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125

II. PART II.—POLITICAL.


127

CALIFORNIA.

This poem was intended as a censure of the Mammon-worship of the age. In it the false ideal is contrasted with the true. The privations and sufferings of the gold-hunters in or about 1848, as reported in the newspapers, were appalling. I have endeavoured to portray the actual scenery of the country traversed, as well as the description of others enabled me to do so. The reader will remark, in particular, the poetic purpose which the Fata Morgana is made to subserve.

So now the Golden Age is come,
The Golden Country lies before us;
We leave the plough, we quit the loom,
And merrily we chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”
Away, away! across the sea,
Through forest lone and wild savannah,
With fearless heart and footstep free,
And fed with joy's celestial manna,
We cross the lone and wild savannah.
Away, away! our hope burns bright,
The Golden Country lies before us,
Nor rest by day nor sleep by night,
But forward still, and chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”

128

We travel through a lordly land,
A land of dream, a realm of fairy;
Here shine white lakes, and near them stand
Tall trees of graceful shape and airy,
All mirrored in those lakes of fairy.

Fata Morgana. This poem was intended as a censure of the Mammon-worship of the age. In it the false ideal is contrasted with the true. The privations and sufferings of the gold-hunters in or about 1848, as reported in the newspapers, were appalling. I have endeavoured to portray the actual scenery of the country traversed, as well as the description of others enabled me to do so. The reader will remark, in particular, the poetic purpose which the Fata Morgana is made to subserve.


A marble city rises here,
A Golden Country gleams before us,
Soft lawns, delicious shades appear—
Yet linger not, but chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”
Nay! in this world of rich romance,
One minute, but one minute, linger;
See snowy domes and columns glance
Beneath the morning's rosy finger;
They fade—but yet one moment linger.
Ah no! ah no! we may not stay,
A Golden Country lies before us;
This fairy dreamwork fades away,
Like youth and love—then chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”
Yes, we have left the enchanted ground
Of dream and delicate illusion;
But see what flowers are blooming round,
And wooing us with bright profusion.
One moment pause—'tis no illusion.

129

Oh, never care for idle flowers,
The Golden Country lies before us;
Leave poetry for boys, be ours
The truth of life—and chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”
We leave the sunflower with the sun,
The torch-flower burning by the river,
The trumpet-flower to wear alone
His blue and scarlet robe for ever.
We cross the plain, we ford the river:
Ah now! ah now! the mountains rise,
The Golden Country gleams before us!
The wealthy man alone is wise,
Is king of men—then chant in chorus,
“The Golden Country lies before us.”
Ah stay! Behold those seven small lakes,
Beneath enamoured woodlands shining;
'Mid rustling leaves the breeze awakes,
The bright moss, with an emerald lining,
Clothes pine and cedar, rustling, shining.
The hills—the lakes—the flowers are gone,
The Golden Country gleams before us;
Youth's visions faded one by one,
The man is wise—and thus, in chorus,
We chant the Golden Land before us.

130

Is this your promised land? Is this
The wealth, the wisdom that you proffer?
Is this your sober, waking bliss?
Is this the sceptre that you offer?
Take hence the throne—the crown ye proffer.
Amid red rock and desert sand,
The Golden Country lies before us,
Famine and Hunger hand-in-hand,
Behind us Death, the judgment o'er us,
The Golden Country gleams before us.
We left the still pure land of dreams,
The fairy world of Art and Beauty,
Of Love and Faith, where sunny gleams
Colour and warm the waste of Duty,
And half transfigure it with beauty.
Ah! this is not the land we sought,
No Golden Country gleams before us.
Oh, give us back the lofty thought,
The vision of our youth restore us;
Here gleams no Golden Land before us.
Nay, courage! and to truth be true;
All heaven lies hidden in the Real,
As stars within the o'erhanging blue.
Yea, life yet blossoms with the Ideal,
And our romance shall be the Real.

131

Ah yes! ah yes! we see it all,
A Golden Country gleams before us;
Man, man endures, though men may fall,
Flowers bloom below, stars radiate o'er us,
There gleams a Golden Land before us.
Above the mist, above the cloud,
Above the darkness and the thunder,
While storms are roaring wild and loud,
Calm shines a world of awe and wonder,
And there is silence o'er the thunder.
Lift, lift the eyes of trust and love,
A Golden Country lies before us;
With flowers below, with stars above,
With truth, with beauty doming o'er us,
A Golden Country gleams before us.

132

CHARTISM.

“The Chartists were for the most part working men, who suffered from the distress then generally prevailing, and who looked to further reforms in the system of parliamentary representation for the means of mending their condition. Their name came from their ‘People's Charter,’ the document in which they set forth their demands—universal suffrage; vote by ballot; annual parliaments; the division of the country into equal electoral districts; the abolition of the property qualification of members, and payment of their services. After some rioting in 1839, the Chartists remained tolerably quiet until 1848, when, excited by the revolutions which took place that year in France and other parts of the Continent, they determined to make show of their strength. Mustering on the 10th April on Kennington Common, they designed to march through London to the House of Commons, carrying a petition embodying their demands, which they boasted, though not with truth, to bear more than five million signatures. This was to be presented by Fergus O'Connor, one of the members for Nottingham. Both the Government and the great body of the people met this threatening movement with firmness. The Londoners, to the number of a quarter of a million, enrolled themselves as special constables; the Chartists were not allowed to cross the bridges in procession, and the whole affair passed off quietly, without the troops, which the Duke of Wellington had posted out of sight but at hand, having any need to show themselves. From this time the Chartists ceased to be of any importance as an organised body; but three of the reforms for which they contended have since been carried out by the Acts which abolished the property qualifications, and granted well-nigh universal suffrage and vote by ballot.”—History of England, by Miss Edith Thompson.

Hope, my brothers, will not leave us,
Still her bow is o'er us bent,
And the powers that ne'er deceive us,
Bid us work and be content.
Only Truth and Right shall flourish
In the end, beloved mates;
Only Love uphold, and nourish
Human hearts for human fates.
You have woes by forge and furnace,
You have darkness, you have dread;
But you work in radiant harness,
And your heaven is bright o'erhead.
Does not night bring forth the morning?
Does not darkness father light?
Even now we have forewarning,
Brothers! of the close of night.

133

Slowly creep the brightening shadows
On each mystic mountain-slope,
Beautiful on life's broad meadows
Dawns the sunrise of our hope.
Evil shall give place to Goodness,
Wrong be dispossessed by Right;
Out of old chaotic rudeness,
Slowly grows a world of light.
Do ye toil? Oh, freer, firmer,
Ye shall grow beneath your toil;
Only craven spirits murmur,
Faithless children of the soil.
Through the gloom and through the darkness,
Through the danger and the dole,
Through the mist and through the murkness,
Travels the great human soul.
Ye have read the poet-story,
Told of One who loved our race,
How the gloom outran the glory,
And the wrath outwent the grace;
How he trod the earth in sorrow,
Yet left bliss where'er he trod;
How he died, yet on the morrow
Sprang from death to light and God.
In his love and his endurance,
In his manliness sublime,

134

Labour shone with bright assurance
Of a holier happier time.
O my brothers! love and labour
As the good Lord Christ before;
Learn to bless a needy neighbour,
Even from a scanty store.
Fades the prophet's lovely vision;
While ye talk of force for force;
Rainbow hope and dream Elysian
Fly from Death on his White Horse.
Trust me, there is strength in weakness,
There's a greatness lies in love;
The persistency of meekness
Lifts you to the heavens above.
Have you never felt the pleasure
Of forgiving hate and wrong,
Rippling through your soul like measure
Sweet of sweetest poet's song?
Have you never felt that beauty
Lies in pain for others borne,
That the sacredness of duty
Bids you offer love for scorn?
But you tell me that I mock you
With a measured mincing verse—
O my brothers, I could lock you
To my heart, while I rehearse.

135

But you tell me that your anguish
And your death-toil drive you mad,
That you see your children languish,
Your beloved ones spirit-sad.
And you say: “In homestead quiet,
Where the roses climb and creep,
Where the vine is running riot,
And the bees sing you to sleep,
You can give us counsel gravest,
You can fancy and refine,
And you think your heart the bravest,
And you call your creed divine.
“Once a husband, once a father,
I could praise, and I could pray;
That is over now—I rather
Turn, like God, from God away.
No, I do not speak in malice;
You too from your creed would swerve,
Had you seen your little Alice
And her saintly mother starve.”
Nay, my brother, not so brightly
Have life's waters flowed for me;
Sorrow daily, sorrow nightly,
Comes alike to me and thee.
Broken health, and pain, and trial,
Loss of worldly gear are mine,

136

Yet on life's eternal dial
Hope's eternal sunbeams shine.
O my brother-men heroic!
Quail not at the storm of life,
Christian be you, be you stoic,
Tread not the red fields of strife.
Slowly wisdom grows, and slowly
Grows the fair new world I sing.
Listen! in the silence holy,
Breaks the blossom of its spring.

137

TENTH OF APRIL.

“The Chartists were for the most part working men, who suffered from the distress then generally prevailing, and who looked to further reforms in the system of parliamentary representation for the means of mending their condition. Their name came from their ‘People's Charter,’ the document in which they set forth their demands—universal suffrage; vote by ballot; annual parliaments; the division of the country into equal electoral districts; the abolition of the property qualification of members, and payment of their services. After some rioting in 1839, the Chartists remained tolerably quiet until 1848, when, excited by the revolutions which took place that year in France and other parts of the Continent, they determined to make show of their strength. Mustering on the 10th April on Kennington Common, they designed to march through London to the House of Commons, carrying a petition embodying their demands, which they boasted, though not with truth, to bear more than five million signatures. This was to be presented by Fergus O'Connor, one of the members for Nottingham. Both the Government and the great body of the people met this threatening movement with firmness. The Londoners, to the number of a quarter of a million, enrolled themselves as special constables; the Chartists were not allowed to cross the bridges in procession, and the whole affair passed off quietly, without the troops, which the Duke of Wellington had posted out of sight but at hand, having any need to show themselves. From this time the Chartists ceased to be of any importance as an organised body; but three of the reforms for which they contended have since been carried out by the Acts which abolished the property qualifications, and granted well-nigh universal suffrage and vote by ballot.”—History of England, by Miss Edith Thompson.

The morning breaks, the light streams far and wide,
And London rises, like a king defied,
In heart and purpose strong;
And as bold wrestlers crowned for famous feats,
His sons are gathering; brother brother greets;
A flood of life rolls surging through the streets,
And bursts and foams along.
But lo! they march—the foe is on his way;
Our England's rebel children meet to-day,
And force must force oppose.
To loyal hearts the ancient laws are dear;
Who love them not, nor hold in sacred fear
The primal order, shaping soul and sphere,
To loyal hearts are foes.
From many a lonely alley, dank and green,
From mouldy vault, dark cell, and garret mean,
The reckless inmates haste;

138

Men whom no thought of self-respect sustains,
Who scorn the meed which genuine manhood gains,
Are hurrying through a thousand streets and lanes,
To Kennington's broad waste.
Men with low brow, thick lip, and lustful glare,
Men with a reckless and defiant air,
Men that avoid the sun;
Men to whom earth and sky make vain appeal,
Who under starry heavens no wonder feel;
Men who to no celestial brightness kneel,
And are in want of none.
Thick was this scum upon the cauldron's top,
And scant amid the tares the white corn-crop,
Yet there some hearts were found
Who felt that they could nobly do or die—
Who felt, though earth was low, that heaven was high,
And loved their brother-men beneath the sky,
And loved their native ground.
Men who had worked and worked, till life would seem
A purposeless and incoherent dream,
All pulley, wheel, and screw—
Swaying and straining, shifting to and fro,
With hiss, and clang, and bang, and stress, and blow,
With infant's screams, and woman's notes of woe,
That sharper, shriller grew.

139

Men that had worked and worked till work was none,
Men that stood workless, wageless, under sun;
Men of an honest fame—
Men that had asked for guidance—men that loved
When some wise lordly presence near them moved,
Whom England's peerage had perchance approved,
Had it but shot its game.
Men that asked work alone that they might work,
Of stalwart frame, inured to dungeon murk,
To mine, to forge, and trench;
Men who would love their little ones and wives,
And lead, in quiet homes, calm, thoughtful lives;
Men in whose heart a latent grandeur strives—
A fire that none should quench.
Men who have prayed till tears stood in their eyes,
Have watched the morning and the evening skies,
And felt the glory there;
Who, with an endless brightness round them thrown,
Have journeyed through the wilderness alone,
Have sung and smiled, but now must frown and groan
In pain and wild despair.
Alas! our English chivalry hath slept,
Our English lords have idle revel kept,
Our Church forborne to preach.

140

Where the true guides are not, will false guides come;
Too long the English people has been dumb,
But now perchance it will enforce on some
The lesson it should teach.
Nay, England's people are a slow, shrewd race,
Wise and clear-sighted, and with natural grace
Loving the old and good;
Paying due reverence to the ancient laws,
Loving the majesty that overawes,
Slow to believe in any “Sacred Cause,”
It stands where it has stood.
Nay, fraud and violence shall not prevail,
Brute force is clad in no bright coat of mail,
True strength is with the just.
Who would be rich, must work; who would be free,
Must first by wisdom earn their liberty—
Must be self-governed, must self-balanced be,
Checking all sensual lust.
It is not England that has found a voice—
It is an English mob that would rejoice
To see true freedom dead!
And thus the English people answer—“No!
An endless debt to our dear land we owe;
And, but for love of her, we would not go
Where these vain men are led.

141

“We build our house on the eternal rock,
That fears nor rolling storm nor earthquake's shock;
We stand for Law and Truth.
We love all straight, detest all crooked ways:
He only governs well who well obeys;
Brave hearts endure through long lone silent days;
Best man was humblest youth.
“We will not rise with you, misguided men,
O Shapes of Darkness, bred in Horror's den,
We will not rise with you!
Nay, since you challenge England, England's might
Shall be arrayed against you, and in fight,
Still vindicating the eternal right,
Shall try what ye can do.”
Thus said the people when the mob arose,
And thus the people did the mob oppose.
They had their gathering next,
Sound hearts and noble, gentle souls and brave,
The beautiful and strong, the wise and grave,
Are mustering with a fixed resolve to save
Their country sore perplexed.
They are all bound by one great solemn oath,
To their loved Fatherland have plighted troth,
Are silent, steady, strong.

142

Touched with a sparkle of the true old fire,
Age with firm tread, and youth with quick desire,
As to the harmony of some great lyre,
Step, stately step along.
Yet was there scum upon this cauldron's top,
Yet were there tares amid the white corn-crop;
For many a man was there
Within whose heart no fire ethereal glowed,
Who travelled on no consecrated road,
Who dreamed not of the endless debt he owed
To all that breathe the air.
But why should I thus linger in my lay?
The dreaded danger now hath past away;
Our England lives once more.
Wave, wave your banners, let your bugles sound!
O countrymen! look cheerily around;
Thank God that you are safe on English ground,
And that the storm is o'er.
And yet, O priests, O nobles! do not say
The peril has for ever past away—
The storm may blow again.
A struggle yet may come, a lofty pact
May bind the nation; for an awful fact
Lies burning under this rebellious act,
And may break out amain.

143

This wild impatience and this clamorous prayer,
And this huge Charter, carted here and there,
Have they no meaning—none?
Believe me there are gentle, loving souls,
Hearts which a nobler fear than yours controls,
Hearts struggling through life's quicksands and its shoals,
Torn, bleeding, and undone.
Were it not worth your while to save such hearts?
The sun still shines, but soon the light departs!
Oh, work while yet it gleams;
And these wild rebels, they will love you well,
For in their heart great starry feelings dwell;
They too have heard the heavenly oracle,
And dreamed their golden dreams.
I know that duty is the end of life,
I know that peace is lovely, hateful strife,
That loyalty is fair;
I know that some must rule and some obey;
I do not ask you to renounce your sway,
But to make noble efforts while you may,
To dare and yet to dare.
Your Norman fathers, in the days of old,
In their good ships, with vassals true and bold,
Would seek and find a land

144

Where they might live and work, and in broad space
Sow, reap, build, hunt, and rule a valiant race,
Make righteous laws, and rule men face to face
With kindly heart and hand.
O nobles! could ye not across the seas
One voyage go, quitting your silken ease?
Ships have you, vassals strong—
Broad fields there are beneath the western heaven,
And eastward, isles and mainlands shall be given,
To all that well have planned and bravely striven,
Like heroes of old song.
Gold harvests in those distant lands shall gleam,
Glad cities rise more lovely than in dream,
Flowers wave, and waters glance.
O noble authors! that so well deplore
That the great age of chivalry is o'er,
It rests with you, you only, to restore
The world its old romance.
O priests who mourn that reverence is dead!
Man quits a fading faith, and asks instead
A worship great and true.
I know that there was once a Church where men
Caught glimpses of the gods believed in then;
I dream that there shall be such Church again.
O dream! come true, come true!

145

O priests! O nobles! still the time is ours—
You still are thrones, are princedoms, virtues, powers;
Look round and know your work.
No battlefield awaits you—sheathe your swords;
Look round upon these toiling, starving hordes;
Not in name only, but in deed be lords,—
Night comes, blank, chill, and murk.
Oh, guide and govern England! look to facts;
The native Noble in the Present acts,
His chivalry lies here.
Make labour honourable, safe and fair,
Make commerce free and liberal as the air,
And be the knights that your forefathers were,
Without reproach or fear.
So all intolerable wrong shall fade,
No brother shall a brother's rights invade,
But all shall champion all;
Then men shall bear, with an unconquered will
And iron heart, the inevitable ill,
O'er pain, wrong, passion, death victorious still,
And calm though suns should fall.
 

“The true church should be the social organisation of humanity for purposes of moral improvement.”—R. W. Mackay.


146

PROTECTION.

The darkness and the dread and the despair
Lie thick and heavy on the human heart,
Which nurses fears, and hopes like fears, apart,
Half stifled, like caged birds for want of air;
Or if a brother act a brother's part,
The converse still is of low-thoughted care.
Children that should in the green meadows live,
And prattle to their mothers, meek and fair,
Of cowslips, daisies, birds, and merry play,
Taking ten kisses for each kiss they give,
Talk over common wants of every day,
Or ask the old question, “Is there any bread?”
While, with the murmured curse or silence dread,
Young fathers stand around with hair grief-grey.

147

THE PEOPLE'S PETITION.

Written in 1840, this poem expressed my sympathy with the ill-fed, ill-clothed, ill-sheltered industrial population of our own country before the repeal of the Corn Laws. It appeared in some newspaper, and was noticed, I think, by the London Spectator. A Conservative friend, ignorant of the authorship, attributed it to an “inspired weaver.” When in 1843 I commenced my ministrations among the poor of an agricultural parish in the West of England, seven or eight shillings a week was the usual remuneration received by a labouring man.

O lords! O rulers of the nation!
O softly clothed! O richly fed!
O men of wealth and noble station!
Give us our daily bread.
For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed;
Then lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.
Your silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we; still unclothed, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear.
Give us our daily bread.
In the red forge-light do we stand,
We early leave—late seek our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand.
Give us our daily bread.

148

We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit,
We live in misery and in dread.
Hear but our prayer, and we are mute,
Give us our daily bread.
Throughout old England's pleasant fields,
There is no spot where we may tread,
No house to us sweet shelter yields.
Give us our daily bread.
Fathers are we; we see our sons,
We see our fair young daughters, dead:
Then hear us, O ye mighty ones!
Give us our daily bread.
'Tis vain—with cold, unfeeling eye
Ye gaze on us, unclothed, unfed;
'Tis vain—ye will not hear our cry,
Nor give us daily bread.
We turn from you, our lords by birth,
To him who is our Lord above;
We all are made of the same earth,
Are children of one love.
Then Father of this world of wonders!
Judge of the living and the dead!
Lord of the lightnings and the thunders,
Give us our daily bread.

149

WHAT DO THE PEOPLE WANT?

What do the People want? you ask.
Are we, their rightful lords,
To work, while they refuse the task
That the great God awards?
Are we to give our rights to them?
Are they to rule us now?
Shall kings put off their diadem,
And nobles guide the plough?
Nay, nay, the People do not ask
To change their place with you;
They love their work, they know their task,
Have souls to dare and do.
What do the People want?—True guides,
Kind words, and equal laws.
A People's king that still abides
True to the People's cause.

150

Oh, teach us well! Oh, rule us well!
Ye beautiful and strong!
Ye that in wisdom do excel,
Save us from woe and wrong!
We hear that we have souls like you,
To give and to receive;
They say we are immortal, too,
And this we half believe.
Something we feel within us strive,
Something all wings and fire,
A life that is not yet alive,
A mother's large desire.
O nobles! teach us what we are,
And what we ought to be;
Teach what are sun and cloud and star,
And the great hungry sea.
Teach what is God—we feel him here,
Within our heaving breast;
Oh, that we were his children dear,
And you our brothers blest!
Oh, that we were your brothers all!
Oh, that we had your love!
That ye would hear us when we call,
Like the dear God above.

151

That ye would guide us to far lands,
To sow the golden maize,
Would lead us in strong, silent bands,
Towards the western rays.
That ye would tell us what ye know
About this world of ours,
And make our thoughts and feelings grow
Pleasant and mild as flowers.
We, with our children and sweet wives,
Gentle and wise and fair,
Would tune and harmonise our lives,
Tranquil as windless air.

152

MAIZE.

In 1847, at the time of the Irish famine, maize was recommended as a nutritious article of food. If I remember rightly, Mr Carlyle, in a brief letter published in some newspaper, employed his forcible rhetoric in advising its cultivation.

Evermore God speed the plough,
Ever wave the field with gold,
That, my friends, besteads us now,
Which bestead the men of old.
Greet our gallant sires, and greet
The brave children of these days;
Once the world was sowed with wheat,
Now it shall be sowed with maize,
With the yellow, mellow maize.
God be praised that love may still
Be our highest bliss in life;
Here's the way, if there's the will,
For the man to win the wife.
Stalwart shoulder, heart of steel,
Eyes that can, with eagles' gaze,
Cross the seas and find your weal,
When ye sow the world with maize,
With the yellow, mellow maize.

153

North and South, and East and West,
Isles and continents there lie,
Wooing man to be their guest,
Under broad blue roofs of sky.
Here the soft white wheat shall grow,
In the sun's more gentle rays,
But where fiercer summers glow,
Ye shall clothe the land with maize,
With the yellow, mellow maize.
Hope have we of Afric's land,
Hope for Afric's ebon race;
Clear the jungles, hand in hand,
Dare the dreadful tiger chase.
Fold on fold the serpent lies,
Hero's sword the monster slays,
And the tawny lion flies,
As ye sow his lair with maize,
With the yellow, mellow maize.

154

VOICES.

The repeal of the Corn Laws was attributed by Sir Robert Peel to Richard Cobden, the foremost of the Free Trade politicians.

I. (RICHARD COBDEN.)

Nothing know I of forms of chivalry,
And nothing heed the sarcenet rhetoric
Of lady-love, of tourney, bower and hall.
To me, a man hewn out of solid rock,
And very meet to brave the buffeting
Of the strong winds and waves of salt abuse,
Such honey-dainty thoughts are of no worth.
The worn-out poetry of antique times
I fling aside, as gladly as the rock
Throws off the flowering herb it cherished once,
In favour of a new and larger growth.
Landlords of gentle birth and noble race,
Stars, ribands, coronets, and pedigrees,
Have had their life-blood drained, and ought to die.
Who wisely treats the land shall be to me
True landlord, holding heavenly title-deeds,

155

Who makes his life a life of gentleness,
True gentleman I own: who compasses
The secret of the sun and flying cloud,
Or sends the amber-spirit with lightning feet,
Our modern Mercury, quivering round the world,
Is nobler than the noblest nobleman.
I speak as one who has been sent by Heaven
To forge on the rough anvil of the Time
A thought and turn it into golden fact,
So making thought a thing. For 'tis my faith
That he whose presence glorified the world,
Gave us the law of Progress as of Love.
I therefore take my stand on either law,
And, in the name of Progress and of Love,
Would claim the emancipation of all trade.
The winds, the waves, the sunbeams, and the soils,
Should all be free to minister to all.
Nations, like stars, harmoniously disposed,
Should balance one another, seeking still
Their centre through the eternal law of Love.
Only by commerce, free as the great space,
Can all the nations be bound up in one,
Each giving what the others need. I see
The fairest issues in enfranchised trade,
War dispossessed of the wise heart of man,
Virtue above all virtue practised now,
Law likest Nature's ancient ordinance,
Art over and beyond all art now known.
Labour shall then be privilege and joy,
Worship shall utter free and festive speech,

156

While, like a slave released, the earth shall yield
The grateful nations lavish interchange
Of all the fruits that love the sun and breeze,
In glorious Orient lands or Western climes
Of mellower radiance. In those happy days,
Men shall live starry lives, yet not forsake
Material fact, on which all life is built;
And from the ancient hills of the universe,
As from earth's lowlier heights, when day goes down
In the grey evening of the world, shall fall
Beautiful shadows on the souls of men,
To prophecy of the large light that shines
Freely where all free souls are free to Go

II. (SARTOR RESARTUS.)

I do not know that there was ever yet
Such year as this eventful one of ours;
In all time past I cannot find its like,
And with uplifted hand athwart mine eyes,
And brow contracted, gazing steadfastly
Through vistaed centuries, I can see no year
Co-featured or conformable therewith.
For first we have undeified all life,
Have banished God from his own universe,
Have, in old dialect, forgotten God.
And secondly, we have made gods for us

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Of them that are no gods—a twofold ill,
Bringing a twofold curse—Idolatry
And Irreligion, with despair and death.
Look round, and ask the Heaven and ask the Earth
If ever they beheld the like before?
There is no earnestness in any man,
No simple bearing and no true discourse
In social life; no prayer, no prophet's speech,
No fellowship, no friendship, and no love;
No faith in Nature's strong regalities,
No graceful deeds and no fair sanctitudes.
For chivalry we have silk-soldiership,
For kingliness we have mock-royalty,
For Church we have a palsied Christendom,
For people a loud-braying populace.
My brothers! this is fearful verity.
We must awake from sleep and see the light,
Must quit this trembling supersoil of lies,
To stand upon the mother-earth of fact.
For this huge body we must get a soul,
A true informing soul, a heavenly soul;
Workers and craftsmen must we be of God,
Must out of this dull earth—this common dust—
Create a paradise, and mould a man
Who shall become a living soul. Good stint
Of labour is there for the brave to do:—
To build and consecrate a life to God,
Reared like a temple on the holy ground
And on the everlasting hills of truth,
Wherein there shall be offered sacrifice

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Of Godlike deeds, and thoughts like thoughts of Christ,
Wherein there shall be justice had for love,
Be chieftaincy of coroneted hearts,
And sceptred souls, the royal blood of Heaven,
Writing their names and titles in their deeds,
Divine puissances, heroic shapes,
True representatives of the Most High,
With sunward front and bold articulate speech,
Under whose guidance shall the sons of men
Go forth to war with violence and fraud,
And conquer them by love and gentleness.
Meanwhile till they shall come whom we predict,
With patient heart, calm will, and active brain,
Will I in silence and in solitude
Kneel in the catholic church of earth and heaven,
And think of Time and of Eternity,
And Him whose home it is, and love mankind,
And love each gentle heart, and love the stars,
And the huge ocean shouting to the moon.

III. (WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.)

A lover of the hills and lakes am I,
And of the Spirit that made them and me;
And therefore do I love my brother-man,
Striving with oracles from Rydal Mount,
And prophecies from grave Winandermere,

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To lead him so to link his days and years,
That life continuous and integral
Might flow, as John, in the Apocalypse,
Beheld the river flow from God's white throne.
Reverence, Humility, Religion, Love,
And Kingliness ecclesiastical,
With natural sanctities of time and place,
I preach and I uphold. Alone I stand,
Survivor soul of my companions dear,
On Life's high mountain-top, whence I behold
Suns yet unrisen, manifest in clouds
Of purple light and light incarnadine,
Light golden, and blood-radiant, sprinkling space.
As Moses on the hill of Pisgah saw
Broad lands, though disinherited of them;
So, underneath the morning red, I see
The splendours that shall come, and die content.

160

SIR ROBERT PEEL.

Lord John Russell, to whose courageous and honourable services England is indebted for extended liberties, when in 1849 remedial measures were demanded for Ireland, replied with a cry of regret for helplessness. Sir Robert Peel's statement of a strong and decisive policy, which was afterwards wholly or in part adopted, awakened feelings of admiration, to which I gave expression in this sonnet printed in the Spectator.

I.

Now is our England like a ship at sea,
That reels and plunges in careering waves,
While, clothed with darkness, the strong tempest raves,
And sharp and threatening rocks are on the lea.
What profit can a phantom-pilot be,
A soul that hath no compass, sees no star?
O thou with the true word oracular!
Stand forth and let us know a man in thee.
Yes! come with world-wide guidance, take the helm;
There lies the port that we would gladly hold,—
Fair-havened, ere the trampling waves o'erwhelm!
O speaker of one thought more rare than gold!
O traveller in Reality's stern realm!
Thou seest our star; steer onward, wise and bold.

161

II.

Yet true it is that even thou art one
That hitherto hast steered no forthright course,
Shown no prophetic soul, no central force,
Nor stood expectant of the rising sun,
Catching the light ere day had well begun.
And if clear sight be thine, with will to act,
Or wit to build on the strong rock of Fact,
All thou wouldst do were better, earlier done.
Yet now call forth thy manhood, now arise,
And steer our England through the insurgent sea;
Now watch the coming dawn with straining eyes,
And in the Present show us the To be.
So when the daylight overflows the skies,
We shall behold our chief of men in thee.

III.

The hope, the promise now defeated are;
The rainbow leaves the cloud, and in the skies,
Where once we fixed our wistful wondering eyes,
We see not, morn or eve, our leading star;
And he that o'er the surge and swamping bar
Should be our pilot, when the winds are loud,
And the black sea is sucked into the cloud,
Leaves us, and all that promise fades afar.
Yet mourn not, for he wears a statesman's crown,

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Whose diamond radiance strikes to years unborn;
And spite of pale-green Envy and dark frown
Of Faction or the bigot's ignorant scorn,
In pastoral village, or in red-bricked town,
His name shall wake the echoes night and morn.

163

KOSSUTH AND THE HUNGARIANS.

“The Hungarians stood up for their ancient constitutions with certain reforms. Afterwards they set up a republic under the famous Kossuth. But unluckily feuds had arisen between the Magyars and other races in Hungary, and this greatly helped the reconquest of the country by Austria, which, however, was not done without the help of Russia.” —Freeman's General Sketch.

Kossuth and the brave men of Hungary!
Champions ye are of freedom and of truth;
Like children of the world in her fresh youth,
Stand forth, stand forth, for all the earth to see!
A very ancient and a noble cause
Invites you, calls you, clothes you with new might.
Oh, doubly weaponed are you with the right,
Supported by the old majestic laws.
Now for all noble growth of mind and heart
The nations look to you; be strong and free,
And, with a fame that never shall depart,
Stand forth, stand forth, for all the world to see,
O champions both of temple and of mart,
Kossuth and the brave men of Hungary!

164

CONSOLATION.

Well have ye fought, and nobly have ye done,
And what if ye are vanquished—what if Wrong
Have been victorious? Truth is not less strong,
And her great battle is but now begun.
The father fails, success awaits the son;
Strength dwells unseen in all the true and brave,
Great memories sanctify the hero's grave,
And where Right is, the victory must be won.
Henceforth the people's cause is not with kings;
Henceforth there is no trust in sceptred men,
But in the popular heart that dares all things,
In crownless Genius with his clear full ken.
Hope, like the lark in clouds, sweet music sings,
And Force and Fraud crouch, wolf-like, in their den.

165

MAZZINI.

“By his intense and burning faith in the destinies of his country, he contributed more perhaps than any other to the realisation of the dream of unity and independence; and though he was willing to sacrifice substantial results for an ideal perfection, his designs were honestly constructive, and he was ever firmly opposed to all projects of spoliation and social disorder.”—Saturday Review, February 13, 1875.

Mazzini! like to some majestic tower,
On which the everlasting stars do sit,
While the unconquered heaven bends over it,
And ocean shouts below with giant power,
Thou standest, while the people gather fast,
Thrilled by thy words, that strengthen and inspire,
And burning like a forest all on fire,
That flares and shakes beneath the thundering blast.
Silent and strong thou standest evermore,
Worthy of honour in all time to come,
Whether thou teach a wise and noble lore,
To wandering children in an exile's home,
Or clothe with fear and splendour, as of yore,
The City of the World, the people's Rome.

166

A REVERBERATION FROM THE RIVIERA.

The good tidings of the Agricultural Labour movement reached me while wintering on the Riviera in 1871-72. That movement appeared to me to be characterised by intelligence and moderation. Though cordially sympathising with all measures that have for their object the elevation of the labouring classes, I cannot but deplore that rash and fiery words have sometimes been uttered by their advocates, or forget that the conduct of the men living on the wages of labour, in town or country, is not always prudent or unselfish. Professor Fawcett calls attention to the slight increase which has occurred in the rate of wages in Great Britain contem-poraneously to the large additions recently made to our national wealth; and it is difficult to resist the conviction that, without confiscating the property of the rich, organic reforms might be devised which should have for their result an equitable distribution of the social advantages which the improvements of civilisation accumulate in the nation. Professor Cairnes, though at one with the Socialists on the point of raising the working man from the position of a mere labourer, finds himself wholly unable to accept the means which Socialism proposes for effecting the required elevation, and is of opinion that Co-operation constitutes the one and only solution of our present problem. Mr Fawcett entertains a similar opinion, as did also the late Mr Mill. The contribution towards a common fund to be employed as capital, which is the essence of this system, Professor Cairnes declares must be derived from the savings of the working men themselves, and that they have a margin of increase he considers proved by the Excise returns. As to the British Plutocracy, I agree with Mr Goldwin Smith that it is not deserving of any particular respect. With him, too, I believe that, among the better part of the race, property is being gradually modified by duty; and with him I venture to surmise that before Humanity reaches its distant goal, property and duty will be merged in affection.

A far-off voice from England comes,
O'er lands late red with strife,
While round me gathering glows and hums
This bright Italian life.
The voice of thousand sons of toil
From Western glade and glen,
Or where the climbing hop-wreaths coil,
Near homes of Eastern men.
Across the woodlands, o'er the fields,
Among the apple-bowers,
Or where the bean her perfume yields,
Or where the wheat-ear flowers.
From Shakespeare's regal country comes
The innumerous voice to me,
No hateful sound of battle-drums,
To shake my olive-tree:

167

The olive-tree, with grey-green bloom,
Where now I sit and write,
While freshening waters flash and boom
Beneath this vine-clad height.
No warlike sound of drum or fife
Disturbs my dreaming ear,
Or mars this sweet Italian life
With notes of hate and fear.
But as the sighs of orange-flower
On odorous winds are borne,
And as I hear at noon's bright hour
The approaching railway-horn:
And tread as when, in olden days,
In visions of my own,
I trod in more majestic ways
Than yet our star has known:
I hear that voice, which still to me
Recalls a dream of mine,
That whispers men shall brothers be,
And man grow half divine.
From that great Isle where Milton sang,
The notes that greet me rise,
Heard through the echoing battle-clang
Of French and German skies,

168

In this fair land, where one late dead
Still seems in death to speak,
To beckon from each mountain head,
To call from every peak:
The immortal exile, that once made
Our English land his home,
The patriot whose majestic shade
Haunts the Eternal Rome:
The new Prometheus, whose strange fire,
In swift electric strife,
Flashed through the land of his desire,
And called the dead to life:
And roused the Mother of Mankind
From her long-centuried sleep,
Gave glorious vision to the blind,
And smiles to men that weep.
Ay! to the dead Mazzini's land,
And by the wandering wave,
That, now by pitying breezes fanned,
Was once sweet Shelley's grave.
A voice from my own English clime,
A dream that some will praise,
Blends with these memories sublime
Of dear departed days.

169

For not the sound of fleeting breath
In that glad pastoral cheer
Which wakens field, and holt, and heath,
Is all the sound I hear.
I hear a low harmonious voice,
As of the choiring spheres,
And in the prophet-tones rejoice
Which tell of statelier years;
When starry Freedom round her waist
Shall clasp the golden chain
Of Order, that, but half embraced,
Will loosen it again;
When Christ-like Wealth shall follow Christ,
And Man to men shall be
Like that Great Presence which sufficed
By blue Tiberias-Sea.
Such voice I hear, or seem to hear,
Remote from fields of strife,
While round me murmurs, far and near,
This bright Italian life.

170

THE NEW APOCALYPSE.

This ode was commenced in 1840. In one of the stanzas I ventured to predict the influence which the genius of Carlyle, Mill, Grote, and Comte would exercise on this generation— a prediction which has been amply verified. In revising the ode, I have, however, omitted the names of these distinguished men. The political forecasts whcih I then made have also had a general justification in corresponding events. In one division of the ode I have described the frightful sufferings of the people in Poland before 1848. The hangings, banishments, and other penalties inflicted on the patriots of 1863 will be in the remembrance of many of us. In the strophe which originally celebrated the great names already mentioned, are two allusions which require explanation. By “the dædal dance of power,” I mean the natural process known as the correlation or convertibility of the forces; and by the “mystic child of change and conflict,” the more perfect human being of the future, suggested by the hypothesis of Mr Darwin, or the evolution theory of Mr Spencer. In the railway strophe, the “blind fair chasms,” &c., is a mental reproduction of the magnificent local characteristics of the Sömmering Pass; and the “violet seas,” of the beautiful bays on the Riviera. The welcome given, in another strophe of the ode, to Egyptian civilisation, under Mehemet Ali's rule, has been fairly justified, though a late residence in Cairo has made me conscious to how remote a period I must postpone the fulfilment of my political ideal. “The vision known of yore,” is the religious ideal, or its philosophic equivalent.

(A VISION OF THE WORLD.)

“Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.”
Tennyson.

In the dead silence of the solemn night,
When men are wandering in the paths of sleep,
A vision past before me, like the light
From that white throne where myriad seraphs keep
Eternal watch with wings athwart their face;
And robed with splendour, lo! a Spirit came,
Until his shadow lightened on the place
Where I was standing, and I felt the same,
And feeling it, I shivered with delight,
For then my soul grew pure, and clear my sight,
And piercing as the day.
I looked—I saw a Shape of light supreme,
Despotic as the thought of God in dream,
Yet calm and stable as the old heavens seem,
And beautiful as they.
The Spirit nearer came: a still, small voice,

171

That grew out of the silence, said, “Rejoice!
For unto thee is given
The face of the veiled future to behold,
To draw aside the curtain, fold by fold,
Rolled o'er her shrine as broidered clouds are rolled
Over pavilioned heaven:
But first thou must behold the evils done,
First learn the oppressions wrought beneath the sun.”
Then like a wind-borne flame I rose in air,
And thence o'erlooked the thousand realms of earth,
And since that hour unutterably fair
Are the pale dreams that in my soul have birth.
All that I saw on that oracular night,
I would unbosom now, in words that gleam like light.
High on a crystal pinnacle I stood:
“What seest thou, Child of Earth?” the Spirit cried.
I looked around me in prophetic mood,
And to the Spirit's question thus replied:
“I see a mist whose vaporous surge rolls past
The mural mountains of this catholic frame;
Before the breath of the gigantic blast,
And in fierce outline, underneath the same,
I see a world of restlessness and woe,
A multitude that hurry to and fro,
In utter disarray.
Kings, nobles, priests, and soldiers mingle there,
And trembling babes, and women pale and fair,
And Youth with mournful and indignant air,
And Age forlorn and grey.”

172

“What hearest thou, Child of Earth?” the angel said.
“I hear a murmur low, but dense and dread,
Presageful of a storm;
I see the nations gathering from afar,
I see their banner gleaming like a star,
I see the kings of earth go forth to war,
I see their squadrons form.
Amid the prostrate multitude they ride,
Trampling and rending with portentous pride.
The earth, the common mother of them all,
Is crimson with the blood her children shed.
Their corses lie unburied where they fall,
Nor tears nor honour are there for the dead.
But, lo! the conquerors thank a gracious Heaven
For what they call a peace, a victory Christ hath given.
“I see men with a Book in their right hand,
Misquoting words of wisdom and of truth,
Averring still that, at their God's command,
Old Age and Manhood, Infancy and Youth,
In serfship, woe, and want, must till the land,
With sweat like Christ's dear blood-drops on their brow,
While they, a privileged and peculiar band,
Alone shall reap the harvest others sow.
I see young maidens, free-born but not free,
Lashed by the soldiers through the crowded street,
Because they sang, ‘Our country yet shall be
Among the nations known;’ their soft, white feet
Are purpled with their blood, and yet they weep not,

173

Though tears are hid in every lidded eye;
But, pale as violets when the frost-winds sleep not,
Still murmuring low sweet songs, they lay them down and die.
“I see the pure in heart, the great in soul,
Shot in their fathers' sight. I see a train
Of kingly murderers, that defy control,
Shedding young patriots' blood as clouds shed rain.
I see grave matrons, at the hollow knoll
Of death-bells, blindfold led, because they asked
Food for their sons, to whom a scantier dole
Is now dealt forth, till by strong grief o'ertasked,
Quenching the light of their aspiring spirit,
With smiling patience and a half-closed eye,
They live no more, yet sweetest life inherit
In hearts wherein their hearts can never die.
But lo! the longed-for hour!—the awakening nations
Kings and their armies fearlessly confront,
And, with serene and earnest expectations,
Await the deadly charge, the battle's stormy brunt.
“The stillness deepens round me. Such of old
Felt He to whom the Vision dread was given,
When far away the waves of sound had rolled,
And only God and silence dwelt in heaven.
I shudder, but the Vision shall be told.
I see the serried squadrons rush afar,
The falchion gleams, banner and flag unfold,—
It is the harvest-home of death and war,

174

It is the vintage of the wrath of God,—
And reeling in the wine-press of his ire,
I see the oppressor and the anarch trod.
Beneath white exhalations seamed with fire,
That rise from earth to heaven and blind the day,
Roll hurried voices murmuring, ‘Slay, slay, slay!’
Ha! the keen scent of human blood laughs up,
The innocent earth is splashed with that red rain;
Man drains the dregs of misery's poisoned cup,
And wins the victory but through deadliest pain.
The brave are reaped like sheaves in summer season,
And yet they yield not. The unconquered heirs
Of fathers that once bled for truth and reason
Have cast the oppressors down, the victory is theirs.
“Now brings sweet Peace her glories from afar,
And Song and Thought are throned on Fact and Strife;
Mind crowds on mind, rising like star on star,
And fills with splendour the deep heaven of life.
Bright Science, in her magic bower,
Watches the dædal dance of Power,

This ode was commenced in 1840. In one of the stanzas I ventured to predict the influence which the genius of Carlyle, Mill, Grote, and Comte would exercise on this generation— a prediction which has been amply verified. In revising the ode, I have, however, omitted the names of these distinguished men. The political forecasts which I then made have also had a general justification in corresponding events. In one division of the ode I have described the frightful sufferings of the people in Poland before 1848. The hangings, banishments, and other penalties inflicted on the patriots of 1863 will be in the remembrance of many of us. In the strophe which originally celebrated the great names already mentioned, are two allusions which require explanation. By “the dædal dance of power,” I mean the natural process known as the correlation or convertibility of the forces; and by the “mystic child of change and conflict,” the more perfect human being of the future, suggested by the hypothesis of Mr Darwin, or the evolution theory of Mr Spencer. In the railway strophe, the “blind fair chasms,” &c., is a mental reproduction of the magnificent local characteristics of the Sömmering Pass; and the “violet seas,” of the beautiful bays on the Riviera. The welcome given, in another strophe of the ode, to Egyptian civilisation, under Mehemet Ali's rule, has been fairly justified, though a late residence in Cairo has made me conscious to how remote a period I must postpone the fulfilment of my political ideal. “The vision known of yore,” is the religious ideal, or its philosophic equivalent.


Or greets the far-off mystic Child
Of wizard change and conflict wild,
Or dreams how man in this fair orb shall dwell,
Till, soaring as on golden wings
Love soared from Death, a young world springs
From our old world's chaotic night,
A glorious athlete, clothed with might,

175

Fair child of a dark mother born,
A joyful, young, and festive morn,
Panoplied, adult, defiant,
Self-sufficing, self-reliant,
A champion that no might avails to quell,
A spirit that shall live for aye,
A god that cannot pass away;
It rolls, it rolls, a boundless river,
That rolling once shall roll for ever;
Its mighty waters heave, dilate, and swell,
And, charioteered as in an ocean car,
The Genius of the age, with low sweet spell,
Charms the smooth waves that waft him fast and far.
“Labour is free, is free! the lords of labour,
The princes and the peers of Godlike toil,
Mould into spade and share both shield and sabre,
And, from the bosom of the gracious soil,
Raise the mild olive and the bridal vine,
Raise foodful corn, and raise voluptuous fruit.
The slave no longer wails in dungeoned mine
O'er years of darkness; the gnome's spell is mute;
Commodity for fair commodity
With liberal hand is given; hearts half divine
The needs of hearts made kindred; land and sea
Are glorified with commerce grown divine;
Culture hath so transfigured every soil,
That flowers and fruits, long fables, now adorn
The rudest shores, made mild by patient toil,
Where, in full ripeness, rustle golden waves of corn.

176

The peasant-kings of a regenerate world
Have deified all labour; graceful drops
Of beaded heat are on each brow impearled,
Dried by the breeze, that, with melodious stops,
Falling from heaven upon the honeyed leaves,
With delicate fingering plays itself to rest,
Still giving more delight than it receives,
Strengthening with health and hope the diligent man,
Whom of her sons dear Nature loves the best,
And consecrates the winds to favour and to fan.
“Joy! time and space are now no more, no more!
True love and tender friendship hourly meet!
Lo! the steam-chariots of the land explore
Arcadian railway and mosaic street,
With no demoniac scream of dread,
But by exultant music led,
Driven by the mighty breath of fire,
As clouds are by the whirlwind's ire,
The magic chariots pant and fly,
While rock and tree rush hurrying by;
Or lingering glide through some embowered retreat
In ancient forest, where the hymn
Of cradled child, in twilight dim,
The silence charms; by fairy leas
That slumber near soft violet seas;

This ode was commenced in 1840. In one of the stanzas I ventured to predict the influence which the genius of Carlyle, Mill, Grote, and Comte would exercise on this generation— a prediction which has been amply verified. In revising the ode, I have, however, omitted the names of these distinguished men. The political forecasts whcih I then made have also had a general justification in corresponding events. In one division of the ode I have described the frightful sufferings of the people in Poland before 1848. The hangings, banishments, and other penalties inflicted on the patriots of 1863 will be in the remembrance of many of us. In the strophe which originally celebrated the great names already mentioned, are two allusions which require explanation. By “the dædal dance of power,” I mean the natural process known as the correlation or convertibility of the forces; and by the “mystic child of change and conflict,” the more perfect human being of the future, suggested by the hypothesis of Mr Darwin, or the evolution theory of Mr Spencer. In the railway strophe, the “blind fair chasms,” &c., is a mental reproduction of the magnificent local characteristics of the Sömmering Pass; and the “violet seas,” of the beautiful bays on the Riviera. The welcome given, in another strophe of the ode, to Egyptian civilisation, under Mehemet Ali's rule, has been fairly justified, though a late residence in Cairo has made me conscious to how remote a period I must postpone the fulfilment of my political ideal. “The vision known of yore,” is the religious ideal, or its philosophic equivalent.


Or wind round blind fair chasms, while ever fleet
Dim shadowy mountains past—a giant crowd;
Or in some marble city's flowery street
Stand breathless, flying shapes of fire and cloud!

177

Joy! are not time and space annihilated?
Have not America and England met?
Have not the ocean-chariots created
A path o'er seas which envious Fate once set
For boundary, so to make companionless
Our human world?—In vain! for like a dream
Embodied on the liquid wilderness,
Flies to her unseen home the Thing of steam.
The waves lift up their voice, they clap their hands,
And peaceful Ocean, with a glad caress,
Links to a thousand shores a thousand lands,
In thousand lands a thousand toils to bless.
For noblest embassies of noblest thought,
Of love and hope, worship and sacrifice,
Were these bold travellers of the ocean wrought,
Still consecrating earth to fair humanities.
All men are kings and priests by right divine,
All souls are by the great Soul reinspired,
And lovely deeds and noble actions shine
Beneath the robes with which they are attired,
As heaven with stars, as earth is clothed with flowers,
As man shall be with natural draperies.
Great worship sets to music all the hours,
Fair arts have recreated mortal life.
The man is now returned to Paradise,
And reverential love receives the queenly wife.
In English lanes young children play,
Pure as the light and glad as day,

178

With quiet mien, with graceful dress,
In exquisite unconsciousness.
A poetry not found in books
Plays, a bright shadow, on their looks;
A genuine gospel there is read,
For natural thoughts their souls have fed.
Above them are the opening skies,
Around them the true Eden lies.
Kind Nature, with a wise control,
Tempers the body and the soul;
With lordly mien and motion meek,
She bids the child glide, laugh, and speak;
With impulse fine and feeling rare,
With lovely action, simple prayer,
With tears, smiles, kisses, hopes, desires,
She trains, she teaches, she inspires.
From hedgerows green, from vernal bowers,
Gay children strip the laughing flowers;
Large-lapped, full-handed, eager-eyed,
They run and dance, they laugh and glide,
And to their graver playmates bear
These nurslings bright of earth and air.
“The vision changes, and I stand
Where proudly our dear Mother-land
Sees her fair cities gladlier rise
Than Thebes arose to melodies
Of rare Amphion and the sound
Of Dorian harp on holy ground.

179

From palace, temple, tower, and hall,
Young Morning lifts Night's thin grey pall:
Here pillared homes are glad with flowers,
There grass is green with singing showers;
And 'mid the chequered bloom and light
Of leaves and blossoms, making bright
The soul of sunshine, over all
Breaks, in fine spray, a silver fall
Of rainbow drops, or wayward flow
Of laughing waters plays below.
A voice that floats upon the breeze,
Or whispers to the whispering trees
That fringe our city, to my ear
Comes for delight, and not for fear,
And through a happy opening cloven
In trees where sun and shade are woven,
Trees through which longing eyes can gaze
Into great depths of purple haze,
I see a stately maiden lead
An old man forth; she bears a reed
With stops melodious, and the Book
Whereat men wonder as they look.
Then to her grandsire in the sun
She chants the starry lore of One,
That, human most, was most divine,
The Martyred Man of Palestine,—
The Shape that wandered, veiled in light,
In the dark shadow of the night,
The prophet that in music told
Of love and power by love controlled,

180

He that in dewy cornfields strayed,
Or with the rose and lily played,
Or from the mountain peak sublime
Spake golden oracles to time,
That echo down the ruined years,—
The great Lord Christ, the Seer of Seers.
“But not alone our nobler England wears
The royal robes of truth and godlike grace,
As heaven wears light for vesture, as the spheres
Apparel evening skies, like smiles on Christ's own face!
But Cambria her glad youth renews,
A maiden gathering the May dews
Of ancient thought and music wild,
Proud of her birth, Time's elder child.
Stern Caledonia is arrayed
In truth, the heavenly Highland plaid;
Prophetic speech and utterance large
She takes for broadsword and for targe.
And thou whose wrongs all lately were redrest,
The helot Lady of the Northern Seas,
Bowing a thousand years thy lightning crest,
Yet with thy flag in battle and in breeze
Still streaming through the stormy sky,
A golden sunburst hurled from high,
Not armed with right, yet suffering wrong,
And weak contending with the strong,
Through death's cold floods and red high ways,
With tears and smiles with blame and praise,

181

Cheering thy chiefs, baptized in blood,
A dreadful heroine hast thou stood!
Thou, too, Ierne, for the vest of steel,
Clothed in the quiet garb true heroes love,
Favourest an Union that shall have repeal,
When Time revokes the laws which bind the heavens above.
“Nor these alone, but many a commonwealth,
And many a kingdom, is with splendour clad;
Long fevered states awake in Godlike health,
In strength of nerve and sinew greatly glad.
O'er the Atlantic waves rejoiced I see
The people, born of earth's best blood,
Worship the lovely and the good,
And vaunt no more, but cheaply hold
Their gods of silver and of gold,
And organise a sacred chivalrie.
“And where in dreams the blue mid-ocean sleeps,
I see Osirian Egypt stand,
Sun ward I see her lift her hand.
The Nile his ancient honour knows,
The Eternal Sphinx in dread repose
O'er fairy cities wondering vigil keeps.
The rebel Ali well hath done,
The conquered yet the conquering one;
He that slain Peace to life restored,
And reared her, nursling of his sword.
But lo! maternal Asia breaks
Her trancèd sleep, and, as she wakes,

182

She calls the Children of the Sun
From their long slumber, one by one,
Till Persia in the holy light
Of science basks, and Syria's height
Catches the splendour, and once more
Shrines the great Vision known of yore.
Cradled in dreams of ancient power,
See mystic India on the hour
Of happy Western influence smile,
Majestic daughter of the Isle
Enchanted, whose light sceptre still
Sways the high fates of good and ill.
More wondrous yet the changeless clime,
Grey daughter of ancestral Time,
Cathay, hath learned a nobler lore;
She loves who never loved before;
Taught by War's crimson scourge that none
Can leave the just and right undone;
The ancient laws, that had their birth
Ere man was crowned the king of earth,
That suns and spheres and heavens uphold,
Whose years fail not, that wax not old,
The children of the Eternal Prime,
Severe in beauty, strong, sublime,
Beloved in peace and feared in strife,
Will have man's homage or his life.
“The Song prophetic travels back again,
And home returning from her heaven of old,

183

Like the great sun above the Western main,
She hovers ere she set, ere eye and lip grow cold.
Austria, the anarch old, is wise;
Russia hath fine humilities;
A tender wisdom hallows France;
Spain makes the common life romance;
Greece lifts her front with eyes serene;
Italia walks a mailèd queen;
And Germany, with crest unbowed
Steps sunward through the mist and cloud.
“But lo! her race of fire my Song hath run,
She sets, she sets in the deep sea of thought;
My seraph guide withdraws, fast fades my sun,
And fade the fairy hues my heaven had caught.
But as the splendour fades afar,
Slow rises under moon and star
A murmured chant, a song sublime,
The gathered music of all time;
And as that mighty music falls
O'er airy heights and shadowy walls,
A brighter heaven gives back the sound;
The Earth is all one holy ground,
And sweeter women, nobler men,
Begin the world's great course again.
And Man of many a man, one Man supreme,
Stands crowned the King of life, the Power of powers,
Lord of all thought, art, action, passion, dream,
Child of the eternal past, and heir of unborn hours.”
 

The particular external circumstances of the actions.

England—the Faery Land of Spenser.

“Man, oh, not men! a chain of linked thought.”—Shelley.


184

A PROPHECY.

“It is with reason that the modern mind sees its golden age in the distant future, as the ancient mind saw it in the forgotten past. But however bright and glorious may be the destination of mankind, its onward progress is marked by irksome toil and bitter sorrow.”—Fiske's Cosmic Theism.

Waken, nations praised in story;
Waken to a holier glory;
Rise from out your charmèd slumber,
Spurn grey Custom's lawless ban;
Gather like the stars in number,
Race with race, and man with man.
One through love; by law of love,
Stars that cross the sky's blue border
Balance, as they glide above,
Orb with orb, in endless order.
Brave be man, robust and whole,
One his aim, his vision single;
Heart with heart, and soul with soul,
Mingle as the waters mingle.
Darkness wanes! behold the light!
Waken, brothers, and unite!
Lords of Science! ye who read
Rightly the eternal creed,

185

Writ in sky and sea and land,
By the fair wise Nature's hand,
Chant from stone and starry pages
The old lore that moulds the ages.
Poets! who have bravely striven
To o'ershadow earth with heaven,
Faint not in your noble duty,
Feed the heart of earth with beauty,
And with old religious light
Bid her dreamy face grow bright.
Statesmen! who have called on power
To give man one happy hour,
Heaven is opened; look on high;
Peace, the rainbow, spans the sky.
All pure hearts! your task renew,
For the world hath need of you.
Simple minds that every day
Watch and wait, and think and pray!
Ye are children of one mother,
Save and succour one another;
Sow, and ye shall harvest good;
Stand, ye cannot be withstood.
Darkness wanes! behold the light!
Waken, brothers, and unite!
Waken, O my poets, waken!
Let your trumpet-notes be heard;
Let humanity be shaken
At each pale prophetic word,
As a city rocks and swings,

186

When the giant earthquake springs.
Waken ye whom love hath taught
Wisest lessons to impart,
Sovereigns of melodious thought,
Lords whose empire is the heart.
Waken ye who suffer wrong;
Ye who lighten woe be strong;
Charity and truth are grown
Mightier far than sword or throne.
Patience, brothers, and endurance,
These shall give your souls assurance;
There is courage in your meekness,
Strength itself is born of weakness;
And if hope should fade and leave you,
Even despair new hope would give you.
Throned in dim ideal halls,
Dwells the Soul of souls unseen,
And her radiant shadow falls
Aweful, lovely, and serene,
Over men, when, calm and clear,
Flows the Spirit's atmosphere,
And a courage true and tender,
Breathed out of that cloudy splendour,
Bids the children of the sky
Nobly live or bravely die. . .

187

Waken, souls of poets dead!
Fraud and hate are vanquishèd;
Wail not for the golden years,
Shed no longer crimson tears.
Waken, and behold the dawn!
See the Eternal Morning rise,
And beneath the opening skies,
Waving forest, gleaming lawn
Of returning Paradise.
 

Humanity, a concrete object, at once ideal and real. “It ascends into the unknown recesses of the past, embraces the manifold present, and descends into the indefinite and unforeseeable future.” —J. S. Mill.