and lips,
And those loving ways,
That sweet throat the demon grips,
While he mutely prays;
Ha, the money's mine, and gin
Better far than bread,
Soon will drown the needful sin—
Baby now is dead.

799

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

Fair and white and straight and stainless,
Up to kindred Heaven she grew,
Not through stages poor and painless,
Nursed by every storm that blew;
Every bitter blast a purer
Grace upon her person laid—
Wrought by travail pangs securer
Beauty, to a perfect maid;
Cold and heat and fierce affliction,
Bent beneath her patient will,
Turned to angel benediction,
Left the Lily whiter still.

Fair and dark, a ruddy blossom
Dashed with showers and shadowy dust,
Baring an undaunted bosom
Freely to the wild wind's lust;
Set in guardian thorns, that cruel
Pierced the hand those charms would draw,
While they kept the glorious jewel
Safe with its own wanton law;
Change and chance, the crushed-out sweetness
Gained from every grinding ill,
Even its scars and incompleteness,
Made the Rose more lovely still.

Fairer, whiter yet, and sainted
For Pantheons of the pure,
High above all sin, untainted
By the most enticing lure;
With her heart in Heaven, and living
In its light, that laid on all
Glory it could not help giving,
Calm as sanctuary wall;
Power despised, and goodly treasure
Gathered from the mine or mill
Spurned, and each resisted pleasure,
Left the Lily farther still.

Fairer, darker yet, in clouding
Of rude contact with the clay
Common to us all, the shrouding
Shed from breaking of the day;
Oh, she hourly shoots expanded
Fresh to kisses of the sun,
And the tempest she commanded,
Who its shaking did not shun;
Thus communion with the sinner's
Cares, the market and the till,
Grief of losers, joy of winners,
Made the red Rose nearer still.

800

THE INNOCENTS.

Thou wee helpless thing,
Baby,
Who could ever bring,
Baby,
Pain or sickness, want or wounds, to thee,
With the woes that follow after?
When thy dawning day should brightly be,
Ringed with rainbow of gay laughter,
Rich in happiness, and love
Fitting fair and tight,
As make pretty hand and glove
One delight.

O sweet tender thing,
Baby,
Only made to cling,
Baby,
Round a mother's neck, and fondly frame
From the trust that passes seeing,
Wealth of rapturous union, and the same
Perfect bliss of perfect being;
Why, a burden unto some,
Dost thou suffer so,
If unwanted thou shouldst come,
But to go?

Thou soft winsome thing,
Baby,
Fashioned for a king,
Baby,
Meant to govern every human heart,
As a gentle loving tyrant,
And to lift by ways of heavenly art,
Grovelling breasts to be aspirant;
But if all unduly born,
Out of marriage tie,
Sold to fiends in kindly form,
Just to die.

O dear dainty thing,
Baby,
Under death's black wing,
Baby,
Cast and cuddled on a she-wolf's breast,
Worse than the sepulchral portal,
Never now to know a moment's rest,
In that grip whose kiss is mortal;
Grudged the common meed of life,
Shared by very beast,
Slowly sapped with hungry strife,
In the feast.

801

Thou bright angel thing,
Baby,
Bird-like meant to sing,
Baby,
Tunes that God Himself alone hath taught,
Who the fairest of his creatures,
Thee at first endowed, and richly wrought
With Divine and glorious features;
Born to feed, that Moloch flame
Pity cannot quell,
For the bloody gold of shame—
Pact with hell.

O lost homeless thing,
Baby,
Pierced by fatal sting,
Baby,
Left by last on thy rejoicing morn,
Innocent and pure in meetness,
Rudely shaken now, and fiercely torn
Into crushed and crumpled sweetness;
Doomed by devils, who suck gain
Out of nameless woes,
From thy agonies of pain—
Dying throes.

AN EAGLE'S NEST.

An eagle's nest,
Built on the waving tops of wooded hills,
Where shadows rest,
And the deep heart of Nature throbs and thrills
With thunderous rapture, when the demon wakes
That music makes
Of broken branches, and the wounded pines
His arm entwines;
Where wanton wandering winds can never sleep,
And shakes its shrouded form,
With stammering lips that madly laugh and weep,
The storm.

On rocky perch,
Rich with the memories of its many years,
The hoary church,
A beacon light its rugged belfry rears,
A wrinkled shape that now for centuries seven
Still points to Heaven,
And tells the crowded dead that round it lie
Love cannot die;

802

And for the children whom its worship charms,
Beneath that sacred dome,
Spreads in the Sabbath of its ancient arms
A home.

With poet's heart,
A shy and cloistered man the Rector lives
His reverend part,
And of his scanty substance freely gives
What he can hardly spare, and precious thought
None ever bought,
And pearls of wisdom from the ocean mines
That wit refines;
And works in secret kindness (as he prays)
Which humbly yet he hides,
Among the souls his wisdom gently sways
And guides.

Along the road,
Sesquipedalian tower, the doctor swings,
And bears the load
Of others' pangs, that sickness daily brings—
A landmark quite—who lends a ready ear
To every fear,
And has a pleasant word for weaker clay
In cottage gray;
His portly presence breathes a cheery balm
From his own vital health,
And sheds on trembling shades the blessed calm
Of health.

The foundry here,
By day a cloud, at night a pillared fire,
Its lurid sphere
Torments, as looks to Heaven some large desire,
That born in gloom breaks with its burning hope
The envelope
Of darkness, leaping to its native light,
The inner sight;
And there the forge the stirring strain it knows
For ever grimly chants,
While like a thing in pain the furnace glows
And pants.

The master smith,
A rugged man, hewn as of granite rock
With iron pith,
Fronts the whole world and bears unmoved the shock;
Just, self-reliant, brave, and strong in right
Whereon his might
Is centred, he plants steadfast feet on earth
Whose moorland dearth

803

He turns to power and plenty, while his heart
In music dwells and clings
To sacred Sion's peaks, in praise apart,
And sings.

The farmer plods
About the stony fields his patience tames,
That grudging clods
Sweats into gold which yet his voice disclaims;
Cumbered with serving, yet a genial man
Of prudent plan,
He orders, rules, his teams and toilers bends
To prosperous ends;
In spite of dreadful times and falling wheat,
A costly cart he drives,
Or in the County Council holds a seat,
And thrives.

The labourer, still
And stalwart, buckles to his daily task,
A stubborn will
Concealed behind a smug and smiling mask;
Though underfed and underpaid, big thews
He yet renews
With stern robustness, in the dreary round
Of prison bound;
If sometimes through his poor ill-furnished brain,
Moves in the murmuring dark,
From blaze of frantic schemes of future gain,
A spark.

Old Grannie Gray,
The nurse, Lucina, friend of rich and poor,
Her kindly way
Pursues, and welcome finds at every door;
The children kiss her seamed and trembling hand,
And staring stand,
Attentive to the stories none can tell
So wisely well
As she, who saw the giants in her youth,
And, wakeful in strange posts,
Snatched awful visions of forgotten truth,
And ghosts.

Here scandal's track
Is marked and measured by the filthy tale,
Whose creeping clack
At first a whisper, then a winter gale,
Goes scattering seeds of poison, that take root
And deadly fruit
Bear; till, beneath each flower and bower of bliss
The serpent's hiss

804

Is darkly heard; and still, where all is fair,
Its murderous trade it plies,
And even in virgin breast it makes its lair
Of lies.

The children lift
Sweet piping trebles, at their simple games,
And rudely rift
The veil of silence with shrill sharp-edged names;
Or, at their lessons in the crowded school,
Against the rule,
Low voices hum, as wind among the trees,
Or swarming bees;
And there the Rector's feet are often set,
Who loves the Scripture hour,
Unknown, unhonoured by the world, and yet
A power.

Rise rounded heights,
That carry beeches to their very tops,
And catch the lights,
In splendid splashes or in twinkling drops,
And gently slope tier behind tier, in mist
Of amethyst
Or rose to sunset, as they fade and fly
Into the sky;
A forest land, that in its winding scrolls
The hills with foliage frames,
While through the valley it enriches rolls
The Thames.

THE T'OTHER WORLD.

I am just a simple plain ole body,
And a woman, if ye please,
One who likes at times a glass of toddy,
As it gives the in'ards ease;
But a tiny drop of comfort, mostly
When the lamp be burnin blue,
And the sights and sounds is getting ghostly,
And the footstep doant fall true;
I mebbe no scholard, as at Girton
The young ladies coached and curled,—
A mere “ignorama”—but I'm certain
Of the t'other wurld.

As to present things, I be a sceppick,
It appear a wurld of lies
After suppm, if the fiend dyspeppick
His pursuits of darkness plies;

805

Then, it look a wurld of dreams and phantoms,
And with no sort of solid pegs—
A delusion, like my purty bantam's,
When she sat on addled eggs;
But, if made of sugar-plums, or brimstone
On the guilty rebels hurled,
I am sure, as of my favourite hymn's tone,
Of the t'other wurld.

I am only an honest workin body,
And I never were at school,
But I knows good cloth from shams like shoddy,
And you cannot call me fool;
If I never tried my hand at Science,
And my fancy may be dense,
Yet in business ways I puts reliance,
And I trusts my common-sense;
Ye may stop at the Eiffel or the cellar,
But for me, and perhaps if furled,
There be room for my faithful ole umbreller,
In the t'other wurld.

I woant say I believes in blank damnation,
For the millions of the Show,
For I knows as above is compensation,
For us poor that sweats below;
Theer is summut in my buzzum, nabour,
Though your Huxleys at me scoff,
That assure me when I done my labour,
These here pins 'll be better off;
I aint greedy, as I fears no scorner,
For the garmints gole and pearled,
But I reckuns on a quiet corner,
In the t'other wurld.

THE MAN-WO.

Ah, it is not one of either sex,
And to neither is it dear,
Though combining faults of both, to vex
Victims that may come too near;
Feminine in form alone, and dress
Borrowed from the ancient books—
Not the modern lovely nakedness,
Just a figleaf and some hooks;
All that fashion will not choose to take,
If the fancy farthest go,
It adopts as armour, thus to make
The Man-Wo.

806

Mark, this monster hides in crystal house,
Playing still with lives and straws,
And is death to any man or mouse,
In the compass of its claws;
For, behind the spectacles, it spies
Each defect in Church and State,
Coloured by the jaundice of its eyes,
Blasting like an evil fate;
Nought is sacred to its demon spite,
As it ravens to and fro,
And descends on monarch or on mite
The Man-Wo.

In ill-fitting, ill-assorted clothes,
Out it sallies on the murderous march,
Dealing looks that dreadful are as oaths,
Grim with learnéd stays and starch;
Children know its warpath well from far,
Fly the lips that tightly purse,
Thankful to escape with scratch or scar,
Or the blessing that is worse;
Innocents too young to tell that shape,
Smiling turn to it, and, lo,
Find a terror, human half, half ape,
The Man-Wo.

Free from passions of the earth, and prone
To the penance and the prayer,
Bound with mockery of virgin zone,
Shame wherein it has no share;
Cold and hard and narrow as the grave,
To whate'er is sweet and nice,
Stiff as stones that clammy churchyards pave,
And without one honest vice;
Hating every charm of face or dress,
And each grace, with damning no
For the gifts of Nature meant to bless,—
The Man-Wo.

WHITE HEATHEN.

A man of mighty intellect and aims,
He moves
A giant among men, and centuried claims
Approves,
Before he takes them to his boundless heart,
And makes them of his glorious mind a part;
He knows the proudest life is but a breath,
And death
A deeper life, and he disdains the lot
Of pelf;
And yet, in all his wisdom, he knows not
Himself.

807

Omniscient, he is armed with wondrous lore,
That drains
The treasures of the earth and sky and shore,
And gains
Pearls from the dust, and promise out of nought,
That to his eye is big with beauteous thought;
The rocks he reads, nor is the darkness dim
To him;
On the wild waves, where others feebly sank,
He trod;
But, in his wealthy world, an awful blank
Is God.

A man called Christian, but a heathen still,
He stands
A bulwark of the State, and guides at will
The lands;
He decks his body with the best of gold,
And would not leave his spaniel in the cold,
And gives his mistress way for each new huff
Or muff;
But though refusing not to honest need
Its dole,
He grudges rag or crumb to clothe or feed
His soul.

Complete, and yet in all his riches poor,
As wide
To nothing opens out a dazzling door
Of pride;
Sun-like, and yet in all his brightness dark,
Without redemption of one heavenly spark,
And with his learning that a world would suit
No fruit;
He lacks the one last touch, that never can
Go down—
Without faith's final glory, meant to span
His crown.

So a great temple rises in the air,
And spreads
Round its white wings, and lifts a splendour fair
That treads
The paths of light, with fluted column rich,
The silver shrine, the shy and frosted niche;
While every gift of art and worship bends
To ends
Sublime its service, for the pillared space
And spire;
But, from the laden altar, leaps no grace
Of fire.

808

EPIGRAMS AND TRIFLES.

SIR W. GROVE.

When wearied fancy cares no more to rove,
It finds in thee, great Will, a shady Grove:
To put it plainly, without innuendo,
Art thou a lucus, Sir, a non lucendo?

DR. MORTIMER GRANVILLE.

To storm-tost woman his advice is short,
Take refuge in the best and oldest Port!
“Then” (to himself) “if this should fail to suit her,
I will apply the tap of my percuteur.”

LADY SWEETLIPS.

Lady Sweetlips once asked gallant Admiral Harry
Pitching into her port on return from a trip,
Which vessel was nicest his fortunes to carry:—
So he moored alongside, and piped, “Your ladyship.”

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

Too vast a subject to define,
That varied Doctor Newman—
A poet, preacher, and divine,
And everything but—human.

S. MORLEY.

All Morley touched it turned to gold,
The fairies had his cradle's rocking
No coffer could such treasures hold,
And so he put them in his stocking.

809

THE FIRST WHIG.—(Dr Johnson.)

Very old, very true is the story,
And the lesson it teaches is big—
That (we need not say who was first Tory)
The Devil was quite the first Whig.

TO A MILLIONAIRE THREAD MANUFACTURER.—(Since Bankrupt.)

Your fortune, I am told, is vast,
Your acres widely spread;
But how can that fair fortune last,
That hangs but by a thread?

Ah, it will soon no record leave,
Bound by that feeble band;
Unless the thread to which you cleave,
Is held by God's own hand.

TO A LADY ON THE LOSS OF HER BEAUTY.

Has cruel sickness been thy lot,
That bade thy graces flee?
But love is blind to every blot,
And knows no change in thee.

Thy beauty sweetly to me calls,
With all its ancient art;
'Tis pictured by the memory's walls,
And written in the heart.

Though all the waves of slander toss,
No shadow thee can shame;
My love is conscious of no loss,
And thou art still the same.

THE TRUE PRINCE.

I sent a gift to one in royal place,
And have heard nothing since;
The beggar thanked me with a royal grace;
Now, say, which was the Prince?

810

KING CLOD.

Once low we bowed to ladies' tread,
The gilded coach, the beadle's rod;
But now the dung-cart goes ahead,
And we are governed by King Clod.

THE NEW PEER.

The doctor came and shook his head,
And swore the patient must be bled,
But what the malady might be,
With all his skill he could not see.

He sent the sufferer to his bed,
And hoped the sickness soon would flee.
But ere the night had flitted by,
The patient died, of—Dignity.

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?

“Is our life worth the living?” she sighed
To the barber, with tears in her eye;
“If your hair keeps its gold,” he replied,
“You should certainly never say, Dye.”

Her pet curate she asked in the Zoo,
And he said with unclerical glee;
“A good living with nothing to do,
Is the only good living I see.”

To the doctor she turned with a shiver,
As she told of her terrible nights;
“It's a question,” he laughed, “of the liver,
And a little perhaps of the lights.”

THE FIRST MAN.

Boy, fired with glory's thirst, man,
Said in his simple lad's tone,
When asked, Who was the First man?
“Of course it must be Gladstone.”

811

He is the First man, madam,
Of quite a new creation;
But He has fall'n, like Adam,
And dragged with him the nation.

IRELAND.

Land of black-thorn, black-leg, and reverend rogue
Land of cut-throat, cut-lass, and treason's brogue!
Land of potatoes, pigs, and Sovereign Blarney!
Land of kill-women cowards and Killarney!

THE SECOND STEP.

Though the first step is often bad,
And every one would rather
Avoid it, if the chance he had—
It's worse, man—a step father!

THE VALETUDINARIAN.

Sickness for many suffering years he bore,
And spent on hungry doctors half his wealth;
He had defied a hundred ills and more,
But died at the first symptoms of—good health.

TRUE LOVE.

True love is bounded not by blood,
Estranging mountains or the flood;
'Tis vast as nature, strong as law
That makes the worlds together draw;
And, universal as the air,
Deems itself kin to all that's fair.

DEATH THE LEVELLER.

Death all distinctions levels, Churchyards show
What man was made of, ere he went below;
And thus the Scotsmen, of the highest worth,
Dying return to oatmeal not to earth;
While statesmen and divines who crawled to fame,
Buried and changed to worms will crawl the same.

812

MODERN POETS.

As port and prejudice expound,
In common-rooms their graces;
So modern poets most abound,
In cant and common-places?

PROPRIETY.

Propriety no prouder dream conceives,
Than carriages;
And selfishness its highest form achieves,
In marriages.

THE GOOSE THAT DOES NOT LAY GOLDEN EGGS.

Say, where does folly, free from every shackle,
Evolve its very quintessence and quiddity?
In the official and officious cackle
Of government's stipendiary stupidity.

A PERSONAGE IN POLITICS.

There was an old statesman, alas!
Who lived in a palace of glass;
And he killed all his foes,
How do you suppose?
Heaps on heaps, with the jaw of an ass.

To the halt and the maimed and the blind,
He would offer a “piece of his mind”;
Which they treasured (poor fools!)
Quite as Scriptural rules;
Till at length there was none left behind.

So they then forbade him to speak,
Except once (for his health) in the week;
And they set him to hewing
Down trees, and pursuing
The science of quibbling, and Greek.

813

HUXLEY'S BATHYBIUS.

Oh, what a bathos was in Huxley's brain,
To find the germ of life beneath the main,
And the first throb of Homer's epic chime,
In vile abortions of the ocean slime!
For broader Science, with a brighter gleam,
Has proved Bathybius but a dotard's dream.
But how can mortal scientific be,
Who disbelieves the Book and dines at three?

THE MARQUESS OF QUEENSBERRY.

His blows are favours that opponents rue,
And if not always “tender” they are “true”;
“Hit hard all round!—“this is his lordship's creed—
“And if you are not respected you be d---d!”

DR. RICHARDSON.

Richardson gives us homes, whose bricks are porous,
And calls these houses much the healthiest for us,
But lives himself in walls, by Science hated,
With stones (like his mad schemes) unventilated.

AN EPITAPH.

[Infamy was his fame; he served his Master well]

Infamy was his fame; he served his Master well;
Destruction was his game; he sold all he could sell;
His principle was I; his policy was prate,
He left a reeking Stye, where he had found a State.

A MODERN POLITICIAN.

With loud coarse voice, a coat not free from stain,
A castle tall in Ireland or in—Spain,
Dangerous foe, more dangerous ally,
The slave of slander and “Adullamy,”
The fool of figures and the miser's dole,
To save a penny and to lose a soul,
A Charlatan by choice, a brute by nature,—
—Behold the hero of the Legislature!

814

EPITAPH.

[Here reposes the good Doctor Latitude]

Here reposes the good Doctor Latitude,
Who expired in the godliest attitude,
Whose last word was a holy beatitude,
And to Heaven went off on a platitude,
The poor victim of Goddess Ingratitude.
“Amen, and God bless her.”!
Said his holy successor.
Amen.

THE TAILOR AND HIS WOODEN COAT.

A COMMON EPITAPH.

No coat had I to clothe my naked back,
And all my little stock of goods was gone;
Of sympathizing friends I had no lack,
But all declined to put one garment on.

Then, as the winter gripped my labouring breath,
And I had spent my last long-hoarded groat,
I sought the Tailor whom we misname Death,
Who clad me in his goodly wooden coat.

CLAUDIA.

Said Claudia, in her acid tone,
With that familiar pout;
“God made the world for men alone,
And left poor women out.”

Said I, and gazed with open stare,
At her redundant shelves:
“God knew they would take better care,
Than he could, of themselves.”

GORDON.

He did his duty, his resistless sword
Waved ever in the cause of freedom's will;
He loved his country much and more his Lord,
In peace and war the same true Hero still.

815

THE GOLDEN-HEADED IMAGE.

His head was gold and stood among the stars,
His leg of iron went their wilful way,
That knew no law and mocked even sacred bars,
And yet his feet were wrought of miry clay.
And as, colossus-like, bestriding all,
He dragged the Empire down that gave him trust,
His feet beneath him met the traitor's fall,
And he himself was shattered into dust.

THE GAMBLER.

Stript of his credit, power, and all but shirt,
And stung to frenzy by the sticking stain,
He threw his country's honour in the dirt,
To make a stepping-stone to rise again;
And in the gambler's fond and final cast,
He was so blinded by his fatal pride,
That (contemplating murder to the last)
By his own hand he sank a suicide.

FORTUNE'S FAVOURITE.

His own was every human gift,
To govern and refine,
That above meaner things might lift,
And mingle with Divine;
To him all heaven appeared to ope,
Earth promised all things fair;
Born to beget a nation's hope,
And to bequeathe despair.

WEIGHED AND FOUND WANTING.

He had his golden chances—none had more,
And all a willing world was at his feet;
In him the statesman's craft, the scholar's lore,
With every mental grace conspired to meet.
Men honoured him and hung upon his breath,
Devoted victims to his chariot bound;
But, not on trial faithful unto death,
Weighed in the balance he was wanting found.

816

THE MODERN GALBA.

Omnium consensu capax imperii, nisi imperàsset.”—Tacitus

Most worthy he to rule the land
Were thought, with no denial,
A statesman who would ever stand—
Had he not had the trial.

ROME.

Rome, loving to play fast and loose,
As suits her wise Commander,
Once owed her safety to a goose,
Now to her Propaganda.

THE CHURCH HOUSE.

I

Had the Christian days of old,
Churches wooden, hearts of gold;
Now reversed have we the good,—
Churches golden, hearts of wood.

II

Once, like the Master, knew no rest or home
The Church, whose suffering saints were all her pride;
Now she herself would build a palace dome,
And leave the Master in the cold outside.

CHANGE.

Though dear to mortal man is change,
And sweeter far than honey—
The rolling sea, the mountain range,
And all that stirring is and strange—
The sweetest “change” is money.

817

TO BISHOP KING.

Right reverend Bishop, kindly ever,
Though bigots hate and hunt thee down
With persecution, no endeavour
Can take away thy saintly crown;
If fanatics against thee thunder
Confusion, at their prayers or wine,
And nod the Law and Learning blunder,
Thou rulest yet by right divine;
To Church and faith and duty loyal,
Should coward stab or vermin sting,
Thou hast a heart serenely royal,
And of our love art chosen King.

SUPPER.

Last night I supped with one, who furnished well
My lower story and my upper;
And learnt, where wit and wine together dwell,
One swallow does not make a supper.

PHYSICK.

My child was ailing sore, and I had spent
Upon my sapient doctor many a “fiver,”
When nurse (in whom all wise prescriptions blent)
Cured him for sixpence with some “kid-reviver.”

A PILL FOR THE DOCTOR.

You, who know more of drugs and dollars,
Appealed the other day to scholars,
And calmly said, if I had been a
Scholar I should have said Heléna.
But Homer, who is called a poet,
And had a little Greek, should know it;
And he, unless he strangely fell in a
Mistake, wrote plainly oft of Helena.

TO THE MOSCOW STUDENT.

Greeting to you, Moscow student,
England sends who hears your cry:
Mind you nothing do imprudent,
Only keep your power dry.

818

THE OLD MAN OMNISCIENT.

Proteus has mind of mighty stature,
That mightier looks in worlds of pelf,
Yet little knows of legislature,
A little less of human-nature,
And nought whatever of himself.

THE WOODMAN'S AXE.

The English woodman Ireland sent an axe,
Its upas-tree to shunt,
But bear it could not such a grievous tax,
For it, alas, was—Blunt.

THE “SICK WOMAN.”

The poor “Sick woman's” sufferings would not cease,
It seemed no medicine could assist her,
No skill could give her the desired release,
Not Gladstone's pills nor Balfour's blister;
At last the Doctor said, “Depart in piece,
O Erin sister!”

THE SIERRA LEONE OF POLITICS.

The curse of every Government that fell,
Dead block to business and the dinner bell,
To Opposition doubtful joy, for knave
A life of profit, and the statesman's grave.

WILFRID BLUNT.

The paladins of old went south and north,
Despising prudence and the purse,
But our crusader dares not venture forth,
Unless he has with him his nurse;
No doubt he fights, not always though by day
And takes good care his vessel floats—
Whoever sinks—and dearly loves to play
At hero, behind petticoats.

819

POLITICS.

Ha, said the Devil, if I fail with wine,
Or cannot damn a soul with woman's tricks,
One more and never-failing trap is mine,
—I send my pupils into Politics.

THE ANGEL.

An angel came—I thought in love—
With more than earthly grace and glow;
It was an angel, though not from above,
But from below

W. TAYLER.

Tayler stood in stormy place
Fought in England's need for brothers;
England crowned him—with disgrace;
Wherefore?—To encourage others.

THE PRINCE AND THE DRAGON.

Wise Labouchere, the wit of Town,
Would save a sixpence if he lost a “Crown;”
Though penny-wise, he means no ill;
But thinks we are going down the hill,
And so, to ease the Royal wagon,
He plays the careful part of Drag-on.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S PHOTO ALBUM.

Sweet maiden, earth has many a face
Angelic, and they shine
Out upon scenes that take their grace,
But none so fair as thine.
In this book angels rest a while,
That should to Heaven have flown,
But all the enchantments of their smile
Are borrowed from thy own.
And I could see no beauty here,
Nor one bright angel look,
To soothe a world with autumn sere,
Unless it were thy book.

820

FINANCIAL FOOLING.

Alas, poor England haggled o'er by Labouchere,
Who would it were the market's whining slave,
To sell our honour for a whim or shabby share,
And plant potatoes on his country's grave!
To do subtraction sums, disgrace to schooling,
And drag in dirt a lofty Senate down,
While gagging business with financial fooling,
To skimp with greedy hand a Royal gown?

AN AFRICAN STUDY.

It's a cynical fact, but then his is the stain,
That returned was our medal by proud Duke Palmella,
And so now, if it chance decorations to rain,
We can only present him with—Gladstone's umbrella.
But, in hopes that his ill-advised ardour may cool,
Ere he swagger about under ignorant banners,
We once more recommend him to study at school
Geographical facts and some little good manners.

A FOOL.

I met a fool among the masses,
Who cried no work had he;
Said I, “Our Lord made use of asses
And will make use of thee.”

DR. WHEWELL.

Said the omnisapient Whewell,
Though his words were somewhat cruel,
If a lady cries,
And intrudes upon your sleeping—
If you wish to stop her weeping,
“Dam her eyes.”

THE MODERN PHŒNIX.

The Ancient Phœnix, but once, from its ashes,
More beautiful rose up on wondrous wings;
The Modern Phœnix, from a hundred smashes,
Though dead and buried—aye, and damned—upsprings.

821

ILICET.

GOOD NIGHT.

And now for Death, the beautiful and strong,
With which so many years
This breaking heart hath lived, that turned to song
The sadness of its fears;
Known to me better far than child or wife,
And (may be) sweeter still
Than these, or the poor thin unliving life
Of anguish born and ill;
Why should I shrink from the appointed end,
That always was in sight—
From the dear face of a familiar friend?
Good night.

Oh, I have loved, through my small humble span,
The suffering and the poor,
And in my measure tried to play the man,
At the dark cottage door;
This straining breast was stabbed by every pain,
If it a brother's thrilled,
And sacrifice I found a richer gain,
That more my coffers filled;
But was my work, in tears and travail done,
A desperate losing fight
Against tremendous odds, although Christ won;
Good night.

I do confess I feebly served my God,
Who here for mercy pray,
And with wild steps that stumbled oft, I trod
The stony upward way;
Though sure I am that under every mask
Which made my worship dim,
My heart of hearts was loyal in its task,
And pointed unto Him;
Perchance too much I valued human praise,
Or basked in earthly light,
But I have loved and others tried to raise—
Good night.

822

It is not death, to which I slowly drift
From this vain fevered strife,
But the great ocean Love, which me will lift
To true and living Life;
I am not going far, I only mount
Into a higher room,
One step, and then the fulness of the Fount,
Whose waters here were gloom;
And though my darlings I may sorely miss,
The parting must be right,
And now I feel the Father's evening kiss—
Good night.

EPILOGUE.

[God, whom my spirit crowns the King]

God, whom my spirit crowns the King,
Whom it delights to serve,
Refulgent on the insect's wing,
As in the rose's curve;
To one has given a glorious thought,
That bridges heaven and earth,
And brightens with a grace unbought
The breast of homeless dearth;
To one a song, the solemn part
Of some eternal chord,
That echoes on in every heart;
To me, a sword.

God girded it with thongs of flame
On this unequal side,
And whispered to me the dread Name
At which the tempests hide;
He breathed into this bosom fire,
From altars of His love,
With wings of infinite desire,
Trembling to Him above;
He bade me never sheathe the blade
Till sin confest Him Lord,
And fallen had ills that curse the shade
Under the sword.

God drew it first, and sacred set
Its lightning in my hand,
With tears of child and woman wet,
And blood of prison band;
He bade me all its terrors beat
On vices veiled and hoar,

823

If sceptred in a royal seat,
Or in a people's roar;
To heed no odds, nor pity rank
That 'scaped the hangman's cord,
And fight till each injustice sank
Under the sword.

God held my hand, and blesséd made
The blow at tyrants hurl'd,
That was almighty when He bade,
Though one against a world;
And it has ever been its wont,
To wave at duty's call
For sufferers, flashing in the front,
Where lusts and liars fall;
But face I could not foemen massed,
Nor those wild torrents ford,
Till I myself had died, and passed
Under the sword.

University of Virginia Library

THE SILENT GODDESS.

PROLOGUE.

BALLADS, &c.

DEDICATION TO MY WIFE.

BETWEEN THE KISS AND THE LIP.

THREADING THE NEEDLE.

BAPTIZED BY FIRE.

MY CREED.—MY HEART AND I.

THE NEW CRUSADE.

PUBLICANS AND SINNERS.

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

“WOMEN MUST WEEP.”

MAN.

GENTLEMAN.

THE TWO PICTURES.

I

II

I

II

I

II

BEAUTY OR BEAST?

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

BEAUTY IN THE BEAST.

THE SONG OF THE SIBYL.

THE MAIDEN WIFE.

A CHRISTMAS CONTRAST.

I.

II.

I.

II.

FIFTY PER CENT. ET CETERA.

PARTING.

THE OLD GOSPEL AND THE NEW.

SI VIS PACEM PARA BELLUM.

THE SHOP GIRL.

BEAUTIFUL MAIDEN.

THE CHILD INNOCENTS.

GOD BLESS THE QUEEN.

CLARA.

ASK ETERNITY.

MY PICTURE.

A BLEEDING BREAST.

IN HONOREM —10 March, 1888.

ALEXANDRA.

UNDER HIS WINGS.

APRIL SKIES.

BROWN BEAUTY.

KEEP YOUR POWDER DRY.

OUR SISTER.

ERIN MA CUSHLA.

ERIN MAVOURNEEN.

LOYAL IRELAND.

THE NORTH EASTER.

COWARD'S CASTLE.

WRIT IN WATER.

BUILT ON SAND.

WORK! 1888.

NATIONAL HYMN.

THE FEAST OF SCIENCE.

WHITE WINGS AND BLUE BREASTS.

OUR FEATHERED DARLINGS.

“BROWN HAND AND WHITE” IN 1886.

THE RUINED GAMESTER, 1886.

THE FAMINE FIEND, 1886.

“UNDER THE RED, WHITE, BLUE.”

BEFORE DAWN.

ONE.

MADE IN HEAVEN.

JACOB'S LADDER..

—AT THE QUEEN'S DRAWING ROOM

THE TWIN SISTERS.

WONDERFUL SNOW.—JULY 1888.

HELL.

BROKEN WINGS.

“TURPE SENILIS AMOR.”

ONCE ONLY.

DAMAGED DARLINGS.

THE DANCE TO DEATH.

“NO SPACE.”
[_]

(Editor.)