Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.”

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“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.

215

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!

220

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.

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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!

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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!

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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!

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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?

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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!

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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,

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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

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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!

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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.

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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!

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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;

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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,

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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?

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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;

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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?

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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?”

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“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.”

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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,

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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,

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'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;

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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.”

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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;

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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.

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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;

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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?

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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;

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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!

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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,

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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,

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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;

353

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.

354

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.

355

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.

356

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

357

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,

358

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!

359

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,

360

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!

361

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.

362

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,

364

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!

371

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!

375

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!

376

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!

University of Virginia Library

SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS.

DREAMS.

A SAILOR'S SONG.

A KISS—A SMILE—A SIGH.

THE CAVALIER'S WHISPER.

O MIGHT I BE THE HAPPY GLOVE!

O BUT TO SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

A KISS FOR YOUR THOUGHT.

UNCHANGED.

ELLEN, YOU'RE MY ROSE.

THIS HEART, ONCE A BEE.

GOOD-BYE.

O SUMMER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS.

DIE, DAY!

HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES.

A WIFE'S SONG.

A SPRING SONG.

FROM A GARRET.

A LONDON LYRIC.

YE ROSES, WITH HER BLUSHES, BLOW.

FOR YOU.

TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.

PRITHEE TELL ME WHERE LOVE DWELLS.

A WINTER SONG.

A SMILE—IT WAS BUT A SMILE.

THE WRECKED HOPE.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

FRIENDLY HINTS TO TRANSATLANTIC FRIENDS.

I'VE WATCHED YOU FROM THE SHORE.

OVER THE SEA.

OPE, FOLDED ROSE!

WISHES.

A SUMMER INVOCATION.

MARY! MARY!

THE FORSAKEN.

THE HOMEWARD WATCH.

NO MORE!

PRITHEE WHAT HATH SNARED THEE, HEART?

O WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL!

MAY-DAY SONG.

THE TORCH-RACE.

THE WIFE'S APPEAL.

DRAW DOWN YOUR VEIL.

LISETTE IN AUSTRALIA.

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

NO—NO—MY LOVE IS NO ROSE.

GOD'S BEST GIFT.

SONG.

WHY?

FOR MUSIC.

THE CRY OF THE LAWFUL LANTERNS.

FROM SEA

FAREWELL! FAREWELL!

BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME.

THE DAISY.

A SEA SONG.

AFTER BÉRANGER.

IN DREAMS I CLASP YOU ONCE AGAIN.

RING, HAPPY BELLS!

SPRING SONG.

THE DRESSMAKER'S THRUSH.

RAVEN-BLACK ARE AMY'S TANGLING TRESSES.

A SONG OF THE SEA.

THE SOWING OF THE DRAGON'S TEETH.

A HINT TO CERTAIN EMPERORS.

NO GAS! NO GAS!

WHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED.

LOOK INTO THESE FOND EYES.

GOOD-NIGHT!

AFTER BÉRANGER.

OF GIPSY BLOOD YOU SURELY CAME.

YES, MY HEART IS LIKE TINDER.

WHERE, O POLAND, ARE THY LANCES?

THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS.

SPRING SONG.

AN AUTUMN SONG.

THANK HEAVEN! I'M STILL A BOY.

THE WORD.

A CRY FOR CONTINENTAL FREEDOM.