Sonnets and Poems m. LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF S^CALIFORNIA SONNETS AND POEMS I'KINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STKKET Si^UAKE SONNETS AND POEMS BY THE EARL OF ROSSLYN DEDICATED TO THE QUEEN SECOND EDIITON LONDON REMINGTON & CO. HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN i8qo Deal zvith us gently, ye who read! Our largest hope is unfuliilled — The promise still outrims the deed — The tower, but not the spire, we build. Our wliitesi pearl we never find ; Our ripest fruit we never reach ; The floivering moments of the mind Drop half their petals in our speech. Oliver Wendell Holmes, And thus, as in memory s bark we shall glide. To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide. The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. Moore's Irish Melodies. P?3t TO VICTORIA, REG IN A ET IMPERATRIX If I should write and praise the Sim's rich ray, Atid say it lii^hfs up all the gloomy groutid, And ivarms the heart and life of all aroimd, And makes dull labour into cheerful play ; Turns dark to bright, grave thought supplants by gay, Where tiothing flourishes, bids all abound, And with an equal warmth for all is found, I should but laud God's gift of every day. So must I sing, as rivallins:, the Sun In wide extended Empire, and in good That reaches all, and comforts all. Thy Fame Who rulest half the Globe ; and, thus begun, I could not end — such vast and grateful food Thy praise supplies I — such love Thy honoured A^ame ! ROSSL YM Noveniber 1S89. 953 INTRODUCTION Lord Rossl yn, being still an invalid, has not been able to give this volt4me the fi?ial revision which he would have so much desired. He has, hoivever, read through the proof sheets as the book 7vas going to press. Many of the poems have already appeared ifi print, either in periodicals or in books for private circulation. On the other hand, some of them are quite new, and the l>ook may be considered a more or less complete collection of Lord RossfA\\\s poetical works. The spirit in tvhich he now gives it to the Public is embodied by himself in the following pathetic note. — ' JVhen, at the instigation of niy friends, L ventured to publish a modest volume of sonnets, the compilation of which had extended over nearly three decades, L felt hoiv inadequate the result was to the time it had occupied, and / trembled lest viii INTRODUCTION the parturitmi of the vwuntaiti should in my case, as in so viafiy others, he an accomplished fact. Whether from the ki?idfiess of the critics, or the modest nature of the motto tvhich I selected and have retained in the present volu?ne, or the in- dulgence of my frie?ids, I know not ; but true it is that I had to encounter ofily a too favourable reception, and the whole edition -was speedily exhausted. I have since refraitied from again tempting the perilous path ; but noiv a lingering a7id dangerous illness, but half surmounted, zvarns me that I have only a short space left in which to throw myself upon the consideration of the public. I avail myself of it, not indeed as I could once have done, but yet gratefully a fid gladly, and yield to those whose better judgment has always been my guiding star, and who have, in this case, urged me to publish some poems as tvell as my favourite sonnets. Afnong these " The Jubilee Lyric," prifited by the gracious command of Her Majesty, and some translations from Greek, French, Russian, and Italian authors, trifling in themselves, will be found. They are all unworthy of serious consideration ; but, as they have rendered many hoiirs of my past life happier and better, I trust they ivill be accepted as they are meant, to pass an -idle moment, and they will assuredly in no instance call a blush to the cheek of either the maiden or the youth who may peruse them. Should it please God to restore mc to hcaltli, IXTKODL'CTIOX ix / f/itn\ I trust, l'( excused for hoping that the favour with ivhich these verses may In- received ivill be a?i inducement to write more. ' Rosslyn: The Editor's share in this volume has mainly been the categorical arra?ige?nent of the pieces ; and he anxiously hopes that this task, a labour of love, has been fulfilled in a manner that the admirers of the Poet will approve. By gracious permission, this volume is dedicated to Her Majesty the Queen. IV. EARL HODGSON. Loxnox : Noveuiher 1889. CONTENTS TO MY WIFE I'AGE TO MY WIFE 3 OTHER DOMESTIC OR SOCIAL SONNETS TO MILLIE 21 LOYAL JE SERAI UURANT MA VIE 22 HOME 23 TO DAISY 24 TO HARRY 25 LEDTIME 26 OLD LETTERS 2^ MEMORY 28 AT PLAY 29 AMONG MY BOOKS 3O WORK AND REST 3 1 BRAIN V. MUSCLE 32 MIDNIGHT, 1872-3 33 IN THE CLUB-ROOM 34 OLD FRIENDS 35 LADY SMITH 36 xii CONTEXTS PAGE TO THE SAME 37 TO THE SAME 38 THE GOLDEN WEDDING 39 TO THE EARL OF BEACONSKIKI I), K.G 40 TO THE SAME • . 4I THE VOLUNTEER REVIEWS 42 ON DIT -43 A FTER PR TRA RCH AFTER PETRARCH 47 IN MEMORLIM IJENJAMIN DISRAELI 53 I'RINCESS ALICE 55 TO THE SAME . , . 56 THE DONA MERCEDES DE KOURliON 57 ALPHONSO XII 62 THE EARL OF IDDESLEIGH 63 FREDERICK III. EMPEROR AND KING . . . . . . 64 TO AN INFANT .66 LADY F. C 67 ADMIRAL ROUS 68 GEORGE WHVTE- MELVILLE 69 CHISLEHURST 7° LORD LYTTON 71 ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL TAl I 72 R. F. 1! 73 LORD RAVENSWORTH .74 MRS. E. BARRETT BROWNING 75 TO ROBERT BROWNING 7^ BYRON 77 ABDUL-AZIZ 78 CONTENTS xiii T YROIJCAX SONNE TS AXn OTffKR SOXXETS OF TRAVEL I'AGE TYROLEAN SONNETS 8l HOMDURG 87 MONT BLANC 88 LAUTERURUNNEN 89 DAYBREAK IN I'ARIS 90 A STORM AT SEA 9I INSIDE I'ARIS 92 l.ILLESHAI.L AiniEY 93 liURCllI.F.Y HOUSE 94 CALVARY AXD OTHER SOXXETS OF MEDJTATIOX CALYARY 97 'ORA E SEMI'RE! ' . 98 THE KNIGHTHOOD OF THE CROSS 99 GOETHE'S PRAYER lOO NOT HERE lOI TRUE REST I02 HEAYENLY HARYEST-HOME IO3 LIGHT 104 WORDS OF COMFORT AT CHRISTMAS I05 THY PLACE IS KEPT FOR THEE Io6 APRIL 30, 1881 107 PATHETIC HUMOUR I08 DEAD 109 DROWNED no FORGET-ME-NOT HI SYMPATHY IN FRIENDSHIl' THE GATES OF DEA I H I 12 XIV CONTENTS PAGE MIDDLE AGE II4 OLD AGE ■ • . . 115 THE TRIUMIIIS OF LITERATURE I16 LIKE AND DEATH 11? ALONE 118 THE DISCONTENTED 119 ABANDONED • • .120 LOVE IN AGE 121 woman's fate 122 I'AST AND PRESENT 1 23 DISAPPOINTMENT . 1 24 OLD PRINTS . [25 SUDDEN ANGER 1 26 DEAD LOVE 127 THE EVENING OF LIFE 1 28 1884. IN EXTREMIS 1 29 CONSCIENCE 130 A PHANTOM JUUILEE I3I FOREBODING I32 SYMPATHY 133 EDUCATION 134 ADIEU 135 SONNETS IN OTHER THAN ITALIAN FORM HOPE ON — HOPE EVER 1 39 THE DUEL 140 ' SURTOUT SOIS JUSTE " I4I AN INTERIOR I42 F- 1< • • • -143 10 A. A 144 TRUTH V. PASSION IN POETRY I45 TRUTH 146 CONTENTS I'lIILOMKl. RAIN ! RAIN ! DEFENCK, NOT DKFIANt PURE l-OVE PAGK 148 149 A DA Y IN JUNE AXD OTHER SOXXKTS OF XATCRE A DAY IN Jl'NE 153 THE WOOD-NYMTH 154 THE THROSTLE 155 NATURE 157 WRITTEN FOR 'ANGELA'S NATURAL HISTORY MAGAZINE' . I58 NIGHT 159 THE RIVER "JO TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH : THE LEAF FROM THE FRENCH : VICTOR HUGO . FROM BfiRANGER WRITTEN ON THE CATACOMBS AT ROME MY CONTEMPORARY .... THE BROKEN VIOLIN .... FRAGMENT FRO.M BfiRANGER . B^RANGER'S LAST ODE FALLING STARS FR.\GMENT FROM THE FRENCH : HENRI MURGER FROM THE FRENCH : HENRI MURGER , FROM THE FRENCH : ALFRED DE MUSSET THE MUSE TO THE POET FROM I.AMARTINE . ... 163 164 165 166 167 1 68 171 173 176 179 181 I S3 184 XVI CONTENTS PAGE REMEMBER 187 BEAUTY SLEEPING 1 89 CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEliANON I90 FROM THE FRENXH : VICTOR HUGO I9S FROM THE RUSSIAN 200 FROM THE FRENCH 202 FROM THE ITALIAN 204 FROM THE ITALIAN 207 FROM THE ITALIAN 2o8 FROM ST. AUGUSTINE . 209 HYMNS OF WAR. — HYMN 1 2IO HYMN II 215 HYMN III . 219 STANZAS FOR MUSIC SING ON 225 REUNION 227 CONSTANCY . 229 • THE SILVER SONG ' 23O REMEMBRANCE 23I BIRTHDAY RHYME 232 MEMORY 234 THE HALF-OPENED ROSE 236 SONGS OF BIRDS 237 LOVING FACES 239 WHAT MATTERS IT WHEN THE END IS SURE? . . . . 24O INSOMNJA AXD OTHER MISCELLAXEOVS POEMS INSO.MNIA 245 OUR ONE SALVATION 247 TO MAKE DEATH A GAIN 249 co.vT/^ivrs V.\\< 1-KOM llilMK • 251 TOO I, Air. . 256 uakkian's addrkss to his soul . 260 TO GOKDON . 261 AN EITIAI'II . 262 JOHN BROWN ....... . 263 A SIKAY lllOrCUT . 264 TlIK HMNI) man's I'RAYKR .... . 265 IN MI-.MORIAM ....... . 267 F. n . 270 .MV I'IRST-liORN . 272 ARllU'R WEI.I.KSI.KY, DUKE OK WKIIINCION • 273 rOETIC IMMOKTATirV . 276 (iiii.imooi) ■ 277 TIIOI'CUIS ON FLOWERS • 279 THE SILVER-WINCED HOVE .... . 281 A SOCIETY LYRIC . 283 TO A liEAUTIFUL VOUNC LAIiV . 285 OLIVER MONTAGU'S DOG 'liOXEU' . 286 LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. MATTHEW l).\WSON . . 287 LINES TO ' FLY' . 289 CI.ENQUOICH . 291 THE FEAST OF liELSHA/./AR .... . 292 DISCIPLINE • 297 AUTUMN . 298 DIMIDIUM ANIM.E .ME.E • 299 TO THEIR ROYAL HUillNESSES THE I'RINt'E AND I'RINCESS OF W.\I.ES ....... . 300 TO LADY AVEI.AND . 302 LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER: A JUIilLEE LYRIC • 303 TO MY WIFE TO MY WIFE T IGHT of my life, dear Wife, I write to thee ; Do not like captious critic judge my lines. For my whole heart, like ivy, intertwines The words so old, yet ever new to me ! In all thy sufferings I must bear my part. As in thy joys I joy to have my share ; And if, to-night, God gives thee more to bear, I too will bear it, with a willing heart. Life is made up of suffering and delight — Suffering, short-lived; delight, thank God, how long! And ere the sunrise of to-morrow's morn Thou wilt forget the anguish of to-night ; And through long years thou wilt recall my song, And, smiling, cry, 'No rose without a thorn.' B 2 II TXT'T'HEN all my thoughts are turned to thee alone, How can I sleep, except I dream of thee ? How can I, waking, join in gaiety. When half my smiles for thee are woe-begone ? Thou art my Sun ! and if my Sun has shone, I glory like a lizard, basking free In the full noon-tide of my revelry, Or like a welcome courtier near the throne. But darker dreams will force their dreadful way Through the long watch of night, and sunny hours Sometimes will yield to vapours from the East. Shine, then, sweet Wife, like hawthorn buds in May ^Vith opening promise ! and, Celestial powers. Send us blest fruit from love's abundant feast ! Ill y^~X FEAR ! O Hope ! sisters, alas ! in blood, And yet of alien races ! Why does Fate Blend all my life with yours ? I wait and wait In Hope and Fear each night — an anxious mood ! Love ! many cruel words hast thou withstood, But thou must bear this blame ; I learn too late Thou drivest Sleep through the fair ivory gate, And Fear and Hope spring from thy varied brood Yet, in my Hope, Fear holds me somewhat right. Lest I grow over-fond, and in my Fear Hope cheers me onward, lest I all despair ; And in both Hope and Fear love clasps me tight, And keeps me ever watchful o'er my Dear, Whose joys and sorrows are my fondest care ! IV T'\77H0M can I love but thee ? Is not my heart, ' ' So full of love, wholly and solely thine ? And if true love — of earth the one divine, Unchanging, holy thing— thou dost impart, It were strange barter in an unfair mart, Did I not give — nay, lay upon the shrine I best can worship at, that poor thing— mine. On life's rough ocean take it for thy chart ! And now, when Nature's tribute. Love's harsh toll. Weighs heavily on thy spirit, learn Love's lore From fondest volume, certified and sure. Emblazoned on imperishable scroll. Our love shall shine. Beloved, more and more, And deathless through all ages shall endure ! •T^HE Spring, long since, has shaded her blue eyes With the thick verdure of the Summer leaves ; And now the heart o'er parting Summer grieves. Loath to greet Autumn and her cloudy skies. Yet, in despite of sorrow. Autumn comes Rich with her golden gifts, and bounteous store She brings to gladden many a cottage door, And send the gleaners happy to their homes. Too soon will Autumn, shivering, shrink away. And leafless winter, herald of Christ's birth, Bring other hopes, and whisper holier joy. Thus every season has its happy day ; God gives to each its own allotted mirth : Most blest to thee the one that brings thy Boy. VI O LEEP soundly, Sweetheart, though the winds blow high And snow-wreaths crown the buds of early spring ; Like a true mate, at resting-time I sing A tender carol for thy lullaby. Dread nothing, Dearest, when thy love is nigh, And nestle close beneath the downy wing Of slumber; spite of tempests murmuring. Thy God will guard thee with a Father's eye. Blest in thy faith, thy children, and thy love, Raise, ere thou sleep'st, to God thy grateful heart. Whose mercy keeps thee both by night and day ; Lift thy dear voice in praise and prayer above, So shalt thou prosper in that better part He promises to all who watch and pray. VII T LECTURE ? Sweet ! when thou art near, thy eyes Discourse unanswerably to my heart ; And all my reason, all my nobler part. Yields to thy lecture's tender sympathies. As the loud notes are hushed in symphonies, And bend their music to consummate art. Lulled by a skill no untrained hands impart. So sinks my soul in gratiiied surprise. Surprise ! nay, why surprise ? for Love must rule In every moment of my happiest hours. In every motion of my too-blest life, And whip me back, a dullard, to that school Where learning ever laughs ; where, crowned with flowers, My sternest master is my darling Wife. VIII AT'OU bid me write a sonnet to the year, Whose dying moments tremble in the grasp Of Time's relentless hand, whose final gasp — Feeble and faint— comes nearer, and more near. Dearest, thy loving hand dries every tear ; And every moment, fleeting but too fast, Speaking so solemnly of the changeless past, But tells me truly that you grow more dear. The gentle guidance of a Heavenly grace, Thy guileless sympathy for others' woe. Sustain thee in thy trials from above. Lend a new charm to thy endearing face ; And if thou needest comfort from below, Oh, seek it always in thy husband's love ! December 31,1 868. IX /'^H, blame mc not because my verse is rare ! Deem not my heart is idle as my song ! Thou know'st to thee such melodies belong, As my poor pen can haltingly prepare ; But my full heart of no such blame takes share, And to blame that would do it grievous wrong, P'or still its stream flows passionate and strong. And pays no tribute but to thee, my Fair ! If, then, I sing not, 'tis because, too full, The river of my heart o'erleaps its banks. And to one ocean, thine, pours out its tide ; And mocking spirits might proclaim me dull, And even thou wouldst give me meagre thanks, If, while I praised thee, others should deride. X "px OST thou regret the seeming hard decrees Of Providence, sweet Wife, that keep thee far From thy dear children ? Yonder ghttering star Is far removed from us, yet still it sees With loving light each night upon thy knees Thy suppliant form pray God no ill may mar Thy darlings, or no cruel chance debar That blissful meeting when His will shall please. Regret them not : that star is like thy heart, Distant, yet eyer present, pure and bright. And, though so very far, is ever near. Soon shall all sickness pass, and then thy part Of hopeful waiting for the promised light Will be rewarded without stint or fear. ,13 XI TV IT ORN after morn I tremble at each sound, That breaks my loved one's short uneasy sleep Fever and pain their constant vigil keep, And I, poor sentinel, pace my dreary round. Ah me ! what sounds of horror do abound In this great city ere the sunbeams peep From out their cloudy coverlet ! Yon Steep, With battlemented castle grimly crowned. Is first, with bugle-blare, the day to greet ; And then belated brawlers stagger home, And heavy wains, high-laden with the store Of country- produce, grind along the street ; And engines, savage whistling, slowly come, And cruel hammers beat the neighbouring floor. Edinburgh : 1876. 14 XII ( To he read with No. XL ) T T OW quakes my heart at each ! my nerves strung tight, Wrestling with all these fiends that murder sleep, Sink in untuned vibration ; and I weep From very weakness ; till at last the light Dawns fuller, rosier, on my wearied sight. And once again the tram-cars jingling creep, And jostling cabs run rattling up the steep. And a stray sunbeam makes the world more bright. Sleep on, in spite of all, for love has won The victory for thee ; and soon, sweet Wife, Thou shalt forget thy sorrow and thy pain, And, in returning health (now scarce begun), Shalt find new hopes to animate thy life. And e'en from suffering make a lasting gain. Edinburgh: Oi/oher 8, 1876. XIII MY VALENTINE •'^NCE more I write to thee. Ten changeful years ^—^^ Have brought maturer love and not less true : Our mid-day sun shines proudly, though the hue He sheds is deeper than the morning wears, And gold and violet, not rose-tint, appears. Dearest ! nor time nor care can make us rue, If in life's eventide our heaven of blue No darker shade than God's own sunset bears ! Thou hast been brave in suffering ; and in joy No heart more joyous ; thou hast shared with me A Decade of life's trials — not severe, But still life's trials : gold without alloy Serves scanty purpose : mayst thou ever be Blest in that Love which casteth out all Fear. February 14, 1876. i6 XIV ' TOUT VIENT A POINT A QUI SAIT ATTENDRE ' T F to good waiters all things good arrive — As speaks the ancient proverb in my text — Then may I call thee 'good,' and though perplext As stranger Bee within an unknown hive, Yet welcome as the day ; oh, mayst thou thrive In virtue and in wisdom ! rarely vext By the world's troubles, and the cares annext By cruel Fate to everything alive ! Dear ' Boy ' — sweet little word to mother's ears Whose nursery teems with girls ! — sweet sound to me Whose lineage languished, last of an old race Which her love lovingly renewed, whose fears Are now a saucy jest between us three, Though when I smile she hides her joyous face. XV OUR TWELFTH WEDDING-DAY T J OW strangely swift advancing years roll by, Laden with joy's and sorrow's mingled load, Down the dark path of life's uneven road, Whose milestones' only mark is Memory ! Twelve years have passed, Sweetheart, since thou and I Joined hand to hand and vowed our vows to God And to each other, and as one abode ; And thus may we abide until we die ! By sickness sorely saddened and oppressed, Yet urged by love that knows no dull decline, Thou hast kept Tryst — twelve touching years do prove Thou on thy husband's constant heart canst rest ; Thy arms with his once more canst intertwine, And laugh at Time that only adds to love. November 8, 1878. OTHER DOMESTIC OR SOCIAL SONNETS TO MILLIE, Married on her Seventeenth Birthday, October 20, 1884 Vy TITH aching heart just seventeen years ago I wrote of thee, my first-horn ; thou wert sent To bid the old tree show new increment And promise in the midst of bitter woe : — Thy Mother in death's grasp well-nigh laid low, My sister, of our race the ornament. Struck sudden lifeless ; * Only Millicent, Poor Babe,' I cried, 'remaincth to me now ! ' My cry reached Heaven ! Dear Mother lives To bless lK)th thee and me ; thy brothers smile. And grasp at manhood ere their time be come ; Grace to thy sisters all her tribute gives ; I see thee loving and beloved, the while Thy Husband bears thee to another home. Oiiober 12, 1884. LOYAL JE SERAI DURANT MA VIE The old French motto was shortened by Stafford to ' Loyal je serai,' in a troth ring which he gave Millie; the meaning evidently being that his loyalty would endure l)eyond life itself— hence the Sonnet. ^ATTHY should Life's span my Loyalty confine ? Or bind my Duty with so slight a chain ? Though we be parted we shall meet again ; And wilt thou less in Heaven's pure home be mine ? Is earthly Love more sure than Love divine ? Nay, dearest, if my weeping eyes remain To dew thy grave and suffer tenderest pain, I still would be thine only — only thine ! But if that Spirit unto whom we pray First take me, lonely in that blissful throng, Apart from thee, there will I wait and wait And feed upon thy coming day by day For ever Loyal, and in patience strong, Till thou shalt enter the Eternal Gate. Allien St 17, 1SS4, s HOME TO liLANCHIIi A FEW DAYS liKFORE HER MARRIAGE W'EET word that spans all space, that knows no bound, Yet dwells in narrowest compass; welcome word ! Dear type of Peace— yet sheltered by the sword: Mid Saxon-speaking races only found. Our earliest recollections all abound With little notes of thee ; our years are stored With memories of thee ; each spot adored By youth, in age becometh holy ground. Thou clingest in the handgrip of the Sire ; Thou meltest in the Mother's tender kiss ; The wanderer longs to reach thee— Guiding Star Of all his thoughts: like Israel's Pillared Fire, By night thou leadest him through childhood's bliss, To that loved home he pictures from afar. Aimtst 26, 1886. 24 TO DAISY y^~>HILD of my love, though yet not mine in blood, ^""^^ How farest thou now ? beaming with blue-eyed mirth And rose-hued health ? What corner of the earth Fills thy young head ? That carnage-stricken flood Where the slow Othman with persistent mood Beats back the lying Russ ? Doth pale-eyed dearth, That haunts the Madrassee's penurious hearth. Beg for thy pity — for his daily food? Or, Darliiig, doth the Jasmine climb too high ? Or red-roan Ellie seek her wonted crust ? Or loud-voiced Spangle call his faithful dame ? Do these attract thee ? or, although less nigh. Are thy thoughts given in unreserved trust To me, thy Father in all else save name ? 25 TO HARRY T T is no blame, my Boy, to thee nor me, If I should he severe or seem so now; For love exacts perfection, asks not how, But sternly claims the rightful deed should be. E'en so, my love demands all things from thee, That should beseem the seeds that in thee grow. And plant completeness on thy smooth young brow The well-trained sapling makes the fairest tree. Be guided, then, by thy fond Father's word : Make honest men thy friends, thy watchword Truth Be generous as thou mayest ; hating strife, Protect the weak ; and if thou draw'st the sword. Ne'er sheathe it till victorious. Make thy youth The pure first chapter of thy Book of Life. January 29, 1 881. 26 BEDTIME '' I 'IS bedtime; say your hymn, and bid 'Good-night God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all ; ' Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall ! What will you give me, Sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right ? I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand. Her rosy palms were joined in trustful l)liss, Her heart next mine l)cat gently, soft and warm She nestled to me, and. by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages — ' Baby's Kiss.' Ocioho- ^o, 1S82. OLD LETTERS T T seems hut yesterday she died ; hut years Have passed since then : the wondrous change of time Makes great things Httle, Httle things suhhme, And sanctifies the dew of daily tears. She died, as all must die; no trace appears In History's page, nor save in my poor rhyme, Of her, w^iose life was love, whose lovely prime Passed sadly where no sorrows arc, nor fears. It seems hut yesterday ; to-day I read A few short letters in her own dear hand, And doubted if 'twere true. Their tender grace Seems radiant with her life ! Oh I caii the Dead Thus in their letters live? I tied the hand, And kissed her name as though I kissed her face. 28 MEM OR y T STILL keep open Memory's chamber : still Drink from the fount of Youth's perennial stream. It may be in old age an idle dream Of those dear children ; but beyond my will They come again, and dead affections thrill My pulseless heart, for now once more they seem To be alive, and wayward fancies teem In my fond brain, and all my senses fill. Come, Alice, leave your books ; 'tis I who call ; Bind up your hair, and teasing — did you say Kissing — that kitten ? Evey, come with me ; Mary, grave darling, take my hand ; yes, all ! I have three hands to-day ! A Holiday. A Holiday, Papa.? Woe's me! 'tis Memory! 29 A T PL A Y A N April day ! The cruel wind had fled, And from the \Vest a gentle zephyr came ; The speckled Thrush sang joyously, and tame The cooing Wood Doves made their nuptial bed. The cricket ground, new mown, our youngsters led To tempt the flying ball— a glorious game Where English boys may proudly keep the name Of English sport from growing dull and dead. The great Park Roller made an eminence — Albeit cold as iron is, and brown With recent labour— and I saw thereon, Seated like any Queen, to view from thence The pastime, my small daughter ; but my frown, A rude republican, disturbed her throne. 30 AMONG MY BOOKS A LONE, 'midst living works of mighty dead, Poets and scholars versed in history's lore, With thoughts that reached beyond them and before, I dream, and leave their glorious works unread ; Their greatness numbs me both in heart and head. I cannot weep with Petrarch, and still more I fail when I would delve the depths of yore, And learn old Truths of modern lies instead ; The shelves frown on me blackly, with a life That ne'er can die, and, helpless to begin, I can but own my weakness, and deplore This waste, this barren brain, ah ! once so rife With hope and fancy. Pardon all my sin, Great Ghosts that wander on the Eternal Shore. December 24, 1S76. WORK AND REST /^^> IVIC my brain work ! the enthusiast wildly cries Give my brain rest I the weary toiler prays. Rest pains ; work pains : l)Oth follow different ways, Yet each demands relief and sympathies. Give each their prayer ! the toiler, resting, dies ; The enthusiast, losing strength and hope, decays ; Though both, illumined by the mind's bright rays, T.ove the dear pain, and hug their agonies. Thus pain for work devised, completed not, And ])ain for overwork, are brethren twain ; Dissimilar, yet alike: poor strugglers, rest; The longing heart, thougli failing, makes no blot; And energetic labour should not pain ; But both united must indeed be blest ! • i860. 32 BRAIN V. MUSCLE ^ I ""HERE is no labour like to idleness, When the heart's vigour must restrained be And the keen yearnings yield to apathy : This prisoning of the mind is sore distress, And is a curse, where toil itself \Yould bless. And make a healthy spirit fair and free Beneath Heaven's wide and welcome canopy, That covers workers with a great caress. True, to brain-strugglers, whose enforced rest Is misery ; less true to sinewy slaves Who sweat, and faint, and long for mere repose. Could we but join their tasks, the sum were best, And aged men would scoff at early graves. And happy peasants soon forget their woes. May 29, 18S5. 33 MIDNIGHT, 1872-3 T^LY not, old year, too swiftly; say * Good-bye,' Let us part friends, shake hands before you go ; Time tolls out 'Yes,' when neither can say 'No,'j And these harsh partings dim the brightest eye. It is not that we fear the end more nigh, For the great end brings joy in'stead of woe, When we may join the loved ones long laid low. And change for angel-smile our earthly sigh ; But that, Old Friend, we know not what may come, Of sorrow and regret, when thy young Heir Has set thy crown upon his brow. Farewell ! Alas ! farewell for ever ! Here at home Grateful I own thy blessings and thy care, And listen sadly to thy funeral knell. 34 IN THE CLUB-ROOM /^~X NCE more, by God's good grace, I watch the time ^~^^ Draw slowly on to sound the last dread knell Of the old Year ; and like the funeral bell. Ring out the dirge of death with muffled chime. In every land, in every varied clime. Hearts at this time have something new to tell Both of the past and future, ill or well, And often laughter checks the sad sublime. Extremes meet in the busy club-room — here The oldest fogey and the youngest boy Jostle in word and thought ; yet minutes fly, And with still step creeps in the infant Year ; Then old and young shake hands. May months of joy Be thine, young Year ! Good-bye, old Year, good-bye ! December II, 1876, 11.40 P.M. 35 OLD FRIENDS T F there should be in other climes than these, When I am dead, a thought of days gone by, My mind will first revert (for memory Would still be left) to simple kindnesses And words of love when on my mother's knees — The soft rebuke, that bade me not to cry, Yet made tears fall so fast they ne'er would dry Till kissed away, and that by slow degrees — And later, when the spirit of the man Grew more confiding, to those mutual looks That led to nothing, but a heavenly thought ! And ended sweetly, just as they began, In friendship, as we read in story books ! Love may be purchased ; this can ne'er be bought. May 22, 1888. 36 LADY SMITH ON HER lOOTH BIRTHDAY T DARE not, daring much, presume to write On such a day mere birthday rhymes to thee ! Thou hast been chosen ! On the sheltered tree The fruit hangs longest ; and before the Night That must come, cometh, and the fatal blight Reach thy ripe fruit (so mellow, yet so free From mouldy age), accept these lines from me. I have no claim, no vestige of a right. To offer homage at thy peaceful shrine — Hallowed by time, a century of worth ! — But, though unknown, I know where virtues live, And honoured Learning makes her home divine ; Good angels watched at thy auspicious birth — God guard thee still, and every blessing give ! 37 TO THE SAME QUOTING ADDISON FROM MEMORY, IN HER 104TH YEAR 'THHOU wondrous Link of Time's immortal chain ! Thou bindest Age to Age ; I pray you take The homage of a stranger : thou dost make The roses of the Past to bloom again. Wide-sundered founts of pleasure and of pain Rise up for thee to form a crystal lake, On whose strange shores Lethean waters break, Yet flood thy heart's warm memory in vain ; ' Fountains of fire ' the poet calls the Past That memory steals to brighten present hours : Oh ! be it fire or but some silver stream. May it be thine, dear Lady, to the last, To illumine all around thee with its powers, Till life ebbs slowly in an endless dream. December 1876. 38 TO THE SAME DIED IN HER I04TH YEAR "TpHE endless dream— the dream that has no breaking ! The dream of the Fair City's golden gates, The white-robed throng that evermore awaits Pure souls like thine— the dream that knows no waking Has come at last ; so slowly overtaking Thy blessed life, it seemed no change of states — No cruel severance of the fabled Fates, But a sweet passage of thine own dear making. Borne on the wings of wisdom year by year To brightest human points, one Heavenly Home Was waiting for thee long— ay, long ere this. Thou hast fulfilled thy hope, no fainting fear- No vain regret ! ' I come, dear Lord, I come, And change earth's cares for everlasting bliss.' Feb)~uary 2, 1S77. 39 THE GOLDEN WEDDING November 20, 1885 T OVE plucks a feather from the Wing of Time, And stays his flight to toy with centuries. Threescore and ten ! Why, half a hundred flies In making love. The young November rime Just whitens here and there a curl ! No crime To kiss one's wife without the subtleties Of courtship ; fifty years of married ties Make even matrimony seem sublime ! Our Golden Wedding ! Yes, the autumn sheaves Of Golden grain are surely growing ripe. And the rich Harvest of a well-spent life Is ours amid the changing wintry leaves. The chimney corner and the cheerful pipe — Our God is good to us, dear friends and wife ! 40 TO THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD, K.G. ON HIS RETURN FROM BERLIN V\7'7'HEN from the battle-field some Chief returning, Brings back the trophies of successful war, Though now no more to his triumphal car Are captives chained, still hearts bereft are mourning, And hatred and revenge are fiercely burning In bosoms racked with sorrow : now the Star Of Peace victorious shineth from afar, All angry thoughts to hope and mercy turning. No mother weeps her darling boy laid low ; No pale-eyed maid laments her loved one slain; But maid and matron bless the happy day. And weave a crown of myrtle for thy brow ; For thou hast warred with war, turned loss to gain. And passed in triumph from the bloodless fray. Paris : July 24, 1878. 41 TO THE SAME A LOVING hand — ah ! would it had been mine ! Has garnered, from the harvest of thy heart, Words of true wisdom ; though but meagre part Of thy wise sayings, they are truly thine : The thoughts are human, but a power Divine Gives truth, and purity, and force : they start Like natural well-springs, without visible art. Yet art, unseen, controls ; how subtly fine ! But, beyond art, the Patriot's loving soul, Rich in the prescience of the Statesman's craft, Baffles the braggart, and the weak defends. Tempers wild dreams with unperceived control. Drives falsehood forth with truth's unerring shaft, And rich and poor in kindly union blends. 42 THE VOLUNTEER REVIEWS WINDSOR AND EDINBURGH July and August 1881 A HUNDRED thousand hearts were at thy feet, Victoria, those two memorable days ! Thy crown, no warrior's girt with blood-stained bays. But the fair Chaplet of Devotion, meet To bind thy brow ! while echoed every street With armed tramp, the city's crowded ways Rang with the joyous war-note of thy praise ; A people's praise to thee sounds doubly sweet ! What if a kindly sun warmed Windsor's sward? What if in Scotland fell unceasing rain? Our Queen the storm and sunshine shared with all ; For Her, a people's love the great award, And Her dear Country not aroused in vain, A Volunteer Herself at duty's call. 43 ON DIT "T^HEY blame the forward glance that meets the eye And does not droop the lid ; they blame the maid Whose downcast look seems modestly afraid To own her words ; no sense of chivalry Protects from Scandal's tongue ; the heart awry Makes the vile member crooked, or 'tis paid To blacken innocence, and faults are laid To this or that, unheeding the reply. Thus strange distortions mar the fairest form, Base motives for the noblest act are found. Good grows to evil — in a cup of tea ! — Yet, God be praised, some stand this ribald storm Unscathed (and on their author lies rebound), As white-winged vessels skim a treacherous sea. AFTER PETRARCH 47 AFTER PETRARCH I T AURA, thou fairest laurel of my crown, Thou leaflet ever green to my fond heart, Not Death himself can force us twain apart, Or daunt our spirits with his withering frown ; If thou, pure Seraph, on bright wings hast flown To God's own Heaven, my Laura still thou art, And thou to angels canst new grace impart. Not they to thee ; and thou art all mine own. I follow swiftly ; but I live in thee : And thou in me eternally shalt live. We heed not the sharp spasm miscalled Death, Genius and Love make Immortality, And thou and I to each can either give, And blend our names in one undying wreath. Skeffington : February 25. 11 T'XTTHEN I am wearied of the wavering light ^ Which flickers from the passions that deceive- The lying loves— whose flames are make-believe — I turn in peace to one serene and bright, The fire of my own love, that through the night Sheds its pure steadfast ray. How can I grieve, When morn, and noon, and midnight all receive From it a perfect radiance in my sight ? The softest breeze that plays about my brow, Breathes its sweet fragrance from my constant love. And the clear Heaven from it derives its blue ; 'Tis some angelic Spirit whispering low Dear words of hope that all my pains remove- Soul of my Soul, immaculate and true ! 49 III T N the full summer of her beauteous prime, When love's rich foliage all its verdure kept, My Laura from my circling arms was swept — A tender blossom plucked before its time. \\'as my wild love for her so great a crime, That in the flush of life to Heaven she leppt? Can She the eternal sleep of death have slept, And live no more but only in my rhyme ? Why have I thus survived ? Her latest day Had been for both the first of love renewed ; Though all unworthy, yet would I have tried To quit all grosser attributes of clay ; And, with Her dying purity imbued, In death for ever have been sanctified. IN MEMORIAM BENJAMIN DISRAELI EARL OF liEACONSFIELD Died April 19, iSSi •"T^HERE lies within the grasp of our great Foe, One of the noblest lives that England owns — A Man not all unused to Fortune's frowns, Nor wasted by her smiles ; whose thoughtful brow Uniting wide extremes of high and low, And bravely meeting all the ups and downs Of wayward Fate -just both to Crowds and Crowns — Grows old with grace, as onl)- wise men grow. Pain and disease assail him ; he alone Is unrepining ; grateful for the past, He suffers patient in that hope of Light Which leads through darkness to the Great White Throne. Oh, Statesmen ! Patriots ! he, wellnigh the last And greatest left, desires your prayers to-night ! LoNnON : April 16, 1881. 54 II T T E needs our prayers no more — no Daj', no Night Where his great soul abides. From 'Golden Gate' And fair ' Italian Terrace,' where but late He walked, to Jasper Doors and Paths of Light, And all the marvels of celestial might, Is blessed change for one who doubted Fate That jars with Faith, content to work and wait Till God shall bring His hidden things to sight. Now we who loved him, sorrowing, bare the head. And bend the knee before his silent grave, And lay him down this day for evermore To dreamlef^s slumber in his quiet bed. Where, after many a buffet from life's wave, He rests at last, as on a welcome shore. HuGHENDEN : April 26, 1881. 55 PRINCESS ALICE T^'TERNAL life— God's gift— is thine to-day, Death cowers defeated — victory is thine ! Is it not promised us, who now repine, That the Lord God will wipe all tears away ? We part with this frail tenement of clay And the freed spirit soars in Heaven to shine, Elate, majestic, glorious, and Divine, No more to wander from the perfect way. Oh, thou pure Soul ! to whom to die is gain. Whose Earthly Crown is changed for Heavenly, send From thy blest home, thy dwelling-place above, Comfort to those who mourn — not all in vain Look down once more on us who wait, and blend Our hopes, our faith, with thy angelic love. December 14, 1878. 56 TO THE SAME r xM MORTAL Love ! great vanquisher of Death, Hast thou too yielded to his harsh demand ? Why didst thou not control the cruel hand That decked the altar with a funeral wreath ? How could such danger lie fair flowers beneath, And spread its desolation through the land ? What subtle poison must the Love command, That deals destruction with its own sweet breath ? Wife, daughter, sister, mother, best in each, Yet calmly conscious of her Princely right, Her life to virtuous deeds was wholly given ; ' Her voice yet speaketh,' and in words that teach : A light that shineth e'en in Death's dark night, And guides the weary wanderer to Heaven. THE DONA MERCEDES DE BOURBON, QUEEN OF SPAIN, CONSORT OF ALPHONSO XII. MARRiF.n, January 23, 1878; Died, June 26, 1878; aged 18. On the occasion of the marriage of King Alphonso to his young cousin, Dona Mercedes, the Author was appointed Special Ambassador at the Court of Spain. The impression made upon him, and upon those who accompanied him in his Embassy, was that the aUiance was one of pure love — deep, simple, and sincere. The warm, generous disposition of the King, and the calm, serene, confiding character of his beloved bride, seemed to promise a life of domestic happiness such as Spain at all events had never witnessed in her rulers ; but this was destined, as we all now know, to be cut short by the hand of Death. The incidents referred to in each sonnet actually occurred ; and a letter to the Author from the King, signed ' votre afiflige Alphonse,' testifies alike to the passionate depths of his love, and to the intensity of his sorrow. 58 I The poor King remains leaning on her bed, and calling on her name, ♦ Mercedes ! Mercedes mia ! ' To the last her eyes were turned on the King. I have seen him twice — all he said was, ' That for him there was no consolation, but that he would do his duty.' — Extract from a Private Letter from Madrid. Tl yr ERCEDES MIA ! turn thine eyes away, I have no power to grant their longing prayer, Their mute appeal is more than I can bear. Could I but snatch thee from Death's cruel sway, God knows how gladly I would give this day My life for thine. For whom have I to care When thou art gone ? The darkness of despair Clouds all my heart with terror and dismay. Mercedes mia ! I am brave once more ! My eyes will weep no more until the end. But steadfastly, beloved, gaze in thine Till Death arrest their sight. What ! is all o'er ? Then farewell Hope ! and farewell truest Friend ! Now Duty's rugged path be only mine ! 59 II From thnt window of his ancestral home, this young Monarch watched the train departing for the Escurial. Long after it had left, he continued steadily looking in the direction taken by the mortal remains of his darling bride. — Special Correspondence of the ' Standard: 'T^HE sandy ridges of that barren plain (A weird wild bleakness of infinity) Melt into space before his throbbing eye, And his heart aches with agonising pain, As swiftly speeds the dark funereal train, Bearing away his Queen — too young to die — His bride — his loyal love's idolatry — To the Escurial's gloomy-gorgeous fane ! In the high casement of his stately home, In tearless anguish, sits the Lord of all ; His fixed gaze, true as the polar star, Points without changing to that dreary dome, Where a thin wreath of smoke, like a grey pall. Still guides his faithful sorrow from afar. 6o III SILENCE AND TEARS T T may be speech can ease the troubled heart, But there are thoughts no tongue can e'er express, Thoughts drowned in tears and steeped in bitterness, That of our inmost being form a part Yet are unutterable. When the strings start And snap asunder, dumb and passionless Fades the faint music, like a last caress, And gone for ever is the master's art ! When the proud vessel, ere her sails be spread, Is wrecked in port , how can I dare to say, 'Sire ! winds will grow more tranquil, and the wave Smooth its blue back for thy Imperial tread'? How can I choose but kneel, and humbly pray With thee, sad Monarch, by the silent grave ? 6i IV •"T^HE silent grave I Nay, leave her not among The marble tombs of thy ancestral dead (Too hard a pillow for so fair a head), But lay her tenderly where Poet's song May consecrate thy love's undying wrong: Where flowers and sunshine, Heaven's bright gifts, may shed Fresh fragrance daily o'er her lonely bed, And all her people may around her throng ! For life is but a day of work for all — And Death is sleep — another name for rest — Eternal rest — for Peasant or for Queen. — So here let flowers her grace and youth recall (Like her, short-lived, the brightest and the best), And grief find comfort in the peaceful scene ! /«/>3, iS7b. 62 ALPHONSO XIL Died November 25, 1885 T^ALE Death once more unlocks the Gloomy Gate, That in the dark Escurial bars the pride And pomp of princes, and their dust doth hide From the sweet air and light in mocking state ! Oh, cruel Death ! too soon, and yet too late, Thou joinest once again the gentle bride To her young lord— they now lie side by side, Sad emblems of irrevocable Fate ! Yet are there tears for tender eyes to weep : Tears for his country, that he loved so well. Now left without a guide : nor tears alone ; His watchword Duty, and the eyes, that sleep In death, still watch. The living then must tell Of Duty done — not write it upon stone. 63 THE EARL OF IDDESLEIGH DiEii January 12, 1SS7 Upon silting down to breakfast he remarked to Lord Fortescue, with evident satisfaction, ' I shall leave no arrears.' •T^RUE servant of the State, thy sudden doom — Struck down in harness — fills the heart with grief ; Leader of men, though not perhaps the chief. Tried both in victory and in hour of gloom, For such as thou England has always room And honoured welcome, resting sure belief On deeds, not phrases, or if phrases, brief, And words that clearly shine, not darkly loom. Oh ! when our hour shall come, some fleeting thought Of how thy life was spent may help us then, Even now may help to tell, with tender tears. Thy life of English home, greatness, unsought, A ready sympathy for thy fellow-men, And these brave words, ' I leave you Ac arrears.' 64 FREDERICK III. EMPEROR AND KING June 15, 1888 I A T rest ! Thou noblest, sweetest-natured Man, King-Emperor, Soldier, Servant of the State. Patient in tribulation ; truly great ' By God's high gift of sympathy ; in the van Of truth and liberty, though brief the span Of Empire given to thee ; thy tragic fate Makes all eyes weep, for who can emulate Thy courage stricken by so sore a ban ? Thy gentle heart was always calm, and brave. And cheerful in thine anguish ; but thy foe Was still inexorable, and the Hand That smote thee down to thy too early grave- Alas ! in thee for evermore laid low The truest friend of thy loved Fatherland. 65 II T TICTORIA ! Empress-Queen ! and widowed Wife ! (Greater than earthly Titles is the name) Wife worthy of thy Pure Lord — whose fame Will live beyond, ay, far beyond, this life ! Consort and Comforter in sorrow, rife With untold terrors, before which grew tame The final doom ; for, when grave words of blame Floated in air, thy courage calmed the strife. Loving and loved, what Greatness soothes thee now ? No worldly honour ! but the King of Kings Will give thee comfort ! a brief hour to wait, To smooth the lines upon thine aching brow ; To shelter thee beneath the Silver Wings, And thou shalt join Him at the Golden Gate. June 15, 66 TO AN INFANT, WHOSE MOTHER DIED AT ITS BIRTH ' I 'HOU guiltless-guilty, innocent-evil mite, With Southern hair, and Mediterranean eyes Gazing at this cold world in sad surprise ! Hard problem thou to solve ! Can this be right, And thy young morn be darkened with such blight At the first dawn of life ? Some grave surmise Why thou shouldst suffer must perplex the wise ! No mother's arms to fold thee in the night ! Ay, babble, now, and toy with yonder flower, Fair as thyself, and, like thy mother, born To die in youth, and yet to leave behind A tender seedling for some happier hour. Thy God who sent thee here this sunny morn, To His poor lamb will temper the harsh wind. WORTLEY : 1882. 67 LADY F. C. •T^HINE ! all thine ! yesterday ! To-day the bride Of Death ! — The king who dominates our life- Seizes our unweaned babes, and tears the wife From the new-wedded arms, where love and pride Seemed strong enough his menace to deride, But yet were powerless in the fatal strife. Earth teems with sorrow ; every day is rife AVith such grim terror as the Erl-king's ride. Yes, she has left you — passionless — unstrung — Like the mute viol — all your music fled — But not for long ; we follow on the track That Poets through all time have sadly sung — The track of starlit paths — of happy dead. And mourn her here, but may not wish her back. October 2, l88l. 68 ADMIRAL ROUS Died June 19, 1877, aged 82 And though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their strength then but labour and sorrow. T ABOUR and sorrow ! Nay, at fourscore years No sorrow bowed his venerable head, No labour daunted or discomfited ; His heart was young, his spirit knew no fears. The sorrow now is ours, and ours the tears By eyes unused to weep — now freely shed. The merry hours, the happy days are fled, Yet each some fond undying memory bears. And fourscore years of faithful duty done, Of high-souled honour, and of friendship, set On rock foundations, are not vainly spent ; These train a generation scarce begun, And teach a moral none should e'er forget — 'To live uprightly is to die content.' 69 GEORGE WHYTE-MELVILLE Killed IIuntixg, Dfx. 5, 1878 npHE engineer by his own petard slain, The eagle pierced by shaft from his own wing, Are plaintive fancies, such as poets sing, And touch the heart but coldly, through the brain. But thou, dear George, in thine own sport thus ta'en In all the prime of manhood, and the swing Of gallant gallop struck stone-dead— the thing Appals, and petrifies the mind with pain. Bright, brave, and tender. Poesy's pet child, Romance and History's lore alike were thine ; Thy wit ne'er wounded, yet the contest won. For at thy jest the gravest dullard smiled — Last scion of an ancient Scottish line, Whose ' old folks ' live to mourn their only Son. December 6, 1878. ^Q CHISLEHURST "px EAD ! my one Boy — my only one, and Dead. Sirs, do not mock me — say it is not so. He was the hope of France — nay, let me go, I am his mother ; life cannot be fled From those young eyes, and that beloved head That should have worn a Crown : a Crown of woe Truly I wear for him — though fallen so low, An Empress still, dethroned and banished. I crave your pardon : now I cannot weep, Henceforth I weep for ever ; gone ! all gone ! Throne, Husband, Child, all snatched away from me A childless widow prays you, Sirs, to keep Some kind thoughts for her. She is all alone, Her heart is broken by much misery. June 22, 1S82 71 LORD LYTTON 'np'HE feebleness that drags the soul to earth, And clogs the brain, and clips the soaring wings, Palsies the tongue that charms, the voice that sings, Is man's sad heritage — emblem of his birth. There is to some a power Divine, whose worth Is strength in weakness— whose enchantment brings A life beyond the clay — far nobler things Than rest or unrest, melancholy or mirth. These were thy gifts — excelling in them all. The young grew wise beneath thy wizard touch, The old bloomed young again ; Death lost his sway, For Genius mocks his incftective thrall ! All praise be thine — and yet not overmuch — Thy fame — the dawning of an endless day. 72 ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL TAIT ARCHBISHOP '' I ""HE chalice of thy holy life is dry ! Already sounds the Angel's welcome voice That bids thee hasten home : ' Rejoice, rejoice ! The saints rejoice whenever good men die ! ' Oh Servant of the Lord ! thy fearless eye Now weeps no more ! such death had been thy choice — No cruel pang to shake the equipoise Of thy true-balanced mind in agony ! Thy thoughts, perchance, turned to the heathery haunts Of childhood, whence thy simple Bible-lore, That raised thee to the highest throne of Priest. Then, smiling (for no dying terror daunts Such hearts), he passed to loved ones gone before, Who waited for him ; Greatest, and yet Least ! Advc)it Sunday, 1882. 73 J^. F. B., LIEUT. -COL. GRENADIER GUARDS Died of his Wound received at Tel-f.l-Kebir, Oct. 23, 1882 np'O fall full-front to foe — a soldier's death — For this our pride may glisten through our tears ; But to lie wounded, racked with hopes and fears, And slowly feel the sword wear out the sheath : In life's rich prime to yield the joyous breath That fanned his flame so brightly ; with such years Of Hope (foul flatterer, he now appears) To twine fresh foliage in thy Victor's Wreath; — Ay ! this is cruel — and thus hast thou died ! Alas! how near the Glory and the Grave, The shout of triumph and the tombstone phrase, Cypress and Laurel ever side by side, Prayer-hallowed tears, yet all in vain to save, And what thou ne'er canst hear — thy Country's praise ! October 29, 1S82. 74 LORD RAVENSWORTH Died 1878 'T^HOU greatly gifted ! yet not well content To idly rest on Nature's gifts alone, But resolute for victory, as one Who learns the art of fence, on war intent, Thy sword is chosen without stain or dent From learning's armoury, and its blade has shone In peaceful strife; thy deeds of fame are done In classic joust and poet's tournament. How gladly would I carry helm and spear, A willing Squire to such a valiant Knight, And couch a lance in this most glorious fray, \\^here all who fight, each one to each, grow dear ! They welcome truth and beauty as the light Of triumph — pure as Heaven's eternal day. September 6, 1S74. 75 MRS. E. BARRETT BROWNING QTRONG-HEARTEl) lover of the sore-oppressed ! Thou sleepest now by Arno's wayward stream ; And in that sleep perchance thy life's fond dream Of comfort for the suffering haunts thy rest ; Still wouldst thou grasp lone children to thy breast, Still wouldst thou make earth's blessings richly teem For those who want, nor judge things as they seem, Nor choose the path of riches, for the best. Through a sad life of duty nobly done Rose the rich music of thy Poet-voice For struggling childhood. Sleep serenely now. The fight is o'er ! the victory is won ! Through pain and tears, the saddest hearts rejoice To weave the eternal laurel for thy brow ! 76 TO ROBERT BROWNING YVTZEIRD thinker-out of thoughts beyond the ken Of common mortals, rugged though subhme ; Probing the inmost depths of farthest time, Audacious— wielding thy inscrutable pen Like flashing falchion, dazzling thoughtless men By thy thoughts' force, compressed in strange-wrought rhyme. Few feet can follow where thou lov'st to climb, To eagle's eyrie or to lion's den ! Oh ! Master (not unaided in thy song By her who sleepeth now near Arno's wave, Worthy to help thee, or with thee to write), Deign to instruct us weaker ones, who long To rest their wavering thoughts — not wholly brave — Where through the obscure there shines more perfect light ! n BYRON A MIND diseased ? Nay, rather, out of tune, Like some fine instrument in cruel hands ; A little tenderness the tone commands. And a rough touch (like wintry winds in June) Checks the true note, and turns the music soon To discord : so he wandered through strange lands And 'all his sweet bells jangled,' and he stands An outcast, tainted i' th' full o' th' moon ! Oh that such madness were more common ! none To make it or to mar it— genius, such As his, driven to revolt by meaner soul. That knew not what it meddled with ! Ne'er shone The sun on nobler heart ; but, overmuch His spirit vexed, lost hope and self-control. 78 ABDUL- AZIZ "VXTTHAT Oriental Despot now can claim Ancestral privilege of ruling ill ? What Western Monarch throned on people's will Can boast his kingdom safe, with evil name ? None ! They must rest their lives on noble fame And honest deeds, lights set upon a hill, That all may see a prudent ruler's skill ; Clear eyes averted from all deed of shame. And hearts that win love — monarchs are but men. Thus may they nobly keep their high estate, Nor hear the grovelling sycophants deride ! Thrones totter to their base and fall — what then ? A nation's curses and a nation's hate, Flight — the assassin's knife, or suicide ! TYROLEAN SONNETS AND OTHER SONNETS OF TRAVEL TYROLEAN SONNETS 'T^'HERE is a noble beauty in this land, Where Nature revels in contrasting grace, For smile and frown change quickly on her face. And tender touches soften the rough hand. Gaunt precipice and rock, sublimely grand, Melt into valley ; and the tinkling trace Of bell-clad herds enlivens many a space That spreads a carpet where grim mountains stand. The plains are faint with cyclamen and thyme, The gloomy pines their pungent odours lend. The gentian robs the heaven of half its blue. Light harebells — tuneful as the poet's rhyme — Nod in the breeze, and alpine roses blend, Pink as the morn, to make one perfect hue. G 82 II T__T IGH o'er the crag the poised eagle flies, And croaking ravens to each other call Bloodscenters both, they see the chamois fall, And taste the banquet ere the victim dies. They heed not the big tear that dews his eyes, Ere filmed by death— the hunter's fatal ball More kind than they— revolting festival ! Yet Nature to her children simply cries. The bullfinch, mid the fir-tree's scented cones. Whistles his happy song ; the cautious hind, Half hid among the heather, sniffs the air. Tainted by man, and hides her little ones In mossy dell, protected by the wind That warns them of the foe who nears her lair, October 2, 1887. 83 III THE WATERFALL OF GASTEIN UY JiIOONLIGHT 'T^HE shimmer of the Moon has ht the Vale And tipt the fir- tops with a silvery light, Herself invisible ; the Landscape, bright With hidden ray, is wonderfully pale ! A spell seems cast around ; some Ghostly tale Of spectral glamour, or weird second-sight. Would well assist this Tyrolean night To make strong hearts beat fast, and weak ones quail. The radiance deepens as the Planet springs Above the mountain, and the streams, aglow With her sweet kisses, woo the Waterfall, Which, for one kiss, ten thousand backward flings — A prodigal of love — and mystic echoes throw A deep resounding music over all. Gasteix : ScptcmliLi- 3, 1887. IV ON THE RAILWAY BETWEEN ZURICH AND INNSBRUCK VXTTHAT prescient mind devised these gradients? laid These daring curves, that tempt the unwary shock? And through these gates of immemorial rock Carved iron roads, and pleasant pathways made? Not soft Romance nor Conquest ; but sleek Trade — That the fine words of Poesy loves to mock, And on bright Fancy turns prosaic lock — Triumphed o'er Nature with her own dear aid ! For day by day, unconsciously, there came All beauty, grace of form, and dignity. Peak above Peak snowclad, or tender green Peeping through some sweet Vale without a name, Forest on Forest rising to the Sky, And Rivulets rushing through the unrivalled scene. Atigtist 28,. 1887. . «5 Y THE PRIEST AT GASTEIN T F pleasure were the aim and end of all, And Life, so called, to be the final bound Of my existence ; then this thrilling sound — Tumultuous music of the waterfall At play for ever with the rocks — might call My days to poesy, and this spangled ground, Where Nature's fairest offerings abound, Might be my couch, and they at last my Pall. But the proud prodigal Earth is not my home, Nor the dark Forest my abiding place : These passing blooms but captivate the eye. The closer sanctuary needs me, and I come To guide a wayward and rebellious race To Him who bore His Cross to Calvary. VI THE HAYMAKERS A NARROW cliff, above a narrower stream, Spanned by a single arch, led gently down By paths, that children, wandering from the Town In search of berries for the rich man's cream, Had partly worn, to where a sunny gleam Lit up the Fir-tree's unrelenting frown, And a broad meadow all alive with brown Quaint figures shone out — sudden as a gleam. No carpet ever owned the varied hues That lavish Nature here profusely spread. And dancing sunbeams made the tints more gay ; Pink cyclamen and tender gentian blues Clustered 'mid feathery grasses 'neath the tread Of these brown Peasants busy with their Hay ! 87 HOMBURG T KNOW a nook beneath a sheltered hill, Sheltered from summer's glare or winter's wind, Whence the far-seeing eye may hardly find A boundary, its feeble span to fill. So vast the billowy plain, which spreads, until The purple hills, forming their ranks behind. Squadron on squadron, daunt the gazer's mind With their recurrent shapes, so grand and still, So distant yet so visible. Could they Descend in serried order, each 'gainst each, And multiply by millions, the dread blast Of the Archangel's trump might guide the fray And stir such hosts to scale the deadly breach : But while I gazed, the wondrous Vision passed ! August 7, 1S77. MONT BLANC /""XNCE more, great Teacher, at thy feet I rest, Once more I gaze upon thy storm-clad brow, Now lustrous in fresh covering of snow. That like a mane floats from thy thunderous crest. As from some hoary sage, whose wisdom best Springs from green heart, thy lessons also flow From bosom where green things eternal grow, And head whose whiteness Heaven itself hath prest. Thirty long years have fled since first I came To worship thee, a lad whose fondest hopes Have come and gone in undeserved success ; Still lingers faintly the perfervid flame Of youth — renewed while loitering on thy slopes, Sublimest shrine of Nature's holiness ! Chaaiounix : Au^ist 28, 1876. 89 LA UTERBR UNNEN /^~X H GOD ! Thy gracious works are manifest ^-^ In Desert and in City ; Plain and Hill Alike declare Thy omnipresent skill ; Yet here, if anywhere, they seem the best ; These giant mountains, at their base, caressed By tender turf and gently rippling rill ; The rose-hued snow, sunlit, or at Thy will Storm-blackened, veiling their untrodden crest ; The feathery pines that point to Thee, the spray That kisses the gaunt rock from yonder fall. The resonant bells attuned by browsing kine. The fair-haired children by the grassy way. The sturdy mountaineer's re-echoing call — Thou seest all are good, and all are Thine ! Attgnst 22, 1876. 9° DAYBREAK IN PARIS 'T^HE rosy gleam of newly kindled day Just tips yon gilded Dome, as Paris wakes, Before the lingering stars depart, or breaks The full-orbed morning, debon?iaire and gay : The country wains, with loads of fragrant hay. Creep slowly in, and Norman ' Surefoot ' makes His bell-clad head-gear jingle, as he takes A sly bite, half in earnest, half in play. Thus, while late sleepers dream, the busy toil To feed the idle — and the blue-smocked clown Is happier far than they who glove their hands. His sweet-breathed hay to him is better spoil Than ill-got gold, his team worth all the town. And his fair France the bravest of all lands. Paris : Jn/y 28, 1S78. 91 A STORM AT SEA /^"> REAT clouds, like war-ships, speed athwart the sky : On the white drift a close-reefed mainsail, gleams ; The savage blast through the taut cordage screams, Or fitful moans with melancholy cry ; Around, the raging waters foaming lie In frenzied wrath, and not a sun-ray beams. The mother, in her broken slumber, dreams Of her dear sailor, shuddering lest he die ! Ocean runs riot ! and the bruised waves Are blue and green with overmastering blows ; The tangled weeds, disturbed, torn from their bed A hundred fathoms down 'mid sailors' graves, Toss here and there, as light as fresh-fall'n snows, And dismal caves disgorge their prisoned dead. 92 INSIDE PARIS ' I "HEY banquet on dead bodies, like the ghouls, Who, tasting blood, grow dainty, and refuse More wholesome diet : could these maniacs choose Once more, their choice would be the same ; mad fools Who manacle fair Freedom ; wretched tools. Mixed up with felons, scum of men, who use The plots of hell, and wrong with right confuse, To push their lawful rulers from their stools : These are the cowards who refuse to fight A foreign foe, and soil the sacred name Of Country with her children's gore, who burn The proudest trophies of imperial might ; Who marshal harlots in the ranks of fame, And honest men's undying hatred earn. October 2^, 1878. 93 LILLESHALL ABBEY "THHE old walls echo with their careless mirth; The clustering ivy forms fantastic frame Of mingled root and branch round carven name And porch indented at its Norman birth. The Abbot, more for rank renowned than worth, Sleeps calmly through the centuries, his fame Akin to modern reputations. Praise and blame Alike return to whence they came — the earth. Unmindful of such thoughts, three children fair, Hand clasped in hand, run laughing through the aisle, Nor reck the Abbot's fate, though surely theirs ; The fourth, a twelvemonth old to-day, crows in the air Responsive welcome to her mother's smile — Of time and destiny unconscious Heirs. August 5, 1886. 94 BURGH LEV HOUSE T'lT'THERE great Eliza's ghost austerely stalks, I dwell : a sojourner in Burghley Park ; And, even as strangers more acutely mark The shifting of Life's scenes than he who walks Serenely day by day, and careless talks Of this or that plain thing, so with the Lark Uprising at the Dawn, and to the Dark Observing, nought my clear perception balks. Then first, oh, Virgin Queen, I make to thee Profound obeisance ; then to Thee whose nod Spake volumes, and whos€ simple word gave law : And then to those who hold their memory In reverence, grateful to the Gracious God Who kept them their good name without a flaw. July 17, 18S2. CALVARY AND OTHER SONNETS OF MEDITATION 97 CALVARY "T^HE mocking gibe ! the cruel taunt ! if heard, Unanswered by the hps now sealed in death The last sigh breathed in love ; the parting breath A prayer for pardon for that bitter word. ' He saved others ! ' as the parent bird Gives her own life to save the young beneath Her loving wing ; He died— the immortal wreath For others wreathed— by suffering undeterred. ' Himself He cannot save ! ' Omnipotent, He would not use this power— the angel's sword— That could have saved the Saviour, at the cost Of man's redemption, and His mission spent In vain ! Thou Son of Man ! Divinest Lord ! What had we sinners been— Thou saved, we lost? 98 'OR A E SEMPRE!' ' y^RA E SEMPRE ! ' when the morn of hfe ^"^^ Bursts from rose-tinted clouds in eastern skies, And all the promise of their radiant dyes With hope, and mirth, and revelry is rife. * Ora e sempre ! ' when our manhood's strife Wrestles within, and sterner duty tries The heart's wild passion, with grey pitiless eyes And cuts it from us with relentless knife. * Ora e sempre ! ' every moment shows The need for action or for earnest will. For patient suffering or for sympathy That, scorning self, with generous impulse glows; And when our Sun sets, calm, and cold, and still, ' Ora e sempre ' in Eternity ! 99 THE KNIGHTHOOD OF THE CROSS 'THHERE is a Knightly Order, nobler far Than all the ranks of Chivalry can claim — An order founded not on earthly fame, Not decked with jewelled blazon or with star, Not graced by trophies or triumphal car — It is the Cross of Christ, whose lowly name Puts pride to blush and vanity to shame — The Prince of Peace who only wars with war. Love is the sweet esquire of Christ's true knight, And Death ' Grand Master,' whose austere embrace Chills the warm heart and checks the joyous breath liut for a moment — then the Neophyte, Inspired and glorious, gives, with radiant face, The kiss of Life — the Accolade of Death! Christmas Day, 1878. GOETHE'S PRAYER ' IV l\ O^^ Light, more Light,' the Poet's plaintive prayer Ere his eyes close for ever in Death's night ! The fainting supplication for ' more Light,' No common struggle for a purer air. But temporal and eternal joining there ! He prays for rescue from the awful night Of Doubt, that daunts the soul, and blinds the sight, And makes all dark, that should .be bright and fair. ' More Light, more Light,' in life to Thee we pray, Great God ! Wise Man, to Thee ! (Creator Thou, Created in His image thou), this cry Of dying Goethe ; in our earthly day, The light of knowledge — truth with open brow— And God's own Light to guide us when we die. NOT HERE T AST week I saw the lilac's buckling leaf; This week I see the lilac's buds all strewn, The leaflets scattered, and the bloom o'erthrown By sudden icy blasts as chill as grief. Such promise marred, like faith by unbelief. Such hope destroyed without a warning word, Like the flushed revellers by the impending sword, Where may we turn in anguish for relief? Not Here ; for east winds freeze the heart— not Here ! But where eternal summers blossom— there Where God's unchanging seasons bring sure fruit. In the pure climes of Heaven, Blessed Sphere, Where radiant suns are present everywhere. And Heavenly Hands protect the tender shoot. TRUE REST T\77HAT do men long for, strive for, live for most ? The purple mantle of ambitious dreams ? The lying gold that clouds the fairest streams ? The sacred fervour that adores the Host ? In all pure nature's simple love is lost, And truth is farthest when it nearest seems. Oh, Earth ! thy bosom with corruption teems, And war meets war, and none e'er counts the cost. Great Heaven, how just are Thy decrees to all ! How seeming hard to some ! For faith I pray, For truth and for content ; then death is blest ; Then virtue, silver-crowned, spreads out our pall. And all our life is patent as the day. And after labour comes Seraphic Rest. 103 HE A VENL Y HAR VEST- HOME 'T^HERE is no constancy in things below, There must be constancy in things above — Above, belo\v,"our prize is ever Love; From Heavenly plants divincst blossoms blow. If earthly love melts like the spring-tide snow. Pure while it lasts, it still is Treasure-trove, Which the glad finder scarce knows how to prove, Till time cuts short the branches ere they grow. But time o'er Heavenly love has no control ; And after Time has reaped, God's gleaner comes, And, loving all, garners each downcast ear From the torn stalk, divides the longing soul, And gathers it to those glad Harvest-homes Where hearts are [)urified, and eyes see clear. i860. LIGHT T F in the darkness of to-morrow's day, And in the dim obscure that veils the hours, I own the presence of those shadowy powers That sport with reason, and with judgment play ; I feel it less when some warm sunny ray Dispels the menace of disheartening showers ; But when thick mist or angry storm-fiend lowers, My spirits in bleak regions lonely stray. Then grant me beams, kind Heaven, from above, To glad a heart that ever seeks the Light ; Disperse the clouds that gather round the mind ; Let Sunshine bring his comrades. Peace and Love, And daunt the sable messengers of Night : In Light I see, in Darkness grow stone-blind ! 1861. I05 JVORDS OF COMFORT AT CHRISTMAS T^ ED ROWAN, like the Robin's breast aglow, And scarlet-berried Holly all aflame, And wax-white Mistletoe, whose childhood came And grew in alien branches — tipped with snow As light as swans-down that a breath might blow: — These — ten small fingers (deftly trained to tame The stubborn shoots) twined with The Holy Name, And words of comfort sorrowing sufferers know : — ' Come unto Me,' for this is Christmas Tide, ' All ye who labour and are laden, come,' This is Christ's birthday !— He, the Christ, who died To bid us welcome to His Heavenly Home ! Oh ! words to mourning hearts for ever blest, * ' Come unto Me, and I will give you rest ! ' October 12, 1SS4. io6 " THY PLACE IS KEPT FOR THEE 'TnHY place is kept for thee. What though the scorn Of cruel men may give thy heart some pain ? Thy loss in that is no loss — rather gain — And leads through night to an eternal morn. Deep in thy bleeding bosom is the thorn, And thoughts unspeakable may rack thy brain ; But still thy place is kept, and once again Thou shalt be pure, as thou wert purely born. Thy place is kept for thee, if only thou Wilt seek it sorrowing, barefoot, and in tears. The Crown of penance on thy forehead ; then Thou wilt discover that thy wounded brow A sweeter solace for its anguish bears, And God will keep thy place, in spite of men. I07 APRIL 30, 1881 r> MILE on us, ancient Abbey, grim and grey, The gentle smile of all-forgiving age ! Write one more story on your time-worn page ; Blow, sweet south wind, upon this happy day, Break into leaf, ' ye darling buds of May ! ' Love reigns supreme — a service without wage, Where all are willing. Senator and Sage Bend to the flowery yoke, and own his sway : Ring out, old bells, and welcome this dear pair, Who join their hands this day in life-long troth j God's blessing rest upon their faithful love ! ' Fulfil their joyous dreams, make their life fair, Smooth its rough places tenderly for l)Oth, And, parted here, renew their bliss above ! io8 PATHETIC HUMOUR 'np'HERE is no limit fixed by Clod or man Between our laugliter and our tears : the touch Of nature, tinged with pathos overmuch, Fills the soft heart and ready eyes that scan, With unresisting glance, the subtle plan That melts or moves to laughter. There be such Whose truth, half-halting, borrows Fiction's crutch The chasm of our credulity to span ! But when enlisted in the ranks of right, Of want relieved, and suffering and wrong Made good by noble deeds and thoughts and words, Our simple hearts o'erflow, the pulse of might Beats stronger, and sometimes to these belong Great gifts of Humour sharper than all swords. DEAD T KNOW not what I write, the pen must frame The words that rush in heart-leaps from my soul ; No rhythmic cadence in well-ordered roll, But passionate thoughts that have nor place nor name These are not lines aglow for future fame, Rounded to please, smooth-smirking and heart-whole. But wild with sorrow that defies control, And anguish time can neither heal nor tame : We were one age, one hope, one life, one dream. She fair as Dawn's first rose-beam on the snow ; We parted — but to meet at break of day ; For her the day ne'er broke, the eternal stream Bore her sweet soul on its resistless flow, And left me on the brink in dumb dismay. November 13, 187S. DROWNED /^~>AN danger lurk beneath that placid wave, ^"'^ Where the great lazy water-lilies float In safe and careless beauty ? where the throat Of warbling sedge-bird from his reedy cave Swells with a joyous song — where still streams lave The grassy banks ? Can these such ills denote, Or presage peril to the little boat ? Can lilied crystal be a maiden's grave ? Alas ! we know not what may be the fate Of hapless hundreds, ' or the doom of one ! Our tears alone are left us, and we shed Tears from a fount that never dries ; too late, Yet all too soon — our children come— are gone — And we are left to mourn the darlings dead. September 1878. ' On this day occurred the disaster to the Princess Alice steamer in the Thames. FORGET-ME-NOT ' T T AST thou no loving message from thy tomb, Dear Father? Sleepest thou in mute decay, Silently wailing for that awful day When the great Judge of all shall speak our doom ? Is there no light with thee ? doth cheerless gloom Compass thee ever ? If thou canst, oh ! say Thou restest peacefully, though far away From this fair earth — its sunlight and its bloom.' I yearned to hear some voice ; but none replied Save the rich note of the new-wedded thrush. Who carolled over-joyous with his lot ; When, as I gazed on the dear grave, I spied A little blue flower softly whispering, ' Hush ! My name is thy reply — Forget-me-not ! ' A/aj' 1878. SYMPATHY IN FRIENDSHIP ' I ■'HE tone of a soft voice — a tender smile That in our happy moments bears its part- The inexphcable yearning of the heart For some dear face, a stranger to all guile, A face wrath ne'er can cloud, guilt ne'er defile, Nor sorrow darken, save for others' smart ! Such faces their own purity impart, And teach true sympathy ; the cunning wile. That makes pretence of feeling for the pain And grief of others, like a mirror gleams. Whose light reflects each dull contiguous face. Thus friendship in true sympathy grows plain, And sympathy in friendship fondly beams : False friends, false sympathy, make one disgrace. 13 THE GATES OF DEATH Vy fE enter Life but through the gates of Death, Those dismal portals cinctured by a moat — A flood of human tears ; vile passions gloat And glare on us like gurgoyles, with rank breath, And eyes aflame, around, above, beneath. But God's good angel guides our little boat. That safely homewards seems unsteered to float, With sword of fire uplift, full-drawn from sheath. Safe, safe at last, from doubt, from storm, from strife. Moored in the depths of Christ's unfathomed grace With spirits of the just, with dear ones lost And found again ; this strange ineffable life Is Life Eternal ! Death has here no place, And they are welcomed best who suffered most. Christinas Day, 1878. 114 MIDDLE AGE 'T^HY glory is the glory of the sun, Whose chastened beauty in the twilight glows, And tenderer yet, and yet more tender, grows. As nearer to the goal his course is run — The farewell Glory of a day nigh done — Then all the peaks assume a tint of rose. And the grey rocks a ruddy light disclose, The blush of Even at her victory won. How calm, how peaceful, such a moment's rest ! Not wooing love with passionate desire. But placid — perfect in mature repose. — Such, Lady, are thy charms, by all confest : Past the meridian glare, the summer fire. Yet, oh, how far from winter's dreary snows ! September 6, 1874. 115 OLD AGE 'T~'HERE is a beauty Youth can never know, ^Vith all the lusty radiance of his prime, A beauty the sole heritage of time, That gilds the fabric with a sunset glow, And glorilies the work it soon lays low ! There is a charm in Age, wellnigh sublime, That lends new lustre to the poet's rhyme, As mountain-peaks are grander crowned with snow. How gay the laugh of Youth ! but oh ! how brave The stately weakness of a reverend Age ! Be ours the task to solace and to cheer, To fondly guide its footsteps to the grave, To print a blessing on the final page. And cherish memories for ever dear ! Il6 THE TRIUMPHS OF LITERATURE "'T^IS the last straw that breaks the camel's back,' I've read I know not where, nor care to ask- So, trembling lest thy strength it overtask, I lay this little straw upon thy Pack Laden with priceless gems through the long track Of centuries, since Learning tore the mask From Vice and Ignorance. Be it mine to bask One moment in thy Light — all else how black ! No people claim thy triumphs as their own — Italia, Greece, the swarthy Orient, all Are but thy slaves to-day, or yesterday. Thou laugh'st at Time ; all Languages have grown From thee ; thine Eden's grace and Eden's fall. All rose from thee, and cannot pass away. "7 H LIFE AND DEATH 0^^' can I purify my soul from dross That poisons hearts with its impure alloy ? How gain eternal, craving passing, joy ? How sue for heavenly, dreading earthly, loss ? Rough winds and rougher seas may wildly toss My little bark, that like a painted toy Rides the dark waters, when such storms annoy ; But Death must surely some day 'swim the foss.' Ah, then, how vain are all Life's troublous dreams ! How poor our struggle, and how mean our strife ! How bleak the past ! the present, ah ! how dread, When Death's bright sunset like a glory gleams, And for this fleeting we gain endless Life ! Oh ! who could choose to be for ever dead ? 118 ALONE T SAW the sun obscured, the Hghtning dart Its forked tongue from out a sable cloud ; The big drops fell, the thunder boomed aloud, And the dread sounds found echo in my heart. My heart, that, like the sun, had found rich part In the full glow of summer, here was cowed By the dark noisome shadow of the crowd That thronged my loved one, like a thing i' the mart. The thunder ceased to roar — the crowd passed by. The lightning faintly faded in the west. The rain dried up its tears, as quickly gone As shed ; the sun once more shone lustily — My heart leapt out to her whom I loved best, But ah ! in vain, for I was left Alone. 119 THE DISCONTENTED 'T^HERE are, who in this changing life revile The day-by-day occurrences they meet — Turn sweet to bitter, ay, make bitter sweet, Rather than be content and wear a smile. To these no fair occasions offer ; for unfair All circumstance appears : the sun shines wrong, The rain is foolish, time itself too long, The air inclement — victims everywhere ! Oh ! could they see, as I have seen, the poor, Racked by real anguish, worn by want and pain, Contented bend, and humbly kiss the rod, Perchance they too might seek the cottage door And learn a lesson to their endless gain — And for His constant mercies thank their God. ABANDONED TV yr INSTREL of minstrelsy too false for me ; Coiner of coinage never more to pass ; Singer of songs, whose voice is sounding brass ; Heedless no more, I heed — but heed not thee. Framer of frames where portraits ought to be ; Schemer of schemes all brittle as a glass ; Swearer of oaths too well believed, alas ! Slavish no more, I slave — but not for thee. Liars like thee at last must lie in vain. Dreamers like me must cease to dream at last. Too credulous, I doubt, and doubt for ever ; And the vile anguish of my endless pain Remembered always, though the shock be past, Perforce from me all faith, all love, must sever. LOVE IN AGE 'T~^HE boon of Age, when Love has taken flight, And left us a stray feather from his wing To play with, is a tender heart, to bring The memory of the truant to our sight ! Not what we are, but what perchance we might, With some kind help, be ; a convenient thing That serves to play with, yet the bitter sting Of grey-haired failure never brought to light ! Ah, me ! the rosy lips of careless youth That vanquished, ignorant of the art of war, The words that were a library — the sighs That seemed a malady — and all in truth — And now, the careful handshake from afar, And subtle glances that are mostly lies ! WOMAN'S FATE A ND has it come to this ? the supph'ant rules, And all his vows are scattered on the wind ; He knows his power, and once so cruel-kind, Girds at me now as taught in meaner schools, And with contempt scarce veiled calls women fools. And cries, ' Not I, 'twas thou— so loving-blind. How couldst f/io?{ guess the workings of my mind ? ' They cut their hands who play with keen-edged tools : Just Heaven ! can trifling with a woman's heart Bring down no judgment on the trifler? Say, When he implored, knelt, pleaded, promised all, Was I to blame who trusted him with part. Though 'twere the greater part ? Must such as they Stand scathless, and the true ones only fall ? PAST AND PRESENT '-pHE time is past ! What time? The time for good? Nay, that can ne'er be past ; the stream flows on ; The silver dimples of the wave are gone ; But other waves succeed in endless flood. The time is come ! What time ? Here's ample food For meditation : neither time alone, The Past or Present, ever can atone For future wrong, or heal a sickly mood. The time will come— ay, time wiU come indeed— And for that time the bravest must prepare- When black Past, blacker— bright, still brighter seems; Ah, then, how keenly search we for some deed, To ease our dying souls of load of care. And gild our Fiesent with its golden beams ! i860. 124 DISAPPOINTMENT ' I 'HROUGH the long vigil of a sleepless night To watch and listen for the chime of morn, To mark the splendour of the day new-born, When all the Orient flushes into light ; To cry ' half- won,' and, radiant with delight. To laugh the heart's forebodings all to scorn — To fling aside the rose, and plant the thorn. Unconsciously, in confidence of might : Then, lo ! grey mist obscures the glowing sun, The hand, unnerved, lets fall the staff" it grasped, The exultant voice sounds hoarse, and choked, and low. And Triumph fails before her course be run ; And Victory, ere the precious prize be clasped. In Disappointment veils her downcast brow. 1856. 125 OLD PRINTS IN A PORTFOLIO 'T^'HEY lie within this purgatorial book, In patient waiting for the Day of Doom, As lost, as labour of the Tyrian loom, This courtly smile, or that imperious look ! Here simpers Phyllis with a flowery crook, And there frowns one who sought the cannon's boom, And courted peril, as a mistress, whom He madly worshipped, and by yonder brook A loving pair stand gazing into space — They whisper fondly of their future home. Though dead a hundred years ! A cruel fate Is theirs indeed, each packed within this case — Unhappy prisoners in a dusty tome That closes o'er them like the Inferno's Gate ! 126 SUDDEN ANGER TT OAV often have I seen a cloudless sky In the full noontide of supreme repose, When the far distant hills were flushed with rose And nature slept in drowsy lethargy, In a moment darken, while an ominous cry Of rising wind, with strange parturient throes. Rings through the foliage ; and with angry blows A sudden tempest tosses all awry. So, o'er the trusting heart's delusive calm, When all seems peaceful, prosperous, and fair, Have I seen sudden storms, like whirlwinds, driven No certain peace, no penitential psalm. To smooth the passionate pilgrim's path of care : Only one hope — one prayer — to be forgiven. May 5, 1885. 127 DEAD LOVE T N the hot South a little fleecy cloud In summer sky unfelt a tempest makes : So in a sunny life some Demon takes Fierce hold, and shattered Love lies in her shroud Love, in Death's arms, faint, pitiful, and cowed. Ah ! cruel sight ! my sick heart well-nigh breaks ; The trustful smile her pallid hp forsakes ; Her robe is torn, her beauty disallowed. Is there no Philtre that can bid her live? No unguent that can heal her present pain? No charm to fan once more her fragrant breath ? Ask if the winds and waves their foes forgive. They may — but I can never love again And leave my lost love in the arms of Death. 128 THE EVENING OF LIFE T T OW do we measure life ? how shape our ends To judge the flight of time, and our decay, The rapid passage of our little day ? By growth of children, and by death of friends, Pushed from our places, as the first extends, We smile to see our offspring at their play. And willingly for those we love, make way. Trusting their lives, for ours, may make amends ! But for the tell-tale sorrows that surround The aged ! nay, the middle-aged — who see Still younger friends cut down, as leaves are shed In some spring gale and cumber the damp ground — There are no words of comfort ; if there be. Go seek them in the Service for the Dead. April 2g, 1887. 129 1 884 IN EXTREMIS A FEW more moments and the fateful hour ^^ That ends his feeble sway must come : so near ! The bells are tolling, and I seem to hear The stroke of Doom that terminates his power, And gives another the transcendent dower Of world-wide empire over Love and Fear — Love that rules all but time, and dries the tear He often makes to flow— a passing shower !— With palpitating pinion, lighting down From Seraph-region, stands the wistful Heir Of all things earthly. Be with him to-night, Oh God of mercy ! Black as it be grown. Turn the past white, make smooth the brow of care, And guide Thy children for this year aright. December ^i, 1S84, 12 r.M. K I30 CONSCIENCE T T IDE thee within the tangled tropic bower, Where the gay blossoms flaunt their scentless hues, And parasitic tendrils, clinging close, refuse To admit the sun-ray for a single hour : Hide thee within the Saracenic Tower That tops some Eastern hill, where ravens choose Their croaking brood to rear, where clammy dews Make sickly moisture for the fainting flower : Hide thee within the Tomb : or seek the crowd Where Fashion's empty votary lives and lies — The dreary solitude of Creed and Caste : — Thy heart still palpitates, thy head is bowed ; For a small voice within thy bosom cries, ' Be sure thy sin will find thee out at last.' August 4, 18S5. 131 A PHANTOM JUBILEE A LEARNED man but lately drew a chart ^^ Whereon this Earth's great facts were all enrolled Six thousand years this little sheet did hold ; A strange assemblage, both of truth and art, In which the mightiest actors bore their part ; And all compressed within a single fold Of paper, jostling one another, young and old. And each contending in the world's great mart- Empire, and lust of conquest, fame, remorse, Murder and suicide and the poisoned bowl ; — Cleopatra and Elizabeth, strange to see, Were side by side with Alexander's horse ; The wonders of all time, incongruous whole. Were mixed to form this Phantom Jubilee. 132 FOREBODING T KNOW not if the sufferings we expect Are lessened when they come, or if the pain That sudden strikes us, when the heart and brain No evil dream, no coming ill suspect, Is worse to bear. Rather, I think the first. For we so oft anticipate and dread Some greater woe, when small ones come instead. That our Foreboding is itself the worst. The same holds good with Joy : we fondly hope To realise our day-dream, eagerly look For some fair vision far beyond the truth ; The soul o'erleaps its too contracted scope, And treats its wish from some romantic book, But finds, alas ! its golden fancy — Ruth. 33 SYJIPATHV T^ ELIGION of the heart, in things Divine, Means love of God, and charity to men In human matters ; the Apostle's pen Wrote words of fire, engraved upon the shrine Within the holiest, ' Faith and Hope are nought If Charity be wanting ; ' love to all — Love, self-denying, calling nothing small, Needing no learning though itself untaught — From such there springs, as lesser springs from great, Soft Sympathy, blue-eyed, with gentle voice. Too generous e'en for friendship ; all mankind To her are friends, she owns none separate ; She has a heart for all, bids all rejoice; One universal love fills all her mind. 1855. 134 EDUCATION '"T^HE oak once lay within the acorn-cup; The infant holds the future of the man ; The minutes, fleeting, compass a life's span ; The raindrop swells the foaming torrents up ; Climate and soil make varied timber grow; And differing educations change the child. Time is resistless ; terrible and wild, In some dark seasons mountain-streamlets flow ; Thus Nature owns an outer influence, But childhood most of all. Be ours to guide Their early days with the soft hand of love : To teach the truth, and that with least pretence, To show example none can e'er deride, And point the way to happiness above ! 1852. 133 ADIEU A FEW short days of pleasant intercourse, Of sweet communion of thought and soul, Have passed away, as all things here must pass. How few days pass and leave us quite heart-whole, And as they found us ! sorrow and remorse Form the great retrospect of life, alas ! Yet these have sped, and memory survives, To cast a ' longing, lingering look ' behind ; For I might live a century of lives. And never meet a Friend more true, more kind Oh, think on me, as I shall ever dream Of these bright hours of bygone happiness ! We glide in different barks adown life's stream. I may not love thee more, I cannot less. 1855. SONNETS /N OTHER THAN ITALIAN FORM t39 HOPE ON— HOPE EVER '-inHE sun has mounted high; the sickly drought Clrasps the thin throat of many a fragrant flower, And turns their lingering sweetness into death. Toor life ! ephemeral, that sinks to nought And dies, sad victim of a sunny hour, Scorched in its childhood by a sultry breath ! Ah me ! how false are morning dews that raise The promise of a bloom ! Sap rises free, And green leaves sprout, and herald strength and life ! Thus have I seen the flattering dews of praise Nourish the seed with hope and vigour rife. And the hot glare of malice scorch the tree. Yet Heaven's soft rain may quench the baleful heat ; And some day Victory may atone Defeat. I40 THE DUEL f^ REY, cold, and haggard rose the clouds that veiled ^-^^ The morning sun : e'en so the thoughts that paced The narrow prison of his angry breast. That stern, proud, anxious brow, too surely paled, And through each swollen vein the hot blood raced ; While dark resolve each throbbing pulse comprest. To die is nothing : could he dare to kill His fellow, and not pause ? Ah ! no : a smile Lights up his face, as flowers adorn a tomb, In every feature gleams determined will That one must die. He reasons, ' Blackest guile Calls loud for vengeance : 'tis a righteous doom.' Then face to face— O God ! a moment more, A flash, a cry, a fall, and all is o'er ! 141 'SURTOUT SOIS JUSTE' T WANDER in tlie body ; but not less My wanderings take an insubstantial shape, And in the hour when weary senses gape, And vacant minds proclaim their emptiness, My truant fancy travels far abroad ; And in grey twilight, as in golden morn, 'Mid joyous memories, 'mid thoughts forlorn. She treads life's changing and precipitous road. Help me, just Heaven ! to draw conclusions right, Nor rashly blame, nor vainly praise too soon ; To stumble not in the dark paths of night. Nor run too wildly in the full o' th' moon. Thus young I prosper ; and when bent with years I cease to wander, thus gain kindly tears. 142 AN INTERIOR A BLUE-VEINED marble, here and there besmeared With faded reddish stains, Uke blood long shed, On forty pillars bore an oaken roof, Worm-pierced and blackened, frowning grim and weird, And graven with sad memories of the dead ; Eastward, a Moorish window, like a hoof That narrows at the heel, let in the light Caparisoned in colours ; westward, shone The brazen throats that swell the choir around, Like spectral figures mystically bright. Hark ! soft and tender melts the dying tone. Now full and clear — an avalanche of sound ; And now 'tis mute. Ah ! they who sleep below Heed not the tide of music's ebb and flow ! E. R. Died 1851 T T AVE all thy bright hopes faded ? Has the night Of death victorious darkened o'er thy brow ? Are all ihy dreams of life so soon decayed? Are all thy thoughts of happiness laid low ? Yes ! all are over, the too rapid flight Of one brief year since thy fond vows were made ! Thy plighted troth, redeemed, has not yet passed, And thou art gone, too bright, too pure to last ! Oh, cruel doom, in giving life to die ! Yet, happier fate, to leave some trace behind, A relic of thy fair mortality. Than all to perish in death's stormy wind ! Yet death's last boon is more than life can give — For aye to rest, and yet for aye to live. Oxford : 1S51. 144 TO A. A. T~]'OR twice eight days, dear Friend, from morn to eve, And after shades of eve have drawn to night. And the full moon has silvered all the lake. Lighting up glen and corrie with her light, Have we, in vain, o'er Weather tried to grieve, For each from other novel thoughts did take. In fancy, I have trod grave Academe, And thou, again, hast braved the purple tide Where rolled in distant lands War's ruddy stream ; Or talked we not of some ideal bride ? To little purpose prayed we for the sun ! For ceaseless rain spoiled sport ere well begun ; Yet Friendship flourished, like a flame whose force Is fed by tempests of opposing course. MS TRUTH V. PASSION IN POETRY T WILL not own that 'Passion' is the food The Muse hkes best to feed on ; 'tis the hfe Of much the wild and unrestrained desires Of man find pleasure in ; the true, the good, The pure fair aliment of maid and wife Is withered in those hot and sensual fires. The Muse I love belongs to every age ; And, true herself, writes truth, and truth alone : Nature and truth live pictured on her page ; Without the one the other were undone. Thus the grey morning, half enwrapt in night, Gives a cold welcome to the rosy light ; And thus the glowing sun, at evening's hour, Takes half his beauty from a softened power. i860. L [46 TRUTH T\7'7HO loves the Truth, and, clinging to his love. Lives for his love, and makes his love his life, Detects in every lie the cruel strife That shatters love, and casting down his glove Becomes her Champion, nothing makes him quail ! He buckles her bright falchion to his side, And grasps her lance, as some full-hearted bride Grasps her new lord with love that cannot fail. Oh ! onward in that pilgrimage of power ! Forward ! Enthusiast of the Truth, and live In the deep love such life can only give, Heedless of sunshine, or if storm-clouds lower. Love, Truth, and Life in triple union stand On Earth — in Heaven— an Eternal Band. 1852. 147 PHILOMEL y^^OME forth, and hear the Nightingale! the wind Scarce stirs a leaf ; the moon has Hght enough To guide our steins ; \x\ yonder wood I know Where Philomel by night laments her mate. The sky like armour gleams, sure sign of rough Wild weather ere the morn : so trust the kind And gentle evening that invites you now — We prize God's simplest blessings all too late ! Hark ! how each mourner strains a throbbing throat, And triumphs in her ecstasy of woe ! Now the air rings with long-continued note, And now the trembling cadence whispers low ; Faint Echo panting labours through the glade, Such heavenly strains perplex the weary maid. RAIN ! RAIN! F^OR three-and-twenty days the purple head Of yonder mountain through the rain has frowned Mist-clad, grey-glooming, weird, disheartening; The swollen river overflows its bed ; Its waves, once bright, are dismally embrowned. And the green valley weeps like living thing. The deer, with drooping antlers, leave the crest, And browse on soddened herbage at the base ; The grouse cower sadly, with bedraggled breast And ruffled plumage, in some sheltered place. All Nature longs for autumn's genial days To shine once more beneath his ripening rays ; And I, with ready rifle, rod and gun. Cooped idly here, am pining for the sun. 1855. 149 DEFENCE, NOT DEFIANCE T\77E did not fly to arms in idle boast, To show fine stalwart forms in fancy dress, To grasp a useless sabre, or to hold A rifle for vain show, in emptiness. We armed — still arm — to guard our sacred coast; And in Defence the gentlest hearts grow bold. Thus a free State free soldiers sends to fight, ' Aye ready ! ' and in earnest, when the vaunts Of jealous neighbours overstep the right. And eager preparation backs their taunts. Then leap the youth of Britain from their rest, And swear no stranger shall their homes molest ; E'en tendercst birds, provoked, grow brave in blood, Beat back the invader, and defend their brood. ISO PURE LOVE T^URE Love is tender of another's pain, Forgetful of her own ; Hves in the hfe Another bears ; forgiving, often weeps. Yet never hopeless ; counting loss for gain, If that loss be but hers ; averse to strife, Though her keen watch o'er honour never sleeps. Woe to pure Love whene'er her footsteps stray ! Woe to fond hearts when Passion fans the flame. And brains distempered hold a hurtful sway, And bandage up the eyes that guard her fame ! Then welcome death — sweet, tearless, sinless sleep. Where slumber tempts not, and where eyes ne'er weep. Far happier thus than when, Life's spring-tide gone, Affrighted Reason flies her tottering throne ! A DAY IN JUNE AND OTHER SONNETS OF NATURE 153 A DAY IN JUNE A DAY in June ! Not always bright and fair Are English Junes ; but this was given to me, From all climatic imperfections free ! The South wind drove the sullen pulse of care To distant North ; and, glancing everywhere. The frolic Sun made laughter ; the young Tree, Proud of his shadow and the courting Bee, Held high his leafy front, to screen the glare ! The Hawthorn, in her bridal veil of white. Shed a faint perfume o'er the peaceful scene ; The Thrush paused in his song to hear the Dove, Who, late-imprisoned, floated like a Sprite From bough to bough, and cooed amid the green His plaintive pleading of monotonous love. Jtme II, iSSS. 154 THE WOOD-NYMPH '~r^HE lime-trees shed their blossoms, and the scent Filled the light air that dallied round the grove j The honeysuckle tendrils deftly wove A net to catch them — sweets on sweets intent : The thyme, scarce crushed (for She a-tiptoe went), Breathed a faint tribute of its dying love. Clinging about her footsteps as they move. And all the wood in smiling homage bent. Fair as young buds in early spring, one hand Led in rose-fetters a new-captured fawn. The other held a palm-leaf, from the stream That trickled through the thicket— like the wand Of some Enchantress. Gracious as the Dawn She passed, this Oread of the Poet's dream. October 13, 1878. 155 THE THROSTLE I 'T^HE throstle sang his loudest song to-day; Though the bleak North wind grasped his joyous throat, It could not check the clear courageous note, That welcomed March as cheerily as May. 'Tis surely wise to be thus early gay, Nor wait for calms before we go afloat. But bravely launch from shore our little boat, And sing in hope our spring-tide Roundelay. Such trust will be repaid ; for they who wait For summer, wait, and, fearing, wait in vain : They who dare nothing, and restrain their song Till the hour suits them, never can be great ; But will with troublous care and frequent pain Make evil choice at last and take the wrong. 156 II A LAS for confident philosophy ! A few short hours, and all my braggart thrush Can pipe to us is but a doleful ' Hush ' — ' A white world ' makes his hopes of spring to die, And turns his love-song to despondency. The snow hangs grimly on the lilac bush Where yestermorn the leaflets strove to push Through the thin sheaths where they imprisoned lie ! I would not therefore praise the over bold, Who fall, as fell rash Phaeton from his car By too much daring and too little art : The earliest blossoms perish in the cold : A skilful marksman shoots not over far : Thus, midway steering, play we life's great part. '57 NA TURE 'T~'HE heart contains the passions of the mind, The mind controls the passions of the heart So truth and feehng guide the painter's art, And teach the ignorant to know their kind. The poet revels in a fancied power. Not his, nor yet another's. Nature's all ; His highest thought but answers to her call ; His noblest verses are her noblest dower ; Like poets, painters can create the life That breathes upon their canvas, from a source Unknown to many, yet true talent's force Is Nature reproduced through patient strife ; Thus human art is humbled to discern The God of Nature rules o'er all we learn. i860. 158 WRITTEN FOR ANGELA'S NATURAL HISTORY MAGAZINE A Y7HAT a dull World 'twould be, if only Man Were in it ! Man the Tyrant ! Man the Slave ! The vocal woods all silent as the grave, And Nature cursed by some Almighty ban ; No swarm, ephemeral, that lives a span Yet lasts for ever ; the dark Ocean's wave, No more aglow, from crest to inmost cave. With fiery atoms, lustreless and wan ! Oh ! what were life without a horse or hound — (The Race, that makes the dullest pulse beat quick, The Chase, that stirs the energies of Youth) — Those dear companions of our daily round ? Oh ! cherish them with love, tend them when sick, And learn from them the honest ways of truth ! 159 NIGHT "NT IGHT — painted black-browed by the poet's pen, Gloomy, thick-veiled, at strife with honest deeds, Star-studded, worshipped by a thousand creeds ! — I greet thee well : welcome to weary men ! Not the sick souls who cavil at each day, Whose languid struggles imitate true work, Whose brawny shoulders honest labour shirk, And turn real effort into idle play \ But the keen hearts who resolutely strive, From rose-crowned morning to the set of sun, To gain some end that knits the muscles close (It may be merely pastime keeps alive The strenuous exertion once begun) — To these thou'rt welcome with thy glad repose. i6o THE RIVER ' I "'HERE is a River whose deep waters flow Silent and swift to a blue inland Sea ; And purple hills frown gloomily above, And grassy meads smile tenderly below. That River is the type of one whose plea For many an erring word is Nature's love ; The ever-changing stream portrays his heart, The purple mountains point at life's distress ; The meadows at the brink are fitting part Of those who cheer him through this wilderness. Yet blend the mountain, meadow, and the stream. Then joys and sorrows in one band appear : So, to my soul, dear friends, kind voices seem ; — With me they smile, with me they shed the tear. 1855- TRANSLATIONS i63 FROM THE FRENCH The Leaf POOR withered leaf, canst say? Torn from thy stalk, dost know, Where goest thou?'— 'My stay, The giant oak, lies low, Storm-smitten ; from that day. All cruel winds that blow Waft me alike astray, With their inconstant breath. In never-ending death. Through forest, mountain, plam, Into the vale beneath, Where the winds guide, I go ; And yet I ne'er complain, Nor dread the doom of woe ; I share the common fate ; The rose leaf and the bay Must welcome the same state, And I must be as they. M a 1 64 FROM THE FRENCH Victor Hugo THE gracious God, whose tender mood Is known to those who pray and wait, So thou art pure, and true, and good, Will bless thy fate. The careless world that seeks to shine, And sparkle with delusive flame, So thou art fair, in cups of wine Will pledge thy name. My heart, that in the loving light Of thy dear eyes so fondly basks, So thou art gay and glad to-night, No further asks. i65 FROM BER ANGER I'VE laid more friends in sacred earth, Than danced for wedding or for birth I've often loving hearts relieved, Who over self-made ills had grieved : For this I thank God heartily. For if nor wise nor strong am I, I boast a mirth that ne'er offends The deepest sorrows of my friends. 1 66 WRITTEN ON THE CATACOMBS AT ROME From B^ranger II FROM the rich land, made fertile by thy power, Death lops the ears of corn. Love, sweet restorer of the drooping flower. Cheers hearts too long forlorn. E'en 'mid the crumbling ruins here around, We feel 'The Passionate Want.' If Death thus reaps the harvest from the ground, Be ours the task to plant. 167 MY CONTEMPORARY Bl^RANr.ER T OVE laughs to hear jw^ boast the years, -*— ' 'Neath which, alas ! Fm doom'd to pine. I wager that the Fates in tears Joined long ago your thread to mine. These beldames then (so hazard brings Our fate) decreed as chance might be ; You gained the summers and the springs, Autumns and winters fell to me. 1 68 THE BROKEN VIOLIN Bi:;ranger COME, dear old dog, here, take thy share Come, never notice my despair ; Eat ; our last cake is sweet and good ; Black bread will be to-morrow's food. Th' invaders cried yest're'en to me (Though victors but by treachery), ' Play while we dance ; ' ' No, no,' I spoke ; So they my harmless fiddle broke. It was our village orchestra : No more gay feasts, no loud hurra Will now be heard : who now can move Young feet to dance, young hearts to love ? THE BROKEN VIOLIN 169 A lively measure played at dawn, When the soft zephyr fanned the lawn, Told to the maid who bent to hear, The bridegroom and his train were near. The reverend men, who heard the strain, Ne'er deemed the jocund notes profane. To see us smile, to hear us sing, Had smoothed the forehead of a king. If my poor fiddle now and then, To the full voice of gallant men, With patriot prelude, slumberers woke — Was that a cause it should be broke? Come, dear old dog, here, take thy share ; Come, never notice my despair ; Eat ; our last cake is sweet and good ; Black bread will be to-morrow's food. How slowly will the Sabbath pass To idle lad and idler lass ! Can that sad vintage e'er be blest. That sees my silent fiddle rest ? 170 THE BROKEN VIOLIN To weary ones vve gave repose, And lightened all the poor man's woes ; From great men, taxes, storms, and grief, We only gave a sure relief. We silenced many an enmity. And brightened many a tearful eye ; No sceptre ever cheered the sick As well as my poor fiddle-stick. But as I turn to meet the foe, I feel a patriot's courage glow ; And my sure musket, charged with lead, Of broken fiddle stands instead. If then I fall my friends will say (Those friends with whom I may not stay) ' He would not play our well-loved strains. For foes to dance on our remains.' Come, dear old dog, here, take thy share ; Come, never notice my despair ; Eat ; our last cake is sweet and good ; Black bread will be to-morrow's food. FRAGMENT FROM BERANGER YEARS will steal on thee, loved one ; Time's dark wing Will shroud thy form when I shall cease to be. Hours speed so quickly, memory seems to bring To my sad heart days doubly lost to me. Live, live beyond my term ; but, oh ! let age Surprise thee, true, and tender of my fame ; And in thy chimney-corner scan the page. And sing the verse that gives thy Poet fame. When others seek in thy wan wrinkled brow The beauteous inspiration of my song. And youth, that loves a tender tale, asks how He wont to woo thee, and why mourned so long. Tell them, if words can tell, the amorous rage, The jealous rapture of my faithful heart ; And in thy chinmey-corner scan the l^age. And sing the verse in which thou bear'st thy part. 172 FRAGMENT FROM BER ANGER When they shall ask, ' Knew he the art to please ? ' I loved him fondly,' needs no blush to say. ' Did he e'er vex, or e'er unkindly tease ? ' With tender pride your lips will answer, ' Nay.' Then tell them, he could grief and pain assuage With touching music and the lute's soft tone : And in thy chimney-corner scan the page, And sing the verse e'en when thy Poet's gone. 173 BERANGER'S LAST ODE WHAT ! poor untutored children, dream ye still That Freedom is your watchword as of yore, And that beneath her banner ye may fill Your cups to him who gave her life once more ? Some foolish lays of mine in memory's heart Perchance survive ! forget them ! I would curse My fame, if this the lesson they impart — Pardon the minstrel and his erring verse. Where, where, to-day are the bright dreams complete I loved to hymn in all the flush of hope ? I, who ne'er ceased to lash the race effete Of lacqueys, flatterers. Emperor, King, and Pope ? 'Tis true, I sang a mighty captain's fame. But, oh ! how fallen, crownless, and in chains ; Brumaire recoili at St. Helena's name — Pardon the minstrel and his errin;^ strains ! 174 RERANGER'S LAST ODE Must Nisard seem all-eloquent to be ? Leverrier, too, a second Arago ? Are night's foul depths and silence dear to me ? Can Belmontet e'er be to me Hugo ? And, oh ! is my dear God of mercy One To whom the assassins and the gaolers pray ? Is Rome protected by His power alone ? — Pardon the minstrel and his erring lay. Yes ! I have sung, in old heroic rhyme, The blue coats worn and torn in victory ; For they were the Republic's sons sublime, Who against banded monarchs learnt to die. The dapper guard, who spies us as we pass, Who for promotion would his neighbour slay, Is he my comrade drinking to his lass ?— Pardon the minstrel and his erring lay. To Poland and Italia's noble land France owes a debt — her blood ; 'twill never flow Too near at home, on slippery ground we stand, The cannon booms — too late ? 'tis madness now. BE RANGER'S LAST ODE 175 Go ! take your boasted freedom hence ; perchance The Turk may need such aid as yours ere long. Ye nations, on your holy union glance. — Pardon the minstrel and his erring song. 176 FALLING STARS B^RANGER SAY'ST thou, oh, Shepherd, that our star on high Guides all our days, and glitters in the sky ? Oh, yes, my child ; but the dark veil of night Hides the full splendour from our feeble sight. Thou read'st the secrets well, I ween, Oh, Shepherd, of that blue serene : What star is that falls from the spheres, And fades, and fades, and disappears ? My child, when at God's call a mortal dies. His star shoots tremblingly athAvart the skies. That star, amid loved friends, whom happiness, The grape's rich juice, and song, combined to bless. Near his dear wine-cup fell asleep ; O'er such an end we cannot weep. Again, a star falls from the spheres. And fades, and fades, and disappears. FALUXG STARS 177 How clear, how pure, how beautifully bright ! Some charming being seeks the realms of light ; Blest in her home, and faithful in her love, The tencierest heart is given to her above ; Sweet flowers adorn the willing maid, And Hymen's altar stands arrayed. Again, a star falls from the spheres, And fades, and fades, and disappears. That rapid star, that rushes from on high, Was some proud prince of earth just born to die ; His cradle, emptied of its puny prize. Was decked with gold and gems, and purple dyes, The poison of a flatterer's tongue Already in his ears had rung. Again, a star falls from the spheres. And fades, and fades, and disappears. That lightning flash of dark ill-omened ray Marked some official minion's dull decay, Who deemed the mockery of others' pain, Renown or place, or both perchance, might gain. The slaves who served a god so base Have hidden his portrait in disgrace. 178 FALLING STARS Again, a star falls from the spheres, And fades, and fades, and disappears. Ah ! weep, my son, from thy full heart, for yet The loss of virtuous wealth may cause regret ; When the poor elsewhere gleaned a scanty hoard, They reaped a goodly harvest at his board. There, e'en to-night secure of home, The indigent and needy come. Again, a star falls from the spheres. And fades, and fades, and disappears. Some mighty monarch falls with it, be sure. Go home, my son, and keep thy spirit pure ; And when thy star shoots its long lingering ray. May neither wealth nor grandeur mark its way. If without doing good, tho' clear, Thou shin'st, at that dread hour thou'lt hear- 'Tis but a star that leaves the spheres. And fades, and fades, and disappears. 179 FRAGMENT FROM THE FRENCH Henri Murger AS some sad relic of departed hours, And tender thoughts, to all save one, unknown, A knot of riband, a few withered flowers. Shrouded in dust in some dark drawer is thrown ; So have I flung aside the dead remains Of the first love that made my young heart beat ; Their faded features ridicule the pains. And mock the vows, they can no more repeat. Oh, days for ever fled ! whose halcyon beams Made the pale blossoms blush a deeper hue, And brought reality to faintest dreams, That seemed too blissful ever to be true ! N 2 I So FRAGMENT FROM THE FRENCH Oh nights ! dear nights, fit sequel to such days, Dear hours of night, whose every sigh was love ; When silence on soft wing securely plays. And weeping Envy longs, but dares not move ; When sleepless youth in feverish desire, Breathes the one name that lingers on his lips. And drinks, drinks deep, voluptuous draughts of fire That scoffing age, alas ! now coldly sips ! Where are ye fled ? what sphere contains ye now ? The empty casket of my heart is left ; But all the jewels that once decked the brow I loved so wildly, from the case are reft. FROM THE FRENCH Henri Wurger 11 SINCE I have tasted of thy brimming bowl, And in thy hands have laid my aching brow ; Since I have l^reathed the incense of thy soul — Perfume, alas ! for ever faded now — Since, happy chance ! thou heardst the tones that melt, Pour forth my loving heart's young mysteries ; Since I thy tears — thy sunny smiles — have felt Glow on my lips, and glisten in my eyes ; Since on my raptured head has dawned a beam From thy pure star — ah me ! now veiled for aye ;— Since in the waters of my life's sad stream, A rose-leaf of thy morn has glided by ; l2 FROM THE FRENCH Now say I boldly to each fleeting year, ' Pass on, pass ever, I defy thy power ; Hence with thy flowers, all faded, worn, and sere ; Deep in my soul there blooms a deathless flower. ' Thy wing, so rudely balanced, cannot move One drop from my full cup of happiness ; My soul still feels more fire— my heart more love Than thou hast ashes— or forgetfulness.' '»J FROmM the FRENCH Alfred de Musset AV'T'HEN first I loved thee it was joy to live; ^^ I loved thee more than all that life could give. Yet I have ceased to love : well dost thou know Who broke the promise, and who struck the blow. Ah ! all thy new-laid snares no more I fear, In vain each smile, in vain each melting tear. E'en as a child, who, of the dark afraid, Creeps out of bed to seize some rusty blade ; Then, palpitating still, and scarce more bold. Creeps back to bed, and trembles with the cold ; And when at early morn he wakes to find His phantom nothing but a window-blind, And sees his useless weapon all a sham. Laughs and cries out, ' How great a babe 1 am ! ' 1 84 THE MUSE TO THE POET Alfred de Musset SING to me, for the wine of youth Fills all my veins with fire divine; Sing to me, for the voice of truth Is dead, and for thy voice I pine. My bosom heaves, my lips breathe fire, Am I not fair enough to love ? Doth not each kiss invite desire, And charm thee to a world above ? Hast thou forgotten that first hour When, trembling at my quivering wing. Thou yieldedst to the guiding power That now implores thee but to sing ? THE MUSE TO THE POET 185 Then I requited all thy love ; Thou wast too fair, too young, to die ; In pity sing, in pity prove. This night, how sweet is memory. Oh ! sing to me, I still repeat ; Where once I ruled, I now entreat ; Hope bids me perish ; thou canst save Thy slave— thy mistress -from the grave. 1 86 FROM LAMARTINE AS in the pond that stagnates 'neath the wood, So in the soul are two things, bad and good Heaven's azure, tingeing the dull sluggish green With golden rays and tender clouds, is seen. And the dark torpid pool that shuns the day, Where reptiles creep their slimy life away. iS7 REMEMBER Ai.i'UF.n i)E MnssET REMEMBER when the morning ray Yields blushing to the god of day ; Remember when night, slow and pale, Creeps beneath her silvery veil ; When burning pleasure woos thy longing breast, And lengthening shadows tempt thee to thy rest, List to the voice of love Echoing through the grove. Remember. Remember when the hand of Fate For aye decrees us separate ; When years of woe have played their part. And wither'd e'en my constant heart ; Think then on me, and on my last adieu ! Time hath no power ! love rises fresh and new, And while my heart doth beat, Throbbing 'twill still repeat, Remember. REMEMBER Remember in that hour of doom, When cold I slumber in the tomb \ Remember when the flow'rets wave Gently, softly o'er my grave ; I shall not see thee, but my soul divine Will hold a sister-fellowship with thine. In night's still hour, oh ! hear My voice that whispers near. Remember. 189 BEAUTY SLEEPING Lamartine T T USH ! wake her not ! cried he ; but, oh ! behold ■^ -^ Those fairy features bathed in waves of gold ; That brow, where gentle peace and love unite, And long dark lashes veil a skin so white ; That blooming cheek, whereon the chaste caress E'en of a mother might half fear to jjress ; Tliosc full ripe lips, parted by fragrant breath. That just reveal the row of pearls beneath ; A throat more slender than the swan \ — a line Of figure full of harmony divine, Soft as the ripple on the sleeping lake, Ere the first breezes o'er its slumbers break ; Those rounded arms, that quickly heaving breast. Which pictures love-dreams even in her rest ; And oh ! those snowy arched feet that bound, And float in fabled fleetness o'er the ground. Polished like pebbles on the ocean strand. And still no larger than her mother's hand ! 190 CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON Lamartine HOLY ! Holy ! Holy ! Lord of the sacred mount ! Beyond the starry realms His might we own ; As in the fragrant breath of night's full fount, We bend beneath His hand, as reeds bow down. Why bend we thus ? 'Tis that we bend in prayer ; For a deep sense of heavenly virtue fills Each quivering branch, and all our foliage thrills, From deepest root to topmost head : As wrath that dyes his nostrils red, Like a fierce wind, swells in his breast. And drives the lion from his rest, And on his neck raises the shaggy hair. Glide, glide, ye wandering breezes, by, And change to chords of symphony Each branch, each leaf, each fibred spray, That blossoms in the breath of day. CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANOX 191 We arc the sounding harp of Fame That sings the God-endeared name ; The moon-adored, dying, to Hve For ever in the notes we give. Blow, blow, ye gentle gales of night, Down from heaven, up from earth, In our branches, ever bright With the name that gave you birth ; A thousand, thousand breezes blow, Over the eternal snow ; If ye seek a herald's fame, The lightnings will your power [)roclaim By the sea, and by the sword. By the unforgotten word ! And have we not a soul on high. Whose every leaf sings harmony? ' Glory to Thee,' eternal Sire ! Say what awful hand of fire Thou layst upon the weakest moulds. That our poor feeble fragile cone, The foot of man might crush alone. Such glorious forms as ours enfolds ! 12 CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON That from our tender fruit that lives, And draws its being from the clay, Should spring the mighty form that gives, In leafy pillars, shade by day Darker than clouds in murky flight, To birds in thousands, rest by night ! What principle of life is there In the rain-drop that we bear ; Of a sap, that at the first A bird might drink, that still in size In our veins it multiplies, And of our vast fibres slakes the thirst? That from this eternal fount, In the lesser streamlets mount, The torrent nothing can erase. And from the crest, down to the root, Makes green in turn, each branch, each shoot. Like some vast hill, on pillared base. Ye rocks ! on whom our sure foundation rests, Say on what day of days our roots were born ! Ye mountains ! crowned by our floating crests. Stars of the early morn, Of your young splendours shorn ; CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON 193 Meteors of night — seeds sown by his own power — Say, if ye know, of our dread birth the hour ? Hard as the diamond are our trunks ; but there, A thousand thousand years might be laid bare, Writ in the veined fibres of our heart. As elemental throes their stamp impart. Heaven of night ! that hear'st our crested prayer, Rocks ! to your inmost depths by us laid bare, From whom a dewy nourishment we seek ; Sun of the dazzling hair and golden cheek ! Ye nights ! who woo with kisses fresh and free, And drops, like liquid pearls, each panting tree ; Say — for ye know — have we not sense, Sublime, acute, inspired, intense? Sense such as falls unto no other lot In natural creation — Have we not ? No lips, yet breathe we ; no eyes, yet behold. Foretell, feel seasons, ere themselves unfold ; Feed on the air, digest each floating breath, Mysterious agents of life freed from death. For whom are lotted ages of a life. With soul, intelligence, and beauty rife ? o 194 CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON Is it for the dwarfling bush ? The insect that a breath would crush ? Or man, that phantom passing fleet, Like withered grass beneath our feet, Who deems this earth his throne, his home, And vanishes ere from our dome Our falling leaves have strewed his footprints o'er, And in the light of day is seen no more ? To-day, to-morrow's passing span, 'Tis thus we count the age of man ! Ye eagles, soaring o'er our heads, Go bid the winds unbind each chain ; For, rooted in our rocky beds. We bid defiance to their main. Go ! bid these tyrants of the wave Unfold their wings, and howl and rave. And for the dire assault prepare ; Bid them come on— their wildest shock Our topmost shoots will hardly rock. Or whistle through our waving hair. Sons of the rock, self-born we stand. Implanted by His holy hand ; CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON 195 The diadem of green He shed On sacred Eden's mountain head. When earth is deluged by the wave, Our hollow flanks His race will save ; And children of the patriarch From out our wood will hew the ark, The chosen few who kiss the rod Of aged Abraham's nomad God. 'Tis we who, when the captive band View distant Hermon's promised steep, Will spread our foliage o'er the land. And o'er their shrines our vigil keep. Or later, when The Word made Man, By name more sacred calls His Sire, Adored, ere the worlds began, On the dread cross foredoom'd to expire ; We are the altar raised on high, Of sacrifice and agony ; Ours the wood, for which atone Nations at the Saviour's throne. Men mindful of these prodigies. Will bow their brows and shade their eyes, o 2 196 CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON And venerate each ancient mark, And press their Hps against our bark. Saints, poets, sages far and near. Voices in our leaves will hear. Like mighty waters' falling sound Echoing o'er the rocky ground. And 'neath our old prophetic shade Will utter hymns that ne'er shall fade, But chime in music, as they sing. With our own wild carolling. Glide like a hand o'er the melodious lyre. From chord to chord till ye at once inspire To each a soul, and to each soul a voice ! Glide, ye night breezes, while our hearts rejoice; And 'neath your touch each fibre of our frame Will thrill with awe ecstatic at His name. Let your long wings sweep through the arch'd recess Of our old caves, and Heaven's own tear-drops bless ! The nightingale's soft murmur in her nest ; The ocean gently heaving in his rest ; The falling waters, bending grass \ The dewy saps, like rain, that pass ; CHORUS OF THE CEDARS OF LEBANON 197 The wild beast's moaning shrill-voiced roar ; — Let Silence add her charms to make these more ! Each quivering herb, ay, every stone, That earth prolific calls her own ; Let them all raise a passionate cry, Of one accord in harmony. To Him in whom they live and die, Their great Creator, who will deign to hear, And succour all the feeble far and near. Thou God ! Thou sea of infinite extent ! Thou fire divine ! of whom each life's a ray ; Thou wondrous Whole ! in whom we all are blent ; Thou who livest in endless day ! Immeasurable ! perfect ! and for aye ! Ever in spring-tide's hour of bloom, Ere Nature was — beyond her doom — Oh, let each sigh, that other days recall, Rise up to Thee, Thou God, whence cometh all ! FROM THE FRENCH Victor Hugo IN pity spare a fallen maid, Who knows beneath what wrongs she fell The pangs of famine undismayed Perchance she suffered — who can tell What cruel storm did first uproot And blast her virtue's tender shoot ? For loving but too well — undone, Her light of life for aye is gone. Have we not seen poor tottering things Struggling in vain, all tired and worn, E'en as a rain-drop fondly clings. And clasps the bough, altho' 'tis torn, Till, trembler from its very birth. Fair as a pearl, it falls to earth. Where, reft of all its purity, 'Mid dust and mould 'tis doomed to lie ? FROM THE FRENCH 199 Oh ! whose the blame ? thine, cursed gold, And ours who are thy ministers. By whom these gems are bought and sold. He, who the wage of sin confers. May blameless pass, unscorned, erect \ He mocks the crime that none detect; But the poor victim of his lust, A thing unnamed, must crouch in dust. Yet e'en from out that dust the dew May shine in all its former sheen, If but one sunbeam pure and new Should shed its radiance o'er the scene. So may the fallen things of earth Return to purity of birth ; So may love's sacred influence heal The thousand pangs that women feel ! FROM THE RUSSIAN NO time nor distance e'er can change The love I bear thee ; Nor separation e'er estrange, Nor sorrow tear me From thee ; for love like mine disdains Terrors and tortures, grief, and pains ; For loving once is loving ever. Past, present, future — faithless never ! Let hearts that cannot feel condemn, And all upbraid me ; Deride, accuse, reproach, contemn What thou hast made me. They term it folly — be it so — Raptures like mine they ne'er can know ; For loving once is loving ever, Past, present, future — faithless never ! FROM THE RUSSIAN Let every accusation fall In thunder o'er me, And dread misfortune's sable pall Hang black before me. No angry threats can make me quail, No menace force my love to fail ; For loving once is loving ever. Past, present, future — faithless never ! FROM THE FRENCH I LIKE to see the swallows, On quickly darting wing, Bring each year to my window The promise of the spring ! The same soft nest will welcome The same old loves, they say : 'Tis only right such constant hearts Should have a sunny day. And when the early snow-flakes Bring down the russet leaves, The swallows call their kinsfolk From under the old eaves ; Fly, fly, from snow and north wind Let's haste away, they sing ; No winter for such constant hearts, Our season is the spring. FROM THE FRENCH 203 And if upon the journey It be some swallow's fate, Caged by a cruel schoolboy, To be parted from her mate ; Pining, but ever constant, From grief she fades away. And her true love, hov'ring near her, Dies on the selfsame day. 204 FROM THE ITALIAN T N the green morning-tide of day -*■ O'er the blue wave soft zephyrs play And woo my spirit to repose, And dry the tear that idly flows — For ah ! thou lov'st me not. And when the brooding moonbeams take An azure radiance from the lake ; Like a bird tired of wandering, The plaintive breezes ever sing — Alas ! thou lov'st me not. I loved thee in my inmost soul, E'en from the first I spurned control ; And the dark garland of my grief Bloomed, twined with many a rosy leaf — But ah ! thou lov'st me not. FRO.^f THE ITALIAN 205 Heaven gave to thee a sunny smile, That lurked within thine eye, the while ; Thine envious lip seemed hardly glad, But every word to me was sad — For ah ! thou lov'st me not. Oh ! love me ; when far, far away I mourn in sorrow through the day ; And when at last to thee I fly, Oh ! spurn my folly, bid me die — If thou wilt only love. Ah ! let me love thee, and each care, And joy, and sorrow, learn to share ; Let others woo the pomp of power, And eager strive for honour's dower — Oh ! give me but thy love. Hold up to obloquy my name. Mock, scorn, upbraid, despise, defame ; Brand me with infamy, contemn, Let all the world reprove, condemn — If thou wilt only love. 2o6 FROM THE ITALIAN Then will my slowly winding doom Glide gladly, quickly, to the tomb ; Then may my foes their weapons wield, For each harsh word will be a shield — If thou wilt only love. 207 FROM THE ITALIAN THE erring soul seeks a sad home in fate, When from her blest abode in Heaven she flies A passenger throughout this earthly state, A prisoner she weeps, and gasps, and dies. In vain her sighs, in vain remorseful fears. In vain her fond aspirings for above. In vain her birthright, and in vain her tears For Heaven — the everlasting fount of love. Yet pitying Hope, clad in eternal rays, And meek Repentance lure the sinner on ; And from the mazy path, where Doubt still strays. Turns him to God, ere all his faith be gone. 2o8 FROM THE ITALIAN PURER than the ghttering spray That dews the petals of a flower : Sweeter than the smiles that play O'er the lip in love's first hour ; Softer than the tender kiss From a mother's heart that leaps, As she watches, in her bliss, O'er her firstborn as he sleeps ; Is th' affection ever flowing Thro' the spirit it imparts — Breath of angels gently blowing Loving breezes o'er our hearts. Dear one, full of this my breast Burns with essence all divine ; Kiss me, let the seal be prest ; Friendship's sacred pledge is mine. 209 EVER FROM ST. AUGUSTINE VER blooming roses redden in an everlasting spring ; O'er white lily, golden crocus, balsams dewy fragrance fling ; Pastures green, and corn -crops mellow, honeyed rivulets surround ; Breath of perfumed spices languish, aromatic balms abound ; From the never-fading branches, flowers in pendent clusters sway ; Neither moon nor sun, nor planet change the glory of their wa)'. In the ever-living lustre of the City of the Blest, City of the Lamb Immaculate, where the weary are at rest. HYMNS OF WAR From an Italian Translation of the Greek of Tyrt^^us HYMN I Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. — Horace. IN honour's cause 'tis fair to fall, For our dear land to give our breath With no regretful sigh ; With raging heart to challenge all, And sword in hand, a soldier's death — 'Tis God-like thus to die. In such a fate the brave rejoice, To such each hero's soul aspires. For such their fondest pray'r. No wretched life of fear their choice. Nor children blushing for their sires, And coward name they bear. HYMNS OF WAR Who arc yon crowd o'ercast with woe ? A spectre band, grim Famine's train, Without a kindly word From those that hurry to and fro ; Each feature cramped by want and pain ; Who tremble at a sword. These are the men, without a name, Who basely fled in danger's hour, Poor outcasts from their land. Living, they forfeit honest fame ; And, dying, infamously cow'r Beneath opprobrium's brand. Yet not alone their sires partake ; Their pale sad wives drink to the dregs The cup of dastard pain. Their dying offspring cannot make Their scoffs less bitter; pity begs A respite all in vain. r 2 HYMNS OF WAR With drooping brows they hear each taunt That dooms for aye the man they love In misery to roam ; For he, who thus deserts each haunt Of early youth, may ever rove And never find a home. Oh ! let us banish pallid fear, Bid trembling terror haste afar, Nor tempt our hearts to rest : Here, in our inmost bosoms — here They have no place, for burning war Inspires each generous breast. Our country calls us to her side ; Our children bid us wield the brand, And the fierce combat try. Away, vain love of life — come pride ! If fair be victory, for our land Tis fairer far to die. HYMNS OF WAR Oh ! shame upon the coward throng, Who leave their comrades in the fray, And fly themselves to save ! Their paltry life will not last long. Their nearest kin will curse the day, And wish them in their grave. Their very foes infuriate cry, ' Back, back, base slaves, to the vile earth From whence your natures came, Unworthy of the death you die. False to the land that gave you birth ; Dishonour to your name ! ' High, high they raise their matted hair, Their blood-stained beards. Oh ! agony Too horrible to tell ! Their trembling lips refuse the prayer ; While curses, ringing loud and high. Are the coward's funeral knell. 214 HYMNS OF WAR What brow but reddens 'neath the shame ? What hoary sire but Hfts his voice In deep and stern reproof? An early death had saved their fame ; For, honour safe, all hearts rejoice ; When lost, all stand aloof. For brave men never die ; their praise Still leaps exulting from the grave, And mocks its vaunted power. And tender maidens chant their lays By moonlit hours, and woo the brave With many a fragrant flower. 215 HYMN II Let the gods so speed me, as I love the name of honour more than I fear death.— Julius C-'esar. HE who hears the war trump sounding, Fiercely gazing on the foe, All his soul with frenzy bounding — He the joy of fame shall know, He alone can claim true glory, He alone is really brave, U'ho in battle, grimed and gory, Bids defiance to the grave. Slander flies away before him; Praises echo in his ears ; Deathless glory hovers o'er him, And posterity reveres. 2i6 HYMNS OF WAR Mighty nations homage render, In the hero all delight ; His dear country's best defender, Ever foremost in the fight. Fear he knows not, flight despising, Bold his heart, and firm his eye ; His soul above all danger rising, Deems it God-like thus to die. None are near him, still he gazes Fiercely on the bloody surge ; Still his piercing voice he raises, Still he plies his deadly scourge. Then he falls, the sisters hoary Cut, at last, the fatal thread ; But the wide wound marks the glory And the lustre of the dead. Stark he lies, his helmet broken ; Pierced his breast, his mail beneath But he grasps his sword in token Of a faithful friend in death. HYMNS OF WAR 217 Men and maids with bitter anguish Mourn the hero ta'en away ; Aged bosoms droop and languish For the mighty gone for aye. On the bier in many a cluster Laurels yield a sacred wreath ; All who knew him, weeping muster Round the sad abode of death, A few stones his sole dominion ; A little earth is all he needs ; Fame uplifts on deathless pinion Record of his glorious deeds. E'en the children that come after, Think upon his fame with pride ; Whisp'ring, as they hush their laughter, ' He to save his country died ! ' Noble youths applauding vaunted Of the valour of their Lord, Of the mighty spoils, undaunted, That he purchased by his sword. HYMNS OF WAR Aged warriors, bent and hoary, Cry, half weeping in their joy — ' Blessed be thou, son of glory ! Be thou like him, oh, my boy ! ' Thus, whoever proud and peerless Claimeth glory as his right, Let him hasten, firm and fearless. To the thickest of the fight. 219 HYMN III To triumph and to die are mine.— Gray's Bard. Cowards die many times before their death.— Shakespeare. OH ! mighty offspring of a mighty sire ! Swell not your valiant hearts with warlike fire? Doth not the war trump wake ye? far and near The mocking laugh resounds ; away with fear ! Hand to the sword ! 'tis but a passing cloud That veiled your valour from the eager crowd. Hand to the sword ! curs'd be the craven slave That fears the foe, or dares not face the grave. Sons of the brave, yourselves as brave, arise ! Recall to memory your sires' emprise ; They taught not how to fly from death or pain, Not e'en when slaughter strewed the reeking plain. They little recked, altho' the day were lost ; Each man, a hero, battled with a host, And prayed that he might perish in the strife. For death was better than a coward's life. HYMNS OF WAR Ye know how fair the hymn of praise resounds, How sweet an ointment to a soldier's wounds. Ye know how dark th' abyss, the gulf how great. Between the hero's and the coward's fate. Ye heard the bitter scoff that jeered the flight Of foeman routed in the deadly fight. Ye saw the dastard feet, so swift to fly. Shackled with iron in captivity. Thrice happy he, who, foremost in the strife, Gluts his keen blade with many a hostile life ; Who cares not for himself, whose only cry That thrills each heart is, Death, or Victory ! Yet he who meets Death's menace with a smile Will oftener from his prey the tyrant wile, Than the pale wretch who, crouching from his face, Brands his own honour with the dire disgrace : O'erthrown the coward lies, his quivering form Like the reed shattered by the raging storm ; And his last dying notes of terror speak In dank and blood-grimed hair and pallid cheek. No stifled sob can choke the rising breath Of wife or brother at his dastard death ; And the deep wound, that gashed him as he fled, Will bid them blush for the dishonoured dead. HYMNS OF WAR 221 The noble warrior, burning in his rage, Burns for the fame that Hves in history's page ; Gnaws the full lip, and rushing to the fray, Defies tht^ perils that attend the way. From those he loves he listens to the fame That sounds the God-like glory of his name. The aged father whispers to his boy, ' Be thou like him, and thou wilt make my joy. Up for the fray ! gird on thy trusty steel ; Where the fight rages with the fiercest zeal, Charge on ! cleave down ! strike home thy thirsty brand Till sinking nature bids thee stay thy hand. In serried phalanx each to each draws nigh, Breast joined to breast, in valiant sympathy ; Foot pressing foot — that surer be thy stand Where'er thou battiest for thy native land. Buckler to buckler, as befits the brave ; Helmet to helmet, powerful to save ; Go where war's tempest rages darkest — there. There thou mayst slay and riot free from care.' STANZAS FOR MUSIC !25 SING ON SING on, sing on, I cannot tire To hear thy loving voice ; Thy strains, that breathe a chasten'd fire, Bid my sad heart rejoice. Sing on, sing on, I love to hear The melody repeat The hopes of youth, without a fear That time speeds on too fleet. Sing on, sing on, and as thy notes Throb on my soul's dull chord. Another boyhood fondly floats Around me at each word. Sing on, sing on, 'twere needless pain To stay the illusive tone. Or break the charm that speaks again Of joys long past and gone. 226 SING ON Yet no ! I would not have thee bring Too vividly to me The loved ! the lost ! Forbear to sing, Or change the melody. Ah ! change it, and bid Love's sweet strain Its magic o'er us fling, And bind us with its golden chain, Sing on, dear minstrel, sing ! 227 REUNION OH ! what is there in this world so sweet As a kiss when Ups, long parted, meet The tender answer of loving eyes To words unasked in the glad surprise Of a longed-for meeting— unlooked-for joy— Which all Time's skill can ne'er destroy— The sudden spasm— delicious pain — When lips, long severed, meet again? II I do not sing of effeminate bliss, The moist return of the daily kiss ; But when years pass, and Oceans i)art. And faith is firm— the kiss of the heart. Q 2 228 REUNION The vanished doubts, the trusting smiles, The welcome glance that care beguiles : The pressing palm, and — who can tell?— The far-off sound of a Wedding Bell ? January 14, 1 888. 229 CONSTANCY ' f J E comes ! He comes ! ' she softly cried ; ' He comes ! ' the wanton birds repHed , The wayward breeze in silence sighed ; The twilight flushed — then slowly died. But soon her hopes — so fond, so high — Faded like childhood's memory. The parting swallows pitying cry, ' Come with us to a kinder sky ; ' But the lone watcher made reply, ' Had I dove's wings I would not fly. But wait and wait until I die.' March 28, 1885. ' THE SIL VER SONG ' A. A. P. ' 'T~'HE silver song,' ay, sing it, little bird ! -*■ Borne thro' the realms of air Till echo, by thy tuneful treble stirred, Repeat thy tender pray'r. Bid all thy playmates in the forest raise Their blended notes above, A glorious choral hymn of grateful praise, A symphony of love Through the dark aisles, where Nature's builders plant Her arches on the sod, A grand cathedral, where a full choir chant Their psalmody to God ! 231 REMEMBRANCE Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. Dante. OH ! let them flow, I love each trembling tear- Sad solace to a heart that still bleeds fast ; Ah ! dry them not, but let my eyelids wear The veil that shrouds the past. Why say'st thou, Dante, that in hours of woe A joyous memory is the worst of grief? What anguish made such l)itter words to flow ? Has sorrow no relief? Must we forget the Morning's cheering rays, Because the Night her sable vesture brings ? Ah ! no : true pleasure lives in other days. Remembering happier things. 232 BIRTHDAY RHYME 1LAY no offering on the shrine Where suppHants kneel and captives pine But all a wandering minstrel brings Are his poor harp's untutored strings. The happy day that saw thy birth (Each year renewed with festive mirth) Smiles on thy charms, that Nature made So faultless they can never fade. No virgin-gold can shine more fair Than the bright ripples of thy hair ; No ocean pearl, no flake of snow Be whiter than thy queenly brow. Then, lady, trust not gold nor gem, Rich coronet nor diadem ; True beauty flashes from those eyes, That tinselled baubles can despise. BIRTH DA Y RHYME 233 But, oh ! on this thy natal day, Accept the homage that I pay ; And take my verse in kindly part, And trust the bard, though poor his art. 234 MEMORY ■ HOPES of the past ! ye rise before me As incense from the censer springs A perfumed cloud, ye hover o'er me, And to the shadow memory cHngs. Intangible, yet penetrating The inmost soul with joy or pain. Ye float, my senses captivating, So far, so near, and all in vain. I bid you welcome, for I love you And yet your near approach I dread ; The present has no power to move you, Ye live for ever, although dead. What will the future bring? I wonder, For as I write fleet time has past ; Clothe it in zephyr or in thunder. One thing I know- it cannot last. MEMOR Y 2.35 And when grief comes, as come it may, Time still inflexibly rolls on ; To-day glides into ' yesterday ; ' The brightest, like a dream, is gone. Yet have we left (as rose leaves faded Live in the bowl, in death more sweet) Hopes of the past, by time unshaded, Which memory fondly may repeat. !36 THE HALF-OPENED ROSE 1AM old, but I love the soft perfumes of youth, Which in mead, or in garden, glad Nature bestows ; And the scent I love best, sweet as love, pure as truth, Is the fragrance that breathes from a half-opened rose. There are myrtles and jasmines that cling to young brides , I am old, and I care not for weddings and cake ; And orange flowers luscious, and others besides ; But my own sweetest rose I will never forsake. I am old, and ere long the dark curtain must fall On the scene where I've played out the drama of life ; And my couch for its hangings must take the dark pall, When I sigh a sad farewell to children and wife. Then dress me no wreath of immortals, nor weave A garland of cypress to cloud my repose ; But when my last friend takes a sorrowful leave. Let him lay on my bosom a half-opened rose. SONGS OF BIRDS I CARE not what the blackbirds say, I heed not what the mavis sings, When, poising on the rowan-spray, Their voice through all the woodland rings. But dull the heart, and poor the brain. Or else enwrapt in thought intense. Or saddened with o'erwhelming pain. That fails to catch the jocund sense. To them the sun shines warm and bright, They feel the joy of azure skies ; The early morning's rosiest light Makes prelude for their melodies. They warble from the sunny banks, They whistle from the golden braes ; And each small songster hymns his thanks, And strains his throat with grateful lays. 238 SONGS OF BIRDS When poppies blush, and blue-flowers smile, And busy reapers stook the grain. And valleys ' laugh and sing ' the while. Their notes make music o'er the plain. So lift thy voice, glad heart ! in praise, For blessings garnered at their prime, And to thy God thanksgivings raise. Like little birds at harvest time. 239 LOVING FACES T T OW the smile of loving faces, ■■■ A And the thoughts of days gone by. Tender words, and well-known places, Fill the founts of memory ! Kindly greetings, gently spoken By old friends, with hope are rife : And clasp'd hands, dear simple token, Call dead feelings back to life. Time may sunder, years may sever, But, like swallow to his nest, Oh ! my faithful heart flies ever Homeward for a place of rest. Where the warmth of pure affection Brightens every i)ainful toil, Lightens labour, cheers dejection. Even on an alien soil. 240 WHAT MATTERS IT WHEN THE END IS SURE? That matters not ; let come what will ; at last the end is sure ; And every heart that loves with truth is equal to endure. Tennyson. I OH ! what can it matter, if Love be sure ? For hearts that are true can learn to endure, Endure through the struggles and pains of Life If the end be certain — Husband and Wife ! n Oh ! what can it matter though Time be slow And the raven curls are powdered with snow ? For Hope sustains us and Patience bears With a smile and a sigh our passing cares. WHAT MATTERS IT.' 241 III Oh ! what can it matter, a year or more ? Our barks are nearing the selfsame shore ; Though adverse winds may our course delay, We are clear in sight of the welcome Bay. IV But woe to the Lovers when doubts arise, And they scan the gloom of their leaden skies — The smallest syllable makes them rue, And breaks the hearts that were once so true. April 16, 1 888. INSOMNIA AND OTHER MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 245 INSOMNIA THROUGH all the weary night I lay, It seemed a century or more, A ship that struggled for the shore, Yet came no nearer than the bay. For hours and hours I fondly gazed Athwart the Eastern window-pane ; For hours and hours I looked in vam To where the great Aurora blazed. I faint with longing for the morn, Oh ! leaden hours that creep and creep Oh ! cruel thoughts that murder sleep. And shake my faith and rouse my scorn. 246 INSOMNIA Haste on your Pilgrimage of Woe, And waste your spite on me no more ; I see the chink beneath the door Begins to ghmmer and to glow. Oh ! welcome light to sleepless eyes, The first pale glint of yellow day. That peeps with hesitating ray, And fills me with a chill surprise. The restless limbs, the weary head, May seek the solace of the sun, May walk, may climb, may leap, may run. Untrammelled by their hated bed. I hear the jalousies thrown back. The muffled sound— the tremulous tread- And, like one listening from the dead, I hear the polished parquet crack. And up I spring with might and main. And cast the cerements all aside. The pillows falling far and wide ; And now I am alive again. 247 OUR ONE SALVATION OH CHRIST ! with clay Divine anoint mine eyes That I may see Thy truth ; bid my lame heart Leap up with hallelujahs to the skies, And in Thy Heritage, Jesu, give me part. Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief. I totter, tremble ; Thou alone canst save, And to my sufferings bring a sure relief. Where is thy Victory, Death? thy Sting, O Grave? Yet ere I pass for ever from this world. Where Love can conquer Sin, and Grief, and Hate, Accept my pain for that of others, hurled To outer depths by ignorance and fate. Grant, gracious God, this expiation now. Not for myself— for am I not forgiven? — That others too may see their sins as snow. Though Conscience tells their souls are justly riven. 248 OUR ONE SALVATION Drive dark Despair, and all the fiends that cling To sinful man, back to their own damnation ; Teach them to trust in Jesus, and to sing His one Redemption and their own Salvation. 249 TO MAKE DEATH A GAIN TO live in vain ! self-seeking, and content To rise on others' ruin, nor repent When the dark Angel's wings arc round him spread, And, save some feeble pulses, he is dead. This is to live in vain ! The kindest eye • For such a life — save Pity weeps — is dry. No warning voice such erring soul can save, No weeping friends surround the loveless grave. But when the stroke of Death attacks the Just — And to the best and wisest come it must — Perchance a moment's warning, and no more, Ere the long voyage to the unknown shore : No matter, for a smile of holy peace Illumes the dying saint, whose troubles cease; His vast possessions give him no more care, They pass to others, to a weeping Heir. His honest life secures a happy end, And all wlio knew him mourn the generous friend. -50 TO MAKE DEATH A GAIN He only grieves not, but resigns his breath To God who gave it, cheerful e'en in death. Content to live, if God should so decree ; Content to die, if so His will should be. This is to Hve, and not to live in vain ; This is to die, and to make death a gain ! 2^1 FAR FROM HOME AS caged birds, in the dark hours of night, Feel the wild longings of a rapturous flight, Soar in the spirit o'er the topmost trees, Float fondly buoyant on the tropic breeze, Cross the wide ocean, stem the tempest's force, Yet keep unswerving to their destined course. Escape a thousand perils, till they come Nearer and nearer to their long-lost home ; Already straining all their tiny quills. They half forget their tortures and their ills ; Already chirping their familiar cry, They listen, longing for the loved reply ; Already chosen is their place of rest. Already built their cunning hidden nest, Already Fancy with too sanguine mood Supplies the nest with all its callow brood ; Already reared, they learn short flights to wing. And taught Iiy love their little song to sing ; 252 FAR FROM HOME When some rough hand too rudely breaks the spell, Turns Fancy's Heaven to a Captive's Hell, Dispels each hope and wakes them from a dream Of happy days that are not what they seem, Dooms them in man's rough custody to lie, Their best, their only, happiness to die ; Or the bright advent of imperious day Wakes the poor dreamers with intrusive ray. Dispels their visions with the fading stars, And leaves them fluttering 'gainst their prison bars So have I known, by some far distant stream Some hapless exile, wakened from his dream. Where golden Ganges with its freight of souls. Or some remoter wave, its water rolls, Where the hoarse dingo bays the moon at nights. Or weird Aurora sheds her Northern Lights, Where lions guard the fountain's narrow brink And timid antelopes scarce dare to drink, Alike in Asia or in Afric's land, By icebound coast or some too torrid strand, Wherever Ocean earth to earth unites. Or fair Adventure youth and health invites ; There far from home some caged mind will pray, In those still hours that bound the lightsome day, FAR FROM HOME 253 In the faint accents of his boyhood's glee, Learnt at the altar of his mother's knee, For the dear home he wantonly resigned, The parents, sisters, friends, he left behind ; And it may be will picture o'er and o'er The well-known haunts, the once familiar shore, The paths he trod through many a fernclad glade. The tender glances of some blue-eyed maid, The happy ploughboy and his dappled team ; A thousand childish thoughts will crowd his dream, A thousand hopes, remembered but too well, In that sad hour his aching heart will swell, Till, wearied out, he bids them all be still, Nor sweet nor sorrowful his bosom fill ; For well he knows the hour of waking near. And from his eye there falls one human tear. One tear, that tells how much remains of good In all the wreck— in that still wayward mood. That through the changes of his dark career. In nights of revelry, in days of fear. The tender teachings were not all in vain. They lightened sorrow and they softened pain ; And if not always, yet at times were heard. Like the soft echoes of the dreaming bird, 254 FAR FROM HOME The still small voice that, far above the din Of riotous laughter or of graver sin, Pierced with a sure remorse the erring heart And turned it longing for the better part, Longing to break the prison bars and fly Far from the noisome cage to some pure sky, Where childhood's innocence and childhood's play Would hide the past, drive memory away, And in the present find a new-won joy, The love of all he loved when still a boy. Then can he see, with something like surprise, What erst was hidden from his blinded eyes, The honest love that said its simple say, Fearless of scandal, unabashed by day. As our first parents, guileless ere the tongue Of lying serpent tempted Eve to wrong ; Such God-inspired passion fills the heart Of all created nature, 'tis a part Of Nature's self— in shrubs, in herbs, it lies — And wanting this our very Nature dies. In the gaunt desert where the Palm-trees draw A poor exotic life, 'tis Nature's law ; In the thick forest where the Lions rove And birds in thousands sing — their note is love. FAR FROM HOME 255 The swinging parasites embrace the trees, They, fondly sighing, woo the summer breeze ; \\h:\\e at their feet cryptogamous unfold Myriads of ferns in silver, green, and gold ; Each vies with each in lusty nature fair To reproduce its kind, its loss repair : Each wars with sad destruction's fetid breath. And grapples grandly with the grasp of death. J56 TOO LATE AN EVERYDAY ROMANCE WHICH shall it be, Love, which shall it be, Strife with him, or peace with me ? Which is the brightest, which is the best, A hateful struggle, or loving rest ? What can the world and its minions say Worse than the words you have heard to-day ? False they may be, and black of hue, But you know in your heart you wish them true. Which shall it be, Love, which shall it be, Tears with him, or smiles with me ? November frost or an April sky, When the Summer's light wing is hovering nigh ? Be brave, and choose — nor think of the world With its careless comments at random hurled — TOO LATE 257 But please yourself — and I know my fate, Kvi^ yoursy poor Child, if you hesitate. Which shall it be, Love, which shall it be, Despair with him, or hope with me ? Hope, in some fairer clime, to find A joyous home and a kindred mind. Hope, to forget on some southern shore. The doubts that shall never trouble you more. Which shall it be. Love, which shall it be, Death with him, or life with me ? He paused — and she slowly rose — but turned One pleading glance — one look that burned Like a fiery flash — on the suppliant face. Whose longing eyes were a mute embrace. Then, in a tender voice, she cried — ' Would I had died. Love, would I had died. Ere from thy lips I had heard my fate. Only to answer — Too Late, Too Late ! ' 258 TOO LATE Tears, great tears from her sorrowful eyes, Tears, like the rain from Summer skies, Dropped through the fingers that hid her face. And fell on the folds of her bridal lace. Yet once again she looked up, and spake — ' It may be, beloved, some dire mistake. Some cruel error has rent my heart ; But the hour has passed for regrets — we part— ' I to a hated but promised life — A broken-hearted and loveless wife — And you, perchance, to a truer troth, May God in His mercy sustain us both ! ' Never, I swear, till my days be past \ Never, Love, never, while life doth last, Shall my lips by another's lips be stained, Or my love by another be profaned : If thou wilt leave me, Oh heart of stone ! Thou leavest me now, and for ever, alone — Alone — as a bird in captivity- Alone to live — and alone to die ! TOO LATE 259 Farewell, 1 bless thee : I cannot curse, For thy bitterest foe could not wish thee worse. Joyless and childless with him to dwell Pitiful, pitiless, oh, farewell ! The Rowan is red in the old churchyard, The leaves by the breath of Winter are scarred. And a plain headstone with a name and a date Has for Epitaph only— 'Too Late, Too Late !' January 10, 1SS8. 26o HADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL ANIMULA ! vagula, blandula, Hospes comesque corporis, Qu3e nunc abibis in loca — Pallidula, rigida, nudula, NeCj ut soles, dabis jocos ? TRANSLATION. Oh ! tender Soul without a home, Dear Guest and Comrade of this clay, Now that thou may'st no longer stay, Where wilt thou go ? or whither roam- Pale, naked, grave, and well-nigh dead, All thy accustomed humour fled ? March 9, 18S5. 26 I TO GORDON OH ! guileless warrior, though thy mortal frame Rest with the swarthy foes thou lov'dst too well, To the whole world belongs thy martyred name ; But here thy spirit must for ever dwell. AN EPITAPH THEY mourn who knew him not ; how then Must they who knew him weep ! The fate Of all is death ; and wisest men Reflect that they — or soon or late — Must draw the lot, and so prepare Their lives, in love and labour spent ; Not unrewarded if they share Our sorrow. Thus he calmly went To join the great ones gone before, And thus we weep ; a theme for all ! God guide him to that friendly shore Where tears are dried before they fall ! 263 JOHN BROWN A LOWLY subject and a mighty Queen — How great the social gulf that lies between ! Can worth, fidelity, and truth do more Than try to span it? Yes— can bridge it o'er! And cruel Death that lays the subject low From Royal eyes makes kindly tears to flow. And with a sorrowing heart these words to own, ' Here lies my true and faithful friend, John Brown. 264 A STRAY THOUGHT T^OR sacrifices we have made ■^ We're oft unconsciously repaid, If not by human hands, by One Who knows far better why they're done, And sends us sorrow, grief, and pain To be at last our priceless gain. 265 THE BLIND MAN'S PRAYER FATHER of light, God of the glorious day, And starry wonders of the skies, To Thee I raise my voice, to Thee I pray, And lit"t my sightless eyes. The azure heaven, illimitable sea, The forest giants' leafy screen, Are all a dead, dull blank of space to me, And never to be seen. For me no flowers unfold their countless hues, For me no verdure decks the plain ; The sun's meridian rays the light refuse, For which my eyeballs strain. The passionate stream that pours from eyes that love, The tender glance affection gives, The lustrous smile from lips that mutely move In eloquence that lives, 266 THE BLIND MAN'S PRA YER Are lost for me ; the blind man's senseless stare, Alas ! falls dimlj', darkly dead, Void, viewless, vacant as the empty air That fans my fevered head. The fair proportions of Thy solemn fanes, Whose aisles expanding arches grace ; The sculptured beauties, and the gorgeous panes That holy pictures trace, Unseen by me, make not my spirit feel Purer in prayer — more truly Thine ! As dumb men voiceless pray, I sightless kneel To worship at Thy shrine. 267 IN MEM OKI AM December 14, 1S61 I HEARD a sound by night that chilled my blood, And smote upon each sense ; And as I hurried by, I sudden stood In listening most intense. I knew, when monarchs threw their Purple down At Death's supreme appeal. The great Cathedral bell tolled o'er the town, A tone the dullest feel. Did I now hear that unexpected note Of sorrow and of death, Borne through the city from an iron throat, With slow convulsive breath ? Or fancy-heightened, did some jangling chime From parish steeple, feign That knell of Princes, only knoll'd what time The highest cease to reign ? 268 IN MEMORIAM Alas ! too surely Death had ' swum the foss,' And ' pierced the castle wall ; ' And the full echo swells a nation's loss, And spreads our Prince's pall. An English Prince in everything save blood, The Consort of our Queen, Had perished in his prime _; the Wise, the Good, Was only what had been. No haughty planner he of lawless law ; No meddler in the State ; With clearer eyes than other men, he saw How Princes should be great. Where meek-eyed Art and strong-armed Science dwelt, * He loved to tarry near ; And in those virtues less perceived than felt. He was without compeer. No Court intriguer he ; none ever proved More loyal to his wife ; No father showed the children whom he loved, A purer rule of life. /A' MEMORIAM 269 He saw our weakness, and he made us strong ; Our trials shared, and knew The world's applause to be an idle song, Which every zephyr blew. In the straight path of rectitude he trod, Guide, counsellor, and friend To that dear Lady, to whose grief may God Sure consolation send ! 570 F. B. In Memoriam A NGEL ! that guardest her pure heart, ^^^ Unfold thy wings, for she is thine. And now her spirit, all divine, In earthly troubles has no part. Bear her on high to that blest sphere Where Christ's own chosen wait the end ; And heavenly consolation send To those who sorrowing tarry here. Nor yet delay ; from God's own throne Waft down thy balm from healing wings, Where the bright seraph ever sings Soft hymns of comfort to the lone. /'-. B. 271 ^^'caI■y and lone, indeed, are we, And, blind with tears, in darkness grope; Yet mourn we not without our hope, For young and aged turn to Thee. We feel — we know — that she is there. To guard and guide us as of old ; Her tender presence makes us bold, ^Ve joy to know her freed from care. We feel, we know that she is near, Her spirit hovereth around ; Among the pure still purest found. Her memory sanctifies us here. 272 MY FIRST-BORN 'T~^HE baby, from his birth, was weak, ■*■ Had he died sooner, she had sooner died ; The first faint words I heard her speak Were — ' Love ! our boy Hves ! lay him by my side. How long he lived I scarcely know. But ah ! she spoke the cruel, cruel truth ; I laid them side by side, and now Life has no love for me, and all is ruth. 273 ARTHUR IVELLESLEY, DUKE OF WELLINGTON THE Hero chief has fallen. The night Of death has quenched the beacon light With lowly head and drooping crest, He slumbers in eternal rest. When danger darkened every ray That cheered the noon-tide of his day, When human prowess seemed too late To save the realm, avert the Fate, The rai)id glance of his stern eye Seemed every danger to defy, Seemed every terror to abate. To nourish Hope, and scoff at Fate. 274 ARTHUR WELLESLEY Yes ! all unmoved in peril's hour, Did changing Fortune smile or lower : He heeded not — as one who threw A deeper stake than mortals knew. In war, in council, in debate. The first, the best, to guide the State ; He triumphed wheresoe'er he trod ; Nor bowed the knee, except to God. At last the Hero, stern in fight (Of senators the beacon light) ; All honoured, all revered, has come, With hoary head, unconquered home ; Home to his recompense above, Enshrined in prayer, entombed in love. At last the Hero, bowed with years, Yet stout of heart and free from fears (The good can know no fears), in death Has bent his brow, has given his breath And all the nation, sorrowing. Laments its Councillor and King. ARTHUR WELLES LEY 275 The last sad fight so brief ! Oh, say, That Death victorious feared to stay, Lest he, unbeaten in the strife. Should win the victory of life. A victory he truly won, Britannia's best and bravest son ; For now in death the warrior lives That life of peace which Jesus gives. 276 POETIC IMMORTALITY 'T~'HERE is no limit to the glorious strife Of human intellect that men call Life. Some wither in their youth ; some in their prime Yield to the chances, not the lapse, of time. Some in old age, like stately trees, prepare With dauntless heart the common fate to share. Yet all alike, for they who fall in youth But teach mankind this everlasting truth. That Poets never die, but live sublime In the sweet measure of their deathless rhyme. 77 CHILDHOOD THE tear in childhood's eye Is h'kc the morning dew ; The sunlight of their sky Beams ever fresh and new, And seems to have a fairy pow'r To dry the raindrop of an hour. The smile in childhood's cheek Is like the l)lush of morn, When many a rosy streak Tinges the yellow corn, And brightens every feature's mould, And turns the landscape into gold. The frown on childhood's brow Is like an autumn day, When the first flakes of snow In a moment melt away. >78 CHILDHOOD Oh ! happy age that ever wears At the same instant smiles and tears I Too soon, 'tis hard to dry The tear, or teach to smile — The one, hypocrisy, The other, worldly guile ; For manhood's passions ever blight Our childhood's rose that bloomed so bright ! 279 THOUGHTS OX FLOWERS THERE are thoughts Uke violets, hidden 'Neath foHage dark and thick ; There are thoughts that rush unbidden, And make the dull heart beat quick. There are thoughts Hke sunflowers, courting Every wanton amorous ray ; There are thoughts ill bear consorting W'ith the pure warm breath of day. There are thoughts like summer roses, Shedding fragrance all around ; There are thoughts no man discloses, Thoughts to night and silence bound. There are thoughts like myrtles, lending Bright grace to festal hours ; There are thoughts that, gaily blending, Shine as coronals of flowers. 28o THOUGHTS ON FLOWERS There are thoughts hke lihes, peerless In their white and chaste array ; There are thoughts so firm and fearless, Death for them has no dismaj'. There are thoughts like cedars raising Their vast gnarled hands above ; Thoughts of prayer, and faith, and praising Thoughts of peace, and hope, and love. THE SILVER-WINGED DOVE OUND the porch of my cottage convolvulus twines With woodbine and ivy, a garland of spring ; \nd a low-browed straw thatch with broad corners declines, And tempts the young swallows so nimble of wing. R An old oaken settle, placed somewhat aslant To catch the late sunbeam, yet shield from the glare Of the hot noon-tide rays, which make all nature pant. Draws an idler like me from his dinner's plain fare. Fresh roots from the garden, a chick from the yard, With a rasher fresh cured from my own little farm, And a glass of home-brewed that no foe could call hard- Such my banquet ; I like it, and where is the harm ? No woman to plague me, or love me - the same — For kissing and scolding seem often a pair Of benefits given the married to tame, Or troubles allotted the single to scare. 282 THE SILVER-WINGED DOVE So I sit on my settle, my pipe in my mouth, And banish such foUies, such troubles, as love ; But above in her cage there hangs straight to the south One who coos in all weathers, my silver-winged Dove. 283 A SOCIETY LYRIC INTO the shadow, into the shade Where Hves are forgotten and surely fade In the midst of a slow decay ; What if there rises a kindly sigh, Or a tear for the past lurks still in the eye? No matter— he's had his day. Into the shadow, into the shade. Where many a broken heart is laid, And the feet that wandered away Pace painfully Ixack to the early light Of hours once hopeful, pure and bright. No matter— she's had her day ! Into the shadow, into the shade. Where a cold retreat from care is made And lips refuse to pray ; 284 A SOCIETY LYRIC AVhcre vain regret and the foolish vow Sadden the heart and wrinkle the brow. No matter — they've had their day ! Out of the shadow, out of the shade, By the gracious promise God has made. Our sins and our sorrows past. Into the sunshine, into the light, Cheered by His mercy and strong in His might- This matters, and this will last. 285 TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY >^~X H ! why wilt thou sully thy beauty, my dear, ^-^ \\\ih the pigments and dyes that a courtesan uses, When Nature has made thee without a compeer And Liberty gives thee the love that she chooses? Oh ! rty from the peril that grows in the touch. Till Roses and Lilies have nothing to offer, And the Peony flaunts on thy cheek over-much, And thy loveliness falls a sad prey to the scoffer. iS6 OLIVER MONTAGU'S DOG 'BOXER' shot by a keeper in windsor park, after following his master through the egyptian campaign Buried at Marlborough House, June 1883 TT ERE, scarce a league from Paul's historic Dome, Where the tall elm trees shade a Royal home, Lies a true Friend ! For man or dog what name Can more ennoble or enhance his fame ? O'er the parched desert, through the midnight fray, Where his fond master led the glorious way, Fie bravely followed, and with mute caress Cheered both his labour and his idleness. A miscreant slew him ! None was near to save. Let honest tears bedew his honoured grave. And willing hands entwine his funeral wreath — A trusty comrade is at rest beneath ! !87 LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. MATTHEW DAWSON BY 'one of the stable,' WITH A BOOK OF SONNETS BY THE SAME AUTHOR Bcllcr lo be the Prince of Trainers, Than the Trainer of Princes. Proverbs (Revised Edition). ^T^IS thine, great Matthew, by the laws of fate To train the young and leach tl^eni to run straight. So may it he the duty of my muse To seek the good, the worthless to refuse ; To guide the footsteps of reluctant youth And keep them straight upon the path of Truth : To press them here, and there, perchance, restrain : Now use the spur and now the tightened rein, Yet save my greatest efforts for the close, And win the race — if only by a nose. — :S8 LINES TO MR. MATTHEW DAWSON Thus may our mutual labours bring success, And make our own and others' happiness ; — Though still the advantage must with thee remain Thou hast the nobler animal to train ! Newmarket : July i, 18S4. 289 LINES TO 'FLY' A FAVOURITE TERRIER BORN IX INDIA, AND KILLED BY FALLING THROUGH THE ROOF OF A HOUSE Written for Lady Ebrington FROM Eastern climes an English heart she brought (For Love a teacher is, herself untaught). Her little life was loving and beloved, Her little weaknesses were when she roved. For nature never changes ; you may scan The self-same freaks in terrier or in man. Alas ! our weaknesses are strong ! at length Poor Fly was victim to their very strength ! Unlike her namesake that the window treads, And safely walks the ceiling o'er our heads. She, eager for the chase and overbold. Lost in a moment her firm footing's hold, And, toppling from the giddy roof, she fell A mangled corpse — this dog we loved so well ! u 2 90 LINES TO 'FLY' My heart is sore, and still my Mother weeps ; For where is love if honest sorrow sleeps? The world may find me many another friend, But none more true — may none so sadly end ! December 3, 1887. 291 GLENQUOICH /^^ LENQUOICH ! hero may misanthropes recall ^^ The first fond visions of their infancy, Ere yet their early sweetness turned to gall, And the fresh fountain of their hearts ran dry. Here may the woe-worn wretch forget his grief, And smile with new-found pleasure once again— Here in thy heathery wilds find sure relief, And live oblivious of his former pain ; For Nature here, with outstretched arms, invites Each passer-by to share her glad delights, Not rugged wild, to bruise with stern caress, But blent with art, a cultured wilderness Far from the abodes of man, yet all unite, With one accord— the young, the fair, the bright To this blest spot to pay their homage come, And worship Nature in her mountoin home. 1S55. 292 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR IT is the night when in the vaulted hall The King Belshazzar holds high festival ; And where each pillar rears its massive head, In solemn pride the glittering feast is spread. Around the throne, where countless gems combine With every hue to form a scene divine, ^Vhere cup and chalice, 'graved with cunning hand, Spring from the board as from enchanter's wand ; Where topaz, emerald, diamond, lend a ray To mock at night, and e'en surpass the day ; A thousand forms in bright array repose. Their tresses twined with myrtle and with rose, A thousand lamps, suspended from on high, Soothe with a softened beam the dazzled eye. And half reveal the sculptured bowers above. That woo delights, and breathe the sweets of love. THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR 293 Lute, timbrel, harp, and many-stringed lyre Pour through the aisle harmonious notes of fire ; A thousand voices, floating softly, give A deeper charm, and bid the music live ; While from the board, like sunbeams from a stream, In lustrous beauty, an unwonted gleam Of gold and silver flashes in the glare ; — All hallowed vessels from the House of Pray'r. How fair the scene ! No brighter here on earth Could banish care, or give the rein to mirth. What though the drunkard's heart a moment quail ! What though the sinner's cheek a moment pale ! Away with thought — the flowing wine cup drain ; Thus drown all care, thus drive away all pain. But now no thought appals the drunkard's heart, Remorse may now no single pang impart ; They fear no wrath ; defying heaven above, This night they vow to revelry and love. Oh ! thus, Oh ! ever thus, in pleasure's hour We scoff at peril, and defy its power ; Yet when the distant storm at length draws near. Our hearts o'erwhelmed confess the conscious fear ; 294 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR So now Belshazzar in his ' pride of place,' In pomp exulting, runs his impious race, Defiant, heedless. Lo ! the hour is come, And bowed by fear the tyrant meets his doom. Oh ! in that awe-struck form the eye might scan The strength of sin, the nothingness of man. Why pales the monarch's brow, why turns his eye As from some spectral form of memory ? One hand, uplift, with quivering grasp retained The reeking goblet he but now had drained. As though unconscious that the life, which shone In liquid purple o'er its gems, was gone ; The other rested with a soft caress On one who vied with light in loveliness, Whose dark eyes glanced like stars at dewy eve — Eyes, whose bright twinkling might the stars deceive ; While o'er her beauteous brow, as calm and white As snow-drifts glistening in the pale moonlight, A wayward tress escaping from its place In wild luxuriance, veiled the mute embrace. Yet e'en that loved one, in her secret breast, Longs, longs in vain, for virtue's holier rest ; THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR 295 For Pleasure's flowery path and wanton smile Again deceive her, and again beguile, Lure the fond heart astray, all care remove, And tangle memory in the toils of love. As some vast furnace, heaped with glowing fire, Feeds on itself till every spark expire \ Till, at the last, of fire, of life, bereft, A charred and blackened frame alone is left ; So with man's heart, heaped up with fierce desire, A very furnace, feeding on its fire, Awhile the flame may glow ; yet day by day. More and more dim, it smoulders o'er its prey, Till but a scorched and withered mass remain, And for that goodly form we search, but search in vain. As when a vessel pillowed on the breast Of southern seas, is softly lulled to rest. The sail flaps idly to the wanton breeze That tells of peace, and liberty, and ease ; The sailors, grouped in many a merry throng, Pass the gay jest, or sound the careless song. Till yon small cloud, that slowly wends its way Unmarked, unheeded, o'er the orb of day, 296 THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR Uplifts the ocean with terrific force, And buries all beneath its headlong course, Strikes the doomed vessel in her peaceful sleep, And with one swoop engulphs her in the deep : So with the king, as slowly, yet as sure. The cloud has burst o'er slumbers as secure ; Unmarked, unseen, it crept along the sky. And doomed Belshazzar with itself to die . Now is the time, God's holy house profaned, Stript of its vessels — what but death remained? A human hand, with spectre fingers came, And wrote upon the wall in words of flame, ' Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin ; ' words Of unknown import pierced his heart like swords. No more the circling goblet passes round, No more the notes of melody resound ; Rings the light jest no more, no laugh is there : All, all is hushed, save murmured sounds of prayer. E'en lips that mocked but now the very name Strove half in vain a smothered prayer to frame ; Tore from their dabbled locks the wine-stained flower, And feebly called on God's Almighty power. 297 DISCIPLINE TO conquer hate, to learn the blessed art That rules the mind, and teaches to forgive To govern every impulse of the heart, And, when one fain would die, to seek to live — This is a Christian's task — a holy strife — Love's purest labour, bringing tenderest gains : The death of sin that crowns a virtuous life Is the rich guerdon Discipline obtains. 298 A UTUMN "F7AST fall the sheaves of heavy corn -*■ Into the reaper's rugged hand ; And golden Autumn o'er the land Pours out the plenty of his horn. Ah me ! in spring how green the shoot, In summer-tide how strong and fair ; What marvel then, if, free from care, In autumn I should look for fruit ? I look in vain ! The seasons roll In a doomed cycle — round and round ;- Sun, Frost, Dew, fertilise the ground ; But barren raindrops flood my soul. Barren to me, whose soul can ne'er A second crop of love bring forth ; Barren to thee, whose spring-tide worth Was such as richest autumns bear. 299 DIMIDIUM ANIMAL MEJE IF half my life with thine be gone, And half my soul to realms of shade ; And if some converse there be made Bet^Yeen them, I am not alone : Each pulse that throbs, a kindred sense Awakens in another sphere, And, though I cannot clasp thee here, 'Tis something of omnipotence In spirit-commune to exchange Our waking dreams, our dreaming loves And still as each emotion moves To feel that nothing can estrange The invisible from what I see, The infinite from what I hold : Oh ! joy of joys in growing old. For where thou art I soon shall be ! TO THEIR ROYAL HIGHNESSES THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES On their Silver-Wedding Day, March io, iS88 A CCEPT this tribute to fond wedded troth, ■^^^ Offered in duteous loyalty to Both ! The perfect love that casteth out all fears Has blessed your lives for five-and-twenty years, And hope, in every patriot breast instilled, Is on this happy day-of-days fulfilled. A Silver Wedding-day has rarely shone On nobler duties and more nobly done ! Thy Princess ' Bien-aimee ' must always look Like the good fairy of a story book ! Her youthful mien and regal grace combine, Like ivy, round the nation's heart to twine ; They smile defiance to the shafts of Time, The words of envy, or the deeds of crime, TO THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES 301 And live in grateful hearts, that welcome here A Prince and Princess that have no compeer. Oh, may their ' Silver ' softly change to ' Gold,' And Love grow fonder as the Loved grow old ! TO LADY AVELAND On her Silver-Wedding Day, July 14, 18SS DEAR Lady, could there any chance be sweeter Than finding, with the magic name of Peter This Httle Silver Apostolic Spoon? A fond renewal of your Honeymoon That, silvered o'er by five-and-twenty years, Like a new wedding on this day appears. God keep it so, in silver chains, yet free. Lulled by the faithful notes of memory ! Not always Sunshine are the years of love, But Love makes Sunshine, as this day can prove ; And if a passing shower or chilling wind Breaks on you — cruel only to be kind — They show us all how well your heart can bear Alike the Sunshine and the colder air. Accept my little gift ! May Peter live In grace and goodness, and to manhood thrive. And may we all survive to greet and bless The Golden Wedding of your happiness ! 303 LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER A Jubilee Lyric 1887. [Published by Command of the Queen) I THERE is a Word, A Linnet lilting in- the grove, Keen as a sword, And pure as Angels are above ; This little Word good men call Love. II It bears a Name, Unsullied by the taint of wealth ; Careless of Fame, And bright with all the hues of health. It shrinks from praise, to bless by stealth. 304 LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER III I join It now To thine, Victoria ! Thou hast seen With clear eyes, how To win it : blessed hast thou been With Love, as Mother, Wife, and Queen. IV Love bathed in Tears,, To Love cemented, ever brings And ever bears A chastened spirit, that in Kings Is noblest among earthly things. V Come, lasting Love ! For Sweetness in a moment dies, And all things prove That Beauty far too quickly flies From blue, or black, or hazel eyes. LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER 305 VI Youth is a snare ; Like an awakening dream it speeds, Nor cries, Beware ! A dream of unaccomplished deeds, A hope of undetermined creeds. VII Is it Friendship then ? The Tyrant of a summer day. The boast of men Who loiter idly on life's way, A band who neither work nor play, VIII Nay ! Friends, though dear, Pass on their way — change — turn aside ; A transient tear Dims Friendship's light — or some pale bride— For Love was born when Friendshid died. X 3o6 LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER IX Thou, Grey or Gold, Alone, Great Love, survivest all, All else grows old ; Their bhth, their growth, their rise, their fall, Immortal only at thy call. Love conquers Death Anxd is Life's portal, and the Soul Whose Heavenly breath Inspires all Life, and ages roll To ages, and yet leave it whole. XI Come then, Great Love, • To whom none ever plead in vain, Come from above — Where are no sighs, no tears, no pain- And make us pure from selfish stain. LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER 307 XII Come, fresh as morn, When golden sunrise laves the land, And gilds the corn ; Come smiling— come with open hand — That brooks no chain — owns no command. XIII Thy voice sounds best When faint the weary toilers sigh, And long for rest ; The tone is clear, but not too high, With just one touch of mystery. XIV Come, calm as night, When Dian, with her stars, looks on A wondrous sight — A sleeping world : — Endymion Slept thus' for thee, pale Amazon ! 3oS LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER XV Be with us now ; Illume our pleasures, soothe our woes, And teach us how Thy sweet encircling spirit knows The heart's unrest — the heart's repose. XVI Be with us now ; A Day of many-sided thought That curves the brow With lines of memory, interwrought With hope, and gratitude unbought. XVII Oh Queen ! this Day Thy people, generous and just, As well they may, Confirm anew their sacred Trust Enshrined in half a century's dust. LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER 309 Will For fift)- years Thy people's love has been content (In spite of tears, And hitter sorrows sadly blent) To raise to thee Love's montuBent. XIX A Trophy, based On duty done, on faction quelled, No deed defaced By broken word, or faith withheld, No foe by stratagem compelled. XX Not stone or brass — These perish with the flight of Time And quickly pass ; But Love endures in every clime, Eternal as the Poet's rhyme. 3IO LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER XXI Not brass or stone — These will corrode, and some day die But Love alone Laughs at decay, and soars on high — In fragrant immortality. XXII Thy Royal Robe Is starred by Love : its purple Hem Surrounds the Globe : But true Love is the fairest Gem Of thy Imperial Diadem. XXIII Queen of the Sea ! What prouder title dignifies A Monarchy? The Orient owns it, and it lies Amidst thy countless Colonies ; LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER XXIV A wayward realm, Vet ruled in Love for the world's gain ; Thou guid'st the Helm That brings our commerce o'er the main, And makes us rich without a stain. XXV The Sisters Nine Were all thy friends ; a willing guest Each one was thine, In turn to cheer, or give thee rest ; Thy choice, they knew, was always best. XXVI And Science came To meet thee, and enrich thy store With Heaven-sent flame. To burn— like Vesta's lamp — before A sacred altar as of yore. LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER XXVII I'hy welcome gave New impulse to her, and each day, Like a freed slave, She worked in Love such deeds, her ray Shed light and truth around thy way. XXVIII No tongue can tell Thy peaceful triumphs ; mighty War Has his as well ; But Peace has greater, nobler far Than the chained victims of his Car. XXIX Thy Jubilee Is marked by Love ; 'tis all thine own, And given to thee By all — a sweet flower fully blown, The grace and grandeur of thy Throne. LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER 313 XXX 'Tis thy just mued For fifty years of righteous reign ; No heart doth bleed 'n all thy kingdom, but the pain Throbs in thine own, and not in vain. XXXI I pray thee take, In some exchange for all the good 'J 'hat thou dost make, The troubles thy brave heart withstood, Thy temperate jet undaunted mood, XXXIl These grateful lines ; As the sweet myrtle wreathes the bay And intertwines The classic leaf, e'en so I may Entwine my chaplet with this Day 314 LOVE THAT LASTS FOR EVER XXXIII 'Tis a poor song, By one whose heart has ever been Loyal and strong, And who, hke Simeon, now has seen His hope fulfilled : — God save the Queen PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE remington & co.'s m;\v and forthcoming books. FREE TRADE IN CAPITAL. By A. Kcmont Hake and O. E. RECOLLECTIONS OF TRAVELS ABROAD. By A. J. Dufi ield. Demy Svo. los. 6J. ' There is iuucIa delightful aial yet in>tivicti\e gossip throughout the book.' Saturday Review. IDOLS OF THE FRENCH STAGE. By H. Sutherland Edwards Two vols. Crown Svo. i6s. ' Tlie book is never dull : and any one who is fond of the sensationalism of social history will read the two volumes throughout with pleasure.' — Scots.man. THE WAVERLEY PROVERBIAL BIRTHDAY BOOK. By the Ris;ht Rev. Chanlks Wokdsworth, Bishop of St. Andrews. Post Svo. cloth, silt edges, 2J. M. : in vellum, .v. 6,/. THE TOUCH OF A VANISHED HAND. A Novel. By Francis Arthlr. Crown Svo. 6s. 'The story of "a hidden crime " written in a vigorous style, the interest being wonderfully sustained throughout.'— Newcastle Chronicle. THE BLACK BOX MURDER. A Story. By the Man who DlSCO\KKED THE .M f RDERER. CrOWU 8v0. 6s. ' Gets hold of the attention and keeps it to the end.' — Sunday Ti.vies. JOHN CLIFFORD. A Novel. By William Earl Hodgson. Crown Svo. 6^-. 'A very clever and lively novel.' -Newcastle Chronicle. WRONGED. A Novel. By Charles H. Eden, Author of 'George Donnington ' &c. Crown Svo. 6.9. ' The cholera scare and the final bull fight are presented with artistic power. . . . boldly and skilfully executed.'— .\cADEMY. THE CHILD OF OCEAN. A Novel. By Ronald Ross. Crown Svo. 6i. OLYMPIAS. A Novel. By T. Si'ARROW. Crown Svo. 6s. ' An unusual pleasure to take up a novel which, like this, bears evidence of care and thought in construction, and char.tcterisation. . . . drawn with a masterly hand." People. TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH. A Novel. By Mona. Cr. Svo. 6^. ' .-X domestic story, bright, clever, and containing an e.xcellent moral.' Newcastle Chronicle. A NE'ER DO WELL. A Novel. By D. Cecil Gibbs, Author of • As One Possessed ' &c. Crown Svo. 6s. SIN OF JOOST AVELINGH. A Novel. By .Maakten Maartens. ■]'\vo vols. Crown Svo. 124-. A LOYAL MIND. A Novel. By Eleanor C. Price, Author of ' Alc\i:i,' 'Only One,' iS:c. &c. Crown Svo. 6s. ELEANOR LEWKNOR. A Novel. By B. Bullkn-Bcrrv, Author of ' Xobly Won.' Two vols. Crown Svo. i2j. REMINGTON & CO., Henrietta Street, Covent Garden. 2 Remiiigton c^ Co.'s New and Forthcoming Books. ONLY A SINGER. A Novel. By Bessie Joxesco. Crown 8vo. 6j. A STAGE ROMANCE. A Novel. By Lilith Ellis. Crown 8vo. ds. A LIFE'S RETRIBUTION. A Novel. By Angus Macdonald. Crown 8vo. 6.s'. BOYCOTTED, A Novel. By Mabel Morley. Crown 8vo. 6s. DANIELE CORTIS. A Novel. From the Italian of Sig. Fog azzaro. Translated bv STKrHRN Simeon. Crown 8vo. 6^-. [/« the press. CURRIE CURTIS & CO., CRAMMERS. A Novel. By C. J. HVNE, Author of ' Beneath Vour Very Boots.' Crown 8vo. ds. A FAIRY GODFATHER. A Story. By John A. Goodchild, Author of ' Chats at St. AmpeUo ' &c. Oown 8vo. 6^-. LONDON TO MELBOURNE. By Marchami- Longway. Crown 8vo. 7i. 6 /. ' Is one of the best and liveliest books of travel we have recently come across.' Pictorial World. ELF KNIGHTS. A Story for Children. By M. A. CURTOIS. Small 4to. Illustrated, 6s. REMINISCENCES OF HALF A CENTURY. By William ('Ilover, Author of ' I'he Cambridge Chorister.' Demy 8vo. los. dd. ' Mr. Glover shows that he can still write pleasantly and thattily about old Cambridge days, and his " Reminiscences" are both readable and entertaining.' Obsfrvek. CAPTAIN KANGAROO. A Story of Australian Life. By J. Evelv.v. Crov/n 8vo. 7^-. (>d. ' K lively, clever, entertaining story of colonial life, full of stirring adventure and startling incident.' — Newcastle Chronicle. THE MARK TWAIN BIRTHDAY BOOK. Fifth Edition. Cloth, gilt edges, 2.?. (>d. ; post free, 2.!-. 9^/. 'The (quotations from the works of the American humorist will be found full of drollery.' — Daily Chronicle. GREAT MEN AT PLAY. ByT. F. Thiselton Dyer. Two vols. demy Svo. 24.?. ' .A very interesting book, illustrating in a light chatty way a very interesting theme.'— Observer. ' The collections of memoirs, biographies, " Recollections," and '' Reminiscences" in the English language are endless. -Mr. Dj-er seems to have them all at his fingers' ends.'— Saturday Re\'1EW. LOVE LETTERS OF FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN. Edited by J. T. Mervdew. Two vols. Demy Svo. with 28 Portraits, 303-. ' .\ dangerous book to open. It fascinates you, and will not let you go.' Sunday Times. THE MAPLESON MEMOIRS, 1848 1888. New and Cheap I'ydition now ready. 'I'wo vols. Demy Svo. loi. td. ' The best book of the year.'— People. 'The book of the season.'— Newcastle Leader. ' Will be read by everj'one.' - Graphic. ' A never-failing stream of anecdote.' — Vanity Fair. MISS MILNE AND I. A Story. By Mannington Caffyn. Boards, 2s. : post free, 2s. ^d. Third Edition. ' The character of Miss Milne in this clever sensational story is decidedly original. . . . The ideas inspired by her supposed dual nature are woven into an exciting tale with more than ordinary skill.'— Morning Post. REMINGTON & CO., Henrietta Street, Covent Garden. ^ >'