Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell

The rosy Dawn creeps down the mountain side,
Touching with light green copse and grassy lea,
The world to life is wakening far and wide,
And songs are heard from every bush and tree.
Come, let us hasten where the white thorn blows,
Or to the meadows where the cowslip grows.

Up, up! the fields are fresh with dews of night,—
And hear you not the strains of Corin's flute?
They take the purple hills with such delight
That not an echo in the glades is mute.
And earth and air and sky are filled with sound,
Great Nature's Hymn, sweet, passionate, profound.

Come 'neath the temple of the morning sky,
And let us pay our orisons to Heaven;
The lark is singing as she soars on high,
Leaving the nest to which she dropped at even.

If only prayer and praise be pure and true,
They too will rise into the vaulted blue.

What shall our organ be? The winds that blow;
And what our choir? The breeze's silver chime;
While clear-voiced streams that rippling gently flow,
Will move with us in sweet melodious time.
O come, and we shall keep glad festival,
And heaven's high gate will open at our call.

TAORMINA, SICILY.

I lie amid the uplands sweet,
Thick sheltered from the noon-day heat,
'Neath verdurous boughs of grateful shade
By over-arching ilex made,
And breathe the air of Sicily.

Above me Taormina's height,
Smit by a shaft of golden light,
Keeps ward o'er plain and sapphire sea,
By all who know it claimed to be
The fairest spot in Sicily.

The sound of trickling waters clear,
Falls like a song upon the ear,
While soaring upward in her flight,
The lark takes captive with delight
The ravish'd heart of Sicily.

Faint scents are borne upon the breeze,
From orange and from citron trees,
From purple hyacinth and rose
And buds that all their sweets disclose,
To breathe their balm o'er Sicily.

Lull'd by the murmur of the streams,
I dream my happy waking dreams,
The present is not—faints and dies,—
The past comes up before my eyes,
I live in ancient Sicily.

Here in these happy days once more,
Dryads and Nereids tread this shore,
Here Arethusa, fair and sweet,
Chased by Alpheus, bold and fleet,
Flies through the fields of Sicily,

And calls on Dian, chaste and fair,
Who hears, and turns her, at her prayer,
Into a fountain clear, whose spray,
Bedews with silver mists all day,
The flower-freak'd meads of Sicily.

Persephone, 'mid rosy hours,
Gathers in Enna vernal flowers,
Till caught in swarthy Pluto's arms,
He bears her, ravish'd with her charms,
To underworlds from Sicily.

I hear Theocritus, whose song
The echoes of the hills prolong,
As in his Amabœan lays,
He chants his lovely island's praise,
In strains that charm all Sicily.

From purple wastes of honied flowers
To stainless skies great Etna's towers,
Whose stately spire of virgin white,
Glitters a diamond in the light
That bathes the shores of Sicily.

Within the mountain's heart of fire,
Enceladus, with fruitless ire,
Would rend his prison walls in twain,
And struggling fiercely 'gainst his chain,
Shakes to its centre, Sicily.

What else—what else is this I see?
Who in her beauty comes to me,
As through the meads her white feet move,
Her face aglow with light and love,
The fairest maid in Sicily?

'Tis Galatea, woodnymph fair,
A fillet round her golden hair,
With Acis, agile as a fawn,
And beauteous as the early dawn,
That breaks o'er sea-wash'd Sicily.

And Polyphemus, scorn'd in love,
Telling his woes to hill and grove,
His passion finding ease in song,
Calls Galatea all day long,
To make a heaven of Sicily.

For me returns the age of gold,
When with white milk the rivers roll'd,
And trees and flowers shed honey-dew,
And heaven was one broad stretch of blue,
'Neath which smiled happy Sicily.

Visions divine! Oh, past compare!
O fuller life! O ampler air!
Here would I dream the hours away,
Dream dreaming the long summer day
That gilds enchanted Sicily.

SPRING.

The cuckoo calls across the woods,
In pauses of the shower,
The daffodils and mary-buds
Are breaking into flower.

The lark soars o'er the growing wheat,
Close to the gates of day;
The blackbird whistles clear and sweet
From yonder hawthorn spray.

Sweet airs adown the purple hills,
Play through the fragrant grass,
And whisper to the little rills,
That warble as they pass.

Anemones all wet with dew
Are trembling in the breeze,
And from sweet bells and buds of blue
Come murmurous songs of bees.

The hyacinth now scents the lanes,
The primrose stars the grove,
And mating birds in sweetest strains,
Pour out their hearts in love.

My heart is happy as the bird
That makes the copses ring,
It sings, although no voice is heard,
Because it feels the spring.

Hope pulses through the restless blood,
New life is in the air,
Now stirs the sap within the bud,
And all the world is fair.

O blessed spring! When leaves unfold,
When hills and daisied sod
Shine like the sacred bush of old,
And burn with fires of God.

And sorrows go, and griefs depart,
Because the world is gay,
And troubles fall from off the heart,
That feels the coming May.

THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW.

I climb the purple-vintaged hill,
Where Pan piped all the summer day,
When meads and groves in silence lay,
And winds were hush'd and waters still,
To hear the footsteps of the May,
That hast'ning, came on flying feet,
To catch his strains divinely sweet.

A glory touch'd the sloping hill,
A beauty graced the jocund day,
Nature grew mute to hear Pan's lay,
While list'ning Fauns became quite still,
As with his reed he call'd the May,
To shed her blossoms at his feet,
Crocus and daffodillies sweet.

And when the moonlight touch'd the hill
With cooler light than that of day,

And all the meads in silence lay,
Then Pan's sweet pipings were heard still,
Calling the myriad-colour'd May
To come on unseen rapid feet,
With buds and blooms to make earth sweet.

And has the grace gone from the vales,
The beauty from the summer plains,
Since Nymphs dance not to Pan's gay strains,
Nor with a laughter fill the dales,
Sweet as the skies' refreshing rains,
Or droppings of the silver dew,
Which keep the old world ever new.

'Tis true the Nymphs have left the vales,
Dryads forsaken all the plains,
That mute Pan's reed and dulcet strains,
No echo of them wakes the dales,
Kept ever green by April rains,
But gracious heav'ns still drop their dew,
Less fair the old world than the new—

Far brighter these than days of old,
When Satyrs danced and Nereids fair
Flooded with song th' enchanted air;
A richer than the age of gold,
Sheds blessings round us everywhere;
Since Christ has bow'd the arching skies,
All heav'n itself around us lies—

Truth is divine, can ne'er grow old,
Must keep the world for ever fair,
And glorify both earth and air,
Turn what it touches into gold,
And make Elysium everywhere,
Not in the past 'neath primal skies,
Forward the happy season lies.

O Christ thy faith renews the old,
And makes the fair world still more fair,
With troops of Angels throngs the air,
Who o'er us fold their wings of gold,
And wait upon us everywhere;
Since Truth has come down from the skies,
On all the world God's blessing lies.

IN THE ESCURIAL.

Dec. 10, 1885.

King Death, who plants a thorn in every joy,
Who tramples crown and laurel under feet;
Who treats the sceptre as it were a toy,
And drags the proudest hero from his seat,—
King Death, who over other kings holds reign,
Entered the palace of the king of Spain.

Love wept and knelt, but could not bar the door
Against the presence of the arch-despair;
Nor could a nation, tho' it fondly bore
Its sovereign on its heart to God in prayer;
So Death, inexorable, forced his way
Into the chamber where Alfonso lay.

A widowed queen in tears—an orphan's wail,—
The muffled bells,—the cannon's deep-mouthed boom,
Told to a waiting people the sad tale,
And o'er each household threw a sombre gloom.
With face all white and still, upon his bed,
The royal majesty of Spain lay dead.

For days and nights he lay in kingly state,
The silent watchers stood around his bier;
And then they bore him from the palace gate
With measured tread, while dropp'd full many a tear.
Princes and nobles followed in a train,
Worthy the old magnificence of Spain.

The dark procession slowly climbed the hill
By grey Escurial's ancient splendours crown'd,
Wound past the monastery, dark and still,
From whose old walls rose burial chant profound,
Holding within it passionate gusts of pain,
That surged and swell'd, then, dying, sank again.

The funeral car, its trapping black as night,
Approached the church with solemn pomp and state,
And every head bent lowly at the sight,
As pass'd the line of mourners to the gate,
Whose massive doors were shut against the bier,
For which was entrance sought in accents clear.

For loudly knock'd a courtier at the door,
Demanded that the portals be thrown wide,
To whom one from the consecrated floor—
“Who asks admission?”—Gravely he replied:
“The King, the twelfth Alfonso makes this claim.”
The gates flew back like magic at the name.

The holy prior came forth to meet the king,
And bid him welcome to the sacred place,
Where white-robed priests the solemn masses sing,
And lift their voice to God in hymns of grace.
And now the coffin, borne by reverent hands,
Is laid in silence where the altar stands.

Four nobles then advanced. Each took a cloak
Which to the bier they reverently bore,
And placed them on the coffin lid; while broke
A thousand lamps in flame from roof to floor;
And all at once the sombre church grew bright,
And nave and chancel glowed with dazzling light.

Rich hangings, blazoned with the arms of Spain,
Clothed the tall pillars, draped the stately walls,
And lent a splendour to the holy fane,
While priests a requiem chanted in their stalls;
A mass was said, the music, sweetly sung,
Thrilled in a silver cadence from each tongue.

The coffin now was lifted from its stand,
And carried with a solemn step and slow
Unto the entrance of that silent land
Where lie in state ranks of dead kings below,
Far from the life of man, the light of day,
In gloom unbroken by a single ray.

But no one followed to the solemn place
Where kings unthroned lay in untroubled rest,
Except the priest, the minister of grace,
With the grand chamberlain, upon whose breast
His hands were cross'd,—he, too, with lowered head,
Entered the silent presence of the dead.

There, in that vault where, placed the walls around,
In tombs of marble sleep the kings of Spain,
They laid the twelfth Alfonso, now discrown'd,—
The gallant monarch, tender, quick of brain,—
Who erst had been a nation's hope and pride,
Whose praise was blown thro' kingdoms far and wide.

Then the grand chamberlain with silver key
Unlocked the coffin, raised the glassy lid,
So that the dead king's face all there might see,
No longer 'neath its gold-wrought coverings hid;
And kneeling down 'mid silence still and deep,
Called three times loud,—called as to one asleep.

Placing his mouth to King Alfonso's ear:
“Señor! Señor! Señor!” This thrice his cry;
And all above, within the church, did hear
That sharp despairing note of agony;
For from the Duke of Sexto rose the wail,—
Alfonso's friend,—hence every cheek grew pale.

All slowly rose the Duke, and weeping said:
“His majesty replies not to my call;
'Tis true! 'tis true! Alas, the king is dead!”
And big tears dropp'd upon the purple pall;
Then softly he replaced the lid again,
And lock'd the coffin with a look of pain.

Now gave he to the prior the silver keys,
Took up the rod of office in his hand,
Broke it in twain across his trembling knees,
And at the coffin's foot laid down his wand;
Then as the guns came sounding thro' the gloom,
And bells toll'd solemnly, he left the tomb.

The pageantry is past. Alfonso sleeps;
Death-still he sleeps in monumental gloom,
While hot tears burn the cheek of her who weeps,
That love lies buried in that royal tomb.
She lives and weeps; he dies and is at rest;
Angels, who clearly see, know which is best.

BY THE SEA—KYNANCE COVE.

A day of sunshine, pure and sweet,
A day of beauty on the sea,
When summer makes the earth complete,
And gentle gales blow fresh and free.

The green waves break against the shore,
As on the seething billows come,
And round the rocks their waters pour,
Then break in showers of silver foam.

A thousand colours glint and play
Upon the wet and golden sand,
And opal lights gleam thro' the spray,
And fall in rainbows on the strand.

Here could I sit thro' tranquil days,
And, while the waters curl and cream,
And glide into the soft-curved bays,
Muse in a quiet, happy dream.

And thankful thoughts within me rise
For beauty of the earth and sea,
And wonder if God's Paradise
Than this fair scene can fairer be.

BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO.

The purple mountains crown'd with snow,
The vineyards sloping to the strand,
The lake with thousand tints aglow,
And by the whispering breezes fann'd.

How sweet to wander up the glade
Beneath close boughs of arching green,
Which make a canopy of shade,
And form against the sun a screen.

'Tis pleasant, too, beside the lake
To dream away a happy hour,
And see the lilac blossom shake,
The chestnut bursting into flower.

And oft from yonder cypress grove
There comes a sudden flash of song,
The nightingale his tale of love
Sings to his mate the whole day long.

O voice of most delirious joy!
O notes of most delicious pain!
Fear not, sweet bird, it cannot cloy,
Sing me once more that passionate strain.

On Serbelloni's terraced height
In solemn thought I often stand,
And mark how in the golden light
The waters ripple on the strand.

For here two reaches of the lake
Stretch out before the ravish'd eye,
And all the soul with beauty take
As flashing in the sun they lie.

And hark, from yonder church-crown'd steep
Come chimes of bells, sonorous, clear,
Softly adown the heights they sweep,
And with their music charm the ear.

A thousand tongues those mountains keep
To send their voices far and wide,
And Echo, startled from her sleep,
Wafts them across the dark blue tide.

Where will you find a fairer spot
Than this, of all the lakes the queen?
Oh happy he whose envied lot
Is cast in this sweet, peaceful scene.

Nor can there be a fitter shrine
In which to God our vows to pay,
To lift the soul to things divine,
To praise, to worship, and to pray.

Sometimes I ask, “Is all a dream
Which waking hours may from me take,—
These purple hills,—that silver stream,—
The hills, the woods, the spacious lake?”

But no, this fair and happy land,
Is not a vision of the night,
Nor scene called up by magic wand,
It lies there in the golden light.

Fain would I take, before I leave,
Its grace into my very heart,
And with my thoughts its beauty weave
Till it becomes of self a part.

O lovely lake, where'er I range,
By wood, or stream, or sounding shore,
All other beauty I'd exchange
To stand beside thy wave once more.

BERENICE'S HAIR.

The hour had come for them to part,
The king must leave for Syrian shore,
And so he caught her to his heart,
And kiss'd her sweet lips o'er and o'er.

Her head within both hands he took,
With all its wealth of golden hair,
Bright as the ripened corn that shook
And rippled in the summer air:

“O love, dear love,” he fondly cried,
“'Tis death in life to part from thee!”
She, smiling through her tears, replied,
“My heart will follow after thee.

“Thou know'st full well it is not mine,
It left this bosom long ago,
'Tis thine, dear love, and only thine,
In life or death, in weal or woe.”

One last embrace, he left the room;
One lingering look, he passed away;
The sunlight darkened into gloom,
A cloud fell on the cloudless day.

The court with armèd men was fill'd,
Glittered the spear and flashed the shield,
At sound of trump each heart was thrill'd,
And legions burned to take the field.

Before he crossed the palace gate
He raised a yearning look above,
Where Berenice lonely sat,
Dear as his life, his wife, his love.

She sees him go; she bends her head,
From her sad eyes the big tears fall,
And with a faint, low voice she said,
“My love, my husband, and my all.

“Ye Gods that dwell in yonder sky,
And o'er the earth and man hold reign,
Look down on him with pitying eye,
Oh bring him safely back again.

“Upon your altars will I lay
All that I have or hold most dear,
Will pour libations day by day,
Will slay for you the spotless steer.

“Only bring back my lord in peace,
Victorious from this dreadful fight,
And prayers and incense shall not cease
To rise and burn by day and night.”

The months passed by—he came not yet;
Her heart was bowed with anxious fears,
Her sweet blue eyes were often wet
With sad and unavailing tears.

Were the Gods deaf to all her prayers?
Regardless of her grief and woe?
Or did they mock her anxious cares,
The tears that from her eyes would flow?

She sought once more the sacred fane,
Where priests in fair white robes were drest,
And there she knelt and vowed again
To sacrifice what she held best.

She loosed the fillet from her hair,
Its fragrance made the day more sweet,
And sunshine seemed to fill the air,
As showered the ringlets to her feet.

“I dedicate the hair,” she said,
“Euergetes once praised as mine,
The glory of my woman's head,
And lay it on this holy shrine.”

The priest took in his hand the knife,
The hair gleam'd brighter than the sun,
Up in his eyes then smiled the wife,
As fell the tresses one by one.

She hung the votive offering fair
Within the inner sacred shrine;
The rippling coils of golden hair
Made all the temple walls to shine.

“Accept this offering,” she said,
Cast o'er Euergetes your shield,
Protect and guard his noble head,
Send him victorious from the field.”

The Gods smiled on her from above,
They listened to her pleading cry;
And, pleased with this new proof of love,
They took the tresses to the sky.

They placed them in the vaulted blue,
And when drew on the shades of even,
At once a constellation new
Flashed in the purple depths of heaven.

And ever now, when falls the night,
And cloudless are the depths of air,
Among the stars and planets bright
Shines brightest Berenice's hair.

THE OLD HOME.

Once more, sad heart, we stand again
Outside the dear old home,
And thoughts that long had buried lain
Rise up as from the tomb.
All empty is the house and cold,
Fast falls the wintry snow,
And white lies all the world around,
While wild winds round us blow.

We stood here last when earth was bright
With love, and light, and song,
When in a dream of sweet delight
The swift days pass'd along.
Fond voices fill'd with music sweet
The wing'd and joyous hours;
And pleasures sprang around the feet
As spring the summer flowers.

O haunting visions of the past,
That heart and mem'ry fill,
O joys too precious far to last,
I thought to hold you still.—

I turn from this once happy scene,—
I turn away in tears;
Yet still shall keep remembrance green
Through all the coming years.

Farewell, ye ghosts of a long dead day,
That haunt each well-known room,
With saddened heart I take my way,
And front the gathering gloom.
Another home attracts me now,
Where lov'd ones for me wait,
Where sorrow sleeps, and woes are dumb,
Beyond the golden gate.

REMORSE.

Haggard Remorse sits musing by the fire,
Her sad eyes turn'd toward the days long past,
And in them burn an unfulfill'd desire,
Bitter and wild regrets, and yearnings vast.

Dim shadowy phantoms people all the room,
Amongst them friends long vanish'd from the scene,
Who come from out the dark encircling gloom,
And speak of happy times that once had been.

Things long forgotten rise up from the dead,
And haunting mem'ries bitter as the rue,
Words she has spoken that she wish'd unsaid,
And acts that if she could she would undo.

Before her pass the years of sweet delight,
And in her ears ring silver songs and mirth,
While as the old days rise again to sight,
She for the first time feels how bless'd was earth.

Now as she thinks of all the golden hours,
Her hand she presses to her aching head;
The air grows faint as if with scent of flow'rs
That wither on the coffin of the dead.—

She sees it now but sees it all too late;
No resurrection for the life once o'er,—
Against such hope is ever closed the gate,
The stone can ne'er be roll'd from that tomb's door.—

Blessings were hers not reckon'd at their worth,
Or lightly taken as they daily came,
And this remembrance bows her head to earth,
Touches her haggard cheek with burning flame.

And as she thinks of years beyond recall,
With all that might have been but cannot be,
Adown her wasted face the hot tears fall,
And still she cries,—“Ah, woe is me! Ah me!”

THE THEBAN PLAIN.

The moon lights up the city of the dead,
The temples and the tombs of mighty kings,
And o'er the Libyan hills her lustre flings,
While on a kingdom's dust I lonely tread.
Here hearts rejoiced, or, wounded, inly bled,
Sick of the hope deferred, the grief that brings
Grey hairs—the cruel jealousy that stings—
The passionate love that yearns, and dies unfed.

“Oh, where are they,” I said, “who lived and died,—
Who wept or smiled, or knew the joys of fame?”
A cloud pass'd o'er the moon,—the faint wind sighed,
The pale stars shivered, hid their lambent flame,
And in my ears a ghostly voice replied,
“The greatest are but shadows, or—a name!”

THE VOCAL MEMNON.

Memnon, thou'rt mute, thy voice is heard no more;
The rising sun now visits thee in vain,
No music greets his coming; ne'er again
Thy song shall float the Theban valley o'er,
Or thrilling reach the far Arabian shore,
Never shall fill with music the wide plain.
Methinks thy sightless eyes are full of pain,
Because thou art not as in days of yore.

Change hast thou seen, colossal Form in stone,
Kings and their armies passed into the grave;
Great dynasties destroyed, whose fame was blown
Across whole continents, and o'er the wave,
And nothing left the Founder's name to save,
But records traced on walls with weeds o'ergrown.

THE SILENT MEMNON.

A sweeter music, Memnon, far than thine
Is heard since thine was silent, for since then
The Christ has lived, loved, died amongst us men,
So that the earth is now a sacred shrine,
Hallowed by that great Presence all Divine,
And from it hymns of praise rise up again,
As once before in those far ages when
God's face in Paradise was seen to shine.

So if the old gods pass we do not mourn,
Rather rejoice the false bears sway no more;
That faiths have perished that were all outworn,
And in themselves seeds of corruption bore;
That deities of all their glories shorn
Stand silent ever on Time's waveless shore.

THE AFTER-GLOW.

The sun hastes to his setting once again,
The western skies like molten jewels gleam,
And splendour robes the hills, the palms, the stream,
And turns to gold the sandy level plain,
Where Thebes, the “hundred-gated,” once held reign.
And now he sinks—now fades the last pale beam,
And all the glory passes like a dream
We long to keep, but long to keep in vain.

But see! From out this grey and sombre sky,
Like life from death, there springs a radiance new,
That with fresh beauty takes the ravished eye,
A flood of amber, emerald and blue;
Dear God! when sinks my sun, oh grant that I
May leave such after-glow behind me too!

KARNAK BY MOONLIGHT.

Come, stand with me in this great column'd hall,
And let the mellow moonlight clasp us round.
Make bare thy head: is not this holy ground?
Mark how each sculptured pylon, gate, and wall,
The granite obelisk so fair and tall
Which Hatasu the Queen raised on that mound,
Shine like to silver, while from bound to bound,
All is lit up as though for festival.

Never did morn more luminously bright
Make each carved lotus pillar gleam like snow,
Or set a crown of glory on the night,
For e'en the very shadows seem to glow—
Think you such glories flashed upon the sight
Of the great Ram'ses centuries ago?

THE VESPER BELL.

I hear the sound of the Vesper Bell
Come floating across the bay,
Ringing with soft and pathetic knell,
The death of the golden day.

It sinks in the soul with soothing power
As its music fills the air,
And sounds like a voice from the distant tower,
Calling to psalm and prayer.

The sailors hear it far out at sea,
As sunset flushes the foam,
And they bow the head, and bend the knee,
Beneath the star-lighted dome.—

A solemn hush lies on all the hills,
And broods o'er the tranquil sea,
Not a song of bird on the silence thrills,
Not a murmur of wandering bee.—

Is there on earth so holy a time,
Or one that can bring such calm,
As the vesper hour when the cadenced chime
Steals over the soul like a psalm?

And never was there a day so long,
So weary, so full of woes,
But ringeth the Bell to evensong,
And brings the sad hours to close.

DYING WORDS.

“When I am dead, think of me as in the next room. It is the same house, only one is to the back, and the other to the front.” —Lady Augusta Stanley.

Dearest, when from thy sight I've passed away,
And from my glass has run out all the sand,
When you no more shall see me day by day,
Or feel the loving pressure of my hand,
And I have gone into the shadowy land,
I ask for this,—you will not say me nay,—
That memories of me be free from gloom,
Oh, “think of me as in the other room!”

Sorrow not overmuch, nor greatly weep,
Mourning because I am amongst the dead;

Rather believe I only am asleep,
And dreaming sweetly on a painless bed,
Where God has smoothed the pillow for my head,
And bright-winged angels watch around me keep.
Oh, speak not of me in the silent tomb,
But “think of me as in the other room.”

“The other room”—the house is just the same;
The chambers vary as regards the place—
One lieth to the front, where all aflame
The sky is glowing with the sun's bright face;
The other, to the back, has dimmer grace,
Set also in a smaller, meaner frame:
But is not God in both, dear love? with Whom,
“I pass from this into the other room.”

I know, belov'd, my loss will make you sad,
I know full well you cannot choose but grieve;
But think of all the blessedness we've had.
O home, more happy than I could conceive!
O God, who in my lot such bliss did weave!

O love, for twelve sweet years which made me glad!
Why should dark sorrow all your life consume
When I but pass into “the other room?”

True, often in the gathering shades of night,
When sitting by our dear hearth all alone,
Your heart will ache, because you think the light,
The bloom, from off your life has passed and gone,
And left it joyless, colourless, and wan,
Bereaved of all you say did make it bright.
But let your mind its calm and peace resume,
And “think of me as in the other room.”

And when you feel aweary of the strife
With sin and sorrow, falsehood, wrong and pain,
Wishing for one who used to cheer your life,
Whose joy it was to comfort and sustain,
And help you bear the pressure and the strain,
Whose dearest thought is this—she is your wife,
'Twill touch with light the clouds that darkly loom,
To “think of me as in the other room.”

And when a silence broods o'er stair and hall,
Unbroken by a voice you loved to hear,
And when I answer not, although you call,
Yet still believing I am very near,
This one sweet thought will check the rising tear,
And hold it on the cheek before it fall,—

I may step any time from out the gloom,
Being so near you in “the other room.”

“The other room,” beloved, not far away,
For though removed a little from your sight,
I shall be ever near you, day by day,
And when the evening darkens into night;
And surely it will be a strange delight,
Which all my pain and grief will overpay,
To know that through your life this hope shall bloom
—We meet again within “the other room.”

This line originally ran thus, “Let no thought ever link me with the tomb,” but has been altered in deference to a suggestion of the late lamented Dean of Westminster, who felt that as it now stands it better interpreted “both his own feelings and hers.” To have known from himself that “the Poem faithfully expresses the spirit of those last words and last days,” is naturally a great gratification to the writer, and also that the Dean “read them again and again with increasing consolation.”

A MEADOW AT RYDAL.

The fields were bright as cloth of gold,
The buttercups so thickly grew;
The lanes were full as they could hold
Of orchis and the speedwell blue.

Hedgerows with starry flowers were gay,
And banks with purple foxgloves lined;
On meadows lay the new-mown hay,
Whose scent came on the summer wind.

White butterflies were on the wing,
Floating along the liquid air;

Bees into flowers themselves did fling,
And pass'd the honied hours there.

The cows stood knee-deep in the stream
That rippled thro' the open glade;
Or churned their mouths in happy dream,
Couched 'neath the elm-trees' leafy shade.

The hills were veiled in tender mist
Of azure and of golden air;
The vales shone like an amethyst,
The woods gleamed as the emerald fair.

The lark was singing in the sky,
And birds were warbling in the trees,
A happy voice came wandering by—
“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” on the breeze.

We stood amidst the fragrant grass,
We looked on valley, sky, and hill;
We watched the shadows come and pass,
We drank of Nature to our fill.

We talked of man, we talked of God,
Of friends on earth, and friends in heaven;
Of some who lay beneath the sod,
Of some who still to us were given.

And then we fell to silence oft,
Broken at times by happy sigh;
Or by the woodland voice, so soft,
Of “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” passing by.

A calm, that o'er all Nature stole,
And gently breathed of peace and rest,
Pass'd from the scene into the soul,
And throned itself within the breast.

Ah! happy, happy, happy day,
I look for others like to thee!
For tho' my head since then is grey,
Nature is more, not less, to me.

I hope to love it on till death;
Blue noons, fair nights, and gentle springs,
The cuckoo's voice, the cowslip's breath,—
All living, and all lifeless things.

A SUMMER DAY AT AMBLESIDE.

There lies a hush on all the summer woods,
Unbroken save by pipe of joyous bird;
Still is the air, and motionless the clouds—
By not a breeze the sleeping lake is stirr'd.
All nature swoons. No bleating of the flocks
Comes from the meadow grass, or echoes from the rocks.

There was a sound of welcome rain last night,
Blowing from up the dale, and o'er the hills;
But now the storm has passed, and all is bright;
The becks are fuller, and a thousand rills
Rush foaming down the hollows in white streams,
Flashing from crag to crag with rainbow-coloured gleams.

Like diamonds shine the rain-drops in the sun,
Gemming each shimmering leaf, each spike of grass,
And sweet shy flowers that 'neath the hedgerows run,
To hide their loveliness from all who pass;
While honeysuckle and the golden broom
Fling on the long June day odorous rich perfume.

The tender shadows quickly come and go,
Climbing the hills, and creeping up the dell;
And all the valley is with light aglow,
And crowned with glory every rugged fell;
Sunshine is on the landscape far and wide,
Sparkles in every mere, and down the country-side.

I know this land by heart, ay, every nook—
Each copse, each tarn, and every leafy dell:
Each brawling streamlet, and each tinkling brook—
I know it all by heart, and love it well.
Oft have I watched the daylight dawn, and pale,
And evening wrap the valley in her dusky veil.

Not far from hence is seen the massive spire,
Where sunbeams rest upon the house of prayer;
The blazoned windows burn as if on fire;
And, palpitating on the crystal air,
I fancy that I hear the chiming bell,
And distant dreamy music from the organ swell.

Wordsworth's dear mount is yonder, old and grey,
And guarded well by Fairfield's purple crest;
Walled in with laurel, and with fragrant bay,
A very Paradise of peace and rest,
With beauty all around, both far and near,
And, full in front, the queen of lakes, fair Windermere.

There in the valley—I can see it now—
Haunted by memories of the great and good,
Lies Arnold's favourite home, his sweet Fox How,
Hid in a bower of shrubs and waving wood;
Far from the restless, troubled world withdrawn,
A poet's dream of river, garden, copse, and lawn.

Without what beauty, and within what grace
Of cultured minds,—true “sweetness” and true “light!”
Him death had throned long since in his just place—
Man of the ample brain, keen, polished, bright;
But she lived still, the loving tender wife,
Helpmeet and friend through all his grand heroic life.

Who can forget, that ever knew her well,
The rapid sympathies, the genial smile,
The wise, true words from gracious lips that fell,
Charming the listener, as she talked the while,
Now grave—now gay—now earnest with deep thought,
As truths of highest reach before her mind were brought?

All this is now a memory,—a sigh,—
Like other memories both sweet and sad;
How the years rob us as they hurry by,
Taking away so much that made us glad!
Yet leaving to us still so much that's bright,
Our path is not all dark,—at worst a chequered light.

Poorer that home, poorer the valley now;
For on a tomb is carved a pure white cross,
That tells to all who through the churchyard go,
Her everlasting gain and our sore loss.
Traced on the stone this record fronts the sight,—
“Her meetness for the saints' inheritance in light.”

What thrills me? Pain or bliss? O pain, to think
Of happy hours for ever past and flown!
O bliss, again to stand upon the brink
Of this dear fell, and muse of what is gone!
O pain, to ponder on the days now o'er!
O bliss, to feel this pleasure all my own once more!

Sweet pain, keen bliss,—I know not which is best,
The pain that fills my saddened eyes with tears,
The bliss that throbs through all my happy breast,
As here again I feel the joy of years!
I know not which I'd choose, or that, or this,—
The pain so bitter sweet, the sweet yet bitter bliss.

AN AUTUMN DAY AT AMBLESIDE.

A utumn with magic hand hath touched the leaves,
And turn'd their glossy green to burning gold;
The twittering swallows chatter on the eaves
Of flight to summer lands from regions cold;
Soft cloudlets rest upon the clear blue sky,
And breezes from the lake come wafted by.

A valley 'tis which woods and streams adorn;
Few plains the golden tillage richly yield,
Few sickles flash, few reapers bind the corn,
Few harvest songs are heard from fold or field;
Stretches there are of emerald pasture-ground,
Girdled by mountain beauty all around.

But now the gorgeous woods are all ablaze,
Glowing with colours of more brilliant dyes
Than gleam from monarch's robes on gala days,
Or strike with sudden light men's dazzled eyes,
As coming forth in royal pomp and state,
He enters halls where thronging courtiers wait.

A golden lustre fills the wooing air;
Each rock and scar bathed in an amber mist
Transfigured seem to shapes divinely fair,
Suffused with orange, rose, and amethyst,
Which o'er their hoary brows a radiance fling,
Bright as the iris on an angel's wing.

The mountains glow with ever-changing sheen,
That varies with the shifting gleams of light;
Here golden ferns, that rise 'midst mosses green,
Shake out their curling plumes on every height;
There fragrant heath, each bell a pendent gem,
Crowns the deep grass with purple diadem.

The balmy day is musical with sounds;
The plaintive robin's song, the caw of rooks,
The low of herds in far-off pasture-grounds,
Whispers of leaves and noise of babbling brooks,
With rush of streams that flow in milk-white rills,
Down the blue hollows of the distant hills.

Autumn is in her young and lusty noon;
Nor fallen leaves, nor withered flowers, betray
That this proud pomp of splendour all too soon
Shall change, and fade, and pass into decay;
That Winter with his cold and chilling breath,
Shall freeze this beauty all to icy death.

Ye Autumn days, that crown the waning year,
And flush the glowing hills with tender light;
Ye Suns, that rising crimson every mere,
Or setting fringe with gold the skirts of night;
How often have I stood,—as I do now,—
And watched your glories from this sloping brow.

O days all fair, half sad, which to the mind
Bring memories of times for ever flown;
Of pleasures in the years so far behind,
And voices silent, and dear friends now gone;
I live a two-fold life within your light—
The past and present are at once in sight.

Ah me! how much I love this country fair!
The valley and the hills, both far and wide;
The quiet village builded here and there,
Part on the plain, part on the mountain-side,
The houses stretching up to Stock Ghyll's Fall;
They were my pastoral charge, both one and all.

Dear Autumn days! What fruitless yearnings rise
That loved ones erst with us, were here again;
What tears unbidden spring up to the eyes,
To know such longings idle are and vain;—
That they who gladdened the bright days of yore,
Shall look with us upon these scenes no more.

Yet comes the past with mellow softened light,
And clear, if faint impressions to the mind,
Like to some sweet sad dream of yesternight,
Where pain and pleasure closely intertwined,
Nor knew we which was greatest when the morn
Broke in white beauty o'er the hills forlorn.

And still the mem'ry of those happy hours,
Old pleasures and old joys for which we sigh,
Will stay with us, and be for ever ours,
A felt possession that can never die,
And when with fond regret the heart is bow'd,
Will like a rainbow arch the darkest cloud.

O happy Autumn! O bright halcyon days!
When earth lies basking in the golden light;
O mellow moons, that shine with softest rays,
Flooding with splendour all the solemn night;
Pathetic season of the waning year,
Too soon thou diest, linger with us here.

It may not be. The happy year must wane,
And go the way of all things bright and fair,
Of hopes that die not to revive again—
Of pleasures numbered 'mongst the things that were.
Here all is change—upward we turn our sight;
Suns set not there, nor Moons withdraw their light.

WINTER AT AMBLESIDE.

Winter in this fair land has many moods;
At times the storms come roaring down the vale,
Across the mountains, through the sounding woods,
Or sweeping up the Ghylls with shudd'ring wail,
Shaking the red-stemmed pines that crown the height,
And stand in graceful forms against the light.

Sometimes from stormy skies the rain-cloud breaks,
Swelling the torrents in their rocky bed,
Till streams grow rivers, rivers grow to lakes,
And boats might ply where once the reapers sped,
And the whole air is murm'rous with the sound
Of rushing waters foaming all around.

This noon there is a keenness in the air
Which stirs the blood and makes the pulse beat high,
And the whole scene is most divinely fair,
Lying beneath a pale and steel-blue sky,
Which sheds a softened lustre o'er the plain,
And on the streams, bound each in glittering chain.

White is the valley once so brightly green,
White all the mountain-tops that, crown'd with snow,
Glitter with light intensely bright and keen,
When with the dawn the sky is all aglow,
The colour changing as the morning grows,
From grey to purple, purple into rose.

The trees are stripped, yet are no longer bare,
Feathered with snow they stand up in the light,
All motionless, and not a passing air
Stirs their pure bridal robe of spotless white,
While from each bough clear icicles hang down,
Like flashing diamonds in a monarch's crown.

Through the still air distinctly comes each sound—
Voices of skaters from the frozen lake,
The neigh of horse, and bay of deep-mouth'd hound,
The warble of the red-breast in the brake,
The fall from bending branches of the snow,
The slender noise of streams in fetter'd flow.

Fair are these days, so calm, so still, so bright,
Fair is each glassy lake, each hoary fell,
Fair are the falls that quiver in the light,
Fair is each ice-bound tarn, each rocky dell,
Fairer than all the night, with moon and star,
Shining like crystals in the heavens afar.

And yet, though fair, the beauty 'tis of death,
The earth is covered with a snowy shroud,
Her requiem chanted by the wind's rude breath,
In tones now low and soft, now deep and loud,
And Nature lies all wan upon her bier,
And clouds shed down the sympathising tear.

Hopeless looks all as when the words are said,
“Ashes to ashes” over those held dear,
And to the earth we give our holy dead,
With throbbings of the heart and many a tear,
And the grave closing o'er the lifeless clay,
We turn with breaking heart to front the day.

No snowdrop lifts its bell above the ground,
No song of bird is heard amongst the trees,
No hint of summer in the sky is found,
No scent of spring gives fragrance to the breeze,
No sign of leaf on valley, copse, or hill;
And the whole earth is barren, cold, and still.

Yet there is hope, though all seems blank and dead;
There is a stirring at the roots of things,
A throbbing quick of life in Earth's deep bed,
A promise as of fair and joyous springs;
And buds there are where blossoms folded lie,
Ready to flower beneath the summer sky.

Such hope, as when we seek the grave a-weeping,
And carry there the bare, yet precious seed,
With hearts that wellnigh break for dear ones sleeping,
Yet trusting Him who is “the Life indeed;”
And able by His grace through tears to sing,
“Where is thy victory, grave; where, death, thy sting?”

For soon the day shall dawn, and shadows fly,
Winter shall pass and Spring again shall bloom,
Eternal Summer brighten all the sky,
And smile upon a world without a tomb;
Earth's resurrection shall with blessings come,
And songs shall usher in God's harvest-home.

Then He that comes to wake His saints shall say,
As round to each dear sleeper's bed He goes
To rouse them with a touch at break of day,
And all His heart with tender love o'erflows,
“The morning breaks, the shadows flee away,
Arise, my love, my dove, and come away!

“Winter is past, the rain is gone and o'er,
The song of birds fills all the happy land,
Flowers appear upon the earth once more,
The turtle-dove is heard on every hand.
It is thy Bridegroom's voice to thee doth say,
‘Arise, my love, my dove, and come away!’”

BEFORE.

We watched beside her thro' the night—
Thro' night unto the morning grey,
Till on the casement smote the light,
And sudden flashed the day.

She kept all thro' a silence deep,
With closed and heavy-lidded eye,
And murmurs as of one asleep,
And now and then a sigh.

Oh, passing sweet she was and fair,
A fragrant lily in its prime,
That fed on honey'd dew and air,
Had blossomed for a time!

Her two white hands extended were
Upon the little snowy bed;
The rippling of her golden hair
With glory touch'd her head.

The little lamp we lit at night,
Which faintly burnt with dull red glow,
Scarce broke the darkness with its light,
Or showed the bed of snow.

It stood upon a table near,
It flickered low, it flickered high;
We wondered, with a strange sad fear,
Which life should soonest die.

One now threw back the window pane,
The close-drawn curtains were withdrawn;
There came a smell of fresh'ning rain
From off the fragrant lawn.

And in the dim and dewy grove,
The sweet birds piped from every bush;
'Midst glistening boughs sang songs of love—
Sweetest of all, the thrush.

We did not speak or move the while,
Fast held in wonder to our place,
Watching a rare and radiant smile
Transfigure all her face.

But hushed, and awed, and very still,
We prayed in thrilling silence near;
And down our faces flowed at will,
Unchecked, the burning tear.

When all at once, as we stood there,
There rose a sudden, startling cry,
That stayed our weeping, checked our prayer,
As came it ringing by.

She started forward on the bed,
She raised her trembling hands on high;
All paleness from the face had fled,
Now flushed with ecstasy.

Her eyes were lifted up to heaven,
Her parted lips did gently stir;
We felt Christ, and the Spirits seven,
Communion held with her.

Her look of rapture grew and grew,
As tho' before her wondering sight
There stretched the way she must pass thro',
All lined with angels bright.

Our hearts were filled with deep'ning awe,
We dared not move, or speak a word;
We knew she saw what no one saw,
And heard what no one heard.

So for a space the rapture lay
Upon her glowing cheek and brow;
And dawnings of a brighter day
Seemed breaking on her now.

The arms relaxed, a shadow stole
O'er quivering lip, and cheek, and brow;
We knew full well the golden bowl
Was being broken now.

I clasped her gently to my breast,
And held her closely there, until
The aching head had sunk to rest,
The tossing arms were still.

The glory soon was past and gone,
The light went slowly from her eyes,
Though still beneath their lashes shone
A look of sweet surprise.

We knew that she had passed away,
So deep the awe upon her face;
We knew her ransom'd spirit lay
Fast clasped in Christ's embrace;

Who called her to His home above,
And drew her to His happy side;
Where now they walked in perfect love,
The Bridegroom and His Bride.

AFTER.

I hid my face, I spake no word,
I fell upon the bed and wept;
And there, while nothing moved or stirred,
Shaken by grief I slept.

I slept at first a restless sleep,
With throbbing heart and aching head;
For even slumber's self did keep
Some memories of the dead.

I dreamt. The sorrow passed away,
I wept no more, no longer sighed,
Though in the chamber where she lay,
And where that morn she died.

Methought I saw her after death,
And knowing well that she was dead;
And yet no terror choked my breath,
Or bowed my wondering head.

I saw her now a spirit bright,
Freed from the weak and mortal frame,
And clad in raiment all of light,
Which flashed like lambent flame.

The form that lay there stilled in death,
That bent before his cruel power,
Was but the fair and outward sheath
That held the fragrant flower.

She met my gaze with such a look,
That to my very soul did thrill;
And all my quivering pulses shook,
And all my heart stood still.

A yearning love was in my eye,
I felt that she was leaving me;
I cried, “Oh, let me also die,
That I may go with thee!”

While thus I spake, a voice I heard,
Come ringing down the heavens afar;
And sweeter sounded every word,
Than song of Morning Star.

She turned to hear the voice that spoke,
And glowing rapture filled her eye;
And as upon her ear it broke,
Her glance was raised on high.

She passed at once upon the way
That leads through depths of dazzling light,
To worlds where everlasting day,
Place never gives to night.

I saw her gliding up on high,
Where burning suns in glory move;
I saw her mounting thro' the sky,
Drawn by the force of love.

Her path lay thro' the star-strewn skies,
By argent moon, keen, bright, and clear;
Orb after orb flashed on her eyes,
Globed each in silver sphere.

Thus held she on her upward way,
Where gleam the golden gates afar;
At length beneath her feet there lay,
Both sun, and moon, and star.

And still she kept her upward flight,
Until she reached the happy place,
Where God dwells in the perfect light,
And shows His awful face.

Thro' Heaven's door there poured a flood
Of melody and thrilling song;
And, bathed in glory, there she stood,
Close to the shining throng.

And One stepped forth to meet her there,
A crown upon His kingly brow,
With dazzling eyes and radiant hair,
And face with love aglow.

He took her to the Fountain's brink,
Whence flow the living rills of light;
And, stooping down, I saw her drink
The waters pure and bright.

I heard the six-winged Seraphim,
As they beheld her forward come,
Pause in their loud adoring hymn,
To bid her welcome home.

Christ led her then beneath the shade
Of the green mystic Tree of Life,
Whose fragrant leaves fall not, nor fade,
Whose boughs with fruit are rife.

She plucked with joy the blushing flowers,
That grew in happy gardens there,
And never wither as do ours,
But bloom for ever fair.

And there I saw the streets of gold,
And sea of glass that burned with fire,
And starry gates their doors unrolled,
As He led her ever higher.

I heard the holy angels cry,
One to another, as they sang,
In strange delicious melody,
That thro' the heavens rang.

I heard her voice amongst the choir,
And knew it well from all the rest;
And as she struck her golden lyre,
Methought it sounded best.

And still she moved 'midst rainbow dyes,
Along the crystal floor of heav'n,
Full in the Day of Paradise,
Which never wanes to ev'n.

And so Christ led her ever on,
Thro' bending ranks of angels bright,
Until she stood before the throne,
There lost within God's light.

So passed she from my straining eyes;
And then I woke with sudden start,
Full of a sweet, tho' sad surprise,
And throbbings of the heart.

Alas! I woke to weary day,
To see her lying on the bed,
Where white, and calm, and still she lay,
One of the blessed dead.

But from my aching heart had gone
The bitter anguish and the pain;
I said, “O God, Thy will be done,
I ask her not again.

“I would not, if I could, dear Lord,
Recall her to this world of woe;
Nor might I, could I speak the word,
Draw her from Thee below.

“No! Let her live before Thy face,
And follow Thee thro' pastures fair;
Patient I'll tarry here a space,
Then seek her with Thee there.”

WILFRED RAY.

In a fair valley of fair Westmoreland,
Of English counties fairest, near the Lake
Which by consent is crowned the queen of all,
Sweet Windermere, a market village lies,
Built part upon the fell, part in the vale.
One long street stretches close beneath a hill,
From end to end in length about a mile;
Another clambers up a church-crowned brow,
With houses clustering round a place of graves.
Nor stops the village here; it runs still on,

Nor ceases till you reach a sunny height,
From which a glorious landscape fronts the eye,—
Here are blue hills, green dales, and silver streams,
And fern-clad fells, and mountains throned in cloud—
The Langdales rising over all to heaven,
And Windermere, a stretch of spacious lake,
Set in a frame of meadow and of wood,
And roar of Stock-Ghyll Force heard far below.
Bright pasture-lands abound, watered by streams
Pure as the river that flowed gently through
The garden planted by the Lord in Eden,
And which, four-branched, ran over sands of gold.
It is a storied country—haunted ground—
Not from its wondrous loveliness alone,
But from the memories of the good and great
Who long had made it their adopted home,—
Poets and scholars, men of note and fame,
Who made their mark upon the world beyond,
And left it better than they found it;—men
Drawn hither by the beauty breathing round,—
Mountains which catch the first gleam of the sun,
And lakes that mirror in their placid breasts
Meadow, and wood, and fell, and rugged scar;
And when the night draws darkness o'er the land,
And sows the purple skies with silver stars,
Glasses their brightness in the tranquil wave.

Here, in this vale, some sixty years ago,

Before the new church with its fair churchyard
Fronted the east, or its strong massive spire
Caught on its top the flaming morning rays
As suns at dawn rose over Wansfell's head,
And filled with light the valley far below,
Lived Wilfred Ray, a statesman, well-to-do.
This Wilfred had a story of his own;
And there are those alive who tell it still—
A strange adventure of their native hills.

The winter had with fitful storms set in,
Rain, hail, and snow, and frost that bound the streams
And spread its icy coating o'er the tarns
And smaller lakes at first; and then the cold
So fierce and bitter grew, and stayed so long,
That Windermere itself at length did yield
Subjection to its thrall, and lay one sheet
Of ice from end to end, from Waterhead
To Newby Bridge, where the small rivulet
Flows murmuring as loth to leave the lake.
At this time Wilfred was some four months old,
The first-born of his parents, and their joy,
A crown of bliss to Ruth and Michael Ray.
Their married life ran on in full content,
Close to the little mill whose dripping wheels
Are washed and turn'd by the tumultuous Stock.
Michael a native was of Ambleside,
Village as yet, and not a busy town,

As now, with many a change which follows
On what are called improvements, march of mind.
Tourists, who “fly like doves unto their windows,”
Excursion trains, and steam-boats on the lake,
Have robb'd the land of quiet and repose;
And for the summer months send forth
Their crowds like swarms of locusts through the vale.
And yet, 'tis well that toilers from our towns,
Leaving the smoke, the dizzy noise of wheels,
The whirling roar of engines, and the air
Dark, close, and stifling, should come forth, and see
God's face in fair blue skies, in fields and flowers,
And hear His voice in soft and whispering winds,
In rushing torrents, and in foaming falls.
Well, they should breathe at times a purer air,
And see the cloudless heavens bright and clear,
Where prayers may pierce direct, not through a pall
Of yellow smoke, which hides the sun from view.
Ah! well that tender childhood, pale and wan,
Should leave the busy loom, and roaring wheels,
And sometimes see the lambs upon the sward,
And chase the butterfly on flowery meads;
Or mark the bee collecting honied store,
And hear the melody of singing birds.
Haply, they carry back to stifling homes
Some gentler thoughts of Nature, Man, and God.

Close to the wooded shores of Ullswater,

A lonely lake, shut in by purple hills,
And glassing great Helvellyn in its wave,
Ruth Ray was born, and came to womanhood.
Here did she grow in beauty year by year,
As innocent and active as a fawn;
To her young feet each grassy slope and dell,
Each tangled copse, each mountain clothed with ferns,
Or bare and naked as the slate itself,
Were things familiar as the sanded floor
Of her own cottage. Well she knew the lake,
Each bay, each landing-place, each shady nook,
To which her boat might smoothly glide, or where
It might be moored with safety to the shore.
At sunny morn, or tranquil eve, she dipped
Right oft her oars in waters all so clear,
That you could see some fathoms down, and watch
The tiny fish, with bright and glistering backs,
Glance swiftly here and there, and in their sport
Rush through the feathery grass, or tangled weed.
She was the idol of her parents' home,
Their only girl. Two stalwart sons they had—
Tall, strong, and with the independent gait
And manly beauty of this northern land.
They helped their father in his farming well,
And mowed the hay, and reaped the scanty crops,
Scarce ripe for sickle ere the winter's breath
Came blowing chilly down the mountain's side.
They drove the sheep up to the hills in spring,

To feed through all the happy summer time
On sweet and spacious tracts of fragrant fell.

Michael had—in his visits to the dale,
To purchase sheep, and stock his little farm—
Seen Fair Ruth Fletcher, gentle, modest, true,
Sweet as the summer, fair as budding spring.
Ah! well remembered he the day when first
They met, she shy as lily of the vale,
That loves the covert of its sword-shaped leaves,
And shrinking, hides its beauty from the sun.
She sat within her boat, close to the shore,
Beneath the shady boughs of birch and pine,
And thinking no one near, beguiled the time
With simple song, which charmed the listening ear;
So clear the voice, so silver sweet the tone,—

'Tis well to be a maiden free,
To roam o'er dale and hill,
To feel the sweets of liberty,
And wander where I will.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
Softly the breezes blow,
But shadows fall, the light begins to go.

The whole day long I sing my song,
Because I am my own—
Because to none I do belong,
But to myself alone.

A-well-a-day, heigho!
Shall it be ever so?
Shall days to come be like the long ago?

Some that I meet say love is sweet,
Some say 'tis full of care,
And others that 'tis passing fleet,
Gone like a breath of air.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
From joy oft springs our woe,
And quickly pass all brightest things below.

Content I feel, I wish no change,
I wander at my will;
Thro' field, o'er fell, I freely range,
By lake, and wood, and hill.
A-well-a-day, heigho!
My heart's my own, I know,
And mine shall be, whoe'er may come or go.

I need not say that vow she did not keep,
Or tell how Michael wooed, and won her heart.
Nor lightly was she won, this mountain maid.
They had of happy courtship many days.
Ask the green woods, the verdurous hills, the streams,
Where oft in tender dawns, and dewy eves,
They wandered hand in hand together;—ask
The lake, where oft in balmy noons they dipped

Their oars, and idly floated down the flood.
The end of all these pleasant meetings this,
Ruth loved as deeply as she was beloved;
And left her home and parents for his sake,
Though not without some trembling and regrets.
Some natural tears shed on her wedding-day,
When she had turned to leave the church with him,
Whose life would be henceforth one life with hers,
Through all the happy years of wedded bliss.
He bore her proudly home—her home and his—
And found she was a light within the house—
An ever-present brightness and a joy,
Her voice made ceaseless music in his heart,
Her love refreshed him after hours of toil,
And all too quickly fled the months away,
As some great river flows whose rapid stream
Knows neither let nor hindrance in its flow;
And one fair autumn day a child was born,
And Ruth became the mother of a boy,
Which brought another joy to Michael's home,
And brimmed his cup, until it overflowed,
And sang his heart, as sing the birds in May.

One winter day—the boy was four months old—
Ruth rose betimes, prepared for early walk,
To Patterdale across the fells; for news
Had come her father was not well, and yearned
To have her near him some two days or more.

And she would take her babe—for she was proud
Of her fair child—the boy would cheer
The old man's heart, and do him worlds of good.
So she made ready for her wintry walk,
By Kirkstone Pass, and thence to Patterdale.
Michael and she had never parted since
Their marriage day. And could he have his wish,
They had not parted now; but he was bound
To meet at Grasmere on that very day
The land-steward from the Hall, and there with him
To settle rent and terms for lease of farm
He fain would add to that which now he held.
But still for love's sweet sake he went with her
A mile or so, and carried his sweet boy,
Who crowed, and laughed, and brimful was of glee,
As though the bright and bracing air had sent
Fresh strength through all his round and rosy limbs.
He left her where the lonely Kirkstone Pass
Comes into view—a Pass which, steep and wild,
With rocks fantastic, leads by Hartsop Fell,
Down to the winding Deepdale, near which gleams
Fair Brothers Water. There they kissed and parted,
And hope and love sang sweetly in their hearts,
For on the third day they should meet again.
Her father's house she reached a little tired,
And found the old man better, glad, and moved
To see her and the infant, who, not strange,
Looked out at him, with great blue wondering eyes,

And cooed, and made great dimples in his cheek.
The visit was a happy one though brief,
And when she said “Good-bye,” 'twas with the hope,
That as the spring returned with genial breath,
And vernal breezes blowing soft and mild,
They all might meet again; and “father, he
Should come,” she said, “and bring her mother too,
And visit her and Michael, as they once
Had done before; and sure she was the change
Would do them good, and gladden all their hearts.”

The morn was drear and cold, and darkened o'er
With scudding clouds, that fled before a wind
Biting and bitter, threatening fall of snow.
They fain had kept her, but she would not stay;
“Michael expected her, they were to meet
Upon the Kirkstone Pass, so he had said.
She would not disappoint him, had no fears,
Was strong and well, the snow might never come,
Or, if it did, would not be much—a storm,
And over.” So against their wish she took
Her way, and wrapped the babe in many a shawl,
And pressed him to her breast to keep him warm.
And then she journeyed bravely on her road,
Along the rugged pathway, torn by rains,
And broken by the torrents from the hills.
She crossed the little bridge, beneath whose arch

The Goldrill runs, of yellow, tawny hue,
And by the hills that, 'neath a leaden sky,
Looked black and frowning, and then up the dell,
Close by High Hartsop, nestling 'neath Dove Crags.
So for some weary miles upon her way.
The ruthless wind swept fiercely down the vale,
Whirling white flakes of snow, which now fell fast,
And blotted out the heavens, and the hills
To right and left, and blocked up all the paths.
Poor Ruth! Soon wearied with the ceaseless fight
Against the tempest, breathless, blinded too,
By showers of driving sleet, she could but stop,
And turn her from the wind, then sink all faint
Upon a crag that jutted on the road.
Her babe began to cry; she pressed it close,
And held it firmly to her throbbing heart,
Then breathed a piteous, earnest prayer to God.
There was no other help; no house was near,
Not even shepherd's hut upon the waste,
And desolation reigned around. Still roared
The savage wind; still fell the pitiless snow;
Still darker grew the day, and drifting mists
Came down, and settled on the mountain-tops,
And threw a ghostly shroud o'er all the land.
Ruth struggled to her feet again; again
The tempest's fury fronted, and held on
With slow and aching feet, and fainting heart.
The boy was heavy in her arms, a weight

She felt she had not strength to carry far.
Had she to battle with the storm alone,
She would have kept up heart, and bravely fought
Against the blustering wind, and driving snow.
But with her babe she knew the fight was vain.
A feeling came upon her of despair;
She thought of home, her happy, happy home—
Her husband, and his love, and all the loss
To both; her infant too; the certain death
Before the boy and her, unless some help
Were quickly sent her by a pitying God;
And a sharp cry, that tore her heart in twain,
Burst from her lips, of “Michael! Michael! Michael!”
This passed, and then she turned her thoughts to God,
And tried to bend to His her will, and say,
“Not mine, O Father! oh, not mine, but Thine!”
And then she cried, “My boy, oh, save my boy!
For me, if I must die, so be it, Lord,
I'll lay me down upon this bed of snow,
And fall asleep, content to wake in heaven;
But spare my babe, good Lord, for Michael's sake,
I die in peace, if Thou wilt spare my boy.”
And then she stripped herself of cloak and shawl,
Of all in dress she had of soft and warm,
And laid part in a crevice, 'twixt two crags,
A woollen bed on which the babe might lie,
And part wrapped round her darling, who then smiled

Up in her face. Then with a long, long kiss,
The last that she should ever press upon
Those rosy lips, she laid him, with a prayer,
As Moses was committed to the ark,
Between the spaces of the sheltering crags,
Where neither snow could reach, nor tempest come;
This done, she couched beside him on the snow—
The white and wintry bed of freezing snow,
Her only thought to screen him from the wind;
Her body flung between her child and death.
And there she lay till numbing sleep came on,
And wrapped her in its fatal lethargy.
Then blacker grew the eve, the shadows fell;
The drifts came down on mountain and on moor,
And drew a dreary pall o'er all the vale.

Michael this morn had set out somewhat late,
Detained an hour or more, against his will.
When he was free again—the business done—
He hurried off at once to meet his wife,
Hoping to reach the little inn, that crowns
The Kirkstone Pass, somewhere about the noon;
And after resting there awhile with Ruth,
To leave for home again, before the short
And wintry-looking day, which threatened storm,
Closed in, and darkness fell upon the vale.
Lightly he trod the road all hard beneath;
And then the snow began to fall, and winds

Came in wild gusts, and howled across the fells,
He heeded not the weather, but passed on,
Thinking of that glad meeting at the end.
So for a while. But thicker grew the air,
And faster fell the snow, and louder roared
The wind across the fells all dark and dull,
And shrieked adown each ghyll and mountain gorge,
As if avenging spirits were abroad
On mere and mountain all along the waste.
At last his eyes were blinded by the flakes
That, cold and white, were driven in his face;
And as the road was choked up by the drift—
Stone wall and hedge being level with the path—
He lost himself, and wandered on the Screes,
And knew not where he was, or where the way,
And so stood still, perplexed what next to do;
And as he stood there, doubting, on the fell,
He fancied that he heard a plaintive voice—
A voice like Ruth's, low, pleading in its tone,
And somewhat smothered, calling three times o'er,—
“Michael! Michael! Michael!” He started wild,
Shuddered, and clasped his hands in agony,
And shrieked out, “Ruth! Dear Ruth!” Then, “Ruth!”—again,
“Where art thou, Ruth?” Then waited for reply
That never came upon his straining ear:
No answer was there now but that of winds
That drove in drifts the falling clouds of snow.

Then, with a cry hot from his heart to God,
Moved blindly on, and might have wandered there
Till lost in some deep pit or treacherous chasm,
Had not a shepherd's dog, sent out in search
Of some poor straggling sheep, crouched at his feet
And barked, as glad to see a human face.
The dog he followed—followed numb and cold,
With aching feet, slow steps, and sinking heart,
Unto the lonely inn, where travellers rest
Who cross the Pass, and which doth proudly claim
To be the “Highest house inhabited”
Within the pleasant borders of our isle.
'Twas evening now, and all was dark and drear;
The landscape wrapped in winding-sheet of snow,
Which covered o'er the dead and buried earth.
And Ruth, where was she? Ruth, his wife, his life?
Where the dear babe that filled his home with joy?
Not there. They had not seen, or heard of her.
Perchance she had not left her father's house,
But stayed at Patterdale until the storm
Should pass. Surely they'd keep her at their hearth
On such a day as this, nor let her leave
Until the wild and driving tempest pass'd;
So Michael hoped—so Michael fondly prayed.
But still he had a terror at the heart,
—A strange and dreadful fear that blanch'd his cheek,
And smote him with an anguish beyond words.
Still must he wait, in doubt until the morn,

And pass the long, long night as best he may.
The storm now somewhat lulled, and the wind fell,
And the snow ceased, the sky began to clear,
While, 'midst the rack of scudding clouds,
A friendly star shone faintly in the blue.
No bed did Michael press that awful night,
But by the lonely fire, in thought and prayer,
He watched the breaking of the wintry dawn.
Soon as the first faint glimmer streaked the sky,
He and his host—a man of kindly heart,
Who made poor Michael's grief his own—the dog,
Which led him to the inn the night before,—
Started for Ullswater, along a road
Some six feet deep in snow. The morn was calm
As though no blustering wind had ever blown
Across the hills, or blast had scourged the clouds.
Poor Michael ne'er forgot that early walk,—
That wintry scene, his steps that sank full oft
In the white drift, the faint and hopeless hope,
The sickening doubt, the agonizing prayer,
The anguish gnawing at his quivering heart!
The shepherd-dog ran swiftly on before,
His pace the quickest o'er the yielding snow.
Just as they reached the bottom of the Pass,
Not far from Hartsop, where the little road
Begins to wind and curve to Goldrill Bridge,
He came to sudden pause, and sniffed the ground,
Then raised his head again, and uttered loud

A long and piteous whine, that ringing clear
Through the bright frosty air, smote on the ear
Of Michael, striking to his faltering heart,
Until he staggered 'neath the awful dread
That wrung and tortured him, and brought the sweat
In drops of anguish to his dizzy brow.
He never knew with what a frantic bound,
With what a piercing cry of agony,
He reached the spot where howled the shepherd-dog;
And stooping down, to what at first sight seemed
A frozen mound of snow, he found his Ruth—
His wife—life of his life—heart of his heart—
Ruth stiff and cold upon her bed of snow;
Snow was her winding-sheet, snow wrapped her round,
Snow veiled her face, now whiter than itself.
Dead! Yes, poor Ruth was dead! The mother's love
Shone forth in sacrifice; love strong as death,
Yea, stronger far, and trampling upon death,
And rising more than conqueror o'er his fear.
The baby lived, and smiled a faint, sad smile,
As they unwound it from its pile of shawls;
Then cried in wailing tones and low—poor babe!
Lacking the nourishment it used to have
From the dear mother's breast; but safe and well,
And, far as they could see, unhurt, unharmed,
Spite the dread night it spent amid the snow.

It was the rescued life of his dear child

That saved poor Michael from a blank despair,—
Thanks to that God who planted in his home
So sweet a flower, to soothe his bitter grief,
And keep his heart from breaking. Long it was
Before he lifted up the head, whose hairs
Had turned to grey, changed by the agony
Of that one night,—his loss,—the crushing grief—
That pressed upon a sad and desolate soul.
Long, long it was before he could resume
The even tenor of his former life.
For flock, and farm, and field, in which he used
To take so much delight, a burden grew;
And though a man of faith and prayer, he found
It hard to say, “God's will, be done, not mine”—
And had it not been for the grace that fights
And conquers Nature, he had gained no power
To bow his head, and say the words at all.
Long was he restless—ranged the hills, the dales,
And sought for peace of mind 'midst Nature's scenes,
Where he met God alone, and prayed for strength
To suffer, and be patient, nor repine.
In the church too, so simple, plain, and rude,
He listened for all words of rest and hope,
And learned that God is good, that all His ways,
Though sometimes dark, hard oft to understand,
Are full of wisdom, mercy, truth, and love.
Thus, though his heart was breaking 'neath the blow,
He bowed his head to kiss the hand that smote,

And so confessed, “He doeth all things well.”
Her grave, that lay outside the little church,
Was ever kept fresh dressed with fragrant flowers;
And here he oft was found, at early morn,
And in the shadows of the quiet eve.
So years passed on, and Wilfred, his dear boy—
Ruth's image, with her eyes, and sunny hair—
Grew from a child to lad, from lad to man,
And was his father's comfort and his joy;
And Michael felt, so long as he was spared,
His mother's spirit was not lost to earth.

TARN HAWSE.

A purple glory of clouds
Fills a tender evening sky,
Flushed with the hues of a sun that sinks
Behind the blue hills to die.

A silvery crescent moon,
In a tremulous sea of light,
Shines in a beauty which graces the eve,
And gladdens the coming night.

One lustrous planet that burns
In the heart of the glowing west,
Large and lambent and all aflame,
Like a jewel on lady's breast.

A billowy sea of hills,
With an outline clear and bold,
Stretches as far as the eye can reach,
In many a wavy fold.

Hills all solemn and grand,
Yet soft in the tender gloom,
Are rich with colour from crown to base,
From the heather's crimson bloom.

A tarn at the mountain's foot,
With a fringe of fragrant grass,
Reflects the skies and the clouds and the hills
In waters as still as glass.

To the front the fair Bowfel
Rears up its crest on high,
And Wetherlam raises its curving ength
Against the darkening sky.

Round the Langdale Pikes is wreathed
A diadem dark of cloud;
And Scawfell, robed in his mists, looms up
Like a giant in his shroud.

Glaramara lifts his head
Out of the valley afar,
And in the dim and quivering light,
Seems to kiss the evening star.

I know not in all the land,
Through the country far or near,
A scene of such perfect beauty as this,
With the hills and the little mere.

Oft have I watched the scene;
Silence on moor or fell,
Broken alone to the listening ear
By the sound of the far sheep-bell.

If this world is so fair, O God,
Ah, what must it be above,
Where are landscapes bathed in the glowing light—
The light of Thy perfect love!

For all that is loveliest here,
Splendours of earth and sky,
Are but the shadows of things unseen,
Glories of worlds on high.

ELLEN.

As speed the moons through all their circling rounds,
Each has its beauty 'mongst our lakes and hills;
Spring leads the seasons here with buoyant step,
And at her side there trips the new-born Year;
And Summer follows, sweet as morning's breath,
And clad in robe of many-coloured flowers.
Then mellow Autumn comes, and round her brow
Is bound a crown of golden ears of corn;
Winter the last, his head all white with snow,
And from his beard bright icicles hang down.

Giles Fleming loving in his youth's first dawn,
Not winning her he loved, lived single long,
Nor married till his head was silvered o'er
With grey. He tilled a farm that was his own,
And which from son to son had passed for years.
One only child he had, a boy, dearer
For that he was the fruit of his old age,

An Isaac born out of due time to him.
He made the gladness of his father's home,
Its brightness and its joy. Never was youth
More worthy of a parent's fondest love.
Large-browed was Philip, large-brained, large of heart;
From out an honest eye of darkest grey,
Looked forth no common mind,—one lofty, pure,
And which, like sensitive and well-tuned harp,
Responded quick to every skilful hand
That struck the chords to noble themes, and true.
He had a painter's eye, a poet's heart,
A soul that open lay to Nature's spells,
And took her lessons in with love and joy.
All that the Grammar School could give he had
Of scholarship, and at this fount he drank,
And yearned for deeper draughts of the same spring.
All books he read, or grave, or gay, romance
Or poem, legendary tale, that fell
Into his hands. These he would borrow oft
From kindly neighbour, or a willing friend;
Nay, the great Poet of the Lakes himself
Had lent him many a volume from his shelves,
And stayed the hunger at the young boy's heart
For knowledge, so that Philip did not starve.
The Pastor of the parish ruled the school,
And taught the village boys through all the week.
When Sunday came, he fed, or tried to feed,
The flock that gathered in the church's fold.

A kindly man he was, and scholar good;
Eccentric, and with scanty light enough,
He saw, as one with eyes half purged from film,
Men as trees walking. But—nor this mean praise—
He used the light he had up to its measure.
Far better so than have the sun shine clear,
And walk in darkness. No divided flock
Was his. All met together in one house
Of common prayer, from which a single bell,
But sweet, rang softly out across the vale,
And called his charge on Sabbath morns and eves,
To hear their pastor's voice in prayer and psalm,
And in the word of exhortation drawn
From the great Book of God. So here, afar
From towns and cities, passed he useful days.

Young Philip grew in wisdom and in strength.
Upon the little farm his father till'd,
His pleasure 'twas to plough, and sow, and reap,
And here in golden prime of dawning youth,
Pure happiness he drew from sights and sounds
A bounteous nature spread around his home.
He loved the vernal morn, the balmy day,
The shimmer of the leaves, the gliding stream,
The mossy glen, the banks all plumed with fern,
And the smooth lake that lay in calm repose,
Embosomed in the hills that rose around.
He felt the beauty of the fair green earth

In all its changes under sun and cloud;
Or when the moonlight blanched it, and the stars
Looked down in silence on a world asleep;
Or when the storm came roaring down the vale,
Bending the branching pines before its blast,
And churning into white and seething foam
The waters of the lake, lifting on high
Its curling waves, until Winandermere
Grew like an inland sea—dark, dangerous, wild.
When clashed the elements in dreadful war,
And the loud thunder roared among the hills,
And livid lightning leaped from lurid clouds,
Then gave he up his spirit to the scene—
Surrendering himself to time and hour;
Now thrilled with awe, elated now with joy,—
Now filled with triumph, every sense sublimed,
And drawing from the struggle of the storm
A feeling deep of rapture and repose.
Oft stood he with uncovered head amid
The tempest's rage, and as the lightning streamed
Along the troubled sky, and thunders crash'd
As tho' had come the awful Day of doom,
He lowly bowed a reverent head and said,—
“My Father's voice! my Father's voice! How grand!”

Up to this time, when three-and-twenty springs
Had passed full lightly over Philip's head,
His life had glided on a quiet stream,—

Unruffled days, and nights of peaceful rest.
Nothing had chanced to stir the deeper depths
Of a strong nature, on the surface calm;
But capable of passionate emotion,
Intense and keen, and all aglow with fire.
He had escaped as yet love's pleasant pains,—
Its hopes, its fears, its triumph, or defeat;
And though the archer sat in tender eyes
Of village lasses, and from thence shot forth
His arrows, winged with sweet and fond desire,
He passed unscathed upon his happy way.
The darts all glanced aside, and made no wound
In heart that yet was tender as a maid's,
While strong and manly, as becomes a man.

Summer had reached its noon, and sweetest scents
Were blown from fields on which the mower toiled,
Whetting his scythe amongst the new-mown hay;
And roses flushed the hedges, and the air
Was balm, when to the little village came
A widow, with her only living child,—
A maiden, over whose fair head had rolled
Some eighteen years. Her husband had a Cure
Amongst the hills, and far remote from towns,
His means but modest, and his wants but few.
Here for many a year he lived and toiled,
And consecrated all his health and strength
To sacred ministries of love. His joy

It was as one of Christ's ambassadors
To lure men from the world, and lead to God;
And with the pebble and the sling of truth,
To smite some giant falsehood in the brow,
And fell it to the earth. Tender he was,
And true,—a godly man, who felt and lived
The truths he preached; and by the silent force
Of a good life, whose power was holiness,
Drew many after him to Christ and heaven.
As thus he daily walked the world with God,
There came the call which summoned him up higher.
“He was not, for God took him” to Himself,
And poorer was the parish for his loss.
His mourning widow was compelled to leave
Her happy home,—the only home she knew
Since that bright summer morn he proudly bore
Her from the altar as his wedded bride.
So weeping, with her only child, she said
“Farewell” to house and scenes endeared by ties
So firm, so fond, they might be rent in twain,
But always felt and prized. Her means were small,
Enabled her to live, and hardly more.
With these she sought and found a modest place,
Where she might spend her latter days in peace.
Fair home was hers, with rose and ivy wreathed,
And close to Rydal, near the placid lake,
Whose waters mirror Loughrigg in their wave.
Here she and Ellen lived right well content,

Not seeking any, only sought by few.
No fairer maid in all the country round
Than Ellen, and none gentler or more kind.
A heart as open as her brow, a cheek
Where rose and lily blended into one;
Eyes dark and large, and of a wondrous depth,
Liquid and lustrous as the evening star;
And glossy hair as shadowy as the night.
A graceful mien, a light elastic step,
A soul that early had drunk in with joy
All that is written in the Book of God,
Of what is good and true, honest and just,
All lovely things, and things of good report.
Ellen and Philip met,—were friends at once,
Kindred their spirits, and their tastes alike.
They loved the hills, the flow'rs, the whispering woods;
The meadows gemmed with glistening dew, the streams
That flowing from the mountains sought the lake;
Clear noons, and twilight eves, and balmy nights.
The same with books. Here, too, their tastes agreed.
The favourite of one was favourite
Of both; and many a happy hour was spent
Under the branches of a leafy elm,
Which threw cool shadows 'thwart her mother's croft,
Reading such volumes, treasures new and old,
Which friend had lent, or which enriched the shelves
Of Philip's, or of Ellen's cottage home.

And what could all this lead to but one end?
To Philip's life there came an added charm,
Which made his days one happy, blessed spring,—
A May-time, redolent of hope and joy.
And what of Ellen? Only this she knew,
That she was happy; and no thought beyond
Came in to trouble, or to vex her mind
Concerning what might come, or what might be,—
It was enough for her to live, to breathe,
To drink the air, roam over hills and fells,
To feel sweet Nature's influence around,
And walk a world sunned by the smile of God.

Will Vipont was a statesman's son, and near
Akin to Ellen—was indeed her cousin,
Child of her mother's brother; and their homes
From childhood were not far apart, a field
Was all that lay between, where daisies grew,
And where they oft had played, both well content.
Stalwart and tall was Will, good-looking too,
Fonder of rustic sports and games than books;
Well did he love to follow with sure foot
Through brake or o'er the fells the tawny fox,
With sound of horn, and cry of baying hound,
And swiftest of the swift to be in time
To see poor Reynard die. And often too,
When Autumn amber colour laid upon
The hills, and changed their green to gold, his gun

Roused all the echoes with sharp-sounding ring.
Right fond was he of fishing, and knew well
Each freshet, and each cool clear pool where lay
The speckled trout. In temper arrogant,
Though generous; gay, full of spirits, quick;
Was one who valued not himself below
His proper worth, and could not brook to be
Outstripped by others in the race he wished
To win. Withal he was infirm of will,—
Impulsive, wayward, fond of company,
And that, alas,—not always of the best;
Would sit carousing late into the night
When jovial fellows gathered round the board.
From early years his heart went out with all
Its force and strength to Ellen. Though he ruled
All others, he was ruled and swayed by her,
And owned the thraldom of her voice and will.
He never thought of her but as his own;
Took it for granted she would be his wife;
Nor would it have amazed him more to see
The sun stand still from golden noon till eve,
As once on Gibeon,—where it stayed its course
Until the moon with wondering face appeared,
And silvered all the heights of Ajalon,—
Than to hear doubt expressed that Ellen was
To be his wife, and share his future home.
And yet no word between them ever passed
Sealing his hopes as true. No vow did he

Exact, no promise passed his lips or hers;
So safe he thought himself of what he wished.
When Ellen's father died, and she removed
To Rydal, it was just the same. He came
And went at will. Sometimes he stayed for days,
At others not so long, but always found
The welcome of a greeting and a smile.
Now chanced it more than once that when he came
Philip was at the cottage too; and though
At first his visits gave him no concern,
Yet when he chanced again and yet again
To find him there, he liked it not; indeed,
Felt a dark trouble moving at his heart;
And once some bitter words leaped to his lips,
And anger glowed within his eyes, and shook
His voice, which, trembling, grew all hoarse and harsh,
As that of some wild bird, when to his nest,
Where sits his mate upon her callow brood,
Comes one intent to harry or destroy.
Wilfred—for love is quick to see—at once
Felt, “here is rival for sweet Ellen's love,”
And all his heart grew sick and faint with fear.
He thought in William's face he saw his doom,—
That they were more than cousins—more than friends,
And that they loved; that he for all these months
Had fed a hope which like the marish fire
Had only lured him on to dark despair.
On one sad eve he left the cottage with

A heart from which was crushed both hope and life,
And wandered on until the sun had sunk
Behind the hills, and silver steams of mist
Came o'er the valley from the evening dews,
And drew a chilly veil 'twixt earth and sky.
Then home he went, but not to bed or sleep,
For all night through he battled with himself,
And passed the hours in one long agony,
Nor let God go until He bless'd him there,
(As Jacob held the angel at the ford),
And when the Day-spring fringed the hills with light,
It found him on his knees, but calm and still.

Ellen had seen how Will was chafed, that eve
Had marked the fire that burned within his eyes,
And her quick woman's instinct caught the truth
At once; and there came flashing on her mind,
Like to a revelation, feelings—thoughts
That hitherto had dormant lain and still,
As sleeps the lightning veiled within the cloud,
But ever ready to leap forth in flame.
Then o'er her neck and face rushed the warm blood;
And thrilled her heart as she stood quivering there,
And self-revealed. And now she saw the gulf
Which opened at her feet, and on whose brink
She trembled, dizzy with a dreadful fear.
Will marked her agitation, and resolved
To claim her his, at once secure her hand,

And have her promise she should be his wife.
And so he pleaded earnestly his suit,—
Their love from childhood's days, their kinship too;
The silent, if not spoken, hopes she gave
That she was his in heart, and would be his
In marriage,—pleaded on his knees for this.
Prayed her to shine within his home a star
As she already shone within his heart.
She sat all pale before him as he spoke,
Sorrow and pity looking from her eyes
Through tears that gathered there, but did not fall,
Held back by firm resolve, and self-control.
Clearly she knew she did not love the man
That knelt before her, nor could ever love.
That great deep love which, blending into one
Two spirits, welds, and knits them each to each,
And kindles on the altar of the heart
A pure and sacred flame which burns till death,
She never had for William. This was plain
To her, and lay before her just as clear
As lay that last sun-gleam upon the floor.
And this, in answer to his pleading prayer,
She tried to tell him gently as she could,
With tears that now would flow, and voice that shook
And broke in telling. William heard with ear
Which at the first was all incredulous,—
Could not believe—would not believe; and then,
With many a cry, half angry and half sad,

Broke in upon her words, until at last
The bitter truth grew slowly on his mind,
And stung him to the heart, and left his cheek
All blanched, and big drops stood upon his brow.
Then maddened by his anguish, passion-tost,
He spake words fierce and wild, and loaded her
With undeserved reproaches, cursing Philip,
“He claimed her his, and yet would make her his,
Would look upon her as his own till death;
And woe betide the man who dared to come
Between them, or as rival cross his path.”
He left the cottage with a whirling brain
And burning heart, all reckless where he went,
With one wish only, that from the dark cloud
Might burst the thunder, break the lightning flash,
And strike him dead, and Ellen too, and Ray.
Then wretched, stung to agony, and mad,
Sought “The Red Dragon,” and there spent the night
With boon companions in a wild debauch.

To Philip the whole world was as a blank,
And soon his course was shaped. With early dawn
He would be far upon his way from home,
Northward across the border to a friend,
Who occupied a little household farm
Amidst the fertile fields of fair Dumfries.
But ere he went he'd take a long last look
Of Rydal, and the home where Ellen dwelt.

Then as with weary heart and step he passed
Beyond the meadow with its swelling knolls
Of emerald green, where rise the dark-branched pines,
And where, upon the charmed eye, a scene
Of beauty bursts—Loughrigg, the Park, Nab's Scar—
He came to sudden pause, the tell-tale blood
Mounted in crimson eddies to his brow;
For there was Ellen, seated on the bridge
That spans the Rotha's clear and rapid stream.
She was alone, and looking worn and pale,
White as the rose she wore upon her heart;
She saw him coming, started to her feet,
Sat down again, and trembled as a leaf
That shivers on the aspen. Philip stood
A moment all uncertain what to do;
Then joined her, spake some hurried words, confused,
And sat beside her on the little bridge,
And saw the river gliding calm below,
Reflecting in its stream the rosy light
That now began to flush the evening sky.
Scarce knew he what he said; he spake as thro'
A dream, and hardly heard her low replies—
More gave he words to than he meant at first.
Until at length, and all unwittingly,
There came the low confession of his love,
His hopes, his disappointment, and despair.

He never knew—all was so sudden, strange,

Beyond his thought, beyond his wildest dream—
How came the quick revulsion o'er his mind,
How passed the anguish, or how rose the hope
That thrilled him with a joy so keen, it was
Almost akin to pain. O sweet! O sweet!
O maiden blush that mantled o'er the cheek!
O voice all tremulous and low with love!
O soft dark eyes down dropt beneath their lids,
And bright with tears of unexpected joy!

The stars came out in heaven round the moon,
The rapid Rotha rippled with sweet sound,
Making melodious murmurs in their ear;
Whilst in the greenwood-tree the night-thrush sang,
And all the air was laden with sweet scents,
And wafted odours from a balmy night,
Though fresh with eager breath of coming fall.
It seemed as if at one great sudden bound
Earth had been lost, and Paradise regained.
Long hours had passed since Michael's house was still,
When Philip, sleepless, and his bed unpressed,
Threw ope his casement, leaned into the night,
And heard the river, and one bird's sweet song.
Then looked he on the skies aglow with stars,
And saw the flashing of the northern lights,
That spread like flame along the cloudless vault—
A bright Auroral glory like the dawn,—
It seem'd as tho' thro' thin transparent skies

There burst the shinings of the golden streets,
Which made the heavens a splendour far and near;
Then flow'd his heart in song, but low and soft,
As singing to himself, with none to hear;—

Shine on, fair moon, in the skies afar;
Glitter and sparkle, O beautiful star!
Was there ever on earth such a night as this?
Shine, O shine!
I tremble and thrill with a nameless bliss,
She told me, my love, she was mine, all mine.

Sing on, sweet bird, sing loud and strong,
Flood all the air with your joyous song;
My heart it aches with delicious pain.
Sing, O sing!
I long to take up, and to catch your strain,
For I kissed her hand with the little ring.

Flow, river, flow, glide soft and clear,
And trickle in music upon my ear;
Is it real, or is it a dream?
Flow, river, flow!
Let me whisper my joy to your quiet stream,
For her heart is all mine, all mine, I know.

Philip and Ellen met full often now;
But 'midst their happiness a shade at times

Cross'd Ellen's brow. She thought of William's love,
And how unconsciously she had beguiled
Him into thinking that it was returned.
This often laid a weight upon her heart.
Nor could she e'er forget words once he spake,—
“He claimed her his, by silent sanction given
To love she must have known was always hers;
And by the years through which this one hope ran
A golden thread in all his web of life,
That he should at the altar make her his.”
“Remove the thread,” he said, and “his would be
A spoiled and ravelled life, without an aim,
All tangled, wild, all meaningless, confused.”
She had not thought of this in her first joy—
A joy so great, like Aaron's mystic rod,
It every other thought and care absorbed,
And stood out in its magnitude alone.
But now came memories which vexed her mind,
And wrought upon her so, she made resolve
Never to wed till William should declare
Her free, or wed himself some other maid.
Philip she would release if he so pleased,
Nor bind him to a service for her sake
That might run out the years that Jacob served
For Rachel. Philip did not please. His love
For Ellen was as true, as deep, as fond,
As ever stirred within the breast of man.
Wait seven years? Fourteen? Aye, twice fourteen,

And then feel overpaid by that sweet day
On which God gave him Ellen as a wife.

So passed the days, the weeks, the months,
Yet not without sweet solace as they passed.
Will Vipont now to Rydal seldom came,
His visits were but brief, and left behind
Much pain to all who cared most for the man—
Rumours there were of wild and reckless hours
Spent with the worst, of drinking-bouts held long
Through night, till morning thro' the casement looked
And blushed to find a shameless crew still there,—
Oh, cursed vice! more cruel than the grave!
Oh, shameful fetters, forged in fires of hell!
Oh, frightful source of sorrow and disease
Of crime, starvation, devilry, and death.
Scarcely a winter passed within the Vale
But some man fell a victim to this vice,
And staggered drunken to God's judgment-seat,
Uncalled, untimely, unprepared to die.
Often, in bitter anguish of remorse,
That tore the heart as with a vulture's beak,
Because of wife and children slowly starved,
Some wretch would rush on death; and from the Lake
A ghastly face was drawn—white, wan, and cold—
Which shrouded in the sere-cloths of the tomb,
Was laid, with bleeding of the heart, and tears,

And hopeless sorrow, in a drunkard's grave.

William, this autumn, came to Ambleside,
Reckless as ever, riotous and wild;
Masking a wretched heart in borrowed smiles,
The wreck of his old self, with hollow laugh,
That rang all false like base and bastard coin.
One morning, after bout the night before,
He took a bright young boy, son of a friend—
A boy of promise whom he loved right well,
Resolved to have a day on Windermere,
And cool with mountain air his fevered head.
The morn was threatening dark with heavy clouds,
Bitter with whistling winds that boded storm.
Friends warned him not to go, to bide within,
Nor venture on the Lake, which showed great waves
And beat in angry murmurs 'gainst the shore.
Not he, he would not stay; he knew not fear,
Laughed at all dangers, liked the wind and storm,
And hoped a blast might blow from all the hills,
And churn the waves to foam, and fill the sails,
And drive the dancing boat along the flood.
Yes, Lancelot, the boy, should come along.
This Lancelot was his mother's only child,
And she a widow. All her yearning heart
Was in the lad. He was her age's stay,
The only tie that bound her to the world.
Naught knew she of this visit to the Lake;

Else would have laid commands on Lancelot,
And kept him with her, but she was not told;
And, truth to say, the boy liked well the sport,
And though his mother's wish had kept him back,
Yet nothing loth, and fearless of all ill,
He gladly went with William to the boat.
They launched, and hoisted sail, and for a time
The little yacht went gallantly along,
And danced and leaped upon the curling waves.
William enjoyed the motion, and the breeze,
Which brought the colour to his faded cheek,
And fanned his face, and stirred his hair, and made
His blood course quickly thro' his stalwart frame;
While Lancelot laughed, and shouted in his glee.

So for a time. But now a tempest rose;
Blowing in gusty squalls down all the hills,
Which wrought the waters into sheets of foam,
And caught the sails with such an angry blast,
And smote the boat so heavily on the side,
That first she plunged beneath the swelling waves,
Then righted, struggling like a living thing,
Then turning over, filled, and quickly sank.
William and Lancelot were now both sucked down
Beneath the surging waves. When William rose
He battled, as men battle for dear life.
Good swimmer was he; with an arm was made
To buffet the great waves, and beat them back,

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And use them as strong oars to help him on.
Need had he now of all his strength and skill;
For did not heart and hope keep bravely up,
A watery grave would claim him for its prey.
Before he struck out for the shore, he looked
For Lancelot, but rose Lancelot never more;
Stunned peradventure by the falling mast,
Or caught in tackling of the boat, or sail—
So held by death, that would not let him go.
William, with one last look that scann'd the waves
But saw not him he looked for, then struck out,
Nor ever would have reached the land,
Had not a boat, manned by four gallant men,
Put out from shore, and brought the needed help,
And snatching from the waves the exhausted man,
In safety landed him at Waterhead.
There many of the villagers had come,
Fearful and anxious; and amongst them all
Poor Lancelot's mother, wan as any corpse.
“My boy! my boy!” she cried, and wrung her hands,
And as her grey hairs streamed upon the wind,
And tears chased one another down her cheek,
Her passionate cry was heard in every lull,
“My boy! my boy! my Lancelot! save my boy!”
And on her knees she sank, and raised her eyes
To heav'n, and prayed for pity, prayed that God
Would spare her son, her only hope, her joy.
When the boat grounded on the strand, she rushed

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With eager step and hungry eyes, to look,
To search, for one loved object; and when, alas!
She saw that William was alone, a shrill
Sharp shriek of anguish broke from heart and lips—
A cry, that in its wild despair rang loud
In William's ear for many a bitter day.
And still, “My boy! my Lancelot!” was her cry;
And then she swooned, and pitying neighbours bore
Her to a lonely home, and laid her there
On bed she never left till carried thence,
To rest beside the husband of her youth
In the churchyard that crowns the Chapel Hill.
The body of young Lancelot was found
The day before his mother's funeral.
One bell was tolled for both, one service read
For mother and for son. And now they sleep
Close to each other in one common grave.
And William,—oh the sorrow and regret,
The bitter sorrow, and the wild regret,
The self-reproach, the dire remorse, the woe!
'Twere vain to picture his great agony,
Or tell the grief that like a living fire
Preyed on his heart, and burnt into his brain.
And better still, when the first horror passed,
There came a calmer time of penitence,
And healing tears, and prayers, and cries for grace,
As the full rush of shame and sorrow swept
Across his mind. The boy he loved so well!

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Was he not guilty of poor Lancelot's death?
His mother's too, who, broken-hearted, killed
By the great desolation of her home,
Went sorrowing and childless to the grave.
The Alehouse, how he cursed it in his heart,
And how he loathed himself for all his sin.
There was one night he spent alone in prayer,
In weeping, and in conflict sharp as death.
From out the dead forgotten past there rose
The ghosts of sin that shook his soul with dread.
The buried vice, the long-forgotten scoff,
The selfish lust, the oath, the drunkenness;
And as they came before him at the call
Of conscience—came, a ghastly company—
It seem'd if hell already had begun;
The gnawing anguish of the deathless worm,
The scathing torture of the quenchless fire.
With God he wrestled till the break of day;
And when the morning looked in at his room,
His chamber had become a Peniel,
Where he and Christ had met each face to face,
And whence he went a humbled, contrite man.

When genial spring returned with vernal flowers,
And May was in her beauty and her bloom,
When larks were singing in the cloudless blue,
And in the woods the cuckoo's voice was heard,
When hyacinths were trembling in the glade,

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And violets sweet were scenting all the banks,
When the pale primrose starr'd the shady ways,
One golden morn the village was astir,
And all seemed ready for a holiday.
Neighbours were seen in gossip at their doors,
The children of the schools, clad in their best,
Held lapfuls of sweet flowers, or carried them
In rustic baskets; on all faces shone
The bright reflection of some holiday.
It was the morn when Philip was to stand
With Ellen at the altar as his bride.
The future lay before them one rich land
Of promise, where the milk and honey flowed;
For they were one in heart, in faith, in hope—
In all that sheds a brightness on the world,
Or gilds the far eternity with joy.
And so she placed her hand in his with trust,
And went they forth from that rude house of prayer,
With God's own blessing resting on their heads,
To walk for years in happy bonds of love,
While children sprang around their path like flowers,
To call them bless'd, and crown their marriage joy.

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A SUMMER EVENING IN BRATHAY CHURCHYARD.

The rain that fell all morning ceased at eve,
Now not a cloudlet dims the sun's last ray,
His brilliant beams a crown of glory weave
Around the forehead of the dying day;
And silver arrows from the moon's bright quiver
Fall in faint shafts of light upon the river.

The lordly hills soar grandly all around,
Their crests just lighted by the evening star;
And Brathay's music is the only sound
That breaks the stillness brooding near and far;
On earth, and air, and sky there lies a hush,
Not e'en a night-bird warbles in the bush.

The church-tower rises darkly to the sky,
Like some strong guardian of the dead beneath,
Who in their quiet resting-places lie,
In this fair region of the spoiler Death,
For this clear spot beside the Brathay's wave
Wears not the gloom, or sadness of the grave.

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The tender scene, breathing of perfect rest,
Of dreamless slumber, and unbroken ease,
Creates a holy calm within the breast,
And from its cares the weary spirit frees;
The heart is soothed as glides the stream along,
And Brathay floods the valley with its song.

Pathos and stillness crown the place and hour,
As in the west the light begins to pale,
And dewy night draws over tree and flower
Her dark, but bright and star-inwoven veil;
While o'er this hallowed ground is shed abroad
The peace and deep tranquillity of God.

The world intrudes not here; and we forget
Its stormy passions and its bitter strife,
Ignoble aims, the fever and the fret,
The trifles and the meannesses of life;
For in this scene where God is all in all,
The world appears immeasurably small.

Those who sleep here have cast off all life's cares,
Its poignant sorrows, passions and alarms,
Its shattered hopes, heart-sickness and despairs,
And the great mother folds them in her arms,
'Tis but the living who still watch and weep,
And through the dreary night sad vigils keep.

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Ah! when the fever of this life is past,
And the long labour of the day is done,
How sweet to rest in this fair spot at last,
Our grave illumined by the setting sun,
And guarded by the hills that stand around,
The Brathay flowing by with silver sound.

THE SPRING.

I wish the spring were here;
I long to feel the fragrance of its breath
As, moving over hill, and mead, and mere,
It wakes young life from out the winter's death,—
I wish the spring were here,
To fill the woods with carols sweet and clear!

When will the winter go,
And chilling winds and rains pass all away?
The earth cast off her dreary shroud of snow,
And into green burst every branch and spray?
When will the winter go,
And loosened streams sing sweetly in their flow?

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I long for balmy days,
Clear bright-eyed morns, and blue and glowing noons,
When with the buds the frolic zephyr plays,—
And purple nights lighted by mellow moons;
I long for balmy days,
And all delights that come with jocund Mays.

I sicken for fair flowers,—
The silver snowdrop, and the violet sweet,
White lilies holding in their cups the showers,
And blooms that shine like stars around the feet;
I sicken for fair flowers,
For grassy plots, and the lush trellis'd bowers.

Green wonder of the spring,
Come, scatter beauties o'er the earth and sky,
Till every copse with merry music ring,
And soft low-piping winds come wandering by,
Green wonder of the spring,
'Tis time thou shouldst be born, and winter die!

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TO A CHILD.

Dear child, to-morrow two years old,
What wonders in thy large blue eyes,
That gaze with such a sweet surprise
On all around, half shy, half bold;
Thy mouth a rosebud, fragrant, sweet,
A sweeter never has been seen;
A purer child-heart never beat
Than thine, Aleen.

There, lying on the summer grass,
'Mid half-blown roses fresh and fair,
An aureole crown thy sunny hair;
You laugh to see the shadows pass,
And shout with rare and true delight,
As butterflies in brilliant sheen
Flash in their beauty on your sight,
Darling Aleen.

The present is enough for thee;
No anxious thought the future brings;

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Careless thou art as bird that sings
On leafy bough of yonder tree;
Enough for thee the balmy day,
Blue skies that gently o'er thee lean,
Sweet scents that meet thee from the hay,
Joyous Aleen.

Happy it is indeed to know
Children are always with us here;
They save us from despair and fear,
In this sad world of grief and woe;
For in their innocence and love,
A pledge of heaven by us is seen;
Of such the kingdom is above,
As thou, Aleen.

When looking in thy frank true eyes,
I often think that thou canst see
Things hidden from the world and me,
And veiled as yet in Paradise;
That thou may'st hear the sounding sweep
Of anthems floating down serene,
From heaven's own cadenced music deep,
My sweet Aleen.

Indeed I cannot choose but think
Thy wisdom larger is than mine—
A wisdom deeper, more divine;

110

That thou, dear little one, dost drink
Of springs that are unknown to me,
And by these tear-dimm'd eyes unseen,
But open founts of joy to thee,
Dearest Aleen.

It may be so. For God conceals
Much from the prudent and the wise,
That He unto the babe's clear eyes
In gracious tenderness reveals.
Child! thou art sent from higher sphere
In fittest way God's grace to prove;
None other proof we need, I ween,
That “God is good,” that “God is love,”
Than thou, Aleen.

“I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.”

Only a little tired,—yes, that is all;
Only a little wearied,—nothing more;
I fain would turn my face unto the wall,
And catch the music from the other shore.

111

All that I long for is to be at rest,
For if I could, “I would not live alway;”
And so, with folded hands upon my breast,
I wait till God's own chimes ring in the day.

Naught wish I for, but just to fall asleep—
To close my weary eyes upon the light;
And tho' there's much that I might long to keep,
I yield all up, and gladly say, “Good night.”

Not that my lot was shadowed by much pain,
Or bitter made by trouble or by tears;
I dare not venture, if I would complain,
Since joy and hope outbalanced grief and fears.

I know my life was happy on the whole,
Unnumbered mercies cheered my pilgrim way;
And as I now take counsel with my soul,
I see that sunshine gladdened many a day.

Blessings were thickly scattered on my road,
With countless gifts my brimming cup was full;
Sweet flowers sprang up around the path I trod,
Which I had only to stoop down and cull.

And I have dear ones whom I love full well,
Who lie close as it pulses to my heart;
No words of mine can ever justly tell
How of my life they made the dearer part.

112

Oh, never think, my own true faithful wife,
Or children, friends, your love I do not prize!
For this, with rainbow, spanned the clouds of life
And struck a chord of music from its sighs.

Grateful I am for all you richly gave
Of pure affection, and unselfish love;
These soothe me now as I draw near the grave,
Their mem'ry will enrich the heav'n above.

And if from heart that loves you, I confess
I long to leave this for the other shore,
It is not, dear ones, that I love you less,
But that I love Him whom I go to more.

Then do not wonder if I truly say,
Tho' looking o'er a past, serene and bright,
“I would not, if I could, live here alway,”
Or walk by faith, when I may walk by sight.

Nor pray, dear friends, to keep me longer here,
Your prayers may check the eager spirit's flight;
And do not, as ye love me, shed a tear,
'Tis only after all a short “Good night.”

Weep not for me—tired only—that is all,
Only a little wearied,—and no more;
“Good night,”—I turn my face unto the wall,
I hear the music from the other shore.

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“IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?”

“Is it well with the child? It is well.”

Three dream-like years, and only three,
He blessed our home with love;
And then he passed away from earth,
To the home of God above.

He lay so very calm and still,
We did not know 'twas death;
And thought we heard, through parted lips,
The stirrings of his breath.

But when the truth flashed on our mind,
Our eyes grew dim with tears;
We had not whispered to ourselves
This close to all our fears.

Dear boy! he looked so sweet, so fair!
And round his forehead white,
Clustered the curls of golden hair,
Like an aureole of light.

114

We wept; we could not choose but weep,
So sore our hearts with pain;
And nature's bitter cry was this:
“Oh, give him back again!”

We did not think he could have died,
We hoped when hope was o'er;
We fondly thought the little life
Would be our life once more.

The world so empty seemed,—so blank
Without our darling one,
Who gave to life its grace and bloom,
And to our home its sun.

We never knew so well before
How much we loved the boy,—
How in our heart of hearts he lived
Our fondest hope, our joy.

We had not thought his gentle voice
So much had cheered our way,
Or that his eyes had been the light
Of our brief marriage-day.

We knew it then as he lay there,
We know it more and more;
We feel the world can never be
What it was to us before.

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But all is well, our God is good,
This truth we both believe;
We sorrow not without a hope,
Not unconsoled we grieve.

God haply may have known that we
Had loved him all too well;
And so He took him from our arms,
To heaven with Him to dwell.

God may have seen his future lot,
All shadowed o'er with shame,
And kindly saved him from the world,
While pure and free from blame.

And so we say that “It is well,”
Through eyes with weeping dim;
For though he'll not return to us,
Yet we shall go to him.

THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE.

With a sharp cry of pain she left her couch,
And, when her white foot touched the marble floor,
Stood, with dilated eye and cheek aflame,
And hair that from its fillet loosed flow'd down,

116

Over her ivory shoulders to her feet.
Pale was she, scared, and still. One small hand press'd
Her brow as tho' to hide some painful thought,
The other, clenched so tightly that the nails
Pierced the pink palm, fell stiffly at her side.
A moment thus she stood like statue carved
In marble: rigid, hardened into stone,—
Blanched as the surf upon the wild sea-shore,
When the waves break in foam upon the rocks.
Then, in a broken voice that shook with fear,
She called her trembling maidens to her side,
Who flocked around her, like a flock of doves
When fluttered by a hawk seen in the blue.
From many chambers they came running all,
And gathered near her with a sudden dread
That shook the ruddy colour from their cheeks.
She tried to speak, and could not, for no voice
Would follow at her bidding: the deep storm
Of passion choked it in the swelling throat.
With one great effort she grew calm; and now
Her words, clear and distinct, thrill'd on the ear,
And held the listeners spell-bound with their wail.
“Oh, maidens, such a dream! oh, such a dream!”
Trembling, she paused, then hurriedly went on:—
“Oh, tell me; said they not, that late last night
Jesus, the Man of Nazareth, whose fame
Has fill'd all ears, by one of His own friends
Betrayed, was by our soldiers ta'en, and led

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To Pilate's judgment-hall, for that He made
Himself a King, opposing Cæsar's claims?
Some say this Jewish people sought His death
Because He spake some blasphemy against
Their God. I know not this. I saw Him once,—
A mien of mournful majesty, a face
All marred, yet noble, and alight with love,
And on it written a divine despair.
He moved along attended by a crowd
Of poor, diseased, and sick,—a piteous throng
Who came for healing, and for blessing too,
And found them both in Him. Some of His words
Have been to me repeated, and they fell
Upon mine ears more musical than song:
Of ‘rest’ they were,—rest to the weary,—rest
To laden ones, the sinful and the sad.
Say, maidens, is't not so?”

With wondering voice
They murmured in awe-stricken tones and low,
“Yea, Lady; yea!”

In passionate words she spake:
“Pilate did send me word he was to sit
Upon the judgment-seat to-day, and hear this cause.
A nameless horror chills me to the heart
As I forebode the sentence he may give;
For much he holds this people in contempt,
And laughs to scorn the customs of their law;
And if this Jewish Teacher hath said aught

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Against great Cæsar's rights,—which I, for one,
Believe not, for His eye had that far glance
Which said His heart was with the gods,—not here,—
But if His claims should seem to clash with Cæsar's,
Alas, I know that Pilate would condemn!”
Her maidens answered: “Yea, he would condemn;
For he is loyal to the world's great lord.”
“But listen, maidens, whilst I tell my dream.
Methought a street, filled with a savage crowd,
Whose shouts and curses jarr'd upon the ear
As they did toss from angry lip to lip
One hated name, and gnash'd and ground their teeth,
And yelled, ‘Away with Him! Away with Him!
He is not fit to live,’ they cried,—‘Not fit to live!’
And shriek'd out, ‘Crucify Him! Crucify Him!’
And women's voices mingled with the hoarse
Deep bass of men, and cried in shrilling tones,—
‘On us, and on our children, be His blood!’
Till the streets rang with that dread awful prayer.
I look'd to see the object of their hate,—
Who He could be that all men joined to scorn.
Now swayed the surging crowd, and all at once
It opened, and I saw there in the midst
A face all pale and wan, beneath a brow
Crowned with a circlet of Acanthus thorns.
It might have melted hearts of hardest stone
To see this man, Jesus the Nazarene,
Weak, faint, and worn, stooping beneath a cross

119

Which pressed His shoulders; yet with such a look,—
A look majestic in its calm restraint.
If gods could suffer, He might be a god
Come down in shape and form of mortal men.
Yet no man pitied Him, no woman bless'd.
Still rang the streets with that fierce bitter cry,—
‘Away with Him! away with Him to death!’
I tried to speak: no words would come;
They died upon my lips in muffled sounds.
But e'en as though the prayer that on my tongue
Battled for utterance had been shriek'd aloud
And pierced His ears, to me He turned His face
With such a glance, so sad, yet so divine,
That gathering up my strength, methought I tried
To rush into the maddened crowd, and kneeling,
Plead for sweet pity's sake. I could not stir;
Limbs, feet, were rooted to the spot! I sought
To cry for mercy but no words would come,
And then a voice came thrilling on my ear,
Shaking my heart with terror as I heard
One well-known name. 'Twas ‘Pilate!’ and no more.
A thousand echoes caught the word, and all
The babbling air repeated, ‘Pilate! Pilate!’
Methought I swoon'd in horror; and it pass'd,—
That fearful vision,—to the darkness whence
It came to fill me with a nameless dread.”

She wept. She bowed her head, and the hot tears
Came welling from a heart was like to break,

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And all the woman shook as she would die.
Her maidens, awed, aghast, stood weeping, too,
In broken words trying to soothe her grief.
But all in vain. And now once more she spake,
Lifting a face distained and wet with tears.
“So for a time; and then from out my sleep
Came divers shapes and forms, all indistinct
And vague. Then other images grew clear
Before my sight, up from the darkness drawn,
Until I saw what I shall bear to death,
So stampt is it upon my burning brain,
A memory to carry to the grave!”
She paused: she press'd her brow, as she would beat
Some anguish back; her eye the while ablaze
With a strange burning fire; and then again
In tones so piteous, low, and full of pain,
It seemed a wail from out a broken heart,
She poured her dream into her damsels' ear.
“Methought a surging crowd, a burning sky,
A little hill outside the city walls,
And on the hill three crosses planted close,
On these, nailed to the wood, three dying men.
But one alone,—the central cross,—drew heart
And eye, absorbing every thought; for here
He hung,—the Man of Sorrows, whom I saw
Hurried to death along the city's streets.
All white His face with agony, and stained
With blood that flowed in big and crimson drops

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From the sharp crown was twisted round His brow.
The cruel nails had pierc'd the hands and feet,
And fixed them to the tree: and oh, the look
Of woe that filled those sad, pathetic eyes!
Men mocked Him as He hung there,—laugh'd and jeer'd:
‘Come down, come down,’ they cried, ‘and save Thyself
An' if thou be God's Son!’ And when there wailed
Upon the ear a piteous cry, ‘I thirst!’
They gave Him gall and vinegar to drink;
And flung into his dying face fierce oaths,
And cruel curses, and rude jests and jeers.
But He—He heeded not,—spoke not—was dumb.
Perhaps He heard not, for His thoughts seemed far
Away, as if they were in heaven with God.
And as I looked, longing to speak to Him
Of comfort, and to wipe from off His brow
The death-sweat,—say one heart there was that felt
For Him,—one that would save Him if she could,
But had no power; no power!—His eyes met mine,
And in that piteous face I saw the look
That I had seen across it pass before;
And all my soul grew faint and sick with fear.
Into that moment passed whole years of pain!
Then, as I looked, my heart all in my eyes,
There fell a sudden darkness on the world,
Blotting the sun out,—spreading o'er the skies,
Veiling the Sufferer in its night-black pall,—
Stilling the murmurs round the blood-stained cross.

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And now the hush of death lay on the land:
A silent horror settled down on men!
As though the world stood still in its great course,
And Nature's pulses came to sudden pause.
Wondering I stood,—scarce breathing, filled with fear,
Dreading what next might follow, what befall;
When from the darkness rose a cry so dread,
So full of anguish, that it seemed to tear
The tortured heart, and rend it into twain.
Then a dire tremor shook the earth, the rocks:
'Twas cry of one forsaken of His God,—
A bitter cry that thrilling wail'd to heaven.
And with that cry, to me, all shuddering,
There came another word—a name,—spoken
This time by whom I knew not, but as sharp
As knife that draws the blood. The word was ‘Pilate!’
And once again a thousand echoes caught
The name, and all the sounding air was filled
With shrilling voices, crying, ‘Pilate! Pilate!’
Methought I caught it up, and shriek'd it out
As one who had no power of self-control.
I woke, and on my lips was ‘Pilate’ still.
And then I started from my bed, and called
You maidens all, to help me in this hour,
Whose fellow I have never known, and pray
The gods that I may never know again.
Help! what help can ye give? What help? what help?
What means this dream? Is it a warning giv'n

123

By Powers that wait on good? What should I do?
Am I to stand 'twixt Jesus and His doom?
Am I to save my husband from the guilt
That would condemn the innocent and just?
It must be so! Yes: Pilate must be warned,—
Ay, were he sitting on the judgment-seat,—
With all men crying out for this man's blood,
Not to surrender Him unto the will
Of fierce and cruel foes, nor listen, no!
To angry clamours of this Jewish mob.
Pilate, no matter what the cost, the right
Must do for once, and let the expedient go!
Haste ye, dear maids, and send to him with speed
A messenger, quick-footed, trusty, sure,
And rapid as the wind. Tell him to bear
This message to my lord without delay:
‘See thou have naught to do with that just Man,
For I, thy wife, this day in fearful dreams
Have suffered many things because of Him.’”

Frighted and pale, the maidens, trembling, flew
To give the message to a faithful slave
That waited near. Without delay he sped;
Fleet as the flash that lights up all the sky
When thunder crashes from the black'ning cloud,
So sped the slave to Pilate where he sat
In judgment on the Man of Nazareth;
To warn him not to harm the just, or think
That water could wash blood from guilty hands.

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And she—the wife—all faint and white, sank prone
Upon her silken couch; with sickening fears,
And beatings of the heart that shook her frame,
To wait in agony the dreaded end.

GOD'S FURNACE.

“I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.”
—Isa. xlviii. 10.

My God a Furnace hath of fire,
Its chambers all with flame aglow,
'Tis fann'd in love, and not in ire,
And on the coals He oft doth blow;
A Furnace kindled with His breath,
Cruel, and keen, and sharp as death.

Why doth He thus His fires prepare,
And fan them till they fiercely burn,
To scathe us with their angry glare,
Whichever way we move or turn?
That He may plunge His people in,
And cleanse them throughly from their sin.

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He treats us as the goldsmith treats
The ruddy gold he prizeth well,
Who makes it pass thro' savage heats,
And melts it in his crucible;
And this he does because he knows
'Tis destined for a monarch's brows.

God's fires burn up the seeds of ill
Which lurk within the secret heart;
God's fires melt down the hardest will,
And sever dross and gold apart;
Thro' all the spirit's depths they run,
Until their cleansing work is done,

Oft at white heat the furnace stands,
Ready the evil to consume,
To shrivel up sin's strongest bands,
With fires as fierce as those of doom;
For some He heats it seven times more
Than He has heated it before.

But in the furnace fires so keen,
God doth not leave us all alone,
And tho' His presence is not seen,
There walks beside us His dear Son,
Who comforts us and doth sustain,
And takes from suffering half its pain.

126

And when His fires have wrought their aim,
And sullen hardness all is gone,
God takes us from the burning flame,
To place us on His Anvil stone,
And there with patience wondrous kind,
He moulds and shapes us to His mind.

We shrink indeed from all the pain,
The furnace blast, the hammer's blow,
We pray to 'scape them, but in vain,
For God knows well it must be so;
That if we would be clean and pure,
The searching flame we must endure.

We need the frequent hammer's stroke,
One blow doth not accomplish all,
It is not thus that hearts are broke,
Oft and again the sledge must fall;
And 'tis our fault that we require
God's Anvil, and God's Furnace fire.

But let us thank Him for the pain
That separates the gold from dross,
That purges us from soil and stain,
E'en tho' it be at our sore loss;
Why should we quail, when God desires
To make us perfect thro' His fires?

127

DEAD.

“My son, my son!”

Dead: turn'd at once into clay!
Dead: he that drew life from my breast;
Whom I clasp'd to my heart yesterday,
And close to its pulses had press'd!
Dead: and his face ashen grey!
Dead: the wild spirit at rest!
My son, my son!

Dead: but not shot thro' the heart
In battle 'gainst wrong for the right,—
'Twere noble from life thus to part,
And fall slain in a chivalrous fight;
But to think how he died is the smart,
A darkness unbroken by light!
My son, my son!

Hadst thou died in a cause that was good,
Standing up for the right and the true,

128

Thy mother had said,—ay, she would,—
Let death make a gap 'twixt us two:
I swear, by the cross and the rood,
Without tears I had bade thee adieu!
My son, my son!

Dead: stricken down by a blow
Dealt out by a passionate hand;
In the wink of an eyelid laid low,
His blood welling out on the sand,
And crawling, all red in its flow,
Till it crept to my feet where I stand!
My son, my son!

Dead: kill'd in a wild, drunken brawl,—
Ah, here is the sting and the shame!
Ah, here is the wormwood and gall!
This burns in my bosom like flame!
Would that tears had dropp'd on my pall,
Ere this blot had blacken'd his name.
My son, my son!

Thus to die with a wine-madden'd brain,
Besotted, befool'd, and beguiled!
I curse, from the heart of my pain,
In words that sound frantic and wild;
I curse,—but my curses are vain;
They cannot restore me my child.
My son, my son!

129

Yet my grief is but common, they say,
Others feel the same anguish and woe;
Sad mothers and wives face the day,
And their eyes with hot tears overflow,
As weeping they pass on their way,
And curse the red wine as they go.
My son, my son!

I tell you in God's holy name,
That this is the scourge of the land,
Its burden, its sorrow, its shame,
Burnt deep on its brow like a brand;
Striking hard at its honour and fame,
And crumbling its strength into sand.
My son, my son!

We mothers and wives, lift the cry,
And pray ye, O men, for your grace:
Come, help from your stations on high,
As ye hope to look God in the face,
Who sees us, as weeping we lie,
And ask you for ruth from your place!
My son, my son!

O poets, your aid we implore:
Chant no longer the praises of wine;
Dash the wine-cup down on the floor,
You dishonour a craft so divine!

130

Ah, indeed, you would praise it no more,
If your son lay dead there, like mine!
My son, my son!

O singers, well-skill'd in the song,
Who stir the sweet air with your breath
As your voices move thrilling along,
Dare you laud the cup that is death?
Dare ye lend your great gifts to such wrong?
If so, from your brows tear the wreath!
My son, my son!

Hear the cry from madhouse and jail,
The moan of the starving and poor,
Hear the widows' and orphans' sharp wail,
Who, like martyrs that groan and endure,
Lift to God their white faces so pale,
And, though speechless, His pity adjure.
My son, my son!

Help all! Free the slaves from their bands,
Help, and take part in this fight;
Strike the fetters from paralysed hands!
Like Samson, rise up in your might,
Break the chains like green willow-wands:
Do this in God's name, and the right!
My son, my son!

131

Oh, scorn not, I pray you, the cry
Of a mother, a widow undone;
But even tho' you pass it by,
It will move the great God on His throne:
He hears from the dust where I lie,
Where in ashes I weep for my son.
My son, my son!

LOST!

Lost! Lost! Yes, I tear up the word
From a heart that bleeds at the core;
It gashes and wounds like a sword,
And opens a festering sore.
At my soul a deep trouble is stirr'd,
To be soothed, to be healed, nevermore.
Lost!

Yet the sun shineth on just the same,
It smiles on a world that goes ill;
It looks on at the sin and the shame,
At the crimes that men do at their will,
And tho' it might wrap them in flame,
It rises and sets on them still.
Lost!

132

Thou a man! His likeness I know
Thou dost carry, dost boast a man's power;
“The head of the woman!”—Just so,
And gifted with strength for thy dower.
Well, man! thou art fallen so low,
I, a woman, spurn thee this hour.
Lost!

Speak and say, is there not damning wrong
In using your gifts to betray?
You, you in your manhood so strong,
We so weak that we trust what you say;
You treat us just like an old song,
To be used, and then flung away.
Lost!

Say what sin is so devilish as this?
To drag down a soul to the dust,
Like Judas, betray with a kiss;
All for what? For a fancy? a lust?
And thus, with the serpent's cold hiss,
To repay too confiding a trust.
Lost!

Thou didst lie on a woman's pure breast,
Who gave thee thy life by her pain,
Her lullaby sung thee to rest,
On thy lips fell her kisses like rain.

133

By the heart to which thou wast prest,
Fear'd thou not woman's love to profane?
Lost!

Thy mother! Ah, yes, grasp the thought!
Give it place in thy mind—hold it there;
Think! Her womanhood all set at naught,
Thou a woman to injure didst dare.
That motherhood dropt and forgot,
Thou didst wrong the same nature she bare.
Lost!

But what is our anguish to you?
The world will condone, ay, it will;—
Will flatter and fawn, this is true,
And smile down all thought of the ill;
Perhaps for your friendship will sue,
And with greetings will welcome you still.
Lost!

'Tis the part of a coward to lie,
Tho' thou think'st it little, forsooth!
Thou forgettest there lives in yon sky
A God full of justice and ruth.
And what wilt thou say in reply,
When thou stand'st to be judged by His truth?
Lost!

134

Ah, that God did hear thy false vow,
To give her thy hand and thy name!
Tho', dastard, thou shrink'st from it now,
And art dead to all feelings of shame.
Let the brand of a Cain mark thy brow,
And burn in thy heart like a flame.
Lost!

Ah! where is she now? Canst thou tell?
She thou didst lure by thy love?
Love! Ay, thou didst love her as well
As the ravenous vulture the dove.
Where? On the streets? or in hell?
Answer Him who judgeth above.
Lost!

See! She creeps to the black river-side,
Where the waters flow silently on,
Her guilt and her anguish to hide
From the light and the sight of the sun;
To be borne to God's Bar on the tide,
There to stand all despairing, undone.
Lost!

Had I seen her swathed in her shroud,
Stiff and cold, with a face wan and white,
I had wept, but not clamoured aloud;
And, tho' from my home gone the light,

135

My heart and my head I had bowed,
And said, thro' my tears, “All is right.”
Lost!

O great God! how long wilt Thou brook
Earth's vices, her wrongs and her shame?
O just God! how long wilt Thou look
On the sins that are done 'gainst Thy name?
It is time 'neath Thy wrath the world shook;
Why flash not Thy lightnings in flame?
Lost!

But no more. This only I say:
With the stain of such guilt on thy soul,
Man! what wilt thou do in the day
When God's thunders shall over thee roll,
And thou'lt shrink self-condemned in dismay,
And thy lies shrivel up like a scroll?
Lost!

Ah, yes, thou shalt meet with her there!
And God's justice those lips shall compel
The truth, the whole truth, to declare,
And confess thro' thy falsehood she fell.
In her eyes thou shalt read thy despair,
From her tongue hear thy sentence of hell.
Lost!

136

THE WATCHMAN.

The night still lay on a quaint old town,
On which dumb silence had settled down.
Slowly the minutes were wearing away,
But it wanted yet some hours of day;
In the sky were seen no streaks of dawn,
Tho' the midnight bell had chimed and gone—
The city was hush'd in a sleep like death,
Not a sound or motion, pulse or breath;
Save as the shadows began to flee,
The old Dome clock struck the hour of “three,”
Out on the morning solemnly.

Death had entered a darkened room,
Pall'd and shadow'd in dreary gloom,—
A sick man lay on his fevered bed,
With a throbbing heart and restless head;

137

And at morn the great church bell would toll
From the tall church tower for a passing soul.
Swiftly was ebbing the fair young life,
Soon would pass the anguish and strife;
Ere long another spirit should be,
On the awful marge of that shoreless sea,
Which we only know as Eternity.

When the bell struck “three,” a voice was heard,
Which the heart to its centre thrill'd and stirr'd.
For it fell, as falls a voice from heav'n,
To comfort a soul that is torn and riv'n;
As it echoed loudly along the street,
Its every accent was strangely sweet,
For into its tones was gathered this sound,
As the Watchman paced his lonely round:
“Trust the Divine the Eternal Three,
After the darkest night shall be
The dawn of a glorious morn for thee.”

A wife sat close to that couch of pain,
Weeping to see the dear life wane;
The tears well'd hot from her deep despair,
From an anguish almost too great to bear.
O helpless love, that could only pray!
O fear, that shrank from the coming day!
O yearning wish, that she might die!
A swathèd corpse at his side might lie!

138

Her sorrow—ah! 'twas piteous to see!
As sternly, slowly, heavily,
The Dome clock struck the hour of “three.”

All things told of the coming woe—
The firelight burning red and low,
The night-lamp waxing faint and dim,
As though fire and lamp felt the Presence grim—
And the sick man moaned beneath his breath,
His pulses beating a march to death;
But now there came on his failing ear,
The cry of the watchman, solemn, clear;
Like an angel's voice it seemed to be,
Floating along the glassy sea,
Tuned to celestial melody.

And when the tread of the watchman's feet
Came echoing down the silent street,
And his words came sounding along the night,
To the lady's eye there stole a light;
And her troubled face grew calm and still,
And her head was bowed to God's loving will;
For the watchman's words throbb'd on the air
In the holy tones of a saintly prayer—
Words that had each a harmony,
Caught from the deep Eternity,
And telling of coming victory.

139

Then over the face of the dying man,
So thin and worn, so deathly wan,
There passed a beautiful smile of peace,
A look of wonderful rest and ease;
And a radiance flushed both cheek and brow.
The Master had come for His servant now,
And sweetly from far rose the watchman's cry,
Like the strains of some heavenly minstrelsy,
“Trust the Divine the Eternal Three,
After the darkest night shall be
The dawn of a glorious morn for thee.”

A still white face lay on the bed—
The pathetic face of the newly dead—
O'er-leant by living face of one
All pale and wan, and love undone;
But the breaking heart gave forth no cry,
Not a tear-drop fell from the burning eye,
For there sang in her soul, now more than calm,
Triumphant as voice of some noble psalm—
“Trust the Divine the Eternal Three,
After the darkest night shall be
The dawn of a glorious morn for thee.”

It is a custom, I believe, in some old German towns, for the watchman to give the hours in the patriarchal way, and after each has struck, to call for an expression of trust in God.

140

AN OLD LETTER.

The other morn, when all in careless part,
I searched the papers in an old bureau,
I met with one which thrilled and moved my heart,
Quicken'd my pulse, and made my eyes o'erflow.

It was a little sheet all overrun
With writing by a hand once clasped in mine,
A hand more prized than aught beneath the sun,
Whose gift turned all my earthly to divine.

Dear hand! that with itself gave all it had,
Heart—confidence and love, yea every thought,
Whose lightest touch had power to make me glad,
Such sunshine into every day it brought.

Alas! dear hand, that thou shouldst be more frail
Than this once fair, but now discoloured sheet—
More passing than this ink, so faint and pale,
In which are traced these thoughts all pure and sweet.

141

O memories that pierce the heart with pain!
O sorrow, that in tears finds best relief!
O bitter anguish, all renewed again!
O fresh return of agony and grief.

Dear letter, thou shalt bide with me till death,
And in the narrow coffin with me lie,
For I shall tell them with my parting breath
That we must rest together—thou and I.

A CONCEIT.

Translucent stream, whose waters as they glide,
Thy mossy banks and flower-pied margent lave,
Glassing the while within their silver tide
The reeds whose polish'd shafts bend o'er thy wave,
And on whose breast, amid its leaves of green,
The water-lily's pure white blossom grows,
As Spring and Winter hand in hand were seen,
One scattering verdure, and the other snows—
Much do I love to haunt thy murm'rous stream,
To think of one, and of her fondly dream;
For rises near thy banks Armida's bower,
Amidst its roses she the fairest flower.

142

Spring's earliest violet and primrose shed
On all the fragrant air their sweets around,
And here the star-eyed daisy lifts its head,
And frosts the carpet of the emerald ground;
Here, too, the white and purple butterflies
Flit through the honey'd flowers on glittering wing,
Radiant as meteors flashing through the skies,
Which on the night a lustrous splendour fling;
Here Philomel with music charms the night,
That, wrapt in silence, lists with pleased delight;
But tho' harmonious rang the crystal spheres,
Armida's voice sweet only to my ears.

And here the winds among the tall reeds sigh,
Making their tubes the organs of sweet sound;
And melancholy music murmurs by,
As tho' the genii of the breezes round,
Tuned their soft, viewless harps upon the air.
Morn's earliest ray, sweet river, gilds thy stream,
The sun's last look rests on thy waters fair,
And loth to take from thee his lingering beam,
He slowly sinks into the purple west,
Enamoured of the beauties of thy breast;
But did Armida sun thee with her eyes,
Thou'dst henceforth scorn the sunlight of the skies.

Armida 'tis that makes the flower seem fair,
Armida who the common earth makes bright,

143

Armida's voice with music fills the air—
Armida's eye that gives the sun his light!
Oh! the dark depth of that inspiring eye,
Whose every flash seems sent forth but to kill!
Yet who could storm against such enemy,
Or think to die by such sweet death an ill?
Thus I, tho' looking, die, yet can't refrain,
But look and die—to look and die again!
Oh! hard it is, the fatal truth to prove
That we must die even by that we love.

THE MARRIAGE ZONE.

[_]

A BRETON BALLAD, TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLEMARQUE.

I.

One day after my betrothal I was forced to take my way,
With the Lord de Rieux's army, where the scene of combat lay;
In the suite of the old Baron I was forced to cross the sea,
That in Wales I might do battle for the Britons bold and free—

144

“Haste thee now, my page so trusty, and come with me to the fight!”
On this day, O bitter sorrow! out, alas! this woeful night,
Must I to my Bride so gentle say a sad and long adieu!
Oh, the heart within my bosom will with anguish break in two!”
As he neared the ancient mansion, trembled he until he bow'd,
As he crossed the well-known threshold, then his heart beat fast and loud.

“Come, dear knight, draw near the hearthstone, while I give thee bread to eat.”
“No, gramercy,” thus replied he, “neither want I wine nor meat;
All the favour I implore thee, all the boon I of thee seek,
Is that with thy fairest daughter I may have thy leave to speak.”

When the lady heard his answer, off she slipp'd her silken shoon,
Then stepp'd quickly in her hosen, stepp'd up to the bedside soon,
And thus leaning over gently, spake in accents soft and mild,

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“Wake, Aloida! dearest maiden, leave thy bed, my darling child;
Quickly rouse thee from thy slumbers, sweetest daughter, list, I pray,
He, thy true love, craves thy presence, much he has with thee to say.”
From the bed the maiden darted, swift as arrow thro' the air,
O'er her snowy shoulders floated masses of her night-black hair.

Then I said, “Alas! Aloida, oh, my brightest, fairest bride,
O'er the sea I sail to-morrow, leaving, sweetest, thy dear side.
We must part, for unto England with the Baron bold I go;
Ah! the dear God knoweth only all the sharpness of my woe.”

“In the name of yon blue heaven, sail not, my belov'd, from me,
For the wind it is inconstant, and all treach'rous is the sea.
Shouldst thou die, what then would happen to Aloida, hapless dove,
Oh, my heart would break, impatient, waiting tidings of my love.

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On the beach I lone shall wander, where the fishers' dwellings rise,
And shall ask of all who meet me, anxious looking in their eyes:
‘Have ye heard, ye kindly seamen, have ye heard, oh, truly tell:
Aught of him, my own betrothed, him I only love too well?’”

Thus outspoke the maiden weeping, weeping 'midst her grief and woe,
Whilst the knight, her sorrow soothing, kiss'd the bright tears in their flow.

“Ah, forbear, Aloida dearest; Sweet! these bitter tears restrain,
I will bring thee back a girdle from the countries o'er the main;
Yes, a marriage zone I'll bring thee, of a purple deep and bright,
All y'decked with burning rubies, sparkling as the stars of night.”

Oh, to see the knight thus seated by the fire's fast-fading glow,
With Aloida on his bosom, and her head down drooping low,

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And her arms his neck encircling, arms as white as driven snow,
All the while in silence weeping, dreading the approach of day,
Of that dark and fatal morning which should tear her love away!

When the dawn at length broke dimly, sadly thus out-spoke the knight:
“Hark, my sweet! the cock is crowing, and appear the streaks of light.”

“Nay, my love, he only cheats us, rest thou, dearest, patient, still,
'Tis the moon, that softly shineth on the brow of yonder hill.”

“Sweetest love, I cry thee mercy, 'tis the sun whose rays appear,
Shining thro' the eastern casement, with a radiance all too clear.”

Now he's left the ancient portal, now he's crossed the olden moat,
As he goes the raven croaketh from his hoarse ill-omen'd throat.

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If all treacherous is the ocean, tempting to a watery grave,
Far more treacherous still is woman, falser than the changing wave!

II.

When the summer waned to autumn, on the feast of St. John's Day,
Thus, to some of her companions, the young girl was heard to say:

“I saw far upon the ocean, from the top of Mount Arey,
Struggling hard a gallant vessel, which the waves sought for their prey;
On the poop stood my bold lover, like a knight who ne'er would yield,
Clasp'd his hand his gleaming falchion, and before him hung his shield.
And he fought the foemen fiercely, from the place whereon he stood,
Never flinching from the conflict till he fell all bathed in blood.”

Thus she said, the fair Aloida, down her cheeks the hot tears glide;
And at Christmas, holy season, she becomes another's bride.

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Now good news and joyful tidings greet the ear on every hand,
War is o'er, the knight returneth, victor, to his native land.
As he flies, on wings of rapture, to Aloida's long'd-for home,
Sounds of loud and dulcet harpings from each brilliant chamber come;
And from every window'd lattice lights are streaming gay and bright,
Chasing all the gloomy shadows from the raven wings of night.

“O ye singers of the Yule-tide, who now cross the fields to me,
What good tidings can ye tell me of the house from whence ye be?
Say, what meaneth all this music, borne along so sweet and clear
From the doors of yonder mansion to the pleased and listening ear?”

“There are on the harp sweet players, two and two who skilful play,
When the bridal milk-soup reaches first the happy bride's doorway;
There are others, harpers also, who play sweetly three and three,

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As the milk-soup first is carried o'er the porch with mirth and glee.”

III.

Whilst the serfs and vassals bidden feasted richly, one and all,
Came there up a traveller lowly, asking shelter in the hall:
“Give me, gentle sirs, I pray you, of your pity give me bread;
Night is hastening, and I know not where to lay my weary head.”

“Welcome art thou, wanderer weary; thou shalt find both food and rest,
And at table shalt be seated with the noblest and the best;
Pray draw nigh, friend, that my husband and myself may tend our guest.”

As they trod the first gay measure, said the bride with winsome glance:
“What is't aileth thee, poor stranger, that thou dost not join the dance?”

“Nothing, lady. If I dance not,” answered he with falt'ring breath,
“'Tis that, worn and faint with travel, I am wearied unto death.”

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As they trod the second measure, said the bride with winsome glance:
“What! art weary still, I pray thee, that thou wilt not join the dance?”

“Lady, yes, I am a-weary; oh, most weary am I still!
And a weight is at my bosom, and a pain my heart doth fill.”

At the third dance, smiling sweetly, thus outspoke the lady free:
“Come, sir stranger, of thy courtesy, come and join the dance with me.”

“Lady, surely this great honour is, for one like me, too high;
Yet who could be so uncourteous as decline or pass it by?”

As they dance he leans and whispers, hissing hoarsely in her ears,
Whilst a smile both wan and ghastly on his white lips now appears,
“Where's the ring of gold I gave thee, at the door where here we stand?
Scarce a twelvemonth has pass'd over since I press'd it on thy hand.”

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Then, with eyes and hands uplifted, cried the bride in awe-struck tone,
“All my peace, O God, is over, all my happiness is gone!
Deeming that I was bereavèd, that my first love lost his life,
Now, instead of one, two husbands claim me for their wedded wife!”

“No! thou'rt wrong indeed, fair maiden, not one husband hast thou now;”
And forth from his vest he draweth, with an angry flashing brow—
Draweth forth the hidden dagger, which he to the very hilt
Buries in the maiden's bosom, trembling deeply for her guilt.
Then her head down drooping slowly, on his quivering breast she lies,
And close to the heart that loved her, calling on her God, she dies.

In Daouly's cloister'd Abbey, you may see a statue fair,
'Tis of Christ, His virgin mother, which a purple zone doth wear;
'Tis y'decked with sparkling rubies, that most costly seem to be,
And have all been brought with danger far from countries 'cross the sea.

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Wouldst thou know who made the offering? Ask the prostrate monk that lies
At the feet of Mary, shaken with a storm of tears and sighs.

LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY.

[_]

A BRETON BALLAD, FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLEMARQUE.

I.

Lord Nann and his gentle bride were wed in days of early youth,
And early they were doomed to part, tho' full of love and truth.
But yesterday the dame bore twins, white as the drifting snow,
And sweet as spring-tide roses are, which from one stalk outgrow.

“Now tell me, love, what is the food for which thy heart doth pine,
And as this day a son thou'st borne, it quickly shall be thine.
Wilt woodcock from the valley have, where grows the primrose sweet,
Or venison from the deep green-wood to make thee savoury meat?”

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“Oh, venison, dear, it likes me best! but weary is the chase;”
The words her lips had scarcely crossed when he started from his place,
And seized right fast his oaken spear his manly hands between,
Then leapt with speed on his coal-black steed and gained the forest green.

A milk-white doe full soon he saw on the borders of the brake,
He followed so fleet, that beneath his feet the trembling earth did shake;
He followed so fleet, that from his brow the big drops fell like rain,
And his gallant courser's panting sides the foam did fleck and stain.

And now the sinking day declined, and deepened into night,
While overhead the radiant stars shone out both clear and bright.
Near to the grot of Königinn, where all was soft and green,
A streamlet held its silver course the flowers and moss between.

Lord Nann he now did light him down, close to the streamlet's brink,
And stooping low he thought full sure the cooling wave to drink.

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II.

Beside her well, the Königinn sat combing out her hair,
She combed all with a golden comb the tresses bright and fair;
For rich they say such ladies are: oh, richer far, I ween,
Than dames who stately lead the dance in halls of king and queen!

“How! Art so rash as dare to shake the Fairy's charmed well?
Here take thy choice of these three things, which to thy face I tell:
Wed me at once, upon this spot, or pine for seven long years,
Or die, ere three short days have run their course, in grief and tears.”

“With thee I may not, cannot wed, as for a twelvemonth now
A sweet young bride has called me lord, and owns the marriage vow;
Nor shall I pine for seven long years, nor die in three short days,
But when it pleaseth God I shall, in His all-gracious ways.
And yet I'd die contented here, and end at once my life,
All cold outstretched upon my bier, sooner than call thee wife.”

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III.

“Kind mother, as thou lovest me, oh, make my bed full soon!
If until now it be not made, I pray thee grant this boon,
For I am sick and very weak, but do not breathe a word
To my own dearest spouse of this, to him I call my lord.
Yet in three days I shall be there, ‘where the weary are at rest.’
And pillow my head amongst the dead, down on the earth's cold breast.
On me a Königinn has cast, I know the truth full well,
A charm that withers up my life, a dark unholy spell.”
And when three days had flown away, the young wife feebly said,
Her snowy hands both pressed against her hot and throbbing head:

“Oh, tell me, mother, of my lord! why do the bells all ring,
Why do the priests chant down below, why white-robed do they sing?”

“A poor, unhappy man, my love, who lodged with us, has died;”
“Oh, tell me, mother mine, what keeps my husband from my side!”

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“He's ridden to the town, my child, and soon thou shalt him see;”
“Dear mother, now I pray thee tell, and truly tell to me,
What robe shall I put on this day, my blue robe or my red,
That I may go into the church and hear the masses said?”

“If thou dost want the newest mode, why then I hear them say,
A black robe is the fittest gear for those who go to pray.”

As up the churchyard's sloping path right gently she passed on,
Lo! her poor husband's grave she sees, and at its head a stone;
“Which of our kin has died so late?” in faltering voice she said,
“That all so fresh the earth is turned. Oh, tell me who is dead!”

“Alas! my darling daughter, 'tis vain to hide it now;
O, woe! it is thy husband, who doth lie the earth below.”

On her two knees the lady sank, she sank to rise no more,
Her spirit passed to that bright land, where her lord had gone before.

'Twas strange, I ween, when fell the night upon the day she died,

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And down they laid her in the grave, close to her husband's side,
To see two oaks spring from the tomb, which reared their branches high,
All rich in summer foliage green, against the clear blue sky;
And on their boughs two milk-white doves sat fluttering bright and gay,
Which, when the purple morning broke, to heaven did wing their way.

MERLIN, THE BARD.

[_]

A BRETON BALLAD, TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLEMARQUE.

I.

“List, list to me, good grandam mine: I to the feast would go,
Where holds the king a royal race in kingly pomp and show.”
“Thou shalt not to this feast, my son. I do not hide my fears;
Thou shalt not to this feast, I say, for thy cheek is wet with tears.

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An' I can stop thee, dearest son, thither thou may'st not go,
For in thy dreams the hot tears fell like rain in wintry flow.”
“Kind mother, little mother mine, seek not thy son to keep.”
“In going thither thou shalt sing, returning thou shalt weep.”

II.

He has saddled his bay palfrey, all shod with polished steel;
The splendid housing decks his side, all o'er from head to heel.
He puts the bit within his mouth, round his neck a ring he throws;
And from his long and glossy tail a streaming ribbon flows.
Upon his shining back he mounts, and to the feast he hies,
And gallops on right gallantly, as fleet as bird that flies.
Now, as he nears the longed-for spot, the braying trumpets sound,
And the people press in their gala dress, and the prancing horses bound.

Then up and spake a herald bold, in voice heard far and near,
“To him who in the lists to-day the highest bar shall clear,

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To him who in a perfect leap shall pass the boundary wide,
The king's fair daughter shall be given, a sweet and beauteous bride.”
Reared high the palfrey at the words, and, bounding, neighed aloud;
The fire flashed brightly from his eyes, from his nostrils came the cloud.
Now curvets he, now prances he, now pawing snuffs the ground;
Now with the speed of light he clears the barrier at a bound,
Leaving all rivals in the race at a distance far behind.
And now the victor's voice is heard, floating along the wind:
“My lord the King, I claim as mine, Lindore thy daughter fair,
In virtue of thy royal oath, my heart and home to share.”
“Lindore thy bride shall never be, ne'er wed with one so low;
No sorcerer shall be her lord, or hear her marriage vow.”
Then whispered him an aged man, near to the king's right hand,
Whose beard, all whiter than the wool, fell to his girdle's band.
All dight he was in woollen robe, fringed with bright silver lace,
Such as doth oft in stately halls a monarch's person grace.

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When heard the king the sage's words, three hasty blows struck he,
With the golden sceptre in his hand on the table at his knee.
So loud he struck, the nobles all kept silence deep and still,
And hearkened they with breathless awe, as the king spoke out his will:
“If thou canst bring me Merlin's harp,” so spake he out at last,
“Which with four golden chains is bound, and bounden too, full fast;
If Merlin's harp thou bringest me, which hangeth at his bed,
Why, then, mayhap, my daughter dear at the altar thou shalt wed.”

III.

“Kind grandam mine, dear grandam mine, as thou dost love me well,
I pray thee by thy love to me, forthwith thy counsel tell;
Or else this weary heart will break, its strings will break with woe,
And to the grave at once I'll pass, and lie the green sod below.”
“This had not been,” his grandam said, “had'st thou my bidding done;
But weep no more, dear child of mine, the harp shall be thine own.

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Then weep no more, my grandson dear, this golden hammer take,
Beneath its stroke no sound is heard, it falls like white snow-flake.”

IV.

“Rejoice ye in this palace all, since I've return'd with speed,
Bearing the harp of Merlin back to claim my promised meed.”
Now, when the king's good son him heard, he whispered to his sire,
And the king himself outspoke right loud, and his eyes they flashed with fire:
“Now, by my royal crown, young sir, yea, by my kingly life,
If thou old Merlin's ring wilt bring, my daughter is thy wife.”

Back to his grandam then he hies in haste and burning tears,
And now in rage, and now in grief, makes known to her his fears.
“My lord the king has spoken thus, and so and so he said.”
“Grieve not for this, keep up thy heart, nay, never droop thy head:
Take thou that branch which yonder lies within my casket small;

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From out it grow twelve little leaves which softly rise and fall—
Twelve little leaves, and brighter far than any burnished gold.
Seven nights I spent in seeking them beneath the moonlight cold.
Full seven long years ago it was, in seven darkling woods,
Where the place is full of terrors, and blackness always broods.
At midnight, when the cock he crows, your steed then quickly take,
And let not fear assail your heart, Merlin shall not awake.”
At dead of night, when crew the cock, the bay steed bounded on,
Scarce has the cock his crowing ceased ere Merlin's ring is won.

V.

Before the king at early morn again the young man stood,
Who at that sight rose up at once in dazed and wondering mood;
Astonished, too, were all the men gathered in presence there,
And eyed the youth all o'er and o'er, with amazed and anxious stare.
“Behold his bride he's won,” they cry, “his bride he's nobly won;
And she shall be his lawful wife in the sight of yonder sun.”

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The king now and his son withdrew, and the old man he retires,
But soon returning with them both, the king spake his desires:
“'Tis true, my son, as thou hast heard, this day thou'st won thy wife;
There's only one thing more I ask, I swear it by my life.
It is the last,—in doing this, thou shalt be my true son,
My daughter then shall be thy bride, and all Leon is thine own.
By my forefathers' bones, bring here great Merlin to our sight,
And when he comes, I swear that he shall bless the marriage rite.”

VI.

“Oh, Merlin, Bard! whence comest thou in weeds so sad and torn—
Where goest thou with naked feet, bare head, and face forlorn?
Oh whither, say, in this sad plight, old Merlin, dost thou go,
With oaken staff, and troubled brow, and eyes that overflow?”
“Seeking my harp in this sad world, my consolation sole,—
Seeking my harp, and eke my ring,—their loss has brought me dole.”

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“Merlin, old Merlin, grieve thou not, let these tidings soothe thy pain,
Not lost are either harp or ring, they shall be thine again;
Come in, come in, poor Merlin, and take some meat with me.”
“No! no! I cannot cease my walk, nor eat nor drink with thee;
No food shall ever pass these lips till I my harp have found:
Till this is done, the world I pace in one long weary round.”
“Merlin, oh Merlin! heed me now, and thou thy harp shalt find.”
So sore she pressed him that at last she won upon his mind,
And then he comes into her house, and quietly sits down;
But still all woeful is his heart, and his tears they flow adown.
At evening comes the old dame's son, and finds old Merlin there;
He shakes with fear as he glances round, and sees the minstrel's chair.
The minstrel's head droops on his breast, sleep binds him in its chain,
The son he thinks he now can flee from his mother's house amain.
“Hush, hush, my child, fear not at all, Merlin is wrapt in sleep;

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You need not fear that he will start from out his slumber deep.
Three ruddy apples, fair to see, I in the embers laid,
These roasted well, I gave to him; hush, son! be not afraid;
He ate the three, he'll follow thee wherever thou dost go,
Through forest dark, o'er mountain high, or in the valley low.”

VII.

From out the royal bed the queen thus to her women said:
“What great arrival has there been? Why has the trumpet brayed?
The morning's light had hardly fall'n upon the dewy ground,
When the pillars of my bed did shake 'neath the loud and joyous sound.
Why shout the mob? I pray you tell. What mean these voices loud?
Why rings the sky with praises high, as from a mighty crowd?”

“Merlin, the noble Bard, is come, the citizens rejoice;
Therefore you hear the trumpet's flare, and the people's shouting voice.
There comes with him an aged crone, and there walketh at her side
Your fair young son who is to have your daughter for his bride.”

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When the king he hears the tidings, he hurries out right fast,
And runs to meet old Merlin, and to the Bard doth haste.

“Arise, good herald, from thy bed, awake, arise, arise,
And publish through the land the news, proclaim it in this wise:
‘Who will may to the marriage come, may join the wedding feast;
All people in the land may come, from highest unto least.
For eight days shall the feast be held all in my palace here,
In honour of my sweet Lindore, my child, my daughter dear.’”
To the marriage all the nobles ride, the nobles of Bretagne,
The judges and the gallant knights, each true and princely man.
And first the Counts, and then the poor, and eke the rich beside,
They swiftly to the palace come from all the countryside.

“Silence! keep silence, all who come, and hear the king's command:
The marriage of the royal maid! For eight days from the land
Let come who will—ay, come ye sirs, come ye both one and all;
No matter what your rank or age, come ye both great and small.

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To the marriage all ye nobles hie, ye nobles of Bretagne,
Ye judges and ye gallant knights, Churchmen and warlike man;
Come first the mighty Counts, and then come both ye rich and poor—
The rich and poor, who shall not lack of gold or silver store.
Nor shall they want, or meat or drink, or wine or hydromel,
Or couches soft on which to rest, or men to serve them well.
Two porkers fat shall here be slain, two hundred bulls or more,
Two hundred heifers, and of deer as many as five score;
Two hundred beeves, half black, half white, whose horns shall given be
To all who come from far and near this wedding high to see.
Then for the priests, an hundred robes of wool as white as snow,
An hundred collars all of gold, with pearls in every row;
Each warrior shall have one,—shall have it for his own,
And wear it as a loyal badge of fealty to the throne.
A chamber filled with cloaks all blue—blue as the sky above—
For ladies young, and fair, and chaste, and gentle as the dove.
Eight hundred warm new garments to the poorest shall be given,
For well we know how dear they are, how cared for up in heaven.

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And lastly, in their seats aloft, both through the night and day,
One hundred well-skilled minstrels upon their harps shall play;
While Merlin, Bard, amidst the court shall celebrate, I ween,
The marriage-rite, and all shall say, such feast was never seen.”

“List, all ye skilful cooks, I pray,—what! is the marriage o'er?”
“It is: the splendid pageant's passed, such shall be seen no more.”

For fifteen joyous days it held, and all was glad and gay,
And now unto their homes again they all have passed away;
Nor went they empty to their homes, but laden with rich store
Of royal gifts and venison which to their land they bore.
The bridegroom to fair Leon's land his bride with joy he bears,
And all are happy but the king: his eyes are full of tears,
His heart is sad and sorrowful: his heart is sick and sore;
His daughter she has left his home; he shall see her nevermore.

Merlin again is lost to sight, none know where bideth he,
Whether in cavern of the earth, in air, or in the sea.

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FOR MUSIC.

On the marge of the Ocean when daylight is gone,
I muse in sad thought by the surf-beaten shore;
And weep out my woes as I wander alone,
To mingle my sighs with the hoarse-sounding roar.
Oh, my Norah, my darling, my heart aches for thee!
Thou hast gone, and hast left me thy loss to deplore;
In the world there is nothing but darkness for me,
No! the light and the joy are fled evermore.

'Twas she that gave hope and a charm to my life,
She doubled its pleasures, she brightened its grief;
My own one, my dear one, my angel, my wife,
Whom I clasped to my heart in a rapture too brief!
Oh, would that I lay 'neath the fathomless wave!
That over me rolled the wild billowy surge,
That winds sweeping round me might mournfully rave,
And sing me to rest with a low moaning dirge!

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FOR MUSIC.

O river, flowing downward to the sea,
Tell her that dwells upon its sounding shore,
That more than all the world she is to me,
That all my thoughts fly to her evermore.

Methinks I see her wand'ring on the strand,
In pensive mood and meditative dream,
And as she holds a white rose in her hand,
She plucks the leaves and casts them in the stream.

“He loves me,—loves me not,”—she sadly says,
“He loves me not,—he loves,”—her voice here breaks,
And then the tears suffuse her happy eyes,
And hope within her heart once more awakes.

Oh tell her, River, she to me is sweet,
Dear as the life of which she is a part,
And say that I am coming to her feet,
To lay down there the treasure of my heart.

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Pray her to take the off'ring that I give,
And ask her heart, in sweet exchange for mine:
Without her, say, it is not life to live,
Only a death in which for life I pine.

And, say, I follow soon where thou dost flow,
And that to her my soul's true currents move,
That when I reach her presence she shall know
How pure my passion and how deep my love.

LINES FOR A SILVER WEDDING.

Our wedding-day, our silver wedding-day,
O love! for us how fast
The happy years have lightly flown away,
Each quicker than the last!
These years have drawn us closer than before,
And each to other is not less, but more.

When looking full, dear wife, into thy face,
In the clear morning's glow,
I hardly miss of thy lost youth a grace;
Though true, upon thy brow
Some lines, time-touched, I see, but lately there,
And threads of silver gleaming through thy hair.

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Some sorrows, and some joys, some smiles and tears,
And days, some dark, some bright,
Have left a mark upon the passing years,
A chequered shade and light.
But blessings, more than any tongue can say,
Blossom'd like flowers upon our onward way.

For you remember in the early time,
When yet the months were young,
And married life was in its early prime,
Our hearts to hope were strung.
Alas! in vain. The little fragile life
Passed from thy fond embrace to Christ's, dear wife.

And when the babe, so new to earth, had died,
Ah! then with tears of pain,
We put the little empty cot aside,
Where our first-born had lain;
We hid it out of sight, we could not bear
To see the place where lay our infant fair.

Soft now the memory of that one loss,
God-sent our faith to prove,
And, looking back, we see the bitter cross
Transfigured all by love.
Long since the grief has faded from thine eyes,
And smiles for mercies to the lips arise.

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Indeed, through all the circling years till now,
Blessings have crowned our days;
Thou know'st, O Lord, and only Thou,
What cause we have for praise.
Goodness and mercy, like fair angels twin,
Have watched our going out and coming in.

What shall the years bring in the coming time,
Bright joy or boding fear?
Shall bells ring merrily, or funeral chime
Strike sadly on the ear?
I shrink from this; oh! may I go before
One dear one leaves us for the other shore.

We will not talk of this—sweet love and hope,
Are they not with us still?
They gild our life as sunbeams do the slope
Of yonder purple hill.
I cannot think that there are days for me
Emptied of joy, because unshared by thee.

No thoughts of sadness must o'ercast this day,
Our silver wedding, love;
In all our sky must be no tint of grey,
But sunshine from above.
Hark! children's voices on the air are borne,
They haste to greet us on this happy morn.

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Let us go forth to meet them as they come;
Ah, wife! words cannot tell
How rich in many a mercy is our home,
God doeth all things well.
So take we heart to front the unknown years,
Love will survive tho' all else disappears.

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SONNETS.

SONNET.

AUGUSTINE.

Augustine, Scholar, Father, holy Saint,
Walked by the sounding ocean on the shore,
Turning in thought grave problems o'er and o'er,
To which he gave his soul without restraint,
Until it grew with musing sick and faint.
And as his baffled heart felt sad and sore,
A child he saw that rose-lipped sea-shell bore,
And fill'd it from the sea with motion quaint,—
Then taking it when full into his hand,
He carried it in happy childish bliss,
And emptied it in hole scoop'd in the sand.
“I mean,” he said, “to pour the deep in this”—
“Thus,” thought the Saint, “God infinite and grand,
My finite mind would hold and understand.”

177

SONNET.

THE SAME.

So stand we on the shore and brink of time,
Close to the borders of eternity,
Across whose vast illimitable sea
Sweep echoes of the everlasting chime,—
Voices from that mysterious awful clime
No foot of man hath trod, no eye can see,
Home of the Three in One, the One in Three,
To which, if any creature dared to climb,
The blaze of splendour there would strike him blind.
And yet vain man the Godhead would explore,
His essence,—future, present, and behind,—
Into his shell he would this Ocean pour.
But can we hold Him in our narrow mind,
Who Was, and Is, and Is for evermore?

178

SONNET.

A PICTURE.

Calm is the evening of the orient day,
A golden glory flushes all the sky,
And cross the heavens bright rosy cloudlets hie,
Steeped in the lustre of his parting ray.
King David, aged, sorrowful, and grey,
Sits on his palace-roof, and just close by
His jewelled crown neglected now doth lie.
He heeds it not. His thoughts are far away;
They follow with his wistful, straining sight,
A flock of milk-white doves, with glistering breast,
That fly into the liquid sea of light;
And cries he, as they haste toward the west,
“Oh, that I had the dove's swift wings of flight,
Then would I flee away and be at rest!”

179

SONNET.

TO MY MOCKING-BIRD.

Dear bird, in plumage sober, soft, and grey!
Poets have sung in honour of the lark,
Have hymned the nightingale, which, when the dark
Falls on the woods, pours forth her thrilling lay
Of sweet delicious pain; or hurried, gay;
Exhausting praises on her passionate song
Which floats in liquid sounds the night along.
To me thou art more wonderful than they.
Music has made her home within thy throat.
Now swell thy strains as from a full-voiced quire,
Now sinking low, in rapture they expire.
But ere the ear has lost the long-drawn note
Another harmony thou hast begun,
My lark, my thrush, my nightingale in one!

180

SONNET.

THE SAME.

Art musing on thy dear and native woods
Far in the West? The fragrant forests fair,
The gorgeous flowers, and the balmier air,
When in these rapturous, ecstatic moods
Thou pourest song in such harmonious floods
That other songsters, hearing, may despair?
Ne'er heard I bird that could with thee compare,
So rich thy thrilling strains, so oft renewed.
What moveth thee, a captive as thou art,
To perch here, bold, familiar at my feet,
Or on my hand to make thyself a seat;
And tho' from country, kindred, home apart,
To send forth streams of music clear and sweet,
With lifted, quivering wings, and swelling heart?

181

SONNET.

HASTINGS.

Hastings, dear Hastings, I do love thee well;
Shame on this thankless heart were there not still
Within thy name a power to move and thrill.
It comes upon me like a happy spell,
To summon up, from Time's dark silent cell,
Thoughts that with brimming tears the eye can fill.
God knows how dear to me each street, each hill,
More dear than I in any words can tell.
I love the beach, washed by the emerald wave,
Green fields, and shady dells, and glades that lie
Under a bright, almost Italian sky.
Nor is there spot that doth not gently blend
With memories of dead or living friend;
But, most of all, I love one little grave.

182

SONNET.

HASTINGS.

O brother, say, does memory ever bring
Across thy mind dear memories, that rise
In mine, of times when in the balmy spring
We wandered often 'neath the deep-sphered skies,
When the grey twilight had begun to fling
O'er earth and heav'n steep'd in soft rosy dyes,
The dusk of her far over-shadowing wing,
Veiling the woods in tender mysteries?
Oh, how we used to creep from bush to bush,
Or sometimes stretch us on the fragrant ground,
As the sweet nightingale poured all around
A flood of melody, now soft and low,
Now quick and joyous as a torrent's rush,
Anon in piercing pipe of passionate woe!

183

SONNET.

THE SAME.

No sound save tremulous music of the sea,
Came swelling up the glades and meadows fair,
Borne to our ears across the upland lea,
Green with the rippling wheat, and where
The thymy fragrance lured the yellow bee
To revel oft in hours of sweetness there;
The happy thief! with none to cry, “Forbear!”
Gone those dear days, forgot they cannot be.
Our life was in its fair and golden prime,
And from all things bright augury we drew;
Our joys were many, and our sorrows few;
Bravely we looked into the coming time,
The silver hours held hope in every chime,
And not a fear, of what might be, we knew.

184

HOPE.

Hope stands a-tiptoe on the mountain height,
The light of other worlds is in her eyes;
She has a look with expectation bright,
Filled with the wonders of a glad surprise.

The beauty of the dawn is in her face,
And sets an aureole on her radiant hair.
Lithe are her steps and full of nameless grace,
So buoyant that she seems to tread on air.

Not only things of earth belong to her,
But things beyond the ken of mortal sight,—
All that can move the heart, the pulses stir,
All that is possible of sweet delight.

No cloudlet flecks the firmamental blue
Which over her so tenderly doth lean,
Before her spreads an ever widening view,
And suns unsetting light the glowing scene.

185

And ever and anon she trills a song,
Which, floating over meadow, stream, and hill,
A thousand echoes lovingly prolong,
While the charm'd world beneath the sound lies still.

A STORY OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.

I

Fair she was, and looked full young,
But with hair as white as snow;
And it trembled on my tongue
Once to ask her why 'twas so.
Then she told her heavy tale,
Growing all the time more pale;
Often, too, her voice would fail.

II

He was summoned to the war,
He who loved me as his life:
Went my heart with him afar;
I had vowed to be his wife.
When he said the last “good-bye,”
In words treasured till I die,
Silent tears were my reply.

186

III

What indeed was I to say?
All the world was out of tune;
I could only weep and pray,
Shiv'ring in the month of June.
Round me fell the sunshine bright,
But the day was dark as night,
For he took with him its light.

IV

Here I first had seen his face,
Here we wandered girl and boy;
Hated I the empty place,
Haunted with the ghosts of joy.
Nothing now was as of yore;
Restless grew I more and more,
Shadows fell across my door.

V

And within my breaking heart
Sprang to life a sudden thought,
Which of self became a part;
Daily form and substance caught;
Till it flashed like some bright star
Shining on me from afar,
Lighting me unto the war.

187

VI

Many women, I heard say,
Donned the nurse's sombre dress,
Went upon their loving way,
Angel-like, to work and bless.
I would follow with the rest,
Wear the red cross on my breast,
Succour all who were distressed.

VII

Should he suffer in the strife
For his country and the right,
I would give to him my life,
Nurse and tend him day and night;
Watching by his weary bed,
On my breast would lay his head,
Round him prayer and blessing shed.

VIII

So I went to foreign soil,
Joined the noble sister-band,
Shared their labour and their toil,
Bound up with a tender hand
Wounds of soldiers true and brave,
Laid out others for the grave,
Whom we tried, but could not, save.

188

IX

When I reached the camp abroad,
Arthur's regiment was not there;
It was marching on the road
To a station otherwhere.
So I missed him; but his name
Was in all men's mouths; his fame
Set my throbbing heart aflame.

X

It had reached my anxious ear
That a fight was fought and won,
That the battle cost us dear,
Though the foe was forced to run;
But my heart was all athrill,
Dreading tidings of some ill,
And the tears ran down at will.

XI

Rumour daily grew and grew,
Till there could not be a doubt:
Soon we found her tongue was true,—
We had put the foe to rout.
And now, 'midst the camp's loud din,
Captives daily were brought in,
Worn and footsore, pale and thin.

189

XII

Some were wounded, carried here,
Bearing marks of blood-red scar,
Borne on ambulance or bier,
Cursing this most fearful war.
Many a sad and dreadful sight
I have witness'd day and night,
Putting sleep and rest to flight.

XIII

Well, I waited day by day,
Lonely 'midst the busy crowd,
Sighed the anxious hours away
While I o'er the wounded bowed,
Bound the bandage, stanched the blood,
Gave the cooling draught or food,
Sought to cheer the weary mood.

XIV

Cured I too full many a sore,
Made by sabre, shell, or shot,
Wiped the death-sweat, cleansed the gore
Gathered into bloody clot;
Through the night, from chime to chime,
Watched I in that dreadful time,
Till I saw the morning climb

190

XV

O'er the distant hills, where he
Led his soldiers to the fight,
Where I knew he thought of me
While he storm'd the fort or height;
And I prayed that God would save
From a dark and bloody grave,
Him, the noble and the brave.

XVI

All awaited day by day,
With a throb of anxious pain,
Tidings from the camp to say
Who were saved and who were slain:
Not yet were dispatches sent;
Only rumours came and went,
Idle tales of camp and tent.

XVII

I was nursing by a bed
Where a helpless Russian lay,
With a sword-cut 'cross his head,
But with hope since yesterday.
It was owing to my care,—
So the surgeon did declare,—
Saved was this life from despair.

191

XVIII

Nigh to death he'd been,—so weak!
With a wild and wand'ring brain,
Now I saw he wished to speak,
All his mind itself again.
And he thanked me oft and oft,
In a whisper low and soft,
As I raised his hopes aloft.

XIX

Once I sat in thought and prayer
In the twilight grey and dim,
And the firelight threw its glare
O'er the chamber bare and grim.
“I must speak,” he gently said,
“Raise me higher in the bed,
Death I now no longer dread.

XX

“Thou hast saved me, sister dear,
Given me back to hope and life;
Not for self I hold life dear,
But for children and for wife.
Would that I could thank you right;
May God bless you day and night
With His blessings infinite!

192

XXI

“Some remembrance would I give,
That for my sake thou wilt wear,
For through thee, dear nurse, I live:
Would it were more worth thy care!”
'Neath his pillow then he took,
While his thin and white hand shook,
A small locket, saying, “Look!”

XXII

Close he held it to the light
By the lamp upon it cast;
And I started at the sight,
Staring wildly and aghast.
'Twas a locket of pure gold,
Set with jewels manifold,
And a tracery rich and bold.

XXIII

I was dumb; I could not speak:
All my brain was turning round;
Then there came a stifled shriek
As from one who feels a wound;
But with effort o'er the will,
Down I bow'd me and was still,
While his tale mine ear did fill.

193

XXIV

In low words he trembling said,—
Which in thunder o'er me brake,—
Ringing through the heart and head
With a power the soul to shake:—
“Once your soldiers fought their way,
In a fierce and bloody fray,
Through our regiments in array.

XXV

“'Cross the trampled grass and grain,
We the lines before us drave,
And were drawing back again
Like a strong retreating wave,
When an officer uprose,
In the line of English foes,
Our march onward to oppose.

XXVI

“He had led his gallant men
Far afront into the field;
By some chance was severed then
From his lines,—but would not yield.
Bravely fought he, but in vain;
By his hand were many slain,
Who lay round him on the plain.

194

XXVII

“When my sabre's blade I drew
With regret 'gainst one so brave,
One of us, full well I knew,
On that field would find a grave.
Nobler foe I ne'er had seen,
Of a firm and fearless mien;
Would a friend instead he'd been!

XXVIII

“We two fought alone, apart—
We fought fiercely, now I think—
And my sword went through his heart,
And I saw him totter, sink.
But a sudden pang of ruth
Smote me, sister, in good sooth,
As the red blood stained his mouth.

XXIX

“Knelt I on the miry ground,
Where he, stricken, bowed and fell;
Sought to staunch the gaping wound,
Whence the blood did well and well;
Opened wide his coat and vest,
Marked this locket on his breast,
Saw the dark eyes close in rest.

195

XXX

“Then I loosed it from his heart,
As within my arms he lay;
Sister, take it—do not start;
Prithee do not say me ‘nay.’
This poor gem I'll with thee leave,
'Twill with thine my memory weave,
My deep gratitude believe.”

XXXI

As the words he slowly spake,
Rushed upon me all the woe;
Waves of anguish o'er me brake,
'Gainst me all God's winds did blow;
And the bright and jewelled thing
Once I o'er his neck did fling
I saw coldly glittering.

XXXII

Backward fell he on the bed,
Quite exhausted, with a moan;
And I sat as one that's dead,
Hopeless, helpless, and undone.
Wild and madd'ning thoughts upcame,
Turning all my blood to flame:
Do you wonder, friend, or blame?

196

XXXIII

Ah! “his memory link'd with mine!”
That was with my being wrought:
Life itself I must resign
Ere I lost this dreadful thought.—
Know you what it is when pain,
Sweeping through the heart and brain,
Bids them break beneath the strain?

XXXIV

Filled was all my heart with strife,
Horror, anguish, bitter woe;
I had nursed him back to life,—
Him who dealt the cruel blow;
On the bed he helpless lay,
Who my love, my life, did slay,
On that black and bloody day.

XXXV

All within my whirling brain
Darkened grew as an eclipse;
And I shuddered with the strain,
And some wild words passed my lips.
Then a voice spake in my ear
In a whisper low but clear,
And I shrank in very fear:

197

XXXVI

“Why not let his murderer die?
Give no more the cooling drink,
Nor the healing balm apply;
He is trembling on death's brink!
Why attempt his life to save?
Let him sink into the grave:
He has slain thine own, thy brave!”

XXXVII

Then a blank.—One throb of pain—
Voices rang within my ears,
And a fire that scorched my brain,
At their source dried up the tears.
Then from burning lips did fall
One cry—“Jesu!”—that was all,
As for mercy I did call.

XXXVIII

But, thank God, no vengeful thought
Found a harbour in my mind,
Moved not in a soul o'er-wrought,
Or around my heart did wind.—
He had fought for home and wife;
Arthur might have ta'en his life,
In the fearful, fatal strife.

198

XXXIX

Well, that night passed,—God knows how,—
Slowly passed from chime to chime;
Thinking on it, I shrink now—
Oh, the horror of the time!
When, as broke the morning grey,
Came a voice from where he lay:
“Nurse, give me to drink, I pray.”

XL

But I moved not,—sat quite still,—
Had no strength to grant his prayer,—
Could not rise the cup to fill,
He had crush'd me with despair.
Soon again came plaintive word,
And I made no sign, nor stirred,—
Was as though I had not heard.

XLI

Then I looked towárd the wall,
Where was picture placed by me,—
On it full the light did fall:
Albert Durer's “Christ on Tree.”
Grace and mercy there I saw,
Love, of heav'n and earth the law;
And it thrilled me with deep awe.

199

XLII

Oh, the pathos of that face
On the broken heart bowed down:
How the blood-drops ran apace
From beneath the thorny crown!
Could I harbour thought of hate,
When He hung disconsolate,
Under my sins' heavy weight?

XLIII

Cried I: “Jesus, who didst know
All the bitterness and loss,
All the horror, all the woe
Of the sharp and awful cross,—
Help me now to do Thy will,
Bow my head, Lord, and be still,—
All my soul with patience fill!”

XLIV

Then I rose and seized the draught,
Placed it in the patient's hand,
Watched while he the med'cine quaffed;
And his fevered brow I fanned,
Sat beside him, as he slept,
Till the cold wan morning crept
Through the chamber,—and I wept!

200

XLV

When the surgeon came, a look
Charged with wonder fill'd his eyes;
And his voice that, trembling, shook,
Falter'd forth his deep surprise.
Turned I to the glass, and lo!
Saw a wan face charged with woe,
And the black hair white as snow!

THE WIGTON MARTYRS.

[_]

That Scottish Star Chamber, “The Court of High Commission,” holding a court at Wigton on the 13th April, 1685, condemned to death by drowning three humble women whose names are immortalized in the history of Scotland. The names of these women were Margaret M`Lauchlan, Margaret Wilson, and her sister Agnes Wilson. Margaret M`Lauchlan was a widow about sixty-three years of age; Margaret Wilson was about eighteen, and her sister Agnes not more than thirteen years of age. The last-named girl was condemned to death, but was liberated on her father, who had conformed to Episcopacy, going to Edinburgh and giving a bond for a hundred pounds to produce her person on demand. Their crime was the frequenting conventicles, and the

201

refusing to take an oath which they believed to be sinful. They denied the right of James II. to dictate to them what religion they should profess. The dreadful sentence, pronounced on the 13th April, was not executed till the 11th May, when it was carried out, to the lasting shame of the Government of the King.

Come, listen while I tell once more,
Here, sitting by the Solway shore,

A tale that I have often told,
Of dark deeds done in days of old.

A blacker never was there done
Than this in face of yonder sun.

For me, I was a young man then,—
Now more than threescore years and ten;

But though I lived for years to be,
This deed would in my memory

For ever hold a place apart,
Burnt like a scar upon my heart.

Come, listen to me, lend your ears,
As I recall the bygone years,
And touch the fount of burning tears,

202

And if I flush your cheeks with flame,
Because I tell of deeds of shame,

Yet shall your spirit throb and glow
To think what grace of God can do,—

How it can make the weakest strong,
And put in dying lips a song.

I tell of times when holy men
Were driven forth to hill and glen,

To moor and moss and lonely heath,
Hunted for conscience-sake to death.

Their temple was the open air,
Where on bent knee, with forehead bare,
They sent to God their fervent prayer.

The shadows of the forest dim
Heard solemn psalm and sacred hymn;

While murm'ring ripple, sweet and low,
Of streamlet singing in its flow,

Blent with the voice of solemn song
That floated on the air along.

203

We never knew when we might hear
The tramp of soldiers drawing near,

To stop our worship with the sword,
And drag us thence with scoffing word,

To throw us on some dungeon floor,
Never again to pass its door.

Oft have I seen the gallows rise,
Where hung the good, the great, the wise.

On castle gate, in ghastly rows,
Oft have I marked the heads of those

Who willingly for Christ's dear sake
Had braved the dungeon and the stake;—

I've seen them bleaching in the sun,
As through long months the weeks did run,—

The winter's wind, the summer's rain,
Returned to find them there again.

The whole West Lowlands had become
For holy men a gloomy tomb.

The persecutor spared not age,
Nor sex, nor worth;—his bitter rage

204

Pursued the innocent and just,
And law was trampled in the dust.

O Christ! that trampling on Thy word,
Men in Thy name by deeds abhorr'd
Should think to honour Thee, their Lord!

But to my heavy tale of woe,—
E'en as I speak mine eyes o'erflow,
Although it chanc'd so long ago.

I knew the women, knew them well,
The sainted two of whom I tell.

One was a widow, old and grey,
Who long had trod the heav'nward way;

Humble she was, and good, and grave,
And of a noble soul, and brave.

Well, the vile soldiers of the Graham,
Dead to sweet pity and to shame,

Heard of this woman's loyal faith,
And doomed her to a dreadful death.

Her house they entered,—found her there,
Low kneeling at God's feet in prayer,—

205

And haled her,—oh, the foul disgrace!
Before the wicked judge's face,
A man remorseless, ruthless, base.

“Death!” was the sentence that he gave,—
Her fate to find a martyr's grave
Beneath the Solway's cruel wave.

She heard the sentence, and was still,
And bowed her head to God's high will.—

I saw men shake like the aspen leaf,
And women wring their hands in grief,

As passed she through the open door
To doom and death by Solway's shore.

There was another woman there,
A maiden young, and sweet, and fair,
With deep-blue eyes and amber hair;

As good as comely,—just eighteen;—
Ah, God! it seems but yestere'en!

I loved her better far than life,
And hoped she would have been my wife

206

Dear Margaret! I see her now,
With that calm look upon her brow.

The cruel Graham—(at his name,
Still swells my heart with wrath and shame,

That one who called himself a man,
Should do as only devils can!)—

'Tis said, and I believe it well,
Some souls are damned ere yet in hell—

He came with soldiers clad in steel;
They had no pity, could not feel,

But tore her from her friends and home,
To undergo a dreadful doom,
Beneath the cold waves' charnel gloom.

She struggled not,—was pale and calm,
And from her lips there thrill'd a psalm.

She followed where the troopers led,
Patient her step, erect her head.

Men blessed her as they saw her go,
From hearts all overcharg'd with woe.

207

Helpless they felt,—they could not save,
However willing, true, and brave.

'Gainst Graham and his wicked crew
What could a few poor burghers do?

The cries of women rent the sky,
Who prayed and sobb'd as she passed by;

And I,—I that had died to save
That dear life from a cruel grave,

Could only weep and tear my hair
And curse in frenzy of despair.

Once, mad with horror, pity, dread,
I said, scarce knowing what I said:

“O Margaret! 'tis a harmless thing,—
Oh speak, and say, ‘God save the King.’

“By all that's holy,—all that's dear,
For my sake, Margaret,—Margaret, hear!”

She paused a moment in her place,
And turned a pleading, piteous face,

With such reproach in her sad look,
That all my spirit thrilled and shook.

208

This passed,—the bitter strife was o'er,
And moved we onward to the shore,

Where rushed the tide with angry force,
Swift to the sands, like some racehorse

That holds its way 'gainst bit and rein,
With foam upon its streaming mane.

When we had reached the roaring strand,
We saw the elder woman stand

Amid the waves,—staked out at sea,
The waters risen to her knee;

Lost to the present did she seem,
As if things passing were a dream,

And the great surging crowd was gone,
And she with God were all alone.

Fast to a stake her arms were tied;
The ravening billows, far and wide,

Surging around in cruel play,
Against her brake in foam and spray.

Then at the wicked marshal's word,
Which smote me like a sharp-edged sword,

209

Their hands the soldiers rudely laid
On Margaret, and bound the maid

Fast to another stake at sea,—
O God! that such dread things could be!—

There watched she with unshrinking eyes
The waters ever rise and rise.

On, on they rushed, white, strong, and fleet,
Until they kissed her naked feet.

On, on they rushed, with swirl and sweep,
And to her knees they foaming leap.

And now a soldier waded in,
From Margaret assent to win,

Thinking that she would not be loth
To swear and take the solemn oath.

He then unbound her from the stake,
Offered her life if she would take
The oath, pleading for mercy's sake.

“For God's sake, take the oath,” he said,—
She shook, but did not turn her head.

210

“Nay, nay, for dear life, do this thing,
And say at once, ‘God save the King!’”

But she, with look of kindling fire,
“'Tis his salvation I desire.”

And with a bowed and reverend head:
“God save him, an He will,” she said.

“This is my one, my constant prayer,
That He will save all, here, and there.”

Then with a ringing cry the crowd
Spake to the officer right loud:

“Has she not said the loyal word?—
Oh, set her free!—praised be the Lord!”

“But will she take the oath?” he said.
“Never,” she answered,—“Christ is Head.—
Now let the sea be my death-bed.”

Seeing his efforts were in vain,
He turned towárd the shore again.

We saw the flood advancing rise,
Saw all aghast, with spell-bound eyes.

211

The restless waves, with angry haste,
Reached now the girdle of her waist,

And Death rode on their snowy crest,
And soon they wash'd her tender breast.

Then came there floating o'er the wave
A sweet clear voice, as firm as brave,

Singing a lofty hymn of faith,
That quelled all fear of pain and death.

'Twas Margaret's voice rose o'er the waste
Of billowy waters rushing past,
In praise of Him, “the First, the Last,”

Who died upon the cross to save
From sin, from death, and from the grave.

Her life for Him she now laid down,
To take instead the martyr's crown.

But we with horror in our eyes
Still watch'd the waters rise and rise,—

Watch'd as the waves in one white storm
Rolled over her still less'ning form.

212

And Windram now, with taunt and jeer,
Hoping to wound her by his sneer,

Pointed to her staked out the first,
While the great sea o'er Margaret burst,

And to her mocking cried aloud,
In tones that reached the weeping crowd,

“What see you there?” And Margaret turn'd,
And in her eyes a strange fire burn'd,—

“I see Christ suffering,” she said,
“Dear Christ,—His people's loving Head,
Wrestling in one for whom He bled.”

We saw her gasping sore for breath,
We saw her grappling hard with death.

Anon there came a gurgling cry,
A moan of bitter agony,

As one who moaned against her will;—
Now came a silence,—awful,—still.

Nothing was heard but angry roar
Of ocean rushing to the shore—
The martyr's agony was o'er.

213

Then one great cry rose on the air,
Of horror, anguish, and despair,
From those who watched the death-throes there.

For me, my life was henceforth vain;
Through months I had a wand'ring brain,
Was tossed on bed of fever'd pain.

Since that sad day long years have fled,
Many who saw that scene are dead,
Happy that low is laid their head.

But I—I lived—I live on still,—
Yet murmur not,—'tis God's good will.

My heavy tale has now been told,—
Weary I feel, and weak, and old,—

But sore I yearn for that blest day
When, passing from this earth away,

My Margaret, my virgin bride,
Shall welcome me to Christ's dear side,
With her in bliss for aye to bide.

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A VISION.

I had left the church one evening after holy prayer and psalm,
And my heart 'neath chant and anthem grew wondrous strong and calm,
For the echoes of the great organ still sounded sweet and clear,
And, blent with the choristers' voices, lingered upon the ear.
The air seemed athrill with music as I laid me down to sleep,
And committed soul and body to the Father's hands to keep.

When I closed my eyes in slumber, I woke in the land of dreams,
And that heaven opened around me where a radiance ever streams
From the throne of the Uncreated, who dwells in the dazzling light,
Hidden in His own splendour from even the angels' sight,

215

Who before that dread effulgence veil face and feet with wings,
As one to another in worship thrice “Holy, holy!” sings.

And methought I saw bright creatures with light upon their brow
Flashing by with the splendour of morning when it sets the heavens aglow,
And seraphs in burning beauty like flames of living fire,
With cherubim borne where they listed on wings of their own desire;
And while some were intent on service, some waited and stood at rest,
But though each filled a different office, yet all equally were blest.

And saints with harps were standing on the bright and glassy sea,
And struck the strings all golden to a rich deep melody,
And there were sounds of viol and tabret, and choral hymn and song,
Which floated in silver cadence the heart of heaven along,
Till it rose to the ear of the Highest, who sat on the great white throne
Ringed round by an emerald rainbow and clear as a sapphire stone.

Then I saw One advancing toward me with a crown on His radiant hair,

216

And His face lit up like the morning, beautiful, shining, and fair;
And I fell down in worship before Him, filled with a solemn awe,
Held in adoring wonder by all that I heard and saw,—
By visions of glory on glory that rose on my dazzled sight,
By a heart with rapture flooded, by a strange and a sweet delight.

'Twas a joy all joy excelling the Life and the Light to meet,
Bliss beyond all conception to clasp and to kiss His feet.—
Then He laid His hand upon me,—laid it with touch divine—
And I thrilled as with eyes all loving He looked tenderly into mine,
With a look that expressed in a moment all even He could show
Of a love that passeth knowledge to sinful man below.

When above all the glorious singing, borne in on the ravished soul,
Clearer than song seraphic, struck from a gold citole,
Came a voice of melodious sweetness upon the enchanted ear,
Which deepened the awe that held me, but freed the soul from fear:
“Look up, look up, thou blesséd; here shalt thou stay with me;
All that thou seest of glory, freely I give to thee!”

217

Then I fain would have spoken in answer, but could not, and was dumb;
In vain did I struggle for utterance, the words refused to come,—
And in that fruitless effort to express what I wished to say,
Slowly the vision faded,—quietly passed away:—
The glory paled and vanished, waned from my yearning sight,—
I awoke in this world of shadows, and round me still brooded the night.

But adown the slanting moonbeams which stole into my room,
And made a pathway of silver which streamed athwart the gloom,
I seemed still to see God's angels, with a light upon hair and face,
Flashing like flames of fire as they flash'd through the holy place,
And the voice that I heard in heaven came ringing adown the spheres,
And, sweeter far than music, touch'd the spring of happy tears.

Now oft as I sit in silence, when no one else is by,
I see the regions of glory and the throne of God on high,
And I hear the harpings of angels as they stand on the sea of fire,

218

And the songs of saints and seraphs, and my heart grows sick with desire;
For I long with a passionate longing for wings of the rapid dove,
To flee to the land of my vision, the heaven of light and love.

AN INCIDENT IN THE AUSTRIAN CAMP.

The bloody fight had been fought out,
The French the day had won,
Had put the Austrian to rout
At point of sword and gun;
As victors in the dreadful strife,
They scoured the battle-plain,
Hoping to save some wounded life,
Hid in the trampled grain.

An Austrian lad lay on the ground,
A gunshot in his side;
The blood was welling from the wound,
A warm and crimson tide.
They would have borne him to the tent,
But, with pale lips compressed,
He faintly said he was content,
Prayed to be left at rest.

219

And—“Others need your aid,” he said,
“For me,—it matters not,—
This place—shall be—my dying bed;
Pass on,—I'd be forgot;
'Tis idle,—idle,—all too late.
By all you hold most dear,
Leave me,—oh, leave me to my fate,
And let my grave be here!”

But up there rose before his eyes
A vision sweet and fair
Of home, of kindred, and the ties
To guard which brought him there,
The father and the mother dear,
The loved ones far away,
And then there fell the natural tear,
He tried, but could not stay.

Sadly and slow they passed him by,
And left him 'mongst the slain,
But loth to let the brave boy die,
They sought him soon again.
He smiled, and said,—“You cannot save,”—
—He spake with failing breath,—
“O foes,—be friends,—dig here my grave,”—
And then fell back in death.

They raised his body from the ground,
And there they saw beneath,

220

The Austrian flag about him wound,
Yielded to none but Death.
The regiment's colours he had sworn
No foe should take from him;
So when they led the hope forlorn,
He wrapp'd them round each limb.

Better to die than break his word,
Betray his solemn trust,—
Far better perish by the sword,
And dying bite the dust,
Than let his country's flag be ta'en
And flaunted by the foe;
That were upon his faith a stain,
A great,—a supreme woe.

Life was not worth the priceless cost
Of honour or of fame;
Nay, what were life with honour lost
But one great blank of shame?
They dug him there a soldier's grave,
They laid him where he fell,
—Gave honour due unto the brave,—
Was it not right and well?

Could he have worn a better shroud
Than the flag for which he died,
Stained with the crimson stream that flowed
From out his shattered side?

221

He had been faithful unto death,
True to the oath he swore,
Had guarded to his latest breath
The colours that he bore.

WE MET BUT ONCE.

We met but once, and not again:
Too soon that meeting or too late.
We crossed each other's path—in vain!
What else,—what else had been our fate?
Should we have touched each other's life,
Have made it other than it is,
Have tuned the discords, healed the strife,
Brought into it some touch of bliss?

Though thou and I, friend, live apart,
And lands and seas between us lie,
I feel as if I knew thine heart,
Could read thine ev'ry smile and sigh.
Thy very thoughts I can divine;
Our feelings flow in full accord,
Yours mingling in one stream with mine,
By the same sympathies are stirred.

222

And if our lives are ne'er to meet,
And we on earth shall never more
Enjoy together converse sweet,
And hope of fellowship is o'er,—
There is a day that draweth near
When we shall reach the farther land,
And why we met shall then be clear,—
Why only once, shall understand.

SEA-VOICES.

Nature has many voices for the ear,
Of accents diverse, yet melodious all,
Some soft as lute, and some as clarion clear,
Others as thrilling as the trumpet's call.

The winds make music as they wildly sweep
In fitful gusts across the stormy sky,
So doth the thunder when white lightnings leap
In blinding flashes 'thwart the dazzled eye.

Waters make cadenced music as they run,
Rush of the river, ripple of the brook,
Brawl of the stream, in shadow or in sun,
The song of tinkling rill in leafy nook.

223

In truth this happy earth is never mute;
The hum of bees is heard in honeyed flowers,
And mating birds amid the branches flute,
And warble love-songs through th' enchanted hours.

How sweet the bleating of the flocks in June,
The far-off lowing of the pastured herds,
And hum of insects in the sultry noon,
When in the woods no sleeping leaf is stirred!

But Nature has no music for my ear,
Whether low murm'ring winds, or rush of streams,
Or song of birds in spring-time of the year,
Or crash of thunder when the lightning gleams.

Sweet as the anthem of the sounding sea,
The plaintive plash of waves against the strand,
Or dash of waters as in sportive glee
They break in silver ripples on the sand.

How grand the diapason of its storms,
When the great deep resounds from shore to shore,
And the white billows raise their threat'ning forms,
And then plunge back with long tumultuous roar!

I love the very sea-song in the shell
Which holds a strange sweet music for the ear;
Deep in its chambers ocean murmurs dwell,
And chimes of surging waters, faint but clear.

224

A constant joy thou art, majestic sea,
Girt with thy guardian cliffs or ring'd with sand;
A fresh delight I ever find in thee,
Whether by tempests stirr'd or breezes fann'd.

And when, dear friends, there comes that hour to me
When voices of the earth shall soon be o'er,
Place me, I pray, near the sonorous sea,
Where I can catch the rapture of its roar,

And hear it sweetly blending with the notes
Of harpers harping on the sea of glass,
That as the music downward to me floats,
My soul upon the stream to heaven may pass.

225

A GRAVE BY THE SEA.

Here by the margin of the salt sea-wave,
Where the great billows ever ebb and flow,
And with a measured music come and go,—
Here, friends, I pray you, make for me a grave
O'er which the sighing winds shall gently rave,
And golden suns which shed a radiant glow
May at the dawn, or when the day is low,
With gleaming gems the sapphire surface pave.

Here will my grave be ever freshly drest
With ocean-flowers that fondly to it cling;
Here will the sea-bird with its snowy wing
Winnow the wooing air, and build its nest
In the white cliff, which shall cool shadows fling
Upon the mound 'neath which I sleeping rest.

226

THE BIRTH OF VENUS.

I.

She comes in beauty from the azure wave,
Whose waters in an amorous ebb and flow
Kiss her ambrosial limbs more white than snow;
And rippling round with many a sweet sea stave,
Delight her lustrous loveliness to lave.
She smiles, at once the spacious deep grows calm,
She breathes, the golden air is filled with balm,
And winds sink into whispers soft and low.

Then as she steps upon the happy strand,
Which feels the pressure of her naked feet,
All into diamonds breaks the sparkling sand,
And round her blossom roses fair and sweet;
And heav'n itself droops gently from above
O'er Aphrodité, foam-born queen of love.

II.

Now came a chariot floating down the blue,
Drawn by a fluttering flock of milk-white doves,
And round which hover'd throngs of rosy Loves;
Soon as she entered her proud coursers flew,

227

And flying toward the sunrise, gently drew
The golden car, which glided through the air,
Borne over Paphian hills and valleys fair,
And 'cross fresh sunlit meads and shadowy groves.

So moved she on by suns that brighter shine,
Until she pass'd within the happy gate
Where Ganymede delights on gods to wait;
And Hebe pours for Zeus the ruddy wine;
Here mounted she her throne in royal state,
A goddess crowned in beauty's right divine.

III.

The heavens became a splendour far and near,
And bloom'd and blossom'd into flower each plain
As Love began her mild but sov'ran reign,
And ruled with golden sceptre o'er each sphere:
In bush and tree the birds sang loud and clear,
And echo answered softly back again,
Glad to repeat, and linger o'er the strain,
Which the earth heard with open heart and ear

O Love, the old world still thou keepest young!
O Beauty, thou dost hold it still as fair
As when your praise in dawn of time was sung
By him whose voice was sweet beyond compare,
Whose lyre divine, on high Olympus strung,
Took captive all things, both of earth and air!

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A PASTOR'S PORTRAIT.

A man he was who, from his earliest youth,
Had sought and found the hidden heart of truth
Whose law found just expression in his mouth.

His was a noble mind, pure, docile, calm,
His lips for wounded souls kept healing balm,
Prayers for the sad, for happy ones a psalm.

His gaze was on the unattained, the far,
Which shone before him like the polar star,
For things unseen he scorn'd the things which are.

His face caught beauty from the soul within,
His ear was deaf to earthly strife and din
His mind to that of angels was akin.

He ever linked high thoughts to loving words,
Which stirred to music all the spirit's chords,
As stir the leaves the songs of forest birds.

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The beautiful had in his heart a share—
The flowers, the birds, all things of earth and air;
He looked abroad, and found God's creatures fair.

Life was to him no idle, empty dream,
No withered leaf caught by the whirling stream,
And borne where'er the current might beseem.

He filled each passing hour with earnest deeds,
In action lived what he professed in creeds,
And of high aspirations sowed the seeds.

His voice was raised for suff'ring souls and poor,
And he could pity where he could not cure;
When wronged himself, he knew how to endure.

His heart was as a sacred altar-fire,
On which burned faith, and hope, and pure desire,
But which of meaner passions was the pyre.

Although no halo gleamed around his head,
Yet o'er his life a saintliness was shed,
All saw to worldly pleasure he was dead.

So, as the narrow path he daily trod,
And walked the world unspotted with his God,
With sweetest praise and prayer he cheered the road.

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All that he lost for Christ he counted gain,
And, living not for earth, lived not in vain,
But sowed for future harvests the rich grain.

Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove,
He dwelt on earth, but lived in heaven above,
Childlike and simple, full of faith and love.

LOW-BREATHING WINDS.

Low-breathing winds, that sob and pass us by,
What mean ye by that sad and plaintive sigh
That wails from earth and reaches to the sky?

Come ye from homes bereaved or fields of slain,
From scenes where cruelty and murder reign,
From sickness unrelieved or death-bed pain?

Bear ye the knowledge of some hidden woe,
A secret sorrow that ye only know;—
Why not unburthen it and let it go?

Is it for ills that curse the earth, ye moan,
False love that hides deception in its tone,
Or haply for hurt souls that weep alone?

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Mourn ye for wrong triumphant over right,
The poor who suffer, or the proud who smite,
For guilty deeds that dread and shun the light?

I would not ye should cease, sad winds, to mourn,
While weary hearts with wasting griefs are torn,
And loved ones' ashes fill the tear-washed urn.

So long as Nature, groaning, is in fear,
'Tis only fitting that upon the ear
Sounds of her travail fall distinct and clear.

Then let me mourn with you her bitter woe,
I cannot choose but weep to see her throe;
Whether I will or not, the tears will flow.

Low-breathing winds, that sob and pass us by,
Until the air is burthened with your cry,
I wonder which is saddest, you or I?

232

SPRING.

[_]

FROM THE “PASTOR FIDO” OF GUARINI.

O Spring, thou youth of each fresh dawning year,
Mother of flowers, green leaves, and new desires,
I greet thy glories with full many a tear,
And weep the music of thy feathered choirs.
Thou dost return, but not with thee return
Delicious hours of happiness and joy.
Thou, thou returnest, but alas! I mourn
The treasures lost to me, a dreaming boy.
Sad the remembrance now of days no more,
While thou still art the blithe and jocund thing
That thou wert ever in the days of yore,
O always new and always happy Spring!
But I am not,—and hence these tears arise,—
What once I was,—dear to another's eyes.

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THEKLA'S SONG.

[_]

FROM “WALLENSTEIN.”

The oak-wood crashes, the clouds drift o'er,
The lone maiden strays by the green sea-shore;
The billow is broken with might, with might,
And she sings out into the wild dark night,
While with weeping is dimmed her sad eye;
“The heart it is dead and the world is vain,
It gives nothing more to the wish again.
O Holy One, call back Thy child unto Thee;
I have known all the bliss earth can offer to me,
I have lived and have loved,—let me die!”

234

THE NIGHT CHARGE AT KASSASSÍN.

Kassassín? You would hear how we fought there, you say—
Of the charge of our Guards on that fair August night,
How we scattered the flank of the Egyptians like spray,
When the storm drives the waves 'gainst the shore in its might.

The moon shone above us, the great burning stars
Were gleaming like gems in the heart of the sky;
And I thought, “What to them are earth's tumults and wars,
As they hold their bright path through the spaces on high?”

We rode o'er the ridges of waste, arid sands,
Now whitened and blanch'd in the tremulous glow,
And a hush as of death fell over our bands,
All eager to grapple and close with the foe.

235

The silence was awful—no man spoke a word;
No horse broke the stillness with snort or with neigh;
But at intervals Drury Lowe's order was heard,
As through the night-watches we spurred on our way.

Thus marched we for hours, and never drew rein,
But rode on to glory through glimmer and gloom;
And we felt as we galloped the terrible strain—
When sudden there burst on the night a loud boom!

And lo! looking over the ridges of sand,
We saw just before us a line long and white,
And we waited afire for the word of command,
To bear down on the foe and meet them in fight.

Then the roar of a shell, with a deep crashing sound
Like the blast of a thunder-clap, smote on the ear;
It burst close at our feet, where it ploughed up the ground,
And each horse 'neath its rider plunged wildly in fear.

Now hissing around us the iron hail fell,
And a murderous fire in hot showers of red rain,
While the sulphurous smoke made a pall dark as hell,
And the balls grazed our foreheads again and again.

Then Drury Lowe ordered our guns to reply,
And the Guards at his word cleared before them a way,
And a flash, lighting up both the earth and the sky,
Blazed a moment as fierce as the sun at noon-day.

236

The strife now began; Ewart's order was heard,—
“Form in front in two lines! Now draw swords and charge all!”
And upon them we dashed at our General's word,
Determined to carry their posts, or to fall.

And we cheered—such a cheer!—o'er the desert it rose;
It thrilled to the stars—died—then silence again;
Then the flashing of sabres—the cries of our foes—
Fierce slaughter and melée of horses and men.

Grim Death was now busy,—the foe fought us well,—
Death from musket and rifle,—from shrapnel and gun;
But we drove them before us,—gapped their lines with our shell,
And launched on their columns, saw them waver and run.

I myself got a wound in the chances of war,
But I cleft in the skull of the dark face who fell,
Wiped the blood with my sleeve—see, here is the scar;
He rolled at my feet with a horrible yell.

Many a masterless steed rushed past at his will;
For death came on each of the balls whizzing by,
And the hand that had reined him was nerveless and still,
The rider had dropped from the saddle to die.

237

All at once the fight ceased,—the foe turned and fled;
Our horse rode them down, sweeping on, like a wave,
And, leaving behind them the dying and dead,
In Kassassín's sands to find them a grave.

As we followed them close, and pressed hard on their rear,
Each musket-fire carried dark Death on its wing,
And the cries of the wounded rose shrill on the ear,
And the roar of the guns and the rifles' sharp ring.

Some fell down unwounded—the cowards! the slaves!
Fear-stricken like ninepins they fell—all unmanned;
And we galloped right on,—never heeding the knaves,
Who lay at our feet, crouching low on the sand.

The treacherous devils! They shrank from fair fight,
But our horses they stabbed with their daggers and knives.
They gashed them, and hacked them—ah, pitiful sight!
But they paid for their cunning at cost of their lives.

We charged for a space, when Ewart cried out,
“Rally all!” In a moment we rallied our men,
Who fell into order, then wheeled right about,
And marched through the night in firm masses again.

Kassassín was now ours. 'Twas done at a blow—
The enemy dead, or all scattered in flight;

238

And we marching again in pursuit of the foe,
Still ready and eager for siege or for fight.

Was ever a battle so speedily won?
Was ever an onset more splendidly made?
Begun in the moonlight, ere dawn it was done—
Who could stand 'gainst the charge of our noble Brigade?

Yes, there's glory in war. But what of the cost?
The blood and the anguish, hopes wrecked, lives undone?
Well said he who said that “a battle that's lost
Is only more dreadful than battle that's won.”

Thanks to God, our dear country is clear in her name!
Ours no selfish struggle; we fought for the true—
For order and law, not for glory and fame:
When called to such war, what could Englishmen do?

England, proud of the charge that her cavalry made,
When they scattered like chaff Arabi's great host,
Will embalm in her memory “The Fighting Brigade”
Through all time with the names that she cherishes most.

In her great throbbing heart to the uttermost age
Will live amongst those she holds honoured and dear,
The men who gave history so brilliant a page
At Kassassín, Cairo, and Tel-el-Kebir.

Monday night, August 28th, 1882.

So named by Lord Wolseley.

239

AMBLESIDE CHURCHYARD AT EASTERTIDE.

This vernal April day, without a cloud,
Of heaven reminds me, and of heavenly things;
The blue so tenderly above me bowed,
Thoughts of eternal calmness with it brings.

Here, in this place of graves, where lie the dead,
Whom earth so closely presses to her breast,
The mind is upward to the living led,
Within the everlasting arms at rest.

For this no spot to brood on death alone,
'Tis life that here is present to the thought;
Sweet consolation breathes from every stone,
And whispers peace to hearts with grief o'er-wrought.

The grassy turf a bright embroidery wears,
Of fresh-pluck'd flowers strewn on the swelling sod;
But chief the daffodil the honour bears
Of lifting up the heart to heaven and God.

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Fair daffodils! whose pensive petals hold
The shimmering dews and drops of tender rain
Within your deep-fringed chalices of gold,
To shed sweet tears upon the earth again,

Ye tell of love that stronger is than death,
Of faith that soars triumphant o'er the tomb,
And hopes ye give, the buried seed beneath
Shall break and bud into immortal bloom.

O Christ, who lovest well each living thing,
Glory of flower and joyous grace of bird,
Let the world's winter melt into a spring
Which shall eternal blossom at Thy word!

In pity look upon this weeping earth,
Grave-covered, wet with many a mourner's tears;
Long has she travailed. Why delay the birth?
Give full fruition to the hopes of years?

SPRING-TIME.

The wintry reign of death is past,
New life is throbbing in the ground;
The world breaks into bloom at last,
And with rich beauty earth is crowned.

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Beneath the breath of jocund Spring
Soft buds unclose, sweet flowers unfold,
And wild birds make the copses ring,
And genial airs blow o'er the wold.

The greening fields, the purple hills,
Low-piping winds, and gentle showers,
Light fleecy clouds, and tuneful rills,
Herald the happy coming hours.

Vocal the world with Spring's sweet voice,
Awakening life in lowly dells,
Bidding the mountain-tops rejoice,
Breathing where snowdrops ring their bells.

Great type of that fair Easter-Day
Which comes in fragrant beauty drest,
To chase Death's triumphs all away,
And bring the weary endless rest.

For oh, what sowing there has been
Through all these long and dreary years!
How watered earth's sad wintry scene,
With dark-robed mourners' flowing tears!

But Spring is coming, and the hour
When to the far remotest line,
The world shall blossom into flower,
And in the light of heaven shine.

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Christ! hasten on that glorious time,
Gather the ripened harvest in;
Let the sweet bells of heaven chime,
And strike the end of Death and Sin!

For when the graves their treasures yield,
From north and south, and east and west,
The earth shall seem like some fair field
Which the good Lord hath richly blest.

243

MARTIN LUTHER.

Luther! large-brain'd, large-hearted, great of soul,
And brave as he who faced the lions' den,
I would thy loud, indignant voice again
Might with a clarion-tone o'er Europe roll,
And abject Superstition's death-knell toll!
'Twas thine to purge the Church, become a den
Of thieves, who made a merchandise of men,
And opened heaven to sinners for a dole.

Oh for the thunders of thy tongue to shake
All Christendom from farthest east to west:
She sleeps like poor shorn Samson on the breast
Of Delilah. Dear Christ! for that truth's sake
Which martyrs died for and Thy saints confest,
Another Luther send! bid England wake!

244

FOX HOW.

I.

Fox How! fair home 'midst Nature's fairest scene,
Encircled here by hills and there by wood!
On many spots of beauty have I stood
Where cloudless skies o'er verdant valleys lean,
And snow-clad mountains pierce the blue serene;
But never felt I in more reverent mood
Than in this dwelling of the great and good,
Whose memory here is still so fresh and green.

Lying outside the sights and sounds of strife,
Thy very air is full of peace and rest,
Far from the fret and weariness of life.
Here may we truest inspiration take,
From hill and stream, from meadow and from lake,
Also from what in noblest hearts is best.

245

II.

Fairer than silver birch or dusky yew,
Sweeter than brilliant flowers that gem thy sward,
Greener than laurel-hedge, thy fence and guard,
Which stands close-leaved and tall against the blue,
Is the remembrance of the good and true,
By which to deeds of worth the heart is stirr'd;
—An odour fragrant as the precious nard,—
A fount of inspiration ever new.—

For Arnold here once nobly toiled and wrought,
Sowed precious seed which bears rich fruitage now,
Here with the false had ever grandly fought,
And at Truth's shrine compelled the knee to bow;
A living power from all he did and taught,
Still lingers round his beautiful Fox How.

246

III.

From many lands on pilgrimage they come,
And reverent steps are often guided here
Where once he dwelt; where they to him most dear
Keep pure his name as heav'n's high stainless dome,
As white and bright and spotless as the foam
That crowns the waters of some wind-swept mere,
And send it down unstained from year to year,
As well becomes the heirs of this sweet home.

And favoured they who freest entrance find
Into this honoured household's inner shrine,
Where all that's wise, high-thoughted, and refined
May for the hours thou passest there be thine;
Culture with friendly courtesy combined,
All virtues of the heart, all graces of the mind.

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IV.

A precious trust this heritage of fame,
To live so that our lives shall ever move
In harmony with greatness that we love,
And honour those from whom we take our name;
True to their memory, and all aflame
By word and deed our high resolve to prove,
To keep it stainless as the skies above,
By shame untainted and untouched of blame.

Great the responsibility they bear
Who carry righteous blood within their veins.
Woe if the child unworthily sustains
The great traditions unto which he's heir,
Who, as he turneth o'er life's solemn page,
Fails to transmit them pure from age to age!

249

RONDEAUX.

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It may interest some of my readers to know that after alluding to “the substance as well as the ingenuity of form” of the following Rondeaux, Mr. Robert Browning adds in a letter to me, “With respect to your question concerning my sympathy with the first two poems, assuredly you have it altogether. I should consider that such a visitation as was really and repeatedly promised me,—a promise which continuing to be unkept, is to me a proof that to keep it were impossible. I should esteem such an appearance a blessing almost beyond any other I can conceive of,—in fact too blessed for the conditions of this world, and our present life.”

I. WORKS DEATH SUCH CHANGE?

Works Death such change upon our dead,
Doth it such awe around them spread,
That, would they suddenly appear,
Trembling, we would recoil in fear,
Though on their breast had lain our head?

Why should their light and ghostly tread
Thus thrill us with a nameless dread,
If still we hold them all so dear?
Works Death such change?

We kissed their cold lips on the bier,
And weeping wished the spirit here;
And shall the wish be all unsaid,
If some night, rising near our bed,
They stand within the moonlight clear?
Works Death such change?

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II. I WOULD NOT SHRINK.

I would not shrink if some dear ghost,
One of the dead's unnumbered host,
Should rise in silence of the night,
Shrined in an aureole of light,
And pale as snowdrop in the frost.

No! if the brother loved and lost
For me the silent river crossed,
For me left worlds all fair and bright,
I would not shrink!

Oh, if I gauge my heart aright,
Dear would the dead be to my sight;
A vision from the other coast,
Of one on earth I cherished most,
Would be a measureless delight:
I would not shrink!

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III. HE DOES NOT COME.

He does not come, although I pray
From sombre eve to morning grey;
Either my voice he cannot hear
In that untroubled happier sphere,
Or cannot force to me his way.

Ah, they but mock us when they say,
The dead revisit realms of day,
Or ever to our sight appear,—
He does not come!

Yet eager was he to obey
What on his heart I pleased to lay;
And if he heard, he would stand here
Before me in the moonlight clear,
Though only for an hour his stay,—
He does not come!

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IV. BEFORE HE PASSED.

Before he passed from mortal view,
To where he sleeps beneath the yew,
He said, “Weep not; to thee I'll come,
If spirits ever leave that home
Through whose dark gates I go from you.”

How firm his promise well I knew;
So as he spake life sweeter grew,
And flowered again my heart in bloom,
Before he passed!

Alas! the sweet hope is not true;
He may not tread the avenue
That leadeth from the nether gloom;
Else would he come to this dear room.
I heard his vow,—God heard it too,
Before he passed!

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V. NOT FOR THE DEAD.

Not for the sainted dead we weep;
Untroubled is their rest and deep.
For them why should we mourn or sigh?
'Neath quiet graves in peace they lie;
“Thou givest Thy beloved sleep.”

For tempted souls, for wandering sheep,
For all whose path is rough and steep,
For them we lift our voice on high—
Not for the dead!

For all who 'neath sore burdens creep,
Who sow the wind, the whirlwind reap,
Who lonely watch the days go by,
For hearts that bleed while eyes are dry:
For these, O Lord, our tears we keep—
Not for the dead!

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VI. SLEEP THEY NOT WELL?

Sleep they not well, the sainted dead?
For sorrow they have peace instead:
Our Father housed His children dear,
Before the tempest gathered near,
And burst in thunders loud and dread.

Healed are the hearts that inly bled,
The mourning souls are comforted,
And stanched the fount of every tear;
Sleep they not well?

And if, until the Lord appear,
Earth, like a mother pressing near
To watch beside the loved one's bed,
Wraps her dark mantle round their head,
And shelters them from pain and fear,
Sleep they not well?

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VII. WITHDRAW THE VEIL.

Withdraw the veil, O God, I pray,
A little even, that a ray
Shining from out the glory bright
May fall upon our darkling night,
And with us ever rest and stay!

Through gloom and shadow lies our way,
The mists are heavy, thick, and grey,
We stumble as we grope for light.
Withdraw the veil!

Alas! how oft we go astray,
So blind, we cannot always say
Which is the wrong, which is the right;
We need, O God, the opened sight,
“The fire by night, the cloud by day.”
Withdraw the veil!

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VIII. CLEAR-SIGHTED FAITH.

Clear-sighted Faith! how all things lie
Changed and transfigured 'neath her eye:
A rainbow on each cloud appears,
A glory shines through mists of tears,
And cloudless blue through clouded sky.

When winds blow fierce and waves are high,
Through spray and foam she can descry
His hand who safe the vessel steers,
Clear-sighted Faith!

Content to live—content to die,
Calmly for her the days go by,
And, dwelling in the upper spheres,
Above the reach of cares or fears,
She sees more cause to sing than sigh;
Clear-sighted Faith!

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IX. “IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.”

“It might have been!” Like solemn knell
Rung from a deep-toned iron bell,
Upon the ear the sad words smite,
Or as a dirge heard in the night—
A dirge o'er one loved all too well.

What mind can gauge, what tongue can tell,
The anguish in these words that dwell;
In them what tears to dim the sight—
“It might have been!”

It wakes remorse we cannot quell,
It gnaws the heart like worm of hell,
To know that we have lost the height
Where once we might have stood in light;
That from life's possible we fell,—
“It might have been!”

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X. THE SWEET SAD YEARS.

The sweet sad years, the sun, the rain,
Alas! too quickly did they wane,
For each some boon, some blessing bore;
Of smiles and tears each had its store,
Its chequered lot of bliss and pain.

Although it idle be and vain,
Yet cannot I the wish restrain
That I had held them evermore,
The sweet sad years!

Like echo of an old refrain,
That long within the mind has lain,
I keep repeating o'er and o'er,
“Nothing can e'er the past restore,
Nothing bring back the years again,
The sweet sad years.”

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XI. SHALL IT BE MINE?

Shall it be mine, friends? Yes, it may,
To tread the first the silent way
That leadeth to the golden door,
Opening upon God's palace floor,—
Mine first life's burden down to lay.

And, sweeter far than I can say,
To wait for you, and watch, and pray,
Till we shall meet to part no more,—
Shall it be mine?

And when God summons you away,
And rising, you the call obey,
Shall it be mine from yonder shore
To see you pass the river o'er,
And leave the shadows for the day,—
Shall it be mine?

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XII. CLOUDY DAYS.

O days of cloud! O days of rain!
With face against the window-pane
We watch the driving of the showers,
And count the long and dreary hours;
But wherefore murmur or complain?

We hope, nor do we hope in vain,
The sun will soon shine forth again,
And waken into life the flowers,
O days of cloud!

Then if no shadows shall remain,
Nor shrouding mists hide hill and plain,
And birds sing in the leafy bowers,
And sapphire skies once more be ours,
Peace lieth at the heart of pain,
O days of cloud!

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XIII. APRIL DAYS.

O tender Springs, sweet April days,
Heralds of fair and flow'ry Mays,
When daffodils that dare the cold,
Make every meadow gleam like gold,
And violets scent the woodland ways,

Ye have a spell dead years to raise,
And bring them up before the gaze,
Clothed in the grace they wore of old,
O tender Springs!

Out of the dim past's misty haze
There come forth those far “yesterdays,”
When life was yet a tale untold,
Sorrows but few,—joys manifold,
And all my songs were psalms of praise,
O tender Springs!

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XIV. THE MAY.

This jocund May, the crown of Spring,
When all the budding copses ring,
When everywhere its quick'ning breath
Awakes the slumb'ring world from death,
Is of the seasons lord and king.

Hearts like the birds begin to sing,
New life now throbs through everything,
And earth blooms like one flow'ry wreath,
This jocund May!

Bright sunny hours, stay, stay your wing,
Or leave with us the sweets ye bring;
O fragrant month of hope and faith,
Joy round thee fondly lingereth;
To thee dear memories still cling,
This jocund May!

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XV. IN DAYS OF JUNE.

In days of June the summer skies
In arching glory o'er us rise,
And perfect cloudless beauty wear;
The breezes richest odours bear,
And flowers exhale themselves in sighs.

A golden splendour richly dyes
The earth in hues of Paradise,
And glowing tints divinely fair,
In days of June!

Come, friend, let Nature make us wise;
Withdraw from books your weary eyes;
Let us to woods and fields repair,
And drink the sunshine, breathe the air,
And muse in meditative guise,
In days of June!

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XVI. SUMMER EVES.

Fair summer eves, as twilight lies
On the dim earth and distant skies,
And moon and stars with silver light
Tremble upon the steps of night,
Expression in a rapture dies.

Evening's warm odours round me rise,
Sweet as if blown from Paradise,
Or fairy gardens of delight;
Fair summer eves!

And yet, half to my own surprise,
I feel the tears o'erflow mine eyes;
For absent friends ye call to sight,
Loves, hopes, that made existence bright,
That now are only memories:
Fair summer eves!

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XVII. THE CUCKOO.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! the woodlands ring
With thee, blithe harbinger of Spring;
Thou bringest cowslips, violets blue,
And buds and bells all drenched in dew,
Glittering like pearls upon a string.

The swallow now is on the wing,
In hawthorn bush the thrushes sing,
But more I love to hear, “Cuckoo!
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”

Thy voice puts joy in everything,
And takes from sorrow half its sting;
Recalling days that quickly flew,
Pleasures long past thou dost renew,
And the old sunshine round me fling,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

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XVIII. THE TIME WILL COME.

The time will come, O love! the day
When at your side I may not stay,
And you shall see my face no more;
Though sad the parting, bitter, sore,
There comes a call I must obey.

'Gainst this it boots not that we pray;
I must arise and take the way
That many friends have ta'en before:
The time will come!

And tell me, dearest, yea, or nay?
Robs it the sunshine of one ray,
To know that I must go before,
Be first to reach the farther shore;
And aches your heart for that I say
The time will come?

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XIX. MARY OF BETHANY.

O happy maid, who at the feet
Of Jesus found a safe retreat,
Who looked into His face benign,
And listened to the words divine
That made her heart with music beat!

No tumult of the dusty street,
Disturbs her in that quiet seat,
Near to the True and Loving Vine,
O happy maid!

Dear Saviour, give me, I entreat,
Communion high, and close, and sweet;
Let Mary's privilege be mine,
Like Mary make me wholly Thine;
For hers a joy supreme, complete,
O happy maid!

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A SONG.

[What aileth thee, fair moon]

What aileth thee, fair moon,
That thou dost look so white and wan?
Art sad that thou so soon
Must wane before the coming dawn,—
That all thy regal splendours bright
Must fade and vanish with the night?

I grieve to see thee pale,—
Sorrow becometh not a queen.
Is it that earth's unceasing wail
Troubles the pure serene?
And dost thou pity then her throes,
Her sin, her travail, and her woes?

Or haply thou dost mourn
That there is drawing near a time
When, having reached the bourne,
Thou shalt no more in beauty climb
The purple spaces of the sky,
With golden planets sweeping by.

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A SONG.

[We part on Time's sad shore]

We part on Time's sad shore,
Alone I go before;
But where to meet and when, O love, again?
Beyond the shadows where all tears are o'er,
There meet we evermore.

Let us be calm and strong;
The parting is not long,
And you, like me, shall pass the ebon door,
Beyond which lie sweet light, and love, and song,
For ever, evermore.

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A SONG.

[O youth, O love, O spring!]

O youth, O love, O spring!
I hear the copses ring,
As long ago in happy days of yore,
When like the birds my joyous heart did sing;
Alas! it sings no more.

Ah, now 'tis still and mute,
Like some poor broken lute,
Whose chords no hand shall e'er again sweep o'er,
Which lies unstrung, neglected, at the foot,—
Silent for evermore.

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EFFIE.

“Love knows the secret of grief.”
—Mrs. Barrett Browning.

She was here a little child,
Not so very long ago;
Then spring airs were blowing mild,
Now the earth is cold with snow.
Then she was so young and bright,
Flashing like a gleam of light,
Playing 'midst the daisies white.

Out and in amongst the trees,
'Neath the shadows cool and green;
Buoyant as the summer breeze
Which the branches played between.
How she floated here and there,
Spirit-like, and sweet and fair,
Scarce of earth and more of air!

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Often have I seen her pass
Through the young and sprouting corn,
Stealing gently through the grass,
Looking if the larks were born.
Or a butterfly she'd chase,
With a flush upon her face,
And a nameless winsome grace.

Lovely grew she day by day—
Hair of gold and eyes of blue;
Fresh as any flower in May;
Trusting, innocent, and true.
Lips as red as rosy wine,
Looks, although so infantine,
Seeing into things divine.

Music made she in our home;
Light she brought with her, and joy;
Hearts leapt up to see her come,
Now so bashful, now so coy.
Ah, she was the sweetest thing!
Soft her voice, with silvery ring,
Like as when a bird doth sing.

Dead;—for me she liveth still,
Goeth with me where I go;
Tears for her run down at will,
All my heart they overflow.

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For my darling she is gone,
And I stand here all alone,
Looking at her grave-yard stone.

Oh, my Effie, dearest dear!
On this tomb I see thy name,
Graven there wellnigh a year,
Since God's angels for thee came.
Oh, my own, my little one,
Thou thy race hast quickly run—
Ended it, ere well begun!

Does that twelvemonth seem to thee
Short, my darling; not a year?
Very long it seems to me,
Not an hour without its tear.
Short to thee;—for at thy feet
God has put all things most sweet;
Heavenly joys, for heaven meet.

Thou art where the angels move,
Up and down before God's face,
And where He whose name is Love,
Doth all things in love embrace.
Thou hast, Effie, entered in
That safe place where is no sin;
Far from earth, and earth's sad din.

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In thine hand a harp of gold,
Struck beneath the green life-tree,
Maketh music manifold;
Ah, that it could reach to me!
Smiles are ever in thine eyes;
Smiles as if for victories,
Won o'er Heaven's mysteries.

Dost thou ever downward look
On the world, so poor and vain?
Hast for ever from thee shook
Thoughts of all its care and pain?
Is to thee the past quite past,
Nothing better than a waste,
All its memories effaced?

And thy father, Effie, say
Has he grown a something dim?
Hast with earth put far away
Thoughts and memories of him?
Dost thou never, darling, miss,
Just as I do, all the bliss
When our mouths met kiss to kiss?

I would know if thou dost hear
Voices that I send to thee;
Do they trouble the calm sphere,
Discords in its melody?

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Dost thou, sweet one, ever long
I the angels were among,
Joining in their choral song?

Lost, beloved, but oh, loved still;
Do the thoughts of days behind
Ever through thy spirit thrill,
Press themselves upon thy mind?
And do wishes rise in vain
Days gone by might come again,
That the now were as the then?

Effie, 'midst the children there
I shall know thee; claim thee mine:
Hardly, dear one, grown more fair,
Though transfigured to divine.
I shall know thee from the rest,
Hold thee ever to this breast,
Of all bliss and thee possest.

Ah, I wrong myself and thee,
Fretting thus against the rod!
Thou art happy:—let it be:
Rest, until I come, with God.
And I know that soon the door,
Opening on the other shore,
Will receive me evermore.

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ONE LOOK.

One look, but only one,
Within the veil where God doth show His face;
Once but to see the radiance of the Throne;
But once, the wonders of that glorious place;
One look, but only one,
Should I not wish the weary race were run?

Could I but hear one song,
Sung by the angels in harmonious voice,
Floating the heart of heaven all along,
As evermore they worship and rejoice;
Could I but hear one song,
To join that glorious choir should I not long?

Could I the loved enfold,
Taking the lost within these arms once more,
To press them to my yearning heart, and hold,
As I have done in happy days of yore;
Could I the loved enfold,
To front grim Death should I not then be bold?

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Then should I, day by day,
Before the golden doors of heaven wait;
Watching for this alone, and this alway,
That God would ope for me the blessèd gate;
Then should I, day by day,
Long like a prisoned bird to flee away.

MAY.

The day is clear, the air is cool,
The streamlet runs with murmurs sweet;
The swallows skim along the pool,
The lark is singing o'er the wheat.

The spring is in its early pride,
Dressing each branch and spray with green;
And flow'rs bloom sweet on every side,
In hedge-rows and in thickets seen.

Across the corn the west winds blow,
In beechen woods doves coo and pair;
The cattle in the pastures low,
The cuckoo's voice is everywhere.

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'Tis joy to breathe on such a day,
When beauty spreads before the eyes,
To catch the fragrance of the May,
To see the splendour of the skies.

The spring it maketh all things new,
The fields, the trees; the very sod,
While sparkling with the morning dew,
Seems fresh as from the hand of God.

Let us be glad in these sweet hours,
In all God giveth us to-day:
The birds, the leaves, the op'ning flowers,
For soon must glide from us the May.

I would not that a care should cast
A shadow over heart or brow,
What though the spring will soon be past?
I'd live within the happy now.

The thought of Autumn with its chill,
Of Winter with its snows and frosts,
Need not our sky with shadows fill,
Our hearts with sense of pleasures lost.

God gives us now this world so bright,
Why think we what far morrows bring?
Does He not clothe the lily white?
Feed careless sparrow on the wing?

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Each fragile blossom on its stem,
Each bird that carols in the air,
Leaves God on high to think for them,
And knows not either want or care,

They teach us well to trust His love,
Our hearts with happy faith to fill,
To learn from all beneath, above,
“Sufficient to the day the ill.”

A SOLDIER'S STORY.

In the long sultry autumn day,
Our armies met in fierce affray.

England and France were then at war,
Fighting in Spanish fields afar.

The corn that ripened on the plain
Was red with blood of brave men slain;

And, trampled 'neath the horses' tread,
Formed a last pillow for the dead.

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All day our ranks stood firm and fast,
Though thinn'd by many a rifle-blast;

Our men fought bravely, bravely fell,
Mowed down by iron shot and shell.

At last, before the stronger force
Retired we all, both foot and horse,

Hoping in our retreat to gain
A river swoll'n with summer's rain—

Meaning to place its broad, deep flow,
Between us and th' advancing foe.

Our troops plunged in the rapid flood,
Swam through, and on the far bank stood;

Then, pressing to the higher ground,
Rank after rank in order wound

Up the steep height; no hint of dread
Was heard in their fierce tramp and tread.

We sought to gain the wooded hill,
Marching to trump and bugle shrill;

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But paused just half way up to see
How with the foemen it might be—

And wishing, too, to give one cheer
To fret and taunt the Frenchman's ear.

On turning round, there met our sight,
Where swarmed the foe to left and right,

And where our tents had lately stood,
Beyond the rushing torrent's flood,

A woman! A great shudder ran
Through all our troops from rear to van.

This woman was a soldier's wife,
A man sore hurt in that day's strife.

We bore him with us faint and stunn'd,
And bleeding from a gun-shot wound.

O God! she had been left behind,
In haste pass'd by,—quite out of mind.

Trembling she stood, wild with alarm,
With face all pale, and outstretched arm,

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In dumb appeal. Her frenzied cry
Lost in the roar of the stream hard by.

Our General with a look of pain,
Swept with his eye the level plain.

“Halt!” As they hear that stern command,
Our men in breathless silence stand—

“What man will go, on foot or horse,
And save a life from death,—or worse?”

Our Captain sprang from out the rank,
Struck spurs into his horse's flank—

The snorting steed, in mettled might,
Started, and dashed right down the height.

We saw them then in the current's tide,
Cleaving the waves to the other side.

Rifle and rifle sent forth its ball,
Bullets like raindrops round them fall,

And the waters hiss, and flash, and steam,
Under the shot that ruffles the stream.

Our Captain, caring not, rode on,
Till at length the farther side was won.

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He reached the shore without a wound,
And climbed the bank near the Frenchman's ground,

Then pricked his horse, and gained the place
Where the woman stood with awe-struck face—

And terror in her straining eye,
Lest he had only come to die.

He bent an instant; stooping low,
He swung her up to his saddle-bow;

He turned in haste his horse's head,
And plunged again in the river's bed.

Our hearts beat fast as we saw him come;
We hardly breathed; stood still, and dumb;

But he rode not now a ride of death,
There was no need to hold our breath!

The French had dropped their muskets all;
No bullets whiz, no ring of ball,

Came whirring on our Captain's ear—
No cause he had for care or fear;

For the cheer from the British lines that rose
Was echoed back by our gallant foes,

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And it thrill'd them one and all to see
That noble deed of chivalry.

Their hearts were stirred by that brave deed,
When our Captain bore, on panting steed,

Back to our camp the soldier's wife,
Rescued at risk of limb and life.

WAR TIME.

Silently they sat together—not a whisper, not a word;
Only now and then a sobbing or a shuddering sigh was heard.
Two sad women weeping sorely,—Robert's mother and his bride;
One was bent with years and sorrow, one was in her youthful pride.
Yet both hearts were torn with anguish; life for them had lost its bloom,
Grief made wreck of all the future, not a ray to pierce the gloom.

War, with all its bloody horrors, broke out many months ago,

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And there came the urgent summons, calling men to meet the foe;
There was gath'ring of the regiments, sounds of muster far and near,
Neigh of horses, martial music, trumpet-blast, and clarion clear.
When the country asked for soldiers, who would dare to shrink from fight?
All would strike for hearth and altar: for the true and for the right.

All alive the Minster City with the call of bugle-horn,
With the clash and clink of armour, and the muster night and morn;
Horses champed in street and stable, neighed as if they smelt afar,
Borne for leagues across the valley, scent of strife and coming war.
Every place was filled with clamour, noise of jingling spur and sword,
And, through all, the ring of rifle and the roll of drums was heard.

Robert marched with other soldiers,—parted from his clinging wife:
Three months only were they wedded, ere there came the sound of strife;

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And she bore herself right bravely, blessed him as she saw him go,
For she felt he was his country's, and had noble work to do!
But when came the last embraces, when she said the long “Good-bye,”
Then she felt the pang of parting, was as pang of those who die.

They had loved from early childhood,—loved each other girl and boy,
Played together in the meadows, shared each other's grief and joy;
Plucked the sweet and fragrant flowers in the long, bright summer days,
Wandered all along the river, or through tangled woodland ways,
Knelt together in the Minster, where their prayers went up to heaven,
In the flush of early morning, or the hush of solemn even.

He had never told his feelings,—she had never probed her own,
Till one evening in the May-time as they watched the sun go down,
Flushing all the hills with colour, making all the land-scape bright,
To his heart came sudden rapture, filling all his eye with light;

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And he poured out his deep passion,—breathed it in a willing ear,
Told her how he loved her truly, and had loved for many a year.

As he spake she blushed and trembled, thrilled to hear his fervent tale,
Vainly tried to find an answer, voice and words both seemed to fail.
But at length there came a whisper in a low and undertone,—
She was his, and ever had been—ever would be his alone.
Life would not be life without him—of that life he was a part;
Yes! she loved him dearly: only: with her woman's tender heart!

All the orchards were in blossom,—bloom on every branch and bough,
Bloom on pear, and peach, and apple, like great heaps of scented snow;
All the copses rang with singing, and the lark sang in the blue,
And the world was filled with music, and their hearts were singing too.
All about them was so dream-like,—all so new, so very sweet.

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Hardly knew they if the heavens were above or 'neath their feet.

They were one in vow and promise, as they were in heart before,
And that summer caught a beauty that till now no summer wore;
And the golden moon above them never seem'd to them so fair,
As to shining stars and planets she laid all her beauty bare;
While the flowers that sprang around them, simplest daisy on the sod,
Like the bush that burnt for Moses, burned to them as if with God.

They were wedded in the Minster, where they often knelt to pray;
Left it in a happy dream-land, not a shadow on their way.
Followed soon the sweet home-coming, with its rest, and peace, and grace;
Love, with all its light and lustre, glorified the commonplace.
And as days and weeks passed onward, each to other grew so dear,
That a new and happy Eden seemed to bless this nether sphere.

But their bliss was rudely broken: War came, filling homes with dread,

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And with sad forecasting bodings of the wounded and the dead,
With farewells and bitter partings, last embraces, passionate cries,
Tears that started all unbidden from the heart to weeping eyes.
“Wife,” in faltering tones said Robert—“I must go, and you must stay;
Blessings on your head, my darling; think of me, dear love, and pray.”

Mary and his agèd mother lived together in one home,
Sought to comfort each the other till he to their arms should come;
Bore with patience Robert's absence, went about their household ways,
Longed and hoped for his returning—passed as best they might their days;
Trembled when news came of battle, borne in rumour from afar;
Sickened as they heard of fighting, and the horrors of the war.

One sad morning brought the tidings, flashing all along the wire,
Of a long and bloody battle, where beneath a deadly fire
Hundreds were mowed down together in thick swathes along the plain,

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But as yet no names were given—who were living, who were slain;
One thing only known as certain: All had nobly borne their part,
England well might bear their memory 'mongst the bravest on her heart.

Where was he—the son, the husband? Lying covered o'er with scars?
Sorely wounded? dead or dying, with his wan face to the stars?
Was he living, weak and helpless,—not a friend or kinsman near?
Did he call for wife or mother? call for help, and they not hear?
Oh, where was he? Christ in heaven! has the pity left Thine eyes?
Has Thine ear grown dull and heavy? Is it deaf to all our cries?

Thus they spake while tears fell thickly, waiting till fresh tidings came,
Dreading lest the next dispatches should contain the husband's name.
Scanned they every list with terror, with a quiv'ring, shrinking eye,
With a blind and sick'ning anguish, and a feeling they must die,

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If the fear that thrilled and shook them, should at once take actual form,
And the muttering of the tempest burst upon them in the storm.

Came at length the worst they dreaded. In the list was Robert's name,
'Mongst the men who sold life dearly, and it burnt them like a flame:
Plain it lay upon the paper, just as if none else were there,—
And they turned upon each other one blank look of great despair;
Love and hope for them were over! earth was empty, life was vain!
In that moment nature taught them her capacities of pain.

Then a shriek, a cry of anguish, followed by a shuddering wail,
And they both sat broken-hearted,—sat with faces wild and pale;
Moved not, stirred not, sorrow-stricken,—just like statues, turned to stone,
Life and feeling lost in anguish: for the moment dead and gone—
Dry the eye-balls, seared and burning, not one tear did overflow;
Better stormy gusts of weeping, than this sullen, silent woe.

Mary rose at last quite calmly, to her heart his mother pressed,

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Wound her loving arms around her, laid her head upon her breast,
Wailed forth sadly, “Mother! Mother!” gave a cry of sharpest pain;
Then the pent-up grief was loosened, came the tears like showers of rain,
And the women wept together, knelt, and prayed aloud to God;
Prayed for patience, sought for mercy, bent to kiss the chastening rod.

Followed days of desolation,—passing each with leaden pace,
Dark and gloomy was the present, and the future hard to face:
All the streams of life were frozen—gone its sweet and pleasant spring—
Love and joy, that once made sunshine, had for ever taken wing;
Hope had burn'd down to the socket; in its ashes lived no fire;
One great, dismal, helpless sorrow, slew the present, killed desire.

As they sat one summer's evening in the garden 'neath the shade,
Looking on the shining glory which the west'ring sunshine made,
Listening to the merry singing of the throstle in the tree,
Catching just the drowsy murmur in the linden of the bee,

293

Talking sometimes, sometimes silent, all their thoughts on that dear time
When he, too, was sitting with them, underneath this very lime—

Heard they through a pause a footstep, passing by the wicker gate;
All they thought was,—“'Tis some neighbour come to pay a visit late.”
So they moved not at his coming, waiting till he reached the place,
Hoping then to bid him welcome, with the sad smile on their face.
Friends came oft to cheer the sorrow of their dark and lonely life,
Grieving for the mourning mother, for the early widowed wife!

As the steps drew nearer, closer, turned they round their heads to see—
God of grace! Who stood before them? Some pale ghost? or was it he?
Throbbed their hearts, and thrilled their pulses, and their soul was in their eyes:
Ah, did graves give back their tenants? Did the dead from death arise?
Were they mad, or were they dreaming? Was he come to them once more?

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Come to home, and arms all empty,—come to heal the hearts so sore?

Had suspense a moment longer held them in its cruel sway,
Mary must have maddened surely—brain and sense had given way.
There she stood with eyes dilated, brow and bosom all aflame,
While through parted lips the breathing in great shudd'ring spasms came;
Then a cry—half shriek, half whisper—“Robert! Robert! is it you?
O my God, can this be real? Am I mad? Or is it true?”

“Mary! Mother! Darling Mary!” And the voice upon her ear
Sounded like a voice from heaven,—banished every doubt and fear.
Then she sprang into his arms, dropp'd her face upon his breast,
Wept sweet tears of holy rapture, with a sense of blessèd rest;
Felt this hour was compensation for the anguish now gone by,
Felt if death had come that moment, then it were most blest to die.

Fondly gazed they on their lost one—found again—their own—their own—
Who brought back to life its sweetness when all hope was dead and gone:

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Saw that he was bronzed and bearded, and on either cheek a scar,
Thought he never looked so noble, as with those deep marks of war;
For they spake of dauntless courage, how he braved the shot and shell,
Bore him in the battle bravely, rushed through fire and smoke of hell.

Then he told them all his story, how he had been left for slain,
'Mongst a heap of dead and dying, on the bloody battle-plain;
How they found him faint and bleeding, with a wound on breast and head;
How for weeks he was unconscious, lying on a fever-bed;
How life conquered in the struggle, after long delirious days;
“Nay, what matter now, my darling? to our God be all the praise.”

LINES FOR MUSIC.

The leaves have been whisp'ring all the day,
They are trembling still in the air;
And I think I can guess what they wish to say,
What message to me they bear.

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For my darling has been in the wood, I know,
By the way we used often to pass,
And the little foot that is whiter than snow,
Has brushed the dews from the grass.

And if leaves could speak they would tell me this,
That she leaned here tenderly,
And plucking a flower she gave it a kiss,
And told it her love for me.

And she called me her own, her own, her own,
And she said it again and again;
For her heart I know is a happy throne,
Where lord of her love I reign.

Ah leaves, dear leaves, that tremble and thrill
When woo'd by the summer wind,
Your whispers my soul with a rapture fill,
My heart with their spell they bind.

Oh tell her, sweet leaves, when she comes this way,
And rests 'neath your happy tree,
That I love her—oh, better than words can say,
That she's all in all to me.

And tell her, oh tell her, my love, my life,
So close to my heart she lies,
That the day I call her my bride, my wife,
Will turn earth to Paradise.

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NIAGARA.

I.

Let there be silence; it befits a scene
Glorious as when God first pronounced all good;
Let not the world upon the thoughts intrude,
For He is here who through all time hath been.
His greatness in the cataract is seen,
Whose rush of whirling waters offers food
For solemn meditation's reverent mood.
Oh, let the eye be vigilant, and keen

To hold the torrent leaping from yon height,
Pure, radiant, glittering, exquisitely clear,
Till worlds of beauty open on the sight,
And earth and all its trifles disappear.
So to thine ear the loud harmonious roar
Will come with echoes from the eternal shore.

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II.

How fine the sweep of seething billowy sea,
Which o'er the precipice so grandly breaks,
And with its thunders earth and heaven shakes,
As down it rolls in awful majesty,
Untamed, unfettered, strong, resistless, free,
Fed by the waters of four mighty lakes!
The awed and dazzled eye with beauty takes
That foaming cataract, a joy to see,

And o'er the rock green sheets of emerald flow,
Which rise again in clouds of luminous spray,
While the sun smites the mists till rainbows glow
To crown the waters, which upon their way
Impetuous hurry to the gulf below,
In milk-white torrents of tumultuous snow.

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THE HORSE-SHOE FALLS.

I.

Chafed seas of weltering waters met in fight,
Confusèd floods, mingled in wild affray,
Plunge crashing downwards in their headlong might,
And in the wild abyss are churned to spray,
Then tossed to heaven in tremulous clouds of white,
Making a glory of the common day.
Beyond imagination is this sight,
This rush of waters roaring on their way.

Here, as I stand, watching the torrent's leap,
There comes across the current, borne to me,
Voices as from a far eternity,
Music of many waters loud and deep,
Scene beyond words! glories of fall and stream,
Ye wake a transport and a joy supreme.

300

II.

If ye are glorious ye are awful too,
And touch the springs of terror at their source,
As watch we your inexorable force,
And feel your pity it were vain to woo.
For, deaf to voice of prayer, ye would pursue
All pitiless and passionless your course,—
With all the thunders of the ages hoarse.
Nothing your flashing waters would subdue.

We quail before you, torrents, in your pride;
The strongest swimmer caught within your power
Were but your plaything, helpless as the flower
Borne on the rapids' swift resistless tide.
Ah, well that o'er the chasm deep and broad
The rainbow glitters like the smile of God!

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“PER ANGUSTA AD AUGUSTA.”

[_]

THIS INSCRIPTION IS PLACED OVER THE DOOR OF AN OLD HOUSE IN COIRE.

I.

“Through narrow things to great.” So the words run,
Carved in rude letters 'bove an antique door;
And as I scanned the legend o'er and o'er,
Busy imagination had begun
To muse what truth could from the scroll be won.
This first: Oft through the dark and grim defile,
We reach the open where rich cornfields smile,
And grapes grow purple 'neath the mellow sun.

Thus, oft through Duty's uninviting gate
We enter on a broad and rich domain,
And win the triumphs that on virtue wait,
Reaching through seeming loss the highest gain.
All pass this straitened door who would be great;
And find in front an ever-widening plain.

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II.

“From narrow things to great.” The words might stand
Fit motto for Death's portal, grim and black,
From which we shrink and shudder, and look back
With yearning eyes on this familiar land
Where we have lived and loved, enjoyed and plann'd.
But think we that upon the other side
This gate is life; beyond, it opens wide
On everlasting hills, celestial, grand,

Bright with the lustrous shinings of God's face,
Scenes of surpassing beauty and delight,
Rivers of pleasure, noons without a night,
Marvels of glory and surpassing grace?
Ah, fools and blind, to tremble at the door
Through which we pass to joys for evermore.

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A VILLAGE LAY.

Sixteen to-day, just sweet sixteen,
She moves along with step of queen
The sunshine clasps in warm embrace
Her youthful form, and radiant face.
Pure her cheek, as the snow-wreath fair,
Like ruddy gold her curling hair.
Then ring, oh bells, oh strong and clear,
Chime out your music on the ear;
Sweetly, oh sweetly let it flow,
From your turret tower to men below.

See! she comes up the garden way,
Fresh as the dawn of an April day,
Clad in a kirtle green, like spring,
She with her scent of flowers doth bring.
Her child-eyes, full of sweet content,
Look on the world in wonderment.

304

O ring out, bells! oh clear and strong,
And as ye swing the notes prolong:
Tell out, tell out, to all who hear,
The birthday 'tis of one so dear.

Glad parents of such maiden sweet!
Proud ground that feels the little feet!
Rich gems that glisten on her breast!
Oh happy rose, to her bosom prest!
She moves among the lilies tall,
Herself the fairest lily of all.
Ring out, oh bells, oh loudly ring:
Out on the breeze your rich strains fling,
And swell until the silver sound
Is wafted all the country round!

Two summers have flown quickly by,
The flowers bloom, the flowers die;
Two winters clothe the earth with snows,
But lightly touch our sweetest rose.
They bear to her the crown of life,
Betrothèd maid—then happy wife.
Ring out, oh bells! ring out your chime,
Glad tidings give of this golden time;
Oh ring and swing from your turrets high,
And bless the ears of the passers-by!

305

She cometh up the alleys green,
With drooping head and modest mien;
Her bridesmaids follow close behind,
'Neath veils just stirred by the whispering wind.
Now she has reached the carvèd porch,
And now has entered holy church.
Ring, ring, oh bells! but soft and low,
And let your music sweetly flow;
Floating along the charmèd air,
As suits the hour of holy prayer.

And now she kneels a happy bride,
The bridegroom kneeling at her side;
And prayers ascend to God above,
For peace, and joy, and truth, and love;
And o'er each bowed and reverent head
The prayer is made, the blessing said.
Ring out, ring out! again, again!
Ring out, oh bells, a joyful strain!
Another peal, to swell and die
In notes of sweetest harmony!

Plighted the troth, the ring is given,
And one they are in sight of Heaven.
Slowly they leave the house of prayer,
Both so young, and one so fair;
And people bless them as they tread
By grassy graves of the sainted dead.

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Then ring, oh bells! oh, sweeter still;
And as ye all the silence fill,
Give promise rich of the coming time—
Sound out, sound out, a full-voiced chime!

Their home is lighted from above
With trustful faith, and fervent love,
And happy hope, and deep content,
And pleasures sweet and innocent.
And children come—a girl and boy—
To fill their brimming cup with joy.
Ring on, oh bells, ring as of yore!
But still more joyful than before;
Tell of bright hours and cloudless days,
Of peace and prayer and grateful praise.

Oh happy time! oh pleasant years!
So full of smiles, so scant of tears!
Alas! that life's full harmony
Should pass into the minor key,
And death turn passion into pain,
And prayer be fruitless, love be vain;
Ring, then, ye chimes, but soft and low—
Solemn and sad, toll out our woe.
Oh ring a muffled, deep-toned knell,
The mournful peal of passing bell!

307

Oh Angel with the purple wings!
That o'er all life a shadow flings;
Death! thou dost teach the heart to sound
The depths of agony profound.
When sorrow, voiceless as the tomb,
Weeps in the silence, and is dumb.
Then ring, ye bells, a deep, sad knell,
In solemn tones of last farewell;
Nor balm nor lethe for such ill,
The gnawing grief will live on still.

Death claimed as his the tender wife;
The husband's joy, life of his life:
He saw her drooping day by day,
As droops the flower and fades away,
Until at last she passed and fled,
And the living stood above the dead.
Oh ring, ye bells, a muffled peal,
Which on the ear shall slowly steal;
Sadly swing again, again,
As well befits a day of pain.

A long procession, winding slow,
Doth through the churchyard darkly go;
Mourners and bearers weeping all,
As with trembling hands they bear the pall—
And now they pause,—the words are said
Which tell of rest for the sainted dead.

308

Oh bells! toll solemnly, oh, toll!
From the world has passed a loving soul.
Dead is she, the tender wife,—
Dead in the bloom and bliss of life.

Toll! “Earth to earth, and dust to dust.”
Toll! sobs are drowned in words of trust.
Toll! tears flow fast as, still and cold,
They lay her down in the churchyard mould.
Toll, toll again, oh sad bells, toll!
On the troubled ear your dirges roll.
Yet hope doth mingle with your sound,
And light breaks through grief's night profound.
For “Blest the dead,”—so says “the Word,”—
“Who dying rest in Christ the Lord.”

GOD'S CHASTENINGS.

Shrink not from sorrows; 'tis not wise—
They are but mercies in disguise;
Ladders by which we mount and rise.

“Ministering spirits,” they are sent
As Angels from God's firmament,
On heavenly messages intent.

309

Take them in love; in love they come,
To call our heart to that fair home
From which it is so prone to roam.

Learn from each grief its lesson true,
What God would have thee think and do,
What path avoid, or road pursue.

Whate'er betide, whate'er befall,
Be very sure there's love in all;
Love, though it fret, and wound, and gall.

For thus, through trouble, shame, and loss,
By many a bitter pang and cross,
He would refine and purge the dross.

Look then on sorrow as a friend;
Rough means unto a gracious end;
As on the heavenly way you wend.

You cry to God that He would spare,
The wintry days and bitter air,
The wasting trouble and the care.

You long for pastures green and still,
The sheltered way, the gentle rill,
The summer days, the wooded hill.

310

Yet winter has its use, and frost;
Without them many a hope were crost;
The golden harvest spoiled and lost.

They kill the noxious worm, the weed,
And baneful creatures that would feed
Upon the precious buried seed.

Thus trial is a wholesome thing;
Though sharpest grief our hearts may wring,
It doth with it a blessing bring.

Give it fair welcome; all God's ways
Will call forth endless strains of praise,
Throughout the long eternal days.

MISERERE, DOMINE!

Jesu, Thy mercy we implore,
The tempest swells, the winds are high,
The troubled waters chafe and roar,
And clouds are darkening o'er the sky.
As suppliants we come to thee;
Miserere, Domine!

311

O Thou that on the bitter cross
Didst bleed and die for human sin,
Content to suffer pain and loss
If man's redemption Thou might'st win;
To Thee for refuge, Lord, we flee;
Miserere, Domine!

Oh! fold us, Saviour, 'neath Thy wing,
Oh! shield us in Thy gracious love,
Around us Thy broad shadows fling,
And watch us from Thy heaven above;
Our Guardian and Protector be;
Miserere, Domine!

Once Thou didst hush the angry wind,
And lull the waves in tranquil sleep;
The tempest's fury Thou didst bind,
To show Thy power upon the deep;
Didst Thou not walk the stormy sea?
Miserere, Domine!

Then hold us safe within Thy hand,
And bring us to the farther shore;
We fain would reach that happy land
Where storms will threaten never more.
We have no hope, Lord, but in Thee;
Miserere, Domine!

312

FROM THE DUST.

My soul fast cleaveth to the dust,
My heart within is dead and cold,
I'm blown about by every gust,
No certain anchorage I hold.
I fain would lift mine eyes on high,
But all unpurged they cannot see;
I feel like one about to die;
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

My life is like the untilled land,
On which no flower or fruitage grows;
'Tis like a waste of arid sand,
A wintry landscape clothed with snows.
All empty are the vanished years;
Shall like the past the future be?
'Gainst this I plead with prayers and tears,
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

313

My life is like to plants that creep,
Like plants that droop and touch the ground;
No seed I sow, no harvest reap,
All barren as the months go round.
Uproot me then, and plant again,
I would be fruitful unto thee;
Prune, cleanse me, Lord, I'll scorn the pain:
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?

Man's life is but a shadowy, fleeting vapour,
That quickly melts and vanishes away;
'Tis like a cloud which gathers in the morning,
And passes, ere dawn deepens into day.

But shall this thought bring with it any sorrow,
Or fill our hearts with a regretful grief?
Shall it cast shadow on the coming morrow,
To know this human life is all so brief?

What! shall we idly fold our hands before us,
Mourning the stern, inexorable doom?
Or shall we spend our days in pining sadness,
Because we hasten surely to the tomb?

314

What! shall we grow all mad and wild and reckless,
Ready to utter this despairing cry:
“Let's take our ease, eat, drink, and be merry,
For on the morrow we are sure to die”?

No, never! For the thought will rather urge us,
To work with both hands earnestly for God!
We will be up and doing in His service,
If all so soon we lie beneath the sod.

A vapour! Yes; but let us all remember,
The vapour gives its beauty to the air;
It drapes the skies in crimson, blue, and amber,
And shapes itself in cloudlets bright and fair.

Then we will turn our brief life to a glory,
And make it beautiful with deeds of love;
Yes, we will steep it in the dyes of heaven,
And colour it with light caught from above.

A vapour! Yes; but 'tis not therefore worthless;
Vapour condensed is changed into the steam
Which sends the vessel o'er the trackless ocean,
And drives with speed the sounding iron team.

If life be brief, we will be more in earnest,
And work for God with all our soul and might;
Running with girded loins the race before us,
Fighting with all our strength the noble fight.

315

So when to heaven is drawn the earthly vapour,
And we are called to stand before the throne,
The Master's smile shall form our happy guerdon,
And we shall hear Him say, “Well done! Well done!”

IN MEMORIAM.

THE REV. HENRY WRIGHT.

[_]

(Drowned in Coniston Lake, August 13, 1880.)

Is then the world the sport of chance,
And under no controlling mind,
Whirled blindly on by every wind,
Plaything and jest of circumstance?

Are we but driven here and there,
Like leaves in autumn, sere and dead,
That lightly strew the ground we tread,
Or idly blown about in air?

Oh cruel irony of life—
With nothing sure from hour to hour,
Where lurks the poison 'neath the flower,
And sweetest cup with death is rife;

316

Where lightnings rend the strongest tree,
And brightest morn is closed in cloud,
Where fairest face lies in the shroud,
And hope oft holds despair in fee.

And can it be God feels no pain,
Seated upon His happy throne,
As earth's unceasing wail and moan
Rises through all His Angels' strain

To smite His ear with bitter cry,
To strike it through the Seraphs' songs,
And jar their music with the wrongs
Of human hearts that break and die?

Or is it true, as some men tell,
“Whatever is, is good and right,”
That in the darkest cloud is light,
And all that happens must be well?

Why then leave feeble, palsied age,
A burden to itself and earth,
And taking all we hold of worth,
Sweep youth and strength from off the stage?

Must that man, leprous with his sin,
Live on to vex the ear and eye;
And he untimely droop and die
Who unto angels was akin?

317

O God in Heaven! Thou knowest well
How worse than wasted some lives be,
Naught ever done for man or Thee,
But rather deeds befitting hell.

Why not from earth take one of these,
And leave the true souls with us still
Who strove to do Thy righteous will,
Consulting not for self or ease?

The Husband, Father, Pastor, Friend,
Loyal in each, to many dear,
Who kept his spirit pure and clear,
Whose life did always upward tend?

Peace, foolish heart! Look up and rise
Above the narrow walls of time,
And with untroubled faith sublime
Consider all with unsealed eyes.

His life, though brief, was not in vain;
He lived to do some noble deeds,
He lived to sow some precious seeds
Which shall bear fruit in ripened grain.

Rich benedictions oft he had
For kindly deeds, and thoughtful care,
And children's love, the poor man's prayer,
With blessings of the sick and sad.

318

God reckons not our life by days,
Rather by all we live to do,
By hours redeemed for all things true,
Things just and worthy of all praise.

To doubt is sin—God reigns on high,
Above the sorrow and the strife,
Above this dark, mysterious life,
And hears our helpless human cry.

To doubt is wrong—Our God is Love,
Although His ways are hid from sight,
Although in vain we search for light,
And in the deep His footsteps move.

O Peace! The shadows soon shall pass,
And we the darkest ways shall trace,
The veil removed, and face to face
Shall see: not dimly through a glass.

Faith shall give place to clear-eyed sight,
And we, to fullest manhood grown,
Shall know all things as we are known,
And understand that all is right.

So doubts fall from us one by one,
We see the good in seeming ill,
We bow to God's most holy will,
Content that His, not ours be done.

319

A PROTEST.

Had he a grave or flippant mind,
Who sings, “Whatever is, is right?”
Or from a philosophic height,
Was he to evil worse than blind?

Serene philosophy indeed,
Born in a somewhat shallow brain!
It looks upon the world in vain,
Nor knows the flower from the weed.

For if it be, “what is, is right,”
Then let us laugh, and take our ease,
And devils triumph as they please,
And darkness reign where should be light.

Let Circe 'midst her swine-troughs dwell,
And ply at will her damning trade;

320

And in the day, not in the shade,
With siren songs lure men to hell.

Let tavern-keepers curse and brawl,
And men the poisoned chalice drain,
That fires the heart, and dulls the brain,
And turns the sweets of life to gall.

Oh, rich men say if it is good
The poor should herd in crowded rooms,
'Mid stagnant air, and stifling glooms,
Where vices thrive, and fevers brood?

Who holds “'tis right” that ghastly war
Should raise on high its flaming torch,
To light men on their horrid march,
God's stamp in other men to mar?

Right is it thus in carnage dread,
To redden harvest fields with blood,
Forgetful of the holy rood,
And Prince of Peace that hung there dead?

What! right to bow at wealth's proud shrine?
That all be counted loss for gold?
Daughters in marriage-market sold,
To drink love's lees, and not its wine?

321

Think of the frauds that curse the mart,
The lies that circulate on 'Change,
The wrongs that through our system range,
And sores that fester at the heart.

And are these “right”? Are they of God?
Does He look down on them and smile,
Approving hate, and lust, and guile,
Or does He not restrain the rod?

Statesmen that hold their country's good,
Less than their own poor selfish aims,
Lower than low ambition's claims—
Suits this the philosophic mood?

“Whatever is, is right,” you say,
Oh coward creed, and born of sloth,
And empty as the bubble-froth,
Blown by an infant at its play!

Alas! on all sides thrives the wrong;
Then, let us up, and 'gainst it fight,
Resolved God's foes and man's to smite,
Like Jael in the old-world song.

Thus if we do upon our way
To hopes that crown the eternal years,
Harvests that spring from seeds of tears,
Shall be reaped down in God's own day.

322

Not ours to say, “What is, is right;”
'Tis God's with good to vanquish ill,
To make all things work out His will,
And on the darkness shed the light.

Pope.

BEYOND.

“Oh, tell me of the saints beyond the still, sad river,
What their gladness, what their bliss I long to know.”
“All is well; they rest with God and Christ for ever;
Hearts no longer ache, and tears no longer flow.”

“Oh, say what do the saints beyond the deathly river,
Is there nobler work in that pure world of light?”
“They do their Father's will; their worship ceases never.
Blessèd saints! They serve there day and night.”

“What songs sing the saints beyond the silent river,
What tuneful anthems echo down the happy street?”
“Psalms of gladness on their lips alway thrill and quiver,
Resounding in a cadenced music sweet.”

“Is their knowledge true and full beyond the unknown river,
Have they no more thirstings in that bright and blessèd place?”

323

“There they know, happy saints! as they are known for ever;
There they see, as they are seen, face to face.”

“Fain would I know of love beyond the narrow river;
Is it free from earthly passion, its changes and its pain?”
“Love in that better land is no brief, fitful fever;
Perfect and pure, 'tis safe from death and pain.”

“Shall we join the loved and lost beyond the parting river,
Shall we hold them closely to our straining heart?”
“Upon that radiant shore they shall be ours for ever,
And when we meet we never more shall part.”

“Need we dread to cross the dark, mysterious river,
To enter its unfathomed waters, clear and cold?”
“Why should we on its borders shrink in fear, or shiver,
When beyond shine the crowns and harps of gold?”

“Be content. When we pass beyond the deathly river,
We shall emerge on the far, eternal, tranquil shore;
There we shall be with Christ for ever and for ever,
And neither sin nor sorrow vex us any more.”

324

“AND THERE SHALL BE NO NIGHT THERE.”

O world where is no night!
When shall the shadows flee,
When will the morning rise for me,
And never more shall mist or darkness be?
Dawn quickly on my sight,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
How often in my dreams,
Through heav'n's great door which open seems,
There flash upon my vision golden gleams
And rays of sunny light,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
For which I yearn and sigh,
So close unto the straining eye
Thy radiant glories seem at times to lie,

325

They almost are in sight,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
So far and yet so near,
Sometimes I almost seem to hear
The music of the harpers, sweet and clear,
Then thrill I with delight,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
Here on this hither strand,
With outstretched eager arms I stand
Longing to reach the wonders of that land
Where faith is turned to sight,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
On this dark dreary shore,
I crave the light which evermore
Floods with its splendour heaven's jasper floor,
So beautiful, so bright,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
How many that we love
Have gained the happy home above,
Where they shall ever in Christ's Presence move,

326

Walking with Him in white,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
When, when shall it once be
That I shall find myself in Thee,
And all Thy wonders, all Thy glories see?
Would God that now I might,
Fair world where is no night!

O world where is no night!
How welcome and how sweet
Thy rest, for these world-weary feet!
But sweeter far my Saviour there to meet,
For Jesus is thy Light,
Fair world where is no night!

University of Virginia Library

THE ROSY DAWN.

TAORMINA, SICILY.

SPRING.

THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW.

IN THE ESCURIAL.

BY THE SEA—KYNANCE COVE.

BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO.

BERENICE'S HAIR.

THE OLD HOME.

REMORSE.

THE THEBAN PLAIN.

THE VOCAL MEMNON.

THE SILENT MEMNON.

THE AFTER-GLOW.

KARNAK BY MOONLIGHT.

THE VESPER BELL.

DYING WORDS.

A MEADOW AT RYDAL.

A SUMMER DAY AT AMBLESIDE.

AN AUTUMN DAY AT AMBLESIDE.

WINTER AT AMBLESIDE.

BEFORE.

AFTER.

WILFRED RAY.

TARN HAWSE.

ELLEN.

A SUMMER EVENING IN BRATHAY CHURCHYARD.

THE SPRING.

TO A CHILD.

“I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.”

“IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?”

“Is it well with the child? It is well.”

THE DREAM OF PILATE'S WIFE.

GOD'S FURNACE.

DEAD.

“My son, my son!”

LOST!

THE WATCHMAN.

AN OLD LETTER.

A CONCEIT.

THE MARRIAGE ZONE.

I.

II.

III.

LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY.

I.

II.

III.

MERLIN, THE BARD.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

FOR MUSIC.

FOR MUSIC.

LINES FOR A SILVER WEDDING.

SONNETS.

SONNET.

AUGUSTINE.

SONNET.

THE SAME.

SONNET.

A PICTURE.

SONNET.

TO MY MOCKING-BIRD.

SONNET.

THE SAME.

SONNET.

HASTINGS.

SONNET.

HASTINGS.

SONNET.

THE SAME.

HOPE.

A STORY OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.

I