The Burden of the Bell and Other Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

“All Poets dream, and some do nothing more.
When you have turned these pages o'er,
You then may tell me, if you please,
Which I resemble most of these.”
Walter Savage Landor,

iii

TO ROBERT WILLIAM KENNARD, ESQ. THE AUTHOR DEDICATES THIS VOLUME OF LYRICS, SEEKING THEREBY TO INDICATE, HOWEVER POORLY AND INEFFICIENTLY, HIS HEARTFELT RESPECT AND ESTEEM.

xiii

“Look out no longer for extensive woods,
For clusters of unlopt and lofty trees,
With stately animals coucht under them,
Or grottoes with deep wells of water pure,
And ancient figures in the solid rock:
Come, with our sunny pasture be content,
Our narrow garden and our homestead croft,
And tillage not neglected.”
Walter Savage Landor.

THE BURDEN OF THE BELL.

On his journey Youth doth start,
Strong of limb and stout of heart;
And he thinketh Life must be
An unbroken jubilee.
He doth find full proof of this
In the summer's frolic bliss,—
And from roughest winter weather
Strong conviction he doth gather;
While the World, with ample store
Of its fair, false-smiling lore,
Doth convince him more and more.
So he singeth—“Oh that thou,
Merry Life, wouldst last for ever!
Oh, that strength were given me now
To enchain Time's rushing river,—

Bind it fast from shore to shore,
For evermore—for evermore!”
Let the bell toll!

Manhood, with an eager eye
Lit with passioned ecstasy,
Sitteth at the banquet board
With Life's richest dainties stored.
Viands, exquisite and rare,
Wines, bright sparkling past compare,
Pomp and splendour—all are there;
And around that board are seen
Radiant face and lovely mien;
There are smiles that make the light
Sunnier in its own despite;
There are voices that pour round
Music in soft waves of sound:
And from all this syren pleasure
Manhood reapeth his full measure,—
Tasteth each new luxury,
Draineth oft the wine-cup dry;
And the while his spirit owns
Witchery in Love's dulcet tones,
And the while he boldly sips
Burning kisses from ripe lips,

He doth inly murmur,—still
Shutting out each thought of ill
As aforetime—“Oh, that thou
Merry Life, wouldst last for ever!
Oh, that strength were given me now
To enchain Time's rushing river,—
Bind it fast from shore to shore,
For evermore—for evermore!”
Let the bell toll!

Manhood,—the hath left the feast,
In a feverish unrest:—
With pale cheek and sunken eye,
He doth wander moodily
In the meadow paths and through
The brown corn-sheaves, wet with dew.
Moodily he wandereth there;
For a thought of drear despair
Doth possess him—he doth see
That Life's joy is vanity:
He doth see that over all
Syren pleasure's festiveal
There is spread the burial pall;—
That amid the glittering rout
Spectral terrors flit about;—

Ruin in the revelry,
After-shriekings in the glee,
Poison in the wine,—and death
In proud beauty's perfumed breath:
He doth see the doom, the snare,
But the aid, the refuge—where?
So, he museth mournfully
Under the sweet summer sky,
In the orchard crofts and through
The brown corn-sheaves wet with dew.
And, albeit the bird doth sing
Like a very blessëd thing,
And the flowers do all declare
“Earth is very good and fair”—
Not a single smile doth roll
Back the cloud-veil from his soul;
And his lips, compressed and pale,
Ope but with a muttered wail,—
Heedless of that song of yore
That such constant burden bore,
“For evermore—for evermore!”
Let the bells chime!

On the hill-top, worn and grey,
Lieth Age:—a pleasant ray

From the setting sun doth grace
The deep furrows of his face.
God be blessëd! he hath won
Life's great victory—wending on,
Through the dreamings proud and bold,
Through the passions manifold,
Through the subtle hopes and fears
Of the stormy later years,
To the Truth, that in his soul
Holdeth now its high control,
Guiding onward to the goal.
God be blessëd! he doth lie
On the hill-top neath the sky;
And no earth-mists intervene
Betwixt him and the blue serene,
Shining soft in starry sheen.
“God be blessëd!” he doth say,
With a loving smile alway,—
“That Life lasteth not for ever—
That no mortal strength can stay
The swift tide of Time's dark river!
It doth bear me fast away
From the dolour and the sting
Of the present suffering,
Onward to the joy divine
And the rest that shall be mine!”—

“And sweet voices seem to sing,
Sounding from some far-off shore,
For evermore—for evermore!”
Let the bells chime!

MY STATUES.

[_]

ADDRESSED TO W. BRAILSFORD, ESQ.

I dwell amongst a silent people here,
O distant Friend! No sound of human cheer
Gladdens my fireside:—though the flashing light
Falls upon faces, young and spirit-bright,
Deep eyes and rounded cheeks and parted lips
That smile upon me through the dim eclipse
Of the brown shadows. Here, a nymph peers out,
Timid, as scared by some mid-forest shout:
There, from 'neath thunderous brows, with solemn stress,
A god glares at me from his far recess,—
Or childhood, clasping flowers that cannot fade,
Makes its own sunshine in the deepest shade.
—And we commune in silence, they and I,
My Statues:—question soft and soft reply

Pass voicelessly; and from the windy weather,
Or the great calm—conversing thus together—
From day or night, from clear or clouded skies,
We take the key-note of our colloquies.
The breeze blows freshly:—“Sea-nymph! sea nymph! thon,
White Galatea, with the starry brow,
On the seaward rocks that standest, beautiful,
Say, sleeps the ocean;—is the moon at full?”
Then, on my dreaming fancy falls a low,
Soft singing murmur, like a rivulet's flow;
“Queen Dian shines not; seek her by the pillow,
Of her love on Latmos—tempest rocks the billow.”
“Sing, Galatea!”—and she sings her old,
Sad Acis story—ne'er too often told,—
None sweeter:—sings it wondrous plaintively
Like a swan's melody, if such there be,
Till the wind drowns the eadence: Then I cry,
“Ho! Hero, Hero! lift thy torch on high,
Higher and higher, lest thy sea-boy die!”
Wailing the answer comes,—a wail of death:
“My Torch is quenched—my life is quenched”—she saith;
“Alone, beneath the stars, alone—aione!”
And the cleft water swallows up the moan.

Shake the worn casements, falls the flooding rain:—
“Titan! rock-climber! the fierce surges gain
On thy retreating steps; thy loved one dies,
Clasping her little one, that feebly cries
For thy strong succour:—one more effort, lo!
Yon crag remains to scale,—the last; below,
Ruin awaits thee;—up! the toil defy!
Titan! rock-climber! is there hope on high?”
“No hope, no refuge!—Death!”—the sole reply,

So we commune, my Friend, while winter rolls
Its storms and sorrows over hearths and souls.
But other converse ours when winds and rains
Are over and gone—and through the through the throbbing veins
Of the sweet Nature courses her warm blood,
And she puts off her weeds of widowhood,
And decks the new fresh beauty she hath won,
And braids her shining tresses in the sun.
Trim buskin'd, slim of form, with eager air,
(She stands half-hidden by the curtain, there)
A nymph, with loose locks floating on the breeze,
Swift courser of the hill-tops,—'neath the trees
Blythe hunter—beckons me, as she would say
“Come forth, O loiterer! hence, away, away!
Earth wooes us,—heav'n invokes us,—all the air
Thrills with a summons: forth! our place is there!”

And I go forth, compassed with phantasy,
And wander with her where the Oreads be
In the hill-hollows; or we join the rout
Of the satyrs 'midst the vines—and drink and shout
Loud as the loudest there; or chase the deer,
O'er broad savannahs with uplifted spear,
And through cool gleaming rivers. There, full oft
A voice arrests me—tender voice and soft;
Hylas, fair struggler, close and closer prest
By white arms intertwined, to glowing breast
And lipes love-burning,—Hylas that, I wis,
Doubteth if wise it be against such bliss
To wrestle, and so pleading with a smile,—
“Loose me! oh loose me!”—clingeth all the while
To his young captors. And I, standing there,
Watch the smooth syrens slowly downward bear—
Down through the lilies shining in still grace,
Down, through the clear wave closing without trace—
Their prize, now passive in their fond embrace.
And I am left alone,—alone! Not so:
On sweep the ages in their mystic flow—
And classic fable, absolute no more,
Yields to new story and a later lore.
—Sweet household creature, that dost sit demure
On the green river-bank, with bare-feet, pure

As the pure water that so lovingly
Doth kiss and kiss them as it creepeth by,
Loth to leave kissing! Little snow-drop, thou
From old Cervantes garden—that shalt live
In the fair form, art-given, thou wearest now
Till beauty cease to charm or art survive,—
Sweet Dorothea! tell me o'er again
That story of thy love and all its pain.—
“Ah yes! I know it well, fair child, but I
Am never weary of the history:
So, let the water have its wayward will
And the pert zephyr flutter round thee still,
While thou and I, like gossips staunch and true,
Run through the chapter of the past anew.”
Thereon, she straight reveals those secrecies,
Just as doves coo such tales 'mid leafy trees,
Fearing strange listeners: and more slowly still,
Creeps that sly water, eddying,—while his fill
Pert zephyr drinketh of the music rare,
Soul-music, that he deemeth past compare.

Shall I go on, and show you more of these
My fire-side guests—my household sanctities?
Ah no, “Enough!” you say:—and truly, Friend,
My silent folk grow garrulous. An end

Must needs be made, ere sagely you conclude
This hermit cell of mine no solitude,
But a rank Babel. So, in fine, take this
My frank confession:—'midst them all I miss
Old voices and old faces, such as brought
Warmth to my heart and freshness to my thought
In the dear time departed. I would give
All Galatea's singing—ay, and strive
To hoard no memory of the sweet despair
Of Hero's passion—to see sitting there,
Just face to face with me, in cheery guise,
A real, live gossip:—to your charities,
See, I appeal, my Friend: come—and I'll make
My silences thrice silent for your sake.

Brussels.

ECHO.

“What a silence!” say you—wait awhile
Till the folding hills encircle us,
And the rock-chasms yawn in grim defile;
Then we'll rouse up Echo, shouting thus—
Echo, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan, with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!

And sweet Echo, half in joy, half fear,
At such olden, but o'er hasty greeting,
Quick from hill to hill the tale will bear,
Quick through cave and chasm our cry repeating,
Echo, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!

Pan! strange name to ntter 'mid the glory
Of truth's sunshine, in this later day,
But poor Echo, born of heathen story,
Loves such salutation best, they say;
Shout then, Echo, Echo, Pan is coming!
Pan, with all his horns and hunters coming!
Wake up, Echo, wake up swift from slumber!

THE POETS FLOWER-GATHERING.

“From the Pleasance, Poet mine,
Fetch me flowers!” the Lady said—
“Flowers whereon the moonbeams shine,
And the night's first dews are shed.”

Then the Poet, slowly, slowly
Through the Pleasance takes his way,
(In the dream that wraps him wholly,
Murmuring low some sylvan lay),
To the beds of bloom, that woo him
With their blended odours rare,—
Richest odours, wafted to him
On the calm night air.
And he saith—“O Rose, I claim thee
For a virgin flower more fair,—
For a bosom that shall shame thee
Into dying there.”

But from that pale Rose proceeding,
Silver-sweet was heard the pleading,
“Poet, spare, oh spare!

Spare me, earliest of my race,
I am queen of this still place,
And a star doth love me;—
Lift thy gaze from earth to sky,—
Poet, lo! unchangeably
It doth smile above me.
And if thou hadst passed this way,
Gentle face, by light of day,
Not a breath of perfumed air
Would have 'scaped from out me;—
Bloom and fragrance both I store
Till the weary day is o'er,
And the twilight, dusky-fair,
Drops her folds about me:
But when, one by one, the flowers
Sink to sleep around me;
And from out its azure bowers
You sweet light hath found me,
With glad heart I offer up,
All the incense in my cup,

And the winds together,
At my bidding, on their wings,
With Æolian whisperings
Waft it up the ether:
And be sure that loving smile
Groweth brighter yet the while.

“Poet, with that musing eye,
Look into this heart of mine;
Where the pearlëd dew-drops lie,
There the star-rays strike and shine;
Poet, they came down, came down,
Love-sent, from their native heaven—
Gifts are they for homage shown,
And for fragrance given;
And each ray that flasheth free
Tells a tale of joy for me.
Spare me, spare me, for the sake,
Poet, of thine own heart's pleasure,
And that love of thine shall take
Blessings with it beyond measure:
Spare me, spare me!”

And the Poet
Through the Pleasance takes his way—
With raised brow—the lips below it,
Shaped into a “Well-a-day!
Not one rose for thee!” Then smiling,
Saith he, with soft voice beguiling,
“Lily, lily, thou must bend thee
From thy stately height—
Thou must pity and befriend me
In my task to-night!”
A low murmur stirred the air,
But the cry was still—“Oh, spare!”

“Hearken, hearken!”—and the singing
Voice that from the lily wells,
Soundeth like the breezy ringing,
On a sabbath morn up-springing,
Of faint village bells;
Soundeth like the tones that waken
When the light winds sweep the sern
And the melodies are shaken
From the hare-bell's urn.

“Hearken,” saith she, “Poet, hearken,
Ere thou steal my joy away,
Ere my fair new life thou darken
With a swift decay.
Blessëd, blessëd is the glory
Of the golden-crownëd light,
But for me a sweeter story
Hath the dewy face of night;
For when all the pleasance lonely
Groweth, and beneath the trees
The white moonbeams, trooping only,
Work their silent fantasies,
Oft from out the greenwood shadow
Comes an elfin sprite to me,
Tripping gaily o'er the meadow,
Singing ever merrily;
With a tiny shout of greeting,
Low he sinks on bended knee,
Smiling still, and still repeating,
‘Lily, ope thine heart to me!’
Then with sudden gesture sprightly,
Close my slender stem is pressed,—
With a bound he leapeth lightly
To his place of rest:—

And all night, all night he singeth
Elfin songs that sweetest be,
Till the soft air round us ringeth
With his merry minstrelsy.
He doth sing of sunny places,
Far away,
Where a constant ealm embraces
Night and day.
Where the rivers as they wander,
Where the winds, young leaves that sunnder,
Where the very cataract's thunder
Tell of love alway.
And he saith the blossoms growing
There do neither faint nor fade,
Dowered with fragrance ever flowing,
Be it shine or shade;
And that spirits bright and fair
Hold it ever their best duty
Each young bud to cherish there,
And unfold its beauty.
Never cruel hand, I wis,
Dareth pluck or break them—
Angel touch, or angel kiss,—
Worse doth ne'er o'ertake them.

And that little fay hath vow'd
He will surely bear me
From this land of mist and cloud,
Ere the storm-blast tear me,
To that refuge far away,
That calm home of brightness—
There to live and bloom for aye,
In eternal whiteness.
Nay—this very night, it may be,
He will keep that vow—
Poet, by thine own sweet lady,
Hear and heed me now!
Heed me!”—Ah, she ceaseth pleading—
Down the alleys green,
Fast the Poet's form receding
Faint and dim is seen.—
“Neither Rose, alas! nor Lily,
For thy crown, my queen!”

But the Violet, close-hidden
'Midst its leaves he spies;
And quick stoopeth—unforbidden,
To possess his prize?
Nay, not so—sharp accents sudden
Of wild anguish rise;

And again he needs must tarry
By that flow'ret pale,
While the scented air doth carry
To his ear her tale.
Of the ruin and the sadness
That such doom would leave—
Of the glory and the gladness
That are his to give.

Woe is me! the tale is over,
But the moonlight doth discover
That no prize is won;
That our puzzled Poet-lover
Roameth flowerless on—
“No, not even a Violet, lady,
Well-a-day, not one!”

And each blossom that hath station,
In that Pleasance fair,
Still doth meet his invocation
With its separate prayer—
With sweet words of deprecation,
And that cry—“Oh, spare!”

So he wandereth, ever vainly—
Wandereth hour by hour,
Till Love's duty pointeth plainly
To his lady's bower.
And he entereth, somewhat weary,
Ay, and suppliantly,
With a murmured “Miserere!”
Breathed on bended knee—
“Miserere! O my lady,
Not one flower for thee!”

Then, encompassed by the glory
Of his art, with kindling air,
He doth weave each flower's sweet story
Into poems rare;
And the pure and calm cmotion
Of his strain commingleth so
With the moonlight and the motion
Of the sighing leaves below,
That you well might deem some spirit
From an elemental sphere,
That no earth-stain doth inherit,
Sang his deseant there.

With fond ear the lady listeneth—
With a face of rapt repose,
And her eye's deep azure glisteneth
When the lay doth close.
And she murmureth, “Poet mine,
From my pleasance thou hast brought
Blossoms of a hue divine,
With immortal fragrance fraught;
Blossoms dearer far to me
Than earth's brightest ones can be,
And a worthy crown—for thee!”

A LITTLE STAVE TO MY SINGING BIRD, THE CHILD ELLIE.

Ellie, come and live with me—
Thou my singing bird shalt be;
Little sunny bird of beauty,
Thou shalt perch upon my knee.

Bravest Blackbird, Ellie dear,
Shall confess thee without peer;
Best Canary, gay and golden,
Shall grow sick at heart to hear.

And the Nightingale shall say,
From the lime-bough o'er the way,
Sing on, Ellie, sing—I'm weary
Of my own sad strain to day.”

Gay as bees in beds of thyme,
We'll enjoy each changing time—
Morning's freshness, mist enwoven.
Noontide's crowned and blessëd prime.

And when eve's grey shadows come
And all other birds are dumb,
Ellie, thou shalt sing thy sweetest,
Thou shalt fill with glee my home.

Home for winter, that's to say—
But when Summer trips this way,
With her blue eyes full of pleasures,
Thou shalt be my woodland fay.

Out in the air, out in the air!
Through the sloping meadows fair;—
Who shall guess, O playmate Ellie,
Half our merry mischief there?

And each song thou then dost sing
Shall its fitting guerdon bring;—
Oh! the wild wood strawberries,
Past all child imagining,

For their sweetness!—and the brown
Hazle nuts, that drop adown
From full ripeness, 'mid the mosses,
Under hedge rows, overgrown

By tall brambles, climbing still
Out of reach, with cunning skill,
Crowned at top with blackest berries—
These shall all be thine at will.

Judge what feasts we'll have, my bird,
In the green-wood, undeterred
By the fear of any gazer,
All our happy laughter heard

By the wood-folk only—by
Heares upstarting timidly,
Squirrel, frisking bold above us,
Or some sage old owl, that sly

From his nest doth peep, full fain
To discover and make plain,
What the sound is that is neither
Sound of wind, nor sound of rain.

Ay, and then in turning back,
Homeward, in our winding track,
Oh! the posies that we'll gather—
Rose, thyme, meadow-sweet, good lack!

Honey—suckle blooms run wild,
White may blossoms, undefiled—
Crowns of gold for queens' pale foreheads!
Crowns of flowers for thine, my child!

See, I tempt thee, Ellie—say,
Wilt thou be my woodland fay,
And my singing bird of beauty?—
Ah! I dare thee to say nay!

Wilt thou love me well, and come
To make gladness in my home?—
In my home and heart, O Ellie,
Where all other birds are dumb?

Draw near—let me smooth away
Those wild tresses . . . welladay!
What a task to catch thee, mischief!
Sunbeams, in the woods at play,

Are caught sooner—now peer out,
Rosy face, and solve my doubt—
Peer out through the soft brown shadows
That enwrap thee round about.

Loving eyes, my woodland fay—
Open brow, as frank as day,
Lips, with . . . Kisses for sole answers—
Ah! I dared thee to say nay!

Sing, then, Ellie! joy alone
Sound in each uplifted tone!—
While to wish thee best of blessings,
May God bless thee, little one!

THE POET AND HIS VOCATION.

“Self-contentedly approve you
Unto Him who sits above you,
In hope, that apprehends
An end beyond these ends,
And great uses rendered duly
By the meanest song sung truly!”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

O Poet, should I wish thee
Such crowns as the world shapes, with smiling lips
For brows like thine? At noonday, when eelipse
Blots out the sun in heaven, men gaze and say,
“Great blessing art thou, Sun! until thy ray
Ceased thus untimely, certes, little thought
Was ours of all the glory thou hast brought
To this our earth. Great blessing art thou, Sun;
Great praise and worship hast thou nobly won!”
Wait, Poet, wait
Till Death doth keep his state
In thy still chambers, and upon thine eyes
His fixed immutable shadow deeply lies,—

Wait, till thou hearest afar
The seraph-anthem floating from God's heaven,
Borne on from star to star—
When life hath faded from thee like a dream,
And all the gauds of life the vilest seem,
Shall those world-crowns be given.

But, Poet, I would give thee
No scorn for such as these,—no lifting high
Of a proud forehead. Meekly, patiently,
Sing thou thy songs along the world's highways,
Putting not from thee any meed of praise
That grudging hands dole out: high task is thine;
High recompense, if worthily and well,
Thy lays, with upward aspiration, swell
The soul's brave utterance of the truth divine;—
High task, if only one poor human heart
Be raised, and cheered, and strengthened by thine art;
High recompense, if not a voice be found
I' the world to bless thee—angels catch the sound
Of the eternal truth on earthly ground,
And there is joy in heaven.
Then Poet, I would bid thee
Thus nobly work, content, for present gain,
That all the beautiful of earth's domain

Is thy great heritage:—that unto thee
A grander music soundeth from the sea,—
A richer fragrance in the flower is shrined,—
A softer murmur borne upon the wind,—
Than greeteth the world's sense—that all are fraught
With revelations to thy quickening thought;
With solemn whispers of mysterious things,
With stately fancies, fine imaginings:—
And more, O Christian Poet! that all these
Are but faint types and transient images
Of an unfading beauty, that shall be
Thine ever, through a glad eternity,
When the world's toil is o'er. Work on, work on;
Tarry not, rest not, till the crown is won
Which suiteth living brows,—the holy crown,
That, with its deathless, shadowless renown,
O Poet, I would wish thee!

THE BROOK AND THE SYCAMORE.

“Shade me, oh! shade me!”—the streamlet said
To the tall and stately Sycamore;
“Over my bosom thy branches spread,
Till the fiery noontide heat is o'er,
And I'll promise you a guerdon meet
For such true service, friendly tree;
A guerdon, simple, but passing sweet—
Bend low—I'll whisper what it shall be;
I'll sing you a song, I'll sing you a song,
That shall fill the silence all night long;
A song, whose music shall seem to you
As the fanning wind and the dropping dew;
A song that shall hush you to slumber deep,
Then weave its witchery through your sleep;
That shall bathe as with freshness of early showers
Each leaf o'ertasked by the sunny hours;
That shall win all wandering odours up
From purple bell and from golden cup,
To float and languish your boughs among—
All this, I'll promise you in my song,

All this and more,
O Sycamore,
For your shade till the noontide heat is o'er.”
Then the Sycamore broad his leaves unfurled
O'er the little stream,
For pride hath no place in Nature's world,
As in ours, I deem.
No place at all—on the giant height
Of the royal mountain, gay and bright
Grow the little flowers, no whit afraid;
And the mountain, in his storms arrayed,
Shelters and shields them as best he can
From the avalanche and the hurricane.
Pride! mark the idle zephyrs play
With the monarch oak's fresh budding spray;
Frolicking, flutt'ring, round leaf and stem—
And the oak, no scorn hath he for them,
But frolicking, fluttering too, I wis,
Giveth whisper for whisper and kiss for kiss.
Pride! wateh the stream on its way to ocean
Gliding along with a merry motion,
How it gurgles and eddies, in pure delight,
Round the cup-lily's blossoms, broad and white,
But a little further, perchance you'll see
Its current laving as lovingly

The poor little daisy, meekest of all,
That peeping forth from its grassy thrall,
Bends down its small sweet face to see
What it is that murmurs so tenderly.
Pride! on man only that curse is hurled—
There is no such thing in Nature's world!

So the Sycamore deigned, though stately and tall,
To shield from the sunbeams, one and all
The stream at its foot, till the noontide's reign
Was ended, and over wood and plain
The cool eve-shadows fell soft again.
And the little brook, as wood-folks tell,
Its plighted promise fulfilled so well,
That at dawn, when the season of dreams was past,
Of all the trees in that forest vast
The Sycamore woke from sleep the last.
Woke with a sigh too, that clearly meant
A feeling of inward discontent
At the change, from wonder and witchery,
From honey-dew, odours and harmony,
To the common earth and the common sky.
And I've heard the learned in leafy lore
Declare of all sounds in the Sycamore,
That this is their burden and this their strain—
“Sing me, oh sing me that song again!”

EFFIE'S SECRET.

In her tiring room she sat,
Saucy Effie!
In an olden chair of state,
Carven fine—more meet, pardie!
For her grandame's majesty,
Than for Effie.
Robe and band were laid aside,
And her brown hair floated wide
O'er her shoulders, that were seen
Snowy-white its waves between.
And those self-same wavelets too
Hid the sunny brow from view;
But the little face peeped through,
Rosy-fresh, and very fair,
Of an elfin beauty rare,
Lit with smiles as lilies are,
When the sunshine from their chalice drinketh up the dew.

Had the sunshine found her there,
Saucy Effie?
Cloudy sky and heavy air
Were night's stormy harbingers,—
But heart-sunshine, that was hers,
Joyous Effie!
You might see it gleaming up
From that merry heart's full cup;
Gleaming up, and brimming o'er
In rich sparkles evermore,
Till the little face grew bright
With excess of inner light—
Deeper tints the cheek displayed,
Archer smiles the lips arrayed,
And the dark eyes flashed their splendour through the drooping tresses' shade.

In her hand she held a flower,
Saucy Effie—
Relic of some by-gone hour,
Shrunk and withered, sere and brown,
All its whilome fairness flown,
Foolish Effie!—
From her bosom's seereey
She with drew it stealthily,

And her silver laugh rang clear:—
“Little wots he thou art here,
Snowdrop of the long ago,
Treasured up and cherished so,—
And, good sooth! he ne'er shall know!”—
Then the brow was lifted high
In a mimic royalty,
Very brief; for soon she pressed
That poor withered bosom-guest
To her pitying lips, I wis.
Whereupon, a sudden flush
Wrapped her beauty, blush on blush,
Like the mantling of the morning at the sun's first kiss.

And a name she murmured oft,
Foolish Effie!
Murmured low and murmured soft,
With a music like the bee's,
Full of honeyed flatteries—
Loving Effie!
Or like that the streamlet weaves,
Rippling, in calm summer eves,
Round the water-lily's leaves.
And because she spoke so low,
All the silence seemed to grow

Deeper, that no tone might be
Lost of that sweet harmony.
So, the name was heard full clear,
Uttered now in frolic glee,
Now in earnest verity,
And with fond reiteration, as of lover lief and dear.

And she dreamed not, smiling sly,
Simple Effie!
That perchance some bird was nigh—
That a little bird o' the air
Might be hovering round her there,
Foolish Effie!
Swift to hear and swift to tell
All her story passing well:
All the love dissembled so,
Burning bright beneath the snow,—
All the tender fancies, worn
Softly 'neath a mask of scorn:—
That, in short, this bird might bear
All her secret full and fair,
In its flittings to and fro,
To that one who “ne'er should know:”—
Not a thought of all this ruin had she, sitting lonely there!

Not a thought! But, well-a-day!
Hapless Effie!
When the morning light shone gray,
Through the greenwood far away
Roamed a youth, with visage gay;
And he laughed a merry laughter, and the greenwood heard him say—

“Mock me now the livelong day,
Mistress Effie!
Frown and fume as best you may—
Nathless, let what will befall,
I shall see you still through all,
Loving Effie!
Mock my flowers—my wild-wood posies,
Hedge-row violets and white roses—
Eyes averted, coldly shun them,—
Little foot, tread proudly on them,
Spurning such?—ah! yes, I know—
But anear thy heart also,
‘Treasured up and cherished so,
Snowdrop of the long ago!’
Mock me with your gibes and jeers,
Sounding strange in other ears

That believe thee void of guile,
And that hear thee not thee while,
As I hear thee, murmur oft
Murmur low and murmur soft,
Other words, that back recall
Those hard jestings one and all.
Other words—ay, pr'ythee, still,
If it please thee, mock thy fill:
Mock me with thy lofty graces,
And thy pitying grimaces,
And the smiles on other faces;
Mock me with all signs that tell
Of a scorn unspeakable:
But, despite thy fancied thrall,—
Though all this and worse befall,
By that little withered token
And that name so fondly spoken,
I shall know thee loving Effie,—I shall see the love through all!”

DOOM. A DREAM OF THE BROCKEN.

“Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear,
We shall have a deadly storm.”
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

The North Wind summoned his legions all,
At the dead midnight, from their dungeon thrall;
And he said with a shout, that as it rose,
Stripped bare the forests and shook the snows,—
“Away, to your work of ruin!”

Fierce and fell—fierce and fell,
Over rock and over dell,—
Through the tossing Norway pines,
Through the wreaths of southern vines,—
Fierce and fell—fierce and fell,
Passed they with a savage yell,
As for earth's undoing.

And the Raven, that sits on the blasted bough,
He hath flapped his wing and followed, I trow.

There's a crag on the Brocken, the topmost of all,
That standeth solemn, and black, and tall,
With a jagged top, where the moon-rays fall
Sudden and sharp—you may see it shine
Far down in the vale, at the day's decline.
And circling around it, round and round,
Eddy the winds, with a muffled sound,
As of wierd witch-laughter, stealthy and low;
And ever, as round and round they go,
There's a flapping of wings on the dead pine-bough—
A flapping of wings, and a voice doth call—
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Stoop to thy fall!”

Then silence awhile—not a sound replies,
But the moon looks out from the darkened skies,
And still in its grandeur, stately and tall,
Towereth the Brocken-Crag, topmost of all.

But louder and louder the laughter grows,
And fiercer the strength of the viewless foes;

The loose rocks spin in the air, the trees
Groan 'neath the stress of their agonies,—
And again, through the tumult, is heard, I trow,
That flapping of wings on the dead pine-bough,
Again, hoarse and sullen, that boding call—
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Stoop to thy fall!”

And the peasant, far down in the vale below,
Looks forth from his casement in terror, and lo!
By the fitful moonbeams, that come and go,
He seeth the Brocken-Crag sway to and fro,
Then dash down the rocks with a headlong rout,
While still in its track doth that wild voice shout
Hoarser, and louder, and high over all,
“Crag of the Brocken, Crag of the Brocken,
Haste to thy fall!”

Fierce and free—fierce and free,
Over land and over sea,
To their work of ruin—
Through the valleys, still and deep,
Where the nestling hamlets sleep,—
Through the cities, wide and fair,
Working wreek and ravage there,—

Fierce and free—fierce and free,
Passed they, with a savage glee,
As for earth's undoing.

And the Raven that sits on the blasted bough,
He hath whetted his beak and followed, I trow.

The Lord Baron he sits in the northern tower,
In his old grey tower, alone—
With a frowning brow, and a cruel eye,
And he laugheth loud—“Sir Guy, Sir Guy,
My will must unbend, or this tower descend,
Ere thou comest to claim thine own!
Ha, ha! 'twas a fair young bride,” quoth he,
“That smiled in my face, and knelt at my knee,
But I drove them forth together,—
I drove them forth from my sight, pardie,
With a bitter curse, for all company
To brighten the mad weather!”
And the Baron, he strideth up and down,
With a sterner smile, and a darker frown,
But he stoppeth ere long, for a sudden knell,
Falls on his ear, like a passing bell,
That tolleth solemnly.—

And anon, through the sound of the lashing rain,
There's a flapping of wings at the lattice pane,—
A flapping of wings, and, piercing and high,
With scream of ill omen, a voice doth cry,
“Lord Baron, Lord Baron, that passing bell
Tolleth for thee!”

Dread looks the Baron, and white of ble,
But he looseth the casement full manfully,
And he looketh forth—lo! the moon on high
Glares through the clouds, as they hurry by,
With a ghastly face, as of witchery.—
Lo! the boughs of the forest trees, one and all,
Toss, like black plumes at a funeral;
And circling the battlements, round and round,
He hears the winds eddy with boding sound,
An angry murmur, that groweth ere long,
Moment by moment, more wild and strong,
Till that grim old tower, so mossy and grey,
Trembles and rocks 'neath their hurricane sway.

Still, the Baron he paceth up and down,
And his brow is knit with the same black frown,

And back to his face hath crept, the while,
The baleful light of that cruel smile,—
Ah me, ah me!
He seeth perchance the knight, Sir Guy,
And the bride, that he loveth so tenderly,
Wandering, wandering, sad and forlorn,
Heart-broken, shelterless, weary and worn,
And the smile groweth brighter!—he seeth them flee,
O'er the dark hills, followed relentlessly
By the tempest that rageth with evil will,
And the curse, that o'ertaketh them, fleeter still,
And fiercely he laugheth!—but hark, the knell
Soundeth anew, as of passing bell
That tolleth solemnly;—
And anew, in the pause of the beating rain,
Comes the flapping of wings at the lattice pane,—
The flapping of wings, and from out the gloom,
Freezing his life-blood, that voice of doom,
“Lord Baron, Lord Baron, you passing bell
Tolleth for thee!”

Down, down, down!
With a roar, and a crash, and a mocking cry
From the whirling winds, and piercing through all,
A scream, as of mortal agony,

That grim old tower, so mossy and grey,
That hath braved for ages the battle fray,
Doth shake and totter and fall—
Down, down!
Massive and vast, to the fosse below,
It sinketh in ruin—each mighty stone,
From basement to battlement overthrown;
But thrice, ere the terrible strife is o'er,
Is heard, I wot, 'mid the general roar,
That shrieking voice of woe,—
And thrice, as in triumph, a weird-like sound,
As of hoarse wild laughter, echoeth round,
While faint in the distance, floatcth the knell
Of a solemn deep-toned funeral bell.—
Ave Maria! guard us well!

FLOWER DIRGES.

Sing ye dirges for the flowers?
Nay,—their prime is past and gone;
Fed with sunshine and sweet showers,
They have graced the summer hours,—
Now, their work is done:
From the uplands, fierce and strong,
Bitter blasts will blow ere long—
Happy they, seeure of shelter
From wild winter's wrong!
They have left us, undismayed
By the change that did befall;
Wearied out with shine and shade,
It rejoiced them, one and all,
To escape from daylight's ken
To their chambers subterrain,—
There to rest awhile, and then
Weave their summer robes again,
Weave them fresh, and weave them fair,
And their fragrant spells prepare:—
Therefore, sing no mournful dirges, for these flowers, O men!

But, if ye must sing, sad-hearted,
Thus, your withered joys among,
Wail ye for the hopes departed
Since the year was young.—
For the hopes that, bright and glowing,
Sprang beside the rivers flowing
Through the land of thought erewhile,—
Sprang, soul-nurtured, and grew lovely
In Faith's halcyon smile,
Till the world's breath reached them:—slowly
Then ye felt their beauty wane;
One by one, they vanished wholly
Into Death's domain,—
Fading, not, like Earth's pale blossoms,
Soon perchance to bloom again.
For high hopes, then, lowly lying,—
Meek hopes, once so fair to see,—
Loving hopes, all coldly dying,—
Heavenward hopes—ah, me!
Sing ye dirges, deep in sadness, for these flowers, O men!

THE SONG OF THE IVY.

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Ivy—“let poets sing
Of the oak, and erown him the forest king:
Let them sing of the elm, for his lordly height,
And the birch, for his bark so smooth and white,
Let them praise the chesnut, for majesty,
And the willow, for beauty—but what care I?
Beauteous, and stately, and strong, and tall,—
I conquer them all—I conquer them all!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Ivy—“let men uprear
Castles and palaces far and near;
Pile upon pile let their fabrics rise,
Darkening the earth and mocking the skies,
Lifting their turrets so haughtily,
Boasting their grandeur—but what care I?
Buttress, and bastion, and topmost wall—
I conquer them all—I conquer them all!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Ivy—“old Time to me
Hath given the glory and mastery:
So poets may sing, if it like them well,
From early matins till vesper bell;
And others may list to their minstrelsy,—
I've a song of my own, so(^) what care I?
Beauteous, and stately, and strong, and tall,—
I conquer them all—I conquer them all!”

ALICE.

The nun looks forth through the convent pane,
Woe is me, Alice!
But the snow lies deep on the frozen ground,
This way and that she looketh round—
In vain, in vain!
Woe is me, Alice!
The night shades creep o'er the frozen ground,—
She looketh still—no voice, no sound;
Woe is me, Alice!

In the convent dell a young page lieth;
Woe is me, Alice!
A young page lieth, faint and low,
And his life blood staineth the virgin snow,
As alone, he dieth.
Woe is me, Alice!
The night shades creep o'er the frozen ground,
Where he lieth still,—no voice, no sound—
Woe is me, Alice!

The nuns look forth through the convent pane,
Woe is me, Alice!
And they smile to see the fair spring rise
From the winter's thrall, and the evening skies
Shine soft again;—
Woe is me, Alice!
There's a young form stretched on bier meanwhile,
There's a young face weareth the corpse's smile,
And the solemn night shades creep around
Where she lieth still,—no voice, no sound,
Woe is me, Alice!

LOVE HER STILL.

Love her still!
She hath fallen very low—
Thou who knew'st her long ago,
Little, little canst thou see
Of her girlhood's purity;
But, though sin hath left its trace
On her once sweet happy face,
And that innocent maiden brow
Droopeth in dark shadow now—
Though life's glory all hath fled,
And life's shame is her's instead,
Love her still!

Love her! let no harsh cold word,
Man, from lips of thine be heard;
Woman, with no lifted eye
Mock thou her deep agony;

Weep ye,—tears, give tears along.
To our world-forsaken one—
Love her still!

Love her-let her feel your love.
Summer showers that fall above
Fainting blossoms, leave with them
Freshened leaf and straightened stem;
Sunshine oft doth give again
Bloom the bitter storm hath ta'en;
And this human love of ours,
To the world's poor faded flowers,
May be found as dear a boon
As God's blessëd rain and sun
To restore their native hue,
And their native fragrance too;—
Love her still!

Gather round her, weep and pray—
Clasp her, lead her from the way
She doth journey—tenderly
From the wrong and misery,
To the better paths, where peace
Waiteth her, with sweet release

From life's heart-ache;—so, once more
In her breast the hope of yore
May be lit, that holy hope,
That with earthly loss doth cope,
Earthly sin and earthly shame,
Till all earth is but a name,
And the rescued soul is given,
With its treasure, unto heaven!
Oh, bethink ye of the bliss
That will fill your hearts for this,
Loving friends, what time ye see
Shadow after shadow flee
From her pale sad face;—what time,
Soaring in a thought sublime,
Ye shall know, the while ye pray,
To his angels God doth say,
“Love her still!”

A CATASTROPHE IN AN ACORN CUP.

“Ho, ho!” quoth the Fairies—“here's a cup
Of dew that the Sun has clean forgot,
In his midsummer madness, to drink up—
Let us quaff to his worshipful health!—why not?
To the Sun's bright health! and.. ahem!—may he
Show ever the same short memory!”

So they sipped and they quaffed, till the cup was dry—
That the nectar was strong you may well rely,
For the wood soon rang with their revelry,—
And quaint were the mirth and the melody
Of the songs they poured on the midnight breeze,
As they waltzed round hillocks and old oak trees.
But lo! in the midst of their maddest dance,—
Poor merrymen all!—a sudden trance
O'ertook them, a torpor, whose drowsy might
Weighed their eyelids down in their own despite—
Hushed grew their voices, and heavy and slow
Moved the little feet so brisk e'en now,

And, heedless of nighteaps and toilet graces,
In all sorts of postures, and all sorts of places,
They yielded, at last, each failing sense
To that torpor's tyrannical influence.
One fell asleep with his head in the cup
He had just been draining,—one curled up
His leaden limbs in a cranny, where
A spider, a sort of Giant Despair,
Tied him fast with a web through his golden hair;—
And one,—worst luck of all,—slipped over
A high bank into a furzy cover,
Terribly ragged and rough and lonely,
Where he tore, I fear,..not his jerkin only.
But neither thorns, nor spiders, nor aught
That is most abhorrent to elfin thought,
Had power at that moment, to loose the yoke
Of the spell that bound those fairy folk;—
So they slept and slept with a right good will,
And the morning found them sleeping still.

“Aha!” said the Sun, when, called to rise,
He got out of bed with winking eyes,
And, while his curtain of mist he furled,
Looked down from his window on the world;—
“Aha! They are caught in my trap, I see—
These moon-lovging sprites—henceforth they'll be

Somewhat less ready to touch, I'm thinking,
The dew that is meant for my private drinking.
'Twas a wise thought, that of mine, to pray
My gossip, the wind, that yesterday
Set out on a journey round that way,
To drop from his pinion as he flew,
In that acorn-cup brimfull of dew,
Two great white poppy seeds, ripe and rare
And of wondrous virtue to ensnare
Poachers and pilferers such as they—
Aha! there'll be dew enough to day!”

And there was dew—light laughed the sun,
As he drained the flower-cups, one by one,—
Meadow-sweet, foxglove and mountain bell,
Primrose and cowslip and pimpernel,
All of them beaded and brimming o'er;—
Dew there was, truly, an ample store,
And the next day too, and for many more.
But whether, from that time forth, made wise
By the cramps and stitches and maladies,
That seized them in waking, the cunning elves
Foreswore dew-drinking and bound themselves
With a ‘temperance pledge,’ in the usual way—
I can't inform you .. perhaps they may!

AN IMAGE.

Sounds of music in the palace,
Festal lute and lyre,
Swelling in a sudden triumph
Higher still, and higher;
Sounds of dancers in their gladness,
Bounding through the hall;
Sounds of sweet young singing voices,
While through all, through all,
Steals the tinkling silvery music
Of the fountain's fall.

But that voice of exultation
Soon doth faint and die:
Riseth now a cry of mourning,
And fierce agony.
O'er the mirth, and o'er the revel,
Sinks the funeral pall,
And the funeral bell is tolling,
But through all, through all,
Steals the tinkling silvery music
Of the fountain's fall.

So, within the palace chambers
Of full many a heart,
One thought oftentimes doth linger
And will not depart.
Grief may moan or sadness languish,
Or bright joy befall,
That one thought is interwoven
Still through all, through all,
Like the tinkling silvery music
Of the fountain's fall.

THERE!

Yes, thou art there,
Hated one, loathëd one! 'Twas a brave blow,
Crushing the sneer on thy lips, and thy brow
With its bland mockery! Friend, thou art now
Lying—well know I the spot—the soft light
Basks on the quiet wave, sunny and bright,
But deep down below,—full ten fathoms and more,
Is a grim jagged rock, and its shadow falls o'er
A pool, black and slimy, the horrible lair
Of monsters so loathly, no mortal could bear
To behold them, unmaddened—and friend, thou art there!
Thou art there, with no light save the light of thy smile—
Save the light of the sneer on thy white face the while,
Which death hath given back to thee.

Fast to the shore,
When that brave blow was struck, I departed—my oar

Clove the calm waters, that sparkled with glee,
But were sullen and dull when I passed there with thee;
And the moon, through the silver clouds, peered from her throne,
And smiled to behold me returning—alone.

I walked in the world with a bold, upright brow;
I was free. Who should daunt me? No creature save thou!
So I rode on the sward, and I danced in the hall—
I wooed man's belovëd, whom—God's love befall!
And the crafty ones greeted me smoothly the while,
And their stately fair daughters spake soft with a smile:
I was free—through the street, the piazza, the square,
I passed, and I repassed, and—thou wert not there!

But friend, shall I whisper a truth in thine ear!
Aha! there's no change in that icy cold sneer—
Still writhing and curling! Sweet friend, I can guess,
There'll be joy in its bitterness, when I confess
That not finding thee in street, piazza, or square,
My wierd thought crossed the water to visit thee, where
Deep down in the darkness, ten fathoms and more,
The grim jagged rock, in its horrow, leans o'er

The pool, black and slimy—each hour of the day,
And the dream-haunted night, that wierd thought went its way
On its terrible errand unresting, full fain
By the light of its dread, to behold thee again;
And it saw thee! Saw! good Saints! for ever and aye
It seeth thee, just as thou wert that bright day,
When the doom overtook thee—the same glassy eye
That glared on me with a mute curse for reply;
And the thin lips that strove all their venom to pour,
And grinned, when Fate sealed them, and mocked me the more;
And all the fierce washing of seas in their flow
Hath failed to erase the blood stains from thy brow!

But to-day, I remember me, friend, I must stand
At the altar, troth-plighted, to win the white hand
Of the bride I have chosen—to clasp it in mine—
In mine . . in this hand!—how her beauty would pine,
And her joys drop away from her, scathed by despair,
Could she read the red history God seeth there!
What shrieks through the gray minster aisles would be ringing,
To stop the priest's prayer, and the choristers' singing!

Hark, her voice! She doth seek me—'twas strange, but last night
I dreamed that I roamed with her 'neath the moon's light
On the sands of the beach—and anon, that my oar
Was cleaving the water, far out from the shore.
On, on! the wind howled—though no cloud could be seen
In the sky, and the sweet stars were shining serene.
On, on! the wind ceased—not a sound stirred the air,
And my heart died within me—I felt we were ..there!
And there, fate-encompassed, methought I drew near
To my bride, and with shuddering lips, in her ear
Breathed the truth in its blackness—when sudden, a cry
Of horror and agony went up on high
To the gate of God's heaven!—a plash in the sea—
A young ghostly face, that glared upward at me,
Who sat, palsy-stricken—a low bubbling groan,
And thou,—ay, thou sawest me, left there .. alone.
For I looked o'er the boat-side, and clear to my sight
Grew the water-depths—gleams of a strange lurid light
Came and went, and I saw the sea-sprites holding out
Their long arms to clasp me, a wild fiendish rout;
But down deeper, deeper, the huge rock uprose,
And just then, those strange flashes sufficed to disclose
In the gloom of its shadow, all ghastly and grim,
The pool, the black pool—I looked over its brim,

And lo! for a moment revealed to my view,
I saw two—I saw two!
And the death from thy rigid fixed features had fled,
And the eyes that met mine burned with fierce joy instead,
And thine arm—how my soul in its torment made moan!—
Thine arm, round my lost one, in triumph was thrown!

This white plume—I'll wear it to-day—'twill proclaim
How clear my soul's record, how spotless my fame;
And these flowers, they will whisper—true prophets are flowers—
Of the sunshine and happiness that must be ours.
And the Curse! O false mocker, ere long thou shalt see
How I'll bury it deep in that black pool with thee!

CITY-CRAFT, AND SOUL-CRAFT.

“Good bye to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
Tu supple Office, low and high,
Good bye, proud World, I'm going home.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

From the city's ceaseless clangour,
From its guile and strife and anger,
From the turbid stormy rushing of the eternal life-stream there,
Forth I've stolen, without warning,
Sick at heart this sunny morning,
Such existence loathing, scorning,
For the harvest it doth bear;—
Dead-sea apples, dead-sea apples, such the fruit that it doth bear—
Pluck them, ye who love such fare!

Pluck them, grey-beards, dull and solemn,
Climbing slow the figured column,—

Blind St. Simeons, from its summit, blinking down on men and things,
Grasp the prize of all your toiling,
All your scheming, fencing, foiling,
Three-score dusty years' turmoiling—
Grasp the guerdon that Fate brings!
Dust and ashes, dust and ashes! this the guerdon that she brings!
Hoard them, ye who crave such things!

Hoard them! till Death heaps upon you
Gibes, your cunning craft hath won you—
Till the angels weep, close-folded in the shade of silver wings;
Weep to mark the final ruin
Crown at last the long misdoing—
Weep to see your souls pursuing
Paths, where Terror sits and sings;—
“No returning, no returning!”—So the ancient Terror sings—
This your guerdon that Fate brings.

Thinking thus, this autumn morning,
Wilful truant, without warning

Forth I've stolen, minded truly to retrace my steps no more;
Distant now the city's noises,
Hushed its discords and harsh voices,
And a calmer hope rejoices
In my bosom, as of yore;—
Oh! calm hopes and simple pleasures! Oh! the blessëd days of yore!
I will win ye back once more.

Dew of heaven, the pure, the holy,
Bathe my brow and cleanse it wholly
From the soil the gold-lust leaveth—from the pallor it doth shed;
Air of heaven, blow freshly o'er me,
Cleave the mist unfurled before me,
Spirit-mist that veils the glory
And the beauty, round me spread;—
Cleave it thou too, heaven's own sunshine, smiling very soft o'er head;—
On my soul that smile be shed!

Here I close and clasp for ever
The great tome of world's endeavour,—

Ugly tome! all blotted over, first to last, with fraud and wrong;—
Soul's endeavour, upward rising,
Struggling, toiling, agonizing
For a bliss beyond all prizing,
This my aim be, staunch and strong!
Aid me, Nature, nursing mother, make me true and make me strong—
Unto thee such tasks belong.

Teach me as thou didst in olden
Days, with blossoms blue and golden,
With thy songs of winds and waters, and thy silence sweeter still;
Teach me with thy graver wonders,
Solemn-sounding storms and thunders,
Levin-flash, the rock that sunders,
Blackness dropt on holt and hill.
As a child, O watching mother, 'scaped e'en now from deadly ill,
Seek I thee with docile will.

In mine ear still sounds the moaning
Of world-eraft, a dismal droning,—

One sole maxim, mouthed and muttered 'mid a steaming mist of lies;
“Gather, gather in full measure—
Late and early pile up treasure;
Gold is glory, power, pleasure—
Swift Time's busy shuttle flies;
Gather, gather!”—this their maxim, muttered 'neath God's smiling skies—
Teach me, thou, in other guise!

Turn thy tome's clear pages over,
All its loving truths discover,
Let me read, with spirit lowly, God's eternal meanings there;
Till at last, through long probation,
I may reach Faith's higher station,
Reach a loftier revelation,
Its indwelling mercies share—
Aid me Nature, nursing Mother! aid me, Faith, and aid me, Prayer!
Lift me to the rapture there!

So when Death unfolds the portal,
Of my spirit-life immortal,

I may hear no gibes heaped on me, for false gods set up in vain;
So no eyes of angels, keeping
In high heaven their watch unsleeping,
May be dimmed with cloud of weeping
For the paths my soul hath ta'en,
But instead,—“Oh! welcome, welcome!—no more strife and no more pain!”
Be it mine to hear that strain!

AN INDICTMENT UNDER A HEDGE-ROW.

Caught at last, brown Bee!
Now confess to me
All thou hast been doing,
Flirting, flatt'ring, wooing,
'Mongst the foolish flowers,
These long summer hours.
Tell me all thy sinning,
Bee, from the beginning.

What! that sulky droning,
Like a whipped child's moaning—
Quite tired out, you say—
Working hard all day—
Gathering scraps of honey
Just to sell for money;—
Love indeed! pooh, pooh!
Flirting! no, not you!

Oh! brown Bee, brown Bee!
Truly shames it me

That you, folks deem wiser,
Should be such a miser.
But as I descry
In that roguish eye
Something, to my view,
Not quite fair and true,
Call we if you please,
Trusty witnesses,
To give attestation
To your allegation.
Here stands one .. aha!
Sweet Campanula,
May we pin our faith
Unto what he saith,
This brown Bee, that here
Doth in gyves appear?

“No! he gathered honey,
But for love, not money;
So at least he whispered
When his wooing prospered;
So he vowed with kisses
Warm, and fond caresses,—
Calling truth to witness,
That each taste of sweetness

Was for proving merely
How he loved me dearly.
So, ah! foolish blossom,
From this trusting bosom,
I resigned, with pleasure,
All my hoarded treasure—
Foolish, for in sooth,
It may be the truth,
What he now doth plead
In his bitter need,
That he gleaned his honey
Not for love, but money.”

Dealt he so with thee,
Rose, this wicked Bee?
“Yes, just so with me!”

And with thee, fair dame,
Foxglove, red with shame?
“Ay, the same, the same!”

Thyme, with thee, poor weed,
Did his arts succeed?
“Yes, indeed, indeed!”

And with thee, no less,
Violet, I guess?
“I must needs say yes,”

Oh! brown Bee, brown Bee!
Greatly shocks it me
That you are no wiser,
Libertine and miser—
Gathering your honey
Both for love and money!—
Oh! brown Bee, deceiver!
Ruiner and leaver!
Runagate and rover!
False disloyal lover!
Glad indeed am I
Thou in bonds dost lie,
That all flowers may see
Thy iniquity,
And advised, henceforth,
Of thy real worth,
May preserve their treasures
Safe from thy wild pleasures.

Now for doom condign
Meet for sin like thine.

Our conclusions are,
Prisoner at the bar,
That, close caged, you stay
One long summer day—
Caged, with, round about you,
Thousand flowers to flout you—
Lovely hues to haunt you,
Richest scents to taunt you,
Taunt you and pursue you,
Piercing through and through you,
Telling tales of honey
Worth a mint of money.
Do thou penance thus,
Insect Tantalus!
And when night falls dreary,
Hum thy ‘Miserere’
Till, constrained to pity,
By such doleful ditty,
Some small fairy, coming
This way through the gloaming,
Throwing wide thy door,
Set thee free once more.
Bee, with due repentance,
Bow to this our sentence!

THE SEA-MAID'S RING.

“Diver, bold diver, what hast thou brought me
Up from the sea?”
“Starry and golden, a ring, O damsel,
I have brought thee—
A ring that fell from a sea-maid's finger,
Right fair to see.

In the deep sea-caves, damsel, she caught me
By my long hair—
‘Tarry, O diver, tarry and love me!’
So sang she there:
‘Love me, O love me!’ but fiercely I mocked her
And her soft prayer.

Foul scorn, O sea-maid, give I unto thee,
Love give I none;
Eyes that are darker, smiles that are sweeter,
Mine heart have won;
On the rocks waiteth me my betroth'd maiden,
Earth's fairest one.

Straight in my palm her starry ring dropped she
With a dark smile;
Unwound her snowy arms, gazed at me mutely
For a brief while;
Then through the coral caves, echoing her laughter,
The maid did flee,
And with this gift of hers, shedding light round it
Wondrous to see,
Through the wild water, damsel belovëd,
Came I to thee.”

On the rocks stood they o'erhanging the billow,
Sunset was nigh;
Darkly one cloud did float, dimming the splendour
Of the sweet sky,
And on the maiden's face brooded its shadow
All bodingly.

In the youth's hand her own placed she full fondly,
Yet timidly;
Soon on her finger gleamed the small circlet
Bright as might be;
But when from love's embrace, from its close clasping
She was set free,

With a weird cry of wild misery leaped she
Into the sea!

Down through the billow, through the cleft billow,
In his despair
Swift sank the diver, with straining eyeballs
Seeking her there;
But alas! never more shall he behold her,
That maiden fair.

Nevermore, nevermore! life ebbeth from him,
Life's hope doth fail,
And from the coral caves plainly he heareth
A mocking wail,
Whereat his heart doth grow fainter within him,
His cheek more pale.

Terrible fantasies, shifting for ever,
His sense beguile;
Shapes flit around him in the wild water
Loathly and vile,
And in his dying eyes glareth the sea-maid,
With her dark smile.

‘SING FOR THE VIOLET!’

Sing for the Violet! sweetest of blossoms,
Purpling the meadow-banks, pearled with the dew;
Or in leaf-labyrinths, or maiden bosoms,
Balmy and beautiful, hiding from view.
Sing for the Violet, sing for the Violet,
Under the shadiness of the green bough!

Sing for the Violet! I know its light o 'love—
Wind of the South, I wot, thou too canst say,
For those same leafy beds and purple banks above,
Thou hast been loitering this livelong day.
Sing for the Violet, sing for the Violet,
Under the shadiness of the green bough!

I heard a fairy once chaunt a blythe roundelay;—
Spruce little manakin, tripping along
Through the tall fern-stalks, taking his holyday—
And,—that's the burden he tacked to his song—
Sing for the Violet, sing for the Violet,
Under the shadiness of the green bough!

A VISION OF OLD FAMES.

“Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell with solemn sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, ‘Peace!’”
Longfellow.

I had a vision in the years gone by—
A vision of a vast sepulchral hall,
Reared on gigantic columns, black and grim,
And lit with torches of undying flame.
Around the walls stood pedestals, whereon
Were statues numberless, the marble shapes
Of warriors, dauntless chieftains, stalwart knights,
That in the stormy battle days of old
Had won their right to that proud eminence,
And stood there crown'd. Majestic shapes, in sooth,
Strong-limbed, stern-visaged, and with life-like eyes,
That seem'd for ever glaring at gaunt Death
With a fierce mockery;—all mighty men,
Men of renown were they, foremost in fight,

Whose names were blazon'd in the scrolls of fame,
For the world's worship. In their hands they held
Great swords, or keen-edged axes, and each foot
Was planted firmly on its granite base
With an immutable will, as who should say,
“We take our stand here till the eternal years
Bring us renewal of our glorious prime!”
Above them hung old banners, that had waved
On many a stricken field, and with brief pause,
A trumpet blast reverberate, awoke
The hollow echoes of the vaulted aisles,
With its victorious clangour;—whereupon
Those banners rustled, waving to and fro
As in the rush of battle, and a strange
And ghostly murmur seemed to thrill around,
As if the marble lips of those dead men
Were striving to give utterance anew
To their old war-cries. And whenever thus
The trumpet sounded, then methought I saw
The spaces of the hall on a sudden filled
With a dense multitude, all kneeling low,
All pouring forth the tide of their hearts' love
And reverential homage at the feet
Of those crowned kings of war.

Musing, I gazed,
Compassed with saddest phantasies of thought,
Till slowly waned the vision from my sight,
Chased by the dawn, and to my waking ear,
With the first matin-song of happy birds,
Came rumours of great battles won afar,
Harvests of slaughter, garner'd in by Death,
And honours, by a world's acclaim bestow'd
On our victorious generals.

Time rolled on,
And once again, in dream, I seem'd to stand
Within the portals of that hall of Fame.
Lo! change was busy there—change—ay the grand
Calm fixëdness that reigned supreme before
Had vanished wholly; in its place was seen,
Working its pitiless ravage, fell Decay.
Still burnt the torches, though with failing fires—
Still on their pedestals were ranged the shapes,
The effigies of those stern men of old.
But all the jewels in their crowns were dim,
And from the drooping brows of some the crowns
Themselves had fallen; phantom-like they looked,
An unsnbstantial, ghastly, wan array,
Impalpable, unreal—their glowing eyes

Grown meaningless and void, their stately bulk
Shrunken and shadowy—all their grandeur gone,
All their proud bearing—scarce their meagre hands
Could clutch the deadly symbols of their sway,
Their rusted swords and axes—tottering,
As if o'ermaster'd by a fate sublime,
They stood in act to fall;—and when the trump
Broke the drear silence, not as erst it did,
In notes of exultation loud and long,
But with a feeble melancholy moan,
It woke no recognition, and so died
Into a silence drearier than before.
Wide open stood the portals, but in vain—
No throng of worshippers sought entrance there,
No knees were bent, no vows were paid: pale Death
And Desolation and Decay alone
Stalk'd like avengers through the lone dim aisles.
So pass'd the hours, till one by one the flames
Of the wasted torches flicker'd and went out,
And pitchy darkness hover'd over all.
Then suddenly, a mighty thunder peal
Shook the huge fabric—the tall columns rocked,
The solid basements trembled, and in the midst,
What time the trumpet breathed its final blast,

A wail of lamentation and despair,—
Most like the cry of a lost spirit's woe,—
Down, headlong from their granite pedestals
Fell those false idols, while amid the din,
Methought I heard a solemn voice proclaim,
The voice as of an angel, clear and strong,—
“These shedders of men's blood, for evermore
Their glory hath departed:—God hath said,
Even God, the Lord Omnipotent, hath said,
There shall be no more war!”

Oh blessëd dream!
I look through the long vista of the years—
I see the forms of the meek men of peace,
The men with thoughtful eyes, and broad calm brows,
That in their patient lowliness of heart
Have been up-lifted to the seats of power,
And from that eminence have scatter'd down
New light and wider blessings on mankind.
I see them wear the crowns of the world's love,
Its earnest homage, its enduring faith—
Wear them, not darkly in sepulchral halls,
But in the open sunshine, 'neath the smile
Of the sweet heaven. I look abroad and sean

The rich plains of the populous earth, its vales,
Its mighty cities; o'er the seas I look,
Lit up with white sails of the merchant ships,
And in the length and breadth of the fair world,
I see no lingering token of the reign
Of the destroyer, War. But to my ear
Instead, the burdcn of a solemn hymn
Steals, floating upward from the souls of men,
Upward and onward still, from star to star,
Through all the spaces of the Universe,
“There shall be no more war!”—Oh! blessëd dream!

A CITY LYRIC.

'Midst the crowd I needs must linger,
Aye, and labour day by day,
But I send my thoughts to wander,
And my fancies far away.
In the flesh I'm cloud-encompassed,
Through the gloom my path doth lie;
In the spirit, by cool waters,
Under sunny skies, am I.

Do not pity me, my brother,
I can see your fountains play;
I can see your streams meander,
Flashing in the golden ray.
And mine ear doth drink your music,
Song of birds or rippling leaves,
Or the reaper's stave, sung blithely,
Mid the ripe brown barley sheaves.

I go forth at will, and gather
Flowers from gardens trim and fair;
Or amongst the shady woodlands,
Cull the sweet blooms lurking there.

Little wot you, O my brother,
While I toil with sweat of brow,
Of the leisure that doth wait me
'Neath the far-off forest bough.
Little wot you, looking upward
At the smoke-wreaths lowering there,
That my vision is not bounded
By this dull and murky air;
That these thick, close streets and alleys
At my bidding vanish quite,
And the meadows ope before me,
And the green hills crowned with light.

Do not pity me, my brother,
God's dear love to me hath given
Comfort mid the strife and turmoil,
And some blessings under heaven.
In the flesh I'm cloud-encompassed,
Through the gloom my footsteps stray,
But I send my thoughts to wander,
And my fancies far away,
And they bring me strength for trial,
And sweet solace day by day.

THE STRIFE, AND THE REPOSE.

Lo, a peasant-child lay sleeping,
Dream-bound in the sun,
Changes into life were leaping
Round him, many a one.

There were sounds of village wassail,
Borne upon the breeze;
Armëd bands of lord and vassal
Swept beneath the trees.

There were groans of ire and anguish,
Outraged homes among;
Vows of vengeance ne'er to languish,
Through closed chambers rung.

Then came roar and strife of battle,
Clash of sword and spear,
Rallying-shout and cannon's rattle,
Death-cries, dread to hear.

Women's eyes were red with weeping—
Freedom's race was run,
While that peasant-child lay sleeping,
Dream-bound in the sun.

And that day a king descended
From his place of pride,
Straight from throne to dungeon wended,
And to doom beside.

While a tyrant smote the nation
With an evil hand;
Rapine, fire, and desolation,
Raged at his command.

Goodly towns were ta'en and plundered,
Stately halls laid low;
Loving hearts for ever sundered,
Beauty quenched in woe.

Morning dawned in smiles and hearkened
To glad sounds alone;
Evening found the glory darkened,
And the gladness gone.

So was wassail changed for weeping
Empire lost and won,
While that peasant-child lay sleeping,
Dream-bound in the sun.

THE RIPPLE ON THE WATER.

There was a ripple on the water's face,
A ripple on the water of Loch Fyne;
Bright fell the sunshine, with a sportive grace;
Sweet sung the throstle from her island shrine.

“Save me, God—save me!” but a moment past,
Uprose the shriek of frenzied agony;
From the clear wave, a dying youth aghast
Glared round, and upward, as he breath'd that cry,
Then sunk, slow-drifting through the unfathom'd space,
Down to dark burial, 'mid the wild weed's twine.

So came that ripple on the water's face,
That ripple on the water of Loch Fyne.

THE ONE HOPE.

Hope of Wealth, sink low for ever
In a life-long sleep;
Hope of Love, by Time's dark river
No more watch and weep.
Hope of Fame, fade slowly, slowly,
From thy shatter'd throne.
Hope of Heaven, possess me wholly,
Until Heaven be won.

THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.

A little child,
A little meek-faced, quiet, village child
Sat singing, by her cottage door at eve,
A low, sweet, Sabbath song. No human ear
Caught the faint melody—no human eye
Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile
That wreathed her innocent lips the while they breathed
The oft-repeated burden of the hymn,
“Praise God! praise God!”

A Seraph by the Throne
In the full glory stood. With eager hand,
He smote the golden harpstrings, till a flood
Of harmony on the celestial air
Welled forth, unceasing. Then with a great voice,
He sang the “Holy, Holy, evermore,
Lord God Almighty!” and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration. Higher yet
Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,

To its full strength, and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the “Holy, Holy, evermore!”
Till trembling from excess of awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne,
With a mute hallelujah. But, e'en then,
While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice—a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar—
A meek and child-like voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the seraph's rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music, with the roll
Of the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles
Lit up the beauty of each angel's face
At that new utterance—smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon
Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
“Praise God! Praise God!” And when the seraph's song
Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre
Silence hung brooding—when the eternal courts
Rang but with echoes of his chant sublime,
Still, through the abysmal space, that wandering voice
Came floating upward from its world afar,
Still murmured sweet on the celestial air,
“Praise God! Praise God!”

EARTH.

Earth is very fair!
Earth's love clingeth to me!
Blessëd angels! ye who share
Heaven-loves pure and strong, oh, tear
These close earthly ties asunder
Ere their clasp undo me!

To the valleys, in the glory
Of their summer pomp arrayed—
To the giant mountains hoary—
To the dewy woodland's shade—
To the calm broad rivers, flowing
Through the pastures murmuringly—
To each grace of earth's bestowing,
They have bound me lovingly:—
Blessëd angels, blessëd angels, from this bondage set me free!

Lo! I stand
By the dim and misty margin
Of an unknown strand,
On the utmost verge of time;

And God's great Eternity
Seemeth ever fronting me
With a solemn face sublime
And a solemn beckoning hand:
But—ah me! ah, woe is me!—
I shrink backward tremblingly;
Shrink and cling to life's fruition,
From the terrors of that vision,
From the unfolding of the portals of the shadowy spirit-land.

Blessëd angels! let the shining
Of your beauty light the gloom:
Aid me, from your heaven inclining,
In this hour of strife and doom!
Close me round from earth's beguiling—
From her lingering fond embrace—
From her sunny sky's soft smiling,
And the pleading in her face!
Close me round, and with your singing
Into silence awe the crowd
Of familiar voices ringing
Round me, very clear and loud,—
From the meadow-grasses springing,
Dropping downward from the cloud.

100

Close me round!—yet stronger groweth
This undying love of mine,—
Stronger, as life's river floweth
Nearer to its fount divine.
Stronger—stronger, through all weeping—
Through all prayers poured ceaselessly—
Through all spirit-toil unsleeping—
Through all depths of agony:
Angels!—God! above the angels!—from this bondage set me free!

101

A FLING AT THE BALLAD-MONGERS.

Summer's face is set around
With a rosy wreath;
Rose tints on her damask cheek,
Rose scents in her breath!
Summer's smiles are very fair,
And her deep, soft eyes declare
Honeyed meanings, while her voice
Saith for aye, “Rejoice, rejoice!”
So I pour my spirit o'er her
And I bend my knee before her,
Singing ditties in her honour,
Heaping all my praise upon her,
Till . . ah, yes, I must avow,
When the hour comes she doth bow
At the sound of Time's death-knell,
I can say, farewell, farewell,
With small weeping in my eyes,
And small sense of sacrifice;

102

See her waning, fading slowly,
See her pass and vanish wholly,
Sighing not while Autumn weaves
Grave-robes of her withered leaves;
Nay, exulting, when anon,
To possess her vacant throne,
While the heaven grows black and madly
Toss the bare boughs to and fro,
Winter cometh, shouting hoarsely, o'er the hill top, through the snow!

He is come—he greets us there;
He and I will talk together—
I, beside my hearth-fire's glare,
He, without, with his wild weather.
Pshaw! let ballad-mongers sing,
Harping on a worn out string,
That old story, old and weary,
Of sad Summer's withering;
Let them sing, with sour grimaces,
Mock tears rolling down their faces,
Of a daisy, nipped untimely,
Or some other doleful thing.
Better faith, I wot, is mine,

103

Winter, while I greet thee there;
Thou, without, with thy wild weather,
I, beside my hearth-fire's glare.
Better faith, ye ballad-mongers,
Take it in its sober grace,—
That no blessing e'er departeth,
But another takes its place:
Flowers are taken—out-door gladness,
Song and bloom, they both depart;
But, by stress of Nature's sadness,
Heart draws nearer unto heart.
Clouds obscure the sky's sweet azure,
Feeble sunshine streameth through—
All the brighter love up-springeth,
With its sunshine warm and true.
For the aspects, changed and withered,
Of the garden, glen, and stream,
See the faces that are gathered
Round the yule-fire's ruddy gleam;
Kindly faces, cordial faces,
Hearty age, and frolic youth—
Who would sigh for shrivelled daisies,
'Mid such joy as this, good sooth!
Who would say, amid the laughter,
Harping on the old pretence—

104

God doth take the gladness from us,
When he taketh Summer hence?
Who—but hark! old Winter shouteth,
Till the woodland echoes ring,
“Take this faith, ye ballad-mongers,—pr'y thee snap that worn-out string.”

105

A SONG OF THE SMALL POETS.

BY A DISSENTIENT MEMBER OF THEIR FRATERNITY.

“The little dainty Poet,
Kneeling in his soft cushion on the hearth,
And patted on the head by passing maids,
Who would discourage him? Enough to say
That slender twigs send forth the fiercest flame
Not without noise, but ashes soon succeed.”
Landor.

“We are the men of the age,” say they,—
“We are the men, and the movers we;
So we sing, and sing the livelong day,
And the world is swayed by our minstrelsy.
Let the shallow statesman fume and fuss,
And boast of the changes, wrought..by us!
Is the wrong made right? Does the dark turn bright?
Is the world o'erspread with a clearer light?
You'll find the secret of all ere long,
In the under-current, deep and strong,
In the stress of our overwhelming song.
Kings may make edicts, and schoolmen write,
And the sword of the soldier be bared in fight,
But aha!—who winneth the victory?
We're the men of the age and the movers we!

106

True, the fire on our hearths is but dim, and worse,
Very starved and empty seemeth our purse;
And the world, that reapeth the fruit of all,
Giveth scanty honour and payment small:
But we reck not of this,—if we still sing on
The fame and the guerdon will come anon;
The sage of the future times shall tell
How we laboured long and laboured well,—
And how all the glory that befel
Was brought about by our wondrous rhyme,
That shall never be hushed till the end of time.
Then the world shall build us statues fair,
And our praise shall be shouted everywhere,
Till the truth doth triumph, and all agree
That we were the men, and the workers we.”

So sang they;—while Time, methought, stood by,
With a cruel wink in his stony eye.
His crooked scythe, all jagged and bare,
That he smites great hearts with, was not there,—
But he held in his hand what you might infer
To be a sort of extinguisher;
And while that bevy of little men
Croaked loud as an army of frogs in a fen,
He would single out one, and then another,—
Let fall his hand—lo! a sudden smother,

107

A spirt, like that which a candle utters
When just at the last it flares and gutters!
And behold!—ah! how shall my spirit breathe it?
When Time's fierce chuckle sounded amain,
And the weapon of death was raised again,
There was nought but a snuff beneath it!
—But I marked that ever and anon,
Though they vanished thus, the chaunt went on,
And the vacant seats were one and all
Soon filled by new men, just as small;
And the latest sound that reached my ear
Was the chirp of their treble, shrill and clear,
As they piped and crowed in their maudlin glee,
“We're the men of the age, and the movers we!”

108

A FANTASY.

'Midst the flowers at eve she lay,
Cradled soft in slumber;—
Eyes fast closed, the lashes meek
Shadowing o'er the sunny cheek;
Lips, by loving lips just prest,
Smiling in their rosy rest;
Hands white-folded, seeming still
With the same love's clasp to thrill;
Heart—oh! ring, thou lily bell,
Dirges without number!

Ring! for, sleeping 'midst the flowers,
Death stole in and found her;
Sealed the eyes in mortal night,
Changed the cheek to ghostly white,
Snatched the love-smile from the lips
Straightened now in cold eclipse,

109

Grasped each pale hand, that anon
Shrank and stiffened into stone,
And the heart—ring, lily bell,
Dirges deep around her!

Ring!—nay, nay, earth's love might fail—
See, a new smile waketh;
Angel-smile it seemeth now,
Lighting up lip, cheek and brow,
Like some new-found mystic thought,
With a solemn gladness fraught!
Of God's peace that smile doth tell,—
Ay, and His dear love as well;
His!—cease, cease, O lily bell,
That love ne'er forsaketh!

110

DOLORES in the CHURCH of St. CUNEGUNDE.

Storm under heaven—no moon, no star; but by the moaning sea,
In the convent church of St. Cunegunde, thrice deep the shadows be,
Night, and the Doom of God, and Death, are there,—the awful Three.

She lieth in shroud on the catafalque; and the taper's fitful glare
Giveth ghostly light to the pallid brow and the black and sweeping hair
And the unclosed eyes, one tale that tell—one fearful tale, despair.

She lieth a corpse on the catafalque, what time the priest doth pray,
In the choir, to the good St. Cunegunde and the mother of God alway,
While the incense-smoke around the bier up-curleth dim and grey.

111

Despair, despair! through the priestly chant—through the muttered mass, despair—
St. Cunegunde, Mary, mother of God, they heed nor vow, nor prayer,
For the unclosed eyes one tale reveal,—one tale, despair, despair.

Approach, lift up the pall,—behold! oh, rich and perfect form!
Oh! royal brow and lip and cheek, unmarred by strife and storm!
Meet shrine was that for lofty soul, ere flawed by mortal sin.—
Meet, the rapt worship of the world, to challenge and to win—
Meet shrine for passion—holy saints! 'twas passion dwelt therein!

Her life was passion: on one die each earthly hope was thrown,
All hope—it failed,—heaven's lightnings fell, and smote their victim prone—
Lo, on the gilded catafalque, she lieth here alone!

112

Vain, vain the uplifted palms,—ay, vain that sweet and solemn song;
Hence black stoled ministrants, depart, with all your chanting throng!
And ye, saints, martyrs, angels, all that breathe heaven's blessed air,
Divide, make way before the throne, for one heart-broken prayer,—
God, God, the all-merciful! Christ-God! revoke that doom, despair!

113

THE DEATH SCARF.

FROM AN OLD LEGEND.

Said the knight,—“Wilt thou broider this scarf to-day
With thy fairy fingers, so daintily?”
But the ladye's face was turned away—
“I am too busy, I wot!” quoth she.

And the knight, he left the ladye's bower,
But his face was troubled and sad to see—
“Dread is the omen, and dark the hour,
When love is too busy for love!” quoth he.

He mounted his steed with a doleful air,
And he rode away to his own countrie;
He said not adien to his ladye fair—
“She is too busy for that,” thought he.

So the ladye sat alone that day,
While the sky grew dark and the foe drew nigh;
And she bade her page ride fast and say,
“Come back, Sir Knight, ere thy ladye die!”

114

Low bowed the page—loud laughed the knight,
And loud laughed all that companie;
“Now bear this message, Sir Page, aright,—
I am too busy, I wot,” quoth he.

The foeman's shafts flew thick and fast,
The ladye's vassals were fain to flee;
But long ere morn the peril was past,
The foeman stricken—the ladye free.

And a wounded knight was brought to her bower—
Sore wounded, even to death, was he;
Dread was the omen, and dark the hour,
And the ladye wept full bitterly.

For she knew the shield, and she knew the crest,
And she knew the pale face, streaked with gore,
And she knew the scarf that bound his breast,
Whereat she wailed yet more and more.

But the knight looked up with glazing ee,
As a heavy shadow crept over his brow—
“When love is too busy for love,” quoth he,
“Then death is welcome, I trow!”

115

THE CHILDREN OF THE COURTS.

Oh! little ones, poor little ones,
That with pale faces play,
At morning, and at even-tide,
In the city courts alway.—
Oh! little ones, poor little ones,
I would the power were mine,
The power we read of in old tales,
Of spirits half divine,
To bear ye in a moment hence
From your drear haunts away,
To the meadows, and the merry light
Of the clear, sweet, laughing day.

What joy it were to mark the change
O'er your sad features pass,
When first ye caught the pleasant gleam
Of the green and waving grass—

116

What joy to hear your timid shout
As the bright bird flew by,
Or o'er the brow of the breezy hill
Ye chased the butterfly;—
To watch ye wandering, in and out,
'Midst fields and shady nooks,
Or stealing through the wood's deep glades,
With strange, astonished looks;
Or gathering by the road-side paths,
The wild flowers, many a one,
Then stopping evermore to breathe
The fragrance ye had won.

And oh, what deeper joy it were
O'er your wan cheeks to see
Slowly the flush of health o'erspread
The hue of misery—
To mark the gradual wakening
Of the glad child-heart within,
The torpor from the soul depart,
The sense of life begin.
Oh! little ones, poor little ones,
Ye languish, day by day,
With scarce a dream of the fair world
That lieth far away;—

117

Yet well I trust, some joys ye have
To gild your life's dull stream—
God seeth ye,—God loveth ye,
Though pale and sad ye seem!
God loveth ye! Oh! straight that thought
Hath round about you thrown
A freshness and a fragrance too,
A sunshine, all its own;—
Perchance it was an erring wish,
That human wish of mine;
He knoweth best—He loveth best—
His light and gladness shine
Apart from leafy woods and flowers—
Where murkiest shadows fall,—
Play on, play on, poor little ones,—
That love surpasseth all!

118

A JUSTIFICATION.

Ah! yes—you do but tell me what I know;
I stand here at the mighty mountain's base,
And see the great world-singers sitting calm
Amongst the mists and sunbeams up aloft,
High up, enthroned beneath the o'erarching heaven.
And between me and them, an interval,
Of chasm and crag and cloud and precipice
And gushing torrents and hot lava-floods,
Saith—“Climb not!—in that strife were shame and death.”
Then wherefore dare to sing? you ask. Go out
Into the orchard closes, good my friend,
And ask the bee and ask the grasshopper,
Why they sing, they, frail creatures of an hour;—
Ask why, beneath the same soft loving sky,
The artist nightingale woos time to stay
With witchery of subtlest cadences,
And the poor sparrow twitters overhead
In self-asserted insignificance.

119

We are God's creatures all—our natures take
His fashioning, and follow in the track
His finger traceth—one, a noble stream,
Rolling its solemn waters to the sea
With a grand muffled thunder, as it spoke
To God alone amongst the solitudes;—
Another, but a little way-side brook,
Bubbling and babbling as it frets its way
Amidst the reeds and grasses—both alike
Still flowing and still singing as they flow,
In their adjudged vocation. Love them well,
Stern friend, those great crowned spirits sitting there
In the full glory; they exact your love,
Vicegerents as they are of God's behests,
Prophets of truth and beauty, His elect,
But scorn not me, because I stand below,
Armed only with my humbleness, and sing,
Without a thought of crowns, or love, or praise,
But from a natural impulse thereunto,
Which, like God's other creatures under heaven,
I question not and scan not, but obey.

120

THE NIGHT OF THE NATIVITY.

(A COMMEMORATION)

Silence, deep and solemn and unbroken,
Like a death-hush fallen from the sky;—
As of some dread mystery the token,
Seemed that silence breathless and unbroken—
Pale and wan the stars looked out on high.

'Twas as though, unseen, some mighty spirit,
High dispenser of Heaven's minist'rings,
Had come down a mission to inherit,
And that Earth, in awe of that great spirit,
Struck to torpor all her vocal things.

Tree, I said, that standest ghostly, hushing
All thy thousand pulses . . and thou, stream,
Through the misty meadows mutely rushing—
Say, what means this ominous strange hushing?
Is Earth trance-bound in some mystic dream?

121

Then a sound, so low it seemed scarce spoken,
Blended voice of wind and stream and tree,
Answered—“Leave our quiet still unbroken—
At this hallowed hour no word be spoken!
Silence suiteth best its sanctity.

For on night like this,—oh! love eternal!—
Wafted downward 'mid ecstatic strains,
Came the angels from their courts supernal;
Came to tell their tale of love eternal
To the shepherds on the Syrian plains.

In the moonlight hovered the white legion,
Heaven revealing to the mortal ken,
And the echoes of the lonely region
Keep e'en yet the words of that bright legion—
“Peace on earth” they said—“Good will to men!”

Ay, and not the Syrian echoes solely,
All Earth holds that memory undefiled;
So when Time brings round, in advent holy,
This blest eve, we hear their accents solely
Angel accents, murmuring meek and mild.

122

And the stars shine pale and wan with wonder,
For they hear afar rich melody,
Rolling wave on wave, a rythmic thunder,
Deep and deeper—sound of awe and wonder!
All God's seraphs shouting joyfully.

For this cause, we keep mute watch, O mortal;—
Do thou likewise—to our task incline;
Enter straight thine heart's unfolded portal,
Hush each clamouring utterance of Earth's Mortal,—
Hearken only unto God's Divine.

Lusts of life, thy true vocation shaming,
Thrust them forth from consecrated ground!
Hear instead, the angels still proclaiming—
Hear them say, each angry passion shaming,
“Peace on earth,—good will!”—Oh! blessëd sound!

Ceased the voice:—'twas true, methought, a spirit,
High dispenser of God's gifts to men,
Had come down, a mission to inherit,
And I bowed before that awful spirit,
And I wrestled with my nature then;

123

Wrestled, praying..God, above the glory!
Still this tumult,—let my soul take in
All the meaning of that olden story,
All its simple truth, and chastened glory,
Lost too long 'mid Babel strife within.

And not this night only, but for ever,
Aid me too, to hold that memory fast—
For a holy spell to calm life's fever,
Till its restless flame dies out for ever,
And the peace of heaven is won at last.

124

LENORA.

She hath left me cold, ice-cold,
Grew the fervent love of old;—
I waxed weary,—truth be told!

Weary of her love's excess,
Of her heart's wild restlessness,
And her proud caprice, no less.

Fairest woman ne'er can be,
By her fairness, more to me
Than a moment's phantasy.

So, I mind me, one day lying
At her feet, my sole replying
To her love's impatient sighing,

And her questionings of all
That might haply yet befall,
Change and wrong and evil thrall.

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Was—“Bend low, Lenora, low..
Shower thy dark hair o'er my brow—
In that midnight, hear me vow.

I do love thee—ask no more—
For the future's stock and store
Give I thee no pledge, Lenore.

No pledge—change may well befall
Unto us as unto all,
Ay and wrong and evil thrall.”

Back she swept her hair's dark wreath,
Passionate—I saw beneath,
All her face was white as death.

I could read that agony,
Beauty's strong supremacy
Smitten in its place on high,

At the moment when it fain
Would be soothed with promise vain
Of a never-ending reign.

126

Do I scorn this human love?
Scorn!—I kneel before it—Dove,
That o'er life's wild sea dost move

With strange healing on thy wings,—
Angel thou, whose minist'rings
Glorify earth's saddest things.

Holy angel, sent to prove
God's high meanings, wrought above—
God be praised for thee, O Love!

But mere passion, beauty—psha!
These I take for what they are,
For a fallen and falling star.

So she left me, yesterday,
Grandly, like a queen, whose sway
Brooks not mention of decay.

And I sit alone, and stare,
With half-pleased, half-puzzled air,
At—sole trace, her empty chair.—

127

Pleased! and yet if you had seen
All her beauty in its sheen,
As she turned, with stately mien,

To say farewell;—the great eyes,
Shrines for world-idolatries,
Flashing, like a broad sunrise,

Full upon me, and the fair
Cheek—the rose-flush glowing there
In the radiance, ripe and rare,

Of a smile, whose syren light
Haunts e'en yet my dreaming sight—
All good angels guide her right!

128

A VISION BETWEEN THE LEAVES.

I grant your visions nobler—gods, forsooth,
Loom out of your dream shadows—nothing less,
Nor meaner—crowned immortals, smiling down
From their pure heaven, who wear the stars for gems
And braid the burning sunbeams in their hair,
Wreathed round with amaranths, immortal too.
Mine was an earthly vision—all of earth,—
A vision of a little virgin face,
Set like a jewel in the deep wood's shade.
Young face it was, fresh as the freshest rose
That opens while the balmy dews are falling,
Before the break of dawn; athwart the leaves,
Thick-clustered, of a climbing hazle copse,
It fixed me;-just two blue and brooding eyes,
That shone 'twixt golden clouds of floating hair,
Serene as in a picture, till anon,
A mischievous wild breeze, in petulance,
It seemed, at my rapt gaze, with fanning breath

129

Blended both clouds into one soft eclipse,
A glimmering haze of leaf and tress entwined;
Yet, over-cunning, in the very act,
Uplifted other leaves, and so disclosed
Twin cheeks, blush-mantled o'er, and then a mouth,
Beset all round with little wilful smiles,
Flickering and fluttering, breaking out at last
Into full sunshine;—whereupon the breeze,
Charmed into quietness, its light wings furled,
And the clouds parted, and the azure eyes
Smiled too, and all the place was glorified,
And I, amid the glory, gazed and gazed,
Till..a slight, timid rustle of the bough,—
A low laugh, like a silver harmony,
Threading the silence,—then a tripping step,
And all was over!—Very brief my bliss,
A glimpse, no more,—but I had seen enough
To dream of night and day, and I did dream;
Albeit I knew, in the greenwood, nevermore,
Through any boughs of hazel, or thick shade
Of tangled coppice, should I see again
Such apparition as had blessed me then.—
Ay, taunt me with your wood-nymphs, water-nymphs,
Your demi-gods, and gods Olympian,

130

Dispensers of the thunder and the calm—
Nobler such visions—I deny not that,
And yet I prize my vision, shrining it
In my securest nook of memory.

131

HOME GRACES.

Give me young voices—I would fain
Have music in my home,
A dearer music than from harp
Or lute doth ever come;
A music that doth give me back
From out the buried time
Mine own lost youth, and all the joy
And mirth that then were mine.
The old rude songs I used to sing,
The tales I loved to tell
To my young sisters, as we roved
Through our own quiet dell;
My merry shout in field and wood,
My laughter full and free
By lighted hearth—all this and more
Such music bringeth me.

132

Give me young faces—I would fain
Have sunshine in my home,
A gladder sunshine than from skies
Of summer sheen doth come.
Young faces, mirrors bright and clear,
Wherein my soul may see
Each vision of the beautiful
Reflected radiantly.
Each dream of an untravelled world,
Each impulse pure and high,
The generous thought, the proud resolve,
The buoyant energy.
Though shadows oft may flit across,
And boding signs be given,
Still will it warm my heart to bask
In that sweet light of heaven.

Give me young hearts—for I would fain
Have fragrance in my home,
A fragrance finer than from flowers
Of fairest hues doth come;
That passeth not at morn or eve,
That liveth undecayed

133

Through summer heat and winter frost,
Through shifting shine and shade.
Hope's fragrance, that doth sweetest seem
When grief and gloom are round;
Truth's fragrance, exquisite, though rare
On this low earthly ground;
Affection's fragrance, that doth ne'er
From its one centre roam
These are the graces I would have
To sanctify my home.

134

A SONG OF WASSAIL.

So the world is growing old, my friend,
Quite grey, you say, and old!
So men's hearts are waxing faint, my friend,
Good lack, and deadly cold!

Ha, ha! I laugh you to scorn, my friend,
And I dare to say you nay;—
God wot! the world is as hale a world
As it was in its early day.

Some eyes may blink—some foreheads droop,
Some hearts wax faint and cold;—
Ha, ha! let them come, and quaff with me
This “jolly good ale and old!”

Let them quaff with me this foaming glass,
Yon brave old tankard drain,
And my word, but they'll see in a trice, my friend,
The world grow young again.

135

My word, as the warm blood fires their eye,
And their pulse beats firm and bold,
They'll marvel how they could e'er have dreamed
Men's hearts were waxing cold.

And, good my friend, I will trust you now
With a thought that is dear to me;
That this world of ours will never be found
Too old for blessings three.

First, for the light of a cheerful smile,
And next, for a minstrel's song,
And last, my friend, for fair company,
With “jolly good ale and strong.”

136

THE GRAVE IN THE CITY.

Not there, not there!
Not in that nook that ye deem so fair;—
Little reck I of the blue bright sky,
And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
And the bending boughs, and the breezy air—
Not there, good friends, not there!

In the City Churchyard, where the grass
Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
Of that self-same sun doth find its way
Through the heaped-up houses' serried mass—
Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—
Or the plash of the rain, or the wind's hoarse cry,
Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—
Good friends, let it be there!

137

I am old my friends,—I am very old—
Fourscore and five,—and bitter cold—
Were that air on the hill-side far away;
Eighty full years, content I trow,
Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
And trod those dark streets day by day,
Till my soul doth love them;—I love them all,
Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,
Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me
They are all comely and fair to see—
They have old faces—each one doth tell
A tale of its own that doth like me well,—
A tale—sad, or merry, as it may be,
From the quaint old book of my history.
And, friends, when this weary pain is past,
Fain would I lay me to rest at last
In their very midst:—full sure am I,
How dark soever be earth and sky,
I shall sleep softly—I shall know
That the things I loved so here below
Are about me still—so never care
That my last home looketh all bleak and bare—
Good friends, let it be there!

138

A FRAGMENT.

Do you remember how we talked that night?
How wildly, sitting in the waning light,
Under the spreading ash-tree on the lawn?
Do you remember what a thing forlorn
Seemed Duty to us then—Duty, a pale,
Cold, ominous shadow, missioned to prevail
O'er Love, the beautiful—o'er Love the life,
As we conceived it, in that bitter strife
With our hard fate's prescriptions:—ay, to part,
To die,—what difference? each bleeding heart
Accepted both in one, and hailed the tomb
As the best refuge from the sterner doom.
And ah! do you remember how through all
The grief and the despair, our lips let fall
Words that were meant for comfort, that essayed
To cheer, to strengthen—then broke off dismayed,
Sounding so hollow, false—mere mockery!
And how at last we sat unconsciously

139

Listening, as in a stupor, while afar,
Over the uplands, 'neath the evening star,
Came with sonorous cadence on the breeze,
Majestic burden to our miseries,
The passionate wailing of the smitten seas!

140

AN OVER-SEA GREETING.

Over the water, what shall I send to you,
O friends afar?
Hearken! I greet you with right merry laughter,
Ha ha! ha ha!
Hearken! 'Twill reach you, howe'er winds and billows
Wage their fierce war—
Shake your sides lustily—clink the glass jollily,
O friends afar!

And with the laughter, send I, true hearted,
Kind thoughts also;
Earnest thoughts, loving thoughts, thoughts of home-gatherings,
Long, long ago.
When the gay song hath ceased, when the loud wassail
Dieth away,
Think of me lovingly, aye, and undoubtingly,
O friends, I pray!

141

For be it known to you, over the water,
Friends, every one,
That to me Christmas bringeth in sadness,
His frost alone.
Whilome, he brought me hearth and heart brightness,
Bringing me you—
Whilome!—ah! well may I claim your mirth-pauses,
Good friends and true!

Loud blows the wind without—well I remember
How in old times,
Gladder our hearts became, listening in silence
To its wild chimes.
Now with what dreariness, that sound doth sway me,
Ye may divine;—
Sitting alone, beset by haunting memories,
O friends of mine!

Homeward, with straining eyes, through the deep shadows,
Wistful I gaze;
Blazing hearths, blythesome looks, smiles and gay glances,
Shine through the haze.
Then most my household gods, stone cold do mock me—
Then most I own,

142

That to me Christmas bringeth in sadness
His frost alone.

So, as it oft doth hap in the world's chances,
My stave that rose
Jocund in greeting, full of lip-laughter,
With sighs doth close.
Nay, and yet not with sighs,—hope shall come after—
Hope that ere long
I may have ceased to say ‘over the water,’
As in this song:
Be it so speedily! shrine that hope faithfully
Your hopes among!

Fill then the glass again—let us drink gravely,
God's grace to all!
Light heart, and steadfast mind, trusting, enduring,
Whate'er befall!
God's Grace—renew the song, no more sad fancies,
That thought to mar;—
Clink the glass cordially, laugh again merrily,
O friends afar!

143

THE NAIL IN THE COFFIN.

What, threescore years and ten!—out-laughed a child, with eager look—
Oh, good my mother, there'll be time—nay, close that weary book!
Hark! very sweet the ousel sings upon the old elm bough,
And my trusty hound he waiteth me—I hear him whine e'en now;
For I've promised he shall scour to-day the beechwood by the burn,
And rouse the coney from the brake and the hare from out the fern:
Oh! good my mother, chide me not—sweet mother, smile instead;
I'll read anon, when skies grow dark, and the merry months have fled.
Tap! tap! said the hammer
To the nail in the coffin-lid!

144

Oh, life is very long!—exclaimed the maid between her smiles;
What reck I for the solemn priest, who all earth's joy reviles?
The time, indeed may come for this glad heart of mine to wear
The sadder coloured vesture meet for trial and for care:—
But I have lovers twain, to-day—as all the world doth know,
And the sky is very blue above and bright the earth below;
And round about my pathway all sweet sounds and scents are shed—
I'll give good heed, O solemn priest!—when youth—and these—have fled.
Tap! tap! said the hammer
To the nail in the coffin-lid!

Drink, drink, thou sullen, sad-faced loon! why list what dullards say?—
Quoth a yeoman old, with rosy cheek, of stalwart heart and gay;
There's no such virtue in their prayers and preachings, well I trow,
As sparkles up from this full bowl, that saith—“Come, quaff me now.”

145

Life's sand runs fast, too well I wot—I'm old, I know, and grey,—
But, troth! it seems to me, sir knave, I grow more hale each day:
Knock at my door, thou sad-faced loon, when ten good years have fled,—
And-ha! ha!—we'll drain as full a bowl, and never a drop be shed!
Tap! tap! said the hammer
To the nail in the coffin-lid!

146

THE GREETING ON THE THRESHOLD.

Speedeth Time, the unrelenting,
Speedeth onward, Time, the King,
Severing the years asunder
With the waving of his wing.
Christmas standeth at our thresholds,—
Brothers, through the murky air,
Let your hearts lean out and listen,—
Ye shall hear his voice declare—

“I am Christmas:—read the records
Of the deeds that ye have done;
Read, O men, with stedfast vision,
By the shining of Truth's sun.
Turn the pages, turn them over,
Trace ye backward day by day:
Ere I pass within your portals,
I've a greeting I must say.

Have ye walked the world meek-hearted?
In your patience, have ye worn

147

Lowly thoughts for inner vesture,
Nought of pride, and nought of scorn?
Have ye walked the world, love-missioned,
Impulse strong, and purpose high,
Foremost aye to strive and struggle
For the vexed humanity?

Have ye chased one cloud of error?
Have ye sown one seed of good?
Have ye done the work God gave you,
Honestly, as true men should?
Have ye borne a cheerful aspect,
Hoping on through toil and care?
Have ye won a poor man's blessing,
Or a poor man's broken prayer?

Then—burn bright your hearth-fires! brightly
Flash the mirthlight in your eyes!
All my olden gladness cheer you,
All my jests and jollities!
Loving friends be gathered round you,
Merry voice and visage gay—
Good befal you! God be with you!
Such the greeting I would say.

148

But, if ye have willed to follow
Other ways, O men, than these,
All regardless of the warning
Of life's solemn verities;—
If the loves that ye have cherished,
Have been self-loves, false and cold,
Love of earth, and earth's ambitions,
Love of greed and love of gold;—

If your hearts have scorned to hearken,
In the hour of mastery,
To all pleadings of good angels,
Pity, Mercy, Charity,
If ye've walked alone, self-trusting,
Self-sustaining, unsubdued,
By God's love, shed warmly round you,
And your bond of brotherhood;—

Then,—still lonely, drear and lonely,
Be your hearth and be your home!
As a ghost from out the charnel
Of the dead years, lo! I come—

149

Come with gloom and desolation,
And a silence, doubly drear,
From the sound of pipe and viol
And sweet laughter heard anear.

Fate-like, I unfold your portals,
And I bid you judge aright
Of the wisdom ye have worshipped,
By the veiling of its light;—
And I bid you turn, self-chastened,
From the doom and the despair,
To the better paths, forsaken,
And the joy abiding there;
So, when next ye hear my greeting,
Blessëd meanings it may bear!”

Speedeth Time, the unrelenting,
Speedeth onward, Time, the King,
Severing the years asunder,
With the waving of his wing.
Christmas standeth at our thresholds—
Brothers, through the murky air,
Let your hearts lean out and listen,
And give answer to him there.

150

OUR ELOPEMENT.

Oh, which way are you going?
Pr'ythee tell me Summer dear—
For I see your wings are plumed for flight,
And your farewell draweth near.
Oh! which way are you going?
It must be a pleasant way—
Methinks I'll plume my pinions too—
Yes mine—one moment stay,
Small farewell, sooth, have I to speak—I'll follow you straightway.

There, now we'll go together,
For who cares to linger here,
And mark Earth's beauty fade and die,
Heaven's glory disappear.
To list the little leaping streams,
Flow on with sighing tone,
Or the winds amongst the weeping woods
Bewail the dead and gone.

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No, no, we'll go together,
You and I, and kindly tell
Each other, all the way, those tales
We love, sweet Friend, so well;
Of the years when Time, the bright and young,
Knew nought of wintry hours;
When the rosy clouds sent down alone
Cool shadows, or soft showers,
And Earth stood crowned for evermore with undecaying flowers.

Ah, Summer, thou wert fairest then,
So saith the Poet's song,
When thy revel in the radiant world,
Waned not, the whole year long;
But Summer, truer song is mine—
I'll sing it here agen—
Time groweth grey and grim, but Thou
Art lovely now as then.

So we'll journey on together,
On afar, o'er heath and hill,
And ere the last leaf falleth sere,
And the blast blows bleak and chill,

152

We'll reach our refuge, good my Queen,
Some blessed clime I know,
Where still there's sunshine up above,
And song and bloom below.

So I pr'ythee faint not Summer—
Lo! I vow a merry vow,
That we'll dance anon together,
Underneath the full-leaved bough;
And away, away with that withered wreath,
You're wearing thus in vain!
Full soon, while birds and piping winds
Prepare their festal strain,
I'll twist a braid of opening flowers, and crown thee o'er again.

153

SHADE AND SUNSHINE.

“Not in this tapestried chamber, good my brother;
Let us go forth, in the sunshine. Truth will show us
Her full face in the light.”
—Anon.

Love sat brooding in the dark,
Gloomy thoughts stole o'er him;
All life's shows looked grim and stark
In the path before him.
And “ah yes, it waneth, it waneth!”
Poor Love, 'mid his sighs complaineth,
“There's a change—I can see it growing
In those eyes no longer flowing
With the light of the soul for me.
There's a change in the lips' calm smiling.
Those lips of old beguiling
Each pang of the world's reviling,
With their meanings fair to see.”

And still, while Love, unweary,
Poured all his plaints on air,
Through the shadows, dusk and dreary,
A sweet voice sought him there.

154

It stole to his ear unheeding,
Through the depths of the twilight grove,
With words of gentlest pleading,
And a cry “I love—I love!”

In vain!—Love still bewaileth
“That bitter change prevaileth!
I see it darkly, darkly, in each separate glance and motion,
And fading, withering slowly,
The joys of life sink lowly,
Borne earthward with a shattered faith, and a crushed
heart's devotion.

Oh false and feeble-hearted!
Oh light leaf on the wind!
Poor dream of days departed,
In bitter memories shrined!
Poor dream, that shed a golden ray,
Of gladness round and o'er me
A moment's space—now fled for aye,
Lo, night and storm before me!
But vain these tears, these sighs profound,
Vain this half-uttered story;
Away!—methinks a mocking sound
Rings through the forest hoary!”

155

Love stept from out that shaded ground
Into the sunshine's glory.

Love stept from out that covert dark,
The blue heaven glittered o'er him;
Less grim he thought life's shows and stark
Along the path before him.
And as a lurid mist awhile
O'er all doth darkly hover,
Then melt beneath the morning's smile
And the green earth discover,
So that great cloud of doubts and fears,
Lit by the truth, waxed lighter,
And like unto the golden noon,
His soul grew bright and brighter;
Till Hope, that long had breathless lain,
Spent by his vain endeavour,
Sprang up within his soul again
More bold and strong than ever.

And “Ah, yes, she loveth—she loveth!”
Quoth Love—“each doubt removeth;
'Twas a dream and a wanton folly
Of the sick fiend, Melancholy,

156

And life still hath its joys for me!”
Then Love looked back at the shaded track
And he sighed regretfully.
And lo! as he mused unweary,
On that new thought and fair,
From the shadows, dusk and dreary,
A sweet voice sought him there;
It stole to his ear, close-heeding,
From the depths of the twilight grove,
With words of gentlest pleading
And a cry “I love—I love!”

157

THE WORLD AND THE POET.

A THOUGHT OF KEATS.

“We heed thee not!—give o'er, give o'er!”
Said the World, as the Poet poured
The wealth of his soul and its glory forth
In burning thought and word—
“Give o'er, give o'er!”

Then a darkness fell on the Poet's face,
An omen of death and doom,
Ah me! ah me! what tears rained down
When soon, in the shadowy tomb,
His rest was won.

“We will weave a crown for this Poet's brow,”
Said the World: “we will build a throne
For his kingly fame; and from shore to shore
For aye shall his name be known—
For aye, for aye!”

158

Amen! to that loving deed, O World—
Amen! brave World art thou;
With thy bitter scorn for the beating heart,
And thy crown for the corpse's brow—
Amen! O World!

159

LOVE IN THE ALPUXARAS.

Under a cork-tree, deep in the shade
Of the Alpuxaras, I wooed a maid;
She was plump as a chesnut, grown
In a Catalan sunshine—and as brown.
First, I wooed her with smiles, and then
Sighed “like furnace,” o'er and agen.
Long she listened, then laughing gay,
Sang me a snatch of an ancient lay.
“There was a damsel lived in a dell,—
Dames of Nevada! Dames of Nevada!
And a Cavalier bold, he loved her well,
He loved her well—
Knights of Grenada! Knights of Grenada!”

Flinty and rough was the ground, ah me!
Yet down I dropped upon bended knee,
And vow upon vow I volubly uttered,
While my heart beat quick and my pulses fluttered.

160

In delicate phrases, quaintly adorned,
I coaxed and wheedled, flattered and fawned;
But lo! in the midst, with an ‘all very pretty’
Sort of look, she went on singing her ditty:
“Quoth the damsel, ‘Sir, be frank and free’—
Dames of Nevada! Dames of Nevada!
‘Dare you wed a maiden of low degree,’
Of low degree—
Knights of Grenada! Knights of Grenada?”

Saints! was it any thing in the air
Struck such a chill through my blood? I declare
I had well nigh fainted;—pale and red
Grew I by turns, while that one word ‘wed’
Smote on my ears like a tocsin, dispelling
Visions of bliss with its sudden knelling.
Curled the red lip of the maid, and then
Her clear voice broke into song agen:—
“Blank looked the suitor and sore forlorn—
Dames of Nevada! Dames of Nevada!
And the damsel laughed his love to scorn,
His love to scorn—
Knights of Grenada! Knights of Grenada!”

161

Scorn!—'twas the only word, in sooth;
There was no disguising that plain truth—
With a lifted brow and a flashing eye,
She fronted me in her purity,
And her glance—oh! it made my soul confess
Its shame, and her own true nobleness;
Mute and abashed I stood, and anon
With a sigh she left me—singing on:
“‘Albeit a cavalier bold’, quoth she—
Dames of Nevada! Dames of Nevada!
‘A lover art thou of low degree,
Of low degree!’
Knights of Grenada! Knights of Grenada!”

162

THE ANGEL OF THE SHADOW.

Death is not hideous, child; I have seen death;
Ay, in a dream, but smile not; fuller light
Breaks on us oftimes from beyond the veil,
In that strange separate state, than is vouchsafed
In the full noontide sunshine of the life
You deem so real. In dream, then, I saw Death.
Two forms were kneeling by a couch, whereon
A little maid, meek-faced, with soft brown hair,
Lay dying. The great strife was well nigh o'er;
Life had obeyed the summons—held itself
Prepared to go, and hovered, as it were,
Upon the very threshold of its home,
With wings outspread;—while fitfully there rose
A thrilling murmur, not from those still lips,
Sealed from all speaking, but a voice of prayer,
Broken by passionate sobbing, that burst forth
From hearts which strove to feel “thy will be done!”
But could not, for the clinging human love.

163

Oh! very grievous grew that agony
Of strong affection, wrecked upon the rocks
Of Heaven's immutable judgment,—when, behold!
On a sudden, all the room grew solemn-dim,
And hovering o'er the couch, methought I saw
A shape, as of an angel glorified,
Bright mid the shadows, and thrice beautiful,
With such a look of pure beatitude,
You saw at once it was God's minister,
Sent downward on a blessëd errand there.
One shining hand, outstretched, fair, and as fresh
As from Heaven's living waters just withdrawn,
Touched the poor sufferer's brow;—then ceased the strife,
And all the bitter pain died out at once;
And when those mourners, half in hope, half fear,
Upraised their weeping glances, they beheld,
Not Death, the Angel, but their loved one, dead;
Ay, saw God's ordinance made manifest,
While the grief-torrent overswept their souls.

But still the angel hovered o'er the clay
With aspect very pitiful, as if
It fain would yield some solace, ere it fled,
To those heart-broken ones;—anon, I saw

164

The glistening hand laid lovingly again
Upon the poor wrenched brow, and vacant eyes,
And on the pallor of the sunken cheeks,
While to the blue-cold lips, those radiant ones,
Those lips of Heaven, were pressed a moment's space,
Softly and tenderly, till such a smile
Grew there, and such a perfect calm was spread
O'er every feature of the meek, dead face;
It was as though the spirit of the child
Said, “Father, mother, there is bliss in death;
Take comfort, O beloved! I go to God.”
Then, beautiful beyond all human thought,
Grew that rapt angel's countenance, lit up
With love, that glowed, and glowed, till all the air
Seemed filled as if with Godlight, in the midst
Of which effulgence, from my enraptured sight,
Passed the pure spirit, leaving nought below
But the calm dead, the human agony,
And this thought, shining in my inmost soul,
Like a great star amid the glooms of earth—
Death is not hideous—Death is Love, and—Life.

165

THE KNELL OF THE MONARCHIES.

A sound borne from afar,
A solemn and ghostly sound;
Like a mighty bell that tolleth the knell
Of a king by fate discrowned.

It tolleth ever and aye,—
Both night and day it tolleth;
Nor space nor time can stay its chime,
Still on and on it rolleth.

On, o'er the city streets,
On, over meadow and lea;
O'er the forest wide, o'er the green hill-side,
On, on. o'er the sweeping sea!

And whoso heareth the sound,
Doth hear as it were the roar
Of waves that leap from a fathomless deep,
And break on a shingly shore.

166

Doth hear as it were the rush
Of a multitudinous throng,
The tramp of feet o'er the stony street,
And the voice of savage song.

All discords blent in one,
Shouts, murmurs, shrieks, and groans,
And a cry of wail, that telleth a tale
Of shaken and shattered thrones.

It tolleth for aye, that bell,
And some grow faint and pale,
As it rolleth in, with ominous din,
As they list its ghostly tale.

But some start up in joy,
With fiery flashing eyes,
That see from the night a glorious light,
And a mighty hope arise.

A light long quenched in cloud,
A hope long nursed in vain;
The bright sun-rise of their liberties
O'er the despot's broken chain.

167

O thou, of the sealëd scroll,
O Future, 'tis thine to shew,
If the hope or fear be meetest here,
The joy, or eke the woe.

One task, meanwhile, is ours—
To wait; full sure to see
God's light illume the rayless gloom,
Make clear the mystery;

Full sure, oh, ghostly bell,
Despite thy boding tones,
His stedfast will controlleth still
This wreck of crowns and thrones.

168

A FLOWER-FOLLY.

I have culled a little flower to-night—
Say where, say where!
“In the garden beds, by the soft moonlight?”
Not there, not there!
It was gathered,—ponder well on this,—
In a sheltered nook, in a bower of bliss;
Now tell me, young man, tender and true,
Do they love the sun, or the silver dew,
These flowers so fair?

“Let me see the blossom...pearly and white,
With its leaves half-folded from the light,—
With a stem all downy and moss o'ergrown,
And a perfume..but that is not its own;—
Fair Sir, these blossoms are of the few
That love neither sun nor silver dew;
They love but to nestle in soft repose
For a passing moment, then slowly close,
(Faint with a rapture, too great to bear)
And die..ah! where?

169

Where? merry maiden, that smilest so,
Thou canst read the riddle—that blush doth show
Where the flower was culled; oh! fairest, take
To its rest, the exile, for pity's sake;
Ere its languid leaves for ever close
Let it nestle again in soft repose,
And so shall you make it clear anew,
Why these flowers care so little for sun and dew,
And what is their rapture past compare,
In dying..there.”

170

THE WHITE ANGEL.

Between swart Pluto and bronze Polypheme,
Stands my white angel carved in alabaster;
A delicate art-fancy, looking most
Like petrified pure Alpine snow, transformed,
By some strange elemental witchery,
Into a spirit's fair similitude.
Swart Pluto eyes her grimly, 'neath the thick,
Black pent-house of his overhanging brows,
As if he marvelled through what unknown air,
From what far region o'er Olympian calms,
Such vision had descended. Polypheme—
Huge bulk, but with a tender heart informed,
Full of old loves and haunting memories,
Looks sadly at her . . looks beyond her, where
Death-pale, in the drear past, by ocean's verge,
A goddess-maiden, beautiful as she,
Sits wailing evermore beneath the moon.

171

Thanks Luigi, thanks, my sprightly Florentine!
Gay neighbour, in the rambling palace home,
Where once, in my fresh youth, I dreamed away
Three long, bright, glowing summer months of bliss.
Ah, Luigi! how we lived in those old days!
How we felt life!—you, in your studio, perched
High up amongst the roofs, on the shady side
Of the great grass-grown court—working betimes
In the cool morning;—in my idlesse, I,
Loitering and looking on, or listening
To the glad under current of the song
That seemed to float your fancies into life,
With magical impulsion. How you sang,
The day you finished my white angel there!
Some snatches of that pleasant melody,
Ring in mine ears e'en yet—a dulcet strain,
A love-lay for two voices, was it not?
For little Bice, poor Arlotto's child,
Who came that morning from the farm, with grapes
And water-melons for our thirsty noon,
Blent her clear tones with yours, and unawares,
It may be, left some record of herself
In the rare cunning of your handiwork.
Dear little Bice! how she stared, the while

172

She watched your chisel tripping lightly o'er
The exquisite fair face—coaxing a smile
To hover round the lips—outshedding calm
On the high forehead—waving the broad stream
Of floating hair, or adding, plume on plume,
To the white glory of the folded wings,
Drooped meekly, earthward. We all sang . . ay, all,
When, the last touch bestowed, your statue stood
In its perfected grace:—we sang till walls
And windows thrilled, and Bice's childish voice,
Swelling, exulting, like a lark's up-borne
Over the topmost cloud beneath the sky,
Poured its sweet silver treble through the storm,
Till it seemed to stir the down on the snowy vans
Of the immaculate angel, and uplift
The light transparent folds of drapery.

'Twas holyday, the rest of that bright day,—
And the hot noon o'erpast, we loosed our boat
And down the Arno, in the golden light,
Cheerily floated; store of wine we took,
With little Bice for our cup-bearer—
With little Bice for our singing bird—
And merry were the tales we told, and brave

173

The plans we planned, and as each amber flask
Poured gurglingly its hoarded treasure out,
Our hearts leaped up to the flowery heights of joy
And the jests sparkled on our laughing lips.
On, on, we drifted, far adown the stream,
Till the red radiance of the setting sun
Paled in the west, and with a steadfast front,
Majestical in its tranquillity,
Sank nobly to his rest the dying day;
And the shades crept and deepened, till at last
The purple twilight melted into night,
And all the cloudless heaven grew white with stars.
Then homeward, homeward, with an altered song,
An altered converse,—our brave plans pulled down
A little from the skiey eminence,
That with their Monte-Pulciano wings
They had scaled so boldly—Bice's Ave sounding
Like the low plaintive cooing of a dove
Over the quiet water. So at length,—
Exchanging happy thoughts, or roaming through
The labyrinthine paths of silent dreams,
We reached the landing-place—reached presently,
With loitering steps, our home; and how it fell
Upon our hearts, my Luigi, like spring dew,

174

When climbing our steep stair, and looking in
Through the deserted studio's open door,
We saw the first pale moonbeams shining full
On the uplifted, glorified calm brow
Of our new angel on its pedestal.
So like a spirit in the gloom it looked,
I could have bowed my forehead to the dust,
In adoration Little Bice said,
Half in a whisper,—“The good angels there—”
Pointing with upward finger to the sky,—
“Have owned their fair white sister here below.”
Ah, Luigi! how we lived in those old days!
Lived!

175

LITTLE MABEL'S SONG

INSCRIBED TO MY LITTLE FRIEND—F. G---.

“Spring, Spring, idle Spring!
I have called thee all the day—
Whither art thou wandering,
Idle Spring, I pray?”

Little Mabel Morrison
Was a simple village child;
You shall hear the song she sang
In her “wood-notes wild.”

Spring, Spring, idle Spring!
I have sought thee everywhere—
In the glen, and on the hill,
Through the meadows, by the rill,—
But thou wert not there.
I have sought for many an hour
For the first wild violet flower,
Through its young leaves peeping;

176

To the woods I've been to learn
If the pale, sweet lady-fern,
In the brake beside the burn,
Had arisen from sleeping,
Spring, Spring, idle Spring!
Not a trace of anything!
And the birds all feared to sing,
And the trees were weeping.
I've a little bird within
That doth love thee dearly;
Greeting thee with merry din
When thou comest early.
Now, no note of joy hath he—
On his perch so droopingly
He doth sit, sad-hearted,
Deeming that for aye, sweet Spring,
Thou and he are parted.

I've a little garden too,
Full of flowers, the fairest;
Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And rich scents the rarest;
And those flowers are waiting now
For thy touch to wake them;

177

They are waiting, every one,
For the shining of thy sun,
Ere their dreams forsake them.
Oh! dear Spring, sweet Spring, I pray,
Drive those dull dark clouds away,
Let the blue sky cheer us!
Well-a-day, my prayer is vain,
Faster falls the beating rain,
And thou wilt not hear us.

Oh! what joy 'twould be to me
To behold thee coming,
With the beetle's drowsy lay,
With the lark's glad roundelay,
And the bee's wild humming.

Come then, spring—slow-footed Spring!
I have called thee many a day;
Cease thy truant loitering,
Idle Spring, I pray.

So sang Mabel Morrison,
In her simple wood-notes wild,
Till the Winter's gloom was past,
Till the sunshine came at last,
And the blue sky smiled.

178

THE LAST SONG OF WINTER.

I am singing my last wild song!
A song that soundeth from hill and plain,
With the howling wind, and the lashing rain,
And the forest's roar, as the hurricane
Doth sweep its boughs among.

I am singing my last wild song!
For my crown of frost is melting away,
Drop by drop; and the icy chains,
Wherewith I fettered my broad domains,
Will yield, I wot, to a warmer sway,
And loose their clasp ere long.

I am singing my last wild song!
Louder and louder, ye storm-winds all!
Ere ye 'scape, for a season, my savage thrall,
Ye shall feel my strength;—mad rain, mad rain,
Faster, and faster!—Ho! hurricane,
Thy ruinous blast prolong!

179

I am singing my last wild song!
I must quit my throne, but the earth shall see
That I go in the pomp of my royalty,
And mine ancient strength—it shall see at morn,
By the tall trees scathed, and stripped, and torn,
With a conqueror's tread, o'er a realm forlorn,
I have passed with my shouting throng.

I am singing my last wild song!
But beware, oh Earth!—if thou bend the knee
To the glory of Summer—revengefully,
With a fiercer might, will I come again,
With a tyrannous hate, to my sunless reign,
And bind thee down, 'neath a heavier chain,
With pitiless grasp and strong.

I am singing my last wild song!
My last!—Ha! laughest thou? Again,
Ere long, thou shalt list to the same rude strain!
My last!—'twas a merry jest, I trow—
Ocean must shrink, and the great sun grow
Faint in the skies, and the end of all
Sweep to destruction this earthly ball,
Ere I sing my last wild song!

180

MUMMY-WRAPPING.

What! you would speak out your thought—
Out, quite plainly!—sore distraught,
You must be, young Poet;—know,
Nowadays, bards sing not so.
What! espouse that worn-out style,

“The worn-out poetry of antique times,
I fling aside—”

Exclaims our latest Poet, the Author of “Reverberations.” An ungracious abnegation, to say the least, seeing that the writer of lt never so clearly proves his poetship as when he reverts to those very antiquities of the Muse. Treating of Free Trade and Modern Revolutions, he does but attain to rash prophecy, or mere prosiness, but when he goes back to Thor, and Balder, and Alcestis, and Admetus, he makes ns feel two things—his own skill and high quality as a Poet, and the beauty of the antique song.

Spencer's, Chaucer's—flowing bright
As the full, clear morning light,
With no symptom in the air
Of the least fog anywhere;
Pshaw! the world would only smile
At your folly—folks have grown
All too wise to spend their praises
On such antiquated graces.
No, the plan, by which alone
Bards win honour for their verse
Now, is the complete reverse
Of your own, and lies in hiding
All their thoughts and all their meanings,
So that not the smallest gleanings,

181

High or low, be found abiding;
So that men may read and read
This way, that way, up and down,
And when the obscure has grown
Into a conglomeration
Past all human extrication,
May cry—“Very fine indeed!”
Fancying, poor simple souls,
That in the midst of such a pother,
Under all the dust and smother,
There must lie, spread richly out,
Hints, suggestions, parts and wholes
Of grand truths—too grand, no doubt,
To adopt a simpler fashion,
For their mighty revelation.

In old Egypt, land of sages,
Lighter of the dusky ages,
Men, by mummy wrapping arts,
Strove to save their mortal parts;
Stuffing each departed friend,
With all sorts of compound messes,
Drugs and other nastinesses,
Smearing them with oils and greases,—
And concluding with no end

182

Of tight folds and bands, whereby
Every trace of human creature,
Each familiar form and feature,
Vanished, faded utterly,
And the poor defunct, forgotten
Before long, as well might be,
Grinned beneath his mile of cotton
With a ghastly irony.

Poets, in these latter days,
Go ahead of such trite ways;
Let their bodies seek the goals
Natural to them—life once ended,
But meanwhile, make wonderful
Mummies of their sentient souls;
Wrap them round with strange devices,
And embalm with mystic spices,
So that when the oracle
To set speech hath condescended,
Seems it, that whate'er he says
Hath had very far to travel,
And the labyrinth unravel
Of a thousand bandages;
Which begets a sad delusion
In some minds, that such orations

183

Reveries, dreams, vaticinations,
Are mere chaos and confusion.
But the World, young poet, oh!
Take my word for it, draws no
Such deductions;—it descries
Glories, graces, ecstacies,
In this muffled speech, which it
Honours with a tribute fit
Of gold-scatterings—whence you'll see
Ev'n great minds take readily
To the fashion—minds that might
Fill the whole earth with their light,
Shining, like fixed stars sublime,
In the zenith of all time;
But who, bitten by this mimic,
Mystic, masking epidemic,
Hurry, and are all agog
To be lanterns in a fog.
Go, ask famous Emerson,
How his crowns and palms are won,
And he'll tell you, it may be—
“Partly by the verity
And the luminous discourse,
That my soul would utter, by
Right of its nobility,
And that men approved, perforce;

184

But far more, young bard, I deem,
By my new, fine-writing scheme,
That the age greets with such clapping;
Or, to use a figure, screening
An immensity of meaning—
By my skill in mummy-wrapping.”

Lest any wrong inference be drawn from this passage, let me hasten to say that I join gratefully in the verdict which assigus to Mr. Emerson a foremost place amongst the earnest and original thinkers of the day. That he should have adopted, at times, an eccentricity of style, which must too often serve as a wall of partition between him and his readers, cannot fail to be matter of regret to all bnt those who look upon such eccentricity, not only as a proof of originality, but also as its fit and necessary accompaniment. Mr. Emerson himself, however, in his “Representative Men,” accepts the axiom that every thought clearly conceived may also be clearly expressed, and thereby either condemns his own practice, or reflects on the lucidity of his thinking. Would it be too much to ask of him, and of his English friend, Mr. Carlyle also,—vehement declaimers, as they both are, against the “shams” and “cants” of the day, to think a little of this sham also, and for the sake of their consistency, to “put it down”

Go, ask scores of others—you'll
Find them an extensive school;—
Although differing of course
Chiefly from that famous one,
The aforesaid Emerson,
By still less of verity
And of luminous discourse;
Yet, in the main, they all agree;—
In confusion, each doth see
Acme of sublimity;
Each deems smoke, in poet-fires,
Chief perfection;—each aspires
To draw down the age's clapping
By his skill in mummy-wrapping.

Shame!—you say—that this should be—
Burying talents in the earth—
Desecrating God's great blessing;—
By a folly past expressing,

185

Mocking its immortal worth!—
Ah! if these your notions be,
If such crotchets haunt you still,
Go, young Poet—have your will—
Follow out your fantasy:—
Sing, as larks sing, no note failing,
Make your lays clear, strong, prevailing—
Let your style flow calm and steady,
As a stream without an eddy;—
Strip your whole thought bare to view,
As the antique singers do;
And you may find, here and there,
Readers, praisers,—don't despair!—
Some poor, good old-fashioned soul,
Now and then, may cheer, console,
With his dusty commendation—
But for public acceptation—
If the aim of your ambition
Be the world's warm recognition,
Then, turn back,—at once turn back,
From that obsolete, stale track,
Do as the rest do—seek your bays
In their orthodox new ways,
And draw down the age's clapping
By your skill in mummy-wrapping.

186

THE BELEAGUERED OAK.

Hark! how the winds among the giant boughs
Of the old oak are raging; to and fro
They toss his skeleton limbs, and howl the while,
As if in mockery of his changed estate.
Fain would they rend his noble heart asunder,
And hurl his towering grandeur in the dust,
But he defies them—stubborn in his strength,
He groans, but yields not—he bethinks him too,
Perchance, how soon swift time will give him back
The glory of his prime. Ah, then the winds,
Robbed of their strength, and all their fierceness gone,
Will float around him with an altered tone,
Will sing sweet melodies the livelong day,
And nestle softly, thro' the starry hours,
Amongst his curtaining foliage. Then, a host
Of merry birds will greet him evermore
With their glad lays, till all his young green leaves,
All the quick pulses of his mighty frame,
Thrill with delight—then, summer skies will shower

187

The golden sunlight on his head by day,
The silvery dew by night, and men will rest
Safe sheltered from the sultry noon-tide glare
Beneath his broad, deep shade. So is he strong,
So steadfast, to withstand the tyranny
Of the rude blast,—and so the peasant, doomed
To toil from morn till eve on the bleak hills,
Doth brave the sufferance, and, with manly soul,
Bear up against the present weariness,
By thinking of the hour when he shall see
The light—ah, not of the great stars in heaven,
But the faint ray, the beacon of his rest,
From his cottage lattice gleaming. On his ear,
In the pauses of his labour, oft doth fall
The welcoming voice of his true-hearted wife,
Or the shrill laughter of his little ones.
He sees the ruddy blaze of his warm hearth;
Feels the sweet sunshine of the smile of home;
And cheered and strengthened by these joys to come,
Turns with blythe spirit to his task again.

188

MISTRESS MADELINE'S PENANCE.

Mistress Madeline, my ladye,
You shall pine to day—
Never smile and look so sprightly,
Never toss your head so lightly—
Mistress Madeline, I tell you,
You shall pine to-day!

Hooded hawk away!—content thee
With thy perch, pardie!
Not a ray of morning's brightness
Is in store for thee.
Hound, that snuffest the fresh breezes,
Couch! for thou must stay
By my side, till gloaming cometh
And the sky is grey—
Mistress Madeline, thy ladye,
Goes not forth to-day.

189

Pr'ythee why?—we rode together,
False one, yestermorn;
Never day of eastern summer
Knew a brighter dawn;
And you thought so, very clearly
Smiled your lips that truth;
Hound and hawk were happy sharers
In your joy, good sooth!
You had smiles for bird and blossom,
Smiles for stream and tree,
Smiles for earth and smiles for heaven,
But not one for me—
Mistress Madeline, my ladye,
Not one smile for me!

And you spoke, as if your fancies
Wandered like your smile;
Little recked you of the shadows
On my face the while.
Mort-dieu! I grew black as tempest,—
With a scowling brow
Vowed I a great vow of vengeance,
And must keep it now;—
Mistress Madeline, my ladye,
I must keep that vow!

190

Ah! sly mocker, still art smiling
With that face demure?
Tune thine harp and sing unweary,
Till thou work my cure,
Ditties of the olden ages
That I love the best,
Ditties of a leal devotion
In true woman's breast:
All day long, till gloaming cometh,
Thou must sit by me—
Sit, and sing and smile, more fairly
Than on flower and tree;
All day long till gloaming cometh,
And no thought must stray,
Not a single fitful fancy
Wander hence away;—
Mistress Madeline, this penance
Thou must do to-day.

For I hold it treason, ladye,
Such as ne'er should be,
To be lured, as thou wert, lightly
From love's loyalty.
Love—a flower-crowned god, you deem him—
It may be, but still,

191

Laws hath he of sternest fashion
And a vengeful will.
Try him, tamper with his roses,
And ere long you'll own
That their slender stems are garnished
Not with moss alone.
Mort-dieu? you shall own it, minion,
Whatsoe'er befall—
Ere the sun drop from the welkin,
Ere you 'scape my thrall—
Mistress Madeline, my ladye,
Oh! be sure you shall!

192

ROAD-SONG OF THE PEASANT.

My path is o'er the frozen hills,
The wind blows keenly in my face,
The shadows of the advancing night
Creep on with lengthening pace;—
Ha! ha! I laugh at the bitter blast—
I shall see the smile of my home at last!

More faint doth grow the light, and thick
And fast the snow-flakes drift around;
All silently my footfall sinks
Upon the muffled ground;—
Ha! ha! let the storm howl on,—ere long
I shall listen, at ease, to a softer song!

There's not a single star looks forth;
The deep and rayless gloom doth fall
Upon the wintry earth, as dark
And sad as funeral pall;—
Ha! ha! I've a ray within, too bright
To be quenched by the gloom of the darkest night!

193

The hills are passed—the valley stream
Sweeps by me, wlth its sullen roar—
'Tis crossed—my rest is well-night won,
My weary travail o'er.
Ha! ha! methinks I feel e'en now
The flash of the firelight on my brow!

With brisker steps I hurry on,
My eager gaze still bent before,
Where aye, through storm and gloom, shines out
My open cottage door;—
Ha! ha! I hear young voices call—
They are there—my wife and my dear ones all!

194

THE CORNER APART.

You complain the world grows prosy—do as I do, Blanche, my treasure,
Set apart a little corner in your mind, sweet maid, and there
Cage your Fancy, like a singing bird, and make it, for chief pleasure,
Cover life's cold common places with a woof of visions rare.

Then away from all the turmoil that so frets and so fatigues you,
You'll take refuge in your castle, built where no world-discords are—
On some mountain-crag in dreamland, looking whence, for leagues and leagues, you
See only flocks and herds, or eke some gallant knight afar.

195

Ay, some Knight, that you, in outrage of my constant fond pretension,
Crying pshaw! to all my sentiment, and heedless of my sighs,
May unclose your castle gates to, with right courteous condescension,
Just to see how love in olden days lit up a suitor's eyes.

Or what say you, shall our fancies, Blanche, my queen, be caged together?
Happy thought! they'll build us castles, twice as fair and twice as strong;
And besides you'd find it lonely else, despite the halcyon weather,
For I warn you dreamland suitors are a sad unreal throng.

Do you need increased persuasion? Nay, believe me then, my fairy
Is a wonder-working wizard, worth a thousand such as thine;
You'll own his art pre-eminent, his patience exemplary,
When his magic spells are woven close around your soul and minc.

196

Your lithe fancy, gentle creature, has been nurtured to meek uses,
All its incantations bounded to some soft and silken dream;—
Mine's a hardy mountain stroller, that no toilsome task refuses,—
Let him aid his weaker sister,—Blanche, what say you to my scheme?

If the world in truth grows prosy, then accept the proffered pleasure—
Come, see the golden sunsets glow on plains of Arcady;
Come feast with gnomes, in Brocken halls, amid their piled-up treasure,
Come dance with merry elfin folk beneath the green-wood tree!

We'll have tilts and we'll have tournays, and the troubadours shall sing us
All their lays of high achievement, lays of love, and lays of war;
Or we'll take the wings of swiftness that our trusty spirits bring us,
And soar up to hear the spheric songs that float from star to star.

197

Brief pause, brief intermission—still, illusion on illusion,
Like flashings of the Northern lights, shall be our magic dream;
Swift flitting tints, that burn and blend in one harmonious fusion,
With changes bright and manifold—what say you to my scheme?

Why, what can you say, poor captive to your social life's conventions,
To its mill-horse round of routine, chained, alas! whate'er befall,
With no single source of solace save in such benign inventions,
Why what can you say, but—“Catch those sprites, and cage them once for all!”

198

HEART-USES.

Hearts are not for teasing, Lady mine—
Hearts for loving, hearts for deep believing,
For strong hoping, never for deceiving,
Nay, nor yet for teasing, Lady mine.

Hearts are not for scorning, Lady mine—
Hearts for grieving, hearts for bitter breaking,
For fast clinging, never for forsaking,
Nay, nor yet for scorning, Lady mine.

Hearts are all for loving, Lady mine—
Loving—tease me with thine eyes' endeavour,
Scorn me with thy lips, but still, for ever,
Hearts are all for loving, Lady mine.

199

‘BE A CHEERFUL POET!’

Be a cheerful Poet!
That is well—the wind saith, singing by;—
That is well, the blue and bending sky
Echoes softly;—that is well—each ray
Of the cheerful light, no less would say,
Were it vocal;—mark, amongst the snows
Winter's little lonely flower unclose,
Pure and pale as they, but telling still,
Spite of bitter blast and icy chill,
Of a bright time coming; telling too
Of a blessing, hidden from the view
Ev'n in rudest frost, and wildest weather;—
Such thy task be! Faith and Hope together,
Take for Muses!—to their bidding bowed,
Ever see the sun behind the cloud;
Ever see, though windy tempests blow,
Flowers upspringing underneath the snow;
Comfort, see, in trouble—love, in wrath—
Balm of healing in the thorniest path—

200

God in all,—that so thy songs may be
Ministers of God in their degree,
And through storm and calm their task pursue
Loyally, as flowers and sunbeams do.

Ask thy ransomed soul, inclining low
At Christ's feet, if life be only woe;
If all poet harmonies should be
Wrung from one sole chord of misery;
If best service may be offered up
By out-pouring tears from life's full cup—
Pouring tears and wafting sighs alone,
In drear sameness, heavenward to God's throne.
Ask, and straight thine eager soul shall risc,
From Christ's feet, with upward glancing eyes
Full of joy and blessing, and shall cry—
“Nay! by His dear blood, shed lovingly
For our sin—by His full victory
Over death and loss, this life should be
Lifted out of gloom, and glorified
By that crowning glory. Be thy lays
Strong to follow then, where Faith doth guide—
Strong to soar above life's narrow ways,
Through the mist of natural pain and care,
Dark, but transient, to that calmer air

201

O'er the thunder, where, in mystic beaming,
Glows the Godlight from the cross outstreaming.

Yet avoid not sorrow—tenderly
Touch that string, for oh! thy lyre must be
Tuned to suit a vexed humanity;
With the weeping, weep—the sighing, sigh;
Only, through each sadness, still descry
Light out-breaking, promise of release,
In the cloud, God's bow, proclaiming peace.
He whose strain with grief alone is rife,
Endless lamentation, tears and strife,
Adds but discord to the hymn of life!”

Soul, amen! true teacher!—Singer, thou
To that inner verdict meekly bow—
Be a cheerful Poet!

202

THE LONG AGO.

A spirit walks beside me, pale but fair,
With still face shaded by dim-floating hair;
And ever, at brief intervals, while loud
Resound the strife and tumult of the crowd,
While the absorbing Present sternly claims
All my devotion, all my hopes and aims,
She bids me, in a whisper soft and low,
“Give one kind memory to the long ago!”

No other speech hath she—unchangeable,
One aspect for all times, fixed, and yet full
Of a most tender pleading;—so, when stand
New friends around me, a belovëd band,
When cordial words from lip to lip are passed,
Light jests, or graver fancies, overcast
With a calm pensiveness;—when heart to heart
Confides its stored-up treasures—still, apart,
Filling the pauses, pleads that whisper low,
“One memory for the friends of long ago!”

203

Alike, when roaming through new lands, I climb
Wood-cinctured mountains, in the golden time
Of summer, scanning, with enamoured gaze
Plains, vallies, pastures, gleaming through the haze;
Tracts, by primeval forests overrun,
Or populous cities, sleeping in the sun;
Out of the hush that whisper seems to grow,
Like the wind's murmur. with as sweet a flow—
“One memory, for the scenes of long ago!”

And ever, when I hear it, the dead Past
Throws off its cerements; visions, thick and fast,
Throng round me—friends, I left on the far strand
Of orient childhood, from that halcyon land
Gaze on me, greet me, bid me taste once more
The sweet and simple happiness of yore.
And my lost home smiles at me, through the shade
Of the apple-branches—its grey walls arrayed
With bloom of climbing roses, or broad leaves
Of vine and ivy, and beneath the eaves
Just the one swallow's nest—the same—I hear,
Methinks, the young birds' twitter, shrill and clear,
In the fresh morning . . . Oh! kind spirit, stay
For ever by my side, through life's rude way!

204

Ne'er let the Present's joys, the Future's dreams,
Possess me wholly: still by those hushed streams
And phantom-peopled meadows let me roam,
In the dim shadow-world which is thy home.
Come chance, come change, unmoved through all be thou,
The same true faithful monitor as now;
And till Death beckons me, with ghostly hand,
Into the mysteries of his shadow-land,
O heart of mine, nor cold, nor careless grow,
In welcome of that warning whisper low—
“One thought, one memory, give the long ago!”

205

WHEN I WAS A CHILD.

“Henceforth thou must eschew
Lofty rhyme, and sip the dew
And to us be liegeman true—
When the moon is at its height,
We will meet thee and indite
Fairy lore for thee to write.”
The Fairies' Address to the Poet, by G. Beard.

When I was a little child,
I had a friend, a fairy,
A playmate, merry and wild—
Good lack! when I saw him first, the droll
Was skimming the cream from the brordest bowl
On the topmost shelf of the dairy.

“Little man,”—quoth he—“be wary and wise!”—
And finger on lip, right cunningly
He peered all round him, with winking eyes—
Then . . went on skimming the cream, as free
As if good maid Margery, I declare,
For his sole provision had placed it there.

206

He was not a pretty fairy—no;
Rather wizened and wrinkled, but so
Full of frolic and waggery!
And in his will-o'-the-wispish eye
There was something you might descry—
Something gentle and kind and true—
“If you will but love me, I'll love you!”—
It seemed to whisper, and while my gaze
Dwelt on his antics and winning ways,
I felt, were he thrice an elf, that clearly
It were no hard task to love him dearly.

So I let him drink, for he seemed to grow
Fairer and plumper at every draught
Of the thick rich cream, that careful and slow,
He skimmed to the edge of the bowl—then quaffed
With a smack of the lips for indication
Of his inward comfort and consolation.
When his meal was over, (ah me, ah me!
What a sight that bowl for maid Margery!)
He leaped, in a trice, to the dairy floor,
And with quirks and gambols, many and sore,
Sidled up to where I stood, and smiled—
And “Child—let me see your face, good child!”

207

Said the elf—and while his fingers cleared
The curls from my forehead, his keen eyes peered
Deep into mine, and wandered over
Each feature as though he would fain discover
All my child-nature and disposition:—
No fear had I, not a whit of fear,
As he drew me nearer and yet more near;
I let him finish his inquisition;
At last, while a smile of confident pleasure
Made his queer face comely beyond measure,—
“Little friend—aha! little friend!” he said,
Then away, through the open lattice, sped
Swift as a sunbeam, . . that was all
Our talk that day, but I well recall
I felt as if somehow, I had made
A kind of promise, and Madge the maid
From that time forth vowed vehemently
That the dairy lattice bewitched must be,
For with all her bolting at eventide,
She was sure to find it swinging wide
Next morn, and the cream-bowl empty and dry—
“Little friend—aha! little friend!”—thought I.

And that was how our friendship began;—
Oh! but the after frolic and fun!

208

In the midsummer time, at set of sun
When the floating vapours and clouds grew dun,
And the stars shone through them, one by one,
In the orchard crofts, I was sure to hear
A little piping, musical sound,
Now dying away, now drawing near,
Now whirling and eddying, round and round;
And to me that sound seemed ever to say—
“Come out and follow me far away!”
So stealthily, through the orchard trees,
I was wont to creep, and there, at his ease,
Deep in the grass, with a puffed-out cheek,
Blowing his magical trumpet call,
From a blue convolvolus flower, or eke
Pear-leaf, or spear-grass, best of all,—
I was sure to find my skimmer of cream
Ready to flit with the first moonbeam,
And take me with him, o'er mead and stream,
Into the deepest of deep wood places,
Out of the way of all human traces,
Where he would seat me safe in the fern,
Whispering ever, in waggish guise,
As at first,—“Good child, be wary and wise!”
And when he had kissed me on the eyes,

209

I could see through the darkness, and discern
In the open glades and under the trees,
All the fairy folk and their revelries.

Oh! the merry songs I've heard them sing!
And the merry tales I've heard them tell!
If I could but tune my jaded string
To the proper pitch, I know full well
Their very echo would straight enthrall,
With a spell, my listeners, one and all.

And the festival nights too! nights of state!
Once, from my covert, I saw the Queen,
A sweet little lady of royal mien,
Hold her levee, in the midst of her great
Lieges and vassals. Her Verderer,
Gold Stick, Head Warden and Almoner,
Her Lords and Ladies in waiting, and troops
Of Maids of Honour, all lined the slopes
Of the little hillock, where her throne,
An oak-apple fresh, with rose leaves strewn,
Stood in the fullest light of the moon.

And pleasant it was to see them bring,
Each and all of the fairy host—

210

Tax and tribute and offering:
One brought a glow-worm that had lost
His way in the woods, despite his candle;
Another, a riband of Indian grass,
Lissome and smooth, that for lady's sandal,
Doth all other ribands surpass.
One came laden with purple heather,
Scented and sweet, for the royal floor;
Another offered a King-fisher's feather,
Bluer than bluest of summer weather,
And gifted with virtues twain—the one,
That it served for a plume, while the dance went on,
The other—a fan, when the dance was o'er.
Some brought provender, nut and pear,
Strawberry, wood-apple, rosy and fair,
Chesnuts and dew-berries, store of all,
To honour the royal festival.
Others catered for fun alone;—
One, 'mid a general titter and stir,
Came, arm in arm, with an overgrown,
Gawky sprig of a grasshopper,
Whom he cozened and coaxed at last into dancing,
With a great deal of comical jerking and prancing,

211

On a tight-rope,—in his feelers holding
A reed, for balance—feat worth beholding.
One, on a frog's back, reached the station,
Strumming, with infinite animation,
On a drum the frog's own corporation.
And one, my notable friend, came in,
All grimace and giggle and grin,
Dragging a spider, lean and long,
Tied by the leg, with a triple thong
Of his own thick web—this filled the measure
Of the fairy mirth—with turbulent pleasure,
Gentle and simple, they crowded round,
And with jeers and laughter, strove to confound
Their luckless victim; they made him pass
Through showers of dew, and with bearded grass,
Towzled and tickled him, till he grew—
Not black in the face, he was that already—
But swollen with rage, while he wriggled through
The menacing blades, all sharp and steady.
At last, with a scuffle, he overthrew
A score of his foes, and setting out
At the top of his speed, from the rabble rout,
Got free, and with sundry bruises and tumours,
Crawled home to his den in the worst of humours.

212

When the sport was over, the feast was spread,
And the fairy Court, the Queen at their head,
Sat down in the moss, with each a broad
Sycamore leaf for a plate, and a cup
Dropped from the oak, and at once filled up
With hyppocrass, by trim pages poured
From vases of infinite shapes and hues;
From lupine-leaves, whence the liquor fell
In great round beads, and from many a bell
And wood-bine tube, that to rains and dews
Give their odour and sweetness—the elfin Queen
Drank from a goblet of glittering sheen,
A campanula flower, wrought curiously
With a shining gossamer fillagree.

Then the royal Taster plied his vocation
With laudable zeal and self-negation,
And soon all mouths were busy—the platters
Cleared, and the dainties and other matters
Duly discussed—in bumpers fine
They drank to the Queen, with nine times nine—
Whereupon the Chancellor, rather mellow,
Trolled out something about a “very good fellow”—
Which made the Queen blush,—but ah! just then
When the mirth was waxing wild again,

213

And Gold Stick, after a deep potation,
Had stuck quite fast, in his grand oration,
Mid the winks and nudges of all around—
Just then, I say, a terrible sound,
Faint in the distance, my heart dismayed—
'Twas so like the hollo of Madge the maid!
Again and again it rose, and . . . yes—
There was no mistaking its emphasis,
So out of the fern I sprang, and away!
(For till then, my rambles had 'scaped detection)
Through glen and thicket, my friend the fay
Holding me still in his safe protection—
Homeward I scudded, and well a day!
What an outbreak of indignation
Greeted me there!—what stormy reprovings!
When they bade me give an account of my rovings,
And I stuck as fast, in my explanation
As Gold Stick did in his grand oration.

When my childhood waned, I lost my friend—
One autumn morning, he said good bye,
With a mournful look, that seemed to portend
Trouble of some kind, hovering nigh.
Sadly pale and pensive and altered
He had grown of late, and his voice quite faltered

214

As he talked of change and of innovation,
And threw out hints about emigration—
For he said the world was growing too wise
For fairy frolics and fantasies,
Too wise and cold—then his little eyes
Filled fast with tears—which he strove in vain
To hide:—he should ne'er return again,
He told me, no—he was going to share,
With his folk, a land, serene and fair,
Far off but I could not make out where.
Then he kissed me thrice on the mouth, poor fay—
Stroked my curls down, just in his old kind way,
Looked wistfully into my face, and anon,
With a little sob, broke off and was gone.
Gone! how my eyes streamed down with tears,
When I felt I had lost him! years upon years
Have passed since then, and trouble and sorrow
Have come as thickly as night and morrow,
But that was the greatest trouble of all,
I really believe—for there seemed to fall
As it were a veil on the earth—the green,
Deep woods were widowed of half their sheen;
And the flowers—how common and real they grew!
Mere flowers no more;—in the beds, the blue

215

Convolvolus bloomed and faded, but ne'er
Poured forth on the quiet evening air
That little piping, musical sound,
So sweet in my ears, when it seemed to say—
“Come out, and follow me far away!”
And the spear-grass rotted into the ground,
Just as unheeding;—the silver dews
The charm of their freshness seemed to lose,
And the moonlight, the moonlight!—even now,
I could almost weep to remember how
Leaden and ghastly, and dim it shone,
To my fancy, when the fays were gone.
Gone!—were they gone? or was I alone
Changing, receding, leaving the strand
For ever, of that calm, lovely land,
Where they dwelt? Had I grown over-wise,
Like the world, for their pretty fantasies—
Over-wise, and cold? I know not, although
Sometimes I have feared it might be so—
Child, that dost read these pages, go,
With a pure child-heart, beneath the trees,
When the night is working its witcheries,
When the wind sits singing amongst the boughs,
When the midsummer moonlight overflows,
And bring me answer, yes, or no.

216

L' ENVOI.

You'll gather the May-bloom, O friends, I know;—
You'll seek the violets, where they're wont to grow,
In sunny glades and dells;—you'll cull the rare,
First briar-roses, blushing faint and fair:
But will you deign to lift from out the grass,
Where I have laid it, close to where you'll pass,
This posy of my gathering? Pale its hues
And faint its perfume ah! you'll scarcely choose
To bear it far, I fear;—to bear it home?
No chance of that—though you'll accord it some
Slight praise, it may be, in your pity, ere
You drop it in the dust, and leave it there.
Well, be it so!—no blame—flowers bloom and die
By myriads, daily, underneath God's sky,
Quite unregarded;—do they bloom in vain
For this?—oh, heresy!—I dare maintain
A happier faith—dare argue hopefully,
Uplooking to that same blue loving sky,

217

That no poor blossom, wheresoe'er upspringing—
And no true song, howe'er unheard the singing,
But hath its mission One at least can scan—
But serves some purpose in the eternal plan.
Say then you leave my wreath unheeded, where
I've laid it—I shall still not quite despair,
While from belief like this, such comfort floweth,
For, that I've twined it with true heart, God knoweth!