4971 tea? O I r. E M&UN LJL fgrsa 1 IS yni . THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES r lets front % & BY CHARLES MACKAY. ScconU (Etiitton. LONDON: G. ROUTLEDGE & CO. EARRINGDON STREET: NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET. 1857. CONTENTS. MOUNTAIN STREAMS MELODIES AND MYSTERIES THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA THE FOLLOWER WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS THE WATER TARANTELLA. . THE EARTH AND THE STARS THE YOUNG EARTH THE GOLDEN MADNESS THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER THE DROP OP AMBROSIA . . NOW THE VISION OF MOCKERY THE KIXG AND THE NIGHTINGALES EVERMORE — NEVERMORE THE TRUE COMPANION .. Page 1 4 6 15 20 22 25 30 32 37 41 46 49 52 61 65 67 102 IV CONTENTS. WELCOME BACK A lover's FANCIES THE NINE BATHERS TWO MYSTERIES THE CONFESSION OF AHASUERUS A REVERIE IN THE GRASS LOVE OR WISDOM FOLLOW TODR LEADER THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS 63 70 71 77 78 88 92 95 93 -ooj^o-o- Doitcs front tjje |itounf;tins. MOUNTAIN STEEAMS. AN ASPIRATION FROM TOWN. What time the fern puts forth its rings, What time the early throstle sings, I love to fly the murky town, And tread the moorlands, bare and brown ; From greenest level of the glens To barest summit of the Bens, To trace the torrents where they flow, Serene or brawling, fierce or slow; To linger pleased, and loiter long, A silent listener to their song. Farewell, ye streets ! Again I'll sit On crags to watch the shadows flit ; To list the buzzing of the bee, Or branches waving like a sea ; To hear far off the cuckoo's note, Or lark's clear carol high afloat, B VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. And find a joy in every sound, Of air, the water, or the ground ; Of fancies full, though fixing nought, And thinking — heedless of my thought. Farewell ! and in the teeth of care I'll breathe the buxom mountain air, Feed vision upon dyes and hues That from the hill-top interfuse, "White rocks, and lichens born of spray, Dark heather-tufts, and mosses grey, Green grass, blue sky, and boulders brown, With amber waters glistening down, And early flowers, blue, white, and pink, That fringe with beauty all the brink. Farewell, ye streets ! Beneath an arch Of drooping birch or feathery larch, Or mountain-ash, that o'er it bends, I'll watch some streamlet as it wends ; Some brook whose tune its course betrays, Whose verdure tracks its hidden ways — Verdure of trees and bloom of flowers, And music fresher than the showers, Soft dripping where the tendrils twine ; And all its beauty shall be mine. Ay, mine, to bring me joy and health, And endless store of mental wealth — Wealth ever given to hearts that warm To loveliness of sound or form, MOUNTAIN STREAMS. And that can see in Nature's face A hope, a beauty, and a grace — That in the city or the woods, In thorouglnares or solitudes, Can live their life at Nature's call, Despising nothing, loving all. Sweet streams, that over summits leap, Or fair in rock-hewn basins sleep ; That foaming burst in bright cascades, Or toy with cowslips in the shades ; That shout till earth and sky grow mute, Or tinkle lowly as a lute ; That sing a song of lusty joy, Or murmur like a love-lorn boy ; That creep or fall, that flow or run — I dote upon you every one. For many a day of calm delight, And hour of pleasure stol'n from night ; For morning freshness, joy of noon, And beauty rising with the moon ; For health, encrimsoner of cheeks, And wisdom gain'd on mountain-peaks ; For inward light from Nature won, And visions gilded by the sun ; For fancies fair and waking dreams — I love you all, ye mountain streams. VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. Wouldst thou know what the blithe bird pipeth, High in the morning air? "Wouldst thou know what the bright stream singeth, Rippling o'er pebbles bare 1 Sorrow the mystery shall teach thee, And the words declare. Wouldst thou find in the rose's blossom More than thy fellows find? More in the fragrance of the lily Than odour on the wind ? Love Nature, and her smallest atoms Shall whisper to thy mind. Wouldst thou know what the moon discourseth To the docile sea? Wouldst hear the echoes of the music Of the far infinity ? Sorrow shall ope the founts of knowledge, And heaven shall sing to thee. Wouldst thou see through the riddle of Beincr Further than others can ? Sorrow shall give thine eyes new lustre To simplify the plan ; And love of God and thy kind shall aid thee To end what it began. MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. To Love and Sorrow all Nature speaketh ; If the riddle be read, They the best can see through darkness Each divergent thread Of its mazy texture, and discover Whence the ravel spread. Love and Sorrow are sympathetic With the earth and skies ; Their touch from the harp of Nature bringeth The hidden melodies 3 To them the eternal chords for ever Vibrate in harmonies. VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. AN APOLOGUE. Walking on the Dead Sea shore, Meditating evermore, Underneath the burning ray Of intolerable day, I beheld a fearful thing — Bloody deed as e'er was done, Wrought, unblushing, unrelenting, In the presence of the sun. Fair, and young, and bright was he, Who that morning walk'd with me By the margin of the sea ; Calm, and eloquent, and wise, Radiant in immortal youth ; Knowledge sparkled in his eyes, From his forehead living truth. He was a youth indeed divine, A master and a friend of mine, For whose dear sake I would have given All on the mortal side of heaven. We talk'd together and paced along ; We did no mortal creature wrong ; And sometimes sitting on the sands, Or on the jutting rocks below, He look'd at me, and clasp'd my hands, And told me thing3 I ought to know— TIIE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. Things of heaven and things of earth, Things of wisdom and of mirth ; The wisdom cheerful, the mirth most wise, And both brimful of mysteries. There came a woman by the way — A stately woman, proud and strong ; Her robe of purple velvet shone, Like a starry night, with precious stone, And trail'd the sands as she swept along. She wore a dagger at her side, Jewel-hilted, bright, and keen : You might have told, by her crown of gold, This gorgeous woman was a queen; But more by her eyes, that flash'd the fire Of one accustom'd to control ; To rule in awe, and give the law That binds the body and the soul. And, in her train, there follow'd her A well-arm'd troop of stalwart men, So bloody and bare, I do not care Ever to see their like again. My friend arose and look'd at her ; Calm and beautiful he stood, With such magnificence of eye As God but gives unto the good. She scowl'd at him; each quivering limb In all her body spake her wrath ; And her fearful tongue loud curses flung At the mild presence in her path : VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. " Monster of evil ! fiend of guile ! What brings thee here to blast my sight 1 But since thou darest, in the day, To meet and brave me in the way, We'll try thy power — we'll know thy right." "Lady," he said, and mildly spoke, While heavenly beauty lit his face, " My God hath made me what I am, And given me an abiding-place ; And if my presence please thee not, The world is wide — thou need'st not come To slay me in each quiet spot, Where I have sanctified a home. Thou'st taken from me wide domains, And follow'd me with hate and scorn ; Enjoy thine own — let me alone — I wait in patience for the Morn." A frenzy flush'd her burning brow, A rage too mighty to contain ; Her nostrils widen'd, and seem'd to smoke ; She grasp'd her neck as she would choke, And then, like one who suffer'd pain, Her trembling lips she did compress ; Her cheeks grew cold and colourless. But soon the madness of her blood Boil'd in her bosom where she stood ; Her eyes seem'd coals of living flame, And incoherent curses came, Gasping and gurgling, from her mouth; — Never tornado of the south THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. Made half the wreck as, in that hour, She would have made, had she the power. My friend stood by, with folded arms, Serene, and innocent, and pure ; And when she saw that he but smiled At all her hate, she could endure No longer on his face to look, But smote it with her jewell'd hand : "Insensate wretch!" she fiercely said, " Let me not slay thee where I stand ; I will not stab thee to the heart, Lest, in my haste, I mar delight, And thou shouldst die and end thy pain Too suddenly before my sight. Not yet thy venomous blood shall flow, But I will slay thee ere I go !" Her body-guards, so fierce and grim, Seized his arms and pinion'd him ; And every one, with his gauntlet on, — An iron gauntlet, heavy to bear, — Smote him on his cheeks and eyes, And bruised his lips, so ruddy fair, Till the blood started, and over-dyed The bloom of his face with gory red; And then they spat on him in spite, And heap'd foul curses on his head. And he — what could he do but pray, And let them work their cruel will 1 — Turn'd his looks to the judging sky, Appealing, though forgiving still. 10 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Then from his lily skin they tore Every vestment that he bore ; Smote him, threw him on the ground, And his limbs with fetters bound ; Naked, helpless, and forlorn, Mark for all their wrath and scorn ; And with lying words, accused Of every shame, deceit, and crime ; And, when once he strove to speak, Fill'd his mouth with sand and slime ; Stamping on him as he lay Bound and bleeding on the way; And I, alas ! alone, alone ! Could but curse them and bemoan That I could not, as I trod, Grasp th' avenging bolts of God. And as he lay upon the beach, Deprived of motion and of speech, The queen, that woman so proud and fierce, Look'd upon him with feverish joy ; Her fiery glances seem'd to pierce Through and through the bleeding boy ; She put her hand on his naked breast, And felt his heart : " Ah ! well," said she, " It beats and beats, but shall not beat To vex me thus incessantly." And she drew the poniard from her side, Slowly, calmly, sheath and all ; Unsheathed it, felt if its edge were sharp, And dipp'd its point in poisonous gall ; THE MAX IX THE DEAD SEA. 11 And, kneeling down, with flashing face Gazed upon him in that place. She did not stab him : she grasp'd his flesh As if she'd tear it from his bones ; Then took the slime from his bleeding mouth, That she might hear his piteous groans. He faintly said, " Thou canst not kill ; My charmed life defies thy will." " I can," she answer'd, whispering low ; — '• This is the death that thou shalt know. Thy days are number'd — thy race is run ; Thou art an insult to the sun." And in his breast, up to the hilt, She plunged the dagger, and wrench'd it round, Then drew it out with a joyous cry, And pointed to the ghastly wound ; Then drove it in again — again, "With force redoubled every time ; And left it sticking in his heart For very luxury of crime. Sense and motion left his frame, From his lips no breathing came : '•He's dead," quoth she; "he's dead at last, And all my agony is past. Take him up ! let the Dead Sea wave Float him about without a grave ! Take him up and throw him in ! In these waters none can sink ; — 'Mid the foul naphtha let him swim, 12 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. To gorge the vultures, limb by limb, When they come to the water's brink ! And if they come not, let him lie, Rotting betwixt the wave and sky ! — Take him by the heels and chin, And spit on him, and cast him in!" They twined their coarse hands in his hair ; They took his body, so white and fair ; They spat upon his patient face, Tale, but fill'd with heavenly grace ; They took him up, and in the sea, They cast him ignominiously. And the fearful woman, proud and strong, The fiendish woman who did the wrong. Bade clarion sound, and trumpet play, And went exulting on her way. A sudden wind — a treacherous wind — Arose upon that Dead Sea shore; The heavy waves began to swell, To chafe, and foam, and lash, and roar ; A gloom o'erspread the clear blue sky : — Once alone I could descry His fair white limbs go floating by On the crest of a distant wave ; And I sat me down upon the sand, Wailing that I, with strong right hand, Had not snatch'd him from the grave. And smitten the murd'ress to the dust Ere she sacrificed the just. THE MAN IN THE DEAD SEA. 13 All that day the storm blew hi&h; And all that day I lingered there ; There was no living thing but I On the shore of that sad sea, And I was moaning piteously. Towards the night the wind blew fair, And the silver rim of the bright new moon Shone in a deep cerulean air, And look'd at itself in the salt lagoon. And there was silence, cold as death ; Not a motion but my breath. Long I sat upon the shore, Brooding on that cruel wrong, Wondering if for evermore The evil thing should be the strong : When I heard a sudden sound, And saw a phosphorescent track On the breast of the waves so dull and blach I listen'd — I could plainly hear The measured stroke, precise and clear, Of a swimmer swimming near : — I look'd — I saw the floating locks, The face upturn'd, the bosom brave, The calm full eyes, that look'd on me Through the darkness of the sea ; The strong limbs, battling with the wave :— I saw the motion — I heard the breath, I knew his victory over death. 14 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. It was my friend, my living friend ; I clasp 'd him, clad him, wept for joy. " They may think," he said, " to strike me dead, They can but wound me — not destroy. The strongest bands, the fastest chain, On my free limbs will not remain ; For the deepest wounds that hate can strike, I find a healing in the air ; Even poison'd weapons cannot kill ; They're powerless on the life I bear. And she, whose hate pursues me still, A queen superb, of lofty line, Shall have her day, then fade away, And all her empire shall be mine." THE FOLLOWER. 15 THE FOLLOWER. " "Why dost thou look so sad and wan ? And why art thou so woe-begone? Why dost thou mutter words of fear? Do I not love thee, father dear ? Is not earth a place of joy? Tell me, father, tell thy boy." II. " There is a fiend doth follow me ; A fearful fiend thou canst not see, — But I behold him. Day or night He is not absent from my sight : I know thou lovest me, O my child, — But this demon drives me wild. in. " The world was once both good and fair, There was a glory in the air, When my heart was pure and young, By guilt and misery unwrung; But a demon such as this, Makes an agony of bliss. 16 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. IV. " He besets my daily path, I am the victim of his wrath ; He smears his fingers o'er my meat, And poisons everything I eat ; Puts fatal acid in my drink — Oh, it is misery to think ! V. " He lies beside me in my bed ; He places thorns beneath my head; He sits upon my suffering breast, And sends the dreams that mar my rest ; He tracks my steps where'er I stray, And gibes and mocks me night and day. VI. " When sympathetic friends condole, And whisper comfort to my soul, This spiteful devil comes to and fro, And turns each friend into a foe ; Perverts my comfort into pain, Maddening my heart and brain. VII. "When I think I'm all alone, I start to hear his mocking groan ; I see his fearful face and eyes, — That hellish face which multiplies, THE FOLLOWER. 17 And fills the room from roof to floor With scowling demons evermore, VIII ' ; Cruel is he ; his power is great ; He pursues me ; he is fate. If I look to heaven, and pray, I see his dreadful shape mid-way; And ev'n the placid stars assume His sneering likeness in the gloom. IX. " He leads my steps to dark, deep pools, And says, 'None live but wretched fools.' He puts sharp weapons in my sight, And shows me poison, ruby bright, And whispers, if I like him not, How soon my freedom may be got. x. " At times I think my heart will break ; But I resist him for thy sake : His power departs when thou art near — Of thy sweet face he stands in fear ; And if thou'lt love me, O my boy, I'll grapple with him, and destroy." XI. " Father, I love thee : I will pray For strength to drive this fiend away. c 18 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. And if thou wilt be bold of heart, I know the demon will depart ; • And I will walk with thee abroad, And scare him with the name of God. XII. " I'll lie beside thee in the night, He shall not come to plague thy sight. Why should his face till up the skies With hideousness and mockeries 1 There are fair faces up in heaven, That always smile on the forgiven. XIII. They beam upon us : they are strong : This fiend shall not resist them long. We'll see them in the stars and moon, We'll see them in the sun at noon ; We'll see them in the leaves and flowers, And hear them singing 'mid the bowers. XIV. " He is but one : why should we fear, When smiling angels fill the sphere 1 And one among them known to thee — Chief angel of my memory — My mother, dead, and gone before!" — "Talk thus, my child, I'll fear no more. THE FOLLOWER. 19 XV. "Thy heart is pure, thy speech is mild, I gain instruction from a child : The fiend that haunts me must depart, — He cannot vex me where thou art — Thy mother's memory ! God ! and thee ! The fiend has fled — my soul is free !" <2>=3^ ■ c 1 20 VOICES FIIOM THE MOUNTAINS. WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW. Thou, who in the midnight silence Lookest to the orbs on hisrh, Feeling humbled, yet elated, In the presence of the sky ; Thou, who minglest with thy sadness Pride ecstatic, awe divine, That even thou canst trace their progress And the law by which they shine, — Intuition shall uphold thee, Ev'n though Reason drag thee low; Lean on faith, look up rejoicing — IVe are wiser than we know. Thou, who hearest plaintive music, Or sweet songs of other days; Heaven-revealing organs pealing, Or clear voices hymning praise, And wouklst weep, thou know'st not wherefore, Though thy soul is steep'd in joy, And the world looks kindly on thee, And thy bliss hath no alloy, — Weep, nor seek for consolation, Let the heaven-sent droplets flow, They are hints of mighty secrets — We are wiser than we know! WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW. 21 Thou, who in the noon-time brightness Seest a shadow undefined; Hearst a voice that indistinctly Whispers caution to thy mind: Thou, who hast a vague foreboding That a peril may be near, Even when Nature smiles around thee, And thy Conscience holds thee clear, Trust the warning — look before thee — Angels may the mirror show, Dimly still, but sent to guide thee — We are wiser than we know. Countless chords of heavenly music, Struck ere earthly time began, Vibrate in immortal concord Through the answering soul of man : Countless rays of heavenly glory Shine through spirit pent in clay, On the wise men at their labours, On the children at their play. Man has gazed on heavenly secrets, Sunn'd himself in heavenly glow, Seen the glory; heard the music; — We are wiser than we know. -o-oj^cjoo- 22 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. A little child, beneath a tree, Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a pleasant song, Which was — she sang it all day long — ' ; When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, But a good God reigns over all!" There pass'd a lady by the way, Moaning in the face of day : There were tears upon her cheek, Grief in her heart too great to speak; Her husband died but yester-morn, And left her in the world forlorn. She stopp'd and listen'd to the child, That look'd to Heaven, and, singing, smiled; And saw not, for her own despair, Another lady, young and fair, Who, also passing, stopp'd to hear The infant's anthem ringing clear. For she, but few sad days before, Had lost the little babe she bore; THE CHILD AND THE MOURNERS. 23 And grief was heavy at her soul, As that sweet memory o'er her stole, And sliow'd how bright had been the Past, The Present drear and overcast. And as they stood beneath the tree, Listening, soothed, and placidly, A youth came by, whose sunken eyes Spake of a load of miseries ; And he, arrested like the twain, Stopp'd to listen to the strain. Death had bow'd the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : Her marriage robes were fitted on, Her fair young face with blushes shone, When the destroyer smote her low, And left the lover to his woe. And these three listen'd to the song, Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, Which that child, the live-long day, Chanted to itself in play: "When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, Put a good God reigns over all." The widow's lips impulsive moved; The mother's grief, though unreproved, Soften'd, as her trembling tongue Repeated what the infant sung; And the sad lover, with :i start, Conn'd it over to his heart. 24: VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. And though the child— if child it were, And not a seraph, sitting there — Was seen no more, the sorrowing three Went on their way resignedly, The song still ringing in their ears — Was it music of the spheres? Who shall tell? They did not know. But in the midst of deepest woe The strain recurr'd when sorrow crew. To warn them, and console them too: "When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, But a good God reigns over all." c^O@^Oo - THE WATER TARANTELLA. 25 THE WATER TARANTELLA. "The condition of those who were afflicted with Tarantism was in many cases united with so great a sensibility to music, that at the very first tone of their favourite melodies they sprang up shouting for joy, and danced on without intermission, until they sank on the ground exhausted, and almost lifeless. Some loved to hear the sound of water, and delighted in hearing of gushing springs, and rushing cascades and streams." — Ileckers Epidemics of the Middle Ages. The Dancing Mania. The wind blows low on the fields and hedges, There is a murmur amid the. sedges, A low sweet sound where the water gushes Forth from the grass amid the rushes; It is a streamlet small and young, It loves to dally the mosses among, It trickles slowly, It whispers lowly, On its breast the thistle drops its down, The water-lily So white and stilly Sleeps in its lap till its leaves grow brown Dance, poor Eveleen, dance and dream, — Soft is the music, and fresh the stream. 26 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. We will follow thee where it flows — It leaves the sedges dank behind, And on its fringe a willow shows Its silvery leaflets to the wind; And a brook comes down from far away, And babbles into it all the day ; And both together creep through meads Where the shy plover hides and feeds, And then away through fields of corn, Or stretch of meadows newly shorn : Noiselessly they flow and clear By open wold and cover'd brake; But if you listen, you may hear The steady music which they make. Dance, poor Eveleen, dance, — we follow, O'er field, and wpse, and wild-wood hollow. And now the stream begins to run Over the pebbles in its bed, To rumple its breast and glance in the sun, And curl to the light breeze overhead. No longer loitering, lingering, calm, It hurries away o'er the chafing shingle, Humming a song, singing a psalm, Through the orchard, down the dingle. Pools like mirrors adorn its breast, And there the trout and the minnow rest; The ringdove sings in her nest alone The tender song that love has taught her; And the redbreast sits on the boulder-stone, Washing his plumes in the wimpling water. THE WATER TARANTELLA. 27 Brisker now let the music sound; Dance, Evcleen, dance, — we follow thee ever, And tread the ground with a quick rebound, Away, away with the rolling river! Fed by its tributary rills From distant valleys with circling bills, And travelling seawai'd, merrily brawling, Wild, impassion'd, rapid, and strong, With voice of power to tbe green woods calling, The impetuous river dashes along, And is sweeping, leaping, through the meadows Almost as fast as the driving shadows Of clouds that fly before the wind, Down to the chasmy precipices, There to burst in foaming fall: — It bursts, it thunders, it roars, it hisses, An iris is its coronal; And the pendulous trees above it shiver, Bathed by the rain of that rampant river. So dance, fair Eveleen, faster, faster; Unloose thy zone, thy locks untwine; — Thy bosom, no more like the alabaster, Is flush 'd, and heated, and red like wine; Thy pulse is beating, thy blood is heating Thy lips are open, thine eyeballs shine. And now the river spends its wrath, The music sinks, the winds blow low; Its bosom broad is a nation's path — Smooth and pleasant is its flow. 2S VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. A boat shoots by with its rowers trim, A ferryman plies his lazy oar; And miles adown, in the distance dim, There stands a city on the shore. By corn-fields yellow, by meadows green, And stately gardens, we advance; Still ive follow thee, Eveleen — Gentle, gentler, be thy dance. Behold, upon a grassy lawn, Sloped smoothly downwards to the brink, With large soft eyes, a dapple fawn Stoops to the lucid wave to drink; And, lo! an avenue of oak, Whose wrinkled stems, of giant girth, Have stood unai'in'd the winter's stroke For thrice a century, firm in earth, Their boughs o'ertopp'd by the turrets hoary Of a mansion old and famed in story. They pass, all pass, As in magic glass, And still we trace the placid stream — Castle and tower, And parlc and bower ; Dance, poor Eveleen, dance and dream. A hundred ships are in the river, Their tall masts point to a clear blue sky, Their sails are furl'd, their pennants curl'd, THE WATER TARANTELLA. 29 To the sweet west wind that wantons by; And every flag, emblazon'd fair, Flaps at its will on the sunny air. There is a peal of Sabbath bells, Over the river's breast it swells; The tall proud steeples look calmly down On the quiet houses of the town; 'Tis a day of love, of rest, of peace — Eveleen, the song must cease. Gently, Eveleen, gently rest, Softly on thy pillow sleep; The fit is o'er, thy heaving breast Will calm itself in slumber deep; Thoust danced, poor maid, the tarantelle, Thoiist danced it long and danced it well ; TlioxCst trod the maze, and traced the shore; Thou shalt be heaVd for evermore. 30 VOICES FROM TIIK MOUNTAINS. THE EARTH AND THE STARS. Said the Earth to the Stars — " Oh my sisters, Fellow-travellers through this dread immensity, Send a voice to my spirit and declare, If, serenely as ye smile on me, and fair, Ye are dwellings for all miseries, like me ? " Oh tell me if in yon, my glorious sisters, Rules a tyrant like the one enthroned here ? If Death has ever enter'd in your climes, And Suffering, and Calamity, and Crimes Ever rob you of the children that you rear? " Oh tell me if in you, my myriad sisters, The weak are ever trampled by the strong ? If Malice, and Intolerance, and Hate, And "Warfare, and Ambition to be great, Ever cause the Right to suffer from the Wrong? " Oh tell me, silent sisters, are ye happy ? Are the multitudes that live beneath your skies, Full of knowledge, unaccursed by such a ban As man has ever issued against man ? Are they happy, are they loving, are they wise?" THE EARTH AND THE STARS. 31 Said the Stars to the Earth — "Oh mournful sister, Rolling calmly through the calm infinity, We have roll'd for countless ages on our track, Ever onward — pressing onward — never back; — There is progress both for us and for thee. "Thou wilt make, oh thou foolish little sister, The full cycle of thy glory in thy time ; We are rolling on in ours for evermore ; — Look not backward — see Eternity before, And free thyself of Sorrow and of Crime. " God, who made thee, never meant thee, mournful sister, To be fill'd with sin and grief eternally ; And the children that are born upon thy breast Shall, in fulness of their destiny, be blest : — There is Progress for the Stars and for Thee." 32 VOICES FRO 31 TIIE MOUNTAINS. THE YOUNG EAItTII. "The earth gives signs of age, disease, and fickleness. It yields its increase grudgingly, and demands an exorbitant fee beforehand, in toil and sweat from the husbandman. It has ill turns or paroxysms, when it rouses the ocean into a tempest, and makes sport of navies, strewing the shore with the wrecks and carcases of men. It rocks a continent or sinks an island ; shaking massive cities into countless fragments, and burying its wretched inhabitants in indiscriminate ruin ; anon it writhes and groans in mortal agony, and finds relief only by disgorging its fiery bowels, burying cities and villages in burning graves. The earth is old and feeble, and must needs groan on until it renews its prime." — Miseries and Liabilities of the present Life. Old Earth 1 Young Earth ! — though myriad years, Since Time's primeval morn, She may have bloom'd amid the spheres Before a man was bom ! Still young ; though race succeeding race Have trod her breast sublime, And flourish'd in their pride of place Their full allotted time, — Then pass'd away, like daily things, Nor left a trace behind To tell how many thousand Springs They lived before mankind. THE YOUNG EARTH. 33 We, who for threescore years and ten Toil deathwards from our birth, Deem sixty centuries of men A ripe old age for Earth. But all our deeds, though back we look With yearning keen and fond, Fill but a page : the mighty book Lies infinite beyond. She is not old, or waxing cold, But vigorous as of yore, When 'mid her kindred globes she roll'd, Exulting evermore. "O Six thousand years of human strife Are little in the sum ; A morning added to her life, And noonday yet to come. Six thousand years! what have they brought, 0, poor ephemeral man 1 Go, reckon centuries by thought, Thou'lt find them but a span. Go reckon time by progress made, And lo! what ages pass, Swift as the transitory shade Of clouds upon the grass. D 34 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Six thousand years ! and what are they 1 A cycle scarce begun ; The fragment of a grander day Unmeasured by the sun ; Too short to purify the sight Of souls in Error blind ; Too short to show the healing light Of Love to all mankind. For lo ! the lesson has been read In every clime and tongue ; The Sea has breathed it from her bed, And Earth and Air have sung; The Sun has beam'd it from above To all his worlds around ; The stars have preach'd that God is Love But answer never found. The generations cold and dark Have lived and pass'd away, And never caught the faintest spark Of Love's eternal ray. The myriads, seeking to create An idol to adore, Have made their God a God of Hate, And worshipp'd him with gore. THE YOUNG EARTH. 35 And living multitudes have heard That Love is Nature's plan, Yet shut their souls against the Word That teaches love to man. But there is progress in the spheres, The glorious Earth is young ; The seed has lain six thousand years, The tender shoots have sprung. She is not old but young and fair ; And marching to her prime, Her teeming bosom yet shall bear The harvest of her time. And generations thought-endued — Each wiser than the last, Shall crowd, in one short year the good Of centuries of the past ; — Shall, living, aid by loving deeds The truths for which we pine, And, dying, sow the fruitful seeds Of impulse more divine. The struggle, long and sorely fought, Embitter'd as it spread, For simplest rights — free hand, free thought, And sustenance of bread : d 2 36 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. The straggle of the righteous weak Against the unrighteous strong ; Of Justice firm, though mild and meek, Against oppressive Wrong — Draws in, and must be ended yet ; — It ripens to its hour : The mighty combatants have met ; And Truth has challenged Power. Young Earth ! — her sad six thousand years, Now passing swift away, Are but her infancy of tears— The dawn before the day. -<>Ca.SX(1a3o~ 37 THE GOLDEN MADNESS. By the road-side there sat an aged man, Who all day long, from dawn into the night, Counted with weary fingers heaps of stones. His red eyes dropp'd with rheum, his yellow hands Trembled with palsy, his pale sunken cheeks Were mark'd with deep and venei*able seams, His flat bald brow was ever bent to earth, His few grey hairs waved to the passing winds, His straggling teeth, blackend and carious, Rattled and tumbled from his bloodless gums ; — I spake him kindly, saying, " Why this toil At task like this, cracking thy rotten bones, To gain nor health, nor recompense, nor thanks?" He made no answer, but went counting on, Mumbling and muttering slowly to himself, Chinking the stones with melancholy sound. Piece after piece ; looking nor right nor left, Nor upwards, but aye down upon the heap. I asked again, "What is it that thou dost, Wasting the remnant of thy days in toil, Without fruition to thyself or kind, As earnestly as if these stones were gold, And all thine own to spend and to enjoy?" 38 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. He look'd upon me with a vacant eye, And stopp'd not in bis task. " Gold! didst thou say? They are gold — precious, ready-coin'd and pure, And all mine own to spend and to enjoy, When I have counted them. So, get thee gone, Unless thou art a borrower or a thief." And aye he chink'd the flints and chips of slate, One after one, muttering their numbers o'er, At every hundred stopping for a while To rub his wither'd palms, and eye the heap With idiot happiness, ere he resumed. There came a stranger by the way. I ask'd If he knew aught of this forlorn old man. " Right well," he said ; " the creature is insane, And hath been ever since he had a beard. He first went mad for greediness of gold." "Know you his story?" "Perfectly," said be. " Look how he counts his miserable flints And bits of slate. Twelve mortal hours each day He sits at work, summer and winter both ; 'Mid storcn or sunshine, heat or nipping frost, He counts and counts ; and since his Uinbs were young, Till now that he is crook'd and stiffen'd old, He hath not miss'd a clay. The silly wretch Believes each stone a lump of shining gold, And that he made a bargain with the fiend, That if he'd count one thousand million coins Of minted gold, audibly, one by one, The gold should be his own the very hour THE GOLDEN MADNESS. 39 "When he had told the thousand millionth piece ; Provided always, as such bargains go, The fiend should have his soul in recompense. " Unskilled in figures, but brimful of greed, He chuckled at his bargain, and began ; And for a year reckon'd with hopeful heart. At last a glimpse of light broke on his sense, And show'd the fool that millions — quickly said — "Were not so quickly counted as he thought. But still he plies his melancholy task, Dreaming of boundless wealth and curbless power, And slavish worship from his fellow-men. " If he could reckon fifty thousand stones Daily, and miss no day in all the year, 'Twould take him five-and-fifty years of life To reach the awful millions he desires. He has been fifty of these years or more Feeding his coward soul with this conceit, Exposed to every blast, starved, wretched, old, Toothless, and clothed with rags and squalidness, He eyes his fancied treasure with delight, And thinks to cheat the devil at the last. " Look at his drivelling lips, his bloodshot eyes, His trembling hands, his loose and yellow skin, His flimsy rottenness, and own with me That this man's madness, though a piteous thing, Deserves no pity, for the avarice So mean and filthy that was cause of it." 40 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. I gazed once more upon his wrinkled face, Vacant with idiotcy, and went my way Fill'd with disgust and sorrow, for I deem'd That his great lunacy was but a type Of many a smaller madness as abject, That daily takes possession of men's hearts And blinds them to the uses of their life. Poor fool ! he gathers stones — they gather gold, With toil and moil, thick sweat and grovelling thought. He has his flints, and they acquire their coin. And who's the wiser? Neither he nor they. 41 THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER. For Ernest was a palace built, A palace beautiful to see ; Marble-porch'd and cedar-chamber'd, Hung with damask drapery; Boss'd with ornaments of silver, Interlaid with gems and gold ; FiU'd with carvings, from cathedrals Rescued in the days of old ; Eloquent with books and pictures, All that luxury could afford ; Warm with statues that Pygmalion Might have fashion'd and adored. In his forest glades and vistas Lovely were the light and gloom ; Fountains sparkled in his gardens, And exotics breathed perfume. With him to that lordly palace Went the friend who loved him best, In good fortune unexalted, In misfortune undepress'd. Little reck'd that friend of grandeur ; Dearer far to him than all Wealth could offer, were the rosebuds Growing on the garden wall. 42 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Dearer far were simple pleasures, And the charms by Nature spread, Than all gauds of power and splendour Heap'd upon their favourite's head. Plain was he in speech and raiment, Humble-minded, and imbued With a daily love of virtue, And a daily gratitude. Ere these palace-halls received them, Steadfast was the faith they bore ; No estrangement came between them, Darkening their study-door. Ernest in his friend's communion Loved himself and all his kind, Cherishing a loving nature, Tutor'd by a happy mind ; Rich and poor were equal brothers In that heart, too pure to hold Pride of lineage or station, Or the vanity of gold. Never chanced it, in that season, That he form'd a thought unjust Of the meanest fellow-mortal, Fashion'd of a common dust. But his palace somewhat changed him ; Rosebuds gather'd — early walks Sunset roamings — nightly musings — Mystic philosophic talks — THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOEE. 43 Nothing as of old engross' d him ; And the promptings of his friend Fell upon his sated spirit, Not to guide him, but offend. Daily grew the chilling coolness, Till, ere many months had flown, Ernest shut his door upon him, And resolved to live alone : And retreating 'mid his splendour, Rooted out all love he bore For that friend, so true, so noble, Banish' d, lost for evermore. Scai'cely had his friend departed, Pain'd and pensive, but resign' d, When another sought the palace More accordant to his mind, lie in Ernest's lordly chambers Sat, and call'd him first of men ; Praised his pictures and his statues, Flatter'd him with tongue and pen ; Press'd the milk of human kindness From his bosom cold and sere, Taught him to be harsh and cruel, Proud, disdainful, and austere ; Fill'd him up with vain inflation, And contempt for meaner clay, As if he were born to govern, It to flatter and obey. Sometimes on his lonely pillow, When his conscience show'd the truth, 44 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. He deplored his blind estrangement From the comrade of his youth ; But the daylight chill'd the current Of that feeling, and it froze Hard enough to bear the burden Of such memories as those. And all day, in gloomy grandeur, In his corridors and halls, Looking at his old escutcheons, And the portraits on the walls, He and his companion wander'd, Calm of eye, with lips upcmTd, Aliens to the worth and goodness, And the beauty of the world. "Wintry winds of human anguish, Blowing round them day and night, Never moved them — never clouded Their serenity of light. They were made of choice material, Tempest-proof, from lightning free, And the world, its joys and sorrows, Was to them a shipless sea, Dark, unfathomable, trackless, Far beyond their care or ken, Save at times, when ostentation Brought them to the gaze of men. But ev'n this was painful to them — Man was cold, and earth was wide ; They preferr'd the warm seclusion Of their apathy and pride. THE OUT-COMER AND THE IN-GOER. i5 "Who was he, the first out-goer ? He was Human Sympathy ; And the in-comer, that displaced him % He was Worldly Vanity. W T ith the first Religion vanish'd, Charity, and Faith in Man, And the genial Love of Nature, Boundless as Creation's plan. "With the second enter'd Hatred Harsh Intolerance, and Scorn. Ernest, in his life's cold evening Saw the error of his morn — Saw his error and deplored it, And upon his death-bed lain, Pray'd for mercy, while confessing, Dying, he had lived in vain. '1G VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE DEOP OF AMBROSIA. "Whither away? whither away, With thine eyes through the distance looking so keen ? The road is narrow, and is not long, And if thou wouldst but awhile delay, I would show thee sights thou hast not seen ; And thou shouldst hear a voice of song, And thou shouldst learn of things unknown, And live a double and fuller life. Whither away ? I prithee stay, — There are angels near ; thou'rt not alone — The very air is with beauty rife. The night is lovely, fair is the day, Why this hurry to travel away, To close thy journey, to shut thy book ? Why at the end wilt thou ever look? Why on the tide wilt thou ever think, And neglect the flow'rets on the brink ? " He said, in answer to my cries, " Let me alone, nor vex my soul ; I've set my mind on a glittering prize That I see midway towards the goal. It shines, 'mid cloud on the mountain-top, A bright, divine, ambrosial drop. THE DROP OF AMBROSIA. 47 Sad, till I grasp it, the time appears ; Into hours the weeks I'd pack, Compress the lingering, drawling years To months, and never wish them back. Why should I stay? What boots delay? What do I care for an angel's song? For the stars of night, or the flowers of day, When lingering would the hours prolong? Let me alone : my mind and heart Are full of a joy thou canst not see, And each impediment is pain ; Thy very talk is grief to me. Let me away. Why should I stay, Wasting time by answering thee?" "Already," said I, "thy prime is past, Thy flush of youth, thy warmth of noon ; And many delights which the sunshine cast Must wither away beneath the moon. The path thou goest is short at best ; And between thine eyes and the bliss they crave, To trip thy feet in their course so fleet, May there not be an open grave ? Why wilt thou hurry towards the end ? There are pleasant fields on the highway-side, Bowers whence the hymns of Love ascend, And rivers rolling a joyous tide, In which to lave the weary limbs Is bliss beyond the ambrosial drop Which, far away, 'mid storm and dark, Thou seest upon the mountairi-top. 48 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Straight is the path to the yawning tomb; But we may linger on the road, And turn to the left, and turn to the right, To enjoy the kindly gifts of God. I would not live my life so soon ; I would not spend it on one desire ; Nor in such fearful haste as thine Exhaust the fuel of its fire." Yain was my speech : he closed his ears — Straight on he rush'd, nor look'd behind. He saw afar his glittering star, The prize for which his spirit pined. On every side were stars as fair — Fairer I thought ; and drops of joy, Divinest given to mortal man, To cheer of his life the little span, And sanctify its right employ. He saw them not, but ran his race With a speed that passion alone could give; Grew hard and grey on his narrow way, And spent his life ere he learn'd to live. And I saw before he reach'd his prize, That he sunk in the grave before my eyes. TS2T-S- 49 NOW. The venerable Past is past ; 'Tis dark, and shines not in the ray : 'Twas good, no doubt — 'tis gone at last — There dawns another day. Why should we sit where ivies creep, And shroud ourselves in charnels deep ; Or the world's Yesterdays deplore, 'Mid crumbling ruins, mossy hoar 1 Why should we see with dead men's eyes, Looking at Was from morn to night, Yv T hen the beauteous Now, the divine To Be, Woo with their charms our living sight 1 Why should we hear but echoes dull, When the world of sound, so beautiful, Will give us music of our own 1 Why in the darkness will we grope, When the sun, in heaven's resplendent cope Shines as bright as ever it shone 1 6 Abraham saw no brighter stars Than those which burn for thee and me. When Homer heard the lark's sweet song, Or night-bird's lovelier melody, They were such sounds as Shakspeare heard, Or Chaucer, when he bless'd the bird ; E 50 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Such lovely sounds as we can hear ; — Great Plato saw the vernal year Send forth its tender flowers and shoots, And luscious autumn pour its fruits ; And we can see the lilies blow, The corn-fields wave, the rivers flow : For us all bounties of the earth, For us its wisdom, love, and mirth, If we daily walk in the sight of God, And prize the gifts He has bestow'd. We will not dwell amid the graves, Nor in dim twilights sit alone, To gaze at moulder'd architraves, Or plinths and columns overthrown ; "We will not only see the light Through painted windows, cobwebb'd o'er, Nor know the beauty of the night, Save by the moonbeam on the floor : But in the presence of the sun, Or moon, or stars, our hearts shall glow ; "We'll look at nature face to face, And we shall love because we know. The present needs us. Every age Bequeaths the next, for heritage, No lazy luxury or delight, But strenuous labour for the right ; For Now, the child and sire of Time, Demands the deeds of earnest men, To make it better than the Past, And stretch the circle of its ken. NOW. 51 Now is a fact that men deplore, Though it might bless them evermore, Would they but fashion it aright : Tis ever new, 'tis ever bright. Time nor Eternity hath seen A repetition of delight In all its phases : ne'er hath been For men or angels that which is; And that which is, hath ceased to be Ere we have breathed it, and its place Is lost in the Eternity. But Now is ever good and fair, Of the Infinitude the heir, And we of it. So let us live, That from the Past we may receive Light for the Now ; from Now a joy That Fate nor Time shall e'er destroy. <^?><^$9£fh^>^ 52 VOICES FROU THE MOUNTAINS. THE VISION OF MOCKEEY. All happy things are earnest. Once I roam'd In England, or in Dream-land, through the streets Of a huge, buzzing, dense metropolis. Slowly, in teeming thoroughfares, I walk'd, One of the people, hearing with their ears, Beholding with their eyes, and in their thought Divining, till my soul was fill'd with grief At all that I beheld, and felt, and knew. It was a gibing, laughing, sneering crowd, Devoid of truth, faith, love, and earnestness, Except a horrid earnestness for gain ; Eierce love of lucre, which if one had not, He was despised and trodden down of men : Which if one had, he was adored of all, Placed on a pinnacle to be admired, Flattei-'d, and fill'd with other rich men's gifts ; His overflowing fulness made more lull, His vulgarness thought choice gentility, His vices virtues, and his prejudice Wisdom innate, his coarse words oracles, And he a chief and model of mankind. But for all else than wealth these swarming crowds Had slight regard ; and when their daily toil TIIE VISION OF MOCKERY 53 [n search of it was done, and time hung loose, They gather'd in their clubs and theatres, Tn market-place, or corner of the streets, And mock'd and gibed — and held the best buffoon The wisest man, so he but made them laugh. Nothing was holy to these wretched crowds, But all things food for jest and ribald wit, Caricature, lampoon, and mockery. I said to one, " Is this the end of life ? Is there no reverence for God or man V He turu'd and look'd, and, with a well-bred stare, Eyed me askance: ''What would you have ?" quoth he ; "We keep our reverence for sabbath-days, And look demure the seventh part of our time ; If for six days we toil, six nights we laugh, And who shall blame us 1 What new bore art thou, From lands hyperborean, that canst think Laughter a crime?" — "Nay," I replied, "not so; Laughter is virtuous, if there be a cause : But mockery !" — Thereat he smiled again, Arching his eyebrows, that his eyes, full-stretch'd, Might take the measure of my littleness, And disappear'd amid the gathering throng. I spake no more, but wander'd wearily on, Until I reach'd a wide and crowded mart, Where one, a mild and venerable man, Address'd the multitude with slow, clear voice. Few gave him audience, but he heeded not, And spoke his thought, unmindful of the jeers 54 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Of would-be wits and shallow mountebanks, Scoffers and punsters, and obese dull clowns. "Tain and unhappy multitudes," he said, " That gibe and sneer at every holy thing ; — Is this your law of life ? Is this the end 1 To! ye have souls immortal and sublime, To be made infinite in love and light, And heavenly knowledge, if ye will but ope The inner fountains and the inner eyes, And see the deep and full significance, The worth and wherefore of the life of man. " Is it not sad, O myriad, myriad souls, Infinite and immortal as ye are, That ye will make your own infinity A retrogression 1 Immortality, Change of vile vesture for a viler still ? That ye will circle with the feculent clay Your life-light heavenly clear, until it bum No fairer, to the outward world, than foul, Thick exhalations of a stagnant fen ? Is it not sad, that germs which should expand Even here, to trees of bole magnificent, Should rot and perish in unsavoury mire ; Or, ere they rot, be eaten up by swine, — Swine of ill passion, selfishness, and lust ? Is it not sad — a thing for bitter tears — Unless for hope, and efforts made more strong By seeming hopelessness — that men should live And never know the meaning of their life 1 That they should die, and never know that death THE VISION OF MOCKERY. Is change, not ceasing 1 and that life and death. Ai-e ebb and flow of an eternal tide, In which the ripple may become a wave, The wave a sea, the sea a universe ? "Alas ! poor crowds, self-quench'd, self-sacrificed, Why will ye crawl, when ye might walk erect 1 Why will ye grovel, when ye might aspire 1 Why will ye don foul rags, when ye might wear Angelic vestments 1 Why co-herd with beasts, And graze in fields, or wallow in the mire, When ye might feed on manna dropp'd from heaven?" Thereat a listener in the crowd exclaimed — One with a portly paunch, and large round face, And little twinkling eyes, — " You waste your words : Why do you preach to us of things like these, Things transcendental and absurdly wise 1 The earth is man's ; man is the earth's. Forget These idle dreams, and eat, and drink, and laugh, And speculate, and hoard a heap of gold ; And so be one of us, that as you live, You may enjoy ; and when you die, die well, Leaving plump money-bags to bless your sons." And all the people laugh'd, and cried, "Hear ! hear 1" With loud applause, and shouts vociferous. But still the orator undaunted stood, Though laughter sputter'd round him ; and vain scoff-, Like muddy showerlets, fell on every side ; And more he would have said, but that a cry Of one in haste, and in great stress of speech, Made interruption : " Lo ! the children die ! — 5C VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. The little children, and you heed them not ! The children die : they perish, body and soul, In pestilent lanes, and rotting alleys vile ; Thousands on thousands, more than eyes can count. God's sun shines on them, but they never heard His name who made it : the fair world they tread Is foul to them, that never saw the fields, The green trees, the great mountains, the bright streams, Or knew that God, who fashion d all things, loves All he has made, and children most of all, The purest from his hand. Why should they die 1 For life in ignorance is very death. •Some of them toil, and waste their tender limbs In mills, or mines, from morn till past the night : Machines of flesh, too sorely overwrought To reach maturity ere they grow old. Some of them toil not, but by night and day Prowl in the fetid ways, and lie, and steal, And curse, and never know that words can bless, Or that such thing as blessing in this world "Was ever heard of : — Save, oh ! save them all ! If not for their sakes, for our own ! Not one Of all these myriads, were we truly wise, Should perish thus. For, though they live in shame, And fill the world with crimes and miseries, Great is their sorrow, but the guilt is ours." He ceased, and through the crowd a murmur ran, As though his words had moved them to remorse, Or pity, but it died away ; and one Speaking for many, as if he alone THE VISION OF MOCKERY. 57 "Were mouth-piece and interpreter of men, Exclaim'd in pompous wise, "Why should we heed? Why interfere 1 It is a perilous thing To step between a parent and his child. Each for himself ; each father for his own ; No good can come of such philosophy. It weighs all things in theoretic scales, And meddles but to mar. The world is good ; Let it alone ; 'twill educate itself." He ceased, and look'd about him with a smile, That said, as plainly as a smile can say, How smart he was, how practically wise. Whereat another, taking up the chant, Said, " Bah ! it irks my patience evermore, To hear such vulgar flattery of the crowd ; "Were they not born to drudge, to groan, to sweat 1 Is't not so written in the Book 1 If so, Why give them knowledge they can never use 1 A little of it is a poisonous thing, And much is utterly beyond their reach ; — So, prithee, Master Quack, let well alone. If thou canst sing for our amusement, sing ; Or dance, then dance ; or jest, then jest away ; Stand on thy head, cut capers in the air, Or anything thou wilt but preach of this." Thereat the crowd laugh'd as with one accord ; And when the earnest man again essay'd To speak his truth, they raised derisive shouts That stifled all his words upon his lips, And fill'd his heart and mine with pity and grief. 58 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. What more was said I know not, nor how long I stood amongst them ; but a sudden cry, And rushing of the people to one place, Aroused me from my lethargy, and, lo ! I heard a voice potential with the crowd, Coarse and stentorian, breaking on my ear. " Behold," it said, " behold the game of games, The chance of chances — better than all trade, Commerce, or industry pursued by man. Who plays it well, grows wealthy in a day ; Who plays it ill may gain more great reward Than Labour, with his utmost pith and stress, Could sweat for in a life." And as he spake, Loose scraps of paper flutter'd in his hands. There seem'd deep fascination in the sight, For every eye beseech'd, and every tongue Implored him for them. From his vulgar clutch They dropp'd like flakes of snow innumerous. And then the scramble and the crush began ; Old men and young, the famish'd and the full, The rich and poor, widow, and wife, and maid, Master and servant, all with one intent, Rush'd on the paper; from their eager eyes Flashing a fierce unconquerable greed, Their hot palms itching, all their being fill'd With one desire ; so that amid the press, If some were crush'd and smitten to the ground, They heeded not, but trod on fallen heads As unconcernedly as racing steeds Trample the sward. And still the paper flakes Fell fast around ; and still the crowd rush'd on, Itoaring and wild, its myriad hands held up THE VISION OF MOCKERY. 59 To grasp the glittering prizes ere they fell. Then came a pause. A fearful mockery Began to spread. Each call'd his fellow — fool ! And every fool acknowledged — so he was, But thought his neighbour greater fool than he. And there was laughter loud, and stifled groans, And shouts obstreperous, till, all at once, They dropp'd the scraps of paper from their hands, As if a leprosy were in the touch ; And in their haste, o'er-eager to depart From that gross presence, trod each other down. As in a burning theatre, a crowd Rushing by hundreds to one narrow door, Meet certain death to flee uncertain fire, So they in panic at the lust of gain, That each man saw in others, not in self, Fled in confusion, breathless and distraught, Nor cared who died, if they themselves escaped. I stood amazed, and blush'd for human-kind, When on my ears a strain of music broke, Melting in soft harmonious cadences. I look'd, and, on a platform raised on high, Beheld a lady beauteous as the dawn, Dancing in robes of white and azure gauze ; Her breast was bare ; her limbs, nor bare nor hid, But full defined through her transparent robes, Fill'd the beholders with voluptuous thoughts. She seem'd to float upon the buoyant air, To be a creature of an element More spiritual than earth ; and when she smiled There was such witchery in her painted cheeks, GO VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. That all the crowd, entranced with great delight, And quite forgetful of their past distress, Shouted with loud acclaim, and clapp'd their hands. And when she twiiTd upon her pliant toe, One fair limb vertical, the other raised To horizontal straightness, such a burst Of irrepressible, overpowering joy, Fill'd all the air, it seem'd as men were mad, And dancing were supremest bliss of earth ; — The fairest dancer, first of woman-kind. Then, as she curtsied with a winning look To her idolaters, a shower of wreaths, Garlands, and evergreens, and laurel crowns, Fell all around her, and another burst Of universal gladness i-ang around ; And she, descending from her platform, slid Graceful into her chariot, and the crowd Fill'd with new frenzy at her loveliness, Unyoked her prancing jennets, dapple-grey, And drew her forth triumphant to her home. Still more amazed, I left this fearful crowd, And wandei''d out amid the quiet woods To hold communion with my secret soul, And note, in Memory's many-storied book, What I had seen and heard — that pondering well Its true significance, I might extract Good from the ill, and from the darkness light. 61 THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES. A LEGEND OF HAVEBINQ. ("Havering-atte-Fiower, in Essex, was the favourite retirement of King Edward the Confessor, who so delighted in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up in them for weeks at a time. Old legends say that he met with but one annoyance in that pleasant seclusion — the continual warbling of the nightingales, pouring such floods of music upon his ear during his midnight meditations, as to disturb his devotions. He therefore prayed that never more within the bounds of that forest might nightin- gale's song be heard. His prayer, adds the legend, was granted. The following versification of the story shows a different result to his prayers — a result which, if it contradict tradition, does not, it is presumed, contradict poetical justice.] Kixg Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower — Old and enfeebled by the weight of power — Sick of the troublous majesty of kings — Weary of duty and all mortal things — Weary of day — weary of night — forlorn — Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born. Thick woods environ'd him, and in their shade He roain'd all day, and told his beads, and pray'd. Men's faces pain'd him, and he barr'd his door That none might find him ; — even the sunshine bore No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight ; And darkness pleased no better than the light. 02 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. lie scorn'd himself for eating food like men, And lived on roots and water from the fen ; And aye he groan'd, and bow'd his hoary head — Did penance, and put nettles in his bed — Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast — Told all his follies — all his sins confess'd — Made accusations of himself to heaven, And own'd to crimes too great to be forgiven, Which he had thought, although he had not done — Blackening his blackness ; numbering one by one Unheard of villanies without a name, As if he gloried in inventing shame, Or thought to win the grace of heaven by lies, And gain a saintship in a fiend's disguise. Long in these woods he dwelt — a wretched man, Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban — Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows, Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs. But sore distress'd he was, and wretched quite, For every evening with the waning light A choir of nightingales, the brakes among, Deluged the woods with overflow of song. " Unholy birds," he said, " your throats be riven ! You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from heaven ! " But still the song, magnificent and loud, Pour'd from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud ; Now to his vex'd and melancholy ear Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear ; Anon it deepen'd on his throbbing brain To full triumphal march or battle-strain ; THE KING AND THE NIGHTINGALES. C3 Then seeni'd to vary to a choral hymn, Or De Profundis from cathedral dim, " Te Deum," or " Hosanna to the Lord" Chanted by deep-voiced priests in full accord. He shut his ears, he stamp'd upon the sod — " Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God ! And thou, beloved saint to whom I bend, Lamp of my life, my guardian, and my friend, Make intercession for me, sweet St. John ! And hear the anguish of thy suffering son ! May nevermore within these woods be heard The sons of morn in £j or of evening bird ! May nevermore their harmonies awake Within the precincts of this lonely brake, For I am weary, old, and full of woe, And their songs vex me ! This one boon bestow, That I may pray, and give my thoughts to thee. Without distraction of their melody ; And that within these bowers my groans and sighs And ceaseless prayers be all the sound that rise. Let God alone possess me, last and first ; And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed !" This having said, he started where he stood, And saw a stranger walking in the wood ; A purple glory, pale as amethyst, Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist ; And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet, He kiss'd his garment's hem, and clasp'd his feet. "Rise," said the saint, "and know, unhappy king, That true Religion hates no living thing ; 64 VOICES FKOM THE MOUNTAINS. It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man, And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can — Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives, Bestows its sympathy on all that lives, Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee, And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy. Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers, But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs ; So shall it mount on wings of love to heaven, And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven." The calm voice ceased ; — King Edward dared not look, But bent to earth, and blush'd at the rebuke ! And though he closed his eyes and hid his face, He knew the saint had vanish'd from the place. And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang With the sweet sons; the birds of evening sans;. No more he cursed them ; loitering on his way He listen'd, pleased, and bless'd them for their lay. And on the morrow quitted Havering To mix with men and be again a king, And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less, Increased in virtue and in happiness. 65 EVERMORE— NEVERMORE. ""Wilt thou run to me for ever?" Said the ocean to the river. " Will ye ever fall on my hills and plains ?" Said the dry land to the rains. "Will ye ever blossom while I sing?" Said the lark to the flowers of spring. "Will ye ever ripen while I shine?" Said the sun to the coi - n and vine. And ever the answer the breezes bore Was, "Evermore — -for evermore." "As long as all these things shall be," Said I, to P^osa kissing me, " Shall Truth be sharper than a sword ? Shall kindness be its own reward ? Shall a free heart smoothe the roughest way? Shall Hope shed light on the darkest day ? Shall tempests spare the reeds that bow, And thou love me as thou lovest now?" And ever the answer her sweet lips bore Was, "Evermore — -for evermore? "But shall I ever come back from thee?" Said the river to the sea ; "Or I?" said the flower that Rosa threw Into its waters bright and blue. GQ VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. "Will ye bloom again on the summer eves'?" Said the tree to its withcr'd leaves. "Wilt thou fall again when the north winds blow 1" Said the grass to the melting snow. And ever the answer the breezes bore Was, "Nevermore — oh, nevermore." " If such the rule beneath the skies," Said Rosa, gazing in my eyes, "Shall duty quit the debt we owe her, Or blisses fail the bliss-bestower 1 Shall a miser's heart be improved by his gold 1 Shall the wealth of Love be ever told? Or thou prove false to the tender vow Thou swearest and repeatest now 1 ?" And ever the answer my true lips bore Was, " Nevermore — oh nevermore." G7 THE TRUE COMPANION. Give me the man, however old and staid, Or worn with sorrow and perplexity, "Who, when he walks in sunshine or in shade, By woodland bowers, or bare beach of the sea, O'er hill-top, or in valleys green, with me, Throws off his age and gambols like a child, And finds a boyish pleasure in the wild, Rejuvenescent on the flowery lea ! Him shall the year press lightly as he goes; The kindly wisdom gather'd in the fields Shall be his antidote to worldly woes ; And the o'erflowing joy that nature yields To her true lovers shall his heart inclose, And blunt the shafts of care like iron shields. f2 C8 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. WELCOME BACK. Sweet songs of nightingale and lark That greet the golden dawn, Or twilight deepening into dark, By mountain, grove, or lawn ; Long days, clear nights, and balmy winds, Fresh flowers and forest leaves, Birds, blossoms, fruit of ruddy rinds, New hay, and barley sheaves ; All joys of nature, sounds or sights Of forest, stream, or plain, Ye' re welcome, welcome, welcome ever, And welcome back again. Fair hopes, forgotten 'mid our toils, Sweet visions dream'd of yore, Calm thoughts effaced in life's turmoils, Old songs we've sung before ; Forgotten comrades, friends estranged, Acquaintance o'er the seas, Old feelings weaken'd, lost, or changed, And youthful memories ; Pure joys of home, kind words, sweet smiles, And sympathy in pain, Ye're welcome, welcome, welcome ever, And welcome back again. WELCOME BACK. 09 For Heaven is kind, and makes no stint Of blessings, though we die ; They pass in circles, and imprint Their footsteps as they fly. 'Tis ours to train them when begun, To keep the circle true, And not neglect, forget, or shun The old ones for the new. Ne'er to the hearts that prize them well They hold their course in vain : They're welcome, welcome, welcome ever And welcome back again. w 70 VOICES FROM TllE MOUNTAINS. A LOVER'S FANCIES. " What sounds like pewter ?" said my Eose in play — "The fall of earth upon a coffin-lid." "Like tin?" — "The cock-crow heralding the day, Or infant wailing that its mother chid." "Like bteel ?" — "The quick sharp twitter on the spray Of numerous sparrows in the- foliage hid." "Like gold?" — "The strong wind over forests borne, Or full bass singer chanting prayer and creed." "Like brass?" — "The neighing of a frighten'd steed, Or roar of people clamouring for corn." "Like iron?" — "Thunder-claps suddenly woken, Startling the city iu the summer night." u Like silver ?" — "Thy sweet voice that speaks delight, And breathes Love's promise, never to be broken." 71 u THE NINE BATHERS. " I would like to bathe in milk," Said little Agnes, fresh and fair, With her taper fingers smooth as silk, Her cherry cheeks and nut-brown hair — . "In a bath of ivory, fill'd to the brim, I would love to lie and swim, And float like a strawberry pluck'd at dawn, In the lily-white waves of milk new-drawn." "And I," said Eose, with her eyes divine, "Would love to bathe in the ruddy wine, Trailing my long and coal-black locks In purple clarets and amber hocks; And I would have a fountain play So that the wine might fall in spray, And I might stand in the sparkling rain, Statue-like in perfect rest; — And if the droplets left a stain, I'd have a fountain of champagne To wash the purple from my breast ; And troops of slaves, in rich attire, Should scatter myrrh and incense sweet, And bring me, should my looks desire, A golden ewer to wash my feet. 7 '2 VOICES FUOM THE MOUNTAINS. I'd tread on carpets of velvet woof, My mirrors should reach from floor to roof, And every slave should envy me My loveliness and luxury." "And I," said Jane, with her eyes' dark glances Radiant with untold romances, " Would choose a milder bath than thine, Nor crumple my curls with fiery wine. In a bath of alabaster bright, In a marble-floor'd and lofty hall, Transplendent with the regal light Of a thousand lamps from roof and wall, Amid exotics rich and rare Filling with odours all the air, In clear rose-water I would lie, Like a lily on a lake serene, Or move my limbs to the harmony Of an orchestra unseen, Placed in a chamber far remote, And floating sing, and singing float." "Sweet bath!" said the calm fair Margaret; "But the bath I'd choose is sweeter yet. I'd have it in a rich saloon Open to the breeze of noon, With marble columns smooth and high, And crimson damask drapery, Fill'd with statues chaste and rare Of nymphs and gods divinely fair. Of jet-black marble the bath should be, With no white speck on its purity; THE NINE BATHERS. 73 It should not flow with milk or wine, With scented waters or with brine; It should be fill'd with meadow dew, Gather'd at morning in the grass, 'Mid harebell -cups and violets blue, And my bath should be my looking-glass ; And I would have a score of maids Glowing with beauty, each and all, To twist my locks in graceful braids, Ajid dress me for a festival." "And I," said Lilias, raising her eyes Clear as morn, of passion full, "Would love to bathe under Eastern skies, In the palace gardens of Istamboul, In the hanging groves of Babylon, Or Bagdad, city of the sun, 'Mid orange, date, and trailing vine, Palm, and myrtle, and eglantine ; I would have fifty fountains fair, 'Mid bowers of roses and evei-greens, And bathing in the odorous air, I would be waited on by queens." "And I," said Ann, with her drooping tresses, And eyes as full of love's caresses As the morning is of day, And mouth so ripe and kindly smiling 'Twas never made to answer " Nay," "I would bathe in the fresh blue sea With the wild waves sporting over me ; I would toy with the harmless foam, I VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Passing my fingers like a comb Through the crest of each wave that rear'd Its spray, as white as Neptune's beard ; — With a fresh wind blowing across the reach, I would dive and float again and a- 95 FOLLOW YOUR LEADER. "Follow your leader 7" So said Hope, In the joyous days when I was young; O'er meadow path, up mountain-slope, Through fragrant woods, I follow'd and sung ; And aye in the sunny air she smiled, Bright as the cheruh in Paphos born, And aye my soul with a glance she wiled, And tinged all earth with the hues of mom. Long she led me o'er hill and hollow, Through rivers wide, o'er mountains dun, Till she soar'd at last too high to follow, And scorch'd her pinions in the sun. "Follow your leader!''' So said Love, Or a fairy sporting in his guise. I follow'd, to lift the challenging glove Of many a maid with tell-tale eyes. I follow'd, and dream'd of young delights, Of passionate kisses, joyous pains, Of honey'd words in sleepless nights, And amorous tear-drops thick as rains. But ah ! full soon the frenzy slacken'd ; There came a darkness and dimm'd the ray, The passion cool'd, the sunshine blacken'd, I lost the glory of my day. 96 VOICES FROM TIIE MOUNTAINS. "Follow your leader!" So said Fame, In the calmer hours of my fruitful noon. O'er briery paths, through frost, through flame, By torrent, and swamp, and wild lagoon, Ever she led me, and ever I went, With bleeding feet and sun-brown skin, Eager ever and uncontent, As long as life had a prize to win. But Dead-Sea apples alone she gave me, To recompense me for my pain, And still though her luring hand she gave me, I may not follow her steps again. "Follow your leader!" So said Gold, Ere the brown of my locks gave place to grey. I could not follow — her looks were cold ; Icy and brittle was the way; And Gold spread forth her wiles in vain ; So taking Power to aid her spell, "Follow your leaders!"" exclaim'd the twain, " For Avhere we go shall pleasure dwell." I follow'd, and follow'd, till age came creeping, And silver'd the hair on my aching head, And / lamented, in vigils weeping, A youth misspent, and a prime misled. "Follow your leader!" I hear a voice, Whispering to my soul this hour ; — "Who follows ray light shall for ever rejoice, Nor crave the perishing arm of Power ; FOLLOW YOUR LEADER. 97 "Who follows my steps shall for ever hold A blessing purer than earthly love, Brighter than Fame, richer than Gold — So follow my light and look above." 'Tis late to turn, but refuse I may not, My trustful eyes are heavenwards cast, And ever the sweet voice says, "Delay not, Fin thy first leader and thy last." 'Tis the friend of my youth come back again, Sober'd and chasten'd — but lovelier far Than when in those days of sun and rain She shone in my path as a guiding star. She led me then, a wayward boy, To things of Earth, and never of Heaven, But now she whispers diviner joy, Of errors blotted, of sins forgiven. To a piu-pling sky she points her finger, As westward wearily I plod, And while I follow her steps, I linger, Calm as herself, in the faith of God. -^zZftSm^^. Il OS VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. THE DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. A FRAGMENT. "The Girondins spent the last night of their captivity in the great dungeon — that Hall of Death. The tribunal had ordered that the still warm corpse of Valaze" should be taken back to the prison, carried on the same cart with his accomplices to the place of execution, and buried with them. * * The gendarmes placed the body in a corner of the prison. The Girondins, one after the other, kissed the heroic hand of their friend. They covered his face with his mantle. ' To morrow ! ' said they to the corpse ; and they gathered their strength for the coming day. It was near midnight. The deputy Bailleul, proscribed like them, but concealed in Paris, had promised to send them from without, on the day of their judgment, a last repast — of triumph or of death, according as they might be acquitted or condemned. By the help of a friend, he kept his word. The funeral supper was spread in the great dungeon. Costly viands, rare wines, flowers, and lights covered the oak table of the prison. * * The meal lasted till the dawn of day. Vergniaud, seated near the centre of the table, presided with the same calm dignity which he had pre- served during the night of the 10th of August, while presiding over the Convention. The guests ate and drank with sobriety — merely to recruit their strength. Their discourse was grave and solemn, though not sad. Many of them spoke of the immortality of the soul and expressed their belief in a future state." — Lamartine's History of the Girondins. "The last night of the Girondins was sublime. Vergniaud was provided with poison. He threw it away that he might die with his friends. They took a last meal together, at which they were by turns merry, serious, and eloquent. Brissot and DEATH BANQUET OP THE GIRONDINS. 9 'J Gensonne were grave and pensive. Vergniaud spoke of expiring liberty in the noblest terms of regret, and of the destination of man with persuasive eloquence. Ducos repeated verses which he had composed in prison ; and they all joined in singing hymns to France and Liberty." — Thiers' s History of the French Revolution. VERGNIAUD. Never despair of goodness : men are bad, But have been worse. The badness shall die out ; The goodness, like the thistle-down, shall float, Bearing a germ beneath its tiny car — A germ predestined to become a tree, To fall on fruitful soil, and on its boughs Bear seed enough to stock the universe. Never despair of Freedom : though we die In cruel martyrdom most undeserved, What matters it, if Truth survive our bones 1 No my dear brothers, we shall not despair, Now or hereafter, for ourselves or men ; For we are sorrow-proof ; our souls have borne All the worst ills that can afflict the just. We can sit down in strength of virtuous will, And dare all malice and all power of men To add one mental pang to bodily death, Or rob us of the smallest privilege That appertains to our humanity. They may manure their gardens with our flesh, And decompose our scaffolding of bones, But cannot harm us, cannot touch the 7, The Thou, that dwells in clay receptacle, Vast, awful, inaccessible, alone, And indestructible as earth or heaven. H 2 100 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. BR1SSOT. Would we could summon our poor Valaze To visit us, and his forsaken corpse Which bears us now such mournful company ! What secrets he could tell us if he might ! Perchance even now he listens to our words, And shares our sorrows as he shared beiore. SILLERY. I do propose that in a solemn pledge Over this wine we bear our love to him — The soul of Valaze, if soul he have, Outliving its poor garb of flesh and bone, Or I, or thou, or any piece of dust That walks on legs and calls itself a man ; Here's to his memory ! — and if he live, May he be happy in the light of heaven ! BRISSOT. Dear Valaze ! 'tis pleasant to my soul, For soul / have, coeval with its God, To think that he is with us at this hour; Fill'd with the virtuous joy that shall be ours, Soon as the bloody knife has done its work In opening the door 'twixt earth and heaven, And letting us go free. LASOURCE. Free of the earth perhaps, but free as gods? To love, to know, to labour, to aspire? DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIROXDIXS. 101 They say that Heaven is full beatitude, Bliss infinite and yet a bliss complete, Sum of all hopes and crown of all desire. I would not pass into a stagnant heaven, For ever singing psalms and saying prayers. Ah, no ! the heaven that my spirit craves, If place it be, and not a state of mind, Is place for progress — infinite as God. There is no good but effort. Paradise, With nothing to be done, would be to me Worse than the blackest Hell that Dante drew, Or English Milton in his awful song. DUCOS. What work wouldst do? Wouldst like to strive in Heaven With Robespierres or Dantons? or wouldst go Down to the other place to battle there? LASOURCE. As for the other place, there is no Hell But that which dwells in the ungodly soul — A Hell eternal as the soul itself. But for the virtuous and aspiring mind There is no task more adequate to Heaven Than war with Error. Light was only made To change the alien Darkness to itself: Love but to conquer and extinguish Hate. CARRA. I have two doubts ; but to my tranquil mind Each is a comfort. If perchance I go 102 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Out of this body and remain myself, I feel that God is good, and that this self Shall not be damn'd, whatever bigots feign, But shall enjoy the infinitude of love. And if I go not hence — if I am this — This bag of joints, and arteries, and flesh — Nothing besides — and consciousness expires When the lungs cease their functions, and the heart Sends to the pulse the living stream no more, There is nor disappointment, grief, nor pain, Jn thought of nothingness. I've lived my life, And can go down to Death without a pang, And think annihilation bliss indeed. DUCOS. / not. I take an interest in things, And would be glad to learn the fate of France, For whose dear sake we die to-inorrow morn ; And if the "incorruptible" corrupt And bloody Robespierre shall 'scape the toils He sets for us. I should be glad to know How long the savage hounds that lap our blood Shall offer up such holocausts to Hate, As we shall be ere shines another sun. Nor that alone ; — I should rejoice to see What great new poets shall arise with Time, What famous plays and mighty play-actors Shall draw the tears from lovely ladies' eyes, Or dimple their sweet cheeks to heavenly smiles ; What new discoveries shall yet be made, Greater than printing or than gunpowder ; DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIROXDIXS. 103 And what shall be the fashion of men's beards And young girls' petticoats a century hence ; How long the French Republic shall endure, And whether any Cromwell shall arise To turn our troubles to his own account; Or, worst ol all, whether the Capet race Shall mount the throne again, to play the fool, And drive humanity a century back ; And whether Catholic and Protestant Shall hate each other in the days to come, And do foul murder for the love of God, As they have done since Luther was a priest. FOXFREDE. And so should I ; but not alone to know. To see the miseries of this poor world, Without the power to aid in their relief, Would be indeed as bad as pitchy hell, And worms that die not, and tormenting fiends. No, no, Ducos ; if we return at all, We shall return refresh'd, and play a part. VERGXIAUD. Keep to thy thought, Fonfrede, and lose it not; The soul, partaker of Divinity, Must be partaker of Infinity — Must know alike the secrets of all space, And of this little grain of rolling sand That we are born upon. Yes, we shall see, Clear as a book-, the riddle of the world ; We shall repeat the watchword of the stars; 104 VOICES FKOM THE MOUNTAINS. We shall drink in divine enravishment, As full upon us burst the harmonies Of rolling planets, systems, firmaments. The key-note of the music shall be plain, And we shall strike it whcnso'er we will, And add to infinite Joy, Love infinite. FAUCHET. If we are worthy. Not to every soul Such love and joy as thou depictUrest. Freed from its earthly shell, th' eternal mind Must struggle there, as it has struggled here, Upward, still upward, with incessant toil, To make itself partaker of the bliss, That in a widening circle God hath spread Through His ineffable eternity. SILLERY. Is talking, struggling? For I trust, dear friend, There will be talking in the other world, And that we twenty-one now supping here, Discoursing mistily of earth and heaven, Shall have a nobler banquet in the sky, And better talk in better company, To-morrow night ; — banquet of heavenly fruits, Ambrosia, nectar, manna, wine of gods, And converse with the mighty men of yore : — Socrates, Plato, Buddha, Mahomet, Homer, Anacreon, Euripides, Ovid and Dante, Shakspeare and Corneille, With Caesar, Antony, and Constantine, DEATH BAXQUET OF THE GIEONDIKS. 105 With Cleopatra, Hero, Helena, Eve, and Semiramis, and Joan of Arc, And a whole host of the undying dead — Sages, philosophers, and ancient kings, Bards, statesmen, actors, dancing girls, and wits, And most beloved, our brother Valaze, Gone as a herald to announce the doom Of three times seven unconquerable soids, Coming to join him ere the world goes round, Or the next twilight deepens into day. LASOURCE. What ails our friend, our brother Vergniaud ? His gaze is fix'd upon vacuity — He hears us not — he looks, but sees us not. Kind sleep has thrown her mantle over him, And in his slumber flow unbidden tears. FONFREDE. I could weep with him. Here we sit and talk Of heaven and hell, unloosing knotty points, Or gi'appling with them, but to make the coil A worse entanglement — forgetting France, And those who love us. I 've not shed a tear, But I could weep a flood, and in each drop Pay tribute to my own humanity, Which blushes for me, that I should forget, In these last hours, my few, my faithful friends ; And she, the dear companion of my sold — My love — my better life — that prays for me In solitude and sorrow; or, perchance, IOC VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Watches outside these very walls, and weeps. The tears are gathering in my eyes for her, And they must flow, or make my heart a wreck. VERGNIAUD. Let the flood burst : tears are the wine of grief, And will inspire thee more than sparkling Ai Can stir the pulses of a bacchanal. I crave no pardon for the tears I've shed, The latest luxury that I shall taste. In one short minute I have lived a life, Felt all my joys, and suffer'd all my woes; Loved all my loves, hoped all my hopes, despair'd All the despairs that ever dull'd my sense ; Spoken my speeches, stirr'd a listening land In name of freedom and the rights of men, Ending this cosmorama of my days By weeping on the breast of her I love The tears you saw me shed — the tears whose flow Eefresh'd my heated brain, and bore me back To consciousness of new, which I had lost. GENSONNK. Even so with me. I have been living lives In minutes since our festival began. Aye as the sands grows scanty in the glass Of unrelenting Time, the falling grain Exceeds in value all that went before, And years of feeling load the back of each. DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIROXDIXS. 107 Five minutes past I was a little child — I roam'd in meadows, gathering violets, I bathed my tiny feet in running streams, I strutted o'er the sward with martial drum, I conn'd my painful lesson in the school, I nestled in my little sister's breast, And fell asleep, my arms entwining her. And then I jjrew into a thoughtful bov, Full of high projects and intense desires — Passion and folly, wisdom and romance, Fading my soul by turns. Another grain Dropp'd in the glass, and, lo ! I was a man Fill'd with ambition and desire of fame, Faising my voice above the popular din, To swell the rallying cry of ceaseless war To royal tyranny and feudal wrong. Another grain dropp'd through, and I was wed, And lived long years of bridal happiness. I built my house upon a hill ; I plann'd Gardens and orchards, parks and sloping lawns, And fled from clash of modern politics To ancient lore and calm philosophy. Another grain, and all the visions fled. I braved false judges in the judgment-seat, Dishonouring judgment and the name of man; Defied them to their teeth, and dared to die And leave my fate a legacy to Time. All this, and more, unwinding like a scroll, Has pass'd before me at this feast of death, Even as I talk'd, and drank, and laugh'd with you. A double consciousness — an added self Swathed me all o'er, as glory swathes a saint. 10S VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. BUCOS. Thy visions have been brave, dear Gensonne. / have been thinking of my mistresses, Eulalie, Marie, Gabrielle, Fifine — Who loved me first — who last — and who the best ; And whether one of them to-morrow mom Will give a last and solitary thought To me, a man defrauded of my head, Having no property in my own life, And lost to them for loving liberty, And daring to interpret for myself What meant the name. SILLERY. Didst love the four at once 1 or two by two 1 Or didst thou take the darlings one by one 1 Or love this liberty still more than them 1 In either case why should they weep for thee, So loose and fickle in thy preference? And yet 'tis sweet to know a woman sighs For our distresses, and would share them all, If sharing would relieve. Fill up again — We stow Wubrious. /, that ever laugh'd, Crutch-ridden and decrepit as I am, At nightly comedy, and daily farce, Play'd in all places — forum, palace, street, In church and tavern, attic or saloon — Must not be tragic, ev'n though dungeon-walls Shut from my vision that stupendous farce, The rolling earth. Fill to the brim your cups. We'll toast our friends, our wives, our mistresses. DEATH BANQUET OF THE G1R0NDINS. 109 VERGNIAUD. God bless the maid whose image fills my soul, The incarnation of all purity — All modesty — all loveliness — all grace, My own heart's partner — my betrothed wife ; — Never to see me in this mortal state — Never to these pale, faithful lips of mine To give the answering kiss of plighted truth ! God shower His blessings on her ! May she live, Unscath'd. in all the perils of the time, And love of me be thought no crime in her By those who wield the destinies of France, And slay the innocent ! FAUCHET. Amen, Amen — for her, and all we love ! DUCOS. We grow too serious. If we ransack thus The stores of memory for joys bygone, For hopes decay'd, and loves for ever lost, AVe shall unman ourselves, and yield our breath Like love-sick maidens, who in deep decline, Aye prattle prettily of moonlit seas, Fresh flowers, green meads, and shady forest-walks, To the last moment of their artless lives. In my philosophy there are no tears, No sighs, no groans, no useless fond regrets, Lut a stout heart, and laughter to the last. 110 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. ') (Sings.) THE CAP AND BELLS. Did you ever trust a friend, And when cheated trust him more ? Ever seek to gain your end, Knocking at a rich man's door? Do you trust your Doris fair, When her tale of love she tells 1 ? You deserve the cap you wear, Jingle, jangle — shake your bells ! Think you that the men are wise Who embark in public strife ? Or their judgment do you prize Who for country risk their life ? Truth's existence could you swear ? Or affirm where honour dwells? You deserve the cap you wear, Jingle, jangle — shake your bells ! FONFREDE. The voice is good — the singer, my good friend — The manner perfect, but the song itself A baseless libel. Tiy again, Ducos, And give us something in a nobler mood. We may not die with falsehood on our tongues, And gibes and sneers curvetting on our lips. DUCOS. If like a swan, I must expire in song, Hear my death anthem. Join it if you will. DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIROKDIXS. Ill THE GREY OWL. The grey owl sat on the belfry-leads, And look'd o'er the Seine to the place of heads, Over the Seine to the Place de Greve. The winds v~ere sighing, the trees replying; The moonlight stream'd o'er the abbey-nave, Over the house-tops silently lying "White as the mist when the morn is new ; And aye the owl, so solemn of look, The speckled grey of his plumage shook, And screcctid in the turret — tu vjheet, tu ivhoo ! Clear and full the moonlight swam Around the towers of Notre Dame, And tinged on the Grove the guillotine — The icinds were sighing, the trees replying — When a cry was heard the gusts between, A moan for the dead, and not for the dying, Dolefully sounding the faubourgs through. 'Twas the howl of a dog for his master slain, And the grey owl flapp'd his wings again, And screed id in the turret — tu wheet, tu whoo ! He flapp'd his wings and away he lurch'd Over the Seine, and, resting, perch'd On the high cross-beam of the guillotine-top. The v:iuds were sighing, the trees replying — The tail of the howling hound did drop As he saw, through the pallid moonlight flying, The doleful bird loom into his view ; 112 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. lie ceased his moan and slunk away, And the old owl rustled his pinions grey, And screectid from the scaffold — lu ivheet, tu ivhoo ! "Hurra!" quoth he, as the creature ran; "What right have dogs to moan for man, Or of love like this to make pretence?" The winds were sighing, the trees replying. " Such canine truth is a foul offence ; For if every fool on the guillotine dying, Had a friend like this to howl and rue, Their noise would drown the people's roar When it tasted blood and clamour'd for more." And the grey owl screectid — tu ivheet, tu whoo I " I wot that to-morrow's sun shall see The death of a goodly company — I trust no dogs will howl for them." The winds were sighing, the trees replying. " Two-and-twenty we condemn — One has escaped from the shame of dying, Oj^en'd a door and glided through ; Yet two-and-twenty heads in all Under the bloody knife shall fall." And the grey owl screectid — tu wheet, tu whoo 1 " Many shall follow them day by day, The harvest-time shall not delay — The headsman's harvest, so ripe, so red." The winds were sighing, the trees replying — " I know the name of each sentenced head — Danton, the harsh and death-defying — DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 113 All his friends that think him true — Brutal and greedy Pere Duchesne, "With all his comrades, all his train." And the grey owl screecKd — tu wheet, to whoo ! "And after a while a greater still Shall tread the road, shall climb the hill, Amid the shouts of the changeful crowd" — The winds were sighing, the trees replying. "And shall headless sleep in a bloody shroud. Hated in life, accursed in dying, He shall meet the doom of the twenty-two; And his name shall live the world to scare — 'Tis Robespierre ! 'tis ItobespieiTe ! " And the grey owl screeched — tu, wheet, tu whoo! SILLERT. Who is your owl, Ducos 1 — the embodied soul Of Marat visiting the earth again ? Whoe'er he be, his prophecies are safe, And through the glooms of Time his eyes can see About as cleai'ly as some men's, I know. Tis a brave bird, Ducos, and speaks the truth, 'Although his voice is harsh, his truth a fear, And deeds of blood his too familiar thought. LASOURCE. Behold the dawn : it breaks upon the world. How at this hour the oceans sport their waves, And turn their frothy ringlets to the light, And all the peaks of Alps and Apennines I 114 VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS. Catch on their snowy heights the ruddy gold, The silver, and the purple, and the grey, And all the glory of its majesty. The ancient forests shake their lordly boughs, And pay obeisance to the rising morn ; The green fields smile, dew glistening, in its face; The distant towns and villages awake, The milk-maid sings, the cow-boy winds his horn, And lowing cattle climb the sunward hills. The twin grey towers of ancient Notre Dame Are gilded with a smile, like hoary age Relaxing to behold an infant's play. Ay, even the gory guillotine receives The splendour of the morning, and the slave Drinks of the sunshine freely as the free. What beauty compasses the teeming world ! "What hideous spectacles ungrateful men Throw in its face, to tire it of itself! Beautiful morn ! my blessing upon day I SILLERY. And mine — if worth acceptance. But behold, The gaoler comes — our feast is at an end ; The death-bell tolls. Time fades to nothingness; The hideous dream of life draws to its close; The morning of Eternity is near. Let us arise and wake like healthful men. FAUCHET. May God have mercy on us, and forgive Our enemies, as we forgive them now. DEATH BANQUET OF THE GIRONDINS. 115 VERGNIAUD. Farewell, dear brothers — farewell, friends beloved. The victims of a fearful tyranny We die, but leave our names an heritage That France shall wear, and boast of to the world. THE END. PRIN'TEI) BV COX AND WVJIAN, CHEAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON. Now Beady (Second Edition), Price 3s. 6d., WITH A PORTRAIT OP THE AUTHOR. dgeria, aitb ofljtr foetus. By CHAELES MACKAY. (From ike Athenceum.) " Egeria" is Charles Mackay's best poem. It mani- fests powers of no ordinary kind ; mental endowments and moral feelings capable of sustaining the poetic character at no common elevation. (From the American Newspapers.) In this elegant volume the poems of this world- known author, which, like so many wings, have been flying hither and thither over the earth, are collected and fitly joined together. Many of them are as familiar as the hymns of Watts, or the articles of the Decalogue ; while others are new and fresh, bearing the same vigour and nobility which imbue all of Mackay's previous compositions. This author always writes with a purpose — and that purpose is to elevate, and urge, and inspire. The didactic tone of his poems forms the secret of their universal popu- larity. He has metaphor and word — architecture sufficient to attract and hold the imagination — but it is, after all, the heart at which he directs his powers. He does not employ his abilities upon "Fantastic beauty — such as lurks In some wild Poet when he works Without a conscience and an aim " — but diffuses throughout his productions a spirit of benignance and real goodness, whose influence must operate upon every reader. We cannot be mistaken in supposing that Charles Mackay is already a favourite with the American Public. His verse is imbued with the democratic spirit, in the best sense of the term — a progressive, humanitarian spirit, that wars against oppression and sympathizes with the poor, the struggling, and the forlorn, always and everywhere. England in the present age has given birth to a number of such poets, and Charles Mackay seems to us the peer of the worthiest. ■ Mackay is emphatically the poet of the people. Scarcely a single newspaper can be found which has not aided in widely spreading his poems to the world. He is awake to the charms and lessons of nature, as well as to the wrongs of man ; and he treats each subject with the ease of a great thinker and a profound reasoner. His verse is musical, and flows onward with the ease of the swift running brook. No discordant jars upon its harmony occur ; neither is it tiresome from sameness. Variety in measure enlivens and charms the reader, who might well be pardoned if, in his admiration of the solidity of the sentiments, he forgets the beauty of rhythm in which they are clothed. Mr. Mackay is emphatically a true poet, full of nerve, fire, and fancy, and his productions have both the stamp and the sterling ring of the real coin. Of all living bards, he is one of the most eminently practical — and there are few who can point a moral so neatly, pithily, and poetically. Especially is the reader struck by his ease and readiness of versification. He never pauses for ideas, stumbles for words, or racks the vocabulary for far-fetched phrases — there is no dragged-in sentiment, or pumped-up inspiration — but all flows easily and harmoniously, as though the ideas set themselves to music, and he "spoke in numbers because the numbers came." Above all do we love the healthy, manly character of these poems, so instinct with energy, and so free from sickly sentiment and mawkishness of feeling. Price 3s. Gd. foolscap 8vo. cloth, UNDEE GEEEN LEAVES, gLntr at\tx f «s. By CHARLES MACKAY. The book must speak for itself — it will speak for itself — for Charles Mackay's poems ever command an audience, to say the least of them, respectful, observ- ant, and intei'ested ; an audience that will not tail to listen for a while absorbed, while they hear sung to them in well-known accents the griefs of "Horny- hand," the excuses of " Shackaback," lyrical pieces about "The Cobbler" and about "The Musician," about " Cracklethorn " and about " Lullingsworth," about " Gideon Gray " and " Castle Athelstone." The work is musical, genial, and unaffected, and, therefore, only to be thought of in a kindred mood to that in which Wordsworth called to mind the bed of daffodils moving in the breeze, when he spoke of them thus tenderly in the mei*e remembrance — "And still my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils ! " And so, too, in a mood as tender and as natural, and occasionally with the " tears in his voice," Charles Mackay — crowning himself with a fresh bay-wreath — sings to us Under Green Leaves. — Sun. The bold, strong, vigorous sense, and the plain meaning, the terse felicitous imagery, the ennobling thought, the masculine diction, the sonorous swell and rythmic cadence of every line, the buoyant and 4 bounding leap of the verse — all these are character- istics of Mr. Mackay's poetry, so patent to the world that they scarcely need the enforcement of our pen. We feel that the rough, rugged, grand Saxon words, like hammer on anvil, ring and echo with a clangour whose resonance is like that of trumpets rather than the emasculated melodies of flutes and " soft recorders." His smaller pieces are complete utterances which go direct to the heart. His lyric on " Wines " leaps to life with a clash like that of cymbals, and the plash of the ruddy libation seems to make itself heard amid the laughing and jubilant flow of the words. Of quite another order, dark, tenebrous, and solemn, is " The Interview," where he appears to look his own soul in the face and beholds what a wreck sin and error may make of it. The volume contains many of the author's happiest efforts, and is but the continuation of a triumph. — Weekly Dispatch. This felicitous title gives the full purpose and object of these poems. They are the emanations of a true poet, escaped from the heat and hurry of the world — ringing with " current coin of the realm," and troublous with elbowing to secure a modicum of the same — to have a breathing pause with nature in her holy quietude — to receive with at once a rejoicing and a humble spirit all her balmy influences in her own green temple, where the Eternal ministers to man. Very subtly does Mr. Mackay interpret the various emotions born of the place and the hour. The poems are as fresh, as fragrant, and as marked as the trees and shrubs and wild-flowers that, as we read, seem to breathe their tender inspiration into the soul of the singer. — Lloyd's Weekly News. 5 UNIFORM WITH THE "VOICES FROM THE MOUNTAINS." PRICE ONE SHILLING. THE SALAMANDRINE; OK, %a)st attir Jfmmorfaliftj. BY CHARLES MACKA.Y, AUTHOR OP "UNDER GREEN LEAVES," "THE LUMP OP GOLD,' : "EGERIA," "LEGENDS OF THE ISLES," ETC. Of Mr. Mackay's graceful fancy and command over the vai'ieties of lyrical metre, the readers of this journal have had more than one opportunity of judging. They know him, too, as skilful among the modern romancers. Here he displays Ids attributes in combination, and "The Salamandrine" ought to increase the reputation he has already gained. — Athenaeum. There is a wild and poetical originality in this production which affords a favourable display of the author's imaginative and descriptive powers. — Literary Gazette. The " Salamandrine " is a charming poem, on a most poetical subject. The author has added another gem to the crown which fancy and taste have bestowed upon him. — Morning Herald. Nothing can be more graceful than the manner in which Mr. Mackay has versified this fanciful legend, or more apposite than the imagery with which he has surrounded it. — Sun. We are acquainted with no production of our time more richly imbued with the true poetic spirit, — more eminently distinguished by the sweetness of simplicity, — by the tenderest pathos,— by an exceed- ing delicacy and purity of thought, feeling, and expression. Penetrating the inmost recesses of the heart, it equals, in many passages, one of the most exquisite poems in our language, Coleridge's "Genevieve." Amethysta, the heroine, is amongst the loveliest of poetical creations, and never once, from the commencement to the close, does our anxiety for her fate experience languor or cessation. — Naval and Military Gazette. It abounds in passages most "musical, most melan- choly," and affords throughout evidence of the pos- session by its author of very high poetic talent. The "Salamandrine" is a beautiful little tale, worthy of association with " Undine." — United Service Gazette. In the versification of this poem, Mr. Mackay has been extremely felicitous. It floods along like music, now rising, now falling, — sometimes subsiding into mournful tones, and sometimes breaking out into the most joyous exultation. There is more variety in it, also, than in anything he has hitherto produced,— a higher strain ot fancy,— and infinitely greater facility of execution. The subject will insure it that popu- larity which its merits richly deserve. — Atlas. LONDON : G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON ST. NEW YORK : 18, BEEKMAN STREET. 7 2Tow ready {Second Edition), Price 3s. 6d. foolscap 8vo. cloth, THE LUMP OF GOLD, By CHARLES MACKAY. Mr. Mackat does not need the aid of this volume of Poems to establish his fame as a poet. "The Lump of Gold " is founded upon an incident — imaginative, of course — of the Gold fever in Australia. It is sure to be extensively read ; and the minor pieces in the volume are worthy of Mr. Mackay's standing as a poet. — Dublin Evening Post. Many portions of Charles Mackay's poetry have become like household idols to the people, hence the announcement of a new work by an old iavourite will be hailed with satisfaction. — Critic. The admirers of Mr. Mackay's poetry will find much in the vigorous language, the easy versification, the striking imagery, and the manly sentiments of the volume before us, to justify their high opinion of his talents. — Bell's Messsenger. "The Lump of Gold" is a story of surpassing beauty and interest, and well sustains the deserved popularity of the author. Some of the lines are exquisitely beautiful, and remind us of some of the happiest stanzas of Coleridge. — SCaffordshire Sentinel. Mackat speaks for the people. Not inferior to Tennyson in artistic skill ; with thoughts as deep as Massey's, but without their bitterness ; with some of the pathetic humour of Hood ; with a simplicity which reminds the reader of Longfellow ; and with a sprightliness and elasticity which none of these possess, Mackay has been singing with the people and for the people, till his words have become the words of the household among all classes. — Lloyd's News. LONDON : G. EOUTLEDGE & CO., FAERINGDON ST. NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET. 8 IN SHILLING VOLUMES, UNIFORM WITH THE "SALAMANDRINE" AND THE "SONGS FOR MUSIC." By CHARLES MACKAY. oo^e^o-o LEGENDS OF THE ISLES. The " Legends of the Tsles " relate, for the most part, to the romantic districts of the Hebrides, and the wild traditions connected with them. Around them Mr. Mackay has thrown the glowing light of fancy and imagination, and adorned them with the graceful robe of his rich and classical diction. — Scotsman. VOICES FEOM THE MOUNTAINS. To say that these "Voices from the Mountains" are worthy of Charles Mackay is saying much, but, in some respects, we think he has here surpassed his former efforts. They are distinguished by all the earnest fervour and glorious aspirations of his admirable " Voices from the Crowd," united to great artistic excellence in the rhythmical construction of the verse; but they have besides a meaning and moral, and a good and wise purpose, which might teach lessons to this Mammon-worshipping age, of more value than all the philosophy of the schools, or all the wealth of the railway kings. Charles Mackay's muse is like a benignant spirit, warring with the powers of darkness and oppression, and, amid the roar and riot of these iron times, full of hope and love, and boundless faith in the high destinies of the whole human family, singing her beneficent songs, which are truly worthy of all accep- tation and praise. — Caledonian Mercury. BALLADS AND LYRICAL POEMS. We have a genuine pleasure in once more welcoming the appearance of this tried vindicator of the poet's dignity and mission. Charles Mackay is one whose works have always a purpose,— and that an elevated one. His is a name involuntarily associated with what is most cheering and hopeful in the aspects of human life and destiny, and it is one that the present generation will not willingly let die. His lyrics have heartiness and vigour about them which instinctively inspirit. Hence the firm hold which they have taken on the public mind. — Weekly News. VOICES FROM THE CROWD. The "Voices from the Crowd" are just the voices for the crowd. Earnestness is no small merit at any time. It is the life and soul of all poetry. In Charles Mackay there is no cant,— no sham, — nothing made up for the occasion,— and hence proceeds his undoubted success. — Atlas. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 10M-11-50!2955<470 REMINGTON RAND INC. 20 PR 1*971 Ml81*v 1857 uc pr ** 000 370 464 "o" \ Vxl iit i im t SAL A MAN i i ONGS : Oil MUSI \ I