UC-NRLF 5bl MIS GIFT OF "iss Al*ce J. Blanche sate by her open casement. Humming an air as she spinned." POEMS SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY LONDON : LONGMAN, GREEN, LONGMAN, ROBERTS, AND GREEN. BATH : R. E. PEACH, 8, BRIDGE STREET. MDCCCLXIH. iff CONTENTS. MISCELLANEOUS. PAGE. LANCHE 1 Memory's Rosary ....... 3 Spirit Flowers, To F. A. E 8 My First Statue .10 A Vision .11 At Sea . . . . . . . . . 14 Unwept Tears . . . .... 15 Under the Willow Tree . . . , . 17 The Death of Summer .18 A Welcome . . 20 The Sculptor's Reverie . . . . . . .21 The Orphans 28 Failure 30 Dread . . . 34 The Path 36 At Last 38 Tomhs of the Kings, Thebes 39 M183209 - ' vi Contents. PAGE. The Arab 1 .- Grave, Thebes 40 "Jesu Mio Misericordia" 44 The Picture Gallery 46 " Good-bye" at the Gate : . 50 " In the midst of life we are in death" . . . . 52 " For they that sow in tears shall reap in joy" . . b\ The Father's Love 56 Christmas Night 57 "I should feel thy shadow if I were in my grave!" . . 59 :nory 61 Alone with Jesus 62 Leonore 63 The Bride of Christ 65 The Dream t; ~ Constancy . 69 Tears 70 Easter Day "-' To A. C. 74 Rain ~' ; Mina 78 Life's Seasons 80 The Voice 82 will, not mine" 84 Lady Clarisse 85 Through the Tunnel 88 " I hide myself in Thy pavilion" 90 Waves of Thought 92 The Funeral, 1861 95 'In patience possess ye your souls" 99 Disappointment 100 Rest upon thy heart 102 Contents. vii PACK. "Wait patiently for Him" . ... . 104 " Twere better to suffer for well doing, than for evil doing" 106 Faith 107 To 109 To Lady A. I. N Ill Sonnet to . . . 112 Sonnet to 113 Sonnet to * . . 114 ITALY. Italy's Sea 117 A Whisper from the Carapagna 119 The Sabbath of the Campagna 120 The Sea Whisper 121 The Living Dead 128 Sepulchral Monument, (By Mist Uotmer) in the Church of St. Andrea delle Frate, Rome . . . . 125 A Martyr's Grave 126 The Lima River 129 A Voice . . . . 1:51 Another Voice 133 St. Catherine 135 On the Bridge 136 Midnight on the Prato-Fiorito 138 A Walk in the Caserne 141 Gaston de Foix 143 The Stranger's Grave 145 The Broken Lute 146 A Cobweb 148 A Whisper 149 viii Contents. Night-fall in the Campagna . Good Unappreciated .... An Earthquake, at Chi u si The "Barba Gianni" The Haunted Chapel The Last Supper (Tretco by Leonardo da rind) Dead Violets on the "Lido" The Anemones of the Pamfili Dori Keat's Grave On the Way to Rome The Ruined Shrine The House of Shadows SWITZERLAND ; Death's Studio The Avalanche ,-- 181 The Alps' Cathedral ,., The Alps' " Te Deum" 183 Blanc, at Sunset ,187 The Mer do (Jlace I90 A Wish , 92 The Nightingale's Cry 194 PARAPHRASES. Hymn of St. Zavier .198 Paraphrases on Heine .... .200 V Some of these pieces have already been published. MISCELLANEOUS. BLANCHE. LANCHE sate by her open casement, Humming an air as she spinn'd ; Ever and oft the burden came, Borne on the Summer's wind. 'Twas an olden ditty she sang, She had caught from lips long dead Lips now attuned to other songs 41 To other songs," she said. Round and round her spinning-wheel flew, Swiftly the long silken thread Dropped from her ivory fingers " An endless task !" she said. Blanche. The sun swooned away on the mountains. Painting the valley in red, In orange and purple the vineyards " An endless day ! " she said. The moon and stars they glimmered, As the twilight shadows fled ; She leans from her open casement " God only is Love ! " she said. An angel in secret is weaving A death-shroud with mystical thread, Uniting the half finished meshes " God only is Rest ! " he said. "Now wipe the tears from thy cheek, Blanche ! Believe that thy lover is dead ; For faithless from thee he has wandered " " God only is true ! " she said. Twas night, and the angel was bending Over Bknche as she lay on her bed ; He whispered, " Her spinning is ended " God only is Life ! " he said. MEMORY'S ROSARY. NCE I stood to count my blessings Blessings on my path of life, But was lost in mystic figures, Shadowy numbers no relief. Then I tried another process, Bid the leaves to count for me ; Courted e'en the murmuring billows, To number them by sands of sea. Last, I sought an unseen altar, Sacred shrine within the soul, Where a rosary was hanging Close beside a graven scroll. On this scroll of pearly lustre, Intertwined with ivy spray, Were mystic words and flowers, with Lily, rose, magnolia. Memory's Rosary. Sweetly breathed their wedded odours, Faintest mist around the scroll That concealed this string of amber ; Love's rosary within my soul. Thus I stood, to count my blessings On my chaplet, rich and rare ; Priceless were those beads of memory, STRUNG on golden threads of prayer. Not of scented wood of Persia, Nor of Olive's sacred tree, X -illier pearl nor heaven-lit sapphire, Were those beads of memory. But of clear, translucent amber, Tpward washed from distant sea, Whose crystal waves for ever murmur Murmur, Immortality ! Safe within this buried clois: Lowly there on bended knee, Sought I to unthread my tr- a-ures ; Count them on my rosary. Memory's Rosary. Long I lingered, till the Ave Roused me with a silver bell, And a white-robed spirit led me From the door where closed the spell. And the Spirit led me onward, Softly whispering, " Thou sbalt pass BABY feet have been before thee, Footprints lost in dewy grass" To a garden rich in glory, Flowers whose immortal breath Almost choked these mortal senses, For they breathed no dirge of death. Softly said the angel to me, " Count these flowers, now, and see, Which best tell thy life-long blessings, They, or MEMORY'S ROSARY. " Look adown life's changeful pathway, See the flowers round thee sown, They are human loves and friendships, God has given thee for thine own. Memory's Rosary. One magnolia's 'whelming sweetness, One white rose of magic light, One sweet lily of the valley, Hiding 'neath her broad leaves' weight. And a scarlet rose of splendour, 1 Brilliant in its ardent glow, Born and nursed in mountain breezes, r had died in drift of snow. Close it clung like Alpine flowret, Thornless, brilliant evermore, Wafting Tuscan recollections Of a church, a ring, a prayer. Last, not least, a spray whose freshness. Deathless through the rifts of time, Shading faults, and hiding follies, Ivy, green in every clime. Rich I was that morning's ramble ; With my treasures in my hand, Thm returned to life's steep pathway, Treading lightly life's grey sand. Memory's Rosary. With the rosary in my bosom, With the flowers in my hand, Thus I wander through life's journey, Onward to the happier land. Ever count my love-sent blessings Blessings strung on threads of prayer ; Count them in my joys and sorrows, On my rosary rich and rare. Lake Coroo; July, 1861. SPIRIT FLOWERS. TO F. A. E. BUNCH of flowers was given to me, With scent of the pine and breath of the sea, They came through the air on a cloud to me. Their roots had never been wedded to mould, Their petals were gilt with the sunset gold, I seemed to grasp them, yet could not hold. For they grew not on earth ; nor hiU, nor lea Had nursed these flowers given to me, With scent of the pine and breath of the sea. But at last they floated in mist away, Though they caught their stems on the crown of day, Who was dying in state on a couch of grey. Spirit Flowers. But the riband that tied these flow'rs so dear, I tried to catch and keep it to wear, As a fillet to bind my wayward hair. would ye smell these flowers so fair, That were wafted to me on the sunset air, These spirit flowers from gardens of air? Then follow in spirit, walk with me By the murmuring tide of the distant sea, And yell breathe these flowers given to me, With scent of the pine and breath of the sea, By the one I love, who is far from me. MY FIRST STATUE. (A THOUGHT.) " And their works do follow them." XD can it be, when I am dead, And these hands are stiff and cold ; This the thought of a Summer's day, May live on to years untold ? A thought immortalized in stone, That born in the silent soul, Was nursed unseen till it sprang to life, And grew 'neath a sculptor's tool. A solemn truth a ghostly train Follows the life of the dead ; Shadows of works, the good, the ill, Words spoken, and words unsaid. Would we could live, that all our thoughts, Sculptur'd in marble, or writ, Were beacons unclouded to those who would seek Our tomb that their lamps may be lit. A VISION. N ambient garment encircled her, Woven of mystic air, And o'er her brow in beauty fell Long threads of golden hair. A net of cloud-wrought silver Her tresses did ensnare, And when I tried to touch her, She vanished into air. I sought her hand to clasp it Her spirit hand in mine, For there it lay like a rosy shell Seen through the frothy brine. And sense entrancing odours In mists encompassed were, From flowers which had fainted In giving their breath to her. 12 A Vision. But as I pressed her airy hand, It seemed to melt away, Though it left an impress where it touched, Like the kiss of a vanished day. And as she floated by me, She kindled my room with light, Like a star that has drifted earthward To say to the world " Good-iwjht." Had she then a " Good-night " for me Down on this earth so far ? - ! and had brought me a lily from Heaven. To lay in my bosom and wear. At last to words her lips trembled, As petals of roses might, When the zephyrs stoop to kiss them As they pause in wayward flight. " This lily pure was sent to thee By one who could not stay, But just behind the veil she waits Thine immortality." This said she smiled and kist it, On my pillow, there it lay ; Then into a turret of darkness She floated in cloud away. A Vision. 13 And when I am sad and weary With earth's dull masquerade, I think of that night's sweet vision, And what the angel said, When on my restless pillow She laid this Lily of Love, To strengthen me for days to come, Till that one bright Day above. AT SEA. IGHT frowns again upon the deep, Yet o'er the wave we mark The silvery folds of spray, which tell Our lonely pathway dark. Hark to old ocean's weird harp, With dripping finger light, The breeze awakes the rippling keys To solemn Psalm of night. Nor sculptur'd hills in misty view, Cheer us with hope of land ; Nor flowers breathe their incense sweet Upon our floating band. But gallantly, and stately still, Our ship rides through the foam ; While faints in gathering mist of night Our country and our home. Asia ," 1855. UNWEPT TEARS. (A Pagan custom to put glass tears in the sepulchres of the dead as an offering.) F all the time-worn customs, That from Pagan times we have Of all the quaint devices, That linger round the grave ; Of all the strange observances That superstition breeds, The strangest seems, that with the dead Were buried these glass beads Now found how strange ! in ages fled, These mockeries sad of grief, Glass tears were holy offerings made, To bring the heart relief. Quaint tribute this ! to the long-loved, The worshipped and the wept ; Close by their hearts these unshed tears Religiously were kept. 16 Umoept Tears. Not only gauds and gems were hid In those dark realms of rest : But favourite trinkets worn in life, Their owners' pride attest. But now unsealed those sepulchres, Profaned by careless tread, Are rifled of the spoils that were Once sacred to the dead ; And e'en glass tears that could not dry ! Would'st thou the farce complete ? Go to the Antiquary buy A string for an amulet ! Home, I860. UNDER THE WILLOW TREE. (SOKG.) NDER the willow tree lay her, Where night-tears evermore weep, As they fall on a young girl's pillow Death's bride in her peaceful sleep. Nor hang her frail harp on the willow, Its gold strings loose and unstrung ; The night-wind sobbing around it, The green leaves and silence among. But write on her grave this story, " A harp with its gold strings unstrung ; Not on the green bough we'll leave it, For ne'er on the willow it hung. But shattered buried for ever. Strains once so wild and so mellow ; We shall hear them never again, She sleeps safe under the willow. c THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 14 We all do fade as a leaf." Leave the bier in the forest, Wrapped in the shrivelled leaves, Go, leave the north-wind untying The withes of the golden sheaves. For the day of vintage is over, The wine from the grape is born, From the sheaf is trodden the grain, From the hedge the rose is torn. Hark ! to the funeral voices That whisper from leaf and rill, While the chestnuts weave their leaf-shrouds, And shadows fall from the hill. But what have the leaves to tell me, As they whisper through the boughs, And cover the bier of summer, the cruel frost-wind blows :' The Death of Summer. 19 For mark ! how frail is their tenure, As linked with tendril and stem ; Soon the death-wind will sever, and wide Over the wood scatter them. What is the butterfly saying, As tangled now in the vine, She flutters her frail gauzy wings, Vainly wooing the pale sun- shine ? Leaf, and rill, and forest gloom, All echo one song to me ; They say, " The summer is dying, And buried for ever to be." That life's but a passing shadow, Or the mist of early day ; Or dying summer that we mourn, With her dead leaves blown away. Bayni di Lucca, 1809. A WELCOME. UT a white rose on her table, Wet with the summer's rain, A single rose in crystal vase, To welcome her again. Then pluck a spray of heliotrope, And lay that at her door, That she may crush it with'her tread Its sweet scent evermore. The heliotrope /jerjflower is, So pluck another spray, And let that o'er her pillow waft Breath of this summer's day. Each flower then will speak to her Of love, and she will hear ; Tis better than this human voice, She is too weak to bear. October, 1858. THE SCULPTOR'S REVERIE. SCULPTOR sate late in his desolate room, At the close of a dim Roman day, He watched the grim shadows that fresco'd the walls, He dreamed o'er his model in clay. He looked deeply down in his sorrowing soul, At the image he longed to create, But not as those embers died out on the hearth, Could that fire ever abate. He saw but a feeble reflection that burned In the depths of his passionate soul, And felt the sweet vision more distant and faint, With an anguish he could not control. The room was thronged thick with vague sculptures that mock'd At fancies that swept through his mind, Through realms of cold imagery known but to him, And seen through the tears that did blind. 22 The Sculptor's Reverie. There was marble half hewn great blocks in the rough ; Now prophet, now sybil, now sage Seemed starting to life from inanimate stone, Like ghosts of some evil presage. But suddenly fell on his spirit a trance, No longer in silence he mused, A crowd of pale phantasms thronged the hot room, And there rose a deep murmur confused. But the click of the mallet the buzz of the file Soon ceased to enliven the calm, And the sculptor was lost in the silver of sleep His heavy brow dropt in his palm. THE REVERIE. I dreamt that the embers had swooned on the hearth, That spark upon spark fled away ; Each fountain of flame, in a basin of gold, From ripples danced off into spray. The cold chill of evening fell dark on my soul, Down dropping in death-dew of night, And heavily bending each flower of thought, "Which lately had blossomed to sight. The Sculptor's Reverie. 23 I said as the fire burn'd out on the hearth, Dissolving the frescoes in gloom, With senses entranc'd has my spirit hroke free From the body, the soul's only tomb ? The fire that burn'd in those dim restless depths, Drew shadows I'd ne'er seen before, Long, long I stood gazing transfix'd with the sight, I had enter'd my soul's open door. I seemed to be dreaming, yet still not asleep, Each sense was so quickened to sight, There were galleries, gardens, and flowers Alas ! Weeds^too noxious weeds, that no blight Had faded or withered strong root had they all, Too long had they choked up and barred The palace within, a " temple" so called, Whose threshold with evil was scarr'd. Yet still there were flowers, altho' every root Twined fast to some weed I deplored ; Alas ! must each blossom of loveliness cling To some evil sincerely abhorred ? 4 The Sculptor's Reverie. All the visions of my day-dreams, All the fancies of life's way, Stood before me, mute assembly, Solemn group in stark array. There they stood, thought's solemn sculptures, No more floating fancies free, But embodied truths for ever, Statues through eternity ! Chiselled by a subtle sculptor, In that studio called the brnin, In that chamber of deep mysteries, Whose artisans are joy and pain. Some were garlanded with roses, Some with violet white and blue, Some with ivy steadfast-clinging, While the feet of friends I knew. Little feet had been before me, Footprints lost in dewy grass, And I heard sweet children's voices, Softly singing, " Let him pass !" The Sculptor's Reverie. 25 All the fancies of these day-dreams, Wrought out in a sculptor's room, No more stood in mute assembly, But prest on through light and gloom. On I wandered, silent, wondering At the crowd that surged amain ; " Strange," I said, " to be a stranger In a dream of one's own brain." But such a crowd, so many pictures, Scarce remembered hardly known, Could these be my thoughts ? bewildered I sank down and wept alone. But hark ! hark ! the children's voices ! Sweetly singing, " Let him pass ! " Little feet had been before me, Footprints lost in dewy grass. Is it that the soul's unloosing From the body, tho' called death, When the " silver cord," if severed, Stops the heart, and stills the breath, 26 The Scvljjfi rle. Is the opening of that chamber, Whence deep mysteries of thought Stand embodied, moving, living Still companions, though unsought ? Then soft clouds came floating o'er me, Took the forms of answered prayer, And the mist that rolled before me, Swept my sorrows into air. For sweet groups of angel faces, Pitying faces bent to see, These -were holy aspirations, That had ne'er forsaken me. Did I say that I was dreaming ? Did I say this all before ? That I entered guest unbidden Through my own soul's open door ? There to see these living sculptures, Every thought embodied there, to perish, good and evil, Beautiful, and false, and fair. The Sculptor's Reverie. 27 Stiiri heard the children's voices, Softly singing, " Let him pass Through these asphodels and nettles, To the violets in the grass. " Let him see sin linked to sorrow, Let him see the good and true Humbly pray that his soul's sculptures Be transformed henceforth anew." THE ORPHANS. HAD a dream last night, Maggie, I dreamt that you and I Were crossing o'er the dreary moor, No moon was in the sky. The snow beat in our faces, Maggie, It was so shivering cold, I clung to you more closely, Dear, And then I grew more bold. And as we passed the churchyard, Maggie, I dreamt I heard you say " Stoop, little sister, kiss the stone That hides our dead a-. I stoop'd, I knelt, but Maggie dear, is not the stone I 1 But 'twas our mother's face looked up So heavenly through the mist. The Orphans. 29 And then the moor a garden seemed, The snow in flowers fell ; There was no moon, but perfect day Shone on our pathway still. Again you turned and said, Maggie, " Look, little sister, look, Far, far across the dreary moor, The poplars and the brook." Mine eyes were wet with tears, Maggie, Though beautiful it seemed, I could not see all you discerned, Alas ! I only dreamed. The moor is cold and bleak, Maggie, No moon is in the sky, We are sitting at our mother's grave, And wishing we might die, To get across life's dreary moor, That angel face to kiss ; ! 'tis very hard to live, Maggie, After a dream like this ! Chamotmix, 1861. FAILURE. TO There is a heaven for those who have worthily failed on earth." USH ! put thy finger to thy lip, Lay thy hand upon thy heart, But never say, "I've fail'd in work," Till death thy strength shall thwart. In what hast failed ? Perhaps hast tried The world's applause to buy ; Or watched a bubble in the air Break by a breeze's sigh ! Can human smile, or critics' scorn, Set seal upon tby name ? Oh feeble one ! if it be thus, A feather is thy fame. Failure. 31 If " fail " means loss of world's applause, Then heed I not its sneer : If honest failure is thy sin, Then probe thy heart sincere. Look down, observe the motive wheel That drives thy chariot on ; Observe what ruts have hinder'd that, Then speed less reckless on. To nobly fail on earth is gain, If motives be sincere ; Carved from the granite rock of truth, With no spectators near. Put down the plummet and the line, Be sure convictions meet, That thou hast given all thy strength To make thy work complete. Then never say, " I've failed in work," While strength and hope still chime, And on life's shore the waves still flow, These restless waves of time. 32 Fai Be sure the flowers that round thee grow, Are heavenly plants, take heed They be not artificial ones, That bear no spirit seed. For half the world can ill discern The spurious from the true, The tinsel from the virgin ore, The many from the few. But heed thyself, and light the torch Down in the labyrinth still ; And look into the chemi- Of thine own intentioned will. Then analyze each separate part In the crucible of truth, Take heed the dross floats on the top, Then weigh the gold forsooth ! And never say, " I've failed in work," While strength and youth still chime And on life's shore the waves still flow, These restless waves of time. Failure. 33 For all thy labour if sincere, Is only planted here, To grow where neither tare nor chaff, Its beauty can impair. DREAD. HERE'S a tread in the ante-chamber, A heavy foot-fall there ; I heard it last night at eleven, Climbing the oaken stair. They said it might be the postman, it the postman Death ? But I saw in his hand no letter, No mail in his bag beneath. But perhaps it was an ang<-], Was it the angel Death ? For under his mantle were arrows Half hid in an iron sheath. I opened the casement softly, r a breath of cool night air. But sighs of trees, nor murm'ring stream^ Could drown that foot-fall there. Dread. 35 would we could live, that never With fear we should hear that tread, But welcome the step as an angel's, To free us from doubt and dread. THE PATH. " Are they not all ministering spirits ? n TO H. B. s. HERE is a path, whose radiant trail I 'n winds from worlds supreme, And up and down the noiseless feet Pass as in Jacob's dream. To some a golden street it seems, To some a silver thread ; Alas ! to most, a long dark bridge Swung o'er a sea of dead. To me how dear that shining path, Adown whose glittering way, I see the loved, the shadowy forms Of those who've passed away. The Path. 37 Their shining garments as they float, Gild the dim earthly air ; I see the radiance of their crowns, I breathe the palms they bear. Florence, 1861. AT LAST. the sunset hour of this earthly day Shall corne O may that golden vase so break, As brilliantly to gem the Death-robed sky In purple gilded splendour, till the hills Of Life, shall but become the steps that lead To walls of jasper, and to streets of gold. So would I tread this dusty road of Earth, That when life's sunset hour shall on me fall, And fling its glory on Death's river's brink, Trailing its gems upon the rippling tide My soul no longer in Earth's shroud confined, But in white " robes of Sardis," there shall reach The mountain top, and then with joy behold The Sunrise of Eternal Day AT LAST. TOMBS OF THE KINGS. (THEBES.) EALED in the breast of barren rock, Undraped by the vine or weed, Where bat and owl hold solemn court, And in festering darkness feed ; Desolation writ on the threshold, The lintels sculptured in doom Leave them alone to their idols, And winds of the desert that roam ! Let drift the sand through the chambers, And gather in high wasted heaps, To mock at the frescoes and sculptures, O'er which the death vermin creeps. Let winds alone whisper the secret, Through arches and chambers of stone ; Then leave them alone to their idols, And winds of the desert that moan ! Thcbu, 1888. THE ARAB'S GRAVE. (THEBES.) LOW mournfully, ye breezes, blow ! Bear pity on your breath, trough the palms ye linger, ere Yc touch these mounds of death. Xor rudely fling the sand-drifts where et flowers ought to be, ]>ut find some octave here to chant A solemn symphony. Blow mournful, mournfully. Sing mournfully, ye desert winds, And kiss with dewy breath, The lowliest of these little mounds, So rudely heaped for death. Displace no chip of earth or stone,* Laid here by mourner's hand, The Arabs cover their graves with broken pottery, as no grass grows on the arid soil. The Arab's Grave. 41 But gently bear upon your wings, Songs from the Spirit-land. Sing mournful, mournfully. Sigh mournfully, ye south-winds, sigh From unknown islands bear Strange perfumes, and the roses' breath, From Persia's gardens fair ; In cloud-wreaths may the incense float In fitful gale and gust, To consecrate the Arab's grave, And o'er the Arab's dust, Sigh mournful, mournfully. Guard steadfastly, guard jealously, Ye granite rocks that stand Like sentries on this desert waste, An ancient giant band ; Keep off the rude invader, give Protection to each grave, Where sleep beneath the glitt'ring sands, The Mussulman and slave. Guard steadfast, steadfastly. 42 The Arab's Grave. Shine gorgeously, shine gloriously, Ye sunset clouds of even, And fling your golden seas of light, Far-rippling from God's heaven ; Let waves of colour dash each grave, And lift it from its gloom ; If only transient be the spell That lights an Arab's tomb ; Shine gorgeous, gloriously. Look peacefully, ye stars above, Drop pity from your rays, And keep bright watch from yon blue heights, As on these mounds ye gaze. And thou, clear moon, thy crescent wear Above this darkling gloom ; Bright ensign of unclouded faith, To gild the meanest tomb. Watch peaceful, peacefully. Look tenderly, look pitiful, Ye strangers when ye come, Nor gentle sympathy withhold From this an Arab's tomb ; The Arab's Grave. 43 Nor scorn one suppliant prayer to raise, That Life and Light be given, To lead the Arab up to God, To Life and Light in heaven ; Pray trustful, tearfully. Thebts, Feb., 1857. JESU MIO MISERICORDTA. ' (AN ASPIRATION.) OLY Jesu ! hear my prayer, Floating on the midnight air, Like sweet incense may it bear My grateful adoration. Gentle Jesu ! may Thy Love Rest on me as holy Dove ; Keep me pure in Thine own Love, Jesu, my Salvation ! Blessed Jesu ! may my life Lost in Thee while in Earth's strife, Deaden to the sins so rife, That hinder my progression. Lovely Jesu ! may each day Bring me nearer on my way, To that endless perfect day Eternal Consecration ! " Jesu Mio Misericordia" 45 Precious Jesu ! may each night 'Lumined be by Thine own Light ; Ope' mine eyes, refresh my sight With perfect satisfaction /* Bagni di Lucca, 1857. I shall be satisfied when I awake, with Thy Likeness!" THE PICTURE GALLERY. NOCK softly then on memory's sacred door, Pause for a moment ere thou enterest in, For through a garden first thy steps will lead The picture gallery is far within. Look to thy feet, they should be shod with care, Or better still, unloose thy sandals worn O'er jewelled pavements first will lead the way, Nor heed the rough stones if the path so turn. Nor think to onward pass without the fee, A spirit stands in waiting, do not fear, But drop the fee, a prayer then boldly pass Down the long gallery, and shed no tear. THE PICTURES. PORTRAITS ! landscapes ! fruits and flowers ! Gurgling streams and myrtle bowers, Dark frowning rocks, and rivers deep, And swift cascades in headlong leap. The Picture Gallery. Then weep not o'er the portraits there, The dead and gone, the loved, the dear ; But if thou wilt, consider long The sweetest landscape these among. THE PLACE. 'Tis a valley clasped in hills, Stitched with countless silver rills, Chesnut forests, dark and green, Tuscan tint, and sun-loved scene. There an ancient palace hid Cypresses and vines amid, Where grim shadows of the past, Elf-like dance, when clouds o'ercast. THE PORTRAIT. 'Twas here that first a moon-lit face Broke through the clouds that o'er My earthly way were gathering, I said " For evermore." That face so true and beautiful, I love, yet now it seems Too lovely for this saddened world, A face one sees in dreams. 48 The Picture Gallery. Silent or speaking, evermore I love that changeful face So spirit-like she treads the earth, So lightly in her grace, As if she walked another life Though she may tread earth's way, There is a lightness in her tread, As if she'd float away. And when she sings her voice so sweet, It thrills me while it cheers ; I often weep she does not know She sings me into tears. THE NAME. ATE ! well art thou so named, my English flower, Since still each flower must have its name, Thus is thy name then, thy hest and sweetest dower- Xoiie meeter couldst thou claim Than " Alice." The rose by any other name as sweet Would smell, " the Swan of Avon " suiig ; And yet the very name is e'er replete With fragrance tho' unsung, Sweet " Alice." The Picture Gallery. 49 A royal Princess, true, thou may'st not be, Tho' linked to royalty thy name ; And yet I willing pause nobility Rests not on crown or fame, Proud " Alice." And thus my flower, my lovely English flower, I hold thee to thy Norman name, And count it e'en thy best and sweetest dower, No meeter could'st thou claim My "Alice." GOOD-BYE " AT THE GATE. TO ALICE. OOD-BYE," she said, and left the gate Just then a funeral passed in state " Good-bye," I sighed, as moved the train : Alas ! the dead come not back again To say to us " Good-bye." " Good-bye " once more I answered her ; >t face, that voice, again will cheer The dead the dead I do not mean, To their loved they'll not return again They've said tl^eir last " Good-bye. With funeral pomp and hired woe, Behold the mutes that are paid to go, With as many plumes as hearse can hold, If the dead provide the funeral gold To gild their last " Good-bye." " Good-bye" at the Gate. 51 Can worldly pomp and waving plume, With hired mourners to the tomb, Keep up the rank of the stricken dead, Where prince and beggar are equal laid, When each has said " Good-bye ?" Thus parted we, perchance awhile To muse with graver brow and smile Yet as the plum'd hearse past the gate, With one more look compassionate, She softly said " Good-bye." " Good-bye ! Good-bye !" I answered back ; Earth's two extremes meet on life's track, I've shut the gate on the loved, the pure, Death opens his for one soul more, And each has said " Good-bye." Bath; March 24tA, 1862. In the midst of life we are in death ; of whom then may we seek succour but of Thee, Lord?" X midst of Life we are in Death, Of whom then may we seek For succour, but of Thee, Lord, To whom else can we speak ? When Life seems fair as summer's morn, When health and joy are ours, let us then remember, Lord, Will come Life's darker hours. For in the warmth of day we see The flowers are fresh and fair, But mark how frail, and how sure Will fall the cold death there. Nor summer's sun, nor evening dew, Nor human hand can stay The frosty wind of death and blight, That steals their life away. " In the midst of life we are in death." 53 For in the midst of life, how sure Will fall death's icy hand Upon some flower of love we prize Unclasp some loving hand, We thought we held so fast in ours, That nothing could divide, Until death's servant came and took An angel from our side. There is no death since Jesu died, That word is known no more, Tis only life the angels sing, life for evermore ! 41 For they that sow in tears shall reap hi joy.* forth, go forth to the labour, For the harvest will soon be here, With tasselled grain, and ripened fruits, And golden corn in the ear ; " For they that sow in tears shall reap in joy." What boot the dark clouds above thee If they " return after the rain ? " Go forth with faith, for the harvest Has promised thee golden grain ; " For they that sow in tears shall reap in joy." For they that sow in the morning, E'en tho' they sow through their tears, Shall reap then: joy in the evening, And find sweet rest to their cares ; " For they that sow in tears shall reap in joy." " For they tftat sore in tears," $c. 55 Faith then must open the furrow, And hope too must drop in her seed, Love then shall gather her harvest, Go forth in earnest take heed, " For they that sow in tears shall reap in joy." THE FATHER'S LOVE. HE mooD came out of her cloudy bower, With a golden veil flung over her face, She seemed to frown on the twilight hour- Xot in her silver of bridal grace. Yet through the rents of her misty veil, Glimmered pale flowers from her wreath, Blossoms which glinted o'er hill and dale, Kissing the night with their dewy breath. Thus thro' the rents of the ragged cloud, Beams the smile of the Father's love, Dropping in flowers down on our path, From star-lit gardens that bloom above. CHRISTMAS NIGHT. N gloaming light on Christmas night, I sate at my organ playing, Fitful gleams from the sea-coals bright, The garments of night were fraying. They draped my room in weirdest gloom, They frescoed the walls of gray, Tho* glint of gold, and a scarlet plume Deck'd the shroud of the corpse of day. I cannot tell you what I played, For I scarce could see the keys, As I felt out the harmony that stray 'd Through my soul like a heavenly breeze ; And breathed vague tuneful numbers, Some old and forgotten rhyme, That memory still encumbers With the ring of a first-love chime. 58 tool With Handel I seemed communing, Till mj spirit was almost lost To earth's discords and untuning, Her warfare, bloodshed and frost. Then I fell into listless musing, Dreamily fingered the chords, The harmony still unloosing, That could find no vent in words. In gloaming light, on Christmas night, I sate at my organ playing, "While fitful gleams from the sea-coals bright, The garments of night were fraying. They shadow'd my room in spectral gloom, They frescoed my walls of gray, Tho' glint of gold and a scarlet plume Deck'd the shroud of the dying Bath, 1862. " I should feel thy shadow if I were in my grave !" ALICE. HAT ! feel my shadow o'er thy cool grave- rest? Sweet ! shadows never follow there We've done with shadows, when life's setting sun Goes down upon our sepulchre. As shadow-land we often speak of death, But are there shadows without sun ? For sunless day, alas, would wrap thy grave And moonless night if thou wert gone. No shadow then would haunt my falt'ring step, If lost my sun in death's eclipse ; Thou gone ! then welcome night's repose in Death, Close by thy side, if still those lips. 60 " / should feel thy shadm" $c. Talk not of " shadows," Dear, away with gloom, They shroud this life, there is no tomb, Nor night, nor death, to overshadow love True love beyond earth's shadow's gloom. A MEMORY. E walked on the terrace together, With sighing of roses there came Faint voices in mellowing moonlight, Softly repeating her name. It kindled the night air around her, And silvered her brow with its light, And tangled her hair with its jewels, Till her beauty dazzled my sight. We walked on the terrace together, With sighing of roses there came- And breath of the new Bride of Summer In whispers, so softly, her name. By sweet summer's breath it was echoed, Through myrtle and roses it came ; How well I remember that evening, How well I remember that name. ALOXK WITH JESUS. LONE with Tbee ! when evening shadow: falling, With misty mantle wrap the purple hills Alone with Thee, when starry hosts arising, Illume the night, which on the landscape thrills ; Alone with The. ! Alone with Thee, w'hen solemn night advancing, Folds the drear shadows in h-r deathly wi. And stealing softly through the sleeping valleys, Sweet rest and peace to many a wanderer brings Alone with T- Alone with Thee in weary hours of darkness, In restless nights of sorrow, pain, or care ; Alone with .Tesu in the soul's communion, Alone with Jesu in the trance of prayer ; Alone with Ti LEONORE. EONORE, Leonore, come back to me, My heart is shivering in death for thee, Wind, hear my anguish over the sea, And bring, bring back my life to me ! Wildly the billows rake up the sands, Stormy and dark, with no light for me, Though faintly struggles the beacon's flame, E'en as my life that has died in thee. for a flower that thou hast kissed, And worn in thy bosom till faint and dead It languished for air, so near thy heart, It died from warmth, and its sweet life fled. For I am that flower thou hast kissed, I have laid near thy heart and felt it beat, Till I languished for air, and prayed to die, Breathing thy soul through eternity. t)4 Leonore. Leonore, Leonore, come back to me, My heart is shivering in death for thee, Wind, bear my anguish far over the sea, And bring, bring back my life to me ! Funeral night hangs over the sea, Low moans the wave her secret to me, But she laughs because she is happier, free To lose her strength in the boundless sea. But funeral night has darkened my soul, Xo moon-light of love may shine for me, Earth is all dead, and no flowers breathe, To lighten my heart in its grief for thee. Outward we steer to that ocean unseen, From the stormy coast to the open sea ; Hush ! hush ! the last billow has lifted life's bark, And we strike on the shores of eternity. THE BRIDE OF CHRIST. Come hither, I will show thee the bride, the Lamb's wife/ REVELATION xxi. 9. HEN how would ye deck Christ's Bride In " purple and scarlet " rare, With sparkling gem, and orient pearl, To flash in her golden hair ? Or would ye not rather veil The Bride of Christ so fair, In folds of silvery lustre, With a lily in her hair ? Twas His church our Saviour called His pure and spotless Bride ; The Band of true believers, For whom He lived and died ; p 66 The Bride of Christ. Arrayed in linen pure and fair Symbol of holy Saint, Xo rent upon her garments, Upon her robes no taint. Then how would ye deck Christ's Bride " In purple and scarlet " rare, With sparkling gem and orient pearl, To flash in her golden hair ? Or deck the Bride of Christ In garments pure and fair, With a veil of silvery lustre, And a lily in her hair. Rome, 1858. THE DREAM. (A SONG.) " Oh ! the dream within the dream." ID you see the flowers, Dearest, Those wondrous flowers that grew On the mossy bank we wandered o'er, Our bare feet in the dew ? Did you hear the long loved voices, That dear remembered tone Of the angel of our childhood, Who left us here alone ? Did you feel the gentle wooing, The breeze that round us moved, And seemed to softly whisper Names that we once had loved ? The Dream. Did you know the voice that whisper'd In tones so soft and deep " We are waiting the Father's pleasure, To waken thee from sleep ? " And then you were sad and weeping, To retrace our earthward way, And leave this dear land of flowers, For earth's long dreary day. Tho' you heard the voice repeating " Not yet, not yet, for thee, The garment is not finished, Nor woven e'en for thee/' Aye ! one more clasp and parted ; It was a dream, that we Were waud'ring in that spirit*land, From earth and sorrow free. CONSTANCY. " Je meurs oft je m'attache." S twines the loving ivy round the tree, Her fibrous tendrils braiding, and green leaves In polished masses, till the bark we see, Is almost buried with the weight it weaves So clings through life the truly loving heart, So intertwines its sympathies through death ; For death the chain may lengthen, never part, Nor is it feebly linked to struggling breath. The ivy clasps the rugged bark, but see, The gardener puts his knife back in the sheath, He knows he cannot part it from the tree, Save the tree perish, both consigned to death. For mark how bedded every stalk and spray, And glitt'ring leaf, and sturdy stem embossed ; Thus with these human loves, so knit are they, If perish one, the other 's hopeless lost. TEARS. HE night wind sobs through the cypress That bends to my window near, And the drops of night are falling Like tears on a mourner's bier. Patters the rain on the window, Fitful gusts shiver the pane, Now sink to sleep in the larches, Now startle the silence again. Then follows day, dark and dreary, Behind the low leaden cloud, The sun entombed in his glory Is palled with a burial shroud. And the orange trees are broken With the rain of yesternight, And the blossoms even bend their heads, To hide their dismal plight. Tears. 71 The rain down trickles from the tiles, And the swallow folds her head On her breast, nor a sound of happy life, With this new day is wed. The room fades darker, lonelier too, E'en the portraits seem to frown ; Or is it that I am weary Of life and its mockeries grown ? EASTER DAY. ; Christ being raised from the dead, dieth no more, Death hath no more dominion over him/' longer mourn we at the grave Of Christ our risen Lord ; Put off the sack-cloth, weep no more, Let no complaint be heard On Easter Day. Great day ! the Resurrection morn Breaks through the Christless night, Lift up your hearts from out the gloom, The Lord has risen ! Light ! On Easter day. Aye strange that e'en a flower should bloom, Or green grass live to wave, Strange that a bird could joyous sing, When Christ was in the grave 'Ere Easter Day. Easter Day. 73 But hark ! the choirs of the wood, Welcome the holy mom ; Sweet flowers of the new-born Spring, Death's winter shroud adorn, This Easter Day. Bring violets, infant smiles of Spring, For 'tis our Church's day ; " Christ is risen," rise with Him, And praise, as well as pray On Easter Day. Jesu ! Saviour of my soul ; Dear Saviour, I would lay Love's sweetest flower on Thy crown, On this our Easter Day ! Bath, 1862. TO A. C. O. " Who giveth songs in the night." JOB xxxv. 10. E giveth thee songs, dear Annie Songs in the folded night, When darkness wraps the landscape, And the stars withdraw their light He giveth songs to thee. Not in the glare and hum of day, Thou could'st not hear so well, When the din of life's conflicting tongues, On thine ear must rise and swell He giveth songs to thee. When sick and weary, and even sleep Cannot lull thee to forget Those waves of grief that wreck'd youth's bark On shoals of sad regret He giveth songs to thee. To A. C. 0. 75 In the night He giveth thee songs, He giveth thee music then, Dost thou hear the heavenly voices, That sing in thy chamber when He giveth songs to thee ? Cans't thou see the angelic spirits That float through thy chamber, Dear, And bid thee forget thy sorrows, And to their notes give ear, When He giveth songs to thee ? RAIN. HE night is chill and dreary, The rain drips down the pane, The ivy startles and shivers With weight of the sullen rain. Better a fitful tempest, Than this cold sobbing rain, For all the world seems eerie Will the sun ne'er shine again ? Hark ! what a gust sweeps by ; moaning pitiless wind ! Frenzied passionate ravings, So like grief of the mind. But is there no storm, no tempest Abroad on the land to-night ? Alas ! poor heart look up ! the stars Are shining above thee bright. Rain. 77 Better the angry tempest, Than this sad sullen rain, This chafing of the spirit Under its weight of pain. faithless heart ! look upward On the calm night, and pray God may forgive thy repinings, And bring back thy summer's day. Moan on sad winds ! I hear ye not Rain ! drop, drop down the pane ; But that the clouds may not return After this dreary rain ! MIX A. IX A sits on the door-step weeping, She twines a wreath of May. But she flings the myrtle from her, And a wither'd rose away. Mina wore the rose this morning, In her bosom warm it died Too warm it was to keep it, and Its sweet life could not bide. The sea moans low in the distance, The moaning, restless sea, Its salt breezes chill the flowers That close on hill and lea ; The summer twilight hast'ning, drops Her mantle on the deep, And the stars' golden barks drift on, And steadfast vigil keep. Mina. 79 But the wreath of May is finished, And Mina she is gone, She has left the lowly door-step By the sea she stands alone. But mark, she has dipped the garland In the bosom of the deep, The porting wave has drenched it, The salt tears o'er it weep. The sea o'er the garland closes, The moaning restless sea, And the flowers of love have perished Culled only yesterday. But silver chimes from another land, Tell of a brighter shore, Where storms of life are lulled to rest For Miua evermore. LIFE'S SEASONS. E count our years by seasons, Our Earthly life's brief span They come as quickly vanish Ere yet our work's began. We count our years by seasons, Spring with her varied green, Summer the ripe and mellow, Winter the frost and rain. We count our days by hours, Morning, noon, and dark ; The heart, too, hath her dial Her shadow-hours to mark. The mind, too, hath her seasons, Her summer, winter days, Her flowers, fruits, and harvest, Morning and evening greys. Life's Seasons. 81 Memory hath her seasons, Her spring and summer's dream, Her winter with the hoar frost, Dark days that know no gleam. Love only counts no seasons No change, no death, no blight, In her is endless summer, One season infinite ! THE VOICE. VOICE is whisp'ring through the pines, Secret to all but me ; Naught can'st thou hear but quivering leaves No words are heard by thee. The hum and din of earthly strife Ring louder on thine ear, And drown the tender words that fall On memory's sacred bier. Long, long ago that same sweet voice Was heard upon a sea ; 'Twas borne on tempest through the storm, O'er waves of Galilee. That voice is whisp'ring thro' the pines That same sweet voice to me ; It says, " Lift up thy burdened heart, Thy Saviour speaks to thee ; The Voice. 83 " Take off the withered buds that lie Faded on memory's bier, And lay fresh lilies on the pall, Nor one regretful tear ; " And bind fresh roses on thy brow, With myrtle interleaved, And amaranth and immortelle In chaplet interweaved." And hear the voice, that thro' the pines Is speaking still to me In whispers thro' the quivering leaves, "My peace I give to thee. " "THY WILL, NOT MINE." OD of my life, my light, my love, O teach me how to pray, Give me the words I cannot find, Give me the heart to say " Thy will, not mine. Give me the faith I need to come, That evermore would say Thy will, O Lord, in life be mine ; Lord, teach me that to pray " Thy will, not mine. LADY CLARISSE. (A LEGEND.) N the ivy turret the clock has struck the midnight hour ; The owl with startled wing shrieks back to her leafy bower Tu-whit, tu-whoo the dismal wail from the old bell tower. The raven croaks her discontent, the owlet hoots her dole, While the fitful moon her arrows flings aslant the grey loop-hole ; Or some wandering star to-night has sought love's secret to unroll. But list to a light step falling on the windy turret stair ; Heavily swings a door back in the dreary midnight air, And a satin slipper'd foot glides swiftly up the turret stair ; 86 Lady Clarisse. So ghostly that the shadows fail to mock it as they glide, So back to the rents in the gable they flit away to hide, Rather than fling a shadow on the footsteps of a bride. But why wanders lady Clarisse in the dark and shrouded night? Why rests she not in slumber 'neath her curtain's rosy light ? Why flitteth she like Banshee round the battlements to-night ? Lady Clarisse ! Lady Clarisse ! by the ring upon thy hand, By the garland of white jessamine up-braided in the band That encircles thy fair forehead, 0, wherefore dost thou stand Gazing into lurid darkness, like a restless spirit sent To chase the vagrant echoes as they answer from the rent Where the spider only, loves to pitch her secret tent ? Lady Clarisse. 87 Why fling away the scarlet rose, tied with a golden thread ; Its beauty burned to ashes all scentless withered dead, Like the blaze of passion quickly lighted, and as quickly fled ? But hark ! another step is following up the turret stair A heavy tread, a clanking sword, which seems to say " Beware ! " I heard it on the hattlement, it rent the startled air! And now 'tis said a spectral lady walks for ever there ! THROUGH THE TUNNEL. " Yea! though 1 walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." OW black is the darkness, How sullen the gloom The train's solemn thunder, Through the tunnel's drear tomb ; The eye cannot pierce it, Though the eye is awake ; Vain are her efforts, The death-gloom to break. Fierce sparks and cinders Now shiver the gloom ; Tho' this be but transient In the tunnel's black tomb ; Tis the valley of shadows " The shadow of death," Tho' awake we pass through it, Tho' living in breath. Through the Tunnel 89 Not so in that valley The Psalmist passed through, " With the rod and the staff," Still his comfort anew ; Not so when the heart Is hush'd under the sod, And calm the soul sleeps In the bosom of God. But awake, we speed thro' This valley of death, The spirit still chained in Its prison of breath. How black is the darkness ! How sullen the gloom ! The train's solemn thunder, Through the tunnel's drear tomb. "I hide myself in Thy pavilion." N Thy safe pavilion, Lord, In the shadow of Thy wing, Let me nestle down my head, All my sorrows to Thee bring. In Thy safe pavilion, Lord, In the shadow of Thy wing, From this lower world of strife Hide me from its hollow ring. In Thy safe pavilion, Lord, In the shadow of Thy wing, Lay me like a little child, To my Father I would cling. Let me hear the distant waves, Silv'ry chimes upon that shore, Softly murmuring to the blest Rest, sweet rest, for evermore. " I hide myself in Thy pavilion." 91 On Thy bosom calmly sleeping, Weary with this earthly strife, Speak to me of love unchanging, Everlasting love and life ! WAVES OF THOUGHT. S wave on wave successive rolling, Dashing headlong on the shore, So thought comes chasing busy thought, Turning memory's pages o'er. Laughing hours, and by-gone pleasures, Misty mantle round me fold, As if to shut out sorrow's face, Which haunts me ever pale and cold. Memory brings each mirror'd picture, While I musing sad and lone, Recall one dear face now averted, One flower from my pathway gone. Through the chasing tears that blind me, Mingling with the parting wave That wears upon its crested forehead The dripping weed it loves to lave, Waves of Thought. Hope's pale blossom lifts her fragrance, Breathing from the changeful past ; Perchance the waves of time may bear it To blossom at my feet at last. Like a necklace, lost, forgotten- All the shining beads unstrung, I, the well-worn thread would gather, Gently string my joys along. Childhood, once so gay, so joyous, Full of life, from sorrow free, Like a sweet and spring-like morning, Poured forth freshest melody. Now grave pictures shaded deeper, Swift before my fancy spring ; And I hear an unseen footstep, And I feel an angel's wing. Then I see a meek pale vision Of a loved one from us borne, Whose mild face is ever near me, And whose loss I ever mourn. 94 Waves of Thought. Then another sunlit picture From that gallery long and dim, Floats before my weary spirit, Through the darkness like a gleam. 'Tis a chamber softly shaded From the glaring light of day, Where a weak and thankful Mother, With her new-born infant lay. Little then did that fond mother. While she watched her tender nest, Dream that ere another summer, One little bird would be at rest. Thus on life's troubled sea are mingled Scatter'd buds of joy and grief, E'en as flowers from mystic depths, tloat Upward from the coral reef. Rye Beach, 1851. THE FUNERAL. 1861. USH! thoughtless souls ! tread lightly here, Ye in this softly silver'd gloom, For mark the mourners bear a bier In slow procession to the tomb. The pines are veiled in frozen mist ; And now a shivering dreary breath Stifles this sad eventful year In funeral pall of night and death. The shrubs are gemmed with glittering beads, Stark and undraped an hour ago, Now dazed with spangles, e'en the moss Is crystallized with jewelled snow. Why mourn ye o'er the vanish'd dead, Why crape your souls in weeds of woe ? Not so does nature in her grief, Express her anguish, no ! ah, no ! 3 The Funeral. Tis then the king his casket breaks, Encrusts the leaves with frozen dews, Bespangles grass and holly spray ; Nor shrubs, nor weeds, the favors lose ; Shimmering the edge of ivy leaf, With studded border, frail as fair, Fluffing the hardy berries till They spring erect in frosty air ; Decking the fir and forest pine, Each in state with an icy crown, The funeral larch with silver plume, To light the cloud this death has thrown- Folding the ground in ermine white, The robes of winter's king laid down For the mourners' slow procession, As they bear the black coffin on. Who is dead? asks a passer by Hush ! for it is the old year's gone Dolefully chant the choristers, As the bier moves slowly on. The Funeral 97 But a wreath is laid on the coffin, Why is this? asks the passer by These silver flowers of woven frost, Our by-past freedom typify. But who is dead ? repeats the voice Dead, dead ! sad eventful year, Let frozen mist, and aching hearts Deck the gloom of thy sepulchre. Is this a dream a fancy sketch That comes to me thro' frosty pane ? No ! 'tis the death of the vanish 'd year, Tears cannot bring it back again. The pane is etched with mimic trees, Fir, pine like threads of glitt'ring glass Are frozen rills, and winding paths, With tiny bush, and crispy grass. The picture faints, I turn away Fret the blaze of the sea-coal bright, And in my shadowy parlour grey, Sigh as the old year says good-night. 98 The Funeral. Weep, mourners, weep, aye, let your tears Drench, and drown the lonely bier, Let surge of sorrow's wildest grief Bury this sad eventful year. O God, my nation calls too late, But deign, deign to hear that call ; Thou, who dost hear the ravens cry, Dost count each sparrow in its fall Look down in pity on Thy dust, Through Christ alone we call it Thu. 'Tis frail and sinful, but God, Christ made this human dust Di> And while we mourn this vanish 1 d year, May sins of nations be forgiven, Pity Thy dust Humanity, And draw us nearer to Thy Heaven. 11 In patience possess ye your souls." HOUGH the way be tortuous, narrow- Steep the bend, And the feet are sore and weary, Will it end ? Though the heart is sad and dreary On the way, And God has seemed to hide His presence Far away ; Tis to teach thee faith and meekness Courage lend ; Be thou faithful, strong, enduring, Comes the end ! DISAPPOINTMENT. NDER the loaves of th.- . itron tree, With breatli of the irossoms came Faintly the scent of heliotrope, Fresh from her summer's dream. How oft it is with sweets of life, Of love and friendship's power, Fragrance may breathe from out the past, Though tears must have their hour. Under the snow the crocus blooms, By the glacier cliff, low lies The oft' exiled soldanella, Born from the tears of ice. The sun that melts the cold ice-cliff, To refresh that Alpine flower, Is the same smile of God that warms The heart in her dreary hour. Disappointment. 101 This is the lesson of life to learn, The gardens of earth to prove E'en flowers, our humble teachers are In lessons of God's sweet love. REST UPON THY HEART. HROUGH the ditch, and through the mire, Through the valley, o'er the plain, Up the mountain, down the mountain Rest upon thy heart again. Deep the ditch, and black the mire, Sunless valley, dreary plain, Up the mountain, down the mountain Safe upon thy heart again. In the desert long a pilgrim, Broken staff, and sandals worn, Garments old, and patched and tattt Ted- Shivering in the chilly morn. Sunless mornings, nights so moonless, Starless, cloudy, wind and rain, Tent in tatters, parched and thirsty Rest upon thy heart again. Rest upon thy heart. 103 Long and weary seems the journey, Bitter bread of muddy grain, Wells so scarce, so low, and turbid Rest upon thy heart again. Beats the tempest in its fury On a weak defenceless head, Rags to scarcely shield the bosom, Feet to bleed, too cold and dead. Dead the flowers, spent their odours, Hush'd the voice of nature's love, Lonely, lonely, on to wander Is the " Father still above ?" Hush ! the Saviour trode the wine-press, In the desert bore the heat, Brought e'en fragrance from the nettles, Smoothed the sharp stones for my feet. In the palm-tree's whispering shelter, Close beside the cooling stream, Laid my head upon her bosom, Till the past seemed but a dream ! "Wait patiently for Him." ROM false to true, from grief to joy, From inertness into life, From bitterness into sweetness, In peace from out the strife. Why look behind, when straight thy path Is onward with the sun ? Not in cold vapours of the past, False moon-light that is gone. Oh ! who would back in shadows grope, When the sun of God shines bright ? Oh ! faithless ye, who shadows chase In retrospection's night. For love her amaranthine wreath Shall twine around thy brow, And thou the tender weight shalt feel, Heaven's flowers that bud and grow ; " Wait patiently far Him,:' 105 Yet droop not, fade, nor waste their breath On earth's low tainted air Of sin, and pain, and thankless toil Of discontent, and care. Tis better to be wronged than wrong To pity than to hate, To meekly stoop and kiss the rod, Then in God's patience wait. .'Twere better to suffer for well doing, than for evil doing." E still, faint heart, lamentings hush, And count thyself but blest, To suffer for well-doing here, Will bring eternal rest. Break off the thorn, for still the rose, Though crushed, her sweetness gives ; Tear the verbena from her stalk, Yet still her fragrance lives. Take up thy staff, hold firm thy shield, Buckle thy sandals tight, The way is long and steep, but mark There cometh rest and night. Lie down beneath the palm-tree's shade, A branch cross on thy breast, Then fold thy shivering hands, and pray, In well-doing to be blest. FAITH. His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds or* the dutt of HitJetL" HE clouds may gather o'er my tent, The sun be shrouded from my sight, The cold wind blow, the night-breeze sigh, And oft obscure my heavenly light Still He is there. The storm may darken round my head, The rain may drench, the tempest beat, And yet I read these clouds are but The " dust " of my Redeemer's feet, And He is there. What matters it, the angry sky, So He is shrouded in its gloom ; The lowering cloud that oft distils In love upon my tented home, If He is there ? 108 Faith. So clouds may gather o'er my tent, The sun be shrouded from my sight, The cold wind blow, the night-breeze sigh, And oft obscure my heavenly light, Tho' He is there. The storm may darken o'er my tent, The rain may drench, the tempest beat, Still I remember that the clouds Are "dust" of my Redeemer's feet, And He is there. Jerusalem, 1859. TO S bubbles swell and break upon the wave, Flinging their rainbow colours to the air, So words swell, break, are powerless to save A shadow of the love to thee I bear, My Poet-friend. I wear thee like an orient jewel, bright Washed upward, dripping from the purple wave ; Ne'er dimmed, because 'tis ever morning's light With those who love such love to thee I gave ; My Poet-friend. Greatest of minstrels ! in thy rippling hair Mingles the fadeless bay her life to lend, Not as earth's flowers waste upon the air, Their passion breath may mine as swiftly end My Poet-friend. 110 To Tis ever morning's light with those who love, No evening shadows drop their chilling gloom "\Vhere God has thrown His mantle from above On holy loves to guard them from the tomb Dear Poet-friend ! TO LADY A. I. N. HE writes her poems, not in laboured verse, Carved, smoothed, and polished into fault- less rule, Not less a poet ; though her muse rehearse Sometimes in colour or she paint in full The thought created by the light, just seen On ivied ruin, lonely tower, or hill, When shadows darken where its smile has been. Must poets always sing by rhythm, will The measured cadence ere the thought disperse ? The sculptor carves his poem on the stone, And bids the chiselled marble breathe his verse ; So poet, thou art in the painter shown ; Thy genius knows no despot in her train, Nor will her varied impulses restrain. SONNET TO S breaks the wave upon the distant shore, Flinging her crown of - u the flower, Yet rippling to the stones its one lay n. Ere passing with the voices of the IKK. So farewells uttered through the mist of tears, Parted as now we are by waves of chance, jm sweet ; and mem'ry a like music bears, And calmly ripples through the soul's expanse. That wave which tunes its octave to the key Of Love beyond this deep of sighs and tears, Will break on shores of that eternal sea, And even as crystal wave to flow'ret bears Coolest refreshment in noon's sultriest hour, Thy love my poet, is my life's sweet dower. SONNET TO ITHER'D the lilies and the roses' breath Long since has fainted in thy chamber, Sweet, No more the loving shadows falter 'neath The noiseless foot-fall of thy tender feet. Even the shadows creep away to hide, Till thy dear presence fills with sun again, And cheers this night of absence as the bride Puts by her silvery veil and wreath, till when The marriage bell peals forth its joyous chime. So leave the darkened room to wait its turn The dear remembered chair, the book the time When lifted hearts shall welcome thy return, And " Casa Guidi's" life and light once more Shall cheer the loving on life's changeful shore. SONNET TO * * * * * INGE I have held thy hand fast locked in mine, Thy beating heart prest close in love to me ; Since first thy sweet voice murmured, " Only thine ; Nor Time shall wrest this faithful heart from thee ;" I've gazed into thy deep and earnest eyes, And watch'd thy spirit's growth, until it seemed My very soul for thee in death could rise, And even death would only be " I've dreamed ;" For in thy love I live, and life were dead To me, were thy sweet presence from me gone, And the soft breathings of thy love were fled, And I sate watching, waiting, and alone, To count the loves that have been given to me, Yet cry in anguish, " Dearest ! only thee ! " ITALY. ITALY. ITALY'S SEA. AVE you ever seen a bracelet Wrought in Etruscan gold, With clasp of Lapis Lazuli, Wreathed in a pearly fold ? Not of the sapphire's brilliancy, But a milder, softer hue, As the rays of dropping sun-beam Light up the waves of blue. Then look at that cerulean sea, Washing the rocky base Of the green, leafy Apennines, Where vine with olive lace. 118 Italy 's Sea. In southern climes -where early Art First reared her columns high, Where Dante lived, and Petrarch loved,- The land of Italv. A WHISPER FROM THE CAMPAGNA. HE moon in silver bark, drifts o'er the The sea of Heav'n, not calm, for dark cloud-waves Dash o'er the prow, yet storm and gust she braves, Till dimmed the lustre of her majesty. A picture and a poem both here die ; While ivied ruin, and lonely cypress stand Like sentinels upon this widowed land Painted with glowing pencils of the sky, And gold and crimson streaks of flame that light Their torches at the sunset gates that ope', To shut too soon upon the longing hope, That looks to look again with faith's clear sight. Yet as the soul drifts o'er this sea of life, Faith should grow brighter, as more keen the strife. THE SABBATH OF THE CAMPAGNA. SABBATH of rest broods over the lea- Leaves of the almond and crested pine tree Fold with their shadows this garment of rest, Blazing with gold from the passionate west. " Rest " is the key-note, the language that's spoken, Not whispered in words, or feeble and broken, But breathed in soft sighs, like the sobbings of prayer, Or symphonies played in invisible air. All is Rest save the sky, silver shattered the cloud That built anon temple and battlement proud On the high mountain peak, or drear chasms that change With sun-light vagaries that idle may range. A Sabbath of Rest lies over the waste, A Sabbath of Peace now fills this calm breast. THE SEA WHISPER. N the sandy beach I sate, The dark weed round me strown, Listening to the wind that brought Its hollow message, lone A whisper from the sea, And what it said to me. On the glistening, fading shore Were thrown in careless heap, Shells and flowers of the sea, Sweet offspring of the deep ; Still I listened to the wind that brought The whisper of the sea, And what it said to me. A voice I heard from every shell, In whispers softly come ; The Sea Whisper. A psalm was sung by every \vave, Then printed by its foam ; Still I listened to the wind that brought The whisper of the sea, And what it said to me. The salt spray wet my weary cheek, And kist its fading bloom, I thought of childhood, youth, and age, Of love, full love beyond the tomb ; Then knew I that the wind had brought The whisper of the sea, And all it had to say to me. Venice, 1856. THE LIVING DEAD. ERE all around me are the mouldering dead The dead of ancient Rome ; for evermore They sleep beneath the grass, where violets shed Their dewy scented kisses at the door Of every grave fast locked by buds of spring, Whose petals softly fold, as angel's wing. Where'er I go, still walk I o'er the dead Forgotten dead ; but are they only so, Who 'neath the cooling grass through which I tread, Have broken bond with life, and falling low, Are hidden from our sight, down buried deep, Where neither sun may warm, nor showers weep? Alas ! the angel guardian of our life Bids us look round, and count the living dead, 124 The Living Dead. Ah, better far to break our bond with life, And with the unseen secret worm to wed, Than walk in grave-shroud, bound by iron chain, Whose links are welded to the links of pain. SEPULCHRAL MONUMENT, (BT MISS HOSMER) In the Church of St Andrea delle Frate, Rome. I HE maid has dropped her rosary with life, )The beads of Time have fallen one hy one, As from her languid hand the string too soon Had slipped thus broke the silver thread of life. Chained in her marble sleep, the maiden lies ; Aye, marble chiselled into mocking death Within the peaceful Chapel naught but breath From golden censers in soft clouds upflies, And floats in scented zephyrs round the bier ; Or chant, or organ-peal, or whispered prayer, Or Benediction moves the hallowed air, From lip of devotee and chorister. Marble oft seems to breathe with life, but here Sublimely fell asleep when death drew near. A MARTYR'S GRAVE. "AMANTO FILIO DVLCISSIMO QVI VIXIT ANNIS DVOBVS. ET. D. X.V. N PACE."* N the classic Appian way, The Roman street of tombs, Stands a lone Church, beneath whose floor Thread the drear catacombs ; In dismal labyrinth they wind. These footpaths of the dead, Whereto in early Christian times. The persecuted fled. An ii. ... the Catacombs of St. Agnese, on the slab of a child's grave ; a martyr of two years old. A Martyr's Grave. 127 For here the Christian found repose ; A grave in life was peace, Peace was the watchword of his lips, His grave in death release. The martyr found his couch of rest Carved in the waiting stone ; The slab enclosed the tortured frame, Where slept he sweetly on. .Rudely was scratched the victor's name, With palm of peace, and dove The Ampulla of sacred blood, Placed there by hand of love. More than a hundred years ago, A martyr's grave unsealed, And slab removed, the bones e'en then, An odour sweet revealed. Ah, could it be that costly spice, Or aromatic gum, Was not absorbed by damp decay, And night tears of the tomb ? 128 A M'irt'/r* Grave. Or that the lingering fragrant breath That shrined the martyr's rest, A memory was of those who die God's faithful and God's blest? * Rome, 1861. la the year 1716, the body of a holy martyr, named Martina, was discovered in the Catacombs of St. Calisto. The Ampulla which once contained her blood still remained, and the inscrip- tion to the Roman lady was well preserved. These bones retained for a long period the same wonderful fragrance as had been observed before by eminent savants, on opening fresh tombs in the Catacombs of Rome. Among many eminent archaeologists who were witnesses of this extraordinary phenomenon, were Signori Canonica, Raimoudo, Binetti, and RomanL The same odour was also perceived by many persona in a street near the same cemetery, as they were stopping to pray near some tombs of saints. But laying aside all that might be attributed to a miraculous and supernatural fragrance, it might in some cases be produced by aromatic anointments used in embalming the martyred dead, even as they anointed the body of the Redeemer : though more frequently the bodies of Martyrs were hurried into their last resting places before there was time for the expensive rite of embalming. Trantlated from " BOLDETTI'S ROMA SoTTERASEA." [S. M. E. ] THE LIMA RIVER. URMURING, murmuring, mournfully murmuring, Swift on thy way to the sea ; So like human sorrow, which ever may borrow From the torrent, its simile The soul not free like thee. Rushing, rushing, foaming madly, and rushing, The river flows on to the sea ; The west wind is blowing, the foam-wreaths are throwing Their colours in rainbows to me The soul not free like thee. Passing, passing, so hurriedly passing, Kissing stray weeds at my feet, 130 The Lima Rlter. Gently washing the stone, as it lies all alone, Apart from the world and its heat Like the poet-soul, lone on life's beat. Murmuring, murmuring, mournfully murmuring, The river flows on to the sea ; So like human sorrow, which ever may bor- row Its likeness, river, from thee The soul not free like thee. A VOICE. " Also in thy skirts is found the blood of the souls of the poor Innocents." JER. ii. 34. VOICE comes wailing o'er the wave From the dear land afar ; Alas ! my country, that such wails Should reach us here of war ; A trumpet note, a dread appeal, That shakes the throbbing world, Until the march of human hearts Stands still the banners furled ! There was a vase, a golden vase Hid in that forest green, Held by a chain, but cloud-wrought links, Now melted into rain The rain of human tears that fall, Because that vase is broken, In fragments lie the shattered bits, Mournful and sad a token. 132 A Voice. Still, still, the voice is wailing sad O'er these blue fields of air, Echoed from billows of the sea, From the dear land afar. Alas ! my country, golden links In thy bright chain are riven, \Ve need the smile of God to cheer, From these blue rents of heaven. 1861. ANOTHER VOICE. HE sky falls sad and sorrowful, The tempest hangs o'er Rome, Naught save the dropping rays of light, Lift the Campagna's gloom ; Down dropping rays of sunny light, Like stairways from the skies, Where thought may climb the misty steps, And hope may strive to rise. Grim ruins start, and dot the scene, A lonely watch-tower glooms, In company with withered shrubs, Dead in a land of tombs. Mark the great spectral aqueduct Tramp on like solemn fate, A broken union severed links Of what was once so great. 134 Another Voice. But the soft sky stoops down to touch, And kiss the weeds that hide Each ruined gap, where the wind has sung, But oftener still has sighed. Aye ! ruins draped in shadows drear, Like ghosts of evil thought, Which haunt the fields of memory, And come when least they're sought. But 'tis not always drear and sad, Nor always dim, the way ; Oft there's a rent where God looks down On this world's evening grey. ST. CATHERINE. A fresco by Luini in the Brera Gallery. NGELS, bear her softly upward Through the golden, dreamy air ; Gently, gently, never earthward Clung that spirit pure and fair. On that face is writ no terror, On those lips has died a smile, Sister angels, softly bear her, And the dark grave-rest beguile. Golden halo soft encircle, Lighting up the radiant hair, Rippling off in ray and sparkle, Calm, serene, as evening star. Angels, bear her softly upward Through the golden, dreamy air ; Gently, gently, never earthward Clung that spirit pure and fair. ON THE BRIDGE. X the Arao's bridge I stood, To watch the feverish day Die upon her couch of cloud, Curtained soft in silvery grey ; Sultry, sultry grew the night, Dark except the cold moon-light ; And her garments dropt in gold, And floated on the river, While the shadows vainly tried The rippling folds to sever ; Still I mused upon the night, Dark except that gift of light. Then the distant hills of Lucca, Armoured knights as sentries stood Their broad shields glist'uing as the rills Of light float down in wayward mood ; And the heavy languid night Was dark except that gift of light. On the Bridge. 137 Later still the death of day Folds the landscape in embrace, And the sluggish river mopes, Black, and deep, and rippleless ; Sultry, deathly, grew the night, Dark except that gift of light. Thus it is with present life, Till folded safe in death's embrace, He bears us down the silent river, Dark, and deep, and rippleless ; Tho' long and weary be the way, The dawn will break in endless day. MIDNIGHT ON THE PRATO-FIORITO. (BAGNI DI LUCCA.) IGHT clasped the diamond hours in her arms, And pale the moon-beams rippled down the sea Of Heaven, and faintly touched with silvery palms Our shadowy pathway over hill and lea. Night hung her dewy mantle on the air, The leaves hung heavy with the drops of night ; A silence sweet and solemn reigned, save where The " Lima " murmured in her dreamy light. The night-wind whispered through the garnered sheaves, Telling her secret, ere she died away, Folding to rest and sleep the quivering leaves, And half-shut buds, that fringed our mountain way. Midnight on the Prato-Fiorito. 139 Upon the sea of Heaven above us spread The stars, like golden barks, their wondrous tale Still sung, as on their heavenly mission sped They beamed on mountains, glisten'd on the vale. Great Jove with " Medicean stars" in train, With golden shield, and arrows tipped for flight, Transfixed the night to mocking day, and fain Startled the darkness into laughs of light. " And dark Orion turning the shadow of death" Into the pearly colours of the morning, And lo ! the seven stars of Pleiad's wreath Scatter'd her blossoms, all our way adorning. Through the midnight we wandered till grey mom Opened the orient gates, and feeble and faint Came the soft breathings of a day new born Breezes Auroral, like prayers of a Saint. The clouds on the far mountain tops away, Like billows broke in the warm day-light's glow, A sea fantastic, scattering silver spray, To fall in cool drops to the glades below. 140 Midnight on the Prato-Fiorito. So the brief day of life seemed typified, The night of death no longer lost in gloom ; But glorious morning breaking far and wide, Even through darkest darkness of the tomb. A WALK IN THE CASCINE. (FLORENCE.) To H. B. S. WALK on dead and withered leaves On dead leaves brown and sere, The worn and tattered garments of Another dying year. And as I tread their brittle forms, Can I profane the thought That speaks to me from dying leaves, Of life at best but naught ? In thought I tread the shadowy Past, Hear the retreating tread Die away in the distance far, Another year that's fled. Too late to catch at her garments, Stirring the wintry air, Wafting pale retrospection of Another vanished year ! 142 A Walk in the Cascine. The great clock, Time, has struck the hour In Eternity's vast hall, Too late to set the hours back "Too late!" I hear it call. Not too late to redeem the time, As new-born hours ring, Ready to meet the new year bold, For higher flights to wing ; For fresh resolves, for nobler aims, O may this new year be The best, the happiest of our lives, Life through Eternity. GASTON DE FOIX. A Sculptured Knight, by Agostino Busto. T is not the moon-light that ye see, That silvers the sculptured knight, Xor e'en a flash from the sun's red shield, That throws this unearthly light ; It is not the flame of vestal lamp Reflecting light on the dead, Nor wandering ray from distant star, To this gloomy vault misled. Ah no at morn, and at twilight grey, The same weird light ye'll see, Burnishing bright the armoured knight, In this mocking mystery. Perchance the brave deeds of the dead Shine through the marble form, The light which the soul left when it fled, Death could not quench, transform. 144 Gaston de Foix. For ever around the sculptured bier, Lingers this quenchless flame Fed by a lamp that the angels hold, To lighten him through death's dream. THE STRANGER'S GRAVE. ET flowers of Hope around her bloom, The green grass gently o'er her wave, The south wind blow, the river flow In soothing accents round her grave. Ye sorrowing friends ! no longer weep, Nor let the sad regretful tear Disturb her rest, for she is blest, She breathed her life out sweetly here. The white moon watches o'er her rest, The vestal stars beam bright above her ; In forest shade, at Peace she's laid, Fallen leaves laid softly over. THE BROKEN LUTE. " Non tutto oro, quelle che lace. ' HE leaves sang on in sweet accord, Strung lightly to the breeze, Playing their idle fantasies In the old chesnut trees. Near the jessamine that hid me, Lay a broken lute, Half buried among the daisies Stringless, shattered, mute. Soft the river rippled by me, Purling among the weeds II r prelude to the evening breeze, That play'd in the choral reeds. The Broken Lute. 147 Full was the air of melody, Of harmony, of sound From wood, from leaf, from running stream, But from the lute, the ground There came no voice to answer me, I looked alas ! to find A snake coiled up like the lute I flung This thought to the passing wind. Lucca, 1859. A COBWEB. The spider taketh bold with her hands." PROV. xxx. 28. HE spider spins her subtle thread, And winds it off on reels of leaves, That hold their withered hands to stretch, And hang it on the golden sheaves. These filaments, from stem to stem, Like love-deeds are, which spun across From heart to heart, oft knit some gap, Till sympathy shall count no loss. E'en bringing music out of souls That only discords knew before ; Say not the spider may not weave A truth in cobweb at our door. A WHISPER. i HE very air breathes mystery cloud, plain Are silent ; and funereal shadows creep, To tremble under cypresses that reign In solemn state upon the rocky steep. The silver shower of the fountain falls Within St. Peter's square ; th' impressive space Though grand, mysterious is dead, and palls Upon the senses like a buried face, We once have loved, and pray'd we might forget. The Colosseum too is desolate, Though her green draperies with show'rs are wet With tears of Heaven. Mark the sunbeams meet To gild the ruined outlines, that the gloom May not again remind us of that tomb. NIGHT-FALL IN THE CAMPAGNA. ARK the sun dying on his westward height, The monarch of the waning day expire ! While the imperial couch of blazing light Is kindled for his funeral pall and Campagna's speaking wastes, and flowery plain, With scattered ruins start then comes some ghost Of hours departed ! tho' that solemn train Invert their torches as they moan, " Not lost, Tho' driven away to unknown darks and glooms, And never, never may come hack again. " The feathery ferns, and pine-trees' sable plumes Are drooped and broken by the rushing rain ; And night creeps on at last with measured tread, In widow's weeds, and cries, " The king is dead." GOOD UNAPPRECIATED. " For he shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh." JER. xvii. 6. DRY and scentless plant yet clings to life, Its wiry stem fast clasps the arid soil ; Harsh storms may rock, and rains may vie in strife, To bare the roots, while biting frosts despoil. E'en sun and dripping shower it will resist, Nor hear the vernal whisper 'mong the leaves ; AU this, and yet the heath is still un-blest, " Nor sees the good that cometh " to the sheaves. So there are souls that never seem to see " The good that cometh," till that good is gone. The angel stood perchance too near to thee, Nor did'st thou miss her till her wings had flown ; Like desert heath too blind thou wcrt to see The " good " thine angel would have brought to thee. AX EARTHQUAKE AT CHIUSI. TO F. A. E. D veil the sun had worn the day, Shrouded the hot and sickly sunbeams The breeze seemed weary of her idle play, And tolled upon the air like funeral knell. At last the day crept out with stealthy tread, And hid the hill and valley out of sight, While flickering lights in many a window shed in gleams upon the darkling night. Anon a low deep muttering was heard, A hollow and unearthly rushing wind o'er the trembling plain, as if a word From God was spoken, and the earth had joined An Earthquake. 153 Her deep-mouthed voice to give it life and power, And human lips were sealed, as shook the earth ; Men's hearts too failed them in that solemn hour, And women hushed their habes and children' 8 mirth, And closer, closer clung while shook the earth. THE "BARBA GIANNI. TO DAVIB. O you hear the " Barba Gianni," Do you hear her in the tiles, When 'night creeps through the valley, And the moon through the vineyard smiles? When the nightingale folds her head, And the bat has gone to rest, And the cicala's voice is hush'd, Then to " Barba Gianni " list When ere's gold chalice drop by drop, With dew has gemmed the grass, Then hear the Banshee of the tiles, In her sulky mood re-pass. Some say that the house is haunted, That the roof-tree weird is, And the low breathing that ye hear, From some wandering spin: The " Barba Gianni." 155 I laugh at your wayward fancies, ' Tis a sigh, a breath ye hear, But comes from no idle phantom, No spectre ye should fear. For 'tis only " Barba Gianni," You will hear her in the tiles, When night creeps through the valley, And the moon through the vineyard smiles. Cata Webb, Lucca. THE HAUNTED CHAPEL. N a dim old chesnut forest, Far from the city's din, Stands a long-deserted chapel So does my lay begin. The walls with age are crumbling, With moss and lichen wed To mouldy crust between the chinks All else save this is dead. A hundred years and more have past, Since censers here have swung, Or chant or benison has been said, Or Vesper bell been rung. A hundred years since the vigil lamp Before the Virgin gleamed, Illuming the ancient picture, ,v mildewed, stained, and seamed. The Haunted Chapel 157 Her cobwebs on the window sill, The wary spider weaves, Embroidering the altar lace, Sewing the missal leaves. Tis said in that haunted chapel, At sound of the Vesper bell, A spectral friar comes to pray His Ave beads to tell. Oft at even-tide I've lingered, When twilight shadows stole Bound the hills, and the spangled mist Boiled upward like a scroll. On the evening breeze came voices, Cadenzas on the ear, But not from within the grating Heard I the Monk at pray'r. Twas only the river whispering Dreamily where I stood, Dispelling the old tradition Of that chapel in the wood. Lucca. THE LAST SUPPER. (Fresco by Leonardo da Vinci, at Milan.) STAINED and faded fresco, Mildewed and cracked by time, Yet through the mist of ages, One face still shines sublime It has shone on many a brother Now long since dead and gone, Who here partook his lenten fast That face still shining on. Tis the last Holy Supper, Divine appointed, blest, "Where earthly appetite is lost In sacramental feast. The shadowy group is passing, Fading away and dim, E'en as those brothers one by one Have passed away with time. The Last Supper. 159 But the glory of that face, The finger of time has past, Nor left irreverent impress, Where ruin has o'ercast. And down the dusky cloister, When evening shadows fall, And cloud the faded figures Of that fresco on the wall ; Still shines with radiance ever, The Saviour's face sublime, Limned by a wondrous painter, Immortalized through time. DEAD VIOLETS OX THE "LIDO." ALE scentless dead who brought them here, On sea-weed drifts to lie, Who took them from their garden bed, And left them here to die '? The crystal sand's no home for these, The restless wave no bed, Nor salt breeze bears its life to these Sweet violets shrunk and d Their hardier cousins bud and bloom In coral gardens deep, Are rocked and borne on crested wave, Then thrown on sands to sleep. They blossom fair in ocean caves, Where pearl and harp-shell lie, They're nursed by storms that withered these Pale exiles born to die ! Dead Violets on the "Lido." 161 Who took them from their grassy home, And tied with silken thread, Then cast their sweetness to the wave, With salt sea-weeds to wed ? Venice, May, 1859. THE ANEMONES OF THE PAMFILI DORI. KNIGHT returned from Palestine- From the Holy wars he came, The red-cross blazed upon his shield And breast, in scarlet flame. Within his mailed glove he clasped A flower of crimson hue, From fields of Palestine it came, In the Holy land it grew. Twas not for love of maiden, he Had brought this flower so far, To plant it here in Roman soil, Christ's " blood-drop " * sacred, rare. The Anemones are called by the Oriental Christians " The Saviour's blood-drops," contrasting with the pagan myth, that Anemones are the blood-drops of Adonis. The Anemones of the Pamfili Dori. 163 But down he stoop'd to fret the sod Beneath the pine's dark shade, With reverence laid the exile down Where sun-light never strayed. Though it was born in shadeless clime, Beneath hot Asia's skies, Yet chose he now the dark moist bank, Where feathery ferns entice. But stranger still, and wonderful, These scarlet flowers rare, Then lost the dye of the crimson flood- Was it by Christian's tear ? The blaze from off its cheek has fled, Tis faded, washed, aye gone, Still beautiful, tho' other shades Now paint the grassy lawn. Anemones, so rich, and fair, So beautiful, so sweet, Well do ye e'en now typify Prints of Apostles' feet ! 164 The Anemones of the Pamfili Dori. But now the knight in marhle sleeps, The Cross carved at his feet, His hands are clasped upon his breast, And in them, pale and meet, The Anemones their petals raise From out the sculptured tomb, Tho' the flower that flushed Judea's hills Has paler grown in Rome ! KEATS' GRAVE. HOME. " I feel the daisies growing over me." (READ softly, Stranger, o'er this lowly grave, Speak gently, Poet, o'er the hallowed dead, For tender flowers evermore should wave ; So trample not the grass with heedless tread, Lest crushed some " daisy " hidden in the turf So coral in the caves of ocean made, Oft-times floats upward, borne upon the surf, Then hides beneath the glitt'ring sands to fade. O softly tread, no hidden bud be broken, That breathes its faint scent o'er the Poet's dust In sacred memory, in tender token, Leave still the " daisies growing " in God's own trust, In memory of a Love that never fades, But buds and blossoms in the gloomiest shades. ON THE WAY TO ROME. HE myrtle in green beauty flings Her lavish sweetness on the road ; The briar tangled in the shrub, Bows down beneath its load. The ivy clasps the sturdy oak, And still the rough bark loves to hold With tight embrace, as up she climbs, In her green leafery bold. Below us the Campagna lies, Wide stretching out her empty hands, As if she loved to count the wastes Of her unpeopled lands. Far in the distance through the mist, The great St. Peter's dome hangs high, Poised like a bubble or a ball, Swung from the purple sky. On the Way to Rome. 167 How like life's journey, swift unwind The myrtle hours, hope and you,th, When little griefs none greater seemed Could ever wound forsooth ! Then as the ivy steadfast clings Around its own sepulchral urn, So tight we hold in clasp the hand That clasps not in return. And down the shadowy road we wend, O'er drear Campagua wastes of life, Till through earth's mist at last we see Where ends this feverish strife. 1859. THE IIUIXED SHRINE. HE sky is blossoming with gold, Bright gardens sowed with light, Flowers that bloom in mystic cloud, Die in Mosaic night. The ruined shrine, with gold is decked, The drooping weeds are strung With jewels from the sunset mine, Which dance the leaves among. Tho' dim and stained the fresco is, Defaced with blots of time, Green are the vine and ivy spray, That in love's union climb. The wayside shrine is lighted too By sunset's flash of gold, That glimmers with a lustre, brief As a life- tale that is told. THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS. P the long bewildering street Called after the month of May, A street of ancient Palaces, Carved fronts of sombrous grey ; With deep low groined arch-ways, Dripping with damp and steam, And sickly scent of sultry breath, From summer's feverish dream. 'Twas there I walked the fiery pave, That seemed to scorch my feet, Tho* cold at heart, I hastened on To the last house in the street. My heart had threaded that street before, Had entered that gloomy door, Faltered climbing each stony step All I had traversed before. 1 70 The House of Shadows. But darker, darker now it grew, And yet tho 1 'twas day without, Darkness of soul crept over me, And I could not drive it out. I rang at the door, and waited, Oft I had waited before, Rang again does no one answer ? Tis open open the J door ; Where was the hand that raised the latch ? Retreated ? Aye as of old ; Too well they knew who was coming, ^ And went back to the tasks they hold. Into the rooms then I wandered, All silent, desolate, lone, But there stood her chair and her table Alas ! the spirit had flown. I invoked each dear one by name, An answer came on the air, " This is the House of Shadows, What hast thou to do here ?" I heard the laugh of the children, Rustling of garments wind-blown, Saw leaves of the books turn over, The journal just read thrown down ; The House of Shadows. 1 7 1 Then sate on the cushioned divan, Gazed on the tapestried wall, Read listless the titles of books Through mist of tears that would fall ; There mused till the twilight entered, Drew shadow leaves faint on the floor, And folded the thirsty petals Of lily and madrigore, That swooned in pots on the terrace, Begrimed with dust of the street : Forgotten, neglected, they also Struck down by summer's fierce heat. Anon the monks began chanting Their Ave at dusky day ; I knew it was time to be going To my home just over the way. Only one moment I lingered, To watch the moon from that room, Climb over the Pitti's turret, Throw an arrow on the gloom. Not long on the terrace I lingered, Turning bewildered, aghast, Empty, echoing, were the rooms Through which my steps had just passed. 172 TJie House of Shadows. Not even a fragment of arras Hung from the bald blank wall, Nor a bit of ancient carving Bare, carpetless, desolate all ! Shadowy feet seemed to follow me ; Hark to a shutting door ! I paused, looked backward to listen, That sound I had heard before. V/ell I knew the click of the latch, Too well I recalled that sound ; It opened a chamber of memory, Into a silence profound. I went to that room and entered, Then closed the door after me ; A flood of tears drown'd the shadows These shadows so haunting me. The moon her last arrow shivered, And flung it down on the floor, And a strain of heav'nly music Burst through the closed door. At length my sad dream was over, My sorrow these shadows had cast I would not now back recall her, That wish is for ever past ; The House of Shadows. 173 Though still the Palace is standing, And the shadows inmates there I heard that deep sobbing of music, Yet herself has no shadow there. All, all then had been but phantoms, Sad dream of departed hours ; Memories, pictures, fancies, Now faded like summer flow'rs. Yet they held me long in possession, Ev'n now entangle my steps, Though I fled from the House of Shadows, With silence upon my lips. Florence; tfov. t 1861. SWITZERLAND. SWITZERLAND. THE AVALANCHE. VR, far above the crowded haunts of men, The path-way steep and rocky, upward toils ; The valley drops below in cloud and mist, While evening shadows hang fantastic folds On Alps' hoar pinnacles, and craggy cliffs; The veil of twilight o'er the landscape drops, Hiding the rosy blush on lingering snows, That mantle St. Bernard at vesper chime. Twas summer in the valley warm July, When goat-herds seek the forest shades to rest, And watch their tinkling flocks the dry grass browse, And sheaves grow golden in the ripening breeze, As reapers gamer them from nightly dews Yet where we were, 'twas Winter, and the snows Of many months mantled the frozen soil. 5 178 The Avalanche. Alone with God we were far, far above The narrow sympathies of valley life, 'Mid those vast heights, where nature's sterner front Makes play-ground for the elements unchained ! How grey the shadows on the mountain fall, Dashed with a tint of purple from the sun, Whose palette heaped with broken colours lay In gorgeous tints upon the hoary rocks Hurled down by avalanche, or mountain slide. 11 bird, nor insect, had mistook their way From shelters safe below in sunlight wrapt, To flutter wing in frosty Alpine breeze lit but wild flowers smiled upon our path ; Soldanella raised her pale fringed cheek 1: roni some more sheltered cliff, or gentian blue Clustered 'mid tufted ferns, that waved their crests Like warriors' plumes o'er icy fields of Death, path grew steeper, and more keen the air, As into regions of eternal snows, Our upward pathway tortuously wound. At length we pause, dismount, on ice-crust stand Beside a grave, a traveller's lonely grave ; Down twenty feet of snow and treacherous ice, Lurked this dark sepulchre in shiv'ring drifts. :iiourner's tear had wet the new-made turf, And bid the golden flow'r of Hope to bloom, The Avalanche. 179 No faithful footstep here had worn a path, To lay a last flow'r on a loved one's tomb ; A broken sledge, a bag of chesnuts, rice, The white drift stain, and tell the awful tale. Now the dread avalanche, Death's sudden bolt, Had spent its rage, and in that hollow lay, Its journey ended, and its mission done. One night, a travelling-merchant with his sledge, The blazing fire-side of the Hospice left, To brave the terrors of a stormy night Below that fatal mountain, grand " Mont Mort," To thread his lonely way o'er pathless drifts, To wife and child in the valley safe below. But death was hiding in that frozen gloom, And while the traveller with his sledge toiled on, Death met him, struck him, in that waste of snows, And ere a smothered prayer its way could wing To Him " whose chariot rides upon the storm," The wave of the avalanche had swamped life's barque, And wrecked its victim on the unknown shore, Wrapped in a winding-sheet of glittering ice. The morning came from pearly shadows stole A rosy blush upon the snow-clad peaks, The north wind's bitter requiem mournful sung, And bore upon its breath the frosty flakes, Whose glittering spangles kissed the traveller's grave ; 180 Ttie Avalanche. No tossed-up turf in impious hurry thrown By sexton's spade, a new-made grave revealed Each faltering foot-print on the virgin snow, And track of sledge long since had been wiped out. perchance some hungry wolf, or vulture keen, Had stoop 'd to track the buried victim's rest ; Naught else not e'en St. Bernard's faithful dogs, The mystery had traced, till seven white moons Had flung their silver shields upon that grave To none but God was inown the mystery Of that wild fearful night below " Mont Mort ! " N. B. An avalanche had occurred in the February previous, and the travelling merchant, who had started from the Hospice with three other men, perished, and their bodies were not discovered until the following August. Hotpict oj the Great St. Bernard, 1856. DEATH'S STUDIO. ARD by St. Bernard's lonely convent looms The Ossuary, amid deep frozen glooms ; The windows barred, nor glazed to shivering blast, That wails its requiem through the chambers vast. The dead are here, but not outstretched on form, Not coffined for the banquet of the worm Death is the sculptor ! this his studio grand ! For no decay is here these statues stand In groups ; a mother tightly clasps her child Death could not sunder, so he only smiled. Some crouch, bent double by the weight of snows, Transfixed for ever in that strange repose ; Vain were those shrieks, unheard through deafening roar Of sweeping avalanche, below "Mont Mort !" THE ALPS CATHEDRAL. HE village church, its joyous bells Are ringing music chimes ; Filling the air with floating verse, Like a poet with his rhymes. Tis Sunday, and the villagers Their weekly toil lay by, To meet the day of holy rest, In bright festivity. Yes ! 'tis Sabbath in the valley, Tis Sabbath on the height ; How solemn, deep, mysterious, is That Sabbath infinite. There no rude jar, no earthly voice Rends the translucent air, But surpliced rocks of glittering snows Are priests who worship there. The Alps Cathedral 183 Then go to this grand church with me, Not in the vale below, But upward on those icy peaks, Where angels come and go. A vast Cathedral ! sunlit walls Of amethystine glow, Of emerald green, of ruby blush, With polished floor of snow. See the long aisles, the glittering nave, The choir of glacier blue, Hear the " Amen " from ceaseless rills, In solemn cadence flow. And the deep diapason of The thund'ring torrent's swell, The organ of these awful heights, The avalanche's peal ! Then mark the niches, where enshrined Are statues cut in snow ; No ! no ! they're angels ! look again, See how they come and go. 1 84 The Alps Cathedral. And hear the voices from the pines, Far, far they chant below, Marching like armies up the steep, But pause at steps of snow. But who of earth may enter here ? What voices join to share In the devotion of this Church This Alpine Church of prayer ? Tis a Cathedral at whose door But they should enter in, Who've washed their robes from valley-stain s- ;h's valley-stains of sin. spirits of departed life ! Are ye not here with me A lonely child of earth who'd mount Those heights to God with ye ? jeur, 1861. THE ALPS' "TE DEUM." " The Lord is in His holy Temple, let all the earth keep silence. UBLIME Cathedral ! God's own church, Tower, pinnacle, and dome, With vaulted roof of azure blue, Fresco 'd with cloudlet plume. Grand harmonies from unseen choirs, Sublime response below ; The great " Te Deum " from those heights, Those galleries of snow. An altar too of fretted rock, Draped with the silvery snow, And candlesticks of golden light, Illumed at sunset's glow. And mark the nave of glacier blue, And aisle of dark moraine ; The snowy whiteness shrouded o'er, Where footsteps wear a stain. 186 The Alps' "\Te Deutn." With scathed pine, by lightening riven, And tottering boulder on the cliff, "With glacier wave and avalanche, With rill and torrent s strife, We join to swell the Anthem great, The grand " Te Deum " sing We praise, we praise Thee, our God ! Our Bishop, Priest, and King ! Mer de Glace, 1801. MONT BLANC, AT SUNSET. HE monarch dies on couch of state, Pillowed in drifts of snow, Tho' smiling faint in rosy flush, On valley glooms below. How fleeting, transient is the spell, The Benediction given, And then the pall of night must hide The snowy couch in heaven. Now falls the fixed look of death, A lurid light plays o'er The monarch's face that faintly flushed, But a brief spell before. E'en funeral pines retreat beneath Procession mournful, slow, The night wind breathes her solemn dirge, And dies in the vales below. 188 Mont Blanc, at Sunset. Each frozen crest of glacier wave, Tunes its own mournful note, And funeral hymns in solemn strain, Sad o'er the wave-crests float. One, two, three pines walk in the rear. Like mourners in a train, Reluctant steps the last to hear The organ's farewell strain. The opal curtains of the "\Vo>t Now drape the cloud-built tomb ; The king is dead, speak softly ye in the valley's gloom. Let no harsh voice, no sigh, nor sob Around this picture lower, But human souls in Alpine Yield reverence to the hour. Let funeral bell still toll its knell, From craggy heights above, And village chime, still ring its rhyme In harmony and love. Mont Blanc, at Sunset. 189 Tho' day lies on his couch of state, Pillowed in drifts of snow, Vet parting smile and rosy blush Fall on the vales below. A. lesson here a solemn voice Pleads from the dizzy height Thus should ye die like parting day, And leave your lamp of Light i A lamp of Light that ever bright Shall burn in hearts ye leave ; From dying day on Alpine height, This lesson we receive. THE MER DE GLACE. " And I saw as it were a sea of glass." OWN from the dizzy pathless drifts.. The frozen river flows, A sea of glass in glittering xv;> Transfix'd in death's repose. Celestial blue from worlds unseen, Mautles the icy crests, And precious gems their colours fling Like flowers upon the wastes. The amethysts with regal light, Like violets' sweet breath, Are types of flowers, spirit buds Now frozen into death. With onyx stem and jasper leaf, And blush of agate rose ; How beautiful ! Has sunset died, And into felspar froze ? The Mer de Glace. 191 The crystal typifies the spray Not lost on Alpine breeze, Nor thrown in garlands on the ice, But left like tears to freeze. They call all this the type of death, O rather call it life ! For nature dies not here, this seems To be unchanging life. This river flows not to the sea, These flowers do not die ; The very air seems but transfixed To one eternal sigh. Chamounix, 1861. A WISH. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir. SONG OF SOLOMON i. 17. IVE me a chalet on the heights, In tields of deathless snow, With a crystal river o'er whose waves, The murm'ring breezes blow. The only footstep that shall pass My humble chalet door, Shall be the tempest, whose wild wratli Dies in the cataract's roar. My only neighbours be the pines, The armies of the height, Whose upward tramp shall cut a path For the moon's mystic light. A Wish. 193 Where flow'rs of spangled ice shall bloom, Sheltered by agate wall, Where onyx and the amethyst, In rival beauty call. The only voice too shall be hers, Whose spirit follows me, And walks among the faithful pines, Less faithful they than she. Courmajeur, 1861. THE NIGHTINGALE'S CRY. ARCHES' deep and dark Pavilion, Hide, hide me in thy shade, For a thorn has pierced my bosom, In the hawthorn where I strayed. Tosses now my heart in anguish, Dark as night, and no relief; Come and sing, bring back life's morrow, Hush to rest this bitter grief. return, my wandering love-mate, Woo me, win me with thy song, Till the silent dark Pavilion, Echoes as thy notes prolong. And I answer in Love's panting, Come, come back to the nest, Take this thorn from out my bosom, Heal the wound upon thy breast. The Nightingale's Cry. 195 Come, come, my wandering Love-mate, Heal this thorn-wound in my breast, Come ! I cry, come my wanderer, Back into the lonely nest. BeUagio, 1861. PARAPHRASES. HYMN OF ST. ZAVIER. DEUS ! ego amo Te, Nee amo Te, ut salves me, Aut quia non amantes Te J-itt-rno punis igne. Tu, Tu, mi Jesu ! totum me Amplexus es in cruce, Tulisti clavos, lanceam Multamque ignominiam, Innumeros Dolores, Sudores et angores, Ac mortem et haec propter me, Cur igitur non amem Te O Jesu, amantissime. Xon ut in ccelo salves me, Aut me sternum damnes me, nncmii ullius spe, Sed sicut Tu amasti me, Sic amo et amabo Te, Solum quia Rex meus es, Et solum quia Deus es. PARAPHRASE. GOD ! I love Thee, Not only that Thou savest me, Nor that because those loving Thee From endless woe shall rescued be. Thou, Thou, my Jesu ! all for me, Did'st bear the Cross on Calvary, Wert torn by nails, wert pierced by spear, Numberless griefs my sins to bear ; The bloody sweat and agony, Anguish and death and these for me ; Then wherefore may I not love Thee, Jesu ! who hast thus loved me ? Not to be safe in heaven with Thee, Nor from dark hell to rescued be, Not for the hope of some reward, But simply that Thou lov'st me, Lord ; Thus do I love, and will love Thee, Only because my King Thou art, Only because my God Thou art. PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. IX. i. I Til roses and cypress and spangled gold, Would I could garnish, and loving enfold This book like an altar of death to rine, As in it I bury these lays of mine. n. < ' would I could coffin this love, that so ! The flower of rest on its grave might grow, Where it may blossom for many a one, Though only for me when this life is done. in. Here then are the lyrics, which once so wild, Like those lava streams which from Etna boiled, And came rushing forth from my spirit's deep, As the flashing lightning in its sweep. Paraphrases on Heine. 201 IV. Now silent and even like death they lie, As coldly they stiffen, like pale mist fly ; Yet anew might revive the passion of old, If the spirit of love could again enfold. v. For I feel in my heart a presage ring, That the spirit of love her dew will bring, And ere long this book shall touch thy hand, Thou sweetest Love in a distant land. VI. Then will be broken the spell of these lays, While on the pale letters thou shalt gaze, As they lift an appeal to thy beautiful eyes, And whisper in sadness with love's own sighs. XXVI. DREAMT ; the moon looked sadly down, And sadly shone each star, Methought it bore me to my Love, Many hundred miles afar. 202 Paraphrases on Heine. n. Straight it led me to her house, I kist the stepping stone, O'er which her little feet had tripped, Her garments' trail oft gone. in. The night was long, the night was cold, And very cold that stone, A pale face from the lattice looked, Lightened by silvery moon. ALICE. XI, VII. HOU art like a flower, So lovely, pure, and true, While I gaze, a sadness Steals through my heart anew. n. that this hand might lie Once only on thy brow, Praying God to keep thee Lovely and pure as now. Paraphrases on Heine. 203 XXIH. i. WHY are the roses so pale ? ! tell me my Love, say why, And why in the fresh green grass Do the violets motionless lie ? IT. Why sings in so mournful a strain, The lark as she soars from the tree, And bears on the soft wooing breeze, Only a death-scent to me ? in. Why shines the sun on mine eye, So angrily down, and so cold? And why does the earth look so grey, And barren as e'en the death-mould ? IV. And why am I weary and sad, My darling, my darling, say, ! tell me, my only beloved one, Why hast thou forsaken me, say ? J. XXXIII. I. T morn I'll send thee violets, Fresh from the forest bower, At evening bring thee roses, Plucked at the twilight hour. n. Kuow'st thou what the flowers say In emblematic light ? True must thou be to me by day, And love me in the night. 1. XXXVI. i. T falls upon this Pathway strange, Tired heart, and weary limbs ; Ah ! there flows like silent Blessing, Light adown the sweet moon-beams. n. Sweetest moon, with thy bright shining, Drive away this 1 nightly grey, For it 'minds me of my sorrow, And the tears I've wept away. Paraphrases on Heine. 205 LV. i. N my dreams I have wept for thee, In the grave thou wert lying low ; But on awakening, still the tears Adown my wet cheeks would flow. ii. In my dreams I have wept for thee, I thought thou wert false to me ; But awakening, still was weeping, Aye, weeping most bitterly. ni. In my dreams I have wept for thee, Tho' I dreamed that thou wert true ; Yet awakening, still the tears Adown my wet cheeks would flow. XI. i. ITH sails of black my ship glides on, Over the angry sea ; Thou know'st how sorrowful I am, How sick at heart for thee. 206 Paraphrases on // ii. Thy heart is fickle as the wind, And flutters here and there ; With sails of black my ship floats on, O'er raging seas afar. LXXXVIL i. EATH is but the chilly night, Life is but the sultry day, Darkening even while I sleep, Weary, weary with the day. u. O'er my bed a tree arises, Where oft sings the nightingale, Sings of love, of Love immortal, In my dreams I hear her wail. XXXVI. i. R< >M out my great sorrow, These little lays I bring, Which soar with ringing plumage, And to her heart take wing. Paraphrases on Heine. 207 ii. They find their way to my darling, And come again to complain, To mourn, but will not utter, What shivers her heart with pain. U. E. PEACH, Printer, 8, Bridge Street, Bath. THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY