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 UCSB LIBRARY
 
 THE 
 
 GOLDEN JOURNEY
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 THE 
 
 GOLDEN JOURNEY 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA GODDARD 
 
 Ail rights reserved
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY i 
 
 'MEMENTO DOMINE' . . . . . . . . . 154 
 
 JUSTUS FREIHERR VON LIEBIG IST GESTORBEN' . . . 158 
 
 A REQUIEM 164 
 
 REPRINTED FROM 'ONCE A WEEK: 
 
 A SONG IN JUNE 75 
 
 UNDER THE TREES 79 
 
 A PASTORAL . . ..".".. . . . 81 
 
 FAIR MELISSA . . . . 87 
 
 THE SPOILER DESPOILED . .';'.'". 95 
 HEIDELBERG ... . . ..".". .120 
 
 JUNE . . . . . .'....... 133 
 
 JULY . . . . .'.:... .137 
 
 OCTOBER ... . . 141 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 NEW YEAR'S DAY 
 
 142 
 HS
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR 147 
 
 MY SOUL AND I 156 
 
 REPRINTED FROM ' CASSELL'S MAGAZINE.' 
 
 TO-MORROW 77 
 
 DAPHNE .85 
 
 WOOING 89 
 
 THE SONG 92 
 
 THE LOST FLOWER 101 
 
 SPINNING . . 103 
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S DAUGHTER . . . . . . 113 
 
 LOVE AND SPRING .'-..-.. . . . . .131 
 
 YESTERDAY 151 
 
 THE FELLING OF THE TREES . . 160 
 
 BRING ROSES . . . 162 
 
 REPRINTED FROM THE 'ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE.' 
 
 NOT LOST 105 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA 108 
 
 THE Two SISTERS 116 
 
 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE .126 
 
 N.B. The Verses from the Magazines indicated are republished by the 
 kind permission of Mr. William Bradbury, Messrs. Cassell, Fetter & 
 Galpin, and Messrs. Rivington.
 
 ANTWERP. 
 Chime of bells from the Cathedral. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 MOURN for the dead ! 
 Lift up your voice as she of old, 
 In Rama wailed, and wept aloud 
 For those she should no more behold. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 
 NOON. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 Mourn that the short life race is run, 
 The limbs in death laid stiff and cold, 
 Ere yet the longed-for goal was won. 
 
 Mourn for the dead !
 
 4 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 Mourn that the sands ran down ere eve 
 Had westward met the setting sun, 
 And earth was fair, too fair to leave. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 Wake, sleeper, wake, lift up your song 
 Through night, whilst planets musical 
 Chime with the harp untouched so long. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 Wake, sleeper, wake, lift up your cry, 
 That so the dead may live in song 
 For ever in men's memory. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! 
 
 So chimed the bells at Antwerp, morn, noon, and night, 
 With their sweet silver tongue, all eloquent. 
 ' Mourn for the dead ! uprear a monument
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 5 
 
 To him so sudden snatched from mortal sight, . 
 Mourn for the dead, who sleeps in endless night.' 
 
 So chimed the bells at Antwerp, from the tower, 
 All laced in stone, as though the sculptor's hand 
 Had fashioned it from some fantastic scroll, 
 Visioned to him in dream of fairy-land ; 
 Crocket and shaft and rose and angel-head, 
 All delicately carved into one whole 
 Of beauty, whose elaborate design 
 Grew threefold in each slender chiselled line. 
 
 ' Mourn for the dead ! ' the pealing bells still flung 
 Their words in music. ' Chant a requiem meet 
 For him who living, would have deathless sung 
 A melody so rare, that at his feet 
 The world had offered up its incense sweet.' 
 And he had won the longed-for wreath of bay 
 That poets wear ; he said, 'Twere nobler far 
 Than wearing royal crown, since kings but lay 
 Claim to an outer reverence ; though a king 
 'Mongst men were, sooth, no despicable thing. 
 Yet greater still the poet, he whose song 
 Leads all men onward, and makes dwelling-place 
 Within their hearts, and bows the tranced throng, 
 With the full fervour of resistless grace.
 
 6 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Moves men to laugh, weep, grieve, rejoice with him, 
 
 With him to cast off hope, or rise sublime 
 
 To heights of faith that they had never reached 
 
 Had they not heard the poet's music chime. 
 
 So true that at his lightest word they thrill 
 
 With joy or pain according to his will, 
 
 And self-paid honour feel in honouring him. 
 
 And he had won that fame, for he had rare 
 Discrimination of all harmonies 
 Of sight or sound, that trembled in the air, 
 Or flushed the heavens, or breathed in sylvan sighs, 
 Floated in ambient clouds o'er summer skies ; 
 Or with the stars in mystic courses sang, 
 Or in weird notes throughout the forest rang ; 
 Or in the myriad lights and shades that fell 
 Upon the vine-clad hill and citadel, 
 When in the ruddy west the sun went down 
 In amber-streaked and crimson glowing sky 
 Behind the heights, above whose turret-crown 
 A flaming aureole shone so radiantly, 
 That tower and turret passed into a cloud 
 Of violet bursting from a golden shroud. 
 And he had sense of all the mysteries 
 That stir man's pulse, and link with subtle chain
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 The outer life to that which hath its rise 
 
 Within ourselves, and moves or heart or brain. 
 
 Its rise in us ? Nay, from a higher source, 
 
 That binds us in indissoluble ties 
 
 With Nature, comes that undefined force, 
 
 That thus impels our inborn sympathies, 
 
 Outward to flow in yearning love to all 
 
 That He has made. To turn towards all that brings 
 
 Us into contact with Himself again ; 
 
 Through the mute beauty of material things, 
 
 That still hold minor link in the great chain, 
 
 Wherewith humanity is held in thrall. 
 
 One whole creation circling 'neath His wings, 
 
 One God in us, above, around, in all. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! I sang in days of old, 
 That life was beautiful ; that through it rollgd 
 A river golden-waved and crowned with light, 
 Its depths with everliving waters fed, 
 That found in human hearts their fountain4head, 
 In hearts that looked upon the world aright. 
 A river bubbling up pure rills that stole 
 Over the parched up earth, and dewed the flowers, 
 
 As gracious words bedew the fainting soul 
 
 jj 
 With magic moisture, until blooming bright,
 
 8 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 In marvellous splendour, painted with the hues, 
 That mist dipped pencil from the rainbow caught, 
 Enchanted mortals ravished with the sight, 
 Fancied the buds from Paradise were brought, 
 And tended by the angels morn, noon, night, 
 To grace this world of ours with fair delight. 
 
 I sang that life was full of sweetest sound, 
 That ears attuned aright, no discord heard ; 
 But in the buzz of teeming life around, 
 One chord of hope and joy rang through the world. 
 I sang that life was glorious, that it grew 
 Into a psalm of beauty, whose clear note, 
 In unison mysterious with the quire 
 Angelic, higher heavenward doth float, 
 And its fair burden raised on seraph wings, 
 Lays at the footstool of the King of kings. 
 
 Yet even as I sang, a shadow fell 
 Across the life that I had painted fair, 
 And dimmed its glory with a blighting stain, 
 And blotted joy away and brought despair. 
 The sun dropped down behind the hills, and left 
 A heavy, leaden, starless firmament, 
 That darker grew. And earth was all bereft 
 Of the life hum that filled it with content.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 9 
 
 And lo ! slow-moving wings the dull air stirred, 
 With heavy motion that oppressed my breath, 
 And chilled my heart ; and though no sound I heard, 
 I felt that through the gloom a Presence crept, 
 So dark, that all around, the shades of night, 
 Seemed to have paled away to sudden light. 
 
 A solemn silence fell ; the air grew chill ; 
 My heart scarce beat, and fainter grew my breath, 
 And through the vague presentiment of ill, 
 I knew the awful Presence. It was Death ! 
 
 I trembling bowed, although beside me stood 
 The fair Life-angel I had deemed divine, 
 The fair Life-angel I had worshipped. 
 But altered now his character and mood ! 
 Like some crushed bird down-beaten in his flight, 
 With drooping wings and bent, averted head, 
 And shuddering form, and eyes that once so bright 
 Had beamed, now lustreless. Then sudden he 
 With bitter cry, his trembling wings outspread, 
 And fled away. 
 
 And I was left alone 
 
 With Death, who, in discordant mocking tone, 
 Broke the dull silence. ' Mortal, bow the knee ! 
 Life flees before me. Wherefore strive with me ?
 
 io THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 What hope in life, since in the silent grave 
 
 Man finds an end of all the joys of earth. 
 
 The end of all his hopes, love, honours, mirth, 
 
 And all that erst a fitful radiance gave, 
 
 Until my shadow fell across his path. 
 
 What joy in life ? heart after heart yet breaks, 
 
 With wrench of parting ; or with after-pain, 
 
 That comes in long, long days, and weary nights, 
 
 Wherein the loved and lost are mourned in vain. 
 
 That mingles with the daily task, and makes 
 
 The hand grow weary, and the heart grow faint, 
 
 Till joy's forsaken place sad patience takes. 
 
 " Not mine, not mine ! take not my babe away ! " 
 
 In piteous accent comes the mother's plaint. 
 
 Yet, Herod-like, I leave her desolate. 
 
 " Have mercy ! mercy ! " shrieks the 'wildered wife, 
 
 As the storm sweeps athwart the moaning sea ; 
 
 E'en as she prays, sealed is her husband's fate, 
 
 For he has grappled limb to limb with me. 
 
 ' Mortal ! the world is mine. The palace rears 
 'Gainst me no stronger walls, than crumbling shed ; 
 The sunlight at my presence disappears, 
 And utter darkness o'er the land I spread, 
 The darkness of the heart, that mourns its dead.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 11 
 
 O mortal ! then be Death thy theme to sing, 
 Death, stern, victorious, ruler over all : 
 Spreading o'er life a constant funeral pall, 
 The ever-conquering and unconquered king.' 
 
 He paused ; but from my lips no answer came, 
 Though my sad heart in acquiescence bowed. 
 O Death ! men shudder at thy whispered name, 
 And how can I my trembling accents frame, 
 To sing of thee ? 
 
 Then all at once the cloud 
 That had enwrapped me faded, and mine eye 
 Fell on the work the painter gave to grace 
 The famed cathedral of his native place, 
 Limning the greatest death the world e'er knew. 
 And as I gazed, it seemed no picture there, 
 And o'er my soul a solemn wonder grew ; 
 The white folds fluttered round the powerless limbs, 
 From wounds afresh the blood began to flow ; 
 The thorny crown celestial radiance bore, 
 Causing a glorious light around to shine ; 
 Illuming that pale Face so touched with woe, 
 Whose visage marred as ne'er was man's before ; 
 Rigid in death, an awful beauty wore, 
 And death through Him had grown at once divine.
 
 12 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Death ! death upon the cross so glorious ! 
 And, lo, my wandering thoughts stole on apace 
 To the disciples mourning o'er their Lord, 
 Not knowing whether all their faith had been 
 In vain. What comfort could His death afford ; 
 Had they not trusted in Him to redeem 
 His people Israel ? Now He had no place 
 Among the living. Was it some dark dream 
 Or awful truth that they should see His face 
 No more. Had they not watched His life ebb out, 
 Even as mortals', whilst the people's shout, 
 Rose : ' If thou be the Son of God, come down 
 And save Thyself! ' Till through the firmament, 
 Darkened, to midnight darkness, pierced the cry, 
 ' 'Tis finished ! ' and the temple's veil was rent 
 Through that divine mysterious agony. 
 What hope had they ? Yet meekly still they wait, 
 Those sad disciples. From the cross to bear 
 The body of their Master to the tomb. 
 For He was dead. And they were desolate, 
 And earth and heaven for ever wrapped in gloom. 
 
 Still from the belfry tower the chimes pealed forth, 
 And through the great cathedral aisles their swell
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 13 
 
 Fell in sweet speech, as if fond hearts had breathed 
 
 Their hopes and fears into each silvery bell. 
 
 Or, as perchance immortal strain might float, 
 
 In diapason full with mortal blent ; 
 
 As though from earth uprose th' imperfect note, 
 
 Made perfect in the chord from heaven sent. 
 
 ' Mourn for the dead ! lift up your cry 
 
 That so the dead may live in song 
 
 For ever in men's memory. 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! ' 
 
 Mourn for the dead ! The burden now for me 
 Had yet another utterance, that awoke 
 Through notes of sorrow a refrain of hope, 
 That ever into sweeter music broke. 
 How shall I sing a song ? The question came 
 E'en as it came to Hebrews tried, of old ; 
 When on the willow trees their harps they hung, 
 And wept as memory the past unrolled. 
 What shall I sing ? 
 
 Adown the nave I strayed ; 
 And, pausing near the western door, I read 
 The line that told the Antwerp blacksmith's tale. 
 But a brief line, and yet a theme it made 
 For the long tissue of romance I wove,
 
 H THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Of how the Antwerp blacksmith came to wed. 
 Of how brave Quentin Matsys won his love. 
 A pretty story sooth, and one that bare 
 A moral ; in these days a sequence rare. 
 
 Perchance e'en at this very western door 
 Had Quentin watched to see his love pass by ; 
 She as dew-spangled May-bud glittering fair, 
 With all the gauds of maiden bravery 
 In which can wealth fantastic fashion aid ; 
 Thick rustling silk of wondrous fine brocade 
 That lay in sculpture-like and massive fold ; 
 Gem-studded trinkets, chains of inwrought gold, 
 Soft ruby velvet, lace of Malines woof, 
 A lovesome picture for an artist-eye. 
 And how should Matsys' artist-soul be proof 
 'Gainst such a fair embodied phantasy ? 
 
 With air demure that might have graced a saint, 
 And down-dropped eyelids so she moved along, 
 Yet cast a searching glance among the throng, 
 Whilst quicker heaved the 'broidered boddice quaint, 
 As she, grown conscious of her lover nigh, 
 Met his fond gaze with answering look half shy ; 
 And deeper in her cheek the rose-flush burned, 
 And to her brow it mounted. Then away
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 15 
 
 It died. From earth to heaven she turned 
 
 Her thoughts, and kneeling down, she sought to pray. 
 
 Say was it Satan tempting her aside 
 From holy thoughts to what towards earth did veer ? 
 Ho.v could she 'twixt two loves her heart divide, 
 One tending heavenward, one that kept her here ? 
 And so she fluttered, like a timorous bird, 
 That first his unproved wings would willing try ; 
 Still clinging fondly to the parent nest, 
 Although he longs to cleave the upper sky. 
 Until she upward took her love with her, 
 And for two souls instead of one did plead. 
 It were no sin, she argued, at the throne 
 Of grace for those we love to intercede. 
 So prayed she that most perfect Love of all, 
 Over their love, their life, their death might fall, 
 And hold them ever in its golden thrall. 
 
 But Quentin Matsys told not half his beads, 
 So was his mind distracted at the sight 
 Of her he loved ; who filled his thoughts by day, 
 And flitted constant in his dreams at night. 
 For he who wrought in iron had a heart 
 Tender and true a tongue full eloquent
 
 1 6 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Was worshipful of her who prayed for him, 
 Adoring her with love all reverent. 
 
 Yet was his suit unprosperous. When he spake 
 Unto her father, ' None,' the painter said, 
 Impassioned with his art. ' Nay, none but he 
 Who is a painter shall my daughter wed ! ' 
 
 Then Quentin Matsys turned away in grief 
 Since the beloved could never be his bride. 
 Never ! And then rose up his strength of will, 
 His love for her the conscious artist-pride 
 In his own power. Nay, why should not the skill 
 That had so dexterously in iron wrought, 
 Upon the canvas work with equal grace ? 
 And kindled with the love-inspired thought, 
 He vowed, ' The blacksmith yet shall hold his place 
 Among the painters of his native town ! ' 
 
 And then, with anxious toil he patient strove 
 To mould his fingers through the force of love, 
 And to refine them to the subtler touch 
 That painter with his softer tools required. 
 To train his eye until the colours blent 
 In tints harmonious. Till as if inspired, 
 He wrought ; and 'neath his hand love guided grew 
 A wondrous picture, far his hopes above ;
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 17 
 
 And then the painter said no more his ' Nay,' 
 And thus brave Quentin Matsys won his love ! 
 
 Out at the western door in open space 
 I passed, still pondering o'er the blacksmith's tale, 
 And straight before me stood the blacksmith's work ; 
 And many a lithesome girl had come, her pail 
 At Quentin Matsys' famous pump to fill. 
 Its canopy with twisted flowers entwined 
 In iron modelled with rare artist skill. 
 Aloft a warrior in full armour stood, 
 With glove in hand, as he a challenge threw 
 To those who scoff at what the hand may do 
 Moved by the heart. And in my musing mood 
 It seemed apt moral to complete the tale 
 That I had conjured up on ground-work frail. 
 
 I wandered through the picturesque old town, 
 Whose streets bore many a trace of Spanish sway, 
 Where window-dotted roofs o'erhanging frown 
 O'er florid gables, till the smiling skies 
 Seem but a slender line of smiling blue 
 That overhead in placid beauty lies. 
 
 Still on and on until the river rolled 
 Before me, like a glistening sheet of gold 
 
 C
 
 1 8 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Kissed into glory by the setting sun. 
 And through the evening air the bells' soft swing, 
 Chimed with the rippling waters' murmuring ; 
 Half sad, half sweet, the golden ripples sang, 
 Half sad, half sweet, the silvery bells still rang. 
 And chime and waters perfect music made, 
 Rising and falling in harmonious sweep, 
 A mournful melody that sprang from earth ; 
 A strain of hope that had in heaven its birth, 
 And yet forbade not sorrowing man to weep. 
 And aye in solemn tones they spake, 
 ' Mourn for the dead ! Lift up your cry, 
 That so the dead may live in song, 
 For ever in men's memory ! 
 Mourn for the dead ! '
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 19 
 
 II. 
 
 TREVES. 
 
 THE old Red House at Treves, with high-peaked roof, 
 
 And motto boasting Treves' antiquity ; 
 
 And carven warriors armed all cap-a-pie, 
 
 Stern-gazing, as their weapons still were proof 
 
 To guard the splendour that in days gone by 
 
 Hovered around the ancient hostelry. 
 
 The ancient splendour that has passed away, 
 
 Yet left its shadow on the curious pile, 
 
 With gallery and court and gable graced ; 
 
 And nests of rooms and halls where grand array 
 
 Of senate pomp shone forth in former day. 
 
 Therein I sat and mused, and whilom traced 
 
 A picture, as is wont with them who dream ; 
 
 Till the far past did quite as near me seem 
 
 As that fair present yesterday effaced :
 
 20 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 What matter if a cycle or an hour 
 
 Divides, when time has slipped beyond our power ? 
 
 Close to the market-place there stood a cross 
 Reared, so the legend runs, by Constantine, 
 In memory of the miracle that drew 
 His heathen soul to God, through fiery sign. 
 Upreared by Constantine ! The old world name 
 Had a strange charm. Well better to believe, 
 In spite of sceptic, that he raised the stone. 
 Travellers are gainers if they can receive 
 The harmless myths that link us with the past, 
 Nor play too sternly the iconoclast. 
 Better believe too much than trust in naught, 
 Better admire too much than nothing praise ; 
 Nay even wonder, since wise wonder's fraught 
 With childlike apprehension, that belongs 
 To wise men, not to fools ; and he whose creed 
 Drives wonder far away hath greatest need 
 Of pity from his peers. He who ne'er longs 
 To soar above what he can prove and state 
 Is so and so to strictest nicety ; 
 Who would by rule and compass measure fate 
 And make a lifetime grasp eternity ; 
 Measuring the Infinite by finite powers,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 21 
 
 Forgetting man is but in babyhood, 
 
 And but a nursery this world of ours 
 
 Wherein we strive for playthings in the dark. 
 
 For that our light is darkness scarce we mark, 
 
 Nor heed that man in ignorance doth wait 
 
 To pass to knowledge through Death's ebon gate. 
 
 The old Red House at Treves, at ancient Treves, 
 The oldest town in all the German land, 
 What wonder that the burden of my stave 
 Should be the Past, since on the buried strand 
 That Time had billowed o'er, thought anchor cast 
 Deep down beneath the wave and wept the Past, the 
 Past! 
 
 And still I gazed upon the crowded street, 
 Noisy with busy tongues and pattering feet, 
 The sellers in the market-place, the strife 
 Of haggling customers, the measured tread 
 Of laden soldiers on their toilsome march, 
 Whilst martial music stirring influence shed ; 
 And with the thousand sounds and signs of life 
 That make a living world the air was rife. 
 Sudden mine eye fell on St. Gangolph's tower, 
 And round the clock the warning words I read
 
 22 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Of ' Vigilate et Orate ! 'Watch 
 
 And pray, ere ye be numbered with the dead. 
 
 Still dreaming and the past from golden clouds 
 Unfolded, and sweet Fancy spread her wings, 
 And I was hurrying with the hurrying crowds 
 Towards the gorgeous palaces of kings. 
 ' All hail, great Caesar, hail ! ' The echo died 
 And rose again, and floated through the air, 
 As the imperial train swept by in pride 
 Of pomp and power. The glittering helm and spear, 
 The costly bands of slaves, with perfumes rare, 
 And brows all garlanded with vine or rose. 
 And clashing music smote upon the ear ; 
 And mellow voices trolled a festal song, 
 ' All hail, great Caesar, hail ! ' I gazed in awe 
 Upon the splendour of the iron sway 
 That Babylonia's king in vision saw 
 When silver, gold, and brass had passed away. 
 
 Yet louder than the tide of mirth uprose 
 The roar of beasts, the agonizing cry 
 Of anguished nature in extremity. 
 My ears I stopped my eyes I strove to close. 
 In vain. The scene too vivid was portrayed. 
 Before me, but with crumbling walls no more,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 23 
 
 The amphitheatre, as in days of yore, 
 
 Stood in its strength. And crowded, rank on rank, 
 
 With eager gazers ; who the furious raid 
 
 Watched, that wild beasts on unarmed captives made, 
 
 And revelled in the death-throes of the Frank. 
 
 My pulse beat low, my heart within me sank, 
 
 ' Pass barbarism hence ! ' and as I spoke 
 
 A softer picture on my vision broke. 
 
 A banquet hall, with noble guests arrayed 
 
 In gold and purple, who so late had gazed 
 
 Upon the scene of horror ; nor one throb 
 
 Had felt of pity as the eyeballs glazed 
 
 In death, and fainter grew the expiring sob, 
 
 Or at the shrieks, that rent the summer air, 
 
 Of frenzied victims wrestling in despair. 
 
 Now couched luxurious round the festive board, 
 
 Where amber wine from amber flasks is poured 
 
 By gliding slaves ; or from gold flagons dripped 
 
 In ruby drops into fair chalice set 
 
 With jewels worth the ransom of a king. 
 
 Or dainty meats the appetite to whet ; 
 
 And comfitures, rare fruit on salvers heaped 
 
 Whilst singing waters from the fountain leaped, 
 
 And on a crystal sea their foam-drops flung
 
 24 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Or sparkled up in ever-bubbling pearls, 
 Mocking the song of flower-crowned singing girls ; 
 And light flashed through the hall, and laughter rose, 
 And tongues unloosed, as free the vintage flows. 
 Strange contrast all these sounds of festive mirth 
 To those that late rang o'er the startled earth ! 
 
 The vision fades, the palace disappears, 
 The amphitheatre in ruins lies, 
 And through the Porta Nigra's time-worn arch, 
 The swift, all undisturbed, on fleet wing flies, 
 Or builds her nest, where once the Roman guard 
 Over the ancient town kept watch and ward. 
 O Past ! O Past ! Man vainly makes his moan, 
 O'er thy insatiate grave unsatisfied. 
 If this and this had been or I could live 
 Again my time, I should have wiser grown. 
 How many a trespass would I now forgive ; 
 How many a deed perform, I left undone ; 
 How many an idle word have left unsaid, 
 Or spoken that which had its guerdon won ! 
 Oh dead and gone ! and impotent we stand 
 Upon the fresh closed grave, and sorrowing weep. 
 Ah ! what avails the past ? for it hath fled, 
 And left us powerless with our buried dead,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 25 
 
 With natight but bitter memory to fling 
 Its halo round us, as we vigil keep 
 Beneath the mournful shadow of its wing. 
 
 Within the fairest church of Treves I stood, 
 And through the rich-stained windows in long rays 
 Of gold the sun came streaming, in a flood 
 Of light that tinted shadows set ablaze : 
 Then gently fell upon the pillared cross, 
 That on its slender shafts the Apostles bore, 
 A holy group. Yet passing through, I moved 
 A-nigh the wall, and there I paused before 
 An image that my heart attracted more. 
 A dead Christ in the ghastliness of death 
 The clay-cold limbs the eyelids tightly pressed, 
 Tinged with the purple hue of livid death. 
 The while, the pallid lips, in rigid rest, 
 Told of the bygone sufferings of the Blest. 
 
 It was no work of art, yet certain skill 
 Had made it natural, so that when I strayed 
 Away, almost unconsciously my will 
 Still brought me back and back again, and made 
 My spirit tremble with a gentle thrill, 
 That was half joy, and yet that half dismayed,
 
 26 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 'Twas death I saw, death that I realised, 
 Shutting out hope from earth yet into heaven 
 Opening the door of that perfected life, 
 Which through His death, Christ unto us hath given. 
 Rouse up, ye slumberers, lest the moments prized 
 Too fleet shall flee. Arouse while yet 'tis day, 
 
 ' Vigilate et orate ! ' Pray, 
 
 That ye may find the strait and narrow way 
 That leads up to the golden gates of heaven. 
 
 The afternoon wore on. I musing turned 
 Into the great cathedral. Lower burned 
 The sun, and made the distant arches seem 
 Half shadow ; and each taper's quivering beam, 
 Like unto restless star on hazy night. 
 And then I listened to the preacher's voice, 
 Amid a motley crowd of worshippers, 
 Who hung upon his words in rapt delight. 
 
 ' I am the Door ; there is no other way 
 To enter into heaven. I am the door, 
 
 1 was, am now, and shall be evermore, 
 The entrance to the fold. I am the Way, 
 I am the door. Come, weary ones, and I
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. . 27 
 
 Will let you in." Doth not the shepherd care 
 
 For his own flock ? When their parched tongues are 
 
 dry, 
 
 He leads them unto waters gushing fair ; 
 And when their limbs are weary, and their feet 
 Are torn and bleeding, then he lets them lie 
 Mid pleasant pastures, 'mongst the blossoms sweet ; 
 And when the sun sinks down and night is nigh, 
 He gathers them within his fold to rest, 
 And they lie down in safety at his feet. 
 
 ' I am the Shepherd, ye are all my sheep, 
 And though ye slumber, yet I never sleep. 
 Will ye not hear my voice ? O come to Me, 
 For I will turn no sinful one away. 
 I stand and knock the way to heaven is free ; 
 I am the Light, the Life, the Truth, the Way. 
 Fear not None strays so far but I can find, 
 And bring him home. None with a heart so sore, 
 But I in pity can his wounds up-bind ; 
 None so deep sunk in sin, but I can pour 
 My peace upon him, if, with willing mind, 
 He comes. O come, ye people, unto Me, 
 For I have paid your ransom with My life. 
 O come, ye worn and weary with the strife
 
 28 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Of earth. Ye fearful ones and sore distressed, 
 Come unto me, and I will give you rest. 
 I am the door, there is none other way 
 To enter into heaven. I stand and wait, 
 O listen to My voice ere 'tis too late ! 
 I am the Door." 
 
 The preacher's voice sank low, 
 As he pronounced the blessing ; and like wave 
 That restless heaves, throughout the crowded nave 
 The kneeling multitude swayed to and fro, 
 Yet all was silence. Then with one accord, 
 Wailed out the voices in a solemn chord, 
 ' Have mercy on us, Lord ! have mercy, Lord ! ' 
 
 The fading sunlight fell in misty flood 
 Athwart the aisles, and lighted here and there 
 Some patch of gorgeous colour, contrast rare 
 With sombre grey ; and fragrant incense cloud 
 Curled into wreaths. Beside the altar stood 
 The priest. And pealing organ, sweet-voiced quire, 
 Echoed from arch to arch. And from the crowd, 
 In eager supplication humbly bowed, 
 Rose up in deep response, the wailing chord, 
 ' Have mercy on us, Lord ! have mercy, Lord ! '
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 29 
 
 And lo ! I worshipped with them, though I held 
 A different creed. Yet creeds all died away, 
 Before the one great truth the preacher taught, 
 ' I am the Door I am the only Way.' 
 
 I care not what their sect, if so they hold 
 That one great truth that unto man is given : 
 That, turning earth's theologies aside, 
 Will lead in safety to the courts of heaven ; 
 A bond of union strong enough to bind 
 The differing world in bands of unity. 
 A bond of union strong enough to blind 
 Believing eyes to small diversity ; 
 The rallying cry from Heaven that guides alone 
 The Church Invisible throughout the world, 
 The parted army of the saints that makes 
 The only Catholic Church the Lord doth own, 
 O'er which the great white banner is unfurled. 
 
 God only sees where that white banner waves, 
 Pure as the lily, fair as unstained snow, 
 Marked with a blood-red cross ! Yet, though unseen, 
 It floats above His people here below, 
 And underneath its folds they dwell in peace, 
 Off-shaded from the heat of fiery sun ; 
 And side by side march all unconsciously.
 
 30 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Nor shall they know till the great race is run, 
 How differences here shalt melt in one 
 Great harmony. When in the light of day, 
 The day that knows no night, they then shall see 
 How that the Lord from many gardens plucked 
 The flowers that blossom in eternity. 
 
 Ah ! what avail theologies men raise, 
 From some dogmatic section of the brain, 
 And points obscure endeavour to make plain, 
 Through reasoning intricate and subtle phrase ! 
 The slender niceties that doctors teach 
 With all the technicalities of speech ; 
 The tedious formulas that men plan out, 
 With the preciseness of a pedant mind, 
 Nor yet this point with that can clearly bind ; 
 While Satan laughs at each hair-splitting doubt, 
 That leads men from the one great truth aside. 
 In labyrinthine folds their minds to vex, 
 He triumphs ; as unequal to decide, 
 They, betwixt light and dark their souls perplex 
 And so in chaos evermore abide. 
 
 What matter to resolve if you or I 
 Elect, or through free-will the pathway try ? 
 What matter to involve one's self in doubt,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY 31 
 
 Of how sin in the world was brought about. 
 Enough that it exists the object plain 
 In that it is a curse, to root it out, 
 And a stout fight against it to maintain. 
 Why with such questions then the mind distress ? 
 It is not meant that man should be all-wise, 
 Wait till the fruit of that fair tree we taste, 
 That bears anew, in fields of Paradise, 
 A fuller crop than when the serpent lay 
 Coiled up beneath its shade. Till man restored 
 To the first Adam's blissful state shall stray, 
 In the new Eden planted by the Lord. 
 
 We make religion but a science thus 
 By dogmatising. But a body dead 
 To which the doctor's knife we careful bring 
 In order to dissect, ere we discuss 
 The point from whence vitality doth spring. 
 A matter of the brain, and not the soul, 
 Missing thereby the heaven-implanted fire, 
 Which is the godlike spark to move our whole, 
 To cause us ever heavenward to aspire. 
 Whose heat fanned to a flame shall glorious shine, 
 And shed around our path a light divine. 
 Religion is that principle of faith
 
 32 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 In God, that makes man act as though he saw 
 His Maker standing face to face with him, 
 And weighing every deed by His pure law 
 Of right. E'en in the smallest thing 
 Making of God, his conscience and his king. 
 And he shall keep this faith unswervingly, 
 Who through the darkened watches of the night, 
 And midst the toil and trials of the day, 
 Can hear the voice of Him who cries alway, 
 ' I am the Way, the Life, the Truth, the Light, 
 None cometh to the Father but through Me.' 
 
 Thus musing, as the deepening night stole on, 
 I at the casement sat, whilst in the street 
 Died out the sound of busy tongues and feet 
 Moved but at intervals. The lights had gone 
 From out the neighbouring windows, one by one, 
 For sleep had waved his sceptre o'er the town. 
 And one by one the stars peeped out on high, 
 Like angel-eyes that watch the world asleep ; 
 And on St. Gangolph's tower the moon looked down 
 And traced in silver lines the warning cry 
 That man should ever in remembrance keep, 
 O ' Vigilate et orate.' Pray
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 33 
 
 And watch, for time is speeding fast away, 
 To-morrow soon will be but yesterday ; 
 A yesterday some eyes shall sorely weep 
 That laugh to-day. O Past ! aye growing old, 
 O weary Past that ne'er will cease to be ; 
 Though gathering Time within thy grasping fold, 
 Ne'er shortening by thy strides eternity ! 
 
 Past, O Past, the weary night is long, 
 
 When will the morning break and night have fled ? 
 And then a voice, like chime of far-off song, 
 
 1 seemed to hear ; as answer from the dead. 
 ' The Past shall never, never cease to be ; 
 What were the present if the past should flee ? ' 
 And I was troubled half, half-comforted. 
 
 The voice went on, ' What were the future, say, 
 If by one touch the past were swept away ? 
 The past is builder of eternity. 
 Each trivial incident man counts as naught, 
 Is as a deftly fitting stone inwrought 
 Into the building of the life to be. 
 Each act of man's has life for evermore; 
 And what he puts in motion still goes on ; 
 His life-deeds move the world when he has gone, 
 
 D
 
 34 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Upbuilded by them to another shore. 
 
 Man knows not e'en the end of careless words, 
 
 That on and on and on, go muttering 
 
 Unto all time, a thousand meanings uttering 
 
 He thought not of; that into channels flee 
 
 He never reckoned on, nor where they flow, 
 
 Yet which in ceaseless course still onward go 
 
 Singing a song to all eternity ! 
 
 Ah ! were man's words of silver, and his speech 
 
 Of gold, how fair a melody might reach 
 
 Unto the haven ; and like summer sea 
 
 Of music murmuring ripples, softly break 
 
 Athwart the harbour bar, and joyous wake 
 
 A sweet refrain from the angelic quire ! 
 
 Ah ! were man's deeds all of the lightsome day, 
 
 How fair a sun he in himself might shine ! 
 
 Ah ! were his heart pure as the spotless snow, 
 
 He might in heaven walk, ere the Divine 
 
 Had taken him from earth.' 
 
 ' Can it be so 
 
 With any child of earth ? ' I eager cried. 
 But the voice answered not. And softly sighed 
 The bell from old St. Gangolph's tower, and brought
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 35 
 
 Its warning, as in answer to my thought, 
 O ' Vigilate et orate.' Pray 
 And watch, for greater grows the Past alway, 
 To-day with thee will soon be yesterday.
 
 36 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE MOSELLE. 
 
 THE morning rose with hazy light, 
 Nor yet had cast the veil away, 
 That winding round it through the night 
 Fled with the perfect day. 
 
 Still is the river, calm and clear, 
 That flows along by ancient Treves, 
 And darting swallows skimming near 
 Their restless pinions lave. 
 
 The bridge that spans the fair Moselle 
 Is mirrored arch by arch below, 
 And boats with great white folded sails 
 Bask in the morning glow.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 37 
 
 Their colours gay, their painted prows 
 Are traced upon the glassy deep, 
 And boat and boatman seem to lie 
 Lulled in a tranced sleep. 
 
 Soft curtained by the morning haze, 
 That glamoured stillness round them flings, 
 And to the rose-stained light of dawn 
 A tenderer shadow brings. 
 
 O river, fresh at morning's dawn 
 As childhood's dreaming early years, 
 When all is bursting into bloom, 
 And laughed away are tears. 
 
 When e'en the darkest cloud scarce hides 
 Its inner edge of silvery hue, 
 But in a thousand rainbow dyes 
 The sun comes peeping through. 
 
 Softly we sped adown the tide, 
 Between the golden fields of corn, 
 The reapers well their sickles plied, 
 And fairer shone the morn.
 
 38 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Whilst mild-eyed oxen, yoked abreast, 
 With strong sleek limbs and measured pace, 
 In patient mood, their toil pursued 
 With slow majestic grace. 
 
 We passed the Quint, whose chimneys tall 
 Tell of the brawny workers there ; 
 Past Mehring, with its red-peaked roofs ; 
 Then grew the scene more fair. 
 
 The lovely hills rose up with wreaths 
 Of graceful quivering birch o'erhung, 
 And here a duskier line of beech 
 A deeper shadow flung. 
 
 Whilst at their foot great walnut trees 
 Their giant branches stretched out wide, 
 And silver willows saw their leaves 
 Clear-painted in the tide. 
 
 For though so fair the shimmering leaves, 
 So fair above the mountain dyes, 
 As fair a picture in the stream 
 With them in beauty vies.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 39 
 
 Are magic painters there below 
 To catch each ever-changing hue, 
 To fix it on the shining wave 
 And charm the sight ane\v ? 
 
 To catch each glint of purer gold 
 The sun sends down the mist to chase, 
 To bid each sleeping flower unclose, 
 And earth unveil her face ? 
 
 To catch each sign of gladsome life 
 And trace it on the sparkling flood. 
 Each bird, each fluttering butterfly, 
 Each reed, each lily bud ? 
 
 The sun rides higher in the sky, 
 And from the river banks are heard 
 The hum of toil, the hum of song, 
 The hum of life upstirred. 
 
 Past Ensch, past Ensch the sun shines bright 
 And gently with the stream we glide ; 
 The peasants come, their pails to fill 
 Down by the waterside.
 
 40 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY 
 
 The far hills melted into blue 
 Until they faded far away, 
 Whilst nearer tints of glowing green 
 In varied beauty lay. 
 
 The vineyards stretched for many a mile, 
 From jutting rocks the vines sprang up, 
 Vine-country of the Brauneberg ! 
 Up ! fill the sparkling cup. 
 
 In honour of the fair Moselle, 
 The stream that nourishes the vine : 
 Vine-crowned be it for many a day, 
 And pledged in golden wine. 
 
 Fill high the cup ! wreathe roses round : 
 For man at noon is in his prime, 
 And life is sweet, and hopes are bright, 
 He takes no thought of time ! 
 
 So glided we past famed Pisport, 
 Past Kasten's church and Muhlheim town, 
 And paused, whete high o'er Berncastel 
 Its ruined Burg looks down.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 41 
 
 Hark ! shots are fired hark ! music's strain, 
 Garlands and banners flutter gay, 
 The guns flash out ; and merry shouts 
 Proclaim a festive day ! 
 
 The Schiitzenfest. Ay, laugh and sing 
 Make life as joyous as ye may 
 Wherefore of sad to-morrows reck, 
 Whilst happy is to-day ? 
 
 Ah ! so it is for aye and aye, 
 Men laugh to-day, to-morrow die 
 And still the world goes on while they 
 Dead and forgotten lie. 
 
 Ah ! so it is for aye and aye ; 
 Half the world laughs, half sadly weeps, 
 Whilst onward to eternity 
 The river silent sweeps. 
 
 Now fairy glints of wooded heights, 
 And quaint grey towers whose sombre dye 
 The golden green acacias grace, 
 We idly floated by.
 
 42 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Where bright catalpas, in their prime, 
 Clusters of rosy blossom spread ; 
 And still beneath the purple hills, 
 Our dreamy course we sped. 
 
 Beneath the hills whose leafy shade 
 Is tinged with ever-changing mist 
 Of sun-touched glory, like a pall 
 Of gold or amethyst. 
 
 Ah ! is not life a ceaseless song, 
 A careless floating down the stream ? 
 For youth is brave, and manhood strong, 
 Life is a happy dream. 
 
 Past Wolf the ruined convent lies 
 Above us hence sad thoughts away ! 
 When nature breathes sweet life around, 
 Why muse upon decay ? 
 
 Hill enfolds hill in soft embrace 
 Till parted by the silver tide ; 
 Then start to sight the slender spires, 
 Or grey-roofed Dorf they hide.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 43 
 
 Trarbach ! The Grafinburg up-built, 
 By Starkenburg's brave-hearted dame 
 With ransom from Treves' prelate proud, 
 All honour to her name! 
 
 Past Briedel nestled 'neath the hills ; 
 Past picturesque black-timbered Zell ; 
 Then on to Alf, whose stream runs swift 
 To join the blue Moselle. 
 
 The blue Moselle, the winding stream 
 That glides 'twixt verdant banks along, 
 Past convent, hamlet, deep ravine, 
 And wooded slopes among. 
 
 Now lovelier still, thou deep ravines, 
 A glimpse of fairy-land reveal ; 
 And sunbeams slide in amber streaks, 
 And singing streamlets steal 
 
 All in and out, with silver flash, 
 Among the ferns. On darting wings 
 The dragon-fly an emerald trail 
 Above the water flings.
 
 44 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Yet on and on, we cannot stay ; 
 Past Beilstein's ruined towers we glide, 
 And deftly curves, and deftly winds 
 The silent-flowing tide. 
 
 And steering round a wooded point, 
 With hills still rising, height on height, 
 The fairest scene bursts on our view 
 As Cochem comes in sight. 
 
 One castle rising o'er the wave 
 As though to guard the ancient town 
 One castle on the mountain height 
 Uprears its turret crown. 
 
 Around, the everlasting hills 
 With warm sun-painted colours glow, 
 And vine-hung rocks their beauty cast 
 Into the stream below. 
 
 O picture that in Memory's clasp 
 Shall nigh my heart for ever be, 
 Sweet vision echoing a past 
 That ne'er returns to me !
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 45 
 
 Still on adown the dreamy tide 
 And o'er old Alken's linking wall, 
 On Thurant's tower the deepening shades 
 Of evening softly fall. 
 
 On, past bold rocks whose jutting brows 
 Conjure up many a goblin tale, 
 And lower sinks the setting sun 
 All in a golden veil. 
 
 Past Gondorf 's chateau, till we reach 
 The castled heights of fair Cobern, 
 And ever lower in the sky 
 The crimson sun did burn. 
 
 And as it touched the purple peaks, 
 One dazzling sheet of light unrolled 
 And tinged the Cross upon the height 
 With its last tint of gold. " 
 
 O token fair ! as though the sun, 
 Though dying, still its light would fling 
 O'er the most precious sign on earth 
 To which man's soul doth cling.
 
 46 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 O river, river ! dark at eve, 
 Dim shadows vaguely o'er thee creep, 
 As shadows that in life forewarn 
 Of man's last sweetest sleep. 
 
 O river, river ! dim and dark, 
 Whose depths no mortal eye can see ; 
 So life rolls on, nor can we mark 
 Its hidden mystery. 
 
 Rises the solemn silver moon 
 On towns embowered in orchards, shines 
 And falls upon the silent waves 
 In silver rippled lines. 
 
 Shines on the town of famed Coblenz 
 That rears its towers above the Rhine 
 Crown of the vine-land, where at last 
 Moselle and Rhine entwine. 
 
 Like twin-souls, wandering through the world 
 To find their mates, the rivers sighed, 
 Long time apart until their floods 
 Met, never to divide.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 47 
 
 Twice seven are the arches tall, 
 That graceful span the fair Moselle, 
 And ivory white each buttress gleamed, 
 As white the moonbeams fell. 
 
 Beneath twice seven arches tall, 
 By Coblenz town the waters glide, 
 And twice seven ebon archways cast 
 Black shadows on the tide. 
 
 O river ! lost at eventide 
 In depths of dreamy silver mist, 
 Fair as that golden haze at morn 
 Through which the sunlight kissed 
 
 The earth until at length it woke 
 With rosy blush to life and light, 
 Called out of darkness now again, 
 Fast fading into night: 
 
 So mystery at either end, 
 Of life's strange current, shrouds our days-- 
 Death's midnight shadows cloud the stream 
 That rose in morning's haze.
 
 48 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 O river fair ! thy course is run, 
 And vanished as a summer dream, 
 The gilding sun, the flowers that decked, 
 The weeds that clogged, thy stream. 
 
 So dream-like shall earth-glories fade, 
 So as a dream earth-griefs be o'er, 
 When the life-river's waves shall break 
 Upon th' eternal shore ! 
 
 O river, river ! flowing from the South, 
 Came ye far south enough to tell 
 How the blue waters of the Tyrrhene Sea 
 Ring out a solemn and unceasing knell 
 For him who in his lonely grave is sleeping ? 
 
 O river, river ! flowing from the South, 
 
 Came ye far south enough to hear 
 
 The sultry south-wind breathe a constant sigh 
 
 For him who far from all he held most dear 
 
 Lay down and died and left the loved ones weeping ?
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 49 
 
 O river, river ! flowing from the South, 
 
 Came ye far south enough to see 
 
 A mountain burning with its fitful fire, 
 
 Beneath the sunny skies of Italy, 
 
 Lighting the grave of him who there lies sleeping ? 
 
 O river, river! flowing from the South, 
 
 Came ye far south enough to know 
 
 That a bright angel spreads his peaceful wings 
 
 Above the grave, and comforts those below, 
 
 Whisp'ring, ' The sleeper rests in Heaven's keeping ! '
 
 So THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HARZ. 
 
 GHOSTS, goblins, spectres, phantoms, what are they 
 
 But offspring of the rude barbaric mind ? 
 
 The first assertion of the spirit sway 
 
 That rules man's being ; and the undefined 
 
 Acknowledgment of that strange inner self, 
 
 That other fuel needs to feed the fire 
 
 Than mere materialism ; and itself to link 
 
 With supernatural essence doth aspire. 
 
 Smile not in lofty wisdom, O ye wise 
 Philosophers ! at that poor untaught wight 
 Who trembles as the shadowy dusk draws near, 
 Nor dares to pass the lone graveyard at night, 
 Lest the pale ghost of some lost friend who lies 
 Entombed may sudden to his sight appear, 
 Or lest his name, called by some spirit passed
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 51 
 
 Into another world he there might hear. 
 
 Smile not, ye wiser ones ! it is the first 
 
 Instinctive inkling of a future life ; 
 
 A recognition that the spirit lives, 
 
 Though passed beyond this scene of mortal strife ; 
 
 Can still preserve identity, nor yet 
 
 Those that it communed with in life forget ; 
 
 And, though in spheres beyond our mortal ken, 
 
 It yet is linked in sympathy with men. 
 
 Ay, all the old-world superstition proves 
 That man with spirits fain himself would bind, 
 As feeling that within his breast there moves 
 Something that he in unison doth find 
 With spirit-life. And so he sets his brain 
 To work at midnight ; in the lone weird hour, 
 Wherein 'tis held the spirit-world hath power, 
 And peoples nature with a motley train 
 Of ghosts and goblins. Or it so may hap 
 That he, full-gifted with poetic vein, 
 May rest his head in gentle Fancy's lap, 
 And, soothed to sleep by her magician-hand, 
 Fall straight a-dreaming of the Elfin-land. 
 How through the forest, at Midsummer-tide, 
 When scarce the sun leaves darkness on the earth
 
 52 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Sufficient for the tender moon to hide 
 
 With her soft beams how Oberon would ride 
 
 In gay procession with his courtiers forth, 
 
 To meet his longed-for wilful fairy bride ; 
 
 And in the midst of revelry and mirth, 
 
 And beauty bursting out on every side, 
 
 With Elfin splendour touch the moonlit earth, 
 
 Till herb and flower with magic lustre glow, 
 
 And fuller loveliness at midnight show 
 
 Than e'er in blazing noontide light was seen ; 
 
 All to do honour to the fairy queen. 
 
 For her the foxglove rang its crimson bells 
 
 With silver tongue forged at the fairy forge ; 
 
 For her the crystal streamlets jocund poured 
 
 Mellifluous music through the mountain gorge ; 
 
 For her the Lady Slipper shrank its bloom 
 
 Of spotted velvet to dimensions meet 
 
 To suit the symmetry of fairy feet. 
 
 And butterflies, with gold and purple wings, 
 
 Or dashed with scarlet, silken saddles bore, 
 
 Whereon her saucy pages loved to ride, 
 
 And aye, more jauntily their plumed caps wore, 
 
 And now and then a dainty oath they swore, 
 
 Yet under breath for sharp the penalty :
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 53 
 
 Since culprit sprites were sentenced for a space 
 
 In flowering Fly-catchers to take their place, 
 
 Whose cruel thorns their tender bodies tore. 
 
 Or, if a gentler judgment were assigned, 
 
 They, in the mouths of huge Snap-dragons caught, 
 
 Were held up to derision, while they sought 
 
 In vain their blushes and chagrin to hide. 
 
 Whilst fays more virtuous, on azure wings, 
 Athwart the tinted moonbeams glide and slide, 
 Till tossed by careless slip on softest bed 
 Of feathery moss, with sparkling light supplied, 
 That round the brilliant fireflies fitful shed. 
 Others held festival in Lily isles 
 That floated on the clear translucent stream ; 
 Others in glittering train, on fairy steeds, 
 Flashed through the forest, like a sunlight gleam, 
 To hunt the mortal forth who dare come nigh 
 And into Elf-land's secrets seek to pry : 
 But finding him a Poet, changed their ire 
 Into sweet sympathy, and loving crept 
 A-nigh, and whispered in his ears weird tales, 
 Their loves, their joys, their sorrows, as he slept, 
 Until his heart to rapture strung, he wept 
 At the wild beauty so intense and deep
 
 54 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 That blossomed round him' in his charmed sleep. 
 And still he slept beside the murmuring stream, 
 And learned of Elf-land in his golden dream ; 
 And through deep draughts of wonder and delight 
 Upsprang a poet's fair Walpurgis Night. 
 
 Then waking, scattered he the myths around 
 That thus into his soul had entrance found ; 
 And all men listened to the cadence sweet 
 That rolled in song-tide from the poet's lips ; 
 And in their heart it had a luscious taste, 
 As honey that the bee from fragrance sips 
 It bore them mere humanity beyond, 
 Raised a creation fairer than their own, 
 And o'er their ruder and uncultured souls 
 The poet had a gracious influence thrown, 
 A sense of spirit-life in beauty sown. 
 
 Fair are the mountain forests of the Harz, 
 Whose pine-trees rear their giant stems as masts 
 All hung with sails of fringed foliage ; 
 Or like the columns in cathedral vast, 
 Their capitals with plumaged green bedecked, 
 Their slender branches arched in graceful line, 
 E'er pointing upward, as though Nature's hand
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 55 
 
 Close copying Art's more regular design 
 
 Were lovesome to the Gothic architect. 
 
 Through the sparse rifts the blue sky peeping came, 
 
 And shreds of gold lay tangled here and there 
 
 Upon the moss, like splinters of sun-flame ; 
 
 Or blazed upon the rocks, in colours rare. 
 
 The wild bees hummed, the waters stole along, 
 
 And Nature murmured in harmonious song. 
 
 Whilst from afar rang clear the cattle-bell 
 
 In short staccato notes, a lively strain 
 
 Jerked out capriciously, with sweet disdain 
 
 Of time i' the cadence ; yet it soothing fell 
 
 Upon the ear as nigher still it drew 
 
 And mingled with the horn the herdsman blew 
 
 To call the cattle home. In steady line 
 
 With tinkling bells the large-eyed sober kine 
 
 Gravely towards the village wend their way ; 
 
 And one by one, as home by home is neared, 
 
 Lessens the flock ; the music fainter grows, 
 
 And herd and herdsman weary seek repose. 
 
 The Harz, the fatherland of spirits wild, 
 Lay fair before me, a weird tract outspread 
 Of forest-covered mountain, granite rock,
 
 56 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 And torrents dashing from their mountain-bed. 
 
 A wondrous fairyland that held my soul 
 
 In rapture, whilst a thousand legends stole 
 
 Upon the winds around, or whispered through 
 
 The flutt'ring birchen trees ; or found a tongue 
 
 In quiv'ring willow, or with louder note 
 
 By chattering brook or waterfall were sung ; 
 
 Till blent in chorus rose their voice to tell, 
 
 How a fair Princess, once upon a-time, 
 
 Rode a wild race among these scenes sublime, 
 
 Over the huge rocks fled in wild despair, 
 
 Chased by her giant suitor, who would win 
 
 A bride, e'en though her love were given elsewhere. 
 
 On the pursuer came she, full of fear, 
 Yet strung to madness, still her course held on. 
 Height after height her gallant steed hath cleared, 
 Until in desperation she has won 
 The rock that overhangs the valley fair, 
 The Bode-valley. Beauty everywhere 
 Hill interlocking hill, and far away 
 Dying in tender blue. And forests vast 
 Stretching out southward, yet she saw them not, 
 Her eyes were on the depths beneath her cast, 
 Where 'neath the'^crag a foaming torrent roared.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 57 
 
 She paused. Hark ! hark ! like thunder crashing near 
 Sounded a horse's hoofs. Swift as the wind, 
 Her soul absorbed by one great blinding fear 
 That overcame all other sense, behind 
 She glanced ; and straight a giant form espies, 
 That ever greater grows against the skies. 
 Is there no hope ? t)ne cry of utter woe, 
 One shuddering look at the abyss below, 
 One shuddering look across the chasm wide, 
 Then urging quick her steed to the mad spring, 
 One moment in the air, the next all safe 
 Upon the opposite rock his hoofs sharp ring. 
 Baffled, the Giant pauses filled with rage. 
 It were unmanly thus to lose his bride ; 
 And furiously he spurs his courser on 
 To take the leap across the valley wide. 
 One frantic effort, but the goal to miss 
 Horseman and horse are plunged in the abyss. 
 So runs the story true or false, why care. ? 
 Or if the Bode river took its name 
 From bearing on its waves grim Bodo's corse, 
 Let the Ross-trappe keep its ancient fame, 
 Whilst the rude hoof-prints of the Princess' horse 
 Still mark the rock in witness of the tale.
 
 58 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 O Harz ! fantastic legends conjuring up ! 
 Wild visions based on supernatural lore 
 Wherein the marvellous holds regal sway, 
 And which some would-be- wise ones grave deplore, 
 And sit and sigh and call their fellows fools, 
 Who care to list to such unlikely tales. 
 And yet perhaps some lessons we may learn 
 From fables, where a deeper learning fails. 
 O Harz ! fantastic fancies conjuring up ! 
 Ghosts, goblins, witches, in unearthly guise, 
 The powers of hell, the prince of darkness, flit 
 In medley strange before the myth-bound eyes ; 
 Giving a shape to evil through that law, 
 That binds on man below to know and feel 
 The power of Evil tempting in the world ; 
 And from that power, which thus itself reveals, 
 To start in horror. 
 
 Ay, such thoughts will rise 
 As on the Hexentanzplatz fair I stand, 
 And overlook the spirit-haunted land. 
 The Witches' Ball-room ! sooth a lovely spot 
 To choose for revels. Even that they might 
 The loftier Brocken ever keep in sight 
 That rises in the distance, o'er the peaks
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 59 
 
 Of green and purple hills that, fold on fold, 
 Are waked to flame in that great burning gold 
 That lights the sun as he his chamber seeks. 
 Below, the Bode through the valley wound 
 In bubbling crystals, whilst behind me lay 
 The terraced forests Treseburg that crowned. 
 The Witches' Ball-room ! Ah, at close of day 
 Grown fairer still, ceiled with the night- blue sky, 
 And all the hills and vales soft bathed in light 
 Flung from the pale moon's silver lamp on high : 
 And here the witches revel, save when they 
 To the great Blocksberg on Walpurgis-night, 
 A reckless rabble, take their boisterous flight 
 To meet their master ; and to dance away 
 The snow that lies there on the first of May. 
 The peasant knows that ne'er at Walpurg-tide 
 Is seen that bird of mischief, black and white, 
 Since magpies are the steeds that witches ride 
 Unto the Brocken on Walpurgis-night. 
 And so he nods and winks, his head wise shakes, 
 Yet scarcely dares to give his knowledge vent, 
 Lest for loose tongue he meet with punishment. 
 But rye from out three blooming fields he takes, 
 And with it goes to church, that so his eyes,
 
 60 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Oped by the triple charm, may there discern 
 The witches seated round, with butter-churn 
 Or pail upon their heads ; for in such guise 
 To the initiated they appear 
 For Sundays two after their impious feast 
 Upon the Brocken. Yet he must depart 
 Quickly from church ere yet the solemn priest 
 The parting blessing doth pronounce, if he 
 Would from their vengeful wrath in safety be. 
 
 Whence spring such myths save from the mystic 
 
 mind, 
 
 After the supernatural inclined, 
 That fain into th' invisible world would search, 
 And twist all nature to some spirit end ; 
 Instinctive feeling that material things 
 Must to the spiritual ever bend ; 
 Instinctive feeling that around us move 
 The powers of evil ; as if through the world 
 There ran the legend of lost angels hurled 
 To depths of misery from heights of love. 
 Throughout all nations, all mythologies, 
 Some such tradition runs. The Vedas tell 
 How, led by Mahasoor, the Dewtahs rose, 
 And failing in their wild rebellion fell,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 61 
 
 For ever by a threefold god pursued. 
 Of Ahriman, the Persian sage narrates, 
 How he to equal Mithras did aspire 
 (Mithras, the star of day, the friend of man), 
 Bringing upon himself celestial ire, 
 And from the regions of eternal light, 
 Was driv'n to chaos and to endless night. 
 
 Thus many a legend old we curious trace, 
 That hath a slender touch of truth for base, 
 But mounts in superstructure fanciful, 
 All overdone with gewgaws and odd freaks 
 Of whim-full builder, who has lost his plan ; 
 And to repair the loss thus vainly seeks 
 By adding and augmenting as he can, 
 Yet, wandering ever farther from the source 
 Grows unintelligible, more complex. 
 So man by nature gropes his way along, 
 Still finding subtle mysteries to perplex, 
 Which he, though ever searching, ne'er finds out. 
 And so the spirit struggles on in throes 
 Of weariness, until the day is spent 
 In one long wail of impotent lament, 
 And round man's soul the deep night shadows close.
 
 62 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 He vainly gropes without the gates of light, 
 
 Like the wild wandering Will-o'-wisps we see, 
 
 Declared with simple pathos by the myth 
 
 The souls of unbaptised babes to be, 
 
 That wander through the forests, deserts drear, 
 
 And lead the traveller on where water lies, 
 
 Hoping that he will pity on them take, 
 
 And Christian-like their Christless souls baptise, 
 
 That they no more may weep outside the gate, 
 
 But joyful enter into Paradise. 
 
 So through a Higher Help must men essay 
 To reach the light through the dark shades of eve 
 That gather round us in this border-land, 
 From which we wistful strive to gain a glimpse 
 Of that immortal life none can conceive ; 
 Yet that the soul with loving longing paints 
 So exquisite in beauty, that it fain 
 Would burst the gate that shuts the flood of light 
 From mortal-clouded and imperfect sight, 
 And the full vision of its glory gain.
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 63 
 
 V. 
 
 THE BROCKEN. 
 
 THROUGH lonely forests where the Use pours 
 
 Its waters in continual waterfall, 
 
 Leaping adown with waves of foaming white, 
 
 With roar melodious and musical ; 
 
 As if from slumber waked, each water-sprite 
 
 Were shouting in excess of wild delight 
 
 At the down-bursting of the silver flood 
 
 That shivered over green mossed rocks, or slipped 
 
 O'er shining stones, to choice enamel chased 
 
 Of rainbow colours, as the water dripped 
 
 Upon them. Overhead the swaying pines 
 
 Waved their great boughs, rich with pink tasselled 
 
 cones, 
 
 And frosted o'er with lichen white, that mocked 
 The handiwork that hoary winter owns.
 
 64 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Whilst nestling at their roots the oak-fern crept, 
 The purple-fruited bilberry beneath, 
 And orchis buds with nodding harebell vied, 
 And wood geraniums twined a starry wreath 
 Of crimson 'mongst the grass, that half did hide 
 The trumpet moss, whose horns the elfin band 
 Blow mellow tunes upon in Fairyland. 
 
 Past towering Ilsenstein, upon whose crest 
 Is reared a cross, perchance to scare away 
 The imps that round its summit loved to play, 
 And fright the sleepy night-owl in its nest. 
 Wilder the torrent leaps through beechen shades, 
 Or birchwood, or 'neath ever-living pines 
 As steep and ever steeper grows the way 
 And all is fair, so fair that one inclines, 
 Moved with the sight of loveliness around, 
 To half believe that earth hath reached the bound 
 Of God's creative beauty and the heart, 
 Filled with deep joy through earth, begins to fear 
 The joys of heaven and all that chains it here 
 To claim a greater and more loving part. 
 
 ' Ah ! I shall miss the blooming trees of earth 
 That in the breeze their boughs luxuriant wave,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 65 
 
 And I shall miss the memory-haunted flowers 
 That blossom o'er my grave. 
 
 And I shall miss the sound of waterfall, 
 The trickling of the many-voiced rills ; 
 The glorious lights and shadows falling fair 
 Upon the distant hills. 
 
 And I shall miss the radiant hues that flush 
 The morning skies, or fade at eventide ; 
 And I shall miss the shadowy hours of night 
 That day from day divide. 
 
 No night ! no starry night ! No sun, no moon, 
 Yet light ! How can I picture light more fair, 
 How in my eyes half closed in finite sight 
 Can heaven with earth compare ? ' 
 
 Peace, wailing heart ! Oh hush ! each unwise thought, 
 Can He not fashion fairer worlds than this ? 
 Cannot the Hand that out of chaos wrought 
 Such beauty, calling forth ecstatic bliss 
 In thy imperfect state ; when thou shalt be 
 Perfected, shall He not prepare for thee 
 
 F
 
 66 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 A home so glorious that thy wondering eyes 
 Shall see re-won the long-lost Paradise ? 
 
 Wilder the mountain scene. In blackened rings 
 
 The charcoal burners left their dusky trace, 
 
 Or 'neath roofed piles of wood slow burned the fires ; 
 
 And Kobold-like peeped out the grimy face 
 
 Of peasant toiling at the sylvan trade. 
 
 And steeper grew the path ; and bolder still 
 
 The rocks stood out, like giants turned to stone ; 
 
 Dwarfed was the pine-growth, and the air grew chill, 
 
 And lo, it seemed as we had left below 
 
 Sweet Summer in the valleys, and had met 
 
 Old Winter waiting on the mountain height, 
 
 Watching for leaves to drop, and sun to set 
 
 The earlier, so that he might wing his flight 
 
 To deck his earth bride with a veil of white. 
 
 Higher ! The stately forests lay below, 
 
 And far beyond the billowy land out-rolled, 
 
 Like a dull sea all dusky -waved and cold, 
 
 Beneath a canopy of leaden grey 
 
 Untinged by sunset hues. Obscured the sun. 
 
 Save when one flashing flame of crimson fire 
 
 Had shaped itself to semblance of a cross
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 67 
 
 That superstitious ones might take for sign ; 
 For portent of some miracle to come, 
 Foreshadowed by the hand of the Divine. 
 
 Then died away the light ; the colour died 
 From the wild sweeps of heather at my feet, 
 'Mongst which the magic Hexenbesen raised 
 Its feathery tufts. The last faint shadows fleet, 
 And earth and heaven in growing darkness meet. 
 Night, starless night came on, and wrapped in gloom 
 The Brocken, and the world that lay below, 
 And all was chill and silent as the tomb, 
 And in my heart prophetic sounded, ' Woe, 
 Despair, and death, for ever mortals' doom.' 
 
 Morn rose upon the Brocken chill and grey, 
 And scarce the waning moon through misty veil 
 Traced out the edges of her crescent pale 
 Beneath me rolled their billows wave on wave, 
 Hiding the mountain peaks ; a cloud-built sea 
 That far away illimitable stretched 
 Like shoreless ocean of eternity 
 A silent sea no sound of angry roar 
 Of waves, no gentle murmuring of the tide, 
 No sea-gull white to wing his flight to shore,
 
 68 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 No white sail on its heaving breath to glide 
 And give one touch of life death's shadow dark to 
 hide. 
 
 Morn ! but no sungates on their hinges roll 
 To loose Earth from the death-like bands of night 
 And whisper Easter-peace unto my soul. 
 Morn ! but no sun, no light, no glorious light, 
 All dark! 
 
 Then sudden, mist veils struggling through, 
 A dull red phantom glare was visible, 
 Nearer it moved full swiftly, and at last 
 Into an orb of crimson glory grew 
 That battled with the floating clouds, and cast 
 Its rays around, the mist wreaths to dispel ; 
 And ever higher in the heavens it sped, 
 Threw crimson stains upon the dull grey sea, 
 And one by one each mountain reared its head 
 Like emerald island in an opal lake ; 
 And one by one each valley struggled free, 
 From hiding clouds. And Shierke, Elend break, 
 With their huge spectral rocks all dimly out, 
 Recalling Faust and Mephistopheles, 
 Up-journeying to join the witches' rout. 
 
 Far to the left the hills rolled towards the south,
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 69 
 
 Far to the north stretched out a great wide plain, 
 
 Town-dotted, where the Use twined along 
 
 A thread of silver, in and out again 
 
 In many a freakish twist. And sunlight fell, 
 
 Bright sunshine on the earth with rosy ray. 
 
 Morning, fair morning ! For the orb of day 
 
 Had drawn the trembling mists unto himself, 
 
 And loving chased each wandering cloud away 
 
 To its lost place in heaven, where now it lay 
 
 Bathed in the ruddy gold that gleamed above, 
 
 And flooded golden all the earth below 
 
 In resurrection garb. Earth sprang to light, 
 
 Embraced in arms of everlasting love, 
 
 And blushing in the heaven-born morning glow 
 
 Forgot for ever the dark tomb of night. 
 
 I stood upon the Brocken tower alone 
 And viewed the scene so fair around me spread, 
 The blinding mists and clouds that veiled the earth, 
 In heaven's o'erpowering light all vanished. 
 
 I stood alone and silently did pray, 
 ' O Lord, so let it be in that Great Day, 
 When Thou shalt unto man Thyself reveal, 
 And take away the clouds that o'er our souls
 
 70 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 Hang, and thy love and justice half conceal. 
 
 Then, what is now so dark make clear to us ; 
 
 Open our eyes to see Thee face to face, 
 
 Not through a glass, but with a strengthened sight 
 
 In which we may at length Thy goodness trace, 
 
 And prove all mercy that so hard seems now. 
 
 Oh may Thy gift of sight to us light up 
 
 With unobstructed ray each wept out woe, 
 
 And turn the dregs of memory's bitter cup 
 
 To draught most sweet, that through Thy love did flow, 
 
 Though we unheeding in our blind estate 
 
 Had not the power to comprehend that love ; 
 
 But in our darkness mourning cruel fate 
 
 Cast down our eyes, nor saw the light above. 
 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! when that Great Day shall come, 
 
 And through the trembling earth the trumpet blast 
 
 Of the archangel sounding forth shall call 
 
 The quick and dead to meet the Judge at last ; 
 
 When all the loved and lost we long have wept 
 
 Shall stand in living flesh before the Throne 
 
 Lord ! may we find our loved ones safe with Thee ; 
 
 And for thy children, Lord, us also own.' 
 
 Alone I stood. Yet not alone, for God
 
 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 71 
 
 Himself was with me in that lonely hour. 
 
 Alone ! yet not alone, for all around 
 
 Were angel-messengers full-armed with power, 
 
 And watchers from the world invisible. 
 
 Alone, yet not alone ; my soul was bound 
 
 In close communion with that other world, 
 
 And o'er me fell a sense of peace profound. 
 
 The golden gates were opening to my sight, 
 
 Far far aloft rich set with pearls they swung, 
 
 And a sweet sudden strain of music swept 
 
 Through space, soft dropping from the silver tongue 
 
 Of angels that in Paradise rejoiced 
 
 O'er one who late on earth had fall'n asleep 
 
 To wake in heaven. And though I listening wept, 
 
 My soul with seraph quire a joyful measure kept. 
 
 SONG OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Why weep ye for the dead as those which have no hope ? 
 The Lord hath risen ! 
 
 The Lord hath opened wide the gates of heaven, 
 And the strong bands of death asunder riven 
 Mourn not the dead ! 
 
 Why weep ye for the dead ? They know no weeping, 
 But loving wait
 
 72 THE GOLDEN JOURNEY. 
 
 For those on earth left desolate and sorrowing 
 To join them in their glorious estate 
 Mourn not the dead ! 
 
 Why weep ye for the dead ? The Lord hath taken 
 Into His care 
 
 Your treasures, where nor rust nor moth can enter, 
 And ye shall, waking, find them garnered there 
 Mourn not the dead ! 
 
 Why weep ye for the dead ? Ye are but parted 
 For a short space. 
 
 When Death shall kiss your closing eyes to glory, 
 Then shall ye see the loved ones face to face 
 Mourn not the dead \ 
 
 Blest are the dead ! The King hath called them to Him, 
 Their troubles cease, 
 
 And He hath called them unto living fountains, 
 And all is life and light and' perfect peace 
 Mourn not the dead !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
 
 75 
 
 A SONG IN JUNE. 
 
 THE brook went rippling, rippling, 
 
 Over the pebbles in June, 
 Through reeds and rushes it wound its way, 
 
 Humming a low sweet tune. 
 The little forget-me-not listened, 
 
 And her blue eye beamed less bright, 
 And the startled lily oped wider 
 Her flowers of gleaming white. 
 
 ' O brook ! O brook ! now tell me 
 
 What thou to the flowers didst say ? ' 
 But the brook still rippling, rippling, 
 Went lazily on its way. 
 
 The wind went sighing, sighing, 
 
 Through the tall trees in June, 
 And the chestnut blossoms shivered 
 
 As it sang its mournful tune.
 
 76 A SONG IN JUNE. 
 
 The dove cooed ever more gently 
 
 As the whispering wind passed by, 
 And the linnet's note sounded softer, 
 And sadder the bittern's cry. 
 
 ' O wind ! O wind ! now tell me 
 
 What thou to the birds didst say ? ' 
 But the wind still sighing, sighing, 
 Through the forest stole away. 
 
 My heart was beating, beating, 
 
 Faster that day in June, 
 And a voice within it murmured 
 
 A dreamy dirge-like tune. 
 ' O heart ! O heart ! now tell me 
 
 What the voice to thee doth say ? ' 
 And my heart did sadly answer, 
 ' All things must pass away.' 
 
 And the brook went rippling, rippling, 
 
 The wind sighed over the lea ; 
 But the voice in my heart sounded sweeter 
 The longer it sang to me.
 
 77 
 
 TO-MORRO W. 
 
 THE setting sun, with dying beam, 
 
 Had waked the purple hills to fire ; 
 
 And citadel, and dome, and spire, 
 Were gilded by the far off gleam ; 
 
 And in and out dark pine-trees crept 
 Full many a slender line of gold ; 
 
 Gold motes athwart the river swept, 
 And kissed it as it onward rolled. 
 
 And sunlight lingered loth to go. 
 Ah well ! it causeth sorrow 
 
 To part from those we love below, 
 And yet the sun as bright shall glow 
 To-morrow. 
 
 The tide was ebbing on the strand, 
 And stooping low its silver crest, 
 The crimson seaweed laid at rest 
 
 Upon the amber-ribbed sand,
 
 78 TO-MORROW. 
 
 Dashed o'er the rocks, and on the shore 
 Flung parting wreaths of pearly spray, 
 
 Then fled away. Yet turned once more 
 And sent a sigh across the bay, 
 
 As though it could not bear to go. 
 Ah well ! it causeth sorrow 
 
 To part from those we love below, 
 Yet thitherward the tide shall flow 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Two hearts had met to say farewell 
 
 At even when the sun went down ; 
 
 Each life-sound from the busy town 
 Smote sadly as a passing-bell. 
 
 One whispered, ' Parting is sweet pain, 
 At morn and eve returns the tide.' 
 
 ' Nay, parting rends the heart in twain.' 
 And still they lingered side by side, 
 
 And still they lingered loth to go. 
 Ah well ! it causeth sorrow 
 
 To part from those we love below, 
 For shall we ever meet or no 
 To-morrow ?
 
 79 
 
 UNDER THE TREES. 
 
 UNDER the trees in summer time, 
 
 Under the chestnut trees, 
 Looking up into their cool green shade 
 By a thousand layers of green leaves made, 
 When the clustering flowers are past their prime, 
 
 And the idle wandering breeze 
 Slyly shakes the branches to and fro, 
 And brings down a shower of summer snow 
 In the golden summer time. 
 
 Under the trees in summer time, 
 
 Under the trees I lie, 
 Peeping up into their boughs to see 
 If the sun can dart down one ray on me ; 
 Whilst drowzily sounds the sheep-bell's chime, 
 And the babbling brook goes by ;
 
 80 UNDER THE TREES. 
 
 And the birds sing cheerily many a tale, 
 Whispered to them by the passing gale 
 In the golden summer time. 
 
 Under the trees in summer time 
 
 I lie and dream of thee, 
 
 And I dream that in days to come, thou and I 
 Shall meet again as in days gone by, 
 When laughing summer is in her prime, 
 
 Beneath the chestnut tree ; 
 When the listening breezes may tell each bird 
 The sweetest secret that ever it heard 
 In the golden summer time.
 
 8i . 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 I 
 
 WHERE soft grey hills in summer sheen 
 All purple-stained and streaked with gold, 
 
 All vermeil dashed, and tender green, 
 Their image in the lake behold. 
 
 II 
 Where 'midst fair pastures browse the sheep, 
 
 Where bird and butterfly disport, 
 Where 'mongst the brambles roses creep, 
 
 And life seems but a summer thought. 
 
 Ill 
 Where by its dam the lambkin plays, 
 
 Or crops the herb, or light frisks by, 
 Reminding of those olden days 
 
 When shepherds reigned in Arcady. 
 G
 
 82 A PASTORAL. 
 
 IV 
 Where far away the eagle soars, 
 
 Scared by the shepherd from the flocks, 
 Where babbling streamlet idly pours 
 
 Over the moss-enamelled rocks. 
 
 V 
 O Phyllis, come ! the wild thyme sweet 
 
 Shall offer incense at thy shrine ; 
 The warbling birds thy presence greet, 
 
 And deeper homage yet be mine. 
 
 VI 
 The skies are bright, and- blossoms rare 
 
 Flora in loving frolic flings, 
 Since Zephyr stirs the balmy air 
 
 With the soft waving of his wings : 
 
 VII 
 And far and near their silvery mirth 
 
 Wakes up the hills and vales from sleep, 
 And o'er the beauty-laden earth 
 
 A fresher sense of joy doth creep.
 
 A PASTORAL. 83 
 
 VIII 
 O Phyllis, come ! Earth's rapturous voice 
 
 Calls thee to revel in her bliss ; 
 Nature but breathes one word, ' Rejoice ! ' 
 
 And Zephyr hails thee with a kiss. 
 
 IX 
 
 Ah ! what is sweeter in this life 
 
 Than a fair breezy day in June, 
 When rippling brooks in mimic strife 
 
 Purl lazily a sleepy tune ? 
 
 X 
 
 Whilst reeds in gentle music bend, 
 
 And call on Syrinx as they sigh, 
 In notes as sweet as Pan might send 
 
 From reed-pipe in the days gone by. 
 
 XI 
 O Phyllis, come ! Each wind-waved leaf 
 
 Can its own love-lorn tale relate ; 
 The pine-trees bow in faithful grief, 
 
 And mourn o'er Pithys' hapless fate.
 
 84 A PASTORAL. 
 
 XII 
 And wood and mountain, wind and stream, 
 
 Of many an old-world legend tell, 
 When mortals lived in golden dream, 
 
 And gods did on Olympus dwell. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Whilst over hill, through dale, through grove, 
 Shall Echo, with immortal tongue, 
 
 Wail how Narcissus scorned her love, 
 And o'er the flood enchanted hung. 
 
 XIV 
 
 O Phyllis, come ! Sweet mistress, hear ! 
 
 Thy presence makes the earth divine ; 
 Take from my heart its love-born fear, 
 
 Lest Echo's hapless fate be mine.
 
 85 
 
 DAPHNE. 
 
 RARE eyes that make a twofold sun 
 
 Upon the world to shine, 
 Red lips that turn the ruby dull, 
 
 A face and form divine ; 
 A footstep fleet as that of fawn, 
 A blush as bright as rosy dawn, 
 
 My Daphne, all are thine. 
 
 But ah ! why should that glorious sun 
 
 For me o'erclouded be ; 
 The lips that answer others' jests 
 
 Ne'er give one smile to me ? 
 Why should morn's flush grow dark as night, 
 And oft when I appear in sight, 
 
 My Daphne fail to see ?
 
 86 DAPHNE. 
 
 In vain I twine a garland fair, 
 The flowers she flings away ; 
 
 In vain my verse breathes fond conceits, 
 She scorns each tender lay. 
 
 And if I whisper words of love, 
 
 And swear by all the stars above, 
 My Daphne goes away. 
 
 Yet still my harp is tuned to sing 
 
 Of Daphne, spite of scorn, 
 Since the most perfect joy I have 
 
 Is from sweet Daphne drawn. 
 If she despise the love I bear, 
 No willow-wreath be mine to wear, 
 
 Though slighted love I mourn : 
 
 Apollo-like, my brows I'll crown 
 Through her most sweet disdain 
 
 With laurel, for my constant song 
 Of Daphne fame shall gain ; 
 
 For Daphne keeps my heart, and I 
 
 Am captive, with no heart to fly, 
 No wish to break my chain.
 
 FAIR MELISSA. 
 
 FAIR MELISSA through the grove 
 Listlessly was straying, 
 
 Thinking of her absent love 
 Promised tryst delaying. 
 
 ' Fair is false, and false is fair, 
 
 Men are traitors everywhere!' 
 Quoth Melissa, sighing. 
 
 Tripping came a little maid 
 ' Maiden, where dost wander ? ' 
 
 ' But to find the crock of gold, 
 Where the bow stoops yonder.' 
 
 ' Fair is false, and false is fair, 
 
 Hope deceives us everywhere ! ' 
 Quoth Melissa, sighing.
 
 FAIR MELISSA. 
 
 Next drew nigh a pensive youth 
 
 ' Whither art thou hieing ? ' 
 ' Lady fair, to search for Truth 
 
 In the dark well lying.' 
 ' Fair is false, and false is fair ; 
 Truth, she dwells not anywhere ! ' 
 Quoth Melissa, sighing. 
 
 Plucked she roses from the hedge ; 
 
 But a thorn among them, 
 Hidden, tore her dainty skin 
 
 Quick away she flung them. 
 ' Fair is false, and false is fair, 
 Beauty is a cruel snare,' 
 
 Quoth Melissa, sighing. 
 
 Lo ! an arm around her thrown, 
 
 Lo ! a deep voice pleading ; 
 Whilst soft kisses on her hand 
 
 Stop the wound from bleeding. 
 Doubts and fears flee fast away, 
 ' Hope, Truth, Love, I've found to-day ! ' 
 Quoth she without sighing.
 
 8 9 
 
 WOOING. 
 
 THROUGH the meadows, nigh the hedge-row, 
 
 With the May-snow silver-laden, 
 
 Whence doth sweet spring incense rise, 
 
 There I met a blooming maiden : 
 ' Maiden, thou hast won a prize ; 
 
 Lost to me are both mine eyes ; 
 
 Ere I saw thee, they could see 
 
 All fair sights on earth that be ; 
 
 Now they only mirror thee ; 
 
 Take them ; yet, it thou would'st give 
 
 In exchange one glance so kind, 
 
 I would be content to live 
 
 For ever blind.' 
 ' What are thy two eyes to me ? ' 
 
 Lightly laughing, spake the maid ; 
 ' Since I see, without their aid, 
 
 Flatterers ever men will be.'
 
 90 WOOING. 
 
 Through the meadows in the summer, 
 Flushed the hedge- rows all with roses, 
 There the maid again I found 
 Culling fairest buds for posies. 
 
 ' Maiden, thou my tongue hast bound ; 
 Once it sang of all around, 
 Now it is but moved to sing, 
 
 " Love came by on idle wing, 
 Aimed a dart and left a sting." 
 Take my speech, yet for love's sake, 
 One sweet word of pity give, 
 That may me contented make 
 Aye dumb to live.' 
 Lightly laughed the maiden then, 
 
 ' Worthless is thy speech to me, 
 False for ever it must be, 
 Since so false the hearts of men.' 
 
 Through the cornfields in the autumn, 
 When the sheaves stood ripe and golden, 
 There the maid once more I met ; 
 Sorrow did my soul embolden ; 
 ' Maid, thou art on mischief set, 
 Thou hast proved a worse thief yet ;
 
 WOOING. 91 
 
 Thou hast stol'n my heart away, 
 Give it back.' But she said, ' Nay, 
 What I win is mine alway.' 
 Blush'd she like the rose in June, 
 Turn'd she as the lily pale, 
 Soft her voice, like murmuring tune 
 Of summer gale. 
 
 ' We are quits the game is played ; 
 If thy heart's no longer thine, 
 Truly thou hast taken mine, 
 And art therefore fairly paid.'
 
 9 2 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 I HEARD a song in the morning, 
 
 Ere ever the birds awoke ; 
 It rose as the waves on the pebbles 
 
 In splinters of silver broke ; 
 It came with the burst of music 
 
 The babbling rivulet played ; 
 It came with the hum of a thousand notes 
 
 The gossamer insects made ; 
 It came with the leaf-stirring breezes, 
 
 It sprang from each opening flower ; 
 It echoed from hill to valley, 
 
 It dripped in each summer shower. 
 And I listened and listened such music 
 
 I never had heard before, 
 And I felt I could lie and listen 
 
 To its sweetness for evermore.
 
 THE SONG. 93 
 
 I heard it again at noonday, 
 
 As the mower whistled a tune ; 
 I heard it in every pulse that stirred 
 
 Through the outer world in June, 
 For everything seemed alive with sound, 
 
 Its melody round me to fling ; 
 I could hear the thistle-down whirling by, 
 
 And the waft of the butterfly's wing ; 
 It chimed with the children's merry laugh 
 
 As they sauntered home from school ; 
 It rushed with the roar that the mill-wheel made 
 
 As it splashed in the quiet pool ; 
 It sounded clear as the village clock- 
 
 Struck briskly the mid-day hour ; 
 And it swung from the bells as the ringers rang 
 
 In the time-worn belfry tower ; 
 Or ever they rang the joy-bell peal, 
 
 Or ever the death-bell tolled ; 
 Yet still I heard it a living song, 
 
 That would never grow dead and cold. 
 
 I told it at eve to my darling, 
 
 And my darling looked gravely at me ; 
 
 Quoth she, ' The song that I care for 
 Another song must be ;
 
 94 THE SONG. 
 
 And thou, if thou truly didst love me, 
 A sweeter song would'st have heard 
 
 Than ever was whispered by breezes 
 Or ever was sung by bird.' 
 
 I listened again at midnight, 
 
 When the world was all asleep ; 
 And lo ! a lovelier song I heard 
 
 Throughout the silence sweep. 
 I felt my heart-chords stirring ; 
 
 Beside me there was none ; 
 I knew what my darling cared for 
 
 As I heard each tender tone. 
 ' O love ! O love ! this music 
 
 Comes from my heart alone.'
 
 95 
 
 THE SPOILER DESPOILED. 
 
 MUSING in the autumn twilight, lulled by the low 
 
 droning wind, 
 
 That doth strangely stir the cobwebs in the store- 
 rooms of my mind ; 
 Sweeping them from mouldering pictures that have 
 
 lain forgotten there, 
 Freshening up the quaint old framework till it seemeth 
 
 passing fair ; 
 To each picture whispering stories of the deeds of 
 
 long ago, 
 Each a parable foretelling truths in time I came to 
 
 know, 
 But whose meaning passed unheeded as I looked 
 
 with childish eyes 
 On the world outstretched before me in its blooming 
 
 Eden guise ;
 
 96 THE SPOILER DESPOILED. 
 
 When there was no Past, no Future, all my being 
 
 seemed to cling 
 To a world that was the Present, circled by a fairy 
 
 ring, 
 Watered by another river flowing through a land of 
 
 gold, 
 
 Compassing as fair a country as Havilah's stream of old. 
 Ah ! that glorious dream-life season never will return 
 
 to me, 
 Ne'er with eyes undimmed, unfearing, springtide I 
 
 again shall see, 
 For a rude hand grasped my treasure, and a rude 
 
 voice seemed to say, 
 ' All the sweet beliefs of childhood harder creeds 
 
 shall sweep away.' 
 Yet around their vanished beauty still a hallowed 
 
 brightness lies, 
 
 Still as from long-faded roses, doth a lingering sweet- 
 ness rise, 
 And I know that I have caught a fleeting glimpse of 
 
 Paradise. 
 Oh ! that golden age that memory traces in Hesperian 
 
 ^prime, 
 Like to some rare ancient painting mellowed by the 
 
 hand of Time ;
 
 THE SPOILER DESPOILED 97 
 
 When the cherry-tree seemed laden with a freight of 
 fairy snow, 
 
 And the blushing apple-blossoms set the orchard all 
 aglow ; 
 
 When the waxen-flowered syringa peeped above the 
 garden walls, 
 
 And the lilac matched its clusters 'gainst the guelder- 
 rose's balls ; 
 
 When I half believed the river was some wild en- 
 chanted tide, 
 
 And at moonlight on its waters elfin fleets were seen 
 to glide 
 
 River winding through the sedges 'neath the bending 
 willow-trees, 
 
 Sparkling, glinting in the sunlight, rippled by the 
 perfumed breeze ; 
 
 Creeping through the clover meadows, through the 
 thyme-sweet valleys borne, 
 
 Where the poppy plants its banner scarlet-bright 
 among the corn ; 
 
 Narrowing, deepening, darker growing as it steals its 
 onward way, 
 
 Through the woods where I have spent full many a 
 merry holiday ; 
 
 H
 
 98 THE SPOILER DESPOILED. 
 
 When the leaves were turning yellow, when the nuts 
 were ruddy brown ; 
 
 Or when Spring, with budding blossom, wandered 
 forth the woods to crown ; 
 
 When each bird from bush and bramble gaily carolled 
 to its mate, 
 
 Little dreaming thoughtless boyhood meant its home 
 to desolate ; 
 
 When amidst the swaying branches cooed the dove 
 in murmurs soft, 
 
 And the rook's hoarse note resounded from his rocking 
 home aloft ; 
 
 Blackbird, thrush, or skilful chaffinch with its lichen- 
 spangled nest, 
 
 Wren, or graceful water-wagtail, each the object of 
 my quest 
 
 Through the fields, adown the fallows- where peewits 
 and corncrakes hide, 
 
 Or by reedy streams whereon the water-hens so 
 proudly glide ; 
 
 Like a warrior carrying warfare into some fair peace- 
 ful land, 
 
 All intent upon the booty tempting my too eager 
 hand,
 
 THE SPOILER DESPOILED. 99 
 
 Forth I wandered, little heeding days of ceaseless 
 
 patient toil 
 That had formed the curious structure destined soon 
 
 to be my spoil ; 
 Little recked of birds made homeless, little recked of 
 
 wrong or right, 
 All the wrong had faded, vanished, in the blaze of 
 
 glory's light. 
 Boyhood e'en has its ambition ; I was brave, and lithe, 
 
 and young, 
 And I felt my blood all glowing as from bough to 
 
 bough I swung ; 
 Up the gnarled old oak I clambered, up its dizzy 
 
 height I scaled, 
 Never once my foothold faltered, never once my spirit 
 
 failed ; 
 Dauntless then I seized the treasure, proudly bore it 
 
 to the ground. 
 But another claimant met me, angrily on me he 
 
 frowned ; 
 He had marked the nest, and therefore held it as his 
 
 lawful prize, 
 Should he now submit to see it carried off before his 
 
 eyes ? 
 
 H 2
 
 loo THE SPOILER DESPOILED. 
 
 I had stolen a march upon him, I my booty must 
 
 resign ; 
 I was strong, but he was stronger, and the battle was 
 
 not mine. 
 
 So I went indignant homeward, homeward went with- 
 out my nest, 
 And I sobbed out all my wrongs and anger on my 
 
 mother's breast. 
 Gently then she soothed me, bade me learn a lesson 
 
 from my woe : 
 ' Thus, my child, thou'lt ever find it when the world 
 
 thou com'st to know : 
 Might is right the whole earth over, this much thou 
 
 canst understand, 
 And the strong ones o'er the weak ones aye will have 
 
 the upper hand. 
 Thou didst rob the birds, my darling, for thy might 
 
 seemed right to thee, 
 Then in turn there came a stronger, spoiler of thy 
 
 spoil to be. 
 He avenged the birds unjustly, yet the moral thou 
 
 mayst read ; 
 E'en in this life retribution follows every wrongful 
 
 deed.'
 
 101 
 
 I HE LOST FLOWER. 
 
 A MAIDEN threw a flower into the stream, 
 
 It floated whither ? 
 
 Kissed by the west wind, gilded by the gleam 
 Of flaming sun, and silvered by the beam 
 
 Of the pale moon, 
 
 All gold and ivory inwrought with pearl it seemed, 
 And incensed with a sweeter fragrance. Soon 
 
 Upon the flower she doated : 
 
 4 O waters, turn your tide, my flower bear hither ! ' 
 But still away it floated : 
 
 Whither, whither ? 
 
 The rippling waters sang in ceaseless song, 
 
 ' Whither, ah, whither ? ' 
 
 The sun went down, the west wind swept along, 
 The moon was hidden dark night clouds among ; 
 
 And lost to sight
 
 102 THE LOST FLOWER. 
 
 The flower. The maiden with strange yearning longed 
 To lure the blossom back, now grown so bright, 
 
 And more on it she doated, 
 
 Crying, ' O wind, O wind, my flower waft hither ! ' 
 Yet still it onward floated : 
 Whither, whither ? 
 
 The maiden, weeping, watched upon the shore, 
 
 Still sighing, ' Whither ? ' 
 Perhaps the morning light may joy restore : 
 Nay, what is lost is lost for evermore. 
 
 Mortals, be wise : 
 
 No treasure flung away can be restored. 
 The sun moves forward in the trackless skies, 
 
 And golden opportunity, 
 Once gone, returns not hither, 
 
 And the great flood of teeming life rolls by : 
 
 Whither, ah, whither ?
 
 133 
 
 SPINNING. 
 
 SPINNING a slender flaxen thread 
 That sudden is snapped in twain ; 
 
 Dreaming over an idle dream 
 Whose sweetness is lost in pain ; 
 
 Spinning and dreaming from morn to eve, 
 Is all the dreaming in vain ? 
 
 White-winged butterflies flitting among 
 The golden bloom of the grass, 
 
 Red moss-roses with rich perfume, 
 That the light winds kiss and pass ; 
 
 April sunshine, then April cloud, 
 
 And a sad heart sighing 'Alas!' 
 
 Spinning, spinning a tangled thread 
 
 With many a break and join, 
 Many a fret and many a knot
 
 104 SPINNING. 
 
 Spun to one complex line : 
 It takes a knotted and much-pieced thread 
 To weave out the life divine. 
 
 Royal white lilies in chaliced pearl, 
 
 Gathering the dews of heaven ; 
 Glorious trail of shining stars, 
 
 Over the dark night driven; 
 A fountain with bubbling crystal wave, 
 
 And a golden bowl that's riven. 
 
 The sun glints in through the twining vine, 
 And the bird sings on the bough ; 
 
 The spinner hears but one heart-struck chord, 
 And the sun is darkened now ; 
 
 She spins and dreams o'er the broken thread 
 A dream of a broken vow.
 
 IDS 
 
 NOT LOST. 
 
 THE sun dropped down, the crescent moon 
 
 Went slowly sailing by, 
 All in the burning chrysoprase 
 
 Of the sultry summer sky, 
 That crowned the crimson-banded west 
 
 With blue and amber dye. 
 
 The twilight grey rose up a-near 
 
 Each shining golden horn ; 
 And twinkled one by one the stars 
 
 Over the yellow corn ; 
 And dimmer grew the silver flush 
 
 Of the daisies on the lawn. 
 
 Yet high above the moon and stars, 
 
 The maiden raised her eyes ; 
 ' Not on this earth, but in thine heaven,
 
 106 NOT LOST. 
 
 O Lord, my treasure lies ; 
 Grant me one glimpse behind the veil 
 That hides Thy paradise ! ' 
 
 And greyer grew the summer night, 
 As sleep sweet mocked the dead ; 
 
 And whiter fell the white moon rays 
 Upon the maiden's bed ; 
 
 And lo, an angel stooped and kissed 
 The tears she dreaming shed. 
 
 Her grief-stained eyelids softly touched 
 
 And the mist-veil was riven, 
 And past the stars her soul was borne, 
 
 Through the night-hush to Heaven. 
 ' Among God's shining ones,' she said, 
 
 To him a place is given.' 
 
 She sought throughout the glorious streets, 
 
 Yet found of him no trace ; 
 ' Among thy blessed ones, O Lord ! 
 
 Hath my dead love no place ? ' 
 And down, a-down, her fainting soul 
 
 Sank through the golden space.
 
 NOT LOST. 107 
 
 ' Why weepest thou ? God's angels walk 
 
 The earth on errand sent.' 
 She turned her at the voice and gazed 
 
 In joyful wonderment ; 
 ' Art thou so near although unseen ? 
 
 Then is my soul content.' 
 
 The reddening dawn stole slowly on, 
 
 The sun rose up. The moon 
 Turned into silver ; and the maid 
 
 Said, ' I have waked too soon.' 
 Yet through the day she smiled, for still 
 
 At morn, at eve, at noon, 
 There walked an angel at her side 
 
 ' Lord ! I shall see him soon.'
 
 io8 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA. 
 
 FROM heaven's half-open portals swept 
 
 In diapason rare, 
 
 That trembled through the air, 
 
 The murmur of the angel quire ; 
 
 So sweet that Nature listening wept, 
 
 And, filled with fond desire, 
 
 Caught up the falling silver notes 
 
 And prisoned them in summer breeze, 
 
 Or tinted cloud that idly floats 
 
 To burst in rain-drops 'mongst the trees ; 
 
 Or flung them in the heaving tide 
 
 That laves the purple isles in June, 
 
 Or cast them on the mountain side 
 
 To quiver out their tune ; 
 
 Till earth is filled with heavenly sound, 
 
 Heaven's speech, sweet music hovers round.
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA. 109 
 
 II 
 
 Nor Nature heard alone 
 
 The immortal strain ; 
 
 Deep in man's heart each seraph tone 
 
 Found a refrain, 
 
 Awaked from chords that erst all mute had lain ; 
 
 In wild delicious swell 
 
 The new-born sense 
 
 Of beauty grew to rapture so intense 
 
 That the pulse rose and fell 
 
 In throes sublime ; 
 
 Man panted to reveal the song 
 
 So God-like in his soul upstirred, 
 
 A God-like gift to after-time, 
 
 Celestial words through ages long : 
 
 And fierce he strove, until were heard 
 
 The passionate throbs of melody forth wrung 
 
 From surcharged heart, all heaven-enthralled ; 
 
 And in entrancing pain 
 
 Did he an utterance gain, 
 
 And in that utterance was Musician called.
 
 i io A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 E'en so the holy maid Cecilia 
 In adoration hung 
 On the celestial notes escaping 
 As heaven's gate open swung ; 
 She, soul-inspired, like Echo clear 
 Perfect repeats each glorious tone, 
 And wondering seraphs pause to hear 
 A voice so like their own : 
 Through starlight night 
 They wing their flight, 
 And earthward bringing 
 
 . The breath of heaven, listen with pure delight 
 To her melodious singing ; 
 And round her gathering, incite 
 The mellow notes to more divine outpouring, 
 To which men hearken in amaze, 
 And the fair marvel praise ; 
 While upward soaring 
 Angels rejoice 
 That mortal voice 
 So sweet unto the earth is given 
 As to draw down the hosts of heaven.
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA. in 
 
 IV 
 
 And thus it chanced, 
 
 The angels whispering as she sang entranced, 
 
 (Unconscious if in heaven, or if she dreamed) 
 
 Bade her ' Behold.' And lo ! a shining place 
 
 Wherein there gleamed 
 
 Great pipes of gold, that drank apace 
 
 All sound. Filling their golden throats 
 
 With precious winds that blew from Paradise ; 
 
 And straight arise 
 
 In purest harmony strange solemn notes ; 
 
 Such awe-inspiring tones that ne'er before 
 
 Issued from instrument of man's devising ; 
 
 Swelling in deepening wrath like thunder roar, 
 
 Or jubilant with praise uprising : 
 
 Now pleading like sad angel hearts that roam 
 
 The earth, and weep for blinded man astray ; 
 
 Bringing repentance and the trespass home, 
 
 That through the sweet reproof men kneel and pray 
 
 With low bowed heads ; for they the voice divine 
 
 Have heard through gorgeous music in their souls, 
 
 Yet tempered with quick mercy that doth shine 
 
 Resplendent as the music softer rolls
 
 112 A LEGEND OF ST. CECILIA. 
 
 In dying dulcet waves, that mounting higher 
 Sound like the far-off chime of cherub-quire. 
 
 Cecilia kept the vision in her heart 
 
 As revelation of His holy will, 
 
 Who to His chosen great ones doth impart 
 
 The work they must fulfil ; 
 
 Until in time 
 
 Through vast cathedral aisles rolled forth sublime 
 
 From organ golden-piped so rare a flood 
 
 Of melody, that men with one accord 
 
 All reverent stood, 
 
 Saying, ' Praise we the Lord.'
 
 MY NEIGHBOURS DAUGHTER. 
 
 MY good old neighbour hath a little daughter, 
 Fair as the lily-bud, sweet as the rose ; 
 Sunny is her hair as the golden summer, 
 White is her brow as the winter snows : 
 Gaily she smiles as she passes by me, 
 Never a grief or a care she knows. 
 
 Pleasant is the voice of my neighbour's daughter, 
 Soft as the woodquest's, sighing as the breeze, 
 Ringing like plash of far-off silver waters, 
 Rippling like rustle of leaf-stirred trees ; 
 Men idly listening, with senses half dreaming, 
 Wake into lovers at sounds like these. 
 
 Down to the river steals my neighbour's daughter, 
 Where droops the willow its boughs in the tide, 
 Where the lithe water-flags their gay heads upraising, 
 
 I
 
 114 MY NEIGHBOUR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mark out a creek where a boat may glide. 
 Not all alone is my neighbour's daughter, 
 Some one by the river lingers at her side. 
 
 Through summer days, when the scarlet fruit is rip'n- 
 
 in g> 
 Flushes her fair cheek with deeper hue ; 
 
 Through summer days, when sapphire skies are smiling, 
 Laugh the maiden's eyes with a tenderer blue ; 
 Through summer midnights lies she still a-dreaming, 
 Dreaming bright dreams that at morning prove true. 
 
 A tell-tale face ftatii my neighbour's daughter, 
 Betraying the secret she fancies to keep : 
 ' Nay, maiden, nay ! thorns ever come with roses 
 Eyes that shine brightly must sometimes weep. 
 Where the sun glows with a wonderful splendour, 
 Sharpest cut shadows will darkest creep.' 
 
 Trusting is the heart of my neighbour's daughter : 
 
 ' Nay, he will never be false to me.' 
 
 Day after day she awaits his returning 
 
 Down by the river that winds to the sea ; 
 
 Yet sad is the heart of my neighbour's daughter, 
 
 White grow her cheeks as the snow on the lea.
 
 MY NEIGHBOUR'S DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 Dark grows her life as the cloud skies at even, 
 Cold grows her heart as the ice-bound lake : 
 ' Nay, he will never be false ' still she whispers, 
 Whispers with heart that is ready to break. 
 Fain would I comfort my neighbour's daughter 
 ' Maiden, in springtide dead hopes to life awake.' 
 
 Through summer woods the summer birds are singing, 
 Butterflies have plumed their wings, and flowers are 
 
 blooming fair ; 
 
 Down to the river steals my neighbour's little daughtei 
 Water-flags wave gaily, a boat waits there ; 
 Glides she so shyly with the shimmering sunlight 
 Fresh gold lending to her golden hair. 
 
 Through summer woods the summer birds are singing, 
 To her beating heart what notes of joy they speak ! 
 Hath the summer wind set her sweet face a-glowing > 
 Hath the golden summer brought back roses to her 
 
 cheek ? 
 
 Nay, but a voice, than bird or breezes sweeter, 
 Hath whispered back the roses by the yellow-bannered 
 
 creek. 
 
 I 2
 
 THE TWO SISTERS. 
 
 Two hearts were full of joy at morn, 
 
 At eve one wailed, 
 
 ; Ah ! would that I had ne'er been born,' 
 And wept and sighed from night to dawn 
 
 While the stars paled ; 
 
 And crimson-crowned through mists of gray 
 Flushed into life the glorious day. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 So pine forsaken hearts away. 
 
 The other wreathed her brow around 
 
 With buds of spring, 
 Sweet primroses with violets bound. 
 Her voice with tender flute-like sound 
 
 Went murmuring, 
 ' O life fair as a summer sea 
 Gently thy waves break over me.' 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 So full some hearts of joy alway.
 
 THE TWO SISTERS. 117 
 
 Nay,' quoth the first, ' the breakers roar 
 
 With ceaseless moan, 
 The sea-fogs hide the longed-for shore, 
 The haven will be neared no more : 
 
 Alone ! alone ! 
 
 And all is dark, the moon on high 
 Is hidden as the storm sweeps by.' 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 So from some hearts light fades away. 
 
 The dazzling sun the other caught 
 
 Into her eyes ; 
 
 It shimmer'd o'er her hair and brought 
 A radiance round her, all inwrought 
 
 With thousand dyes. 
 ' O light,' she cried, ' about my soul 
 Like an eternal aureole.' 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 In some hearts sunshine dwells alway. 
 
 ' Nay,' quoth the first, ' the sun hath set 
 
 In the lone west. 
 
 My cheeks with heavy tears are wet, 
 In vain my heart strives to forget 
 
 And find a rest.
 
 ii8 THE TWO SISTERS. 
 
 My love is false, my heart forlorn, 
 Oh would that I had ne'er been born.' 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 Some hearts must bleed on earth alway. 
 
 The other sang, ' There is no night ; 
 
 Midsummer-tide 
 
 Reigns through the world with love-fires bright. 
 A fairy-land rose-bathed in light : 
 
 By river-side 
 
 Forget-me-nots with blossoms blue 
 And reeds soft whisper He is true : ' 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 Some hearts 'mongst roses bloom alway. 
 
 So goes the world to this and this, 
 
 From morn to morrow, 
 One life for woe, and one for bliss ; 
 To some love's grief, to some love's kiss ; 
 
 Some joy some sorrow 
 The thread through each web must be spun 
 That breaks not until life is done. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 The death-sleep calms all grief away.
 
 THE TWO SISTERS. 119 
 
 Passed by a shadow as dark as night 
 
 Earth's brightness o'er ; 
 Passed by a seraph robed in light 
 Blotting the darkness out of sight, 
 
 And evermore 
 
 Another star from heaven doth shine, 
 An earth-voice chants in quires divine. 
 Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, well-a-day ! 
 So may we wake to joy some day.
 
 120 
 
 HEIDELBERG, AUGUST 7, 1867.' 
 
 (IN MEMORIAM.) 
 
 A DAY of smiles and tears, half cloud, half sunshine, 
 And then the heavens cast away their frown, 
 And, in their rarest garb of dazzling beauty, 
 On Heidelberg looked down. 
 
 The setting sun bathed in a flood of amber 
 Each tower and buttress of the castle old, 
 And loving rays tinged carven scrolls and tracery 
 With ruddy tints of gold. 
 
 1 At the close of the summer term it is customary for the students 
 of Heidelberg to indulge in various acts of rejoicing. A favourite one 
 appears to be going in procession to Neckarsteinach, and returning 
 from thence in the evening in a barge decorated with lamps or lights of 
 different kinds. From this barge, or from a smaller boat accompanying 
 it, rockets and other fireworks are let off, producing a very beautiful 
 effect as the boat comes slowly down in the darkness. Sometimes the 
 bridge is illuminated with Bengal fire, and occasionally, as in the 
 present instance, the castle is also lighted up. On the occasion al- 
 luded to in the verses, the ' Vandalia ' corps, its numbers being in- 
 creased by the ' Vandalen ' from all parts of Germany, delighted the
 
 HEIDELBERG. 121 
 
 And in the sapphire sky a rainbow, glowing 
 With fairest colours, softly died away 
 As twilight, wrapped in misty robe, descended 
 To chase the fading day. 
 
 And twilight mellowed down the clear cut edges 
 
 That fringing tree-tops traced against the sky ; 
 
 And through white rifts of clouds the moon was 
 
 beaming, 
 Faint stars peeped forth on high. 
 
 And lights along the river bank were glancing 
 In yellow gleams athwart fair Neckar's tide, 
 And underneath the bridge's shadowy arches 
 The rippled waters sighed. 
 
 Heidelberger population with a spectacle of great beauty. From a 
 house on the Neuenheim side of the river, close by the bridge and 
 immediately opposite the ' Corpskneipe ' of the Vandalen, which was 
 at one time brilliantly illuminated, I probably witnessed one of the 
 loveliest sights I shall ever behold. The house commanded a view of 
 the whole line of proceedings. From the mountain behind it, the 
 torch procession started to meet the boat coming down the river, and, 
 then marching parallel with it. crossed the bridge just as the boat 
 reached it. Opposite to me, the castle towered over the light-dotted 
 town ; whilst at my feet flowed the dark river, with the streams of light 
 flashing across its waters ; and the moon, when she looked out from 
 behind the clouds, turning into silver its lines of ripples. The effect of 
 the various lights as the castle rose out of the darkness is beyond de- 
 scription.
 
 122 HEIDELBERG. 
 
 And with their murmur pealing bells were chiming 
 A melody, as though some spirit hand had dashed 
 Deep sounding chords on rare Eolian harp-strings, 
 Or silver cymbals clashed. 
 
 The signal gun, from hill to hill resounding, 
 Is heard. And ever darker grows the night ; 
 And o'er the mountain path flame out the torches, 
 Tracking the way in light. 
 
 March on, march on ; the fiery boat advances, 
 Ablaze with golden spray and glittering star, 
 And brilliant streams across the clear night heavens 
 The rockets shoot afar. 
 
 And midst the shower of fire the student chorus, 
 * Frei ist der Bursch] doth o'er the waters float, 
 Then changing to the old field-marshal's glory 
 Bursts forth the warlike note. 1 
 
 And o'er the bridge the student band moves onward, 
 With waving torches and with banners gay, 
 Whilst slow the student barge, through fire-lit arches, 
 Glides on its glittering way. 
 
 1 ' IVfis blaseti die Trotnpeten,' in honour of Blucher.
 
 HEIDELBERG. 123 
 
 But hark ! a startling peal like crashing thunder, 
 And in an instant, from the shades of night, 
 Like gorgeous fairy scene, in magic beauty 
 The castle sprang to light. 
 
 Wrapped its old towers and walls in flames of crimson, 
 Whilst at its foot a cloud of emerald rolled, 
 And bright shone out each pinnacle and turret, 
 All tipped with burnished gold ; 
 
 As if some elfin troop in wayward humour 
 Had turned the crumbling stones to gems full rare, 
 Or caught some falling star midway from heaven 
 And held it shining there. 
 
 The rosy rays upon the waters glancing 
 Lit like to ruby wine the waves below, 
 And the cold brow and cheek of stately Pallas 
 Flushed with a deeper glow, 
 
 As calmly watching o'er her favoured city 
 She on her students' joy-time gazed with pride, 
 Whilst clearer rang the song, and brighter flashing 
 Flowed Neckar's crimson tide.
 
 124 HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Hail, Heidelberger students ! In your springtide 
 Of golden student life, so fresh, so free. 
 A summer dream, bright with a long past sunshine, 
 In graver years to be. 
 
 Yet for that future, brave true hearts up-raising, 
 All honour then to caps of every hue ; 
 Hail to the ' Schwaben ' with their gleaming yellow, 
 The red ! the green ! the blue ! 
 
 Hail to the ' Preussen ' with their death-earned colours, 
 In freedom's cause may they march proudly on, 
 And bear to victory unstained, unsullied, 
 The flag their fathers won. 
 
 All hail to the ' Vandalen's ' brighter banner ! 
 Long may it float above the castled Rhine ! 
 O'er hearts that in their country's wreath of glory 
 Fresh laurels shall entwine. 
 
 O lovely Heidelberg ! O town enchanted ! 
 How many a memory fondly to thee clings ! 
 How many a poet-hand hath struck in rapture 
 For thee the silver strings.
 
 HEIDELBERG. 125 
 
 Fain would I fling thee one fair flower at parting 
 If but the power to cull that flower were mine, 
 And to thy welfare drain the 'Absckfcd* goblet, 
 Brimming with sparkling wine. 
 
 Alas ! bright dreams bring sorrowful awaking ; 
 In every life comes many a sad farewell ; 
 Farewell ! yet ever on my heart engraven 
 Wilt thou in beauty dwell. 
 
 Farewell Vandalen ! Ne'er to be forgotten ; 
 Still as I float adown Time's rapid tide, 
 Oft shall your pageant in unfading colours 
 From Memory's portal glide.
 
 126 
 
 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE WRITTEN TO 
 ' MISTRESS MARTHA - -' AUGUST 30, 1729. 
 
 A TIME-STAINED letter, in stiff-pointed hand 
 Writ nigh a century and half ago, 
 An offer worded in respectful style, 
 Pleading for ' Ay,' and yet half fearing ' No ; ' 
 A quaint short letter full of courteous phrase, 
 In fashion in the Second George's days. 
 
 Writ early in the Second George's days 
 
 When swords were drawn and sounds of war were rife : 
 
 ' Dear Madam,' it begins, then further on 
 
 He courage takes, ' dear Patty, be my wife.' 
 
 Far sweeter music breathing from his pen 
 
 Than the ' Te Deum ' sung for Dettingen. 
 
 H e in the town, with London sights agape, 
 
 Found nought that pleased him, for his heart had fled
 
 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 127 
 
 Into the pleasant country far away, 
 Dreaming how time with gentle Patty sped ; 
 Finding how day by day his love still grew 
 Until his heart poured forth its passion true. 
 
 How long the days ; how slow the weary nights ; 
 How dull the vapid pleasures of the town ; 
 How lone and lifeless all the crowded streets ; 
 How vain in fashion's whirl his thoughts to drown ; 
 ' Court-pleasures,' so he wrote, ' I fain would flee 
 To be for ever, Patty dear, with thee.' 
 
 And what was Patty like ? One conjures up 
 
 The portrait of a youthful maiden fair, 
 
 Sweet, dignified, half dimpling into smiles, 
 
 And yet with somewhat serious in her air ; 
 
 As though some thought she did not care to speak 
 
 Had brought a deeper colour to her cheek. 
 
 It was the last of summer, in the time 
 That reapers gather in the yellow grain ; 
 When mellow August lays a golden hand 
 Upon the purple hills and verdant plain ; 
 When the coy breezes fitful kisses blow 
 And set the crimson hollyhocks all a-glow.
 
 128 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 The last of summer. But a summer new 
 Woke with the letter, in fair Patty's breast, 
 A summer that no fading blossoms owned ; 
 No storms, no blight, a halcyon season blest, 
 Born of the earnest prayer her lover made, 
 ' Dear Patty, trust me. Do not be afraid.' 
 
 The wafer and the rent her fingers made, 
 As trembling she the letter open tore, 
 May yet be seen upon the yellow page, 
 Whilst she who trembling oped it is no more. 
 The simple record of their hopeful life 
 Outlives a century the man and wife. 
 
 Thought wanders back through the dim vale of years 
 
 To that past summer time when roses seemed 
 
 To breathe from Paradise. And heaven's wind stirred 
 
 A depth of melody that scarce she deemed 
 
 Belonged to earth, until the shaft of Love 
 
 Soft wounding taught her soul to soar above. 
 
 One tries to paint the courtship as it sped 
 In statelier wise than is the fashion now ; 
 ' Madam, your humble lover,' and then makes,
 
 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 129 
 
 Like Sir Charles Grandison, a reverent bow. 
 Thus he ; whilst she with beating heart, in vain 
 A calm unruffled mien strives to maintain. 
 
 One falls to musing o'er the wedding-day, 
 And what was Mistress Patty's wedding-gown ; 
 A sacque of paduasoy, or broidered train, 
 Or riding habit ? Was it made in. town, 
 Or did some country mantua-maker's skill 
 Suffice th' important order to fulfil ? 
 
 Still through the distance ringing soft and clear 
 Comes the joy-peal of merry wedding-bell, 
 Waked up to sound through the dim-tinted page 
 That with the joy-bell blends the funeral knell : 
 For Death a black-draped banner hangs above 
 The date that ushers in the words of love. 
 
 Full nigh a century and half ago, 
 And 'neath the quiet turf the lovers lie ; 
 Children beside the grave have weeping stood 
 Who in their turn lay down in peace to die, 
 And children's children from the earth have passed, 
 Yet the love-letter has outlived the last. 
 
 K
 
 130 ON AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 Yes such is life, wherein man plays his part 
 A phantom drama at the best a dream 
 Unreal, whilst to our earth-cumbered sense, 
 Meted by time, it doth most real seem : 
 Until the hand of Death the curtain rends 
 And the freed spirit to its home ascends. 
 
 A time-stained letter, in stiff pointed hand 
 
 Writ nigh a century and half ago ; 
 
 What is the charm that in its phrases lies 
 
 That over it one moralises so ? 
 
 Tis this : the words to which our souls give birth 
 
 Are more immortal than our lives on earth.
 
 LOVE AND SPRING. 
 
 SHAKING off the April drops 
 That her green robes spangle, 
 Spring trips blithesome o'er the flowers, 
 Heaped in glorious tangle. 
 
 Rainbow-crown and sun-gold rays 
 Into sainthood light her ; 
 Fresh-blown May-buds incense raise, 
 Clouded skies glow brighter. 
 
 Babbling brooks with silver tongues, 
 Birds in clear notes ringing, 
 ' Spring is queen of all the earth,' 
 Through the woods are singing. 
 
 ' Nay,' quoth Love, who listening lay 
 
 By the reed-bound river, 
 ' Sweeter music I can wake, 
 
 Making heart-strings quiver.'
 
 132 LOVE AND SPRING. 
 
 Whispered he throughout the land 
 Of a kingdom golden ; 
 Youth and maiden heard, and straight 
 In his chains were holden, 
 
 Spring half frowned ; Love smiling said, 
 ' We two bring fair weather ; ' 
 And since then, the poets say 
 They have reigned together.
 
 133 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 FILL to my mistress the crystal cup ! 
 
 Twine it with roses fair to see, 
 
 Foaming nectar all brimming up, 
 
 Such as the gods quaffed, fill for me ! 
 
 The health I drink is a health divine 
 
 As long as the sun and stars shall be : 
 
 Hail to thee, June, sweet mistress mine. ! 
 
 Although thou hidest away from me. 
 
 In vain I wander throughout the land, 
 
 Close on the track of thy dainty feet, 
 
 Tracing the touch of thy gracious hand 
 
 On fruit and blossom and bending wheat. 
 
 I pass through the woods, and their deepened green 
 
 Tells me thy shadow hath fallen there, 
 
 And the rustling lime-trees say, ' She hath been,' 
 
 And flutter their flowers with a jaunty air ;
 
 34 JUNE. 
 
 While myriad blossoms in hedge-row and brake 
 
 Peep at me with their sleepy eyes, 
 
 And murmur, ' June kissed us all awake ; 
 
 But we cannot yet gaze at the dazzling skies.' 
 
 Soft as velvet beneath my feet 
 
 Lo ! a rich carpet of green and gold, 
 
 Broidered with orchis and meadow-sweet, 
 
 And many a floweret I knew of old. 
 
 ' How came ye hither, ye flowers, now say ? ' 
 
 Quick out-spake the pimpernel bright : 
 
 ' June sat weaving a web so gay, 
 
 All in the hush of the summer night. 
 
 June sat weaving a web last night, 
 
 Silver her threads in the moonlight seemed ; 
 
 But the sun flashed on them his glorious light, 
 
 And a thousand colours at day-dawn gleamed.' 
 
 I strolled through the fields of fragrant hay 
 
 Whilst the haymakers rested awhile at noon, 
 
 And as on the ground they idly lay, 
 
 Loud rang their praises of lovely June. 
 
 I turned to the farm-house so grey and old, 
 
 With its pointed roofs, and its straw-thatched sheds, 
 
 Its goodly cornstacks yellow as gold, 
 
 Its trim-kept garden with box-edged beds.
 
 JUNE. 135 
 
 Wild at will grew the roses there, 
 Pinks filled the air with a rich perfume, 
 And I knew that June with a skill full rare 
 Had spangled the jasmine with starry bloom. 
 I wandered down to the shady pool, 
 And the waterflag's petals were all uncurled ; 
 ' Oh ! waterflag by the waters cool, 
 Why is thy standard to-day unfurled ? 
 Why sing the birds on bush and on tree ? 
 Why so loud doth the grasshopper hum ? ' 
 And the waterflag gravely answered me, 
 ' Because the Queen of the Year is come." 
 O June ! O June ! sweet mistress mine ! 
 Well may I drain the goblet to thee, 
 God-like nectar and golden wine, 
 Although thou hidest away from me. 
 
 I dreamed that I saw fair June last night, 
 And her eyes were dark as the violet, 
 Her robe was tinged with the emerald's light, 
 Her girdle with diamond dew-drops set. 
 Lilies and roses her fair brow crowned, 
 Lilies and roses twisted and twined ; 
 Like a dark cloud floated her tresses unbound, 
 A dusky cloud with amber lined.
 
 136 JUNE. 
 
 Softly she whispered, ' Be true as now,' 
 ' True,' said I, ' To death will I be.' 
 Softly she kissed my burning brow, 
 And then the vision was lost to me. 
 
 Night fled away and the morning rose, 
 And again fair June through the woods I seek, 
 And every waft of wind that blows 
 Brings back her kisses upon my cheek. 
 She's the fairest mistress that e'er I knew, 
 I've loved her many and many a day ; 
 And when age creeps on I will still be true, 
 Though my footstep falter, my locks turn grey. 
 And when in the grave forgotten I lie, 
 Sweet June will linger my grave to see ; 
 Perchance she may even breathe a sigh 
 And say, ' Ah ! why did such true love die ? 
 He was faithful unto me.'
 
 137 
 
 JULY. 
 
 THROUGHOUT the house a dreamy stillness stole, 
 The watch-dog slept, scarce buzzed the lazy fly ; 
 The clock ticked on with solemn, measured tone 
 Counting the drowsy moments of July. 
 
 Through quaint-shaped panes the mellow light crept in 
 And traced rare brown-gold shadows on the floor ; 
 The air was heavy with the scent that hung 
 Around the clematis that framed the door. 
 
 Through the clipped arches of the olden yew 
 I passed, and breathless silence reigned around ; 
 As though the earth by some enchanter's spell 
 In magic sleep were bound. 
 
 The peaches slumbered on the garden wall, 
 The dew upon their crimson cheeks was wet ; 
 The red-ripe strawberries gleamed amid their leaves 
 Like rubies in a ducal coronet.
 
 138 JULY. 
 
 The feathery wheat stood still as fairy spears 
 Borne by a million transfixed sentinels ; 
 The harebell was asleep, nor woke to ring 
 In honour of July her tiny bells. 
 
 The flame-tongued nightshade drooped her purple 
 
 pride, 
 
 Yet held entranced the hedges where she clung ; 
 And wearied there, her trails of blossoms white 
 The wild convolvulus hung. 
 
 The river with its waveless waters lay 
 All motionless, as a pure crystal sea ; 
 Another landscape painted on the tide, 
 With spire, and sail, and tree. 
 
 Close by the rush-grown bank a boat was moored, 
 So still, it stirred not on the river's breast ; 
 The world was hushed, and Nature at my feet 
 Lay wrapped in perfect rest. 
 
 Like to the princess in the story old, 
 She in her beauty slept. Oh sight of bliss ! 
 Waiting until some poet-heart should come 
 And wake her with his kiss.
 
 JULY. 139 
 
 O wake ! O wake ! and breathe into my soul 
 Thy soul, that rightly I of thee may sing ; 
 Or sleep for ever, in thy beauty veiled 
 'Neath July's wing.
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 CONQUEST-FLUSHED, like a warrior bold, 
 On his mettlesome steed October brown, 
 Over the hills, the valleys adown, . 
 
 Rideth ; 
 
 Trampling the rustling leaves of gold, 
 As his steed he onward guideth. 
 
 At every tramp of his charger's hoof, 
 
 He buries a treasure and mutters a charm, 
 And the wandering wind a jubilant psalm 
 
 Singeth ; 
 
 Whilst mischievous frost-sprites stand aloof, 
 Nor harm the seed that he flingeth. 
 
 And the night-stars whisper to him who wakes 
 A deeper meaning than dreamers can read, 
 ' Life shall arise from the buried seed ;
 
 OCTOBER. 141 
 
 Then know 
 
 That Death gives life for the life he takes, 
 As Nature doth forth-show.' 
 
 Over lakes and rivers he shakes his spear, 
 
 And the angler stands where the river rolls past, 
 And the purple mountains deep shadows cast 
 
 In the tide ; 
 
 And he sees far down in the water clear 
 The speckled troutlets glide. 
 
 Tramp through the orchard, each bough low bends, 
 Laden with treasure October to greet, 
 Eager its blushing wealth at his feet 
 
 To pour ; 
 
 For the kindly smile that on all he sends 
 Hath made him a king twice o'er. 
 
 Then when the fire crackles and logs bright blaze, 
 And Hallowe'en nuts are burning slow, 
 And mirrors to maidens their lovers show, 
 
 Fill up ! 
 And drain to jolly October's praise, 
 
 In ale that he's kissed, a parting cup.
 
 142 
 
 NO VEMEER, 
 
 I 
 Lo, a dim phantom steals across the land, 
 
 Mist-shrouded, sad November, . 
 Painting out leafless trees with shadowy hand, 
 And twining fog-wreaths round the old church-tower, 
 Whose deep-toned bell proclaims from hour to hour, 
 
 ' O year, remember, 
 Thy life is nigh its close, so whispers chill November.' 
 
 II 
 
 The sky-lark's song, that heavenward did float, 
 
 Dies before sad November ; 
 Hushed by the silent pool the frog's harsh note, 
 And summer birds are gone ; and in his nest 
 The sleeping squirrel takes his winter rest, 
 
 And doth remember 
 
 The summer in his dreams, nor cares for drear 
 November.
 
 NOVEMBER. 143 
 
 III 
 He dreams, nor wakes up at the cheery sounds 
 
 That startle grim November, 
 The huntsman's horn, the eager baying hounds, 
 The tramp of horse's hoofs, the view halloo, 
 As wily Reynard flees before the crew, 
 
 Nor doth remember 
 
 The cunning feints he made to cheat them last 
 November. 
 
 IV 
 Scared by the jovial shouts, with frowning brow, 
 
 Creeps onward dark November ; 
 And cities vast are shadow-cities now, 
 With spectre-lamps all sickly-glaring lit, 
 Whilst through the shadow-streets dim torches flit, 
 
 And men remember, 
 And mingle Eastern myths and genii with November. 
 
 V 
 
 Half mist, half sunshine, fitful is the reign 
 
 Of ghost-like, sad November ; 
 Like to a human life, half joy, half pain,
 
 144 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Reality and shadow blent together, 
 
 Storm, calm, and summer-gleam 'midst wintry weather 
 
 As men remember 
 
 The chequered lights and shades of many a past 
 November.
 
 145 
 
 NEW YEARS DAY. 
 
 PEAL, peal from the belfry tower, 
 The bells are ringing at midnight : 
 
 The ringers ring a joyous chime, 
 
 ' A child is born to Father Time,' 
 And the bells ring out at midnight. 
 
 Brave hearts are listening in the town, 
 For the first soft chime at midnight, 
 
 And the shout goes up, ' Hail, New Year, hail ! 
 
 Bring strength and courage that ne'er shall fail, 
 To carry us through earth's midnight.' 
 
 As for the angel's step in the pool, 
 
 So the watchers watch at midnight, 
 Loving women waiting to pray 
 For blessings on those who are far away, 
 
 When the bells ring out at midnight. 
 L
 
 146 NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 A ship is nearing the harbour bar, 
 The beacon light flashes at midnight, 
 And the bells ring merrily over the sea, 
 ' Sailor, a double welcome to thee, 
 The New Year is born this midnight.' 
 
 The ringers ring with a lusty will, 
 And the voice goes forth at midnight, 
 ' A brave New Year, a happy year 
 To old and young, all people hear 
 Bless ye the bells at midnight. 
 
 ' Bless ye the bells, for angel hands 
 Have tuned their notes at midnight, 
 That so to every heart their voice 
 Shall sound, " The New Year's come, rejoice, 
 God's gift to us this midnight." '
 
 147 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 I 
 
 I DUG a grave at midnight, there to bury 
 A sorrow-stricken, bent, and wounded form ; 
 
 ' Old friend,' quoth I, ' we've roughed the world to- 
 gether, 
 Through sunshine and through storm. 
 
 II 
 ' Take with thee to thy rest my sins, my sorrows, 
 
 My wrongs, my hopes, all blurred with bitter tears ; 
 Let them lie silent in thy breast for ever, 
 
 Nor darken coming years.' 
 
 Ill 
 Beside the grave there stood an angel-watcher ; 
 
 1 Nay, for their work is yet undone,' spake he ; 
 ' They must live on to teach thee truths learned only 
 
 Through long heart-agony.'
 
 148 THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 IV 
 Next cast I in the grave joys gone for ever, 
 
 Love, noble impulses, and god-like thought, 
 Lest that the longing after bright days faded 
 
 Should be to madness wrought. 
 
 V . 
 ' Bury them not,' outspake the angel-watcher, 
 
 ' No noble deed but bears fruit manifold ; 
 No act of love but lives, though unrequited ; 
 
 No truth but keeps its hold. 
 
 VI 
 ' Bury them not ! When wilder storms are raging, 
 
 When darker clouds on thy horizon rise, 
 Like beacon lights through Time's touch clearer 
 
 growing, 
 Shall shine their memories.' 
 
 VII 
 Then turned I to the grave I dug at midnight, 
 
 Where pale and cold in death the Old Year slept ; 
 And bending down I kissed his forehead lightly, 
 
 And bitterly I wept.
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR. 149 
 
 VIII 
 ' Old friend,' quoth I, ' we part to-night for ever, 
 
 And I must bear the burden thou hast borne, 
 Until I hear the whispered words from heaven, 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn." ' 
 
 IX 
 ' Blessed, thrice blessed they,' a voice made answer, 
 
 And at that voice sweet bells began to ring, 
 Clear from a thousand belfry turrets pealing, 
 
 To hail the New Year king. 
 
 X 
 
 The New Year king, like to a fair child-angel, 
 
 Pressed down the sods upon the Old Year's grave, 
 
 And lo, rare amaranth flowers of heavenly beauty 
 All glorious o'er it wave. 
 
 XI 
 He plucked one flower, and in his bosom laid it ; 
 
 ' Thus in the present aye shall live the past, 
 No grief, no joy, no hope the Old Year cherished 
 
 Shall to the winds be cast.'
 
 150 THE BURIAL OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 XII 
 
 He stood there like the Resurrection-angel, 
 Conquering the flesh through spiritual strife, 
 
 And I beheld the Old Year in the Present 
 Raised to immortal life. 
 
 XIII 
 
 He stood, his flaming sword still pointing onward ; 
 
 My grief was hushed, and faith o'ercame each fear, 
 I blessed the Old Year in his dark grave sleeping, 
 
 And hailed the New-born Year.
 
 YESTERDA Y. 
 
 THE birds are darting on joyous wing, 
 The wind a tune o'er the hills is blowing, 
 The stream in dreamy music is flowing, 
 And yet I cannot sing ; 
 My lips are still on this summer day, 
 My heart is cold, and a shadow gray 
 Points ever backward to Yesterday. 
 
 Dripped through the branches the thunder-rain, 
 Hushed were the birds, and ever my weeping 
 Measure with Summer's hot pulse was keeping 
 In passionate refrain. 
 
 Then laughed the sun through the cloudlets gay, 
 But the pain in my heart died not away, 
 And the shadow pointed to Yesterday.
 
 152 YESTERDAY. 
 
 The west was glowing with purple bars, 
 The golden sun was lost in the river, 
 The moon shone out, and a silver quiver 
 Of light fell over the stars ; 
 And living murmurs all died away ; 
 Yet close beside me the shadow gray 
 Evermore pointed to Yesterday. 
 
 Faded the stars, and the dawning red 
 
 Over the distant hills was stealing, 
 
 And softly the village bells were pealing 
 
 A chime as for the dead ! 
 
 And morning and night and bright noon-day 
 
 To the past still bore my thoughts away, 
 
 Till each to-morrow seemed Yesterday. 
 
 Past, weary past ! wilt thou never die ? 
 Say, shall there nevermore come a morrow 
 Lighted by hope and untouched by sorrow ? 
 Sudden athwart the sky 
 Arching over the storm-clouds gray 
 Flashed sun-painted a rainbow gay 
 Paling the darkness of Yesterday.
 
 YESTERDA Y. 153 
 
 Gleamed with pure storm-pearls the bridge divine, 
 
 And the wild soul waters ceased their sobbing, 
 
 And hushed was my heart's fierce fever throbbing 
 
 At sight of the holy sign ; 
 
 The haunting shadow vanished away, 
 
 And I seemed to hear the angels say, 
 
 ' The Future is born of Yesterday.'
 
 154 
 
 1 MEMENTO DOMINE: 
 
 AT midnight went a cry throughout the land, 
 Swift the Death- Angel flew on mighty wings ; 
 Lo ! he hath smitten with relentless hand 
 The palaces of kings. 
 
 At morning rose a wild and wailing cry, 
 ' Mourn for the great, the good, in death laid low.' 
 And England prostrate in her grief doth lie 
 ' " Memento Domine" a nation's woe.' 
 
 Through stone-wrought tracery, in painted rays 
 The sunlight falls on carvings rare and quaint, 
 Where, 'neath groined roof the sinner kneels and prays, 
 Nigh sculptured saint 
 
 Hushed is the organ now through aisle so dim 
 Sadly resounds the solemn litany 
 Be still each heart ! No prayer is heard for him y 
 But ' Miserere nobis Domine!
 
 ' MEMENTO DO MINE: 155 
 
 'Neath plainer roofs void of adorning grace, 
 Whence many a heartfelt prayer to Heaven's upborne, 
 Sorrow is written on each earnest face : 
 
 ' " Memento Domine" all them that mourn.' 
 
 In many a home, by rich or poor possessed, 
 The trembling mother prays (with tenderer care 
 Still clasping close her darling to her breast) 
 ' " Memento Doming," old England's heir.' 
 
 Death brings us near akin ; the low, the great, 
 Alike must perish as the falling leaf; 
 Death levels all, he heeds nor wealth nor state 
 ' " Memento Domine," all those in grief.' 
 
 No sceptred queen enthroned now fills each thought, 
 Death hath raised up deep living love to life ; 
 Rank, royalty, pass by as things of nought 
 ' " Memento Domine" the sorrowing wife.' 
 
 ' God save the Queen ! We put our trust in Thee, 
 And rev'rently in her great grief would share ; 
 Grant her Thy peace. " Memento Domine? 
 A nation's prayer.'
 
 156 
 
 MY SOUL AND I. 
 
 LONG time ago, my Soul and I 
 
 Had many curious disquisitions 
 
 Upon the present and the past, 
 
 And on our relative positions. 
 
 And yet we failed, my Soul and I, 
 
 In proving our identity ; 
 
 For said I to my Soul, it seems 
 
 I should not be myself without you ; 
 
 Yet what you are, or whence you came, 
 
 Who can tell anything about you ? 
 
 Hadst waited long for me, my Soul, 
 
 Floating about in space infinite ? 
 
 Or did we two, created one, 
 
 Spring into life the self-same minute ? 
 
 How comes it that we suit so well 
 
 Each so dissimilar in essence ; 
 
 One deathless, immaterial, 
 
 The other of corporeal presence ;
 
 MY SOUL AND I. 157 
 
 One born to die, one born to live, 
 The two yet needful for perfection ; 
 And birth the link, and death the sword, 
 That bind and loose the strange connection 
 Through which it haps my Soul and I 
 Are fashioned to Humanity ? 
 
 Dost thou not cling to me, my Soul, 
 With somewhat of a home-like feeling,- 
 Whilst still I listen unto thee 
 For ever unknown worlds revealing ? 
 'Tis death to part from thee, my Soul ; 
 'Tis life to thee from me to sever ; 
 Must I decay ? must thou live on ? 
 And shall we parted be for ever ? 
 We've hoped and loved, and smiled and wept, 
 And tossed about the world together ; 
 May we not rest in Paradise 
 After our spell of rough earth weather ? 
 I cannot let thee go, my Soul, 
 We both must linger at the portal ; 
 The gates will not be opened wide 
 Until my dust be made immortal. 
 Then shall we be, my Soul and I, 
 Still one throughout eternity.
 
 I S 8 
 
 < JUSTUS FREIHERR VON LIEBIG 1ST 
 GESTORBEN: 
 
 ANOTHER master-spirit gone from earth ! 
 
 Recalled by God, who through those dead lips spake 
 
 Strange revelation of His wondrous works ; 
 
 For so doth God from time to time vouchsafe 
 
 To send the world fruit from that knowledge-tree, 
 
 Whose secrets Adam with fair Eden lost. 
 
 Recalled ere yet relentless Time had pressed 
 
 With hand too heavy on his noble brow 
 
 Or dimmed the lustre of his intellect ; 
 
 But whilst life's summer rays still ling' ring shone 
 
 In ripest glory round him, so he went 
 
 From earth ; and left a mourning world behind. 
 
 I looked upon the calm face of the dead, 
 All peaceful, sleeping 'midst the blooming flowers, 
 Whilst earthly honours glittered at his feet ; 
 Given by kings to him, a greater king, 
 Crowned by the hand of God with God's own crown 
 Of kingship. Not o'er single realm to rule,
 
 JUSTUS FREIHERR VON LIEBIG. 159 
 
 But o'er the greater empire of men's minds 
 Deathless to reign throughout all after-time 
 Wherever Science shall be known on earth. 
 
 And so I paid my. homage to the dead, 
 Not for myself alone, but with the thought 
 Of my own sorrowing England and my Queen, 
 I laid my flowers upon the great man's bier. 
 
 Dead ! and the world a-weeping ! Dead ! ah, nay, 
 Why weep ye for the dead ? He hath but slept 
 Into a purer and more perfect life 
 Where the unknown is all made clear and plain, 
 And greater wonders day by day revealed 
 Than man in mortal nature can conceive ; 
 For earthly film has fallen from his eyes 
 And not His works alone but God Himself 
 The soul immortal hath seen face to face. 
 
 Munich: 1873. 
 
 The room in which Baron von Liebig lay in state after his death 
 was a perfect mass of flowers. He was surrounded and almost covered 
 with the most beautiful wreaths, crosses, and bouquets of flowers, 
 flanked by a border of palms. He looked as if he were asleep, and his 
 eyebrows being very black and well-formed gave him a life-like ap- 
 pearance. There were white flowers on his breast and a small laurel 
 wreath on his head. On his breast also were some of his orders, and 
 other orders and decorations were lying in a brilliant heap at his feet. 
 Candles were burning around with bouquets in front of them.
 
 i6o 
 
 THE FELLING OF THE TREES. 
 
 WITHIN the darkened room he lay 
 And heard the moaning wind go by ; 
 And listening to the requiem sung, he knew that he 
 must die. 
 
 The scent of pine woods faintly stole 
 Upon the languid summer breeze, 
 And sharp the woodman's axe told out the felling of 
 the trees. 
 
 His thoughts from out the prisoned gloom 
 Went wandering into dreamy space, 
 Where through mossed stems gold shreds of light the 
 fleeting shadows chase. 
 
 He saw the scarlet strawberries hide 
 'Neath unparched grass-waves green and cool, 
 He saw the shallow streamlet slip into the shady 
 pool.
 
 THE FELLING OF THE TREES. 161 
 
 He knew each wood-path, memories sweet 
 Upfloated from a sun-gilt time ; 
 He knew each tree the woodman's axe felled in its 
 leafy prime. 
 
 He listened all the long day through, 
 Another and another gone 
 
 ' So fall the mighty as the trees ! Ah Lord, Thy will 
 be done ! ' 
 
 He listened till the evening came, 
 And then the woodman's axe grew still, 
 And as the setting sun went down, he murmured 
 ' Tis Thy will.' 
 
 And then the summer stars shone out, 
 And night across the heavens crept, 
 
 And on his weary couch men thought the sleeper 
 only slept ; 
 
 But with red dawn they whispered low, 
 ' Another to his rest is gone ! ' 
 
 And still the woodman felled the trees, and still the 
 busy world went on. 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 BRING KOSES. 
 
 BRING roses ! 
 
 Life is so fair ; 
 The world is golden-paven 
 
 Everywhere. 
 Youth dips his white foot in the stream 
 
 So slowly flowing ; 
 Life is a glorious dream 
 
 Still growing 
 Into a fair reality. 
 
 Bring Roses ! 
 
 Life has grown dark ; 
 The river sullen rages, 
 
 And no spark 
 Of sunlight flecks the waves, and wild 
 
 The wind is blowing ; 
 The dream fled with the dawning ; 
 
 Life is growing 
 Into a sad reality.
 
 SRh\G ROSES. 163 
 
 Bring Roses ! 
 
 For life is cold, 
 And lacks the beauty-woven 
 
 Veil of old. 
 Scatter the swiftly ebbing tide 
 
 With flowers a-glowing, 
 That mortals may not heed 
 
 Its flowing 
 Unto a dark reality. 
 
 Bring Roses ! 
 
 For life hath fled ; 
 Twine them with gold-eyed pansies 
 
 For the dead, 
 Then stay thy hand, for Death hath brought 
 
 Roses supernal ; 
 Earth's dream is passed, and in 
 
 Th' Eternal 
 Man finds a blest reality.
 
 1 64 
 
 A REQUIEM. 
 
 (IN MEMORIAM.) 
 
 M. L. M G., OBIIT 1874. 
 
 FOR the beloved one, whose death hath made 
 A life-long death to linger in our breast ; 
 
 And in the silent grave, in sorrow laid 
 Earth's hopes to rest. 
 
 For her, whose life was more than half our own, 
 Forth-blossoming with rare and fragrant flowers, 
 
 That scarce we knew till Death the truth made known 
 Or hers or ours. 
 
 For her, whose life like some fair guiding star, 
 Shed on our paths a never-failing light ; 
 
 Till o'er our heaven Death stretched a gloomy bar, 
 And made all night :
 
 A REQUIEM. 165 
 
 We, waiting, listen for her voice in vain ; 
 
 The work-day world enwrapped in silence seems ; 
 We long for night to clasp yet once again 
 
 Her hand in dreams. 
 
 Our footsteps falter, and our song is hushed ; 
 
 We pause, where the white summer roses wave : 
 Our hearts are buried there, our joys lie crushed 
 
 Within that grave. 
 
 Alas ! the golden bowl is broken now, 
 
 The silver cord is sudden snapped in twain, 
 
 And Death has set his signet on our brow, 
 With cankering stain. 
 
 The world may robe itself in rainbow dyes, 
 The birds may gaily sing, the buds unfold ; 
 
 Our ears are dull, a mist-veil shades our eyes 
 Our lives are cold. 
 
 Our souls unto the dust in anguish sore 
 
 Are bowed, through severance of the tender tie, 
 
 And fast the bitter blinding tears down-pour 
 In agony.
 
 166 A REQUIEM. 
 
 Ay weep ! ay weep ! Our faith is none the less, 
 Although in tears we give our hearts relief; 
 
 God's loving mercy we can yet confess 
 Amidst our grief. 
 
 Ay weep ! ay weep ! For God has given us tears, 
 And hearts of flesh, that feel, that break, that bleed 
 
 He pities us in heaven our cry He hears 
 He knows our need. 
 
 O Christ, have mercy ! Hearken to our cry ! 
 Since Thou beside the grave where Lazarus slept, 
 Felt, in Thy Manhood, man's infirmity 
 And, loving > wept. 
 
 O Lord ! O Christ ! have mercy ! Thou didst heed, 
 And dried the tears the sorrowing widow shed : 
 Lord, Thou wilt not condemn us, if we plead 
 To mourn our dead.
 
 A REQUIEM. 167 
 
 O Lord ! O Christ ! have mercy ! Thou dost know 
 Each throb and quiver of the wounded heart, 
 Each inly struggle to endure the blow ; 
 Thy strength impart. 
 
 O Lord, remember us ! Thy servants, when, 
 As to Thy Cross, we faint, and trembling cling ; 
 Pale death stands by, despite the power of men, 
 With folded wing. 
 
 Remember, Lord, Thy wandering footsore sheep, 
 Who, though oft-erring, strive to follow where 
 Thy voice is heard by healing waters deep, 
 In pastures fair. 
 
 O Lord, remember us ! Thou cam'st to save, 
 The power of man's last enemy to break, 
 Thou wilt not, in the passage of the grave, 
 Thine own forsake.
 
 1 68 A REQUIEM. 
 
 Thou didst remember, Lord, the dying thief; 
 And even so, when death shall close our eyes, 
 Remember, Lord ! Bear us, beyond our grief, 
 To Paradise. . 
 
 Jfastias. 
 
 Praises and prayers in thankful sacrifice 
 Upon the altar of our hearts we lay ; 
 The grief-touched incense Thou wilt not despise, 
 Nor, turn away. 
 
 O Lord ! we thank Thee, for our loved ones dead, 
 Whom Thou within Thy circling arms held fast, 
 As they, along the lonely vale o'erspread 
 With shadows, passed. 
 
 O Lord ! we thank Thee for the pitying love, 
 That tenderly hewed out the path they trod, 
 Raising their souls, the joys of earth above, 
 Through peace with God.
 
 A REQUIEM. 169 
 
 O Lord ! we thank Thee, in that Thou hast made 
 Their lives to us a precious. chain of gold, 
 Whose links bind round us, whilst its clasp is laid 
 Within Thy hold. 
 
 We thank Thee, Lord, that underneath Thy feet, 
 Sin, Death, and Hell, Thou didst triumphant hurl, 
 And open flung, whilst angeUsong rang sweet, 
 Heaven's gates of pearl. 
 
 We praise Thee, Lord, that though Death's flood divide, 
 We wait on Thee, one living army still ; 
 Souls yearn alike on either side the tide 
 To do Thy Will. 
 
 O Lord ! we give Thee thanks, that even now, 
 We, with the blessed ones, to Thee may raise 
 Our song, and heaven and earth together bow 
 In fervent praise. 
 
 O Lord ! O Lord ! perchance it may be when 
 Earth's swelling anthem pierces through the skies, 
 Our loved may hear the mourners' far ' Amen ! ' 
 In Paradise. 
 
 N
 
 i?o A REQUIEM. 
 
 From gorgeous flashing wall to turret high, 
 A city stands enthroned in wondrous light, 
 There blooming summer reigns eternally, 
 There is no night. 
 
 And there no sun, no moon, no stars need shine, 
 For God's own glory fills the space around ; 
 The Lamb for ever is the Light Divine, 
 With honour crowned. 
 
 Fair through the city flows a crystal tide ; 
 Fadeless the flowers that on its banks are seen ; 
 Droop-down fruit-laden trees on either side, 
 In living green 
 
 
 
 There inthe morn that needs no light of sun, 
 Each wondering soul shall measure soul anew, 
 And deeds that earthly homage never won, 
 Meet guerdon true.
 
 A REQUIEM. 171 
 
 And many a one on earth, an unknown king, 
 There, crowned, shall find in God his dormant right ; 
 There shall the saved of nations honour bring, 
 
 And walk in light. 
 
 \ 
 
 There shall be seen how sorrow's dimming blight, 
 And every weary step of suffering trod, 
 Led to the city of Eternal Light : 
 Led up to God. 
 
 O ! glorious Zion ! city, passing fair ; 
 
 O ! golden land ! O ! haven of the blest ! 
 
 O God ! O God ! that we were with Thee there, 
 
 In perfect rest. 
 
 Cum Sanxiis. 
 
 Lord ! grant, that when this troubled life is o'er, 
 To us the heritage be also given, 
 That with the holy ones, for evermore, 
 We dwell in heaven.
 
 172 A REQUIEM. 
 
 There by the glassy sea, with that great throng, 
 Who ' Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! ' ever cry ; 
 May we Thy praise in ceaseless strain prolong, 
 Throughout eternity. 
 Amen ! 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW -STREET SQUARE 
 AMD PARLIAMENT STREET