THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ■o\ n 4077 TO J A M E S T. F I E L D S. OF BOSTON, U.S. WITH Af.L r.OOD WISHES, FKO.M ONE OF HIS MANY ENGLISH FlilENDS, ^Y. C. BENNETT, 2, The Cib(us Greenwich. LIERiJ.T Ever since I could read Songs, I have loved tliem. The dearest shelf of my book- case is that -where rank, shoulder to shoulder, in loving brotherhood, Burns and Berauger, Campbell and Herrick. There, too, are those best-loved of ail book-companions, the volumes which bring together the quaint fancies and delicate music of the lyrics of our Elizabethan Dramatists and our Cavalier Singers, aud treasure for ever, in the Songs of Scot- land and of Ireland, the sobs and laughs of bygone gene- rations, for the admiration and the love of all coming centuries. Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton, I reverence uith awe. They are the forests, the mountain ranges, the oceans of our literature. But Song-writers are my familiar friends. \Vithwhat ever-new delight I wander through the grassy valleys, the daisied fields, the sunamer orchards, by tlie tinkling rivulets of the land of Song. The Epic speaks to the brain. It demands that I labour up to a fitting comprehension of its grandeur. The Song sings to my heart, and my heart laughs, or answers in tears — what pleasant ones ! — to every cry of nature which it utters. " Blessings be on them, and eternal praise,^^ who have made the dead past so blossom with strange loveliness for the toiling present. I, too, would add a flower or two to the great garden of Song, best gladdener of tlic present, best comforter of the VI future. For with my love of Songs lias grown my love of Song-writing; but with my love of Song-writing has increased my knowledge of all that constitutes a perfect Song, and, alas ! of all the difficulty of producing one in any way approaching to perfection, especially in this England of ours, to-day. For why is it Ave English have no " Auld langsyne" and '^ John Anderson, my Jo,'^ no "Ae fond kiss" and "Annie Lawrie," or, to cross the Channel, no " Le Grenier" or " Lisette" ? We have feelings true enough, and deep enough. Nay, we have passions to which the noisy sentiment of the Parisian is tame. But we scorn to utter them. We shrink from exposing them to public view, as if it Avere to puljlic ridicule. We strangle their utterance as we would the cry of physical pain. We hold it weak to Avaste ourselves in words. No, Ave are a people Avhose feelings are as undemonstrative as they are deep. We are not given to the revelations of the confessional or the gesticulations of the boards. We Avould rather that men's eyes should not centre upon us. Our feelings are for our bosom friends, our homes, and ourselves; we are not talkative Frenchmen, to flourish them in the eyes of acquaintances and strangers. We have had but one Byron, like Goethe, to use up life for art. Nor have we the impulsiveness of our OAvn Celtic or semi-Celtic races, who, French in their vivacity, pour forth every feeling as it stirs them. And this national reserve, this scornful denial of free utter- ance to passion, weighs doAvn the Song-writer into a servile obedience to the iron opinion that rules aroinul VI 1 liifn. He^ too, learns to regard only that which is external to himself as fitting to the use of his art. lie, too, shrinks from showing nature undrapcd. He, too, must thrust aside truth and success, for unreality, false- hood, and failure. There must be Wordsworthism, Carlyleism, Ruskinism, Pre-Raphaelitism, in English Song-writing, to give to us a Song-literature fit to name with that of Scotland. So we have no Songs in the sense in which Scotland and France, and even Ire- land, haAC them. For Song is the music of feeling, the melody of passion, pulsing from the heart as naturally as the blood; and, with us, feeling is unnaturally struck into self-imposed dumbness. We allow only our fancy and our reason to supply us with Songs; so, like our national music, they are artificial. Vie have madrigals and laboured conceits, not times and gushes of fun, of joy, of love, of sorrow. Lately we have taken to setting moral maxims to popular airs, for the evan- gelization of our streets, oiir concerts and our drawing- rooms : but it is cold work, this. The fancy speaks but to the fancv, the reason but to the reason : we want the heart to speak to the heart, " Out of thv own mouth will I condemn thee/' will be said by the readers of most of the Son"-s I here • CD print. Granted. How is this? I have loved all styles of Song-writing. Loving all, I have attempted all ; nor will those who read this volume find it difficult to trace the influence of the cold and polished conceits of Beau- mont and Fletcher, and Suckling and Carew; the pret- tincsses of Haynes Baylcy, of Barry Cornwall, and of VIU Moore; the fire and nationality of Campbell^ of the Jacobite singers, and the Young Ireland of the Nation ; the nature and passion of Gerald Griffin, of Byron, and of Burns ; and the dramatic power, the satire and the sentimentj of Bcranger and his compatriots. Thanks to the genius of the great Parisian, that dazzling sun- beam that dances and glances so brightly through his pages, sparkles and gleams fitfully through mine. But let not my readers be startled. That Parisian reality, flesh and blood, in "the Garret" of the Circe of cities, is but a " tricksy spirit" here, " of fancy bred." In the words of him whose highest glory it was to write " Chansonnier" after a name eternal in the love and the reverence of Frenchmen — Lisette, meme, helasi ii'est plus qu'une ombre. I have written nearly four hundred Songs. A few in this volume have already been printed and ha^•e received no cold Avelcome from the press and the public. Some ten years since I conceived the idea of writing a lyrical poem composed of Songs, each of which while complete in itself as an independent poem, should form a connecting link carrying on, by the feeling it expressed or the incident from which it sprang, the tale which the whole together loosely completed. The Song, I thought, might thus be a better form in the hand of an English Petrarch than the Sonnet had been in that of the great Italian. This project I have partly carried out. In the past ten years I have collected above one hundred lyrics towards such a tale in Songs. Ileiurich Heine's IX i, " Book of Songs/' •svith Avhicli I liavc just formed an acquaintance, is conceived on some such a plan. Scott, in his Ballad Romances, Byron and Moore, in their Eastern extravaganzas, AVords^vorth and Coleridge in some of their ^!nest poems, had given to each move- ment of the tale its fit and varying lyrical expression. Bnt the publication of '' Maud '' more nearly ap- proached to the realization of my idea, though I had confined myself strictly to the SoDg, that is a poem written to be sung, or rather which, by the music it contains in itself, which moulds it to the form it takes, forces you to sing it, the truest proof of a Song being a Song. Some fevr Songs from this collection 1 have in- cluded in this volume. Should thciv reception en- courage me, the rest may venture from the safe darkness of manuscript into the da.ngerous daylight of print. " Shall I publish them r" is the question which this volume puts to its critics and to its readers. Its reception will be tlic ausv.er. CONTENTS. I'AGK 1. Dreams 1 2. A Sailor's Song 2 3. A Kiss — a Smile — a Sigh 3 4. The Cavalier's Whisper 4, 6. " O might I be the happy glove" 4 6. ■' O but to see her face again " 6 7. " A kiss for your thought " 6 8. Unchanged 7 9. " Ellen, you're my rose" 8 10. " This heart, once a bee " 8 11. Goodbye 9 12. " Summer, paint me her sweet lips" .... 10 13. Die, Day! 11 14. " How lightly sleeping Cupid lies" .... 11 15. Baby's Shoes 12 16. The New Paris 13 17. A Wife's Song 15 18. A Spring Song , . 15 19. From a Garret 16 20. Ye Roses, with her Blushes blow 18 21. "For you" ... .... 19 22. To the Memory of Kobert Burns 20 23. " Prithee tell me where Love dwells" .... 24 XII CONTENTS. PAGE 24. The Queen 25 25. A Winter Song 26 2G. " A smile — it was but a smile" .... 27 27. The wrecked Hope 28 28. God save the Queen 28 21). " I've watch'd you from the shore" 31 30. Over the Sea 31 31. " Ope, folded rose" , 32 32. Wishos 33 33. A Summer Invocation 34 34. Mary! Mary! 34 35. The Forsaken 36 36. The homeward Watch 37 37. No more 38 38. " Prithee, what hath snared thee, heart?" 38 39. " weary thoughts, be still " . . , 40 40 May-da}' Song 43 41. The Torch-race . 44 42. The Wife's Appeal 46 43. " Draw down \our veil" 49 44. Lisette in Australia 49 45. Pierre J eaa de Beranger 50 46. "No — No, my love is no rose " 54 47. God's best Gift 55 48. " Were mine the songs Ana':reon sung" . . , . 57 49. Why? 58 50. " Hear, hear, on ye we call " 59 51. The Cry of the lawful Lanterns 60 52. From Sea 62 53. " Farewell ! farewell ! " 64 CONTENTS. XUl oi. '■ Be mine, and I will give thy name " 55. The Daisy .... 56. A Sea Song .... 57. After Beranger 58. " In dreams I clasp you once again 59. " King, happy bells" 60. Spring Song .... 61. The Dressmaker's Thrush 62. '• Raven-black are Amy's tangling tresses' 63. A Song of the Sea 64. The Sowing of the Dragons' Teeth 65. •■ Xo Gas ! Xo Gas ! " 66. ■' When Jove this earth created" 67. '• Look into these fond eyes" . as. Goodnight .... 69. After Be'ranger 70. " Of Gipsey blood you surely came '' 71 •• Yes, my heart is like tinder" 72. " Where, Poland, are thy lances? 73. The horrid Metamorphosis 74. Spring Song .... 75. An Autumn Song 76. •• Thank Heaven, I 'm still a boy' 77. The Word .... 78. •■ God spare my boy at sea" 79. The Sea-boy's Dream 80. The Curfew .... «I. The Slaver's Wreck 82. •' She's dead" 83. " the wild, wild winds have voices" b PAGE 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 75 76 77 78 82 84 85 85 87 88 88 90 94 [)G 97 97 103 104 105 107 109 109 XIV CONTENTS. 8}. •' Child, pursue thy butterfly" 85. " Liz, you 've a teazmg heart" 86. To the Congress of Paris . 87. " Xo more great Love mj' heart beguiles 88. The Song of Death .... 89. The Luck of Eden Hall . 90. The Tricolor 91. "Images! Images!" 92. " Had I a poet's mighty power" 93. " While the champagne foams" Oi. Counsel to Kjngs .... 93. " Seize,. I saiil, O Art, thy pencil " . ' 96. To. the coming Comet . 97. A Cradle So«g ..... 98. Dead! 99. " My ro.ses blossom the whole year round 100. The Kight above the Wrong . L'Envoi . .... PAGE 110 112 113 115 116 117 119 123 127 128 129 132 133 137 1.37 138 1.39 111 CORRIGENDA. Page 21, last line, /o»- joy, read joys. „ 69. line 5 from bo.ttoni,yo;- and to us, read that to us. True, that jade Hope misleads; nay, my friends, nay, I know it. And often and often Doubt frowns to me too, " Hush ! Tennyson 's singing — be silent ; a poet ! '• Witli liim to attend to, who '11 listen to you?" But I laugh and take heart, and my reverie closes ; Hehind me my fears and my doubtings I fling; The daisy we love, though the Summer has roses; We swallows may twitter, though nightingales sing. " What — a Song-writer too, you yourself must be writing ! " The claim to that name, sure, you know not what earns ! " Bcranger maj- own it, all Frenchmen delighting; " Our smiles and our tears give it proudly to Burns ; " But you a Song-writer! — Come, come, who supposes, " Except your own self, that you're any such thing?" Ah I the daisy you love, though the Summer has roses ; We swallows may twitter, though nightingales sing. \\'hat though Herrick and Suckling and Jonson you treasure. Though Campbell has sung, may not I too write songs? May not Nature, too, deign to bid mo give some pleasure To some to whom per!;aps little pleasure belongs? Go, my book, and some one, here and there, when he closes Your leaves may no scolf at my poor hardship fling. For the daisy we love, though the Summer has roses ; We swallows may twitter, though nightingales sing. my songs, th it your voices so well might be stealing The utterance of truth, that you breathed not a tone But might win every heart to take fancy for feeling, And hear, in your laughs and your sobs, nature's own ! Yet to some, your low wail, as in music it closes, Some memory of Nature's own accents will bring; And the daisy we love, though tlie Summer has roses ; We swallows may twitter, though nightingales sing. fiy r. K Kt^uii. SOXGS BY A SONG-WRITER. iftrst fl^untircti. DREAMS. DREAiis that I dream — sweet dreams ! The length of a crowded street, A light form tripping to me, That makes my full heart beat; Aiid a meeting that, thought of, seems Too sweet for a thing of dreams : Dreams that I dream — sweet dreams ! Dreams that I dream — ■wild dreams ! A looking in tearful eyes. In eyes that for love of me Will not utter the soul's wild cries ; And a last farewell that seems Too bitter for only dreams : Dreams that I dream — Avild dreams ! A SAILOR'S SONG. " Would you be a sailor's Avife? " Beware 1 " Would you share a sailor's life ? " Take care ! " For, oh! a sailor's life must be " Spent away ou the far, far sea, " Aud little of him his wife may see — " Not she." Yet still she cried, " Whate'er betide, " A sailor's wife I'll be ; " For the winds with health his brown cheeks fill, " And the sea's fresh life is in him still, " Not the land's weak heart: say what you "will, " A sailor's wife I 'U be." " Would you be a sailor's mfe ? " Beware ! " Would you share a sailor's life ? " Take care ! " To the savage sea he is wedded groom, "And grief shall your weary life consume, " And widow'd nights and days your doom " Must be !" Yet still she cried, " Whate'er betide, " A sailor's wife I '11 be ; " If weeping partings we must know, " He '11 come again though he must go, " And, oh ! to think he '11 come back ! oh ! « A sailor's wife I '11 be." A KISS A SMILE A SIGH. " Would you be a sailor's wife ? " Beware ! *' Would you share a sailor's life ? " Take care ! *' O worse than absence, there may be " A grave for him in the far wild sea, " His young babe's face he may never see, " Nor thee !" Yet still she sigh'd, " Whate'er betide, " A sailor's wife I '11 be; " For whether the land or deck be trod, " All lie at last beneath wave or sod, " And all are in the hand of God; " A sailor's mfe I '11 be." A KISS— A SMILE— A SIGH. A KISS — a smile — a sigh — The sweetest that love can give. For what but these care I ! For these alone I live ; 'Tis these that speed my hours Till days like moments fly; O, love, be always ours, A kiss — a smile — a sigh 1 A kiss — a smile — a sigh ; And why sliould we ask the last? Ah ! sweet, if sorrow fly. Be sure love too has past; 4 ' THE cavalier's WHISPER. 'Tis sorrow's presence gives Tlie proof that love is nigh ; Ask you on what he Hves? A kiss — a smile — a sigh. THE CAVALIER'S WHISPER. 'Tis a cloudless noon of sultry June, And pleasant it is to win The cool thick shade by the chestnut made, In front of the wayside inn ; And a pleasant sight, with his feather of white, Is the mounted Cavalier, Who stoops for the cup that the maid gives up, With a word none else can hear. A moment more — from that shady door That horseman rides away ; And little, I guess, he thinks — and less Of the word he bent to say ; But many a noon of many a June Must pass, with many a year. Ere the maiden Avho heard that whisper'd word, Forgets that Cavalier. O MIGHT I BE THE HAPPY GLOVE! O MIGHT I be the happy glove, The happy glove that clasps her hand! O MIGHT I BE THE HAPPY GLOVE. But, O more blest, how would I love To be her robe's glad girdling band, For ever press'd, in clasp how warm ! What mighty raptures there to taste ! O Eros ! round her slender waist ; O boy-god ! round her living form ; Ah ! then what fevering hours were mine Of burning dreams and bliss divine ! And, O were I the sparkling ring. Around her rosy finger worn ! How to that finger would I cling, And there all kingly jewels scorn ! O more, that I that neck might touch ! That I might one dear instant rest, A nestling jeAvel, on her breast ! Ah, sweet desire, for hope too much ! Yet what would I not, girl, resign, To make such mighty gladness mine ! Yet were this more than, love, to me The niggard hand of joy coiild spare, O might I for one evening be A flower amid your raven hair ! Even though it were a dying flower, That breathed its gentle life away ; A sweet white withering jasmine spray, But pluck'd to please you one bright hour; Even then in death what dreams were mine Of burning love and bliss divine ! BUT TO SEE HER FACE AGAIN! O but to see her face again ! but to hear her speak ! To feel her braided, raveu hair Again against my cheek ! Cold is the wintry sky without, Cold — cold, the white snows fall; But O, my wintry heart within Is colder far than all ! Ah ! many a night, in frost and sleet, 1 've waited for her long, And felt but summer in the drift, Heard in the blast but song. Keen drives the wintry gust without. Cold, cold the white snows fall; But 0, my wintry heart within Is colder far than all. A KISS FOR YOUR THOUGHT. A KISS for your thought — a kiss As sweet as this ; And should it in truth, love, be Of me, me, but me. As, love, indeed, it ought, I 'II not deny you three. A kiss — a kiss for your thought. LTf CHANGED. A kiss for your thought — a kiss As dear as this; And should it in truth not be Of me, me, but me. As, laugher, indeed, it ought, Yoxir pardon will cost you three. A kiss — a kiss for your thought. UNCHANGED. I KNOW that time will streak with gray That raven hair in years ; I know those eyes, at last, Avill dim With age as well as tears ; Year after year, I know, some charm Will from that form depart. But well I know, the thought of me, Will never leave your heart. Through years, and cares, and every change That time and grief can bring ; Through life and death, still will your heart To that but closer cling. I know, that all things else held dear, With years less dear will be ; But I know unchanged, love, to the last Will live your love for me. 8 ELLEN, YOU 'RE MY ROSE. Ellen, you 're my rose, Not the Summer's queen, She her beauty shows But when elms are green. Her no more I see; White fall Winter's snows, Yet in your cheek she blooms for me ; Ellen, you 're my rose. Spring hung o'er her birth ; Autumn heap'd her grave ; O'er her odorous earth Now the wild winds rave. Summer's darling, she Fled before the snows, Yet in your cheek she blooms for me ; Ellen, you're my rose. THIS HEART, ONCE A BEE. This heart, once a bee, may have been, love, a rover, From bloom to gay bloom sadly given to roam ; But now its old season of wandering is over. Your sweetness will keep it for ever at home. GOOD BYE. And why did it flutter from flower to flower, So false to so many ? what else could it do ! ^Yha,t was it but seeking, through every bright hour, To find one as fiU'd with all sweetness as you Then deem it no proof that this heart mvist be roving, Still doubting it ever from what it has done ; It once did but toy, knowing nothing of loving, Till, sporting from many, it clung, love, to one. GOOD-BYE. GUjod-bye ! the word is lightly spoken When ties but lightly bound are broken ; But in that word, to you and me, Is all that never more may be. And you and I Would gladlier die Than utter now " Good-bye — good-bye ! " Good-bye ! to some, O joy — not sorrow ! It speaks of meeting on some morrow. To us, that word can only tell A hopeless, endless, last farewell: And sob and sigh, Our hearts' Avild cry. Are in that word, " Good-bye— good-byo!" B 5 10 O SUMiNIER, PAINT ME HER SWEET LIPS. ^5 O SuMiiER, puint me lier sweet lips upou thy glowing air! Across thy gloom, O Winter, fling the dark night of her hair ! O Memory, tender Memory, hear my cry ! Give back, give back the loving lips I never more may touch! lied! the geranium's scarlet show'd, but poor and pale by such ! U Memory ! bring but these again, and thou wilt give, how much 1 O but to see her face again, and die ! Yet more, O more, O bring me more than yearn'd-for face and form — The dark eye, misty with its love — the blush with passion warm — All my blood leapt up to answer in the past ! O give me not the coral of her curving lip alone, But the words in which the quivering heart beat, trembling, through each tone, And the warm dear silence, more than words, that own'd her all my own. And the white arms hung around me at the last ! O foolish heart, be still, be still! thy cry is ever vain For the looks, and smiles, and burning tears that shall not come again, All that never more thy living eyes shall see. The buried past is far and cold, and silent in its grave; Its ears are dull and deaf to all thy misery can rave ; How poor is Memory's power one faint, wan, fleeting glimpse to save. Of all that never — never more may be ! 11 DIE, DAY! Die, day ! die, day ! Down — doAvn — downward, haste away! Here, for night and her I stay ; Die, day ! die, bright day ! Come, niglit ! come, night ! Give her — give her to my sight ! Bring my joy — my heart's delight ! Come, night ! come, sweet night 1 HOW LIGHTLY SLEEPING CUPID LIES. How lightly sleeping Cupid lies, And smiles, and dreams within my heart ! A touch — a tone — his folded eyes Awake to sweet life with a start; Or does he sleep, or does he feign ? So hght his slumbers, scarce I know; Scarce closed his eyes, Avhen, straight again Wide-oped, with love they gleam and glow. Yet, if to life the slumberer leap, Quick at a glance — a touch — a tone. How lightly, too, he sinks to sleep, How well to many a heart is knoAvn ! 12 baby's shoes. Pout not, sweet lips ; those eyes' bright power Rule him with spells but known to few; And shovild he sleep some erring hour, He '11, sleeping, smile, and dream of you. What though from out the shadowy past Soft laughs he hears — sees dear eyes gleam ! Hopes — fears — that long have lived their last, What though their sweetness haunt his dream ! How weak their power ! From dreams he breaks ; The Past's dear charm no more endures ; Beneath your smile he thrills — he wakes. His tears — his laughs — his life but yours. BABY'S SHOES. O THOSE little, those little blue shoes ! Those shoes that no little feet use! O the price were high That, those shoes, would buy, Those little blue unused shoes I For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet. That, by God's good will, Years since grew still, And ceased from their totter so sweet ! THE NEW PARIS. 13 And O, since that baby slept, So husli'd ! how the mother has kept. With a tearful pleasure, That little dear treasure, And, o'er them, thought and wept ! For they mind her for evermore Of a patter along the floor, And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees, With the look that in life they wore. As they lie before her there. There babbles from chair to chair, A little sweet face That 's a gleam in the place. With its little gold curls of hair. Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use. And whose sijrht makes such fond tears start. THE NEW PARIS. A HOME FANCY. How strange are, wife, the freaks of dreams ! How quaintly does the mocking night Weave that which is with that which seems, To cheat with shows our sleeping sight ! 14 THE NEW PARIS. Last night, my last word Isreatlied your name ; I slept; then, mingling false and true, Swift to my eyes a vision came In antique guis(?, and yet of you. Methought I breathed on Ida's side, In Ilium's days, that Dardan boy To whom Dione gave that bride, The wonder, boast, and doom of Troy. Hush'd was the noon; down on my eyes A glory swam with sudden awe ; Here the great — Pallas the wise. And her — the Queen of smiles — I saw. Hermes, alone, beside was there; A golden fruit the wing'd one bore: " This, unto her who is most fair, " Give thou!" he said; nor said he more. Then heard I voices lure me straight, Gifts fit for Gods in every voice ; Power — wisdom — beauty — seem'd to wait Upon the breath that told my choice. what had I with thrones to do? Cold wisdom's gifts why should I prize? 1 ask'd but power to live for you. But wisdom won from those dear eyes. A gaze that oft had Gods beguiled Met mine; Dione from me drew The golden triumph as she smiled, And, smiling, for it, proffered you. 15 A WIFE'S SONG. O WELL I love the Spring, When the sweet, sweet hawthorn blows And well I love the Summer, And the coming of the rose; But dearer are the changing leaf, And the year upon the wane. For they bring the blessed time That brings him home again. November maj be dreary; December's days may be As full of gloom to others As once they were to me: But, O to hear the tempest Beat loud against the pane ! For the roaring wind and the blessed time That brings him home again ! A SPRING SONG. Long has been the winter. Long — long — in vain We 've sought the bud upon the bough, The primrose in the lane. Long have skies been dull and gray. Nipping 's been the blast; But, sing ! Summer 's coming ! The bee 's out at last. 16 FROM A GARRET. Sing ! Winter 's flying ; Summer 's coming fast ; Humming joy and Spring-time, The bee's oiit at last. Loud sliouts the cuckoo; The nested elm round, Wheels the rook, cawing; There are shadows on the ground. Warm comes the breeze and sofk, Freezing days are past. Sing ! Summer 's coming ! The bee 's out at last. Sing! Winter's flying; Summer 's coming fast ; Humming hope and Spring-time, The bee 's out at last. FROM A GARRET. A LONDON LYRIC. Dear wife, the crowded, bustling street Scarce notes your neatness glancing by ; Scarce worth a look from those we meet. Scarce worth a thought are you and I. Or if wealth deigns to stoop its eyes A moment to us, wife, be sure It sees us only to despise. Or pity us as sadly poor. A LONDON LYRIC. 17 And are we poor? Yes, I confess I fear the rich despise my coat. Pride scorns too, Kate, that cotton dress, On which you know, Kate, how I dote. If wealth be cash in purse or bank, Or stocks or rents alone, I 'm sure For wealth we have not much to thank The stars ; nay, we must own we 're poor. But are these, Kate, the only wealth ? Without them all, may we not own Riches in youth that laughs with health, How often to the rich unknown. Without a shilling — forced to earn Or do without each meal, I 'm sure, Rich in content, we 've yet to learn That in the truest wealth we 're poor. What if no West-end mansion be Our home — if quite four stories high Our two white-curtained windows see A landscape but of roofs and sky ! Mirth loves, I think, the upper air. No ennui homes with us, I 'm sure. Gladness, the best of wealth, is there ; And, blest with that, O are we poor ? No opera-box invites the stare Of coxcombs, Kate, your charms to see. Wliat matters that ? you only care To show your beauty, Kate, to me. 18 YE ROSES, WITH HER BLUSHES, BLOW. If 'mongst the gods we see the play, If poor-drest balls are ours, I 'm sure Our laughs and happy hearts can say, If mirth be wealth, we are not poor. And O, our garret, Kate, can tell, Although its walls be somewhat bare, That friendship loves its comfort well. And laughter 's always noisy there ; And love, Avho flies from state and fuss, Makes ours his dearest home, I 'm sure. Is he not always, Kate, Avith us? And, rich in love, can we be poor? YE ROSES, WITH HER BLUSHES, BLOW. Ye roses, with her blushes, blow ; Ye lilies, lift her neck of snow ; Thou dusky night, ye starry skies. Show forth the dark light of her eyes ; Thou rosy morning, steal to earth With her gay smiles, her sparkling mirth ; You, dewy tears of twilight eves, Weep softly, softly as she grieves, That ever she may present be In all sweet sounds we hear, in all sweet sidits we see. Thou, Music, with her low tones stir Our hearts; thou, Painting, image her; And thou, white Sculpture, let her seem To smile from every marble dream FOR YOU. 19 Of thine, that she may ever be Fair in all fair things shaped by thee ; And thou, O Poet, to her give, Sweet, in thy sweetest songs to live. So thou, blest Art, shalt give her part In all thy lustrous life in man's delighted heart. FOR YOU. For you — for you — I live for you ; And, if I long for fame, 'Tis that I 'd give A life to live For ages Avitli your name. I thirst for fame, 'tis true. But then 'tis fame for you. For you — for you — I live for you ; Yes, wealth indeed I crave. That all that I With wealth can buy. You, dearest, you may have. I would have gold, 'tis true. But then 'tis gold for you. For you — for you — I live for you ; No day but brings this heart Your thought with light; No dream has nisrht 111 which you have not part. I live, I breathe, 'tis true ; But, love, I live for you. 20 TO THE MEMORY OF TO THE MEMORY OF EGBERT BURNS. Born January 25, 1759. And lie was born a century since ! What matters that to him? Years dull the fame of peer and prince, But his what years can dim? No ; he whom falser glories dread, Old Time, would scorn to wrong One laurel on the glorious head Of this our king of song. Fill ! If cold to his fame there be One Scot, him Scotland spurns. Up, Scotchmen all, and drink Avith me, " Our glory — Robert Burns !" Ah, friends ! old Scotland's heart to warm. Another comes not soon Like him bestow'd on her in storm / Upon the banks of Doon. O clay-built cot that gave him birth. Where is your name not known — Your name, poor hut, that gave to earth The man earth 's proud to own? Fill ! Proud of him we well may be, Whose words no child but learns. Up, Scotchmen all, mth three times three, And drink to " Robert Bm-ns !" ROBERT BURNS. 21 The very air he breathed is dear To all, Avhate'er their lots. O fields he trod ! what heart is here But holds you holy spots? O Ellisland ! no Scot is he A glow who does not feel To hear thy name, or more to see Thy lowly roof, Mossgiel I What Scottish heart, where'er it be In farthest lands, but yearns, Ere death, the very homes to see That shelter'd Eobert Burns? 'Twas his our meanest wants to know. Our worst toils to endure ; But, more— to pride and wealth to show What souls God gives the poor. How little Heaven for titles cares, How well his genius told. That rank is but the stamp it bears, That man's the sterling gold ! No nobler truth the world can know Than this from him it learns, The high may be beneath the low. Then drink " The Ploughman Biurns !" And were they sung so long ago? "Well, time but makes more dear His songs, that do but sweeter grow, And sweeter with each year. O tender strains, how well you told Our fathers' joy and fears ! 22 TO THE JIEMOUV OF The self-same power to-day you liold To speak our laughs and tears. Than this that it was his to know, That now our reverence earns, No nobler power God gives below — Then drink, " The Poet Burns!" Flow on, O Ayr — O Nith, flow on- — Soft murmur of his praise Wlio shoAver'd yet richer charms upon Your bonny banks and braes ! Through him how many a dear, dear scene A sweeter beauty fills ! More green your valleys' tender green, More dear your heathy hills ; Where breathes the Scot who, far or near, But to old Scotland yearns ? Then fill to him who made more dear Her hills and vales, — to " Burns !" O poet ! let thy heart rejoice Wherever now thou art; Thy songs still five in every voice. Still throb through every heart. In every chme those songs are heard ; Wliat nations from us spring ! And still, where sounds an Enghsh word., O Burns, thy songs they sing ! And long as hearts shall sink and swell With grief and mirth by turns. Those songs our joys and griefs shall tell — Then drink to " Robert Burns !" ROBERT BURNS. 23 And O, not only through our days Shall " Auld Langsyue" be sung, And, praised with tears, " Ye banks and braes," Shall linger from each tongue. To those dear words, to unborn eyes Unbidden tears shall steal, "While time an English heart supplies Their tender charm to feel. Then up ! to him your glasses raise To Avhom your love so yearns. Whom imborn hearts shall love and praise. Up ! Scotchmen, — " Robert Burns !" Yet let not Scotland rise alone To this our loving toast ; No ; England claims him as her own, Her glory and her boast. Then up — up all ! — and fill with me Your glasses to the brim ; Our common pride he well may be, Let all, then, drink to him. The fame of him whose matchless songs No English tongue but learns, To all of English blood belongs ; Fill all — to " Robert Burns!" 24 PRITHEE TELL ME WHERE LOVE DWELLS? Prithee tell me where love dwells ? 'Neath a forehead whiter far Than the whitest lilies are ; 'Neath a drooping lash of silk Blacker far than carven jet, Drooping from a lid of milk Veined deep with violet ; Find me these, and each one tells Where the wildering iirchin dwells. Yet still ask you where he 's dwelling ? Where a brow is, purer than The white bosom of the swan, Rounded with a night more rare Than was ever hmig on high, Sleeping round in braided hair Brooding o'er a raven eye, O'er an eye all eyes excelling; ' Find me these, and there he 's dwelling. If one steal upon him there, Tell me — tell me — shall I seize Love, the troubler of mine ease ? Questioner, nay, I say not so, And his will I read aright; There his presence ne'er thou'lt know ; Never there he '11 glad thy sight; For but yesternight he sware. Only I should find him there. THE QUEEN. A FIRE-SIDE SONG. Yes, wife, I 'd be a throned king, That yon might share my royal seat, That titled beauty I might bring And princes' homage to yonr feet. How quickly, then, would nobles see Your courtly gi'aee — your regal mien ; Even duchesses all blind should be To flaw or speck in you, their Queen. Poor Avish ! O wife, a queen you are. To whose feet many a subject brings A truer homage, nobler far Than bends before the thrones of kings. You rule a realm, wife, in this heart Where not one rebel fancy 's seen ; Where hopes and smiles, how joyous! star To own the sway of you, their Queen. How loyal are my thoughts by day ! How faithful is each dream of night! Not one but lives but to obey Your rule, — to serve you, its delight ; My hours — each instant — every breath Are, wife, as all have ever been, Your slaves, to serve you unto death ; O wife, you are indeed a Queen ! 26 A WINTER SONG. Crackle and blaze, Crackle and blaze, There 's snow on the housetops ; there 's ice on the ways ; But the keener the season The stronger 's the reason Our ceiling should flicker and glow in thy blaze. So fire — piled fire, Leap, fire, and shout; Be it warmer within As 'tis colder without, And as curtains we draw and around the hearth close, As we glad us with talk of great frosts and deep snows, As redly thy warmth on the shadow'd wall plays. We '11 say Winter's evenings outmatch Summer's days, And a song, jolly roarer, we'll shout in thy praise; So crackle and blaze. Crackle and blaze. While roaring the chorus goes round in thy praise. Crackle and blaze. Crackle and blaze, There's ice on the ponds ; there are leaves on the ways ; But the barer each tree The more reason have we To joy in the summer that roars in thy blaze. So fire, piled fire. The lustier shout The louder the winds shriek And roar by without, A SMILE IT WAS BUT A S5IILE. 27 And as, red tlirougli the curtains, go out witli thy light Pleasant thoughts of warm firesides across the dark night, Passers by, hastening on, shall be loud in thy praise ; And while spark Avith red spark in thy curling smoke plays, Within, the loud song to thy honour we '11 raise. So crackle and blaze, Crackle and blaze, ^\^lile roaring the chorus goes round in thy praise. A SMILE— IT WAS BUT A SMILE. A SMILE — it was but a smile. Yet it set my stirr'd heart thinking. And dizzied my dancing brain, As if with joyous drinking. A word — it was but a word. Yet on my heart's hush'd hearing It fell with a quick glad start, And shook it with hopes and fearing, A kiss — a long heart's kiss. And I — I knew not Avhether I breathed earth's air or heaven's. As our hot lips clung together. A kiss — a last mid kiss, A kiss, how wild with sorrow ! And does it all end in this. In a night that knows no morrow ! 28 THE WRECKED HOPE. There 's a low soft song in a chamber, Where sits, in the darkening room, A young wife, lulling her babe to rest, Scarce seen in the deepening gloom ; And her song to her babe is telling How in hope and in joy she sees The white sails homeward swelling To the strain of a favouring breeze, The good ship bearing its father home From the far wild southern seas. There 's a dim drear moon careering Through the dark grim clouds on high. And a waste of billows tossing Beneath the stormy sky, And a wave-wash'd form upheaving At times to the moon's wan gleams, Around which the wild sea rages, And the grey gull wheels and screams : And the form is his of whose safe return Afar his young wife dreams. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! FRIENDLY HINTS TO TRANSATLANTIC FRIENDS. Brothers, with all you boast of so. So much in love I am. At times republican I grow. Then, " Long live Uncle Sam 1" GOD SAVE THE QUEEN ! 29 But wlien of Uncle Tom I think. And what slave-auctions mean, Again to loyalty I shrink ; 'Tis then, " God save the Queen !" Let a Crimean campaign come. All Yankee straight I am, I darn our lords and lordlings sonae, Then, " Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think of Kansas, friends, And all, her judges screen. Good faith ! my Yankee fever ends ; Ah, then, " God save the Queen !" When I think what Court spangles cost. And Coiirt tom-fooleries damn, My rage for thrones is somewhat lost. Then, '' Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think what Presidents, And TMiite House contests mean. My scorn of Courts somewhat relents ; 'Tis then, " God save the Queen !" When, darn them ! tax-collectors call, Straight oflf in thought I am, U. S. will free me from them all. So, " Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think of bowie-knives. And what revolvers mean. And feel 1 've not a hundred lives, Ah, then, " God save the Queen I" 30 GOD SAVE THE QUEEN ! At times, of Marquis, Duke, and Earl, So sick and tired I am, Hard words at all the tribe I hurl. Yes, " Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think, by titles bored. You, too, do somewhat lean To such things — Sam, you love a lord, Well, well, " God save the Queen !" Often, by old-time fooleries fired, Game-laws and all I damn. Of church, church-rates, and church-courts tired, Ah, " Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think of Lynch, the judge, And what his verdicts mean. Ah, back to loyalty I budge, Yes, then, " God save the Queen !" When, startled by the mighty pace At which you move, I am, While we seem lagging in the race, Then, " Long live Uncle Sam !" But when I think your wondrous growth More slaves and chains may mean. To be a Yankee straight I *m loth. Ah, then, " Gpd save the Queen !" God bless them ! Vanguards of the free, In wrath at times I am With both, but proud I guess we be Of you, O Uncle Sam ! I VE WATCHED YOU FROM THE SHORE. 31 And you, we know your noise and fuss At us, but love can mean, I Ve heard you cry at times with us, Yes, Sam, " God save the Queen!" I'VE WATCHED YOU FROM THE SHORE. I 'VE watched you from the shore. And I 've watched you to the ship, With a quick tear in the eye. And a quiver on the lip ; And distance hides at last. From where, cold and still, I stand. The last gaze of your shoreward look. And the last wave of your hand. You 've shed the latest tear That my cheek wiU ever wet, And, in their latest kiss. Our parted lips have met; And, it 's O that I could die, To think, as here I stand, I shall never hear your voice again, Nor again shall clasp your hand ! OVER THE SEA. Over the sea — over the sea — O but my heart is over the sea ! 32 OPE, FOLDED ROSE. Nortliera wind, northern Avind, O might I be Borne on thy shrilling blast Over the sea ! Over the sea — over the sea, O but her heart is over the sea ! Northward the white sails go ; northward to me O but she longs to fly Over the sea 1 OPE, FOLDED ROSE! Ope, folded rose 1 Longs for thy beauty the expectant air; Longs every silken breeze that round thee blows ; The watching summer longs to v^unt thee fair; Ope, folded rose ! Ope, folded rosel The memory of thy glory lit the gloom. The dull gray gloom of winter and its snows ; O dream of summer in the firelit room, Ope, folded rose ! Ope, folded rose ! The thrush has still'd the rustling elm with song; The cuckoo's call through shadowy woodlands goes; May is the morn ; Avhy lingerest thou so long ! Ope, folded rose ! 33 WISHES. On Bramshill's terrace walks Lady Clare; O were I the purple peacock there, That 's petted and smooth 'd by her hand so fail' ! Lady Clare strolls through Bramshill's grounds ; O were I one of those white greyhoimds That, patted by her, break off in bounds ! O happy falcon! O might I stand, Hooded and jess'd, on Lady Clare's hand, To stoop at the heron at her command ! In Bramshill's chamber a caG;e is huno:; O that to its gilded perch I clung. To be coax'd by her as I scream'd and swung ! O were I the silver cross, so blest ! In Bramsliiirs chapel, devoutly press'd By Lady Clare to her heaving breast ! But, ah ! that I were the locket of pearl In her bosom hid ! or, more blest, the curl It treasures I O prized love-gage of the Earl ! Ride on, O Earl, by her palfrey's side ! O that I by Lady Clare might ride ! That she were to be, O Earl, my bride ! c 5 -^ 34 A SUMMER INVOCATION. O GENTLE, gentle summer rain. Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine, To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle summer rain. In heat, the landscape quivering lies ; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies, The earth looks up in vain for thee: For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, O gentle, gentle summer rain. Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist; O falling dew, from burning dreams. By thee shall herb and flower be kiss'd : And earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle summer rain. MARY! MARY! The grass is long above thy breast; The clay is o'er thy head ; I 'm lying on thy early grave, Yet cannot tlnuk thee dead: I cannot think that from my love Thou art for ever fled, Mary! Mary! mary! mary! 35 Thou liear'st my sobs — the groans xmcheck'd, I utter for thy sake ; Alas ! T dream a weary dream. From which I cannot break — A ghastly dream — a fearful dream ; And shall I never wake, Mary ! Mary ! No more ! to hear thy voice no more ! No more thy smile to see ! In groans I 've said it o'er and o'er, Yet cannot think 'twill be. How can I think that thou art gone, For ever gone from me, Mary ! Mary ! Through life to live without thy love ! To live, and live alone ! Till now that thou indeed art gone. It was a thought unknown. How could I dream of losing thee, I\Iy own — my fond — my own — Mary ! Mary ! "Why art thou taken from my love ! O Heaven ! what sin is mine, That thus in the full flush of life Thou should'st our lives untwine ! That thus, so early, ere her time, Thou, Heaven, should'st make her thine? Mary ! ]Mary ! 36 THE FOKSAKEN. My name was ever on thy lips When life was ebbing fast; The thought of me was with thee, love, The clearest and the last, O tell me, in the dark, cold grave. From thee it hath not pass'd, Mary ! Mary ! Was it for this I left thee, love. For many a weary year. In care to struggle on to wealth. That but for thee was dear. In joy at last to seek thee, love, And find thee lying here, Mary ! Mary ! Hear me, thou hope — thou only joy, Thou one dream of my heart ! Death sunders only to rejoin; Whate'er, where'er thou art, Hear thou the voice of my despair, Not long — not long we part, Mary! Mary! THE FORSAKEN. It 's there that she loves to sit. By the cool sea-breezes fann'd. With her babe 'neath the bending palms That shadow that island strand. THE HOMEWARD WATCH. 37 Her dusky brow has a calm Too deep for a face so young; And too wildly, sadly sAveet Are the songs to her infant sung. And there, through the weary day, She keeps from that lonely shore Her watch o'er the distant sea, For a sail that will come no more. THE HOMEWARD WATCH. The sailor the deck is pacing. And he hums a rough old song. Bearing north from its southern whaling, As the good slaip drives along; And his thouglits with hope are SAvelling, For his watch it well may cheer. To know that at last he speeds to her He has left for many a year. And she, in the darken'd chamber Where day is turn'd to night, By the candle dimly lighted. She lies in her shroud of white ; Closed eye, and cold, cold cheek; The slumber of death sleeps she. Of meeting -with whom he 's dreaming In his homeward watch at sea. 38 NO MORE! God! how often memory triea, O God! how oft in vain, Once more to look on those dear eyes Mine may not see again 1 A dim sweet glance, half lost, half seen, Remembrance may restore, The tears — the passion that have been, No more they come — no more, Lizzie, O Lizzie, never more ! 1 close my eyes ; O once that face. But once again to see ! It comes ; hoAV cold ! no — not a trace Of all that used to be I O weary day ! O wakeful night ! That vanish'd face restore I Gone — gone for ever from my sight. No more it comes — no more, Lizzie, O Lizzie, never more ! PRITHEE WHAT HATH SNARED THEE, HEART ? Prithee what hath snared thee. Heart ? Is it, say, a honeyed lip O'er whose coral bloom thy thought. Bee-like hovering, hath been caught, And, but loitering there to sip. PRITHEE WHAT HATH SNAHED THEE, HEART ? 39 From its sweetness could not part ? Prithee what hath snared thee, Heart ? What hath caught thee, Fancy mine ? Is it, saj, a laughing eye. The fau- heaven of whose blue Idly thou went'st wandering through Till thou, silly butterfly, Could'st not quit its charm'd simshine ? What hath caught thee, Fancy mine ? WHiat hath %vitch'd thee, sober Thought ? Say, was it a diamond wit That, as thou wast straying near, With its spells so took thine ear That thou could'st not fly from it. All in strange enchantment caught ? What hath witch'd thee, sober Thought ? No, though lip and wit, awhile. And the glory of an eye. You, perchance had captive held, Soon their charms you back had spell'd. Soon their witchery learn'd to fly ; Prisoners to her smile ye be; What from that shall set you free ? 40 O WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL! O WEARY, weary thoughts, be still 1 O life — why should life be A thing for only vain regrets And bitterness to me ! For love to give or to withhold, Is all our power above ; O fate, why did we ever meet! • Why ever did we love ! If love were sin, to sin or not Was all beyond our will. Alas, why should my life be grief! O weary thoughts, be still ! A hard, hard lot, I know is mine Of work and want and scorn ; And yet with what a gladness all With him I could have borne ? With him, what fate had I not shared, Content, that life had given! With him, with what of pain and want Had I not tearless striven ! O why should love, so blessing some, My days with misery fill ! Alas, why should I long to die ! O weary thoughts, be still ! Who say, not all the wealth of earth Can happiness impart? Alas, hoAV little do they know How want can break a heart ! WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL I A 1 How want has stood 'twixt sunder'd lives, Lives parted through the shame, That station, wedding poverty, Had link'd imto its name. O God, what diiFereut life were mine If it had been thy will My lot with his had equal been ! weary thoughts, be still ! Another with his love is bless'd ; 1 am another's now; Between us yawns for evermore A double holy vow ; But years must deeper changes bring Than change of state or name, Ere, early love and thoughts forgot. Our hearts are not the same. Alas, the feelings of the past Our lives must ever fill ! would — O would I could forget ! O weary thoughts, be still ! 1 know — I know, to think of him As once I thought is sin, But all in vain I strive my mind From its old thoughts to win ; ' His treasured words — his low fond tones My eyes with tears wiU dim; My thoughts by day — my dreams by night Will fill themselves with him ; 42 WEARY THOUGHTS, BE STILL And what we were, and what we are. Comes back, do all I Avill. Alas, why did I ever live ! O weary thoughts, be still ! There 's love within my husband's looks That I with joy should see; Alas, it brings another face That once looked love on me! And tears wiU even dim my gaze Upon my baby's face, As not a look I see it wear That there I 'd thought to trace, O why should thus the joys of Hfe With grief mine only fill ! Alas, why did I ever live ! O weary thoughts, be still ! O men ! O men ! God never will'd That lives, that nature meant To bless each other's days, by you Asunder should be rent. A deadly sin he surely holds The worldly thoughts that part, For chance of birth or chance of wealth, A heart from any heart. World, world, thou crossest God, his earth With broken hearts to fiU. Alas, how blest might ours have been ! O weary thoughts, be still ! 43 aD\.Y-DAY SONG. Out from cities haste away, This is Earth's great holiday; AYho can labour while the hours In with songs are bringing May Through the gaze of buds and flowers, Through the golden pomp of day I Haste, O haste ! 'Tis sin to waste In dull work so sweet a time, Dance and song Of right belong To the hours of Spring's sweet prime. Golden beams and shadows brown, Where the roofs of knotted trees Fling a pleasant coolness doA\Ti, Footing it, the young I\Iay sees. In their dance the breezes now Dimple every pond you pass ; Shades of leaves, from every bough Leaping, beat the dappled grass. Birds are noisy — bees are humming All because the May 's a coming ; AU the tongues of nature shout — Out from towns, from cities out ! Out from every busy street ! Out from every darken'd court ! Through the field-paths let your feet Lingering go in pleasant thought ! 44 MAY-DAY SONG. Out tliroiigli dells the violet 's haunting ! Out where golden rivers run ! Wliere the wallflower 's gaily flaunting In the livery of the sun ! Trip it through the shadows, hiding Down in hollow winding lanes ! Where through leaves the sunshine gliding Deep with gold the woodland stains ! Where, in all her pomp of weeds, Nature, asking but the thanks Of our pleasure, richly pranks Painted heaths and wayside banks, Smooth-mown lawns and green deep meads ! Leave the noisy bustling town For stiU glade and breezy down ! Haste away To meet the May, This is Earth's great holiday ! THE TORCH-RACE. Flash on the torch, bright as it shone Ere Athens, foremost in the race, Athens, so sAvift who bore it on, Exhausted, gave to Sparta place ; Fierce flamed it in that iron clasp. In Thebes' free hold how next it shone 1 Then Greece resign'd it from her grasp ; On — flash the torch of freedom on ! THE TORCH-RACE. 45 Then she, the savage she-wolf found. Who by the Tiber made her lair, Caught the bright glory with a bound, And, shouting, whirrd it on through air; Through trembling nations on she pass'd, Till on the North the splendour shone, That tore it from her grasp at last ; On — flash the torch of freedom on ! Then, feebly borne, it flickering kept Its wavering course till Milan came To glorious youth, and forward leapt, And toss'd along the living flame ; Nor, of Italia's daughters, sole Was she on whose fair form it shone ; Fair Florence swept it towards the goal. On — flash the torch of freedom on ! Then fiery Ghent the splendour flash'd Eed onward through the night around: On with its glare Helvetia dash'd From fierce Morgarten, bound on bound ; From Spain's fell gi'asp, free Holland burst; On Leyden's deluged walls it shone ; It glared where Haarlem dared war's worst. On — flash the torch of freedom on ! Then England, with a mighty cry, A cry that through the earth still rings. Caught the bright splendour, whirl'd it high. And flamed it in the eyes of kings ; 46 THE TORCH-RACE. Trembling, earth's tyrants heard her shout ; On Naseby's ranks the fierce glare shone; It flared along the Boyne's red rout; On — flash the torch of freedom on ! Thrice, fiery France, through shriek and yell, Eight on the streaming glory bore ;. Thrice from her gory grasp it fell, Her grip that strains for it once more. How Belgium seized it, fame can tell ; How from Sardinia's hold it 's shone, The night of Italy knows well. On — flash the torch of freedom on ! And thou, O Anak of the West, Thou who hast full-grown sprung to birth, Young giant, how shalt thou be blest To stream its glory round the earth ! Thou great one, sprung from this great land, Long from our grasp its splendour 's shone ; Thou hast its glory from our hand. On — flash the torch of freedom on ! THE WIFE'S APPEAL. O don't go in to-night, John ! Now, husband, don't go in! To spend our only shilling, John, Would be a cruel sin. THE AYIFE's appeal. 47 There 's not a loaf at home, John ; There 's not a coal, you know; Though with hunger I am faint, John, And cold comes down the snow. Then don't go in to-night! Ah, John, you must remember, And, John, I can't forget, When never foot of yours, John, Was in the alehouse set. Ah, those were happy times, John, No quarrels then we knew. And none were happier in our lane, Than I, dear Johu, and you. Then don't go in to-night ! You will not go ! John, John, I mind. When we were courting, few Had arm as strong or step as firm Or cheek as red as you: But drink has stolen your strength, John, And paled your cheek to white, Has tottering made your young firm tread. And bow'd your manly height. You 11 not go in to-night ! You '11 not go in? Tlilnk on the day That made me, John, your ■wife, T\Tiat pleasant talk that day we had Of all our future Hfe ! 48 THE wife's appeal. Of how your steady earnings, John, No wasting should consume, But weekly some new comfort bring To deck our happy room. Then don't go in to-night! To see us, John, as then we dress'd, So tidy, clean, and neat, Brought out all eyes to follow us As we went down the street. Ah, little thought our neighbours then, And we as little thought, That ever, John, to rags like these By drink we should be brought. You won't go in to-night ! And will you go ? If not for me, Yet for your baby stay! You know, John, not a taste of food Has pass'd my lips to-day; And tell your father, little one, 'Tis mine your life hangs on ; You will not spend the shilling, John? You'll give it him? Come, John, Come home with us to-night ! 49 DRAW DOWN YOUR VEIL. Draw down your veil ; Those laughing ejes Must only tell To mine the tale Their bright replies Can glance so well 1 Have I to learn, Pout not your lip ! How some you meet Will backward turn, To watch you trip Alonp- the street I o Nay, you and I Could doubtless tell How once those eyes, As one went by, To his, too well Laugh'd sweet replies. LISETTE IN AUSTRALIA. They say that, while here, Liz, Our winter we know, The skies of your far land With Ijright summer glow; 50 PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER. That June's blushing roses For you, love, appear, While bloomless December And frosts chill us here ; So still may kind fate, love, My heart's fond will do, To me give the winter, The summer to you. Yes, if both our paths, Liz, May not feel the sun, If gloom be for one, Liz, And light but for one, If but one through sunshine And roses must go, One, fortune's bleak blasts still Be doom'd, Liz, to know: Oh! still may kind fate, love. My heart's fond will do, To me give the grief, Liz, The gladness to you ! PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER. July 18th, 1857. The King of Song is dead; People, upon that throne Whose Avords all hearts obey'd. To-day death sits alone ! PIERRE JEAN DE BKRANGER. 51 Yes; he who, like to death, From kings rent throne and crown, To-day yields up his breath, Himself by death struck down. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung ; He lives in every heart; He speaks from eA'ery tongue. No — no; he cannot die; Still hves that matchless ^-oice, With sorrow still to sigh. With laughter to rejoice. Poor girl, the ueedle ply. His voice your work shall cheer ; Workman, your long hours flv, His kindly words you hear. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart ; He speaks from every tongue. Wliat garret but shall tell How dear to its grisette Is -all he sang so well, Of love and his Lisette ? You hear that jolly shout; There, where those students dine, His wit they thunder out. As mad with aoiig as wine. 52 PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGEK. People, no tear need start ; By France his songs are sung: He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. Speeding the weary plough, " The People's Memories" comes; Hark, " The Old Corporal" now On guard that soldier hums ; List! Avith his " Garret" gay, That clanging smithy rings ; Whiling his watch away, His " Jaques" the sailor sings. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung ; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. Tliere prowls the listening spy; Ah 1 " Judas" dogs him still ; There steals the Jesuit sly, Song-mock'd, go where he Avill ; Tyrants and tyrants' tools. His songs their work still do ; He lives still, knaves and fools, To scourge and scoff at you. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung ; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. PIERRE JEAN DE BKRAXGEU. 53 People, he claims your rights ; People, he tells your wrongs ; Still in your ranks he fights, Immortal in his songs ; Wliat Freedom dares not say. Your tyrant hears her sing; Hark ! with his songs to-day Workshop and winehouse ring. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue Frenchmen, he lived for you; Through evil and through good, To France and Frenchmen true, Still for your rights he stood. For this, to France how dear ! Dear and more dear to fame, With every coming year, Shall be his matchless name. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung ; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongiie. Courts, and all courts could give, Tempted, he dared to scorn; Tempted, he dared to live As poor as he was born. 54 NO NO MY LOVE IS NO ROSE. For fetter'd France to sing, He dared the prisoner's doom ; Therefore shall France still bring Immortelles to his tomb. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung ; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. Wider, O France, than e'er His " Greycoat's" eagles flew, Conqueror, he comes to share His glory, France, with you; Circling the glad earth round, His fame to heaven is hurl'd ; His empire without bound. His realm a subject world. People, no tear need start; By earth his songs are sung; He lives in every heart ; He speaks from every tongue. NO— NO— MY LOVE IS NO ROSE. No — no — my love is no rose That only in sunshine buds and grows And but to blue skies will its blooms unclose, That withers away In an autumn day, A nd dies in a dream of drifting snows ; No — 'Uo — my love is no rose. GODS BEST GIFT. 55 No — no — my love is no rose; My love is the holly that ever is green, Wliether breezes are balmy, or blasts are keen ; The same that is still, In days sullen and chill, As when snow'd with blossoms the orchards are seen ; No — no — my love is no rose. GOD'S BEST GIFT. Come, till — fill to the toast To which my glass I lift; Here's " She we love the most," Here's " Woman — God's best gift." O who, beloved by her, \Vlio Anil not gladly own, Life, O what rapture were, Though bless'd with her alone ! Then who'll not drink the toast To which my glass I lift ? Here's " She we love the most," Here's <* Woman — God's best gift." I'he heathens feign'd that he Who stole from heaven its flame, Foretold all woes would be Wlien sweet Pandora came ; But all his Avisdom taught, Thank Heaven! it taught in v.iiii; She to man's heart was caught, And ne'er released again. 5G god's best gift. And who'll not drink the toast To which my glass I lift ? Here's " She we love the most," Here's " Woman — God's best gift." In Paradise, man found His lot not wholly bless'd. Until its blissful ground Dear woman's footsteps press'd ; God's mercy how he bless'd When forced its bliss to leave ! He Eden still possess'd While with him went his Eve. Then who'll not drink the toast To which my glass I lift ? Here's " She Ave love the most," Here's "Woman — God's best gift." And still the curse she takes From man; for she alone With her dear presence makes An Eden still his own ; Oh, what were this life worth, How poor and dull it were, Unless the weary earth Were made a heaven by her ! Then who'll not drink the toast To which my glass I lift ? Here's " She Ave love the most," Here's "Woman — God's best gift." 57 SONG. / Were iniue the songs Anacroon sung, Were mine Catullus' biu'ning pen, Or Dante's dreams, or Petrarch's tongiie: How, dearest, would I sing thee then ! Nor Lesbia's lips, nor Laura's eyes. Nor Beatrice's gaze divine. Not one sweet charm the world should prize i\Iore than it prized those charms of thine. Oh, love, for Goethe's m^fShless grace ! Oh, love, for Bp-on's words of flame ! Then thine by Lili's fame I'd place; With Athens' maid's should live thy nanu'. Oh could I sing such songs as sprung From Burns's heart — Beranger's brain. With Jean and Liz shouldst thou be sung While songs upon men's lips remain. How weak am I thy charms to paint ! How poor the colours words supply ! Even as I use them, wan and faint, I see thy beauty from them die. Love laughs, and mocks, and shrills: " Why try " To paint the charms thy words VjiU b!nr ? " Thou hast herself; in vain, ah! why " Waste time to win a dream of her ! " V ,) 58 WHY? We love, we know not why ; " Why ?" would reason know? What can we reply, But "OLove, 'tis so!" A moment — we are free; A moment — some sweet eyes Have fiU'd our hearts with l^urning hopes, Our future wdth sad sighs. " Why ?" would reason know? Wliat must each reply ? " Fate has will'd it so; "Not I, in truth, not I." But two short years ago, Said I, "Is there need, " If his frowns, love, show, " I his frowns should heed ?" I laugh'd, and lightly thought Of qll the boy could do ; A moment — I was surely caught: My heart was gone to you. " Why ?" would reason know? Can I but reply : " Fate has will'd it so ; "Not T, in truth, not I." And do I, in the snare. Cry and cry in vain, " Eros, hear my prayer I " Free me yot ngain?" FOR MUSIC. 59 Ah, no: in the sweet past. Still mine that prayer might be. But now, O love so changed ! at last, I Avould not, love, be free. " Why ?" Avoixld reason know? What must I reply ? " Fate has will'd it so ; " Not I, in truth, not I." FOR MUSIC. Hear ! hear ! on ye we call, O joys ! O high delights ! Ye sounds — ye sweetest sights, We need — we need ye all ; Thou Grief — thou Care, be dumb ! Doth not my lady come ! Ope — ope, ye dreaming blooms ! Ye vernal stars, appear ! AU charmed airs be near ! Rise — rise, ye faint perfumes ! Thou Grief — thou Care, be dumb ! Doth not my lady come ! 60 THE CRY OF THE LAWFUL LANTERNS. Humbly dedicated to the Opponents of National Education. A PEOPLE dwelt in darkness, In gloom and blinding night. Till some grew tired of candles And dared to long for light, When straight the establish'd lanterns Were stirr'd with hate of day, And loud the lawful rushlights In wrath were heard to say, O have you not your lanterns. Your little shining lanterns! Wliat need have you of sunshine ? What do yoi; want with day? Then loud the people murmur'd And vow'd it wasn't right. For men who could get daylight To grope about in night ; Why should they lose the gladness, The pleasant sights of day? But still the establish'd lanterns Continued all to say, O have you not your lanterns, Your nice old glimmering lanterns ! ^Vhat need have you of sunshine? What do you want with day? THE CRY OF THE LAWFUL LANTEfiNS. 61 But people loathed the darkness, And dared at last to say, You old establish'd rushlights Are good things in your way ; But are you, candles, sunlight? You, lanterns, are you day? Then loud the lawful lanterns Did answer make and say, O be content with lanterns, Your good old-fashion'd lanterns! You really want too much light ; Don't ask again for day! At last the crowd's deep murmur Grew gathering to a roar, And that they would have daylight, In lanterns' spite, they swore; And fear was on all rushlights. And trembling and dismay ; Alas, alas for lanterns! The people heard them say ; O woe — O woe for lanterns ! What will become of lanterns! Alack, they will have sunshine! Alas, there will be day! And as the tempest thicken'd, Aloud they shriek'd in fright, O once let in the sunshine, And what will be our light! 62 FROM SEA. We. shining lights in darkness, Shall nothing be in day — O don't admit the sunshine T Keep out the daylight, pray ! don't put out your lanterns ! Your own old little lanterns! O do without the sunshine! O don't let in the day! The day came in; but prophets Do say, ' tis certain quite, That long through coming ages Will lanterns hate the light; That to our children's children, In sorrow still they'll say. Oh for the times of darkness Ere lanterns pass'd away ! Why laid they by us lanterns ? Their fine, their good old lanterns ! We're sure its bad this sunshine. This horrid glare of day. FROM SEA. O IT was not for my mother, Though dear she is to me. Though old she is, and poor she is. That I sail'd the stormy sea; But it was for my true love, That dearer is to me Than father and than mother both, 'Twas for her I sail'd the sea. FROM SEA. 63 The wind blows fair and freshly. Right fresh for Harwich bay. For the cottage on its sandy cliff That I think of night and day, That I think of, and I dream of. And have di'eamt of night and day. In calm and storm, and south the line, A thousand leagues away. Now, watch, look out to leeward; The land must sure be near; There looms the Cape through the morning mist, That I've long'd to see appear; To see it rising from the waves, For it shields the quiet bay, Upon whose cliffs the cottage stands That I've pray'd for far away. Now, men, the sails be furling; Now let the anchor go; At our brown ship's side, let our best boat ride, And the oars be shipp'd below ; And while the rope you're casting off, Take in my chest and me ; So farewell, blustering cajjtain, And farewell, roaring sea. Now pull — pull with a Avil! — boys, And beach right high the boat, For dear, dear is the land to me, TJKit have toss'd so long afloat; 64 farewell! farewell! And dear, dear is the girl to me, With each breath loved more and more, Yon girl whose brown hand shades her eyes, To see us pull ashore. She shades her eyes a moment; O that the beach were near! Does she see my torn hat waving? Does she catch my cry from here? Yes; down the clifF she's flying; Pull — pull, my men, for life, That I may kiss again my girl. My bonny, bonny wife. FAREWELL ! FAREWELL ! Farewell ! farewell ! the breeze blows fair ; One wild embrace — one last fond kiss; All other griefs I well may dare ; What other grief can equal this ! Yet in this bitter hour, while all That tears can weep is mine and thine; One thought 'mid all can joy recall; Where'er thou go'st, thy heart is mine! Cling to these clinging lips again ! O life is in our mingling breath! Thus — thus to meet defies all pain. But, oh ! to part is more than death ; BE JHNE AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME. 65 Yet, even Avhile myself I tear From out this last dear clasp of thine, With one fond thought I front despair; Wlicie er thou go'st, thy heart is mine. God! and must I yearn to see The gaze of those dear eyes in vain ! And niust those lips no more by me, O nevermore, be press'd again ! From that dark thought, I, shuddering, shrink, O when these eyes no more meet thine, \Vliat — what were life, could I not think, Where 'er thou go'st, thy heart is mine ! BI-: MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME. Be mine, and I will give thy name To Memory's care, So well, that it shall breathe, with fame. Immortal air. That time and change and death shall be Scorn'd by the life I give to thee. I will not, like the sculptor, trust Thy shape to stone, That, years shall crumble into dust. Its form imknown ; No — the white statue's life shall be Short, to the life I '11 give to thee. 66 THE DAISY. Not to the canvas worms may fret Thy charms I'll give; Soon shall the world those charms forget, If there they live; The life that colours lend shall be Poor to the life I'll give to thee. For thou shalt live, defying time. And mocking death. In music on — O life sublime ! A nation's breath; Love, in a people's songs shall be The eternal life I'll give to thee. THE DAISY. O K.A.TE, 'tis the sweetest of daisies ; I open the book where it lies ; What dear distant moments it raises, Green meadows ;md far summer skies ! Again down the green lane are walking A couple; guess who they may be! A daisy one drops in her talking — That daisy is here, Kate, with me. Now, heaven be thank'd for its falling, And thank'd, that I mark'd where it lay ; Though wither'd and dead, 'tis recalling The whispers and laughs of that day. A SEA SONG. e57 I have but to look, Kate, upon it, I 'm sitting with you on that stile, I hear your sweet tongue, blessings on it! And drink in the light of your smile. Then think, how my throbbing heart prizes These leaves, at whose bidding, again Before me your far-oft' form rises. Your face comes, how longed-for in vain ! O dearest of flowers 1 what a treasure Of old smiles and tones you restore! Of days that flash'd by, with what pleasure! With her I shall never see more! A SEA SONG. The windows rattle in their frames ; Without, the Avild winds moan, And fitful leap the red fire's flames, As that young wife sits alone; As she rocks her baby boy to sleep. And sings to the winds as by they sweep, "His home-bound sails, O fair winds, track, " That he his boy may see ! " Blow — blow, sweet winds, and speed him back "To baby dear and me!" Through a cloudy sky the gale blows high, And the schooner leaps along, And the captain seems, as the winds howl by, To hear in the gusts a song; 68 AFTER BE RANGER. As foaming past the surges fly, He seems to hear a song go by, "His home-bound sails, O fair winds, track, " That he his boy may see ! "Blow — blow, sweet winds, and speed him back "To baby dear and me!" AFTER BERANGER. Lizzie, one blue summer's day. Dreaming, with a laughing awe, AU the little Loves at play On the flowery earth, I saw; Then you pass'd, and straight each freak, Liz, was stay'd; Avith wild delight, Swifl; your neck I saw them seek, Liz, as they their mother's might ; You, for her, they took, and flew. Cheated urchins, Liz, to you. Sweetest, to their childish eyes, You their own dear mother seem'd ; Nor, methought, did it surprise Me, that you they Venus deem'd ; Why, unto my full-grown sight, Liz, I find it hard to prove, You are not the Gods' delight, Her who every heart can move ; Can I wonder then, they flew. Cheated urchins, Liz, to you! IN DREAMS I CLASP YOU ONCE AGAIN. 69 Lizzie, you, were 1 to see In Olympus, Cypris' home, Surely there you were to me Her who rose from ocean's foam ! And were Venus to forsake Heaven for earth, how like it is, Cheated too, I should mistake Venus' self for you, my Liz, Thinking, as to her I flew, That, my girl, I sprang to you! IN DREAMS I CLASP YOU ONCE AGAIN. In dreams I clasp you once again ; In dreams again I see you smile; O blest deceit! alas! how vain! Day comes and will no more beguile My fancy with the fond belief; T wake to memory and to grief. O sleep — O night — O pictured past. That thus it might for ever be ! That night and sleep might ever last, And ever give the past to me! O love — O joy, for ever stay. Nor fade to grief and gloom and day ! Yet death shall come, O doubt it not! And to us, love, it shall be given To taste, earth's sorrows all forgot, The old lost hours again in heaven. In days of ever new delight That know no dreams and need no night. ^ 70 RING, HAPPY BELLS! Ring out, pealing bells ; Your clamour our gladness tells; Sweet May — sweet May is wed to-day ; Ring out, O joyful bells ! Not — not in the dark deep sea, As they whisper'd long, slept he. Not cold and dead ; to him she is wed She never more thought to see. That weary dream is past — Wild sea, and wave-wash'd mast — The o'erturn'd boat, and the dead, afloat. To the rocks of the drear shore cast. Young hands, with your sweetest showers, Your brightest of garden flowers, Strew — strew ye the way that she 'E tread to-day, This glad sweet bride of ours. Ring out — ring out, ye bells ! Your clamour our gladness tells ; From your old gray tower, for her bridal hour, Ring out — ring out, ye bells ! 71 SPRING SONG. Now do tawny bees, along, Plundering sweets from blossoms, hum ; Now do showers of joyous song Down from larks, up-mounting, come; Everything Now doth sing. Welcome gladness — welcome Spring! Now, above, and all around. Songs are thronging earth and air: Joy is loud in every sound: Every sound is mocking care ; Everything Now doth sing. Welcome gladness — welcome Spring ! Now is every hawthorn-bough Bui'den'd mth its wealth of May; Glistening rims each streamlet now, Gamboling through the golden day ; Fount and spring. Hark ! they sing. Welcome sunshine — welcome Spring ! Now do golden lizards lie. Sunning them, on wayside banks; Now, with flowers of many a dye, Spring the woods and meadows pranks ; Wliat say they ? This they say. Welcome gladness — welcome May ! 72 THE dressmaker's thrush. Now do those, in joy that walk Shadow'd wood and chequer'd lane, Stay their steps, and hush their talk, Till the cuckoo calls again ; Till anew. Hush! cuckoo, Hark ! it comes the wood-depths through. Now the woods are starr'd with eyes ; Now, their weeds and mosses througli. Peep the white anemonies. Daisies pink'd, and violets blue; Flowers, they spring; Birds, they sing. All to sweU the pomp of Spring. Now, in poets' songs 'tis told, How, in vales of Arcady, Once, men knew an age of gold ; Once, the earth seem'd heaven to be; Hark ! they sing, " Years, ye bring, '' Golden times again with Spring." THE DRESSMAKER'S THRUSH. Oh, 'tis the brightest morning Out in the laughing street. That ever the round earth flash'd into. The joy of May to meet ! THE DRESSiUKEIi's THRUSH. 73 Floods of more gleaming sunshine Never the eye saw roll'd Over pavement, and chimney, and cold grey spire That tnrns in the light to gold ; And yet, as she wearily stitches, She hears her caged thrush sing, " would it never were May — green May ! " It never were bright, bright Spring !" Light of the new-born verdure ! Glory of jocund INIay I What gladness is out in leafy lanes ! Wliat joy in the fields, to-day! ^\^lat sunbursts are in the woodlands ! What blossoms the orchards throng ! The meadows are snow'd with daisy stars, And the winds are thrill'd Avith song; And yet, as ever she stitches. She hears her caged thrush sing, " Oh would it never were May — green May I " It never were bright, bright Spring !" Close is the court and darken'd, On which her bare room looks, ^Vhose only wealth is its wall's one print, And its mantel's few old books ; Her spare cold bed in the corner, Her single, worn, worn chair, And the grate that looks so rusty and dull, As never a fire were there; And there, as she stitches and stitches. She hears her caged thrush sing, 74 THE dressmaker's thrush. ** Oh would it never were May — green May ! " It never were bright, bright Spring !" Out, is the gleaming siinshine ; Out, is the golden air; In, scarce a gleam of the bright May sun Can, dull'd and dim, reach there; In darkness close and foul to be breathed. That blanches her cheek to white. Her rounded features sharpen and thin, And dulls her once keen sight; And there, as she stitches and stitches, She and her caged thrush sing, " Oh would it never wei'e May — green May ! " It never were bright, bright Spring !" Days that are clouded and dull. Winter — though Winter bring Cold keen frost to her fireless room — Are dearer to her than Spring; For then, on her weary sewing. Less often her worst thoughts come, Of the pleasant lanes, and the country air. And the field-paths trod by some. And so, as she wearily stitches. She and her caged thrush sing, " Oh would it never were jNIay — green May I " It never were bright, bright Spring!" /o RAVEN-BLACK ARE AMY'S TANGLING TRESSES. Raven-black are Amy's tangling tresses ; Passion-lit are Mary's dark deep eyes ; O how dear are laughing Kate's caresses! how sweet are Helen's low replies I But luy heart breaks lightly from their snaring; Vainly, for its love, their love may call ; While, for yours, O girl, alone 'tis caring. You, O girl, how fairer far than all ! Once, at Jessie's feet Love threw me sighing; Once, 'twas Alice haunted all my dreams ; To my fancy, love, there 's no denying, Jane once seem'd more fair than now she seems ; Spells have all that, ah! well might have caught me, That might well a wayward heart recall ; Mine they lure no more, since Love has taught me How far fairer you are, girl, than all. No — a rebel to their sovereign ruling, 1 no more at their sweet shrines adore ; To their rites, they other hearts are schooling; Mine is lost to theirs for evermore. From their altars other incense rises ; At their feet, new worshippers may fall ; Girl, at last, my fancy only prizes Your sweet smile, how dearer far than all ! 76 A SONG OF THE SEA. " Sailor, sailor, tell to uie " What sights have you seen on the mighty sea?" '* When the seas were calm and the skies were clear, " And the watch I Ve kept until day was near, " Eyes I have seen, black as yours, dear, are, '' And a face I 've looked on that was, how far ! " That was, girl, oh ! how far from me !" " Sailor, sailor, tell to me " What else have you seen on the far, far sea ?" *' I 've seen the ilyiug-fish skim the brine, " And the great whales blow, and these eyes of mine " Have seen on the icebergs the north-lights play — " But ofter I 've seen a home far away, " And a girl, oh, how dear to me !" " Sailor, sailor, tell to me " The sounds men hear on the stormy sea." " I 've heard, my girl, the wild winds blow, " And the good ship creak to her keel below; " But a laugh too I've heard that, O well, well I know! " And a far, far voice — a voice that was, O " How sweet ! O how sweet to me !" " Nay, tell me, sailor, tell to me " The sights and scenes of the wild, wild sea." " Alike in calm, and breeze, and storm, " I Ve dream'd one dream and I 've seen one form; THE SOWING OF THE DRAGON S TEETh. 77 " One dream that, dearest, shall soon be true, ** One form that, my girl, I clasp in you, " That my own SAveet Avife shall be." THE SOWING OF THE DRAGON'S TEETH. A HINT TO CERTAIN EMPERORS. Jason once, as legends show, Dared, O kings, your deed to do; He, the dragon's teeth, dared sow — Sow the seed that 's sown by you; But, with evil striving, he To a god for aid could look: Yours must greater perils be; You, your God long since forsook. Despots, despots, sow your seed ! Dragon's teeth you sow; what then? Of your harvest, kings, take heed ! For it rises, armed men. Hate and wrong, each tyrant flings Broadcast — hate and Avrong alone; Let them dread the crop that springs, Soon or late, fi'om what they 've sown. Hate alone from hate shall rise; Evil still from evil springs. You have sown but groans and cries ; You shall reap the same, O kings. 78 NO (^s! NO gas! Despots, despots, sow your seed ! Dragon's teeth you sow; Avhat then? Of your harvest, kings, take heed 1 For it rises, armed men. Woe to them that day ! Oh, woe ! When that ghastly crop is born; When the truth they then shall know Of the warnings now they scorn. How in that great judgment-day, Lord ! thy justice shall be known ! When the chainless earth shall say, " Kings, you reap but as you 've sown !" Despots, despots, sow your seed ! Dragon's teeth you sow ; what then ? Of your harvest, kings take heed I For it rises, armed men. NO GAS! NO GAS! DEDICATED TO ALL ALARMISTS, NOT EXCLUDING GOVERNMENT EDUCATIONAL ONES. Only half a century since, Fifty years or so, Safely, through oiir London streets At night, you could'nt go; Oil lamps and Charlies Strove Avith thieves and night: The public got the worst of it, And called for better light; NO GAS ! NO GAS I 79 When straight a cry was heard, " No Popery — no Mass — ** Our glorious Constitution — "No Gas — no Gas!" " Murdoch, sirs, at Birmingham, " Gas has tried," they say; " Soho Watt and Boulton " Night have turn'd to day ; " Why be robb'd and murder'd, " Stirring out at night? " Gas will save iis all this — '* Light — give us light." But still there rose the cry, " No Popery — no Mass — " Our glorious Constitution — ''No Gas — no Gas!" " Light !" roared the public: Louder still from those Living by the darkness, Shrieks and howls arose: Linkboys and oilmen Loud were heard to cry, " Have gas, good people ! " "^Tiy, good folks, why ? " Oil-lights are bright enough. " No Popery — no Mass — " Our glorious Constitution — "No Gas — no Gas! 80 NO GAS ! NO GAS ! " Safety, can you talk of? " Blind are you quite ? " Gas through our very streets! " Could we sleep for fright ? " Blowings up — explodiugs — " Such would be your fate ; " Streams of fire 'neath us ! — " Bless us, Avhat a state ! " Burnt — blown to shivers ! " Safety! — by the mass, " Make your bed on Hecla " Eather than on Gas ! " The Pope '11 come among us ; " He can't come by day; " Now, if he 'd come by night, " He couldn't find the way ; " But only hght your ways up, " And see what will befall ! " Some night your gas will show him in " And he '11 convert us all ; " Old lights for ever — " No Popery — no Mass — " Oil lamps and darkness — " No Gas — no Gas ! " Only let the gas in — " Bring but in the light — " See what will become of us ! " Nothing will be right ; NO GAS I NO gas! 81 " Why, the Constitution, " We shouldn't wonder at " People seeing faults then *' Even, ay, in that; " Gas will give too much light — " No Popery — no Mass — " Our glorious Constitution — " No Gas — no Gas ! " You never think of oilmen — " Of link-boys — not you ; " Only bring the gas in — " They — what will they do ! " Do away with darkness, " With links you do away; « Use — what will be their use, " When night is turn'd to day? " Old lights for ever — " No Popery — no Mass — " Roar, British Lion, roar — " No Gas — no Gas ! " Mind what you 're about, pray ; " Aladdin's folks, you know, " Couldn't bear their old lamps, " A long while ago: " They were mad for new ones, " Like yourselves, we're told; " 'Twasn't long before they found " They 'd best have kept thuir old ; E 5 82 AVHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED. " Oil lights for ever — " No Popery — no Mass — " Our glorious Constitution — "No Gas — no Gas!" The public heard these croakers, Half stupified with fright, But at the last they ventured To try if they were right ; No blowings up — no burnings — No bursts of flaming streams ; The Thames wasn't fired — All proved but dreams. No Pope in London — No martyrdoms — no mass — No robberies, and, last, no cries Of" Gas — no Gas!" WHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED. When Jove this earth created, Beneath, it lay so fair, With love his heart dilated For all things breathing there ; As o'er its beauty wander'd His eyes, what more to give. The mighty Thunderer ponder'd, What joys to all that live. WHEN JOVE THIS EARTH CREATED. 83 " Delight be yours !" he mutter'd, " And, joy, all joys above," This, too, the Thunderer utter'd, '' O mortals, yoixrs be love !" On golden thrones high-seated. The Gods the Thunderer heard. And straight their murmurs greeted Such bliss on man conferr'd. " If, as to Gods, to mortals " Love's mighty joys be given, " Tlirow wide to man heaven's portals, " For earth 's as blest as heaven !" So, ^vroth, the Olympians mutter'd; So murmur'd all above ; The while the Thunderer utter'd, '* O mortals, yours be love!" Then Jove, the murmurs hearing Such bliss for mortals caused, Olympus' anger fearing. Awhile, deep-thinking, paused: <« Yes — earth indeed were heaven " If love undimm'd it knew; " Be love to mortals given! " But theirs be sorrow too! " Take, mortals, take this treasure " Of bliss, all bliss above 1 " But, sorrow link'd to pleasure, " Still grief be yours with love !" yi LOOK INTO THESE FOND EYES. So, sweet, love's priceless pleasure Is only bought with fears ; Yet who 'd not win the treasure Of such delight with tears ! No — not to miss all sorrow. Would I such bliss resign'. Sweet, come what wiU to-morrow, To-day, shall love be mine; And passion's sweet hours living. We '11 bless the powers above. Who, sorrow to us giving, Still bless us, sweet, with love. LOOK INTO THESE FOND EYES. Look into these fond eyes, with eyes How fond! When fleeting joy for ever flies. Despond ! This hour 'tis oiu's ; think not what lies Beyond ! Dark o'er to-morrow's desert way Grief lowers ; Forget it! still we tread to-day Through flowers. Love flies ; O clasp it while it may Be ours ! GOODNIGHT. 85 Those clinging lips — that burning kiss Again ! I lose — I drown in this fierce bliss All pain; Fate shrieks what shall be, and what is. In vain. GOODNIGHT ! Goodnight ! goodnight ! goodnight ! No ill dreams thy slumbers fright; But sleep fill them with delight, With all dearest to thy sight ! Goodnight! Goodnight ! goodnight ! goodnight ! When dear forms thine eyes delight. Still of all shapes brought by night, Mine be dearest to thy sight ! Goodnight! AFTEE BERANGEK. Tired of Gods, the other day, Venus, still to roaming given, From Olympus stole away, ?]arth awhile prcferr'd to lioavcn 86 AFTER BERANGER. Stole to earth in mortal gviise — Guess you who the Goddess is ? She, though hid from others' eyes, She's, I know, my laughing Liz; O how bless'd ! to me alone Is the Queen of Beauty known. Others, as along she trips Through the unobservant street, See not eyes, and brows, and lips, Than great Juno's own, more sweet ; Eyes as soft as summer's stars, Hair more deep than Hebe's is, Lips to rule the iron Mars — Yes, 'tis Venus lives in Liz; And, how bless'd ! to me alone Is the Queen of Beauty known. Ah ! how neat and void of pride Deigns the Goddess to appear ; All Olympus laid aside, See, she's but a sweet girl here. So, conceal'd, to others' eyes, May the charming vagrant be ; But in Liz, without disguise. Shines the Queen of Love for me. O how bless'd ! to me alone Is her perfect beauty known. 87 OF GIPSEY BLOOD YOU SURELY CAME. Of gipsey blood you surely came ; Those eyes are night and fire ; Love leaps along your veins in flame, In throbs of dear desire ; And he who wins a burning kiss From that delicious mouth, Plas surely known the rapturous bliss, The wild love of the South. You move, you dance, you laugh, you talk, And still do all proclaim. Speech, Avhisper, gesture, glance, and walk, The cUme from which you came; I press your hand, and I forget The world beneath my eyes, Before me clicks the castanet, And. vine and olive rise. O deep dark eyes ! who looks from you To see, soft gleaming forth, The tender faith that sparkles through The blue orbs of the North ! In you, the storm, the lightning sleep, And hate and death are there, Life that must know a love, how deep I And O wliut wild despair I 88 YES, MY HEART IS LIKE TINDER. Yes, my heart is like tinder, and eyes such as yours Have often before set my blood in a glow ; But the passion that then soon went out now endures ; And this, will it fade, too? Ah ! dearest, no — no ! At moments, perchance, it may seem not so bright, But brighter or dimmer, 'tis still but the same; If, dearest, it smoulders, 'twill leap into light The instant your eyes call it up into flame. WHERE, O POLAND, ARE THY LANCES? Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again; Westward, horde on horde are pouring; Poles, fox you we look in vain; Comes the savage Cossack ; onward Spurs the Tartar with loose rein ; Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again. O for Sobieski's pennons! Trembling Austria recalls How they flung the baffled Moslem Back from freed Vienna's walls; WHERE, POLAND, ARE THY LANCES? S9 Host on host around her gather; Must she for you look m vainV Where, O Poland, are thy lances ? Europe needs them once again. O for Kosciusko's legions — Those that Poniatowsky led — They who charged at gory Grokow — Those Avho with Dombrouski bled ! Hearts that. Frenchmen, for your glory, Pour'd their streaming blood like rain! Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again. Yes, we need them in the struggle, Look'd for long, where Europe fights, Arm'd for all that makes her glory, Arts and freedom — thoughts and rights ; Shall the Tartar's trampling horse-hoofs Make the boast of ages vain? Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again. Shall no more thy snow-white eagle Sweep the battle as of yore? Shall we see thy countless pennons Streaming down the charge no more? Must we for thy old free war-cry Henceforth listen all in vain? Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again. 90 THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS. Europe needs them! Ah! how swiftly Would they answer to her cry: " Poland, Europe gives you freedom; " Guard her freedom, Poles, or diel" 'Gainst the North, what better rampart Than your free hearts can we gain? Where, O Poland, are thy lances? Europe needs them once again. 1854. THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS. NOT FROM OVID. " My passport was made out in the name of William Smith." Louis Philippe, at Newhaven. Come all you kings and rulers. All you to whom belong The souls and goods of nations, Come, listen to my song; For better than all sermons To you the times should preach : Then hearken to the lessons, The wisdom that they teach ; Oh! 'tis an awful story, This tale they school you with, How one of you, a week since, Was changed into a Smith. THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS. 91 This king was in his palace, All in his Tuilleries, And much he slapp'd his pockets, And much he felt at ease; Now telling up his millions, Now musing how he'd won By villany and tricking A kingdom for his son; No cruel chance of tripping His old thought 's troubled with ; He little thinks of changing In one week to a Smith. Ah, how he'd duped his people! How he the fools had done Who, making him their monarch, Had dream'd their freedom won ; Had dream'd in changing rulers They changed their ruling too, That what the Bourbon fail'd in. The Orleans ne'er would do ; All this he thinks, and chuckles His silence mingle with ; Old man there's yet a future — You yet may be a Smith. He reckons up his winnings With cunning smiles and glee, September laws safe gagging The press he swore to free ; 92 THE HORRID METAMORPHOSIS. Select, bouglit-up elections — Chambers that placemen fill — The right to grumble pending Upon his royal will; why the people's growlings Should he concern him with? Has he not forts and bayonets? Who'll make of him a Smith? His thoughts are of the dinner — There 's joy above his frown — Bugeaud will flesh his bayonets — Bugeaud will hew them down ; A hundred thousand sabres, And dripping all their blades — Ah, faith, your smile has meaning, King of the Barricades ! Yet sure some mocking devil Your thought is busy with; And trust me, King, he's sneering, To think of you as Smith. A day has gone ; — the sunshine Peers coldly through each pane Of that old Bourbon palace, And there's our king again? His yesterday, so stormy. Has sleepless made his night, But yet he trusts to shuffles To end the matter right; THE HORRID METAMORPOHSIS. 93 For Mole, for a moment, Guizot's been parted with ; Knaves Avill themselves be duping — He'll know it when he's Smith. The hum — the rush of thousands - The rising city's roar — Notre Dame the tocsin's ringing, St. Antoine's up once more ; The Boulevards thick are piling Their barricades ftiU fast: The Nationals, they waver — The Line's faith, will it last? Thiers — Barrot — he 's crownless; All's gone; they've settled with The old knave and his ruling. And I.ouis Philippe's Smith. A sorry cab is flying — For near St. Cloud he's bound; For alms among the soldiers His old hat's going round. Now comes a week of dodging. Of dread that they'll condemn His kingship to the mercy That he had shown to them ; Now, millions, crown and whiskers, And I'ear all parted with. He steams towards Newhaven, A i\Ir. William Smith. 94 SPKING SONG. O well this awfiil story May sliock each royal ear! And yet I trust its warning To all is passing clear. The moral you'll be drawing From this, my tale of France, Is plainly, Kings and rulers, Step out, my crowns, — advance; Or incomes, thrones, and whiskers, You'll, friends, be parting with, For pilot coats and Claremonts, And passports fiU'd with Smith. 1848. SPRING SONG. Now the fields are full of flowers ; Now, in ev'ry country lane, Making mirth and gladness ours, Wild-flowers nod and blush again; Now they stain Heath and lane, Long'd-for lost ones come again. Now the mower, on his scythe Leaning, wipes his furrow'd brow; Many a song the milkmaid blithe Carols through the morning now; Clear and strong Goes her song. With the clanking pail along. SPRING SOXO. 95 Blithely lusty Roger now Through the furrows plods along, Singing to the creaking plough Many a quaint old country song; Morninff rin"rs As he sings, With the praise of other Springs. Children now in every school Wish away the weary hours ; Doubly now they feel the rule Barring them from buds and flowers : How they shout. Bounding out. Lanes and fields to race about ! Now, with shrill and wondering shout, As some new-found prize they pull. Prattlers range the fields about. Till their laps with flowers are full; Seated round On the ground, Now they sort the wonders found. Now do those in cities pent, Labouring life away, confess. Spite of all, that life was meant, One to be with happiness: Hark! they sing, " Pleasant Spring, " Joy to all was meant to bring." 96 AN AUTUMN SONG. Poets now in sunshine dream; Now their eyes such visions see, That the golden ages seem Times that yet again may be. Hark ! they sing : " Years shall bring " Golden ages — endless Spring." AN AUTUMN SONG. Lime — golden lime ! Bright burst thy greenness forth to April's tearful wooing, Throng'd of the booming bee in verdurous summer's prime; Ah! sere and shrivelling now, the miry Avay 'tis strewing. Lime — golden lime ! Lime — golden lime ! What though thy parting leaves the waihng winds are calling, What though to sereuess all hath changed thy vernal prime, Why should we mourn that fast thy golden glory's falling, Lime — golden lime? Lime — golden lime ! Yes — thou in thought shalt come when gloomy gusts aii- shrilling Along the wan wide snows in winter's hueless time, The chill and pallid day with autumn glory filling. Lime — golden lime ! 97 THANK HEAVEN! I'M STILL A BOY. They smile at me; they, laughing, say, *' When will you be a man? " The parting year leaves you the boy " You were when it began." And I, in love with the disgrace, Their smiles and jests enjoy. And thank kind heaven that, old in years, In heart I 'm still a boy. What is it, this they'd have me win, This gain from which I start ? A keener, calculating head — Ah, loss! a colder heart; Wei!, manhood's sense or boyhood's warmtli, But one if I enjoy. Leave, leave the heart, and keep the head, I still will be a boy. THE WORD. A CRY FOR CONTINENTAL FREEDOM. The Word — it must be whisper'd ; Scarce breathed it now must be; But, boys, it shall be shouted. Ere long, from sea to sea ; F 98 THE WORD. It shall be told in thunders That smite the tyrants down — In shouts of rising nations, That shatter throne and crown. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The "Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free ! Thank God ! we learn'd it early, And early spoke it out ; 'Twas thunder'd, boys, at Edgehill, It rang through Naseby's shout; And kings went down before it — They own'd its might too late — A Charles in '47, A James in '88. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken. Shall strike the bound earth free! And, God be thank'd ! our brothers Its teaching well had learn'd, Wlien Boston, Brunswick stamp-acts And Brunswick ruling spurn'd; From Bunker's Hill in tempests To George's ears 'twas borne; At York, for good his threats, boys, And him it laugh 'd to scorn. THE WOUD. 09 O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free! In France, a century mutter'd, In '89 'twas heard. And Louis, paltering with it, Fell crush'd beneath the Word ; Their Bourbons strove, in '30, To hush that cry in vain ; In eighteen years, away, boys. It rent their crown again. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken^ Shall strike the bound earth free! But 'twas in '48, boys, It show'd what it could do ; From land to land — from nation To nation, fierce it flew; From throne to shatter'd throne, boys, Lay its destroying track, And despot to cow'd despot In trembling howl'd it back. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be. The Word that, once more spoken. Shall strike the bound earth free! 100 THE WORD. From palace swift to palace, On swept the mighty cry, The shout of sunless nations That hail'd the day-dawn nigh, The clang of falling fetters That rang from shore to shore, The songs that told to tyrants That slaves were slaves no more. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free! From city on to city. Its hope and gladness sprung; Palermo toss'd it on, boys. It leapt from Genoa's tongue; How quick the lips of Venice Its earthquake-accents learn'd ! A trumpet-blast to Pesth, boys, How swift her yoke she spurn'd ! O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free ! Then trembled Spain's poor despot. Then Prussia's pedant lied ; It trod on trampling Naples, It broke the Hapsburg's pride ; THE WORD. 101 Arm'd, Milan sprang to greet it, From 'neath the Austrian's heel ; Free, Rome exulting heard it. And clash'd it on with steel. O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free! It sank, and lost awhile, boys. Awhile, alone, it seems ; But slaves, their hearts still hold it, It haunts their tyrants' dreams. When shall their free lips speak it, Their lips that now are dumb? ^Mien vnR its day of triumph, Its day of vengeance, come? O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free! Hurrah ! the Czar goes down, boys, Each hated despot's stay! From ev'ry tyrant's throne, boys, We hew the prop away. What matter though a despot Breaks down the despot's sway? He does but do our work, boys, And Hungary's debt we pay. 102 THE WORD. were the Word but spoken That •svhisper'd now must be, The Word that, once more spoken. Shall strike the bound earth free ! And we — we scorn its teaching? In freedom's cause allied With crowns and thrones, with peoples Dare we not, boys, to side? No — let the Word be spoken, Shall we not heed its call ? Shall we not strike for freedom? With freedom stand or fall ? O were the Word but spoken That whisper'd now must be. The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free ! What, we who vaunt our freedom. When slaves for freedom rise, J Shall we not help the nations To win the rights we prize? Shall not our hearts be with them? Shall not our right arms be With all who strike that day, boys, Like us, boys, to be free? O were the Word but spoken That now must whisper'd be, The Word that, once more spoken, Shall strike the bound earth free? 103 GOD SPARE MY BOY AT SEA ! How wild without is the moaning night ! And the waves race in, how fierce and white Bizt white as the waves is she ; To the window that looks to sea she steals, And there, as she hears the thunder's peals. And the Ughtniug shows the sea. How ^vild is that trembling motlier's prayer ! " O Heaven, my child in mercy spare! " God, where'er he be, " O God ! my God ! in pity spare " My boy to-night at sea !" Hark ! tossing and tumbling, white as snow. How the billows roar on the rocks below! But white as their foam is she; And O how sick is that mother's heart! How those cries to God from her poor lips start. As she looks o'er the raging sea! God I in Thy mercy, hear her prayer! O Heaven ! her child in mercy spare! O God I where'er he be, For her poor sake, in pity spare Her boy to-night at sea ! 104 THE SEA-BOY'S DREAM. Two years from home — five months from land- How home-sick is the boy! And by the ship's side how he'll stand His home-thoughts to enjoy! DoAvn the clear sea his eyes may look, To look they do but seem ; They see the home that he forsook To live his child's sea-dream; And oh, as there he leans apart. How eyes look love into his heart ! Whose eyes ? Whose eyes ? And does it task Your thought at once to guess ? Ah ! whose the eyes his heart would ask His sight the first to bless ? The tears that to the boy's eyes steal, His quick hand sweeps away; But O his mother's clasp to feel ! To drink in all she'd say ! To hear her, " Boy, no more we'll part !" And feel her strain him to her heart ! 105 THE CURFEW. A WELCOJIE TO THE AUSTRIAN CONCORDAT. Yes, still that ancient cry Our living ears affriglits ; The curfew call swells high, " Put out — put out your lights!" Yes; even a single spark, A rushlight now affrights These friends of darkness; hark! " Put out — put out your lights !"' All light these priests condemn ; To see we have no right; Even twilight seems to them Too bright for man's weak sight ; In gloom men dream and curse — Even that their Pope affrights ; In light their dreams were Avorse; " Put out — put out your lights I" See ; Austria's despot quakes Before a gleam of thought ; Quick — .quick — his sceptre shakes; Some help must straight be bought; Ah! Rome to this must see; For thought Rome, too, aftrights; " Let the Concordat bel " Put out — put out your lights !" F 3 106 THE CURFEW. How France, lit up so long, Has sliock'd, O Eome, your sight! Her lights are far too strong; For her, let there be night. Her despot, even a spark, A single gleam, affrights ; For him they're crying, hark ! " Put out — put out your lights !" Sardinia, see, has dared Of late its eyes to use ; Spain, where so well they fared, Their night would fain refuse ; Even Eome itself they find Its holy father frights ; French bayonets Rome must blind ; " Put out — put out your lights !" These ffiends of darkness well May tremble for its reign ; Why Bibles, see, they 'd sell In Tuscany and Spain ; Auto-da-fes must be. To set all this to rights ; Quick, Holy Office, see To this ! " Put out your lights !" They're sighing for the blaze Of Smithfield once again ; For Mary Tvxdor's days. Dear monks, they '11 sigh in vain ; THE slavers' wreck. 107 No more the times return Of all their old delights, To gag, and rack, and hva-n ; " Put out — put out your lights 1" Thank God ! we here can scoff At this their priestly cry ; We laugh their Jesuits off, And all their power defy. For England Wiseman sighs — To Rome the worst of sights ; But all in vain he cries, " Put out — put out your lights !" THE SLAVERS' WRECK. A HINT TO CEUTAIN EMPERORS. Ho! GODLESS madmen at the helm, Ho! slavers on the deck, Your bark the waves will overwhelm. Your curst ship goes to wreck; So let it be ; ship sea on sea ; Right through the breakers go ; The rocks that wreck you will but free Your prison'd slaves below. God-doom'd, your onward course you shape With all the skiU you can; His vengeance long you will not 'scape, Foul fetterers of man ! 108 THE SLAVEHS' -WRECK. Godless — accurst — right plain we see You to destruction go ; Who cares? The rocks that wreck you free Your prison'd slaves below. Hark ! madmen, through the thickening gloom I hear the surf's deep roar; How fast, all reckless of your doom, You drive towards the shore. Ho ! breakers left and right I see, Ahead they're white as snow. Who cares? The rocks that wreck you, free Your prison'd slaves below. Ah! did you care my course to try. You might at danger scoff; Your bondsmen's help with freedom buy ; Quick ! strike their fetters off I But, while they're slaves, no help they'll be; Too well, ere this, they know, The rocks that wreck their masters, free Their prison'd slaves below. 109 SHE'S DExiD! She 's dead — she 's dead ! Her night of life is o'er. No summer murmurs those still lips shall speak ; Sum"ise and sunset she shall see no more; Nor flush nor pallor to that faded cheek Shall joy or fear for evermore restore; Thou, Earth, no more shalt throb beneath her tread; She's dead — she's dead! Thou masker, Death ! Thou art but life disguised ; Still burn the suns though we but gaze on night. From these poor raiments that her soul despised, She 's passed to holier hours and shadeless light. Thou wan, dim Earth, she walks in fields more prized ; And 'gainst her shining brows is heaven's own breath ; Thou masker. Death ! O THE WILD, WILD WINDS HAVE VOICES. O THE wild, wild winds have voices That only that wife's ears hear; One voice that wife rejoices, While one but speaks of fear. As she listens, the winds moan by, And they tell of a prayed- for ship, Of the look from a longed-for eye. And the sound from a long-lost lip. ^ 110 THE WILD, WILD WINDS HAVE VOICES. Now what does she hear them tell, As, without, through the night they sweep? Of his whaler speeding well Home — home, o'er a waveless deep ; Yes, she hears in the winds a voice That 's telling how swift his ship Speeds on, her heart to rejoice With a kiss from his longed-for lip. Now what do the wild gusts utter, As, by, the night- winds moan? Of tempest and wreck they mutter. Of peril and death alone ; Of a bare hull swept before The storm — of a foundering ship — Of a face she shall see no more. And a vainly longed-for lip. CHILD, PURSUE THY BUTTERFLY! Child, pursue thy butterfly. Hot of foot and keen of eye, But to learn, poor fool, when caught, It, so wildly, hotly sought. Was but all unworth thy thought, All unworth a smile or sigh. Child, pursue thy butterfly! CHILD, rUKSUE THY BUTTERFLY! 1 1 1 Thou, the hunter of a name, Chaser of the flight of fome, On, Ixion-like, above, Mount, to clasp but cloud, and prove Thou art but the cheat of Jove, Mock and hiughter of the sky. Child, pm-sue thy butterfly! Midas, thou that in the strife But for riches, Avastest life. Win thy wish, and, winning, learn All that thou hast toiled to earn Is what wisdom well may spurn, Bought with all thou winn'st it by. Child, pui'sue thy butterfly! Bee, that knowest but the power Sweets to suck from every hour. Thou, whose wasted days have known Pleasures of the sense alone, On, amid thy joys to own, Won, they waken but the sigh. Child, pursue thy butterfly ! Shadow-hunter, too, art thou. Who, to good, thy toil dost vow ? No — the golden gleams that woo Thy swift hopes, soul ! pursue; Won or not, thou track'st the true, Ever to thine heaven more uigh ; Thine no fleeting butterfly! 112 LIZ, YOU 'VE A TEAZING HEART. Liz, you 've a teazing heart; foolish one, part with it, If you a iDoment of comfort would see; What can you do, O the mad wild young heart, with it? Quick, Liz, get rid of it; leave it with me. T, too, have one, just its fellow at teazing me ; What, with so wild an one — what can I do ? Ah, if you'd know how you best could be pleasing me. You'd let me leave it for good, Liz, Avith you. Yours, that each instant so tricks you and plays from you, By me so fondled and petted should be, 'T would have no care to roam, and, if mine strays from you, Never put faith more in hearts or in me. Nay, never fear but its good it will know too well Ever to harbour a thought, Liz, to stray ; Would you, in truth, all its love have it show too well ? Only in sport threat to drive it away. Then how 'twill fliitter and tremble and pray to you. Till that, poor scared thing, you '11 pity its fear ; Quick, then ! my counsel take ! heed what I say to you. Quick ! take my heart and leave yours, Lizzie, here ! 113 TO THE CONGRESS OF PARIS. Lo, at the council-table seated. The Congress sits in talk profound ; While guess and rumour are repeated To wondering nations listening round. Well may the peoples, gagged and fettered, Flutter to hear of this and that. Without a hope that they '11 be bettered By all, O Congress, that you 're at ! Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan; But, hark ! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our own " Without your help, O Kings, some day." What by your awful Avisdom 's uttered, O Congress, we can only guess; To us no syllable is muttered; But royal ears your councils bless. Around, the trembling nations listen: O what will come of all this fuss ! Imperial eyes with gladness gHsten ; Ah! that can bode no good to us. Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan; But, hark! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our own " Without your help, Kings, some day." We hoped, indeed, the proverb's moral Would hold true, not for thieves alone ; The people said, " When Emperors quarrel, The peoples perhaps will get their own." 114 TO THE CONGRESS OF PARIS. This, too, their sceptred owners fearing, Too soon they bid their war to cease; Congress, soon shall we be hearing, Thrones only gain by this your peace. Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan; But, hark ! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our own " Without your help, O Kings, some day!" Say, is the map of Europe, lying Upon your council-table there, Their rights to nations still denying, The selfsame markings still to bear ? "Vienna's Congress kings invested With states that still their freedom claim ; Has Paris 'gainst their wrongs protested ? Or does it leave them but the same ? Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan ; But, hark ! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our own '« Without your help, O Kings, some day." England and France, your faith believing, Sardinia helped you in your need ; Are you her holy hopes deceiving ? Or, say, shall Italy be freed ? How often, fettered Poland naming, " Poland," you said, " again should be." Are you your uttered words disclaiming ? Or, say, shall Poland now be free ? NO MORE GREAT LOVE MY HEART BEGUILES. 115 Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan; But, liark! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our oAvn " Without yoiu' help, O Kings, some day." Alas ! alas I what fettered nation, What people gagged and watched and bound. Thinks that for it, its hoped salvation Will in your protocols be found ? What matter? Hope to us is singing Of all of which your parchment 's dumb ; The deluge that our new world 's bringing, Our better world, will sui-ely come. Yes, despots laugh and subjects groan; But, hark ! I hear the nations say, " We '11 hold a Congress of our own " Without your help, O Kings, some day." NO MORE GREAT LOVE MY HEART BEGUILES. " No more great Love my heart beguiles," Methought ; I said, " I dare to hold his wiles " At nought." But, ah, again, by yoiu- dear smiles I 'm caught. How strong his strength, and I, hoAV weak I Fierce child ! Your laughing hps he did but seek, And smiled, And I no more of scorn could speak — Beguiled. ^ 116 THE SONG OF DEATH. How came I so the boy to slight 1 Ah, true ! Yet how could I guess what his might Could do, When then he ne'er had snared my sight With you ! THE SONG OF DEATH. Tbie said to Pride, " Eobe thee in rich array; " Fair Lowliness deride " That walks beside thy way !" But ever grim Death kept singing, Awful and low its tone. " Wisest are they who, born in time, " Yet live not for time alone." Earth spake to Lust, " Bar not, O Lust, thy will; " Delights full rare hath sense; " Of all take thou thy fill !" But ever grim Death kept singing, Piercing and calm its tone, " Wisest are they, the sons of time, " Who live not for time alone." " Known be thy name !" Vanity heard Life say, " Breathe thou the breath of fame " That shall not pass away!" THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. 1 1^ But ever grim Death kept singing. Solemn and clear its tone, " Wisest are they who, toiling in time, " Yet toil not for time alone." THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. A PRAYER TO THE PEOPLE. Song, that all -wond'rous things can save, Tells how, of old, to Eden's lord A magic gift the fairies gave, Some kindly action's rich reward; A crystal cup, that, safe, no ill Should unto Eden's race befall; Theirs should be every blessing still. While theirs the Luck of Eden Hall. O, lords of Eden, treasure up The fairies' gift — your magic cup ! Lands, state and reverence, courage, power. Wealth that no wildest waste impairs. Health, genius, every good 's their dower, While the good fairies' gift is theirs. But let a rash or faithless hand The magic blessing once let fall. Lost shall be power, and wealth, and land. Lost with the Luck of < Eden Hall. O, race of Eden, treasure up The fairies' gift — your magic cup ! 1 1 8 THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. truth, in olden fiction told ! O England, heed the lesson well; A precious truth this tale of old. To cars that heed it, still should tell ; Unto thy trust a gift, how rare ! By gracious Providence is given ; O, of that priceless gift take care, Freedom, that priceless gift of heaven ! O, land of freemen, treasure up Freedom, God's gift — thy magic cup ! Since thou hast had it, time can tell How every blessing has been yours ; Still dost thou prize thy treasure well ; See how thy greatness still endures ! Matchless the race that in thee dwells ; Thy sails are white on every sea; To wondering nations, glory tells Of all possessed and done by thee. O, land of freemen, treasure up God's priceless gift — thy magic cup! Hark ! through the troubled earth resounds The strife for rights thy sons have here; Whilst peace abides within thy bounds, And wisdom rules thee free from fear. Envious, thy state the nations see, By tyrants gagged, by priests oppressed ; O race, so great because so free, How blessed are you with freedom blessed! O, race of freemen, treasure up God's priceless gift — your magic cup! THE TRICOLOR. 119 Ah, prize it well ! O my own laud Let not the mocking nations see This blessing, given to thy lianci, E'er held less dear than now by thee ! Still let this highest gift of God, Thee, land, above the nations lift! So shall thy future path be trod Secure from ill, through this God's gift. O, land of freemen, treasure up God's priceless gift — thy magic cup ! So in its weird strength shalt thou stand, Eock-like amid the waves of ill ; Thy conquering march through time, how grand ! Thy future ever grander still ; But 0, remember, in that hour Thy hold is from thy treasure forced, To weakness turns thy vaunted power — With freedom's loss shall all be lost. O, race of freemen, treasm^e up God's priceless gift — your magic cup, THE TRICOLOR. A CRY' FOR EUKOPEiVN FREEDOM. When will the nations be up once more, With a shout that shall ring from shore to sliore. And Europe's despots go down before The flaunt of our flag — the Tricolor? Palsied and hagridden, Europe seems, Tranced and tortured in evil dreams, 120 THE TRICOLOR. But hard she breathes and turns her o'er ; Let her wake to the flap of the Tricolor! The render of chains — the Tricolor ; The planter of rights— the Tricolor; O that the people's ranks once more Were flaunting onward the Tricolor! Frenchmen, ground 'neath a despot's heel, When will you turn on the girdling steel ? Paris, will it be long before St. Antoine's up for the Tricolor! Mutterers by the thrice-freed Seine, When will your barricades rise again? When will your Marseillaise once more Be thundered out 'neath the Tricolor? '* Eighty-nine's" flag — the Tricolor; " Thirty's" banner — the Tricolor; When will " forty-eight's " ranks once more Conquer a crown 'neath the Tricolor. Shall not Naples' Bourbon hear A shout that shall smite him white with fear? Shall not Sicily strike once more, Armed and ranked, for the Tricolor? Freedom yet shall make her home In a proud Milan, and a priestless Rome, And Florence shall yet take heart once more For her old free life, 'neath the Tricolor. Mazzini's banner — the Tricolor ; Garibaldi's colours — the Tricolor ; The South's republics shall live once more, Chainless again 'neath the Tricolor. THE TRICOLOR. 121 How long will Clicquot befool and lie, Nor fear that his Berliners' hour is nio-h? Brandenburg oaths will serve no more When Prussia takes to the Tricolor. For another March will the dotard wait? For the vengeance that 's due for ' forty-eight?' To Potsdam shall he not fly once more, Hunted forth by the Tricolor? The righter of wrongs — the Tricolor ; The smiter of thi-ones — the Tricolor; Let Potsdam's pedant grow wise before His Prussians take to the Tricolor ! Darkly St. Stephen's tower looks down On lowering brows in Vienna's town, On lips that mutter yet more and more Of days that shall come with tlie Tricolor. Austrians, when will the glad time come When German thoughts must no more be dumb, When Hapsburg and Croat Avill fly before The shouts that herald the Tricolor? Bohemia's dream — the Tricolor ; Proud Hungary 's hope — the Tricolor ; Lombardy 's heart is strong once more. As she flushes and thinks of the Tricolor. Gagg'd and fetter'd by cowl and crown, Hungary crouches, Cossack'd doAvn; Pesth, how long will it be before Your walls shall fling out the T'ricolor? Kossuth watches and waits afar; In the leash are Honved and fierce hussar; 122 THE TRICOLOR. Guy on, the Austrian squares, once more Will thunder through, with the Tricolor. The Magyar's thought — the Tricolor; The Hapsburg's terror — the Tricolor ; When will Klapka's hussars once more Spur to the charge for the Tricolor? That order reigns that trod down souls When Diebitsch butcher'd Grokow's Poles ; Shall not that order be rent once more When Warsaw raises the Tricolor? Poland, how we hunger to hear Your thunder-tramp and your lancers' cheer. When the snow-white eagle streams once more To the charge, by the side of the Tricolor ! Kosciusko's standard — the Tricolor ; Dombrowski's banner — the Tricolor ; Oh that your pennons were launch'd once more On the Russian squares, for the Tricolor ! Northward, each despot looks afar For the help of each tyrant's prop — the Czar ; But westward the Cossack spurs no more Again to trample the Tricolor. For at home for him the Western swords Have carved out work for his swarming hordes. And conquering Europe shakes no more At the frowns of the foe of the Tricolor. The Alma's colours — the Tricolor ; The Tchernaya's flag — the Tricolor; Calmuck and Tartar have learn'd once more To fly from the flap of the Tricolor. 1855. images! images! 123 In eacli despot's balls is a nameless dread, A haunting terror at board and bed; Tyrants listen from shore to shore, For the cry that shall come with the Tricolor. The nations gagg'd, and blinded, and bound, Harken too for the stormy sound. The sound that to rend and to loose once more, Shall conquering come with the Tricolor. Freer of thoughts — the Tricolor ; Looser of lips — the Tricolor ; Souls and tongues shall be fetter'd no more When thrones go down 'neath the Tricolor. IMAGES ! IMAGES ! biAGES ! Images I sirs, I cry, Images ! Images ! come, who'll buy! Here's a Statesman, reckoned nice, Cramm'd with independence; see. He should bring a liberal price ; Come — what shall his figure be ? Pay alone that one will buy; He has twice been sold before ; Power — a garter — this goes high ; Come — for this you must bid more. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry; Images 1 Images ! come, who'll buy! 1 24 IMAGES ! IMAGES ! Here's a Soldier; that one, hark, He is but mere common clay ; You can have him for a mark. Cheap, for just twelve pence a day. This one 's quite another kind ; Sirs, for him play other cards ; For him orders you must find. Or a fresh step in the Guards. Images ! Images 1 sirs, I cry ; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy. Here 's a Lawyer — wants a soul, Sold some years since for a fee ; For another — there, the whole, All that's left, sir, yours shall be; Let's be plain though, shunning strife. He 's your own but while he 's breath, Not an instant after life, Satan has him, slap, at death. Images! Images! sirs, I cry; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy ! Here's a Poet; well, this time You shall purchase for a whim; Say, "he's Homer;" hear his rhyme; That, you'll find, makes sure of him; That's another of the tribe. Queer the lot are, friends, I own. At his rivals sneer and gibe ; There — he's yours for that alone. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy ! images! images! 125 Aldermen — coarse, dull, and fat — Tiu-tle, wlio'U for these afford ? Sii-, a knighthood buys you that; This, the notice of a lord ; Jews? O take them, life and soul. For a bargain — large or small. Tradesmen — you may have the whole, Orders — cash, sir, buys them all. Images! Images! sirs, I cry; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy ! Who 's for Women ? on my life, I can suit all ; only try ; This, sir, if you want a Avife, Thirty thousand pounds will buy ; This, a title ; but here, sir. If for less you must be blest, Any home will purchase her ; Prices differ for the rest. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry 4 Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy! Kerens a Curate, lean and poor. Him a living, friends, will buy; Vicars can't be bought — you 're sure? They're too holy? only try; Now who offers for this Saint ? What? a Deanery? not amiss ; And for this now? there, don't faint; Yes, a Mitre buys you this. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry ; Images 1 Images ! come, who '11 buy ! 126 IMAGES 1 IMAGES ! Here 's an Actor — yours for noise ; Only clap ; he 's yours, kind sir. A Danseuse — a bouquet choice, Diamonds — dress, make sure of her. And this Merchant ? — early news. For a sly stroke upon 'Change, Some good hint — the thing to use, One that will the Funds derange. Images! Images! sirs, I cry; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy ! Here 's a Bigot ; who ensures Him the highest seat in heaven } Here 's a Courtier ; sir, he 's yours For that Garter to be given. This Composer? you make oath He's a Mozart? he's your own. Painter ? Sculptor ? praise buys both. Like your Poet — praise alone. Images I Images! sirs, I cry; Images! Images! come, who '11 buy! What, sirs, you 're for higher game .'' King or Emperor? don't be nice ; They 've their figure ; conquests — fame — Higher taxes — that's their price ; This one of the Bomba kind, Mind ! or, sir, he '11 go off, bang ! Take him ! do ! if you 've a mind For some patriots, just to hang. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry ; Images ! Images ! come, who '11 buy HAD I A POET S MIGHTT POWER. 12) There, I 'm nearly rid of all ; Come, who lias the rest? they '11 go All for something; great and small, I"iing and cobbler — high and low ; Wisdom — ignorance — virtue — vice — Patriot — tyrant — knave and tool — Come — who buys ? all have their price — Parson — tradesman — genius — fool. Images ! Images ! sirs, I cry ; Images! Images! come who'll buy 1 HAD I A POET'S MIGHTY POWER. Had I a Poet's mighty power, How would I joy to make your name The people's thought through every hour, A sound the sweetest known to fame ! To every fleeting charm I 'd give Existence that should time defy; And in a nation's songs should live Our love in words that never die. And 0, were mine the painter's art, From every form my pencil drew, In still immortal youth should start Some charm — some memory of you ; That beauty, by my canvas caught, The baffled might of time should scorn, Unknowing change or age, the thought — The awe of races yet imborn. 128 WHILE THE CHAMPAGNE FOAMS. Yet, love, who cares ? not you, I know ; This hour at least is all our own ; For this the future we '11 forego: How blest to live for this alone ! Can fame, with its eternal fuss, One moment such as this restoi-e ! Love brims the cup of life for us ; Nor you, nor I, shall ask for more. WHILE THE CHAMPAGNE FOAMS. While the Champagne foams And trembles in your glasses. Lift it, sparkling, high. To her who all surpasses. Drink this toast of mine ! Trust me, to my thinking. She 's a toast divine, Worth the Gods' own drinking, Worth the Gods' own drinking When Hebe pours the wine. Fill to her again ! Faith! boys, she resembles This same golden light La my glass that trembles ; Bright her dear eyes are, Brighter far than this is ; And her ripe lips far Beat it, boys, in blisses, Not such glorious blisses In Jove's own nectar are. COUNSEL TO KINGS. 129 Yes, this sparkling wine Joy to life is giving ; But her lips to mine. That, O Gods, is living ! All joys but one were Fate to me refusing, To be loved by hex, That, boys, were my choosing ; Wliat matter all else losing. So fate but left me her ! COUNSEL TO KINGS. Here, as I by my fireside sit, And meditate my rhymes, Across my busy brain will flit The tidings of the times ; And as along my memory run The news each moment brings. From out tlie whirl of thought is spun This counsel unto kings ; Beware, kings, beware ! Heed the game ye play! Kings, the world is moving; Stand from out the way ! At last from Frussia's royal lips Let honest truth be heard ; A people tire of paltering knaves Who break too oft their word ; G 5 130 COUNSEL TO KINGS. The perjured faith of duped 'fifteen Suits not since 'forty-eight; The future holds more Marches yet If wisdom come too late. Beware, kings, beware ! Heed the game ye play! Kings, the world is moving; Stand from out the wayl Weak Austria, plant on swords your throne ! Play out your bloody game ! Your triumphs Freedom laughs to scorn ; . The end is but the same; Each time the Sibyl comes for more, Denied her present due; Vienna yet will have her rights, And, kings, her vengeance too. Beware, kings, beware ! Heed the game ye play! Kings, the world is moving ; Stand from out the way ! You Hapsbm-gs and you Brandenburgs Are things we prize, no doubt; Force not the world to find such things It well can do without ! Gagg'd tongues and censor-shackled thoughts Much longer will you rule ? Be wise and know that these are times When rulers must to school I COUNSEL TO KINGS. 131 Beware, kings, beware! Heed the game ye play ! Kings, the woi'ld is moving; Stand from out tlie way ! Bourbon of Naples, when shall Time Your bloody rule forget ? And dream you there shall come no hour Shall pay Messina's debt ? Hate reapeth hate; blood cries for blood; Shall not that cry endure ? The avenging Furies on the track, Or swift or slow, are sure ! Beware, kings, beware ! Heed the game ye play ! Kings, the world is moving ; Stand from out the Avay ! The times are gone when history By kings alone was made ; The future has some parts 't is plain By nations to be play'd ; Woe ! woe to those by whom their path, Their fated path is cross'd ! A scaffold once a Bourbon trod — A head a Stuart lost I Beware, kings, beware ! Heed the game ye play ! Kings, the world is moving ; Stand from out the way ! 1850. 132 " SEIZE," I SAID, " O ART, THY PENCIL." " Seize," I said, " O Art, thy pencil, " And, in colours, all divine, " Give her to my love for ever — " Ever — ever, make her mine ! '* Seize her smile ere time hath chill'd it ; " Fix her glance while yet 'tis bright ; " Give that brow unlined by sorrow, " That deep hair untouch'd with white !" Vain, all vain Art's efforts were ; O what art could image her ! And I cry to ]\Iemory ever. Cry in vain to day — to night, " Oh, if but for one sweet instant, " Give her — give her to my sight ! " Weary day unheeding hears me ; Night, thrice weary, heeds me not; Dim the image Memory brings me. All its sweetness half forgot ; Eyes how chang'd from what they were ! Memory may not image her ! 13a TO THE COMING COMET. A POPULAR INVOCATION FROM SEVERAL EUROPEAN CAPITALS. •' Astronomers are expecting the appearance this year of the Comet called that of Charles V., and so named from having caused that monarch to abdicate and retire to the Convent of St Just." — Newspaper Paragrapli O Comet, blessing man's poor eyes "\Ylieu God the earth's cries deigns to hear, O blessed wanderer of the skies, O longed-for star, again appear ! If many a people thou hast freed From many a despot's ciirsed power, See, earth had never greater need Of thee, O star ! than at this hour. How despots vex poor Europe still: Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil; Apj)ear, O star, again appear ! An Emperor's word was iron law. Two worlds beneath his ruling groan'd; O star ! thy fiery glare he saw. And straight his sins in sackcloth own'd. How many now, with sway more foul Than his, God's trampled earth offend ! Oh ! to the cell — the wliip — the cowl. How many, star, thou well might'st send. See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! ^ 134 TO THE COMING COMET. Thy destined power one Stuart felt, Who sought our fathers to enslave, When at the block aghast he knelt And his pale head to justice gave. Nor long to be by tyrants vex'd By thee, O wanderer, were we left ; A second Stuart, star, you next Of sceptre and of crown bereft. See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destin'd purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! Then next the Bourbon's foted race, Long doom'd — long spared— awoke thine iie; Well might weak Louis trembling trace Along the night thy train of fire. Thy glare along the ghastly skies Its tyrant's doom to France foretold; Thou heard'st the people's angmsh'd cries ; A king's head on their scaffold roll'd. See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! Then, ere you sunk from human eyes. How, wild with terror, Eui'ope rung. How often, with the dying cries Of tyrants from the people sprung ! Marat — fierce Danton — Robespierre, All drunk with blood, by you were hurl'd TO THE COMING COMET. 135 To death, no more to shake with fear The kings and nations of the world. See, despots vex pooi Europe still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! A tyrant from the people sprung, Napoleon trod on prostrate thrones ; A despot still, his ruling wrung From trampled Europe tears and groans, And thou didst hoar ; liis doom to tell, Upon the night thy terrors rose. And, false to freedom's rights, he fell, Struck down by nations made his foes- See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Tliy destin'd purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! Again across the ghastly night, O star, thy vengeful terrors sped; Friend of the peoj^Ie, from thy sight, Again the baffled Bourbons fled. But better influence thou didst shed; The people's foes thou didst not slay ; He, too, the despot in their stead Thou didst but, crownless, scare away. See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! ^ 136 TO THE COMING COMET. But woe unto the nations ! woe 1 To tyrants, tyrants still succeed; Look on this Europe, star, and know How mucli thy coming still we need ; For souls and tongues are fetter'd sore. And slaves are they who should be free, And nations wildly watch once more Thy thrice-blest gleams, O star, to see. See, despots vex our poor earth still ; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fulfil ; Appear, O wanderer, re-appear ! How long thy coming blaze to see, In vain the weary nations pine; When Avilt thou come ? When will there be A nobler, purer '89 ? Come, and a worthier '30 bring; How long — how long we watch and wait ; Come, star, and let the glad earth ring With the free shouts of '48. See, despots vex oiir poor earth still; Oh, haste upon its tyrants here Thy destined purpose to fidfil ; Appear, O star, again appear ! 1858. 137 A CRADLE SONG. Lullaby ! O lullaby ! Baby, hush that little cry ! Light is dying. Bats are flying — Bees to-day with work have done; So, till comes the morrow's sun, Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! Lullaby ! O lullaby ! Lullaby ! O lullaby ! Hush'd are all things far and nigh ; Flowers are closing, Birds reposing, All sweet things with life have done. Sweet, till dawns the morning sun. Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry ! Lullaby! O lullaby! DEAD ! EOSES 1 Ah I to charm the golden light, Summer none like them discloses, Smiles that day that met my sight, Roses ! 1 38 DEAD ! Lilies I Oh, to live agaiu that day ! Wliite — how white 1 how cold and still is Each wan cheek — sweet life away ! Lilies ! MY ROSES BLOSSOM THE WHOLE YEAR ROUND. My roses blossom the whole year round ; For, O they grow on enchanted ground ; Divine is the earth "Wlaere they spring to birth ; On dimpling cheeks with love and mirth. They 're found, They 're ever found. My lilies no change of seasons heed ; Nor shelter from storms or frosts they need ; For, O they grow On a neck of snow, Nor all the wintry blasts that blow They heed, They ever heed. 139 I THE EIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG. THE HOPE OF THE PEOPLE. I HEAK tliem say, " By all this stir *' What do the people gain? " Their despots' slaves of old they were, " Their slaves they still remain." Yet God will right the people yet, Although the struggle's long; Yes, friends, Ave 've faith that God will set The right above the wrong. " See, France," they say, " what has she won " By all her bloody past ? " She ends the same as she begun, " A tyrant's toy at last." Yet, Heaven her woe will not forget. She '11 up again ere long ; For her we 've faith that God will set The right above the wrong. " No more your Hungary's battle-peals " O'er listening Europe roll-, " Securely gagg'd and chain'd, she feels " The iron in her sold." Does she her battle-fields forget. Triumphant once so long ? She waits, for her, too, God will set The right above the wrong. 140 THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG. " Milan, too, rose in '48, " And tore lier chains away, " To curse again her children's fate " The Austrians' scorn to-day." Her three days she remembers yet, And still her hope is strong, Ere long her God for her will set The right above the wrong. " Look, at its triple despots' feet, " Their victim, Poland lies; " Who knows if still its free heart beat, " Or heeds its dying cries ?" Ah ! God its cries will not forget ; Though Poland suffer long. We've faith that God for her will set The right above the wrong. " Vienna 'gainst the Hapsburg rose: " And what's Vienna now? " The very scoff of Freedom's foes, " The thing a spy can cow." And does she '48 forget ? No. Armed, and free ere long. Within her walls our God will set The right above the Avrong. Yes ; gagg'd and chain'd the nations lie, And wrong and vengeance reign ; To God goes up the bitter cry That will not rise in vain. 1857. THE RIGHT ABOVE THE WRONG. 141 The people watch, and wait, and let Their living hope be strong, Who doubts but God at last will set The right above the wrong ? For in a righteous God we trust; In Him our hope is sure; We will not think, while He is just. Injustice can endure. Not long, O God, Avilt Thou forget Thy people's cries — not long, Thou wilt ;irise in wrath, and set The right above the WTong. L'ENVOI. EoLL on, O river, to thy goal. The far illimitable main ; Gladdening the earth, thy waters roll Through vale and fertile plain ; O mighty joy ! had it been given. Majestic river imto me, Blessing and blest of earth and heaven, To run my course like thee ! 142 l'envoi. Yet, soul, content thee witli the powers, The lowly powers to thee assign'd ; The brook that Avinds through meadow flowers. In that thy likeness find ; Scarce seen its course, and yet no less Its scarce-seen course it loves to run. Rejoicing its few fields to bless And gurgle through the sun. THE END. WERTHEIMER AND CO., PRINTERS, CIECUS PLACE, FINSBURT. WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Price Six Shillings. POEMS. London : Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. Price One Shilling, free by post, WAR SONGS. From the Atkenceum. " In the ' War Songs ' of W. C. Bennett, we recognize a poet who has frequently- merited and received our commendation. He is a writer who has always pre- ferred sense to sound. An earnest student of the poetic art as applicable to the commonplaces of life, and the events of the passing day, he has dealt with fugitive themes, but in a manner that will relieve his songs and sagas from the epithet. His style, too, is his own ; strong and vigorous, never formal. His words are, for the most part, Saxon. Such is the character of Mr. Bennett's genius. It is emi- nently patriotic also; and these War Songs, both in their themes and treatment, come ' as natural to him as e.ating and drinking '; he had but to let his heart speak, and they existed. ' Occasional ' poems are generally artificial ; with Mr. Bennett they are but opportunities for spontaneous utterance." From the Examiner. " There is spirit and true instinct for poetry in these 'War Songs.' " Froin the Weekly Dispatch. " These Songs have vigour and fire about them." From tlie Dublin University Magazine. "These Songs have this great merit, that they are written in strong, vigorous, manly English." From the Morning Advertiser. " Full of feeling, melody, and fire." London : Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange. In fcp. 8vo., cloth Ss. 6d. QUEEN ELEANOR'S VENGEANCE AND OTHER POEMS. London : Chapman & Hall, 193, Piccadilly. From the Critic. "We look upon Mr. Bennett as a landmark to indicate the way where lie the strength of nature and the power of simplicity. He is one of those old-fashioned [loets— rare now, and valuable from their rarity — who were not ashamed to speak naturally like men, and who evinced power without the exhibition of muscular throes. As a poem, 'Queen Eleanor's Veugeance ' is admir.able ; it has the in- tensity of tragic fire. It is brief, but pointed and defined as a poignard. In con- spicuous contrast to this poem we would place another, entitled ' A New Grisolda. ' Here there is simplicity of style, but neither barouess nor barrcnne.ss. The tender emotions, which are best known to those who dive deepest below the surface of domestic life, are emi)loyed in this jjoem as only a true poet can employ them. Mr. Bennett's great triumphs, in our opinion, consist not in the kingly manner in which ho walks the classic regions of the 'gods,' but in the homely step which carries him through the dwellings of men. He is known — and it is- a pleasing MR. AT. C. BENNETT S POEMS OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. acknowledgment of bis fame to say so — by tbousands of little bappy folk, wing- less, but no less on that account our nursery angels, and by tbousands of full-grown men and women. No wonder he is '■o well known, since be has conversed with them in a language tbey can understand since be has expressed to them home delights and home sorrows with the purest Saxon feeling The volume before us will serve still more to rivet the fellowship of the poet and his readers." Froiii the Weekly Dispatch. " Mr. W. C. Bennett is a poet of great power, and possessing a fine descriptive faculty, especially when employed on subjects of a picturesque, rural character. Some of his poems on children, too, are among the most charming in the language, and are familiar in a thousand homes The longest poem in the book is ' Queen Eleanor'sVengeance,' a terrible tale, related with conmiensurate force. ' Pygmalion ' is an ambitious strain, finely conceived and executed. Mr. Bennett has produced a charming and graceful book." From the Guardian. " Mr. Bennett wi-ites with practised skill, .and what is more remarkable in these days, with unimpeachable taste. He is a man of taste and ability, who will yield pleasure and interest to every one who reaJs him." From Eraser's Magazine. "It is impossible to deny the genuine jiictorial power of the mind from which this description, that might stand for a translation into words of Titian's 'Bacchus and Ariadne,' in our National Gallery, proceeds. .. .Peihaps a famous song of Shelley's may have been echoing in Mr. Bennett's brain when he wrote this ' Sum- mer Invocation '; but no one that was not a true poet could have reproduced the echo with such a sweet melody, and such delicate touches of his own. Altogether, Mr. Bennett's volume appears to us full of promise." From the Athenaum. "Many a tender thought and charming fimcy find gi-aceful utterance in his pages." From the Examiner. " Mr. W. C. Bennett sb.ares with Dr. Mackay the right to be popul.ar on the score of simple unaffected utterance. In his new volume we like the natural tone of the • New Griselda ' better than the ballad style- — less suited to the writer's genius — of the ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance,' after which the book is named. But there is everywhere unex:iggerated expression, a pleasant sense of the joy of the primrose bank, of blooming thorn trees, and of summer rain : and there is occa.^ionid ex- pression of tliat love of children, which few writers of our day have expressed with so much naive fidelity as Mr. Bennett." From the National Magazine. " Another volume has proceeded from the pen of Mr. W. 0. Bennett. It is en- titled ' Queen Eleanor's Vengeance, and other Poetns.' Among these there are strains that bring Tennyson and Browning to mind, without abating our respect for the immediate author. The ballad which initiates the collection is written in ;tanza-couplets, and shows a power in dealing with the elements of the terrible perhaps not suspected by the .author's admirers. On the Fair Ros.amond he dwells but little ; the vindictive feelingsof the jealous Eleanor.are those that have plainly fascinated the poet's genius. A dramatic poem, entitled ' A Character,' manifests the same tendency. The Creole, Lina Merton, is a Queen Eleanor on a small scale, and of a more metaphysical turn of mind ; but her vengeance is equally cruel, or rather more so. The Queen only murders, but the Creole annihilates. The piece, however, most to our mind is ' The Bo.it Rcaie.' The ' New Griselda,' which is evi- dently the writer's favourite, has less of pure beauty, ami the conventions intro- duced disturb the ideal impres.sions. Mr Bennett's classic imitations are, as usual, excellent. Theocrit\is writes again in such pieces as ' Pygmalion,' 'Ariadne,' and 'The Judgment of Midas.' The political pieces .are vigorous, satirical, and fully justify the reputation already acquired by the author fur compositions of the kind. But it is in bis domestic moods that we best love to encounter Mr. Bennett. Is not the following ('Baby's Shoes') exquisite'?. Among the more ambitious efforts, we may note with especial commendation the poems entitled "Columbus' and 'The Star of the Ballet.' The last is a b.allad in which simplicity thought, and senti- ment wrestle for the victory, and lovingly unite, as it were, in a war embrace." UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. '"^OT i^EB 2 1 '*^^ Form L9-Series 4939 1 lijC^ i. lU£\...-i.3\ J UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILlPi' 11'!" I' I'! I" I "'""I I IIMM" Hill AA 000 380 317 8 PR ^099 B^39s ^i^