ANCD 

 
 MR. STEDMAN S WRITINGS. 
 
 I. 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS, WITH OTHER 
 
 POEMS. Selected by the Author fror~. the latest Collective 
 Edition. 
 
 II. 
 
 VICTORIAN POETS. A Critical Review of the 
 Poetry of Great Britain, from the Accession of Victoria down 
 to the Present Time. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9.1. 
 
 " The main purpose of this book is to examine the lives and 
 productions of such British poets as have gained reputation 
 within the last forty years. Incidentally, I hope to derive from 
 the body of their verse, so various in form and thoughts, and 
 from the record of their different experiences, correct ideas in 
 respect to the aim and province of the art of Poetry, and not a 
 few striking illustrations of the poetic life. "
 
 c^ /^^^. 
 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS
 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 LONDON 
 
 C. KEG AN PAUL & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 1879
 
 (The rights of translation and oj reproduction are reset ved.)
 
 PUBLISHER S NOTE. 
 
 THIS book is compiled from the latest American 
 editions of the author s volumes. These originally 
 appeared with the following titles and dates : " Lyrics 
 and Idylls," 1860; "Alice of Monmouth, with other 
 Poems," 1 864 ; " The Blameless Prince, and other 
 Poems," 1869 ; " Poetical Works," 1874 ; " Hawthorne, 
 and other Poems," 1877. At the publisher s request, 
 Mr. Stedman has selected for this edition those 
 poems which he desires to set before the English 
 public. They are grouped without reference to their 
 respective dates of composition.
 
 AD VATEM. 
 
 WHITTIER ! the Land that loves thee, she whose child 
 
 Thou art, and whose uplifted hands thou long 
 
 Hast stayed with song availing like a prayer, 
 
 She feels a sudden pang, who gave thee birth, 
 
 And gave to thee the lineaments supreme 
 
 Of her own freedom, that she could not make 
 
 Thy tissues all immortal, or, if to change, 
 
 To bloom through years coeval with her own ; 
 
 So that no touch of age nor frost of time 
 
 Should wither thee, nor furrow thy dear face, 
 
 Nor fleck thy hair with silver. Ay, she feels 
 
 A double pang that thee, with each new year, 
 
 Glad Youth may not revisit, like the Spring 
 
 That routs her northern Winter and anew 
 
 Melts off the hoar snow from her puissant hills. 
 
 She could not make thee deathless : no, but thou, 
 
 Thou sangest her always in abiding verse, 
 
 And hast thy fame immortal as we say 
 
 Immortal in this Earth that yet must die, 
 
 And in this land now fairest and most young 
 
 Of all fair lands that yet must perish with it. 
 
 Thy words shall last ; albeit thou growest old, 
 
 Men say ; but never old the poet s soul 
 
 Becomes ; only its covering takes on 
 
 A reverend splendour, as in the misty fall 
 
 Thine own auroral forests, ere at last
 
 AD VATEM. 
 
 Passes the spirit of the wooded dell. 
 
 And stay thou with us long ! vouchsafe us long 
 
 This brave autumnal presence, ere the hues 
 
 Slow fading, ere the quaver of thy voice, 
 
 The twilight of thine eye, move men to ask 
 
 Where hides the chariot, in what sunset vale, 
 
 Beyond thy chosen river, champ the steeds 
 
 That wait to bear thee skyward ? Since we too 
 
 Would feign thee, in our tenderness, to be 
 
 Inviolate, excepted from thy kind, 
 
 And that our bard and prophet best-beloved 
 
 Shall vanish like that other : him that stood 
 
 Undaunted in the pleasure-house of kings, 
 
 And unto kings and crowned harlots spake 
 
 God s truth and judgment. At his sacred feet 
 
 Far followed all the lesser men of old 
 
 Whose lips were touched with fire, and caught from him 
 
 The gift of prophecy ; and thus from thee, 
 
 Whittier, the younger singers, whom thou seest 
 
 Each emulous to be thy staff this day, 
 
 What learned they ? righteous anger, burning scorn 
 
 Of the oppressor, love to humankind, 
 
 Sweet fealty to country and to home, 
 
 Peace, stainless purity, high thoughts of heaven, 
 
 And the clear, natural music of thy song.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 AMERICAN LYRICS AND IDYLLS 
 
 THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND ... 3 
 
 THE DOORSTEP ... ... ... ... 7 
 
 SEEKING THE MAYFLOWER ... ... 9 
 
 THE LORD S-DAY GALE ... ... ... n 
 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW ... 16 
 
 FUIT ILIUM ... ... ... ... 20 
 
 PAN IN WALL STREET ... ... 24 
 
 PETER STUYVESANT S NEW-YEAR S CALL ... 27 
 
 How OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER S FERRY 33 
 
 HORACE GREELEY ... ... ... ... 40 
 
 THE OLD ADMIRAL ... ... ... 43 
 
 KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES ... .. ... 46 
 
 CUSTER ... ... ... ... 48 
 
 HYPATIA ... ... .., ... ... 50 
 
 COUNTRY SLEIGHING ... ... ... 53 
 
 THE FRESHET ... ... ... ... 56 
 
 THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT ... 64 
 
 HAWTHORNE 71 
 
 THE DEATH OF BRYANT ... ... 83 
 
 SONGS 
 
 STANZAS FOR Music ... ... ... 91 
 
 TOUJOURS AMOUR ... ... ... ... 92
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WEDDING-DAY ... ... ... 93 
 
 VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND ... ... 94 
 
 AT TWILIGHT ... ... ... .. 94 
 
 SURF ... .. ... ... ... 95 
 
 AUTUMN SONG ... ... ... 9 6 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS ... ... 97 
 
 MADRIGAL ... ... ... ... 98 
 
 THE TRYST ... ... ... ... 99 
 
 NOCTURNE ... ... ... ... 100 
 
 SONG FROM A DRAMA .. ... .. 101 
 
 SISTER BEATRICE ... ... ... 105 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED ... ... ... 115 
 
 THE SWALLOW ... ... ... ... 115 
 
 A MOTHER S PICTURE ... ... ... 116 
 
 To BAYARD TAYLOR ... ... ... 116 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 BOHEMIA ... ... ... ... ... 121 
 
 PENELOPE ... ... ... ... 129 
 
 ALECTRYON ... ... ... ... 132 
 
 APOLLO ... ... ... ... 140 
 
 HELIOTROPE ... ... ... ... 140 
 
 PROVENCAL LOVERS ... ... ... 142 
 
 EDGED TOOLS ... ... ... ... 144 
 
 ESTELLE ... ... ... ... 146 
 
 ANONYMA ... ... ... ... 148 
 
 REFUGE IN NATURE ... ... ... 151 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN ... ... ... ... 154 
 
 NEWS FROM OLYMPIA ... ... ... 158 
 
 MONTAGU ... ... ... ... ... 161 
 
 THE DUKE S EXEQUY ... ... ... 163 
 
 ALL IN A LIFETIME ... ... ... 165
 
 CONTENTS. xiii 
 
 I AGE 
 
 " Si JEUNESSE SAVAIT ! " ... ... 166 
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH ... ... 167 
 
 THE SONGSTER ... ... ... 170 
 
 SHADOW-LAND 
 
 "THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY" ... 177 
 
 "DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW" ... ... 177 
 
 THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT ... ... 178 
 
 THE TEST ... ... ... ... 180 
 
 THE SAD BRIDAL .. ... ... 181 
 
 SPOKEN AT SEA ... ... ... ... 182 
 
 THE COMEDIAN S LAST NIGHT ... ... 184 
 
 SHIELD AND FORT ... ... ... 186 
 
 THE DISCOVERER ... ... . . 187 
 
 IN WAR-TIME ... ... ... 193 
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET 205 
 
 TRANSLATIONS 
 
 JEAN PROUVAIRE S SONG AT THE BARRICADE 219 
 
 HYLAS (from Theokritos) ... ... 222 
 
 DEATH OF AGAMEMNON (from Homer) ... 227 
 
 DEATH OF AGAMEMNON (from Aischylos) 231
 
 AMERICAN 
 LYRICS AXD IDYLLS.
 
 THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 OLONG are years of waiting, when lovers hearts 
 are bound 
 By words that hold in life and death, and last the 
 
 half-world round ; 
 Long, long for him who wanders far and strives 
 
 with all his main, 
 But crueller yet for her who bides at home and 
 
 hides her pain ! 
 And lone are the homes of New England. 
 
 Twas in the mellow summer I heard her sweet 
 
 reply ; 
 
 The barefoot lads and lasses a-berrying went by ; 
 The locust dinned amid the trees ; the fields were 
 
 high with corn ; 
 The white-sailed clouds against the sky like ships 
 
 were onward borne : 
 And blue are the skies of New England. 
 
 Her lips were like the raspberries ; her cheek was 
 
 soft and fair, 
 And little breezes stopped to lift the tangle of her 
 
 hair ; 
 A light was in her hazel eyes, and she was nothing 
 
 loth 
 To hear the words her lover spoke, and pledged me 
 
 there her troth ; 
 And true is the word of New England.
 
 4 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 When September brought the golden-rod, and 
 
 maples burned like fire, 
 And bluer than in August rose the village smoke 
 
 and higher, 
 And large and red among the stacks the ripened 
 
 pumpkins shone, 
 One hour, in which to say farewell, was left to us 
 
 alone ; 
 And sweet are the lanes of New England. 
 
 We loved each other truly ! hard, hard it was to 
 
 part; 
 But my ring was on her finger, and her hair lay 
 
 next my heart. 
 " Tis but a year, my darling," I said ; " in one short 
 
 year, 
 When our Western home is ready, I shall seek my 
 
 Katie here ; " 
 And brave is the hope of New England. 
 
 I went to gain a home for her, and in the Golden 
 
 State 
 With head and hand I planned and toiled, and early 
 
 worked and late ; 
 But luck was all against me, and sickness on me 
 
 lay, 
 And ere I got my strength again twas many a 
 
 weary day ; 
 And long are the thoughts of New England. 
 
 And many a day, and many a month, and thrice 
 
 the rolling year, 
 I bravely strove, and still the goal seemed never 
 
 yet more near.
 
 THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 5 
 
 My Katie s letters told me that she kept her promise 
 
 true, 
 But now, for very hopelessness, my own to her were 
 
 few; 
 And stern is the pride of New England. 
 
 But still she trusted in me, though sick with hope 
 
 deferred ; 
 No more among the village choir her voice was 
 
 sweetest heard ; 
 For when the wild north-easter of the fourth Ions: 
 
 O 
 
 winter blew, 
 So thin her frame with pining, the cold wind pierced 
 
 her through ; 
 And chill are the blasts of New England. 
 
 At last my fortunes bettered, on the far Pacific shore, 
 And I thought to see old Windham and my patient 
 
 love once more ; 
 When a kinsman s letter reached me : " Come at 
 
 once, or come too late ! 
 Your Katie s strength is failing ; if you love her, do 
 
 not wait : 
 Come back to the elms of New England." 
 
 Oh, it wrung my heart with sorrow ! I left all else 
 
 behind, 
 And straight for dear New England I speeded like 
 
 the wind. 
 The day and night were blended till I reached my 
 
 boyhood s home, 
 And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that I had 
 
 not sooner come ; 
 And gray are the rocks of New England.
 
 6 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 I could not think twas Katie, who sat before me 
 
 there 
 Reading her Bible twas my gift and pillowed in 
 
 her chair. 
 
 A ring, with all my letters, lay on a little stand, 
 She could no longer wear it, so frail her poor, white 
 
 hand ! 
 But strong is the love of New England. 
 
 Her hair had lost its tangle and was parted off her 
 
 brow ; 
 She used to be a joyous girl, but seemed an angel 
 
 now, 
 Heaven s darling, mine no longer ; yet in her hazel 
 
 eyes 
 The same dear love-light glistened, as she soothed 
 
 my bitter cries : 
 And pure is the faith of New England. 
 
 A month I watched her dying, pale, pale as any 
 
 rose 
 That drops its petals one by one and sweetens as it 
 
 goes. 
 My life was darkened when at last her large eyes 
 
 closed in death, 
 And I heard my own name whispered as she drew 
 
 her parting breath ; 
 Still, still was the heart of New England. 
 
 It was a woeful funeral the coming Sabbath-day ; 
 We bore her to the barren hill on which the grave 
 yard lay,
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 7 
 
 And when the narrow grave was filled, and what we 
 
 might was done, 
 Of all the stricken group around I was the loneliest 
 
 one ; 
 And drear are the hills of New England. 
 
 1 gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak November 
 
 sky, 
 And knew that buried deep with her my heart 
 
 henceforth would lie ; 
 And waking in the solemn nights my thoughts still 
 
 thither go 
 To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the winter 
 
 snow ; 
 And cold are the snows of New England. 
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 
 
 "PHE conference-meeting through at last, 
 *- We boys around the vestry waited 
 To see the girls come tripping past 
 Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 
 By level musket-flashes litten, 
 Than I, to step before them all 
 
 Who longed to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no, she blushed and took my arm ! 
 
 We let the old folks have the highway, 
 And started toward the Maple Farm 
 
 Along a kind of lovers byway.
 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 I can t remember what we said, 
 
 Twas nothing worth a song or story ; 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 
 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet. 
 
 Her face with youth and health was beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff, 
 
 O sculptor, if you could but mould it ! 
 
 So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 To have her with me there alone, 
 
 Twas love and fear and triumph blended. 
 
 At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home ; 
 
 Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, 
 We heard the voices nearer come, 
 
 Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
 
 And with a " Thank you, Ned," dissembled, 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 A cloud passed kindly overhead, 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it, 
 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 ; Come, now or never ! do it ! do it ! "
 
 SEEKING THE MAYFLOWER. 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 
 But somehow, full upon her own 
 
 Sweet, rosy, darling mouth. I kissed her ! 
 
 Perhaps twas boyish love, yet still, 
 
 O listless woman, weary lover ! 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 
 
 I d give but who can live youth over? 
 
 SEEKING THE MAYFLOWER. 
 
 "THE sweetest sound our whole year round- 
 
 Tis the first robin of the spring ! 
 The song of the full orchard choir 
 Is not so fine a thing. 
 
 Glad sights are common : Nature draws 
 Her random pictures through the year, 
 But oft her music bids us long 
 Remember those most dear. 
 
 To me, when in the sudden spring 
 
 I hear the earliest robin s lay, 
 With the first trill there comes again 
 One picture of the May. 
 
 The veil is parted wide, and lo, 
 
 A moment, though my eyelids close, 
 Once more I see that wooded hill 
 Where the arbutus grows.
 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 I see the village dryad kneel, 
 
 Trailing her slender fingers through 
 The knotted tendrils, as she lifts 
 
 Their pink, pale flowers to view. 
 
 Once more I dare to stoop beside 
 
 The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, 
 And long to touch her careless hair, 
 And think how dear her voice. 
 
 My eager, wandering hands assist 
 
 With fragrant blooms her lap to fill, 
 
 And half by chance they meet her own, 
 
 Half by our young hearts will. 
 
 Till, at the last, those blossoms won, 
 Like her, so pure, so sweet, so shy, 
 Upon the gray and lichened rocks 
 Close at her feet I lie. 
 
 Fresh blows the breeze through hemlock-trees, 
 
 The fields are edged with green below ; 
 And naught but youth and hope and love 
 We know or care to know ! 
 
 Hark ! from the moss-clung apple-bough, 
 
 Beyond the tumbled wall, there broke 
 That gurgling music of the May, 
 Twas the first robin spoke ! 
 
 I heard it, ay, and heard it not, 
 
 For little then my glad heart wist 
 What toil and time should come to pass, 
 And what delight be missed ;
 
 THE LORD S-DAY GALE. 
 
 Nor thought thereafter, year by year 
 Hearing that fresh yet olden song, 
 To yearn for unreturning joys 
 That with its joy belong. 
 
 THE LORD S-DA Y GALE. 
 
 BAY ST. LAWRENCE, AUGUST, 1873. 
 
 TN Gloucester port lie fishing craft, 
 
 More stanch and trim were never seen : 
 They are sharp before and sheer abaft, 
 
 And true their lines the masts between. 
 Along the wharves of Gloucester Town 
 Their fares are lightly handed down, 
 
 And the laden flakes to sunward lean. 
 
 Well know the men each cruising-ground, 
 And where the cod and mackerel be ; 
 
 Old Eastern Point the schooners round 
 And leave Cape Ann on the larboard lee : 
 
 Sound are the planks, the hearts are bold, 
 
 That brave December s surges cold 
 On Georges shoals in the outer sea. 
 
 And some must sail to the banks far north 
 And set their trawls for the hungry cod, 
 
 In the ghostly fog creep back and forth 
 By shrouded paths no foot hath trod ; 
 
 Upon the crews the ice-winds blow, 
 
 The bitter sleet, the frozen snow, 
 Their lives are in the hand of God !
 
 12 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 New England ! New England ! 
 
 Needs sail they must, so brave and poor, 
 Or June be warm or Winter storm, 
 
 Lest a wolf gnaw through the cottage-door ! 
 Three weeks at home, three long months gone, 
 While the patient goodwives sleep alone, 
 
 And wake to hear the breakers roar. 
 
 The Grand Bank gathers in its dead, 
 The deep sea-sand is their winding-sheet ; 
 
 Who does not Georges billows dread 
 That dash together the drifting fleet ? 
 
 Who does not long to hear, in May, 
 
 The pleasant wash of Saint Lawrence Bay, 
 The fairest ground where fishermen meet ? 
 
 There the west wave holds the red sunlight 
 Till the bells at home are rung for nine : 
 
 Short, short the watch, and calm the night ; 
 The fiery northern streamers shine ; 
 
 The eastern sky anon is gold, 
 
 And winds from piny forests old 
 Scatter the white mists off the brine. 
 
 The Province craft with ours at morn 
 Are mingled when the vapours shift ; 
 
 All day, by breeze and current borne, 
 Across the bay the sailors drift ; 
 
 With toll and seine its wealth they win, 
 
 The dappled, silvery spoil come in 
 Fast as their hands can haul and lift. 
 
 New England ! New England ! 
 
 Thou lovest well thine ocean main !
 
 THE LORD S-DAY GALE. 13 
 
 It spreadeth its locks among thy rocks, 
 And long against thy heart hath lain ; 
 
 Thy ships upon its bosom ride 
 
 And feel the heaving of its tide : 
 To thee its secret speech is plain. 
 
 Cape Breton and Edward Isle between, 
 In strait and gulf the schooners lay ; 
 
 The sea was all at peace, I ween, 
 The night before that August day ; 
 
 Was never a Gloucester skipper there, 
 
 But thought erelong, with a right good fare, 
 To sail for home from Saint Lawrence Bay. 
 
 New England ! New England ! 
 
 Thy giant s love was turned to hate ! 
 The winds control his fickle soul, 
 
 And in his wrath he hath no mate. 
 Thy shores his angry scourges tear, 
 And for thy children in his care 
 
 The sudden tempests lie in wait. 
 
 The East Wind gathered all unknown, 
 A thick sea-cloud his course before ; 
 
 He left by night the frozen zone 
 And smote the cliffs of Labrador ; 
 
 He lashed the coasts on either hand, 
 
 And betwixt the Cape and Newfoundland 
 Into the Bay his armies pour. 
 
 He caught our helpless cruisers there 
 As a gray wolf harries the huddling fold ; 
 
 A sleet a darkness filled the air, 
 A shuddering wave before it rolled :
 
 14 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 That Lord s-Day morn it was a breeze, 
 At noon, a blast that shook the seas, 
 At night a wind of Death took hold ! 
 
 It leapt across the Breton bar, 
 
 A death-wind from the stormy East ! 
 
 It scarred the land, and whirled afar 
 
 The sheltering thatch of man and beast ; 
 
 It mingled rick and roof and tree, 
 
 And like a besom swept the sea, 
 And churned the waters into yeast. 
 
 From Saint Paul s light to Edward Isle 
 A thousand craft it smote amain ; 
 
 And some against it strove the while, 
 And more to make a port were fain : 
 
 The mackerel-gulls flew screaming past, 
 
 And the stick that bent to the noonday blast 
 Was split by the sundown hurricane. 
 
 Woe, woe to those whom the islands pen ! 
 
 In vain they shun the double capes : 
 Cruel are the reefs of Magdalen ; 
 
 The Wolfs white fang what prey escapes ? 
 The Grin stone grinds the bones of some, 
 And Coffin Isle is craped with foam ; 
 
 On Deadman s shore are fearful shapes ! 
 
 Oh, what can live on the open sea, 
 Or moored in port the gale outride ? 
 
 The very craft that at anchor be 
 
 Are dragged along by the swollen tide ! 
 
 The great storm-wave came rolling west, 
 
 And tossed the vessels on its crest ; 
 The ancient bounds its might defied !
 
 THE LORD S-DAY GALE. 15 
 
 The ebb to check it had no power ; 
 
 The surf ran up an untold height ; 
 It rose, nor yielded, hour by hour, 
 
 A night and day, a day and night ; 
 Far up the seething shores it cast 
 The wrecks of hull and spar and mast, 
 
 The strangled crews, a woeful sight ! 
 
 There were twenty and more of Breton sail 
 Fast anchored on one mooring-ground ; 
 
 Each lay within his neighbour s hail, 
 
 When the thick of the tempest closed them 
 round : 
 
 All sank at once in the gaping sea, 
 
 Somewhere on the shoals their corses be, 
 
 The foundered hulks, and the seamen drowned. 
 
 On reef and bar our schooners drove 
 
 Before the wind, before the swell ; 
 By the steep sand-cliffs their ribs were stove, 
 
 Long, long, their crews the tale shall tell ! 
 Of the Gloucester fleet are wrecks threescore ; 
 Of the Province sail two hundred more 
 
 Were stranded in that tempest fell. 
 
 The bedtime bells in Gloucester Town 
 That Sabbath night rang soft and clear ; 
 
 The sailors children laid them down, 
 
 Dear Lord ! their sweet prayers couldst thou 
 hear? 
 
 Tis said that gently blew the winds ; 
 
 The goodwives, through the seaward blinds, 
 Looked down the bay and had no fear.
 
 1 6 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 New England ! New England ! 
 
 Thy ports their dauntless seamen mourn ; 
 The twin capes yearn for their return 
 
 Who never shall be thither borne ; 
 Their orphans whisper as they meet ; 
 The homes are dark in many a street, 
 
 And women move in weeds forlorn. 
 
 And wilt thou quail, and dost thou fear? 
 
 Ah, no ! though widows cheeks are pale, 
 The lads shall say : " Another year, 
 
 And we shall be of age to sail ! " 
 And the mothers hearts shall fill with pride, 
 Though tears drop fast for them who died 
 
 When the fleet was wrecked in the Lord s-Day 
 gale. 
 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 
 
 more on the fallow hillside, as of old, I 
 lie at rest 
 For an hour, while the sunshine trembles through 
 
 the walnut-tree to the west, 
 Gleams on the rocks and fragrant ferns, and the 
 
 berry bushes around ; 
 
 A.nd I watch, as of old, the cattle graze in the lower 
 pasture-ground. 
 
 Of the Saxon months of blossom, when the merle 
 
 and mavis sing, 
 And a dust of gold falls everywhere from the soft 
 
 midsummer s wing,
 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 17 
 
 I only know from my poets, or from pictures that 
 
 hither come, 
 Sweet with the smile of the hawthorn-hedge and the 
 
 hope of the harvest-home. 
 
 But July in our own New England I bask myself 
 
 in its prime, 
 As one in the light of a face he loves, and has not 
 
 seen for a time ! 
 Again the perfect blue of the sky ; the fresh green 
 
 woods ; the call 
 Of the crested jay j the tangled vines that cover the 
 
 frost-thrown wall : 
 
 Sounds and shadows remembered well ! the ground- 
 bee s droning hum ; 
 
 The distant musical tree-tops ; the locust beating 
 his drum ; 
 
 And the ripened July warmth, that seems akin to a 
 fire which stole, 
 
 Long summers since, through the thews of youth, 
 to soften and harden my soul. 
 
 Here it was that I loved her as only a stripling 
 
 can 
 Who doats on a girl that others know no mate for 
 
 the future man ; 
 It was well, perchance, that at last my pride and 
 
 honour outgrew her art, 
 That there came an hour, when from broken chains 
 
 I fled with a broken heart. 
 
 c
 
 1 8 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Twas well : but the fire would still flash up in 
 
 sharp, heat-lightning gleams, 
 And ever at night the false, fair face shone into 
 
 passionate dreams ; 
 The false, fair form, through many a year, was 
 
 somewhere close at my side, 
 And crept, as by right, to my very arms and the 
 
 place of my patient bride. 
 
 Bride and vision have passed away, and I am again 
 
 alone ; 
 Changed by years ; not wiser, I think, but only 
 
 different grown : 
 Not so much nearer wisdom is a man than a boy. 
 
 forsooth, 
 Though, in scorn of what has come and gone, he 
 
 hates the ways of his youth. 
 
 In seven years, I have heard it said, a soul shall 
 
 change its frame ; 
 Atom for atom, the man shall be the same, yet not 
 
 the same ; 
 The last of the ancient ichor shall pass away from 
 
 his veins, 
 And a new-born light shall fill the eyes whose 
 
 earlier lustre wanes. 
 
 In seven years, it is written, a man shall shift his 
 
 mood; 
 Good shall seem what was evil, and evil the thing 
 
 that was good : 
 Ye that welcome the coming and speed the parting 
 
 guest, 
 Tell me, O winds of summer ! am I not half-con- 
 
 fest?
 
 THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW. 19 
 
 For along the tide of this mellow month new fancies 
 guide my helm, 
 
 Another form has entered my heart as rightful 
 queen of the realm ; 
 
 From under their long black lashes new eyes half- 
 blue, half-gray 
 
 Pierce through my soul, to drive the ghost of the old 
 love quite away. 
 
 Shadow of years ! at last it sinks in the sepulchre of 
 
 the past, 
 A gentle image and fair to see ; but was my passion 
 
 so vast? 
 " For you," I said, " be you false or true, are ever 
 
 life of my life ! " 
 Was it myself or another who spoke, and asked her 
 
 to be his wife ? 
 
 For here, on the dear old hillside, I lie at rest 
 again, 
 
 And think with a quiet self-content of all the pas 
 sion and pain, 
 
 Of the strong resolve and the after-strife ; but the 
 vistas round me seem 
 
 So little changed that I hardly know if the past is 
 not a dream. 
 
 Can I have sailed, for seven years, far out in the 
 
 open world ; 
 Have tacked and drifted here and there, by eddying 
 
 currents whirled ; 
 Have gained and lost, and found again and now, 
 
 for a respite, come 
 Once more to the happy scenes of old, and the 
 
 haven I voyaged from ?
 
 20 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Blended, infinite murmurs of True Love s earliest 
 
 song, 
 Where are you slumbering out of the heart that 
 
 gave you echoes so long? 
 But chords that have ceased to vibrate the swell of 
 
 an ancient strain 
 May thrill with a soulful music when rightly touched 
 
 again. 
 
 Rock and forest and meadow, landscape perfect 
 
 and true ! 
 Oh, if ourselves were tender and all unchangeful as 
 
 you, 
 I should not now be dreaming of seven years that 
 
 have been, 
 Nor bidding old love good-bye for ever, and letting 
 
 the new love in ! 
 
 FUIT ILIUM. 
 
 E by one they died, 
 Last of all their race ; 
 Nothing left but pride, 
 
 Lace, and buckled hose. 
 Their quietus made, 
 
 On their dwelling-place 
 Ruthless hands are laid : 
 
 Down the old house goes
 
 FUIT ILIUM. 
 
 See the ancient manse 
 Meet its fate at last ! 
 Time, in his advance, 
 
 Age nor honour knows ; 
 Axe and broadaxe fall, 
 
 Lopping off the Past : 
 Hit with bar and maul, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Sevenscore years it stood : 
 
 Yes, they built it well, 
 Though they built of wood, 
 When that house arose. 
 For its cross-beams square 
 
 Oak and walnut fell ; 
 Little worse for wear, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Rending board and plank, 
 Men with crowbars ply, 
 Opening fissures dank, 
 
 Striking deadly blows. 
 From the gabled roof 
 
 How the shingles fly ! 
 Keep you here aloof, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Holding still its place, 
 
 There the chimney stands, 
 Stanch from top to base, 
 Frowning on its foes. 
 Heave apart the stones, 
 Burst its iron bands ! 
 How it shakes and groans ! 
 Down the old house goes !
 
 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Round the mantelpiece 
 
 Glisten Scripture tiles ; 
 Henceforth they shall cease 
 Painting Egypt s woes, 
 Painting David s fight, 
 
 Fair Bathsheba s smiles, 
 Blinded Samson s might, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 On these oaken floors 
 
 High-shoed ladies trod ; 
 Through those panelled doors 
 
 Trailed their furbelows ; 
 Long their day has ceased ; 
 
 Now, beneath the sod, 
 With the worms they feast, 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Many a bride has stood 
 
 In yon spacious room ; 
 Here her hand was wooed 
 Underneath the rose ; 
 O er that sill the dead 
 
 Reached the family tomb : 
 All, that were, have fled, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Once, in yonder hall, 
 
 Washington, they say, 
 Led the New-Year s ball, 
 Stateliest of beaux. 
 Oh that minuet, 
 
 Maids and matrons gay ! 
 Are there such sights yet ? 
 
 Down the old house goes !
 
 FUIT ILIUM. 23 
 
 British troopers came 
 
 Ere another year, 
 With their coats aflame, 
 
 Mincing on their toes ; 
 Daughters of the house 
 
 Gave them haughty cheer, 
 Laughed to scorn their vows, 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Doorway high the box 
 
 In the grass-plot spreads ; 
 It has borne its locks 
 
 Through a thousand snows ; 
 In an evil day, 
 
 From those garden-beds 
 Now tis hacked away, 
 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 Lo ! the sycamores, 
 
 Scathed and scrawny mates, 
 At the mansion doors 
 
 Shiver, full of woes ; 
 With its life they grew, 
 
 Guarded well its gates ; 
 Now their task is through, 
 Down the old house goes ! 
 
 On this honoured site 
 
 Modern trade will build, 
 What unseemly fright 
 
 Heaven only knows ! 
 Something peaked and high, 
 
 Smacking of the guild : 
 Let us heave a sigh, 
 
 Down the old house goes !
 
 24 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 PAN IN WALL STREET. 
 
 A.D. 1867. 
 
 JUST where the Treasury s marble front 
 Looks over Wall Street s mingled nations ; 
 Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 
 
 To throng for trade and last quotations ; 
 Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 
 
 Outrival, in the ears of people, 
 The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 
 From Trinity s undaunted steeple, 
 
 Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 
 
 Sound high above the modern clamour, 
 Above the cries of greed and gain, 
 
 The curbstone war, the auction s hammer ; 
 And swift, on Music s misty ways, 
 
 It led, from all this strife for millions, 
 To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 
 
 Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 
 
 And as it stilled the multitude, 
 
 And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
 I saw the minstrel, where he stood 
 
 At ease against a Doric pillar : 
 One hand a droning organ played, 
 
 The other held a Pan s-pipe (fashioned 
 Like those of old) to lips that made 
 
 The reeds give out that strain impassioned.
 
 PAN IN WALL STREET. 25 
 
 Twas Pan himself had wandered here 
 
 A-strolling through the sordid city, 
 And piping to the civic ear 
 
 The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! 
 The demigod had crossed the seas, 
 
 From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, 
 And Syracusan times, to these 
 
 Far shores and twenty centuries later. 
 
 A ragged cap was on his head ; 
 
 But hidden thus there was no doubting 
 That, all with crispy locks o erspread, 
 
 His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting ; 
 His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 
 
 Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, 
 And trousers, patched of divers hues, 
 
 Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. 
 
 He filled the quivering reeds with sound, 
 
 And o er his mouth their changes shifted, 
 And with his goat s-eyes looked around 
 
 Where er the passing current drifted ; 
 And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 
 
 The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, 
 Even now the tradesmen from their tills, 
 
 With clerks and porters, crowded near him. 
 
 The bulls and bears together drew 
 
 From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, 
 As erst, if pastorals be true, 
 
 Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
 The random passers stayed to list, 
 
 A boxer ^gon, rough and merry, 
 A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 
 
 With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.
 
 26 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 
 
 In tattered cloak of army pattern, 
 And Galatea joined the throng, 
 
 A blowsy, apple-vending slattern ; 
 While old Silenus staggered out 
 
 From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, 
 And bade the piper, with a shout, 
 
 To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 
 
 A newsboy and a peanut-girl 
 
 Like little Fauns began to caper : 
 His hair was all in tangled curl, 
 
 Her tawny legs were bare and taper ; 
 And still the gathering larger grew, 
 
 And gave its pence and crowded nigher, 
 While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 
 
 His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 
 
 O heart of Nature, beating still 
 
 With throbs her vernal passion taught her, 
 Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 
 
 Or by the Arethusan water ! 
 New forms may fold the speech, new lands 
 
 Arise within these ocean-portals, 
 But Music waves eternal wands, 
 
 Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 
 
 So thought I, but among us trod 
 
 A man in blue, with legal baton, 
 And scoffed the vagrant demigod, 
 
 And pushed him from the step I sat on. 
 Doubting I mused upon the cry, 
 
 " Great Pan is dead ! " and all the people 
 Went on their ways : and clear and high 
 
 The quarter sounded from the steeple.
 
 PETER STUYVESANT S NEW 
 YEAR S CALL. 
 
 I JAN. A.C. 1 66 1. 
 
 "\ X THERE nowadays the Battery lies, 
 
 New York had just begun, 
 A new-born babe, to rub its eyes, 
 
 In Sixteen Sixty-One. 
 They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam, 
 
 Those Burghers grave and stately, 
 And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm, 
 
 Lived out their lives sedately. 
 
 Two windmills topped their wooden wall, 
 
 On Stadthuys gazing down, 
 On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all 
 
 The quaintly gabled town ; 
 These flapped their wings and shifted backs, 
 
 As ancient scrolls determine, 
 To scare the savage Hacken sacks, 
 
 Paumanks, and other vermin. 
 
 At night the loyal settlers lay 
 
 Betwixt their feather-beds ; 
 In hose and breeches walked by day, 
 
 And smoked, and wagged their heads. 
 No changeful fashions came from France, 
 
 The vrouwleins to bewilder, 
 And cost the burgher s purse, perchance, 
 
 Its every other guilder.
 
 28 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 In petticoats of linsey-red, 
 
 And jackets neatly kept, 
 The vrouws their knitting-needles sped 
 
 And deftly spun and swept. 
 Few modern-school flirtations there 
 
 Set wheels of scandal trundling, 
 But youths and maidens did their share 
 
 Of staid, old-fashioned " bundling." 
 
 The New Year opened clear and cold ; 
 
 The snow, a Flemish ell 
 In depth, lay over Beeckman s Wold 
 
 And Wolfert s frozen well. 
 Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors, 
 
 Drew on his Holland leather, 
 Then stamped through drifts to do the chores, 
 
 Beshrewing all such weather. 
 
 But after herring, ham, and kraut 
 
 To all the gathered town 
 The Dominie preached the morning out, 
 
 In Calvinistic gown ; 
 While tough old Peter Stuyvesant 
 
 Sat pewed in foremost station, 
 The potent, sage, and valiant 
 
 Third Governor of the nation. 
 
 Prayer over, at his mansion hall, 
 
 With cake and courtly smile 
 He met the people, one and all, 
 
 In gubernatorial style ; 
 Yet missed, though now the day was old, 
 
 An ancient fellow-feaster, 
 Heer Covert Loockermans, that bold 
 
 Brewer and burgomeester ;
 
 PETER STUYVESANTS NEW-YEAR S CALL. 29 
 
 Who, in his farm-house, close without 
 
 The picket s eastern end, 
 Sat growling at the twinge of gout 
 
 That kept him from his friend. 
 But Peter strapped his wooden peg 
 
 When tea and cake were ended, 
 (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg 
 
 Its high jack-boot defended), 
 
 A woolsey cloak about him threw, 
 
 And swore, by wind and limb, 
 Since Govert kept from Peter s view, 
 
 Peter would visit him ; 
 Then sallied forth, through snow and blast, 
 
 While many a humble greeter 
 Stood wondering whereaway so fast 
 
 Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter. 
 
 Past quay and cowpath, through a lane 
 
 Of vats and mounded tans, 
 He puffed along, with might and main, 
 
 To Govert Loockermans ; 
 Once there, his right of entry took, 
 
 And hailed his ancient crony : 
 " Myn Gott ! in dese Manhattoes, Loock, 
 
 Ve gets more snow as money ! " 
 
 To which, till after whiffs profound, 
 
 The other answered not ; 
 At last there came responsive sound : 
 
 " Yah, Peter ; yah, Myn Gott ! " 
 Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest 
 
 Beneath the chimney-gable, 
 And courtesied, bustling at her best 
 
 To spread the New- Year s table.
 
 30 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 She brought the pure and genial schnapps, 
 
 That years before had come 
 In the " Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps 
 
 To cheer the settlers home ; 
 The long-stemmed pipes ; the fragrant roll 
 
 Of pressed and crispy Spanish ; 
 Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, 
 
 Nor long delayed to vanish. 
 
 Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, 
 
 And honours of the day, 
 The trader mixed the Governor s drink 
 
 As evening sped away. 
 That ancient room ! I see it now : 
 
 The carven nutwood dresser ; 
 The drawers, that many a burgher s vrouw 
 
 Begrudged their rich possessor ; 
 
 The brace of high-backed leathern chairs, 
 
 Brass-nailed at every seam ; 
 Six others, ranged in equal pairs ; 
 
 The bacon hung abeam ; 
 The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft ; 
 
 The hearty wooden fire ; 
 The picture, on the steaming delft, 
 
 Of David and Goliah. 
 
 I see the two old Dutchmen sit 
 
 Like Magog and his mate, 
 And hear them, when their pipes are lit, 
 
 Discuss affairs of state : 
 The clique that would their sway demean ; 
 
 The pestilent importation 
 Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean 
 
 And losel Yankee nation.
 
 PETER STUY VESA NT S NEW-YEAR S CALL. 31 
 
 But when the subtle juniper 
 
 Assumed its sure command, 
 They drank the buxom loves that were, 
 
 They drank the Motherland ; 
 They drank the famous Swedish wars, 
 
 Stout Peter s special glory, 
 While Govert proudly showed the scars 
 
 Of Indian contests gory. 
 
 Erelong, the berry s power awoke 
 
 Some music in their brains, 
 And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, 
 
 Rang long-forgotten strains, 
 Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, 
 
 Of phantom ships and battle ; 
 And Peter, with his leg of wood, 
 
 Made floor and casement rattle. 
 
 Then round and round the dresser pranced, 
 
 The chairs began to wheel, 
 And on the board the punch-bowl danced 
 
 A Netherlandish reel ; 
 Till midnight o er the farm-house spread 
 
 Her New-Year s skirts of sable, 
 And, inch by inch, each puzzled head 
 
 Dropt down upon the table. 
 
 But still to Peter, as he dreamed, 
 
 That table spread and turned ; 
 The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed 
 
 To circle as it burned ; 
 The town into the vision grew 
 
 From ending to beginning ; 
 Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, 
 
 All widening and spinning.
 
 32 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 The cowpaths, leading to the docks, 
 
 Grew broader, whirling past, 
 And checkered into shining blocks, 
 
 A city fair and vast ; 
 Stores, churches, mansions, overspread 
 
 The metamorphosed island, 
 While not a beaver showed his head 
 
 From Swamp to Kalchook highland. 
 
 Eftsoons the picture passed away ; 
 
 Hours after, Peter woke 
 To see a spectral streak of day 
 
 Gleam in through fading smoke ; 
 Still slept old Govert, snoring on 
 
 In most melodious numbers ; 
 No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One 
 
 Commingled with his slumbers. . 
 
 But Peter, from the farm-house door, 
 
 Gazed doubtfully around, 
 Rejoiced to find himself once more 
 
 On sure and solid ground. 
 The sky was somewhat dark ahead, 
 
 Wind east, and morning lowery ; 
 And on he pushed, a two-miles tread, 
 
 To breakfast at his Bouwery.
 
 33 ) 
 
 HOW OLD BROWN TOOK HARPER S 
 FERR Y. 
 
 T OHN BROWN in Kansas settled, like a stead- 
 J fast Yankee farmer, 
 
 Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men 
 
 of might. 
 
 There he spoke aloud for freedom, and the Border- 
 strife grew warmer, 
 
 Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his ab 
 sence, in the night ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Came homeward in the morning to find his house 
 burned down. 
 
 Then he grasped his trusty rifle and boldly fought 
 
 for freedom ; 
 
 Smote from border unto border the fierce, in 
 vading band ; 
 And he and his brave boys vowed so might 
 
 Heaven help and speed em ! 
 They would save those grand old prairies from 
 the curse that blights the land ; 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid us ! " and he shoved 
 his ramrod down.
 
 34 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 And the Lord did&\& these men, and they laboured 
 
 day and even, 
 Saving Kansas from its peril ; and their very lives 
 
 seemed charmed, 
 Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light 
 
 of Heaven, 
 
 In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed 
 all unarmed ; 
 
 Then Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a 
 terrible frown ! 
 
 Then they seized another brave boy, not amid the 
 
 heat of battle, 
 But in peace, behind his ploughshare, and they 
 
 loaded him with chains, 
 And with pikes, before their horses, even as they 
 
 goad their cattle, 
 
 Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last 
 blew out his brains ; 
 
 Then Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Raised his right hand up to Heaven, calling 
 Heaven s vengeance down. 
 
 And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the 
 
 Almighty, 
 He would hunt this ravening evil that had 
 
 scathed and torn him so ; 
 He would seize it by the vitals ; he would crush it 
 
 day and night ; he 
 
 Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow 
 for blow,
 
 HO W BROWN TOOK HARPER S FERR Y. 35 
 
 That Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in 
 town ! 
 
 Then his beard became more grizzled, and his wild 
 
 blue eye grew wilder, 
 
 And more sharply curved his hawk s-nose, snuf 
 fing battle from afar ; 
 And he and the two boys left, though the Kansas 
 
 strife waxed milder, 
 
 Grew more sullen, till was over the bloody Border 
 War, 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Had gone crazy, as they reckoned by his fearful 
 glare and frown. 
 
 So he left the plains of Kansas and their bitter woes 
 
 behind him, 
 Slipt off into Virginia, where the statesmen all 
 
 are born, 
 Hired a farm by Harper s Ferry, and no one knew 
 
 where to find him, 
 
 Or whether he d turned parson, or was jacketed 
 and shorn ; 
 
 For Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Mad as he was, knew texts enough to wear a 
 parson s gown. 
 
 He bought no ploughs and harrows, spades and 
 
 shovels, and such trifles ; 
 
 But quietly to his rancho there came, by every 
 train,
 
 3& LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Boxes full of pikes and pistols, and his well-beloved 
 
 Sharp s rifles ; 
 
 And eighteen other madmen joined their leader 
 there again. 
 
 Says Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 " Boys, we ve got an army large enough to march 
 and take the town ! 
 
 " Take the town, and seize the muskets, free the 
 
 negroes and then arm them ; 
 Carry the County and the State, ay, and all the 
 
 potent South. 
 On their own heads be the slaughter, if their victims 
 
 rise to harm them 
 
 These Virginians ! who believed not, nor would 
 heed the warning mouth." 
 Says Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 " The world shall see a Republic, or my name is not 
 John Brown." 
 
 Twas the sixteenth of October, on the evening of 
 
 a Sunday : 
 " This good work," declared the captain, " shall 
 
 be on a holy night ! " 
 It was on a Sunday evening, and before the noon of 
 
 Monday, 
 
 With two sons, and Captain Stephens, fifteen 
 privates black and white, 
 Captain Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Marched across the bridged Potomac, and knocked 
 the sentry down ;
 
 HOW BROWN TOOK HARPER S FERRY. 37 
 
 Took the guarded armoury-building, and the muskets 
 
 and the cannon ; 
 Captured all the county majors and the colonels, 
 
 one by one ; 
 Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they 
 
 ran on, 
 
 And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed 
 was done. 
 
 Mad Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and 
 took the town. 
 
 Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder 
 
 made he ; 
 It was all done in the midnight, like the Emperor s 
 
 coup d^etat. 
 " Cut the wires ! Stop the rail-cars ! Hold the 
 
 streets and bridges ! " said he, 
 Then declared the new Republic, with himself for 
 guiding star, 
 
 This Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown ; 
 
 And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left 
 the town. 
 
 Then was riding and railroading and expressing 
 
 here and thither ; 
 And the Martinsburg Sharpshooters and the 
 
 Charlestown Volunteers, 
 And the Shepherdstown and Winchester Militia 
 
 hastened whither 
 
 Old Brown was said to muster his ten thousand 
 grenadiers.
 
 38 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 General Brown ! 
 Osawatomie Brown ! ! 
 
 Behind whose rampant banner all the North was 
 pouring down. 
 
 But at last, tis said, some prisoners escaped from 
 
 Old Brown s durance, 
 And the effervescent valour of the Chivalry broke 
 
 out, 
 When they learned that nineteen madmen had the 
 
 marvellous assurance 
 
 Only nineteen thus to seize the place and drive 
 them straight about ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Found an army come to take him, encamped 
 around the town. 
 
 But to storm, with all the forces I have mentioned, 
 
 was too risky ; 
 
 So they hurried off to Richmond for the Govern 
 ment Marines, 
 Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their 
 
 souls with Bourbon whiskey, 
 Till they battered down Brown s castle with their 
 ladders and machines ; 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his 
 brave old crown. 
 
 Tallyho ! the old Virginia gentry gather to the 
 
 baying ! 
 
 In they rushed and killed the game, shooting 
 lustily away ;
 
 HOW BROWN TOOK HARPER S FERRY. 39 
 
 And whene er they slew a rebel, those who came 
 
 too late for slaying, 
 
 Not to lose a share of glory, fired their bullets in 
 his clay ; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatoraie Brown, 
 
 Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between 
 them laid him down. 
 
 How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they 
 
 hastened on the trial ; 
 How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the 
 
 Charlestown court-house floor ; 
 How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all 
 
 denial ; 
 
 What the brave old madman told them, these 
 are known the country o er. 
 " Hang Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown," 
 
 Said the judge, " and all such rebels ! " with his 
 most judicial frown. 
 
 But, Virginians, don t do it ! for I tell you that the 
 
 flagon, 
 Filled with blood of Old Brown s offspring, was 
 
 first poured by Southern hands ; 
 And each drop from Old Brown s life-veins, like the 
 
 red gore of the dragon, 
 
 May spring up a vengeful Fury, hissing through 
 your slave-worn lands ! 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 
 May trouble you more than ever, when you ve 
 nailed his coffin down ! 
 
 November, 1859.
 
 40 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 HORACE GREELEY. 
 
 ARTH, let thy softest mantle rest 
 
 On this worn child to thee returning, 
 Whose youth was nurtured at thy breast, 
 
 Who loved thee with such tender yearning ! 
 He knew thy fields and woodland ways, 
 
 And deemed thy humblest son his brother ; 
 Asleep, beyond our blame or praise, 
 We yield him back, O gentle Mother ! 
 
 Of praise, of blame, he drank his fill : 
 
 Who has not read the life-long story ? 
 And dear we hold his fame, but still 
 
 The man was dearer than his glory. 
 And now to us are left alone 
 
 The closet where his shadow lingers, 
 The vacant chair, that was a throne, 
 
 The pen, just fallen from his fingers. 
 
 Wrath changed to kindness on that pen ; 
 
 Though dipped in gall, it flowed with honey ; 
 One flash from out the cloud, and then 
 
 The skies with smile and jest were sunny. 
 Of hate he surely lacked the art, 
 
 Who made his enemy his lover : 
 O reverend head and Christian heart ! 
 
 Where now their like the round world over ?
 
 HORACE G REE LEY. 41 
 
 He saw the goodness, not the taint, 
 
 In many a poor, do-nothing creature, 
 And gave to sinner and to saint, 
 
 But kept his faith in human nature ; 
 Perchance he was not worldly-wise, 
 
 Yet we who noted, standing nearer, 
 The shrewd, kind twinkle in his eyes, 
 
 For every weakness held him dearer. 
 
 Alas that unto him who gave 
 
 So much, so little should be given ! 
 Himself alone he might not save 
 
 Of all for whom his hands had striven. 
 Place, freedom, fame, his work bestowed : 
 
 Men took, and passed, and left him lonely ; 
 What marvel if, beneath his load, 
 
 At times he craved for justice only ! 
 
 Yet thanklessness, the serpent s tooth, 
 
 His lofty purpose could not alter ; 
 Toil had no power to bend his youth 
 
 Or make his lusty manhood falter ; 
 From envy s sling, from slander s dart, 
 
 That armoured soul the body shielded, 
 Till one dark sorrow chilled his heart, 
 
 And then he bowed his head and yielded. 
 
 Now, now, we measure at its worth 
 
 The gracious presence gone for ever ! 
 The wrinkled East, that gave him birth, 
 
 Laments with every labouring river ; 
 Wild moan the free winds of the West 
 
 For him who gathered to her prairies 
 The sons of men, and made each crest 
 
 The haunt of happy household fairies ;
 
 42 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 And anguish sits upon the mouth 
 
 Of her who came to know him latest : 
 His heart was ever thine, O South ! 
 
 He was thy truest friend, and greatest ! 
 He shunned thee in thy splendid shame, 
 
 He stayed thee in thy voiceless sorrow ; 
 The day thou shalt forget his name, 
 
 Fair South, can have no sadder morrow. 
 
 The tears that fall from eyes unused, 
 
 The hands above his grave united, 
 The words of men whose lips he loosed, 
 
 Whose cross he bore, whose wrongs he righted, - 
 Could he but know, and rest with this ! 
 
 Yet stay, through Death s low-lying hollow, 
 His one last foe s insatiate hiss 
 
 On that benignant shade would follow ! 
 
 Peace ! while we shroud this man of men 
 
 Let no unhallowed word be spoken ; 
 He will not answer thee again, 
 
 His mouth is sealed, his wand is broken. 
 Some holier cause, some vaster trust 
 
 Beyond the veil, he doth inherit : 
 O gently, Earth, receive his dust, 
 
 And Heaven soothe his troubled spirit ! 
 
 December 3, 1872.
 
 ( 43 ) 
 
 THE OLD ADMIRAL. 
 
 r* ONE at last, 
 
 ^~* That brave old hero of the Past ! 
 
 His spirit has a second birth, 
 
 An unknown, grander life ; 
 All of him that was earth 
 
 Lies mute and cold, 
 
 Like a wrinkled sheath and old 
 Thrown off for ever from the shimmering blade 
 That has good entrance made 
 
 Upon some distant, glorious strife. 
 
 From another generation, 
 
 A simpler age, to ours Old Ironsides came ; 
 The morn and noontide of the nation 
 
 Alike he knew, nor yet outlived his fame, 
 
 Oh, not outlived his fame ! 
 
 The dauntless men whose service guards our 
 shore 
 
 Lengthen still their glory-roll 
 
 With his name to lead the scroll, 
 As a flagship at her fore 
 
 Carries the Union, with its azure and the stars, 
 Symbol of times that are no more 
 
 And the old heroic wars.
 
 44 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 He was the one 
 
 Whom Death had spared alone 
 
 Of all the captains of that lusty age, 
 Who sought the foeman where he lay, 
 On sea or sheltering bay, 
 
 Nor till the prize was theirs repressed their rage. 
 They are gone, all gone : 
 
 They rest with glory and the undying Powers ; 
 
 Only their name and fame and what they saved 
 are ours ! 
 
 It was fifty years ago, 
 
 Upon the Gallic Sea, 
 
 He bore the banner of the free, 
 And fought the fight whereof our children know. 
 
 The deathful, desperate fight ! 
 
 Under the fair moon s light 
 The frigate squared, and yawed to left and right. 
 
 Every broadside swept to death a score ! 
 Roundly played her guns and well, till their fiery 
 ensigns fell, 
 
 Neither foe replying more. 
 
 All in silence, when the night-breeze cleared the 
 air, 
 
 Old Ironsides rested there, 
 
 Locked in between the twain, and drenched with 
 blood. 
 
 Then homeward, like an eagle with her prey ! 
 
 Oh, it was a gallant fray, 
 
 That fight in Biscay Bay ! 
 
 Fearless the Captain stood, in his youthful hardi 
 hood ; 
 
 He was the boldest of them all, 
 
 Our brave old Admiral.
 
 THE OLD ADMIRAL. 45 
 
 And still our heroes bleed, 
 Taught by that olden deed. 
 
 Whether of iron or of oak 
 The ships we marshal at our country s need, 
 
 Still speak their cannon now as then they spoke ; 
 Still floats our unstruck banner from the mast 
 
 As in the stormy Past. 
 
 Lay him in the ground : 
 
 Let him rest where the ancient river rolls ; 
 Let him sleep beneath the shadow and the sound 
 
 Of the bell whose proclamation, as it tolls, 
 Is of Freedom and the gift our fathers gave. 
 
 Lay him gently down : 
 
 The clamour of the town 
 
 Will not break the slumbers deep, the beautiful 
 ripe sleep 
 
 Of this lion of the wave, 
 
 Will not trouble the old Admiral in his grave. 
 
 Earth to earth his dust is laid. 
 Methinks his stately shade 
 
 On the shadow of a great ship leaves the shore ; 
 Over cloudless western seas 
 Seeks the far Hesperides, 
 
 The islands of the blest, 
 Where no turbulent billows roar, 
 
 Where is rest. 
 
 His ghost upon the shadowy quarter stands 
 Nearing the deathless lands. 
 
 There all his martial mates, renewed and strong, 
 
 Await his coming long. 
 
 I see the happy Heroes rise 
 
 With gratulation in their eyes :
 
 4& LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 " Welcome, old comrade," Lawrence cries ; 
 " Ah, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! 
 
 Who win the glory and the scars ? 
 
 How floats the skyey flag, how many stars ? 
 
 Still speak they of Decatur s name, 
 
 Of Bainbridge s and Perry s fame ? 
 
 Of me, who earliest came ? 
 Make ready, all : 
 Room for the Admiral ! 
 
 Come, Stewart, tell us of the wars ! " 
 
 KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 
 
 O that soldierly legend is still on its journey, 
 That story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 
 Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, 
 
 and Birney, 
 
 Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
 Where the red volleys poured, where the clamour 
 
 rose highest, 
 Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf 
 
 oak and pine, 
 Where the aim from the thicket was surest and 
 
 nighest, 
 
 No charge like Phil Kearny s along the whole 
 line. 
 
 When the battle went ill, and the bravest were 
 
 solemn, 
 
 Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held 
 our ground,
 
 - KEARNY AT SEVEN fINES. 47 
 
 He rode down the length of the withering column, 
 And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a 
 
 bound ; 
 He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the 
 
 . powder, 
 His sword waved us on and we answered the 
 
 sign : 
 Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang 
 
 the louder, 
 
 " There s the devil s own fun, boys, along the 
 whole line ! " 
 
 How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his 
 
 blade brighten 
 In the one hand still left, and the reins in his 
 
 teeth ! 
 
 He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
 But a soldier s glance shot from his visor 
 
 beneath. 
 Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 
 
 Asking where to go in, through the clearing or 
 
 pine ? 
 " Oh, anywhere ! Forward ! Tis all the same, 
 
 Colonel : 
 
 You ll find lovely fighting along the whole 
 line ! " 
 
 Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 
 That hid him from sight of his brave men and 
 
 tried ! 
 Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white 
 
 lily, 
 
 The flower of our knighthood, the whole army s 
 pride !
 
 48 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Yet we dream that he still, in that shadowy 
 
 region 
 Where the dead form their ranks at the wan 
 
 drummer s sign, 
 
 Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 
 And the word still is Forward ! along the whole 
 line. 
 
 CUSTER. 
 
 T 1 7 HAT ! shall that sudden blade 
 * * Leap out no more ? 
 
 No more thy hand be laid 
 Upon the sword-hilt, smiting sore ? 
 
 Oh for another such 
 The charger s rein to clutch, 
 One equal voice to summon victory, 
 
 Sounding thy battle-cry, 
 Brave darling of the soldiers choice ! 
 Would there were one more voice ! 
 
 O gallant charge, too bold ! 
 O fierce, imperious greed 
 
 To pierce the clouds that in their darkness hold 
 Slaughter of man and steed ! 
 Now, stark and cold, 
 Among thy fallen braves thou liest, 
 And even with thy blood defiest 
 
 The wolfish foe : 
 But ah, thou liest low, 
 And all our birthday song is hushed indeed !
 
 CUSTER. 49 
 
 Young lion of the plain, 
 
 Thou of the tawny mane ! 
 Hotly the soldiers hearts shall beat, 
 
 Their mouths thy death repeat, 
 Their vengeance seek the trail again 
 
 Where thy red doomsmen be ; 
 But on the charge no more shall stream 
 Thy hair, no more thy sabre gleam, 
 
 No more ring out thy battle-shout, 
 Thy cry of victory ! 
 
 Not when a hero falls 
 
 The sound a world appalls : 
 
 For while we plant his cross 
 There is a glory, even in the loss : 
 
 But when some craven heart 
 
 From honour dares to part, 
 Then, then, the groan, the blanching cheek, 
 
 And men in whispers speak, 
 Nor kith nor country dare reclaim 
 
 From the black depths his name. 
 
 Thou, wild young warrior, rest, 
 By all the prairie winds caressed ! 
 
 Swift was thy dying pang ; 
 
 Even as the war-cry rang 
 Thy deathless spirit mounted high 
 
 And sought Columbia s sky : 
 
 There, to the northward far, 
 Shines a new star 
 
 And from it blazes down 
 
 The light of thy renown ! 
 
 July 10, 1876.
 
 50 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 HYPATIA. 
 
 "HP IS fifteen hundred years, you say, 
 
 Since that fair teacher died 
 In learned Alexandria 
 
 By the stone altar s side : 
 The wild monks slew her, as she lay 
 
 At the feet of the Crucified. 
 
 Yet in a prairie-town, one night, 
 
 I found her lecture-hall, 
 Where bench and dais stood aright, 
 
 And statues graced the wall, 
 And pendent brazen lamps the light 
 
 Of classic days let fall. 
 
 A throng that watched the speaker s face, 
 
 And on her accents hung, 
 Was gathered there : the strength, the grace 
 
 Of lands where life is young 
 Ceased not, I saw, with that blithe race 
 
 From old Pelasgia sprung. 
 
 No civic crown the sibyl wore, 
 
 Nor academic tire, 
 But shining skirts, that trailed the floor 
 
 And made her stature higher ; 
 A written scroll the lectern bore, 
 
 And flowers bloomed anigh her.
 
 HYPATIA. 51 
 
 The wealth her honeyed speech had won 
 
 Adorned her in our sight ; 
 The silkworm for her sake had spun 
 
 His cincture, day and night ; 
 With broider-work and Honiton 
 
 Her open sleeves were bright. 
 
 But still Hypatia s self I knew, 
 
 And saw, with dreamy wonder, 
 The form of her whom Cyril slew 
 
 (See Kingsley s novel, yonder) 
 Some fifteen centuries since, tis true, 
 
 And half a world asunder. 
 
 Her hair was coifed Athenian-wise, 
 With one loose tress down-flowing ; 
 
 Apollo s rapture lit her eyes, 
 His utterance bestowing, 
 
 A silver flute s clear harmonies 
 On which a god was blowing. 
 
 Yet not of Plato s sounding spheres, 
 
 And universal Pan, 
 She spoke ; but searched historic years, 
 
 The sisterhood to scan 
 Of women, girt with ills and fears, 
 
 Slaves to the tyrant, Man. 
 
 Their crosiered banner she unfurled, 
 
 And onward pushed her quest 
 Through golden ages of a world 
 
 By their deliverance blest : 
 At all who stay their hands she hurled 
 
 Defiance from her breast.
 
 52 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 I saw her burning words infuse 
 A warmth through many a heart, 
 
 As still, in bright successive views, 
 She drew her sex s part ; 
 
 Discoursing, like the Lesbian Muse, 
 Of work, and song, and art. 
 
 Why vaunt, I thought, the past, or say 
 
 The later is the less ? 
 Our Sappho sang but yesterday, 
 
 Of whom two climes confess 
 Heaven s flame within her wore away 
 
 Her earthly loveliness. 
 
 So let thy wild heart ripple on, 
 Brave girl, through vale and city ! 
 
 Spare, of its listless moments, one 
 To this, thy poet s ditty ; 
 
 Nor long forbear, when all is done, 
 Thine own sweet self to pity. 
 
 The priestess of the Sestian tower, 
 Whose knight the sea swam over, 
 
 Among her votaries gifts no flower 
 Of heart s-ease could discover : 
 
 She died, but in no evil hour, 
 Who, dying, clasped her lover. 
 
 The rose-tree has its perfect life 
 W T hen the full rose is blown ; 
 
 Some height of womanhood the wife 
 Beyond thy dream has known ; 
 
 Set not thy head and heart at strife 
 To keep thee from thine own.
 
 COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 53 
 
 Hypatia ! thine essence rare 
 
 The rarer joy should merit : 
 Possess thee of that common share 
 
 Which lesser souls inherit : 
 All gods to thee their garlands bear, 
 
 Take one from Love and wear it ! 
 
 COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 
 
 A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
 
 T N January, when down the dairy 
 The cream and clabber freeze, 
 When snow-drifts cover the fences over, 
 
 We farmers take our ease. 
 At night we rig the team, 
 
 And bring the cutter out ; 
 Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, 
 
 And heap the furs about. 
 
 Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, 
 
 And sleighs at least a score ; 
 There John and Molly, behind, are jolly, 
 
 Nell rides with me, before. 
 All down the village street 
 
 We range us in a row : 
 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 And over the crispy snow ! 
 
 The windows glisten, the old folks listen 
 
 To hear the sleigh-bells pass ; 
 The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, 
 
 The road is smooth as glass.
 
 54 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 Our muffled faces burn, 
 
 The clear north-wind blows cold, 
 The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, 
 
 Each in her lover s hold. 
 
 Through bridge and gateway we re shooting 
 straightway, 
 
 Their tollman was too slow ! 
 He ll listen after our song and laughter 
 
 As over the hill we go. 
 The girls cry, " Fie ! for shame ! " 
 
 Their cheeks and lips are red, 
 And so, with kisses, kisses, kisses, 
 
 They take the toll instead. 
 
 Still follow, follow ! across the hollow 
 
 The tavern fronts the road. 
 Whoa, now ! all steady ! the host is ready, 
 
 He knows the country mode ! 
 The irons are in the fire, 
 
 The hissing flip is got ; 
 So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, 
 
 And sip it while tis hot. 
 
 Push back the tables, and from the stables 
 
 Bring Tom, the fiddler, in ; 
 All take your places, and make your graces, 
 
 And let the dance begin. 
 The girls are beating time 
 
 To hear the music sound ; 
 Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, 
 
 And swing your partners round.
 
 COUNTRY SLEIGHING. 55 
 
 Last couple toward the left ! all forward ! 
 
 Cotillons through, let s wheel : 
 First tune the fiddle, then down the middle 
 
 In old Virginia Reel. 
 Play Money Musk to close, 
 
 Then take the " long chasse," 
 While in to supper, supper, supper, 
 
 The landlord leads the way. 
 
 The bells are ringing, the ostlers bringing 
 
 The cutters up anew ; 
 The beasts are neighing; too long we re 
 staying, 
 
 The night is half-way through. 
 Wrap close the buffalo-robes, 
 
 We re all aboard once more ; 
 Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 
 
 Away from the tavern-door ! 
 
 So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, 
 
 And swiftly homeward glide. 
 What midnight splendour ! how warm and 
 tender 
 
 The maiden by your side ! 
 The sleighs drop far apart, 
 
 Her words are soft and low ; 
 Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 
 
 Tis safe to tell her so.
 
 56 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 THE FRESHET. 
 
 A CONNECTICUT IDYLL. 
 
 T AST August, of a three weeks country tour, 
 Five dreamy days were passed amid old 
 
 elms 
 
 And older mansions, and in leafy dales, 
 That knew us till our elders pushed us forth 
 To larger life, as eagles push their young, 
 New-fledged and wondering, from the eyrie s edge, 
 To cater for themselves. 
 
 I fell in, there, 
 
 With Gilbert Ripley, once my chum at Yale. 
 Poor Gilbert groaned along a double year, 
 Read, spoke, boxed, fenced, rowed, trod the foot 
 ball ground, 
 
 Loving the college library more than Greek, 
 His meerschaum most of all. But when we came 
 Together, gathered from the breathing-time 
 They give the fellows while the dog-days last, 
 He found the harness chafe ; then grew morose, 
 And kicked above the traces, going home 
 Hardly a Junior, but a sounder man, 
 In mind and body, than a host who win 
 Your baccalaureate honours. There he stayed, 
 Half tired of bookmen, on his father s farm, 
 And gladly felt the plough-helve. In a year
 
 THE FRESHET. 57 
 
 The old man gave his blessing to the son, 
 And left his life, as twere his harvest-field, 
 When work was over. Gilbert hugged the farm, 
 Now made his own, besides a pretty sum 
 In good State Sixes ; partly worked the land, 
 With separate theories for every field, 
 And partly led the student-life of old, 
 Mouthing his Shakespeare s ballads to himself 
 Among the meadow-mows ; or, when he read 
 In the evening, found a picture of his bull, 
 Just brought from Devon, sleek as silk, loom in 
 Before his vision. Thus he weighed his tastes, 
 Each against each, in happiest equipoise. 
 The neighbour farmers seeing he had thrift 
 That would not run to waste, and pardoning all 
 Beyond their understanding, wished him well. 
 
 But when I saw him stride among his stock, 
 Straight-shouldered cattle, breathing of the field, 
 Saw him how blowze and hearty ; then, at eve, 
 Close sitting by his mother in the porch, 
 Heard him discuss the methods of the times, 
 The need our country has of stalwart men, 
 Who scorn the counter and will till the land, 
 Strong-handed, free of thought, I somehow felt 
 The man was noble, and his simple life 
 More like the pattern given in the Mount 
 Than mine, hedged close about with city life 
 And grim, conventional manners. 
 
 So much, then, 
 
 For Gilbert Ripley. Not to dwell too long 
 Upon his doings, let me tell the tale 
 I got from him, one hazy afternoon,
 
 58 LYRICS AA T D IDYLLS. 
 
 When he and I had wandered to the bridge, 
 New-built across our favourite of the streams 
 That skirt the village, here three miles apart, 
 Twin currents, joining in a third below. 
 
 There memory s shallop bore us dreamily, 
 Through changeful windings, to the long, long days 
 Of June vacations. How we boys would thrid 
 The alder thickets at the water s edge, 
 Conjecturing forward, though the Present lay 
 Like Eden round us ; for the Future shone 
 The sun to which each young heart turned for light ! 
 What wild conceits of great, oracular lives, 
 Ourselves would equal ! but let that go by : 
 Each has gone by, in turn, to humbler fates. 
 Sometimes we angled, and our trolling hooks 
 Swung the gray pickerel from his reedy shoals. 
 Beyond a horseshoe bend, the current s force 
 Wore out a deeper channel, where the shore 
 Fell off, precipitous, on the western side. 
 There dived the bathers ; there I learned to 
 
 swim, 
 
 Flung far into the middle stream by one 
 Who watched my gaspings, laughing, till my limbs, 
 Half of themselves, struck out, and held me up. 
 Far down, a timbered dam, from bank to bank, 
 Shut back the waters in a shadowy lake, 
 About a mimic island. Languidly 
 The chestnuts still infoliate its space, 
 And still the whispering flags are intertwined 
 With whitest water-lilies near the marge. 
 Close by, the paper-mill, with murmurous wheel, 
 Still glistens through the branches, while its score 
 Of laughing maidens throng the copse at noon.
 
 THE FRESHET. 59 
 
 But we, with careless arms upon the rail, 
 Peered through and through the water; almost 
 
 saw 
 
 Its silvery Naiads, from their wavering depths, 
 Gleam with strange faces upward ; almost heard 
 Sweet voices carol : " Ah, you all come back ! 
 We charm your childhood ; then you roam away, 
 To float on alien waters, like the winds ; 
 But, ah, you all come back, come dreaming 
 back ! " 
 
 At last I broke the silence : " See," I said 
 To Gilbert, " see how fair our dear old stream ! 
 How calm, beneath the shadows of the piers, 
 It ed"dies in and out, and cools itself 
 In slumberous ripples whispering repose." 
 
 But he made answer : " Yes, this August day 
 The wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed; 
 But in the callow Spring, when Easter winds 
 Are on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams 
 More gentle now than in his cradled sleep 
 Some Alexander take up arms, spread wide, 
 Leap high and cruel in a fierce campaign 
 Along their valleys. See this trellised bridge, 
 New-built, and firmer than the one from which 
 We fellows dropped the line : that went away 
 Two years ago, like straw before a gale, 
 In the great April flood, of which you heard, 
 When George and Lucy Dorrance lost their lives. 
 I saw them perish. You remember her, 
 She that was Lucy Hall, a charming girl, 
 The fairest of our schoolmates, with a heart
 
 60 L YRICS AND ID YLLS. 
 
 Light as her smile and fastened all upon 
 The boy that won her ; yet her glances fell 
 Among us, right and left, like shooting stars 
 In clear October nights when winds are still. 
 
 " That year our Equinoctial came along 
 Ere the snow left us. Under mountain pines 
 White drifts lay frozen like the dead, and down 
 Through many a gorge the bristling hemlocks 
 
 crossed 
 
 Their spears above the ice-enfettered brooks ; 
 But the pent river wailed, through prison walls, 
 For freedom and the time to rend its chains. 
 At last it came : five days a drenching rain 
 Flooded the country ; snow-drifts fell away ; 
 The brooks grew rivers, and the river here 
 A ravenous, angry torrent tore up banks, 
 And overflowed the meadows, league on league. 
 Great cakes of ice, four-square, with mounds of 
 
 hay, 
 Fence-rails, and scattered drift-wood, and huge 
 
 beams 
 
 From broken dams above us, mill-wheel ties, 
 Smooth lumber, and the torn-up trunks of trees, 
 Swept downward, strewing all the land about. 
 Sometimes the flood surrounded, unawares, 
 Stray cattle, or a flock of timorous sheep, 
 And bore them with it, struggling, till the ice 
 Beat shape and being from them. You know how 
 These freshets scour our valleys. So it raged 
 A night and day ; but when the day grew night 
 The storm fell off; lastly, the sun went down 
 Quite clear of clouds, and ere he came again 
 The flood began to lower.
 
 THE FRESHET. 61 
 
 " Through the rise 
 
 We men had been at work, like water-sprites, 
 Lending a helping hand to cottagers 
 Along the lowlands. Now, at early morn, 
 The banks were sentry-lined with thrifty swains, 
 Who hauled great stores of drift-wood up the slope. 
 But toward the bridge our village maidens soon 
 Came flocking, thick as swallows after storms, 
 When, with light wing, they skim the happy fields 
 And greet the sunshine. Danger mostly gone, 
 They watched the thunderous passage of the flood 
 Between the abutments, while the upper stream, 
 Far as they saw, lay like a seething strait, 
 From hill to hill. Below, with gradual fall 
 Through narrower channels, all was clash and clang 
 xVnd inarticulate tumult. Through the grove 
 Yonder, our picnic-ground, the driving tide 
 Struck a new channel, and the craggy ice 
 Scored down its saplings. Following with the rest 
 Came George and Lucy, not three honeymoons 
 Made man and wife, and happier than a pair 
 Of cooing ring-doves in the early June. 
 
 " Two piers, you know, bore up the former bridge, 
 Cleaving the current, wedge-like, on the north ; 
 Between them stood our couple, intergrouped 
 With many others. On a sudden loomed 
 An immolating terror from above, - 
 A floating field of ice, where fifty cakes 
 PI ad clung together, mingled with a mass 
 Of ruin from the upper conflict, logs 
 Woven in with planks and fence-rails ; and in front 
 One huge, old, fallen trunk rose like a wall 
 Across the channel. Then arose a cry
 
 62 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 From all who saw it, clamouring, Flee the bridge ! 
 Run shoreward for your lives ! and all made haste, 
 Eastward and westward, till they felt the ground 
 Stand firm beneath them; but, with close-locked 
 
 arms, 
 
 Lucy and George still looked, from the lower rail, 
 Toward the promontory where we stood, 
 Nor saw the death, nor seemed to hear the cry. 
 Run, George ! run, Lucy ! shouted all at once : 
 Too late, too late ! for, with resistless crash, 
 Against both piers that mighty ruin lay 
 A. space that seemed an hour, yet far too short 
 For rescue. Swaying slowly back and forth, 
 With ponderons tumult, all the bridge went off; 
 Piers, beams, planks, railings snapped their groan 
 ing ties 
 And fell asunder ! 
 
 " But the middle part, 
 Wrought with great bolts of iron, like a raft 
 Held out awhile, whirled onward in the wreck 
 This way and that, and washed with freezing spray. 
 Faster than I can tell you, it came down 
 Beyond our point, and in a flash we saw 
 George, on his knees, close-clinging for dear life, 
 One arm around the remnant of the rail, 
 One clasping Lucy. We were pale as they, 
 Powerless to save ; but even as they swept 
 Across the bend, and twenty stalwart men 
 Ran to and fro with clamour for A rope ! 
 A boat ! their cries together reached the shore : 
 Save her ! Save him ! so true Love conquers all. 
 Furlongs below they still more closely held 
 Each other, mid a thousand shocks of ice
 
 THE FRESHET. 63 
 
 And seething horrors ; till, at last, the end 
 Came, where the river, scornful of its bed, 
 Struck a new channel, roaring through the grove. 
 There, dashed against a naked beech that stood 
 Grimly in front, their shattered raft gave up 
 Its precious charge ; and then a mist of tears 
 Blinded all eyes, through which we seemed to see 
 Two forms in death-clasp whirled along the flood, 
 And all was over. 
 
 " Then from out the crowd 
 Certain went up the lane, and broke the news 
 To Lucy s widowed mother ; she spoke not, 
 Nor wept, nor murmured, but with stony glare 
 Took in her loss, like Niobe, and to bed 
 Moved stolidly and never rose again. 
 Old Farmer Dorrance gave a single groan, 
 And hurried down among us all the man, 
 Though white with anguish as we took our course 
 Around the meadows, searching for the dead. 
 
 " An eddying gulf ran hither up the bank, 
 Close by the paper-mill, and there the flood 
 Gave back its booty ; there we found them laid, 
 Covered with floating leaves and twigs of trees, 
 Not many feet apart : so Love s last clasp 
 Held lingeringly, until the cruel ice 
 Battered its fastenings. On a rustic bier, 
 Made of loose boughs and strewn with winter 
 
 ferns, 
 We placed them, side by side, and bore them 
 
 home. 
 
 The old man walked behind them, by himself, 
 And wrung his hands and bowed his head in tears."
 
 64 LYRICS AA T D IDYLLS. 
 
 So Gilbert told his story ; I, meanwhile, 
 Followed his finger s pointing, as it marked 
 Each spot he mentioned, like a teacher s wand. 
 But now the sun hung low ; from many a field 
 The loitering kine went home with tinkling bells. 
 Slow-turning, toward the farm we made our way, 
 And met a host of maidens, merry-eyed, 
 Whom I knew not, yet caught a frequent glance 
 I seemed to know, that half-way brought to mind 
 Sweet eyes I loved to watch in schoolboy days, 
 Sweet sister-eyes to those that glistened now. 
 
 THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT. 
 
 TT7HAT ho! dumb jester, cease to grin and 
 * * mask it ! 
 
 Grim courier, thou hast stayed upon the road ! 
 Yield up the secret of this battered casket, 
 
 This shard, where once a living soul abode ! 
 What dost thou here ? how long hast lain imbedded 
 
 In crystal sands, the drift of Time s despair ; 
 Thine earth to earth with aureate dower wedded, 
 
 Thy parts all changed to something rich and 
 rare? 
 
 Voiceless thou art, and yet a revelation 
 
 Of that most ancient world beneath the new ; 
 But who shall guess thy race, thy name and station, 
 
 ^Eons and aeons ere these boulders grew ? 
 What alchemy can make thy visage liker 
 
 Its untransmuted shape, thy flesh restore, 
 Resolve to blood again thy golden ichor, 
 
 Possess thee of the life thou hadst before ?
 
 THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT. 65 
 
 Before! And when? What ages immemorial 
 Have passed since daylight fell where thou dost 
 
 sleep ! 
 What molten strata, ay, and flotsam boreal, 
 
 Have shielded well thy rest, and pressed thee 
 
 deep ! 
 
 Thou little wist what mighty floods descended, 
 How sprawled the armoured monsters in their 
 
 camp, 
 
 Nor heardest, when the watery cycle ended, 
 The mastodon and mammoth o er thee tramp. 
 
 How seemed this globe of ours when thou didst 
 
 scan it? 
 
 When, in its lusty youth, there sprang to birth 
 All that hath life, unnurtured, and the planet 
 
 Was paradise, the true Saturnian earth ! 
 Far toward the poles was stretched the happy 
 
 garden ; 
 Earth kept it fair by warmth from her own 
 
 breast ; 
 
 Toil had not come to dwarf her sons and harden ; 
 No crime (there was no want) perturbed their 
 rest. 
 
 How lived thy kind ? Was there no duty blended 
 
 With all their toilless joy, no grand desire ? 
 Perchance as shepherds on the meads they tended 
 
 Their flocks, and knew the pastoral pipe and 
 
 lyre; 
 Until a hundred happy generations, 
 
 Whose birth and death had neither pain nor fear, 
 At last, in riper ages, brought the nations 
 
 To modes which we renew who greet thee here. 
 
 F
 
 66 LYRICS AND IDYLLS. 
 
 How stately then they built their royal cities, 
 
 With what strong engines speeded to and fro ; 
 What music thrilled their souls ; what poets ditties 
 
 Made youth with love, and age with honour 
 
 glow ! 
 And had they then their Homer, Kepler, Bacon ? 
 
 Did some Columbus find an unknown clime ? 
 Was there an archetypal Christ, forsaken 
 
 Of those he tried to save, in that far time ? 
 
 When came the end ? What terrible convulsion 
 
 Heaved from within the Earth s distended shell ? 
 What pent-up demons, by their fierce repulsion, 
 
 Made of that sunlit crust a sunless hell ? 
 How, when the hour was ripe, those deathful forces 
 
 In one resistless doom o erwhelmed ye all ; 
 Ingulfed the seas and dried the river courses, 
 
 And made the forests and the cities fall ! 
 
 Ah me ! with what a sudden, dreadful thunder 
 
 The whole round world was split from pole to 
 
 pole ! 
 Down sank the continents, the waters under, 
 
 And fire burst forth where now the oceans roll ; 
 Of those wan flames the dismal exhalations 
 
 Stifled, anon, each living creature s breath, 
 Dear life was driven from its utmost stations, 
 
 And seethed beneath the smoking pall of death ? 
 
 Then brawling leapt full height yon helme d giants ; 
 
 The proud Sierras on the skies laid hold ; 
 Their watch and ward have bidden time defiance, 
 
 Guarding thy grave amid the sands of gold.
 
 THE SKULL IN THE GOLD DRIFT. 67 
 
 Thy kind was then no more ! What untold ages, 
 Ere Man, renewed from earth by slow degrees, 
 
 Woke to the strife he now with Nature wages 
 O er ruder lands and more tempestuous seas. 
 
 How poor the gold, that made thy burial splendid, 
 
 Beside one single annal of thy race, 
 One implement, one fragment that attended 
 
 Thy life which now hath left not even a trace ! 
 From the soul s realm awhile recall thy spirit, 
 
 See how the land is spread, how flows the main, 
 The tribes that in thy stead the globe inherit, 
 
 Their grand unrest, their eager joy and pain. 
 
 Beneath our feet a thousand ages moulder, 
 
 Grayer our skies than thine, the winds more 
 
 chili ; 
 
 Thine the young world, and ours the hoarier, 
 colder, 
 
 But Man s unfaltering heart is dauntless still. 
 And yet and yet like thine his solemn story ; 
 
 Grope where he will, transition lies before ; 
 We, too, must pass ! our wisdom, works, and glory 
 
 In turn shall yield, and change, and be no more.
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Read before the Society of the Phi Beta Kappa, 
 Harvard University, Cambridge, June 28, 1877.
 
 HA WTHORNE. 
 
 H 
 
 ARP of New England song, 
 That even in slumber tremblest 
 
 with the touch 
 Of poets who like the four winds from thee 
 
 waken 
 
 All harmonies that to thy strings belong, 
 Say, wilt thou blame the younger hands too much 
 Which from thy laurelled resting-place have 
 
 taken 
 Thee, crowned-one, in their hold ? There is a 
 
 name 
 Should quicken thee ! No carol Hawthorne 
 
 sang, 
 Yet his articulate spirit, like thine own, 
 
 Made answer, quick as flame, 
 To each breath of the shore from which he 
 
 sprang, 
 And prose like his was poesy s high "tone. 
 
 By measureless degrees 
 Star follows star throughout the rounded night. 
 
 Far off his -path began, yet reached the near 
 Sweet influences of the Pleiades, 
 A portion and a sharer of the light 
 
 That shall so long outlast each burning sphere.
 
 72 HA WTHORNE. 
 
 Beneath the shade and whisper of the pines 
 
 Two youths were fostered in the Norseland air ; 
 One found an eagle s plume, and one the wand 
 
 Wherewith a seer divines : 
 Now but the Minstrel * lingers of that pair, 
 The rod has fallen from the Mage s hand. 
 
 Gray on thy mountain height, 
 More fair than wonderland beside thy streams, 
 
 Thou with the splendours twain of youth and age, 
 This was the son who read thy heart aright, 
 Of whom thou wast beholden in his dreams, 
 
 The one New-Englander ! Upon whose page 
 Thine offspring still are animate, and move 
 
 Adown thy paths, a quaint and stately throng : 
 Grave men of God who made the olden law, 
 
 Fair maidens, meet for love, 
 All living types that to the coast belong 
 
 Since Carver from the prow thy headlands 
 saw. 
 
 What should the master be 
 Who to the world New-England s self must render, 
 
 Her best interpreter, her very own ? 
 How spake the brooding Mother, strong and tender, 
 Back-looking through her youth betwixt the moan 
 
 Of forests and the murmur of the sea ? 
 " Thou too," she said, " must first be set aside 
 
 To keep my ancient vigil for a space, 
 Taught by repression, by the combating 
 
 With thine own pride of pride, 
 An unknown watcher in a lonely place 
 
 With none on whom thine utterance to fling." 
 
 * Longfellow.
 
 HA WTHORNE. 73 
 
 But first of all she fed 
 Her heart s own favourite upon the store 
 
 Of precious things she treasures in her woods, 
 Of charm and story in her valleys spread. 
 For him her whispering winds and brooks that pour 
 
 Made ceaseless music in the solitudes ; 
 The manifold bright surges of her deep 
 
 Gave him their light. Within her voice s call 
 She lured him on, by roadways overhung 
 
 With elms, that he might keep 
 Remembrance of her legends as they fall 
 
 Her shaded walks and gabled roofs among. 
 
 Within the mists she drew, 
 Anon, his silent footsteps, as her own 
 
 Were led of old, until he came to be 
 An eremite, whose life the desert knew, 
 And gained companionship in dreams alone. 
 
 The world, it seemed, had naught for such as 
 
 he,- _ 
 For one who, in his heart s deep wilderness 
 
 Shrunk darkling and, whatever wind might blow, 
 Found no quick use for potent hands and fain, 
 
 No chance that might express 
 To human-kind the thoughts which moved him 
 
 so. 
 
 Oh, deem not those long years were quite 
 in vain ! 
 
 For his was the brave soul 
 Which, touched with fire, dwells not on whatsoever 
 
 Its outer senses hold in their intent, 
 But, sleepless even in sleep, must gather toll
 
 74 HA WTHORNE. 
 
 Of dreams which pass like barks upon the river 
 
 And make each vision Beauty s instrument ; 
 That from its own love Love s delight can tell, 
 And from its own grief guess the shrouded 
 
 Sorrow ; 
 From its own joyousness of Joy can sing ; 
 
 That can predict so well 
 From its own dawn the lustre of to-morrow, 
 
 The whole flight from the flutter of the wing. 
 
 And his the gift which sees 
 A revelation and a tropic sign 
 
 In the lone passion-flower, and can discover 
 The likeness of the far Antipodes, 
 Though but a leaf is stranded from the brine ; 
 
 His the fine spirit which is so true a lover 
 Of sovran Art, that all the becks of life 
 
 Allure it not until the work be wrought. 
 Nay, though the shout and smoke of combat rose, 
 
 He, through the changeful strife, 
 Eternal loveliness more closely sought, 
 
 And Beauty s changeless law and sure repose. 
 
 Was it not well that one 
 One, if no more should meditate aloof, 
 
 Though not for naught the time s heroic quarrel, 
 From what men rush to do and what is done. 
 He little knew to join the web and woof 
 
 Whereof slow Progress weaves her rich apparel, 
 But toward the Past half longing turned his head. 
 
 His deft hand dallied with its common share 
 Of human toil, nor sought new loads to lift, 
 
 But held itself, instead, 
 All consecrate to uses that make fair, 
 
 By right divine of his mysterious gift.
 
 HAWTHORNE. 75 
 
 How should the world discern 
 The artist s self, save through the fine creation 
 
 Of his rare moment ? How, but from his song, 
 The unfettered spirit of the minstrel learn ? 
 Yet on this one the stars had set the station 
 
 Which to the chief romancer should belong : 
 Child of the Beautiful ! whose regnant brow 
 
 She made her canopy, and from his eyes 
 Looked outward with a steadfast purple gleam. 
 
 Who saw him marvelled how 
 The soul of that impassioned ray could lie 
 
 So calm beyond, unspoken all its dream. 
 
 What sibyl to him bore 
 The secret oracles that move and haunt ? 
 
 At night s dread noon he scanned the enchanted 
 
 glass, 
 
 Ay, and himself the warlock s mantle wore, 
 Nor to the thronging phantoms said Avaunt, 
 
 But waved his rod and bade them rise and pass ; 
 Till thus he drew the lineaments of men 
 
 Who fought the old colonial battles three, 
 Who with the lustihood of Nature warred 
 And made her docile, then 
 Wrestled with Terror and with Tyranny, 
 
 Twin wardens of the scaffold and the sword. 
 
 He drew his native land, 
 The few and rude plantations of her Past, 
 
 Fringed by the beaches of her sounding shore ; 
 Her children, as he drew them, there they stand ; 
 There, too, her Present, with an outline cast 
 
 Still from the shape those other centuries wore.
 
 76 HA WTHORNE. 
 
 Betimes the orchards and the clover-fields 
 
 Change into woods o ershadowing a host 
 That winds along the Massachusetts Path ; 
 The sword of Standish shields 
 The Plymouth band, and where the lewd ones 
 
 boast 
 Stern Endicott pours out his godly wrath. 
 
 Within the Province House 
 
 The ancient governors hold their broidered state, 
 Still gleam the lights, the shadows come and go ; 
 Here once again the powdered guests carouse, 
 The masquerade lasts on, the night is late. 
 
 Thrice waves a mist-invoking wand, and lo, 
 What troubled sights ! What summit bald and steep 
 Where stands a ladder gainst the accursed tree ? 
 What dark processions thither slowly climb? 
 
 Anon, what lost ones keep 
 Their midnight tryst with forms that evil be, 
 Around the witch-fire in the forest grim ! 
 
 Clearly the master s plan 
 Revealed his people, even as they were, 
 
 The prayerful elder and the winsome maid, 
 The errant roisterer, the Puritan, 
 Dark Pyncheon, mournful Hester, all are there. 
 
 But none save he in our own time so laid 
 His summons on man s spirit ; none but he, 
 
 Whether the light thereof were clear or clouded, 
 Thus on his canvas fixed the human soul, 
 
 The thoughts of mystery, 
 
 In deep hearts by this mortal guise enshrouded, 
 Wild hearts that like the church-bells ring 
 and toll.
 
 HAWTHORNE. 77 
 
 Two natures in him strove 
 
 Like day with night, his sunshine and his gloom. 
 To him the stern forefathers creed descended, 
 The weight of some inexorable Jove 
 Prejudging from the cradle to the tomb ; 
 
 But therewithal the lightsome laughter blended 
 Of that Arcadian sweetness undismayed 
 
 Which finds in Love its law, and graces still 
 The rood, the penitential symbol worn, 
 
 Which sees, beyond the shade, 
 The Naiad nymph of every rippling rill, 
 
 And hears quick Fancy wind her wilful horn. 
 
 What if he brooded long 
 On Time and Fate, the ominous progression 
 
 Of years that with Man s retributions frown, 
 The destinies which round his footsteps throng, 
 Justice, that heeds not Mercy s intercession, 
 Crime, on its own head calling vengeance 
 
 down, 
 Deaf Chance and blind, that, like the mountain-slide 
 
 Puts out Youth s heart of fire and all is dark ! 
 What though the blemish which, in aught of earth, 
 
 The maker s hand defied, 
 Was plain to him, the one evasive mark 
 
 Wherewith Death stamps us for his own at 
 birth ! 
 
 Ah, none the less we know 
 He felt the imperceptible fine thrill 
 
 With which the waves of being palpitate 
 Whether in ecstasy of joy or woe, 
 And saw the strong divinity of Will 
 
 Bringing to halt the stolid tramp of Fate ;
 
 78 HA WTHORNE. 
 
 Nor from his work was ever absent quite 
 
 The presence which, o ercast it as we may, 
 Things far beyond our reason can suggest : 
 
 There was a drifting light 
 In Donatello s cell, a fitful ray 
 
 Of sunshine came to hapless Clifford s breast. 
 
 Into such blossom brake 
 
 Our northern hedge, that neither mortal sadness 
 Nor the drear thought of lives that strive and 
 
 fail, 
 
 Nor any hues its sombre leaves might take 
 From clouded skies, could overcome its gladness 
 
 Or in the blessing of its shade prevail. 
 Fresh sprays it yielded them of Merry Mount 
 For wedding wreaths ; blithe Phoebe with the 
 
 sweet 
 Pure flowers her promise to her lover gave : 
 
 Beside it, from a fount 
 Where Pearl and Pansie plashed their innocent 
 
 feet, 
 A brook ran on and kissed Zenobia s grave. 
 
 Silent and dark the spell 
 Laid on New England by the frozen North ; 
 
 Long, long the months, and yet the Winter 
 
 ends, 
 
 The snow- wraiths vanish, and rejoicing well 
 The dandelions from the grass leap forth, 
 
 And Spring through budding birch and willow 
 
 sends 
 
 Her wind of Paradise. And there are left 
 Poets to sing of all, and welcome still
 
 HA WTHORNE. 79 
 
 The robin s voice, the humble-bee s wise drone ; 
 
 Nor are we yet bereft 
 Of one whose sagas ever at his will 
 
 Can answer back the ocean, tone for tone. 
 
 But he whose quickened eye 
 Saw through New England s life her inmost 
 
 spirit, 
 
 Her heart, and all the stays on which it leant, 
 Returns not, since he laid the pencil by 
 Whose mystic touch none other shall inherit ! 
 What though its work unfinished lies? Half- 
 bent 
 The rainbow s arch fades out in upper air ; 
 
 The shining cataract half-way down the height 
 Breaks into mist ; the haunting strain, that fell 
 
 On listeners unaware, 
 
 Ends incomplete, but through the starry night 
 The ear still waits for what it did not tell.
 
 THE DEATH OF BRYANT.
 
 THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 
 
 T T OW was it then with Nature when the soul 
 ^ -* Of her own poet heard a voice which came 
 From out the void, " Thou art no longer lent 
 To Earth ! " when that incarnate spirit, blent 
 With the abiding force of waves that roll, 
 
 Wind-cradled vapours, circling stars that flame, 
 
 She did recall ? How went 
 His antique shade, beaconed upon its way 
 Through the still aisles of night to universal day ? 
 
 Her voice it was, her sovereign voice, which bade 
 
 The Earth resolve his elemental mould ; 
 And once more came her summons : " Long, too 
 
 long, 
 
 Thou lingerest, and charmest with thy song ! 
 Return ! return ! " Thus Nature spoke, and made 
 Her sign and forthwith on the minstrel old 
 
 An arrow, bright and strong, 
 Fell from the bent bow of the answering Sun, 
 Who cried, " The song is closed, the invocation 
 done ! " 
 
 But not as for those youths dead ere their prime, 
 
 New-entered on their music s high domain, 
 Then snatched away, did all things sorrow own ; 
 No utterance now like that sad sweetest tone
 
 84 THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 
 
 When Bion died, and the Sicilian rhyme 
 
 Bewailed ; no sobbing of the reeds that plain, 
 
 Rehearsing some last moan 
 Of Lycidas ; no strains which skyward swell 
 For Adonais still, and still for Astrophel ! 
 
 The Muses wept not for him as for those 
 
 Of whom each vanished like a beauteous star 
 Quenched ere the shining midwatch of the night ; 
 The greenwood Nymphs mourned not his lost 
 
 delight ; 
 Nor Echo, hidden in the tangled close, 
 
 Grieved that she could not mimic him afar. 
 
 He ceased not from our sight 
 Like him who, in the first glad flight of Spring, 
 Fell as an eagle pierced with shafts from his own 
 wing. 
 
 This was not Thyrsis ! no, the minstrel lone 
 And reverend, the woodland singer hoar, 
 Who was dear Nature s nursling, and the priest 
 Whom most she loved ; nor had his office ceased 
 But for her mandate : " Seek again thine own ; 
 The walks of men shall draw thy steps no more !" 
 
 Softly, as from a feast 
 The guest departs that hears a low recall, 
 He went, and left behind his harp and coronal. 
 
 "Return!" she cried, "unto thine own return ! 
 Too long the pilgrimage ; too long the dream 
 In which, lest thou shouldst be companionless, 
 Unto the oracles thou hadst access 
 The sacred groves that with my presence yearn."
 
 THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 85 
 
 The voice was heard by mountain, dell, and 
 stream, 
 
 Meadow and wilderness 
 All fair things vestured by the changing year, 
 Which now awoke in joy to welcome one most 
 dear. 
 
 " He comes ! " declared the unseen ones that haunt 
 
 The dark recesses, the infinitude 
 Of whispering old oaks and soughing pines. 
 
 " He comes ! " the warders of the forest shrines 
 Sang joyously, " His spirit ministrant 
 
 Henceforth with us shall walk the underwood, 
 
 Till mortal ear divines 
 Its music added to our choral hymn, 
 Rising and falling far through archways deep and 
 dim ! " 
 
 The orchard fields, the hillside pastures green, 
 Put gladness on ; the rippling harvest-wave 
 Ran like a smile, as if a moment there 
 His shadow poised in the midsummer air 
 Above ; the cataract took a pearly sheen 
 Even as it leapt ; the winding river gave 
 
 A sound of welcome where 
 He came, and trembled, far as to the sea 
 It moves from rock-ribbed heights where its dark 
 fountains be. 
 
 His presence brooded on the rolling plain, 
 
 And on the lake there fell a sudden calm 
 His own tranquillity ; the mountain bowed 
 Its head, and felt the coolness of a cloud,
 
 86 THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 
 
 And murmured, "He is passing /" and again 
 Through all its firs the wind swept like a psalm ; 
 
 Its eagles, thunder-browed, 
 In that mist-moulded shape their kinsman knew, 
 And circled high, and in his mantle soared from 
 view. 
 
 So drew he to the living veil, which hung 
 Of old above the deep s unimaged face, 
 
 And sought his own. Henceforward he is free 
 
 Of vassalage to that mortality 
 
 Which men have given a sepulchre among 
 The pathways of their kind a resting-place 
 Where, bending one great knee, 
 
 Knelt the proud mother of a mighty land 
 
 In tenderness, and came anon a plumed band. 
 
 Came one by one the seasons meetly drest, 
 
 To sentinel the relics of their seer. 
 First Spring upon whose head a wreath was set 
 Of wind-flowers and the yellow violet 
 Advanced. Then Summer led his loveliest 
 
 Of months, one ever to the minstrel dear 
 
 (Her sweet eyes dewy wet), 
 
 June, and her sisters, whose brown hands entwine 
 The brier-rose and the bee-haunted columbine. 
 
 Next Autumn, like a monarch sad of heart, 
 
 Came, tended by his melancholy days. 
 Purple he wore, and bore a golden-rod, 
 His sceptre ; and let fall upon the sod 
 A lone fringed-gentian ere he would depart.
 
 THE DEATH OF BRYANT. 87 
 
 Scarce had his train gone darkling down the 
 ways 
 
 When Winter thither trod 
 Winter, with beard and raiment blown before, 
 That was so seeming like our poet old and hoar. 
 
 What forms are these amid the pageant fair, 
 
 Harping with hands that falter? What sad 
 
 throng ? 
 
 They wait in vain, a mournful brotherhood, 
 And listen where their laurelled elder stood 
 For some last music fallen through the air. 
 
 " What cold, thin atmosphere now hears thy 
 
 song ? " 
 
 They ask, and long have wooed 
 The woods and waves that knew him, but can learn 
 Naught save the hollow, haunting cry, " Return ! 
 Return ! "
 
 SONGS.
 
 Q LARK ! sweet lark ! 
 
 Where learn you all your minstrelsy? 
 What realms are those to which you fly ? 
 While robins feed their young from dawn till dark, 
 You soar on high, 
 Forever in the sky. 
 
 O child ! dear child ! 
 Above the clouds I lift my wing 
 To hear the bells of Heaven ring ; 
 Some of their music, though my flights be wild, 
 
 To Earth I bring ; 
 
 Then let me soar and sine !
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 (FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA.) 
 
 "PHOU art mine, thou hast given thy word ; 
 -* Close, close in my arms thou art clinging ; 
 
 Alone for my ear thou art singing 
 A song which no stranger hath heard: 
 But afar from me yet, like a bird, 
 Thy soul, in some region unstirred, 
 
 On its mystical circuit is winging. 
 
 Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own ; 
 Henceforth we are mingled for ever : 
 But in vain, all in vain, I endeavour 
 
 Though round thee my garlands are thrown, 
 
 And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone 
 
 To master the spell that alone 
 My hold on thy being can sever. 
 
 Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me ! 
 But thy soul, when I strive to be near it 
 The innermost fold of thy spirit 
 Is as far from my grasp, is as free, 
 As the stars from the mountain-tops be, 
 As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, 
 
 From the portionless king that would wear it.
 
 92 SONGS. 
 
 TOU JOURS AMOUR. 
 
 pRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
 * At what age does Love begin ? 
 Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
 Summers three, my fairy queen, 
 But a miracle of sweets, 
 Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
 Show the little archer there, 
 Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
 When didst learn a heart to win ? 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 
 " Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 
 " I can t tell you if I try. 
 Tis so long I can t remember : 
 Ask some younger lass than I ! " 
 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
 Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
 When does hoary Love expire, 
 When do frosts put out the fire ? 
 Can its embers burn below 
 All that chill December snow ? 
 Care you still soft hands to press, 
 Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
 When does Love give up the chase ? 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
 
 " Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
 " Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
 But of Love I can t foretoken : 
 Ask some older sage than I ! "
 
 ( 93 ) 
 
 THE WEDDING DA Y. 
 
 I. 
 
 SWEETHEART, name the day for me 
 When we two shall wedded be : 
 Make it ere another moon, 
 While the meadows are in tune 
 And the trees are blossoming 
 And the robins mate and sing. 
 Whisper, love, and name a day 
 In this merry month of May. 
 
 No, no, no, 
 
 You shall not escape me so ! 
 Love will not forever wait ; 
 Roses fade when gathered late. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fie, for shame, Sir Malcontent ! 
 How can time be better spent 
 Than in wooing ? I would wed 
 When the clover blossoms red, 
 When the air is full of bliss 
 And the sunshine like a kiss. 
 If you re good, I ll grant a boon : 
 You shall have me, Sir, in June. 
 
 Nay, nay, nay, 
 
 Girls for once should have their way ! 
 If you love me, wait till June ; 
 Rosebuds wither, picked too soon.
 
 94 SONGS. 
 
 VOICE OF THE WESTERN WIND. 
 
 \ 7OICE of the western wind ! 
 
 * Thou singest from afar, 
 Rich with the music of a land 
 
 Where all my memories are ; 
 But in thy song I only hear 
 
 The echo of a tone 
 That fell divinely on my ear 
 
 In days forever flown. 
 
 Star of the western sky ! 
 
 Thou beamest from afar, 
 With lustre caught from eyes I knew, 
 
 Whose orbs were each a star ; 
 But, oh, those eyes too wildly bright 
 
 No more eclipse thine own, 
 And never shall I find the light 
 
 Of days forever flown ! 
 
 AT TWILIGHT. 
 
 ""THE sunset darkens in the west, 
 -*- The sea-gulls haunt the bay, 
 And far and high the swallows fly 
 
 To watch the dying day. 
 Now where is she that once with me 
 
 The rippling waves would list ? 
 And O for the song I loved so long, 
 
 And the darling lips I kist !
 
 SUKF. 95 
 
 Yon twinkling sail may whiter gleam 
 
 Than falcon s snowy wing, 
 Her lances far the evening-star 
 
 Beyond the waves may fling ; 
 Float on, ah float, enchanted boat, 
 
 Bear true hearts o er the main, 
 But I shall guide thy helm no more, 
 
 Nor whisper love again ! 
 
 SURF. 
 
 CPLENDOURS of morning the billow-crests 
 " brighten, 
 
 Lighting and luring them on to the land, 
 Far-away waves where the wan vessels whiten, 
 
 Blue rollers breaking in surf where we stand. 
 Curved like the necks of a legion of horses, 
 
 Each with his froth-gilded mane flowing free, 
 Hither they speed in perpetual courses, 
 
 Bearing thy riches, O beautiful sea ! 
 
 Strong with the striving of yesterday s surges, 
 
 Lashed by the wanton winds leagues from the 
 
 shore, 
 Each, driven fast by its follower, urges 
 
 Fearlessly those that are fleeting before ; 
 How they leap over the ridges we walk on, 
 
 Flinging us gifts from the depths of the sea, 
 Silvery fish for the foam-hunting falcon, 
 
 Palm-weed and pearls for my darling and me !
 
 96 
 
 Light falls her foot where the rift follows after, 
 
 Finer her hair than your feathery spray, 
 Sweeter her voice than your infinite laughter, 
 
 Hist ! ye wild couriers, list, to my lay ! 
 Deep in the chambers of grottoes auroral 
 
 Morn laves her jewels and bends her red knee 
 Thence to my dear one your amber and coral 
 
 Bring for her dowry, O beautiful sea ! 
 
 A UTUMN SONG. 
 
 TVT O clouds are in the morning sky, 
 ^ ^ The vapours hug the stream, 
 Who says that life and love can die 
 
 In all this northern gleam? 
 At every turn the maples burn, 
 
 The quail is whistling free, 
 The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs 
 
 Are dropping for you and me. 
 Ho ! hilly ho ! heigh ! 
 
 Hilly ho ! 
 In the clear October morning. 
 
 Along our path the woods are bold, 
 
 And glow with ripe desire ; 
 The yellow chestnut showers its gold, 
 
 The sumachs spread their fire ; 
 The breezes feel as crisp as steel, 
 
 The buckwheat tops are red : 
 Then down the lane, love, scurry again, 
 
 And over the stubble tread ! 
 Ho ! hilly ho ! heigh O ! 
 
 Hilly ho ! 
 In the clear October morning.
 
 ( 97 ) 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. 
 
 \ \ miTHER away, Robin, 
 
 * Whither away ? 
 
 Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, 
 
 Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, 
 
 Thou wilt not stay ? 
 
 The summer days were long, yet all too brief 
 The happy season thou hast been our guest : 
 Whither away ? 
 
 Whither away, Bluebird, 
 
 Whither away ? 
 The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky 
 
 Thou still canst find the colour of thy wing, 
 
 The hue of May. 
 
 Warbler, why speed thy southern flight ? ah, why, 
 Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? 
 Whither away ? 
 
 Whither away, Swallow, 
 
 Whither away? 
 Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, 
 
 Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy 
 
 nest? 
 
 Not one short day ? 
 Wilt thou as if thou human wert go forth 
 
 And wanton far from them who love thee best ? 
 Whither away ? 
 
 H
 
 SONGS. 
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 DORUS TO LYCORIS, WHO REPROVED HIM FOR 
 
 INCONSTANCY. 
 
 HY should I constant be? 
 The bird in yonder tree, 
 This leafy summer, 
 Hath not his last year s mate, 
 Nor dreads to venture fate 
 With a new-comer. 
 
 Why should I fear to sip 
 The sweets of each red lip ? 
 
 In every bower 
 The roving bee may taste 
 (Lest aught should run to waste) 
 
 Each fresh-blown flower. 
 
 The trickling rain doth fall 
 Upon us one and all ; 
 
 The south-wind kisses 
 The saucy milkmaid s cheek, 
 The nun s, demure and meek, 
 
 Nor any misses. 
 
 Then ask no more of me 
 That I should constant be 
 
 Nor eke desire it ; 
 Take not such idle pains 
 To hold our love in chains, 
 
 Nor coax, nor hire it.
 
 THE TRYST. 99 
 
 Be all things in thyself, 
 A sprite, a tricksy elf, 
 
 Forever changing, 
 So that thy latest mood 
 May ever bring new food 
 
 To Fancy ranging. 
 
 Forget what thou wast first, 
 And as I loved thee erst 
 
 In soul and feature, 
 I ll love thee out of mind 
 When each new morn shall find 
 
 Thee a new creature. 
 
 THE TRYST. 
 
 BLEEPING, I dreamed that thou wast mine, 
 
 ^ In some ambrosial lovers shrine. 
 
 My lips against thy lips were pressed, 
 
 And all our passion was confessed ; 
 
 So near and dear my darling seemed, 
 
 I knew not that I only dreamed. 
 
 Waking, this mid and moonlit night, 
 I clasp thee close by lover s right. 
 Thou fearest not my warm embrace, 
 And yet, so like the dream thy face 
 And kisses, I but half partake 
 The joy, and know not if I wake.
 
 SONGS. 
 
 NOCTURNE. 
 
 r ~PHE silent world is sleeping, 
 
 And spirits hover nigh, 
 With downward pinions keeping 
 
 Our love from mortal eye, 
 Nor any ear of Earth can hear 
 The heart-beat and the sigh. 
 
 Now no more the twilight bird 
 Showers his triple notes around ; 
 In the dewy paths is heard 
 No rude footfall s sound. 
 In the stillness I await 
 Thy coming late, 
 In the dusk would lay my heart 
 Close to thine own, and say how dear thou art ! 
 
 O life ! O rarest hour ! 
 When the dark world onward rolls, 
 And the fiery planets drift, 
 Then from our commingled souls 
 Clouds of passion and of power, 
 Flames of incense, lift ! 
 
 Come, for the world is turning 
 To meet the morning star ! 
 
 Answer my spirit s yearning 
 And seek the arms that call thee from afar : 
 
 Let them close ah, let them close 
 Around thee now, and lure thee to repose.
 
 ( IOI 
 
 SONG FROM A DRAMA. 
 
 T KNOW not if moonlight or starlight 
 -*- Be soft on the land and the sea, 
 I catch but the near light, the far light, 
 
 Of eyes that are burning for me ; 
 The scent of the night, of the roses, 
 
 May burden the air for thee, Sweet, 
 Tis only the breath of thy sighing 
 
 I know, as I lie at thy feet. 
 
 The winds may be sobbing or singing, 
 
 Their touch may be fervent or cold, 
 The night-bells may toll or be ringing, 
 
 I care not, while thee I enfold ! 
 The feast may go on, and the music 
 
 Be scattered in ecstasy round, 
 Thy whisper, " I love thee ! I love thee I " 
 
 Hath flooded my soul with its sound. 
 
 I think not of time that is flying, 
 
 How short is the hour I have won, 
 How near is this living to dying, 
 
 How the shadow still follows the sun ; 
 There is naught upon earth, no desire, 
 
 Worth a thought, though t were had by a sign ! 
 I love thee ! I love thee ! bring nigher 
 
 Thy spirit, thy kisses, to mine !
 
 SISTER BEATRICE. 
 
 A Legend from the " Scrmones Discipuli" of Jean 
 Herolt, the Dominican, A.D. 1518.
 
 SISTER BEATRICE. 
 
 A CLOISTER tale, a strange and ancient thing 
 **" Long since on vellum writ in gules and or : 
 And why should Chance to me this trover bring 
 
 From the grim dust-heap of forgotten lore, 
 And not to that gray bard still measuring 
 
 His laurelled years by music s golden score, 
 Nor to some comrade who like him has caught 
 The charm of lands by me too long unsought ? 
 
 Why not to one who, with a steadfast eye, 
 Ingathering her shadow and her sheen, 
 
 Saw Venice as she is, and, standing nigh, 
 
 Drew from the life that old, dismantled queen ? 
 
 Or to the poet through whom I well descry 
 Castile, and the Campeador s demesne ? 
 
 Or to that eager one whose quest has found 
 
 Each place of long renown, the world around ; 
 
 Whose foot has rested firm on either hill, 
 
 The sea-girt height where glows the midnight sun, 
 
 And wild Parnassus ; whose melodious skill 
 Has left no song untried, no wreath unwon ? 
 
 Why not to these ? Yet, since by Fortune s will 
 This quaint task given me I must not shun, 
 
 My verse shall render, fitly as it may, 
 
 An old church legend, meet for Christmas Day.
 
 io6 SISTER BEATRICE. 
 
 Once on a time (so read the monkish pages), 
 Within a convent that doth still abide 
 
 Even as it stood in those devouter ages, 
 Near a fair city, by the highway s side 
 
 There dwelt a sisterhood of them whose wages 
 Are stored in heaven : each a virgin bride 
 
 Of Christ, and bounden meekly to endure 
 
 In faith, and works, and chastity most pure. 
 
 A convent, and within a summer-land, 
 Like that of Browning and Boccaccio ! 
 
 Years since, my greener fancy would have planned 
 Its station thus : it should have had, I trow, 
 
 A square and flattened bell-tower, that might stand 
 Above deep-windowed buildings long and low, 
 
 Closed all securely by a vine-clung wall, 
 
 And shadowed on one side by cypress tall ; 
 
 Within the gate, a garden set with care : 
 
 Box-bordered plots, where peach and almond 
 trees 
 
 Rained blossoms on the maidens walking there, 
 Or rustled softly in the summer breeze ; 
 
 Here were sweet jessamine and jonquil rare, 
 And arbours meet for pious talk at ease ; 
 
 There must have been a dove-cote too, I know, 
 
 Where white-winged birds like spirits come and go. 
 
 Outside, the thrush and lark their music made 
 Beyond the olive-grove at dewy morn ; 
 
 By noon, cicalas, shrilling in the shade 
 Of oak and ilex, woke the peasant s horn ;
 
 SfSTJ? BEATRICE. 107 
 
 And, at the time when into darkness fade 
 
 The vineyards, from their purple depths were 
 
 borne 
 
 The nightingale s responses to the prayer 
 Of those sweet saints at vespers, meek and fair. 
 
 Such is the place that, with the hand and eye 
 Which are the joy of youth, I should have 
 painted. 
 
 Say not, who look thereon, that t is awry 
 Like nothing real, by rhymesters use attainted. 
 
 Ah well ! then put the faulty picture by, 
 
 And help me draw an abbess long since sainted., 
 
 Think of your love, each one, and thereby guess 
 
 The fashion of this lady s beauteousness. 
 
 For in this convent Sister Beatrice, 
 
 Of all her nuns the fairest and most young, 
 
 Became, through grace and special holiness, 
 
 Their sacred head, and moved, her brood among, 
 
 Devote d ame et tres-fervente au service; 
 
 And thrice each day, their hymns and Aves sung, 
 
 At Mary s altar would before them kneel, 
 
 Keeping her vows with chaste and pious zeal. 
 
 Now in the Holy Church there was a clerk, 
 A godly-seeming man (as such there be 
 
 Whose selfish hearts with craft and guile are dark), 
 Young, gentle-phrased, of handsome mien and 
 free. 
 
 His passion chose this maiden for its mark, 
 Begrudging heaven her white chastity, 
 
 And with most sacrilegious art the while 
 
 He sought her trustful nature to beguile.
 
 io8 SISTER BEATRICE. 
 
 Oft as they met, with subtle hardihood 
 
 He still more archly played the traitor s part, 
 
 And strove to wake that murmur in her blood 
 That times the pulses of a woman s heart ; 
 
 And in her innocence she long withstood 
 The secret tempter, but at last his art 
 
 Changed all her tranquil thoughts to love s desire, 
 
 Her vestal flame to earth s unhallowed fire. 
 
 So the fair governess, o ermastered, gave 
 Herself to the destroyer, yet as one 
 
 That slays, in pity, her sweet self, to save 
 Another from some wretched deed undone ; 
 
 But when she found her heart was folly s slave, 
 She sought the altar which her steps must shun 
 
 Thenceforth, and yielded up her sacred trust, 
 
 Ere tasting that false fruit which turns to dust. 
 
 One eve the nuns beheld her entering 
 Alone, as if for prayer beneath the rood, 
 
 Their chapel-shrine, wherein the offering 
 
 And masterpiece of some great painter stood, 
 
 The Virgin Mother, without plume or wing 
 Ascending, poised in rapt beatitude, 
 
 With hands crosswise, and intercession mild 
 
 For all who crave her mercy undefiled. 
 
 There Beatrice poor, guilty, desperate maid 
 Took from her belt the convent s blessed keys, 
 
 And with them on the altar humbly laid 
 Her missal, uttering such words as these 
 
 (Her eyes cast down, and all her soul afraid) : 
 " O dearest mistress, hear me on my knees 
 
 Confess to thee, in helplessness and shame, 
 
 I am no longer fit to speak thy name.
 
 SISTER BEATRICE. 109 
 
 " Take back the keys wherewith in constancy 
 Thy house and altar I have guarded well ! 
 
 No more may Beatrice thy servant be, 
 
 For earthly love her steps must needs compel. 
 
 Forget me in this sore infirmity 
 
 When my successor here her beads shall tell." 
 
 This said, the girl withdrew her as she might, 
 
 And with her lover fled that selfsame night ; 
 
 Fled out, and into the relentless world 
 
 Where Love abides, but Love that breedeth 
 Sorrow, 
 
 Where Purity still weeps with pinions furled, 
 And Passion lies in wait her all to borrow. 
 
 From such a height to such abasement whirled 
 She fled that night, and many a day and morrow 
 
 Abode indeed with him for whose embrace 
 
 She bartered heaven and her hope of grace. 
 
 O fickle will and pitiless desire, 
 
 Twin wolves, that raven in a lustful heart 
 
 And spare not innocence, nor yield, nor tire, 
 
 But youth from joy and life from goodness part ; 
 
 That drag an unstained victim to the mire, 
 Then cast it soiled and hopeless on the mart ! 
 
 Even so the clerk, once having dulled his longing, 
 
 A worse thing did than that first bitter wronging. 
 
 The base hind left her, ruined and alone, 
 Unknowing by what craft to gain her bread 
 
 In the hard world that gives to Want a stone. 
 What marvel that she drifted whither led 
 
 The current, that with none to heed her moan 
 She reached the shore where life on husks is fed, 
 
 Sank down, and, in the strangeness of her fall, 
 
 Among her fellows was the worst of all !
 
 i io SISTER BEATRICE. 
 
 Thus stranded, her fair body, consecrate 
 To holiness, was smutched by spoilers rude, 
 
 And entered all the seven fiends where late 
 Abode a seeming angel, pure and good. 
 
 What paths she followed in such woeful state, 
 By want, remorse, and the world s hate pursued, 
 
 Were known alone to them whose spacious ken 
 
 O erlooks not even the poor Magdalen. 
 
 After black years their dismal change had wrought 
 Upon her beauty, and there was no stay 
 
 By which to hold, some chance or yearning brought 
 Her vagrant feet along the convent-way ; 
 
 And half as in a dream there came a thought 
 (For years she had not dared to think or pray) 
 
 That moved her there to bow her in the dust 
 
 And bear no more, but perish as she must. 
 
 Crouched by the gate she waited, it is told, 
 Brooding the past and all of life forlorn, 
 
 Nor dared to lift her pallid face and old 
 Against the passer s pity or his scorn 
 
 And there perchance had ere another morn 
 Died of her shame and sorrows manifold, 
 
 But that a portress bade her pass within 
 
 For solace of her wretchedness or sin. 
 
 To whom the lost one, drinking now her fill 
 
 Of woe that wakened memories made more drear, 
 
 Said, " Was there not one Beatrice, until 
 
 Some time now gone, that was an abbess here ? " 
 
 "That was? " the other said. " Is she not still 
 The convent s head, and still our mistress dear? 
 
 Look ! even now she comes with open hand, 
 
 The purest, saintliest lady in the land ! "
 
 SISTER BEATRICE. in 
 
 And Beatrice, uplifting then her eyes, 
 Saw her own self (in womanhood divine, 
 
 It seemed) draw nigh, with holy look and wise, 
 The aged portress leaving at a sign. 
 
 Even while she marvelled at that strange disguise, 
 There stood before her, radiant, benign, 
 
 The blessed Mother of Mercy, all aflame 
 
 With light, as if from Paradise she came ! 
 
 From her most sacred lips, upon the ears 
 Of Beatrice, these words of wonder fell : 
 
 " Daughter, thy sins are pardoned ; dry thy tears, 
 And in this house again my mercies tell, 
 
 For, in thy stead, myself these woeful years 
 
 Have governed here and borne thine office well. 
 
 Take back the keys : save thee and me alone 
 
 No one thy fall and penance yet hath known ! " 
 
 Even then, as faded out that loveliness, 
 The abbess, looking down, herself descried 
 
 Clean-robed and spotless, such as all confess 
 To be a saint and fit for Heaven s bride. 
 
 So ends the legend, and ye well may guess 
 
 (Who, being untempted, walk in thoughtless 
 pride) 
 
 God of His grace can make the sinful pure, 
 
 And while earth lasts shall mercy still endure.
 
 SONNETS.
 
 HOPE DEFERRED. 
 
 TJRING no more flowers and books and precious 
 
 things ! 
 
 O speak no more of our beloved Art, 
 Of summer haunts, melodious wanderings 
 In leafy refuge from this weary mart ! 
 Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart ; 
 Now every word a newer sadness brings ! 
 Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart 
 From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings, 
 Nor craves for more than food from day to day ; 
 So long bereft of wildwood joy and song, 
 Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long, 
 The music born within him dies away ; 
 Even the song he loved becomes a pain, 
 Full-freighted with a yearning all in vain. 
 
 THE SWALLOW. 
 
 T T AD I, my love declared, the tireless wing 
 
 -*- -* That wafts the swallow to her northern skies, 
 
 I would not, sheer within the rich surprise 
 
 Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling 
 
 My coyer being ; but would follow Spring, 
 
 Melodious consort, as she daily flies, 
 
 Apace with suns, that o er new woodlands rise 
 
 Each morn with rains her gentler stages bring.
 
 n6 SONANTS. 
 
 My pinions should beat music with her own ; 
 Her smiles and odours should delight me ever, 
 Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone 
 Where golden seas receive the mighty river, 
 Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges sever 
 Our Norseland from the Arctic surge s moan. 
 
 A MOTHER S PICTURE. 
 
 HE seemed an angel to our infant eyes ! 
 
 Once, when the glorifying moon revealed 
 Her who at evening by our pillow kneeled, 
 Soft-voiced and golden-haired, from holy skies 
 Flown to her loves on wings of Paradise, 
 We looked to see the pinions half concealed. 
 The Tuscan vines and olives will not yield 
 Her back to me, who loved her in this wise, 
 And since have little known her, but have grown 
 To see another mother, tenderly 
 Watch over sleeping children of my own. 
 Perchance the years have changed her : yet alone 
 This picture lingers ; still she seems to me 
 The fair young angel of my infancy. 
 
 TO BA YARD TA YLOR. 
 
 WITH A COPY OF THE ILIAD. 
 
 T3 A YARD, awaken not this music strong, 
 ^ While round thy home the indolent sweet 
 
 breeze 
 
 Floats lightly as the summer breath of seas 
 O er which Ulysses heard the Sirens song.
 
 SONNETS. i\i 
 
 Dreams of low-lying isles to June belong, 
 And Circe holds us in her haunts of ease 
 But later, when these high ancestral trees 
 Are sere, and such melodious languors wrong 
 The reddening strength of the autumnal year, 
 Yields to heroic words thy ear and eye ; 
 Intent on these broad pages thou shalt hear 
 The trumpets blare, the Argive battle-cry, 
 And see Achilles hurl his hurtling spear, 
 And mark the Trojan arrows make reply !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 BOHEMIA. 
 
 A PILGRIMAGE. 
 I. 
 
 //if r / HEN buttercups are blossoming, 
 
 The poets sang, V is best to wed : 
 So all for love we paired in Spring 
 Blanche and I ere youth had sped, 
 For Autumn s wealth brings Autumn s wane. 
 Sworn fealty to royal Art 
 Was ours, and doubly linked the chain, 
 With symbols of her high domain, 
 That twined us ever heart to heart ; 
 
 And onward, like the Babes in the Wood, 
 We rambled, till before us stood 
 The outposts of Bohemia. 
 
 II. 
 
 For, roaming blithely many a day, 
 Eftsoons our little hoard of gold, 
 Like Christian s follies, slipt away, 
 Unloosened from the pilgrim s hold, 
 But left us just as blithe and free ; 
 Whereat our footsteps turned aside 
 From lord and lady of degree, 
 And bore us to that brave countree 
 Where merrily we now abide, 
 
 That proud and humble, poor and grand, 
 Enchanted, golden Gypsy-Land, 
 The Valley of Bohemia.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Together from the higher clime, 
 
 By terraced cliff and copse along, 
 
 Adown the slant we stept, in time 
 
 To many another pilgrim s song, 
 
 And came where faded far away, 
 
 Each side, the kingdom s ancient wall, 
 
 From breaking unto dying day ; 
 
 Beyond, the magic valley lay, 
 
 With glimpse of shimmering stream and fall ; 
 And here, between twin turrets, ran, 
 Built o er with arch and barbacan, 
 The entrance to Bohemia. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beneath the lichened parapet 
 Grim-sculptured Gog and Magog bore 
 The Royal Arms, Hope s Anchor, set 
 In azure, on a field of or, 
 With pendent mugs, and hands that wield 
 A lute and tambour, graven clear ; 
 What seemed a poet s scroll revealed 
 The antique legend of the shield : 
 Camkinus. fU*. ^lire. SB assail*, 
 ftng. 0f. 
 
 ilgrim. pass*. b*I0fo*. 
 *ntre. 
 
 V. 
 
 No churlish warder barred the gate, 
 Nor other pass was needed there 
 Than equal heart for either fate, 
 And barren scrip, and hope to spare.
 
 BOHEMIA. 123 
 
 Through the gray archway, hand in hand, 
 We walked, beneath the rampart high, 
 And on within the wondrous land ; 
 There, changed as by enchanter s wand, 
 My sweetheart, fairer to the eye 
 Than ever, moved along serene 
 In hood and cloak, a gypsy queen, 
 Born princess of Bohemia ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 A fairy realm ! where slope and stream, 
 Champaign and upland, town and grange, 
 Like shadowy shiftings of a dream, 
 Forever blend and interchange ; 
 A magic clime ! where, hour by hour, 
 Storm, cloud, and sunshine, fleeting by, 
 Commingle, and, through shine and shower, 
 Bright castles, lit with rainbows, tower, 
 Emblazoning the distant sky 
 
 With glimmering glories of a land 
 
 Far off, yet ever close at hand 
 As hope, in brave Bohemia. 
 
 VII. 
 
 On either side the travelled way, 
 
 Encamped along the sunny downs, 
 
 The blithesome, bold Bohemians lay ; 
 
 Or hid in quaintly-gabled towns, 
 
 At smoke-stained inns of musty date, 
 
 And spider-haunted attic nooks 
 
 In empty houses of the great, 
 
 Still smacking of their ancient state,
 
 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Strewn round with pipes and mouldy books, 
 And robes and buskins over-worn, 
 That well become the careless scorn 
 And freedom of Bohemia. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For, loving Beauty, and, by chance, 
 Too poor to make her all in all, 
 They spurn her half-way maintenance, 
 And let things mingle as they fall ; 
 Dissevered from all other climes, 
 Yet compassing the whole round world, 
 Where er are jests, and jousts at rhymes, 
 True love, and careless, jovial times, 
 Great souls by jilting Fortune whirled, 
 Men that were born before their day, 
 Kingly, without a realm to sway, 
 Yet monarchs in Bohemia ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 And errant wielders of the quill ; 
 And old-world princes, strayed afar, 
 In thread-bare exile chasing still 
 The glimpses of a natal star ; 
 And Woman taking refuge there 
 With woman s toil, and trust, and song, 
 And something of a piquant air 
 Defiant, as who must and dare 
 Steer her own shallop, right or wrong. 
 A certain noble nature schools, 
 In scorn of smaller, mincing rules, 
 The maidens of Bohemia.
 
 BOHEMIA. 125 
 
 x. 
 
 But we pursued our pilgrimage 
 Far on, through hazy lengths of road, 
 Or crumbling cities gray with age ; 
 And stayed in many a queer abode, 
 Days, seasons, years, wherein were born 
 Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three ; 
 And ever, though with travel worn, 
 Nor garnered for the morrow s morn, 
 We seemed a merry company, 
 
 We, and the mates whom friendship, or 
 What sunshine fell within our door, 
 Drew to us in Bohemia. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For Ambrose priest without a cure 
 Christened our babes, and drank the wine 
 He blessed, to make the blessing sure ; 
 And Ralph, the limner half-divine 
 The picture of my Blanche he drew, 
 As Saint Cecilia mong the caves, 
 She singing; eyes a holy blue, 
 Upturned and rapturous ; hair, in hue, 
 Gold rippled into amber waves. 
 
 There, too, is wayward, wild Annette, 
 Danseuse and warbler and grisette, 
 True daughter of Bohemia, 
 
 XII. 
 
 But all by turns and nothing long ; 
 And Rose, whose needle gains her bread ; 
 And bookish Sibyl, she whose tongue 
 The bees of Hybla must have fed ;
 
 126 MISCELLANEOUS FOE MS. 
 
 And one a poet nowise sage 
 For self, but gay companion boon 
 And prophet of the golden age; 
 He joined us in our pilgrimage 
 Long since, one early Autumn noon 
 When, faint with journeying, we sate 
 Within a wayside hostel-gate 
 To rest us in Bohemia. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 In rusty garb, but with an air 
 Of grace, that hunger could not whelm, 
 He told his wants, and " Could we spare 
 Aught of the current of the realm 
 A shilling ? " which I gave ; and so 
 Came talk, and Blanche s kindly smile ; 
 Whereat he felt his heart aglow, 
 And said : " Lo, here is silver ! lo, 
 Mine host hath ale ! and it were vile, 
 If so much coin were spent by me 
 For bread, when such good company 
 Is gathered in Bohemia." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Richer than Kaiser on his throne, 
 A royal stoup he bade them bring ; 
 And so, with many of mine own, 
 His shilling vanished on the wing ; 
 And many a skyward-floating strain 
 He sang, we chorusing the lay 
 Till all the hostel rang again 
 But when the day began to wane,
 
 BOHEMIA. 127 
 
 Along the sequel of our way 
 
 He kept us pace ; and, since that time, 
 We never lack for song and rhyme 
 To cheer us, in Bohemia. 
 
 xv. 
 
 And once we stopped a twelvemonth, where 
 Five-score Bohemians began 
 Their scheme to cheapen bed and fare, 
 Upon a late-discovered plan ; 
 " For see," they said, " the sum how small 
 By which one pilgrim s wants are met ! 
 And if a host together fall, 
 What need of any cash at all ? " 
 Though how it worked I half forget, 
 Yet still the same old dance and song 
 We found, the kindly, blithesome throng 
 And joyance of Bohemia. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thus onward through the Magic Land, 
 With varying chance. But once there past 
 A mystic shadow o er our band, 
 Deeper than Want could ever cast, 
 For, oh, it darkened little eyes ! 
 We saw our youngest darling die, 
 Then robed her in her palmer s guise, 
 And crossed the fair hands pilgrim-wise, 
 And, one by one, so tenderly, 
 
 Came Ambrose, Sibyl, Ralph, and Rose, 
 Strewing each sweetest flower that grows 
 In wildwoods of Bohemia.
 
 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But last the Poet, sorrowing, stood 
 
 Above the tiny clay, and said : 
 
 " Bright little Spirit, pure and good, 
 
 Whither so far away hast, fled ? 
 
 Full soon thou tryest that other sphere : 
 
 Whate er is lacking in our lives 
 
 Thou dost attain ; for Heaven is near, 
 
 Methinks, to pilgrims wandering here, 
 
 As to that one who never strives 
 
 With fortune, has not come to know 
 The pride and pain that dwell so low 
 In valleys of Bohemia." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He ceased, and pointed solemnly 
 
 Through western windows ; and we saw 
 
 That lustrous castle of the sky 
 
 Gleam, touched with flame ; and heard with awe, 
 
 About us, gentle whisperings 
 
 Of unseen watchers hovering near 
 
 Our dead, and rustling angel wings ! 
 
 Now, whether this or that year brings 
 
 The valley s end, or, haply, here 
 
 Our pilgrimage for life must last, 
 
 We know not ; but a sacred past 
 Has hallowed all Bohemia.
 
 ( 129 ) 
 
 PENELOPE. 
 
 "M" OT thus, Ulysses, with a tender word, 
 
 ^ ^ Pretence of state affairs, soft blandishment, 
 
 And halt assurances, canst thou evade 
 
 My heart s discernment. Think not such a film 
 
 Hath touched these aged eyes, to make them lose 
 
 The subtlest mood of those even now adroop, 
 
 Self-conscious, darkling from my nearer gaze. 
 
 Full well I know thy mind, O man of wiles ! 
 
 man of restless yearnings fate-impelled, 
 Fate-conquering like a waif thrown back and forth 
 O er many waters ! Oft I see thee stand 
 
 At eve, a landmark on the outer cliff, 
 Looking far westward ; later, when the feast 
 Smokes in the hall, and nimble servants pass 
 Great bowls of wine, and ancient Phemeus sings 
 The deeds of Peleus son, thy right hand moves 
 Straight for its sword-hilt, like a ship for home ; 
 Then, when thou hearest him follow in the song 
 Thine own miraculous sojourn of long years 
 Through stormy seas, weird islands, and the land 
 Of giants, and the gray companions smite 
 Their shields, and cry, What do we longer here ? 
 Afloat ! and let the great waves bear us on ! 
 
 1 know thou growest weary of the realm, 
 Thy wife, thy son, the people, and thy fame. 
 
 I too have had my longings. Am I not 
 Penelope, who, when Ulysses came 
 
 K
 
 130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To Sparta, and Icarius bade her choose 
 Betwixt her sire and wooer, veiled her face 
 And stept upon the galley silver-oared, 
 And since hath kept thine Ithacensian halls ? 
 Then when the hateful Helen fled to Troy 
 With Paris, and the Argive chieftains sailed 
 Their ships to Aulis, I would have thee go 
 Presaging fame, and power, and spoils of war. 
 So ten years passed ; meanwhile I reared thy son 
 To know his father s wisdom, and, apart 
 Among my maidens, wove the yellow wool. 
 But then, returning one by one, they came, 
 The island-princes ; high-born dames of Crete 
 And Cephalonia saw again their lords ; 
 Only Ulysses came not ; yet the war 
 Was over, and his vessels, like a troop 
 Of cranes in file, had spread their wings for home. 
 More was unknown. Then many a winter s night 
 The servants piled great fagots, smeared with tar, 
 High on the palace-roof; with mine own hands 
 I fired the heaps, that, haply, far away 
 On the dark waters, might my lord take heart 
 And know the glory of his kingly towers. 
 
 So winter passed ; and summer came and went, 
 And winter and another summer ; then 
 Alas, how many weary months and days ! 
 But he I loved came not. Meanwhile thou knowest 
 Pelasgia s noblest chiefs, with kingly gifts 
 And pledge of dower, gathered in the halls ; 
 But still this heart kept faithful, knowing yet 
 Thou wouldst return, though wrecked on alien 
 
 shores. 
 And great Athene often in my dreams
 
 PENELOPE. 131 
 
 Shone, uttering words of cheer. But, last of all, 
 The people rose, swearing a king should rule, 
 To keep their ancient empery of the isles 
 Inviolate and thrifty : bade me choose 
 A mate, nor longer dally. Then I prayed 
 Respite, until the web within my loom, 
 Of gold and purple curiously devised 
 For old Laertes shroud, should fall complete 
 From hands still faithful to his blood. Thou 
 
 knowest 
 
 How like a ghost I left my couch at night, 
 Unravelling the labour of the day, 
 And warded off the fate, till came that time 
 When my lost sea-king thundered in his halls, 
 And with long arrows clove the suitors hearts. 
 So constant was I ! now not thirty moons 
 Go by, and thou forgettest all. Alas ! 
 What profit is there any more in love ? 
 What thankless sequel hath a woman s faith ! 
 
 Yet if thou wilt, in these thy golden years, 
 Safe-housed in royalty, like a god revered 
 By all the people, if thou yearnest yet 
 Once more to dare the deep and Neptune s hate, 
 I will not linger in a widowed age ; 
 I will not lose Ulysses, hardly found 
 After long vigils ; but will cleave about 
 Thy neck, with more than woman s prayers and 
 
 tears, 
 
 Until thou take me with thee. As I left 
 My sire, I leave my son, to follow where 
 Ulysses goeth, dearer for the strength 
 Of that great heart which ever drives him on 
 To large experience of newer toils !
 
 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Trust me, I will not any hindrance prove, 
 But, like Athene s helm, a guiding star, 
 A glory and a comfort ! Oh, be sure 
 My heart shall take its lesson from thine own ! 
 My voice shall cheer the mariners at their oars 
 In the night watches ; it shall warble songs, 
 Whose music shall o erpower the luring airs 
 Of Nereid or Siren. If we find 
 Those isles thou namest, where the golden fount 
 Gives youth to all who taste it, we will drink 
 Deep draughts, until the furrows leave thy brow, 
 And I shall walk in beauty, as when first 
 I saw thee from afar in Sparta s groves. 
 But if Charybdis seize our keel, or swift 
 Black currents bear us down the noisome wave 
 That leads to Hades, till the vessel sink 
 In Stygian waters, none the less our souls 
 Shall gain the farther shore, and, hand in hand, 
 Walk from the strand across Elysian fields, 
 Mong happy thronging shades, that point and say 
 " There go the great Ulysses, loved of gods, 
 And she, his wife, most faithful unto death ! " 
 
 ALECTRYON. 
 
 Ares, whose tempestuous godhood 
 found 
 
 Delight in those thick-tangled solitudes 
 Of Hebrus, watered tracts of rugged Thrace, 
 Great Ares, scouring the Odrysian wilds, 
 There met Alectryon, a Thracian boy, 
 Stalwart beyond his years, and swift of foot
 
 ALECTRYON. 133 
 
 To hunt from morn till eve the white-toothed boar. 
 " What hero," said the war-God, "joined his blood 
 With that of Haemian nymph, to make thy form 
 So fair, thy soul so daring, and thy thews 
 So lusty for the contest on the plains 
 Wherein the fleet Odrysae tame their steeds ? " 
 
 From that time forth the twain together chased 
 The boar, or made their coursers cleave the breadth 
 Of yellow Hebrus, and, through vales beyond, 
 Drove the hot leopard foaming to his lair. 
 And day by day Alectryon dearer grew 
 To the God s restless spirit, till from Thrace 
 He bore him, even to Olympos ; there 
 Before him set immortal food and wine, 
 That fairer youth and lustier strength might serve 
 His henchman ; bade him bear his arms, and 
 
 cleanse 
 
 The crimsoned burnish of his brazen car : 
 So dwelt the Thracian youth among the Gods. 
 
 There came a day when Ares left at rest 
 His spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed 
 
 brow, 
 
 Calling Alectryon to his side, and said : 
 " The shadow of Olympos longer falls 
 Through misty valleys of the lower world ; 
 The Earth shall be at peace a summer s night ; 
 Men shall have calm, and the unconquered host 
 Peopling the walls of Troas, and the tribes 
 Of Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms ; 
 For Aphrodite, queen of light and love, 
 Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire, 
 Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace,
 
 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dearer than battle and the joy of war : 
 
 She, for whose charms I would renounce the sword 
 
 For ever, even godhood, would she wreathe 
 
 My brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven. 
 
 Hephsestos, the lame cuckold, unto whose 
 
 Misshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen, 
 
 To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vault 
 
 Roofed by the roaring surge ; wherein, betimes, 
 
 He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron, 
 
 Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail, 
 
 White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods. 
 
 Do thou, Alectryon, faithful to my trust, 
 
 Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire. 
 
 Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle, 
 
 Sweet odours, and all rarest sights and sounds, 
 
 My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain. 
 
 But when the feast is over, and thou seest 
 
 Ares and Aphrodite pass beyond 
 
 The portals of that chamber whence all winds 
 
 Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth, 
 
 Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep ; 
 
 And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn ; 
 
 Lest Helios, the spy, may peer within 
 
 Our windows, and to Lemnos speed apace, 
 
 In envy clamouring to the hobbling smith, 
 
 Hephsestos, of the wrong I do his bed." 
 
 Thus Ares ; and the Thracian boy, well pleased, 
 Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liege 
 To her, the perfect queen of light and love. 
 So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates, 
 Encolumned high by Heaven s artisan, 
 Hephsestos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot, 
 Yet unto whom was Aphrodite given
 
 ALECTRYON. 135 
 
 By Zeus, because from his misshapen hands 
 All shapely things found being ; but the gift 
 Brought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame, 
 Like those devices which he wrought himself, 
 Grim, patient, unbeloved. 
 
 There passed they in 
 At portals of the high, celestial House, 
 And on beyond the starry-golden court, 
 Through amorous hidden ways, and winding paths 
 Set round with splendours, to the spangled hall 
 Of secret audience for noble guests. 
 Here Charis laboured, so Hephaestos bade, 
 Moulding the room s adornments ; here she built 
 Low couches, framed in ivory, overlain 
 With skins of pard and panther, and the fleece 
 Of sheep which graze the low Hesperian isles ; 
 And in the midst a cedarn table spread, 
 Whereon the loves of all the elder Gods 
 Were wrought in gold and silver ; and the light 
 Of quenchless rubies sparkled over all. 
 Thus far came Ares and the Alectryon, 
 First leaving shield and falchion at the door, 
 That naught of violence should haunt that air 
 Serene, but laughter-loving peace, and joys 
 The meed of Gods, once given men to know. 
 
 Then, from her da is in the utmost hall, 
 Shone toward them Aphrodite, not by firm. 
 Imperial footfalls, but in measureless 
 Procession, even as, wafted by her doves, 
 She kissed the faces of the yearning waves 
 From Cyprus to the high Thessalian mount, 
 Claiming her throne in Heaven ; so light she stept, 
 Untended by her Graces ; only he,
 
 I3& MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Eros, th eternal child, with welcomings 
 Sprang forward to Ares, like a beam of light 
 Flashed from a coming brightness, ere it comes ; 
 And the ambrosial mother to his glee 
 Joined her own joy, coy as she glided near 
 Ares, till Ares closed her in his arms 
 An instant, with the perfect love of Gods. 
 And the wide chamber gleamed with their delight, 
 And infinite tinkling laughters rippled through 
 Far halls, wherefrom no boding echoes came. 
 
 But when the passion of their meeting fell 
 To dalliance, the mighty lovers, sunk 
 Within those ivory couches golden-fleeced, 
 Made wassail at the wondrous board, and held 
 Sweet stolen converse till the middle night. 
 And soulless servitors came gliding in, 
 Handmaidens, wrought of gold, the marvellous 
 
 work 
 
 Of lame Hephsestos ; having neither will, 
 Nor voice, yet bearing on their golden trays 
 Lush fruits and Cyprian wine, and, intermixt, 
 Olympian food and nectar, earth with heaven. 
 These Eros and Alectryon took therefrom, 
 And placed before the lovers ; and, meanwhile, 
 Melodious breathings from unfmgered lutes, 
 Warblings from unseen nightingales, and songs 
 From lips uncrimsoned, scattered music round. 
 So fled the light-shod moments, hour by hour, 
 While the grim husband clanged upon his forge 
 In lurid caverns of the distant isle, 
 Unboding, and unheeded in his home, 
 Save with a scornful jest. Till now the crown 
 Oi Artemis shone at her topmost height :
 
 ALRCTRYON. 137 
 
 Then rose the impassioned lovers, with rapt eyes 
 Fixed each on each, and passed beyond the hall, 
 Through curtains of that chamber whence all winds 
 Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth ; 
 At whose dim vestibule Alectryon 
 Disposed him, mindful of his master s word ; 
 But Eros, heavy-eyed, long since had slept, 
 Deep-muffled in the softness of his plumes. 
 And all was silence in the House of Fire. 
 
 Only Alectryon, through brazen bars, 
 Watched the blue East for Eos, she whose torch 
 Should warn him of the coming of the Sun. 
 Even thus he kept his vigils ; but, ere half 
 Her silvery downward path the Huntress knew, 
 His senses by that rich immortal food 
 Grew numbed with languor. Then the shadowy 
 
 hall s 
 
 Deep columns glimmered, interblent with dreams, 
 Thick forests, running waters, darkling caves 
 Of Thrace ; and half in thought he grasped the bow ; 
 Hunted once more within his native wilds, 
 Cheering the hounds ; until before his eyes 
 The drapery of all nearer pictures fell, 
 And his limbs drooped. Whereat the imp of Sleep, 
 Hypnos, who hid him at the outer gate, 
 Slid in with silken-sandalled feet, and laid 
 A subtle finger on his lids. And so, 
 Crouched at the warder-post, Alectryon slept. 
 
 Meanwhile the God and Goddess, recking nought 
 Of evil, trusting to the faithful boy, 
 Sank satiate in the calm of tranced rest. 
 And past the sleeping warder, deep within
 
 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The portals of that chamber whence all winds 
 Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth, 
 Hypnos kept on, walking, yet half afloat 
 In the sweet air ; and fluttering with cool wings 
 Above their couch fanned the reposeful pair 
 To slumber. Thus, a careless twilight hour, 
 Unknowing Eos and her torch, they slept. 
 
 Ill-fated rest ! Awake, ye fleet-winged Loves, 
 Your mistress ! Eos, rouse the sleeping God, 
 And warn him of the coming of the Day ! 
 Alectryon, wake ! In vain : Eos swept by, 
 Radiant, a blushing finger on her lips. 
 In vain ! Close on her flight, from furthest East, 
 The peering Helios drove his lambent car, 
 Casting the tell-tale beams on earth and sky, 
 Until Olympos laughed within his light, 
 And all the House of Fire grew roofed with gold ; 
 And through its brazen windows Helios gazed 
 Upon the sleeping lovers : thence away 
 To Lemnos flashed, across the rearward sea, 
 A messenger, from whom the vengeful smith, 
 Hephaestos, learned the story of his wrongs ; 
 Whence afterward rude scandal spread through 
 Heaven. 
 
 But they, the lovers, startled from sweet sleep 
 By garish Day, stood timorous and mute, 
 Even as a regal pair, the hart and hind, 
 When first the keynote of the clarion horn 
 Pierces their covert, and the deep-mouthed hound 
 Bays, following on the trail ; then, with small pause 
 For amorous partings, sped in diverse ways. 
 She, Aphrodite, clothed in pearly cloud,
 
 ALECTRYON. 139 
 
 Dropt from Olympos to the eastern shore ; 
 
 Thence floated, half in shame, half laughter-pleased, 
 
 Southward across the blue ^Egaean sea, 
 
 That had a thousand little dimpling smiles 
 
 At her discomfort, and a thousand eyes 
 
 To shoot irreverent glances. But her conch 
 
 Passed the Euboean coast, and softly on 
 
 By rugged Delos, and the gentler slope 
 
 Of Naxos, to Icarian waves serene ; 
 
 Thence sailed betwixt fair Rhodes, on the left, 
 
 And windy Carpathos, until it touched 
 
 Cyprus ; and soon the conscious Goddess found 
 
 Her bower in the hollow of the isle ; 
 
 And wondering nymphs in their white arms received 
 
 Their white-armed mistress, bathing her fair limbs 
 
 In fragrant dews, twining her lucent hair 
 
 With roses, and with kisses soothing her; 
 
 Till, glowing in fresh loveliness, she sank 
 
 To stillness, tended in the sacred isle, 
 
 And hid herself awhile from all her peers. 
 
 But angry Ares faced the treacherous Morn, 
 Spurning the palace tower ; nor looked behind, 
 Disdainful of himself and secret joys 
 That stript him to the laughter of the Gods. 
 Toward the East he made, and overhung 
 The broad Thermaic gulf; then, shunning well 
 The crags of Lemnos, by Mount Athos stayed 
 A moment, mute ; thence hurtled sheer away, 
 Across the murmuring Northern sea, whose waves 
 Are swollen in billows ruffled with the cuffs 
 Of endless winds ; so reached the shores of Thrace 
 And spleen pursued him in the tangled wilds.
 
 HO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Hither at eventide remorseful came 
 Alectryon ; but the indignant God, 
 With harsh revilings, changed him to the Cock, 
 That evermore, remembering his fault, 
 Heralds with warning voice the coming Day. 
 
 APOLLO. 
 
 \ MAINLY, O burning Poets ! 
 * Ye wait for his inspiration, 
 Even as kings of old 
 Stood by the oracle-gates. 
 Hasten back, he will say, hasten back 
 To your provinces far away ! 
 There, at my own good time, 
 Will I send my answer to you. 
 
 Are ye not kings of song ? 
 At last the god cometh ! 
 The air runs over with splendour ; 
 The fire leaps high on the altar; 
 Melodious thunders shake the ground. 
 Hark to the Delphic responses ! 
 Hark ! it is the god ! 
 
 HELIOTROPE. 
 
 T WALK in the morning twilight, 
 -* Along a garden-slope, 
 To the shield of moss encircling 
 My beautiful Heliotrope.
 
 HELIOTROPE. 141 
 
 sweetest of all the flowerets 
 That bloom where angels tread ! 
 
 But never such marvellous odour 
 From heliotrope was shed, 
 
 As the passionate exhalation, 
 
 The dew of celestial wine, 
 That floats in tremulous langour 
 
 Around this darling of mine. 
 
 For, only yester-even, 
 I saw the dearest scene ! 
 
 1 heard the delicate footfall, 
 
 The step of my love, my queen. 
 
 Along the walk she glided : 
 
 I made no sound nor sign, 
 But ever, at the turning 
 
 Of her star-white neck divine, 
 
 I shrunk in the shade of the cypress, 
 And crouched in the swooning grass, 
 
 Like some Arcadian shepherd 
 To see an Oread pass. 
 
 But when she came to the border 
 
 At the end of the garden-slope, 
 She bent, like a rose-tree, over 
 
 That beautiful Heliotrope. 
 
 The cloud of its subtile fragrance 
 
 Entwined her in its wreath, 
 And all the while commingled 
 
 With the incense of her breath.
 
 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And so she glistened onward, 
 Far down the long parterre, 
 
 Beside the statue of Hesper, 
 And a hundred times more fair. 
 
 But ah ! her breath had added 
 The perfume that I find 
 
 In this, the sweetest of flowerets, 
 And the paragon of its kind. 
 
 I drink deep draughts of its nectar 
 I faint with love and hope ! 
 
 Oh, what did she whisper to you, 
 My beautiful Heliotrope? 
 
 PROVENCAL LOVERS. 
 
 AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE. 
 
 "\ 1 7ITHIN the garden of Beaucaire 
 
 * * He met her by a secret stair, 
 The night was centuries ago. 
 Said Aucassin, " My love, my pet, 
 These old confessors vex me so ! 
 They threaten all the pains of hell 
 Unless I give you up, ma belle ; "- 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 " Now, who should there in heaven be 
 To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie ? 
 To reach that spot I little care ! 
 There all the droning priests are met ;
 
 PROVENCAL LOVERS. 143 
 
 All the old cripples; too, are there 
 That unto shrines and altars cling 
 To filch the Peter-pence we bring ; "- 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 " There are the barefoot monks and friars 
 With gowns well tattered by the briars, 
 The saints who lift their eyes and whine : 
 I like them not a starveling set ! 
 Who d care with folk like these to dine ? 
 The other road twere just as well 
 That you and I should take, ma belle ! "- 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 " To purgatory I would go 
 With pleasant comrades whom we know, 
 Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights 
 Whose deeds the land will not forget, 
 The captains of a hundred fights, 
 The men of valour and degree : 
 We ll join that gallant company,"- 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 " There, too, are jousts and joyance rare, 
 And beauteous ladies debonair, 
 The pretty dames, the merry brides, 
 Who with their wedded lords coquette 
 And have a friend or two besides, 
 And all in gold and trappings gay, 
 With furs, and crests in vair and gray ; "- 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 " Sweet players on the cithern strings, 
 And they who roam the world like kings,
 
 I 4 4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! 
 Pardie ! I d join them now, my pet, 
 If you went also, ma douce mie ! 
 The joys of heaven I d forego 
 To have you with me there below," 
 Said Aucassin to Nicolette. 
 
 EDGED TOOLS. 
 
 \ 17 ELL, Helen, quite two years have flown 
 * Since that enchanted, dreamy night, 
 When you and I were lefi alone, 
 
 And wondered whether they were right 
 Who said that each the other loved ; 
 
 And thus debating, yes and no, 
 And half in earnest, as it proved, 
 
 We bargained to pretend twas so. 
 
 Two sceptic children of the world, 
 
 Each with a heart engraven o er 
 With broken love-knots, quaintly curled, 
 
 Of hot flirtations held before ; 
 Yet, somehow, either seemed to find, 
 
 This time, a something more akin 
 To that young, natural love, the kind 
 
 Which comes but once, and breaks us in. 
 
 What sweetly stolen hours we knew, 
 
 And frolics perilous as gay ! 
 Though lit in sport, Love s taper grew 
 
 More bright and burning day by day.
 
 EDGED TOOLS, 145 
 
 We knew each heart was only lent, 
 The other s ancient scars to heal : 
 
 The very thought a pathos blent 
 With all the mirth we tried to feel. 
 
 How bravely, when the time to part 
 
 Came with the wanton season s close, 
 Though nature with our mutual art 
 
 Had mingled more than either chose, 
 We smothered Love, upon the verge 
 
 Of folly, in one last embrace, 
 And buried him without a dirge, 
 
 And turned, and left his resting-place. 
 
 Yet often (tell me what it means !) 
 
 His spirit steals upon me here, 
 Far, far away from all the scenes 
 
 His little lifetime held so dear ; 
 He comes : I hear a mystic strain 
 
 In which some tender memory lies ; 
 I dally with your hair again ; 
 
 I catch the gleam of violet eyes. 
 
 Ah, Helen ! how have matters been 
 
 Since those rude obsequies, with you ? 
 Say, is my partner in the sin 
 
 A sharer of the penance too ? 
 Again the vision s at my side : 
 
 I drop my head upon my breast, 
 And wonder if he really died, 
 
 And why his spirit will not rest.
 
 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ESTELLE. 
 
 " How came he mad ?" HAMLET. 
 
 all the beautiful demons who fasten on 
 human hearts 
 To fetter the bodies and souls of men with ex 
 quisite, mocking arts, 
 The cruellest, and subtlest, and fairest to mortal 
 
 sight, 
 
 Is surely a woman called Estelle, who tortures me 
 day and night. 
 
 The first time that I saw her she passed with sweet 
 lips mute, 
 
 As if in scorn of the vacant praise of those who 
 made her suit ; 
 
 A hundred lustres flashed and shone as she rustled 
 through the crowd, 
 
 And a passion seized me for her there, so passion 
 less and proud. 
 
 The second time that I saw her she met me face to 
 face; 
 
 Her bending beauty answered my bow in a tremu 
 lous moment s space ; 
 
 With an upward glance that instantly fell she read 
 me through and through, 
 
 And found in me something worth her while to idle 
 with and subdue ;
 
 ESTELLE. 147 
 
 Something, I know not what : perhaps the spirit of 
 
 eager youth, 
 That named her a queen of queens at once, and 
 
 loved her in very truth ; 
 That threw its pearl of pearls at her feet, and 
 
 offered her, in a breath, 
 The costliest gift a man can give from his cradle to 
 
 his death. 
 
 The third time that I saw her this woman called 
 
 Estelle 
 She passed her milk-white arm through mine and 
 
 dazzled me with her spell ; 
 A blissful fever thrilled my veins, and there, in the 
 
 moonbeams white, 
 I yielded my soul to the fierce control of that 
 
 maddening delight ! 
 
 And at many a trysting afterwards she wove my 
 
 heart-strings round 
 Her delicate fingers, twisting them, and chanting 
 
 low as she wound ; 
 The rune she sang rang sweet and clear like the 
 
 chime of a witch s bell ; 
 Its echo haunts me even now, with the word, 
 
 Estelle ! Estelle ! 
 
 Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at 
 
 her feet, 
 And she turned me off with a calm surprise when 
 
 her triumph was all complete : 
 It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless 
 
 out of her eyes, 
 Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from 
 
 cloudless and bluest skies !
 
 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat 
 
 my thoughts to rack : 
 Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory 
 
 floated back ? 
 Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this 
 
 woman called Estelle 
 Is flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from 
 
 the depths of hell. 
 
 For at night she stands where the pallid moon 
 
 streams into this grated cell, 
 And only gives me that mocking glance when I 
 
 speak her name Estelle ! 
 With the old resistless longing often I strive to 
 
 clasp her there, 
 But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I 
 
 know not where. 
 
 And I hold that if she were human she could not 
 
 fly like the wind, 
 But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite 
 
 of her scornful mind : 
 Yet, oh ! she is not a phantom, since devils are not 
 
 so bad 
 As to haunt and torture a man long after their 
 
 tricks have made him mad ! 
 
 ANONYM A. 
 
 HER CONFESSION. 
 
 T F I had been a rich man s girl, 
 -*- With my tawny hair, and this wanton art 
 Of lifting my eyes in the evening whirl 
 And looking into another s heart ;
 
 ANONYMA. 149 
 
 Had love been mine at birth, and friends 
 Caressing and guarding me night and day, 
 
 With doctors to watch my finger-ends, 
 And a parson to teach me how to pray ; 
 
 If I had been reared as others have, 
 
 With but a tithe of these looks, which came 
 From my reckless mother, now in her grave, 
 
 And the father who grudged me even his name, 
 Why, I should have station and tender care, 
 
 Should ruin men in the high-bred way, 
 Passionless, smiling at their despair, 
 
 And marrying where my vantage lay. 
 
 As it is, I must have love and dress, 
 
 Jewelled trinkets, and costly food, 
 For I was born for plenteousness, 
 
 Music and flowers, and all things good. 
 To that same father I owe some thanks, 
 
 Seeing, at least, that blood will tell, 
 And keep me ever above the ranks 
 
 Of those who wallow where they fell. 
 
 True, there are weary, weary days 
 
 In the great hotel where I make my lair, 
 Where I meet the men with their brutal praise, 
 
 Or answer the women, stare for stare. 
 Tis an even fight, and I ll carry it through, 
 
 Pit them against me, great and small : 
 I grant no quarter, nor would I sue 
 
 For grace to the softest of them all. 
 
 I cannot remember half the men 
 Whose sin has tangled them in my toils,
 
 ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 All are alike before me then, 
 
 Part of my easily conquered spoils : 
 
 Tall or short, and dark or fair, 
 Rich or famous, haughty or fond, 
 
 There are few, I find, who will not forswear 
 The lover s oath and the wedding bond. 
 
 Fools ! what is it that drives them on 
 
 With their perjured lips on poison fed ; 
 Vain of themselves, and cruel as stone, 
 
 How should they be so cheaply led ? 
 Surely they know me as I am, 
 
 Only a cuckoo, at the best, 
 Watching, careless of hate and shame, 
 
 To crouch myself in another s nest. 
 
 But the women, how they flutter and flout, 
 
 The stupid, terribly virtuous wives, 
 If I but chance to move about 
 
 Or enter within their bustling hives ! 
 Buz ! buz ! in the scandalous gatherings, 
 
 When a strange queen lights amid their throng, 
 And their tongues have a thousand angry stings 
 
 To send her travelling, right or wrong. 
 
 Well, the earth is wide and open to all, 
 
 And money and men are everywhere, 
 And, as I roam, twill ill befall 
 
 If I do not gain my lawful share : 
 One drops off, but another will come 
 
 With as light a head and heavy a purse ; 
 So long as I have the world for a home, 
 
 I ll take my fortune, better or worse !
 
 REFUGE IN NA TURE. 
 
 TT THEN the rude world s relentless war has 
 
 * * pressed 
 
 Fiercely upon them, and the hot campaign 
 Closes with battles lost, some yield their lives, 
 Or linger in the ruins of the fight 
 Unwise, and comprehending not their fate, 
 Nor gathering that affluent recompense 
 Which the all-pitying Earth has yet in store. 
 Surely such men have never known the love 
 Of Nature ; nor had recourse to her fount 
 Of calm delights, whose influences heal 
 The wounded spirits of her vanquished sons ; 
 Nor ever in those fruitful earlier days, 
 Wherein her manifest forms do most enrich 
 Our senses void of subtler cognizance 
 Wandered in summer fields, climbed the free hills, 
 Pursued the murmuring music of her streams, 
 And found the borders of her sounding sea. 
 
 But thou when, in the multitudinous lists 
 Of traffic, all thine own is forfeited 
 At some wild hazard, or by weakening drains 
 Poured from thee ; or when, striving for the meed 
 Of place, thou failest, and the lesser man 
 By each ignoble method wins thy due ; 
 When the injustice of the social world 
 Environs thee ; when ruthless public scorn,
 
 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Black slander, and the meannesses of friends 
 
 Have made the bustling practice of the world 
 
 To thee a discord and a mockery ; 
 
 Or even if that last extremest pang 
 
 Be thine, and, added to such other woes, 
 
 The loss of that for ever faithful love 
 
 Which else had balanced all : the putting out, 
 
 Untimely, of the light in dearest eyes ; 
 
 At such a time thou well may st count the days 
 
 Evil, and for a season quit the field ; 
 
 Yet not surrendering all human hopes, 
 
 Nor the rich physical life which still remains 
 
 God s boon and thy sustainer. It were base 
 
 To join alliance with the hosts of Fate 
 
 Against thyself, crowning their victory 
 
 By loose despair, or seeking rest in death. 
 
 More wise, betake thee to those sylvan haunts 
 Thou knewest when young, and, once again a 
 
 child, 
 
 Let their perennial loveliness renew 
 Thy natural faith and childhood s heart serene. 
 Forgetting all the toilsome pilgrimage, 
 Awake from strife and shame, as from a dream 
 Dreamed by a boy, when under waving trees 
 He sleeps and dreams a languid afternoon. 
 Once more from these harmonious beauties gain 
 Repose and ransom, and a power to feel 
 The immortal gladness of inanimate things. 
 
 There is the mighty Mother, ever young 
 And garlanded, and welcoming her sons. 
 There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain, 
 And merge thy little, individual woe
 
 REFUGE IN NATURE. 153 
 
 In the broad health and happy fruitfulness 
 
 Of all that smiles around thee. For thy sake 
 
 The woven arches of her forests breathe 
 
 Perpetual anthems, and the blue skies smile 
 
 Between, to heal thee with their infinite hope, 
 
 There are her crystal waters : lave thy brows, 
 
 Hot with long turmoil, m their purity ; 
 
 Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbs 
 
 Blood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall come 
 
 Upon thee ; waking, thoti shalt find in bloom 
 
 The lilies, fresh as in the olden days ; 
 
 And once again, when Night unveils her stars, 
 
 Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance, 
 
 And feel the old, mysterious awe subdue 
 
 The phantoms of thy pain. 
 
 And from that height 
 
 A voice shall whisper of the faith, through which 
 A man may act his part until the end. 
 Anon thy ancient yearning for the fight 
 May come once more, tempered by poise of 
 
 chance, 
 
 And guided well with all experience. 
 Invisible hands may gird thy armour on, 
 And Nature put new weapons in thy hands, 
 Sending thee out to try the world again, 
 Perchance to conquer, being cased in mail 
 Of double memories ; knowing smaller griefs 
 Can add no sorrow to the woeful past ; 
 And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall, 
 Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere, 
 And Heaven s promise is for aye the same.
 
 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 O thousand feet in air it stands 
 Betwixt the bright and shaded lands, 
 Above the regions it divides 
 And borders with its furrowed sides. 
 The seaward valley laughs with light 
 Till the round sun o erhangs this height ; 
 But then the shadow of the crest 
 No more the plains that lengthen west 
 Enshrouds, yet slowly, surely creeps 
 Eastward, until the coolness steeps 
 A darkling league of tilth and wold, 
 And chills the flocks that seek their fold. 
 
 Not like those ancient summits lone, 
 Mont Blanc, on his eternal throne, 
 The city-gemmed Peruvian peak, 
 The sunset-portals landsmen seek, 
 Whose train, to reach the Golden Land, 
 Crawls slow and pathless through the sand,- 
 Or that, whose ice-lit beacon guides 
 The mariner on tropic tides, 
 And flames across the Gulf afar, 
 A torch by day, by night a star, 
 Not thus, to cleave the outer skies, 
 Does my serener mountain rise, 
 Nor aye forget its gentle birth 
 Upon the dewy, pastoral earth.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN. 155 
 
 But ever, in the noonday light, 
 
 Are scenes whereof I love the sight, 
 
 Broad pictures of the lower world 
 
 Beneath my gladdened eyes unfurled. 
 
 Irradiate distances reveal 
 
 Fair nature wed to human weal ; 
 
 The rolling valley made a plain ; 
 
 Its chequered squares of grass and grain ; 
 
 The silvery rye, the golden wheat, 
 
 The flowery elders where they meet, 
 
 Ay, even the springing corn I see, 
 
 And garden haunts of bird and bee ; 
 
 And where, in daisied meadows, shines 
 
 The wandering river through its vines, 
 
 Move specks at random, which I know 
 
 Are herds a-grazing to and fro. 
 
 Yet still a goodly height it seems 
 
 From which the mountain pours his streams 
 
 Or hinders, with caressing hands, 
 
 The sunlight seeking other lands. 
 
 Like some great giant, strong and proud, 
 
 He fronts the lowering thunder-cloud, 
 
 And wrests its treasures, to bestow 
 
 A guerdon on the realm below ; 
 
 Or, by the deluge roused from sleep 
 
 Within his bristling forest-keep, 
 
 Shakes all his pines, and far and wide 
 
 Sends down a rich, imperious tide. 
 
 At night the whistling tempests meet 
 
 In tryst upon his topmost seat, 
 
 And all the phantoms of the sky 
 
 Frolic and gibber, storming by.
 
 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 By day I see the ocean-mists 
 
 Float with the current where it lists, 
 
 And from my summit I can hail 
 
 Cloud-vessels passing on the gale, 
 
 The stately argosies of air, 
 
 And parley with the helmsmen there ; 
 
 Can probe their dim, mysterious source, 
 
 Ask of their cargo and their course, 
 
 Whence come ? where bound ? and wait reply, 
 
 As, all sails spread, they hasten by. 
 
 If, foiled in what I fain would know, 
 Again I turn my eyes below 
 And eastward, past the hither mead 
 Where all day long the cattle feed, 
 A crescent gleam my sight allures 
 And clings about the hazy moors, 
 The great, encircling, radiant sea, 
 Alone in its immensity. 
 
 Even there, a queen upon its shore, 
 I know the city evermore 
 Her palaces and temples rears, 
 And woos the nations to her piers ; 
 Yet the proud city seems a mole 
 To this horizon-bounded whole ; 
 And, from my station on the mount, 
 The whole is little worth account 
 Beneath the overhanging sky, 
 That seems so far and yet so nigh. 
 Here breathe I inspiration rare, 
 Unburdened by the grosser air 
 That hugs the lower land, and feel 
 Through all my finer senses steal
 
 THE MOUNTAIN. 157 
 
 The life of what that life may be, 
 Freed from this dull earth s density, 
 When we, with many a soul-felt thrill, 
 Shall thrid the ether at our will, 
 Through widening corridors of morn 
 And starry archways swiftly borne. 
 
 Here, in the process of the night, 
 
 The stars themselves a purer light 
 
 Give out, than reaches those who gaze 
 
 Enshrouded with the valley s haze. 
 
 October, entering Heaven s fane, 
 
 Assumes her lucent, annual reign : 
 
 Then what a dark and dismal clod, 
 
 Forsaken by the Sons of God, 
 
 Seems this sad world, to those which march 
 
 Across the high, illumined arch, 
 
 And with their brightness draw me forth 
 
 To scan the splendours of the North ! 
 
 I see the Dragon, as he toils 
 
 With Ursa in his shining coils, 
 
 And mark the Huntsman lift his shield, 
 
 Confronting on the ancient field 
 
 The Bull, while in a mystic row 
 
 The jewels of his girdle glow ; 
 
 Or, haply, I may ponder long 
 
 On that remoter, sparkling throng, 
 
 The orient sisterhood, around 
 
 Whose chief our Galaxy is wound ; 
 
 Thus, half enwrapt in classic dreams, 
 
 And brooding over Learning s gleams, 
 
 I leave to gloom the under-land, 
 
 And from my watch-tower, close at hand, 
 
 Like him who led the favoured race, 
 
 I look on glory face to face !
 
 158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So, on the mountain-top, alone, 
 I dwell, as one who holds a throne ; 
 Or prince, or peasant, him I count 
 My peer, who stands upon a mount, 
 Sees farther than the tribes below, 
 And knows the joys they cannot know ; 
 And, though beyond the sound of speech 
 They reign, my soul goes out to reach, 
 Far on their noble heights elsewhere, 
 My brother-monarchs of the air. 
 
 NEWS FROM OLYMPIA* 
 
 Yes, strange tidings from the city 
 Which pious mortals builded, stone by stone, 
 For those old gods of Hellas, half in pity 
 
 Of their storm-mantled height and dwelling 
 
 lone, 
 Their seat upon the mountain overhanging 
 
 Where Zeus withdrew behind the rolling cloud, 
 Where crowned Apollo sang, the phorminx twanging, 
 And at Poseidon s word the forests bowed. 
 
 Ay, but that fated day 
 
 When from the plain Olympia passed away ; 
 When ceased the oracles, and long unwept 
 Amid their fanes the gods deserted fell, 
 While sacerdotal ages, as they slept, 
 
 The ruin covered well ! 
 
 * "One after the other the figures described by Pausanias 
 are dragged from the earth. Nike has been found ; the head 
 of Kladeos is there ; Myrtilos is announced, and Zeus will 
 soon emerge. This is earnest of what may follow." 
 Despatch to the " Times."
 
 NEWS FROM OLYMPIA. 159 
 
 The pale Jew flung his cross, thus one has written, 
 
 Among them as they sat at the high feast, 
 And saw the gods, before that token smitten, 
 
 Fade slowly, while His presence still increased, 
 Until the seas Ionian and ^Egaean 
 
 Gave out a cry that Pan himself was dead, 
 And all was still : thenceforth no more the psean, 
 
 No more by men the prayer to Zeus was said. 
 
 Sank, like a falling star, 
 Hephaistos in the Lemnian waters far ; 
 The silvery Huntress fled the darkened sky ; 
 Dim grew Athene s helm, Apollo s crown ; 
 Alpheios nymphs stood wan and trembling by 
 
 When Hera s fane went down. 
 
 News ! what news ? Has it in truth then ended, 
 
 The term appointed for that wondrous sleep ? 
 Has Earth so well her fairest brood defended 
 
 Within her bosom ? Was their slumber deep 
 Not this our dreamless rest that knows no waking, 
 
 But that to which the years are as a day ? 
 What ! are they coming back, their prison break 
 ing, 
 
 These gods of Homer s chant, of Pindar s lay ? 
 
 Are they coming back in might, 
 Olympia s gods, to claim their ancient right ? 
 Shall then the sacred majesty of old, 
 The grace that holy was, the noble rage, 
 Temper our strife, abate our greed for gold, 
 
 Make fine the modem age ?
 
 160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yes, they are coming back, to light returning ! 
 
 Bold are the hearts and void of fear the hands 
 That toil, the lords of War and Spoil unurning, 
 
 Or of their sisters fair that break the bands ; 
 That loose the sovran mistress of desire, 
 
 Queen Aphrodite, to possess the earth 
 Once more ; that dare renew dread Hera s ire, 
 
 And rouse old Pan to wantonness of mirth, 
 
 The herald Nike, first, 
 
 From the dim resting-place unfettered burst, 
 Winged victor over fate and time and death ! 
 Zeus follows next, and all his children then ; 
 Phoibos awakes and draws a joyous breath, 
 
 And Love returns to men. 
 
 Ah, let them come, the glorious Immortals, 
 
 Rulers no more, but with mankind to dwell, 
 The dear companions of our hearts and portals, 
 
 Voiceless, unworshipped, yet beloved right well ! 
 Pallas shall sit enthroned in wisdom s station, 
 
 Eros and Psyche be for ever wed, 
 And still the primal loveliest creation 
 
 Yield new delight from ancient beauty bred. 
 
 Triumphant as of old, 
 
 Changeless while Art and Song their warrant hold, 
 The visions of our childhood haunt us still, 
 Still Hellas sways us with her charm supreme. 
 The morn is past, but Man has not the will . 
 
 To banish yet the dream.
 
 MONTAGU. 
 
 Katherine of Arragon 
 In gray Kimbolton dwelt, 
 A joyous bride, ere bluff King Hal 
 To Anne- s fresh beauty knelt. 
 
 Still in her haughty Spanish eyes 
 Their childhood s lustre shone, 
 
 That lit with love two royal hearts, 
 And won the English throne. 
 
 From gray Kimbolton s castle-gate 
 She rode, each summer s day, 
 
 And blithely led the greenwood chase 
 With hawk and hound away. 
 
 And ever handsome Montagu, 
 
 Her Master of the Horse, 
 To guard his mistress kept her pace 
 
 O er heather, turf, and gorse. 
 
 Oh, who so brave as Montagu 
 
 To leap the hedges clear ! 
 And who so fleet as he to find 
 
 The coverts of the deer ! 
 
 And who so wild as Montagu, 
 To seek his sovereign s love ! 
 
 More hopeless than a child, who craves 
 The brightest star above. 
 
 M
 
 1 62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Day after day her presence fed 
 
 The fever at his heart ; 
 Yet loyally the young knight scorned 
 
 To play a traitor s part. 
 
 Only, when at her palfrey s side 
 
 He bowed him by command, 
 Lightening her footfall to the earth, 
 
 He pressed her dainty hand ; 
 
 A tender touch, as light as love, 
 
 Soft as his heart s desire 
 But aye, in Katherine s artless blood, 
 
 It woke no answering fire. 
 
 King Hal to gray Kimbolton came 
 
 Erelong, and true love s sign, 
 Unused in colder Arragon, 
 
 She prayed him to divine : 
 
 " Canst tell me, Sire," she said, " what mean 
 
 The gentry of your land, 
 When softly, thus, and thus, they take 
 
 And press a lady s hand ? " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed Hal, " but tell me, Chick, 
 
 Each answering in course, 
 Do any press your hand ? " " Oh yes, 
 
 My Master of the Horse." 
 
 Off to the wars her gallant went, 
 
 And pushed the foremost dikes, 
 And gashed his fair young form against 
 
 A score of Flemish pikes.
 
 THE DUKES EXEQUY. 163 
 
 Heart s blood ebbed fast ; but Montagu, 
 
 Dipping a finger, wove 
 These red words in his shield : " Dear Queen, 
 
 I perish of your love ! " 
 
 Kimbolton, after many a year, 
 
 Again met Katherine s view : 
 The banished wife, with half a sigh, 
 
 Remembered Montagu. 
 
 THE DUKE S EXEQUY. 
 
 ARRAS, A.D. 1404. 
 
 /"CLOTHED in sable, crowned with gold, 
 ^-" All his wars and councils ended, 
 Philip lay, surnamed The Bold : 
 Passing-bell his quittance tolled, 
 And the chant of priests ascended. 
 
 Mailed knights and archers stand, 
 Thronging in the church of Arras ; 
 Nevermore at his command 
 Shall they scour the Netherland, 
 Nevermore the outlaws harass ; 
 
 Naught is left of his array 
 Save a barren territory ; 
 
 Forty years of generous sway 
 
 Sped his princely hoards away, 
 Bartered all his gold for glory.
 
 1 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Forth steps Flemish Margaret then, 
 Striding toward the silent ashes ; 
 And the eyes of armed men 
 Fill with startled wonder, when 
 On the bier her girdle clashes ! 
 
 Swift she drew it from her waist, 
 And the purse and keys it carried 
 
 On the ducal coffin placed ; 
 
 Then with proud demeanour faced 
 Sword and shield of him she married. 
 
 " No encumbrance of the dead 
 Must the living clog for ever ; 
 
 From thy debts and dues," she said, 
 " From the liens of thy bed, 
 We this day our line dissever. 
 
 " From thy hand we gain release, 
 Know all present by this token ! 
 Let the dead repose in peace, 
 Let the claims upon us cease 
 When the ties that bound are broken. 
 
 " Philip, we have loved thee long, 
 But, in years of future splendour, 
 Burgundy shall count among 
 Bravest deeds of tale and song 
 This, our widowhood s surrender." 
 
 Back the stately Duchess turned, 
 While the priests and friars chanted, 
 And the swinging incense burned : 
 Thus by feudal rite was earned 
 Greatness for a race undaunted.
 
 ALL IN A LIFETIME. 
 
 r T^HOU shalt have sun and shower from heaven 
 
 above, 
 Thou shalt have flower and thorn from earth 
 
 below, 
 
 Thine shall be foe to hate and friend to love, 
 Pleasures that others gain, the ills they know, 
 And all in a lifetime. 
 
 Hast thou a golden day, a starlit night, 
 Mirth, and music, and love without alloy ? 
 
 Leave no drop undrunken of thy delight : 
 Sorrow and shadow follow on thy joy. 
 Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 What if the battle end and thou hast lost ? 
 
 Others have lost the battles thou hast won ; 
 Haste thee, bind thy wounds, nor count the cost : 
 
 Over the field will rise to-morrow s sun. 
 Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 Laugh at the braggart sneer, the open scorn, 
 Ware of the secret stab, the slanderous lie : 
 
 For seventy years of turmoil thou wast born, 
 Bitter and sweet are thine till these go by. 
 Tis all in a lifetime.
 
 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Reckon thy voyage well, and spread the sail, 
 Wind and calm and current shall warp thy way ; 
 
 Compass shall set thee false, and chart shall fail ; 
 Ever the waves will use thee for their play. 
 Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 Thousands of years agone were chance and change, 
 Thousands of ages hence the same shall be ; 
 
 Naught of thy joy and grief is new or strange : 
 Gather apace the good that falls to thee ! 
 Tis all in a lifetime ! 
 
 "57 JEUNESSE SAVAIT /" 
 
 H 
 
 OW slow, how sure, how swift, 
 The sands within each glass, 
 The brief, illusive moments, pass ! 
 Half unawares we mark their drift 
 Till the awakened heart cries out, Alas ! 
 
 Alas, the fair occasion fled, 
 The precious chance to action all unwed ! 
 And murmurs in its depths the old refrain, 
 Had we but known betimes what now we know in 
 vain ! 
 
 When the veil from the eyes is lifted 
 
 The seer s head is gray ; 
 When the sailor to shore has drifted 
 
 The sirens are far away. 
 Why must the clearer vision, 
 
 The wisdom of Life s late hour, 
 Come, as in Fate s derision, 
 
 When the hand has lost its power ?
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 167 
 
 Is there a rarer being 
 
 Is there a fairer sphere 
 Where the strong are not unseeing, 
 
 And the harvests are not sere ; 
 Where, ere the seasons dwindle 
 
 They yield their due return ; 
 Where the lamps of knowledge kindle 
 
 W T hile the flames of youth still burn ? 
 Oh for the young man s chances ! 
 
 Oh for the old man s will ! 
 Those flee while this advances, 
 
 And the strong years cheat us still. 
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 OUT, out, Old Age ! aroint ye ! 
 I fain would disappoint ye, 
 Nor wrinkled grow and learned 
 Before I am inurned. 
 Ruthless the Hours and hoary, 
 That scatter ills before ye ! 
 Thy touch is pestilential, 
 Thy lays are penitential ; 
 With stealthy steps thou stealest 
 And life s hot tide congealest ; 
 Before thee vainly flying 
 We are already dying. 
 Why must the blood grow colder, 
 And men and maidens older ? 
 Bring not thy maledictions, 
 Thy grewsome, grim afflictions,
 
 i68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thy bodings bring not hither 
 To make us blight and wither. 
 When this thy frost hath bound us, 
 All fairer things around us 
 Seem Youth s divine extortion 
 In which we have no portion. 
 " Fie, Senex ! " saith a lass now, 
 " What need ye of a glass now ? 
 Though flowers of May be springing 
 And I my songs am singing, 
 Thy blood no whit the faster 
 Doth flow, my ancient Master ! " 
 Age is by Youth delighted, 
 Youth is by Age affrighted ; 
 Blithe sunny May and joysome 
 Still finds December noisome. 
 Alack ! a guest unbidden, 
 Howe er our feast be hidden, 
 Doth enter with the feaster 
 And make a Lent of Easter ! 
 I would thou wert not able 
 To seat thee at our table ; 
 I would that altogether 
 From this thy wintry weather, 
 Since Youth and Love must leave us, 
 Death might at once retrieve us. 
 Old wizard, ill betide ye ! 
 I cannot yet abide ye ! 
 
 Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye ! 
 There s naught on Earth above ye ! 
 Thou purling bird uncaged 
 That never wilt grow aged,
 
 CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 169 
 
 To whom each day is giving 
 Increase of joyous living ! 
 Soft words to thee are spoken, 
 For thee strong vows are broken, 
 All loves and lovers cluster, 
 To bask them in thy lustre. 
 Ah, girlhood, pout and dimple, 
 Half hid beneath the wimple ! 
 Ah, boyhood, blithe and cruel, 
 Whose heat doth need no fuel, 
 No help of wine and spices 
 And frigid Eld s devices ! 
 All pleasant things ye find you, 
 And to your sweet selves bind you. 
 For you alone the motion 
 Of brave ships on the ocean ; 
 All stars for you are shining, 
 All wreaths your foreheads twining ; 
 All joys, your joys decreeing, 
 Are portions of your being, 
 All fairest sights your features, 
 Ye selfish, soulful creatures ! 
 Sing me no more distiches 
 Of glory, wisdom, riches ; 
 Tell me no beldame s story 
 Of wisdom, wealth, and glory ! 
 To Youth these are a wonder, 
 To Age a corpse-light under 
 The tomb with rusted portal 
 Of that which seemed immortal. 
 I, too, in Youth s dear fetter, 
 Will love my foeman better, 
 Ay, though his ill I study, 
 So he be young and ruddy,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Than comrade true and golden, 
 
 So he be waxen olden. 
 
 Ah, winsome Youth, stay by us ! 
 
 I prithee, do not fly us ! 
 
 Ah, Youth, sweet Youth, I love ye ! 
 
 There s naught on Earth above ye ! 
 
 THE SONGSTER. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER CAROL. 
 
 ^ 1 riTHIN our summer hermitage 
 
 I have an aviary, 
 Tis but a little, rustic cage, 
 That holds a golden-winged Canary, 
 A bird with no companion of his kind. 
 But when the warm south-wind 
 Blows, from rathe meadows, over 
 The honey-scented clover, 
 I hang him in the porch, that he may hear 
 The voices of the bobolink and thrush, 
 
 The robin s joyous gush, 
 The bluebird s warble, and the tunes of all 
 Glad matin songsters in the fields anear. 
 Then, as the blithe responses vary, 
 And rise anew, and fall, 
 
 In every hush 
 He answers them again, 
 With his own wild, reliant strain, 
 As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary.
 
 THE SONGSTER. 171 
 
 II. 
 
 Bird, bird of the golden wing, 
 
 Thou lithe, melodious thing ! 
 
 Where hast thy music found ? 
 
 What fantasies of vale and vine, 
 
 Of glades where orchids intertwine, 
 
 Of palm-trees, garlanded and crowned, 
 
 And forests flooded deep with sound, 
 What high imagining 
 Hath made this carol thine ? 
 
 By what instinct art thou bound 
 
 To all rare harmonies that be 
 
 In those green islands of the sea, 
 
 Where thy radiant, wildwood kin 
 
 Their madrigals at morn begin, 
 
 Above the rainbow and the roar 
 Of the long billow from the Afric shore ? 
 
 Asking other guerdon 
 
 None, than Heaven s light, 
 Holding thy crested head aright, 
 
 Thy melody s sweet burden 
 
 Thou dost proudly utter, 
 With many an ecstatic flutter 
 And ruffle of thy tawny throat 
 
 For each delicious note. 
 Art thou a waif from Paradise, 
 
 In some fine moment wrought 
 By an artist of the skies, 
 
 Thou winged, cherubic Thought ? 
 
 Bird of the amber beak, 
 Bird of the golden wing !
 
 1 72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thy dower is thy carolling ; 
 
 Thou hast not far to seek 
 
 Thy bread, nor needest wine 
 To make thine utterance divine ; 
 Thou art canopied and clothed 
 
 And unto Song betrothed ! 
 In thy lone aerial cage 
 Thou hast thine ancient heritage ; 
 There is no task-work on thee laid 
 But to rehearse the ditties thou hast made ; 
 
 Thou hast a lordly store, 
 And, though thou scatterest them free, 
 
 Art richer than before, 
 
 Holding in fee 
 The glad domain of minstrelsy. 
 
 in. 
 
 Brave songster, bold Canary ! 
 
 Thou art not of thy listeners wary, 
 
 Art not timorous, nor chary 
 Of quaver, trill, and tone, 
 Each perfect and thine own ; 
 
 But renewest, shrill or soft, 
 
 Thy greeting to the upper skies, 
 
 Chanting thy latest song aloft 
 
 With no tremor or disguise. 
 
 Thine is a music that defies 
 
 The envious rival near ; 
 Thou hast no fear 
 
 Of the day s vogue, the scornful critic s sneer. 
 
 Would, O wisest bard, that now 
 I could cheerily sing as thou !
 
 THE SONGSTER. 173 
 
 Would I might chant the thoughts which on me 
 
 throng 
 For the very joy of song ! 
 
 Here, on the written page, 
 I falter, yearning to impart 
 The vague and wandering murmur of my heart, 
 Haply a little to assuage 
 This human restlessness and pain, 
 
 And half forget my chain : 
 Thou, unconscious of thy cage, 
 Showerest music everywhere ; 
 
 Thou hast no care 
 
 But to pour out the largesse thou hast won 
 From the south-wind and the sun ; 
 There are no prison-bars 
 Betwixt thy tricksy spirit and the stars. 
 
 When from its delicate clay 
 Thy little life shall pass away, 
 
 Thou wilt not meanly die, 
 Nor voiceless yield to silence and decay ; 
 But triumph still in art 
 And act thy minstrel-part, 
 Lifting a last, long paean 
 To the unventured empyrean. 
 So bid the world go by, 
 And they who list to thee aright, 
 Seeing thee fold thy wings and fall, shall say : 
 " The Songster perished of his own delight !"
 
 SHADOW-LAND.
 
 -THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY." 
 
 /"^OULD we but know 
 
 ^-" The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 
 
 Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, 
 Ah, if beyond the spirit s inmost cavil, 
 
 Aught of that country could we surely know, 
 Who would not go ? 
 
 Might we but hear 
 The hovering angels high imagined chorus, 
 
 Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
 One radiant vista of the realm before us, 
 With one rapt moment given to see and hear, 
 Ah, who would fear ? 
 
 Were we quite sure 
 
 To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, 
 
 Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, 
 
 To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, 
 
 This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, 
 
 Who would endure ? 
 
 DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW." 
 
 AKING, I have been nigh to Death, 
 
 Have felt the chillness of his breath 
 Whiten my cheek and numb my heart, 
 -And wondered why he stayed his dart, 
 Yet quailed not, but could meet him so, 
 As any lesser friend or foe. 
 
 N
 
 178 SHADOW-LAND. 
 
 But sleeping, in the dreams of night, 
 His phantom stifles me with fright ! 
 O God ! what frozen horrors fall 
 Upon me with his visioned pall : 
 The movelessness, the unknown dread, 
 Fair life to pulseless silence wed ! 
 
 And is the grave so darkly deep, 
 So hopeless, as it seems in sleep ? 
 Can our sweet selves the coffin hold 
 So dumb within its crumbling mould ? 
 And is the shroud so dank and drear 
 A garb, the noisome worm so near ? 
 
 Where then is Heaven s mercy fled, 
 To quite forget the voiceless dead ? 
 
 THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT. 
 
 A LL night we hear the rattling flaw, 
 ** The casements shiver with each breath ; 
 And still more near the foemen draw, 
 The pioneers of Death, 
 Their grisly chieftain comes : 
 He steals upon us in the night \ 
 Call up the guards ! light every light ! 
 Beat the alarum drums ! 
 
 His tramp is at the outer door ; 
 
 He bears against the shuddering walls ; 
 Lo ! what a dismal frost and hoar 
 Upon the window falls !
 
 THE ASSAULT BY NIGHT. 179 
 
 Outbar him while ye may ! 
 Feed, feed the watch-fires everywhere, 
 Even yet their cheery warmth will scare 
 
 This thing of night away. 
 
 Ye cannot ! something chokes the grate 
 
 And clogs the air within its flues, 
 And runners from the entrance-gate 
 Come chill with evil news : 
 The bars are broken ope ! 
 Ha ! he has scaled the inner wall ! 
 But fight him still, from hall to hall ; 
 While life remains, there s hope. 
 
 Too late ! the very frame is dust, 
 
 The locks and trammels fall apart ; 
 He reaches, scornful of their trust, 
 The portals of the heart. 
 Ay, take the citadel ! 
 But where, grim Conqueror, is thy prey ? 
 In vain thou lt search each secret way, 
 Its flight is hidden well. 
 
 We yield thee, for thy paltry spoils, 
 
 This shell, this ruin thou hast made ; 
 Its tenant has escaped thy toils, 
 
 Though they were darkly laid. 
 Even no\v, immortal, pure, 
 It gains a house not made with hands, 
 A refuge in serener lands, 
 A heritage secure.
 
 I So SHAD IV- LAND. 
 
 THE TEST. 
 
 women loved him. When the wrinkled 
 pall 
 
 Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire 
 (Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,) 
 
 They came, for that last look, around his pyre. 
 One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were 
 
 hung 
 Her tears, like dew ; and in discreet attire 
 
 Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next among 
 
 The group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely, 
 Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung, 
 
 Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and 
 
 queenly. 
 
 Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand : 
 That s with the past," she said, " nor may I meanly 
 
 Give way to tears ! " and passed into the land. 
 
 The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning, 
 With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand, 
 
 So weak they seemed, and all her passion owning. 
 
 The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came, 
 Half for such homage to the dead atoning 
 
 By smiles on one who fanned a later flame 
 
 In her slight soul, her fickle steps attended. 
 The fifth and sixth were sisters ; at the same
 
 THE SAD BRIDAL. 181 
 
 Wild moment both above the image bended, 
 
 And with immortal hatred each on each 
 Glared, and therewith her exultation blended, 
 
 To know the dead had scaped the other s reach ! 
 Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish 
 
 spoken, 
 One lowly form had given no sound of speech, 
 
 Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token ; 
 
 But when they came to bear him to his rest, 
 They found her beauty paled, her heart was 
 broken : 
 
 And in the Silent Land his shade confest 
 That she, of all the seven, loved him best. 
 
 THE SAD BRIDAL. 
 
 \ 1 THAT would you do, my dear one said,- 
 * ^ What would you do, if I were dead ? 
 If Death should mumble, as he list, 
 These red lips which now you kist ? 
 What would my love do, were I wed 
 To that ghastly groom instead ; 
 If o er me, in the chancel, Death 
 Should cast his amaranthine wreath, 
 Before my eyes, with fingers pale, 
 Draw down the mouldy bridal veil ? 
 Ah no ! no ! it cannot be ! 
 Death would spare their light, and flee, 
 And leave my love to Life and me !
 
 1 82 SHADOW-LAND. 
 
 SPOKEN AT SEA. 
 
 THE LOG-BOOK OF THE STEAMSHIP VIRGINIA. 
 
 r I A WELVE hundred miles and more 
 * From the stormy English shore, 
 
 All aright, the seventh night, 
 On her course our vessel bore. 
 Her lantern shone ahead, 
 And the green lamp and the red 
 To starboard and to larboard 
 Shot their light. 
 
 Close on the midnight call 
 What a mist began to fall, 
 
 And to hide the ocean wide, 
 And to wrap us in a pall ! 
 Beneath its folds we past : 
 Hidden were shroud and mast, 
 
 And faces, in near places 
 Side by side. 
 
 Sudden there also fell 
 A summons like a knell : 
 
 Every ear the words could hear, 
 Whence spoken, who could tell ? 
 " What ship is this ? where bound ? " 
 Gods, what a dismal sound ! 
 
 A stranger, and in danger, 
 Sailing near.
 
 SPOKEN AT SEA. 183 
 
 " The Virginia, on her route 
 From the Mersey, seven days out ; 
 
 Fore and aft, our trusty craft 
 Carries a thousand souls, about." 
 " All these souls may travel still, 
 Westward bound, if so they will ; 
 
 Bodies rather, I would gather ! " 
 Loud he laughed. 
 
 " Who is t that hails so rude, 
 And for what this idle mood ? 
 
 Words like these, on midnight seas, 
 Bode no friend nor fortune good ! " 
 " Care not to know my name, 
 But whence I lastly came, 
 
 At leisure, for my pleasure, 
 Ask the breeze. 
 
 "To the people of your port 
 Bear a message of this sort : 
 
 Say, I haste unto the West, 
 A sharer of their sport. 
 Let them sweep the houses clean : 
 Their fathers did, I ween, 
 
 When hearing of my nearing 
 As a guest ! 
 
 "As by Halifax ye sail 
 
 And the steamship England hail, 
 
 Of me, then, bespeak her men ; 
 She took my latest mail, 
 Twas somewhere near this spot : 
 Doubtless they ve not forgot. 
 
 Remind them (if you find them !) 
 Once again.
 
 1 84 SHADO W-LAND. 
 
 " Yet that you all may know 
 Who is t that hailed you so, 
 
 (Slow he saith, and under breath,) 
 I leave my sign below ! " 
 Then from our crowded hold 
 A dreadful cry uprolled, 
 
 Unbroken, and the token, 
 It was Death. 
 
 THE COMEDIAN S LAST NIGHT. 
 
 "XT OT yet ! No, no, you would not quote 
 * That meanest of the critic s gags ? 
 Twas surely not of me they wrote 
 
 Those words, too late the veteran lags : 
 Tis not so very late with me ; 
 
 I m not so old as that, you know, 
 Though work and trouble as you see 
 
 (Not years) have brought me somewhat low. 
 I failed, you say ? No, no, not yet ! 
 
 Or, if I did, with such a past, 
 Where is the man would have me quit 
 
 Without one triumph at the last ? 
 
 But one night more, a little thing 
 
 To you, I swear tis all I ask ! 
 Once more to make the wide house ring, 
 
 To tread the boards, to wear the mask, 
 To move the coldest as of yore, 
 
 To make them laugh, to make them cry, 
 To be to be myself once more, 
 
 And then, if must be, let me die !
 
 THE COMEDIAN S LAST NIGHT. 185 
 
 The prompter s bell ! I m here, you see : 
 By Heaven, friends, you ll break my heart ! 
 
 Nat Gosling s called : let be, let be, 
 None but myself shall act the part ! 
 
 Yes, thank you, boy, I ll take your chair 
 
 One moment, while I catch my breath. 
 D ye hear the noise they re making there ? 
 
 Twould warm a player s heart in death. 
 How say you now ? Whate er they write, 
 
 We ve put that bitter gibe to shame ; 
 I knew, I knew there burned to-night 
 
 Within my soul the olden flame ! 
 Stand off a bit : that final round, 
 
 I d hear it ere it dies away 
 The last, last time ! there s no more sound 
 
 So end the player and the play. 
 
 The house is cleared. My senses swim ; 
 
 I shall be better, though, anon, 
 One stumbles when the lights are dim, 
 
 Tis growing late : we must be gone. 
 Well, braver luck than mine, old friends \ 
 
 A little work and fame are ours 
 While Heaven health and fortune lends, 
 
 And then the coffin and the flowers ! 
 These scattered garments ? let them lie : 
 
 Some fresher actor (I m not vain) 
 Will dress anew the part ; but I 
 
 / shall not put them on again. 
 
 November 17, 1875.
 
 1 86 SHADOW-LAND. 
 
 SHIELD AND FORT. 
 
 FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH. " 
 
 A 1 TEAR no armour, timid heart ; 
 
 * * Fear no keen misfortune s dart, 
 Want, nor scorn, nor secret blow 
 Dealt thee by thy mortal foe. 
 
 Let the Fates their weapons wield, 
 For a wondrous woven shield 
 Shall be given thee, erelong. 
 Mesh of gold were not so strong ; 
 Not so soft were silken shred ; 
 Not so fine the spider s thread 
 Barring the enchanted door 
 In that tale of ancient lore, 
 Guarding, silently and well, 
 All within the mystic cell. 
 Such a shield, where er thou art, 
 Shall be thine, O wounded heart ! 
 From the ills that compass thee 
 Thou behind it shalt be free ; 
 Envy, slander, malice, all 
 Shall withdraw them from thy Pall.
 
 THE DISCOVERER. 187 
 
 3. 
 
 Build no house with patient care, 
 Fair to view, and strong as fair ; 
 Walled with noble deeds renown ; 
 Shining over field and town, 
 Seen from land and sea afar, 
 Proud in peace, secure in war. 
 For the moments never sleep, 
 Building thee a castle-keep, 
 Proof alike gainst heat and cold, 
 Earthly sorrows manifold, 
 Sickness, failure of thine ends, 
 And the falling off of friends. 
 Treason, want, dishonour, wrong, 
 None of these shall harm thee long. 
 Every day a beam is made ; 
 Hour by hour a stone is laid. 
 Back the cruellest shall fall 
 From the warder at the wall ; 
 Foemen shall not dare to tread 
 On the ramparts o er thy head ; 
 Dark, triumphant flags shall wave 
 From the fastness of thy Grave. 
 
 THE DISCOVERER. 
 
 T HAVE a little kinsman 
 
 * Whose earthly summers are but three, 
 
 And yet a voyager is he 
 
 Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
 
 Than all their peers together !
 
 1 88 SHADOW-LAND. 
 
 He is a brave discoverer, 
 And, far beyond the tether 
 Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
 Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. 
 Ay, he has travelled whither 
 A winged pilot steered his bark 
 Through the portals of the dark, 
 Past hoary Mimir s well and tree, 
 Across the unknown sea. 
 
 Suddenly, in his fair young hour, 
 Came one who bore a flower, 
 And laid it in his dimpled hand 
 
 With this command : 
 " Henceforth thou art a rover ! 
 Thou must make a voyage far, 
 Sail beneath the evening star, 
 And a wondrous land discover." 
 With his sweet smile innocent . 
 
 Our little kinsman went. 
 
 Since that time no word 
 
 From the absent has been heard. 
 
 Who can tell 
 
 How he fares, or answer well 
 What the little one has found 
 Since he left us, outward bound ? 
 Would that he might return ! 
 Then should we learn 
 From the pricking of his chart 
 How the skyey roadways part. 
 Hush ! does not the baby this way bring. 
 To lay beside this severed curl, 
 
 Some starry offering 
 Of chrysolite or pearl ?
 
 THE DISCOVERER. 
 
 Ah, no ! not so ! 
 We may follow on his track, 
 
 But he comes not back. 
 
 And yet I dare aver 
 He is a brave discoverer 
 Of climes his elders do not know. 
 He has more learning than appears 
 On the scroll of twice three thousand years, 
 More than in the groves is taught, 
 Or from furthest Indies brought ; 
 He knows, perchance, how spirits fare, 
 What shapes the angels wear, 
 What is their guise and speech 
 In those lands beyond our reach, 
 
 And his eyes behold 
 
 Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers 
 told.
 
 IN WAR-TIME.
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH." 
 
 I. 
 
 T N the great wall-tent at the head of the square, 
 -*- The Colonel hangs his sword, and there 
 Huge logs burn high in front at the close of the 
 
 day; 
 
 And the captains gather ere the long tattoo, 
 While the banded buglers play ; 
 Then come the tales of home and the troopers 
 
 song. 
 
 Clear over the distant outposts float the notes, 
 And the lone vidette to catch them listens long ; 
 And the officer of the guard, upon his round, 
 Pauses, to hear the sound 
 Of the chiming chorus poured from a score of 
 
 throats : 
 
 CAVALRY SONG. 
 
 Our good steeds snuff the evening air, 
 
 Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; 
 The foeman s fires are twinkling there ; 
 He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 
 
 HALT ! 
 
 Each carbine sends its whizzing ball : 
 Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, 
 Into the fight ! 
 
 o
 
 194 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Dash on beneath the smoking dome, 
 
 Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! 
 One look to Heaven ! No thoughts of home 
 The guidons that we bear are dearer. 
 
 CHARGE ! 
 
 Cling ! clang ! forward all ! 
 Heaven help those whose horses fall ! 
 Cut left and right ! 
 
 They flee before our fierce attack ! 
 
 They fall, they spread in broken surges ! 
 Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, 
 And leave the foeman to his dirges. 
 
 WHEEL ! 
 
 The bugles sound the swift recall : 
 Cling ! clang ! backward all ! 
 Home, and good night ! 
 
 II. 
 THE SERGEANTS TALE. 
 
 i. 
 
 HPHUS, when ended the morning tramp, 
 "" And the regiment came back to camp, 
 And the Colonel, breathing hard with pain, 
 Was carried within the lines again, 
 Thus a Colour-Sergeant told 
 The story of that skirmish bold : 
 
 2. 
 
 " Twas an hour past midnight, twelve hours ago,- 
 We were all asleep, you know, 
 Save the officer on his rounds, 
 And the guard-relief, when sounds
 
 AY WAR-TIME. 195 
 
 The signal-gun ! once twice 
 Thrice ! and then, in a trice, 
 The long assembly-call rang sharp and clear, 
 Till Boots and Saddles made us scamper like mice. 
 No time to waste 
 
 In asking whether a fight was near ; 
 Over the horses went their traps in haste ; 
 Not ten minutes had past 
 Ere we stood in marching gear, 
 And the call of the roll was followed by orders fast : 
 Prepare to mount ! 
 
 Mount ! and the company ranks were made ; 
 Then in each rank, by fours, we took the count, 
 And the head of the column wheeled for the long 
 parade. 
 
 3- 
 
 There, on the beaten ground, 
 
 The regiment formed from right to left ; 
 
 Our Colonel, straight in his saddle, looked around, 
 
 Reining the stallion in, that felt the heft 
 
 Of his rider, and stamped his foot, and wanted to 
 
 dance. 
 
 At last the order came : 
 By twos : forward, march ! and the same 
 From each officer in advance ; 
 And, as the rear-guard left the spot, 
 We broke into the even trot. 
 
 4- 
 
 " Trot, march ! two by two, 
 In the dust and in the dew, 
 Roads and open meadows through.
 
 196 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Steadily we kept the tune 
 Underneath the stars and moon. 
 None, except the Colonel, knew 
 What our orders were to do ; 
 Whether on a forage-raid 
 We were tramping, boot and blade, 
 Or a close reconnoissance 
 Ere the army should advance ; 
 One thing certain, we were bound 
 Straight for Stuart s camping-ground. 
 Plunging into forest-shade, 
 Well we knew each glen and glade ! 
 Sweet they smelled, the pine and oak, 
 And of home my comrade spoke. 
 Tramp, tramp, out again, 
 Sheer across the ragged plain, 
 Where the moonbeams glaze our steel 
 And the fresher air we feel. 
 Thus a triple league, and more, 
 Till behind us spreads the gray, 
 Pallid light of breaking day, 
 And on cloudy hills, before, 
 Dying camp-fires smoke away. 
 Hard by yonder clump of pines 
 We should touch the Southern lines : 
 Walk, march ! and, softly now, 
 Gain yon hillock s westward brow. 
 
 5- 
 
 " Halt ! and Right into line ! There on the ridge 
 In battle-order we let the horses breathe ; 
 The Colonel raised his glass and scanned the 
 
 bridge, 
 The tents on the bank beyond, the stream beneath.
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 197 
 
 Just then the sun first broke from the redder east, 
 And their pickets saw five hundred of us, at least, 
 Stretched like a dark stockade against the sky ; 
 We heard their long-roll clamour loud and nigh : 
 In half a minute a rumbling battery whirled 
 To a mound in front, unlimbering with a will, 
 And a twelve-pound solid shot came right along, 
 Singing a devilish morning-song, 
 And touched my comrade s leg, and the poor boy 
 
 curled 
 
 And dropt to the turf, holding his bridle still. 
 Well, we moved out of range, were wheeling 
 
 round, 
 I think, for the Colonel had taken his look at their 
 
 ground, 
 
 (Thus he was ordered, it seems, and nothing more : 
 Hardly worth coming at midnight for !) 
 When, over the bridge, a troop of the enemy s 
 
 horse 
 
 Dashed out upon our course, 
 Giving us hope of a tussle to warm our blood. 
 Then we cheered, to a man, that our early call 
 Hadn t been sounded for nothing, after all ; 
 And halting, to wait their movements, the column 
 
 stood. 
 
 6. 
 
 " Then into squadrons we saw their ranks enlarge, 
 And slow and steady they moved to the charge, 
 Shaking the ground as they came in carbine-range. 
 Front into line ! March ! Halt ! Front ! 
 Our Colonel cried ; and in squadrons, to meet the 
 brunt,
 
 198 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 We too from the walk to the trot our paces change : 
 Gallop, march ! and, hot for the fray, 
 Pistols and sabres drawn, we canter away. 
 
 7- 
 
 " Twenty rods over the slippery clover 
 We galloped as gayly as lady and lover ; 
 Held the reins lightly, our good weapons tightly, 
 Five solid squadrons all shining and sightly ; 
 Not too fast, half the strength of our brave steeds 
 
 to wasten, 
 Not too slow, for the warmth of their fire made us 
 
 hasten, 
 
 As it came with a rattle and opened the battle, 
 Tumbling from saddles ten fellows of mettle. 
 So the distance grew shorter, their sabres shone 
 
 broader ; 
 Then the bugle s wild blare and the Colonel s loud 
 
 order, 
 CHARGE ! and we sprang, while the far echo 
 
 rang, 
 And their bullets, like bees, in our ears fiercely 
 
 sang. 
 
 Forward we strode to pay what we owed, 
 Right at the head of their column we rode ; 
 Together we dashed, and the air reeled and flashed ; 
 Stirrups, sabres, and scabbards all shattered and 
 
 crashed 
 
 As we cut in and out, right and left, all about, 
 Hand to hand, blow for blow, shot for shot, shout 
 
 for shout, 
 Till the earth seemed to boil with the heat of our 
 
 toil, 
 But in less than five minutes we felt them recoil,
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 199 
 
 Heard their shrill rally sound, and, like hares from 
 the hound, 
 
 Each ran for himself : one and all fled the ground ! 
 
 Then we goaded them up to their guns, where they 
 cowered, 
 
 And the breeze cleared the field where the battle- 
 cloud lowered. 
 
 Threescore of them lay, to teach them the way 
 
 Van Ghelt and his rangers their compliments pay. 
 
 But a plenty, I swear, of our saddles were bare ; 
 
 Friend and foe, horse and rider, lay sprawled every 
 where : 
 
 Twas hard hitting, you see, Sir, that gained us the 
 day ! 
 
 " Yes, they too had their say before they fled, 
 And the loss of our Colonel is worse than all the 
 
 rest. 
 
 One of their captains aimed at him, as he led 
 The foremost charge I shot the rascal dead, 
 But the Colonel fell, with a bullet through his 
 
 breast. 
 We lifted him from the mire, when the field was 
 
 won, 
 
 And their captured colours shaded him from the sun 
 In the farmer s wagon we took for his homeward 
 
 ride ; 
 
 But he never said a word, nor opened his eyes, 
 Till we reached the camp. In yon hospital tent he 
 
 lies, 
 And his poor young wife will come to watch by his 
 
 side.
 
 200 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 The surgeon hasn t found the bullet, as yet, 
 
 But he says it s a mortal wound. Where will you 
 
 get 
 Another such man to lead us, if he dies ? " 
 
 III. 
 
 A BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 T^RIENDS and foes, who could discover which, 
 
 As they marked the zigzag, outer ditch, 
 Or lay so cold and still in the bush, 
 Fallen and trampled down in the last wild rush ? 
 Then the shattered forest-trees ; the clearing there 
 Where a battery stood ; dead horses, pawing the 
 
 air 
 
 With horrible upright hoofs ; a mangled mass 
 Of wounded and stifled men in the low morass ; 
 And the long trench dug in haste for a burial-pit, 
 Whose yawning length and breadth all comers fit. 
 
 And over the dreadful precinct, like the lights 
 That flit through graveyard walks in dismal nights, 
 Men with lanterns were groping among the dead, 
 Holding the flame to every hueless face, 
 And bearing those whose life had not wholly fled 
 On stretchers, that looked like biers, from the 
 ghastly place.
 
 IA T WAR-TIME. 
 
 The air above seemed heavy with errant souls, 
 Dense with ghosts from those gory forms arisen,- 
 Each rudely driven from its prison, 
 Mid the harsh jar of rattling musket-rolls, 
 And quivering throes, and unexpected force ; 
 In helpless waves adrift confusedly, 
 Freighting the sombre haze without resource. 
 Through all there trickled, from the pitying sky, 
 An infinite mist of tears upon the ground, 
 Muffling the groans of anguish with its sound. 
 
 On the borders of such a land, on the bounds of 
 
 Death, 
 
 The stranger, shuddering, moved as one who saith : 
 " God ! what a doleful clime, a drear domain ! " 
 And onward, struggling with his pain, 
 Traversed the endless camp-fires, spark by spark, 
 Past sentinels that challenged from the dark, 
 Guided through camp and camp to one long tent 
 Whose ridge a flying bolt from the field had rent, 
 Letting the midnight mist, the battle din, 
 Fall on the hundred forms that writhed within.
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET.
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 FROM "THE BLAMELESS PRINCE." 
 
 O died the blameless Prince. The spacious land 
 
 Was smitten in his death, and such a wail 
 Arose, as when the midnight angel s hand 
 
 Was laid on Egypt. Gossips ceased their tale, 
 Or whispered of his goodness, and were mute ; 
 No sound was heard of viol and of lute ; 
 
 The streets were hung with black ; the artisan 
 Forsook his forge ; the artist dropped his brush ; 
 
 The tradesmen closed their windows. Man with 
 
 man 
 Struck hands together in the first deep hush 
 
 Of grief; or. where the dead Prince lay in state, 
 
 Spoke of his life, so blameless, pure, and great. 
 
 But when, within the dark cathedral vault, 
 They joined his ashes to the dust of kings, 
 
 No royal pomp was shown ; for Death made halt 
 Above the palace yet, on dusky wings, 
 
 Waiting to gain the Queen, who still was prone 
 
 Along the couch where haply she had thrown, 
 
 At knowledge of the end, her stricken frame. 
 
 With visage pale as in a mortal swound 
 She stayed, nor slept, nor wept, till, weeping, came 
 
 The crown-prince and besought her to look 
 
 round 
 
 And speak unto her children. Then she said : 
 " Hereto no grief has fallen on our head ;
 
 206 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 " Now all our earthly portion in one mass 
 Is loosed against us with this single stroke ! 
 
 Yet we are Queen, and still must live, alas ! 
 As he would have us." Even as she spoke 
 
 She wept, and mended thence, yet bore the face 
 
 Of one whose fate delays but for a space. 
 
 Thenceforth she worked and waited till the call 
 Of Heaven should close the labour and the pause. 
 
 Months, seasons passed, yet evermore a pall 
 
 Hung round the court. The sorrow and the cause 
 
 Were always with her ; after things were tame 
 
 Beside the shadow of his deeds and fame. 
 
 Her palaces and parks seemed desolate ; 
 
 No joy was left in sky or street or field ; 
 No age, she thought, would see the Prince s mate : 
 
 What matchless hand his knightly sword could 
 
 wield ? 
 
 The world has lost, this royal widow said, 
 Its one bright jewel when the Prince was dead. 
 
 So that his fame might be enduring there 
 
 For many a reign, and sacred through the land, 
 
 She gathered bronze and lazuli, and rare 
 
 Swart marbles, while her cunning artists planned 
 
 A stately cenotaph, and bade them place 
 
 Above its front the Prince s form and face, 
 
 Sculptured, as if in life. But the pale Queen, 
 Watching the work herself, would somewhat lure 
 
 Her heart from plaining ; till, behind a screen, 
 The tomb was finished, glorious and pure, 
 
 Even like the Prince : and they proclaimed a day 
 
 When the Queen s hand should draw its veil away.
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 207 
 
 It chanced, the noon before, she bade them fetch 
 Her equipage, and with her children rode 
 
 Beyond the city walls, across a stretch 
 Of the green open country, where abode 
 
 Her subjects, happy in the field and grange, 
 
 And with their griefs, that took a meaner range, 
 
 Content. But as her joyless vision dwelt 
 On beauty that so failed her wound to heal, 
 
 She marked the Abbey s ancient pile, and felt 
 A longing at its chapel-shrine to kneel, 
 
 To pray, and think awhile on Heaven, her one 
 
 Sole passion, now the Prince had thither gone. 
 
 She reached the gate, and through the vestibule 
 The nuns, with reverence for the royal sorrow, 
 
 Led to the shrine, and left her there to school 
 Her heart for that sad pageant of the morrow. 
 
 Oh, what deep sighs, what piteous tearful prayers, 
 
 What golden grief-blanched hair strewn unawares ! 
 
 Anon her coming through the place was sped, 
 And when from that lone ecstasy she rose, 
 
 The saintly Abbess held her steps, and said : 
 " God rests those, daughter, who in others woes 
 
 Forget their own ! In yonder corridor 
 
 A sister-sufferer lies, and will no more 
 
 "Pass through her door to catch the morning s 
 breath, 
 
 A worldling once, the chamberlain s young wife, 
 But now a pious novice, meet for death ; 
 
 She prays to see your face once more in life." 
 " She, too, is widowed," thought the Queen. Aloud 
 She answered, " I will visit her," and bowed
 
 208 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 Her head, and, following, reached the room where 
 
 lay 
 One that had wronged her so ; and shrank to 
 
 see 
 That beauteous pallid face, so pined away, 
 
 And the starved lips that murmured painfully, 
 " I have a secret none but she may hear." 
 At the Queen s sign, they two were left anear. 
 
 With that the dying rushed upon her speech, 
 As one condemned, who gulps the poisoned wine 
 
 Nor pauses, lest to see it stand at reach 
 
 Were crueller still. " Madam, I sought a sign," 
 
 She cried, " to know if God would have me make 
 
 Confession, and to you ! now let me take 
 
 " This meeting as the sign, and speak, and die ! " 
 " Child," said the Queen, " your years are yet too 
 
 few. 
 See how I live, and yet what sorrows lie 
 
 About my heart." " I know, the world spake 
 
 true ! 
 
 You too have loved him ; ay, he seems to stand 
 Between us ! Queen, you had the Prince s hand, 
 
 "But not his love!" Across the good Queen s 
 brow 
 
 A flame of anger reddened, as when one 
 Meets unprepared a swift and ruthless blow, 
 
 But instant paled to pity, as she thought, 
 " She wanders : tis the fever at her brain ! " 
 And looked her thought. The other cried again : 
 
 " Yes ! I am ill of body and soul indeed, 
 Yet this was as I say. Oh, not for me
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 209 
 
 Pity, from you who wear the widow s weed, 
 
 Unknowing ! " " Woman, whose could that love 
 
 be, 
 
 If not all mine ? " The other, with a moan, 
 Rose in her bed ; the pillow, backward thrown, 
 
 Was darkened with the torrent of her hair. 
 
 " Twas hers," she wailed " twas hers who loved 
 
 him best." 
 Then tore apart her night-robe, and laid bare 
 
 Her flesh, and lo ! against her poor white breast 
 Close round her gloomed a shift of blackest serge, 
 Fearful, concealed ! " I might not sing his dirge," 
 
 She said, " nor moan aloud and bring him shame, 
 Nor haunt his tomb and cling about the grate, 
 
 But this I fashioned when the tidings came 
 That he was dead and I must expiate, 
 
 Being left, our double sin ! " In the Queen s heart, 
 
 The tiger that is prisoned at life s start 
 
 In mortals, though perchance it never wakes 
 
 From its mute sleep began to rouse and crawl. 
 Her lips paled, and about them angry flakes 
 
 Of wrath and loathing stood. " What, now, is 
 
 all 
 This wicked drivel ? " she cried ; " how dare they 
 
 bring 
 The Queen to listen to so foul a thing?" 
 
 " Queen ! I speak truth, the truth, I say ! He 
 
 fed 
 
 Upon these lips, this hair he loved to praise ! 
 
 p
 
 210 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 I held within these arms his bright fair head 
 
 Pressed close, ah, close ! Our lifetimes were the 
 
 days 
 
 We met, the rest a void ! " " Thou spectral Sin, 
 Be silent ! or, if such a thing hath been, - 
 
 " If this be not thy frenzy, quick, the proof, 
 Before I score the lie thy lips amid ! " 
 
 She spoke so dread the other crouched aloof, 
 Panting, but with gaunt hands somewhere undid 
 
 A knot within her hair, and thence she took 
 
 The signet-ring and passed it. The Queen s look 
 
 Fell on it, and that moment the strong stay, 
 Which held her from the instinct of her wrong, 
 
 Broke, and therewith the whole device gave way, 
 The grand ideal she had watched so long : 
 
 As if a tower should fall, and on the plain 
 
 Only a scathed and broken pile remain. 
 
 But in its stead she would not measure yet 
 
 The counter-chance, nor deem this sole attaint 
 
 Made the Prince less than one in whom twas set 
 To prove him man. " I held him as a saint," 
 
 She thought, " no other : of all men alone 
 
 My blameless one ! Too high my faith had flown : 
 
 " So be it ! " With a sudden bitter scorn 
 
 She said : " You were his plaything, then ! the 
 food 
 
 Wherewith he dulled what appetite is born, 
 Of the gross kind, in men. His nobler mood 
 
 You knew not ! How shall I, the fountain life 
 
 Of yonder children, his embosomed wife
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 211 
 
 "Through all these years, shall I, his Queen, for 
 this 
 
 Sin-smitten harlot s gage of an hour s shame, 
 Misdoubt him ? " " Yes, I was his harlot, yes, 
 
 God help me ! and had worn the loathly name 
 Before the world, to have him in that guise ! " 
 " Thou strumpet ! wilt thou have me of his prize 
 
 " Rob Satan ? " cried the Queen, and one step 
 
 rnoved. 
 " Queen, if you loved him, save me from your 
 
 bane, 
 
 As something that was dear to him you loved ! " 
 Then from beneath her serge she took the 
 
 chain 
 
 Which, long ago in that lone wood, the Prince 
 Hung round her, she had never loosed it since,- 
 
 And gave therewith the face which, in its years 
 Of youthful, sunniest grace, a limner drew ; 
 
 And unsigned letters, darkened with her tears, 
 Writ in the hand that hapless sovereign knew 
 
 Too well ; then told the whole, strange, secret 
 tale, 
 
 As if with Heaven that penance could avail, 
 
 Or with the Queen, who heard as idols list 
 
 The mad priest s cry, nor changed her place nor 
 moaned, 
 
 But, clutching those mute tokens of each tryst, 
 Hid them about her. But the other groaned : 
 
 " The picture, let me see it ere I die, 
 
 Then take them all ! once, only ! " At that cry
 
 212 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 The Queen strode forward with an awful stride, 
 And seized the dying one, and bore her down, 
 
 And rose her height, and said, " Thou shouldst 
 
 have died 
 Ere telling this, nor I have worn a crown 
 
 To hear it told. I am of God accurst ! 
 
 Of all his hated, may he smite thee first . " 
 
 With that wild speech she fled, nor looked behind, 
 Hasting to get her from that fearful room, 
 
 Past the meek nuns in wait. These did not find 
 The sick one s eyes -yet staring through the 
 gloom, 
 
 While her hands fumbled at her heart, and Death 
 
 Made her limbs quake, and combated her breath 
 
 More dreadful than the Queen s look, as she thence 
 Made through the court, and reached her own 
 
 array 
 She knew not how, and clamoured, " Bear me 
 
 hence ! " 
 
 And, even as her chariot moved away, 
 High o er the Abbey heard the minster toll 
 Its doleful bell, as for a passing soul. 
 
 Though midst her guardsmen, as they speeded back, 
 The wont of royalty maintained her still, 
 
 Where grief had been were ruin now and rack ! 
 The firm earth reeled about, nor could her will 
 
 Make it seem stable, while her soul went through 
 
 Her wedded years in desperate review. 
 
 The air seemed full of lies ; the realm, unsound ; 
 Her courtiers, knaves ; her maidens, good and 
 fair.
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 213 
 
 Most shameless bawds ; her children clung around 
 Like asps, to sting her ; from the kingdom s heir, 
 Shuddering, she turned her face, his features took 
 A shining horror from his father s look. 
 
 Along her city streets the thrifty crowd, 
 
 As the Queen passed, their loving reverence 
 made. 
 
 " Tis false ! they love me not ! " she cried aloud ; 
 So flung her from her chariot, and forbade 
 
 All words, but waved her ladies back, and gained 
 
 Her inmost room, and by herself remained. 
 
 " We have been alone these years, and knew it not," 
 She said ; " now let us on the knowledge thrive !" 
 
 So closed the doors, and all things else forgot 
 Than her own misery. " I cannot live 
 
 And bear this death," she said, " nor die, the more 
 
 To meet him. and that woman gone before ! " 
 
 Thus with herself she writhed, while midnight 
 gloomed, 
 
 As lone as any outcast of us all ; 
 And once, without a purpose, as the doomed 
 
 Stare round and count the shadows on the wall, 
 Unclasped a poet s book which near her lay, 
 And turned its pages in that witless way, 
 
 And read the song, some wise, sad man had made, 
 With bitter frost about his doubting heart. 
 
 " What is this life," it plained, " what masquerade 
 Of which ye all are witnesses and part ? 
 
 Tis but a foolish, smiling face to wear 
 
 Above your mortal sorrow, chill despair ;
 
 214 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 
 
 "To mock your comrades and yourselves with 
 mirth 
 
 That feeds the care ye cannot drive away ; 
 To vaunt of health, yet hide beneath the girth 
 
 Impuissance, fell sickness, slow decay ; 
 To cloak defeat, and with the rich, the great, 
 Applaud their fairer fortunes as their mate ; 
 
 " To brave the sudden woe, the secret loss, 
 Though but to-morrow brings the open shame ; 
 
 To pay the tribute of your caste, and toss 
 Your last to him that s richer save in name ; 
 
 To judge your peers, and give the doleful meed 
 
 To crime that s white beside your hidden deed ; 
 
 " To whisper love, where of true love is none, 
 Desire, where lust is dead ; to live unchaste, 
 
 And wear the priestly cincture ; last, to own, 
 When the morn s dream is gone and noontide 
 waste, 
 
 Some fate still kept ye from your purpose sweet, 
 
 Down strange, circuitous paths it drew your feet ! " 
 
 Thus far she read, and, " Let me read no more," 
 She clamoured, " since the scales have left mine 
 eyes 
 
 And freed the dreadful gift I lacked before ! 
 We are but puppets, in whatever guise 
 
 They clothe us, to whatever tune we move ; 
 
 Albeit we prate of duty, dream of love. 
 
 " Let me, too, play the common part, and wean 
 My life from hope, and look beneath the mask 
 
 To read the masker ! I, who was a Queen, 
 And like a hireling thought to scape my task !
 
 THE QUEEN S SECRET. 215 
 
 For some few seasons left this heart is schooled : 
 Yet, had it been a little longer fooled, 
 
 "O God!" And from her seat she bowed her 
 down. 
 
 The gentle sovereign of that spacious land 
 Lay prone beneath the bauble of her crown, 
 
 Nor heard all night her whispering ladies stand 
 Outside the portal. Greatly, in the morn, 
 They marvelled at her visage wan and worn.
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 JEAN PROUVAIRES SONG AT THE 
 BARRICADE. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 " While the men were making cartridges and the women 
 lint ; while a large frying-pan, full of melted pewter and lead, 
 destined for the bullet-mould, was smoking over a burning 
 furnace ; while the videttes were watching the barricades with 
 arms in their hands ; while Enjolras, whom nothing could 
 distract, was watching the videttes, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, 
 Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, a few others 
 besides, sought each other and got together, as in the most 
 peaceful days of their student-chats, and in a corner of this 
 wine-shop changed into a casemate, within two steps of the 
 redoubt which they had thrown up, their carbines, primed 
 and loaded, resting on the backs of their chairs, these gallant 
 young men, so near their last hour, began to sing love- 
 rhymes The hour, the place, these memories of 
 
 youth recalled, the few stars which began to shine in the sky, 
 the funereal repose of these deserted streets, the imminence 
 of the inexorable event, gave a pathetic charm to these 
 rhymes, murmured in a low tone in the twilight by Jean 
 Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a sweet poet." Les 
 Miserable* : Saint Denis, Book XII, Chapter VI. 
 
 you remember our charming times, 
 When we were both at the age which knows, 
 Of all the pleasures of Paris, none 
 
 Like making love in one s Sunday clo es ; 
 
 When all your birthdays, added to mine, 
 
 A total of forty would not bring, 
 And when, in our humble and cosy roost, 
 
 All, even the Winter, to us was Spring ?
 
 220 TRANSLA TIOXS. 
 
 Rare days ! then prudish Manuel stalked, 
 
 Paris feasted each saint s-day in ; 
 Foy thundered away ; and ah, your waist 
 
 Pricked me well with a truant pin ! 
 
 Every one ogled you. At Prado s, 
 
 Where you and your briefless barrister dined, 
 
 You were so fair that the roses, I thought, 
 Turned to look at you from behind. 
 
 They seemed to whisper : " How handsome she is ! 
 
 What wavy tresses ! what sweet perfume ! 
 Under her mantle she hides her wings ; 
 
 Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom ! " 
 
 I roamed with you, pressing your dainty arm, 
 And the passers thought that Love, in play, 
 
 Had mated, in unison so sweet, 
 The gallant April with gentle May. 
 
 We lived so cosily, all by ourselves, 
 
 On love, that choice forbidden fruit, 
 
 And never a word my lips could speak 
 But your heart already had followed suit. 
 
 The Sorbonne was that bucolic place 
 Where night till day my passion throve : 
 
 Tis thus that an ardent youngster makes 
 The Student s Quarter a Realm of Love. 
 
 O Place Maubert ! O Place Dauphine ! 
 
 Sky-parlour reaching heavenward far, 
 In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on, 
 
 I saw a twinkling morning-star.
 
 JEAN PROUVAIR&S SONG. a 
 
 Hard-learned Plato I ve long forgot : 
 Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais 
 
 Could teach me such faith in Providence 
 As the flower which in your bosom lay. 
 
 You were my servant and I your slave : 
 
 O golden attic ! O joy, to lace 
 Your corset ; to watch you showing, at morn, 
 
 The ancient mirror your youthful face ! 
 
 Ah ! who indeed could ever forget 
 
 That sky and dawn commingling still ; 
 
 That ribbony, flowery, gauzy glory, 
 
 And Love s sweet nonsense talked at will ? 
 
 Our garden a pot of tulips was ; 
 
 Your petticoat curtained the window-pane : 
 I took the earthen bowl of my pipe 
 
 And gave you a cup of porcelain. 
 
 What huge disasters to make us fun ! 
 
 Your muff afire ; your tippet lost ; 
 And that cherished portrait of Shakespeare, sold, 
 
 One hungry evening, at half its cost. 
 
 I was a beggar and you were kind : 
 
 A kiss from your fair round arms I d steal, 
 
 While the folio Dante we gaily spread 
 
 With a hundred chestnuts, our frugal meal. 
 
 And oh ! when first my favoured mouth 
 A kiss to your burning lips had given, 
 
 You were dishevelled and all aglow ; 
 
 I, pale with rapture, believed in Heaven.
 
 TRANSLA TIOA S, 
 
 Do you remember our countless joys, 
 Those neckerchiefs rumpled every day ? 
 
 Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts 
 The infinite skies have borne away ! 
 
 HYLA S. 
 
 FROM THEOKRITOS. 
 [THE THIRTEENTH IDYLL.*] 
 
 TV I OT for ourselves alone the God who fathered 
 
 ^ ^ that stripling 
 
 Eros, begat him, Nikias, as we have flattered us : 
 
 neither 
 Unto ourselves the first have beauties seemed to be 
 
 beauties, 
 Not unto us, who are mortal and do not foresee the 
 
 morrow ; 
 But that heart of brass, Amphitryon s son, who 
 
 awaited 
 Stoutly the ruthless lion, he too was fond of a youth 
 
 once, 
 Graceful Hylas, the lad with the curling locks, 
 
 and he taught him 
 All fair things, as a father would teach the child of 
 
 his bosom, 
 All which himself had learned, and great and 
 
 renowned in song grown ; 
 Nor was he ever at all apart from him, neither at 
 
 midday, 
 
 * In disputed passages of the text the translator has 
 endeavoured to select the most poetic reading.
 
 HYLAS. 223 
 
 Nor when the white-horsed car of Eos ran up to 
 
 Zeusward, 
 Nor when the twittering chickens looked to their 
 
 nest, and the mother 
 Over her smoky perch at eve had fluttered her 
 
 pinions ; 
 So might the lad be featly trained to his heart s own 
 
 liking, 
 
 And, with himself for guide, grow up a genuine hero. 
 Now when it chanced that Jason, the son of ^Eson, 
 
 went sailing 
 After the Golden Fleece, and with him followed 
 
 the nobles, 
 Picked from all the towns and ripe for that service, 
 
 among them 
 
 Also to rich lolkos came the labouring hero, 
 He that was son of Alkmene, the heroine of 
 
 Mideia ; 
 And by his side went Hylas down to the bulwarked 
 
 Argo, 
 Which good ship the clashing Kyanean rocks in no 
 
 wise 
 Touched, but clove as an eagle, and so ran into 
 
 deep Phasis, 
 Clove through a mighty surge, whence low reefs 
 
 jutted in those days. 
 So at the time when the Pleiads rise, and out-of- 
 
 way places 
 Pasture the youngling lamb, and Spring has turned, 
 
 the immortal 
 Flower of heroes began of their voyage then to be 
 
 mindful, 
 And, having sat them down again in the hollow 
 
 Argo,
 
 224 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Came to the Hellespont, a south wind blowing, the 
 
 third day, 
 And within the Propontis their anchorage made, 
 
 where oxen 
 Broaden Kyanean furrows afield, and brighten the 
 
 ploughshare. 
 There stepping out on the beach they got the meal 
 
 of the evening, 
 Two by two ; and many were strewing a couch for 
 
 them all, since 
 Close at hand lay a meadow, to furnish sedge for 
 
 the bedding ; 
 Thence sharp flowering-rush and low galingale they 
 
 cut them. 
 And with a brazen ewer the fair-haired Hylas was 
 
 seeking 
 Water, for Herakles supper and sturdy Telamon s 
 
 also, 
 Comrades twain, that ever were used to eat at one 
 
 table. 
 Erelong, too, he spied a spring in a low-lying 
 
 hollow ; 
 
 Rushes were thick around it, and dark-blue celan 
 dine grew there, 
 Maiden-hair pale and green amongst the flourishing 
 
 parsley, 
 Ay, and the witch-grass tangling wild through 
 
 watery places. 
 Now the Nymphs were starting a dance in the 
 
 midst of the fountain, 
 Sleepless Nymphs, divine, to the country people a 
 
 terror, 
 Malis, Eunika, and one with her look of the Spring, 
 
 Nycheia.
 
 HYLAS. 225 
 
 Soothly, the lad was holding the huge jar over the 
 
 water, 
 Dipping in haste, when one and all grew fast to his 
 
 hand there. 
 Love wound close around the gentle hearts of the 
 
 bevy, 
 Love for the Argive boy : and headlong into the 
 
 dark pool 
 Fell he, as when a fiery star has fallen from 
 
 heaven 
 Headlong into the sea, and a sailor cries to his 
 
 shipmates : 
 " Loosen the tackle, lads ! Oh, here comes a wind* 
 
 for sailing ! " 
 As for the Nymphs, they held on their knees the 
 
 sorrowful stripling, 
 And with their kindly words were fain to comfort 
 
 his spirit. 
 But Amphitryon s son, alarmed for the youth, 
 
 bestirred him, 
 Taking Scythian-wise his bended bow and its 
 
 arrows, 
 Also the club, which his right hand ever to hold 
 
 was accustomed. 
 Thrice, ay, thrice, he shouted HYLAS ! loud as his 
 
 deep throat 
 Could, while thrice the lad heard underneath, and 
 
 a thin voice 
 Came from the wave, and oh, so near he was, yet 
 
 so distant ! 
 And as a thick-maned lion that hears a whimpering 
 
 fawn cry 
 Far away, some lion that munches flesh on the 
 
 mountains, 
 
 Q
 
 226 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 Speeds from his lair to a meal which surely waits 
 
 for his coming, 
 So, through untrodden brambles, Herakles, craving 
 
 the dear youth, 
 Sped in tremor and scoured great reaches this way 
 
 and that way. 
 Reckless are they who love ! what ills he suffered 
 
 while ranging 
 Cliffs and thickets ! and light, beside this, seemed 
 
 the guest of Jason. 
 Meanwhile the ship lay still, with her tackle 
 
 hoisted above her, 
 And, of those present, the youth were clearing 
 
 the sails at midnight, 
 Waiting for Herakles : he, wherever his feet might 
 
 lead him 
 Wild went on, for a cruel god was tearing his 
 
 heart-strings. 
 Fairest Hylas is numbered thus with the Happy 
 
 Immortals : 
 Nathless the heroes were scoffing at Herakles as a 
 
 deserter, 
 Since he had fled from the ship of the thirty 
 
 benches, from Argo. 
 
 Onward he trudged afoot to Kolchis and welcome- 
 less Phasis.
 
 ( 227 ) 
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 
 
 FROM HOMER. 
 
 [Odyssey, XL, 385-456-] 
 ODYSSEUS IN HADES. 
 
 A FTERWARD, soon as the chaste Persephone 
 *-*- hither and thither 
 Now had scattered afar the slender shades of the 
 
 women, 
 
 Came the sorrowing ghost of Agamemnon Atreides ; 
 Round whom thronged, besides, the souls of the 
 
 others who also 
 Died, and met their fate, with him in the house of 
 
 Aigisthos. 
 He, then, after he drank of the dark blood, instantly 
 
 knew me, 
 Ay, and he wailed aloud, and plenteous tears was 
 
 shedding, 
 Toward me reaching hands and eagerly longing to 
 
 touch me ; 
 But he was shorn of strength, nor longer came at 
 
 his bidding 
 That great force which once abode in his pliant 
 
 members. 
 Seeing him thus, I wept, and my heart was laden 
 
 with pity, 
 
 And, uplifting my voice, in winged words I ad 
 dressed him :
 
 228 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 " King of men, Agamemnon, thou glorious son of 
 
 Atreus, 
 Say, in what wise did the doom of prostrate death 
 
 overcome thee ? 
 Was it within thy ships thou wast subdued by 
 
 Poseidon 
 Rousing the dreadful blast of winds too hard to be 
 
 mastered, 
 Or on the firm-set land did banded foemen destroy 
 
 thee 
 Cutting their oxen off, and their flocks so fair, or, it 
 
 may be, 
 While in a town s defence, or in that of women, 
 
 contending ? " 
 Thus I spake, and he, ^eplying, said to me 
 
 straightway : 
 
 " Nobly-born and wise Odysseus, son of Laertes, 
 Neither within my ships was I subdued by Poseidon 
 Rousing the dreadful blast of winds too hard to be 
 
 mastered, 
 Nor on the firm-set land did banded foemen destroy 
 
 me, 
 Nay, but death and my doom were well contrived 
 
 by Aigisthos, 
 Who, with my cursed wife, at his own house bidding 
 
 me welcome, 
 Fed me, and slew me, as one might slay an ox at 
 
 the manger ! 
 So, by a death most wretched, I died ; and all my 
 
 companions 
 Round me were slain off-hand, like white-toothed 
 
 swine that are slaughtered 
 Thus, when some lordly man, abounding in power 
 
 and riches,
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 229 
 
 Orders a wedding-feast, or a frolic, or mighty 
 carousal. 
 
 Thou indeed hast witnessed the slaughter of num 
 berless heroes 
 
 Massacred, one by one, in the battle s heat ; but 
 with pity 
 
 All thy heart had been full, if thou hadst seen what 
 I tell thee, 
 
 How in the hall we lay among the wine-jars, and 
 under 
 
 Tables laden with food ; and how the pavement, on 
 all sides 
 
 Swam with blood ! And I heard the dolorous cry 
 of Kassandra, 
 
 Priam s daughter, whom treacherous Klytaimnestra 
 anear me 
 
 Slew ; and upon the ground I fell in my death- 
 throes, vainly 
 
 Reaching out hands to my sword, while the shame 
 less woman departed, 
 
 Nor did she even stay to press her hands on my 
 eyelids, 
 
 No, nor to close my mouth, although I was passing 
 to Hades. 
 
 Oh, there is naught more dire, more insolent than 
 a woman 
 
 After the very thought of deeds like these has pos 
 sessed her, 
 
 One who would dare to devise an act so utterly 
 shameless, 
 
 Lying in wait to slay her wedded lord. I be 
 thought me, 
 
 Verily, home to my children and servants giving me 
 welcome
 
 230 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Safe to return; but she has wrought for herself 
 
 confusion 
 Plotting these grievous woes, and for other women 
 
 hereafter, 
 Even for those, in sooth, whose thoughts are set 
 
 upon goodness." 
 Thus he spake, and I, in turn replying, addressed 
 
 him : 
 " Heavens ! how from the first has Zeus the 
 
 thunderer hated, 
 All for the women s wiles, the brood of Atreus ! 
 
 What numbers 
 Perished in quest of Helen, and Klytaimnestra, 
 
 the meanwhile, 
 Wrought in her soul this guile for thee afar on thy 
 
 journey." 
 Thus I spake, and he, replying, said to me 
 
 straightway : 
 " See that thou art not, then, like me too mild to 
 
 thy helpmeet ; 
 
 Nor to her ear reveal each secret matter thou knowest, 
 Tell her the part, forsooth, and see that the rest 
 
 shall be hidden, 
 Nathless, not unto thee will come such murder, 
 
 Odysseus, 
 Dealt by a wife ; for wise indeed, and true in her 
 
 purpose, 
 
 Noble Penelope is, the child of Ikarios. Truly, 
 She it was whom we left, a fair young bride, when 
 
 we started 
 Off for the wars; and then an infant lay at her 
 
 bosom, 
 One who now, methinks, in the list of men must be 
 
 seated,
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 231 
 
 Blest indeed ! ah, yes, for his well-loved father, re 
 turning, 
 Him shall behold, and the son shall clasp the sire, 
 
 as is fitting. 
 Not unto me to feast my eyes with the sight of my 
 
 offspring 
 Granted the wife of my bosom, but first of life she 
 
 bereft me. 
 Therefore I say, moreover, and charge thee well to 
 
 remember, 
 Unto thine own dear land steer thou thy vessel in 
 
 secret, 
 Not in the light ; since faith can be placed in 
 
 woman no longer." 
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 
 
 FROM AISCHYLOS. 
 I. 
 
 [AISCHYLOS, Agamemnon, 1266-1318.*] 
 
 CHORUS KASSANDRA AGAMEMNON. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 r\ WRETCHED woman indeed, and O most 
 ^-^ wise, 
 
 Much hast thou said ; but if thou knowest well 
 Thy doom, why, like a heifer, by the Gods 
 Led to the altar, tread so brave of soul ? 
 
 * Text of Paley.
 
 232 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 There s no escape, O friends, the time is full. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Nathless, the last to enter gains in time. 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 The day has come ; little I make by flight. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Thou art bold indeed, and of a daring spirit ! 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 Such sayings from the happy none hath heard. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Grandly to die is still a grace to mortals. 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 
 Alas, my sire, thee and thy noble brood ! 
 (She starts back from the entrance.} 
 
 CHORUS. 
 How now ? What horror turns thee back again ? 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 Faugh ! faugh ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Why such a cry? There s something chills thy 
 soul ! 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 
 The halls breathe murder, ay, they drip with 
 blood.
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 233 
 
 CHORUS. 
 How ? Tis the smell of victims at the hearth. 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 Nay, but the exhalation of the tomb ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 No Syrian dainty, this, of which thou speakest. 
 
 KASSANDRA (at the portal). 
 
 Yet will I in the palace wail my own 
 And Agamemnon s fate ! Enough of life ! 
 Alas, O friends ! 
 
 Yet not for naught I quail, not as a bird 
 Snared in the bush : bear witness, though I die, 
 A woman s slaughter shall requite my own, 
 And, for this man ill-yoked, a man shall fall ! 
 Thus prays of you a stranger, at death s door. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Lost one, I rue with thee thy foretold doom ! 
 
 KASSANDRA. 
 
 Once more I fain would utter words, once more, 
 Tis my own threne ! And I invoke the Sun, 
 By his last beam, that my detested foes 
 May pay no less to them who shall avenge me, 
 Than I who die an unresisting slave ! 
 
 (She enters the palace.}
 
 234 TRANSLA TIOA T S. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Of Fortune was never yet enow 
 
 To mortal man ; and no one ever 
 
 Her presence from his house would sever 
 
 And point, and say, " Come no more nigh !" 
 
 Unto our King granted the Gods on high 
 
 That Priam s towers should bow, 
 And homeward, crowned of Heaven, hath he come; 
 But now if, for the ancestral blood that lay 
 At his doors, he falls, and the dead, that cursed 
 his home, 
 
 He, dying, must in full requite, 
 What manner of man is one that would not pray 
 
 To be born with a good attendant Sprite ? 
 
 (An outcry within the palace.} 
 
 AGAMEMNON. 
 Woe s me ! I am stricken a deadly blow within ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Hark ! Who is t cries " a blow " ? W T ho meets 
 his death? 
 
 AGAMEMNON. 
 Woe s me ! again ! a second time I am stricken ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The deed, methinks, from the King s cry, is done. 
 Quick, let us see what help may be in counsel !
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON . 235 
 
 2. 
 
 [Agamemnon, I343- J 377-] 
 
 Enter KLYTAIMNESTRA, from the Palace. 
 
 KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
 
 Now, all this formal outcry having vent, 
 I shall not blush to speak the opposite. 
 How should one, plotting evil things for foes, 
 Encompass seeming friends with such a bane 
 Of toils ? it were a height too great to leap ? 
 Not without full prevision came, though late, 
 To me this crisis of an ancient feud. 
 And here, the deed being done, I stand even 
 
 where 
 
 I smote him ! nor deny that thus I did it, 
 So that he could not flee nor ward off doom. 
 A seamless net, as round a fish, I cast 
 About him, yea, a deadly wealth of robe ; 
 Then smote him twice ; and with a double cry 
 He loosed his limbs ; and to him fallen I gave 
 Yet a third thrust, a grace to Hades, lord 
 Of the underworld and guardian of the dead. 
 So, falling, out he gasps his soul, and out 
 He spurts a sudden jet of blood, that smites 
 Me with a sable rain of gory dew, 
 Me, then no less exulting than the field 
 In the sky s gift, while bursts the pregnant ear ! 
 Things being thus, old men of Argos, joy, 
 If joy ye can ; I glory in the deed ! 
 And if twere seemly ever yet to pour 
 Libation to the dead, twere most so now ; 
 Most meet that one, who poured for his own home 
 A cup of ills, returning, thus should drain it !
 
 236 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Shame on thy tongue ! how bold of mouth thou art 
 That vauntest such a speech above thy husband ! 
 
 KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
 
 Ye try me as a woman loose of soul ; 
 But I with dauntless heart avow to you 
 Well knowing and whether ye choose to praise or 
 
 blame 
 
 I care not this is Agamemnon ; yea, 
 My husband ; yea, a corpse, of this right hand, 
 This craftsman sure, the handiwork ! Thus stands it. 
 
 3- 
 
 [Agamemnon, 1466-1507.] 
 CHORUS SEMI-CHORUS KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Woe ! Woe ! 
 King ! Oh how shall I weep for thy dying ? 
 
 What shall my fond heart say anew ? 
 Thou in the web of the spider art lying, 
 Breathing out life by a death she shall rue ! 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Alas ! alas for this slavish couch ! By a sword 
 
 Two-edged, by a hand untrue, 
 Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord ! 
 
 KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
 
 Thou sayest this deed was mine alone ; 
 But I bid thee call me not
 
 THE DEATH OF AGAMEMNON. 237 
 
 The wife of Agamemnon s bed ; 
 
 Twas the ancient fell Alastor * of Atreus 
 
 throne, 
 
 The lord of a horrid feast, this crime begot, 
 Taking the shape that seemed the wife of the 
 
 dead, 
 
 His sure revenge, I wot, 
 A victim ripe hath claimed for the young that bled. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 
 Who shall bear witness now, 
 Who of this murder, now, thee guiltless 
 
 hold? 
 
 How sayest thou ? How ? 
 Yet the fell Alastor may have holpen, I trow : 
 Still is dark Ares driven 
 Down currents manifold 
 
 Of kindred blood, wherever judgment is given, 
 And he comes to avenge the children slain of 
 
 old, 
 And their thick gore cries to Heaven ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Woe ! Woe ! 
 King ! Oh how shall I weep for thy dying ? 
 
 What shall my fond heart say anew ? 
 Thou in the web of the spider art lying, 
 Breathing out life by a death she shall rue ! 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS. 
 Alas ! alas for this slavish couch ! By a sword 
 
 Two-edged, by a hand untrue, 
 Thou art smitten, even to death, my lord ! 
 
 * The Evil Genius, the Avenger.
 
 238 TRANSLA TIONS. 
 
 KLYTAIMNESTRA. 
 Hath he not subtle Ate brought 
 
 Himself, to his kingly halls ? 
 Twas on our own dear offspring, yea, 
 On Iphigeneia, wept for still, he wrought 
 The doom that cried for the doom by which 
 
 he falls. 
 Oh, let him not in Hades boast, I say, 
 
 For tis the sword that calls, 
 Even for that foul deed, his soul away ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTED AT THE CAXTON PRESS, BECCLES.
 
 WORKS OF 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
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 one ; his judgment is disciplined and exercised, and his decisions, even 
 when we cannot agree with them, are based on intelligent grounds." 
 
 THE ALBION (Liverpool). "Mr. Stedman is one of the truest and 
 most artistic of the younger poets of America, and the publication of this 
 work will give him a high place among the literary critics of a singularly 
 critical period. Since the publication of Mr. R. H. Hutton s essays we 
 have not seen any collection of literary estimates at once so subtle and 
 sound, so delicate in their insight, and so attractive in their style as those 
 contained in this volume. We think all competent judges will be of 
 opinion that these essays on the Victorian Poets are really a very 
 gracious addition to the critical literature of the generation." 
 
 AMERICAN ESTIMATES. 
 
 NEW YORK TRIBUNE. "The slight sketches which alone we have been 
 able to give of some of the characteristic features of Mr. Stedman s work, 
 will fail to afford our readers a sufficient idea of the wealth of its con 
 tents, the ability of its discussions, and the beauty of its execution. As 
 an introduction to the history of English poetry in the present age, it 
 forms a library in itself. Few productions of American literature evince
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 3 
 
 such ripe aesthetic cultivation, so wide a range of poetical study, or such 
 true refinement of taste and thought. Its publication marks a new step 
 in our intellectual progress, and is a just cause for national pride." 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN INTELLIGENCER (New York). " It is so rare to find 
 united in the same person the qualities of the critic, the poet, and the 
 just and generous judge, that we give a triple welcome to this admirable 
 volume of literary and biographical criticism by Mr. Stedman, whose 
 review of the course of British poetry during the reign of Queen Victoria 
 is not merely a compact and logical survey of the field and its workers, 
 but is throughout a perfectly honest and fair as well as acute exem 
 plification of the resources of the one, and an accurate estimate of the 
 comparative merits of the others. 
 
 "A book of criticism, conceived and executed with greater fairness, or 
 evincing equal judicial moderation and high-minded conscientiousness, 
 we have never met with. In this respect, as well as in its accurate and 
 careful analysis and estimate of the Victorian poets, it is a model." 
 
 BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. "To his consideration of the Victorian 
 Poets he has brought every necessary gift, the most delicate and 
 finished culture, the most loving study of his subjects, a fair mind, a 
 habit of chastened and controlled expression, and, finally, that gift 
 of the gods, a poetic soul. Given these rare qualities, we had a right 
 to expect from him the rare book which he has produced." 
 
 PORTLAND PRESS. " Mr. Stedman s work will be at once recognized 
 as a valuable, admirable, and effective addition to critical literature. It 
 is of interest and worth to poets and to the public, to those whose delight 
 in poetry is entirely spontaneous, and those whose natural inclination 
 toward it has been developed by special technical practice and systematic 
 study of the expressional structure into which thought must be crystallized 
 to become poetry. The close study which Mr. Stedman shows that he 
 has made of the various epochs and schools of poetry ; of the broad his 
 toric cycles wherein its conditions are, to a great degree, repeated ; of its 
 forms and the influences, exterior or intrinsic, which have moulded it 
 into these forms ; of the part which the great leaders of the poet-choir 
 have had in the development of their art ; and, last not least, the gene 
 rous, free enthusiasm with which he accords praise to the noble songs that 
 have been sung, and recognizes at their just value the circumstances which 
 hindered or aided the singers all prove Mr. Stedman to be a critic by 
 grace of nature." 
 
 HARTFORD COI/RANT. "This delightful book. . . . Among the best 
 examples of criticism in our literature. . . . We ought, in justice to its 
 encyclopedic character, to state that it contains notices, more or less ex 
 tended, of every poet of any pretensions who has flourished in England 
 since 1835 ; and that these notices are not simply critical but also bio 
 graphical, those incidents and influences in the lives of the subjects which 
 may be supposed to have had a moulding influence upon them, being made 
 prominent. The book is thus a handbook to the poets and poetry of the 
 period, and not only so but to poetic art ; for it is replete with references 
 to other times and other poets, and all its references, no less than its 
 subject matter, are made instantly available by an index, which is admir 
 able for fulness and convenience, putting the cap-sheaf to a work note 
 worthy alike for matter, arrangement, and mechanical execution." 
 
 NEW YORK HERALD. " Mr. Stedman s very able and scholarly 
 book is not only of interest to the students of poetry, but is invaluable to 
 any one who cares to have a concise and carefully-considered history of 
 the poets and poetry of the past forty years. It could be used as a text 
 book in schools and colleges with profit, for it gives valuable data, and 
 opens up a mine of thought that it would be well to lay before the young 
 men and women of the country while they are at the impressionable 
 age." 
 
 K
 
 4 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 NEW YORK CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE. 
 
 " The volume is an important addition to our literature of criticism. 
 We have a right to a certain pride in its production by an American poet 
 and scholar, and especially in our persuasion that it must at once take 
 high rank among worksof its class. Its can Jid spirit, its breadth of view, 
 its catholic tone, its manly independence of judgment, and its elegance 
 and purity of diction, are worthy of the subject." 
 
 PROVIDENCE JOURNAL. 
 
 "The author occupies a high place among American poets. And he 
 writes excellent prose as well as excellent verse. While his opinions are 
 marked by logical precision, they are also expressed in a clear and strong 
 language, which engages the attention of the reader by its easy and 
 musical flow as well as by its transparent thought, and its candid and 
 well-founded judgments." 
 
 From MOSES COIT TVLER, Professor of English Literature, 
 Michigan University. 
 
 "One of the most thorough, workmanlike, and artistic pieces of real 
 critical writing that we have in English. For the period covered by it, 
 it is the most comprehensive, profound, and lucid literary exposition that 
 has appeared in this country or elsewhere. I am confident that it would 
 serve admirably, not only as a fountain of knowledge, but as a fountain 
 of inspiration. 
 
 From ARTHUR OILMAN, Author of * First Steps in English 
 Literature." 
 
 " A book that will be sure of a welcome from every man and woman 
 who reads what the Englishmen and women of our generation write. . . . 
 Mr. Stedman s volume is not merely good, but it presents the best view 
 of the writers of the present generation in England than is anywhere 
 to be had. I place it on my shelves with the -feeling that it is a very 
 valuable addition to my library."
 
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 12 
 
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