■-■-\ 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 l^' 
 
 / 
 
 y
 
 THE ISLES OF LOGH AWE 
 
 AM' 
 
 (Otl)cr yofins of inn jjoutlj. 
 
 WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Bv PHILIP (IILBERT MAMERTON. 
 
 W. !■:. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 rAiNTKR. ;;t2 strand. 
 
 1855.
 
 H72? 
 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Most faithful guardian ! I have found in thee 
 
 A tried, true friend ; and if I warmly greet 
 
 This year, it is not that it sets me free 
 
 From silver fetters that adorn the feet. 
 
 Then leave not empty thine accustomed seat 
 
 In my heart's mansion ! — reign there wisely still. 
 
 And when thy days of watching are complete, 
 
 Retain thine old, sweet influence o'er my will, 
 
 And take these songs of mine, some vacant hour to till.
 
 " TRADITION SUPPLIES A BETTEH FABLE THAN ANY INVENTION 
 ^^^•" EMERSON. 
 
 " LET NO ONE SAY THAT EEALITY LACKS POETICAL INTEREST. 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 "men make ideals GOD MAKES FACTS. 
 
 • FRO ODE. 
 
 "lasting POETRY IS ALWAYS COHERENT, AND EASILY UNDER- 
 STOOD." 
 
 ANON.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 226, fur Bulwer i-ead Biilmer. 
 
 300, dele the ajiostrophes at end of stanza.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE :- 
 
 T. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 4 
 
 11. 
 
 FRAOCH ELAN 
 
 13 
 
 III. 
 
 INISHAIL .... 
 
 29 
 
 IV, 
 
 KILCHURN .... 
 
 39 
 
 V. 
 
 ARDHONNEL 
 
 57 
 
 VI. 
 
 IXISH ERRETH 
 
 72 
 
 VTI. 
 
 CONCLUSION .... 
 
 82 
 
 MACLEAN 
 
 OF DUART .... 
 
 •. 95 
 
 SUNRISE 
 
 ON BEN LOMOND 
 
 . 105 
 
 THE POOLS OF CLADICH 
 
 . 110 
 
 THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE 
 
 . 112 
 
 STAFFA 
 
 . 
 
 . 121 
 
 INDOLENCE 
 
 . 126 
 
 INDUSTRY 
 
 . 127 
 
 THE BEACON ..... 
 
 . 128 
 
 MOONRISE 
 
 . 138
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 MY OWN STUD"! . 
 
 A DREAM OF NATURE . 
 
 THE GLOW-WORM 
 
 AVE MARIA 
 
 THE SANYASSI 
 
 TO BEATRICE AT PARTING 
 
 LOVE AND LIGHT 
 
 MY OLD dog's grave . 
 
 THE LAST LINK . 
 
 REVELRY . 
 
 PARASITES 
 
 LANCASHIRE RELL-RINGERS 
 
 TO A SARCASTIC BEAUTY 
 
 TO HER BROTHER 
 
 THE WIDOWED SWAN 
 
 THORWALDSEN's DEATH 
 
 PERFUME . 
 
 THE HELMETED SKULL 
 
 AL JAN^■AT 
 
 EDEN 
 
 TO THE MEADOW SAFFRON 
 
 THE CONEINES OF THOUGHT 
 
 TURNER 
 
 GABRIEL RATCHETS 
 
 SELF-COMMAND . 
 
 MARIAN 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 THE FIBE ON THE MOOR 
 
 DE ARGENTINE . 
 
 DEAR-BOUGHT FIELD . 
 
 APHORISMS . . . 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE . 
 
 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION 
 
 TTNFORGOTTEN . . 
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN . 
 
 THE TEACHERS . 
 
 SINGING WITH CONSTANTJA . 
 
 THE DYING STUDENT . 
 
 THE BATH .... 
 
 A HOUSE OF PRAYER . 
 
 SKATING SONG 
 
 SKATING BEFORE THE WIND . 
 
 SLEDGING IN LANCASHIRE 
 
 PARABLE OF "bHE STREAM 
 
 TO B. H., CHRIST-CHURCH, OXFORD 
 
 A LONDON STUDIO 
 
 HADDON HALL 
 
 FOR .... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 207 
 209 
 211 
 217 
 220 
 227 
 233 
 236 
 246 
 248 
 250 
 251 
 253 
 256 
 258 
 260 
 263 
 266 
 269 
 271 
 284 
 
 POEMS OF WAE. 
 
 THE PILLAR OF PEACE 
 MARSHAL ST. ARNAUD . 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE 
 
 287 
 290 
 295
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SHIP OF MISERY . 
 
 AFl'ER A BATTLE 
 
 THE CHILD-SOLDIER 
 
 TO GENERAL SCARLETT 
 
 SIR DE LACY EVANS 
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE 
 
 AT DOVER, APRIL 1855 
 
 CORRUPTION, 1855 
 
 IMPERIAL GUESTS. A SKETCH IX PICCADILLY 
 
 PAOE 
 
 293 
 300 
 303 
 306 
 311 
 315 
 324 
 325 
 32C 
 
 rOEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 THE CENTRAL HALL AT WESTMINSTER 
 
 . 333 
 
 FALLING STARS 
 
 336 
 
 IODINE 
 
 342 
 
 CORAL ISLANDS ...... 
 
 345 
 
 THE EMPTY PUPA CASE ...*.. 
 
 352 
 
 THE BRITANNIA BRIDGE 
 
 356 
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN SANDSTONE .... 
 
 358 
 
 CASTS 
 
 360 
 
 ENGINE DRIVING 
 
 368 
 
 THE NIGHT TRAIN 
 
 372
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 DRAWN FROM NATURE BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY EDBIXJND EVANS. 
 
 I. The Terrace, Haddon . . . Frontispiece. 
 
 A view looldng across the ten-ace aiid along the south 
 front towai-ds the chapel. See page 273. 
 
 II. The Isle OF Ardhonnel . Title page Vi(jnette. 
 
 The three distant peaks on the right rise from the 
 conne of Ben Cniachan. Between the hill under the 
 evening star and Ardhonnel lies Loch A\'ich with its castled 
 island. The light in the castle is explained at page 61. 
 
 c
 
 Xll LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 III. The North End of Loch Awe . P. 18 
 
 From the beach of Inishail looking up Glen Strae. 
 Tlie lake extends two miles beyond the islands in the 
 middle distance. There is a channel between them, which 
 from their position is not discernible, so that they seem 
 one island. That to the spectatoi-'s right is Fraoch Elan. 
 
 IV. KiLCHURN Castle 48 
 
 I had my back to Ben Loy when drawing this \agnette. 
 A reference to the other view of the castle will explain the 
 position. 
 
 V. KiLCHURN AND BeN LoY .... 54 
 
 From the Goose's rock, close to the Oban road, looking 
 towards Ben Loy. Dalmally is situated about halfway 
 between the foot of the mountain and the castle. 
 
 VI. The Pass of Awe 82 
 
 From the side of Craiganonie looking down the rivei' 
 Awe, towards which the lake nai-rows. On the right is the 
 base of Ben Cruachan ; in the middle (Ustance a glimpse of 
 Loch Etive ; and beyond that one of the mountains in 
 Morven. 
 
 VII. The Bridge of Cladich . .no 
 
 One of the streams which empty themselves into Loch 
 Awe. In summer the bridge is crossed every day by tlie 
 Oban coaches, wbii;h pull up :it the inn close by.
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS . XUl 
 
 VIII. An Old Hall . . . . P. 138 
 
 In the village of Worsthom, Lancashire. 
 
 IX. On the Rivek Brun . . . .143 
 
 The river Bran passes through Bm-nley (anciently 
 Brunlay), nearer its source it passes Hurstwood. 
 
 X. HuKSTwooD, Lancashire . . .150 
 
 The house on the left is supposed to have heen the 
 residence of those friends in " the North " with whom 
 Spenser stayed after his departure from the University. 
 
 XI. Crypt op York Minster . . . .223 
 
 An oblique view, taking the greatest length attainable in 
 the building. 
 
 XII. A WtNTER Study on the Brun . . 264 
 
 XIII. In the Great Hall, Haddon . . .279 
 
 Showing the portion of the screen to which recusants in 
 convivial usage were fastened for punishment.
 
 XIV LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 XIV. Stoodley Pike, from Dean Scout . P. 2S8 
 
 A yiew from the crags near the Holme Station on the 
 LancasMre and Yorkshire railway, (Buniley Branch). 
 These crags are, and long have been, hamited by falcons. 
 
 XV. Chalk Cliffs , . . . .336 
 
 From the jetty in front of Atholl Teirace, Dover. The 
 submarine telegraph crosses the Channel a little beyond 
 the distant headland. 
 
 XVi. DovKH Castle . . . . .336 
 
 A ruined tower of the Castle, occupying the higliest 
 position on the cliff. The glimpse of sea gives no idea of 
 the expanse seen from where the sentry stands. Tin- 
 coast of France is just \isible in the distance. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 1 hope to illustrate this work tlioroughly with etchings of 
 a larger size than the present form of the volume would admit, 
 it contains at least a hundred available subjects ; but to do any 
 justice to them will be a work of time, and require long pre- 
 paratory study. 
 
 If I carry out the plan, the etchings will be issued separately 
 from the verse, and in pai'ts.
 
 THE ISLES OF LOGH AWE. 
 
 " Coujure up again the evanished shapes of the ancient ballad ; people 
 these isles, this rock ; and cause, by might of spirit and power, the old 
 times to flit by, clearly and truly."— Hans Christian Andersen. 
 
 B
 
 This Poem comprises descriptions of the five most in- 
 teresting islands on Loch Awe, introducing the traditions 
 attached to them, and such personal details of the author's 
 wanderings as were likely to assist the tnithfuluess of 
 the descriptions. 
 
 Kilchurn is not strictly insular except when the Loch 
 is high. It is, however, supposed to have been built 
 originally on an island, since the isthmiis is a sandy 
 delta deposited by the river Orchay, at whose mouth 
 the castle is situated. I have, therefore, thought it al- 
 lowable to include this peninsula among " the Isles of 
 Loch Awe." 
 
 The Introductory Chapter is devoted to a very pic- 
 turesque legend accounting popularly for the origin of 
 the lake ; the concluding one contrasts the theories of 
 modern science with this legendary palaeontology. 
 
 The Lyrics — like the ballad stanza which heads each 
 canto of the "Faei'ic Quecne," — arc introduced as pre- 
 ludes to prepare the reader for the subject of the com- 
 position which follows, giving him, as it were, the key- 
 note to the chapter.
 
 I PASSED Loch Awe as tourists do, 
 Catching glimpses here aud there 
 Of the scenes we posted through, 
 
 With companions full of care 
 About the comforts of the inns, 
 And about to-morrow's fare. 
 
 Thus the soul, to try it, wins 
 
 Glimpses of its Paradise. 
 
 'T was a judgment for my sins, 
 
 Yet a judgment making wise, 
 
 For I went another year 
 
 To work alone, and settled there.'
 
 I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 These isles were once the crests of pastoral hills 
 In an Arcadian valley, long ago : 
 So says tradition." Bera owned the vale, 
 A coarse Diana, whose wide hunting-grounds 
 Were all the mountains round Ben Cruachan, 
 Whereon she dwelt ; for near the little tarn 
 That lies between the shoulders of the hill 
 There was a spring, with which her very life 
 Was so connected by some sorcery. 
 That if she failed to roll a mighty stone, 
 Sculptured with mystic characters and signs. 
 Over the spring before the sun had set, 
 Mysterious woes impended. By this tenure 
 Her lands were held, and even life itself. 
 
 One afternoon, outwearied with the; chase. 
 She clambered slowly up the torrent side.
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 5 
 
 Above the tangled depths of the ravine, 
 And, finding in the basket-work of copse 
 A quiet nook of short, close, verdant grass, 
 Lay down to rest, for still the sun was high. 
 And she could reach the summit in an hour 
 From where she lay. The turf was very soft. 
 And she so weary that her hardy limbs 
 Would have reposed upon a granite bed, 
 So that she slept too soundly, for the sun 
 Reddened and sank while she was in that bower, — • 
 And still she slept ! 
 
 The morning dawned in mist. 
 And she, in fear of some impending woe, 
 Brushed through the dripping fern and underwood, 
 Treading securely those vast solitudes 
 As if by instinct, for the cloud was thick 
 Upon the mountain. Through the stony heath 
 She held her course ; and her short hunting-dress 
 Was wet about the skirts with myrtle shrubs 
 That from the cloud received a heavy dew ; 
 And her strong, naked limbs were often bathed 
 In fording mountain-streams that crossed her path : 
 And on she waded, buried to the knees 
 In the bright purple heather drenched with dew. 
 
 There were new rills and streams, for the soaked earth 
 Gave oiF the flood that poured all through the night 
 Into the natural drains. The Cailhach^ went
 
 6 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Down to a torrent's bed, and on a rock, 
 
 Washed by the spent waves at long intervals, 
 
 Stood whilst she watched the eddies of the pool. 
 
 In slow pulsations, like a rising tide. 
 
 The water left its foam-line on the rock ; 
 
 But in the centre of the seething pool 
 
 It rose and fell in heaps like furrowed hills. 
 
 With a deep-heaving energy ! Alive, 
 
 And hurrying down the pass, the waters came 
 
 In noisy masses, elbowing their way 
 
 Like an insurgent populace who crowd 
 
 The narrow streets of some great capital. 
 
 So came they, flinging up great drops of foam 
 
 As they approached the brink — a noisy crew — 
 
 Then tumbling, formed a broad and buttressed wall 
 
 Of shapely water, many tons in weight ; 
 
 And from its base rose columns of white mist, 
 
 Which down the stream were gliding one by one. 
 
 The fall itself was of a golden brown, 
 
 Flecked with white foam and fretted by the rocks ; 
 
 But when the sun came out the water showed 
 
 New brilliance, and some golden bivaks within, 
 
 Like those mysterious fractures flashing light 
 
 In the fire opal. On the black, wet rocks, 
 
 High on the bank, were lines of creamy foam ; 
 
 And behind one of these there was a space 
 
 Past which the torrent shot — it had not time 
 
 To fill that hollow with its mountain mass,
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 But left a little whirlpool of white foam 
 Playing within it. 
 
 Bera held her way 
 Along the glen through which the torrent poured 
 In dumb amazement ; for in all her life 
 She had not seen in that great stony glen 
 A torrent bigger than a little rill, 
 Which after rain grew white with puny rage — 
 A thing to leap across. She held her way 
 Though underwood and on the open heath ; 
 And, for the glen was steep, another fall 
 Checked her excited footsteps. She could see 
 Nothing but white cold mist, but heavily 
 The water plunged ; and when a gust of wind 
 Flung broken drops against the wall of rock. 
 They fell like leaden balls from musketry 
 Flattened against a fortress. As she came 
 Nearer, the fall grew slowly visible. 
 
 The water rushed between two mighty rocks. 
 Then fell in one white column to the pool ; 
 And from its base shot rocket-flights of mist, 
 Darting in quick succession to the height 
 Of dizzy trees that to the precipice 
 Clung for their lives. The plunging of the flood 
 Was intermittent — an irregular sound, 
 And the light spray was carried by the wind 
 Like smoke ; and on it Avhen the sun came out
 
 8 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 An iris hung, whose pure prismatic hues 
 Were of etherial loveliness. The gleam 
 Passed, and the iris died upon the mist, 
 And its fair colours whitened into death. 
 
 The Cailliach traced this torrent to its soui'ce, 
 And it subsided slowly as she went ; 
 And the great stones began to raise dark heads 
 Above the white foam, and the Cailliach's heart 
 Grew weary as the torrent's force declined. 
 
 At length she reached that dreary land of stones, 
 
 That, on the highest region of the hill. 
 
 Lies, barren as the craters of the moon. 
 
 And there she found her sculptured talisman 
 
 Lying above the entrance of the cave 
 
 From which the spring gushed forth. The spring itself 
 
 Discharged a copious stream, but all around 
 
 Were marks of devastation. Then her limbs 
 
 Grew faint and weak, sensations new to her ! 
 
 And as she leaned against her talisman. 
 
 The cloud began to roll beneath her feet, 
 
 And the fierce winds that roared about the peak 
 
 Carried the mist in fragments. Then she looked 
 
 Down the red furrowed sides of Cruachan, 
 
 In whose dark fissures, like the remnant snows 
 
 Of early June, the white rills seemed to rest, 
 
 Into the corrie where her dwelling was :
 
 INTRODUCTORT. iJ 
 
 And lo ! her little tower was swept away, 
 And not a stone left standing ; and the heath 
 Was washed off like the dust of summer drouth, 
 And the red earth lay bare. 
 
 Then all the cloud 
 Was torn away by a most furious wind ; 
 And lo ! that peaceful, green, and pastoral vale 
 Was flooded ; and the windings of Loch Awe 
 Followed the windings of her own rich valley 
 Far southwards, until lost in distant hills. 
 Like a great serpent, that had swallowed up 
 Her flocks, and, glutted, stretched itself to sleep. 
 And all the green tops of her fertile knolls 
 Were islands on the water, whereupon 
 Stood houseless groups — the remnant of her tribe. 
 
 Then keen remorse, that felt like bodily pain, 
 Wrung the strong Cailliach's heart, and with a voice 
 That rolled like thunder o'er the lonely hills, 
 Deep, sad, and awful — she bewailed her loss 
 And her own fatal sleep. The cloud retui'ned, 
 And never more she saw her heritage. 
 The stream subsided quickly, and she felt 
 Her own life ebbing with it. Faint and sick 
 She lay on her cold deathbed of rough stones, 
 With, for her pillow, that great talisman. 
 The safeguard of a tribe already drowned, 
 Because she had relaxed her vigilance
 
 10 THE ISLES OF LOCH AAVE. 
 
 One fatal night — it is a common case. 
 She groaned — 't was like the moaning of the wind 
 Upon the mountain. Through the heavy mist 
 Ben Vorich thundered ; and along the peaks 
 That half surround the crater-like ravine 
 The echoes came. Across the dying limbs 
 Drove level rain — cold, cheerless, pelting rain. 
 And then the torrent ceased its fatal flow, 
 And in the Cailliach's veins the blood lay still. 
 
 So was the peaceful valley of the Awe 
 
 Flooded and drowned for ever. Ask no more. 
 
 It is a flimsy, ill-constructed tale. 
 
 Which, like most stories of an ignorant time, 
 
 Arose in common metaphor at first ; 
 
 And afterwards, when figure was disused 
 
 In daily speech, became a thing apart, 
 
 Misunderstood, and taken for a myth. 
 
 The Cailliach was the Spirit of the Storm, 
 
 A female Jove, who, from the desolate peaks 
 
 Whereon she dwelt, hurled thunderbolts and rain 
 
 On the low valleys, causing deluges, 
 
 Until the loch broke its old boundaries. 
 
 Flooding the lower grounds. But when the streams 
 
 Subsided, and the weather cleared again, 
 
 And thunderclouds had vanished from the peak 
 
 Of Cruachan, the Cailliach was defunct.* 
 
 She was a dying goddess — nothing more —
 
 rS'TBODrCTOBT. 11 
 
 An aspect of the weather deified. 
 
 Like Thammuz or Adonis, for whose death 
 
 Bv the boar's tusk the Svrian damsels motimed, — 
 
 Summer made cold and dead by Winter's tooth. 
 
 Here in this northern region, where the rain 
 
 Beats down the com, retards its ripening, 
 
 And spoils the harvest, the rain deity 
 
 Is made austere and rough — an Amazon 
 
 Dwelling apart among the barren hills. 
 
 Not so in Egypt. When Osiris died. 
 
 The priests and people mourned their saviour's loss, 
 
 The welcome God, whose wanderings from the bed 
 
 Of the low Nile did yearly fertilise 
 
 Its arid region, until Typhon came 
 
 The type of drought and black sterility. 
 
 In league with burning winds from Ethiope, 
 
 And lured the young Osiris at a feast 
 
 Into a strong and fair sarcophagus, 
 
 Then closed the lid, and drowned him in the Nile.
 
 12 
 
 Once the Island of the Blest, 
 Then the stronghold of a chief, 
 
 Then upon its ruin-crest 
 
 Water-eagles built their nest ; 
 Now the sea-gulls cry for grief. 
 
 There are fables full of truth ; 
 
 Fraoch's tale is sadly true ! 
 For how many in their youth, 
 Bitten by the serpent's tooth, 
 
 Die, or only live to rue ! 
 
 Weeds are rank about the roots 
 Of ash-trees in the castle hall. 
 Where Fraoch plucked enchanted fruits 
 On the tangled bramble shoots. 
 Withered leaves in autumn fall.
 
 33 
 
 II. 
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 
 
 " You cannot see the castle on the isle, 
 
 'T is hidden in the trees," the boatman said, 
 
 As I was pulling carelessly, my neck 
 
 Twisted, like any bird's, in eagerness 
 
 To catch my first glimpse of the ruined tower 
 
 That gives the isle such interest. At last 
 
 The trees grew more distinct as we approached, 
 
 And soon we landed in a little creek ; 
 
 And I left Dugald with the shortest pipe 
 
 That man could smoke — three quarters of an inch- 
 
 Unravelling some pigtail, which he stuffed 
 
 Into the bowl, and sat contentedly — 
 
 The hot smoke in his mouth, and the red weed 
 
 Under his nose. But I was all excitement ; 
 
 And, in a minute, through the wilderness 
 
 Of stinging nettles, that the poisonous corpse 
 
 Of the great guardian snake that Fraoch slew
 
 14 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 First propagated here, I made my way, 
 
 And found at last a breach in the rough walls, 
 
 And entered. There were silly window-holes, 
 
 Made useless since the roofing had become 
 
 One great blue skylight — plaster on the walls ; 
 
 Laid on, perhaps, when that true Jacobite, 
 
 Mac Naughten, secretly prepared himself 
 
 To do the honours to the wretclied heir 
 
 Of empty rights, the young pretender Charles.^ 
 
 For this, a royal gift, was formerly 
 
 Held by this tenure, — that the king himself 
 
 Should find a welcome here when passing by — 
 
 An honourable tenure. Times are changed ; 
 
 And Nature takes again those chiselled stones 
 
 Into her keeping — types of man's decay. 
 
 From the hall floor, where kings have revelled, grows 
 
 A wild ash, springing freely to the light ; 
 
 No floors to stunt its stature, and no roof 
 
 To slope the rain away on dripping eaves. 
 
 The wall still rears a gable, where for years 
 
 A water-eagle builded undisturbed, 
 
 By her at last deserted. 
 
 It is said 
 That one Mac Naughten, who had fought with Bruce, 
 Praised his opponent's valour with such warmth 
 To Lorn the little-hearted, that he earned 
 A cold rebuke from him, and endless fame 
 For that rare generosity of heart
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 15 
 
 Wliicli could admire a foeinan's qualities. 
 
 Rude cliieftain, let tliy great example be 
 
 Unto our modern baseness a reproach ! 
 
 And though — as then — in this transition time 
 
 Men are divided into hostile ranks, 
 
 Let us retain a liberal estimate 
 
 Of those whose watchword differs from our own. 
 
 There is a myth, too, which provided me 
 A subject for some legendary verse. 
 My head was full of Spenser and his knights 
 When I first wrote it, and accordingly 
 'T is coloured from the first line to the last 
 With hues reflected from the Faerie Queene. 
 The simple Fraoch of the Celtic myth 
 Became a southern knight, armed cap-d-pie, 
 A most substantial knight. Yet none the less 
 The moral of the story is preserved ; 
 An essence giving lasting permanence 
 To what contains it, as Egyptian spices 
 Enclosed in mummy-heads instead of brains, 
 Defend them from the carrion tooth of Time. 
 
 Sir Fraoch loved a lady of Loch Awe, 
 And she returned his love ; but one bright day, 
 When with his dogs around him he received 
 A cup of wine from her, and kissed the hand 
 That gave it, swearing to return the gift
 
 16 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 A hundred-fold in mountain venison, 
 
 She, laughing, said, — " The meat is very coarse 
 
 You knightly huntsmen butcher on the hills ; 
 
 But if you wish to recompense me well 
 
 For that delicious draught of foreign wine, 
 
 Go — if you dare — to that enchanted isle, 
 
 Whose clime is like the autumn of the south, 
 
 Fruitful in golden apples ; if you dare, 
 
 Go, slay the serpent, and return this night 
 
 Laden with mellow spoils." He said, " I go," 
 
 In earnest — she proposed it but in jest. 
 
 And Avhen the lady saw his haughty brow 
 
 Full of grave purpose, she repented it ; 
 
 And, growing anxious, urged him not to go. 
 
 Saying, " she never should forgive herself 
 
 If he were bitten by that monstrous beast 
 
 Which she had seen afar off more than once. 
 
 Stretching his mighty coils along the shore 
 
 Of that enchanted isle." But his reply 
 
 Was stern and brief. " You told me, if I dared, 
 
 To go and gather what the serpent guards ; 
 
 And those who heard your challenge, let them hear 
 
 My answer. If I am not here to-night. 
 
 Let none attempt to bear my corse away. 
 
 Lest they should share my fate." He turned to go. 
 
 The lady, seeing all that she had done 
 
 With her unhappy playfulness, controlled 
 
 A woman's feelings when she answered him, —
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 17 
 
 " Go then, and soon return ; bring back thyself 
 
 Though empty handed — leave the fruit to rot — 
 
 Thy love is not a child to pine for apples. 
 
 This thought may make you' careful of your life, 
 
 That I confess its value to myself ; 
 
 Confession forced by rashness, which long years 
 
 Of faithful service only should have earned ! " 
 
 Sir Fraoch soon put off his hunting dress — 
 Leggings of deer-skin thongs and tartan plaid — 
 And clothed himself, as if for common strife, 
 In shirt of mail with casque of polished steel. 
 Across his shoulder in its scabbard hung 
 A great two-handed sword, and by his side 
 A stout short claymore and a little dirk. 
 
 Thus armed he hastened downwards to the shore, 
 Where, high and dry upon the pebbly beach, 
 He found his long canoe of hollow oak, 
 And pushed it till it floated and the waves 
 Wetted his knees : the wind was strong that day. 
 His sword, unbuckled, soon was stowed aside ; 
 And, grasping both the rude unbalanced oars. 
 He turned the prow against the waves it shunned. 
 And, with strong efforts, slowly left the shore ; 
 And when he reached the middle of the loch. 
 The waves were cut and shattered into spray 
 By his keen prow. The morning had been bright, 
 
 c
 
 18 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 But the horizon was no longer clear ; 
 
 For wild and ragged clouds began to rise 
 
 As from the western sea ; and when the Avind 
 
 Veered from the north to westward those dark clouds 
 
 Came quickly, and a torn shred veiled the sun. 
 
 The waves now crossed the course of the canoe, 
 
 Striking its broadside, but the mighty oar 
 
 Pierced their strong, beating hearts. A gentle swell 
 
 Was all the motion, as Sir Fraoch pulled 
 
 Along the sheltering shore of Inishail ; 
 
 But when the isle Avas passed, a roaring squall 
 
 Came down the corries of Ben Cruachan, 
 
 Smiting the lake, that wrinkled and shrunk doAvn 
 
 Beneath the blow. If, reader, you despise 
 
 " Pond poets," row alone, as I have done. 
 
 To Fraoch Elan in a gale of wind ; 
 
 And when a squall comes down the Pass of Awe,^ 
 
 Crushing your boat with weight, or blowing it 
 
 Out of the water, scorn it if you can. 
 
 Sir Fraoch was no coward ; yet he watched 
 
 The waves as they approached, and turned the prow 
 
 Out of its course to meet the fiercest ones. 
 
 They did not heave like those of troubled seas, 
 
 But pitched and tossed the boat. At last the sun 
 
 Shone through an opening in the leaden cloud, 
 
 And on the rough green base of Cruachan 
 
 His slanting rays cast shadows long and dark. 
 
 But fell direct on that enchanted isle.
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 19 
 
 Whose brilliant green slione out against the blue 
 
 Of the dark distance. Then Sir Fraoch saw 
 
 That all the boughs were weighed with golden fruit ; 
 
 But when he sought the serpent guardian, 
 
 He only saw a line of leaping spray 
 
 Around the rocky beach ; and as he came 
 
 Nearer, he laughed aloud unto himself. 
 
 And said, — " I thought so ! 't is an old Avife's tale 
 
 To frighten children from the fruitful isle. 
 
 And fear confirms itself by evidence 
 
 Of sense, for terror sees what it believes : 
 
 But I, who fear no sA-pent, none behold." 
 
 Thus did he give himself encouragement — 
 
 As men are apt to do when they desire 
 
 To pluck forbidden fruit. The serpent comes 
 
 To punish, but conceals himself at first : 
 
 The hidden spider does not show himself 
 
 Until the fly is caught — as men sometimes 
 
 Know to their cost. Sir Fraoch found a creek, 
 
 Wherein he landed. Taking his great sword 
 
 Naked, he left the scabbard in the boat. 
 
 Once on the shore he felt his spirit change 
 
 Within him, and delicious indolence 
 
 Creep through his veins. He roused himself at last ; 
 
 And, choosing from the thickly-planted trees 
 
 One on whose boughs autumnal apples hung — 
 
 Such as his mistress craved — he strode along,
 
 20 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Through beds of flowery heath and hyacinth, 
 
 Towai-ds it. Then his nostrils and his ears 
 
 Were soothed with sound and perfume, and the harps 
 
 Of bards were hymning in the sylvan shade 
 
 The deeds of heroes ; but the noisy wind 
 
 Grew faint around the island, and the waves 
 
 Broke with a dying cadence on the rocks. 
 
 The climate was exotic, like the fruit. 
 
 Inviting to repose. Sir Fraoch plucked. 
 
 Filling the folds and corners of his plaid ; 
 
 But when he turned to go, the serpent lay 
 
 In deathlike stillness, coiled in tMe deep grass, 
 
 Between him and the boat : so all escape 
 
 Was hopeless, save through fight and victory. 
 
 He found himself — • where many find themselves — 
 
 Placed, by his own sheer folly, face to face 
 
 With death or deadly struggle. There are those 
 
 To whom the life they lead is certain death, 
 
 And yet to whom the conflict with the sin 
 
 May also end in agony at last. 
 
 Still, if to such a hard alternative 
 
 You, by your eri'ors, have reduced yourself. 
 
 Prepare foi- battle as Sir Fi'aoch did. 
 
 Better to perish fighting to retrieve 
 
 Lost freedom, than to die in slavery ; 
 
 And, if you are to suffer for your fault. 
 
 First sliiy the sin, that you may die reformed.
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 21 
 
 The serpent lay as if inanimate ; 
 
 But Fraocli grew impatient, and marched on, 
 
 Rearing his sword on high with both his hands, 
 
 And looking unto God for Victory. 
 
 Then on the dull green body of the snake,^ 
 
 The dappled, scaly hide began to swell 
 
 To twice its former thickness ; and a head 
 
 Nestled, encircled by a hundred coils, 
 
 With two small piercing eyes, as black as jet. 
 
 Which gazed upon him steadfastly. The hide 
 
 Swelled and contracted as the snake drew breath, 
 
 And all that length of former lethargy 
 
 Grew vital with fierce anger. Then the head 
 
 Reared up — thrown back — and poised upon the trunk — 
 
 Threatened Sir Fraoch, who stood motionless. 
 
 Eyeing the monster with a doubtful air ; 
 
 For serpents are not common enemies. 
 
 And skilful soldiers watch with greater caution 
 
 The movements of new foes. Sir Fraoch stood. 
 
 Bearing his sword on high, prepared to sweep 
 
 A cutting circle to protect his front. 
 
 Then from the serpent's jaws a barbed tongue 
 
 Leaped forth three times, and was withdrawn again — 
 
 Swift as forked lightning from a thunder cloud — 
 
 A dull black tongue, like a long javelin 
 
 Whose point is poisoned. Then a fearful sound 
 
 Of inward rage, concentrated and harsh. 
 
 That serpent made in breathing ; and the throat
 
 22 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Grew livid, and the little glittering eyes 
 
 Sparkled, and the quick tongue flew forth again, 
 
 And the choked sound grew louder than before ; 
 
 And, spitting fiercely like a mountain cat. 
 
 The head was drawn more backward. Nothing more 
 
 Sir Fraoch saw ; but some hard obstacle 
 
 Blunted his sweeping blade, and on his breast 
 
 He felt a painful blow. Another lounge 
 
 The serpent made, but shorter, and the sweep 
 
 Of Fraoch's blade wa» swifter than before ; 
 
 And when the snake drew back its scaly head, 
 
 Its tongue shot out three times as if in scorn, 
 
 But it was shortened, and its barb was gone. 
 
 So Fraoch gained new confidence, and brought 
 
 His sword's point low before him, and rushed on 
 
 To charge the snake which crouched below the blade. 
 
 And quickly coiled about Sir Fraoch's feet 
 
 And threw him. Then his good sword, by the force 
 
 Flung from him, lay beyond his utmost reach ; 
 
 And tighter grew the coils, and round his chest 
 
 The serpent crushed the rings of his chain shirt 
 
 Into his flesh. 
 
 He struggled silently, 
 And drew deep gasps into his labouring chest, 
 As one who needs support in mortal strife. 
 Meanwhile the coils grew tighter, and tlic snake. 
 Sure of its prey, began to take its ease ; 
 And, though it almost crushed him, laid its head
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 23 
 
 In watchful rest upon the purple heath, 
 Waiting his death — nor would have waited long — 
 But when Sir Fraoch's strength was almost spent, 
 The snake, relaxing, left his right hand free 
 To di-aw his dirk, and instantly he ripped 
 The snake's defenceless belly, and in twain 
 Severed the living rope that bound his limbs ; 
 Then leaping forth recovered his great sword, 
 And, waving it before him in the light 
 Of the low sun, made good his own retreat. 
 
 Then snatching up his plaid, in which the fruit 
 Was wrapped. Sir Fraoch leaped into his boat. 
 And half the serpent to the water's edge 
 Crawled after, and the other half in pain 
 Writhed in the heather : he had slain the snake. 
 
 The wind had lulled, and o'er the Pass of Awe 
 Two golden-coloured clouds in the clear sky 
 Faded together as the sun went down. 
 About Sir Fraoch's boat two sea-gulls flew 
 With anxious, sorrowful voices, and their talk 
 Was full of sad foreboding. As he passed 
 The strait of the Black Islands,^ on his oars 
 Resting, the current bore him swiftly through 
 Between the mournful shores of those two isles, 
 Which, being wedded for eternity, 
 Sleep there together on the water's breast,
 
 24 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Divided only by a narrow channel. 
 
 Their shores are dark, but they are rich in wood ; 
 
 White, clean-limbed, muscular beech, and lofty firs, 
 
 Whose red boughs glow through tufts of sombre green 
 
 In the declining sun. Sir Fraoch's boat 
 
 Floated away till both those wedded isles 
 
 Lay dim and broad behind it, and the lake 
 
 Began to ripple to the brightening moon. 
 
 And in the clear pale sky the evening star 
 
 Became a visible point. 
 
 There was no wind, 
 And it was well ; for Fraoch's weary arms 
 Were not the same that cut the waves at noon ; 
 And all his frame was growing weak and stiff, 
 And very faint. A cold and creeping chill 
 Passed o'er his limbs like some uncertain wind ; 
 His throat was parched, his eyelids often dropped 
 Over his weary eyes, and in his ears 
 Strange murmurs mingled with the dip of oars. 
 Still round his breast the serpent seemed to Avrap 
 Tighter and tighter. 
 
 Wearily at last 
 He reached tlie little pier, and left his boat, 
 Taking the dear-bought fruit. 
 
 The lady stood 
 Beneath an oak awaiting his return ; 
 But, when she saw him, would not seem to meet 
 Her lover, but returned into the house,
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 25 
 
 And there received him in the hall alone — 
 For all the men were out upoli the hills. 
 Some deerskin mats were scattered on the floor, 
 And down Sir Fraoch sank on one of these, 
 Close by the blazing hearth. Then from his plaid 
 The shining apples rolled about the floor 
 Unheeded, for the lady saw no bloom 
 Upon the fruit, since all the bloom was gone 
 From Fraoch's cheek. He lay there till the heat 
 Quickened the feeble blood, and then his eyes 
 Fixed on the lady mournfully, and hers 
 Bent anxiously to his, and thus he spake : — 
 
 " O, love, the snake has crushed me ; but the fruit — 
 
 I tasted of the fruit — for in the boat 
 
 Hunger and weakness robbed me of my strength. 
 
 And so I ate — I do not fear to die — 
 
 That poisonous fruit ! Oh ! kiss me ere I die : 
 
 Chaste are such kisses when the blood runs cold 
 
 And the flesh yields to death. O, gentle love, 
 
 My punishment is just ! I expiate 
 
 The fault I have committed with my death. 
 
 Soon will the shades of heroes — whose abode 
 
 I rashly entered with this mortal body — 
 
 Receive my spirit and forgive my sin. 
 
 The snake is dead. Henceforth that isle will be 
 
 Even as the other islands of the lake, 
 
 For I have disenchanted it. I feel.
 
 20 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 I feel the cold of death creep slowly up, 
 And gather round my heart." 
 
 These broken words 
 Died out in unintelligible sounds ; 
 And then the lady saw, with tearless eyes, 
 A change come o'er the features which she loved, 
 And, taking one of those fair poison fruits, 
 Ate — not as Eve, deceived by erring hopes. 
 But with a stern example, stretched in death. 
 Lying before her — and the fruit was sweet, 
 And death itself not bitter. So she ate, 
 Till she began to feel strange drowsiness. 
 And swift pains striking through her like sharp spears. 
 Then, with her lips upon her lover's cheek, 
 She grew like him insensibly at last ; 
 And, when the dying peats upon the hearth 
 Were silvery ashes, through the window fell 
 White moonbeams on those lovers, lighting up 
 Tlu^ folds of her attire, that lay as still 
 As sculptured draperies, and his shirt of mail. 
 But both their faces were in deepest shade. 
 Close to each other. Thus the pair were found. 
 
 The Celtic myth is like the classic one 
 Of Hercules and those rare golden pippins 
 Which, tended by the fair Hesperides, 
 And guarded by a hundred-headed dragon, 
 Bloomed in some garden far beyond the sea.
 
 FRAOCH ELAN. 27 
 
 The ruined castle and the ancient myth 
 First drew me to the island. Afterwards 
 I used to row in the long evenings, 
 And rest an hour amongst the heath alone. 
 There is a little bay, and a proud cape 
 In miniature, that juts into the lake 
 Like a huge headland, which, eternally 
 Planting its foot deep in the furious waves, 
 Steps boldly out to meet the winter storms. 
 I landed in this bay, and moored my boat ; 
 Then climbed the little cliiF, and on the top, 
 Beneath the branches of its cresting firs, 
 Sat, deep in purple heather and wild flowers,^ 
 Absorbed in contemplation, gaining wealth 
 Of poesy, as bees, that come from far, 
 Enrich themselves upon sweet island flowers, 
 Gathering wild honey all the summer days 
 For men who cannot find it for themselves.
 
 as 
 
 The fairest island on the lake 
 Is the island of the nuns ; 
 
 And I love it for the sake 
 Of those persecuted ones. 
 
 Lonely now, and desolate, 
 Eise the hills of Inishail ; 
 
 And a sea-gull and his mate 
 Bound it daily do bewail. 
 
 rijnng round it to and fro. 
 Making some unhaiil)y search, 
 
 Round about the tombs they go. 
 Round about the ruined church.
 
 29 
 
 III. 
 
 INISHAIL. 
 
 There is a fair green island on Loch Awe, 
 
 Witli two large knolls. The twin Black Islands near 
 
 Are crowned with noble beeches, but the hills 
 
 Of Inishail are very bare and bleak ; 
 
 And on the southern hill a ruin stands. 
 
 With many tombstones round it, rudely carved 
 
 With swords, and crosses, and quaint images, 
 
 Cross-hilted swords, and effigies of knights. 
 
 I haunted this fair island of the dead, 
 Long after sunset, many summer eves ; 
 For though Loch Awe has many solitudes, 
 She has not one like lonely Inishail. 
 And I have often thought, Avhen sitting there 
 Amongst the tombs, how sad it must have been 
 When those poor simple women were expelled, 
 Who left the outer world, and made, as nuns,
 
 30 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWK. 
 
 A holy household on the little isle.i" 
 
 Good people love the spots where they have dwelt, 
 
 Because the silent stones are witnesses 
 
 Of naught unholy ; and the f'lrrowed hills 
 
 Seen from this island would be written o'er 
 
 With the sweet record of unblemished years 
 
 To those Cistertian sisters. There are some 
 
 To whom these lines will be an enigma, 
 
 For unto them the regions of the earth 
 
 Are haunted by the ghosts of former sins, 
 
 Demons which drive them out of Paradise 
 
 For ever seeking rest, yet finding none. 
 
 It was not so — it could not have been so 
 
 With those Cistertian nuns of Inishail. 
 
 Not that retirement is more safe from crime, 
 
 Or more conducive to the exercise 
 
 And free enlargement of the sympathies. 
 
 Than crowded cities, but to live for years — 
 
 For life — on such a narrow isle as this, 
 
 Argues a mind at peace. They spent their lime 
 
 As piously as " women of the world." 
 
 As to their creed, I quarrel not with that ; 
 
 Perhaps the Abbot Lord of Inchaffray 
 
 Believed the new to be the better card 
 
 To heaven's high places, as to those of earth ; 
 
 At least he played it well : but they, poor souls, 
 
 What should they know of creed and its reform ? 
 
 They only did as pious women do,
 
 miSHAIl.. 31 
 
 And will, perhaps, for ever, — say their prayers 
 
 As they were told, and yield obedience 
 
 To custom, lest to doubt or disobey 
 
 Its dictates might be sinful. They were thrust 
 
 Out of their isle for Romish practices. 
 
 And must have marvelled that the sacred rites 
 
 Which all the land had reverenced so long 
 
 Had such a slackened influence. Perhaps 
 
 They thought the world gone mad, or near its end, 
 
 When people could no longer be content 
 
 With forms that served their fathers very well, 
 
 And in their own case, as a guide of life. 
 
 Were better than new teachings — for the food 
 
 Which it is used to suits the stomach best. 
 
 Poor Inishail ! The hand of sacrilege 
 Has spoiled its sculptured tombstones, and beneath 
 The sword of knighthood rest the basest churls 
 In churchyards far away.'^ And so, indeed, 
 The dead may rob the dead of their last roof, 
 Until the living fancy — the sad fools ! — 
 That some old Highland cobbler's resting-place 
 Is the last bed of valour. Let them dream, 
 For sentiment lives cheaply — let them dream ! 
 As people dream of rotting near their friends 
 In English graveyards, when the sexton knows 
 That six years hence 't were hard to find a corpse 
 That lodges now beneath the monuments —
 
 82 THE ISLES OP LOCH AWE. 
 
 Marbles which bear false witness to the fame 
 
 Of the deceased, but shall be lying guides 
 
 As to his verj grave ! — Yet, after all, 
 
 Some may be undisturbed on Inishail : 
 
 It is not crowded, there is room enough. 
 
 And when I see a cluster of old stones 
 
 Deep in the grass and weeds, I would receive 
 
 Their evidence. On one beside the church 
 
 Are seven figures — Jesus on the cross. 
 
 Two women, and four knights in suits of mail ; 
 
 Almost grotesque, for they have monstrous heads. 
 
 As though the sculptor had a comic tui-n ; 
 
 Yet are they full of life and character. 
 
 The nuns are swinging censers to the cross ; 
 
 The knights stand by to guard it. On the stone 
 
 Between the figui'es, worn by frequent rains, 
 
 There is a shield, whose charge might well be borne 
 
 By one whose very hearse had crossed the waves, — 
 
 An ancient galley, high at prow and stern, 
 
 With one stout mast between them, short and strong- 
 
 The ancient bearing of the House of Lorn. 
 
 Thei'e is a harp, too ; and a battle-axe ; 
 
 And what I thought a standard, which a knight 
 
 Rears proudly. There are many tombs l)esides, 
 
 Carved with designs, some really beautiful. 
 
 But what 1 like about this ancient work, 
 
 Is that, however rude, it bears the stamp 
 
 Of living hands. Its mouldings are not straight ;
 
 INISHATL. 33 
 
 But men cared less for rule when those were done, 
 And more for brains. There is a modern tomb, 
 Whose shadow falls on those grey slabs of stone — 
 A common modern tomb, so prim and neat. 
 That from its square-cut mercenary work. 
 Done by the saw at such a price per foot, 
 With an inscription clear as modern type. 
 So much per letter, you would gladly turn 
 To shapeless sculpture, whose rude symbols gave 
 Subject for thought. The hand an author writes 
 Is something, but the matter something more. 
 
 Let skill have due respect : mechanic skill 
 
 And science have done wonders for the world. 
 
 Therefore, of all the legends of Loch Awe, 
 
 None interests me more than that of him 
 
 Whose cunning hand the worms of Inishail 
 
 Have stripped of its quick sinews. Though the story 
 
 Has grown in time so rich and marvellous. 
 
 That Spenser's fictions, or the thousand tales 
 
 That soothed in Cairo's sleepless palaces 
 
 The Father of the Faithful do not task 
 
 The reader's fancy more — still it has been 
 
 Related gravely to believing ears 
 
 In Highland huts as I relate it now. 
 
 On Inish Drynich, fifty years ago, 
 
 There stood an ancient house, whose oaken roof 
 
 D
 
 34 THE ISLES OP LOCH AWE. 
 
 Was joined so neatly that it miglit have grown 
 
 Together like the roof-plates of the skull. 
 
 It had been morticed by a famous wright, 
 
 One Mac Intyre, of whom the peasants tell 
 
 A wild tradition. 1- When his fame had spread 
 
 Throughout the land it crossed the northern sea, 
 
 And reached the shores of Holland. Now there were 
 
 Three Dutch mechanics, whom the homely life 
 
 Of Hamburgh did not suit ; for they were young, 
 
 And wild, and discontented with their lot, 
 
 Thirsting for strange adventures, when they heard 
 
 Of Mac Intyre and all that he had done. 
 
 And much that he had not. So, being fired 
 
 With envy of his fame, they planned together 
 
 To go to Scotland to usurp his trade. 
 
 They made three wooden horses which they rode. 
 And in them placed such wondrous mechanism. 
 That they moved swiftly, even as living steeds. 
 And after weeks of travel they were seen 
 Riding their wooden steeds towards Loch Awe ; 
 So all the country knew of their approach. 
 
 Then Mac Intyre's apprentice running in. 
 Exclaimed, " I see the DutchnKii on the knowc." 
 And Mac Intyre said, " I will take your place — 
 You inhw ; and I will say the master 's out ; 
 And you must not be seen till dinner-time."
 
 INISHAIL. 35 
 
 So when they came, the master at the door 
 Said, " Sirs, the master 's out ; but I have been 
 Apprenticed to him now near seven years ; 
 And though my skill is botchwork unto his, 
 It may amuse you till he comes himself." 
 So they dismounted, and the master led 
 Their wooden horses to a sheltered place : 
 He was not absent long, but in that time 
 Played a strange trick upon the foreigners. 
 
 Then in the workshop he began to tell 
 
 The feats of Mac In tyre ; and taking up 
 
 The iron blade of a huge battle-axe. 
 
 Fixed it between the jaws of a great vice, 
 
 Edge downwards, then resumed his former seat ; 
 
 And, telling wondrous stories all the time, 
 
 "Worked at the wooden handle, shaping it 
 
 To fit the socket. With his practised eye 
 
 He judged the size correctly, though the axe 
 
 Was many paces distant ; and at last, 
 
 Poising the handle like a javelin. 
 
 Hurled it direct with such unerring force. 
 
 That with the square-cut end fixed tight and firm, 
 
 It quivered in its place. The Dutchmen stared, 
 
 And, in amazement said to one another, 
 
 " If the apprentice can perform such feats. 
 
 We're no match for the master. Let us go : 
 
 We've seen enough."
 
 36 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 So they departed thence, 
 Mounting their wooden steeds ; but when they turned 
 Their horses southwards, one began to rear 
 And paw the air hke some winged Pegasus ; 
 And, taking many leaps, did bound away. 
 And — if the legend be incredible 
 To readers of this unbelieving age, 
 I cannot help it, 't is no fault of mine — 
 At last he fairly swam in the thin air 
 As if in water, and was shortly lost 
 In a great cloud that lay on Cruachan. 
 The other two were not companions long : 
 For one was mounted on a runaway, 
 The other on a stupid sort of brute. 
 Not more alive than wooden flesh might be. 
 So they were parted ; for the runaway 
 Refused all check or guidance, rushing on 
 Across the stony moors, until at last 
 He stuck in a black bog, and threw his rider, 
 Wliose skull was fractured on a block of granite. 
 The other would not stir, so he who rode 
 Dismounted, very thankful for his fate. 
 And walked away, delighted to escape 
 The house of such a wizard. 
 
 Inishail 
 Seems such a happy colony of death, 
 Tliat I should little fear to emigrate, 
 And leave that wooded shore whose harvest sheaves
 
 INISHAIL. 37 
 
 Stud the rich banks of that symbolic river, 
 
 Which, torn with pain amongst the pointed rocks, 
 
 Lays out its depths in shallow weariness, 
 
 Just deep enough to bear' the funeral boats, 
 
 And swift enough for their unhurried motion. 
 
 I long for that sweet indolence of death. 
 
 Which they who sleep beneath these scattered stones 
 
 Enjoy without a hope or wish for change. 
 
 They change in truth, but passively receive 
 
 Again the impress of the types of God, 
 
 Renewed without exertion of their own. 
 
 Death is as healthy as the healthiest life. 
 
 It is at once the consequence and cure 
 
 Of all disease. It is as natural 
 
 As quiet sleep — as kind a gift of God. 
 
 O God ! I thank thee that the fear of death, — 
 
 From which arise all craven phantasies. 
 
 On which are built all tyrannies, which makes 
 
 Strong spirits bow, and heroes vacillate, — 
 
 Has been destroyed within me. 
 
 Watch a corpse 
 In its serenest beauty, and believe 
 That in that calm expi'ession of deep peace 
 There speaks a rev elation. ^^ Inishail 
 May be indeed an island of the blest. 
 With narrow dwellings sprinkled on the green, 
 A hamlet filled with peaceful islanders.
 
 38 
 
 From a beach of yellow sand, 
 
 Eibbed as if by ocean waves, 
 Rise the towers ; and, while they stand, 
 Shall none forget 
 The worst of all the lordly knaves 
 That ever yet 
 Plotted villany in the land. 
 
 Where is Lord Mac Corquadale ? 
 
 Where the pious dame who built 
 The castle that he did assail 
 And almost won 
 B}' the secret arts of guilt ? 
 Tliey are gone ! 
 But they live in song and tale. 
 
 He lives ever in our hate — 
 She for ever in our love ; 
 And the years that she did wait 
 Had their reward, — 
 Guided by the powers above 
 Came her lord ; 
 And nearly — nearly — came too late.
 
 39 
 
 IV. 
 
 KILCHURN. 
 
 Now, as I write, it is a time of war ; 
 And wives of soldier-peasants, soldier -peers, 
 Grow pale and weary with anxiety. 
 Some sitting in sad luxury alone, 
 With feet half buried in the velvet pile 
 Of noiseless carpets ; and a newspaper, 
 Or the last letter from the one beloved. 
 Laid on the sofa — every syllable 
 Already grown familiar as the words 
 Of hollow social use. 
 
 The nights are long, 
 And very cold — the butler stirs the fire. 
 She draws her silken scarf about her neck. 
 And shudders — shivers — though the room is warm; 
 For on the heights before Sebastopol 
 Two armies lie like cattle on the ground, 
 Freezing beside low watchfires in the night.
 
 40 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 She will not have a guest to watch her grief. 
 She sits alone and reads of battle-wounds, 
 Until their frightful details seem to her 
 Prophetic o^ his fate — and to a brain 
 So wrought upon by one perpetual fear, 
 The fear itself becomes reality. 
 She sees him wounded — dying — dead as those 
 Who lie in heaps together in the trench, 
 A ready grave filled up with its own earth 
 On the cold heights of Alma. 
 
 What to her 
 Is all this wretched luxury, unshared 
 With him she loves ? The comforts of her home 
 Seem to reproach her, and she scarcely eats 
 A richer meal than the coarse ration doled 
 To the poor tattered private. All alone 
 She walks along her silent corridors. 
 Stately in grief, and seeks her sleepless bed, 
 There to lie brooding till the waxen lights 
 Die in their silver sockets, and the fire 
 Sheds an unsteady twilight on the wall, 
 
 Happy the soldier's wife who toils for bread, 
 
 And ekes lier living out on charity. 
 
 Compared to lier ; for labour brings sweet sleep, 
 
 And in itself supplies another care. 
 
 And so relieves the mind : but on the rich 
 
 More heavily fall afflictions of the heart.
 
 KILCHLRN. 41 
 
 For grief becomes the business of their life, 
 As pleasure was before. A common truth ! 
 The law of compensation working out 
 The just decree of our equality. 
 
 Pause with this picture. Let it do its work. 
 You see such sufferers in your daily life : 
 Perhaps the fearful pain of their suspense 
 Excites in you — it ought — true sympathy. 
 If so, you are prepared to follow me 
 Into the past. These sorrows are not new. 
 Alas ! all grief is ancient in the earth — 
 War, absence, fear, anxiety, suspense — 
 Old as the story of the siege of Troy, 
 Old as the legend of Penelope. 
 
 A Highland dame, four hundred years ago, 
 Bore the same trial — harder in degree ; 
 For she had not our steam and telegraph 
 To bear more swiftly than a carrier-dove 
 Tidings of soldiers serving in the wars. 
 
 Sir Colin Campbell was a knight of Rhodes.^* 
 For seven years he risked continually 
 His life in foreign warfare. Seven years 
 Waited the lady Margaret his wife. 
 Like a poor widow, living sparingly, 
 And saving all the produce of his lands
 
 42 THE ISLES OP LOCH AWE. 
 
 To build an island fortress on Loch Awe, 
 
 There to receive Sir Colin, and so prove 
 
 Her thrift and duty. Little more we know 
 
 Of what she did to occupy her time : 
 
 Perhaps a narrow but perpetual round 
 
 Of mean and servile duties, too obscure 
 
 To be recorded, kept her nerves in health. 
 
 And truly it is well to handle life 
 
 Not daintily. The best resource in grief 
 
 Is downright labour. This at least we know. 
 
 That the good spouse of that brave Highland chief 
 
 Looked to her husband's interest and hers, 
 
 When from her quarries silently — before 
 
 Loud blasting tore the layers of the rock — 
 
 The clansmen ferried loads of idle stones 
 
 Across the water ; and on what was then 
 
 An island, and is yet in winter floods. 
 
 Made them most useful servants — trusty guards 
 
 Of all the treasure of a Highland chief — 
 
 His wife, his tail, his cattle, and his goods. 
 
 But he was absent. After many years 
 He rose, afflicted by a painful dream 
 In Rome, whereto his wanderings had led ; 
 And, seeking counsel of a Roman monk, 
 By his advice set out at once for home. 
 
 I will not dwell on dangers by the way,
 
 KILCHUKN. 43 
 
 Which may be well imagined in an age 
 When men were rooted like the very trees, 
 Each to the spot of earth where he was dropped 
 Out of the womb — transplanted, if at all, 
 With risk to life and limb, and slowly moved 
 By rude conveyance over land and sea, 
 The prey of countless obstacles and storms. 
 I will not dwell on these, but come at once 
 To the last hovel where he passed the night 
 Ere he arrived at home — a dreary hut. 
 Yet welcome to a hardy mountaineer 
 Like that Sir Colin — and his namesake now 
 Sleeps, it may be, more roughly with his men 
 On the cold frosty earth, while in his ear 
 Boom the near cannon of the Muscovite. 
 
 A widow's cottage — not with jessamine 
 
 And trellised roses on a whitewashed front, 
 
 And a nice inmate with a tidy cap 
 
 Smiling kind welcomes — no ! that widow's hut 
 
 In the far Highlands was a wretched den 
 
 Of lonely squalor ; and its occupant 
 
 A weak and withered creature, in whose brain 
 
 Old superstitions found a kindly soil, 
 
 As wailing plovers haunt the poorest land. 
 
 The widow's hut was built against a mound, 
 
 Which served it for a wall ; and since the roof 
 
 Was lower than the mound that sheltered it,^^
 
 44 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 The winds flew over, singing harmlcsslj. 
 
 The stones were smooth from friction in the stream, 
 
 Where they had rolled in centuries of floods, 
 
 Not chiselled into shape. The walls were dry, 
 
 Built without mortar, and the roof was thatched ; 
 
 And in the thatch a little orifice 
 
 Served for a chimney. Thence a wreath of smoke, 
 
 Pure bluish-white, sweet vapour from the peat, 
 
 Ascended to the level of the mound, 
 
 Where the wind caught and carried it away. 
 
 Within, the scene was very picturesque. 
 The widow and a haggard mendicant 
 Sat on two little stools. A cheerful fire 
 Burned on the floor of clay, from which arose 
 A cloud of smoke that filled the little room. 
 The walls, the rafters, and the floor were black : 
 And through the smoke the widow's Avrinkled face 
 Appeared as mournful as the wrinkled moon 
 Through mist. The visage also of her guest 
 Had such a strange expression, that she stared 
 At him — and he on her — but neither spoke. 
 
 At last he rose, and on the dusty floor 
 Spread out his plaid, and stretched himself to sleep. 
 His hostess kept her place until he breatlied 
 With strong, deep inspirations — then approached; 
 And, lifting very gently from his breast
 
 KILCHURN. 45 
 
 The comer of his tartan, pulled away 
 
 The under-garment till the skin was bare ; 
 
 And by the cheerful blaze upon the hearth 
 
 Beheld a scar that was not lately healed. 
 
 Then with her trembling hands she covered it, 
 
 And stole away as softly as she came. 
 
 But — for the struggle was beyond her strength — 
 
 Turned quickly, dropping down upon her knees 
 
 Beside him. But her guest was not asleep. 
 
 So he arose at once, and raised her up. 
 
 And calmly said, " I knew thee, my good nurse ; 
 
 But in these rags I hoped to see my home ; 
 
 And, if my presence were an evil there, 
 
 To leave it unobserved. But tell me all." 
 
 Then with suppressed emotion both resumed 
 
 Their seats, and thus the widow did relate 
 
 Briefly the slow events of many years. 
 
 " Thy dame, Sir Colin, has been true to thee, 
 
 Through trials that few women could have borne. 
 
 It 's a sore thing, Sir Colin, for a wife 
 
 Thus to be left alone, year after year. 
 
 I bore it once myself for eighteen months. 
 
 And thought it long enough ; but she, poor soul, 
 
 She has not known these last five weary years 
 
 If she were wife or widow — has not heard, 
 
 Save idle rumours, anything of you. 
 
 But that is past ; and I have always said
 
 46 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Sir Colin was a faithful-hearted man, 
 
 If he were living " 
 
 " Where is Dugald Dhu, 
 The same that first went with me to the wars ? 
 And where is Duncan, and young Roderick ? 
 
 And " 
 
 " Nay, ask a seer, for how can I describe 
 The deaths of those who perished far away ? 
 If Duncan ever should return again 
 His ghost would be more welcome, for his wife 
 Is wedded to the man he hated most, 
 And there are bairns to prove it : you yoursell", 
 If a day later, would have found your own 
 Laid in the arms of Lord Mac Corquadale." 
 
 At this Sir Colin grew as pale as death. 
 And in a hollow, low, unnatural voice, 
 Asked calmly, " Is it better I were dead?" 
 And the nurse answered, — " Never came a ghost 
 So little welcome to a marriage feast 
 As thou wilt be to-morrow — save to one, 
 Thy wife, who, from the love she bore to thee, 
 Put off the suit of Lord Mac Cor{iu;i(l;tlc 
 From year to year, and only gave consent 
 A month ago ; and even now they say 
 That she repents it, and would still defer. 
 Go to the wedding, thou unwelcome guest, 
 And watch her unobserved ; and, in thy rags.
 
 KILCHURN. 47 
 
 Sit down amongst the clansmen in the hall 
 Of the new castle which thy dame hath built 
 Out of her savings in these seven years." 
 
 So, in the morning when the clouds were bright 
 
 Behind Ben Loy, before the sun was up, 
 
 Sir Colin left the hut in beggar's rags. 
 
 And the poor widow watched him from the door. 
 
 His guide made gentle music all the way, 
 
 Playing before him as a piper plays 
 
 Before a chieftain coming from the wars 
 
 To his own castle, flushed with late success. 
 
 His guide, the river Orchay, led him on 
 
 Down a most lovely valley. From the hills 
 
 White bridal veils of mist were lifted up 
 
 By the gay sun, who kissed them till they blushed 
 
 With light and joy. The golden river flowed 
 
 Deep on one side along the steepest bank ; 
 
 But, on the other, shallowed till its bed 
 
 Lay in long shapely mounds, contrasting well 
 
 Millions of pebbles, smooth, and white, and dry 
 
 With the dark, quiet waters. Joyously 
 
 Nine miles the river led him, reach by reach. 
 
 Until before him rose that hollowed hill 
 
 Which with five peaks a hollow half surrounds, 
 
 Wherein the rain-clouds hang on stormy days. 
 
 And the low sunbeams slant at eventide.
 
 48 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 The chief looked on the hills and recognised 
 
 Their old familiar outlines. Three miles more 
 
 He held along the Orchay's southern bank, 
 
 Then saw Kilchurn, his castle, founded on 
 
 A rocky isle, so low upon the lake, 
 
 That, as its outlines changed on his approach, 
 
 It almost seemed to float insensibly, 
 
 Like a great ship at anchor. There it stood ; 
 
 And in it — but Sir Colin crushed the thought — 
 
 A wife whose faith, however patient once, 
 
 "Was now exhausted, waited as a bride 
 
 For a new bridegroom on her marriage morn. 
 
 Yes, there it stood, the castle that she built 
 
 Out of her savings in the seven years 
 
 Of his long absence : gaily bright it was ; 
 
 The higher courses of the finished keep 
 
 Were white and new ; but darker weather-stains 
 
 About the lowest story did record 
 
 The patience of that good dame Margaret. 
 
 Sir Colin saw the thoughtfulness of love ; 
 
 And if he ever blamed her in his heart 
 
 For giving credence to the false report 
 
 Of his decease, on any trivial ground, 
 
 He then forgave her, saying to himself, — 
 
 '< This she intended as a pleasant gift 
 
 To me on my return — a kind surprise ; 
 
 She tlioui'ht to show me all her thriftiness
 
 
 ■ c HAve**Tr>N-
 
 KILCHURN, 49 
 
 In this fair castle, and to welcome me 
 
 Lord of the strongest keep upon Loch Awe." 
 
 Then hastened he, for from the castled isle 
 Came bursts of highland music, wild and free, 
 That echoed in the gorges of the hills. 
 And as Sir Colin crossed the natural moat 
 By a great drawbridge, on its wooden planks 
 A charger's foot fell heavily behind, 
 And, looking back, he saw Mac Corquadale 
 Clad as a bridegroom coming for his bride. 
 
 Sir Colin entered, as a mendicant 
 
 Li humble garb, his castle of Kilchurn ; 
 
 Looked on the feast awhile, then, in his rags, 
 
 Sat down amongst the clansmen in the hall 
 
 Of the new castle, which his dame had built 
 
 Out of her savings in those seven years. 
 
 Cup after cup they drank. Then to the dais 
 
 Came a young Chief, who waved his hand for silence, 
 
 And said, " Brave Campbells, and you friendly guests, 
 
 Who here enjoy our hospitality. 
 
 Before you drink the bride, it is her wish 
 
 That in deep silence you should testify 
 
 The love you bore the chieftain we have lost." 
 
 Sadly he spoke. The clansmen in the hall 
 
 Rose gravely, all the uproar of the feast 
 
 Hushed to a solemn silence, and they raised 
 
 E
 
 50 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Their cups on high, and to the memory 
 
 Of their lost chieftain drained a mournful draught — 
 
 All but the beggar. In his rags apart 
 
 He still sat playing with his empty cup. 
 
 And when the clansmen saw it, one by one 
 
 They looked at him and frowned ; and one old man. 
 
 Whose master knew his faithful face again. 
 
 Though he knew not his master, said to him, — 
 
 " Knowst thou whose pious wish thou hast refused ? 
 
 That was our chieftain's son :" but all the rest 
 
 Frowned on the beggar. Then Sir Colin said, — 
 
 And as he spoke he cleared his husky voice 
 
 With frequent hems, for he was deeply moved, — 
 
 " I knew Sir Colin in a foi'eign land. 
 
 But will not drink unto his memory 
 
 Until his widow fills this empty cup." 
 
 Then through the hall passed his own Margaret, 
 
 And the retainer, whom Sir Colin told 
 
 That lie had known Sir Colin, asked of her 
 
 A favour for a guest who would not drink 
 
 Unless the bride would fill his empty cup ; 
 
 For so he hoped to loose his neighbour's tongue, 
 
 And hear some news of his beloved chief. 
 
 And she in kindness pardoned the request, 
 
 Acceding, and the beggar drained the cup, 
 
 And fixed his eyes upon her. Still the same 
 
 She stood before him. In her seven years 
 
 Of watching, her young beauty had matured
 
 KILCHURN. 51 
 
 Into sad ripeness, pale and worn, perhaps, 
 But sweetly pious, full of patient love. 
 Then to her hand the guest returned the cup, 
 And in the bottom, in the lees of wine, 
 There lay a signet-ring of massive gold, 
 Like a great waif of shipwreck which is seen 
 Above a shallow pool upon the sands 
 Of the deep ocean when the tide is low. 
 
 Then from the ring — a waif from the wrecked ship 
 
 Of her lost hope — a wild, bewildered glance 
 
 She turned upon the beggar, and he rose 
 
 Unto his lordly stature, and his rags 
 
 Were scant to hide the chieftain's noble frame. 
 
 And in an instant, with a cry of joy. 
 
 The bride, escaping from the bridegroom's arm. 
 
 Fell sobbing wildly on the beggar's breast. 
 
 Then the grey clansman, who reproved his chief, 
 
 Cried out, — " Sir Colin has returned again !" 
 
 And round the board it passed, from mouth to mouth, 
 
 " Sir Colin has come home ! " A deafening shout 
 
 Rose in the hall, and in the crowded court 
 
 The people answered when they knew the cause ; 
 
 And then, above the din, the pipers played 
 
 The Gathering of the Campbells. 
 
 But meanwhile 
 Sir Colin and his dame had left the hall, — 
 She almost senseless, pale, and stupified,
 
 52 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Laughing and sobbing incoherently. 
 Excited by the violence of joy 
 And strong revulsions of a sensitive heart. 
 But ere the false Mac Corquadale could go 
 Young Duncan rushed towards him, and the crowd 
 Made a clear way — he was the chieftain's heir, 
 And they were hot for vengeance ; but he said, — 
 " You must have slain my father's messengers. 
 And spread abroad false rumours of his fate ; 
 But, seeing you have eaten of our sail. 
 Farewell, my lord, — we will not quarrel now, 
 That wedding garb must not be soiled with blood ; 
 Keep it for some occasion, when I hope 
 Your love will be more prosperous." 
 
 He laughed : 
 Too happy in the sweetness of that hour 
 To think of vengeance, and his generous heart 
 Felt for the would-be bridegroom, standing there 
 The fool of fortune that defeated him ; 
 And all the clansmen caught this pleasant mood. 
 And peals of laughter followed the retreat 
 Of the derided, disappointed lord. 
 And all night long the castle rang with glee. 
 But ill a little chamber, far apart. 
 Sir Colin folded his rewarded wife 
 Unto his breast. She died in after years, 
 When her brave son avenged her cruel wrong, 
 And slew in battle Lord Mac Corquadale,
 
 KILCHURN. 53 
 
 And took his land, his castle, and his goods ; 
 And ever since have his descendants been 
 A broken clan without inheritance. 
 
 An antiquarian friend, with whom I crossed 
 The sandy delta which has made the isle 
 Peninsular, drew out upon the sand 
 A ground-plan of the castle. " There 's the keep, 
 Into whose lowest story, arched for strength. 
 The herds were driven when marauders came. 
 This is the curtain, these the angle towers. 
 And this the court. They lived in homely style, 
 For they were poorer than our Southern lords, 
 Whose princely households all these barren hills 
 Would not maintain. They lived in homely style — 
 Great cattle-stealers — none the worse for that ; 
 For cattle-stealing was a noble game 
 In these wild highlands then, and would di"aw out 
 Heroic virtues. We must measure men 
 According to the notions of their time." 
 
 There is a level plain of yellow sand, 
 With many a straggling bush and tuft of grass 
 About the castled rock. The sand is streaked 
 With lines of red and ribbed by stormy waves, 
 And in this desert stand the lonely towers 
 Of old Kilchui-n. To see the ruin well. 
 Row down the Orchay to the Goose's Rock ;
 
 54 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 And as the river winds the outlines change, 
 
 The background shifting also, till at last. 
 
 When you ascend the rock on the north shore, 
 
 The castle rests beneath you, and behind it 
 
 An inlet of the loch, and sweetly green 
 
 Beyond the glittering inlet, swelling knowes 
 
 With fir plantations stretching far away ; 
 
 And up Glen Orchay, past a village tower, 
 
 That gleams amongst dark trees as white as marble, 
 
 The view extends, until across the foot 
 
 Of a great mountain winds the highland road ; 
 
 And, towering to the clouds, the shapely heap 
 
 Of rough Ben Loy grows pale with passing showers, 
 
 And spots of sunshine wander here and there. 
 
 Warm on the blue of its cold solitudes. 
 
 This is Sir Walter's pile of Ardcnvohr,!^ 
 
 Changed since Dalgetty criticised its strengtli. 
 
 Within the keep the floors are all removed, 
 
 And in the corkscrew staircase you may stand 
 
 And look above, and see a disc of blue. 
 
 And fragments of the steps still sticking out, 
 
 Wilfully broken. The court is overgrown 
 
 With trees that wave in full maturity. 
 
 Masses of wall lie as they fell at first, 
 
 Unshattercd, for the mortar binds the stones. 
 
 At one of the four angles of the pile 
 
 There towers a busli of greenery. Tlii-ough tlie holes
 
 KILCHURN. 55 
 
 Pierced in the wall, to light the garrison 
 
 Wliich kept the stronghold in the civil war, 
 
 The sun shines brightly — shines — hut from within. 
 
 Frost widens all the fissures every year ; 
 
 Yet still the people say a voice is heard 
 
 Above the wailing of the winter storms, 
 
 Saying, that never shall the castle fall 
 
 Which love and patience built in seven years, 
 
 Until the sea submerges Cruachan !
 
 56 
 
 On a turret of the keep, 
 
 On the castled isle, 
 Where the poet lies asleep. 
 Circled by the waters deep, 
 
 H;ippy planets smile. 
 
 Yes, he sleeps there all alone 
 
 In a little cell, 
 Vaulted with an arch of stone, 
 In a turret ivy-gi'own. 
 
 Where an owl doth dwell. 
 
 Yet he only sleeps by fits. 
 
 For loudly snores the owl — 
 " Alone, and warming his five wits, 
 The white owl in the " ivy sits : 
 He is a noisy fowl !
 
 57 
 
 ARDHONNEL. 
 
 " These mountains grow oppressive. I will row 
 Southwards for sylvan beauty and the peace 
 Of those serene and calmly-sleeping hills, 
 Whose outlines on the far horizon lie 
 Like clouds at sunset." So we took the boat, 
 I and a Highland boatman, each an oar, 
 And through the waters, rippling to prolong 
 The green reflections, swiftly pulled away. 
 Then first I saw the bulk of Cruachan, 
 When all the peaks, that guard its hollow gorge, 
 Came from behind Ben Vorich, one by one. 
 That gorge was blue and deep, for shadows fell 
 Into its fearful gulf from snowy clouds 
 That rose like alps above the highest peak. 
 But one great muscular shoulder, in the sun, 
 Shone green and lustrous, wet with recent rain, 
 Against the dark blue corrie. In the east,
 
 58 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Ben Loy and his great brethren, far away, 
 Lay like a herd of monstrous elephants 
 Scattered in every attitude of rest. 
 And on their bodies stood the Avinged clouds, 
 Folding their silver wings familiarly. 
 Then on our oars we rested, and the boat 
 Insensibly swung round, and thirty peaks 
 Passed in review before me, and the plain 
 Of silver waters stretched unto their feet. 
 
 Far northwards, where the lake is lost in hills, 
 The two Black Islands lie with doubled forms, 
 And if they were not there you would not know 
 That it was water. 
 
 We have lost them now : 
 A promontory, wooded to the foot, 
 Has interposed and hidden them from us. 
 
 I watch slow changes on the distant shores, — 
 
 As Science notes the parallax of stars 
 
 Through which Earth floats, more swiftly than we think. 
 
 This is a land of rain, for we have been 
 Wet through and dried again like water-dogs, 
 Three times already, and another shower 
 Comes northward with the wind. 
 
 Beliiiid tliat cape 
 Lies Liish Erretli, and the ibur-,square keep
 
 ARDHONNEL. 59 
 
 Of Old Argyle. 
 
 Ardhonnel looms in sight ; 
 A grey, tall fortress, on a wooded isle, 
 Not buried but adorned by foliage. 
 
 And now I see another reach of lake. 
 
 We landed at Ardhonnel when the sun 
 
 Shone brightly, and the air was purified, 
 
 Washed by the rain. The rock is sharp and steep ; 
 
 And in the four great walls there is no breach ; 
 
 And three are built of close-wrought masonry. 
 
 Without a single crevice, so compact, 
 
 That, save some loopholes in the higher courses, 
 
 Those stones would cage an Afrit. In the fourth 
 
 I found a door — the only entrance door — 
 
 And through tall nettles, over heaps of stones. 
 
 Stumbled along. Some gaunt partition-walls. 
 
 Left standing, gave an evidence of floors ; 
 
 And in the great, square, corner buttresses, 
 
 Arched doorways, storied one above another, 
 
 Gave a precarious entrance to small cells, 
 
 Each with a single loophole, and a roof 
 
 Of solid stone arched over it for strength. 
 
 Standing in one of these strange bedchambers. 
 My Highlander looked round him and observed 
 How narrow and confined it was : he said
 
 60 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 " He should not like to sleep there" — so I laughed, 
 
 Saying, " I used a garret at a push. 
 
 When at Dalmally, quite as small as this ; 
 
 And if there 's not a bedroom at the inn, 
 
 I would not care to sleep here by myself, 
 
 This very night." Then that stout Highlandman, 
 
 In sheer amazement opened both his eyes. 
 
 Swearing " lie would not sleep there for five pound 
 
 The bedrooms in the inn were occupied : 
 
 " Dugald," said I, " get half a sack of peat, 
 
 And, after sunset, bring it in the boat — 
 
 I'm going to sketch the castle from the shore — 
 
 And you will see me, and will take me in, 
 
 And row me to Ardhonnel. I shall sleep 
 
 In that small chamber, and shall wiiiit a fire — 
 
 The room has not been used, I think, of late, 
 
 And may want airing." Dugald laughed aloud. 
 
 To prove how smartly he could take a joke : 
 
 I was in earnest. When convinced at last. 
 
 He grew quite grave ; and in this altered mood 
 
 I left him, wondering what strange phantasy. 
 
 Or terrible distemper of the brain. 
 
 Had seized upon me, that I dared to seek 
 
 The haunts of owls and bats — and, it might be. 
 
 Of beings worse than either owls or bats — 
 
 Through the long hours of darkness, and alone. 
 
 -. "
 
 ARDHONNEL. CI 
 
 The level light, across the rugged sides 
 Of Cruachan, cast airy multitudes 
 Of pale blue shadows, and. the hollow gorge 
 Was one flat void of blue, from which the peaks 
 Rose to the light. It left them, and a cloud 
 Nestled in that huge corrie for the night. 
 Gazing on this, I sat upon the beach 
 Near Inish Connel, where the castle is ; 
 And when the sun was down I heard a noise 
 Of rowing, and the dip of distant oars, 
 Coming towards me. When she hove in sight 
 I knew the boat, and, rising from her prow. 
 Saw a blue wreath of light and graceful smoke. 
 That seemed as much at home upon the lake 
 As if ascending from a cottage hearth. 
 Dugald had brouglit a pan of burning peat, 
 Which served us for the nucleus of a fire, 
 And soon my turret cell was full of smoke. 
 Which, after rambling over every wall, 
 Seeking a chimney vainly, found its way 
 Out by the door through which we clambered in. 
 
 I stood alone upon the parapet 
 
 When the first stars came out, and then, indeed, 
 
 I felt that keen sensation of delight, 
 
 Which is the well and fount of poesy, 
 
 Moving within me and collecting force. 
 
 Such moments have been rare with me of late.
 
 62 THE ISLES OP LOCH AWE. 
 
 For as I grow to manhood it becomes 
 
 More difficult to yield the spirit up 
 
 To outward influence, and reflection grows 
 
 Habitual ; so I cannot be alone — 
 
 I cannot banish all the Avorld of men, 
 
 Those whom I know, or have known, in the world. 
 
 Even if I would — they throng these solitudes. 
 
 But in that silent hour I felt once more 
 
 The thrilling sense of being quite alone 
 
 With Nature in her beauty. Interviews 
 
 With earthly sovereigns in their privacy 
 
 Honour the subject, but to one who feels 
 
 God's presence most in lovely solitudes, 
 
 Whether he be a prophet — as of old 
 
 Such men were called — or j^oet writing verse, 
 
 Or silent poet writing none at all, 
 
 Or honest painter — loneliness to him 
 
 May be the very time when he receives 
 
 Knowledge in most abundance. 
 
 As I stood 
 Leaning upon the broken battlement, 
 And watched the twilight deepen on the hills, 
 My soul became as calm as that calm lake. 
 Reflecting all things — for the troubled breast 
 Confuses all the images of things. 
 As stormy waves receive a colouring 
 From clouds and liills, but lose all trace of form. 
 And, as it calms, the heart grows sensitive
 
 ARDHONNEL. 
 
 To all surrounding objects, and receives 
 True and distinct impressions. 
 
 Far away- 
 Grey mountains lay like clouds on the horizon, 
 But, opposite, a range of sombre brown 
 Rose from the other shore — a perfect void 
 Of darkness, all enclosed by two rough lines, — 
 The one, the mountainous outline on the sky, 
 The other, its reflection. I could see, 
 As though they hung ten thousand feet below. 
 The images of clouds ; but when I looked 
 Up to the clouds themselves my eye became 
 Aware of stars beyond, and turning round 
 1 saw a planet burning in the south, 
 Eclipsed a moment by a silent wing. 
 It was a large Avhite owl that came between ; 
 It flew beneath me, passing many times, 
 And once it settled, for an instant only, 
 Upon a crumbling fragment of the wall, 
 And gazed upon me with its two black eyes. 
 Set in a white round face like the full moon. 
 
 I sought my turret chamber. Though the walls 
 
 Were built of rude unchiselled masonry, 
 
 And though there was no chimney for the fire. 
 
 Or door or glazing to keep out the cold. 
 
 It had an air of comfort, for the peat 
 
 Burnt brightly through the atmosphere of smoke ;
 
 64 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Besides, there was some furniture, — my trunk, 
 
 A cloak spread on the pavement for a bed, 
 
 A sack of peat, and a brass candlestick 
 
 For ornament, not use, since I attached 
 
 The candle to the wall as workmen do. 
 
 So that the place looked cheerful when I laid 
 
 My weary limbs upon a harder bed 
 
 Than tourists often use, and closed my eyes, 
 
 Already sore and watery with the smoke. 
 
 I know that this is dull and commonplace. 
 Dear reader, but the spirits of Loch Awe 
 That night, perhaps, were otherwise engaged ; 
 And I know naught of rapping ; and, besides, 
 There was no table — not a single board — 
 So I was doomed to spend the night alone. 
 Though poets conjure phantoms from the deeps 
 Of their creative fancy, the sound head 
 Is master of its own imaginings ; 
 And if the ghosts I summon from their graves 
 Grew troublesome, or caused unpleasant thoughts. 
 Reason, that stern exorcist, would compel 
 Their instant flight. So, to amuse myself, 
 I pictured ghosts of many feudal chiefs 
 Entering the little chamber one by one, 
 Clad as in life, with targe, and dirk, and sword ; 
 Pale faces frowning, through the haze of smoke, 
 Upon the rash intruder, and contempt
 
 AKDHONNEL. 65 
 
 On their white bloodless lips for ope who sought 
 The comforts they despised, whose beds had been 
 The heather on the rock, and one of whom 
 Had been coutemrfed, and thought effeminate, 
 Because he shaped a pillow of the snow 
 Of which his bed was made. 
 
 I fell asleep. 
 And in a dreamless and unbroken rest 
 These fancies died away. When I awoke 
 Some low, red embers scattered on the floor. 
 And a short candle with a knob of snuff, 
 Shed a dim light upon the rough old walls ; 
 So I collected all the hottest peats 
 Into a heap, and their united warmth, 
 When nursed and coaxed, became a second fire. 
 Then I descended very cautiously 
 Into the castle hall, and walking past 
 Black archways towards the fireplace of the hall, 
 A wide, low arch, I thought how all was changed 
 Since round that yawning fireplace, and within 
 The little loopholed chamber that it made. 
 The jovial clansmen revelled. 
 
 Once again 
 I stood upon the ivied parapet. 
 The night was very beautiful and calm ; 
 There was no sound upon the little isle. 
 Except the snoring of my friend the owl. 
 And the faint ripple of the drowsy water 
 
 F
 
 66 THE ISLES OP LOCH AWE. 
 
 Against the rocky beach, far down below. 
 
 Then came a noise of distant waterfalls 
 
 From both the shores, and it was strange to hear 
 
 Two housedogs bay across the breath of lake, 
 
 Answering each other. I have never seen 
 
 More lovely starlight. Three great planets shone 
 
 North, south, and west, and on the deep, dark waters, 
 
 Their light fell softly toward the castled isle. 
 
 The water seemed quite luminous itself 
 
 Beneath those planets, and the ripple gave 
 
 Quick diamond flashes of a transient light, 
 
 Most like the phosphorescence of the sea. 
 
 Again I dozed, and near me snored the owl 
 In the thick ivy, with a human tone ; 
 A sonorous snore it was, and very loud. 
 There was a flock of rooks upon the isle, 
 But, after quarrelling till they fell asleep, 
 They had been still as mice. A noisy bat 
 Came in to see me often, fluttering round 
 The little chamber on its skinny wings, 
 Then darting through the loophole or the door 
 Into the night. A giant spider ran 
 Across me — and as little did he dream 
 Of what he trod on, as we human insects 
 Think of the star we trample underfoot. 
 These were my only visitors. Perhaps 
 Some would have shrunk from their society,
 
 ARDHONNEL. C7 
 
 But I have pleasure in all living things ; 
 Which in their place are serving the Supreme ; 
 And they discharge their functions in this world 
 More perfectly than I. The happiness 
 Of living in unconscious harmony 
 With Nature is so little known to man, 
 That one may almost envy bats and owls 
 Their simpler duties, and the perfect ease 
 With which they serve the universal Law. 
 We wretches, with a thousand hostile creeds, 
 Perplexed and baffled in the endless search, 
 What are we more than they ? Have we attained 
 More virtue than those lilies of the field. 
 Which, clothed in beauty, know not that they live ? 
 Have we moi'e faith than spiders, bats, and owls. 
 Who live in trust ? 
 
 These thoughts passed through my ixdnd 
 As I lay thinking in that ruined tower. 
 But after them the answer also came. 
 
 One conscious effort to obey the right 
 
 Is worth a thousand years of sinless life — 
 
 Sinless because it knows not how to sin. 
 
 These creatures have not misery and vice, 
 
 Nor have they virtue, and what virtue brings. 
 
 A corpse obeys the law as well as they : 
 
 It decomposes, and its gases fly 
 
 Where Nature wills. In such obedience
 
 C8 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 There is no virtue, neither any praise. 
 A child who bears affliction patiently 
 Does more than ever the eternal hills 
 Have done in all the ages of the past — 
 Their million years of death ! So let us learn 
 The glory, for we know the pain of choice ; 
 And let us make our lives, though sorrowful 
 And very bitter, like heroic lives ! 
 In effort lies our glory and our pain ; 
 But the time comes when that will also cease. 
 And we shall rest, yet in our rest obey 
 Eternal law, as the heart beats in sleep. 
 
 T also envied thoughtlessly the power 
 
 Of bearing rude assaults of wind and weather 
 
 Without protection, which these creatures have ; 
 
 But soon remembered that a creature's rank 
 
 Is chiefly marked by the necessity 
 
 Of many outward agents to its life, 
 
 And therefore to itself the power is given 
 
 To modify and change surrounding things ; 
 
 And when this power has reached a certain point 
 
 In man himself, we call him civilised. 
 
 Here is another picture from the walls. 
 
 The moon had risen, and her quiet light 
 
 Fell softly on the castle and the hills ; 
 
 Not with the sharp, strong shadows, which she throws
 
 AKDHONNEL. 69 
 
 On the cold earth in winter, when the air 
 Is clear and sharp with frost, but all around 
 A sort of paler sunlight, warm and dim, 
 Made grey the solemn shadows of the keep, 
 A feeble yet most penetrative light ! 
 
 Another hour of interrupted sleep. 
 
 When I awoke 't was in a dreary place. 
 
 My candle having melted from the wall 
 
 Was flickering in the dust. The fire was black. 
 
 And straggling rays of very cheerless light 
 
 Entered the cell — the first cold rays of dawn. 
 
 Yes, it was daylight. On the grassy walls 
 
 Once more I stood, and watched the infinite change. 
 
 The lake was now all rippled, white, and cold. 
 
 With streaks of darkest water, smooth as glass ; 
 
 But that cold ripple flushed with rose colour 
 
 When in the east, long fields of airy cloud 
 
 Coloured ; and in the regions of the north. 
 
 The undefined pale vapours of the sky 
 
 Began to feel the sun. Then on sharp peaks 
 
 Of Alpine cloud above Ben Cruachan 
 
 Touches of light fell westward, and thick clouds, 
 
 Opaque and leaden-hued, that heavily 
 
 Hung in the yellow east, received quick strokes 
 
 Of gold and crimson on their under edge. 
 
 Defining forms indefinite before.
 
 70 ^ THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Then I descended to the water's edge, 
 And saw the boat which brought the prisoner 
 His order of release. We left the isle ; 
 And in a clear, deep bay, as cold as ice, 
 I broke the still reflections with a plunge, 
 And washed away the odour of the peat.'^
 
 71 
 
 A RUINED church, whose broken walls 
 Crown the isle where dead men lie, 
 Low and open to the sky, 
 
 When the rain of winter falls 
 Tiiey cannot keep its pavement dry. 
 
 Underneath tall weeds and rank, 
 Lie the dead in quiet sleep, 
 Circled by the stormy deep. 
 
 Where a mighty swimmer sank, 
 Leaving one alone to weep. 
 
 On this island long ago, 
 
 Ere the ancient church was built, 
 Victim of a traitor's guilt. 
 
 Causing innocent blood to flow — 
 Blood most innocently spilt !
 
 72 
 
 VI. 
 INISH ERRETH. 
 
 Near to Ardhonnel Inish Erreth lies, 
 Close to the shore. A little ruined church, 
 And a few tombstones on a barren mound, 
 All its atti'actions ; but a Celtic tale. 
 Antique as any legend of Loch Awe, 
 Has for its scene that common heap of earth. '^ 
 
 Armar and Daura had exchanged the vows 
 Of lovers when the snow was on the ground ; 
 And she was waiting in her father's house 
 For him she loved to come and claim his bride. 
 But Erreth hated Armar, who had slain 
 His brother in the freshness of his youth. 
 So Erreth came to Daura in disguise, 
 Dressed as a vassal of her future spouse, 
 And said, " My boat is ready on the beach, 
 For Armar sent me hither. I have come
 
 miSH ERRETH. 73 
 
 To take you to an island on the lake, 
 Where he lies wounded by an antlered stag. 
 I slew the stag, and wrapped him in the skin ; 
 And there he lies upon the frozen snow." 
 
 The sun was low before they reached the isle ; 
 
 And in the frosty air the distant peaks 
 
 Of Cruachan rose sharp, and white, and clear 
 
 Against a clear white sky. The sun went down. 
 
 And Inish Erreth and its neighbour isle 
 
 Lay on the water — barren solitudes. 
 
 Ages before the castle and the church 
 
 Were built by feudal power and piety. 
 
 Poor Daura sat alone in that canoe 
 
 With the stern man whose brother Armar killed — 
 
 Revengeful Erreth. She was in his power. 
 
 But love had banished all her maiden fear ; 
 
 She only thought of Armar. All she asked 
 
 Was of his wound, and whether the warm skin. 
 
 Flayed from the reeking body of the stag, 
 
 Would keep him from the biting of the frost. 
 
 But when they neared the isle she raised her voice, 
 
 And called aloud for Armar ; her lorn cries. 
 
 Anxious as those of some forsaken plover. 
 
 That calls in vain across the darkling moor. 
 
 Returning after every fruitless search 
 
 In dreary echoes. " He has gone to sleep,"
 
 74 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 Said Erreth ; but poor Daura shook her head : 
 
 And Erreth turned the stern towards the isle, 
 
 And ran it up, and Daura went ashore. 
 
 But Erreth did not follow. His canoe 
 
 Rounded the isle, and in a little bay 
 
 (Which now, when calm, reflects the whitewashed front 
 
 Of a neat inn, but in those early times 
 
 Was bordered by a forest of wild oaks) 
 
 The traitor landed. 
 
 Then his victim found 
 To what a cruel snare she was betrayed ; 
 For though she rambled over all the isle 
 Like one distracted, calling for her love. 
 None answered — there Avas none to answer there. 
 Alone upon a bare and barren isle, 
 Treading the crisp turf on its highest ridge, 
 Or the hard frozen snow that lay in drifts 
 Along its southern side, she looked above 
 For help, but there the cold stars heeded not. 
 Yet Erreth's boat lay on the opposite shore. 
 So near that she could watch it as it rocked. 
 And hear the water rippling on its bows. 
 And still there was no help. If she could reach 
 That boat — that shore — her life might yet be saved. 
 But though the channel in the summer drought 
 Was but breast high, llic autumn had been wet; 
 And the long rains thut fell for many weeks 
 Before tlie frost set in had filled the loch.
 
 INISH ERRETH. 75 
 
 Besides, there rushed a current through the strait ; 
 
 And, tearing past the jagged belt of ice 
 
 That fringed the island, breakers dashed in spray. 
 
 It was a cheerless isle. The rock and turf 
 
 Were hard and bleak, the wind had blown them bare, 
 
 And on the sheltered side the frozen drifts, 
 
 With all their beautiful lines and sculptured forms. 
 
 Looked cold and cheerless as a winding sheet 
 
 Upon the perished limbs of loveliness. 
 
 Meanwhile stern Erreth wandered through the wood, 
 
 Cracking the withered boughs beneath his feet. 
 
 And pleased with his successful stratagem ; 
 
 When strong Arindal in his very path 
 
 Stood like a mighty shadow in the gloom 
 
 Of the dark forest. Erreth turned aside ; 
 
 But Daura's brother fronted him again, 
 
 Laden with sylvan spoil, a royal stag. 
 
 He had five hounds behind him ; and the two 
 
 Were mortal foes, and there was no escape. 
 
 Then Erreth quailed, because his conscience smote 
 
 His traitor heart. Arindal bound him there 
 
 To a strong oak, with thongs of red deer's hide ; 
 
 And the five dogs stood by and angrily 
 
 Growled when poor Erreth struggled with his foe. 
 
 Now Armar went to visit his betrothed, 
 And her old father met him at the door,
 
 76 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 And asked him of his wound, and how he came 
 Without his daughter. Armar answered him : 
 " Good sir, I am not wounded," and passed on 
 Into the hall to seek for his betrothed, 
 For the old man was doting, as he thought. 
 But there the vassals soon explained it all, 
 Saying, " There came a man three hours ago, 
 Dressed like your vassals, and he came in haste. 
 And said that you had charged a stag at bay. 
 And from its horn received a frightful wound ; 
 And that he slew the stag and flayed it there. 
 And having swathed you in the reeking hide, 
 Left you upon an island in the loch 
 Safe from all harm ; and that you wished to see 
 Our gentle lady, sir, before you died. 
 So hearing this, she went away with him 
 Distracted, and we have not seen her since." 
 
 Then Armar answered with a hollow voice, 
 Full of emotion, " She has been betrayed. 
 Tell me the aspect of the man who came " 
 
 " His face was small, and on his upper lip 
 
 The hair was pale and scanty ; but his chin 
 
 Had a stiff beard about six inches long, 
 
 That wagged about before him as he spoke ; 
 
 His eye was grey and small, but very keen ; 
 
 His motions quick — " " No more, I know liim now 
 
 It was the brother of a chief I slew, —
 
 INISH ERRETH. 77 
 
 Erreth, the brother of a chief in Lorn, 
 Whom I cut down in f&ir and open fight : 
 But this revenge is cowardly and base." 
 He checked himself; and whilst her father raved, 
 Daura's betrothed took his authority, 
 And said, " There is an island by the shore, 
 Close to the land ; so I will hasten thither, 
 And swim across the channel to the isle ; 
 But you must bring a boat to our relief. 
 Quick — quick ! the frost is killing even now 
 Tour gentle mistress — 't is a frightful death !" 
 Then from the hall he ran along the shore. 
 Swiftly as any deer before the hounds, 
 Leaping the frozen brooks ; and after him 
 The strong old chief ran lightly as a youth. 
 The north wind met them, and they saw the loch 
 Spotted with foam, for it was blowing hard. 
 
 At last they neared the island. When they came 
 Down to the shore they saw a light canoe 
 Crossing the channel, and the chieftain said 
 To Armar, " That must be the very boat 
 That Erreth brought ; that figure must be his, 
 Halfway across." And Armar strung his bow ; 
 And ere the figure which they dimly saw 
 Could reach the island, to his naked breast 
 The arrow flew. The oars dropped instantly. 
 Backward the rower fell into the boat.
 
 78 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE- 
 
 The prow made no resistance to the waves ; 
 
 It turned, and down the current passively 
 
 Floated, and bore its burden far away, 
 
 Past the low island out into the loch ; 
 
 And five great deerhounds howled along the shore. 
 
 Daura was standing on the icy beach, 
 
 For all her hope was in Arindal's boat ; 
 
 And when she saw the oars drop from his grasp, 
 
 And him struck down, and the expected prow 
 
 Turn from the island suddenly, and yield 
 
 To the fierce current, she sank hopelessly 
 
 On the cold snow, for all her strength was gone. 
 
 Then swiftly past her glided that canoe 
 
 With its dead burden out into the loch ; 
 
 And Armar, thinking he had slain his foe. 
 
 Called joyously to her, and she replied 
 
 With a low groan, for all her strength was gone. 
 
 Then Armar, glad to find her still alive. 
 
 Threw down his bow and leapt into the waves ; 
 
 And her old fiither's voice came cheerfully. 
 
 Telling his daughter "not to yield to sleep, 
 
 But keep herself awake till she was saved," 
 
 For he had often been upon the hills 
 
 And felt, but shaken off", that drowsiness 
 
 Which ends in sleep from which no sleeper wakes. 
 
 Then Armar shrieked, for though his limbs were strong,
 
 INISH ERRETH, 79 
 
 And he a mighty swimmer, he was seized 
 By that fierce foe, the dreaded, cruel Cramp, 
 Which dwells in chilly waters down below, 
 And when the upper waves are icy cold. 
 Rises above like some ferocious shark 
 To seize the limbs of men, and drag them down, 
 And feed on their drowned bodies in the deep. 
 
 The current rushed as swiftly as before, 
 And bore the corse of Armar far away 
 After Arindal, out into the loch. 
 
 When the old chief could see his head no more 
 Above the waves, he felt that he was lost ; 
 But talked to Daura incoherently 
 To keep her wakeful, and the current boiled 
 Between the dying lady and her sire. 
 
 The boat came up at last. The long delay 
 
 Was caused by ceaseless struggles with the wind — 
 
 The cold north wind that came from Cruachan, 
 
 Whose peaks were dark against the crimson glow 
 
 Of streamers in the sky. Arindal's boat 
 
 Had met them, and they stopped it on its way ; 
 
 But when they found his body lying there, 
 
 Pierced with an arrow, they had taken it 
 
 Into their own, and let the other drift. 
 
 And by Arindal's side they shortly laid
 
 80 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 His sister's body, blue and stiff with cold, 
 Frozen to death ; and, chafing both her hands, 
 The poor old chief sat silently and wept. 
 
 A fortnight after, coming through the woods, 
 
 A hunter saw a figure white with snow 
 
 Leaning against the trunk of a young oak. 
 
 And clasping it behind him with his hands. 
 
 On going nearer — lo, it was a corpse ! 
 
 A stiff, cold corpse ; and from its naked limbs 
 
 Below the kilt the flesh was gnawn away 
 
 By foxes ; and its eyes were eaten out 
 
 By a black raven, which the hunter scared. 
 
 The wrists were bound with thongs of red deer's hide 
 
 Behind the tree — the thongs had cut the flesh. 
 
 The face was small, and on the upper lip 
 
 The hair was pale and scant//; but the chin 
 
 Had a stiff beard about six inches long, 
 
 Matted and frozen. Tt was Erreth's beard.
 
 SI 
 
 I LKFT the islands in the night, 
 Made dim with rain that fell between, 
 
 And now they sleep in wintry white ; 
 I saw them in then" summer green. 
 
 The isles are rooted in the earth — 
 
 Storms cannot stir them in their sleep - 
 
 But men are moving from their birth. 
 Like wild birds tossed upon the deep. 
 
 And yet upon the firmest land, 
 
 And in the mighty mountain range 
 
 We read, and dimly understand 
 The record of eternal change. 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 VII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Last night I saw the gloom upon the loch 
 
 Long after sunset. I had pulled across 
 
 To see a waterfall on Cruachan, 
 
 And, looking westward down the Pass of Awe, 
 
 The fringe of rainy cloud was lifted up. 
 
 And from a golden distance full of light 
 
 The waves received its splendour, brightening 
 
 As the veiled sun approached the edge of cloud, 
 
 TJien glittering with a restless, dazzling sheen. 
 
 When he appeared. The mist on the green side 
 
 Of Cruachan, before invisible, 
 
 Received a sunbeam slanting on the copse. 
 
 Beyond Glen Strae the open sky appears 
 Of delicate pearly green, with distant clouds 
 Gleaming afar like hills of yellow gold. 
 But nearer masses from the stormy west
 
 CONCLUSION. 8S 
 
 Come brooding low and dark above the loch, 
 Which grows as black as ink at their approach — 
 Great lurid masses moving inwardly, 
 Changing like mighty spirits which assume 
 New forms at their own pleasure. Like a roof 
 One spreads above me, and descending low 
 Beneath it hang great pendants. In the East 
 The clouds wear awful shapes of dusky gold, — 
 Vast tawny giants moving heavily 
 To meet approaching night. 
 
 The sun is down : 
 There is one crimson stain on the cold cloud. 
 Whose ashy mounds are heaped on Cruachan ; 
 And in the west the low, long, purple hills, 
 Are parted by a line of orange sky 
 From the dull clouds above them. 
 
 Then I saw 
 A lonely beach before me, canopied 
 With the deep fringe of foliage that descends 
 Down to the mountain's foot, and thereupon 
 I landed, walking on the quiet lane, 
 A mile or two, until I crossed a bridge 
 That spans a torrent. There I turned aside 
 Into the tangled copsewood, clambering 
 Through the wet fern and up the slippery rock 
 Until I reached the point I wished to gain. 
 Then it was twilight, and I heard below 
 The water tumbling in a dark ravine,
 
 84 THE ISLES OF LOCH AAVE. 
 
 And, standing on the cliff's extremest verge, 
 Beheld a white, unchanging waterfall 
 In the black depth.is 
 
 The road was very dark 
 As I returned, and the fantastic rocks. 
 Shrouded in ghastly lichen, from the gloom 
 Of the impenetrable underwood. 
 Heaved up and scowled upon me as I passed, 
 Where Wallace chased Mac Fadyen, and the Bruce 
 With his small force defeated John of Lorn, 
 And drove him to his galleys on the lake.^" 
 Far off, the opposite shore of the broad loch 
 Lay like a mighty cloudland in the south. 
 And nearer the dark isles. Towards Lii.shail 
 I rowed, and then the rain began to fall 
 And the grey twilight deepened on the hills. 
 As I approached the shallows that divide 
 The Black Isles from the shore of Inishail, 
 Ben Vorich grew more cloudy and more vast ; 
 And as I skimmed the smooth and sheltered strait 
 The ruin of the church amongst the tombs 
 Reared its dark broken masses on the mound 
 Against the mountain. On my right and left 
 There was no land in sight, but barren water, 
 Wrinkled with rain, met the low-hanging clouds 
 Like a great ocean in the dreary night. 
 When at the stern I left the lonely isles.
 
 CONCLUSION. 85 
 
 To simple minds who in the golden age 
 
 Of ignorance — the Paradise of fools — 
 
 Dwell childlike, the material universe 
 
 Is easy of solution. Unperplexed 
 
 By questions such as only can occur 
 
 To knowledge seeking knowledge, they explain 
 
 Existing facts by legends plausibly. 
 
 This is the use of myth — to set at rest 
 
 Whatever thoughts might otherwise disturb 
 
 The sweet repose of men half infantine, 
 
 Who in the earlier ages of the world 
 
 Lived amongst dreams, the children of the race. 
 
 So to the Celtic lakesmen long ago 
 
 The myth of Bera was a nurse's tale 
 
 To children over-curious. It sufficed 
 
 For them, but not for us ; who having grown 
 
 To riper age, are scarcely satisfied 
 
 With what our kind old nurses used to say. 
 
 And when I told you of the Cailliach Bhe'ir 
 
 I felt that I was telling a child's tale 
 
 To older ears ; and though one is amused 
 
 With stories such as Christian Andersen's, 
 
 Composed at first for children — still, you know. 
 
 We do not now believe them any more. 
 
 Well, let them perish, they have served their turn ; 
 
 But, if I thought the Good and Beautiful 
 
 Had died with them, my grief would never end : 
 
 Oh I I should weep their loss most bitterly.
 
 86 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 I do not think so, and I do not grieve : 
 My friends, the True is also beautiful ; 
 The True is also beautiful and good ! 
 
 The Loch is scarcely younger than the hills, 
 
 And they grew slowly.^i Twenty thousand years 
 
 Might be to them the years of infancy. 
 
 Slowly the mighty subterranean fire 
 
 Thrust up the porphyry peak of Cruachan ! 
 
 Ere then the tribute of a hundred streams 
 
 Filled the great valley, and the waters found 
 
 One outlet only,-^ which their force enlarged ; 
 
 And those fair Isles which I do consecrate 
 
 To be for ever sacre(^ unto song. 
 
 Emerged as they subsided — barren rocks. 
 
 Glittering with white quartz crystals here and there, 
 
 Scattered like spots of snow upon the hills. 
 
 But soon upon them spread a covering 
 
 Of velvet fibres; then white spots of lichen 
 
 Dotted the dark mould of the former growths ; 
 
 And so progressed the vegetable forms, 
 
 And the Black Isles, whose noble groves of beech 
 
 Cast on the silver surface of the lake 
 
 Their green reflections, whose luxuriant plants, 
 
 Bright purple heather, sky-blue hyacinth. 
 
 And long fine grasses, with a hundred flowers 
 
 Scattered amongst them, make the ground so rich 
 
 Under the boughs — those sister isles were once
 
 CONCLUSION. 87 
 
 Barren and naked, and the interval 
 Between the starry lichen and the beech 
 Was so immense that years and centuries 
 Fail me.2s There is an infinite of time, 
 Before — behind — as infinite as space; 
 And we may now anticipate an age, 
 Distant in days as Sirius in miles. 
 When all the winding valley of Loch Awe 
 
 Shall be a level and alluvial tract, 
 And my beloved Isles unislanded ; 
 For all the streams bring heavy loads of sand. 
 
 Which either they deposit at their mouths, 
 
 (As at Kilchurn, which has been formerly 
 
 An island standing at the Orchay's mouth. 
 
 Which by a delta joined it to the land, 
 
 As Pharos unto Egypt long ago) ; 
 
 Or cast into the waters of the lake, 
 
 Through which the fine grains slowly settling down 
 
 Make it grow shallow. 
 
 So in course of time 
 
 The Cailliach's fault may be at last retrieved, 
 
 When there shall be a dry and fertile plain 
 
 Level unto the bases of the hiUs.
 
 83 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ' I visited Loch Awe in 1852, making four sketches 
 and a poem on luishail, of which a few hnes are preserved 
 in the present volume. Afterwards, in 1854, I revisited 
 the lake, setting out with the intention of writing 2000 
 lines about it, and painting a few illustrations of the 
 scenery. The poem as it now stands consists of rather 
 more than 2000 lines, and some of the .sketches accompany 
 it as vignettes. A good deal of it was written in my boat 
 or on the islands. I mention these facts to substantiate 
 the accuracy of the descriptions. 
 
 * The origin of the tradition is given by Mr. Stewart in 
 his account of the parish of Strachur. Be'ir is the Gaelic 
 for a thunderl)olt. In the oblique cases it is Bhe'ir, as 
 Bein Bhe'ir, the mountain of thunder, the name of a very 
 high mountain in Appin. r'ailliuch Blio'ir, therefore, was 
 the personification of a tlnuiderbolt, usually accompanied 
 by heavy rains. 
 
 * Cailliach is the Gaelic for old woman. A Highlander 
 took great pains to make me understand the exact signifi- 
 cance of the term: we have no precise equivalent for it in 
 English. The descriptions of a mountain t(jrrent which 
 follow were written in my note-book on the moors, after 
 three weeks' incessant rain ; they were taken direct from
 
 NOTES. 8D 
 
 nature ; but on a reperusal of Modern Painters, I find a 
 picture of the Falls of SchafFbausen (Sec. v. Cbap. II.), 
 wbicb migbt bave served for tbe original of mine. A 
 precious stone occurred to each of us as tbe nearest ap- 
 proacb to tbe broken water,— Euskin tbougbt of tbe cbry- 
 soprase on tbe banks of tbe Rbine ; tbe red brown of tbe 
 Highland torrent suggested tbe fire-opal. 
 
 ■" I wrote tbe lines wbicb follow after reading a chapter 
 in Mackay's learned volumes on tbe Progress of the Intellect, 
 treating of tbe notion of a dying god. I am happy to 
 acknowledge my obligation. 
 
 * Tbe island of Fraoch Elan was given by Alexander III. 
 in 1296, to Gilbert Mac Naughten, tbe chief of bis clan, on 
 condition that be should entertain tbe King of Scotland 
 whenever he passed that way. The proprietor, in 1745, 
 made secret preparations for entertaining the Prince in the 
 castle, had he passed in that direction after landing in 
 Glenfinnin. 
 
 ® No one ever thinks of iising a sail on Loch Awe, 
 though Turner chose to hoist one or two, regardless of 
 squalls, in bis imaginary " Kilcburn Castle." Tbe drawing 
 was probably done in Queen Anne Street. The Pass is tbe 
 most probfic source of sudden and violent gusts of wind. 
 
 ^ This description is from tbe life. 
 
 * The Black Islands are close to Inisbail, at its soutbeni 
 extremity. In natural beauty, both of shape and vege- 
 tation, they are tbe finest on the lake. To glide through 
 the narrow strait on a summer's night and see the moon 
 moving through tbe trees, and then, when the isles were 
 passed, glittering on the waters, was a favourite amusement 
 of mine. 
 
 * Fraoch Elan means tbe Isle of Heather. 
 
 '" Tbe rmns of Inisbail bave left behind them a very 
 good reputation. Hay, abbot of Incbaflray, got the tern-
 
 90 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 poralities. Inchaffray was afterwards erected into a tem- 
 poral lordship in his favour. 
 
 " Some of the tombstones have been removed from 
 Inishail. There are several in the churchyard at Dalmally. 
 
 " The story of Mac Intyi'e has, at the present day, 
 more popularity amongst the lakesmen than any other 
 tradition of the neighbourhood. 
 
 " There is an exquisite passage in Leslie's Handbook for 
 Young Painters, " On the Beauty of Death." 
 
 '■' The reader will find an account of Sir Colin in the 
 Peerages, art. Breadalbam. How much of the legend is 
 positive fact I will not pretend to say. It has probably 
 been shaped into its present very dramatic form by a 
 process (well known to historical critics), by which the 
 mind insensibly rounds the hardest fact into perfect pro- 
 portions. The current of human thought glides for cen- 
 turies over the rough events of the past, and when the 
 builder of verse seeks his materials there he will usually 
 find them formed to his hand. 
 
 '* I believe the huts in Skyc arc the least desirable 
 habitations in our British Archipelago. Those in Glen 
 Orchay are wretched enough. In some instances a natural 
 mound provides one wall — the rest are built of loose 
 stones without mortar. An average house — such as a 
 Highlander would be content with — may be erected for 
 about 5^. 
 
 '* Wordsworth has apostrophised Kilchurn, but his 
 poem has nothing characteristic of the place. In the Legend 
 of Montrose Sir "Walter appears to have obsci'vcd its defects 
 as a modern military jjosition with great accuracy. 
 
 " The greater part of this cliapter was written in the 
 castle. The descriptions, as usual, arc direct from nature ; 
 and whatever there is of philosophic digression I have 
 retained as it was originally wiittcn, because it would be
 
 NOTES. 91 
 
 out of character to suppose that any imaginative person 
 could be left alone in an old castle with his own thoughts 
 and not ramble a httle. 
 
 '* Chambers attaches the story of Erreth to this island, 
 but I do not know on what authority. 
 
 '^ This waterfall is on the south side of Ben Cruachan, 
 near the Oban road. The whole stream is singularly 
 picturesque. 
 
 ^ See the notes to Scott's Highland Widow. 
 
 *' I have adopted Sir Charles LyeU's theory of the slow 
 upheaval of mountain chains in preference to the older 
 view of their sudden emergence. 
 
 ** Loch Awe has only one outlet, the river Awe. The 
 rivers Orchay, Cladich, Avich, and innumerable riUs, flow 
 into the loch. 
 
 ^ The reader of Humboldt will here perceive that I am 
 indebted to his Vievjs of Nature. 
 
 This book may possibly faU into the hands of tourists 
 in the Highlands ; and if it should induce any one to visit 
 the Isles of Loch Awe, a few words on my part may save 
 him a good deal of trouble. The inns are so badly situated 
 that no visitors but sportsmen and painters ever think 
 of staying long at Loch Awe. The hotel at Dalmally is an 
 old inconvenient house, three miles from the loch, and 
 wants rebuilding. The inn at Cladich is a mile from the 
 loch, and the footpath in wet weather is almost impassable. 
 The inn at Port Sonachan and that at Inish Erreth are both 
 close to the water, but so far from Kilchurn that Cladich 
 is perhaps the more eligible as head-quarters. From thence 
 Kilchurn is about five miles ; the river Awe, six ; Inishail, 
 two ; Fraoch Elan, three ; and Ardhonnel, fifteen. Loch 
 Avich is worth seeing, but the boats there are of the tub
 
 92 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 species. The best situation for an inn would be the bay of 
 luish Drynich, the only point where the road comes down 
 to the shore on that side the lake. If some enterprising 
 capitalist would put a little steamer there, the Isles, even 
 including Ardhonnel, might all be visited in the course of 
 a summer afternoon, and a delightful excursion it would 
 be ; but at present, if you go down the loch, you may have 
 to stay there till the wind changes, as there are no roads 
 at the southern extremity. 
 
 Though I have only mentioned a few of the islands, 
 there are many more of great beauty scattered here and 
 there — about thirty, I believe, in all. I had included Inish 
 Drynich amongst those in the poem, and allowably so ; for 
 although it is connected with the mainland by an isthmus, 
 the isthmus is often submerged by floods, and, even in the 
 height of summer, so marshy that the inhabitants reach 
 the shore by boating across the exquisite little bay. I had 
 enjoyed the hospitality of the gentleman who then occupied 
 the fishing-lodge on the peninsula, and could not resist 
 the temptation to describe a pleasant evening I spent 
 there when the loch roared on the beach, and the storm- 
 wind, 
 
 Howling among the oaks upon the isle, 
 
 rivalled our own music in power if not in melody. I have 
 withheld this from publication, for reasons which the 
 reader will readily imagine and appreciate ; he may, 
 however, be permitted to see the lyric and the opening 
 lines : — 
 
 The night comes stormily from the west, 
 
 Low-broodiiiB flouds, and wind and rain ; 
 Black an ink is Uic loch's rough breast : 
 
 In the WL-st a crimson stain ; 
 
 And 1 labour all in vain.
 
 NOTES. 93 
 
 For the storm-waves weary me, 
 
 They are mauy — I alone. 
 'T is a di-eary sight to see 
 
 The topphng breakers, one by one. 
 
 Coming from the s'lnken sun. 
 
 Near me is the Dniid's isle, 
 
 Where three Ladies of the Lake 
 Dwell serenely, and begriile 
 
 The night with music — they will take 
 
 A stranger in for mercy's sake. 
 
 That was the lyric, and here are the first few lines of 
 the suppressed chapter : — 
 
 The isle of Druids in the prosperous days 
 
 Of their extinct religion — never since 
 
 Has it been left without inhabitants, 
 
 Although the neck of low and marshy land i 
 
 Gives no communication with the shore. 
 
 And often when the lake is full of water 
 
 'T is overflowed. A sqtiare-built fishing-lodge, 
 
 With a verandah and a gallei-y 
 
 Round three of its four sides, now occupies 
 
 The holy ground ; and there are noble oaks 
 
 Clustei-ing about it, the posterity 
 
 Of those from which the Druids used to cull 
 
 In robes of white, with golden instruments. 
 
 Then- parasite — the sacred misletoe ; 
 
 Since then held sacred to a sweeter use. 
 
 How I was first attracted to this isle 
 
 My journal tells me. From its private page 
 
 l.make this extract for the public good. 
 
 And then follows a description of a very interesting 
 family of — Scotch terriers. The head of this family was 
 
 A noble little dog, on whom I called 
 Merely to feast my eyes upon his beauty. 
 His owner had a lodge upon Loch Awe, 
 Built on a green peninsula ; and there 
 I found him walking in the pleasant sun.
 
 94 THE ISLES OF LOCH AWE. 
 
 His dogs around him. " I have como," I said, 
 "To make your dog's acquaintance, for his fame 
 •• Has reached the iun at Cladich where I lodge." 
 So havmg briefly introduced myself. 
 His owner introduced me to the dog, 
 And we were friends at once. He was indeed 
 The prince of terriers, of the purest blood. 
 With lithe and sinewy frame, and long, round body : 
 A mane, too, hke a Uou's ; and long hair 
 Of flaxen textm-c, i-eaching to the feet, 
 A mingled gi-ey of red, and black, and white, 
 Of tints all varied. Then his lustrous eyes, 
 And bright, black nose turned upwards to the light. 
 Were full of kind expression ; and, in truth, 
 I think ho understood the compliment 
 I paid him, for he welcomed me as though 
 He knew quite well my call was on himself 
 We sat and talked an hour away. At last, 
 When in his master's boat I left the isle, 
 The dog stood gazing from the little pier, 
 Wagging a kind farewell. 
 
 He had a spouse 
 Fairer in colour, but as pure in blood ; 
 And three small puppies gambolled round them both. 
 The sweetest family group you ever saw. — 
 And now, dear reader, one of them is mine. 
 
 I am sorry to have to add that the Uttle souvenir of 
 the Ides of Loch A we mentioned in the last line, after 
 growing exceedingly interesting, died iu the distemper.
 
 95 
 
 MACLEAN OF DUART. 
 
 Upon the leaded roof of a square keep 
 There stood a lady looking on the sea. 
 'T was rippling in the summer afternoon 
 Beneath the sun, and down the precipice 
 Below the castle walls the dark grey cliiF 
 Was heated till its crevices were dry ; 
 While here and there a patch of hardy plants 
 Glittered on the projections of the rock. 
 Behind the lady rose the gloomy peaks 
 Of dreary Mull. Across the broad, blue sound. 
 The hills of Morven fettered the rough arm 
 Which old Atlantic thrust there in his youth, 
 When rudely he caressed that lovely land. 
 Some rocky islands, scattered far away, 
 Heaped up their darker masses from the sea 
 Against the clear air-azure of the hills. 
 Some of the very loftiest of the clouds
 
 96 MACLEAN OF DDART. 
 
 Hung in the purest heights of atmosphere, 
 Twisted by currents into shapes grotesque. 
 
 The lady was dejected by some grief, — 
 For, looking on the distant peaks of Lorn, 
 She wept ; and Aveeping thus upon the keep. 
 Dropping swift tears from the high battlement, 
 Her husband found her. Strange, that cruel lord. 
 Who turned her naked from his loveless bed, 
 And struck her till she reeled down the cold stair. 
 Strange that he came with such a friendly smile ! 
 
 " 'T is a fair scene, my dearest : I have thought 
 That you might like to see those hills again ; 
 And as the day is bright they have prepared 
 The boat, and all is ready." Tlicn he looked 
 Into her bloodshot eyes that swam with tears ; 
 And on her lips a faint incredulous smile 
 Played when he kissed them. 
 
 Downward to the shore 
 He led her ; and, gallant beyond his wont. 
 Took her in his strong arms, and boldly stepped 
 Into the water, wetting his rough legs. 
 Till the waves soaked the tartan of liis kilt. 
 She found a couch of deerskins in the stern, 
 And there reclined, her head upon lier hand. 
 With downcast eyes both dropping salty tears 
 Into the salty waves. They spread the sail ;
 
 MACLEAN OF DUART. 97 
 
 The water deepened quickly, and she saw 
 
 Forests of weed below, wherein the fish 
 
 Like birds in happy groves upon the land 
 
 Swam in and out, beneath gigantic leaves 
 
 That floated in midwater. Slender stalks. 
 
 Leafless and smooth, rose floating to the surface, 
 
 Moving with all the water-winds below ; 
 
 And on the summit of a sandy knoll 
 
 A conger-eel was sleeping 'mid the shells, 
 
 Half hid by seaweed. Then the bank grew steep 
 
 Until the bottom was no longer seen. 
 
 Though still a white shell glimmered in the brown. 
 
 When that was gone, the lady lifted up 
 
 Her dreamy eyes, and from the rugged shore 
 
 Of that detested island she had left 
 
 Found that their flight was swifter than she thought. 
 
 The water was so calm, she only guessed 
 
 The unfelt motion, save when gliding past 
 
 The rocky peaks of mountains submarine — 
 
 The black and barren tops of sunken reefs. 
 
 Which gulls of whitest plumage hid with snow, 
 
 And stately herons trod with solemn pace. 
 
 When in the middle of that breadth of sea, 
 
 Dividing Mull from Morven, the wind fell ; 
 
 The sail flapped to the mast ; and though it filled 
 
 At times again with little gusts of air, 
 
 'T was useless, and the clansmen took the oars, 
 
 H
 
 98 MACLEAN OF DUART. 
 
 The chieftain at the helm. Their song was harsh, 
 In nasal Gaelic ; and the oars kept time, 
 Dipping into the waves, and rattling loose 
 In the wide rullocks as they swung them back. 
 Unlike a skilful rower's feathering blade. 
 The boatmen pulled with those unbalanced oars. 
 Till veins and muscles with exertion swelled 
 On their stout arms. About the sluggish boat 
 A porpoise, with sleek skin and rounded back. 
 Crested along its ridge with a broad fin. 
 Rolled in the water. When the bark approached 
 A desolate rock, so level that the tide 
 Replenished all its hollows every day, 
 They saw a hoary seal not quite submerged, 
 Swimming with his grey head above the wave. 
 Gazing on them with melancholy eyes. 
 
 Then said Maclean : " My love, the men are tired. 
 And want to rest ; so let us disembark, 
 And walk about upon this lonely rock, 
 Perhaps to gather, since the tide is out. 
 Beautiful sea-shells." So they left the boat ; 
 And when the lady said, " The wind is cold," 
 Maclean returned to fetch his tartan plaid, — 
 At least he left her there on that pretence. 
 The prow reversed, now faced the land of Mull : 
 That cruel wind, which had been contrary. 
 Filled the spread sail, and the incUning mast
 
 MACLEAN OF DUART. 99 
 
 Dipped the boom end in that white, crisping foam, 
 
 Which, as she bounded through the freshening waves, 
 
 The little vessel scattered from her bows. 
 
 The lady gazed in mute and dim despair, 
 
 Seeing but unbelieving — till she heard 
 
 A fiendish laugh across the rippling deep ; 
 
 And all the hate and cruelty of years 
 
 Finished with bitter mockery — " Good night !" 
 
 The wretched grow familiar with Death 
 
 By constant contemplation, and at last 
 
 They welcome him, the Prince of rest and peace. 
 
 Thus as the lady paced the narrow bound 
 
 Of her bleak rock, she did not weep to think 
 
 That she must meet him there ; but summoning up 
 
 The resolution born of years of woe, 
 
 Smiled on the waves, when lessening in the west 
 
 She saw the white sail of her faithless lord 
 
 On the dark cliffs of Duart, and the sun 
 
 Sank in a cloud behind the purple hills. 
 
 The tide was rising eagerly to clasp 
 
 Her lovely form — even now it kissed her feet; 
 
 And sighing with impatience of delay, 
 
 Kept wildly leaping up the sloping rock. 
 
 The night was closing when the cold waves reached 
 
 Her trembling knees, and groaning all around. 
 
 She saw the gloomy water edged and furred
 
 100 MACLEAN OF DUART. 
 
 With a most death-like, phosphorescent light 
 On its foamed lip, Avhen biting at the stones 
 Mad with sheer hunger it did rage for her. 
 Then like a martyr calmly she prepared 
 Her soul for death, and through the starry heaven 
 Sang to the Virgin her last vesper hymn. 
 
 The stars are shining in the fathomless voids 
 
 To which the soul ascends through every rent 
 
 In the white, driving clouds. The mountains rise, 
 
 Dim as the scenery of a spirit land. 
 
 Blank as the hills of Hades, mingling bounds 
 
 With vapour banks that rear their Alpine heads, 
 
 Till half-way up the zenith their sharp lines 
 
 Are clear against the luminous, Avind-swept north. 
 
 Whose pale green light extinguishes its stars. 
 
 The milky way, and all the nebulous groups, 
 
 Are clear above the coldest, loftiest clouds; 
 
 Receding such a distance into space. 
 
 That though they be a crowd of blazing suns 
 
 Each with a complex system, they appear 
 
 Films of faint light against the midnight sky. 
 
 The water is a blank, mysterious grey. 
 
 Without a shore. The hills are dark and huge, 
 
 But baseless, and a single ghostly sail 
 
 Glimmers against a melancholy isle, 
 
 Coasting it slowly with a weary wind. 
 
 The upper air is streaked with falling stars ;
 
 MACLEAN OF DUART. 101 
 
 And from the rudder in the water cold 
 Streams out a bubbling, brushlike train of sparks. 
 The blades are silvery white ; and every stroke 
 Eddies the sea with little whirling lights, 
 That sink in their own centres. On the bow 
 There clings a changeless flake of luminous foam. 
 
 It bears a death-like burden. Her wet robe 
 Is modelled to her limbs, and her brown hair 
 Wanders amongst a tarry coil of rope 
 Drenching a folded sail. There is a hand 
 Beneath her head, another on her heart. 
 Waiting the stroke of the suspended pulse. 
 Her brother's ear is close upon her breast ; 
 He hears a faint, low knock — as if the soul, 
 Delayed admission at the door of Heaven, 
 Returned despairing to its former home : 
 And now between the blanched and parted lips 
 There slowly comes a painful, gurgling sigh. 
 
 Again restored unto her father's house, 
 
 She lived and died. A chieftain grey with years 
 
 Was stabbed and murdered in the open street. 
 
 The avenger was that brother, who had snatched 
 
 A sister from the closing arms of Death, 
 
 A sacrifice from the altar of the sea ! — 
 
 The victim was Maclean. 
 
 The very rock
 
 102 MACLEAN OF DUART. 
 
 Where he exposed his wife may still be seen, 
 
 For it emerges when the tide goes down, 
 
 And leads for ever an amphibious life. 
 
 I passed it once at midnight in a boat. 
 
 We had been sailing, but the wind veered round ; 
 
 Then at the oars we toiled like galley slaves, 
 
 For thirty miles, all down the Sound of Mull ; 
 
 And as we moved beneath the midnight stars, 
 
 Weary and silent, in my dreamy brain 
 
 This poem rose and formed itself at once.
 
 103 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 " Among the many ruins studding the chffs and promon- 
 tories which fringe the shores of Mull and classic Morven, 
 one was pointed out vdih which a startling legend is con- 
 nected, that Joanna BaiUie has dramatised with some 
 success — I mean the lonely walls of Duart Castle, over- 
 looking the entrance to the Sound of Mull. It was a strong- 
 hold of the Macleans ; and, from the massive ruins of its 
 huge keep, is supposed to have been originally constructed 
 by Northern rovers. Whoever might have been the builder, 
 his successor appears to have had very loose notions of 
 civil law ; and in his proceedings to obtain divorce, his 
 method to effect a connubial separation was not exactly 
 that practised in the Consistorial Court at present. He 
 had married a sister of the Argyle of that day ; and, to 
 settle domestic differences which arose, had recourse to a 
 simple remedy. At low water the lady was placed on an 
 isolated rock which at high water was overflowed, and 
 there left to perish. Fortunately, a passing boat rescued 
 the devoted victim : she was secretly restored to her 
 family ; while, in full assurance of her death, this Highland 
 Bluebeard honoured her with a fictitious funeral. In false 
 security, and a belief that the murder was both committed 
 and unsuspected, the savage chief boldly repaired to the
 
 104 MACLEAN OF DUART. 
 
 capital. That %nsit terminated a ruthless career ; for in 
 the street he was stabbed to the heart by Campbell of 
 Calder, a brother of the ill-used lady." — Maxwell's High- 
 lands and Islands of Scotland. 
 
 We left Auchincraig soon after seven, and as the wind 
 was directly against us the men took the oars and myself 
 the helm. Innumerable gulls whitened the rocks which 
 rose above the surface, but deserted them on our approach. 
 Several fine herons flew heavily by. After a four-miles' 
 pull we came under Duart Castle, where I landed. The 
 keep has one wall fourteen feet thick, and the other three 
 twelve feet. The view across the Sound was magnificent. 
 The mountains of the mainland crowded along the shore, 
 stretching their lines from north to south like an army of 
 giants rciJeUing the encroachments of the sea. — Extract 
 ■from, my own Journal.
 
 105 
 
 SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. 
 
 A LITTLE boat was half across the loch 
 At midnight. I was sitting in the stern 
 Facing the mountain, which was outlined clear 
 Against the starry sky. You could not see 
 Either the line of beach from which it rose, 
 Or any proof of its retiring peak 
 Being a mile away. In mystery 
 We glanced across the water, cleaving fast 
 Its breast all grey with ripples, and I felt, 
 Both from their endless stream and chilly sound. 
 And from the cold embracing of the wind, 
 Sensations new and mighty. On the land 
 We rarely think of structure underneath ; 
 But when beneath our seat is liquid cold 
 A hundi'ed fathoms down, and high above 
 No roof or cloud between us and the stars, 
 And mountains sleeping round us, that aspire
 
 106 SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. 
 
 So far above the undulating liills 
 Or southern plains receding into blue, 
 That they have gained a living influence, 
 And are no moi-e inanimate : when thus. 
 Like insects sailing on a floating leaf. 
 We pass from shore to shore, our fluid path 
 Becomes a bridge of mystery and awe, 
 And wonder floats around us. 
 
 Gazing still 
 Up to the milky way and mountain peaks, 
 Anticipating toil in the ascent, 
 And lulled to contemplation by the dip, 
 Frequent and short, of the impatient oars, 
 I sat half dreaming, till my eyelids fell 
 Weary of straining upward, and I saw 
 Close on our path a line of glimmering white, 
 And soon the keel Avas scraping on the beach. 
 
 The sparry pebbles were so white and dry 
 They seemed like shells an ocean-tide had left 
 And, as we walked across them, sparks of fire 
 Played round our footsteps. Then our toil began 
 And through a gloomy wood we felt our way, 
 From which emerging, up a stair of rocks 
 We clambered slowly towards a sombre cliff, 
 Whereon the setting moon appeared to rest. 
 Another hour, upon a table-land 
 Of level moor we waded in the heath.
 
 SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. 107 
 
 A mile removed still rose the second hill, 
 
 Contrasting clearly with the yellowing East, 
 
 And mocking by the vastness of its bulk 
 
 Our childish labours. Through the marshy flat 
 
 We swiftly pushed across the mountain's lap, 
 
 And up the steep we climbed. Another step 
 
 Thus gai-ned I thought our toil was surely ended ; 
 
 And much I dreaded that the royal Sun, 
 
 Who waits for no man's pleasure, should appear 
 
 Before I was prepared to welcome him. 
 
 Beholding, then, the gi'ey rocks of the peak 
 
 Distinct and light against the morning sky. 
 
 My spirit grew more ardent — as it burns 
 
 Even now because its time is running out, 
 
 Its dawn of life fast breaking into day — 
 
 A day which must not wake me from the sleep 
 
 Of idlers in an inn, but on the height 
 
 Of watchful duty find me at my post. 
 
 Braced with successful labour. 
 
 I had reached 
 The summit, and was standing to receive 
 The first bright glow of morning on my face, 
 When from his opening tent of crimson clouds 
 Came forth the risen Sun ! The stars have shrunk 
 Into the cold green sky — the moon is gone — 
 So pass the wandering lights that led my youth ! 
 The lakes are blue and cold in the deep valleys, 
 And every isle attracts the rising mist.
 
 108 SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. 
 
 But now the rugged peaks are flushing red 
 Before the orb that sternly looks on each, 
 Peering into the secrets of its face. 
 Across the lakes the spreading shadows flew, 
 And I beheld the outline of the peak 
 On which I stood, as clear on Arthur's side 
 As you may see the earth's circumference 
 On the eclipsed moon. Then brighter grew 
 The aspect of the scene, and those three lakes 
 That slept between me and the gorgeous East 
 Began to feel the presence of the sun. 
 Bright from a spring half down the precipice 
 Issued the tiny Forth, whose silver line 
 Followed a winding course ; and in the south 
 That white horizon is the Firth of Clyde — 
 That hill, Dumbarton Rock — and that blue shape, 
 That almost seems to float among the clouds, 
 The Isle of Bute. Look down that dark ravine, 
 And watch the white and swiftly climbing mist 
 Rolling in silence up the narrow fissure 
 Between these rugged, blacky forbidding rocks. 
 Like troops of angels climbing fearlessly 
 Into a dark, and rough, and hardened soul. 
 Storming its blackened citadel with love ! 
 The fx'aks around us have already plumed 
 Their crests with cloud, so let us look once more 
 And then descend as swiftly as we may. 
 Lest, blinded by the softly-creeping mist,
 
 SUNRISE ON BEN LOMOND. 109 
 
 We overstep the precipice, or lose 
 
 The proper track and die in the morass. 
 
 " Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places, and the peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains ; " not in vain 
 We climb the hills, though not to worship there ; 
 For though we cannot deem the rising sun 
 More truly noble than those distant stars 
 Which are his equals, still there is a power 
 In present vastness which lifts up the mind 
 From sloth and degradation.
 
 no 
 
 THE POOLS OF CLADICH. 
 
 Below the bridge of Cladich are five pools, 
 
 And each one overflows into the next, 
 
 And in the hist and deepest of them all 
 
 I am a frequent guest. The timid trout 
 
 Must wonder what commotion there can be 
 
 When I invade their haunts with noisy plunge, 
 
 And a tall, gleaming figure — huge to them — 
 
 Moves godlike through their golden-lighted halls. 
 
 I like to tread the water of those pools — 
 
 Those deep, cairngorm-like pools — and see my limbs 
 
 Dilated and gigantic, sunbrowned, too, 
 
 Like tawny thews of Titans thrusting down 
 
 The deeps beneath my feet. I like to take 
 
 A heavy stone — the largest I can lift — 
 
 And walk down bravely with unflinching eyes, 
 
 Ga/iiig around me in the mellow light 
 
 That fills tlie shades below, then drop the stone,
 
 THE POOLS OF CLADICH. Ill 
 
 And hear it thunder like a falling crag — 
 For sight and sound alike are magnified 
 Below the waters. I have often thought 
 That the deep sea must be a noisy realm ; 
 And when the mermen revel, shouting songs 
 Of merriment, their orgies must be heard 
 For leagues along its vast, unmeasured fields.
 
 112 
 
 THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. 
 
 " Sing thei-e what tliou canst see, sing as if no scald had hymned it 
 before."— Hans Christian Andersen. 
 
 I DWELL in lands whose beauty is unknown 
 Unto themselves, for they are poor in lakes. 
 These hills around me have not closely bound 
 The produce of their streams in the wide valleys ; 
 But through unguarded passes rivers flow 
 Tliat drain th(3 country, and a growing town 
 Spreads where a lake's deep bottom might have been. 
 Sometimes my selfish fancy would conceive 
 The town unbuilt, the mountain barriers closed, 
 And all the concave valley witli its park, 
 Embattled hall, and avenues of oak, 
 And hundred farms, a sheet of silent water, 
 Wherein the sunsets and the solemn clouds 
 Might be reflected, and the starry nights 
 Build their dim mountains on a sky below. 
 I had not seen a lake (save one small tarn 
 Amongst the hills, around whose dreary marge
 
 THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. 113 
 
 I wandered often), so that in my heart 
 
 A passion grew that would have blotted out 
 
 Its dearest earth, surrendered, yielded all 
 
 Its best associations to tlie floods. 
 
 The towers of Sodom were not well exchanged 
 
 For deadly waters, yet I could have looked 
 
 On Asphaltites with complacency. 
 
 I rode away in summer, when the boughs 
 
 Chequered with shade the whiteness of the lanes. 
 
 That night I rested near a ruined abbey, 
 
 Close by a river which, with level course, 
 
 Brushed its right side against a sweep of wood, 
 
 Washing the pendulous branches. Like a bow 
 
 Of gleaming silver, lost in meadow-grass, 
 
 The river bounded that monastic plain : 
 
 The moon was rising on the wooded hills. 
 
 And on the still deep waters nearest me 
 
 Her image brightened. Then before her face 
 
 A broad wing passed, and on the opposite bank 
 
 A stately heron poised herself to fish. 
 
 I clapped my hands, and that most noble bird 
 
 Rose with low-hanging stilts, and head thrown back, 
 
 And beak that seemed to spear the lofty moon, 
 
 And heavy wings that flapped the dusky air. 
 
 The morning sun foretold a burning day ; 
 And when the languor of the hazy noon 
 
 1
 
 lU THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. 
 
 Stole on myself and my tormented steed 
 
 I saw blue hills afar, and winding past 
 
 Sweet cottages, whose fronts of dazzling white 
 
 With rose and woodbine nourished hives of bees, 
 
 The road more steep now led me up the hills. 
 
 Whose curving lines and everchanging forms 
 
 I saw before in glimpses through the trees. 
 
 It led me out into the open heat ; 
 
 My weary steed went on with loosened rein 
 
 From side to side, displacing with his hoof 
 
 Loose gravel and white stones, till on the brow 
 
 He rested, sweeping with his silken tail 
 
 His tortured flanks, and oft the nerves beneath 
 
 Convulsed the shining hide whereon had fixed 
 
 Some thirsty fly. Descending cautiously 
 
 By a steep road into a silent vale, 
 
 Wiiich a bright river watered, we received 
 
 A pleasant shelter in green-lighted lanes, 
 
 And up the aisle of trees a gentle wind 
 
 Came from the stream to kiss, and welcome me. 
 
 And then the road led out upon a green, 
 
 Whereon a little ancient chai>el stood. 
 
 Here I dismounted, and sought out a pool 
 
 Whei'c I might bathe unnoticed. Sweeping round 
 
 A wooded cone tliat bared its rocky foot 
 
 And stratified foundation to the stream, 
 
 Whose soft hand chafed away its verdant robe 
 
 And felt its inner structure ; sweeping round
 
 THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. 115 
 
 This hill the river held its onward way 
 In reaches broad and long, all avenued 
 With lofty woods. 
 
 I left' this place at sunset, 
 And slept that night amongst the dreary hills : 
 The next day's route was on a lonely moor 
 Beneath a leaden sky. We slowly climbed 
 A long ascent, my weary steed and I ; 
 And when at last we reached the rainy height 
 I saw a plain that stretched to the horizon. 
 Flat from the mountain's foot, and lifted up 
 Its woods and fields, till level with the eye 
 They melted to a blue and cloudy verge, 
 Approaching one thin distant line of white. 
 That seemed suspended high mid earth and cloud. 
 That was the sea. Those wild fantastic shapes 
 That rest on the horizon in the north, 
 Like heaped-up clouds beyond the fatal sands 
 Which now the tide has deluged with a sea. 
 Those are the mountains of rough Westmoreland ; 
 And down below me, by the river Lune, 
 The tower and town of princely Lancaster. 
 
 I crossed the Leven on a glorious day. 
 Resting at noon within a natural tent 
 Of leafy branches ; and the pilgrim's feet 
 Were kindly washed by a sweet rivulet. 
 A range of hills with brows of whitest rock
 
 116 THE PILGRIM OF WINDERMERE. 
 
 Bounded the valley like a battlement. 
 
 Above them in the sky some level lines 
 
 Of slender cloud hung white and motionless. 
 
 Behind them rose a tall and splendid mass, 
 
 From whose bright sides the vapours loosely fell, 
 
 And floated off upon the streams of air. 
 
 The children in the meadows raked in lines 
 
 The sun-dried hay from the close-shaven ground. 
 
 And bared the silvery grass that blanched beneath. 
 
 Some fields whose summer produce had been housed 
 
 Already wore a tint of tender green, 
 
 Fair as the hue of spring. I left those fields, 
 
 And riding up a hill beheld the sun 
 
 Set in the mountains from an equal height 
 
 Whereon I stood, and like a conqueror 
 
 Throned in the saddle traced my line of march. 
 
 Like him I slept too in the open air ; 
 
 A meadow newly mown my bed of state. 
 
 Curtained by mountains, with the azure sky 
 
 Most richly wrought with heraldries of stars 
 
 For its high tester. Tracing those designs. 
 
 Swords, belts, and creatures which the phantasy 
 
 Of early dreamers hung in boundless space — 
 
 Lulled by the music of a waterfall, 
 
 And rustling foliage, and the booming beetles 
 
 Wlioso wings were faint, then loud, then fainter still, 
 
 As they flew past me — watched by the full moon,
 
 THE PILGRIM OP WINDERMERE. 117 
 
 Who kissed me as she kissed Endymion — 
 Breathing the scents of nature, every sense 
 Faded in sleep. Stars changed to nebula. 
 All sounds were mingled ; and the distant bark 
 Of moon-struck housedogs mingled with the hum 
 Of insects and the noise of waterfalls ; 
 Then melted into dreams. 
 
 When I awoke, 
 The moon's round edge had touched the misty hill ; 
 And groups of stars had set ; and standing by, 
 My horse was neighing, pawing the wet ground, 
 And blowing with loud nostrils in my ear. 
 So I arose, and by the northern star 
 Pursued the last stage of my pilgrimage. 
 Star-lighted glow-worms glittered in the fern, 
 Down in the dew. On one side of the lane 
 Were meadows covered with a silver mist, 
 With clumps of wood for islands, which deceived 
 Mine unaccustomed eye Avith eager hopes 
 That underneath that mist was Windermere. 
 
 I passed a silent village, still as death ; 
 
 Then by the cold light of the breaking day 
 
 Explored a path that led me to the lake. 
 
 It was a mirror which the sleepy night 
 
 Had clouded with her breath. The wooded isles 
 
 Arose like bergs of green fantastic ice, 
 
 With snowy fissures from a polar sea.
 
 118 THE PILGRIM CfF WINDERMERE. 
 
 Across the lake a lofty range arose, 
 Guarding the other shore, with gloomy heights 
 Reflected deep ; but far the northern peaks 
 Were faintly purple — over miles of lake 
 Casting no image. All was like a dream — 
 The living mist, the islands, and the hills, 
 The pale cold stars, dim light, and yellow east. 
 I felt like some knight-errant who had strayed 
 Through midnight regions till he reined his steed 
 On some enchanted shore of Fairyland. 
 Answer me, Echo ! thrice the bullet splashed, 
 And thrice it broke the surface of the lake ; 
 Still no reply — sweet Echo dwells not here. 
 Wait ! she had heard my single-voiced salute, 
 And was preparing a more royal volley. 
 From the dark fortress of the opposite hill 
 A rattling peal of musketry was poured ; 
 Then faint with distance roared the purple north, 
 Again the nearer mnnntains, and again ! 
 
 At noon I started from a dreamless rest, 
 And pulled all day a boat from isle to isle. 
 The scene had changed, its mystery was gone, 
 But perfect beauty loses not a charm 
 By that exposure which reveals it more. 
 The sleepy mist had soared into the sky. 
 And rolled in massive heaps of sunny cloud. 
 Casting swift shadows down upon the hills ;
 
 THE PILGRIAI OF "SVINDERMERE. 119 
 
 And rounded knolls of green, where all was blue 
 And flat»before, were gleaming in the sun. 
 The starlight icebergs changed to island groves, 
 And by their lawny shores and pendulous boughs 
 I glided smoothly. You might see the rocks 
 That heaped the spreading base of every isle. 
 In grey clear detail underneath the boat 
 Sloping away into the darkest depth 
 Like the broad feet of mountains. Bright as gods 
 With glowing figures, naked in the sun, 
 Some groups of boys are bathing near the bank. 
 White sails are shining out against the trees 
 That greenly plume the islands. Many boats 
 Are glancing past me, and their flashing oars 
 Are doubled by reflections white and blue. 
 The crowded steamer leaves the village pier ; 
 Its paddles splash ; it flaunts a gaudy flag ; 
 And brazen music loudens into noise 
 As its black hull approaches — it is past. 
 A smoke wreath curls between me and the sun ; 
 And the poor stricken water swells in waves, 
 Not like the glad excitement of a storm. 
 But very whales of torture — painful hurts. 
 That grate my boat in madness on the rocks. 
 
 I rowed till dusk, and then a gentle breeze 
 Rippled the water white beneath the sky ; * 
 
 But in the west the sun had left a haze
 
 120 THE PILGRIM OF WINDER5IERE. 
 
 Of crimson richness, and the wooded shores 
 And verdant knolls again were lost in blue. 
 Unmarked with detail, all the distant hills, 
 From rugged outline and exalted peak 
 To the white level of the rippling mere, 
 Were filled in with a cold and even blue, 
 A little purple near the crimson mist. 
 The nearer mountain was a sombre brown. 
 Like an old painter's background, and the lake 
 Reflecting it ; no shore was visible — 
 The hill and its reflection massed in one. 
 An island lay between me and the moon 
 Like a black hulk ; but as I glided past. 
 That gloomy island seemed to float away, 
 Revealing on the wavelets such a path 
 Of silver light as angels' feet might tread. 
 Then music reached me from a distant band, 
 And I was left as lonely as before. 
 When under morning stars I reined my steed 
 On the cold shore of mystic Windermere.* 
 
 * This poem is iu every respect a study from nature. In the summer 
 of 1852 I rode ou horscljack through the English Lake District ; and, 
 leaving my horse at Penrith, extended my jouniey to the Hebrides. 
 "Staffa" and "Simrise ou Ben Lomond" owe their orit'iu to the same 
 tour. The scene of the bivouac was the valley of Crosthwaite iu West- 
 morelaud.
 
 121 
 
 STAFFA. 
 
 I ENTERED Fingal's cave, where some have learned 
 
 To scorn the art of Michael Angelo. 
 
 They made a most unfit comparison, 
 
 Here is not Art but Nature. All is rude ; 
 
 And the dark pillars are not hewn alike, 
 
 But each retains its individual mark — 
 
 The impress of infinity. Man's pride 
 
 Of great conception and accomplished ends 
 
 Is not the glory of this ocean cave. 
 
 Look on its pavement — not of marble smooth, 
 
 Level, and safe, and thronged with worshippers — 
 
 But water full of motion, emerald green. 
 
 And effervescing with its inward life. 
 
 Between the glossy, rugged colonnades. 
 
 Waves sweep in swift procession to the sound 
 
 Of their own mighty voices, but the deep 
 
 Enters this portal with small reverence.
 
 122 STAFFA. 
 
 The waves outside come crowding like a host, 
 
 Whose white impatient plumes toss to and fro, 
 
 Before the black gate of a citadel. 
 
 And one by one they leave the open day 
 
 To die in this dull cavern, wildly torn 
 
 Into a thousand pouring waterfalls, 
 
 As from the slippery tops of broken shafts 
 
 They plunge into the concave of the sea. 
 
 And then before the dripping stones are bare 
 
 Another breaker rises up, and up. 
 
 Rushing into the darkness, and you hear 
 
 How at the farthest end it madly breaks 
 
 Its forehead on the rock, and staggers back, 
 
 And backward falling with a lifeless weight, 
 
 Stunned, splashing, drowning, senseless with the shock. 
 
 Is borne away by the retreating surge ! 
 
 This echoing strife would drown the chaunt of priests ; 
 
 And what Avould learned Architecture gain 
 
 By study of these pillars ? Ijook around I 
 
 Where are the toys of artificial faith — 
 
 Altar or chancel, cloister, transept, nave, 
 
 Piscina, credence, organ, puli)it, screen ; 
 
 Or thurible, or vestment for a priest ; 
 
 Or pix, or monstrance for the sacrament ; 
 
 Or candlestick, or sculptured imagery? 
 
 These white-robed gulls would make a sorry choir — 
 
 They scream less tunefully than choristers.
 
 STAFFA. 123 
 
 The time for building pyramids is past : 
 And they approached most nearly to the bulk 
 Of nature's hills, whose chambers are these caves. 
 But wherefore choose this 'wild and gloomy hole 
 To shame the patient skill of architects, 
 Who raised cathedrals twice as vast as this ? 
 Compare the sunsets that you rate so cheap, 
 When distant isles float purple on the sea, 
 With all the paintings in your galleries, 
 And Art is humbled. Place you side by side 
 A handful of the common flowers that spring 
 In all damp nooks, with human workmanship, 
 So handicraft becomes mere idleness. 
 Planets will bear comparison with balls 
 That take short flights across a cricket-field ; 
 And gas-lamps look dismayed before the sun. 
 Although they be the wonder of our streets. 
 But marble floors of many hues inlaid, 
 And fair mosaic on our polished walls, 
 And brazen gates, and ceilings bossed with gold. 
 And windows that upon the naked light 
 Fling as it enters many-coloured robes, 
 As luxuries of worship far surpass 
 This pavement of wild water, and this roof 
 Irregularly arched, with fissures rent, 
 Illumined by the ocean's glancing lights. 
 
 'T is vain to argue — for Sir Joseph Banks
 
 124 STAFFA. 
 
 Has testified more strongly to tlie power 
 Of tliis old fabric by his strange mistake, 
 Than I with all my rule and measurement. 
 Therefox'C I will forgive him, though he made 
 A needless onslaught on a noble art. 
 Let all be fools in StafFa — for the brain 
 That is not dead to the divinity 
 Of Nature is oppressed in such a place. 
 Let all be fools in Staffa ! 
 
 As for me, 
 I only said, " This is no handiwork 
 Of any mere mechanic ; for I find 
 No sign of square or measure, — but instead, 
 Rough blocks for columns, rude and various. 
 Yet most unlike in its unaltered use 
 Is this to any edifice of man ; 
 For our cathedrals have survived their creeds ; 
 Their ancient music traverses no more 
 With waves of sound their ribbed and vaulted roofs ; 
 Whereas the surges in this rugged cave, 
 Whose date no learned antiquary knows. 
 Have one eternal law — one endless hymn, 
 Which they shall sing for ever and for ever ! "
 
 125 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 "Compared to this, what are the cathedrals or the 
 palaces built by man I — mere models or playthings ! — 
 imitations as diminutive as his works will always be when 
 compared to those of nature. Where is now the boast of 
 the architect ? Eegiilarity — the only particular in which 
 he fancied himself to exceed his mistress Nature — is here 
 found in her possession." — Sir Joseph B.^nks. 
 
 Let us make the comparison to which Sir Joseph in\dtes 
 us. St. Peter's at Rome, though a " mere model," and a 
 " diminutive imitation," shall supply an instance of what 
 man may do, as far as dimension only is concerned, to rival 
 the Cave of Fingal. 
 
 Fingal's Cave. 
 
 ft. 
 Lenaiih . . . 227 
 
 Breadth ... 42 
 Height ... 66 
 
 St. Peter's. 
 
 ft. 
 Length . . . 610 
 
 Breadth offagade . 465 
 
 Height of fa9ade . 150 
 
 Height of dome . . 450 
 
 There is, however, an effect of indestructible strength 
 and overpowering massiveness in the solid walls of columns, 
 whose immense thickness is visible at the entrance, un- 
 rivalled in architecture, though nearly approached by the 
 twin towers of some castle gateways, guarding the gloomy 
 arch of the portal.
 
 126 
 
 INDOLENCE. 
 
 My heart is wasting like a loosened vine 
 That clings to nothing, or an empty mine 
 
 Le-ft hollow to the winds. 
 A spirit wanders in those chambers yet ; 
 But, save the sorrows I would fain forget, 
 
 No theme for thought he finds. 
 He moulds them into polished rosary beads, 
 A dying plant produces withered seeds ; 
 
 And round his brow he binds, 
 Not the green laurel — but a wreath of weeds.
 
 127 
 
 INDUSTRY, 
 
 My days are never weary, yet I toil 
 
 Like a strong plough that turns a stony soil ; 
 
 A harvest it shall bear ! 
 My soul is pi-ecious land I hold from God — 
 Early and late I furrow every sod, 
 
 And drop the rich seed there. 
 And still I feel no weariness nor pain 
 Steal over me. My labour is not vain, 
 
 For, reared with earnest care. 
 Autumn will show her sheaves of golden grain !
 
 128 
 
 THE BEACON. 
 
 There was of old a low and moated Peel 
 Beleaguered, and alone in its distress, 
 For succour was not near. But fiir away 
 Beyond the lulls there dwelt a friendly lord. 
 Whose aid was promised to the lonely squire ; 
 And on a signal mutually agreed. 
 He was to come to his deliverance. 
 
 Then said the gallant squire unto his sons : 
 
 " We have maintained this tower until the last ; 
 
 But now we starve ; therefore God speed you well, 
 
 That you may light the beacon." So the boys 
 
 Crept forth at even by a secret way, 
 
 And searching out the least frequented paths 
 
 Went swiftly. Now between them and the hill 
 
 There lay a sluggish haze that would not move. 
 
 And drunk with moisture, in the afternoon
 
 THE BEACON. ]29 
 
 In noisy sleep did press the windy fields. 
 
 Their journey was a wearisome ascent, 
 
 Not steep, but long ; whose work was half undone 
 
 By two most dreary valleys. As they walked, 
 
 Higher and wider grew the pale horizon ; 
 
 And looking whence their succour was to come, 
 
 They saw the east grow clearer and more blue. 
 
 But the last valley closed them all around ; 
 
 And out of it arose a massive heap, 
 
 Sloping behind, but facing like the wall 
 
 Of some high fortress our adventurers. 
 
 Ascending this, they rested halfway up ; 
 
 And gazing eastward, to their grief beheld 
 
 A red, dim haze that hid their hope of aid. 
 
 Still they ascended ; and upon the top 
 
 They found a little tower of shapeless stones. 
 
 Built mortarless, and rudely circled there. 
 
 " Here we will rest," said one, " until the night 
 
 Shall come and make our beacon visible." 
 
 So sheltered in that roofless hut they sat, 
 
 Their backs against the wall, through which the wind 
 
 Blew keenly, and their arms about each other. 
 
 Thus did they watch the slow-declining sun. 
 
 Beyond the moor they saw the distant hills 
 
 Rise from the mist wherein some little tarns 
 
 Lay sparkling ; and before their resting-place 
 
 Two dark brown pools were hollowed in the heath. 
 
 K
 
 330 THE BEACON. 
 
 The wind increased behind, and one ai-ose, 
 
 And wandered on the mountain, gazing round, 
 
 Standing upon the verge of that steep end 
 
 Thej had ascended. Looking to the north, 
 
 He saw a plain beneath him like a lake. 
 
 That hid the foot of that bold precipice, 
 
 Whose shadow stretching far had gathered in 
 
 Green farms to the estate of coming night. 
 
 Afar there rose grey mountains marked with snow. 
 
 Preserved in their cold fissures ; and beyond. 
 
 Others whose details distance had effaced 
 
 Flat shapes of airy blue against the sky, 
 
 In colour and solidity like clouds. 
 
 Rock, hill, and silver stream, and gloomy wood. 
 
 And pines that blackened the pale green of fields, 
 
 Melted upon the base of distant hills. 
 
 And far above his eye as these below, 
 
 Heavily liung the leaden-coloured clouds; — 
 
 Some still, but polished by the upper winds, 
 
 As rocks are worn by never-ceasing streams ; 
 
 Some like the shreds of hurricane-rent sails, 
 
 That fly at sunset o'er the heaving sea. 
 
 Lower and lower streamed the ragged mist. 
 
 Till, looking backward to the beacon-mound. 
 
 He saw it come between ; and hurrying through, 
 
 Rejoined his brother in his stony seat. 
 
 Then sun and liill and shining tarn were wrai)ped
 
 THE BEACON. 131 
 
 In one cold shroud of mist. The howling wind 
 
 Grew fiercer, and the night came slowly on. 
 
 They slept, but restlessly, and shivering drew 
 
 Closer and closer, when their half-shut eyes 
 
 Saw but the cold grey stones. At last one said, 
 
 " I think I see a star," for the swift cloud 
 
 Was rent a moment, but it closed again, 
 
 And darkness overcame. Then he arose. 
 
 And tottering from the violence of the storm. 
 
 At last succeeded in procuring fire ; 
 
 And di-opped a spark of flint upon the tinder. 
 
 And next he lighted with a torch of pine 
 
 The fagots sheltered in that little tower 
 
 From the wet misty wind ; and throwing thickly 
 
 Sulphur and nitre on the rising flame, 
 
 With orpiment, it waxed tall and blue. 
 
 And overtopped the walls, where the loud wind 
 
 Caught it, and hurled afar its vivid stream. 
 
 The elder looking eastward — for his help, 
 Or hope of help, was there — beheld the wind 
 Come howling on him like a troop of ghosts, 
 White with its load of vapour ; whereupon 
 His shadow stood dilated, dim, and changing. 
 That shade with flying cloak and levelled plume 
 Trod darkly on the cloud above the abyss. 
 Then minsled with the darkness as the fire 
 Died out. They left the embers black and red,
 
 132 THE BEACON. 
 
 With little streams of golden lava bright, 
 
 And slowly striding to the stormy verge, 
 There battled with the winds that did lay siege 
 To that high fastness, with a mighty roar 
 Of voices louder than the shouts of war ! 
 A dismal greyness was before their eyes. 
 Unconscious of their dizzy altitude, 
 They saw no plains or undulating hills, 
 Now trampled by white armies of the storm ; 
 But hand in hand they crept across the edge. 
 And with their poles before them slowly stepped 
 From turf to turf down tliat steep precipice. 
 And every foot dislodged a cloud of dust 
 From the fine peat-earth, which the hurricane 
 Flung up like hail into their blinded eyes. 
 Thus for a weary hour they did descend, 
 Leaning upon the wind, until the way 
 Led over debris and became less steep. 
 And from beneatli tlicii- fcit I ho boulder stones 
 Rolled down into the darkness. Then they found 
 The rugged track by which tlicy had ascended. 
 And splashing through' a little mountain stream, 
 No more opposed by the abating wind. 
 Found ]i;ilf\v;iy doAvn a shepherd's narrow hut, 
 And rested. 
 
 Tt was well : for in thnt night 
 Their signal had been hidden by the mist. 
 The Peel burnt down, their gallant father slain ;

 
 MOONRISE. 133 
 
 And one old faithful servant who escaped 
 Awoke them in the hut with woeful news. 
 They hid some wretched days and then departed, 
 And dwelt tiU manhood with the friendly earl, 
 Through whom their ancient manors were restored. 
 
 MOONRISE. 
 
 O LOOK at that superb autumnal moon 
 
 That rises from behind the manor-house 
 
 That crowns the knoll ! I've watched the cloudy sky 
 
 Grow brigliter till the globes upon the gables 
 
 Stood round and clear against the fleecy clouds ; 
 
 And now I see one black against her disc, 
 
 A transit as of Mercury 'cross the sun.
 
 134 
 
 MY OWN STUDY. 
 
 "In what is familiar and near at hand, the ordinary poet discerns no 
 form or comeliness : home is not poetical but prosaic .... But yet as a 
 great moralist proposed preaching to the men of this century, so would we 
 fain preach to the poets ' a sermon on the duty of staying at home.' 
 
 ' ' The poet, we cannot but think, can never have fivr to seek for a subj 3ct : 
 the elements of his art are in him, and around him on every hand ; for 
 him the ideal world is not remote from the actual, but imder it and within 
 it : nay, he is a poet precisely because he can discern it there." — Carlyle. 
 
 If you have read some hundreds of these lines, 
 
 Reader, you Ve grown quite intimate with me ; 
 
 And, like a favoured friend, I make you now 
 
 Free of the little study where I write ; 
 
 So that, whenever near the bolted door 
 
 I hear your footstep, I shall open it : 
 
 And if you be a Lady Beautiful, 
 
 I am your subject, you my royal guest — 
 
 You shall receive the welcome of a queen 
 
 From one you honour so. 
 
 It is a room 
 Wherein my youthful fancy has run wild —
 
 MY OWN STUDY. 135 
 
 Antique and rich — a little Abbotsford. 
 Herein concentrates all my love of home — 
 A narrow region, yet an ample chase 
 For such unbounded and immense pursuits, 
 As all the years of life could not exhaust. 
 I here surround myself with memories 
 Of the great past, and hopes for time to come. 
 Science farsighted, speaking prophecy ; 
 And History, a garrulous old man 
 With a bad memory, mixing useful truth 
 With spurious tales, repeated till the tongue 
 By habit forfeits the advice of Doubt, 
 The sire of Science. 
 
 My small armoury, 
 (A helmet from the priory of Kirklees, 
 With sword and pistol underneath it) hangs 
 Above the panels of the chimneypiece. 
 That iron cap reminds me of the grave 
 Where Robert rests, " the Erie of Huntingdon." 
 The pistol has belonged to some dragoon 
 In Cromwell's war ; 't was found in yonder ore-hard, 
 Deep in the soil beneath a damson-tree. 
 Some highbacked chairs are ranged about the room — 
 One laden with portfolios. On the Avails, 
 A sword or two, and horns of buffaloes, 
 With portraits of old Flemish Burgomcisters, 
 Copied from Rembrandt with a boyish hand 
 Unequal to translate his majesty.
 
 13C MY OV.'N STUDY. 
 
 Still in the evening light those bearded men 
 
 Sit calmly gazing from their oaken frames, 
 
 Not ill according with the sombre room. 
 
 Like strong supporters of a blazoned shield, 
 
 My hearth is guarded by two massive chairs, 
 
 Whose backs and arms are rough with carvings quaint 
 
 That which is near the window has a desk 
 
 Beside it ; there I labour in the day : 
 
 But when long evenings come in winter time, 
 
 I light my lamp upon the little table 
 
 That to the wall on one stout pillar stands. 
 
 Close to the other chair, and there I sit 
 
 Reading the Poets ; while upon the hearth, 
 
 Languid and panting with oppressive heat, 
 
 And barking feebly in her doating dreams, 
 
 Lies my old dog, the friend of many years. 
 
 Old friend ! I pause a moment to record 
 
 Our long attachment, and my own regret 
 
 That years which bring increasing strength to me 
 
 Are thy decay. Sleep on that glowing hearth. 
 
 Thou dost not fear a colder place of rest.* 
 
 I have not shown you all. Those bookcases 
 Between the carved pilasters there recessed 
 Aiford a curious index to my taste. 
 My good old tutor shakes his wealthy head. 
 And gravely looks unutterable things ; 
 
 • Writtou before her death. See "My Old Dog's Giavc."
 
 MT OWK STUDY. 137 
 
 For Homer sleeps with half his leaves uncut — 
 Yes, I confess it — half his leaves uncut — 
 And Cgesar slumbers near Herodotus. 
 Shakspeare is more disturbed than Sophocles, 
 And Thomas Moore than sweet Anacreon ; 
 Byron than Ovid ; Pindar yields to Pope ; 
 And Virgil, sadly thumbed in idleness, 
 To Milton gives precedence, as he ought. 
 But Horace — " Horace whom I hated so," 
 Conciliates me by opening at the place 
 Where he describes a little glassy stream, 
 An ilex, and some water-hollowed rocks. 
 I hate the cant of sanctity, but have 
 Some Bibles better read than you suppose ,- 
 Sermons of old divines, and sounder strength 
 Of recent thinkers ; books on harlot Rome, 
 Collected when my soul in ignorance 
 Burned to behold the doom of Antichrist ; 
 Rejoicing when the Roman mob expelled 
 Pius from the Quirinal, deeming thus 
 The island saint's dark prophecy fulfilled — 
 Foreshadowings of the dread Apocalypse ! 
 These on the higher shelves, but nearer hand. 
 The jarring sounds of controversy change 
 To music written by more gentle souls, 
 Whose very lives were songs and melodies — 
 Beethoven, Spohr, Yiotti, and Mozart.
 
 138 MY OWN STUDY. 
 
 As sweet as these, as perfect harmonies, 
 
 The vignettes of that wondei-ful old man 
 
 Whose being was a myth, a mystery. 
 
 Secluded in a city, at Avhose death 
 
 The feeble critics whom his works refute 
 
 Confessed his greatness. His was honest faith 
 
 In nature, which would not anticipate, 
 
 With crude and childish systems of its own^ 
 
 The wisdom it at length interpreted. 
 
 llogers was guided by unerring sense 
 
 As well as taste, when, like a prudent father. 
 
 He gave the gentle daughters of his brain, 
 
 Refined, accomplished, bred in elegance, 
 
 In marriage to the Avorks of such a man. 
 
 Painters may thank thee, Eogers ; for thy pen 
 
 Exulteth not in mountains, while to him 
 
 They were companions ; and tliy words are thus 
 
 Subdued and quiet foils to Turner's force. 
 
 So Painting triumphs over Poetry, 
 
 Lines over language. His superior strength 
 
 Lifts up thy weakness to a higher seat 
 
 Than thou, unaided, mightest hope to reach. 
 
 Together welcome, then, ye wedded works, 
 
 Together welcome to my choicest shelf I 
 
 We will iK)t spoil a festival of bookworms, 
 Or break upon a banquet, or disturb 
 Those heavy tomes of county history,
 
 MY OWN STUDY. 139 
 
 Which no one cares to study but myself. 
 But this old griffin cabinet wants air 
 In its recesses, for its doors conceal 
 A heap of parchment genealogies, 
 With shields of worth besprinkled, some the toil 
 Of a strange boyhood spent in odd pursuits. 
 This oak -bound volume, full of shields of arms, 
 Each shield illumined on a leaf of parchment. 
 With brazen clasps and tassels like a missal. 
 Remains a trophy of my wanderings 
 Among the fossil lore of feudal times. 
 But brighter trophies of a nobler chase 
 Are treasured in the same old cabinet — 
 They were the dearest playthings of a child, 
 Whose pastimes were instruction. Pillars, jars, 
 And cylinders of crystal, spheres of brass, 
 And pointed rods, and coils of covered wire. 
 Relics of days when streams of purple sparks 
 Were to myself as thunderbolts to Jove ; 
 And Knowledge first exulted in her strength. 
 And coiled her iron, clothing it with force 
 To lift huge weights, then suddenly deprived. 
 Drop them in utter weakness, paralysed, 
 Like a strong athlete stricken by disease. 
 
 My window faces to the morning sun. 
 
 And in its bright recess has found a place 
 
 My music-stand, whose pillar bound with vines
 
 no MY O-SVN STUDY, 
 
 vSupports a panel wliicli the carver left 
 Blank in the centre only, tempting me 
 Anachronism so to disregard, 
 That in the little circle you behold 
 A bronze medallion head of Paganini ! 
 Now in the darkest corner of the room 
 My folded easel leans against the waU ; 
 But on the table with my favourite books 
 Etchings are scattei-ed, and the precious prints 
 Of Albert Durer, him of Nuremberg. 
 
 'T is evening now, and through the painted glass 
 
 The mellow light of early autumn falls. 
 
 There are six yew-trees in the garden square ; 
 
 And a coeval sundial in the midst. 
 
 The level breeze that plays upon the beds. 
 
 With tender fingers lifts the scarlet bells 
 
 Of the rich fuchsia ; and the velvet leaves 
 
 Of that bright overblown anemone 
 
 Ai'C curling backwards, blazing to the sun. 
 
 There is a tree of scentless mignonette ; 
 
 Poppies with ribbon leaves, and many flowers 
 
 I love so well, that every morn I seek 
 
 To greet them with a pretty English name. 
 
 Mallows with petals softly pencilled deep. 
 
 That treasure in the bottom of their cups 
 
 A little cinquefoil of transparent green ; 
 
 Nasturtians rambling wide with table leaves,
 
 MT OWN STUDY. 141 
 
 Whereon tlie crystal dew of early morn 
 Lingers till noon, and flowers of golden hue, 
 From which the limners of monastic times 
 First learned to shade tlieir yellows with carmine ; 
 A mountain flower, the dwarf campagnula, 
 With Httle snowy bells in tender green ; 
 Horned violets ; and pansies purple-winged, 
 With golden petals deepening where they meet ; 
 A cinquefoil once all yellow with its flowers, 
 But now declining like a srenerous heart, 
 Who, having scattered freely all his gold, 
 Is beggared in the autumn of his life. 
 
 All these are glowing through my lower panes, 
 With richer hues than any painted glass 
 That ever gleamed in Gothic tracery. 
 Nor want they fit relief, for sombre green 
 Clothes the six yews, whose solid cones arise 
 At all the angles of the sarden walks. 
 Trimmed as they have been for a century. 
 The orchard lies beyond ; the meadow then, 
 With its plantations backed by distant hills ; 
 And over all the blueness of the sky. 
 
 I will not close the curtains, for the time 
 Is full of beauty. Near the southern tree 
 Venus is brightening in the quiet air ; 
 And from the lofty gable overhead
 
 142 MT OWN STUDY. 
 
 An owl has launched, and takes his buoyant flight 
 On ghostly wings between the mournful yews. 
 
 The dewy meadow is exhaling mist 
 That whitens in the moonlight like a lake, 
 Round clumps of birches fair as wooded isles. 
 Broad paths of shadow streak the glistening grass 
 Down gentle slopes. The dark plantations round 
 Grow faint with mist between. The distant hills 
 Melt all their outlines into vapour dim. 
 Along their ridges heavily-streaming red 
 Beneath the warm, grey sky. Now open wide 
 The window — listen to the flooded brook, 
 Still flooded though subsiding, in the glen. 
 Murmuring amongst the rocks with hollow voice. 
 The waning moon is grey, with sunken cheek. 
 Clouds there are none, save one ascending bank 
 That mars the outline of the southern hill. 
 The stars are few, and all their stony orbs 
 Gleam deathlike through the dull discoloured sky. 
 
 But close the window now, for I have grown 
 Half sad with the solemnity of night. 
 I draw the crimson curtains, light my lamp, 
 And read again the " Ancient Mariner," 
 Or that mysterious torso " Christabel."
 

 
 143 
 
 A DREAM OF NATURE. 
 
 " And fast beside there trickled softly downe 
 A gentle streame, whose murmui-ing wave did play 
 Emongst the pumy stones, and made a sowne 
 To lull him soft aslccpe that by it lay."— T/it Faerie Queeiie. 
 
 This poem breathes the spirit of the scene 
 
 Wherein I spent the springtime of my youth ; 
 Wliere I first worshipped Nature and her truth, 
 
 And where i?i elder time one may have been 
 
 Whose perfect manhood bore a riper fruit 
 Than I dare hope for my muturer age ; 
 Yet still in toils like his I would engage, 
 
 Although my sole reward be j)leasure in pursuit.* 
 
 I KNEW a learned boy who used to sit 
 Upon a rooted stone, with starry leaves 
 
 * See note.
 
 144 A DREAM OF NATURE. 
 
 Of lichen grey, and cushioned with green moss ; 
 And there he Avould unfold a little store 
 Of plants he had collected by the stream. 
 'T was in the early summer, when at noon, 
 Wearied with walking, in a secret place 
 Amongst the rocks he sought an hour of sleep. 
 The longings and the thoughts of boyish love 
 Found objects in his dreams, whereof the scene 
 Was ever in cool caves, or mossy banks, 
 Or deep, refreshing pools. Of rarest plants 
 And birds that seldom visit us, he dreamed ; 
 And fossils in the stones and in the sky, 
 Such wondrous combinations as we see 
 Once in a lifetime. If humanity 
 Peopled the laud, it was in noblest form 
 And most refined development. But though 
 His fancy was thus elegant, he found 
 An equal happiness in common things ; 
 For in his dream the shady alder grew, 
 And ash with oval leaf, and hazel shrubs. 
 And glossy ivy. On the ragged sods 
 About the roots, the undeveloped ferns 
 Reared up their crozier heads of silvery white, 
 Or powdered with a bloom of frosted gold, 
 Amongst their delicate scroll-work. Round about. 
 The ground was thickly strewed with priiiuoses. 
 Some dark rocks dripped with tributary springs. 
 And crowds of lilies choked the dampest nooks ;
 
 A DREAM OF NATURE. 145 
 
 But on the sunny banks an azure light 
 
 Hung o'er a thousand nebulae of flowers. 
 
 Anemone, and hyacinth, and bells 
 
 That drew the bee into their silent mouths. 
 
 Were waving near a water-ousel's nest. 
 
 Before the entrance of a little cave 
 
 Long creepers hung, and every angled leaf 
 
 Cast a sharp shadow on the rocky front, 
 
 Polished by many floods. The water flew 
 
 In domes of crystal o'er the rounded stones, 
 
 Gilded with solar images, o^nd bright 
 
 With azure of the sky. The young man's dream 
 
 Led him from stone to stone, until he turned 
 
 The corner of a rock ; and in his ear 
 
 The heavy water sounded as it fell. 
 
 And thereupon he started in his sleep — 
 
 For, white against the snowy waterfall 
 
 There stood a lady mute and motionless. 
 
 On her fair shoulders fell a cloud of spray, 
 
 Above her glossy hair an iris hung. 
 
 Her eyes were dark and wild, and cornered with 
 
 Vermilion. Down her pure transparent skin 
 
 The bright drops chased each other, hanging long 
 
 About her breasts, that like two shapely knolls 
 
 Covered with wintiy snow, shone white and cold ; 
 
 Upon their tops the rosy sunset hue ; 
 
 Their round sides bright with streams. Below her knees 
 
 The water did embrace her ; but there gleamed 
 
 L
 
 146 A DREAM OF NATURE. 
 
 Upon its rippling surface everywhere 
 
 Beautiful tints ascending from her feet. 
 
 Two crimson-spotted trout were playing there, 
 
 Touching her shapely limbs as worshippers 
 
 Lean against marble pillars smooth and tall 
 
 Of some most sacred edifice. At this 
 
 The youth grew restless with enchanting thoughts, 
 
 And murmured passionate words ; but afterwards 
 
 Dreamed on that by the self-same waterftxU 
 
 He stood and sought her vainly. Still the moss 
 
 Was green beneath the spr^y that once had clothed 
 
 Her shining shoulders, and the loving trout 
 
 Were darting to and fro. The sun had set, 
 
 And white before the moon, its iris lost. 
 
 Plunged the distracted water. Every hue 
 
 Faded to pearly green or blackest voids ; 
 
 And on the cold foam not an azure streak ; 
 
 And on the crystal domes no golden light. 
 
 There was a tender greyness in the sky ; 
 
 And past the moon, like revellers returning, 
 
 Cloud after cloud was hurrying towards the east, 
 
 Casting swift shadows on the rivulet. 
 
 Then through the pendulous boughs, and round about 
 
 The banks of fern and hyacinth, and in 
 
 The hollows of the rocks, there wandered loose 
 
 A voice tliat sometimes on the primrose beds, 
 
 And sometimes on the water, seemed to rest. 
 
 He sought her in the caves and in tlie pools.
 
 A DREAM OF NATURE. 147 
 
 Till as he stood beneath a shelving rock, 
 That voice fell from above ; and looking up, 
 He saw a ladder made of tangled roots. 
 And fractures of the storfe. Ascendino; this. 
 In the full moonlight gorgeously reclining 
 Did he behold the lady of the stream. 
 Her dai-k locks wandered in the tall young grass ; 
 And, kissing all her body with sweet lips. 
 Beneath her lay faithful forget-me-nots. 
 
 She ceased her song, and welcomed him with smiles, 
 
 And looked upon him with such kindliness, 
 
 That grasping her white hand with reverence 
 
 And wonder at her beauty, by her side 
 
 He knelt, till gazing in her tender eyes, 
 
 Trembling all over with delicious hope, 
 
 He would have kissed the bloom upon her lip. 
 
 Spell-bound, his hand fell powerless to his side. 
 His body grew benumbed and lost its use, 
 Oppressed by dreadful nightmare that confines 
 The soul — ^^still conscious — in a stiffened corpse. 
 So that in safety, and beyond his reach 
 That fair, unguarded form, with careless grace. 
 Lay smiling in the flowers. With quiet eyes 
 The lady watched the boy's astonished air, 
 And with a touch of haughtiness in tone, 
 That quickly changed to kindness kindling hope,
 
 148 A DREAM OF KATURE. 
 
 She thus addressed him in the sweetest tongue 
 Whose music ever entered human heart. 
 
 " Few hear my wandering voice as thou hast heard, 
 
 And fewer still discover my retreat ; 
 
 Yet, though thine eyes are drii.king deep of love, 
 
 I am not won thus easily. The toil 
 
 That leads thee onward to my hidden joys 
 
 Must be a life-long struggle ; every pause 
 
 Of daily labour eloquent with prayer 
 
 Unto my Father that he may bestow 
 
 The wealth of all my glory upon thee. 
 
 I am immortal, and eternal youth 
 
 Clothes me with all that freshness which excites 
 
 Your hot desire. Let patience prove your love : 
 
 For if true faith outlast this boyish passion, 
 
 And all the wishes of increasing years 
 
 Still point to me alone, that constancy 
 
 Will meet its fit reward ; and if you come 
 
 In future years with patient training strong, 
 
 I will dissolve the spell tliat frets you now." 
 
 The dreamer starting from his moonlit sleep, 
 
 Beheld the shadows of the ivy leaves 
 
 Still on the sunwarmed rock. He saw new thoughts 
 
 Come full of light from slumber's airy realm. 
 
 Whose wings resisted well the solar glare, 
 
 Not waxen like the pens of Daedalus ;
 
 A DREAM OF NATURE. 149 
 
 And thus, awaking, mustered all their band 
 In this soliloquy : 
 
 " Yes, I will earn 
 Success, fair Nature, in pursuit of thee ; 
 And to thy service thus I dedicate 
 All my bright future, sitting at thy feet. 
 I now can see, although 1 fail to grasp 
 Thy purity within the waterfall, 
 And on the rippling surface everywhere. 
 Those living tints ascending from thy feet. 
 The trout do love thee, and the iris arch 
 Is thy tiara. On the primrose beds, 
 And through the pendulous boughs, and round about 
 The banks of fern and hyacinth; and in 
 The hollows of the rocks, thy voice is heard 
 By those whose ears, undeafened by the roar 
 Of cities, can perceive thy melodies."
 
 150 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 A paragraph appeared in " The Times " of June 16, 1841, 
 which perhaps assumed too confidently the success of Mr. 
 F. Si)enser of Halifax in identifying the family to which he 
 belonged with that of the poet. It was re-produced in 
 "Notes and Queries," (March 26, 1853), and answered in 
 the same periodical on the ninth of the month following. 
 The author of the reply grounds his principal objection to 
 the paragraph on the fact that Ilurstwood Hall was built 
 by Barnard Towneley, and was for some time the property 
 of his descendants. The building, however, which is sup- 
 posed to have been honoured by tlie temporary residence 
 of the author of "The Faerie Queene" is not Hurstwood 
 Hall, l)ut another house in the same village, probably of 
 equal antiquity. The vignette illustrating this note was 
 painted on the spot, and the house on the left is that 
 which belonged to the Bpenscrs, whereas a portion of the 
 hall closes the view. Dr. Whitaker's silence on the subject 
 is, after all, merely negative testimony ; and his researches, 
 though laborious, by no means exhausted the districts he 
 described. Mr. (Vaik, in his industrious work on "Spenser 
 and his Poetry," enumerates the probabilities of the case. 
 To him, therefore, I refer the reader for the details of the 
 argument.
 
 A DREAM OF K ATI) RE. 151 
 
 If Spenser ever visited Hurstwood, lie must have 
 crossed the Brun, there a beautiful rivulet about four miles 
 from its source. And since the scene of the poem is about 
 a mile lower down in the same valley, and by the same 
 stream — and that, too, in the most picturesque part of its 
 course — there is, I think, sufficient evidence to justify the 
 allusion. 
 
 The " Dream of Nature," it will be scarcely necessary 
 to observe, is an eai-ly, and therefore of course a metaphy- 
 sical poem. As I gi'ow into natural philosophy the tendency 
 to personification passes off". The warmth of colouring and 
 the erotic sentiment of the allegory are mere boyishness, 
 and will do no harm.
 
 152 
 
 THE GLOW-WORM. 
 
 The rolling worlds above 
 
 Appear but twinkling stars, 
 That burn with flames of love, 
 
 As Venus shines for Mars : 
 But on the garden bed 
 
 There beams another light ; 
 It shines for one who fled 
 
 To call him home at niirht. 
 
 '* Come to my lonely breast, 
 
 Come on thy rapid wings ; 
 Here shalt thou find thy rest, — 
 
 Here cease thy wanderings. 
 I have no witchin": sonji 
 
 To hire thee to delight ; 
 But, burning all night long, 
 
 My torch of love is bright."
 
 THE GLOW-WORM. 153 
 
 Thus in the days of old 
 
 Angelic lovers came, 
 Descending to behold 
 
 The soul-enticing flame. 
 It shone in woman's eyes, 
 
 And lured them with its light 
 Down from their native skies, — 
 
 Down from their starry height. 
 
 And when my rising soul 
 
 Soars in the truth of day, 
 The powers of firm control 
 
 Like waters ooze away. 
 My strong wings fail ere dark ; 
 
 And when I yearn for right. 
 Love with its tempting spark 
 
 Allures me to delight.
 
 154 
 
 AVE MARIA. 
 
 There is a maiden at my side 
 Who bids my frozen heart forget 
 
 Philosophy with all its pride, 
 And sing a sweet duet. 
 
 " Come, join your deeper voice to mine ; 
 
 And though the subject of the song 
 Seem to your conscience not divine, 
 
 It surely is not wrong 
 
 To sing the music that you feel 
 
 To words that only aid the sound." — 
 
 Her voice was like a ringing peal 
 From consecrated ground, 
 
 That comes with music o'er the fields, 
 Where through a lonely soul it flows— 
 
 A soul that hesitates and yields. 
 Till with the crowd it goes,
 
 AVE MAEIA. ]55 
 
 And has not strength to think alone, 
 
 Or resolution to withstand 
 The calling of a pleasant tone 
 
 Into a dreamj land. 
 
 I sang in Rome's forgotten tongue 
 
 The prayer I knew was false and vain ; 
 
 But round my weakened heart was flung 
 A bright and pleasant chain. 
 
 I yielded all that once I knew ; 
 
 I never struggled in the snare ; 
 But sang the hymn and thought it true, 
 
 Converted unaware. 
 
 Idolaters may be forgiven, 
 
 Aids to devotion have their worth ; 
 
 My hymn was to a maid in heaven 
 Addressed to one on earth. 
 
 I looked upon her all the while ; 
 
 I searched the scripture of her eyes, 
 For my religion was her smile, 
 
 Her thoughts its mysteries. 
 
 Though my affections were above, 
 
 Still as devout adorers do, 
 I sang to Mary hymns of love, 
 
 And kissed her image too.
 
 15G 
 
 THE SANYASSI. 
 
 " I HAVE subdued at last the will to live, 
 Expelling nature from my weary heart ; 
 
 And now my life, so calm, contemplative, 
 No longer selfish, freely may depart. 
 
 The vital flame is burning less and less ; 
 
 And memory fuses to forgetfulness. 
 
 Sometimes I gaze on vacancy so long. 
 
 That all my brain grows vacant, and I feel 
 
 That wondrous influence which doth make me strong 
 In resolution and unworldly zeal. 
 
 Until abstracted from all time and sense, 
 
 I sink into eternal indolence. 
 
 And now I feel my inward life grow still, 
 A being by itself, wliich fondly clings 
 
 To consciousness which I can never kill. 
 Yet is abstracted from all outward things, 
 
 And slumbers often and is overgrown ; 
 
 The sense of self increases when alone.
 
 THE SANYASSI. 157 
 
 I have subdued the will, but gained the power 
 To dwell among the denizens of earth ; 
 
 I spread my spirit over tree and flower. 
 
 And human hearts, and things of meaner birth ; 
 
 And thinking thus to give my soul away, 
 
 I found it grew more conscious every day. 
 
 The simple crowds who hourly pass me by, 
 I think have lately grown afraid of me ; 
 
 There is some virtue in this sunken eye, 
 For sometimes in my dreams I faintly see 
 
 The workings of the spirit in the brain. 
 
 And living floods that gush in every vein. 
 
 Now am I weary of this vain endeavour 
 
 To lift my spirit to eternal sleep ; 
 I seek the marble stairs, the sacred river, 
 
 The liquid graves below, where calm and deep 
 Beneath where that bright, silent water flows, 
 Stretch wide the regions of divine repose." 
 
 With thoughts like these the Indian suicide 
 
 Dragged forth his stiffened limbs from his old lair ; 
 
 He had no garment on his shrivelled hide. 
 
 He shunned the grove, and sought the solar glare : 
 
 He never looked aside, and his dead march 
 
 Had for its goal a gate of one proud arch.
 
 158 THE SANVASSI. 
 
 It rose in sculptured splendour on the view 
 From the surrounding foliage of dark green, 
 
 Whose masses of broad shadow did subdue 
 
 Its prominent light. The blue sky shone between. 
 
 A crowd was on the river's sacred marcre. 
 
 And on the Ganges many a g/iudy barge. 
 
 Down to that river he descended now ; 
 
 And as he pressed the last steps of the stair, 
 A glance of pleasure from beneath his brow 
 
 Fell on two jars of porous earthenware: 
 He seized them with his feeble hands, and tied 
 One of them to his girdle on each side, 
 
 And floated slowly from the crowded Ghaut; 
 
 And since no friendly hand Avas stretched to save, 
 Found in those quiet Avaters what he sought — 
 
 A long rest and an honourable grave. 
 His faith was righteous, and his ending blest ; 
 And now his soul enjoys eternal rest.
 
 159 
 
 TO BEATRICE AT PARTING. 
 
 Your image, love, when you depart, 
 Not long within your miri'or stays ; 
 
 And thus by me your open heart 
 Was occupied some pleasant days. 
 
 But mine by Nature has been made 
 So sensitive to Beauty's light, 
 
 Your fixed reflection will not fade. 
 For there your photograph is bright. 
 
 And though a careless eye may see 
 No portrait there except its own — 
 
 A thousand forms reflected be, — 
 It clings, my love, to yours alone !
 
 160 
 
 LOVE AND LIGHT. 
 
 I KNOW a lady very bright 
 
 By candlelight. 
 She is a jewel richly set, 
 Her splendour made mc half forget 
 A quiet girl that first I met 
 
 That very night. 
 
 That quiet girl, Avhat has she done — 
 
 That quiet one ? 
 I found her where the trees are green, 
 And where the sunlight falls between ; 
 I cannot tell how long we've been 
 
 Til the warm sun. 
 
 Though he looks down Avilli glances hot, 
 Slic fears him not ;
 
 LOVE AND LIGHT. 161 
 
 For well she knows that she can bear 
 The stern exposure of his glare ; 
 And daylight beauty baits the snare 
 Where I am caught. 
 
 The harebells fill the air with blue : 
 
 Their dazzling hue 
 Hangs like a cloud of azure light 
 Above them; — so your own delight 
 Leaves your blue eyes, and takes its flight 
 
 Away from you, 
 
 Filling the atmosphere with love ! 
 
 And high above 
 The sun that warms our hearts and veins — 
 Great sun, may who thy light disdains 
 Be blind for ever for his pains. 
 
 And darkly move ! 
 
 Shine on us long this afternoon, 
 
 Night comes too soon ! 
 My love was made to glad my sight, 
 Before the sun our troth we plight ; 
 Let lust and evil walk by night 
 
 With the blind moon ! 
 
 M
 
 163 
 
 MY OLD DOG'S GRAVE. 
 
 My dog is buried near the garden seat, 
 And, when I sit there, slumbers at my feet. 
 
 As she has done before ; 
 So I prefer that place, that I may be 
 Near one^ whose sweetest rest was nearest me, 
 
 And thus in part restore 
 The past of friendship, or at least revive 
 Affections that grow faint and fugitive, 
 
 When rendered back no more 
 By those who paid them doubly when alive. 
 
 Her grave is deep — the sunbeams cannot reach 
 Her coldness — nor the music of kind speech 
 
 Enter her earth-stopped ear. 
 She was as white as snow, and is as cold ; 
 Pure once, but now defiled with garden mould ; 
 
 And eyes that have been clear
 
 MY OLD dog's GEAVE. 183 
 
 Are dull, and full of dust that gives no pain — 
 They bear no image to the little brain — 
 
 She knows not I am near. 
 Her sleep is peaceful — let it so remain. 
 
 A loveless Sultan with a thousand wives 
 Knows nought of that affliction which deprives 
 
 A husband of his wife ; 
 And those who rate a dog by what he cost 
 Would never dream the half of what I lost 
 
 In such a little life. 
 She was my friend in boyhood, not my slave ; 
 My boyhood now lies buried in her grave, 
 
 And manhood's joyless strife 
 Opens before me on the world's rough wave. 
 
 In pleasant country scenes by hill and stream, 
 Her image haunts me like a waking dream ; 
 
 And in the deep, long grass, 
 When evening sunshine lights the crimson seeds, 
 And plays about the wild flowers and the weeds. 
 
 Her spirit seems to pass 
 With a faint rustle and a noiseless tread — 
 See ! the tall hayseeds wave above her head — 
 
 It is not so, alas ! 
 It was the wind : — she lives not — she is dead !
 
 164 MT OLD dog's GRAVE. 
 
 My study hearth is cheerful still, and bright ; 
 But from the rug one spot of living white 
 
 Is gone, and all seems dark. 
 And now I feel I am alone indeed — 
 No gentle eye to watch me as I read, 
 
 No little soul to mark 
 The changes of my countenance, and wait 
 Until the cinders blacken in the grate, 
 
 To rouse me with her bark — 
 I miss these little services of late. 
 
 My window looks upon her place of rest ; 
 My hearth is cold as a forsaken nest : 
 
 But from the setting moon 
 Extends the shadow of the pointed yew. 
 And Avith its midnight finger it points true — 
 
 It will be midnight soon. 
 ' T is on the home of one I could not save : 
 She loved the sun, and in return he gave 
 
 His richest beams at noon. 
 And scattered daisies on my old dog's grave. 
 
 He, when the earth was hardened round the dead 
 By nightly frosts, laid snowdrops on her bed. 
 
 His fairest coverlet. 
 And now 1 know how beautiful is death. 
 For her remains sustain them from beneath ; 
 
 And she is living yet
 
 MY OLD dog's grave. 165 
 
 In humble flowers as meek as her meek nature, 
 As white and gentle as that gentle creature 
 
 Whose loss I so regret, 
 And each white flower becomes a living feature. 
 
 I would not slight the gentle faith of those 
 Who hope for compensation for the woes 
 
 Of even the inferior kinds, 
 In some eternal future which they guess — 
 Some future of such tranquil happiness 
 
 As well might suit their minds ; 
 Yet reason plucks the fsiirest wings of faith, 
 And owns the dark reality of death — 
 
 The common lot which binds 
 The higher creatures unto those beneath.
 
 166 
 
 THE LAST LINK. 
 
 His dwelling is a palace of the arts ; 
 And there, surrounded bj the works of those 
 With whom his soul has held communion, 
 The silvery twilight of a hundred years 
 Descends upon him. 
 
 We were three together, 
 Talking away an afternoon of spring. 
 The sun was shining in the public park. 
 And threw the shadows of the window frames 
 On the drawn blinds. The mellow light, diffused, 
 Fell sweetly on Velasquez, and a glow 
 Bathed Rubens and the hues of Veronese. 
 There was no vulgar newness in the room, 
 Nor gaudiness — the gilding dim with years, 
 The furniture well worn by many guests — 
 All things subdued into a calm repose. 
 And harmonised by long companionship.
 
 THE LAST LINK, 167 
 
 The ornaments so delicately wrought 
 
 About the sideboard, and the wooden plinth 
 
 Which reared a marble bust against the light, 
 
 Were carved by Chantrey when a working man. 
 
 The sculptor was presented to our friend 
 
 In the full bloom of knighthood and success — 
 
 By him, of course, received with courtesy ; 
 
 When great Sir Francis, having made his bow, 
 
 Eemarked, " I am not wholly strange to you — 
 
 You were an early patron, sir, of mine ; 
 
 For when my purse was scantily supplied 
 
 By the small wages that a journeyman 
 
 Could then obtain by carving, your designs 
 
 Provided labour for the very hand 
 
 Which you have grasped so kindly — there they are. 
 
 The records of your patronage." Our friend. 
 
 Who valued them before as furniture 
 
 Done by some nameless but accomplished workman, 
 
 Esteems them now as trophies nobly won 
 
 In his first field of labour by a youth 
 
 Whose after conquests consecrated these. 
 
 Upon the sideboard stood a bust of Pope, 
 Modelled from life. The features, lank and old. 
 But full of thought, expressed a state of mind 
 Whose peace is bought by conquest. On the wall 
 A bracket bore another work in clay. 
 Done by the hand of Michael Angelo.
 
 168 THE LAST LINK. 
 
 But even these had lost their interest : 
 
 For near them sat a grey old gentleman, 
 
 Gazing upon a picture which he praised 
 
 So warmly, that the painter (who sat by) 
 
 Soon changed the conversation. Then he spoke 
 
 Of other works, and asked " if I had been 
 
 Through all the house ? " And truly scai'ce an inch 
 
 Of that rich mansion had I not explored, 
 
 From ground to roof one treasury of art, 
 
 Of pictures, books, and old engraven gems, 
 
 Busts, vases, and antiquities of price. 
 
 What elegance could be beyond his reach. 
 
 Whose very cornices and cabinets. 
 
 Fender and fire-irons, sideboard, chimneypiece, 
 
 Were painted or designed by men of note ? 
 
 I thought this poet's lodging in the world 
 
 Exceeds my modest library, as mine 
 
 Does Burns's " auld clay biggin ;" but the soul 
 
 Gains little from the luxuries of wealth ; 
 
 And, after all, the wild and weedy banks 
 
 Of my own stream are worth perhaps to me 
 
 The galleries of Europe. Though I love 
 
 Art with a true and unaffected passion, 
 
 I do not envy him of whom I write 
 
 His precious pictures, but the groups of friends 
 
 Made happy by his kindness, who enjoyed 
 
 His pleasant breakfasts thirty years ago — 
 
 Byron, and Scott, and Turner, merry Hook,
 
 THE LAST LINK. 169 
 
 Jolly Sir Francis, lively little Moore, 
 And all the rest. 
 
 They die off one by one : 
 But he, the last of those connecting links 
 Which bind the generations of mankind 
 In one long chain of friendship, still survives ; 
 And in the pressure of his gentle hand 
 I gained with many great men in their graves 
 A personal acquaintance, or at least 
 The "introduction of a common friend. 
 So am I linked more closely with the past — 
 Myself a link between the past and future, 
 A new name on a pedigree of souls, 
 Whose friendship is paternal in its kind — 
 That of the old and young. This lineage 
 Of mere acquaintance has a strong effect 
 On youthful hearts. Connexion with the great, 
 Either by blood or intellect, inspires 
 A sense of duty — duty to perform 
 All that the world expects from us, and more.
 
 170 
 
 REVELRY. 
 
 • 
 
 Mekrilt, merrily, drink we all. 
 
 Welcome guests at a jovial board ! 
 Eyes may wander — eyelids fall — 
 
 Still let the precious wine be poured. 
 Pour, pour ! 
 Till the goblet tall will hold no more : 
 
 And high above its foaming brim, 
 The miniature icebergs floating clear 
 
 Coldly kiss the lips of him 
 Whose cheeks are purple with good cheer. 
 The claret jug — a graceful queen, 
 
 Whose slender neck a silver vine 
 Clasps for ever — stands between 
 Two sister goblets emerald green. 
 
 Filled again with perfumed wine ! 
 The precious liquid ebbs and flows ; 
 The graceful vessel comes and goes ;
 
 BEVELRT. IVl 
 
 How replenished no one knows, 
 For no one here a thought bestows 
 
 On any mortal thing. 
 Lower and lower the claret sinks ; 
 Deeper and deeper each good soul drinks, 
 Till he bows his head, and nods, and winks, 
 
 And falls asleep like a king. 
 
 A rich beaufet, whose carvings old 
 Are half-concealed by its velvet dress, 
 Occupies a deep recess, 
 Piled it is with plate of gold. 
 What with the taper's flooding light. 
 And the jewelled cups and dishes bright ; 
 And the rich beaufet with carvings quaint 
 Of many a face that would pass for a saint ; 
 And the sumptuous cloth of crimson deep ; 
 And the liveried servants — half asleep ; 
 And the sombre hue of the ancient oak ; 
 And a pastile fuming its fragrant smoke ; 
 And the light just falling wherever it should, 
 On silver, and gold, and polished wood ; 
 And the shadows deep that retire behind 
 Goblin shapes that haunt the mind ; 
 And the pictures that hang on the lofty walls ; 
 And the music that rises at intervals ; — 
 What with all these, it resembles indeed 
 The gorgeous church of an ancient creed ;
 
 172 PARASITES. 
 
 And justly — for Bacchus has ruled as long 
 
 As any religion, right or wrong ; 
 
 And by his inspiration the cleverest sages 
 
 Have written to edify future ages. 
 
 But all the gods are so very precise 
 
 In levying tax and sacrifice ; 
 
 And they charge such a very exorbitant price 
 
 For anything pleasant — which they call "vice. 
 
 He lets us drink till the dawn of day — 
 
 He lets us drink our lives away ; 
 
 But at last he comes to claim his prey. 
 
 And the " generous " god, whatever they say. 
 
 Is a creditor harsh — and the devil to pay ! 
 
 PARASITES. 
 
 Insects that draw their living from a steed 
 May think him useful for their present need, 
 But cannot judge his symmetry nor speed: 
 
 So parasites who feed upon the great 
 Become, in time, too closely intimate 
 To see tlie full proportion of their state.
 
 173 
 
 LANCASHIRE BELL-RINGERS. 
 
 From the dark old belfry tower, 
 
 From the ringers' lofty room, 
 
 A steady light on a winter's night 
 
 Shines golden through the gloom. 
 
 And the tracery of the window, 
 Mullion, cusp, and quatrefoil, 
 Shows clear and plain, for every pane 
 Is bright with lamps of oil. 
 
 No marriage music gaily 
 Its pleasant gossip tells, 
 But low and soft from the ringers' loft 
 There comes a sound of bells. 
 
 Those diligent old ringers, 
 They practise many a tune ! 
 For they must go on the winter snow, 
 Beneath the Christmas moon,
 
 17* LANCASHIRE BELL-RINGERS. 
 
 To all the country houses, 
 
 To ring their carols sweet, — 
 When, bells in hand, the ringers stand 
 Upon their freezing feet. 
 
 And through the curtained window 
 Their full-toned music comes, 
 Rich and clear it fills the ear. 
 
 Like a band with horns and drums. 
 
 The portly butler opens 
 
 The mansion's folding-door, 
 And in the hall their footsteps fall 
 Upon the oaken floor. 
 
 And whilst we sit at dinner 
 A dulcet jargoning 
 Floats softly round, then swells the sound 
 Until the glasses ring. 
 
 We '11 go and watch the ringers, 
 And let the tankard stand. 
 They sit in a row — at once you know 
 The leader of the band. 
 
 He says, " For fifty winters 
 I have rung at Christmas here ; 
 I never fail to drink your ale. 
 
 And taste your Christmas cheer."
 
 TO A SARCASTIC BEAUTY. 176 
 
 " Bring him the silver tankard ! " 
 So the old man was consoled 
 With a draught of port of the proper sort, 
 And a coin of yellow gold. 
 
 And they gave us richer music ; 
 And the leader of the band 
 Struck up, and fast the bells were passed 
 Across from hand to hand. 
 
 TO A SARCASTIC BEAUTY. 
 
 Your breast is heaped like mountain snows ; 
 Your cheek is like a blushing rose ; 
 Your eyes are black as ripened sloes — 
 
 Like diamonds do they glitter. 
 I do not flatter like a fool : 
 The diamond is a cutting tool ; 
 The rose is thorny ; snow is cool ; 
 
 And sloes are very bitter.
 
 176 
 
 TO HER BROTHER. 
 
 An angel guarded me at birtli ; 
 
 .And, when my sainted mother died, 
 Withheld me from the hungry earth, 
 
 And sweetly prophesied : 
 
 " No, Death ! not yet. If overcome. 
 He never can accomplish good ; 
 
 But know you not that there are some 
 Strongest in solitude ? 
 
 And such may be this orphan's strength ; 
 
 He will improve his mental frame 
 With lonely training, and at length 
 
 Rise suddenly to fame. 
 
 Since Nature often makes amends, 
 
 If he desire it, lie may find 
 A brother's heart amongst his friends — 
 
 A brotherhood of mind."
 
 TO HER BROTHER. 177 
 
 And thus, my friend, I found in you 
 Some compensation for the wrong 
 
 Of birth ; and since our love is true, 
 May it endure as long 
 
 As does a blood-relationship — 
 So long that each of us may hear 
 
 Approval from a rival's lip, 
 Believing it sincere. 
 
 By this I have a double gain — 
 
 A sister worthy of my love — 
 Unless her gentle heart disdain. 
 
 Or you might not approve 
 
 Such dear adoption, knowing well 
 That it might lead me farther still ; 
 
 And that affection would rebel 
 Against the yielding will, 
 
 Which would not drag her nature down, 
 Or shade the sunlight of her face ; 
 
 Or to the level of my own 
 Her better soul debase. 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 THE WIDOWED SWAN. 
 
 The valley narrowed, and the lofty cliffs 
 
 Relieved their outline on the rainy sky, 
 
 An outline rough with crags ; and lower down, 
 
 Where it by steps descended to the fields. 
 
 The pines were bristling ; and the reddening birch, 
 
 And woods of oak upon the mountain's foot. 
 
 Approached the borders of a little tarn. 
 
 The sky was tinged with faint and flushing x-cd, 
 
 Wherewith the clouds grew luminous, and showed 
 
 Within their masses forms and distances. 
 
 The water of the tarn was silvery white. 
 
 Enriched with rose reflected from above. 
 
 All round its shallow marge dark rushes grew : 
 
 And, as the water deepened, here and there 
 
 A little clump unwilling to be drowned 
 
 Pierced with sharp points the silver of the surface.
 
 THE WIDOWED SWAN. 179 
 
 Amongst them floated like a lump of snow 
 
 A stately swan, so lifeless, still, and cold. 
 
 Except the graceful poising of the head 
 
 Almost inanimate. She came so near 
 
 That I could see the yellow of her beak, 
 
 And her black eyebrows and her mournful air, 
 
 For she was in the grief of widowhood ; 
 
 Her mate was dead, and from that other pond. 
 
 Where they had lived together with their young, 
 
 She flew across to this for change of scene. 
 
 Some water-hens were feeding on the land, 
 
 WhichjWith their breasts close-sweeping the wet ground, 
 
 Ran to the water-side when I approached, 
 
 And broke its silver with a trailing splash, 
 
 And in the rushes hid their dusky forms. 
 
 Small, lively, dark — what strange associates 
 
 For that majestic, snowy, stately swan !
 
 180 
 
 THORWALD SEN'S DEATH. 
 
 Toe play is interrupted — every eye 
 
 Is on the place where the great sculptor sat : 
 
 'T is but a moment since he sat and smiled, 
 
 And then he sank — you could not say he fell 
 
 Out of his chair, he sank so quietly. 
 
 A whisper in the theatre of death, 
 
 Death and Thorwaldsen — is Thorwaldsen dead? 
 
 Yes ! whilst you filled the place with loud applause 
 
 He left you unobserved. The curtain foils, 
 
 For a great soul has left the stage of life. 
 
 The theatre is emptied, silent, dark, — 
 
 Empty, and dark, and silent is the brain 
 
 Once thronged with images of loveliness ! 
 
 In the cathedral of the capital 
 
 The King and Queen received the sculptor's bier. 
 
 And as it slowly came along the aisle, 
 
 With royal princes and the great of Denmark 
 
 All weeping round it, the colossal Christ 
 
 Which he had chiselled, looked serenely down.
 
 thorwaldsen's death. 181 
 
 And with its marble hands did welcome him 
 To his repose. On both sides stood the Twelve ; 
 And they bare living witness. of the dead, 
 Whose hand had carved them for his monument. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This shoi-t poem was suggested by a conversation with 
 a Danish Lady who had been personally acquainted with 
 the great sculptor, and was in possession of a large and 
 beautiful collection of his drawings. The particulars of the 
 funeral are recorded in a volume of " The Illustrated London 
 News," but are too long for extraction ; — not so the follow- 
 ing vi\nd passage from Andersen's " Story of my Life." 
 
 "On the last day of his life I sat beside him at dinner ; 
 he was uncommonly merry, repeated some witticisms, which 
 he had just read in the ' Corsaii*,' a well-known Copen- 
 hagen paper, and spoke of the journey which he intended 
 to undertake to Italy in the summer. We parted after 
 this : he went to the theatre, I home. On the following 
 morning the waiter at the hotel where I put up said, ' That 
 was a strange thing about Thorwaldsen — that he died yes- 
 terday.' ' Thorwaldsen ! ' exclaimed I : ' he is not dead ; I 
 dined with him yesterday.' ' They say that he died yesterday 
 evening at the theatre,' said the waiter. I thought he had 
 been taken ill, but still felt a strange anxiety, and hastened 
 immediately over to his house. There lay his corpse, 
 stretched out on the bed ; the room was crowded with 
 strangers ; the floor wet with snow-water ; the air stifling. 
 The Baroness Stampe sat on the bed and wept bitterly. I 
 stood trembling, and deeply aflected."
 
 182 
 
 PERFUME. 
 
 False girl ! thy sweetness had a price, 
 Thy richest scent was bought with gold ; 
 But real attractions are not sold, 
 
 And vain is all thine artifice. 
 
 The maid whose sweetness is her own 
 Needs not the attar's sprinkled showers ; 
 Nor Essence of a Thousand Flowers ; 
 
 Nor fragrant Water of Cologne. 
 
 I seek her as the honey bee 
 
 Seeks out some earthly paradise ; 
 Till in the pools of her blue eyes 
 
 The image of myself I see.
 
 183 
 
 THE HELMETED SKULL. 
 
 I PUT a helmet on a skull, 
 
 And plumed it with a sprig of yew ; 
 The notion might be fanciful, 
 
 The costume scarcely true. 
 
 Perhaps it was a jolly monk, 
 
 Whose days were passed in holy peace, 
 Until with all that he had drunk 
 
 His girdle did increase. 
 
 Perhaps it was a country squire 
 Who never left his native soil, 
 
 And loved too well his own bright fire 
 To share a victor's spoil.
 
 184 THE HELMETED SKULL. 
 
 Perhaps it was a working man, 
 Whose constant labour day by day 
 
 Could scarce keep pace with Time, who ran 
 In nakedness away. 
 
 Yet still upon those arching brows 
 That warlike helmet shall remain ; 
 
 For if it be the ruined house 
 Of any human brain, 
 
 Its inmate may have strongly fought 
 Temptations that beset his course, 
 
 And boldly grappled evil thought 
 With stern and silent force. 
 
 It is a conflict where success 
 
 Attends a nature cold and strong ; 
 
 And many fail who none the less 
 Have fought and suffered long. 
 
 Then thus I do adorn the dead 
 
 With iron helmet plumed with yew. 
 
 In hope that once the living head 
 Was in resistance true.
 
 185 
 
 AL JANNAT.* 
 
 "VVe die — I know no more — I cannot tell 
 Our future fate ; but Moslem doctors say 
 
 That after we are slain by Azrael, 
 
 Munkar and Nakeer will arrive next day 
 
 To catechise — and if we answer well, 
 
 They'll leave in peaceful rest our rotten clay : 
 
 But if we stammer like a child at fault, 
 
 Our skulls will suffer from their rough assault. 
 
 * This poem is a fragment, complete however in itself, of a juvenile pro- 
 duction which was left unfinished after 200 stanzas had been written and 
 corrected. I shall not publish it in an unfinished state ; and it is, there- 
 fore, improbable that the completed cantos will ever see the light, especi- 
 ally since they read very Uke a bad imitation of Begpo. " Al Jarmat" is 
 merely a digression suggested by the death of a devout Mussulman.
 
 188 AL J ANN AT. 
 
 We next in Berzak, or the Literval, 
 
 Shall dream dreams and see visions in our sleep ; 
 A rest enduring till the trump shall call ; 
 
 Till rain for forty years the earth shall steep ; 
 Till the sun die, and constellations fall 
 
 Into the boiling, black, and desolate deep ; 
 Till the whole earth become one vast death-bed, 
 And even till Azrael himself is dead. 
 
 Then the archangel Izrafil shall sound 
 
 The blast that calls to judgment, and each soul 
 
 Shall fly to seek its own sepulchral mound. 
 And then the shattered earth from pole to pole 
 
 Shall open, and the flesh shall cluster round 
 The whitened bones until they shall be whole, 
 
 Fit to receive the Spirit which hath come 
 
 To dwell for ever in its former home. 
 
 A motley human multitude they stand. 
 
 For Moslems, Jews, and Infidels arc there ; 
 
 Ghebers and Brahmins, men of every land. 
 Of every creed, and every form of prayer. 
 
 And Gabriel with the balance in his hand 
 Shall weigh their good and evil, and declare, 
 
 With all the closeness of a practised eye, 
 
 The verdict of the scales of destiny.
 
 AL JANNAT. 187 
 
 Ye who have rested on some rocky ledge, 
 
 And watched the falcon darting for her prey, 
 
 Or have beheld her callows when they fledge 
 
 First cleave with fluttering wings their lofty way, 
 
 Imagine, slender as a sabre's edge, 
 
 A bridge suspended, hardly seen by day. 
 
 Where the hawks fly, flung over in the night, 
 
 And at the end a little glimmering light, 
 
 And underneath — deep Hell; and aU ai'ound, 
 In the thronged regions of the haunted air. 
 
 Distracting terrors both of sight and sound ; 
 And demons, mocking, asking you to share 
 
 The pains they suffer in the vast profound 
 Beneath you, where the fires of torture glare. 
 
 Before you shines Hope's feebly trembling star ; 
 
 Beneath, Hell's fiery jaws — but Allah, far ! 
 
 'T is gained at last ! and on the fragrant shore 
 Of a broad lake yclept the Prophet's pool. 
 
 They drink delicious draughts, and thirst no more, 
 And breathe sweet breezes from the water cool ; 
 
 And enter in at the triumphal door 
 Of Paradise, to revel and to rule — 
 
 Where all the aspirations of the just 
 
 Grow real to their renovated dust.
 
 183 AL JANNAT. 
 
 There every man is thirty years of age, 
 And grows no older — pity not his heirs : 
 
 They thrive, his death would not increase their Avage, 
 And they rejoice to see how well he wears. 
 
 John Banyan's hard Progressive Pilgrimage 
 Ended not half so pleasantly as theirs, 
 
 Who have it all exactly their own way, 
 
 Harems well stocked, and banquets every day. 
 
 There Izrafil conducts the choral throng — 
 The Costa of their concerts — who is worth 
 
 A chorus in himself, to whom belong 
 
 Graces unknown to batons upon earth — 
 
 Graces that never lead the feelings wrong, 
 Nor urge the revel to unseemly mirth ; 
 
 For there forbidden joys of love and wine 
 
 Are taken under patronage divine. 
 
 Men say of worldly pleasure, " It is nought ; " 
 They say the joys of this brief life are vain, 
 
 Because each wrong enjoyment must be bought, 
 And only heaps a debt of after-pain : 
 
 And so they plan a paradise in thought — 
 
 A dreamy realm, whose gate they hoi^e to gain 
 
 By climbing on sore knees the sacred stairs, 
 
 By self-denial, penitence, and prayers.
 
 AL JANNAT. 183 
 
 They cannot stoop to joys that have an end ; 
 
 They walk in sackcloth on their pilgrimage ; 
 But if that Allah at its close defend 
 
 Their future bodies from disease and age, 
 Sin's terror gone, the rigid will unbend, 
 
 And pleasures long deferred their griefs assuage. 
 And former self-denial be consoled 
 By boundless wealth and coronets of gold. 
 
 Ascetic ! thou according to thy light 
 
 Art wise ; but wise too in their generation 
 
 Are those who keep aloof from rebel fight 
 
 With their own natures, happy in their station, 
 
 And seek a healthful measure of delight ; 
 Nor will like thee, in hopeful aspiration. 
 
 The pleasures of this present world resign 
 
 For Houri's eyes and rivulets of wine.
 
 190 
 
 EDEN. 
 
 OxE evening at a noble's house I left 
 The old Lord with his wine, and wandered forth 
 Upon the lawn, between the summer trees, 
 Whose hoarv trunks upon the shaven green 
 Cast shadows, lengthening eastward as the sun 
 Shone through the lower leaves. I followed on 
 A windincr walk that led me through the shrubs 
 Across a rustic bridge, until I came 
 Into a cool and shady wilderness ; 
 From which emerging on an open space, 
 I looked around me, seeking anxiously. 
 For there I hoped to find my mistress Eve. 
 
 It was a garden sheltered by tall woods 
 On three sides of its square ; but on the fourth. 
 There was a terrace broad, with balustrades 
 Of sculptured stone enclosed, and all its length
 
 EDES. 
 
 nil 
 
 "Vsaes o'erfloved whh. Staw&rs. Jk. hedge 
 Was all die gazdim's imraer hasmSsarj^ 
 A soiid wall officii, and sqdbIk® ss&bel 
 
 ^A^ainsi) iit siiGn^ £sir si3Qtn£&. Tin dis waa fe^ 
 ^^ai^ a. laU fimaitam £ncnii a laieactit pooli, 
 Wheare fidi wiiJi g®] - .".€» ware s^^ 
 
 Mj love was wa.- -• ■ -a^raiDt tieida, 
 
 r^dk widi li: 
 
 My tow® -r^ - 
 
 Aiftdlaag:- 
 
 Bmt I wn.- - - 
 
 Aisd fefflowed e3«ii9f?^ 
 
 IjQit© 5- 
 
 Retwr 
 U 
 
 ^ers. 
 
 
 -■ed 
 
 -PS 
 
 1. 
 
 .MJ LLl r it^-a-' J l.OtT LU * A — .
 
 192 EDEN. 
 
 That glowed between the uplands, where the does 
 Stood round the sultan stag. " The sun is gone," 
 She whispered ; and I drew her to a couch, 
 And there we sat and looked upon the pair 
 Whose lips were joined in one eternal kiss. 
 There, in the twilight, stood their lovely forms ; 
 And where the light foot of the maiden pressed 
 The plinth on which they stood, bright Hesperus 
 Rose trembling in the mist. Then as I spoke 
 About those wondrous statues and their love. 
 My voice grew faint and low, but passionately 
 I talked at last in whispers not unheard. 
 Then we were still and silent as that pair. 
 No ! for our hearts were beating — theirs were cold. 
 Her eyes, too, had a swimming loveliness, 
 Better than Psyche's white and polished orbs ; 
 And warm and soft was her delicious lip. 
 So that I think Dan Cupid envied me.
 
 193 
 
 TO THE MEADOW SAFFRON. 
 
 Thou art purple with cold, 
 And leafless and bare ; 
 Thou layest thy head on the dark garden bed, 
 And slumberest there. 
 
 All the richness of hue 
 Of the summer is gone : 
 Like a pale cloud at eve that the sunbeams leave, 
 Thou art left alone. 
 
 'T was an old man's embrace 
 That ends in thy birth ; 
 For the year is grown old, and his heart faint and cold 
 On thy mother, the Earth. 
 
 o
 
 194 TO THE MEADOW SAFFRON. 
 
 But sweetly thou liest 
 So helplessly there, 
 Thou needest not gold, nor the leaves that enfold 
 Forms not so fair. 
 
 They were rich ; thou art poor ; 
 Thou art fairer than they : 
 Thou art naked and white, my own last delight, 
 And I dread thy decay. 
 
 Poor beauty ! I love thee 
 Too truly to take 
 One single bright flower ; but at thy last hour 
 I will mourn for thy sake.
 
 19g 
 
 THE CONFINES OF THOUGHT. 
 
 We cannot look before us and behind 
 At once ; and so the visions of the mind 
 Are partial in their reaching, and confined. 
 
 The spirit gives one-sided evidence 
 
 Of things that are ; but the extended sense, 
 
 Which is peculiar to Omniscience, 
 
 In its abstraction needs not to forset 
 Surrounding things, and has no limit set, 
 And in it all existences are met. 
 
 Now this reflection occupies my mind, 
 And if I roam the universe to find 
 New images, thfey come, but uncombined.
 
 196 THE CONFINES OF THOUGHT. 
 
 They come, but breaking wildly from the laws 
 Which chain them in existence ; and I pause 
 On each a moment separately, because 
 
 I am short-sighted as the honey bee, 
 
 That knows each single flower, but cannot see 
 
 A landscape, or a garden, or a tree.* 
 
 I cannot see creation as a whole ; 
 
 I look before me, but a human soul 
 
 Is backward blinder than a dim-eyed mole. 
 
 I upward gaze in fancy to the light 
 Of stars, but even the penetrative sight 
 Perceives not half the glory of the night. 
 
 It saw some paintings on the clouded dome 
 Of heaven, when Light adorned his royal home 
 With frescoes rich and borders polychrome, 
 
 "But could not grasp the scojie of his design ; 
 Saw one by one each tint and graceful line. 
 But had not skill those pictures to combine. 
 
 We look above, forgetting all below. 
 Yet under us primaeval forests grow. 
 And there the southern constellations glow. 
 
 • The eye of the bee is microscopic from its convexity.
 
 THE CONFINES OF THOUGHT. 197 
 
 Cathedrals have their crypts, and Earth her graves 
 Of fossil kingdoms, and a tyrant paves 
 Whole provinces with skeletons of slaves.* 
 
 Yet we, unless by effort, never dream 
 
 Of these ; and even then the transient gleam 
 
 Of what things are soon fades to what they seem. 
 
 I tried to grasp the universe of things 
 
 At once, but vainly. Now my spirit sings 
 
 Her disappointment, and with folded wings 
 
 Reverts to themes that were her former scorn, 
 And walking on the earth where she was born, 
 Picks in the stubble scattered grains of corn. 
 
 * When these lines were written the Czar had invaded the Danubian 
 Provinces ; and, having established martial law, was perpetrating 
 unheard-of atrocities.
 
 198 
 
 TURNER. 
 
 Turner had strength to bear that tempering 
 Which makes the broken hearts of weaker men 
 Its daily food, and lives on shattered hopes. 
 He still pursued his journey step by step — 
 First modestly attired in quiet grey, 
 As well became sincere humility ; 
 Then with a plume of colour he adorned 
 His simple raiment, and so Avalked a while ; 
 Until at last, like his beloved Sun, 
 He set in forms of strangest phantasy, 
 Coloured with gold and scarlet, and the lands 
 Of his conception grew as dim and vague 
 As shadows. So his mighty brain declined. 
 
 Men have accused him of mean avarice, 
 Since, being rich, he lived in poverty ;
 
 TURNER. 199 
 
 Yet had they gone and tempted him with gold 
 
 To sell the fairest children of his hand, 
 
 He would have scorned their offers, and replied : 
 
 " These are too precious fof your galleries — 
 
 They bear my spirit's image. I bequeath 
 
 Them undivided to my country's care." 
 
 So in that gloomy mansion where he dwelt, 
 
 He kept those works around him till his death ; 
 
 And so denied himself, and sacrificed 
 
 More wealth by that reserve than feebler minds 
 
 Might strive a lifetime to accumulate. 
 
 Religious men have often lived from choice 
 
 In poverty, that wealth might not distract 
 
 Their souls from contemplation. It was so 
 
 With Turner the recluse, and rightly so ; 
 
 For Art is a religion, and would scorn 
 
 A soul's divided service. I respect 
 
 The painter whom no pleasures could allure 
 
 From his serene, laborious solitude ; 
 
 Who gathered wealth for painters after him. 
 
 And only cared for Art and for his fame ! 
 
 And if increasing riches could not change 
 
 His frugal habits into luxury. 
 
 Or hinder that devotion to his art 
 
 By which he had attained such excellence, 
 
 Does that degrade his character or not ? 
 
 It well contrasts with that improvidence 
 
 Which ruins Ai't by making its pursuit
 
 200 
 
 TURNER. 
 
 A path whereby the debtor may escape 
 . By trick and speed the horrors of the jail. 
 
 Turner bequeathed his riches unto Art, 
 
 And to extend his fame — a noble wish ; 
 
 And from the grave he challenged Claude Lorraine, 
 
 And still they try their prowess side by side, 
 
 Living on canvass in strange rivalry. 
 
 But you who would be judges in this cause 
 
 Must go to Nature, the great lawgiver, 
 
 And having studied her eternal code, 
 
 Give your decision without any fear 
 
 Of prejudice or withered connoisseurs.
 
 201 
 
 GABRIEL RATCHETS. 
 
 " Tlie peasants fancy'the noise of the wild swans flying high in the nights 
 to be spirits, or, as they call them here in the north, Gabriel Ratchets. " 
 — John Wrbsteb. 
 
 " Wild huntsmen ?" — 'T was a flight of swans, 
 
 But so invisibly they flew, 
 That in his mind the pallid hind 
 
 Could hear a bugle horn. 
 Faintly sounds the airy note, 
 And the deepest bay from the staghound's throat, 
 Like the yelp of a cur on the air doth float ; 
 
 And hardly heard is the wild halloo 
 
 On the straggling night-breeze borne ! 
 
 They fly on the blast of the forest 
 
 That whistles round the withered tree, 
 But where they go we may not know, 
 
 Nor see them as they fly. 
 With hound and horn they ride away 
 In the dreary twilight cold and grey. 
 That hovers near the dying day ; 
 
 And the peasant hears but cannot see 
 
 Those huntsmen pass him by.
 
 202 SELF-COMMAND. 
 
 Hark ! 't is the goblin of the wood, 
 
 Rushing down the dark hill-side. 
 With steeds that neigh and hounds that bay, 
 
 All viewless sweeps the throng. 
 And heavily where the fallow-deer feeds 
 Clatter the hoofs of their hunting steeds, 
 Like the mountain gale on the valley's meads ; 
 
 Till far away the spectres ride, 
 
 In distant lands along. 
 
 1849. 
 
 SELF-COMMAND. 
 
 I HAVE the pleasure now in self-command 
 
 Of one whose servants are obedient. 
 
 But formerly my weak will stood in awe 
 
 Of all its slaves, for frowning mutiny 
 
 Was brewing in the ship of my desires ; 
 
 And Intellect, a captain gagged and bound, 
 
 Was lauglicd at. Now he holds his rightful place. 
 
 And tacks the ship, and saves her by a word. 
 
 When she is rushing on the reefs of sin.
 
 203 
 
 MARIAN. 
 
 " Think of her moumfuUy, 
 Gently and humanly. 
 Not of the stains of her." — Thomas Hood. 
 
 She wanders niglitly through a world of streets ; 
 She gives a dreary smile to those she meets, 
 
 Which is not of the heart. 
 Her clothes are tasteful, but most comfortless ; 
 The cold night wind despises her thin dress ; 
 
 She plays the bitter part 
 Of happy love in hate and weariness. 
 
 Her wavy hair is stiff with bandoline, 
 
 And her pale, powdered forehead shows between, 
 
 Like marble dead and white ; 
 Her cheek has lost its bloom, but in her eyes 
 The colour darkens as the lustre dies ; 
 
 And, beautiful as night, 
 In each deep orb a weary spirit lies.
 
 204 MARIAN. 
 
 She speaks with such a sad and gentle voice 
 Of her sad life that is not hers from choice, 
 
 And of her death as near, 
 That Virtue would not feel herself secure 
 To think that souls so delicate and pure 
 
 Could live and be sincere 
 In hating all the guilt that they endure. 
 
 She passes down long avenues of lamps, 
 Robed like a virgin chastely ; but the damps 
 
 Of many winter nights 
 Have their effect, and she has closely prest 
 Her white-gloved hands upon her little breast, 
 
 And walks beneath the lights, 
 Caressing Death — by him in turn carest.
 
 205 
 
 THE AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD. 
 
 ' Tis cold and rainy on this winter night, 
 
 But one whom I have known is with his flocks 
 
 At noonday in the summer of the South. 
 
 Before the sun the colours of the spring * 
 
 Fade from the forest, and the odorous air 
 
 Is heated through and through. He takes his seat 
 
 On other earth, surrounded by strange plants. 
 
 He slays the wild dog and the stinging snake. 
 
 He has a rifle by him in the grass. 
 
 Wherewith he hunts the leaping kangaroo. 
 
 His dogs keep Avatch beside him. There he sleeps — 
 
 What lies between us ? All this bulky globe, 
 
 * The folio-wing is an extract from a private letter : — 
 "In the spring, however, England must yield the palm to Australia for 
 beauty— as far as regards the forest, at all events ; as here it is one mass of 
 pink, yellow, violet, and white flowers, excelling in perfume all the rondo- 
 letias, millefleurs, and other artificial scents ever invented."
 
 206 THE AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD. 
 
 A chest of secrets, with a heart of fire 
 And crust of fossils. 
 
 When the summer night 
 Falls over that great island in the south 
 Whereon his flocks repose, the Polar Star, 
 Once never lost by ancient mariners 
 In their confined adventures on the sea. 
 Peers not above the horizon — lost to him 
 For ever ; but the splendid Southern Cross, 
 And those two clouds which bear Magellan's name, 
 Two clouds of clustered stars in the clear sky, 
 Ilaug nightly, far above the winds that blow 
 Around our planet, changeless films of light. 
 And when Orion and the wandering moon 
 Come with familiar aspect, they remind 
 The exile of the land on Avhich they shone 
 Wlien he first saw them, and his earliest friends, 
 And hills, and streams, and meadows of his youth, 
 And this old gabled house where he was born.
 
 207 
 
 THE FIRE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 The sun is setting. On the hill 
 
 A smoke-wreath clinging to the furze 
 
 Lies in its light serene and still, 
 It sleeps and never stirs. 
 
 The stars are out — the sun is gone ; 
 
 Some ghastly rents of yellow light 
 Are in the cloud through which he shone, 
 
 And darkly falls the night. 
 
 The hill is dark as indigo ; 
 
 But where the smoke at sunset lay, 
 A steady light is burning slow, 
 
 We could not see by day.
 
 208 THE FIRE ON THE MOOR. 
 
 And though the vale is ten miles wide, 
 We see it through its cloudy wreath — 
 
 That red spot on the mountain side, 
 The fire upon the heath ! 
 
 The hen-grouse sits upon her nest, 
 She starts at times with vague alarm ; 
 
 Beneath her wings her callows rest, 
 Their bed is soft and warm. 
 
 She hears a crackling sound — she sees 
 White smoke drive thickly overhead, 
 
 Like a poor savage when the trees 
 Burn round her children's bed. 
 
 She feels a suiFocating heat. 
 
 The air grows denser — hotter still; 
 
 The scorching flames blown off their feet 
 Come roai'ing up the hill ! 
 
 One maddening moment still she cUngs 
 To that poor nest ; then with a cry 
 
 Of torture flaps her burning wings, 
 And leaves her brood to die. 
 
 She shoots like lightning through the cloud, 
 Her young ones flutter in the fire : 
 
 The night is dark — the wind is loud — 
 The flames are creeping higher.
 
 209 
 
 DE ARGENTINE. 
 
 " CoirE home, come home, De Argentine, 
 Let prowess find its proper use ; 
 
 A foeman -worthy swords like thine 
 Is up in arms — the rebel Bruce !" 
 
 He rode to Scotland with the king, 
 But all his valour could not turn 
 
 The day against that chosen ring 
 
 Who fought round Bruce at Bannockburn. 
 
 He left the thickest of the fight, 
 
 And sought the king. " This fatal war," 
 Said he, " must end before to-night ; 
 
 You will be safer at Dunbar." 
 
 " Attend me, then, De Argentine !" 
 But scorn inflamed that soldier's eye : 
 
 " Be safety yours, but honour mine, — 
 'T is not my wont to fly !" 
 
 P
 
 210 DE ARGENTINE. 
 
 He turned his charger as before, 
 And so fulfilled his lofty boast ; 
 
 His silver armour, red with gore. 
 Was trampled by the Scottish host.^ 
 
 The silver goblets on his shield ^ 
 Ran over with a precious wine — 
 
 The blood of him who scorned to yield, 
 The noble blood of Ai-gentine P 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ' Sir Giles de Argentine, knt. slain in Scotland at the 
 battel of Banuocksbuine near Strivolin, in 7th Edward II. 
 It is said, that the king himself being in that fatal battel, 
 and seeing the danger, by the advice of this Sir Giles (who 
 being then lately come from the wars of Henry de Luzem- 
 burg, the em})er<)ur,and reputeda stout warrior), lied to Dun- 
 bar ; and that this Sir Giles, saying he was not wont to fly, 
 returned to the EngUsh host, and was slain. — Duodale. 
 
 " Arms of De Argentine, — Gules, three covered cups, 
 argent. 
 
 ^ Sir Giles was descended from the baronial family of 
 that name.
 
 211 
 
 DEAR-BOUGHT FIELD. 
 
 There is a field three acres in extent, 
 
 Down in the valley, and Sir Humphrey Fort, 
 
 Owner of all the acres hereabouts, 
 
 Pui'chased that little plot a year ago 
 
 For thrice its value. It was his before, 
 
 But talking with the tenant of the farm 
 
 One evening in July, he asked the man 
 
 " How soon one scythe could mow it?" " In a day," 
 
 Replied the farmer, and Sir Humphrey smiled ; 
 
 Which nettled Jackson, who began to swear 
 
 That from the rising of the morrow's sun 
 
 To its decline, he'd mow it all himself. 
 
 Sir Humphrey smiled again, and promised him 
 
 That if he did, the lan(f should be his own. 
 
 So Jackson told his wife — a stirring dame, 
 Alive to all the details of finance ;
 
 2] 2 DEAR-BOUGHT FIELD. 
 
 And she, perceiving that although the land 
 
 Was not itself enough to keep the house, 
 
 Its loss would make a hole in the estate 
 
 Like an unsightly moth-bite in a cloak, 
 
 Which, though consuming no great breadth of cloth, 
 
 Annoys the wearer, took the matter up 
 
 Most warmly. But her husband seemed afraid 
 
 To face the task, so she encouraged him ; 
 
 And all her words had weight ; for she had known 
 
 For many years the length of Jackson's purse 
 
 Better than he, and all her arguments 
 
 Were to the point. " They'd had the thinnest crop 
 
 Last year," she said, " of any since they came ; 
 
 And four good cows had sickened one by one. 
 
 And perished in the spring ; and then he lost 
 
 Five pounds by selling Jimmy at the fair 
 
 Beneath his value, when he came home drunk ; 
 
 And then they'd had some sickness in the house, 
 
 And times were bad, and he was strong enough — 
 
 A stout-built man — enough to mow a match 
 
 With any farmer on the country-side." 
 
 And th(!n she instanced one called Jonas Lee, 
 
 Who, before breakfast one fine summer's day. 
 
 Had mown two acres — all the widow's field. 
 
 So she contrived by artful eloqlience. 
 
 Addressed to love, regret, and self-esteem, 
 
 To emulation and old rivalry. 
 
 Naming by turns his losses and his faults,
 
 DEAR-BOUGHT FIFXD. 213 
 
 His neighbour's feat, his own advantages, 
 To screw his resolution for the night. 
 
 The clouds were bright above the eastern hill 
 When Jackson left the house ; and when his hand 
 Shook off the dewdrops from the meadow gate, 
 The sun was half in sight. Then Jackson's wife. 
 Who'd roused him from his comfortable rest, 
 Took his scythe from him, and began to whet 
 Its edge, already sharp enough to mow 
 The beard upon his chin. By this the sun 
 Had fairly risen ; so the farmer took 
 The scythe himself, and bent unto his task. 
 She fetched another quickly from the house ; 
 And, if a blade of grass escaped the edge. 
 Made him exchange ; and in that quiet field 
 All that long day the scraping of the blade 
 Resounded. • Crisp and short the mower cut, 
 Stoutly and well, and steady time he kept ; 
 And the monotonous sweeping of the scythe 
 Was music to the hearing of his wife. 
 He marched by inches, and upon his left, 
 The fallen swathes were heaped on one another 
 Like a slain army. Then into the field 
 His little children ran' rejoicing much 
 To tread again the long-forbidden ground, 
 And close behind him followed, to enlarge 
 Their liberty as quickly as they might.
 
 214 DEAK-BOUGHT FIELD. 
 
 But when he paused, his too ambitious wife 
 Looked at her blue-eyed boy, and thought aloud 
 How much the child might gain by that day's work. 
 Jackson resumed his labour, and except 
 Some intervals of rest begrudged and stolen 
 When the surveillance of his overseer 
 Was broken by her absence for a time 
 To fetch him ale — he worked like one gone mad 
 Till sunset. 
 
 When the sun was dropping down 
 Beyond the misty woods there still remained 
 A dozen yards to mow, and close beside 
 Sir Humphrey stood — a sparkle in his eye 
 As it received the image of the sun 
 Half-buried in the west — when Jackson's wife, 
 Who stood beside him, gave a sudden shriek. 
 And the strong farmer droi)ped his scythe and fell 
 Into her arms. He died upon the spot ! 
 And some spectators who had gathered round 
 Lifted her senseless from the senseless corpse, 
 And carried both away into the house, — 
 The little cliildren following by themselves. 
 
 Sir Humphrey'^ kindness said the match was won, 
 
 Because the sun had set behind the hill. 
 
 And not the true horizon, at the time 
 
 When Jackson died, who, had he lived it out. 
 
 Would have completed what he swore to do ;
 
 DEAR-BOUGHT FIELD. 215 
 
 So it indeed became the widow's field. 
 But when the stoiy spread about the land, 
 The common people said,. " 'T is dearly bought," 
 For she had bought it with her husband's hfe ; 
 And " dear-bought field " thej call it to this day. 
 
 Sir Humphrey bought it back a year ago 
 For thrice its value, as poor Jackson's wife 
 Foresaw, to mend the hole in his estate.
 
 216 DEAR-BOUGHT FIELD. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The circumstance recorded in this poem occurred near 
 Clapham in Craven, and the field is called " dear-bought " 
 to this day. Jonas Lee, alluded to as having nio\vn a field 
 of two acres before breakfast, actually performed the feat. 
 He was a stout, heavily-built man, above six feet high, with 
 a pair of shoulders so broad and massive, that I have heard 
 a yeoman compare them to " a chest of drawers." Two of 
 the best mowers in the neighbourhood challenged him to 
 mow the same area in a given time, as they both could, and 
 entered the field to do it, but their courage failed them. 
 He was respected as a popular preacher, since he addressed 
 himself to the simple vinderstandings of his audience. For 
 example, on one occasion he took his text from an old cart- 
 wheel which lay on the floor of the barn in which he was 
 preaching. " The nave," said he, " is Christ — the twelve 
 spokes the apostles ;" and ho hunted the simile to the 
 death, lie built a chapel, and also a barn, and round the 
 barn a wall, every stone of which was quarried, shaped, and 
 set in its final place by his own hand. His favoui-ite steed 
 was a l)ullock, ou which he once rode tlirough Manchester. 
 His earnings were large, but dissipated in unfortunate 
 speculations, such as reclaiming moorland. This remark- 
 cible man killed himself with excessive labour. He was the 
 type of the drayhorse class of the human race, and was 
 never liai)py but when undergoing the most laborious exer- 
 tion. Such, at least, are the traditions prevalent concerning 
 liiiii.
 
 217 
 
 APHORISMS. 
 
 Size is not value ; knowledge loves to bind 
 Epics in nutshells — essences of mind. 
 
 Swear we, in youth, 
 To beai* with the ways 
 
 Of the world, for truth, 
 To the end of our days. 
 
 Misfortune hopes good ; 
 
 Fortune fears evil ; 
 Fancies balance both, 
 
 Making luck level.
 
 218 APHORISMS. 
 
 4. 
 
 England 's a house in which two mistresses — 
 Science and Superstition — rule together; 
 
 The old one's very careful of the keys ; 
 
 They cannot even agree about the weather. 
 
 Life's like that lady of the giant land 
 Whose beauty Grildrig could not understand ; 
 To some her breasts a bed of joy may be, 
 Though rough and coarse to sensitives like me. 
 
 Better go barefoot than in pinching shoes, 
 Your feet will harden after every bruise. 
 
 7. 
 
 Laws are in force before the subject knows ; 
 Gain quickly, then, the knowledge they suppose. 
 
 8. 
 
 Since Nature visits fgnorance as crime, 
 'T were best to learn her ordinance in time. 
 
 9. 
 
 There is no more unenviable state 
 
 Than that of him whose knowledge comes too late.
 
 APHORISMS. 219 
 
 10. 
 
 Knowledge, our truest friend, is often sent 
 Too late for caution, not for punishment. 
 
 11. 
 
 Men hate your " harmless abstinence ;" 
 Your life gives tacit evidence 
 Against them, so they take offence. 
 
 12. 
 
 Most dilletants are little boys, 
 
 Whose work is play, whose tools are toys. 
 
 In 
 O. 
 
 Too old to learn — too old to live. 
 
 14. 
 
 Greatness or present peace ? Choose one, for those 
 Who seek for fame must sacrifice repose.
 
 220 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE ; 
 
 OR, THE BALLAD OF SIR STEPHEN HAMERTON. 
 
 The Church was spoiled by sacrilege, 
 Her shrines King Henry did deface, 
 
 When our fathers made in her defence 
 Their Pilgrimage of Grace.^ 
 
 When old Lord Darcy rose in arms, 
 
 And many a knight and squire rode forth 
 
 To conquer justice from the king 
 In the Rising of the North. 
 
 Strange palmers they, whose staffs were spears, 
 And suits of steel their pilgrim dress ! 
 
 Their dames were left in lonely halls 
 To pray for their success.
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE. 221 
 
 Their short, sad legend, handed down 
 To this safe hearth from troubled times, 
 
 I would bequeath to all kind hearts 
 In simple ballad rhymes. 
 
 There is a tomb in our Ladye's choir, 
 
 Thereon are carved five ancient shields ;- 
 
 There is a strong, embattled tower 
 Amid the level fields.^ 
 
 The builder of that peel is laid 
 Under the arch beneath the stone. 
 
 His wife and children with him rest — 
 He doth not sleep alone. 
 
 Sir Richard there rejoins his dame, 
 
 Though since her death he won the hand 
 
 Of the sister of that bloody lord, 
 Clifford of Westmoreland.^ 
 
 But the last of the knights shall never rest 
 
 Beneath the narrow span 
 Of the arch in the wall of the chantrey built 
 
 To our Ladye and St. Anne ! 
 
 The last of those whose swords upheld 
 
 The holy Church's rights. 
 The last of those who died for her, 
 
 The last of the faithful knights ;
 
 222 THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE. 
 
 For he has passed the traitor's gate ; 
 
 And now against the ebbing tide, 
 The boat goes up to Westminster, 
 
 Where they must all be tried 
 
 For treason against our Lord the King, 
 
 "Defender of the Faith;" 
 They who defended it indeed 
 
 Must die a felon's death ! 
 
 Lord Darcy's venerable head 
 
 Rose white above the crowded hall ; 
 
 Like a peak whereon the snow doth rest 
 It towered above them all. 
 
 Lord Hussey, too, and Percy brave, 
 And Constable, and Hamerton, 
 
 But nowhere with the brave esquires 
 Sir Stephen's only son. 
 
 Sir Stephen looked around — around — 
 And upward with a calm regret, 
 
 Where ranks of angels hold the shield 
 Of good Plantagenet.'' 
 
 Their doom pronounced, they left the hall 
 The people groaned to hear the fate 
 
 Of that old baron, who had served 
 For fifty years the state.^
 
 THE PILGPaJIAGE OF GRACE. 223 
 
 Lord Darcj died on Tower Hill, 
 
 And Lincoln ground drank noble blood ; 
 
 So fell they by the tyrant's hand 
 Whose lust they had withstood. 
 
 But all the knights were basely hung ; 
 
 And on the gallows, side by side. 
 Like thieves upon the Tyburn tree, 
 
 A felon's death they diedJ 
 
 The very hour Sir Stephen died. 
 
 At York they tolled a funeral knell ; 
 
 Above the grave of his only son 
 They toUed the minster bell.^ 
 
 The minster vaults are full of dead ; 
 
 But not a corpse lies buried there 
 That died a more unhappy death 
 
 Than poor Sir Stephen's heir. 
 
 Down in the crypt they used to pray 
 
 For those who slept in the vaults around ;9 
 
 But never more in that dark chapelle 
 The hymn for the dead shall sound I 
 
 And when they buried the broken heart. 
 Coldly above him the grave did close ; 
 
 And coldly the priests looked on, and none 
 Wquld pray for his soul's repose.
 
 224 THE PILGRIMAGE OP GRACE. 
 
 His little orphan Margaret 
 
 Lived on.i" In peace her lot was cast. 
 She lived till Time had slowly healed 
 
 The sorrows of the past. 
 
 Thus ended that rash enterprise, 
 The famous Rising in the North. 
 
 Alas ! it was a luckless day 
 Our ancestors rode forth. 
 
 The minster vaults are full of dead ; 
 
 But not a corpse lies buried there 
 That died a more unhappy death 
 
 Than poor Sir Stephen's heir. — 
 
 Heir of a traitor's tainted blood, 
 
 Heir of a forfeited estate,!^ 
 A ruined house — a broken heart — 
 
 A melanclioly fate !
 
 225 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ' The narrative of tliis ballad is simply historical, and 
 nothing is overstated or arranged for effect. The Great 
 Northern Insurrection was called " The Pilgrimage of 
 Grace " by its adherents. 
 
 The ballad is written from a Roman Catholic point of 
 view. We ought not to judge the actions of religious men 
 from the outside, as they appear to us ; but from the inside, 
 as they appeared to themselves. 
 
 Three risings are recorded by HoUinshed. The first 
 was an important one. The insurgent army mustered 
 40,000 men, well-appointed, " with captains, horsses, armor, 
 and artillerie." The rebels encamped near Doucaster, where 
 they were met by the royal forces under the Duke of Nor- 
 folk. The two armies were prevented from engaging by a 
 sudden overflow of the River Don, (not an uncommon 
 occurrence there at the present day). Afterwards the king 
 pardoned the ringleaders, and the insurgents dispersed. 
 
 The second rising was excited by Sir Francis Bigod of 
 Settriugton, Yorkshire, in February 1537. It began in his 
 own neighbourhood, extending to the east coast at Scar- 
 borough ; but was soon suppressed, and Sir Francis himself 
 imprisoned in the Tower. 
 
 The third rising took place later in the same year. Its 
 chiefs were Lord Darcy, Sir Robert Constable, Sir John
 
 '226 THE PILGRIMAGE OF GRACE. 
 
 Bulwer, Sir Thomas Percy (a brother of the Earl of North- 
 umberland), Sir Stephen Hamerton (brother-in-law to Sir 
 Francis Bigod), Eobert Aske, and others. They were all 
 brought to the Tower, attainted, and executed. 
 
 ^ The chantry of oiu- Ladye and St. Anne in Long- 
 Preston church. 
 
 * Hellifield Peel, built by Laurence Hamerton, who ob- 
 tained a license from the king to fortify it about 1440. 
 
 '' Elizabcth,daughter of Thomas Lord Clifford and West- 
 moreland, sister of John the bloody Lord Clifibrd, slain at 
 Towton Field, and relict of AVilliam Plumpton. (See 
 "Plurapton Correspondence," published by the Camden 
 Society.) 
 
 * The hammer-beams in Westminster Hall are carved 
 with large angels holiling the shield of Plantagenet. 
 
 ® Lord Darcy was eighty years old at his trial, and had 
 served the state in various high capacities for half a cen- 
 tury. His death was deeply felt by the people. 
 
 "^ Dodsworth uses the word dccapitatus. Other authori- 
 ties assert that Sir Stephen and his companions were hung 
 at Tyburn. 
 
 * " He left an only son, Henry, who is said by Dods- 
 worth to have been interred in M. (qu. Monastcrio or 
 Minster ?) de El)or, die cpio pater ejus deca[ntatus est." 
 It is not improbable that he died of a broken heart in con- 
 sequence of the ruin of his family." — Dr. Whitaker's 
 niston/ of Craven. 
 
 ® The Crypt of York Minster was used for masses for 
 the dead until tiie Reformation. 
 
 '" Margaret, daughter of Henry Hamerton, survived 
 him and married. 
 
 " A list of Sir Stephen's manors will be found in Whit- 
 aker's Craven.
 
 227 
 
 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OF CHATSWORTH. 
 
 iEDES HAS PATERNAS DILECTLSSIMAS 
 
 AKNO IJBERTATIS ANGLICiE MDCLXXXVIII IXSTITVTAS 
 
 GVL. S. DEVONl/E DVX ANNO MDCCCXI H.^RES ACCEPIT 
 
 ANNO IKERORIS SVI MDCCCXL PERFECIT. 
 
 Inscription at Chatsworth. 
 
 Sorrow and Death — unwelcome everywhere — 
 Enter all houses. 'T is an ancient theme. 
 
 One glorious day in summer we drove down 
 
 To Haddon — thence to Chatsworth. We were like 
 
 The seven sleepers at the modern gates 
 
 Of Ephesus when we stood waiting there 
 
 Under the arch before the gilded gate, 
 
 For we had rambled through the galleries 
 
 And empty chambers of the olden time, 
 
 Until our minds had also grown antique. 
 
 The gate was opened, and we found ourselves • 
 Before a modern palace. Level lawns 
 By acres — fountains glistening in the sun
 
 228 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 
 
 Like minarets of silver — beds of flowers 
 
 Burning with dazzling scarlet and bright gold, 
 
 Or azure as the blue, clear, summer sky ; 
 
 And here and there so white and beautiful, 
 
 Naked and cool beneath the noon-day sun, 
 
 A lovely statue. Sauntering round the walks. 
 
 We came at length into a spacious square 
 
 Bordered with flaming flowers, intensely bright, 
 
 Like lines of fire, and covering all the square, 
 
 Rose a groat hall of crystal ; entering which. 
 
 We found ourselves transported far away 
 
 To tropic climes. The air was warm and still, 
 
 Perfumed with blossoming trees. In groves of palm 
 
 We wandered ; and above us spreading leaves 
 
 Hung gracefully — kind Nature's parasols, 
 
 Like those of dark green silk which menials bear 
 
 To shade the sacred heads of eastern kings : 
 
 And bending ferns, not like the bracken plants 
 
 That nestle in inhospitable crags 
 
 About our lakes and streams, but noble trees, 
 
 Plumed with large fronds that droop with languid heat. 
 
 And there were citron trees, and cinnamon, 
 
 Olives, and many natives of the East, 
 
 Whose names in sacred scriptures and old tales 
 
 Of Cairo arc familiar to our ears. 
 
 And over all this grove an arch of glass 
 
 Rose to a lofty height, and interposed 
 
 Between those trees and our inclement sky
 
 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 229 
 
 A bright, transparent shelter. Hence our Prince, 
 When he collected from remotest climes 
 The treasures of their richest merchandise, 
 Built a great fabric in the public park 
 After this model ; in whose crystal halls 
 We wandered in the happy times of Peace. 
 
 We left the palms ; and having crossed the lawn, 
 Entered the palace by an orange grove, 
 Whose golden fruit by conti-ast with the green 
 Shone out so richly that we quite forgot 
 Its cheap complexion. Thence into a hall 
 Of sculpture, by a door whose pillars were 
 Great shafts of yellow jasper. From above, 
 On forms of beauty, fell the dazzling noon, 
 Such forms of strength and beauty ! Oh to be 
 A giant like the one who holds the quoit. 
 Alive and strong ! to have such godlike limbs, 
 And see Thorwaldsen's Venus start to life, 
 And leave her marble pedestal, and fly 
 With naked feet across the level lawn 
 Before you^ — then indeed these gardens were 
 A second Eden ! This colossal bust 
 Recalls us to our world of strife and blood ; 
 Thought sits enthroned on its tremendous brow, 
 Not meditation nor the poet's dream. 
 That brow was a white tent ; within were held 
 Councils of war — there swift decisions came
 
 230 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 
 
 That tossed about the crowns of Christendom, 
 Which were his phiy things. Here 's another bust — 
 It is our foe, the Autocrat, whose power 
 We need not now disparage as we did. 
 For he is dead, and deaf to all reproach. 
 Well ! it was nobler to contend with him. 
 For France and England, than to practise war 
 On poor barbarians like those Algerines 
 Whom she invaded, or the wretched hordes 
 We slaughtered on the plains of Hindostan. 
 Strange than our stricken foe, this Nicholas, 
 For whom no name is foul or base enough 
 In our ignoble and unworthy rage — 
 This Northern Bear — this chief of savages — 
 Stayed here — beneath this roof — some years ago, 
 A pleased and cheerful guest. His noble host, 
 They said, had turned his portrait to the wall. 
 They said it falsely, and they libelled him ! 
 The generous Duke can treat his royal foe 
 More nobly. He had eaten of his salt. 
 
 This is the temple of departed gods 
 
 Whose influence haunts us yet. A thousand years 
 
 Build up a mythic creed ; but nought on earth 
 
 Is so tenacious of its parting life ; 
 
 It clings and clings about the souls of men, 
 
 No force can shake it off. It holds its place 
 
 In fancy after faith and reverence die,
 
 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 231 
 
 And lives in verse and sculpture. Come away 
 To the fair temple of a younger faith, 
 Still having vital functions in the world. 
 
 'T is wainscoted with cedar, richly carved, 
 
 Or purest alabaster. Faith and Hope 
 
 Stand by the altar — these are common virtues ; 
 
 Rarer and brighter far is Charity. 
 
 It is a lovely chapel ! Here one might 
 
 Yield to those sweet illusions that unnerve 
 
 Heroic strength of thought, and steal away 
 
 All that is left to us of manliness 
 
 For our eternal strivings after truth ; 
 
 But I, whose dreams are of the Infinite, 
 
 Love better far the vastness out of doors. 
 
 Christ rarely taught in synagogues. He sought 
 
 Lake, desert, mountain, there to meditate. 
 
 I hold the arts most precious ; yet I doubt 
 
 If they assist devotion like God's works. 
 
 It was no erring instinct that compelled 
 
 Old anchorites to leave such lovely shrines 
 
 As this, and dwell alone amongst the hills 
 
 With Nature and the scriptured works of God. 
 
 We passed along through galleries of art 
 
 To the state rooms — a lofty, noble suite 
 
 Of chambers, built a hundred years ago. 
 
 Now scarcely used. We passed from room to room :
 
 282 THE PALACE AND ITS INSCRIPTION. 
 
 In one were royal thrones, on which were crowned 
 Sovereigns of England — rooms most richly hung 
 With leather stamped and gilt, or lined with oak 
 That blossomed into garlands at the doors. 
 
 Then standing at a window, as I looked 
 On the tall fountains and the distant pools. 
 Rich woods and swelling uplands in the park, 
 And a bright river with a herd of deer 
 Upon its bank reposing in the sun, 
 I yielded to illusions, thinking thus : 
 
 Sorrow and pain (I thought) can never come 
 To such a perfect paradise as this. 
 
 We passed along, descending to a hall 
 
 Of precious marbles, and therein I read 
 
 A brief inscription that dispelled my dream. 
 
 It told me in its simple Latin phrase 
 
 That those fair buildings, which I thought secure 
 
 Against the siege of sorrow, had at last 
 
 Been finished — but the builder tells you there 
 
 That they were finished in a year of grief. 
 
 So w(! begin our earthly palaces. 
 
 Our mighty works of industry and thought, 
 
 Huoyant with hope, and finish them in sorrow.
 
 233 
 
 UNFORGOTTEN. 
 
 Old friend, it grieved me to remember you, — 
 
 For, as the inmates of a darkened house 
 
 Conceal the portrait of the newly dead, 
 
 So had I veiled your image in my heart 
 
 Through dread of grief renewed by memory. 
 
 But now, sweet image, I uncurtain thee ; 
 
 And I desire thee, beautiful as life, 
 
 To look upon me in my daily work. 
 
 Be with me in the future, thou unchanged 
 
 By any harsh vicissitude of time. 
 
 Be with me in the beauty of thy youth. 
 
 As still and silent as the miniature 
 
 A lover wears on his divided heart, 
 
 Whose loveliness is never marked by age, 
 
 Whose eyes will not grow dim on ivory. 
 
 I shared the womb with none, yet we were twins ;
 
 234 UNFORGOTTEN. 
 
 My mother kissed her firstborn and then died ; 
 
 Yet we were brothers — age had made us twins, 
 
 And we were boys together. Though our tastes, 
 
 Our creeds, and our pursuits, were not the same, 
 
 Still in the languor of his failing health, 
 
 The calmness of affection undisturbed. 
 
 Unshaken by the certainty of death, 
 
 There was sublimity in unison 
 
 With my exalted welcoming of change 
 
 That fears no future — trusts eternity; 
 
 And having witnessed just enough to know 
 
 That God is good and mei'ciful, confides 
 
 The rest to Ilim, He had a feeble hold 
 
 On life ; and often in our intercourse. 
 
 His careless grasp and my unbounded trust 
 
 Seemed to our love a common sentiment. 
 
 I hoped he might recover when we parted. 
 
 I left him dreaming we might meet again. ' 
 
 He tried to smile at some forced jest of mine, 
 
 And so wc parted. Then his weariness 
 
 Sought rest upon his pillow, and desired 
 
 Profounder sleep than any Life affords ; 
 
 And soon they laid him, white and beautiful, 
 
 Within a coffin which affection lined 
 
 And pillowed with the luxury of death. 
 
 He was not guilty of ingratitude, 
 And yet to his perception all the joys
 
 UNFORGOTTEN. 235 
 
 That he had known did not outweigh his pain. 
 And thence he did conceive without despair 
 Grief that his life was useless to the world, 
 And strange regret that' he v/as ever born. 
 Perhaps the peaceful shore of Acheron 
 Is but that silent land from which at birth 
 We sailed on troubled waters, to return 
 After a toilsome day like fishermen ; 
 Or, to escape the tempests of our noon, 
 Retreat like him before the day is done.
 
 236 
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN. 
 
 I WISH that all that eloquence 
 
 Of accent, and that strength of tone 
 Which shadows little moods of mine, 
 
 Might tell some story of thine own ; 
 For in this twilight summer eve 
 
 I'd hear with patience, once again, 
 The history of the hundred years 
 
 Of thy companionship with men. 
 
 How many hands have grasped thee thus ! 
 
 How many chins have rested there ! 
 Perhaps some bearded Tyrolese 
 
 First wore thy varnished surface bare. 
 When round him village dancers jflew, 
 
 And blessed the vigour of his bow : 
 That secret kept the whispered things 
 
 Which only lovers ought to know.
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN. 237 
 
 Why didst thou leave thy happy friends 
 
 To seek a home across the seas ? 
 Why come to London in thy youth, 
 
 And leave that 'simple Tyrolese ? 
 Periiaps thy master in distress 
 
 Surrendered thee to pay his rent, 
 And often in his silent house 
 
 Did afterwards thy loss lament. 
 
 With what disgust thy conscience true 
 
 Recoiled beneath the dealer's touch, 
 Who pasted in thy truthful breast 
 
 A label — he'd a hundred such : 
 A dirty label, with a date 
 
 Accounting falsely of thy birth, 
 He gave thee, and then sent thee forth 
 
 A guiltless liar on the earth ! ^ 
 
 I think I see a connoisseur, 
 
 With powdered wig and eager eyes, 
 Read through the hole that dingy scrap 
 
 Of Latin — clutch thee as a prize ; 
 And take thee home, afraid to tell 
 
 His wife the foolish price he gave, 
 And call thee first a borrowed thing. 
 
 And introduce thee with a stave.
 
 238 MY OWN VIOLIN. 
 
 Old friend ! canst thou remember still 
 
 The amateurs that used to meet 
 To spend the evening once a-week 
 
 At his quartetts in Percy Street ? 
 The notes thy happy master skipped, 
 
 Yet never rested long enough — 
 The discords — undetected still — 
 
 The little intervals for snuff? 
 
 The frequent errors — hot disputes — 
 
 When all know " there is something wrong,' 
 Rut none with certainty can tell 
 
 To whom the missing bars belon<r : 
 " Repeat the passage ! " — thus at last 
 
 Are such contentions settled best ; 
 Then woe be to the careless wight, 
 
 Who, being warned, forgets to rest ! 
 
 Obscure as are the sixty years 
 
 That make the season of thy youth, 
 The haze of distance disappears. 
 
 And fiction hardens into truth. 
 I know the creditable place 
 
 Wherein, some fifty years ago. 
 My fiddle lodged — 't is no disgrace, 
 
 Tt matters not — the world may know.
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN. 239 
 
 Thou hadst some odd companions then : — 
 
 A brace of pistols primed with rust ; 
 A trumpet, blown the Lord knows when, 
 
 Whose tarnished mouth was full of dust ; 
 Some pinchbeck seals, and watches too, 
 
 That slept in ignorance of time ; 
 Old clothes that looked as good as new ; 
 
 And flutes and fiddles in their prime. 
 
 There didst thou lie, and every day 
 
 Thy soul went further out of tune ; 
 A straggling sunbeam tried to play 
 
 With thy loose strings, perhaps, at noon. 
 And some looked in upon thy rest, 
 
 Of those who long but cannot buy, 
 To whom the resin on thy breast 
 
 Was fallen rain of melody.^ 
 
 A useless and unmeaning form, 
 
 A silent chamber of decay, 
 A coffin bored by many a worm, 
 
 Wherein the corse of music lay ; 
 Thy brown complexion must have grown 
 
 Familiar to the passers-by. 
 Like faces we have always known, 
 
 And nodded to, we know not why.
 
 240 MY OWN VIOLIN. 
 
 There came a student, music-mad, 
 
 Who was not famed for avarice, , 
 Yet, sorely tempted in his heart, 
 
 Demurred a little at the price. 
 His offer was refused with scorn; 
 
 It wounded what a villain calls 
 His " self-respect," — the student hied 
 
 Abruptly from the golden balls. 
 
 He was not like a full balloon 
 
 Which gases for an hour inflate, 
 Or stones that tumble from the moon. 
 
 And yet to earth must gravitate.^ 
 Like any comet in its course, 
 
 He held his own erratic way ; 
 The golden planets had not force 
 
 To draw him back again to pay. 
 
 But, Avith the fiddle in his hand, 
 
 The man ran after, all unmasked ; 
 " 'T was his mistake ; the price was marked 
 
 At" — just a third of what he asked. 
 The liddlc, like a chapeau bras, 
 
 Is carried caseless through the streets ; 
 Its owner cannot choose but see 
 
 A smile on every face he meets.
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN. 2il 
 
 To Christcliurch went the happy pair, 
 
 But his devotion time will prove ; 
 The honeymoon of practice passed, 
 
 And she had rivals in his love : 
 For he, like Solomon, whose verse 
 
 The error of his life repents. 
 Kept — to divide his precious time — 
 
 A harem of sweet instruments. 
 
 I saw them after forty years ; 
 
 He had a living in the north. 
 I read with him. His violin 
 
 Was in disgrace — " What is it worth?" 
 I loved the fiddle moi'e than Greek, 
 
 And told him fairly what I thought : 
 " Exactly what I gave," he said ; 
 
 And once again 't was sold and bought. 
 
 So I secured it. Happy chance ! 
 
 Another week it might have been 
 Dissected to improve the tone, 
 
 And washed — but not in Hippocrene. 
 Old friend ! I much admire your skill. 
 
 Although it is a dangerous art. 
 And deadly to your patients — so 
 
 Forgive me if I take their part. 
 
 R
 
 242 MY OWN VIOLIN. 
 
 Yes, I have seen them on the floor, 
 
 Back, neck, and sides — a sickening sight, 
 Like limbs about a surgeon's tent 
 
 After a battle. Some in white,* 
 Screwed up with little wooden cramps 
 
 To fasten the rebellious blocks, 
 And others bound with cruel boards. 
 
 Like drunken wretches in the stocks. 
 
 But thou, dear instrument, art mine ; 
 
 So slumber in thy padded case 
 Secure from all empiric hands, 
 
 And safe from dealers and disgrace : 
 From broker's shop and tavern brawl. 
 
 And rcsined bows that rudely scrape, 
 And learned hands that inly itch 
 
 To screw thy features out of shape. 
 
 Rest thei*e in comfort. Whilst I live, 
 
 Discourse, at even, music sweet; 
 Through thee my soul has interviews 
 
 With spirits that I love to meet 
 In airy palaces of sound 
 
 Which tliey liave built and left behind. 
 And which they haunt, and where I dwell 
 
 In high companionship of mind.
 
 MY OWN VIOLIN. 243 
 
 Rest there in comfort. Leave thy bed 
 
 At times for my familiar grasp ; 
 I bend mine ear towards thy strings, 
 
 Thy slender neck my fingers clasp. 
 We are old fi-iends of many years, 
 
 We know each other's humours well ; 
 I blamed thee not when strings were false, 
 
 Nor when the loosened soundpost fell. 
 
 In swift and stirring overture, 
 
 In chorus with great companies 
 Of voices, trumpets, violins, 
 
 Surviving when their thunder dies ; 
 In private chambers, where we took 
 
 A part in some divine quartett. 
 We have been, and we hope to be 
 
 In many such together yet. 
 
 Sing sweetly when the softer notes. 
 
 By gentle fingers touched, sustain 
 The harmonies thou canst not build, 
 
 The chords thou wouldst attempt in vain. 
 Be grateful when her music hides 
 
 The simple poverty of thine ; 
 But, rich in feeling, in return 
 
 Give life and vigour more divine.
 
 2M MY OWN VIOLIN. 
 
 Reply to her with notes of love, 
 
 Wlien she speaks softly from the heart ; 
 And whisper sweetly all I feel, 
 
 And act for nae a lover's part. 
 Be playful with her playfulness, 
 
 And saddefl into minor keys 
 When she is sad ; at other times 
 
 Let all thine effort be to please. 
 
 I wish that all that eloquence 
 
 Of accent, and that strength of tone, 
 "Which shadows little moods of mine, 
 
 Might tell some story of thine own ; 
 For in this twilight summer eve, 
 
 I'd hear with patience once again 
 The history of the hundred years 
 
 Of thy companionship with men.
 
 245 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 ' It was customary with certain dishonest dealers of 
 the last century to paste a printed label on the inside of 
 the back under the bass f hole. That in my o-^ti instru- 
 ment is as follows : " Jacobus Steiner, in Absam, prope 
 ^nipontium, 1683." In the true Steiners, the label, when 
 it occurs, is written, not printed ; a peculiarity which the 
 manufacturers of the counterfeit article have been simple 
 enough to overlook. 
 
 ^ I may obseiwe, that amongst the innumerable quack- 
 eries which have possessed the fiddling world, one of the 
 most prevalent has been the belief that the beUy of the 
 instiniment was benefited by a thick deposit of powdered 
 resin and dust. Since there have been minds original 
 enough to advocate a similar layer of filth on the surface of 
 our own bodies, there is, perhaps, nothing surprising in the 
 wide popularity of this delusion. 
 
 * My poem on Aerohtes will prove that this allusion to 
 an exploded theoiy was not made in ignorance. 
 
 ^ The colour of a violin is produced by staining. Before 
 this appHcation the instrument is technically said to be 
 " in the white."'
 
 246 
 
 THE TEACHERS. 
 
 All the world is written over 
 Like the temples of the East, 
 
 And the meaning to discover 
 Needs no educated priest. 
 
 While the Pharisees were preaching 
 In the synagogues of old, 
 
 Jesus in the cornfields teaching, 
 Truths to his disciples told ; 
 
 Such as every field and river 
 Still revealeth to the wise ; 
 
 Such the birds shall sing for ever ; 
 Such the planets symbolise. 
 
 You are full oCdouM and trouble — 
 Life, you fear, may end in dust : 
 
 Mark the insect and the bubble, 
 Learn of them a better trust ;
 
 THE TEACHERS. 247 
 
 For the mayfly glances brightly, 
 Poised between the trout and sun ; 
 
 And the bubbles, builded lightly, 
 Bravely to destruction run. 
 
 Gentle lilies, such as Jesus 
 
 Praised for their sweet carelessness, 
 
 Would have lost all power to please us 
 If their confidence were less. 
 
 Innocence is brave and fearless. 
 
 Living on in truth and peace. 
 Full of trust — sublimely careless 
 
 Whether life extend or cease. 
 
 If extending, we are grateful ; 
 
 If cut off, 't is only rest : 
 Nothing Nature does is hateful ; 
 
 God deals kindly with his guest. 
 
 Time flies swiftly in his palace, 
 
 Swiftly in his universe ! 
 Years might make our spirits callous — 
 
 Death is not a tyrant's curse. 
 
 Therefore, for a little season. 
 
 Creatures here lead happy lives ; 
 All days end, and sober Keason 
 
 Welcomes night when it arrives.
 
 248 
 
 SINGING WITH CONSTANTIA. 
 
 Our voices mingle, and the waves of sound, 
 
 Whereon they float away, 
 Our secret thoughts in one emotion bound 
 
 To envious ears convey. 
 
 And thus the sounds our concord did create 
 
 Are wedded evermore, 
 Even as our hearts — which none shall separate 
 
 Till life itself be o'er. 
 
 Are we not bound together like the notes 
 
 Of our own harmony ? 
 Like hues in opal, or the cloud that floats 
 
 Alone in that cold sky ? 
 
 We see the Sun of Love, and glow with seeing, 
 
 As that rich vapour does ; 
 And as those leaden clouds to that bright being, 
 
 Our hearers are to us.
 
 SINGING WITH CONSTANTIA. 249 
 
 Our music dies serenely in the distance, 
 
 Yet even decay endears ; 
 So let us end, ray love, our own existence 
 
 In the far future years. 
 
 Our love is music, and our death shall be 
 As when our own songs cease — 
 
 Inaudible, yet still a harmony — 
 The harmony of peace. 
 
 My lonely voice sings its divided part, 
 
 A most imperfect song. 
 Half of a perfect whole ; and my poor heart 
 
 To thine doth so belong. 
 
 But I have heard that sympathy can bind 
 With such a lengthened chain. 
 
 That mind may act in unison with mind. 
 Till both unite again. 
 
 Though dreary leagues of distance lie between, 
 
 There ai'e electric wires 
 Of silent thought, by which we hold unseen 
 
 The converse love requires.
 
 250 
 
 THE DYING STUDENT. 
 
 « 
 
 October found an humble-bee half dead ; 
 On the white flox he made his dying bed ; 
 
 And its five-petalled flowers, 
 Like clustered stars, hung over him unheeded. 
 Alas ! their honey was no longer needed 
 
 In the poor bee's last hours ! 
 His movements, languid when the day was bright. 
 Became still feebler with the evening light ; 
 
 And his exhausted powers 
 Sank into perfect helplessness ere night. 
 
 And thus, surrounded by his dearest books, 
 Along his shelves the student coldly looks ; 
 
 His eye is unaware 
 Of those he loved, for all arc now the same. 
 It passes by each unremembercd name. 
 
 And never settles there. 
 The summer time of diligence is past. 
 His brain benumbed, his memory overcast ; 
 
 And Winter, cold and bare, 
 Will take away his very life at last !
 
 251 
 
 THE BATH. 
 
 Upon a daisied sward I sank 
 
 And slept. There mingled in my dream 
 The music of a flowing stream, 
 
 And hum of bees upon the bank. 
 
 A voice upon my fancies broke ; 
 A dripping figure at my side 
 Disturbed me, and my tongue replied 
 
 Before my sleeping brain awoke. 
 
 " Leave me alone, and let me rest ; 
 My couch is in a shady spot. 
 The stream is low, the sun is hot, 
 
 My heart is languid in my breast."
 
 252 THE BATH. 
 
 He railed at me for childish fears ; 
 I stripped and dived in boyish pride, 
 I saw the pebbles magnified, 
 
 The water sounded in my ears. 
 
 Then springing up by him unseen — 
 My limbs renewed in strength and life,- 
 I clasped him in athletic strife, 
 
 And laughed and wrestled on the green.
 
 253 
 
 A HOUSE OF PRAYER. 
 
 The morning came, the day of holy rest, 
 By some held sacred unto idleness 
 And all inactive pleasures. Long before 
 The village bells were sounding on the hills, 
 Or the strong peal beneath the city spire 
 Rang out its music through the quiet streets. 
 The Poet trampled meadows thick with grass, 
 A second crop, all white with glistening dew ; 
 And soon approaching thi'Ough«the sloping fields 
 The rivulet he loved, against an oak 
 Leaned and looked down upon its rocky bed. 
 
 Tn a damp dell, through crowds of water plants 
 Shaded with alder — trees indigenous. 
 Wandered the streamlet down amid the fern ; 
 And from a deep pool rose an island rock. 
 Carved in and out with hollows dark and smooth,
 
 254 A HOUSE OF PRAYER. 
 
 Worn bj the floods, and crowned with golden moss. 
 About its base 't was black and slippery. 
 Stained by the water ; but upon the top 
 A table land of white and bleached stone, 
 Dappled with shadows of the alder leaves. 
 
 A slender ash was rooted in the bank, 
 And lightly reared its head against the blue ; 
 The sun illumined all its silvery bark ; 
 And when a gust gave motion to the branches. 
 The shadows likewise moved their sable bars. 
 Its trunk was clothed with ivy so profuse. 
 That from its root hung down the delicate spray, 
 And waved above the stream its palest leaves, 
 Which on a wall of rock all overlaid 
 With spreading fingers of adhesive lichen, 
 Threw angular shadows, black and interlaced 
 With mazy lines. The long grass, red and sere, 
 Was deeply fringed with rich autumnal gold. 
 Then he descended to»the water's brink. 
 And looking up the stream, beheld a pool 
 Of deep, rich brown ; and at its shallow marge 
 The stones were rising almost to the surface 
 With topaz gleams. A tower of rock behind — 
 The same we had a glimpse of from above, 
 Black round its base, Imt turreted with moss 
 And grassy tufts, sprinkled with fallen leaves. 
 Arose between him and a wateifall,
 
 A HOUSE OF PRAYER. 255 
 
 Whose silvery spray shoots upward to the light 
 
 And ceases not, as if each falling di-op 
 
 Were met by some strong buffet where it fell, 
 
 And never finding rest, hurled up again 
 
 Fcr ever. Down the dark pool bubbles float. 
 
 Indwelt by little angels of the sun ! 
 
 Behind is perfect blackness — shade so deep, 
 
 That every insect glancing in that void 
 
 Carries a light upon its glassy wings ; 
 
 And you may trace each line of gossamer 
 
 Festooned among the boughs that glitter white, 
 
 And hang their polished leaves against the depth 
 
 Of empty shade. Above the builded walls 
 
 Of Nature's rough and untaught masonry, 
 
 The ash-trees and the alders made a roof 
 
 Of rich transparent green, whose intricate ribs 
 
 Were shapely branches intertwined, and bossed 
 
 With nests of birds, whose pillars were round trunks, 
 
 Whiter than marble in the morning light. 
 
 So unto this fair oratory came 
 The child to pray for guidance, using nought 
 Of ancient form. He bent no idle knee ; 
 But looking first around him till his mind 
 Was pei'meate and luminous Avith the rays 
 Of heaven, as was that pure and joyful stream, 
 His heart became a fount of thankfulness.
 
 256 
 
 SKATING SONG. 
 
 The lake is frozen bright and clear, 
 
 A mirror for the isles ; 
 We skim the surface of the mere, 
 
 And never count the miles. 
 The sun behind the snowy hill 
 
 Sank down an hour ago ; 
 The moon has found us gliding still, 
 
 As she clambers up the snow. 
 
 The golden ways are not so bright 
 
 That angels' feet entice, 
 As our receding path of light 
 
 Along the sounding ice. 
 The lake is like a polished floor 
 
 Whereon the moonbeams play, 
 That lure us on, but evermore 
 
 Glitter and glide away.
 
 SKATING SONG. 257 
 
 They pile the Christmas logs at home, 
 
 And shiver by the fire ; 
 But as for heat, the boys that roam 
 
 Find more than'they require. 
 We dress as lightly as we may, 
 
 For us no hearth is bright ; 
 The low sun warms us not by day, 
 
 Nor the naked moon by night. 
 
 The prairie has no swifter steed 
 
 Than skates of narrow steel ; 
 And highbred coursers when they bleed 
 
 Beneath a jockey's heel, 
 Leave not the ground behind them so, 
 
 And not so swiftly move, 
 As we with this cold ice below. 
 
 And colder stars above !
 
 258 
 
 SKATING BEFORE THE WIND. 
 
 " Look down — the ice streams under us ; 
 
 This is a frightful speed ! " 
 My friend looked down, but not for long, 
 
 And said, " It is, indeed." 
 The slippery ice streamed under us, 
 
 The ice so green and clear, 
 It seemed like water calm and deep 
 
 In the middle of the mere. 
 
 The roaring wind came after us ; 
 
 And the rain-clouds in the sky. 
 Which, torn and scattered far and wide, 
 
 Were rolling heavily. 
 Our cloaks were like the sails of ships 
 
 Which the stormy tempest fills. 
 And, changing quickly, we could see 
 
 The outlines of the hills.
 
 SKATING BEFORE THE WIND. 259 
 
 We left upon the dark-green ice 
 
 A track so faint and light, 
 It seemed as if we scarcely touched 
 
 Its surface in our flight. 
 A long white curve at every stroke, 
 
 A true and perfect line, 
 It seemed as if those mighty arcs 
 
 Were part of some design 
 
 Traced swiftly on the tablet bright 
 
 Of that hard-frozen lake, 
 With those great golden compasses 
 
 That mighty angels take 
 To draw the orbits of the stars. 
 
 And mark their paths in space, 
 Or rainbows bright, or halos dim 
 
 About the moon's sweet face.
 
 260 
 
 SLEDGING m LANCASHIRE.* 
 
 The sun has set an hour ago, 
 
 The week is done, the wheels are still ; 
 
 And out into the frosty air 
 
 The hands come pouring from the mill; 
 
 And little boys, with clattering noise, 
 Run straightway to the snowy liill. 
 
 The town lies nestled in the vale ; 
 
 And every night in the week but two 
 The sun sets in a cloud of smoke. 
 
 And grimly shows his red face through ; 
 And those five nights long rows of lights 
 
 Burn with a flame of golden hue. 
 
 * Tlio slcrlge used Is a board just largo enough to sit upon, with a pair 
 of iron Mkutusiindur it. Tiic distance accomplished by one impetus I lound 
 to be iOO yards.
 
 SLEDGING IN LANCASHIRE, 261 
 
 But now the mills are dark and cold, 
 The doors are shut, the hands are paid, 
 
 And, revelling in this purer air, 
 We meet a thousand serfs of trade ; 
 
 But you may trace on every face 
 
 The signs that mark the meaner grade. 
 
 'T is eight o'clock — the moon is bright. 
 
 And in the lane upon the snow. 
 The shadows of the leafless trees 
 
 With her gleamings come and go. 
 The vale is deep — the hill is steep — • 
 
 The great town spreads itself below. 
 
 We climb the hill. A rumbling sound 
 
 Is faintly audible above : 
 'T is louder — nearer — here they come. 
 
 And mark the snow with many a groove ! 
 Each factory boy may well enjoy 
 
 The pastime that I used to love. 
 
 You hear the rumbling sound again — 
 
 Beneath the shadoAv of the trees 
 Sparks fly — the rapid railway cars 
 
 Are not more madly swift than these ! 
 Down, down they flit, and those who sit 
 
 Upon them no spectator sees.
 
 262 SLEDGING IN LANCASHIRE, 
 
 You hear a rush and feel the wind, 
 And past you at a fearful pace 
 
 A dusky shadow skims the ground, 
 You cannot see its form or face ; 
 
 On a little seat, with lifted feet 
 
 And head thrown back, he leads the race. 
 
 Another and another pass 
 
 In swift procession. Down they go ; 
 Some standing firm with arms outspread 
 
 Like wings, and some reclining low. 
 No earthly steed could match their speed ; 
 
 The only rivals that they know 
 
 Are their shadows on the snow.
 
 263 
 
 PARABLE OF THE STREAM. 
 
 I AM a priest of Nature, and I preach 
 
 From texts extracted from her sacred book. 
 
 I saw a river on a summer's day 
 
 Of clean and peaceful water, which passed by 
 
 Rude crags and threatening boughs with fearless heart, 
 
 Unconscious of their shadows ; and it flowed 
 
 With calm unbroken current over rocks. 
 
 And polished every sharp impediment 
 
 By the effect of its own gentleness. 
 
 It was a cheerful brook, and musical, 
 
 And all the light was welcome that the sun 
 
 Would pour into its clear and open breast. 
 
 I came again in autumn, and the mud 
 
 Defiled that troubled river Avith a hue 
 
 Of dark and sullen gloom. It was opaque, 
 
 And full of filthy secrets, which it nursed 
 
 With a morose and grumbling discontent.
 
 264 PARABLE OF THE STREAM. 
 
 The water Avas so thick that the strong shadows, 
 No longer drowned in its transparent depth, 
 Played on the surface all the afternoon. 
 It groaned with torture on the pebbly marge, 
 And foamed and bruised itself upon the rocks 
 Like worshippers of false and cruel gods. 
 
 Hear me. That river was a human soul. 
 
 That flowed past dangers and accursed things, 
 
 And griefs and darkening sorrows, with a, song 
 
 And a clean breast all full of holy light. 
 
 But when its current was made foul by sin. 
 
 All things were turned to torture, and its course 
 
 Became a gauntlet through the files of hell ; 
 
 And its poor back was striped with many shadows ; 
 
 And all the objects it caressed before 
 
 Became impediments and hindrances. 
 
 I came again in winter. All the stream 
 Was frozen. Every ripple of the pool 
 Had died away, and chill and changeless ice 
 Locked the cold waters. From the leafless ti-ees 
 There came no music — fill the birds were dumb — 
 And not a ray of sunshine pierced the cloud — 
 Tlic one great cloud that covered the expanse, 
 Without ;i rent. The earth was sliut from heaven; 
 The water from its playmate the wild wind ; 
 Tlic withered herbage shrouded up in snow.
 
 J
 
 PAKABLE OF THE STREAM. 283 
 
 It was the end ! And so at last we lie, 
 
 Aftei' our chequered course through sun and shade, 
 
 Clear in the sunshine of our innocence, 
 
 Muddj and foul in sin, — until at last. 
 
 So are we darkly coffined from the world. 
 
 Withered like rotten grass beneath the snow, 
 
 Cold as imprisoned waters under ice. 
 
 Silent as songless trees — frail skeletons, 
 
 Shorn of our beautiful flesh as they of leaves.
 
 266 
 
 TO B. H. 
 
 CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD. 
 
 Mt passionate love of nature and of truth 
 
 Has made me over-wise ; 
 Yet I had pleasant dreams in early youth, 
 
 Which you will realise. 
 
 I love too well the free, exciting search 
 
 Of God's own scriptured works 
 To be a priest in any human church. 
 
 Where doubt obscurely lurks. 
 
 And yet I know that all things are of God, 
 By whom all things are made — 
 
 Dark cloisters which monastic feet have ti'od, 
 And sunny forest glade ; 
 
 And that the sacred office you will bear, 
 
 And that your churches, dim 
 To eyes accustomed to the outer air, 
 
 Were all ordained by Him.
 
 TO B. H. 267 
 
 And so I wish you heartily success 
 
 In all that you desire, 
 A long career of happy usefulness — 
 
 One cannot look much higher ! 
 
 I see you in your surplice, snowy white, 
 
 Within the altar-rail ; 
 Or in the pulpit, teaching what is right ; 
 
 And may your words prevail ! 
 
 Let all your doctrine be sincere and kind ; 
 
 Let hate and bitterness 
 Dwell neither on your lips nor in your mind. 
 
 And curse not — only bless. 
 
 We cannot judge each other. Force and fear 
 
 Condemn, but cannot prove ; 
 But of your order some we all revere. 
 
 Whom all good men may love. 
 
 You will be like them — I can freely trust 
 
 Your human nature here ; 
 You will be good and gentle, and you must, 
 
 Because you are sincere. 
 
 Your life has been consistent with its aim ; 
 
 Your youth so chaste and pure. 
 That Love will light you with his brightest flame 
 
 To where he dwells secure.
 
 263 TO B. H. 
 
 Some maiden will forget her gilded book, 
 
 And often lose her place, 
 To wander towards the reading-desk, and look 
 
 For doctrine in your face. 
 
 And she will think the freshness of your skin. 
 
 And your pale golden hair. 
 Signs that an angel-spirit dwells within 
 
 A house so clean and fair. 
 
 And may she be, my dear old friend, to you 
 
 A true and faithful wife — 
 A sweet companion on the journey through 
 
 The sunny lands of life !
 
 269 
 
 A LONDON STUDIO. 
 
 They who love Nature best surround themselves 
 With objects that recall her to the mind ; 
 And in great cities you will often meet 
 Some treasured relic, an imprisoned thrush. 
 Or, Avith their roots in water, hyacinths 
 Flowering in narrow windows to the sun. 
 But in an artist's painting-room, to aid 
 His memories of fair landscapes fsir away, 
 When by oppressive gaslight in the fogs 
 Of winter he must labour for his bread. 
 You see such relics most. A creeping plant 
 Hangs on the gaspipe — once above a stream 
 It drank the ceaseless dew of scattering spray. 
 Between the quaint old ceiling and the floor 
 A falcon hangs suspended by a thread, 
 A scarecrow blind and shrunken — not the same 
 As when he used to hover in the wind,
 
 270 A LONDON STUDIO. 
 
 With wings outspread and quivering, and keen eye 
 Tliat watched the fields below, where not a mease 
 Could leave its hole and live. A heron, too, 
 As sadly changed, is on the mantelpiece, 
 Dusty and foul — poor thing, it bathes no mors 
 Its grey, fine plumage, in the lonely pools 
 It used to haunt ! Beneath its terrible beak 
 A dim and broken snakeskin, badly stufl^ed, 
 Lies stiffly coiled — how altered since it clothed 
 A lithe and supple creature with a garb 
 Of gleaming silver !
 
 271 
 
 HADDON HALL. 
 
 There is an air about these terraces 
 
 Of long neglect and absence. Since the yews 
 
 Rejoiced to gain their natural liberty, 
 
 And stretched their arms across the garden beds, 
 
 And shaking hands, forgot the cruel shears, 
 
 A hundred years have passed ; and I rejoice 
 
 With them ; and walking here in pleasant shade. 
 
 Through which the sunshine falls in scattered spots 
 
 Upon the mossy walks, congratulate 
 
 These ancient brethren that unnatural customs 
 
 Which man delights in now no longer mar 
 
 Their fair proportions. 
 
 With their sheddings tinged, 
 The beds are full of weeds, whose humble beauty 
 Adorns waste places. In abundance here 
 Are primroses and wild anemones. 
 That ask no tending from a human hand.
 
 272 HADDON HALL. 
 
 For God himself regards them ; and I think 
 We need not wish these gardens as they were, 
 With yews all clipped and tortured, and square beds 
 Bordered with chiselled stones. See how the roots 
 Of the old trees have burst their narrow bounds, 
 And kicked away the stones with scornful feet ! 
 
 Dark are the fifteen yews — fifteen are they, 
 
 And two poor trees besides, unkindly thrust ♦ 
 
 Behind an oaken summer-house, whose frame 
 
 Mars their free growth and parts them from the rest. 
 
 Dark are the yews, but, like a hill of snow. 
 
 Behind them towers a noble cherry-tree. 
 
 Covered with blossom ; and still farther b;!ck, 
 
 The highest terrace with its avenue 
 
 Of planes, whose fresh and bright unsullied green 
 
 Contrasts as strongly with the sombre yews. 
 
 And even those old stones about the roots 
 
 Are an intense light green tliat dazzles you. 
 
 So well does Nature study to display 
 
 Her scale of colour, from a depth of gloom 
 
 Rich, shadowy, grave, and dark as ebony, 
 
 To brilliant leaftige, whose transparent structure 
 
 Colours the golden sunbeams falling through. 
 
 Next to the yews I love the balustrade. 
 With liclien-blotted spheres at intervals, 
 AimI little arches. It adapts itself
 
 HADDON HALL. 273 
 
 With ease to change of level in the slope 
 Of the broad flight of gentle, shallow stairs, 
 Descending with them to the garden square. 
 Its spheres and arches seen betwixt the yews, 
 Lead the eye onward to the hall itself; 
 And then it wanders down the garden front 
 From oriel to ivied oriel, 
 Down to the chapel window, where it rests, 
 A traceried Avindow, beautiful, half-seen. 
 
 This garden is a platform well sustained 
 
 By buttresses of masonry. Below, 
 
 The river waters many noble trees. 
 
 Passing beneath the arches of a bridge — 
 
 A little two-arched bridge, whose narrow path 
 
 Two horsemen could not ride upon abreast. 
 
 Down to this bridge from the high table-land 
 
 Whereon the spacious quadrangles are built. 
 
 Long flights of stairs descend — old mossy stairs. 
 
 The silent chapel is all grey within ; 
 Its gilded mouldings have a yellower tint 
 Than the plain oak itself — but nothing more. 
 The windows still retain some painted glass. 
 Coloured with gold, and delicately drawn: 
 But in one night, some years ago, there came 
 Vile thieves, who stole the rest of it away, 
 And only left these fragments — so I look 
 
 T
 
 374 HADDON HALL. 
 
 On the cold, cheerless panes, Avith bitter thoughts, 
 Mourning a loss that nothing can replace. 
 
 These chapels as appendages of state 
 
 Ai'e chiefly valued. Here the household met. 
 
 But though our dwellings have no household altar, 
 
 They are not therefore " godless." 'T is the vice 
 
 Of narrow systems thus to separate 
 
 The sacred and profane. All truth is sacred ; 
 
 And the bare chambers of a poor man's home 
 
 May be fair temples very dear to God. 
 
 There are two silent quadrangles, antique 
 
 As college " quads." Each has its entrance tower ; 
 
 The one a feudal pile of ancient strength. 
 
 With battlement and turret for the watch. 
 
 And archway closed with massive gates of oak, 
 
 By which you enter a deserted court — 
 
 A quaint enclosure fenced from modern times, 
 
 And their destructive influences — ground 
 
 Held sacred to the past. Its dampest nooks 
 
 Are green with moss, and rusty with red gold 
 
 Of coloured lichens such as painters love. 
 
 All round it quaint old windows look upon you 
 
 With diamond-leaded panes of dingy glass, 
 
 Mull ions and transoms — that which lights the hall 
 
 Is older than the rest, and traceried.
 
 HADDON HALL. 275 
 
 But round the lower quadrangle you see 
 
 A larger range of offices, and there 
 
 The pavement is compact and well preserved, 
 
 Though all uneven, for th6 builders sloped 
 
 Their very floors, but we make all things level 
 
 As glassy water. In this larger court 
 
 The belfry stands, an airy octagon, 
 
 Whose roof is borne by slender tracery, 
 
 Through which the winds might blow when the bell 
 
 swung, 
 And take its music down the quiet vale. 
 A relic I'oom you enter from this court 
 Contains the bell dethroned ; and giant boots 
 Of massive structure, high and strong enough 
 For soldiers in the trenches ; firedogs, too. 
 Of brass, enamelled with antique designs. 
 
 The gateway tower has two delightful chambers. 
 Both of them richly wainscotted and ceiled, 
 Lighted by little windows, none alike. 
 Whence you look down upon the fair demesne 
 Where the sweet Wye, with freely-rambling course, 
 Wanders between rich banks and birchen isles, 
 Then flows beneath the arches of the bridge. 
 This gateway has a curious evidence 
 That many feet have entered it before. 
 Thei'e is a little wicket in the gate ; 
 And under it the step of solid stone
 
 276 HADDON HALL. 
 
 Is worn right through — and there the foot sinks deep, 
 As in a sunken footprint in the snow. 
 
 Around these courts are all the offices 
 
 Wherein the Vernon's retinue were lodged, 
 
 Seven score well-fed domestics. I explored 
 
 Their empty barrack on a rainy day, 
 
 When heavy drops had dabbled all my work 
 
 As tears deface the manuscripts of grief. 
 
 I found a hidden key beneath a door, 
 
 Which opened and disclosed a flight of stairs, 
 
 Great solid logs of oak, like quarried blocks 
 
 Built by rude masons. Having locked the door 
 
 Behind me, and ascended these rough steps, 
 
 I wandered on through suites of silent rooms — 
 
 Some lined with wainscot and old tapestry. 
 
 Whose ghostlike shapes looked on me as 1 passed 
 
 With sleepless, vacant stare. Through many such 
 
 I wand(^red — chambers like those gloomy ones. 
 
 Dilapidated, haunted, and disused, 
 
 In that most dread erection of Romance, 
 
 The Castle of Udolpho, where with awe 
 
 We strayed before the mind had lost that touch 
 
 Of fearful superstition that sublimes 
 
 Such phantasies. But I, whose constant aim 
 
 Has been to tune myself in unison 
 
 Witli what my own age is, or strives to be. 
 
 And tame wild fancy to the sovereign rule
 
 HADDON HALL. 277 
 
 Of Fact and Nature, cannot now recall 
 
 The marvellous of boyhood. I have come 
 
 Hither some years too late ; my heart is cold 
 
 To all that would have influenced me once 
 
 In these old chambers. Disenchanted now, 
 
 They speak another language, deeper far, 
 
 Yet not a voice of mystery and awe 1 
 
 Simply of common life, which we may find 
 
 About us still in forms as wonderful. 
 
 And there is nothing quaint nor strange to me, 
 
 Nor ancient any longer. If you live 
 
 Enslaved by present customs, and perceive 
 
 No quaintness in our life, the past excites 
 
 A sort of idle wonder, being strange ; 
 
 But thoughtful men who find within themselves 
 
 Germs which another culture would have trained 
 
 To old Assyrian forms, are not disposed 
 
 To wonder at remains of bygone manners 
 
 Only because they difiered from our own. 
 
 In one small chamber looking to the west, 
 The walls are lined throughout with tapestry — 
 The best in all the building. Fifty boys, 
 With supple, fleshy forms and golden hair, 
 Are gathering grapes and apples overripe, 
 With cheeks as bright and rosy as their own. 
 Most full of life are they, not stifi" nor quaint. 
 But grouped as Nature groups her sons in sport.
 
 278 HADDON HALL. 
 
 They climb the loaded trees, and hand the produce 
 By basketfuls to those who wait below. 
 One bends, that on his shoulders soft and broad 
 His little friend may climb and reach the fruit ; 
 Meanwhile his playmate slaps him heartily. 
 Clasping a bough, another swings in air. 
 /Take heed, bold youngster ! In my boyhood once, 
 When we were bathing on a summer's day, 
 I climbed a tree that bent above the stream, 
 And hid myself all naked in the branches ; 
 But, in descending, bruised my tender skin. 
 And found that it was softer than the bark. 
 Here, too, a river winds, wherein they plunge, 
 And one is half across. O, happy boys ! 
 Are you the babes who died in infancy, 
 And were translated to the orchard groves, 
 The vineyards, and the streams of Paradise ? 
 
 Not all these chambers are so richly hung ; 
 But there are suites of naked, whitewashed rooms, 
 Cheerless as empty barracks. Here you see 
 Renaissance art in all its worthlessness ; 
 Whole heaps of canvass torn and cast aside 
 (^ut of the faded frames. With subjects such 
 As Etty's knowledge could not dignify, 
 These wretclied painters worked without an aim, 
 Lost and degraded. Let us mourn for them. 
 They had no solid pleasure in their art,
 
 ''iiiiiiiliii '*'*'''' '"' •"''i'""'=-^--^'''"'^'' 
 
 v^
 
 HADDON HALL. 279 
 
 No serious thought nor purpose. They had lost 
 The earnest spu-it of the elder time, ■ 
 But had not gained that firm and settled faith 
 In Nature which supplies its place with us : 
 So they went back to worn and bygone creeds, 
 And thence grew insincere, and left the truth, 
 And all their work is worthless. The young lord 
 Who stands behind his horse and looks at you 
 From the great picture on the staircase wall, 
 Is worth a Louvre of immortal gods ; 
 So is the stalwart keeper of the deer 
 Who stands in the great hall. 
 
 I sat and worked 
 Beneath his eye on cold and rainy days. 
 Painting the antlered screen, which still retains 
 The hasp, strange relic of a ruder age ! 
 Convivial usage was a tyrant then, 
 And if a manly soul would not submit 
 To wallow in the mire of drunkenness, 
 They fixed him in this pillory with shouts 
 Of jeering laughter, and, like boys at school, 
 Poured down his sleeve what he refused to drink. 
 This iron wristlock is the very type 
 And symbol of the boyhood of mankind. 
 When custom is despotic, and unites 
 All its adherents in confederate bands 
 To persecute the recusant. But thou. 
 Brave soul, whom all thy comrades turn against
 
 280 HADDON HALL. 
 
 With scornful laughter or profounder hate, 
 
 For some unyielding nobleness of thine, — 
 
 Bear it serenely ; be urbane and calm ; 
 
 But hold thy true convictions, and obey 
 
 The God within thy breast ! We have advanced 
 
 Since these old customs ruled the banquets here ; 
 
 And at the brilliant tables of the great 
 
 Rich wines are offered by a friendly host, 
 
 As Nature offers springs of fairest water 
 
 For those to drink who thirst, yet does not take 
 
 Offence at our refusal — but to cram 
 
 Your guests with food or wine against their will. 
 
 As the great monkey did poor Gulliver, 
 
 Is most unfriendly. , Let our object be 
 
 To make our neighbours haj^py in our home, 
 
 And there allow them perfect liberty, 
 
 So that the hour may pass without restraint. 
 
 There is a massive table in the hall, 
 
 At which the host presided long ago. 
 
 And dined with all his servants, not without 
 
 Some signs of rank more strongly marked than now. 
 
 And in his place at Christmas, after floods 
 
 Of ale had borne his hearers to that shore 
 
 Of bliss that I, alas ! have never known, 
 
 He sang a song of welcome. Well i*eceived 
 
 That song would be : the voice of Mario
 
 HADDON HALL. 281 
 
 Is not SO grateful to a perfect ear 
 
 As that old Earl's to his dependent guests. 
 
 I sat at work upon the antlered screen ; 
 
 And through the hall CcXme parties every hour, 
 
 Led by a little maiden as their guide. 
 
 They see the great, rough kitchens. Afterwards 
 
 They cross the hall, and in the dining-room 
 
 Learn that our modern homes, with all their faults. 
 
 If not so rudely picturesque and quaint, 
 
 Have more true comfort. I would rather spend 
 
 A fortnight at the Peacock than in state 
 
 Visit the petty king, if it might be. 
 
 Who held his court three hundred years ago 
 
 Li this old mansion. He, with all his power, 
 
 Had not a cup of tea to offer one — 
 
 No billiard-room, nor pleasant library. 
 
 Whose cool recesses on a summer noon 
 
 The silent student haunts — no statue, bust, 
 
 Nor gallery of pictures. Those rewards 
 
 That Nature gives so freely to mankind 
 
 For their pursuit of knowledge were not his — 
 
 The cheap and punctual newspaper — the train 
 
 That brought me down to Rowsley, whilst I sat 
 
 And read a shilling volume. At his feasts 
 
 He had no music I should care to hear. 
 
 For all the great composers were unborn, 
 
 All instruments imperfect. He might read
 
 282 HADDON HALL. 
 
 Old Chaucer, but our Shakspeare was not known 
 To those with whom he sojourned. 
 
 After all, 
 The animal must first be satisfied ; 
 And it might be a wholesome change for us 
 To live as they did for a year or two — 
 To hunt with that old huntsman in the hall, 
 And break our fast at six on beef and ale, 
 And dance in the long ball-room every night, 
 And throw all weak refinements to the winds. 
 
 That long, quaint ball-room ! When the evening sun 
 
 Looks through the mullioned windows in the court, 
 
 And throws strong lights upon the oaken floor, 
 
 I v/alk there like a monk in cloisters old 
 
 In meditation ; lingering, as I go. 
 
 To stand in the great oriels, and look up 
 
 To those proud shields that in the diamond panes 
 
 Recall the golden time of history, 
 
 Tlie glorious reign of brave Elizabeth. 
 
 Beneath this noble ceiling dancers held 
 
 Gay revellings ; and here amongst a crowd 
 
 Of maskers danced two lovers long ago. 
 
 Then sauntered towards the ante-room for air ; 
 
 And, unsuspected, through the folding doors 
 
 That open on the terrace, down the steps 
 
 Went forth into the moonlight, and escaped.
 
 HADDON HALL. 283 
 
 The scene of this elopement is indeed 
 Full of romance, when from the ante-room 
 You look down the old stairs, whose balustrades 
 And spheres of stone are e±quisite in colour, 
 Tinted by Nature ; and the dark green yews, 
 And great bay-window with its ivied base, 
 Shut in the narrow picture. 
 
 Hence you pass 
 Into the lordly bedchamber of state, 
 Where, hung with faded velvet richly lined, 
 Still stands the royal bed — the only one 
 Left in the building. In the oriel 
 There is a mirror framed with tortoise-shell, 
 Wherein, they say, the lovely Queen of Scots 
 Was once reflected. Oh, that it had been 
 Like wondrous silver, sensitive enough 
 To hold her form for ever ! 
 
 You ascend 
 The watch-tower next, and from its lofty turret 
 Look down upon the leads. Beneath you lies 
 All the great house, with quadrangles and towers, 
 Long, leaded roofs, and lines of battlement, 
 Eeposing in the heat of summer noon 
 Like an old steed, that, having served its master 
 Well in its prime, is freed at last from duty, 
 And sleeps in sunny pastures. 
 
 I have seen 
 Old houses, where the men of former time
 
 9^4 HADDON HALL. 
 
 Have lived and died, so wantonly destroyed 
 By their descendants, that a place like this, 
 Preserved with pious care, but not " restored " 
 By rude, presumptuous hands, nor modernised 
 To suit convenience, seems a precious thing ; 
 And I would thank its owner for the hours 
 That I have spent there ; and I leave it now, 
 Hoping that his successors may preserve 
 Its roof with equal tenderness. It gave 
 Good shelter to their fathers many a year. 
 
 FOR 
 
 I HAVE a thousand messengers to bear 
 
 Wliat I have written over land and sea, 
 
 But one is chiefly favoured. He shall wear 
 
 A richer dress, and shall my herald be 
 
 Unto tlie court of Love to plead for me. 
 
 Go swiftly fortl;, my little messenger, 
 
 And seek my love, for she will harbour thee ; 
 
 And ask her why we are not as we were, 
 
 When in our early years I gained that pledge from her.
 
 POEMS OF WAK. 
 
 " Suppose the Greeks, instead of representing their own warriors as 
 they fought at Marathon, had left us nothing but their imaginations of 
 Egyptian battles?"— Kuskin.
 
 Few poems in this division of the work can be said to have 
 originated in my own experience. I resisted the temptation 
 to write from other people's accounts as long as I could, 
 but the excitement of the war fairly compelled me to re- 
 lieve myself in verse. The reader will think it strange that 
 the devoted heroism of the Light Brigade called forth no 
 more than a passing allusion. The truth is, I possessed 
 Tennyson's magnificent lines on the same subject before 
 they were published ; and thought it more becoming, as 
 well as more prudent, to retire from the contest.
 
 387 
 
 THE PILLAR OF PEACE. 
 
 Within the Palatine of Lancaster, 
 
 The peasants from the hills do congregate 
 
 To labour in the valleys, and have built 
 
 Li barren lands such towns of industry, 
 
 That they thereby have made themselves a power 
 
 Which none who rule in England may despise. 
 
 To them is Peace no dream of sentiment. 
 
 But of their system an essential part, 
 
 And to their welfare a necessity. 
 
 Thus when the wars of the French Conqueror 
 
 Seemed at an end, and that gigantic spirit. 
 
 Like an Arabian afrit bottled up, 
 
 And sealed for ever with a talisman. 
 
 Had been compressed in Elba by his foes, 
 
 It so rejoiced these men, that they combined 
 
 To raise a pillar on a mountain-peak ; 
 
 Not in the exultation his defeat
 
 288 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Miglit well have caused — but to commemorate 
 The restoration of their sovereign Peace 
 Unto her throne, usurped by cruel War. 
 
 A mountain lies between me and the peak 
 
 Whereon that pillar stood ; and in my youth 
 
 I often climbed a cliff, whose hijrhest ridffe 
 
 I knew that I had reached, when in the east. 
 
 Above the blue waves of the rounded land, 
 
 Rose that strong pillar in the lofty winds. , 
 
 Its hour had not arrived, and it defied 
 
 The storms that raged whilst Europe was at peace : 
 
 But when the Czar's ambition burst its bounds, 
 
 Pouring armed legions into Turkish lands, 
 
 And cruel slaughter on the villagers, 
 
 A fissure in its masonry increased, 
 
 Until its stair grew perilous. 
 
 At last, 
 The very niglit the Czar's ambassador, 
 Wlicn all our hopes of settlement had failed, 
 And diplomats exhausted all their arts, 
 Broke off his old relations with our court, 
 And, by departing, menaced us with war, — 
 That very night, beneath the windy sky, 
 A roar like tliunder echoed in the hills, 
 And startled in their beds the peasantry ; 
 Wild on the morrow, when they went to work, 
 Belield the sun rise through a cloud of blood
 
 THE PILLAR OP PEACE. 289 
 
 Behind the eastern hill ; but his red disk 
 Shone unobstructed where the sign had been 
 Of happy peace. The pillar of their hope 
 Lay like a cairn above the grave of Peace ; 
 And thence they drew an omen of their woes, 
 And went to labour with dejected hearts 
 To earn the precious bread of scarcity.* 
 
 * Stoodley Pike was erected by subscription in 1S14 to commemorate the 
 General Peace. It was an interesting object from the Lancashire and 
 Yorkshire railwaj', standing as it did on one of the principal eminences in 
 the neighbourhood of Todmorden. On the night of the 8th of February, 
 1854, (the day on which the Russian Ambassador left London, when 
 oiu- diplomatic relations with the com^; of St. Petersburg were finally sus- 
 pended), this monument of Peace fell with a loud noise. The coincidence 
 was certainly a remarkable one. 
 
 U
 
 290 
 
 MARSHAL ST. AllNAUD. 
 
 The lieroes that the sculptor hews 
 
 Are men of giant frame ; 
 And when we see their marble bulk, 
 
 Who wonders at their fame ? 
 If we had come from such a mould, 
 
 We might have been the same. 
 
 But since we have to toil and bear, 
 We say, " there is no scope 
 
 For greatness in this life of ours ;" 
 And so we moil and mope, 
 
 And sink at once to lower aims, 
 And lose the light of hope.
 
 MARSHAL ST. ARNAUD. 291 
 
 But though you suffer — even though 
 
 Death stare you in the face, — 
 There may be some great task for you 
 
 Before you leave your place ; 
 So live till that is well fulfilled, 
 
 Then go with better grace. 
 
 By him who won the Alma heights, 
 
 And when the cannon's roar 
 Subsided, had the foe to meet. 
 
 Whose cruel marks he bore — 
 A silent foe that laid him low 
 
 At last for evermore ; 
 
 By him who crushed his inward pain, 
 
 And bravely to the last 
 Bore up — bear up with fortitude, 
 
 Until your strife is past ! 
 Bear up ! the trial is not long. 
 
 When life runs out so fast. 
 
 Health, strength, the sprightliness of youth. 
 He had no more than you ; » 
 
 He rode, a living skeleton. 
 And saw the battle through ! 
 
 My friends ! there is no task on earth 
 A brave soul cannot do.
 
 292 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 And Death himself respected him, 
 Though he would have him soon 
 
 And on his right hand and his left 
 There stood a brave dragoon, 
 
 And held the Marshal on his horse 
 To hear the merry tune — 
 
 The merry music of the guns, 
 The shouting on the height, 
 
 The dull, metallic clash of steel, 
 When hand to hand they fight, 
 
 And the last volleys that pursue 
 The vanquished in their flight. 
 
 He heard it all ; the bullets hailed 
 
 Around him, but in vain ; 
 For it was right the world should know 
 
 The strife he did sustain : 
 Not thus was he to end at last 
 
 His bitter years of pain. 
 
 He died a nobler death — he proved 
 
 What he had suffered long. 
 He died a nobler death than those 
 
 Who go to battle strong, 
 And fall without a pang, and leave 
 
 Bright epitaphs in song.
 
 MAKSHAL ST. ARNAUD. 293 
 
 And when the living in the camp, 
 
 The dead upon the field, 
 Slept soundly — in the Marshal's tent 
 
 His last despatch he sealed. 
 Telling his army's fortitude — 
 
 His own he kept concealed. 
 
 Brave Marshal ! he could leave his home — 
 
 His wife — his country — all 
 That smooths the piUow at the last. 
 
 And lets the weary fall 
 Into the bed whose counterpane 
 
 Is the dark velvet pall. 
 
 He knew he had not long to live, 
 
 And yet " what months remain 
 To me of life," the Marshal said, 
 
 " Shall take me once again 
 Into the field of battle — there 
 
 To end this life of pain." 
 
 Brave Marshal ! to the shores of France 
 
 A mournful vessel bears 
 The soldier taking rest at last, 
 
 And free from all his cares. 
 And freshly green is the laurel wreath 
 
 The dead man calmly wears.
 
 294 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Two nations mourned his noble death ; 
 
 And on the funeral day 
 The flags of France and England 
 
 Upon his cofliin lay : 
 may they never part until 
 
 The nations pass away ! 
 
 Beneath their broad united shade 
 
 The men of Alma died ; 
 Oh, never may our enemies 
 
 Such friends again divide, 
 Whose weakness is to be at war, — 
 
 Whose strength to be allied !
 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Learning could not crush thy heart, 
 Thou art gentle woman still ; 
 
 All thine aim, her better part 
 Well and truly to fulfil. 
 
 All the pleasures of thy sex. 
 All its little gauds and toys, 
 
 Never did thy soul perplex — 
 Thou hast far sublimer joys. 
 
 sweet lady ! thou indeed. 
 
 Where thy saintly virtues shine. 
 
 Dost exalt thy Christian creed 
 By those holy works of thine.
 
 296 POEMS OP WAR. 
 
 Thou slialt have a foremost place 
 In the annals of our time : 
 
 They have much of mean and base, 
 Something also of sublime. 
 
 Many a soldier, old and grey, 
 Afterwards shall tell the tale 
 
 How he watched you as he lay, 
 Holy Florence Nightingale, 
 
 Walking through the wards at night, 
 Crowded corridors of pain ! 
 
 How he watched your lessening light 
 Like a star, till lost again ! 
 
 Fragile bodies often hold 
 
 Hearts devoted, brave, and true ; 
 
 Fragile bodies, hero-souled. 
 
 Mighty tasks can struggle through. 
 
 Whilst another frame endures 
 Sickness, you forget your own : 
 
 Some, with less excuse than yours, 
 Would have lived for self alone. 
 
 Lady ! thus a rhymer pours 
 
 Idle music in thine ear ; 
 But thy spirit where it soai'S 
 
 Sweeter sounds must often hear.
 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. 297 
 
 Sweeter far than poet's tongue, 
 
 Or the murmurs of the crowd, 
 Is the heavenly music sung 
 
 In the conscience clear and loud. 
 
 Angels' voices, day and night. 
 
 Cheer thee on through toil and pain ; 
 
 In thy bosom burns a light ; 
 
 Aids unseen thy strength sustain.
 
 29S 
 
 THE SHIP OF MISERY. 
 
 Fifteen hundred wounded men 
 Are her merry passengers ; 
 
 Never ship went on a trip 
 
 Less enjoyable than hers. 
 
 After Alma's bloody day 
 
 She takes the wounded far away. 
 
 Fifteen hundred wounded men ! 
 
 Scarce a surgeon for them all ! 
 Broken bones — pain and groans — 
 
 Wounds of bayonet and ball. 
 Wretched ship ! she has on board 
 Firstfruits of the reaping sword. 
 
 Fifteen hundred wounded men 
 Lying groaning in the dark. 
 
 Many a night must take its flight 
 Ere the wretches disembark. 
 
 As the worn-out surgeon goes 
 
 Past them, how they clutch his clothes !
 
 THE SHIP OF MISERY. 299 
 
 Fifteen hundred wounded men 
 
 Darkly borne across tlie waves ! 
 
 Envying those their repose 
 
 Who rest at Alma in their graves. 
 
 Many a sufferer gets his wish 
 
 When his body feeds the fish. 
 
 Fifteen hundred Avounded men 
 
 Lying putrid in their beds ! 
 Heaves the sea ! O misery ! 
 
 How it 's swimming in their heads ! 
 No one heeds his neighbour's groan, 
 Each has sufferings of his own. 
 
 Fifteen hundred wounded men ! — 
 No ! not fifteen hundred now ! 
 
 Wounds untended, often ended 
 
 In sweet slumber — you know how. 
 
 When the ship at anchor rode, 
 
 What a cargo to unload ! 
 
 »" 
 
 Jack looked pale — it turned him sick — 
 Pitch the blankets overboard ! 
 
 All the road to that abode 
 
 Where lay the victims of the sword, 
 
 Strewn with mutilated men 
 
 Gone too far to rise again.
 
 300 
 
 AFTER A BATTLE. 
 
 When England feared invasion, and the man 
 To whom we owe the friendly aid of France 
 Was slandered and abused by all our prints, 
 The clowns in rustic districts, and the hands 
 Of mills and foundries in our crowded towns, 
 Were all invited by the Government 
 To serve as soldiers one month out of twelve ; 
 So that if ever on our native shores 
 Invading armies landed, there might be 
 A population fitly trained and armed 
 To meet the invader and defend our homes. 
 Then I, and other idlers like myself. 
 Gave up a certain portion of our time 
 To change a thousand men of Lancashire 
 From rough, uncouth civilians into pawns. 
 Steady upon tlie chessboard of the field — 
 Well-disciplined battalions. Of this force
 
 AFTER A BATTLE. 301 
 
 We were the captains, and we had our work. 
 But soon by constant drilling, day by day. 
 And sifting of the refuse, we became 
 More soldier-like ; and in the second year 
 Of our enrolment it occurred to me 
 To gain a new impression. 
 
 Every day. 
 When we were wearied with battalion drill, 
 With marching twenty times across the field, 
 And forming squares, preparing to resist 
 Imaginary squadrons, with four fronts 
 Of thickly glistening bayonets, firing blank 
 On the blank wind, or charging it in line, — 
 When we were tired of these heroic toils, 
 The bugle sounded, and we grounded arms. 
 Then suddenly the green field in the sun 
 Was sprinkled with red jackets, for the men 
 Reclined to rest their limbs ; we officers, 
 Forming a little group upon the grass. 
 Discussing pay, accounts, and stoppages, 
 And all the business of our companies. 
 And once, as we remarked about the men, 
 How in repose they took so many ways 
 Of gaining rest, that all the thousand men 
 Displayed a thousand attitudes, a thought 
 Occurred to one which I shall not forget : 
 He said, " They 're like the wounded and the dead 
 After a battle — left upon the field."
 
 302 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Then suddenly I pictured to myself 
 A thousand helpless creatures lying there, 
 Dead, or in pain. The stillness of repose 
 Grew deathlike, and the motion of a limb 
 A tortured writhing ; so I looked and looked, 
 And let imagination do its work. 
 
 It was an awful fancy — thickly strewn 
 The corpses of our men ; and I went forth 
 In thought among the dead to recognise 
 The features that I knew. The baleful sun 
 Rotted the bodies, and with divers wounds 
 Too horrible to think of or describe, 
 The living also putrified and stank ; 
 And here and there a wandering carrion soul 
 Plundered the dead and dying — groans of pain 
 
 My dread illusion was destroyed at once ; 
 Our band struck up, and all my wounded men, 
 Ayo, and the dead, sprang lightly to their feet, 
 And flocked to hear the music ; and the sun. 
 No longer baleful, kissed the brazen horns.
 
 803 
 
 THE CHILD-SOLDIER. 
 
 A LITTLE boy stood on the field, 
 
 A little English boy ; 
 It was a merry game, thought he, 
 
 And he was brisk with joy. 
 The battle seemed but sport to him. 
 
 And every ball a toy. 
 
 He was a British Grenadier, 
 
 And he was ten years old ; 
 And therefore what had he to fear, 
 
 A soldier brisk and bold ? 
 The little lad was bravely clad 
 
 In English red and gold. 
 
 Undaunted Avhen the iron balls 
 Were bowled along the ground, 
 
 He marched unhurt where six-foot men 
 Their graves of glory found ; 
 
 He marched along with a stalwart throng 
 To the cannon's awful sound.
 
 304 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 But when the battle had been fought, 
 
 And on the field at night 
 Lay fifteen hundred Englishmen 
 
 In miserable plight, 
 The little lad would take no rest, 
 
 Though wearied with the fight. 
 
 But, stepping over many a corpse, 
 
 His comrades saw him go, 
 And risk his life by passing close 
 
 To many a wounded foe. 
 *' What means the lad ? He must be mad 
 
 To court destruction so ! " 
 
 They watched him. He was gathering wood. 
 
 It warmed their hearts to see 
 That fearless lad — of broken stocks 
 
 A heavy load had he. 
 He made a fire upon the field, 
 
 And boiled a can of tea. 
 
 Cold, cold, and stiff the wounded lay ; 
 
 Yet still one cheerful spot — 
 One fire was blazing brightly near — 
 
 One kind friend left them not: 
 And grateful were those pleasant draughts 
 
 He brought them — steaming hot.
 
 THE CHILD-SOLDIER. 305 
 
 And SO he passed the midnight hours 
 
 With hell on every side ; 
 And during that long dreadful night, 
 
 In suffering hundreds died : 
 But some were saved by the soldier-lad 
 
 And the comforts he supplied. 
 
 At Balaklava, and the height 
 
 Of Inkerman — the grave 
 Of thousands — this heroic child 
 
 Fought bravely with the brave. 
 Hemmed round by Russian bayonets, 
 
 He still survived to save 
 
 The lives of others afterwards ; 
 
 And there are those who say, 
 That, but for that good-hearted boy, 
 
 They must have died that day, 
 When on the field of Inkerman 
 
 The helpless wounded lay.* 
 
 * The hero of this little ballad (which is merelj' a plain statement of 
 facts) is Thomas Keep, of the third battalion of Grenadier Guards, under 
 the command of Col. Thomas Wood. He saved the Uves of Serjeant Russell 
 and others, and has been recommended by Colonels Robinson and Wood. 
 His personal braverj" in the fi Id might be in part the eflfect of example and 
 excitement, but it is impossible to praise too highly his self-sacrificing 
 devotion to the woimded, and hia active exertions in their behalf. If I had 
 the enviable power, possessed only by great poets, of conferring fame on 
 others, this gallant boy should be an enduring example of the best qualities 
 of genuine English boyhood.
 
 806 
 
 TO GENERAL SCARLETT, 
 
 LEADER OF THE HEAVY CAVALRY AT BALAKLAVA* 
 
 We knew that there was more beneath 
 
 That quiet countenance of yours ; 
 We vaguely thought, " He will reveal 
 
 The greatness circumstance obscures. 
 If ever Fortune's sun shall gleam 
 
 Upon the hardy, hidden flower." 
 It gleamed — your germ of chivalry 
 
 Has bloomed to glory in an hour !" 
 
 ' Addrcsscfl to Brigadier-General (since Major-General) the Honoui-able 
 J. T. Scarlett, on reading the accovmt in "Tlio Times" of the successful 
 heftvy cavalry charge at Balaklava, which he headed in person.
 
 TO GENERAL SCARLETT. 307 
 
 I see you wave a glittering sword — 
 
 Along your massive squadrons ride, 
 And point across the i^arrow plain 
 
 To hosts upon the other side ; 
 Then take your place and give the word, 
 
 And — louder than the trumpet — hear, 
 In answer from your gallant men — 
 
 A willing — hearty — English cheer! 
 
 Behind the grey-clad Muscovites 
 
 A clump of lances glimmering shone ; 
 The English trumpets sound again — 
 
 Then hush the anxious lookers-on ! 
 The Russian lines were long and deep, 
 
 Long lines and deep both front and rear ; 
 Away goes Scarlett with the Greys ! 
 
 And who shall check his dread career ? 
 
 Three armies watch you ! Thundering on 
 
 Across the plain your horsemen ride : 
 What grand sensations thrilled you then — 
 
 Sensations sweet to soldier pride ! 
 To lead the flower of chivalry — 
 
 To feel your charger bound beneath 
 The terrible joy of glorious war. 
 
 Too full of life to think of death !
 
 303 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 They say it is a fiendish joy, 
 
 Not human feelings, that they feel, 
 Who ride " like devils dressed in red," 
 
 With heads of brass and stings of steel. 
 I know not what you felt yourself 
 
 Beneath that plume of flowing white, 
 I only know that you displayed 
 
 The courage of an English knight. 
 
 I see your plume of flowing Avhite ; 
 
 I see the glimmer of your sword 
 Far off, and faint — and less — and less — 
 
 Till lost amid a savage horde. 
 Yes, they have met — then- blades are wet- 
 
 God, preserve each brave dragoon ! 
 From gloomy masses broken through, 
 
 1 see the red emerging soon. 
 
 Exhausted — scattered — almost lost — 
 
 They ride against the second line. 
 Behind them close their shaken foes — 
 
 They must be foiled in that design ! 
 Another mass of living men 
 
 Is hurled against them — brief the fight — 
 They turn — well thrashed — not every steed 
 
 Will reach Sebastopol to-night !
 
 TO GENERAL SCARLETT. 309 
 
 A mighty feat had been performed 
 
 In that arena ! On the hill 
 A crowd of breathless watchei-s stood, 
 
 In solemn silence wrapt — until 
 The Russians fled before our men ; 
 
 And then they took a little pause 
 To bi-eathe — and then from every lip 
 
 There burst a shout of loud applause. 
 
 Returning from a short pursuit, 
 
 With dinted helmet — wounded arm — 
 A slight and gentle virgin-wound, 
 
 A wound of honour more than harm — 
 You rode in triumph, and your chief, 
 
 The grey old friend of Wellington, 
 Despatched a special messenger 
 
 To meet you, and to say, " Well done I " 
 
 It was a glorious hour for you ! 
 
 They say your eye was proudly bright. 
 And that upon your sun-burnt cheek 
 
 There flushed a bloom of deep delight. 
 When, bowing with a soldier's grace, 
 
 You thanked your chieftain for his praise,- 
 Words that would reach your native land. 
 
 And those you loved, ere many days.
 
 310 POEMS OP WAR. 
 
 Your knighthood is as bright as theirs 
 
 Who won their spurs at Agincourt ; * 
 And, set against that brilliant day. 
 
 Your former life seems dark and pooi*. 
 It is not so. In those long years, 
 
 Though unproductive to the world, 
 You Avrought the banner of your fame, 
 
 In time of peace ignobly furled. 
 
 And I have seen you, year by year, 
 
 Wait calmly for that glorious hour ; 
 Wait, till the prime of life was past — 
 
 Still hopeful, husbanding your power. 
 The noble lesson you have taught 
 
 Is, " Learn to labour and to wait ;" 
 And I am thankful for your sake 
 
 The guerdon has not come too late. 
 
 * The battle of Balaklava took place on the anniversary of Agincourt. 
 This stanza anticii)atos the Order of the Bath for General Scarlett. It has 
 siucc been couferrcd upon him.
 
 311 
 
 SIR DE LACY EVANS 
 
 AT INKERMAN, 
 
 " On the heights of Inkerman you displayed that undaunted courage 
 and chivabrous conduct which have called forth the admiration of your 
 country ; when, rising from a bed of sickness, you hastened to assist with 
 your counsel and experience the gallant oflBcer in temporary command of 
 your division, and refused to withhold from him the honours whilst you 
 shared with him the dangers of the day." — The Sj)eaker of the House of 
 Commons to Sir Be Lacy Evans. 
 
 In a heavy fog their watch they kept 
 
 On the heights of Inkerman, 
 Down their bayonets coldly the raindrops crept 
 
 When that dreary day began. 
 Up through the mist from the leaguered town 
 
 The bells of the churches pealed, 
 And the pickets from the heights looked down 
 
 Where the valley lay concealed.
 
 312 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 In the dead of the night, ere the dawn was grey, 
 
 The sound of artillery wheels 
 Rumbled faintly — " They come this way," — 
 
 Uneasy the sentry feels. 
 " 'T is the arabas on the road below," 
 
 Deceived, the soldiers said ; 
 For they heard not the voice of their cautious foe, 
 
 Nor his army's stealthy tread. 
 
 In the city at midnight a solemn mass 
 
 Was sung by bishops seven. 
 Who promised that those who fell should pass 
 
 At once to the joys of heaven. 
 The Emperor sent his own dear son 
 
 To encourage the troops — said he, 
 " The besiegers before the year is done 
 
 Must be driven into the sea ! " 
 
 In the fleet that anchored near the shore 
 
 In Balaklava bay. 
 Roused by the cannon's opening roar 
 
 From the sick-bed where he lay, 
 A pale knight rose at the sound of war, 
 
 Like a hunter at the horn. 
 For glorious music rolled afar 
 
 That dark November morn.
 
 SIR DE LACY EVAXS. 313 
 
 With an anxious heai't the sick knight rode, 
 For he knew one point was weak ; 
 
 And long ere then did his fears forebode. 
 And he spoke when' he ought to speak. 
 
 But his good advice was thrown away. 
 And the men were tired and few. 
 
 That in the cloud defenceless lay- 
 When the balls came flying through. 
 
 Arrived on the field, he refused to take 
 
 From his junior's faithful hand 
 His brave division ; and still for its sake 
 
 Advised, though he would not command. 
 The danger he shared, but the post and name 
 
 Of a leader resigned to his friend, 
 Though he rose from a sick-bed and painfully came 
 
 To be with them until the end. 
 
 With their bayonets crossed in deadly strife, 
 
 Closely, breast to breast. 
 Steady and stern they fought for life 
 
 On the mountain's awful ci*est : 
 And down in many a deep ravine, 
 
 And many a lonely glen. 
 Were bloodiest contests held unseen 
 
 By bands of desperate men.
 
 314 POEMS bF WAR. 
 
 'T was a terrible day, yet calm and pale 
 
 The sick knight saw it through ; 
 But a time must come Avhen the strong limbs fail, 
 
 If the spirit fails not too : 
 And he said, " I am old, I have earned repose, 
 
 Let me die in my native land ! " 
 And this chivalrous eflEbrt marked the close 
 
 Of the hero's long command.
 
 315 
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 April 20th, 1855. 
 
 Down from his niche with England's Queens and Kings 
 Looked Cromwell on a strange event to-day ; 
 For under the broad shadow of the screen 
 There passed a ruler, who, like him, had pressed 
 And edged his way into the foremost rank 
 Amongst the heirs of thrones. 
 
 He passed along ; 
 And at his side there walked a regnant Queen, 
 Fair England leaning on the arm of France, 
 Allied for war — our Queen with Bonaparte ! 
 And after them their consorts, and the train 
 Of courtiers who attach themselves to crowns. 
 
 Then down the long perspective of the nave 
 
 They looked, and every detail in the sun 
 
 Became a sparkling gem — the marble pools. 
 
 With tall glass fountains, under whose bright showers
 
 316 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Refreshed and cool, young water-lilies float — 
 Green orange-trees in stately avenues — 
 White statues shining out against the green, 
 And the rich crimson cloth upon the floor, 
 With the aerial tinting of the roof, 
 And the deep blue of heaven over all, 
 Made it a feast of colour. 
 
 By the marge 
 Along the pool of lilies they passed on, 
 Into that lovely dwelling which was built 
 To show the people how in former time, 
 Before volcanic ashes made a tomb 
 Of their gay town, the old Pompeians lived. 
 Upon the threshold, in mosaic stones 
 Set in the pavement, stands a furious dog ; 
 And, underneath, the legend " Cave canem." 
 But in the other entrances you meet 
 A kinder welcome — " Salve !" In the hall. 
 Beneath the oblong opening in the roof, 
 Through which the sunlight falls, a shallow pool 
 Of marble holds the rain and cools the house : 
 It is so clear and shallow, that you see 
 Its fair mosaics bright with many hues 
 Of coloured marbles — there the gold fish SAvims. 
 Close to this pool a graceful statue stands. 
 Most delicate and fanciful, und light 
 Arc all the decorations ; every hue 
 Intense and brilliant. Round the entrance-hall
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 317 
 
 Are little cells to sleep in — such confined 
 
 And narrow chambers as you rarely see. 
 
 They did not know the luxury of sleep, 
 
 Because their days were bright ; but we, to whom 
 
 The very beams of day are thick with cares, 
 
 Build spacious chambers for the rest we love. 
 
 Past the great hall, and at the other end 
 
 Of this strange mansion, is 'the peristyle — 
 
 A hall of columns with a little garden, 
 
 A little, lovely garden of four beds, 
 
 Brilliant with many hyacinths ; and there 
 
 Amongst the flowers a white fawn stands for ever, 
 
 And to its nostrils sweetest odours rise ; 
 
 And still it feeds not. 
 
 In the dining-room 
 The couches are all ready for the guests ; 
 But we are of another place and time, 
 And may not banquet with the unseen host 
 Of this fair mansion whom our fancy paints. 
 
 Thence to the 'Central Transept, where the roof 
 Springs nearest heaven ; and through its arch the sun 
 Looks on the great Twin Brethren— mighty forms — 
 Ruo-f^ed — colossal — they who hold their steeds 
 In the vast transept, those white steeds of war, 
 Which at the Lake Regillus did appear. 
 Bearing their princely riders to the fight, 
 When gods allied with Rome, as legends tell.
 
 318 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Then down the transept to the balcony 
 
 That overlooks the gardens. When they came, 
 
 The monarchs and their consorts, to receive 
 
 The greetings of the people, such a sight 
 
 As they beheld no monarch's eye before 
 
 Had ever witnessed. All the sloping hill 
 
 Beneath laid out in spacious terraces. 
 
 With marble statues on the' balustrades 
 
 At intervals, and great broad flighls of stairs, 
 
 And two long wings projecting at each side 
 
 That end in lofty towers transparent, light, 
 
 And crystalline, the colour of the sky. 
 
 Then on the spacious terraces the throng 
 
 Of twenty thousand people, gaily dressed 
 
 In festal garments, raised a mighty shout 
 
 Of welcome to the Emperor ! — loud cheers 
 
 That rose and fell with glorious energy ! 
 
 And all that surging sea of human life 
 
 Ceased not its deep-voiced music of applause 
 
 Whilst he stood gazing from the balcony 
 
 Upon the scene before him. Kich and broad 
 
 The landscape spread — the air so clear and bright, 
 
 That every detail was distinctly seen, 
 
 Even to the spires of distant villages 
 
 That slept in the deep woodlands far aAvay. 
 
 Napoleon's hardness yielded, and the face 
 
 Of his sweet Empress beamed with radiant smiles. 
 
 It was indeed an animating sight,
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 319 
 
 Most full of life and sunshine, when the bands 
 Upon the terrace played the song of France, 
 Composed, they say, by Queen Hortense, whose son 
 Stood listening to the old familiar air 
 At that proud moment ; and his mother's voice 
 Came sweetly with those grand, triumphant notes. 
 
 Till then the waters slumbered in the earth ; 
 That day they rose through fountains to the height 
 Of their full stature — columned showers of spray. 
 Wherein the sun hangs rainbows. Afterwards, 
 In future years, when round the pleasant brink 
 Of their vast basins, men shall stand and hear 
 The music of the waters, they will tell 
 How, when these fountains rose into the light 
 For the first time, two monarchs saw their birth, 
 And France and England were allied in war. 
 
 The styles of all true architecture spring 
 From no vague, lawless fancies of the brain. 
 But from the life of nations ; so, to teach 
 The people something of the powers of old 
 That were the strongest nations in their time. 
 Have many courts been copied from their works : 
 And through these courts the royal strangers went, 
 Egypt, and Greece, and Rome ; and after them. 
 Like the enchantments of an Eastern tale. 
 The fairy-like Alhambra !
 
 320 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Round the Court 
 Of Lions is a glorious colonnade 
 Of golden pillars, and a marble fountain 
 Stands in the centre. If you walk between 
 The pillars and the wall, and look around 
 Till all the intricate detail a:rows confused 
 And overpowers you, and the illumined colours, 
 Gold — scarlet — blue — become like gorgeous hues 
 At sunset, that you feel but cannot trace ; 
 And then look through the arch into the hall 
 Of Justice, where the splendour still extends 
 In light subdued, all inexliaustible ; 
 And still beyond, a third fair hall you see, 
 Fit for Haroun Alraschid in his prime — 
 Then, if your soul have aught of old romance. 
 Conceive Eugenie's thoughts when she beheld 
 This fair enchantment, which recalled to her 
 The old traditions of her native larid ! 
 
 The Central Transept was a glorious scene 
 
 When the great crowd had entered ; and the floor 
 
 And all the upper galleries were black 
 
 With swarms of human creatures. In the midst. 
 
 Raised liigh above the murmuring multitude. 
 
 Upon four thrones the royal pairs sat down 
 
 To hear the mighty music of the band. 
 
 Above the two crowned heads the colours hung 
 
 Of France and England, and long banners drooped
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 321 
 
 Heavy with golden bees. Upon the dais, 
 Beneath the glorious arch that he had built, 
 Great in himself — and in himself alone, 
 Stood Paxton, farther from his start in life 
 Than that strong potentate the Emperor. 
 
 One incident I cannot but record. 
 
 Before the princes entered on the scene, 
 
 As I sat looking down upon the throng. 
 
 Across the open space about the dais 
 
 There walked an invalid with quiet steps. 
 
 In peaceful costume, and I heard a cry 
 
 Of ^'Cardigan! hurrah for Cardigan!" 
 
 Yes, that was he who led so gallantly 
 
 His brave, devoted squadrons to the guns 
 
 At Balaklava, scorning death itself. 
 
 Through the hot fire of Russian batteries. 
 
 That swept the breadth of plain they charged across. 
 
 Our best and bravest thrown away for nought, 
 
 As if their lives were worthless ! 0, great God ! 
 
 K thou hast blinded those who rule this land. 
 
 Spare unto us the people's nobler blood ! 
 
 When we returned to London, looking from 
 The carriage window to the glorious hill, 
 Crowned with a brighter, more resplendent crown 
 Than Athens or the seven hills of Rome, 
 
 Y
 
 322 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 I saw the blazing sun upon the height 
 
 Low down the sky ; and as our speed increased, 
 
 More swiftly rolled along the level ridge 
 
 The golden disc. A crystal tower between 
 
 Fled, like the towers of airy palaces 
 
 We build in dreams ; and onward rolled the sun, 
 
 On to the structui-e that against the sky 
 
 Stood pale and like a cloud upon the hill. 
 
 Then through that delicate fabric blazed the sun, 
 
 Moving from end to end along the nave, 
 
 And all its thousand pillars seemed to melt 
 
 Like mist before him, and the iron frame 
 
 Of the arched roof dissolved in floods of light. 
 
 So to the other tower upon the left 
 
 He passed, and broad and huge the building stood. 
 
 Dim in the distance, pale, and mountainous. 
 
 And now its courts are empty ! Yet, perhaps. 
 
 Although the royal music of the band 
 
 And the vast audience are no longer there. 
 
 Not wholly silent — for the nightingales 
 
 That dwell there sing by night, when through the roof. 
 
 And down the orange avenues, the moon 
 
 Looks from her throne in heaven, and all is still. 
 
 Then to a thousand statues sings a bird, 
 
 And thinks she has a flattering audience — 
 
 Silent — attentive — breathless — a great throng
 
 THE ALLIES IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 323 
 
 Hushed by the spell of her melodious voice. 
 The giant twins of Egypt on their thrones, 
 Looking above the tops of the young palms, 
 Smile at the little nightingale, and she 
 Sings sweetly as another songstress once 
 To living thousands on the opening day.
 
 324 
 
 AT DOVER. 
 
 Apbil 1855. 
 
 It is the midnight murmur of the sea, 
 
 The old sweet voice ! and yet I cannot sleep, 
 
 But lie and look abroad upon the deep, 
 
 Watching the wondrous thoughts that come to me. 
 
 From dimming vapours all the stars are free ; 
 
 And one is burning on the coast of France, 
 
 An earthly beacon — it will not advance 
 
 With those true stars, for whom it seems to be 
 
 A fit companion. They ascend the sky — 
 
 It sits on the horizon — there to shine 
 
 Across the waters ; whilst beneath them fly 
 
 Electric currents through the sunken line 
 
 Which so unites us to our brave ally. 
 
 That we are one in instant sympathy.
 
 325 
 
 CORRUPTION. 
 
 1855. 
 
 Corruption filled old nations ere they fell ; 
 And we have here such commerce as degrades 
 All parties — and dishonourable trades 
 In things that no one ought to buy or sell. 
 Corruption spreads — its bounds we cannot tell — 
 It has become a theme so trite and stale, 
 That, till the crown itself shall be for sale. 
 The world will say, " the system answers well 
 In church and camp — 'tis simply carried out, 
 And saves us trouble." Merit set in gold 
 Receives its due acknowledgment, no doubt ; 
 Yet even here some honours are not sold, 
 And these two things, at least, you cannot buy — 
 The poet's laurel, and the artist's eye !
 
 326 
 
 IMPERIAL GUESTS. 
 
 A SKETCH IN PICCADILLY, APRIL 16, 1855. 
 
 I STOOD upon a balcony, and watched 
 
 The ceaseless currents in the public street. 
 
 There were no houses opposite. The Park 
 
 Lay green and sunny in the afternoon ; 
 
 Across it, through the trees, a stately house 
 
 Stretched, broad and vast, the palace of our Queen ; 
 
 And in the distance grouped the Abbey towers, 
 
 With that huge pile whose growing youth exceeds 
 
 The sister twins already. To the left, 
 
 Far to the left, there stood another tower, 
 
 Marking the length of that vast edifice, 
 
 Wliorein a thousand peers and commoners 
 
 Hold their long councils nightly. Round the Park 
 
 Some noble mansions glimmered through the trees, 
 
 The sunshine falling on their pillared fronts.
 
 IMPERIAL GUESTS. 327 
 
 Watch we the ceaseless currents in the street. 
 
 The ducal chariot and cheap omnibus, 
 
 The very symbol of democracy, 
 
 Drive neck and neck. It is a motley crowd. 
 
 There goes a perfect dandy — how he sits 
 
 Beneath the leathern canopy, and holds 
 
 The reins with dainty fingers, lemon-gloved ! 
 
 His horse has glorious action ! close behind 
 
 His tiger clings, diminutive and neat. 
 
 A lumbering chariot, with a hammercloth 
 
 And portly coachman in resplendent hues, 
 
 Is followed closely by an orange cart, — 
 
 Pushed by the orange merchant, who sings out 
 
 His weaiy notes. With four black horses, plumed 
 
 With ostrich feathers, comes an equipage. 
 
 The chariot of the dead, 'T is his last drive, 
 
 Poor fellow ! down the old, accustomed street. 
 
 He passes on in peace, and hears no sound ; 
 
 His friends come weeping after. Gay and bright 
 
 Rolls past an open carriage, and a youth 
 
 Looks love to eyes that light themselves at his. 
 
 The puppy, how I envy him ! Here comes 
 
 A figure that would suit a rustic lane 
 
 Better than this rich throng — a country farmer, 
 
 With serious, simple face, on a fat steed 
 
 Whose tail is bound with straw. Two railway vans, 
 
 With mighty chestnut horses, trotting past. 
 
 Soon overtake the farmer's sluggish mare.
 
 328 POEMS OF WAR. 
 
 Then chariot after chariot to the Park 
 Follow in one procession, closely packed. 
 And girls on horseback with attendant squires 
 Thread the dense crowd of wheels — a pretty sight. 
 
 The crowd grows denser. All the throng on foot 
 Begin to pause and wait. Across the Park 
 Some horsemen gallop westwards, In the street 
 Policemen stop the lines of carriages, 
 And clear a way between them. 
 
 Hear you not 
 That distant shouting ? See ! the farthest crowd 
 Begin to wave their hats and handkerchiefs, 
 And scarlet gleams amongst them. Flashes come 
 From cuirasses and swords before we see 
 A single form distinctly. Louder grows 
 The shouting ! Here they come I — the royal guard, 
 Their white plumes dancing high above the throng ; 
 A courier rides before. 
 
 The Emperor 
 Sat with his grave and thoughtful face relaxed 
 Into a smile of triumph ; by his side, 
 The beautiful Eugenie ! Every one 
 Of that vast crowd felt deeper interest 
 In her — the fair young Empress — than in him, 
 Who took her like a king of old i-omance. 
 And raised her to his throne, where she receives 
 The homage due to crowned loveliness.
 
 IMPERIAL GUESTS. 329 
 
 He left this country seven years ago, 
 Poor, friendless, scorned — a mere adventurer; 
 But in his absence he has placed himself 
 Firmly on one of Europe's mightiest thrones, 
 And now returns triumphant ! There are few 
 In modern times like him. In former days 
 Cromwell, perhaps, has been his prototype. 
 
 Along the river Serpentine, not far 
 
 From where that huge enchanted structure rose. 
 
 To which the world brought stores of merchandise 
 
 Before it vanished like a glorious dream — 
 
 Along the waters in the people's park 
 
 Rode ti'oops of horsemen, on whose naked swords. 
 
 And brazen helms, and cuirasses of steel. 
 
 The evening sun glanced brightly, and I heard 
 
 A ceaseless shouting, growing faint afar.
 
 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 ' In Science Ues the California of Poetry."— Hans Christian Andersen.
 
 Poetry, like painting, usually deals only v?ith the ap- 
 pearances of things — not the reality. Science, having 
 enlarged our kno\vledge, opens a new field, in which the 
 imagination is still actively employed in the realisation of 
 truth, and the poetic faculty has the widest possible scope. 
 The Author has ventured on a httle excursion to this new 
 and inexhaustible field, and has arranged the fruits of his 
 expedition under the head " Poems of Science."
 
 333 
 
 THE CENTRAL HALL 
 
 IN THE NEW PALACE AT WESTMINSTER. 
 
 Between those glorious chambers whence proceed 
 The laws that govern England, lies a way 
 Through many vaulted corridors and halls, 
 So straight that — when the folding-gates of brass, 
 The beautiful gates before the House of Peers, 
 And those more modest doors of British oak 
 That close the entrance to the other place, 
 Are open — from the Speaker's chair direct 
 Unto the royal throne, a path is clear. 
 Whereby the golden splendour of that seat 
 Gleams through a line of halls and corridors 
 Into the Commons' House. 
 
 And in the midst 
 There is a Central Hall — an octagon, 
 Lofty and rich, like some fair chapter-house, 
 Whence other ways pass forth to other halls. 
 To one whose frescoes reahse the dreams
 
 334 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 Of our great poets ; and another where 
 
 Will stand gigantic statues of the dead 
 
 Who in times past made England what she is. 
 
 And through this marble avenue you pass 
 
 Down to the fine old hall of Westminster, 
 
 Where the death-sentence with sad, solemn tones, 
 
 Too often sounded in a sterner time. 
 
 Such are the precincts of the Central Hall. 
 
 And when I stand beneath the chandelier. 
 
 Of Gothic brass most exquisitely wrought. 
 
 Suspended through the opening in the roof — 
 
 (A ring with eight large bosses richly carved. 
 
 To which the ribs of all the vault converge) — 
 
 I feel that I am at the very heart 
 
 And inmost centre of our modern life ; 
 
 For in that hall there waits a messenger 
 
 More swift and mighty than the Genii 
 
 Of whom we read in old Arabian tales. 
 
 He is your slave — command him ! He will fly 
 
 By night or day to far provincial towns, 
 
 And take your message — yes ! the very words. 
 
 And bring an answer instantly. Nay, more — 
 
 If you should tell this spirit — for he hath 
 
 No substance more corporeal or gross 
 
 Than lightest Ariels born of poets' dreams — 
 
 If you should tell this spirit to proceed 
 
 To one of those old cities on the Loire,
 
 
 *;■•■ 
 
 "''"'^ii^',' '^^!fi; 
 
 
 ■SH'J^--
 
 THE CENTRAL HALL. 335 
 
 Amongst the vineyards in the south of France, 
 
 The sea would not deter him. Where the waves 
 
 Sap the chalk cliffs at Dover he will dive, 
 
 And shoot as swiftly through the density 
 
 Of the deep waters as through summer air, 
 
 And rise upon the distant shore of France, 
 
 Which as a thin, faint line, the sentinel 
 
 At Dover, looking from the castle cliff. 
 
 Sees when the day is clear. There is no sign 
 
 Upon the sea that our swift messenger 
 
 Has passed beneath it and returned again. 
 
 He does not break the surface when he dives ; 
 
 He rises unperceived, invisible 
 
 As exhalations on a cloudless day. 
 
 And when he leaves the Palace, or returns, 
 
 No doors are opened. In his swiftest flight 
 
 He moves in perfect silence, like a sphere 
 
 Sweeping its noiseless circle round the sun.
 
 836 
 
 FALLING STARS. 
 
 With old traditions all around us dying, 
 We sometimes tremble for tlie inner sense 
 
 That feeds upon the beautiful ; and sighing, 
 
 Repeat old tales, though faith is banished hence. 
 
 Here, as we sit, unwillingly receiving 
 
 More precious truths than they possessed of old. 
 
 We envy them the pleasure of believing. 
 
 Hoarding old coins in fields of Nature's gold. 
 
 Such are the useless treasures we inherit, 
 No longer current in our modern thought ; 
 
 But those who made them marked them with their spirit, 
 And so we keep them fondly, as we ought. 
 
 Such, amongst others, is tliat explanation 
 Of falling stars — that every one was tied 
 
 By a thread spun at somebody's creation, 
 And that the thread divided when he died.
 
 FALLING STARS. 337 
 
 It must have been delightful to believers 
 
 To take a census on the starry nights, 
 When the high Fates, those stern, mysterious weavers, 
 
 Hung out in heaven a multitude of lights. 
 
 But when they saw one suddenly descending 
 
 Down the bright sky — extinguished in the dark, 
 
 They knew that some one's earthly life was ending, 
 And saw a death in every dying spark. 
 
 Alas ! the stories that we leave behind us 
 Contain what we can ill afford to lose ; 
 
 And this may still be useful to remind us 
 Of death. Its warning let us not refuse. 
 
 Though knowledge may have broken the connexion 
 
 Between the tenure of our little lives 
 And the bright stars, their fall excites reflection, 
 
 And silent prayers for some one who survives. 
 
 And when you see a meteor Avildly leaping 
 Into the dai'k, think not the legend lies ; 
 
 For every moment there are mourners weeping, 
 And every moment some beloved one dies. 
 
 'T is a worn coin, though marked with the impression 
 
 Of human features ; but I will unfold 
 A store of wealth — man's new and bright possession, 
 
 Gathered of late in Nature's fields of gold.
 
 338 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 Not long ago, one evening last November, 
 
 I walked upon the mountains with my friend ; 
 
 We started after dusk, and I remember 
 
 The stars were bright before our journey's end. 
 
 And as I told him some romantic story, 
 I paused to watch a star that suddenly 
 
 Shot and, extinguished, left a trail of glory, 
 That died into faint light upon the sky. 
 
 I said, " There is a deep and sacred mystery 
 About those glancing lights on heaven's floor 
 
 That awes the heart." " And if you knew their history," 
 Answered my friend, "you still would wonder more." 
 
 " They fly," said he, " in thick and countless legions, 
 Whirling in one great orbit round the sun ; 
 
 And, swiftly coursing through the silent regions 
 Of empty space, they ever float and run. 
 
 " They have no rest — their life is one migration ; 
 
 Small bodies banded in unnumbered hosts ; 
 Some drop — not from fatigue, but gravitation — 
 
 Upon the mountains, continents, and coasts. 
 
 " Though thousands slake their fiery substance, hissing 
 
 In the deep waters of the lonely seas. 
 And every year are some old comrades missing, 
 
 Yet still the flock is like a swarm of bees.
 
 FALLING STARS. 339 
 
 " And when, across our orbit swiftly going, 
 They reach the limits of our atmosphere. 
 
 Their dark, invisible bodies, hot and glowing, 
 Blaze as they pass, then swiftly disappear. 
 
 " And some have dropped near human habitations. 
 Piercing the solid surface of the ground. 
 
 And been held sacred by the simple nations 
 On whose paternal acres they were found. 
 
 " Mongolian Chiefs and Caliphs had their sabres 
 Forged of celestial ore, that they might be 
 
 Divinely armed against unpleasant neighbours. 
 Or against slaves aspiring to be free. 
 
 " A monk at Crema, when devoutly praying. 
 Received in answer such a heavy stone 
 
 That he was silenced — God's own missile slaying 
 His humble priest. His death is not alone. 
 
 " Another, taking his accustomed airing 
 About Milan, was likewise roughly floored, 
 
 And picked up dead. And also two seafaring 
 
 Swedes met the same fate, they were killed on board." 
 
 I answered. If such masses of hot iron 
 
 As that in our museum ever fell 
 On any town, not greater woes environ 
 
 The Russian fortress from our shot and shell.
 
 340 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 I've often stood before it filled with wonder, 
 Thinking of how it came here long ago — 
 
 Of its terrific fall in claps of thunder, 
 When first it came to settle here below. 
 
 How, after rushing through unmeasured distance 
 
 In the eternal ages of the past, 
 It could descend to such a mean existence, 
 
 And deign to be exhibited at last. 
 
 The weary crowds who daily past it wander. 
 Then go to see some foreign raree show, 
 
 Would, if they knew its value, stay and ponder 
 Over the most outlandish thing we know. 
 
 A thing, not only foreign to the nation. 
 But to the very planet where we dwell, 
 
 Wherein it holds as strange a situation 
 As Orpheus in the corridors of Hell. 
 
 I've touched it with a thrill of such deep feeling 
 As vibrates through a saint's excited nerves 
 
 When he receives the sacred wafer kneeling. 
 And touches — tastes — the deity he serves. 
 
 Not that I worship stars — but in this relic 
 Of some bright courser round the central sun, 
 
 I would receive a messenger angelic 
 
 Fi'om other kingdoms of the Eternal One.
 
 FALLING STARS. 341 
 
 Saying, " Not only is the earth material, 
 
 And made of substance having bulk and weight ; 
 
 But meteor-stars, so brilliant and aerial, 
 
 Are in themselves the saine, though not so great." 
 
 And so does matter glorify its being, 
 
 Flying above us as on angels' wings, 
 And we become philosophers on seeing 
 
 These fragments of the universe of things. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Humboldt, who always looks upon nature with the eye 
 of a poet as well as the profound knowledge of a man of 
 science, provided the materials for this poem in his won- 
 derful book on the universe. {Cosmos, Bohn's edition, 
 vol. i. from p. 97 to p. 126 ; also vol. iv. from p. 566 to 
 p. 596.) The assistance derived from other sources is in- 
 considerable, and does not need specific acknowledgment. 
 
 The large mass of meteoric iron alluded to is under the 
 window in the first room of the north gallery in the British 
 Museum. It was sent from Buenos Ayres by Ur. Parish, 
 in 1826. This fragment weighs 1400 lbs. It is supposed 
 to be part of a large mass found at Otumpa, in the Gran 
 Chaco Gualamba, in S. America, by Don Rubin de Cells, 
 who estimated the weight of the whole at fifteen tons. It 
 was, therefore, no exaggeration to compare the effects of 
 such a missile to the havoc of shot and shell.
 
 342 
 
 IODINE. 
 
 There was a time when we were taught 
 
 The elements were only four ; 
 The curse of old Saint Athanase 
 
 Might cling to those who dreamed of more. 
 But now we have enlai-ged our faith, 
 
 And Science widens all her range, 
 Till recent knowledge holds as truth 
 
 What erst had sounded false and strange. 
 
 But none of all our elements 
 
 Is half so wonderful as thee, 
 Strange extract of the golden weeds, — 
 
 Strange daughter of the eternal sea ! 
 And of our sixty elements 
 
 Not one has properties like thine, 
 Thou mistress of the solar light, 
 
 violet-fuming Iodine !
 
 IODINE. 343 
 
 Oppressed by Nature's vastest forms, 
 
 Lie hid in many a mountain chain 
 Poor souls who dwell from year to year 
 
 In shadowed darkness of the brain. 
 For these thou hast a potent charm 
 
 That fiUs their hearts with health and light, 
 And makes a sunrise in the soul 
 
 That slept before in haunted night. 
 
 I've seen about the western isles, 
 
 Encircling zones of golden weed, 
 A wondrous spirit lurks therein — 
 
 By fire alone it may be freed ! 
 j^n artist-substance that receives 
 
 Distinct impressions line for line, 
 More sensitive than painter's eye, 
 
 The wonder-working Iodine !
 
 344 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Iodine derives its name from a Greek word, signifying 
 "violet-coloured;" but the transcendent beauty of the 
 colour of its vapour requires further elucidation than 
 simply saying that it has a '• violet hue." If a little iodine 
 be placed on a hot tile it rises into a magnificent dense 
 vapour, fit for the last scene of a theatrical representation. 
 This remarkable substance was discovered by accident about 
 forty years ago. At that period chemical philosophy was 
 in great repute, owing principally to the brilliant discoveries 
 of Sir Humphry Davy. So singular a substance as iodine 
 was to Davy a source of infinite pleasure. His great aim 
 was to prove its compound nature ; but in this he failed ; 
 and to this day it is believed to be one of the primitive 
 " elements " of the world we live in. The sea furnishes an 
 inexhaustible supply of iodine. Whatever be the food of 
 sea-weeds, it is certain that iodine forms a portion of their 
 daily banquet ; and to tlicse beautiful plants we turn when 
 iodine is to be manufactured for commercial purposes. The 
 inhabitants of the Tyi-ol are subject to a very painful 
 disease called goitre, or cretinism ; for this malady iodine 
 is a pci-fect cure. Photography tells the whole truth with- 
 out flattery ; and the colours used in this process are only 
 silver and iodine. — Skituius Piesse, in the Mining Journal.
 
 343 
 
 CORAL ISLANDS. 
 
 Down in the Tropic sea, 
 
 Where the water is warm and deep, 
 There are gardens fairer than any bee 
 
 Ever saw in its honied sleep. 
 
 Flowers of crimson bright. 
 
 And green, and purple, and blue, 
 
 In the waters deep which the golden light 
 Of the sun sinks softly through. 
 
 And many a proud ship sails. 
 
 And many a sea-bird flies. 
 And fishes swim with silvery scales. 
 
 Above where that garden lies. 
 
 o^ 
 
 But the sailor only sees 
 
 The ocean barren and bare. 
 While the fishes know of wondrous trees 
 
 That bloom and blossom there.
 
 346 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 For whenever they choose, they dive 
 Where line and plummet fail, 
 
 To beds of flowers that feel and live 
 Like flowers in a fairy tale. 
 
 Down in the white sea-sand 
 
 They lead a rooted life. 
 Perhaps to be plucked by the pretty hand 
 
 Of the merman's dainty wife. 
 
 You have seen the bright red stem 
 
 Of the wondrous coral tree ; 
 But its living flowers — you saw not them- 
 
 They died beneath the sea. 
 
 You have seen the coral white, 
 
 The ghastly skeleton ; 
 But the living flowers were a fairer sight 
 
 That used to grow thereon. 
 
 They die — those beautiful links 
 
 Between us and the flowers, 
 Which some despise, but the poet thinks 
 
 Most lovely pets of ours. 
 
 And the- chain is made complete 
 Between our life and theirs, — 
 
 Between the lily pure and sweet, 
 And man with all his cares.
 
 CORAL ISLANDS. 347 
 
 But not for their hues alone, 
 
 These gardens in the sea 
 Were by the ocean nursed and sown, 
 
 Or sung in verse by me. 
 
 When the lovely flowers are dead, 
 
 And their substance wastes away, 
 Their skeletons lie on the ocean's bed 
 
 Like wrecks in slow decay. 
 
 And over their delicate bones, 
 
 The streams of the lower deep 
 Lay sand and shell and polished stones 
 
 Li many a little heap. 
 
 And their descendants bloom 
 
 Above their parents' graves ; 
 Like a child that plays on its father's tomb, 
 
 They live beneath the waves. 
 
 At last they perish too ; 
 
 And the sea brings sand and shell. 
 And buries them kindly where they grew 
 
 Like soldiers where they fell. 
 
 And this goes on and on, 
 
 And the cx'eatures bloom and grow, 
 Till the mass of death they rest upon 
 
 Comes upward from below.
 
 348 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 And reefs of barren rocks 
 
 In blue unfatliomed seas, 
 Give rest to the feet of emigrant flocks, 
 
 But have no grass nor trees. 
 
 But still the breakers break, 
 
 And white along the shore 
 The surf leaps high, and the waters make 
 
 Strong barrows as before. 
 
 Like barrows made of old 
 
 For ancient British chiefs, 
 Wherein they lie v/ith torques of gold. 
 
 Are those long coral reefs. 
 
 For many a hundred miles 
 
 Those barren reefs extend, 
 Connecting distant groups of isles 
 
 With paths from end to end. 
 
 And when the tide is high. 
 
 It washes daily food 
 To hungry mouths, and greedily 
 
 Out comes the slimy brood. 
 
 Out of the waste of stone, 
 Like Roderick's merry men. 
 
 Out of the heather bleak and lone 
 In the gloomy Highland glen,
 
 CORAL ISLANDS. 349 
 
 Those swarming millions rise 
 
 From their little hollow caves, 
 And each looks out for a welcome prize 
 
 From the drifting of the waves. 
 
 And a thousand conscious flowers 
 
 Open their fleshy leaves 
 To the ocean spray, whose snowy showers 
 
 The thankful mouth receives. 
 
 Like the golden mouths that gape 
 
 In the thrush's happy nest. 
 Open those flowers of starry shape. 
 
 When the sea disturbs their rest. 
 
 But when the reef has grown 
 
 Above the highest tide, 
 It is a city of lifeless stone. 
 
 Whose citizens have died. 
 
 For they cannot bear to be 
 
 Where the waters- never rise, 
 And each one lifted from the sea, 
 
 To the parching sunshine dies. 
 
 And bird, or wave, or wind 
 
 Brings other seeds to sow ; 
 And on the rock new tenants find 
 
 A soil whereon to grow.
 
 350 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 And they have other wants 
 
 Than the flowers the ocean fed ; 
 
 The hot sun nurses the living plants, 
 And withers up the dead. 
 
 And then on the deepening ipould 
 
 Of many a hundred years, 
 When the coral rock is green and old, 
 
 A stunted shrub appears ; 
 
 And grasses tall and rank, 
 And herbs that thickly teem 
 
 Out of the soil on a lake's green bank, 
 Or the margin of a stream. 
 
 Long ages pass — those isles 
 Have grown maturely fair ; 
 
 Green forests wave, and summer smiles, 
 And human homes are there. 
 
 And in the sunset calms 
 
 Swim out with laugliing ease. 
 
 Shoals of girls from Isles of Palms 
 In tranquil southern seas, — 
 
 The fairest, sweetest fruit 
 Of tlic coral's mighty work ! 
 
 And still in the deep about the root 
 Of the rock those creatures lurk.
 
 CORAL ISLANDS. 351 
 
 Xothing on earth so small, 
 
 Nothing so weak and poor, 
 But may produce — if it work at all — 
 
 Results that shall endure. 
 
 The simple men of old, 
 
 Who lived and died unknown. 
 Have left us things more manifold 
 
 Than reefs of coral stone. 
 
 And we who work to-day 
 
 Shall leave results behind. 
 And build — not isle, nor reef, nor bay — 
 
 But the wondrous human mind. 
 
 God uses humble hands 
 
 To do his bidding here : 
 The coral shapes extensive lands 
 
 Where barren waters were. 
 
 And we — myself and you — 
 
 However poor and mean. 
 Shall leave a sign as corals do. 
 
 To prove that we have been.* 
 
 * This was -written after reading the sixth Lecture in Dr. Mantell's 
 IVonders of Geology/, to which the reader is rofen-ed for details.
 
 Sd2 
 
 THE EMPTY PUPA CASE. 
 
 " You cannot turn a pebble in the stream 
 In May or Juno," an angler said to me, 
 " Without disturbing things that afterwards 
 Bright summer flies will be. 
 
 " They lead a pleasant life beneath the stones ; 
 
 Some active ones are clad in waterproof, 
 And others rest in little huts of sand 
 Beneath a solid roof, 
 
 " In separate chambers lined with silk throughout, 
 
 Cemented with a mortar of their own, 
 Wherein each baby insect is enshrined. 
 Secluded and alone. 
 
 " Thus })ass the hours of growth. The sun of spring 
 
 Shines clearly through their native element; 
 And all those creatures, now mature and strong, 
 No longer feel content
 
 THE EMPTY PUPA CASE. 353 
 
 " To lie like worms and reptiles under stones, 
 
 Hiding in darkness all the summer days ; 
 But one by one they leave their place of birth. 
 Till not a Pupa stays. 
 
 " The March-Brown climbs the stone he dwelt beneath 
 
 And dries himself, and basks in summer heat. 
 And breathes a lighter element, and tries 
 To extricate his feet 
 
 " From those old boots, so useful in the stream — 
 
 Mere fetters now — and splits his water clothes ; 
 Leaves the case empty, and exhausted sinks 
 Beside it to repose. 
 
 " He is not dead — his little crumpled wings 
 Dry and expand beneath the pleasant sun. 
 His body grows — he is a thing transformed — 
 His new life is besrun ! 
 
 'O' 
 
 " He skims across the pool where he was born. 
 
 On his new wings he soars unto the light ; 
 Another world — -to infancy unknown. 
 Spreads out before his sight. 
 
 " He never lacks an object of pursuit, 
 
 Indulging safely every healthy taste ; 
 His life is short, but of his precious hours 
 No moment runs to waste." 
 
 A A
 
 354 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 I heard the history of the Pupa case, 
 
 The simple life of its inhabitant, 
 And thought — how wise an insect to cast off 
 A form it does not want ! 
 
 But men go pinched and bound in swaddling clothes, 
 
 Ignoring the enlargement of the mind ; 
 'T were wiser thus to let our wings expand, 
 And leave our shells behind. 
 
 Yet when, as truth advances, we renounce 
 Notions of science, narrow, out of date, 
 Some who regard the empty Pupa case 
 Sincerely mourn our fate. 
 
 And say, " Poor soul ! he threw his armour off, 
 And now, no doubt, is dead in helplessness." 
 Their dull compassion could not be bestowed 
 Where it was needed less. 
 
 For he, its object, on the brilliant wings 
 
 Of late-unfolded thought doth onward fly, 
 Disporting in an clement more pure 
 Than that wherein they lie. 
 
 His faculties are bettered by the change ; 
 A new world lies befoi'C — a wider field 
 For enterprise, whose wealth must ever be 
 From icnorance concealed.
 
 THE EMPTY PUPA CASE. 355 
 
 Whilst others sleep in shallow pools of thought, 
 
 In ancient channels, mourning him as dead, 
 And holding inquests on the empty shell 
 That he so proudly shed, 
 
 He lives in clearer light, with broader views — 
 Swifter progression — freedom more complete. 
 It was his very nature to cast oiF 
 Those fetters from his feet !
 
 356 
 
 THE BRITANNIA BRIDGE. 
 
 Some have iron thews and sinews, some are muscular 
 
 of mind ; 
 Learned savans, skilful blacksmiths, each are noble in 
 
 their kind. 
 
 But to give the savan's wisdom to the hammer and the 
 
 shears, 
 Come those intermediate workers, — England's civil 
 
 engineers. 
 
 So does thought gain form and substance, and we see 
 
 its force at length 
 Doing wonders far surpassing all the feats of brutal 
 
 strength. 
 
 Let it organise the masses, let it make them wise and 
 
 strong, 
 So that one man's head shall govern all the labour of 
 
 the throng.
 
 THE BRITANNIA BRIDGE. 357 
 
 For mankind — the race — has in it all the elements of 
 
 power, 
 Brain and muscle — age in. seedtime — early manhood 
 
 in its flower. 
 
 Ships sail down the straits of Menai, where the current 
 
 swiftly streams, 
 And above their lofty mainmasts hang those long 
 
 colossal beams, 
 
 Hollow corridors of iron, stretched across from shore to 
 
 shore, 
 Often murmuring with music like the thunder's distant 
 
 roar, 
 
 When the swift trains cross the channel, people thinking 
 
 as they go 
 Of the iron walls about them, or the ships that sail 
 
 below. 
 
 Long those mighty tubes shall vibrate in the pathway 
 
 of the winds. 
 Poems wrought in beaten iron by our most creative 
 
 minds ! 
 
 Long those mighty tubes shall murmur on their solid 
 
 marble towers, 
 Singing to succeeding ages of the entei'prise of ours !
 
 358 
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN SANDSTONE.* 
 
 Listen whilst I tell a story of old Time the sure and 
 
 slow ; 
 Let the subject of my legend be what happened long 
 
 ago, 
 Yet no dim and vague tradition, but a fact we really 
 
 know. 
 
 Legends of the mythic Arthur, all that Spenser sweetly 
 
 sings 
 Of our ancient British heroes and long lines of famous 
 
 kings. 
 These are ci'cdible no longer — these are all forgotten 
 
 things. 
 
 • Sco Mantoll's Wonders of Ocnlngp, (6th edition), p. 553 ; and Lyell's 
 Manual of Memenlari/ Oeology, (5th edition), pj). 339, 349, 402, 403, 417.
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN SANDSTONE. 359 
 
 Shakspeare's shi'eds of ancient story, Hamlet, Lear, and 
 Cymbeline, 
 
 Milton's song of Paradise, and Homer's " tale of Troy- 
 divine," 
 
 These are ancient, noble subjects — modern still com- 
 pared to mine. 
 
 I have seen a block of sandstone with old characters 
 
 thereon. 
 Older than the oldest treasure from Egyptian deserts 
 
 won, 
 Older than the arrowheads of Nineveh or Babylon. 
 
 Written, reader, long aforetime, written on the ocean 
 
 sand, 
 Long before in God's creation worked the wondrous 
 
 human hand ; 
 Yet to human hearts it speaketh — let us read and 
 
 understand, 
 
 How long since this block of sandstone was with 
 
 mystic signs imprest, 
 How long in her secret archives Nature suffered it to 
 
 rest, 
 Which no student ever enters, nor destructive worms 
 
 infest.
 
 860 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 This we cannot tell in numbers — cycles, centuries, 
 
 and years 
 Fail us, as tlicy i^iil to tell of starlight which to-night 
 
 appears. 
 How long it has travelled swiftly since it left its native 
 
 spheres. 
 
 But we see whole generations, for their bones are side 
 
 by side, 
 And we know that vast creations in that lapse have 
 
 lived and died, 
 For they lie above each other whom the shelves of 
 
 rock divide. 
 
 And in every shelf of rock Ave see a mighty gulph of 
 
 time. 
 So the world seems older — older — and her story moi'e 
 
 sublime ; 
 Farther still her first creation ! — farther still her golden 
 
 prime ! 
 
 Long ago — I know not how long — on a sandbank near 
 
 the sea. 
 Stepped with awkward gait a creature, and a frog he 
 
 seemed to be, 
 liut on earth there dwells no longer such a mighty 
 
 frog as he.
 
 FOOTPRINTS IN SANDSTONE. S61 
 
 Gulliver, in his adventures in that huge gigantic land, 
 Where all nature was colossal, all things marvellously 
 
 grand, 
 May have seen such creatures walking slowly on the 
 
 ocean sand. 
 
 So those deep mysterious footprints on the yielding 
 
 sand were made ; 
 And the tide came calmly, gently ; and its little breakers 
 
 laid 
 Over them a thin deposit, which the rivulets conveyed 
 
 From the inland plains and valleys dov.-n unto the 
 
 ancient shore, 
 And the sea retired and left it smooth and barren 
 
 as before ; 
 But the marks of that inscription were preserved for 
 
 evermore. 
 
 Every day the waves brought matter from the ocean's 
 
 deepest bed, 
 And they laid their sandy treasures where the creature 
 
 used to tread ; 
 Tracts of sand with marks of ripples did the tidewaves 
 
 daily spread.
 
 3G2 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 Since those days the land has altered ; changing are all 
 
 things that be, 
 Save the splendour of the planets and the music of the 
 
 sea, 
 Still the same the ocean murmurs in its old accustomed 
 
 key. 
 
 But the land has altered strangely since the time when 
 
 creeping things, 
 Lizards like gigantic dragons such as quaint old 
 
 Spenser sings, 
 Mighty reptiles, male and female, were the planets' 
 
 queens and kings. 
 
 When deep forests, tropic jungles, arborescent shrubs 
 
 and ferns, 
 Flourished in our northern region, where the pale 
 
 mechanic cams 
 Sadly a laborious living, and the furnace fiercely burns. 
 
 Sinking, sinking, all tlie country slowly sank beneath 
 
 the waves ; 
 And the ocean swept the forests, reptiles, dragons, to 
 
 their graves ; 
 Afterwards with shells old Ocean all the conquered 
 
 country paves,
 
 rOOTPRINTS IN SANDSTONE. 363 
 
 Singing, " It is mine for ever ! " — not for ever, not for 
 long, 
 
 For the subterranean forces laughed at Ocean's boast- 
 ful song, 
 
 Lifting up the sunken country, for their backs were 
 broad and strong, 
 
 Till the sea-shells were uplifted even to the mountain 
 
 peak. 
 Far below the waves are moaning, but with voices 
 
 faint and weak. 
 Sorrowing for their lost dominion and the toys they 
 
 vainly seek. 
 
 Boundless is the retrospection of the great eternal past, 
 And the mind begins to weary dwelling on a theme so 
 
 vast. 
 Let us dwell on it no longer. Man is on the earth at 
 
 last, 
 
 Building towns and blasting quarries ; and within the 
 
 solid stone 
 Finding traces- — footprints merely — having fingers 
 
 like his own ; 
 Something has been there before him, ere the rock was 
 
 fully grown !
 
 364 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 Woman's vows in Ai'ab proverbs on the ocean sand are 
 
 traced, 
 And the storm- waves of her trials leave her heart a 
 
 barren waste. 
 'Tis a ftilse and foolish proverb — deep they lie, but 
 
 not effaced ! 
 
 Deeper in her faithful bosom lie her vows so " little 
 
 Avorth," 
 Like these clear and sharp inscriptions in the bosom of 
 
 the earth, 
 Growing harder, more enduring, every moment since 
 
 their birth. 
 
 Warlike hosts have crossed the desert, many a well- 
 appointed train. 
 
 But they have not left a vestige, and we seek their 
 tracks in vain. 
 
 Fainter than a reptile's footprint, or the pitted marks 
 of rain ! 
 
 Great men often journey bravely tlu-ough a weary 
 
 I)ilgriinage, 
 Leaving not a mark behind them speaking to a future 
 
 age. 
 Neither public reputation nor a single printed page.
 
 FOOTPRINTS m SANDSTONE. 365 
 
 Others who are all unworthy, treading on a lucky 
 
 place, 
 Leave impressions deep and lasting, which the years 
 
 wiU not efface ; 
 Earning thus immortal glory in the annals of the race.
 
 36G 
 
 CASTS. 
 
 When the great Napoleon lay 
 
 A heap of lifeless clay, 
 When his proud career was ended on his dreary prison 
 isle, 
 
 When all was dark Avithin, 
 
 His features pale and thin, 
 And the selfish lips lay open and relaxed into a smile, 
 
 They knew it could not last ; 
 
 So they took a careful cast 
 Of the stern face of the conqueror so beautiful in death. 
 
 And the bronze is dark and cold. 
 
 But tiic maggot of the mould 
 Sliall never kiss its brazen lips, although they have no 
 breath.
 
 CASTS. 367 
 
 So we keep the handsome face 
 
 Of the tyrant of the race, 
 But Nature models carefully the children of her hand ; 
 
 And little trivial things, 
 
 Like Earth's most famous kings, 
 Leave their lovely forms behind them in the marble of 
 the land. 
 
 And their images shall tell 
 That Nature loved them well, 
 And made their form enduring when their substance 
 was no more. 
 
 So she modelled trunks of trees, 
 And the fishes of the seas. 
 And the fern-leaves of the forest, and the shells upon 
 the shore. 
 
 And her cabinets of rock, 
 
 Let us enter and unlock, 
 And gather of her treasures in the bosom of the earth ; 
 
 The medals of her reign. 
 
 And the records that have lain 
 Unopened by our ancestors who never knew their worth.
 
 368 
 
 ENGINE DRIVING. 
 
 " Stand steady, sir ! close up, close up ! 
 
 The fire will warm your toes ; 
 Stand close, or you '11 be wet with steam ! 
 
 All right, Tom ? — Off she goes !" 
 
 I stood between two bearded men, 
 
 Like demons dark and grim ; 
 The fire was hot — the devil himself 
 
 Would have thought it hot for him. 
 
 A tap Avas turned — a deafening scream 
 Pierced through from ear to car ; 
 
 Beneath us shook the iron floor, 
 And rattled the engine-gear. 
 
 The wind blew cold — the steam rolled off 
 
 In many a cloudy mass. 
 And the March moon dropped a spot of light 
 
 On the dome of polished brass.
 
 ENGINE DRIVING. 369 
 
 Away we went ! — above the roofs 
 
 Of a town that slept below, 
 And mills with windows lighted up 
 
 In many a fiery row. 
 
 Away we went to the crimson west, 
 
 After the sunken sun ; 
 And on the ridges of the hills 
 
 The evening star did run. 
 
 Our speed increased — the bearded men 
 
 Looked out both left and right- — 
 A sharp look-out the driver kept, 
 
 For it was almost night. 
 
 And soon I heard a louder noise, 
 
 A loud and fearful roar — 
 The stoker pulled an iron chain. 
 
 And opened the furnace door. 
 
 And lo ! a burst of light shone forth, 
 
 A dazzling, steady glare 
 From the white-hot furnace suddenly — 
 
 It had been prisoned there ! 
 
 The light shone full on faces grim, 
 
 The roar was long and loud ; 
 And over our heads there swiftly ran 
 
 A silver stream of cloud. 
 
 B B
 
 370 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 It rushed and ran along the roof 
 
 Of the arch through which we sped^ 
 
 With solid rock on every side, 
 And a mountain overhead ! 
 
 The light shone full on faces grim ; 
 
 The roar had died away ; 
 The hill that we had hurried through 
 
 Behind us dimly lay. 
 
 And brio^ht was the clow on the stoker's face, 
 
 And black the sky behind ; 
 But straight before, the evening star 
 
 Gi'ew brighter in the wind. 
 
 A factory with a thousand lamps 
 
 Beneath our dizzy height 
 We passed, as swiftly as a bird 
 
 That holds its homeward flight. 
 
 Then down a lonely vale we went, 
 
 Between a frozen mere. 
 And crags that stood against the sky, 
 
 So cold, and deep, and clear. 
 
 And many a dark ravine we crossed, 
 And many a hill passed through ; 
 
 And as the night advanced, the moon 
 And planets brighter grew.
 
 ENGINE DRIVING. 3?1 
 
 And when the last faint flush had died 
 
 Out of the western sky, 
 Our shadows were distinct and swift, 
 
 We could not pass them by. 
 
 Over the roughest land they flew. 
 
 And where the banks were steep, 
 Sank down, and on the quarried rocks 
 
 An equal speed did keep. 
 
 Long glaring lines of lurid fires 
 
 Flared past us as we sped. 
 But still the moon hung steadily 
 
 In the deep sky overhead. 
 
 She followed us from first to last 
 
 Till we arrived at home, 
 And always kept her spot of'light 
 
 Upon the brazen dome.
 
 372 
 
 THE NIGHT TRAIN. 
 
 The night's as dark as pitch, 
 Heavily falls the rain ; 
 But through the darkness and the storm 
 Speeds the Night Train. 
 
 We sit on cushioned seats 
 In a little snug room ; 
 The window-pane keeps out the rain, 
 And the lamp keeps out the gloom. 
 
 We are darting through a hill ; 
 Through subterranean halls 
 Thunder our thousand wheels, yet still 
 The steady lamp light falls 
 
 On the tunnel side that streams 
 Across the window-pane ; 
 'T is gone — the noise has ceased — we ara 
 In the outer night again.
 
 THE NIGHT TRAIN. 373 
 
 Past US on the railway si^e 
 Fly lines of glaring fires, 
 And now I see wave up and down 
 The long festoons of wires, 
 
 'o 
 
 On which, unseen at midnight dark, 
 And when the sun is high, 
 Our swift, invisible messengers, 
 The sparks of lightning, fly. 
 
 And as they go they overtake 
 A hundred flying trains, 
 They pass them by as swallows pass 
 Old, clumsy, rustic wains. 
 
 So swift and silent in the world 
 Is thought — it moves unseen; 
 And in the darkness finds the goal, 
 And leaps what lies between. 
 
 Action is slower, and the world 
 Moves like the peopled train. 
 With labour and tumultuous noise, 
 And cries of fear and pain. 
 
 'T i^ noble, through the stormy night 
 To keep appointed time, 
 Althouirh the rule of watch and clock 
 May not be so sublime
 
 a?4 POEMS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 As careless life in Arab tents, 
 
 Or ships that slowly sail ; 
 
 Or that lone horseman who is lost 
 
 At night in many a tale, 
 
 I know not. If the planets keep 
 Their hours both day and night, 
 And poets praise them none the less, 
 Nor quarrel with their light, 
 
 We need not call our faithful train 
 A thing of humble prose, 
 Because he follows day and night 
 Examples such as those. 
 
 LONDON 
 Printed by G. Bakci.ay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.
 
 i •
 
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