Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Sir Samuel Ferguson

Ferguson, Samuel (1810-1886)

[dedication]

[section]

THE MORNING'S HINGES.

THE HYMN OF THE FISHERMEN.

BY THE ISIS.

THE WIDOW'S CLOAK.

THE SINKING OF THE MONITOR.

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THE MORNING'S HINGES.

A solis ortûs cardine.
—Sedulius.

I

Where the Morning's hinges turn,
Where the fires of sunset burn,
Where the Pole its burthen weighty
Whirls around the starry hall;
Beings, wheresoe'er ye are,
Ether, vapour, comet, star,
There art Thou, Lord God Almighty,
Thou that mad'st and keep'st them all.

II

Where, on earth, battalioned foes
In the deadly combat close;
Where the plagues have made their stations,
Dropped from Heaven's distempered air;
Where, within the human breast,
Rising hints of thought suggest
Sin's insane hallucinations,
Dread One, Thou art also there.

III

O most Mighty, O most High,
Past Thought's compass, what am I
That should dare Thy comprehending
In this narrow, shallow brain?
Yea, but Thou hast given a Soul
Well capacious of the whole,
And a Conscience ever tending
Right-ward, surely not in vain.

IV

Yea, I'd hinder, if I could,
Wrath and pain and spilling blood;
I would tell the cannon loaded
“Fire not”! and the sabre stay
Mid-cut: but the matter brute
Owns its own law absolute;
And the grains will be exploded,
And the driven iron slay.

V

Deaf the nitre; deaf the steel:
And, if I the Man appeal,
Answer Soldier and Commander,
“We, blind engines, even as these,
“Do but execute His plan,
“Working since the world began,
“Towards some consummation grander
“Than your little mind can seize.”

VI

What! does all, then, end in this,
That, amid a world amiss,
Man must ever be but parcel-
Imperfection? and the soul
Ever thus in poise between
Things contrarient, rest, a mean
Averaged of the universal
Good and ill that make the whole?

VII

No, a something cries within;
No; I am not of your kin
Broods of evil! all the forces
Of my nature answer No!
Though the world be overspread
With the riddle still unread
Of your being, of your sources,
This with sense supreme I know;

VIII

That, behoves me, and I can,
Work within the inner man
Such a weeding, such a cleansing
Of this moss-grown home-plot here,
As shall make its herbage meet
For the soles of angels' feet,
And its blooms for eyes dispensing
Light of Heaven's own atmosphere.

IX

“Yea, what thou hast last advanced,
“Creature, verily thou canst.”
(Hark, the Master!) “Up. Bestir thee;
“And, that thou may'st find the way,
“Things inscrutable laid by,
“Be content to know that I,
“Hoping, longing, waiting for thee,
“Stand beside thee, every day.”

X

Lord, and is it Thou, indeed,
Takest pity on my need,
Who nor symbol show nor token
Vouching aught of right in me?
“I, dear soul,” the Master said,
“Come to some through broken bread;
“Come to some through message spoken;
“Come in pure, free grace to thee.”

BIRD AND BROOK.

Bird that pipest on the bough,
Would that I could sing as thou;
Runnel gurgling on beneath,
Would I owned thy liquid breath;
I would make a lovely lay
Worthy of the pure-bright day.

Worthy of the freshness spread
Round my path and o'er my head;
Of the unseen airs that rise
Incensing the morning skies
As from opening buds they spring
In the dew's evanishing.

Brighter yet, and even more clear
Than that blue encasing sphere,
Worthy of the gentle eyes
Opening on this paradise,
With their inner heavens as deep,
Fresh from youth's enchanted sleep.

Worthy of the voices sweet
That my daily risings greet,
And, to even-song addressed,
Ere we lay us down to rest,
Lift my spirit's laggard weight
Half-way to the heavenly gate.

I would make it with a dance
Of the rhythmic utterance,
With a gambit and retreat
Of the counter-trilling feet
And a frolic of the tone
To the song-bird only known.

With a soft transfusing fall
Would I make my madrigal,
Full as rills that, as they pass,
Shake the springing spikes of grass,
And that ample under-speech
Only running waters reach.

I would sing it loud and well,
Till the spirits of Amabel,
And of Ethel, from their nests,
Caught with new delicious zests
Of the soul's life out-of-door,
Forth should peep, and crave for more.

But, because I own not these,
Oh, ye mountains and ye trees,

Oh, ye tracts of heavenly air,
Voices sweet, and sweet eyes fair
Of my darlings, ye must rest
In my rhyme but half-expressed.

Yea, and if I had them all,
Voice of bird and brook at call,
And could speak as winds in woods
Or with tumult of the floods,
Yet a theme there would remain
I should still essay in vain.

For my soul would strive to raise,
If it might, a song of praise,
All unworthy though it were,
To the Maker of the air,
To the Giver of the life
Breathing round me joyous-rife.

Giver of that general joy
Brightening face of girl and boy,
Sender of those soul-reliefs
Hidden in our boons of griefs,
Lest with surfeit and excess
We surcharge life's blessedness.

Such a lay to frame aright,
Waft me to some mountain-height
Far from man's resort, and bring,
From the world's environing,

All that lives of sweet and strong
To the dressing of the song.

I would clothe its mighty words
With the lowings of the herds
Loosed to pasture; with the shout
Of the monsoon bursting out
Past the Himalayan flanks
O'er the empty Indian tanks.

With a noise of many waves
Would I fill the sounding staves;
Yea, the great sea-monsters make
Of my rapture to partake,
Till their gambollings they'd lend
To the hymn's triumphant end.

But, oh God, at thought of Thee
And of Thine immensity,
All my fancy's gathered powers
Droop and faint as summer flowers
By the high meridian sun
In his glory glanced upon.

And, behold, this earth we tread,
Though the thin film o'er it spread,
Called by men the atmosphere,
Thrill with life's vibrations clear,
Yet achieves its ordered round
Through the heavens, without a sound.

And the worlds that further are
Hold not converse, star with star;
And the comets speeding hither
Through the parted deeps of ether,
Teach through all their lives of law,
Silence is the speech of awe.

So, in awe and wonder mute,
Let the throstle's warbling flute
And the stream's melodious babble
Hint the thoughts unutterable,
Till Himself do touch the wire
Of another David's lyre.

THREE THOUGHTS.

I

Come in, Sweet Thought, come in;
Why linger at the door?
Is it because a shape of sin
Defiled the place before?
'Twas but a moment there;
I chased it soon away;
Behold, my breast is clean and bare—
Come in, Sweet Thought, and stay.
The Sweet Thought said me “No;
“I love not such a room;
“Where uncouth inmates come and go,
“And back, unbidden, come.
“I rather make my cell
“From ill resort secure,
“Where love and lovely fancies dwell
“In bosoms virgin-pure.”

II

Oh, Pure Thought, then I said,
Come thou, and bring with thee
This dainty Sweetness, fancy-bred,
That flouts my house and me.

No peevish pride hast thou,
Nor turnest glance of scorn
On aught the laws of life allow
In man of woman born.
Said he, “No place for us
“Is here: and, be it known,
“You dwell where ways are perilous
“For them that walk alone.
“There needs the surer road,
“The fresher-sprinkl'd floor,
“Else are we not for your abode”:—
And turned him from my door.

III

Then, in my utmost need,
Oh, Holy Thought, I cried,
Come thou, that cleansest will and deed,
And in my breast abide.
“Yea, sinner, that will I,
“And presently begin”;
And ere the heart had heav'd its sigh,
The Guest Divine came in.
As in the pest-house ward
The prompt Physician stands,
As in the leagur'd castle yard
The Warden with his bands,
He stood, and said, “My task
“Is here, and here my home;
“And here am I who only ask
“That I be asked to come.”

IV

See how in huddling flight
The ranks of darkness run,
Exhale and perish in the light
Stream'd from the risen sun;
How, but a drop infuse
Within the turbid bowl,
Of some elixir's virtuous juice,
It straight makes clear the whole;
So from before his face
The fainting phantoms went,
And, in a fresh and sunny place,
My soul sat down content;
For—mark and understand
My ailment and my cure—
Love came and brought me, in his hand,
The Sweet Thought and the Pure.

THREE SEASONS.

I

My breast was as a briary brake
I lacked the rake and shears to trim;
Or like a deep, weed-tangl'd lake,
Where man can neither wade nor swim:
So full of various discontent
At things I had not height to scan,
Nor breadth nor depth to comprehend,
It seemed as though creation's end
Were but enigma, and God's plan
One knotted, hard entanglement.

II

Oh! glad the morning light we greet,
That shows the pathway newly found;
And grateful to the oaring feet
The touch, at last, of solid ground.
A breath: beheld in clearer air,
The path surmounts the mountain sides;
A touch: the knots asunder fall;
And from the smooth uncoiling ball,
With easy play the shuttle glides
To weave the robe the righteous wear.

III

Ah me! for such a robe unfit,
How shall I let my face be shown,
Or venture at the feet to sit
Of them that sit around the Throne?
He who upon the darken'd eyes
Has breathed, and touched the chords within,
Will order all aright. Till then,
Here let me, in the ways of men,
Walk meekly; and essay to win
The righteous joy this life supplies.

TWO VOICES.

Two voices in my breast
Heard I debate, ere slumber o'er me stole:
Conscience was one; and urgent she addressed
The Intellectual Soul.

CONSCIENCE.
Soul, if the day were come
When thou must part the body's company,
What recompence, thinkest thou, of final doom
Hath the just God for thee?

SOUL.
In Recompence's scales
How shall I place in counterpoise aright
The faults wherein the finite creature fails
And goodness infinite?

CONSCIENCE.
Goodness there cannot be
That is not perfect-just. Put also in
Justice of God, in like infinity,
Then poise, and weigh the sin.

SOUL.
Justice is measured forth;
Therefore not infinite. That word, which fills
The wide ear, taken at what its sense is worth,
Avails—three syllables.

CONSCIENCE.
Thou touchest but detail
Of accident and quantity. Lay by
The canvassing of things collateral,
And give the main reply.

SOUL.
Of final doom? In truth
Nought know I final underneath the sun:
All things through all things permeate; and death
Is but new life begun.

CONSCIENCE.
Deem not, suspicious soul,
The question put for thy ensnaring plann'd:
Let be finality; and give thy whole
Thought to the thing in hand.

SOUL.
Of what avail were thought
Skilled but to marshal what the senses yield
Of comparable images, when brought,
Naked, so far a-field?

CONSCIENCE.
But, if a promised day
Clothe her afresh with new receptive eyes?—
And ears to hear what haply I shall say
Of certain memories?—

SOUL.
New senses may prepare
Of future judgments fresh material;
Till then, for aught beyond, as never there,
I answer not at all.

CONSCIENCE.
Thou ownest an earth's pole,
Yet thou nor other ever yet has been
There, to report of it: then wherefore, Soul,
Reject because unseen?

SOUL.
The things myself have known
Induce belief in others of their kind
Such as this thing thou namest. For these alone
Own I the judging mind.

CONSCIENCE.
Evade not, Soul; but give
Answer direct: bethink thyself, and say
What doom is that thou lookest to receive
At the accounting day?

SOUL.
Accounts from contract spring
Where bargaining equals on agreement fall:
What room exists for such a reckoning
Where one is all in all?

CONSCIENCE.
Soul, thou wouldst still dispute
With captious art on things beside the main
And substance of the matter that I moot:
Judge, and reply again.

SOUL.
For me to judge, and say
What God in justice should adjudge of me,
Makes me the judge of God. I put away
That fond impiety.

CONSCIENCE.
Prevaricating sprite,
Thou shalt no more in feats evasive glory;
No more with crafty doublings turn and slight
The interrogatory.
What feel'st thou?—

SOUL.
There indeed
Pinches the point I can no more refuse:
I feel—I feel—whatever be decreed,
I much shall need excuse.

THE HYMN OF THE FISHERMEN.

I

To God give foremost praises,
Who, 'neath the rolling tides,
In ocean's secret places,
Our daily bread provides;
Who in His pasture grazes
The flat fish and the round,
And makes the herring ‘maces’
In shoaling heaps abound.

II

Who, in the hour of trial,
When, down the rattling steep
The tempest's wrathful vial
Is poured upon the deep,
Gives courage, calm and steady,
Through every form of fear,
And makes our fingers ready
To hand, and reef, and steer.

III

Who, when through drift and darkness
The reeling hooker flies,
And rocks, in ridgy starkness,
Athwart our bows arise,
Prompt to the helm's commanding,
Brings round the swerving tree,
Till, into harbour standing,
We anchor safe and free.

IV

And, great and small sufficing,
Before that equal law,
That rules the sun's uprising,
And makes the mainsail draw,
Brings round his erring creatures
To seek salvation's ways,
By laws surpassing Nature's—
To God give foremost praise.

BY THE ISIS.

JANUARY 1, 1865.

I

When the Empress o'er the ice
Fled before insulting Stephen,
This was artful Maud's device,
Hinted by the wintry heaven;
Clad in white, amid the snow,
All unseen the Queen did go.

II

Clad in white her maidens all
O'er the Isis trooped beside her;
Round Oxonia's leagured wall
Scout or sentry none espied her:
If the robes gleamed white, they thought
These were snows the wind had brought:

III

Flakes, belike, of driven snow,
Sifting down the night-wind's eddies;

Little deemed they there did go
Knights renowned and noble ladies,
Till the cold, grey, tardy morn
Showed them gates and towers forlorn.

IV

Go they hence? Is what we see
Snowy robe of Priest and Deacon
O'er the Isis silently
Stealing from a rite forsaken?
Or are these but clouds and shadows
Drifting o'er the Iffley meadows?

V

Drift of words that turn and gleam,
Wavering down through Thought's abysses,
Till the airy shapes, that seem
Regents of these wildernesses,
In a pool of mental night
Fall dissolved and vanish quite?

VI

Isis, by thy frozen marge,
So to ask did once betide me;
Many souls had he in charge
Who, that morning, walked beside me,
And, as town and tower he eyed,
Gazed on all with loving pride.

VII

But, for me, past Magd'len tower,
Radcliffe dome and roofs Bodleian,
Even in that wintry hour,
Mounting up the empyrean
Rose the vision of the dome
O'er the palace-tops of Rome;

VIII

Such as from the Pincian height,
Past the broad-eav'd roofs Borghesan,
Dawns it on the pilgrim's sight,
Robed in morning's amber blazon,
With its wide-armed colonnade
For mankind's embracing made.

IX

Such as from the Martian vale
Oft aloft I've seen it swelling,
Grave, serene, majestical,
O'er the mundane High Priest's dwelling;
He who binds, in judgment strong,
True and false, and right and wrong

X

Yea, and to my visioned eye,
Where the half-thawed lock did bubble,
Very Tiber darted by,
Like a topaz, like an opal;
Even as when its lustrous wave
These once-sinewy shoulders clave;

XI

While, above, the Archangel's tower,
With brazen clang and detonation,
Answered to the words of power
Of the Dogma's proclamation;
And the kings with widening ear,
Leant from all their thrones to hear.

XII

Arthur, from your Cotswold hill
Looking o'er Stroud's busy hollow,
Tell me, does remembrance still
Down the lengthening vista follow
Any footsteps of our walk,
With its silence, with its talk?

XIII

You, since then, have served the Lord
Where the gold Archangel glitters;
Preached the modest English word,
'Neath the shadow of Saint Peter's;
Where the sister rite resorts
Safe in comity of courts.

XIV

As from one who understands,
As from one to whom 'twas given
Thus to touch with temper'd hands,
Touch, and not absorb, the leaven,
Would that I might know from you
That the vision was not true.

Matildis imperatrix regem Stephanum delusit. . . . . . Excubitores regis castrum obsidentis arte deludens feminea, nocte per Tamensem fluvium, glacie tunc constrictum ac nive dealbatum, albis circumamicta vestibus, cum quibusdam sodalibus per posticum illac clam de nocte exivit de castello; nec est visa a vigilibus vel exploratoribus, præ similitudine nivis et candidi muliebris vestimenti.—Mat. Par. Hist. Ang., ad an. 1141.

Rev. Arthur G. Livingstone, formerly curate of Bisley and Anglican Chaplain at Rome, now Vicar of Mildenhall.

THE WIDOW'S CLOAK.

I

There's a widow Lady worthy of a word of kindly tone
From all who love good Neighbourhood, and true allegiance own
To motherly Humanity in love and sorrow tried,
Who lives some season of the year
Adown Dee-side.

II

To her sister in the cottage, to the Highland hut, comes she;
She takes the old wife by the hand, she shares her cup of tea;
She loves the lowly people: years of life have taught her well,
In God's great household, they, the bulk
Of inmates, dwell.

III

She loves the Highland nature; and, the Dalriad deeps beyond,
To every pressure of her palm the Irish hearts respond.
What though we seldom see her St. Patrick's Hall within,
The Gael her presence yearly cheers
Are kith and kin.

IV

The Castle of Balmoral stands proudly on its hill;
This simple widow Lady has a finer castle still,—
Where hill-big keep and chapel soar up the southern sky,
Above the woods of Windsor,
And Thames swells by.

V

The iron castles on the shore that sentry Portsea beach—
The iron castles on the sea, their guns a shipload each,
That ride at Spithead anchorage—the ordnance great and small,
Of Woolwich and of London Tower,
She owns them all.

VI

Ten thousand are her men-at-call, that ride in golden spurs;
The citied margins of the seas, half round the world, are hers;
And mightiest monarchs fain to sit at her right hand are seen:
For she's the Queen of the Three-Joined-Realm.
God save the Queen!

VII

And sons she has, good plenty, and daughters, if need were
For issue of the lawful line, to sit Saint Edward's chair:
But God has filled the quiver; and, with countenance elate,
He, next in awful right, may speak
His foe in gate,

VIII

With Denmark's gracious daughter, at head of that array—
Our darling, ever welcome as flowers that come in May—
God, shield the precious creature beneath Thy angels' wings,
And send her lovely nature
Down lines of kings!

IX

Fine men the princely brothers; and time is coming, when,
By sea and land, they all may show that they are manly men;
Alert, at clear-eyed Honour's call, to give their duty-day
Afield—on deck—in battery—
Come who come may.

X

Now mark you, Kings and Emperors who rule this peopled ball
That nourishes us, man and beast, and graveward bears us all,
The blood of horses and of men, and lives of men, will lie
Main heavy on their souls that break
Her amity.

XI

Victoria's sheltering mantle is over India spread;
Who dare to touch the garment's hem, look out for men in red:
Look out for gun and tumbril a-crash through mound and hedge,
For shot and shell and Sheffield shear-
Steel, point and edge!

XII

The fires are banked: in road and port the seaman-heart swells large;
The horses from the Irish fields are champing for the charge;
Stand back! keep off! the changing cheek of Peace has lost its smile,
And grave her eyes, and grave her prayer,
To heaven the while:—

XIII

“Maker, Preserver of Mankind, and Saviour that Thou art,
Assuage the rage of wrathful men; bring down their haughty heart;
Or, if not so Thy holy will—suppress the idle sigh,
And God Sabaoth be the name
We know Thee by!”

THE SINKING OF THE MONITOR.

31ST DECEMBER, 1862.

I

Rodney Brown mann'd the Rhode-Island's cutter;
Gallant men with Rodney Brown leap'd on board, fourteen:
Able seamen, all, to handle oar or rudder,
Messmates true as ever stood decks between:
And, buoyant, defiant, as floats the stormy petrel,
Sped tow'rd the fitful blue-light, through the dark,
Where captain and officer and loyal fellow Federal
Lay prison'd in their sinking iron ark:—
Sped away to the rescue of officer and senator
And messmate going down—going down—a-board the Monitor.

II

Ah! the change from that day in Roads of Hampton,
When the Merrimac came out in her armour of steel,
And the Cumberland, like criminal an elephant had tramp'd on,
Broke asunder as she slid beneath her keel;
When—while all stood rapt in wonder—came the swimming turret showering
New thunder-bolts of battle, up the bay,

And the sea-ram, reeling back, from the shot-strokes overpowering,
With sullen-ported helm turn'd away;—
Now, to-night, with seams a-drown under all her groaning batteries,
Going down—oh, going down—in the sea-way off Cape Hatteras!

III

Through the sea-wash her decks over-sweeping,
One boat's-crew, in the broken launch's half-sunk wreck,
Had already, from the portals of their iron tomb escaping,
Reached the shelter of the Rhode-Island's deck:
Half sunk and half afloat, through the sea-wash and the hurricane,
Had reached the floating oak, safe and free;
When, cried Boatswain Brown, “Brave hearts, where's the loyal North American
“Will pull an oar to yon sheer hulk with me,
“And give our sinking mates yet a chance for their delivery?”
“I,” and “I,” was your reply, rescued boats-crew, all and every!

IV

They went; they reached the blue-light; they boarded;
And, with all a-board the Monitor, that hour, went down;
Leaving not a name on earth to be recorded
Of the noble crew, but yours, Rodney Brown!
But known the names and fames and the glories and the services
Of them that give you greeting where you go;
Where the Dutch Van Tromps and Hudsons, and the English Drakes and Jervises,
And the Genoese High-Admiral, rising slow
From their beds of honour, beckon, as you tell the shadowy janitor—
“We came down, returned to drown with our messmates in the Monitor.”

V

And, as oft as of your names men shall question,
Every mother and each sister of your sunk ship's crew
Shall answer, from the heart's proud suggestion,
“My dear one was amongst them, too!
For, he,” she'll say, “be sure, with his brave impetuosity,
His strong-accomplish'd seaman-hands expert,
Would be first in feat of daring and devoted generosity.”—
And so, ye unknown youths, in your desert,
By love's omnipotent illusions multiplied and magnified,
Be Ship's-crew, and Service, and the Cause you died for, dignified.

FERGUS WRY-MOUTH:

A LAY OF THE WESTERN GAEL.

[_]

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

As the Laws of the Lombards are prefaced by the story of Freya's deception of Woden,— she turned his bed while he slept, so that, on awakening, he first beheld, and by a previous vow became bound to give the victory to, the Long-beards, then about to engage their enemies;—and as the Welsh code of Howel the Good begins with the story of the Men of Arvon, so the Irish Brehon Laws have for their preface, in their first gloss, this tale of Fergus the Stud-feeder, one of the early provincial kings of Ulster, who dwelt at Emania. (See “The Twins of Macha,” post.) Fergus's misdeed in killing Dorn, his handmaid, gave rise to a claim for eric by her kindred, which was afterwards pleaded as a set-off against a demand of Fergus's descendants for eric of a certain nobleman entitled to Fergus's protection who had been slain by a son of Dorn; and, as land had been given in mortgage to secure the latter debt, the proceedings for redemption, involving all the common-law elements of actions of replevin and ejectment, with many niceties of the law of distress, supplied the materials for what may be regarded as the leading case in this branch of Brehon judicature. (See On the Elements of the Common Law discoverable in the Senchus Mor, Trans. R. I. A., vol. xxiv.) Among the ancient Irish, certain personal blemishes incapacitated for the kingly office, as they did for that of Priest (with a curious exception in favour of the Augurs) among the Romans, and for both the kingly and sacerdotal functions among the Persians. Marcus Sergius when maimed, in the service of his country, in the wars, had to give up the ministry of the altar at Rome; and Cormac son of Art losing an eye, by the hand of Angus “Dread-spear,” was obliged to abjure the regal state at Tara, and to lead a life of retirement at Sletty on the Boyne, where he incurred the vengeance of his Druids by blaspheming the rites of their God, Crom, as related in “The Burial of King Cormac.”—(Lays of the Western Gael.)

One day, King Fergus, Leidé Luthmar's son,
Drove by Loch Rury; and, his journey done,
Slept in his chariot, wearied. While he slept,
A troop of fairies o'er his cushions crept.

And, first, his sharp, dread sword they filched away;
Then bore himself, feet-forward, to the bay.
He, with the chill touch, woke; and, at a snatch,
It fortuned him, in either hand to catch
A full-grown sprite; while, 'twixt his breast and arm,
He pinned a youngling. They, in dire alarm,
Writhed hard and squealed. He held the tighter. Then
“Quarter!” and “Ransom!” cried the little men.
“No quarter;” he: “Nor go ye hence alive,
“Unless ye gift me with the art to dive,
“Long as I will: to walk at large, and breathe
“The seas, the lochs, the river-floods beneath.”
“We will.” He loosed them. Herbs of virtue they
Stuff'd in his ear-holes. Or, as others say,
A hood of fairy texture o'er his head,
Much like a cleric's cochal, drew; and said
“Wear this, and walk the deeps. But well beware
“Thou enter nowise in Loch Rury there.”
Clad in his cowl, through many deeps he went,
And saw their wonders; but was not content
Unless Loch Rury also to his eyes
Revealed its inner under-mysteries.
Thither he came; and plunged therein; and there
The Muirdris met him. Have you seen a pair
Of blacksmith's bellows open out and close
Alternate 'neath the hand of him that blows?
So swelled it, and so shrunk. The hideous sight
Clung all his visage sidewise with affright.
He fled. He gained the bank. “How seems my cheer,
“Oh Mwena?” “Ill!” replied the Charioteer.

“But rest thee. Sleep thy wildness will compose.”
He slept. Swift Mwena to Emania goes.
“Whom, now, for King; since Fergus' face awry
“By law demeans him of the sovereignty?”
“Hush!”—and his sages, and physicians wise
In earnest council sit; and thus advise.
“He knows not of his plight. To keep him so,
“As he suspect not that, he ought not know,—
“For, so the mind be straight, and just awards
“Wait on the judgment, right-read Law regards
“No mere distortion of the outward frame
“As blemish barring from the Kingly name:—
“And, knew he all the baleful fact you tell,
“An inward wrench might warp his mind as well:
“Behoves it, therefore, all of idle tongue,
“Jesters, and women, and the witless young,
“Be from his presence sent. And when at morn
“He takes his bath, behoves his bondmaid, Dorn,
“Muddy the water; lest, perchance, he trace
“Lost kingship's token on his imaged face.”
Three years they kept him so: till, on a day,
Dorn with his face-bath-ewer had made delay;
And fretted Fergus, petulant and rash,
A blow bestowed her of his horse-whip lash.
Forth burst the woman's anger. “Thou a King!
“Thou sit in Council! thou adjudge a thing
“In Court of Law! Thou, who no kingship can,
“Since all may see, thou art a blemished man;
“Thou wry-mouth!” Fergus thereon slew the maid;
And, to Loch Rury's brink in haste conveyed,

Went in at Fertais. For a day and night
Beneath the waves he rested out of sight:
But all the Ultonians on the bank who stood,
Saw the loch boil and redden with the blood.
When next at sunrise skies grew also red,
He rose—and in his hand the Muirdris' head.—
Gone was the blemish. On his goodly face
Each trait symmetric had resumed its place:
And they who saw him marked in all his mien,
A King's composure ample and serene.
He smiled; he cast his trophy to the bank,
Said, “I, survivor, Ulstermen!” and sank.

156

PAUL VERONESE.

THREE SONNETS.

(To the Memory of the Marquis Carlotti.) JUNE, 1878.

I.

Paul, let thy faces from the canvas look
Haply less clearly than Pietro's can,
Less lively than in tints of Titian,
Or him who both the bay-wreath-chaplets took:
Yet shalt thou therefore have no harsh rebuke
Of me whom, while with eager eyes I ran
O'er painted pomps of Brera and Vatican,
The first delight thou gavest ne'er forsook.
For in thy own Verona, long ago,
Before one masterpiece of cool arcades,
I made a friend; and such a friend was rare.—
For him, I love thy velvet's glorious show,
Thy sheens of silk 'twixt marble balustrades,
Thy breathing-space and full translucent air.

II.

Loved for themselves, too. Oft as I behold,
Adown the curtain'd gallery's sumptuous gloom,
A separate daylight shining in the room,

157

There find I still thy groupings manifold
Of holy clerks, of nobles grave and bold,
Swart slaves, brave gallants, maindens in their bloom,
With what of Persian and Ligurian loom
May best consort with marble dome and gold:
There find thy dog, whose teeth Time's teeth defy
To raze the name from less enduring leaves
Of loved Canossa: there, in cynic ease,
Thy monkey: and beneath the pearly sky
See lovely ladies wave their handkerchiefs,
And lend sweet looks from airy balconies.

III.

They err who say this long-withdrawing line
Of palace-fronts Palladian, this brocade
From looms of Genoa, this gold-inlaid
Resplendent plate of Milan, that combine
To spread soft lustre through the grand design,
Show but in fond factitious masquerade
The actual feast by leper Simon made
For that great Guest, of old, in Palestine.
Christ walks amongst us still; at liberal table
Scorns not to sit: no sorrowing Magdalene
But of these dear feet kindly gets her kiss
Now, even as then; and thou, be honorable,
Who, by the might of thy majestic scene,
Bringest down that age and minglest it with this.

158

TO A LADY

WITH EDWARD DOWDEN'S POEMS.

Henrietta, in whose face
We a soul's experience trace
Through the working lines of grace;

Here is one in words who tries
To express the ecstacies
That inform your cheeks and eyes;

Springing ecstacies, controll'd,
Lest the world too much behold;
As befits one of the fold.

I would think, if I might guess,
That this holy rapturousness
Which both he and you express,

He with words, and you with looks,
Drawing, as with shepherd-crooks,
Thirsty souls to living brooks;

Though from one same fountain sent,
And with one benign intent,
Comes through channels different.

God is one. His gifts of grace
Flow to man through countless ways;
So the greater be His praise.

159

THE LITTLE MAIDEN.

1878.

I

Little maiden, in the rain,
On the mountain road,
Never bloom of healthier grain
On a wet cheek glowed;
Never active little feet
Hastened footsteps more discreet.

II

Plain it is it was not play
Brought thee out of doors,
This tempestuous autumn day,
O'er the windy moors;
Something thou hast had to do,
Deemed of trust and moment too.

III

Now, the errand duly done,
Home thou hiest fast,
Through the flying gleams of sun,
Through the laden blast,
With the light of purpose high
Kindling bravely in thine eye.

160

IV

Oh, 'twas fearful at the top,
While it rained and blew;—
Till the dark cloud lifted up
And the sun beamed through,
Showing all the country's side
Spread beneath thee, grand and wide.

V

Wond'rous wide the world extends!
Thought'st thou, as thy glance
Travelled to the welkin's ends
O'er the bright expanse,
Stubble fields and browning trees,
Spires, and foreign parishes!

VI

Other children's homes are there
Sheltered from the storm;
Others' mothers' arms prepare
Clasping welcomes warm;
Others' fathers' fields are made
Fertile by the plough and spade:

VII

Men and horses on the land,
Maidens in the byre;
Boys and girls, a merry band,
Round the evening fire:—
Such the world, for thee, and, lo,
There it lay in glorious show.

161

VIII

Round thee, in the glittering rays
By the rain-drops shed,
Shone the blossom'd furze a-blaze,
Shone the fern-brake red;
Rough but lovely, as thy own
Life's ideal, little one!

IX

Then a glowing thought there came,
Guess I not aright?—
That the furze's yellow flame
Could not shine so bright
Nor the fern-leaves spread so fair
If the good God were not there.

X

Rightly to that thought I trace
All the courage high
Flushing through thy wetted face,
Mounting in thine eye,
Now the cloud and driving rain
Close around thy path again.

XI

Could these purblind eyes of mine,
Past the curtain, see
Things unseen and things divine,
Sure it seems to me
I would see an Angel glide
Down the mountain by thy side.

162

NATURE'S TEACHINGS.

[_]

From the Latin of Marbod, Bishop of Rheims (twelfth century). For the original leonine hexameters, Moribus esse feris, prohibet me gratia veris, see Archbishop Trench's learned and beautiful volume, “Sacred Latin Poetry,” Introduction, p. 47. It was a favourite notion of the author of Cosmos that the love of scenic beauty and the capacity of deriving a moral enjoyment from its contemplation were sentiments unknown to the ancients, and that we must ascribe their existence among us to the æsthetic influences of Christianity and the poetry of the cloister. If this were so, these verses of Marbodius, which breathe a genuine sweetness and delicacy hard to reproduce, might be cited as a brilliant illustration; but the fact appears to have been otherwise. See “Congal,” p.233.

The graciousness of spring
Forbids my murmuring:
The world, in tune designed,
Doth harmonize my mind:
Nature, for this my state,
I thee congratulate.

Flowers myriad-hued abound,
Sweet grasses clothe the ground;
We see the green tree put
Its leaf forth, and its fruit;
See how the garden grows
Illustrious with the rose.

163

He who beholds such fair
And bright things everywhere,
And turns not from his ways
Morose, to joy and praise,
In his own bosom hath
A root of strife and wrath.

Who loves and lauds not these
Mundane amenities,
Thee, God, doth vilipend,
Whose praises without end
Spring, Summer, Autumn yield
Frost, Snow, and Flowers a-field.

164

DEAR WILDE.

AN ELEGY.

1876.

[_]

INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The late Sir William Wilde will be best known by the noble collection of Celtic antiquities which he was the chief instrument in assembling, and has the sole credit of having so far catalogued, at the Royal Irish Academy House. The Government Department of Science and Art has now, after long resistance by the Academy, acquired the property in this collection for future exhibition in a State Museum, where it is to be hoped that a bust of Wilde will be placed near that of its other founder, Petrie. Wilde had a sweet poetic sentiment, largely influenced by the pastoral scenery and pursuits of his native county, Roscommon.

Dear Wilde, the deeps close o'er thee; and no more
Greet we or mingle on the hither shore;
Where other footsteps now must print the sand,
And other waiters by the margin stand.
Gone; and, alas! too late it wrings my breast,
The word unspoken, and the hand unpress'd;
Yet will affection follow, and believe
The sentient spirit may the thought receive,
Though neither eye to eye the soul impart
Nor answering hand confess the unburthen'd heart.
Gone; and alone rests for me that I strive
In song sincere to keep thy name alive,

165

Though nothing needing of the aids of rhyme,
While they who knew thee tread the ways of time,
And cherish, ere their race be also run,
Their memories of many a kindness done—
Of the quick look that caught the unspoken need
And back returned the hand's benignant deed
In help and healing, or with ardour high
Infused the might of patriot-sympathy.
And when we all have followed, and the last
Who loved thee living shall have also passed,—
This crumbling castle, from its basement swerved,
Thy pious under-pinning skill preserved;
That carven porch from ruined heaps anew
Dug out and dedicate by thee to view
Of wond'ring modern men who stand amazed,
To think their Irish fathers ever raised
Works worthy such a care; this sculptured cross
Thou gathered'st piecemeal, every knop and boss
And dragon-twisted symbol, side by side
Laid, and to holy teachings re-applied;
Those noble jewels of the days gone by
The goldsmith's and the penman's art supply,
With rarest products of progressive man
Since civil life in Erin first began,
Described by thee, where'er their destined place,
Whether, still sharing Academic grace
And Cyclopædiac union, they retain
Their portion in the high clear-aired domain
Of are and sine and critic-judgment heard

166

Alternate with the searcher's symbol-word,
Historic aids, to little arts unknown,
Heirlooms of all our Past, and all our own,
Or whether, at despotic power's command,
They bow their beauty to a stranger's hand,
Mid various wares in halls remote display'd
To swell a programme or promote a trade;—
These all will speak thee: and, dear Wilde, when these,
In course of time, by swift or slow degrees,
Are also perished from the world, and gone,
The green grass of Roscommon will grow on;
And, though our several works of hand and pen
Our names and memories be forgotten then,
Oft as the cattle in the dewy ray
Of tender morn, by Tulsk or Castlerea,
Crop the sweet herbage, or adown the vale
The ruddy milkmaid bears her evening pail;
Oft as the youth to meet his fair one flies
At labour's close, where sheltering hawthorns rise
By Suck's smooth margin; or the merry round
Of dancers foot it to the planxty's sound,
And some warm heart, matched with a mind serene,
Shall drink its full refreshment from the scene,
With thanks to God whose bounty brings to pass
That maids their sweethearts, and that kine their grass
Find by His care provided, and there rise
Soft and sweet thoughts for all beneath the skies;—
Then, though unknown, thy spirit shall partake
Refreshment, too, for old communion's sake.

167

TO MR. BUTT.

(On the result of the Ballot at the Royal Irish Academy, 13th November, 1876.)

While the Academy, refusing to submit itself to the control of the Department of Science and Art, even at the peril of losing its annual vote, had laid its case before the House of Commons by Petition, and stood in its extremest need of support from parliamentary and public opinion, Mr. Butt, whose membership ought to have been deemed an honor and advantage at any time, was proposed as a member, and rejected.

Isaac, the generous heart conceives no ill
From frank repulse. The marriage-suit denied
Turns love to hatred only where 'tis Pride,
Not true Love, woos: Love holds her lovely still,
Let sharp Remembrance bring what stings it will;
And when he sees her children by her side,
For her, for them, for him with them allied,
Blessings and prayers the manly breast will fill.
Lovely she stands, though she has said thee nay,
And sad expectance clothes her brow in gloom,
While guardians tyrannous withhold her dower;
Now show the soul's magnanimous assay,
And when her day in that High Court shall come,
Plead in your old love's cause with double power.