University of Virginia Library

OUR BAS.

A FRAGMENT.

ROSES AND ROSEMARY.

TWO RED ROSES ON A TREE.

Two red roses on a tree:
Wind along, cold river!
One for him, and one for me:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Not a word of love we said:
Wind along, cold river!
Roses told the truth instead:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Other roses bud and blow:
Wind along, cold river!
Other summers come and go:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Summer days to me are dim:
Wind along, cold river!
Never comes a word from him:
Shiver, willow, shiver!
Roses tell the truth instead:
Wind along, cold river!
Others bloom, but mine is dead:
Shiver, willow, shiver!

A DIRGE.

SUMMER GIFTS.

NANCY.

APART.

THE DEADLY ARBOUR.

OVER!

TIRLYWIRLY.

RED AND WHITE ROSES.

THE EARLY SUMMER WEATHER.

THE CHERRY-TREE.

MAY MARJORY.

FRAIL FLOWERS.

SIR FAITHFUL.

THE HARD RIDER.

“CON ESPRESSIONE.”

BLACKBIRD.

FRAGMENTS.

I.

[Up sprang the merry grasshoppers]

II.

[Alone along the garden walk]

III.

[The rains came down so heavily]

IV.

[The summer sward is somewhat hard]

The summer sward is somewhat hard
Methinks as here I lie;
Yet here I stay, because I love
To look into the sky,
To place behind me for a while
The world and all its ill,
And gaze into the space of space,
How pure, and O, how still!

V.

[You'll say, perhaps, that a cup of hot tea]

You'll say, perhaps, that a cup of hot tea
Taken, sans souci,
In a cheerful, curtained room,
With chattering friends around,
Is pleasanter far
Than blackberries are,
Devoured in the gloom
Of a hermit's cell,
Without any carpet, but only the ground.
Ah, well!
You mayn't like his lodging and diet,
But think of his quiet!

VI.

[In broidered cloak he passes to and fro]

In broidered cloak he passes to and fro:
He hears the people say,
“'Tis well to go so gay:
This bravery above doth only show
How festal-rich the doublet is below!”
Upon a stormy day
The cloak is blown away,
And there he stands in threadbare weeds of woe!

VII.

[Lose not the hopeful moments, thou whose eye]

OUTCRY.

Away with loving! Let it all go by;
For losing is too grievous,
And our beloved successively
Turn cold and leave us!
What matter whence the cold may come
Which makes them deaf to us, and blind, and dumb—
Whether from dark thoughts clouding old regard,
Or from their lodging out in the churchyard?
Friends? We may lose our best
Through some poor jest,
And all our after-days lament the losing!
Besides, there is no choosing
One of them all on whom to reckon
If death should beckon.
O miserable men!
O dreary doom!
Our love's delight is hollow—
Hollow as treachery, hollow as the tomb!
Away, away with loving then,
With hoping and believing;
For what should follow,
But grieving, grieving?

A DESERTED HALL.

LETTER TO JOHN ELLA, ESQ.,

Musical Union.

Bassi, violini, violoncelli!
Where is Corelli?
Let grateful acknowledgments greet
Mr. Ella: how few for a musical treat
So willing and able to cater!
He brings to us Beethoven, greater
Than mortal admirer can measure,
Mozart with a treasure
Of pleasure—
Ah! well!—
Beyond what our speaking can tell:
Blythe Haydn, who so playfully reigns
O'er flowery Arcadian domains;
And the amiable Spohr,
Who charms us the more
By blending the pure gold of joy
With subtle discordant alloy.
We've these and we've others,
Their generous brothers:
Each from the wealth of his mind
Gives in his kind.
But amid the profusion,
Wherefore Corelli's exclusion?
What, will the passion
For music be subject to fashion?
Nay, might it not now be improving
To show as a fact
That a work of art can be compact,
Yet dignified, elegant, moving?
Might nobody thence
Discover the value of form,
As opposed to the prevalent storm
Of musical sound without sense?
And is it not really a duty
To recognise all kinds of beauty?
Bassi, violini, violoncelli!
Forget not Corelli!

WORDS TO A “LIED OHNE WORTE.”

Mendelssohn.

PERADVENTURE!

COLIN.

THE BLEW-EY'D LADIE.

Lucid Intervals.

Some fragment of the Beautiful, some ray
Refracted from the Truth he fails to find,
Care's very slave may hoard within his mind:
Some prison-plant, wan for the want of day.
And there are times when he would thrust away
His vaunted lore of base and narrow kind,
His crampèd fancy piteously inclined
In wider and in loftier paths to stray:
When he, the strong adept in worldly art,
Would court the simpler man he shunned before,
To him disclose a long-forgotten heart,
Through mere neglect grown timid, and deplore,
As in a trance from all his life apart,
Those earthly bonds which bind him more and more!

SONNET.

[Still journeying onward in this “vale of tears,”]

Still journeying onward in this “vale of tears,”
Where shades of cypress ever overspread,
The wayworn traveller turns his weary head,
And muses on the uneven track of years.
Far in the hazy distance there appears
A little path bright as a golden thread;
But here o'er rugged stones and flowers dead
His way must lie; while uncouth phantom fears,
Risen from behind him, ever glide before.
Faint is he now; yet would he all retrace
To pass unhurt the slippery footing o'er
Whereon he lamed himself; and in his face
The keen regret comes deepening, till once more
His wistful eyes are toward the resting-place.

SONNET.

[The world shut out, as here I sit and sigh]

The world shut out, as here I sit and sigh
By fading midnight embers, o'er its cold
Caprice and colder craft, my heart, grown bold
In solitude, cries loudly, “Why, O why
Must earth-grown tangles intercept the sky?
Why must one live and labour and wax old
Beneath this hateful league of vulgar gold,
Oppressive pride, and empty vanity?”
Thou poor fond heart, on present rest and bliss
So strongly bent—and O, how much in vain!—
Look farther on; remembering that this
Brief stage for trial is, of toil and pain,
Wherein no single lot is cast amiss
Which human choice may turn to loss or gain.

SONNET.

[Poor lonely heart, aching with passionate woe!]

Poor lonely heart, aching with passionate woe!
If that keen fire must needs burn down and die
Beyond the reach of mortal ear and eye,
Turn pain to patience: prove its virtue so.
Didst thou then hope thy fellow-hearts could know
What riches there within thy dark ward lie?
O hope forlorn! The many passing by
Dream not of ores the common dust below.
Of shallow streams the herd are fain to drink,
Which dry and leave them at their utmost need;
Yet spy they not the spring within its cave,
Whose deeper waters ever touch the brink;
While day by day, through screening rock and weed,
Blind echoes idly move them in their grave!

SONNET.

[Blind to all bars, the Artist fain would try]

Blind to all bars, the Artist fain would try
To shadow forth the Rainbow; and in vain!
Earth hath not wherewithal to give again
Those heavenliest hues of the ethereal sky.
Far less the Poet finds a fitting dye
To sketch the airy castles of the brain;
His pencil mars them with rude touch mundane,
Bright though they gleam on his enchanted eye.
Yet will he toil to make his lone world free
To alien minds. Alas! the fond endeavour!
E'en through his glass that realm they dimly see
Which, from their own, unmeasured spaces sever:
For ages on his words may echoed be,
The while his thought remains unread for ever!

SONNET.

A mighty voice once echoed o'er the sad
And sinful world, for evermore to be
Re-echoed on; bidding the slave be free,
The guilty reconciled, the wretched glad;
Preaching a conquest over all things bad,
Revealing Truth and Life: so blest are we.
Yet says the man of facts, “'Tis ours to see:
What need of hearing?” Miserably mad,
He leaves his place, too narrow as he thinks,
To wander in strange deserts, far and wide;
And grasping as a clue some curious links
Whereof the last falls earthward at his side,
Confronts the blank face of a heathen sphinx,
And cries, “We have no better hope, nor guide!”

SONNET.

[Midnight! I love thee for thine own true sake]

Midnight! I love thee for thine own true sake
Not as they love thee who thy grand array
Bid thee relinquish for disguises gay,
Till thy dim reign of noontide blaze partake:
Not as the toil-worn, for the needful break
Thou bringest to their life-consuming day:
I, following leisurely my quiet way,
Earn not, nor prize, their interval opaque.
For through thy darkness gleams unearthly light;
Whether in dreams the unresting spirit, free
From weight of Reason, climb the wildest height
Of Wonder, and strange Beauty, Power, and Glee;
Or whether, wakeful, lost to sound and sight,
Dead to the world, we face Eternity!

Pevensey and Hurstmonceaux.

A sonnet

I looked upon two corpses in one day,
Two noble corpses, lying by the shore:
First, one who on his large proportions bore
The stamp of heathen warrior; where he lay,
Harmless and helpless in his disarray,
The mild autumnal cheer was clouded o'er
By uncouth shades which haunt him evermore,
Dark horrors of his harsh rule past away.
Then a fair lady, barbarously slain:
O stately pleasantness, untimely cold!
There might one grieve till sad night should enfold
The appealing form; and gaze, and gaze again,
As though through longing one might yet behold
The vanished life. Ah, longing all in vain!

SONNET.

[If I and mine were all below the grass]

If I and mine were all below the grass
Beside that old and solemn Church you know,
Would you forget us? Nay! in fitful show
Fair early friendships through lone memory pass,
Like sunny glimpses caught in a cold glass.
And there, serenely sheltered, come and go
The undying dead; ay, better sheltered so
Than under sepulchres of stone and brass.
But for the rest, whose mortal hands to-day
Might clasp your own as warmly as before,
To whom your voice, your looks, might now convey
The joy Time crowns with pathos, and restore
The strength of trust in absence worn away,—
Let these, through memory, mutely plead for more.

MAURICE CLIFTON.

I. PART I.

Scene, Clifton Park. Time, Evening. Speaker, Maurice. Hearer, Dick, his Friend.
Hi! hi! come along, Dick, and see the West Gate;
I'm going there now, and I don't mean to wait.
My uncle, is that? If it is, I shall bolt.
It's not. Well, then, look to your right. That's the Holt.
Her aunt took the place about two months ago—
In June. It belongs to my uncle, you know.
You see it? those chimneys behind the Scotch firs;
And one little window—I fancy that hers.
O, Dick, I've no words to describe her! And she
Mewed up there, and snubbed, and tormented for me!
Break off our engagement we certainly shan't;
My uncle's mistaken, and likewise her aunt.
Why should we break off our engagement? Look here:
I've got rather over four hundred a-year,
Which most younger brothers would think pretty well;
Besides my profession, which doesn't much tell
At present, I own; but it may by and bye.
The law's not my passion; but never say die!
And Helen has something, though not very much;
Enough for a lady to live on as such.
Together we surely might manage with ease.
Oh, no. Not at all. She must wait, if you please,
For somebody else with a proper estate,
And get a grand house, and a service of plate,
And make herself wretched thereby, and me too.
Yes. That they consider a fine thing to do.
Oh, young people's fancies, of course, are absurd!
But, I say, Dick, how about keeping your word?
My uncle's tyrannical—horribly so;
He's upright, and downright, and generous, though;
But as for her aunt, she's so sneaking and spiteful,
Poor Helen's position must be something frightful!
That aunt—well, I won't call her names. Take the facts,
And guess what she is, when you hear how she acts.
She had an old butler, who's just gone away,
A real honest, capital fellow, named Gray;
A servant, now, such as you don't often find;
A worse may be more to her ladyship's mind!
I told you of yesterday's row. After that,
By way of reaction, I put on my hat
And trudged round the country some ten miles or more;
It's fine for the temper: I've tried it before.
And on my way homeward, out there by the Holt,
I fall in with Gray, in a state of revolt,
And gratified highly at lighting on me.
“It's you, Mr. Maurice, I wanted to see!
A nice piece of work, sir, we've had with your letter!
And I'm to be off; and the sooner the better!
To-morrow per eight o'clock train I'm to start!
I've now been across there to speak for the cart.”
Poor Gray! in the midst of his fuming and fuss
I really believe that he cared more for us—
For Helen, that is—than he did for himself;
Although it's no joke to be laid on the shelf,
At his time of life. Why, he cried like a child
In speaking of Helen. It made me so wild,
I wanted to thrust myself in then and there,
And carry her off once for all. Only, where?
And so we two walked up and down in the lane:
I can't give the whole of it over again,
But here's just the substance of what Gray told me.
That morning, as Helen was pouring out tea,
He took in the postbag, and saw, well enough,
There were but two letters, and one was a puff,
With printing outside, and the other my own
To Helen. My writing was very well known
To Gray, I may tell you; my sentiments, too,
For that matter. Well, he had no more to do
Just then in the room, and he therefore came out
And spent some few moments in looking about
For one of her ladyship's gloves, which she thought
She'd left in the hall, when a message was brought
Which made him go back to the breakfast-room. Dick,
That woman—
(I thought so. I've broken my stick.
No matter!)
Well, there she sat up in her place,
A sort of detestable smirk on her face,
Perusing my letter! Yes. That! And what's more,
Gray says from the time he was gone he feels sure
That Helen could never have read it half through,
If even she opened it! What could she do,
Shut up with that—ruffianly woman? But wait;
Oh, that isn't all. It appears that of late
The aunt has adopted a notable plan
For stuffing her cushions without any—bran,
Or wool, or whatever they use. This is all:
You tear up old papers uncommonly small,
And stuff in instead. And her ladyship keeps
A basket in which she accumulates heaps
Of this sort of stuffing. Well, what does she do,
But first read my letter composedly through,
Then pick up her basket, and coolly begin
To mince the said letter, and stir the bits in!
Poor Helen stood up, and turned round towards the door,
And fainted away—Yes! fell down on the floor!
Then Gray's indignation burst out on the spot;
And rather plain language her ladyship got;
And very superbly her ladyship stared,
For that demonstration she was not prepared,
Apparently. Still, she was pretty collected,
And straightway gave warning to Gray, as expected.
Well, Gray rang the bell, and had down Helen's maid,
And did what was wanted, without the least aid
From Helen's own aunt, who got bonnet and shawl,
And called for her ponies, and drove to the Hall,
And rated my uncle, who then rated me.
I told you this morning. And then—let me see:
I went, as I say, for a jolly long walk,
And stumbled on Gray, and came in for this talk.
The gist of the talk, though, you haven't heard yet.
Of course the main question was, how could I get
More letters to Helen? I heard with disgust
That Gray knew of nobody there he could trust.
“Keep clear of the lot, sir,” said he, looking glum;
“They're all of 'em under her ladyship's thumb.”
At last, though, I hit on a capital dodge,
I've set up a post-office here at the lodge.
The aunt of the woman who opens the gate,
Was Tom's and my nurse, and she sits there in state
And knits in the little front parlour; and so
I rushed off and found her: a word and a blow.
Said I, “Mrs. Chapman, perhaps you've not heard,
They're wishing to make me go back from my word,
And treat a young lady exceedingly ill.”
Said she, “Mr. Maurice, I don't think you will.”
“I don't think I shall, Mrs. Chapman,” said I;
“But now will you help me?” Said she, “Sir, I'll try.”
Of course I sent Helen a message by Gray,
To ask her to call for a letter to-day
(The fun was to fancy how neatly she could,
Because the Holt shrubbery joins this West wood).
Of course, too, I wrote it and took it last night,
And hope to hear now that she got it all right.
Look out by that haystack, beyond the two carts:
You just get a glimpse of the paling which parts
The Holt from the lane where we met, Gray and I;
And where I had rather a fright, by the bye.
Within that same paling I certainly heard
A something which rustled; and not like a bird,
Nor yet like a beast, as it sounded to me;
And close at my elbow. Now, what might that be?
Gray said it was nothing. To me, I confess,
It sounded remarkably like a silk dress.
One could not see over at all from the ground;
And, when I took hold of the paling, I found
The wood in so shaky and rotten a state,
The question arose, would it carry my weight?
Which question Gray answered with, “Well, if you do,
And bring it all down, sir, I wouldn't be you.”
—I wish though I'd cleared up the point while I might.
H'm. Gray called it nonsense. Let's hope he was right.—
I say, here we are, so we part, I suppose.
Now just cut across to that footpath. It goes
Right through the old chestnuts you wanted to see,
And into the avenue. Don't wait for me.

II. PART II.

Scene, the Front Parlour at the Lodge. Time, Five Minutes later. Speaker, Mrs. Chapman. Hearer, Maurice.
Come, come, Mr. Maurice, now don't ye look so;
I meant ye no harm, sir, but how should I know?
She walks in straight-forrard, and asks for your letter;
I puts on my glasses to see her the better:
The room's rayther dark, for they boughs be so shady;
Thinks I to myself though, “You looks like a lady!”
She didn't speak pleasant; I can't say she did.
(Let them as belongs to her do as they're bid!)
I gives her the letter, and curcheys, ye know:
She takes it like this now; and looks at it so:
No “thankee,” no nothing; not even “Good day”;
But picks up her flounces, and marches away!
I felt myself quite colour up, I declare!
Thinks I, “If they marry, they won't be no pair!
And what shall I do if the match turns out bad?
I doubt it's no kindness to screen him, poor lad!”
A great mind I had to set off to the Hall,
And ask for the Squire, and confess to it all!
Well, then I bethought me—I hadn't afore,
“He said she wa'n't twenty. She ain't, for she's more.
Not twenty? She's that, and the rest, if she's ten!
I'm out if she'll see five-and-thirty agen!
Why, what will she make that poor boy believe next?
Not twenty, indeed!” I was properly vexed.
She'd got a smart hat on, like I don't know what,
They now-a-days dresses so young, when they're not;
As if you could put back your age with a hat!
I goes by the face, and they can't put back that!
I watcht her a bit; and she hadn't got fur,
When all of a sudden says I, “It aint her”—
That's Roger goes there, lookee, out by the deer;
I'd give him a call, but I don't think he'd hear.
The wind sets this way, and he's deafer than me;
He's out in all weathers, is Roger, ye see.
We've let off the Holt, but that don't touch the game;
Our squire kep' the shootin', ye know, all the same;
So Roger he just takes and goes his old rounds,
And he's seen them ladies, odd times, in the grounds.
And so I was thinking he maybe could say
Which lady it was as come in here to-day.
Go you now and ask him. I think, sir, you'd better.
It runs in my head that the aunt got that letter.

III. PART III.

Scene, the Park. Time, Ten Minutes later. Speaker, Maurice. Hearer, Dick.
O, why have you waited? Don't speak to me, Dick!
Don't speak to me yet! Here's another vile trick!
That noise in the bushes—why, what should it be
Except that—that woman! And so, there were we
Parading, like dolts, in the lane, to and fro,
And telling her just what she wanted to know!
And chuckling, moreover: the thing seemed so pat!
Imagine her nice counter-chuckling at that!
I heard her, I tell you, again and again,
Though Gray would not have it. I heard her quite plain,
And might have confronted her there on the spot:
I'd rather have brought down the paling than not!
I gave into Gray with that stupid submission
Through shame, I believe, for the very suspicion!
And so, we talk on, and the spy wins the day!
I had one resource, and I've thrown it away!

IV. PART IV.

Scene, the Library at the Holt. Time, a Week later. Letter-writer, the Aunt.

SIR RALPH DUGUAY.

A Ballad in Two Parts.

I. PART I.

II. PART II.

ORINDA.

A Ballad.

FLORA'S LESSON.