Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton

See, Father, here are flowers! They're all thine own;
Gather'd for thee, and tied, by love and duty;
Let them be dear, if but for that alone,
Pleasant for the intent, if not the beauty.
No man should dare despise a single one,
Since given to a father by a son.

I had not ask'd thy hand to find them room
If worthless I had deem'd them: but if each
Were but a weed, and if, while roses bloom,
No daisy should dare live,—as some men preach,—
Yet, surely, if the least delight or pride
Aught here gave thee, I should be justified.

October 30, 1848.

EUGENE.

It sings of Nature's thrills, her sounds and sights,
A lonely boy, and some of his delights.

The light that parleys with a poet's eyes
Hath more rays than the mere prismatic seven,
For goes therewith a flush of such fine dyes
As makes of earth meet vestibule for heaven,
Blends with all dullest things a lifeful leaven,
And quickens to a full sweet Sunday grace
The dead looks in this world's old workday face.

When Eugene's eyes in infant wonderment
First questioned this mysterious world, for him
In vain spake tongueful Nature; vainly spent
The Earth her beautiful continual hymn;
Why did he look with such perception dim?
Why dreamt he not of that poetic soul
Majestical that vivifies the whole?

Yet sometimes came wild startlings, and his eyes
Widened and burned, as reading wondrous lore,
But then at once the exquisite surprise
Would die down into dulness as before;
For the Muse knew he might not yet bear more,
So let flit dimly past his soul forlorn
Joys bodiless that must not yet be born.

At length, the gates of vision came unchained;
New light flowed outward through his wondering eyes,
Whose eagerness continually gained
Unguessed-of news from earth and air and skies;
And many till then obstinate mysteries
He as acquaintance boldly could accost,
Their cold reserve and distance being lost.

Now for his heart athirst new solace ran,
Poured from the only source that satisfies;
For Nature's old dull crust all o'er began
To crack and peel, and through the clefts his eyes
Caught glimpses of the Deity that lies
Creative under all. Whate'er he saw
Was quick with new thought, wonder, worship, awe.

All musical he grew, all musical,
For melody would start about his heart,
And oft sound with so audible a call,
And be so real, so from himself apart,
It seemed an echo from God's throne did start,—
That some sad sinner had been just forgiven,
And the glad angels rang the bells of heaven.

Now what Prometheus meant might Eugene see,
For this creative creature 'gan to give
Heaven's living fire so wide and lavishly
That all inanimate things appear'd to live:
To fields and flowers the boy grew talkative;
Accosted stars and stones; enjoy'd the meeting
With trees, which held their arms out for his greeting.

So he was never alone; for,—lying,—float
Would music round his pillow; walking,—air
Grow busy with low voices; on the river,—
The water seem all pulsed by footsteps fair
With little whirling dimples here and there;
Or,—turning round,—be glimpsed swift vanishings
Of robes ethereal and mysterious wings.

All things were changed:—the little gentle flowers
Were brothers, now, and sisters to Eugene;
The birds were feather-veilëd guardian powers
Tenanting leafy thrones, with loving mien,
To watch earth's good, and sing sweet songs between;
The dew that when the stars burn bright is given,
Was precious oil dropp'd from those lamps of heaven.

Earth was a glorious great kaleidoscope
Which, turning ever, fed his eye anew:
He lived in one wide palace of fine hope,
With floor of green, and archëd roof of blue,
And he a son of its great Maker too,—
A son made grandly welcome to each part,
And with a son's right to be glad in heart.

All things had influence for him; all his heart
Was as a harp of such responsive strings,
That not an evening primrose could out-start,
No lark shake rapture from its fluttering wings,
Not the least motion rise in natural things,
But all its chords would tremble and compete
In rich vibration, eloquently sweet.

Thus Nature, as with delicate-fingered wind,
Played soft Æolian music in his breast,
And wooed him ever with her courtship kind
Till she had won him to a sweet unrest,
And made his heart all eager with a zest
For converse with her in the loneliest bowers,
Loving her to her face for hours and hours.

Now he delighted, stretched on bed of grass,
To learn the looks of the sun-lighted skies;
Cloud-watching, till his lifted soul would pass
To God's great heaven of thought-wove tapestries;
There lie at catch for inward symphonies,
For sweetness and for fulness far above
All sounds of earth that men's ears drink and love.

Yet also glad was he for cloven shout
Of cuckoo, and for all the voiceful throng
That wreathe their voluntaries in and out,
Felicitous, the leafy boughs among;—
Glad even of the gnats' drowsed undersong;
And he liked, too, the sound of merriment
By distant steeple's loud-tongued tenants sent;

Who, tossing up their heads imperious, find
Tasks and long errands for the busy gales,
Measuring out bellfuls of melodious wind
Impregnated and spiced with chiming tales
Which ought the winds to bear into far vales,
But, careless, lose part of their message sweet,
So bring a burden richly incomplete:—

And glad was he, to list when all around
Harsh winter blasts throng in, the world to freeze,
Each to keen edge and cutting sharpness ground
On icy pavements of the northern seas,
And hear them fighting with the uprooted trees,
Beating the boughs on their bleak threshing floors,
Whooping out triumph o'er far howling moors:—

Or watch when March sends out his windy elves
To shake by th' shoulders the deep slumbering trees,
To bid them wake and dress their drowsy selves
In haste the approaching Lady Spring to please;
Nor may those tiresome breezes cease to tease,
Until each giant, answering their appeals,
In a green mantle its gaunt arms conceals:—

Or see some tree shake its sad aged head,
Priming the wind with storm-foreboding sighs,
While each leaf writheth on its stalky thread,
And, shuddering, whispereth rainy prophecies,
Because the black clouds, weary of the skies,
Spent with far travel, sullen stand, and roar,
And, till unladen, vow they'll move no more:—

Or watch the dozing twilight drop asleep
Just when the setting sun gives Eve's first star
Her cue upon that boundless stage to leap,
Whereto ten thousand mighty orbs afar
The theatre and watchful audience are;—
Why fears it not to play its little part?
Why shines it on with an unflurried heart?

Gently it twinkleth there its prologue out
Till that fair stage grows brighter by a moon,
And the quick stars scatter themselves about,
Peopling all skiey nooks and by-ways soon,
That no place lack its little glimmering boon;
And prouder grow the rich and populous skies
Twinkling all over with a thousand eyes.

But oh, how healing to all aching pang,
On profiled moon's bright crescent thin to gaze,
And on her fine sharp horns intense to hang
A thousand phantasies a thousand ways!
Or, when her face grows to a fuller phase,
How sweet to calm our passion's seething lees
In her pure beams of cooling, soothing ease!

Yet are there times when cruel witchcraft fills
Her light, no longer friendly; when a flood
Of chill lone feeling passionates and thrills
Our hearts, and kills our calmness in the bud;
When hints to grief, half-vaguely understood,
By her are lent, till our unbidden eyes
Our cheeks with mournful overflow surprise.

For then come visions of the old home-places,
Dear, consecrated, incense-haunted fanes;
And then rise memories of lost forms and faces,
Rise, like old vials' odours sweet, and strains
Of songs that sob to music that complains;
While airs leap on us from forgotten climes
Rich with the holy breath of better times.

Ay, we may weep, and weep! They will not come,—
The soft warm hand; the voluble dear eye;
Lips whereon, open, sweet speech; whereon, dumb,
The honey-gift, for us did ever lie:
They will not come, though we for grief should die.
Eugene was not too young for memory's tongue
To pierce his soul;—who is there that's too young?

But, when the stars dim out, and darkling lies
Earth under moonless heaven, then would Eugene
The thickening night confront, and let his eyes
On the blind blackness grapple with stern mien,
While groan'd the trees in dusky turmoil keen,
As if the horrible winds their stretch did swell
To span some dread Æolian harp of hell.

O Night, thou speaker in all awful tones
Of bale and unredeemable despair!
Why hang'st thou on thy winds such creaks and moans
As might almost persuade us that we hear
Old earth's huge axle grind? Why should thy fear
Make dread torpedo-thoughts swim in by shoals,
Smiting to dumbness our astounded souls?

Yet in the excitements of the night not oft
Did Eugene revel thus; fields and the day
Had better pleasures for him;—as, when soft
The morning blows o'er flowers, then away
With the white river to keep holiday;—
To brighten in broad sunshine; or to run
Where flickering shadows half deny the sun;—

Or hear the birds, orchestred deep in leaves,
Transmute, with power alchemic, to sweet strain,
Air lately mute, while the young sun-dawn weaves
Fine gold into the clouds, and earth amain
Like sun-woke Memnon's statue o'er again,
Greets its first beams, and, to proclaim its rise,
All her sweet, living, feathery psalteries plies.

And Eugene liked some glorious book to bring
Beneath the trees, and read, on some hill-side,
Of Isabella's piteous gardening,
Or Porphyro's thief-venture for a bride;
Or how old Apollonius, cruel-eyed,
Shoots arrows from bent eyebrow bows, to slay
Lycius and Lamia on their wedding-day:—

Or any other essence of man's heart
Distill'd by poets to eternal times;
But ever loathingly the boy would start
From tales, unantidoted poison-rhymes,
Of souls all fungus'd over with their crimes,—
Too busy with sharp-rowel'd passions' goading
To take or heed forbidding or foreboding.

And often to the boy an impulse came
Urging his soul to try her strength in songs;
For what was in him but a fiery flame?
And what were round him but symphonious throngs
Of words that seem'd to fall from heavenly tongues?
And what was left him, but to vent that flame,
And utter those sweet sayings as they came?

Ay, though sage list'ners mock'd his harp's young tones,
And bade him cease from the ambitious trade,
Why should he cease? Fire shut up in the bones
Consumes to baneful ash its barricade.
Why should he cease? For the whole world was made,
Glorious with foregleams of what might be done
In noble work,—ay, and what honour won.

'Tis true, indeed, the thought of wealth or fame
Belongs not rightly to the poet's pleasures;
He must not damp that pure high-aiming flame
For popular praise, nor play those heaven-born measures
On strings tuned low to th' chink of earthly treasures;
He must not dream God's great trusts may be sold;
He must not dare to cramp his soul in gold.

Yet while he works for duty's sake in chief,
Not too much loving voices that applaud,
The poet should not be without belief
That in the boundaries of our language broad
There will be one or two kind souls unawed
By others' censure, who will find in him,
If dimness, yet at least some gold not dim.

Thus is he not so lower'd below or raised
Above his kind, as to be all unmoved
And careless of the sweet of being praised;
Thinks it a bliss to have his rhymes approved
By noble souls, of Goodness well-beloved;—
Hopes to be read at least by one or two
Such as I know, and such as Eugene knew.

And oft he pictures some heart, precious cruse
Of holy human feeling, that shall read
His leaves, and not, because of dross, quite lose
His genuine gold; that shall her glances feed
On rhymes that cannot ask a better meed;
And some kind smiles upon the book bestow
Of him who writes for her he ne'er will know.

And oft he pictures some large-hearted youth
Shall love the unknown rhymer, for the sake
Of the known rhymes; one not gnaw'd by the tooth
Of worldliness; not seized of Mammon-ache;
To Friendship, Beauty, Goodness, all awake:—
For such he hopes to work; with such to stand
A friend unseen, yet shaken by the hand.

LOSS.

‘I faint, I die,’ cried the apple-tree,
‘All my dear fruit is gone from me.’
Cheer up, mistaken one! There be
Fifty more good crops in thee.

THE SKY AT NIGHT.

Great House of spaces, rolling orbs and years!
Rebuking this world's self-important hum
With the vast, awful silence of thy spheres,
Thou with enormous thought-stretch mak'st us dumb.
Yet if in thee I, simply like a child,
The floor of heaven, and the wide roof, may see,
Of this dear endless earth of our delight,
I shall be reconciled
To let my song live happy, loud, and free,
A bold sedge-warbler 'neath the Sky at night.

With thee it is, and with thy stars, that now,
O child-entrancing Sky, I have to do;
Thou art the highway of the Moon, and thou
Shalt be the highway of my spirit too.
Clouds climb, and cannot touch thee; winds blow high
And cannot reach thee; but my thought shall reach,
And ride, as all thy starry navies ride,
On thy broad breast, O Sky!
With every floating brilliance there hold speech,
And sail far off on thy slow western tide.

Stars! Gems scintillant, in most ancient wells
Of cold, keen lustre dyed unto the core:—
Stars! Rosaries whereon old Time still tells
His years and ages as he says them o'er:—
Stars! Signal-lights which for her fast ally,
The giant Night, to bid him hasten on
His reinforcements, Twilight high upholds:—
Stars! Night-flowers of the sky,
Waking at glow-worm time, and one by one
All noiseless starting full-blown from your folds:—

Great glorious company of throbbing flames!
Joyful dismissers of the dismal dark!
How could men foist on you their savage names,
And your vague groups with lying lines demark?
How could they cage you up, a wild-beast show
Of Lion, Scorpion, Centaur, Dragon, Bear,
Awed by Orion's club-uplifting boast?
The child's heart will not know
Such fancies grim; it loves your aspects fair,
And re-installs your undivided host.

With what slow pace, and with what silent shoon,
And with what pale looks tenderly astray,
Comes up the Lady of the Sky, the Moon,
Sunk in deep thought as of some bygone day!
Through her sky-field insensibly she glides
Among her star-flowers blooming in the night,
Of all their crowd unconscious, till the hour
When, as young Morn uprides,
The Sun ascending with his scythe of light
Shall mow down, masterful, each shining flower.

But oh, thou dark-blue Sky-mead! Would that I
Might stand upon thee,—might look down and see
How daisies stars are, in our meadowy sky,
As stars seem brighter daisies upon thee.
Life is on all sides beautiful; it sees
Its courts between two all-wide beauties set,—
Roof'd with blue beauty, with green beauty paved:—
We need our miseries!
Else would our souls their higher aim forget,
And be to Nature's fairness all enslaved.

And oh, thou dark Cloak, God's own vestment wide,—
Blue sprinkled o'er with twinkling drops of gold,—
Would that some wind might blow thee once aside
To give us glimpse of glories thou dost hold!
Yet Whom thou coverest thou canst not hide;
Through thy all-marvellous texture showers a rain
Of splendours such as in the old time gave
Thee to be deified:—
How can we wonder that the ancient brain
Should deem thy stars gods strong to slay or save?

For so they sit, each night, calm on the sky,
Reading what day hath writ on earth's wide page,
That hardly keep from adoration I,
Born to the usage of a Christian age.
But I am taught, and may not bend the knee,
And may not give clasp'd worship of the hands;
Yet must the stars the sacred symbols seem
Of truth divine to me,—
Truth that for ever high above us stands
To wake our souls from earth's engrossing dream.

Great floor of heaven, with star-seed oversown,—
Floor by the hand Divine for ever laid,—
What feet are on thee! feet all spotless grown,
And kiss'd with robes whose pureness casts no shade,
Fluttering for ever in the wind of praise,—
Feet of the sinless, from whose large eyes looks
Wide wonder blent with joy's peculiar flame,—
Wide wonder at God's ways,—
Sinless, whose foreheads He hath ta'en for books
Whereon to write the splendours of His name.

Stars, bright inheritors of heaven! O tell
Some little abstract of what ye have known,
In God's metropolis wherein ye dwell,
O'er-flooded by the glories of the throne!
Jewels, set in the floor of heaven, and trod
Of blest feet, tell us of the joy they know
Whose praises, humbly daring, upward spring
To kiss the feet of God,—
Bright angels, each conveying to or fro
Some vouchsafed message, on proud-swelling wing!

They will not speak, these stars, to fleshly ear;—
Of angels and of heavenly temple, dumb,
And of the Lord of angels, they appear;
Yet to the spirit's ear their anthems come.
Shine o'er us, then, your message bright to bring,
Great hieroglyphs of God, for ever shine;
And while ye all, like vocal tongues of flame,
In sensuous silence, sing,
Lift high our thoughts to the great House divine,
And thrill with worship of th' Eternal Name!

PYRRHO.

Pyrrho doubts in all things shows
With an ingenious skill;
Says, even, 'tis false the river flows,
Or that its banks stand still.
Trent was in this very place
Under Cæsar's power,
And its banks move on through space
Some thousand miles an hour.

UNDER THE ALDER-TREE.

It was a sad soul sitting
Beneath an Alder-tree;
From death's insensate fiction
He was not yet set free;
Not spirit's life but body's death
Was all that he could see,
And so he sat, and thus he cried,
Beneath the Alder-tree.

Chain of life, me binding down
To the rock of misery,
With the sorrow-vulture eating
At the heart, I weary o' thee,
For She cannot come again,
Cannot come ever to me.
Joy,—all joy,—all joy is o'er,—
Joy of speech or silent eyes,—
Mine, ah mine no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For the wind waileth where she lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Face, where, while we gaze on 't, feeling,
Penetrate with purity,
Springs from soul-roots, through the feature
Upward branching like a tree,—
Oh, Her looks! They were like skies
Raining blessing ever on me!
Ever on me? Wo 's me, 'tis o'er;
Lost, ah, lost the love of her eyes,
They shall smile no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For the leaf withereth where she lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Then a step so softly stately,
So divinely womanly,
That than angel's own it seemeth
Not by one sin's weight less free,—
Oh, Her step! And it always came
Springing lighter, springing to me!
To me? Wo 's me, 'tis o'er, 'tis o'er;
She never, never to meet me flies;
She will come no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me;
Green grass is growing where she lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Then a mouth, whereto is given
Voice to be the clue and key
To old dreams that rocked the poet
On the cradle of their knee:—
Oh, Her voice! 'Twas like high heaven
Saying kind things ever to me!
Ever to me? Wo 's me, 'tis o'er;
I call, and call; she never replies;
Speak she will no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For the owl hoots where she lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Then a sudden, sweet emotion
Of so absolute purity
That for once we understand
How sacred mortal flesh can be:—
Oh, Her touch! Oh, soft her hand,
Soft, warm, kind, ever to me!
Ever to me? Wo 's me, 'tis o'er,
And a voice within me cries
She shall press my hand no more
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For nettles thrive where my Love lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Then a touch at whose intenseness,—
Like an electricity
Sheathed in down,—flesh, soul, change places
Till we know not which we be;—
Kiss, like pressure of angel's wing
Warm of heaven's glory, ever to me!
Ever to me? Wo 's me, 'tis o'er;
She shall hallow my cheeks, mine eyes,
With her lips no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For the worm gnaws where my Love lies
Under the Alder-tree.

Evermore the sorrow-vulture
Eateth at the spirit's core.
Fate and death away have taken
What they never may restore;
For She will not come again,—
Come again, for evermore!
Bliss,—all bliss,—all bliss is o'er,
Naught but death's dismay and sighs,
For She's mine no more, no more,
To heal the heart all broken in me,
For cold stones cover her where she lies
Under the Alder-tree.

THE DAISY.

A gold and silver cup
Upon a pillar green,
Earth holds her Daisy up
To catch the sunshine in;—
A dial-plant, set there
To show each radiant hour;—
A field-astronomer,
A sun-observing flower;—

A little rounded croft
Where wingëd kine may graze;—
A golden meadow soft,
Quadrille-ground for young fays;—
A fenced-in yellow plot
With pales milk-white and clean,
Each tipt with crimson spot
And set in ground of green.

The children with delight
To meet the Daisy run;
They love to see how bright
She shines upon the sun.
Like lowly white-crown'd queen
She graciously doth bend,
And stands with quiet mien
The little children's friend.

Sometimes the Daisy's seen,
A simple rustic maid,
In comely gown of green,
And pure white frill array'd,
Dreaming, like one in mood
Of hope by fancy spun,
Awaiting to be wooed,
And willing to be won.

The dandy Butterfly,
All exquisitely dress'd,
Before the Daisy's eye
Displays his velvet vest;
In vain is he array'd
In all that gaudy show;
What need hath rustic maid
Of such a foppish beau?

The vagrant Bee but sings
For what he gets thereby,
Nor comes, except he brings
His pocket on his thigh;
Then let him start aside
And woo some wealthier flower;
The Daisy's not his bride,
She hath no honey-dower.

The Gnat, old back-bent fellow,
In frugal frieze-coat drest,
Seeks on her carpet yellow
His tottering limbs to rest;
He woos her with eyes dim,
Voice thin, and aspect sage;—
What careth she for him?
What mate is youth for age?

Upon her head she lifts,
Where they can best be seen,
Her little golden gifts
In white-fringed basket green:
Still ready to be met
In every passing hour,
The little children's pet,
Their ever-faithful flower.

SOLITUDE.

Sweet solitude!—The Frenchman's happy play
Of wit I here with graver thought implete:—
Yes, sweet is Solitude, if but we may
The Lord take with us, unto Whom to say
That Solitude is sweet.

But He'll not only smile and answer ‘Yea’;—
Ere long He'll lead us to a place of ships,
And He will make us go aboard that day,
To send us from dear Solitude away,
Even though it be with whips.

Why be grieved that I your converse
Now and then refuse?
Or to say nought for a awhile
In your presence choose?
Pleasant are your voices,
Dearest ones, to me,
More pleasant, yea, than Sabbath-bells
At holy evening be:
But nearer still my yearning soul
Would have your voices dear;
Be silent, therefore, that your thoughts
I may the better hear.

I love to gaze upon your face,
The meaning there to read,
Dear One, in whose heart's embrace
Is privilege indeed;
But why be so sad-hearted,
Why feel mortified,
If I leave you now and then
In lonely place to hide?

From hill and vale they call me,
From star, and moss, and stone;
I cannot list those voices wise
Unless I be alone.
When long I keep away therefrom,
The life within me dies;
With them conversing, soon upsprings
New vigour to mine eyes.
Again my step is firm; again
I breathe a manly breath:
Marvel not then I go to hear
What each still Speaker saith.
Not even your presence, Sweet, shall win my soul
To be in love with death.

WILL AND WAY.

You complain: ‘Outward snares are too strong;
Meaning right, I am forced to do wrong:’—
Nonsense, man! Sin's vile course you must stay,
For where'er there 's a will there 's a way.

Say no more you can not, for you can!
Up, this fight must be fought! Play the man
What we ought to achieve, that we may,
And where'er there 's a will there 's a way.

Never flinch; never dare turn aside;
Hard will prove not so hard when you 've tried;
Practice makes hardest work easy play,
And where'er there 's a will there 's a way.

Not in strength of our own can we win;
Ask of God! He will fight with your sin:
Help'd by Him, then indeed shall you say,
‘Now I know, where 's the will, there 's the way.’

Lift thy dark eyelid, gentle Star,
And let me see thine eye!
High thoughts, from self and sin afar,
We oft allow to die;
But hearts, though earthy in th' extreme,
Dreams of a nobler life might dream,
Shone but the visible melody
Of thy converting beam.

Eyes are souls' tongues; then let me hear
The soul that speaks through thee;
Thou hast a speech of accent clear,
A solemn speech, for me:
And, were my spirit wild with hell,
The messages thy rays can tell
Should strike me calm,—like the clear toll
Of a religious bell.

It gleams! It gleams! The starry sprite
Its eyelids deigns to part;
Swift shoots a wiry lance of light,
Straight tilting at my heart;
It seems a friend to recognise,
Darts through the wide door of the eyes,
Falls on the soul's neck with a kiss
Of lovingest surprise!

Do stars weep? Sure, to that star-twink
Some tear-fraught mist was given!—
How delicately doth it shrink
Back-lessening into heaven!
It seems about to quite depart;—
Ah! it leaps forward with a start,
Like the convulsed and desperate beat
Of a most suffering heart.

And it may weep;—a star may weep,
Ay, spite of natural bars;
For hath not earth woes deadly deep
Should e'en force tears from stars?
It must be all creation's part
To fellow-feel with human smart,
While pity throbs in every beat
Of God's all-loving heart.

Yes; stars may weep, God pity, yet
Men no compassion show,
And can most thoughtlessly forget
A brother's piteous throe;
Are we not all too slow to heed
The bleeding of the hearts that bleed,
Too slow to feel each others' want,
And heal each others' woe?

We fret our lives, we waste our souls,
For weary wealth or fame,
Yet die at last inglorious moles
Blind digging to our shame:—
For there 's no glory, save to try
To wipe tears from another's eye,
And help his spirit to transcend
Each merely earthly aim.

MOUNT PERILOUS OF PRIDE.

He sets truths in his fire to cook
Till they to falsehoods swell,
And some go pop with a spurious look,
And some with a curious smell.
Bring them to Book! Bring them to Book!
When once they burst the shell,
Easily twists the tongue acrook
That would true verdict tell.

His fire sends smoke the skies to kiss,
And all the skies rebel,
Lest shrink their countless homes of bliss
To a solitary cell.
Seest thou really naught amiss?
And stands his Mountain well?
Its edge is the brink of a precipice
Down falling sheer to hell!

Above the hills
Lit with the sun's bright flame;
Over the rills
Always and never the same;
Old as the old primeval heaven,
There is a home to him who finds it given,
Above the hills' sides, torrent-riven,
Above the valleys' shame.

Below, the winds lie crouch'd in their caves,
Like tigers ready for leaping;
The clouds look down on the mournful earth
And cannot stay from weeping;
The lightnings quiver, in bright wreaths curl'd,
Like fiery snakes half-sleeping;
But nothing of these wots that high world,
Blest quiet ever keeping.

Leave wife or child, leave wealth or fame,
But leave that region not;
So shall be all of shameful shame,
And trick of fate, forgot.
From thy soul, of thy sun's flame,
By valley-lust, no least ray be exiled;
That shall be thy wealth and fame
Shall be thy wife and child.

Though mine arm I made a girdle
About a maiden's waist;
Though for my mouth mine eyes their utmost wit
Of eloquence had often tried, that it
Her innocent kiss might taste;
Though look on look had, flowing, fix'd,
Souls utterly intermix'd,
Hearts' fibres interlaced,

And she said, if I forsook,
Life would forsake,
And well I knew that if I went
Her gentle heart would break;
Yet if she led me to the vale,
From my sun-track kept me,
That that high land might accept me,
I must let her face grow pale,
And leave her there,
Nor could repent, although around
Her comely head the shroud it drew, and bound
Dark cypress in her hair.

I have sworn an oath, and I will keep it,
As Allah doth me save,
Nor, by His help, once will I overleap it
Until I keep my grave;
Sworn that no pretext shall my soul seduce
To shear its brow of one fair lock of sun,
Nor will I down into those valleys run
By strong persuasion to false duty or use,
Of hundreds, or of one.

Yes, Messieurs, right well I hear you,—
Hear all your screamers say:—

‘The wealthy man rides through the people's blood
Their bodies pave his way.
Will you not stimulate a sinking nation
To lift its voice aloud
For the swift riddance of that usurpation
Of few over the crowd?’
What! shall I praise the just and equal boat
Where crew, not captain, rules?
Or risk the State on hazard of the vote
Of all its common fools?
I will not tell that barefaced lie again,
That all are fashioned equal,
Nor say their politics to these blind men
Will bring the wish'd-for sequel.
I am no Radical,
Nor am I Whig or Tory;
I am a lover of the Mount,
And of its wisdom hoary.

But why not join the wiser few who find
‘A hungry people’ ever ‘creeping nigher,’
Like ‘lion’ glaring in its bestial ire
‘At one that nods and winks behind
A slowly-dying fire’?
In truth, methinks I see a grand new day
About to pour through the sun's burning lens;

And day, when it arrives, must fright away
All night-beasts to their dens.
Already is it dawning; and this day
Has virtues to all previous days unknown,
For even now the lion slinks away
To a new den of his own;
That den already larger, cleaner grows;
To a fresh type it fast approximates,
With maps upon the walls, and desks in rows,
And forms, and books, and slates.
So why not trust the lion? Sharp the claws,
And fierce the teeth have been, and rough the hide;
Trust him, and see how soon kind Nature's laws
Improvements will provide;
Make the fangs soften and fall,
And new milk-teeth install;
Make claws grow thin and small,
And for knife and scissors call;
Make the rough hair be cast,
And leave clean skin at last;
Make the frame change its plan,
The brain enlarge and strengthen,
The heart grow soft and mild,
The lower members lengthen,
And the beast stand up a mighty man
And harmless as a child.

Dreams, say you? Well, 'tis Allah's own affair
Democracy's His stream. We have to swim,
Or float, in what He sends us everywhere;
Let us be glad that, after all, the care
And onus are on Him.
I am no Radical,
Nor am I Whig or Tory;
I am a lover of the Mount,
And of its wisdom hoary.

Good sisters, urge me not. I see the tears
Those little children shed;
The bitter cry sounds sadly in mine ears
From many a lingering bed;
Heavenward I see the hungry turn their faces,
And still they are not fed;
And mothers with yet ignorant embraces
Embrace their children dead.
Believe me, you than I are not more eager
To help mankind and save:—
Go ye, rescue those forms, so shrunk and meagre,
From the wide-wasting grave:
But neither do I waste a life in dreaming
Because I seem not to be helping you;
I can be doing far, far more, while seeming
Far less, or naught, to do.

For on my Mountain one short hour
Plucking a fruit, culling a flower,
Must ever in the end
More blessing lend
Mankind,
Than long years spent below,
Wiping the tears that flow,
Loosing the chains that bind.

I have sworn an oath, and I will keep it,
As Allah doth me save,
Nor, by His help, once will I overleap it
Until I keep my grave;
Sworn that no cold derisive smiling
Of foe, nor prayer of friend,
Nor loss of fame and honour, nor reviling,
Shall ever me my soul make lend
To what would cramp its wider aim,
Or maim
Its universal end.
High o'er the hills I'd live; out from my heart
I cannot bear to thrust one beam divine;
Choose you, then, for yourselves, your lot and part,
And I have chosen mine.

YOUNG LOVE.

What's softer than a baby-wind new-born
Trying to kiss a whisper from a tree?
More constant to man's heart than sound o' th' sea
To the curl'd inlet of a sea-shell's horn?
What 's quieter than death of flower forlorn,
Uprooted where the pitiless sun can see?
Or facile weddings of the fragrant pea
That puts a ring on every fingery thorn?
What's gentler than a young rill's murmurings
So softly singing through its meadow-ways?
Or silenter than sun's unsparing gaze
The maiden blood in cherries' cheeks that brings?—
O 'tis young Love; for he a nest can raise
In hearts that never guess his busy wings.

‘A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.’

No, Preacher, no!
Cease further to entreat.
I will not go
Those thorns, those flints to meet;
They prick, they bruise my knees,
They wound my feet.

Let me alone!
That cruel, rough-hewn smart,
That solid groan,
Christ's Cross, makes me to start;
It tears my arms, my breast,
Pierces my heart.

Some men are so
That from them goodness flows
Easy as glow
From star, or scent from rose;
But I, alas, am not
At all like those.

Still am I young.
What! must my youth go waste?
To taste shall tongue
Be made, and yet not taste?
Arms to embrace, yet joys
Be unembraced?

With looks that please,
Allurement yonder stands;
And what are these
That hold me?—Woven sands
To be despised by eyes,
Brush'd off by hands!

Thus heart rebell'd
One day, and claim'd wild range.
But I beheld
A little child. How strange
Sin's sudden death! That sight
Wrought all the change.

LIFE, NOT DEATH.

A wailing voice of prophecy,
A voice of anguish in our ears!
Why will ye tell us so, our fears,
That she must die?

So fair she seems,
In wealth of womanhood so high,
How can it enter in our dreams
That our dear friend can die?

Yet enters there the prophecy;
It more than enters there,—it dwells!
That voice hath never ceased that tells
That she must die.

Let us not feign,
Let us not feign our eyes are dry;
They weep an agonisëd rain
Because our friend will die.

Shall we not weep? Shall we not sigh?
Shall we not rather storm and curse
And rave against this Universe
That lets her die?

Nay, nay, be still,
Let us be still! Not you nor I
Should rave. Think, Friend, it is God's will
That lets our dear one die.

It is God's will! So let us try
Calmness once more. He knows the best.
Our dear one enters into rest,
But she shall never die.

MAN.

Man doth usurp all space,
Stares thee in rock, bush, river, in the face.
Never yet thine eyes beheld a tree;
'Tis no sea thou seest in the sea,
'Tis but a disguised humanity.
To avoid thy fellow, vain thy plan;
All that interests a man is man.

FOR THE DESOLATE.

When, though no loving accents fall
In snows upon thy parchëd brow,
Yet others unto others call
To give the kiss or breathe the vow,
Then let thy love for them beguile
The self-love that would in thee rise,
And bid a softly-welling smile
Warm once again thy frozen eyes.

When o'er thy brain the passion flows
And rolls into thine eyes its tears,
Because thy soul no solace knows
Of answering hopes and answering fears;
Then dash thy tears down as they swell,
And give thy grief a strong control,
And with a stern derision quell
The rising anguish of thy soul.

When thy lone dreams sweet visions see,
And loving looks upon thee shine,
And loving lips speak joys to thee
That never, never may be thine;
Then press thy hand hard on thy side,
And force down all the swelling pain;
Trust me, the wound, however wide,
Shall close at last, and heal again.

Think not of what is from thee kept;
Think, rather, what thou hast received:
Thine eyes have smiled, if they have wept;
Thy heart has danced, if it has grieved.
Rich comforts yet shall be thine own;
Yea, God Himself shall wipe thine eyes;
And still His love alike is shown
In what He gives, and what denies.

TO A TRUE FRIEND.

Bound I am to love you much
When the happy chords you touch;
Worthier you to be loved best
When you make me angriest.

THE FLOWER-GARDEN OF GOD.

His weeds, however gay, at last
Themselves into the oven cast;
His flowers He doth for ever prize,
And none another may despise.

Lily fair accused the Rose
Of most flagrant treason:—
‘Hot red flower never blows
Heaven's blessëd breeze on!
Change your hue, or sun and moon
And all earth will hoot you,
And the garden-hoe will soon
Visit and uproot you!’

The pale Primrose sharply blamed
The still paler Lily:—
‘Sickly white and monstrous height
Make you look so silly!
Take my hint and get a tint,
Pallid flower unholy!
Ape no tree, but be, like me,
All compact and lowly.’

Harshly Crocus blue the doom
Of Primrose rehearses:—
‘That pale bloom which you assume
Heaven justly curses!
Swiftly judgment must pursue
The audacious fellow
Who, while heaven's self is blue,
Ventures to be yellow!’

In its turn the Crocus by
Violet is abhorrëd:—
‘Scentless bloom! How sad your doom,
Well-deserved, though horrid!
Though you blue'are, you 're a weed
Oven shall devour;
It is perfume that indeed
Shows the genuine flower!’

While each one of all the flowers
Thus is rashly giving
To the rest not even an hour's
Right of longer living,
He who grows them, great or small,
Deems them none too many,
And says, smiling on them all,
‘I can spare not any.’

TO S. N. F.

Were my soul as a harp, apt to be moved
To magic cadences, O Friend beloved!
Were my soul as a harp, and might my hand
The cunning of enchanters understand;
Ah then, sweet Sister, then should all the air
And all the earth and the whole deep rich sea
My power feel; that thence all things most fair,
Most beautiful, most like, dear Friend, to thee,
Might gather'd be; such as, the fragrances
Wonderful of the flowers; the splendid dyes
Shed by the western sun upon the skies;
And from the mines, and from the agëd seas
Their selfish hoards of costliest jewelries;
Added thereto, all the delicious sounds
Wherewith the feathery commonwealth abounds:
These should be fetch'd and magically blent
Into a glorious nectar; in the which
I would embathe my fingers, that the scent
Might enter through the strings into the sound
Of the new music of mine instrument,—

A music thence so wonderful and rich
Even should smiles spring in thy gentle eyes,
Smiles that must needs, for sweetness, end in tears;
While more than mortal harmonies should rise
Majestic on the portals of thine ears,—
Harmonies beautiful, that through all years
Should rise, and deep into thy spirit pass,
That like might thus mingle with like.
Alas!
I have no harp so powerful, sweet Friend;
I have no skill thus to make Nature lend
Her riches to the instrument I sway:
Yet Sister, O my Sister! I can send
Petition to the Father, Who ne'er misses
To hear prayer for His loved ones; I can pray,
And do, indeed, dear Sister, that with thine,—
Thy dearest, and thyself,—the hand Divine
May richly bide; that so thy joys and blisses
As many as the stars of heaven may be,
Or as the kind thoughts my heart bears for thee!

HEMLOCK STONE.

[_]

[Bramcote, near Nottingham.]

Thou petrified enigma! Question cold,
By Answer unespoused, though ask'd of old!
Hoary perplexity! Deep mystery, done
Ages innumerable ago in stone!
When cam'st thou here? What monstrous means convey'd
Thee to this station? What convulsion made
Thy red neck rear itself thus haughtily
Above the field? What tempests sculptured thee?
What ice-float brought thee here, a lonely rock?
What wind-wolves howling after fleecy flock
Of clouds that 'fore them flee like frighten'd sheep,
And press, and crush, and on each other leap,
And in fast tears of rain, shed in their terror, weep,—
What packs of winds through earth and heaven that range,
Gnaw'd thy old bulk into these features strange?
Or was 't some insane flood that swept away
Thy womb of earth, and bared thee to the day?

Or, in its waste and wildness, plough'd and surged,
And urged thee on, groaning to be so urged,
And set thee up, on this hill-side to stand,
By strongest of all hands—a liquid hand?—
'Tis thine a dark enigma to remain;
'Tis mine to guess thee, and to guess in vain.

Well might the druid old bow down with awe,
And deem thee, when thy uncouth form he saw,
An altar cut by Nature's hand in stone,
That her God might be worshipp'd thereupon
More largely and in more majestic ways
Than on those lesser ones which mortals raise:
Well might he kindle on thine agëd head
The mystic fire, and with lean arms outspread,—
His old hair feebly wandering out behind
Like tatter'd white flag shivering in the wind,—
Invoke the sanction of the gods to fall
Upon the solemn ceremonial,
While through his eyes wild liquid fire did flow,
And the harp trembled and the mistletoe;
For to this hour, suggesting incense, thou
Still steadiest up a sacrificial brow;
And although thou who wast, ages agone,
An awful altar, now art but a stone,
Yet let my song to God our Maker be
As solemn fire to rise once more from thee.

What eyes innumerable, O agëd stone,
Have gazed, and gazed, thine antique form upon!
The woad-dyed savage with his hunting spear
Has leapt and stared and wonder'd even here:
Haply the Roman soldier here has stood,
Stray'd from his camp far into the wild wood:
The monk, at least, on palfrey ambling past,
Shaken by the rough bridle-road, has cast
A hot glance on thee: the knight, steel-array'd,
A breathing moment near thy bulk has stay'd
To bid his squire behold: gay Cavalier
And solemn stern old Roundhead have been here:
Lovers and maidens: lords, and squires, and pages:
Serf, farmer, village-fool. Ages on ages
Of human life hast thou seen onward glide.
At last I stand upon thy wither'd side,
Another drop of that still-flowing tide.

Yes; man in intermittent stream hath flow'd
By thee for ages on the neighbouring road;
And mortal hearts successive here have beat
That now beat nowhere. On thy velvet seat
Still stand'st thou solemn: that long multitude
Away hath faded, whilst thou, unsubdued
By all those ages, hast made good thy claim
To hold this station, and art still the same.

We change; we vanish; thou, defying fate,
Stand'st in thy antique sameness obstinate;
Like the huge head, sore battered and time-ridden,
Of sphinx whose body 'neath the earth is hidden;
Or like a statue of drear Desolation,
Rock-carven by some old, mad, plague-smit nation,
Dying by hundreds; or, like ancient Lear,
With wither'd weed on thine old head for hair;
But dead, stone-stiffen'd, not of any daughters
Raving, drown'd, ages since, in ravenous waters;—
Alas, thou canst not rave, nor speak, nor see;
Thou canst but stand in giant idiocy.

Now speaks one tongue for both; few years shall run
Their course, and it will lack words even for one;
And here, where now my flesh speaks, on this sod,—
A clod that moves, to an unmoving clod,—
Others shall muse, in ages yet to come,
And thou be spoken to, when it is dumb;
And thine old bulk be gazed at, even as now,
When it is cold,—as dull a thing as thou!

And thou shalt stand, beautiful times among?
Ah hadst thou any to-be-trusted tongue,
I might perchance entreat thee to convey
Some message down to that high-favour'd day,

To say that even in hours so stormy-sad
Were some whose eyes saw their day and were glad,
And from these deeps of ancient woe and crime
Help'd to achieve for them that better time.

Lo! how it rises, rises on mine ears,—
The mighty music of those unborn years!
The billows of that song-sea, how they roll
Extravagantly on into my soul!
He comes, by all God's royal bards foresung,
By pining ages waited for so long!
The Christ in man received, for whom her brow
The world hath knit in pain, and groan'd till now!
He comes for you, ye poor; ye weak, pursue
Your glad hosannas, for He comes for you;
For poor, for rich, for weak, for strong, He's given,
To make of earth a fitting floor for heaven.

HERESY.

The novel doctrine may be right,
Spite of these cries of danger:—
The best yard-dogs will bark and bite
Alike at every stranger.

WOMAN.

Weak souls, self-prison'd, scorn their cells,
And leap forth freed, when Woman's nigh;
Sweet speech, like music-making bells,
Rings changes in her thoughtful eye,
Glad joy-peals, or slow-tolling knells
With echoes from on high.

Magic and forceful fires in these,—
A woman's smiles, a woman's tears;—
Kind furnace fires that can unfreeze
Hearts bound in arctic ice for years;—
Flames that can ravish whom they seize,
And lift to heavenly spheres.

Their bliss, from her who nobly seek
And get, to sweet hope, meet reply,
No traitorous soul can ever speak,
Or even in far-off thought descry;—
Too blest, for whom first glows her cheek,
And speaks new tongues her eye!

Talk not of beauty; love will lie
Where beauty never boasts to dwell;
Love lighted purely from on high,
With sweet good sense and truth as well,
These, looking forth from Woman's eye,
Can weave the strongest spell.

'Tis said, indeed, that Love decays
When altar-oaths have join'd the hands;
That there's no talismanic phrase
Can hold him in enduring bands;—
Yes! and when drouth the deer dismays,
They flee to other lands;—

Yes! and the frost-offended bird
Mourns, and at length away it hies;—
Yes! and the unkind deed or word,
Cold whispers from unloving eyes,
When these by Love's fine ear are heard,
What wonder if he flies?

Love, when by the contracting heart
He 's pinch'd and fretted, off may go;
The plumage fledging Cupid's dart
To strong-quill'd wings, in frost, can grow,—
Wings yet reluctant to depart,
Slow waving to and fro.

O most God-worthy gift, to bless
The earth with gracious overflow!
Thou, Woman, art true prophetess
Of every heaven man shall know.—
Ye who her priceless love possess,
Oh never let it go!

ALADDIN.

To take the ring humility, and use,
Becomes thee not, Aladdin, to refuse,
No matter though thine enemy it be
By whom that true self-knowledge comes to thee;
Nor shalt thou scorn into the vault to go;—
For thee the lamp of wisdom lies below.

Pluck thou the fruits that grow on either hand,
Although as yet thou mayst not understand
Their real nature. To thy present sense
Each seems, perhaps, a vain experience,
But thou to-morrow each a gem shalt see
Cheapening the sultan's signet-ring to thee.

CIRCLES.

The acorn, earth-trodden,
Grows pulpy and sprouts with the rain;
Up springs the young oak
From seed with might and with main;
Its fructified top
Comes, lastly, to acorns again.

The child's top lies quiet
Asleep and inert on the ground.
Wind the string, spin the top,
See the toy how it whirls round and round,
Fast, faster, and faster,
Until it again sleeps sound,
And motion excessive
Joins hands with repose most profound.

Like rain weeps the mother
In pain for her fever-struck boy;—
The fever abating,
Hope gives her eyes other employ;—
Him quite out of danger
Ere long she 'll weep over for joy.

Weak, bald, deaf, and blind,
The child comes, pity to crave;—
Stands erect the young man,
Quick, competent, active, and brave;—
Weak, bald, deaf, and blind,
Old age totters over the grave.

SORROW.

The flowers live by the tears that fall
From the sad face of the skies,
And life would have no joys at all
Were there no watery eyes.

Love thou thy sorrow: grief shall bring
Its own excuse in after years:—
The rainbow!—see how fair a thing
God hath built up from tears.

THE ARBOUR.

Silent sits the gentle Evening on the meads
With her twilight-retinue;
And on grassy threads she strings her dewy beads
Yet scantily and few,
While her soft breaths give a tremble to the weeds
And a tremble to the dew.

She hath faintly both the sun and moon display'd
On the grey flag that she rears,
And the dimness of her dark hair shoots a shade
Through the light that disappears
Very slowly from her features, all array'd
In loveliness and tears.

But what shall be her beauty when compared
With the human presence fair
Of the maiden sitting silent in the bower
On the quaint and rustic chair,—
The beads impaled upon her lashes,
And the darkness in her hair?

With high hand to the mastery of the bowe
Climbing clematis lays claim,
But the honeysuckle's rivalry is bold
And eager for the same;
And Annie sits as motionless as picture
In a flower-abounding frame.

Unfinish'd lies her broidery on the table,
And the needle is at rest,
For her eyes are on the light-absorbing clouds
That gather in the west,
And her hands, uplifted, unaware are pressing
The Book upon her breast.

What is it she has done, this gentle maiden,
To entitle her to tears?—
Ah, feeble lies her father in his chamber,
And Annie has such fears
As scarcely could she bring herself to whisper
Into kindest angel's ears.

How still she sits! Scarce may you see her breathe!
And let your feet, I pray you, still be shod
With silence;—noiseless be as moth on flower,
Or earthworm in the sod;—
Intrude not on the sorrow that is seeking
The comfortings of God.

WILFORD BOAT.

[Near Nottingham, 1848.]

What, my good friend, Ferry-boat
Still in being? Still afloat?
Still an engine to convey
Me across Trent's watery way?
Still a moving bridge to glide
Steadily from side to side?
Still a bark to carry over
Idle or laborious rover,
Cottager, or bard, or lover?—
More debts even than I know
Unto this good Boat I owe,
Which hath help'd me, boy and man,
Oft to fields Elysian;—
Wilford Bank and Clifton Grove,
Lovely haunts which lovers love;—
To the wildest gardens, where
I have breathed enchanted air,
And amid the wondering trees
Watch'd the fairies' revelries.

Oberon I have seen, I swear,
And the sweet Titania, there;
And the Lady Mab, besides,
Who in mossy cleft abides;
And the trickster Puck, who glides
Long green leaves of arum under,
To enjoy the start of wonder
And the eyelids wide asunder
Thrown, when some sly sound he gives,
And the wanderer deceives:—
Now it is a splash, and now
'Tis the noise of cracking bough;
Or a whistle, shrill and lonely;
Or a sound of footstep only,
With the which to fool and cheat
The traveller: then in retreat
Falls, with smother'd laughs, the elf,
'Gainst the stem still props himself,
And though still he slyly hides,
Arum shakes, as shake his sides.

Wilford Bank and Clifton Grove,
Lovely land that lovers love,
Yes, full many fine enjoyments
I have had there; sweet employments;

Flower-gatherings; recollections
Of the Queen of my affections;
High poetic gleams and fancies;
Smiling hopes and rich romances;
For all which I am in debt
To this good Boat: wherefore let
Time and chance look kindly on it,
And its days sit light upon it;
Be its solid timbers long
Serviceably hale and strong,
And the fates its final date
To old age procrastinate;
Guarding safe its privileges
From upstart usurping bridges.

On the chain the pillar grates;
Shut, behind, the watery gates,
Ope before to let us through.
We have one man for our crew,
And two passengers has he.
Free, yon seat, for me and thee.
But if child thou sawest here,
Or a woman, plain or fair,
Hoary matron or young maiden,
Or a man heavily laden
With his years, or with a basket,
Shouldst not wait until he ask it;

Shouldst not sit to let her sue thee;
Hard that seat should seem unto thee
Till thou didst its service press
On them with frank courteousness;
Age or weakness,—'twere scarce fitting
These should stand and thou be sitting!

Here have stood how many feet!
Here how many hearts have beat
O'er this deck! This selfsame Boat
'Twixt two running streams doth float,—
O'er and under;—for, below,
Watery, and, above, doth flow
Human tide. Ages ago
Two streams at this ferry ran,—
River Trent and river Man.

The other notch must now receive
This handle. Good friend,—with your leave?—
Thank you! Trust me, I must grieve
On your comfort to intrude;—
Need compels me to be rude;—
Here till midnight must we stay
Till the helm be put this way.

Nearer now yon whiten'd walls
Beckon, and the old church calls

Us with other voice than bell:
So bid we this Boat farewell.—
Farewell! Aye, and dear to me
Memory of this Boat shall be,—
Boat, upon whose actual wood
Dear feet, sacred feet, have stood;
Feet of gracious, feet of good,
Feet of noble Sister sweet,
At whose name beloved must beat
Fresher pulses, and a heat
Must the eyes fill, and a sound
Musical the ears; and round
Heart the kind thoughts cluster thick
As, round magnet, grains of steel,—
As, round queen-bee, swarm-bees quick.
Thou 'rt far with thy loved one; still
Not so far but I can feel
Thine effect as lowly calm,
Sweet as sound of solemn psalm;
And an influence stealing o'er me;
And a light that gleams before me;
And a voice urging to press
On to real holiness,
Nor relax the labour now
Till I be as pure as thou!

Yes, that noble heart hath been
Even here; those eyes have seen,—
Gentle eyes,—this very scene;
Her foot trod this plank; was set
Even here: sprang violet
And the primrose as she stept,
Surely; and the hard earth leapt
To be so happied!—
Dearest Boat!
Wert thou richest bark afloat;
Were thy nails of solid gold,
All thy deck with silver roll'd,
And complete in luxury;
Still, I could not look on thee
With that special admiration,
With that something love and passion,
Wherewith, when thy planks I view,
Now for her sole sake I do.

Truly I did well to pray
Time and chance, from day to day,
That they might look kindly on thee,
And thy years sit light upon thee,
And thy solid timbers long
Serviceable be and strong,

And the fates thy final date
To old age procrastinate;
Guarding safe thy privileges
From upstart, usurping bridges!

WHO SHALL DELIVER?

He spake;—from vanity, it seem'd to be;
Was silent; still he saw 'twas vanity
He own'd his vainness; vanity took possession
Of that most sad confession.
He vow'd to kill the weed, and strove to do 't,
And hew'd and hack'd down to the very root:
Alas, rank vanity would still be thriving
And prosp'ring even in that very striving.
Then fell he down and pray'd:—Lord, take my breath,
And save me from the body of this death.

A DREAM OF THE SEA FOAM.

I

We stood, both silent, by the sounding sea.
The waves, like lips about to speak, did rise,
Yet shrewdly kept the secret; and the wise
Sky o'er us told not our hearts' destiny.
Ah, had the future then by me and thee
Been but divined, with what endear'd surprise
Should we have gazed into each other's eyes
And loved, even for the love that was to be!
The very flints thou troddest would have been
Dear for the time's sake when more dear they'd grow
For thy sake,—when thy heart on mine would lean
As then thine arm on mine did.—Nay, not so,
Dearest, not so! Our arms were link'd to sever;
But when our hearts united, 'twas for ever.

II

Then, arm on arm; now, heart in heart; ah why
Not arm on arm now, too? Why should the dear
So seldom be the near? Why are the near,
Alas, not always dear? Earth doth supply
Too many who the human form degrade.
And yet love blesses all, if love is true;
And, since we love each other, I and you
Doubtless are lending them some hidden aid.
Yet 'tis a grief that to these plenteous men,—
Too plenteous—I may go, and not to thee;
So now I mourn for what I prized not then,
And own that now most blessëd seems to me
That time, which seem'd not so at that time, when
We stood, both silent, by the sounding sea.

‘THOUGH HE SLAY ME, YET WILL I TRUST IN HIM.’

What if I perish, after all,
And lose this life, Thy gracious boon?
Let me not fear that I shall fall
And die too soon.

I cannot fall till Thou dost let,
Nor die, except at Thy command.
Low let me lie, my Father, yet
Beneath Thy hand.

'Tis good to think, though I decrease,
Thou dost not, Lord, decrease with me.
What matters it that I must cease,
Since Thou must be?

The life Thou willedst me I use
To thank Thee for that gracious will;—
If I must lose it, I would choose
To thank Thee still.

No more might I lift prayerful eyes,
Or sway a tongue to grateful tones;
Yet should a noise of praise still rise
Even from my bones.

LOVE'S PENALTY.

Alas, the pains a man may bear from foes!
Alas, ten times alas, the flood of woes
Which to the lover from his loved-one flows!
Yet thank God for thy love, e'en though it be
As very gall for bitterness to thee.

A PREACHER'S SOLILOQUY AND SERMON.

THE SOLILOQUY.

What wealth to earth our God hath given!
What growing increment for heaven!
Men, women, youth, and children small,
I thank the good God for you all!

Not always was it mine to give
Such high regard to all who live;
Time was, I know, when I could go
Along the streets and scarcely see
The presences my God did show
So lavishly to me.
Around my steps,—before, behind,—
They His creative power declared;
I only heeded them, to find
The easiest path, as on I fared.
And even the innocent little ones,
Of value high o'er stars and suns,—
Evangelists, by Heaven's decree,
Commission'd truths to teach to me

That elsewise I had never known,—
They seem'd young foreigners to be,
They never seem'd mine own.
How could I be so dull and blind?
How dared I slight God's humankind?

I know ye nothing care for me;—
Each to each deep mysteries,
We cannot guess what we may be
Except by what a glance can seize.
Perchance we never met before,
Meet now the first and final time,
Yet are ye mine, over and o'er,
That, haply, I may help you climb
To Jesus, up the mount divine.
Oh might such high success be mine!
Fain would I couch your vision dim;
Fain would I lead you up to Him!

Nay, nay, I cannot yield up one—
No little child, no youth, no man;
I cannot say, Depart from me;
I cannot say, Begone, begone,
I have no part in thee.

No part? But how? Do I not love you?
Is not this title still more strong
Than if I'd bought you all with gold?—
Love strenuous flies, a spirit above you;
Try to escape, it will outfly you,
It will embrace, ay, and defy you
To break away its gentle hold.
Because God's love is swift and strong,
Therefore ye all to me belong.

Why do I dare love all mankind?
'Tis not because each face, each form
Is comely, for it is not so;
Nor is it that each soul is warm
With any Godlike glow.
Yet there's no one to whom 's not given
Some little lineament of heaven,
Some partial symbol, at the least, in sign
Of what should be, if it is not, within,
Reminding of the death of sin
And life of the Divine.
There was a time, full well I know,
When I had not yet seen you so;
Time was, when few seem'd fair;

But now, as through the streets I go,
There seems no face so shapeless, so
Forlorn, but that there's something there
That, like the heavens, doth declare
The glory of the great All-fair;
And so mine own each one I call;
And so I dare to love you all.

Glory to God, who hath assign'd
To me this mixture with mankind!
Glory to God, that I am born
Into a world, whose palace-gates
So many royal ones adorn!
Heaven's possible novitiates,
With self-subduing freedom free,
Princely ye are, each one, to me,
Each of secret kingly blood,
Though not inheritors as yet
Of all your own right royal things,
For it were folly to forget
That they alone are queens and kings
Who are the truly good.
Yet are ye angels in disguise,
Angels who have not found your wings;
I see more in ye than ye are
As yet, while earth so closely clings;

As through a cloud that hides the skies
Undoubting science hails a star
Not to be seen by other eyes,
Yet surely among things that are,
So the dense veil of your deformities
Love gives me power away to pull.
Alas! why will ye not from sin arise,
And be Christ's beautiful?

THE SERMON.

Ho! every one that thirsts, draw nigh, draw nigh!
The drink I offer, Christ's own words supply.
Ho! every one that thirsts not, thirst, I cry;
Why will ye still neglect to drink,—and die?
See, here are living wells; why will ye scorn?
Ye unborn, why refuse ye to be born?
I call you to repent, oh hear my call!
Doth my voice reach you, through the stiff cere-clothes
That do enshroud and wrap you up withal?
Doth my shout come, a whisper in your ears,
As sounds might, travell'd from far distant spheres,
Into the ravell'd windings of a cave?
O then turn down those cerements of the grave
From round about your ears;

Let my voice be as thunder; let it roll
Into each wakening soul;
Come forth, O Lazarus! when I say so
Deem me a way wherethrough Christ's mandates flow,
And let each buried one attend, and know
The stone is roll'd away; Christ calls to him below.
Come forth, O Lazarus! when I say so,
Let where it lists His Holy Spirit blow,
Until each Lazarus comes forth, and know
Christ only waits to say—Loose him, and let him go!
His voice delights to set all prisoners free;
His blood, His truth, makes all sin white as wool;
Oh hear! Oh wash you, cleanse you, and so be
Christ's own, Christ's beautiful!

LOVE.

Love is, if Benedict may be trusted,
Mere selfishness behind a mask removed:
Ah, Benedict, then, has liked, perhaps, and lusted,
But never, never loved!

A LOVE-LETTER.

No; I cannot thank the care
That my feelings sought to spare.
Not compliment with compliment
Should deal, but man with man. You meant
To save me pain, and therefore bent
The truth aside. This goes, my friend,
Of all true love to make an end.

Do you love me? Come then nigh me;
Prick me, man! Never relent!
Cut and hack and scarify me;—
If the truth can make me sore
Let me be a wound all o'er:—
Do this but with pure intent,
I am
Yours
For evermore.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS

TO MY FATHER.