Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

With loud, tumultuous clash and clang,
As though with sudden rapture mad,
Twelve bells congratulation rang,
From that stout belfry of St. Chad:
The rite was o'er, the love-knot tied,
And down the aisle, in trim array,
The bridemaids follow'd, thoughtful-eyed,
Their wedded sister, Alice Gay.

The vestry walls had ears within
For many an old-establish'd jest;
By many a lip of friends and kin
The bride's consenting lips were press'd:
And (all things done in order meet)
Again the fair procession pass'd
Through gazing crowds which lined the street,
And gain'd the festive home at last.

But there flock'd in a gathering host
Of neighbours—some esteem'd through life;
The friend since youth beloved the most,
The college crony with his wife,

216

The school companion of the bride,
The bridegroom's chum of yesterday,
All came to grace in pomp and pride
The nuptial feast of Alice Gay.

Yet mirth came not;—o'er old and young,
Kinsfolk and friends assembled there,
A smile-o'er casting shadow hung,—
A cloudy consciousness of care;
And though the board was richly spread,
And wine its cheering influence lent,
It might on every brow be read
That 'twas no time for merriment.

The bride had still that anxious mien
Which all the previous day she wore;
At wedding feast was seldom seen
A sadder, sweeter face before:
Her father strove with laugh and jest
The deep heart-trouble to disguise
Which yet his faltering tones express'd,
Which glimmer'd in his misty eyes.

I rose (the chaplain of the day)
Obedient to maternal sign,
“A few appropriate words” to say,
And pledge the parting pair in wine;
And half in earnest, half in joke,
In bantering, serio-comic style,
Essay'd a speech which should provoke,
If not a laugh, at least a smile.

But when the laugh was fairly laugh'd,
And other friends had said their say,

217

And toasts been cheer'd and bumpers quaff'd,
And changes rung on ‘grave and gay,’
And, after many a last embrace,
And parting words said o'er and o'er,
The bride had turn'd her tearful face
From that dear home—her home no more;—

While bridemaids doff'd their raiment gay,
And bridemen donn'd their boating gear,
To wile the lagging hours away
On Severn's current brisk and clear,—
We elders in the house alone
Were left, o'er teeming thoughts to brood,
And I held converse with my own
In somewhat of despondent mood.

I saw, as in a wizard's glass,
The generations of our kin
Arise and flourish, fade and pass,
Old interests end and new begin;
I saw the frequent silver streak
Now turning ebon ringlets grey,
Which shaded once the blooming cheek
Of bride as fair as Alice Gay.

I thought how much of life was past,
How little of its duty done;
How friends had dropp'd around us fast,
And still were dropping one by one;
How we ourselves seem'd scarcely more
Than laggards of a troop gone by,
Whose hopes and fears on earth were o'er,—
Whose proper task was now to die.

218

I thought—ah! sisters, ye can think,
How homes and haunts which serv'd for years,
The present with the past to link,
In love which fill'd the eyes with tears,—
The halls in which our kinsmen dwelt,—
The old town house,—the vicarage small,—
Hard by the church in which we knelt
As children,—are deserted all.

And how of ten who used to play,
Long since, around our parents' knees,
Four only are alive to-day,
And one a wanderer even of these.
With fortune and the world at strife,
He roams the wild Australian shore,
An alien now from English life,
An heir of English hope no more.

Or e'er upon our native soil,
We three lay down our load of years,
And cast aside this mortal coil,
With earth's last troubles, hopes, and fears,
'Tis meet we closer draw the chain
Which Nature round our spirits wove,
And cheer the days which yet remain
With fuller intercourse of love.

Our children (God hath blest us all,—
Best blessing in the stores of time,—
With sons and daughters great and small,
From infancy to manhood's prime,)—
Our children sure should not be strange,
Or unfamiliar each with each,
But give and take in free exchange
What heart to kindred heart can teach.

219

Thanks to the world-embracing rail!
No distance of terrestrial span,
Can now, as heretofore avail,
To bar congenial man from man.
O'er Britain hand to hand can reach,
All eyes all faces may behold,
And tongues exchange familiar speech,
Where only spirits could of old.

Those twain abodes by Severn's side,
To us have household thoughts become;
So few the hours which now divide
Your western from our midland home.
For what remains of mortal life,
Nought hinders that henceforth we be,
Child, father, sister, husband, wife,
All fused in one great family.

Meanwhile behold a homely gift,
A sample of the thoughts which flow,
The fancies quaint which change and shift,
As whim directs them, to and fro,—
The graver musings sometimes bred,
Amidst the controversial strife,
And pastoral toil of heart and head,
Which fill my later half of life:

In sooth such trifles suit but ill
The work which hath been mine since youth;
The rhymer's light, fantastic skill
But mars the solid ore of truth;
And we who strive with death and sin,
In ceaseless, never-ending fight,
But rarely time or taste can win
For fancy's dreams of vain delight.

220

Yet like the fitful breeze which sweeps
In gusts across Æolian strings,
And wakes the soul that in them sleeps,
Too deep for Art's solicitings—
From time to time an impulse caught,
I know not whence, I know not how,
Awakes the slumbering soul of thought,
And breathes it into verse, as now.

Nor few the springs of song which well
Beside the pastor's path in life;
No dweller he in monkish cell,
But rich in children, home, and wife.
Now praying in the poor man's cot,
Now wrestling with the Romish lie,
Now solacing the mourner's lot,
Now teaching timid hearts to die.

He lives with men, himself a man,
A husband and a parent, knows,
As none but those who learn it can,
The lore of household joys and woes:
His soul, a human soul, is fed
On food which kindred natures crave;
On him their threefold influence shed
The hearth, the altar, and the grave.

What marvel, if in leisure hours,
When failing health solicits ease,
He feel the stir of dormant powers,
Awaking to such themes as these?
What blame, if out of these he twine
A rainbow-tinted wreath of lays,
Exhaling faintly, line by line,
The fragrance of his fading days?

221

What crime, if he would thus bequeathe,
To flock and fold, to friends and kin,
Some record of the thoughts that seethe
A pastor-poet's breast within;
And when his place is void on earth,
To children's children still declare
What tomb and temple, home and hearth,
To those who went before them were?

Again we met beside the sea,
And bride and bridegroom join'd us there;
In all the world could scarcely be
A calmer, yet a happier pair.
A month its due effect had wrought
On either heart, and hope and fear,
And joy and grief, and anxious thought,
Were merged in love profoundly dear.

A cheerful party were we now,—
The bridegroom had grown sober-eyed,
And whoso look'd upon her brow
Might read contentment in the bride:
We wander'd on the wild sea shore,
We breathed the breezes pure and free,—
The breezes which so oft restore
Departed health and strength to me.

They came—they went—that youthful pair,—
The husband to his flock—the wife
With woman's love to soothe and share
The labours of a pastor's life;
And I—what less could poet give
Than this to speed them on their way,
And bring to mind, while both shall live,
The Honey Moon of Alice Gay?

222

THE SONG OF THE CHURCH-BUILDERS.

I

Where, with sounds of toil and wonder,
Engines roar and axles roll;
Where convergent railways thunder
Hourly to their central goal;
Where, from distant vale and highland,
To and fro are sent and brought,
O'er this broad imperial Island,
Trade and travel, wealth and thought;

II

Where our English youth inherit,
From remote ancestral days,
Nurture meet for mind and spirit,
Guidance sure in wisdom's ways;
Where, in strife with sore temptations,
Wrong'd, mis-judged, reviled, belied,
(Name beloved, revered by nations!)
Arnold battled, taught, and died;

III

Where the giant sons of labour
Gathering, swarming, work, and wive,
Neighbour pressing close on neighbour,
In their huge, still widening hive;
Where, in haste which never endeth,
Mammon on his path doth plod;
There a cry to Heaven ascendeth—
“Build, oh build, the House of God.”

223

IV

Who shall help to bear the burden?
Who shall help the strife to win,—
(Strife—its own abundant guerdon,)
With the powers of Death and Sin?
Parents, children, wives and mothers,
Rich and poor, and young and old,—
Spend, be spent for friends and brothers,—
For the flock prepare the fold.

V

Men of wealth, whose gold proceedeth
From the hordes which labour here,
Grant, to every soul that needeth,
Bread to strengthen, wine to cheer:
Give the toil-worn heart, which yearneth
For its hour of sabbath rest,
Leave to greet the light which burneth
Brightly for the weary breast.

VI

Christian servants—Christian masters,
Tradesman and apprentice, come;
Heal the stricken soul's disasters,
Give the wandering heart a home:
Let none faint, draw back, or falter,
Now the struggle hath begun;
Till, from God's completed Altar,
Sounds a voice, “Your work is done.”

VII

Well! O brothers! well already,—
Well! O sisters! ye have wrought;
Still be patient, firm and steady,
One in heart, and will, and thought
Still, with keen unwavering vision,
Keep the nearing goal in view

224

Still, with prompt resolved decision,
Each the general prize pursue.

VIII

Urge, enforce your proud petition,—
East and west, and south and north,
Speed your couriers on their mission,
Send your rousing summons forth:
Hearts there be in every quarter,
Which our Town's dear name shall stir;
Sons alert earth's wealth to barter,
For the lore they learn'd of Her.

IX

Ye whose youthful footsteps wander'd
By our wizard Avon's side;
Ye whose hearts first mused and ponder'd
Here, on thoughts whose fruits abide;
Ye to whom each slope and valley,
Lane and meadow far around—
Ye to whom each nook and alley
Of our streets is holy ground!—

X

Ye to whom old days returning,
In your sons, almost restore
Hopes with which your hearts were burning
Ere sad manhood's yoke ye bore;
For the priceless lore imparted,
For the nurture which doth train
Here your young and guileless-hearted—
Pay us now in kind again.

XI

Ye who still are fondly ranging
Through your embryo world of thought,

225

Bright with hues each moment changing,
Teeming still with joys unsought;
Ye whom learning, art and science,
Tempt, encourage, urge, invite,
Here with manifold appliance,
To true wisdom's pure delight;

XII

Ye whose barks, not yet in motion,—
Ye whose sails, not yet unfurl'd,—
Float at rest upon the ocean
Of this wide tempestuous world;
Ye whose sports are still your labours,—
Ye who know not care nor woe,—
O'er the souls of thirsting neighbours
Help the stream of life to flow.

XIII

Ye whom deeper draughts of knowledge
Strengthen in your May of youth,
Still in cloister'd court and college
Seeking self-revealing Truth;
Think what Her pursuit hath made you,
Think in Her what others lack;
As your school-day tasks still aid you,
Aid, as Christians, send us back.

XIV

Dwellers in old haunts of learning,—
Ye who once from Arnold heard
Thoughts for which your hearts were yearning,—
Thoughts for which their depths were stirr'd;
Where great Alfred's shade reposeth,—
Where meek Henry's name is blest,—
Where sepulchral darkness closeth
O'er the Bard's and Statesman's rest;—

226

XV

Ye who near Sabrina's waters,—
On her steeple-crested shore,
(—Loveliest she of Learning's daughters!—)
Train young hearts in healthiest lore;—
Hear a sister's voice appealing,—
Hear her children, how they plead;
Send her gracious help and healing
In her straitness and her need.

XVI

By the thoughts which haunt and trouble,
In your courts, the good and wise;
By the tears they cause to bubble
Oft and oft to aged eyes;
By the strong enchantment breathing
From your old ancestral towers;
By the magic folds enwreathing
Gentle hearts, both yours and ours;—

XVII

Now, while murkiest clouds combining
Brood o'er Learning's midland home;—
While, her deep foundations mining,
Creep the pioneers of Rome;—
While the shots begin to rattle,—
While on our unwavering van
Bursts the onset of the battle—
Hear us, help us, ye who can!

XVIII

Here, where Thought's fresh fountains glisten
In the ingenuous eye of Youth;
Where pure spirits love to listen
To the voice of ancient Truth;
Here, where Travel's paths are centred,—
Here, where Trade hath fixed her throne,—

227

Rome's insidious hosts have enter'd,
Rome's pernicious seed is sown.

XIX

Here the wily Jesuit lurketh,—
Here the Monk hath built his cell;
Here the meek-eyed Sister worketh
For the Church she loves so well;
Here (O thought of shame and sorrow!)
Foes, once friends, our peace invade;
Tenfold strength false Rome doth borrow
From the enthusiast renegade.

XX

Garbs uncouth, ill-boding faces,
Through our streets like spectres steal;
Men who ne'er a child's embraces
Ne'er a father's love must feel;
Gaunt of form and grim of feature,
Barr'd from all that God hath given
Here to bless his noblest creature—
Phantoms not of Earth—nor Heaven.

XXI

These!—are these thy foes, O Britain?
This the host thy sons must dread?
Must thy life of life be smitten
In such combat with the dead?
Joy were thine, O queenly nation,
Lurk'd no deadlier peril near;
Had thy coming generation
No more desperate strife to fear!

XXII

These, at least, are half our brothers,—
Brothers, tho' of creed outworn;
Now of mischief's myriad mothers
Creedless foes are hourly born:

228

Hosts in darkness grow and gather,
Foes to altar, hearth, and throne;
Foes who know no Heavenly Father,
No Divine Redeemer own.

XXIII

Sounds of dread begin to mutter
Harshly to the initiate ear;
Tongues obscene find strength to utter
Boding sounds of rage and fear:
On the thin and narrowing border
Of debate and peace we stand;
Waiting till full-grown disorder
Burst in fury on the land.

XXIV

Still, thou proud and palmy nation,
Undisturb'd thy state appears;
Still thy gaze of expectation
Beameth on the coming years:
Still thou cleav'st, of change abhorrent,
To establish'd rule and form;—
Smoothest stream!—to swell the torrent!
Breathless hush!—to break in storm!

XXV

Deep within thy breast is seething
Many a form of social ill;
Many a soul, in secret breathing
Rage and hate, lies close and still;
Through thy frame with strange sensation
Shiverings chill begin to creep;
Dreams of feverish agitation
Vex thee in thy troubled sleep.

XXVI

Godless hordes, untaught, neglected,
Writhing in their want and pain,—

229

Unappeased and unprotected,—
Fierce of heart and wild of brain,—
Scarce even now their rage can smother,—
Blind with hate, with suffering grim,
Curse their unacknowledged mother,—
Burn to rend her limb from limb.

XXVII

From the fields, by toil which grovels
Abject, hopeless, reaped and sown;
From the tottering huts and hovels
Thronged by forms of skin and bone;
From the vast o'er-peopled city,
Whence tall chimnies pierce the skies,—
Where pale crowds, unknown to pity,
Late take rest and early rise;—

XXVIII

From the subteranean cavern,
Where weak infants toil and pine;
From the tap-room and the tavern,
Where their wrathful sires combine,—
Swells the cry of hearts that languish,—
Hearts that shall ere long rebel;
Smokes the fire of human anguish
Kindled by the breath of hell.

XXIX

Still, thy face is bland and smiling,
Still thy words with grace abound;
Nought defiled, and nought defiling,
May in thy saloons be found:
Guides thou hast, whom all must follow,—
Doubt, near them, must hide its head;
Yet are half thy seemings hollow,—
Yet is half thy spirit dead.

230

XXX

Foul eruptive superstitions,
Flushing o'er thy tainted skin,
Mock, elude thy vain physicians,—
Shew disease uncheck'd within:
Not, O Britain, not for ever,
Can thy specious mockeries last;
Soon must blaze the latent fever,
Soon thy seeming health be past.

XXXI

Soon, in earthquake, flame and thunder,
Shall the fire, which smouldering lies,
Burst the hollow crust asunder
Of thy prim hypocrisies:
Then, when friends and foes are parted,
Shall the day of trial tell
Who are true, and who false-hearted,
Who for Heaven, and who for Hell.

XXXII

Pent till now in earth's recesses
Forms Titanic stir and rise,
Cursing all the Saviour blesses,
Spurning all His people prize:
Face to face stand Good and Evil,
For their last great conflict ranged;
Earth with Hell, and Man with Devil,
Man from God too long estranged!

XXXIII

Lo! the creeds of ages crumble!
Lo! on earth's upheaving crust,
Tower and temple reel and tumble,
Throne and empire turn to dust!
Hollow is the ground we tread on,
Prince and people, Church and priest;

231

Lo! the day of Armageddon
Dawneth in the louring east.

XXXIV

Ere, for this world's last dominion,
Host with host in combat close;
Ere the vulture flap her pinion
O'er expiring heaps of foes;
Once again, O brothers, rally,—
'Midst desertion, treachery, loss,
Undismay'd—o'er hill and valley
Wave the banner of the Cross.

XXXV

Faithful bands shall yet assemble,
When your gathering note is heard;
Yet the host of Hell shall tremble
At the thunders of the Word:
Yet—while dire convulsion rages
Ceaselessly from land to land,—
Founded on the Rock of Ages
Shall the Church unshaken stand.

XXXVI

Yet—while madly through the nations
Sweeps the flood of hate and fear;
She, with gentlest ministrations,
Shall her children's spirits cheer;
From the strife of vain opinions,
From the rush of error's blast,
Shield them with her sheltering pinions,
Till the storm be overpast.

XXXVII

Still, where'er her honour'd steeple
Points to Heaven from holy ground,
Shall a brave and righteous people
Faithful to its God be found:

232

Still shall bow before His Altar
Vigorous knee and hoary head;
Still by lips which lisp and falter
Shall his Holy Book be read.

XXXVIII

Still from hearths of humble gladness,
Still from homes by wealth despised,
Where, alike in joy and sadness,
Wisdom's word is known and prized,—
From the plough, the loom, the spindle,
Prayer and praise shall oft ascend;
Hearts with grateful love shall kindle
Towards their Heavenly King and Friend.

XXXIX

Still shall flames of pure devotion,
Kindled first at English hearth,
Spread their blaze o'er sea and ocean,
To the extremest verge of earth:
Still, where wife, and child, and father
Seek new homes on heathen ground,
There shall Christian Churches gather,
There shall Christian faith be found.

XL

Haste then, lay the strong foundation—
Haste, the choicer work prepare;
Friends of every rank and station,
Each the toil—the blessing share:
Each his separate service render,
Each his willing aid afford;
Till in grave majestic splendour
Stands the Temple of the Lord.

XLI

Spacious aisle, and chancel solemn,
Window stain'd with rare device,

233

Graceful arch and shapely column,
Fretwork quaint of costliest price;—
All that doth God's worship honour—
All that doth Man's heart impress—
All that doth the liberal donor
In his late remembrance bless,—

XLII

Make the Mansion rich and beauteous,
Which for God on earth we build;
There may hearts devout and duteous
With His present grace be fill'd!
Haste, hew timber, stone and marble,
Grasp the trowel, pile the hod;
While with heart and voice we warble
“Build! O Build! the House of God.”

Fabulosus Amnis.—Shakspere's Avon.

234

PENTECOSTAL ODE. 1852.

I

No sign, in earth or sky,
Proclaim'd that Spring was night,—
Nor genial warmth, nor mild, refreshing showers;
But winter's hoar-frost lay,
At break and close of day,
On fields which should have blazed with vernal flowers;
And stars of frosty splendour, clear and bright,
Kept watch in April skies as through December's night.

II

Through bare and leafless trees
The keen, cold Eastern breeze
Shrill'd as it swept;—no aromatic gale,
Wafting to Western sense
Luxurious bliss intense
Of perfume which Arabian blooms exhale;
But chill and wintry as the gust which raves
O'er Scythia's ice-bound rocks, through bleak Siberian caves.

III

Beneath that withering blast
As o'er our land it pass'd,
Nature lay bound, as by an hideous spell;
Her deep maternal womb
Inclosed, as in a tomb,
The life which vainly strove to burst its shell;

235

The sun his procreative power forgot, [not.
And kiss'd the earth with rays which cheer'd but quicken'd

IV

Then seem'd some strange divorce
Launch'd with dissevering force,
To break the nuptial bond of Earth and Heaven;
And, like some wife abhorr'd
Of her offended lord,
Who leads her life alone and unforgiven,
Earth, with an evil and unnatural eye,
Scowl'd on her born, and curs'd her unborn progeny.

V

Verdure had left the grass,—
The skies above were brass,
The soil in dust arose beneath the tread;
Below his reedy bank
The streamless river shrank,
As when late summer droughts lay bare his bed.
Nor human life, nor bestial might endure,
Unharm'd the laggard year's so long distemperature.

VI

But from the juiceless mead
The lean and hungry steed
Cropp'd his scant meal;—the melancholy kine,
In dull and languid mood,
For their expected food
Withheld, in silent suffering seem'd to pine;
The mated birds cower'd close within the nest,
No insect of the Spring display'd his broider'd vest.

VII

And still, as weeks wore past,
The Farmer stood aghast

236

To mark his wasting stock;—around a fire
As of the Christmas hearth—
Not now in Christmas mirth—
Crowded at evening, mother, child, and sire;
Thence watched the sunset of the vernal skies,
And saw the long day close, the clear, cold stars arise.

VIII

Stricken was human life,
And strange diseases rife;—
O! when, long-look'd-for Spring, wilt thou appear?
When shall thy fresh rains fall—
Thy sunshine disenthrall
From frost and fog this tainted atmosphere?
When from this trance, wherein spell-bound it lies,
Shall Nature's dormant life, by thee regenerate, rise?

IX

Thus, from its depths profound,
With inarticulate sound
Of murmur'd prayer, or mute, impatient sigh,
Man's spirit made its moan,—
All creatures seem'd to groan
And travail for release which none felt nigh;
But each in dumb, expectant anguish lay,
Till heaven's mild face restored should smile its pangs away.

X

At length—a welcome guest—
From out the sweet South-west,
Breathing faint perfume, and from dewy wing
Dispensing balmy showers
On grass and trees and flowers,
A breeze came forth,—the Spirit of the Spring;
Whereby all Nature, to her centre stirr'd,
The well-known influence felt, the well-known music heard.

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XI

A deep, heart-lightening throb—
A stifled sigh—a sob
Of pleasure, too profound to be repress'd,
Thrill'd through the soul of earth,—
The heavens, in tearful mirth
Of trickling rains, their sympathy confess'd;
A spell was broken, whose incumbent weight
Had press'd all living things and things inanimate.

XII

And though not yet the skies
Discharge their full supplies,
Nor empty quite their half-inverted urn,—
And oft, at morn and night,
Chill frosts untimely bite,
And bleak, inclement winds by day return,—
Nature no longer droops, but lifts to Heaven
A calm, expectant eye, like one who feels forgiven.

XIII

Now hearts expand with joy,—
Maid, matron, man and boy
With smiles and songs pursue their work or play;
Insect, and bird, and brute,
Plant, flower, and blossom'd fruit
Inhale at last the genuine breath of May;
And every hour do water, air and earth
To countless shoals and swarms of blissful life give birth.

XIV

Here let the spirit pause;—
Hence to the Great First Cause
Of all created good—all life—all bliss—
Uplift adoring thought,—
By things external taught
The mysteries of a mightier world than this;—

238

That unseen world within us, yet beyond,
Whereto doth Nature's course obscurely correspond.

XV

Hath not the heart of man,
Within its separate span,
Seed-time and harvest—cold or genial spring,—
Summer and autumn heat,
And winter frost and sleet,—
All good and ill which varying seasons bring?
Yearneth it not for heavenly warmth and light,
When streams of grace run dry, and mists of error blight?

XVI

And when, from realms above,
Warm rays of truth and love
The frost of Nature's wintry season melt,
And Heaven's resistless breath
Hath burst that trance of death
In which the spell-bound soul nor moved nor felt,—
And fertilizing rains of grace descend,
And light and genial heat commingled influence blend,—

XVII

Then doth the new-born soul,
Set free from sin's controul,
Blossom and bourgeon in celestial spring;
Then from the teeming heart
Divine affections start, [wing:
And heavenward thoughts, like new-fledged birds, take
Light to the spirit's inmost depths hath shone,—
Its summer is at hand, its winter past and gone.

XVIII

Such fruit of wish'd-for May
The Church doth now display,

239

Who late, a mourner lone, afflictive Lent
Kept with despondent cheer,
And frequent sigh and tear,
Wailing her absent Lord in low lament;
And when the bars of his sepulchral prison
He brake, could scarce believe that He indeed was risen.

XIX

And still, while He on earth
Consoled her spirit's dearth,
Or e'er the promised Comforter was given,—
Uncheer'd her bitter cup
She drain'd, till He went up
To claim his throne at God's right hand in Heaven:
Nor yet had dawn'd her Pentecostal morn,
But still she wail'd and wept in widow'd state forlorn.

XX

But hark! her ear at last
Hath caught the rising blast
As of a rushing mighty whirlwind's sound;—
Around her brows a tiar,
Begemm'd with tongues of fire,
Circles and shines:—The King his Bride hath crown'd.
Conduct her, virgins, to her throne of state;
The Queen her realm hath won,—the widow'd found her Mate.

XXI

Now spread the nuptial board,
And be rich offerings pour'd,
In liberal joy, at Bride and Bridegroom's feet
All loyal hearts dispense
Ambrosial frankincense
Of prayer and praise, while, in profusion meet,
Silver and gold are to the Temple given,
To grace the marriage feast of Earth redeem'd and Heaven.

240

XXII

Father! to thee we pray,
Inspire our hearts to-day
With faith unfeign'd and heavenly love sincere;
And seal this fane thine own,
Whose first foundation-stone
We lay with solemn pomp of ritual here:
First step of one tall ladder which shall rise,
For men's and angels' tread, between the earth and skies.

XXIII

O! if this sacred spot
Thy presence hallow not,—
If on this work thy Spirit be not shed,—
Around it and beside
Will circle far, and wide,
A populous waste,—a city of the dead,—
A realm of souls shut out from heavenly light,
Born but at Mammon's beck to toil from morn till night.

XXIV

Lo! from the vale beneath
Floats up a sulphurous wreath
Of vapour from the furnace and the flood,
Whose gnomes their strength combine
With genii of the mine,
To compass feats too vast for flesh and blood:—
Swart giants, whose joint ministry alone
Can work the will of wealth which hath all bounds outgrown.

XXV

And from that point expand,
As by Enchanter's wand
From the deep bowels of the earth call'd forth,
Vast piles, in many a range,
Of form uncouth and strange,
Far stretching East and West, and South and North;

241

Within whose spacious courts the Titan, Steam,
O'er hordes of human vassals holds his state supreme.

XXVI

There their colossal might
Conflicting powers unite;
Water and flame;—there iron, wing'd with gold,
In swift, impetuous race,
Contends with time and space;
There human nerve and bone are bought and sold;
And human souls their high ethereal birth
Forget in drudgery vile, all earthy and of earth.

XXVII

Not vain the lesson taught
To calm discerning thought
By that grim region, in its might display'd;
A type of science throned,
And nobler lore disown'd,—
Of thought laid prostrate at the feet of trade;—
Of low and sensual aims pursued with zeal,
Which none, in this late age, for mind's true glories feel.

XXVIII

There sits the Ocean Queen,
As in a mirror seen,
In pride full blown of her commercial state;
Potent to wield at will,
Alike for good and ill,
All powers that on the beck of Mammon wait;
With luxuries rich and costly compass'd round,
Deck'd with all gorgeous gems in earth's wide circle found.

XXIX

Beneath the cope of Heaven,
To Her all power is given

242

O'er brute mechanic forces;—wind and wave,
Tamed by her strong controul,
Transport from pole to pole
Her priceless freights:—the lightning is her slave,
And bears her queenly mandates to and fro,
And at her high behest doth meekly come and go.

XXX

To swell her peerless might
Shrewdness and force unite;
Counsel to plan, and energy to will;
Calm forethought, prudence cool,
Strength train'd in freedom's school,
And valour, by experience lesson'd still:
All worlds might she subdue in easy strife,
Were meat and raiment more than body and than life.

XXXI

But Truth Supreme says—No!
Earth was not moulded so,—
Not so of old were Heaven's foundations laid,
That skill and strength of men,
As from a Cyclop's den,
Should bind in fetters, which their toil hath made,
The everlasting course of things create,
And reign, with iron will, o'er all the realm of Fate.

XXXII

The powers that chain the wind,
The lightning's pinions bind,
Yoke fire and flood to their triumphal car,—
Are but the servile thrall
Of Mind enthroned o'er all,
And Mind, in turn, a weak and wavering star,
Itself opaque, dispensing but a beam
Reflected from the sun of heavenly truth supreme.

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XXXIII

And where that beam is veil'd,
Or its pure light hath fail'd,
In vain the forge-fires glow—the anvils ring;
In vain the Cyclop's crew
With stroke and shout renew
The task exacted by their grisly king:
Nought will their strength produce, by all its toil,
But anarchy and wrong and mischief's mad turmoil.

XXXIV

Meanwhile unheard, above,
Wisdom and Truth and Love
Discourse celestial music, clear and sweet;
Apollo strikes the lyre,
The Muses' answering choir
Their high accordant harmonies repeat;
Which hush'd Olympus holds its breath to hear,
While dull is Britain's heart, and deaf is Britain's ear.

XXXV

Yet till that heavenly strain
Can touch the heart and brain
Swoln with Earth's pride, and drunk with carnal power,
No might can disenthral
Slaves, doom'd to crouch and crawl,
From sensual bonds which the soul's life devour:
O'er their crush'd strength incumbent Ætna lies,—
Blindly they heave and turn, and strive in vain to rise.

XXXVI

Awake! ye faithful few,
Whose souls, devout and true,
Still hold serene communion with the skies;
Who still, with aim sublime,
Above this grovelling time,
Above these numbing bonds of custom rise;

244

Whom neither lust enslaves, nor avarice blinds,
Nor Duty's trumpet-call unnerved for action finds.

XXXVII

To you, in still retreat,
Or high Devotion's seat,—
To you, amidst your toils of Christian love,—
Far from the din and strife
Of this world's restless life,
Came the strong cry of kindred hearts which strove
In one high cause with you;—that cry ye heard,
And to your spirit's depths were by its summons stirr'd.

XXXVIII

And lo! with one accord,
To Heaven's eternal Lord
Our joint fraternal gift we bring to-day;
And hopefully combine,
Of His intended shrine
The strong and sure foundation-stone to lay;
Whereto shall streams of Christian pilgrims flow,
While Mammon's shapeless pile attracts its crowds below.

XXXIX

That shapeless pile to rear,
Pours in from far and near,
Exhaustless gold;—well loves the world its own,
And grudges not to gild
The fane its children build
To their blind god, or deck his gaudy throne.
Meanwhile, with slow laborious toil, we wring,
From few but Christian hearts, what here to Heaven we bring.

XL

Yet with no niggard thrift
Dishonour we the gift,

245

But, strong in faith, our costly work begin;
Though circling years should flee,
And still our children see
The maim'd, imperfect pile rebuke their sin;
And still, below, the trains should thunder by,
Nor spire, discern'd from far, delight the traveller's eye.

XLI

Deep buried in the tomb
Of the veil'd Future's womb
Leave we such thoughts;—the present time is ours;
And, ere its sand be run,
Must we the work have done
Allotted to its few and fleeting hours.
Let zeal complete what faith and hope have plann'd,
For lo! the night when no man worketh is at hand.

XLII

Stake out the appointed ground,
And closely fence it round;
Dig the foundation deep; securely lay,
Within the green earth's breast,
The stones whereon must rest
The ponderous pile which we commence to-day;—
That work may prophets and apostles own,
And Jesus Christ Himself be the chief Corner Stone!

XLIII

Here shall, in after days,
The chaunt of prayer and praise
To Heaven's high throne in choral anthems mount;
Here on the good and true
Descend celestial dew
From the pure depths of Love's exhaustless fount;
Here shall the bread of life the hungry feed,—
Here in the faithful heart be sown the heavenly seed.

246

XLIV

Here, where of late the flowers,
Refresh'd by vernal showers,
Spread their gay petals to the fostering sun,
Ere long more heavenly rain
Shall wash ancestral stain
From that unconscious life scarce yet begun;
While Christian parents their full hearts uplift
To Him who, then and there, confirms his promis'd gift.

XLV

And where the hawthorn hedge
Now skirts the Eastern edge
Of the allotted ground, the altar rail
That mystic space shall fence
Whence holy hands dispense
The heavenly manna which shall never fail.
There shall pure hearts their present Lord adore,
And with His flesh and blood their fainting strength restore.

XLVI

And there their plighted troth
Shall bride and bridegroom both
With God's own sanction ratify and seal;
There learn that earthly love
Hath its deep springs above,
As, side by side, before their Lord they kneel;
A holier love, profounder and more true
Than e'er ascetic monk or cloister'd abbess knew.

XLVII

Nor pass we lightly by,
With heedless heart and eye,
The spot whereon hereafter shall be read
The pure and living word,
By saint or sinner heard,
With joy or grief, with hope or anxious dread;

247

Nor that, wherefrom the preacher's voice shall fall
On light or serious hearts, with stern or gentle call.

XLVIII

No vague, uncertain sound
Within these walls confound
The wandering mind, nor cheat the listening ear!
No thoughts, which wildly range
Thro' ways perplex'd and strange,
Bewilder him who speaks and those who hear!
No brain infect with pestilential lies,
Here weave its flimsy web of tangled sophistries!

XLIX

No fancies quaint and vain,
Engender'd in the brain
Of weak, fantastic, ceremonial priest
The simple rites disguise,
By hearts devout and wise
Bequeath'd of men, whose martyr faith releas'd
The captive Church from Rome's corroding chain,
And gave to human thought its liberty again!

L

Nor ever trace be found,
On this devoted ground,
Of priestcraft upon mental thraldom built;
Nor impious pride invade
His office who hath made
Atonement, once for all, for human guilt;
Nor dare dissever, with usurp'd controul,
From His immediate grace the bruised and bleeding soul.

LI

Better such arts become
Yon genuine brood of Rome,
Who prowl and prey with secret, stealthy tread;
In life's last hour molest

248

The heart in Christ at rest,
And swoop, like vultures, on the dying bed;
Perplex the parting soul with bigot lies,
And mock the failing sense with antic juggleries.

LII

Far other task be theirs,
Whom, with consenting prayers,
Hereafter on this spot the Church shall hear
Unfold the Scripture sense,
And faithfully dispense
The bread of life to hungry heart and ear;—
No priestly caste, a priestly rule who bear,
But stewards of Christ's grace, dispensing all they share.

LIII

No grim ascetic here,
With monkish rule austere,
Its social nature from man's heart expel!
No votaress, sad and pale,
Assume the shroud-like veil,
Nor pine unpitied in her prison cell!
No false, exclusive sanctity the grace
Blaspheme, by Christ bestow'd on all our human race!

LIV

But household virtues sweet,
And chaste affections meet
Within this House, and build their homes around!
Here pairs their love refresh,
Whom God hath made one flesh!
Here child and parent, side by side, be found!
Till each domestic hearth a type display
Of that last glorious Church to crown Earth's latter day.

LV

But ere that dawn appear,
Dark times of grief and fear

249

And dire convulsion in the world must be;
Plagues, famines, earthquakes, wars,
In sun and moon and stars
Signs of Heaven's wrath, and earth in anarchy;
While Christian hearts, expectant, to the sky
Look up, and know that their redemption draweth nigh.

LVI

Perchance even now a sound,
As from Hell's depths profound,
The ear may catch, like thunder heard from far;
Even now a lurid cloud
The horizon doth enshroud,
Big with pent storm and elemental war;
And earth hath signs of fear and blind distress,—
But we in patience still, forewarn'd, our souls possess.

LVII

Whatever Time may breed,
In faith we sow our seed,—
In faith upon the waters cast our bread;
In faith this fortress raise,
To guard, in after days,
Our children's souls when we are with the dead,
And o'er this turf, to-day so fresh and green,
Shall many a scatter'd tomb which hides our dust be seen.

LVIII

Ours be the toil and cost!
Nor shall their aim be lost;
The end and issue, doubt not, He will bless,
Who through the course of time
Evolves, in growth sublime,
New Heavens and Earth,—the Realm of Righteousness.
Brothers, our task is done—our offering made;—
Wend home with thankful hearts,—the corner stone is laid.

On Laying the First Stone of the Church of the Holy Trinity, Rugby.

250

ENGLAND'S MISSION.

SONNETS. 1851.

I

Art thou content to be the modern Tyre—
Half pedlar and half pirate of the world?
To count the sails of merchant navies furl'd
In thy full ports?—to know that some admire
And many fear, and almost all desire
To see thee from thy throne of empire hurl'd,
And o'er thy palace-halls the smoke-wreaths curl'd,
Which speak the presence of avenging fire?
Thine, England, is the sceptre of the sea,
That thou mayst bear God's message thro' the earth,
And spread the truth which makes man's spirit free,
Kindling on many a bright colonial hearth
A flame from that pure altar, rear'd for thee
Long since—an heir-loom of uncounted worth.

II

But hast thou to thy destiny been true,
And bravely play'd the part to thee assign'd,
Dispensing to the tribes of human-kind
Of heavenly truth the fertilizing dew,

251

And labouring hard the heathen and the Jew
In one great bond of Christian love to bind?
What are thy boons to man's benighted mind?
How much, for service done him, is thy due?
From thine imperial throne, proud Queen, look forth,
Survey thy boundless empire, and declare
In farthest East and West, and South and North,
What trace is found of thy maternal care?
What generous zeal, that subject lands may share
The Gospel-pearl's inestimable worth?

III

Mistress thou art of matter—not of mind;
The elements obey thee;—on the foam
Of the sea-waves thou dwell'st as in a home;
Canst bind and loose the pinions of the wind;—
Control the lightning—pathways force or find
Through earth's dark entrails, where thou will'st to roam;
And like a restless and resistless gnome,
The granite mountains into powder grind.
'Tis thus the heathen know thee; thus behold,
With shuddering awe, the paths thy steps have trod,
As of a demon who hath power to mould
Earth to his will; and while they fear thy rod,
Deem thy sons curst—predestined from of old
To vengeance, as a race without a God.

IV

Can a clean thing come out of an unclean,
Life-giving waters from a tainted spring?
Can sensual hearts the songs of Zion sing,
High faith be born of abject thoughts and mean?
The Gospel-torch, if lit at hearths obscene,
O'er new-found worlds celestial radiance fling?
Can fiend-like hate speed angels on the wing,
And Hell's worst discord breed Heaven's peace serene?
O England, wouldst thou do thine office well,
Evangelizing earth's remotest ends,

252

First cleanse the homes in which thy children dwell
From social wrong, which God and man offends;
From fraud that robs, from factions that rebel,
From greed and avarice, making foes of friends.

V

A stately ship is scudding o'er the main,
Her sails full set, with favouring wind and tide;
To speed like hers the ocean seems not wide;
Her masts beneath their canvass bend and strain,
Proudly her keel ploughs through the watery plain;
But evil faces scowl across her side—
Grim felon aspects, fierce and murderous-eyed—
Rogues, whom their country will no more retain.
So forth they fare, by her august commands
To people a new empire, to become
Progenitors of rogues in other lands,
To make a hell of their appointed home;
To spread with pregnant hearts and dexterous hands
Crime and pollution, wheresoe'er they roam.

VI

Prolong the scene;—a statelier vessel sails
In the same track, and bears a worthier freight;
Propitious omens on her voyage wait!
Smooth be the waves, and prosperous the gales
From which the settlers in Australian vales
Expect the fathers of their Church and State—
The men whose deeds, Heaven grant, not yet too late,
Shall live hereafter in heroic tales.
Speed, modern Argo, speed upon thy track,
Those who shall feed the flock—not shear the fleece;
From error's path bring many a wanderer back;
From sin's strong bonds imprison'd souls release,
And win a world, which else had gone to wrack,
To the mild empire of the Prince of Peace.

253

VII

Who are the Heroes of the latter day?
The lords of earth—the champions of mankind?
Think not, O Christian, those great hearts to find
Amidst the carnage of the battle fray,
Nor where fierce conquerors gory sceptres sway,
And on men's necks oppressive burdens bind,
Well-pleased the faces of their race to grind,
And see obsequious multitudes obey.
But seek them in the vast colonial wild—
The mitre, not the helmet, on their brow—
Wrestling with wrong, in love and patience mild,—
Through good and ill still faithful to their vow,—
Training the savage, like a docile child,
Before their Lord's victorious cross to bow.

Written for the Centenarian Jubilee of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

254

THE BLACK FENCE.

'Twas at the point of sunrise, on a clear October day,
That through the neighbouring village-fields I took my lonely way;
The fields, well known in former days, which lie around the Grange;
But years had past since I saw them last, and brought a doleful change.

For where the ancient footpath lay, by briery hedge and stile,
And hill and valley stretch'd away for many a beauteous mile,—
Where grass grew green, and wild flowers bloom'd, refreshing soul and sense,
Now lour'd along the whole domain, a black and frowning fence.

A dismal sight to a poet's eye it was, as you may think,
That black and frowning fence, without a break, without a chink;
Hiding all the glorious landscape, and girding it about
With impenetrable palings, grim within and grim without.

255

Then my spirit's eyes were open'd, and I saw, as poets see,
The visible and the viewless world how closely they agree;
And the black and frowning fence became, to this poor thought of mine,
Of changes in these latter days a symbol and a sign.—

—Of changes dark and troublous—for the air is full of change,
Perplexing English hearts and minds with doubt obscure and strange;
And a sword hath come on each English home, and a time of mortal strife,
For the truths on which Man's soul must feed, and the breath of his inner life.

And 'tis not the good and the wicked now who for right and wrong contend,
But brother with kind brother—loving friend with loving friend;
And the true are ranged against the true, and the good against the good,
And my spirit wrought with uneasy thought as I looked on that fence of wood.

I thought—Had it a voice to speak, like this its speech might be:—
“Here I stand a black partition-line between the bond and free;
“Between the sons of England's Church, their altar and their home,
“And those who bend the captive neck and bow the knee to Rome.

“I stand, a sign of discord, to divide and keep apart
“The warm and generous sympathies of English heart and heart;

256

“A black and baleful monitor of hate and strife, to last,
“Till the cup of Rome's enchantments fail, and her cruel reign be past.

“I close encircle those within and compass them around,
“As the spell of priestcraft cramps the soul in its dark and narrow bound;
“On those without I sternly frown, a sore to heart and eye,
“While I cast my shadow o'er their land, and half shut out their sky.”

Even so, thought I,—thy words are sooth, ill-favour'd thing of oak,
And in thy last the voice itself of the old enchantress spoke!
And sorely doth she labour now, like thee, to stretch her pale
Round English hearts and English homes and English hill and dale.

Ah! woe for them, the simple ones, entangled in her spell,
The souls that in the twilight of her dreary prison dwell!
In the blessed air of freedom they no longer claim a part,
They have lost their English birthright and the true old English heart.

To them, nor truth, nor falsehood can be what either seems,
For their spirits grope and stumble in a shadow-land of dreams:
Mesmeric sleep hath seized them, and they reel as they were drunk,
With the spiritual witchcrafts of the priest and of the monk.

They must give their souls to triple crowns and copes and scarlet hats;—
Themselves—and not their idols—to the moles and to the bats:

257

Themselves, their homes and substance, their bodies and their souls,
To the blind who lead the blinder—to the bats and to the moles.

For liberty of mind and will,—for bold unfetter'd thought,—
They must think as they are bidden, and believe what they are taught:
They must shut their eyes and ope their ears, fast bound by slavish laws,
Rome's hook within their nostrils, and her bridle on their jaws.

Alas! and must this curse prevail, these deep delusions spread,
Till the pulse of England beats no more, till her noble life hath fled?
Must her spirit's light be quench'd in night? must she barter faith and hope
For a mumbled Ave-Mary!—for the blessing of the Pope?

Must she see her choicest offspring—every graced and gifted son—
Taste—relish—drain the poison'd cup, and madden one by one?
Must her learned and her pious,—must her gentle and her brave
Be lost in witchery strong as death, and cruel as the grave?

Must She, the Imperial Nation, give place, and cease to be
The Lady of the Kingdoms, the one birthplace of the free?
The land where Thought and Wisdom dwelt in fresh unfading youth?
The land where God is worshipp'd still in spirit and in truth?

Must She, whose voice was Truth and Might, submit to fawn and whine—
To creep, and crawl, and cringe, and cant, at a Popish idol's shrine?

258

Must Popish candles be her light for altar, home, and hearth,
And a crazy old Italian monk her God and Christ on earth?

Or shall the indignant spirit of her brave old Saxon mind
Burst forth and rend the welkin, like a rushing mighty wind?
Shall the fountains of her lowest deep break up and overflow,
Till in one whelming flood of wrath are Church and State laid low?

Shall a day of tribulation come for people and for priest,
Till a sea of blood wash out at length the image of the Beast;
And the land spew forth her teachers like a cursed viper-brood,
Which have coiled around her heart-strings, which are tainting her life's blood?

Such thoughts waxed hot within me as I paced beside the pale;
But soon did better hopes arise, and a brighter mood prevail;
For now the dark domain was past, and right before mine eye
The grey Church-tower distinctly rose between the earth and sky.

It stood in peace and silence—for the hush of dawn was spread
O'er the temple of the living, o'er the chambers of the dead;
And the spirit of my Mother soothed the spirit of her son,
And I felt a flow of happier thought and livelier faith begun.

And nestling close beside the church, like a sweet and docile child,
The little graceful village-school in its simple beauty smiled;
And above its clear white gable, at a distance, I descried
The symbol of the blessed cross on which our Saviour died.

259

And third in that sweet company—some paces to the right—
The dwelling of the pastor on a sudden came in sight:
Its chimneys all were smokeless, its repose was calm and deep,
For the household still were sleeping sound, as pious Christians sleep.

And stretching to the left afar, the lovely landscape lay,
O'er which the morn was melting now the twilight cold and grey;
And open lea, and hedgerow-tree, and distant mead and lawn
Were touch'd with light serene and white from the eyelids of the dawn.

And while the prospect filled my soul with its silent, deep repose,
Above the far horizon's verge the cloudless sun arose;
And the eastern hills were tipp'd and tinged with many a gorgeous hue,
And the sky grew bright with sunshine, and the grass was fresh with dew.

And the stir of life was felt around, in earth and air and sky,
And a thousand carols smote my ear from all sweet birds that fly;
And I knew that things which creep on earth, and in the waters swim,
Sent up, in silence or in sound, their heartfelt morning hymn.

No thought of fear or dark distrust could live in such an hour,
And my spirit burst its heavy bonds, and the spells had lost their power;
And, imaged forth in that fair scene, I saw, or seemed to see,
A blessed type of England's Church, and of what her fate shall be.

260

I saw the hour of darkness pass, and the sun once more arise—
The glorious Sun of Righteousness—in her late tempestuous skies;
And the dreams and visions of the night had faded quite away,
And she woke from sleep, oppress'd but deep, to the light and life of day.

She rose and stood like yon grey tower, as then I saw it stand,
Begirt by smiling English homes—the watch-tower of the land;
And bending still her steadfast gaze, from earliest morn to even,
O'er sunnier hills and vales than those;—the hills and vales of Heaven.

She rose and stood with dauntless brow, for her heart was now at ease,—
Brave spirits throng'd around her—children clomb about her knees;
And there burst, to greet her waking ear, a myriad-throated hymn,
From village chapel lone and grey, and cathedral vast and dim.

She rose and brake her magic bonds, and cast her cords away,
And strode to her appointed strife, where the Camp of darkness lay:
Fair as the sun, clear as the moon, when her beams delight us most,
And dreadful in her anger as an arm'd and banner'd host.

For the hour of woe had sifted her, and now were purged away
The false and traitor-hearted from the ranks of her array;

261

And her legions marched in serried files, compact, with one accord,
To do or die, like valiant men, in the Battle of the Lord.

And the iron heart of Rome grew faint, and her brazen brow turn'd pale,
And she shrank aghast from the trumpet-blast and the clang of her foemen's mail;
And a throb of trembling hope was felt in the depth of her darkest hells,
Through dungeons red with martyrs' blood, and the Inquisition's cells.

No peace, but deadly warfare still, between those twain must be,
While the one would bind both heart and mind, and the other set them free:
No peace for Rome and England, but a stern, relentless strife;
Till Light shall vanquish Darkness, Death be swallow'd up of Life.

For the tyrant and the despot hate the noble and the brave,
Who loose the captive's yoke and break the fetters of the slave:
And 'tis England's glorious mission—far as ocean's billows roll,
To kindle freedom's gospel-light in Man's benighted soul.

Our Church, where English steeples rise, where English navies roam,
Sends bold evangelists abroad, gives pastors true at home;
And the open Book is in her hand, and to her alone 'tis given
To brighten earth around our path, while she guides our souls to Heaven.

You may trace her spirit in the looks of each English passer-by—
In the manly step, and the hearty voice, and the calm and dauntless eye;

262

In the speech of man and maiden, in the face of age and youth,
You may read a people trained by Her in the light and love of Truth.

She bids her wedded pastors' homes in every village rise,
Gladden'd by children's guileless mirth and bright maternal eyes;
That so the rudest peasant in her farthest vale may see
How beautiful and blest a thing a Christian home may be.

She hath wash'd us from ancestral sin in the spirit-cleansing flood,
She hath fed the life which then she gave with the Saviour's flesh and blood;
She blesses still our marriage morn, she soothes our dying bed,—
She gives our bodies back to earth when the deathless soul hath fled.

God send her swift deliverance from the plagues which vex her now!
God heal the discord in her heart, and chase the trouble from her brow!
And when her penal hour hath past, and purged her from her sin,
Restore her prosperous state without, and her peace and joy within.

God give her wavering clergy back that honest heart and true,
Which once was theirs, ere Popish fraud its spells around them threw;
Nor let them barter wife and child, bright hearth and happy home,
For the drunken bliss of the strumpet-kiss of the Jezebel of Rome.

263

And God console all holy hearts, now yearning for the day,
When this black cloud shall pass at length from England's skies away!
God help us all to struggle still, with patience and with might,
Against darkness, lies, and bondage, for Freedom, Truth, and Light!

And God forgive the fallen ones by their own weak hearts betray'd,
And convert the misbeliever, and reclaim the renegade!
And God unite the good and pure, the faithful and the wise,
Till the Dayspring come on the night of Rome, and the Sun of Truth arise!

“The Black Fence” extends along the grounds of a gentleman recently converted to the Romish Church, and distinguished by his active zeal in her cause, The scenery of the poem is entirely real.

Isaiah ii. 20.

Canticles vi. io.

264

SAINT MARY, THE VIRGIN AND THE WIFE.

A COTTAGE ECLOGUE.

SISTER OF CHARITY.

O Woman, heavy-laden with a weight of care and woe,
Whose cheek is pale with watching, and whose eyes with tears o'erflow,—
Poor child of want and penury,—sad mother,—widow'd wife,—
So worn that thou canst hardly bear the burden of thy life;
Listen gladly, while I tell thee of a comfort and a cure
From the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

She sits beside the throne of God,—she is the Queen of Heaven,
And power and might to her of right are by our Saviour given:
He yields her meek submission,—for a duteous son is He,
And to ask whate'er he hath to give, who else so meet as she?
O'er Him, o'er us, o'er heaven and earth, her sway must still endure,—
She's the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

A soft and tender heart is her's, as virgins' hearts should be,
And she loveth well all things that dwell in earth and air and

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But Holy Church she loveth best—the Holy Church of Rome,—
And those who make that Church on earth their harbour and their home:
And gladly to that Holy Church would she all hearts allure,—
Would the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

The heretic she favoureth not, who walks in erring ways,
Nor blesseth much the wedded lot, nor giveth it her praise:
For the wedded life she never knew, nor all its earthly bliss,
Nor a husband's fond embraces, nor a daughter's loving kiss;
But still a chaste and spotless bride did all her life endure,—
Did the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

She was not born as mortals are, in taint of mortal sin,
But all unsoil'd—immaculate—divinely pure within;
More pure than from her Maker's hands was our first mother Eve,—
For so the Holy Father saith, and so we must believe;
For the Holy Father's word is still infallible and sure
As the blessed Virgin Mother's—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

Then come, afflicted woman, lay thy weary burden down
At the blessed Virgin Mother's feet, who wears the heavenly crown;
Forsake the ways of error—be our Holy Church obey'd,
And give thy sickly girl to Her, to live and die a maid:
So shalt thou joy and comfort at the gracious hands secure
Of the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

And she shall intercede for thee before the throne of grace,
Where she beholds, as angels do, our Heavenly Father's face;
And thy daughter shall recover, and thy husband return home,
And thou and he shall bow the knee to the Holy Church of Rome;

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And purgatorial pains for both shall no long time endure,
Through our Lady's intercession—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

FEMALE COTTAGER.

O Lady, thou art mild and good—thy voice is soft and kind,
And in thy gentle eyes I read a pure and heavenly mind;
And like an angel from above hast thou been with me here
In the day of my affliction, when my heart was dark and drear;
In the absence of my husband—in the sickness of my child,
Thou hast been a light from heaven itself, so merciful and mild.

Thou hast sat beside my daughter's bed—thou hast brought her dainty food,
And medicine to assuage her pain, and looks which did her good;
Thou hast still'd her when she murmur'd—thou hast soothed her when she wept,—
Thou hast watched and waked when I, o'er-wrought with toil and sorrow, slept;
I would give my life a thousand times to please of profit thee,—
But, lady—lady—ask not that which must not, cannot be.

I know that thou art holier far than I can e'er become,
Though thou indeed dost love the creed of thy mother Church of Rome;
And, lady, for thy gentle sake, I'll speak with reverence mild
Of that which seems, to thy pure heart, religion undefiled;
But never, lady, here on earth, can we in faith agree,
For there lies a gulf between us, which I cannot cross to thee.

I love the Virgin Mother, and I cherish her dear name
As an holy thought to soothe the soul in this world of sin and shame;

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I bless her gentle memory, which hath triumph'd o'er the tomb,
For the blessing which she brought to Man by the travail of her womb;
But I cannot bow the knee to her, as though she reigned in heaven,
Nor hope through her—but through her Son—to have my sins forgiven.

For her body saw corruption, and her soul was left in hell,
Where the souls of the departed till the resurrection dwell;
She never brake the bonds of death, nor burst her charnel-prison,
Nor, like her blessed Son, the Lord, to God's right hand hath risen;
But her spirit dwells in Paradise—her body sleeps in dust,
With the spirits of the righteous—with the bodies of the just.

Thou say'st the Roman Bishop saith she was not born in sin,
But from the womb immaculate—divinely pure within;
But nought of this, O lady dear, is written in God's Word,
And nought of this, our parson saith, the ancient Fathers heard;
And I feel, within my heart of hearts, that true it cannot be,
But that she indeed was born in sin—in sin like thee and me.

'Tis little that the Scripture tells,—but e'en that little shows
That she, like us, was weak and frail in her trials and her woes;
That she sometimes deserved rebuke, as thou or I may do,—
That she was still, in thought and will, fallen Woman through and through:
O joy! for us that she was thus, and shall be, without end,
No Goddess—but a sister;—not an angel—but a friend.

For surely if her birth had been, like that of her blest Son,
Unstained by sin ancestral—our redemption were undone;

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He scarce had been our Brother here—His spirit scarce had known
How holiest hearts, assail'd and stung by sharp temptations, groan;
Unless through Woman, as she is, his human life began,
To me it seems the Son of God was scarce the Son of Man.

Thou say'st she died a virgin still,—'tis what we cannot know,
But I should grieve could I believe that it indeed was so:
For holier, as it seems to me, than one of single life
Is the gracious Christian mother, and the godly Christian wife;
And more to wife and mother than to maid unwed is given
Of the griefs and cares which sift the soul, and make it fit for heaven.

There are fountains, in a woman's heart, of holiest joy and bliss,
Which a husband's love alone unseals, and an infant's blessed kiss;
There are fountains, in a woman's heart, of holiest grief and pain,
Which in the saintliest virgin life must shut and sealed remain:
Thou, lady, in thy lonely path, may'st walk like angels here,—
But souls like mine must God refine by the trouble and the tear.

My child lies on her fever'd bed,—her father is at sea,—
And I've need to pray, both night and day, for her and him and me:
And warmer, holier is the prayer for husband and for child
Than aught that e'er unclosed the lips of virgin undefiled:
And it solaces my aching heart, and it soothes my throbbing brow,
To think that blessed Mary may have felt what I feel now.

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I have thought of her in happier days—in days of home delight,—
When I pillow'd on my husband's breast my weary head at night;
I have seen her, with my fancy's eye, in the glory which she shed
O'er Joseph's peaceful home and hearth—o'er Joseph's marriage bed:
In her joys and in her sorrows—in her late and early life,—
O how holy was the Virgin !—O how holy was the Wife!

I ask sometimes,—when this dark earth has closed at last o'er me,
And my disembodied spirit to the spirit-world may flee—
Shall I meet the blessed Mary, and behold her face to face?
Will she greet me like a daughter in her goodness and her grace?
Shall her spirit then respond to mine, and each the other know,
By the household joys which both have felt—by the wife's and mother's woe?

I cannot tell—'tis vain to ask—but, lady, rob me not
Of thoughts and hopes which sweeten now the sorrows of my lot;
Let me cleave to that dear image of the mother of my Lord,—
The sinful, but the sanctified—the loved, but not adored,—
As one with me in heart and hope, though purer, holier far,—
Yea holier than the holiest souls of maid or mother are.

And, dearest lady, tempt me not my daughter's life to save,
By burying her, restored to health, in a dreary living grave.
On her God's blessed will be done;—if He shall spare her life,
Let her live as seemeth best to her—a virgin or a wife;
But rather than devote her now to that unnatural doom,
Let me kneel beside her death-bed—let me weep upon her tomb.

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And press me not to join thy Church;—I dare not leave my own—
For in that I've found an access sure to my heavenly Father's throne;
And His Spirit witnesseth with mine that there his grace abides,
And he loveth yet our Zion more than all the world besides.
Take then the path thou deem'st the right—and, lady, so must I,
For in the blessed English Church I mean to live and die.

Your Pope may be a learned priest, and a prince of high degree,
But God and Jesus Christ are more infallible than he;
And I in God, through Jesus Christ, rest all my faith and hope,
And indeed I cannot part with these for Prelate or for Pope:
I still must keep my simple creed, and tread the path I've trod,
By the help of my Redeemer,—by the guidance of my God.

I must bend my knee to Him alone, whom all the worlds obey,
To Him who breathed the breath of life into this mortal clay;
To Him through whose atoning blood is all our guilt forgiven,
To Him through whom the sinful soul is born anew for heaven;
To Him who reigneth and shall reign o'er heaven and all its host;
To the Everlasting Father—the Son—the Holy Ghost.

I know that I must struggle hard the Christian crown to win,—
Sore fightings must be mine without, and frequent fears within:
But frail and feeble though I be—poor daughter of the dust,
There's ONE will intercede for me, and him alone I'll trust:
'Twould shake my perfect faith in Him on weaker names to call,
And though there were a million such, He's more than worth them all.

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Then, gracious lady, blame me not, nor deem thy boons unfelt,
Because I pray not as thou pray'st, nor kneel where thou hast knelt:
Between us hangs a veil, which we as yet may not remove,
Till faith and hope, their office done, are swallowed up in love;
And Protestant and Papist meet before the Eternal throne,
To see as they have still been seen, and to know as they are known.

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SUNSET IN ARRAN.

The Sun had vanish'd to his rest
Behind the mountains yesterday,
Whose towering ridge shuts out the west
With all its dyes from Brodick bay:
Eastward the light was dim and grey,—
On wood and slope, on land and sea,
Already partial twilight lay,
Though sails as white as white can be
Gleam'd on the horizon's verge, far off as eye could see.

But westward, o'er the mountain's height,
The sunset skies were all aglow
With one rich blaze of crimson light
Shot up from unseen depths below;
White clouds were floating to and fro
Around and over Goatfel's cone;
Ben-Noosh did o'er his shoulders throw
A misty mantle, which was blown
Aside from time to time, and all his outline shown.

You might have deem'd that crimson blaze
Effulgence of volcanic flame,
Such as in old primeval days
From out those granite craters came,
And almost put the sun to shame:

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Those mists into thin wreaths of smoke
Imagination well might frame,
From which sulphureous flashes broke,
While subterranean shocks redoubled stroke on stroke.

But now 'twas silence all around,
Save for the torrent's distant roar,
And that continuous solemn sound
Of breakers on the shingled shore:
The ear no kindred witness bore
To those wild shapings of the eye,
No tokens of the pangs which tore
Earth's womb, when, with parturient cry,
She yean'd those giant rocks and cast them forth on high.

That echoed long millennia past,—
Its like will once repeated be,
When that Arch-angel trumpet-blast
Shall peal through earth and air and sea,
And set the tomb-imprison'd free,
While flashes of electric fire
Fulfil their penal ministry,
And kindle earth's funereal pyre,
Foredoom'd to that dread day of Heaven's avenging ire.

High lesson, which the outward sense
Conveys to faith's awakened eye,
Through signs which God's omnipotence
Hath traced upon the earth and sky:
They must not pass unheeded by,—
Such lights as those of yester-eve,
And all at once dissolve and die,
And not a trace behind them leave
On human hearts which hope, on human hearts which grieve.

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Yet all too soon the glow was o'er,
The crimson light had died away,
And wood and mountain, sea and shore,
Were veil'd in one continuous grey;
Save that a streak of sunshine lay
On green Dun Fiume's north-western slope;
Bright promise of the coming day,
Type of the dying Christian's hope
Of resurrection, seen through faith's clear telescope.

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FAREWELL TO ARRAN.

Once more, romantic isle, once more,
To all thy charms of sea and shore,
To peaks where eagles dwell,
To heathery brae and wimpling burn,
And beds of foxglove, mix'd with fern,
A sad, a fond farewell!

To me and mine, for many a year,
Hast thou with ample cause been dear,
As thou to all art fair:
My wife, with childhood's rapturous gaze,
Above thee watch'd the sunset blaze
From yon dim coast of Ayr;

And when thy jagged ridge shone clear
Through summer evening's atmosphere,
Unveil'd by cloud or mist,
Beneath that glorifying light
It seem'd, to her undoubting sight,
One mass of amethyst.

Even I, when first, across the Clyde,
Thy towering summits I descried,

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Though then a man full-grown,
Scarce deem'd thee a terrestrial strand,
On which a vulgar foot might land,
Which vulgar lords might own.

Around thee a mysterious haze
Then floated in the wondering gaze
Of eyes that love to dream;
To such, thou wast a fairy land,
Not yet made earthly by the hand
Of disenchanting steam.

To dwellers on the Carrick coast,
Ere Watt arose, was thine almost
As yet a virgin shore;
Columbus or Magellan might
Have envied the adventurous wight,
Who durst its crags explore.

Time was, within the narrow span
Since I became a married man,
When here, in Brodick bay,
My wife and I, untimely left
Of locomotive aid bereft,
For days imprison'd lay.

In sight appear'd no friendly sail,—
The very boat which brought the mail
Not yet for days was due;
At last—but in a fisher's boat,—
On Sunday morn we got afloat,
Two sturdy Gaels our crew.

At day-break summon'd from our bed,
That morn we had not broken bread,

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Nor bread on board had we;
And bound for Rothsay's distant bay,
Enjoy'd, as hungry people may,
A perfect calm at sea.

Our boatmen pull'd with right good will,
Yet hours and hours the mountains still
Their shadows o'er us cast;
Until sprang up a rippling gale,
And cheer'd our hearts, and fill'd our sail,
And bore us home at last.

The quay—the house—the meal appear'd,—
We veer'd and tack'd, and tack'd and veer'd,—
The wind was much to blame;
Till just upon the stroke of one,
As crowds flock'd out from service done,
To shore at last we came.

A most disreputable plight,
In sober Presbyterian sight,
Just then was ours, no doubt;
Yet on our breakfast straight we fell,
With hunger which no shame could quell,
And food could scarce drive out.

Since then, through life's meridian prime,
Sore needing rest, from time to time,
From sickness and from care,
Fair isle, within thee and around,
Our children and ourselves have found
Clear waves and genial air.

Nor less our thanks are due to thee,
That through thy glens we wander free

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From dull decorum's rules,
And, unassail'd by jeer or scoff,
Conventional restraints throw off,
Which hamper fashion's fools.

However it to some may seem,
No unimportant boon I deem
The license, thus bestow'd,
With Nature on her mountain throne
To commune by ourselves alone,
Her wilds our brief abode.

From dull parochial feuds and strife,
From all the jars of social life,
From stir of things and men
Escaped, to cleave the briny surf,
To tread the unfrequented turf
Of mountain-side and glen.

So haply shall our children find
An unsophisticated mind
From slavish laws exempt,
And artificial forms of thought,
A blessing to be cheaply bought
By half the world's contempt.

And yet must I perforce confess
That in this rocky wilderness,
Beside this lonely sea,
To breathe for ever mountain air
And simplè mountain pleasures share,
Is not the life for me.

Good are the mountains; good the shore,
Yet, sooth to say, I covet more

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The converse of my kind;
The beaten, broad high road of life
With social stir and tumult rife,
The clash of mind with mind.

For ten months' work give two months' play,
And let me to the hills away,
To rest at will or rove,
Then, well refresh'd in heart and brain,
For England ho !—to work again,—
That's just the life I love.

There are—and who but counts them wise?—
Whom lonely nature satisfies,—
Whose spirits self-possest,
In wilds can find, almost unsought,
Exhaustless lore—for loftiest thought
Abundant food and rest.

All praise to such !—a nobler task
Than common minds can share or ask
Hath Heaven to them assign'd;
They drink at truth's unsullied fount,
On eagles' wings 'tis theirs to mount
And grasp where few can find.

A less ambitious lot is ours,
Who exercise our feebler powers
In paths which men frequent;
The daily task, by Him above
Mark'd out, in humble faith and love,
Te execute content.

Nor long, I deem, can we withdraw,
From scenes which His disposing law

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Hath made our proper sphere,
Nor long, without some hurt, disown
The ties which with our growth have grown
And strengthen'd, year by year.

To me, a bard of English birth,
And heart-bound to that spot of earth
On which my life began,
Pure though he be of thought and will,
A Scotchman is a Scotchman still,
But half my countryman.

Of all that doth his soul inspire
I reverence much, and much admire,
Nor grudge him love that's due;
But find, when near him I abide,
That still a gulf both deep and wide
Extends between us two.

He reasons by a different rule,—
Was nurtured in an alien school,—
His notions jar with mine;
Much he contemns which I revere,
Much which I love not, holds most dear
Of human and divine.

Within his tents I love full well
Awhile, from time to time, to dwell,
For change of thought and scene;
But homeward soon my spirit turns,
And, with instinctive ardour, burns
To be where it hath been;

With minds of kindred growth to think,
To walk and talk, to eat and drink,

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To dwell, in truth and deed,
Amongst the men with whom I share
One sphere of thought, one form of prayer,
One altar and one creed.

So be it now—though loth to part,
Fair isle, with an unwavering heart
I quit thee for my home;
Thanks! for thy boons, in years long past
Enjoy'd with him whose lot is cast
Beyond the ocean foam;—

With those who still in peace remain,
Who wear not yet a heavier chain
Than that of filial fear;
And those whom all-indulgent Heaven
To our parental charge hath given
Since first we sojourn'd here.

Farewell!—and if henceforth no more
We tread thy loved and lovely shore,
This we at least can say—
That in our deepest springs of thought
Thy influence hath a blessing wrought
Which will not pass away.

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PERSICOS ODI.

Lady, if the project please thee,
And the time convenient be,
I propose to-night to tease thee
With my company at tea.

No luxurious preparation
For my entertainment make;
Viand rare, or choice potation,—
Crumpet—muffin—butter'd cake.

Household smiles and friendly greeting,
Conversation frank and free,—
These will make a pleasant meeting—
These are what I ask of thee.

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THREE TIMES NINE.

It is an old and hackney'd strain,—
The burthen of a worn-out song,
Again repeated and again,
As life's swift current rolls along,
And death draws nearer, year by year,
And eyes grow dim and locks turn grey,—
But still 'tis sweet to married ear,
The verse which greets the wedding-day.

This year, once more, we spend it, sweet,
Beneath the mountains, by the sea,
Near which so loved thy childish feet
To wander unrestrain'd and free;
And thou consorting with a tribe
Of Scottish cousins, fond and dear,
Did'st thus, though London-born, imbibe
The spirit of a mountaineer.

Far from the crowded haunts of men,
If fate permitted, thou would'st make
Thy dwelling in the loneliest glen,
Beside the least frequented lake;
Would'st choose the dashing mountain-stream,
The winds o'er snowy peaks that sweep,
To mingle with thy midnight dream,
To wake thee from thy morning sleep;—

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Would'st breed and rear a savage race
Of supple joint and sinewy limb,
Expert the eagles' haunts to trace,
And seize the salmon where they swim;
Whose souls no reverential awe
For social customs should have felt,
Nor lost that rude contempt for law
Which marks the nature of the Celt.

So be it!—in thy spirits' flow
Of freedom, nought have I to blame;
Its wildest outbursts well I know
That wedlock hath a spell to tame:
And thou, albeit thy heart may roam
Full oft to highland flood and fell,
Canst cheer a quiet English home,
And charm an English circle well.

'Twas no blind chance which call'd thee forth,
But Heaven's benign and bounteous will,
From thy beloved paternal North,
Thy proper mission to fulfil.
Look out!—thy own ancestral land,
Seen dim and distant o'er the sea,
Hath past into a stranger's hand,—
A home no more for thine and thee.

But fast by England's central spot
Is now thy place of love and rest;
The accepted, not the chosen lot,
Is that which ever proves the best.
Heaven gives thee, on thy native soil,
Meet interchange of work and play;—
Thy southern home for months of toil,
Thy weeks of highland holiday.

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This year, in our connubial life,
Is but the last of twenty-seven,
Whose summers thou hast spent, sweet wife,—
Eighteen on earth, and nine in heaven:
So oft the magic power of steam
Hath freed thee from thy prison chain,
And help'd thee to renew the dream
Of childhood's happiest days again.

The mingled cup of grief and joy,
Which others drain, we two have drain'd;
Our gold hath had its due alloy,
Much have we lost, and something gain'd:
And now upon the downward slope,
As on we speed, of life's decline,
Not yet exempt from fear and hope
Is this brief view of thine and mine.

Almost without a cloud of grief,
Our first nine years in sunshine pass'd,—
Our summer boughs were green in leaf,
When one was shiver'd by the blast:
Nine more roll'd on,—beside this shore,
With sons and daughters richly blest,
We found, as we had found before,
The needful boon of health and rest.

Nine more are gone,—again we meet,
Our number undiminish'd still,—
But one beneath the tropic heat
Doth his appointed task fulfil;
And one, a scholar not ungraced,
Is gone to earn a scholar's bread,
And two have on our knees been placed,
While life's declining summer fled.

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For all that hath been ours so long,—
For all that still continues ours,—
For life in both still sound and strong,—
For mind untouch'd in all its powers,—
For whatsoe'er of budding good
In sons or daughters we can see,—
For faith and hope's appointed food,—
Kind heaven be blest by thee and me!

On what remains of mortal years
We will not think, nor blindly guess
What store reserv'd of smiles or tears
Life's coming page may blot or bless;
To-day at least we hope to spend
Together,—with to-morrow's sun
My sojourn in this isle must end,—
This last should be our happiest one.

Come forth, and by the lone sea-shore,
And through the woods we two will stray,
And many a shady nook explore,
And many a sunny creek and bay;
And, if thou wilt, when thou art laid
Beneath the boughs, or by the sea,
I'll read the rhymes I lately made,
When thou wast far away from me.

A trivial tale do they unfold,—
A string of facts from first to last,
Connecting feelings new and old,—
The present with the dreamy past;
The days when thou and I were young,
Bridegroom and bride, with later life,
In which approaching age hath flung
Its shadows upon man and wife.

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So, when to-morrow I am gone,
My last few idle days to spend
Beside his native lake with one,
Ere we had met, my bosom friend,—
Shalt thou, on loving thoughts intent,
Read o'er that strange, uxorious lay,
And think how pleasantly we spent
Our twenty-seventh wedding-day.

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MUCH ADO ABOUT LITTLE.

I.—THE WHEREABOUT.

There is a quiet Western town,—
In Worcester's fruitful shire it stands,
'Midst orchards of world-wide renown,
And fragrant growth of garden lands.

Beside it winds the Avon stream,
Above it slopes the Breadon height;
And Malvern, in the sunset gleam,
Seems all ablaze with crimson light.

And ere the railway's iron age
Expell'd Mac-Adam's age of stone,
Or steam was harness'd to the stage
Then whirl'd by four-horse nerve and bone,

Oft, seated on the Worcester mail,
Descending by the London road,
I mark'd, beneath me in the vale,
The river, how it flash'd and flow'd;

The river banks, how green they grew,
The fields, how bright with fruit and flower;
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

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It was a sight to touch with joy
The heart of middle-aged or old,
And I was then a beardless boy,
A scholar of Etonian mould.

But on my spirit's inward eye
That scene a deeper rapture pour'd;
It spoke of home and kindred nigh,
Of holiday delights restored.

Almost, from that high point of road,
The Wrekin's summit I might see;
Almost, above my sire's abode,
The loftier ridges of the Clee.

The breezes there seem'd fraught with bliss
From haunts in which I lov'd to roam,
And stirr'd my spirit like the kiss
Which welcom'd son and brother home.

And thus that tower and town became
A sacred land-mark to my view,
And round my heart their cherish'd name
Entwined with pleasant memories grew.

II.—THE WHEREABOUT UNVISITED.

The banks of Thames are fresh and green,
The towers which crown them passing fair,
And churlish souls forget their spleen,
And homesick hearts grow happy there:

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But slow and slimy is thy stream,
Flat are thy flowerless banks, O Cam,
And dimly does the daylight gleam
Through miles of smoke round Birmingham:

And he who travels through that smoke,
To rest beside that sluggish slime,—
Is not among the happiest folk
Within the bounds of space and time.

In one brief month I bade farewell
To school and to my boyhood's home,
In new, less pleasant haunts to dwell,
Through new, less pleasant roads to roam.

And years roll'd by, and still I pass'd
Through that delicious vale no more;
It seem'd that I had look'd my last
On tower and town, on stream and shore.

And now, as time fled swiftly on,
Its beauty, and almost its name,
With boyish pleasures past and gone,
A memory and a dream became.

It sank into the phantom land
Of vanish'd scenes beloved of yore,—
When joy was felt, and schemes were plann'd,
In manhood felt and plann'd no more.

In memory's deepest cell it lay,
With those romantic banks of Rea,—
With that old mansion far away,
So long the home of mine and me;

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With that ancestral mansion dear,
Long lost, still loved with vain regret,
In which, at Christmas, year by year,
Aunts, uncles, cousins, kinsfolk met;—

With oriel windows richly stain'd,
With passage long and creaking stair,
With treasur'd records which remain'd
Of the first Charles's sojourn there;

With oratory small and lone
Where saintly knees in prayer had bent,
Or e'er the altar with the throne
Went down before the parliament;

With spacious lawns and shrubberies green,
With urns and statues choicely placed,
With gravel walks that wound between,
In somewhat of artistic taste;

With flights of steps which from the door
Led down to that old-fashion'd pond,
With fir-tree clumps that grew before,
With hills and churches seen beyond;

With these, with scenes like these beloved,—
With that small town by Kennet's side,
Where first a school-boy's cares I proved,
When first I felt a school-boy's pride;

With that eternal Roman road,
Without a break, without a bend,
Which homeward when we started, show'd
Where twelve miles off the stage should end;

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With Eton's shade, with Windsor's height,
With sport and study, grief and joy,
Which train for deeds of future might
The spirit of the English boy;—

With these, like half-forgotten things,
That tower and town neglected lay,
While hope and fancy plum'd their wings,
And boyhood's dreams to youth's gave way.

Then love was born;—within my veins
The burning blood like wildfire ran;
I felt the pleasures and the pains,
The cares and triumphs of the man;

But still, in hours of calmer thought,
When, from the present's strife and din,
The mind repose and refuge sought
In that sweet past which slept within,—

Among the dreams of old delight,
Evok'd from memory's spectral cell,
Return'd that scene, so fresh, so bright,
Belov'd so long, retain'd so well.

III.—THE WHEREABOUT VISITED.

“Come list to me, my bonny bride,
(For such this ring will make thee soon),—
And judge if I aright provide
Employment for our honey-moon.

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“My parents ne'er have seen thy face,
And they must learn to love it well;
And so with them, a little space,
We two, ere we return, will dwell.

“But first, as fitting 'tis and right,
Like the first couple, all alone,
For some few weeks of pure delight,
We'll make an Eden of our own;—

“An Eden of congenial thought,
Where heart to heart, and mind to mind,
Shall teach in turn, in turn be taught
Its proper paradise to find.

“And with the present and the past
The unknown future shall combine
The rainbow tints of hope to cast
O'er this twin life of thine and mine.

“And first 'twill be a joy sublime
To trace with thee the self-same track
Which brought me, in my schoolboy-time,
To home and friends and freedom back.

“So, having seal'd these vows of ours
In yonder Church, our course we'll bend
Tow'rd Oxford's stately domes and towers,
And there our first day's travel end.

“And when through college-court and hall
We've paced with reverential tread,
And view'd the relics, each and all,
Bequeath'd us by the saintly dead,—

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“By Worcester's old cathedral tower,
'Midst orchard-slopes and hop-grounds wide,
We'll twine once more our nuptial bower
For brief repose on Severn's side.

“The third day's travel shall reveal
My childhood's home,—my home no more;
And thou shalt share what I shall feel
In haunts belov'd from days of yore.

“Next night on Ludlow's castled steep,
Beside the banks of winding Teme,—
Where Milton slept, we two will sleep,
Where Milton dream'd, we two will dream.

“Thence through a smiling border land
Of tufted hills and verdant vales,
We'll journey on, until we stand
Beneath the mountain peaks of Wales.

“We'll view Llangollen's pastoral hills,
We'll climb the Cader's giant side,
We'll quaff Dolgelly's crystal rills,
And then on Barmouth's sands abide.

“The western breeze thy strength shall brace,
The western sea-breeze cool thy brow,
And then once more we'll shift our place,—
Still onward, onward, I and thou.

“We'll garnish Gelert's grave with flowers,
Thence passing through sweet Gwynant's vale,
Where o'er Llanberis Snowdon towers
We'll hoist on that small lake our sail.

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“The Menai bridge, not yet complete,
Caernarvon Castle famed in song,
And Capel Cürig's lone retreat,
Will scarce arrest our progress long.

“But once again by Severn's side,
Beneath the Wrekin's slope, will we
With loving hearts at rest abide,
With hearts that long for thee and me.”

Thus to my willing bride I sang,
And thus while, on our wedding-day,
With peal on peal the belfry rang,—
We started on our westward way:

But now the second sun had set
(So long in Oxford linger'd we)
And night closed darkly in, ere yet
The towers of Worcester we could see.

So nine miles off our course we stay'd
In that small town on Avon's shore,
And there our second halt we made,
And talk'd our two days' travel o'er.

Beneath the old grey tower we slept,—
The river flow'd in silence nigh,
And nightingales beside it kept
Sweet vigils for our lullaby.

And when together we had past
That landmark of my earlier life,
Bridegroom and bride seem'd changing fast
To soberer, happier man and wife.

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Forward in full career we sped
To good or ill, to joy or pain,
And thrice nine years almost had fled
Ere I beheld that town again.

IV.—THE WHEREABOUT REVISITED.

A younger sister had my bride,
A creature form'd in daintiest mould,—
Sweet-voiced, sweet-thoughted, loving-eyed,
And when we wedded, six years old.

To woman's ripe estate she grew
Unpluck'd,—a stately virgin flower;
Then first a genuine passion knew,
And bow'd her neck to Hymen's power.

And now full two connubial years
Had left behind her wedding-morn,
And wedlock's weight of hopes and fears,
Of joys and sorrows she had borne;

When to our home her spouse and she,—
A grave divine,—a glorious dame,—
In wedlock's awful pomp, to see
Their elderly relations came.

“Now, master bard,” (in wedded pride
Thus spoke to me that matron fair)
“You and my consort must divide
Your next week's duty, share for share.

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“He from your pulpit here shall teach
Your willing flock, and you shall hie
Some sixty railway miles, and preach
Where else his Sunday work would lie.

“Thus with my sister two days yet
We two unparted may abide,
And you for your reward shall get,
At our expense—a railway ride.”

Obedient to the word I went,
For mine had been a heart of stone
To see Joan's heart for Darby rent,
And Darby's heart distraught for Joan.

So when the week drew near its close,
The wings of steam had borne me nigh
The spot where once, in brief repose,
Slumber'd and dream'd my bride and I.

And thus once more I came to view
Those banks so bright with fruit and flower,
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

V.—THE VICARAGE.

The Vicar's wall is on the right
As from the station home you fare,
Facing a street by day and night
So still, life seems extinguish'd there.

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Around and in it silence dwells
As of a place long past its prime;
Best broken by the sound of bells
Which from the grand old abbey chime.

Across the winding ancient street
The trees, which fence the churchyard round,
Almost with outstretch'd branches meet
Their sisters in the vicarage ground.

And, shelter'd by the latters' shade,
The modest mansion stands retired;
By tenants of its master's trade
A mansion to be much desired.

There, on a bracing eve of May,
Did I from one-horse chaise alight,
Just as the skies were robed in grey,
And twilight deep'ning into night.

The vicar and the vicar's wife
Were absent both, as you may guess;
No sound of childhood's sport or strife
Disturb'd or cheer'd the loneliness.

But on the threshold, frank and bland,
The curate to receive me stood;
The curate's wife was near at hand,
In ripe maternal womanhood.

And one beside,—a spinster dame,
Whose native spring of cheerful mirth
Not fourscore years and six could tame,
Nor rob her of her joy on earth.

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Soon at a well replenish'd board
I sat with those congenial three;
Fresh were the eggs, and freely pour'd
The long libations of the tea;

And still, as wit and mirth increas'd,
Clear'd was the board and drain'd the bowl;
And we, that night, enjoy'd “the feast
Of reason and the flow of soul:”

And ere to welcome sleep I sank,
I felt that town had charms more rare
Than tower or tree or river-bank,
Or orchard bloom or pasture fair.

VI.—THE ABBEY CHURCH.

Bound by no laws of time or place
Are Christian hearts for praise and prayer,
Their temple—universal space,
Their service—always—everywhere.

Ill fares it with the man who needs
A stated hour, a certain shrine,
A fixed routine of form and creed
Recited duly line by line;

Whose whole devotion ebbs and flows
At intervals of night and day,
And sinks and rises, comes and goes,—
This moment here, the next away.

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And yet, while man continues man,
And govern'd by his nature's law,—
Resist it as we may or can,
Will holy places soothe and awe.

Where saintly knees have often knelt
A calmer peace the spirit fills,
And reverence more devout is felt
In churches than in cotton-mills.

I would not slight the influence shed
By pillar'd aisle, by choir and nave,
Or by the memory of the dead
Beneath reposing in the grave.

The spirit undevout and cold
Elsewhere, its nature will retain
Where bones of holy men of old
For centuries at rest have lain;

And those who climb to mountain peaks
Unmoved, or lightly pace the shore
When deep to deep in fury speaks,
And lightnings flash and thunders roar,

May well unmoved continue still
In temples built by mortal hand,
Where choicest architectural skill
Combines the graceful with the grand;

But they who, wheresoe'er hath been
Their path, have that in reverence trod,
And in and on it felt and seen
The impress of the hand of God,

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Will with profounder awe subdued
Within time-hallow'd temples tread,
And feel with loftier faith imbued
By that dim presence of the dead.

So thought I, when that Churchyard's bound
Approaching,—with a chilling shock
Of baffled hope the gate I found
Close fasten'd with a ponderous lock.

Immur'd like cloister'd maidenhood,—
A spring shut up, a fountain seal'd,—
The beauteous Church forbidden stood,—
Its loveliness but half reveal'd.

No foot of man, no reverent glance
Might penetrate the shrine within,—
Beneath its shadow to advance
Seem'd counted as a deadly sin.

Six days a week the churchyard lay,
And half the seventh, by human tread
Untouch'd—no living foot might stray
Beside the mansions of the dead.

Ah! why?—this stormy, earthly life
Of fear and hope, of toil and care,
Might find from all its fret and strife
Sometimes a moment's refuge there;

Amidst the graves awhile be taught
Remembrance that the flesh must die;
Within the Church awake the thought
Of the soul's immortality.

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This surely were no mortal crime,
No taint of Babylonish leaven,
No bondage dark to place or time,
No wrong ascent from earth to heaven.

Why needless barriers interpose
Eternity and time between?
Why thus the gate of entrance close
To intercourse with things unseen?

Such questions soon fit answer found;—
Time was, by some scarce yet forgot,
When, even within this holy ground,
The world's worst spirit rested not.

Strange custom!—even amidst the graves
Which most irreverent feet would spare,—
Where now at will the spear-grass waves,
Was held—an annual cattle-fair.

Almost beneath the sacred roof
Was heard the bleat of herds and flocks;
The tombs by the regardless hoof
Were trampled of the horse and ox;

And recklessly into the ground
Their stakes and poles the rustics drave,
And coffins oft unearth'd were found,
And scatter'd relics of the grave.

Strange legacy from days of old,
When monks of Benedictine rule
Within the Church-enclosure sold
Their calves and lambs, their corn and wool.

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Strange legacy for years to keep,
When friar and monk, black, white and grey,
Before the Reformation's sweep
Had pass'd like feverish dreams away;

When even the Abbey Church itself,
The nave destroy'd, scarce saved its choir,
And rent and tithe became the pelf
Of courtier-lord and country squire.

What marvel, if at last the wrath
Of outraged feeling, fierce though late,
Closed up the desecrated path
And lock'd the too commodious gate?

Between extremes our human mind
Will vacillate and waver long,
And late at last, if ever, find
The path of right 'twixt wrong and wrong.

But hush!—'tis now no part of mine
To meditate a moral lay,—
To search for clouds, when sunbeams shine,—
To preach—when first 'tis time to pray.

The Sunday skies were bright and blue,
The Sunday chimes rang blithely near,—
To poet's eye how dear that view!—
How sweet that music to his ear!

And gaily dress'd in all their best,
The children of the Sunday-school
By looks and words and ways express'd
Experience of their pastor's rule.

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And at the stated service-time
A congregation full and grave,
Beneath that abbey roof sublime,
Intoned the chaunt and droned the stave.

And from the altar, loud and clear,
My trumpet-tones roll'd out and rang,
And serious hearts were touch'd to hear,
And choral voices swell'd and sang.

And from the pulpit slowly down
Returning, when my text was spun,
I felt 'twixt me and that old town
A new relationship begun.

VII.—THE CURATE AT HOME.

There's something in a cloister's bound,
And something in a convent cell;
If not in sense, at least in sound,
The words ring clear and jingle well;

But nought exists so pure, so sweet,
Within the wide expanse of earth,
As love and learning's joint retreat—
The English pastor's home and hearth.

The dear constraint of household ties,
The daily kiss of wife and child,
The love which gushes to the eyes
From springs of feeling undefiled;—

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The round of duties blithely run,
Where each and all their parts fulfil,
Like stars revolving round the sun
In their appointed orbits still;—

The frugal, yet convivial meal,
At which familiar faces throng,—
The health which looks and limbs reveal,—
The morning task, the evening song;—

The prayer and praise at morn and night,
For blessings shared, for sins forgiven—
These make the pastor's dwelling bright
With gleams as of approaching Heaven.

Thus in the curate's home I felt,
When, from the shrine where Christians pray
Return'd, with him and his I dwelt,
And shared their meals that pleasant day.

The kindness of the home-bred heart,
The natural manners, frank and free,
The simple tastes unspoilt by art,
The true old English courtesy,—

The evening walk with sire and child,
By river bank, o'er hill and dale,
Through which her song, abrupt and wild,
Trill'd out the unwearied nightingale,—

The after melody more high,
And scarce less sweet, of household hymn,
And anthems soaring to the sky
As on the wings of seraphim;—

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Such pleasures that sweet Sunday crown'd,—
A Sunday such as Christians love
Whose hearts on earth by faith have found
The key-note of the songs above.

VIII.—THE BOUDOIR.

Small praise from me shall e'er be won
For virtues of conventual life;
I rank the most seraphic nun
Below the least seraphic wife.

Nor doth my fancy much incline
(For all that hath been sung or said
Of celibacy's life divine)
To ancient bachelor or maid:

But this I will at least maintain—
That of the last two kinds there be,
Each unlike each, in growth and grain,
As crab to golden-pippin tree.

The former is a virgin still,
Against her once decided voice;
The latter, of her free good will,
Unmated by deliberate choice.

The former's prospects have been marr'd
By fortune's trick or lover's slight;
She sees and feels herself debarr'd
From what she deems her sex's right.

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By disappointment thus devour'd,
What marvel, if her heart be sear'd,
Her judgment warp'd, her temper sour'd
Tow'rd all without or with a beard?

The latter hath, at duty's call,
Or haply by peculiar taste,
Surrender'd freely woman's all,
And let her beauty run to waste:

She cheers a widow'd parent's life,
She dries a widow'd brother's tears;
Denied the gentle name of wife,
She feels the mother's griefs and fears;—

She dwells on earth as angels might,
To self-denying labours given;
Walking by faith and not by sight,—
Her treasure and her heart in Heaven.

And such—if things are what they seem,
And I my judgment rightly frame
From signs external—such I deem
Mine hostess was—that ancient dame.

At eighty-six to be alive,
Nor yet exempt from earthly care,—
With those who fail and those who thrive,
Their sorrows and their joys to share,—

For social converse to retain
A ready wit, a cheerful tongue—
To feel, in pleasure and in pain,
Alike for middle-aged and young;—

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This speaks at least a genial heart,—
A heart which nature soothes and stirs;
Which still in this world bears its part,—
And such a heart, I deem, was hers.

My morning walk had made me late,
And she the household prayers had read,
Before at breakfast, tête-a-tête,
We brake the absent Vicar's bread.

Nor, though infirm and bent of frame,
Would she from courteous pains forbear:
That breakfast might have put to shame
Full many a younger matron's care.

But when 'twas done—“'tis time,” quoth she,
“That on your kindness I presume,
To ask if you will come and see
My own peculiar, private room.”

And, slow of step, she led the way
With all the stately pride of age,
To where her prized dominions lay,—
A grave, majestic pilgrimage.

The passages which thither led
Were lined with books on either side,
Which if she read not or she read,
'Tis not my province to decide;

But this I may with truth aver—
That she possess'd a mine of lore
Which scholar or philosopher
Possessing need demand no more.

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And shelf on shelf, and case by case,
Her chamber walls were furnish'd round,
Where each its own appointed place,
Octavo, quarto, folio, found.

Nor there was wanting sofa soft,
Nor ottoman, nor trim settee;
Floor—windows—walls-beneath—aloft,—
The room was snug as snug could be.

And jars of china costly-quaint
Fill'd up each vacant space and span,
'Midst portraits grim of sage and saint,
And cabinets of rich japan.

And many a tale of times gone by,
And many a gentle boast had she,
Of relics saved from ruin nigh,—
The glories of her ancestry,—

Of heirlooms still preserv'd with care
From countless generations back;
Poor gauds, which avarice deign'd to spare,
When house and land had gone to wrack.

And then, with graceful pride she told
How, still herself unwedded, she
Had nursed, from youth until grown old,
The hopes of half her family;—

And how, to her protecting arm,
Entrusted from their very birth,
Had infants been preserv'd from harm,
To fill a prosperous place on earth.

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Strange mixture did her speech betray
Of strength and weakness,—but to me
Celestial light appear'd to play
From out that fond garrulity.

Bright flashes fell upon the page
Of future life, whereby 'twas shown
How even the feeblest days of age
Have joy and comfort of their own.

I seem'd admonish'd not to fear,
As fear'd I have, my own decay,
When health and strength shall disappear,
And mind's last vigour fade away.

But still, the heart-springs to refresh
By exercise of faith and love,
Secure that fainting soul and flesh
Shall be supported from above.

IX.—THE CURATE ABROAD.

A train, not due till half-past one,
Defined the limit of my stay;
So, that grave conference past and done,
Four vacant hours before me lay;

And though my host was hardly press'd
By work among the sick and old,
And much himself had need of rest
From Sunday labours manifold,—

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For no remonstrance I could urge
Would he his courteous task forego,
But from his study must emerge
The wonders of the land to show.

So, staff in hand, we sallied forth,
And o'er the uplands clomb our way,
Where East and West, and South and North,
A world of gorgeous beauty lay.

The Breadon's green and grassy steep
On the left hand the prospect closed,
And like a Titaness asleep
Huge Malvern on the right reposed.

And far around, and in between,
Lay wood and water, rock and lea,
And blossoms hid the orchard green
With promise rich of fruit to be.

So fair a scene,—so calm, so bright,
Might well entrance the outward eye,
And with contemplative delight
The inward vision satisfy.

But on that pleasant morning walk
Were other charms than Nature's shed;
Grave thought was ours and earnest talk,—
Full intercourse of heart and head.

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A traveller had the curate been
On many a foreign sea and shore,
Much had he read, much had he seen,—
A man of multifarious lore.

With keen, attentive eye had view'd
The characters and minds of men,
And trains of sober thought pursued,
Beyond a superficial ken.

But still, whate'er he did or said,
One settled purpose you might see
In every act and word betray'd,—
To spread the truth which makes us free.

Through praise and blame, through gain and loss,
Through every form of good and ill,
He seem'd a soldier of the cross,
Undaunted and unwearied still:

With steadfast persevering toil,
Wrought in his own peculiar sphere,
And till'd a poor, ungrateful soil,
From month to month, from year to year;

Yet still, with comprehensive glance,
Survey'd all fields of Christian war,—
Watch'd truth's embattled host advance,
And cheer'd its onset from afar:

In speech ablaze with heavenly fire,
The cause of missions loved to plead,
And urged, with zeal which nought could tire,
The claims of our colonial need.

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A man of thought and action too,
Even to grey hairs from earliest youth,—
A pastor, such as earth hath few,
In word and tongue, in deed and truth.

So, side by side, in earnest talk,
We two o'er hill and valley strode,
Till, with our words and with our walk,
Together soul and body glow'd.

But feeble all, beside that heart
Of energy and zeal sublime
Appear'd the bard's inventive art,—
The skill to weave fantastic rhyme.

Rebuked before a manlier thought
The poet's gaudy fancy bow'd;
The teacher must himself be taught,
The preacher less than ever proud.

We finish'd our pedestrian round,—
Such walks must needs take long to tire,
And stood once more on holy ground,
Within the grand old Abbey choir.

Each crypt and cloister, arch and wall,
Did we with curious eyes explore;
The tombs and tablets, one and all,
The brasses on the transept floor.

Then, having snatch'd a swift repast,
(For now the time was waxing late,
And railway trains run far and fast,)
The one-horse chaise was at the gate.

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And after words of brief adieu
To matron and to maiden-kind,
The tower receded fast from view,—
Town, river, hills, were left behind.

We parted at the station-door,
(That stalwart-hearted priest and I,)
Perchance on earth to meet no more,—
And cordial was our last good-bye.

And homeward as I fleetly sped,
I marvell'd in the train, alone,
How noblest hearts are born and bred
To live and die in spheres unknown.

And then I thought how tower and stream
Had suddenly become to me
No more a dim romantic dream,
A freak of youthful phantasy;

But a staid home for sober thought,
O'er which remembrance still might brood,—
A new-found joy, which came unsought
In life's declining lustihood.

And well I knew, when (home return'd,)
I ponder'd my excursion o'er,
That in and through it I had earn'd
A treasure not possess'd before.

The ridge of Malvern, as seen from some points of view, bears a considerable resemblance to a gigantic female figure recumbent sidelong, the head reposing on the extended arm.

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THE KING'S QUARTERS.

Forty years were gone and past
With their pleasures and their pains,
Since (a boy) I look'd my last
On those verdant hills and plains,
On that old manorial hall,
On that clump of fir-trees tall;

On that stately avenue,
With its broad umbrageous trees,
Huge in girth and dark of hue,
Haunted by the evening breeze;
On those smooth and spacious lawns
Glistening in the dewy dawns;

On those ancient ponds without,
On those pictur'd walls within,
Where, in merry Christmas rout,
Congregated kith and kin;
Uncles, aunts, and madcap cousins,
Mix'd with neighbouring folk by dozens;

On those garden-walls, where oft
Itch'd my childish palm to reach,
As they blush'd and bloom'd aloft,
Ripening nectarine, plum and peach;

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On that hothouse, filled with grapes,
Cluster'd in such luscious shapes;

On the tiny church hard by,
Scarce beyond the shrubbery bound;
On the spring which sparkled nigh,
Bubbling up from under-ground;
Clear alike in sun and rain,
Though of red chalybeate stain.

“Forty years are gone and past,—
Few perchance may yet remain,—
Shall I see that house at last?
Shall I tread those courts again?”
Like a weak distrustful elf
Thus I reason'd with myself.

“Shall I break the life-long charm
Which hath held it in my heart,
Far from all alloy or harm
Of the daylight world apart:
Treasur'd with each holiest thought
From the depths of memory brought?

“Age hath its own fairy land
Of remember'd hope and joy;
Shall the man reverse the wand
Which enchanted once the boy?
Is it meet that fleshly eye
Into those domains should pry?

“Haply I may find them changed,—
Every feature maim'd and marr'd,

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All their order disarranged,
From saloon to stable yard;
Scarce a vestige haply trace
Of the old heart-cherish'd place.

“Or, if all should yet remain
Undismantled, undefiled,
As the image on my brain
Stamp'd while I was yet a child,—
Its new tenants may not be
Souls that care for mine or me.

“Ill could I endure to pace
That enchanted ground, and feel
That an unfamiliar face
Followed frowning at my heel;
That o'er all the loved domain
Uncongenial spirits reign.

“Grant I come a welcome guest,
Free at will to rove and range,—
Yet I know my brain and breast
Both have undergone a change:
Scenes to me can be no more
What they were in days of yore.

“Most of those beneath the mould
Sleep whom here my childhood knew;
I myself am grown too old
Earliest feelings to renew:
Why should I to life recall
Thoughts so long grown painful all?

“Why with rash advance confound
Worlds which cannot coalesce?

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Why obtrude on tenderest ground
Waning life's impassiveness?
While the present fades so fast,
Let the past remain the past.

“Better dream my ancient dream
Than dissolve, with sudden glare
Of the sun's meridian beam,
Aught so fragile yet so fair;
Childhood's visions are to me
Now the best reality.”

With my heart I held debate,
Thus o'er-mastering pro with con;
Tow'rds the well-remember'd gate
While my steps moved on and on;
Unconvinced by argument
Thither soul and body went.

Up the avenue I pass'd—
Trees well known were yet alive,—
Reach'd the gabel'd front at last,—
Cross'd the trimly-gravell'd drive;
Paused a moment—pull'd the bell,—
That at once dissolved the spell.

That old mansion is no more,
Nor again can ever be
Flush'd and flooded o'er and o'er
With the tints of phantasy;
Auld Lang Syne hath past away,
'Tis a treasure of to-day.

In my mind's retentive eye,
Long 'twas fill'd with faces, hid

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Where no fleshly gaze may pry,—
Underneath the coffin-lid;—
Spectral forms which in my brain
Rose and sank and rose again.

Let the dead embrace the dead,
They with us their work have done;
Lightly near the graves we tread
Which received them one by one:
Time will come when they and we
Shall once more companions be.

But the dwellers where they dwelt,
Though of distant, alien birth,
Feel as once our kindred felt,—
Let them fill their place on earth;
Better is the cordial host
Than the gaunt ancestral ghost.

Better friendly looks and tones,
Mirth and song and social glee,
Than a mouldering heap of bones,—
Though revered as bones can be;
Better woman's living grace
Than the relics of a race.

Pleasant was the image wrought
By remembrance on my brain,
But a brighter than I brought
Bear I from that house again;—
Image pure of household love,
Peace on earth and hope above.

Yet the older vision still
All unfaded doth abide,—

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House and garden, grove and hill,
Not transform'd, but glorified;
Hall and chambers, gallery, stair,
Still precisely what they were.

But in me, since childish years,
Hath a sense develop'd been,
Seized by which the place appears
Bright with more celestial sheen:
What felt I of beauty then?—
'Tis not caught by childish ken.

Now I know what glory floods
Sun-illumined slope and hill;
What the grandeur of the woods,
What the music of the rill;
See how fair is many a spot,
Even to eyes which love it not.

But the master-charm of all
Flows not from the beauty seen
In the old romantic hall,
In its gardens trim and green,
In the pastoral hills which bound
All its fair horizon round,—

Nor from rooms wherein of yore
Princes play'd their boyish games,
Nor from wainscots scribbled o'er
By the second Charles and James,
While their sire in arm'd array
Did his siege to Gloucester lay;

Nor from monumental brass,
Still recording on the wall

321

How King George the Third did pass
Once a morning in the hall,
With princesses young and fair,
Racing up and down the stair;—

Not from these, but from the thought
Of the worth which lives there yet,—
Of a pleasure found unsought,
When my sun began to set;
Not, I trust, to pass away
While the spirit warms the clay.

322

STANZAS AT THE STATION.

Long time in the refreshment-room I stay'd
Resign'd, expecting the North-Western train,
By some mischance beyond its time delay'd;
The day was drizzly, and continuous rain
By turns abated and increased again;
Throng'd was the platform with impatient folk
Fretting like souls in purgatorial pain,
As sinners will, at what might saints provoke,—
For sure to wait so long was something past a joke.

But among all, one party fix'd my eye,—
Three of one household, as a babe might guess;—
A grey-hair'd man, whose summer had gone by,
A lady middle-aged, whose air and dress
Became her ripe and mellow loveliness;
Both these by turns a sprightly girl of three
From time to time did playfully caress,
Or, wild with spirits, bound from knee to knee,—
A fine and healthful child as you on earth might see.

The father and the husband (such I ween
That stranger was, although indeed the pair
Might, from the ripeness of their age, have been
The parents' parents of that fairy fair)

323

Seem'd one who communed with some secret care,
So absent and abstracted was his look,—
And ever and anon he left his chair,
Closing the unread pages of his book,
And through or round the room some restless paces took.

And then, as though awaking from a dream,
He stopp'd, and, seated by the lady's side,
Gazed on her—ne'er did eyes more fondly beam
Of youthful bridegroom upon youthful bride,
While she look'd up serenely, languid-eyed,
Yet smiling, even like one who would conceal
Some anxious thought, suppress'd with matron pride,
Or which to him she dreaded to reveal,
Lest he, her trouble known, a deeper still might feel.

Meanwhile her fingers wrought, with busy haste,
A curious web of network light and fine;—
Some masterpiece of female skill and taste,
Which with correct precision to define—
Is not for muse so ignorant as mine;
But she there-through her glowing needle drove
In many a labyrinthine twist and twine,
As though in woman's earnest speed she strove
To finish some choice gift of woman's dearest love.

Her looks, her work, the paleness of her cheek,
Her husband's restless step and eye of gloom
Suffused with love, to me appeared to speak
Of some unknown, inexorable doom
Threatening the parent's age, the daughter's bloom;
'Tis plain, thought I,—some emigrant is he,
Who goes, his life's poor remnant to consume
In distant climes, no more for years to see
His wife's heart-thrilling glance, his child's heart-cheering glee.

324

And that choice handiwork of hers, no doubt,
Is for a keepsake of connubial love,
Which he shall cherish while his life wears out,
Or till, in this world or the world above,
He may rejoin his lost domestic dove.—
Thus did I muse in speculative vein,—
But, while her flimsy mesh-work fancy wove,
The railway-bell announced the coming train,
And straight the lady rose, like one who moved with pain.

She walk'd, supported on her husband's arm,
And then by chance the cloak was drawn aside,
Which had before enwrapt her close and warm,—
Whereat I noted, too observant-eyed,
What did the question of my thought decide;—
At once I saw the cause of all the fears
By which the husband's restless heart was torn,
Which filled the mother's eyes with natural tears,
Not, haply, wont to flow in life's more vigorous years.

So, in Wordsworthian humour, I began
Straightway to frame and fancy in my mind
The thoughts which might have stirr'd that grey-hair'd man,
As one of common passions with his kind;—
Thoughts which the curious here set down may find
In phrase whereby I deem'd he might express,
To her whose life was with his own entwined,
What 'twas that wrought his spirit that distress,
And fill'd his gazing eyes with such sad tenderness.

“Once again hath sickness bound thee
With its sharp, corroding chain,
Anxious fears once more surround thee,
Wakeful nights and days of pain:

325

And the months roll onward slowly,
While thy burden heavier grows;
What shall charm thy melancholy?
What shall give thy heart repose?

“He who else were bound to render—
What to render were delight—
Ministrations kind and tender
To thy weakness day and night,
When the East with sunrise burneth
To his labour must be gone,—
Seldom to thy side returneth
Till the evening star hath shone.

“Many a task of household duty
Wearily must thou pursue,
Chiefly cheer'd by childhood's beauty,
And its spirit fond and true:
Firm of heart and much enduring,
Though in weakness and unrest,
Still thy courage re-assuring
With the thoughts which nerve it best.

“Think how oft in years departed
Thou the self-same chain hast worn,
Feeble, fainting, anxious-hearted,
Till to earth a child was born:
Think what high protection nerved thee
Through thy peril and thy pain;
Think how strong an arm preserved thee,—
Will it not preserve again?

“Think how rich the compensation
For thy anguish still hath been;

326

How, for months of sore vexation,
Years of gladness thou hast seen:
Think how precious is the treasure
Which beneath thy bosom lies;
How profound the after pleasure
Which thy present suffering buys.

“Note yon tricksy prattler's gambols,—
All her mischief,—all her play,
As from room to room she rambles,
Ever restless, ever gay.
Swift as thought her antics vary,
Stout is she of heart and limb,
Frolicsome as forest fairy,
Loving as the seraphim.

“Strange and startling are her questions,
Apt and quaint her quick replies;
With instinctive, prompt suggestions
Nature makes her passing wise.
Still you trace, in voice and feature,
Dawning thought and fancy wild,—
Yet the gay and graceful creature
Is a simple-hearted child.

“Calculate the price which bought her,—
All the sickness, anguish, fear;
Wilt thou say so sweet a daughter
Cost a single pang too dear?
Wilt thou not for such another—
—Son or daughter, as may be—
Bear the burden of a mother,
With a mother's constancy?

327

“Let confiding expectation
Chase the shades of grief and gloom;
Bid prophetic speculation
Guess what treasure fills thy womb.
Could'st thou know what store of gladness,
Day by day, is gathering there,
Haply 'twould convert thy sadness
Into bliss too great to bear.

“Haply now thou bear'st within thee
Comfort for thy widow'd years;
Joy which shall hereafter win thee
From thy troubles and thy tears;
Firm support to help and hold thee
Down the slope of life's decline;
Love—whose fond embrace shall fold thee
When by death divorced from mine.

“Precious gifts, and rich in blessing,
Are the children of our age;
Joys which mock not the possessing
E'en of life's concluding stage.
Though divergent paths bereave us,
Of our elder, earlier born,
These, we trust, will never leave us,
Since our evening is their morn.”

328

ANTICIPATION AND EXPERIENCE.

When hope was young and fancy bright,
And fond anticipation
Embraced long years of pure delight,
Unmarr'd by one vexation;

When all the coming joys of life
In vision lay before me—
The cheerful home, the charming wife,
The children that she bore me;

The whole domain of hopes and fears
On which my dreams were founded,
Within a certain term of years
Was circled in and bounded.

I saw myself at twenty-five
A fond and fervent lover,
And then my matrimonial hive
With honey running over.

I saw, when five more years had sped
O'er smooth, untroubled waters,
Round, dimpled cheeks of white and red—
The cheeks of sons and daughters.

329

I saw the winter eve set in,
The hearth burn bright and ruddy,
The wind shut out, the warmth shut in,—
How cozy look'd my study!

The children all were warm in bed,
Beside me sat their mother;
We play'd, we sang, we wrote, we read,
We laugh'd with one another.

And years on years roll'd gaily on,
(So seem'd it in my vision,)
Until life's early prime was gone,—
Yet still 'twas all—Elysian.

The world with joys remain'd alive,
With which few griefs were blended,
Until I came to thirty-five—
And there the vision ended.

No spring of fancy could avail
That barrier to leap over;
What lay beyond it,—hill or dale,—
No guess-work could discover.

'Twas like the tracts which maps contain'd,
Ere geographic science
Such knowledge of our globe had gain'd
As might command reliance.

“Here deserts spread, where snakes abound
So huge, they scare beholders;
Here anthropophagi are found
With heads below their shoulders.”

330

Thus strangely, wildly, fancy wrought,
Life's distant page confusing,
Until it barr'd prospective thought
And baffled hope's perusing.

So, pent within her narrow bound,
Still dwelt anticipation,
And built on safe and solid ground
Her home and habitation.

Experience came,—the dreams of youth,
So daintily ideal,
Were found less bright than sober truth,—
The fancied than the real.

Young manhood pass'd,—grave middle age
Approach'd, arrived, departed;
Life happier seem'd, at every stage,
Than when the last was started.

The joys, which fancy's glass had shown,
Proved sweeter when I found them,
And others, which she ne'er had known,
With tenfold glory crown'd them.

And though with joys came griefs and fears,
Awhile their light obscuring,
That light dissolved the mist of tears,
And proved the more enduring.

And now, long past the utmost bound
Of life's foreseen fruition,
I find more bright the realm around,
More blest my own condition.

331

The slanting lights more softly shine
Than day's meridian splendour,
And grief is soothed by life's decline,
And joy becomes more tender.

And dearer far is wedlock's bond
Than when we learnt to bear it,
And household love is thrice as fond,
Though many more must share it.

There's scarce a joy of life's young prime
But still retains its station,
While yearly from the womb of Time
Comes forth a new creation.

Ah me! could this for ever last!—
This truce with mortal sorrow!—
I listen for the rising blast
Of storms to burst to-morrow.

I miss the scourge which smites me not,
Albeit too sorely needed,
As though I were a child forgot,
Unnoticed and unheeded.

Nay, doubt not, fear not—bless thy God,
Whose love forbears to pain thee;
Whose arm withholds the chastening rod,
Whose silken cords constrain thee.

Believe that since experience, still
Outstripping expectation,
Doth more than all the dream fulfil
Of young anticipation,

332

The mercy which hath been thy guide
Through paths so smooth and pleasant,
A future also shall provide
Still brighter than thy present.

Old age thou deem'st both grim and grey,
Beset with pain and sorrow;—
His face, which seems to frown to-day,
Shall beam with smiles to-morrow.

And death, if thou wilt bravely wait
On the behests of duty,
Approaching, shall unbar the gate
To realms of endless beauty.

333

LOVERS AT LOGGERHEADS.

What have I to do with thee—
Thee, Caprice's wilful daughter,
That to mate thee I must be
Steering thus through stormy water?
What need I, an elder, care
Whether fools be foes or spouses,
Meddling, marring here and there—
Plague say I o' both your houses.

Vestry brawls are rude and rough,—
Who but Vestry chairman pities?
Workhouse boards torment enough,
Worse torment one school committees;
But to me the toil of toils,
Hardest—ay! full ten times over—
Is to soothe the raging broils
Of a loved one with a lover.

Lo! upon my study shelves,
When on such affairs I ponder,
Sage and scholar bless themselves,
Theologians watch and wonder.
Hooker, Hammond, Taylor, Mede,
Basil, Ambrose, Athanasius—
All pronounce the life I lead
Inconceivably vexatious.

334

Whence the spell which thus enchains
Me, a grave and prudent rector?
Has Queen Mab bewitched my brains?
Have I quaff'd Olympian nectar?
Nay—to speak prosaic sense—
All the charm is purely human;—
'Tis the generous confidence
Of a noble-hearted woman.

335

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

So it is done, and thou hast chosen
The good, the wise, the prudent part,
Ere Fancy's wild unrest had frozen
The well-springs of thy woman's heart.

And thou canst bid farewell for ever
To joys which were thy life of life;
Exchange the artist's high endeavour
For the calm duties of the wife;

In self-denying strength of heart
Canst turn from plaudits long and loud,—
The triumphs of thy much-loved art,—
The homage of the admiring crowd,—

From what thou didst more dearly prize,
The silence of the thoughtful few,—
The tears which from discerning eyes
The magic of thy genius drew,—

Yea, even from Fancy's bright domain,
(That realm which thou didst range at will;—
Thy refuge long from care and pain,
Thy harbour in all storms of ill,)—

336

From this—from all which years had made
Thy own especial home to thee—
Thou turn'st—to dwell beneath the shade
Of Love's profound reality.

Even in thy pride and prime of power
(The rightful power of mind o'er mind)
Forgo'st thy nature's queenly dower
And leav'st lamenting realms behind.

Well hast thou done; ay! wisely well,
Nor unrewarded shalt thou be,
That thou didst not, through pride, rebel
Against thy better destiny.

For all which to thy wondrous art
Its charm of moral grandeur lent—
Thy true nobility of heart,—
Thy fervour of sublime intent,—

Thy sense of duty, strong and clear
As in thy great Taskmaster's eye,—
All this with tenfold light shall cheer
The stillness of thy privacy.

And thou wilt tame thy spirit down
(That spirit of ethereal mould)
From graspings at world-wide renown,
To household duties manifold:

And thine shall be no eagle's nest,
But a calm dwelling, like the dove's,—
A home which “that sweet summer guest
The temple-haunting martlet” loves.

337

And there shalt thou, with book and pen,
And studious thought, and letter'd ease,
And converse high of gifted men,
And bright-eyed children round thy knees,—

And more—O! how much more than all,—
A husband's deep, devoted love,
A happiness too pure to pall,—
The fulness of contentment, prove.

Will this suffice thee?—hath thy heart
No loftier cravings to allay?
Wilt thou be satisfied a part
All earthy and of earth to play?

Is this domestic, social range
Of sympathies and hopes and fears,
For all past joys a full exchange,—
A portion for all future years?

Ah! no:—though earth around look bright,
Thy soul must yearn and struggle still
For calmer peace, for purer light,
For perfect rest of thought and will.

And many a dream must still be thine
Of better, brighter worlds to come;—
Of some fair land where love divine
Gladdens the soul's eternal home.

And one thou hast—himself, like thee,
A pilgrim towards that peaceful land,—
Who shall thy true companion be,
And with thee seek it hand in hand;

338

With thee the hidden depths explore
Of Heaven's unfathom'd love and light;
With thee from Time's receding shore
Launch forth into the infinite;

With thee, in lowliness of heart,
Fix a devout, enquiring eye
On mysteries which we know in part,
And which in part we prophesy;

Till what was but in part be past,
And what is perfect, fully known,
And faith transformed to sight at last,
And Heaven's deep secrets all our own.

339

A WORD TO THE WEDDED.

O deem not that is love unfeign'd,
Which no minute offence can brook,
But tries, with rigour overstrain'd,
Each hasty word, each passing look;

Which counts as nothing half a life
Of past attachment, deep and strong,
When weigh'd against a moment's strife,
A moment's unintended wrong.

And deem not that to quench the flame
Of wedded love's impassion'd glow,
By words of harsh rebuke and blame
For some rash act done long ago,—

To ransack memory's secret store
For deeds and words, and looks and tones,
And moods and humours, past and o'er—
Poor frailties, which the heart disowns;—

O! deem not that to taunt with these
The aching heart, which loves thee still,
Can give thy own vex'd spirit ease,
Or work the offender's aught but ill.

340

The passing word of spite or spleen,—
The temper all too quickly moved,—
The tart reply,—the sarcasm keen
Between the loving and the loved;—

These at the spirit's surface lie,—
Its secret depths sleep calm below,
Where love hears not the gusts pass by
Which o'er the ruffled surface blow.

But when offended memory brings,
With close, tenacious grasp, to light
All hateful, all unhappy things,
Best buried in sepulchral night,—

When faults in human frailty wrought
Are dealt with as of hate prepense,
Conceiv'd in cool, deliberate thought,
And acted but to give offence,—

Then, then indeed, o'er Hymen's bower
Love flutters his departing wings,
And old enchantments lose their power,
And scorn and anger ply their stings.

O trifle not with holiest ties,
Nor rouse the slumbering fiend of ill;
Be patient, generous, timely wise,—
And rule him, soul and body, still.

341

HESPEROTHEN.

You ask me for a gift in rhyme,—
Some faint memorial of the power
Which graced your father's golden prime,
When hope and life were both in flower:
And fain would I, my son, indite
A strain, as sweet, as kind and true
As Poet-father e'er could write
To son as dearly loved as you.

Fain would I breathe into my lay
The deep regret, the fond desire
Of that bright face so far away
Which sets our yearning hearts on fire,
And make you feel, if that might be,
How father, mother, sister true,
Brother and youthful friend agree
In longing and in love for you.

Vain longing—and as vain regret!—
Between us ocean rolls and raves,
And many a year must vanish yet,
Or ere upon its dancing waves
The ship that bears our lost one home
Her white and welcome wings unfold,—
Ah!—long before that day shall come
Must many a loving heart be cold.

342

And you, my son, are weak and faint,
And from that fierce and fiery clime
Perchance even now imbibe a taint
Still deadlier than the touch of Time:
And he, with swift, insidious flight,
Already steals our strength away,—
Already dims your father's sight,
And turns your mother's tresses grey.

God knows if in this world below
We shall again behold our son;
God help us, if our tears must flow,—
To say indeed—His will be done!—
God cherish, in our hearts and yours,
Feeling and thought which will not die,—
The love which strengthens and endures,
When faith and hope are both gone by.

Meanwhile do thoughts “too deep for tears”
Full oft oppress your father's mind,
Of angry words in earlier years,
Of hasty words and looks unkind,
Of passion feebly held in check,
Of sharp rebuke and sudden blow,—
Till he would fall upon your neck
And let his swelling heart o'erflow.

And, more than this, remembrance tells
Of that which is my nature's bane,—
The shy reserve which shuts the cells
Of feeling in my heart and brain;
The fetters which lock up my tongue
When it should speak on things divine
To craving hearts of old and young,—
The hearts which are most dearly mine.

343

For this—for all of past offence—
For wrong committed, right not done,
Through rashness or through negligence,
Forgive your father, O my son:
Both he and you, for many a debt,
Have too much need to be forgiven
By Him whose mercy spares us yet,—
Our Father—yours and mine—in Heaven.

No more!—yet take the printed tomes
With this imperfect utterance sent;—
They breathe of English hearths and homes,
Of wedded peace—of heart-content;
Of all which, in the morn of life,
My fond imagination prized;
All which, in children, home and wife,
My riper years have realized.

And some few loftier notes there be
Those earthly melodies among,—
Half feeling, and half phantasy,—
Weak yearnings for diviner song:
O! to your father's lyric art
May power and might through these be given
To wake in your responsive heart
The music and the mind of Heaven!

And may your inward ear discern
The ground-tone of my varying strain,
And still from mine your spirit learn
To prize the pleasure and the pain
Of wedded life, of wedded love,
Of faith in higher bliss to be,—
Of peace on earth—of hope above
For Time and for Eternity!

344

VIOLETS.

“Under the green hedges, after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow;
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.”

“Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie;
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.”

Such thy first notes, as of music from heaven,
Child of my heart, when thy years were eleven;
Still, at thirteen, my delight and my pride,
Violet-hearted, forget-me-not-eyed.

Blest be thy birth-day!—more bountiful none
Hath in our family calendar shone;
Never was born to us child who hath proved
Sweetlier-gifted, more dearly beloved.

Pale is thy forehead, and paler thy cheek,
Weak was thy infancy, still thou art weak;
Fragile of body and feeble of limb,—
But thine eyes in the spring-dew of phantasy swim.

345

Deep in the cells of thy spirit are wrought
Exquisite textures of feeling and thought;
Forth from the depths of thy sensitive heart,
Tears to thine eyelids will bubble and start.

Oft, as thy fingers sweep over the keys,
Melody stirs in thy soul like a breeze;
Till the strong impulse evoke from the chords
Fairy-like music, to fairy-like words.

Oft, as thou walkest in meadow or wood,
Over its treasure thy spirit will brood;
Yearnings of nature, which nought can controul,
Blossom and bud in thine innocent soul.

Then, as thou fixest thine eyes on the ground,
Heedless of all that is passing around,
Deaf to their greetings, though cordial and kind,—
Country-folk ask—“Is she right in her mind?”

Right in thy mind?—ay! and right in thy heart,
Loving, and gentle, and pious thou art;
Never hath dearer, more dutiful child,
Grief from the heart of a parent beguiled.

Tenderness, faithfulness, sweetness profound,
Compass and clasp thee about and around;
Others by magic of intellect move,
Thine is the genius of goodness and love.

Use, but abuse not, the blessing of song,
Which from thy tuneful heart dances along;
Force it not—curb it not—free let it flow
Whither the breezes of Nature shall blow.

346

Seek not, and shun not, the garland of fame,
Keep thyself scatheless from praise and from blame;
Care not what outwardly fancy may win,
Fully content with her blessing within.

Only be innocent, artless and good,
Loving of spirit, and gentle of mood;
Fear and serve God with devotion of heart,
So shall He glorify all that thou art.

So, whether vocal or silent thou be,
Song shall be living in, welling from thee;
If not the meed of the poetess thine,
Thou shalt thyself be a poem. divine.

347

SONNET.

[Behold, my son, thy father's portraiture]

Behold, my son, thy father's portraiture
Traced by the fiery pencil of the sun,
Even in our Northern clime through science won
To rival art's fine touch, in hues obscure
But truthful, and from that smooth flattery pure
Through which the painter's work is oft misdone,—
To thee, whose manhood scarce hath yet begun,
A record of thy parent true and sure.—
Alas! on thy bright cheek and fair white brow
A sadder work will India's sun have wrought
Ere we behold the vessel's home-bound prow
That brings thee back, the darling of our thought.
Changed will thy form be;—better changed art thou
Through lore which faith hath learnt and God hath taught.

SONNET.

[Accept, dear wife, this new sixteenth of May]

Accept, dear wife, this new sixteenth of May,
My likeness, traced by photographic art,
Of that the close and twin-born counterpart
Sent to our son, who still elate and gay
Beneath the scorching equatorial ray
Keepeth, unchanged by counting-house or mart,
The pure, fresh feelings of his English heart,
While we, at home, grow trouble-worn and grey.
Perchance hereafter, when the timely grave
Hath closed o'er me, the husband and the sire,
Shall ye, still parted by the ocean wave,
Gaze on these features, and with vain desire
Think at one hour of his past love who gave,
And mourn his death-chill'd heart, his silent lyre.

348

SONNET.

[Sweet is the blossom'd promise of the spring]

Sweet is the blossom'd promise of the spring,
Its pleasant interchange of sun and showers,
Its verdant herbage prank'd with star-like flowers,
The cuckoo's note, the song which thrushes sing;
Sweet too is summer, when the Zephyr's wing
Fans the meridian heat (which else o'erpowers
The fainting soul) and green umbrageous bowers
Of thick-leaved boughs refreshing coolness bring;
But sweeter, to discerning heart and eye,
Is autumn with its fruitage ripe and red,
Its foliage steep'd in many a gorgeous dye,
Its waving cornfields rich in promised bread.—
Such, dearest, is thine autumn;—why should I
Grieve if thy summer, like thy spring, hath fled.

SONNET.

[Jeannie! I deem that this thy nuptial day]

Jeannie! I deem that this thy nuptial day
Should scarcely pass unhonour'd on my part
By some small tribute of poetic art,
Sonnet, or song, or hymeneal lay;
Such as long since, while youth's luxuriant May
Was blossoming and budding in my heart,
Would from my pen, almost unbidden, start,
As joy or sorrow prompted, grave or gay.
But now 'tis life's October;—flower and leaf,
Blossom and bud and fruit are dropp'd or dead;—
Long garner'd hath been autumn's ripest sheaf,
Nor should I wreathe to-day around thy head
A faded garland, redolent of grief,
Nor with dry stubble strew thy bridal bed.

349

SONNET.

1839.

[With no impatient or rebellious mind]

With no impatient or rebellious mind
Bear thy great sorrow, Lady, for in thee
Is now fulfill'd the immutable decree,
Whereby Eternal Wisdom hath assign'd,
To those whom it selects of human-kind
For special service, suffering, from which we,
Less honour'd, are exempt. 'Twas thine to see
A glorious spirit through thy love refined
And purified for Heaven: O therefore bow,
High-hearted woman, to His righteous will
Who proves thy spirit with this anguish now,
And patiently thy widow's task fulfil,
Cheer'd, even on earth, by faith revealing still
The amaranth crown upon thy husband's brow.

SONNET.

[Heaven bless thee, Lady! for two happy days]

TO THE SAME. 1850.

Heaven bless thee, Lady! for two happy days
Of pure though sad, of deep though quiet feeling,
A buried world within my heart revealing,
Distinct, though dim, in memory's tender haze;
Which when the introverted eye surveys,
Blossoms burst forth from winter's dark concealing,
Streams gush to life, which Time had been congealing,
Light, long obscured, on soul and spirit plays.
Heaven bless thee, Lady!—bless thy widow'd hearth!—
Widow'd, not desolate, but gladden'd still
By household smiles and girlhood's heartfelt mirth,
Temper'd with grief which tames the chasten'd will,
And disciplines the spirit, here on earth,
Its work of lifelong duty to fulfil.

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THE THREE MINSTRELS.

PROLOGUE.

Small hope—perchance small wish have I
To leave a poet's name behind,
Inscribed upon my country's mind
In characters too deep to die.

My genius is not of the brood
Which spreads its wings and soars sublime
Beyond the bounds of space and time,
Nor have I well the Muses woo'd,

Nor served them with a perfect heart,
Still with such melody content
As nature to my fingering lent,
With scant appliances of art.

Nor have I lack'd my full reward—
The pleasure given to gentle minds,—
The genuine sympathy which binds
The souls of listener and of bard.

If some half-conscious thirst for fame
With simpler wishes hath been blent,
Such have I won;—I am content
Alive to bear the poet's name.

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What profit would be mine when dead
From laurels planted round my grave?
What injury, though fool or knave
Should spurn it with contemptuous tread?

If some chance words escape decay—
A thought—an image here and there,
By gentle hearts preserved with care,
When I from earth have past away—

So be it; more is gain'd than sought;
Meanwhile let me enjoy the good
Which since my life's young lustihood
Until its wane, the Muse hath brought;

High friendships—sympathies benign
From some who o'er the hearts of men
Reign deathless—minds of ampler ken
And insight more profound than mine.

Content with what I have and am,
Nor envying them what they may be,
This verse I consecrate to three
Great spirits—“in memoriam.”

THE FIRST MINSTREL.

My freshman's year was past and done,
I bore no undistinguish'd name,
Nor all unknown to college fame,
Through laurels in my boyhood won.

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With minds, the noblest of my day,
My undergraduate lot was cast,
In whose high friendship swiftly pass'd
The seed-time of my life away.

My mind, spell-bound beneath the strength
Of Byron's genius in its prime,
Was now, as wisdom came with time,
Awaking from that dream at length.

The growth of my expanding thought
Assumed a manlier, healthier tone;
Old idols had been overthrown,
New shrines of adoration sought.

And in my heart a voice was heard
Fresh from the mountain and the lake,
Which to its inmost spirit spake,
And all its noblest pulses stirr'd.

Then 'twas that to his brother's home,
Who did our college sceptre sway,—
'Twas known that Rydal's bard, to pay
A brother's debt of love, was come.

And they who then revered his name,
(As yet a small but zealous band)
To welcome him with heart and hand
Back to his Alma mater, came.

One evening—(one to life's decline
Since youth remember'd)—'twas my pride
To sit, a listener, at his side
Whom I had deem'd almost divine.

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He then had turn'd his fiftieth year,—
Older in aspect than in age;
And less of poet than of sage
Methought did in his looks appear.

His voice sonorous, clear and deep,
With somewhat of a pompous tone;
His locks, already silvery grown,
Did scantly round his temples creep.

His face and form were thin and spare
As of ascetic anchorite,
Yet with us boys in converse light
He join'd, with free and genial air.

And I remember that he told
How once upon the Righi's height
He stood, in clear, celestial light,
While thunder-clouds beneath him roll'd,

And thunder-peals roar'd long and loud,
And lightnings, with their lurid glare,
Lit up the crags abrupt and bare
Which pierced the sable veil of cloud.

And then did he discuss again
A point, in verse discuss'd before—
Whether the nightingale doth pour
A stormy or a tender strain.

Themes both, which might have wakened then
The poet soul,—yet nought he said
Which much beyond the thought betrayed
Of unimaginative men.

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Yet did his nervous words express
Wisdom combined with vigorous sense,
Nor lack'd that natural eloquence
Which is the voice of earnestness.

Utter'd by lips of common men,
Not common had they seem'd to be,—
Only they gave no sign that he
Was lord of an immortal pen.

And when that wish'd-for hour had flown,
Almost my fancy might lament
That now her glittering veil was rent,
And all it had enshrouded, known.

Beneath my roof again we met,—
My years had then attained their prime;
And he, though somewhat touch'd by time,
Was hale and energetic yet.

And he had left his mountain home
To gladden and refresh his age,
(So said he) by a pilgrimage
To those eternal hills of Rome.

His daughter, who her maiden name
Not yet had merged in that of wife,
The staff of his declining life,
The partner of his travel came.

With fervent, earnest words he spoke
Of public morals, of the laws
Which give the English labourer cause
To fret beneath the social yoke;

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Of principles, both good and pure,
Made false by legislative haste,
For female virtue, sore debased,
Attempting an empiric cure.

And then, as with the sudden growth
Of indignation, from his lip
Some hasty words were heard to slip,
Which sounded very like an oath.

Thence to his own peculiar sphere
He turn'd—the wide domain of song,
Pronouncing judgment clear and strong
By laws fastidiously severe.

No weak indulgence would he shew
To fancies marr'd by careless haste,—
Rank shoots of genius run to waste,
Whose healthier growths are sure and slow;

But urged that with elaborate toil
All shapings of poetic thought
Must be to ripe perfection brought,
Or wither in the richest soil.

In critic phrase I pleaded then
For noble thoughts and words sublime,
From verse of his in later time
Expunged with a remorseless pen;—

Marring, methought—as poets use,
Whose evening star of fancy wanes
While judgment domineers,—the strains
Which glorified his youthful muse.

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Thereto, in grave deliberate tone,
But bland withal, he made reply,
And spake of art severe and high,
And duties which he deem'd his own:

Of gifts not rashly to be marr'd,
Of work not lightly to be done,
Of power o'er human hearts, to none
Vouchsafed but the laborious bard.

Of what was to his country due,
Of what he had received from Heaven,
The task inspired, the talents given,
The meed which he must needs pursue.

He spake like one who feels the weight
Of genius to his lot assign'd,—
The burden of a mighty mind,—
The debt incurred by being great;

And while his voice sonorous roll'd,
We felt as though a prophet spake,
In words which drowsiest hearts might wake
And render feeblest spirits bold.

Once more we met—when years had fled,—
Beside the banks of Windermere;
He then was nigh his eightieth year,
But vigorous still of voice and tread.

Sorrow her perfect work had done
Less on his body than his mind;
On earth he now was left behind
When those who made it bright were gone.

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And (last and most lamented) she—
His dearest hope—his age's stay,—
His daughter too had past away
Ere death had set her father free;

For months had he despondent lain,
Stun'd by that overwhelming stroke,
Then lately from his trance awoke
To master and subdue his pain.

Yet with a courteous, cordial air
The aged poet met me still,
And welcomed me, with free good will,
To his sweet mountain dwelling there.

His life was then the life of one
Who after battle's long turmoil,
(The victory won, secured the spoil,)
Reposes when his work is done.

No longer vext by hopes or fears,
Or sense of duty unfulfill'd,
While fame, well won, began to gild
The sunset of his later years,

Serenely the old man survey'd,
As from a troubled ocean's shore,
The tempests which for him were o'er,
The tumult which the breakers made.

In calm and philosophic mood
He spake of past and present days,
And now with censure, now with praise,
The living and the dead review'd:

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But chiefly he his thoughts address'd
To themes of high religious strain;
Like one who from the care and pain
Of earthly life would be at rest.

Ere two years more o'er that grey head
Had flown, both care and pain were past,
And by his daughter's side at last
The poet slumber'd with the dead.

THE SECOND MINSTREL.

This very month 'tis thirty years,
(Ah why will years so swiftly flee,—
I scarce believe them more than three,
So short the by-gone time appears,)—

Since we toward Highgate bent our way,—
Three poets—loving friends and true
The skies had on their brightest blue,
The air was fresh with fragrant hay.

Scarce out of London's smoke and din
We heard the mower whet his scythe,
The summer birds were singing blithe,
Like creatures without care or sin.

And we, almost as blithe as they,
(For life in us was fresh and strong,)
With talk and jest and snatch of song
Beguiled the progress of our way.

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One was a youth who clomb to fame
By paths than song more swift and sure,—
No soul less selfish or more pure
Hath graced the senatorial name.

The second hath, since ripening age,
Been from the Muses haunts estranged,
Through which in youth his genius ranged—
Its patrimonial heritage.

A teacher such as earth hath few,
Though, ill repaid and underprized,
His greatness all unrecognised,
His lifelong toil doth he pursue:—

A fetter'd eagle, link on link
He drags a soul-corroding chain,
Too constant-hearted to complain,
Too brave beneath his load to sink.

Him, on that well-remember'd day,
We others followed to the shrine
Of wisdom and of song divine,
The homage of young hearts to pay,

And hear those wondrous lips unfold,
In tones of inspiration high,
Such truths as to prophetic eye
In trance ecstatic are unroll'd.

Blandly, our triple league to greet,
The sage of tongue heaven-kindled came,
Already of decrepit frame,
Ill balanced on unsteady feet.

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He, by his clerkly, grave attire,
A Christian pastor might have seem'd,
But in his eye seraphic gleam'd
Effulgence of celestial fire.

We mark'd the broad expanse of brow,
The prematurely silver hair,
The streams of music rich and rare
Which through those parted lips did flow.

Awed by that mighty presence, I
Was silent like a bashful child;
But he, with condescension mild,
And frank, ingenuous courtesy,

His sovereignty awhile resign'd,
And with a kind, familiar air,
Subdued, to light which we could bear,
The lustre of his inner mind.

The hand of Retzsch had newly then
On Goethe's art its own essay'd,
And “Faust” was on the table laid,
The pencil vying with the pen.

But touch'd with all pervading light,
Which from that mystic mind did stream,
The painter's and the poet's dream
Were straight transfigured in our sight.

On every page, on every line,
Intense illumination play'd,—
A glory not its own, which made
What else seem'd devilish, half divine.

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And though 'twas mine, in later days,
The inspiration of the seer
In fuller, deeper flow to hear,
And bask in more unclouded rays

Emitted from that glorious orb,—
Yet that one hour on Highgate hill
Doth, o'er the rest remember'd, still
My spirit's retrospect absorb.

And still to me, by Goethe's pen
Spell-bound, or Retzsch's living page,
Comes back the memory of the sage
Who steep'd them both in sunlight then.

My youthful years had past away,—
Again I stood beside his door,—
The poet-soul was there no more,—
Its empty frame unburied lay.

In me it woke mysterious awe,
To think that he, that lord of song,
Had yielded, like the vulgar throng,
To death's inexorable law:

That light, not oft in ages sent,—
Which yet had in the darkness shone
Uncomprehended,—now was gone
For ever from our firmament.

But ere that awe had lost its spell,
'Twas merged in sorrow more profound;—
Beneath a distant churchyard mound
Was laid a child beloved too well.

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Almost they parted side by side,—
The babe whose days were scarce a span,
And he, the hoary-headed man,—
The sinless and the sanctified;—

The sage profound in thought and lore,
The child whose thought had scarce begun,—
Both battles fought, both races run,
Both landed on the eternal shore.

Together at the Judgment throne
Perchance they stood; and who shall say
What difference then between them lay,—
Which spirit had the riper grown:

What, if at one triumphant bound
The child in death may overleap
The toilsome progress, long and steep,
By which the man hath wisdom found?

What, if the saint's long war with sin,—
If all the study of the sage,
From earliest youth to latest age,
Renew not so the world within,—

Nor so the spirit's range expand,
Nor so illume its inward eye
To view, in vision clear and nigh,
The wonders of that unknown land,—

As his whom pure baptismal grace,
Still all unsoil'd as when 'twas given,
Hath made unconscious heir of Heaven
And fit to see his Father's face?

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THE THIRD MINSTREL.

Not poor, nor profitless, I deem
The homage paid, in deed and truth,
By poet, in his morn of youth,
To elders o'er the craft supreme.

But that, methinks, becomes him more,
Which, in his own declining day,
He doth to those, his juniors, pay
Who, coming after, rank before;

Who still must wax as he must wane,
Whose light shall burn and shine afar,
When his, a pale and glimmering star,
Hath faded into night again.

A matron is my neighbour now,
In childhood introduced to fame,
By one who bears a deathless name
And wreathes the laurel round his brow.

And he beneath her roof sometimes
Still tarries, as a kinsman ought;
Refreshes there his weary thought,
Or meditates harmonious rhymes.

And thither, one fine winter day
On premonition duly sent,
As brother of the guild, I went
My homage to our chief to pay.

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The snow lay thick on field and tree,
The pools with ice were crusted o'er;
Such snow as fell in days of yore,
Such ice as now we seldom see.

But veil'd in an ambrosial cloud,
Secure from weather, as from fate,
The poet in Olympian state
Did his immortal presence shroud.

Ah! Lillian! was't an act of grace
In thee, retreating through the door,
Two bards, who ne'er had met before,
To leave alone and face to face?

Perchance thou didst a hope sublime
Indulge—yea in thy soul believe—
That each the other's skull would cleave,
And so the world be spared some rhyme.

Thou deem'st the true Pierian swan
Is but a bantam spur-bedight,
More prompt with kindred fowl to fight
Than unpoetic man with man.

Not so,—thy guest, whose face I sought,
Assumed a frank, familiar air,
And with a volume of Moliére
Our brains to mild encounter brought.

We spake of England and of France,
And how the individual man
In England doth to ampler span,
In well-developed growth, advance:

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And how to Shakespere's genius thus
Did larger fields of thought abound
Than could in all the world be found
Elsewhere than only among us.

That point decided once with care,
To others as our talk diverged,
Together rising, we emerged
Into the fresh and frosty air:

And he, a skater old and proved,
Did o'er the ice, on trenchant heel,
In labyrinthine mazes wheel,
Like one who vigorous motion loved.

Then, homeward as we shaped our way,
Again we spake of books and men,—
The ancient and the modern pen,—
The Grecian, Roman, English lay;

Of Him—the Teacher true and bold,
Till death, assail'd with bigot hate;
Now throned among the good and great
Of all earth's ages, new and old;

And Him—as true and bold—who still
Through the same storm of earthly life,
Malign'd, reviled, maintains his strife
With error and with social ill.

Racy and fresh was all he said,
Not cramp'd by bonds of sect or school;
He seem'd not one who thought by rule,
Nor one of any truth afraid;

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But, bold of heart and clear of head,
The course of human thought review'd,
And dauntlessly his path pursued,
To whatsoever goal it led.

A man indeed of manly thought,
Inhabiting a manly frame,—
A man resolved, through praise or blame,
To speak and do the thing he ought.

Sometimes in phrase direct and plain,
At which fastidious ears might start,
He clothed the promptings of his heart,
The strong conceptions of his brain;

But in and o'er whate'er he said
Ingenuous truth and candour shone;
In every word and look and tone
Was nobleness of soul display'd.

And if perchance for form and creed
Pugnacious less than some may be,
Yet Christian eyes at once might see
In him, a Christian bard indeed,

And well may English hearts rejoice
That queenly hands around the brow
Of one so graced the laurel bough
Have wreathed, as by a nation's choice.

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EPILOGUE.

A fiddle is a paltry thing,—
A thing of catgut and of wood;
It does one's temper little good
To hear a bungler scrape the string:

But let a Paganini's hand
Thereon its wondrous power essay,
And lo! beneath that magic sway
What worlds of melody expand!

A master-touch but lately swept
Some chords of elegiac tone,
And woke to music all its own
The spirit which within them slept.

A feeble medium 'twas he chose,—
An instrument of compass small;
And yet from hut to palace hall
The wondrous descant rang and rose.

In plaintive murmurs, low and grave,
It moan'd and murmur'd like the sea;—
A solemn, deep monotony,
Renew'd, repeated, wave on wave.

Through England's utmost breadth and length
It pass'd—that melancholy strain,
As of a noble soul in pain,
Its sadness temper'd by its strength.

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The peasant heard it at his plough,—
It smote the student in his cell,—
Like balm on mourning hearts it fell,—
The blithe were touched, they knew not how.

What marvel if in some it found
An echo which would fain prolong
The rapture of so sweet a song,—
The bliss of such unearthly sound?

But strings which, touch'd by minstrel skill,
Enchant the hearer's soul and sense,
Twang'd by a clown's impertinence
Are unmelodious catgut still.

And yet perchance 'tis well to learn
The limits of our proper skill,—
The difference between power and will
By sad experience to discern.

And those methinks are less to blame
Who mar a measure weak and mean
Than those who put what might have been
A noble harmony to shame.

I knew not, when my song I plann'd,
That this inverted stave required
The music of a soul inspired,
The magic of a master's hand;

Nor dream'd that so minute a change—
The transposition of a rhyme—
Could thus bewilder tune and time,
Thus make expression harsh and strange.

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Howe'er it be—my story told,
This ill-strung fiddle I resign
To fingers more expert than mine,—
To souls of more melodious mould.

And if my song discordant seem,
Even let it perish, lost and drown'd
In the full stream of golden sound
Diffused by those harmonious Three.

370

MUSÆ ETONENSES.

Seed-time and harvest, summer's genial heat,
And winter's nipping cold, and night and day
Their stated changes, as of old, repeat,
And must, until this world shall pass away;
While nations rise, and flourish, and decay,
And mighty revolutions shake the earth,
Filling men's hearts with trouble and dismay;
And war and rapine, pestilence and dearth,
To many a monstrous shape of pain and woe give birth.

But still, while states and empires wax and wane,
And busy generations fret and die,
The face of Nature doth unchanged remain;
Small token is there in the earth or sky
Of dissolution or mortality;
But streams are bright, and meadows flowery still,
And woods retain their ancient greenery,
And shade and sunshine chequer dale and hill,
Though all the abodes of men be rife with wrong and ill.

There is no feature in thy fair domain
Which of decay or change displays a trace,
No charm of thine but doth undimm'd remain,
O Thou my boyhood's blest abiding-place,
While five-and-twenty years with stealthy pace

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Have cool'd thy son's rash blood, and thinn'd his hair;—
The old expression lingers on thy face,
The spirit of past days unquench'd is there,
While all things else are changed, and changing everywhere.

And through thy spacious courts, and o'er thy green
Irriguous meadows, swarming as of old,
A youthful generation still is seen,
Of birth, of mind, of humour manifold:
The grave, the gay, the timid, and the bold,—
The noble nursling of the palace-hall,—
The merchant's offspring, heir to wealth untold,—
The pale-eyed youth, whom learning's spells enthral,—
Within thy cloisters meet, and love thee, one and all.

Young art thou still, and young shalt ever be
In spirit, as thou wast in years gone by;
The present, past and future blend in thee,
Rich as thou art in names which cannot die,
And youthful hearts already beating high
To emulate the glories won of yore;
That days to come may still the past outvie,
And thy bright roll be lengthen'd more and more
Of statesman, bard, and sage well versed in noblest lore.

Ah! well, I ween, knew He what worth is thine,
How deep a debt to thee his genius owed,—
The Statesman, who of late, in life's decline,
Of public care threw off the oppressive load,
While yet his unquench'd spirit gleam'd and glow'd
With the pure light of Greek and Roman song,—
That gift, in boyish years by thee bestow'd,
And cherish'd, loved, and unforgotten long,
While cares of state press'd round in close, continuous throng.

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Not unprepared was that majestic mind,
By food and nurture once derived from thee,
To shape and sway the fortunes of mankind,
And by sagacious counsel and decree
Direct and guide Britannia's destiny—
Her mightiest ruler o'er the subject East:
Yet in his heart of hearts no joy had he
So pure, as when, from empire's yoke released,
To thee once more he turned with love that never ceased.

Fain would he cast life's fleshly burden down
Where its best hours were spent, and sink to rest,—
Weary of greatness, sated with renown,—
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Proud may'st thou be of that his fond bequest,
Proud that, within thy consecrated ground,
He sleeps amidst the haunts he loved the best;
Where many a well-known, once-familiar sound
Of water, earth, and air for ever breathes around.

Such is thine empire over mightiest souls
Of men who wield earth's sceptres; such thy spell
Which until death, and after death, controuls
Hearts which no fear could daunt, no force could quell:
What marvel then, if softer spirits dwell
With fondest love on thy remember'd sway?
What marvel, if the hearts of poets swell,
Recording at life's noon, with grateful lay,
How sweetly in thy shades its morning slipped away?

Such tribute paid thee once, in pensive strains,
One mighty in the realm of lyric song,—
A ceaseless wanderer through the wide domains
Of thought which to the studious soul belong;—
One far withdrawn from this world's busy throng,

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And seeking still, in academic bowers,
A safe retreat from tumult, strife, and wrong;
Where, solacing with verse his lonely hours,
He wove ambrosial wreaths of amaranthine flowers.

To him, from boyhood to life's latest hour,
The passion, kindled first beside the shore
Of thine own Thames, retained its early power;
'Twas his with restless footsteps to explore
All depths of ancient and of modern lore;
With unabated love to feed the eye
Of silent thought on the exhaustless store
Of beauty, which the gifted may descry
In all the teeming land of fruitful phantasy.

To him the Grecian muse, devoutly woo'd,
Unveil'd her beauty, and entranced his ear,
In many a rapt, imaginative mood,
With harmony which only Poets hear
Even in that old, enchanted atmosphere:
To him the painter's and the sculptor's art
Disclosed those hidden glories, which appear
To the clear vision of the initiate heart
In contemplation calm, from worldly care apart.

Nor lack'd he the profounder, purer sense
Of beauty, in the face of Nature seen;
But loved the mountain's rude magnificence,
The valley's glittering brooks and pastures green,
Moonlight, and morn, and sunset's golden sheen,
The stillness and the storm of lake and sea,
The hedgerow elms, with grass-grown lanes between,
The winding footpath, the broad, bowery tree,
The deep, clear river's course, majestically free.

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Such were his haunts in recreative hours,—
To such he fondly turn'd, from time to time,
From Granta's cloister'd courts, and gloomy towers,
And stagnant Camus' circumambient slime;
Well pleas'd o'er Cambria's mountain-peaks to climb,
Or, with a larger, more adventurous range,
Plant his bold steps on Alpine heights sublime,
And gaze on Nature's wonders vast and strange;
Then roam through the rich South with swift and ceaseless change.

Yet with his settled and habitual mood
Accorded better the green English vale,
The pastoral mead, the cool, sequestered wood,
The spacious park fenced in with rustic pale,
The pleasant interchange of hill and dale,
The churchyard darken'd by the yew-tree's shade,
And rich with many a rudely-sculptured tale
Of those beneath its turf sepulchral laid,
Of human tears that flow, of earthly hopes that fade.

Such were the daily scenes with which he fed
The pensive spirit first awoke by Thee;
And blest and blameless was the life he led,
Sooth'd by the gentle spells of poesy.
Nor yet averse to stricter thought was he,
Nor uninstructed in abstruser lore;
But now with draughts of pure philosophy
Quench'd his soul's thirst,—now ventured to explore
The fields by science own'd, and taste the fruits they bore.

With many a graceful fold of learned thought
He wrapp'd himself around, well pleased to shroud
His spirit, in the web itself had wrought,
From the rude pressure of the boisterous crowd;
Nor loftier purpose cherish'd or avow'd,

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Nor claim'd the prophet's or the teacher's praise;
Content in studious ease to be allow'd
With nice, artistic craft to weave his lays,
And lose himself at will in song's melodious maze.

Slow to create, fastidious to refine,
He wrought and wrought with labour long and sore,
Adjusting word by word, and line by line,
Each thought, each phrase remoulding o'er and o'er,
Till art could polish and adorn no more,
And stifled fancy sank beneath the load
Of gorgeous words and decorative lore
In rich profusion on each verse bestow'd,
To grace the shrine wherein the poet's soul abode.

And was his mission thus fulfill'd on earth?
For no sublimer use the powers design'd
Which liberal Nature gave him at his birth,
And life-long culture ripen'd and refined?
Owed he no more to Heaven or to mankind
Than these few notes of desultory song?—
Nay, slight we not Heaven's boon, nor strive to find
Occasion to impeach the bard of wrong,
Whose strains, a deathless gift, to us and ours belong!

If rather for himself, a pilgrim lone
Through this cold world, he sang to cheer his way
And soothe his soul with music all its own,
Than in didactic numbers to convey
Wisdom and truth to minds from both astray,—
If little reck'd he of his task divine,
Man's subject spirit to instruct and sway,—
'Twas, that as yet from Poesy's bright shrine
The light which warms our day had scarce begun to shine.

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Thought hath its changeful periods, like the deep,
Of calm and tempest, tumult and repose;
And 'twas on times of intellectual sleep
That the faint day-spring of his genius rose:
Man's mind lay sunk awhile in slumb'rous doze,
Its surface yet unruffled by the breeze
Which should ere long its hidden depths disclose,
And wake to feverish life of fell disease
New swarms of embryo creeds and crude philosophies.

Years came and went;—beside the Poet's tomb
The flowers of many a spring had bloom'd and died,
When times of fierce convulsion, rage, and gloom
Arose, and shook the nations far and wide.
O then, my Mother, by the verdant side
Of thy bright river, lost in dreamy mood,
Was seen a stripling, pale and lustrous-eyed,
Who far apart his lonely path pursued,
And seem'd in sullen guise o'er troublous thoughts to brood.

Small sympathy he own'd or felt, I ween,
With sports and pastimes of his young compeers,
Nor mingling in their studies oft was seen,
Nor shared their joys or sorrows, hopes or fears:
Pensive he was, and grave beyond his years,
And happiest seem'd when in some shady nook
(His wild, sad eyes suffused with silent tears)
O'er some mysterious and forbidden book
He pored, until his frame with strong emotion shook.

Strange were his studies, and his sports no less;
Full oft, beneath the blazing summer noon,
The sun's convergent rays, with dire address,
He turned on some old tree, and burnt it soon
To ashes; oft at eve the fire-balloon,

377

Inflated by his skill, would mount on high;
And when tempestuous clouds had veil'd the moon,
And lightning rent, and thunder shook the sky,
He left his bed, to gaze on Nature's revelry.

A great, a gifted, but a turbid soul
Struggled and chafed within that stripling's breast,—
Passion which none might conquer or controul,
And feeling too intense to be repress'd:
His spirit was on fire, and could not rest
Through that fierce thirst for perfect truth and love
By which, as by a spell, it seem'd possess'd;
And long, and oft, and vainly still he strove
To realize on earth what only dwells above.

To him ideal beauty had unveil'd
In blissful vision her immortal face:
Alas! what marvel if on earth he fail'd
The footsteps of that glorious form to trace?
What marvel that to him all things seem'd base,
Disorder'd, and corrupt? and when he sought
Hope for himself, and healing for his race,
Even in the creeds by Christian doctors taught,
How cold to him appear'd the comfort which they brought!

The thing which is, and that which ought to be!—
The Gospel and the Church !—the precept given,
And act performed !—alas ! he seem'd to see
Things unlike each to each, as earth to Heaven!
And thus from depth to depth of error driven,
Through truth blasphemed, a devious course he ran,
His brain o'erwrought, his proud heart rent and riven
By bootless strife,—a rash, misguided man,
Farther from peace at last, than when his quest began.

378

Yet in a world of beauty dwelt he still,
Entranced in visions wonderful and bright,
Which by strong magic he evoked at will
From his soul's teeming depths;—no mortal wight
E'er ruled with such supreme, resistless might
The wizard realm of fancy; mortal words
Did ne'er such music with such thought unite
As flow'd beneath his touch from mystic chords,
Whose harmony none wake but song's most gifted lords.

Thus with a prophet's heart, a prophet's tone,
Uttering his fitful oracles he stood
'Midst scorn and hatred, dauntless, though alone;
A marvel to the wicked,—by the good
Pitied and shunn'd,—and where least understood
Most strongly censured.—Peace be with his dust!
Nor be his faults relentlessly pursued
By reprobation of the wise and just,
Who feel themselves but men, and their own hearts distrust.

But thou, O nurse and guide of youthful thought,
Wast thou all guiltless of thy son's decline
From wisdom's ways?—was no dark mischief wrought
In that wild heart through any fault of thine?
Didst thou so well perform thy task divine
To him and his compeers,—so well instil
By precept upon precept, line on line,
Eternal truth, that Nature's inborn ill
Might not uncheck'd, unchanged, its wayward course fulfil?

Nay, mother, veil thy face, and meekly own
Thy much unfaithfulness in years gone by;—
Thy altar cold—Heaven's light but faintly shown—
Truth, in thy charge, itself becomes a lie,
Which, ev'n to boyhood's unsuspicious eye,

379

At once lay bare and flagrant.—Well indeed
Might faith and hope beneath thy nurture die,
So rudely oft it crush'd the expanding seed,
And quench'd the smoking flax, and broke the bruised reed.

Those days, we trust, are ended; and do thou
Take heed lest they return, and thy last state
Be worse than was thy first.—With reverence bow
Before God's throne, and on His bidding wait:
So be thy sons for ever good and great,
The glory and the strength of this our isle;
And thou still fresh at Time's remotest date,
While Thames shall flow and thy green meadows smile,
And youthful sports, as now, the youthful heart beguile.

380

A HERTFORDSHIRE LEGEND.

There is a quiet churchyard, green and lone,
Within the bounds of Hertford's pleasant shire,
Bedeck'd with many a quaintly sculptured stone,
Marking the grave of yeoman, lord or squire;
But more than all one tomb arrests the eye,—
A mouldering tomb, engraved on which you trace
The name of one whose rank on earth was high,—
A dame of noble race.

And yet the tomb shews scanty marks of care
To guard it from the grasp of swift decay,
Not such as tombs of nobles mostly bear,
Preserved while generations pass away.
The crumbling stone has never been repair'd,
The worn inscription ne'er rechisell'd o'er;
It seems a place accurst, which none have dared
To reverence or restore.

But what doth most amaze the passer-by
Is that from out the space which doth imprison
The mortal dust,—their branches broad and high
Each mixt with each,—ten leafy trees have risen;
Seven ash-stems their projecting arms shoot forth
Across the southern wall of that strange tomb,
Three broad-leaf'd planes, umbrageous, o'er the north
Diffuse funereal gloom.

381

In these embosom'd and by these embraced
The tomb almost is from the soil upborne,
While the stout branches, stoutly interlaced,
Between and through the stones their path have torn,
Disjointing part from part;—where once hath stood,
To guard the spot, an iron palisade,
Rent bars, imbedded in the tough ash wood,
Attest the havock made.

You might suppose that Nature, for some sin
Wrought in the flesh by her now buried there,
Refused her that last resting-place, within
Her mother-bosom, which the meanest share;
Whence from the soil, at one prolific birth,
Those trees, joint offspring of her womb's unrest,
Emerged, to thrust and jostle out of earth
That loath'd, intrusive guest.

The story runs (a story which hath found
Belief through nigh two centuries of time,)
That she whose bones now moulder in that ground
Was one whose soul was all infect with crime;
The godless daughter of her house, she held
Through life a wilful and rebellious way,
By no coercion to be tamed or quell'd,
Of laws which men obey.

A bold, bad woman,—one who scorn'd to shroud
Her wickedness, beneath a thin disguise
Of outward seemings, from the observant crowd,
Or cheat with specious shows the good and wise.
No creed her lips profess'd; she never knelt
Before the altar of the Christian's God,
Nor feign'd a fear her soul had never felt
Of His rebuke or rod.

382

But unbelieving, scoff'd at things unseen,
Content all bliss hereafter to forego,
So she might rule and revel like a Queen
In the brief fulness of this world below;
To all her passions gave full range and scope,
Oppress'd and plunder'd, unrestrain'd in lust,
Swoln with ambition, reckless of all hope
When dust should turn to dust.

So pass'd her threescore years of life away,
And now the end of all was plainly near;
Stretch'd on her dying bed at last she lay,
Contemptuous still of hope, devoid of fear;
Relations, friends, the pastor of the fold
Vainly of all persuasion tried the force,
To wake, within that nature fierce and bold,
One pang of true remorse.

“Nay,” she made answer, “I have lived my life
Like one above all bonds which bind the weak;
With priestcraft's vile impostures still at strife,
Nor will I now a late acceptance seek
From powers (if such there be) so long defied;
Let those who will, a final judgment dread,—
Be it mine to sleep for ever side by side
With the unreturning dead.

“To me, be death an everlasting sleep;
Of soul and sense annihilation blank;
Whate'er I am let earth for ever keep,
O'ergrown by weeds and mosses green and rank.
Or if (which I believe not) there should be
A resurrection, let my grave a sign
Bring forth—a cluster'd growth of tree with tree,
Around my tomb to twine.”

383

She died,—they bore her body to the grave,
And o'er it raised the tomb which still is there;
But lo! the sign! green leaves above it wave,
And whisper sadly to the summer air;
(For heaven and earth her wild defiance heard)—
Ten twisted stems, forth darting from the soil,
Embrace the tomb wherein she lies interr'd,
As with a serpent's coil.

'Twere no irreverent fancy to suppose
(What fond poetic fables feign'd of yore)
That those strong trunks and clustering boughs enclose
The spirit housed in fleshly frame no more;
That in those sighs, which seem to load the gale,
When through the leaves the midnight winds complain,
Is heard the bitter and despairing wail
Of that lost soul in pain.

Meanwhile the rustics hold the place accurst,
Still o'er all hearts it breathes a spectral gloom,
Scarce soften'd by the buds which o'er it burst,—
Bright types of life emerging from the tomb;
Not reverence claim'd for old patrician race,
Not all the tenderness to woman due
Can bless the grave of one to Heaven's high grace
And nature's voice untrue.

Alas! but what, if God-dethroning thought
(That charter'd troubler of this latter day)
From court to cot should silently have wrought,
By slow approaches, its insidious way?
What, if the hope, religiously enshrined
As yet within the soul of almost all,
Like some strong fortress sapp'd and undermined,
Should topple o'er and fall?

384

What if the creed, bequeath'd to son from sire,
Like some unholy thing, aside be thrown?
What if yon church, from chancel floor to spire,
Be shatter'd and disjointed, stone from stone?
And men no more before Christ's altar pray,
But seek that tomb, which now in fear they shun,
Their godless homage of applause to pay
To that audacious one?

“She was, in sooth, a herald of the light
Which now enlightens every soul of man;
She fought and conquer'd, in her single might,
Time-rooted error, ere our strife began.
Blest be the boughs which cluster o'er her grave,
Fresh emblems of the vigorous faith which lay
Deep in that heart so noble, free and brave,”—
Thus haply men may say.

But then o'er England, in its breadth and length,
The plague of social sickness will have spread;
The Queen of nations will be shorn of strength,
The life of life in her great heart be dead;
And through the trembling cities of the land
Her guardian angel's voice, in loud lament,
Proclaim that now from her sin-palsied hand
The sceptre shall be rent.

Must this be so—or may the plague be stay'd?
O ye who guard the sacred shrines of truth;
O ye who train, in academic shade,
The mind and spirit of our English youth;
And ye who, bound by ministerial vows,
Dispense, in plenteous streams, the living word,—
Arrest—avert—while yet the time allows—
The curse which brings the sword!

385

THE KNELL OF THE NAMELESS.

There is a voice which never sleeps,—
From day to day, from year to year,
Monotonous accord it keeps
With hearts which throb its tones to hear;
No moment passes, but on earth
It tells of sadden'd home and hearth,
Of widow'd spouse, of childless sire,
Of orphans in their misery left,
Of brothers, sisters, friends, bereft
Of all their heart's desire.

Strange fancies doth its solemn sound
To meditative ear suggest,
Of joy and grief alike profound,
Of earthly tears, of heavenly rest,
Of living hearts with anguish riven,
Of souls which part redeem'd, forgiven;
Of others whom surviving love
Pursues with mingled doubt and fear,
Uncertain if disseverance here
Will terminate above.

To-day I heard that solemn sound;
Expected on my ear it broke,
To tell me that repose was found
By one of whose release it spoke

386

From long, long years of mortal pain,—
Of loving hearts which still remain—
Their anxious watchings done and past,—
The wakeful night, the weary day
With her who in her anguish lay,
Exchanged for rest at last;—

The room of sickness throng'd no more,—
The breathless hush, the silent tread
Of sister footsteps on the floor
Around the dying sister's bed;—
At the domestic meal to-day
One seat is void—one face away,—
The rest assembled mutely feel
That now no task of patient love
Demands that one remain above
To help, where none can heal.

At night strange footsteps over-head
Give note of preparation drear,
To bear the unresisting dead
Away from all she loved so dear.
To-morrow, when they seek the room
Where still she lies, a deeper gloom
Its solemn stillness will o'er-cloud;—
The ghastly trappings of the grave
On her restored to Him who gave;—
The coffin and the shroud.

Another morn—and through the door
That lifeless form, beloved so long,
Shall vanish to return no more,
Borne by a sad funereal throng
Of mourners, headed by their chief,
And robed in sable garb of grief;—

387

Anon, within the churchyard walls,
The vault re-open'd for the dead,—
The mould upon the coffin spread,
Which rattles as it falls.

Dread symbols, which oppress the heart
With mortal sadness all their own,
And speak but of our baser part—
This mouldering mass of flesh and bone:
A darker grief, a deeper gloom
Should herald sinners to their doom,
Whom unrepented sin drags down;
While marriage peals and bridal white
Should celebrate the sunward flight
Of saints who claim their crown.

That crown the enfranchised sufferer wears,
(Doubt not, ye mourners, nor distrust,)
Of whom to-day, with parting prayers,
We render back the dust to dust.
Through tribulation long and sore,
Which she with faith and patience bore,
Her spirit cleans'd—her sin forgiven—
Victorious over mortal pain,
She broke the last strong links which chain
Earth's holiest back from Heaven.

No common mind was hers, I wot,
Albeit on earth ordain'd to share
A common, undistinguish'd lot,
A meek and modest part to bear:
Calm, cheerful, self-possess'd, sedate,
She kept her life-long celibate,
Attendant still on duty's call;
Consoled the grief, enjoy'd the mirth
Of those who shared her home and hearth,
Beloved, revered by all.

388

To her, by no unkind decree,
One door was shut of outward sense,
And thus her soul preserved more free
From taint of moral pestilence:
Through entrance of the fleshly ear
No sound, which she disdain'd to hear,
Could her unwilling sense enthral;
She shunn'd the false, received the true,
The good without the evil knew,
Like Eve before her fall.

And more than all she might have gain'd
Of knowledge through that sense denied,
With stedfast purpose she obtain'd,
And patient, self-improving pride;
Self-disciplin'd, almost self-taught,
And strengthen'd by habitual thought
And study both of books and men,
Well stored with wisdom's wealth she grew,
Could teach, direct, advise, as few
Can do with tongue or pen.

An earnest, energetic soul
Was hers, on active labours bent,—
Fit to command and to controul,
And still on generous aims intent:
But when with Christian zeal her breast,
As life wore on, was now possest,
And she to work her Master's will
Her whole concentred being gave,
A spirit more resolved and brave
Did ne'er such task fulfil.

On peaceful days her lot was cast,
And though a peaceful life she led,
A spirit as of times long past
Was in her heart and in her head.

389

The name was hers, in days of yore
Which that Bethulian Matron bore,
Who saved by one undaunted blow
Her country and her spotless fame,—
And she, I deem, had done the same,
If Heav'n had will'd it so.

But born in less ungentle days,
And nurtur'd in a milder creed,
'Twas her's, to walk in happier ways,
A Christian both in word and deed.
Her joy with fervent words to win
The sinner from his path of sin,
To utter, as with tongue of flame,
The truth which in her bosom glow'd,
And to the straight and narrow road
The wandering soul reclaim.

And thus abroad, and thus at home,
Did she her path of love pursue,
Until the wane of life was come,
And longer now the shadows grew.
Then 'twas,—as though with suffering long
To tame that spirit bold and strong,
And make it as resign'd to bear,
As firm to work, the will of God,—
That sickness came with chastening rod
To smite, and not to spare.

Twelve years with racking pain she strove,
Still deepening on from worse to worse,
While still, with unabated love,
Each sister play'd the patient nurse;
And on her face, and in her mien,
A premature old age was seen;

390

And in her agony of breath,
And in her worn and wasted form
Appear'd, how fearful was the storm
Which swept her on to death.

But then, from out the inner soul,
A glory, not discerned before,
With most serene effulgence stole,
And burn'd and brighten'd more and more;
A glory, kindled from above,
Of firmest faith and hope and love,
Transfiguring the outward man
Into its own celestial light,—
A raiment so resplendent white
No fuller whiten can.

The earthly was unearthly made,
The mortal had immortal grown,
All things which fail, all things which fade,
Assumed a nature not their own:
And still, as droop'd the outward flesh,
The soul within grew strong and fresh,
And while the frame was rent and riven
With deadliest pain, all eyes might see
That with internal rapture she
Already tasted heaven.

But though, as you might well infer,
Partaker of a heavenly birth,
Her bliss abated nought in her
Of her old sympathies of earth.
She loved, as in her youthful prime,
The household jest, the poet's rhyme;
Still than of old enjoy'd no less
The company of friends who came
To cheer her with a friendly game
(The tea removed) at chess.

391

But most of all she loved the sport
Of children and their artless ways,
And made her chamber the resort
Of gamesome elves and sprightly fays,
While strength for that sufficed her yet;
My own, I ween, will ne'er forget
Those liberal gifts, that sumptuous fare,
And how her pain she would beguile
By watching, with a silent smile,
Their gambols from her chair.

Why dwell on nature's dread decay,—
The agony of mortal strife,—
The soul that longed to flee away
And be at rest in death from life?
Such struggles all must share and see,
Or e'er the spirit can be free
From mortal sickness, grief, and pain;
But ill doth such stern anguish suit
The tinkling of the minstrel's lute,
The bard's fantastic strain.

She died:—what marvel?—all must die,
The strong, the weak, the young, the old:
'Tis time that we our tears should dry
For one whose funeral knell hath toll'd.
Our race, like hers, will soon be run,
Our crown for ever lost or won:
On! Christians! where, with beckoning hand,
The loved, the lost, the pure, the brave,
Their cross-emblazon'd banner wave
Above the promised land.

392

THE POET'S DAUGHTER.

A vision crossed my path in youth,—
A brighter none have seen;
I deem'd not upon earth in sooth
That aught so fair had been.
Whate'er this world had shown to me,
Or Fancy dream'd, as what might be,
Was spiritless and mean,
Contrasted with the rich excess
Of that transcendent loveliness;

And yet full well I knew the form
Which then before me stood,
With human life and love was warm,—
A thing of flesh and blood;
The sister of my bosom friend
She came, awhile the charm to blend
Of loveliest maidenhood,
Beneath her mother's sheltering care,
With college walls so grim and bare.

My poet-pencil may not trace,
With touches weak and faint,
The glory of that angel face
Too fair for words to paint:

393

An emanation she might seem
Of some intense, seraphic dream
By bard or prophet saint
Conceived: and such an one I ween
The author of her birth had been.

And fresh from mountain-rock and rill,
Broad lake and heathery glen,
And free discourse with thoughts that fill
The master minds of men,
Among our cloister'd courts she came,—
In mind, in person and in name,
A light to cheer the den
Of murky, scientific thought,
With rays from God and Nature caught.

Through many a verdant garden walk
And pillar'd, dim arcade,
I led, in free, permitted talk,
That glorious mountain maid;
And, looking back, it seems to me,
That, had I then been fancy-free,
I scarce had been afraid
To cast before her feet my whole
Of mind and heart, of sense and soul.

But now, when thirty years are o'er,
With full assent I see
That Heaven had better things in store
Alike for her and me.
Apart our several journeys lay,
And when five years had passed away
The thing which was to be
Had been;—we met within that span,—
The bride betrothed, the married man.

394

The full effulgence of her bloom
Was then indeed gone by,
And days of anxious care and gloom
Had dimm'd her cheek and eye;
Yet still my reverent gaze could trace
The perfect outline of her face,
The feeling deep and high,
The beaming thought, the brow's expanse,
The pure angelic countenance.

They met, conversed (my wife and she)
With frank and cordial speech,
And I, methought, began to see
That each grew dear to each:
But brief the intercourse allowed,
And soon alas! life's crush and crowd
Had borne, beyond our reach,
Her who perchance had, nothing loth,
Been else the cherish'd friend of both.

Nine years roll'd by,—we met again,
Almost at noon of life;
Well wore she then her wedlock's chain,
A mother and a wife:
Her husband, one, for many a year,
My school and college friend sincere,
In keen forensic strife
By this engaged,—yet leaning more
To letter'd than to legal lore.

She had not changed her maiden name
By sharing his;—beneath
Their friendly roof I went and came,
On Hampstead's breezy heath.
With them the aunt and mother dwelt,
Between their knees two children knelt,
And twice from out its sheath
The sword of Death, in fell despite,
Had leapt, their outward bliss to smite.

395

Years swiftly came,—as swiftly fled,—
Beneath the churchyard stone
The husband slumber'd with the dead,
The wife lived on alone:
A patient servant of the cross
She meekly bore and felt her loss,
Till grief had older grown;
And then to studious toil resign'd
Her energies of heart and mind.

No mine of new or ancient thought
From her withheld its ore;
By Grecian wisdom she was taught,
And skill'd in German lore.
Of every clime, of every age,
Of theologian, saint and sage
All depths did she explore;
While o'er all other minds was thrown
The native lustre of her own.

Almost with every various power
Her genius seem'd endued;
On fancy's wing from flower to flower
Now flutter'd, light of mood,—
Now, to sublime exertion wrought,
In agony of wrestling thought
Its painful way pursued
Through metaphysic mazes dim,—
Now track'd the flight of seraphim.

But most to one absorbing aim
She bent her steadfast will,—
To vindicate her Father's name
Through good report and ill;
From stigma cast by slanderous foe,
From open or insidious blow,
Renew'd, repeated still,
To place his mighty memory clear
Was what on earth she held most dear.

396

Thus pass'd her period of decline
In pious toil away,
While still her beauty more divine
Appear'd in its decay;
Though cheek and eye less lust'rous grew,
And those rich locks of loveliest hue
Were slightly tinged with grey,
In eyes that on her aspect gazed
Like mine, celestial glory blazed.

Such looks seraphic as the art
Of Guido loved to trace,—
Such as his pencil could impart
To Cenci's angel face,—
Seem'd to proclaim to heart and eye
That her transition now was nigh
To that congenial place,
To which, as to their proper home,
Earth's purest make such haste to come.

Yet not without some natural pain
Can souls of heavenly birth
Break the last link of that strong chain
Which binds them down to earth:
And we, of less ethereal mould,
Feel not the fibres manifold
Which knit, in grief or mirth,
The mind of more exalted powers
To this entangling world of ours.

The flush of philosophic thought—
The joy of knowledge won—
The freights by wandering fancy brought
From worlds beyond the sun—
The inward eye no longer blind—
The converse high of mind with mind—
The race so bravely run
By kindred soul with kindred soul—
Yet unattain'd the glorious goal;—

397

A startling and a fearful change,—
Ere life hath reach'd its eve,
For worlds unknown, obscure and strange,
Such living work to leave.
Repose mysterious, dark and dread,
To sleep among the unconscious dead:—
And well may we believe
That ghastly must have seem'd to her
The darkness of the sepulchre.

Yet, gazing on that prospect drear,
No jot did she abate
Of labour which she held so dear,
But early still and late
Her task of filial love pursued,
And oft cast down, but ne'er subdued,
Did patiently await
The summons, which she knew must come
Full soon, to her eternal home.

And when at last her parting hour
She surely felt was nigh,
Alone she met the grisly power,
And veil'd her face to die.
No sympathizing voice or look
Of friends or kindred would she brook,
But hid from human eye
The agony of that last strife
Through which she wrestled into life.

No vestige, when the breath had fled,
Of all that beauty rare,
They say remain'd upon the dead
Once more than earthly fair.
The traits, so potent to express
The spirit's inward loveliness,
Of that despoil'd and bare,
Were left in deepen'd lines at length,
Stern types of intellectual strength.

398

So best decreed;—had all been spared
Of feature and of form,
It seems as if we scarce had dared
To give it to the worm.
But now her soul's deserted shell
Served by its utter wreck to tell
How fierce had been the storm
Of pain and grief, through which she pass'd
Victorious into life at last.

Of her, now sleeping in the grave,
The gifted and the graced,—
Some relics still—the books she gave—
The words her fingers traced—
Her letters, long preserved with care—
A ringlet of her youthful hair—
And, ne'er to be effaced,—
Her image in my memory's shrine—
Must still, while life remains, be mine.

Her resting-place is green and fair
On Highgate's gentle steep;
Her father, mother, husband there
In peace beside her sleep:
In Grasmere is her brother's grave,
Where o'er the chords of wood and wave
The mountain breezes sweep;
Fit requiem for the poets twain
There, side by side, at rest from pain.

High privilege, to one like me,
Such mortals to have known;
'Tis easier, when their graves I see,
To think upon my own.
O! when beyond life's middle stage
Extends our earthly pilgrimage,—
Like grass untimely mown,
The great, the good, who made it sweet,
Lie stretch'd in heaps beneath our feet.

399

One yet remains—a brother mind
In genius as in birth,
By those beloved ones left behind,
To mourn their loss on earth:—
Yet scarce to mourn:—why squander tears
On those, to whom a few short years,
Soon spent, and little worth,
Shall bring us, like themselves set free
From all that dimm'd humanity?

400

AN EMIGRANT'S DIRGE.

Sleep, though the broad Atlantic water
Divides thee with its billowy foam—
Thee, Britain's own true-hearted daughter,—
From this thy first, thy native home.

Sleep, where our Shakespere's tongue resoundeth,—
Where hearts are by his magic moved;
Sleep, where a nation's young heart boundeth
To watchwords which our Milton loved.

Sleep, where in long unrest, forsaking
The haunts and homes of English life,
A lonely Mourner's heart is aching
For thee—the matron, friend, and wife.

Sleep, where a sister's voice of wailing—
A still small voice, o'er ocean sent,—
Above all alien sounds prevailing,
Shall lull thee with its low lament.

Sleep, from the wizard banks of Avon
A nameless poet bids thee sleep,
Where thy toss'd bark hath found a haven
From life's still vext, tempestuous deep.

401

Sleep, till the trump of doom awake thee,
A Christian's crown, we trust, to win,
When pure the atoning blood shall make thee
From earth's last lingering taint of sin.

402

EASTER DIRGE FOR THE DYING.

Wasting, waning, on the bed
Of thy patient anguish dying,
Christian sister, thou wast lying,
While the church, o'er him who bled
For the living and the dead,
In funereal anthems sighing
Bow'd her reverential head.

'Midst that plaintive threnody
For the Death of Expiation,
Mixt with prayer and supplication,
Came the frequent thought of thee,
Christian sister, unto me;—
Might thy pangs but find cessation
With the pangs of Calvary!

But the day of dread and doom
Pass'd, and stars of orient splendour
Shot their light serene and tender
Through the circumambient gloom
Of that awful garden-tomb,
Where ambrosial balm engender
Flowers of amaranthine bloom.

403

Fainting, fading, in the thrall
Of thine unabated anguish,
Christian sister, thou didst languish,
Longing, listening for the call
Of the Lord and Life of all,
Preaching to the souls in prison,
Till two other morns have risen,
Till one other night shall fall.

Waned the light of Easter-eve;—
Still thy warfare was unfinish'd,
Still thy patience undiminish'd;
Not a thought of thine shall grieve
Him in whom thou dost believe:
When he quits the grave tomorrow,
Will he in these bonds of sorrow
Still thy chasten'd spirit leave?

So I ask'd,—and hope arose—
Trembling hope,—that Christ would banish
Pain with life, and cause to vanish
All thy weakness, all thy woes,
In the deepest, last repose,
On that day of joy immortal
When the grave's reluctant portal
Did for him its jaws unclose.

But it dawn'd,—and its decline
Soon was come;—beside thee kneeling,
Spake I words of peace and healing
To that suffering soul of thine;
While the mystic bread and wine
On the little bed-side table
Stood, and thou once more wast able
Still to taste that food divine.

404

And the solemn time was o'er,
And the sacrifice was ended;—
Christ had to the grave descended,
Died, and risen to die no more:
Still thy bark was toward the shore
Through tempestuous waves proceeding,
Still for thee our hearts were bleeding,
Christian sister, sad and sore.

Yet 'twas well thou should'st endure
Through that high, mysterious season,
To thy faith and to thy reason
Bringing confirmation sure:
With a spirit true and pure
Thou hast borne the tribulation,
Thou hast shared the expiation;
Rise with Christ!—of full salvation
Through His blessed cross secure.

Meekly yet thy burden bear,
Christian sister, while he willeth;
While for thee his spirit stilleth
Pangs himself hath deign'd to share:
Let him smite, or let him spare,
While these mortal hours yet linger;—
Thou therein discern'st the finger
Of his guidance and his care.

Thou art near thy trouble's end;—
Ours 'twill be, impatient-hearted,
Soon to mourn for thee departed,—
Thee, the Mother, Wife, and Friend;
O! that thou might'st then descend
From the mansions of thy glory,
To disclose the wondrous story,
How thy grief, so transitory,
Doth Eternal Love commend!

405

SONNET.

[Dost thou still live, or is thy trial o'er]

Dost thou still live, or is thy trial o'er,
Thou saintly sufferer, whom, at duty's call,
Reluctantly I left in mortal thrall,
At strife with death in conflict dread and sore?—
Hath pain dominion over thee no more,
From earthly bonds deliver'd once for all?
Dost thou, secure within Christ's presence-hall,
Him whom thou lovedst face to face adore?
In Paradise—on earth—where'er thou art,
Still in the flesh imprison'd, or set free,—
O may'st thou yet retain thy human heart,
And still sometimes, beloved, think of me,
And of the grace vouchsafed me to impart
Celestial comfort to thine agony.

SONNET.

[I would not think that I have look'd my last]

I would not think that I have look'd my last
On that seraphic face, those heavenly eyes;
Nor that, when thou shalt from the grave arise,
Thy mortal beauty will be gone and past;
Fain would I cleave to the fond vision fast—
That in our final home beyond the skies
Soul shall meet soul in its corporeal guise,
Changed, not destroyed, by that dread trumpet-blast.
Such hope doth Scripture warrant; such may we
In humble trust hold firmly, though as yet
We know not what hereafter we shall be,
But in our dim half-knowledge guess and fret,
Till nature shall have paid her final debt
And death be swallow'd up in victory.

406

SONNET.

[Mysterious, sure, as mighty, is the spell]

Mysterious, sure, as mighty, is the spell
In which doth Beauty man's proud spirit bind,
Disguising the false heart, the abject mind,
The soul which doth against all good rebel,
Like some foul grub encased in gorgeous shell;
Such contrast in conjunction still we find
Between the souls and bodies of our kind,
Since Adam from his primal glory fell:
But when the saintly soul, enshrined within,
Doth the fair body grace and glorify,
And that most complex fascination win
At once the outward and the inward eye,—
We feel that Beauty, here usurp'd by sin,
Is one with Good by final destiny.

SONNET.

[O come not back, O come not back, dear Saint]

O come not back, O come not back, dear Saint,
Even from the threshold of the court of Heaven,—
Thy race so nearly run, thy sin forgiven,
Thy spirit cleansed from all polluting taint;
O come not back, to feel the dread constraint
Of those sharp bonds which Death almost had riven,
And to and fro 'twixt him and life be driven,
Till even thy patience scarce forbears complaint.
Far rather be our loss thine endless gain,
Our tears attest the fulness of thy bliss,
Than that thou still should'st drag life's galling chain
And still thy well-won crown of glory miss;
Ripe for the next world, yet fast bound to this
In fiery fetters of tormenting pain.

407

SONNET.

[The hand of Death lay heavy on her eyes,—]

The hand of Death lay heavy on her eyes,—
For weeks and weeks her vision had not borne
To meet the tenderest light of eve or morn,
To see the crescent moonbeam set or rise,
Or palest twilight creep across the skies:
She lay in darkness, seemingly forlorn,
With sharp and ceaseless anguish rack'd and torn,
Yet calm with that one peace which never dies.
Closed was, for her, the gate of visual sense,
This world and all its beauty lost in night;
But the pure soul was all ablaze with light,
And through that gloom she saw, with gaze intense,
Celestial glories, hid from fleshly sight,
And heard angelic voices call her hence.

SONNET.

[They drew the thick green curtain-folds aside]

They drew the thick green curtain-folds aside,
That so the ritual words mine eye might trace
Which give the Christian, even in Death's embrace,
His flesh and blood, who once for sinners died;
But when once more her features I descried,
She said—“I shrank from shewing thee my face,
Lest its sad image Time might not erase
From thy remembrance, friend beloved and tried.”
Ah! fond!—to deem that on my heart and brain
That saintly look of patient, meek distress,
Which spake of faith triumphant over pain,
No holier, dearer image could impress
Than even the cherish'd visions which remain
Of her once rare and perfect loveliness!

408

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

We had not met, nor each with each
Exchanged a word of human speech;—
I scarce had heard her name, or known
How near her dwelling to my own;
When first, in anxious grief and fear,
With faltering voice and rising tear,
Her husband came to ask my prayer,
And some few words of pastoral care,
To soothe the soul which seem'd to be
Fast hurrying to Eternity.

I knelt beside her in the gloom
Of the dim, closely curtain'd room:
So dark it was, I could not trace
The outline of her pillow'd face,
Nor guess if she, reclining there,
Was old or young, was dark or fair;
Feeble and faint her accents came
From out that worn and wasted frame;
She spake of sin which grieved her still,—
Of wayward heart and selfish will,—
Of doubts which oft, when near life's goal,
Oppress the saintliest Christian soul;—
Misgivings, such as still will vex
Our mortal frailty, and perplex
The heart intent on heavenly things
With anxious, deep self-questionings.

409

Few words I utter'd in reply,—
Such words as oft to those who die
Had, in my past experience, brought
The comfort which their weakness sought;—
Few words, but utter'd in a tone
Which shew'd I made her griefs my own,—
Discern'd her burden, and would fain
Remove the weight, relieve the pain;—
Few words, but when they ceased, I knew
That she had felt them sweet and true;
Yea that to them had power been given
To rend the veil 'twixt her and Heaven;
And when together we had pray'd,
And each to each farewell had said,
Parting I felt I left behind
A peace my coming did not find.

Again—again—from day to day,
I knelt beside her where she lay;
Again we held communion high,
Again in mutual sympathy,
With unrestrain'd and fervent speech,
Each spirit was reveal'd to each;
And we, who never yet had seen
Each other's features, form or mien,
Could yet discern, by converse taught,
The mysteries of each other's thought.
Such light could pierce the spectral gloom
Of that dim, closely curtain'd room.

At length was past the storm of pain,
And partial health returned again:
The curtains which shut out the light
Were now withdrawn, and on my sight
There burst—no language can express
What rare and perfect loveliness;—
A temple worthy of the mind
Saintly and sweet therein enshrined;

410

A beauty, blemishless and bright
As the pure soul it veil'd from sight.

Thanks! to the providential love
Which fix'd my portion from above,
Ordaining by benign decree
That I of English birth should be;
An alien from the rites of Rome,
A pastor with a happy home.
Thanks! for those dearest boons of life,
The love of children and of wife;
The heart-repose, the healthful play
Of feelings which the spirit sway;
To none so precious or so blest
As him who seeks a needful rest
For weary heart and weary brain
From pastoral labour, oft in vain,—
From cares which still the spirit vex,
From questions which the mind perplex;—
His daily lot whose neck must bear
The yoke of ministerial care.
Thanks! for these boons,—for what they yield
To hearts against all peril steel'd
By their strong magic, in the hour
When else temptation most had power.
Thanks! for a joy too pure to tell,
Which they alone make possible
For man commission'd to impart
Counsel and help to woman's heart,
In woman's loveliest charms array'd
And in its weakness self-display'd.
Thanks! for these boons, which give him power
To solace woman's darkest hour,—
To share, unscathed in soul or sense,
The treasure of her confidence;
Which make his spirit clear and free,
Through wedlock's lawful liberty,—
To teach, direct, support, console
A weak and trusting sister's soul.

411

Thanks! for these boons, to Him who gave,
To them, the faithful and the brave,
Who bled and burn'd to wrest from Rome
The freedom of the pastor's home.
Thanks! for the stalwart arms which broke
The celibate's detested yoke;
Thanks! for deliverance from the thrall
Of the obscene confessional;
Thanks! that the priest no more may pry
With busy, keen, intrusive eye,
And craft, by vile experience taught,
Into those secret cells of thought
Which nature teaches to conceal;
Which conscience shudders to reveal;
Which, once disclosed, the heart no more
Can, to itself, itself restore.
Thanks! that, instead, 'tis ours to know
The free, spontaneous, natural flow
Of thought reveal'd from soul to soul,
Without constraint, without controul;
The counsel freely given as sought,—
The teacher learning from the taught,
The mutual faith, by each to each
Imparted in untrammell'd speech;
The healthful play of heart, which springs
From free and genial questionings
On subjects of allow'd debate
Affecting our eternal state.
Thanks! for the moral freedom wrought
By womanly and manly thought;—
Thanks! for the moral health sustain'd
By Christian courage unrestrain'd;—
Thanks! for the full communion given,
Through priestcraft's fall, 'twixt earth and heaven;—
Thanks! for the deep and quiet bliss,—
The faith, the strength, which flow from this.
God grant that it through time may last!
God give us grace to hold it fast!

412

In Church and State, in hearth and home,
God shield us from the guile of Rome!
And help us to stand firm and free
In this our Christian liberty!

Such thoughts within me would arise,
As in the light of those sweet eyes
I sat, and saw their soul-lit ray
Grow brighter still from day to day.
From that fair cheek and marble brow
Death's shadow had departed now;
And she, though oft with pain at strife,
Once more resign'd herself to life;
Content deliverance to forego
From its dull weight of care and woe;
Still of her crown to feel the loss,
And bear the burden of the cross,
Till she by patience might fulfil
Her Father's and her Saviour's will.

So weeks and months flew swiftly by,
And still, from time to time, did I—
My daily round of duty o'er,—
Return at evening to her door;
Too happy if I then might share,
Beside her couch or easy chair,
Some brief exchange of thought for thought;
Where each from each received unsought
Some mutual gift, and some bestow'd;
Each somewhat to the other owed
Of doubt resolved, of knowledge gain'd,
Of care beguiled, of faith sustain'd,
Of speculation high and keen
Set wandering through the world unseen.
Nor lack'd we moods of talk more gay,
And cheerful intellectual play;
In genial flow of temperate mirth,
Discoursing oft of things on earth,

413

Till heart to heart itself had shown
In weakness, as in strength, made known;
Array'd in nature's week-day dress
Of plain, unvarnish'd homeliness;
And confidence between us grew
From all that each both felt and knew.

But this was not to last;—again
Burst on her the fierce storm of pain;
So fierce, so fell, that to her side
All access was perforce denied,
And weeks and weeks wore darkly past,
And her sweet life was waning fast,
Ere I again approach'd the gloom
Of that dim, closely-curtain'd room;
Then, when the strife seem'd nearly o'er,
They came to ask my prayers once more;—
Once more beside her couch I knelt,
Once more, in high communion, dwelt,
With her pure spirit, upon themes
Transcending the sublimest dreams
Of sage or prophet, but which she
With the soul's eye began to see,
Touch'd with such hues as angels paint
To vision of expiring saint.
For she had now approach'd the bar
'Twixt things which seem and things which are;
And through the mists of fleshly sense
Almost discern'd, with gaze intense,
Glories unknown to mortal eye,
And heard faint snatches floating by
Of music which no fleshly ear
Amidst the din of life can hear.
O! those brief moments daily given
Of peace which seem'd the peace of Heaven!
When through the darkness I could trace
The outline of that angel face,
And with intent, habituate eye
Its hidden loveliness descry,

414

Unchanged by all that anguish sore
Which still from day to day she bore
In faith and patience, while the strife
Was raging between death and life.
O! those high thoughts between us bred!
The rapture of that dying-bed!
That intercourse serene and free,
Of full, congenial sympathy,
Which o'er our spirits breathed the balm
Of Paradise, sublimely calm!—
An antepast of their high lot
Who like the angels marry not.

But now arrived a darker hour,
When she, beneath the o'erwhelming power
Of agony, no more could bear
The bedside tread, the whisper'd prayer.
So weary weeks again wore by,—
She waned and waned, but could not die;
For the pure spirit's swift release
From fleshly bonds to rest and peace,
We pray'd and hoped—to hope and pray
Again—again—from day to day.

At last the blest deliverance came,
And from that worn and wasted frame
Reclaim'd, restored, renew'd, forgiven,
Her saintly spirit pass'd to Heaven.
'Twas mine, “in sure and certain” trust
To render back her dust to dust;
And from the grave, wherein inurn'd
The body lay, when I return'd
To my known round of duties back,
I felt that o'er my daily track
A seraph watch'd, thenceforth to be
For ever in my company.
I felt that to that heavenly cloud
Of witnesses, which in the crowd

415

And coil of earth I once have known,—
Now compassing the eternal throne,—
And chiefly those to whom through me
The grace was sent which made them free
From fear and doubt—one witness more
Was added, whom, when death is o'er,
I trust that I again shall meet,
Sweet as on earth—and scarce more sweet.
And now when I to thought recall
My heart's best treasures, one and all,
I count, upon that list of love,
One less below, one more above;
And know that to my charge was sent,
With gracious and benign intent,
A saintly soul, to whom 'twas given
To draw me in her wake toward Heaven.

EPITAPH.

A saintlier spirit, in a lovelier frame,
Ne'er foil'd Death's sharpest sting, than thine in thee;
Now sleep secure in Christ's victorious Name,
And where thou art may all who love thee be!

416

THE RESTING-PLACES.

Nine years have come and gone, the tenth begun,
Since here, amidst these haunts of my young life—
These well-known hills and valleys,—in the shade
Of these rich natural woods,—along the banks
Of yonder stream, my boyhood's Helicon,
Wandering in pensive leisure, I awoke
My slumbering muse, and sang, as she inspired,
My soul's meridian song:—not then had life
Lost its full summer fervour,—no decline
Of body or of mind had yet been felt;
Each organ of corporeal sense remain'd
Uninjured, undecay'd;—not one grey hair
Streak'd the original brown;—on cheek or brow
No wrinkle had appear'd;—and if the blood
No longer now ran riot in the veins,
As in the petulant lustihood of youth,
Yet still with unabated force it flow'd,—
No more a brawling torrent, but a stream
Calm, full, continuous,—fit to bear the frieght
Of thought's maturer fruitage:—'twas the noon
Of life's advancing day,—a cloudless noon;
For sorrow, which had come, seven years before,
And cast upon our startled home and hearth
The darkness of death's shadow, pass'd away
And had not re-appear'd:—long time unscathed
Three generations of our race still lived,
And still enjoy'd their life;—the parent stems
Flourish'd in green decline, scarce yet decay;

417

And of their ten primæval branches, seven
Wore their full lustihood of leaf, while three
Were rich in bud and blossom:—still yon house
(The general birth-place) trimm'd its Christmas hearth,
And spread its Christmas board to mirthful groups
Of children and of grandchildren;—'twas sweet
To think that each familiar haunt beloved
By our own childhood was scarce less beloved
By hearts which should inherit when we died,
Among their best remembrances, the thought
Of those domestic gatherings. Since the last,
And haply the most joyous, six swift years
Have vanish'd, and again my footsteps tread—
Not now the time-worn floors, the garden walks
Of that paternal dwelling,—but the streets—
The broad, still, noiseless, melancholy streets
Of the old unchanging town;—unchanging?—yes
In visible form, but changed and changing fast
In all that was to me the life, the soul,
The substance of its being:—scarce a face
Of all the old familiar ones—the friends
And playmates of my childhood—meets me now;
Even those which still remain are scarce the same;
Where are the well-remembered many?—where?
The grass grows rankly o'er their mouldering bones,
Their names are traced in many an epitaph
On churchyard grave-stone, on the chancel floor,
On mural tablet, on rich tinted pane
Of ornamental window;—or dispersed
Through the four quarters of the globe, they toil,
Prosper or perish, feed deceitful hope,
Or pine despondent on colonial soils,
'Midst savage tribes, in drear, unhealthy climes,
Whiten the desert with their bones, or feed
The swarming shoals of Ocean:—for myself
Sad is my mission hither:—in our house
Another light is quench'd,—another heart
Hath ceased to beat,—another voice is dumb;
The mystic harmony, of late impair'd

418

And waxing feebler in the dwindling choir
Of brothers and of sisters, hath been marr'd
More than in all the years already gone;
For those more early summon'd, since the days
Of infancy and childhood, were in age
Unequal, or by destiny diverse
From us who yet survive;—their lives were spent
In regions far remote,—amidst the din
Of oriental war,—in barbarous strife
With Afric's Southern tribes,—or 'midst the roar
Of billows in the vast, tempestuous deep.
And though we grieved for them, as friends must grieve
For friends untimely lost, our household joys,—
The family group,—the fireside circle,—felt
Small diminution;—home-sweet sympathies,—
Fraternal interchange of thought for thought,—
The brief, rare visit, sweeter because both,—
The keen solicitude of each for each
Amidst the daily pressure of the world,—
All these were undisturb'd, or scarce disturb'd,
By mournful news which told, from time to time,
That we had lost a brother:—but not such
The loss we now lament:—a nearer life
Hath been struck down;—a widow'd wife bemoans
The husband of her youth,—while round her knees
Her children, all unconscious of their loss
(Alas! how great!) observe with wondering eyes
The funeral preparations,—marvel much
To find themselves array'd in sable weeds,
And probe with questions keen and quaint remarks
Their mother's recent wound, who, while she mourns
The father, still must think, with anxious heart
And doubtful questionings of Providence,
Whence bread shall be supplied that these may eat,—
Where raiment shall be found which these may wear,—
That they with cold and hunger perish not.

Peace to my brother's spirit! peace and rest,
Such as the troubled and world-weary need!

419

Rest from heart-crushing care and anxious thought,—
From those solicitudes of daily life
Which torture with such fierce and fiery pangs
The man who wrings, by toil of head and heart,
From the dry wilderness of English law
The daily bread which wife and children eat,
Which, if he wring not, wife and children starve.
Such rest he needed long,—condemn'd through life
To drag the chain of uncongenial toil,
To fret and fritter his reluctant soul
(Which craved a nobler destiny) away
In the dull, dry, mechanical routine
Of vile forensic drudgery,—to grow grey,
Immured in murky courts, o'erwhelm'd with piles
Of musty parchment,—to repeat the slang
And jargon of the special pleader's craft,—
To thrid the long and complicated maze
Of legal net-work,—lie inwoven with lie,—
Trick within trick,—evasion infinite,—
Mystification trebly mystified,
For darkening counsel and perplexing sore
The eye which would distinguish right from wrong.
Such occupation,—through long years pursued,—
Was, to a spirit finely strung as his,
Perpetual death in life, compared to which
Welcome appear'd the stroke which set him free.
For his were apprehensions keen and strong,
And most intense susceptibility
Of all that to the sense and soul of man
Doth from without administer delight;
His nature was the nature of one born
To high aristocratic destinies,—
The duties of the noble and the rich,—
And free enjoyment of æsthetic art,
Albeit by fortune's wanton spite deprived
Of that which should supply its innate wants
And satisfy its instincts;—but withal
His heart awake to loftiest impulses,
And full of deep affections,—generous, frank,

420

And prompt to sympathize with worth oppress'd,
And glow with indignation at the wrongs
Dared by the strong oppressor,—sensitive
To insult and discourtesy, which oft
The noble must encounter from the base,—
The gifted from the dunce of large estates,—
Could therefore ill constrain itself to brook
The meanness it encounter'd in the path
Of daily duty:—grievously the yoke
Galls the fleet racer harness'd to a dray;
Heavy the fetter on the eagle's foot,
Whose nest is on the loftiest mountain-peak,
Whose flight above the clouds, a captive now,
And tether'd to his perch, to wear out life
In the dull court-yard of a Highland inn;
But heavier is the chain—more galling far
The yoke which binds the struggling soul of man
To tasks which it contemns.—Now all is o'er;
The long life-bondage ended:—Christian faith
And hope, from no uncertain source derived,
Shed parting gleams of comfort on that bed
Of mortal sickness:—to the dust his dust
Hath been given back;—his wife and children weep
The husband and the father, whom his place
On earth shall know no more;—nor they alone,—
Brothers and sisters, aged mother, friends
By many a close-knit sympathy fast bound
To him, the genial-hearted, by his grave
Linger lamenting:—other ties more dear,
Affections yet more closely intertwined,
Even with their heart of hearts than those which bind
Brother to brother, and absorb a part
Of that especial tenderness, which else
Had struck the mourning spirit down to earth
With anguish for his loss, disarm in part
Grief of its sharpest sting:—in earlier years,
Or ever we had known the holier name
Of husband, wife, and parent, he had been
More bitterly lamented even by us

421

Who yet with sorrow fervent, true, profound,
Exclaim above his grave—Farewell! Farewell!
Our brother! O! our brother!

But while thus
His loss is mourn'd on earth,—beyond the veil
Which curtains world from world, methinks arise
Fraternal forms to welcome him:—one bears
On his projecting forehead the clear stamp
Of Nature's true nobility, though dimm'd
And tarnish'd by the deep unmaster'd flush
Of mortal passions;—seldom hath a soul
Braver or nobler to the soldier's trade
Brought more of those high qualities which shed
A glory o'er the ugliness of war;
And had it been but tamed and self-subdued
Through firmer discipline—had he but learnt
To bring into subjection to the rule
Of Christian duty that unbridled will,—
A nobler human being had not trod
The earth which bore him;—but his nature, rash,
Impatient of controul, untaught to yield
Submission to a higher purer law
Than that of its own promptings, broke all bonds
Of social and conventional restraint,
And ran mad riot amidst headstrong deeds
And too gigantic darings:—English life,
With all its dull formalities and rules
Of civilized decorum, was to him
Intolerable bondage:—he desired
The freedom of the savage, and forsook
Home, country, kindred—even the glowing hopes
And high excitements of a soldier's life,
To dwell with hunters in the bush,—to war
With beasts but little wilder than himself,—
To strip the lion of his hide,—to dare
The rage of the rhinoceros:—his life
Was one long act of venturous enterprise
And rash, Titanic effort, and his death—

422

Such as became his life;—the southern gales
Of Afric breathe o'er his untimely grave
A fitting requiem;—there let his dust
Repose, while in our hearts remembrance holds
His graces still in honour nor retains
The blots which dimm'd their brightness.

But a voice,
Borne on the breezes from the burning East,
Murmurs low welcome to the brother soul
Rejoining the departed:—lo! a grave,
Surmounted by a stone, which bears inscribed
A soldier's epitaph beneath the name
Of one to whom his comrades raised such pledge
Of kindness still surviving in their hearts,
And recognition of the worth which dwelt
In him who fought beside them, and now sleeps
Where no réveillée shall awake him more;
No night-surprise, no murderous ambuscade
Of lurking foemen mingle with the dreams
Of that last bivouac;—no worse assault
Of passions which invade the peace of man
And vex the soul still clothed in flesh and blood,
Can shake poor nature's frailty, nor disturb
The rest which now enfolds it.

From the depths
Of Ocean, where it parts West-Indian isles,
Rises the pale and spectral form of one
Even on the verge of manhood doom'd to sink
Into a sailor's grave; who else perchance,
Had long ere now fulfill'd, in all its parts,
A sailor's gallant destiny;—and he
Greets smilingly his brother come to share
His long repose.

But here, within the walls
Enclosing his own grave, is company
Such as his soul desires—one elder-born,

423

And call'd in early boyhood to his rest,—
Richest in promise (for the good die first)
Of all our blood—another, while a babe,
Emancipated—spirits such as claim
By right the heavenly kingdom as their own,
And now await its coming.

Last appears
The Father of our house, as of his flock
The pastor,—he who in a ripe old age
Ended his five-and-forty years of toil
In one rude fold, and went to his reward,
A good and faithful servant. Not to us
Belongs it to define in outline clear
His mental lineaments, or to proclaim
His nature's strength or weakness;—not to us
To tell how well he lived, how calmly died,
How peacefully now rests with those for whom
His spirit toil'd till death,—how many mourn,
How bitterly, his loss;—that tale was told
Even at his funeral, when the silent streets
Deserted though at noon-day, and the shops,
Their shutters closed, albeit the annual fair
Was at its height, proclaimed the pastor dead
And gathered to his children:—we had come
The previous evening (for he died far off)
A long day's journey, by his sable hearse
Preceded, who had left, few days before,
His home in health and hope;—the moonlight shone,
How strangely! on the well-remember'd rows
Of houses in the broad and echoing street;
And when we halted at the door, where he
Had welcomed us of old, 'twas sad to think
That in a lone and lock'd apartment lay
That which was lately he:—kind voices spake,
Strangely, as seem'd, to unresponsive hearts,
And meals had been prepared, whereat to meet
Seem'd now unnatural:—the morrow dawn'd,
And none could say ‘good morrow;’—before noon

424

The vault which, thirty years before, had closed
O'er the last comer, and which still retains
One vacant place for her who slept so long,
And yet shall sleep once more by him she loved,—
Received him in its bosom; and when we
Return'd, that ancient house had lost its lord,
And we had look'd our last upon the graves
Of him and of our brothers.

Strange it seems,
And not less strange than graciously ordain'd,
That while the scatter'd graves of sons and sire
Spot the four quarters of the globe,—while four
Within the precincts of one churchyard lie—
As yet that household hath not yielded up
One female life:—mother and sisters still
Survive unstricken;—they to whom pertains
The ministry of comfort,—the blest work
Of smoothing the sick pillow—who best know
How to console and cheer the slow decay
Of natural strength, and nerve the fainting soul
With never-failing tendances of love,—
Are left—perchance till two more graves shall close
O'er two more sons and brothers, and their task
On earth with these be ended.

Peace and rest
Dwell in that Churchyard!—in the daily walk
Of life, amidst the fever and the fret
Of this world's tumult,—it will rise sometimes
A soothing vision on our weary souls,—
A mute remembrancer of rest to come
On earth,—of hope which maketh not ashamed,
For those whose conversation is in Heaven!

425

LAST VERSES.

427

TO A LADY.

Thy Birthday! yes! the flight of time
Once more hath brought it round,
And something in the shape of rhyme
To greet it must be found—
Meagre that something needs must be,
Yet not, I trust, despised by thee.

If fancy's stream flowed briskly still
As erst in youthful days,
And I with ease could roam at will
Through all her flowery ways,
Small pain 'twould cost a wreath to cull
Which thou would'st deem most beautiful.

But fancy's prime with me is o'er,
My Pegasus grows idle,
And needs the spur, who used to soar,
Despising bit and bridle:
Verse hath indeed become to me
Sore toil and grievous drudgery.

The Muse's service long hath ceased
Its own reward to be,

428

And thou art from the tax released
Which seemed so hard to thee,
Albeit it had, if freely paid,
The surest inspiration made.

I blame thee not, nor love thee less,—
Nay, more each passing year;
And if true love our portion bless,
What need of fancy here?
Let song, once prized, become at last
A faded dream of days long past.

Yet take this lay, a gift of love,
Nor rate it by its worth,
But by the pains with which it strove
And struggled to the birth;
So thou its poverty shall prize
Above youth's richest fantasies.

October 19th, 1858.

429

SONNET.

[O! not in youthful love-notes light and vain]

TO F. H. For February 14th, 1868.

O! not in youthful love-notes light and vain,
Nor ditty of fantastical desire—
(Weak, worthless spells a greybeard's heart to fire,
And thaw to foolish thought his frozen brain):
O! not in such but more befitting strain
Today, dear maiden, doth my song aspire
From thee, whom many love and all admire,
A moment's patient audience to obtain.
In me the lover's and the husband's heart
Are dead and buried: yet past words of thine
(Filial tho' few) parental joy impart
To this poor widow'd, wither'd age of mine,
To which for all that thou hast been and art,
Bless thee!—God bless thee!—gentle Valentine.

TO AUGUSTUS M. SWIFT: NEW YORK.

Nay,—ask not one whose life hath left behind
Our mortal age of threescore years and ten,
To grasp with tremulous clutch the poet's pen,
Taxing his brain reluctant rhyme to find;
Better a barrel-organ's mournful grind,
Discordant, dismal to the ears of men,
Than croak false notes immured in darksome den
Of Eld,—to music deaf, to beauty blind.
Seek rather in thy fair and fervent West,
Where mind and minstrel-art are fresh and young,
Such thought as bubbles up through brain and breast,
In verse attuned aright to pen and tongue;
Leave here the worn-out rhymer to his rest,
His hurdy-gurdy cracked, his dirge unsung.

July 10th, 1870.

430

SONNET.

[Patiently, fond and faithful, many a year]

TO S.A. AND D.R.

Patiently, fond and faithful, many a year
Ye kept your filial watch, O sisters twain,
O'er her for whom, we trust, to die was gain;
As for yourselves, 'tis Christ to linger here,
While she, beyond the reach of grief and fear,
Heart-crushing trouble and life-wasting pain,
Knows that for her, He hath not died in vain,
Nor ye, for her sake, grown to Him less dear.
Grieve (for ye must) while Nature's wound is sore,
But grieve as those who know they sow in tears
To reap in joy.—Your ministries, now o'er,
Of holiest duty have heap'd up a store
Of strength angelic for celestial spheres,
Where both shall watch and work, but weep no more.

August 14th, 1872.