Songs of the Seasons :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! the delight of listening,
When song-life is astir!
The blackbird on the hawthorn,
And cushat on the fir:
The lintie on the lime-tree,
And laverock in the lift,
The finch among the hazels
Making its merry love-shrift.

II

The peeswit o'er the meadows
That skirt the sedgy rill,
And the grey whaup with its eerie cry
Disporting on the hill:
The owl that from the ivies
Gives challenge to the moon,
And the corn-crake at his vigils
In the balmy eves of June.

III

The sparrow on the house-top,
Chattering late and early,
The swallow cruizing with voiced wing
Athwart the “riggs o' barley.”

The sultan of the grey-fowl
Convoking his haraam,
And the moorcock on the heath-beds
Joining chorus with the lamb.

IV

The weary and the cheery,
The solemn and the sweet,
The grating and the musical
In our mountain voices meet.
The screaming of the osprey,
The clanging of the crane,
The plaining of the sea-mew
O'er the altars of the main:

V

The rocky island altars,
Where sacrifice is due,
Of many a costly cargo,
And many a gallant crew;
Of many a shapely vessel
Trimmed for the eyes' delight,
Of many a venturous seaman
That has fought for Britain's right.

VI

Peep! playmate of the fairy!
From below your curtains coy;
The pulses of the greenwood
Are quivering with joy.

From his frolics on the larch-top
Ceases the pranksome squirrel,
With perk'd ear giving audience
To the warbling of the merle!

VII

The dormouse at its banquet,
Upon the beechen mast,
Turns dainty as it catches
The carols chiming past:
The carols of the song-birds—
The music of the grove—
The concord and the discord
In the hymns of feather'd love.

VIII

All that is best within us
Confesses to the charm,
For the joy of song is kindled
In the forest and the farm.

IX

Warble! warble! warble!
Warble at your will!
Hearts and veins of marble
Throb with every thrill.
Carol! carol! carol!
Happy lark and linnet!
When your lay is ended
Then again begin it.

X

Warble! warble! warble!
Ousel and willow wren!
Who with joy have listened
Will list with joy again—
With joy and sweet regarding
To the concert of the grove,
To the blending streams of melody
That flow from feather'd love.

THE JILT; OR, FORTY YEARS AGO.

I

I looked into a loving face,
A winning face with loving eyes;
Before me tripped a form of grace,
So moulded that in very wise
I thought of life in Paradise.
But this was forty years ago!

II

And I remember, too, how she
Excelled in every excellence,
Was truth and gentle courtesy;
Abounding, yet without pretence,
In gifts of high intelligence.
But this was forty years ago!

III

And I remember how I hung
Upon her soft persuasive voice,
And the rich notes that when she sang
The ballads of her own sweet choice
With sadness filled or bade rejoice.
But this was forty years ago!

IV

Ay! more beside! I recollect
Of longings that of love were born,
Of hopes that in the retrospect
Kept high the heart at eve and morn,
Free from all fear of woman's scorn.
But this was forty years ago!

V

A dreamer then, a dreamer now,
I whilom dreamt of plighted truth,
And from serenity of brow—
From auspices of seeming ruth—
Drew presage of my favoured youth.
But this was forty years ago!

VI

A dreamer then, a dreamer still,
I dreamt that woman must be fond,

When, in her exercise of will,
She gives no reason to despond,
And, dreaming thus, I looked beyond—
But this was forty years ago!—

VII

Beyond unto that sea of bliss
Into which kindred rivers glide
And blend their fortunes—so I wis,
In the fair ebbing of its tide,
My ardent fancy clasp'd a bride.
But this was forty years ago!

VIII

A dreamer now, a dreamer then,
I dream of how I was befool'd,
And again wonder, and again,
Under what Circe she was school'd,
Who so my reason over-ruled.
But this was forty years ago!

IX

“Oh! woman's arts are woman's own;
To study them and comprehend
Is not our province—let alone,
And patience may attain its end!”
Who said so was a doubtful friend—
A friend of forty years ago!

X

And yet who said so, in a way
Spake truth, but erred so far in this,
That he forgot that herein lay
The golden secret of man's bliss—
The key to every rapt'rous kiss—
Half friend of forty years ago!

XI

'Tis true, to study her, and gain
The knowledge that we would acquire,
Is oft a labour spent in vain;
But it is love's, and who can tire
In the fair garden of desire
Frequented forty years ago?

XII

The wayward fancies of the sex,
Heart and frivolity combined;
The contradictions which perplex,
Yet staple form of womankind,
Are surely studies for the mind!
Ay! were so forty years ago!

XIII

Yet who among our earnest men—
The deepest thinkers of the age—

100

The ablest wielders of the pen,
Will venture singly to engage
With woman on her own free stage?
Who durst so forty years ago?

XIV

Or to explain with satisfaction,
And in philosophy's behalf,
The secrets of the sex's action,
The meaning of Delilah's laugh—
The worship of the golden calf?
None durst so forty years ago!

XV

Of those great men, both grave and great,
In their pretences and position—
The floats and anchors of the State—
Who of them all, without contrition,
Can link to visions of ambition
The loves of forty years ago?

XVI

Although to study her is truly,
If not a duty, still a pleasure,
They favour woman all unduly
Who sacrifice their choicest leisure
In wooing of a fancied treasure!
Ah me! the forty years ago!

101

XVII

To this conclusion I am carried
By old experiences. Moreover,
Seeing that years have held me married,
'Tis only from a happy cover
I watch the wooings of the lover,
And think of forty years ago!

XVIII

I watch the making up of matches—
The setting of the man-traps cruel—
The under-plot and tricky fetches
By which is stirr'd the slumbering fuel,
And raised the value of the jewel!
And muse on forty years ago!

XIX

Yes! woman is a puzzle still;
Whatever be her aim and boast,
It ends in this, and always will,
Herself it is she puzzles most—
Come, join me in a passing toast
To the jilt of forty years ago!

XX

For still she lives, but where the grace,
And airy elegance of form—

102

The loving eyes and witching face—
The voice that ravished, as by storm—
The whole illusion, and the charm,
That bound me forty years ago?

LINES TO MY WIFE.

I

In the heart of the year, ere June expires,
When the sun holds court in the Highlands high,
And is lavish most of its marvel fires,
We'll off to Oban, you and I.

II

In the noon of the year, when the rage hath died
Out of the great Atlantic roll,
And the spell is binding on wave and tide,
That draws to Oban heart and soul;

III

When Morven reveals its purpling heights,
And the banners of mist are all up-rolled;
When the legion hath fled of sullen sprites,
And the angel unravels his tissues of gold;

103

IV

When over the rugged thrones of Mull,
Where antler and eagle tower supreme,
The glory rests with the sea-born lull,
Transcending Art or Poet's dream!

V

When over the maze of motley isles,
That ward our harbours from foe and storm,
The cloudland dissolves into wreaths of smiles,
And the rainbow stretches its tremulous form;

VI

In the season of flowers, when the Meadow Queen
Invites to her court the wandering bee,
And the fragrance exhaled on the heights terrene
Circles on zephyr wings down to the sea;

VII

When the blended breaths of the heath and thyme,
And balmy orchis are all astir;
When in fairy ears the blue-bells chime,
And the cone is greening on the fir;

VIII

When the leaf of the water-lily paves
The shallows of the dreaming mere,
And its white cup tossed on the mimic waves
Bringeth the lazy distance near;

104

IX

After the early life of the brae,
The primrose joy and glory are past;
After the honey-moon of the May,
When its bridal attire the sloe hath cast;

X

After the merle hath ceased to sing,
Or sings by starts in the gates of the eve;
After “the wandering voices of Spring,”
Cuckoo and curlew, have taken leave;

XI

When the scowl is lifted from off the brows
Of old Duntroon and grim Dunolly;
And there is the whisper of lovers' vows
Below the hazels and the holly;

XII

When the spectres that howl round Gylen stern
In the winter nights are laid and at rest,
And the otter, gliding through cave and cairn,
In Kerrera fair, is its grimmest guest;

XIII

In the heart of the year, when the salmon seek
Their way to the rivers, and merry sea-trout
Give life by their frolics to bay and creek—
When the lusty porpoise is rolling about;

105

XIV

When the lythe is at play round the Eilan Dhu,
And the dolorous gurnard shews on the calms,
And the hoe and stenlock dare and do
The havoc of wolves among the lambs;

XV

When the crops of the sea are ripe and rife—
Dainty and luring to palate and eye—
And its garners teem with the marvels of life,
We'll off to Oban, you and I.

XVI

In the noon of the year, when out of Clyde
The fleet of the West, in full array,
Braving alike the gale and tide,
Bounds with proclaim of holiday;

XVII

When the summer range of its going forth
Is meted out with a generous hand,
And, rolling up to the capes of the North,
Echoes of welcome fill the land!

XVIII

In the heart of the year, when the Chevalier
Lifts, like a falchion, his prow of scorn,
And, cleaving his way from bay to bay,
Sets free the storm-bound havens of Lorn;

106

XIX

When the gusty bluffs, where, till summer came,
With hoof of fury the sea-horse pranced,
And reefs that bear an ominous name
Shew in the distance all entranced!

XX

In the noon of the year, when the great mirage
Knits sea and sky in a bond divine,
And whispers of coming pilgrimage
Have reached Iona's distant shrine;

XXI

When over the province of billows enslaved
Treads like a monarch the Mountaineer,
And the heads that all spring-time frothed and raved,
Are the surest beacons by which to steer;

XXII

In that rapt season, when, as by a charm,
Are dropt the weapons of clerical strife,
And Churchman and Sectary, arm-in-arm,
Draw to the cradle of Christian life;

XXIII

Where, in the centre of storms and dearth,
Were planted the Cross and fostered the creed,
Which, to the uttermost isles of the earth,
Salvation brought in an hour of need;

107

XXIV

When raised is the siege of warring waves
Round Staffa, and the Siren's lute,
In the remote of its pillared caves,
With conch of Triton holds sweet dispute;

XXV

When the chisellings of that wondrous pile,
Tested by storm all winter through,
Shew freshest, and the wizard isle
Out of the waters hath risen anew;

XXVI

When the mason's eye, that is swift to detect
Blemish or blur in the mystical craft,
Confesses a faultless architect
In this blending of altar, cornice, and shaft;

XXVII

In the summer's heart, when the steamer's pant,
Like the pant of a whale when the chase is warm,
Climbing the Kyles, falls jubilant
On the ear of castle, cot, and farm!

XXVIII

Before the boisterous rush of the mass,
When only the skirmishers in advance
Face the hazards of mountain pass,
And under its curtains couch the lance;

108

XXIX

Before the hurrying to and fro
To pier and station, from square and street,
Before the city's life ebbing low
Seaward tides with the Western Fleet;

XXX

Before our senators are at large,
And silence rules in the great Divan;
Before the rifle's cruel discharge
Rings through the corries of Cruachan;

XXXI

In the witching season when my ladye,
Who is winning and joyous beyond compare,
With loving speech entreateth me
Again to summer in Oban fair;

XXXII

And so to Oban, you and I,
Bird of my heart! shall wing our way,
When the sun, holding court in the Highlands high,
Of its glory is lavish in Oban Bay.

109

THE HEIR OF ARDGOUR.

I

“When fair the wind blows,
And the tide is true to its promise,
I will steer to the island dear—
To the lov'd harbour where thy home is.

II

“When calm the sea shows,
And its waves carry freights of pleasure,
I will steer to the harbour dear—
To the lov'd island that holds my treasure.

III

“When fair the wind blows,
And the moan is hushed on the skerry,
As day drops o'er the mountain tops,
I will betake me across the ferry.”

IV

—“Let fair the wind blow,
And the tide run leal to its promise,
Craven lover they but carry over
To shame the island where my home is.”

110

V

—“Let wild the tides run,
And the billows toss at their pleasure—
Dark and swift let the cloud hosts drift—
I will brave all to clasp my treasure!

VI

“Let fierce the storm blow,
On its every gust a new fiend riding,
On each wave, the crest of the grave,
No moon shining, and no star guiding!

VII

“Wild though the night be,
Weird its phantoms and sable its cover,
I will steer to the island dear
Where thou, the loved, art—I, the lover!”

VIII

Dreary the night is;
Surge meets surge on the ominous skerry;
Roar on roar travels the shore;
And battle is fought on the waist of the ferry!

IX

Fitful the wind blows,
Howling by turns and muttering low;
Woven its moods with the tale of the feuds
Wag'd on the isles in the long ago!

111

X

Frightful the tempest!
Spectre ships before it are driven;
The waves writhe—for the lightning scythe
Of death is mowing for hell or heaven!

XI

Wail on the mainland!—
Wail in the shieling! and wail in the tower!
Great the grief of vassal and chief:
A desolate father is old Ardgour!

XII

Wrapt in the sea-weed—
Motherly shroud of the ocean's weaving!—
Lay a youth in the morning ruth,
High on the tide-mark's fresh up-heaving!

XIII

Wail on the mainland!—
Wail in the chapel! and wail at the shrine!
Broken the sward in the still churchyard
For the hope and heir of an ancient line!

XIV

Wail on the mainland!—
Wail and weeping on every isle!
Brave Ardgour is cut off in his flower!
Raise the coronach through Argyle!

112

XV

Empty the home is!
Empty its chambers—empty and silent—
Drear the harbour, stilly the arbour—
Lone the ferry, and loner the island!

XVI

Rash were the words said—
Foolish the challenge by maiden spoken!
Cruel the test of a faithful breast—
Sore the remorse, and bitter its token!
The sward break anew for a heart newly broken!

MOVEMENTS—THE LEADER AND HIS FOLLOWERS.

I

Every day and every night,
Under us, and overhead,
Round about, the book is spread
That cannot be too often read.
In this scripture of delight—
In this great, untiring page—
Lie revealed to scholar and sage
The secrets of each passing age.

113

II

Every student of the scroll,
Earnest in his high pursuit,
Labouring with a mind acute,
And with spirit resolute,
Holds, by virtue of his call,
By service of both head and heart,
By skill in the decyphering art,
A privileged and honoured part

III

In the great progressive work,
In the conquest of the light
Over ignorance and night—
In the triumph of God's right.
Where it will, let evil lurk
'Mongst the dark dens of the earth;
From its hidings men of worth
Vow to drag the demon forth.

IV

In our own exalting time
Liberty of soul increases,
Bigotry's dominion ceases,
Thrones despotic fall to pieces.
So they tell us who would climb
To the summits they asperse—
Fill themselves the thrones they curse—
Evil rule convert to worse;

114

V

From the altar snatch the offering,
Quench the fire by angels fed,
Desecrate the Wine and Bread,
Trample upon Christ the Head;
Fill a happy land with suffering—
In its furrows scored by toil
Sow the seeds of rank turmoil—
Mar the virtue of the soil.

VI

Blind old Britain! is the letter
Of history—the history
Of Liberty and Tyranny—
Become a sealéd book to thee?
Dost thou glory in the fetter,
As an ornament in vogue,
Forged by regicide and rogue,
By radical and demagogue?

VII

From thy memory have slipped
Every glorious recollection,
And the faith in God's protection,
Once thy rudder of direction?
Hast thou all remembrance dipped
In Lethe of thy sore besettings—
Of thy shifts and toils and sweatings—
Of thy losings and thy gettings?

115

VIII

Of thy place among the nations—
Not the perquisite of ease,
But on crimson'd fields and seas
Won and held by slow degrees—
Fought to, both with toil and patience,
In the uphill, weary fight,
Where to win needs hand of might,
Head and heart, and cause of right?

IX

Base-born serf and rabid spouter!
What do they for Britain's honour?
Of what boon is he the donor,
That, to slight her, looks upon her?
Of his honesty a doubter,
I regard him, and with cause,
As disturber of tried laws,
Living but for self-applause;

X

Even to his pet, Reform
(Which he prates of, nothing knowing,
And exalts in phrases glowing),
Treacherous on his own showing.
“Sow the elements of storm
Broadcast over hill and dale,
Hoist the drum, and raise the gale,
So the Ship of State may sail!”

116

XI

True! this is the Wrecker's scoffing,
Yet a willing pilot stands
Ready to the Wrecker's hands,
Trustless as the treacherous sands.
Loyalty would seek the offing,
Speak its gratitude in psalm,
Lion o'er the Oriflamme,
Court the harbour and the calm.

XII

But the toiler at the helm—
Is he loyal? Pause! while asking—
Statesmen, in the sunshine basking,
Study well the art of masking.
Him to trust to, save the realm!
He of all men careth least
Whence the wind blows, West or East,
So he shares the Wrecker's feast.

XIII

Stronger than the patriot's zeal,
Stronger than a knightly tower,
Strong to hold and to devour
Is the rabid lust of power.
Who regards the common weal,
Right maintains, or from aggression
Shields by strength or intercession
When this demon takes possession?

117

XIV

Tell me not we have a leader
Leavened with the single spirit—
One beyond the common merit,
Born great honour to inherit.
I see nothing but the feeder
Of convulsions in the man—
Eker out of his own plan—
Trimmer to the Vatican.

XV

Not the true, desired example
Of a statesman large of soul,
With whose power of self-control
Grows the power that rules the whole—
One whose energies are ample,
But his heart is ampler still,
Who, by an instinctive skill,
Can work out a nation's will.

XVI

Is he such, to whom committed
Are the sacred trusts, whereon
Rests the Triple Union—
Rest the Church, the State, and Throne?
For a loftier purpose fitted
Than to make ignoble paction
With the movers of reaction
And the demon soul of faction?

118

XVII

Oh! I fear the brave, old spirit
That engender'd men of part,
Adepts in the ruling art,
Has died out of Britain's heart!
Who are they that claim the merit
In this great reforming strife?
Judge them in the actual life;—
Spare nor branch nor pruning knife!

XVIII

Go to Birmingham or Sheffield,
Bradford, Manchester, or Leeds—
Hot-beds for malignant seeds—
Nurseries of envenomed weeds!
Not to be out-done or baffled
In their purposes of wrong
Are the minds that sway the throng,
Hell-ward urging it along.

XIX

'Tis the baleful power of money,
Working to an evil end,
In the name, may God forefend!
Of the self-styled People's Friend.
“Ours are both the wax and honey;
We are owners of the hives;
What to us the workers' lives,
Hungered households, jaded wives?

119

XX

“Mills are ours that grind to order—
Mar the human face divine—
Tamper with the inner shrine—
Keep us on the right incline,
Help to overstep the border
'Twixt Nobility and Trade.
Titled lordlings are outweighed,
Acred squires thrown into shade.

XXI

“Ay! look out! We have abettors
Everywhere. The franchise lower'd,
Now, and for all times untoward,
Is our sceptre and our sword!
Lawyers, and those men of letters
Who let out their wits for hire,
Facile are at our desire,
Borough to command or Shire.

XXII

“A constituency binding
To our service and estate,
For our ends to legislate,
We have purposed to create.
Let our mills be set a-grinding!
We of the Progressive school,
When great Senates play the fool,
Bear the fittest heads to rule.

120

XXIII

“Have we not ourselves made wealthy
By employing every shift—
Laws of discipline and thrift—
By the shuttle, sure and swift?
Who, in face of things unhealthy,
When the puppets of the great
Take bold guidance of the State,
Better trained to legislate?

XXIV

“Better versed in economics—
Better up to men and things,
And not held by courts and kings
In perpetual leading-strings?
Who can act as fitter tonics
For a constitution worn;
Dazzling into nought the scorn
Of the beggar, nobly born?

XXV

“Are we not the merchant princes,
Under tread of whom the mould
Of usages, as was foretold,
And vile dust shall turn to gold?
Heraldry before us winces,
So do every sham and boast;
Give us only Power and Post,
Won't we of them make the most?”

121

XXVI

Such are those the Premier chooses,
Wisely chooses for his friends,
And the hand that he extends
Helps to many private ends.
Little deems he what he loses,
Trusting to the purse-proud crew;
Of the many thinking true,
Doubting jealously the few.

XXVII

Yet the few he rashly scorneth
Wait their day, and know its token,
When the judgment shall be spoken,
And the spell of evil broken;
When to him that nigh-hand doubteth
Of the Reason of the Nation,
Weeping o'er its degradation,
Shall be given consolation.

XXVIII

Names enrolled on banners flaunting,
By the fickle mob paraded,
To some sin'ster scheme persuaded,
Under promises evaded,
Now at summit of their vaunting,
Shouted at the People's meetings,
And at Loyalty's defeatings
Trumpeted in clamorous greetings—

122

XXIX

Comes the time, and is not distant,
When as bye-words these shall be
Cast as a reproach to thee,
Britain! in thine idiocy.
Seek and pray for an assistant
In the interim of strife,
To roll back the smoke and stife,
And restore thy wonted life.

XXX

Seek and pray for some great spirit—
Part the Eagle, part the Dove—
Ruling in the cause of Love!
Fearing only God above—
A distinguisher of merit—
A despiser of all sect,
Leaning among thrones erect
On the staff of Intellect!

XXXI

Such the man the occasion needeth,
Not the truckler to the mob,
Not the winker at a job,
Deeming it Reform to rob.
Better stuff in him that leadeth,
May we hope for—ay! shall get;
Britain's sun shall never set,
The “Good Time is coming yet.”

123

CLIMBING SONNETS.

I

This demon of the Alps—this climbing rage,
That yearly on our vent'rous islemen throws
Its cruel spells, and blanches many a rose,
And blights the hope of many a heritage,
Who can appease it? Who the purpose move
Of those that to its fatal beck respond,
And leave adoring hearths and circles fond,
In the strange faith that weakness flows of love?
Foolish ambition! all to be a span
Nigher the interminable heavens than are
Their fellows. Take example from that star,
Which, measuring not its strength by thine, O man!
Shews purest in celestial life and beauty
Upon the low horizon of its duty.

II

If thou wilt climb and hold as enterprise
This tampering with inglorious danger—go!
There are some men to whom God's Paradise
Were Hell, if reached without excess of woe;
But such have the Eternal Heav'ns in view,
And crowns of Amaranth, and the rest to be
That holds with Christ and all eternity;—
Thou but the greeting lost in the adieu—

124

The momentary triumph which, attained,
Is like the climax of the rocket's flight—
A turning point in exultation gained,
Whereat dissolve the extasies of light.
Such, too, the fortune of thy daring feat!
To reach is but to hoist the signal of retreat.

III

If thou wilt climb, are there not still undared,
Within the compass of thy native land,
Thrones of strong venture—muniments which scared
The Roman eye, so terrible and grand—
Ramparts of rock, by bard and echo manned,
Enough to sate thee? Not, in all this wealth
Of mountain range made richer by home ties,
By pride of nation and on score of health,
Enough to satisfy thine enterprise?
Thou emmet, without soul! A chimney sweep
Will stand in rough comparison with thee,
Should climbing be thy sole felicity.
Emmet! yea, emmet! Climbing is to creep,
When all its purpose is below the skies;
Thine own green hills, with their familiar scalps,
As soul-exalters, soar beyond the Alps.

125

MUSINGS ON THE BANKS OF TEVIOT.

I

With thy windings, gentle Teviot!
Through life's summer I have travelled—
Shared in all thy merry gambols,
All thy mazy course unravell'd.

II

Every pool I know and shallow,
Every circumstance of channel,
Every incident historic
Blent with old or modern annal,

III

Which, within thy famous valley,
Dealt a mercy or a sorrow—
Every song and every legend
Which has passed into its morrow.

IV

Who has loved thee, artless river,
Best of all thy single wooers?
Of thy wayward, witching waters,
Who most ardent of pursuers?

126

V

On thy banks, a constant dreamer,
Sitting king among his fancies,
Casting all his wealth of musing
Into thy tried course of chances.

VI

Name another in thy prattle
Who has done his service better—
Tendering or accepting tribute,
Creditor as well as debtor?

VII

Out of thy redundant plenty,
On the lap of living mercies,
I have woven a votive offering—
Shaped a wreath of simple verses.

VIII

Every generous wish attend thee!
And, among thy generous wishers,
Takes its place with bard and scholar
The more lowly band of fishers.

IX

To that lowly band belonging,
In its pleasures the partaker,
More I feel of true contentment
Than the lord of many an acre.

127

X

Still, with glowing virtues, Teviot!
Graces, joys, and forms of beauty,
Fill the valley of thy holding—
Roll in dignity of duty!

XI

Forward roll and link thy fortunes
With fair Tweed—thine elder sister!
Lyne and Leithen, Ettrick, Leader,
In their earlier turns have kissed her.

XII

Welcome, more than all the others,
Thou! whose fulness of perfection
Finds a grateful recognition
In this symbol of affection!

XIII

So entwined, Tweed glides exultant,
As a joyful burden bearing
All thy passionate confidings—
The rich lore of love and daring

XIV

Which to ballad and romances,
Oft uncouthly, bard committed,
Guided by thy chime or plaining,
To the rhythm which best befitted.

128

XV

In the arms of Tweed enfolded,
Followed still by my devotion,
Thou art separate to the vision,
Wending on thy way to ocean.

XVI

Even there, I see the spirit
Of whose life partook the willow,
And whose love laved slope and meadow,
Moving o'er the restless billow.

XVII

In the salmon which ascends thee—
All arrayed in gorgeous scaling—
A proud legate I distinguish
From the court of Neptune hailing;

XVIII

From the kingdom of the Trident,
Bearing to his native river
Noble gifts of self-devotion,
Tribute to the Tribute Giver!

129

THE INCENTIVE.

Who so fondly, who so truly,
Loves the country of his birth?—
Who will guard it so securely,
Knowing best its inner worth?—

As the searcher of its story—
As the student of its song—
He who cons its page of glory
When the right o'ercame the wrong—

He who in its tuneful treasures
Finds an impulse and a charm,
With the nerve of Bardic measures
Sinewing both soul and arm?

When the fiery war-storm gathers,
Who, like him, will do and dare,
Whom the faith which moved our fathers
Fires to grapple with despair—

Fires, by virtue of example—
Fires, by reason of the need,
To protect the house and temple,
Both by daring and by deed?

130

Best of patriots! noblest martyr!
Fittest conqueror in the strife!
Who interprets Freedom's charter
By the labour of his life—

By the scripture of all nations—
By the anthems of all time—
By the ceaseless revelations
Of a destiny sublime—

By the faith so fondly cherished,
Which regards as in God's trust
Claims that otherwise had perished,
Judged of by the Judge unjust!

Not because to fight makes glorious,
And the battle brings renown;
Not because to be victorious
Draws down honours from the Crown;

Not for this their country's lovers
Ready in the harness stand,
Watchful of the cloud that hovers,
And the wave-break on the sand.

Higher motives arm the freemen,
Nobler impulses provoke,
When the war-blast of the demon
Threatens England's honour'd oak;

131

Through the leafy cover driving,
Shaking down the untimely mast,
With the grand old timbers striving,
Scathing not, but howling past;

In the rage of disappointment,
In the fury of despair,
With the smoke of baffled vengeance
Filling the affrighted air;

Then, when darkness clouds the dial,
And the prophet stands perplexed,
Balancing the fiery trial
'Gainst the burden of his text—

Praying, lest his faith should falter
'Fore the seeming of the hour,
Lest the vision of the altar
Yield to some disturbing power;

Then breaks out the light of freedom,
Then begins the life of light,
And the mind asserts its birthright
O'er the spectres of the night;

Then the deep-read sons of Albion
Bring to bear their cherished lore,
And the God's strength slumbering in them
Manifests itself once more.

132

Grandest epoch in our story!
Festival of truth sublime!
Of the hero and the martyr,
The long looked for crowning-time!

Herald! stride into the circle—
Herald of the Lion's choice,
Rich in blazonry of office,
Giant-limbed and strong in voice!

Lift the trumpet tongued with silver,
Charge it with thy loudest note,
So the sound may lave the welkin,
Dying in the far remote—

Dying on the shore of silence,
In the calm of things unborn,
Under the eternal torches
At the gateway of the morn!

Lift the trumpet hung with echoes,
Give it voice where voice may reach;
Mountain-ward—a voice returning
Shore-ward—dying on the beach!

Thus proclaim the mind's dominion,
Thus assert the scholar's right,
And inaugurate the union
Of Love, Liberty, and Light.

133

FLOWER-LIFE.

PART FIRST.

I

Angels are sowers everywhere!
They scatter as they fly
The gifts of Heaven. In Flower-life
Is traced their passing by.

II

Upon the beaten thoroughfare,
Under the hedge-rows sere,
On the heavings of the churchyard,
In places dread and drear;

III

Upon the far-famed battle-field,
Where Freedom at a blow
Abased the Giant Tyranny,
Their mission is to sow.

IV

Also 'mid pleasant homesteads,
And meadows of delight,
And up among the harbourings
Of God's tempestuous might;

134

V

Upon the mountain forehead,
Which the ploughshare never scarr'd,
They cast, while soaring heaven-ward,
Their farewells of regard—

VI

The nigh-exhausted affluence
Committed to their charge,
On the more favour'd valley land,
Sown broad-cast and at large!

VII

In yon desert, parch'd and howling,
On yon rock, so bare and stern,
If you have eyes and soul of grace
You may their tracks discern.

VIII

No spot without its token—
Its letter of commend
Left by celestial Visitor—
Sent by the Unseen Friend!

IX

In Flower-life is Scripture,
Which to study is to gain
Glimpses of the eternal world,
Where saints with their Saviour reign.

135

X

By power of its teachings
We higher climb and nigher
To the heaven of the heavens seven,
Where sit the tongues of fire;

XI

And of God's Heart and purposes—
His Glory and His Power—
New revelations ope on us
By virtue of the Flower!

XII

Better than pulpit rhapsodies,
Safer than priestly strife,
In its guidings to the throne of Love
Is the study of Flower-life.

PART SECOND.

I

Angels are Sowers everywhere,
They scatter as they fly
The gifts of Heaven, and everywhere
Reveals their passing by.

136

II

Behold it in that shining tuft
No jeweller could devise
Out of the seed of orient pearl,
Or diamond's flashing eyes!

III

From imprint of the messenger
On mercy's errand sent,
Sprung up, obedient to the charm,
The sparkling ornament.

IV

An Angel dropt the acorn
Four centuries gone by,
From which yon gnarled oak cast root,
And sprung its antlers high.

V

And oft among the curtains of
The storm-defying tree
Are heard the rustling as of wings,
And a sound like a nearing sea.

VI

The lovers trysting under it
Affirm that earnest eyes
Are ofttimes gazing down on them
Like stars from autumnal skies.

137

VII

And the pauses in their whisperings
Are filled up to the ear
With conference among the boughs
Of voices low and clear—

VIII

With renderings of legends
That stir the spirit fond,
And snatches of quaint melody,
Cull'd from the world beyond.

IX

The gathering of angels
'Mid the hidings of the oak
Is a page in the pleasant fiction
Of the merrie fairy folk.

X

For Angel-life and fairy-life,
In the Poet's soul and song,
Their part hold in the mystery
That mateth Right with Wrong.

XI

And everywhere and everywhere,
The Angels and the Elves,
To win God's creatures, zealously
Contend among themselves.

138

XII

Yet of this grand contention
'Twixt the Evil and the Good—
'Twixt Elf and Angel, Wrong and Right—
The End is understood!

XIII

Ye Messengers of God! go on
Sowing the seed of Grace,
And grant that in the Reaping-time,
When Face is turned to Face,

XIV

And Man beholds the Maker
In whose Image he was fraught—
When the light of apprehending
Things that were vainly sought

XV

Comes flashing on an Intellect
Obscured by the Under-powers,
Be ye among the Presences,
Ye Sowers of the Flowers!

XVI

That vindicate God's Glory
By the shewing of His Love,
And lend a leal helping hand
To the Paradise above!

139

TO THE SWALLOW.

I

Travel, travel, restless swallow!
Travel over land and sea,
Tell thy story, wayward pilgrim!
Tell thy secret quest to me!

II

Why so restless and untiring—
Ever on the glancing wing—
Darting, circling, shaping courses
Summer-ward beyond the Spring?

III

Hast thou some imprisoned yearning
Urging to a distant goal—
Some strong instinct leading onward—
A desire beyond control;

IV

Only by the grosser medium,
In a region of suspense,
Held back from its destined future
Round the throned Intelligence?

140

V

Hast thou such, and art a spirit
Taking cognizance of things,
Doing errands under angels—
Pilot to their voyagings?

VI

From the Cabinet of Monarchs
Egress hast thou, free, unfettered,
In the compass of a nutshell
Bearing with thee trusts unlettered—

VII

Cyphers telling on dominions
And the balancings of Power—
On the tasking of the Peoples,
On the shiftings of the hour?

VIII

Surely, not in idle questing,
Swallow! are thy goings forth—
Surely, for some higher purpose
Are thy rangings South and North?

IX

Of thy travel o'er the ocean
Tell! It wilders me that thou,
No heed taking of provision,
Nor equipped, like merchant prow,

141

X

Can'st a thousand leagues accomplish,
Helm thy way 'cross labouring seas,
Perforate the cloudy breast-works,
Measure distance with the breeze!

XI

Bold as are the Eagle's soarings,
Swift as is the Eagle's pinion,
Keen as are his regal glances,
Taking in a broad dominion;

XII

Bolder, braver are thy ventures,
Swifter, surer are thy wings,
And thy subtle vision reacheth
Past the thrones of many kings.

XIII

Once—it seems like yesterday—
In a summer thunder-storm,
'Mid the rattling of the fire-bolts
I descried a cowering form

XIV

On the heights beyond Dalwhinnie,
Pastured by the roving deer,
Where the haughty Monoleäds
Snows imprison all the year,

142

XV

I descried our boasted Eagle,
Tyrant of the feathered race,
At confession, scared and trembling,
Seeking mercy in my face,

XVI

As if I were its dispenser,
Could the frowning clouds dispart,
Re-assort his ruffled plumage
By an effort of the heart?

XVII

On a boulder drenched and shivering,
In an agony of fear,
Within range of stalker's rifle,
Casting round his eye severe,

XVIII

Stood the Thunderer's attendant
Seeking mercy in my face;
Thought I, Jove, the inflexible,
Holds his favourite in disgrace!

XIX

Then I thought of thee, dear swallow!
When thou travellest abroad;
Of the perils which thou facest,
And the hazards in thy road!

143

XX

Of thy fragile form—so tiny,
So unlike a daring thing—
Which had room for heart of purpose—
Willing and untiring wing.

XXI

In the scales of courage measured,
Heedless of his high pretence,
To the fierce anointed Eagle
I give thee the preference!

XXII

To our windows, lo! thou comest—
Buildest without ask or chiding,
Knowing thou art ever welcome
To a corner and a hiding.

XXIII

Thus, mayhap, at Heaven's own windows
Thou dost spend thine other summer,
Having two homes where to hie to,
And to both the wished-for comer!

144

SUPPLICATION.

I.

Out from the Ocean hidings
The billows bring their tidings,
And my ear is on the stretch
As I pace the yellow strand,
For the message they may fetch
From a far and sunny land.
Oh! voices of the Sea,
Draw near and comfort me!

II.

The days around me darken,
But I listen, vainly hearken
For the whispering from afar—
A whispering from the South—
A love-charge from my Star,
In the errant Sea-wave's mouth!
Oh! billow bearing thee,
Draw near and comfort me!

III.

Kiss the cold strand I tread on
And the hopes that I have fed on
The weary summer through,
Make real, and bring nearer—

145

Bring the lost one into view,
That I may hold him dearer,
Assured that he is true!
Oh! billow, shore-ward bearing,
Cast up in a distant sea!
I am weary, weeping, wearing
My heart out—all despairing,
Draw near and comfort me!

THE CUP OF MERCIES.

I

Old and feeble! feeble and old!
But I remember the days of our youth,
When the life in prospect wore hues of gold,
And the pledge we took was Love and Truth.

II

Love and Truth was the pledge we took—
To love and be true hearts—each to each;
The vow was couch'd in kiss and in look,
Not in the falser form of speech.

146

III

We have lov'd and been true for many a year,
And our children's children are at our knees,
Laughing and playing, with prattle so dear,
That the frosted veins of our life unfreeze.

IV

We are children again at a grandchild's will,
More docile than in our teens we were;
The pride beaten out, though the old self still
And all its under-currents are there.

V

All that was mist and cloud and rain,
All that was chilly on Life's ascent,
The ghastly shadows of Terror and Pain
That flitted around our early tent,

VI

By the working of God, through Jesu's grace,
Are into sunbeams broken up;
The glory, whose source no finger can trace,
Illumes and gladdens all Nature's face,
While of His mercies we drink the cup!

147

DEATH'S HERDSMAN; OR, THE LAY OF THE RINDERPEST.

An Episode from a Lost Book of Herodotus.

“Whose herdsman, gaunt and evil-eyed,
Art thou, that strid'st without consent
Across our homesteads—every stride
Loud'ning the uproar of lament?
Rude stranger! what hath brought thee here
Into our parks and dales and downs,
Close to the purlieus of our towns,
Unasked? Recount thy dread career!
Whence hast thou come, and whither bent?
By whom and on what errand sent?”

“Who questions me? a child of clay?
My story has its counter-part:
Listen, and, taking both to heart,
In fear and trembling, go thy way!
Yet know me first—from whence I roam,
And at whose nod I travel west:
I am Death's Herdsman, and I come
From the valley of the Rinderpest.

148

“Time was, when in a ghastly cave,
Surrounded by Chimeras dire,
I came to shape and terms of hire
With the fell filler of the grave.
On many an errand at his beck
Have I gone forth, and many an one
Haply remaineth to be done
Before the universal Wreck.

“The icy hollow where I dwell
Is heaped with trophies terrible
Of my dread power. The Mammoth there
Stands prisoned with the sullen Sloth,
And the Ark's ballast, Behemoth.
Huge creatures, leaning to the Bear,
The Urus, and the Elephant,
Hold place in this museum vast.
The bestial glories of the past
Are treasured up by covenant,
Not coffined in the common form,
But kept in life's last attitude,
Blanch'd by the frosts of winters rude,
Yet still defiant of the worm.
A grim assemblage! Tusks and bones,
Legions of glittering skeletons,
The which the Arctic moon delights
To marshal in her hurried flights.

149

“My first commission has its date
Before the sacrificial times,
And bears the signature of Fate,
Penn'd in an atmosphere of crimes.
Cain was a witness to the deed,
And set his mark upon the scroll.
The Tempter in the primal fall
In tones of mockery agreed
To the conditions of my hire.
‘Let pestilence precede the fire—
What matter? I resign the lead.’
Aye! Ask the question—who I am—
Whence came this uninvited guest?
I am Death's Herdsman, and I came
From the valley of the Rinderpest.”

A day there was of solemn feast
Held on the margins of the Nile;
The Ibis, Snake, and Crocodile
Partook, with their attendant priest,
Of the rude homage of the throng;
But the chief spectacle afoot
Was a huge Bull—a bloated brute—
Osiris term'd—the Sire of gods—
Which, ribbon-decked, in onward route,
Waddled along amid the applauds
Of thousands. Through the city gate
The monster passed in regal state;

150

Gilded its hoofs, and jewel-tipped
Its horns. Before it, vestals nine,
Scattering the lotus blossoms, tripped,
And sung the praises of the kine;
And nine, with cymbals in their hands,
Followed, and nine times nine, in bands,
Guarded its flanks, and in the rear,
Hindmost of all, glanced helm and spear.
Memphis and Thebes in long array
Had mustered fast that holiday!
Onward the grand procession pass'd
Through street, and square, and under arch
Triumphal, with the trumpet's blast,
And clash of cymbal, keeping march;
Pressed onward, too, the gazing throng,
And in the music's happening pause
Rent the hot air with loud hurrahs.
Shout, cymbal-clash, and vestal song,
And trumpets' blare, and tramp of feet,
And now and then in concert full
The angry questioning of the bull,
Held their blent sway in square and street.
“Osiris! bless the sire of Beeves,
The sturdy husband of the Cow,
The god whose offspring drag the plough,
And tread to grain the yellow sheaves:

151

Hail to Osiris! hail to thee,
Munificent divinity!”
Such were the greetings at the gate
Of the great temple, where in state
Stood the stoled priests, and round and round
Their idol, in a circle vast,
The pomp and pride of Egypt wound;
When suddenly among the host
A shape appeared, nor man, nor ghost,
Nor mummied form, nor skeleton,
Yet blending with the flesh and bone
Of Life the character of Death.
A cubit's height above the crowd
He towered, and on his shoulders proud
Lay what was neither scarf nor shroud—
A mantle woven by Winter's breath,
Which shed its icy influence round
The wearer. As he stalked along,
All shook and ceased from shout and song
Who came within the enchanted bound—
Ay, through the undulating throng
To each extreme the nervous chill
Pierced and arrested power and will.
But who was this intruder strange?
All sought to know, and made exchange
Of wondering glances, each with each,

152

Yet dared not ask in common speech.
Onward the stranger stalked to where
Stood the sleek bull, for now it stood
Panting below the noon-day glare.
Swayed on each side the multitude,
None challenging, yet all amazed;
And while with eager eyes they gazed,
A skinny finger came to play,
Stretched forth from under mantle grey,
And touched the frontal star which lay
Betwixt the gilded horns divine;
At once, and with a sullen roar,
That crossed old Nile from shore to shore,
The father of a thousand kine
Staggered and fell. Below the stroke
Of the dire axe, with heavier crash,
Fell not the patriarchal oak,
The pine, and elm, and veteran ash,
Hewn to build Albion's wooden walls.
But who the intruder, gaunt and grim,
That stayed the Osirian festivals,
And fiercely hushed the vestal hymn?
Who but the herdsmen that is now
Setting the grisly master's brand
Upon the cattle of your land?
Sooner an arméd host, I trow,
And roar of cannon on its strand,

153

And the invaders' noisy tramp,
And all the carnage of the camp,
Than the strange pestilence that stalks
By noon-day in your sunniest walks!

A LEAF OF MY CREED.

Nothing endued with vitality,
And destined for Immortality,
Becomes old in reality.

In the days of our altering
The step may have semblance of faltering,
The locks grow thin and hoary,
The voice turn into the treble,
The eyes into orbs of pebble,
But is there no Inner Glory?

What though the brow be wrinkled,
And the fingers periwinkled,
The jaws bereft and toothless,
Time in itself is ruthless,
But never in verity youthless!

154

We excavate great cities,
And over them waste our pities,
And form laments and ditties—
Thebes, Luxor, for example,
Even Nineveh more ample,
Babylon and Jerusalem,
The cave in which Methusalem
Lies chested—ruins various,
And places multifarious.

We dig into futurity,
And link with dim obscurity
The Past and its peoples olden—
The ages held as golden,
Arcadian and Augustan,
To which in bardic fustian
We are so much beholden—
The ages of bronze and iron,
Cyclopean and Titanic,
When with a base mechanic
Toyed Venus and the Syren.
What find we but the key
To the future?—to fashion and faction—
To the present abiding reality,
And the restless wave of reaction?
Marry! the Past and its glories,
Marry! the Past with its stories
Of Valour, and Love, and Ambition,

155

Of Tyranny, Crime, and Sedition,
Of Hope and Despair, of Joy and of Sorrow,
Foreshadows in its history
The happenings of the morrow.
Can we make more of the mystery?
One generation goeth,
And lo! another succeedeth,
As o'er the billow that leadeth
Another billow floweth.

The Past in the Future mergeth,
And out of the Future resurgeth!
The Present is but a tittle,
Brave in its own esteem,
But less than the veriest little—
Of existence, haply the dream!
True! in our chrysalis state,
We regard it as all in all;
But in the scripture of Fate,
Conning the stars as we read,
The Present is thrown to the wall—
Such is a leaf of our creed!

156

A DREAM OF THE PAST.

I

Dearest! my dream was of thee!
My dream at the morning's breaking,
When thy sweet eyes inquired of me,
Why, why this sudden waking?

II

Fondest! my dream was of thee!
Ask not why this sudden waking,
Or why this start, and clasp to my heart
At the morning's ruddy breaking?

III

I dream't of a circle scatter'd,
Of thy home 'mid the hills of heather—
Of faces fair that shone out there
When we cast our lot together.

IV

I dream't of a comely matron,
Into whose lingering beauty
The chisel of Time had graven sublime
The struggle of Love with Duty—

157

V

Of the mother of the household,
A woman true and tender,
Whose step was grace, Love's throne her face,
And round her beam'd the splendour

VI

With which Artists and their pencils
Strive vainly to invest
The Virgin mild and the wondrous Child
On her nectar-flowing breast.

VII

I dream't of a white-haired patriarch,
Versed in the Celtic tongue,
Who took his laugh at the Sassenach
That courted his daughter young—

VIII

An ancient 'mong the patriarchs,
Who can speak to his hundred years,
And though reft of sight is still in the fight—
Still in this valley of tears!

IX

I dream't of a band of brothers,
Four strong and heartsome boys,
Who work'd out the charm of the Highland farm,
And its barren hills made rejoice.

158

X

Where now these sons of promise?
Ask of the New World, ask of the Old;
Enquire of the seas and the wand'ring breeze,
Enquire of the fields of gold!

XI

Question our Western colonies,
Question the blustering States;
Some potent key they can give, it may be,
To their fortunes or their fates.

XII

I dream't of a group of sisters,
Numbering the mystic seven;
Among the bereft five still are left,
Two have their home in heaven!

XIII

A bevy rare of damosels
Might angel's heart beguile,
For seven such graces, and seven such faces,
Shone not on our sea-girt isle.

XIV

The two the angels have taken
Are but pledges for those that remain;
In the household of heaven, as one be the seven,
Linked in Love's golden chain!

159

XV

Beloved! in this rendering
Back to the eyes of the mind
Of our days of mirth and the happy Hearth
Lit up with faces kind,

XVI

I had framed to me a picture
Of joys to be restored—
Of youth as it was, and a glorious Cause
That needed nor Cross nor Sword;

XVII

For, on its dazzling Banner,
Two Hearts were the Device,
And the motto above was “Love, ay, Love!
For to Love is to Sacrifice.”

XVIII

When lo! a silent shadow crept
Over the Dial's face,
And I knew its power to disturb the hour,
And darken the gateways of grace—

XIX

To hinder the passage upward,
And perplex the faith of the core;
The thoughts that lie under, of doubt and of wonder,
To ravel them more and more.

160

XX

Dearest! the Light has its Shadows,
Evening steals over the Day;
With the promise of Dawn rise spectres wan,
But Love will chase them away.

XXI

And though the Curtain be falling
On the Drama acted here,
Let us look beyond to a life as fond
In a purer and happier sphere,

XXII

Where a sense of the true prevaileth,
And neither by Book nor Priest
Are we taken to task for the mercies we ask,
Nor fenced from the Holy Feast.

XXIII

Be our Hope and our Faith and their Longings
Toward the Home of Love,
And the wings that transport to the upper Court
Will be given us from above!

161

LOVE AND WORSHIP.

I

Give me to clasp thy dainty waist,
And lay thy ruddy lips to mine!
I look on thee as one divine,
And all divinity is chaste.

II

Even Venus, not the Cyprian, gave
Proof of her virtue in the form
That rose in the Egean storm
Out of the white crest of the wave.

III

But purer thou than Dian even
Returning from the eager chase,
Her panthers gazing in her face,
And sleuth hounds baying towards heaven!

IV

Had'st thou divinity like hers,
And scorn of lip and brow and eye,
I might not love, but I would die,
Kneeling among thy worshippers!

162

TWEED AND ITS PROSPECTS.

I

River of all rivers, dearest
To the Scottish heart—to ours!
River without shade of rival,
Rolling crystals, nursing flowers,

II

Stirring up the soul of music,
Chaunting, warbling, luting, chiming,
To the poet's ardent fancy,
Adept in the art of rhyming;

III

Marching onward through thy valley
With the bearing of a king,
From the hundred hills surrounding
All thy vassals summoning!

IV

Of our Rivers still the Glory!
God defend it! there is need,
For the Demon of Pollution
Campeth on the banks of Tweed.

163

V

See the tents of the Invader!
How they spread on every hand,
Pitched by devilish intuition
O'er the marrow of the land!

VI

In the fairest of its meadows,
In its gardens of desire—
On its Bo-peeps and Blink-bonnies—
On its terraces of Fire,

VII

Where were fought the Fights of Freedom,
And the stirring Songs were sung,
Which the heart and arm of Scotland
Moved as with a trumpet tongue.

VIII

Count the forces of the Upstart,
Smoke-begrimmed and dimly seen
On and under the horizon,
Blackening the blue and green.

IX

Idle task! they multiply
Faster than the pen can score,
Legion crowding upon legion,
Like the waves that scourge the shore.

164

X

Read the motto on their Banner:
Self and Pelf! so apt the scroll;
Not an apter on the Headstone,
Nor on knightly bannerol.

XI

Pelf and Self! the double Demon!
From its clutch, good God, deliver!
Save from taint of the defiler,
Saviour! save our dearest River!

XII

For the Life-blood of our Valleys
We entreat on bended knee!
For the Queen of Nursing Mothers,
God! defend her chastity!

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY PASSING EVENTS.

Written during the Siege of Paris in 1870.

I

It is the old and self-repeating story;
The generations that are yet to be
Will have their taste of it. Humanity
Is most itself in the desire of glory.

165

II

Peace is an idle word, and only meaneth
A brief cessation from the activities
Of life—a pause that interveneth
During the combat—a pretence of ease.

III

Oh, War! thou hast thy thousand lame excuses!
The jealousies that rouse thee are untold:
Treaties with thee are forecasts of abuses—
Below their shelter Liberty is sold!

IV

Upon thy lying standard Peace is written—
“The message of the cannon ball is Peace;”
Thou would'st persuade the world! Forsake, O Briton!
The weary hope that wars shall ever cease!

V

They never will, so long as Man is Man,
And passions are unchanged, and Kings are Kings,
And Kings have Ministers that plot and plan,
And such have Creatures and vile underlings.

VI

Great wars are ever preludes to still greater;
And this great war that desolates the earth,
And the eidolon mars of our Creator,
Will mother be of many a monstrous birth.

166

VII

For what breed wars, and what the strife of nations,
But stern revenges that look centuries back
On burning wrongs and cruel desolations,
And long to acquit them on a bloodier track?

VIII

Let all alone the fantasy of glory—
Ambition and the lust of sov'reign sway!
A darker passion tells on future story,
Bred from their loins, and watchful of its day.

IX

What with the humbling of an Empire's pride
Compared are those incentives to the fight
Which spring of fame-love? With an under-tide
Of stern revenge conquest is borrowed might.

X

Dictate what terms he may, if they but touch
The nation's honour, He, the conqueror,
Hath sought to humble, and hath humbled much,
Priding himself that he can humble more,

XI

Graves will give forth their dead. The chivalries
Of ancient France will start to life again—
A murmur, like the chafing of the seas,
And lo! they rise to combat—the long-slain!

167

XII

O Patriot Spirit! art thou dead or sleeping?
O sons of Gaul! degenerate in seeming!
See ye no dawning in this night of weeping—
Through its dark curtain no deliverance streaming?

XIII

Be but yourselves! Resolve to be resolved!
With union, and the purpose to excel,
Your strength will come. The year hath not revolved—
Paris may starve—but starve invincible.

XIV

Out with exultant chimes from Notre-Dame!
The heart of France is stirring as of yore,
Their brows illumined with heroic calm—
Her sons are sons of Paladins once more!

XV

Die resolute!—not unavenged ye die:
With Dragons' teeth is sown the battle-field
On which they fall, who fall for Liberty—
Woe to the Slayer and his tainted shield!

168

PILGRIMAGES TO THE TOMBS OF THE POETS.

Prelude.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.—POET'S CORNER.

A FRAGMENT.

The Poet's Corner!
It was a spot familiar to my mind
In boyhood, made so by the simple name
And apprehension of the wealth it held:
Save as the resting place of rival bards,
Allotted by the nation they gave fame to,
I knew it not; yet, in my ignorance,
Let rein to fancy. I lived then remote
In Scotland; but a burning wish was mine
To visit London, and of all its sights
And marvels, foremost in the catalogue
Loomed the grand Abbey and its Poet's Corner.

The Poet's Corner was to me a theme
Of frequent meditation and delight;
For out of it the resurrections came
Daily and nightly of immortal thoughts,
And I held converse in its fancied courts

169

With souls illustrious. Many were the forms
Imagination to the spot assigned;
Extending it into a garden oft,
Refulgent with bright flowers—exhaling odours
That wrapt the senses in sweet reverie:
It took shape also as a charméd rood
In God's own acre—an enchanted bower,
In which the cypress over-topped the bay,
And weeping willows intervening spake
Both Grief and Love, shedding their leaves betimes.

The Poet's Corner! How expressive seem'd
The simple words to my untutored mind,
Creative of devout and soaring thoughts!
Knelt in its niches, so my fancy pictured,
The worshippers of Genius! Bards flocked thither
Of a new race, by jealousies unswayed,
To cast their offerings. The Angel Death
Carv'd Immortality upon the tombs.
“I smote the body to let free the soul,
And give it presence and the magnitude
That is its portion in the Universe.”
But when I came, a-glow with ardent thoughts
And preconceptions of the venerable,
To Poet's Corner—ah! how rude the shock
That laid my idols prostrate—pillaged me
Of cherished Faith—the altar overset
On which I thought to lay presumptuous gifts—

170

The curtain rent, behind whose waving ægis
I long had pictured gorgeous effigies,
And the accordings of a generous nation
To those great souls who, with the voice of Song,
Did more than all the tricksters of the State
To knit together human sympathies,
And elevate into a Passion-form
The love of country and the love of Throne!

Woe to the Nation that neglects its Bards!
Woe to the City which its Prophets spurns!
Woe to the Hamlet that is deaf to Song!
Woe to the Palace and the Cottage both
From which the Poet's presence is debarred,
And in whose vestibules and round whose hearths
Fools' tongues talk lightly of the gift divine!

Who of the charming lyrists of our day
Would care to lie interred in Poet's Corner—
His bones cooped up in parsimonious space
As lumber—an incumbrance thrown aside
Into the rubbish hole of the Cathedral,
So men may jeer at Poets and their doom—
Ay! laud, as the economy of sense,
The dealing out to them so scant a grace—
So out of all accordance with their song—
A cage so narrow, dingy, sinister!

171

Who of the Poets, nurtured under wing
Of the four angels of the elements,
Instructed in the cardinal mysteries,
Zealous for Truth and prodigal of Love—
Generous dispensers of the earnings won
By their endowments—lion-hearted men,
And eagle-eyed—to whom redeeming work
Was given to do, and emphasis of speech,
Akin to inspiration, showered upon,
So they might use it to the nation's welfare
In praying, warning, threatening, and denouncing,
Hoping and trusting and encouraging,
Commending, lauding, as the Master lauds
The faithful in his service; keeping Him
The while in view, to whom, as its true source,
All glory with its manifold accessions
Tides back—a reflux of exceeding glory!
In whose swift tiding, luminous and swift,
Prophets and Poets take the leading part,
Freighting with songs of Immortality
The onward current—who of these the Elect
And privileged, in trustful consciousness
That with the casket is imprison'd the jewel,
And both shall resurge when the trumpet blows,
Would care to be interred in Poet's Corner!

Yet in this nook, so chary as to space,
So inappropriate and unclassical,

172

So gloomy and forbidding to the eye—
Under these slabs and tablets fanciful—
The illustrious fathers of our Saxon song
Lie chested. Here repose the stalwart bones
Of Chaucer. Here our Spenser sleeps the sleep
Held to be dreamless. Here the mortal coil
Of Shakspeare's cognate in the tragic art,
Beaumont, long shuffled off, hath found a shelf.
Here in this dismal corner, huddled up
With poets of small worth, lies glorious John.

Here, too, that dictatorial Elephant,
Whose parasite exalted from the pot-house,
And made a shew of and a make-belief—
Sam Johnson, lies—the lexicographer,
So called, who built in folio his renown
As an interpreter of languages,
Not knowing any save a smattering
Of dog-latinity besides his own—
And that, not as a scholar in its roots,
But as a pedagogue upon the surface.

Oft have I marvell'd how the ponderous brute
Acquir'd ascendency in literature;
His Rasselas being the prosiest of prose,
His Rambler a collection of dull essays,
Wordy, didactic, and idealess,
Unseasoned with a pepper-corn of humour;

173

His satire pointless, and his rash attempt
To master Pegasus a crowning failure!

True! from materials given by one who knew
How to make gold out of a labouring brain,
He faithfully performed a noble trust,
And by his Poet's Lives had nigh redeemed
The claim on Poet's Corner he enjoys.

But all the merit I would fain have ceded
To this Sir Oracle is disallowed,
When I regard his rank malignity
Towards the Scotch, and the offensive way
In which the big beer-swiller dealt with Anglers.
A verier humbug never swayed an Age!
Hack, snob, pretender, bully, all in one,
An egotist, a glutton, but no fool!

Keep silent in thy grim sarcophagus,
O Samuel! thou art not among the prophets!
And, rising with them in the appointed day,
Thou of their glory never shalt partake!

174

THE OAKLING.

I

There is life in this Acorn. Lay it
A finger's depth under the soil—
In a soil where nothing can fray it,
Nothing its forthcoming foil—
In a place, a hill-side or hollow,
Not remote from the dwellings of toil,
Where the corncrake copes with the swallow
In casting abroad for its spoil,

II

It will spring. The sun's early blessing
Will cherish it. Be not afraid!
The zephyrs will give it caressing—
The dew-fall quicken its blade.
In thy watch of the delicate treeling,
My affection for thee, merry maid!
I feel, and how rapturous the feeling!—
My devotion to thee is repaid!

III

It will grow, dearest lamb! with your growing,
And bud with your budding, Sweetheart!
And in your coming and going
Will play its own typical part.

175

In your visitings during the summer,
It will out with its leafy array;
But when rude carle Winter is comer,
It will cast its green mantle away.

IV

Say you?—but nine! and nine only?
You were five when we planted our tree
In a spot, I thought it too lonely—
Too like where a churchyard should be.
But you chose it, my darling! and chosen
By you, I do more than agree,
'Tis no garden to rear up a rose in,
But the Eden for you and for me.

V

And, my Pet! I have pride in our treeling;
The fourth of its May-days is nigh;
And if thine is the ninth—no concealing!—
Happy nine! happy four! happy I!
A sapling, a sylph, and a rhymer;
The marvel that dotard like me
Should entice my sweet pet from her primer,
To watch o'er the growth of a tree!

VI

No matter! the Acorn's springing
Is a tie 'twixt the old and the young,

176

'Twixt an ending and kind of beginning,
'Twixt the Sung and the promised Unsung!
Come forth, and look at our Sapling,
Ye grey-beards that cumber the glen!
Come forth at the morning's grey dappling,
When the mists are ascending the glen;
When with song-birds the skies are a-peopling,
And the fogs are forsaking the fen.

VII

Ye are nigh to the Valley of Vision
On whose verge is the trembling of knees;
But a sage, with the lip of decision,
Four-score old, may pronounce upon trees.
Speak out, Forest Ranger, that wert!
And tell of the Oaks of thy ken—
Of a giant that stood in the heart
Of the grenewood under the Ben.

VIII

“I am here, though my shoulders are weighted
With the burden of many long years—
Here, ready with all my griefs freighted,
To sail from a harbour of tears.
But you ask for the Oak, the old giant,
O'er-topping the rest of its kind,
With its joints and its spreadings defiant,
Whose joy is to battle the wind?

177

IX

Behold it! No older it seemeth
To me than it seemed in my youth;
I speak as a dreamer that dreameth,
And its seeming so may be untruth:
But then, in the days of my daffing,
It was reckoned the veteran tree,
And its health was a toast in the quaffing
Of healths at the sign of the Bee.

X

Its age is a leaf of Tradition;
They say 'twas the Tree of old Tryst,
Where the Priests of a gone Superstition
Conferred with the Herald of Christ—
Where a haughty Arch-Druid and cruel
Was baptised at the hands of a Saint,
And is now an immaculate jewel
In the Crown, without rust or attaint.

XI

A monarch, 'tis added, in reason,
Under its boughs was at rest,
When a shaft from the red hand of treason
Found its murderous way to his breast;
And the turf, by his life-wellings wetted,
Assumeth a crimson colour,
When the date comes round in its circle
That is wed to this deed of dolour.

178

XII

To idols had I been given—
Not knowing the God Supreme,
Mine own Fancy, the Maker of Heaven—
The Future shaped out of a dream—
The homage I owe to the Only
I'd have paid at the shrine of this Tree,
At the shrine, in the grene-wood so lonely,
Where I bent, as a lover, my knee.”

XIII

Years have passed. The old Forest Ranger
Sleeps his sleep in the Acre of God;
His office is held by the stranger—
A churl—an irreverent clod,
Who has neither humour nor fancy,
Nor courtesy in his grain,
Who values an oak by the footrule
And the guage of his timber brain.

XIV

He came to look at our Treeling
By invite from my pet and from me;
At a glance, 'twas a matter of dealing
I saw, put the pith in his knee.
A curse on his lips, but half smothered,
Told plainly the rage in his heart,
When he found, o'er its vaunted coëvals,
Our fav'rite was holding the start.

179

XV

For he prided himself in his wood-craft,
And at the old Ranger's demise
Took, as his own due, the credit
Of instructing the Forest supplies;
And the coppice he vaunted of chiefly
Was an oak-wood, companion in years
To the tree which you and I, darling!
Have nurtured with smiles and with tears.

XVI

Twenty! say you? are you twenty?
Out of your teens? Is it so?
And I—I look back on my plenty
Of years, and the long, long ago;
I look back, but only a shadow
Is left of the things that have been;
Yet my staff and my pet are beside me,
Before us an oak of fifteen!

XVII

And where is its proud predecessor—
The Tree of the Ranger's regard—
The King from whose loins started Forests,
And gave birth to the Hymns of the Bard?—
The veteran nursed by the Pagan—
Redeemed by a knight of the Cross—
The Oak, whose each leaf was a legend—
A waif tale for the Tempest to toss?

180

XVIII

From whose acorns sprung, with their Tree-life,
The Navies, whose Flag is unfurled,
In the twin names of Commerce and Freedom,
Everywhere over the World?
The enterprise, courage, and sinew,
The might of our sea-faring folk—
Their lion-like faces, and rugged,
Which are carved from the limbs of the oak,
Cast and carved from the bole of the oak.

XIX

A thousand summers and winters,
Each in its turn had passed
Over the brow of the idol,
The kiss of the zephyr and blast—
The sun's red heat in the dog-days,
The torrents from skies overcast,
Dew-falls, Ice-bolts, and Fire-bolts,
And the Angel that scatters the Mast.

XX

But it stood in high dudgeon and haughty,
With its forehead erect in disdain,
And the look of a growing Immortal
Beginning his infinite reign.
Where is it?—the Lord of the Forest?
The tree of the Ranger's regard,
Whose each birth-morn heaped promise on promise,
And opened the lips of the Bard?

181

XXI

A churl—a rude hewer of timber—
A worker with axe and with saw—
A trader in divots and lumber,
Counsel took with a limb of the law;
And the sentence pronounced by the hireling,
Without upper court of review,
Save the Angels that shall be Avengers,
Was, “To-morrow, Old Timber! for you!”

XXII

On the morrow the hewers assembled—
Seven woodmen, noisy with brag,
Who looked on a tree, as the Stalker
Looks on a sure-at-hand Stag.
The Tree had its vengeance in falling,
The lawyer (small subject for grace
Taken any way) cheated the hangman;
But the brass of his tongue and his face

XXIII

Was no metal to vie with the Monarch
He thought to make gold of and gain;
And the fellow, next door to the felon,
Was felled with worse schemes in his brain.
Ah! well! the kings of the Forest
Do justly, while dropping the crown,
In the farewell wave of their sceptres,
By casting the insolent down—

182

XXIV

By shewing the strength of their sinews,
And the valorous life in their core,
And their ken of the Vexer and Doomster,
Who lays the cold axe at their door.

XXV

Five years have gone by, and my darling
Has entered the days of her prime,
And her figure, so gracefully moulded,
Defies all description in rhyme;
When the woman has cast off her girlhood,
Its pertness and shyness combined,
And towers, like a castle of beauty,
Over the rest of her kind.

XXVI

Faultless in face and in figure—
Artless, but having the art
Of fending off empty admirers,
Who bid high for her hand and her heart.
“What ails you, my pet—my own darling?
This is your birth-day. In tears?
Surely, no shadow of sorrow
Will darken your happiest years!

183

XXVII

“We shall go and visit our oakling;
The time has come round, and the day,
When the Tree-Spirit, glad and expectant,
On tip-toe waiteth the May;
And its arms will wave like a bridegroom's
Arrayed in the true Lincoln green,
Bearing a promise of acorns
In the coming autumnal sheen.”

XXVIII

“Uncle, I have my misgivings;
Dear uncle! I cannot tell why;
But the shadow you dread creepeth o'er me,
And its Caster must come by and by.
Take my arm; we shall off to our treeling;
The birds used to whistle the way;
And you, my fond uncle, looked gayer
A thought or two. Was it so? say.”

XXIX

“No wonder, my darling, and brisker;
Not happier—no, I am wrong;
My happiness takes its reflection
From the child of my heart and my song.
Ah! well. There is cause for surmising—
Room for a grief to step in—
Place for a shadow to rest on;
But to keep up the heart is to win!

184

XXX

“My jewel! be true to your nature,
Take heart, keep it up to the end,
And bring in the help-hand of duty
To do its good part as a friend.
But where is our oakling, my darling?
Have I mistaken the spot?
Here, surely? It never was elsewhere;
But tell me, I may have forgot?

XXXI

“I'm so blind, and my memory fails me;
Yet my heart! it has eyes of its own,
And the memories given to its keeping
Are memories none can dethrone.
Ah! you are troubled and silent;
Speak, is it so? my own pet!
Some evil has chanced to our favourite—
A sorrow to us—a regret—

XXXII

“A wound that will heal before sunset—
A cross that at dawning will vanish;
One tear should avail to erase it—
One sigh and a hand's waft to banish.”
“Dear uncle! my fondest of uncles,
Our hearts were wrapt up in that tree;
Mine was and yours was, I know it,
And its fate is the forecast to me

185

XXXIII

“Of a something—I cannot define it—
Creeping on, stealing on, like a chill,
That withers the leaf and the blossom,
And curdles the sap at its will.
A shape that belongs to the grave-yard
Holds in my day-dreams its part,
And at night, by my couch leaning o'er me,
Trammels the flow from my heart.

XXXIV

“A hand is dividing the curtain,
And beckons and beckons alway;
I cannot resist it, dear uncle!
But am bound by my fate to obey.”
“Prop of my life! of its lingerings
Cheerer! the Help on the way!
I have lived on your love, and had trusted
To live on it many a day!

XXXV

“A blight had it been—the consumer
Travelling up by degrees
From the root to the crown of our oakling,
I might have divined your unease.
But man has been here, not the Angel
Appointed—the silent pursuer—
A man, and a demon within him,
Armed with the axe of the hewer.”

186

XXXVI

“Not less, dearest uncle, an omen!
Our oakling has gone from its place;
We made it too much of an idol—
Trusted too much to the grace
Of the hireling. Ah! now it is over!
Seek him out, and spare not the cost!
Six days hence—say a full fortnight—
A fortnight, or three weeks at most.

XXXVII

“No matter! the time is approaching,
Seek him out, without grudge or delay;
He will drive a preposterous bargain,
But let him for once have his way.
Of our oakling we must have the timber
Two coffins to make of—no more;
Mine will be needed too early,
Before the green summer is o'er.

XXXVIII

“Yours—ah! I know not the whether
To wish you to follow or stay;
I meant it a gift of remembrance—
No! one is enough for its day.
Better not vex nor distress you—
Better not darken the hour
That is passing with gloomy forecastings—
Preceding the Terrible Power.

187

XXXIX

“Fare thee well! A dream of our oakling,
The dream of its Fate and of Thee
Across my soul's vision is fleeting,
Dear Uncle! come quickly to me!”
And this was the last of my darling:
I live, but my life is a dream,
And the dream is the life-time remaining;
I wait to go on with the stream.

THE LEGEND OF THE FOUNTAIN.

I

Stay with me upon the mountain,
Stay with me, and list my warning!
I am but a simple fountain,
Prattling on from eve to morning;

II

But the gleaming eye is in me,
Which hath virtue to foresee,
And the tongue with which I babble
Can reveal strange things to thee.

188

III

Mark! a-leaning o'er my margin
Skeletons of three great trees,
Cleft by thunder-bolts—mis-shapen,
Gnarled, and fretted at the knees.

IV

Oaks they are, but none would know it
If the acorn were the test,
Even leaf they rarely show it—
Forest monarchs sore distrest!

V

On the tale of their misfortunes
Hangs a tale of human woe,
None, I trow, the less disastrous
That its date was years ago.

VI

Years! a century is over,
And the portion of another,
Since that day of dark remembrance,
When a brother slew a brother—

VII

Slew, but not as Cain slew Abel,
In contending sacrifice,
When the offering on the Altar
Drew no token from the skies—

189

VIII

Smoked not, nor a sign of favour
Shewed, despite of fruit and corn
Heaped up in profusion lavish,
Decorating every horn—

IX

All the three horns of the Tripod
Gloried in their setting out
In the choice sheaves of the harvest,
Juicy bulb and tender sprout.

X

Let alone that ancient story,
Told by maiden at my side,
As she filled her homely pitcher
In the rosy eventide.

XI

She had culled it from her mother,
Sitting on that mother's knee,
At the door-step of a cottage,
In the heart of the Holy Lee,

XII

With the Bible spread before them
On a sunny Sabbath day—
The half-orphan and the widow
In her home-spun, hodden grey.

190

XIII

But my story:—I remember
When a youth came to my spring,
Quaffed it, named it Helicon—
Shouted, and essayed to sing—

XIV

Shouted, and with frantic gestures,
Called upon the circling scaurs,
Till the echoes in confusion
Marred the ear, as discord mars.

XV

Then he ceased, as by an effort—
Sobbed, as if his heart would burst,
And with lip to my cold fountain
Sought to slake his fiery thirst—

XVI

Prostrate sought, and bathed his forehead,
Steeped his tresses, laved his cheek—
Rose again in upright posture—
Gestured as about to speak.

XVII

But the voice failed, or the courage,
Or some sudden fit o'ertook;
For at once an icy trembling
Seized him, and the scaréd look

191

XVIII

Of a man upon whose shadow
Trod the avenger's feet—whose ear
Caught up menaces of evil—
Syllables of deadly fear—
Words of judgment drawing near.

XIX

But the moody fit passed over;
And again an eager draught
From my brimming stores he ravished,
Thanking Jesus as he quaffed—

XX

Thanking all the Saints of Heaven,
And the Angel of the Spring,
Till his heart had lost its burden,
And his tongue essayed to sing.

XXI

Low and plaintive was the measure,
Wild, but simple, were the words,
And the warblings to them mated
Teachings were of woodland birds.

XXII

Of the letter of the descant
I can give but sorry snatch;
And its spirit, too, is hidden
In the spirit of the catch.

192

XXIII

Ah! how short-lived the delirium!
As he sang, my watchful ear
Caught up sounds that boded evil—
Fateful footsteps drawing near.

XXIV

'Cross the hills there toiled a figure,
Bearing burden o'er his heart,
And the burden, God of Mercy!
Was the comer's counterpart—

XXV

Counterpart in form and feature;
Only by a prescient sense,
And an instinct to me given,
I descried the difference.

XXVI

In the arms of her strong lover
Clasped, a bleeding maiden lay,
Life's tide with its mystic floatings
Ebbing, ebbing fast away.

XXVII

Weary, weary was the bearer
When he reached my fountain's edge,
And lay down his woful burden
Breathless on the flowery sedge—

193

XXVIII

Breathless for the moment only,
Breath came back on hopeful wing;
And affection, ever active,
Found its ally in my spring—

XXIX

Dipped into the cooling waters
Hurriedly the fever'd palm—
Laved the forehead of the maiden
Over which the death-mist swam.

XXX

With red rubies flashed my fountain—
Oozings from the deadly wound—
The life-jewels of a virgin
In my well of diamond drowned—

XXXI

By the hand of strong affection
From the heart's-mine slowly freed,
Cast upon my fount of mercies
In an hour of crying need.

XXXII

With my diamonds they consorted,
And the emerald growths that clave,
Laced with sapphires at my margin—
Lustres shooting through my wave.

194

XXXIII

While the horror of the moment
Held me fast and all things near,
Hark! a cry of bitter anguish,
Like sharp dagger, smote the ear!

XXXIV

With its breaking forth great trembling
Seized the maiden, and a sigh
From the pallid lips escaping
With it took her soul on high.

XXXV

Strode into the fatal circle,
Passionful, a youthful form,
By the help of my blurred mirrors
I divined the coming storm.

XXXVI

Out it brake in sudden fury,
Brother upon brother rushed,
While the pale corse lay betwixt them,
And I gazed with ripple hushed.

XXXVII

Sister, did I term the maiden?
She was cousin to them both;
But she stood in light of sister,
Shackled by a double oath.

195

XXXVIII

In Thy mercy, God of mercy!
Shut my eyes! The thousand years
O'erpassing me, until this moment,
Shewed nor blood nor human tears.

XXXIX

God was gracious—heard my moanings—
O'er the mountains cast a haze,
Sealing up my power of vision
Seven long nights—seven longer days.

XL

Ended these; the dim perception
Of a tragedy in course,
Of my senses took possession,
Held it by magnetic force.

XLI

And I travelled, in my fancy,
Over places strange to me,
Through a valley, and beyond it,
To a city by the sea.

XLII

I had ceased to be a fountain—
Passed into a river wide,
On whose bosom barges floated,
Castles flourished at its side.

196

XLIII

But the trust to me committed,
In this hour of wondrous trance,
Was a shallop richly gilded,
Masted with a pennon'd lance.

XLIV

Caught its silken sails the zephyr,
And their shining tassels rung
Pleasantly, like bells of silver,
Armed with animated tongue.

XLV

At the helm there stood a watcher,
Golden-haired and azure-eyed,
With his hand upon the tiller,
And his gaze upon the tide.

XLVI

At the prow there sat a maiden
Motionless—the form of grace—
But a wonder and a rapture
Passed by turns into her face.

XLVII

Flashed across my recollection
The fair martyr at my spring,
Purified from sin and sorrow—
Saintly made through suffering—

197

XLVIII

Glided on the wondrous shallop
By the cherub pilot steered,
And the tassel'd sails made music
As the shining port it neared;

XLIX

To a palace in the city,
On it floated, like a swan,
Under pier, with angels crowded,
And an arch of mighty span—

L

To a palace built of marble,
Fronted by a terrace broad;
On its portal the inscription,
“All the Glory be to God.”

LI

I heard shouting of the angels,
And a song of welcome given;
But my hour of trance had ended,
And the mission towards heav'n.

LII

Waking, I am but a fountain,
Simple, garrulous, as of yore,
In the legends of the mountain
Versed, and in its fairy lore.

198

LIII

Bare and gaunt, like shattered idols,
Charred by the avenger's brand,
With their arms wrenched off by tempest,
Three grim oaks above me stand.

LIV

Under them a mossy hillock
Rivets the inquiring eye,
With its headstone rudely cyphered,
Marvel to the passer by!

THE WAIL OF THE SAXON MOTHER.

In Three Phases.

PHASE FIRST.

I

My children! oh, my children!
That we should ever part,
The treasures of my household—
The jewels of my heart!
My sons, so bright and comely,
Of courtesy the flower;
Alas! to bear it humbly
Is beyond a mother's power.

199

II

My children! oh, my children!
The future of my joys—
The solace of my widowhood—
My own beloved boys!
How many ardent fancies
Have shaped your fortunes trim,
And from the whirl of chances
Drawn prizes to the brim!

III

The widow and the childrenless,
The more than twice bereft!
Out of Thy store of mercies,
God! is one mercy left?
Come back! I care not whether
Ye bring honour or disgrace;
All that I care for is to keep
My heart in its right place;

IV

Not to expend the yearnings
Of the mother on the dead—
Not to destroy the illusion
To which my soul is wed.
Why should I care for country?
Why should I care for king?
In concert both have robb'd me
Of every precious thing.

200

V

To murmur is rebellion,
My staid confessor saith,
The droppings of his snaky tongue
Are poison to my faith.
What knoweth he of trials—
Of a mother's, least of all,
Reft in the prime of widowhood
Of hope beyond recal?

VI

The altar and its hungerings
Bring famine to desire—
Darken the light of promises,
And quench the inner fire—
Would, if they could, extinguish
The noblest part of man—
The God-part—chos'n interpreter
Of the Eternal plan.

VII

O Reason! hast thou left thy throne,
And Mercy hers, that priests
Should chide us in our agony,
Yet wallow at our Feasts?
Among them, who is backward
To keep the laughing Tryst?
But who of them is ready aye
To work the work of Christ?

201

VIII

And ye! who wield the sceptre,
And go grandly in your time,
With a kingly gait and bearing
Enacting the sublime,
Why is it that your soarings
And plottings should redound
Only to wail and suffering,
And the lying under ground?

IX

Will God not sound the trumpet,
And send His Angels forth
To hurtle red revenges
On the armies of the North—
The widow's cause to vindicate,
And justify His own;
What was humbled on the Altar
To lift up to the Throne?

X

The guise of the War Demon,
Alas! that it should be
Torn from the mantle of the Bard,
From robes of Liberty—
That singing of the Hearth and Home
Should stalk across the land,
A Phantom and a Phantasy,
With sabre in its hand!

202

XI

What are the songs of Peoples,
And Patriotic Airs,
But incantations of the Fiend
To stifle Christian prayers?
What is the love of Country
But a lie in God's own face,
Who made the same sun shine on all,
And tenders all His grace?

XII

My sons are dead! My sons are dead!
Buried, I know not where,
In alien earth—the home to me
Is a region of Despair!
No other home, no other hearth,
No other Country now,
And I the Patriot mother once?
Be broken, evil vow!

PHASE SECOND.

I

The Iron Cross was sent to me:
Go, bauble, to the fire!
Device of groaning Tyranny,
Instructed by the liar!

203

Wert thou a bullet, I would fain
Give life to the inert,
So the grim Despot's gift of grace
Should find way to his heart.

II

My sons! my sons! where is the home
Ye fought for? where the hearth?
And all the glory vaunted of?—
Six narrow feet of earth!
Where is the Patriot spirit
That led you out to fight?
Has it a Resurrection, too,
In the promised Day of Light?

III

When the graves ope will ye strut forth
With weapon in your hand,
And in your mouth the eulogies
Of a great Fatherland?
The songs by which a Syren—
The Syren of the Rhine—
Lured to the cruel battle-field
To die without a sign?

IV

Oh! come, thou Day of Reckoning!
Come, Judgment of the King!
Come, thou discrowning Messenger!
Bring healing on thy wing.

204

The strong yoke of the tyrant break,
Their glory turn to shame
Who sit on thrones of corpses,
And murder make their game!

V

Unclasp the gyves of Serfdom—
The witching dream dispel
That War makes other Empire
Than befits the schemes of Hell—
That the cry evoked of Fatherland
Finds echo from the Throne,
Where Mercy is administered,
And Judgment finds its own!

VI

Bereft I sit, and desolate,
I moan, but cannot pray
In the spirit of the Christian,
For my Faith has passed away:
And if the Love abideth,
Alas! the springs are dry
That blended with its flowings
The life of Loyalty.

VII

Ye Saxon Mothers! who have staked
Your all in this emprize,
Hear me nor blame—your Fealty
Is more than Sacrifice—

205

More than stern Duty's offering,
Or your Country's cause demands,
The very Birthright of your sons
Is in the Enslaver's hands.

VIII

The Dotard you call Father-King,
And hail with loud acclaim,
Is but the base Designer's Tool,
Working his country's shame.
Enough to have repelled the foe,
And humbled the Invader!
Laurels enough!—but not to sate
The arrogant Persuader.

IX

The Spider lurking in the web
That hides the mouth of Hell,
The fierce Man-devil and his horde
Obey their master well.
Rhineland! the shout, and Germany!
The King! the Emperor!
The Farce behind the Tragedy!
Are the rehearsals o'er?

X

O Saxon dames! my Sisters!
Who from this bitter strife
A nobler Future picture forth,
And a more Christian life—

206

Ye whom the Angel guarded
In passing through the Fire,
Whose sons came scathless from the Fight,
Hugging their heart's desire—

XI

At what a cost of conscience
Do they their honours wear!
Murder and rapine on their hands,
And crimes beyond repair!
I wail mine own dark fortunes,
But more for you I wail—
For the red thread of Agony
Inwoven through Saxon tale.

PHASE THIRD.

I

Who went out all untainted,
A radiant, hopeful band,
Clad in the honest virtues
Of a smiling Fatherland,
Come back, a troop of ruffians,
Given to lust and wine,
To vex the peace of households,
And shame their native Rhine.

207

II

Black-throated, like the mitrailleuse,
And cruel as the shell,
Battered and gashed and grimy,
Hot from the heart of Hell!
Are these the noble Teutons
In whose hands the balance lies,
Through conquest and the Grace of God,
Of Europe's destinies?

III

Ye Saxon Mothers! hearken me!
Than mine, your cross is worse:
Mine is a sore and suffering,
But yours a very curse.
Mine has this consolation,
My sons have passed the fire;
They fell in doing duty
As did their noble sire:

IV

Yours, ah! a cross how bitter!
A fate how sad and stern!
Go where you will, the Spectre
Meets you at every turn;
Dark'ning the Hearth and Doorway,
At the Baptismal Font,
Round the fencings of the Altar
Glideth a Demon gaunt.

208

V

O Liberty! O Liberty!
To this pitch has it come,
That Serfdom has assumed thy name
By right of Trump and Drum?
That a great Nation sells its soul
To everlasting shame,
Because a sceptred Lunatic
Must have his day of Fame?

VI

Because to work the purposes
Of his chaotic mind,
Two of the Devil's delegates
Press forward and behind—
Two cunning men of Belial,
Who know the nation well,
And where to cast the glamour,
And how to bind the spell—

VII

To arouse the warlike ardour
By Fable and by Song,
By dragging from its resting place
Some unexpiated Wrong;
Two subtle, hoary sorcerers,
Vers'd in the craft of spells,
Each in his groove of industry
Working the parallels.

209

VIII

O King! assuming Empire,
Thou speakest to thy God
As if thou shar'st the Throne Supreme,
And Heav'n bow'd at thy nod;
Thou art well back'd. Believe me!
The tools that are thy trust
Are hollowing thy Kingdom's grave,
And will trample on its dust!

IX

Once more, my Saxon Sisters!
Hear me! The hour is late—
Idle are words of sympathy
To stem the course of Fate;
But surely in their utterance
Is this measure of relief,
That, having felt its poignancy,
I can divide the grief!

X

When to your destined Future
I strain the aching eye,
The wail of my green sorrow
Becomes a grateful cry.
Mine own dark trouble vanisheth
Before the woes in store
For you, beloved Matrons!
And I murmur now no more,

210

XI

But cease the wringing of the hands,
And raise them clasp'd on high,
In thanks that God hath spared me this
Red cup of Misery!
Oh, blot the page from History!
Tear out the crimsoned leaf!
Leave all but this in Mystery,
“Grief draweth unto Grief?”

LINES TO A FAVOURITE DOG.

Obie: Obit January 1873.

I

My shadow! my lov'd shadow!—not my only,
Thank God for this! I've parted with to-day,
Obie! poor Obie! Oh! my heart is wae,
And all the landscape of my future lonely.

II

How I shall miss thee in the summer-tide,
While sauntering with my wand up Teviotdale—
The merry wagging of thy glossy tail—
Thy happy gambols at the river-side—

211

III

The joyous ringing of thy wanton tongue,
That woke to life the echo of its joy,
And in me stirred the feelings of the boy,
A thousand thoughts, unlettered and unsung!

IV

The Love and Worship beaming from an eye
That drowned in jet a living diamond,
And strove with gaze affectionate and fond
To read my inmost wishes and reply!

V

Obie! poor Obie! of thy tragic fate
To whisper even, knowing as I know,
The dealing is of an o'erpowering blow
That leaves me tearful and disconsolate.

VI

Was I thy deity, tried follower?
Often I asked thee, and the mute reply
Was given by thy tail and earnest eye.
Oh! had I been as true a worshipper

VII

Of the great God as thou wert unto me,
I could have held my head up as a prophet,
And, by example, rescued souls-from Tophet,
But such high privilege was not to be!

212

VIII

Obie! thine ashes in my garden laid
Are not less dear than dust of kith and kin,
If so to hold them, some regard a sin,
They're welcome! Sinning so, is God obeyed!