 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
271
OCCASIONAL POEMS.
THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.
All nature is stiff in the chill of the air,
The sun looks around with a smile of despair;
'Tis a day of delusion, of glitter and gloom,
As brilliant as glory, as cold as the tomb.
The sun looks around with a smile of despair;
'Tis a day of delusion, of glitter and gloom,
As brilliant as glory, as cold as the tomb.
The pageant is passing—the multitude sways—
Awaiting, pursuing, the line with its gaze,
With the tramp of battalion, the tremor of drums,
And the grave exultation of trumpets he comes.
Awaiting, pursuing, the line with its gaze,
With the tramp of battalion, the tremor of drums,
And the grave exultation of trumpets he comes.
It passes! what passes? He comes! who is He?
Is it Joy too profound to be uttered in glee?
Oh, no! it is Death, the Dethroner of old,
Now folded in purple and girded with gold!
Is it Joy too profound to be uttered in glee?
Oh, no! it is Death, the Dethroner of old,
Now folded in purple and girded with gold!
It is Death, who enjoys the magnificent car,
It is Death, whom the warriors have brought from afar,
It is Death, to whom thousands have knelt on the shore,
And sainted the bark and the treasure it bore.
It is Death, whom the warriors have brought from afar,
It is Death, to whom thousands have knelt on the shore,
And sainted the bark and the treasure it bore.
272
What other than He, in his terrible calm,
Could mingle for myriads the bitter and balm,
Could hush into silence this ocean of men,
And bid the wild passion be still in its den?
Could mingle for myriads the bitter and balm,
Could hush into silence this ocean of men,
And bid the wild passion be still in its den?
What other than He could have placed side by side
The chief and the humblest, that serving him died,
Could the blood of the past to the mourner atone,
And let all bless the name that has orphaned their own?
The chief and the humblest, that serving him died,
Could the blood of the past to the mourner atone,
And let all bless the name that has orphaned their own?
From the shades of the olive, the palm, and the pine,
From the banks of the Moskwa, the Nile, and the Rhine,
From the sands and the glaciers, in armament dim,
Come they who have perished for France and for Him.
From the banks of the Moskwa, the Nile, and the Rhine,
From the sands and the glaciers, in armament dim,
Come they who have perished for France and for Him.
Rejoice, ye sad Mothers, whose desolate years
Have been traced in the desert of earth by their tears,
The Children for whom ye have hearts that still burn,
In this triumph of Death—it is they that return.
Have been traced in the desert of earth by their tears,
The Children for whom ye have hearts that still burn,
In this triumph of Death—it is they that return.
And Ye in whose breast dwell the images true
Of parents that loved Him still better than you,
No longer lament o'er a cenotaph urn,
In this triumph of Death—it is they that return.
Of parents that loved Him still better than you,
No longer lament o'er a cenotaph urn,
In this triumph of Death—it is they that return.
From legion to legion the watchword is sped—
“Long life to the Emperor—life to the dead!”
The prayer is accomplished—his ashes remain
'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine.
“Long life to the Emperor—life to the dead!”
The prayer is accomplished—his ashes remain
'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine.
273
In dominions of Thought that no traitor can reach,
Through the kingdoms of Fancy, the regions of Speech,
O'er the world of Emotions, Napoleon shall reign
'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine.
Through the kingdoms of Fancy, the regions of Speech,
O'er the world of Emotions, Napoleon shall reign
'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine.
Paris, December, 1840.
IRELAND, 1847.
The woes of Ireland are too deep for verse:
The Muse has many sorrows of her own;
Griefs she may well to sympathy rehearse,
Pains she may soften by her gentle tone.
The Muse has many sorrows of her own;
Griefs she may well to sympathy rehearse,
Pains she may soften by her gentle tone.
But the stark death in hunger and sharp cold,
The slow exhaustion of our mortal clay,
Are not for her to touch.—She can but fold
Her mantle o'er her head, and weep and pray.
The slow exhaustion of our mortal clay,
Are not for her to touch.—She can but fold
Her mantle o'er her head, and weep and pray.
O gracious Ruler of the rolling hours!
Let not this agony last over long;
Restore a nation to its manly powers,
Give back its suffe'rings to the sphere of Song.
Let not this agony last over long;
Restore a nation to its manly powers,
Give back its suffe'rings to the sphere of Song.
274
A MONUMENT FOR SCUTARI,
AFTER THE CRIMEAN WAR, SEPTEMBER, 1855.
“The cypresses of Scutari
In stern magnificence look down
On the bright lake and stream of sea
And glittering theatre of town;
Above the throng of rich kiosks,
Above the towers in triple tire,
Above the domes of loftiest mosques,
Those pinnacles of death aspire.”
In stern magnificence look down
On the bright lake and stream of sea
And glittering theatre of town;
Above the throng of rich kiosks,
Above the towers in triple tire,
Above the domes of loftiest mosques,
Those pinnacles of death aspire.”
Thus, years ago, in grave descant,
The trave'ller sang those ancient trees
That Eastern grace delights to plant
In reverence of man's obsequies;
But time has shed a golden haze
Of memory round the cypress glooms,
And gladly he reviews the days
He wandered 'mid those alien tombs.
The trave'ller sang those ancient trees
That Eastern grace delights to plant
In reverence of man's obsequies;
But time has shed a golden haze
Of memory round the cypress glooms,
And gladly he reviews the days
He wandered 'mid those alien tombs.
Now other passion rules the soul;
And Scutari's familiar name
Arouses thoughts beyond controul,
A tangled web of pride and shame;
No more shall that fair word recall
The Moslem and his Asian rest,
But the dear brothers of us all
Rent from their mother's bleeding breast.
And Scutari's familiar name
Arouses thoughts beyond controul,
A tangled web of pride and shame;
275
The Moslem and his Asian rest,
But the dear brothers of us all
Rent from their mother's bleeding breast.
Calmly our warriors moulder there,
Uncoffined, in the sandy soil,
Once festered in the sultry glare,
Or wasted in the wintry toil.
No verdure on those graves is seen,
No shade obstructs the garish day;
The tender dews to keep them green
Are wept, alas! too far away;
Uncoffined, in the sandy soil,
Once festered in the sultry glare,
Or wasted in the wintry toil.
No verdure on those graves is seen,
No shade obstructs the garish day;
The tender dews to keep them green
Are wept, alas! too far away;
Are wept in homes their smiles shall bless
No more, beyond the welte'ring deep,
In cottages now fatherless
On English mead or Highland steep,
In palaces by common grief
Made level with the meanest room,—
One agony, and one relief—
The conscience of a glorious doom!
No more, beyond the welte'ring deep,
In cottages now fatherless
On English mead or Highland steep,
In palaces by common grief
Made level with the meanest room,—
One agony, and one relief—
The conscience of a glorious doom!
For there, too, is Thermopylæ;—
As on the dank Ægean shore,
By this bright portal of the sea
Stood the Devoted as of yore;
When Greece herself was merged in night,
The Spartan held his honour's meed—
And shall no pharos shed the light
To future time of Britain's deed?
As on the dank Ægean shore,
By this bright portal of the sea
Stood the Devoted as of yore;
276
The Spartan held his honour's meed—
And shall no pharos shed the light
To future time of Britain's deed?
Masters of Form!—if such be now—
On sense and powers of Art intent,
To match this mount of sorrow's brow
Devise your seemliest monument:
One that will symbolize the cause
For which this might of manhood fell,
Obedience to their country's laws,
And duty to God's truth as well.
On sense and powers of Art intent,
To match this mount of sorrow's brow
Devise your seemliest monument:
One that will symbolize the cause
For which this might of manhood fell,
Obedience to their country's laws,
And duty to God's truth as well.
Let, too, the old Miltonic Muse,
That trumpeted “the scattered bones
Of saints on Alpine mountains,” use
Reveillé of forgotten tones;
Let some one, worthy to be priest
Of this high altar of renown,
Write in the tongues of West and East
Who bore this cross, who wore this crown.
That trumpeted “the scattered bones
Of saints on Alpine mountains,” use
Reveillé of forgotten tones;
Let some one, worthy to be priest
Of this high altar of renown,
Write in the tongues of West and East
Who bore this cross, who wore this crown.
Write that, as Britain's peaceful sons
Luxurious rich, well-tended poor,
Fronted the foeman's steel and guns,
As each would guard his household door;
So, in those ghastly halls of pain
Where thousand hero-sufferers lay,
Some smiled in thought to fight again,
And most unmurmu'ring passed away.
Luxurious rich, well-tended poor,
Fronted the foeman's steel and guns,
As each would guard his household door;
277
Where thousand hero-sufferers lay,
Some smiled in thought to fight again,
And most unmurmu'ring passed away.
Write that, when pride of human skill
Fell prostrate with the weight of care,
And men prayed out for some strong will,
Some reason 'mid the wild despair,
The loving heart of woman rose
To guide the hand and clear the eye,
Gave hope amid the sternest woes,
And saved what man had left to die.
Fell prostrate with the weight of care,
And men prayed out for some strong will,
Some reason 'mid the wild despair,
The loving heart of woman rose
To guide the hand and clear the eye,
Gave hope amid the sternest woes,
And saved what man had left to die.
Write every name—lowlier the birth,
Loftier the death!—and trust that when
On this regenerated earth
Rise races of ennobled men,
They will remember—these were they
Who strove to make the nations free,
Not only from the sword's brute sway,
But from the spirit's slavery.
Loftier the death!—and trust that when
On this regenerated earth
Rise races of ennobled men,
They will remember—these were they
Who strove to make the nations free,
Not only from the sword's brute sway,
But from the spirit's slavery.
278
ON THE PEACE
May, 1856.
Come in, wild Hopes! that towards the dawning East
Uprose so high: now be content to stand,
Like hooded hawks upon the falconer's hand,
Awhile expectant of the promised feast.
Peace is proclaimed! the captives are releast!
Yet yearns the exile from the alien strand,—
Yet chafes and struggles Europe's fairest land,—
Untamed by priestly kings or kingly priest.
O blessed Peace! if peace were peace indeed,—
Based upon justice and the eternal laws
Which make the free intent of Man the cause
Of all enduring thought and virtuous deed.
But 'tis not so: we know we do but pause,
Awaiting fiercer strife and nobler meed.
279
CRIMEAN INVALID SOLDIERS REAPING AT ALDERSHOT.
Reap ye the ripe ripe corn,
Ye have reap'd the green and the young,
The fruits that were scarcely born,—
The fibres that just were strung.
Ye have reap'd the green and the young,
The fruits that were scarcely born,—
The fibres that just were strung.
Ye have reaped, as the Destinies reap,
The wit and the worth of Man,
The tears that we vainly weep—
The deeds that we vainly plan.
The wit and the worth of Man,
The tears that we vainly weep—
The deeds that we vainly plan.
Now reap as the generous life
Of the pregnant Earth commands,
Each seed with a future rife,
And the work of a thousand hands.
Of the pregnant Earth commands,
Each seed with a future rife,
And the work of a thousand hands.
280
COLUMBUS AND THE MAY-FLOWER.
O little fleet! that on thy quest divine
Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn,
Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne
A freight of Faith and Hope to match with thine?
Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn,
Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne
A freight of Faith and Hope to match with thine?
Say, too, has Heaven's high favour given again
Such consummation of desire, as shone
About Columbus, when he rested on
The new-found world and married it to Spain?
Such consummation of desire, as shone
About Columbus, when he rested on
The new-found world and married it to Spain?
Answer—Thou refuge of the Freeman's need,—
Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out,
Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,—
Thou simple May-Flower of the salt-sea mead!
Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out,
Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,—
Thou simple May-Flower of the salt-sea mead!
When Thou wert wafted to that distant shore—
Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odours, met thee not:
Stern Nature hail'd thee to a sterner lot.—
God gave free earth and air, and gave no more.
Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odours, met thee not:
Stern Nature hail'd thee to a sterner lot.—
God gave free earth and air, and gave no more.
281
Thus to men cast in that heroic mould
Came Empire such as Spaniard never knew—
Such Empire as beseems the just and true;
And at the last, almost unsought, came Gold.
Came Empire such as Spaniard never knew—
Such Empire as beseems the just and true;
And at the last, almost unsought, came Gold.
But He who rules both calm and stormy days
Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health,
Safe on the perilo'us heights of power and wealth,
As in the straitness of the ancient ways.
Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health,
Safe on the perilo'us heights of power and wealth,
As in the straitness of the ancient ways.
CHINA, 1857.
The little Athens from its pillared hillYet reigns o'er spacious tracts of human mind:
Britain, within her narrow bounds confined,
Bends East and West to her sagacious will:
While, recordless alike for good or ill,
China extends her name o'er so much rind
Of the round earth, and only stunts mankind
To mean desires, low acts, and puny skill.
Enormous masses of monotonous life!
Teaching how weak is mere material power
To roll our world toward its heavenly goal:
Teaching how vain is each exhausted hour
That does not mingle in the mental strife,
That does not raise or purify the soul.
282
AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY.
Beyond the vague Atlantic deep,Far as the farthest prairies sweep,
Where forest-glooms the nerve appal,
Where burns the radiant Western fall,
One duty lies on old and young,—
With filial piety to guard,
As on its greenest native sward,
The glory of the English tongue.
That ample speech! That subtle speech!
Apt for the need of all and each:
Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend
Wherever human feelings tend.
Preserve its force—expand its powers;
And through the maze of civic life,
In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife,
Forget not it is yours and ours.
283
ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 1863.
We only know that in the sultry weather,
Men toiled for us as in the steaming room,
And in our minds we hardly set together
The bondman's penance and the freeman's loom.
Men toiled for us as in the steaming room,
And in our minds we hardly set together
The bondman's penance and the freeman's loom.
We never thought the jealous gods would store
For us ill deeds of time-forgotten graves,
Nor heeded that the May-Flower one day bore
A freight of pilgrims, and another slaves.
For us ill deeds of time-forgotten graves,
Nor heeded that the May-Flower one day bore
A freight of pilgrims, and another slaves.
First on the bold upholders of the wrong,
And last on us, the heavy-laden years
Avenge the cruel triumphs of the strong—
Trampled affections, and derided tears.
And last on us, the heavy-laden years
Avenge the cruel triumphs of the strong—
Trampled affections, and derided tears.
Labour, degraded from her high behest,
Cries “Ye shall know I am the living breath,
And not the curse of Man. Ye shall have Rest—
The rest of Famine and the rest of Death.”
Cries “Ye shall know I am the living breath,
And not the curse of Man. Ye shall have Rest—
The rest of Famine and the rest of Death.”
Oh, happy distant hours! that shall restore
Honour to work, and pleasure to repose,
Hasten your steps, just heard above the roar
Of wildering passions and the crash of foes.
Honour to work, and pleasure to repose,
Hasten your steps, just heard above the roar
Of wildering passions and the crash of foes.
284
ON THE OPENING OF THE FIRST PUBLIC PLEASURE-GROUND AT BIRMINGHAM
August, 1856.
I
Soldiers of Industry! come forth:Knights of the Iron Hand!
Past is the menace of the North
That frowned upon our land.
We have no will to count the cost,
No thought of what we bore
Now the last warrior's gaze has lost
The doomed Crimean shore!
II
That shore, so precious in the gravesOf those whose lustrous deeds
Consecrate Balaklava's waves,
And Alma's flowe'ring reeds;
Where, at some future festival,
Our Russian foe will tell,
How British wrestlers, every fall,
Rose stronger than they fell.
285
III
Now town and hamlet cheer to seeEach bronzed and bearded man,
Or murmur low, “'Twas such as he,
Who died at the Redan!”
Rest for his worn or crippled frame,
Rest for his anxious eye,—
Rest, even from the noise of Fame,
A Nation's welcome-cry!
IV
But Ye,—whose resolute intentsAnd sturdy arms combine
To bend the' obdurate elements
Of Earth to Man's design—
Ye, to your hot and constant task
Heroically true,
Soldiers of Industry! we ask,
“Is there no Peace for you?”
V
It may not be: the' unpausing marchOf toil must still be yours—
Conquest, with no triumphant arch,
Unsung by Troubadours:
Yet, as the fiercest Knights of old
To give “God's Truce” agreed,
Cry ye, who are as brave and bold,
“God's Truce” in Labour's need.
286
VI
“God's Truce” be their device, who meetTo-day with generous zeal
To work, by many a graceful feat,
Their brethren's future weal;
From stifling street and popu'lous mart
To guard this ample room,
For honest pleasures kept apart,
And deck'd with green and bloom.
VII
Here let the eye to toil minuteCondemned, with joy behold
The fresh enchantment of each suit
That clothes the common mould:
Here let the arm whose skilful force
Controuls such mighty powers,
Direct the infant's totte'ring course
Amid the fragrant bowers.
VIII
Yet all in vain this happy hope,In vain this friendly care,
Unless of loftier life the scope
In every mind be there:
In vain the fairest, brightest, scene,
If passion's sensual haze
And clouded spirits lie between
To mar the moral gaze.
287
IX
He only at the marriage-feastOf Nature and of God
Sits worthily who sits released
From sin's and sorrow's load:
And then, on his poor window-sill,
One flower more pleasure brings
Than all the gorgeous plants that fill
The restless halls of kings.
X
All Nature answers in the toneIn which she is addressed:
Beneath Mont Blanc's illumined throne,
The peasant walks unblessed;
The' Italian struggles in his bonds,
Beside his glorious sea,
And Beauty from all sight absconds
Which is not wise and free.
XI
So, Friends! while gentle Arts are wedTo frame your perfect plan,
Broadcast be Truth and Knowledge spread
O'er this rich soil of Man!
Ideal parks—ideal shade—
Lay out with libe'ral hand—
But teach the souls you strive to aid
To feel and understand.
288
WORKMAN'S CHORAL SONG.
No monster of Iron on gunpowder fed,
No clangor of Steel, no whizzing of Lead,
Make the blood in our arteries tingle;
But the whirl of the wheel, and the whistle of steam,
And the bubbling hiss of the seething stream,
Are the sounds where our sympathies mingle.
No clangor of Steel, no whizzing of Lead,
Make the blood in our arteries tingle;
But the whirl of the wheel, and the whistle of steam,
And the bubbling hiss of the seething stream,
Are the sounds where our sympathies mingle.
No Laurel that drips with the blood of the brave,
No crown that hangs over the conqueror's grave,
No wreath that is woven in weeping—
The Olive that circles the forehead of toil,
The meed of the master of metal and soil,
Is the fruit that we glory in reaping.
No crown that hangs over the conqueror's grave,
No wreath that is woven in weeping—
The Olive that circles the forehead of toil,
The meed of the master of metal and soil,
Is the fruit that we glory in reaping.
Oh! the roar and the foam of the fiery stream!
Oh! the rush and the shriek of the bursting steam!
No warrior's clarion is louder;
We, too, have our iron, our steel, and our lead,
But ours is living and theirs is dead,
And the music of Peace is the prouder.
Oh! the rush and the shriek of the bursting steam!
No warrior's clarion is louder;
We, too, have our iron, our steel, and our lead,
But ours is living and theirs is dead,
And the music of Peace is the prouder.
289
Then a Song shall arise in melodious might,
To God who has severed the Dark from the Light,
And the Work and the Workman created;
By the play of the muscles He holds us in health,
By the sweat of the brow can endow us with wealth,
In the love of our labour elated.
To God who has severed the Dark from the Light,
And the Work and the Workman created;
By the play of the muscles He holds us in health,
By the sweat of the brow can endow us with wealth,
In the love of our labour elated.
We sow for the weal of the loved ones at home,
We know in good time that the harvest will come,—
He wins who has honestly striven:
Our toil is the salt of the bread of to-day,
And the food of our hearts is the Faith that can say,
“We, too, have our Rest and our Heaven.”
We know in good time that the harvest will come,—
He wins who has honestly striven:
Our toil is the salt of the bread of to-day,
And the food of our hearts is the Faith that can say,
“We, too, have our Rest and our Heaven.”
290
ON THE OPENING OF THE ALBERT HALL
South Kensington, May 1, 1871.
O people of this favoured land
Within this peaceful Orbit met,
We strike the chords with trembling hand,
The voice within us falters yet:
While on this point of time we stand,
Shall we remember or forget?
Within this peaceful Orbit met,
We strike the chords with trembling hand,
The voice within us falters yet:
While on this point of time we stand,
Shall we remember or forget?
We must remember those good days
When first we bade the Nations fill
The fairy Halls we dared to raise,
By Genius wed to earnest Will,—
And all was pleasure, power, and praise,
The fair reward of toil and skill.
When first we bade the Nations fill
The fairy Halls we dared to raise,
By Genius wed to earnest Will,—
And all was pleasure, power, and praise,
The fair reward of toil and skill.
So let this gracious memory veil
From present thoughts the later woe,
Now that the blood-red clouds grow pale,
Now that no more the trumpets blow,—
No more beneath the fiery hail
Children in terror come and go.
From present thoughts the later woe,
Now that the blood-red clouds grow pale,
Now that no more the trumpets blow,—
291
Children in terror come and go.
Be this a feast of Hope! the flowers
Of Spring the waste of War repair:
The quiet work of happier hours
Dispels the load of human care:
For Industry and Art are Powers
That know no End and no Despair.
Of Spring the waste of War repair:
The quiet work of happier hours
Dispels the load of human care:
For Industry and Art are Powers
That know no End and no Despair.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |