University of Virginia Library

I. POEMS IN BLANK VERSE

A DWARF.

THE LADDER.

Life is a ladder which we all must climb;
Some climb alone and some in company;
Some clad in purple, some in tattered rags;
Some climb it followed by their fellow-men
In livery, and some by hungry duns;
Some followed by policemen half the way;
Some climb the ladder boldly, sword in hand,
And others slowly, yawning at each step;
And each man bears a load upon his back:
With one it is a heavy bag of gold;
Another upwards with a load of aches,
Or, worse, a load of evil conscience goes,
All with a weight of care. And all along
The ladder's length are overhanging boughs,
With fruits and flowers for the strong to pluck;
But many, snatching, overreach and fall.
And there are boughs, beneath whose grateful shade
We fain would stop, but we are hurried on,
As in a treadmill, to the journey's end;
And woe to him who looks too far ahead,
Nor feels each step that comes beneath his foot.
Much angry hustling on the way occurs;
The steps are narrow, and the crowd is great:
Some men, in mounting, cling to others' skirts,
But some to others lend a helping hand,
And care but little how they fare themselves.
Some on the ladder write their names for those
Behind to read, but most can leave no trace.
Most climbers drop before they get half-way;
Some, jostled off by treacherous neighbours, fall;
And some jump off, of their own sad accord.
But few are those who reach the topmost bars,
With hair fast whitening as they upward go,
And gathering honours as they take each step;
And when once there, they heave a gentle sigh,
And, scarcely conscious, softly smile—and die.

THE WARNING.

I stood with others in a Paris street,
And watched the soldiers marching to the war.
Their silken colours fluttered in the breeze,
Their polished bayonets glittered in the sun,
Their martial music played a merry tune,
And each man bore a flower or sprig of green
Stuck in his cap, or fastened to his gun;
And as they went, they loudly laughed and sang,
And aimed a jest at many a looker-on.
But all around a gloomy silence reigned,
And not a word in answer did they get,
But every face a look of pity wore.
'Tis strange, I thought, that those who die should laugh,
And those should mourn whose fate it is to live.
An old old woman standing by my side,
All shrunk and bent, with hair as white as snow,
Put out her hands and cried aloud, “O God!
The wretched boys are singing! Don't they know
That they are marching to the butcher's shop?”
But all unheeding passed the human stream;
Her warning words fell on no ear but mine.
She still stood there long after they had passed,
And still I saw her shake her aged head,
As the gay sounds in distance died away.
And well she might; ere three short weeks had passed,
Most of those men were killed at Mars-la-Tour.
'Tis thus perhaps the white-winged angels stand
By the roadside of this our daily life,
And wring their hands, and call in vain to stop,
As we pass by, with jest and laugh and song,
And hurry on to many a bitter end.
Man laughs the loudest on the road to ruin—
A hollow laugh, no doubt, but loud enough
To drown the voice that warns him of his fate.

THE STORY OF A TRUNK.

A simple tale about a common thing—
Or rather say, it is no tale at all,
But a mere sketch. But oft prosaic things
Possess a deeper pathos for the heart,
When on them falls a tear of pity shed
At hope deferred or petty tyranny,
Than all the lyrics born of laurelled brows.
A poor French governess had, in ten years
Of patient work in Russia, earned enough
To found a schoolroom in her native land.
As evil fate would have it, she returned
Just at the moment when the war broke out
Between the French and Germans. Who forgets
Those July days of fatal 'Seventy,
All dark and sultry with the coming storm;
When, like an omen, all the Paris leaves
Came prematurely whirling to the ground;
When on both sides was hurried mustering
Of horse and foot; when wild confusion seized
All those who by their honest commerce lived,
And traffic ceased between the hostile States?
She made her way to Paris, but, alas!
Her trunk remained in German hands at Köln.
Now this unlucky trunk contained wellnigh
Her little all, and, what she valued most,
Her Russian testimonials, without which
She could do nothing; and, who knows, perhaps
Some tender tokens or some letters dear,
For who can pass the earliest bloom of youth
And not have such? The poor woman wrote
And wrote again, and almost gave up hope;
But yet at last the long-wished answer came
From the officials of the rail at Köln.
All full of hope, without a moment lost,
She brought the letter for me to translate,
As she could not read German, and I could.
She might be thirty-two or thirty-three;
She was not handsome, yet I oft have seen
A handsome woman that has pleased me less,
For there was something in her eyes that said
She was not of the vulgar or the vain.
The note began with mock civility:
The writer was a soldier, and would bring
Her trunk himself to Paris very soon,
For he was going thither with his king
And full five hundred thousand German hearts,
And then. . . . I crushed the letter in my hand,
And begged that she would let me tear it up,
Because, I said, I could not read the rest,
As it contained an insult foul and base.
She nodded slowly in assent, and heaved
A sigh that seemed to say, “Can such men be?”
But spoke no word of anger nor of scorn:
For like an arrow aimed against a rock,
A jest aimed at the breast of Purity,
With blunted point falls harmless to the ground;
And if a tear was trickling down her cheek,
I think it was not at the cruel joke,
But for her luckless trunk. She thanked me then,
And went her way; nor have I seen her since.
She sank in that great whirlpool of a siege.
The Prussian soldier doubtless kept his word,
And came to Paris with his regiment.
I wish that I could add that there he met
The fate that should such cowards overtake.
But 'tis more like the ways of life to think
That he returned to Prussia, with his share
Of laurels and a medal on his breast,
While the poor victim of his insolence
Stood hours daily in the melting snow,
To get her share of black and mouldy bread;
As many a thousand other women did,
With no reward, except a smile from heaven.

THE STARER.

I call to mind a little silent scene
I one day witnessed in a quiet street.
The war had barely hurried to its close;
The dead were buried, and the wounded men
Were slowly now emerging from their beds,
And feebly crawling in the April sun—
Pale, broken shadows of their former selves.
An open carriage stood before a door,
And on a chair had just been lifted in
A young lieutenant of the French Hussars,
Crippled for life by fragments of a shell.
As his attendant left him for a while,
To seek for something left within the house,
A woman of the lower classes, plain,
Shabbily dressed and elderly, took up
Her stand close to the carriage door, and stared.
She stared in so intent and strange a way,
No human creature could have stood it long.
The wounded youth in turn looked hard at her,
And on his brow a gathering frown appeared,
That plainly said, “Now, woman, pass thy way,
For thou hast stared enough at me.” When lo!
A sudden change came o'er his pallid face,
And like a cloud the frown from off it passed;
A something in the woman's eye had gleamed,
A murmured word had dropped upon his ear,
That showed she stared in pity at his woe,
And not in mere offensive idleness.
The wounded youth stretched out a feeble arm,
And gently pressed the woman's hand in his;
And then the carriage bore him swift away.
A stare is ever an unseemly thing;
But still I think that such a stare as this,
If humbly pleaded at the gate of heaven,
By some excluded Peri of to-day,
Would gain admittance for that erring soul.

SUNSET SKETCHES.

THE MOON-FIEND.

A SUMMER STORM.

A sigh seems by awakening Nature heaved—
A sigh that passes on from tree to tree,
And misses not a single blade of grass
In yonder fields. The greyish olive-trees
Turn white as if by magic, and appear
Endowed with life. The aspens by the stream
Become a silver ripple, and the stream
Itself is backward brushed by hand unseen
And rapid; while the few dead leaves upon
The road are suddenly caught up
And whirl. And then a sound which is this time
Not Nature's sigh, but Nature's hiss, runs through
The valley, and the tallest trees are bent
Like wands. Then, Earth, thy chastisement begins.
And angry Heaven's cruel lash of rain
Falls on thy hilly shoulders. To the storm
All quickly yields: the light-green rising corn
Is beaten down and lies in clotted sheaves;
The vines which lately were in garlands hung
Between the poplars, are torn off, and stream
High in the wind. But a few moments more,
And all is over. The rain is falling still,
But there is calm; and men can look abroad,
And through the rain see sunlight on the hills.
No sound is heard around, save the dull roar
Of the augmented stream, until the note
Of some impatient bird strikes on the ear,
From dripping boughs.

THE TWINS.

POMPEII.

No trace remained upon the face of earth
Of those forgotten cities which lay deep
Entombed, in all their beauty, at the foot
Of treacherous Vesuvius, but whose fate
Had once appalled mankind. The world was old:
Near twice a thousand springs had passed since then,
Near twice a thousand autumns. Year by year
The unsuspecting peasant drove his plough
Above the sleeping streets, and year by year
The rustling ripple of the golden corn
Passed and repassed with every shifting breeze;
While underneath, until the day should come,
The fresco and mosaic still endured
In all the freshness of their pristine tints,
And all the records of a daily life,
So like our own, brought to a sudden stop,
As by a day of judgment premature
And partial, lay intact. And now we stroll
In these unburied streets, or sit and watch
The bright green panting lizards as they dart
And pause, and peep, and dart again among
The antique walls and pavements; while the mind
Gets ever nearer to Antiquity,
Until the great catastrophe appears
In all its vivid horror. Once again
The city lives, nor fears. We see its throng,
Its sunny beauty and its carelessness,
The many coloured awnings of its streets,
Its verdure, and its flowers, and its fruits,
Its houses, and their shady inner courts;
We even hear the splash of fountains still.
When dreamy noontide's heat had lulled the mind,
And Nature basked in sunshine; when the capes
And distant hills were shadowy and faint;
When all was listless, and no sound was heard
Save lapping wavelets of the tideless sea;
When every flower drooped its languid head,
And air was heavy with the August scents,
Day turned to night; the face of earth was changed,
And Hell let loose on Heaven;—for what shores
Could claim the name of Heaven, if not these?
In that unnatural gloom none knew or cared
When came the real night, which brought no peace;
But ever and anon, with lurid glare,
The torches of the fugitives, who sought
Each other in the quickly altering streets,
Lit up the falling ashes, and exposed
Some face of horror. High above the shouts—
Above the unknown sounds that came from earth—
Above the crash of columns and of walls,—
Rose the shrill cry of wounded animals,
Or shriek of women trodden under foot.
Death came from every side. The wretches found
No safety in the courage of despair,
No pity in the elements. The air
Was heavy with the ever-falling ash,
Like lurid snowdrifts in the plains of Hell;
The waving earth refused to bear their steps,
Or suddenly enwrapt them in their flight
With vapours deadly and invisible, which made
The mother drop the babe she held, the bride
Her bridegroom's hand, the miser drop his gold
And bite the dust; and then the ashes hid
Their bodies; while, in cellars too secure,
Where many sought for life, Death took his time,
And dealt in nameless horrors, as with him
Who, taking refuge with his dog, died first,
And then was eaten. But all this was deep
Beneath the livid ashes which enclosed
Pompeii now, and hid her from the world.

II. ELEGIES

A CHRISTMAS ELEGY.

Gentle, with ours compared, is the rudest of Italy's winters:
Ever at hand is the sun, ready all ills to repair;
Green are the garments of earth, and almost as fresh as in summer;
Warm are the tints of the hills, free are the rivers from ice.
There amid holm-oaks and bays, and laurels and trellises verdant,
Winter, while Spring is asleep, stealeth his flowery garb;
Ay, and his heavenly smile; so that those with Winter familiar,
Meeting him thus in disguise, hail him, delighted, as Spring.
Yet, notwithstanding this beauty, that Italy wears in the winter,
Almost a prison it seems, when I remember the North.
Where, in his mantle of snow, with icicles bearded and hoar-frost,
Winter holds Nature for months, clasped in his shaggy embrace.
For, in the lands that are cold, there resideth a poetry homely,
Cosiness-loving and sweet, ne'er understood in the South.
Born of the long winter evenings, it lurks by the hearth that is cheery,
When, in the darkness outside, moaneth the pitiless wind:
Living in customs ancestral, with rough hospitality mingled,
Unto the homes of the North great is the charm that it lends.
There was my boyhood spent, and memories dear of Christmas
Often come home to my mind out of the years that are dead:
Fir-trees all covered with toys, and blazing with numberless tapers,
Filling the room with a scent, mingled of fir and of wax—
Pyramids radiant and rich: and the faces of children around them,
Happy and wistful and sweet, waiting with wonder their share;
Puddings encircled with flame, and pies for the Gods too delicious;
Customs derived from the past, cheering both body and soul;
Branches of holly all prickly, with beautiful berries of scarlet;
Branches of mistletoe strange, laden with berries of white.
Outdoor memories too: the feel of the snow in its crispness,
Taking the print of the foot, softly, with faintest of creaks;
Or, where the snow has been swept, the ring of the earth that is frozen
Under the foot as you stamp, warming the limbs that are numb;
Snow from the branches dislodged, by the breeze that is gentle and fitful,
Falling in spray to the ground, bright in the sun without heat;
Snowballing furious and fast, and the thud of the well-patted snow-ball,
Stopped by a wall or a tree, leaving its record behind;
Dead leaves white with the frost, and bushes with crystals incrusted,
Sparkling and delicate fur, turning to silver the twigs.
Still insecure is the ice; and the boys are hovering round it,
Cautiously trying its strength, keeping one foot on the brink,
Throwing a stone now and then, that sings as it bounds o'er its surface;
Only the boldest advance, braving the ominous cracks.
Skaters begin to appear, the sky with anxiety watching;
Strong enough soon is the ice; soon is the fun at its height.
Slides by the margin are formed; the sliders press close on each other,
Shouting with glee as they go, falling at last in a heap.
Booths on the banks are erected, by vendors of comforting liquors,
Or by the letters of skates: idlers by dozens arrive,
Watching the crowd of the skaters revolving in circles incessant,
Flitting like shadows unheard, swiftly in maze without end;
Poised on the breadth of a hair, and moving in beautiful balance,
Backwards or forwards at will, over the surface new born.
Mighty enchanter was he, who, taking advantage of Nature's
Temper most transient, the frost, furnished this art unto men:
Teaching them motions unknown, and which seemed out of reach of their species;
Choosing, as field of his skill, that which is gone in a day!
Beautiful art that I loved, by a cruel denial of movement
Rendered still dearer now, ne'er shall I know thee again.
Lost are these pastimes for me, with the North I shall never return to—
Lost with the health that is gone—lost with the years that have fled.
Only their memories last; the reality long has departed,
Even as vanished the ice, touched by the breath of the thaw.

OXFORD.

Fast is the pace that we go, in the first of the stages successive,
After the journey of life once has been fairly begun.
Seldom we stop to look back, and to measure the distance accomplished;
If we should happen to turn, 'tis for a moment, not more.
Only when time has elapsed, and the climbing grows ever more rugged,
Fairly we stop and look back, searching the plain underneath.
Cities and houses we see, through which we have passed on the journey,
Leaving in each as we went that which we cannot reclaim.
Ten are the years that are past; and now, on the arduous pathway,
Sadly I turn and look round, searching in memory's plain.
Many the cities I see, but one above all in its beauty,
Slowly, as rises the mist, taketh a tangible shape.
Colleges many and old, that nestle 'mid foliage ancestral,
Near to a river I see, covered with lightest of craft;
Pleasant and pensive retreats, whose beautiful inner quadrangles
Look upon carpets of turf, fit for the feet of a queen.
Blackened and battered by time is the stone that for ever is crumbling,
Yet has for centuries stood, yet may for centuries stand.
Beautiful precincts medieval, connected with all that is greatest,
Softened and hallowed by age, peopled for ever by youth!
Many are we who look back, with mingled affection and sadness,
Unto the days that we spent, happy and young, in your shade.
Fairer and dearer ye grow, as the number of summers and winters
Slowly augments unperceived, since we have bidden adieu.
Fairer and dearer ye grow, as we feel how since then we have altered;
If we returned for a day, scarce would ye know us again.
He whom ye knew as so gay, has become an habitual grumbler,
Not having met in the world that which he thought was his due.
He who was open of heart, has grown to be cold and suspicious;
He who the wittiest was, dull has become from routine.
Even the man that succeeds, and is working his way to the woolsack,
Or to a surplice of lawn, or to the Ministers' bench,
Thinks with a sigh of regret of the time of his youth by the Isis,
Caring the less for the prize as it approaches his grasp.
All of us something have lost, that we know we can never recover,
Graver we go our ways, bearing our burden of care.
Oxford I fondly remember: the hall in its noble proportions,
Panelled with blackest of oak, old as the college itself;
Where are arrayed all around the portraits of dead benefactors,
Wearing their garb of the past—faces severe and sedate,
Which by the tremulous flare of the giant fireplace lighted,
Restless appear in their frames, taking the queerest of shapes.
Under them tables are ranged, where the clatter of tongues and of tankards,
Mixed with the noisy jest, tells of the presence of youth.
All, save the table supreme, where the Dons in their glory are sitting,
High out of reach of the crowd, raised on a platform of state.
Yes, and the chapel I see, to which in the mornings we hurried;
Round it, in cap and in gown, gathers a numerous group.
Near to the door, in a niche, a figure in stone of the Virgin,
Headless and mouldering, stands, telling of Catholic days.
Likewise of oak is the chapel, with windows whose tinted reflections,
Orange and purple and green, fall on the pavement of stone.
Still I the chapel-bell hear, and a sound, as of choristers, cometh
Fainter but beautiful still, back through the distance of years.
Pretty and snug were my rooms; they looked on the Common Room Building;
Under the windows, the lawn stretched in its ample extent.
Could I revisit the place, I think I should hesitate somewhat
Ere I set foot in them now, different from what they were then.
Unto the room he is fond of, the occupant quickly imparteth
Something we cannot define,—part, as it were, of himself—
Maybe it lies in the way that the inmate his furniture places;
Maybe it lies in the things carelessly scattered about.
'Tis the most transient of gifts, which, different in mind, his successor,
Scarce has he entered the room, ruthlessly brushes away.
Who in my rooms is installed? the thought has its charm and its sadness;
Nothing but this can I tell—different he is from myself.
Is it a rowing-man strong, whose existence is all in his muscles,
Sitting there tired, inert, after the work of the day?
What if a reading man 'tis, whose “oak” is unceasingly “sported,”
Sitting alone with his lamp, working till daylight shall dawn?
What if a dreamer it is, or religious enthusiast ardent,
Left to himself by the rest, brooding o'er life and its aims?
Or is the occupant fast, and never alone for a moment;
Lavish of breakfasts and “wines,” constantly playing at cards?
Strong is the scent of cigars, the scout on the staircase is ever
Cider-cup fetching in haste, or sherry-cobbler and straws.
Oh, how the life of those days recurs as I write, and is vivid!
Faces of old college friends, details forgotten return.
Oxford, not perfect art thou; but let not thy faults be remembered;
Here, where in sadness I write, asking for nought but a sigh!
Only the things that are good, and memories dear to many,
Let me attempt to recall, leaving forgotten all else.
Wholesome are Latin and Greek, but the best of the lessons that Oxford
Unto her children imparts, not in the schools must be sought;
Many indeed are their forms, derived from the spirit that dwelleth
Lastingly over the place, born of tradition and time.
Good is the residence here, in these colleges ancient, poetic;
Here, if it ever was true, sermons are written in stones.
Good is the intercourse free with minds that are active and varied,
Favouring all that is best, courtesy, manliness, thought.
Good are the long-drawn debates, where eloquence, destined to conquer,
Measures its pinions, and youth borrows the wisdom of age.
Good are the walks in the country, through hamlets with ivy-clad churches;
Whiling, in talk with one's chum, gently the hours away.
Yes, and the long afternoons that with him one spends on the river,
Lazily mooring the skiff under the boughs that o'erhang.
What has become of thee, Grahame, since letters, grown rarer and rarer,
Ceased altogether, and Fate led us so widely apart?
Many a morsel, since then, of the bitterest bread have I eaten;
Wiser thou wast than myself, happier I hope thou hast been!
Good are the pastimes athletic, and good is the heart-stirring boat-race,
Nobly contested and won, fairest of sights in the world.
Say, have you stood on the bank, when the Eights, after leaving the barges,
Swiftly yet leisurely pass, seeking their place for the start?
Say, have you noted the oars all splendidly striking in cadence,
Then the long feathering sweep, kissing the face of the stream?
Match me, ye lands, if ye can, the men in their light silken jerseys,
Flower of youth and of strength, shirking nor toil nor pain!
Heard ye the gun? They are off! and the hum and the flutter increases,
Showing how keenly the crowd watches the fate of the race.
See, in the distance they come, and their partisans, heated and breathless,
Following close on the bank, shouting for ever, Well rowed!
Look, our boat is astern; and the distance, by Jove, is decreasing!
Louder the shouting becomes; now it has turned to a roar.
See, we are gaining upon them! the oars, as they pass through the water,
Bend like a wand. It is grand! Wilder their rowing has grown.
Now for the final spurt! Well rowed! Drive it out of the water!
Now our bow to their stern! well steered! and, by heavens, they're bumped!
Ah! it is long, long ago, since I shouted like this with the others;
Many a boat has been bumped, there on that river since then.
New generations of rowers, and new generations of shouters,
Closely each other succeed; who has a thought for the old?

ELIZABETH.

THE FLUTE-PLAYER.

That which on earth is the frailest, Time with his scythe often misses;
Sweeping a city away, leaving unbroken a vase.
Who does not often exclaim, as he treads in the steps of the Mower,
“Strength, indeed thou art weak; weakness, indeed thou art strong!”
Come, I will show you a tomb—'tis that of an ancient Etruscan;
In it a woman's remains, crumbling away into dust.
See still intact is a Flute, in what was the hand of the player;
Centuries twenty, nay more, mute has it lain by her side.
Dead is the race she belonged to, and dead is the language she uttered,
Dead are the laws she obeyed, dead is the creed that she held;
Yet her ephemeral presence hath left us a tangible vestige;
Empires leave but a name; that which endures is a Flute.
Doubtless her music was primitive, yet for the Gods all-sufficient,
If it was good for her time, if in men's ears it was sweet.
Flute, be a potent enchanter, and come to the aid of my fancy;
Clothe her again in the flesh, such as she stood in her day;
Youth to her figure restore, Beauty bestow on her features;
Some of the breath that she gave, give to the player again.
Shape hath she taken already. How strangely distinct is the phantom!
Fairer, perhaps, than in life; fiction is fairer than truth.
Even the music I hear; 'tis faint, and as if from a distance;
Simple and plaintive the air, young is the musical art
Why does she stop in her playing, and listless, the instrument holding,
Wistfully gaze into space, lost in the mazes of thought?
Tell me thy story, O maiden! all language is clear to the poet,
When it in purity comes straight from the depths of the heart.
See, on the lips of the player a word of emotion is trembling. . . .
Ah! I awake from my dream—all, save the flute, melts to air.

A BLIND BEGGAR.

Hard is the fate of the blind, the blind that are rich and are read to:
What of the fate of the poor, plunged in a night without end?
Woe to the blind without friends, or whose friends are illiterate rustics!
Blindness for them is a grave, worse than the grave that will come.
In it the mind is enclosed, and decays, in its dark isolation,
Slowly, as years pass away, bringing nor help nor relief.
Now I will draw you a picture, and almost still life I may call it:
Merely a beggar who sits near to the door of a church;
There in the morning they place him, and thence in the evening they take him,
Nought does he hear but the steps, hastening by in the streets;
Early 'tis yet in the morning; he leans on the base of a pillar;
Turned to the sky is his face; open his eyes that are dead.
Scarce has he reached middle age; and he bears that expression of patience,
Which to the features of man blindness alone can impart.
Yes, it is early as yet, the children to school are proceeding;
Some, as the beggar they pass, twitch at his hair or his beard.
Slowly the hours pass by; and only at intervals lengthy
Slightly his body he shifts, easing his stiffening limbs.
What doth the mind in its prison, as slowly the sun in the heavens
Rises and reaches the noon, shedding no light for this man?
Does he the past reconstruct, and dwell on the days that were happy,
When of the banquet of life still he could humbly partake?
Or on the days of suspense, when fast he was losing his eyesight,
Ere he had sunk into calm, ere resignation had come?
Hard did he struggle and fight, to see through the film that was thick'ning
Cruelly, day by day, closing him in by degrees;
Straining with sickening heart to give to the vapoury outlines,
Shapes more precise and exact; vaguer and vaguer they grew.
All things to shadows had turned, and the shadows grew fainter and fainter,
Till in the gloom they were lost,—twilight had passed into night.
Poor ill-fated mechanic! Think'st thou that thou art the first one
Who against Nature has fought, when she retakes what she gave?
Low is the sun in its course, and long are already the shadows,
Still he is there and unchanged, turned is his face to the sky;
Less a man does he seem, than a plant of a form that is human,
Asking no friendship or care, needing no converse on earth;
Almost he seems to be dead; but once or twice, when a copper
Into his hand has been dropt, low has he murmured his thanks.
Cold is the breeze of the evening; his face and his fingers are whiter;
No other change does he show, since he was placed there at morn.
Now it is twilight at last; the children from school are returning;
Some, as the beggar they pass, pull him again by the hair;
Many the steps that he hears, and quick do they fall on the pavement:
All are in haste to get home, after the work of the day.
Few cast a glance as they hasten; but some as they pass by this beggar,
Seeing him motionless still, wish they could think that he sleeps.

AN APRIL ELEGY.

Seek for no omens in spring: the face of the spring is deceptive;
Ask not the leaves that are new ever a hope to confirm;
No, nor put faith in the birds renewing their chorus of promise;
Old is the song that they sing, old as the world and deceit.
Ye who seek omens in spring, have ye ne'er, in the course of existence,
Noted the fate that on earth follows the things that are fair?
Sadness there lurks in the air, in the air that is balmy, of April,
Even as under a smile, often a boding is hid.
Vague is the feeling and dreamy; a sense of the ill that the future
Bringeth to what is too fair, bringeth to what is too good.
Ah, I remember a day, when the blossoms, as now, in the orchards,
Lay in a heap as in flakes, close round the stem of each tree;
When, in the air of the morning, a shower had left, as at present,
Odours earthy and rare, when it was sweet to be out;
When, as in love with herself, and oblivious of all that is fleeting,
Nature, restored unto youth, smiled in her beauty divine;
All that is freshest and sweetest, she laid on her board in profusion,
Freely their share of her feast bidding all beings to take.
All that had, torpid for months, reposed on the bosom of winter,
Bursting the numbing embrace, stepped into life at her call;
All that was injured and ill, obeying the quickening summons,
Crawled in the warmth of the sun, feeling a moment of strength.
Thus, among others, a youth, at last on this morning of mornings,
After long weary months spent in seclusion and pain,
Feeble and dizzy, emerged, and looked on the earth in her beauty,
Just at the moment when spring wholly her garb had renewed.
All was so new and so strange; the trees and the houses familiar,
Different from what they had been, larger or smaller, appeared.
Yet, when a moment had passed, and things had resumed their proportions,
Nought in the landscape was changed; only the season was new.
Taking the hand of the friend who had watched by his bed in his illness,
Sadly and faintly the youth murmured this final appeal:
“Look how the leaves are unfurled! how the blossoms are strewn on the pathway!
List to the song of the birds, there in the boughs overhead!
Ah, what a beautiful world! no, never so fair have I seen it;
Why is it shown to me thus, if I so soon must depart?
Is there, ye leaves, of the life that is poured at this time without measure
Into the lap of the world, no tiny portion for me?
Not when all Nature revives, and the sunshine of April all-healing,
Raises the flower that droops, nipped by the frost of the night?
Not when all creatures that be, on earth and in air and in water,
Quiver with strength new-infused? Am I alone left behind?
Am I forgotten by spring?” But Nature smiled on in her beauty,
Listening not to his prayer, breathed at her opening feast.
All on his footpath was transient; the things he invoked were all fleeting;
Scarce had they come into life, all disappeared from the scene.
Where was the green overhead, and the birds with their singing that filled it?
Where was the green under foot, six little months from that day?
This was the last of his springs; and the first of the vapours autumnal,
Ended his poor reprieve, ended his hope and his fear.
None should too rashly found hopes on the sunshine of April; for autumn,
Silent and pallid and bare, treads in the footsteps of spring.

VENICE.

Time is the greatest of painters; he adds to the fabrics of genius
That which no genius on earth ever has learned to impart.
Tints on his palette are spread, which the artist will never discover;
All that is harsh he subdues, making harmonious the whole.
Slowly he works, and unseen; and, alas! as he painteth he weakens;
Beauty he gives with his right, strength he removes with his left.
This is the price of his work; but art, though it be of the highest,
If at perfection it aims, needeth his finishing touch.
Where has he worked as at Venice, this hoary old painter primeval?
Where, with more generous hand, lavished his beautiful tints?
Look at the stately canal, a witness of pageants forgotten,
Which, like a serpent immense, winds through the city of isles.
There do the palaces stand, whose names are familiar from story—
Names that might long be deceased, had not the poet been there.
Proud in their cruel desertion, they ask not the stranger's compassion,
Yet, as he glides through their midst, who would refuse them a sigh?
There are they ranged on the shore, in their beautiful drapery timestained,
Sadly, to all who will list, telling a tale of their youth;
Poor decrepit remains, that mournfully gaze on the waters,
Which, like a mirror of truth, shows them how old they have grown.
There in the silent canal, the splash of the oar hath its sadness;
He that hath heard it and sighed, knows what an elegy means.
Venice, how clearly I see thee: the palace massive and splendid,
Where, in the days of the past, thou didst thy Doges enthrone;
Where, in the great inner court, the sinister tablets of marble
Tell us the name of the wretch, there to the waters condemned;
Where, in the eloquent gloom, the air is with mystery laden,
All that is dead rising up; ay, and the square of St Mark,
Where the basilica stands, with its many round cupolas zinc-clad,
Calling the thoughts to the East, back to the Byzantine days;
Where, to a measureless height, the massive quadrangular belfry
Rises, alone and sublime, into the blue of the sky;
Where, from the ledges around, the cloud of slate-coloured pigeons,
Daily, obedient to man, rustling, alight to be fed.
Ay, and the alleys from isle unto isle, and the numberless bridges,
Where, as you pass on your way, gondolas shoot underneath.
Who can those bridges forget, or the miniature square in each islet,
Where a well, fashioned of bronze, quaintly the centre adorns?
Hard would it be to decide, in this noiseless city of islets,
Which has more charm for the mind, whether the land or the deep.
Blue is the sea in the open, green in the narrower waters,
Green and with streakings of brown under the high palace walls.
Here in the narrow canals, in the shadow of bridge and of buttress,
All that Romance has conceived presses confused on the mind.
Time has returned on his steps, and we stand in a century by-gone;
All that surrounds us is great; Venice is Venice again.
Swiftly the gondola glides in the shade and the favouring twilight,
Rearing its rostrum of steel, curved like the neck of a swan.
Masked by its colour funereal, silent it speeds and mysterious,
Saving the sound of the oar striking in cadence the wave.
Holding concealed in its bosom a soul that unnoted is noting.
Is it an errand of crime? Is it an errand of love?
Venice, the star of the sea, has satellites many and radiant
Set in the placid lagoon, blue as the vault of the sky,
Motionless satellites they: the girdle of islands around her,
Rearing their towers aloft, proud of belonging to her.
Grand are these towers by day, but grander by night we beheld them,
Once when o'er city and isles hurried the Spirit of Storm.
Dost thou remember it still? How we stood at the wide-open window,
Into the dark looking out, hearing a drop or two fall?
Then how at intervals rapid the isle of St George, by the lightning
Stricken from out of the night, quivering came into view,
Tinged by a roseate light, and its convent and belfry stupendous
Printed one instant the sky, vivid, more vivid than day?
Dost thou remember it still, and the ships in the harbour at anchor?
Few in number, alas! silent are now the lagoons—
Emptiness here, but not ruin. Venice still stands in her glory,
Such as she stood in her day when she was Queen of the seas,
Seeming, as years pass away, to utter a piteous entreaty:
Greatness, Prosperity, come! all as ye left it remains;
Empty but splendid is all: the shell of a greatness departed;
Sad is the splendour intact, sadder than many a ruin.
Gone is the soul of the place; but the body in beauty endureth,
Fair as the eye can behold, more so perhaps than in life.
Death has a beauty at times, that entrances the poet and painter:
Pale though she be and inert, Venice in death hath a smile;
Lying in state as it were, with her crown of towers eternal,
Stretched on a mantle of blue, draped in her marbles of yore.
No, she was never more fair, since the day that she rose from the waters,
Formed, like the Goddess of Love, out of the foam of the sea.

LAURA.

Death, with the noiseless step, whose form has appeared on my threshold,
Turns and proceeds on his way, knocking at other men's doors;
Ay, at the doors of the strong, at the doors of the young and the happy,
Even of those who, of late, seemed out of reach and secure.
Death, O thou Thing inconsistent, that snatchest, in passing, the blossom,
Leaving the fruit that is ripe, ready to drop at thy touch,
Were there not others to take on the path thou wast silently treading?
Why hast thou taken this girl, surely the fairest that was?
What! when so many there be, whose mission on earth is accomplished,
Waiting thy call undismayed, laden with honours and years—
What! when so many there be, who are lying in pain and implore thee,
Wretches to whom, from disease, life has a burden become—
What! when so many there be, who are plucking the hem of thy garment,
Courting thy chilly embrace, sated with ills undeserved,—
This is the one thou selectest? a creature of youth and of beauty
Still all in love with her life? Death, thou art wanton indeed!

ROME.

ABOUT OVID.

He is a sorry philosopher, who to the days that are recent,
Limits his sympathies all, hearing no cries from the past.
Time has but little to do with what is eternally human;
That which went forth from the heart, ne'er for the heart is unfit.
Think'st thou thy woe of to-day will be deeper or truer to-morrow
Than in a thousand years hence? Time does not lessen a fact,
Nor can it deaden a cry of grief unaffected and simple;
Let but the words be preserved, in them the pathos remains.
Only a day or two back, I lighted by chance on the passage
(Read and re-read in the schools, hackneyed enough, in good sooth),
Where, in the Tristia, Ovid recurs to the night of his exile,
When his last moments in Rome swiftly were gliding away.
Fresh was my mind, and long free from the deadening work of the schoolroom;
Straight went the words to the heart, straight through the centuries dead.
Vivid, indeed, is the scene, with touching simplicity painted:
Almost the moonlight we see, bathing the city that sleeps.
“When, of that saddest of nights, the picture uprises before me,
Which was the last, very last, spent in the city by me;
When I remember that night, on which I left all that was dear,
Down from my eyes, on my cheek, trickles a tear even now.
Then had relapsed into silence the voice of men and of watch-dogs;
High was the Moon in the sky, guiding her coursers of night.
As I looked up to her face, and she showed me the Capitol's structures,
Closely adjacent to which stood all in vain our home:
Deities all, I exclaimed, who dwell in the neighbouring places,
Temples which I, with these eyes, never again shall behold;
Ay, and ye gods that I leave, who belong to Quirinus's city,
Let me, before I depart, bid you for ever farewell.”

PASQUA.

Weird old town medieval, say, why wert thou placed by thy founders
Thus out of reach of mankind, high on the Apennines' crest?
Say, were the chestnut-clad slopes, the well-watered valleys, less tempting,
When, in a far-distant time, rose thy high circular walls?
Never since then hast thou changed; thy houses are ever the self-same,
All in thy ramparts is old; man has alone been renewed.
Once a strong mountain republic, and now a town peopled by peasants,
Who, with a simple respect, cling to their homes of the past.
Nought but an arduous bridle-path leads to the bleak mountain plateau,
Yet do thy houses of stone tell of a pride that is gone.
Poor old vestige of time, the birthplace of glories forgotten,
Ill does thy high airy seat suit our wealth-seeking days;
Those who inhabit La Rocca must live in the ways of their fathers;
Humbly, by primitive means, mainly by manual work.
He who aspires to more must stifle the treacherous instinct,
Or from his birthplace depart, never again to return.
Famed is the place for its women; their beauty for miles is a proverb;
Though, in that Apennine tract, many a village might boast.
Race of the Apuan Alps, the fairest that speaks the pure Tuscan,
Who can thy vigour surpass? who to thy beauty attain?
Curly, light-brown is the hair, and yet the complexion is southern,
Warm as the tints of the hills, lit by the fast-sinking sun.
Watch we the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noon-tide,
Out in the quaint little square, or on the steps of the church,
Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle,
Singing in cadence a chant, nasal, metallic, and strange.
Bare are their arms and their feet; at most on the latter is poised,
Just on the tip of the toe, lightly the white wooden clog.
Look at the maidens that stand, out there by the murmuring fountain,
Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get.
See on their heads how they balance the urn-shaped pitcher of copper,
As, with the step of a queen, slowly they turn from the spring.
Beauty they have and to spare; but one who is fairer than they are—
One who is left to herself—fain would I show to you now.
Long might you search at La Rocca, and never discover her equal;
Pasqua, come show us thy face; Pasqua, come show us thy smile!
There all alone is she sitting, within the dark shade of the house-door;
Well does the time-blackened stone circle her form like a frame.
Busy her hands and her eyes in the making of lace on a cushion;
Neatly the threads she directs, nimbly the pins she removes.
Snowy, though coarse, is her shift, and low from her shoulders it falleth;
Prudery, turn up thy eyes; God did not make her for thee.
Dark blue the skirt that she wears, bedraping her limbs in their roundness;
Naked her arms and her feet, nut-brown and braided her hair.
Not with her lace are her thoughts, for see how she frequently, pausing,
Lifts up her eyes from the work, dreamily looks into space;
Where is the prince that shall come to marry this rare village beauty?
Fairy tale, follow thy course! Poesy, fashion her fate!
Poor the chance of the girl if quickly the prince do not fetch her;
Worldliness under the thatch, as in the palace, resides;
Show me the farmer of prudence would marry a portionless maiden;
Beggars may marry for love; peasants must marry for fields.
Pasqua is poor, alas! and earneth a scanty subsistence,
Making her beautiful lace, selling it down in the plain.
Many a summer has passed since her father abandoned La Rocca,
Seeking America's shores, leaving his wife and his child.
Lapo, for that was his name, was owner of one of the houses
Which, in the quaint little place, lean on the turreted wall.
Little of wealth he possessed, but yet, for his wants, all sufficient;
Chestnuts and vines on the slope, which with his hand he could till;
While in a manner monotonous, far from unhappy, the seasons
Passed one by one o'er his head, gently increasing his store.
Lapo would sometimes descend, but only to spend a few hours,
Into the towns of the plain, where there were markets or fairs.
One day, big with his fate, that he thus had come down from La Rocca,
Tools for his vineyard to buy, and at the inn had put up,
Where, in the heat of the day, the peasants were wont to assemble,
Playing at morra or cards, ere they their purchases made;
All who were there were engaged discussing about California,
Where you had only to stoop, gold to pick up in the street;
Great was just then the sensation produced by the newly-found gold-fields.
Listen wherever you would, men talked of nothing but gold.
Gold lay in heaps at the surface, in nuggets as large as potatoes;
Nay, there were lumps in the ground larger than pumpkins by far.
Open to all was the country: the cousin of one of the speakers
Left for the diggings next week; great were his faith and his hope:
Silent and gaping sat Lapo, imbibing the wondrous description,
Holding uneaten his cheese, leaving untasted his wine;
Where was that country? he asked; but no one could give him the answer;
Far, very far, that was all—somewhere right over the sea.
Deeply absorbed in his thoughts was Lapo the ignorant peasant,
When, on his way to his home, through the rich valleys he passed
Picturing unto himself those strange, inexhaustible gold-fields.
Little he looked to the right, little he looked to the left;
Yet all around him was gold; the gold of his own native country.
Labour, the mother of wealth, strewed it with liberal hand;
Golden the waves of the corn, just ripe for the rich second harvest;
Golden the fruit on the trees, golden the load of the vine;
Strung round each cottage in garlands, the maize hung in ponderous ingots,
Fashioned in Nature's own mint, out of her finest red gold;
Out in the gardens the maidens the yellow floss silk were preparing
Leading the soft wavy gold lightly with dexterous hand.
What was not golden, the sun, departing in splendour, was gilding.
Peasant, where was thy soul? Traveller, where were thy eyes?
During the following weeks, the peasant strangely was altered,
Little he cared for his work, which he had hitherto loved.
Oftener far than before, now into the plain he descended,
Staying away many days, leaving his fields all untilled;
Oft was he strangely depressed, oft was he strangely elated,
Never serene and content, as he had formerly been.
Vainly he fought with himself, and strove to forget California;
To it his thoughts would revert, as to the candle the moth.
Little by little the truth, and all that would come in the future,
Dawned on the mind of his wife, filling with anguish her soul.
Soon it was known in the village that Lapo had sold half the vineyard,
Only leaving unsold that which belonged to his wife.
Who does not seek to ennoble the motive of wrong or of folly?
Lapo was kindly of heart, all for his loved ones should be;
Pasqua, the child of his heart, should have a magnificent dower,
All at La Rocca should sit, sharing her rich marriage feast.
Quickly passed by the last days, spent in remonstrance, entreaty;
Who can deter the resolved, or the persuaded dissuade?
Year after year passed away, nor brought any knews of the wand'rer;
Hope was their friend for a time: slowly it turned to despair,
As, with the lapse of the summers, Pasqua grew fairer and fairer,
So did her mother decline, drooping and drooping away.
Broken the stem of her life when bearing its choicest flowers,
After the blow had been struck, never it blossomed again;
Not all the sunshine of Pasqua could waken up hope or exertion;
Far were her heart and her mind, over an ocean unknown.
Small were the fields that were left; but they needed a constant exertion.
Broken in heart and in health, ill could she manage the work.
Debt upon debt was contracted, and pitiless relatives sued her:
Seized was the humble estate, hunger stared in at the door.
Then were they solely supported by Pasqua the beautiful maiden;
Quickly she learnt to make lace, working from morning to night;
Pasqua, the beautiful child, turned into a beautiful woman;
None that La Rocca could show stood by her side unimpaired.
There, by a strange village irony, all named her Pasqua the Dowered;
Even the children would cry, “Wilt thou not give us a share?”
Sadly, nor conscious of malice, the maiden accepted the nickname;
Just as the swan in the tale, living awhile with the ducks.
Never the weary fingers deserted the lace-making cushion,
Cheerfully earning for two, till the necessity ceased.
Azrael, angel of death, when flying one night o'er La Rocca,
Carried the mother away, leaving the daughter alone.
This is the story of Pasqua—of Pasqua as first I beheld her
Guiding the threads of her lace, nimbly removing the pins.
Many a summer has passed, nor has altered the face of La Rocca;
Should you the mountain ascend, all you will find as it was.
There are the women at work in the shade, in the heat of the noontide
Out in the quaint little square, or on the steps of the church
Sorting the golden cocoons, or twirling the flax on the spindle,
Singing in cadence their chant, nasal, metallic, and strange.
There are the girls at the spring, with their urn-shaped pitchers of copper
Patiently waiting their turn, till they the water can get.
Pasqua alone is not there; she long has deserted her village,
Seeking for work in the plain—making no longer her lace.
There, in a noisy city, she earneth her bread as a servant,
Now nor so young nor so fair. Even a Pasqua must fade.

OUR FALLEN LEAVES.

Life has its Springs and its Autumns; and oft, as new fancies are budding,
Softly the dead ones we hear, rustling beneath our feet.
See, all around us they lie, these leaves of the Past that are fallen;
Can it be they that appeared lately so green and so fresh?
Faces we see with indifference, which once with emotion we followed;
Voices fall on the ear, reaching no longer the heart;
Names that a magic possessed, are endowed with that magic no longer;
Ties that we cherished are cut, dreams that we cherished are gone!
Places that Fancy had hallowed, we find, after years, to be common;
If as we pass them we sigh, 'tis for our youth that has fled.
These are the leaves of the past, which, marching through life ever onwards,
Shaded by leaves that are green, bravely we tread under foot.
Yet it may happen at times, if we stoop, and a leaf that is withered
Gently take up in the hand, those that are green are forgot.

AN EMPTY SHELL.

As there are creatures of Ocean that dwell in the shells of the perished,
So do the children of men dwell in their homes of the past.
What are their houses but shells, which belong not to one generation;
Shells into which they were born, shells that at death they vacate?
Yes, in a shell of the past, man liveth his life of the present;
Poor ephemeral guest, e'en in the house that is his.
Fondly he clings to the home that his fathers have left him to dwell in,
Leaving it then to his sons, as it was left unto him.
This is the nature of man; but man is in all inconsistent;
Halls that are strong and are fair often he strangely deserts—
Nay, these are often the fairest, too fair and too splendid, it may be,
For an impoverished State, or an impoverished Prince;
Or, with the progress of time, the State or the Family endeth,
Leaving a palace behind, empty, to tell what it was.
Old as the building may be, it seems to belong to the present,
When there are heard in its walls murmurs of everyday life,
When it is needed by men. But when it is closed and deserted,
Left to the worm and the moth, then to the Past it belongs:
Then on the place so abandoned there settles a spirit of sadness;
He who enters it then seems to re-enter the Past:
Then there attaches to all a faint indescribable perfume,
Something like that which belongs unto a flower preserved.
Many a palace I know, of Elector or stately Prince-Bishop
Which is inhabited now only by ghosts of the Past;
Vestiges left of the day when the smallest of Germany's Princes,
In a Versailles of his own, mimicked the grandeur of Louis.
These are the Elegist's haunts, the places he loves to repeople,
Calling again into life all that is dust and is dead.
Nymphenthal, thou, above all, art the type of these shells that are empty;
Thou, above all, art the place dear to the Elegist's heart.
Here, where the vases and statues are green from the drippings of elmtrees,
Or by the hedges of yew, clipped but unfrequently now,
Or by the triton-shaped fountains that bubble and murmur in sadness,
Oft is he met with alone—no, very far from alone;
For, all around him are moving, unseen by the eyes of the vulgar,
Figures old-fashioned and quaint, well fitting in with the spot;
Beauties who grew to be grey, and gay cavaliers whose descendants
Seldom set foot in the place, now so deserted and dull.
Yes, for the Elegist still, the Electress, in powder and patches,
Walks with her ladies at times, here in these gardens ill kept.
Still, on the broad gravelled paths, when in autumn there rustles for others
Nought but the leaf that is dead, rustle her garments for him.
Poor forgotten Electress: her picture is there in the palace,
Looking so young and so fresh; ay, and so happy and bright.
Yet was her fate most unhappy, and common enough to princesses
Loving below them in rank, loved in return, but in vain;
Wedded by fate to a man, whose delight was the drilling of soldiers,
Lonely she wasted her youth, lonely 'mid pomp and display—
Seeking her life to ennoble, and shedding a sunshine around her,
Striving to warm into love hearts that were colder than hers—
Nothing remains of her now but her name and the beautiful portrait,
Which on the empty old rooms wastes unadmired its smile.—
Seldom the doors are unlocked, for seldom the visitor asks it;
Those who are lords of the place seem to avoid its sight.

AT THE DOOR OF THE JUSTICE MILITAIRE.

VERSAILLES, JUNE 1871.

Slowly the hours pass by for the weary wives of the prisoners,
Who since the earliest morn sit on the staircase of stone,
Patiently waiting their turn, at the door of the dreaded court-martial,
Which at Versailles is engaged sorting the captives new made.
Vast is the number of prisoners, thirty thousand and upwards.
Slowly the sorting proceeds, great though the diligence be.
Slowly the hours pass by, for the women who sit on the staircase.
Longer and longer the shades grow on the opposite wall.
Many from Paris have walked, in the dust, with a load of provisions;
Some with a child at the breast—all with a load at their hearts.
Great is the love of these women, and given in noble repayment
Often for years of neglect, often perhaps for a blow.
Ugly are most of the prisoners, and uglier still since their capture,
Covered with dust and unshaved, stinted of food and of sleep;
Yet there are women who love them, and who in the moment of danger
Bravely come to their help, thinking but little of self;
Bringing them linen and bread, and collecting in haste testimonials,
Which their guilt to disprove, or to extenuate, tend.
Fast is the sun disappearing behind the tall roof of the palace;
Soft through the window it shines on to the women who wait.
Lightly the twilight is spreading its mantle of grey o'er the landscape;
Yet are the women still there, bent on their mission of good.
Little by little their number has dwindled to scarcely a dozen;
Less than an hour remains, then will no more be received;
See, they are growing uneasy and frequently asking the sentry;
Little he knows or will tell, save that it closes at eight.
Those who have not had a hearing must take up their places to-morrow,
Waiting again on the steps, as they have waited to-day.
Gently the sentry explains that the doors are about to be fastened;
Slowly the women move off, bearing their burden of woe.

THE FIELD GRAVE.

Scarcely have died on the ear the cannons' last lingering echoes,
Boom upon boom in the plain; Fancy still hears them recur.
O'er, but just o'er is the war, and Germany's children, victorious,
Homeward are wending their way, leaving their dead to their fate.
Smouldering still are the fires that War and Rebellion have lighted;
France from her numberless wounds bleeds unassisted and weeps.
Ruin and wreck all around; and I, a stranger unnoticed,
Sit by these nameless mounds, earliest of mourners, and muse;
“Here are three Frenchmen interred, and here two Prussians are lying;”
This is their epitaph brief, telling the simplest of tales;
See, on a small wooden cross the words are inserted in pencil,
Almost effaced by the rain, soon they will quite disappear.
Bitterest epitaph this, that asks for no tribute, and tells not
Unto their mothers the place where they are now to be sought.
Fate, thou art ever ironical! Wherefore this mockery cruel?
Couldst thou not bury apart those who in life had been foes?
Barely a month has elapsed since these men felt the bitterest hatred;
Now they approach and they touch; almost each other they kiss.
Lone are the fields at this hour, and only a white-headed peasant
Stops to look on this grave, common to friend and to foe.
Something the ear cannot catch, he mutters as onwards he passes;
Is it a prayer for the one, or for the other a curse?
Rather the latter I fear. But I, who am foeman of neither,
Ere I depart from the ground, fain would do honour to both.
Both did their duty and fell, and both are now equally nameless;
Chancing to dwell on the path crossed by the Chariot of War.
Mourners at home they may have, and hearts that are sinking with anguish;
Here by the place where they lie, only a stranger can sit,
None that in life they had known. And so, if the stranger should happen
Somewhat a poet to be, let him their Elegy write.

A SUFFERER.

War I have seen and its victims: the wounded slowly emerging,
One by one, from their beds, seeking the quickening sun;
Girded no more with the sword, but learning to manage their crutches,
Stopping at intervals short, wistfully looking around;
Spectres, haggard and pale, and armless and legless, whom nature,
Using the breeze of the spring, gently was trying to cure.
Yet these victims of war, thus crawling about in the sunshine,
Are not the sole who drag on, maimed in the morning of life.
Other cripples there are, whose story is sadly inglorious,
Not stricken down at a blow, living for years in suspense:
Wearing no medal or cross, and knowing nor brevet nor pension:
Maimed by the Powers above, not by the engines of men.
Few cast a glance on the wretches sustaining a combat unequal,
Yielding by inches the ground, doomed to a certain defeat;
Cheered by no bugle or drum, led on by no fluttering standard,
Hearing not Victory's shout, as in the battle they sink;
Bed is their battle-field dull, their witness the nurse and the doctor;
Patient and brave though they be, men have no laurels for them.
Yes, there are many like this; and especially one at this moment
Maybe I have in my thoughts; often I see him, alas!
Lifted by men on a chair, and with gentleness placed in a carriage,
Just like a victim of war; only no glory is his.
Now he but seldom complains; but who of the struggles has knowledge
Which by this youth were sustained, ere he accepted his lot?
Short is the story indeed. The youth was of temper too ardent;
Talents he knew he possessed such as led men to success;
Yet not unworthy his aims; and pure was his youthful ambition;
Nought but the great and the good found in his wishes a place.
Home and its sweets he abandoned, and mixed in the world's competition;
Others he passed in the race; destined he seemed for a prize.
Work he desired and loved, and occasions he sought for distinction;
Only too many there came—all was too dearly bought—
Then by degrees imperceptible, fell o'er his pathway a shadow,
Seen and suspected by none, darkening daily his life.
Then came the weeks of despair: the walk that grew shorter and shorter
Steadily, day by day, till he could take it no more.
Yet he the secret preserved. And then came that wildest of struggles,
Fought with a foe all unseen, only to keep on his feet.
Bound half divine to the earth, man clings to his physical powers
Hard as the sailor that drowns clings to the wreck of his ship.
Fiercely he strives to retain, when one of these powers essential,
Given by Nature herself, bids him eternal adieu;
Only when all is too late, does the wretch for the commonest blessing,
Just when it slips from his grasp, feel this ineffable love.
Then for an hour's delay, a year of his life would he barter,
Measuring only too well all that awaits him of woe.
Yet when the loss is complete, he subsides into patience and sadness,
Bearing his burden in peace, writhing in spirit no more;
Helpless and guiltless he lives, and the worthiest parts of his being
Grow and develop with time, bearing a fruit that is sweet.
Higher he looks for the good which the world can no longer afford him;
Less of a man than before, nearer the angels he stands.

A WOODLAND ELEGY.

Nature I love to depict: the woods and their shade evanescent,
Filled with ephemeral life, filled with ephemeral song;
Village and homestead secluded; their occupants dull, unambitious,
Living a life of routine old as the earth that they till;
Ay, and the murmuring stream, and the peasant girl sitting beside it,
Waiting a step she well knows, dreaming her dream of a day;
All that is simple and good, and filled with a poetry homely;
All that is fair and must die; all that was fair and is dead.
Nature is constantly dying, but ageth not, and her beauty
Suffers from time no impair: such as she was she is now.
Yet, in my fancy, at times her beauty appears in the present
Less than it was in the past: duller the tints have become.
Strange that boyhood's coasts, from which I am rapidly drifting,
Clearer and fairer become even as farther I get!
Strange that these landscapes Italian, of which I was once so enamoured,
Serve but to call to my mind those of the duskier north!
Often my thoughts will revert to the woods which I knew in my boyhood;
Little likely, alas! ever to see them again.
Beech-woods of foliage translucent, bestrewn with the shells of the beech-nuts,
Where you the squirrel may see, darting like light o'er the path.
Where, as you walk and look up to the new-born green in the sunshine,
Crackle the twigs that are dead, tinder-like, under your feet.
More than one land have I seen, and carried away of their beauties
Much that unbidden, at times, knocks at the door of the heart.
Yet hath he not to go far who seeketh for beauty; it lieth
Round the corner for all, if they have eyes and can see.
England, country of elms—of elms that are spreading and leafy:
England, country of lanes; soft undulatory land,
Dotted with square-towered churches, that Time has adorned and has hallowed;
Traversed by streams which, unheard, glide in the shade of the boughs;
Open to all are thy beauties, to all who can walk, and can clamber
Over a stile, and, as yet, walk unescorted by Care.
Sweet, above all, are the walks in England's beautiful park-land,
Under the trees that are tall, over the turf that is soft;
Where, in the dells on the grass, are the dark-green rings which the fairies
Leave for the wonder of men, after their gambols at night;
Where, as you stop on your way and peep through the wooden enclosures,
Deer, dark-eyed and tame, come to the bars for a pat;
Or 'tis the long-legged foals, who start and scamper a circle
Round their dams as you pass; then of a sudden they stop.
And in the distance is seen, 'mid the trees, a mansion ancestral.
Brightly its windows the while flash in the fast-setting sun.
Scenery quiet like this, more than that which is grand and romantic,
Speaks to the Elegist's soul, waking the best of his thoughts;
Scenery soft as his mood. For he knows nor invective nor rapture;
Sober and pensive, his strain stirs not the passions of men.
Nature for me has most charm in what is her moment elegiac;
When she brings home to the mind all that is fleeting and fair.
Know ye the dreamy and soft, and scarcely definable feeling,
Tinged with a quiet regret, yet not unhappy withal,
Which our autumn imparts, in a walk through the well-wooded country;
When, without omen of ill, rustles the leaf under foot;
When the mind that is calm is possessed by the beauty of Nature,
Yet is aware of a voice telling of mutable things?
This is Elegy latent; and he who in Nature can feel it,
Knoweth a poetry sweet—sweeter than any in books.

AN OLD COAT.

Each has his own superstitions, and I have my fancies like others:
One is about my old coats; scarcely I know how it came.
Nor do I know, dear Reader, which you are likely to give it,
Whether a smile or a sigh: all on your humour depends.
When I give up an old coat, it seems as if then I were losing
All of a sudden the years which with that coat I have passed;
Older I suddenly feel; for the life which is daily expended
(This is my fancy as well) clings to the folds of the coat.
What has become of the youth of which pitiless Powers deprive us,
Hour by hour, alas? May it not lurk in the coat?
Knew not the coat the emotions, the hope and the fear and the pleasure?
Was it not close to the heart, feeling the least of its throbs?
Only this morning, by chance, I fell on a coat long discarded;
One I had worn at a time when I was happier than now.
As I looked on it, those days, and myself, as I now am no longer,
Clearly, too clearly! rose up; just for a minute, no more.
Almost I then could have cried to this spectre thus suddenly met with,
Give me the life thou hast drained; mine it was then and 'tis now!
Where are the years that I gave thee? the years that I left in thy lining?
Where are the youth and the health? Where are the hopes unfulfilled?
'Twas but a shabby old coat; but I thought as I looked on the edges,
Thready and white, of the sleeves: this which is worn was my life.

ADVICE.

Boy, thy nature is good, though somewhat too ardent thy temper;
Why do I see thee so oft, lonely, discouraged, and sad?
More and more every day thou keepest aloof from thy fellows,
Thinking of nought on this earth save thy ambitious designs.
More and more every day I see thee neglecting thy pastimes,
Even those that were once dearest unto thy heart;
Working from morning till night, nor stopping to look on creation.
Jaded in body and mind, knowing of neither the sweets.
Life is a garden immense, one half of whose fruits are a semblance:
Art thou not plucking the false, leaving untasted the true?
He who would live to succeed must live as if life were eternal,
Knowing both pleasure and work, giving its measure to each.
Fame is not taken by storm, but surrenders with time unto merit;
He who can wait for his day, holdeth the game in his hands.
Abler thou art than the crowd; but dangers unknown to the vulgar—
Dangers for body and mind—lie in Ability's way.
Happy and safe Mediocrity, knowing no path but the beaten,
Seeking no heights that allure—skirting no hidden abyss—
Playing a little with Vice, while holding the fingers of Virtue—
Guided by instinct, not thought: almost I envy thy lot!
Fain would I spare thee, O Boy, the bitter and sickening lesson,
Which, with a temper like thine, Fate but too readily gives;
Only I fear 'tis decreed, that each for himself in Fate's schoolroom,
Learning life's lesson must sit, earning the prize or the rod.
Fain would I warn thee in time; for maybe a similar error,
Cost me, while youth slipt away, much of the joy of life.
Yes, the future too much, the present too little, I cared for,
Thinking too much of success, missing life's real delights;
Deeming the work of the mind alone to be noble and worthy;
Searching all wisdom in books; knowing nor leisure nor rest.
Yet there were times even then, when a better philosophy entered
Transiently into my heart, yielding the healthiest fruit.
Outwards then, and not inwards, the eyes of the mind were directed;
Filled was the present with good,—nought in the future I sought;
Looking on Nature with love, on Nature the good and the fleeting,
While there was youth in the heart giving the power to feel.
Yes, there are moments in life, when Destiny's coursers that bear us
Whither we know not, away, slacken their terrible pace;
When on the road of existence, we look not ahead, but around us,
Holding the reins with loose hand, feeling secure for a while,
When, as we look on the world through which we too fast have been hurried,
Nothing but beauty we see—beauty serene and divine.
Few are the moments of respite, when thus on the weary journey,
Man can enjoy the scene; soon do they come to an end:
Scarce have the coursers relaxed, when, lashed by invisible spirits,
Wildly their race they resume, bearing us helpless away.

SOLVILLE.

Spring, light-footed and young, has stolen a march on old Winter;
See here he comes on his way, scattering blossoms and buds.
Soft is the kiss of the sun; and the breeze which is laden with perfumes,
Stolen from meadows and woods, daintily kisses the cheek.
Such were the mornings of Solville, where spring was for ever the master;
Often I think of them now, under a different sky.
Often I think of them now, when old Winter bends over his embers,
Bloodless and shrunken and sad, warming his tremulous hands.
There, when in lands of the North, the dull leaden clouds lower heavy
Over the desolate plains, leafless and hard with the frost,
Softly the sun, all unclouded, looks down on an Eden of flowers,
Softly the calm tepid sea breaks on the sweet-scented shore.
There be the home of the greyish-green olive; the orange and citron,
Heavily weighted with gold, fill all the gardens around.
Aloes gigantic and fleshy, or hedges untrimmed of geranium,
Border the mountainous paths, where in the shade of a pine,
Reddish and scaly of trunk, or in that of a feathery date-palm,
Taking your seat on a stone, you can look down on the town
And on the placid blue sea, as it lies in its sunniness lake-like;
Over it swiftly, at times, hurries a ripple immense.
Yes, I think often of Solville, reviewing its numberless beauties,
Musing on years that are gone, calling old faces to mind.
Who has not got, at a distance, a world he no longer belongs to,
Doing without him, alas! only too easily now;
Some little world often thought of, but which now has forgotten him wholly,
Where, once for ever interred, lie the best years of his life?
If the occasion should happen to come, perhaps it is wiser
Not to revisit the place: let it belong to the past.
Sadness sufficient the echoes possess, which at intervals reach us,
When we expect it the least, waking up memories dead.
If from that world long forsaken, somebody suddenly dropping,
With the same face as of old, says to us, “What, is it you?”
Then there comes over us straightway a strange undefinable feeling,
Something which jars and is wrong, breaking the current of time,
Which every one of us feels, when, close by the side of the Present,
Sits uninvited the Past, old and familiar of face.
If he should mention some change, that new houses, for instance, are building,
Or that the trees have been felled, and that the aspect is changed,
Something like anger we feel, that strangers should venture to alter
That which is memory's own, taking its beauty away.
If he should tell us, by chance, that the children are children no longer,
Or that the elders are dead, or that new faces are there,
Quickly a sadness comes over the heart, and a sense that the river,
Which we call Time, has flowed on; none on its bosom can moor.

THE DESERTED VILLA.

Well does the dying old place fit in with a framework of Autumn;
When the wild vine on the wall turneth from green into red;
When the far hills of Æmilia have turned to a shadowy russet;
When, in the plain that surrounds, sober and sad are the tints;
When, in the fields that are bare, the smoke of the weeds that are burning
Bluish and curling ascends, filling the air with a haze;
When the tough leaves of the poplar lie flat on the path that they cover,
Yellow and brilliant and smooth, glued to each other by dew;
When the heat that is banished, but lingering still in the noontide,
Draws from all Nature around odours autumnal and sweet;
When every flower still left emits a faint perfume of sadness;
When on the world that she leaves, Beauty expiring smiles.
Beautiful villa deserted! The hollyhocks tall and ungainly
Lord it unchecked o'er the place; marigolds cover the beds.
Where, in the days that are gone, the choicest flowers abounded,
These are all that remain, these are the things that adorn.
Hens from a neighbouring farm are pecking about in the gravel
Where, in his plumage superb, ventured the peacock alone.
Shedding its pointed leaves, an old knotted willow is weeping
Over the wrought-iron gate, seldom or never unlocked.
Posted near to this gate, a painted earthenware soldier,
Life-size, stands in the dress worn by Great Frederick's troops.
Poor useless old sentinel! While thou art guarding the entrance,
Dost thou not know that the foe taketh the house in the rear?
Cruel Neglect is the enemy; stealthily creeping in silence,
Sapping and mining he comes; soon will he reach even thee.
Mark how the wily besieger approaches the house through the garden,
Raising weedy stockades, parallels forming of moss.
Now he reaches the walls, removing the plaster by patches,
Leaving a stain on the stone where he but places his hand.
Deep on the light iron balconies, see how the rust he is spreading,
Leaving no trace of the gold decking the gateway of yore;
E'en on the realm of Time the treacherous foe is encroaching.
Look at the sun-dial there, traced on the wall of the house:
Almost effaced are its numerals; while, with a truth that is mournful,
Stands written o'er it this verse, faint, but legible still:
Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis;
All on the dial is pale, all save the time-marking shade.
Year after year passes by, the willow renewing its pale-green
Pointed leaves in the spring, near to the wrought-iron gate;
Shedding them yellow in autumn, near to the earthenware sentry,
Filling the brim of his hat, lying in heaps at his feet.
Nobody cares for the beautiful place; but the stranger who passes
Looks through the railings awhile, turning in sadness away.

III. POEMS IN LYRICAL METRES

THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST.

THE EVER-YOUNG.

A PALIMPSEST.

VENUS UNBURIED.

THE SECRET OF THE BUSENTO.

THE VAULT OF THE ESCURIAL.

PIETRO MICCA.

AUGUST 30, 1706.