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

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,

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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;

122

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.

126

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.

128

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?

129

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,

139

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,

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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,

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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,

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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

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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.

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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,

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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;

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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.

155

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.

156

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.

157

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.

171

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.

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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.

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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.

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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,

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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;

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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.

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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.

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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.

219

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.

224

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—

268

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,

269

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,

270

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,

271

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,

272

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,

274

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,

275

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,

276

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.

277

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.

278

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.

281

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,

293

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.

294

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,

295

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.

317

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.

318

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.

319

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.

320

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.

321

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.

322

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.”

323

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;

324

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—

325

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.

326

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.

327

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.

328

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;

329

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,

330

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,

331

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,

332

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;

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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.

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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.

384

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;

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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?

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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!!”

University of Virginia Library

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.

POCULA CIRCES.

CHORUS.

“NO SPACE.”
[_]

(Editor.)