 | My Lyrical Life |  |
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LADY MARIAN.
In her Ancestral Tree's old smiling shade,
Spenser and Milton sang, and Shakspeare played.
I cannot prophesy immortal fame,
And endless honour for my Lady's name
Through my poor Verse; but it shall surely give
All that it gathers long as it may live.
Spenser and Milton sang, and Shakspeare played.
I cannot prophesy immortal fame,
And endless honour for my Lady's name
Through my poor Verse; but it shall surely give
All that it gathers long as it may live.
She heard my Children singing in the street,
And smiled down on them starry-clear and sweet,
But half-way up in Heaven, and far from me,
As Shakspeare's Juliet in her balcony;
A radiant Creature all too rare to stay,
With waving white hand she would pass away!
And smiled down on them starry-clear and sweet,
But half-way up in Heaven, and far from me,
As Shakspeare's Juliet in her balcony;
A radiant Creature all too rare to stay,
With waving white hand she would pass away!
Now I have seen her; heard her voice To-day,
And touched her hand; enriched my life for aye:
The thought in sunbeams gloriously upsprings,
To smile out in the saddest face of things.
After the gloom is gone, the worst is passed,
I know you, my good Fairy, found at last!
And touched her hand; enriched my life for aye:
The thought in sunbeams gloriously upsprings,
To smile out in the saddest face of things.
After the gloom is gone, the worst is passed,
I know you, my good Fairy, found at last!
Though poor, and grim to tears, our lot might be,
We had proud visions in our poverty!
My Princess too, with darkly-sparkling e'en,
As I lay dreaming, over me would lean;
And now the silken clue of hidden power,
Hath led me to her beauty in its bower.
We had proud visions in our poverty!
My Princess too, with darkly-sparkling e'en,
As I lay dreaming, over me would lean;
And now the silken clue of hidden power,
Hath led me to her beauty in its bower.
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Lady! Giorgione should have painted you
With live warm flesh-tints golden through and through;
The sun-soul making luminous its prison
With splendours rarer than have ever risen;
Bird-peeps of brightness—dawn-dew—smiling fire—
Full of all freshness as a spring-wood choir;
With live warm flesh-tints golden through and through;
The sun-soul making luminous its prison
With splendours rarer than have ever risen;
Bird-peeps of brightness—dawn-dew—smiling fire—
Full of all freshness as a spring-wood choir;
A glow and glory of impetuous blood;
Brave spirits that crowd all sail to take the flood
Of large, abounding life, that in the sun
Heaves flashing, with a frolic fringe of fun:
A happy wit; creative genius, proved
In Pictures that Angelico would have loved:
Brave spirits that crowd all sail to take the flood
Of large, abounding life, that in the sun
Heaves flashing, with a frolic fringe of fun:
A happy wit; creative genius, proved
In Pictures that Angelico would have loved:
A stately soul: yet with a laugh that brings
Echoes from Girlhood's heaven as it rings!
And that fine spirit of motion's airy charm,
Which hovers glancing round the flower of form:
A lofty lady of a proud old race,
Recklessly splendid in her gifts and grace.
Echoes from Girlhood's heaven as it rings!
And that fine spirit of motion's airy charm,
Which hovers glancing round the flower of form:
A lofty lady of a proud old race,
Recklessly splendid in her gifts and grace.
Yet, as the life of some tall, towery tree
Climbs till atop it laughs exultingly
With all its leaves, using its pride of place
To look both earth and heav'n full in the face!
Thus—up through bole and branch of wealth and blood,
Breaks out her noble natural Womanhood.
Climbs till atop it laughs exultingly
With all its leaves, using its pride of place
To look both earth and heav'n full in the face!
Thus—up through bole and branch of wealth and blood,
Breaks out her noble natural Womanhood.
My Lady Marian, you are good and true,
Most bountiful and gracious as the dew;
And glad Hearts—winged with Blessings—follow you
Far as the Earth is green, or Heaven is blue;
But, dear my lady, there is work to do
In England yet, and rare good work for you.
Most bountiful and gracious as the dew;
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Far as the Earth is green, or Heaven is blue;
But, dear my lady, there is work to do
In England yet, and rare good work for you.
Why leave your own free air, and English Home,
For Paris—that Slave-Dancer—or for Rome?
With all their lustres, dazzlingly displayed,
They cannot match the sweetness of our shade;
Our leafier pathways cool with gladder green;
Our hearts, whose heavings lift you up—our Queen.
For Paris—that Slave-Dancer—or for Rome?
With all their lustres, dazzlingly displayed,
They cannot match the sweetness of our shade;
Our leafier pathways cool with gladder green;
Our hearts, whose heavings lift you up—our Queen.
Much Mother's Milk wants sweetening with the Balms
That you can bring; much need of more than Alms!
In eyes wide open souls lie fast asleep;
With daylight on the face hearts darkly weep:
Our world has many a ward where wounds and wails
Cry for a thousand Florence Nightingales.
That you can bring; much need of more than Alms!
In eyes wide open souls lie fast asleep;
With daylight on the face hearts darkly weep:
Our world has many a ward where wounds and wails
Cry for a thousand Florence Nightingales.
I know that Knowledge through our Shire doth trail
With slow illumination of a snail!
But still we dream of some bright better day,
And while we sleep the great Dawn comes our way.
Think how long Nature brooded over Earth
Before she quickened for her noblest Birth!
With slow illumination of a snail!
But still we dream of some bright better day,
And while we sleep the great Dawn comes our way.
Think how long Nature brooded over Earth
Before she quickened for her noblest Birth!
O, they shall bless you down in pit and den,—
Transforming slowly into Women and Men;
And smile, as leaves out-smile in first Spring-hours,
With livelier green, while fall the singing showers;
Or as the Winter mosses round your trees
Look up and smile at their good influences.
Transforming slowly into Women and Men;
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With livelier green, while fall the singing showers;
Or as the Winter mosses round your trees
Look up and smile at their good influences.
Your pardon, Lady, if my unskilled word,
Like a bad player, should mistake the chord!
No churlish charge, no plea of parasite,
Is mine; but leal heart-service of a knight
Who in old days had fought for you and bled;
Going to death as 'twere a bridal bed.
Like a bad player, should mistake the chord!
No churlish charge, no plea of parasite,
Is mine; but leal heart-service of a knight
Who in old days had fought for you and bled;
Going to death as 'twere a bridal bed.
Our lost “Maid Marian” bore your name, and she
Yet works a very tender ministry;
And, somehow, when of her we sit and think,
Our hearts touch you by an invisible link.
Sacred to her, my sadder verses take;
And kindly think of them for Marian's sake.
Yet works a very tender ministry;
And, somehow, when of her we sit and think,
Our hearts touch you by an invisible link.
Sacred to her, my sadder verses take;
And kindly think of them for Marian's sake.
Room for my Sea-Kings too, your heart will make,
From young Sir William Peel, to old King Hake.
You have the spirit born of the salt spray
That snuffs the sea-breeze meadowy miles away;
The Norse blood running seaward round the world,
That leaves the Celtic in the Homestead curled.
From young Sir William Peel, to old King Hake.
You have the spirit born of the salt spray
That snuffs the sea-breeze meadowy miles away;
The Norse blood running seaward round the world,
That leaves the Celtic in the Homestead curled.
You love our Heroes! and you might have been
In battle-need our Boadicea Queen;
And stood up to the full majestic height
In your War-chariot beckoning on the fight!
A famous victory you would have wrought,
Or with your Heroes fallen as you fought.
In battle-need our Boadicea Queen;
And stood up to the full majestic height
In your War-chariot beckoning on the fight!
A famous victory you would have wrought,
Or with your Heroes fallen as you fought.
1858.
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