LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OP LYRICAL RECREATIONS LYRICAL RECREATIONS BY SAMUEL WARD Je vous dontte avecque niafoy Ce qu H y a de mieulx en ft toy. MACMILLAN AND CO. 1883 COPYRIGHT 1883 BY SAMUEL WARD. GIFT Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh. us ^ 1883 TO THE EARL OF ROSEBERY, Decori Scotice et Hwnanitatis. THE muse I wooed at fifty-two Bore me these urchin lays, Which raise their lowly heads anew Since quickened by thy praise. Will they live on, to vindicate The memory of their sire, Whom Fate compelled to leave to fate These foundlings of his lyre ? What care we ? Ere the pyramids The priests of Isis sang, While on the kingly coffin-lids The graver s chisel rang, 754 vi TO THE EARL OF ROSEBERY. Carving great deeds on stone to cheat Oblivion of its prey, Until the last reveille should beat The dawn of Judgment Day. The priests are dust, the crumbling fane In piteous ruin lies ; In loving hearts the holy strain Of David never dies. TJ7HEN in -my walks I meet some ruddy lad Or swarthy man, with tray-beladen head, Whose smile entreats me, or his -visage sad, To buy the images he moulds for bread ; I think that, though his poor Greek Slave in chains, His Venus and her Boy with Blaster dart, Be, like the organ-grinder s quavering strains. But farthings in the currency of art ; Such coins a kingly effigy still wear, Let metals base or precious in them -mix ; The painted vellum hallows not the Prayer Nor ivory nor gold the Crucifix. CONTENTS. To THE EARL OF ROSEBERY . . . . v THE POET S ACRE i IGNES FATUI 3 MONKHOOD 5 TIME THE AUCTIONEER n THE GLASS-BLOWER I4 THE MONITOR 17 PANACEA X g MONTAUK LIGHT 2I HYMN TO MARS 25 THE MAIDEN S CHILDREN 2 $ ZISKA . . 32 METEMPSYCHOSIS 37 THE WISE MAIDEN 40 THE HEBREW ALPHABET 42 PORRIGO DEXTRAM 44 THE BLIND FIDDLER 47 x CONTENTS, PAGE NEW Music 51 STRADIVARIUS 54 NOCTURNE 56 TRIBUTE TO THE LOST SCORE .... 59 THE PERFECT WAY 61 THE EXILE 63 SENESCENTIA 65 ANTEPENULTIMATE 67 THE MORROW OF THE FUNERAL 69 THE OLD ROPE 73 FALCONRY 77 THE CHARGE 85 LOST AND FOUND 86 A ROYAL ABODE 92 VATHEK 95 SUB TEGMINE FAGI 98 CHANT DU DEPART 101 POIGNARD OR PlLLS ? 103 To ALFRED TENNYSON 105 To THE POET OF FARRINGFORD .... 107 To LADY S. G in To SIBELL 113 IMPROMPTU TO MRS. HOWE . . . .114 LINES WRITTEN IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM . Il6 To MY NIECE DAISY INTERPRETING LISZT . -117 To EDGAR ALLAN POE 120 CONTENTS. xi PAGE To WALT WHITMAN 122 IMPROMPTU IN AN ALBUM 125 SIRO DELMONICO 126 FRUITION 131 LEAVES AND STARS 133 OCTOBER LAY 135 SONG OF THE WREN 139 ORCHARD FANTASIA 143 A WAKING DREAM 147 THE INCOMPLETE PICTURE 149 THE TRYST 151 To CONSUELO 156 NOT WINE ALONE 158 THE RUBY GOBLET ...... 161 BOHEMIAN SONG 166 WALTZ 169 MAZURKA 172 DAWN AT MIDNIGHT 174 THE MOON AND THE BEACON .... 176 LA CHOCOLATIERE 178 DOLORES 180 TITIAN TO STELLA 182 " No CARDS " 184 A DEPARTING BRIDE 186 LlEBESRUHE . . 1 88 xii CONTENTS. PAGE THE MARINER S BETROTHED . . . .190 CATECHISM Ig2 METATHALAMIUM 195 ZAMPITA i 97 TODESFRAGE 2OI GIVE ME Jov 203 IN FIFTH AVENUE 206 To A WELL-KNOWN CAMELLIA .... 210 UNDERGRADUATE 2I2 IMPROMPTU 214 To GRACE 216 THE VALLEY-LILY 217 SONG . 218 LE MANOIR DE LOCKSLEY 221 AT LAST 226 ENFIN 227 LA SYLPHIDE 230 THE SYLPHIDE 231 A LA COMTESSE IDA 236 MA SAINTE AUX ROSES 238 STANCES A SIBELLE 240 A MA GRACE DARLING 242 A LA PRINCESSE MARGOT 244 A LAURE 246 I. THE POET S ACRE. DOWN the mountain as I wandered, And upon the landscape pondered, Where, as in a net, Lordly hedge and stately railing With the farmer s wooden paling Intersecting met, Compassing the field of azure Of the lake no rigid measure Mapped unequally, I bethought me, " Such division Of the plain is a derision," When my roving eye Rested on the sexton s barrow Shrinking near the portal narrow Of the churchyard green, B THE POET S ACRE. Where fill prince and peasant places Equal as the chessboard s spaces, Hold they pawn or queen. Still the zig-zag path descending, Came I to a painter blending, On a tinier scale, Under April s sunshine merry, Meadow, lake, and cemetery Sparkling in the vale. And with passionate expansion, Free from envy, I the mansion And the cot surveyed, Coveting nor manor pleasant, Nor the patches which the peasant Vexed with hoe and spade. Happy, though without an acre, While supplies the paper-maker Sod like this fair page, Into which, at Fancy s hours, I transplant the wayside flowers Of my pilgrimage. IGNES FATUI. A DREAM the limner s waking eyes Shall strive to seize, As vainly as the bark that flies Before the breeze ; A strain that flutters in the ear Yet shuns the throat, As ceases, when you draw too near, The linnet s note ; An echo which, within a vale, Responds no more Than a belov d one, by the gale Cast dead ashore ; The stations of the stars at noon, The silvery wake Poured by the horn of last night s moon Upon the lake ; I ONES FATUL The memory of April s grace When trees are bare, Or of December s frosty face When June is fair ; To strike from air those sparks of bliss, In solitude, Which seemed eternal when your kiss Its fellow wooed ; To ask a friend the boon yourself Had freely given, And find him dearer prizing pelt Than love or heaven ; To toil from dawn till day is old, With bleeding hands, Yet fail to find one grain of gold In mocking sands ; So seem and such the shapes that throng Him who pursues Endeavouring to entrap in song The wayward Muse. MONKHOOD. SEMI-RIGID, half-elastic, Was the pious, old monastic Scheme of life ; When the lenten bread of heaven With a dash of human leaven Aye was rife. Through dark ages, they kept burning The forbidden lamps of learning In their cells ; As, in Afric s sands, the rover, With protecting stones, doth cover The glad wells. MONKHOOD. And, with ecstasy, the stainless Mother loved they, who, in painless Travail, bore HIM whose birth and crucifixion Loosed the bonds of our affliction Evermore. Lordly herds, on meadows, thriving Under vineyards, they, by shriving Sinners, got. Pious hinds their wealth augmented, And their broad lands tilled, contented With their lot. That the Friars worldly pleasure, In their lay-days, without measure Had enjoyed, And discovered that the madness Of the revel s sinful gladness Left a void ; Taught them that the peasant s toil, On the mute but grateful soil Is a fate MONKHOOD. Happier than his wild ambition, Who aspires to patrician Pomp and state. And the monk, so old and shabby, Seemed the image of his Abbey, Gray and hoary : Winter s rudest blasts defying, With its inward and undying Warmth of glory. Chimed the convent-bell a marriage ? He uncoifed his austere carriage, And was mortal, As with benediction saintly, Ushered he the fond ones quaintly Through hope s portal. But a sad yet tender riot Sometimes thrilled his pulse s quiet With strange charms, When the holy-water glistened On the new-born infant, christened In his arms. MONKHOOD. And you saw each waxen finger With unconscious twitchings linger Round the boy ; As though yearnings, pent and hidden, Cried within, for the forbidden Human joy. And his eyes, through fond mists glowing, Saw the babe in stature growing, Till the day When himself its soul might foster, And, with creed and Pater-noster, Point the way. Like the glass a sigh hath clouded, Brighter shone his gaze when, crowded Near the font, He beheld God s children pressing, And bestowed a warmer blessing Than his wont. Called the death-bell s lingering knelling Prince or peasant from life s dwelling To depart ? MONKHOOD. By those Heaven-sent stewards shriven, Who the imps of sin had driven From his heart, Each a message, as he kissed him, Whispered softly and dismissed him On glad wing ; Like the bark that carries tidings From a Viceroy s distant hidings To his King. Fiercely they rebuked the scorner, Tenderly consoled the mourner In his sorrow j Eyes, all moist to-day with sadness, Shone serene midst festive gladness On the morrow. Thus abroad, with zeal unending, Rich and poor alike befriending, Lived the Friars ; Vigil, fast, and flagellations Mortified the world s temptations And desires. io MONKHOOD. And when waxed the poor monk paler, Until granted him Life s gaoler His release, Earth s sad stewardship resigning, Homeward flew his spirit, pining, Into peace. TIME THE AUCTIONEER. STANDS the clock within the hall, Like a monk against the wall, Like a hooded monk with eyes Owl-like, spectral, solemn, wise, In whose sockets, moon and sun, Mimic phase and season run ; While, beneath the face austere, " Going ! Gone ! Going ! Gone !" Time, the ruthless Auctioneer, Sells the moments one by one ; Moments all too cheaply sold, Save to Love, for lavished gold, Save to crime, with dagger bold ! Four and twenty times a day Step the Morrice-dancers gay, TIME THE AUCTIONEER. From their tire-room in the clock, At the hour s impatient knock ; Wind in courteous rigadoon, Wind in cadence with the tune, Vanish with its blithsome strain, " Going! Gone! Going! Gone!" Time his hammer raps again. Hark ! A groan ! Hark ! A groan ! Groan for that bright hour just past, Breathed by one would hold it fast, For the next shall be his last ! Through the western oriel fall Sunset glories in the hall. Thus at eve they ever pour Rainbowed rapture on the floor. Now the Virgin s lips are pressed On yon cherub s sculptured rest, Now ascends a crimson stain From the storied window-pane, Till the light of evening skies Glimmers in those sleepless eyes. TIME THE AUCTIONEER. 13 Drink, poor monk, the lingering rays, "Going ! Gone ! Going ! Gone !" Brief their lustre ! Brief thy gaze On the sun ! Day is done ! Pensive, in the twilight hour, Sits the maiden in her bower ; Broods the felon in his tower. One the noon a bride shall see ! One at noon shall cease to be ! THE GLASS-BLOWER. FROM chaos, with creative hand And fiery breath and magic wand, I saw an artizan expand And mould a crystal earth, Where Plain and Hill and Sea and Isle Were blended in the sunny smile That saw our Planet s birth. Where trees sprang up, whose foliage, dyed Unfadingly in Summer s pride, Rude Autumn s withering breath defied, And Winter s icy blasts ; And ships, becalmed on wrinkled seas, Though full their sails, felt not the breeze That bent their tapering masts. THE GLASS-BLOWER. 15 A city rose upon the shore And, on its quay, the stevedore Awaited to unload and store That spell-bound navy s freight ; While on the scaffold felons stood, Unhanged above the multitude, Before the prison gate. In gardens of ungathered fruit, Young lovers sat whose tongues were mute, Nor thrilled its spell the anxious lute Within the maiden s hands ; They smiled, in bliss without regret, As only they who feel not yet The altar s silken strands. And when the adept s task was done, I saw the boy for whom was spun That globe, its beauties, one by one, With childish ardour greet ; Then clutch it with such eager grip That mountain, city, tree, and ship Fell shivered at his feet ; 1 6 THE GLASS-BLOWER. And thought when down shall shade his chin, And Fancy mould a world akin To that bright Earth, unstain d by sin, The adept s fingers wrought He ll clutch and lose it, as a boy, The bubbles which he saw with joy In rainbow meshes caught. Yet, when his disenchanted eyes Shall cease to see the mirage rise, Between him and the desert s skies, Above the phantom wave, He ll halt and kneel and cross his hands, Nor long the Simoon s shifting sands Will mark the new-made grave. THE MONITOR. A MISER joined a funeral train, With flinty eye, And thought, "Yon wretch, whose every vein I drained till naught was left to gain, Did well to die." He passed the cypress-sentried gate With footstep firm ; Nay, lighter trod, because elate " That his was not the lonely fate Of that poor worm." He stood the yawning grave beside, All undismayed, While Delver and Sacristan vied Which first the coffin s lid should hide With eager spade. c 1 8 THE MONITOR. Then, homeward sauntering, he passed His father s tomb, And felt his pulses throbbing fast, In memory of his joy when last He, through its gloom, Saw glittering the radiant hoard, His lifelong lust, Forgetful that, though now its lord, He soon must by his sire be stored, And waste to dust. But when, at home, to meet him, stole The meek-faced lad Into whose lap must one day roll The wealth for which he d pawned his soul, His brow grew sad. PANACEA. WHEN skies are gray, and droops my mateless heart Within this attic drear, I wander forth into the restless mart, Through labour s busy sphere, Or thread the moist and dismal lanes, Where poverty reveals its pains. My wind-swept garret then a palace seems, A tropic sun my fire, My books a mine of bliss, while cheerly steams The kettle s soothing choir. My toast is made, my tea is brewed Once more with smiling gratitude. 20 PANACEA. So I, comparing mine with sadder stars, Thus magnify its light, Which seems to those encaged by misery s bars With happiest lustre bright ; The lot of captive, drudge, or slave Is brighter far, beside the grave, Than mine, compared with that by them deplored, Or than the grander fate Of Croesus, revelling amidst his hoard, A king without a state, Though for his standard taketh he The measure of my poverty. MONTAUK LIGHT. Latitude 41 4 1 2" N. Longitude 7 1 5 1 54" W. BEFORE the stars appear on high, I open wide my Cyclops eye, Like them unseen by day ; Though, while they roll in distant realms, My vacant face still guides the helms That o er the waters stray. The only living things I view, At times, are cormorant and mew ; Yet, from my stage-box grand, I watch the drama of the skies, And hear, through awful symphonies, The Storm-King lead his band. 22 MONT AUK LIGHT. When clouds obscure the starry host, My smile beams brighter on the tossed And storm-imperilled ships ; While rock-cleft surges shoreward hie, Like troubled souls whose bodies lie Where yon horizon dips. Then booms the signal-gun its prayer, And counts with pulse of wild despair The moments that remain To those upon some bark forlore, Ere from its wreck their souls shall soar Beyond the hurricane. The dawning day uncurtains night As on a plain where fierce in fight At eve men charged and fell ; The slain, amid bale, plank, and spar, Though undefaced by bruise or scar, The Tempest s victory tell, On serpent waves, that languidly Unroll their coils along the sea, With victims satiate, MO NT AUK LIGHT. 23 Until to sharp resentment urged, By jutting points of rocks submerged, Their dripping jaws dilate. Yet as to Shakespeare, so to me, Thaleia and Melpomene Alternate come and go ; Once more flits by the merry fleet Of barks, as in a royal street The chariots to and fro. The full-plumed ship, the wingless car That, shuttle-like, to strands afar, Bears that bright thread of gold Which weaves, with human sympathy, Between the warps of sky and sea, The New World to the Old. And I survive the barks that ply Above the wrecks and crews that lie Beneath the glutton wave, As stately cenotaphs outlive The mourners who have met to grieve Around a new-made grave. 24 MO NT A UK LIGHT. The. cross, upon the only fane That decks some lone and dreary plain, Sees not the temples fair Which, stretching in a zone sublime, Take up in turn its belfry s chime And girt the earth with prayer : Nor I, adown the seaboard line, My giant kin with eyes benign, On keys and headlands ramp ; Like pickets posted on the shore, Where quicksands lurk and breakers roar, Before the Atlantic camp. As when a father shares his gold, The sun, ere day s last knell is tolled, Confides to each a ray, And like a captain when the word And pass at change of guard are heard, He bids us watch till day. HYMN TO MARS. SINCE ages dim in deathless sleep, As knights in bronze sepulchral keep O er tombs their silent guard, Thy lone watch thou, with stately pace, Hast measured in creation s race, Mars with the golden beard ! But brighter glows thy ruddy eye, When Heav n s grand minuet brings thee nigh l To Earth whilom endeared ; And, o er thy fiery cheek, a smile Of happy dreams doth play the while, Mars with the golden beard ! 1 Written in June, 1860, when Mars, in his perigee, had shortened his greatest distance from the earth by something more than one hundred and fifty millions of miles. 26 HYMN TO MARS. Dreams of thy brief terrestrial home On Tiber s banks, in infant Rome Where thou art still revered ; When Rhea left the vestal shrine To bear thee Romulus Quirinine, Mars with the golden beard ! Creation s mighty problem solved, And out of chaos dark evolved The star for man prepared, With thee there came a spirit band, From higher spheres, to grace the land,- Mars with the golden beard ! Like birds in spring on Arctic rocks, Or mariners, who from ocean s shocks, To some lone isle have veered, Cleaving ethereal realms of light, Ye landed on Olympus height, Mars with the golden beard ! They on glad plains, in moulds of grace, Fashioned and beautified our race ; In Etna s caverns seared, HYMN TO MARS. 27 The sword to Vulcan gavest thou, From which he forged the primal plough, Mars with the golden beard ! To nature wild abandoned long, In sportive dance and festive song, Earth s children first were reared ; Thy brother Gods loved, drank, and ate, E en Zeus himself threw off all state, Mars with the golden beard ! But thou didst teach the sons of toil To delve the brown glebe s fecund soil Neath flowery meads unspared ; In vernal months to plant and sow, To harvest when days shorter grow, Mars with the golden beard ! And when, years o er, their task was done, From earth rebounding to the sun, By man more loved than feared, Each sought his planet-home afar, And with them, thou, red God of War, Mars with the golden beard ! THE MAIDEN S CHILDREN. Suggested by Miss Stebbins s statue of the Lotus- Eater. A MAIDEN in her summer bloom, Whose heart had neither felt love s thorn Nor yet rejected love with scorn, Lamented thus her sex s doom : " Ah me ! whose gaze dare not engage In mystic tilt with belted knight, Nor venture e en in sport to plight A glance to squire or beardless page ; Exposed to cold and sordid eyes, Like Georgian nymph in Eastern mart, Who only may her hand impart To him whose gold her beauty buys ; THE MAIDEN S CHILDREN. 29 Whilst like the incandescent blush, That with feigned warmth doth tantalise Earth s breast congealed neath Arctic skies Electric thrills my being flush ; " As though within me gleamed a fire Unfed a glowing, not a burning A coming thirst, a nascent yearning, A subtle, nameless, vague desire. " Ah ! would my soul from Earth were free ; For, like the puzzled bird that flies Twixt fowler s net and serpent s eyes, I dread my sex s destiny !" An angel heard the maiden s sigh, And gently led her spirit where In dreams she saw a temple, fair With chiselled forms not doomed to die : The brow of Jove, serene, august ; The breathing, almost blushing, frame Of Psyche, whose ethereal name The soul takes when it leaves the dust ; 30 THE MAIDEN S CHILDREN. Apollo listening to his lyre ; Minerva softened by its strains ; And she within whose sea-born veins For ever burns Love s unquenched fire ; The Graces three, the sacred Nine Whose snowy brows and vestal hearts Defied the Boy-God s flame-tipped darts ; And mortals more than half divine. But when the maiden s slumber broke, Those god-like shapes, through memory stealing And Art s ideal world revealing, To new resolves her soul awoke. A roofless shrine deep in the glade, Where leant, neglected, moss-bestained, The marble god who there had reigned, Hallowed her vow, with fervour made On bended knee : "The unwed Bride Of Art divine henceforth I ll be ; And rear a spotless family, With all a mother s love and pride. THE MAIDEN S CHILDREN. 31 " My travail thus shall realise, Without a pang, her chastest joys ; In snowy marble shall my boys Beneath my fostering hands arise. " Since to their frames I may not give The quickening pulses of my heart, My soul its graces shall impart, And in their stainless bodies live. " Their snowy shapes, without defect, Angelic beauty shall display ; No inborn sin of mortal clay Shall envious eye in them detect." And as a form embalmed in song Awakens to the music sweet Which lulled it in its winding-sheet, So did the maiden s touch, ere long, Awake to life, with pious art, The graceful phantom here congealed ; A Phoenix, though in snow revealed, Out of the ashes of her heart. ZISKA. WHEN first my infant eyes took in the glory Of this fair earth, Ere on them fell the shadow of the story Of mortal birth, The blessed light above seemed but one fusion Of many a sun, And closing, they imprisoned the illusion That Heaven was won. When I looked forth again, God s bright creation Revealed its forms Beneath the orb which every constellation Illumes and warms. ZISKA. 33 I then discovered mid the heavenly spaces Vast depths of blue, And on the earth the landscape s myriad graces, Of varied hue ; Unconscious that, as cleared the golden vision, It darker grew, I revelled in green fields and groves Elysian With joys all new ; The sun seemed sent to me alone for reading Nature s great book, O er which I pored wherever fancy, leading, My footsteps took. Oh, then, Aladdin-like, I gathered treasures On golden stems ; First fruits and flowers, then clutched at empty pleasures, As precious gems. But soon these luresome objects lost their shimmer, As in a ball, When wax-lights wane, the waltzer s eyes flit dimmer Around the hall. D 34 ZISKA. To childhood s lively joys succeeded sorrows Poignant and stern, As he who from a miser silver borrows, Gold must return ; For manhood hath no sportive recreations Like schoolboy plays, No anguish keener than when in vacations Come rainy days. And soon my soul began its second training With new-born zest ; I thought to spend one half of life explaining What meant the rest ; And found the problem solved and the equa tion Like some tall peak Attained, which reaches but the adumbration Of what you seek. And when with every sense alive to Nature, By day and night, Familiarly I knew her every feature Shaded and bright ; ZISKA. 35 With adolescence came an empty craving For the unknown ; As thinks the spendthrift butterfly of saving When summer s gone. And then, the sad reflection realising, How brief is life, Behold the soul against the senses rising In bitter strife. Existence, like the fleeting year, had seasons, And in the end I could not through its gloom divine the reasons Must graveward tend. Through misty tears, a God-like face and lowly In rainbows beamed, Around whose bleeding brow a radiance holy, Upshooting, gleamed. But though toward earth big drops of blood still rolling, Did lingering fall, He said with tender voice, His pain controlling, "I died for all." 36 ZISKA. Since from His bow-shaped lips, like golden arrows Those words did speed, No more my heart an endless craving harrows With hunger s need ; Already, when I lift my eyes to heaven, I see but light, And scenes once fair below, from morn to even Are dark as night. METEMPSYCHOSIS. THE God, the Hero, and the Sage, Nor sceptre, sword, nor myrtle crown, Nor e en a drop have handed down Of bubbling blood to this our age. Caught in the marble or the brass, They smile or frown their joy or grief From statue, coin, or bas-relief, Which, though in fashion they surpass The chiselled thoughts of modern days, Bring to our eyes but traits of men, Who, like ourselves, on earth have been The shrines of Life s ephemeral blaze. 38 METEMPSYCHOSIS. But deeds and words embalmed in song, In after ages like the seed From royal mummies drawn to feed The tribes which Egypt s river throng Dilate fresh hearts and sublimate The lowliest blood with flames heroic, And fortify with valour stoic The weak against the storms of fate. Yes, as the shivered chord s complaint Floats onward through the murmuring air, Until some unison as fair Responds into its whisper faint, So, when it severs earth s last thread, The soul pursues its journeying, And swells, on fleet and tireless wing, The shadowy army of the dead ; Until it chance a kindred chord Within some brother s sleeping heart To wake, and its own life impart To sage s lips or warrior s sword. METEMPSYCHOSIS. 39 Napoleon fought with Caesar s blade, Dante was god-like Homer s son, Timoleon prompted Washington, And Paul stout Luther s fierce crusade. Nor in such mighty souls alone Do kindred spirits breathe their fire ; The humblest heart s untutored lyre From shadowy voices takes its tone. Until they sound, bend every string Thy hand can grasp, with zealous care, Though from thy lyre but hoarse despair Fate s ruthless sweep at first should wring. Strain on ! until thy spirit s Sire Awake that chord of happier fate, Whose jubilance shall modulate Thy woe to joy s celestial choir. TO MY DAUGHTER, MRS. MARGARET ASTOR CHANLER. THE WISE MAIDEN. MASTER. PRITHEE, why for ever sweeping, Maiden, this poor room ? Ever stirring, never sleeping, Seems thy restless broom. Prithee, why for ever praying, Those pure lips within ? Art, I fear, too dearly paying For but fancied sin. THE WISE MAIDEN. 41 MAID. Though I m ever sweeping, master, Did my zeal grow slack, Than it disappeareth faster Would the dust come back ; And my praying is but sweeping This poor sinful breast, Into which fresh dust is creeping, When from prayer I rest. MASTER. Never does my eye remember, Maiden, to have seen, When thy care hath swept my chamber, Speck of dust within. MAID. May the angel to my sweeping Praise like this impart, Who, his master s mansions keeping, Comes to search my heart. THE HEBREW ALPHABET. COME, my little Hebrew lad, On thy task look not so sad. Only learn it, and thou lt feel Writing is in prayer to kneel ; Writing, in His sacred tongue, Words His holy prophets sung ; Writing out the law bequeathed Unto Moses, when He breathed, Near the burning bush, the Word Then as now, " I am the Lord." First we ll learn to spell the name Sinai heard in clouds and flame. Write the Aleph every sign Let thy pen with love design. THE HEBREW ALPHABET. 43 Akph is bright Eden s token, Ere our race by sin was broken. Daleth follows in the spell Loved in Heaven, feared in Hell. Aleph, Daleth, lowly now On our bended knees we bow, Ere unto the Holy Rune We append the closing Nitn. Adon Adon, clap your hands, Hills ! while joy elates the lands ; Once more write, and with a Yod, Tremble at the name of God ! God with whom none others vie, God of Israel ! PORRIGO DEXTRAM. WHILE sorrows ebb and flow On Life s gray strand, To all oppressed by woe I reach a hand. The body s but a cell, Its jailer he Whose key from earth s dark spell Shall set us free. Stars, though unseen by day, Still glow in wells, Where truth s unwelcome ray In exile dwells. PORRIGO D EXT RAM. 45 Like barks, wave-tossed till sore, Upon the deep, Within our souls a store Of wealth we keep. Then, brother, here s my hand, Though void its palm, Beside thee will I stand Till God send balm ; Beside thee float, while hold Two planks together, Till melts His sun this cold And wintry weather. When that ray shines, we part, But thou shalt stay ; Another sinking heart Calls me away. And should hope s dawning beams To gems congeal, Bright as the diamond stream Of Maund reveal, 46 PORRIGO D EXT RAM. Swear that a brother s cry, By sea or land, Shall ever draw thee nigh With helping hand. THE BLIND FIDDLER. WHO knocks ? Come in ! Thy message say. A beggar ? Sixpence go thy way ! A fiddler too ? A shilling take And go ; nor dare my nerves to shake. Thy little handmaid says thou rt blind, Each eye, a sixpence more. That s kind. Two shillings not enough ? Ingrate ! Well, let the little maiden prate. " Please, sir, his poor old viol s strung ; For thanks he has no other tongue." A tear ? "Its strings he fain would sweep, Few thank when they a harvest reap." Well, play, old man. That timid air Steals through me like an infant-prayer. Now swells the bow to fuller strains Exhaling riper joys and pains 48 THE BLIND FIDDLER, Of youth and manhood, old man, stay Thy fingers ! picture not decay, But Love, the Dance, the Festal Song, The Squadron s Charge, the Altar s Throng. Here, take my purse my blessing too, Thou st shown me something yet to do. And when thou rt gone, I ll hie me forth, Convinced there still are joys on earth, Though not the passions, pride and power, Which wither in life s sunset-hour ; But Nature s every charm and grace For ages wrinkle not her face A steadfast Love, to Friendship kin, The victory of soul o er sin ; And charities, like cargoes sent To distant climes, which tenfold rent Bring back to hearts whose happy glow Is fed by what themselves bestow. And all these fragrant flowers hath twined About my heart a fiddler blind ! The poet hath no keener sight Than this old man with vision blight, THE BLIND FIDDLER. 49 Who, piercing with the spirit s eye The veil of his infirmity, Hath with his viol s quickening spell My pinions warmed to break their shell ; If I accomplish half the task He wrought on me t is all I ask. DIALOGUE. POET. Round my heart thy viol flings Rapture, with four magic strings. If thy bow, with but the spell Of twelve semitones, can tell, Like the rod that gold divines, All the ear s unfathomed mines, Spells how many wields the pen, To delight the hearts of men ? FIDDLER. Countless as the shore s gray sands Are the spells the pen commands ; E 50 THE BLIND FIDDLER. Earth, and they who on it dwell, Space and Ocean, Heaven and Hell. Be thy soul with these chords strung Fervently, and pen and tongue, Thrilling deeper, hearts shall raise Higher than my lowly lays. POET. By the measure thou hast taught I will sell what life hath bought, I will give thy song a shape, Ere its fleeting tones escape. FIDDLER. Mock thou not my humble art ! With my bow, God touched thy heart, And to Him ascend its strains, While thy song on earth remains. NEW MUSIC. WHEN sounds an air that thrills your ears With memories of bygone years, Forgetting age and care and pain, The soul puts on its youth again ; And she who shone in beauty s pride, Long faded, sparkles at your side ; And as in spring old wines ferment When buds and leaves on vines are blent, So through your quickened pulses pour The effervescent joys of yore. Again her name drops from your lip Into the brimming cup you sip ; Nay, in the amber wine you trace The image of her cherished face. O days of youth and wild delight ! O gladdening waters, sweet as bright, 52 NEW MUSIC. Which memory s melodious spells Uncover like the desert s wells ! Another sits in gloom and pain Whilst you drink in the rapturous strain. As East winds open ancient wounds, His bleed afresh at those sweet sounds ; It is the air, that lured him on To wretchedness in days bygone, Which now relumes the witching gaze Of those dark eyes whose treacherous rays To ashes burnt his youth so fair, And left his life one long despair, Renewed, as with those notes arise His heart s burnt-offerings to the skies, And leave it, when the strains expire, An altar blackened by the fire. The sun grows pale, the air is chill, Grim skeletons his vision fill ; In death no greater terrors lie, For thus to suffer is to die. Now, like fond brothers, hand in hand, Both tread some fair and unknown strand, NEW MUSIC. 53 In measure ; when the magic wand Of SCHUMANN sways the tuneful band, Or WAGNER S glorious voices smite The ear, and unsipped joys unlock, As when the patriarch Israelite With faith-borne rod struck Horeb s rock. One, wafted to the fairy isle On ocean s softest summer smile ; One, scaped with life and nothing more From ocean s fiercest wintry roar : Both drink its odours, breeze-beguiled From thicket and savanna wild ; Both taste its tropic fruitage filled With sweetness from the sun distilled : Both bask in blooms that never change From sea-side up to mountain range ; Till to their ravished senses seem Life s bliss and bale an equal dream, And each, in ecstasy, forgets The past its joys and its regrets. STRADIYARIUS. WHEN the viol hath been strung, And the master s hand hath wrung Speech from every hermit tongue That unseen dwells Within its cells ; Hoarse its voices until taught With its rapture to consort, Or, in sweet concent, to show Sympathy with human woe. Then, in their retiredness, Craving constantly to bless Air and ear with tuneful stress, Each mellower grows In its repose, STRADIVARIUS. 55 Till a fuller choral swell, And a softer waning spell, Are the echoes that respond To the master s magic wand. When the viol s tones aspire Upward, like the breath of fire, Does the master s soul inspire Alone its sighs And symphonies? Or do angels with the strain Seek their long-lost home again, Soaring in melodious throng On the pinions of his song ? When a friend hath ceased to groan, While we o er his coffin moan, And deplore his spirit flown, Dare we maintain That ne er again Shall that unstrung harp be wound And the Master s glory sound ? May not, then, the lute enshrine Unseen spirits half divine ? NOCTURNE. MAIDEN, while thy fairy fingers Free those prisoned harmonies, While thy left hand softly lingers, And thy right skims o er the keys, Darting as hussars manoeuvre, Skirmishing in mazy drill, Swift to scatter, and recover Order at their leader s will ; Dreamily I hear two voices, One in fervent tones of prayer, One that sparkles and rejoices As a skylark in the air, With so wild a jubilation That its carol seems a taunt, Till a sterner modulation Drops it to the dominant. NOCTURNE. 57 Then a dialogue more tender Twixt the wooer and the wooed, Where the latter vows to mend her Wayward petulance of mood ; And the manly voice responding Breathes a rapture of content, As through chords with joy resounding Both in unison are blent. Through the moonlit fir-trees playing, Murmuringly the roving breeze Kisses the white fingers swaying Pensively the ivory keys, Cools my brow and soothes the beating Of this scarred and crippled heart, Still, despite experience, cheating Me with fond delusive art. Cheating me with phantoms thronging Dimly up from days of yore, Shapes of loveliness and longing Dead and gone for evermore. 58 NOCTURNE. And as wizards from the ashes Of the rose evoke its grace, I recall the spectral flashes Of a once all-radiant face. TRIBUTE TO THE LOST SCORE. To a young friend lamenting the loss of her teens. YEARS are but the tools of youth, Spades that turn the sod of Truth, Symbols on a black-board traced, Traced in chalk to be effaced, Scaffoldings to rear and prop Work the seasons cannot stop. For, though marmots hybernate, Man s live pulses never bate, Nor lie fallow like the field Resting from its autumn yield. So until we reach the brink, We must either grow or shrink. 60 TRIBUTE TO THE LOST SCORE. Years are tomes the student lone, Poring over, makes his own ; Or the fruits, Earth, Sun, and Air Quicken for his destined fare, Like the ship that bears us o er Safely to a distant shore, Or the ducats that we spend To attain a journey s end. So the years that make us men, Aye, or women, are a gain ; Strength to fight or grace to win, Prove what friends those years have been. Maiden, though Time s ruthless shears From thy life lop twenty years, For the lost score only grieve Thou hast twenty less to live. Those have left a crystalline Charm upon thy face benign ; Spirit-beauty, virtue, grace, Time may envy, not deface ; Scythe and glass, his emblems gaunt, Fail to scratch the adamant. THE PERFECT WAY. Lines sent with a book bearing the above title, THE Perfect Way ah, who shall say He holds the mystic clue, Up that steep rath the hidden path To find and to pursue ? No stars above with eyes of love Direct us when astray ; With faith and hope we feel and grope Through thick ning gloom our way. Anon around sweet voices sound, And breaths of frankincense, As breezes thrill a glassy rill, Awake each latent sense. 62 THE PERFECT WAY. To climb and pant, the Hierophant The Acolyte hath doomed, Until within the dross of sin By penance be consumed. Then sorely tried and mortified, The flesh to spirit yields, With truer might than in the fight The hero s sabre wields. THE EXILE. THEY who in the churchyard sleep, Or the bosom of the deep, Or beneath the sabre s sweep, Are not all that die ; Other loved ones pass away, Whom we mourn as dead, while they With the living hie. Homeward turns the funeral train ; " Brother ! freed from mortal pain, Thou in warmth wilt rise again From thy cold repose ; When the sea its dead shall yield, And the gorged battle-field Shall its lips unclose." 64 THE EXILE. Time dries tears ; and jest and laugh Crown the brimming cup we quaff, Long before his epitaph Moss and age efface ; Nay, the shipwreck s fearful story, Or the combat s victims gory, Years from memory chase. But when boyhood s melodies Shed their dew in festive eyes, Through soft mists we see arise Phantom-like, the friend, Dead, yet living, who from home, Is in exile doomed to roam To life s dreary end. SENESCENTIA. IN my youthful hey-day, pleasure Lured me to its glad unrest, And the goblet s mantling measure Fed the joy-flames in my breast ; Life was rapturous commotion Then of body, heart, and mind, I, a bark upon the ocean, Pressed by wave and kissed by wind. But the sailor quits the fountains Of the ever-throbbing main, Gladly for the steadfast mountains And the stillness of the plain, Wave and wind at length together Strain the seams and cords of life, While on land in mildest weather Rooted we abide the strife. F 66 SENESCENTIA. So I fled the blood s temptation As the mariner the seas, Fanned thenceforth to contemplation Only by the living breeze ; Onward since serenely treading, Yielding now to reason s sway, Now the paths of fancy threading I am master of my way. All my being now is yearning For the rapture of repose, Youthful flame and manhood s burning Quenched like torches dipped in snows Every siren s charms transcending Blessed be the angel, who Thus prepares my soul for wending The Nirvana s portals through. ANTEPENULTIMATE. SHALL I sit and wait for Death, With a sigh at every breath For the hours of gladness flown, From the present drear and lone ? Sit, abandoning all hope Of a brighter horoscope ? Sit, as in a skiff that glides Down some rapid s angry tides ? Sit, nor dash a valiant oar To regain the rugged shore ? Yes ! I m weary of the fight ; Ajax-like, my smitten sight Findeth neither in the day Nor the night, a cheering ray ; Though the shore by which I glide Is my native river-side, 68 ANTEPENULTIMATE. And the hamlets that arise Wear the old familiar guise ; Though yon steeple points the road Pious forefathers have trod. In the church, another voice Bids the kneeling fold rejoice ; In the hall another squire Sits before the yule-log fire ; All are strangers, why should I Midst them tarry, but to die ? THE MORROW OF THE FUNERAL. MY room is dark but darker yet The cell where he lies low For whom our eyelids still are wet, Our hearts still throb with woe. My room is cold the Western breeze, . That wakes me with its breath, Above him stirs the aspen trees, But not his sleep of death. Just now I dreamed that sweet and fair I saw his kindly face ; He dreams no more : he waits us where Nor death nor dream hath place. 70 MORROW OF THE FUNERAL. Yes ! ours the darkness, his the light ; I clasp his outstretched hand Whose feet have found, through doubt and night, The sure and shining land. II. THE OLD ROPE. " FATHER ! what is this old rope ? " Boy ! twas once our vessel s hope When the billows rose in rage her decks to whelm ; In that wild September gale, Which had rent our every sail, With that bit of rope I lashed her helm. Had its strands then given way, We had been the fishes prey, At their banquet in the sea s deep caves ; But I never lost my grip Of that rope which held the ship Till the winds had made peace with the waves. 74 THE OLD ROPE. How the mariner exults, When he feels the throbbing pulse Of the ocean lashed to fever by the gale, And his hand directs the course Of his vessel, like a horse Madly tearing over hill and over dale ! Ah ! the boldest charioteer Were beside himself with fear, If a steed in his teeth the bit should take, Not on solid hill or plain, But across the slippery main, Where the path writhes beneath him like a snake. There be those that gather nests Down the Orkneys sea-girt crests, Who are lowered by a rope like this, And who, when their scrips are full, Give the signal-cords a pull, To be hoisted up out of the abyss. Yet the boldest ne er dissemble How much now and then they tremble, THE OLD ROPE. 75 When they feel their lives hang on such a bight, Though those fowlers, when they climb, Risk but one life at a time, While this rope held a score of us that night. But no feeble hand of man Thus from parting kept its span, And our vessel from the trough of the sea ; It was God who held it there, For I breathed a breath of prayer, Like the fishers on the lake of Galilee. When I m summoned by the Lord, Round my coffin let this cord Drop me like a fowler seeking for a nest ; And another boon I crave Is that by me, in the grave, This old and trusty friend of mine shall rest. Dare an unbeliever say That on Resurrection Day, 76 THE OLD ROPE. It may not serve to raise me from the grave ? Like the fowler with his scrip, Or our storm-imperilled ship, Which its strands from destruction helped to save ? TO JULIA ROM AN A HOWE, FALCONRY. SORCERER. IF to avert, O king, The doom of death at morn, My voice had summoned thee, I should deserve thy scorn. To save my worthless life These lips shall frame no prayer Nor ask a boon of thee ; But if thy daughter fair, What time the noose shall bind My throat at break of day Will smile upon me from Yon lattice o er the way ; 73 FALCONRY. " And round her snowy neck The lilac sash will wear Which girt her waist that eve My hand was torn from there ; " And let its waving bands, Which fell below her knee, Appear to hold her looped As will the halter me ; " And last, if when I drop Her head shall sink beneath The casement-sill, as though Resolved to share my death ; " Pledge this, and ask what boon A wizard may impart, A spark to fire thy veins, A hoard to freeze thy heart. " KING. All this and more I grant, Thy life and her white hand, FALCONRY. 79 The sceptre and the crown By which I rule the land, Whereof thou shalt be king, And I will go my ways, If thou lt impart the spell Of never-ending days." SORCERER. The kneeling boor, whose shoulder Is smitten by thy sword, Arises, by the spell Of kingly words a lord. ; But whom my wand shall touch, Be high or low his birth, My whispered charm can make The richest of the earth. The Shibboleth of life Would lose my soul, if told ; For what I ask, be thine The charm of endless gold." 8o FALCONRY. KING. " So thou wilt prove that spell Upon the chains that hold Thy body, and transmute Their iron into gold ; " My daughter from yon lattice Shall smile on thee, nor falter When in the morn the hangman Shall loop thee with the halter ; " The lilac sash she wore, The night I found thy grasp Around her in the garden, Her snowy neck shall clasp : " And on the lattice bow Its waving ends I ll tie, That she may seem to thee Like thee about to die ; " And when beneath thy feet The fatal bolt is sped, FALCONRY. 81 I swear that she shall bend, Saluting thee, her head." SORCERER. " Now cross yon hazel wand Upon thy royal sword, And swear by Him who died That thou wilt keep thy word. " Tis well dismiss these slaves, Now take the hazel wand : The serpent -head in thine, The tail in my right hand. " Thine ear bring close and listen, And after me recite The measured incantation, And grasp the hazel tight. " Nay, open not thine eyes So wide, as in dismay ; No coward will the Gnome Who guards the mine obey. G 82 FALCONRY. " The Sprite must know a master Or else the master he : The second rune is faster ; Repeat it after me. Thy face is pale, O monarch, And all alive thy hair ; Pause not ! or of the malice Of Gnome and Sprite beware. ; Tis said now touch my chains, Ha ! they grow yellow straight, And from my wrists I feel Them hang with heavier weight Now get the charm by rote ; A word misplaced rebounds As from a rock the ball Which him who shot it wounds. Ah, so ! these chains thou fain Wouldst in the furnace try ? FALCONRY. 83 Exchange them and thou lt find Their gold no jugglery." At dawn beneath the gibbet Serene the wizard stood, And saw within the lattice The princess he had wooed. Around her neck the sash As round his throat the cord ; Then knew he that the king Had kept his royal word. For, by its fastened ends, The lilac noose was hung, As from the gallows-tree The rope that held him swung. And when their glances met, Upon her lip and eye He saw a radiant smile, And said "Now let me die." And when the trap was sprung, The princess dipped her head ; 84 FALCONRY. But when they came to raise her, They found her spirit fled ; And twixt those corpses twain, They saw a falcon bear Aloft, with clenched talons, A white dove through the air. THE CHARGE. CANTER on, canter on, gaily we go ! Let no betrayal our trumpeters blow, Till we behold on yon summit the foe Loose not the bugle s wild breath ; Then to its sound we will bound o er the ground, Jubilant unto the death. Tighten your girths as we rise yonder slant. Slacken your pace, let your weary steeds pant, Hark ! tis the enemy s rude battle-chant, Grow to your saddles, my men ! We re on the hill blow your will, bugles shrill ! Now for a crash in the glen ! LOST AND FOUND. I. LOST. To Major C * * *, U. S. Infantry, reported (( dead on the field of honour" at Gainers Mill, fune 21th, 1862. A LEGEND of the guillotine, Or of the gibbet s vengeful cord, Or of two foes at sunrise seen To grasp the pistol or the sword, May for a beat our pulses stop, While fancy sees the axe descend, LOST AND FOUND. 87 The pinioned felon hopeless drop, The slayer o er his victim bend. When one, of old a comrade, dies, His life-march flits before our ken, Dim passing shadows that arise Upon a wall, to fall again ; But being told some dearer brow Lies cold neath Azrael s marble seal, As to a cannon-shot we bow, And nearer to the graveyard feel. But fancy s self-adjusted glass May not include the vaster woe Of crews that storm-fiends, as they pass, In ocean s barren furrows sow : Or of gay legions, which with pride Of crested ranks clothed hill and dale, Swept down by battle s furious tide, Like stately grain by summer s hail. Twas thus on me this strife had gleamed But as an airy pageant s show 88 LOST AND FOUND. Of war s bold game, which well beseemed Its varying chances ebb and flow ; Until it like a mirage waned And bared thy mortal wound O friend, With whom the parting toast I drained Was, " May the conflict quickly end ! " The Old Year sank within our bowl, And when the New in splendour rose, I should have wept heroic soul ! To think thou wouldst not see its close ; To dream that Atropos then held, E en then, the scissors near thy thread, And that our goblet-chimes but knelled Thy fate, to DEATH AND GLORY wed. When I recall thy pensive face, The smile that smoothed its furrows deep, The sternness veiled by tender grace, As lilies screen a lion s sleep ; I feel that we who weep thee are Poor trimmers, who as sailors guide LOST AND FOUND. 89 Their vessels waste our souls in care To follow, not to breast the tide. A teacher of the art heroic, Who precept with example twines, Nor counterfeits a virtue stoic Against whose rule his soul repines, Is he who drills a nation s youth The call of duty to obey, To fight the fight of right and truth, To point and more, to lead the way. Such wert thou, Friend, whose loss I mourn As martial seed ! Thy fertile yield Might, like the future s garnered corn, Have bearded many a battle-field. Thy country was thy only wife, Thy troop thy only family ; For her thou hast laid down thy life, Whose sons had gladly died for thee ! 90 LOST AND FOUND. II. FOUND. To Major C * * *, 7. S. Infantry, danger ously wounded and made a prisoner- at Caines s Mill, June 2*jth, 1862. MY tears fell on an empty grave, Yet let them not be shed in vain, But dedicated to the brave Whom thousands mourn amongst the slain. My dirge, in feeble numbers wrought With pious heart, shall consecrate Their memory whose death has brought Such grief as thy imagined fate. Could tears wake them to life again, Their forms heroic would arise, Like trampled grass from quickening rain, Beneath a nation s weeping eyes. LOST AND FOUND. 91 Could plaint or song their ears but thrill As thine awoke to hear my strain, No pen were dry, no voice were still, From where they lie to distant Maine. Yet deem not that my heart retracts The praise ne er meant to dim the eye Of one whose future words and acts Shall verify that eulogy. I greet thee as some vessel fair Her owner hath deplored as lost, When on his gaze, through summer-air, Her white sails glisten off the coast ; And up the cliffs glad neighbours rush, With kindred joy, and grasp his hand Whose moistened cheek the breezes flush That waft his lost bark to the land. A ROYAL ABODE. IF to dwell within a palace, Out of reach of want or malice, Is a king to be ; If the loftier one s storey, Higher soars one s earthly glory, Few are kings like me. Though a monarch I ve no nation To preserve from grim starvation,- I no uproar fear ; But throughout my city stately Suffered am to walk sedately, Free from scowl or sneer. Me surround no courtiers pettish, With their capers etiquettish, Ceremonious, cold ; A ROYAL ABODE. Jealous heart-burns ill concealing, None, because the other, kneeling, Doth my slippers hold. Mine s a life of royal pleasure ; All my days are clays of leisure, All the nights the same ; When I take an extra bottle, Cares my throat-latch never throttle, No one cries out " Shame !" And the visions of my slumber Haggard faces ne er encumber ; At my will I rise, And whene er it suits my fancy, Rolls and coffee brings up Nancy With the dark-blue eyes. From my larder s tempting plenty, Dine alone or dine with twenty Or a hundred guests ; Sit till our convivial laughter Shakes the glasses, thrills the rafter, Mingling songs and jests. 94 A ROYAL ABODE. Servants many round the table ; Many grooms within the stable ; Nay, a commodore, With his word and gesture serious, On the quarter-deck imperious, Is not worshipped more. Of all this the glad fruition Hold I upon one condition, Sometimes hard to fill Hard as chancellor must drudge it When compelled to shape his budget,- I MUST PAY MY BILL. VATHEK. MY eyes are dim, my thin locks gray, The avalanche of years hath bent My frame will it suspend decay If at your bidding I repent ? Repent ! Do monarchs abdicate When senses wane and pleasures cloy ? Doth avarice expropriate The wealth which buys no other joy? The hoary king retains his throne, The miser s palsied grasp his hoard ; Shall I the crumbling fane disown Of which my will is still the lord ? 96 VATHEK. Repent ! While Love s bright galaxies Still glisten in the blue of sleep, And shapes once worshipped greet my eyes When up the slope I turn to peep ? Read in yon bark that quits the shore, The tale, by years and tempests told, Of planks, without their sap of yore, Wave-twisted from the builder s mould. Yet, while she floats, intrepid tars Confide their all to her, nor pause To think how frail the screen that bars Them from the ocean s myriad jaws. She hath her legends of rare freights, Of food to starving peoples borne, Of silks and teas from China s gates, And spices from the Isles of Morn. When weary of such yarns her crew Cast webs, like spiders, to the shore ; Their watch, in tempests, they fight through. Then sleep as though the fight were o er. VATHEK. 97 If they beyond such hourly care Look not, whose cares may cease to-morrow, Shall I that drift I know not where Weigh down my sinking years with sorrow ? The wind is rising ; let me glean, From Time s heaped sands, such golden grains As miners gather up between The walls of long-exhausted veins. TO SAMUEL L. M. BARLOW. SUB TEG MINE FAGI. You marvel I should bid farewell To cities and to men At fifty and contented dwell Within this lonely glen. Long be it ere afflictions give Your undimmed faith the lie, And teach you it is hard to live Where those you cherish die ! While here I draw, with every breath Of life a balmy share, Your city seems the haunt of death When to it I repair. SUB TEGMINE FAGI. 99 So many of its palaces Are sepulchres for me, Of those who shared a happiness That never more shall be ; That when my footsteps pause beside Some old friend s dwelling-place, A gravestone seems the door, once wide With welcoming embrace. And e en the living few, of al My comrades I yet meet, Seem tottering to a funeral, Along the callous street. Afar from walls in mourning hung, And mutes so nigh the tomb, These forests seem forever young, These fields dispel my gloom. I cannot tell the birds apart Which in my beeches sing, From those which last year taught my heart To beat in tune with Spring. ioo SUB TEG MINE FAG I. The self-same squirrel seems to trip From branch to branch in glee, That I beheld last summer skip About the self-same tree. The night-hawks, at the close of day, The owl to supper call ; The cricket chirps his roundelay Beneath my chimney-wall ; And this is why I bade farewell To cities and to men At fifty and contented dwell Within this lonely glen. CHANT DU DEPART. IN buoyant youth we sing and dance, Later we only sing, Then fade the rainbows of romance, Our cymbals cease to ring ; And we, like the enchanted Prince All petrified below, Lament the bright years vanished since We tripped with nimble toe. With kindred fancies, lovely friend, So soon to brave the sea, This minuet of the brain I send, Too grave, I fear, for thee. Alas ! too old for dance or song My feet and head repose, But, sweet, my heart still beating strong For thee with rapture glows. 102 CHANT DU DEPART. And if there be a blissful land Where friends hereafter meet, I ll hail thee there, with beckoning hand, On gaily bounding feet. And in thine ear breathe couplets fail- To Gabriel s tuneful sway, And both rejoice that we have there No washing-bills to pay ! STEAMSHIP " BRAUNSCHWEIG," BALTIMORE, July 1875. POIGNARD OR PILLS? MARGARET of Burgundy, Frailest of the frail, Tempted many a gallant To the Tour de Nesle. With caresses burning, Made his soul her own ; Then she softly stabbed him Dead without a groan. Stabbed him, while her kisses Drained his parting breath ; What a modulation That from Love to Death. I0 4 POIGNARD OR PILLS? Mozart the magician, Thus from jubilee Deftly shifts the tonic To a minor key. As at Juan s banquet, Wassail, mirth, and glory, Freeze to awe when raps // Commendatore, At each rap a blast From the horns of hell, No such warning had they At the Tour de Nesle. Were not death more welcome Last of mortal ills In a shower of kisses Than a box of pills ? TO ALFRED TENNYSON. A CURATE in a lonely hamlet preaching, Nor heard beyond, Until with rumours of his saintly teaching Echoes respond, And then into a broader field translated With ampler fold, As soldiers are to higher grades elated For actions bold Cries, when he hears assembled hundreds voicing Responsive prayer, Hosanna ! in yet bolder strains rejoicing The distant air. So thou, in humbler days, didst hymn a wailing For Claribel, Which on the outer world like unavailing Entreaty fell ; io6 TO ALFRED TENNYSON. But friends around thee shared thy tuneful weeping, And treasured long The memory of that hapless maiden sleeping Within thy song. I see thee now in Art s great temple throning, A Hierophant, And hear glad voices from far peaks intoning Thy larger chant. TO THE POET OF FARRINGFORD. A FRIEND, 1 who in the South now waits Until the Sesame Of peace shall cleave his prison-gates, Thus spake to me of thee : " He dwells in Britain s fairest isle, Within an ivy-kirtled pile, Gray as its Saxon age ; Mid flower-brocaded turfs that lie On chalk-cliffs, like the minstrelsy That broidereth his page. " He dwells afar from Caerleon Where Arthur s dawning glories shone, 1 My friend William Henry Hurlbert, at that time imprisoned at Richmond, expiating his defence of human liberty by the loss of his own. io8 THE POET OF FARRINGFORD. Nor near to Camelot ; Though in his walks, the spectral throng Of Paladins applaud his song, While weeps Sir Launcelot. " Twas there I heard his silver voice, In spells his pen had cast, rejoice, And saw its tones evoke The calm procession of his Dream Of Women Fair, until the stream Of song by night was broke. " Next day at even s favouring tide I left the Isle ; and by his side, To speed the parting guest, Stood she, who held in either hand A flaxen child with golden band Clasped round a crimson vest. " As on them burned day s orange glow, My fancy pictured Ivanhoe, When love had crowned his joys ; Rowena in the bloom of life, The mother, still with beauty rife, Of his two Saxon boys." THE POET OF FARRINGFORD. 109 Moss-rose Pendennis, when he cast His petals on our Northern blast, To scent its wintiy breath, Swore thou alone of living men, Within his widely-reaching ken, Would st long survive thy death. Another came, whose sparkling glov, Might vie with the inspiring flow Of Rhone or fairy Rhine, And vowed thou wert no anchorite. For once he saw thee half the night The cup with garlands twine. Two portraits of thee near me lie : In rapture on the Eastern sky The younger seems to gaze ; The other of the Western sun In autumn, ere the day is done, Reflects the saddening rays. But not thy living fame nor face, Though tongue or bust their image trace, no THE POET OF FARRINGFORD. Before my soul arise ; I see thee as in after days Posterity shall with his lays The minstrel canonize. TO LADY S. G. With a White Carnation. THE pale carnation represents A spirit pure, A soul from eveiy blush of sense Henceforth secure. I see thee in such raiment gleaming When, at its edge, The altar heard thy voice redeeming Thy sponsor s pledge. And next I hear the organ pealing Its shout of pride, When thou, before that altar kneeling, Becam st a bride. 112 TO LADY S. G. How of such memories the flood Can I impart, While that carnation s primal blood Invades my heart ? TO SIBELL. THE martial pageant that absorbed our gaze And fired my pulses, when the gladdened air Quickened with joy the sun s majestic rays, All disappeared ! All save thy face so fair, Which seemed to say, "A desert at the best Is life, o er which the floating mirage-gleams Incite our paces, until we find rest Beside some angel of our better dreams." DOVER HOUSE, May 28, 1883. IMPROMPTU. To my Sister, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, on her 54th Birthday. Six times nine make fifty-four ! May you live years many more, Dearest, bravest sister mine I have loved years six times nine ! At my life-stone ten times six, Just one lustrum nearer Styx, Wise ones say, I ve lived in vain Through life s calm and hurricane, All my voyage wayward sport, With no cargo brought to port, Save upon the barren deck Some one rescued from a wreck. They forget that those who hold Cargoes, houses, bonds and gold, IMPR OMPTU. 1 1 5 Prize pursuit and gain above All that kindlier natures love, And must in proportion grieve Treasures of such cost to leave ; Churls expire without a sigh, While t is hard for kings to die. But to those who " think my way," Death but ends a toilsome day. Yet who may the story tell Must avow my craft sailed well, Though a battered hulk of wood, Now but to dismantle good. But a teak-built clipper thou ! Waves, for years, shall kiss thy prow, And the winds their fury ply Vainly on thy banner high. Like Van Tromp s wild broom made fast, It shall float while points the mast ; Woman s Rights and Woman s Wrongs Still shall thrill thy fiery songs, As of yore, in struggles grim Brave hearts throbbed thy "Battle Hymn." LINES WRITTEN IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM. . AT night among the churchyard thistles The boy with feigned bravado whistles ; And minor chords when Omar sings Betray his path s environings, And show, however brave their tread Our footsteps lead but to the dead. As flow ry meads delight the eye Though, neath their grasses, serpents lie, His jubilees, with rapture fair, Conceal a dreg-note of despair. The cold stars glisten in his rhymes, To mock their muffled funeral chimes. TO MY NIECE DAISY INTER PRETING LISZT. HER tapering fingers from the keys Purloined such dulcet harmonies, That scarce the drowsy chords awoke, But seemed to murmur in their sleep, Until like troops when day hath broke, To arms at the reveille who leap, Her touch aroused an unseen host, The voices of a Pentecost, A host that in consent obeyed The incantation of the maid. But how portray the spirit s mood Controlling that melodious brood ? Hath Fancy moulded yet a shape Worthy her tenderness to drape, u8 TO MY NIECE DAISY. As in those years of dolls and toys The mimicry of later joys ? Or is she the unconscious bird Which sings, and cares not to be heard ? Ah, no, the eager chords relate The feelings glad or desolate Of one whose wayward life hath been A mystery to his fellow-men ; A monarch in the realms of tone, Now cinctured by a priestly zone, Who every gamut, every scale, To Alpine height from Alpine dale, In human life hath sobbed or sung. As brooks in pensive beauty glide To mingle in the breakers roar, But homeward with the turning tide Some truant drops regain the shore, So he, his native hills among, Now tunes the lyre his life hath strung. And that wild life to her unknown Her fingers trace ; as on the stone TO MY NIE CE DAISY. 119 That marks a grave its legend sad We read, nor know the good or bad That throbbed and wrought ere tearless Death Laid low the crumbling frame beneath. TO EDGAR ALLAN POE. O WAYWARD, weird, and mystic soul, Whose meteoric pace Outstripped the pigmy orbs that roll In grooves of commonplace ; Like aerolites from heaven that fall Thy works were tossed and piled, Thy Raven brooding over all, Fit crest for sorrow s child. Hadst thou been born when heroes reigned, And hailed the bard a seer, A poet s largesse thou hadst gained, And stepped a prince s peer ; Or e en to-day when keener thirst For deeper fountains longs, Beneath thy magic touch had burst A Horeb of high songs. TO EDGAR ALLAN FOE. 121 But on thee lay the curse of toil, The child-devouring sire, For life s imperious needs to moil, And drop the golden lyre. Yet its rare raptures round us float, As of a cindered star, Dead aeons since, the rays remote Still reach us from afar. TO WALT WHITMAN. HE who scorns the tuneful measure Is a lout, Trampling down melodious pleasure With a shout, Like the Moenads Corybantic, Who would tear Beauty s eyelids in their frantic, Wild despair. Let the Muses nine deny him, As a churl Only hut-ward fit to hie him, From the whirl Of the striving cadence leading Up the dance, Lads and lasses gaily speeding In its trance. TO WALT WHITMAN. 123 Cornu Miruris brassy snorting Calls the kine, But Apollo s lyre exhorting The divine Wavy swaying to its playing Is a bliss, Kindling summer-lightnings straying Till they kiss. Walt in Belvedere Apollo Sees a boy Only fit the chase to follow With youth s joy. Fool ! yon tankard s crystal shimmer Hides a wine Fit for Juno, or the dimmer Proserpine. And the Bow-god, lithe and slender, Hath a soul, Mortal feelings fierce or tender To control. Sparks your darling Vulcan dashes At each blow, Only gleam to sink in ashes Down below, 124 TO WALT WHITMAN. While the Day-god s silver lyre Trills its psean To the ultramundane choir Empyrean, Voicing homage to the warder, Who on high Out of chaos marshals order In the sky. IMPROMPTU IN AN ALBUM. O PEN ! wert thou a magic brush, And mine a limner s hand, Upon this page what scenes should gush,- What skies from fairy-land ! But such bright visions fade away As clouds in ocean sink, When I to thee can only pay My compliments in ink. III. FRUITION. [JUNE.] LIE thou there, black pack of care, I have carried full months nine ! Let me seek the greenwood fair While the summer s glory s mine. Far from me the miser s lot Beadle of a golden shrine Whilst, by nature s toil begot, All the summer s wealth is mine. In the masquerade of flowers Let the Cedar, Larch, and Pine, Mourn stern winter s vanished towers, So the summer s joy be mine. 132 FRUITION. Ninety times the sun shall Vise Earlier from his couch of brine, And shall linger in the skies While the summer s bliss is mine. By the stream, as when a child, Shrinking from the snake-like vine, I will wander, thrush-beguiled, While the summer s glory s mine. Sunbeams jewelling the showers Which the knotted clouds untwine Over thirsty fields and bowers, Are the summer s gems and mine. Strolling through its paths of bliss Skirted by the jessamine, I will sing and dance and kiss While the summer s glory s mine ; Till the grapes the robins spare Shall redeem their pledge in wine, Let me glean the treasures rare Of the summer s sparkling mine. LEAVES AND STARS. [SEPTEMBER.] YESTERDAY, when Autumn s fire Flushed the maple and the briar, Till they crimsoned as a maid Who her love hath just betrayed, Disappeared my summer dream, Like the picture in a stream Which the wanton breezes chase From the liquid mirror s face. Was each reddening leaf the ghost Of a precious moment lost ? Else why should the woodland s glow Thrill me with such sense of woe, 136 OCTOBER LAY. As escape the winged legions Of the air, from Arctic regions, Pale with sunless cold ; Gales in search of tropic fires Rushing, wake the thousand lyres Of the Druid wold. Green, midst Autumn s fading splendour, Swing the lonely willow s tender Fringes, o er the brook ; As though, fresh from Ocean s portal, Some fair Nereid immortal There her ringlets shook. Circling zephyrs, with caresses, Gently sway those drooping tresses Sheltered by the grove ; Whilst its giant tree-tops, braving Ruder blasts, are madly waving In the air above. OCTOBER LAY. 137 II. MAN. STORMY day of mid October ! I, poor drunkard, waxing sober, Feel thy pelting rain Fierce as shot my cheeks assailing, Driven by the blast whose wailing Heralds Winter s reign. As I plod with weary measure, Conscience tolls the knell of pleasure Oh, the Summer hours ! Gone are now their joys enchanting, Leaving only phantoms, haunting Memory s leafless bowers. On the leaves the wayside strewing, I, in each a moment rueing, Look with tearful eyes ; Look, as were they corpses serried On a battle-field, ere buried Never more to rise. 138 OCTOBER LAY. Blows the north-wind sharp and biting, Scatters dreams of bliss inviting, Rain-drops burn like fire, And the fire my breast tormenting, Unextinguished, unrelenting, Withers all desire. Though like spray from storm-lashed surges Whip the forest s leaves thy scourges, Fearful Hurricane ! Leaflets, erst Spring s welcome bringing, To the willow fondly clinging, Bright as hope remain. SONG OF THE WREN. THE summer s joyous warblers away Have flown from November s frown, And midst the palsied woodland s decay, I reign on my perch of hemlock spray, A monarch without a crown. In early spring came the Oriole To foster her orange brood, Ere crept the rattlesnake from his hole Or the dormant Owl his stern patrol Resumed, in the tropic wood. The Throstle brown and the Catbird gray, With the timid Redbreast came, And the Blackbird and the Bobolink gay, With answering notes took up the lay Of the Grosbeak s throat of flame. HO SOA T G OF THE WREN. Out of last year s leaves and grasses sere And the gray rock s mossy beard, In tufts, or copses shrouding the mere, Or neath the Catalpa s flapping ear, Their nests they merrily reared. While lasted the spring-tide s quickening hours Their carols the forest thrilled, They summoned the bee to opening flowers When honey, from April s balmy showers, The sun in their cups distilled. To quiet their nestlings plaintive cry Like flashes they clave the air, Now chasing the golden dragon-fly, Now preying upon the insect fiy, Or the spider in his lair. Like guests who flit from a summer fete, Aweary of dance and play, Ere the motley fireworks scintillate, In starry pennons, before the gate Of night, and awake the day ; SONG OF THE WREN. 141 They fled when the hoarfrost first congealed On the clover s flower-reft blade, And Autumn her tawny dyes revealed In the scattered spoils by road and field Of the Summer s masquerade. They fled as worldly parasites fly From the prodigal s dying bed, And the only mourner left am I To witness the funeral pageantry Of Nature burying her dead. The squirrel sleeps in the hollow tree Or munches his winter store, The partridge crops fat berries in glee, The quail roams gleaning the stubble free, And the meadow-lark the moor. When spread the Oak his pall o er the flowers, The silver Maple grew pale, And a crimson flushed the ivied bowers Where neath the Dogwood, in fervid hours Had blossomed the Orchis frail. 142 SONG OF THE WREN. The Hickory s green to gold then turned, Yet clave to the fruitful bough, While the Catbriar, as a miser spurned In death, was stripped of its leaves, which burned Like coals in the muddy slough. The Gum s leaves will with the rainbow vie, Till from the Heavens, o ercast With frowns no longer checked by the eye Of the sun, rebellious snows shall fly On the ruthless Arctic blast. But his realms their absent Lord again, In Spring, shall awake from sleep, And my sisters will cheer their little Wren With newest songs from the grove and glen, Where the mocking-birds vigil keep. ORCHARD FANTASIA. BEHOLD yon hale old apple-tree, In its wrinkled skin with mosses bound, Yield to the south wind s sportive glee The blossoms it scatters recklessly, Like snowflakes over the ground. Like snow in a night they will disappear, Absorbed by the yearning earth ; But the fruits it hath borne for many a year, The joy of urchins far and near, That tree shall again bring forth. And as those blossoms sown by the wind Leave germing fruits on the bounteous tree, So gentle words and charities kind, Though man prove thankless, leave behind Sweet germs for the hoards of memory. 144 ORCHARD FANTASIA. And when deathward sighs the bosom heaves, Though the kindly deeds we have done on earth Should seem to us but as withered leaves, While our sins, like serpents, in living sheaves, Daunt the soul on the verge of its second birth ; The blossoms shall flower in Heaven again, Where no wild breeze shall waft them away ; And the clang of the blow that breaks our chain Shall drive the emblems of sin and pain, The serpents, back to their dens of clay. IV. A WAKING DREAM. WESTWARD gazing through my window, Venus shone ; Lit the room where I had all night dreamed alone j Woke her lustrous eye the slumbering depths of mine, Kindling sparks among the ashes of lang-syne. Vainly strove the dawn s first glories through the gloom ; Like my heart, the lonely chamber looked a tomb Where sweet ghosts, in sad procession, seemed to flow Past my bed, become a bier, and there bestow 148 A WAKING DR&AM. Griefs last kiss upon my brow. Each tender glance Thrilled my soul with joy and pain ; as in a trance Shrank within my palsied lips all utterance. Fading in the dawn the Morn- Star disappears, And dispels the tender throng, but not my tears ; For I wake with sorrowing heart and aching head, Wake to find sweet Venus vanished and Love dead. THE INCOMPLETE PICTURE. LAST summer, in the Catskill range, I took a sketch, and thought it good, Of yonder dale, and now t is strange, The picture chimes not with my mood. And yet the brush s motley trace Repeats the landscape to my eye ; The hills, with grave or smiling grace Of chiselled profile, fret the sky. The knoll still shrinks beyond the lawn To nothingness twixt loftier steeps, Gay creepers on the cottage fawn, And o er the brook the willow weeps. 150 THE INCOMPLETE PICTURE. The unchained skiff upon the bank Its shoulder rests, as in a doze ; The oars press down the rushes dank, The lake with yellow sunset glows. Yon urchin toward the water sways His oxen, lightened of their yoke ; The air they breathe is autumn s haze, Or Indian summer s chilly smoke. Yet, like some tune that wakes no more, Though sweetly sung in after years, Emotions which it roused of yore, The dance s throb, the burial s tears, My canvas mirror, tame and cold, Lacks sleeping Nature s living glow ; Like shrouds its shadows wrap the wold, Nor with the sunset seem to grow. Ah ! now I see its chief defect ; My hand refused, beneath the porch, To seat the lass with garlands decked Whose eyes took up day s fading torch. THE TRYST. AN hour too early in the grove ! An hour for blissful dreams, Which countless starry eyes above Will gladden with their beams. Through leaves and twigs they peep at me, Like frolic elves at play, Who slip behind rock, bush, or tree, Whene er one looks their way. The varying screen through which I gaze, Fantastic shapes assumes, As with its breath the south wind sways The tree-tops yielding plumes : 152 THE TRYST. Till rests my wandering glance upon The steadfast star of Jove, As lovers eyes all others shun Save those that drink their love. I hearken to the village chime ; The first half-hour is past ! With what a funeral march old Time Sets forth upon the last ! A dark cloud sailing by puts out My lone star s radiant light ; Its shadow dims with sombre doubt Fond hopes just now so bright. Anon, upon the thirsty leaves The pattering rain-drops fall, The sky its swelling bosom heaves And clouds each other call. In place of heaven s fair face, alive With kindly twinkling eyes, Remote volcanoes seem to rive The cloud-peaks of the skies, THE TRYST. 153 Up-flaring, like the beacon s flame, Which darts from crag to brow On Alpine summits, and the gleam Of arms reveals below. The zephyr that with fond caress, The prostrate leaves just stirred, Until methought her rustling dress And fairy foot I heard, Like a startled hind, now holds its breath, As the north wind s eager pant With a hiss, as of serpents bristling its path, Comes driving the rain aslant ; Swaying the saplings of the wood And its giants of stalwart form, Who toss their arms, like a multitude Applauding the voice of the storm. Soon from the battlements of night, Fierce lightning shafts are hurled, Like meteors pre-Adamite In the old chaotic world. 154 THE TRYST. A roar, as of a smitten shield, Responds to those red brands, As when Salmoneus scorned to yield To Jove s divine commands. A roar as of caissons over a vault Each armed with a loaded gun Which on its summit a moment halt, Then topple down one by one. They are fired, first singly, and then pell-mell, And the startled air is riven By thunder crashes like echoes from Hell Of its fiends besieging Heaven ! Appalled, I clasp in pallid dismay The tryst-tree in the glade, While gods and Titans in frantic affray Ply round me their cannonade. When lo ! in the midst of that riot fell, Through its bolts of deadly fire, The silvery voice of the midnight bell Speaks from the village spire. THE TRYST. 155 As waived by a spell, the battle turns ; Its wild alarums cease ; The full moon now in the zenith burns ; All nature is at peace. At chime the twelfth, my whispered name, And then an angel s kiss ! Who would not brave that fearful dream For the wealth of this waking bliss ? TO CONSUELO. A SUBTILE charm bewildered me, As in a depth of wood No scent of moss, or flower, or tree, But the soft air that blends the three Inspires a dreamy mood. Eyes pensive neath their fringe s shade, Sedate lips which disclosed The pearly keys on which were played Clear words that in me music made And gentlest thoughts disposed. A vestal shape framed to entrance Sculptors from Phidias down, Allure an Exarch to the dance, Or fire the bravest knightly lance That e er won tourney s crown. TO CONSUELO, 157 But how shall tongue or pencil tell, Or eye the secret learn, Of that unseen electric spell Which made the heart renascent swell, The soul with transport burn ? Yet were I mad to analyse The mainsprings of a joy ; Yon magic gewgaw children prize Draws tears if we anatomise And disenchant the toy. Sweet mystery ! this photograph, In twilight caught, is thine ; Beneath I write its epigraph, "The precious cup I may not quaff, But I can bless the wine ! " TO CONSUELO. A SUBTILE charm bewildered me, As in a depth of wood No scent of moss, or flower, or tree, But the soft air that blends the three Inspires a dreamy mood. Eyes pensive neath their fringe s shade, Sedate lips which disclosed The pearly keys on which were played Clear words that in me music made And gentlest thoughts disposed. A vestal shape framed to entrance Sculptors from Phidias down, Allure an Exarch to the dance, Or fire the bravest knightly lance That e er won tourney s crown. TO CONSUELO, 157 But how shall tongue or pencil tell, Or eye the secret learn, Of that unseen electric spell Which made the heart renascent swell, The soul with transport burn ? Yet were I mad to analyse The mainsprings of a joy j Yon magic gewgaw children prize Draws tears if we anatomise And disenchant the toy. Sweet mystery ! this photograph, In twilight caught, is thine ; Beneath I write its epigraph, "The precious cup I may not quaff, But I can bless the wine ! " NOT WINE ALONE. Tis not within the vine -wreathed bowl Alone, that madness lies. Whatever quickens pulse and soul, Beyond sage reason s mild control, With wine s sweet frenzy vies. The Boy, when first his arrow shakes Within the circle s eye ; The Youth, whose javelin o ertakes The roebuck bounding to the brakes, Is drunk with ecstasy. The Rider, when his steed hath past Some rival cavalcade ; And he whose bark and wind-bent mast On adverse sails their shadows cast, In sport or cannonade ; NOT WINE ALONE. 159 The brain that yields to starry eyes, Or fires with clash of steel ; Or swims when victory s shouts arise From blood-stained fields to evening skies, All these with madness reel. The Bard, whose fervid strains arouse Ten thousand echoes, when A nation s gratitude endows With laurel or with oak the brows Of King or Citizen ; The Conqueror, with sheathed sword, Midst lo Paeans borne ; The Tribune, whose electric word, Upon the forum s billows poured, Awakens wrath or scorn ; These all are drunk with conscious power, And they, the fierce or cold, Who revel in revenge s hour, Or who exult when gloating o er Red piles of hidden gold. 160 NOT WINE ALONE. Yet, when I glow with gladdening wine, All, all these various joys are mine At Fancy s will. Love, beauty, fame, rank, wealth, and power, Alternate, in the jocund hour My bosom fill. Again, a boy, I clutch the prize, A youth, I bask in sunny eyes, The race I win ; My bark all other barks outstrips, My name is, by a nation s lips, Made Glory s twin. Tis o er ! I find twas but a dream. But through the fore-dawn s dark extreme, Day s earliest dart Reminds me that, in Love or War, Such triumphs leave no other scar Than in my heart. THE RUBY GOBLET. COMRADES ! we have sung and laughed Merrily to-night ; Each of us a cup hath quaffed To his mistress bright. Do not let a sadder strain Take you by surprise ; Ere the toast we fill again I would moralise. Blazoned in our firmament Float the poised hours, From their task, like us, unbent, Garlanded with flowers. In this polished table s face See the wax- lights gleam, As the early sunbeams chase Darkness from a stream. M 162 THE RUBY GOBLET. Say, is not this empty glass Some poor spirit s jail ? Else, when I my finger pass Round it, why this wail ? Now a maiden s plaintive sigh, Now a captive s groan, Now a stricken warrior s cry Seems its swelling tone. These dim arabesques you see Gild its ruddy bowl, Are the faded tracery Of a magic scroll. Mine the wizard s mystic lore To divine the spell, And evoke those shapes of yore From the crystal cell. Hist ! an echo now replies Faintly to my hymn ; Lo ! a ghost with pale blue eyes Rises to the brim. THE RUBY GOBLET. 163 Wistful is his visage cold, Trimmed his beard with grace, As we see in many an old Pictured knightly face. To my ear those lips so pale, In his native tongue Whisper now a sadder tale Than our lips have sung. Tis a century at least Since Venetian mould Fashioned for his bridal feast This red cup I hold. Day had only broken thrice Ere the Adriatic, Of his young heart s Paradise Quenched the bliss ecstatic. Ransomed came from Tunis strand One long mourned as dead, By whose madly jealous hand His fair life was sped. THE RUBY GOBLET. Though she wept and tore her hair On her darling s bier, Fugitive was her despair As the fleeting year. Hardly was the crimson dried On the fatal knife, Ere became the victim s bride The destroyer s wife. From this chalice, which her lips Drained their bridal night, He, in spirit hovering, sips Still a sad delight. Hark ! the spectre chants a lay Of the olden time Listen, while my lips essay To repeat the rhyme. All the friends who round my bridal board Joyous shone, Are, like me, beneath the ttifted sward, Dead and gone. THE RUBY GOBLET. 165 Oft has this beloved goblet rung Life s first dawn ; Often wailed the child whose birth it sung, Dead and gone. Warriors I have seen, and statesmen hoary, Round it drawn ; Seen eclipsed their wisdom and their glory, Dead and gone. Jovial guests ! how near your notes of glee, Those lips yawn, To swallow you as they have swallowed me, Dead and gone. Comrades ! sadly sings the ghost Of this ruby glass ; Fill to him a silent toast Quick the flagon pass. If so near the red lips yawn Of the glutton grave, Let us antedate the dawn In this rosy wave ! BOHEMIAN SONG. COME, trip it with me gaily here, The forest glade our ball-room is, The ills of life shall disappear, Or from the turf rebound in bliss. Blow, comrade, blow thy wheaten pipe, Twang, brother, twang the trembling string, Care gripes us with an iron gripe ; To care the joyous heel we fling. Their walls of stone but dungeons are, To those who in great cities dwell, Neath roofs through which no sunbeam fair Can reach the flowers we love so well. BOHEMIAN SONG. 1 For us our last night s grassy bed Kind nature makes up fresh again, Ere drops the sun his weary head Upon the bosom of the main. In sleep we hear the mystic powers Of earth their subtile callings ply ; Awake, in brighter worlds than ours, We read the marvels of the sky. Once more, sweet partner, pipe again ; Twang fiercer, mates, the cittern s call ; For unseen spirits swell the strain To which our feet keep festival. An atom less, and we should be Floating on rosy clouds of love ; A feather more, with pinions free, Cleaving the paths of worlds above. Thy drooping head my shoulder seeks, Sweet partner of the wandering doom Which poised twixt earth and heaven keeps Us like Mohammed s pensile tomb. 1 68 B HE MI AN SONG. The evening star sinks fast, and see ! Around us in the twilight shades, The mystic throngs of old Chaldee, Her patriarchs, matrons, braves and maids. Blow softly while the ghostly crew The cadence mark with statelier pace ; Are they so many we so few ? O brothers, quick, one warm embrace ! They re gone ! tis night ; at dusk they come, Those shades of our long-buried sires, To follow us where er we roam j Now, comrades ! to your evening fires. WALTZ. COME to me, maiden fair, Maiden with golden hair, Now that the vesper air Trembles no more with prayer ! Come where the Zingaree, Under the linden tree, Spurring his comrades three, Pipes a wild jubilee ! Come, while their tabor s beat Urges the dancers fleet ; Come, let thy tiny feet Mine on the meadow meet ! 1 70 WALTZ. Bounding we gaily start ; Flashes thy blue eyes dart : Spare thou my captive heart ; Or let us never part ! Strains gently sighing in the air, love, Wake echoes in our hearts so near, love ! I pant with thy sighs, And see with thine eyes. Swayed by the magic waltz, love, Ne er to its measure false, love, One hand in thine, One holds thee mine, Mine, while fills the glade the whirling dance : With visions bright That dazzle sight j Mine, while clasped we float, as in a trance, On pinions bright This sparkling night. Rarest diamonds of the mine, love, Pale beside those eyes of thine, love ; But ere I thy hand resign, Take, oh, take this heart of mine. WALTZ. 171 Dying, sleeps in death the strain ; Sinks my soul in gloom and pain. Till that waltz shall wake again, Thou and I, sweet girl, are twain. MAZURKA. STAND aside while Schamiloff, In the hall of Peterhof, Drags the Queen of Beauty off, Duchess Olga Romanoff, Stemming the dance s tide With the Mazurka stride Which she, so lately Grand Duchess stately, Follows sedately. Now, with a victor s pride, Clasps he her slender waist, Twin-like they onward glide, As though by foemen chased ; Now casts her loose, but holds, Vice-like, her captive hand ; While like a tempest rolls Louder the frantic band. MAZURKA. 173 He tramps with fiercer swing, She his pace following Lightly as bird on wing, Follows without demur His clashing heel and spur ; He proud as Lucifer, She as an angel calm Trusting his iron arm Through the wild dances swarm, Till the orchestral storm Melts into melodies Soft as a summer breeze. Now other steps they choose, He in his turn pursues And her forgiveness woos, With a beseeching joy, Woos her retreating coy, When, like a thunder-clap, Halt ! bids the leader s rap, And Duchess Olga sees Schamiloff on his knees. DAWN AT MIDNIGHT. ALONE upon the Spouting Rock I hear its voices roar, And watch the baffled surges shock Against the iron shore. The wind grows bolder not a cloud Restrains the sweeping breath I ve seen rend ships, till mast and shroud Whirled in a dance of death. Against the sky, with swollen sail, A bark now ploughs the deep ; Her freight, perchance, but seed this gale Shall sow, and Ocean reap. DA WN A T MIDNIGHT. 175 God speed those whom the winds pursue This wild yet starry night ; And keep my heart until I view Her casement s promised light. Sail on, O bark, through every change Of season and of sky ; Within the haven of yon grange My hopes at anchor lie ! THE MOON AND THE BEACON HONEY moon ! Honey moon ! Though this April night Ocean, bay, and dark lagoon Revel in thy light, Will to-morrow see thy rays Where to-night they gleam, And my young bride s tender gaze Still with gladness beam ? Beacon light ! Beacon light ! On yon lonely shore, Shining faith-like every night, Where the breakers roar, Like a beating heart thy flash, Fed by human care, Cheers the mariner when crash Tempests through the air. THE MOON AND THE BEACON. 177 Maiden fair ! Maiden fair ! While the orange wreath Sheds its fragrance o er thy hair, Let thy balmier breath Vow that, like the Beacon s light, Thou wilt ever shine For the lover who to-night Links his fate with thine. LA CHOCOLATI&RE. BRIGHT are thine eyes, my pretty little maid, As diamonds sunk in jet ; Brown is thy cheek, as shadows in the glade By eve for lovers set. Lissom and smooth thy fairy-moulded shape Which gossamer muslins press, As clouds around the Jungfrau s summit drape Her snows with mute caress. Sometimes a thrill shoots through the sweet repose In which thou art enchained, And like the flush of summer-lightning glows Thy cheek with azure veined. LA CHOCOLATlkRE. 179 Say ! dost thou then a song of spirits hear, Inaudible to me ? Or, on his throne in dreamland s moonlit sphere, Thy young heart s monarch see ? Say ! if the black braids of the silken hair In which thy face is noosed, Are but a witchingly-devised snare To pinion souls seduced ? For that thy fawn eyes bait no ambuscade Could I but fondly trust I d kneel so low to thee, O pretty maid, My brow should kiss the dust ! TO MY NIECE LOUISE. DOLORES. HER ear to all the litanies Of brooks and whispering leaves alive, Pure as the violet-laden breeze, Dolores hath no sin to shrive. By fawns she s welcomed in the fields ; In groves by birds with vying throats, To swains or lords no heed she yields, But in sweet peace serenely floats ; Till in the twilight hour she hears A voice that wakes her sleeping heart, Now breathing tones that melt to tears, Now blasts at which her pulses start. DOLORES. 181 Sphinx-like her face, while tender fires Soften the glaciers of her breast, And pleasing fears and new desires Like fairy voices thrill her rest. Her ear thenceforth his trumpet is ; Her soul a lyre within his hands ; Her eye sees only light in his Who twines her fate with silken strands. TITIAN TO STELLA. I LOVE thee that thou dost inspire My ice-bound heart with quickening fire, And makest me forget, One silver moment, that I m old, When warms thy breath my lips, from cold Indifference to regret. As in gray autumn s dreary days Their pallid cheeks the asters raise, To catch the sun s stray kiss, So, ere the Arctic night sets in, Thy radiance shall my last thread spin With rapture s golden bliss. O thrilling touch, O glowing eyes, Whose beams, like stars in wintry skies, TITIAN TO STELLA. 183 Shine harmless on the snow ! Harmless as when, in tempest dark, The palmer from the steel s cold spark A kindling flame would blow. Yet phantom dear of buried days That veilest, with a sunset haze, The future s gloom and sorrow Stay ! that the thought of thee may bless, With one bright ray of happiness, The dark clouds of to-morrow ! "NO CARDS." LET me wed thee where my wooing Sanctified this mossy glade, Where above us ring-doves cooing Long their leafy nest delayed. Do not think my soul would falter To proclaim thy heart my prize, But a crowd before an altar Minds me of a sacrifice, Where no Dian moved to pity Swift bears off the doomed maid, As when in the Aulic city Calchas dropped his baffled blade. " NO CARDS." 185 Let the hermit, e en now telling Soft his beads in yonder hut, Breathe the prayer thy fears dispelling, Tie the knot man shall not cut. Let no vain misgivings daunt thee, Freely, bravely, plight thy troth ; Wilt not have, should worldlings taunt thee, My sword, and yon friar s oath ? A DEPARTING BRIDE. STEAMSHIP "RUSSIA,"/*/? 6, 1873. HER winsome face and artless grace Like sunbeams warmed my heart, As angels bright diffuse a light That stays when they depart. A touch may heal ; a spark from steel Of bright eyes kindle fire ; One touch of hers my finger stirs To wake with joy the lyre. And through the day her spirit gay Spread like a summer breeze, When left alone, I saw her on The alienating seas. A DEPARTING BRIDE. 187 To her my thanks. Back to the ranks, I turn, of work and strife, Breathing a prayer that saints as fair As she, may guard her life. LIEBESRUHE. SLAKED is the burning desert-thirst, And thou art wholly mine ; Stilled is the heart I thought must burst When throbbing close to thine. Calmed the strange sense of vague unrest That shipwrecked mariners feel, Ere, through the tropic breaker s crest, They launch their untried keel, Framed of the lordly tree which gave Them shelter from the blast, When, beachward high, the strong-armed wave Their senseless bodies cast. LIEBESRUHE. 189 Like them, my heart, life s bleakest heath In darkness doomed to rove, Found rest and woke to bliss beneath The mantle of thy love. With fire they carved the giant bole Unconscious of its fate ; With flame I shaped thy stately soul To carry mine as freight. In it, through passion s surges driven, I float beyond their roar ; And we, O Love ! are nearer Heaven Than when we left the shore. THE MARINER S BETROTHED. MORNING-STAR of drear November, Peering o er yon wild lagoon, Last thy radiance I remember, Sparkling on that eve in June, As we two came forth together, From the porch with roses pied, Blushed I, when he asked me whether I would be a sailor s bride. Then, invoking thy soft splendour Lingering in the pale blue West, Words he whispered, true and tender, Till I sank upon his breast. THE MARINER S BETROTHED. 191 With the twilight, ah, he vanished, Vanished to return in May. Oh, tis sad to love one banished To the ocean s desert way ! But though day thy lustre hideth, Star of love ! from morn to night In the deep lagoon abideth Still thine image, truthful, bright. And though far his bark be riding Friendly sea or stormy wave, In my heart s deep springs abiding Shines his image fair and brave. CATECHISM. LOVER. MAIDEN, whom I fain would woo, Tell me truly what canst do ? Nay a moment let the lute That just won my ear be mute, Nor inflame my soul again With thy voice s siren strain. Speak me calmly speak me true ; Candour thou shalt never rue. MAIDEN. I can reckon and can read, Deftly say my prayers and creed, In the church know when to kneel, And will neither lie nor steal ; CATECHISM. 193 Thus far have been reared in ease, Learning chiefly how to please, And with song and merry smile, Hours of sadness to beguile. LOVER. This is well, but not enough. Life is made of sterner stuff ; From the altar dateth bliss, From it too oft wretchedness. Ask thy heart if it feel sure Thou canst care and want endure Sorrow also nor repine At the lot that made them thine. MAIDEN. If my will and power I knew, Me thou wouldst not seek to woo ; Were my virgin soul not wax, Which life s stern impression lacks, Waiting till Love s mystic seal Stamp its fate for woe or weal, Thou wouldst find the vow a curse, " Take for better or for worse." o 194 CATECHISM. LOVER. Sweeter honey yield thy lips Than the bee from clover sips, Sweeter tones than thrill thy lute Breathes thine answer to my suit ; Canst thou not divine my fate, Whether bright or desolate ? Speak ! for if deceived in thee, Life and Love must bankrupt be. MAIDEN. Ere a charger thou dost buy, Thou canst all his paces try ; Buy him and if good he ll grow With the grace thy hands bestow. Yet the jockey s cunning task May his imperfections mask ; If his value thou wouldst know,. Must upon a journey go. METATHALAMIUM. WHEN like a perfume from thy lips The May-Queen s Song first through me stole, Like dawn above the mountain tips, Thy voice made morning in my soul, Until expired the tender strain And silence quenched the rosy light, When though I woke to day again, Within my spirit all was night. When horn and viol banished thought, Yet summoned every sense that slept, My hand thy grasp with ardour sought, And through the dance s maze we swept ; But while thy feet, with tireless tread, Fulfilled its orb like Dian chaste, My reeling brain with frenzy sped, Until my clasp released thy waist. 196 METATHALAMIUM. We married nor would I have changed My lot that morn for crown of gold. A month has flown are you estranged ? I find you silent, thoughtful, cold. I am but mortal whilst you sang In blissful dreams I sat entranced, And when the waltz its summons rang, Whilst I had breath and sight I danced. But when or song or dance expires, A gold cord snaps a spell is broke. Tis sad but true that mortal fires, Like those of brushwood, end in smoke. You promised me to make life bright With smiles then why that pouting glance ? You cannot sing from morn till night, Nor I from night till morning dance. ZAMPITA. OH, she was wondrous fair, And when I said "Thee would I wed," She listened to my prayer ; But not as woman hears, When thrills the oath Of plighted troth In her expectant ears ; Rather as Maiy Saint In altared shrine, With look benign, Receives a sinner s plaint 198 ZAMPITA. Who asks a happier lot ; Though to his suit The Virgin, mute But gracious, answers not, Until his soul shall rise, Through saving grace, Her living face To meet in Paradise. I said, "When we are wed, My paradise Shall be thine eyes." Then she " My heart is dead." I answered "Only seared, And by the blight Of broken plight To me far more endeared. Black is the carboneer, Who burns the oak To blacker coke, And makes the woodlands drear. ZAMPITA. 199 But blacker yet his soul, Who kindled thine With base design, And left its blossoms coal. My love with tender art And patient aim Shall blow its flame Upon thy cindered heart." At this she dimly smiled, As in a grief One finds relief By curious tales beguiled. And when my suit I pressed, She, still in sorrow, Sighed, "Well, to-morrow; Now, prithee, let me rest." The morrow came and sealed Our fates in one ; Fair smiled the sun ; Gaily the church-bells pealed. 200 ZAMPITA. As when you chance to feel A limb of wood, It chills your blood, As might the surgeon s steel ; I found the wounded pride Of Love s keen smart, Had left her heart Not charred, but petrified. For years I ve vainly striven With ardour true To fire anew That heart by sorrow riven. For years my lips have tasted The mocking bliss Of marble kiss, Until my frame is wasted. And when I pray for death, Her lips, still fair, Add to my prayer, Amen ! with icy breath. TODESFRAGE. DID she ever, ever love me ? Never, never shall I know, Till I join her soul above me And her body down below. When I sought to draw the fire Of affection from her eye, Mine alone was the desire, Mine the smile or mine the sigh. See her like a statue sleeping ! Yet no colder is she now Than when living and my weeping Failed to melt her icy brow. 202 TODESFRAGE. Yet that brow at times with flashes Of a cindered past relumed ; Like the runes that flare in ashes Of old letters just consumed. Did its snow conceal a mystery, Shame or crime beneath its crust ? Or but cover up the history Of all human pride and dust ? For the last time let me kiss her, Shut the lid I ll weep no more, Since my heart will only miss her As a prisoner the door Of his cell shut to at dawning To exclude all day the light, And at eventide set yawning To admit a starless night. GIVE ME JOY. WHEN age its wrinkles and its snows Had laid on Talma s cheek and brow, Tis said lie made the mournful vow, JVb friend shall see my eyes unclose ; For eveiy form he looked upon Revealed a ghastly skeleton. This earth was bright when first, a toy, Life in my youthful hands was placed, But now its waters have no taste Bring me the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! Like Talma, in the present dim And future dark, I see abound, In silvery age and youth just crowned With beauty s wreath, but spectres grim. E en Fortune s ingots lost and won Are watched by Care, the skeleton ; Nay, power, wealth, and pleasure cloy, Tis all the same sad change of tone 204 GIVE ME JOY. From smile to tear, from laugh to groan Bring me the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! Though youth has fled, affections still With steady glow my heart may cheer : Come hither, wife and children dear, Come, ere the cup again I fill, Come, ere each loved shape looked upon Shall seem to hide a skeleton. What ! was thy smile but a decoy ? And ye to whom I ve given breath, Do ye already wait my death ? Quick ! quick ! The wine-cup ! Give me joy ! Begone, ye vipers whom I ve nursed, And cherished with my heart s best blood ; Beldame, avaunt ! with all thy brood And be ye all like me accurst ! Thank Heaven, thy witching beauty s gone And leaves thee but a skeleton. Come, friend beloved ! Thou since a boy My more than brother, thou lt not fail ! Away, thou death s-head grim and pale ! Fill, fill the wine-cup ! Give me joy ! GIVE ME JOY. 205 Thou st changed the wine, my throat it burns, Tis bitter as ingratitude ! What ! say st thou from the grape twas brewed ? Within my lips to gall it turns ! Bring me the glass ! O death, thou st won ! I see myself a skeleton ! And that weird shape was once a boy, To whom each scene below shone fair ? God ! How its eyeless sockets stare ! Is there no cup will give me joy ? No, not the bowl ! The chalice bring, Exhaustless with the Paschal blood That purified sin s sable flood, And still flows from Thee, thorn-crowned King ! In whom mine eyes behold alone A Saviour, not a skeleton ! Oh, touch the hearts of wife and boy, And friend, with quivering grace divine. Thou wilt ! Then let me life resign, Draining Thy last cup s heavenly joy ! IN FIFTH AVENUE. MY husband is neither young nor old, Though his hair is turning gray ; My temper is neither hot nor cold, Yet I mope the livelong day. My house is neither spacious nor small ; Tis built in the usual way, And nicely furnished from garret to hall, Yet I mope the livelong day. We have children twain, a boy and a girl, My every wish they obey, Tom s a rough diamond, Maud is a pearl, Yet I mope the livelong day. Abroad I may either walk or drive, As it suits my humour s play ; We breakfast at nine and dine at fire, And I mope the livelong day. IN FIFTH A VENUE. 207 The bees that feed all winter on honey To flowers return in May ; All seasons are like, with plenty of money, Yet I mope the livelong day. My husband s the bee that gathers the sweets, In sunshine he makes the hay, And drudges in rain through muddy streets While I mope the livelong day. When dinner is over, he like a drone On the sofa snoozes away, And over the paper I mope alone At night as I moped all day. They called me lovely when I was young, And fond of praise and display ; Tis a tale that s told and a song that s sung, For I mope the livelong day. An old admirer unto me came, Resolved fresh homage to pay, And tenderly sighing he whispered his flame As I moped at home one day. 208 IN~ FIFTH A VENUE. He came just after the postman s bell My husband was far away And when he swore that he loved me well, I moped no more that day. An Indian god in a jewelled shrine Condemned for ever to stay, Like me if alive would mope and pine When alone the livelong day. From worship to earthly love is a stride A stage without a relay The abrupt transition touched my pride, And I moped no more that day. He seized my hand and I felt a spark, His eye shot a wicked ray Which I sometimes see again in the dark, When I ve moped the livelong day. Though I forgave him he wanted still more I scorned my vows to betray, But ordered him to be shown the door, And moped no more that day. IN FIFTH A VENUE. 209 And I sometimes wish that this stupid life Might finish without delay ; I m a virtuous, uncomplaining wife, But I mope the livelong day. And when to our marble church we go, I wonder why people pray, For I have every thing here below, Yet I mope the livelong day. TO A WELL-KNOWN CAMELLIA. PRAY, who was Lady Hume? and why her blush? Was it a sad or sweet emotion Which wakened on her cheek this earliest flush Of dawn awakening the ocean ? Was it the voice of homage women prize, Or undreamt love s abrupt confession ? Or did the mute reproach of sorrowing eyes Beyond all speech make intercession ? Was it the flash of anger half controlled, Or shame s ill-masked hue of panic ? Or the resentment of a virtue bold Withstanding passion s burst volcanic ? TO A WELL-KNOWN CAMELLIA. 211 We ll hope that she, whose name upon thy bloom All princes shall outlast and powers, Lacked not a soul her beauty to perfume Like thee, O Queen ! but of the scentless flowers ; That like the matron fair I may not name, Her blush betrayed a soul transcending Her charms, and through them glowing to proclaim Its grace with their effulgence blending. UNDERGRADUATE. GENTLE maiden ! whom sixteen Summers drape with statelier grace Than thy mirror s placid sheen Held when first I saw thy face ; Thou art now as one awaiting To be ferried o er the stream, Ever narrowing and abating, That divides thee from thy dream ; Waiting till some glorious morn That young ferryman appears, At the notes of whose sweet horn Hopes and blushes come with fears ; Then his shallop he unmooring, Arrow-like shall speed to thee, And thy foot scarce touch the flooring Ere he whispers, " Come with me ! " UNDERGRADUATE. 213 Not across the shrinking river, But adown its channel mid To the island where forever, Nestling as the doves lie hid, I may tell thee how I love thee, While thou answerest, Love me more, Till my tenderness shall prove thee Wisely to have left the shore." IMPROMPTU. TO MISS S. W. ON THE RIG I. EDELWEISS, Edelweiss, Edelweiss was she, Budding on that mountain top Far above the sea ! Edelweiss, Edelweiss, Edelweiss again, Scarce a new moon later Blooming in the plain. Edelweiss upon the Rigi Lilienweiss upon the lea, Fifty years have dug the chasm That divideth her from me ! In the valley as I stood Gray and owl-like by the wood, IMPROMPTU. 215 She a lily gainst the green On her stately stem was seen ; A child s the heart within her bodice Yet in face and form a goddess, I could pray, yes, pray and kneel, Die, if need were, for her weal. Gamblers rather lose their all Than forsake the mocking ball, And to love is greater gain Than not being loved is pain. Edelweiss, Edelweiss, On the Jungfrau steep ! Snows as pure as where I pluck thee Shall thy starry petals keep ; And a happier lot betide thee Where thy sister fair shall hide thee Than amidst the snows eternal Of thy glacier home supernal ! For this bettering of thy fortune Let thy gratitude importune Her to breathe a gentle Ave, For the soul of him that gave thee. TO GRACE. SABLE her garb as starless skies, A harvest moon her face, Twin glories sparkled in her eyes, Her lips blushed bounteous grace. And when they moved, her voice so soft And musical in tone, Seemed Dian s floating from aloft To wake Endymion. Ah ! would I were that sleeping boy, Unconscious of the bliss Awaiting him when love its joy Shall pour through Dian s kiss I Nor did it chill my longing mood To realise that I, Were such a kiss by Grace bestowed, Should not awake but die ! CATSKILL, August 22, 1874. THE VALLEY-LILY. TAKE, O Gardener, to the maiden In whose praise the harp I string, Take at dawn a basket laden With the loveliest blooms of spring. Let no orange -flowers suggesting Altar, priest, or ring be there, But sweet valley-lilies, cresting Roses than her cheek less fair ; Seeing which, her bird with mellow Throat shall pipe a roundelay, And her eyelids from her pillow Open on a happy day, Happier should its waning prove her Mindful of the tender stress That impels my soul to love her, Though that love she never bless. SONG. MY Sibyl hath a dainty look Of spiritual grace, Serene as yonder limpid brook That ripples through the chase ; Where, when at night the merry stars Upon its waters play, Their peering eyes find naught that mars Its clearness through the day. But they at dawn their glories hide, Whilst Sibyl s look benign Beams fair, as neath that mimic tide Its sun-kissed pebbles shine. V. LE MANOIR DE LOCKS LEY. An experiment. AMIS ! Je veux attendre ici que palisse 1 aurore ; Laissez-moi ! Quand vous me voudrez, donnez du cor sonore. C est bien toi ! Manoir de Locksley. Autour, comme jadis, Au long des dunes Ton entend se heler les courlis. Locksley ! tes tours comment les coteaux jus- qu au rivage, Et le flot- billon deferle en dentelles sur la plage. 222 LE MANOIR DE LOCKSLEY. Que de nuits m ont vu, la, sous cette ogive contempler, Au couchant, l e grand Orion lentement s incliner ; Ou le lever, dans la brume qui coiffe les collines, Des essaims de mouches a f eu , par files argentines. Dans ces landes ma jeunesse feerique s abreuvait Des merveilles de science que le Temps nous transmet : Quand les siecles passe s reposaient comme un champ fecond, Faisant croire aux promesses que le present cache au fond : Je scrutai 1 avenir, autant que 1 ceil humain penetre, Depuis le fait actuel jusqu a la merveille a naitre. LE MANOIR DE LOCKS LEY. 223 Le printemps cramoisit a neuf la gorge du robin ; Le printemps donne une autre huppe au van- neau libertin. Au printemps plus vif en ses couleurs le ramier s agite ; Au printemps le jouven^eau d un amour soudain palpite. De son beau visage amaigri se fanaient les appas, Et son regard muet ne faisait qu epier mes pas. Ce que voyant je dis : " Ne me caches rien, chere Aime e, Tout mon cceur tend vers toi comme au rivage la maree." De son ceil alangui jaillit un eclair ephemere, Vermeil comme quand POurse deploie au Nord sa banniere. 224 LE MANOIR DE LOCKSLEY. Puis j observai le trouble de son sein a mes aveux, Et son ame dans les sombres profondeurs de ses yeux. " J ai voile, Cousin, mes sentiments de peur de me nuire ; " M aimes-tu?" fit-elle en pleurs. "Long- temps je 1 ai voulu dire." L amour prit le sablier du temps dans ses doigts ardents, Et, le tournant, en sable d or fit couler les moments ; L amour fit tant d arpeges sur la harpe de la Vie, Que le ton du Soi, tremblant, s absorba dans 1 harmonie. Souvent, la cognee au bois, le matin nous surprenait, Des fievreux transports du printemps sa voix me remplissait ; LE MANOIR DE LOCKS LEY. 225 Sou vent, lorsque a se croiser les voiles nous contemplames, Au doux contact des levres se confondirent nos ames. O cousine ! Ainiee ! O creur leger ! mon eternel deuil ! Lande morne ! Triste rive ou la vague bat 1 ecueil ! Fonds ou ne saurait atteindre la sonde du poete ! D un regard dur, d un mot vif, docile marion- nette ! Dois-je croire que, m ayant connu, tu trouves le bonheur En t abaissant au rang plus bas d emotions, de coeur ? AT LAST. WHAT care I whence the cold wind blows, Or if yon skies be drear, Now that my longing arms enclose Her whom I hold most dear ! What care I for the wealth and power That light an emperor s throne, Since that kiss made tis scarce an hour Those tender lips my own ! Let warriors chase the phantom-light Of glory o er the field, And tyrants with oppression s might Make sullen nations yield. ENF1N. QU IMPORTE d ou vient la bise Qui teint en gris les cieux, Puisqu enfin, dans mes bras, Elise Repond a tous mes voeux ! Qu importent la puissance et Tor Qui luisent pres d un roi, Puisque, cedes leurs doux tresors, Ses levres sont a moi ! De la gloire que le soldat Cherche le feu follet, Et de son sceptre les appas Le tyran deteste. 228 AT LAST. Let orators with stormy breath Upheave the human seas, And heirs rejoice when pallid death Gives them the golden keys. I ll henceforth live alone for her Who lives alone for me ; The vine that clasps the hoary fir Makes glad the lonely tree. What though death lurk in its embrace, Both men and trees must die ; What matters then my resting-place, Or when in it I lie ? Her tears shall bless with flowers my grave, Until her soul take wing ; As o er the fallen fir shall wave The vine-bells many a spring. ENFIN. 229 Que 1 orateur, comnie Forage, Souleve 1 assemblee, Et 1 aine, de son heritage, Touche la clef doree. Desormais pour elle je vis Qui pour moi seul existe ; La vigne verte autour de lui Rejouit le sapin triste. Que ses baisers cachent la mort, Tout sapin doit mourir ; Qu importe quand le meme sort Me condamne a perir ? Ses pleurs eclateront en roses Dessus mon toit dernier ; Comme, du pin couchant ecloses, Les fleurs de vigne en Mai. LA SYLPH IDE. Beranger. LA Raison a son ignorance ; Son flambeau n est pas toujours clair Elle niait votre existence, Sylphes charmants, peuples de 1 air ; Mais, ecartant sa lourde egide Qui genait mon ceil curieux, J ai vu naguere une sylphide, Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. Oui, vous naissez au sein des roses, Fils de 1 Aurore et des Zephyrs ; Vos brillantes metamorphoses Sont le secret de nos plaisirs. THE SYLPHIDE. From the French of Ber anger. IGNORANT, at times, is Reason, And her torch not always clear ; She denies, fair Sylphs, what treason !- That your people fill the air ; Her huge ^Egis pushed aside, One bright glimpse beyond to steal, Once a Sylphide I descried, Now to none but Sylphs I kneel. Born and nurtured amid roses, Children of the morning breeze, Your untold metempsychoses Charm us in all things that please ; LA SYLPH IDE. D un souffle vous sechez nos larmes ; Vous epurez 1 azur des cieux : J en crois ma sylphide et ses charmcs. Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. J ai devine son origine Lorsq au bal, ou dans un banquet, J ai vu sa parure enfantine Plaire par ce qui lui manquait. Ruban perdu, boucle defaite, Elle etait bien, la voila mieux. C est de vos soeurs la plus parfaite. Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. Que de grace en elle font naitre Vos caprices toujours si doux ! C est un enfant gate peut-etre, Mais un enfant gate par vous. J ai vu sous un air de paresse, L amour reveur peint dans ses yeux. Vous qui protegez la tendresse, Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. THE SYLPHIDE. 233 With a breath our tears you dry, You the rainbow s hues reveal, Yours the azure of the sky ; Ah ! to none but Sylphs I kneel ! I my Sylphide s race divined When upon the ball-room s floor, She, untrammelled as the wind, Won more hearts the less she wore ; Loosened bow-knot, tangled hair Did but beauties fresh reveal ; Fairest she among the fair Of the Sylphs to whom I kneel. Ah ! in her what grace engender All your fancies sweet and new, Spoilt she is I can t defend her, But the darling s spoilt by you. In her languid moments even Neath her lids see Cupid steal, Open them and earth is heaven ! Now to none but Sylphs I kneel. 234 LA SYLPH IDE. Mais son aimable enfantillage Cache un esprit aussi brillant Que tous les songes qu au bel age Vous nous apportez en riant. Du sein de vives etincelles Son vol m elevait jusqu au cieux ; Vous dont elle empruntait les ailes, Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. Helas ! rapide meteore, Trop vite elle a fui loin de nous. Doit-elle m apparaitre encore ? Quelque sylphe est-il son epoux ? Non, comme 1 abeille elle est reine D un empire mysterieux ; Vers son trone un de vous m entraine. Sylphes legers, soyez mes dieux. THE SYLPHIDE. 235 Yet her sportive, childish laughter Hides as bright a mother-wit, As the dreams we follow after, And the marks we never hit. Now a careless spark she flings, Now her tones the heart unseal ; You that lend her all your wings, Sylphs ! to you alone I kneel. Brilliant meteor, alas ! She has vanished undescried. Shall I once more see her pass ? Or does some Sylph call her bride ? No ! she rules, as rules the bee, Some mysterious commonweal ; To her hidden palace me Guide, O Sylphs, to whom I kneel ! A LA COMTESSE IDA. Explication. Si d un enfant nous partageons la joie Lorsque du jeu 1 ardeur vibre en son corps, S il nous fait rajeunir lorsqu il tournoie Et saute, heureux comme un poulain sans mors Ah ! combien plus je me sentais revivre A vous voir belle, ardente de transport Que soixante ans sont defendus de suivre, A moins de vouloir recruter les morts ? Alors que vous supposiez qu insensible Je dedaignais la chasse ce matin, J etais ravi, j en fais 1 aveu terrible, Comme Acteon regardant Diane au bain. A LA COMTESSE IDA. 237 Ainsi qu on sent a voir tourner la danse Battre le coeur et tressaillir le pied, Je me trouvais dans un etat de transe, Devant le bonheur qui vous enivrait. Vous auriez dit un courant mesmerique Qui m enlevait quarante ans bien sonnes, Un adorable reve magnetique Dont le reveil s exprime en bouts-rimes ? MENTMORE, February 1882. MA SAINTE A UX ROSES. VIEIL ermite que je suis Attendant la mort sans crainte, Que tout serait plein d ennuis, Si je n avais une Sainte ! J ai tache de m incliner Devant les Saintes qu on prie ; Je n ai pu me prosterner Qu aux pieds d une Sainte en vie. Car celles dont les portraits, Oraent tant de sanctuaires, Ne sont que de vains reflets Sauf aux yeux fervents des Peres. Que me font ces tableaux de foi, CEuvres d artiste, de pretre, Quand elle, ma Sainte a moi, Est 1 oeuvre du plus Grand Maitre ? MA SAINTE AUX ROSES. 239 Pauvre Abbe ! vos sombres toits Rendant de 1 Ave la phrase, Ecrasent de tout leur poids La sainte ardeur de 1 extase ; Tandis qu aux pres, au bosquet, Butinant les fleurs ecloses, J en fais un charmant bouquet Pour leur soeur, ma Sainte aux Roses. L Abbe voit a son reveil Sa Madonne a peau de cire ; Moi je reve au teint vermeil De ma Sainte, et son sourire ; En songe, du Paradis II voit la cime lointaine, Tandis que la, vis-a-vis, Ma Sainte est ma Chatelaine. STANCES A SIBELLE. CELLE que j aime est si belle Qu un voile d or d Immortelle Semble flotter autour d elle. Mais je suis mortel ! Et mon pauvre cceur se voile, Elle est loin comme une etoile, Tronant dans le ciel ; Mieux gardee droite et gauche Que Danae, dont 1 approche Defendait la vide poche D un pauvre gardien, Ebloui par la poussiere D or du maitre du tonnerre, Et s en trouvant bien. STANCES A SIBELLE. 241 Mon ideal, ma charmante, Dont la beaute me tourmente De bonheur et d epouvante, Mon doute, ma foi ! Meme si j avais les ailes Des legeres hirondelles, Atteindrais-je a toi ? 2 MA GRACE DARLING. Je cherchais dans le monde Ses bruits et ses oublis ; Je voulais sous 1 onde Noyer tous mes soucis. La Folie enivrante Y guettait le plaisir ; En vain la Corybante Amor9ait mon desir. Que le Seigneur exauce Mon besoin d ideal, Mais ou 1 on " fait la noce " N est pas le Sangreal. A MA GRACE DARLING. 243 O vous tous, pauvres hommes, Pour qui jouir est tout, Vous mordez a des pommes Qui laissent le degout ! Comme, las de la fete, Je m enfuyais bien loin, Une angelique tete M apparut dans un coin. Je commencais a peine D etudier ses traits, Lorsqu elle dit en reine " Suis moi ! je t attendais." Hors de la salle alerte, Mon coeur realisait Que, jouant a la perte, Le gros lot j ai tire. Ballottee, en detresse Deja sombrait ma barque, Quand Laure, O sainte ivresse ! Delivrait SON PETRARQUE. LA PRINCES SE M ARGOT. Comment chanter ma Princesse, Dont 1 aimable soeur D une semblable tendresse Fait bondir mon cceur ? Mais au nom de Saint Hercule Pourquoi prononcer, Tant qu elles comme pendule Me font balancer ? Je ne suis point girouette, Foi de papillon, Quoique d une escarpolette J imite le bond. A LA PRINCESSE MARGOT. 245 Entre vous, charmantes filles, Douteux mais dispos, A ma goutte, a. mes bequilles, J ai donne campos. Butinant comme 1 abeille Jamais colibri N aura fortune pareille De voir, ebloui, Un beau lis pur, une rose, Vrai parfum du ciel, Chacune attendant qu il ose Savourer son miel. Vole done, O balangoire Ou le bonheur luit, Avant que tombe la noire Mante de la nuit ! August 13, Printed by K. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. INTEf. \RY FEI 1 966 MAY 9 - 66 STACK DEAQ LD 21A-60m-10, 65 (F7763slO)476B General Library University of California Berkeley