Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Forms beyond my vision fleeting,
Shadowy phantoms, O how fair!
Let your shapes these eyes be meeting,
That would lure you down through air;
Unsubstantial as the moonlight
Or the sunshine, whence ye come,
Let your radiant shapes the noon light,
Be not to night's visions dumb!

O unseen, now floating o'er me,
Airy nothings, dawn to birth,
Grow to living words before me,
With a fairness not of earth;
On my mortal vision stealing,
O, ye hungered-for, descend,
To my love your charms revealing,
Loveliness no more to end!

Lo, my thoughts through unknown spaces
Strain their sight your forms to see,
Strive to gaze upon your faces,
All your beauty, yet to be;
O obey her weird dominion,
Fancy's, who should rule you here!
Glide to sight on noiseless pinion!
Softly, as sweet dreams, appear!

Mothers weary, at their bosoms
Fair, to feel the babes they'll bear;
Winters dream of coming blossoms,
And the Springs of harvests fair;
I, of you, for ever dreaming,
Weary for the sunny sight
Of your beauty, earthward streaming
On my eyes, ye shapes of light!

Ye will come; I feel ye near me;
Ye will gleam these eyes before;
Loved ones, ye at last will hear me,
And my weary watch be o'er;
In some golden hour before me,
Hour of leisure or of care,
Ye, who ever hover o'er me,
Ye will come, ye forms so fair.

BABY MAY AND OTHER POEMS.

BABY MAY

Cheeks as soft as July peaches,
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness—round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise,
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness,
Happy smiles and wailing cries,
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,
Lights and shadows swifter born
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn,
Ever some new tiny notion
Making every limb all motion—
Catchings up of legs and arms,
Throwings back and small alarms,
Clutching fingers—straightening jerks,
Twining feet whose each toe works,
Kickings up and straining risings,
Mother's ever new surprisings,
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under,
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings,
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness, that we prize such sinning,
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,
Pullings off of all that's able
To be caught from tray or table;
Silences—small meditations,
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing;

Slumbers—such sweet angel-seemings,
That we'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care—delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be—
That's May Bennett, that's my baby.

BABY'S SHOES.

O those little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use!
O the price were high
That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That by God's good will,
Years since grew still,
And ceased from their totter so sweet!

And O, since that bady slept,
So hush'd! how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept!

For they mind her for evermore
Of a patter along the floor,
And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees,
With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair
A little sweet face,
That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.

Then O wonder not that her heart
From all else would rather part
Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use,
And whose sight makes such fond tears start.

TODDLING MAY.

Five pearly teeth and two soft blue eyes,
Two sinless eyes of blue,
That are dim or are bright they scarce know why,
That, baby dear, is you.
And parted hair of a pale, pale gold,
That is priceless, every curl,
And a boldness shy, and a fear half bold,
Ay, that's my baby girl.

A small, small frock, as the snowdrop white,
That is worn with a tiny pride,
With a sash of blue, by a little sight
With a baby wonder eyed;
And a pattering pair of restless shoes,
Whose feet have a tiny fall,
That not for the world's coined wealth we'd lose,
That, Baby May, we call.

A rocker of dolls with staring eyes
That a thought of sleep disdain,
That with shouts of tiny lullabies
Are by'd and by'd in vain;

A drawer of carts with baby noise,
With strainings and pursed-up brow,
Whose hopes are cakes and whose dreams are toys,
Ay, that's my baby now.

A sinking of heart, a shuddering dread,
Too deep for a word or tear,
Or a joy whose measure may not be said,
As the future is hope or fear;
A sumless venture, whose voyage's fate
We would and yet would not know,
Is she whom we dower with love as great
As is perilled by hearts below.

Oh what as her tiny laugh is dear,
Or our days with gladness girds!
Or what is the sound we love to hear
Like the joy of her baby words!
Oh pleasure our pain and joys our fears
Should be, could the future say,
Away with sorrow, time has no tears
For the eyes of Baby May.

CRADLE SONGS.

I.

Lullaby! O lullaby!
Baby, hush that little cry!
Light is dying,
Bats are flying,
Bees to-day with work have done;
So, till comes the morrow's sun,
Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry!
Lullaby! O lullaby!

Lullaby! O lullaby!
Hushed are all things far and nigh;
Flowers are closing,
Birds reposing,

All sweet things with life have done;
Sweet, till dawns the morning sun,
Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry!
Lullaby! O lullaby!

TO A LADY I KNOW, AGED ONE.

O sunny curls! O eyes of blue!
The hardest natures known,
Baby, would softly speak to you,
With strangely tender tone;
What marvel, Mary, if from such
Your sweetness love would call?
We love you, baby, O how much!
Most dear of all things small!

Unborn, how, more than all on earth,
Your mother yearn'd to meet
Your dream'd-of face; you, from your birth,
Most sweet of all things sweet!
Even now, for your small hands' first press
Of her full happy breast,
How oft does she God's goodness bless,
And feel her heart too blest!

You came, a wonder to her eyes,
That doated on each grace,
Each charm, that still with new surprise
She show'd us in your face.
Small beauties? ah, to her not small!
How plain to her blest mind!
Though, baby dear, I doubt if all
All that she found could find.

A year has gone, and, mother, say,
Through all that year's blest round,
In her has one sweet week or day
Not some new beauty found?

What moment has not fancied one,
Since first your eyes she met?
And, wife, I know you have not done
With finding fresh ones yet.

Nor I; for, baby, some new charm
Each coming hour supplies,
So sweet, we think change can but harm
Your sweetness in our eyes,
Till comes a newer, and we know,
As that fresh charm we see,
In you, sweet Nature wills to show
How fair a babe can be.

Kind God, that gave this precious gift,
More clung-to every day,
To Thee our eyes we trembling lift—
Take not Thy gift away!
Looking on her, we start in dread,
We stay our shuddering breath,
And shrink to feel the terror said
In that one dark word—death.

O tender eyes! O beauty strange!
When childhood shall depart,
O that thou, babe, through every change
May'st keep that infant heart!
O gracious God! O this make sure,
That, of no grace beguiled,
The woman be in soul as pure
As now she is, a child!

THE SEASONS.

A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon,
O'erhung with a laburnum's drooping sprays,
Singing her little songs, while, softly round,
Along the grass the chequered sunshine plays.

All beauty that is throned in womanhood,
Pacing a summer garden's fountained walks,
That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down,
To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks.

A happy mother with her fair-faced girls,
In whose sweet Spring again her youth she sees,
With shout, and dance, and laugh, and bound, and song,
Stripping an autumn orchard's laden trees.

An aged woman in a wintry room,
Frost on the pane—without, the whirling snow;
Reading old letters of her far-off youth,
Of pleasures past, and griefs of long ago.

TO A LOCKET.

O casket of dear fancies,
O little case of gold,
What rarest wealth of memories
Thy tiny round will hold!
With this first curl of baby's
In thy small charge will live
All thoughts that all her little life
To memory can give.

O prize its silken softness!
Within its amber round
What worlds of sweet rememberings
Will still by us be found,
The weak, shrill cry, so blessing
The curtained room of pain,
With every since-felt feeling,
To us 'twill bring again.

'Twill mind us of her lying
In rest, soft-pillowed deep,
While, hands the candle shading,
We stole upon her sleep;

Of many a blessed moment,
Her little rest above,
We hung in marvelling stillness,
In ecstasy of love.

'Twill mind us, radiant sunshine
For all our shadowed days,
Of all her baby wonderings,
Of all her little ways,
Of all her tiny shoutings,
Of all her starts and fears,
And sudden mirths out-gleaming
Through eyes yet hung with tears.

There's not a care—a watching—
A hope—a laugh—a fear,
Of all her little bringing,
But we shall find it here.
Then, tiny golden warder,
Oh safely ever hold
This glossy silken memory,
This little curl of gold.

CRADLE SONGS.

II.

Sleep! the bird is in its nest;
Sleep! the bee is hushed in rest;
Sleep! rocked on thy mother's breast! Lullaby!
To thy mother's fond heart pressed, Lullaby!

Sleep! the waning daylight dies;
Sleep! the stars dream in the skies;
Daisies long have closed their eyes; Lullaby!
Calm, how calm on all things lies! Lullaby!

Sleep then, sleep! my heart's delight!
Sleep! and through the darksome night
Round thy bed God's angels bright, Lullaby!
Guard thee till I come with light! Lullaby!

EPITAPHS FOR INFANTS.

I.

Here Spring's tenderest nurslings set,
Wind-flowers and the violet;
Here the white-drooped snowdrop frail,
And the lily of the vale;
All of sweetness passing soon,
Withering ere the year be noon;
For the little rester here,
Like these infants of the year,
Was, O grief! as fair as they,
And as quickly fled away.

II.

Here the gusts of wild March blow
But in murmurs faint and low;
Ever here, when Spring is green,
Be the brightest verdure seen;
And when June's in field and glade,
Here be ever freshest shade.
Here hued Autumn latest stay,
Latest call the flowers away;
And when Winter's shrilling by,
Here its snows the warmest lie;
For a little life is here,
Hid in earth, for ever dear,
And this grassy heap above
Sorrow broods and weeping love.

III.

On this little grassy mound
Never be the darnel found:

Ne'er be venomed nettle seen
On this little heap of green;
For the little lost one here
Was too sweet for aught of fear,
Aught of harm to harbour nigh
This green spot where she must lie;
So be nought but sweetness found
On this little grassy mound.

IV.

Here in gentle pity, Spring,
Let thy sweetest voices sing;
Nightingale, be here thy song
Charmed by grief to linger long;
Here the thrush with longest stay
Pipe its pleasant song to day,
And the blackbird warble shrill
All its passion latest still;
Still the old grey tower above
Her small nest, the swallow love,
And through all June's honied hours
Booming bees hum in its flowers;
And when comes the eve's cold gray
Murmuring gnats unresting play
Weave, while, round, the beetle's flight
Drones across the shadowing night;
For the sweetness dreaming here
Was a gladness to the year,
And the sad months all should bring
Dirges o'er her sleep to sing.

V.

Haunter of the opening year,
Ever be the primrose here;
Whitest daisies deck the spot,
Pansies and forget-me-not,
Fairest things that earliest fly,
Sweetness blooming but to die;
For this blossom, o'er whose fall
Sorrow sighs, was fair as all,
But, alas, as frail as they,
All as quickly fled away.

TO OUR BABY KATE.

A REVERIE.

Marvel, baby, 'tis to me
What thy little thoughts can be,
What the meanings small, that reach
Hearing in thy mites of speech,
Sayings that no language know
More than coo, and cry, and crow,
Would-be words, that hide away
All that they themselves would say,
Tiny fancies courting sight,
Masked from all in shrouding night;
Fain its secret I'd beguile
From the mystery of thy smile;
Fain would fathom all that lies
In thy pleasure and surprise,
In the fancies flitting through
Those two eyes of wondering blue,
In thy starts and tiny fears,
Gleams of joy and fleeting tears.
Ah, in vain I seek to win
Way to the small life within!
Curious thought no clue can find
To that wondrous world, thy mind,
That its little sights hath shown
Unto fancy's gaze alone;
Therefore do I converse hold
Oft with fancy, to unfold
All the marvels of its seeing,
Wordless mysteries of thy being;
Then of all seen things it tells,
Unto thee, high miracles;
How thy baby fancy lingers,
Wondering minutes, o'er thy fingers,
Or, still marvelling more and more,
Eyes thy pinked feet o'er and o'er;
How the world and all things seem
Airy shadows of a dream,

Unsubstantial—forms unreal,
Out to which thy graspings feel
Wavering stretchings, marvelling much
At the mystery of a touch;
How with little shout thou'dst pass
To thy likeness in the glass,
Or thy little talks are told
Unto all thou dost behold,
Guessed-at griefs and baby joys
Crowed to busy sister's toys,
Or, in murmurings low, rehearsed
To the kitten for thee nursed.
So with fancy do I dream,
Baby mine, until I seem
All the little thoughts to know,
All thy little acts below,
Till thought comes and bids me own
That I dream and dream alone.
Yet one surety lies above
Reason's doubtings—thine is love,
Love abundant, leaping out
In thy lighted look and shout,
In thy joy that sorrow dumbs,
In thy bubbling laugh that comes
Ever still with glad surprise
When thy mother meets thine eyes.
Love is in thy eager watch
Ever strained her form to catch,
In thy glance that, place to place,
Tracks the gladness of her face,
In thy hush of joy that charms
Cries to stillness in her arms,
Calms of rapture, blessing, blest,
Rosy nestlings in her breast,
Dreaming eyes for ever raising
Raptured gazes to her gazing,
Gaze so blessed, sure we deem
Heaven is in thy happy dream.
So our love would have it be
Ever, little Kate, with thee;

Treasure, treasures all above,
Ever, baby, thine be love,
Love, that doubly-mirrored lives
In the smiles it wins and gives,
Love, that gives to life its worth,
Lending glory to the earth.

ON A DEAD INFANT.

Dead! dead! What peace abides within the word—
For thee, O little one, what bliss of rest!
By her who bore thee, with what anguish heard,
God knows! God knoweth best;
God willeth best; yet while the words we say,
We know thy grief, wild mother, must have way.

Oh, never shall those tiny fingers press
Her cheek!—oh, never to the full breasts steal,
That yearn their tender touch, that so would bless,
Their blessëd touch to feel!
Oh, never shall those closed lids opening rise
To look delight into her hungering eyes!

Yearned for—how yearned for wast thou, little one!
Each month more dear that seemed to bring thee near!
Alas! that seemed, but seemed; God's will be done!
We may not know thee here;
We may not know thee, but as, babe, thou art,
Cold even to thy mother's quivering heart.

Not know thee! Mother, with thy sorrow wild,
How is that still face stamped within thy heart!
That face so looked on, when, “Give me my child!”
Thou criedst, nor dared we part
In that first moment from thy arms' embrace
The cold white stillness of that blind, fixed face.

God comfort her! all human words are vain
To bid her shun to die or care to live.

Who shall bid peace to be for her again?
Who, save God, comfort give?
Who fill the empty heart that finds a void
In all it feared or hoped for or enjoyed?

God comfort her!—who else?—not even he
Who for thee, sweet one, bore a father's love,
Who, with what pride and joy! she looked to see
Bend this new life above,
And show her in his eyes the unshadowed bliss
That looked from hers—alas! now changed to this!

Leave her to God and to the tender years
That soften misery into gentle grief,
Grief that may almost find at last from tears,
Sad tears, may find relief,
Grief that from time may gather perfect trust
In all Heaven wills, and own even this is just.

For thee, dead snowdrop, all our tears are dried;
We know thee evermore as to us given
Within our hearts for ever to abide,
Type of all meet for heaven,
Type of all purity of which we guess,
That Heaven shall make more pure and earth not less.

Wake not! the cruel tender hand of death,
Death, with a tenderness for earth too deep,
Ere thou hadst drawn one mortal troubled breath,
Hushed thee to quiet sleep,
Stilled, ere it woke, the anguish of thy cries,
Nor gave the tears of earth to dim thine eyes.

Why would we wake thee?—joy and grief, we know,
Walk hand in hand along earth's crowded ways;
Who 'scape the thorns that in our paths below
For all life thickly lays?
Why should we wish thee on a weary way
Where thou might'st long for night while yet 'twas day?

For we, most blest, even when to heaven we turn
Eyes bright with thanks for all that makes life dear,
Even then our trembling hearts have not to learn
Of sorrows that are here—
Of griefs that dimmed our dearest hours with tears—
Of bitter memories that seem shadowing fears.

Hope has no part in thee, in surety lost,
Sweet bud of being, but to bloom above;
Nor may our thoughts of thee with fear be crossed,
Thou, homed in God's dear love,
Borne by thy heavenly Father's hand from all
That makes the purest stoop, the strongest fall.

Lily, thou shalt not know the soiling gust
Of earthly passion bow thee to its will;
Temptation and all ill are from thee thrust,
Nor tears thine eyes shall fill;
Remorse and penitence thou shalt not need,
From sin's pollution and earth's errors freed.

Oh, blessed, to 'scape the mystery of life,
Its wavering walk 'twixt holiness and sin!
Allowed, without earth's struggles, our weak strife,
Heaven's palms to win,
Through the bright portals thou at once hast pressed,
To endless blessedness and lasting rest.

CRADLE SONGS.

III.

Lullaby—lullaby, baby dear!
Take thy rest without a fear:
Quiet sleep, for mother is here,
Ever wakeful, ever near, Lullaby!

Lullaby—lullaby! gone is the light,
Yet let not darkness my baby fright;

Mother is with her amid the night,
Then softly sleep, my heart's delight, Lullaby!

May thy small dreams no ill things see,
Kind Heaven keep watch, my baby, o'er thee,
Kind angels bright thy guardians be,
And give thee smiling to day and to me, Lullaby!

Sleep, sleep on! thy rest is deep;
But, ah! what wild thoughts on me creep,
As by thy side my watch I keep,
To think how like to death is sleep! Lullaby!

But God our Father will hear my prayer,
And have thee, dear one, in His care;
Thee, little one, soft breathing there,
To me the Lord's dear love will spare, Lullaby!

Sleep on! sleep on! till glad day break,
And with the sunshine gladly wake,
Thy mother's day, how blest to make!
Her life, what joy! through thy dear sake, Lullaby!

THE WISH.

My boy, my boy, what would I have
Thy future lot should be,
Were that sweet fay, so kind of old,
To leave the choice with me?
Were she to say, “My fairy power,
To grant all blessings, use;
Give what thou wilt to this young life,
And what thou wilt, refuse.”

Her diamond wand, my little one,
Above thee would I raise,

“Be health,” I'd say, “be beauty thine,
My boy, through all thy days.
The perfect powers that give thee strength
Thy work on earth to do,
The perfect form, that shows the soul's
Own beauty shining through.

“Be plenty thine; that, wealthy, thou
Mayst independent live;
That, rich, to thee it may be given
Abundantly to give;
That heaven, through means of that thou hast,
To thee may be made sure;
In life—in death—that thou mayst have
The blessings of the poor.

“Be thine a warm and open heart,
Be thine unnumbered friends;
A life, held precious while it lasts,
And wept for when it ends.
And, heaven on earth, be thine a home
Where children round thee grow,
Where one, with all thy mother's love,
Makes blest thy days below.

“Harold, be thine that better life
That higher still aspires,
Supreme in sovereign sway above
The senses' low desires;
And thine the fame that, told of, men
Of holy deeds shall hear,
A glory, unto good men's thoughts
And lowly memories dear.

“Walk thou a poet among men,
A prophet sent of God,
That hallowed grow the common ways
Of earth which thou hast trod;
That truth in thy eternal words
Sit throned in might sublime,

And love and mercy, from thy tongue,
For ever preach to Time.

“All human wishes most desire,
All last they would resign,
All fondest love can long to give,
My little one, be thine.
The purest good that man can know,
To thee, my boy, be given;
And be thy every act on earth
A deed to win thee heaven!”

TO W. G. B.

Soul, not yet from heaven beguiled,
Soul, not yet by earth defiled,
Dwelling in this little child,
Be, O to him be
All we would have thee!

Through this life of joy and care,
If that grief must be his share,
Make, O make him strong to bear
All God willeth, all
That to him must fall.

O when passions stir his heart,
Tempting him from good to part,
Make him from the evil start,
That he walk aright,
Soilless in God's sight!

Taint him not with mortal sin,
That heaven's palms his hands may win,
That heaven's gates he enter in,
Of God's favour sure,
Pure as he is pure!

If he wander from the right,
O through error's darksome night,
On to heaven's eternal light,
Guide, O guide his way
To heaven's perfect day!

CRADLE SONGS.

IV.

Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!
For the day is for waking—for rest the night,
And my boy must learn to use each aright;
Let him toil in the day, and steep
Through the night his senses in slumber sound,
To fit him to work when day comes round!
Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!

Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!
For my boy must be strong of body and limb,
To do all I'd have to be done by him;
Let his slumbers be sound and deep,
That stout of arm and of heart he may grow,
Both hot to do and keen to know;
Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!

Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!
For no puny son must I have—not I,
Made through his days but to crouch and sigh,
To bend and to weakly weep;
No—my man must be strong to battle with care,
The bravest to do, and the boldest to dare;
Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!

Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!
Yes, thy mother, my boy, would have thee one
By whom this old world's best work is done,
One who on its dullards shall sweep,
If it must be, through storm—if it must be, through strife
To still freer thoughts and to still purer life;
Sleep, boy, sleep—sleep!

THE STORY OF A MOTHER.

[_]

FROM HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

There the little one lay, white and dying,
And beside its bed, with sorrow wild,
Wailed the mother, unto heaven crying,
“Spare my baby! spare, O God, my child!”

Then the darkness, death, arose before her,
Laid its hand upon her baby's heart;
And, a nameless anguish creeping o'er her,
From her infant saw she life depart.

It was dead, and fixed before her eye was
That dear face that on her should have smiled;
But a moment dumb with grief, her cry was
Straight, “O God! O give me back my child!”

Then it was as if God willed to send her
Answer to the wail that from her rose;
And it seemed as if, with accents tender,
Death breathed, “Fate, what might have been, disclose!”

And with anguish that she might not smother,
Looked she through the distant years with awe,
All the child had lived to, saw the mother;
All its grown-up life the mother saw.

And she saw her babe, her heart's dear treasure,
Fated, not to peace and joy, alas!
Fated, not to know a pure life's pleasure,
But through want, and woe, and guilt to pass.

Then the mother knew her human blindness,
And, even through her tears, she brightly smiled,
“Blessed be God!” she cried, “that in His kindness,
Bore from earth, and sin, and shame, my child!”

CRADLE SONGS.

V.

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Cease thy bitter crying!
In the cold earth deep,
Deep in death's long sleep,
O that we were lying!
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Let's forget to-morrow
Comes, when we must bear
Scorn, and want, and care,
Waking but for sorrow!
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy poor mother pity!
Worn and faint, she hears
No voice her life that cheers
In all this great, hard city;
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thou hast thy mother only;
Cold and still lies he
Who worked for thee and me,
And left us, boy, how lonely!
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Faint and, God! how weary!
Let these eyes, how weary!
Baby mine, in rest,
Forget this world so dreary!
Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep!
Heed not mother's crying!
O boy, by God's will,
We were cold and still,
With thy father lying!
Sleep, baby, sleep!

MOTHERS' SONGS.

I.

Look into mother's eyes
Beaming above you!
Only one, baby mine,
So much can love you!
One, but one gaze alone
Such love is giving,
Baby, into our own
While we are living;
Look into mother's eyes
Beaming above you!
No other eyes as much
Ever shall love you.

Drink in that love now yours!
That shall change never;
Like God's, that love endures
Now and for ever;
Baby, in after days,
O let no morrow
Ever, of yours, that gaze
Sadden with sorrow!
Laugh into mother's eyes
Beaming above you!
But one, beneath the skies,
So much can love you.

In God's good time, may be,
In years before you,
Other dear eyes you'll see,
Bend in love o'er you;

But let none others be,
To your heart nearer!
Others you'll never see
Where you are dearer;
Laugh into mother's eyes,
Love-lit above you!
No other loving eyes
So much shall love you.

THE FIRST SHOES.

Wife, keep those shoes with the shape of his feet in them,
Restless, small feet, that we'd never have still;
Through all your years to come, visions how sweet in them,
Dreamings how priceless, your fancy will fill!
Treasure them; some dreams are more than all pleasures
Life's ever giving our hearts to enjoy;
Few things that ever you'll prize, wife, as treasures,
So dear will be as these shoes of our boy.

Worn is each little sole; blessed was the wearing
Smoothing them so—at which glad tears you wept,
Those wavering weak steps that caused you such caring,
Those tiny steps that our baby first stept;
Wife, to our hearts, what a joy beyond telling
Were those dear totterings, half boldness—half fear!
All the joy then that our proud hearts was swelling,
Whene'er we see them, with us will be here.

Bolder those small shoes were ere he outgrew them;
Firm was the foot-tread at last that they knew,
When mother's eyes to her stooping kiss drew them,
With that rapt gaze that still looked him to you;
Seeing them, ah, in the garden I've found him,
Busy and bustling as ant or as bee;
Glad as the butterfly flitting around him,
Babbles my baby again up to me.

Treasure them; brood o'er them; O how dear to you
Will those small memories in after years prove,
Should it be God's will, those eyes that so knew you
You in this life below no more can love.
Then shall the sight of these be a spell, raising
Up to your gaze again, dim through your tears,
That little lost form to gladden your gazing,
Bidding that small tongue again bless your ears.

Ah, if in years to come—O God, forbid it !—
We must with trembling and tears tell his name,
Fear his grown face, and half wish God had hid it
Cold in the coffin before it knew shame,
These shall be balm to the sorrows that wring you,
Over these, tears, not all sad, you shall rain,
These his dear baby face sinless shall bring you,
That you may love him all spotless again.

Far be such thoughts from us; none such we're fearing
Ever, dear, for him, our darling—our joy;
God will his mother's prayers always be hearing,
Hearing his father's prayers, prayed for our boy.
But, O dear wife of mine, these shoes, we'll keep them;
Grown-up, he'll laugh at what he used to use;
Tears but of pride and joy only shall steep them,
When, a man, with us he sees his first shoes.

MOTHERS' SONGS.

II.

O babe of my bosom,
Unto this heart nearest,
My rosebud—my blossom,
My darling—my dearest;
God's gift, sent to bless me,
Me, bending above you,
Whose dear eyes caress me,
Me—me, who so love you;

O babe of my bosom,
To this fond heart nearest,
Still must you, my blossom,
My best be, and dearest.

Ere God gave my treasure
My life to be blessing,
To love beyond measure
This breast he's caressing,
How often in seeming
These tiny hands pressed me!
How sweet was my dreaming
My baby caressed me!
O, babe of my bosom,
Lie to my heart nearest,
My treasure, my blossom,
My fondest, my dearest!

Yes, laugh in these eyes so!
To mother's be telling
The love that I prize so,
From that dear heart welling!
O, never that love, boy,
In after years smother!
O, love none above, boy,
Your own fondest mother!
O, babe of my bosom,
To this fond heart nearest,
Still will you, my blossom,
My best be, and dearest.

Ah, bud, whom I'm bending
And brooding o'er ever,
One love is unending,
One colder grows never;
Those eyes while they're living
Will surely see others,
Fond love to them giving,
But none like your mother's.

O, babe of my bosom,
Unto this heart nearest,
Still must you, my blossom,
My best be, and dearest.

O, if sad and lonely
In far coming morrows,
One heart, if one only,
Will share all your sorrows;
This, nothing estranging,
Should all the world leave you,
This—this, all unchanging,
With love will receive you.
O, babe of my bosom,
Unto my heart nearest,
Still must you, my blossom,
My own be, my dearest.

Drink, drink at my bosom,
Your cheek to it pressing;
Make blest, O, my blossom,
This heart you're caressing!
O, still to your mother
Be only a gladness,
A pride, and no other,
No shame and no sadness!
O, babe of my bosom,
To mother's heart nearest,
Still must you, my blossom,
To mother be dearest.

O, dear God, who gave him,
My babe, to be warming
This heart—you will save him,
My bud, from all harming.
Half fearful I tremble,
O, life loved so dearly,
Sleep seems to resemble
Death in you so nearly.

Sleep, babe of my bosom!
Thou, Father, Thou hearest
My prayer for my blossom,
My darling, my dearest.

My joy will not leave me;
While him God is sparing,
For all that can grieve me
This heart's little caring.
Then, soft in my bosom,
Rest, baby, unfearing!
God guards you, my blossom;
Our prayer He is hearing.
Sleep, babe, on my bosom,
To mother's heart nearest!
Still, still must my blossom
To mother be dearest.

THE WORN WEDDING-RING AND OTHER HOME POEMS.

THE WORN WEDDING-RING.

Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife; ah, summers not a few,
Since I put it on your finger first, have pass'd o'er me and you;
And, love, what changes we have seen—what cares and pleasures, too,
Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new.

O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life,
When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” made you my loving wife;
Your heart will say the same, I know; that day's as dear to you,—
That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new.

How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day!
How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say,
Nor how I doated on you; ah, how proud I was of you;
But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new?

No—no; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me;
And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be?
As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true,
But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new?

O, partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is there
For me you would not bravely face, with me you would not share?

O, what a weary want had every day, if wanting you,
Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring was new.

Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife—young voices that are here,
Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear,
Young, loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you,
More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new.

And, bless'd be God! all He has given are with us yet; around
Our table, every precious life lent to us still is found;
Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst we've struggled through:
Bless'd be His name for all His love since this old ring was new!

The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure yet;
The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget;
Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still true,
We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new.

And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old,
We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold;
Your agëd eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you,
And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new.

And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest,
May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast;

O, may my parting gaze be bless'd with the dear sight of you,
Of those fond eyes—fond as they were when this old ring was new.

MY OWN EASY CHAIR.

A FIRESIDE SONG.

When business is done, and I home take my way,
To rest me at last from the cares of the day,
Fatigued—wearied out quite—what pleasure is there
In flinging me down in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
A friend I love well is my own easy chair.

From morning till evening—till night's coming down,
I'm busy at work without rest in the town,
Till body and brain no more labour can bear,
Till I thank God at home is my own easy chair;
Then my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How welcome to me is my own easy chair.

In winter, as entering I shake off the snow,
In the fender my slippers are toasting, I know;
And, fronting the bright blaze, I'm sure to see there,
In the full ruddy firelight, my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Still ready for me is my own easy chair.

What rest, when I'm quite to its comfort resign'd,
What gladness of ease in its old arms I find!
To be tired right out is a joy I declare,
But to taste the full rest of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What rest is like that in my own easy chair.

My bed is a blessing, for which God I bless,
But bed than one's own chair must comfort one less,
For, sleeping, one can't know how blest one is there,
The waking delight of my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How I feel the full rest of my own easy chair.

If I with the crosses of life am perplex'd,
If with men and their doings I'm worried and vex'd,
In its quiet I learn soon to bear and forbear,
And peace comes to me in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
It whispers me peace, does my own easy chair.

But my chair's a confessor and counsellor too,
If a wrong I have done, or a wrong I would do,
Its quiet old voice not a failing will spare,
And wisdom I learn from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What preacher is like you, my own easy chair.

Round my chair, little faces, how dear! come and go,
To get kisses—ask questions—their lessons to show,
And to puzzle their father, though sage I look there,
As if all things I knew, in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Long may those faces throng round my own easy chair.

In my chair as I dream, there looks up from my knee
The face of an angel 'tis heaven to see,
Golden curls—azure eyes—baby's small voice is there,
Prattling up to my heart in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
God keep that small form by my own easy chair.

Then the boys, they are heard with their voices too high;
Harold's loud in assertion—Will's shrill in reply—
And my voice must be raised, calming down the storm there,
The lawgiver speaks from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Is the judge over stern in my own easy chair?

Then Katie, or May, as night grows in the room,
With the sweetness of some dear old tune fills the gloom,
As she plays, through my brain steals its feeling till there
I could dream night away in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
What dreams come to me in my own easy chair!

Then rhymes come unbidden; as feeling grows strong,
Through head, lip, and pen, fancies hurry along,
And songs leap to birth, to some still voiceless air,
And a poet I seem in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
The muse loves me well in my own easy chair.

O Emma, my good, true, my own darling wife,
Through the worst cares of day how it gladdens my life
To think that at evening your face will be there,
Looking love to me stretch'd in my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
How dear comes that voice to my own easy chair.

What memories cling to it! what thoughts of delights
Of past Christmas eves and of gone New-Year's nights,
Of faces we see not—shall only see where
We shall go when we're missed from our own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
Where they're gone, may I go from my own easy chair.

My gladness to gladden—my sorrow to cheer,
Still, old chair, be my friend while in life I am here,
Be my comforter still till all white is my hair,
Till death steals my form from my own easy chair;
O my own easy chair,
My own cosy chair,
One day we must part too, my own easy chair.

OUR FAIRIES.

There are fairies here about us,
That our home are brightening still,
That were dull and sad without us
Whom they come with joy to fill;
Perchance, their gold they've squandered,
And so can live no more
In Elf-land, and have wandered
For shelter through our door;
Blest is the roof above them;
We care not why they've come;
We know but that we love them,
These fairies of our home.

One of them, but a baby,
Crows in its mother's arms;
Its mood, whate'er it may be,
That mood its mother charms;
It drinks at her dear bosom,
It laughs up in her eyes,
A blooming, rosy blossom,
Of but the tiniest size.
Blessed are the eyes above it,
To bless them it has come;
This baby, how we love it,
This fairy of our home.

One can but be entrancing
Our eyes with all he'll do;
Whatever, wife, is chancing,
Still he's a bliss to you;

Called, in some tongue he answers
That's known in Elfin land;
There, perhaps, the best of dancers,
Here, he can hardly stand;
With summer skies above him,
'Mongst bees he loves to roam;
Dear toddler, how we love him,
This fairy of our home!

A third, more staid, whom may be
We've seen for some eight years,
Teases and talks to baby,
And a small girl appears.
She speaks a tongue that's human,
She's here to act the part
Of a sweet little woman,
How dear, wife, to your heart!
O golden-curled, dear Mary,
No evil near you come,
You laughing, blue-eyed fairy
Of fairies of our home.

The next—our home they fill full—
Like the most pert of boys,
Is still an urchin wilful,
And fills our days with noise;
Yet, darling of his mother,
He loves so well to kiss,
We'd have him just no other
Than all to us he is;
Though plain this one we see is
A something of a gnome,
Dear as the others he is,
This fairy of our home.

Another, somewhat bigger,
Has bent to mortal rule,
Can read, and seems to figure,
A boy, 'mongst boys at school;
He, mortal sports unheeding,
Will pore, of thought bereft

For all things else, still reading
Of Elf-land he has left.
Yet how can we reprove him!
To bless us, too, he's come,
We who so fondly love him,
This fairy of our home.

Another that still longer
To us the sun has shown,
For her our love seems stronger,
If stronger can be known;
Kate is her name 'mongst misses,
At school she sings and plays,
And wins from us, what kisses,
What smiles, and prayers, and praise!
Surely with her caressings
Our maiden here has come,
To fill our years with blessings,
Fair fairy of our home.

But best and last, O maiden,
That mov'st before our sight,
A joy to us grief-laden,
A bliss in our delight;
May, O thou priceless treasure,
Best gift we ever knew,
Who shall the gladness measure,
The joy we find in you!
How our hopes brood above you!
Let tears—let sorrow come,
We'll laugh while we can love you,
Best fairy of our home.

O fairies, never leave us!
O still breathe mortal breath!
O not of one, bereave us,
Thou fear whose name is Death!
These human blooms, O let them
Live on to summer here,
And not till winters fret them
Bid them to disappear!

Lord, leave them to caress us!
Through good, through ill to come,
Still let these dear ones bless us—
These fairies of our home!

BY A GRAVE IN LEE CHURCHYARD.

Father—father, here I linger;
Years have passed since last I came,
Thus to trace, with faltering finger,
On this stone, your vanished name;
That dear name, what dear lips told it
Once—that name, now named by none
But by those, how few! who hold it
Dear as I, your lonely son.

Father, father, I am yearning
That long-vanished form to see,
That face that is but returning
Dim, as in a dream, to me;
Few the years that dear face blessed me
Ere it awed my childish sight,
Father, no more to caress me,
From its coffin, calm and white.

Then but as a child I wept you,
Deeply as a child's heart can
In its love my child's heart kept you,
But no more than now I'm man;
Not as much; O early-pined-for,
Father, o'er whose grave I bow,
See, with tears, these eyes are blind for
Those dear eyes that see me now.

Yes, while here your dust is sleeping,
O dear soul these lips would kiss,
You are in some new world keeping
Watch o'er those you loved in this;

Still my evil thoughts controlling,
Joying in my earthly joy,
I have felt you, grief consoling,
Warning—strengthening me, your boy.

O from empty space before me,
Father dear, that you might start,
Might now bend that dear face o'er me
And look love into my heart!
But not to these eyes while living
Shall that blessed lost look come;
No more words to mine are giving
Those dear lips, for ever dumb.

Shall I not hereafter know you,
O my father, yet again?
Yes, to these eyes death shall show you,
When I leave life's joy and pain;
With the bliss of those long parted,
O how cherished, O how sweet,
Is the thought that then, glad-hearted,
Father, father, we shall meet!

DREAM!

Yes, yours be pleasant dreaming;
My little ones, while here,
May fancies to your seeming
As sweet as facts appear;
Not only dreams of fairy
And elf-land yours should be,
Like those vouchsafed to Mary,
But those that May would see.

Sweet visions without number
Not only I'd have come,
Such as delight your slumber
When daylight's dreams are dumb,

That, even though free from terror
And fearful forms of night,
With unshaped thought and error
Our sealed-up eyes delight.

No, but the fairest fancies
That through the sunshine sing,
And to all life's mischances
A balm and comfort bring;
Dreams dear to babbling baby
And girl alike and boy,
And youth and age when maybe
Life's older cares annoy.

Yes, dreams that bless all ages,
I wave my wand!—descend,
Ye hopes of all life's stages
Until its solemn end.
Dreams that with pictured story
Make small ones hush their breath,
Dreams that can light to glory
The gathering glooms of death.

O Norman, tiny treasure,
Last blessing lent from Heaven,
Dreams but of baby pleasure
To those small eyes be given.
Dreams but of blessëd blisses
For ever meet your sight,
Of mother's looks and kisses,
Of mother's rapt delight.

Sweet fancy do your duty!
In Mary's dreams disclose
Dolls of unearthly beauty
With cheeks that dim the rose;
To dress—to nurse—to chide them,
Wax angels to her send,
If she have cares, to hide them
And all her griefs to end.

To Willie, breeched and coated,
That restlessest of boys,
Give boats that may be floated,
All supermortal toys;
Such tarts as have no being,
School-prizes, Christmas times,
Pictures no eyes are seeing,
And ceaseless pantomimes.

To Harold, endless cricket
Where he is always in,
Where no ball floors his wicket,
Dread tales and lots of tin;
Scenes in the Circus, jumpings
By goddesses in gauze,
Schools where he gets no thumpings,
And countless tops and taws.

And Kate, my darling, rising
Some one year in your teens,
Hope dream for you, disguising
The future's chequered scenes!
Dream on of friends and lovers
Tender and kind and true
As each small one that hovers
At parties now by you.

Dream, May, O almost woman,
O to our hearts how dear!
Of all bliss that is human
That God can give you here!
Dream that the love around you,
Dream that the hearts of home,
Its praise and prayers surround you,
Whatever, dear, may come!

May book-land sights be lending
That suits the eyes of each
With new delights unending
That love and goodness teach,

From tales that fill small fancies
With pity, awe, and mirth,
To songs whose joy entrances
The older brains of earth.

From age to age life ranges;
As year on year is told,
May you, through all its changes,
The dreams you'd dream, behold.
Fame—wealth—each sighed-for blessing,
Love—every good beside,
Be each, in dreams, possessing,
If they're to life denied.

Yet through your mortal dreaming
Be there celestial light
Of radiant glory streaming
Upon you, day and night;
Visions of hours immortal,
Gleams from a world above,
Illuming death, its portal,
With God's eternal love.

And O may He be willing,
Who all sweet dreams ensures,
The good your fancy's filling
May still, in fact, be yours;
While such fair worlds of dreaming
Kind God allots to you,
Enjoy their good in seeming,
And wake to find it—true.

WEDDING WORDS.

A jewel for my lady's ear,
A jewel for her finger fine,
A diamond for her bosom dear,
Her bosom that is mine.

Dear glances for my lady's eyes,
Dear looks around her form to twine,
Dear kisses for the lips I prize,
Her dear lips that are mine.

Dear breathings to her, soft and low,
Of how my lot she's made divine,
Dear silences my love that show
For her whose love is mine.

Dear cares no cloud shall shade her way,
That gladness only on her shine,
That she be happy as the May
Whose lot is one with mine.

Dear wishes hovering round her life
And tending thoughts, and dreams divine,
To feed with perfect joy the wife
Whose happiness is mine.

ON A MINIATURE OF MY WIFE.

Yes—there's the cheek—the placid eye,
The softly shaded hair,
The smile, the lip—yet tell me why
Seems something wanting there?
Ah, needless question! wherefore ask?
How can the pencil trace
The fond affection, the calm love,
That sanctifies her face?
Oh, Art is strong from time and death
The outward charm to win,
But vainly does it strive with Life
To paint the heart within!

MY NATIVE TOWN.

O Kent has many a town and many
A pleasant village by stream and sea,
But O more pleasant, more dear than any,
Is my native town where I dwell, to me,
And leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich,
Dear to my heart will it ever be.

My native Greenwich,—there dwelt my father,
And work'd for you till his early death;
O on what spot of the wide world rather
Would I first have seen day or have first drawn breath
Than in leafy Greenwich, green pleasant Greenwich,
That dear will be to me till death.

My boyhood's Greenwich—each childish pleasure
In my old dear home in your streets I knew,
Each childish sadness, and thoughts I'll treasure,
Pleasant to think of my whole life through,
Of school-day times that long since in Greenwich
Sweet laughs and tears to my boy's eyes drew.

My manhood's Greenwich,—'tis there the gladness,
The griefs and cares of my life I've known,
But, whether my days brought joy or sadness,
Thought of with all, you've but dearer grown,
And joy and sorrow, my native Greenwich,
Have but drawn you more close to my heart alone.

'Tis there I've work'd to see those around me
Know wiser lives than their fathers knew,
With friends have labour'd that still have found me,
Through all my years, to your good still true;
And while I am with you, O pleasant Greenwich,
Still will I work, my town, for you.

O Medway, calm through your meadows winding,
Through blossoming hops that sweeten day,

O Darent, the shadows of orchards finding
Wherever your gleaming waters stray,
Who mates you with the royal river
That seawards by Greenwich glides away!

Oxford and Reading watch its flowing;
A pleasant stream to their wharves it shows;
By Windsor and emerald Richmond going,
Yet, scarcely a river, it onward goes;
But here, where to Greenwich her domes it shadows,
With navies its broad breadth ebbs and flows.

O pleasant lawns by your chestnuts bounded,
O shadowing elms rook-throng'd through Spring!
To me, by London's deep roar surrounded,
What thoughts of stillness and peace you bring,
Of Mays when I've heard your hawthorns' blossoms
Rustled apart by some brown bird's wing!

And, fate, were my lot but summer dreaming,
The lot of the toilless, careless few,
Greenwich, how blest were it, to my seeming,
To dream away life, my town, in you,
Watching Autumn turning to gold your woodlands,
Watching Spring-time leafing your boughs anew.

Ah, should my future from you be parted,
Should I not leave you, my town, with pain!
Sorrow here finds me less sad-hearted,
Joy more joyous than elsewhere; fain
Here would my age in peace glide deathwards,
Here in your earth a calm grave gain.

TO A. E. B.

WITH AN ALBUM.

Traced on the inkless whiteness of this book,
What, dearest Alice, would its giver see?
White thoughts, as stainless as itself, should be
All that on its pure leaves should meet your look.

May loving pens give to each page a voice
Of counsel or consolement or delight,
Wise words to guide all wavering thoughts aright,
Sweet tongues your listening fancy to rejoice.

Caged in these pages, here let poets bless
Your ears with songs that catch the music heard
Of angels, songs by which the heart is stirr'd
To truth and pity, good and gentleness.

Yes, let the birds that all the seasons hear,
The sweet-tongued poets, here rejoicing sing
Songs that amid the roar of streets shall bring
Nature and all the glory of the year.

Here be their sunshine that is always bright,
Their woods, how green, even in the city's gloom,
Their noons that glow, hot through the wintriest room,
Their landscapes, ever stretch'd before our sight.

A precious casket, Alice, be this book,
Of priceless memories, that you here may find
Dear tones, unheard, that you would call to mind,
And absent faces on which you would look.

Swiftly we pass; it may be, some shall fill
The voiceless grave, yet in these pages live,
Speaking the love that they, alive, would give,
To guide, rejoice, perchance console you still.

Life has its griefs for all; if sorrow come
On your life's path, even this poor book may hold,
So stored, a holy wisdom, more than gold,
Nor, ask'd for comfort, to your grief be dumb.

And may the beauty that your eyes here view,
The truth and gentleness that here you find,
Be written by it on your soul and mind,
And, loved of all, live evermore in you.

THE NEW PARIS.

A HOME FANCY.

How strange are, wife, the freaks of dreams!
How quaintly does the mocking night
Weave that which is with that which seems,
To cheat with shows our sleeping sight!
Last night, my last word breathed your name;
I slept; then, mingling false and true,
Swift to my eyes a vision came
In antique guise, and yet of you.

Methought I breathed on Ida's side,
In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy
To whom Dione gave that bride,
The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy;
Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes
A glory swam with sudden awe;
Herè the great—Pallas the wise,
And her—the Queen of smiles—I saw.

Hermes alone, beside was there;
A golden fruit the wing'd one bore:
“This, unto her who is most fair,
“Give thou!” he said; nor said he more.
Then heard I voices lure me straight,
Gifts fit for Gods in every voice;
Power—wisdom—beauty—seem'd to wait
Upon the breath that told my choice.

O what had I with thrones to do?
Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize?
I ask'd but power to live for you,
But wisdom won from those dear eyes.
A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled
Met mine; Dione from me drew
The golden triumph as she smiled,
And, smiling, for it, proffered you.

THE QUEEN.

A FIRE-SIDE SONG.

Yes, wife, I'd be a thronèd king,
That you might share my royal seat,
That titled beauty I might bring
And princes' homage to your feet.
How quickly, then, would nobles see
Your courtly grace—your regal mien;
Even duchesses all blind should be
To flaw or speck in you, their Queen.

Poor wish! O wife, a queen you are,
To whose feet many a subject brings
A truer homage, nobler far
Than bends before the thrones of kings.
You rule a realm, wife, in this heart
Where not one rebel fancy's seen,
Where hopes and smiles, how joyous! start
To own the sway of you, their Queen.

How loyal are my thoughts by day!
How faithful is each dream of night!
Not one but lives but to obey
Your rule,—to serve you, its delight;
My hours—each instant—every breath
Are, wife, as all have ever been,
Your slaves, to serve you unto death;
O wife, you are indeed a Queen!

MY PICTURE GALLERY.

Yes, I am fond of pictures; how I love to wander through,
With delight,
A gallery such as this is! 'Tis a pleasure ever new
To my sight;

Yet, though I've not a masterpiece that pencil ever drew,
My heart has its own gallery, with pictures not a few;
Yes, friend, I have my paintings rare, and, trust me, sweet ones, too,
Seen aright.

There, landscapes I can look on, fine as Turner's to my eyes.
What a joy
For me within the glory of their golden radiance lies!
From annoy,
From care I turn, with rapture still, to see their mountains rise,
To gaze upon their rivers, and entrance me with their skies,
More radiant than the sunniest Cuyps, the Claudes that most you prize
And enjoy.

Ah, in my silent gallery, priceless portraits too are hung
I adore,
As fine as those that Titian's mighty hand has ever flung
Glory o'er.
There are my Vandycks and Reynoldses, I love to stroll among,
More than through those whose praise and fame around the world are rung—
These, than Rembrandts or your Raphaels rare, so praised by every tongue,
I love more.

O, Memory, mighty painter! these I prize are from your hand.
How they start
To colour, life, and motion, at the waving of your wand!
When apart
From men, and talk, and bustle, I before them, musing, stand,
How precious forms and faces, and dear scenes of sea and land,
Than ever colours imaged yet, more tender, sweet, and
Charm my heart.

There are dim-remembered places that once felt my infant feet
Long ago;
There are woods and playgrounds nearer, bedroom, parlour, school, and street
That I know;
Field and lane, and sand and seashore, trodden by my boyish feet,
Or later, firmer steps, that make my heart with pleasure beat;
Old labours and old troubles, ah! old sorrows now seem sweet,
That they show.

There the faces that I look on, and the forms that there I see,
Dim or clear,
How tender, soft, and dream-like seems their beauty there to me,
And how dear!
Sister—brothers—father—mother, as they are and used to be
To my baby sight—my boy's eyes, seen in sorrow, thought, and glee,
Those dead to us in distance—those in eternity—
They are here.

With old smiles they're ever smiling, with old sorrows there they grieve;
O, how still!
My brain, with dreams and shadows that my fancy used to weave,
How they fill!
The kind—the feared—the false—old looks that fondle, scare, deceive—
Old ringing laughs, and saddest sighs — the gone for whom we grieve—
For me the shadowy twilights of the solemn past they leave,
At my will.

The man is there the infant — the girl's long-vanished smiles
There remain;
And tottering age to stirring life, the magic here beguiles;
All in vain
Time would hide them. O, enchanter, here thy silent, wondrous wiles,
To thy canvasses, that glow with matchless charms of all sweet styles,
Beauty faded — life departed — friendship, absent weary miles,
Call again.

On the deepening summer shadows—on the redly-glowing fire,
So she'll paint
All that eye and heart have seen, or see, or ever can desire;
Clear or faint,
There she limns them, and with gladdened eyes, that never of them tire,
All the wonder — sweetness — sadness, of her marvels I admire.
Ah, my pictures beat your rarest, though they may not have a buyer,
Child or saint.

[My hair is gathering gray apace]

My hair is gathering gray apace;
There's silver in it seen at last;
More thin and care-worn grows my face,
And age creeps near, now youth is past;
I've known what forty years can take,
What forty changeful years can bring,
Time, perhaps, my songs less gay may make,
But, blessed be God, I still can sing.

Yes, I have lived my life's fresh Spring,
The laughing May of all my years,
When, in the light that hope can fling
On all things, earth a heaven appears;

Ah, May and hope, I've left behind
Too far to feel as in my Spring;
But yet I have not song resigned,
No, blessed be God, I still can sing.

I've learned that as we onward range,
Each year its cares and toils must know,
That pleasures into griefs must change,
That gleams the cloudiest skies can show;
Yet, though I soberer plod along,
My age has glimpses of my Spring;
Yes, still its sunshine's in my song,
And, blessed be God, I still can sing.

Little's the leisure that I have;
At times I tread a weary way;
At times, for rest, my life will crave,
From the dull labours of each day;
So years go by, I know my days
My share of good and gladness bring,
But, best of blessings, God, I praise
The most that still He bids me sing.

Yes, the thrush sings, though Summer's come,
As though the Spring were round it still;
O may my Autumn not be dumb,
And song-bursts still my Winter fill!
Linger with me, O dear delight!
I hardly care what time may bring;
Care, toil, and sorrow sink from sight,
While, blessed be God, I still can sing.

[And say you that my Spring has fled]

And say you that my Spring has fled,
O silver round my temples shown?
What matter though time blanch my head,
So that he leave my heart alone?

I know, when first my glass would show
The gathering gray, I used to start;
What care I now! I've learned to know
Still Spring and song are in my heart.

Then let Time touch my hair to white;
It pleases him, it pains not me,
So long as still my heart is light,
And pleasure in my thoughts I see;
Let age have cheek, and hair, and eyes,
These form, of sweet youth, but a part;
I do but mask as old and wise:
Still Spring and song bloom in my heart.

Yes, in this heart, they're blooming still,
And here I'd hold them while I've breath;
Whatever else my age may kill,
My mirth and songs should know no death;
On to the cold brink of the grave,
From which I'd learn not even to start,
These blessings from time's grasp I'd save,
And Spring and song should cheer my heart.

NARRATIVE POEMS AND BALLADS.

SKETCHES FROM A PAINTER'S STUDIO.

A TALE OF TO-DAY.

A broad stream, smooth with deep-grassed fields,
Through rushy turnings winding slow;
A dam where stirless waters sleep
Till shot on the mossed wheel below
A dusty mill, whose shadows fall
On the stayed waters, white o'er all.

A vine-climbed cottage, redly-tiled,
Deep-nooked within an orchard's green,
Past which a white road winds away,
That hedgerow elms from summer screen;
A busy wheel's near sound that tells,
Within, the thriving miller dwells.

A cottage parlour, neatly gay,
With little comforts brightened round,
Where simple ornaments, that speak
Of more than country taste, abound,
Where bookcase and piano well
Of more than village polish tell.

A bluff blunt miller, well to do,
Of broad loud laugh—not hard to please;
A kindly housewife, keen and sage—
And busy as her very bees;
A bright-eyed daughter—mirth and health,
Their pride—their wealth above all wealth.

A tripping, fair, light-hearted girl,
Not yet the ripened woman quite,
Whose cheerful mirth and thoughtful love
Light up the cottage with delight,
And with a thousand gentle ways
With pleasure brim her parents' days.

A titled slip of lordly blood,
A few weeks' lounger at the Hall,

To gain new zest for palled delights
And squandered waste of health recal;
An angler in the milldam's water;
A chatter with the miller's daughter.

A meeting 'neath a summer's night;
Soft smiles—low words—impassioned sighs;
The trembling clasp of meeting hands;
The hot gaze met with downcast eyes;
Foul perjuries that pollute the air,
With burning hopes and doubts heard there.

A thin pale face, where Autumn sees
No more the smiles that lit the Spring;
A foot less light upon the stair;
A low voice heard no more to sing;
One now that lost to all things sits,
Now starts to over-mirth by fits.

Dear tongues that ask a gasping girl
Of what to utter were to kill;
Looks that she feels upon her fixed;
Eyes that with tears pursue her still;
Care in the old accustomed place
Of mirth, upon her father's face.

A dark small whitely-curtained room;
A form flung on the unopened bed;
Quick sobs that quiver through the gloom;
Tears rained from hot eyes swoln and red,
And words that through their wild despair
Still strive to shape themselves to prayer.

A winter midnight's starry gloom;
A pausing tread so light that steals
Across the landing—down the stairs,
That scarce a creak a step reveals;
A stifled sob—a bolt undrawn;
A form—low words—a daughter gone.

A fresh-turfed narrow hoop-bound grave,
Heaping a country churchyard's green,
On whose white headstone, newly carved,
The mill's old master's name is seen,
The wayside mill's, that bears no more
The well-known name so long it bore.

A stooping woman scarcely old,
Yet with the feeble walk of age,
The dull faint sense of whose blank mind
No thing around her can engage,
Yet who, when into speech beguiled,
Will mutter of some absent child.

A costly-furnished west-end room,
Whose mirrors—pictures—all things show
A stintless and abounding wealth,
An easeful luxury few can know;
A flaunting thing its glare within;
A thing of shame, remorse and sin.

A noise of quarrel; keen reproach,
Fronted with taunt, loud oath and curse,
Heaped out with such vile store of scorn
That hate in vain might seek for worse;
Meek pleadings, stricken to a close
With, shame to manhood! brutal blows.

A thing that once was woman; white,
Thin—haggard—hollow-eyed and wan;
A horror that the shuddering eye
Starts back aghast from resting on,
Whose only joy now left is drink,
Whose fire burns out the power to think.

A bridge all Winter keen with gusts,
On whose cold pathways lies the night;
Stony and desolate and dark,
Save round the gas-lamps' flickering light,
And swept by drifts of icy sleet
That numb each houseless wretch they meet.

A wintry river broad and black
That through dark arches slides along,
Ringed where the gaslights on it play
With coiling eddies swirling strong,
That far below the dizzy height
Of the dark bridge swim through the night.

A crouching form that through the gloom
Paces its stones a hundred times,
That pausing—glancing keenly round,
The dark high balustrade up-climbs;
A plunge—a shriek. From all its woes
A weary soul hath calm repose.

A long bright suite of stately rooms,
Where to soft music's changeful swell
Keeps time the beat of falling feet,
And all things but of pleasure tell,
Where, partner gay of noblest hands,
The suicide's seducer stands.

A DIRGE.

CONCLUSION TO “SKETCHES FROM A PAINTER'S STUDIO.”

Here let never wild winds rave;
Winter howl not o'er her tomb;
Only come anigh this grave
Summer shade and gentle gloom,
And round it ever soft low winds keep moan,
And sobs flow by,
And faint airs sigh
Sad murmurs of the fading year alone.
Low we laid her, cold and pale,
Whiter than her folding shroud,
With a grief not told aloud,
Sudden sob and smothered wail;
Withered violets tell her tale—
Tender blooms, the gleam swift lost,
The fleeting breath

Of early Spring tempts forth to blighting frost
And icy death.
Unoped lilies o'er her tomb
strew—
Primroses—the purple bloom
Of hyacinths and faint perfume
Of every frailest star that peeps the April through.
Fair she was and sweet as they,
With azure laugh within her eyes
That tears and sadness gleamed away,
A thing we said unmade for sighs,
Till, woe, love came!
Oh, tears, that love, life's best of worth,
Love, joy of the rejoicing earth,
Her days should claim
From girlhood's mirths and careless sports and gay
Light-hearted laughs and low-breathed prayers away,
For gaze-drooped shame,
For sobs and death—the cold, still tomb's decay,
An unbreathed name.
Yet ever in our thought she lies
A memory all reproof above,
On whom reproach turns not its eyes,
But only love:
Love with a misty gaze of gathering tears,
That no accusing word of chiding memory hears.
But unto him
Comes she not in the watches of the night,
The chamber's gloom,
Thronging the dim
And spectral room
With wan, felt presence, that the shuddering sight
Aches out upon through the dim taper's light,
Till cold damps start
On his dank forehead, and through his keen ears
Throng palpable the utterings of his fears,
And, ghastly fright
Scourging his spotted soul, again he hears
In the old tones that the remembered years
Thrilled with delight,

The grave-closed sorrow of her tale of tears?
Such wages win
The accursed sin,
The serpent sin that on her pureness stole,
Sliming its track across her spotless soul,
Poisoning to ill the holy peace within.
Yet there is rest for all,
Sleep for the weariest eyes:
In peace she quiet lies
Where chequered shadows fall
Across her low-heaped grave,
Where the wild winds in grief forget to rave,
And ever the loud gusts of winter blow
In moanings low,
Wailing for her our sorrow might not save.
The hueless rose,
The pallid lily plant upon her tomb,
So shall their vestal glory light its gloom,
Its shadowing gloom, with the pure gleam of snows,
And their white beauty shall the summer show
Our weeping love for her who sleeps below.

THE TEARFUL CORNET.

To-day, arresting the passers' feet,
A cornet I heard in the hurrying street.

Common the cornet and man that played it;
What was it so telling and plaintive made it?

I couldn't get from it. What could be its spell?
There was one I knew; that I could but feel well.

Often I'd heard our Kœnig play,
But never the cornet before to-day.

Strange was its charm, it must be confest;
Whence was its power you'd little have guessed.

The player was one not worth a rap,
With a broken hat and a coat with no nap.

Out at the elbows—with shoes that let
Out, his bare toes and, in, the wet.

Wrinkled and old—too aged by half
To be standing for pence amid jeer and laugh:

Though many I saw, to my elbows nigh,
Thought little of laughter, as moved as I.

What could the cause be that all of us made
Not able to stir while that tune he played.

'Twas a common street-air, I shouldn't have lingered,
Except I'd been forced, to hear uttered or fingered.

One—why, a month past each urchin had hummed it,
No organ but ground it—no scraper but strummed it.

And yet as it swelled now and died through my ears,
My heart, it beat to it and praised it with tears.

You'll think me maudlin; I wasn't a fool
To let that cornet my feelings rule.

For the powers that ruled in that cornet's breath
Were not age and want, but misery and death.

Away in a dirty lane of the town,
A close court where never the sun comes down,

Up reeking stairs, if you'll pick your way,
You'll come to a garret, so high, there's day.

Neat, to your wonder—cleanly though bare,
Though with half of a table and hardly a chair.

Though the rusty grate seems little to know
Of coals, and the cupboard no bread can show;

Yet the room is furnished, as better ones are,
In city and country—ay, near and afar.

For a silence is there that is hushing your breath,
And throned, on the bed in the corner, is death.

The sunshine seems dim and the day full of awe
As it touches with reverence that old bed of straw,

And the withered face on it, and hair thin and gray,
To pay for whose coffin that cornet must play.

Yes, to pay dues to death for his aged old wife,
That cornet is suing for pence there to life.

Who wonders—not I—my heart to it beat,
When grief and love played it afar in the street!

Who wonders—not I—I never had known
A cornet like that for tears in its tone!

That I felt in its music a terrible sense
Of a something beyond a mere playing for pence!

The heart it was played it—the heart it was heard it,
And therefore it was that old wretched breath stirred it.

God send that few players may play so well
The cornet, such grief and such want to tell!

That the ears of few passers be startled again
By a cornet that grief plays, a coffin to gain!

FROM INDIA.

“O come you from the Indies, and soldier can you tell
Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well?
O soldier, say my son is safe—for nothing else I care,
And you shall have a mother's thanks—shall have a widow's prayer.”

“O I've come from the Indies—I've just come from the war;
And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are;
From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well,
And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell.”

“And do you know my Robert, now? O tell me, tell me true,
O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you!
His very words—my own boy's words—O tell me every one!
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son.”

“Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;
In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share;
Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball,
And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all.”

“O thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,
The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare!
O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away!
And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?”

“Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done;
In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your son;
A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say,
And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day.”

“Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue; O husband, that you knew
How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through,
All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!
But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said.”

“He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame,
We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same;

For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune,
But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon.”

“O is he really coming home, and shall I really see
My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it be?
Did you say soon?”—“Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here.”
“O Robert, my own blessèd boy!”—“O mother—mother dear!”

THE STAR OF THE BALLET.

A SKETCH FROM THE SOUTH.

For hours, what crowds have throng'd its door!
From pit to gallery, what a sight!
St. Carlo holds its hundreds more
Than e'er it held before to-night.
From Scotland is she? Well, the South
At length is by the North outdone!
Her name's alone in every mouth;
They're here to see but one—but one—
But one—but one.

They say all London's at her feet;
Gay Paris worships only her;
Her steps' wild charm to fever heat
Even Moscow's sluggish soul could stir.
From West to East, all Europe through,
One round of triumph has she run;
Now here we crown this wonder too,
And Naples flocks to see but one,
But one—but one.

Alike from palace, quay, and street,
Her worshippers to-night are brought,
As if this dancer's glancing feet
Were sunny Naples' only thought;

Who is not burning to adore?
Unseen, her triumph's yet begun.
She comes; her fame has flown before,
And all are here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Look round before the curtain's raised;
How well that beauty acts it there,
In front, to have her white arm praised,
And flash the diamonds in her hair!
But that one face, what does it here?
Its sternness well each eye may shun!
Her countryman? Ah, then 'tis clear,
He too is here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Our Norma's good; yet much I fear
To-night no thunders wait for her;
And scarce, I think, were Grisi here,
Or Lind herself, a hand would stir;
Their favourite air—'tis all in vain;
They would the ballet were begun;
Of her alone a sight they'd gain;
To-night they've only eyes for one,
For one—for one.

She comes! she comes! that wreath of girls,
How fair they float adown the stage!
Now, swift the rosy circle whirls;
Now, breaks, one form to disengage.
'Tis she whom all are hush'd to see!
What thunders, still and still begun,
But hush'd to burst, proclaim, 'tis she!
A thousand eyes are strain'd on one,
On one—but one.

How wondrous fair! and yet, how cold
The perfect oval of her face,
Where all of beauty we behold,
And yet of triumph scarce a trace!

She bends; now, all unmoved, she stands,
As if her right she only won,
Her due, the rapture from our hands
That, well she knows, would greet but one,
But one—but one.

Away—away—her quivering feet
The raptured eye can scarcely trace,
Where all the forms of beauty meet,
And every motion's rarest grace.
She bounds; she whirls; with floating arms
She poises; each by each outdone;
Now proudly pants in all her charms
Amid the plaudits hail'd on one,
On one—but one.

Rain down your wreaths—your rarest flowers!
Heap'd to her feet, let blossoms fall!
Her queenly gaze is raised to ours,
Her lighted eyes are thanking all;
What brought that flush to breast and brow,
That flush that ne'er the dance had done?
That start? She saw each face but now;
Now, now, she sees—she sees but one,
But one—but one.

What does he here? why has he sped
O'er sea—o'er Alps, to front the gaze
Of her, to him but as the dead,
So loved—so lost in early days?
Can she, this bared thing of the stage,
From God and her youth's worship won,
This wept-for sin—can she engage
One thought of his—one thought, but one,
Even one—but one?

Are her old father's thoughts less stern?
Perchance his aged eyes grow dim
In watch for her; his heart may yearn
At last for her who yearns for him;

O baseless hope! he has not sent.
His daughter? Daughter he has none;
He knows not her, from God who went;
He has no child—no child—not one,
Not one—not one.

His home's old Bible holds her name,
Yet, nightly, when 'tis open'd there,
For her who brought his grey hairs shame,
For her, so loved! he has no prayer.
Prop of his age! how could she turn
From God, the world's vain ways to run!
O bait of hell! its fame to earn
With his old curse, but heap'd on one,
On one—but one!

His curse! his curse! O would his heart
Could feel, what unto Heaven is known,
No touch of vice need spot the art
His stern faith holds as sin alone!
Ah, could he know, who brought that start,
What paths of peril she has run,
Unstain'd in thought—in act—in heart,
Would still his sternness spurn the one,
The loved—the one?

'Tis he, her lover of the days
Ere yet she scorn'd her girlish home,
Ere yet she nursed a thought of praise,
Ere yet she knew a wish to roam;
And here, enchantress of the hour,
Her memory's thought has backward run
To the clear burn—the thorn in flower,
The gloaming meetings, shared with one,
With one—but one.

Fame whisper'd, and she weakly thought
She well could thrust her pride above
Her stifled heart, nor e'er be taught
No pride, for long, can conquer love;

Through joy—through triumph, soon that heart
Its deeper tones would ever run,
Till from all other love she'd start,
Through all her temptings, true to one,
To one—but one.

O doubt it not! there have been hours
When raptures pall'd, and praise was pain,
When, crown'd with pleasure's rosiest flowers,
She yearn'd for that still vale again,
Half loathed the city's feverish life,
Half wish'd the hopes of years undone,
To flee the fame—the thirst—the strife,
For some poor home, with him, the one,
The loved—the one.

Ah! still that home she yet may win,
Woo—win it through the world's applause;
To-night, will he not drink it in,
And, ere he dare to spurn her, pause?
She starts; away in air she springs,
Her every former grace outdone,
Till, round one storm of plaudits rings,
She heeds it not; she heeds but one,
But one—but one.

He rose; he's gone; even while, with him,
To leave that life of life she yearn'd;
He only saw before him swim
A scorn, his latest hope that spurn'd,
A fallen shape, that, in his sight,
Dared vaunt the heights its shame had won;
Of whom, to win to God and light,
Remain'd no hope—no hope—not one,
Not one—not one.

He's gone; all vainly may she look,
Through years, shall look for him in vain,
Whose love she once for fame forsook,
And now would give that fame to gain;

That fame, that scarce a pulse can stir,
To gaze on her, though thousands run,
Those gazing thousands—what to her
Are they? Still—still she looks for one,
For one—but one.

He's gone; amid her native hills
He dwells, no more to name her name,
A thought of whom with sternness fills
His heart, grown bitter with her shame;
He little thinks that worshipp'd star,
While crowds around her chariot run,
In thought, how oft! is wandering far
To that loved home—to him—the one,
The loved—the one.

A NEW GRISELDA.

Say you that there's no food for poetry
In all the life around us—that our age
Is too prosaic and mechanical
To find a subject for the poet's pen?
Tush! as well might the blind old beggar say,
Who walks in night through this majestic world,
That all the wonders that he cannot see
Have no existence; trust me, friend, in you,
Not in the manners—spirit of our age,
Or what else you have named, the reason lies.
The want is yours; a Shakespeare yet would find
In many a drawing-room and busy street,
Nay, in the squalid alleys of our towns,
And in our very jails and workhouses,
Full many a pale Ophelia with her doom
Struggling in vain, in wordless agony.
Ah, if you had a Chaucer's eye to see!
How many a meek Griselda round us bears,
With uncomplaining misery of heart,
The load her nature was not fashioned for!

Why, if I were a poet, I could tell
A tale of every-day unvarnish'd life,
That should upon the common heart of all
Knock, and bring tears for answer. In our place,
A quiet village in the heart of Kent,
There lived two families well known to all;
For, through the country, not the oldest man
Could tell the time when first to settle there
The earliest of the Blakes or Hills had come.
There had they, in their two white cottages,
Father and son, dwelt on beyond the reach
Of even our oldest memories; the boy
Growing into labour as the aged man
Grew out of it and laid him down to rest.
A widower long, Nathaniel Blake was now
Not old, but yet some half score years beyond
The point where life slopes downwards, at the time
My tale begins. How plain I see him now
As if he were before me, tall and stern,
With a firm step and an unbending gait,
Though toiling years had touch'd his hair to gray;
His eye—'twas like a hawk's, as sharp and bright,
An eye that few amongst us cared to meet,
Even in its friendly greetings, so it seem'd
To look the man it gazed on through and through.
'Twas said by those who knew him in his youth
That none then show'd an eye or laugh'd a laugh
More brimming over with a light heart's mirth
Than he; his tongue dropp'd jokes and moving jests
On all he met with; so he moved, a sun,
To all our neighbourhood; with him gladness came,
And often quoted sayings—harmless mirth,
A very wealth of laughs remain'd behind.
These were his boyish days; but manhood came,
And with it, all the usual cares of life,
And many most men know not; he was tried,
They say, most sorely; surety for a friend
His trusting kindliness could not refuse,
He lost the little wealth his father left,
And sank at once almost to beggary;

He struggled hard with fortune, though his life
At times was harder than he well could bear;
Through want of needful comforts, want of friends,
Of even bread itself, he struggled on.
The first pale streak of daylight call'd him out
To labour, and night found him still at work.
He struggled manfully, and well, at length
He fought his way right up with his own arm
To needful comfort, if not competence;
But, in this sore-fought fight with fate, he lost
All the light-hearted buoyancy of youth,
Its laughs and playful mockeries; in their stead,
Men saw a settled calm, that, if not stern,
Was cold and distant far from his old mirth.
His words were few, and as we could but know,
Even in his very kindliest moments, cold,
Though it was said his heart beat warm beneath.
This was his common temper; but when roused,
'Twas shown how much the world had soured its tone;
His language then was harsh to one and all,
Even to those who knew he loved them most.
He brook'd not opposition; argument
Would lash him into fury that would threat
To root the best affections from his heart
And fling them by, the victims of his will.
One only child, a daughter, bless'd his home.
Now, at the time I speak of, she had grown
Into fair womanhood, but neither plain
Nor very lovely could she well be call'd,
But rather she was neither in extreme,
Excepting when she smiled, and then but few
Could say that Mary was not sweeter far,
And better worthy note and praise than some
Who took the eye more when her smile was gone.
'Twas a sweet smile—so full of human love,
Of gentle tenderness and kindly heart,
Of meek and self-denying charity;
It doubly bless'd her giving to the poor
When weigh'd against the stooping-down disdain
That fell with larger doles from other hands;

She won on all that knew her, so that none,
I'm bold to say, amongst us, harbour'd one
Ungentle thought towards sweet Mary Blake.
The very outcasts of the village, those
Who lived the butts of every other's scorn,
Receiving gentle services from her,
Still felt they were not sever'd from their kind,
And, feeling it, grew worthier; so they sought,
As pleasures to be prized, to do her will,
And run her little errands through the place;
The very chickens of our village green
Flock'd round her footsteps for her gracious gifts,
And cats would try to nestle in her lap,
And bleating lambs thrust noses in her hand,
To find the bread they seldom sought in vain.
You knew her window that the jessamine
And honeysuckle hung with draperies rare,
By the brown sparrows on the garden trees,
That hopp'd and twitter'd, perked their knowing heads,
Or sharpen'd on the bark their tiny bills,
In waiting for her morning shower of crumbs,
That never was forgotten; the mazed bee
That beat its wings against the sunny glass,
And humm'd its longing to be our again,
Her hand threw up the window for, and sent
Through bed and border, noisy in her praise.
I've seen her, twenty times, set free the fly
From the fine meshes of the spider's web,
And do a thousand acts as full of love,
Towards the dumb brute creatures in her way.
So she was loved by everything that lived;
And, loved by strangers, I need hardly say,
That she was dear as sunshine in her home;
And, as she grew, grew tenfold in the love
Of her stern father, and became his pride.
When but a child, her prattling tongue had been
The only thing that brought his own old laugh
Back on the coldness of her father's face;
And, when she grew a girl, there hardly seem'd
A thing that gave him such true, real delight,

As anything he did that pleasured her;
For her the thrift that all his long, hard strife
With poverty had used him to, and made
A natural habit of his life, until
Those knowing not the virtues whence it sprung,
Call'd Blake hard names, close-handed, and so forth,
His thrift, I say, with her became a thing
Forgotten, or, if thought of, beaten down
By the still growing love he bore his child.
So lived she, loving and beloved by all;
And, as years came and went, the prattling child
Grew up into the girl; the laughing girl
Became the calmer woman. Now, perchance,
You ask if such a heart, so form'd for love,
Still treasur'd all its wealth of heart for home?
If her unsumm'd affection were confined
To acts of sisterly regard for all?
Found she no one among our village youths
To harbour some yet deeper feeling for?
I answer, Yes; and so, I could be sworn,
Young Edward Hill could then have answer'd too;
For playmates in their childhood they had been,
Twin hunters of the hiding violet,
Trippers together through the April lanes,
To find the treasures of their earliest May.
They, in the summers of their childish days,
Would roam the bright, green meadows, hand in hand,
And bring a very wealth of king-cups home,
Of silver daisies and pale primroses;
There might you see them many a summer's day,
Their sunny curls half-buried in the grass,
With mighty heaps of field-flowers by their side,
Sorting from all the ones they loved the best,
And tossing with a pretty, sweet disdain,
The lowliest of their gather'd hoards away;
I've watch'd them often, and a sweeter sight
I dare believe the summer never saw.
At shearing-time, together still you found
The tiny playmates, running in and out
Among the thick-fleeced, shaggy, bleating sheep,

And hiding from each other, oftener found
By their own laughter, not to be kept down,
Than anything besides; still were they seen
At hay-time, side by side, in the heap'd fields,
Rolling among the new-mown swathes of grass,
And happy to their very heart's content;
And when the last cart came in triumph home,
Piled up to heaven with all its golden sheaves,
Leaving but stubble for the seas of grain
That dimpled in the dances of the wind,
In the full corn-field—at our harvest-home,
'Twas Mary Blake and little Edward Hill
That rode together on old Dobbin too,
Straddling, with little outstretch'd naked legs,
Not easily across his broad old back,
And laughing through the sunshine, not all blind,
If I mistake not, to the many words
Of admiration round them.

So they grew,
And long the changing pleasures, hopes, and fears,
The changing years brought with them, found the two
Sharing alike their laughter and their tears,
True honest partners in the game of life,
The gains and losses of their ripening hearts
Dividing; long the passage of each day,
Changing so many, wrought no change in them.
As the child loved, the boisterous boy loved on;
The youth, the boy's affection treasured up,
With all the usury by the heart laid by
To swell its sum with every season's growth.
Ah, well I mind the scene when then a dance
Together call'd our village neighbours round,
To laugh away a frosty winter's night,
And kill its quiet with their boisterous mirth.
How noisy then were all! how to its height,
Enjoyment leapt, till all was merriment,
And ceaseless motion, and unmeasured talk!
How the cold hearts of aged folks beat fast
In the tumultuous laughter of the hour,
And young again, and thoughtless of their years,

Half thrust them off their soft old quiet seats,
To join the happy dance they idly watch'd
From the red blaze of the huge piled-up fire,
Whose crackling logs out-roared the very wind
Without, and drown'd its voices in their own!
In such a scene, when every heart was glad,
And sadness, finding theirs no place for it,
Went moaning off to wait for fitter time,
You'd little need, if Mary Blake were there,
To run your eye along the lusty line
Of our young bachelors, a-tiptoe all,
Waiting their turn to whirl their partners off,
To tell if Edward Hill were there or no;
For, in her absence, in her vacant gaze,
That, though it looked on all the scene around,
Seem'd not to see it, straying somewhere else,
In the neglect her partner's questions met,
That, steeped in rustic flattery to the full,
Yet for a moment, honied as they were,
Drew not a word of notice, till at last
Their recollection woke upon her mind,
And brought some sudden answer, short reply,
Some single word, a hurried “Yes,” or “No,”
Which said, the blush that just had stain'd her cheek
With sweet confession of her short neglect
Died off again and left her as before—
In all these things, to those who chose to mark
Their presence, lay the words, “He is not here,”
And round for Edward you might look in vain.
But O how different was the look she wore
When he was present! Lip and eye and cheek
And the full rush of her young glad heart's mirth
Let loose to pour its treasures on the sight,
And dance and wanton in the eye of night,
Why all and each a hundred answers gave
To tell to every one that he was there,
There, there, her partner, facing in the dance,
An Easter sun among the lesser lights
That, sparkle as they might to others' eyes,
By him were dim and lustreless to her.

These were their childish days: but little change
Their youth found in them, save that, it may be,
Edward found pleasure in far more pursuits
That were not shared by her than when a boy.
His dog—a gun—a horse—a hundred things
Had power to draw him from her gentle side,
And to divide his thoughts and hopes with her;
Hence did it happen that whole days would come
And go, without his entering once their door,
While Mary moved like sunlight, sadden'd through
The weeping clouds of April, through the house,
With looks that spoke his absence, which her talk
Dwelt not upon, though now and then a word
Would drop by chance, or, it may be, a sigh
Would tell too well the current of her thoughts,
And how her heart was brooding over him.
But then he came; the April clouds were gone,
With all their twilight showers, that seemed to serve,
Now they were gone, to render but more bright
The bursting splendour of the cloudless day
In the deep joy of sunshine, flooding all,
Till very sadness brighten'd in its touch
And sparkled into gladness in the light.

There are some natures in this world of ours
That walk the earth with spirits wing'd for heaven,
So meek, so wholly strange to selfish thoughts,
That injuries in them wake no sense of wrong.
You might as soon to fierceness stir the lamb,
Or from the soak'd fleece strike the granite's fire,
As draw a spark from gentleness like theirs;
Heap on them ills on ills so numberless
That patience hardly could the load endure,
And, like the o'erladen camel, they shall sink,
But never murmur. Gentle souls like these
Do move among us, and of such was she.
Hence she of Edward's absence took no note
As of a thing to marvel at or blame;
One meek strong love her being so possess'd,
Such sense absorbing of her low desert,

That she had bought him smiles with weary tears,
With heaviest sobs had told her days away,
To lighten his, nor dreamed he owed one thought,
One poor, short, passing memory to her;
His love she never took as gift for gift,
Affection for affection, thought for thought,
But as man takes the charities of heaven,
As bounteous blessings, rain'd without a claim
On our unworthiness, and fitly own'd
With praise and lowliness and humble joy.
Not so her father. Mary long had grown
A want so needful to his widow'd home
That, stinted of her presence, his old years
Had been as peaches hidden from the sun,
Mark'd, not for mellow ripeness, but decay.
No thought had he, long after years had borne
Her childhood from her, of a coming time
When his old ears for her accustom'd foot
Should listen vainly, and his aged eyes
No more would lose their dimness, following her.
And, when at last, time show'd the truth it hid,
The bitterness of his old life came back,
Hardening yet more his nature, hard before.
Strange it had been if Edward, bleakening thus
To winter the mild autumn of his days,
Had found that favour in the father's sight
That met him in the daughter's; natural 'twas
The want of him should, in the old man's eyes,
Be dearer than the presence; so you'd guess,
And so, at last, we plainly saw it was;
Yet all of this was felt far more than said,
For, though his tongue familiar was with words
Harder and harsher than the thoughts they spoke,
And though his speech could little brook a curb
On the straight utterance that its purpose told,
Yet for the doting love he bore his child,
And, if I err not, it may be, perchance,
From something of old fondness for the boy,
Blake ever stay'd the quick, harsh words, that rose
At Edward's coming, and had, utter'd, bid

The youth to never cross his threshold more.
And so the change towards him show'd itself
In alter'd tones, and want of the old smile,
And hearty joke, and greeting when they met,
More than in open speech; and still the house
That had, through happy years, been to the boy
Another home, to him remain'd the same
In all but in its altered owner's looks,
And lack of cordial welcome, when he came;
And so it had remain'd, but for an act,
The very turning-point of this sad tale,
That brought a crisis in poor Mary's fate,
And gave the old man's smother'd passion vent.

Now cursèd be the tyrant laws that set
The worth of game above the good of men,
That for the matter of a wild bird, crowd
Our loathsome prisons with the pride and youth
Of all our villages, and turn to shame,
To vagrancy, and crime, lives that had else
Borne to their country fruit of worthy deeds,
Of honest industry and useful toil;
Bootless it were to try to prove to such
That God's wild creatures, fresh from out his hands,
Are but for luxuries for the favour'd few,
And never meant to be a joy to all.
The man that from a plain and open theft
Would start in horror—ay, would turn to starve,
Will see, in this, no act of shame or wrong,
While even the daring that the crime demands
Adds a wild pleasure to the poacher's life.
Around our village lay wide-spread preserves,
Own'd by the reverend guider of our souls,
And by our squire, both dealers out of law,
Both deeply sworn to put all poachers down;
Adjudging their own wrongs, their vengeance wrung
Its sternest reading from the vengeful law;
And many a felon at the gallows' foot

Could trace up his career of crime to them—
An honest labourer, ere their sentence thrust
Him nameless out to herd with desperate crime.
Now Edward poach'd, as all his fellows did,
And, bold and daring, laugh'd to scorn all fear,
Till, mark'd and watch'd, on one September night,
The keepers came upon him; overpower'd,
He fronted justice, a convicted man.
What boots it to repeat a common tale,
How, fair in fame, before the jail be trod,
He blasted left it, poor in honest hopes,
And rich in promise of despair and crime!
Ah! I remember, as 'twere yesterday,
That bright September morning when I call'd
At neighbour Blake's, and learn'd the bitter truth
From weeping Mary, while, through sobs that burst,
Convulsions of her being, rose, in words
As broken as the heart that utter'd them,
Her father's stern command that never more
Should Edward's name be spoken in their home,
That never more, if she held dear his love,
Should word of Edward Hill be heard by her.
Well might her tears be rain'd like wintry hail,
Her sobs came thick and fast as Autumn's own!
Often, thank God! the madnesses of wrath
The kindly sense of memory will not hear,
And time forgets them; but who knew him best
Knew well, let who would carve resolves in air,
Her father's sunk in marble, hard as life,
By time less worn than deepen'd; therefore, well
Did Mary see how misery bade her weigh
Loss against loss, and treasured love with love,
A father's blessing with a husband's faith,
Each won with agony of such a want
As beggar'd all to come of perfect joy,
And dimm'd the future's dearest smiles with tears.
There stood she; and, through blinding mists of grief,
Saw life depart from father, comfort, home,
All early fondnesses and old respects,
Or, through all after-being, take its way

Afar from hope, youth's fondest dreams and love;
O dull in heart is he who, ask'd her choice,
Ponder'd to tell; need have I to repeat
How love, in its great passion, trod o'er fear,
And prostrate joy and duty, to its end?
The feeblest, in its mighty strength, are strong,
And fears are reckless in its hardihood.
So she quail'd not to look with steady eye
On partnership in shame and blacken'd name,
In chance of penury, and dread of want,
And misery, scorn'd of pity and relief;
Beyond them look'd her eye, to where love stood,
And all between was as she saw it not.
She left her home; she left her father's sight,
Dogg'd with his curse, to share a felon's fate;
For joy and sorrow, she became a wife;
And time stole on, until their names became
But as the remnants of a half-told tale,
That rose with pity and conjecture sad,
When the eye fell upon her father, now
A childless, broken, solitary man,
More worn with stern and tearless strife with grief,
And silent agony of heart, than years;
Never her name was known to pass his lips,
But all who look'd upon him, saw his love,
Laughing to scorn his will, dared hoard it still;
Long afterwards it was, before we knew
How, spite of all, his stern old purpose held;
Little we guess'd that his firm heart had brook'd
To hear his dear, dear girl—his darling child—
His Mary beg, in bitterest want, of him,
Closing all ear of pity to her prayer;
Yes, she had written—written in despair—
In want of bread had written. First, it seem'd,
Turning their steps towards London, Edward hoped,
Flying the knowledge of his guilt, to gain
Honest employ, that so long diligence
And upright years again might make his name
A thing to utter with no sound of shame;
Of yet calm days hope babbled; but, alas!

Hope is no constant prophet of the truth.
Who once has breathed of prison air, henceforth
Loathed of his fellows, walks a tainted man;
To him all paths of good are ever closed,
All ways to crime unbarr'd and open wide.
Dogg'd with a felon's name, he sought for work,
And sought it vainly; month on month went by,
Lowering their slender stock of means and hope,
Till front to front with utter want they stood;
Then Mary wrote; she told of faults atoned
In hunger, disappointment and despair,
A future—fear; a present—misery.
Came there no answer? Yes; “Come back,” it said,
“Leave you your husband, daughter, and return!
“My home is yours, but it is none for him,
“And all shall be forgotten; else henceforth
“Know not your father, girl!” Tears drown'd the note,
And nevermore from her the old man heard.
But let me hasten; for a time again
All trace of them we lost, save that there came,
I know not how, a rumour to our ears,
That Edward, urged of want, to evil ways
Had turn'd, a drunkard and a ruin'd man,
Familiar with all modes of crime and sin;
And often, round our evening cottage fire,
Our thoughts would be of Mary, and our talk
Shape darkest fancies of her state of life,
Her sufferings and her sorrows. Well we knew,
Bred in the strictness of a pious youth,
Much had she changed, if guilt and vice to her
Had grown familiar, and conjecture closed,
Almost with hope's half prayer, that, ere this,
Within the quiet of the grave she lay,
Where grief is not and weariness hath rest;
Alas! alas! how otherwise it was!
O Power Supreme! thy ways are hard to man,
And faith alone has strength to read them right,
Good out of suffering brought—from evil, good.
Business to London call'd me, when, it chanced,
Running my eye across the morning's Times,

What should it light on but poor Mary's name,
Prologue to such a bitter tale of wrong
As memory yet companions with quick tears.
It seems that Edward, bitter with despair,
Turn'd on the cold hard world that on him trod,
And headlong threw him down the depths of crime,
Till he had fathom'd, ere yet well a man,
The last abysses of all guilt and sin;
Herding with vilest lives and shameless ill,
His being shaped itself on all around,
Till he, in will and inward impulse, moved
A thing his sinless soul had shudder'd from.
Oaths, desperate as his days, were words with him,
And, hour on hour, the hellish fire of drink
Raged in his brain and burnt along his blood,
Fled of remorse, of meekness and of good,
Till love, their fellow, desolate and lone,
Last lingerer, with slow steps and turn'd eyes, pass'd,
Leaving to savage thoughts and brutal deeds
The unholy life that it no longer stirred
To acts and words that had some touch of heaven.
And Mary, how bore she the spites of fate?
Lower'd she to his level, day by day,
Soiling the spotless whiteness of her soul,
Dragg'd down by love's own strength from purity?
Or kept she still her sinlessness of youth,
Girt in from ill with childhood's Sabbath ways,
Its infant piety and holy prayers?
The closing horror of her hapless fate
No utterance gave distinctly, yet led on
The following thought, by glimpse and broken hint,
To all but surety that her latter life
Held swerveless on its early blameless way,
Till murder with strange horror strode her path,
And, even for her pureness, smote her down.
'Twas known the law's grasp, closing upon him,
Had never laid its wrathful hand on her,
And, in the night of blood to which I tend,
The dwellers in the house, before her shriek,
Caught threats and curses and disjointed words,

As of one urging to some deed of sin
Another vainly, while prayers, pray'd in vain
By Mary, gave refusal to his will;
Then came fierce bursts of wrath, and then a shriek,
And heavy feet that fled along the stairs;
And, as they rush'd towards the sight of death,
A parting glance of him proclaim'd them his;
Upon the bare room's bloody floor she lay,
A sight that to the flying murderer's eyes
Should have been madness; he had struck her down,
And they who found her in her senseless form
Saw little life; even while I shuddering read,
Within a hospital she dying lay,
Within a prison, he. No time I lost,
Urged by strong interest in her hapless fate;
In haste I went, and, as a well-known friend,
Urged my request to see her. I had come
Most opportunely, for, the by-gone night,
After a weary strife of sense with death,
Life for a moment won; that morning, Sir,
I found was order'd for the solemn act
Of her accusal of her murderer;
For, though life with a fitful brightness shone,
It was a farewell flicker ere it sank,
We saw. O Sir, O Sir, it was a thing
To flood the eyes with sorrow for a life,
To stand, as I did, by her dying bed,
Looking upon the wreck that lay below.
Poor thing! poor thing! through what a thorny track
Of agony and sickness of the heart
Must she have wander'd ere she sank to this;
So changed from her old times of joy and smiles,
That memory hardly on her face could find
One feature of its knowing; worn and thin,
With an unnatural lustre of the eyes,
Through which, with ghostly fire, the parting soul
Peer'd through its mortal dwelling on the world,
She lay, with pinch'd sharp features, whiter than
The ghastly bandages around them bound,
And lips that, moving, utter'd not a sound,

100

As though the spirit communed with itself;
Her eyes met mine, and once the old sweet smile
A moment trembled on her hollow cheek,
And a weak shadow of her happy self
Stole back a fleeting moment and was gone;
She named my name, and would have spoken; alas!
A coming tread had fix'd her eager eye
And struck all else into one utter blank,
In which the world, all circumstance and time,
Were blotted out and nothing. O'er her face
The ghastly memory of that fearful night
Shudder'd, and in her sight her murderer stood.
No, not the Edward of her girlish love,—
No, not the husband of her woman's faith,—
He stood before her, one whose sullen front
Was reckless sin; half master of its dread,
To hers his fearful eye stole struggling up,
But, daring not the accusal of her look,
Fell from the depth of love within her gaze,
That love that trembled through her faltering words,
“Edward, my Edward—I accuse you? I?
“O gentlemen, he could not—'twas not he—
“A dream—a shuddering dream—it's all forgot.
“O husband, kiss me—kiss me once again,
“Your own fond wife—and, Edward, when I'm gone,
“Husband—my husband, think of me but as
“That Mary, she that smiled your heart away
“In the old years—that loved you to the last,
“O Edward, Edward, how, no words can say.”

Upon her pillow back she sank, her eyes
Shut in exhaustion; but about her lips
Wander'd the blessedness of such a smile
As gladden'd with its joy the songs of heaven,
A smile that told of injuries forgiven,
And all of earth but peace and love forgot;
A moment more, that glory on her lips,
Without a sound, she pass'd to find that rest
The weary find within the quiet grave.

101

Now there's a tale that by our Mitford told,
Our Wordsworth, or in the haunting music sung
Of him who wrote of Dora, should have power
And reign eternal o'er the hearts of men,
Wedded unto the sweetest tears of time.
Go, study them, and see how life is life,
Despite of clothings, customs, forms and creeds,
To eyes that see, as theirs, our nature bare.
Trust me, the heart still throbs and breaks the same,
Laughs with the laugh and lives the very life
Of all the ages. Go—go—study them!

THE BOAT-RACE.

“There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
“I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,
“Or wait a twelvemonth. Books—for ever books!
“Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!
“I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
“To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,
“No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,
“She needing yours. There—there—I love you, Ned,
“Both for your own, and for your mother's sake;
“So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
“And you shall have her.” With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,
He left the subject; and, across the wine,
We talked,—or rather, all the talk was his,—
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others—Clare, the boast
Of Jesus',—and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,
There was young Chester might be named with them;
“Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
“Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins;
“Small chance for you, boy!” And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,

102

But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one
Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,
There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond
Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her—found her there,
A summer blossom that the peering sun
Peep'd at through blossoms,—that the summer airs
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold,
Warm as that rain'd on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path
I pass'd; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming, (was I her thought?) my murmur'd “Kate”
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her cheek,
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest
Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears
Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went,
And in my College rooms what blissful hopes
Were mine!—what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams,
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!
But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes,

103

Even my new tragedy upon the stocks,
I throng'd my brain with talks of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight,
Its by-laid cunning back; so, day by day,
From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon
Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars
And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,
Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I fear'd but Chester—him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,
And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden greenness of the fields,
And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh,
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,
My eye saw only; one, that morning, left
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart,
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears—
One, that upon my neck had parting hung
Arms white as daisies—on my bosom hid
A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart,
Fill'd with what fondness! yearning with what love!
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine!
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?

104

There was a murmur in my heart of “Yes,”
That sung to slumber every wakening fear
That still would stir and shake me with its dread.
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach,
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn—
A barge moor'd mid-stream, flush'd with fluttering flags.
And we were ranged, and, at the gun, we went,
As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd;
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt off,
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar,
Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength
Held on, enduring,—mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard,
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick,
And toss'd a laugh across, with jesting words:
“What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?
“The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
“No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win.”
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry
Burst: “Kate, O dearest Kate—O love—we lose!”
“Ah! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win,”
He answered: “Faith! my boy, I pity you.”
“Oh, if you lose,” I answered, “you but lose
“A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
“I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
“Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness—
“What years with her that I might call my wife!
“Winning, I win her!” O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;
I saw the flush of pride die into one

105

Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke; one only look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, “Chester foil'd at last!”
O how I turn'd to him! with what a heart!
Unheard the shouts—unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answering hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.

PYGMALION.

How the white vision shaped it in my thought,
How shall I tell! how in my nightly dreams
I knew its presence, though I saw it not,
In solitude—in cities—'mid the hush
Of forests—'mid the throng and crush of men,
With untold longings, thirsting more and more,
Yea, hungering for its beauty! how with time
I wrestled for that prize, yet won it not!
How even to agony my soul was wrought,
To tears and frenzy, yet I won it not!
I felt its glory flooding through my soul—
The chaos that should bring this wonder forth
I brooded o'er—how long! how long in vain,
Watching and waiting ere its beauty came!
Faint as a rainbow first it wander'd forth;
Misty and vanishing it met my gaze,
Nor came, nor went, the creature of my will.
Yet seems it not with gradual growth it grew,

106

But in one golden moment leapt to light.
O thrice-blest hour that bore her! In a breath
The veil was rent, and lo! before my gaze,
My thought's rapt gaze, that worshipped as it saw,
She stood; and was it given to me to fix
Its haunting shape before my actual sense,
Giving mine eyes its beauty? Then I took
Marble, and wrought, and wrought, how long in vain!
Leaving the marble, marble, and not life.
O blessed Gods! yet knowing not despair;
O blessed Gods! still grasping flying hope;
And one by one, I wrought her beauties forth,
Clearing white brow, and breast, and lustrous smile,
From gross embraces of the entombing stone,
Till at the last, in still perfection, stood
The white sweet wonder, silent in the sun;
Silent, and yet how tuneful with sweet speech,
Utterance divine, that from the listening soul
Drew echoes, though the dull ear heard it not!
And ever, as the summer breeze lays hand
Upon the harp, and shakes its music forth
In passionate sobs, and swells, and dying falls,
So through me did that mystic spirit pass,
Till all my being vibrated with love,
And all my heart's hopes flutter'd round that stone,
And my days wail'd unto it, white and cold,
Silent and wordless, for a mortal love,
Ever, with passionate moanings, for sweet love,
Till life grew to one thought—one throbbing hope,
And the great Gods heard but this prayer in heaven:
“O let her live, and my blest knees shall grow
“Unto your altar-steps in thankfulness!
“But let her live, and all my life shall be
“One sacrifice—thick incense steaming up
“Unto your footstools! not with empty breath,
“O awful Gods! ye know, I pour this prayer!
“I cry, even as the blinded cry for light,
“Even as wild mothers, in a slaughter'd town,
“Shriek o'er their babes for mercy! Spurn me not,
“Dread powers, within whose lips are fearful joys,

107

“Are bliss unutterable—despair, and death!
“Ye crown'd eternities, whose will is fate,
“Ye, sitting in your high Olympian halls,
“Know only bliss for ever—not as we,
“Shades of an hour, whose days are dark with death,
“That perish with the lapse of fleeting years.
“What is our life to your eternity?
“What were it, though we sat on golden thrones,
“And lived the lives of heaven? a passing dream.
“Have mercy, Gods! I sought not for this life,
“This mortal capability of pain:
“Ye gave this air-drawn being to my frame,
“This hunger of the soul ye gave to me,
“Unasking. Gods! from you, I took this thirst
“Of beauty, which, unquenched, what prayers were mine,
“But for forgetfulness—for peace and rest,
“Deep ease, sweet rest, within a peaceful urn!
“What were it, Gods, though ye should bid her live!
“O let her live! What were it unto you
“To lift this cup of joy unto my lips?
“O sweeter draught than ever Hebe bore!
“That I might drink and be even as a God,
“Knowing nor care nor sorrow of the earth,
“But only bliss—bliss for how brief a space,
“Ere Hades hold me, shade amid pale shades,
“Yet, spite of Lethe, wailing still for her,
“Ever for her—for her—alone for her!
“Why are ye deaf? my prayer is in your ears
“In the still night—at rise and set of sun,
“And through the glaring watches of the day,
“Crying this cry for ever—let her live!
“Olympian! throne above all thrones of Gods!
“Hear me! for thou hast known this fire of love,
“This burning passion to be clasp'd of one:
“Panting to Danaë in a rain of gold;
“Protean, in Amphitryon's bearded form,
“Quaffing deep raptures in Alcmena's arms.
“Did not Eurotas see thee as a swan
“Burn unto Leda? Thou whom Semele
“Saw a consuming splendour, hear thou—hear!

108

“In dear remembrance of those fever'd hours
“Of supermortal passion, make this shape
“Perfect with motion and all gifts of sense,
“Feeling, and thought, that I may know her love!
“O thou, foam-born! thou, whom the heavens have heard
“Wailing the lost Adonis! unto thee
“I turn, beseeching! Goddess! unto thee
“This beating fever of the burning blood
“Is worship, and pale passion's pains and tears
“Thou view'st exultant; therefore, Goddess, hear!
“And I will worship thee—thee, only thee,
“Grasping thy snowy altars evermore.
“Lo! a deep vow I vow thee; hear my vow!
“Give this white silence breathing to my arms,
“And ever shall a chorus chant thy praise,
“With solemn songs, within thy temple's bounds,
“Heard of the heavens, and earth, and rounding sea;
“And, in the sunshine, Aphrodite, here,
“Shall Cyprus bow before thy robeless self,
“Perfect in marble, by my chisel wrought,
“Fair as the blue waves saw thee, from the sea
“Rising, the glory and desire of earth.”
So rose my prayer ere the cold morning glared
Athwart the east, and when the last faint flush
Of latest evening died from off the west,
In the hot noon and through the hush of night;
And lo! I cried not unto deafen'd ears
Regardless. O my joy, sing forth their praise,
And let thy thanks go up, even as my cry
Pulsed from the inmost beatings of the heart!
She lived! she lived! O life above all life
Heaven-sent! I gazed on life; along her cheek
Life flushed; life beat within her bosom's swell,
In quivering eyelid and in softening lip,
In rosy limb and every violet vein.
Gods! what a soul dreamed from her dewy eyes!
What life within the tendrils of her hair
Awed me with joy—with joy, even as I gazed,
To stillness—but with joy—excess of joy!
What could I do but gaze—but gaze and gaze,

109

With fearful hope, beholding that fair dream?
Breathing to heaven, if it were but a dream,
So might I dream for ever! But that fear
Each moment mingled more its night with light,
Hope-drawn; joy whispered that I lived awake;
Awake! O never slumber had such dream!
The sculptured creature of my hands was gone;
A new Pandora there before me stood.
Gods! what a beauty sat upon her brow!
Not the white glory on great Herè's own,
Not laughing Hebe's whiter! O that smile—
The very smile that burns love into Gods
From Aphrodite's face! O glistening smile!
O burst of sunlight on a darken'd world,
That smites its sobs to gladness! Lips as red
As Hyacinthus' blood! Ye heavens! her words—
Honey more sweet than ever Hybla hived,
You heard the Sirens seize Odysseus' ear
With Circe's breathings! Such a rounded arm
Won Zeus to Maia! Tresses—nets of gold,
Fit as lorn Ariadne's streaming hair
To catch flush'd Dionusus! One such look—
For one I had laughed to outdare Alcides' self,
And beard swart Hades! Blessed gods! she lived,
And I had hearing but to drink her words;
Mine eyes had vision but to feed on her.
Hope—memory—thought—existence—from my brain
She smote the world—earth—heaven—and all but her,
And joy and grief—life—death—and all but her!

110

A CHARACTER.

IN TWO SCENES.

Lina Merton .............. A Creole.
Helen Merton ................... Her English Half-Sister.
Sir Vivian Mordaunt ............ A Poet, engaged to Lina.
Ninette ........................ Companion to Lina.

Scene I.—

England.
Night.—A Bed-Room.
Lina and Ninette.
Lina.
You hear me, Ninette; not a word of this!

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
If they ask you why I left
So suddenly, and wish'd not one good-night,
Say—say—say anything: I'm reading—tired—
I'd try this dress on—I am nervous—vexed—
But not a word of this—this foolish fit.

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
And—I dare say he'll not ask—
But tell me if Sir Vivian ask, or not,
The reason of my leaving. Mind, I'm well.
Good night. (A pause.)
Ninette! yes, put my pearls away
Into their case. That's right. (A pause.)
And, stay! before
I sleep (I'll read a little), let me know
How long Sir Vivian stays. And—'tis a whim—
See if he talks much, Ninette—if he talks
To any one for long. 'Tis a mere whim,
A foolish fancy; but you'll let me know.
He has not gone?

Ninette.
No, Madam.

Lina.
No?—why no?
You speak as if he stood here; I have left

111

An hour; what makes him stay? There's in your eyes
A something that I'd hear straight out in words.
Speak out! I'd know why you are sure he's here.

Ninette.
Madam, I saw him, as you left the room

Lina.
Speak to my sister—well?

Ninette.
The casement's open;
A moment since I'm certain that I caught
Their whispers on the terrace.

Lina.
Whispers! fool?
They talk—they talk aloud; why should they whisper?
Then it is so; at last, I am not blind.

Ninette.
Madam, I only said, I thought

Lina.
Speak out;
I will know all.

Ninette.
All? That is all—what

Lina.
All?
Well—you may go; good night! Put by that book;
I will not read. The night is strangely hot;
Throw wide the casement. All? You do not go!

Ninette.
O Madam! Madam! will you let me speak?

Lina.
None of your pity—I've not fallen to that.
Not to have seen it! Slighted! spurn'd! cast off!
And she—this sister—smiling in my face!
I know your meaning: well, what would you say?

Ninette.
O Madam, have some pity on your sister!
I've known her from a girl, for we were girls
Together; and her nature is as kind
As

Lina.
Mine is hard?

Ninette.
Madam, I said not that.

Lina.
You only look'd it. Well?

Ninette.
She would not tread
Upon a

Lina.
Sister? Ends the sentence so?
Girl, I'm no worm; and let them have a care
On what they tread! The fiery South has fangs—
I'm of the South—that, trodden on, you die.

Ninette.
O talk not so, my lady! I have watch'd,
Shuddering to think that it must come to this,
This evil love from its first growth. Believe me,

112

Though you may blame, you well may pity her.
He is a thing of change; as unstable
As the shifting wind; one, weak—infirm of will—
Who veers with every fancy. You must know well
He cannot bind his purpose down to the act
His reason urges; so his love for you,
Firm for some months, and therefore hot for change,
The rather that she was your opposite,
Flutter'd to her when she again was nigh,
Through struggling scruples, that I could but see.
And she, poor girl! with tears and self-reproach,
Urged on by passion—caught by the very looks—
The very utterance that was dear to you

Lina.
Enough of that: you'll spare to speak of me;
Speak of this sister, and of her alone.

Ninette.
She

Lina.
Stay; I'll tell you what this meek one did,
All heart—all anything that I am not—
She, that will daintily set free a fly,
Balking the hungry spider, spite of God—
This petter of canaries and of pups—
She, knowing this Sir Vivian sworn to me,
With virtuous reluctance—sweetest ruth,
A thousand things are plain—I see them now—
Took pains to snare him; will she hold him too?
And did her best to break her sister's heart;
Though perhaps she guessed my heart was not quite such
As novels deal with.

But, too much of this;
The curtain rose so quickly for their play,
I've been more wordy much than is my wont.
But you've too milky blood—too little fire—
To chat my secrets; you've a wholesome fear,
Seeing me more thoroughly for what I am,
Than most; though little do I wear a mask,
And little do I care how much you've heard.
Yet see you talk not; you'd not earn my hate.
I've only said what, curse her! all must see—
Will see—do see. O stone-blind dolt! ere this,
Had I had natural eyes—you saw it plain—

113

I had—when I forget it, bless her, Heaven!
Not set a step—look'd in a face—not breathed
At home—out—anywhere, but the meanest groom
That ever crouched to the dust I trod, my scorn,
I'd seen, had met me with his sneering pity,
Looking to see me thankful for his alms,
His charitable doles, of “poor” and “poor,”
As if I were a beggar at the gate,
Whining for scraps! And I'm to love her still?

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Off! why should I talk and talk,
As if I were a school-girl, novel-bit?
Go, now; but as the play will be played out,
And all our sex since Eve have been the same,
Curious to learn whatever's from them hid,
I'd know, Ninette, whate'er your sharp eyes see.
You think I'll wince to hear of what their love
Must grow with—sugar'd words, and mingling sighs,
And secret meetings—secret—mark you that!
I scare them, trust me! always in their thoughts!
But tell me all—tones—whispers—looks and smiles.
I know her Vivian's well. Fear not for me!
The spasm pass'd for good that shook me first;
And for the future you'll but see myself,
No whimperer, but just one with curious eye
(Perhaps a bitter one—by nature that),
Who'll see each act through; just Faust's ancient friend,
Much in his spirit—eyeing all their plans
To fashion to my taste this strange surprise
They quake to show me. We'll enjoy it, girl,
And study gentle spirits' gentle ways
(Meek Walton's gentle hooking through his frog
As though he loved him), reading for our jest
Another leaf from nature's puzzling book,
And marvelling, in their case, what ending time
Will give their story; tragic-wise, you know,
Some plots do end with sorrows and with death,
Not closing pleasantly as others do,
All tangles straighten'd, and all wrongs forgot,
With marriage, comfort, and a world of sweets.

114

“What will be, will be,” so the proverb runs;
Time hides and shows much; Ninette, we shall see.

Ninette.
I knew—I know 'twill have an evil end.
What good could come of it? what end but ill?
It must—it will

Lina.
Nay, if you prophesy,
A croaking raven, of revenge

Ninette.
Revenge!
I never named it.

Lina.
Well, of ill, then—ill
To this sweet pair, their sister must not hear.
Not one word more: Ninette, I said good-night.

Ninette.
O Madam!

Lina.
Close the door. [Exit Ninette.
O God! she's gone,
And, for to-night, this mad self-mockery ends.
I must be calm; I must be calm; there's fire
Within my brain, but I must not go mad.
What's “mad?” To act no purpose out—a reed,
To bend to every gust that passion blows,
And yet not act—act all that reason wills;
That were a hell to shrink from. Let me think:
He loves—he loves her—loves her! Let me say
The words again. I speak them, and my ears
Hear them. Loves her! They scarce have meaning yet;
Loves her, not me. O Vivian, yesterday
Through flowers and sunshine—now one bleak sharp turn
To utter barrenness that cannot end,
For ever—ever! O that burning tears
Would rain this weight of sorrow from my brain,
And let me think unfrenzied of this blow!
Weep? weep and groan? I will not shed a tear,
Not one—not one. May the fierce fire I feel
Blast them. O—O that I were God, to turn
Their every day to sorrow! God, to scorch
Their hopes to blackness! God, to make their love
A hatred and a loathing! Am I mad,
To rave and babble? What are storms of words,
Unless, like the red hail that Egypt smote,
They burnt and blister'd! O sweet sleep! sweet sleep!
When shall I know the sleep of yesternight?

115

Scene II.

Morning.—A Library opening on to a Garden.
Lina alone.
Lina.
O how I thirst and hunger, face to face,
To curse them! not to have seen it! not to have seen
What all were loud of! I to be made the jest
Of all in the house, down to the very scullion,
The kitchen's merriment—a moving joke—
The jeer of the stables! would that I could stab him!
And be the rabble's wonder, days and weeks?
The news of papers, and the talk of taps—
Closed with the rope and hangman? Stab her? why,
That, if one weighs it, is but poor revenge,
Perhaps a loss of that for which one seeks.
No; be not rash; yet rein your passion in,
Though it should choke you, till occasion shriek
“Loose it!”—then—then? Why, here her Vivian comes
I'll scare my Damon. [Enter Vivian Mordaunt].
What you, Vivian, here?

Vivian.
Why, is it strange to see me?

Lina.
But so soon
What miracles cannot that boy effect,
The pigmy Cupid! to have made you rise
By this! by nine! nay, trust your eyes! an hour,
A whole full hour, before you saw the sun,
Unsmitten; then too, sir, your stay was late,
Or I'm mistaken, so the marvel's more;
What brings you? Why, the bees are hardly out,
And larks alone and labourers yet abroad;
Come, tell me why you're here?

Vivian.
Are you not here?

Lina.
How sweet a compliment! most neatly turned.
Ah! there you poets distance others so!
Still, there's this trifling drawback from the worth
Of all your flatteries, you so deal in lies.

116

Vivian.
I—lies?—Miss Merton?

Lina.
O I crave your grace,
Sir Vivian Mordaunt, Baronet, M.P.—
(Title for title)—if bare words affright,
We'll mask them; this one shall have dainty trim;
Your nerves being weak, we'll fit it for your sight,
And call it—fiction; that's poetic phrase.
Now, own you're false.

Vivian.
As false as all my tribe.

Lina.
No falser? Well, you're of a lying crew;
I'd best have shunn'd you.

Vivian.
[Aside].
Does she know the truth?
Or only banter in her bitter vein?
[Aloud].
You'd best have shunned me? Why, your talk is strange.

Lina.
The world is strange, Sir Vivian. Men are strange.
Life and its ways are stranger than I dream'd.
We live to learn strange wisdom.

Vivian.
Come—you deal
In riddles; I

Lina.
Can guess them? can you? Do!
Do!—Nay, where's Helen? Helen shall be here
To praise your quickness; she might guess them, too.
Ah, here she comes; she has a pleasant face;
I know you love that it should bless your dreams. [Enter Helen].

Ah Helen, did you feel your ears a-fire?
I see your cheeks are burning; Vivian and I
Were talking of you. Why, how quick you're pale,
But now a poppy! I but told you, sister,
We talked of you. What could we say but good?
I love you—don't I? Vivian, do not you?
You love my sister?

Vivian.
Love?—your sister?—yes.

Lina.
Why there you two stand, tongue-tied—red and white,
As if, poor children, you were girl and boy,
And feared a scolding. What have you to fear?

117

Come, have you written anything of late?
What, poet, not a sonnet, good or bad?
Hand me that purple volume from the shelf!
Not Tennyson—the next—a poet too—
The gentler Browning; how I hoard them both!
You've read her masterpiece—her Geraldine?
Her Duchess May—that has the antique ring?
She's great, because she's earnest.

Vivian.
True—her heart
Throbs through her sentences, and so they live.

Lina.
Ah, here's a poem that is talked of much;
You know it surely—Bertha in the Lane?
What think you of it? Sure you know it, sister?
The tale's a wild one—not a jot from life—
It must be fancied. On her dying bed,
The elder of two sisters,—as 'twere I,
You listening, sobs into the younger's ears
The untold sorrow that had made her die,
Heart-broken—how, hedge-hidden, in the lane
That names the tale, her own betroth'd she heard
Wooing her sister—both so false to her;
How she had locked this sorrow in her heart
From all but heaven, and in her tender love
For this false sister, she had made them one,
And died to bless them,—blessing them, content.
What think you of the story? Vivian, you?
Surely a touching one, with tenderest love,
And woman's noblest teachings over-brimm'd;
One to fill eyes with purifying tears,
And leave all hearts but better'd? Come,—I'd hear
A poet's judgment of a poet's tale;
Mind, of the tale—the story; for its form,
Spare our poor ears a talk of rhymes and rules
Obey'd or broken.

Vivian.
Why, what can I say
But echo your opinion? Who can praise
Enough the pen that such a wonder drew
Of angel meekness? Who can

Lina.
And you think
This patient sufferer was no puling fool

118

To take her wrongs so lightly? Do you so?
What thinks our Helen? Does she think so too?
What not a word? Why, it is but a tale
We talk of, sister—it is but a tale;
There never was a sister was so false.
Nor ever yet a man, forsworn, so base
As to make a sister turn a sister's days
To bitterness. Have you a word for them?

Vivian.
O Lina, Lina, 'tis an erring world,
A world where all must suffer and forgive
Much—evil, call it—who would win to heaven.
And for this story that this poet tells,
Might there not, Lina, might there not be said
Something—a something even for those who erred?
Say that a man who thinks he truly loves,
And in that thought has pledged his faith to one,
While yet he can change

Lina.
While yet he can change?
I thought you said his faith was pledged?

Vivian.
Yes—yes—
But not at the altar.

Lina.
And what matters that?
The whole earth is truth's altar. Palter not;
There's not an instant but we front a God,
Here—everywhere. Think you—think you that heaven,
Heaven asks of where and when a lie is lied,
And holds speech nothing, spoken in the sight of God,
And for eternity, false—true or false—
As eternity shall teach each soul to learn?
O palter not; faith plighted 'neath a roof,
On some square feet, made holy by a priest,
Is not a whit more damning, being broke,
Than troth sworn freely elsewhere on God's earth,
That God has blessed and sanctified himself.
Go on.

Vivian.
I did not say I did not blame

Lina.
Blame?

Vivian.
Ay, condemn.

Lina.
Condemn?

Vivian.
What should I say?

119

Lina.
Loathe—hate—curse—curse such falseness—foul in him,
But fouler in the sister, base of heart—
(Give me that water!) she that did not spurn him
At the first breath of his baseness, but could plot,
And plot, and plot, against a sister's heart,
Stealing the very thing that made life sweet,
Without which life were but a thirst for the grave,
And days but lived for vengeance. Curse them! Curse them!

Helen.
O Vivian—Vivian!

Vivian.
Look! your sister faints!
Helen—sweet Helen—drink, sweet Helen—Helen!
Sprinkle her forehead—Lina—Lina—mercy!

Lina.
Mercy? I? Why it's but a poet's tale—
Is't not—we talked of? You excusing breach
Of oaths, and those who broke them—I but speaking
Even as my nature prompts me;—I'm not one,
You know, for boudoir nicety of phrase—
And spoke, in natural words, what such a baseness
Would move me to—not being perfection quite,
And weakness, like this wonder in the song,
But a mere woman—flesh, and blood, and fire—
That, stung, will sting, and trodden on, will turn.
It moved her strangely, though. What could so move her?
Well, here's Ninette, and, as I like not scenes,
I'll to the sunshine, and henceforth take care
To criticize my favourites and their songs,
Seeing we treat them so as if they were truths,
By myself. Au revoir! see—she's coming to.

IN PARIS.

'Tis a neat little garret au sixième; cares
Don't trouble themselves to mount so many stairs.

So it's said by Béranger and others in song;
Well, sometimes they're right perhaps, but sometimes they're wrong.

120

O quite of the people are sorrow and sin;
As soon as to palaces, here they'll come in.

St. Antoine's as dear to them—ay, just as dear
As the gilded saloons of the Tuileries near.

In fact, though they home with the Emperor I grant,
They just as soon hobnob with misery and want.

Here now, perhaps, to this still little home,
With its bed in the corner, they've recently come.

Though you'd doubt it, to look at the two figures there,
Who motionless sit with a strange vacant air.

Hand in hand, two quaint maskers, a girl and boy, young,
Too tired to undress, there themselves they have flung.

As they danced from to-night's ball, and yelled through the street,
Quainter masks in our Paris you'd not often meet.

He, a skeleton—she—here all whims are allowed—
The semblance of death, in her straight-flowing shroud.

How still there and ghastly they sit, and how deep
And terrible, one scarce knows why, is their sleep!

There they sit gay and blank-eyed, and never they move;
Ah! if not mere slumber, but death it should prove!

How merrily through the mad dances they'd flown,
As if they but lived for wild frolic alone!

But as they out-did even the wildest, they knew
'Twas the last masked ball that their eyes would view.

He was a student—a milliner she;
Three years or so since they met in a spree.

You know well our Paris—our quartier well;
A student yourself once, its ways need I tell?

They struck up a friendship forthwith—Celestine
And Auguste—and at night never separate were seen.

121

When his lectures were finished—her day's work was done,
Their day then began, with the moon for their sun.

Then for living,—they didn't hold living the rest;
Then only they lived when together and blessed.

And a student and grisette, you know, knowing such,
To make them supremely blest never need much.

A few francs for a dinner and vin ordinaire,
Then for pleasure and mad frolic just anywhere.

A roam round the Boulevards, quays, or lit streets,
Where surely the eye something wonderful meets.

As a conjuror's marvels with cup and brass ball,
Or five piled-up tumblers—a child high on all.

Even the streets are amusing—the crowds and the fops,
The faces—the dresses—the cafés—the shops.

Or, if on the quays, you stay, once and again,
To see the moon silver Notre Dame and the Seine.

Then the Champs Elysées are Elysian with lights,
And buzzing with chatter and heavenly with sights.

And the Cafés Chantant with light jest and laugh ring,
Except when the talkers are hushed while they sing.

Then the play—the Porte Martin—the Opera Comique,
These, when francs can be found for them, often they seek.

But the dances—the balls at the Château Mabille!
Always there—there the full rush of young life they feel.

Never dull there or weary—at care there they scoff;
If they know him elsewhere, here he's waltz'd or polk'd off.

But the Carnival—heaven of all heavens! we ask
Why joy should be trebly joy under a mask?

And can't tell; but that 'tis so no one can deny,
If seeming saints do so—we know that they lie.

122

Auguste loved it dearly—so did Celestine—
They loved it—the holiday crowds—the whole scene.

The time seemed to banish all sadness from earth,
For then all was madness—one wild whirl of mirth.

Day and night, while it lasted, forgotten was all
But masking and spending—the street and the ball.

So three summers have flitted—three winters have flown,
And at last they must part if she's not all his own.

Yes—yes—the time's come when from Paris and life,
He must part for Bordeaux and a practice and wife.

So his parents have written; their letter the two
Have read—soaked with tears—read again through and through.

No—nothing shall part them; they swear it; they part!
What were life if they couldn't live still heart to heart?

Here—here in the height of the Carnival too!
O how dear that she is, that his parents but knew!

But they've laughed off his love when he's written of her;
To his prayers—his beseechings, all heartless they were.

On Wednesday—next Wednesday, his father will come;
On Thursday—next Thursday, he goes to his home.

Tuesday night is the grand Opera ball; come what will,
That last night they'll have of old pleasure their fill.

Then, after? why after be troubled with breath?
If they'll part them in life, they can't part them in death.

So the charcoal in plenty is bought; in the room
Every crevice is stopped, and they dress in their tomb.

For the Ball—for the Ball; let their masking be drear,
Wild and strange as the future, so dark and so near.

As they waltz through the streets—as they whirl through the crush,
Let the passers breathe death—let the awed dancers hush.

123

Let the flower-beds of masks in the ball-room's whirl feel,
As the doomed meet their eyes, a strange thrill through them steal.

An air of chill grave-yards—of dim coffined rooms,
That the rainbowed scene darkens and dulls in its glooms.

So, wild drunken thought in each half-frenzied head,
They whirl through the living, dread shapes of the dead!

'Twas the sight of the ball-room—the talk of the night,
Their ghastly array and their frenzied delight.

With strange joy they seemed mad—with some devil's drink drunk;
From their yells—from their laughs, dreader still, the worst shrunk.

Night brightened to morning; mask after mask past
From the frolic, but there were those two till the last.

Then they left; sought their garret; the charcoal was lit;
Hand in hand they grew hushed soon, and there, see! they sit.

When his father to-morrow (he has their address)
Comes here, what his first thought will be, can you guess?

Perhaps that still girl for a wife would have done!
Perhaps she had better have gladdened that son!

It's too late now to alter it—but, perhaps, it seems
Those two silent masks will be ugly dread dreams:

That those ghastly gay ones it won't do to think of—
That his cup will be one that he'd rather not drink of.

But the past is the past; he must manage as well
As he can with such sights, though they seem sent from hell.

And some fathers I know would perhaps lose their wits,
To see a son sitting as that son now sits.

139

ARIADNE.

Morn rose on Naxos,—golden, dewy morn,
Climbing its eastern cliffs with gleaming light,
Purpling each inland peak and dusky gorge
Of the grey distance,—morn, on lowland slopes
Of olive-ground, and vines, and yellowing corn,
Orchard, and flowery pasture, white with kine,
On forest,—hill-side cot, and rounding sea,
And the still tent of Theseus by the shore.

Morn rose on Naxos—chill and freshening morn,
And scarce the unbreathing air a twitter heard
From eave or bough,—nor yet a blue smoke rose
From glade, or misty vale, or far-off town;
One only sign of life, a dusky sail,
Stole dark afar across the distant sea,
Flying; all else unmoved in stillness lay
Beneath the silence of the brightening heavens,
Nor sound was heard to break the slumbrous clam,
Save the soft lapse of waves along the strand.

A white form from the tent,—a glance,—a cry.
“Where art thou, Theseus?—Theseus! Theseus! where?
“Why hast thou stolen thus with earliest dawn
“Forth from thy couch—forth from these faithless arms
“That even in slumber should have clasp'd thee still!
“Truant! ah me! and hast thou learnt to fly
“So early from thy Ariadne's love?
“Where art thou? Is it well to fright me thus—
“To scare me for a moment with the dread
“Of one abandon'd! Art thou in the woods
“With all that could have told me where thou art!
“Cruel! and couldst thou not have left me one,
“Ere this to have laughed away my idle fears!
“He could have told thee all—the start—the shriek—
“The pallid face with which I found thee gone,
“And furnish'd laughter for thy glad return;
“But thus! to leave me, cruel! thus, alone!

140

“There is no sound of horns among the hills,
“No shouts that tell they track or bay the boar.
“O fearful stillness! O that one would speak!
“O would that I were fronting wolf or pard
“But by thy side this moment! so strange fear
“Possesses me, O love! apart from thee!
“The galley? gone? Ye Gods! it is not gone?
“Here, by this rock it lay but yesternight!
“Gone? through this track its keel slid down the shore;
“And I slept calmly as it cleft the sea?
“Gone? gone? where gone?—that sail! 'tis his! 'tis his!
“Return, O Theseus! Theseus! love! return!
“Thou wilt return? thou dost but try my love?
“Thou wilt return to make my foolish fears
“Thy jest? Return, and I will laugh with thee!
“Return! return! and canst thou hear my shrieks,
“Nor heed my cry! And wouldst thou have me weep?
“Weep! I that wept, white with wild fear, the while
“Thou slew'st the abhorrèd monster! If it be
“Thou takest pleasure in these bitter tears,
“Come back, and I will weep myself away,
“A streaming Niobe, to win thy smiles!
“O stony heart! why wilt thou wring me thus?
“O heart more cold unto my shrilling cries
“Than these wild hills that wail to thee, return!
“Than all these island rocks that shriek, return!
“Come back! Thou seest me rend this blinding hair;
“Hast thou not sworn, each tress thou didst so prize,
“That sight of home, and thy grey father's face,
“Were less a joy to thee, and lightlier held?
“Thy sail! thy sail! O do my watery eyes
“Take part with thee, so loved! to crush me down!
“Gone! gone! and wilt thou—wilt thou not return?
“Heartless, unfearing the just Gods, wilt thou,
“Theseus! my lord! my love! desert me thus?
“Thus leave me, stranger in this strange wild land,
“Friendless, afar from all I left for thee,
“Crete, my old home, and my ancestral halls,
“My father's love, and the remember'd haunts
“Of childhood,—all that knew me,—all I knew,—

141

“All—all—woe! woe! that I shall know no more.
“Why didst thou lure me, craftiest, from my home?
“There, if, thy love grown cold, thou thus hadst fled,
“I had found comfort in fond words and smiles
“Familiar, and the pity of my kin,
“Tears wept with mine,—tears wept by loving eyes,
“That had washed out thy traces from my heart,
“Perchance, in years, had given me back to joy.
“O that thy steps had never trodden Crete!
“O that these eyes had never on thee fed!
“O that, weak heart! I ne'er had look'd my love,
“Or, looking, thou hadst thrust it back with hate!
“Did I not save thee? I? Was it for this,
“Despite Crete's hate—despite my father's wrath,
“Perchance to slay me, that I ventured all
“For thee—for thee—forgetting all for thee!
“Thou know'st it all; who knows it if not thou,
“Save the just Gods—the Gods who hear my cry,
“And mutter vengeance o'er thy flying head,
“Forsworn! And, lo! on thy accursed track
“Rush the dread furies; lo! afar I see
“The hoary Ægeus, watching for his son,
“His son that nears him still with hastening oars,
“Unknown,—that nears him but to dash him down,
“Moaning, to darkness and the dreadful shades,
“The while thy grief wails after him in vain;
“And, lo, again the good Gods glad my sight
“With vengeance; blood again, thy blood, I see
“Streaming; who bids Hippolytus depart
“But thou—thou, sword of lustful Phædra's hate
“Against thy boy—thy son—thy fair-hair'd boy?
“I see the ivory chariot whirl him on—
“The madden'd horses down the rocky way
“Dashing—the roaring monster in their path;
“And plates and ivory splinters of the car,
“And blood and limbs, sprung from thee, crushed and torn,
“Poseidon scatters down the shrieking shores;
“And thou, too late—too late, bewail'st in vain,
“Thy blindness and thy hapless darling's fate,
“And think'st of me, abandoned, and my woe;

142

“Thou who didst show no pity, to the Gods
“Shrieking for pity, that my vengeful cries
“Drag thee not down unto the nether gloom,
“To endless tortures and undying woe.
“Dread Gods! I know these things shall surely be!
“But other, wilder whispers throng my ears,
“And in my thought a fountain of sweet hope
“Mingles its gladness with my lorn despair.
“Lo! wild flush'd faces reel before mine eyes,
“And furious revels, dances, and fierce glee,
“Are round me, tossing arms and leaping forms,
“Skin-clad and horny-hoofed, and hands that clash
“Shrill cymbals, and the stormy joy of flutes
“And horns, and blare of trumpets, and all hues
“Of Iris' watery bow, on bounding nymphs,
“Vine-crown'd and thyrsus-sceptred, and one form,
“God of the roaring triumph, on a car
“Golden and jewel-lustred, carved and bossed,
“As by Hephæstus, shouting, rolls along,
“Jocund and panther-drawn, and, through the sun,
“Down through the glaring splendour, with wild bound,
“Leaps, as he nears me, and a mighty cup,
“Dripping with odorous nectar, to my lips
“Is raised, and mad sweet mirth—frenzy divine
“Is in my veins; hot love burns through mine eyes,
“And o'er the roar and rout, I roll along,
“Throned by the God, and lifted by his love
“Unto forgetfulness of mortal pains,
“Up to the prayers, and praise, and awe of earth.”

A VILLAGE TALE.

The rooks are cawing in the elms,
As on the very day,
That sunny morning, mother dear,
When Lucy went away;
And April's pleasant gleams have come,
And April's gentle rain;
Fresh leaves are on the vine, but when
Will Lucy come again?

143

The spring is as it used to be,
And all must be the same;
And yet I miss the feeling now
That always with it came;
It seems as if to me she made
The sweetness of the year;
As if I could be glad no more,
Now Lucy is not here.

A year—it seems but yesterday,
When in this very door
You stood, and she came running back,
To say good-bye once more;
I hear your sob—your parting kiss,
The last fond words you said;
Ah! little did we think—one year,
And Lucy would be dead!

How all comes back—the happy times,
Before our father died,
When, blessed with him, we knew no want,
Scarce knew a wish denied;
His loss, and all our struggles on,
And that worst dread, to know,
From home, too poor to shelter all,
That one at last must go.

How often do I blame myself!
How often do I think,
How wrong I was to shrink from that
From which she did not shrink!
And when I wish that I had gone,
And know the wish is vain,
And say, she might have lived, I think,
How can I smile again!

I dread to be alone, for then,
Before my swimming eyes,
Her parting face, her waving hand,
Distinct before me rise;

144

Slow rolls the waggon down the road;
I watch it disappear;
Her last “dear sister,” faint “good-by,”
Still lingering in my ear.

Oh, mother, had but father lived,
It would not have been thus;
Or, if God still had taken her,
She would have died with us,
She would have had kind looks, fond words,
Around her dying bed,
Our hands to press her dying hands,
To raise her dying head.

I'm always thinking, mother, now,
Of what she must have thought,
Poor girl! as day on day went by,
And neither of us brought;
Of how she must have yearned, one face,
That was not strange, to see;
Have longed one moment to have set
One look on you and me.

Sometimes I dream a happy dream;
I think that she is laid
Beside our own old village church,
Where we so often played;
And I can sit upon her grave,
And with her we shall lie,
Afar from where the city's noise
And thronging feet go by.

Nay, mother, mother, weep not so;
God judges for the best;
And from a world of pain and woe
He took her to his rest;
Why should we wish her back again?
Oh, freed from sin and care,
Let us the rather pray God's love
Ere long to join her there.

148

THE EXECUTION,

AND HOW IT EDIFIED THE BEHOLDERS.

A Sketch.

He staggered on upon the drop; oh, who that saw his look
Can forget it, as his place beneath the gallows first he took,
Can forget the deadly shivering that shook him when his eye
First rested on the heaving crowd agape to see him die,
On the mass of upturned faces that had waited hours below
And cursed the sluggish jail clock whose minutes crept so slow;
Though brutal jokes and laughter were bandied fast about
To serve to pass the time away until he was brought out,
Yet spite of slang and merriment and choice St. Giles's wit,
Of guesses how the dead man's clothes the hangman's form would fit—
Though through the crowd from time to time the roar of laughter ran
As puns upon the dangling rope were tossed from man to man,

149

Though still fresh source of pleasure high for ever new was found
In the murderer's words and doings that from mouth to mouth went round,
And still, with offered bets and oaths, his best admirers stuck
To their calm reliance on him that he'd die with honour—pluck
Though now and then some minutes yet more jollily were spent
In laughing down some milksop fool who hoped he would repent—
Though turpin's rides and Sheppard's feats, rehearsed with pride and glee,
Taught young aspirers to their fame how great they yet might be—
Though now a pocket picked—a row—a women's fight or so,
Served to keep the crowd in humour, still the time was damned as slow,
And when before their straining eyes the dead man staggered there,
With shouts and yells of gladness they tore the shuddering air;
A thousand tongues took up the roar—a thousand rolled it wide;
Ten times it sank and rose again flung back from side to side;
Then silence fell upon the crowd—a hush as of the dead;
You might hear the platform creaking beneath the hangman's tread;
You might hear the paper's rustle where the painter's hand would try
To seize a fine convulsion—a striking agony;
You might catch the poet's mutter of his rhymes in murmurs faint
As he strove in taking measure the wretch's fear to paint;
Of one reporter's pencil a scratch you might not lose,
As smiling he his tablets gave a crowns-worth good of news.
Still on the glaring multitude unbroken stillness lay
Till with a shriek for mercy the felon tried to pray,

150

Then suddenly from out the crowd burst up a scoffing yell,
Their scorn of this, his utter lack of manly pluck to tell,
Nor ceased it when the quivering wretch first felt the hangman's touch
And swooned from out his agony, for nature's strength too much,
But fiercer rose the mingling roar of curse and yell bestowed
Upon the craven dastard who so poor a spirit showed,
And gin-shop pals and jail-birds who had looked with pleasant pride
To see how to the very last the law he still defied,
Who'd boasted how with bow polite the cheering crowd he'd greet,
And how his friend, the hangman, with jeer and jest he'd meet,
That high in gallows' annals would live his honoured name,
A spur to all who'd tread his steps, like him, to finish—game,
Now cursing deep his agony and mocking his despair
The fiercest yelled—the thickest filled with howls the reeling air;
Nor many a damn and many an oath, to roar were hundreds slow
'Gainst him whose chickenheartedness stole from them half the show,
Ay, hundreds swore 'twas cursed hard that out of half the fun
They'd waited there five hours for, at last they should be done;
And women who'd for windows paid, were sure 'twas never right
They should turn the man off fainting and spoil their paidfor sight;
But through the ghastly hell of sound—of curse and howl and yell,
The hangman lifts the senseless wretch from where he fainting fell,
And down the clammy forehead—and down the ashen face,
The cap is drawn, the tightened noose is settled in its place;

151

Now God have mercy upon him upon whom men have none!
A swinging form—a quivering corpse—a stillness—all is done;
A minute more, the sunshine is merry once again
With the buzz of talk and laughing of those who still remain,
With the settling by noisy knots of idlers through the street,
Of which shall be the gin-shop to finish off the treat;
Some, deep in plans of crimes to do, are lounging off to find
Fresh gallows' food, to virtue, to awe the public mind,
And lovers of the good old times and gibbet walk off loud
In praises of the moral good the hanging's done the crowd.

THE MATE'S RETURN.

On the quay, the young mate jumps from the boat;
Three long years has he seen afloat.

Three weary years, and at length he lands;
Yes, there, with his sea-chest again he stands.

Three long years, the world has he ranged;
Well, the black old seaport seems all unchanged.

Now, for a time, no more will he roam;
Money he has, and he'll not from home.

Comfort he'll have, and his toil shall cease;
Hardly he's earned some pleasure and peace.

Now for some land-life and joys ashore,
And one, than all others, to him that's more.

More than his old mother's face, though he
Longs to see that, that no dearer can be.

But there's one to his heart that's dearer still,
One always that's with him, go where he will.

Whose is that thought-of name and face?
Whose but those of his darling Grace?

Grace, the girl that, the long years through,
Always his heart has been constant to.

152

Grace, the dream that has guarded him
Always from sin, in frolic and whim.

Grace, the whiteness, that made him endure
Scoffing and sneer from his shipmates, pure.

Grace, without whom, life joyless were;
And, in a few moments, he'll be with her.

Grace, in a mist his glad eyes swim,
As he thinks of her cry that will welcome him.

Grace, no, flaunting wanton,—away,
Nothing to you has his tongue to say.

Off! stand from him! to her he's true;
To her, his darling, he shudders from you.

Wild was her laugh, but shrill is her shriek;
How does it dare his name to speak!

How does this outcast—this thing of shame,
Know him, and, shivering, shriek his name!

He reels; as if dead, he lies on his face;
God! in that wanton, he's seen his Grace!

THE TRIUMPH FOR SALAMIS.

The Sea-shore of Attica opposite Salamis: Two Choruses, one of Athenian Youths, the other of Athenian Virgins, circling the Trophy.
BOTH CHORUSES.
Joy, Athene—let thy hymns,
Tempest-voiced, exulting rise,
Virgin choirs and bounding youths
Shout thy triumphs to the skies;
Good is of the mighty Gods;
Mortals it becometh well
All their joy and thankful praise
Thus in holy songs to tell.

153

Shout we then a song of gladness
Unto earth and sky and sea;
To the eternal ones our praises
Hymn we—red from victory.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Hark—the measured tramp
Of armëd feet I hear;
Comes the billowy toss of crests,
The gleam of many a spear.
Hark!
Through the gorges of Taurus
The countless hosts pour;
Lo, Sardis hath feasted
And rolled on the war;
Over Helle's bridged billows
The horror accurst,
Over Thrace's fierce borders
The tempest hath burst;
Through wild Macedonia
The deluge hath swept,
And trampled Pieria
Its ravage hath wept;
Base terror Bœotia
And Argolis know;
Thessalia is swelling
The hosts of the foe;
Shakes the earth with their tramp;
With their oars foams the sea;
Yet dareth Athene
To boast her the free?

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!
Crouched for his spring comes stealing on the foe;
Wrath's red right arm is lifted up to slay;
Who save the Gods its threatening fall may stay,
Who save the gracious Gods may shield thee from the blow?
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!

154

Hark! it comes—the storm of war,
Clang of mail and clash of spear,
Swelling on with deepening roar;
Fear behind—before it, fear;
Lo! the brazen waves of shields,
Surge on surge, along they pour;
Blazing towns and ruined fields
Groan the march of Asia's war;
There the chariots' thunder's rolled;
Crested Media's spears are there;
There the Persians' helms of gold
Throng with dread the trembling air.
From the glare of Afric's sands,
Far to farthest India's coasts,
Swarm the tongues of myriad lands,
Mingling in the mighty hosts;
Far from reedy Oxus' tide,
Wandering Scythia's tribes have come;
Hosts of Thebes—the Nile's great pride,
Swell the unnumbered nations' hum.
And he whom all obey,
High on yon ivory car
Whose gems burn back the fiery glare of day,
He comes—the Great King—like to Gods in sway;
Who—who shall dare his onward road to bar,
Who from his wrath shall shield his destined prey?
Woe—woe, Athene, woe!

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Yet this unto the wise is known,
Who loftiest stand are marked to fall;
The envious thrones of Heaven for ruin single all
Whose mortal state has quaffed unmingled good alone.
Lo, blown with swelling pride,
Unknowing aught of ill,
Along the current of their life they ride
Exultant—blind to what the breakers hide,
Till dashed upon the rocks, with awe the wise they fill,
Telling how mortal good with ill is mingled still.

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So should the prosperous tread
Their way with trembling dread
Nor with insensate pride
Misfortune dare deride,
Beyond whose hate are none except the untroubled dead.
Shall he then 'scape whom power hath taught,
Insane beyond the flight of thought,
To hurl his insults 'gainst the throned Gods?
O'er him the Thunderer nods
Ruin, and on his state
Shame and destruction wait,
And swift he headlong falls, the mock of vengeful fate.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Ah, thrice unhappy we,
Wretches to whom 'twas given
To writhe beneath the heaviest doom of fate!
Land of our birth, to see
Thy dwellers from thee driven,
Thy pleasant homes in flames—thy cities desolate,
Sounding the strangers' tread—prey of the strangers' hate;
O miserable day
That tore our grief away
From the green sun-bathed haunts where we no more might dwell!
O Earth!—O Heaven! ye saw,
With woe and shuddering awe,
Temple and shrine crash down, loved of the Gods so well.
Where's now each murmuring grove
Through whose dim shadowy depths the wood-dove's wail
Stole softly clear,
Where our young feet so long had loved to rove
What time the plaint of the lorn nightingale
Through the hushed night to hear,
The floating moon paused 'mid her radiance pale!
In vain—in vain
The swallow seeks the well-known nested eaves;
The happy homestead, hid in sheltering leaves,
No foot shall tread again;
Where green it stood but ashes heaped remain.

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Hewn are the fruitful trees;
The bunched vines uptorn;
In fields that plenty heaped, sits want forlorn,
And nought around but desolation sees;
Mourn—mourn, Athene, mourn!

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Hence afar be sadness,
Thought of woe and pain;
Thrilled be all with gladness;
Joy be every strain;
What though, accursed of God,
The fell barbarian trod,
Unsparing, hill and plain,
Loosed was the fury on his track;
His bloody due he might not lack;
Triumph and vengeance unto us remain.
Joy—joy exultant swells
The laurelled hymn that tells
The wonders of our might;
Trumpet-voiced, it burns to shout
Vaunting Asia's hideous rout
And Salamis' red fight.
Io Pæan—on they sweep;
Foams with wrath the angry deep
Beneath their flashing oars;
Io Pæan—fierce the song
Bursts our gallies' ranks along;
Loud Io Pæan, shout the fierce exulting shores.
Swift, brazen beaks on beaks
Dash roaring and with shrieks
And wreck and gurgling groans, the war reels to and fro;
By the strong swoop of Tyre,
'Neath fierce Athene's ire,
How many a spear-thronged bark is hurled the waves below!
Hark—bathed in slaughter, where
Swart Ares fires the air
And hungering still to slay, grim, thunders through the roar;
And see not human eyes
Your more than mortal size,
Ye sprung of ancient Telamon, amid the hurtling war?

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Thou sea beneath us spread,
Flesh-gorged, with victory red,
How burden we your waves with heaps of ghastly slain!
Buckler and helm of gold,
How are they plunging rolled
Adown thy stormy depths, O ever-sounding main!
Io Pæan—on their prey
Loosed are the avengers now,
Choking gory gulf and bay
With broken oar and shattered prow;
Wedged within the crowded strait,
Crushed, the foe but strive to fly;
Victims bound, their doom they wait;
'Mid the slaughtered press they die.
Swarthy Egypt's courage pales;
Purpled Sidon turns to flight;
With flying Caria's pirate sails
Far the ploughed Ægean's white.
Ha—heard we not them say,
Vaunt of their boastful tales,
Hellas' free strength their hands should prostrate lay,
Athene should the tyrant's breath obey?
Lo,—soon their purpose fails.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Let there be weeping and a sound of woe,
Of wailing and despair;
Rending of robes—in dust a crouching low;
A scattering of bright hair.
How many in the bloom of youth we saw,
In manhood's golden prime,
Go forth, whose noble forms we see no more,
Death-stricken ere their time!
The ears of those who loved them pine in vain
To drink their stately tread;
No footfall from them shall be heard again;
Low lies each dear-loved head.
The god-like, where are they who bounded by,
The shapes whose golden hair,
Like young Apollo's, the soft breeze on high
With joy uplifted? where?

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They come not back whom we had looked to see
High o'er the mighty throng,
Proud conquerors in the holy games, with glee
And triumph borne along
With linked dance and song and flashing torch,
The veiled bride we thought
For them through flower-strewn streets—through each white porch
With shouting should be brought.
The daughters of Athene who shall tell
Of their untimely fall,
So well beloved by those they loved so well,
For ever lost to all!
How will they rend their braided hair with shrieks!
For them no Phrygian flute
By Samian virgin touched, of nuptials speaks;
For them the hymn is mute.
Up to the unpitying heavens let shrieks ascend,
The cry of ceaseless woe;
Beat your white breasts—your cherished tresses rend;
Weep—in the dust lie low.
No more Ilissus by thy mazy stream,
By green Cephissus' side,
More fair than forms that haunt the maiden's dream,
Shall bound Athene's pride;
The river nymphs in many a sparry grot,
In many a dewy cave,
Swell their bright streams with tears for their sad lot
Whose limbs they loved to lave.
Dumb be the voice of love, that voice so sweet;
The tongue of joy be mute;
Let, through the dance, no snowy tinkling feet
Bound to the deep-voiced flute.
How wearily will life—how sad and slow
The drooping hours go by!
Alas—alas—of old they went not so
When those we mourn were nigh!
Oh, for the pleasant hours that never more
We now again may know!
Oh, for the vanished hours!—shrieks wildly pour,
The fondly loved lie low;

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How through the city's streets the laughing throng,
Through the high tower-crowned gate,
With jest and whispered word and mingling song,
Swept on, unfearing fate!
How in the time of blossoms did we love
Far from her towers to rove,
While bent the cloudless sapphire sky above,
Through field and shadowy grove!
Then fled the winged hours lightning-sandalled by;
No more, alas, they climb
Hymettus' grassy sides or basking lie
Where haunts the bee the thyme;
No more their hands the many-tinted flowers
In wreaths sweet-scented weave
To deck their high-arched brows or garland ours;
Weep; for the fallen grieve.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Wherefore mourn the dead;
In glory now they sleep;
Lulled by ocean's tread,
They slumber by the deep;
Mourn them not—mourn them not.
Fortunate alone
Are they who happy live;
Every good they own,
All the Gods can give,
The Gods in wrath may, envious, take and hapless make their lot.
Only blest are they
Who tread the earth no more;
Their last their happiest day;
Their chance of evil o'er;
Beyond misfortune's utmost reach, in life o'ershadowing all.
But who, oh who as they are blest,
The loved of heaven—the band
Who smiling sank to endless rest
While battling for their land,
Rejoicing 'mid the storm of fight in freedom's cause to fall?

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Tell me not of life's sweet pleasures,
Thrilling love and maddening wine;
Who such joys with glory measures?
Who to change them would repine,
Nor for all after-coming time, life's few short years resign?
What is life? a feverish dream;
Pleasures? shadows fleeting by;
Blest his lot who would not deem,
Grasping deathless fame, to die,
And in his country's festal songs to live unendingly?
Life is short and onward fastly
Speed earth's dwellers towards the tomb;
Lightning feet the hour hath, lastly
Seen before we seek the gloom,
The night that haunts the nether realms and learn our endless doom.
Life is passing; death comes leaping
Towards us, beckoned on by fate;
Why goes up the voice of weeping?
Swift the end comes, soon or late,
For numbered are our earthly hours nor far their latest date.
Rejoice—we will not mourn the dead;
No tears shall dim our eyes;
Be theirs the fame for which they bled;
Our choral songs shall rise,
Our voices swell their god-like deeds in triumph to the skies.
The hurlers of the beamy spear,
The lifters of the shield,
How poured with them red flight and fear
And slaughter through the field?
Who with their resistless might
Through the thickest throng of fight
With reeking falchion, storm-like, cleft their gory crimsoned way?
What voices thundered out
As theirs, the horrid shout
That smote the warring foe with fear—with terror 'mid the fray?
When spear on buckler rung,
And the pæan from each tongue

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Leapt, hurling flight and dread dismay our charging ranks before,
Who joyed as they, to pour
With the wintry ocean's roar
Upon the fierce embattled foe and plunge amid the war?
Sought we the fallen? there
We surely found them where
Was rent by howls of agony the hell of sounds in air;
The short sharp wild death-shrick,
The groan told where to seek
The lowly-laid whose battle-path was trodden by despair.

BOTH CHORUSES.
The mighty Gods are just,
The power of those who lust
To crush the guiltless and the free, they tumble to the dust;
With awe and gladness raise
The hymn of thankful praise
To those who proudest kings confound with fright and dread amaze.
Ægis-bearer—Zeus—to thee,
Lowly bending thus the knee,
At thy feet we bow;
Let—oh let our praise and prayer
Not in vain be poured in air,
Thunderer, hear us now.
God of Gods, thee, all who dwell
In the dread abyss of hell
Or ocean's depths, obey;
All the halls of heaven behold
Throned on high in burning gold,
Trembling own thy sway.
Zeus—deliverer—thee before,
Earthward bending, we adore
For all for Hellas done;
Giver thou of matchless might
In the armour-cleaving fight,
We thank for freedom won.
If the odours that uprise,
Steaming from the sacrifice,

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Grateful be to thee,
Grant that all in Hellas born
Life with chains for ever scorn
And bear the future free.
And thou in thine own city's love,
Goddess, shrined all Gods above,
Pallas, to thee the many-voiced hymn
Grateful we raise
Fond offering of our praise,
Telling how in thy honour the white steer,
Flushed with wreathed blooms, the brightest of the year,
Shall quivering fall
And the thronged city hold high festival,
With incense burned to thee the white air making dim.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Tread we yet a blither measure,
Timed to joy, while flute and voice
Fling abroad abounding pleasure,
Bidding earth and heaven rejoice.
See—upon the raptured sight
Bursts a vision of delight;
Gone are war and war's alarms;
Rusting are the soldier's arms;
Laughing valley—jocund hill
Song again and gladness fill;
Tasked again, the glad earth yields
Plenty to the jocund fields;
Cot and barn and homestead green
Peeping through their leaves are seen;
In the vale the anvil rings;
On the wave the fisher sings;
Morning hears the horn once more
Fright to bay the foaming boar;
Through the shadowing olive grove
Evening woos the feet of love;
Mirth and music fill the air
Home the blushing bride they bear;
Flowers again the sunshine crowd;
Orchards with their fruit are bowed;

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Summer smites the clanging brass
Lest her swarming bees should pass;
Heaped upon the labouring wain,
Creaks the harvest home again;
Drunk with sport and wine and song,
Roars the vintage rout along;
Happy hours and happy earth!
All is sunshine—all is mirth,
Mirth and joys that never cease,
All the bliss that dwells with peace.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Back the wild rejoicing strain
Toss we swift in joy again;
Lo—a vision too I see
Of the glory that shall be;
List—the sound is in mine ears
Of the sights of coming years;
Hark, the crowded quarries hum;
Down, the snowy blocks, they come;
Saw and chisel din the air;
Rises slow the temple fair;
On the lofty rock-hewn base,
Step and glistening floor they place;
Columns white in stately row,
Round about in beauty go;
Architrave and cornice lie
In their strength in majesty;
Colours bright as eyes behold
Streak them 'mid their shields of gold;
Hush thee, song, nor strive to tell
What no mortal hymn may swell,
Beauty unimagined; thought
Fairer than was ever wrought;
Forms that only heaven have trod,
Each an earth-created God;
From the marble's white womb rent,
Throng they frieze and pediment;
Over all, the mighty roof
Rises, glistening in the sun,

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Rises, to the thunder proof,
And the wondrous work is done,
Where for aye, in praise unending,
Is the holy hymn ascending
Unto her—the azure—eyed,
Joy of Zeus—her city's guide.
Nor blind thee yet, O hymn, but with far-seeing eye
The coming glory all descry;
Mast-thronged port and towered wall;
Game and gorgeous festival;
Dionusus' stately rite
In the seated city's sight,
While the laurelled victory
Mightiest bards with contest buy,
And in lofty verse are told
Deeds of heroes—woes of old,
And gods and god-like forms with awe their eyes behold.

BOTH CHORUSES.
Thine, Hellas, is glory
All glory transcending,
Till earth's brightest story,
Till time have an ending,
Till dim grow the memory of all, lustre lending
The world's mighty being,
Till o'er the past flow
The future, unseeing
The deeds hid below,
The glory of Hellas—the shame of her foe.
And thou of fair lands
That engirdle thee round
The fairest—where stands,
Over all high-renowned,
Ionian Athene—through earth sweeps the sound
Of thy triumphs, high swelling,
Swift-leaping along;
The nations are telling
Thy glory in song,
And tongues that thou know'st not thy praises prolong.

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Enshrined in the wonder
Of strangers afar
That broad regions sunder,
Thy mighty deeds are;
When the gloom of the past shall be round thee, thou star,
The robe of their fame thou
Shalt wear and the light
That haloes thy name, thou
Shalt flash down the night,
Till with awe the earth's dwellers bow down in thy sight.

THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.

I love that box of mignonette;
Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,
My mignonette I prize;
Thank heaven, not yet I've learned on that
A money worth to set;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,
My box of mignonette.

I know my own sweet mignonette
Is neither strange nor rare;
Your garden flaunters burn with hues
That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms
No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,
My box of mignonette.

Why do I prize my mignonette
That lights my window there?
It adds a pleasure to delight;
It steals a weight from care;
What happy daylight dreams it brings!
Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,
With you, my mignonette?

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It tells of May, my mignonette,
And as I see it bloom,
I think the green bright pleasant Spring
Comes freshly through my room;
Our narrow court is dark and close,
Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,
My box of mignonette.

What talks of it, my mignonette?
To me it babbles still
Of woodland banks of primroses,
Of heath and breezy hill;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,
Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip as when a girl,
Through you, my mignonette.

For this I love my mignonette,
My window garden small,
That country thoughts and scents and sounds
Around me loves to call;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts
Your worth and love be set,
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS.

Hear what Apollo sang, and what, rough Pan,
To Midas, listening, dull-eyed, judging each,
Beneath the coolness of a stirless pine,
What time the noon its heaviest shadows threw
Down Ida's slopes, and, save each voice and pipe,
Alternate, not a sound the valley heard,
Save only where one hot cicada sung.
First sang Apollo, shaking lightly back
From the high whiteness of his swelling brows,

167

The golden glory of his clustering curls:
“Hearken, O Midas! not to thee I sing
“As to one fetter'd by thy golden gift
“Unto the low delights and hopes of earth;
“But as to one, earth-born, yet above men
“Favoured—one, lifted by the Gods, a God,
“Dealing the good or ill thou will'st to man.
“What are the pleasures and delights of sense
“That I should sing them unto such as thou?
“Not with such, grovelling, will I soil my song,
“Brutish or flesh-defiled; O Midas, hear
“Thoughts that a God should hear—a God should speak.
“Evil and good, what are they unto thee!
“Not sounds that falsely image to thy soul
“The thoughts and things they show to sights impure;
“Their evil not thy evil, nor their good
“Thy good shall be. Not sloth, not restful hours,
“Thy gold shall grasp, rejoicing!—unused life,
“If that thy sumless treasures to thee gave,
“Better wert thou the neediest of thy slaves,
“That fate, with bitter goad of all men's wills,
“Scourges to labour, so, from out thy toil,
“Should help and some poor good for man be wrung;
“Oh, heed not thou the false and luring voice
“That whispers of the poor delights of ease,
“Of slumbrous nights, and dull, unfruitful days,
“These thou shalt loathe, enjoy'd,—enjoy'd and past,
“Leaving no after-life of glorious thoughts
“Of labours garner'd—the full harvest won.
“Lo, gold is power, or power for good or ill,
“And oft, o'erweighted with the lustrous load,
“Have high resolves, white-wing'd, full-plumed for heaven,
“Waver'd aloft, o'erburden'd, but to fall,
“To flutter in the miry ways of life.
“Spurn thou its rule. Rule thou its strength. Thy slave,
“So shall it minister to loftiest ends,
“And lift thee, mortal, to that higher life
“Of nobler toils and struggles for thy kind
“Than others compass, such as strain'd the strength
“Of Herakles, ere yet he rose, a God,

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“O'er labours, vanquish'd, toiling up to heaven.”
Ceased the full song, yet still the sultry noon
Listen'd, even as when Philomel hath ceased
Beneath the moon, the rapt night hearkens on,
Ravening for more of her melodious swells
And gushings of rich sweetness. Then two sounds
Throbb'd through the silence; one, the deep-drawn breath
Of Pan, recovering from the God's strong sway,
And one, far deeper, by dull Midas drawn,
Roused by the stillness from his sultry doze.
Twitching a hairy ear—a mocking laugh
Round his brute mouth and wrinkling all his cheeks,
Lover of cream, the goatherds' God began:
“Earth-born, O Midas, live alone for earth,
“Nor miss its pleasures for an untried heaven.
“Sweet are the plenteous gifts earth has for thee,
“And dear the joys that every season brings,
“The young spring's brightness—the hot summer's shade—
“The autumn's harvests, fruits, and vintage mirth,
“And winter's ruddy gatherings round the hearth,
“While the loud tempest, howling, beats without.
“Ease is thine own; thine, gold; why should'st thou toil?
“Swift comes the day, when to the dreadful shades
“Thy steps descend; live!—yet thou livest; live!
“Live!—wise are they that wring from out their days
“The wine of joy—the nectar of delight.
“Crown thee with roses, Aphrodite's flower,
“The violet and the jasmine, newly blown!
“Wreathe thee with arms more white than Ida's snows,
“But, O, more warm than these deep valleys' noons,
“With wild hot throbs through every violet vein
“Pulsing delight. Sun thee 'neath azure eyes,
“Dewy with passion,—languid with sweet love,
“Brighter than frostiest stars,—lit with desire.
“What joy more sweet than, from the fiery glare
“Shadow'd, beneath the cool of forest boughs,
“Or in some ivied cavern's mouth to lie,
“With honied whispers murmuring in thine ears
“And burning kisses evermore rain'd down
“On half-oped eyes and brow and lip and cheek—

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“Mouth sealed to mouth, the rich breath breathing in,
“In golden dreams forgetting all but joy!
“Wreathe me with sun-bathed droopings of the vine!
“Bind me, O Dionusus, in thy chains!
“Thy slave I would be—ever, be thy slave;
“Brim me this beechen bowl with wild delight!
“Wine—give me wine—fierce wine, the drink of gods!
“Drink, mortal! draughts, more sweet than Hebe bears,
“Earth, in these violet clusters, stores for thee,
“Nor dearer sound has, than the gurgling flow
“Of the bright gladness, from the wine-bag's mouth
“Leaping; drink—laugh and love! lo, these are life!”
Then Midas, brute-like, gave the prize to Pan,
And, in the moment that he stretch'd it forth,
A golden pipe, chased by the lame God's hand,
On his dolt's head he felt the dull ears rise,
And in the stream, he saw himself, an ass.

176

HER JESSAMINE.

PART I.

There's the jessamine she loved so; ah, a curly child she set it
When this garden porch from which it trails so greenly, first was made;
Oh, her joy in its first summers, who that saw it can forget it,
How she wondered at its white sweet stars and shouted in its shade!

Oh, that jessamine—that trellised porch—I never look upon it
But up before me all her little days it seems to bring;
How, brown and bare, her little hopes still prattled blossoms on it,
Still looked for leaves in winter and still watched for buds in spring.

That jessamine—its every spray to her was a green sister,
For, sisterless, her all of unclaimed love on it was spent;
To her its faint sweet odours still were glad fond lips that kissed her,
Its murmurs, living tongues that whispered back the love she lent.

That jessamine—oh, how she prized the pleasure of its training!
No hand but hers, its year's new shoots might to its trellis bind;
'Twas a sound to gladden any heart—her laugh to see it gaining,
May by May, still up the porch's height, along the roof to wind.

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We country folks have fancies, friend, and, to our simple seeming,
'Twas as though for it her fondness still so more than natural were,
That across our evening cottage talk, there'd often float a dreaming
Of a bond beyond the thought of man betwixt that flower and her.

You smile; 'tis but a fancy; true; but so they lived together,
That ever with the thought of her, came memory of the flower,
And yet I doubt, so strongly still the charm is on us, whether
An eye here, without seeing her, looks on it to this hour.

Ay, sights are 'neath that jessamine that your eyes are not seeing;
Each leaf, but a mere leaf to you, to us is a dear thought;
For us, forms move within its shade, to you that have no being,
And whispers wander to our ears, by yours from it uncaught.

'Twas there, in that soft golden shade with which June's sunlights fill it,
That she with Edwin played and laughed through many a girlish day;
'Twas there, the girl no longer now, she heard the flushed air still it
To catch the yes that murmured her young heart to him away.

And there, when our consent was won, how many a glad still hour,
How many a white night star above their lingering partings past,
While, sweeter than the sweetness far of every folded flower,
Through their low words, murmured up a love through all their years to last.

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Her jessamine—her jessamine—a bride before the altar
Of our gray old ivied church she stood and yet 'twas with her there;
They who heard her low sweet murmurs there the holy service falter,
Saw a spray of its pure silver stars wreathed in her soft brown hair.

Her jessamine — her jessamine — years come and go, estranging
Hands from hands and hearts from hearts, but still her love for it's the same;
Nay, even now a letter scarce can love for love be changing
Betwixt her new and old homes, but 'tis sweetened with its name.

PART II.

'Tis but a sprig of jessamine, yet, Ellen, more I treasure
That withered and discoloured spray, than things the most I prize;
'Tis not alone a memory of some young evening's pleasure,
A whisper of some sweet ball of my girlhood there that lies.

Ah, Ellen, on those faded leaves your eyes are calmly falling,
As if no throng of troubled thoughts—no sights were of them born,
But, seen by me, those blossoms sere, the long-gone past recalling,
Are deep thoughts in the records of the heart's far history worn.

I would that here, my own dear child, here with your mother only,
The page of life before us now, by your eyes should be read,
So shall that spray of jessamine, when I am gone and lonely
You walk the world, be as a voice of warning from the dead.

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O summers of my childhood! days so loved of fancy's dreaming!
O Mays that basked in sunshine hardly crossed of lightest shade!
How little to your simple thought, the coming years were seeming
For griefs unguessed and weeping and for care and trial made!

O green home of my girlhood! low your leaves are rustling o'er me,
As in chequered shades and sunbursts 'neath your mossed old trees I lie,
While ever some sweet blossom slow comes wavering down before me,
Floating down from your old orchard boughs before my half-shut eye.

Your garden—it's before me; the old casements looking on it
Through the leafy gold-green sunlight of their thick o'ermantling vine;
Your gables quaint; your trellised porch; the jessamine upon it,
To watch and train whose sweet growth was a girlish love of mine;

Was a love that strangely gathered strength with every changing season,
That strangely grew to weave itself at last through every thought,
Till fancy seemed to know of bonds beyond the gaze of reason,
In tangling meshes of that strange sweet love, unstruggling, caught.

Ah, I see myself as then I was, a laughing girl, lighthearted,
Tossing back a flood of golden curls from off my young blue eyes,

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As with leap and shout and broken song, its tangled shoots I parted,
Spring's sweet gifts to my sweet jessamine that so I'd learned to prize.

Ah, I see myself as soon as I was, in lilied summers after,
Still a girl, but numbering other years—a knitter, while the sun
Poured a mellow slanting splendour through that odorous porch, and laughter,
Still your father's mocking mine, betrayed our days of love begun.

O those old remembered evenings! all their stillness is around me,
All the odorous purple twilights of those shadowy nights of June,
When through that green porch's trailing sprays, whitestarred, the sweet hours
found me,
Found us, arm-enwreathed together, watching on the crescent moon.

But other—far, far other thoughts that withered spray is bringing,
Another face—another voice—a dance of those sweet years,
Ere yet, a bride, I left the home whose leafy memory's clinging
To all my thoughts—whose old sweet sounds are ever in my ears.

How fair a young thing then I was! long—long has gone the beauty
That in those happy winters won from all, the ball-room's gaze;
Long—long—ah, long has changed the heart that found the paths of duty
Too narrow for its wayward steps, allured to folly's ways.

How vain a young thing then I was! for triumphs only living;
Still restless if there reigned not in all eyes, my beauty's sway;

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Still grudging unto brightest eyes a phrase of flattery's giving,
Each watching gaze another's from my sweetness smiled away.

Ah, I hear again those murmured words amid that dance that fluttered
The pulses of a young heart as the music swelled and died,
That strove against the true thought of the many a vow she'd uttered
Of love for ever unto one—to one and none beside.

And is her partner, dance by dance, he who, than any other,
Has truest right to claim her hand, his own through all the ball,
Or smiles she, thoughtless of him, to the whisperings of another,
Another whom her purity should fitter shun than all?

Has she not startled from his path? has she not fled his gazing,
That, a prophecy of evil, long has crossed her, day by day?
And dares she now the dance with him, her eyes, untrembling, raising
To looks from whose bold insult hers have dropped so oft away?

Yes—he was bowed to—noble—of a brow and lip of beauty
That had fixed the eyes of woman, had he lacked the pride of birth,
Had he lacked the height of station to which reverence seemed a duty,
And ancestral wealth that stood him in the place of honest worth.

And is the love of all her years, for his, a moment slighted?
The love that with her ripening life to fairest growth had grown,
The love so many a summer star had lingered to hear plighted,
Forgot for a false passion that were shame and sin alone?

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Ay, blush for her, my own pure child; blush for a maiden, daughter,
Who spurned not his base flatteries back with instant honest scorn:
Alas for youth's weak vanity! the triumph's pride had caught her,
A titled partner for the night from every rival borne.

And still, as hour chased throbbing hour, sank doubt and scruple under
The insult of his homage that was never from her side,
Till her young ears grew sullied with his flatteries, without wonder
That she stooped to listen to them with a joy she scarce would hide.

The dawn is gray, and in her home, before her glass, unwreathing
The spray of her own jessamine from out her hair, she stands;
“You'll come?” were they his parting words? why stills her startled breathing?
What sees she in the drooping wreath that trembles in her hands?

The past—the past is with her; with a rush of recollection
Throng before her all the pure hours those sweet stars have dreamed above,
All the story of her young heart, dawning into glad affection,
All my girlhood's gentle fondness as it blossomed into love.

Self-abased, I faced the vision of the truth that I had plighted,
Of the trusting love that so had grown to live and breathe in mine;
Throbbed my temples with a flushing shame, to own such truth I'd slighted
For a homage, O my Edwin! worthless, buried love, to thine.

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A moment—all the bonds of shame in which that night had bound me,
The pure thoughts of my girlhood and its fair flower have undone;
Wrong might not home amid the dreams its sweetness summoned round me;
A moment—my sweet jessamine and truth and love had won.

Then wonder not, my gentle girl, that withered spray I treasure,
That lifted me the tempting of an erring pride above,
A pride that fain had lured me on with wildering lights of pleasure,
Through ways that wandered into shame, afar from hope and love.

CHORUSES FROM AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY ON THE FALL OF MESSENIA.

CHORUS OF ACHÆAN SLAVES.

Epode 1.

O shame! O fear and pain! ye make life weary,
A burden hard to bear;
The way of death at times seems not more dreary
Than ours through dark despair.
What is our lot? Toil; toil that knows no ceasing;
Toil wrung by those we hate;
Our conquerors' heaped-up stores of wealth increasing,
Our hands upbuild their state.

Strophe 1.

Fair land unto our chainless fathers giving
The wealth they freely gave
To every stranger, who in thee are living?
The Dorian and the slave.

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The mighty race that, in old days departed,
Gave kings to thee alone,
For strangers till thy valleys, broken-hearted,
Thy fields no more their own.

Antistrophe 1.

Clear broad Pamissus! still, with many a winding,
Through vale, by vine-clad hill,
Go, wandering on, thy sunny waters, finding
All green and lovely still;
Still on thy banks the bright wild-flowers are growing;
They gaze from out thy waves;
But now the grassy banks that watch thee flowing,
Give back the tread of slaves.

Epode 2.

And thou, strong-walled Andania! heaven-founded,
Our heroes' dwelling-place,
No more within thee, as of old, surrounded
By glory, rule our race.
Within thy stony halls, at ease reclining,
Their feast the strangers hold;
For them our maidens' hands are garlands twining,
The wreaths we wore of old;
Our old ancestral goblets, high o'erbubbling
With wine we may not taste,
For them they crown, while thoughts, old thoughts are doubling
Their shame, with trembling haste.

Strophe 2.

Our race no more the brazen helm are clasping;
The shield no more they raise;
No more their hands the freeman's sword are grasping,
As once, in bygone days.
No; we whose sires, the slaughtered foeman spoiling,
Away the rich arms tore,
Or hew the wood or at the corn-mill toiling,
Of glory dream no more.

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Antistrophe 2.

O life! O load too heavy for our bearing!
We fain would lay thee by:
Alas! alas! bereft of hope—despairing,
At times 'twere sweet to die!
And why then live? The hope of vengeance, swelling
Within us, lights our lot:
Oh! might our tongues but of their woes be telling,
Our own were then forgot.

CHORUS OF ACHÆAN SLAVES.

Epode 1.

Many a kingly hall hath heard,
Poured in many a burning word,
Our deeds in other days;
Many a bounding choir hath sung,
While the golden lyre hath rung,
Achaia's heroes' praise.

Strophe 1.

Who like them for glory burned?
Ease inglorious from them spurned,
Or joyed, with deep-mouthed hound
And woodland spear, at break of dawn,
To rouse with jocund shout the morn,
While echo laughed around?
Bounding on, Taygetus, who
Fleetlier thy untrodden dew
With flying footsteps beat?
Woody glen and rocky height
Saw outstripped the stag's hot flight
By their pursuing feet.

Antistrophe 1.

Vainly fled the panting hare;
Vainly, glaring in his lair,
At bay the gaunt wolf stood;
Whetted tusk and foamy jaw,
Nought availed the bristly boar,
The monster of the wood.

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Rushed they on, unknowing fear;
Needed their devouring spear
No second thrust to deal;
On the mountain's shaggy side,
Red, of old, Achaia dyed
In blood the beaming steel.

Epode 2.

Hurler of the thunder, thou,
Zeus, to whom the nations bow,
Whom trembling gods obey;
Thou dost all our triumphs know,
Won ere yet our race lay low,
Our glory past away.
Where the groves of Altis rise,
Oft our fathers won the prize
That life, in worth exceeds;
Oft assembled Hellas there
Saw, from all, our heroes tear
The meed of mightiest deeds.

Strophe 2.

Where Alpheus winding flows,
Whelmed beneath their crashing blows,
The cæstus-wielders fell;
Over hallowed Pisa's plain
Strove the swift of foot in vain
Our heroes' hopes to quell;
Oft the pride of Hellas hung
O'er the rushing car and flung
Unheeded vows in air,
Toiling towards the goal, behind,
While, before, our steeds of wind
The victory gathered there.

Antistrophe 2.

Many a brawny wrestler there
Poured in vain to heaven the prayer
To foil our might of yore;

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Writhing in our strangling clasp,
Hurled from out our deadly grasp,
They fell to strive no more.
Oft the spear by others thrown
Sought, while, quivering, found alone
The prize the one we hurled;
Oft the ponderous iron, flung
O'er thy plain, Olympia, sung
From us the farthest whirled.

Epode 3.

Many a mighty bard hath told
How, when through the battle rolled
The thunder of their shout,
God-sprung heroes, smote with dread,
Trembling stood, or, turning, led
The pale and shrieking rout.
Battling from the whirling car,
Burst they through the ranks of war;
Who durst their onset stay?
Sank the iron wall of shields;
Fled the dread of fighting fields
Before their onward way.

Strophe 3.

Gods, they cleft the stormy fight;
Backwards rolled the battle; flight
The herald of their path.
On, where danced their sable plume,
In their brazen bucklers' gloom,
Marched devouring wrath.
There the howl of slaughter rang;
There, of falling arms the clang,
Achaia's vengeance told;
Glory there with foot of wind
Tracked by heaps of slain, behind,
Our battle-path of old.

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Antistrophe 3.

Nought might helm or shield avail,
Nought the strength of iron mail,
When fled their thirsting spear;
Death the quivering javelin strode;
Fell the chief who battling rode;
Fell the charioteer.
Graspers of the golden hilt,
Who like them the keen sword gilt
In darkly rushing gore?
Vaunted arms of proof were vain;
Prone through helm and bone and brain
Its way their blue steel tore.

MOTHER AND SON.

“Mother, the storm, how it shrieks without!”
“Fit night for the work, son, we're about.”

“Mother, the razor's smeared with blood.”
“Fling it far where the river comes down in flood.”

“Blood on these hands, blood will be seen.”
“Water, my son, will wash them clean.”

“What will whiten the sheets and bed?”
“I'll wash them in peace now your father's dead.”

“They'll see where the new-turn'd earth looks brown.”
“Son, with my feet I trampled it down.”

“O that dead face! O hide it, night!”
“The quick-lime I strew'd will soon eat that sight.”

“God! I can see his mangled throat!”
“Silence, boy! how you drivel and dote.”

“Mother, his blood, it sears my soul!”
“Son, on mine alone be the whole.”

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“O would that my father were here again!”
“Thank God! that wish is wish'd in vain.”

“Here, even to drive us mad with blows.”
“Thank God! from his heart his life-blood flows!”

“Here, though mad-drunk, to kill us he swore.”
“Thank God! such oaths he'll swear no more.”

“Here again, though he starved us dead.”
“Thank God! now my work will bring us bread.”

“Here again, to repent his sin.”
“Thank God! to heaven never he'll win.”

“O that he were living, and dead were we!”
“Sleep, sleep, my son, and comfort me.”

“How dare I sleep! how dare I dream!”
“Without him, our lives like heaven will seem.”

“Heaven!—hell, hell, is for you and me!”
“God help us! there will your father be!”

“Hell hereafter! hell here!” “Forgot
“Will be hell's pains if we're where he's not!”

THE TREASURE-FINDER.

“Wander forth into the sunshine—go thou, wander in the woodlands;
For the forest's haunts of greenness, leave the toiling town behind:
Here, O mortal, worn and wilder'd, thou art poorest of the poorest—
There, in leafy ease and stillness, lo! a treasure thou shalt find.”

So in dreams the voice spake to him: and the sleeper, eager-hearted,
Woke, and from the dreary striving of the city took his way;

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Breathing hopes in with the sunshine—hopes as golden as the morning,
With a light foot hastening onward—on, to where the treasure lay.

Ah! how want shall lie behind him! in the streets' loudclanging mazes,
He no more shall lack his station in the thronging haunts of men;
He, now vainly seeking burdens that his spirit groans not under,
Searching vainly, scorn'd and hunger'd, shall be served and honour'd then.

Quicker beat his pulse, and quicker; ever pleasure swam before him,
As he near'd the forest's shadows, as beneath its leaves he laugh'd,
As his heart went bounding onward through its glooms and verdurous alleys,
As his soul, its calm and coolness, ever deeper, deeper quaff'd.

On, through ferny dell and hollow—on, by oaken foliage shaded—
On, through sun-fleck'd paths he linger'd, with the woodbines tangled o'er;
Under beechen boughs reclining, lapp'd in odours, songs, and murmurs,
Spake the tongues of Nature through him, as they never spake before.

Swell'd they out in clearest music—swell'd in tones of murmuring sweetness,
Into harmonies transfusing all of beauty pour'd around;
Hues and odours, forms and shadows, sunny bursts of summer brightness,
All that ear and eye were drinking, pouring forth in measured sound.

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And the darkness of his spirit, to the glad tones of his singing,
Pass'd, as pass'd the gloom when David sang, from the dark soul of Saul;
Lo! a glory brightens round him—round him Heaven's own hymns are ringing;
From his kingly thought, Earth's bitter cares and weary burdens fall.

Home returns he; home returning, how the world's keen scoffings meet him—
All the purse-proud scorn of riches—all the sneers of titled birth!
Ah! he brings a treasure back, that makes him heedless how they greet him;
Poor, despised, the Poet knows himself God-chosen great on earth.

CASSANDRA SPEAKS!

With finger raised, with starting eye,
With streaming hair, who wanders by?
With ashen lips, who shuddering shrieks?
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! roaring flames and gleaming arms!
“Woe! rushing feet and wail'd alarms!”
Still—still of woe, but woe, she shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Nods not your Ilion to its fall?
“Nod not high tower and God-built wall?”
Of wreck, but wreck, that wild voice shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Up! in your streets are hid the foe!
“Up! ere they smite and spare not! Woe!”
That cry its frenzied warning shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

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“Blood—steaming blood, on hearth and floor!
“Blood where your knees the Gods adore!”
Of death that cry for ever shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! woe! ye pamperd and ye high!
“In vain ye wake—ye strive—ye fly!”
For your deaf ears that warning shrieks;
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Years did the Gods to ye ordain,
“That ye should purge ye pure from stain!
“Gone; gone! the hour with vengeance reeks!”
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

“Woe! gleaming arms in every street!
“Woe! vengeful arms, these wild eyes meet!
“Hot blood—your blood, upon them reeks!”
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

O doom'd! and do ye only flock
About her steps, to scoff and mock?
To hear but dreams in all she shrieks?
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

O awful Gods! ye close their ears!
O wrathful Gods! they know not fears!
To deafen'd ears in vain she shrieks!
Cassandra speaks! Cassandra speaks!

195

THE ROBIN.

A TALE OF EMIGRATION.

ENGLAND.

My thoughts are like our April,
Now sunshine, and now tears,
As I think I leave for ever
This pleasant home of years;
But, cheer you, sweetest wife,
Ay, be of blithesome cheer;
As happy days we'll spend afar
As ever we knew here.

196

They say the land we're going to
Yields corn that turns to gold;
None need, they say, to labour there
Till years behold them old—
Till leisure's self is pluck'd
All blasted with the blight
That's eat away its very heart,
Its power to yield delight.

Come, dry your eyes; your garden, wife,
For that, nay, never grieve;
There kingly flowers shall bloom for you,
Shall shame the ones you leave;
Who'll think of the wan daisy—
Who'll the primrose pale recal,
In the presence there of regal flowers
That bow in wonder all?

There the waratah holds its state
Deep in the forest's shades,
And with the glory of its pride
Lights up the lonely glades;
The indigo there droops
Its crimson from the trees,
And there the cactus' queenly charms
Lure back the passing breeze.

Weep not, no more our woodlands
And our hedge-row elms to see;
Forget them; our adopted land
Has many a statelier tree;
The palm-like zamia there
Endiadems its cone
With bending leaves, whose mateless grace
Our willow's self would own.

There the dark gum-tree's polished leaves
Fling back to heaven the sun;
There, Titan pines upscale the sky,
Uptower'd to here by none;

197

The orange garlands there
Its form with odorous snow,
And round the grass-tree's banded trunk,
Its sweeping tresses flow.

Ay, blithely sing my prison'd thrush,
Full soon shall you be free,
For the bell-bird's note outsweetens yours
Beyond the swelling sea;
And, scarlet-vested almsman,
Your latest dole I cast;
For, robin, on your English face,
I look, perchance, my last.

Yet, scarlet one, so long I've loved
Your painted form to know,
There's a dainty gift at parting—
Ay, more than crumbs I throw;
For a pleasant daylight dream
Have you ever been to me,
And my thanks and love I fling you
Ere I pass the rolling sea.

AUSTRALIA.

Oh, parch'd—parch'd are the long grey plains
That stretch from round us here;
In vain the sound of coming rains
The dry air pines to hear;
Along the river's bed
The earth is crack'd and dry,
Save where, in hot green pools,
The fishes, gasping, die.

No rain—no rain—still hot white dust
In blinding clouds sweeps by,
And still the hot wind burns along
Beneath the scorching sky.
Alas, where, fresh and green,
Arose our young year's wheat,
But fields of wither'd stalks,
Stand, blackening in the heat.

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Our garden flowers—our English flowers—
So tended, that the thought
Of happy hours afar we spent
Might often back be brought—
The daisy 'twas my pride,
To water day by day—
The primrose—all have died,
Or wither fast away.

Oh, for green England's gurgling brooks!
The herdsman has to tell
That far away the cows he drove
To try the chalk-pit well;
Their latest hope was there,
But they found it parch'd and dry,
With its hot depths glaring blinding white
Against the burning sky.

No sound that tells of freshness—
Of coming rain—alone
The rattle of the fiery dust
Against the casement, blown,
The dingo's howl for water—
Our parch'd cows moaning there,
And the locust's wither'd song, that seems
To sear the very air,

Oh, weary, weary was the day
That happiness we sold,
And the pleasant light of England,
For the hopes of sudden gold—
And weary is the weary thought,
That never, but in dreams,
We shall tread again her meadow-paths
Or wander by her streams!

Oh, for the fresh, cool airs
That, round the temples, blow,
Of those, through England's orchards,
Through England's woods, that go!

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Oh, would I were again
Where never more I'll be,
In the land I've left for ever—
In my home beyond the sea!

AUSTRALIA.

The robin lighted on the tree,
And merrily he sang,
Till, with his cheerful minstrelsy,
The lonely clearing rang;
The song came clear and shrill
Through the open window near,
And hush'd grew all and still
That strange sweet voice to hear.

Upon his broad and horny hand
The settler leans his brow,
And far from his adopted land,
His thoughts are wandering now;—
With finger raised—fixed eye—
Lips parted for a word,
The wife sits listening by—
What sings it of, sweet bird?

Oh, dwellers in the southern sea,
'Twas thus the redbreast sung,
Full well are known the cots to me,
Green England's lanes among;
The homesteads, well I know,
Whose blue smoke's curling still
From all her thymy downs and vales,
From ev'ry grassy hill.

Oh, pleasant is the green, green Spring,
They heard the redbreast sing,
In England's woods and verdant lanes
How pleasant is the Spring!
How, through the soft warm sunshine
Of April's golden hours,
Laugh up to heaven her villages,
Ingarlanded with flowers!

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There, noisy of its happiness,
The brook is bubbling by,
And there, in pastures green and deep,
The happy cattle lie;
The daisy lights the meadow—
The speedwell stars the lane,
And the glory of the golden furze
Burns on her heaths again.

Oh, for the pleasant primrose banks
That bask beneath her skies!
Oh, for the thousand silver streams
Her summer never dries!
Oh, but for one sweet hour,
In happiness to roam
Among your farms and villages,
My own green island home!

No withering winds beneath her skies
Her fields' fair hopes destroy,
For, gentle as the airs of May,
Her breezes bring but joy;
The wealth her Spring has told
His treasuries shall win,
By Autumn's banded sickles
With songs is garner'd in.

Then, dwellers in the southern sea,
Away before the wind,
And bless the swelling sails that leave
This streamless land behind;
Again, again, seek happiness,
No more from it to roam,
And bless the redbreast's simple song
That taught the worth of home.

ENGLAND.

Oh, Mary, there's the robin;
Quick—throw the window up,
For, while I have a meal to share,
With me he's free to sup;

201

There—there—let daintiest crumbs
In part your guerdon be,
For the song that lured us back again
Across the surging sea.

Oh, fair is nature everywhere,
In heaven—on land and sea,
But loveliest in my own green land
Is nature still to me.
And still dear shall be the song,
Still the singer shall be dear
That taught me that the constant home
Of happiness was here.

Oh, England—England, land of lands,
Thank heaven! I've wisdom earn'd—
Through sorrow and heartsickness, well,
Thy worth, green land, I've learn'd;
Now blessings track the song that taught
The girdling billows foam
Around no land that mates with thee,
My own green island home.

203

SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS.

205

DREAMS.

Dreams that I dream—sweet dreams!
The length of a crowded street,
A light form tripping to me,
That makes my full heart beat;
And a meeting that, thought of, seems
Too sweet for a thing of dreams:
Dreams that I dream—sweet dreams!

Dreams that I dream—wild dreams!
A looking in tearful eyes,
In eyes that for love of me
Will not utter the soul's wild cries;
And a last farewell that seems
Too bitter for only dreams:
Dreams that I dream—wild dreams!

A SAILOR'S SONG.

“Would you be a sailor's wife?
“Beware!
“Would you share a sailor's life?
“Take care!
“For, oh! a sailor's life must be
“Spent away on the far, far sea,
“And little of him his wife may see—
“Not she.”
Yet still she cried, “Whate'er betide,
“A sailor's wife I'll be;
“For the winds with health his brown cheeks fill,
“And the sea's fresh life is in him still,
“Not the land's weak heart: say what you will,
“A sailor's wife I'll be.”

206

“Would you be a sailor's wife?
“Beware!
“Would you share a sailor's life?
“Take care!
“To the savage sea he is wedded groom,
“And grief shall your weary life consume,
“And widow'd nights and days your doom
“Must be!”
Yet still she cried, “Whate'er betide,
“A sailor's wife I'll be;
“If weeping partings we must know,
“He'll come again though he must go,
“And, oh! to think he'll come back! oh!
“A sailor's wife I'll be.”

“Would you be a sailor's wife?
“Beware!
“Would you share a sailor's life?
“Take care!
“O worse than absence, there may be
“A grave for him in the far wild sea,
“His young babe's face he may never see,
“Nor thee!”
Yet still she sigh'd, “Whate'er betide,
“A sailor's wife I'll be;
“For whether the land or deck be trod,
“All lie at last beneath wave or sod,
“And all are in the hand of God;
“A sailor's wife I'll be.”

A KISS—A SMILE—A SIGH.

A kiss—a smile—a sigh—
The sweetest that love can give,
For what but these care I!
For these alone I live;
'Tis these that speed my hours
Till days like moments fly;
O, love, be always ours,
A kiss—a smile—a sigh!

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A kiss—a smile—a sigh!
And why should we ask the last?
Ah! sweet, if sorrow fly,
Be sure love too has past;
'Tis sorrow's presence gives
The proof that love is nigh;
Ask you on what he lives?
A kiss—a smile—a sigh.

THE CAVALIER'S WHISPER.

'Tis a cloudless noon of sultry June,
And pleasant it is to win
The cool thick shade by the chestnut made,
In front of the wayside inn;
And a pleasant sight, with his feather of white,
Is the mounted Cavalier,
Who stoops for the cup that the maid gives up,
With a word none else can hear.

A moment more—from that shady door
That horseman rides away;
And little, I guess, he thinks—and less
Of the word he bent to say;
But many a noon of many a June
Must pass, with many a year,
Ere the maiden who heard that whisper'd word,
Forgets that Cavalier.

O MIGHT I BE THE HAPPY GLOVE!

O might I be the happy glove,
The happy glove that clasps her hand!
But, O more blest, how would I love
To be her robe's glad girdling band,

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For ever press'd, in clasp how warm!
What mighty raptures there to taste!
O Eros! round her slender waist;
O boy-god! round her living form!
Ah! then what fevering hours were mine
Of burning dreams and bliss divine!

And, O were I the sparkling ring,
Around her rosy finger worn,
How to that finger would I cling,
And there all kingly jewels scorn!
O more, that I that neck might touch!
That I might one dear instant rest,
A nestling jewel, on her breast!
Ah, sweet desire, for hope too much!
Yet what would I not, girl, resign,
To make such mighty gladness mine!

Yet were this more than, love, to me
The niggard hand of joy could spare,
O might I for one evening be
A flower amid your raven hair!
Even though it were a dying flower,
That breathed its gentle life away,
A sweet white withering jasmine spray,
But pluck'd to please you one bright hour;
Even then in death what dreams were mine
Of burning love and bliss divine!

O BUT TO SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

O but to see her face again!
O but to hear her speak!
To feel her braided raven hair
Again against my cheek!
Cold is the wintry sky without,
Cold, cold the white snows fall;
But O, my wintry heart within
Is colder far than all!

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Ah! many a night, in frost and sleet,
I've waited for her long,
And felt but summer in the drift,
Heard in the blast but song.
Keen drives the wintry gust without;
Cold, cold the white snows fall;
But O, my wintry heart within
Is colder far than all!

A KISS FOR YOUR THOUGHT.

A kiss for your thought—a kiss
As sweet as this;
And should it in truth, love, be
Of me, me, but me,
As, love, indeed it ought,
I'll not deny you three.
A kiss—a kiss for your thought.

A kiss for your thought—a kiss
As dear as this;
And should it in truth not be
Of me, me, but me,
As, laugher, indeed, it ought,
Your pardon will cost you three.
A kiss—a kiss for your thought.

UNCHANGED.

I know that time will streak with grey
That raven hair in years;
I know those eyes, at last, will dim
With age as well as tears;
Year after year, I know, some charm
Will from that form depart,
But well I know, the thought of me
Will never leave your heart.

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Through years, and cares, and every change
That time and grief can bring;
Through life and death, still will your heart
To that but closer cling.
I know that all things else held dear,
With years less dear will be;
But I know unchanged, love, to the last
Will live your love for me.

ELLEN, YOU'RE MY ROSE.

Ellen, you're my rose,
Not the Summer's queen,
She her beauty shows
But when elms are green.
Her no more I see;
White fall Winter's snows,
Yet in your cheek she blooms for me;
Ellen, you're my rose.

Spring hung o'er her birth;
Autumn heap'd her grave;
O'er her odorous earth
Now the wild winds rave.
Summer's darling, she
Fled before the snows,
Yet in your cheek she blooms for me;
Ellen, you're my rose.

THIS HEART, ONCE A BEE.

This heart, once a bee, may have been, love, a rover,
From bloom to gay bloom sadly given to roam;
But now its old season of wandering is over,
Your sweetness will keep it for ever at home.

And why did it flutter from flower to flower,
So false to so many? what else could it do?

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What was it but seeking, through every bright hour,
To find one as fill'd with all sweetness as you?

Then deem it no proof that this heart must be roving,
Still doubting it ever from what it has done;
It once did but toy, knowing nothing of loving,
Till, sporting from many, it clung, love, to one.

GOOD-BYE.

Good-bye! the word is lightly spoken
When ties but lightly bound are broken;
But in that word, to you and me,
Is all that never more may be.
And you and I
Would gladlier die
Than utter now “Good-bye—good-bye!”

Good-bye! to some, O joy—not sorrow!
It speaks of meeting on some morrow.
To us, that word can only tell
A hopeless, endless, last farewell:
And sob and sigh,
Our hearts' wild cry,
Are in that word, “Good-bye—good-bye!”

O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS.

O Summer, paint me her sweet lips upon thy glowing air!
Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair!
O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry!
Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch!
Red! the geranium's scarlet show'd but poor and pale by such!
O Memory! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how much!
O but to see her face again, and die!

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Yet more, O more, O bring me more than yearn'd-for face and form—
The dark eye, misty with its love—the blush with passion warm—
All my blood leapt up to answer in the past!
O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone,
But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone,
And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own,
And the white arms hung around me at the last!

O foolish heart, be still, be still! thy cry is ever vain
For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again,
All that never more thy living eyes shall see.
The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave;
Its ears are dull and deaf to all thy misery can rave;
How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save,
Of all that never—never more may be!

DIE, DAY!

Die, day! die, day!
Down—down—downward, haste away!
Here, for night and her I stay;
Die, day! die, bright day!

Come, night! come, night!
Give her—give her to my sight!
Bring my joy—my heart's delight!
Come, night! come, sweet night!

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HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES.

How lightly sleeping Cupid lies,
And smiles, and dreams within my heart!
A touch—a tone—his folded eyes
Awake to sweet life with a start;
Or does he sleep, or does he feign?
So light his slumbers, scarce I know;
Scarce closed his eyes, when, straight again
Wide-oped, with love they gleam and glow.

Yet, if to life the slumberer leap,
Quick at a glance—a touch—a tone,
How lightly, too, he sinks to sleep,
How well to many a heart is known!
Pout not, sweet lips; those eyes' bright power
Rule him with spells but known to few;
And should he sleep some erring hour,
He'll, sleeping, smile, and dream of you.

What though from out the shadowy past
Soft laughs he hears—sees dear eyes gleam!
Hopes—fears—that long have lived their last,
What though their sweetness haunt his dream!
How weak their power! From dreams he breaks;
The Past's dear charm no more endures;
Beneath your smile he thrills—he wakes,
His tears—his laughs—his life but yours.

A WIFE'S SONG.

O well I love the Spring,
When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows;
And well I love the Summer,
And the coming of the rose;
But dearer are the changing leaf,
And the year upon the wane,
For O they bring the blessed time
That brings him home again.

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November may be dreary;
December's days may be
As full of gloom to others
As once they were to me:
But, O to hear the tempest
Beat loud against the pane!
For the roaring wind and the blessed time
That brings him home again!

A SPRING SONG.

Long has been the winter,
Long—long—in vain
We've sought the bud upon the bough,
The primrose in the lane.
Long have skies been dull and grey,
Nipping's been the blast;
But, sing! Summer's coming!
The bee's out at last.
Sing! Winter's flying;
Summer's coming fast;
Humming joy and Spring-time,
The bee's out at last.

Loud shouts the cuckoo;
The nested elm round,
Wheels the rook, cawing;
There are shadows on the ground.
Warm comes the breeze and soft,
Freezing days are past.
Sing! Summer's coming!
The bee's out at last.
Sing! Winter's flying;
Summer's coming fast;
Humming hope and Spring-time,
The bee's out at last.

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FROM A GARRET.

A LONDON LYRIC.

Dear wife, the crowded, bustling street,
Scarce notes your neatness glancing by;
Scarce worth a look from those we meet,
Scarce worth a thought are you and I.
Or if wealth deigns to stoop its eyes
A moment to us, wife, be sure
It sees us only to despise,
Or pity us as sadly poor.

And are we poor? Yes, I confess
I fear the rich despise my coat.
Pride scorns, too, Kate, that cotton dress,
On which you know, Kate, how I dote.
If wealth be cash in purse or bank,
Or stocks or rents alone, I'm sure
For wealth we have not much to thank
The stars; nay, we must own we're poor.

But are these, Kate, the only wealth?
Without them all, may we not own
Riches in youth that laughs with health,
How often to the rich unknown.
Without a shilling—forced to earn
Or do without each meal, I'm sure,
Rich in content, we've yet to learn
That in the truest wealth we're poor.

What if no West-end mansion be
Our home—if quite four stories high
Our two white-curtained windows see
A landscape but of roofs and sky!
Mirth loves, I think, the upper air,
No ennui homes with us, I'm sure.
Gladness, the best of wealth, is there;
And, blest with that, O are we poor?

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No opera-box invites the stare
Of coxcombs, Kate, your charms to see.
What matters that? you only care
To show your beauty, Kate, to me.
If 'mongst the gods we see the play,
If poor-drest balls are ours, I'm sure
Our laughs and happy hearts can say,
If mirth be wealth, we are not poor.

And O, our garret, Kate, can tell,
Although its walls be somewhat bare,
That friendship loves its comfort well,
And laughter's always noisy there;
And love, who flies from state and fuss,
Makes ours his dearest home, I'm sure.
Is he not always, Kate, with us?
And, rich in love, can we be poor?

YE ROSES, WITH HER BLUSHES, BLOW.

Ye roses, with her blushes, blow;
Ye lilies, lift her neck of snow;
Thou dusky night, ye starry skies,
Show forth the dark light of her eyes;
Thou rosy morning, steal to earth
With her gay smiles, her sparkling mirth;
You, dewy tears of twilight eves,
Weep softly, softly as she grieves,
That ever she may present be
In all sweet sounds we hear, in all sweet sights we see.

Thou, Music, with her low tones stir
Our hearts; thou, Painting, image her;
And thou, white Sculpture, let her seem
To smile from every marble dream
Of thine, that she may ever be
Fair in all fair things shaped by thee;

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And thou, O Poet, to her give,
Sweet, in thy sweetest songs to live,
So thou, blest Art, shalt give her part
In all thy lustrous life in man's delighted heart.

FOR YOU.

For you—for you—I live for you;
And, if I long for fame,
'Tis that I'd give
A life to live
For ages with your name.
I thirst for fame, 'tis true,
But then 'tis fame for you.

For you—for you—I live for you;
Yes, wealth indeed I crave,
That all that I
With wealth can buy,
You, dearest, you may have.
I would have gold, 'tis true,
But then 'tis gold for you.

For you—for you—I live for you;
No day but brings this heart
Your thought with light;
No dream has night
In which you have not part.
I live, I breathe, 'tis true;
But, love, I live for you.

TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.

[_]

Born January 25, 1759.

And he was born a century since!
What matters that to him?
Years dull the fame of peer and prince,
But his what years can dim?

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No; he whom falser glories dread,
Old Time, would scorn to wrong
One laurel on the glorious head
Of this our king of song.
Fill! If cold to his fame there be
One Scot, him Scotland spurns.
Up, Scotchmen all, and drink with me,
“Our glory—Robert Burns!”

Ah, friends! old Scotland's heart to warm,
Another comes not soon
Like him bestow'd on her in storm
Upon the banks of Doon.
O clay-built cot that gave him birth,
Where is your name not known—
Your name, poor hut, that gave to earth
The man earth's proud to own?
Fill! Proud of him we well may be,
Whose words no child but learns.
Up, Scotchmen all, with three times three,
And drink to “Robert Burns!”

The very air he breathed is dear
To all, whate'er their lots.
O fields he trod! what heart is here
But holds your holy spots?
O Ellisland! No Scot is he
A glow who does not feel
To hear thy name, or more to see
Thy lowly roof, Mossgiel!
What Scottish heart, where'er it be
In farthest lands, but yearns,
Ere death, the very homes to see
That shelter'd Robert Burns?

'Twas his our meanest wants to know,
Our worst toils to endure;
But, more—to pride and wealth to show
What souls God gives the poor.
How little Heaven for titles cares,
How well his genius told,

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That rank is but the stamp it bears,
That man's the sterling gold!
No nobler truth the world can know
Than this from him it learns,
The high may be beneath the low.
Then drink “The Ploughman Burns!”

And were they sung so long ago?
Well, time but makes more dear
His songs, that do but sweeter grow,
And sweeter with each year.
O tender strains, how well you told
Our fathers' joys and fears!
The self-same power to-day you hold
To speak our laughs and tears.
Than this that it was his to know,
That now our reverence earns,
No nobler power God gives below—
Then drink, “The Poet Burns!”

Flow on, O Ayr—O Nith, flow on—
Soft murmur of his praise
Who shower'd yet richer charms upon
Your bonny banks and braes!
Through him how many a dear, dear scene
A sweeter beauty fills!
More green your valleys' tender green,
More dear your heathy hills;
Where breathes the Scot who, far or near,
But to old Scotland yearns?
Then fill to him who made more dear
Her hills and vales,—to “Burns!”

O poet! let thy heart rejoice
Wherever now thou art;
Thy songs still live in every voice,
Still throb through every heart.
In every clime those songs are heard;
What nations from us spring!
And still, where sounds an English word,
O Burns, thy songs they sing!

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And long as hearts shall sink and swell
With grief and mirth by turns,
Those songs our joys and griefs shall tell—
Then drink to “Robert Burns!”

And O, not only through our days
Shall “Auld lang syne” be sung,
And, praised with tears, “Ye banks and braes,”
Shall linger from each tongue.
To those dear words, to unborn eyes
Unbidden tears shall steal,
While time an English heart supplies
Their tender charm to feel.
Then up! to him your glasses raise
To whom your love so yearns,
Whom unborn hearts shall love and praise,
Up! Scotchmen,—“Robert Burns!”

Yet let not Scotland rise alone
To this our loving toast;
No; England claims him as her own,
Her glory and her boast.
Then up—up all!—and fill with me
Your glasses to the brim;
Our common pride he well may be,
Let all, then, drink to him.
The fame of him whose matchless songs
No English tongue but learns,
To all of English blood belongs;
Fill all—to “Robert Burns!”

PRITHEE TELL ME WHERE LOVE DWELLS.

Prithee tell me where Love dwells!
'Neath a forehead whiter far
Than the whitest lilies are;
'Neath a drooping lash of silk
Blacker far than carven jet,

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Drooping from a lid of milk
Veinèd deep with violet;
Find me these, and each one tells
Where the wildering urchin dwells.

Yet still ask you where he's dwelling?
Where a brow is, purer than
The white bosom of the swan,
Rounded with a night more rare
Than was ever hung on high,
Sleeping round in braided hair
Brooding o'er a raven eye,
O'er an eye all eyes excelling;
Find me these, and there he's dwelling.

If one steal upon him there,
Tell me—tell me—shall I seize
Love, the troubler of mine ease?
Questioner, nay, I say not so,
And his will I read aright;
There his presence ne'er thou'lt know;
Never there he'll glad thy sight;
For but yesternight he sware,
Only I should find him there.

A WINTER SONG.

Crackle and blaze,
Crackle and blaze,
There's snow on the housetops; there's ice on the ways;
But the keener the season
The stronger's the reason
Our ceiling should flicker and glow in thy blaze.
So fire—piled fire,
Leap, fire, and shout;
Be it warmer within
As 'tis colder without,
And as curtains we draw and around the hearth close,
As we glad us with talk of great frosts and deep snows,

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As redly thy warmth on the shadow'd wall plays,
We'll say Winter's evenings outmatch Summer's days,
And a song, jolly roarer, we'll shout in thy praise;
So crackle and blaze,
Crackle and blaze,
While roaring the chorus goes round in thy praise.

Crackle and blaze,
Crackle and blaze,
There's ice on the ponds; there are leaves on the ways;
But the barer each tree
The more reason have we
To joy in the summer that roars in thy blaze.
So fire, piled fire,
The lustier shout
The louder the winds shriek
And roar by without,
And as, red through the curtains, go out with thy light
Pleasant thoughts of warm firesides across the dark night,
Passers by, hastening on, shall be loud in thy praise;
And while spark with red spark in thy curling smoke plays;
Within, the loud song to thy honour we'll raise.
So crackle and blaze,
Crackle and blaze,
While roaring the chorus goes round in thy praise.

A SMILE—IT WAS BUT A SMILE.

A smile—it was but a smile,
Yet it set my stirr'd heart thinking,
And dizzied my dancing brain,
As if with joyous drinking.

A word—it was but a word,
Yet on my heart's hush'd hearing
It fell with a quick glad start,
And shook it with hopes and fearing.

223

A kiss—a long heart's kiss,
And I—I knew not whether
I breathed earth's air or heaven's,
As our hot lips clung together.

A kiss—a last wild kiss,
A kiss, how wild with sorrow!
And does it all end in this,
In a night that knows no morrow!

THE WRECKED HOPE.

There's a low soft song in a chamber,
Where sits, in the darkening room,
A young wife, lulling her babe to rest,
Scarce seen in the deepening gloom;
And her song to her babe is telling
How in hope and in joy she sees
The white sails homeward swelling
To the strain of a favouring breeze,
The good ship bearing its father home
From the far wild southern seas.

There's a dim drear moon careering
Through the dark grim clouds on high,
And a waste of billows tossing
Beneath the stormy sky,
And a wave-wash'd form upheaving
At times to the moon's wan gleams,
Around which the wild sea rages,
And the grey gull wheels and screams:
And the form is his of whose safe return
Afar his young wife dreams.

224

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

Let a Crimean campaign come,
All Yankee straight I am,
I darn our lords and lordlings some,
Then, “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think of Kansas, friends,
And all her judges screen,
Good faith! my Yankee fever ends;
Ah, then, “God save the Queen!”

When I think what Court spangles cost,
And Court tom-fooleries damn,
My rage for thrones is somewhat lost,
Then “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think what Presidents,
And White House contests mean,
My scorn of Courts somewhat relents;
'Tis then, “God save the Queen!”

When, darn them! tax-collectors call,
Straight off in thought I am;
U.S. will free me from them all,
So, “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think of bowie-knives,
And what revolvers mean,
And feel I've not a hundred lives,
Ah, then, “God save the Queen!”

225

At times, of Marquis, Duke, and Earl,
So sick and tired I am,
Hard words at all the tribe I hurl,
Yes, “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think, by titles bored,
You, too, do somewhat lean
To such things—Sam, you love a lord,
Well, well, “God save the Queen!”

Often, by old-time fooleries fired,
Game-laws and all I damn,
Of church, church-rates, and church-courts tired,
Ah, “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think of Lynch, the judge,
And what his verdicts mean,
Ah, back to loyalty I budge;
Yes, then, “God save the Queen!”

When, startled by the mighty pace
At which you move, I am.
While we seem lagging in the race,
Then, “Long live Uncle Sam!”
But when I think your wondrous growth
More slaves and chains may mean,
To be a Yankee straight I'm loth,
Ah, then, “God save the Queen!”

God bless them! Vanguards of the free,
In wrath at times I am
With both, but proud I guess we be
Of you, O Uncle Sam!
And you, we know your noise and fuss
At us, but love can mean;
I've heard you cry at times with us,
Yes, Sam, “God save the Queen!”

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I'VE WATCHED YOU FROM THE SHORE.

I've watched you from the shore,
And I've watched you to the ship,
With a quick tear in the eye,
And a quiver on the lip;
And distance hides at last,
From where, cold and still, I stand,
The last gaze of your shoreward look,
And the last wave of your hand.

You've shed the latest tear
That my cheek will ever wet,
And, in their latest kiss,
Our parted lips have met;
And, it's O that I could die,
To think, as here I stand,
I shall never hear your voice again,
Nor again shall clasp your hand!

OVER THE SEA.

Over the sea—over the sea—
O but my heart is over the sea!
Northern wind, northern wind, O might I be
Borne on thy shrilling blast
Over the sea!

Over the sea—over the sea,
O but her heart is over the sea!
Northward the white sails go; northward to me
O but she longs to fly
Over the sea!

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OPE, FOLDED ROSE!

Ope, folded rose!
Longs for thy beauty the expectant air;
Longs every silken breeze that round thee blows;
The watching summer longs to vaunt thee fair;
Ope, folded rose!

Ope, folded rose!
The memory of thy glory lit the gloom,
The dull gray gloom of winter and its snows;
O dream of summer in the firelit room,
Ope, folded rose!

Ope, folded rose!
The thrush has still'd the rustling elm with song;
The cuckoo's call through shadowy woodlands goes;
May is the morn; why lingerest thou so long?
Ope, folded rose!

WISHES.

On Bramshill's terrace walks Lady Clare;
O were I the purple peacock there,
That's petted and smooth'd by her hand so fair!

Lady Clare strolls through Bramshill's grounds;
O were I one of those white greyhounds
That, patted by her, break off in bounds!

O happy falcon! O might I stand,
Hooded and jess'd, on Lady Clare's hand,
To stoop at the heron at her command!

In Bramshill's chamber a cage is hung;
O that to its gilded perch I clung,
To be coax'd by her as I scream'd and swung!

O were I the silver cross, so blest!
In Bramshill's chapel, devoutly press'd
By Lady Clare to her heaving breast!

228

But, ah! that I were the locket of pearl
In her bosom hid! or, more blest, the curl
It treasures! O prized love-gage of the Earl!

Ride on, O Earl, by her palfrey's side!
O that I by Lady Clare might ride!
That she were to be, O Earl, my bride!

A SUMMER INVOCATION.

O gentle, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine in vain
To feel that dewy touch of thine,
To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

In heat, the landscape quivering lies;
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies,
The earth looks up in vain for thee:
For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,
And soften all the hills with mist;
O falling dew, from burning dreams,
By thee shall herb and flower be kiss'd:
And earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

MARY! MARY!

The grass is long above thy breast;
The clay is o'er thy head;
I'm lying on thy early grave,
Yet cannot think thee dead:
I cannot think that from my love
Thou art for ever fled,
Mary! Mary!

229

Thou hear'st my sobs—the groans uncheck'd,
I utter for thy sake;
Alas! I dream a weary dream,
From which I cannot break—
A ghastly dream—a fearful dream;
And shall I never wake,
Mary! Mary!

No more! to hear thy voice no more!
No more thy smile to see!
In groans I've said it o'er and o'er,
Yet cannot think 'twill be.
How can I think that thou art gone,
For ever gone from me,
Mary! Mary!

Through life to live without thy love!
To live, and live alone!
Till now that thou indeed art gone,
It was a thought unknown.
How could I dream of losing thee,
My own—my fond—my own—
Mary! Mary!

Why art thou taken from my love!
O Heaven! what sin is mine,
That thus in the full flush of life
Thou should'st our lives untwine!
That thus, so early, ere her time,
Thou, Heaven, should'st make her thine?
Mary! Mary!

My name was ever on thy lips
When life was ebbing fast;
The thought of me was with thee, love,
The dearest and the last,
O tell me, in the dark, cold grave,
From thee it hath not pass'd,
Mary! Mary!

230

Was it for this I left thee, love,
For many a weary year,
In care to struggle on to wealth,
That but for thee was dear,
In joy at last to seek thee, love,
And find thee lying here,
Mary! Mary!

Hear me, thou hope—thou only joy,
Thou one dream of my heart!
Death sunders only to rejoin;
Whate'er, where'er thou art,
Hear thou the voice of my despair,
Not long—not long we part,
Mary! Mary!

THE FORSAKEN.

It's there that she loves to sit,
By the cool sea-breezes fann'd,
With her babe 'neath the bending palms
That shadow that island strand.

Her dusky brow has a calm
Too deep for a face so young;
And too wildly, sadly sweet
Are the songs to her infant sung.

And there, through the weary day,
She keeps from that lonely shore
Her watch o'er the distant sea,
For a sail that will come no more.

THE HOMEWARD WATCH.

The sailor the deck is pacing,
And he hums a rough old song,
Bearing north from its southern whaling,
As the good ship drives along;

231

And his thoughts with hope are swelling,
For his watch it well may cheer,
To know that at last he speeds to her
He has left for many a year.

And she, in the darken'd chamber
Where day is turn'd to night,
By the candle dimly lighted,
She lies in her shroud of white;
Closed eye, and cold, cold cheek;
The slumber of death sleeps she,
Of meeting with whom he's dreaming
In his homeward watch at sea.

NO MORE!

O God! how often memory tries,
O God! how oft in vain,
Once more to look on those dear eyes
Mine may not see again!
A dim sweet glance, half lost, half seen,
Remembrance may restore,
The tears—the passion that have been,
No more they come—no more,
Lizzie,
O Lizzie, never more!

I close my eyes; O once that face,
But once again to see!
It comes; how cold! no—not a trace
Of all that used to be!
O weary day! O wakeful night!
That vanish'd face restore!
Gone—gone for ever from my sight,
No more it comes—no more,
Lizzie,
O Lizzie, never more!

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PRITHEE WHAT HATH SNARED THEE, HEART?

Prithee what hath snared thee, Heart?
Is it, say, a honeyed lip
O'er whose coral bloom thy thought,
Bee-like hovering, hath been caught,
And, but loitering there to sip,
From its sweetness could not part?
Prithee what hath snared thee, Heart?

What hath caught thee, Fancy mine?
Is it, say, a laughing eye,
The fair heaven of whose blue
Idly thou went'st wandering through,
Till thou, silly butterfly,
Could'st not quit its charm'd sunshine?
What hath caught thee, Fancy mine?

What hath witch'd thee, sober Thought!
Say, was it a diamond wit
That, as thou wast straying near,
With its spells so took thine ear,
That thou could'st not fly from it,
All in strange enchantment caught?
What hath witch'd thee, sober Thought?

No, though lip and wit, awhile,
And the glory of an eye,
You, perchance, had captive held,
Soon their charms you back had spell'd,
Soon their witchery learn'd to fly;
Prisoners to her smile ye be;
What from that shall set you free?

233

O WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL!

O weary, weary thoughts, be still!
O life—why should life be
A thing for only vain regrets
And bitterness to me!
For love to give or to withhold,
Is all our power above;
O fate, why did we ever meet!
Why ever did we love!
If love were sin, to sin or not
Was all beyond our will.
Alas, why should my life be grief?
O weary thoughts, be still!

A hard, hard lot, I know is mine
Of work and want and scorn;
And yet with what a gladness all
With him I could have borne?
With him, what fate had I not shared,
Content, that life had given!
With him, with what of pain and want
Had I not tearless striven!
O why should love, so blessing some,
My days with misery fill!
Alas, why should I long to die!
O weary thoughts, be still!

Who say, not all the wealth of earth
Can happiness impart?
Alas, how little do they know
How want can break a heart!
How want has stood 'twixt sunder'd lives,
Lives parted through the shame,
That station, wedding poverty,
Had link'd unto its name.
O God, what different life were mine
If it had been thy will
My lot with his had equal been!
O weary thoughts, be still!

234

Another with his love is bless'd;
I am another's now;
Between us yawns for evermore
A double holy vow;
But years must deeper changes bring
Than change of state or name,
Ere, early love and thoughts forgot,
Our hearts are not the same.
Alas, the feelings of the past
Our lives must ever fill!
O would—O would I could forget!
O weary thoughts, be still!

I know—I know, to think of him
As once I thought is sin,
But all in vain I strive my mind
From its old thoughts to win;
His treasured words—his low fond tones
My eyes with tears will dim;
My thoughts by day—my dreams by night,
Will fill themselves with him;
And what we were, and what we are,
Comes back, do all I will.
Alas, why did I ever live?
O weary thoughts, be still!

There's love within my husband's looks
That I with joy should see;
Alas, it brings another face
That once looked love on me!
And tears will even dim my gaze
Upon my baby's face,
As not a look I see it wear
That there I'd thought to trace.
O why should thus the joys of life
With grief mine only fill!
Alas, why did I ever live!
O weary thoughts, be still!

O men! O men! God never will'd
That lives, that nature meant

235

To bless each other's days, by you
Asunder should be rent.
A deadly sin he surely holds
The worldly thoughts that part,
For chance of birth or chance of wealth,
A heart from any heart.
World, world, thou crossest God, his earth
With broken hearts to fill.
Alas, how blest might ours have been!
O weary thoughts, be still!

MAY-DAY SONG.

Out from cities haste away,
This is Earth's great holiday;
Who can labour while the hours
In with songs are bringing May
Through the gaze of buds and flowers,
Through the golden pomp of day?
Haste, O haste!
'Tis sin to waste
In dull work so sweet a time,
Dance and song
Of right belong
To the hours of Spring's sweet prime.
Golden beams and shadows brown,
Where the roofs of knotted trees
Fling a pleasant coolness down,
Footing it, the young May sees;
In their dance the breezes now
Dimple every pond you pass;
Shades of leaves, from every bough
Leaping, beat the dappled grass.
Birds are noisy—bees are humming,
All because the May's a coming;
All the tongues of nature shout—
Out from towns, from cities out!
Out from every busy street!
Out from every darken'd court!

236

Through the field-paths let your feet
Lingering go in pleasant thought!
Out through dells the violet's haunting!
Out where golden rivers run!
Where the wallflower's gaily flaunting
In the livery of the sun!
Trip it through the shadows, hiding
Down in hollow winding lanes!
Where through leaves the sunshine gliding
Deep with gold the woodland stains!
Where, in all her pomp of weeds,
Nature, asking but the thanks
Of our pleasure, richly pranks
Painted heaths and wayside banks,
Smooth-mown lawns and green deep meads!
Leave the noisy bustling town
For still glade and breezy down!
Haste away
To meet the May,
This is Earth's great holiday!

THE TORCH-RACE.

Flash on the torch, bright as it shone
Ere Athens, foremost in the race,
Athens, so swift who bore it on,
Exhausted, gave to Sparta place;
Fierce flamed it in that iron clasp,
In Thebes' free hold how next it shone!
Then Greece resign'd it from her grasp;
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

Then she the savage she-wolf found,
Who by the Tiber made her lair,
Caught the bright glory with a bound,
And, shouting, whirl'd it on through air;
Through trembling nations on she pass'd,
Till on the North the splendour shone,
That tore it from her grasp at last;
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

237

Then, feebly borne, it flickering kept
Its wavering course till Milan came
To glorious youth, and forward leapt,
And toss'd along the living flame;
Nor, of Italia's daughters, sole
Was she on whose fair form it shone;
Fair Florence swept it towards the goal.
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

Then fiery Ghent the splendour flash'd
Red onward through the night around;
On with its glare Helvetia dash'd
From fierce Morgarten, bound on bound;
From Spain's fell grasp, free Holland burst;
On Leyden's deluged walls it shone;
It glared where Haarlem dared war's worst.
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

Then England, with a mighty cry,
A cry that through the earth still rings,
Caught the bright splendour, whirl'd it high,
And flamed it in the eyes of kings;
Trembling, earth's tyrants heard her shout;
On Naseby's ranks the fierce glare shone;
It flared along the Boyne's red rout;
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

Thrice, fiery France, through shriek and yell,
Right on the streaming glory bore;
Thrice from her gory grasp it fell,
Her grip that strains for it once more.
How Belgium seized it, fame can tell;
How from Sardinia's hold it's shone,
The night of Italy knows well.
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

And thou, O Anak of the West,
Thou who hast full-grown sprung to birth,
Young giant, how shalt thou be blest
To stream its glory round the earth!

238

Thou great one, sprung from this great land,
Long from our grasp its splendour's shone;
Thou hast its glory from our hand.
On—flash the torch of freedom on!

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

O don't go in to-night, John!
Now, husband, don't go in!
To spend our only shilling, John,
Would be a cruel sin.
There's not a loaf at home, John;
There's not a coal, you know;
Though with hunger I am faint, John,
And cold comes down the snow.
Then don't go in to-night!

Ah, John, you must remember,
And John, I can't forget,
When never foot of yours, John,
Was in the alehouse set.
Ah, those were happy times, John,
No quarrels then we knew,
And none were happier in our lane,
Than I, dear John, and you.
Then don't go in to-night!

You will not go! John, John, I mind,
When we were courting, few
Had arm as strong or step as firm
Or cheek as red as you:
But drink has stolen your strength, John,
And paled your cheek to white,
Has tottering made your young firm tread,
And bow'd your manly height.
You'll not go in to-night!

You'll not go in? Think on the day
That made me, John, your wife,

239

What pleasant talk that day we had
Of all our future life!
Of how your steady earnings, John,
No wasting should consume,
But weekly some new comfort bring
To deck our happy room.
Then don't go in to-night!

To see us, John, as then we dress'd,
So tidy, clean, and neat,
Brought out all eyes to follow us
As we went down the street.
Ah, little thought our neighbours then,
And we as little thought,
That ever, John, to rags like these
By drink we should be brought.
You won't go in to-night!

And will you go? If not for me,
Yet for your baby stay!
You know, John, not a taste of food
Has pass'd my lips to-day;
And tell your father, little one,
'Tis mine your life hangs on;
You will not spend the shilling, John?
You'll give it him? Come, John,
Come home with us to-night!

DRAW DOWN YOUR VEIL.

Draw down your veil;
Those laughing eyes
Must only tell
To mine the tale
Their bright replies
Can glance so well!

Have I to learn,
Pout not your lip!
How some you meet

240

Will backward turn,
To watch you trip
Along the street?

Nay, you and I
Could doubtless tell
How once those eyes,
As one went by,
To his, too well
Laugh'd sweet replies.

LISETTE IN AUSTRALIA.

They say that, while here, Liz,
Our winter we know,
The skies of your far land
With bright summer glow;
That June's blushing roses
For you, love, appear,
While bloomless December
And frosts chill us here;
So still may kind fate, love,
My heart's fond will do,
To me give the winter,
The summer to you.

Yes, if both our paths, Liz,
May not feel the sun,
If gloom be for one, Liz,
And light but for one;
If but one through sunshine
And roses must go,
One, fortune's bleak blasts still
Be doom'd, Liz, to know:
Oh! still may kind fate, love,
My heart's fond will do,
To me give the grief, Liz,
The gladness to you!

241

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

July 18th, 1857.

The King of Song is dead;
People, upon that throne
Whose words all hearts obey'd,
To-day death sits alone!
Yes; he who, like to death,
From kings rent throne and crown,
To-day yields up his breath,
Himself by death struck down.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

No—no; he cannot die;
Still lives that matchless voice,
With sorrow still to sigh,
With laughter to rejoice.
Poor girl, the needle ply,
His voice your work shall cheer;
Workman, your long hours fly,
His kindly words you hear.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

What garret but shall tell
How dear to its grisette
Is all he sang so well,
Of love and his Lisette?
You hear that jolly shout;
There, where those students dine,
His wit they thunder out,
As mad with song as wine.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

242

Speeding the weary plough,
“The People's Memories” comes;
Hark, “The Old Corporal” now
On guard that soldier hums;
List! with his “Garret” gay,
That clanging smithy rings;
Whiling his watch away,
His “Jaques” the sailor sings.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

There prowls the listening spy;
Ah! “Judas” dogs him still;
There steals the Jesuit sly,
Song-mock'd, go where he will;
Tyrants and tyrants' tools,
His songs their work still do;
He lives still, knaves and fools,
To scourge and scoff at you.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

People, he claims your rights;
People, he tells your wrongs;
Still in your ranks he fights,
Immortal in his songs;
What Freedom dares not say,
Your tyrant hears her sing;
Hark! with his songs to-day
Workshop and winehouse ring.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

243

Frenchmen, he lived for you;
Through evil and through good,
To France and Frenchmen true,
Still for your rights he stood.
For this, to France how dear!
Dear and more dear to fame,
With every coming year,
Shall be his matchless name.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

Courts, and all courts could give,
Tempted, he dared to scorn;
Tempted, he dared to live
As poor as he was born.
For fetter'd France to sing,
He dared the prisoner's doom;
Therefore shall France still bring
Immortelles to his tomb.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

Wider, O France, than e'er
His “Greycoat's” eagles flew,
Conqueror, he comes to share
His glory, France, with you;
Circling the glad earth round,
His fame to heaven is hurl'd;
His empire without bound,
His realm a subject world.
People, no tear need start;
By earth his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;
He speaks from every tongue.

244

NO—NO—MY LOVE IS NO ROSE.

No—no—my love is no rose
That only in sunshine buds and grows,
And but to blue skies will its blooms unclose,
That withers away
In an autumn day,
And dies in a dream of drifting snows;
No—no—my love is no rose.

No—no—my love is no rose;
My love is the holly that ever is green,
Whether breezes are balmy, or blasts are keen,
The same that is still,
In days sullen and chill,
As when snow'd with blossoms the orchards are seen;
No—no—my love is no rose.

GOD'S BEST GIFT.

Come, fill—fill to the toast
To which my glass I lift;
Here's “She we love the most,”
Here's “Woman—God's best gift.”
O who, beloved by her,
Who will not gladly own,
Life, O what rapture were,
Though bless'd with her alone!
Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's “She we love the most,”
Here's “Woman—God's best gift.”

The heathens feign'd that he
Who stole from heaven its flame,
Foretold all woes would be
When sweet Pandora came;
But all his wisdom taught,
Thank Heaven! it taught in vain;

245

She to man's heart was caught,
And ne'er released again.
And who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's “She we love the most,”
Here's “Woman—God's best gift.”

In Paradise, man found
His lot not wholly bless'd,
Until its blissful ground
Dear woman's footsteps press'd;
God's mercy how he bless'd
When forced its bliss to leave!
He Eden still possess'd
While with him went his Eve.
Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's “She we love the most,”
Here's “Woman—God's best gift.”

And still the curse she takes
From man; for she alone
With her dear presence makes
An Eden still his own;
Oh, what were this life worth,
How poor and dull it were,
Unless the weary earth
Were made a heaven by her!
Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's “She we love the most,”
Here's “Woman—God's best gift.”

SONG.

Were mine the songs Anacreon sung,
Were mine Catullus' burning pen,
Or Dante's dreams, or Petrarch's tongue,
How, dearest, would I sing thee then!

246

Nor Lesbia's lips, nor Laura's eyes,
Nor Beatrice's gaze divine,
Not one sweet charm the world should prize
More than it prized those charms of thine.

Oh, love, for Goethe's matchless grace!
Oh, love, for Byron's words of flame!
Then thine by Lili's fame I'd place,
With Athens' maid's should live thy name.
Oh could I sing such songs as sprung
From Burns's heart—Béranger's brain,
With Jean and Liz shouldst thou be sung,
While songs upon men's lips remain.

How weak am I thy charms to paint!
How poor the colours words supply!
Even as I use them, wan and faint,
I see thy beauty from them die.
Love laughs, and mocks, and shrills: “Why try
“To paint the charms thy words but blur?
“Thou hast herself; in vain, ah! why
“Waste time to win a dream of her!”

WHY?

We love, we know not why;
“Why?” would reason know?
What can we reply,
But “O Love, 'tis so!”
A moment—we are free;
A moment—some sweet eyes
Have fill'd our hearts with burning hopes,
Our future with sad sighs.
“Why?” would reason know?
What must each reply?
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”

247

But two short years ago,
Said I, “Is there need,
“If his frowns, love, show,
“I his frowns should heed?”
I laugh'd, and lightly thought
Of all the boy could do;
A moment—I was surely caught:
My heart was gone to you.
“Why?” would reason know?
Can I but reply:
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”

And do I, in the snare,
Cry and cry in vain,
“Eros, hear my prayer!
“Free me yet again?”
Ah, no; in the sweet past,
Still mine that prayer might be;
But now, O love, so changed! at last,
I would not, love, be free.
“Why?” would reason know?
What must I reply?
“Fate has will'd it so;
“Not I, in truth, not I.”

FOR MUSIC.

Hear! hear! on ye we call,
O joys! O high delights!
Ye sounds—ye sweetest sights,
We need—we need ye all;
Thou Grief—thou Care, be dumb!
Doth not my lady come!

Ope—ope, ye dreaming blooms!
Ye vernal stars, appear!
All charmèd airs be near!

248

Rise—rise, ye faint perfumes!
Thou Grief—thou Care, be dumb!
Doth not my lady come?

THE CRY OF THE LAWFUL LANTERNS.

HUMBLY DEDICATED TO THE OPPONENTS OF NATIONAL EDUCATION.

A people dwelt in darkness,
In gloom and blinding night,
Till some grew tired of candles
And dared to long for light;
When straight the establish'd lanterns
Were stirr'd with hate of day,
And loud the lawful rushlights
In wrath were heard to say,
O have you not your lanterns,
Your little shining lanterns!
What need have you of sunshine?
What do you want with day?

Then loud the people murmur'd
And vow'd it wasn't right,
For men who could get daylight
To grope about in night;
Why should they lose the gladness,
The pleasant sights of day?
But still the establish'd lanterns
Continued all to say,
O have you not your lanterns,
Your nice old glimmering lanterns!
What need have you of sunshine?
What do you want with day?

But people loathed the darkness,
And dared at last to say,
You old establish'd rushlights
Are good things in your way;

249

But are you, candles, sunlight?
You, lanterns, are you day?
Then loud the lawful lanterns
Did answer make and say,
O be content with lanterns,
Your good old-fashioned lanterns!
You really want too much light;
Don't ask again for day!

At last the crowd's deep murmur
Grew gathering to a roar,
And that they would have daylight,
In lanterns' spite, they swore;
And fear was on all rushlights,
And trembling and dismay;
Alas, alas for lanterns!
The people heard them say;
O woe—O woe for lanterns!
What will become of lanterns!
Alack, they will have sunshine!
Alas, there will be day!

And as the tempest thicken'd,
Aloud they shriek'd in fright,
O once let in the sunshine,
And what will be our light?
We shining lights in darkness,
Shall nothing be in day—
O don't admit the sunshine!
Keep out the daylight, pray!
O don't put out your lanterns!
Your own old little lanterns!
O do without the sunshine!
O don't let in the day!

The day came in; but prophets
Do say, 'tis certain quite,
That long through coming ages
Will lanterns hate the light;

250

That to our children's children,
In sorrow still they'll say,
Oh for the time of darkness,
Ere lanterns pass'd away!
Why laid they by us lanterns?
Their fine, their good old lanterns!
We're sure its bad, this sunshine,
This horrid glare of day.

FROM SEA

O it was not for my mother,
Though dear she is to me,
Though old she is, and poor she is,
That I sail'd the stormy sea;
But it was for my true love,
That dearer is to me
Than father and than mother both,
'Twas for her I sail'd the sea.

The wind blows fair and freshly,
Right fresh for Harwich bay,
For the cottage on its sandy cliff
That I think of night and day:
That I think of, and I dream of,
And have dreamt of night and day,
In calm and storm, and south the line,
A thousand leagues away.

Now, watch, look out to leeward;
The land must sure be near;
There looms the Cape through the morning mist,
That I've long'd to see appear,
To see it rising from the waves,
For it shields the quiet bay,
Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands
That I've pray'd for far away.

251

Now, men, the sails be furling;
Now let the anchor go;
At our brown ship's side, let our best boat ride,
And the oars be shipp'd below;
And while the rope you're casting off,
Take in my chest and me;
So farewell, blustering captain,
And farewell, roaring sea.

Now pull—pull with a will—boys,
And beach right high the boat,
For dear, dear is the land to me,
That have toss'd so long afloat;
And dear, dear is the girl to me,
With each breath loved more and more,
Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes,
To see us pull ashore.

She shades her eyes a moment;
O that the beach were near!
Does she see my torn hat waving?
Does she catch my cry from here?
Yes; down the cliff she's flying;
Pull—pull, my men, for life,
That I may kiss again my girl,
My bonny, bonny wife.

FAREWELL! FAREWELL!

Farewell! farewell! the breeze blows fair;
One wild embrace—one last fond kiss;
All other griefs I well may dare;
What other grief can equal this?
Yet in this bitter hour, while all
That tears can weep is mine and thine,
One thought 'mid all can joy recal;
Where'er thou go'st, thy heart is mine!

252

Cling to these clinging lips again!
O life is in our mingling breath!
Thus—thus to meet defies all pain;
But, oh! to part is more than death;
Yet, even while myself I tear
From out this last dear clasp of thine,
With one fond thought I front despair;
Where'er thou go'st, thy heart is mine.

O God! and must I yearn to see
The gaze of those dear eyes in vain!
And must those lips no more by me,
O never more, be press'd again!
From that dark thought, I, shuddering, shrink,
O when these eyes no more meet thine,
What—what were life, could I not think,
Where'er thou go'st, thy heart is mine!

BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME.

Be mine, and I will give thy name
To Memory's care,
So well, that it shall breathe, with fame,
Immortal air,
That time and change and death shall be
Scorn'd by the life I give to thee.

I will not, like the sculptor, trust
Thy shape to stone,
That, years shall crumble into dust,
Its form unknown;
No—the white statue's life shall be
Short, to the life I'll give to thee.

Not to the canvas worms may fret
Thy charms I'll give;
Soon shall the world those charms forget,
If there they live;

253

The life that colours lend shall be
Poor to the life I'll give to thee.

For thou shalt live, defying time
And mocking death,
In music on—O life sublime!—
A nation's breath;
Love, in a people's songs shall be
The eternal life I'll give to thee.

THE DAISY.

O Kate, 'tis the sweetest of daisies;
I open the book where it lies:
What dear distant moments it raises,
Green meadows and far summer skies!
Again down the green lane are walking
A couple; guess who they may be!
A daisy one drops in her talking—
That daisy is here, Kate, with me.

Now, Heaven be thank'd for its falling,
And thank'd, that I mark'd where it lay;
Though wither'd and dead, 'tis recalling
The whispers and laughs of that day.
I have but to look, Kate, upon it,
I'm sitting with you on that stile,
I hear your sweet tongue, blessings on it!
And drink in the light of your smile.

Then think, how my throbbing heart prizes
These leaves, at whose bidding, again
Before me your far-off form rises,
Your face comes, how longed-for in vain!
O dearest of flowers! what a treasure
Of old smiles and tones you restore!
Of days that flash'd by, with what pleasure!
With her I shall never see more!

254

A SEA SONG.

The windows rattle in their frames;
Without, the wild winds moan,
And fitful leap the red fire's flames,
As that young wife sits alone;
As she rocks her baby boy to sleep,
And sings to the winds as by they sweep,
“His home-bound sails, O fair winds, track,
“That he his boy may see!
“Blow—blow, sweet winds, and speed him back
“To baby dear and me!”

Through a cloudy sky the gale blows high,
And the schooner leaps along,
And the captain seems, as the winds howl by,
To hear in the gusts a song;
As foaming past the surges fly,
He seems to hear a song go by,
“His home-bound sails, O fair winds, track,
“That he his boy may see!
“Blow—blow, sweet winds, and speed him back
“To baby dear and me!”

AFTER BÉRANGER.

Lizzie, one blue summer's day,
Dreaming, with a laughing awe,
All the little Loves at play
On the flowery earth, I saw;
Then you pass'd, and straight each freak,
Liz, was stay'd; with wild delight,
Swift your neck I saw them seek,
Liz, as they their mother's might;
You, for her, they took, and flew,
Cheated urchins, Liz, to you.

255

Sweetest, to their childish eyes,
You their own dear mother seem'd;
Nor, methought, did it surprise
Me, that you they Venus deem'd;
Why, unto my full-grown sight,
Liz, I find it hard to prove,
You are not the Gods' delight,
Her who every heart can move;
Can I wonder then, they flew,
Cheated urchins, Liz, to you!

Lizzie, you, were I to see
In Olympus, Cypris' home,
Surely there you were to me
Her who rose from ocean's foam!
And were Venus to forsake
Heaven for earth, how like it is,
Cheated too, I should mistake
Venus' self for you, my Liz,
Thinking, as to her I flew,
That, my girl, I sprang to you!

IN DREAMS I CLASP YOU ONCE AGAIN.

In dreams I clasp you once again;
In dreams again I see you smile;
O blest deceit! alas! how vain!
Day comes and will no more beguile
My fancy with the fond belief;
I wake to memory and to grief.

O sleep—O night—O pictured past,
That thus it might for ever be!
That night and sleep might ever last,
And ever give the past to me!
O love—O joy, for ever stay,
Nor fade to grief and gloom and day!

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Yet death shall come, O doubt it not,
That to us, love, it shall be given
To taste, earth's sorrows all forgot,
The old lost hours again in heaven,
In days of ever new delight
That know no dreams and need no night.

RING, HAPPY BELLS!

Ring out, O pealing bells;
Your clamour our gladness tells;
Sweet May—sweet May is wed to-day;
Ring out, O joyful bells!

Not—not in the dark deep sea,
As they whisper'd long, slept he,
Not cold and dead; to him she is wed
She never more thought to see.

That weary dream is past—
Wild sea, and wave-wash'd mast—
The o'erturn'd boat, and the dead, afloat,
To the rocks of the drear shore cast.

Young hands, with your sweetest showers,
Your brightest of garden flowers,
Strew—strew ye the way that she'll tread to-day,
This glad sweet bride of ours.

Ring out—ring out, ye bells!
Your clamour our gladness tells;
From your old grey tower, for her bridal hour,
Ring out—ring out, ye bells!

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SPRING SONG.

Now do tawny bees, along,
Plundering sweets from blossoms, hum;
Now do showers of joyous song
Down from larks, up-mounting, come;
Everything
Now doth sing,
Welcome gladness—welcome Spring!

Now, above, and all around,
Songs are thronging earth and air:
Joy is loud in every sound;
Every sound is mocking care;
Everything
Now doth sing,
Welcome gladness—welcome Spring!

Now is every hawthorn bough
Burden'd with its wealth of May;
Glistening runs each streamlet now,
Gamboling through the golden day;
Fount and Spring,
Hark! they sing,
Welcome sunshine—welcome Spring!

Now do golden lizards lie,
Sunning them, on wayside banks;
Now, with flowers of many a dye,
Spring the woods and meadows pranks;
What say they?
This they say,
Welcome gladness—welcome May!

Now do those, in joy that walk
Shadow'd wood and chequer'd lane,
Stay their steps, and hush their talk,
Till the cuckoo calls again;
Till anew,
Hush! cuckoo,
Hark! it comes the wood-depths through.

258

Now the woods are starr'd with eyes;
Now, their weeds and mosses through,
Peep the white anemonies,
Daisies pink'd, and violets blue;
Flowers, they spring;
Birds, they sing,
All to swell the pomp of Spring.

Now in poets' songs 'tis told,
How, in vales of Arcady,
Once, men knew an age of gold;
Once, the earth seem'd heaven to be;
Hark! they sing,
“Years, ye bring,
“Golden times again with Spring.”

THE DRESSMAKER'S THRUSH.

Oh, 'tis the brightest morning
Out in the laughing street,
That ever the round earth flash'd into,
The joy of May to meet!
Floods of more gleaming sunshine
Never the eye saw roll'd
Over pavement, and chimney, and cold grey spire
That turns in the light to gold;
And yet, as she wearily stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“O would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”

Light of the new-born verdure!
Glory of jocund May!
What gladness is out in leafy lanes!
What joy in the fields, to-day!
What sunbursts are in the woodlands!
What blossoms the orchards throng!
The meadows are snow'd with daisy stars!
And the winds are thrill'd with song;

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And yet, as ever she stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”

Close is the court and darken'd,
On which her bare room looks,
Whose only wealth is its wall's one print,
And its mantel's few old books;
Her spare cold bed in the corner,
Her single, worn, worn chair,
And the grate that looks so rusty and dull,
As never a fire were there;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She hears her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”

Out, is the gleaming sunshine;
Out, is the golden air;
In, scarce a gleam of the bright May sun
Can, dull'd and dim, reach there;
In darkness close and foul to be breathed,
That blanches her cheek to white,
Her rounded features sharpen and thin,
And dulls her once keen sight;
And there, as she stitches and stitches,
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”

Days that are clouded and dull,
Winter—though winter bring
Cold keen frost to her fireless room—
Are dearer to her than Spring;
For then, on her weary sewing,
Less often her worst thoughts come,
Of the pleasant lanes, and the country air,
And the field-paths trod by some.

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And so, as she wearily stitches,
She and her caged thrush sing,
“Oh would it never were May—green May!
“It never were bright, bright Spring!”

RAVEN-BLACK ARE AMY'S TANGLING TRESSES.

Raven-black are Amy's tangling tresses;
Passion-lit are Mary's dark deep eyes;
O how dear are laughing Kate's caresses!
O how sweet are Helen's low replies!
But my heart breaks lightly from their snaring;
Vainly, for its love, their love may call;
While, for yours, O girl, alone 'tis caring,
You, O girl, how fairer far than all!

Once, at Jessie's feet Love threw me sighing;
Once, 'twas Alice haunted all my dreams;
To my fancy, love, there's no denying,
Jane once seem'd more fair than now she seems;
Spells have all that, ah! well might have caught me,
That might well a wayward heart recal;
Mine they lure no more, since Love has taught me
How far fairer you are, girl, than all.

No—a rebel to their sovereign ruling
I no more at their sweet shrines adore;
To their rites, they other hearts are schooling;
Mine is lost to theirs for evermore.
From their altars other incense rises;
At their feet, new worshippers may fall;
Girl, at last, my fancy only prizes
Your sweet smile, how dearer far than all!

261

A SONG OF THE SEA.

“Sailor, sailor, tell to me
“What sights have you seen on the mighty sea!”
“When the seas were calm and the skies were clear,
“And the watch I've kept until day was near,
“Eyes I have seen, black as yours, dear, are,
“And a face I've looked on that was, how far!
“That was, girl, oh! how far from me!”

“Sailor, sailor, tell to me
“What else have you seen on the far, far sea?”
“I've seen the flying-fish skim the brine,
“And the great whales blow, and these eyes of mine
“Have seen on the icebergs the north-lights play—
“But ofter I've seen a home far away,
“And a girl, oh, how dear to me!”

“Sailor, sailor, tell to me
“The sounds men hear on the stormy sea.”
“I've heard, my girl, the wild winds blow,
“And the good ship creak to her keel below;
“But a laugh, too, I've heard, that, O well, well I know!
“And a far, far voice—a voice that was, O
“How sweet! O how sweet to me!”

“Nay, tell me, sailor, tell to me
“The sights and scenes of the wild, wild sea.”
“Alike in calm, and breeze, and storm,
“I've dream'd one dream and I've seen one form;
“One dream that, dearest, shall soon be true,
“One form that, my girl, I clasp in you,
“That my own sweet wife shall be.”

262

THE SOWING OF THE DRAGON'S TEETH.

A HINT TO CERTAIN EMPERORS.

Jason once, as legends show,
Dared, O kings, your deed to do;
He, the dragon's teeth, dared sow—
Sow the seed that's sown by you;
But, with evil striving, he
To a god for aid could look:
Yours must greater perils be;
You, your God long since forsook.
Despots, despots, sow your seed!
Dragon's teeth you sow; what then?
Of your harvest, kings, take heed!
For it rises, armèd men.

Hate and wrong, each tyrant flings
Broadcast—hate and wrong alone;
Let them dread the crop that springs,
Soon or late, from what they've sown.
Hate alone from hate shall rise;
Evil still from evil springs.
You have sown but groans and cries;
You shall reap the same, O kings.
Despots, despots, sow your seed!
Dragon's teeth you sow; what then?
Of your harvest, kings, take heed!
For it rises, armèd men.

Woe to them that day! Oh, woe!
When that ghastly crop is born;
When the truth they then shall know
Of the warnings now they scorn.
How in that great judgment-day,
Lord! thy justice shall be known!
When the chainless earth shall say,
“Kings, you reap but as you've sown!”
Despots, despots, sow your seed!
Dragon's teeth you sow; what then?
Of your harvest, kings, take heed!
For it rises, armèd men.

263

NO GAS! NO GAS!

DEDICATED TO ALL ALARMISTS, NOT EXCLUDING GOVERNMENT EDUCATIONAL ONES.

Only half a century since,
Fifty years or so,
Safely, through our London streets
At night, you couldn't go;
Oil lamps and Charlies
Strove with thieves and night;
The public got the worst of it,
And called for better light;
When straight a cry was heard,
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Our glorious Constitution—
No Gas!—no Gas!”

“Murdoch, sirs, at Birmingham,
“Gas has tried,” they say;
“Soho Watt and Boulton
“Night have turn'd to day;
“Why be robb'd and murder'd,
“Stirring out at night?
“Gas will save us all this—
“Light—give us light.”
But still there rose the cry,
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Our glorious Constitution—
“No Gas!—no Gas!”

“Light!” roared the public:
Louder still from those
Living by the darkness,
Shrieks and howls arose:
Linkboys and oilmen
Loud were heard to cry,
“Have gas, good people!
“Why, good folks, why?

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“Oil-lights are bright enough—
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Our glorious Constitution—
“No Gas—no Gas!

“Safety, can you talk of?
“Blind are you quite?
“Gas through our very streets!
“Could we sleep for fright?
“Blowings up—explodings—
“Such would be your fate;
“Streams of fire 'neath us!—
“Bless us, what a state!
“Burnt—blown to shivers!
“Safety!—by the mass,
“Make your bed on Hecla
“Rather than on Gas!

“The Pope, he'll come among us;
“He can't come by day;
“Now, if he'd come by night,
“He couldn't find the way;
“But only light your ways up,
“And see what will befal!
“Some night your gas will show him in,
“And he'll convert us all.
“Old lights for ever—
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Oil lamps and darkness—
“No Gas—no Gas!

“Only let the gas in—
“Bring but in the light—
“See what will become of us!
“Nothing will be right;
“Why, the Constitution,
“We shouldn't wonder at
“People seeing faults then
“Even, ay, in that!

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“Gas will give too much light—
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Our glorious Constitution—
“No Gas—no Gas!

“You never think of oilmen—
“Of link-boys—not you;
“Only bring the gas in—
“They—what will they do?
“Do away with darkness,
“With links you do away;
“Use—what will be their use,
“When night is turn'd to day?
“Old lights for ever—
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Roar, British Lion, roar—
“No Gas—no Gas!

“Mind what you're about, pray;
“Aladdin's folks, you know,
“Couldn't bear their old lamps,
“A long while ago:
“They were mad for new ones,
“Like yourselves, we're told;
“'Twasn't long before they found
“They'd best have kept their old.
“Oil lights for ever—
“No Popery—no Mass—
“Our glorious Constitution—
“No Gas—no Gas!”

The public heard these croakers,
Half stupified with fright,
But at the last they ventured
To try if they were right;
No blowings up—no burnings—
No bursts of flaming streams;
The Thames wasn't fired—
All proved but dreams.

266

No Pope in London—
No martyrdoms—no mass—
No robberies, and, last, no cries
Of “Gas!—no Gas!”

WHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED.

When Jove this earth created,
Beneath, it lay so fair,
With love his heart dilated
For all things breathing there;
As o'er its beauty wander'd
His eyes, what more to give,
The mighty Thunderer ponder'd,
What joys to all that live.
“Delight be yours!” he mutter'd,
“And, joy, all joys above,”
This, too, the Thunderer utter'd,
“O mortals, yours be love!”

On golden thrones high-seated,
The Gods the Thunderer heard,
And straight their murmurs greeted
Such bliss on man conferr'd.
“If, as to Gods, to mortals
“Love's mighty joys be given,
“Throw wide to man heaven's portals,
“For earth's as blest as heaven!”
So, wroth, the Olympians mutter'd;
So murmur'd all above;
The while the Thunderer utter'd,
“O mortals, yours be love!”

Then Jove, the murmurs hearing
Such bliss for mortals caused,
Olympus' anger fearing,
A while, deep-thinking, paused:

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“Yes—earth indeed were heaven
“If love undimm'd it knew;
“Be love to mortals given!
“But theirs be sorrow too!
“Take, mortals, take this treasure
“Of bliss, all bliss above!
“But, sorrow link'd to pleasure,
“Still grief be yours with love!”

So, sweet, love's priceless pleasure
Is only bought with fears;
Yet who'd not win the treasure
Of such delight with tears?
No—not to miss all sorrow,
Would I such bliss resign.
Sweet, come what will to-morrow,
To-day, shall love be mine;
And passion's sweet hours living,
We'll bless the powers above,
Who, sorrow to us giving,
Still bless us, sweet, with love.

LOOK INTO THESE FOND EYES.

Look into these fond eyes, with eyes
How fond!
When fleeting joy for ever flies,
Despond!
This hour 'tis ours; think not what lies
Beyond!

Dark o'er to-morrow's desert way
Grief lowers;
Forget it! still we tread to-day
Through flowers.
Love flies; O clasp it while it may
Be ours!

268

Those clinging lips—that burning kiss
Again!
I lose—I drown in this fierce bliss
All pain;
Fate shrieks what shall be, and what is,
In vain.

GOOD-NIGHT!

Good-night! good-night! good-night!
No ill dreams thy slumbers fright;
But sleep fill them with delight,
With all dearest to thy sight!
Good-night!

Good-night! good-night! good-night!
When dear forms thine eyes delight,
Still of all shapes brought by night,
Mine be dearest to thy sight!
Good-night!

AFTER BÉRANGER.

Tired of Gods, the other day,
Venus, still to roaming given,
From Olympus stole away,
Earth awhile preferr'd to heaven;
Stole to earth in mortal guise—
Guess you who the Goddess is?
She, though hid from others' eyes,
She's, I know, my laughing Liz;
O how bless'd! to me alone
Is the Queen of Beauty known.

Others, as along she trips
Through the unobservant street,
See not eyes, and brows, and lips,
Than great Juno's own, more sweet;

269

Eyes as soft as summer's stars,
Hair more deep than Hebe's is,
Lips to rule the iron Mars—
Yes, 'tis Venus lives in Liz;
And, how blessed! to me alone
Is the Queen of Beauty known.

Ah! how neat and void of pride
Deigns the Goddess to appear;
All Olympus laid aside,
See, she's but a sweet girl here.
So, conceal'd, to others' eyes,
May the charming vagrant be,
But in Liz, without disguise,
Shines the Queen of Love for me.
O how bless'd! to me alone
Is her perfect beauty known.

OF GIPSY BLOOD YOU SURELY CAME.

Of gipsy blood you surely came;
Those eyes are night and fire;
Love leaps along your veins in flame,
In throbs of dear desire;
And he who wins a burning kiss
From that delicious mouth,
Has surely known the rapturous bliss,
The wild love of the South.

You move, you dance, you laugh, you talk,
And still do all proclaim,
Speech, whisper, gesture, glance, and walk,
The clime from which you came;
I press your hand, and I forget
The world beneath my eyes,
Before me clicks the castanet,
And vine and olive rise.

270

O deep dark eyes! who looks from you
To see, soft gleaming forth,
The tender faith that sparkles through
The blue orbs of the North!
In you, the storm, the lightning sleep,
And hate and death are there,
Life that must know a love, how deep!
And O what wild despair!

YES, MY HEART IS LIKE TINDER.

Yes, my heart is like tinder, and eyes such as yours
Have often before set my blood in a glow;
But the passion that then soon went out now endures;
And this, will it fade, too? Ah! dearest, no—no!

At moments, perchance, it may seem not so bright,
But brighter or dimmer, 'tis still but the same;
If, dearest, it smoulders, 'twill leap into light
The instant your eyes call it up into flame.

WHERE, O POLAND, ARE THY LANCES?

Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again;
Westward, horde on horde are pouring;
Poles, for you we look in vain;
Comes the savage Cossack; onward
Spurs the Tartar with loose rein;
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.

O for Sobieski's pennons!
Trembling Austria recals
How they flung the baffled Moslem
Back from freed Vienna's walls;

271

Host on host around her gather;
Must she for you look in vain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again

O for Kosciusko's legions—
Those that Poniatowsky led—
They who charged at gory Grokow—
Those who with Dombrouski bled!
Hearts that, Frenchmen, for your glory,
Pour'd their streaming blood like rain!
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.

Yes, we need them in the struggle,
Look'd for long, where Europe fights,
Arm'd for all that makes her glory,
Arts and freedom—thoughts and rights;
Shall the Tartar's trampling horse-hoofs
Make the boast of ages vain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.

Shall no more thy snow-white eagle
Sweep the battle as of yore?
Shall we see thy countless pennons
Streaming down the charge no more?
Must we for thy old free war-cry
Henceforth listen all in vain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.

Europe needs them! Ah! how swiftly
Would they answer to her cry:
“Poland, Europe gives you freedom;
“Guard her freedom, Poles, or die!”
'Gainst the North, what better rampart
Than your free hearts can we gain?
Where, O Poland, are thy lances?
Europe needs them once again.

272

THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS.

[_]

NOT FROM OVID.

“My passport was made out in the name of William Smith.”
Louis Philippe, at Newhaven.

Come all you kings and rulers,
All you to whom belong
The souls and goods of nations,
Come, listen to my song;
For better than all sermons
To you the times should preach:
Then hearken to the lessons,
The wisdom that they teach;
Oh! 'tis an awful story,
This tale they school you with,
How one of you, a week since,
Was changed into a Smith.

This king was in his palace,
All in his Tuileries,
And much he slapp'd his pockets,
And much he felt at ease;
Now telling up his millions,
Now musing how he'd won
By villainy and tricking
A kingdom for his son;
No cruel chance of tripping
His old thought's troubled with;
He little thinks of changing
In one week to a Smith.

Ah, how he'd duped his people!
How he the fools had done
Who, making him their monarch,
Had dream'd their freedom won;
Had dream'd in changing rulers
They changed their ruling too,
That what the Bourbon fail'd in,
The Orleans ne'er would do;

273

All this he thinks, and chuckles
His silence mingle with;
Old man there's yet a future—
You yet may be a Smith.

He reckons up his winnings
With cunning smiles and glee,
September laws safe gagging
The press he swore to free;
Select, bought-up elections—
Chambers that placemen fill—
The right to grumble pending
Upon his royal will;
O why the people's growlings
Should he concern him with?
Has he not forts and bayonets?
Who'll make of him a Smith?

His thoughts are of the dinner—
There's joy above his frown—
Bugeaud will flesh his bayonets—
Bugeaud will hew them down;
A hundred thousand sabres,
And dripping all their blades—
Ah, faith, your smile has meaning,
King of the Barricades!
Yet sure some mocking devil
Your thought is busy with;
And trust me, King, he's sneering,
To think of you as Smith.

A day has gone;—the sunshine
Peers coldly through each pane
Of that old Bourbon palace,
And there's our king again?
His yesterday, so stormy,
Has sleepless made his night,
But yet he trusts to shuffles
To end the matter right;

274

For Molé, for a moment,
Guizot's been parted with;
Knaves will themselves be duping—
He'll know it when he's Smith.

The hum—the rush of thousands—
The rising city's roar—
Notre Dame the tocsin's ringing,
St. Antoine's up once more;
The Boulevards thick are piling
Their barricades full fast:
The Nationals, they waver—
The Line's faith, will it last?
Thiers—Barrot—he's crownless;
All's gone; they've settled with
The old knave and his ruling,
And Louis Philippe's Smith.

A sorry cab is flying—
For near St. Cloud he's bound;
For alms among the soldiers
His old hat's going round.
Now comes a week of dodging,
Of dread that they'll condemn
His kingship to the mercy
That he had shown to them;
Now, millions, crown and whiskers,
And fear all parted with,
He steams towards Newhaven,
A Mr. William Smith.

O well this awful story
May shock each royal ear!
And yet I trust its warning
To all is passing clear.
The moral you'll be drawing
From this my tale of France,
Is plainly, Kings and rulers,
Step out, my crowns,—advance;

275

Or incomes, thrones, and whiskers,
You'll, friends, be parting with,
For pilot coats and Claremonts,
And passports fill'd with Smith.

1848.

SPRING SONG.

Now the fields are full of flowers;
Now, in ev'ry country lane,
Making mirth and gladness ours,
Wild-flowers nod and blush again;
Now they stain
Heath and lane,
Long'd-for lost ones come again.

Now the mower, on his scythe
Leaning, wipes his furrow'd brow;
Many a song the milkmaid blithe
Carols through the morning now;
Clear and strong
Goes her song,
With the clanking pail along.

Gaily lusty Roger now
Through the furrows plods along,
Singing to the creaking plough
Many a quaint old country song;
Morning rings
As he sings,
With the praise of other Springs.

Children now in every school
Wish away the weary hours;
Doubly now they feel the rule
Barring them from buds and flowers;
How they shout,
Bounding out,
Lanes and fields to race about!

276

Now, with shrill and wondering shout,
As some new-found prize they pull,
Prattlers range the fields about,
Till their laps with flowers are full;
Seated round
On the ground,
Now they sort the wonders found.

Now do those in cities pent,
Labouring life away, confess,
Spite of all, that life was meant,
One to be with happiness:
Hark! they sing,
“Pleasant Spring,
“Joy to all was meant to bring.”

Poets now in sunshine dream;
Now their eyes such visions see,
That the golden ages seem
Times that yet again may be.
Hark! they sing:
“Years shall bring
“Golden ages—endless Spring.”

AN AUTUMN SONG.

Lime—golden lime!
Bright burst thy greenness forth to April's tearful wooing,
Throng'd of the booming bee in verdurous summer's prime;
Ah! sere and shrivelling now, the miry way 'tis strewing,
Lime—golden lime!

Lime—golden lime!
What though thy parting leaves the wailing winds are calling,
What though to sereness all hath changed thy vernal prime,
Why should we mourn that fast thy golden glory's falling,
Lime—golden lime!

277

Lime—golden lime!
Yes—thou in thought shalt come when gloomy gusts are shrilling
Along the wan wide snows in winter's hueless time,
The chill and pallid day with autumn glory filling,
Lime—golden lime!

THANK HEAVEN! I'M STILL A BOY.

They smile at me; they, laughing, say,
“When will you be a man?
“The parting year leaves you the boy
“You were when it began.”
And I, in love with the disgrace,
Their smiles and jests enjoy,
And thank kind heaven that, old in years,
In heart I'm still a boy.

What is it, this they'd have me win,
This gain from which I start?
A keener, calculating head—
Ah, loss! a colder heart;
Well, manhood's sense or boyhood's warmth,
But one if I enjoy,
Leave, leave the heart, and keep the head,
I still will be a boy.

THE WORD.

A CRY FOR CONTINENTAL FREEDOM.

The Word—it must be whisper'd;
Scarce breathed it now must be;
But, boys, it shall be shouted,
Ere long, from sea to sea;

278

It shall be told in thunders
That smite the tyrants down—
In shouts of rising nations,
That shatter throne and crown.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

Thank God! we learn'd it early,
And early spoke it out;
'Twas thunder'd, boys, at Edgehill,
It rang through Naseby's shout;
And kings went down before it—
They own'd its might too late—
A Charles in '47,
A James in '88.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

And, God be thank'd! our brothers
Its teachings well had learn'd,
When Boston, Brunswick stamp-acts
And Brunswick ruling spurn'd;
From Bunker's Hill in tempests
To George's ears 'twas borne;
At York, for good his threats, boys,
And him it laugh'd to scorn.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

In France, a century mutter'd,
In '89 'twas heard,
And Louis, paltering with it,
Fell crush'd beneath the Word;

279

Their Bourbons strove, in '30,
To hush that cry in vain;
In eighteen years, away, boys,
It rent their crown again.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

But 'twas in '48, boys,
It show'd what it could do;
From land to land—from nation
To nation, fierce it flew;
From throne to shatter'd throne, boys,
Lay its destroying track,
And despot to cow'd despot
In trembling howl'd it back.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

From palace swift to palace,
On swept the mighty cry,
The shout of sunless nations
That hail'd the day-dawn nigh,
The clang of falling fetters
That rang from shore to shore,
The songs that told to tyrants
That slaves were slaves no more.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

From city on to city,
Its hope and gladness sprung;
Palermo toss'd it on, boys,
It leapt from Genoa's tongue;

280

How quick the lips of Venice
Its earthquake-accents learn'd!
A trumpet-blast to Pesth, boys,
How swift her yoke she spurn'd!
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

Then trembled Spain's poor despot,
Then Prussia's pedant lied;
It trod on trampling Naples,
It broke the Hapsburg's pride;
Arm'd, Milan sprang to greet it,
From 'neath the Austrian's heel;
Free, Rome exulting heard it,
And clash'd it on with steel.
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

It sank, and lost awhile, boys,
A while, alone, it seems;
But slaves, their hearts still hold it,
It haunts their tyrants' dreams.
When shall their free lips speak it,
Their lips that now are dumb?
When will its day of triumph,
Its day of vengeance, come?
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

Hurrah! the Czar goes down, boys,
Each hated despot's stay!
From ev'ry tyrant's throne, boys,
We hew the prop away,

281

What matter though a despot
Breaks down the despot's sway?
He does but do our work, boys,
And Hungary's debt we pay.
O were the Word but spoken
That now must whisper'd be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

And we—we scorn its teaching?
In freedom's cause allied
With crowns and thrones, with peoples
Dare we not, boys, to side?
No—let the Word be spoken,
Shall we not heed its call?
Shall we not strike for freedom?
With freedom stand or fall?
O were the Word but spoken
That whisper'd now must be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

What, we who vaunt our freedom,
When slaves for freedom rise,
Shall we not help the nations
To win the rights we prize?
Shall not our hearts be with them?
Shall not our right arms be
With all who strike that day, boys,
Like us, boys, to be free?
O were the Word but spoken
That now must whisper'd be,
The Word that, once more spoken,
Shall strike the bound earth free!

GOD SPARE MY BOY AT SEA!

How wild without is the moaning night!
And the waves race in, how fierce and white!
But white as the waves is she;

282

To the window that looks to sea she steals,
And there, as she hears the thunder's peals,
And the lightning shows the sea,
How wild is that trembling mother's prayer!
“O Heaven, my child in mercy spare!
“O God, where'er he be,
“O God! my God! in pity spare
“My boy to-night at sea!”

Hark! tossing and tumbling, white as snow,
How the billows roar on the rocks below!
But white as their foam is she;
And O how sick is that mother's heart!
How those cries to God from her poor lips start,
As she looks o'er the raging sea!
God! in Thy mercy, hear her prayer!
O Heaven! her child in mercy spare!
O God! where'er he be,
For her poor sake, in pity spare
Her boy to-night at sea!

THE SEA-BOY'S DREAM.

Two years from home—five months from land—
How home-sick is the boy!
And by the ship's side how he'll stand
His home-thoughts to enjoy!
Down the clear sea his eyes may look,
To look they do but seem;
They see the home that he forsook
To live his child's sea-dream;
And oh, as there he leans apart,
How eyes look love into his heart!

Whose eyes? Whose eyes? And does it task
Your thought at once to guess?
Ah! whose the eyes his heart would ask
His sight the first to bless?

283

The tears that to the boy's eyes steal,
His quick hand sweeps away;
But O his mother's clasp to feel!
To drink in all she'd say!
To hear her, “Boy, no more we'll part!”
And feel her strain him to her heart!

THE CURFEW.

A WELCOME TO THE AUSTRIAN CONCORDAT.

Yes, still that ancient cry
Our living ears affrights;
The curfew call swells high,
“Put out—put out your lights!”
Yes; even a single spark,
A rushlight now affrights
These friends of darkness; hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”

All lights these priests condemn;
To see we have no right;
Even twilight seems to them
Too bright for man's weak sight;
In gloom men dream and curse—
Even that their Pope affrights;
In light their dreams were worse;
“Put out—put out your lights!”

See; Austria's despot quakes
Before a gleam of thought;
Quick—quick—his sceptre shakes;
Some help must straight be bought;
Ah! Rome to this must see;
For thought Rome, too, affrights;
“Let the Concordat be!
“Put out—put out your lights!”

How France, lit up so long,
Has shock'd, O Rome, your sight!

284

Her lights are far too strong;
For her, let there be night.
Her despot, even a spark,
A single gleam, affrights;
For him they're crying, hark!
“Put out—put out your lights!”

Sardinia, see, has dared
Of late its eyes to use;
Spain, where so well they fared,
Their night would fain refuse;
Even Rome itself they find
Its holy father frights;
French bayonets Rome must blind;
“Put out—put out your lights!”

These friends of darkness well
May tremble for its reign;
Why Bibles, see, they'd sell
In Tuscany and Spain;
Auto-da-fés must be,
To set all this to rights;
Quick, Holy Office, see
To this! “Put out your lights!”

They're sighing for the blaze
Of Smithfield once again;
For Mary Tudor's days,
Dear monks, they'll sigh in vain;
No more the times return
Of all their old delights,
To gag, and rack, and burn;
“Put out—put out your lights!”

Thank God! we here can scoff
At this their priestly cry;
We laugh their Jesuits off,
And all their power defy.
For England Wiseman sighs—
To Rome the worst of sights;
But all in vain he cries,
“Put out—put out your lights!”

285

THE SLAVERS' WRECK.

A HINT TO CERTAIN EMPERORS.

Ho! godless madmen at the helm,
Ho! slavers on the deck,
Your bark the waves will overwhelm,
Your curst ship goes to wreck;
So let it be; ship sea on sea;
Right through the breakers go;
The rocks that wreck you will but free
Your prison'd slaves below.

God-doom'd, your onward course you shape
With all the skill you can;
His vengeance long you will not 'scape,
Foul fetterers of man!
Godless—accurst—right plain we see
You to destruction go;
Who cares? The rocks that wreck you free
Your prison'd slaves below.

Hark! madmen, through the thickening gloom
I hear the surf's deep roar;
How fast, all reckless of your doom,
You drive towards the shore.
Ho! breakers left and right I see,
Ahead they're white as snow.
Who cares? The rocks that wreck you free
Your prison'd slaves below.

Ah! did you care my course to try,
You might at danger scoff;
Your bondsmen's help with freedom buy;
Quick! strike their fetters off!
But, while they're slaves, no help they'll be;
Too well, ere this, they know,
The rocks that wreck their masters, free
Their prison'd slaves below.

286

SHE'S DEAD!

She's dead—she's dead!
Her night of life is o'er.
No summer murmurs those still lips shall speak;
Sunrise and sunset she shall see no more;
Nor flush nor pallor to that faded cheek
Shall joy or fear for evermore restore;
Thou, Earth, no more shalt throb beneath her tread;
She's dead—she's dead!

Thou masker, Death!
Thou art but life disguised;
Still burn the suns though we but gaze on night.
From these poor raiments that her soul despised,
She's passed to holier hours and shadeless light.
Thou wan, dim Earth, she walks in fields more prized;
And ’gainst her shining brows is heaven's own breath;
Thou masker, Death!

O THE WILD, WILD WINDS HAVE VOICES.

O the wild, wild winds have voices
That only that wife's ears hear;
One voice that wife rejoices,
While one but speaks of fear.
As she listens, the winds moan by,
And they tell of a prayed-for ship,
Of the look from a longed-for eye,
And the sound from a long-lost lip.

Now what does she hear them tell,
As, without, through the night they sweep?
Of his whaler speeding well
Home—home, o'er a waveless deep;
Yes, she hears in the winds a voice
That's telling how swift his ship
Speeds on, her heart to rejoice
With a kiss from his longed-for lip.

287

Now what do the wild gusts utter,
As, by, the night-winds moan?
Of tempest and wreck they mutter,
Of peril and death alone;
Of a bare hull swept before
The storm—of a foundering ship—
Of a face she shall see no more,
And a vainly longed-for lip.

CHILD, PURSUE THY BUTTERFLY!

Child, pursue thy butterfly,
Hot of foot and keen of eye,
But to learn, poor fool, when caught,
It, so wildly, hotly sought,
Was but all unworth thy thought,
All unworth a smile or sigh.
Child, pursue thy butterfly!

Thou, the hunter of a name,
Chaser of the flight of fame,
On, Ixion-like, above,
Mount, to clasp but cloud, and prove
Thou art but the cheat of Jove,
Mock and laughter of the sky.
Child, pursue thy butterfly!

Midas, thou that in the strife
But for riches, wastest life,
Win thy wish, and, winning, learn
All that thou hast toiled to earn
Is what wisdom well may spurn,
Bought with all thou winn'st it by.
Child, pursue thy butterfly!

Bee, that knowest but the power
Sweets to suck from every hour,

288

Thou, whose wasted days have known
Pleasures of the sense alone,
On, amid thy joys to own,
Won, they waken but the sigh.
Child, pursue thy butterfly!

Shadow-hunter, too, art thou,
Who, to good, thy toil dost vow?
No—the golden gleams that woo
Thy swift hopes, O soul! pursue;
Won or not, thou track'st the true,
Ever to thine heaven more nigh;
Thine no fleeting butterfly!

LIZ, YOU'VE A TEASING HEART.

Liz, you've a teasing heart; foolish one, part with it,
If you a moment of comfort would see;
What can you do, O the mad wild young heart, with it?
Quick, Liz, get rid of it; leave it with me.

I, too, have one, just its fellow at teasing me;
What, with so wild an one—what can I do?
Ah, if you'd know how you best could be pleasing me,
You'd let me leave it for good, Liz, with you.

Yours, that each instant so tricks you and plays from you,
By me so fondled and petted should be,
'Twould have no care to roam, and, if mine strays from you,
Never put faith more in hearts or in me.

Nay, never fear but its good it will know too well
Ever to harbour a thought, Liz, to stray;
Would you, in truth, all its love have it show too well?
Only in sport threat to drive it away.

Then how 'twill flutter and tremble and pray to you,
Till that, poor scared thing, you'll pity its fear;
Quick, then! my counsel take! heed what I say to you,
Quick! take my heart and leave yours, Lizzie, here!

289

TO THE CONGRESS OF PARIS.

Lo, at the council-table seated,
The Congress sits in talk profound,
While guess and rumour are repeated
To wondering nations listening round.
Well may the peoples, gagged and fettered,
Flutter to hear of this and that,
Without a hope that they'll be bettered
By all, O Congress, that you're at!
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But, hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day.”

What by your awful wisdom's uttered,
O Congress, we can only guess;
To us no syllable is muttered;
But royal ears your councils bless.
Around, the trembling nations listen:
O what will come of all this fuss!
Imperial eyes with gladness glisten;
Ah! that can bode no good to us.
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day.”

We hoped, indeed, the proverb's moral
Would hold true, not for thieves alone;
The people said, “When Emperors quarrel,
The peoples perhaps will get their own.”
This, too, their sceptred owners fearing,
Too soon they bid their war to cease;
O Congress, soon shall we be hearing,
Thrones only gain by this your peace.
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But, hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day!”

290

Say, is the map of Europe, lying
Upon your council-table there,
Their rights to nations still denying,
The self-same markings still to bear?
Vienna's Congress kings invested
With states that still their freedom claim;
Has Paris 'gainst their wrongs protested?
Or does it leave them but the same?
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But, hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day.”

England and France, your faith believing,
Sardinia helped you in your need;
Are you her holy hopes deceiving?
Or, say, shall Italy be freed?
How often, fettered Poland naming,
“Poland,” you said, “again should be.”
Are you your uttered words disclaiming?
Or, say, shall Poland now be free?
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But, hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day.”

Alas! alas! what fettered nation,
What people gagged and watched and bound,
Thinks that for it, its hoped salvation
Will in your protocols be found?
What matter? Hope to us is singing
Of all of which your parchment's dumb;
The deluge that our new world's bringing,
Our better world, will surely come.
Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan;
But, hark! I hear the nations say,
“We'll hold a Congress of our own
“Without your help, O Kings, some day.”

291

NO MORE GREAT LOVE MY HEART BEGUILES.

“No more great Love my heart beguiles,”
Methought:
I said, “I dare to hold his wiles
“At nought.”
But, ah, again, by your dear smiles
I'm caught.

How strong his strength, and I, how weak!
Fierce child!
Your laughing lips he did but seek,
And smiled,
And I no more of scorn could speak—
Beguiled.

How came I so the boy to slight?
Ah, true!
Yet how could I guess what his might
Could do,
When then he ne'er had snared my sight
With you!

THE SONG OF DEATH.

Time said to Pride,
“Robe thee in rich array;
“Fair Lowliness deride
“That walks beside thy way!”
But ever grim Death kept singing,
Awful and low its tone,
“Wisest are they who, born in time,
“Yet live not for time alone.”

Earth spake to Lust,
“Bar not, O Lust, thy will;
“Delights full rare hath sense;
“Of all take thou thy fill!”

292

But ever grim Death kept singing,
Piercing and calm its tone,
“Wisest are they, the sons of time,
“Who live not for time alone.”

“Known be thy name!”
Vanity heard Life say,
“Breathe thou the breath of fame
“That shall not pass away!”
But ever grim Death kept singing,
Solemn and clear its tone,
“Wisest are they who, toiling in time,
“Yet toil not for time alone.”

297

IMAGES! IMAGES!

Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?
Here's a Statesman, reckoned nice,
Cramm'd with independence; see,
He should bring a liberal price;
Come—what shall his figure be?
Pay alone that one will buy;
He has twice been sold before;
Power—a Garter—this goes high;
Come—for this you must bid more.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's a Soldier; that one, hark,
He is but mere common clay;
You can have him for a mark,
Cheap, for just twelve pence a day.

298

This one's quite another kind;
Sirs, for him play other cards;
For him orders you must find,
Or a fresh step in the Guards.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's a Lawyer—wants a soul,
Sold some years since for a fee;
For another—there, the whole,
All that's left, sir, yours shall be;
Let's be plain, though, shunning strife,
He's your own but while he's breath,
Not an instant after life,
Satan has him, slap, at death.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's a Poet; well, this time
You shall purchase for a whim;
Say, “he's Homer;” hear his rhyme;
That, you'll find, makes sure of him;
That's another of the tribe,
Queer the lot are, friends, I own,
At his rivals sneer and gibe;
There—he's yours for that alone.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Aldermen—coarse, dull, and fat—
Turtle, who'll for these afford?
Sir, a knighthood buys you that;
This, the notice of a lord;
Jews? O take them, life and soul,
For a bargain—large or small.
Tradesmen—you may have the whole,
Orders—cash, sir, buys them all.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

299

Who's for Women? on my life,
I can suit all; only try;
This, sir, if you want a wife,
Thirty thousand pounds will buy;
This, a title; but here, sir,
If for less you must be blest,
Any home will purchase her;
Prices differ for the rest.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's a Curate, lean and poor,
Him a living, friends, will buy;
Vicars can't be bought—you're sure?
They're too holy? only try;
Now who offers for this Saint?
What? a Deanery? not amiss;
And for this now? there, don't faint;
Yes, a Mitre buys you this.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's an Actor—yours for noise;
Only clap; he's yours, kind sir.
A Danseuse—a bouquet choice,
Diamonds—dress, make sure of her.
And this Merchant?—early news,
For a sly stroke upon 'Change,
Some good hint—the thing to use,
One that will the Funds derange.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

Here's a Bigot; who ensures
Him the highest seat in heaven?
Here's a Courtier; sir, he's yours
For that Garter to be given.
This Composer? you make oath
He's a Mozart? he's your own.

300

Painter? Sculptor? praise buys both,
Like your Poet—praise alone.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

What, sirs, you're for higher game?
King or Emperor? don't be nice;
They've their figure; conquests—fame—
Higher taxes—that's their price;
This one of the Bomba kind,
Mind! or, sir, he'll go off, bang!
Take him! do! if you've a mind
For some patriots, just to hang.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

There, I'm nearly rid of all;
Come, who has the rest? they'll go
All for something; great and small,
King and cobbler—high and low;
Wisdom—ignorance—virtue—vice—
Patriot—tyrant—knave and tool—
Come—who buys? all have their price—
Parson—tradesman—genius—fool.
Images! Images! sirs, I cry;
Images! Images! come, who'll buy?

HAD I A POET'S MIGHTY POWER.

Had I a Poet's mighty power,
How would I joy to make your name
The people's thought through every hour,
A sound the sweetest known to fame!
To every fleeting charm I'd give
Existence that should time defy;
And in a nation's songs should live
Our love in words that never die.

301

And O, were mine the painter's art,
From every form my pencil drew,
In still immortal youth should start
Some charm—some memory of you;
That beauty, by my canvas caught,
The baffled might of time should scorn,
Unknowing change or age, the thought—
The awe of races yet unborn.

Yet, love, who cares? not you, I know;
This hour at least is all our own;
For this the future we'll forego:
How blest to live for this alone!
Can fame, with its eternal fuss,
One moment such as this restore!
Love brims the cup of life for us;
Nor you, nor I, shall ask for more.

WHILE THE CHAMPAGNE FOAMS.

While the Champagne foams
And trembles in your glasses,
Lift it, sparkling, high,
To her who all surpasses.
Drink this toast of mine!
Trust me, to my thinking,
She's a toast divine,
Worth the Gods' own drinking,
Worth the Gods' own drinking,
When Hebe pours the wine.

Fill to her again!
Faith! boys, she resembles
This same golden light
In my glass that trembles;
Bright her dear eyes are,
Brighter far than this is;
And her ripe lips far
Beat it, boys, in blisses,
Not such glorious blisses
In Jove's own nectar are.

302

Yes, this sparkling wine
Joy to life is giving;
But her lips to mine,
That, O Gods, is living!
All joys but one were
Fate to me refusing,
To be loved by her,
That, boys, were my choosing;
What matter all else losing,
So fate but left me her!

COUNSEL TO KINGS.

Here, as I by my fireside sit,
And meditate my rhymes,
Across my busy brain will flit
The tidings of the times;
And as along my memory run
The news each moment brings,
From out the whirl of thought is spun
This counsel unto kings;
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

At last from Prussia's royal lips
Let honest truth be heard;
A people tire of paltering knaves
Who break too oft their word;
The perjured faith of duped 'fifteen
Suits not since 'forty-eight;
The future holds more Marches yet
If wisdom come too late.
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

303

Weak Austria, plant on swords your throne!
Play out your bloody game!
Your triumphs Freedom laughs to scorn,
The end is but the same;
Each time the Sibyl comes for more,
Denied her present due;
Vienna yet will have her rights,
And, kings, her vengeance too.
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

You Hapsburgs and you Brandenburgs
Are things we prize, no doubt;
Force not the world to find such things
It well can do without!
Gagg'd tongues and censor-shackled thoughts
Much longer will you rule?
Be wise and know that these are times
When rulers must to school!
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

Bourbon of Naples, when shall Time
Your bloody rule forget?
And dream you there shall come no hour
Shall pay Messina's debt?
Hate reapeth hate; blood cries for blood;
Shall not that cry endure?
The avenging Furies on the track,
Or swift or slow, are sure!
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

The times are gone when history
By kings alone was made;

304

The future has some parts 'tis plain
By nations to be play'd;
Woe! woe to those by whom their path,
Their fated path is cross'd!
A scaffold once a Bourbon trod—
A head a Stuart lost!
Beware, kings, beware!
Heed the game ye play!
Kings, the world is moving;
Stand from out the way!

1850.

“SEIZE,” I SAID, “O ART, THY PENCIL.”

“Seize,” I said, “O Art, thy pencil,
“And, in colours, all divine,
“Give her to my love for ever—
“Ever—ever, make her mine!
“Seize her smile ere time hath chill'd it;
“Fix her glance while yet 'tis bright;
“Give that brow unlined by sorrow,
“That deep hair untouch'd with white!”
Vain, all vain Art's efforts were;
O what art could image her!

And I cry to Memory ever,
Cry in vain to day—to night,
“Oh, if but for one sweet instant,
“Give her—give her to my sight!”
Weary day unheeding hears me;
Night, thrice weary, heeds me not;
Dim the image Memory brings me,
All its sweetness half forgot;
Eyes how chang'd from what they were!
Memory may not image her!

305

TO THE COMING COMET.

A POPULAR INVOCATION FROM SEVERAL EUROPEAN CAPITALS.

“Astronomers are expecting the appearance this year of the Comet called that of Charles V., and so named from having caused that monarch to abdicate and retire to the Convent of St. Just.”—Newspaper Paragraph.

O Comet, blessing man's poor eyes
When God the earth's cries' deigns to hear,
O blessed wanderer of the skies,
O longed-for star, again appear!
If many a people thou hast freed
From many a despot's cursèd power,
See, earth had never greater need
Of thee, O star! than at this hour.
How despots vex poor Europe still:
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destined purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

An Emperor's word was iron law,
Two worlds beneath his ruling groan'd;
O star! thy fiery glare he saw,
And straight his sins in sackcloth own'd.
How many now, with sway more foul
Than his, God's trampled earth offend!
Oh! to the cell—the whip—the cowl,
How many, star, thou well might'st send.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destined purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

Thy destined power one Stuart felt,
Who sought our fathers to enslave,
When at the block aghast he knelt
And his pale head to justice gave.
Nor long to be by tyrants vex'd
By thee, O wanderer, were we left;

306

A second Stuart, star, you next
Of sceptre and of crown bereft.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

Then next the Bourbons' fated race,
Long doom'd—long spared—awoke thine ire;
Well might weak Louis trembling trace
Along the night thy train of fire.
Thy glare along the ghastly skies
Its tyrant's doom to France foretold;
Thou heard'st the people's anguish'd cries;
A king's head on their scaffold roll'd.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

Then, ere you sank from human eyes,
How, wild with terror, Europe rung,
How often, with the dying cries
Of tyrants from the people sprung!
Marat—fierce Danton—Robespierre,
All drunk with blood, by you were hurl'd
To death, no more to shake with fear
The kings and nations of the world.
See, despots vex poor Europe still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

A tyrant from the people sprung,
Napoleon trod on prostrate thrones;
A despot still, his ruling wrung
From trampled Europe tears and groans,
And thou didst hear; his doom to tell,
Upon the night thy terrors rose,

307

And, false to freedom's rights, he fell,
Struck down by nations made his foes.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

Again across the ghastly night,
O star, thy vengeful terrors sped;
Friend of the people, from thy sight,
Again the baffled Bourbons fled.
But better influence thou didst shed;
The people's foes thou didst not slay;
He, too, the despot in their stead
Thou didst but, crownless, scare away.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

But woe unto the nations! woe!
To tyrants, tyrants still succeed;
Look on this Europe, star, and know
How much thy coming still we need;
For souls and tongues are fetter'd sore,
And slaves are they who should be free,
And nations wildly watch once more
Thy thrice-blest gleams, O star, to see.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O wanderer, re-appear!

How long thy coming blaze to see,
In vain the weary nations pine;
When wilt thou come? When will there be
A nobler, purer '89?
Come, and a worthier '30 bring;
How long—how long we watch and wait!

308

Come, star, and let the glad earth ring
With the free shouts of '48.
See, despots vex our poor earth still;
Oh, haste upon its tyrants here
Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil;
Appear, O star, again appear!

1858.

DEAD.

Roses!
Ah! to charm the golden light,
Summer none like them discloses,
Smiles that day that met my sight,
Roses!

Lilies!
Oh, to live again that day!
White—how white! how cold and still is
Each wan cheek—sweet life away!
Lilies!

MY ROSES BLOSSOM THE WHOLE YEAR ROUND.

My roses blossom the whole year round;
For, O they grow on enchanted ground;
Divine is the earth
Where they spring to birth;
On dimpling cheeks with love and mirth,
They're found,
They're ever found.

My lilies no change of seasons heed;
Nor shelter from storms or frosts they need;
For, O they grow
On a neck of snow,
Nor all the wintry blasts that blow
They heed,
They ever heed.

309

THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG.

THE HOPE OF THE PEOPLE.

I hear them say, “By all this stir
“What do the people gain?
“Their despots' slaves of old they were,
“Their slaves they still remain.”
Yet God will right the people yet,
Although the struggle's long;
Yes, friends, we've faith that God will set
The right above the wrong.

“See France,” they say, “what has she won
“By all her bloody past?
“She ends the same as she begun,
“A tyrant's toy at last.”
Yet, Heaven her woe will not forget,
She'll up again ere long;
For her we've faith that God will set
The right above the wrong.

“No more your Hungary's battle-peals
“O'er listening Europe roll;
“Securely gagg'd and chain'd, she feels
“The iron in her soul.”
Does she her battle-fields forget,
Triumphant once so long?
She waits: for her, too, God will set
The right above the wrong.

“Milan, too, rose in '48,
“And tore her chains away,
“To curse again her children's fate—
“The Austrians' scorn to-day.”
Her three days she remembers yet,
And still her hope is strong,
Ere long her God for her will set
The right above the wrong.

310

“Look, at its triple despots' feet,
“Their victim, Poland lies;
“Who knows if still its free heart beat,
“Or heeds its dying cries?”
Ah! God its cries will not forget;
Though Poland suffer long,
We've faith that God for her will set
The right above the wrong.

“Vienna ’gainst the Hapsburg rose:
“And what's Vienna now?
“The very scoff of Freedom's foes,
“The thing a spy can cow.”
And does she '48 forget?
No. Armed, and free ere long,
Within her walls our God will set
The right above the wrong.

Yes; gagg'd and chain'd the nations lie,
And wrong and vengeance reign;
To God goes up the bitter cry
That will not rise in vain.
The people watch, and wait, and let
Their living hope be strong,
Who doubts but God at last will set
The right above the wrong?

For in a righteous God we trust;
In Him our hope is sure;
We will not think, while He is just,
Injustice can endure.
Not long, O God, wilt Thou forget
Thy people's cries—not long;
Thou wilt arise in wrath, and set
The right above the wrong.

1857.

311

L’ENVOI.

Roll on, O river, to thy goal,
The far illimitable main;
Gladdening the earth, thy waters roll
Through vale and fertile plain;
O mighty joy! had it been given,
Majestic river unto me,
Blessing and blest of earth and heaven,
To run my course like thee!

Yet, soul, content thee with the powers,
The lowly powers to thee assign'd;
The brook that winds through meadow flowers,
In that thy likeness find;
Scarce seen its course, and yet no less
Its scarce-seen course it loves to run,
Rejoicing its few fields to bless
And gurgle through the sun.

THE GREEN HILLS OF SURREY.

AN EMIGRANT SONG.

O from Box Hill and Leith Hill the prospects are fair,
You look o'er the sweet vales of green Surrey there,
And, than Surrey's dear green vales, you never saw lie,
Or sweeter or greener, beneath the blue sky;
O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die.

O Farnham, green Farnham, what hop-grounds are there
That with Farnham's fair hop-grounds can ever compare!
And what pleasure it were once again but to lie
On Guildford's green hill-sides beneath the blue sky!
O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die.

O Dorking is pleasant, and Dorking is green,
And sweet are the woods and the walks of Deepdene,

312

But for Dorking's sweet meadows in vain I must sigh,
And Deepdene's green woods will no more meet my eye;
But the green woods of Surrey, the sweet woods of Surrey,
The dear woods of Surrey I'll love till I die.

O Kent has fair orchards; no pleasanter show
Than her apple-trees blooming in April, I know,
Save the orchards 'round Reigate, sweet Reigate, that lie
With their red and white blossoms so fair 'neath the sky.
O the green fields of Surrey, the sweet fields of Surrey,
The dear fields of Surrey I'll love till I die.

O Surrey, green Surrey, that I had been born
To a farm ’mongst your fields, with its hops and its corn,
That I'd not been forced far, my fortune to try
Across the wide sea, 'neath a far foreign sky!
O the green vales of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey,
The dear vales of Surrey I'll love till I die.

Minnesota's green prairies have plenty for all,
And comfort and wealth here my own I can call,
Yet often and often my thoughts, with a sigh,
Far to Surrey's green hills, o'er the wide sea will fly;
O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die.

But sighing avails not, and wishing is vain,
And the home of my childhood I'll ne'er see again;
The acres my labour's made mine here, I'll try
To make dear to my heart, as they're fair to my eye;
But the green hills of Surrey, the sweet hills of Surrey,
The dear hills of Surrey I'll love till I die.

'Neath the park limes in Betchworth, 'tis there I would stroll;
O to walk but once more by the clear winding Mole!
But no more shall I hear the soft breeze rustle by
Through those lime-tops, no more by the Mole I shall lie;
But the clear streams of Surrey, the sweet streams of Surrey,
The dear streams of Surrey I'll love till I die.

313

By the grey ivied church, where my father is laid,
Where my mother lies with him, my grave should be made,
But, far from them, my bones, when my time comes, must lie
'Neath the rain and the snow of a strange foreign sky;
O the green hills of Surrey, the sweet vales of Surrey,
The dear fields of Surrey I'll love till I die.

O BONNY IS MY HUSBAND'S SHIP.

O bonny is my husband's ship, the ship that well I love;
And welcome are its coming sails, all welcome sights above.
There's not a tarry rope, not a spar that there I see,
Not a deck-plank that he treads on, but it's O how dear to me!

O bright, bright was the May-time through which he sail'd away,
But to me more wan and dreary than November was the day.
O wintry winds beat keen with sleet—O cold seas rage and foam,
But calm will be, and bright to me, the day that brings him home.

O Katie, playing on the floor—O Jock, beside my knee—
When father sits beside the fire, how happy we shall be!
O babe unborn that, when he comes, shall bless my happy breast,
God send my baby safe to me, to kiss him with the rest.

And many a pretty thing he'll bring for little Kate and Jock,
Carved wooden man, and funny beast, and shell, and sparkling rock,
A monkey, perhaps, so clever, with Jock and Kate to play,
And a rainbow-colour'd parrot, that will chatter all the day.

314

O never be a sailor, Jock, to make the angry foam
The terror of a loving wife and babes you've left at home;
And marry not a sailor, Kate, to be his weary wife,
Unless you get one dear as he who's dear to me as life.

Move swiftly on, you lonesome hours! tick quicker on, O clock!
And bring the hour when, at my breast, my baby I shall rock,
When in my arms my blessed babe shall laugh and leap and crow,
And I shall teach its little eyes its father's face to know.

O Thou who guid'st the stormy winds, O Thou who rul'st the sea,
O God look down in mercy upon my babes and me;
Through storms and perils of the deep, O hold him in Thy hand,
That we may bless Thy blessed name, when safe he treads the strand.

You wives so blessed with plenty, how little do you know
The blessings that, on such as I, your riches would bestow!
O John, come back with half enough to keep you safe ashore,
And day and night I'll work that you may go to sea no more.

HOME AGAIN.

A SOLDIER'S WIFE'S SONG.

And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

'Twas only yesternight I knew
The news—they broke it first to Sue,
And I—I said, “Can it be true,

315

And is my, husband home again?”
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

Ah, but it seems long weary years,
My twenty months of heart-sick fears,
Of nights I've wet my cheeks with tears,
To think, will he come home again?
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

Ah, when upon his neck I hung,
While to his breast like life I clung,
I mind me well his angel tongue
Said, “Wife, but I'll come home again.”
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

O, sore have ached both heart and head!
How have I shivered as they read
The lists of wounded and of dead!
Ah, would he—he come home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

O with what sighs is glory bought!
O why must battles e'er be fought?
O would kings give to wives a thought,
Who wish their husbands home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

316

But now, why speak of sorrow more?
His ship lies rocking at the Nore;
Two hours, and he will be ashore,
Whom I've so pray'd for home again.
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

O bless'd be God! the prayers I pray'd,
The wild, wild words to heaven I said,
Were heard! O God, had he been dead,
My husband, who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

For ever will I thank kind Heaven
That gives the gift for which I've striven,
By whom to these glad arms is given
My husband who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

No more, no more, to part no more!
O bless'd be God! the war is o'er!
O hours fly by, till he's ashore,
My husband, who is home again!
And O, but he's come home again,
Home, home, home again;
And O, but he's come home again,
My husband dear, to me!

317

A THOUSAND LEAGUES AWAY.

A SEA SONG.

The wind is blowing fresh, Kate, the boat rocks there for me;
One kiss and I'm away, Kate, for two long years to sea;
For two long years to think of you—dream of you night and day—
To long for you across the sea—a thousand leagues away,
A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,
A thousand leagues away,
While round the Pole we toss and roll,
A thousand leagues away.

I half could be a landsman, Kate, while those dear eyes I see,
To hear the gale rave by, without, while you sat snug with me;
But I must hear the storm howl by, the salt breeze whistling play
Its weird sea-tune amongst the shrouds, a thousand leagues away,
A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,
A thousand leagues away,
While south we go, blow high, blow low,
A thousand leagues away.

I'm too rough for a landsman's lot—his tame life's not for me;
What could I do ashore for you?—my fortune's on the sea;
The mate of winds and billows still, I must my fate obey,
And chase the whale, before the gale, a thousand leagues away,
A thousand leagues away, dear Kate,
A thousand leagues away,
The blubber boil, and stow the oil,
A thousand leagues away.

Something I have, and more shall have, if luck my fortune be,
Enough at last a wife to keep and children round my knee;

318

And do you love me well enough, Kate, from your heart to say,
“I'm yours, though you must win me, Will, a thousand leagues away,
A thousand leagues away, dear Will,
A thousand leagues away,
For you she'll wait; go, win your Kate,
A thousand leagues away.”

One kiss; the tide ebbs fast, love; I must no laggard be
Upon the voyage I'll hope, love, will give a wife to me.
Pray for us, Kate; such prayers as yours God bids the winds obey;
By fortune heard, your loving word will speed us far away,
A thousand leagues away, my Kate,
A thousand leagues away,
God will befriend the lad you send
A thousand leagues away.

HOW PLEASANT IS THE FARMER'S LIFE.

How pleasant is the farmer's life! away from smoky towns
He breathes the pleasant country air of meadows, hills and downs,
And with a hale, old hearty age a healthy life he crowns;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

No prison'd life the farmer lives, bent over desk and book,
Or cribb'd within a shop all day, till white and wan's his look,
Till less like to a man he grows, and weaker than our Suke;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

As to your white-faced tradesman who fawns and smirks and smiles,
Who cannot whirl a flail, boys, or walk a score of miles,
What is his life to ours, we who leap the gates and stiles?
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

319

Our arms are strong with labour, our cheeks are red with health,
We never gain a penny'sworth by lying, trick or stealth,
Yet cowhouse, sty and stackyard, show we have our share of wealth;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

How pleasant is the Spring-time! 'tis then we plough and sow,
And through the shining mornings, beside our teams we go,
While in the fields the lambkius leap and frisk their joy to show;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

How pleasant is the Summer-time! 'tis then we make our hay,
And scythe and rake and fork and cart are busy all the day,
'Tis then we shear our bleating sheep with laugh and joke and play;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

Then comes the pleasant Autumn-time when sheaves are reap'd and bound,
And, at our happy harvest-homes, the song and ale go round,
And through the calm and quiet days our busy flails resound;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

And when our fields are stripp'd and bare, and white with sleet and snow,
When work is done, beside the fire what merry nights we know,
With Christmas cheer and New Year's games we set our hearts aglow;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

Then luck to all good farmers! God send them still, I say,
Good seasons, plenteous harvests, and all they want each day,
Full barns, and folds and stackyards, and thankful hearts, I pray;
And it's O I'd be a farmer—a farmer I would be.

320

BALLAD.

O that I were lying still in the grave cold and deep!
O waking it is weary, and I fain, fain would sleep;
I fain, fain would slumber, and fain would have dreams
That true, true is friendship, and love all it seems.

O false is the sea-wind, and false, false the sea,
And false, false the friend, wind and wave brought to me.
O had he but seen Scotland's cliffs never more,
Or I never welcomed his false face to shore!

O bonny is the red rose, the red rose on the tree,
And bonny was one sweet face, one glad face to me,
But now sick I lie, sick to see it in vain,
And it's only in heaven I shall meet it again.

O weary's the world! O how dear, O how dear
Was that fair gentle face I shall see no more here;
And how sweet was the voice here I listen for still,
Though a word from those red lips my worn heart would kill.

Accursed be the wind and wave, and cursed be the ship,
That brought to her young ears a word from his lip!
May its dark timbers grind and break upon a cruel shore,
That its false hammocks bring men such black freights no more.

My curse on the false heart wherever it may be,
The cruel, cruel false heart that wiled her love from me;
But blessings, blessings on her wherever she may be,
For, false or true, to me she's dear—she's dear, dear to me.

O love, it can cherish and love can stab and kill;
O happy was my heart once, but now it would be still;
It now would be still in the grave dark and deep;
O death give me rest, for I fain, fain would sleep!

321

A SOLDIER AM I.

I'm a lad to war bred, who's proud to wear the red,
And this coat and this bearskin you see upon my head,
By the Russians they were seen
On the Alma's slopes of green,
And when Inkermann's grey hill-sides we heap'd high with dead;
To fight is my trade, and I never am afraid
For my queen, lads, to fight,—for my country to die;
This medal at my breast and these clasps tell you best
Where I've been—what I've seen, that a soldier am I.

O my grand-dad, before, the red coat he wore;
At Corunna long ago well he fought under Moore;
On Salamanca's plain
He beat the French again,
And through Badajos's breach, quick their best back he bore;
Now he has a wooden peg, for at Quatre Bras a leg
A round shot took off—so he'll stump till he die;
At Chelsea, safe and snug, with his pipe and his mug,
He tells his old tales, and a soldier am I.

At the Cape in the bush with the Kaffirs I'd a brush;
When Canton we storm'd, I went in with the crush;
Under Campbell 'twas warm work,
But they never found me shirk,
And when Lucknow we took, I was first in the rush;
Now I'm home safe and sound, though I've had many a wound;
This scar's not a beauty; yet, as I pass them by,
Many a girl still I see looks a side-look at me;
O they dearly love the red, and a soldier am I.

If you'd trust now to some, the French soon will come
To invade us at home here, but that's all a hum;
Do you think that they'll come here
To meet a British cheer,
And to taste English steel to the sound of the drum?

322

Should they have a whim some day to see us in that way,
We know, boys, they'll come to our shores but to die;
With Enfield and with steel, I for one will let them feel
That we're Englishmen yet—for a soldier am I.

THE PLEASANT FIELDS OF KENT.

AN EMIGRANT SONG.

O Kent's a pleasant country, and how heavy is his heart
Who from her breezy hills and downs and meadows must depart,
Who across the heaving ocean to seek a home is sent
Far far from dear old England and the pleasant fields of Kent.

Fair Surrey, it has grassy hills, and Berkshire's lanes are green,
But of all the counties England holds, our Kent it is the queen;
And never one of all her sons far from her ever went
Without a heavy heart to leave the pleasant fields of Kent.

Green Maidstone, it has orchards sweet, and Farleigh it has hops,
And grassy fields by Medway's banks full many a white sheep crops;
But from Maidstone's blooming orchards, and from Farleigh's hop-fields sent,
I shall see no more the Medway flow through the green fields of Kent!

O Lenham, it has pleasant woods! dear to my heart are they,
For there I've nutted, when a boy, full many an autumn day;
But nevermore a day by me will in Lenham's woods be spent,
For I am sailing o'er the sea, far from the woods of Kent!

323

How pleasant are the Medway's banks—its waters flowing clear,
And the cottage by its grassy side, where I dwelt for many a year;
But on far Australia's streamless plains my last years must be spent,
Far from the Medway's pleasant side, and the winding streams of Kent.

O Kent, the sigh is on my lip, the tear is in my eye,
To think no more my longing eyes will see you ere I die;
Yet, with brave heart in my new land, I'll strive to win content,
But often will my thoughts be yours, O my own pleasant Kent.

THE GLORIES OF OUR THAMES.

O many a river song has sung and dearer made the names
Of Tweed and Ayr and Nith and Doon, but who has sung our Thames?
And much green Kent and Oxfordshire and Middlesex it shames
That they've not given long since one song to their own noble Thames.

O clear are England's waters all, her rivers, streams and rills,
Flowing stilly through her valleys long and winding by her hills,
But river, stream, or rivulet through all her breadth who names
For beauty and for pleasantness with our own pleasant Thames.

The men of grassy Devonshire the Tamar well may love,
And well may rocky Derbyshire be noisy of her Dove,

324

But with all their grassy beauty, nor Dove nor Tamar shames,
Nor Wye, beneath her winding woods, our own green pleasant Thames.

I care not if it rises in the Seven Wells' grassy springs,
Or at Thames'head whence the rushy Churn its gleaming waters brings,
From the Cotswolds to the heaving Nore, our praise and love it claims,
From the Isis' fount to the salt sea Nore, how pleasant is the Thames!

O Gloucestershire and Wiltshire well its gleaming waters love,
And Oxfordshire and Berkshire rank it all their streams above;
Nor Middlesex nor Essex nor Kent nor Surrey claims
A river equal in their love to their own noble Thames.

How many a brimming river swells its waters deep and clear,
The Windrush and the Cherwell and the Thame to Dorset dear,
The Kennet and the Loddon that have music in their names,
But no grandeur like to that in yours, my own mast-shadow'd Thames.

How many a city of renown beside its green course stands!
How many a town of wealth and fame, how famous through all lands!
Fair Oxford, pleasant Abingdon and Reading, world-known names,
Crown'd Windsor, Hampton, Richmond, all add glory to our Thames.

But what wide river through the world, though broad its waters be,
A London with its might and wealth upon its banks shall see?

325

The greatness of earth's greatest mart, that to herself she claims,
The world's great wonder, England's boast, gives glory to our Thames.

What hugest river of the earth such fleets as hers e'er bore,
Such tribute rich from every land, such wealth from every shore,
Such memories of mighty ones whose memories are fames,
Who from their mighty deeds afar came homewards up the Thames?

In Westminster's old Abbey's vaults, what buried greatness lies!
Nelson and Wellington sleep there where Wren's dome fills the skies;
Here stands proud England's senate-house with all its mighty fames,
These are the boast of Englishmen, the glory of our Thames.

How many a river of the earth flows through a land of slaves!
Her banks are throng'd with freemen's homes, are heap'd with freemen's graves;
Name the free races of the earth, and he, who tells them, names
Freemen of the free blood of those who dwell beside our Thames.

How many a heart in many a land yearns to you with what pride,
What love, by the far Ganges' banks, by the green Murray's side!
By Ohio's waves, Columbia's stream, how many a free heart names,
O with what love! the old dear homes they left beside the Thames.

River of England, your green banks no armèd feet, thank God!
No hostile hosts, no stranger ranks for centuries past have trod;

326

O may no foemen ever come, to threat your homes with flames!
But should they come we'll show them soon what hearts are by the Thames.

Flow on in glory, still flow on, O Thames, unto the sea,
Through glories gone, through grandeurs here, through greatness still to be:
Through the free homes of England flow, and may yet higher fames,
Still nobler glories star your course, O my own native Thames?

A LAMENT.

O who will be a husband to me!
And who will my baby's father be?
Soon my babe will be born and I'm all forlorn,
And who will comfort me!

Ah, war is a trade by which widows are made,
And sore, O full sore is my heart afraid
That, among the red slain, on some battle plain
My soldier will be laid.

Alone—alone, I must make my moan;
No pity my father's heart has shown;
My mother will scorn my babe when it's born,
And show it a face of stone.

O born to shame—to no father's name,
My baby will bear its mother's blame;
Only my love and its God's above
Will smile on my child of shame.

God send the day for which I so pray
When my child in his father's arms I shall lay!
O were he but here, my soldier dear!
O God! to see that day!

JUANNA.

“What is it ails me, mother?
Now tell me, tell me, pray,
Why I'm dreaming all the night long
And I'm musing all the day?

330

I never laugh as once I did;
I'm silent, dull and shy,
And still I must be question'd twice
Before I once reply.”

“What your dreams are of, Juanna,
You first must to me show;
What you muse about, Juanna,
That I must truly know;
And where your thoughts are, you must say,
When you do not reply;
Tell me this, and then I'll tell you
Why you dream and muse and sigh.”

“O my dreams are still of Juan,
Of him, by night and day,
And my thoughts are always with him,
From me when he's away;
I want him always by me;
Will it be always so?
Day and night, no thought but Juan
Shall I for ever know?”

“Ah, I felt like you, Juanna,
When I too was fifteen,
And well I know, my daughter,
What your dreams and musings mean;
But, better than your mother,
Your heart to you can tell
What ails you so, and if again
You'll evermore be well.”

“I've ask'd my heart, my mother,
And always its reply
Is to ache when Juan's absent,
And to flutter when he's by.
But Juan says, but wed him,
I shall be changed he's sure;
Now, mother, do you think so?
Will that surely work my cure?”

331

“Ah, sweet, my own Juanna,
That I cannot surely know,
Though, with half the wives of Cadiz,
Men say that it is so;
But with some like your poor mother
All hope of cure is o'er;
They whom they loved as lovers,
As husbands they adore.”

332

A SUMMER THOUGHT.

In thy circle, painted flower,
What a world of wonder lies!
Yet men pass thee, hour by hour,
With no marvel in their eyes;
Dost thou not the beauty know
In thy bright-streak'd round that's dwelling?
When our tongues thy praises show,
Is no pride thy bright robes swelling?
Dost thou feel no joy in living,
Wantoning thus in sun and shower?
Thou canst pleasure still be giving;
Lies no pleasure in the power?
Deck'd in nature's tiring room
By the months, in hues the brightest
Flung from off her magic loom,
Thou the very air delightest,
And the very hours to view thee,
Ere by death thy glory's blighted,
Ere decay hath crept unto thee,
Did they dare, would pause delighted;

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Ah, that men, with noteless eyes,
Thus to pass thee should have power,
Marvelling not at all that lies
In thy circle, painted flower!

A SPRING SONG.

Swallow, swallow, hither wing;
Hither, swallow, bringing spring;
From the lake hath gone the teal;
Fled the widgeon from the stream;
Now no more our bursting woods
Hear the swooping merlin's scream;
Come, thou dawn of summer, come,
Hither leaves and shadows bringing,
Bladed furrows—nested eaves,
Sweetest songs the south is singing;
Bringing violets, bringing spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing,

Swallow, swallow, hither wing,
Dearest playmate of the spring;
Come,—the celandine no more
Dreads the gusty wrath of March;
Golden tasselled is the birch;
Emerald fringes hath the larch;
Come, thou news of summer, come,
Trills and hedge-row twitterings bringing,
Quivering mountings of the lark,
Shrillest songs the ousel's singing;
Snowing orchards, flight of spring,
Hither, swallow, hither wing.

WHY IS SORROW?

Why is sorrow? sunshine's made
Brighter still by cloud and shade;
So the cares that man annoy,
When their passing power is o'er,

334

Fairer make the face of joy,
Dearer than it was before;
Sorrows into pleasures fade;
Brightest sunshine's born of shade.

Why is trouble? darksome night,
Passing, adds to day's delight;
'Tis by absence of a good
That its perfect worth is shown;
Health's rich value's understood
Only when we've sickness known;
Pain, when past, makes pleasure here
Felt in full and doubly dear.

Therefore, welcome strife and peace;
Calm is sweet when tempests cease;
Forth from Winter comes the Spring;
Of the snows are violets born;
Ice and hail, June's roses bring,
Frosts and mists, the golden corn;
Barest boughs will burst to leaves;
He shall laugh who deepest grieves.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

Yes, “God save the Queen!” aye, and well may we say it,—
Ungrudgingly, lovingly, long may it start,
Not alone from our lips, when we shout or we pray it,
But shouted, or sung, or said, straight from the heart.
She reigns for her people—no fav'rite, no party,
Between her and them has there ever been seen;
'Tis my love for the people that makes me so hearty
Whenever I cry, as now, “God save the Queen!”

Look abroad through the world—see, wherever your sight still
From country to country sets eyes on a throne,

335

'Tis the same reign of bayonets, defying all right still;
'Tis a rule that is kept up by terror alone;
Then, at home, looking round, here what still are we seeing?
What is seen, and long may it by all eyes be seen—
A nation its limbs from their old shackles freeing,
Uncheck'd to its glad cry of “God save the Queen!”

She, than all the despots around her far wiser,
Is rightly contented ourselves we should rule;
Unlike those crowned idiots, who doubtless despise her,
She wants not our will to her own still to school;
In fact, she don't need it—the two are one only;
Her wishes and ours but the same still have been;
So who wonders, among us, he'd find himself lonely
Who would not cry with us all, “God save the Queen!”

As a ruler we prize, as a women we love her;
Temptations beset most the souls born so high;
But though she knows no rule but God's is above her,
When did she obedience to that rule deny?
A daughter—her parents but knew her to bless her;
A wife—what a model to all wives she's been!
A mother—O well may her children caress her,
And well may we, with them, pray “God save the Queen!”

Yes, long may she live—God, for our sake preserve her;
No better can rule when she passes from earth;
She's all we could wish her; we should not deserve her
If, while she is with us, we knew not her worth.
Then, as Queen and as daughter, as true wife and mother,
As ruler and woman, dear to us, we mean
Still to pray that, of rulers, we long have no other
Than she for whom here we cry, “God save the Queen!”

And when she is gone—for death will not be sparing
The best of good monarchs, however, they're dear,—
May the child of hers next that her sceptre is bearing,
Be loved as his mother is, while he is here;

336

The centuries will pass, but they will not forget her;
Whenever a ruler worth loving is seen,
The people will say, “Ah, but one we've known better—
She for whom so long we prayed, ‘God save the Queen!’”

COLUMBUS.

DEDICATED TO THE NEW-WORLD-SEEKERS OF TO-DAY.

O monarchs, yes, beyond the sea,
My sight the far new world descries;
Let us be gone! “O come to me,
“Come and be blest!” the new world cries;
O monarchs, there for you is peace,
Release from hate, and care, and fear;
O sovereigns, let your doubtings cease!
Let us begone, O kings, from here!
I am not mad—no, monarchs, no;
On! to the glad new world we'll go.

Heed not your tinsell'd courtiers' sneers,
The doubts by priest and noble said!
I know they name me but with jeers;
I pass—they laugh and touch the head;
What though each lord with courtly air
Would bid you hold me as a fool,
O hear me! peace shall glad you there;
O'er happy realms you there shall rule;
I am not mad—no, courtiers, no;
On! to the glad new world we'll go.

Yes; let us go! upon the strand,
Rigg'd for the voyage, each galliot lies;
Soon shall we launch them from the land;
Ah, whence are those imploring cries!
“O go not—go not—heed not him!
“Seek not to cross the endless main!
“Dupes of a brainless madman's whim,
“Your homes you ne'er shall see again.”

337

We are not mad; no, people, no;
On! to the glad new world we'll go.

Yet still upon the affrighted air,
Come shrill-voiced prayer and frantic cry,
And still they shriek, “O sons, beware!
“O husbands, stay! you go to die;”
Around us, cling young child and wife,
And hardly will be torn away;
Their cry, “O dear to us as life,
“Stay, father dear! O husband, stay!”
We will not stay; no, dear ones, no;
On! to the fair new world we'll go.

Hurrah! the old world fades behind;
Upon our voyage we speed at last;
Be calm, O sea! blow fair, O wind!
Ah, friends, what means yon floating mast!
Does it not tell some fearful tale
Of dangers that our course await,
Of some, before us doom'd to fail,
Despair and wreck and death their fate!
And shall this stay us, brothers? No;
On! to the glad new world we'll go.

Out in mid-ocean far we sail;
Fair blows the breeze; the air is balm;
Ah, treacherous winds, how soon you fail!
Alas, what means this endless calm!
Beneath the stirless heavens we lie,
And o'er us creeps a nameless fear;
What, are we doom'd, becalm'd to die,
Fixed on the airless ocean here?
O faint of heart, no—brothers, no;
On! to the glad new world we'll go.

Ah, wildly now the tempests wake;
Fierce blow the winds; the billows rise;
Foaming, the mad seas on us break;
O Lord! in mercy hear our cries;

338

O thou great God, that bid'st the waves
Be still, release our hearts from fear!
O are we doom'd to find our graves
Far in the raging ocean here?
Let waves roll high; let wild winds blow;
On! to the fair new world we'll go.

But no; O raise to God the psalm!
Praise him with prayer and solemn song!
Look! look! before us, dim and calm,
The looked-for land for which we long;
On!—on!—with all the speed you may!
Quick, on your barks fresh canvas crowd!
Ah, shore and headland fade away;
Alas! alas! they were but cloud!
Yet, what though cheated with a show?
On! to the fair new world we'll go.

O still have hope! O murmur not!
O think not of your homeward track!
Cease your fierce chidings! brothers, what,
You will not turn all hopeless back!
No; to the winds all doubtings fling!
Green land-weeds, see! surround each bark;
Hark! those are orchard birds that sing;
See! there a light gleams through the dark;
Ho! watch at prow and mast-head! ho!
Fast to the fair new world we go.

God's people through the desert pass'd;
But to the promised land they came;
We sail through dangers; but at last,
We too, O friends, shall do the same;
And, O what glory ours shall be
When there our peaceful sails are furl'd,
And men the perfect bliss shall see
Of this, our new discovered world!
On! morning shall the fair land show;
On! to the new world gladly go.

339

SONG.

I said, “O Art, unto my eyes,
“Her matchless charms for ever give!
“In that sweet life that never dies,
“For ever let her beauty live!”
And Art his eager pencil plied
To paint her charms, all charms above;
But soon, “In vain I strive,” he cried,
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”

I turn'd to Fancy; “To my sight,”
I murmur'd, “from the glowing air,
“O let her gaze my soul delight,
“As if she lived before me there!”
At Fancy's call her image came;
O not her charms, all charms above!
Poor Fancy's cry was but the same;
“O who can paint her—who, but Love?”

Then mighty Love, with laughing joy,
The pencil seized with wild delight,
And, ere I well could mark the boy,
She laugh'd in life before my sight;
O who, like him, such brows could draw,
Such dark sweet eyes, all eyes above?
Like him, could paint the charms I saw?
O who can paint her—who, but Love?”

MOVE ON.

My taste, good Sirs, no loiterers please;
When such the public watchman sees,
Suspicious straight, his words are these:
Move on!

The social safety, well he knows,
Is apt to suffer most from those
Whose loiterings their designs disclose:
Move on!

340

Look, then, on all with honest fear,
Our age's words who will not hear,
Though still its cry rings loud and clear,
Move on!

Ho! priests, who think you Churchmen still
Need only weekly pulpits fill,
Nor care a whit for social ill,
Move on!

You who, for justice, give us law,
And clench a wrong with learned saw,
Of clamouring right, in reverent awe,
Move on!

You statesmen! be it understood,
You rule but for the people's good,
You who would loiter if you could,
Move on!

Ah! you who kill or cure us, learn
There may be something to discern
In newest truths that most you spurn;
Move on!

You who your souls to trade have sold,
Who only breathe to grasp and hold,
Has life no better worth than gold?
Move on!

You slaves of forms and schools of art,
Clasp naked nature to the heart,
Till from the embrace, fresh beauty start;
Move on!

What, poet, is the past to you?
There stands existence; look it through;
Give words to what men feel and do:
Move on!

341

WERE I A KING! WERE I A KING!

MY UTOPIA.

Were I a king—were I a king,
How royally my crown I'd wear!
The jewell'd sceptre in my hand,
For more than empty rule, I'd bear;
From those who rail and jest at thrones,
Far other speech, methinks, I'd bring;
My power I'd have by all beloved,
Were I a king—were I a king.

No chancellor within my realm
Should rule a court, my people's curse;
No law should make, with vile delays,
My justice, than injustice, worse;
To right all wrongs, my judge should sit,
Not, from the wrong'd, their all to wring;
Ho! leeches of the law, you'd starve,
Were I a king—were I a king.

My courtiers?—nobles such as mine,
When—when by such have Courts been trod?
Not noble by their fathers' names,
But holding all their rank from God;
Mill, Carlyle, Dickens, Herschel, Lough,
Such, round my throne, should greatness bring;
To Tennyson, should Earls give place,
Were I a king—were I a king.

Ho! statesmen—you to whom I give
The evils of my realm to cure,
Just laws, I'd say, and righteous make,
Alike for all—for rich—for poor;
To squalid hearths—to hungry homes,
Look that your rule seme comfort bring;
Food, leisure, health, I'd have for all,
Were I a king—were I a king.

342

Not over all that ignorance breeds,
Brute vice—rank evil, would I rule;
No street of all my crowded towns,
No village, but should boast its school;
To loathe the wrong—to love the right,
My teaching, soon, should all men bring,
Nor jail nor gallows shock the sight,
Were I a king—were I a king.

You, Cambridge—Oxford, would I say,
Not for a class's good, you stand;
Your ancient founders will'd your halls
To hold the neediest of the land;
Away with thought of sect and rank;
Your doors to genius open fling;
Give welcome unto all—I'd say,
Were I a king—were I a king.

Loved of the lowly and the poor,
My church's reverend priests should live,
To unjust power—to titled vice,
Not shrinking stern reproof to give;
Isaiahs of to-day, their cry
Should, strong to smite all evil, ring;
Pauls, they should serve in truth their God,
Were I a king—were I a king.

Go forth, my people, would I say;
Off with you—off—you swarming bees;
From this o'ercrowded hive, go—bear
Your English strength beyond the seas:
The will to work you have; away
To where your work shall comfort bring;
Go—greater Englands found, I'd say,
Were I a king—were I a king.

What parks I'd for my people plant!
What gardens for their walks should bloom!
My palaces—I'd welcome, sirs,
Mechanics' feet to every room;

343

With holidays my realms should shout;
Enjoyments free to all I'd fling;
My pictures should make poor men glad,
Were I a king—were I a king.

You smile; yet some perchance may take
For truths, what you but fancies call;
There needs the will, we have the power
To give some gladness unto all;
Ah, he might throne him in our hearts,
Who'd strive to do what I but sing.
What I so feel I'd long to do,
Were I a king—were I a king.

THE SMILE.

'Tis not the marvel of an eye,
The wonder of a brow,
Within whose snares enmeshed I lie,
For ever captive, now;
Oh, no—no—no—
My heart has learned to know,
'Tis ease, the witchery to defy
That snared me long ago.

I am not captive to a cheek
Or prisoner to a curl;
My snarers now in vain you seek
In lip, or tooth of pearl;
Oh, no—no—no—
My heart has learned to know
Of stronger bonds than those, so weak,
That held me long ago.

Say I, her voice would music teach
New spells—that tones as rare
As with all sweetness dower her speech,
Ne'er tranc'd the charmed air?

344

Oh, no—no—no—
My tongue has learned to know
The praise of charms beyond the reach
Of even her voice to show.

No need of witcheries such as these
My fancy to enthrall,
When in her smile my snared heart sees
A lure beyond them all;
Oh, no—no—no—
To that I've learned to know,
But weakness was the strength of these
That snared me long ago.

Will beauty, prithee, weigh with love?
Nay, all its charms give place
To beauty of the heart, above
All charm of outward grace;
Oh, no—no—no—
What lure can beauty show
As snaring as the tangling love
That laughs her smile below!

THE PORTRAIT.

Yes, there it blooms for ever,
That girlish face, so fair
Upon the breathing canvas,
And yet not only there;
For, like as is its sweetness,
Far fairer is it wrought,
In all its gentle beauty,
Upon the painter's thought.

Lo, while his pencil drew her,
Within the stately room,
Love took his stand beside him,
Amid its gorgeous gloom;

345

And as upon the canvas
Each feature stole to sight,
Love stamped it in the painter's thought
In colours yet more bright.

Nor fleeting were the touches
Of that immortal art,
They bloom in hues unfading,
Though youth and years depart;
The painter's head is hoary,
Her fair face wrinkles fill,
Yet bright as when Love drew it,
His thoughts retain it still.

A LAMENT.

O primal bloom! O bursting May!
O radiance of my youth,
That with the passion of thy prime
I served the living truth!
O for the full pulse of thy time,
When, in high purpose strong,
Life poured to battle for the good
And smote to flight the wrong!
O glory gone! O golden past!
Such life alone was thine;
It may not sigh its spring-time back,
This withered heart of mine.

Farewell, farewell, thou golden prime,
Thou sunburst of my youth;
I may not glorify my age
With thy full thirst for truth;
O radiant time, thou com'st not back
From out the vanished years,
When love on wrong in thunders burst,
And pity flashed in tears!

346

Alas, thy olden fires, O life,
May not again be thine!
In vain it sighs its spring-time back,
This withered heart of mine.

A VALENTINE.

Gentle quiet of her eye,
To my asking deign reply;
By the impassioned day made bold,
Be thy hoarded secret told;
Or by trusting glance or fall
Of thy fluttering look from mine,
Dower my thought with hopes divine,
Hopes no coldness may recal;
Sweet betrayer, bid me see
If not in thy depths there be
Love thy coyness keeps from me.

Stainèd whiteness of her cheek
Quit thy fear and prithee speak,
All to-day should bid thee tell,
All that thou hast hid so well;
Through the day-dawn of a flush,
Dimpling ripple of a smile,
Oh, let watching love beguile
Thy sweet secret from its hush!
Give me, this sweet day, to know
If, thy rosy calm below,
Love lurk not, thou wilt not show.

Oh, thou music of her speech,
Leave thou meaner things and teach
Listening love the all he'd learn!
Give the enamoured air to burn
With thy sumless burdens; round,
Words half silence—many a tone
Caught by love's hushed ear alone,

347

Thoughts that tremble into sound,
Breathe!—Oh, utterance all divine,
Bid me know she would be mine—
That I am her valentine!

A SONG

OF SUNDRY QUAINT CONCEITS, WRITTEN IN PENSHURST PARK.

[Bring, I pray thee, wanton Spring]

Bring, I pray thee, wanton Spring,
Prithee, all thy treasures bring;
Bring me every flower that stains
Grassy mead, or woodland dell;
All that nod in sunlit lanes;
All on wayside banks that dwell;
For I'd choose
Fancies sweet;
Thoughts most meet
Now I'd use;
Such alone her praise should sing;
Such, I prithee, bring me, Spring.

Bring, sweet wanton, bring, I pray,
Songs, the sweetest heard by May;
All the melodies that still
Gush around us everywhere,
Wander with thee where we will,
Haunting earth and filling air.
She is sweet;
Songs should be
Sweet as she,
Her to greet;
For the music of my song
Should not do her praises wrong!

Hither, Summer, prithee, bring
All the sunshine thou dost fling
On the great earth everywhere,
Ripening grain and flushing flowers,

348

Gilding all the fields of air;
Making shades and gladness ours;
Lend its fire
To me, so
I may show
My desire,
My warm love is hotter far
Than the noons of Summer are.

Lend me, binder of the sheaves,
Alchemist that turn'st the leaves
All to mighty stores of gold,
All the voices of thy sorrow,
That thou may'st no more behold,
Dainty Summer; I would borrow
Saddest moans;
So I'd plain
Her disdain,
In such tones
As to pity might her move,
For my sorrow—for my love.

Bring me, sheeted Winter, all
That makes men thee ruthless call;
All that stays the streamlet's flow;
All that mocks the snows of May;
All that hardens earth below;
All that turns to night, sweet day;
All things bare,
All things bleak,
Best may speak
Love's despair;
Pranks her, Spring, for me in vain,
Wintered in her cold disdain.

349

LOVE IN THE NORTH.

A Ball-room—England.

Does she love me? listen;
As I come through the door,
Mark how her eyes will glisten,
Dull the moment before;
Glance on glance she's darted;
Ever the door they've sought;
Never till now she started;
Never my eye she caught;
Love may mask and pride it
None its presence can guess;
Ah, what mask can hide it?
Does she love me? yes.

Does she love me? glancing,
Look how her eye glides round;
Ah, the spot where I'm dancing,
Point of her search, is found;
Turn I quickly, and turning,
Surely her gaze I meet;
Sinks her hot cheek burning;
Drops her glance to her feet;
Love is dumb? who say it?
Would you his sweet thought guess?
Wordless, he'll betray it;
Does she love me? yes.

Yes, though she scorn to love me,
Ay, though her haughty will
Others would rank above me,
Yes, she loves me still;
Pride would strive with passion;
Nurture would nature tame;
Hearts are not made by fashion;
Love, it is more than name.

350

Hope, I hear her singing,
Time the gladdener bless,
Years all radiance bringing,
Yes, she loves thee; yes.

ALCÆUS TO SAPPHO.

Oh, were she mine! oh, were she mine!
I would not envy kings;
I would not ask another joy
That time, existence, brings;
Thou maddening dream! I thrill—I burn,
Drunk with a bliss divine;
Oh, what an utter blank were all,
All else, were she but mine!

Out, dusty thoughts; out, aims that grey
The pulsing life of youth;
Fools—fools—to fling the years away
In doting search for truth;
A clinging lip—a dewy eye—
A palm that throbs to thine,
These—these are love; these—these are life;
Oh, were she—were she mine!

FOR MUSIC.

I

Prithee, let the song go round
Till the air be drunk with sound;
Swelling—sinking—like the ocean,
Let its waves come circling round,
Wakening into blest emotion
Every feeling in us found;
Thoughts of ill fly far its sound;
Prithee, let the song go round.

351

II

Mirth is wisdom; sorrow's folly;
Say sad sighers what they will:
Here we mock dull melancholy;
Laughter here is never still;
Here, no wearing cares come nigh us;
Sadness here no sighs can bring;
Ask you here why ill thoughts fly us?
Here we ever, ever sing.

III

Sing; in circling eddies, come,
Pour the floods of song around us;
As though dreamless slumber bound us,
Care and sorrow shall be dumb:
Every thought of ill shall fly us;
All sweet thoughts sweet sounds shall bring;
Love and mirth alone be nigh us;
Sing, I pray you—prithee, sing.

IV

Sing on; sing on; around me bringing
Thoughts and feelings absent long;
To the witchery of your singing,
Round me once again they throng.
Places old of childhood's knowing,
While you sing, I tread again;
Words that bitter tears set flowing,
Wander back without their pain;
Griefs, again I look upon,
Welcome come; sing on; sing on.

THE REPLY.

Oh, look not in thy mirror, sweet,
For if thou, love, but see
The glory of thy beauty, love,
Wilt thou not turn from me?

352

Wilt thou not proudly spurn me off
And keep those charms of thine
For a wealthier state—a prouder birth,
A lordlier name than mine?

I'll look into my mirror, love,
I'll look in hope to see
A face as sweet—a form as fair
As may be worthy thee;
I'll woo my shining mirror, love,
To show me charms are mine
That shall not be scorned acceptance
By that true, true heart of thine.

A DIRGE.

Hence afar, fond mirth, mad folly;
Here dwells only melancholy;
Hence are banished smiles and gladness;
Here we sit us down with sadness;
Here we converse hold of death,
Pale decay and parting breath;
Here will each to each recall
Mouldering graves, the end of all,
Shrouds and knells, the common doom,
Worms, the coffin and the tomb;
Hence afar, fond mirth, mad folly;
Here dwells ever melancholy.

SONG.

Soft eyes of blue! sweet eyes of blue!
They haunt me morn and night;
Whate'er I do, they thrill me through;
They're ever in my sight;

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It was not so a May ago;
Uncaged my fancy flew,
Ah, quiet thought! by love uncaught,
And those sweet eyes of blue.

Adieu—adieu—my books, on you
I never now may pore;
From every page those fair eyes gaze;
I read—I read no more;
No—sweetest tongue hath never sung
Aught I may now dream through;
My thought they trance with haunting glance
Those gentle eyes of blue.

O love! O change! how cold and strange
To all old thoughts I've grown!
Hope's learned to prize those soft fair eyes,
Those mild sweet eyes alone;
'Tis so—'tis so;—all—all, they go,
The hopes I used to woo;
My haunted thought can harbour nought
Save those fair eyes of blue.

WON AND LOST.

A GLIMPSE OF FEUDALISM.

In his bannered hall sits Sir Guy de Ford,
Bearded and grim, at the festal board,
With baron and lady gay;
And his health he gives, who with lance and sword.
The lands and the hand of Maud, his ward,
Has won in the lists to-day.

In his lonely tent, deep-gashed and pale,
Gory his helm and cleft his mail,
And glazing his knightly eyes,
Lies he who, couching his lance for the love
Of her who is shrieking his wounds above,
Lost life and the tourney's prize.

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SONG.

Pass, falling rose!
Not now the glory of the spring is round thee;
Not now the air of summer round thee blows;
Pallid and chill, the autumn's mists have found thee;
Pass, falling rose!

Pass, falling rose!
Where are the songs that wooed thy glad unfolding?
Only the south the wood-dove's soft wail knows;
Far southern eaves the swallow's nest are holding;
Pass, falling rose!

Pass, falling rose!
Linger the blooms, to birth thy glory wooing?
Longer the hues that lured thee to unclose?
Long, long, their leaves the dark earth have been strewing;
Pass, falling rose!

LILIAN'S EPITAPH.

Thou hast been and thou hast fled,
Rose, sweet rose;
Budded, flushed, and, ah! art dead,
Rose, sweet rose;
Yet oblivion may not kill
Dreams of thee, our thoughts that fill,
And for us thou'rt blooming still,
Rose, sweet rose.

Breathing rose, nor might'st thou stay,
Rose, sweet rose;
Thou too, woe! hast passed away,
Rose, sweet rose;
Yet though death had heart to sever
Life and thee, thou'rt from us never;
No, in thought thou'rt with us ever,
Rose, sweet rose.

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SONG.

Not with the empty homage of an eye,
Not with a flattering tongue's low-breathed deceit,
Not with a false fair smile, O love, do I
The sumless bounty of thy passion meet;
The wingèd life of every moment sees
Falsehood come masked like truth in shows like these.

But with a love that all it inly feels,
Even from the hidden questioning of thine eye,
Prisoned within its secret heart conceals,
Where none but trusting faith its truth can spy,
Or if a sudden sigh its tale hath told,
'Twas what the passionate heart no more could hold.

Then ask not, lady, that in vaunting show
My passion's truth should live before thine eye;
Let it content thee that thou well dost know
How cored within my heart thy love doth lie;
An acted love let others, lady, boast,
The love that's wordless, trust me, speaks the most.

SONG.

Come sing; come sing;
For what is the thing
That gladdens the heart like song?
Leave sighs and sorrow
And tears for the morrow,
And may they be strangers long!
True, some may say,
Wine makes us as gay,
But, trust me, friends, they're wrong;
To nothing has Earth,
I swear, given birth
That gladdens the heart like song.

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DEATH'S LESSON.

Waning—waning—ever waning,
Life's full glory pales away;
Fast the youth there's no regaining,
Darkens down in swift decay;
Hopes—despairing—smiles and sorrows
Wander past without recall;
Days but rise to bring their morrows;
Blossoms flush them but to fall;
All life's prizing, death still borrows;
Shrouds and graves are waiting all.

Preaching—preaching—ever preaching,
Change, and death, and swift decay,
Still mortality are teaching
How existence ebbs away;
Life be thou not therefore deeming
But a thing for moans and sighs:
Be thou sure its deed's redeeming
Every moment as it flies,
So shall that, scarce living seeming,
Breathe a life that never dies.

A VALENTINE.

Prithee, said I, heart of mine,
Who shall be my valentine?
And my heart it made reply,
With a start and with a sigh,
For the matter care not I;
Nay, in sooth, the choice be thine,
Who shall be thy valentine.

Nay, thy secret, prithee, tell;
Trust me, heart, I know it well;
By thy current's quick retreat,
Breathless pause and fluttering beat,
By the flushes quick to meet

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Her sweet coming, know I well
All and more than thou canst tell.

Said I, silly heart, reveal
What thou canst no more conceal;
And my heart, that found no use
Further 'twas to urge excuse,
Gave its curbèd passion loose;
Emma, would that thou wert mine,
Mine—for aye my valentine!

WHAT'S WITHIN THIS GLASS OF MINE?

What's within this glass of mine?
Radiant thoughts and fancies fine?
Dreams that make the hours divine,
Wine, bright wine.
Drink; within its bubbling gold
Lie delights no tougue hath told,
Far oblivion of all sorrow,
Rest from care and rest from pain,
Joy that knows not of a morrow,
Youth that makes thee young again.
Wit and love, the height of bliss,
Wouldst thou these to-night be thine?
Grasp the life of gods in this,
This, the sunshine that the vine
Stored, to flash through nights of mine
Summer's glow and summer's shine,
That I breathe a life divine,
Life ethereal—life all thine,
Wine, bright wine.

HENCE, FELL WINE!

Hence, fell wine!
Off, thou duller of the brain,
Tracked by every racking pain,

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After whom the hellish throng
Of all miseries troop along;
Hence, fell wine!
Wearer of the snaky vine,
Bacchus, all miscalled divine,
Hot for madness, brawl and wrong,
Not to chaplet locks of thine,
This, the garland of my song
Of fresh buds of fancies wrought,
Blossoms new of measured thought,
Slow by reason nurtured long,
Not for thee, this song of mine,
Dionusus, will I twine;
Hence, fell wine!

Come, bright health!
Thou of sober temperance born,
Mate of mortals all unworn
By the frenzies of excess,
Thou who rudest lots dost bless;
Come, bright health!
Come with eyes of dazzling light,
That the bumpers, that the night
Swift and swifter circles round,
Ne'er have dulled; whose flashing sight
Wine hath not in dimness bound;
Come with cheeks upon whose red
Pale excess hath never fed,
Thought no draughts have made unsound,
Form that keeps its stately height,
Tread of temperance, firm and light;
Come, bright health!

SONG.

[Oh, grant me, Heaven, a quiet room]

Oh, grant me, Heaven, a quiet room
Where I, 'mid books, may lose
All thought of all that others seek!
All else my days refuse!

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So prayed I once; but, Heaven, no more
Such prayer I now prefer:
Cold thought I leave to poorer souls;
I only live for her.

I said, ere ripened into man,
Oh, more than all, I prize
A form to fix the gaze of all
Of beauty's myriad eyes;
Now, would I that my face or form
One other pulse should stir?
No—what care I for others now?
I only live for her.

At times I've panted to be rich;
At others sighed for power;
A name I've chased, to mock at time,
Through many a studious hour;
But, wiser grown, nor power, nor wealth,
Nor fame one wish can stir;
What are they all? I love; I love;
I only live for her.

For her, for her alone I live;
Without her, what were earth!
What were this game of shadows, life?
A nothing, nothing worth;
Adieu, fond hopes that moved me once;
Ye are not what ye were;
Awaked by love, I dream no more;
I only live for her.

THE SICK MAN'S PRAYER.

Come, soft sleep!
Bid thy balm my hot eyes meet;
Of the long night's heavy stillness,
Of the loud clock's ceaseless beat,
Of the weary thought of illness,
Of the chamber's airless heat,

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Steep me in oblivion deep,
That my weary, weary brain,
May have rest from out its pain;
Come, O blessedness, again!
Come, soft sleep!

Come, soft sleep!
Let this weary tossing end;
Bid my anguished watch know ceasing;
Yet no dreams thy steps attend,
When thou bring'st from pain releasing.
Fancies wild, to rest may lend
Sense of waking misery deep;
Calm as death, oh, on me sink,
That my brain but quiet drink,
And I neither know nor think.
Come, soft sleep!

SONG.

[I Love no more! I love no more!]

I Love no more! I love no more!
The reason would you have me tell?
Of all love told as treasures o'er,
Cold judgment's learned the worth too well;
No after time the young year's dream,
My waking fancy can restore;
White winter scorns what green spring prized;
I love no more! I love no more!

You ask me if the tangling charms
That snared me once are charms no more;
No—still the same, there lives no grace
Thine, lady, does not queen it o'er;
Lip—cheek—the lustre of thine eyes,
All wear the every charm they wore;
My thought alone a change has known;
I love no more! I love no more!

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Ay, in a breath the reason's told;
Mere form young love may snare awhile;
But love, to hold, needs stronger charms
Than face or form—than glance or smile;
A thought all meekness—temper mild,
A speech no sting that ever bore,
These are the heart's abiding chains;
I love no more! I love no more!

THE RECONCILIATION.

Your hand, your hand; friend, friend, not so,
Believe me, that we'll part;
A moment's difference blots not out
Long records of the heart;
The friendship of a score of years
A moment's heat shall stand;
A true heart's easier lost than won;
Old friend, your hand, your hand!

Ay, like yourself, a throbbing heart
Within a warm true clasp;
I knew you never could put back
Your old friend's offered grasp.
That pride has sturdier root than ours,
That 'twixt us two shall stand,
That long shall thrust us heart from heart,
Or friendly hand from hand!

SONG.

[A tinted cheek—the flash of eyes]

A tinted cheek—the flash of eyes
That others far outshine,—
Lips arched to girlhood's very dream,
These, lady, are not mine;
If but with unmatched grace in these,
Your love alone can live,
Farewell to happy hopes and you;
I've but a heart to give.

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A haughty blood whose founts were kings,—
A name to history known,—
Broad lands—ancestral halls, of these
Not one I call my own;
If girt with shadows such as these,
Your love alone can live,
Alas, farewell to hope and you;
I've but a heart to give.

A mind that in its strife with mind
Has worthiest homage won,—
A life whose hopes, to change no more,
Have cored them into one,—
A passionate thirst of love for love,
True as with life can live,
If such content you, these are mine,
All these my heart can give.

Hold not my passion's offerings poor;
Trust me, a true heart's worth,
Ay, more than all the tinsel shows
That dazzle the dull Earth;
A life's love—higher gift than mine
Can proffer none that live,
Though rich alone in sumless love,
I've but a heart to give.

SONG.

[Along beneath laburnum blooms]

Along beneath laburnum blooms
Again may sing the stream;
Again the vine may laugh in leaves,
Grey skies be but a dream;
But the heart too has its winter;
And what again may bring
To the pulse that waxes cold and slow
The bounding life of spring?

Again may gardens paint the earth,
All radiance, scents and hues;

363

Again through golden mornings, swarm
To purple skies, the dews;
But life too has its winter,
And what, the heart, may bring
Again the fire—the golden dreams,
The glory of its spring!

NO WAR! NO WAR!

No war! no war! what mutter ye, ye nations?
What, are the old mad words upon your tongues once more?
Oh, let the ghastly past, whose years were desolations,
Shriek peace into your souls, for which ye groaned of yore!
So shall your cry go up, as when with lamentations,
And moans and prostrate prayers, ye shrieked, no war! no war!

Peace! peace! oh, peace! oh, sum ye up the treasures
The warless years heap up—the blessed years increase;
Knowledge—rights for all; for all, new hopes, new pleasures;
Hark! the far years whisper, woe from earth shall cease;
Golden times to man a bloodless future measures;
Tearless spin the laughing earth; peace! peace! oh, peace!

AN OLD MAN'S SONG.

Our heads are grey, but not our hearts,
Though, friend, we two have seen
The woods of threescore winters
Put on the summer's green.
Though, year by year, by age we've watched
Form after form unstrung;
And wrinkles gather, day by day,
On foreheads once so young;
Yet though from face and form, old friend,
All grace and strength depart,

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Thank Heaven! in laugh we yet are boys,
We still are young in heart!

The bounding step of youth, 'tis true,
Our old tread knows no more;
And bowed and tottering are our forms,
Like very pines of yore;
And age the old strength's wasted long,
That lived in every limb;
And cooled the pulse along our veins,
And made our old eyes dim;
But friends, the lapse of years no chill
A cross our mirth has flung;
Thank Heaven! in laugh we yet are boys,
In heart we still are young.

THE VAIN DREAM.

The scholar, he sits in his lonely room
In the heart of the noisy town,
But little he marks its bustle and din
As he pens his quick thoughts down;
He flings him back and he lives the time
When, at last to the people known,
His book shall make, with its toil of years,
A home and a name his own.

The scholar, he lies in his lonely room,
On the bare cold floor he lies,
With the horror upon his upturned face
With which the self-slain dies;
On the table his work, refused, returned,
Completed, yet known to none;
And where are the fame and the laughing home
That the scholar in hope had won?

365

SONG.

[Soon, o'er thy cold heart, the still grass will be growing]

Soon, o'er thy cold heart, the still grass will be growing;
Soon, o'er thy dulled brain will sift the winter's snow;
Through that calm heart, no hot blood will be flowing,
Through that blank brain no wild thoughts come and go.
Peace! Peace!
Think of death, and cease
To weary and to care for all that soon thou shalt not know!
Soon, soon,
Morn, eve, night, and noon,
Shall wander o'er thy mouldering clay, unknown to thee below;
These poor robes of thine no more shalt thou be wearing;
These poor dreams of earth to haunt thine eyes shall cease;
Hopes, griefs, and joys, why so for these be caring,
Things gone ere grasped? Peace, peace, thou poor heart, peace!

What is this, the life that time to thee is giving?
What—what is all that earth can give to thee!
Gold, fairy-given, is all won by the living,
Dust ere its lustre well their eyes can see.
Peace! Peace!
Time itself shall cease,
Time how light a shadow on eternity!
Swift—swift
Death thy life shall life
Up into heaven's great perfect calm, to which no end shall be;
Thou art as a child from home a moment straying;
Hark! thy Father calls thee; let thy wailings cease!
Soon within His dwelling, all His love obeying,
Thou shalt still thy cries and smile. Peace, peace, thou poor heart, peace!

Yet, O thou near life, beyond this life, unending,
Thou too canst give to life a priceless worth,
To these poor deeds of ours thou canst be lending,
To man's poor acts, a priceless heavenly worth;
Weigh, weigh
Man, thy deeds that may

366

Lift thee to, or sink thee far from a brighter birth;
All—all
Done here, past recall,
Plumes or maims thy heavenly pinions, child of earth;
Lo, thy deeds of good are wings on which thou mountest
Into higher spheres, when time for thee shall cease;
See, thy acts, the pinions on which then thou countest,
See, that these befit thee to soar to highest peace.

TO THE GONE.

O flowers that once were blooming,
O fairest vanished flowers,
Your sweetness is perfuming
The present's fleeting hours;
Ye glad our eyes no longer
As in the years we knew,
But stronger yet and stronger
Still grows our love for you,
For you, beloved through tears,
O flowers of other years.

O violet shy and tender!
O gaily blooming rose!
O lily, silver splendour,
Your beauty memory knows;
New blooms, our eyes, are nearer,
You, dim-seen and afar;
But ye are but the dearer,
The farther off ye are,
O ye, beloved, through tears,
Ye flowers of other years.

No outward eye beholds you;
From life ye dwell apart;
Death in its gloom enfolds you,
Ye visions of the heart.
But Death can only render
You lost ones yet more dear,

367

Yet fairer and more tender
Than when ye, blooms, were here,
O ye, beloved, through tears,
Ye flowers of other years.

DIRGE.

So, from thee sense has fled!
So, in thee life is dead!
Brother, thou'rt gone,
Gone from the striving earth
Just when we knew the worth
Of what in thee had birth,
From us thou'rt gone!

No more to care for fame;
Cold, while we praise thy name;
Brother, sleep on!
Closed are thy busy schemes;
Done with, thy mortal dreams;
How poor each hope now seems!
Brother, sleep on!

Not dust alone to dust,
Not to decay, our trust
Says, thou art gone;
Somewhere, thy parted soul,
Past this, our life's last goal,
Breathes on 'neath God's control,
Where thou art gone.

Soft tears are in our eyes;
Round thee are tender sighs;
Brother, sleep on!
All lost to us thou'rt not;
Fear not to be forgot!
Love still shall be thy lot.
Brother, sleep on!

368

Well hast thou done in life,
Well faced the heat and strife,
Thou who art gone;
Striving thy days to fill
With work that seemed God's will;
Now He bids thee be still,
And thou art gone.

Gone from toil, hope, and pain—
Gone from dreams, dreamed in vain—
Brother, sleep on!
What matters, 'neath the sun,
Not more by thee was done!
Now thou thy race hast run,
Brother, sleep on!

Yet, to the tender skies
Upward we raise our eyes,
Now thou art gone.
Where thou art, who shall tell?
Yet, where'er thou dost dwell,
Thou art gone where 'tis well—
To peace thou'rt gone!

To peace, or, it may be
New lives thy soul shall see.
Gold form, sleep on!
Yet, through all worlds, thou still
Wilt thy life's ends fulfil,
Toiling to do God's will.
Cold dust, sleep on!

O, while our hearts here make
Sorrow for thy dear sake,
Friend, who art gone,
Shall our hope all be vain—
Our dear hope, that would fain
Trust to know thee again,
Where thou art gone.

369

Yes, we shall see thee there,
In other worlds more fair,
Still striving on;
There, 'neath another sky,
Thy soul its powers shall try,
Soaring, perchance, more high,
Where thou art gone.

YOU ARE A PREACHER, BEE.

Bee—bee,
You are a preacher, bee—
Roamer of sunshine, as by me you flew,
Plundering my garden flowers,
Through the blue summer hours,
Wisdom I gathered, O brown one, from you,
And this I heard you say,
Taste sweets ere they're away,
Store sweets for winter days, when they are few.

Boom—boom,
Bee, on from bloom to bloom,
Short is the summer, and winter must come;
Flowers will soon have passed,
Honey lay up to last,
When blooms are withered and thrushes are dumb!
This that is wise for you,
This is my wisdom, too,
This is the teaching I heard in your hum.

TO MY WATCH.

Prophet of death, thou who to me art crying,
With voice low and clear,
The doom of myself and of all who are dying
Through mortal hours here,
Do I fear

370

To hear thy dread voice, that, through day and night, never
Is hushed, but of death and of doom speaks for ever?
No, thy utterance is dear
To my listening ear.

Prophet of doom, thou for ever art numbering
Life's hours as they go,
The moments that count us to that silent slumbering,
All breathing must know.
Is it woe
To hear thee, with pulse, like my living heart, beating
The step of each minute time's never repeating!
No, I school me to know
By faith, whither I go.

Prophet of life, not alone art thou telling
Of death unto all;
Not alone in thy tones are the bell's doleful knelling—
The shroud and the pall;
Thou dost call
The hosts of all life to new life never-ending,
New realms of the future, the present transcending,
Thou say'st death shall call,
Unto higher worlds, all.

TO A CHILD SWINGING.

Swing! swing! backward and forward swing!
Motion to life its best sweetness is giving;
Mortal life just begun,
Years shall show as they run,
Action and effort and motion are living.
Swing! swing!

Swing! swing! upward from shade to sun,
Downward from sun to shade! so life too ranges,
Mortal life just begun,
Ever from shade to sun,
Ever from sun to shade, on through all changes.
Swing! swing!

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Swing! swing! ever, O happy heart,
Active through sorrow and active through gladness,
Still a true living part
Play on, O restless heart,
Tireless through triumph, defeat, joy and sadness;
Swing! swing!

THE ROSE.

Say, golden Summer, now
What art thou bringing,
Now on the orchard bough
No thrush is singing,
Now that no wood-dove's coo
Comes the green forest through,
And trills of rapture, no lark down is flinging?
What bring'st thou, Summer?

Gone are the tender songs
April was singing;
Gone are the pale sweet throngs
April was bringing;
What, for the snow-drop frail,
What, for the primrose pale,
What, now no breeze sets the lily's bells ringing,
What bring'st thou, Summer?

“I bring a glory rare,”
So Summer singeth,
“Fairer than all things fair;
“Blooms that Spring bringeth,
“You are pale Winter snows,
“Seen by my flushing rose
“When all her wonder of beauty she flingeth
“Wide to the Summer.”

372

A SUMMMER SONG.

Fall on Earth's heart, O gladness,
O freshly falling dew!
No dream of tears and sadness
My fancy finds in you;
Into Earth's parching bosom
Sink herb and flower with you;
To her steals down each blossom,
With you, O falling dew.

The tender verdure blessing
The laughing fields of Spring,
The lilies June's possessing,
Her roses rare you bring.
The harvest's golden treasure
Descends to man with you,
In plenty without measure,
O gently falling dew.

Like Summer's sunshine, stealing
In stillness from above,
Your freshness, Earth is feeling
As softly as God's love,
Yes, silent, ceasing never,
Descends His love in you,
Upon Earth's heart for ever,
O gently falling dew.

NELLY.

In a leafy hamlet,
Filled with bees and blooms,
In a home where roses
Peer through all the rooms,
Where through open windows
Sounds the clacking mill
And the rushing waters
Noon with freshness fill,

373

There you'll find my Nelly,
There her parents dwell,
But, where'er my heart is,
There she dwells as well.

Garden, kitchen, parlour,
Each her sweetness sees
Brightening Summer's sunshine,
Busy as her bees;
Gladdening every gladness,
Making sorrow smile,
There, the more's my sadness,
There she'll dwell awhile,
There I know my Nelly
Yet awhile must dwell,
But, within my heart, too,
There she'll dwell as well.

Happy hour that's coming,
Come with lagging May
When with happier humming
Bees shall bless the day,
When, a bride, I'll bring her
Through the happy door,
Door, no more to see her
Often as before.
Till that day, my Nelly
'Mongst your roses dwell,
But within my heart, dear,
Nestle there as well.

A LAMENT.

When Lucy was a baby
With rosy kicks and crows,
O much too hard, it may be,
She'd pull my hair and nose;
Then I'd objections to it,
To give her up, I'd vow;

374

Now how I wish she'd do it!
O, if she'd do it now!
But she's no more a baby;
All gone are kicks and crows,
And nevermore, it may be,
She'll pat my hair and nose.

When Lucy, rather older,
Grew into pattering shoes,
She'd toddle to me, bolder,
For kisses I'd refuse;
I'd kisses then refuse to
Her lifted mouth, I vow;
O just as Lucy used to,
I wish she'd kiss me now!
But stateliest of misses,
No more my lips she'll woo;
No more she'll come for kisses,
As once she used to do.

When Lucy, rather nearer
Her teens, at Christmas came
From school, I seemed but dearer,
We romped and played the same.
At blindman's-buff, she caught me;
She'd catch but me, I vow;
To waltz and polk she taught me;
I wish she'd teach me now!
But, coldest now of misses,
A smile it's hard to gain;
For romps and games and kisses,
I long may sigh in vain.

Ah, what a girl she's grown to!
And, if the truth were told,
She'd blush to have to own to
Her love for me of old;
Yet she's as fond, I know it;
I see it still somehow;
But, as she used to show it,
I wish she'd show it now!

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Almost the perfect woman,
How pleasant it would be,
Were she not so inhuman,
But as she was to me!

O cousin Lucy, cousin,
Still by my heart I'm told,
Though lovers you've a dozen,
I'm all I was of old.
Love used to come unbidden
When you were small, somehow;
It then would not be hidden;
Why will you hide it now?
It's teasing, coz, you would be,
But O, how I'd prefer,
You, puss, that now you could be
All, sweet one, once you were!

UPON THY STREAM, SWIFT-FLOWING.

Upon thy stream, swift-flowing,
What shall I, Time, be throwing,
That, 'neath thy waters, never
Shall sink, but, downward going,
Upon their breast be showing
Its sweetness on for ever!
Time—Time!
Shall it not be rhyme,
With her sweet name to give it fame,
Time—Time!

Beneath thy waters, speeding
For ever on, unheeding,
What fairest things have perished!
Ah, sweetest words are needing
Her sweetness, for the reading
Of all years, to be cherished!

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Time—Time,
Take her in my rhyme!
She shall give my words to live,
Time! Time!

Still, in my dancing measure,
Her smiles and laughs to treasure,
Be thy divinest duty,
That all the future's leisure
May have unceasing pleasure,
With me, in her dear beauty.
Time—Time,
Take my sweetened rhyme!
Poorer, 'twere, how rich! through her;
Time! Time!

Yes, take her eyes. down-sweeping
Cold current, to thy keeping
For all the future's gazing,
That when they, closed, are sleeping,
Past life's short smiles and weeping,
They may have endless praising.
Time—Time,
Treasure thou my rhyme,
Rhyme of mine that makes her thine,
Time! Time!

With names thy flood is bearing,
With glories swiftly faring
For ever down thy flowing,
Let her sweet fame be sharing
Thy love—the foolish caring
Thou art, on kings, bestowing.
Time—Time,
In my ringing rhyme,
Let her name live with all fame,
Time! Time!

377

HAUNTED.

Who is it's teasing me!
Who is it's pleasing me!
Who is it's haunting my thoughts and my dreams!
There's one, by day and night,
Evermore in my sight,
No more to be from my presence, it seems.

Not a bad sprite, it is;
Not to affright, it is
Hovering before me, and in my eyes still;
Not a bad goblin 'tis,
Not for the world you'd kiss;
Never, with fits of fear, any 'twill fill.

No—not a fear to me,
No—but how dear to me,
Rather an angel it seems or a fay;
From gloom or sunny air,
Still looks that face so fair,
Sunning the night still and brightening the day.

O, spirit, grieve me not!
O, dear one, leave me not!
Smiling and tender, still float in my sight!
Never must we two part,
Angel that haunts my heart,
Ever day's dearest thought—best dream of night.

Or, if thou from me steal,
Thou whom I cannot feel,
Thou t'wards whom vainly these longing arms start,
Leave, this blest clasp to fill,
One who is dearer still,
She whose dear shadow, sweet phantom, thou art!

378

BEWARE!

Shun the dimples of her cheek;
Flee the lustres of her eyes;
Fear to hear her softly speak;
More, to drink her honied sighs;
For who sees her, henceforth sees,
Night and day, but her for ever;
He who hears her, henceforth frees
His thoughts from her meshes, never;
Peace no more with you shall dwell
If you give her not farewell.

She is false, as she is fair;
Open dangers who'll not shun?
He who woos and wins despair,
He shall pity gain from none;
For her eyes the Gorgon's are
Which, if you but once are seeing,
Even a moment from afar,
Fixed you find, farewell to fleeing;
Peace no more your days shall bless,
Nor your nights sweet quietness.

Striped the snake is—from it start;
Dread her fairness while you may;
She would mesh and mock your heart;
She would with your passion play;
Webs but tangle foolish flies;
Silly fish, the angler's snaring;
In her, plain, your ruin lies,
Ruin that there's no repairing;
Caught by her, you'll strive in vain
Ever to be free again.

Face her not; less danger is
In the cannon's blazing breath
Than in eyes and smiles that kiss,
And then freeze you straight to death;
Sirens are they all that weave
Subtle webs, their prey to make us;

379

Won, they then no more deceive;
Toys that please no more, they break us;
Yet be saved, while yet you may;
Fling not peace, O heart, away.

AFTER A PLEASANT EVENING.

The brighter the moments, the swifter they fly;
The sweeter the draught is, the quicker 'tis flowing
Ever;
'Mongst laughs, such as yours, how the moments fleet by,
Winged by friendship and wit, O I never am knowing,
Never.

Two companions, how different! old Time has by turns;
And, as he's with either, just so is his speeding
Ever;
If Care is his fellow, Care's dull pace he learns;
If Mirth's flight he shares, never jogging he's needing,
Never.

Ah, if you would learn what, at times, is his pace,
Just mate him with Friendship and Love, for, old fellow,
Ever,
Never swifter he flies than when with them's his race,
When joy laughs him on and when wine makes him mellow,
Never.

But he pities us most when he seems least to heed
How he hurries the dearest of moments to leave us;
Ever
If he frolics them from us with pitiless speed,
He never uncomforted cares so to grieve us,
Never.

For, in fact, if he speeds them so swiftly away
That they're not enjoyed half enough ere they have vanished,
Ever,
Yet their memory, to cheer us, he bids with us stay;
He has never the heart to see that from us banished,
Never.

380

Then a health to old Time! may we all of us long
In his best and his swiftest of moments be nigh him Ever,
And never such meetings as this may we wrong
By losing their memories, bequeathed to us by him, Never.

FLOWERS IN THE CITY.

Quiet children of the garden,
Nurtured by the gentle showers,
Gleams and shadows—tender flowers,
Never may the hard town harden
Me to what delights are ours
In your beauty, O ye flowers!

Have they torn you from your quiet
Shadowed haunts, so green and still,
Where delights your sweet hours fill,
Where the tawny bee runs riot
In your sweets at his wild will,
While his songs the glad hush fill!

Strange seem here your pleasant faces,
Strange your beauty meets us here,
Startling us to sudden fear
That of nature's pleasant places,
Sights, and sounds, and scenes, once dear,
Life has grown forgetful here.

Moiling on, alas! you find us,
Dulled to all that life should know,
Hardly knowing roses blow;
Well it is that you remind us
Nature blooms, while sad and slow,
From us here our lost years go.

Withered! ah, and we too wither
In these dim and leafless streets,
Where no glimpse of beauty meets
Our dulled hearts; oh, still come hither,

381

Bringing from your green retreats
Sense of quiet to these streets!

Sense of quiet—rest and stillness,
Till all but your sweets forgot,
Care's as if we knew it not;
And we wake, as if from illness,
To a healthful sense of what
God has given but man forgot.

TELL ME, MY HEART.

How will she look if we tell her we love her,
Tell her, my heart,
All the sweet secrets we only tell over,
From all apart!
How will she hear them? Ah! will the flush start
To her neck and white forehead, and murmur they move her,
Ay, throbbing heart?

Ah, no—far rather, as ever I'm fearing,
With calm, cold eyes,
Will she not, unmoved, just deign us a hearing,
Scarce with surprise,
No cheek deeper dyed—in her bosom, no rise,
No tremble of passion to be so endearing,
To us, her replies!

Do we deceive us, heart! is it but seeming!
Whisper fond heart;
Surely our eyes see, or are they but dreaming!
Does she not start,
Hearing my voice, and then still to a part,
As if, to act the cold maiden, she's scheming?
Masks she not, heart?

Ah, did we know what her dear heart is feeling!
Could we but share,

382

On its sweet hidden hopes stealthily stealing,
All that is there!
Then, if our dreams were true—then should we dare
Ask her to breathe all that now she's concealing,
All nestling there!

MORNING, MORNING, GIVE TO ME.

Morning—morning, give to me,
In her smiling eyes, to see
Mirrored fair, all day's delights!
For her image, brought by dreams
To my sight, too unreal seems;
Shadow cannot substance be,
And those stars, like midnight's lights,
Cold their radiance beams.

Let me all her beauty see
That the sun can show to me;
Fairer, can she not be made
By false fancy's hand of air
That to paint her must despair,
Since she can no sweeter be,
And it can but give in shade
All the sunshine shows more fair.

“GOD AND THE RIGHT!”

What shall my cry be, O world, in thy fight?
What but that old shout of saint and of knight,
That cry of martyrs, rung out in God's sight,
“God and the right!”

Yes, O my soul, press on, casting out fear!
Gird on thy armour, and spur on, God's knight,
Through the world's battle-field, ring thy cry clear,
“God and the right!”

383

Many thy foes, and fierce, that thou must rout;
Dread are the hosts thy arm, fearless, must smite;
Dauntlessly cleave them down; strength's in that shout,
“God and the right!”

On—be thy shield over innocence flung!
Strike for the weak! for the desolate smite;
Wronged are the poor? be thine arm for them strung!
“God and the right!”

On—against tyranny, level thy lance!
On—turn all wrong and oppression to flight!
Shouting that battle-shout, dread no mischance!
“God and the right!”

In heart and purpose pure, if they be few
Who by thy side, for thy Master, will fight,
Cast thou fear out as thou criest anew,
“God and the right!”

Doubt not! despair not! all fearing is sin;
They can but win who in God's service smite;
Singly be heard thy cry o'er the world's din,
“God and the right!”

Wounded thou wilt be,—faint,—oft hard bestead,
Overpowered—beaten down—pressed with affright,
Yet, in the strength of that shout, on all tread!
“God and the right!”

Thou can'st but conquer at last; all, endure;
Thou shalt be victor in His name whose might
Is in thy shout that thy triumph makes sure,
“God and the right!”

NIGHT AND DAY ARE FROM HER NEVER.

Night and day are from her never;
Down the raven of her hair
Starless darkness flows for ever;
Midnight's glooms are ever there;

384

But the twilight, Hesper-lighted,
Ere the moon is seen to rise,
Dark and shadowy light united,
That you peer through in her eyes;
So she gives to my glad sight
All the glories of the night.

See, the rosy hues of morning
On her cheek for ever linger,
Tinge her neck, its snows adorning,
Warm her bosom, tint her finger;
So from shade and sun she borrows
Sweetest glooms and lustrous gleams,
That will gladden all my morrows
With dear thoughts and priceless dreams;
In her, ever with me stay
Lustres both of night and day.

BEWITCHED.

I'm haunted—I'm haunted—I'm really enchanted;
O witches, I thought that your days were no more;
But the way that you're going on with me is showing,
Poor devils, we're treated now just as of yore.
Kitty, Kitty, have you no pity?
Why can't you, wicked one, leave me alone?
Day and night nevermore, now have I evermore,
Through you, a moment I'm calling my own.

I'm haunted—I'm haunted—I'm wholly enchanted;
I can't do a thing, but you're plaguing me still.
If I try to be reading, how can I be heeding
The book, when your eyes are there, do what I will?
Kitty, Kitty, here in the city,
Busy in crowds—in the country, alone—
Eating or drinking now—working or thinking now,
Through you, I can't call a minute my own.

385

O how I'm haunted, witched and enchanted!
Never a fellow so pestered could be!
And, to my wonder, so fast I am under
Your spells, if I could—no, I wouldn't be free.
Kitty, Kitty, don't you have pity
On me! O dearest, don't leave me alone!
Day and night, nevermore, let me for evermore
Have, dear, a moment that isn't your own!

FOR MUSIC.

Happy birds flying,
Soon with him to be,
Him whom I'm sighing,
Pining so to see,
When his happy home you've found,
That dear dwelling hover round.
Say, how dreary,
Lone and weary,
Life is here to me.

Where is the gladness
Once I used to feel?
Now all is sadness,
Grief I must conceal,
Autumn's golden calm is here,
Days once sweet and nights once dear,
Yet how dreary,
Sad and weary,
Now they from me steal.

Sweet ones, O find him!
Round his window fly!
Winged ones, remind him,
Far, O far am I.
Say, how loved, O how more dear
He is now than even when here!
Say how dreary,
Lone and weary,
Here my days go by.

386

Tell him how stronger
Grows my love for him;
For him much longer
Must these eyes be dim?
Long, long must I pine to see
That dear face that's all to me!
Long, long, weary,
Sad and dreary,
Must I look for him!

Sweet ones, returning,
Back my gladness bring!
Bring him I'm yearning
So to see, with Spring.
Let these eyes with him be blessed!
Let this heart rock him to rest;
No more, dreary,
Let me weary
Round his neck to cling!

FOR MUSIC.

O that you were returning,
Returned again to me!
O that I might be learning
When I your face shall see!
Come, husband, come away!
Come back and light my day!
Come, quick, and be
Life's gladness to me!

You're absent from me never;
My thoughts, go where I will,
My dreams and heart, for ever,
My hopes and love you fill.
O, husband, far away,
So thought of, night and day,
Come, come, and see
How blest I can be!

387

Come—come—for your returning,
O must we long in vain!
O knew you how we're yearning
To hear your voice again!
O absent, doubly dear,
Might we that dear tongue hear!
Come—come and be
O all—all to me!

O sometimes, love, I'm fearing
With fondest, foolish dread,
If we no more were hearing
Your words! if you were dead!
But then, to Him we pray
Who guards you, far away;
Yet O soon be
Again home with me.

We've one talk and no other,
One, to us all, how dear!
Our children ask me, “Mother,
“Will father soon be here?”
Let them not long in vain
To kiss you soon again!
Come—come and see
How blest we shall be!

O winds, that you could take us
To where our thoughts are still!
O, wishing, could it make us
Be present where we will!
How quick we'd be away
Where you far from us stay!
O bring him, sea!
Winds, bring him to me!

388

WAR SONGS.

TO THE BESIEGERS OF SEBASTOPOL.

June, 1855.

Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!
Well we know the end is sure,
Though its coming must be slow!
Never fear we murmur here!
What you are, right well we know;
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

Once we flattering lies believed;
Once 'twas quicker work we thought;
Now we know, no more deceived,
How your triumph must be bought;
Dearly bought, but, late or soon,
'Twill be yours right well we know;
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

Southward pour their swarming hordes;
South, we know, they pour in vain;
Dashed against you, all they've known,
Known so well! they'll know again;
Inkermann again,—once more
Balaclava would they know?
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

Onward! forward! trench by trench;
Nearer! closer! still more near!

389

Onward! forward! brave hearts, think
How we watch and listen here!
Think, oh! with what beating hearts!
We your triumph long to know!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

Greater than the deeds you've done,
To them add this triumph more!
Ah! how proudly, men, at home
Then we'll tell that triumph o'er!
Think with what exulting hearts
We your mighty deed shall show!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

This is no unrighteous war,
Waged by kings—by nations curst!
Europe rolls the deluge back
That upon her soon must burst;
Arts and freedom, all we prize,
That we, freemen, still may know,
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

What! shall fresh lands, year by year,
Sink beneath the despot's heel!
Shall we weakly wait our turn
Poland's fearful fate to feel!
Not for us is Finland's doom!
Hungary's fall we will not know!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

Onward! what shall keep you back!
For the end who weakly fears!
On! the living have our prayers;
On! the fallen have our tears;
Oh, what welcome waits you here,
Victors, when your wounds you show!
Foot by foot, and hour by hour,
Onward, brave hearts!—forward go!

395

TAKE, FLAGS, ONE GLORY MORE.

Write on your flags another name!
The stirring ones they bear,
To-day shall see a newer fame
Their ancient glory share;
From Abraham's heights and Plassey's plain,
Right well-known words they bore;
To-day another boast they gain—
To-day one glory more.

396

Fields that our fearless fathers won,
We, to your glory true,
Dare add this deed their sons have done
Without a blush to you.
Brave hearts through all your hundred fights
Your flags to victory bore,
As brave, upon the Alma's heights,
Gave you one glory more.

Steep rose the cliff—deep flowed the stream—
Above their thousands lay;
And muskets' roll and bayonets' gleam
Told they stood well at bay.
A hundred guns the fierce hail sent,
That through our rent ranks tore;
Up—with the cold steel in we went,
And won one glory more.

Then, flags, receive the Alma's fame!
And shall that be the last?
Shall you not show a prouder name,
Ere Autumn's days are past?
Sebastopol awaits the doom
That Badajos once bore;
Flags, on your conquering folds keep room
For yet one glory more.

THE FRENCH INVASION.

April, 1855.

“Who comes?”—through silence and through gloom,
Sternly and cold, that deep voice calls;
“Who comes?” rolls on from tomb to tomb,
Around thy silent vaults, St. Paul's;
“I hear the sound of ceaseless feet—
“The people's murmur round me hums—
“Say, whom does London throng to greet?
“Conqueror or king, who, welcomed, comes?”

397

“Who comes?” from yonder neighbouring tomb,
Hollow and cold, that drear voice came;
“Who comes?” the cry that stirred the gloom
And asked for answer, was the same.
Ah! well each mighty voice I knew—
His, from those lips whose iron smile
Ruled the red tides of Waterloo;
And his, whose glory lit the Nile.

“Who comes?”—“Napoleon.” At the word,
From either tomb, with sudden start,
Leapt the wild cry; how quick it stirred
To hate and anguish each full heart!
“Napoleon?—France?—and is it so?
“Oh, England! for one living hour,
“Again to front the advancing foe!
“And back to hurl his hated power!

“Where were our fleets?—Our armies, where?
“What! at the Frenchman's feet we lie!
“And can we only crowd and stare,
“As through our streets his eagles fly?
“Not one stroke more!—oh, for the cheers
“Vittoria heard!”—“He only meets
“Our welcome here; he only hears
“Glad shouts through all our gazing streets.”

“Are we so fallen! are we so base,
“We kiss the feet that tread us down!”—
“No;—still our England holds her place,
“Nor knows a check, nor dreads a frown.
“With mightier fleets than those that bore
“Both flags on far Trafalgar's day,
“We sweep the Euxine—foes no more;
“We through the Baltic hold our way.”

“Accursed race! what have they done
“That Europe thus withdraws her ban!
“Can England mingle hands with one
“Kin to the hated Corsican?”

398

“We can—we do;—to Europe's rights
“A foe, at St. Helena died
“Napoleon; lo! Napoleon fights
“For Europe's freedom by our side.

“How blind is man! that ancient hate
“That saw in France a ceaseless foe—
“Thank God! 'tis past, and ere too late,
“Allied, a common cause we know.
“Yes! God be thanked! we front the North
“Together; on their forward track,
“We face its fell hordes swarming forth,
“And to their cold steppes hurl them back.

“Yes! common triumphs flush our cheeks,
“And fire our blood in all we do;
“Of Inkermann each proudly speaks;
“And Alma blots out Waterloo.
“Wiser is God than man!” I said.
The storm of cheers swept by, and then,
From where reposed the mighty dead,
A blended murmur breathed “Amen.”

THE SCORE IS—FOUR.

September, 1854.

Czar, how goes the game we play?
Czar, how speeds the gory game?
War's red hand has dealt to-day;
Who has triumph?—who has shame?
Turkey played; has Turkey won?
Hark! she tells you score for score;
You, O mighty Czar, but one;
She, full soon to reckon four.

Yes, she dares her fate to try
In the iron game of swords;
Does she quail, or does she fly,
Scared by all your boasted hordes?

399

One, Sinope gave to you;
She from Oltenitza bore
One; Citate made her two;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.

Fiercer grows the game of blood;
Wary Omar plays it well;
How his strength your might withstood,
Abu Tabia's mounds can tell;
Grimly Turkey laughed to see
One there added to her score;
There Silistria made her three;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.

Now our conquering turn begins;
Now we dare the mighty chance;
England wars, and England wins,
Side by side with conquering France.
Once from France the game you won;
Hers are Moscow's days no more;
She nor we shall count you one;
Soon, O Czar, we'll reckon four.

Tell the mighty reckoning o'er;
Reckon we and reckon you;
From Odessa one we bore;
Bomarsund we counted two;
On the gory Alma, fame
Adds another to our score;
Look, O despot, to your game;
Soon, O Czar, we reckon four.

Did you boast and did you threat?
Europe flings you scoff for scoff;
Turkey owes you many a debt;
One she pays your Menschikoff;
One Sebastopol shall pay;
There another soon we score;
Well may Russia dread the day,
When, O Czar, we reckon four!

400

THE ALMA.

September 20th, 1854.

Yes—clash, ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.

And did they say, O England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph
Thy conquering arms have won.

The mighty fleet bore seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer's breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory, and of death.

We knew they could but conquer;
O fearless hearts, we knew
The name and fame of England
Could but be safe with you.
We knew no ranks more dauntless
The rush of bayonets bore,
Through all Spain's fields of carnage,
Or thine, Ferozepore.

401

O red day of the Alma!
O when thy tale was heard,
How was the heart of England
With pride and gladness stirred!
How did our peopled cities
All else forget, to tell
Ye living, how ye conquered,
And how, O dead, ye fell!

Glory to those who led you!
Glory to those they led!
Fame to the dauntless living!
Fame to the peaceful dead!
Honour, for ever, honour
To those whose bloody swords
Struck back the baffled despot,
And smote to flight his hordes!

On, with your fierce burst onward!
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold's volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.

Yes—clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes—roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.

For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;

402

No—but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exulting songs.

Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
“Plassey,” “Quebec,” and “Blenheim,”
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be
Of Waterloo and Maida,
Moultan and Meanee.

I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpore
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet, and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ “Sebastopol.”

OUR TRIUMPH FOR SINOPE.

1853.

Let's sing of the deeds we've been doing;
Let's tell of the glory we've won;
The Russians have been to Sinope,
And we've sent to see what they've done;
It may be a Duncan or Jervis
Had found for our fleet other work,
But we've not their old-fashioned way, Sirs,
Just now in assisting the Turk.

Don't talk of the Nile and Trafalgar,
And wish for a Nelson to-day;
He'd have shown Natchimoff at Spithead, Sirs,
But that's not our Aberdeen's way;

403

No—Charley Napier might have blundered;
That's not how our ministers work;
Let Russia do just what she pleases,—
We'll talk and write notes for the Turk.

Some six months or so we've been talking,
And all to no purpose, in truth;
We had but to float on the Baltic,
No Russian had then crossed the Pruth;
But might not the Czar have been angered,
Had our guns, not our tongues, been at work?
It's safer to keep our three-deckers,
Things, but to be seen by the Turk.

Some say, had we argued with broadsides,
The Czar had most certainly heard;
Yes—Cronstadt had sent on our message,
Sebastopol told every word;
But then, you know, all this had hindered
Our Clarendon's whole six months' work;
And then, with our lint at Sinope,
We had not assisted the Turk.

You surely would have us be cowards,
When some others frightened we see!
If Prussia and Austria fear him,
And fawn on him, why should not we?
Without us, France will not be bolder,
And do any true honest work;
Besides, the Czar will but allow us
To play at assisting the Turk.

With England's safety and honour
Who'll say that we're playing the fool?
Our doctors staunch wounds at Sinope;
Our captains drink healths at Stamboul;
We're sorry they butchered some thousands;
Our three-deckers heard them at work;
But, after the slaughter was over,
We dared to send lint to the Turk.

404

BEWARE, O CZAR, BEWARE!

1853.

And does he dare to mutter
To us, of threats and war!
We, too, our threats can utter;
We, too, can strike, O Czar;
For ours—for Europe's freedom,
We well your power may dare;
Your threats—we little heed 'em;
Beware, O Czar, beware!

No—why should we dissemble?
We are not Pole or Russ;
Let Austria fawn and tremble,
What are your threats to us?
Well Petersburgh may fear us,
And Cronstadt!—have a care!
Sebastopol may hear us;
Beware, O Czar, beware!

At serf and savage lancer,
At all your hordes we smile;
What shall your mandates answer?
The broadsides of the Nile.
With right for our reliance,
If you our might will dare,
We fling you our defiance;
Beware, O Czar, beware!

Frown on your vassal, Prussia;
To Denmark nod your will;
But England, god of Russia,
England is England still;
And if your madness warn us
To crush you—have a care;
The time's not come to scorn us;
Beware, O Czar, beware!

405

What! sit you so securely,
You have no cause for fear?
Is Poland crushed so surely,
Her hour may not be near?
What if, with power to right her,
We fling the torch in there,
That shall to freedom light her!
Beware, O Czar, beware!

We would have peace with honour;
Much, much for peace we'd give;
But England, shame upon her,
If she dishonoured live;
Think not of us so poorly;
No fear makes us forbear;
Once striking, we strike surely;
Beware, O Czar, beware!

416

THE PEACE.

1856.

It means in Paris that a tyrant's strengthened
To hold a noble nation, crouching slaves,
It means his hold on France's soul is lengthened,
By that which kings, from rising nations, saves.

It means in Turin that the hopes there cherished
To unchain Italy half-withered droop;
They find its soldiers for a dream have perished,
And that Sardinia is a despot's dupe.

It means in Warsaw that a half-dead nation,
Finds the West's words were merely meant to fool
Its woes to dreams, and wakes with indignation,
To know 'twas used and thrown by as a tool.

417

It means in Stockholm fear and sore complaining,
That the West lured its Swedes to beard the Czar,
To leave them, mocked and scorned, without regaining
Finland, the bait that armed them half for war.

It means in Berlin, Wurtemberg, and Baden,
That Germans are to be the things they are,
From whom their owners no free voice will pardon,
Slaves, through this peace, from freedom doubly far.

And in Vienna peace means the relinking
Of half-cracked chains on Austrian and on Pole,
That Hun and Lombard long may cease from thinking
Of hope of freeing limb, or tongue, or soul.

It means that we to whom each suffering nation
Most looked for help to freedom, next to God,
Hating this peace, must know the degradation,
To smile and sign it at a tyrant's nod.

Therefore, O roaring guns, you well may thunder,
And thunder on as if you ne'er would cease;
Therefore, O clanging steeples, who can wonder
You're clashing England's welcome to this peace!

419

POEMS OF THOUGHT.

421

GARIBALDI.

Blow! let the blaring trumpet tell his name
Who with armed hand hath grasped eternal fame,
Who, with the mighty gone, with clashing strife
Shocked the dead glory of his land to life,
And gave the nations of the earth to see
His race no more a word for tears and shame,
But bade again its olden greatness be
Such as, when freemen in far Rome had birth,
With awe and wonder thunder-clouded earth,
And made for aye his lustrous Italy
A marvel and an everlasting name.
Shout! let your shouts, ye nations, tell his praise,
He, with the strength of right and justice, came
And swept the land, a fierce devouring flame
To the foul evil of its evil days,
Throning high right for rule in the world's wondering gaze.

Rejoice, old Earth, thou hast not lost
The God-like of thy earlier time
When nation-makers' mighty shadows cross'd
The radiance of thy prime,
And with their grandeur made thy years sublime;
High let their names be toss'd,
Toss'd and re-toss'd upon the thundrous voice
Of peoples who in their great acts rejoice,
Who, in their deeds, grow greater in each clime,
Feeling themselves, through them, of nobler worth.
Yes, let the tongues of men their grandeur swell
Who gave the down-trod and the chained to dwell
Henceforward freemen upon chainless earth;
And this, our great one, he shall live through time
With Bruce and Vasa—Washington and Tell;
His name, the tongues of glory shall love well.

422

Not from the throned who bear
State and dominion—majesty and rule,
Came he. Him did God bid affliction school
In rude abodes where want and labour dwell,
Giving his youth and toiling years to wear
The robes of poverty and breathe the air
Of bracing action. Ever God does well.
Oft does the lap of luxury breed the fool;
Oft strength and greatness have been nursed by care;
Tell it, ye peoples, tell,
His glory is your own;—from you, he springs,
He who, God's vengeance, swift hath hurled down kings
And given their crowns for juster brows to wear,
Bidding the baser flee—the nobler rule.
Therefore in poor men's homes his grandeur rings.
He, of them, for them, dared such deeds to dare.

Him did'st thou see, O Rome, in other years,
Striking for thee, ere yet God willed,
From his loved land's eyes he should wipe the tears,
And bid its children's wailings all be stilled,
Flashing to smiles and hopes, the soul-felt fears
With which the aliens' hate their days had filled;
Him, did'st thou, changeless, see,
Great with the greatness of adversity
Borne nobly, in unwavering purpose grand,
Losing no jot of faith that, by God's hand,
His land's great destiny would be fulfilled.
Nor is the future dumb.
His swerveless faith, an awful prophet cry,
Shall not in nothingness and silence die;
Thou once-world ruler, he again shall come
Through thy glad gates—the shout of victory.

And not alone thy voice,
O Italy, shall in his name rejoice,
In the proud life of strength he gives to thee;
Thy triumphs other lands exulting see.
They, gagged and fettered now,
Know they are but as thou

423

Wert, and laugh loud in thought of what they yet shall be,
When, 'neath armed wrong, they too no more shall bow
But nobly live, freemen amongst the free;
Lo, Hungary thinks upon thy battle-fields
And knows her own again shall soon be red,
But not with blood like that untimely shed
With thine when last she knew defeat with thee;
To her, too, God a chainless future yields.
Lo! Germans know they yet shall have one head,
Like thee. France knows her hope, too, is not dead.

Yes, his unstained renown
On all the centuries sets a priceless crown,
And man may glory in the worth it gives,
The added worth, to our ennobled blood;
Through all our veins it pours a purer flood,
And every life, through it, more nobly lives.
Glory to him! his is that worthiest praise,
Not for himself, his mighty deed he wrought;
Of power, and rank, and wealth, he took no thought,
Like lesser great ones of our stormy days;
He, with this service, but the heart's love bought
Of the freed land he would have died to raise;
Careless, if unto him the world dealt praise
Or scorn, he moved to his great end—to be
One from whose name new splendours shall be caught,
The guide and glory of eternity.

ADORATION.

Unutterable! Thou whom thought
Dares not to strive to comprehend,
Thou who no tongue hast ever taught
To breathe Thee, Nameless, as it ought,
Whose glories speech transcend,
Fitliest might silence, trembling, to Thee bow,
Yet would my soul in song soar to Thee now.

424

What art Thou? Thee no mortal eyes
Have look'd on, even in holiest dream;
Imagination, cowering, dies
Blind before Thee. Thought may not rise
To Thee, O Height Supreme!
How may the frail creation of Thy hand,
Thee, who created'st all things, understand?

What art Thou? We poor things of breath,
We come and, even as dreams, depart;
Before time was, or earth, or death,
Eternal Now, thought wondering saith,
“Thou wert as now Thou art.”
Thou know'st not time. Thou art Eternity—
That wert, and art, and evermore shalt be.

What art Thou? Endless, boundless Power
Thou art—eternal, changeless Might—
Felt in the growth of fruit and flower,
In earth and ocean, sun and shower,
And all the worlds of night;
For blossom, insect, man, and world are Thee,
Thou still in all that hath been—that shall be.

What art Thou? Wisdom, to the wise
Darkness; even as an unknown tongue
Is to a wondering infant's eyes,
Thy mysteries are to him who tries
To read them. Who, among
The sons of men, Thy ways may comprehend,
Thou, of all things, the Ruler, Source, and End?

What art Thou? O how goodly fair
Is all around, beneath, above!
The shows of earth, and sea, and air,
Day's glories, night's, alike declare
Thee boundless, changeless Love;
Sunrise and sunset, all the seasons see,
Show forth the sumless goodness which is Thee.

425

Where art Thou? Who shall girdle round
Thy dwelling? Who but Thou shall dare
To span the limitless profound,
Systems and worlds that know no bound!
Yet ever everywhere,
Throughout all worlds, throughout all endless space,
As in all time, there is Thy dwelling-place.

Before all worlds Thou wast. Thy word
Throng'd the void depths of primal night
With suns. Thy breath the darkness stirr'd,
And the bright hosts of heaven were heard
Marching sublime in light
Through the appointed ways Thy will hath set.
Through which, adoring thee, they thunder yet.

Thou spak'st. Earth was. Half gloom, half light,
On its ordained pathway hurl'd,
Forth from Thy hand it wing'd its flight;
Perfect as now, good in Thy sight,
Through night, through day it whirl'd.
Thou breath'dst—plain, mountain, valley, desert came,
Pasture and field. Thy goodness to proclaim.

Thou willèd'st them; and, at Thy will,
Earth heard the voices of her seas,
Felt rivers their deep courses fill,
Felt forests shadow plain and hill,
Knew storm, and calm, and breeze;
And, at Thy breath, fed by Thy sun and showers,
Up-sprang the wonder of all herbs and flowers.

Then was all life. Thou bad'st them be;
And every breathing form came forth
That creeps the ground, or cleaves the sea,
Or wings the air—all beasts that flee
Man, from the icy north,
To the hot south; unnumber'd, at Thy call
They were; or huge, or small, Thou madest all.

426

Last, crown of all, Thy mercy bade,
Even from the dust, Thy creature rise.
Lord of all earth, Thy goodness made
Man, of Thyself the passing shade
Unto his fellows' eyes;
Him didst Thou gift with thought and speech, and raise
To the high power to feel, and tell Thy praise.

Her too Thou mad'st, man's fitting mate.
Woman, creation's boast and flower,
Awful with beauty, on which wait
Reverence and love, Thou didst create,
With subtlest, sweetest power
To soften man, and bid him in her see
What wondrous cause for love and praise to Thee!

Nor stay'd from blessing us each day
Is Thy still re-creating hand;
Still Thou re-givest all decay
Withdraws; all that death bears away
Re-lives at Thy command;
Fair now as when it first was at Thy call,
Creation bids us bless Thee still for all.

Thy rains and dews with greenness fill
The earth. Thy snows still bear the spring;
Thou paintest flowers on plain and hill;
Thou bid'st Thy autumns to us still
Fruits and their harvests bring;
Sunshine and shadow, wind, and cloud, and sky,
Thunder and storm, Thee ever glorify.

O let all praise Thee! Let all lands
Thy wondrousness, Thy blessings tell,
More countless than the ocean's sands!
Let my soul praise Thee, from Whose hands
Is every good, and swell
With song creation's everlasting hymn
Unto Thy glory, by Whom suns are dim.

427

Me Thou hast given Thy works to see
With heart that feels in all Thou art
Beyond man's thought. What love may be,
What praise an offering unto Thee,
All-wise, that shall impart
The awe with which I fling my soul before
Thy power, and wonder, tremble, and adore!

Creator, Saviour, God, Thy will
Made me. Thy will from woe and death
Upholds me. Lord, give to me still
Thy law to know, and to fulfil;
Make Thou my every breath,
My every act, word, thought, and moment be
A hymn of thanks, praise, worship, unto Thee!

Live Thou in me! Lord, what am I,
But as a leaf borne on Thy breath?
From Thee, all thoughts are born and die;
All good, all griefs that purify,
From Thee have birth and death;
By Thee the knowledge and the strength are given
By which to know and serve Thee we have striven.

O Thou, All-good, make Thou my will
Even as Thou would'st my life should be!
Make pure my heart, that it may fill
My days with deeds and thoughts, that still
Are blameless unto Thee!
O Lord, through life, through death, to Thee I cry;
Be Thou my strength, my hope, eternally!

ENGLAND.

O England, awe of earth, how great art thou!
Mother of nations, filler of the lands
With freemen, free-born, who is like to thee,
Or hath been? Egypt and the vanish'd rules

428

Of Asia swept the earth, but desert winds
That blasted races, and death dealt, were gone,
Their records, ruins. Greece arose and lit
The dark with glory, but a falling star,
How bright, how fleeting! save that yet her thoughts,
Less mortal than her gods, illume us still.
Rome came and saw and conquered, erushed and pass'd,
Smitten by freemen, she and all her slaves.
Gone are the thrones that the eternal sea
Heap'd riches on and empire—billows huge,
That roll'd, and roar'd, and burst upon her shores,
Tyre and the pomp of Sidon—Afric's boast,
Swart Carthage—Venice, and the ocean rules
Of Genoa and of Holland—all are gone.
Spain is the mock of nations once who shook
Even at the utterance of her iron name.
These and their glories are but mutter'd dreams
That by the past's dead lips are feebly told;
But we endure, we, sceptred heirs of power,
Victory and empire, fated to endure,
Gathering fresh might and glory through all time.
Our glory is our safeguard. Wall'd we stand
With mighty memories—buckler'd with bright fames;
Our present, still ’tis pillar'd on a past
That lifts it, glistening in time's marvelling gaze,
An awe and wonder to the trembling world.
Yes; were we aged—did our great life die out—
Were England palsied, as the nations are
That once knew greatness, phantoms of the past
Would rule earth for us, and the subject seas,
So long our tributaries, at the thought
Of what we have been, still would crouch and cringe,
And fawn upon our footstool; but, thank God!
Greatly we stand on greatness—rock-like, plant
Feet adamantine through the flow of time,
No muscle loosening; ever widening still
Stretch the broad bases that uprear our strength,
And thrust us skywards; the hot vines of Spain
Ripen beneath our shadow; the green world
The barks of Palos bared to Europe's gaze,

429

That is our children's heritage; the isles
That chafe the tropic billows feel our tread;
Lo, other Englands gather in the south,
And 'neath the glare of India we tread out
The bloody wrath that writhes beneath our heel,
And shield the maddening nations from themselves.
Where is the earthly air that has not borne
The record of our glory? What far race
But, naming greatness, to its children tells
Foremost our triumphs, all the mighty names
That are our greatness? For what land on earth,
Sceptred or crownless, can bid glory count
Hero for hero with us—fame for fame?
Earth boasts one Homer; we, one yet more high,
Shakespeare. If Florence hush her soul in awe,
Naming her Dante, hell, and heaven's sweet air
Were breathed by Milton. Who to wisdom taught
How to be wisest? Bacon. Newton lived,
And God's dread secrets straight man wondering read,
And all the worlds revolved in order'd law.
Watt made the might of Nature's primal powers
Our toiling bondslaves. Drake and wandering Cook,
Parry and Park and all their fellows trod
Billow and land, and made them paths to man.
Look, knowledge lightens thought from land to land;
That did our Wheatstone. Fame, to name our great,
Were weary ere the flaming roll were told,
And still she writes, what glories! on the scroll,
Courage and wisdom kin to greatness gone,
Those that the blasting path to Lucknow trod,
And smote curst Delhi and its brood of hell,
Havelock and Lawrence—names fit mates to those
Who broke the dusky ranks at Plassy first,
And far Assaye, and crush'd Ameer and Sikh
At Meeanee and red Ferozeshah,
And crowned our brows with empire. Crecy's fame,
And mailed Poictiers' and Agincourt's had heirs
In Blenheim and Corunna, and the fields
Of Wellington—Vittoria and its peers,
And the wild, earth-felt shock of Waterloo.

430

O ye old sea-kings, to whom your tossed decks
Were thrones to rule the lands from, from you sprung,
In us lives on your scorn of all that pales
Weakness—in us your hunger of renown.
Sea-roamers—grapplers with the might of storms—
Stern tramplers of the billows, fitting sons
To you were Drake and Hawkins, and the hearts
That with fierce joy, for God and right, went forth
And wrapped the Armada—the Invincible—
In their red wrath, and whelm'd it in the deep.
Brother to you was he whom our proud lips
Name proudly—Blake, who, many a bloody day,
Grappled with Dutch Van Tromp, and thundered down
The broadsides of De Ruyter. Kin to you,
O ye old Norse hearts, who dared look on death
And greet him loud if victory with him came,
Were later glories. From your fierce veins sprang
The fiery blood of Rooke, who gave La Hogue
To glory—Monk and Shovel—Benbow—Hawke—
Duncan of Camperdown—Howe—Rodney—he
Who at St. Vincent thunder-calmed the winds—
And of him, mightiest, whose fierce voice of war
Nile and the Dane heard, crouching—he who gave
To us the ocean's rule at Trafalgar.
So triumph grows to triumph. From the fire
Of by-gone fames we light the glories up
That sun the present. Oh, should danger threat,
New vauntings front us, and the shock of war,
In the red smoke of battle shall we feel
The awful presence of our living dead,
Steeling our hearts to conquer. Hellas heard,
At Marathon, and Salamis, heard clear
The roar of Ares, and the hero shout
Of Ajax pouring flight amid her foe.
The stern dead Douglas won at Otterbourne;
So Wellington our charging ranks shall hurl
Through future triumphs; through all coming time
Shall foes' masts crash and struck flags flutter down,
We conquering in the thought we can but win
Whose blood is Nelson's. Nor is fame alone

431

The bulwark of our greatness. Strong we stand
In surer strength that fates us not to fall;
For we have breathed the breath that knows not death,
Hers in whose might we dread not the decay
That palsies nations. At the mighty breast
Of Freedom were we nurtured. At her knee
Have we drunk in the mighty lore that gives
To nations immortality and youth
Eternal. To our hands she gave the spell
That masters monarchs. From her lips were caught
The charging cheer of Edgehill, and the shout
That at red Naseby scattered far her foes.
Strong in her strength, we strengthen—conquering
And still to conquer, while we do her will.
Us does she gift with wisdom. We are wise
In Courts and counsels—all that builds up States,
And from the clash of thought do we shock out
Fit light to walk by—truths, by which we walk
More and more wisely; but, O island home
Of freemen, thee a future beckons on,
Lit with a glory thou hast never known,
And great with greatness that for thee shall be.
Lo, thou hast walked in sunlight that is night
Seen by the radiance of that perfect day.
Then shall thy homes know wisdom. Not a hearth
But thou shalt ring with knowledge, as a right
Dealt to thy children—to thy sons reared up
Fitly, self-ruled, to share, ungrudged, thy rule,
And walk the ways of greatness, wide to all.
Theirs shall be all the victories of peace,
The piercing eyes to whose all-fearless gaze
Nature gives up her secrets—Art reveals
Unrobed her beauties; theirs the ears that hear
That voice divine that unto slavish ears
Speaks not—that breathing of the airs of heaven
That the high Muse's lips give forth through man.
Then, mighty mother, then thy eagle brood
All shalt thou train to front the cloudless sun
Of blasting glory with strong eyes that drink
Its glare unshrinking, scaling with strong wing

432

Height beyond giddy height of fame's bright air
To seats of Gods and regions of the stars,
Where dwell the immortals wise in rule to man
And guidance godlike, there in light to dwell,
An awe and gladness to the eyes of earth.
O England, might that future now be thine!
Then shall the fulness of thy greatness be—
In war, in peace, the fulness of thy fame.
Then shall a race, how godlike! walk thy ways,
Eating of fruit, forbidden now—the fruit
Of knowledge, making men like unto Gods,
Knowing of good and evil—good, to embrace—
Ill, shun—that earth may liker grow to heaven,
That heaven's full blessedness on earth may be,
That the all-righteous reign of love may come,
Of right and peace, that wrong may be no more.
So great thou art; so greater shalt thou grow,
Doing the will of Him who bade thee be
Foremost amongst the nations. Know thou right
And do it. Be thy future, as thy past,
Built to his glory. On His awful breath
Are rule and empire. At His word they rise,
They pass. So walk thou, that He be thy staff
In this thy journey onward—that thou be
The earthly shadow of his power and love,
His strength and mercy—that thou lead the earth
Unto His altar-steps in whom thou art,
Thy strength and succour—that the nations see
How great are they who surely trust in Him,
And know thee for the chosen of thy God.

1858.

TO MY FUTURE.

What are ye, dim in my dreaming?
Vast and mystic each appears,
Dark and shapeless to my seeming;
Ye, I know, my coming years;

433

Awful eyes through darkness gleaming,
Soundless tongues which fancy hears,
Ye to be, what to my seeming
Utter ye, ye phantom years?

Woe and weal, the unbreathed morrows,
Your dread offspring, t'wards me bear;
Joys and hopes and fears and sorrows,
Bliss, perchance—perchance, despair;
With mortality's weak trembling,
The may-be my stilled soul hears,
While life's voices, yours resembling,
Ope your lips, ye future years.

Comes not answer to my seeking?
Come not from your lips dear tones?
With your voices, Hope seems speaking;
All my heart her influence owns.
All life yearns for, book-blessed leisure,
Fame, pursued afar from fears,
Life, to all I love, but pleasure,
These, she tells ye bring ye years.

Now, alas, my soul to darken
Through your lips, speaks not wild Fear?
Pale, I shudder, as I hearken
Unto all she bids me hear;
Of what tell you? Care and sorrow,
Sin, remorse, and hopeless tears?
Did ye breathe of death some morrow
'Mongst my loved ones, O ye years?

That dread secret could ye utter
Which my shuddering heart would know!
Soon or late, your dread lips mutter
Death's dark doom to all below;
All in vain your forms I'd number,
Bearing towards me smiles and tears;
Which shall touch my eyes to slumber,
Of ye all, ye unknown years?

434

Ah, no sound your lips are giving;
Mortal ear no utterance drinks
From your chained tongues; to the living
Ye are as the Desert Sphinx;
As the stony Memnon each is;
Through you sound our joys, our fears;
From our dreams alone your speech is,
O ye shadowy coming years.

Could ye speak, even as God bade ye,
Must ye utter the to-be;
But the words of Him who made ye
Could ye breathe, O years, to me;
Ye are but dumb servants bearing
His good gifts of smiles and tears,
As is best, amongst us sharing
What he wills to us, ye years.

But ye are not, save to seeming;
False creations of man's eye,
Ye exist but in our dreaming;
Nought is, save eternity;
Death, our life beyond life giving,
Shows what shadows are the fears
With which, shades, ye shake the living
Who die not like ye, ye years.

ON THIS VERY BED HAS DEATH.

On this very bed has death
Stilled a heart and stayed a breath.

Wherefore toss and weary so!
Death's repose thou too shalt know!

Cease thy sobs! thy wailings cease!
Soon for thee there shall be peace.

All things here, O soul, but seem;
Sleep and wake from this poor dream.

435

Close thine eyes and stay thy breath!
Lo, 'tis life thou callest death.

Lo, thou wakest, earth forgot,
Into calm, that endeth not,

Unto hours that shall not know
Aught of human joy or woe.

Peace, then, life's poor cries, to be
Hushed by God eternally.

437

CAVOUR.

Low lies earth's noblest head!
Cavour is dead!
White and cold, and still he lies,
Who bade Italy arise

438

From where beneath the Austrian's heel she lay
With woes that only dared in groans be said.
Woe for the day,
When those dread words sank grief into all eyes,
While, in their fear and grief and wild surprise,
Each, the one thought that shuddered through each, read;
He's gone; who now shall be his land's great stay
Through the dread dangers of her onward way,
Through the dark future that before her lies?
Low lie the will so strong, the brain so wise!
Low lie the trusted arm, the trusted head!
Cavour is dead!

Who weakly said,
“Cavour is dead!”
His spirit seeks God's face, but never dies
The heart men gathered from his eyes,
Nor the great thoughts he made the souls of acts,
The mighty hopes he wed in war to facts,
When all that to men seemed
But fancies to be dreamed,
He with armed hand, and wisdom subtly wise,
Moulded to powers before earth's hushed surprise,
Till dazzling light from the grim darkness streamed,
The glory of his land from night redeemed,
Which while arms fiercely clashed,
As in the old days, on the world's sight flashed.
Unto our eyes that glory did he give
For aye to live.

Yes, to live on and know
Eclipse no more, but grow
And brighter broaden in the eyes of men,
To light to glory, pencil, sword, and pen,
Until the wombs of coming ages give
To us new Cæsars—Angelos, to live
Lives as mighty as of old,
Whose deeds by new-born Livys shall be told,

439

And far Columbuses whose acts shall ring
While round the sun the whirling earth is rolled,
And Galileos, visions to unfold
That mightier Virgils shall, to times of gold,
And happier Dantes, sing;
Glory to him who such great days shall bring,
Who with wise might the fettered present freed,
That the great future might such spirits breed.

Yes, the earthly garb he wore
Lies there to be worn no more;
To death, life gave it, and the mighty soul
That could a nation's fears and hopes control,
Has passed away
To that eternal day
That, soon or late, shall gather in the whole
Who wander darkly through this mortal way,
From the gagged slave who fears the despot's frown,
To him who treads the souls of nations down,
And dares with peoples, as with toys, to play.
Close the dumb lips! the blank wide eyes, O close!
Give the cold form in glory to repose
Where coming centuries shall stand and say,
“No nobler life than this e'er reached life's goal!
Blest be his soul!”

Crown him with glory! raise
Statue and swelling song to his high praise,
Whose life was noble as his deed was grand,
Who gave his great race with all rules to stand
Co-equal, and rejoice
That yet again its voice
May speak in thunder, and again its hand,
Armed as of old, may be a power to smite
The crowned ones who would wrench from it a right,
Or bar it from the radiant road that lies,
The path of greatness, wide before its eyes,
The goal of glory ever in its sight;

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Chisel and pencil, greatly, as of old,
By your new greatness be his greatness told,
In stone and colours, to the future's sight,
That in his glory ever shall delight.

And yet what earthly crown
Needs he whose mortal dust goes down
Unto the earthly rest of the still grave?
What of these mortal hopes shall his soul save,
For love and fear, in the high life he breathes,
Wherein he lives perchance to win new wreaths
For grander triumphs even than here he won,
In fairer hours beneath a happier sun;
Yet where'er his firm feet tread,
Whom we falsely say is dead,
We know but hope he has no need to shun
The presence of the All-Good whose will by him was done.
Lo, in our love and reverence he is crowned;
Through all Earth's ages shall he be renowned,
And with a hope assured, all fear above,
We yield him up to the Eternal Love.

“ERNST IST DAS LEBEN.”

Oh, leave the world,
With irksome bustle and fond follies filled!
Come where its empty shows ye may despise;
Where the rude clamour of its cries is stilled;
Where no loud plainings of its woes arise,
But on all life, the heaven of blissful quiet lies;
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
The realm abhorred of drear realities;
Come steal afar from all its troublous noise;
Far from mortality's afflicted cries,
Come ye to happiness that never cloys,
Where idlesse ever dreams and gathers golden joys;
Oh, leave the world!

441

Oh, leave the world!
Why should ye burden life with loathed toil?
Why spend on toil the summer of your days?
But empty are the gains for which ye moil;
Swiftly the glory of your youth decays,
And in your onward path, cold age its winter lays;
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
Death laughs in mock of drudgery for gold,
For which ye lose the years that come no more;
For when for it your flower of life is sold,
A wormy grave he gives for all your store
And flings its hoards to those who never toiled therefore;
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
Wherefore thus cling ye so to carking care?
But shadows on the light of time are ye,
That for their hour, eternity doth there,
Dimming its disk with antic mummeries, see;
Oh, of what poor account your labours e'er can be!
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
What is the lasting memory of a name
But in eternity, a short-lived hour?
And the vain glory of the longest fame
Swift comes the hungering future to devour;
For over all of earth forgetfulness hath power;
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
Why in vain strife for others lose your days?
Evil with life hath ever walked the earth;
Think ye a barrier against woe to raise?
Ever to misery shall the years give birth
And strivings for man's good are aye of little worth;
Oh, leave the world!

442

Oh, leave the world!
So said the haunting whisper, and each word
Upon my thought stole with a murmurous tone,
In whose low sounds was lulling sweetness heard
That lapped the soul in music all its own,
And ever—evermore was its low speech alone,
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
And with the lulling murmur of its sound,
Hunger of dreamy rest upon me stole,
And slumbrous longings 'gan to gird me round,
Till of all stirring impulse, slept the whole,
And echoed back my thought—my hardly striving soul,
Oh, leave the world!

Oh, leave the world!
But woke again my soul with sudden start,
And touching thought to life, did counsel take,
And in its native strength itself did heart
From the soft syren's charmèd wiles to break,
And loud her answering back, with cold clear reason spake,
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Though, as thou sayest, it were passing sweet
Afar from high-strung action to recline,
Though with soft ease 'twere luxury to retreat,
And man's appointed task of work resign;
Doth sensuous pleasure mount the height of life's design?
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Not for this grew in thee the might of mind,
The power to will and act thy wish and thought;
In the delights of sense if thou wouldst find
All pleasure, life shall set thy aims at nought,
Till evil thou shalt own, for good thou aye hast sought.
Why leave the world?

443

Why leave the world?
Though, as thou urgest, waste of life it be
The toys of wealth and power and fame to seize,
Canst thou not, gazing through existence, see
Aims that in their far pitch, earth not with these,
But scale high heaven itself and God himself do please?
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Not for delight alone was being given;
Else life, as thou assertest, were a dream,
And but for seemings all high souls have striven;
But seize the key of this thy mystery; deem
Duty above delight and life most real shall seem;
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Believe thy mission, not alone with good
The measure of thy days of life to fill;
To heap for others, be it understood,
Even from thy portion, is thy duty still;
Through suffering, love thy kind, and rule to love thy will;
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Hath it no misery for thy hands to tend?
Hath it no wretchedness thou canst relieve?
No down-trod weakness that thou may'st defend?
No poverty thy bounty to receive?
No joy with which to joy—no grief with which to grieve?
Why leave the world?

Why leave the world?
Hath it not ignorance that thou may'st unblind?
Hath it not injuries against which to strive?
Hath it no slaveries, or of limb or mind,
That from the light of being thou may'st drive?
Needs Earth no martyrs now, or chains or wrongs to rive?
Why leave the world?

444

Why leave the world?
Go forth in the resistless strength of love;
Forth, conquering and to conquer, victor, go;
Warrer for right, be thy crest high above
The thick of fight against all wrongs below;
Falling or victor wreathed, thou near'st God's glory so;
So leave the world.

So leave the world;
Doth the flesh its departed empire mourn?
Mourns it the unquestioned rule it holds no more?
Know thou self-sacrifice; of that is born
A calm abiding bliss, all bliss before,
That shall delights more rare than thou resign'st, restore;
So leave the world.

So leave the world;
Straight with the words, all languor fled my frame;
Champing desires rode tamed beneath my will,
And high resolves upon me crowding came,
Through love, life's lofty purpose to fulfil,
Nor evermore mine ears that low sweet call did fill,
Oh, leave the world!

A CRY FOR NATIONAL EDUCATION.

Ye perfect flowers; why not perfect men?

I asked the purple bloom whose velvet round
Orbed the rich sweetness of the o'er-ripe plum,
Where it the glory of its robing found,
Whence did the treasures of its sweetness come?
And straight it with reply my questioning met,
“My primal germ of beauty, mortal, know,
Within the untended sloe did nature set;
Man's art its rare enrichment did bestow.”

I lay me down in golden summer, where
The velvet pansy wantoned in the sun,
And questioned it from whence the treasures rare
Of its entangling beauty it had won;

445

And straight this low reply my questioning met,
“Its germ the cunning of man's art did find
Hid deep within the wayside violet,
And gave it glory through the might of mind.”

I stood beside the swiftness of the horse,
And questioned whence it drew its unmatched grace,
The windy speed that through the shouting course
Bore off from all the glory of the race;
Then to my questioning came the like reply,
“Not vainly hath the might of man's wit striven
An added grace and swiftness to supply,
That ne'er to me by nature's self were given.”

I asked the stony marvel of a form
That in its rare perfection distanced life,
“White wonder, with the charmed power to warm
My soul to worship, how becam'st thou rife?”
And the fair shape did answer me the same,
“My marble flesh the quarried earth bestowed,
But from the sculptor's dream, life on me came,
And to his shaping hand my beauty's owed.”

Then from the face of all, did I depart
Into the thoughtful haunts of solitude,
And there companioned by my pulsing heart,
Over their speech in painful thought did brood;
Then said I, “Shall the might of mortal power
That gives the fruit a sweetness not its own,
Wonder to stone and glory to the flower,
Deny perfection unto man alone?”

Ah that the human will's all mighty force,
That with an alien gracefulness doth gift
The lower nature of the unreasoning horse,
Would man but to a higher nature lift!
Ah that the shaping care of man would mould
To higher grace the marble of the mind,
That all the charms we hunger to behold
In coming souls, its power would bid us find!

446

For if through all creation's wondrous round
With searching eyes thy winged spirit ran,
What in its circling journey would be found
More worth man's culture than the mind of man?
Oh what an unknown glory then would wear
The coming years the future towards us leads,
If man to store the unnurtured mind would care
With the perfection the soul's culture breeds!

Then were the terror of the exiling sword
From the lost Eden banished once again,
Then bliss within creation's heart were cored,
And souls for love no more were made in vain;
Shall not these golden days to man be brought?
Towards this goal do not the ages tend?
Yea, take thou heart; not idly dreamest thou, thought;
Culture shall perfect souls too in the end.

A THOUGHT.

“God wills but ill,” the doubter said,
“Lo, time doth evil only bear;
Give me a sign His love to prove—
His vaunted goodness to declare?”

The poet paused by where a flower,
A simple daisy, starred the sod,
And answered, “Proof of love and power
Behold—behold a smile of God!”

THE PRAYERS.

A DREAM.

A sound of supplication
Went trembling up the air;
Up to the giver of all good
Arose the sound of prayer;

447

“Grant me a sense for all delight,
No pleasure, Lord, can cloy;
Through youth—through age—from birth to death,
Oh, give me to enjoy.”

Again I heard a murmur low
Of prayer ascend on high;
Again soft supplicating tones
Went trembling up the sky;
“Wisdom above all earthly good,
Oh, Lord, on me bestow;
Thou who art thought and fate and love,
Oh, give me, Lord, to know.”

And yet again with humblest tones
The throbbing air was stirred;
Again the low deep voice of prayer,
Ascending heaven was heard;
“Grant me, O thou that grantest all,
All blessings else above,
A heart to feel with all that breathe;
Oh, give me, Lord, to love.”

Then silence was in earth and heaven,
And in the stillness, stole,
With awe and mighty dread, a voice
Upon my trembling soul;
“Which choosest thou?” then said I, “Lord,
If one thou giv'st to choose,
Bliss, wisdom, Lord, deny, but love
Oh, do not thou refuse.”

“Well hast thou chosen.” Yet again
In fear upon me came;
“Oh, wisest they in all the earth,
Whose choice in time's the same;
Lo, choosing one, thou choosest all,
For, mortal, know thou, love
Is highest wisdom, and its joy
Is joy, all joy above.”

448

BY THE SEA.

Thou myriad-billow'd, restless Sea,
Thou awe and terror of the lands
That match not thy immensity,
Blue trampler of their thousand strands,
With endless life—eternal power
Thou mock'st us mortal things of breath;
Ages to thee but as an hour,
Thou know'st not time, or change, or death!

Thy fellows are the eternal air,
The might of storms—the stars—the night,
The winds thy wastes of waves that tear,
The sun, and the great joy of light.
These share thy life; these, but the nod
Of Him thou tremblest at, obey;
These tell with thee the power of God;
His ministers, with thee, are they.

Awful art thou when thou dost lie,
Sun-tawny, crouch'd upon thy sands,
Breathing the stillness of the sky,
Fawnign upon the trembling lands;
Then, from thy couchant vastness, man
Such dumb and wondering terror drinks,
As through Thebes, hush'd and ashen, ran,
Gazing upon the breathing Sphinx.

But when, beneath the awful skies,
Storm-darken'd, in thy chainless might,
White with wild wrath, thou dost arise,
How are men scatter'd in thy sight!
Then woe to those, the things of breath,
Mortals by whom thy depths are trod;
Thou giv'st them and their vaunts to death;
They know thee for the scourge of God.

Dust of the dust, we come—we pass,
But fleeting shadows, of time born,

449

By time devour'd, shades thou dost glass
In thy eternity—thy scorn.
Earth changes; ages are not; thou
Wert, art, and still shalt be the same,
Vast, boundless, changeless, endless now
As when light first upon thee came.

And still, as when through brooding night
The first grey sunrise heard thee raise.
Thy thunderous hymn, through gloom, through light,
On high goes up thy voice of praise.
Thou symbol of thy Maker's power,
Thou giv'st to man's eyes, faint and dim,
His might—His majesty; each hour,
In calm, in storm, thou speak'st of Him.

Strength is in thy salt breath, O Sea,
Empire and knowledge—wealth and sway;
The might—the glory born of thee,
The dull and shoreless lands obey;
Those whom the decks thou tossest throne,
These are to kingship crown'd by thee,
Heirs of the rule thou mak'st their own,
Theirs who dare home with thee, O Sea!

Chainless thou art; thy shores are free;
Earth breathes in sternness with thy breath;
Chainless resolves are born of thee,
High thoughts and proud strong scorn of death;
Who face thy wrath, nor fear, have lost
The dread of aught that earth has borne;
They who, on thy wild billows tost,
Pale not, man's terrors well may scorn.

World-girdler, how the earth's great hearts
Their awful greatness win from thee!
Lo! to what height their stature starts,
They who have been thy brood, O Sea!

450

Thy might into their souls has grown;
Thy vastness awes us in their names;
They are thy mighty ones—thine own,
With all thy grandeur in their fames.

What are the glories earth has given
Unto her greatest, told with those
For which thy mighty ones have striven,
Those which thy mighty love bestows?
Columbus—Nelson—these, thine own,
Hast thou not given their fames to be
Mightiest where'er thy might is known,
Sharers of thy eternity!

We are the playmates of thy waves,
Rock'd into greatness on thy breast;
Thou giv'st us all things—riches, graves,
Conquests, and all thy wild unrest.
We feel thy salt spray in our veins,
Thy tameless spirit in our souls;
Through the free thoughts of our free brains,
Through our free speech thy thunder rolls.

Yet thou art death's; thou, too, shalt be
Its prey, with earth and time, at last.
We die to live; the heavens shall see
Thy end; thou too shalt join the past.
Greater, O Sea, are we than thou:
I, when thy mighty life is o'er,
I, deathless, then shall be as now,
Immortal, when thou art no more.

TO THE AUTHORESS OF “ART-LIFE IN MUNICH.”

See—the ways of glory lie
Wide before thee; shall not God
Give thy feet the strength to try
These bright paths that Guido trod!
On! be bold! in faith there lies
Power that tracks high destinies.

451

Nature lives: her colours see;
These the touch of Titian caught;
Glooms and gleams are given to thee,
All with which dark Rembrandt wrought;
All from which they reap'd a name,
Nature—life, are still the same.

In the strength of truth be strong;
Doubt her never, though she be
Held at times of all men wrong—
To thyself, a mystery:
Trust in nature; work and wait,—
All shall own her soon or late.

Work in worship; let not earth,
Low desires, thy strivings leaven;
Prayer—thine art should have the worth
Of an incense unto heaven;
So shall all Murillo saw
From thy canvas ask our awe.

Life hath angels at its tasks;
Earth hath heroes—martyrs now:
Show us these; the present asks
Unto its own saints to bow;
Virtues, mask'd in poor disguise,
Give their whiteness to our eyes.

Holiest beauty to us show,
Such as heaven's own radiance wears,
Daily sorrows doom'd to know,
Toil and all life's common cares,—
Love and pity, walking earth,
Knowing not themselves their worth.

Yet why so?—to thee, the past,
Unto us a thing of death,
Lives a life, through thee, to last,
Breathes, before thee, living breath;
Place—time—garb—is either strange;
Life is life, howe'er they change.

452

Look not thou through others' eyes;
Wiser, see thou with thine own;
Paint thy fresh thoughts as they rise,
Beauty to thy vigils shown;
Numa-like, coy Nature woo
For the charms she shows to few.

Welcome fame, if fame be won
Through the plaudits of the wise;
Though the many crown thee, shun
Plaudits which the few despise;
Hast thou genius?—thou wast born
God to serve, through praise or scorn.

RESURGET.

THE FAITH OF THE PEOPLE.

Swathed, and bound, and tomb'd she lies,
Yet again our dead shall rise.

Lo! the kings of earth have slain
Her who over all shall reign.

Here, in night and utter gloom,
Watch we, weeping by her tomb.

God, our God, who all hath known,
From her grave shall roll the stone.

God, who knoweth all our woe,
In his time, shall mercy show.

What though she be laid in earth!
She shall know another birth.

Nor shall earth or hell have power
'Gainst her, in her coming hour.

Her they slew, who never dies;
Shout! our dead again shall rise.

453

Lo! arm'd men beside her stay,
Lest our dead be borne away.

Lest, a horror to their eyes,
She, our sheeted dead, shall rise.

Lo! their watch in vain is set;
Who her coming forth shall let?

Not like to a thief shall she
Come; proud shall her coming be.

Like unto a mighty king,
Like an arm'd one conquering.

Woe, then, woe, in that her day,
Unto those that bar her way!

Woe, and utter woe to those,
From of old her vengeful foes!

Shout! the Lord hath heard our cries;
Shout! the blessèd one shall rise.

Woe to those her words condemn!
Let the mountains cover them!

Lo! the hills her shout shall hear,
And shall dread; the earth shall fear.

Who her steps in wrath shall meet,
She shall tread beneath her feet.

Let the accuser fearful be;
Let the evil witness flee.

Lo! the judge shall hide his face,
Trembling, in the judgment-place.

Shout! a fear to all men's eyes,
Shout! the avenging one shall rise.

Lo! the earth shall own her Lord,
Strong to lift and to reward.

454

Earth shall tremble in her sight,
Swift to judge and strong to smite.

Ye who trust in sword or spear,
Fear her!—let the mighty fear!

Fear her, all ye high and strong,
Ye who 'gainst the poor work wrong.

Dread, ye crown'd ones, dread her sight,
Ye who for us work'd not right.

Nought shall, 'gainst her, stand of all,
Shield, or tower, or armèd wall.

Ye who live not for the light,
Tremble! waning is the night.

Ye whose works are evil, fear!
Lo! the day is drawing near.

We who by her watch and pray,
Lo! for us there shall be day.

Glory unto God, and praise!
He their doom from her shall raise.

Lo! His coming shall be swift;
He their curse shall from her lift.

She shall speak, that now is dumb,
And the dead one forth shall come.

There shall be a shining light;
She shall stand in all men's sight.

Lo! the grave-cloths, fold on fold,
From her limbs shall be unroll'd.

She shall wake and walk, who slept;
She shall comfort us who wept.

She shall banish all our fears;
She shall dry our bitter tears.

455

Who her cup of grief would quaff,
Shall arise, and feast and laugh.

With our hymns the day shall ring;
Lo! our crown'd one forth we bring.

Sing ye, West, and East, and North!
Sing, thou South!—your queen comes forth.

Bring ye myrrh and spices sweet,
Precious oils to bathe her feet.

Shout ye! from her darksome prison,
Lo! the buried one hath risen.

Praise ye God, for this her birth,
This great joy unto the earth!

Praise Him, all ye nations! ye
Who her coming long'd to see!

Praise Him, all ye peoples! raise
Hymns and songs to sound His praise!

Shout ye! from her darksome prison,
Our triumphant one hath risen!

THE SHADOW-HUNTED.

“Which highest mortal in this inane existence had I not found a shadow-hunter or shadow-hunted?”—Sartor Resartus.

Artist, hold yon shapes but shadows,
Hovering round thy mounting way,
Tempting from thy track forechosen
On through other paths to stray;
Burns thy young aim, upward climbing,
High before, a guiding star;
Onward—onward, earnest-hearted;
Lo, but wildering lights they are.

456

Lo, the shows of wealth, far glistening,
Luring pomps, before thee burn;
Filmless eyes are thine, look through them;
Fairy gold, to dust they turn;
Sensuous ease—world-worshipped station,
To thine eye what seem they—when
With high acts thy future weighs them,
Acts that aye shall fashion men?

Ah, who comes with unbound tresses
Heaping gold on golden day,
Subtle passion in her laughter,
Passion in her soft eyes' play?
Through a light of love she swimmeth,
Zoned with utterless desire,
And the air of her swift coming
Through thy hot veins pulseth fire.

Lo, thou tremblest—quivering through thee
Thrill the arrows of her eyes;
Half, thy pulse forgets its calmness—
Half, resolve within thee dies;
Swift she darkens—ah, thou shield'st thee
In the faith that life was given
Not to work thy senses' bidding,
But through good to toil to Heaven.

Ah, the sun of whose bright presence,
Through the waning of Delight,
From thy Godward path to lure thee,
Riseth gleaming on thy sight?
Upward still on high she turneth
The globed wonder of her eyes,
Lit with fixed desire that burneth
For the life that never dies.

Hark—the throbbing air doth hush it
In delight that swoons to pain,
As come wandering through the silence
Her low accents to thy brain;

457

Hark—“On man's eternal wonder
Will I throne thy name sublime;
Lo, the ages bow before thee
As they circle into time.”

“Wilt thou, with the beast that grazeth,
Clasp, content, a common doom,
When the radiance of thy glory
Might the coming years illume?
Lo, the starry crown I reach thee;
Lo, the orb—the sceptre—see,
O'er the world's far memory, empire,
Endless sway, I proffer thee.”

Ah, thy keen desire panteth
That low voice's tones to track,
Yet the high resolves of reason
All unerring win thee back;
Victor o'er thy senses' wiling—
O'er the lures of glory—lo,
Clear thy life's path lies before thee;
On, true worker, Godward go.

THE CRY OF THE DOUBTER.

I would believe; O God! have I not striven,
Wrestling doubt down!—is it not known to thee
With what a grief from out my soul was driven
The faith love taught me at my mother's knee?
Oh, that my soul might yet again receive
It's childhood's calm!—Lord! that I might believe!

O Lord! from out this wilderness of doubt
That the worn spirit wandering might find way,
Some track thou will'st, through which it might be brought
With trusting steps, into thy perfect day,
In whose clear radiance it all calmly still
Assured might walk, working in peace thy will!

458

Lord! Lord! upon the mystery that lies
A darkness upon life, my soul hath pored,
Waiting a day that comes not; to its eyes,
Lights by which others walk no help afford,
Tried and found wanting, though the struggling will
Fain would believe their darkness radiance still.

ANGEL VOICES.

Forward! fear not, wildered mortal;
On thy night shall rise a day;
To assurance doubt's the portal;
Lies, through doubt, to faith the way;
He who dreads to doubt, unblinded,
Faith for him in fear shall end:
Seek thou boldly, single-minded;
God, his light, thy steps shall lend;
Work is worship; work for others;
Toil in love, and doubt shall cease:
On, for good, for men, thy brothers;
Self-abjurement brings thee peace.

GOD IS LOVE.

Methought I saw a prattling child
That on beside its father walked,
And awe was on its lifted face,
And of a loving God they talked.

And “God will love me?” said the child;
And then the father's voice I heard,
“On yon blue heavens his promise read,
In you sweet flower behold his word.”

459

STILL GOD TALKS TO MAN.

I hear Him from the forest's green,
From the swift light of stars above;
From all the unnumbered forms of time
His word is loud of power and love.

Yea, unto all with open ears
By whom the circling earth is trod,
The Eternal talketh as of old,
And all things are the tongues of God.

461

POEMS OF FANCY AND FEELING.

463

KITTY PALMER.

[_]

THE SOLE INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD HEAD-STONE IN DULWICH CHURCHYARD.

But “Kitty Palmer”—not a word
Beyond,—the mossy head-stone's showing;
Not even a date; it seems absurd,
To care for one, one can't be knowing;
Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road I travel often,
And always, when I pass her by,
T'wards Kitty there, my heart will soften.

There's nothing there her age to say;
Young? old? all's hid by time's thick curtain;
Was she a babe, scarce born a day?
A girl? a woman? all's uncertain.
Was she maid, wife, or widow? Well,
That knowledge—we must do without it;
We know there's nothing here to tell,
And that's all we can know about it.

What conquests were hers? Did she reign,
A child, but in her home's affections,
Or, older grown, seek, not in vain,
Heart-triumphs, for sweet recollections?
Was she vain? humble? foolish? wise?
Rich? poor? coy? bold? quite dull? or witty?
O were you wicked with your eyes,
A plague to men? I hope not, Kitty.

Did children make her smile or sigh,
A blessed or afflicted mother?
Did she at weddings laugh? or try
By death-beds, sobs in vain to smother?

464

At her grand-children's christenings, eyes,
Half tears—half laughter, did she show now?
Or weep their flight to Paradise
From cradles here? ah, who can know now?

Yet still my fancy will go on
About this long-gone Kitty dreaming,
She, freed from all we think upon
Of worldly toils and cares and scheming;
Whatever she was, here her rest,
How pleasantly these green elms shade it!
How calm and throbless is her breast,
However wild or sad life made it!

As here I see her lie, forgot
By all who used to hate or love her,
By all but she who makes this spot
So sweet with thymy turf above her,
I cannot come to picture her
But as a sweet one life could render
With smiles to heaven,—one fit to stir
In me but thoughts serene and tender

So I think of her—think her fair,
And, on the painted sunshine gazing,
See laughing eyes and golden hair,
All beauty that one should be praising;
A happy girlish wife, before
My sight she lives, to fancy giving
Content more calm—more sweet, since more
Undimmed by fears—than do the living.

For we are things that know no peace,
Poor slaves of care and toil and pleasure,
Of wants and hopes that never cease;
For calm content, we have no leisure;
But hers no more are sin and death,
All we must fear—with which we've striven;
Earth's must be still unquiet breath;
She breathes but Heaven's, we trust—forgiven.

465

All they who knew her, too, have passed
From time; all broken heart-ties mended,
They have rejoined her where at last
All tears are dried, all sorrows ended;
What matters then that here her name
Alone is written! she is faring
As well as most who cared for fame,
For whom now not a soul is caring.

Ah, you who here are writing this,
And dream perhaps in future story
Your name may live—who, catch or miss,
Snatch at a little gleam of glory,
Is it so much that men should know
Your words years hence? nay, man, breathe calmer!
Will you not sleep as well, below
The grass, forgot, like Kitty Palmer!

THE MISTAKE OF THE LOVES.

To-day as idly in my chair
I hardly half-awake was dreaming,
Methought, in through the sunny air,
A swarm of laughing Loves came streaming;
Winged mischiefs, here and there, without
My leave, the wantons gleamed and fluttered,
Buzzing, like bees, the room about,
Ere half a sentence could be uttered.

In fact, with such glad hushed surprise
I saw the little urchins flying,
Like humming-birds, before my eyes,
In every nook and corner prying,
Now handling this—now into that
With childish laughs and chatter peeping,
I did not care to stay their chat,
But silent sat, as I'd been sleeping.

466

What would they do? quick, every one
Found every moment new employment;
They paused at last; well, now what fun
Would yield their smallships fresh enjoyment?
My scrap-book lay before me there;
One saw and straightway courage mustered,
Helped by five more, the prize to bear
To where all close around it clustered.

Swift, over, leaf on leaf was turned;
Small praise, each sketch, while passing under
Those tiny curious quick eyes, earned,
Till, ah, at last, one waked their wonder;
My pencil there had vainly tried,
How vainly! as it oft had striven,
To do that, unto it denied,
Image the beauty to you given.

Yet passion there, to labouring art,
A strength beyond its own had granted;
Enough was there to make them start,
However much of you was wanted;
Eyes—dimples—hair—those peeping pearls,
As those red lips so archly show them,
They saw them and, O flower of girls,
How strange! at once, they seemed to know them.

O what a storm of pretty noise,
Of cries and clappings straight I heard then,
Of little feet that stamped the joys,
Enough their small tongues couldn't word then;
What with delight could thrill them so?
Hardly my wonder I could smother,
Till, listening, soon I laughed to know
They, in your likeness, saw their mother.

467

MY SAINT.

Sit to me; let my pencil paint
The heavenly beauty of a saint,
The dear blue peace that ever makes
Those eyes, that only calm are knowing,
The images of summer lakes
That still to heaven, but heaven, are showing,
Eyes, with heaven's perfect calmness, full,
In their deep peace, how beautiful!

Through that brown hair, there sure has strayed
The radiance that through heaven has played;
Those golden waves, that light, have known;
That lustre through their amber stealing,
Tangled in them, to heaven has shown
The glory that they're now revealing;
Gazing on them, we breathe the air,
The brightness that makes angels fair.

And, fair as are your form and face,
Is your sweet soul's celestial grace;
Clear, as through lucid waves, we see,
Through those deep eyes, the fair thoughts sleeping,
Each whitest dream and phantasy
That those untroubled depths are keeping,
Until they give the world to see,
Unveiled, their spotless purity.

Yes, not a vision harbours there
But has the virtue of a prayer,
And not a hope that steals to sound,
But in its holy music's living
The peace that spreads its gladness round,
And, to vexed hearts, its calm is giving,
Its faith that breathes unmoved above
The world's vain stir—all truth and love.

Yet earth's dread shadows that have crost
Those eyes, have not on them been lost;

468

What pity, in that pure soul dwells,
For vice and sin it's most abhorring!
Pain, hunger, woe—each of them tells
Your praise, you, next to heaven, adoring,
You who walk earth's dark haunts to bless
Its worst with hope and happiness.

Walk on, a light of heaven on earth,
You only knowing not your worth,
You only caring not to see
Your radiance that all gloom is brightening,
Asking no more than so to be
For ever here, life's burdens lightening,
So, through the gleaming gates of death,
Pass in, to breathe celestial breath.

HOW MUCH YOUR BEAUTIES OWE.

How much your beauties owe,
O, sweetest sweet, to me,
I'd have you, dear one, know,
Though in your glass you see
How fair you can but be.

There will you see those eyes,
I know, more sweetly bright
Than stars in frostiest skies,
But, if you see them right,
I've added to their light.

Those cheeks—that rippled hair,
Whereon the sun will lie,
'Twill show you both most fair,
That I do not deny,
But I've enriched them—I.

So while your laughing wit
By nature's given, I own,
My praise has lent to it,
Point, to it, else unknown,
Due to my pen alone.

469

The music of your tongue,
All graces you possess,
Had I not, dear one, sung
Their fame, their praise were less;
Mine is their perfectness.

So you are jewelled o'er
With diamonds of my mind,
And marvels, all adore,
My fancy makes them find,
To which they else were blind.

And living song ensures
Charms that shall ever please;
These that my pen makes yours,
Whatever Time may seize,
He robs you not of these.

Then, since I've to you shown
That it must be confest
I so much beauty own
Of that with which you're blest,
Why not make mine, the rest?

An ingrate you'll not prove;
These gifts I, to you, gave
To treasure, that my love
These and the rest, might have,
That I from fading save.

Then, nobly honest be!
Those beauties, to me, due,
Give with yourself to me;
They'll still be owned by you,
Though mine you make them, too.

470

TO A SKYLARK.

Quiverer up the golden air,
Nested in a golden earth,
Mate of hours when thrushes pair,
Hedges green and blooms have birth,
Up! thou very shout of joy!
Gladness wert thou made to fling
O'er all moods of Earth's annoy;
Up! through morning, soar and sing.

Shade by shade hath gloom decreast;
Westward, stars and night have gone;
Up and up the crimsoning east
Slowly mounts the golden dawn;
Up! thy radiant life was given
Rapture over earth to fling;
Morning hushes; hushed is heaven,
Dumb to hear thee soaring sing.

Up! thy utterance, silence, robs
Of the ecstasies of Earth;
Dowering sound with all the throbs
Of its madness—of its mirth;
Trancèd lies its golden prime,
Dumb with utter joy; oh, fling
Listening air the raptured time!
Quivering gladness, soar and sing.

Up! no white star hath the west;
All is morning—all is day;
Earth in trembling light lies blest;
Heaven is sunshine—up! away
Up! the primrose lights the lane;
Up! the boughs with gladness ring;
Bent are bright-belled flowers again,
Drooped with bees; oh, soar and sing!

Ah! at last thou beat'st the sun,
Leaving, low, thy nest of love;

471

Higher, higher, quivering one,
Shrill'st thou up and up above;
Wheel on wheel, the white day through,
Might I thus with ceaseless wing,
Steep on steep of airy blue
Fling me up and soar and sing!

Spurner of the Earth's annoy,
Might I thus in Heaven be lost!
Like to thee, in gusty joy,
Oh, might I be tempest-tost!
Oh, that the melodious rain
Of thy rapture, I might fling
Down, till Earth should swoon from pain—
Joy—to hear me soaring sing!

Yet, high wisdom by thee taught,
Were thy mighty rapture mine,
While the highest heaven I sought,
Nought of Earth would I resign;
Lost in circling light above,
Still my love to Earth should fling
All its raptures—still to love,
Caring but to soar and sing.

IN A SCHOOL-ROOM.

Twenty school-girls—there they sit;
Just a score of real romances,
To be lived, but never writ;
What they'll be—to think of it
Brings into one's head strange fancies.

Staring, little, blue-eyed Jane,
In whose eyes such baby wonder
And awe of my presence, reign,
Pure, sweet great-eyes, for you, fain,
Time's dark curtain, I'd peep under.

472

Tender God—did I not know
All thou willest here, a blessing,
For this infant, while below,
Days, how shadeless, fate should show;
But joy, for her, I'd be guessing.

Those scarce-five-years'-old eyes, pure
As forget-me-nots born newly,
To them, fancy would assure
All they now show, should endure;
For her, O may hope guess truly!

Black-eyed Mary, quite fifteen,
Too old to be looking at me
Straight—ah, sweet, your peep I've seen!—
Though, to keep quite cold I mean,
How you warm my old blood—drat me!

I am old,—but, dark eyes, one
With a heart unworn and youthful,
Will, mark me! ere many a sun
Pass, into those eyes call fun,
And love too, if dreams be truthful.

Love, I dare say, even, sweet,
Ere this, wicked boy, has muttered
Tales to you, in church and street,
And, when home you've gone to meet
Cousins, perhaps, your heart has fluttered.

Love, still since young Adam shook
Eve's first pulses, plaguing dearly
Girls, I'd see, if now I took
One peep into fate's closed book,
Him your friend, the dearest, nearly;

Nearly, for sweet, could I make
All your life's years as I'd will them,
Love itself you should forsake,
If need were, for guide to take
Goodness, with God's peace to fill them.

473

Laura, Florence, Prudence, May,
Kate, the sauciest of any,
Dreaming Alice, gipsy gay
Juliet, for you all I pray
Sighs be few and laughs be many.

Cloudless child-days—girlhood bright—
Womanhood, pure, glad and tender,
Blest with what makes sorrows light,
Every dearest sound and sight
That fond homes, real heavens, may render.

O great God, who will'st what time,
To their life-years shall be bearing,
Let not sin their pure hearts lime
In hell's toils—or guilt or crime
Ever their white souls be snaring.

Never shame or shadow cross
Your dear thresholds! husbands ever
Still be lovers, whom perforce
Your dear love so holds that, loss
Of their love, you need fear never.

Children bless you—babies rare,
Raptures in your bosoms lying,
Boys and girls, a blessed care
For your tending, for whom ne'er
May you have a cause for sighing!

And your griefs, for life must bring
Its dark hours of pain and sorrow,
May they not too sorely wring
Your dear hearts, that, suffering,
Still, from God, His strength may borrow.

May He guide and bless you still!
Tears, even like the dews of Hermon,
Your lives but with richness fill!
Bless me! how, against my will,
I've been thinking quite a sermon!

474

AN AUTUMN CONCEIT IN GREENWICH PARK.

Sad wind, why moan
The sere leaf's fall!
Goes it alone,
Or with all nobler things, alas! but shares the fate of all!
Sad sobber through September,
Perchance thou dost remember
The bursting of that rustling leaf in April's tearful time,
With what a gladness first
Its downy cell it burst,
And gazed on all the sweet Spring sees when near its leafy prime;
With what a glad surprise
It oped its infant eyes,
And first, with mingled joy and awe, peered out on all around;
From all that met its sight
Took ever new delight,
Dumb wonder from each common sight—dumb wonder from each sound;
Sad sigher through the sky,
Perchance, too, thou wert nigh,
What time its quiet rest it took amongst the light of June;
Oft saw'st it slumbering, where,
Soft couched on golden air,
Out-tired with play and merriment, it nestled 'mid the noon;
Or when thy gentle song
Was heard the boughs along,
How from its dreaming noontide rest, you saw it quivering break;
Saw to thy singing, how
Upon the brown-barked bough,
With many a mate in glossy green, the dance and song 'twould wake;
Yet thou forgettest not
Perchance, sad wailer, what

475

Unuttered loveliness was its, when summer skies were blue;
In what a dazzling green
Its veinèd form was seen,
When sparkling through the morning air, bejewelled all with dew;
How in the suns of June,
It glistened through the noon,
While footing it upon the boughs to thy low melody,
While wanderers through the wood,
Checking their footsteps, stood,
And seldom without pleasant note could pass its beauty by.
Thy wings were winnowing there
The pallid autumn air,
What time with darkening days, alas! the Summer's self grew old;
Thou saw'st its green that made
The forest lovely, fade,
Yet deepen into gorgeous hues that shamed the sunshine's gold;
How, even in decay,
Did beauty lingering stay
About the aged form, so well it loved to deck when young!
Thou saw'st it still below
A golden glory throw
The shadowed trunks, the mossy roots, and tangled weeds among.
Perchance, too, day by day.
Thou saw'st it wear away,
Fast shrivelling in the early frosts, and withering to its grave;
Perchance, if thou couldst tell,
Within thy sight it fell,
Whilst thou couldst only moan and sob, all impotent to save.
It may be, now there throng
Thy memory along,
Sad thoughts of all its spring's sweet youth, of all its summer's time;
Well may'st thou for its fall
Now wail, remembering all
The beauty of its first young days, the glory of its prime!
And yet why moan
The sere leaf's fall?
Goes it alone,
Or with all nobler things, alas! but shares the fate of all!

476

TO A CRICKET.

Voice of Summer, keen and shrill,
Chirping round my winter fire,
Of thy song I never tire,
Weary others as they will;
For thy song with summer's filled;
Filled with sunshine; filled with June;
Fire-light echo of that, noon
Hears in fields when all is stilled
In the golden light of May;
Bringing scents of new-mown hay,
Bees and birds and flowers away,
Prithee, haunt my fireside still,
Voice of Summer, keen and shrill!

TO THE CHRYSANTHEMUM.

Wan brightener of the fading year,
Chrysanthemum,
Rough teller of the winter near,
Chrysanthemum,
Grey low-hung skies and woodlands sere,
Wet leaf-strewn ways with thee appear,
Yet well I love to see thee here,
Chrysanthemum:
Yes, well I love to see thee here,
Chrysanthemum.

Thou comest when the rose is dead,
Chrysanthemum;
When pink and lily both have fled,
Chrysanthemum.
When hollyhocks droop low the head,
And dahlias litter path and bed,
Thou bloomest bright in all their stead,
Chrysanthemum;
And back recall'st their beauty fled,
Chrysanthemum.

477

O loved not for thy sake alone,
Chrysanthemum;
Not for a beauty all thine own,
Chrysanthemum;
For fair blooms to the spring-time known,
For bright hues to the summer shown,
For memories dear of flowerets flown,
Chrysanthemum,
I love thee, blossomer alone,
Chrysanthemum.

TO FIELD-PATHS.

Paths of the fields,
O pleasant paths that stray
Through the deep wind-trod pastures of the Spring,
Through all the glory and the blossoming
That summer yields,
Companioned of the golden buttercup,
Up heaven's far cloud-flecked sapphire gazing—up,
Piercing to heights that see the skylark sing,
From the world's weariness—from hope's decay,
Lead me, oh, lead me, pleasant paths away,
Paths of the fields!

Who knows not hours,
Hours when life longs to cease
Its endless questioning of the mystery
Of sorrow! when the eternal ill we see
All hope o'erpowers!
Oh, in such hours of darkness and of fear,
In joy and quietude, oh, be ye near,
Near in deep tranquilness and gladness be;
Through nature's placid calm—through sweet release
From doubt—from tears, oh, lead me, paths of peace,
Paths of the fields!

478

ELLA'S ROSES.

Venus, unto thee, the rose,
Summer's darling, told her woes,
Told how she, the queen of flowers,
Loved of all the lingering hours,
Glory of the radiant day,
Only came, to pass away,
Beauty of celestial birth,
Fading with the things of earth,
Meanest things of mortal breath,
Poorest things, but worthy death;
Then, foam-brow'd, thy laughing look,
For a moment, joy forsook,
For a moment, till thy thought
Gave the boon thy favourite sought,
All thy darling dared to seek,
Changeless life in Ella's cheek.

SHE'S DEAD.

The sycamore shall hear its bees again—
The willow droop its green adown the sun;
But thou, O heart, shalt yearn for Spring in vain—
Thy Mays are done!

Even from the graveyard elms, the rook shall caw
Of love; of love, the dove shall make its moan;
New Springs shall see the bliss my glad Springs saw—
I, grief alone.

O heart! to whose sweet pulses danced the year,
The dirge above thy gladness hath been sung;
The faded hours, upon thy youth's sad bier,
Have grave-flowers flung!

She died—and with her died, O life, for thee,
The flush of love, and all hope's cloudless dreams!
Sunless—of mirth, henceforth, thou, heart, must see
But moonlight gleams.

479

O shrouded sweetness! Lo! those lips are white;
The roses of the year no more are red!
What is the silver lily to our sight?
Thou—thou art fled!

O life! O sadness! thou the deepening gloom
Of dying Autumn for thy skies would'st crave—
Would'st see all beauty, withering to the tomb,
Fade o'er her grave!

FAREWELL!

Parted, parted, ever parted,—
Said and said the words have been,
Yet I hear them, broken-hearted,
As in wonder what they mean;
To no sense my soul has started
Of the all within them seen.

Parted, parted,—throbbing through me
With a strange, dull, dreamy pain,
As of no real import to me,
Pulse your accents through my brain—
Sound your low, rich, full tones through me,
Never heard in love again.

How you lured me on in dreaming
You were evermore my own,
Is, O fair dissembling seeming!
Well to both our memories known,
Will, with tears through far years streaming,
Haunt one thought, though one alone.

Still my heart you saw was trembling
With the wealth of love it bore;
Judged by mine, mine all resembling,
Yours I thought no masquing wore;
Was like mine, O all dissembling!
Truth through all its inmost core.

480

Blindly—blindly—all believing,
With an utter faith in you,
Childlike, did I woo deceiving,
Childlike, deem you must be true;
Could I dream your web was weaving
Round a heart no guile that knew!

Must I calmly, coldly, meet you?
Must no old familiar word,
Rushing through my lips to greet you,
Ever—evermore be heard!
As a very stranger treat you,
Who no pulse of mine has stirred!

Ah, that years, alas! could sever
Hearts, in seeming, once so true,
So that time could change us ever,
Was a thing I little knew!
Surely, dreamed I, change could never
Thrust itself 'twixt me and you.

Would that I could then have known you
As I truly know you now,
Ere my sightless trust, to own you,
Falseness as you are, knew how,
Ere the coming days had shown you,
Thing of change, as you are now!

Vain, I know, is all complaining;
Words, I know, are useless all,
Though in blood my heart were raining
All the tears that from me fall,
For the love there's no regaining,
For the peace without recall.

Pride was mine—all pride has left me;
Lingering love for you, forsworn,
Of the power to hate has reft me,
Reft me of the power to scorn;
Would that love but pride had left me!
Then with scorn, your scorn I'd borne.

481

Heavily the gloom of sorrow
On my thoughts its sadness lays,
Still new hope I yet may borrow,
Bounding life for coming days,
Lightening me with every morrow,
Of the grief that on me weighs.

Yet from doting has it turned me,
This vain bitter dream that's o'er,
This false, fickle heart that's spurned me,
Spurned a heart such love that bore;
Wisdom I at least have earned me,
And I trust no woman more.

THOUGHTS AND FANCIES.

Tell me, whirling autumn leaf,
Lend'st thou not new tears to grief?
Thoughtful sermons may not sorrow,
From thy fall, for mortals borrow,
Homilies that tell how near
Life and death are dwelling here?
“Mortal, from our fall shall spring
Newer, fairer blossoming.”

What is glory! what is fame!
Though it ring through coming years!
Heed not if the future hears
Far-off races hymn thy name;
Act the right, unheeding whether
Coming tongues thy deeds shall tell;
Act the right, though men together
Bid thy name and curses dwell,
And the future know thee not;
Trust thou that when thou rt forgot,
Though thy name be hid in night,
Still thy deeds shall live in light;
Live, or known, or not, the same;
What is glory! what is fame!

482

Prithee, what is life to thee,
Man of marts alone and trade?
Dost thou think that thou wert made
Only such a drudge to be?
Dost thou think the might of thought,
High imagination's fire,
Feeling's powers were meant for nought
But to win thy worthless hire?
Trust me, thee, the truly wise,
Whom thou scornest, may despise;
May, unsighing, live without
All the winnings of thy drudging;
Sparing not a wish to grudging
All thou wastest life about;
Poor, thy very scorn may be,
And yet well look down on thee.

Hate brings hate as love brings love.
Ponder, mortals, ponder this,
Nor, through passion, blindly miss
Happiness, all else above;
Hard it is the best to greet
With love, meeting no returning;
But with kindly love to meet
Hate that all affection's spurning,
Is all hard things else above.
Hate brings hate as love brings love.

Soul, what would'st thou? toilless leisure?
Ease untroubled? endless pleasure?
Wouldst thou not, I prithee, then
Throne thee in the praise of men?
Nay, to what still dost thou, higher,
Mounting soul of mine, aspire?
Thine what wouldst thou rather call?
Power, through work, to better all.

Prithee, what's thy boast of birth?
Pride of folly; wisdom's mirth;
That from which the wise may borrow
Smiles in care and jests in sorrow;

483

For our mocking is it meant,
Boaster, this thy long descent?
I and all from Adam came;
Prithee, didst thou not the same?

LINES WRITTEN IN MISS MITFORD'S GARDEN.

O glories of the emerald spring,
Be here your first unfolding!
Your sweetest sights, O, hither bring,
Ye months, for her beholding!
Round—hither, round her dwelling throng,
Her honoured steps attending;
So shall ye bloom in tale and song,
In beauty never-ending.

O, songs of the rejoicing year,
Bring hither all your gladness!
Well may ye make her mirth more gay;
Well may ye soothe her sadness;
For when your pleasant joy no more
Shall set the copses ringing,
Sweet voices, still in tale and song,
Shall ye be ever singing.

THE LIME BEFORE MY WINDOW.

Pleasant is its sight to me;
Pleasant will it ever be;
Often shall I long to see
That lime before my window.

Green it rustles in my thought;
Ah, what memories has it brought!
Pictures fair that rose unsought!
That lime before my window.

484

Waking in the morns of spring,
First does memory love to bring
Leaves that rustle, birds that sing,
That lime before my window.

As I pass adown the stair,
Greeting me with welcome rare,
Stands its greenness, radiant there,
That lime before my window.

And when slumbrous noons are come,
Only summer sound not dumb,
Well I love thy murmuring hum,
Thou lime before my window.

Freshly steals the elm to sight;
Bright the chestnut opes to light;
Thine is greenness yet more bright,
Thou lime before my window.

Flame the woodlands, dim and cold;
Glorious are they, nor behold
Glory brighter than thy gold,
Thou lime before my window.

Keen with frosts are earth and air;
Leafless art thou standing there;
And art thou to me less fair,
Thou lime before my window?

No, unto an inner eye,
All thy beauty that could die,
All thy glory still is nigh,
Thou lime before my window.

Hue, and leaf, decay, consume,
Yet, triumphant o'er thy doom,
Sunlit there, I see thee bloom,
Thou lime before my window.

485

In a moment, even now,
Verdurous Springs thy branches bow;
Autumns burn on every bough,
Thou lime before my window.

Ah, might every year of mine
Some sweet store of beauty shrine
In the thoughts of men, like thine,
Thou lime before my window!

A MAY-DAY SONG.

Come out, come out from cities;
For once your drudging stay;
With work 'twere thousand pities
To wrong this honoured day;
Your fathers met the May
With laughter, dance and tabor;
Come, be as wise as they;
Come, steal to-day from labour.

Is this the proof we're wiser
Than all who've gone before,
That Nature, less we prize her
Than those who lived of yore?
Their May-day sacrifice
Shall we not hold a duty,
And pay with hearts and eyes
Due honour to her beauty?

Talk not of want of leisure;
Believe me, life was made
For laughter, mirth and pleasure,
Far more than toil and trade;
And little short I hold
That social state from madness,
For daily bread where's sold
Man's natural right to gladness.

486

Then out from lane and alley,
From court and busy street,
Through glade and grassy valley,
With songs the May to meet;
For, jests and laughter, care
From all things could but borrow;
The earth, the very air
Are death to thoughts of sorrow.

Come, hear the silver prattle
Of brooks that babbling run
Through pastures green, where cattle
Lie happy in the sun;
Where violets' hidden eyes
Are watching May's sweet coming,
And gnats and burnished flies
Its welcome loud are humming.

In song the spring comes welling
To-day from out the grass;
And not a hedge but's telling
Earth's gladness as you pass;
Far up the bright blue sky
The quivering lark is singing;
The thrush in copses nigh
Shouts out the joy it's bringing.

Then leave your weary moiling,
Your desks and shops to-day;
'Tis sin to waste in toiling
This jubilee of May.
Come, stretch you where the light
Through golden limes is streaming,
And spend, O rare delight!
An hour in summer dreaming.

487

A LEAF FROM MY SKETCH-BOOK.

'Tis a pleasant spot of greenness,
Worth a poet's best of praises;
Well the sunlight loves to linger
In that grassy haunt of daisies.

Well I mind its trembling poplars,
Well, the white road that, anigh it,
Winding upward from the landscape,
Led my wandering footsteps by it.

In the grey and stony city,
Oft before me fancy raises,
Soft in golden mists of morning,
Yet again that home of daisies.

Up, its cottage smoke goes curling,
'Gainst the green still elms around it,
Where, across its white-thorn hedges,
Once again my eye has found it.

Up the wood that leafs the hill-side,
Yet again my fancy gazes,
Wanders over all the far view
Stretched beneath that haunt of daisies.

Over pasture, field, and river,
City towers and village spires,
Travels on my eye, delighted,
With a joy that never tires.

But with pleasure, all surpassing,
Smile and jest and kindly phrases,
Do I pass, as on that morning,
By that grassy haunt of daisies.

488

Leaning o'er the stile, I see her
As she met my passing greeting,
Fresh and flush'd as the hedge-roses
Round the green spot of our meeting.

With a laugh we met and parted;
Ah! those few sweet country phrases,
Oh! how often do I hear them,
Lingering past that haunt of daisies!

489

SONNETS.

491

WRITTEN IN WINDSOR CASTLE.

I

Kingly abode of kings, breathing thy air
I breathe the reverence that bends souls down
Before the awful presence of a crown.
Queen of our land, thou who dost purely wear,
Thy people's boast, the lofty golden care
Of sovereignty, those who nor smile nor frown
Of courts have heeded, they to thee bow down,
Whose reign is queenly as thy life is fair.
Great in our love are thou as in the power
Thou drawest with thy blood from lines of kings.
Thy rule is wider than thy lands this hour.
The love of nations o'er thy greatness flings
Blessings, which are alone thy virtues' dower,
Thy queenliest virtues with which earth still rings.

II

Prudence hath been thy teacher—thy high guide,
Wisdom; her, thou hast wisely bade to school
Passion for power uncurbed, which shakes the rule,
This hour, of reigns unnumbered far and wide;
Therefore thy throne, upon our love and pride,
Rests shockless—calm—defiant of the fool
Who rails at rules unblemished, and the tool
Of factions which bid passion over-ride
Reason, and know but hate of every throne.
Self-ruled thyself, to us self-rule thou too
Hast yielded. The high wisdom thou hast known,
That rarest wisdom known but to how few
Throne-seated, they do most who gladly own
Their best deeds those they see their people do.

492

III

Nor over men, O ruler, dost thou reign
Alone, but regnant in thy own high will,
Curbing thy thoughts and feelings, to fulfil
The duties which so often Earth in vain
Demands of kings, to whom observance fain
Would bend, unquestioning their great pleasure still,
Finding good, in them, what in all is ill,
Till good near thrones but seldom dare remain.
Ruling, by virtue ruled, thou hast obeyed
All laws God-given. In thee thy parents found
A child to smile on. Womanhood thee made
A wife we reverence, true to love's blest law.
“Be mothers like thee!” so by men 'tis said,
More deeply ruled by thee by love than awe.

[Friends, could I live a life of art alone]

Friends, could I live a life of art alone,
Or, through and through, weave in its golden thread
With the poor cares of life, which win life's bread,
Then were my leaden hours for golden known.
O but my days—my thoughts, to call my own!
That golden dreams might glisten through my head,
Unscared by meaner inmates,—that instead
Of stoniest streets, earth's charms were to me shown!
Florence and Rome and Venice you have seen,
And Alpine solitudes sublime, that hear
Above their clouds, snowclad, still, cold, serene,
The avalanche to the valleys thunder fear.
Bared to your eyes, how bless'd! such sights have been,
Henceforth, how often to them to appear!

[You shall be thought of with the scents of Spring]

You shall be thought of with the scents of Spring,
Dim violets' odours and all blooms of May;
All the sweet sights of that remember'd day,
The thought of you straight to my eyes shall bring.
In hedge and elm shall thrush and linnet sing,
And the rook's pleasant caw shall cross our way
Where chestnuts all their milky cones display,

493

And gold-green limes their tender shadows fling.
Then of the Fairy Palace shall there come
Remembrance,—of all shapes of beauty there,
Goddess and nymph and hero, white and dumb,
Striking a stillness through the gazing air,
Awed with their sweetness. So you have become
Link'd in my memory with all things fair.

[You cross my dusty path with dreams divine]

You cross my dusty path with dreams divine,
And like Spring's sunbursts, light my hours to gold.
You bring all thoughts of beauty. I behold,
Looking on you, the noons of Venice shine,
And from the skies of Rome, her suns decline.
The utterance of your names brings thoughts untold
Of art's high triumphs wrought by souls of old,
Babe and Madonna awed to love divine;
With you come Titian's colours to my eyes;
Prophets and holiest ones that Raphael drew,
Titans of Angelo, and gods arise,
White goddesses revealed to Phidias' view;
No common thought—no poorer sight, but flies
From fair imaginings that come with you.

[Nor, Alchemists, turning to gold the lead]

Nor, Alchemists, turning to gold the lead
Of my dull'd days, alone your presence brings
Frescoed and aureoled saints about whom clings
The reverence that we owe their limners dead;
To later triumphs are your names, too, wed
In my glad thought—names that Fame softlier sings
As yet than Leonardo's; her trump rings
But with the centuries-aged; yet theirs are read
Clearlier and clearlier, as the fresh years come,
On her throng'd tablets. As I think of you,
Memory of these we love so is not dumb;
I look upon the lives that Gainsborough drew;
Reynolds is with me, and, lo! I become
Still'd into awe as Turner's world I view.

494

[With you, too, comes the Shakespeare of all sound]

With you, too, comes the Shakespeare of all sound,
Handel, whose glory was to us reveal'd
With last Spring's violets, when the organ peal'd
His mighty hymns—strains fittest to resound
With Heaven's hosannas the White Throne around,
While on the jasper sea archangels shield
Their eyes from the brightness that His glories yield.
Then swell'd for us his ocean-bursts of sound,
And myriad voices poured Miltonic praise,
And chorus answer'd chorus—choir to choir
Telling His majesty, who was ere day's
New glory was, or night's. On wing'd desire
Our souls stream'd upwards—in a hush'd amaze
Rapt, like the Prophet's, up to God in fire.

[Of poet-homes was our delightful talk]

Of poet-homes was our delightful talk,
And of sweet singers o'er the Western seas,
Whose golden fancies, like our summer bees,
Swarm music round us wheresoe'er we walk,
And all our cares of their full triumph balk.
Of Holmes, well-loved, we spoke, who this day sees
Your Charles steal seawards by your home's dear trees.
Of Cambridge's dear poet was our talk,
Who gave Evangeline with us to dwell,
And wild, sweet Indian visions to our eyes,
With their strange beauty, which we love so well.
Of him I ask'd, with thoughts as sweet and wise
As those of which dim Academe's groves tell,
And of strong Lowell, whom two worlds so prize.

[Nor were those, breathing not your Boston air]

Nor were those, breathing not your Boston air,
Forgotten—Willis, dear for tender grace,
And Bryant, who by Wordsworth's side has place
For solemn thoughts and tones and fancies fair,
Blessings, how priceless to our world of care!

495

Would I might look in reverence on his face!
Nor were we silent of your gentle grace,
Read, my dear friend, so bless'd with genius rare.
The name of Whittier kindled in us praise,
Deep reverence for high life, and such fierce fire
Of Heaven as scorch'd black Egypt. Of our days,
Stoddard and Taylor named we, and desire
I had your dead great in your talk to raise.
Of thoughts of that sweet hour I never tire.

[And as the glory of the still May moon]

And as the glory of the still May moon,
Gathering to fulness, soften'd the sweet night,
With English fames we lit the shadowy light,
Fames, like her brightness, to be greater soon,
But not, like that, to wane, but know a noon
Of perfect radiance in the future's sight—
Names that shall all the centuries delight,
Sweet to all coming ears as brooks in June.
Of Tennyson you told me; and the thought
That you had lived familiar in his home
Made you a wonder to me straight, and brought
More teeming fancies than your talk of Rome.
Then, too, my ear our Brownings' dear names caught,
Your friends in the shade of Peter's mighty dome.

[So you have been with Severn, and have heard]

So you have been with Severn, and have heard
The tongue that spoke to Keats the last farewell,
His on whose breast our darling's dear head fell,
When his great life sank from his latest word.
Sight of that face—what thoughts must it have stirr'd!
Sound of that voice—what memories must it tell
Of him who, lapp'd in glory, now sleeps well
'Neath Roman violets, where no crities gird.
Such is the doom of fame. Even as a saint,
Ere he be crown'd with heaven, devils abuse,

496

So bat-eyed critics as a devil paint
Genius, to hail whose greatness they refuse.
Need is there, friend, for those who, o'ertried, faint,
Of such as you, lest we some Keats, too lose.

[What pleasant talk you bear across the sea]

What pleasant talk you bear across the sea,
To make you famous in your Boston home,
Beyond your Venice nights and days of Rome,
Your tales of Paris and of Italy.
For you have known those whom alone to see
Renowns one in your world across the foam
Of the wild sea; with such has been your home,
And, were you here, yours still their homes would be;
You'll be as he of our great Queen's great reign,
“Rare Ben,” great Jonson, who with Drummond sat,
And, while his Hawthornden rare sack he'd drain,
Told of his Mermaid nights—of this and that,
His fellows—Beaumont—Ford—and gave again
Shakespeare's wise wit and Fletcher's radiant chat.

[And you have paced the streets that Cæsar trod]

And you have paced the streets that Cæsar trod,
And breathed the air that throbb'd to Cicero's tongue,
That heard the sweet-voiced odes of Horace sung,
When Jove on all Rome's templed hills was God,
And earth, through all its nations, own'd her nod.
There where the mighty Consuls from her sprung,
When victory close the gates of Janus swung,
Led nations captive, girt with axe and rod,
There, in her marble dust, your western feet
In marvelling awe, their wandering steps have set,
Treading on annals that still make hearts beat,
On memories that the centuries pale at yet.
Fetter'd she fell. My friend, that to repeat,
In your free land, O do not thou forget.

497

On being told that Charles Dickens had said that “the bust of Clytie must have been modelled from a real Greek girl, or it could not have been so beautiful.”

Yes, so, great master of our smiles and tears,
So lived a real Clytie in the far past,
When grew the radiance that shall ever last,
And Athens' grandeur glorified the years.
Art then is highest when it humbly clears
The blots by life on perfect nature cast,
Gives her perfection, not by a line o'erpast,
And to mar that still reverently fears.
O Lady of the West, who art as fair
As she was, and wast born 'neath rule as free,
Perchance those eyes, in marble down-droop'd there,
Lit Salamis' red victors from the sea,
Or dropp'd from Alcibiades' bold stare.
So, snatch'd from time and death, you, friend, should be.

“Should not the truest Art interpret rather than daguerreotype?”

Yet did Dione, sunning earth with smiles,
Rise radiant from the depths of Phidias' brain,
Nor Titian's colours for her sought in vain
Who netted the fierce Mars in her sweet wiles.
Say not that highest art one charm beguiles
From beauty, though its unshorn strength disdain
Aught earthly that would circumscribe its reign.
See, Ariel and the serpent who was Nile's,
These the fine brain of him who has no peer
Did re-create from nature. Truth alone
Is mighty; yet a mightier truth is here,
A truth God-given through man, who so hath shown
Shadow'd in him the might with awe we hear
Creating always all things to us known.

498

IN THE DULWICH GALLERY—BEFORE GUIDO'S “ST. SEBASTIAN.”

May 22nd, 1860.

And on this very canvas Guido wrought
The Christ-like beauty of these sainted eyes,
Fill'd but with God, even in these agonies!
How to the mighty master were they brought!
From his own brain was this great glory caught?
Whence did the radiance, here before us, rise?
Truly a sacredness untold there lies
In such rare visions. Given to man's thought
Are all his highest works of hand and brain;
They seem but his; these God himself creates.
Unless He work through us, we work in vain.
He, with pure heart and open soul, who waits
To do His bidding, he the crown shall gain,
And pass, through prayer, through glory's temple-gates.

IN LONDON—AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY—BEFORE MURILLO'S “HOLY FAMILY.”

“We are such things as dreams are made of;”—yes,
Friends, seem we not as breathings upon glass,
As wind-swept shades of clouds, that swiftly pass,
Seen by these changeless ones who ever bless
With the great glory of their loveliness,
All generations. Even as the grass,
We come and are not, while our works, alas!
Mock our mortality and nothingness.
Were earth our all, and did no lustres lie,
Of heaven, before our ever-aging eyes,
Well might we cry with him, who daily by
Great Leonardo's blest ones pass'd, “Man dies;
“These radiant ones are of eternity;
“We are the shadows; they, realities.”

499

ON A VIOLET-STAND.

On such a shape, Aspasia loved to heap
Hymettus' thyme, Illissus' violets,
To charm to softness Pericles, with frets
Of the Pnyx heated,—all his soul to steep
In hours of her and joy; or, years to leap,
Some Roman Lydia's hand, ere time forgets
Lost Pompeii, till some distant century lets
Life's light upon its deaths, in hyacinths, deep
In purple as the violet skies on high,
Might hide with Nature its as beauteous art,
Even on that morn when hideous death drew nigh
Those fair Italian homes, while her young heart
Dream'd not Vesuvius soon, 'neath the black sky,
Would from its womb the entombing torrent start.

AT ROME—FROM THE HILL OF THE CAPITOL.

Look! for this hill has visions; hush, and see
Their passage; hark to that still nearing shout,
That thunder-burst of joy; all Rome is out
To-day; to-day a holiday must be;
Pompeius triumphs. O'er that tossing sea
Of up-turned faces—o'er the surging rout,
See, the great conqueror, glory-girt about
With gifts and treasures rent from victory,
With monarchs manacled—great Asian kings,
Rules and dominions crumbled in Rome's ire.
Hark to the blare of brazen trumpets; things,
Unseen of Rome till now, her gazing tire,
Tower'd elephants and spoils of which earth rings.
Can grander vision, friends, your thought desire?

500

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE COLISEUM.

Here was the heart of Rome. Her lust of blood,
'Gainst which so long the nations of the earth
Cried vainly, here grew fiercer, or had birth,
Lapping in this vast murder-house the flood
Welling from veins of the wild savage brood
Of the strong North, here slaughter'd for her mirth.
Yet not in vain arose that cry of earth.
The avenging angel at God's footstool stood.
Sin is decay. The pitiless shall meet
No pity. Comes the Goth; the avenging day
Hastens to that fell call. The nations' feet
Quicken to hear it, on their road to slay.
To that, their hearts with lust of carnage beat;
Smit by that cry, Rome's red life shrieks away.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

What! you have look'd on Landor and have heard
His agèd lips utter Miltonic thought,
In tones that seem from Bacon's great tongue caught,
Rich, with what wisdom, in each weighty word!
Speech by which they, fit for such food, are stirr'd
To brace their lives to noblest acts,—are taught
The Spartan mood by which the strong are brought
To near all glory, like Jove's dazeless bird,
To know all is, for those who dare, endure,
And grasp success with hands that crush all stings.
O, old man eloquent, your place is sure,
Your place, how high, amid thought's sceptred kings,
The loftier lights and leaders of our race
To right and good, and scorn of meaner things.

ROBERT BROWNING.

To tread Rome with him, did not your heart beat,
With him who so could raise its dead to sight,
With him who so with wonder and delight
Fills the fit soul whose eyes his great thoughts meet,

501

With Robert Browning? Fittest are his feet
To tread the marble of Rome's dust aright,
Fittest his words to grow to the great height
Of the great memories of her every street,
Fit audience has his genius found, if few
Yet, for the souls of most are small and poor.
Many the years that died ere England knew
Her Milton, ere her Wordsworth's place was sure.
Slowliest the mightiest glory ever grew;
Slowly his grows—how surely to endure!

BEFORE WILKIE'S “COLUMBUS.”

So look'd the great world-seeker, in neglect,
In poverty and the world's scorn, erect
On the broad stand of the earth-changing thought
Which the dumb West from out the Past's night caught
To light and life. Yet, friend, how nearly wreck'd
Seem'd that great thought which God will'd should connect
The far, dim vast, which then his clear sight sought,
And the old world, first wed in his clear thought.
What at that moment was in that broad brow!
The gleam of the white multitudinous sails,
The ocean-shuttles ever crossing now!
The march of man towards where the sunset pales,
Of rules to which the coming times shall bow!
Friend, lo, a God-sent purpose never fails.

AT SOUTH KENSINGTON—IN THE TURNER GALLERY.

“Wisdom doth dwell with children round her knee,”
And, looking on these glories, they are wise
Who gaze on them with child-like hearts and eyes,
Content to feel, not doubt of what they see.
Truly a reverent spirit there should be
In eyes that look on things the highest prize
The highest. If they see not all that lies
Before them, they bring not the souls to see;

502

Therefore, dear Friends, has beauty unto you
Bared all her radiance, nor with any veil
Dimm'd her full lustre to your reverent view;
Therefore, before her, could you never fail
To see the loveliness reveal'd to few,
Deep hidden from souls, than yours, more gross and frail.

AT DULWICH.

Ah, the dear goodness of our gracious God!
Oh what a glory gilds the fields to-day!
The “glad light green” of blithe old Chaucer's May
Gleams from the grass and laughs up as 'tis trod;
There, to warm wooing airs sweet cowslips nod,
While, from their honey'd cups, bees boom away;
Bright is the lime; bright is the willow's spray;
Glory and joy are everywhere abroad,
Nor from our hearts that laugh aloud His praise,
His goodness who has made the Spring so fair,
Down scattering such bright blessings on our ways,
Painting His power and mercy everywhere.
O well our hearts may we in gladness raise
To Him who takes for us such gracious care!

IN THE SISTINE CHAPEL—BEFORE MICHAEL ANGELO'S “LAST JUDGMENT.”

So the last trump shall sound, and all earth's dead
Shall gather to the mighty angel's cry,
All souls that ever wore mortality,
All flesh, to death, that ever bow'd the head.
Then from the throne shall the awful words be said,
Utter'd by Highest Justice, crown'd on high,
Dooming the unrighteous everlastingly,
While into bliss the pure of heart are led.
O what a soul was his this sight who saw,
Who gave its terrors by us to be seen

503

To seize all living souls with trembling awe,
As if, with him, spectators they have been
Of the just vengeance of eternal law,
Or shook appall'd even now in the dread scene.

AT DULWICH.

Dear lie the meadows of full many a May,
Deep-grass'd and daisied, in my memory's sight;
Elms of how many a Spring, my thoughts, delight;
Blooms of what vanish'd years may sweet my way;
Dark hours are glorified with day on day
Departed, set into the past's dim night;
All lustres of my past, my present, light,
And dearer grow the longer that they stay.
Yet this glad day more dear will memory mark;
This day more surely will oblivion spurn;
Ne'er to be whelm'd in the pursuing dark,
But dearer, fairer, ever to return,
Till, cold, my ear can hear no more May's lark,
And suns no more for my closed eyes shall burn.

AT ANTWERP—BEFORE RUBENS' “DESCENT FROM THE CROSS.”

O holiest spirit, most bless'd that e'er wore
On earth these frail robes of mortality,
So for our human sake, Christ, didst thou die
The death that thieves and malefactors bore,
Making the Cross, how sacred! evermore.
“God, why hast thou forsaken me!”—that cry
Shrieks through all ages thy wan agony
As when, first heard, the accursèd night it tore,
And Mary knew it by the abhorrèd tree,
And swoon'd from that wild wail in love and awe.
And thou who here hast given to man to see
What shuddering earth, darkening her darkness, saw
Surely the tongue of God thou cam'st to be
To tell how He was given to death's fell maw!

504

[Venice! Dear friends, how comes she to your eyes?]

Venice! Dear friends, how comes she to your eyes?
An Aphrodité rising from the sea,
Clasp'd half in waves, half in fierce glare, does she,
As Turner painted her, before you rise?
Or, nearer view'd, where the gondola plies
The oar through palaces that ruin see
Wan in their chambers, seems she, friends, to be
She who on Canaletto's canvas lies?
“The Stones of Venice” you have brought away
For after-visions in your Boston air;
The halls where Titian's colours pale the day,
Which Veronese so throng'd with forms, how fair!
Which Tintoretto dyed—these with you stay
With the flush'd splendours of St. Mark's bright square.

[On the Rialto, too, your steps have been]

On the Rialto, too, your steps have been
And press'd the stones that Shylock's garment swept,
What time, blood-thirsting, he the appointment kept
With him who spat upon his gabardine.
The white doge-haunted palace you have seen
Where Byron loved and wrote; your hearts have leapt,
Thinking, beneath those leads, what souls have wept
Whom from the awful Ten no love could screen.
And you have stilly cut her hush'd lagune,
Your gondolier low-chanting to the oar,
While the soft splendour of the quiet moon
Silver'd her palaces, peopled no more
With rule and grandeur. Friends, may God full soon
Unto her hands, freedom and strength restore.

[Ah, those Italian lakes! My town-dull'd eyes]

Ah, those Italian lakes! My town-dull'd eyes
Weary to see them, lapp'd in the blue shade
By the deep hush of their still mountains made,
Dark with the purple of their violet skies,
Or crimson-stain'd with all the thousand dyes
That flush their waters when their sunsets fade,
Or purpled with deep nights whose moons are stay'd
To glass them in their deeps till morning rise.

505

Ah me, what music is in each sweet name!
Como—La Guarda—what sweet sights they bring
To eyes that have not seen them, to their shame!
What calming music to the soul they sing!
Dear friends, their glassy sweetness with you came,
And with you ever to my thoughts will cling.

[When the laburnum droops its golden rain]

When the laburnum droops its golden rain,
And lilacs flush with gladness all our ways,
When red and white-hued hawthorns scent our days,
For you in thought we shall not look in vain;
With the dear May-time you shall come again.
Violets shall whisper of you—daisies raise
Your forms, dear friends, your faces to our gaze,
As when we saw together field and lane,
And laugh'd aloud in gladness at the Spring.
Come, let us please us with the dear-loved thought
That thrushes of you, friends, shall ever sing,
That by the larks' your voices shall be brought,
That, when each hedge and bough with twitters ring,
From each sweet sound, your dear tones shall be caught.

BEFORE THE DULWICH GALLERY.

O cherry-tree, in my hush'd thoughts still white
As when we saw your sweet snows in the sun!
Bless God! the joy of beauty's but begun
When the eye sees it; bright and yet more bright,
It shines for ever in the memory's sight,
With gathering loveliness from fancy won;
Therefore is beauty's value summ'd by none,
Its priceless endlessness of new delight.
Friends, as you speed across the summer sea,
Golden beneath the glory of the day,
Or silver'd by the night, that tree shall be
A haunting gladness which will not away;
There in your thought 'twill bloom eternally,
An endless memory of our hours of May.

506

IN THE CAPITOL—BEFORE THE FAUN OF “PRAXITELES,”

[_]

Which suggested to Hawthorne the Donatello of his “Transformation.”

Look! From this Faun the teeming brain of him
Who is your glory, gather'd mystic lore,
Which a new birth of strange, sweet wonder bore,
Of airy shadows that before us swim,
Of teachings, through their veiling beauty dim,
Yet sweet unto our souls for evermore.
So beauty ever adds to its dear store;
Its sweets, the forms that hold them, overbrim,
And flow into the soul that for them waits,
Soon from its depths, new-born, to re-appear.
So beauty, beauty, evermore creates;
Laugh on, O Faun! for ever laughing here;
Henceforth your mirth's sweet worth, man higher rates!
Henceforth, to all you shall be doubly dear!

IN THE VATICAN—BEFORE THE APOLLO BELVEDERE.

Wonder and worship! Lo, this place hath grown
Awful with the still presence of the god!
Yonder, behold him, glorious as he trod
The air triumphant. There he breathes in stone
Immortal anger, but not wrath alone,
But radiance that rains violets on the sod,
And calls up amaranth where his feet have trod,
And hyacinths' purple, by his glory sown.
Utter no word! The chamber's air is fill'd
Not with his glory only, but with theirs,
The great of centuries, who here have still'd
Their thoughts and dreams, ambitions, fears and cares.
Who, in the air those radiant splendours gild,
To give one thought to aught less heavenly, dares?

507

AT THE SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM—BEFORE “THE TURNERS.”

May 26th, 1860.

Look! How his colours glorify the place
With lustres by no eyes of mortals seen,
Save his and such as his, whose sight hath been
Strengthen'd to look on Nature's robeless grace,
The awful beauty of her unveil'd face.
Yet seems she here transfigured in each scene—
Bright with a glory that hath never been;
Immortal radiance shines from out all space,
“The light that never was on sea or land,”
Ideal splendours that his soul's eye saw,
Flash'd into colours from his radiant hand,
Scenes that seem sinning against truth's clear law
To grosser gazers who before them stand,
But stilling you, dear friends, to praise and awe.

AT FLORENCE—BEFORE THE “VENUS DE MEDICI.”

Bless'd was the soul to which this marble thought,
In its still perfectness, by God was given,
Which stood translated then from earth to heaven,
Up to the Gods' high courts an instant caught,
By strong desire of that for which it sought,
The immortal grace for which its thought had striven.
And, lo! the veiling clouds a moment riven,
He, to our eyes, eternal beauty brought,
The radiance of this glory, to all time.
There stands she with the eyes that ruined Troy;
There looks she as she press'd hush'd Ida's thyme,
And smiled to love and death the Dardan boy,
Earth's beauty perfected to grace sublime,
The Queen of all the fulness of all joy.

508

IN THE VATICAN—BEFORE THE FRESCOES OF THE “STANZE DI RAFFAELLO.”

What dreams divine—what fancies not of earth,
What sweet imaginings, how heavenly fair,
Possess'd these rooms when Raphael breathed their air
And to their blest walls gave eternal worth
With these fair forms which from his brain had birth.
Here is his presence round us everywhere,
In the bright glory which these still ones share
With those whose grandeur girdles the world's girth,
The shapes of awfulness which hover near,
The Sistine's wonders, from the mighty thought
Of Angelo. Fitly the greatness here
Companions his, whose wondrous pencil wrought
There the dread scene that shakes all souls with fear,
With awe and horror from God's presence caught.

IN ITALY—1860.

Friends, you have dwelt not only in her Past,
But her proud Present, for 'twas yours to see
The surging waves of tossing Italy
Stilling from tempest, with their sky o'ercast,
Foretelling storm, how soon, how long to last,
Ere the great land of bygone rules be free,
And know no fetterers but the engirdling sea
And the embracing mountains round her cast.
You to the freedom of your Western hearts
Caught the dear accents, alien to her tongue
So long, the shout that from her Florence starts,
The cry that, to her God, Bologna flung,
And in your prayers and praise all had their parts,
Who, when she rose to smite, to help her sprung.

509

[So this is yours, our Wordsworth's pictured face]

So this is yours, our Wordsworth's pictured face,
Great poet of the quiet lakes and hills,
Who with the gentle peace of nature stills
The fever of our lives. A peaceful place
God gave him 'mongst our toils, so the great race
He sprang from, 'mid their labours, cares and ills,
With the calm blessedness he felt, he fills,
With love of wisdom, beauty, good and grace.
When you last came, you held his living hand,
And, with what reverence, heard his every word.
Through a sweeet day, with you, he of your land
Of freemen talked, or thought or feeling stirred
With converse of his art, rolling his grand
Deep verse out. O that I that voice had heard!

[What! Gad's Hill's haunted greenness you have seen.]

What! Gad's Hill's haunted greenness you have seen.
There is a subtle spirit in its air;
The very soul of humour homes it there;
So is it now: of old so has it been;
Shakespeare from off it caught the rarest scene
That ever shook with laughs the sides of care;
Falstaff's fine instinct for a Prince grew where
That hill—what years since!—showed its Kentish green.
Fit home for England's world-loved Dickens, here
How fitly first the breath of earth he drew.
Here did the spirit of Shakespeare linger near
His dreaming cradle, as the boy he grew,
Whispering what fancies into his young ear,
Rare wit, deep humour, O how dear and true!

IN THE DULWICH GALLERY—BEFORE MURILLO'S “FLOWER-GIRL.”

So smiled she in the hour in which he drew
This gladness for us; so still smiles she now.
That laugh that then he gave her does not bow
To time or death, immortal, ever new

510

Delight, as when beneath his hand there grew
That red arch'd lip, that mirthful swarthy brow,
On which Art's dear love never will allow
One aging wrinkle, to her darling true.
Ah me! before these ever-laughing eyes,
Ah me! before these ever-blooming flowers,
What eyes have stood through vanish'd centuries!
What smiles have flitted through what bygone hours!
What hearts have beat on which the sod now lies,
And daisies whiten in May's gentle showers!

THACKERAY.

Your own home heard our Fielding call you friend;
Here you have found what welcome in his home,
Have chatted with him of your hours in Rome,
Your Paris days, till night almost had end.
What light to the charm'd hours you've seen him lend!
What priceless memories over the far foam
You bear! what flashes to illume your home,
That mirth through all your future days shall send,
Drawn from the nights 'twas yours with him to see!
How you are stored with laughs for all your years!
His wit, his wisdom, shall your fellows be
With time, with time, who, as he flies, endears
Such gifts divine of gracious memory;
What wit more wise has charm'd all living ears!

ITALY.

Hers is the home of Art, beauty's own clime;
Voiceless and whitest sculpture loves her well;
There painting's mightiest marvels ever dwell;
There architecture's grandeurs skywards climb;
Wan Dante makes her sweetest tongue sublime;
Her words her Petrarch's softest sorrows tell;
Through her tones, Ariosto's wonders swell,
And the great tale her Tasso told to time.

511

Boccaccio, Raphael, Angelo are hers;
Hers are Cellini's, Machiavelli's fames;
Hers is that mightiest memory that stirs
The souls of men, when, Rome, our wonder names.
What lustre Venice on her tale confers!
What glory she from radiant Florence claims!

MRS. BROWNING.

And you who have known this Miriam of our days,
Who, with clear clash of cymbals and with song
Triumphant, grand sweet words to ring as long
Through time as Shakespeare's, flings up prayer and praise
Unto God's footstool, fittest souls to raise
From out the earthly sloughs of sin and wrong,
Up into heaven's clear azure, borne along,
Wing'd by her words, to where heaven's lustre plays
Upon them, so to walk again the earth
With spirits that show still the light of heaven,
That have known henceforth always a new birth
Of meeker, lowlier hearts unto them given
By her great thoughts, to all of what dear worth,
From whose raised hearts, they earthliest thoughts have driven.

AT MILAN—IN THE CONVENT OF THE MADONNA DELLE GRAZIE.

A Dream of Leonardo da Vinci's “Last Supper.”

Enter! and, entering, still your souls with awe;
Behold the blessèd ones! the Man Divine,
Even as he brake the bread and gave the wine,
And made His heart meek to obey the law,
The nearing doom even now His dear eyes saw.
“One of ye shall betray me.” Those divine
Bow'd lips still utter it. Still, (O how fine
Was thy great genius, Leonardo!) awe,

512

O what deep love, wonder and horror, here
On these bless'd faces, in these eyes, we see,
Eager for ever, while in shame and fear,
Judas' soul shrinks aghast eternally.
O mightiest master, as our Raphael dear,
Match'd with this wonder here, what art may be?

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

You knew him, friend, this wonder, ere the night
Received him, and he vanish'd, seen no more
Of men, he who into death's darkness bore
What radiance and what blackness from our sight,
He form'd for our bewilderment, delight,
Our admiration, loathing, praise. Death tore
Never so strange a page from life before;
What wonder if we read it not aright?
His was a music tender, strange and wild;
The ghosts of many a weird, wan melody
Wailed from his lines; wan faces through them smiled;
The sense of horror there unceasingly
Haunts us, to terror and to awe beguiled
By what we know not—what we feel, not see.

AT ALFRED TENNYSON'S.

So you have breathed a week in the very home
Of our sweet dreamer of all golden dreams;
As, thro' my thought, his name's bright radiance streams,
With it, what countless lustrous fancies come,
In whose bright presence well may men grow dumb
With love and worship. Wonder well beseems
The eyes dear friends, on which their lustre beams,
Brightness, alas, dim to the eyes of some.
Ah me! what shapes of heavenly beauty rise
With the dear utterance of his world-loved name!
What forms of majesty time lives to prize,
Splendours that earliest from his rare brain came,
And grandeurs later lent to our blest eyes,
With whose eternal life shall live his fame!

513

AT ROME—IN THE FORUM.

Hark to the clash of arms, the trumpets' blare!
Through shouting streets, the out-pour'd city's roar,
By face-throng'd roofs, by every bough-wreath'd door,
By wide-ope'd temples flush'd with garlands fair,
Through the vast wonder of the gazing air,
The spoils and marvels of the triumph pour,
Boasts lost to Macedon for evermore,
Statue and vase emboss'd and paintings rare,
Great priceless cups her Philip loved to drain,
Ancestral gold, by Alexander worn,
Gems that flashed glory on his mighty reign,
Treasures unsumm'd from her cleft phalanx torn
By Rome's fierce legions on loud Pydna's plain.
See, Perseus chain'd—Æmilius chariot-borne.

IN THE TOWER OF LONDON.

These stones were trod by Raleigh's prison'd feet;
Think, then, what vast thoughts breathed within this cell,
What radiant fancies by your eyes loved well,
Fancies still in our souls, with music sweet;
How his great spirit's wings here vainly beat
These bars for issue, weak are words to tell,
For flight to that far unknown world, where dwell
Nations he planted—English hearts that meet
With reverence the grand utterance of his name
Who was the sun of our great Queen's bright reign
And our abhorrèd Stuart's worst of shame,
To hide whose baseness time must strive in vain;
Link'd is that crown'd sin to his living fame
Whose mortal like earth yearns to know again.

514

WRITTEN IN NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE'S “TRANSFORMATION.”

I. [O mightiest name of death! O awful Rome!]

O mightiest name of death! O awful Rome!
How has he writ in marble on thy hills
His presence! Death thy stony valleys fills;
There, with the ghostly past, he makes his home;
Yet, in the shadows of thy mighty dome,
What life eternal lives, a breath that stills
His boasts to dumbness, and, thy conqueror, kills.
Who breathe thy air, deathless henceforth become;
For ears that hear, thy lips have mystic lore:
To those who question thee in the weird might
Of genius, lo, thy thousand tongues restore
The spells that scare Oblivion to flight.
Greatness is in thy touch. Lo, here, once more
To one thou giv'st thy glory as his right.

II. [Here is the life of Rome. The air of death]

Here is the life of Rome. The air of death,
Silence and solitude and awe are here;
Spectres of grandeur, at whose bygone breath
Earth still'd and trembled, from these leaves appear;
From these weird words steal wonder and strange fear,
An awful past, which he who listeneth
In solemn awe, with trembling heart may hear,
Hearing what from her stones the Bygone saith.
Here is the double life that haunts Rome's hills,
Power spelt in ruins—art that wreathes all time,
Beauty eternal which the rapt air fills
With reverence from fit souls from every clime.
Hawthorne, henceforth, here, with life's joys and ills,
Rome's thoughts are with me, and her dreams sublime.

III. [“From evil, good; from sin and sorrow, peace]

“From evil, good; from sin and sorrow, peace,
A holier future and a loftier faith.”
This, to the soul, thy mystic volume saith,
Hawthorne, and bids Doubt's spectral night to cease,

515

Offering, from its dread gloom, what blest release!
If any say, “Evil accuses Him,
From whom is all, of evil,” here in dim
Wan characters is writ, “Good hath increase,
Even from the stifling ill with which it strives.
God's wisdom is not ours. From blackest ill,
Souls, sorrow-deepen'd, have won whitest lives.
Bless Him for all things. All things are His will:
His stroke the granite of our hearts but rives
That light may enter, and His ends fulfil.”

JOHN RUSKIN.

I. [Our poet-priest of art you should have seen]

Our poet-priest of art you should have seen,
Who makes its voice one deep-toned hymn to God,
Who'd have its paths with feet the holiest trod,
Such as where Pisa's time-smooth'd graves are green
And silent, in her Holy Field have been,
And girt with tender beauty its dear sod,
Memmi, Orcagna, and he, dear to God,
Gaddi. Nor have such. by him, been unseen
Breathing amongst us, with whom art is prayer,
Each work is worship, where, nor faint nor dim
Glory to God is wrought in beauty rare,
In shapes and colours, through which upward swim
Sweet incense, which our awed souls skywards bear.
Hunt and Rosetti, so your hands praise Him.

II. [His words, I know, are priceless thoughts with you]

His words, I know, are priceless thoughts with you;
You should have had his face, friends, in your sight
For your remembrance, wonder and delight;
For he is one of England's rarest few,
Mating our days with the great times that knew
Our mother-tongue grow grander in its flight
From Milton's pen, pleading sublime for right,
And the rich organ-roll full pealing through

516

Our holy Taylor's strains of heavenly thought.
Then looking on him, in him, friends, your eyes
Had seen one who from Truth's own lips has caught
Wisdom and faith her lightest words to prize,
Knowing, through her, God's wondrous will is wrought
That art, a child uttering her words, is wise.

III. [When I remember how my hours go by]

When I remember how my hours go by,
My days to months, my months to dead years grow,
Then the swift shortness of my life I know,
How little I may do or ere I die;
Then do I feel how time I waste, and cry
“Art woos me lovingly her charms to show,
I, still thrust from her; will it still be so?
Will life be fruitless everlastingly?
O will no season of sweet leisure be,
Release from all this care for things, how poor,
For my chain'd thoughts, so yearning to be free,
Doom'd still such daily task-work to endure.
Art gives you gold; O were it so with me!
That she would give my needs, O were I sure!”

IN PARIS—AT THE LOUVRE—BEFORE MURILLO'S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION.”

Half could I worship thee as pictured here,
O thou Maid-mother of the Child divine,
Around whose pathway heaven's own lightnings shine,
Filling thee with a love that conquereth fear,
Making thee to the heart of man, how dear!
Yea, sacred, even unto eyes like mine
That are not Rome's, sacred, nay all divine,
Until to bow to thee my soul is near.
O mighty master, light of thy great Spain,
Many thy canvases that wake our awe;

517

But for one like this, eyes must look in vain,
Fill'd with the glory here thy bless'd eyes saw,
Rapt up on high to where the splendours reign,
Archangels worship, and but love is law.

IN LONDON—BEFORE HOLMAN HUNT'S “FINDING OF CHRIST IN THE TEMPLE.”

So worshipped Gaddi; so Masaccio sent
His heart up in a holy hymn to heaven;
Such incense, from Ghiberti's spirit given,
An offering fair, up to God's footstool went.
These held their masteries but as talents lent
By their high Lord; not to His labour driven
Went they, of those to win His smile who've striven,
To tell His power, His glory, ever bent.
To his work their reverent spirit has he brought,
For the vain praise of man having less care,
Than to refresh his soul with the blest thought,
His pencil has made righteousness more fair
Unto dull'd eyes. Friends, he this wonder wrought,
Like Fra Angelico, in the might of prayer.

[And of our great ones, him you should have known]

And of our great ones, him you should have known,
Kingsley, in whom fire of the altar burns,
The flame of God's old Hebrew ire, that turns
His words to lightnings, and the awful tone
Of thunders, kin to the wrathful wonders shown
To Pharaoh's hardness, so his spirit yearns
To smite out sin, while from his Lord he earns
Love, the best guerdon which he seeks alone.
For him, we bless God. Of such have we need
In this our day, troubled with evil sore,
Great want of shepherds, such as he, to feed
Fitly our hungering souls. O had we more
Like him, not eaten up with earthly greed,
But with desire of Him the Cross who bore.

518

AT ROME—BEFORE ST. PETER'S.

By the Janiculum, how awful stands
The shadowing vastness of its mighty dome,
Fit fellow of the memories that home
In her who was the ruler of all lands.
Before this mightiest toil of human hands,
This glory of the glories of great Rome,
To stand, O well across the ocean foam,
Friends, have you come. Faith here high-throned commands
Men's souls, as strength here once their spirits swayed;
So is earth always subject to these hills;
Here art, sublime by the vast grandeur made
Of Angelo, heaven with his glory fills,
The while all lands bow to her as he bade,
And every soul before her greatness stills.

AT ROME—IN ST. PETER'S.

Enter and wonder. Here, in the might of art,
Would superstition chain men's prostrate souls;
Here homes the soaring spirit that controls
The reason through the impulse of the heart,
Giving the brain in man's belief no part,
Faith wrought from feeling. But time forward rolls,
And more is needed by earth's hungering souls
Than beauty, at whose awfulness we start,
Can feed them with. Therefore of change men dream;
Therefore, in the vast shadow of this dome,
Are fear and trembling, and the alien gleam
Of bayonets; therefore does the soldier home
In thy hush'd palaces that peaceful seem
Until the breeding earthquake shake thee, Rome.

519

IN LONDON—BEFORE ST. PAUL'S.

O would that men would treat this wonder right,
Our own St. Peter's, this vast thought of Wren!
This marble marvel should not vainly then
Be fitly sought for by men's eager sight;
Then were it thrown wide open to the light,
Throned in clear space, not prison'd in this den
Of houses mean that shut that up from men
Which should be all men's wonder and delight.
O mighty art thou London, but one thing
Thou lackest greatly—souls to make thee great
Like those that bade great Brunelleschi fling
Grandeur o'er Florence and Ghiberti's gate
Crown her with glory; then the earth should ring
With this world's wonder, fitly seen though late.

IN LONDON—IN TRAFALGAR-SQUARE—BEFORE THE STATUE OF GENERAL SIR CHARLES JAMES NAPIER.

We are the living Romans of the earth,
Strong-nerved, high-thoughted, for that we are free;
Therefore earth-rulers are we and shall be.
While we, self-ruled, still hold our great rights worth
The blood that won them. Free, there is no dearth
To-day of ancient greatness with us. We
Lack not great souls that give us deeds to see
From which our greater future leaps to birth.
Look, Cæsar's spirit homed in that strong brain;
That brow, that eagle-look—all Rome is there.
Strong the high wreaths of victory to gain,
But, greater than the Roman, quick to spare,
The stricken ask'd his mercy not in vain.
Bless God, O land, thy days such souls still bear.

520

GARIBALDI.

Did you not hear it! Crept not that name by,
A muttering earthquake, through your Roman air?
Her new Rienzi, lo, his shadow there,
And the Sardinian victor's, gloom her sky,
To her soul-fetterers, everlastingly,
A terror and a horror everywhere.
Born all things greatly to endure, to dare,
With antique greatness, ruin to defy,
Still held he on, still holds he on the same,
Ever alike, in failure and success;
Unchanged alike, though baseness brand his name,
Or justice crown it. Italy, O bless
Him, through all time, through whom thy free life came,
Thy great free life of strength and blessedness!

AT FLORENCE—IN FRA ANGELICO'S CELL IN THE CONVENT OF ST. MARK.

Mighty was Launcelot, great Tristram strong,
Yet, stain'd with sin both, strength might not avail
To help them venturing for the Holy Grail;
To Galahad, spotless of all shame and wrong,
All white of heart, did that bless'd quest belong,
And strong in pureness, arm'd in the heavenly mail
Of holiness, he sought and did not fail,
And God's own knight, shines radiant still in song.
So, strong the most bless'd wreaths of art to win,
Are holiest thoughts and blessèdest desires,
Life that lives pure from spot of self or sin,
And, to show forth God's glory, never tires.
So fame, Angelico, thou findest in
Prayers that burn heavenward, in what holy fires.

521

AT ROME—IN THE FORUM.

Here grew her strength with which she trod down kings,
And came and saw and conquer'd the wide earth;
Her might here from her free life leapt to birth,
Here the vast greatness with which time still rings,
Which dwarfs all rules else into lesser things.
Here o'er her stormy crowds' fierce wrath or mirth
Thunder her Gracchi; here, their blood soaks earth
O'er which the thought of Cæsar glory flings;
Still Cicero's words burn through this haunted air;
Sylla's dread presence here appals us still;
For her high Consulships, Pompey pleads there,
There Marius' slaughtering words the scared hush fill;
Nero, Vespasian, Titus,—everywhere
Is greatness, aweing man with good or ill.

Shall Rome not live again? Shall she not know
Days fit to fellow with her mighty Past?
Her life, which now is death, this shall not last;
Hark! from Palermo, volleys thunder “No!”
Milan is fetterless; Florence dare show
Her heart bared now, her tyrant from her cast;
Bologna, Pisa, own free lips at last;
Turin strikes strongly; will it not be so,
O Etna, with your own green Sicily,
From which, like chaff, Italian swords have driven
Their tyrant's hordes into the sundering sea?
Not for this only has our great one striven;
Once more Rome's sword shall Garibaldi be;
Once more to her shall her great life be given.

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF TASSO.

“They learn in suffering what they teach in song:”
So was it with the life we gaze on here?
No; the great glory of his tale is clear
From the deep shadow of his mortal wrong;

522

Gladness and faith to his great strain belong,
Sung not alone to be sweet to man's ear,
But in the higher hope, the faith more dear,
That He who will'd it would approve his song.
Strange that this brow in awe we look on here,
God should have will'd such anguish to have known,
That madness, from its suffering and its fear,
Its heart's despair, could give it rest alone!
Yet those eyes saw the mighty vision clear,
And made its glory his, its joy our own.

FLORENCE.

I

Beautiful Florence! many a name is sweet
In the world's ear, but thine is very song;
Music and beauty's rarest charm belong
To its dear sound, and in its utterance meet,
And in thine Arno's, that, along each street,
Winds wooingly, fond loitering among
Thy palaces, on which Time's touch no wrong
Will lay, since they are sacred from the feet
That, treading, made them famous evermore.
Oh, that thy cypresses, these eyes might see!
Thy statued walks, these feet might wander o'er!
That to these ears thy fountains' plash might be
Gladness! Oh, thy still goddess to adore,
Thy heaven of beauty lustrous from the sea!

II

Neri, Bianchi, Guelf and Ghibeline,
These iron-grated windows of them tell;
These castled mansions of them whisper well,
And of the struggles which these streets have seen,
Fell wrath, and vengeful hate, which here have been,
And subtle brains, which here once tower'd or fell;
Still in these palaces grim shadows dwell,
Whose names for ages on men's tongues have been.

523

Before their palace, the Riccardi, pause;
There wrought the Medici their good and ill;
Cosmo's grand presence here the eye still awes;
Lorenzo's voice starts from the silence still;
Great were thy tyrants, Florence. Equal laws,
Bless God! now rule thee by thy own great will.

III

Yet lightlier reck we of their strength and power,
Than of the greatness here that stamps them great,
Art's radiant glories which illumed their state,
And made them more than puppets of their hour,
Throned things the years create, the years devour;
Hush'd are their schemes and plots, their pride, and hate,
The fear, the love, that on their pomp would wait,
Smile with their smile, or with their frowns would lour;
What reck we of them? But we reverence still,
In each what makes us bow to each great name,
Their love for beauty whose bright glories fill
Their chambers with the forms which are their fame;
For this, nor time, nor change, their names shall kill,
Or dim their memories, or their glories shame.

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF DANTE.

How changed from the young face Giotto drew!
That surely the dread vision had not seen,
That scarcely through the torturing gloom had been,
Or known the sights this pain-worn visage knew;
What do these deep lines and this woeful hue,
These features, cold and thin, and smileless, mean?
Deep wrath and hate in those sad eyes have been,
In that aged brow, woes felt but by the few;
What matters all? That sorrow-wrinkled brow
God's hand hath smoothed; those weary eyes have rest;
The peace it cried for, that tried heart has now;
Anguish and ire no more disturb that breast;
God bade him weep and sing, and now we bow
To his great glory, who through tears is blest.

524

AT FLORENCE—IN SANTA CROCE—BY THE TOMB OF MACHIAVELLI.

Here lies his dust; where is the spirit now
That, subtle as the serpent, here once wrought,
And train'd for hell how many a sceptred thought?
Where is the soul that schemed 'neath that still brow,
That to all ill full action dared allow,
So that it grasp'd the glittering prize it sought,
So that the crowns of time to heads it brought
That here in dust before death's footstool bow?
Come here, ye kings; ye subtle brains, come here,
Who, evil, wrought for thrones, dare hold for good,
Doth not a voice here cry to you to care
For heaven's hereafter? rightly understood
Are earth and hell here. Death speaks everywhere;
Would ye would heed his still words as ye should!

AT PISA—IN THE CAMPO SANTO—BEFORE THE FRESCOES AND TOMB OF BENOZZO GOZZOLI.

Sleep on, Benozzo, in her Holy Field,
By thee made holier. From thy pencil here,
What prayers, what solemn hymns, full-toned and clear,
Unto thy God their praise and glory yield!
These through the speeding centuries have peal'd
Strains to the raptured souls of men how dear,
Strains fit to rise in reverence to His ear
Before whose light, their sight, archangels shield.
Our God forgot, we work alone for men,
For man's poor praises now alone have care;
So Art, that wore celestial radiance then,
And heavenly robes she may no longer wear,
She shall not know her olden power till when
She too our prayers to heaven again shall bear.

525

MILAN, 1860.

Greatness dies not; from grandeur, grandeur springs;
From glory, glory evermore is born;
Therefore has she, who was the oppressor's scorn,
Found might in memory to tread down kings,
Making a present with whose deeds earth rings;
Therefore sits she, chain'd 'mongst the lands, forlorn,
No longer; in that strength rising, has torn
Her right to live greatly from the crowned things
That wrought her evil. She hath stung the heel
That crush'd the iron into her great soul.
Freedom is hers, grasp'd mid the clash of steel;
Tyrants no more her thoughts, her tongue control;
Free is the course; her past does she not feel
Shouting her on again to glory's goal!

IN LONDON—BEFORE MR. CROPSEY'S “AUTUMN ON THE HUDSON.”

Forgot are summer and our English air;
Here is your Autumn, with her wondrous dyes;
Silent and vast your forests round us rise;
God, glorified in nature, fronts us there,
In his transcendent works, as heavenly fair
As when they first seem'd good unto His eyes.
See, what a brightness on the canvas lies!
Hues, seen not here, flash on us everywhere;
Radiance that nature here from us conceals,
Glory with which she beautifies decay
In your far world, this master's hand reveals,
Wafting our blest sight from dimm'd streets away,
With what rare power! to where our awed souls kneel
To Him who bade these splendours light the day.

526

TO MARY HOWITT.

So should a life be lived, that genius lifts
To higher duties than life asks from all;
So art in blessèd influences should fall
Upon all hearts—using its mighty gifts
Man's thoughts and common acts to purify,
Breeding a loftier life and nobler aims,
A faith that liveth not in forms and names,
But in the deeds that fit a soul to die;
And well thy blessèd influence may we prize,
Moving about our paths in deeds of love,
In gentle words and household charities;
Well therefore may our reverence, above
The glare of useless fames, thy memory raise,
Throning thee in our love as high as in our praise.

TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Out have I been this morning—out—away,
Far from the bustling carefulness of towns,
Through April gleams and showers—on windy downs,
By rushy meadow-streams with willows grey;
In thick-leaf'd woods have hid me from the day
Sultry with June—and where the windmill crowns
The hills' green height, the landscape that renowns
Thy own green county, have I, as I lay
Crushing the sweetness of the flowering thyme,
Track'd through the misty distance. Village greens
All shout and cheerfulness in cricket time,
Red winter firesides—autumn cornfield scenes,
All have I seen, ere I my chair forsook,
Thanks to the magic of thy breezy book.

527

TO KEATS.

O nightingale, thou wert for golden Junes,
Not for the gusts of March! Oh, not for strife
With wind and tempest was thy Summer life,
Mate of the sultry grasshopper, whose tunes
Of ecstasy leap faint up steaming noons,
Keen in their gladness as the shrilling fife.
With smiles not sighs thy days should have been rife,
With quiet, calm as sleeps 'neath harvest moons;
Thee, nature fashion'd like the belted bee,
Roamer of sunshine, fellow of the flowers,
Hiving up honied sweets for man, to see
No touch of tears in all thy radiant hours;
Alas, sweet singer, that thou might'st not live
Sunn'd in the gladness that thou cam'st to give!

TO LEIGH HUNT.

I

“Spring flowers—spring flowers!”—all April's in the cry;
Not the dim April of the dull grey street,
But she of showers and sunbursts whom we meet
On dewy field-paths, ere the daisy's dry,
And breezy hill-sides when the morning's high.
“Spring flowers—spring flowers!”—the very cry is sweet
With violets and the airs that stay the feet,
The showery fragrance of the sweetbriar nigh;
Yet all and more than in that cry is found,
Rises before us with thy pleasant name,
Leigh Hunt; with the dear gladness of the sound,
Into my close room, all the country came;
Deep lanes and meadow streams rose with the word,
And through the hush of woods, the cuckoo's call I heard.

II

How sumless is the debt to him we owe,
Little, perchance, unto ourselves is known;
Little, perchance, how thickly he has sown
Our paths through time with pleasantness, we know;

528

His genial nature has not pulsed below
The loving teachings of his works alone;
A thousand deeds of good in others, own
His thoughts and words their angel-prompters; so,
Unrecognised, before our very eyes
His gentleness in that of others lives,
And many a kindly look and tone we prize,
And many a smile that to our firesides gives
The charm the most endearing them, have caught
Their power to bless us, from his gentle thought.

A RECOLLECTION OF THE PERFORMANCE OF “ION.”

Yes, I have sat before it; I have heard,
Heard with the plaudits of delightful tears,
The heart's real praises of sweet hopes and fears,
Life give a breathing utterance to each word,
Each phrase that in the hush of thought has stirr'd
My pulse so often; still to Fancy's ears
Wander low tones, in which again it hears
The gentle thoughts that have so oft recurr'd;
O dream of sorrow, ever be thy name,
Ion, a tender glory unto him
Who gave thy sweetness to the world's charm'd ears,
Gave thee, a thought to haunt the tongue of fame,
A sad sweet memory human eyes to dim,
A gentle moan of music wed to tears.

WRITTEN IN MACAULAY'S “LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.”

The plunge of standards, reeling to and fro,
Barks winter-tost upon a howling sea—
Rome's bucklers' conquering glare, I, battling, see;
Her swoop of death upon the warring foe;
The thrust, the grapple, and the yell below
The gloom of dust—cries, now that on, now flee—
Fierce trumpets blaring aye tempestuously,
That thunder to the stormy battle blow,

529

And now the rushing roar of flight I hear,
Loading with awe the pulses of the wind—
Before—the shriek of death—the yell of fear—
The slaughtering shout of victory, behind.
O wondrous art! so giving one to look
On Rome's fierce life! O marvel of a book!

MOTHERWELL'S GRAVE.

“It is painful to be obliged to state, that Motherwell's grave cannot be discovered without the assistance of a guide, not being marked by even a headstone.”—M`Conechy's Memoir of Motherwell.

A memory writ in tide-swept sands,—a name
Graven on running waters, was the doom
That, from the dusky portals of the tomb,
Thou sawest, Motherwell, await thy fame;
And who thy dark imaginings dare blame?
Upon thy nameless grave the wild-flowers bloom;
Nature, the resting-place of him by whom,
Unto the city where he dwelt, there came
A glory and a sanctity, alone
Hath deck'd with beauty. Oh, to Glasgow shame,
That to her poet hath not given a stone,
Graving her proudest honour in her claim
To him whose memory hath a life sublime,
Enlink'd unto the sweetest tears of time.

1850.

AT ROME—ON THE PINCIAN HILL.

Sweet were those sunsets from the Pincian seen,
When day died westward from the hills of Rome,
To rise in glory on your far dear home
And the loved paths from which your feet have been
So long. Oh, then remember'd was the scene
Before you? Did not, from its wonders, roam
Memory and love, across the wild far foam,
To nestle fondly 'neath your vines' dear green,

530

And the flush'd roses that hang trailing o'er
Your Boston casements, looking for each face
Familiar once there, now there seen no more?
Ah, dear will be the hours that, the sweet grace
Of those loved rooms, to your worn eyes restore,
That in them find your feet a resting-place.

[Would God had homed me near your fireside, friends]

Would God had homed me near your fireside, friends,
Nor sunder'd us by all the vasty sea—
Though nought to close-link'd hearts can distance be,
And friendship's power, the power of space transcends.
If but to hear your tongues this brief while lends
Such dearness to the hours you talk'd with me,
What were each day, if everlastingly
Mingled our lives until their mortal ends?
What radiant hours, how swift—paced then were mine,
Hours turning all they touch'd of life to gold,
Hours wing'd with converse of all souls divine,
Painters and poets given to earth of old,
And of those with us, spirits rare and fine,
Whose names by glory more and more are told.

[Yours be a life of pleasure, lapp'd in ease]

Yours be a life of pleasure, lapp'd in ease,
Ease by the nobleness of labour won,
By service to man's thought and fancy done.
Your calling gives you power men's souls to seize
And lift them skyward. Not alone to please
The sense, should art go forth beneath the sun,
But, by her beauty, that man may be won
To heights on earth from which heaven clear he sees.
Friends, you will nobly do God's bidding here;
Your path be pleasantness, through which your feet
May journey onwards still in joy, not fear,
While love and friendship make your hours, how sweet!
The radiance of the eternal day to meet,
And, with white lives, before The Throne appear.

531

BEFORE MR. JOHN RUSKIN'S “TURNERS,” AT DENMARK HILL.

Yes, here his soul should dwell—in this sweet air,
Soothed into calm by Nature's quietness;
Here where Art's dearest dreams for ever bless
His eyes and thoughts with sights how passing fair;
Such life is fitting for a life so rare;
Not fitly were it rounded in with less
Of thoughtful peace and tranquil happiness,
Afar from days of toil and haunts of care.
So shall his great thoughts to their native height,
In the blest ease of unvexed leisure, rise,
A glory and a gladness, to the sight
Of all empowered such gifts divine to prize,
The fancies fine that from his brain have flight,
The heavenly truths he calls before our eyes.

WRITTEN IN DR. HOLMES'S “ELSIE VENNER.”

Well may this book be closed with gentle tears,
With awe and tenderest pity and hushed thought,
Deep brooding o'er the fancies it has brought
To still our souls with its wild dreams and fears.
Strangely the story grasps us and endears
Its beauty, with such monstrous horror fraught,
The soul for which such hate and love so fought,
Whose tale each heart with painful pity hears.
Yet here, far more than power and beauty, more
Than Art's perfection, feeds with joy the soul;
Here love learns pity for crime, loathed before,
Even weeps for sin beyond the soul's control,
And, with the tenderness of heaven broods o'er
All woes that earth has, since God wills the whole.

532

WRITTEN IN “EMERSON'S ESSAYS.”

I. [Prophets thou hast, O earth, even as of old]

Prophets thou hast, O earth, even as of old;
See that thou know'st them! Well it is that thou
Shut'st not thine ears, so dinned with nothings now,
To the great teachings by their rapt tongues told;
Diverse those tongues, yet wisdom all unfold
Harmonious, for to one God they vow
Their living hours, and at one altar bow,
Bidding all, in all things, one faith behold;
Some act like Havelock, and in thund'rous deeds
Preach nobleness even in the gaze of death;
So Livingstone, our lives, with greatness feeds;
Others sustain our souls with holiest breath
And wisdom priceless. Such he wisely heeds
Who takes to heart what Emerson still saith.

II. [O that my soul might from his living tongue]

O that my soul might from his living tongue
Drink wisdom! that I might my ears rejoice
With the deep teachings of that far-off voice
Upon whose precious utterances have hung
Such souls uncounted—from whose breath have sprung
Lives that make angels gladden. Many a choice,
'Twixt sin and pureness hath that loftiest voice
Fixed for the holiest. High his wrath hath rung
O'er the poor tumult of abounding wrong
And evil multitudinous, and, bright
As the white lightning, hath scorched down the strong
And blustering sinfulness that, not in night
Cowered from high God, but thrust and brawled along
In noon's clear brightness, and in all men's sight.

III. [Therefore, O Wisdom, throne him with the wise]

Therefore, O Wisdom, throne him with the wise
Whose glories brighten through the glooms of time,
By death and the past's darkness made sublime,
Made the dear worship of all human eyes.

533

Let us our Prophets of the Present prize,
Our Saints and Heroes, that, in every clime,
Sun our great days and sanctify our time,
Not leaving to the future the surprise
To know a greatness unto us unknown.
Need have we in the pathways of to-day
To know such guides as he, by whom is shown,
Begirt with snares and thorns, the narrow way,
That straitest road that we must tread alone,
If we fit offerings at God's feet would lay.

THE END.