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THE 
 
 POETICAL EEMAINS 
 
 PETER JOHN ALLAN, ESQ., 
 
 '.ATE OP PKEDEIilCTON, »EW BEVNSW.CK. 
 
 WITH A 
 
 SHORT BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE, 
 
 EDITED BV THE 
 
 REV. HENRY CHRISTMAS, M.A., E.R.S., E.S.A,. F.R.G.S. 
 
 ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 tONDON : 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, &^o., 65, CORNHILL. 
 
 MDCCCLIII, 
 
 I "66"-^ 
 
CHy Press, Long Lane : W. H. CoUingiidge. 
 
 f . 
 ■ I 
 
TO 
 
 
 SIE EDMUND HEAD, BART., 
 
 LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR OF NEW BRUNSWICK, 
 
 BRITISH NORTH AMERICA, 
 
 ARE, BY HIS PERMISSION, (kINDLY CONCEDED TO THK 
 
 £afe [mmitt Int^nr,) 
 
 RESPEOTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 
 
 ONE OF HIS SURVIVING BROTHERS. 
 
INTliODUCTION. 
 
 The task of writing an introduction to this vuluuit 
 devolves upon me as much by inclination as by tiie 
 request of the nearest relatives of the lamented autlior. 
 We were bound together by a tie as strong as it was 
 peculiar; and, though we were never permitted to 
 meet in this world, I may yet speak of Peter John 
 Allan as one well known to me, and most highly 
 esteemed. We both <f itertained the same feelings of 
 zealous and affectionate friendship for one now no 
 more ; and, young as Mr. Allan was when he was 
 himself removed from among us, he had time to prove 
 himself a strong man in heart as well as in mind. 
 His brief— too brief— life has found a fitting chronicler 
 in his brother. His poems must speak for themselves. 
 And it is here that I shall take the opportunity oi 
 saying a few words on the form in which they present 
 
VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 themselves to the worUl Had their author lived to 
 revise them, they would undoubtedly have assumed a 
 more finished appearance; indeed, so fragmentary is 
 the character of many among them, that the question 
 not unnaturally arose. Is it doin;? justice to the 
 memory of the poet to publish them at all ? 
 
 This question met with a speedy solution on many 
 <,n'ounds. On the other side of the Atlantic, where he 
 was personally known and deeply beloved, were many 
 wlio seemed to have a claun that the poems should 
 not be withholden from them. A considerable number 
 would scarcely have received another finishing touch ; 
 and not a few possess so much poetical beauty, that 
 they may safely defy criticism. If I may be per- 
 mitted to mention the titles of those which, in my 
 .judgment, deserve to be thus characterised, I would 
 specify, '* The Land of Dreams," and "^The 
 (Jhristian and the Moor." Many portions of 
 " The Battle of Cressy" are exlremely spirited ; 
 and, had Mr. Allan lived, his matured powers and 
 ripened knowledge would have given him a high rank 
 among those fervid and energetic writers at whose 
 head Professor Aytoun now stands. 
 
 On careful consideration, it seemed best to attempt 
 no selection, but to publish all the poems as the author 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 Imd It'ft them, tinished and unliiiished together. There 
 is evidence of genius, high enough and abundant 
 enough, to deHght the poetical mind ; and criticism, 
 even if there were fair scope for critical objections, i? 
 disarmed by the circumstances of the case. 
 
 There remahis little more to say. Such dispen- 
 sations as that by which the colony of New Bnms- 
 wick was deprived of one likely to be a distinguished 
 (•rnament to it — and as useful as ornamental— are 
 among the mysteries of Providence. What he was 
 likely to be as a poet, these pages may show ; and his 
 memory will long live in the hearts of those who vahu' 
 noble and generous feeling. 
 
BlOGlUrilJCAL NOTICE UF THE Al'J'lJuU. 
 
 UY HIS UllOTHEIl. 
 
 Peter John Allan, the author of tlie fulluwiiip, 
 pages, was born at York, on the Gth Juno, 18l!5. lie 
 was the third son of Dr. Colin Allan, a surgeon in the 
 army, who held the appointment of Principal ^ledical 
 Officer in Halifax, Nova Scotia, which place hi' 
 quitted on retiring from the service in 183G, and passed 
 tlio remaining years of his life at Fredericton, the 
 capital of New Brunswick. jMy brother's poetical 
 tastes displayed themselves early in life ; and his love 
 of nature he indulged in long walks, Avhich would fre- 
 quently detain him from home whole days at a time. 
 I, his junior by two years, was his companion ; and 
 the most sadly pleasing reminiscences of my life are 
 those moments when, in the hey-day of youtli, we 
 roamed with elastic step mid field or forest, or on tht 
 banks of the broad St. John, built our aiiy castles, 
 and basked in the poetry of existence. He had the 
 true poet's admiration of all created things ; and 1 
 possessed sufficient of the future artist to sympathise in 
 his love of this most beautiful world. Our youthful 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 iluys are not necessarily the idlest, or the least reli- 
 gious period of our lives. Often did we rise before 
 the sun, ostensibly to fish or sport, and when we beheld 
 the glorious orb painting the east in indescribable, in- 
 imitable colours, we felt fully repaid for the hours 
 which would other\vise have been devoted to rest. At 
 these inexperienced years, when we are pleased with 
 existence, and are true worshippers of nature, when the 
 waving trees, and the verdure of the fields, and the 
 silvery brightness of the water, are delicious to our 
 senses, we know not why — when all the sounds of 
 rural life ai'e welcome, the hum of insects, the song of 
 birds, and the sweet voice of the cottage girl, who 
 mingles with, and is the heroine of our dreams — if our 
 feelings in these days are those of boyhood, defend us 
 from ever growing older ! 
 
 My brother studied the law, but he had now begun 
 to publish, from time to time, in the weekly journals ; 
 and the favourable reception which these efforts met 
 with filled his mind with an inextinguishable desire to 
 obtain literary fame. Had he been able to subdue or 
 control this feehng, there can be no doubt that he 
 would have been successful in the profession he had 
 chosen ; and indeed he gave proof, on more than one 
 occasion, that the study of the law, dry and uncon- 
 genial as it must have appeared to one of his poetical 
 temperament, was, when he chose, within the scope of 
 his abilities. More than once has he availed himself 
 of the privilege permitted to students at law to plead 
 

 OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 XI 
 
 in magistrates' courts, and advocated successfully the 
 case of some poor client. His friends, however, soon 
 perceived that his whole thoughts were bent on pur- 
 suing the thorny path of literature ; and they could not 
 but admit, that all he had hitherto produced gave reason 
 to hope that he was right in wishing to cultivate the 
 talents which the Creator had bestowed on him. StUl, 
 with those feelings so natural in friends towards the 
 object of their solicitude, they strove to dissuade him 
 from a pursuit so fraught with disaster and disappoint- 
 ment ; and many a severe struggle did liis honourable, 
 manly nature undergo, in the contest between the 
 desire to satisfy those who loved hun and the incli- 
 nation to literatm'e, combined with the consciousness 
 of power which spoke within his breast in a voice 
 which Avould not be stifled. A compromise was effected. 
 He was to bring out a book of poems ; and his mind 
 thus lightened, and his brain relieved from the pressure 
 of literary lucubrations, would be left free to devote 
 all their energies to the study of his profession. He 
 went on writing, and opened a subscription list, which 
 soon numbered names sufficient, had ready money been 
 advanced, to have covered the necessary expenses of 
 the volume. In the spring of 1846, 1 left New Bruns- 
 wick, and resided in Canada for a year and a half. 
 When I returned I found my brother, whose health 
 had been but weak at the time of my departure, greatly 
 improved in every respect. We had parted boys — we 
 now met as men. My brother's personal appearance wii s 
 
Xll 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 euiineutly prepossessing. In stature, he stood six fee 
 three inches, at the least. His features classical, suffi- 
 ciently regular, manly, and intelligent ; his dark eyes 
 sparkled with wit and good humour ; and when he 
 wore his beard and moustaches he might have sat as a 
 cavalier to Vandyk. But he possessed beauty of an- 
 other kind, far surpassing his physical comeliness. His 
 reading was extensive, though irregular, his mind 
 capacious and original, his conversation singularly 
 fluent and agreeable, and his manners most winning ; 
 but it was not by those qualities alone that he 
 had won the esteem of all who knew Mm, but by a 
 genuine goodness of heart, and a disposition so full of 
 charity, generosity, and compassion, that if any one 
 ever really carried these qualities to excess, he may be 
 said to have done so. Want, or misery, or distress of 
 any kind, touched his sensitive, poetical nature to the 
 quick ; and if he had no money in his pocket, he would 
 take off his handkerchief and give it to the beggar. 
 Will it be wondered at if, absent as I had been for two 
 years, I loved and admired my noble-hearted, generous 
 brother ; that I thought it a privilege to be with him, 
 and share his thoughts, and enjoy his conversation ? 
 
 A year of happiness intervened, to which I now look 
 back as the pleasantest period of my existence. I had 
 returned to the place which, if I live to be aged, will 
 always be associated with pleasant memories of early 
 happiness. My old associates shook me by the hand 
 well pleased to see me once more, and complimented 
 
A 
 
 OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 me on my improvement during my absence. My brother 
 and I lived a careless, happy life, revisiting our old 
 haunts, and looked with more matured ^^sion on the 
 scenes which had seemed so lovely to our school-boy 
 gaze. I am convinced that my mind profited much 
 from this intercourse, and that I received much benefit 
 from his superior understanding, and the gentle, cha- 
 ritable nature of his opinions. And it is this con- 
 viction which makes me, now that upwards of four 
 years have elapsed, feel as keenly as in the first shock 
 of bereavement. I do not mean to say tliat it now 
 recals the passionate tears of grief, but now that I am 
 alone I more fully appreciate the excellence of my 
 brother's character, than I did when he was alive. 
 
 Much as we may love or esteem our living friends, I 
 question whether we ever truly know their worth till 
 death teaches it to us. Upwards of four years' expe- 
 rience has now taught me something of the true 
 worth and value of what I have lost ; and frequently, 
 very frequently, does the wish come into my heart that 
 my true-hearted brother could stand beside me as in 
 days of yore. What interest and delight could I tlien 
 take in things to which I am now indiflcn-ent ! With 
 him to turn to for sympathy and advice, I should be an 
 infinitely stronger and a better man. ]\Iixing with tlie 
 world does not duninish the intensity of these re- 
 flections as might be expected ; for when I view the 
 noble objects of ambition presented to man, I cannot 
 lielp regretting that one so well fitted to undertake tin; 
 
XIV 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 task could not be with me, that we might battle 
 through life together, and bring back visions of the 
 world as it once seemed in the days of youth — a fair, 
 desirable, and happy place. Can it be, thou gallant 
 spirit, that friendship was buried with thee ? It seemeth 
 so ; for unless I could drink of the stream of oblivion, 
 and forget that " such things were, and were most dear 
 to me," I cannot be to another as I was to thee, and 
 would have been hadst thou been spared. 
 
 " But thou art fled, 
 Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn 
 Robes in its golden beams. Ah ! thou hast fled — 
 The bravo, the gentle, and the beautiful, 
 The child of grace and genius. Heartless things 
 Are done and said in the world ; and many worms, 
 And beasts, and men, live on, and mighty earth, 
 From sea and mountain, city and wilderness, 
 In vesper low or joyous orison. 
 Lifts still its solemn voice — but thou art fled ; 
 Thou canst no longer kno\v or love the shapes 
 Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee 
 Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 
 Now thou art not." 
 
 My brother seemed, at times, to have a foreboding 
 of early death ; and made a request to nie once, that, 
 in the event of his dying young, and my surviving 
 him, I would publish a short biographical sketch to 
 refute any aspersions which might emanate from those 
 who can only see the faults and indiscretions of youth, 
 without its virtues. As his name had acquired some 
 publicity, he naturally wished his memory to descend 
 
 I ' 
 

 OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 XV 
 
 to posterity free from calumny. But the notices of his 
 death, wliich appeared in the public papers, were sufh- 
 cient evidence of tlie general feeling to render such a 
 step on my part uperfluous. He died of fever, after 
 a brief illness of two weeks' duration. No one had 
 suspected his sickness to be unto death, and the shock 
 was proportionately grievous. It is not too much to 
 say, that it penetrated beyond the immediate circle of 
 his family and friends, and that his death was felt by 
 the community generally as a loss. His manuscript 
 had been sent home to England, and he was on the eve 
 of publishing, when he died in the bloom of his strength 
 and manly beauty, and the blossom of his mental 
 energy and vigour. At this moment of hope and anti- 
 cipation, when friends looked on and augured favourably 
 of the future, and when his follow- citizens had begun 
 to mark him as one who Avould do sometliing m the 
 world, this fine and promising young man, at the prt- 
 mature age of three-and-twenty, passed away from 
 time into eternity. The world was still bright and 
 beautiful to his eyes; no chilling influence had fallen 
 upon him ; neither time nor care had blunted his 
 feelings of reverence and love for nature, or made him 
 cease to regard, otherwise than through a poet's vision, 
 scenes which to him did seem — 
 
 " Apparell'd in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a 
 dream," 
 
 and thus in the hour of hope and faith in things surely 
 designed by the Creator to inspire such feelings, the 
 
XVI 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE 
 
 youtliful poet closed liis eyes on nature, and death 
 placed the cypress on brows which his weeping friends 
 had hoped to see encircled by the laurel. The harp, 
 which had begun to awaken responsive echoes, no 
 longer vibrated to the touch, the heart at last forgot to 
 throb at the. sight of misery and woe, the light of 
 genius and friendship, wont to illumine the eye, was 
 quenched in this world for ever, and the grave received 
 the mortal remains, wliich had enshrined so many 
 admirable qualities. 
 
 It only remains for me to add, in bringing this brief 
 memoir to a close, that I have endeavoured to preserve 
 a middle course, between saying too little and too 
 much. It cannot be expected that the pubUc, who can 
 only judge of the man through the author, can take 
 an interest in all that I might write relative to the 
 private character of my late brother ; but I had a 
 duty to perform for those who mourned his loss and 
 still survive to peruse these pages. And thougli, 
 doubtless, some may only see in this a brother's par- 
 tiality, yet I feel that, in my task of biographer, it would 
 be as unbecoming in me to have said too little as to 
 have said too much. Why, indeed, should I hesitate 
 to say about the author, simply because he was my 
 brother, what I knew to be the truth ? And I could 
 not let his poems go forth to the world, without an 
 assurance that any passage inculcating gentleness and 
 humanity, took its origin spontaneously hi his own, 
 and was but the utterance of his sincere and genuine 
 
OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 XVIJ 
 
 thoughts; and it is liue, perhaps, as mucli to justiro 
 as affection, that one so excellent should not pass away 
 without this testimony to his worth. Would, thou, 
 that I could hatter have fulfilled my task ! at least I 
 feel that there are those on a distant shore who will 
 read approvingly this tribute. Even in this world of 
 oblivion, some are found to cherish the recollGotion of 
 virtues long after our bodies are in dusl ; and until 
 such hearts cease to beat, the memory of Peter John 
 Allan will bloom even as the grass which grows above 
 him. And still far away, beyond the western wave, 
 where the setting sun throws his latest beams, even as 
 though it loved to linger, beside and gladden the poet's 
 grave, shall steps tread softly, and voices be hushed, 
 and gentle hands scatter flowers upon the spot. 
 
 ■J. M'GIIIGOI! ALLAN. 
 
 26, Dee Street, Aberdeen, 
 26th May, 1853. 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 The love of Poetry is like all love — it requires 
 little or no encouragement to brin- t into 
 existence. The how, the wli . , , and the where 
 of its birth are of no importance. Though the 
 Muse may frown upon her votary, and, by her 
 coldness, make him stamm^;r through his ad- 
 dresses with a very bad grace, yet, evincing a 
 perseverance worthy of a better cause, he is 
 not to be affronted or refused. 
 
 Some three, four, or five years ago, I began 
 to rhyme, and am now about to print. I shall 
 offer no opinion regarding the merit of my 
 productions. Better judges than myself may 
 do this for me. Perhaps an ominous silence 
 will be the only answer vouchsafed by the 
 public to this appeal. 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I 
 
 My lot having been cast on the wrong side 
 of the Athintic, in a colony wliere the Muse 
 cannot find a resting-place for the sole of her 
 foot — in its very little capital, whose politics 
 would be mere private scandal to a European 
 ear, and where society is strangely limited — 
 can it be a matter of surprise tluit 1 should 
 have sought for relaxation from more severe 
 studies in the amiable foible of verse-making ? 
 
 I 
 
 I " 
 
 When I took up my pen to perpetrate a 
 Preface, 1 fondly imagined that I had a vast 
 deal of important information to convey to the 
 reader ; but what little of it I can now re- 
 member seems far too trivial for anything 
 short of autobiography. 
 
 I shall leave the other Poems to their fate, 
 and merely remark that my Drama of " Pyg- 
 malion " (of which I have only published the 
 First Act) was, of course, never intended for 
 the stage. Few of my characters condescend 
 to speak under forty lines ; and, probably, 
 like most great talkers, what they do say is 
 not always to the purpose. Whether the 
 specimen here presented to the reader should 
 chance to please or not, if life and health 
 
I'RKlACi;. 
 
 XXI 
 
 l)ormit, tlio Play shall bo finished, and, at 
 sonic future ])eriod, connnitted to the press. 
 In th(! meantime, let criticism do me the 
 Justice to believe that the anachronisms which 
 will be found in '* Pygmalion " arc not the 
 offspring of igncn-ance or thoughtlessness. On 
 the contrary, they are introduced to give an 
 easier flow to the narrative. I call this (as 
 Mr. Bayes might have said) my night-cap and 
 easy. chair style of writing. 
 
 In conclusion, I may remark, that the tale 
 is one over which I have loved to dream ; and 
 had I but the genius of her who first suggested 
 the subject, it would undoubtedly have as- 
 sumed a nobler aspect. 
 
 FREDr-iucTON, New Bruns-svick, 
 November 26, 1847. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication iii 
 
 introduction -•......y 
 
 Biognii)liiuiil notice of the Author - • - - ix 
 
 Preface by thj Author xix 
 
 Pygmalion, Puince of Cypiius: — 
 
 A Dramatic Poem 1 
 
 Poems : — 
 
 Ansclmo to Isadora 30 
 
 The Talcs of the Blest— a Vision - - - - ;o 
 
 Lament of tho Indian 49 
 
 The Land of Dreams 67 
 
 Sappho's Death 62 
 
 A Dream of Destruction G4 
 
 Apostrophe to tho Memory of Byron ... 67 
 Balladb : — 
 
 Tho Battle of Creasy 70 
 
 Tho Christian and tho Moor— a Legend of Granada 83 
 
 The Soldier's Brother 87 
 
 Minor Poems : — 
 
 A Thought - 89 
 
 Love and Fancy - - 90 
 
 Mercy and Innocence 01 
 
 The Dead Butterfly 92 
 
 A Dirgo 93 
 
 The Withered Leaf 94 
 
 Tho Mother's Grave 97 
 
 A Ehapsody -99 
 
 On the Death of a Little Girl - . - . 100 
 
 A Dirge 102 
 
 The Nun's Prayer 103 
 
 Lines suggested by a Conversation with Mrs. S. - 104 
 
 A Lament 106 
 
 To » * ♦ 107 
 
■•■■INMIIIII^ 
 
 I I 
 
 i. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1 
 
 n 
 
 ?! 
 
 pact: 
 Address of the Spirit of Margaret to Faust - - 108 
 The Sons of Song ...... 109 
 
 The Incantation ■ - HO 
 
 Ambition - 112 
 
 A Fragment - - 113 
 
 Love's Incredulity - - - - -115 
 
 Reason to Imagination 117 
 
 ToMclla --..-.-- 118 
 
 The Indian Warrior 119 
 
 ToLaurestine ------- 120 
 
 Stanzas 121 
 
 liamcnt of tlio Warrior Spirits - - - -122 
 
 Lines composed for J. M. 124 
 
 Stanzas 12o 
 
 Stanzas . - - 126 
 
 The Maniac's Song 127 
 
 Trust not to Smiles 12S 
 
 Lines onhcaringMiss P. sing " He doeth all things well" 129 
 
 March, 1848- 130 
 
 Azilie's Bouquet - 131 
 
 To Titania, Queen of Fairyland, St. Valentino's Day 132 
 The Rose and the Poppy— an Eastern Fable - - 134 
 
 Stanzas 136 
 
 Songs 137—142 
 
 Sonnets - 143—160 
 
 The Love-sick Girl and the Nightingale - - - 161 
 Anacreontic ...-.-. 163 
 
 PAUArHRASES AND TRANSLATIONS : — 
 
 Danae— a Fragment from Simonides ... 164 
 From Anacreon - 166 
 
 - 167 
 167 
 
 - 168 
 168 
 
 - 169 
 170 
 
 - 170 
 
 Ode xi. 
 Ode xxix. 
 
 Ode xxxiii. 
 
 Ode 
 
 XXXVlll 
 
 From Horace — Book I. — Ode viii. - 
 „ Book I. — Ode xxviii. 
 
 „ Book II. — Ode ii. - 
 
PYGMALION, PRIiXCE OF CYPRUS 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1.~A Street in Amathus, 
 
 Bathyllus [soZms].— My good Bathyllus, let me plainly 
 tell thee, 
 
 Plainly— for who would flatter beggary ? 
 
 Thou hast deserved to famish, and thy friends, 
 
 I warrant thee, are of the same opinion. 
 
 Friends ! Harpies, with the tongues of nightingales. 
 
 My curses on them ! Now, if all my gold 
 
 Were but some hardy ruffian's reward 
 
 For perilling his neck, why, hang the rogue, 
 
 I then should be an injured honest man, 
 
 And fortune bear the blame of the mischance ; 
 
 But now, though robb'd indeed (myself the robber), 
 
 What fool is there, 'mong all the fools of Cyprus, 
 
 That will not whet his tongue upon my name, 
 
 And have his paltry jest, and show his teeth. 
 
 And vow he always took me for a fool ? 
 
 Well, well, I must have patience ; 'tis a virtue 
 
 That marks the ass and the philosopher. 
 
I 
 
 it 
 
 3 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 And 'tis full time I play'd the latter part ; 
 For when a man is scowled on by the world, 
 Naked and hungiy, kind philosophy 
 Feeds him with acorns, clothes him in the hide 
 Of the rough bear, and makes him half a brute. 
 
 Enter Lais. 
 
 Lais. — My Lord, I have a message from Neara. 
 
 Bath. — Haste, let me hear it then. 
 
 Lais. — She bids me tell you 
 That you are never more to visit her. 
 She having heard of your debaucheries, 
 How still in riotous excess you spend 
 Your days and nights, has taken high offence, 
 And so is firm in her determination 
 To see your face no more. 
 
 Bath. — Go, tell your mistress 
 Her information has been most exact, 
 And that, in truth, I now am penniless. 
 Wherefore, as is most fit and natural 
 In one of her sincere and faithful sex, 
 She bids me trouble her no more ; and I, 
 Let her be sure, will trouble her no more. 
 
 [^Exit Lais. 
 So much for purchased love ! I, who have bought 
 Fach practised glance and lying kiss of hers 
 With diamonds and rubies ! This to me ! 
 Consid'rate saint ! she spares my feelings, too, 
 And would not have me made the scoff of slaves ; 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 S 
 
 So never must I visit her again. 
 
 Her doors are closed against the poor Bathyllus. 
 
 Vice is a fault which she could overlook ; 
 
 Poverty, a most deadly, damning sin. 
 
 Her porter, doubtless, is a comely fellow, 
 
 And she was fearful lest, when he refused me 
 
 Admittance to her house, I should be moved 
 
 To break his ribs ; and so she'll send, forsooth, 
 
 Her jackall, Lais, to prevent my coming. 
 
 There's fascination in a woman's eye 
 
 As in a serpent's ! When we meet her glance 
 
 Of lic[uid azure, all our cautious fears 
 
 Are drowned in a strange and thrilling ecstasy ; 
 
 And thus we look, and love, and are betrayed. 
 
 Yet who taught woman the accursed art 
 
 Of falsehood ? (an apt scholar though she prove) — 
 
 That coward traitor, man ; who, when he finds 
 
 She has become all that he strove to make her, 
 
 In fancied virtue fondly hugs himself, 
 
 And points her out to the world's mockery. 
 
 Pity, not anger, should I feel for her, 
 
 Who but revenges upon knaves and fools 
 
 Her hopeless exit from domestic peace, 
 
 And all the joys of happy innocence. 
 
 Enter iEaoN, unperceived by Bathyllus, who retires 
 up the Stage in deep thought. 
 
 JEgon ^asidel. — Bathyllus here — 'tis awkward ! lie 
 is ruined. 
 
 b2 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 t 1 
 
 i! 
 
 I owe him money — he may ask it of me ; 
 
 I have it, Tliough a spendthrift, still at heart 
 
 He has a foolish generosity 
 
 Which makes him scorn the selfish and unfeeling ; 
 
 Though he makes no pretence to it himself, 
 
 He thinks, poor dupe, there is such a tiling as virtue ; 
 
 And more — that, spite of all my thousand follies, 
 
 I have the spirit of honour strong within me. 
 
 I wrought that creed in him ; it was my interest. 
 
 Now will I, speaking nought but truth for once, 
 
 Destroy my character for sentiment. 
 
 And so disgust him, that he shall forestall me, 
 
 And cast off iEgon. Thus shall busy fame 
 
 Forget to brand me with ingratitude. 
 
 And throw the blame on liim. I will accost him. 
 
 \Aloud^^ This cannot be Bathyllus ! He that was 
 
 But yesternight the merriest man in Cyprus, 
 
 Musing at mid-day, like some village maid. 
 
 Who wonders if she really be in love. 
 
 Whose sparkling eyes have made my friend's so dull ? 
 
 The woman who could let her eyes say No, 
 
 When on her lips the little icy word 
 
 jNIight, with a kiss, be melted into Yes. 
 
 Drive her, Venus, from thy favoured isle. 
 
 And take her, Dian, for thy chosen priestess. 
 
 Come, smooth your brow, and think no more of her, 
 
 A jilt ! I once was treated so myself ; 
 
 But, by the gods, I made her blush for it. 
 
 Bathyllus. — How, iEgon, did you that ? I under- 
 stand 
 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 5 
 
 You held that women blush from policy, 
 To look mora lovely and more loveable, 
 And not when they deceive. 
 
 jEgon. Why thus it was : — 
 Long had I woo'd a young and wealthy maiden 
 (She smco is dead, and of a broken heart), 
 Her fortune was the only thing I cared for, 
 Although her person, too, was wondrous fair. 
 Her father was a much-respected man, 
 Of noble Imeage and unsullied name ; 
 But, superstitious in his honesty, 
 He would not think that any man could lie ; 
 And so he had gone bhndfold to the grave, 
 Lovmg and trusting all of human kmd. 
 Had I not taught him better. 
 
 Bath, [aside]. — Can it be 
 That I have called a man like this my friend ? 
 
 ^gon. — Well, to be brief, she sconi'd my suit ; 
 and why — 
 
 A smooth-faced boy she loved, of lowly birth 
 
 A wretched shepherd. Then I feigned mdiff 'rence, 
 
 And even made her trust me with the secret 
 
 Of the whole progress of her simple passion. 
 
 I fill'd that trembling heart with doubts and fears ; 
 
 Dissuading her from speaking to her father ; 
 
 And, in the end, prevailed on them to wed, 
 
 Myself the only witness of the rite. 
 
 Bath.—Wh^t then ? What did you then ? 
 
 -^^o«.— Why only this : — 
 
 b3 
 
6 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 One morn, I broke in on the old man's sleep, 
 
 And led liini to the room where, side by side, 
 
 The happy lovers lay. Not he alone ; 
 
 The very household slaves stood round their bed. 
 
 Gazing upon the pure and beautiful, 
 
 And thought that guilt lay fondly slumbering there. 
 
 The bridegroom waked no more — the old man slew him. 
 
 As for the lady — there I stay'd his hand. 
 
 'Twas no hard tack — the bloody sword did tremble ; 
 
 He could not kill the child of his old age. 
 
 Ha ! lia ! She oped her eyes — one lightning glance, 
 
 And all was night — the midnight of despair. 
 
 An icy pallor overspread her cheek, 
 
 Save where it blush'd with her beloved's blood. 
 
 Her lips were press'd to his. Oh, stupid death. 
 
 To be unconscious of so sweet a kiss. 
 
 Amid his ebon locks her fingers stray'd. 
 
 And "Wake," she cried, " the guests are come, my love : 
 
 Rise, bid them welcome to our marriage feast." 
 
 But why proceed — she raved awhile, and died. 
 
 Her grey-hair'd father sleeps in the same grave 
 
 With her and him he slew. I was revenged ! 
 
 Bath. — Accursed fiend ! within whose cruel heart 
 So black and venomous a sin lies coiled, 
 May its sharp stmg awake to agony 
 Thine inmost soul ! 'iiat ^leep desert thine eyes. 
 And busy phantasy still conjure up 
 'Twixt the bright sun and the Fates' hideous frown, 
 So that the heaven seem changed mto hell. 
 
 il ^; 
 
 'i 
 
 
 ( I 
 
 \l ! 
 
PYGMALION, 
 
 Alul tleatli's cold stare be ever present to thee ! 
 
 I go ; but hear me when I warn thee, villain, 
 
 Henceforth to avoid my path, lest I be tempted 
 
 To crush thee as I would a scorpion, 
 
 And so defraud the Furies of their prey, 
 
 Who shall pursue thee to thy latest hour. [Exit. 
 
 ^gon [after a pause]. — Then he is gone. I trembU- 
 when I think 
 
 How fierce a scorn there darted from his eyes 
 
 When I divulged the story of my vengeance. 
 
 Each word he spake did wither up my soul 
 
 Like to Jove's irresistible thunderbolt ; 
 
 What madness mov'd my tongue to tell him this, 
 
 A tale I dare not wliisper to myself — 
 
 A tale I strive to banish from my dreams ! 
 
 At first I only meant to show my heart 
 
 On trivial matters — things of ev'ry day — 
 
 To shock him with a sneer or two at virtue ; 
 
 But ere I knew, my lips were traitors to me, 
 
 And set my prisoned thoughts at liberty — 
 
 Ah ! who approaches ? If it prove Bathyllus — 
 
 What do I fear him then ? An hour ago. 
 
 And iEgon knew not what it was to fear ; 
 
 And now Bathyllus chides, he dare not answer. 
 
 But patiently each bitter word drinks in, 
 
 Quails 'neath his eye, and starts to hear his footstep. 
 
 'Tis only Athos ! Now, ye gods, be praised ! 
 
 The brainless tattler is most welcome here. 
 
 I'll be the first to speak, and lightly too. 
 
8 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 The fool h still suspicious of the wise ; 
 
 Therefore will I assume the idle phrase 
 
 Of one who knows not how to hide his thoughts. 
 
 Have I not played the babbler once to-day ? 
 
 Where was my boasted prudence then ? No more ! 
 
 Athos must lind me in another mood. 
 
 He comes ; and now I study to be gay. 
 
 Enter Axnos. 
 
 Can this be Mercury, Jove's messenger, 
 Sent on some honourable embassage. 
 To give new cause for Juno's jealousy ? 
 Ho ! Athos, whither go you in such haste ? 
 What news, man ? Is the temple of our goddess 
 Burnt to the ground, or hath thy patient father 
 Grown, on the sudden, economical, 
 And art thou hastening to a usurer ? 
 The object of your hurry ? 
 
 Athos. — Briefly this : 
 The king is dying — ^uay, perchance, is dead ; 
 For when I left the palace, it was thought 
 His flickering life, with every labour'd breath, 
 Would suddenly go out. But stay me not ; 
 For I must seek the prince, and be the first 
 To tell him of his uncle's death. Farewell ! 
 
 Mgon. — ^Xow go, if go you will ; yet trust me, Sir, 
 That he is little of a politician 
 Who jests witli Idngs ; and should Pygmalion aslc 
 
PYGMALION, 
 
 When, liow, or where the aged tyrant dicil, 
 Will it not puzzle you to answer ? 
 
 Athos. — True ; 
 But then such welcome tidings ! If you came, 
 And, when I never dreamt of such good news, 
 Said, " Athos, as your father died last night 
 Without a will, you are his legal heir," 
 Think you that I would put a single question ? 
 No, iiiith ! the joy would prove too vast for words, 
 And I'd be counting over in my head 
 The value of ray land ! Ask questions ? No ! 
 Unless, indeed, what sums of ready gold 
 Were in the old man's coffers. 
 
 JEgon. — You, of course. 
 Know better than to wish to hear recounted 
 The tedious, common-place details of death. 
 But this Pygmalion 's of another mood — 
 A wild enthusiast, who has fled the court 
 From holy horror of the life we live there ; 
 And, spite of all the hate his uncle bore him, 
 Or rather hears him (since you say the tyrant 
 Is only dying, and not dead as yet). 
 Still tnist me he will feel, or feign to feel. 
 Anxious to learn each trifling circumstance 
 Of Diomedon's sudden exit. 
 
 Athos. — ^Well, 
 I'll follow your advice, though you may guess 
 I long to pay my court to Prince Pj-^gmalion. 
 Doubtless, that prodigy of virtue, Glaucus, 
 
 9 
 
10 
 
 PYCJMALION. 
 
 Will b ' cliit'f fiiv'rito witli our now-made soveri'ign. 
 
 yI']go,,. — Arc tlu'y so intimiito? 
 
 Athos. — Close Irionds, I'm told ; 
 It soems tlu.' i)rince uml ho are near of kin, 
 And I can vouch that they're of kindred taste, 
 Since Ghiucus also wears tlu^ shepherd's garb. 
 And si)end3 his income, not (as I do mine) 
 In all the pleasures of a gentleman, 
 Bat in relieving beggars. Tltis, you know, 
 Would be enough to make Pygmalion love him. 
 And then, they botli are servants of the Muse, 
 And so they'll sit whole countless hours together 
 In some lone cavern or thick-tangled grove, 
 And to the lyre their idle songs attune, 
 Till all the sw i" as upon Olympus' side 
 Forget to celebrate their rural loves ; 
 And of their flocks neglectful, silent stand, 
 Listening to notes that, as they fondly deem, 
 Can only flow from Pan's melodious pipe. 
 
 JEgon. — Truly a fit employment for a prince ! 
 Well, Athos, if you wish to rival Glaucus, 
 I have a slave can easily instruct you 
 Sweetly to sing and play upon the lyre. 
 He can write very pretty verses, too. 
 Which, as their author, you may learn by heart ; 
 Only, when you recite them, have a care 
 That vehemently you condemn your own. 
 And praise Pygmalion's ditties, heaping still 
 Sucli words as tender ! beautiful ! sublime ! 
 
 M 
 
rVOMALION. 
 
 II 
 
 T'pon tlio woakcst driv'llinjifs of his mnsp. 
 Tho. motlior loves lior jMiiiiesf infiint best ; 
 Tho bard bis (liiilost work. 'I'o rriticisc 
 The wortliloss compositions of u king 
 Is rank rebellion. Tint what need of this? 
 Wlio knows the world, if Atlios know it not ? 
 Prithee proceed I You wore, if I mistake not, 
 Remarking, that the i»rince (so men report ) 
 Is master of some strangn and secret art. 
 
 Jthos. — Yes, it is whispered he makes men from 
 marble. 
 In fonn and feature so like flesh and blood, 
 That some have scrui)led not to say he turns, 
 Not marble into men, but men to marble. 
 I put but little faith in that opinion. 
 Yet is there something wondrous odd in this ; 
 Something I cannot dearly comprehend. 
 What ! give to stone tho iigure of a man ! 
 / never could have done it ; and, indeed, 
 'T would be impossible without the aid 
 ()f magic, which my reason bids me use not. 
 Since those who practise it seem ne'er to prosper. 
 
 JEgon. — ^AVhat Athos will not do, no wise man should ; 
 What Athos cannot do, let none attempt ; 
 As well aspire to rival Phaeton, 
 And guide the flaming chariot of the sun. 
 
 Athos. — In truth you flatter now ! yet truly, Sir, 
 I am esteemed of ;aick inventive mind, 
 And perseverance equal to my thought. 
 
19 
 
 I'YGMALION. 
 
 I 
 
 (.'' 
 
 I 
 
 k''. 
 
 w 
 
 ir 
 
 Nothing can sway or biiiul mo. from my purpose ; 
 I move right on until I reach my port. 
 Hope cannot hill me with her syren tones, 
 Nor Fear, with all liis lieuiUsh whispers, awe me. 
 All this is obstinacy ; but my frieiuls 
 Insist on calling it a noble iirmness, 
 Ami swear there's something goil-like in my humour. 
 /Egon. — The fool grows eloquent in praise of self. 
 
 [/hide.'] 
 The wise depreciate none except themselves ; 
 Athos, the courtly Athos, flatters all 
 ^Vith words so sweet they seem not flattery. 
 All except Athos, whom, forsooth, he chides. 
 Because the man is modest to a fault. 
 
 Enter a Page. 
 
 Page to Athos. — !My Lord, the king is dead. 
 
 Athos. — I must away. 
 Farewell ! to-morrow night I shall expect you. 
 I give a banquet. Harkee [whispers'] I have asked 
 Batliyllus, and if fortune but befriend us. 
 And tlie new dice prove honest, you and I 
 Will be the richer. 
 
 Ailgon. — Then you have not heard ] 
 
 That he is ruined ? 
 
 Athos. — No ! How pray ? No matter. 
 Here boy, run quickly to my Lord Bathyllus, 
 Tell him — make up some story — anything. 
 Only he must not come to-morrow night — 
 
 'j-i 
 
 flu 
 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 13 
 
 You iimlorstand mo. Hence, make no delay ; 
 
 I will luvail you at tlic castorn gate. [/ix/7 Pagk. 
 
 Ti.'at boy has protitcd by my example, 
 
 Hears much, sees much, knows much, yet speaks but 
 
 little ; 
 He shall describe to me the tyrant's death 
 Tilt' rogue is witty, and his tale, I vow, 
 Will not be unanuising. Let me tlunk, 
 1 wisheil to say — I have forgotten now. 
 No matter — I'll remember by to-morrow ; 
 Till then, farewell. [Exit. 
 
 /Egon. — Farewell, half-knave, all fool, 
 The wise alone can be the perfect villain. 
 He plans and makes another execute, 
 Points out the prey, and, like a cunning huntsman, 
 Waits till his dogs have brought it to the ground ; 
 Then step[)ing in, lays claim to all the spoil, 
 And at no cost of danger, all the credit I 
 This com'tier now shall blmdly do my will, 
 And be a very dagger in my hand 
 To smite my enemies withal. What now ! 
 
 Re-enter Athos. 
 
 Athos. — Oh prithee, yEgou, let the slave you spoke of 
 Come to my house to-night. 
 
 jEgon. — He shall attend you. [_Exit Atuos. 
 
 Go, lead this idle dreamer to a throne. 
 The time shall come thou'lt do as much for me ; 
 But ere that time arrive what deeds of blood 
 
 c 
 
i 
 .1 
 
 I 
 
 fi 
 
 14 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 Must it be mine to dare ! A traitor ! yea, 
 
 Men's brows grow dark when they do name that name, 
 
 A tyrant ! There is something sweet in that, 
 
 The sound bears token of authority ; 
 
 Then let them call me traitor, so I live 
 
 To hear them whisper tyrant with pale lips. 
 
 I've gone too far in mad ambition's maze 
 
 E'er to retrace my steps. I'll hie me home, 
 
 These dizzy fearful thoughts in solitude 
 
 Sliould have expression. So ! my hands are clenched, 
 
 My heart beats quick, I totter as I walk ; 
 
 Yet though this recreant body, like a reed 
 
 Struck by the furious north, is shaken thus, 
 
 ]My spirit trembles not ; for it was forged 
 
 In flame of Erebus ; a thunderbolt 
 
 By the right hand of destiny launched forth 
 
 To spread destruction in its bright career, 
 
 A wonder and a terror unto all. 
 
 Woe unto him who dares to cross my path ! 
 
 None ever did, and lived to boast of it. 
 
 Yet there is one who knows my secret soul, 
 
 To whom I owe my fortunes. He it is 
 
 "Who first shall die. My deadly hate demands 
 
 This sacrifice ; and ye infernal gods, 
 
 I imprecate your curses on my head. 
 
 Should pity stay my hand one moment's space, 
 
 Wlien raised against Bathyllus ; he or I, 
 
 Or both must perish. Fate speaks through my lips. [^Exit . 
 
 J 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 15 
 
 I 
 
 ,xil. 
 
 ScKNE 2. — The Sea-shore; in the background a 
 marble Temple on an overhanging cliff ; Pygmalion, 
 Glaucus, and Atiios, in front. 
 
 Pygmalion. — ^And art thou gone, proud spirit ? Did 
 tlie gods 
 So often sliield thee in the front of war, 
 When thou hast made the boastful tyrant reel, 
 That thou shouldst perish thus, no friendly voice 
 With sweet familiar tones, to lull thy soul 
 Into the tran<iun sleep of death ? Alone, 
 By pale disease, amid a heartless band 
 Who only deign to honour while they fear ! 
 How bitter, then, the inevitable hour ! 
 
 Athos [^asidel. — If I were not a courtier, now rfaith, 
 I tliink I should believe he was in earnest. 
 
 Pyg. — Dead ! nor let fall one httle gentle word, 
 To show he had forgotten idle feuds. 
 That slander stirred betmxt us ! Are you siu:e 
 He wldspered not forgiveness ? 
 
 Athos. — Nay, my Lord, 
 He died, as he had lived, your enemy, 
 Still imprecating curses on your head ; 
 He played the tyrant with his latest breath. 
 
 Pyg. — How, Sir, and is it thus you dare to sp(.>alc 
 Of one whom, when alive, you did obey 
 With all the servile arts of flattery ? 
 Now he is dead, you scruple not to call 
 Yoiu" former master, tyrant. Shame upon you ! 
 
5 1 
 
 ■•Mi. ! ! 
 
 ^i 
 
 >i r i 
 
 Si ■ ( 
 
 16 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 Answer me not. I hate a forked tongue. 
 
 {_Motions Athos towards the back of the stage. 
 He had a noble heart, this Diomedon — 
 A heart whose natural impulse would have made 
 Tliis people mighty, who are now despised. 
 By Heaven, methinks that I behold him now, 
 Wlien the luxurious Cyprians stood aghast, 
 A scanty band before the countless host 
 Of Tyrian invaders, — as in scorn, 
 Pass through their raidcs that lengthened far and wade 
 With threatening steel, and awful as a god. 
 Peal round him death in each resistless blow ; 
 He freed his people. 
 
 Glau. — Only to enslave them. 
 With worse than Imks of iron are they bound ; 
 And they have drunken of a deadlier poison 
 Than is the juice of nightshade. Luxury 
 Dazzling our souls with cunning sorceries. 
 Now lures us from our gods — a lovely death, 
 Leading unwary feet by flowery paths 
 To stumble in the yawning sepulchre. 
 'Tis thine to conquer this accursed fiend, 
 Armed with the force that truth and virtue give. 
 And caU'd by fate's resistless mandate forth. 
 Arouse thee, for the time at length is come 
 When thou must boldly utter to the world 
 All thou hast brooded o'er in solitude. 
 Thought is the nurse of action ; solitude. 
 The cradle of the mind ; and man a child 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 17 
 
 Till he has communed with the elements, 
 And drunk in wisdom from all mighty things — 
 The winds, the liglitnmgs, and the leaping waves — 
 Reading in nature's eyes her inmost heart, 
 And i)roiiting alike by frowns and smiles. 
 Return and mingle with thy fellow-men ; 
 Guide and control theu* passions, lead them forth 
 Victorious 'gainst the foeman of then* freedom, 
 And make them good in peace, and brave in war. 
 The vices that thou fledst from yesterday 
 Being unarmed, to-day must thou oppose 
 With vigorous resolution, and o'ercome. 
 
 Py9' — ^What! wouldst tliou have me leave these 
 peaceful vales. 
 Where still survives true honesty of heart, 
 The pure and simple worship of the gods, 
 And sweet content — the only real joy — 
 To (^well with artful men and be as they ? 
 No ! trust me, never, never could I prove 
 The blood-stained tyrant or the glitt'ring slave. 
 Whose sceptre, crown, and throne, are but as toys, 
 To while away the lonely friendless hours 
 Which make the life of kings a ling'ring death. 
 Can Glaucus wish his friend no better fate 
 Than this ? 
 
 Glau. — I know such fate can ne'er be thine, 
 Else I would never urge thee to assume 
 The weight of empire ; but examine well 
 Thy secret heart, if the eternal flame 
 
 c2 
 
18 
 
 i 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 ii 'I 
 
 ! 
 
 Of proud ambition doth not burn within — 
 The ardent longing — the wild hope of glory — 
 Wliich drove thee forth from haunts of common men, 
 To labour face to face mth Jove. Thoa madest 
 The cold and rugged marble 'neath thy touch 
 Grow presently mstinct with fairest life, 
 A.nd all the mystic habitants of heaven, 
 Tliat were but dreams before, thou gav'st to wear 
 Asi)ect and form of majesty divine. 
 Thine empire over the inanimate 
 Tliou hast asserted, and material things 
 Have worn the semblance of thy loftiest thought. 
 Wilt thou stop here contented on the marge 
 Of glory's boundless ocean ? sit thee down. 
 And Usten to imaginary storms, 
 While fav'ring winds invite thee o'er the wave ? 
 Look round thee, and behold thy wretched people 
 Without a leader, in the power of traitors, 
 Bound hand and foot in sloth and ignorance. 
 Thou only canst release them, thou alone. 
 ^V^lat bark did ever reach the promised port. 
 When once the pilot's hand forsook the helm ? 
 Thy country, thy unhappy country, lies 
 Amid contending evils all a wreck ; 
 About to sink and be for ever lost. 
 Thou yet mayst save it. 
 Pyg. — Ah, my friend, 
 Time was when words like tliine had nerved my heart 
 To rival Hercules in mighty deeds, 
 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 19 
 
 And win me worship among men on earth, 
 Honour in heaven, and fear in deepest hell. 
 Now fame has lost its sweetness ; 'twas a llow'r 
 Which I have plucked and worn, and seen decay. 
 That hope has vanished. Canst thou raise the dead, 
 Putting a sceptre in the hand of bone, 
 To govern living men withal ? As soon. 
 Shalt thou persuade to action one whose heart 
 Is dead within liim, dead to all but woe. 
 
 Glau. — ^Pygmalion, friend, nay brother let me call 
 thee. 
 Our souls have still avowed fraternity ; 
 And have we not from infancy till now 
 Been linked together by the many bonds 
 Which gen'rous hearts are tied witli — comradeship 
 In wordy combats of philosophy, 
 And that more earnest strife where foot to foot, 
 And hand to hand, against the Tyrian force 
 We fought for life and honour — the soul's breath? 
 iVnd I have marked a shade upon thy brow. 
 As from some inward sadness ; oftentimes 
 Have I been tempted to inquire of thee, 
 Whence came thy liidden sorrow ; but, whene'er 
 I purposed to do this, you quick perceived. 
 And foiled each vain attempt with ready jest, 
 Or peal of wild unnatural merriment. 
 Yet in those moods of thine, I often think 
 Thy laughter hath a strange uneartldy sound, 
 As though thine evil genius laughed, not thou. 
 
INi 
 
 i ■! 
 
 I', i 
 
 I . 
 
 20 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 Pi/ff. — ^Xay, now you are too serious by far, 
 To take an idle word said tliouglitlessly, 
 As evidence to prove me miserable. 
 'Tis that I do not wish to be unhappy, 
 And so would fain escape this proifered sceptre. 
 I am a dreamer, on whose fevered brow 
 A crown would be a nightcap, and my throne 
 An easy chair to doze in. But, do thou. 
 Whose blood is of the same pure fount as mine — 
 Do thou, a mind of godlike energies, 
 And spirit strong in virtue, gird to bear 
 The falling honours of our ancient race ? 
 Nor shalt thou want my aid ; assume the throne, 
 And by our constant friendship here, I swear, 
 In presence of Apollo's golden fire, 
 And by the everlasting heavens themselves. 
 In peace and war, in life and death, to stand 
 Prepared to second thee. 
 
 Glau. — And think you not. 
 That, did I fancy there was that in me 
 Wliich might preserve my country from destruction, 
 I e'er would hesitate to lop away 
 All meaner feelings from my patriot heart ; 
 And, though the infernal sisters stood opposed 
 With flaming torch and serpent scourge to turn me, 
 AVould I not force my way ? Liberty ! 
 Thou wedded wife of each immortal heart, 
 If all my thoughts of him whom more I loved, 
 Whom more I love than aught on earth beside, 
 
'i 
 
 M 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 Be uot as dreams, arise, and in liis ears, 
 Howe'er unwilling, with thy thousand tongues, 
 Thunder— awake, and combat in my cause. 
 The voice of winds, and haughty cataracts. 
 And the eternal chimings of the sea. 
 Are eclioes of the anthem, clear and loud, 
 Whicli Freedom chaunts withm her palaces. 
 Above Olympus, and tlie Aonian Mount, 
 In the pure regions of divinity ; 
 Oh, hearken to the converse which she holds 
 Witli universal nature. Hill and dale 
 Answer her with the whispers of their love. 
 Oil, speak thou also ; let it not be said 
 Tliat we, the breathing cliildren of the soil. 
 Can sympathise not with our mother earth ; 
 Can see our native land compelled to groan 
 Beneath the ploughshares of a foreign race, 
 And yield her proud enslavers corn and wuie, 
 Nor feel our pulses cry aloud for war. 
 Perchance you smile to hear my prophecies 
 Yet— 
 
 Pyg -Nay, I smUed not, Glaucus. 
 
 Glau. — I could weep 
 To image forth the future. 
 
 Pl/Sf'—What have we 
 To do, save with the present ? Let the gods 
 Dispose the future. I am sick of thought, 
 Weary and sick to death. I'U think no more. 
 Immortals think, and mortals blindly act. 
 
 21 
 
AT** 
 
 I'YGMALIOS. 
 
 \' 
 
 • iP 
 
 What, Glaiicus. do you weep ! Ah ! pardon me ; 
 Still lu' my guiiU' as ever. Prithee, now, 
 r>fci(l(> for nie. I'll do whate'er thou wilt, 
 < >iily t'orfjive mo. 
 
 Glaii. — I would scorn to shed 
 'I'lVirs for myself ; hut those I now hrusli oif 
 Wore shed for thee and for my country. 
 Oh, thou art changed hy some heart-gnawing grief 
 From the Pygmalion whom I knew in youth ; 
 He would not have thus spoken. 
 His was a soul tliat spurned ignoble sloth, 
 And burned \vitli all a patriot's energies. 
 Oh, may I thmk thou art thyself again. 
 But to oppose the will of evil men, 
 Who, in their fierce ambition, scorn at right, 
 And thirst to shed the life-blood of the free. 
 (Shouts without of " Long live our King, the good 
 
 Pygmalion.") 
 Hark 1 how those honest, simple-minded men, 
 Those nurslings of the mountains, call on thee 
 To be the guardian of their Uberties. 
 Have I not known thee, single and unarm'd, 
 Rescue the lambkin from the famish'd wolf. 
 And give it to the shepherd's arms again, 
 The playmate of his children ? 
 (Pointing to the Shepherds descending the Mountain.) 
 
 There, my friend, 
 Behold thy flock, to thee the gods assign them ; 
 The gods, and Nature, mother of the gods. 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Who, even now, is eloquently pleading 
 
 Their cause with thee. Ami, lo ! she will prevail. 
 
 For tears are in thine eyes, where gleams again 
 
 The dawning of a brighter, holier hope, 
 
 The hope of iiime through vh'tue. Kings are made, 
 
 Not by the glittering bauble of a crown 
 
 Encompassing the knit and throbbing brow, 
 
 But by a crown that Jove himself might wear 
 
 Unblusliiugly — the blessings of the weak 
 
 Casting a reverend halo round liis head. 
 
 Such longs bring this dark earth more near to heaven. 
 
 And make their aim in life, and boast to be 
 
 Sceptred with justice, throned in grateful love. 
 
 Such kings soar far above the common herd 
 
 Of tyrants, fools, and conquering homicides, 
 
 Far as the eagle can outfly the hawk, 
 
 Faither than hell from heaven. 
 
 {The Shepherds enter, and surround Pygmalion, 
 
 pressing forward to hiss his hand— Shepherdesses, 
 
 strewing flowers, sing in chorus.) 
 
 SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS. 
 Grassy vale, and pine-clad mountain, 
 Silver stream, and sparldmg fountain, 
 Send your habitants unseen. 
 Crystal wave and covert green ! 
 Satyrs, Fauns, and Naiads fair. 
 And the wanderers of the air ; 
 Cloud-wing'd winds and zephyrs light, 
 
24 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 «il 
 
 Sylplis that love the star-eyed ni^^ht : 
 ^lingle with the song of spring, 
 Welcome ye our shepherd long. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Si) with whispers, kind and sweet, 
 Eclio doth the words repeat, 
 " Welcome I welcome ! " all around 
 Circles still the passhig sound. 
 
 Second Voice. 
 Here fresh flowrets do we bring, 
 Temler nurslings of the spring ; 
 Some are offerings from the mountain, 
 Others by the silver fountain, 
 On the marge of sparkling stream. 
 First drank in the day-god's beam. 
 These were breathed on by the wmd, 
 And the Fauns and Dryads kind 
 Guided our uncertain feet 
 Where to cull these flowTets sweet. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Blushing roses let us strew. 
 Lilies pure as morning dew. 
 Praying that ev'ry future hour 
 May prove as fair and sweet a flower. 
 ]^A Shepherdess, with a garland of flowers, sings.] 
 Wild flowers — a garland for the free. 
 This simple wreath we twin'd for thee ; 
 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 A costlier crown thou soon wUt wear 
 Of sparklin^^ ^fold and jewols rare ; 
 But ours is fresh from Nature's hand, 
 And we are all an artless band, 
 Who hide beneath the ready smile- 
 No slavish fear, no courtier guile ; 
 Then deign our humble wreath to take. 
 And wear it for the shepherds' sake. 
 
 cnoEus. 
 
 Oh ! may true glory ever shed 
 Her choicest blossoms on thy head ; 
 And where our simple flowers have been, 
 Be never guilty laurel seen. 
 
 lAa Pygmalion is crowned with the garland, the 
 Scene closes."] 
 
 5,'5 
 
 FEAGMENT. 
 
 Beautiful shadow, whither wilt thou flee ? 
 Nay, turn thy golden-tressed head and hear. 
 
 kill me not with scorn. 
 
 1 worship thee with so intense a love. 
 Its sacred fire hath purified my heart 
 From ev'ry stain of foul mortality, 
 And I am, spu-it, lilce thyself divine. 
 "Were I a god, and thou a child of earth, 
 
2f> 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 I 
 
 tl 
 
 
 VViMiM I not quo.ioh M'ithin my airy linll 
 
 Tlio luiu)) wlidsc li<;ht coli'stial scares away 
 
 Tlio vuuipircs 'rime ami Death, and wear a form 
 
 Sulijoet to a«;ony and dull decay, 
 
 That so thine eyes might weep a tear for me ; 
 
 Thy fair hands strew hright How' rets on my bier ; 
 
 Thy tread wake sweetest eclioes round my grave ! 
 
 Then, spirit of the beautiful (whose glance 
 
 Can lend a holier lustre to the sun, 
 
 Anil o'er the desert heart make visions rise 
 
 Brighter than flow'rs on earth or stars in heaven). 
 
 Look back and smile on me. She glides away, 
 
 Fainter and fainter, wan, and yet more wan, 
 
 Like dying music, or a summer cloud. 
 
 Lost in the mazy wilderness of air ; 
 
 7'he elements resume their loveliest work ! 
 
 Ah I me, I wake to loveliness again. 
 
 There is a cuj;se upon me ; when a child 
 
 Tlie Furies gliding from the silent moon 
 
 Came and stood round me ; and they laid their hands, 
 
 Glist'ning with icy cold, upon my brow 
 
 And on my breast ; and over heart and brain 
 
 There came a darkness as of many clouds ; 
 
 Clouds which have tongues of thunder and of flame, 
 
 And I was stricken into madness ! Then 
 
 I hated the eternal stare of day, 
 
 Whose rolling eyeball was so very bright 
 
 That ev'ry ray did like a poison shaft 
 
 Torture me mis'rable. 
 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 87 
 
 I longetl for night, 
 Tlio darkly azure night ; and, more than all, 
 I loved the soft young moon. Her tendeniess 
 (For there was tenderness in ev'ry glance) 
 Soothed the fierce fiend witliin me, and I dreaniM 
 Of love and joy. 
 
 My ancestors were Idngs, 
 And to my hand the sceptre was bef[ueathed ; 
 The sceptre by whose magic men nre changed 
 To fawning spaniels ! Can it change the heart 
 Of him who sways it ? Can it give content. 
 Or one sweet draught of the Letlican wave 
 To still the burning pulses of remorse ? 
 Ah, no ! we cannot govern thought, and are 
 The veriest traitors to ourselves. Alas ! 
 Once I was innocent, if innocence 
 Be found in suff'ring, and the i)roud contempt 
 Of all things evil. Now I am a Idng. 
 A fearful voice, that came I know not whence, 
 Was ever in mme ear. An adder's liiss 
 Were not so hateful as that voice, wliich gave 
 A tongue to silence and to solitude. 
 It bayed me forth into the battle-lield, 
 Into the very iron arms of death — 
 I could not die. Fate's adamantme shield 
 Covered my aching heart, and I was nerved 
 With superhuman force ; my falchion gleam'd 
 Liice lightning in the hands of Jupiter. 
 The Titans would have quail'd beneath my rage ; 
 
 D 2 
 
I '' 
 
 28 
 
 PYGMALION 
 
 a 1,^ 
 
 I slew and spared not, until monarchs knelt 
 
 And prayed for peace, while all their glittering crowns 
 
 Were as a footstool laid before my throne. 
 
 Peace, and from me ! — 
 
 Men hailed me as a god ; 
 And then the demon laughed within my soul, 
 And cried, " Exert thy new divinity, 
 Banish me with a word to Tartarus, 
 That so thou mayst enjoy a little rest." 
 " Fiend," I replied, " coeval with my life, 
 Thine empire cannot stretch beyond the grave ; 
 While yet a mortal, I defy thy power. 
 And here on earth will wm myself a life 
 Through all succeeding years. I have been call'd 
 A god ; and like a god, I will create 
 Forms of transcendent beauty, and exist 
 In these my creatures when this tortured dust 
 Has ceased to feel thy presence." Vain th' attempt 
 To smite to death a fiend unpalpable 
 To aught except the feeling of the heart. 
 But I assailed and wrestled with him long, 
 And overthrew him ; for the will of man. 
 Invincible by all the sons of hell. 
 Once roused, must conquer — it is destiny. 
 Then did the cold and rugged marble grow 
 Beneath my touch, instinct with fairest life, 
 And all the lofty habitants of heaven. 
 That were but dreams before, I gave to wear 
 Aspect and form of majesty divine, 
 
 \ 
 
IS 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 That whoso stood to gaze felt ev'ry pulse 
 Thrill with a sudden awe, and every soul 
 Bowed down in worship to the works of mine. 
 
 29 
 
 Mr. Allan never lived to complete the thrama of 
 " Pygmalion," and he attached the following note to 
 the first Act : — 
 
 " This Fragment is the original of my Drama of the 
 same name, upon which I am at present busied. I 
 append it to the first Act. It will he seen that several 
 lines in the Play are taken from the Fragment." 
 
H 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ANSELMO TO ISADOEA. 
 
 TEBZA BIMA. 
 
 We do not know each other — ^'tis the phrase 
 Of the cold, artful world which I abhor ; 
 But in my heart I hear a voice that says, 
 
 I love thee, Isadora ! 'mid the war 
 
 Of hopes and fears that make the poet's mind 
 
 Half heaven, half hell — ^to dread, while longing for 
 
 Death's momentary peace. I can unbind 
 The bonds of selfishness, and love thee more 
 Than fame, which is the breath of all mankind. 
 
 I first began an angel to adore, 
 
 When the deep organ's awe-inspiring strain 
 
 Call'd me to kneel the Maker's throne before. 
 
 But no ! my spirit spread her wings in vain ! 
 Too much of heaven was shining from tliine eyes ; 
 I hastened back, to bask in them again. 
 
 ( 
 
 ..:.^— -.„—.. .... — ^ r -n-fii i[ 
 
ANJELMO TO ISADORA. 
 
 What wonder that I loved thee, or with sighs 
 Confined within my bosom's inmost cell 
 The flame which I as zealously did prize, 
 
 As doth the martyr's faith inflexible 
 That bigot-kindled chariot of fire 
 Which beareth him in Paradise to dwell ! 
 
 What wonder that I loved ! My heart and lyre 
 Still burn'd to live and breathe in passion's air. 
 To feel the presence of one pure desu:e. 
 
 To change this bleak world from the lion's lair 
 Into the nest of dove-like sympathy ; 
 And, as the seaman loves the island fair 
 
 That shelters him from shipwreck, loved I thee ; 
 
 And, with a miser's care, did I conceal 
 
 Love, which I wish'd that thou alone shouldst see. 
 
 Nor could my face the secret soul reveal, 
 Since harsh and sullen ever was my brow. 
 Nature hath there impressed her sternest seal ; 
 
 Yet from the darkest mine hath oft, ere now. 
 Come brightest gems ; and in the blackest clouds 
 The vivid lightning hath its home. And thou. 
 
 Fair Isadora, judge not with the crowd. 
 Who, by the features, feign to know the heart ; 
 And, trust me, that my looks of coldness shroud 
 
 31 
 
 t-- ^ i.^ _ . _ ii l W a^.< ftHM »i4fc. l'* wit.ill*i i wn ^n« 
 
 ■i<i i< iii<iii r'1 1 1 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 32 
 
 ANSELMO TO ISADORA. 
 
 A soul where thou, mine own beloved, art 
 Worshipp'd with the most passionate excess 
 Of an affection that can but depart 
 
 With life, which otherwise were valueless. 
 Many there be whom I have made my foes. 
 By scorning all the petty meannesses 
 
 Which, like the thorns that gird the beauteous rose. 
 Surround the human heart, that would abjure 
 Its nobler feeUngs. There be some of those 
 
 Who, of themselves, unable to procure 
 
 One leaf from Fame's most bright but deadly tree, 
 
 Have enviously striven to obscure 
 
 The little light which God hath given me 
 Of that pure lamp of radiance supernal 
 Which on the altar of eternity 
 
 Burns opposite the throne of the Eternal — 
 Pure fount, whence Dante drew his inspu-ation. 
 Mine is a garland, that is ever vernal ! 
 
 Although this bosom's throb of exultation 
 May shortly cease to animate my dust. 
 Though here my lot be friendless isolation, 
 
 Man may be cruel, God is not unjust ; 
 And if on earth my mem'ry fade away 
 (As fade, my spirit prophesies, it must), 
 
 ■MaHa mwu i fik 'jr^jtKi 
 
 r.<in.-iii>"f.iHtn ■ 
 
ANSELMO TO ISADORA. 
 
 0(1 
 
 OO 
 
 Perchance yon heaven shall echo to my lay, 
 And m the bowers of an eternal spring, 
 With blossoms bright as is the dawn of day, 
 
 Angels may crown this care-worn brow, and bring 
 The harp beloved, from whose chords may swell 
 'Neath touch of mine harmonious offering 
 
 To Him whose praise no tongue can fully tell. 
 
 Nor there shall Isadora cease to move 
 
 The heart in which she must for ever dwell ; 
 
 But still the angel to his mortal love — 
 Mortal ! how more angelic far than he — 
 Shall his sincerity immortal prove. 
 
 And with a purer passion think of thee. 
 But of my theme forgetful have I strayed. 
 Wiled on by Fancy's syren melody, 
 
 Too far from earth and thee, earth's fairest maid. 
 
 Let me this hasty scroll again retrace. 
 
 My foes — ^they smart 'neath self-contempt — ^have said. 
 
 He hates, but cannot love. Away ! weak race 
 
 Of sordid unimpassioned souls— away ! 
 
 Wlien did the gaze of hawks and vultures base 
 
 The fire-eyed eagle's sunward course survey ? 
 Nor can ye, mole-eyed, serpent-hearted sons 
 Of pride and avarice, comprehend the ray 
 
 d3 
 
34 
 
 ANSELMO to ISADORA, 
 
 Of seraph genius — ^heaven's own favoured ones, 
 Whose passions are sublimed to song divine, 
 Spurn judges such as these ! My spirit shuns 
 
 Communion, man of this low world, with thme, 
 And pities, though it hates thee not ; but learn, 
 'Tis not for thee I weave one lay of mine. 
 
 And should despise myself cotddst thou discern 
 Aught kindred to thy taste in what I sing. 
 Nor can thy falsehoods, which might richly earn 
 
 The sceptre borne by hell's malignant king, 
 Avail to sink a name that shall be great, 
 Upsoaring still on love's untiring wing. 
 
 Far, far beyond the swiftest darts of hate. 
 Said I, my memory would fade away ? 
 I did injustice to my kinder fate j 
 
 That name a ceaseless echo yet shall stray. 
 Wide as the wmds and waves in their career 
 Throughout this mighty globe, and shall repay 
 
 Those who defamed its lord while living here — 
 Or dying, rather — ^with unending scorn, 
 AVhen after-times my miseries shall hear. 
 
 Oh, my own Isadora ! I have borne 
 
 Much, nor complained till now. Forgive this song 
 
 Of a sad spirit, banished from hope's morn 
 
ANSELMO TO ISADORA, 
 
 To dwell in utter midnight. But I wrong 
 Thee, most celestial presence, who hast cast 
 A sweet enchantment o'er days erst so long, 
 
 Making u.m glide in gentle murmurs past, 
 Like the blue streams that first inspked my strain 
 In boyhood's joyous dream. Oh ! thou who hast 
 
 Each pulse of feeling that may yet remain 
 In this o'er-tortured bosom, let me feel 
 That there is one who will not all disdain 
 
 The feeble working of a poet's zeal — 
 
 A poet's love, the essence of a mind 
 
 That scorns self- worship. Let me not appeal 
 
 In vam, thou dearest among womankind. 
 Lest I should even lose my faith in heaven. 
 When thee still deaf to my despair I find. 
 
 Against my passion I have vamly striven ; 
 I saw thee — loved, and seeing thee, love on. 
 Hatred hath been, and love should be, forgiven. 
 
 True, I am poor, nor greatness calls me sc j ; 
 My form and face not cast in beauty's mould. 
 But what are these ? Hath not a world been won. 
 
 And glory, and the tyi-ant's fetter— gold, 
 
 By thy bold spirit. Colon ? Though thy birth 
 
 Was humble yesterday, to-day, behold, 
 
 .'jr> 
 
i T« * —" i w.. I I . 1 1 : »iv0\ u m m>^mm 
 
 S6 
 
 ANsELMO to Isadora. 
 
 iliti 
 
 'II; 
 
 «U^ 
 
 Thou'rt kin to all the mighty of the earth ! 
 What was the master-passion of Ida soul ? 
 The love of fame and life were little worth 
 
 Without this spur to action. Ages roll 
 Kings to ohlivion ; Time forgets us all, 
 All save the good and wise, and such control 
 
 • 
 
 Nations unhorn, eternal Idngs, whose thrall 
 Is o'er the thoughts of men. True empire this 
 To change to royal robes the funeral pall, 
 
 And govern from the grave.* They judge amiss 
 Who call my studies idleness, and me 
 Half-fool, half-madman. From the black abyss 
 
 Of chaos sprang this lovely world, and we 
 Its habitants ; and so from forth this spirit 
 Shall burst the light of purest poesy. 
 
 Forms that angelic attributes inlierit 
 
 Shall people my new world ; and thou, my life, 
 
 Shalt have the homage which thou well dost merit, 
 
 * " Those dread but sceptred sov'reigns, who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns." 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 At the time when I composed the above poem, I had not 
 read " Manfred." It is possible — nay, probable — that I had 
 seen these two lines as a quotation. 
 
I 
 
 ANSELMO TO ISADORA. 
 
 And be the sun of all my song. Too rife 
 With lovely fancies hath existence been ; 
 My woe hath still been constant as a wife, 
 
 Close clinging to my heart ; but now the scene 
 Shifts like a vision, and my gloomy eyes 
 Behold but thee in majesty serene, 
 
 Making the earth thou tread'st a Paradise, 
 And cheering with thy smiles my loneliness, 
 Till on my soul new hopes lilie stars arise, 
 
 Banishing all the doubts that so oppress 
 
 The fretful mind of genius. Hark ! tliat voice— 
 
 'Tis Isadora's ! and its tones confess 
 
 A gentle pity. Let me not rejoice. 
 
 Lest, rudely wakened, I should dream no more. 
 
 Rather eternal slumber be my choice. 
 
 Than live the life I have lived heretofore, 
 
 The sport of my own fears. That sound agaui ! 
 
 How sweet the voice of her whom we adcre ! 
 
 It blends, with ev'ry old familiar strain, 
 
 The simple music of our infancy. 
 
 Which must for ever in our hearts remain. 
 
 Echoes of that celestial melody 
 
 Which tuned our spirits in some higher sphere, 
 
 Ere yet our feverish bodies were to be. 
 
 87 
 
■ ! K r( 
 
 .38 
 
 ANSELMO TO ISADORA. 
 
 I! ii 
 
 Thus float those much-loved accents to mine ear ; 
 And tlius mcthought ay Isadora said— 
 " Arise, fond dreamer, from tlie silent bier 
 
 Of mournful solitude ; arise, and tread 
 
 The path of life, nor fear thy weary feet 
 
 ISlay stumble. To thine eyes all earth is spread 
 
 As with a green and mould'ring winding-sheet ! 
 The azure sides are taintless. We are flowers, 
 And fade, but with an odour passing sweet — 
 
 A fragrancy like that of Eden's bowers ; 
 Our spirits ascend the Emjiyrean. Hark ! 
 What various music tills this earth of Gin's ! 
 
 The winds, the waves, the insect, and the lark, 
 Pour harmonies spontaneous ; and shalt thou, 
 Whose element is faith, in mazes dark, 
 
 Of doubt and hell imaginings, linger now. 
 When light and song their influences blend 
 To lead thee back, with open hand and brow, 
 
 Among mankind, whom, if tliou shouldst transcend 
 In aught, remember that the knowledge given 
 By the All-wise thou must not idly spend 
 
 In self-communion, but make ripe for heaven 
 Thy simpler brethren. Then arise, and shake 
 Oft* black misanthropy, and be forgiven, 
 
 I 
 
 U i 
 
ANSELMO TO ISADORA. '39 
 
 Forgiving otliers — this do for my sake." 
 
 So Isadora said — that spirit bright 
 
 (Whom brighter fur thy lovelier form did make), 
 
 Sent from the regions of mifading light 
 To wean me from my darker self, and tear 
 The veil away that, dimmed by feeble sight ' 
 
 To all save thee, earth holds of good and fair : 
 
 And I, obedient to the blessed dream, 
 
 Rose up refreshed and strong, the taunts to beav 
 
 (^f sucli as know me not, aiid only deem 
 Genius the deadly plague-spot of the mind — 
 1'he cliain which binds to misery supreme 
 
 The vulture of Prometheus. They shall find, 
 Freed from the rosy bond of the ideal. 
 And by a pure philosophy refined, 
 
 This heart shall learn to grapple with the real. 
 And truth shall giude me through life's desert wild, 
 Passing unscathed its sorrowful ordeal, 
 Innocent, loving, fearless us a cliild. 
 
■ »■>* . v» " m* 
 
 im 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 I STOOD upon a mountain, lip to lip 
 
 With rosy morning, and her breatldnga came 
 
 Refreshingly upon my fever'tl brow ; 
 
 I felt my heart uplifted from the depths 
 
 Of tliis world's vain desires and idle fears. 
 
 And, led by Nature's hand, approached the source 
 
 From whence my deathless spirit drew its life, 
 
 Lost in the presence of that mighty thought, 
 
 The power, the love, the mercy of my God — 
 
 The one Eternal Heart that feels for all. 
 
 My soul is wafted to the realm of dreams. 
 
 Methought, amid the sapphire clouds that lay 
 
 StreVd o'er the lucid aziu-e of wide heaven, 
 
 I saw the fabled Islands of the Blest 
 
 Through the Empyrean floating, beautiful 
 
 With flowers, whose magic hues ne'er visited 
 
 The eyes of sleep ; with perfume-laden trees 
 
 Crowned as with emeralds, and echoing 
 
 Through shady glen, fab mead, and purple hill, 
 
 With harp and song ! Lo ! as I look'd, there pass'd 
 
THE ISLES OP THE BLEST. 
 
 41 
 
 
 Betwixt me and the sun, that, rising now, 
 
 Shone Hke the brighest rose in Paradise, 
 
 A silvery vapour gUdiug swiftly on 
 
 Towards nic ; it took shape all suddenly, 
 
 And seemed to my astonished gaze as one 
 
 Whom I had \nown on earth- -a gentle friend, 
 
 Whose modest spirit shrar ic into itself 
 
 Alike from the worll's w'ntry frown, that throws 
 
 Its cypress shadow o'er ach hui 'ler hiirt ; 
 
 And from the fervour of its snn\\ r friendships, 
 
 Courting the genius that a haio casts 
 
 Round earth and the oa.iliworms that c:ul her mother. 
 
 He was a poet, and his ardent soul 
 
 Oft soared beyond its cage of mortal clay 
 
 Up to the throne of the Invisible, 
 
 Etenial God, Creator. Friend of man. 
 
 And struck a harp of heaven amid the throng 
 
 Of saints and angels, blending worship due, 
 
 With strains harmonious. 
 
 In the deepest font 
 Of his g.:rf noble heart he treasured up 
 Each khuLiiss shown him by his brother men 
 (Alas ! how seldom shown !), and with a love 
 That could not change ; theur every hope and fear 
 lienceforth were his, and he would laugh or weep 
 E'en as they smiled or sighed. A sympathy 
 Unselfish, pure, and holy, such as fills, 
 With echoes of one universal hymn. 
 The halls of Nature's temples, through our hearts 
 
 
/ 1 
 
 11 
 
 4^ 
 
 THE ISLES OP THE BLEST, 
 
 
 I . 
 
 I ! t 
 
 u 
 
 < 
 
 ) 
 
 J/, 
 
 : ! 
 
 Ran, like the rivrs that in Paradise 
 
 Robed with sweet fruit and flowers the virgin earth. 
 
 When boys together often would we stroll 
 
 Apart from all, through solitary fields 
 
 And the brown pathways of some lonely grove ; 
 
 We cull'd fab: flow'rets, watch'd the industrious ants, 
 
 Or sat us down, and communed with the streams, 
 
 The winds, the sun, the moon, and stars, and were 
 
 Philosophers in boyhood, studying through 
 
 Fair Nature's book, whose title-page is God. 
 
 He was my teacher, for my thoughts to his 
 
 Were visions of realities ; his mind 
 
 Was the true sun and cloudless heaven of soul. 
 
 And mine their mere reflection in the stream 
 
 Of a tempestuous spirit. 
 
 We were borne 
 Onward together mto manhood ; I, 
 rearing lest fools should take me for a fool, 
 Wandered from Edmund's side into the bowers 
 Of misnamed pleasure ; in my bounding veins. 
 My erring fancy, half the error lay. 
 And reason soon reclaimed me. Once again 
 I clasped my friend and virtue to my heart. 
 Nor did again desert them. 
 
 He, meanwhile, 
 Met all the sneers of sensual men, whose lives 
 Were to the snow of his as viper's blood, 
 With a proud conscience and unquailing eye. 
 He knew it was not with his faults they warfd, 
 
 v] 
 
 
\ 
 
 \>\ 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 43 
 
 But with his virtues ; and in mind serene, 
 
 Aloof from them he moved, nor turned aside 
 
 To cringe for honours, nor to beg for fame. 
 
 So lived he for awhile, unmoved by scorn, 
 
 False as the men who showed it, and his soul, 
 
 Thrown back upon itself, beheld a calm, 
 
 Deep solitude of thought, unstirr'd by passion. 
 
 But feeble was his frame, and tasked o'ermuch, 
 
 With struggles after science. Day by day, 
 
 He grew less earthly, and his pensive eyes 
 
 Gleamed with a flame, which burning in the heart 
 
 Is to the body as a funeral pyre. 
 
 I knew that he must die, and gazed on Mm 
 
 Solemnly ; for it was as if I looked 
 
 Upon some white-robed spirit which had found 
 
 Rest with its Maker and eternal bUss. 
 
 Throughout his brief existence he had wallied 
 
 Close in the footsteps of the Son of God — 
 
 Lowly in mind and mien, and most humane 
 
 In word and deed to all men, and he died 
 
 Without one weak regret, all joyousness 
 
 Glad as the child, when by his mother led 
 
 Forth 'mid the fields their loveliest flowers to cull. 
 
 Once more I saw him. Through that silv'ry vapour 
 
 His noble form and countenance outshone. 
 
 Like Phoebus through a veil of lucid clouds. 
 
 His deep blue eyes, and glossy golden hair, 
 
 That round his lofty intellectual brow 
 
 In curls hung clustering, like the honeysuclde 
 
 i 
 
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 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 About some marble palace, spotless fair, 
 
 He stood in form and features by my side, 
 
 The same in all things ; but on closer gaze 
 
 Methought a change celestial had been wrought. 
 
 There was a holier calmness in his eyes — 
 
 A blest tranquillity, and on his lips 
 
 A spiritual smile sat like a dove, 
 
 Hallowing each thought. Around his slender form 
 
 A robe of sunny whiteness floated free 
 
 As foam upon the main. A golden lyre 
 
 In bis right hand, and in his left two boughs 
 
 Of olive and of myrtle intertwined. 
 
 The spirit of my friend in gentlest words. 
 
 Of purest tenderness, addressed me thus — 
 
 " Friend of my soul, who in the fevered trance. 
 
 And aspirations high that filled my youih 
 
 With visioned glories unenjoyed on earth, 
 
 Stood'st by me ever, prompt to praise the skill 
 
 With which I weaved the wild flowers of my thought 
 
 Into fast-fading wreaths of artless song. 
 
 Know that tlie One who blest Isaiah's harp 
 
 With prophecy, and in lone Patmos shed 
 
 The light of revelation upon John, 
 
 Gives, though in less degree, all poets still 
 
 The inspiration of that muse which bore 
 
 Milton, ' that eagle spirit,' from the earth 
 
 To heaven's wide temple, which unveiled he saw 
 
 lUumin'd by the will of the Most High, 
 
 With more than mortal power to paint in flame 
 
THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 45 
 
 Of glowing diction and undying thought, 
 
 ' Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.' 
 
 Not those alone who in the sight of men 
 
 Have soared to high Parnassus, in the eye 
 
 Of the Creator are as poets held. 
 
 The pale and silent worshippers in woods, 
 
 The lonely gazer from the mountain tops, 
 
 The pilgrim thoughtful roaming on the marge 
 
 Of the wild wilderness of ocean's waves, 
 
 The melancholy student of the tombs, 
 
 They who fall undeplored by proud mankind. 
 
 Over whose graves no epitaph is reared. 
 
 Save that which nature writes in summer flowers— 
 
 These from your sphere are wafted on the wind 
 
 To yon blest islands, where their spirits pour 
 
 Harmonious offering to the God they love. 
 
 Nor doom'd to an eternal death are those 
 
 Who have expired in heathen lands of old, 
 
 Ere yet the Star of Bethlehem arose, 
 
 And angels called on man to know his God, 
 
 Eevealed in human shape, but sinless, pure, 
 
 All-wise, and merciful — the God that walk'd 
 
 With Moses in the camp of Israel. 
 
 Those passionate hearts that flow'd in deathless song, 
 
 The masters of the lyre, the sages famed 
 
 For self-examination, sons of Greece 
 
 And Rome ; Historians, Bards, Philosophers, 
 
 And Patriots, who, like Leonidas, 
 
 Fell for the freedom of their countrymen, 
 
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 46 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 Acting with strong right hand, the poesy 
 
 That swelled with hate of tyranny their hearts ; 
 
 All who stood virtuous amid sin, and cast 
 
 Aside the fetters of idolatry, 
 
 Cherishing hope in the Divinity 
 
 Of tlie one God who is the universe, 
 
 Have immortality m those fair isles. 
 
 For He who knows the hearts of all mankind 
 
 Knew theirs, and has redeemed them through the love 
 
 Of crucified Immanuel. 
 
 " But to name 
 The host of these, would be an endless task, 
 Since many are accepted of the Lord 
 Wliom men have scrupled not to stigmatize 
 As vile and most abandoned heretics. 
 The hypocrite whose doubts are granaried 
 Within a subtle and tenacious heart, 
 Is reverenced for liis piety of mien. 
 His iciness of manner, when beneath 
 The solemn sadness of the wrinkled brow. 
 Avarice sits plotting schemes to cheat the world, 
 That for a saint can take a Pharisee. 
 And he whose open spirit scorns to bow 
 In adoration at an unknown shrine. 
 Who for liimself examines thoroughly 
 A doctrine ere he puts his faith in it — 
 He stands convicted of a mind, in vain 
 Does he protest the innocence of thought. 
 The worst of crimes to those who will not think. 
 
THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 47 
 
 The multitude baptise him Atheist, 
 
 And having doom'd him to eternal fire, 
 
 Piously strive to make his life a hell. 
 
 Oh ! that the human race with one consent, 
 
 Would in their God behold a Being pure, 
 
 Merciful, just, and holy, who disdains 
 
 The mockery of one sinner, lost to hope 
 
 Save through the love of Christ, inveighing loud 
 
 Against his brother's sins. Oh ! vain attempt 
 
 To blind the eyes of the Omnipotent, 
 
 Wlio is above, below, around, within us ! 
 
 Ay, with what rapture do I gaze 
 
 On Homer's lineaments divine, and hear 
 
 Those lips that pour'd the dirge o'er Hector slain, 
 
 Breathe to the Maker's praise their loftiest hymns. 
 
 Homer, the sightless eagle, who from earth. 
 
 Guided by inward whisp'rings of the soul, 
 
 Upsprang into the bosom of the Son, 
 
 Whence manna, like the riches of his thoughts, 
 
 Have fed till now the wond'ring race of man. 
 
 By Milton's side he roams in interchange 
 
 Of holiest eloquence ; those poets' harps 
 
 Together tuned in honour of their God, 
 
 Oft mingle strains that, in their flight sublime, 
 
 Ascending, scale the capital of heaven, 
 
 Where angels stand around the eternal throne. 
 
 In middle of their anthems all struck dumb 
 
 With rapture at that solemn song. And there 
 
 Is iEschylus, the sire of tragic muse ; 
 
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 48 
 
 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 
 
 i 
 
 There Sophocles, on whom his mantle fell , 
 
 Who (wanting the simplicity and strength 
 
 Of liim who saw Prometheus vulture-torn), 
 
 In smoother folds, yet graceful, wore it still. 
 
 Attempting so to hide with studied art. 
 
 Whence far he sank in grandeur of design 
 
 Below his great original. And there 
 
 With them is seen the sweet Euripides, 
 
 Whose muse judicious culls the flowers of each 
 
 To form a garland for her poet's hrow, 
 
 Whose lay so pure, so natural, and serene. 
 
 Partaking of his brethren's light and shade, 
 
 Is like the tender twilight's balmy hour. 
 
 Among those the mighty Shakspeare moves, 
 
 Acknowledged monarch over fancy's realms, 
 
 Simple, and wise in his simplicity. 
 
 ' One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.' 
 
 But hark ! they call me ! Ere I bid farewell 
 
 To thee and earth — to thee, until we meet 
 
 In yonder isles — ^but unto earth for ever, 
 
 Take counsel from my love. Though pride may scofl'. 
 
 Be not the dust beneath Time's chariot wheel, 
 
 But build thyself a mem'ry 'mid mankind ; 
 
 The lyre and olive-branch thy symbols are ; 
 
 Improve thy soul for immortality, 
 
 Nor tarry till death give thy spirit wings, 
 
 But soar through time into eternity, 
 
 And heaven preoccupy. Be humble still ; 
 
 None who wear flesh have reason to be proud. 
 
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 THE ISLES OF THE BLEST. 49 
 
 In joj'ful hope attune thy lyre to sing 
 
 All innocent delights of soul and sense, 
 
 Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove ; 
 
 And when death calls on thee to leave behind 
 
 Thy grosser self, — m trustfulness of heart. 
 
 Attend the summons ; then we meet again 
 
 In yonder land of bards. Upon the day 
 
 When sounds the trump of judgment, we shall look 
 
 Upon the Throne, and Him who sits thereon, 
 
 And hearken to the words of boundless love. 
 
 He is the Father of the fatherless ; 
 
 In Him the poor and friendless find a friend ; 
 
 The Saviour pleads for all, nor pleads in vain. 
 
 FareweU ! thy thoughts should emulate my wing!^." 
 
 He said, and sprang into the flood of day, 
 
 Now pouring o'er the mountain's brow afar 
 
 Into the lap of every little vale, 
 
 Glad'ning the heart of every living thing. 
 
 I woke into remembrance of my dream. 
 
 And in the soUtude of midnight gave 
 
 Expression to the phantoms of my sleep. 
 
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 LA MR NT OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 
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 Thou ancient pine ! beneath whose lofty shade, 
 
 Pensive I watch the sun's decUmng ray, 
 Thy glorious crown no scorching sun can fade, 
 
 Nor all the wrath of winter send away ; 
 
 Thou bearest now an undisputed sway ; 
 But monarch of the forest, it may be. 
 
 That thou shalt scarcely, dymg of decay, 
 Wither from earth all lone and silently— 
 The white man's hatchet keen may be reserv'd for thee. 
 
 The flowers, whose odours breathe sweet prayers for 
 life, 
 
 And grateful praises to the God of light, 
 Ye cannot with the snow-king wage a strife ; 
 
 All perish for a time, but summer bright 
 
 Full soon compels your enemy to flight. 
 And ye again awake in joyfulness 
 
 And bloom of beauty ; different far your phght 
 When stranger steps this verdant turf shall press. 
 
 The plough shall desecrate your lovely wilderness. 
 
LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 51 
 
 Sliatles of my fathers ! ye whose feet were loose 
 To follow far, o'er boundless hill and jjlain, 
 
 Tlie tmiid carraboo or stately moose, 
 
 Rise ! give your children back their land again — 
 For nought of strengtli or wisdom we retain, 
 
 Though once they both were ours ; and to our foes, 
 Who treat in us their vices with disdain, 
 
 We pay not back the wrongful scorn with blows, 
 
 But, crouching 'neath the lash, we closer hug our woes. 
 
 Oh I could my spirit animate the heart 
 
 Of this fast-waning people, they should learn 
 That, in his blindness for the bow and dart — 
 
 Weak weapons ! — the vile pale-face, proud and 
 stern, 
 
 Gave us the gim'; and soon, if all would burn 
 For vengeance as I burn, the craven hound 
 
 Should at our feet be forced to writhe in turn, 
 And yield us once again our fiitliers' ground, [found. 
 Where, in the days of old, our prey we sought and 
 
 Yes ! had I hearts a hundred, and no more, 
 
 Dauntless, as this of mine, without a fear 
 I'd face these base invaders of our shore, 
 
 And slaughter them as I would slaughter deer. 
 
 "^ov by what right are these men masters here ? 
 Are they our elder brethren, that they seize 
 
 On our possessions ? Red men shed no tear, 
 They groan not like the whites when ill at ease ; 
 We who can conquer self, can easier conquer these. 
 
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 LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 But no ! it is a dream, nnd I must die 
 An exile in my native land ; 'tis well, 
 
 for who would live beneath the evil eye 
 
 Of this accursed race, whoso tongues can tell 
 The honied lie, while in their bosoms swell 
 
 Wrath and malignity ? Yes ! let me die, 
 Since I have seen my own, my native glen, 
 
 Trauiitlcd by stranger feet, and in the sky, 
 
 The smoke from white men's hearths rise 
 liist and high. 
 
 fu. ling 
 
 Old Topf^a's wigwam now is mould'ring low, 
 Its ashes fit manure for white man's field ; 
 
 Ah, once I had a wil'o to soothe each woe- 
 One whose bright smile could blest contentment yield. 
 All her own griefs slie carefully concealed, 
 
 Smiling when dying, smiling even in death ; 
 Our wisest said she never could be healed, 
 
 And I upbraided them with angry breath, 
 
 I bwore she could not die, my gentle Agaleth. 
 
 But when I saw my amis held not her soul, 
 
 ^ly heart was bowed within me, and I stood 
 Silently gazing on her form ; the goal 
 
 Of misery had been gained, and in this mood 
 
 Of agony I felt the solitude 
 Of one who knows there's none to love him now ; 
 
 Sudden I rushed deep, deep into the wood, 
 And 'neath a gloomy fir's low-spreading bough, 
 I threw myself, and lay with fevered heart and brow. 
 
'ft 
 
 LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 5ii 
 
 All tearless yot, but presently my grief 
 
 Grow far too mighty for the man to boar ; 
 Tears, bitter tears, a moment brought relief, 
 
 Ami gi'O' ns my bosom rent of fierce ilespair. 
 
 At length I rose, and as the summer air 
 breathed gently on my haggard cheeks, I sought 
 
 The dreadful wigwam »vhere that woman fair, 
 Who had my pining heart wise lessons taught, 
 Of virtue and content, for ay, lay reft of thought. 
 
 There was I met by those vain comforters. 
 
 Who strive with words to balsam sorrow's smart ; 
 They said what noble qualities were hers. 
 
 That we should meet again and never part ; 
 
 It was the truth they spake, but ah ! the heart 
 Once broken, scorns its agony to hide. 
 
 My silent look of anguish said. Depart, 
 Vainly you seek to comfort mc — she died — 
 They went — ^I was alone, her breathless form beside. 
 
 My babes had died in childhood, and now she, 
 
 ^ly best-beloved Agaleth, was gone ; 
 And I was doomed a wanderer to be. 
 
 Where she had d^xlt, how could I dwell alone ? 
 
 Next morn I dug tlie grave and raised the stone. 
 For whose rough brow I wove a wreath of flower**. 
 
 And with one bitter tear, one bitter groan, 
 I hastened forth amid these woodland bow'rs. 
 Where, until now, have passed my solitary hour«. 
 
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 54 
 
 LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 Ami now the poor remains which I possess, 
 Of wisdom, or of strength, I still would use 
 
 To drive these robbers from our wilderness. 
 Our ancient forests shortly we shall lose, 
 Our conquerors means of life will soon refuse ; 
 
 And if we do not bravely hold our own. 
 
 And rather than be slaves to white men, choose 
 
 To battle with our tyrants, all is gone, 
 
 And the weak red man is for evermore o'erthrown. 
 
 It will be so, and in their hunting ground 
 
 Tliis must I shortly to our fathers say, 
 That of their dwindled race, cannot be found 
 
 A man to rise and hold these dogs at bay ; 
 
 Not one to sally forlh in war array. 
 And sell his life full dearly to his foe ; 
 
 Not one the deadly tomahawk to sway, 
 Not one to strilce a haughty pale face low ; 
 All sleep despair's deep sleep, and dream of endless woe. 
 
 My arm is weak to what it was ; my hair 
 
 Is silv'ry, and decrepid I am grown ; 
 Yet like the famished wolf when in his lair 
 
 Surprised by hunters, I would stand alone 
 
 Against the pale face, till my life were flown, 
 And dying, leave behind a deed of fame, 
 
 That might for my weak brethren's sloth atone, 
 And make a war-cry of my deathless name, 
 To free my countrymen, and wipe out all their shame. 
 
LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 55 
 
 Vain thought, the serpent's coils are round us now ; 
 
 One struggle unil it stings. Oh, hated race, 
 Whose vile injustice lifts a lofty brow 
 
 Unblushing for its sm ! Oh, four times base ! 
 
 When we beheld you with so white a face, 
 We deemed the soul as spotless, and we gave 
 
 Our tyrants food, and a warm dwelhng-place, 
 And in return did we for nothing crave ; 
 But they who seize our lands, now offer us a grave. 
 
 Spirit, whose eye hath raark'd my people's woe, 
 
 God of the ImUan, hear an Indian's prayer ; 
 Pity thy wretched children, fallen low, 
 
 And driven by the pale face to despair. 
 
 Pity, and with thy Ughtning's deadly glare 
 Smite the invaders of the forest haunts ; 
 
 The villains who, for their vile use, would dare 
 Fell these old woods, and with their noisy vaunts 
 Of linowledge, on our race IHng poverty and taunts. 
 
 But, no ! the mighty Spirit's wrath is hot 
 Against our fated tribes, nnd we can be 
 
 No more a people, but from ev'ry spot 
 
 Of our possessions driven, must rise and flee, 
 'Till we are whelmed in that accursed sea 
 
 That hither brought our conquerors. No more 
 Within my soul the sun of prophecy, 
 
 To bright with inid-day brightness — it is o'er, 
 
 Our tribes are doom'd indeed, but I see white men's goiv'. 
 
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 56 
 
 LAMENT OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 Yes, the devouring wolves shall turn and rend 
 Each other's throats, and meet the fate they gave ; 
 
 For stronger, wilier far than they, shall bend 
 Hither their way ; and many a bloody grave 
 Shall scar their finiitful fields, and none shall save 
 
 Their houses from the flames, and there shall die 
 Their wives and children ; methinks I hear them rave 
 
 For succour in their fiery tombs. Ah, why 
 
 Could not old Tosca view the dear reality ? 
 
 But no ; my days are numbered, and I go 
 From this dark world to taste the entUess bliss. 
 
 The calm forgetful ness of ev'ry woe, 
 That in the happy hunting-ground, o'er this 
 Sad heart shall breathe a calm content I wis ; 
 
 That when the mighty Spirit's voice shall call, 
 Tosca will gird this longing soul of his 
 
 For the glad journey ; and his fun'ral pall 
 
 Shall be the forest shade, and joyful will he fall. 
 
 Come, Deaih ; dost fear thy power I would resist, 
 
 And strive to lengthen out a useless life ? 
 No, oldest of uil warriors ; when thou list. 
 
 Dismiss me to the dwelling of my wife. 
 
 >iOw, all remote from misery and strife, 
 She clasps her babes unto her hapless breast. 
 
 Oh, such a meeting were with transport rife ! 
 Hasten thy sluggish steps, death, thou best 
 Friend that the Indian has, dismiss me to my rest. 
 
ve 
 
 THE LAND OE DllEAMlS 
 
 I WAS a wanderer in the land of dreams, 
 And winged fancies met me by the way, 
 
 Fairer than mommg's beams ; 
 
 With the cool murmuring of mountain stream* 
 My thirsting heart they led astray, 
 
 And left me, as they vanish'd into air. 
 
 Lost in the midnight of despair. 
 
 Mine eyes were upward bent 
 Towards thft firmament, 
 Which was one mighty frown. 
 But, sudden through the gloom, 
 Like spirit from the tomb. 
 Shone forth night's silver crown ; 
 The star of chastity, all pure and holy, 
 Like a young nun, so fair, so pale, and melancholy. 
 
 I started to my feet, and by her light. 
 
 Guided aright, 
 
 I trod the path of truth once more, 
 
 And swiftly sped away ; 
 
 Nor did I stay 
 
 Until I reacli'd an unknown ocean shore, 
 
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 ii 
 
 58 
 
 THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
 
 Where harp-like ev'ry wave 
 
 TLe softest music gave ; 
 And all the winds, with voices low and sweet, 
 Did hymns of ecstasy repeat. 
 
 Here, as I stood amazed, 
 
 And o'er the billows gazed, 
 
 A magic skiff drew near ; 
 
 And there was none to steer, 
 Oy urge it forward with the skilful oar ; 
 
 All silently it came, 
 
 Swift as the lightnmg flame. 
 And touched the lonely shore. 
 
 I sprang mto the bark, 
 
 At ouce the skies grew dark ; 
 
 The tempest left his lair. 
 And bared his lightning brand. 
 And with one stroke of his gigantic hand 
 Smot'C ocean into fury, wild and fell, [hell. 
 
 As tliough its raging waves were blent with thoso of 
 
 I stretch me in that narrow bark to die. 
 
 When on my ear there flows 
 A sweet and gentle sigh ; 
 
 Sweet as the incense of the earliest rose, 
 \Yhich Zephyr on her wing 
 Conveys a welcome gift unto her mother Sprhig. 
 That sigh awoke me from my trance of fear — 
 I look'd, and lo ! the skies again were clear ; 
 
THE LAND OF DREAMS. 59 
 
 And the bright dawning light of day 
 Fell on a beauteous isle that lay 
 A solitary Eden of the sea, 
 A realized dream of poesy. 
 
 Upon its margin green 
 
 A radiant form was seen, 
 Majestic as tlie star-illuinined night. 
 
 Her presence seemed to throw 
 
 A spiritual glow, 
 Around the meanest thiny^, a regal robe of light. 
 Her left hand held a lamp of purest flame, 
 
 Unquenchable its light ; 
 
 A golden sceptre glittered m her right, 
 Wherewith man's stubborn heart she well could tame. 
 
 At once my soul 
 
 She beckoned me and smiled. 
 Resumed its self-control. 
 My boat J/,:.,,vs near that holy land, 
 And now \>y Virtue's side I stand. 
 
 No v:ord sae spako,, but led the way 
 
 C/er flowery meads, through fragrant groves : 
 Wliich the free birds on every spray 
 
 Proclaimed their paradise and love's. 
 And, oil, what beauty has its birth 
 
 In yonder lonely rale ! 
 A brighter heaven is upened out on earth, 
 
 To w hich the sun is j)ale. 
 
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 60 
 
 THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
 
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 A palace on whose walls combine 
 All the varying hues that shine 
 Along the glittering bow of heaven. 
 The golden gates expanl — 
 Forth bound a joyous band ; 
 Mttidens and youths in bright attire, 
 Singing in gladsome chorus to the lyre, 
 Songs passing sweet of faithful love, 
 And joys that sinless spirits prove. 
 
 And among these creatures fair, 
 
 One of melancholy air, 
 Whose soft blue eyes bent down to earth 
 
 With ciystal tears, I viewed — 
 Unconscious she of all their mirth. 
 
 Moved lonely on in pensive mood, 
 
 The virgin bride of solitude. 
 
 Tresses loose, of deepest brown. 
 Float her neck and shoulders dowu, 
 In many a wavy, silky tw^ue, 
 Lilce purple clusters of the vine, 
 And half obscured her lovely face, 
 Where recent tears had left their trace. 
 
 Soon as tlie happy band espied 
 The heavenly being by my side, 
 
 Their voices rose with loftier strain. 
 Their harps with wilder music rang. 
 
 But, oh ! my mortal lyre in vain 
 Would echo what they sang. 
 
 I 
 
THE LAND OF DREAMS. 
 
 Such melody might only rise 
 From far beyond those starry skies. 
 
 That weeping maiden, at the sound, 
 
 First threw one 'wildered glance around ; 
 
 Then with a smile—oh not so bright 
 
 On Eden burst day's primal light, 
 
 As did that sunny smile on me. 
 
 By Virtue's side, on bended Imee, 
 
 She sank, and, with her blushing cheek. 
 
 Hid in the mazes of her hah-. 
 
 Loose flowing o'er her forehead fair, 
 
 Like shadows cast by moonlight pale 
 
 Atliwart some fairy-haunted vale. 
 
 She strove in vam to speak. 
 
 But Virtue, with benignant smile. 
 
 That fond confusion watch'd awhile. 
 
 And soon, with accents mildly sweet, 
 
 " Arise," she said, " thy bridegroom meet, 
 
 Rescued by me from falsehood's chain ; 
 
 See lie be captured not again." 
 
 Could I, from heaven's melodious choir, 
 Select a hari), whose notes should prove, 
 The very breath and soul of love, 
 
 Soft as dew, and clear as fire, 
 ^ The morning's dew, and crystal fire of day, 
 
 Then fitly might I hope to sing 
 
 The joys from woman's love that spring. 
 
 61 
 
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 SAPPHO'S DEATH. 
 
 Who is sht;, from whoso haggard eyes 
 
 The deadly lightning of passion flies ? 
 
 Slie stands upon the Leucadian height, 
 
 Gazing, entranced, on the starry night. 
 
 Her face, all pale and worn with tears, 
 
 Has the look of that age that comes not with years, 
 
 But is born of the aching heart within ; 
 
 Woman's pure heart, defiled by sin, 
 
 And all the hopes of youth He crushed 
 
 Where passion's lava-tide hath rushed. 
 
 She stands alone and silent there ; 
 
 From her brow of light the loosen'd hair 
 
 In wavy gold sweeps far behmd, 
 
 On the ebon wings of the midnight wmd. 
 
 Like an eagle, 'reft of her glorious young. 
 
 She stands, the Pythoness of song. 
 
 Beneath the caves of ocean thrill 
 
 W' h ominous oracks of ill ; 
 
 And the mystic orb of Hecate 
 
 Smiles strangely on the troubled sea ; 
 
 She strikes the lyre, whose voice had pow'r 
 
 To cluirm her soul m pleasure's hour, 
 
 
/ 
 
 SAPPHO's DEATH. 
 
 When smiling eyes and flow'rets bright 
 
 Shed o'er her life a magic light ; 
 
 The dirge of mnocence and truth 
 
 Its sounds recal the dreams of youth, 
 
 And dims her hot and flashing eyes, 
 
 And gives her heart relief in sighs. 
 
 The fleeting dream of love is past. 
 
 Her eyes are o'er the ocean cast ; 
 
 Its munnurs greet her from beneath, 
 
 And seem the sweet low voice of death, 
 
 That bids her heart its 'plaining cease. 
 
 And speaks of an eternal peace ; 
 
 For in the bosom of the grave. 
 
 Encircled by the em'rald wave; 
 
 Her Phaon's form seems gliding by 
 
 With old contempt in lip and eye ; 
 
 His voice is ringing in her ears — 
 
 Phaou alone she sees and hears. 
 
 To the brink of that fearful precipice 
 
 She is drawn by a hand, and that hand is his. 
 
 One frantic leap — a moment more, 
 
 And Sappho's woes are o'er. 
 
 63 
 
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 A DREAM OF DESTRUCTION. 
 
 [The following Poem was suggested by Lord Byron's "Dark- 
 ness, a Fragment." I need scarcely say, that the subject is 
 the only point of resemblance between them.] 
 
 Deep in the forest glade I laid me dowu 
 Aud slept ; then did this vision come upon me 
 Sublimely terrible ! Methought I saw 
 The earth a prey to devastating plague, 
 And all her cliildren writhing on her breast 
 I' the death throes. And I saw a lovely girl, 
 Beautiful as the dying glance of day, 
 Kneel by her lover — one whose warrior heart 
 Had never stoop'd to love but once ; and now 
 Disease had woxmd him in her scaly folds, 
 And breathed her poisonous breathings into his. 
 But late to gentle Rosalind he sued 
 For bliss, whidi woman's love alone can give ; 
 And now, fierce o'er Ms heart had come the flame 
 Of wild delb'ium ; and he rav'd, and strove 
 To tear the dry white flesh off liis bones, 
 
A DREAM OF DESTRUCTION. 
 
 6.J 
 
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 Grinning with clenched teeth, and cursing life, 
 
 And her who had been more than life to him — 
 
 That patient one, who kissed away the drops 
 
 Of anguish from his burmng forehead. She 
 
 I saw, ere long, like to a propless vine. 
 
 Droop in the arms of Death, whose touch was here 
 
 But merciful. The man lived yet awhile, 
 
 And, stagg'ring to his feet, upreared to heaven 
 
 His iiendish eyes and loathsome countenance. 
 
 All leopard-like bespotted with the plague, 
 
 Fiercely blaspheming, till his swollen tongue 
 
 Burst, and he sank in speechlessness to die. 
 
 And now I saw a tyrant one, who made 
 
 Man's life a plaything, and I knew him not 
 
 So much by his apparel, bright with gold 
 
 And purple, like the heart's blood he had shed, 
 
 As by the look of horrible despair 
 
 That drew his lips apart, and fill'd his soul 
 
 With the mtensity of hell. He lay 
 
 Upon the threshold of Ms palace gate, 
 
 Whither, with falt'rmg footsteps, he had crept 
 
 (E'en Uke an ailing cur) to seek for those 
 
 Who erst had pandered to his appetites. 
 
 However base, with ready slavery ; 
 
 They had deserted him in search of gold — 
 
 The yellow dross— to purchase which, their king 
 
 Had paid the price of peace. Blind fools ! they 
 
 clutch'd 
 The sparlding metal, merry with the thought 
 
I' 
 
 'nr, 
 
 . ' s I 
 
 •)i 
 
 m 
 
 A dki;am of destruction. 
 
 Of all the joys which they should taste ere long ; 
 
 They clutchM, and died. Death w as their only heir ; 
 
 And he, a monarch, lay, like Lfizams, 
 
 One living sore ; nd he was trampled down 
 
 Beneath tlie feet of thousands tliat afar 
 
 Rusli'd onward, vainly seeking an egress 
 
 From a doom'd world, by any other path 
 
 Than that of dissolution. Hark ! that howl, 
 
 Ecliohig abroad throughout the spacious earth, 
 
 Like the voiced misery of ten thousand years. 
 
 And lo ! a shadowy fonu comes iloa^.ing on, 
 
 Borne in a moving car of lurid flame, 
 
 That sweeps the globe's whole surface for and wide 
 
 Of every livmg, every growing tiling. 
 
 Leaving them heaped in ashes. From tlie heaven 
 
 That gitmt figure gazed full fixedly 
 
 Awhile, and then, with one hcartburst of woe, 
 
 That shattered into gaping ruins earth. 
 
 The phantom spake — " Time, all thy offspring dead, 
 
 Thou, too, must die ! " Then, from his burning 
 
 throne. 
 Hurling liimself, he seized, with monstrous grasp, 
 The motionless remains of what was earth, 
 And vanished. 
 
eir; 
 
 APOSTEOPHE TO THE MEMORY OP BYHON, 
 
 Thot ^^.riou^ painter of the thoughts that dwcl! 
 
 In tlio ^ 'frain of genius, it was tliine 
 
 To live in the 'lelusion of a spell, 
 
 To ilelve into the demon-haunted mine 
 
 Of a forbidden region, and to twine 
 
 The brightest laurels with the cj'press-lcaves, 
 
 Half turned aside from love and hope divine 
 
 By the sharp sting of appetite, that weaves [sheavec. 
 
 The heartstrings in its pangs, like tares amid th* 
 
 n. 
 
 Byron, whose fame, like ocean, girdles earth- 
 Byron, unto whose young and passionate eyes 
 (Now frownmg lightnings—sunny now with mirth), 
 The heaven ml earth oped all their mysteries, 
 Inviting them to answer, and be wise. 
 Thou hadst a spirit that all boundaries spurned ; 
 Broke, giant-like, from reason's strongest ties. 
 And for the sceptre of tl.e Eternal burned, 
 Or in a dreamless sleep for ay to be inuraed. 
 
 in. 
 
 Thy heart was a volcano, which did cast 
 Its lava forth continually o'er all 
 The friiitftil themes of memory, till at last, 
 An awe-struck world beheld the poet fall 
 
 
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 08 APOSTROPHE TO THE MEMORY OF BYRON. 
 
 In ruins, where he stood to disenthrall 
 
 The prostrate Greek ; but an unwasting tomb 
 
 Is tiiine, Byron ! Honour is thy pall, 
 
 A halo fame has shed around tliy gloom, 
 
 And the most Merciful has fixed tliy fmal doom. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Men stood aloof from thee, thou matchless man, 
 
 As if thou wert a fiend, and thou didst smile 
 
 Contemptuously upon the insect clan 
 
 That buzz'd its waspish censures round the isle 
 
 Where thou didst rise, but never set. The while 
 
 Thou hadst the hearts of those who knew thee best — 
 
 Beings who did while with thee reconcile 
 
 Thy swelling and indignant soul to rest, 
 
 If uot content with man, thy wrath yet unexpress'd. 
 
 V. 
 
 But thou, from out affection's fleeting dream, 
 
 Arose a dreary being, o'er whose life 
 
 Had past experience's light'ning gleam, 
 
 Scathing each hope. The sacred name of wife 
 
 Had (sharj) as the assassin's poison'd knife), 
 
 Left memory one " immedicable wound," 
 
 Which stung thee forth to wage delirious strife 
 
 With all thy race, and dare the vast profound 
 
 Of speculation rash, where doubt's dread winds abound. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thy scornful breathings rolled across the wave, 
 
 And echo'd through the world; when thou didst laugh, 
 
APOSTROPHE TO THE MEMORY OF BYRON. 69 
 
 Tliat laugh was like the hollow storms that rave 
 Amid the mountains, and thy pilgi-im's staff 
 Was an enchanter's wand, and thou didst quaff 
 Thy inspiration from the tempest's cup, 
 Looking on men's opinions as the chaff 
 Of virtue, truth, and reason, which are garner'd up 
 In few and lofty mmds, as snows on Hecla's top. 
 
 VII. 
 Yet as thou stoodst beneath the Eternal's eye, 
 At eve's soft hour, when all things are serene, 
 Save mortals' sleepless immortality, 
 That strives to pierce the heaven, its proper scene, 
 Even as the eagle bends his vision keen 
 Upon the sun ; then, in that silent hour, 
 Rehgion must have sealed thy noble mien, 
 And spoken in thy soul with voice of power ; 
 Thou didst not fade for ay, so beautiful a flower. 
 
 vm. 
 
 Thy heart, if not thy harp, was sanctified, 
 That captive heart from earthliness redeom'd ; 
 
 For there was madness in thy spirit's pride 
 
 Madness, that spake the doubts which it had dream'd. 
 Ere now, perchance, upon thme eye hath beam'd 
 Celestial visions, which have made thee see 
 How false were those on earth who round thee gleam'd. 
 Man must not judge— so silent let me be ; [thee. 
 The world was stUl thy foe ; may Heaven be kmd to 
 
 I 
 
I! 
 
 ' ■ I 
 
 lit 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 W 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CEESSY. 
 
 ;■<! i\ 
 
 i r 
 
 fl have kept so closely in the footsteps of Froissart, who, 
 while presenting us with the moat vivid pictures imaginable, 
 is not very particular as to what part of hia story he begins 
 or ends with, that I fear there is a degree of abruptness in 
 the opening, and perhaps in the conclusion, of this Ballad, 
 which the good-natured reader will probably excuse, as I 
 aimed more at a quaint correctness than a mere elegance of 
 expression.] 
 
 •' I 
 
 Drawn up in three divisions, soon as the Englisli 
 
 found 
 That the Frenchmen were advancing, they started 
 
 from the gron^'l, 
 Alarm'd, and hr.rning 'n their hearts to teach that 
 
 mighty host 
 How useless, where bra■<^'i iucn are met, is every empty 
 
 boast ; 
 Although four times as numerous is the array of France, 
 Each yeoman's eye flash'd sternest joy to see the foe 
 
 advance. 
 
 Hi 
 
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 71 
 
 First in the first division, the men-at-arms before, 
 Sat the bokl Black Prince on horseback, with gallants 
 
 many more, 
 AH longing that the hour would come, to strike one 
 
 valiant blow 
 That should lift the Rose of England high, and sweep 
 
 tlie Lilies low ; 
 But there were older heads than these, whom there 
 
 the king had plac'd, 
 That their cautious wisdom might allay the younger 
 
 warriors' haste. 
 
 In front of this division, two thousand archers stand 
 With cloth yard arrows at their back, and long bows 
 
 in the hana. 
 Well could those archers urge the shaft, and by their 
 
 shafts alone 
 
 Full many a valiant Frenchman was that day over- 
 tlirown ; 
 
 For when in merry England, at the butts they shot 
 each day, 
 
 And some i'faith would practise among the deer, men 
 say. 
 
 And close upon the prince's wing, to aid him if need 
 were. 
 
 The stout Earls of Northampton and Arundel stand 
 near ; 
 
 Twelve hundred archers bend the bow beneath their 
 high command ; 
 
72 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CRESSV. 
 
 ! I V 
 
 i n 
 
 \'\ 
 
 
 ,fV 
 
 /; 
 
 And close behind the archers, eight hundred spearmen 
 
 stand, 
 And with these two brave noblemen was many a 
 
 knight and squire, 
 The mem'ry of whose gallant deeds 'tis pity should 
 
 expire. 
 
 Edward the king in person the third division led ; 
 Upon a little palfrey, through all the ranks he sped. 
 And with a bright triumphant nmile, he bade them not 
 
 to fear, 
 " Those Frenchmen shall remember this day for many a 
 
 year ; 
 For by my crown and sceptre, and by my sword and fay, 
 I prophesy, my gallant hearts, we conquer them this 
 
 day." 
 
 f 
 
 As thus he spoke, in every soul the love of country 
 
 glow'd, 
 Each call'd to mind his wife and babes and best-belov'd 
 
 abode ; 
 Each swore that he in Edward's cause would stand or 
 
 fall that day. 
 And " St. George for merry England ! " swept through 
 
 the small array ; 
 The soldiers now with eager glance the thronging 
 
 foemen scann'd. 
 And they vow'd to give each Frenchman six feet of 
 
 his own land. 
 
 ^ i 
 
 it ;;'H 
 
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 73 
 
 TJie host of France sway'd omvarJ, uo or.lor tliey 
 maintain'tl, 
 
 To marslial them in cfiual ranks their leaders scarcely 
 deign'cl 
 
 " This handful of wild Islanders we'll quickly crush," 
 they cried ; 
 
 And darldy on that field and day they sufiered for their 
 pride. 
 
 As soon as France's sovereign came in sight of that 
 bold foe, 
 
 His blood began to boil with wrath— he burn'd to strike 
 the blow. 
 
 " Call up those tardy Genoese, and now the fight 
 begin, 
 
 In God's name, and St. Denis's 'tis time that France 
 should win." 
 
 But here the cowardly Genoese with many words 
 comidain, 
 
 That, with carrying of their cross-bows, on foot six 
 
 leagues with pain, 
 They were so worn and spent with toil that nothing 
 
 they could do 
 Agamst an army who had ta'en their rest the whole 
 
 night through. 
 
 "Now," cries the Count Alen^ou, "curse on their 
 
 craven hearts, 
 The villains ever faU us, when they most should play 
 
 their parts." 
 
 F 
 
 1 
 
74 
 
 THE BATTLE OF C'RESSV. 
 
 A lit], as he spoke, one dense black cloud o'er all the 
 wcUdn glides — 
 
 Loud thunders roar, and an eclipse the sparkling sun- 
 beam hides ; 
 
 And o'er all those battalions a monstrous flight C)f 
 crows 
 
 Hover awhile, then pai.s away, and agahi the simleani 
 glows. 
 
 i; 
 
 
 
 1: 
 
 ml 
 
 The English had it in their backs, the Frenchmen in 
 
 their faces ; 
 And now the Genoese bowmen in the vanguard took 
 
 their places. 
 As they approach the EngUshmen they raise a mighty 
 
 cry; 
 But it troubled not our Islanders, nor made them wink 
 
 an eye ; 
 Then with a second louder shout they rush a little 
 
 way, 
 And then stand still to see, forsooth, the English run 
 
 away. 
 
 l')Ut, finding that they did not stir, a louder hoot than 
 
 all 
 riioy raised — so loud, the stoutest hearts, they thought 
 
 it must appal. 
 But still those hardy Islanders stood to their arms, I 
 
 trow, 
 Looking a calm defiance upon their noisy foe, 
 
 
 »l 
 
THE BATTLE OF CIIESSY. 
 
 li) 
 
 And even smiles of merriment across tlieir features 
 stole, 
 
 To tliink how little they could know an English yeo- 
 man's soul. 
 
 But now the Genoese began their cross-bows tougli to 
 
 bend, 
 And arrows 'mid the Enghsh host right hberally to send ; 
 But wlien the Englishmen advanced one foot, and drew 
 
 their bows, 
 Their arrows seem'd so close, they shot even Uke to 
 
 winter's snows ; 
 
 And when the Genoese bowmen those deadly arrows 
 knew, 
 
 Some cut their bowstrings—others to earth their cross- 
 bows threw. 
 
 ii 
 
 And all, as if with one consent, tui-ning tlieir !,eVs, 
 retreat ; 
 
 But 'twas their fate some horsemen of the Erencli array 
 to meet, 
 
 Who, when they heard the King of France in sore dis- 
 pleasure say, 
 
 " Down with those dogs of Genoese ! they stop the 
 army's way," 
 
 On those whom they had come to aid, tum'd now with 
 might and main. 
 
 And many of the Genoese were by those liorsemeu 
 slain. 
 
 F 2 
 
I 
 
 ! . 
 
 Wi 
 
 if 
 
 ■2- , i; 
 
 7b' 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CRESSV. 
 
 And still the Eiiglisli archers tlieh' arrows shot so well. 
 That many of the horses were killed, or plunged, and 
 
 fell, 
 Dismounting all their riders, who, in their coats of 
 
 mail, 
 Full often, in attempting to rise again, would fail ; 
 And then the A\'elsh and Cornishmen slow many with 
 
 theu' linives — 
 'Twas a cowardly and a cruel way of taking nobles' 
 
 lives. 
 
 And, for this act, our gallant king was often sore dis- 
 
 pleas'd, 
 But in the wrath of battle, their life-thirst unappeas'd 
 By any thoughts of mercy, is many a villain fierce. 
 Who, for a silken doublet, would its wearer treach'rous 
 
 pierce. 
 But surely in the English ranlcs such men do not 
 
 abound ? 
 And 'tis a shame that they should dare to tread on 
 
 English ground. 
 
 And now Bohemia's aged king, in the winter of his 
 days, 
 
 Found on the ilcld a warrior's grave, and won immor- 
 tal praise ; 
 
 His son had left his father's side, and mingled with the 
 foes, 
 
 And now the old blind monarch could hear the clash of 
 blows ; 
 
 1 
 
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 t I 
 
 AikI turning to tlio gallant knights, who round their 
 
 sovereign press'd, 
 The valiant greybeard thus proclaimM the wisli within 
 
 his breast : — 
 
 " I charge ye, by the oath ye took before Bohemia^' 
 throne, 
 
 The last desire of this old heart to grant ore I am 
 gone; 
 
 Lead me so fur amid the foes, that witli my swor.l J 
 may 
 
 Strike one bold stroke for France's cause on tliis un- 
 lucky day." 
 
 The knights, with reverence, hear his words, and, 
 tying horse to horse. 
 
 In wide array through England's ranks they run tlicir 
 fatal course. 
 
 Not one of all those valiant knights surviv'd that hap- 
 less day. 
 
 But well and bravely did they keep their enemies at 
 bay; 
 
 And 'mong them beat no stancher heart, no firm.r 
 hand was there 
 
 Than the old blind monarch's, with tlie long and snoNv- 
 white beard and hair ; 
 
 And when, at last, the fight was o'er, a bloody group 
 they found — 
 
 That old blind monarch stretch'd in death, vvitlj all In- 
 brave knights around. 
 
I. 
 
 if 
 
 B 
 
 '•I 
 
 kill 
 
 78 
 
 I III, MAITLi: OF (:riEss\ 
 
 It (.'liiiiiocil (liaf ciii'ly in the day a niixM confused crow 
 < >f l-'rciicli, Savoyards, GiTnians, had nuinagtxl to broak 
 
 through 
 Thc' prince's van of archers, and now had made a 
 
 stand, 
 And witli the EngHsh nu'n-at-arms fought boldly hand 
 
 to I land; 
 So nunrrous and so fierce were they, the Earl of 
 
 Warwick gave 
 One of his knights conunand to haste and helj) from 
 
 Edward crave. 
 
 When to King Edward's side at length the kniglit had 
 
 won his way, 
 Alighting from iiis steed, he thus his message 'gan to 
 
 say— 
 " My Liege, the Earl of Warwick and others round 
 
 your son. 
 Seeing tliat in this quarter the day is almost won. 
 Hard press'd by numbers, humbly crave that thou 
 
 wouldst deign to send 
 A reinforcement that might yet their piteous plight 
 
 amend." 
 
 TIuis said thc king — " Does, then, my son upon the 
 
 tield lie dead ? 
 Is he unhors'd, or fainting now from blood in battle 
 
 shed ? " 
 " Nay, God forI)id !" the knight replied ; " the prince is 
 
 safe and well.'' 
 
 I 
 
THE HATTl-i; OT ( I^^SSV. 
 
 V.i 
 
 4 
 
 '• Then go to them who soiit thoo, a,n«l this my answt'i 
 
 tell- 
 As lung as lie has Wm to tight, expect no aid from nio ; 
 Let my hoy win his spurs to-iluy, or iierish ^'lo« 
 
 rioiisly." 
 
 When to the Earl of Warwick th(3se words the knight 
 
 did bring, 
 He and the lords about him did much applaud tlu- 
 
 king ; 
 And, gall'd by shame at such reproof, each imbh 
 
 knight and squire 
 Spurr'd hard their galhint coursers, and, fdlM with 
 
 liercest ire, 
 Rusli'd on, like billows of the deep, before tlio iiLtir!; 
 
 wind's breath, 
 Bearing among their fated foes, tUfiat, and wounds. 
 
 and death. 
 
 And still amid the battle's press flamM high one gm^ 
 
 brand, 
 The talisman of victory in the princely Edward's hand ; 
 In wild dismay the foemen met that stripling's eager 
 
 eye, 
 And all who dar'd oppose him, oppos'd him but to dii- ; 
 While through their ranks he fiercely rode, and he;i}iM 
 
 his path with slain — 
 Helmet and hauberk, sword and sliield, to •=toy liis 
 
 course were vain. 
 
80 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 And now the French throughout the field, are soatter'd 
 
 wide, or slain ; 
 Around their king (frail body guard) scarce sixty men 
 
 remain. 
 Then quoth Sir John of Hainault, a valiant knight and 
 
 true, 
 " My Liege, though Heav'n this day declare 'gainst 
 
 France and you, 
 Another time shall o'er the Rose the Lilies flourish 
 
 high, 
 But now, my Liege, the field is lost, and certes you 
 
 must fly." 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 
 m 
 
 i • 
 
 So, wheeling his swift charger, the king has left the 
 
 ground. 
 Five barons only with him ; next day the rest were 
 
 found — 
 Eleven vaUant princes, twelve hundred knights lay 
 
 slain. 
 With thirty thousand men-at-arms ui^on that bloody 
 
 plain. 
 
 And for that glorious victory the English all that 
 night 
 
 Gave thanks unto the Lord of hosts, who shielded them 
 
 in fight. 
 
 ever-glorious Cressy ! In England's merry isle 
 That name will ever wake the heart's most bright 
 triumphant smile ; 
 
THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 hi 
 
 And never shall the sons of those wlu» bled on that 
 
 great day, 
 Refuse to shed their dearest blood where England puints 
 
 the way ; 
 And though the bow be broken now, and the ^[jiMi hi: 
 
 seen no more, 
 Yet the same blood is in our veins that ran in tlieirs ul 
 
 yore. 
 
 f3 
 
 !■: I 
 

 i 
 
 1 
 
 1^ / 
 
 
 1'^ 
 
 i 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MODE, 
 
 A LEGEND OF GRANADA. 
 
 [Tlio followiiio- ballad is taken from Irving's "Conquest oi 
 Granada." Would that my versu were half as spirited as his 
 prose !] 
 
 liEFOnr. Gi'aiuuUvs fated walls the Christian legions 
 
 stand, 
 A numerous and a valiant — but why a sullen band ? 
 The [lolitic, wise Ferdinand's injunctions they obey — 
 No battle with the Paynira host to wage on all that day. 
 
 And vainly ride the haughty Moors, and dare them to 
 the fight, 
 
 Witlj many a bitter taunting jest, and many a jereed's 
 liighl ; 
 
 Tlic hardy warriors of Castile more dread those mock- 
 ing glances 
 
 Than all the men of Heathendom, and all their sharpest 
 lances, 
 
 Thus to be ranged in war's array, with swords upon 
 
 their thighs, 
 ( "ompell'd to keep them in their sheaths — the foe bef.ire 
 
 their eyes ; 
 
THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOOR. iS.> 
 
 The eager vet'raiis chafe ami fume, impatient of tk'lay. 
 Yet will not, e'en f<»r combat's salve, tlieir soviToiun 
 disobey. 
 
 And ever on their Arab steeds the Inlidels sweep by. 
 Now, dartuig on — now, wheeling swift, like swallows 
 
 in the sky ; 
 They call on many a gallant Don, by title and by name. 
 To break a single spear with them for love uf kniglitl\ 
 
 fame. 
 
 Now, sudden from Granada's gates, there roll'd a vtb:dd 
 
 crowd, 
 Around a single horseman huge, with declamation:; 
 
 loud ; » 
 
 And as the charger nearer came, its rider well thev 
 
 knew — 
 "Twas Tarfe, as brave a Moorish knight asfalchiun eve)- 
 
 drew. 
 
 The giant heathen was encased in mail from liead te 
 
 heel 
 Of sable hue ; his scimitar, of true Damascus steel, 
 Was in a silken baldric hung, his spear was in tlie rest , 
 And on before the Spanish hues his steed he dauntless 
 
 press'd. 
 
 A sudden execration flies at once along the van, 
 A cry of horror and of rage, sent forth from man ix- 
 man — 
 
 ; 1 
 
8-1 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOOR. 
 
 •". 1 
 
 Fur, fastened to his courser's tail, a crumpled scroll was 
 
 scon, 
 luscrilied with holy Mary's name — heaven's chaste and 
 
 honoured queen. 
 
 Each Christian warrior's heart is full of deep and 
 
 deadly ire ; 
 The hand that grasps the dagger's hilt proclaims the 
 
 soul's desire 
 To grapple with the impious wretch, who dares all 
 
 Heaven defy — 
 Revenge that bitter blasphemy, or in the effort die. 
 
 The youthful Garcilaso has sought the sovereign's tent, 
 And for a boon, before the throne, an humble suppliant 
 
 bent— • 
 
 " Grant, Sire," he said, " thy royal leave, this Tarfe 
 
 my blade shall feel ; 
 Once, ere he die, before the cross the boastful Moor 
 
 shall kneel." 
 
 King Ferdinand this answer made, "Go forth, my 
 
 gallant knight. 
 And may the holy Mother still protect thee in the fight ; 
 Our fervent prayer shall be put up to Heaven's throne 
 
 for thee, [sliield to be." 
 
 Go fortli, and may the Lord of hosts vouQlisafe thy 
 
 And now he mounts his gallant steed, a Flemish 
 
 buckler rears, [spears. 
 
 And chooses from a shining pile the toughest of the 
 
THE CHRISTIAN AND THE MOOR. 85 
 
 A cross is on his brea3t-i)late, traced in lines of bloodv 
 
 hue, 
 That sign full well becomes a breast so faithful and 
 so tnie. 
 
 So forth he spurs against the foe, the Moor beholds 
 
 him nigh, 
 And couching firm his fatal lance, and shouting loud 
 
 the cry, 
 " Allah, il Allah ! " on he comes ; so sweeps the 
 
 pois'nous breath 
 Over the desert's barren sands, the simoon's blast of 
 
 death. 
 
 They meet — the spears are spUntered both to shivers 
 
 with the shock, 
 As waves that burst in froth and foam upon some 
 
 rugged rock. 
 At once their glittering blades flash forth like meteors 
 
 of the night. 
 And hand to hand with mighty blows they urge the 
 
 fatal fight. 
 
 Stroke upon stroke each stoutly dealt, and blood began 
 to flow ; 
 
 When Tarfe at Garcilaso aimed a fierce and deadly 
 blow. 
 
 He saw, and swiftly shrank aside. The steel descend- 
 ing cleav'd 
 
 His courser's head, and unto earth the horse and rider 
 heav'd. 
 
\iv 
 
 III' 
 
 !• 
 
 ii 
 
 III 
 
 hi^ 
 
 <S() THE CIIKISTIAN AND THE MOOU, 
 
 Tiirfo saw his Christian foe lio strctch'cl, tlie slanuhtciM 
 
 steed beside ; 
 And now, to give the fatal thrust, ho swift disnu.initiiiL' 
 
 hied. 
 His arm is raised dire dcatli to deal, wlion thus 1;.- 
 
 mockin<( cries, 
 " Behold, Sir Knight ! your holy cross benvnth the 
 
 crescent lies." 
 
 The words recall d his fleeting breath, and nervM liis 
 
 arm anew, 
 With sudden spring he from his breast the vaunting 
 
 heathen threw ; 
 Ilis poniard flashes to the skies, and now — liow <lavk 
 
 its dye. 
 And Heaven to the Christian knight ha? given tlir 
 
 victory. 
 
 The sun-burnt foreheads of Castile with joy (.'xulting 
 
 glow. 
 And the dark brows of many a Moor grow ilarkei' 
 
 still with woe. 
 Alhama mourns her fearless Tarfe, for ever siuitch'd 
 
 away. 
 While Christendom the victory hails with a loud and 
 
 joyous lay. 
 
 ^JMR., 
 
/ 
 
 THE SOLDIEE'S BllOTHKll 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 
 A WOUNDED warrior knelt apart, 
 On the battle-field knelt he ; 
 
 There was anguish in his iron heart, 
 And tears bedimm'd his ee. 
 
 And wept he for the blood that IhjwM 
 
 In torrents from his side ; 
 Or thought he of death's dreary road.. 
 
 Or of a distant bride ? 
 
 No selfish fears that warrior felt, 
 No blooming bride had he ; 
 
 Beside a brother's corpse he knelt, 
 And tears bedimm'd his ee. 
 
 The dreams of boyhood's hours awoke, 
 
 That long had silent slept ; 
 Old memories their fetters broke, 
 
 And o'er his spirit swept, 
 He bowed beneath grim sorrow's stroke 
 
 He bowed his head and wept. 
 

 f 
 
 ■I 
 
 4 1 
 
 afi!; 
 
 «ii 
 
 88 THE soldier's brother. 
 
 The tears of youth are Uke tlie clews 
 
 That fertilizing fall ; 
 Let hope a single beam diffuse, 
 
 That sunbeam drinks them all. 
 
 The tears of manhood, when they flow, 
 Flow not like common rain ; 
 
 Peace, reason, hope, they overthrow, 
 A deluge of the brain. 
 
 He gazed upon the pallid brow, 
 Once smiling pleasure's throne ; 
 
 Those eyes how fixed and ghastly now, 
 Their joyous spirit flown ! 
 
 Those ringlets, once a mother's pride, 
 Stained all with dust and gore ; 
 
 The snow-white neck in purple dyed, 
 She ne'er shall clasp it more ! 
 
 " Oh, may I ne'er survive," he said, 
 ** My brother's fate to tell ; 
 
 Why should I live when he is dead ? 
 I'll faU as Edwin fell." 
 
 [i 
 
MINOR POEMS. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 God gave the eagle wings to soar 
 Aloft, and heaven's high arch explore 
 
 With keen undazzled sight. 
 God gave to man the winged mind, 
 Its dwelling-place to seek and find 
 
 Beyond the source of light. 
 
 ki 
 
 Confine the monarch of the air 
 To some dim cage, in fierce despair 
 
 He droops his wing and dies ; 
 While grov'lling man consents to dwell 
 Immured in vice's gloomy cell, 
 
 Nor e'er for freedom sighs. 
 
 i' 
 
Li)VK .\.Ni) I'AXCV. 
 
 \y. 
 
 t 
 
 I ■ 
 
 1 1 , 
 
 I.OVE caught nio (yet a little boy), 
 And bound mo with his chains of joy ; 
 Then with his fillet sealed mine eyes, 
 To all life's dark realities, 
 And left me blind to wander thrnugh 
 The maze of earth, without a clue ; 
 But pitying my ft)rsaken plight, 
 Kind Fancy left the halls of light — 
 Love's sister, who, with gentlest art, 
 Extracts her cruel brother's dart, 
 And heals the lover's bleeding heart. 
 She came, and led me by the hand 
 Throughout Romance's fairy land, 
 Up Fame's rougli mountain bade me climb, 
 And with the eagle mount sublime 
 The stormy winds, and strike the lyre 
 Shruied in the lightning's vivid fire ; 
 There would I echo every hymn 
 Of the night- watching seraphim ; 
 And as the strings my touch beneath 
 Rang for'ili sweet music's mellow breath. 
 
 
 |ii 
 
 mi 
 
MKIICY AND INNOCKNCIi. 
 
 AliiK; nyes grew founts, wliencu hotly swept 
 Tears that 'twas rapture to huvi' wept. 
 Oh ! had I from that clouil-paveil htjigiit 
 lielieM misfortune's gathering niglit. 
 The sliailow of each coming year, 
 That crushes hope and fosters fear, 
 How gladly had my half-freed soul 
 Flung off mortality's control, 
 Anil left so dark a world as this, 
 To dwell for aye in realms of ])Iiss ! 
 
 Ul 
 
 MKWVY Ax\l) IXNOCKNCIv 
 
 When Mercy, fu'st from Heaven depute i. 
 (The fact has never been disputed), 
 Arrived on earth, there with her came 
 A certain bashful, blue-eyed dame, 
 Wliom Innocence we mortals name ; 
 These two are sisters, and their love 
 Made them inseparable above ; 
 And Jove, when he sent Mercy hither. 
 Let gentle Innocence come with her. 
 Unlike the peevish brood of earth. 
 They never quarrelled from their birth. 
 And still together do they dwell. 
 In the warm heart of Isabel. 
 
 ' 
 
(I 
 
 im > ) 
 
 1,11 
 
 11 
 
 I' 1 I' 
 
 fill '^ 
 
 I 
 
 THE DKAl) lU'TTKJIKLY. 
 
 Farewell, poor littlo wingcil flower, 
 
 Tliy joyous lifti is o'er; 
 Thy sisters of tliu meadow now 
 
 Shall welcome thee no more ; 
 Those pinions that in liquid air 
 
 Like sunbeams shone afar, 
 Now bruised, and dim, and motionless, 
 
 As leaves in autumn are. 
 
 Hark ! summer sends her voice of love 
 
 Through all the gladsome earth. 
 And bird and insect echo her 
 
 In many a song of mirth ; 
 But thou wilt never hear again 
 
 The zephyr's balmy sighs, 
 Nor kiss away the crystal tears 
 
 From drooping violets' eyes. 
 
 Oh ! when o'er valley, hill, and grove, 
 
 The moonbeams glisten bright, 
 And all the fairy train come forth, 
 
 To dance away the night, 
 Mayst thou, poor little butterfly, 
 
 Among that elfin band, 
 Sport in the ever-blooming bowers 
 
 Of far-off fairy-land. 
 

 A DIRGE. 
 
 Life is day, and death is night, 
 
 Bringing with it dt'cp, 
 
 Never-entling slcop, 
 And dreams tliat soothe tlio soul, or else aflri^dit 
 
 Life is Eden ; hut the tree 
 
 Of true knowledge liooms 
 
 'Mid the desert's tomhs, 
 —The cypress soon to wave o'er you and nie. 
 
 Our first parents, in the groves 
 
 Of blest Paradise, 
 
 Life did sacrifice, 
 Exchanging liatreds for their former loves. 
 
 To the desert driven forth. 
 
 There they toiled and wept, 
 
 Till in peace they slept 
 Beneath the cypress, pillowed on the earth. 
 
 We, like them, are driven forth ; 
 
 We must toil and weep, 
 
 Till in quiet sleep, 
 Beneath the cypress shade we sink to earth. 
 
'J :\ 
 
 ' Jl 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 \i 
 
 IS 
 
 I': 
 
 
 
 t. 
 
 
 THE WlTllEPiE]) LEAF. 
 
 WIUTTKN FOK MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEXJ>. J. M. 
 
 A LEAFLET fail", 
 
 In the sumnier air, 
 Had eclioecl tlie zephyr's laugh, 
 
 And smiled fiill bright, 
 
 In the moon's clear light, 
 ro see the fames quaff, 
 
 From their cowsHp cup, 
 
 The sweet dews up. 
 Till they sang in tipsy glee, 
 
 And, hand in hand, 
 
 A merry hand, 
 Danced round the old oak tree. 
 
 But a spirit came forth 
 
 From the angry north, 
 And breathed its icy breatJ!, 
 
 And every bough 
 
 Is trembling now 
 'Neath the trumpet-blast of death 
 
 
THE WITHERED LEAF. 
 
 And tlie leaflet grow, 
 
 All pale of hue, 
 And a spot of hectic red 
 
 In its wither'd cheek, 
 
 r)id plain bespeak 
 That its life was almost fled. 
 
 And the dying leaf, 
 With a voice of grief, 
 
 Deplored its coming doom, 
 As it earthward fell, 
 In that lonely dell, 
 
 To sleep in the dreamless tomb ; 
 " I pass away. 
 And the music of May 
 
 No more shall gladden me, 
 And the faii-ies' feet. 
 O'er my winding-sheet. 
 
 Will pass m heedless glee. 
 
 ;)."> 
 
 " My days are night, 
 And time's swift flight 
 
 •Shall glide in silence on ; 
 
 And the stars, and the flowers, 
 And the skies, and the bowers, 
 
 \N'ill miss me not when gone. 
 I die, I die, 
 Receive my sigh, 
 
it <' 
 
 11 '. 
 
 • ! .( ,. i- 
 
 IK) THE WITHERED LEAF. 
 
 Thou ruthless northern wind. 
 Aclieu ! old shade, 
 j\Iy home is made, 
 
 In Winter's arms imldnd." 
 
 The nightingale 
 
 Has heard its wail, 
 Awhile she stayed her song — 
 
 " siUy leaf, 
 
 Why all this grief? 
 The winter lasts not long : 
 
 The spring will be 
 
 A friend to thee. 
 And thou again shalt rise 
 
 In lovelier hue, 
 
 A \iolet blue, 
 And bright as angel's eyes." 
 
 Why, mortals, w^eep. 
 When death's soft sleep 
 
 Brings happy dreams of heaven ? 
 For this vain strife, 
 Which men call life, 
 
 Eternity is given. 
 
 «* 
 
 ( : i 
 
THE MOTHER'S GEAVE. 
 
 li^ 
 
 '( 
 
 I KNEW a little maiden, 
 
 Than falling snows more fair, 
 
 Her laughing eye was azure, 
 And golden was her hair. 
 
 Her voice was sweetest music, 
 For all she said was land. 
 
 I met her in the meadows, 
 
 Where flow'rs she went to find. 
 
 I ask'd her why she inill'd them— 
 She bade me come and see ; 
 
 She led me to the graveyard, 
 And show'd a grave to me. 
 
 " My mother's home is here, Sii-, 
 And ev'ry morn and night 
 
 1 come and spread her threshold 
 With flow'rets sweet and briglit. 
 
 And though I never see her, 
 I know that she is here, 
 
 And, oh ! I am so happy. 
 
 When with my mother dear ! " 
 
 G 
 
17 
 
 I 
 
 '■I 
 
 H 
 
 ill 
 
 i. 
 
 98 THE mother's grave. 
 
 I heard the little maiden 
 Her simple feel'ngs tell, 
 
 And on the narrow tombstone 
 The tears of pity fell. 
 
 I helped to strew the flow'rets, 
 And went upon my way 
 
 In mingled joy and sadness, 
 Not sorrowful, nor gay. 
 
 But oh ! my heart grew heavy 
 When tidings reach'd my ear. 
 
 That she, poor little maiden, 
 Had joined her mother dear. 
 
 She culled the fairest flow'rets 
 To deck her mother's bed. 
 
 And now, the brightest blossom, 
 That little maid, is dead. 
 
 But in a bUssful Paradise, 
 'Mid ever-blooming bowers. 
 
 The mother and the daughter 
 Now gather fairer flowers. 
 
 &I 
 
 ^¥ 
 
A E HAP SOD Y. 
 
 When from this prison-house of clay 
 
 My vexed spirit shall pass away, 
 
 To the mighty land of eternity, 
 
 Oh, lay me not among mouldering bones, 
 
 Where the moon shines cold upon marble stones, 
 
 Where for ever some hopeless mourner groans 
 
 O'er the dust of them that peaceful lie. 
 
 I would not have my dwelling made 
 By the careless sexton's rusty spade ; 
 Nor in silver-plated coffin sleep ; 
 No funeral wain shall bear me on 
 To the final home where all have gone ; 
 Oh no ; I would rest in some forest lone. 
 Or be cradled in the rolling deep. 
 
 In some woodland glade where the sunbeams fall 
 On my flower-sprinkled emerald pall, 
 In whose shade the tuneful nightingale 
 Might sing my dirge to the dark blue skies, 
 Till tears should drop from their sparkling eyes, 
 And the sleeping winds awake in sighs. 
 And wildly join in the artless wail. 
 
 g2 
 
 i 
 
i 
 
 .n 
 
 100 ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIIIL. 
 
 Ov else in the billow's embrace l"d lie, 
 
 Where the cold green spray might o'er me ily 
 
 With a soft and pleasant murmuring, 
 
 I ,ike the mother's hillaby above 
 
 The sleeping infant of her love ; 
 
 Where the feet of the tempest alone can move. 
 
 There would I rest like an Ocean Iving. 
 
 i: '' 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLK G 1 11 L. 
 
 \i 
 
 Ml' 
 
 Open, ye gates of Paradise, 
 
 Be sheathed, flaming sword. 
 She comes, the gentle sinless child. 
 
 To meet her sinless Lord. 
 Ye angels, greet her by the way, 
 
 Wreathe flowers amid her hair ; 
 Let the voice of song go forth through heaven. 
 
 For a soul releas'd from care. 
 
 A guileless heart was hers on earth, 
 
 It look'd through smiling eyes. 
 And her laugh was like the wild bird's note 
 
 That floats in summer skies. 
 
 1/ 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Stilled is that little loving lieart, 
 
 And dim those eyes of bhie, 
 EcJio lias lost your hapj-.y laugh, 
 
 And I, dear iufaut, you. 
 
 But it is better she is gone, 
 
 Ere yet by eartli defded, 
 No sin, no grief can harass her, 
 
 •SliG now is Jesu's child. 
 Be this lier niotliefs comfort hero, 
 ^ Her thought by day and night/ 
 She who was once her Isabel, 
 
 Ts now an angel bright. 
 
 With falliiig leaves and fading flowers 
 
 That loveliest flower decayed. 
 As autumn now on fleld and gTo've 
 
 liis head had rudely laid. 
 Tlio flowers and leaves wfll come again. 
 
 But she'll retu. i, uo never ; 
 A blossom on the tree of life, 
 
 Wiiere summer is for ever. 
 
 iOI 
 
1 
 
 ; 
 
 ! 
 
 ( 
 
 
 A DIBGE. 
 
 TiiEEE lies a land beyond tlio wave 
 Of time's tempestuous flood ; 
 
 Our dreary bark must be the grave. 
 And Death our pilot good, 
 
 If we would reach that wish'd-for land, 
 
 And mingle with its happy band. 
 
 No Envy there, a bloodhoimd grim, 
 
 Pursues us on our way ; 
 The eye of Avarice is dim ; 
 
 There Rapuie does not prey. 
 We leave, in that blessed pilgrimage, 
 Age, and the woes that wait on age. 
 
 Then let me bid this world farewell, 
 And hearts I loved the best ; 
 
 For who on earth would wish to dwell 
 When Heaven offers rest ? 
 
 The gospel shall my compass be ; 
 
 Now, Death, I dare put forth with thee. 
 
 ^. 
 
THE NUN'S PEAYEE. 
 
 Blue-eyed saint from lieaven low bending, 
 
 Grant, oh, grant a mortal's prayer, 
 From her broken heart ascending 
 Through the silent midnight air. 
 Thou, mild and gentle spirit, 
 
 Felt how cold a world was this. 
 But, ere long, thou didst inherit 
 
 From thy God eternal bliss. 
 I alas ! have felt its coldness, 
 
 Seen my hopes betrayed and dead. 
 When I first, in maiden boldness, 
 
 Life's most flow ry path would tread. 
 Lilie a dove, when highest soaring. 
 
 Smitten by the cruel dart. 
 And in vain my fate deploring, 
 Wish the arrow in my heart. 
 Then, ah, gentle spmt, hear me 
 
 From among those flowerets sweet. 
 Whither oft, when thou wert near me. 
 
 Fancy led my wilhng feet. 
 In that cell, so drear and lowly, 
 I can never pray to thee ; 
 
1 
 
 '■! ■• 
 
 'i 
 
 < ,1 
 
 101' MNES SUGGESTED RV A 
 
 In lliis lovely gardon only 
 
 Are my troubletl siiirits free, 
 (le was in a garden praying, 
 
 E'en as now to thcc I pray ; 
 I'^e the sinless Lord betraying, 
 
 Judas saw him led away. 
 Hoar my prayer, then, gentle spirit, 
 
 Hear and grfint it, if thou may ; 
 l,et me his soft rest '.nherit, 
 
 ['"ade and softly die away. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Sl'CiGESTED BY A CONVERSATION WIT 'I MRS. S- 
 
 The angels best beloved of Heaven, 
 Stand ever nearest to the throne ; 
 
 To these, and but to these, is given, 
 Unveil'd their glorious Lord to own. 
 
 And from our fallen human race 
 
 Are singled out a happy few, 
 Who thus in Nature's eyes may trace 
 
 His Holy Spirit shining through. 
 
 In these Ambition's self we see, 
 A seraph ever pure and bright, 
 
 That spreads its wings in haste to flee, 
 And breathes in streams of azure light. 
 
 ^M 
 
/ 
 
 C0NVr:nSATlON with ^fIlS. s— -. 
 
 'Mio lips tliat bivatl.o u .loatliloss lay, 
 Tl).' harp wl)ose music is most sweet, 
 
 TJie J-uiul tlirtt ))i.Is us still survey 
 Tlio form we never more may meet. 
 
 Oil! surli will still in heaven be ours; 
 
 And when we join its happy han.I, ' 
 To heaven we'll consecrate the j.owe'rs 
 
 Of lips, ami harp, and skilful lum.l. 
 
 Painting, Music, Poesy, 
 
 Ye form the soul's true polar star,* 
 And guide it o'er life's stormy sea 
 
 To where heaven opens from afar. 
 
 Then, lady, still your noble art, 
 Miiy yen pursue with fervent love ; 
 
 Cxod gives to thee a feeling heart. 
 And power all feeling hearts to mo^•e. 
 
 For thee, when in the " gorgeous M-est."' 
 The sun declines his golden head. 
 
 What lovely visions o'er thy breast 
 That peaceful hour must ever shed ! 
 
 Those twilight dreams— creations fair- 
 Are sure prophetic glimpses given 
 
 Of joys that souls like thhie will sliar(^ 
 When wafted to the rest of heaven 
 
 lO.j 
 
 * I bclicvo that this 
 
 composed of tn-o or three stars 
 
 g3 
 
 is now discovored to be a const..llati.,n 
 
fj I 
 
 I 
 
 i:.if 
 
 '^ I 
 
 A I.AMKNT. 
 
 'J't» wliat sliall wo compare tlio happiness of youth ? 
 
 When all things arc fuh' unto our eyes, and the blos- 
 soms of the tree of life, as yet untouched, are 
 h right in rosy bloom. 
 
 When t'yes of angels seem to smile upon us from the 
 flowers, and the breathing of the winds are 
 grateful to our lips as the kisses of the one we love. 
 
 When we wander in the cool shadow of the far-spread 
 night, and quaif the streaming lustre of the moon 
 ami stars, as from a fountain of sparkling wine. 
 
 When we view all things by the light of a joyous 
 heart, and hope all things will be as now. 
 
 To what shall we compare the happiness of youth ? 
 
 While the first pain, the earliest throb of disappoint- 
 ment is felt but as a thorn in a bed of roses. 
 
 Alas ! the serpent i)leasure attracts but to sting. 
 
 The roses of joy fade and fall away, and the thorns of 
 care are yet upon the branches of life. 
 
 Lo ! the winter is with us — it will be always whiter 
 now. Spring comes not agam to the aged. 
 
 
 I 
 
TO 
 
 ^B "W "V 7^ 
 
 1 07 
 
 To what sliuU wo compiiiv tlie Imppinoss of youth '* 
 To a Htur that dies «ti the bosom ot" mornin;f, Mint 
 
 sinks in the lloud of day. 
 It is like a violet when the cast wind hloweth. 
 Like a buik that is chased and stnick down by Mniu- 
 
 clydon, the niij^hty hunter of ocean. 
 Like a lofty tower, like a beautiful tower of liiK 
 
 marble in the arms of the earthquake, da-he. I 
 
 down for ever. 
 Such is the happiness of youth. 
 
 TO 
 
 * * * « 
 
 
 IVIiLD evening's dewy azure sleeps softly in your eyes, 
 And darkly brown and beautiful tliy tresses down- 
 ward fall, 
 Like a gushing of bright waters where the forest 
 shadow lies, 
 Or the purple vino, deep clusteruig round some 
 stately marble hall. 
 
 And thy soft and spealdng lip, dear, is like some conil 
 bower, 
 Lyuig far away, beneath the translucent Indian wave, 
 Where a goddess, ocean-born, with a voice of magic 
 power, 
 And her lute's divinest music, lulls the tempest in 
 his cave. 
 
. u- V ! :-'" r:c .~J<:..^'M — >lji.. 
 
 1 
 
 -.^ 
 
 ADDlll'.SS OF THE SPIIUT OF MAEGAHKT 
 TO FAUST. 
 
 Not such thy sleep in my einhrace reclining, 
 
 Thy lips to mine in guilty kisses prest ; 
 Nor did I slumber thus in prison pining, 
 
 Yiy lifeless babe lay cold upon my breast. 
 My mothor, too, forbade the welcome rest, 
 
 ^[y slaughtered brother stood in wrath beside nio ; 
 AiKt when thou cam'st, whom ever I loved best, 
 
 I called upon the deep, deep grave to hide me. 
 Vud canst thou sleep, destroyer ? Yet, oh, slee}) I 
 No jiaiuful vigils would I have thee keep. 
 
 'Tis well thou hast forgotten me — 'tis well ; 
 
 ]\Ian will forg«^t, but erring ^\'-oman — never. 
 The thought of liim she lov'd must live and dwell 
 
 Warm in her soul for ever and for ever ; 
 Her heart from his no earthly power can sever ; 
 
 Bansomed by death, and all its sins forgiven, 
 To break that link would be a vain endeavour ; 
 
 Love, love like mine still hamits the soul in heaven. 
 Destless I leave the realms of azure air 
 To sj-mpathise with tliee in thy despair. 
 
 \ 
 
THE SOXS OF SONG. 
 
 When we steal from the selfish world away 
 To dream of fame through the live-long day, 
 In the dusky shade of the forest pine, 
 'Tis then the heart revels in visions divine. 
 
 Let the scornful sons of earth deride — 
 Oh, what to us is the sneer of pride ? 
 The wmgs of thought to our souls are given, 
 And they bear us aloft to highest heaven. 
 
 Let the usurer squander his soul for gain 
 
 Let the victor exult o'er his victims slain ; 
 While in nature's glass we our God behold, 
 We barter our joys not for conquest or gold. 
 
 The winds go fortli on the stormy sea, 
 
 And the dews descend upon llower and tree ; 
 
 The sun afar sheds golden light, 
 
 AvJ the moon is a crown on the brow of nigbt. 
 
 He who sends light, and the dews, and the winds, 
 He breathes the soft breathings of song on our ii.in.ls ; 
 And the lowliest bard that this earth e'er trod. 
 Has had gleams of joy from the throne of liis <;od. 
 
 Then wake we the harp to music sweet. 
 And lay we our cares at the Saviour's feet ; 
 For to us, the Sons of Song, 'tis given 
 'I'o join the secret choirs of heaven. 
 
"~'" i ""i fj lT 1 linn- aa i^nf » %! 1 1111,1 ^ 
 
 mttil m 
 
 n 
 
 if ll 
 
 THE IXCAXTATION. 
 
 I 1 r 
 
 Ir 
 
 t:' 
 
 
 On ! silent lute, when will thy silver ohctrds 
 Give the light wings of melody to words — 
 Words sweet as are the lips from whence they flow- 
 In murmurings passionate with joy or woe ? 
 When will the oracle that dwells in thee 
 Speak forth in melody ? 
 
 Lady ! the faithful friend of bygone hours, 
 Passed in the coolest green of shady bowers, 
 Why is that friend in silence doomed to pine, 
 Whose voice o' old could sweetly answer thine ? 
 What mem'ries would the dear familiar sound 
 Summon from all around ? 
 
 Music, lofty echo of our thought, 
 In thee we find all that we ever sought 
 Elsewhere in vain ; the truthful sympathy 
 Wliich lovers dream is realized hi thee. 
 The breath of the pure spu'it, the wild flight 
 Of misery or dehght. 
 
 Our frame is but as yonder lute— our soul 
 The sweet musician, who can still control 
 
THE INCANTATION. Ul 
 
 And move us to each bright heroic deed, 
 Upon whose memory music loves to feed ; 
 Make of us warriors, poets, great and wise, 
 Tlirough heaven -taught symphonies I 
 
 Where is the angel who would fold his wings, 
 Where the gay lark, whose voice through morning rings, 
 Would leave for this dark earth the fields of air, 
 Nor freely chant to heaven his thrillmg prayer ? 
 Where is the star, would wish to fade and fall 
 From the deep azure hall ? 
 
 Where the Enchantress, whose melodious breath 
 
 Can give to all our griefs a welcome death ? 
 
 Wliose witching tones can win the list'ning lieart 
 
 To laugh or weep, so natural the art 
 
 With which along tlie strings her fingers move, 
 
 Inspiring thoughts of love ? 
 
 Where the Enchantress, who condemns to nmte, 
 
 Dull, lifeless sleep the magic of her lute, 
 
 Nor pours into its soul her ev'ry thought. 
 
 Sparkling with genius, deep with rapture fraught ? 
 
 Who, lady, can this fair Enchantress be 
 
 That so resembles thee ? 
 
 <i 
 

 »^»ni iw ».>i -i ami um i , i n.,ja (i, y .^,y^ 
 
 •»4IWa 
 
 |i 
 
 'T*" 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 
 I 
 
 Who says tliat power is bliss ? 'J'lie glt»ry 
 
 Bought ly a millions blood for one 
 To reign, to die, yet live m story — 
 
 The greatest murderer 'neatli tlie sun I 
 Who envies such a fate ? The nuuhioss 
 
 That weaves of straw the fancicil ciow u 
 Is happier in its frantic gladness, 
 
 Than he upon his couch of down. 
 Ambition's vulture gnaws not ever. 
 
 The monarch's soul may sometimes stai-t 
 From dreams, whose wizard spell to sever 
 
 Were harder than with Hfe to part. 
 What memories must then awaken 
 
 Of justice scorned in guilty pride? 
 How must the conqueror's heart be shaken 
 
 In wasting passion's lava tide I 
 That swift convulsion of the spirit, 
 
 So bi'ief, so fierce, yet soon forgot, 
 Ambition's sons must all hilierit. 
 
 'Tis Satan's, and 'twas Xerxes' lot. 
 
A FEAGMENT. 
 
 
 
 Away, o'er the ocean depths, away, 
 
 Lilie a vulture fierce wheu he scents his prey, 
 
 Tlie pu-ate ship is gone ! 
 Tlie sable Hag its shadow threw 
 O'er the darkened brows of a blood-stained crew, 
 
 As night's a churchyard on. 
 
 Each eye had seen the life-blood flow, 
 Each ear had heard the shrieks of woe, 
 Each hand had struck the fatal blow,, 
 
 Tliat godless crew among ; 
 Each had the mark of wicked Cam, 
 Each had tlie everlasting stain. 
 
 That unto Judas, the God-slayer, clung. 
 
 Ripe for the pangs of hell they stood, 
 Each viper of that demon brood, 
 On ocean's trackless solitude. 
 
 Beneath an outraged Heaven. 
 Often before as they had sailed, 
 Now all their courage strangely failed, 
 
 To memory's dismal vaults their souls were driven. 
 
 I 
 
I, 
 
 *> 
 
 iii ' ■ 
 
 'h \ 
 
 114 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Thought is a hell to sinful meu, 
 A torment far heyoiid the ken 
 
 Of tlie earth-shackled mind ; 
 The wicked in a moment dree 
 The pains of an eternity, 
 
 That would for death be joyfully resigned. 
 
 Ha ! why with fixed and glazing eye 
 Doth yonder pirate scan the sky ? 
 
 What sees the murderer there ? 
 The dews start thick upon his brow, 
 He points with trembling finger now, 
 
 And mutters, 'twixt Ids close-clenched teeth, 
 " Despair ! " 
 
 Lo ! from a shadowy cloud, a hand 
 Stretches afar a fiery brand, 
 
 O'er that doom'd bark ; and there, 
 Along its blade in letters seven, 
 That fill with ghastly light the heaven, 
 
 All horror-shook, they trace the word " Despair ! " 
 
 On every side the murmunng waves 
 
 Ope their black breasts like yawning graves ; 
 
 The winds howl drearily ; 
 They can but see that awful word. 
 Conscience' deep voice alone is heard, 
 
 O'erta'en they feel, too late, they cannot flee. 
 
 \.(i 
 
LOVE'S INCEEDULITY. 
 
 ir! 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 " Tell me not that she is dead, 
 
 Motionless and cold ; 
 Her form was made of summer flowers, 
 
 iVnd not of common mould." 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 "But summer flowers decay and fall 
 
 Beneath the autumn wind ; 
 Sorrow's breath will kill like age — 
 
 It kill'd thy RosaUud." 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 " What ! those eyes of love and light, 
 
 Are they closed for aye ? 
 They were as strrs, that o'er the night 
 
 Shed a welcome ray." 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 " Brightest stars must fade and fall ; 
 
 Her eyes are sightless now ; 
 Covered by the funeral pall 
 
 Is her pallid brow." 
 
,«=S«5: 
 
 :'^'i.-»~«-—.-»«^ 
 
 ■:J 
 
 I' :, ' ' 
 
 ii 
 
 L 
 
 Jlf 
 
 
 ^ii 
 
 ■i ^ 
 
 
 . ! 
 
 
 ? 
 
 
 1 
 
 ! 
 
 ' ' 
 
 
 : 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 110 love's incredulity. 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 " Lips tliat I have prcs8\l to miiio 
 
 In the true love kiss, 
 Have they ceased to whisper low 
 
 Thoughts of former bliss ? " 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 " They will never turn away 
 From a stranger's kiss ; 
 
 They have ceased to whisper low 
 Thoughts of former bliss." 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 *' No ! that heart so kmd and true. 
 
 Still it beats for me ; 
 Rosalind, thou lov'st me still — 
 
 Can Death my rival be ? " 
 
 MESSENGER. 
 
 "Go, and lay thy hand, poor youth, 
 On thy loved one's breast ; 
 
 All is still and silent there, 
 In the death-bed rest." 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 " Ah ! thou little know'st my love ; 
 
 She was faithful ever ; 
 And her soul is mme in heaven — 
 
 'Twill forget me never. 
 
1{I^:ASUX to niAGlXATIOX. 
 
 WirE^E Imgers my Ion c, ? I„ wliat peaceful valo 
 
 Of the land of dreams is she lingering now, 
 AVhore the spirit sad of the nightingale ° 
 
 Is Nvarhling sweet from bough to hough ; 
 And the witchhig beam of her own bright star 
 
 Is blent with the light of her heavenly e^-es ; 
 While fearless and pure, as the angels are. 
 
 She wanders away beneath cloudless sides ? 
 
 Koturn thee, my love ! for the breast is cold 
 
 And cheerless and dark, where thou chdst repose • 
 With thy sunny brow, and thy locks of gold, 
 
 An.l thy cheek, whose blush was the opening rose • 
 In the lonely uight (but when thou wert near, 
 
 How welcome the hours of the night to me'.') 
 When my eyelids droop, they droop with a tear, 
 
 I'or slumber is fled, my beloved, with thee. 
 
 Oh ! come thou agam, ere I suik and die, 
 Rememb'rmg the joys that are past away ; 
 
 And the lute you loved shall sweetly reply ' 
 To thy melting voice and mournliil lay ; 
 
TfSn 
 
 ^■«^^tiJgMlh i gW i^.^ 
 
 8 
 
 
 
 l(< 
 
 118 
 
 TO MELLA. 
 
 Come, come thou nifuiii in tliy perfect love, 
 Ami never, my life, will I iuithless be; 
 
 In the earth below, <»v in heaven above, 
 Where'er thou wouKlst go, I will go with thee. 
 
 
 
 i I 
 
 J 
 
 ^ I 
 
 Ih 
 
 i! 
 
 TO MELLA. 
 
 I CARE not for the azure eyes, 
 Which look not on their kindred skies 
 With all the holy sympathies 
 
 That only song can give— 
 Who love not stars and star-like flowers, 
 And people not the silent bowers 
 With dreamy forms in twilight hours, 
 
 That seem to breathe and live. 
 
 Gay trifler ! though your smile be bright, 
 What is it but reflected light ? 
 Within, the soul is dark as night, 
 
 And quenclied the generous fire 
 That sheds a halo o'er the brow — . 
 The ^vreath by which we genius know, 
 And see an angel here below, 
 
 In her who wakes the lyre. 
 
THE IXDTAX WAEIMOH. 
 
 [To tl.c best of my recollection, those arc my first rhymes.] 
 
 The Indian to tlic stake is tied, 
 
 There is courage in liis eye ; 
 And a smiJe has curled liis lip of pride, 
 
 As he speaks tlms tauntingly : 
 
 " See you this Iiand ? 'Twas this that slew 
 Your great, your boasted chief! 
 
 He fell, as summer's raindrops do, 
 Or like yon withered leaf. 
 
 " Behold! his scalp is at my belt ; 
 
 'Twas as he turn'd to flee. 
 The deadly blow this hatchet dealt— 
 
 This hatchet swung by me. 
 
 "Now torture ; for thy greatest skill 
 
 Those red-hot irons i)ly ; 
 Your coward hearts are nerv'd to kill, 
 
 And mine is nerv'd to die ' " 
 
 I 
 
! !■ 
 
 
 TO LArilKSTlNi: 
 
 \li ,> 
 
 rh' 
 
 How bright ami beautiful art thou. 
 
 Dear I'tth; fairy creature, 
 With moon-liko eyes aiul sunny brow. 
 
 Hope moukling cv'ry feature ! 
 
 When through the house, in careless glee 
 Thy full, cleai notes are ringing, 
 
 'Tis now the hum of bird or bee, 
 Now careless fairies' singing. 
 
 No thought of thine from art is drawn, 
 
 l>ut Nature's pupil only ; 
 Thou'rt graceful as a little fawn, 
 
 That dwells in forest lonely. 
 
 I'ree and sincere, and young and brave, 
 In word, and thought, and notion ; 
 
 Wild art thou as the wildest wave 
 Of all the Indian ocean. 
 
 Oh ! never may those moon-like eyes 
 Weep aught but tears of gladness ; 
 
 jMay care, whom childhood now defies, 
 Ne'er mark that brow with sadness. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 ^fay still thy fervent .si)int glow 
 Willi (li(»iigl,ts of love ami laughter; 
 
 An.l Iiiiioconce aiul Faith bestow 
 Their fuileless crown hereafter. 
 
 Then will the little Laurestine 
 Bo what even now she seems-— 
 
 A being whoso angelic i..ien 
 Oft haunts the poet's dreams. 
 
 \'i\ 
 
 STAxXZAS. 
 
 I LOVE the mournful music of the wind 
 Among the willows on un autumn eve, 
 
 Sighing as though some gentle spirit pined, 
 Condemn'd the joyous scenes of earth to leave 
 
 For those dull slumbers that are said to bind 
 
 In death-unhallow'd death-the hapless fairy-kind. 
 
 I love tlie hoarse, far-rolling waves to hear, 
 Bellow tlieir rage along the sterile shore'; 
 I love to mark the heavens frown severe 
 
 With dense black clouds, whence r..lls the tliuii- 
 der's roar ; 
 And the fork'd lightnhig--God's avenging spear- 
 Dart on its fiery track, o'erwhehning all with fear. 
 
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 LAMENT OF THE WATtEIOE SPIEITS. 
 
 What mean the mournful wailings heard 'mid Scotia's 
 
 mountains blue ? 
 Wliat mean the grievous groans that pass her twilight 
 
 valleys through ? 
 The spirits of old heroes rose from forth their ancient 
 
 graves — 
 Heroes, who died as free men die — who could not live 
 
 as slaves. 
 The spectral warriors to the winds their hitter sorrows 
 
 told ; 
 And thus, as rolls the biUowy sea, their gloomy chorus 
 
 roU'd. 
 
 " Lift up, injured land ! lift up the voices of thy woe, 
 
 And free to Him who made the earth let all thy sor- 
 rows flow ; 
 
 Our feeble hands He nerved ^vitli strength to burst a 
 tyrant's chain, 
 
 And in thy cause we fought and fell on Falkirk's fatal 
 plain ; 
 
 We died ; but by the shining steel, amid the battle's 
 shock ; 
 
 He dies — the patriot Wallace lays his head upon the 
 block ! 
 
 
 ■1 I 
 
LAMENT OP THE WARRIOR SPIRITS. l23 
 
 " The good, tJie brave, the chivalrous, whose deeds sliall 
 never die, 
 
 Such teJs the power of time and oU obUviotfs dews 
 defy ; 
 
 How oft he routed Scotland's foes-how many adds 
 
 he won — 
 Shall stffl descend in tale and song from father unto son, 
 That he who first of Scotland's hearts the sleep of 
 
 freedom broke, 
 
 Should fall, as guUty traitors M, beneath a felon's 
 Stroke ! 
 
 "And thou, dark, stem, unfeeUng man-ambitions 
 
 iidward — dread 
 The cui'ses of an injured race-the curses of the dead 
 Nor hope the crown tliat blood has won mil lona be 
 
 thine to wear, ^ 
 
 Nor think the sceptre can control the worldngs of 
 despair ; 
 
 We curse thee ! and that curse shaU cUng about that 
 guilty heart, 
 
 Till for the dreadftd judgment-seat thy spirit shall 
 depart." 
 
 Such were the words methought I heard the warrior 
 
 spirits say. 
 Ere far in misty distance died their wild lament away. 
 
 H 2 
 
I '^^' W|'^MOT>ny^^ « 
 
 Vi H 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED FOE MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, J. M., WHO 
 WISHED ME TO WRITE " ABOUT FAIRIES." 
 
 I SING of those bright little creatures 
 
 Not made of terrestrial mould, 
 Who play hide and seek in the moonbeams, 
 
 On wings all of emerald and gold — 
 Who pull the red beard of the comet, 
 
 And mimic the stars when they wink — 
 Or watch the old owl to the fountain, 
 
 And huddle him over the brink. 
 
 But these are the naughty young fairies, 
 
 Who won't take their parents' advice — 
 In summer will bathe in the water, 
 
 In winter will slide on the ice ; 
 So some of them perish by drowning. 
 
 And some break their legs when they sUp ; 
 And some are snapt up by the night-hawlc. 
 
 And never get out of his grip. 
 
WHO 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Away ! a man hath worshipp'd the 
 Hath knelt thy love to gain ; 
 
 A bard hath wak'd his harp to thee 
 In many a glowing strain; 
 
 Yet thou couldst coldly turn away 
 
 From lover's vows and poet's lay. 
 
 Oh ! had thy bosom ever known 
 That spark of birth divine, 
 
 My heart had found an answering tone 
 In every pulse of thine ; 
 
 And when I toucli'd the ardent lyre, 
 
 Thou wouldst have felt a kindred fire. 
 
 But no ! too hard that heart of thine 
 
 For passion's sun to melt ; 
 No child of pride or avarice 
 
 Could feel as I have felt; 
 I would have given my life for thee, 
 And thou hadst not a smile for me. 
 
-^S^^a^S 
 
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 .'/! 
 
 II ^i 
 
 I, I 
 
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 ■•'4 { 
 
 II' 
 
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 (1 ; :M 
 
 126 STANZAS, 
 
 Away ! thy place is with the vain. 
 The world her votary claims ; 
 
 Broken for aye is fancy's chain, 
 And severed are our names ; 
 
 Away ! deceit is on thy brow ; 
 
 I would not — could not — love thee now. 
 
 STANZxiS. 
 
 Hark ! far amid the forest, 
 I hear the sharp axe ringing, 
 
 To earth the lordly hemlock * 
 Or stately pine-tree bringing. 
 
 'Tis thus, ancient forest. 
 Thy giant sons are smitten, 
 
 To rise again in glory. 
 
 The battle ships of Britain. 
 
 * The hemlock grows to a great height in America. It is 
 of the fir genus, and resembles the pine. 
 
THE MANIAC'S SONG. 
 
 There lay in the shade of a cypress tree, 
 
 A pilgrim dark from a far country ; 
 
 His eyes were bright with a subtle'flame, 
 
 And his brow seem'd scorch'd with woe and shame 
 He lay beneath the cypress tree, 
 And thus to the cold moon chanted he:— 
 
 "Roll on, thou glitt'ring eye-ball, roll— 
 Thou seest the heU of this sinfiil soul ; 
 So calm, so gentle, and so bright. 
 Was that lady's brow on her bridal night: 
 
 Soon ghastly, dim, and pale its gleam. 
 
 As thme shall be at morning's beam. 
 
 " My infants gorged the greedy sea. 
 
 Into its waves they were cast by me ; 
 
 The grey-hah-'d ones who caU'd me child. 
 
 Their ghosts are wand'ring the forest wild. 
 Where their bones unburied lie all green 
 With ivy, and blue where decay hath been. 
 
-*? J a<;^5j^fcLi - 
 
 lJi8 
 
 TRUST NOT TO SMILES. 
 
 " And the spirits of the dead are here — 
 They gaze from the stars, and they hiss in mine ear, 
 Tliey bay me, like pitiless bloodhounds, forth, 
 To wander, like Cain, the blacken'd eartli — 
 
 To live accurst, and die, and be 
 
 Fit vassal, Beelzebub, for thee." 
 
 Ho hath fled from the shade of the cypress tree, 
 
 Tiiat pilgrim dark from a far country ; 
 
 He wanders through deserts, but not alone — 
 
 The fiend of madness is with him gone ; 
 And Guilt her snakes round his bosom weaves, 
 Till he longs for the garland of cypress leaves. 
 
 M' 
 
 TEUST NOT TO SMILES. 
 
 I iW 
 
 Though smiles may on the brow be shining. 
 Like ivy round a ruin twining; 
 
 They but portend more sure decay, 
 And oft, like flow'rets bright that bloom 
 Above the corpse-concealing tomb, 
 
 They hide a heart to grief a prey. 
 Trust not to smiles ; still brightest fly 
 The lightnings in a sable sky. 
 
 
 I I 
 
U't • ?--«i»«* 
 
 LINES 
 
 oy TAIU MISS P SING '-^ii. DOETH ALL 
 
 THINGS WELL." 
 
 How sweet the sound of words divine 
 From lips of innocence like tliine ! 
 Fancy, whene'er that strain you sing, 
 Delights to spread her buoyant wing. 
 And, borne upon the solemn air, 
 To join with angels in their prayer. 
 Earth seems her youth to have renewed, 
 Wliere erst in Eden's solitude 
 The happy pah: together trod — 
 The children and the friends of God; 
 For spuits there from heaven descended, 
 And worship with theur worship blended, 
 Singing their solemn songs divine 
 As sweetly as thou singest thine. 
 So lovely, innocent, and young, 
 SttU truth cUrect your heart and tongue ; 
 For oh ! your sex, the first to sin, 
 Have ever since repentant been— 
 Have ever since show'd higher powers 
 Of head, and heart, and soul, than ours, 
 And taught us there's a heaven above, 
 By making earth a heaven with love, 
 H 3 
 
I 
 
 130 
 
 AZILIE S BOUQUET. 
 
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 Jjt' 
 
 T 
 
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 V 
 
 MARCH, 1848. 
 
 Old ci'ooping Time, your rusty scythe let fall, 
 
 Perhaps yuu then may go a Uttle faster ; 
 Now, like a mourner at a funeral. 
 
 You tortoise it along. earth's great master, 
 Do spread your wings, and through heavon's azure arch, 
 Talte just one flight and put an end to March. 
 Hark ye, a deep gruff voice exclaims, " You stupid, 
 D'ye see I'm no octogenarian Cupid ; 
 And not for you my jog-trot will I alter, 
 
 To bring my dissipated daughter, Spring ; 
 My dancing days are over ; I should falter 
 
 Should I attempt to fly with such a wing." 
 So saying, he displayed, as stiff as starch. 
 His pinions bright, with icicles in March. 
 
 AZILIE'S BOUQUET. 
 
 When she gave me those violets now fading *way, 
 But dearer than roses bright-blooming to day, 
 She cried with a smile, for my heart she could see, 
 *' You may drop them, you know, when you ve parted 
 from me." 
 
ch, 
 
 azilie's bouquet. 
 2. 
 
 un 
 
 They were pressM to my lipg, not a word could I speak, 
 But I saw a briglit blush gently steal o'er her cheek 
 As she leant on her hand— 'twas the first blush of love— 
 Ah, no, 'twas the shade of her rose-coloured glove. 
 
 1. 
 
 " Oh ! what a lovely blue," cried AzUie, 
 Showing a bunch of violets to me ; 
 " Oh ! what a lovely blue," my heart replies, 
 For I was fondly gazin, mi her eyes. 
 
 " Who says they are not sweet ? " she smiling said, 
 
 And held them near her lips of rosy red 
 
 Those pouting hps ; I only could repeat 
 
 In flattering tones, "Who says they are not sweet ?" 
 
 1. 
 
 Flowers, ye have faded too quicldy away, 
 Still are ye lovely, and loved in decay; 
 Nor would I give you for all the bright flowers, 
 Culled by the fairies in subterrene bowers. 
 
 
 rted 
 
 For she who gave them more bright is and dear 
 Than fairies or angels hi visions appear ; 
 And looking upon them, I dream that I see 
 The lips and the eyes of the young Azilie. 
 
iM 
 
 ■1>0' I: I 
 
 t ■'; 
 
 I 
 
 TO TITAXIA, QUEEN OF FAIHYLANI). 
 
 ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 
 
 The fairy world is just like ours — 
 There bloom again our faded flowers ; 
 Transplanted hence by magic spell — 
 And how, I know — but must not tell. 
 
 Whene'er you smile, my little dear, 
 Whene'er you drop the hasty tear, 
 The fays unseen that round you play, 
 The smile and tear far hence convey. 
 
 That smile will lend its sunny light 
 To make the rose's cheek more bright, 
 That tear will give its lucid hue 
 To lilies fair that pant for dew. 
 
 And when you laugh, tlirough Fairyland 
 That laugh is breath'd, a zephp* bland ; 
 And when you sigh, in every vale 
 The fairies hear the nightingale. 
 
" t ^~'JP ^r^^f'-^- (*-• 
 
 TO TITANIA. 
 
 Ami when you kiss mo all is spring, 
 And love's sweet voice is heard to ring 
 Throiigli ocean, earth, and heav n above ; 
 The fairy world is sunk m love. 
 
 Nay, never frown, for fairy skies 
 Grow dark or brighten with your eyes ; 
 A.nd with a frown you may eclipse 
 The youujL' May morning of your lips. 
 
 Whene'er vour lovely eyes you close, 
 The fairies all may seek repose, 
 And softly slumber night away, 
 Till you, awaldng, bring them day. 
 
 So, if you're wearied with my lay, 
 Titania, put an end to day ; 
 And, when you'd rather slumb'ring be, 
 Pray go to bed and dream of me. 
 
 \3^i 
 
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 I'f 
 
 -^ 
 
 (^ 
 
 )t 
 
 THE ROSK AND THE POPPY. 
 
 AN EASTERN FABLE. 
 
 In tlie caliph's garden, known as the Odoriferous, 
 
 bloomed one day a stately rose ; 
 As the favourite sultana is queen of the harem, so was 
 
 this rose queen of the garden ; 
 (Vnd she looked down with contempt on all the other 
 
 flowers, for she alone was beloved of the biUbul — 
 Through the long night reposing on her fragrant 
 
 bosom, to her ear alone did he address his tuneful 
 
 flatteries. 
 The praises of the poet are sure to increase the mnate 
 
 vanity of an acknowledged beauty, and queen rose 
 
 accordingly gave herself great airs in the garden ; 
 There was scarcely a flower whom she did not disdam, 
 
 but she seemed to detest the poppy. 
 What is so eloquent as a lady's hatred ? and thus did 
 
 queen rose address the poppy : — 
 " You vulgar, gaudy creature, pray what brought you 
 
 to court ? 
 Your proper home is among rustics, in the corn-field, 
 
 where you fall a prey to the sickle ; 
 Faugh ! your breath is ofi'ensive to me, I almost faint 
 
 beneath it, in spite of all the natural perfumes with 
 
 which it has pleased Allah and his holy Prophet 
 
 to bless me." 
 
 ' 
 
 •« -Tiff,' 
 
THE ROSE AND THE I'OI'PY. 
 
 
 
 So piously will sorao people concliulo the most uncliarit 
 
 able speeclios. 
 The poppy reddcueil a little at these words, but only 
 
 hung her head in silence ; 
 For modest genius despises the taunts of the self- 
 
 conceited. 
 Now it chanced that the eallph came fortli to wall, in 
 
 the garden, with the beloved of his soul , 
 And he saw and admired the queen ros<', and pl;<cked 
 
 her, and gave her to his companion. 
 And the sultana, being confused at the many b*"autiful 
 
 compliments that the caliph paid her, puKea t\m 
 
 haughty (pieen to pieces, and scattered the leaves 
 
 here and there in the dust as she walked. 
 And on the same day there came into the garden a sage 
 
 philosopher, to whom was intrusted the care of the 
 
 cahph's health ; 
 x\nd he carefully culled the poppy, and prepared troiu 
 
 its seeds an excellent drug. 
 With which he afterwards cured the commander of tiie 
 
 faithful of a grievous malady. 
 
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 STANZAS, 
 
 If woman's eyes were sealed in night, 
 And ne'er again might charm our sight 
 
 With glance divine, 
 How many a heart now wrung with pain, 
 That hopes, yet knows it hopes in vain, 
 
 Would cease to pine ! 
 
 How many a folly, many a crime, 
 Would stain no more the leaves of time, 
 
 And fade away ; 
 But oh ! how many a virtue too, 
 Witli love, dear love, would bid adieu 
 
 To earth for aye. 
 
 Yes ! there are spot^ full many a one 
 In the clear lustre of the sun ; 
 
 Yet who desires 
 To see " that dread, that awfiil day," 
 When the prevailing soul of day 
 
 Shall lo se his fires ? 
 
 But life and heat were little wortli. 
 Should love be banish'd from the earth ; 
 
 And breath can give 
 No joy, if all the fires it fan 
 Grow cold within the heart tf man ; 
 
 Clay cannot Uve. 
 
 % ( 
 
SONGS. 
 
 Oh, scau not too closely a heart that is thine, 
 Whatever its error or frailties may be ; 
 
 Believe not, my love, that it e'er could resign 
 The affection that once it had cherished for thee. 
 
 No ! fancy may sometimes my reason control — 
 The surface be ruffled by passion's fierce breath, 
 
 But trust me, that still in the depths of my soul, 
 Love and reason together shall reign until death. 
 
 And did I but dream that I ever could prove 
 A rebel, my Mary, to honour and thee, 
 
 I would welcome my death, though it robb'd me of love, 
 And rejoice that thou ne'er couldst be injured by me. 
 
 Then scan not too closely a heart that is thine, 
 Wliatever its errors or frailties may be ; 
 
 Believe not, my lov3, that it e'er could resign 
 The affection that once it had cherished for thee. 
 
 
'm- 
 
 
 i.ls 
 
 
 138 
 
 SONGS. 
 
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 SONG. 
 
 II. 
 
 Long had my heart desired to prove 
 The bhssful pains of hearts that love, 
 
 And long desired in vain ; 
 Dull reason stiU would hold its rule-— 
 I had not time to play the fool, 
 
 Or let King Cupid reign. 
 
 Long in my heart a civil war — 
 A thoughtless wretch, I wearied for 
 
 The chains that now I wear ; 
 And envied careworn Juan's sight, 
 Whom Isadora's scornful eyes 
 
 Have doomed to cold despair. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 139 
 
 SONG. 
 
 ! i 
 
 III. 
 
 Bid me not tell thee how long I have loved, 
 Life would be gone ere the tale were half told ; 
 
 Moments of bliss have such ecstasy proved 
 
 Striving to paint them we both should grow old. 
 
 Oh ! by this glance, which I feel must be bright 
 With the heart's glow of affection for thee ; 
 
 Oh ! by the bliss in that sigh which took flight, 
 Guess what the sum of my passion must be. 
 
 Yet if my lips must convmce thee I love, 
 Oh, let them breathe the confession to thine ; 
 
 And that I am prized by thee if thou prove, 
 Mingle thy sighs and thy tears, dear, with mine. 
 
 Thus, while through Ufe we our pilgrimage take, 
 Hope shall spring up and o'erblossom the way ; 
 
 For love of a desert a garden can make, 
 As dreams change the long, lonely night into day. 
 
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 140 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 
 SONG. 
 
 • ■■'I 
 
 I 1 
 
 J ■ 
 
 I 
 
 V? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Free as yon snowy cloud, 
 
 That o'er the azure sky 
 Is wafted gently near 
 
 With ev'ry zephyr's sigh, 
 So would I choose to be 
 
 Removed from earth, 
 And only witnessing 
 
 The lark's sweet mirth. 
 
 For what to me are all 
 
 Life's joys or woes ? 
 I neither dread the thorn. 
 
 Nor love the rose. 
 Alas ! it is my fate 
 
 To live and feel 
 Those pangs which death alone 
 
 Can ever heal. 
 
 I I 
 

 SONGS. 
 
 141 
 
 SONG. 
 
 V. 
 
 As wlien the seaman's sallow clieek 
 
 Relaxes to a smile, 
 When stormy winds have ceased to wreak 
 
 Their fatal ire awhile, 
 And from the midst of cloudy skies 
 
 The sun sends cheerful light, 
 To glad the ocean- wearied eyes, 
 
 With some gi-een island bright ; 
 
 Such joy my inmost bosom knows, 
 ■ When you liave ceased to frown, 
 And all the fearful lovers woes 
 
 At once are conjured down. 
 No more I ckead the future day, 
 
 Nor think on sorrows flown. 
 But bask in love's returning ray, 
 
 I'he present all my own. 
 
 t\ 
 

 
 1 ' ) 
 
 I' - \ 
 
 r./ ' " i 
 
 142 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 i 
 
 
 III " 
 
 SONG. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Love one day to Valour remarked with a smile, 
 " You do noticing but quarrel and fight all the while ; 
 But, in spite of that buclder and falchion of thine, 
 Pray, what is your power after all, Sir, to mine ? " 
 
 " Your power ! " cried grim Valour, "why where is it, 
 
 chUd ? 
 At those playthings of arrows I often have smiled ; 
 They seem to he fitted the robins to slay — 
 No harm could they do to game bigger than they." 
 
 '• Ha ! say you so, bully ? " young Cupid replied ; 
 And Valour soon felt a sad stitch in his side ; 
 In his left side it was, and his heart felt so sore, 
 That he laid down Ids arms, and could quarrel no more. 
 
 How Love then exulted, and laughed at his pain ; 
 He laughed, lost liis breath, fell a laughing again, 
 Till, feeling a little compunction of heart, 
 He called Father Hymen to draw out the dart. 
 
 - 0- 
 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 
 I. 
 
 Leaving bis mountain eyrie far beliind, 
 On mighty pinions swiftly borne away, 
 Tbe eagle bathes his plumage in the day- 
 Such flight is only for the giant's might. 
 Content am I some lowlier path to find— 
 The sonnet's simple loveliness for me, 
 Whose timid muse from angiy Mars would flee. 
 To dwell at peace with nature and mankind. 
 No, rather like the tmieful lark, that springs 
 Into the bosom of the openmg morn, 
 Pouring her raptures o'er the verdant earth ; 
 Still would I breathe of sweet familiar tMngs, 
 In strains 'mid soHtude and silence bom, 
 And dying even as they had their birth. 
 
) M. ii L . . « g. . i<»r m- r'>mm 
 
 ■«*«■ 
 
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 144 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
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 SONNET. 
 
 11. 
 
 Behold, on ocean pillowed into rest, 
 The weary sun his sinning head reposes, 
 Reft of his radiant crown, but wreathed with roses, 
 
 And smiling faintly o'er the thstant west. 
 
 Beliind him glows like fire each mountain's crest, 
 The mighty pines like springing adders seem ; 
 All glittering with the emerald's darkest green, 
 
 They threat with arrowy tongues the heaven's breast. 
 What sUence reigns ! save v.iiere the mmgled voice 
 Of wind and wave are whispering, as iji love, 
 
 Sweet tlungs to one another. In the deep 
 
 Day sinks — the skies grow dark, and night rejoices ; 
 IVIirth, in her countless eyes, that from above 
 
 Look down like dreams into the world of sleep. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 11.1 
 
 I' L W E R S. 
 III. 
 
 Dear smiling flowers, tliat over liill ami dale, 
 Beneath the vernal sun are brightly glowing, 
 Like foot-prints where an angel hath been going 
 I hear your ])erfume voices on the gale. 
 And mark your starry foreheads briglit'and pale 
 Worship at nature's throne, from whence are flowing 
 The streams of light that tint your early blowin.^ 
 And make ye theme of many a poet's tale. 
 Your eyes at mid-day seem to laugh at me, 
 Low seated, musing in the rural sliade, 
 Or wlicn at eve meek vesper twinkles briglit. 
 And I am moved to tears in sympathy, 
 With Philomela's wail in leafy glade : 
 Then shine your dewy eyes with softened light. 
 
Pi! I 
 
 Jf 
 
 I'l . 
 
 
 h), 
 
 H 
 
 \u> 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With me wouklst thou consent tu make thy home ? 
 
 I buihl a palace for thee in my thought ; 
 Though f'AV away thy graceful form may roam. 
 
 Still is thy mem'ry with my heart ciiwrought ; 
 And I behold therein all lovely things, 
 
 In all the sweetest breathings of creation. 
 I hear tliee in the bubbling flow of springs, 
 
 The lark's ascending song of exultation. 
 The zephyr's sighing through the evening air ; 
 
 I hear thee — thou art nature unto me ; 
 And every worldly hope or feverish care 
 
 Vanishes still before one dream of thee. 
 Whoso love can conquer e'en the fierce despair 
 
 Of knowing that thou never mine canst be. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 117 
 
 SOXNET. 
 TO N A T U R E. 
 
 V. 
 
 Baugiitep, of God! Instnictress of this niin.I. 
 
 A mind that ever tunieth unto thoo, 
 Solace in all its miseries to find, 
 From thy reflections of the Deity, 
 Whose spirit animates a world and me, 
 With chains of love my fickle bosom bin,]' 
 
 That I thy fellow-worshipper mny be ; 
 And kneeling, load with prayer and praise th. ^^ in<! 
 
 In yonder sun the Maker do 1 see, 
 Whose beam sustains the life of frail'mankiiid ; 
 
 In earth and ocean, fountain, flower, and tew. 
 In all that lives, his spirit is enshrined ; 
 
 Then to thy arms, Nature, let me' flee. 
 Nor live to doubt and cold despair resign(^d. 
 
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 SONNETS. 
 
 SON N K T. 
 
 T II E K A I N B U W. 
 
 VI. 
 
 (ioij oi' creation, breathless let mc bow, 
 
 Here, in the stillness of the lonely grove, 
 Ami fancy 'tis thine own majestic brow, 
 
 HaJiant with smiles that speak a Father's love 
 J'Vtr all on earth. — I view above me now 
 
 Thhie arch in brightness clad. I ne'er beliokl 
 Yon shining token of thy gracious vow, 
 
 That my heart lUes not swiftly, uncontrolled, 
 And joyous as a winged bird to meet 
 
 'J'hy promised mercy. In that mercy bold, 
 May not the guilty bosom learn to beat 
 
 With hope of thy forgiveness, and unfold 
 l''ri'sh leaves beneath thy fost'ring light, and bear 
 l^'ruits for repentance meet, with penitence and prayer ? 
 
 I I 
 
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SOVNETS. 
 
 II!) 
 
 SOXXMT. 
 
 TO S. T, A LOVER OF FLOWERS. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Angels there are who come in silent night 
 To close the flow'rets' eyes with welcome do^v, 
 An.l ^vatching them the hours of darkness through. 
 Wake them with nectar kisses into light ; 
 So when from earth your spirit takes its flight 
 (Long may your sister seraphs wait for you I) 
 'Twill oft return old friendships to renew 
 With ev'ry little blossom, pale or bright, 
 That fills your bosom now with pure delight, 
 While yet a maiden in our fading bowers, 
 Your soft brown hair all garlanded with flowers ; 
 Your modest charms this simple lay invite, 
 From one who when sweet flowers shall o'er him wave, 
 Would have thee visit once his lonely grave. 
 
 

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 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now Nature slumbers in the embrace of Night, 
 Her gentle breathings in my bosom move 
 Harmonious sympathy, and dreams of love, 
 
 Sweet thoughts that garish day will put to flight ; 
 
 Tlieu let me linger o'er them with delight, 
 And coniniune pleasantly as on I rove, 
 With ev'ry nightingale in yonder grove. 
 
 Or watch the bat's quick whirl, or owlet's flight, 
 And thou, my Song, the lispings of the heart, 
 
 Which, like the infant's stammered words, are dear, 
 
 If not to others, to the parents' ear. 
 Strive to express one little, smallest part 
 
 Of that wild spirit which, within me sleeping. 
 
 Is all that in my mind makes life worth keeping. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 151 
 
 SONNET. 
 DC. 
 
 Omniscient Father, by whose love clivme 
 We breathe the buoyant air of living Iiope, 
 That Faith which reads its glorious horoscope 
 In purer skies, whose stars for ever shine, 
 Oh, let my spirit kindle at the shrine 
 Of earth, thine altar ; and amidst her choir 
 Wmds, waves, and all that is, let me aspire^ 
 To pour to thee, my God, the votive Ime 
 Henceforth celestial rapture may I feel, 
 
 Akin to his who sang creation's doom • 
 Obedient stiU to conscience's appeal, 
 
 In life's sweet twilight shun the bigot's glocm 
 And, heeding all that Nature's lips reveal. 
 Move with a Christian's triumph to the'tomb 
 
 
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 1.V2 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 X. 
 
 ;h 
 
 i 
 
 Mv heart grows weak, and tears are in iny eyes, 
 When I behold how many a lofty brow 
 Before tlie idol, Interest, deigns to bow 
 Submissive. Ev'ry thought of high emprize, 
 Valour, religion, love (the strongest ties 
 'Twixt God and man), we tremble to avow. 
 As in the days of old it is not now — 
 All brotherhood as folly we despise. 
 A. pampered steed, a very dog, we prize 
 Beyond our fellow-mortals ; nor confess 
 Emotions soft of manly tenderness. 
 Lest the cold world should laugh to hear our sighs, 
 Break, selfish heart, whene'er our souls shall i)rove 
 Deaf to the thrilling voice of pity, virtue, love. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 loS 
 
 S x\ JV E T. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 XI. 
 
 : f 
 
 Tiiou plnxntom dark of pleasure passed away 
 Grim gliost of buried time, fell Memory ^ " 
 Hie to Amlition^s hall, there seek thy prey • 
 But leave this spii-it from thy fetters free, ' ' 
 I cannot, and I will not, dwell with thee' 
 Whose glance malign, like deadly lightniiig ...ars 
 Thou mak'st this beauteous world a dreary sea ' 
 U licro man is wrecked by solf-crc:t^od fears 
 That to a moment give th. force -i yeav^ ; 
 And, in the whirlpool of b!,-,ck desnrdr ' 
 Engulph his sinking soul A\.av, ^veak t' u-s 
 IMy bark the sails of Fail!, shall ^afoh- bo-,,' 
 While Hope, with eye and hand, intrepid steer. 
 'I'o the one land unvisited by care. 
 
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 154 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 S N N E T. 
 XIL 
 
 Stand firm, ye few, who in this selfish earth 
 Hold independence as your hest estate, 
 And by that creed are made more truly great 
 Tiian ever tyrant was, whose rule was dearth, 
 And woe, and desolation. Ye whom fate 
 Compels to sit in shade of no man's gate. 
 And beg for power or peace ; ye whose dear hearth 
 la hedged around with faces beaming mirth 
 
 And beautiful contentment, still, oh ! still, 
 For Freedom's noble birthright live and die. 
 
 In peace the holy offices fulfil 
 Of charity and love ; but when the cry 
 Of greedy foes to England menace ill, 
 Arise, and smite their legions hip and thigh. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 I. 5. J 
 
 S ^ i\ E T. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 XIII. 
 
 Wh. art thou sad? The eorth, the heaven, the sc. 
 
 rhough each hath changes like the hu.nan hear 
 (Cimnges from light to darkness), they to mc 
 
 Tlie simple lesson of content impart 
 Why pluck the olive-branch to form a dart 
 
 s^^^^TT"^' ''''''' Learn to hear 
 lalientlyevryiJ'; for with the smart 
 
 Ofttmies comes good; then laugh at grhn desmir 
 As the sun tints the cloud in azure air ' 
 
 With silv'ry rachance-as the ocean keens 
 
 A solemn calmness in her lowest deeps 
 Let blest content, amid the thorns of care 
 
 Plant roses ; and, when weaker nature weeps 
 Oh! let the soul her holy influence share 
 
M f *■ 
 
 156 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 S N N E T. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 XIV. 
 
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 Deeams are the fuiries bencatli wisdom's reign, 
 All banished from the cheerful light of day ; 
 
 And in the darksome chambers of the brain, 
 
 Jiike mophig nmis, are destined to remain. 
 But oft at midnight's hour they break a^^•ay. 
 When reason, their gruff jailor, nods, and i>iiy 
 
 Gossiping visits to their friends around, 
 
 In ocean, air, on earth, and underground. 
 
 Ofttimes they join Titania's fairy train, 
 
 "Where, with winged feet, in wild sequestered glade, 
 They circle some vast oak of ancient shade, 
 
 Merrily til! the morn ; when, caught again, 
 They to their nunnciy are once more conveyed. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
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 lade, 
 
 S N X E T. ' 
 
 XV. 
 
 [The two following Sonnets originally appeared as traiislatians 
 from the Italian. The former is supposed to be addresse.l 
 hy a friend to Columbu,--, then about to depart on Iii.s second 
 voyage.] 
 
 Nb, Colon ; thou, by Nature's changeless laws, 
 
 Wast formed to breathe the atmosphere of fame 
 
 (I live on love"s thin air). Despair's fell name 
 
 Can never lili with fright thy soul of flame— 
 
 A soul that (lisappohitments fail to tame. 
 
 On ! on ! thy fate points onwards ; thou must reap 
 
 Thine immortality ui)on the deep. 
 
 Wide continents their great discoverer claim. 
 
 But bid me not go witli thee. I am one 
 
 Whose heart is of a weaker love than thine ; 
 It teaches me the treacherous wave tt) shun ; 
 
 Nor all the wealth of Ophir s richest miue 
 Could tempt me to desert Italia's sun, 
 
 The land of deatldess song, ripe lips, and ruby v, iuo. 
 
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 158 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 S X N E 1\ 
 xvi. 
 
 
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 '■' I FEAR long looking on my lady's eyes, 
 That rival yonder sun's refulgent light, 
 May yet, perchance, destroy the bliss of sight." 
 Su did I speak, determined to he wise. 
 And turned my gaze aside, but heaviest sighs 
 Shook my poor heart, and I had died outright 
 If once again their glance (alas ! how bright) 
 Had not revived me. All in vain he tries 
 
 To 'scape who carries in himself a foe, 
 And death is worse than blindness. Should it be 
 The will of fate that I must cease to see. 
 
 My latest look on her I will bestow, 
 Whom, but to be permitted to behold, 
 Is worth a Caesar's fame, a Croesus' hoarded gold. 
 
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 SONNETS. 
 
 15f) 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And can I e'er forget thee, thougli thou art 
 Far from the arms that fam would clasp thee now ? 
 No, loved one of the fair unclouded brow, 
 I still embrace thee in a changeless heart, 
 And never shall the hallowed mem'ry part 
 From this sad spirit of the hours we spent 
 Together beneath hope's blue firmament ; 
 When casting off thy sex's bashful art, 
 Thou didst confess I had not loved in vain. 
 Then were the fountains of my soul unsealed, 
 I melted into tears, sweet tears that yield 
 More bhss than smUes enshrine. The summer's rain 
 Fostereth the drooping rose, love brighter beams 
 When on the passion-flower a tear-drop gleams. 
 
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 SONNETS. 
 
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 S (I N X E T 
 TO A]\IBri'ION. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 How desolate the Imiiiau lioart without 
 
 I'heo, soul-sustaining passion ! liike some hall, 
 
 Where long has ceased to peal the merry shout 
 (3f revellers, who now are sleeping all 
 Within the circle of a churchyard wall ; 
 
 Or the unworn cuivasss, a wreck all red 
 
 With rust of long disuse Thy magic thrall 
 
 Strengthens its captive. Thouglits that long seemed 
 dead 
 
 Revive like dew-crushed floAvers hencath thy ray. 
 
 Thou hidst the weary mhid spring forth anew, 
 (Switt as the steed) upon the thorny way 
 
 To po\\ er. More miracles thy medicmes do 
 Than erst Siloam's wave. Oh, never may 
 My soul be severed from thy healthful sway. 
 
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 LOVK-SIOK GJIiL A\D TIIK NIGHTINGAM:, 
 
 On ! gentlest niglitingaie, 
 Once more tliy plaintive tale 
 
 Repeat — repeat to me ; 
 It will be passing sweet 
 My own sad thoughts to greet, 
 
 In thy soft melody. 
 
 It was but yester morn 
 Ere I was thus forlorn ; 
 
 The merry lark I heard, 
 And then I did thee wrong, 
 In loving more her song 
 
 Than tliine, pensive bird ! 
 
 For then I was as free, 
 And blithe and full of glee, 
 
 As any larks tliat shig ; 
 But now a wretch am I, 
 Nor know for what I sifjh, 
 
 Nor what a cure may bring. 
 
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162 
 
 THE LOVE-SICK GIRL. 
 
 *A 
 
 It was but yesternight 
 That all my joy took flight, 
 
 When Henry bade good-bye ; 
 For when he kiss'd my cheek, 
 Though nothing did he speak, 
 
 I think I heaved a sigh. 
 
 ■il 
 
 To speak not was unkind, 
 But a word I coidd not find ! 
 
 My eyes did speak, I fear ; 
 Yet why am I afraid. 
 If it was only truth they said ? 
 
 I am sure there was a tear. 
 
 I wish I had not sighed ! 
 I wish I had not cried ! 
 
 I am always such a child ; 
 He will soon again be here. 
 Why should I shed a tear, 
 
 Why could not I have smiled ? 
 
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 There's the nightingale again ! 
 What a sweet and mournful strain ! 
 
 The bird must mourn for love ; 
 And the poets say and swear 
 That love is everywhere — 
 
 Around, below, above. 
 
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ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Love ! if now tliou art 
 Hidden within my heart, 
 
 Wlien my eyes with sleep are dim. 
 Spread tliy wing, and flee away, 
 And to my Henry say, 
 
 " His Ellen dreams of him." 
 
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 ANACEEONTIC. 
 
 Mother of the tuneful Nine, 
 Nature prompt my ev'ry line ; 
 I would not, had I Homer's fire. 
 To Mars and Slaughter strike the lyre ; 
 A dearer theme my bosom fills, 
 My veins a softer rapture thrills ; 
 Love, I know thy honied sting, 
 And the flutter of thy wing ; 
 In my heart thou sitt'st supreme. 
 Making life a lover's dream. 
 Full of visions angel bright. 
 Till awakening in delight. 
 Tremulous I touch the strings ; 
 'Tis not I—'tis Cupid sings. 
 
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 PARAPHRASES & TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 V; 
 
 DAXAE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM SIMONIDES. 
 
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 When now, above the fragile bark, 
 The howling tempest gathered dark, 
 
 And wide the foaming billows spread, 
 Daniie, wild with rising fears, 
 Her eyes bedew'd with bitter tears, 
 
 r >und Perseus threw her arras, and said; 
 
 " X -ju durst not guess, babe divine ! 
 The griefs that rend this heart of mine ; 
 
 Thou sleepest on thy mother's breast, 
 Nor knowest how weak a bark is ours, 
 Nor dread'st the angry ocean's powers — 
 
 The winds but lullaby thy rest. 
 
DANAE. ]({.-, 
 
 "Wrapt in thy little cloak, ray child, 
 Iliou heeJ'st not the waters wilJ, 
 
 As o'er thy long dark hair they sweep ; 
 My love, my life ! if thou couldst see 
 Thy hapless mother's misery, 
 
 Those slumb'ring eyes would learn to weep. 
 
 " Yet sleep, my boy~-I charge thee sleej), 
 And slumber thou, resistless deep, 
 
 And sleep ye, too, my many woes ; 
 Oh ! grant, great Jove, a mother's pi'ayer, 
 My Perseus in thy mercy spare 
 
 (Bash wish !) tu punish Danae's foes." 
 
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 FEOM ANACREON. 
 
 
 'If, 
 
 
 Young Cupid, on a day, 
 'Mid roses, as he lay, 
 Was wounded by a bee ; 
 To bis mother hurried he ; 
 " mother," thus he said, 
 " I am slain — ^I am dead ! 
 A wing'd serpent small, 
 Which I think a bee they call, 
 Has stung my finger here. 
 And I greatly, greatly fear 
 With the pain I shall expire, 
 For my hand is hot as fire." 
 " silly Cupid, fie ! " 
 Thus his mother made reply, 
 " If such weapon as a sting 
 Of a bee can hurt you so, 
 Away, child, you should fling 
 Your arrows and your bow." 
 
FROM ANACREON. 
 
 1()7 
 
 ODE XI. 
 
 What recks it me of Gyges' Jot ? 
 His wealth aud power I envy not. 
 
 * * • * 
 
 My beard with scented oUs shall shine, 
 The rose shall deck this brow of mine '■ 
 So smooth shall glide my life away, 
 The gods have given me to-day; 
 To whom the morrow ?— who shall say ? 
 Then, Cupid, view a slave in me. 
 And, Bacchus, let me worship thee. 
 Till Death's last pangs Anacreon prove, 
 Then farewell wine, and farewell love. ' 
 
 ODE XXIX. 
 
 The Muses Cupid bind with flowers, 
 And Beauty's arms enfold him ; 
 Vainly a ransom Venus brings— 
 He loves tlie bonds that hold him. 
 
mm 
 
 1()8 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 ■!^ ! 
 
 ODE XXXIII. 
 
 Nympii of the flashing eye and S[)rightly air, 
 The rosy cheelc, and yellow waving hair, 
 Arrest thy flying footsteps, and draw near ; 
 Say, why do hoary locks inspire such fear ? 
 E'en in yon garland see how brightly glows 
 The argent lily with the ruby rose. 
 
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 'I' I! 
 
 ODE XXXVIII. 
 
 ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! Spring appears in mantle green, 
 And flowers are welcoming their queen ; 
 Mark how the duck, in sportive mood. 
 Dives 'neath the gently-swelling flood ; 
 See how the crane pursues his way ; 
 Creation hails the genial day ; 
 Behold ! the clouds have ta'en their flight- 
 What cheerful pros})ects bless the sight ! 
 How beauteously the olives bloom, 
 Fair tokens of earth's fruitful womb ! 
 Now cast thine eyes on yonder vine. 
 Whence, Bacchus, flows thy blood divme 
 See how, 'mid leaflet, branch, and shoot, 
 Clusters the ruby-coloured fruit. 
 
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 '' 1^ <> M If W A (J K, 
 BOOK r.— ODE viir. 
 
 :iit- 
 
 SPKAK, Ly.lia, spoalc, by all tl.e powers abovo, 
 Why w,lt thou hnste to kill with too much love' 
 Why hates young Sybaris tlie sunny plain ? 
 Why shuns the youth the once-loved warrior train ' 
 And why neglect the Gallic steed to rein ' 
 Why dreads he now the yellow Tiber's flood ' 
 The healthy oil, as though 'twere vh.or's blood ' 
 VVliy not, as heretofore, his arms e.:^r,,e— 
 His lusty arms, well used to cope with foes ? 
 And once again hear plaudits loud resound 
 At dart or discus hurl'U beyond the bound • 
 Why, like Achilles doth he lurk conceal'd ' 
 Who shunn'd the manly dress and Trojan field ? 
 
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OI)I„S. 
 
 BOOK I.— ODE XXXVIII. 
 
 The idle pomp of Persian state, 
 
 All ceremonious airs I hate ; 
 
 Your costly wreaths I would not see 
 
 Twined with laborious care for me ; 
 
 Cease, boy, to rob the leafy bow'rs 
 
 Of all their few remaining flow'rs ; 
 
 The simple myrtle branch instead, 
 
 With emerald leaves, shall crown my head ; 
 
 Whilst under the o'erhauging vine, 
 
 I drain the cup you fill with wine, 
 
 The myrtle suits your brow and mine. 
 
 BOOK n.— ODE II. 
 
 R'SNOWn'd for lyric and satiric lay, 
 
 A two-fold poet, I 
 Shall on strong wing be upward borne 
 
 Above the liquid sky ; 
 No more shall earth my spiiit bind — 
 To heav'n I'll soar, and envy leave behind. 
 
ODES. 
 
 Ku! my Mu'cenas, wlio wnst over just, 
 A witness to nij- wonh, 
 
 % wJioni I'm cuiiiited us a Ivwm], 
 
 Dcsinte my luimblo l.inh ; 
 
 I shall not lie forgotten in tlie grave, 
 
 Or pine encircled by tl.o Stygian wave. 
 
 Rougli grows ,ny skin : anon, my upper half 
 
 Is changed into a swan; 
 Soft down and plumage sprout apace. 
 
 My arms and fingers on ; 
 Than Daedalus more swift I soar, 
 And flap my wings o'er groaning Busphorus' shore. 
 
 By Scythian stream and Colchian sliore, 
 
 Where Rhine majestic flows. 
 Where dwell the Dacians wont to hide 
 
 Their fear of Roman foes, 
 O'er Afric's sand, and Hyperborean plain, 
 ShaU sweep in cadence soft my touching strain. 
 
 For me I ask no funeral chant 
 
 WJien soaring out of sight ; 
 Unfit the mourner's siglis and tears 
 
 To grace my glorious flight : 
 Let solemn silence rule the general mien, 
 And no vain pageant crown the closing scene. 
 
 171 
 
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