The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems ::

When young Maids feel Love stir i' the blood,
And wanton with the kissing leaves
And branches, and the quick sap heaves,
And dances to a ripen'd flood;

Till, blown to its hidden heart with sighs,
Love's red rose burns i' the cheek so dear,
And, as sea-jewels upward peer,
Love-thoughts melt through their swimming eyes:

When Beauty walks in bravest dress,
And, fed with April's mellow showers,
The earth laughs out with sweet May-flowers,
That flush for very happiness:

And Spider-Puck such wonder weaves
O' nights, and nooks of greening gloom
Are rich with violets that bloom
In the cool dark of dewy leaves:

When Rose-buds drink the fiery wine
Of Dawn, with crimson stains i' the mouth,
All thirstily as yearning Youth
From Love's hand drinks the draught divine;

And honey'd plots are drowsed with Bees:
And Larks rain music by the shower,
While singing, singing hour by hour,
Song like a Spirit sits i' the Trees!

When fainting hearts forget their fears,
And in the poorest Life's salt cup
Some rare wine runs, and Hope builds up
Her rainbow over Memory's tears!

It fell upon a merry May morn,
I' the perfect prime of that sweet time
When daisies whiten, woodbines climb,—
The dear Babe Christabel was born.

All night the Stars bright watches kept,
Like Gods that look a golden calm;
The Silence dropt its precious balm,
And the tired world serenely slept.

The birds were darkling in the nest,
Or bosom'd in voluptuous trees:
On beds of flowers the panting breeze
Had kist its fill and sank to rest.

All night beneath the Cottage eaves,
A lonely light, with tremulous Arc,
Surged back a space the sea of dark,
And glanced among the glimmering leaves.

Without! the quiet heavens above
The nest of life, did lean and brood!
Within! the Mother's tears of blood
Wet the Gethsemane of her love!

And when the Morn with frolic zest,
Lookt through the curtains of the night,
There was a dearer dawn of light,
A tenderer life the Mother's prest!

Ah! bliss to make the brain reel wild!
The Star new-kindled in the dark—
Life that had flutter'd like a Lark—
Lay in her bosom a sweet Child!

How she had felt it drawing down
Her nesting heart more close and close,—
Her rose-bud ripening to a Rose,
That she should one day see full-blown!

How she had throbb'd with hopes and fears,
And strain'd her inner eyes till dim,
To see the coming glory swim
Through the rich mist of happy tears;

For it, her woman's heart drank up,
And smiled at, Sorrow's darkest dole:
And now Delight's most dainty soul
Was crusht for her in one rich cup!

And then delicious languors crept,
Like nectar, on her pain's hot drouth,
And feeling fingers—kissing mouth—
Being faint with joy, the Mother slept.

Babe Christabel was royally born!
For when the earth was flusht with flowers,
And drencht with beauty in rainbow showers,
She came through golden gates of Morn.

No chamber arras-pictured round,
Where sunbeams golden gorgeous gloom,
And touch its glories into bloom,
And footsteps fall withouten sound,

Was her Birth-place that merry May-morn;
No gifts were heapt, no bells were rung,
No healths were crown'd, no songs were sung,
When dear Babe Christabel was born:

But Nature on the darling smiled,
And with her beauty's blessing crown'd:
Love brooded o'er the hallowed ground,
And there were Angels with the Child!

And May her kisses of love did blow
On amorous airs, that came to her
With gifts of Frankincense and Myrrh,
As came the Magi long ago

To worship Bethlehem's baby-King:
Spring-Birds made welcoming merriment,
And all the Flowers for welcome sent
The secret sweetness of the Spring.

With glancing lights and shimmering shade,
And cheeks that toucht and ripelier burn'd,
May-Roses in at the lattice yearn'd
A-tiptoe, and Good Morrow bade.

No purple and fine linen might
Be hoarded up for her sweet sake:
But Mother's love shall clothe and make
The little wearer richly dight!

Wide worlds of worship are their eyes,
Their loyal hearts are worlds of love,
Who fondly clasp the stranger Dove,
And read its news from Paradise.

Their looks praise God—souls sing for glee:
They think if this old world had toil'd
Through ages to bring forth their child,
It hath a glorious destiny.

O happy Husband! happy Wife!
The rarest blessing Heaven drops down,
The sweetest blossom in Spring's crown,
Starts in the furrows of your life!

God! what a towering height ye win,
Who cry, “Lo my beloved Child!”
And, life on life sublimely piled,
Ye touch the heavens and peep within!

Look how a star of glory swims
Down aching silences of space,
Flushing the Darkness till its face
With beating heart of light o'erbrims!

So brightening came Babe Christabel,
To touch the earth with fresh romance,
And light a Mother's countenance
With looking on her miracle.

With hands so flower-like soft, and fair,
She caught at life, with words as sweet
As first spring violets, and feet
As faery-light as feet of air.

The Father, down in Toil's mirk mine,
Turns to his wealthy world above,
Its radiance, and its home of love;
And lights his life like sun-struck wine.

The Mother moves with queenlier tread:
Proud swell the globes of ripe delight
Above her heart, so warm and white
A pillow for the baby-head!

Their natures deepen, well-like, clear,
Till God's eternal stars are seen,
For ever shining and serene,
By eyes anointed Beauty's seer.

A sense of glory all things took,—
The red Rose-Heart of Dawn would blow,
And Sundown's sumptuous pictures show
Babe-Cherubs wearing their Babe's look!

And round their peerless one they clung,
Like bees about a flower's wine-cup;
New thoughts and feelings blossom'd up,
And hearts for very fulness sung

Of what their budding Babe should grow,
When the Maid crimson'd into Wife,
And crown'd the summit of some life,
Like Phosphor, with morn on its brow!

And they should bless her for a Bride,
Who, like a splendid saint alit
In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit,
As now in theirs, all glorified!

But O! 't was all too white a brow
To flush with Passion that doth fire
With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre,—
So pure her heart was beating now!

And thus they built their Castles brave
In faery lands of gorgeous cloud;
They never saw a little white shroud,
Nor guess'd how flowers may mask the grave.

She grew, a sweet and sinless Child,
In shine and shower,—calm and strife;
A Rainbow on our dark of Life,
From Love's own radiant heaven down-smiled!

In lonely loveliness she grew,—
A shape all music, light, and love,
With startling looks, so eloquent of
The spirit burning into view.

At Childhood she could seldom play
With merry heart, whose flashings rise
Like splendour-wingéd butterflies
From honey'd hearts of flowers in May:

The fields with bloom flamed out and flusht,
The Roses into crimson yearn'd,
With cloudy fire the wall-flowers burn'd,
And blood-red Sunsets bloom'd and blusht—

And still her cheek was pale as pearl,—
It took no tint of Summer's wealth
Of colour, warmth, and wine of Health:—
Death's hand so whitely pressed the Girl!

No blushes swarm'd to the Sun's kiss
Where violet-veins ran purple light,
So tenderly thro' Parian white,
Touching you into tenderness.

A spirit-look was in her face,
That shadow'd a miraculous range
Of meanings, ever rich and strange,
Or lighten'd glory in the place.

Such mystic lore was in her eyes,
And light of other worlds than ours,
She lookt as she had fed on flowers,
And drunk the dews of Paradise.

Her brow—fit home for daintiest dreams—
With such a dawn of light was crown'd,
And reeling ringlets shower'd round,
Like sunny sheaves of golden beams:

And she would talk so weirdly-wild,
And grow upon your wonderings,
As tho' her stature rose on wings!
And you forgot she was a Child.

Ah! she was one of those who come
With pledgéd promise not to stay
Long, ere the Angels let them stray
To nestle down in earthly home:

And, thro' the windows of her eyes,
We often saw her saintly soul,
Serene, and sad, and beautiful,
Go sorrowing for lost Paradise.

Our Lamb in mystic meadows play'd:
In some celestial sleep she walkt
Her dream of life, and low we talkt,
As of her waking heart-afraid.

In Earth she took no lusty root,
Her beauty of promise to disclose,
And round into the Woman-Rose,
And climb into Life's crowning fruit.

She came—like music in the night
Floating as heaven in the brain,
A moment oped, and shut again,
And all is dark where all was light.

She came,—as comes the light of smiles
O'er earth, and every budding thing
Makes quick with beauty—alive with Spring;
Then goeth to Hesperian Isles.

Midnight was trancéd solemnly
Thinking of dawn: Her Star-thoughts burn'd!
The Trees like burden'd Prophets yearn'd,
Rapt in a wind of prophecy:

When, like the Night, the shadow of Woe
On all things laid its hand death-dark,
Our last hope went out like a spark,
And a cry smote heaven like a blow!

We sat and watcht by Life's dark stream,
Our love-lamp blown about the night,
With hearts that lived as lived its light,
And died as died its precious gleam.

In Death's face hers flasht up and smiled,
As smile the young flowers in their prime,
I' the face of their grey murderer Time,
And Death for true love kist our child.

She thought our good-night kiss was given,
And like a lily her life did close;
Angels uncurtain'd that repose,
And the next waking dawn'd in heaven.

With her white hands claspt she sleepeth; heart is husht, and lips are cold;
Death shrouds up her heaven of beauty, and a weary way I go,
Like the sheep without a Shepherd on the wintry norland wold,
With the face of Day shut out by blinding snow.

O'er its widow'd nest my heart sits moaning for its young that 's fled
From this world of wail and weeping, gone to join her starry peers;
And my light of life 's o'ershadow'd where the dear one lieth dead,
And I'm crying in the dark with many fears.

All last night-tide she seemed near me, like a lost beloved Bird,
Beating at the lattice louder than the sobbing wind and rain;
And I call'd across the night with tender name and fondling word;
And I yearn'd out thro' the darkness, all in vain.

Heart will plead, “Eyes cannot see her: they are blind with tears of pain;”
And it climbeth up and straineth, for dear life to look and hark
While I call her once again: but there cometh no refrain,
And it droppeth down, and dieth in the dark.

In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies,
The Angels with us unawares.

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a Star,
A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.

Thro' tears it gleams perpetually,
And glitters thro' the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes
To light us o'er the Jasper Sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf,
We 've strewn the way our Lord doth come;
And, ready for the harvest-home,
His Reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled:
Awhile she sat with folded wings—
Sang round us a few hoverings—
Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-wing'd Angels nurture her;
With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd,
And all Love's purple glory round,
She summers on the Hills of Myrrh.

Thro' Childhood's morning-land, serene
She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love;
While, in a robe of light above,
Her better Angel walkt unseen,

Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The Angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward roll'd
To the great ocean; on whose shore
We wander up and down, to store
Some treasures of the times of old:

And aye we seek and hunger on
For precious pearls and relics rare,
Strewn on the sands for us to wear
At heart, for love of her that 's gone.

O weep no more! there yet is balm
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles,—spread
O'er desert pillows, some green Palm!

Strange glory streams thro' Life's wild rents,
And thro' the open door of Death
We see the heaven that beckoneth
To the Beloved going hence.

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;
The best fruit loads the broken bough;
And in the wounds our sufferings plough,
Immortal Love sows sovereign seed.

LOVE LYRICS.

A SONG OF HAPPY LOVE.

My life lay like a sea-bud dark upon the watery wold,
That feels when Spring is in the world, and striveth to unfold.
The breath of Love pass'd o'er me, and the Spring went laughing by;
Till on a sudden I was 'ware that thou, Beloved, wert nigh.
The Bird of Love to my window came, and sang a strain divine:
Sweet Bird! he makes his nest, I said, 'neath other eaves than mine!

But many a day hath come and gone, and still he sits and sings
His song of happy futures, and of dear remember'd things.

My life went darkling like the Earth, nor knew it shone a Star
To that dear heaven on which it hung in worship from afar.
O, many bared their beauty, like brave flowers to the bee:
He might have ranged through sunny fields, but nestled down by me;
And daintier dames would proudly have smiled him to their side,
But with a lowly majesty he sought me for his Bride;
And grandly gave his love to me, the dearest thing on earth,
Like one who gives a jewel unweeting of its worth.

'T was when the Earth her green lap spreads for Summer's gorgeous gifts,
And plump for kisses of the Sun her ripen'd cheek up-lifts,
When maiden May was caught and kiss'd in arms of lusty June,
He newly strung my harp of life, and play'd its sweetest tune.
O, I had been content to live in cottage built of clay,
So I might see and bless him, when he chanced to pass that way!

But to his heart he claspt me, with a look of glorious pride,
And to his home he took me, and he crown'd me for his Bride.

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

One of God's own Darlings was my bosom's nestling Dove,
With her looks of love and sunshine, and her voice so rich and low:
How it trembled thro' my life, like an Immortal's kiss of love!
How its music yearns thro' all my memory now!

O! her beauty rainbows round me, and her sweet smile, silverly
As a song, fills all the silence of the Midnight's charméd hours;
And I know from out her grave she'll send her love in death to me,
By the Spring in smiling utterance of Flowers.

O! my Love, too good for Earth, has gone into the world of light;
It was hard, she said, to leave me, but the Lord had need of her;
And she walks the heavens in glory, like a Star i' the crown of Night,
With the Beautiful and Blesséd mingling there.

Gone before me, to be clothéd on with bridal robe of white,
Where Love's blossom flowers to fruit of Knowledge,—Suffering 's glorified!
And my love shall make me meet and worthy of her presence bright,
That in heaven I may claim her as my Bride.

THE GOLDEN WEDDING-RING.

With a white hand like a lady,
And a heart as merry as Spring,
I am ripe and I am ready
For a golden wedding-ring.

This old world is scarce worth seeing,
Till Love wave his purple wing,
And we gauge the bliss of being
Thro' a golden wedding-ring.

Would you draw far Eden nearer,
And to earth the Angels bring,
You must seek the magic mirror
Of a golden wedding-ring.

As the earth with sea is bounded,
And the winter-world with spring,
So a Maiden's life is rounded
With a golden wedding-ring.

I have known full many a Maiden,
Like a white rose withering,
Into fresh ripe beauty redden
Thro' a golden wedding-ring.

As the crescent Moon rings golden,
Her full glory perfecting,
Womanly beauty is unfolden
In a golden wedding-ring.

Fainting spirits oft grow fearless,
Sighing hearts will soar and sing,
Tearful eyes will laugh out tearless,
Thro' a golden wedding-ring.

There 's no jewel so worth wearing,
That a Lover's hands may bring,—
There 's no treasure worth comparing
With a golden wedding-ring.

Ah! when hearts are wildly beating,
And when arms all glowing cling,
Think, Love's circle wants completing
With a golden wedding-ring.

KISSES.

One kiss more, Sweet!
Soft as voluptuous wind of the west,
Or silkenest surge of thy purple-vein'd breast,
Ripe lips all ruddily melting apart,
Drink up the honey and wine of my heart!

One kiss more, Sweet!
Warm as a morning sunbeam's dewy gold
Slips in a red Rose's fragrantest fold,
Sets its green blood all a-blush, burning up
At the fresh feel of life, in its crimson cup!

One kiss more, Sweet!
Full as the flush of the sea-waves grand
Flooding the sheeny fire out of the sand;
On all the shores of my being let Bliss
Break with its neap-tide sea in a kiss!

SWEET-AND-TWENTY.

O my love 's a winsome lady;
Sweeter face ne'er fed Love on!
In a Court, or forest shady,
Queenlier beauty never shone.

Like a ladye from a far land
Came my true Love, brave to see!
As to heaven its rainbow garland,
Is her beauty rich to me.

In white arms of love she wound me,
And I lookt up in her smile:
In warm arms of love she bound me,
As the sea takes some blest isle.

As some dusky lake may mirror
One fair star that shines above,
So my life—aye growing clearer—
Holds this tremulous Star of Love.

O to see her life in blossom,
With its bloom of bravery!
Pure the dew lies in the bosom
Of her sweet virginity.

Nearest to my heart I wear her;
As a bark the waves above—
O so proudly do I bear her
On the bosom of my love!

Look you, how she cometh, trilling
Out her gay heart's bird-like bliss!
Merry as a May-morn, thrilling
With the dew and sunshine's kiss.

Ruddy gossips of her beauty
Are her twin cheeks: and her mouth
In its ripe warmth smileth, fruity
As a garden of the south.

Ha! my precious Sweet-and-Twenty,
Husband still your virgin pride!
Just a month, and this dear, dainty
Thing shall be my wedded Bride.

THE PATRIOT TO HIS BRIDE.

Will you leave the fond bosom of Home, where
Bliss hath been from your earliest waking?
Can you give its endearments to come, where
Life hath many a hot heart-aching?
Have you counted the cost to stand by me,
In the battle I fight for Man?
And shall your angel-love deify me,
Who stand in the world's dark ban?
O, a daring high soul you will need, dear love,
To brave the life-battle with me:
For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love,
And your sweet eyes dim tearfully.

Sweet! know you of gallant hearts perishing,—
The fine spirits that dumbly bow?
For a little of Fortune's cherishing,
They are breaking in agony now!
And without the sunshine that life needeth,
Alas! Sweet! for me and for you:
But little the careless world heedeth
For love like ours, tender and true!

100

O, a daring high soul you will need, dear love,
To brave the life-battle with me:
For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love,
And your sweet eyes dim tearfully.

Well, you 've sworn, I have sworn, God hath bound us,
In a covenant the world shall not part:
I have flung my love's purple around us,
And you live in each pulse of my heart!
It may be our name in Earth's story
Shall endure when we are no more;
For love lives as the Stars burn in glory,
And the Flowers bud on Earth's green floor.
But a daring high soul you will need, dear love,
To brave the life-battle with me:
For your true heart may oftentimes bleed, dear love,
And your sweet eyes dim tearfully.

103

I LOVE MY LOVE, AND MY LOVE LOVES ME.

The life of life 's when for another we 're living,
Whose spirit responds to ours like a sweet Psalter;
When heart-smiles are burning, and flame-words out-giving
The fire we have lit on her heart's holy Altar!
O Love, God's religion! Love, burning and starried!
The soul must be beautiful where thou art palaced;
I mark where thy kiss-seal is set on the forehead,
I know where thy dew of heaven 's richliest chaliced.

104

That radiant brow breaketh thro' cloud and world-stain,
And strong is that soul in the battle of Duty;
Smiling May-sunshine thro' Life's Winter-rain,
All outer things clothing with inner-world beauty!
'T is writ in the face, whose heart singeth for glee,
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

Once I was a-weary of life and the world,
And the voice of Delight on my heart fell accurst,
And my eyes oft with tear-drops unweetingly pearl'd,
I had no one to love, tho' with love my heart burst:
Then on me a sweet dream of Paradise stole—
Turn'd to radiance the shadows that brooded around me;
And walking the gardens that Eden my soul,
One morning, my Love, like another Eve, found me:
She lookt, and a maëlstrom of joy whirl'd my bosom;
She smiled, and my being ran bliss to the brim:
She spake, and my eager heart flusht into blossom;
Dear Heaven! 't was the music set to my Life's hymn!
And up went my soul to God, shouting for glee,
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

I know, Love of mine! time may nevermore bring
Back the lost freshness that clad my young heart;
But, looking on thee, dear! sweet thoughts will up-spring,
As from the cold tomb the green verdure will start!

105

I look in thine eyes, and, O joy to the weeper!
Their love-light makes sunshine of all my dark fears;
And what made my heart faint, lifts it now, a strong leaper!
And rivers of bliss flood its channels of tears.
I had deem'd its wealth flung on sands barren and burning,
And sweet 't is to find my Life's current again,
Caught up in thy love's precious chalice—returning
Like dew that hath been to heaven, dropping in rain.
And my heart's perpetual hymn shall be,
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

BRIDAL SONG.

Gaily the Sun woos the Spring for his Bride,
With kisses all warm and golden;
Till the life at her heart she no longer may hide,
And the wealth of her love is unfolden.

The wrinkled old Sea sidles up the sands,
And lavishes kisses in showers
On the Earth, till the Grey-beard's young darling stands
All dress'd in her bridal flowers!

106

With kisses, sweet kisses, the mellow Rains start
The virgin flowers a-blossom,
And ripen their beauty till fragrant lips part,
And Love's jewel gleams rich in their bosom.

Faint with love wingeth the wantoning Wind,
And yearns as its heart were a-breaking,
And kisses sweet kisses, till buds be untwined,
And the young leaves all are awaking.

And there 's nothing so dainty-sweet in life
As to kiss the Maid glowing and tender,
Till the heart of the Wife giveth up in the strife,
Full-flowering in Love's splendour.

A WAIL.

The Day goeth down red darkling,
The moaning waves dash out the light,
And there is not a star of hope sparkling,
On the threshold of my night.

107

The wild winds of Autumn go wailing
Up the valley and over the hill,
Like yearning Ghosts round the world sailing,
In search of the old love still.

A fathomless sea is rolling
O'er the wreck of the bravest bark;
And my pain-muffled heart is tolling
Its dumb-peal down in the dark.

The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have whelméd the pearl of my life:
And there cometh to me no morrow
Shall solace this desolate strife.

Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set is the sun of my years;
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in my darkness and tears.

109

VOICES OF OUR OWN TIME.

THE FLEET BEFORE SEBASTOPOL.

Hurrah! we grip the Tyrant now!
And there 's no heart so lowly
But burns to strike a battle-blow,
And win a cause so holy!
The Brave look fearless in the eyes
Of Death, nor cry him quarter;
And 't is no nearer heaven, Boys,
By Land, than 't is by Water!
And O! but a jubilant carouse
Awaits us in our far land,
When we shall thrust up conquering brows,
And take our Country's garland.

O, think how happy eyes will dim,
To greet us on the beaches,
With blissful looks of love that swim
Thro' long luxurious reaches!
They watch us now from out the West,
But all too proud to sorrow
For us who rest on Victory's breast,
Or wear her wreath to-morrow.

126

And O! but a jubilant carouse
Awaits us in our far land,
When we shall thrust up conquering brows,
And take our Country's garland.

We 'll seek the bed of Death, to win
Fair Freedom's dream of beauty,
Or wrest her from the Tyrant, in
The loving arms of duty.
Then gaily thro' the ocean foam
Shall sail our nobler Argo,
And proudly to our Island-home
We 'll bear the precious cargo.
And O! but a jubilant carouse
Awaits us in our far land,
When we shall thrust up conquering brows,
And take our Country's garland.

To-day the ancient valour starts,
And the spirit of old story
Shall flash from out heroic hearts,
And kindle England's glory.
Wild voices wail across the sea,—
They cry from many a woe-land,—
Revenge! remember Sinope!
Revenge! remember Poland!
And O! but a jubilant carouse
Awaits us in our far land,

127

When we shall thrust up conquering brows,
And take our Country's garland.

Now, Britons, fight your Ships to-day
As Grenville fought the Spaniard!
And if War's bloodiest game they play,
Have at them grip-and-poignard.
One thrilling shout for England, Ho!
Then, naked for the fight, men,
Dash in like fire upon the foe,
And God defend the Right, men!
And O! but a jubilant carouse
Awaits us in our far land,
When we shall thrust up conquering brows,
And take our Country's garland.

THINGS WILL GO BETTER YET.

Old Earth with cloud and thorn is rife:
Man hath his miseries still; yet flowers
Make sunshine in the darkest life,
And tint with heaven this world of ours.
And there be hearts all loving,
And love shall love beget;
For now, thank God! we 're moving,
Things will go better yet.

128

From out the brain 't will wrench a tear,
To count our Martyrs by the way;
Yet, bear a hand, my brother dear,
A glorious remnant lives to-day.
The people, leagued and loving,
Shall break the tyrants' net;
And now, thank God! we 're moving,
Things will go better yet.

130

THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR.

Uprouse ye now, brave brother-band,
With honest heart, and working hand:
We are but few, toil-tried, and true,
Yet hearts beat high to dare and do:
And who would not a champion be
In Labour's lordlier Chivalry?

131

We fight! but bear no bloody brand,
We fight to free our Fatherland:
We fight that smiles of love may glow
On lips where curses quiver now!
Hurrah! hurrah! true Knights are we
In Labour's lordlier Chivalry.

O! there be hearts that ache to see
The day-dawn of our victory:
Eyes full of heart-break with us plead,
And Watchers weep, and Martyrs bleed:
O! who would not a Champion be
In Labour's lordlier Chivalry?

Work, Brothers mine; work, hand and brain;
We 'll win the Golden Age again:
And Love's Millennial morn shall rise
In happy hearts, and blessed eyes.
Hurrah! hurrah! true Knights are we
In Labour's lordlier Chivalry.

154

EDEN.

There is not a rift in the blue sky now,
Where a million tempests tore it;
There is not a furrow on Ocean's brow,
Tho' a million years have past o'er it.
And for all the storms and the strifes that have roll'd
Down the ages grim and gory,
Earth weareth her pleasant face, as of old,
And laughs in her morning glory.
And Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
Only nurture up Eden around him.

O the cloud may have fall'n on the human face,
And its lordliest beauty blighted;
For love hath gone out with a dark'ning trace,
Where the inward glory lighted.
Yet the old world of love liveth still in the heart,
As we 've many a sweet revealing;
And its rich fossil-jewels in tears will up-start
With the warm flood of holier feeling.

155

Ay, Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
Only nurture up Eden around him.

O the terrors, the tortures, the miseries dark—
That have curst us, and crusht, and cankered!
Yet, aye, from the Deluge, Humanity's Ark
Hath on some serene Ararat anchored.
O the golden chains that link heaven to earth,
The rusts of all time cannot sever!
Evil shall die in its own dark dearth,
And the Good liveth on for ever.
And Man—tho' he beareth the brand of Sin,
And the flesh and the devil have bound him—
Hath a spirit within, to old Eden akin,
Only nurture up Eden around him.

161

POLITICAL LYRICS.

163

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT.

People of England, rouse ye from your dreaming!
Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap:
Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming:
Lo! a pulse stirs that never more shall sleep
In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.

174

Vampyres have drain'd the human heart's best blood,
Kings robb'd, and Priests have curst us in God's name:
Out in the midnight of the Past we've stood—
While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game.
We have been worshipping a gilded crown,
Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head;
Chains fell on us as we were bowing down;
We deem'd our Gods divine, but lo! instead—
They are but painted clay,—with morn the charm has fled!

And this is merry England,—cradling-place
Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd!
Where smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reign'd—Her awful eyes close-bound!
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!

Husht be the Herald on the walls of fame,
Trumping this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame:
See ye not how the palaced knaves deride
Us flatter'd fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night,

175

And grinds the poor to flush its coffers wealthy?
Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”

There's not a spot in all this flowery land,
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been:
O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave,—
Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turn'd our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?

Where is the spirit of our ancient Sires,
Who, bleeding, wrung their Rights from tyrannies olden?
God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires
From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear.

Go forth, when Night is husht, and heaven is clothéd
With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,

176

Feel the stirr'd spirit leap to them betrothéd,
As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul;
Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning
With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?

Immortal Liberty! we see thee stand
Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy beacon-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?

Curst, curst be war, the World's most fatal glory!
Ye wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall!
Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory
Grim glaive of strife behind Oblivion's pall.
The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle
Thunders no terror on his murderous soul.
Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle
The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole,
Shall blunt no lance of light, no onset backward roll.

Old Poets tell us of a golden age,
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,

177

Ere sin had dimm'd the heart's illumined page,—
And Sinai-voices say 't will come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.

Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause;
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!
Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That like a sun dawns on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.

A CRY OF THE PEOPLES.

Like a strong man in torture, the weary world turneth,
To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness:
With shame and with shudder, poor Mother! she yearneth
O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness.
O gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorréd,
Who murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-springs,—
And are crownéd to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead:
O let them be last of the Queens and the Kings!

By the lovers and friends we have tenderly cherisht,
Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath,
Who struggled like Gods met in fight, and have perisht
In poverty's battle with grim daily death:
O, by all dear ones that bitterly plead for us—
Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings—
Sisters that weep for us—mothers that bleed for us—
Let these be last of the Queens and the Kings!

Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our Martyrs,
Ye might not tell where the brave blood ran like rain!
But there it burns ever! and heaven's weeping waters
And branding suns never shall whiten the stain!

181

Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us,
And smite till each helm bravely flashes and rings!
Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've taught us,
And be these the last of the Queens and the Kings!

Ho! weary Nightwatch, is there light on the summit?
Yearner up through the Night, say, is there hope?
For deeper in darkness than fathom of plummet,
Our Bark thro' the tempest doth stagger and grope!
“To God's unforgiven, to caitiff and craven—
To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings:
Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into haven,
For Death tracks the last of the Queens and the Kings!”

OUR LAND.

'Tis the Land that our stalwart fore-sires trode,
Where the brave and heroic-soul'd
Implanted our freedom with their best blood,
In the martyr-days of old.
The huts of the lowly gave Liberty birth,
Their hearts were her cradle glorious,

186

And wherever her foot-prints letter'd the earth,
Great spirits up-sprang victorious,
In our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.

Alfred was of us, and Shakespeare's thought
Bekings us, all crowns above!
And Freedom's dear faith a fresh splendour caught
From our grand old Milton's love!
And we should be marching on gallantly,
And striding from glory to glory,
For the Right with our Might striking valiantly,
On the track of the famous in story—
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.

On Naseby-field of the fight sublime,
Our old red Rose doth blow!
Would to God that the soul of that earlier time
Might marshal us conquering now!
On into the Future's fair clime the world sweeps,
And the time trumpets true men to freedom:
At the heart of our helots the mounting God leaps,
But O for the Moses to lead 'em!

187

For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.

What do we lack, that the ruffian Wrong
Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold?
We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong,
We have hearts as big and as bold!
Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school
Our lives to a sterner bravery?
No! down and down with their robber rule,
And up from the land of slavery!
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.

THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY.

Sons of Old England, from the sod,
Up-lift the noble brow!
Gold apes a mightier power than God,
And wealth is worshipt now!
In all these toil-ennobled lands
Ye have no heritage;
They snatch the fruit of youthful hands,
The staff from weary age.

196

O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

Thro' long dark years of blood and tears,
We've toil'd like branded slaves,
Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land
Of paupers, prisons, graves!
But our long-sufferance endeth now,
Within the souls of men
The fruitful buds of promise blow,
And Freedom lives again!
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

Too long have Labour's nobles knelt
Before exalted “Rank;”
Within our souls the iron is felt—
We hear our fetters clank!
A glorious voice goes throbbing forth
From millions stirring now,
Who yet before these Gods of earth
Shall stand with unblencht brow.

197

O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE.

He is gone: better so. We should know who stand under
Our Banner: let none but the trusty remain!
For there's stern work at hand, and the time comes shall sunder
The shell from the pearl, and the chaff from the grain!
And the heart that thro' danger and death will be dutiful—
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands,
With a Life, like a palace-home built for the Beautiful—
Freedom of all her Beloved demands!

He is gone from us! Yet shall we march on victorious,
Hearts burning like Beacons—eyes fixt on the Goal!
And if we fall fighting, we fall like the Glorious;
With face to the Stars, and all heaven in the soul!
And aye for the brave stir of battle we'll barter
The sword of life sheatht in the peace of the grave:
And better the fieriest fate of the Martyr,
Than live like the Coward, and die like the Slave!

198

ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.

Sweet Phosphor tricks to a smile the brow of heaven,
Dawn's golden springs surge into floods of day,
Lush-leavy woods break into singing, Earth
From dewy dark rolls round her balmy side,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.

Spring with a tender beauty clothes the earth,
Happy, and jewell'd like a sumptuous Bride,
As tho' she knew no sorrow—held no grave:
No glory dims for all the hearts that break,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.

Birds sing as sweetly on the blossom'd boughs,
Suns mount as royally their sapphire throne,
Stars bud in gorgeous gloom, and harvests yield,
As tho' man nestled in the lap of Love:
All, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.

But slip this silken-folded mask aside,
And lo, Hell welters at our very feet!
The Poor are murder'd body and soul, the Rich
In Pleasure's chalice melt their pearl of life!
Ay, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.

199

Lean out into the looming Future, mark
The battle roll across the night to come!
“See how we right our Wrongs at last,” Revenge
Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven:
Yet, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.

So Sodom, grim old Reveller! went to death.
Voluptuous Music throbb'd thro' all her courts,
Mirth wanton'd at her heart, one pulse before
Fire-tongues told out her bloody tale of wrong,—
And all went right, and merrily, with the world.

THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE.

O sweet is the fair face of Nature, when Spring
With living flower-rainbow in glory hath spann'd
Hill and dale; and the music of birds on the wing
Makes earth seem a beautiful faëry land!
And dear is our first-love's young spirit-wed bride,
With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse,
When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide
Up in beauty to melt on her cheeks and her lips.
But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free.

200

O to see men awake from the slumber of ages,
With brows grim from labour, and hands hard and tan,
Start up living heroes, the dreamt-of by Sages!
And smite with strong arm the oppressors of man:
To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring,
Slaves of the midnight-mine! serfs of the sod!
Show how the Eternal within them is stirring,
And never more bend to a crownéd clod:
Dear God! 'tis a sight for Immortals to see,—
A People up-girding its might to be free.

Battle on bravely, O sons of humanity!
Dash down the cup from your lips, O ye Toilers!
Too long hath the world bled for tyrants' insanity—
Too long our weakness been strength to our spoilers.
For Freedom and Right, gallant hearts, wrestle ever,
And speak ye to others the proud words that won ye:
Your rights conquer'd once, shall be wrung from you never;
O battle on bravely; the world's eyes are on ye;
And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free!

201

THE WORKER.

I care not a curse though from birth he inherit
The tear-bitter bread and the stingings of scorn,
If the man be but one of God's nobles in spirit,—
Though penniless, richly-soul'd,—heartsome, though worn—
And will not for golden bribe lout it or flatter,
But clings to the Right aye, as steel to the pole:
He may sweat at the plough, loom, or anvil, no matter,
I'll own him the man that is dear to my soul.

His hand may be hard, and his raiment be tatter'd,
On straw-pallet nightly his weary limbs rest;
If his brow wear the stamp of a spirit unfetter'd,
I'm mining at once for the gems in his breast.
Give me the true man, who will fear not nor falter,
Though Want be his guerdon, the Workhouse his goal,
Till his heart has burnt out upon Liberty's Altar:
For this is the man I hold dear to my soul.

202

True hearts, in this brave world of blessings and beauty,
Aye scorn the poor splendour of losel and lurker;
And Toil is creation's crown, worship is duty,
And greater than Gods in old days is the Worker.
For us the wealth-laden world laboureth ever;
For us harvests ripen, winds blow, waters roll;
And him who gives back in his might of endeavour,
I'll cherish,—a man ever dear to my soul.

203

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LINES INSCRIBED TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.

God bless you, Brave One, in our dearth,
Your life shall leave a trailing glory;
And round the poor Man's homely hearth
We proudly tell your suffering's story.

All Saviour-souls have sacrificed,
With nought but noble faith for guerdon;
And ere the world hath crown'd the Christ,
The man to death hath borne the burden!

The Savage broke the glass that brought
The heavens nearer, saith the legend!
Even so the Bigots welcome aught
That makes our vision starrier-region'd!

204

They lay their Corner-stones in dark
Deep waters, who up-build in beauty,
On Earth's old heart, their Triumph-Arc
That crowns with glory lives of duty.

And meekly still the Martyrs go
To keep with Pain their solemn bridal!
And still they walk the fire who bow
Not down to worship Custom's idol.

In fieriest forge of martyrdom,
Their swords of soul must weld and brighten:
Tear-bathed, from fiercest furnace, come
Their lives, heroic-temper'd—Titan!

And heart-strings sweetest music make
When swept by Suffering's fiery fingers!
And thro' soul-shadows starriest break
The glories on God's brave light-bringers.

Take heart! tho' sown in tears and blood,
No seed that's quick with love, hath perisht,
Tho' dropt in barren byeways—God
Some glorious flower of life hath cherisht.

Take heart; the rude dust dark To-day,
Soars a new-lighted sphere To-morrow!
And wings of splendour burst the clay
That clasps us in Death's fruitful furrow.

205

A SONG IN THE CITY.

Coining the heart, brain, and sinew, to gold,
Till we sink in the dark, on the pauper's dole,
Feeling for ever the flowerless mould,
Growing about the uncrownéd soul!
O, God! O God! must this evermore be
The lot of the Children of Poverty?
The Spring is calling from brae and bower,
In the twinkling sheen of the sunny hour,
Earth smiles in her golden green;
There's music below, in the glistering leaves,
There's music above, and heaven's blue bosom heaves
The silvery clouds between;
The boughs of the woodland are nodding in play,
And wooingly beckon my spirit away—
I hear the dreamy hum
Of bees in the lime-tree, and birds on the spray;
And they, too, are calling my thinking away;
But I cannot—cannot come.
Visions of verdant and heart-cooling places
Will steal on my soul like a golden spring-rain,
Bringing the lost light of brave, vanisht faces;
Till all my life blossoms with beauty again.

206

But O, for a glimpse of the flower-laden Morning,
That makes the heart leap up, and knock at heaven's door!
O for the green lane, the green field, the green wood,
To take in, by heartfuls, their greenness once more!
How I yearn to lie down in the lush-flower'd meadows,
And nestle in leaves, and the sleep of the shadows,
Where violets in the cool gloom are awaking,
There, let my soul burst from its cavern of clay,
To float down the warm spring, away and away!
For I was not made merely for money-making.

At my wearisome task I oftentimes turn,
From my bride, and my monitress, Duty,
Forgetting the strife, and the wrestle of life,
To talk with the spirit of beauty.
The multitude's hum, and the chinking of gold,
Grow hush as the dying of day,
For on wings, pulsing music, with joy untold,
My heart is up, and away!
Glad as the bird in the tree-top chanting
Its anthem of Liberty;
With its heart in its musical gratitude panting,
And O, 'tis a bliss to be!
Once more to drink in the life-breathing air,
Lapt in luxurious flowers—
To recall again the pleasures that were
In Infancy's innocent hours—

207

To wash the earth-stains and the dust from my soul,
In nature's reviving tears, once more;
To feast at her banquet, and drink from her bowl
Rich dew, for the heart's hot core.
Ah me! ah me! it is heavenly then,
And hints of the spirit-world, near alway,
Are stirring, and stirr'd, at my heart again,
Like leaves to the kiss of May:
It is but a dream, yet 'tis passing sweet,
And when from its spells my spirit is waking,
Dark is my heart, and the wild tears start;
For I was not made merely for money-making.

My soul leaneth out, to the whisperings
Of the mighty, the marvellous spirits of old;
And heaven-ward soareth to strengthen her wings,
When Labour relapseth its earthly hold;
And breathless with awfullest beauty,—it listens,
To catch the Night's deep, starry mystery;
Or in mine eyes, dissolved, it glistens,
Big, for the moan of Humanity.
Much that is written within its chamber,
Much that is shrined in the mind's living amber,
Much of this thought of mine,—
I fain would struggle and give to birth;
For I would not pass away from earth,
And make no sign!

208

I yearn to utter, what might live on,
In the world's heart, when I am gone.
I would not plod on, like these slaves of gold,
Who shut up their souls, in a dusky cave:
I would see the world better, and nobler-soul'd,
Ere I lay me down in my green turf-grave.
I may toil till my life is filled with dreariness,
Toil till my heart is a wreck in its weariness,
Toil for ever, for tear-steept bread,
Till I go down to the silent dead.
But, by this yearning, this hoping, this aching,
I was not made merely for money-making.

THE FAMINE-SMITTEN.

In the tears of the Morning—
The smiles of the sun,
The green Earth's adorning
Told spring had begun!
Warm woods donn'd their beauty, wrought
Through long still nights,
And musical breezes brought
Flowery delights:

209

The humming leaves flasht
Rich in light, with sweet sound,
And the glad waters dasht
Their starry spray round!
The wood-bines up-climbing,
Laught out, pink and golden,
And bees made sweet chiming
In roses half-folden.
But where was that infant-band,
Wont in spring weather
To wander forth, hand-in-hand,
Violets to gather?
Ah misery! they slept,
The dear blossoms of love!
Where the green branches wept,
And the grass crept above;
Melodious gladness
Throbb'd thro' the rich air,
But the anguish of madness
Rent Poverty's lair;
For Famine had smitten
Its pride of life low,
And agony written
On heart and on brow.
Sweet from the boughs the birds
Sang in their mirth,
The lark messaged heaven-wards
Blessings from earth—

210

But I turn'd where our gentle Lord's
Loves lay in dearth.
They heard not, nor heeded,
The sounds of life o'er them!
They felt not, nor needed,
The hot tears wept for them!
But earth-flowers were springing
O'er human flowers' grave,
And, O God! what heart-wringing
Their tender looks gave!
They died! died of hunger—
By bitter want blasted!
While wealth for the Wronger
Ran over untasted—
While Pomp, in joy's rosy bow'rs,
Wasted life's measure,
Chiding the lagging hours,
Wearied of pleasure!
They died! while men hoarded
The free gifts of God:
They died! 't is recorded
In letters of blood.
Yet the corn on the hills
Waves its showery gold crown;
Still Nature's lap fills
With the good heaven drops down.
O! this world might be lighted
With Eden's first smile—

211

Angel-haunted—unblighted,
With Freedom for Toil:
But they wring out our blood
For their banquet of gold!
They annul laws of God,
Soul and body are sold!
Hark now! hall and palace,
Ring out, dome and rafter!
Ay, laugh on, ye callous!
In Hell there'll be laughter:
But tremble, hell-makers;
The shorn among men—
The world's image-breakers
Grow mighty again;
There be stern times a-coming,
The dark days of reck'ning,
The storms are up-looming—
The Nemesis wak'ning!
On heaven, blood shall call,
Earth quake with pent thunder,
And shackle and thrall
Shall be riven asunder.
It will come, it shall come,
Impede it what may:
Up, People! and welcome
Your glorious day.

212

PEACE.

Yes, Peace is beautiful; and I do yearn
For her to clasp the World's poor tortured heart,
As sweet spring warmth doth brood o'er coming flowers.
But peace with these Leviathans of blood—
Who pirate crimson seas, devouring men?
Give them the hand of brotherhood—whose fangs
Are in our hearts with the grim blood-hound's grip?
Wouldst see Peace, idiot-like, with smirk and smile,
A-planting flowers to coronal Truth's grave?
Peace, merry-making round the funeral pyre,
Where Freedom, fiery-curtained, weds with death?
Peace, mirroring her form by pools of blood,—
Crowning the Croat in Vienna's fosse,
With all sweet influences of thankful eyes,
For murder of the glorious Burschenschaft?
Peace with Oppression, which doth tear dear friends
And brothers from our side to-day, and comes
To eat our hearts and drink our blood to-morrow?
Out on't! it is the Tyrant's cunning cant,
The robe of sheen flung o'er its deadly daggers,
Which start to life, whene'er it hugs to death.
I answer, War!—war with the cause of war,—

213

War with our misery, want, and wretchedness,—
War with curst Gold, which is an endless war
On Love, and God, and our Humanity!
Brothers, I bid ye forth to glorious war!
Patch fig-leaves o'er the naked truth no more.
The stream of Time runs red with our best blood!
Time's seed-field we have sown with fratricide,
And dragon's teeth have sprung, ay, in our hearts.
O! we have fought and bled on land and sea,
Heapt glory's car with myriads of the brave,
Spilt blood by oceans—treasures by the million,
At every Tyrant's beck. Had we but shed
Such warm and eloquent blood for Freedom's faith,
War's star in heaven had lost its name ere now.
“Brothers!” I cried,—well, Brothers, brother slaves!
O! but to give ye slaves their valiant heart,
Whose dumb, dead dust is worth your living souls—
Dear God! 't were sweet to kiss the scaffold-block!
I'd proudly leap death's darkness, to let shine
The Future's promise thro' your sorrow's tears!
Sorrow? ah, no! ye feel not sense so holy:
The worm of misery riots in your hearts—
Ye hear your younglings in the drear midnight
Make moan for bread, when ye have none to give!—
Ye drain your life, warm, for the vulture's drink!
The groaning land is choked with living death.
O! ye are mated to the things of scorn.
And I have heard your miserable madness

214

Belcht forth in drunken pæans to your tyrants,
Pledging your murderers to the hell they've made!
Ah, Christ! was it for this, thou sudden sun,
Didst light these centuries with thy dying smile?—
Was it for this, so many and so many
Have hackt their spirit-swords against our fetters
And killing cords, that bleed our hearts to death—
Wept griefs might turn the soul grey in an hour—
Broke their great hearts for love, and, in despair,
Dasht their immortal crowns to earth, and died?
Was it for this the countless Host of Martyrs,
Becrown'd and robed in fiery martyrdom,
Beat out a golden-aged Future from
The angel-metal of their noble lives—
Clomb the red scaffold—strain'd their weary eyes,
Across the mists of ages, for one glimpse
Of midnight burning into that bright Dawn
Now bursting golden, up the skies of time?
When will ye put your human glory on?
How long will ye lie darkling desolate,
With barren brain, blind life, and fallow heart?
The hollow yearning grave will kindly close,
And flowers spring where the mould lay freshly dark!
The leaves will burst from out the naked'st boughs,
Fire-ripen'd into glorious greenery,
Waste Moor and Fen will kindle into spring:
How long will ye lie darkling desolate?
Lord God Almighty! what a spring of freedom

215

Awaits to burst the winter of our world!
O! if aught moving thrills a brother's love,
Which pleads for utterance in blinding tears,
Then let these words burn living in your souls,
Snatch Fear's cold hand from off your palsied hearts,
And send the intrepid shudder through your veins.
Helots of Albion! Penury's nurslings! rise,
And swear, in God's name, and in Heaven's or Hell's,
Ye will bear witness at the birth of Freedom!
Arise, and front the blessed light of Heaven,
With tyrant-quailing manhood in your looks!
Arise, go forth to glorious war for right,
And justice, and mankind's high destiny!
Arise, 't is Freedom's bleeding fight, strike home
Wherever tyrants lift the gorgon-head!
There is a chasm in the coming years,
A-gape for strife's Niagara of blood—
Or to be bridged by brave hearts linkt in love.
The world is stirring with its mighty purpose:
No more be laggards in the march of men.
The Vulture Despotism spreads wide its wings
Right royally, to give ye broader mark!
And the hag Evil sickens unto death,
With her sore travail o'er the birth of Good.
And yet shall War's red-letter'd creed die out;
Where blood is running, shall the wild-flowers blow;
Where men are groaning, shall their children sing;
And Peace and Love re-Genesis the world.

216

A GLIMPSE OF AULD LANG-SYNE.

Earth, garnisht Bride-like, bares her bosom to the nestling Night,
Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls of light;

Ten thousand tender, starry eyes smile o'er the world at rest,
The weary world—husht like an infant on its mother's breast!

The great old hills thrust up their foreheads in rich-sleeping light:
How proudly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping God to-night!

The flowers have hung their cups with gems of their own sweetness wrought,
And muse upon their stems, in smiling ecstasy of thought:

They have banquetted on beauty, at the fragrant Eve's red lips,
And fold in charméd rest, with crowns upon their velvet tips.

217

No green tide sweeps the sea of leaves, no wind-sigh stirs the sod,
While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting God.

Sweet hour! thou wak'st the feeling that we never know by day,
For Angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath the clay:

Even while I list, such music stealeth in upon my soul,
As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph-harpings stole—

Or I could grasp the immortal part of life, and soar, and soar,
Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found such hidden lore!

It flings aside the weight of years, and lovingly goes back,
To that sweet time, the dear old days, that glisten on its track!

Life's wither'd leaves grow green again, and fresh with Childhood's spring,
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbowring:—

218

The Past, with all its gather'd charms, beckons me back in joy,
And loving hearts, and open arms, re-clasp me as a boy.

The voices of the Loved and Lost are stirring at my heart,
And Memory's miser'd treasures leap to life, with sudden start,—

As through her darken'd windows, warm and glad sunlight creeps in,
And Lang-syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn heart doth win.

Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou hast lookt and smiled, Mother,
And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very child, Mother!

I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, much as in those hours,
When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds and flowers,

When the long summer days were short, for my glad soul to live
The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could give.

When Heaven sang to my innocence, and every leafy grove
And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches with love.

219

When life oped like a flower, where clung my lips, to quaff its honey,
And joys throng'd like a shower of gold king-cups in meadows sunny.

I'll tell thee, Mother! since we met, stern changes have come o'er me:
Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all before me.

O! I was full of trustful faith, and, in my glee and gladness,
Deem'd not that others had begun as bright, whose end was madness.

I knew not smiles could light up eyes, like Sunset's laughing glow
On some cold stream, which burns above, while all runs dark below;

That on Love's summer sea, great souls go down, while some, grown cold,
Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love for gold;

How they on whom we'd staked the heart forget the early vow,
And they who swore to love through life would pass all coldly now;

220

How, in the soul's dark hour, Love's temple-veil is rent in twain,
And the heart quivers thorn-crown'd on the cross of fiery pain.

And shatter'd idols, broken dreams, come crowding on my brain,
As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come again.

It tells of golden moments lost—heart sear'd—blind Passion's thrall;
Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste, Love's honey turn'd to gall.

It tells how many and often high resolve and purpose strong,
Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have died upon my tongue.

I left thee, Mother, in sweet May, the merry month of flowers,
To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer-hours.

I left my world of love behind, with soul for life a-thirsting,
My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart was bursting.

For I had knit my soul to climb, with poverty its burden;
Give me but time, O give me time, and I would win the guerdon.

221

Ah, Mother! many a heart that all my aspiration cherisht
Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-march perisht.

We see the bleeding victims lie upon the world's grim Altar,
And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts make us falter.

Mother, the world hath wreakt its part on me, with scathing power,
Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee at this hour.

And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes with sweet tears wet,
I know there wells a spring of love through all my being yet.

University of Virginia Library

THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL.