ALVMNVS BOOK FVND SELECTED FORMS AND SONGS OF CHARLES MACK AY. AUTHOR OF "VOICES FROM THE CROWD," "LEGENDS OF THE ISLES," "EGERIA," "THE SALAMANDRINE," "A MAN'S HEART," "UNDER GREEN LEAVES," ETC., ETC. WITH A COMMENDATORY AND CRITICAL INTRODUCTION BY EMINENT WRITERS. LONDON: WHITTAKER AND CO., 2, WHITE HART STREET, PATERNOSTER SQUARE, E.G. 1888. Butler & Tanner, The Set-wood Printing Works, Promt, and London. PREFACE. THIS selection from the poems and songs of Charles Mackay has been made from the twelve volumes pub- lished at various intervals between the years 1840 and 1882, viz. : I. " The Hope of the World." II. " The Salamandrine ; or, the Maid of Mora. 35 III. " Legends of the Isles." IV. "Voices from the Crowd." V. "Voices from the Mountains." VI. " Egeria ; or, the Spirit of Nature." VII. "The Lump of Gold, a Legend of Australia." VIII. Under Green Leaves." IX. "A Man's Heart." X. "Studies from the Antique." XI. " Interludes and Undertones." XII. " Collected Songs." Several of these volumes have gone through four and five editions, and others are now out of print ; and all of them on their first appearance were received with public favour, and acquired for the author a high degree of popularity, not only in Great Britain, but in America and Australia. Many of the songs have been translated into French and German and other European languages. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE v CONTENTS vii INTRODUCTION ix IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW . . . . . i LONDON LYRICS 77 VOICES FROM THE CROWD 132 INTERLUDES AND UNDERTONES f . . .157 SONGS 166 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS ; OR, LEGENDS OF THE ISLES 212 EPILOGUE 253 INTRODUCTION. BY DOUGLAS JERROLD. AUTHOR OF " BLACK-EYED SUSAN," " MRS. CAUDLE'S CURTAIN LECTURES," " ST. GILES'S AND ST. JAMES'S," ETC. THE lyrics of this great English writer this British Beranger have gone home to the hearts of the people. Charles Mackay boasts, and with reason, that in whatever he has written he has never courted popularity, but has simply written because he could not help uttering the thought that was in him, and because the thought spontaneously took the lyrical form. The truth of this is set on the front of every page, lives in the free and noble spirit of every song. There is in Charles Mackay all the freshness and spontaneity, the love of freedom, and the hate of everything mean, which we love in Burns. In this volume there is a surfeit of beautiful things. The flowers are under our feet and over our head, and they dance and nod about us, as we stand, almost buried in them. " The Voices from the Crowd " are so manly, and speak sentiments so touching and valorous withal, that we exclaim, " Here is one of the real teachers of the people, whom we should do well to honour and cherish ! " We can only hope that this volume may find its way into every cot- tage library and every workman's club. There is not a harsh nor an unworthy thought in all the collection ; nay, but this is poor praise where so much is due to the chief poet of the people of the Victorian epoch. His abounding humanity, the marvellous variety of ways in which he clothes with X INTRODUCTION. beauty and enforms with life the common efforts, the daily cares, the humble heroisms of our work-a-day world, must strike the attentive reader with amazement as he turns over these pages. Mackay is no " Idle singer of an empty day," but a poet full of love for his kind, and of hope in human destinies. His poetry is a rich feast for the heart as well as for the understanding. Our workfolk will continue, we trust, to drink deep from his Pierian spring. To them a thorough acquaintance with his muse would prove a liberal education. BY GEORGE COMBE. AUTHOR OF "THE CONSTITUTION OF MAN," "SCIENCE AND RELIGION," ETC., ETC. THE great poem of " Egeria " and its prose " Introduction " are equally admirable. They rejoice the very marrow of my bones, because I have the strongest conviction that they em- body splendid and most valuable truths which will become more palpable to ordinary man as civilization and moral science advance. If you have read my late brother's letters, you will have seen that his whole being was penetrated by the perception and conviction that a Divine wisdom and goodness have constituted and pervaded every department of creation. The evolution of this truth is recognised as Science ; but when Ideality, Wonder, and Veneration are directed by enlightened intellect to the processes of Nature by which the physical and moral phenomena of the world are unfolded, and to the results of their evolution in a right direction, they swell and exult with the sublimest emotions. This is the fountain of the poetry of man's moral and intellectual nature. The tragic scenes in "Macbeth" are the poetry of the animal propensities ; but it is a libel on the Deity and on poetic genius to affirm that the propensities are sources of a INTRODUCTION. XI higher poetical inspiration than the moral and religious emotions and their appropriate objects. Campbell's lament over the destruction of the Poetry of the Rainbow by the discoveries of science proceeded from a mind in which the poetic sentiments had not been trained to act in combination with the highest intellectual perceptions. There is tenfold more real poetry in the science of the Rainbow than ever could be extracted out of the childish legends concerning it which emanated from ignorant minds. But, before any one can discover this poetry, he must know this science familiarly > must have it instilled into him as an example of Divine wis- dom in his earliest days, and have his Ideality, Wonder, and Veneration trained to kindle and glow at every evolution of the Creator's power. In short, it appears to me that the grand influence of poetry as a propelling power in advancing man physically, morally, and intellectually, cannot be com- prehended until we arrive at the perception that nature consists of a whole congeries of harmonies and beauties, and this, again, cannot be attained until men are educated and trained in a sound philosophy. When these perceptions shall have penetrated deeply into the above-named emotional faculties, we shall have a new school of poetry of a power, fervour, and sublimity that will place the poetry of the propensities in the shade. Shak- spere's tragic scenes cannot be equalled now, first, it will be said, because we have no brains like his. But, secondly, it appears to me that, although Shakspere were alive, he could not now write such terrific poetry, because the terrible in human actions no longer pervades society as it had done in the age at the close of which he appeared. We are in a kind of interregnum between the power of the propen- sities and that of the higher human faculties. You are the first poet, so far as my knowledge extends, of the new epoch ; you are the day-star of a brighter day of poetry than the world has ever seen. Your verses have repeatedly brought tears of tenderness and pleasure into my eyes, and made my old heart beat faster and stronger with joy. At the same time, I fear that only the initiated, that is to say, the in- dividuals with high moral organs, more or less cultivated, will understand and feel the Divine harmony of your strains 5 but your fame will rise AND LAST. INTRODUCTION. BY ANGUS BETHUNE REACH. AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS," "CLARET AND OLIVES," ETC. THE poetry of Charles Mackay has a claim to public appre- ciation, not only for its great poetic beauty, but because it is a sign of the tendencies and aspirations of the progressive age in which we live. His Songs and Poems, though they by no means disdain the ordinary topics that have been the favour- ites of poets in all ages, take a wider flight into those prac- tical regions which the fanciful versifiers of what is called the classical school were contented to leave unvisited. He does not care to occupy himself wholly with the Past, like so many of his predecessors and contemporaries, but studies the Present with an earnest hope that grows under the light of his genius into a steady conviction that it is but the pre- cursor of a more splendid Future. He hails every step of our material progress as a step to moral and social perfection. The rail and the telegraph the establishment of lines of ocean steamers and the downfall of hostile tariffs whatever brings man more in communication with his fellow men, he looks upon as so many strides made to the "good time coming." He is all for progress. "On, on, on," is the everlasting burden of his say. "Clear the way ! " is shouted in every possible modification of melodious rhythm ; and in answer to the despairing remonstrances of hopeless grievance- mongers, we are blithely told merely to " wait a little longer." That there is another side to the question few will deny. That distance lends enchantment to the view of the "good times coming," in one set of eyes, as the same medium performs the same service to the "good old times" when seen through another order of optics, is indisputable. These said old times were possibly not quite so bad as the onward school would have us to believe, and the days so long- ingly looked forward to will possibly turn out by no means so bright as they have been painted. Still, the progressive philosophy is the better doctrine of the two. It is the more natural, the more hopeful, and it is based upon the firmer foundations of common sense. What is past we cannot recall, but what is to come we may mould and shape to our own advantage. The Charles Mackays and the Thomas INTRODUCTION. Xlll Hoods, therefore, tread on better and steadier ground than the Tennysons and Brownings. The moral and political ballad, reaching forward, will live longer in the world than the chivalric ballad, reaching back. The requirements of these latter days, and the sheen and the roar of an express train at a mile a minute, are worth all the knights who ever charged with vizor down and war-spear couched. The modern political and social school, whatever may be its faults, how- ever obstinately it may shut its eyes to certain phenomena adverse to its doctrines, aims at a loftier and a better class of thought than that which inspires the antagonistic poetic element. It shoots its arrows very high. It aspires to deal with the destinies of man and the fortunes and the ruling ideas of the world. It appeals to abstract justice, to abstract right it cries out in the wilderness and in the street, and the poet, earnest and eloquent and thoroughly believing in his own mission and his own teachings, becomes something like a prophet. Of these poets, Charles Mackay is the most able and the most sincere. There is an honesty and purity of purpose about his poetry which individualises it. You see at a glance that he is not one of the peddlars of " virtuous indignation," who would sing the praises of the inquisition and propose to go back to the droit de seigneur if the ' * dodge " paid better. Hearty and wholesome, reasonably logical, highly and holily aspiring, his visions of the future are at once the dreamings of a true poet, and an enthusiastically honest, and earnest, and fearless, and uncompromising man. With a large ele- ment of sound common sense in his composition, he is endowed with constitutional hopefulness, a species of con- stant yearning after perfectibility, which, were it not balanced by the element just named, would make him a mere rhapso- dist. It is the happy marriage between the real and the poetical which gives Charles Mackay the peculiarly exalted position which he holds. The world in general is well acquainted with many of the minor snatches of his poetry with those deliciously modu- lated lyric fragments, embodying in their quaintly and har- moniously moulded stanzas those pregnant messages, those eloquent aspirations, which a loftily-tuned and a thoroughly earnest spirit is impelled, even by its own inward yearnings, to fling out before the souls of all men, The world, how- b XIV INTRODUCTION. ever busy and unheeding, and too often unthinking, as it is is hardly aware of the full import of Charles Mackay's poetic philosophy, of the full nobleness, the full truthfulness, the full heroism of its moral attributes. Prefixed to the remarkable poem of "Egeria," is a dissertation upon what constitutes poetry, in what he considers to be the true sense of the term. This is a lofty and eloquent piece of composition, which de- serves to be read again and again, and deeply pondered over. The fallacy with which he grapples, and which he speedily smites to the dust, is the miserably shallow convention born of frivolity and pedantry that poetry should deal only with what is strictly fanciful that its essence is but * ' the shadow of a lie " that it is necessarily opposed to science and to abstract truth and that the religious convictions and the philosophical opinions of a man can be judged of apart from his poetry. It is to the prevalence of this effete superstition that we owe the deluge of cant which we hear now-a-days about this age being an iron age, a matter-of-fact age, an age of figures, an age of railways, an age of anything, in fact, but poetry. All this is part of that "good old times " slang which ought to be annihilated for ever. As if pack-horses, or broad-wheeled waggons sticking in the mud, were more poetical than express trains shooting like thunderbolts along the land ; as if vast engines and wondrous mechanism spin- ning in a day garments for nations, were less poetical than an old woman in a hovel turning a wheel ; as if an ocean steamer battling her way to the new world against an Atlantic tempest, were less poetical than a skin-covered coracle, or an ill-built, ill-sailed mediaeval galley ; as if, in fact, the spirit of man penetrating into the holy mystery of nature, the spirit of man snatching power from knowledge and warring with and conquering the elements, were less poetical than that same spirit in its earlier developments ignorant, unskilful, credulous to believe what was false and stubborn to reject what was true ? With Charles Mackay we claim for poetry an existence co-extensive with mind. The more intellect there is in the world the more poetry will there be. The domain of the poet embraces all human knowledge, all human sym- pathies, loves, desires, and aspirations. The great poet must also be the great preacher, and, in a limited and human sense, the great prophet. In true poetry there is as much essential reality and certain moral fact as in mathematics, INTRODUCTION. XV Thus we believe the domain of poetry is widened, not strait- ened, by every successive discovery in moral and physical science. " When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! " Hear Charles Mackay on the other side : " As for the solitary stanza of Campbell, no true poet will take it for his guide. No one knows better than Campbell that science was the nursing mother of poetry, who showed it whither to fly, and to what glorious regions to turn in search of new inspiration. In spite of his authority in this stanza, great as many will consider it, we, in our day, must acknowledge that the withdrawal by science of the veil from creation's face, though it may deprive fancy of some filagree adornments, robs imagination of nothing. The rainbow has venerable associations, when we think upon it as a sign of the covenant : " ' We think its jubilee to keep The first made anthems rang, On earth delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.' " But science, which shows us the secret of its mechanism, adds a new delight to its contemplation without depriving it of this. We see it spanning heaven like an arch ; we see it, if we stand upon the mountain-tops, developed into the complete circle ; we see its counterpart in the spray of the torrent on a sunny day ; and can produce Irises as often as we will in the glancing drops cast upwards in the sun- shine from the paddle-wheels of steamboats the same in their magnificent hues, so exquisitely overlaid, and gliding the one into the other with the same loveliness. We acknow- ledge the simplicity, the grandeur, the majesty, of the ' ma- terial law ' which is obeyed in their formation. We find that law to be, not cold, as Campbell sings, but warm and fruit- ful, producing invariable and inevitable results from the same c XVI INTRODUCTION. causes. We see that both the cause and the effect are proofs of infinite wisdom and divine goodness filling all nature with things of beauty, of which the contemplation increases our enjoyments and exalts our souls, and makes us fitter to be true men in this world, and to mount in the scale of creation in the next to a state of a higher intelligence, purer love, and more certain happiness. The comet careering through the heavens does not cease to impress the mind with its grandeur and its mystery because it is no longer thought to scatter war and pestilence from its * horrid hair. ' On the contrary, it inspires emotions still more sublime of the might and majesty of God, when we consider that His hand who made it, made also that awful intellect of man which traces its course through the infinitude of space, and calculates its coming from afar. The sun is not less poetical as the centre of a vast system than as a mere adjunct to the earth, set in the heavens to give her light, and to form the succession of her seasons. The planets are not less ' the poetry of heaven ' because astrology is defunct. They do not the less loudly chant to the devout soul, in the silence and the splendour of the midnight, that * the hand that made them is divine,' because we believe them to be, like the kindred planet on which we live and move, the abode of myriads of immortal spirits, playing their allotted part in the mighty progression of the universe. The stars, scattered in such seeming con- fusion over space, are not the less poetical because we, by the aid of science, have discovered order amidst apparent disorder, because we have grasped the majestic secret of gravitation, and beheld the simplicity and the universality of the law which upholds and regulates them in all the com- plication of their harmony. The milky way, as resolved into suns, systems, and firmaments, by the telescope of Herschel and Lord Ross, does not the less impress us with awe and adoration because it is no longer a faint light in the heavens, ^but a congregation of innumerable worlds. The nebula in Orion, that white fleecy cloud on the far verge of space, does not become unpoetical when we know that it is a universe ; nor do we look upon that great constellation of Orion itself with less prostration of our feeble powers with less hopefulness that we too shall be made perfect, because science teaches us that our sun and all its train of planets are moving towards one of its stars ; and that, in this mystic INTRODUCTION. XV11 development, the 6,000 years of recorded history multiplied by 6,000, and that product multiplied by itself, are but the fragment of a cycle, and the morning of a day. No ! Poetry is not inimical to Science, nor Science to Poetry. It is uni- versal. It includes every subject ; and can no more be restricted in its range than the Intellect, the Hope, and the Faith of man, of which it is the grandest exponent and the most sublime expression making Intellect more intellectual, Hope more hopeful, and Religion more religious." [From the St. James's Magazine^] THE poetical works of Charles Mackay are composed of many volumes of various degrees of beauty, but of one inva- riable degree of merit. Their first and most striking feature is the uniform vigour of intellect they display. We are im- pressed with a sense of constant strength, with a power at once penetrating and diffused. He ransacks the broad heavens for new illustrations, or turns the minute pebble over in the search for new facts. Nothing escapes his glance. Everything is rendered tributary to his genius. He snatches a grace where others would see but vacuity, and illustrates his meaning by images constantly fresh and unexpected. Perhaps not the least merit of his thoughts is their lucidity. The simplest intellect can comprehend him, though his con- ceptions impart knowledge to the most comprehensive mind. He is the poet both of Fancy and Reason. This, in an age when thought is sublimated to obscurity, when well-known truths are attenuated or negatived by mis- application, when alliteration is mistaken for genius and involutions of phrases for opulence of wit, if it does not add to his glory renders him at least conspicuous for purity and propriety of taste. In Charles Mackay we survey one of the few links that connect us with the past ; an author who, whilst he maintains all the independence of an original genius, can yet afford to admire the elegance of an Addison or the loftiness of a Milton, the purity of a Pope, a Goldsmith, a Campbell, or a Rogers ; and this, too, with a due appreciation of what XVlll INTRODUCTION. talent there is to admire, or what originality there is to applaud, in the present. Perhaps it is to this reverence of the classic past that his poetry owes something of the sweetness and the lucidity by whicn it is so eminently distinguished. There is no contem- porary poet who combines with his powers of penetration so complete an absence of obscurity. He gilds no refined gold and paints no lily, but as nature has made them, so he represents them. As an instance of this take the following description of the portrait which a painter attempts to paint of his beloved : " * Alas ! 'said Arthur, ' it defies all art To paint such living loveliness as hers. Not one expression or one soul divine Has my beloved but a thousand souls, All peering through the splendour of her eyes, And each, ere you can fix it in your thought, Sparkling away to one more lustrous still. Pity and Charity, and infinite Love, Sweet Mirth, and sweeter Sadness, on her lips, Follow each other in one throb of time ! Art would reflect them ; but its mirror, dull As the breeze-ruffled bosom of a lake, Unresting, insufficient, fails to show The evanescent, multitudinous charms That live, and change, and die, and live anew On all the radiant landscape of her mind. ' " The reach of Mackay's power lies in a calm confidence ot his own strength, which, glancing neither to the right nor to the left, looks Nature boldly in the eye, and in that mystical mirror sees the operations of the soul within. Perhaps no writer of the present day owes less to his contemporaries than he ; certainly none is more independent of the past. This is testified in a cast of thought constantly original and always impressive, which, scorning the beaten track, deviates into unfrequented by-paths and unexplored labyrinths. The result of this is vigour and copiousness, power of delineation and variety of illustration. In his poem, " A Man's Heart," this strength is especially remarkable. The simple tale has for its theme love, with all INTRODUCTION. XIX its vicissitudes of hope, disappointment, and fear. In some parts it is highly pathetic. The author seems rather psycho- logical than ethical ; content with displaying the passions, and leaving them to point their own moral. Its conclusion is written with an energy of description that in all parts equals and in some parts excels the very head and front of descriptive poetry itself Wordsworth. A narrative, whether in prose or verse, to be justly esti- mated, should be read through. Each succeeding line gathers from association with that which has preceded it a fresh interest or a new beauty ; and therefore it is that, though some particular parts of a production may be distin- guished for their elegance or for their purity, the reader of quotations seldom gets a knowledge of either the author's purpose or the author's genius. The following extracts indeed all that occur in this notice have therefore been selected with care and attention, as affording specimens of the author's style without violating his meaning. Never- theless, it is just to say that he affords infinitely happier examples : " Up ! up again ! There's work that must be done The knees of Nevis may be clad in flowers, His waist may wear a girdle of the pine, His shoulders may be robed in heath and fern, But his broad back and high majestic head Are steep and bare and he who'd climb must toil ! Noon on the mountains ! glowing, glorious noon ! And they have reached the very topmost top Of Britain's Isle ; the crown above all crowns Of royal Bens ! Oh, wild sublimities ! None can imagine you but those who've seen ; And none can understand man's littleness Who has not gazed from such dread altitudes Upon the world a thousand fathoms down, O'er precipice of perpendicular rock, Which, but to look at, makes the brain to reel, And fills it with insane desire for wings To imitate the eagle far below, And free itself of earth ! And here they stand, Awe-stricken and delighted ; great, yet small ; XX INTRODUCTION. Great, that their souls may dare aspire to God, To whom the mountains and the universe Are but as dust on the eternal shore ; Small in the presence of those ancient hills Which stood the same, and evermore the same, When Abraham fed his flocks on Shinar's plain, And Job beheld Arcturus and his sons ; The same the same and evermore the same Unweeting of the whirl and spin of Time, And heedless of the fall and states of kings And mighty monarchies, that dared to blow Through slavish trumpets the blaspheming boast * The seasons pass but we endure for ever ! ' Where are they now ? Let Rome and Carthage tell, And Babylon answer ! " And a little further on we find the following eloquent passage : " Entranced they stand As angels might have stood on earth's first morn Upon the mountain peaks of Paradise, When Chaos, disappearing, trailed his robes Of shapeless mist the last time o'er the world, That hailed his absence with her brightest smile, And leaped to be released. But creeping slow, Unseen, unnoticed 'mid their ecstasy, A cloud that might have covered half the Isle, Down sailing from the far-off northern seas, O'er Grampian summits, clad them round about So densely, that the ground on which they trod Became invisible, and their outstretched hands Faded away into the hungry space." If I may venture to make any distiction between pro- ductions uniformly excellent, " Egeria ; or, The Spirit of Nature," I should pronounce as the finest of Mackay's poems. In this work is displayed a combination of beauties such as will warrant posterity ranking it side by side with the "Julian and Maddalo" of Shelley, and the " Hyperion" of Keats. It abounds in passages nobly conceived and elo- INTRODUCTION. XXI quently expressed, with thoughts sometimes sublime and always elevated. The accompanying selection, for the polish and harmony of its numbers, and for the repose and beauty of its colouring, may be classed amongst the choicest utter- ances of the English Muse : " Deep in the shade of high o'erarching trees, Birches and beeches, elms and knotted oaks, A fountain murmured with a pleasant sound. Not often through those thick umbrageous leaves Pierced the full glory of the noon-day sun ; Not often through those pendulous branches hoar Glittered the mellow radiance of the moon. A cool dim twilight, with perpetual haze, Crept through the intricate byways of the wood, And hung like vapour on the ancient trees. The place was musical with sweetest sounds, The fountains sang a soft, monotonous song ; The leaves and branches rustled to the wind With whispered melody ; the waving grass Answered the whisper in a softer tone ; While morn and eve, the midnight and the noon, Were listeners to the rapturous minstrelsy Of lark and linnet, nightingale and merle, And all the feathered people of the boughs. In this calm nook, secluded from the world, The marble statue of a nymph antique Stood in the shadow. Radiant were her limbs With modesty ; her upturned face was bright With mental glory and serene repose ; The full round arms and figure to the midst Displayed the charm of chastest nudity ; A flowery drapery round her lower limbs In ample folds concealed the loveliness, The majesty, the glory of the form. One hand was raised and pointed to the stars, The other, resting on her snow-white breast, Seemed as it felt the pulsing of her heart ; She stood the symbol of enraptured thought And holy musing. At her feet an urn Poured in a marble font a constant stream XX11 INTRODUCTION. Of limpid water ; sacred seemed the place To philosophic and religious calm ; The very wind that stirred the upper boughs Seemed as attuned to choral harmonies. Under the pedestal these words inscribed, In Grecian character, revealed her name, * Egeria ' he who seeks her here shall find, ' Love be his light and purity his guide. ' " The plan of "Egeria " is airy and elegant. In this poem the poet discusses, through his characters a variety of subjects, not in the mystical language of the dreamer or the speculatist, but with the calm assurance of ascertained truth. He per- plexes the judgment by no remote inquiries ; obstructs it by no metaphysical subtleties ; wearies it by no long resumes of worn-out theories. He discourses in the clearest language of the newest truths, whilst over all is shed the sunlight of the poetic mind, mellowed by the dreamy beauties of sensibility and love. He that shall think my encomiums hyperbolical, let him take "Egeria" into some quiet nook and peruse it for himself. In this poem are displayed the prominent characteristic of Mackay's genius. His love of truth, his detestation of sanc- timonious hypocrisy are shadowed forth distinctly in this fine production. " Who," he cries " Who shall escape The thraldom of his country and his time ? Who shall be wiser than the living age ? The unhappy Jews Who crucified the Lord of Heaven and Earth Were but the types of modern prejudice ; For were the * Saviour ' to descend again Amid the money-changers of our marts, To preach the doctrine that He taught before, The self- adoring hypocrites would swarm In every market-place, and shout His name With curses on His innovating creed. Where is the Christian of our Christendom ? Eyes cannot see him sense discover him INTRODUCTION. XX1I1 The very Christian in all deed and thought Existed in this wretched world but once, And He was hated, scourged, and crucified ! M Than the following definition of Piety, what can be more eloquent, more just, or more pure? "She is not rigid as fanatics deem, But warm as Love and beautiful as Hope, Prop of the weak, the crown of humbleness, The clue of doubt, the eyesight of the blind, The heavenly robe and garniture of clay ! He that is crowned with this supernal crown Is lord and sovereign of Himself and Fate, And angels are His friends and ministers. Clad in this raiment, ever white and pure, The wayside mire is harmless to defile, And rudest storms sweep impotently by. ***** The noblest domes, the haughtiest palaces, That know her not, have ever open gates Where Misery may enter at her will. But from the threshold of the poorest hut Where she sits smiling, Sorrow passes by, And owns the spell that robs her of her sting." The " Legends of the Isles," are a series of poems and ballads, " illustrative," to use the author's own words, "of the romantic scenery and history of the Hebrides, and the adjoining mainland of Scotland." Unlike Burns, the perusal of whose poems is constantly interrupted by the labour of glossarial reference, Mackay sings to us in the purest English, enlivened by descriptions of distant scenes and narrations of unfamiliar events. Power- ful in all he undertakes, these lyrics glow with a concentrated strength of passion that finds no equal save in the effusions of his notable predecessor, Burns. Here the artifice of rhythmical sweetness is strikingly manifest. The flow and XXIV INTRODUCTION. musical movement of the stanzas sing to us song that seems to well forth from its own intrinsic melody, irrespective of the sentiments they convey, or the glorious old Scotch tradi- tions they enshrine. Sense and sound were never more harmoniously combined. That they should have promoted the love and reinvigorated the enthusiasm of the "canny Scot " for his native hills and sublime histories ; that they should have exercised an almost surprising influence over the minds of those capable of discriminating between native excellence and imitated charms ; and that they should have given birth to many echoes some not wholly unworthy of the cause that conspired to provoke them, will surprise none to whom these poems may be familiar. ' In them malignity can find nothing to denounce nor envy to oppose. They are written with no ambition of elegance, with no ostentation of grandeur. Whatever elegance there is, like the perfume of the flower, is innate, and eminently appertaining to the spirit that endows their vitality ; whatever grandeur there is, is born with the imagery with which the fertile and vigorous mind of the poet renders impressive all that he portrays. vScotland has had many poets. Thomas of Ercildoune, Barbour, Dunbar, Drummond, Mickle, Ramsay, Beattie, Macpherson, Burns, Campbell, Scott, Aytoun, are names which the world will not willingly let die. To this list must be added Charles Mackay : if not the greatest, certainly second to none amongst them all. Mackay is great in description. He stands, like a magi- cian, upon some lofty eminence upon one of the heaven- kissing peaks of his native land and points to an array of scenery magnificently wild and stern. The " Highland Ramble" trembles beneath the opulence of description Lakes, mountains, skies, the " Mighty boulder-stone, Rolled from a precipice to stand alone Memento of convulsions that had wrung The hills to agony when earth was young," are all here grouped together with the hand of a master. It is the word-painting of a poetic Salvator Rosa. We breathe the "difficult air " of the mountain top, peer over the rude and rugged edge of the precipice, survey with him INTRODUCTION. XXV the placid lake and the graceful seagulls who, " plumed in snowy-white," " Follow the creaming furrow of the prow With easy pinion pleasurably slow." Yonder is the western sky, " Belted with purple lined with amber tinged With fiery gold with blushing purple fringed." 11 Most lovely !" he exclaims, " Oh, most beautiful and grand Were all the scenes of this romantic land ! Isle after isle with grey empurpled rocks, Breasted in steadfast majesty the shocks Stupendous of the wild Atlantic wave ! Many a desolate sonorous cave Re-echoed through its inmost vaults profound The mighty diapason and full sound Of Corryvreckan awful orator ! Preaching to lonely isles with eloquent roar." The "Legends of the Isles " abound in many little exquisite touches of Nature. They are like flowers constantly spring- ing up in our path as we advance. In this power of asso- ciating what is just and good in man with what is striking and exalted in nature, is easily discerned the genius of the Humanist ; of the poet who sees throughout all nature one great link one supreme bond ; a unity that reconciles the vast with the minute ; the mountain with the atom ; Nature with Man. He creates a sympathy between all things ; a mutual dependence amongst all things. Man exists not for himself alone : he lives for Nature and Nature lives for him. The invisible agents of the world minister to him ; their genial influence operates upon his heart ; he lives and moves in an atmosphere of love ; and Purity, Perfection, Religion are the results. Of the beauties of these Legends the Scotch doubtless have a keener appreciation than ourselves an appreciation, however, which must be shared by all travellers in those magnificent regions of the West. XXVI INTRODUCTION. Of our author's remaining works, the "Maid of Mora; or, The Salamandrine," will by some be esteemed his master- piece. Its fiction is graceful and pleasing, its numbers rich and melodious, and its sentiments pure and impassioned. Since the days of Thomas Moore, Love has never found so harmonious an advocate. It has all the poetic colouring and dreamy voluptuousness of the "Fire- worshippers," and in its higher flights we are sometimes reminded of the majesty and grandeur of the muse of Byron. To the truth of this the following stanzas sufficiently testify : 1 ' Happy the lot of those who cannot see Down the dark vistas of futurity ; But happier far who never seek to know What God in mercy hides from men below ! And oh, most sad, most miserable lot, To know the future, though we wish it not ; To read our fate's enigma in the gloom, Yet have no cunning to avert the doom ! To see the phantoms, though we shut our eyes, And grow more wretched as we grow more wise ! ***** Now from his eastern couch the sun, Erewhile in cloud and vapour hidden, Rose in his robes of glory dight ; And skywards, to salute his light, Upsprang a choir, unbidden, Of joyous larks, that as they shook The dewdrops from their russet pinions, Pealed forth a hymn so glad ancl clear, That Darkness might have paused to hear Pale sentinel on Morn's dominions And envied her the floods of song Those happy minstrels poured along. The lovers listened. Earth and heaven Seemed pleased alike to hear the strain ; And Gilbert, softened by the song, Forgot his momentary pain. * Happy,' said he, 'beloved maid, Our lives might flow 'mid scenes like this ; INTRODUCTION. XXV11 Still eve might bring us dreams of joy, And morn awaken us to bliss. I could forgive thy jealous brother ; And Mora's quiet shades might be, Blessed with the love of one another, A Paradise to thee and me. 1 Yes, Peace and Love might build a nest For us amid these vales serene, And Truth should be our constant guest Amid these pleasant wild woods green. My heart should never nurse again The once fond dreams of young Ambition ; And Glory's light should lure in vain, Lest it should lead to Love's perdition ; Another light should round me shine, Beloved, from those eyes of thine ! ' " Mackay has told us truths in numbers of which the richness and variety, whilst they add something to the importance of his teaching, equally discover him the master of a style masculine, correct, and copious. Of this many of his songs bear ample evidence. The following will suffice to display its dainty elegance and classical beauty : " Leave me alone one day with Nature's beauty One day one night an alien to my care ; The needful rest will nerve my soul to duty, And give me strength to struggle and to bear. "If it be true that Love is born to sorrow, That Hope deceives, and Friendship fades away, Let the sad wisdom slumber till to-morrow, Nor stand between me and this summer day." His Songs recall that freshness and naivete that distinguish the early ballads of this country. Their homeliness is de- lightful, and they smack of all the ripe honesty of a man who sings with a purpose. What this purpose is, his songs themselves declare. They are eminently adapted to the precise end which they seek to attain ; and if they do not always rise to the higher strains of poetry, they are certainly XXV111 INTRODUCTION. never degraded by the coarse or by the familiar. His object apparently, in the greater number of his songs, is to make mankind contented with their lot ; not by that strange philo- sophy which exalts or softens the state of one man by a comparison with the misery of another, but by letting the poor labourer know that, whilst he has a wife to cheer him and a cottage to shelter him, children to love him and an Almighty Father to pray to, he is wealthy in spite of the opinion of the iron world without. One of the characteristics of the times, and one by which posterity will very readily discern the present age, is our great love of teaching. We are, each to each and all to all, instructors. We all conceive ourselves to be ministers sent upon this ball of earth, each the deputed executor of to use a cant word of the day a "mission." Never was England in possession of so many philosophers as it has now. We are saturated with ethics. Morality lurks in every crevice, peeps out of every corner. Whether it be a poem or an essay, a magazine or a novel, a newspaper article or a critical review, Morality is behind it, holding it with "Mission" stamped upon her brow. Wise men account for this in the extraordinary influx of female writers in the domains of literature. Be this as it may, the fact is singular and, in a measure, amusing. That there is a purpose in Mackay's songs none will deny ; but that he writes as if he had a "mission" to perform, cannot without injustice be advanced. No living author is more free from all cant, from all assumption of superiority, from all impertinence of constant indoctrination. As a child that " Singing, dancing to itself," fills the mind of a beholder with gladness, and thus points a lesson beyond the reach of art or words, so his songs, by the very music of their cheerfulness, impart joy to the heart of the reader, mutely teaching him content, whilst they busily advocate the Right and this free from the tedium of an ethical code, hackneyed maxims of an orthodox creed. How superior this is to the rhyming cant of our moral versi- fiers posterity will decide. But his Songs yet claim a higher recognition than that of INTRODUCTION. XXIX poetic beauty or of material harmony. Wedded to the captivating melodies of Henry Russell, many of them have exercised an influence over the public mind such as has been seldom or never equalled by other writers. His "Cheer Boys, Cheer!" "There's a Good Time Coming," "To the West," Far, far upon the Sea," "The Dream of the Revel- ler," are compositions which, allied to Russell's melodies, find an echo in all men's hearts, and are as familiar in Australia, Canada, and the United States as they long were in the streets of London. Indeed, to many of these songs our magnificent Colonies owe a large proportion of the populations which have converted desert plains into stately cities. "Under Green Leaves" is the title of a collection of minor poems, mostly displaying the grace and polish that distinguished his longer productions. One especially recom- mends itself by the energy of its diction and the originality of its thoughts. It is called "Thor's Hammer," and the moral it conveys is unexpected and impressive. In the following verses will be discovered something of the ease and felicity of Pope or Campbell : "To sin and prosper made the world a friend ; To lie was venial if it served an end ; 'Twas wise to cringe ; 'twas politic to bend. " To steal for pence was dastardly and mean ; To rob for millions, with a soul serene, Soiled not the fingers all success was clean. " Each needy villain haggled for his price ; The base self-worship spawned with every vice, Its love was lust, its prudence avarice. " Its courage cruelty ; its anger hate ; Its caution lies ; the little and the great Denied the gods and dared the blows of Fate." Of Mackay's other poems no analysis is necessary. The "Lump of Gold," "Voices from the Crowd and from the Mountains," "Sketches from the Antique," with his latest collection, " Interludes and Undertones," all belong to that XXX INTRODUCTION. high order of merit which the readers of his earlier works had a right to anticipate. Throughout all his poetry we trace an imagination copious and original ; a mind discriminating and just ; a heart gene- rous and true. He is the vindicator and supporter of all that is good, as he is the contemner and foe of all that is ignoble in our nature. He belongs to an order of men of whom England and English literature may be justly proud ; those who in each age have contributed to the advancement whilst they have purified the manners of their contem- poraries. IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. THE BALLAD OF THE FAIR GERALDINE. SHE was the daughter of an Earl, And I the Rector's son : I loved her more than blessed life, And never loved but one. She took my homage as the rose Might take the morning clew, Or a cloud on the eastern rim of heaven The daylight gushing new. She took it as of right divine, And never thought of me, No more than the rose of the morning dew That bathes it tenderly, Or the river of the light of God That shines on its waters free. in. I loved her for herself alone, And not for rank or gold ; I was as heedless of her wealth As a daisy on the wold ; Or a bird that sings 'mid the hawthorn buds When forest leaves unfold. 1 B TN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. IV. I loved her for herself alone, And dreamed, in summer eves, That the Earl, her sire, was a husbandman Amid his barley sheaves ; And she a dark-eyed peasant girl, As ruddy as the May, With a smile more rich and golden bright Than the dawn of a summer's day, With a voice like the melody of lutes, And breath like the new-mown hay. I loved her for herself alone, And wished that she were poor, That I might guide her through the world, A guardian ever sure, And through all peril and distress Conduct her steps aright ; That I might toil for her by day, And sit in her smile at night : My toil, a burden cheerily borne, For her, my heart's delight. VI. My soul burst forth in floods of song When I thought my love returned, And proud ambitions filled my heart, And through my pulses burned, There was no glory men could snatch Too vast for my desire ; And all to place upon her brow, Higher and ever higher ; Till hers was greater than my own, And robed her as with fire. And when I thought her heart was cold, And no response was given, My mournful passion sought relief From sympathetic Heaven. THE BALLAD OF THE FAIR GERALDINE, And Nature's heart, more kind than hers, Made answer all day long, The wild wind sighed, the rain-cloud wept, The streams made plaintive song, And the hoarse sea- billows chanted hymns Condoling with my wrong. I put my passion into verse, I built it into rhyme, And told my hopes, my joys, my fears, In a tale of olden time : And read it on the garden seat, With green boughs overhung ; She by my side so beautiful, And I so mad and young ! She praised the bard ; she prophesied A glowing noon of fame To him who sang so sweet a song Of Love's supernal flame ; But could not see, perchance for tears And sympathies divine, The living passion of the verse That throbbed in every line. The fable but the garb of truth ; The love, the sorrow, mine. x. I had not courage to declare, Lest hope should be denied, The pangs that wrestled with my peace, " Oh, foolish heart !" I sighed, " To look so high ! But wherefore not? Love, like the liberal sun, Takes no account of human pride, And scorns or favours none : Look up, sad heart ! thy thoughts are pure, Thy Heaven may yet be won ! " IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. One morn oh, well remembered time ! I met her on the lawn, With streaming hair and ripe red lips, Blithe as Aurora when she slips The curtains of the dawn. The balmy skies of cloudless blue Dropped music like the rain, Ten thousand merry minstrels sang The one exulting strain : " We thank thee, Day, for all thy gifts, And welcome thee again ! " XII. It was the bursting of the flower ! She could not choose but hear ; I could not choose but speak the word : " My Geraldine ! my dear ! " I never dared, in all I felt, To name her name before ; Unloosened were the founts of speech, My tongue was mute no more : And keeling at her feet, I craved Permission to adore. XIII. She blushed with pleasure and surprise, And when I touched her hand In dim, wild fervour, born of joy Too rash for my command, She did not slay me with a look, But from her eyes she threw Sweet invitations welcomes sweet And greetings old and new ; I was uplifted from the False, I soared into the True. XIV. In utter dark, devoid of hope, What evil passions glare, Like lurid torches waved at night In foul and misty air. THE INVISIBLE CROWN. But in the light of happy love All evil passions die, Or fade like tapers when the sun Rides cloudless in the sky ; They pale, they wane, they disappear And in that light was I ! xv. Till then I never thought or knew What charms all Nature bore ; How beautiful were Earth and Heaven ! I never lived before. But from that moment nobler life Through all my senses ran ; Deep in the mysteries of Time, I saw the inner plan, The holiness of Light and Love, The dignity of Man 1 THE INVISIBLE CROWN. AMID the crowded streets and roar of voices, Unnoticed by the multitude he goes, Alone, but watchful : if the world rejoices, He smiles ; and if it weeps, he shares its woes : But no one snares in his : his ways are lonely : The millions pass him, for they cannot see His glory and his misery ; but only One of themselves ; a leaf upon the tree ; A raindrop in the torrent ; one small grain Washed on the stormy shore of Life's sad main. With them he is ; but tf/them ? Ah ! not so ! For them are common grief and common gladness, But he from regal heights looks down below, And finds no comrade for his joy or sadness. IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. His feet are on the ways where others travel ; His breast is in the clouds ; his forehead fair And heavenward eyes that see and would unravel Time, Fate, and Man, are in the upper air, And catch the dawning light ; but cold and stern, Except for thoughts that ever throb and burn. ITT. Would men but hear the things which he could tell them, Would they but listen, he were blessed indeed ; The sorrow and the shame that once befell them, But would befall no more, if they would heed, Would give him joy to teach ; but what care they? They know him not ; or if they did, might love him, If Hate more potent did not seek to slay, For speaking of the things too far above him For them to tolerate; and so he's dumb, And broods in silence on the days to come. IV. And yet he knows himself to be a king A king without a kingdom scorned and throneless ! Around his brow there glows the burning ring, Sparkling with jewels. From his lips, the moonless, Escapes a sigh, that he should wear such crown, Such burden and such penalty of splendour, And find 'mid all the myriads of the town No man to say, " God save him," or to render The homage of a look. Oh, pang supreme ! A fact to him though to the world a dream. v. But still he wears it as a monarch should By right divine ; and though he might endeavour To cast it from him, evil more than good, And sink into the crowd, unknown for ever, If he could barter it for peace of mind, And being man, go down into the valleys, Amid the household warmth, and welcomes kind, Of children sporting in the garden alleys, He cannot move it : God alone can take The halo from his forehead ! Let it ache ! AT THE GRAVE OF ROBERT BURNS. 'Tis not the pain ! for well could he endure A tenfold agony, if through the portals Of their dim sight men could behold him, pure Bearing his glory like the old Immortals. But they are blind ; for that gold crown he wears, And feels upon his forehead by its burning, Is viewless as the wind that rends or spares, Or thought unuttered to the brain returning, And dying where it sprung. Hence comes his grief; Is there in Man or Nature no relief? VIT. One word ! One little word ! the humblest spoken, Would make him whole ! The word is still unborn* Pity him, Earth and Heaven ! or else heart-broken He will go down into the grave forlorn, Too early blighted, all his glorious thought Dying within him. Men who boast of seeing, Look in his heart and tell us, wisdom fraught, The mystery and Beauty of his Being ! The world will gain not he ! Meantime he dies- Looking towards the Future and the skies. AT THE GRAVE OF ROBERT BURNS. LET him rest ! Let him rest ! With the green earth on his breast ; The daisies grow above him and the long sedge-grasses wave What call or right have you, Ye mercenary crew, To lift the pitying veil that shrouds him in the grave ? 'Tis true this man could sing Like lark in early spring, Or tender nightingale deep hidden in the bowers ; 'Tis true that he was wise, And that his heavenward eyes Saw far beyond the clouds that dim this world -of ours ; 8 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. But is it yours, when dead, To rake his narrow bed, And peer into his heart for flaws and spots and stains ? And all because his voice Bade multitudes rejoice, And cheered Humanity amid its griefs and pains ? Let him rest ! Let him rest ! With the green earth on his breast, And leave, oh leave, his fame unsullied by your breath ! Each day that passes by, What meaner mortals die, What thousand raindrops fall into the seas of death ! No vender of a tale, His merchandise for sale, Pries into evidence to show how mean were they ; No libel touches them, No curious fools condemn, Their human frailties sleep, for God, not man, to weigh. And shall the bard alone Have all his follies known, Dug from the misty past to spice a needless book, That Envy may exclaim, At mention of his name, " The greatest are but small, however great they look "? Let them rest, their sorrows o'er, All the mighty bards of yore ! And if, ye grubbers-up of scandals dead and gone, Ye find, amid the slime, Some sin of ancient time, Some fault, or seeming fault, that Shakespeare might have done,' Some spot on Milton's truth, Or Byron's glowing youth, - Some error, not too small, for microscopic gaze, Shroud it in deepest gloom, As on your father's tomb You'd hush the evil tongue that spoke in his dispraise ! KING EDWARD AND THE NIGHTINGALES. 9 Shroud it in darkest night ! Or, if compelled to write, Tell us the inspiring tale of perils overcome, Of struggles for the good, Of courage unsubdued ; But let their frailties rest, and on their faults be dumb ! KING EDWARD AND THE NIGHTINGALES. A LEGEND OF HAVERING. [Havering-atte-Bower, in Essex, is reported to have been the favourite retirement of King Edward the Confessor, who so delighted in its solitary woods, that he shut himself up in them for weeks at a time. The legends say that he met with but one annoyance in that pleasant seclusion the continual warbling of the nightingales, pouring such floods of music upon his ear as to disturb his devotions. He therefore prayed that never more within the bounds of that forest might nightingale's song be heard. His prayer, says tradition, was granted. The following versification of the story shows a different result to his prayers a result which, if it contradict tradition, does not, it is presumed, contradict poetical justice.] KING Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower Old and enfeebled by the weight of power Sick of the troublous majesty of kings Weary of duty and all mortal things Weary of day weary of night forlorn Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born. Thick woods environed him, and in their shade He roamed all day, and told his beads, and prayed. Men's faces pained him, and he barred his door, That none might find him ; even the sunshine bore No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight ; And Darkness pleased no better than the Light. He scorned himself for eating food like men, And lived on roots, and water from the fen ; And aye he groaned, and bowed his hoary head Did penance, and put nettles in his bed 10 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. Wore sackcloth on his loins, and smote his breast Told all his follies all his sins confessed Made accusations of himself to Heaven, And owned to crimes, too great to be forgiven, Which he had thought, although he had not done Blackening his blackness ; numbering one by one Unheard of villanies without a name, As if he gloried in inventing shame, Or thought to win the grace of Heaven by lies, And gain a Saintship in a Fiend's disguise. Long in these woods he dwelt a wretched man, Shut from all fellowship, self-placed in ban Laden with ceaseless prayer and boastful vows, Which day and night he breathed beneath the boughs. But sore distressed he was, and wretched quite, For every evening, with the waning light, A choir of nightingales, the brakes among, Deluged the woods with overflow of song. '* Unholy birds," he said, " your throats be riven ! You mar my prayers, you take my thoughts from Heaven ! ' But still the song, magnificent and loud, Poured from the trees like rain from thunder-cloud ; Now to his vexed and melancholy ear Sounding like bridal music, pealing clear ; Anon it deepened on his throbbing brain To full triumphal march or battle-strain ; Then seemed to vary to a choral hymn, Or De Profundis from cathedral dim, " Te Deum" or " Hosanna to the Lord" Chanted by deep- voiced priests in full accord. He shut his ears, he stamped upon the sod : " Be ye accursed, ye take my thoughts from God ! And thou, beloved Saint to whom I bend, Lamp of my life, my guardian, and my friend, Make intercession for me, sweet St. John ! And hear the anguish of thy suffering son ! May never more within these woods be heard The song of morning or of evening bird ! May never more their harmonies awake Within the precincts of this lonely brake, KING EDWARD AND THE NIGHTINGALES. II For I am weary, old, and full of woe, And their songs vex me ! This one boon bestow, That I may pray, and give my thoughts to thee, Without distraction of their melody.; And that within these bowers my groans and sighs And ceaseless prayers be all the sounds that rise. Let God alone possess me, last and first ; And, for His sake, be all these birds accursed ! " This having said, he started where he stood, And saw a stranger walking in the wood ; A purple glory, pale as amethyst, Clad him all o'er. He knew th' Evangelist ; And, kneeling on the earth with reverence meet, He kissed his garment's hem and clasped his feet. "Rise," said the Saint, "and know, unhappy king, That true Religion hates no living thing ; It loves the sunlight, loves the face of man, And takes all virtuous pleasure that it can ; Shares in each harmless joy that Nature gives, Bestows its sympathy on all that lives, Sings with the bird, rejoices with the bee, And, wise as manhood, sports with infancy. Let not the nightingales disturb thy prayers, But make thy thanksgiving as pure as theirs ; So shall it mount on wings of love to Heaven, And thou, forgiving, be thyself forgiven." The calm voice ceased ; King Edward dared not look, But bent to earth, and blushed at the rebuke ! And though he closed his eyes and hid his face, He knew the Saint had vanished from the place. And when he rose, ever the wild woods rang With the sweet song the birds of evening sang. No more he cursed them ! Loitering on his way He listened, pleased, and blessed them for their lay ; And on the morrow quitted Havering To mix with men and be again a king ; And fasting, moaning, scorning, praying less, Increased in virtue and in happiness. IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. WE ARE WISER THAN WE KNOW. THOU, who in the midnight silence Lookest to the orbs on high, Feeling humbled, yet elated, In the presence of the sky ; Thou, who minglest with thy sadness Pride ecstatic, awe divine, That e'en thou canst trace their progress And the law by which they shine, Intuition shall uphold thee, E'en though Reason drag thee low ; Lean on faith, look up rejoicing We are wiser than we know. Thou, who hearest plaintive music, Or sweet songs of other days ; Heaven-revealing organs pealing, Or clear voices hymning praise, And wouldst weep, thou know'st not wherefore, Though thy soul is steeped in joy, And the world looks kindly on thee, And thy bliss hath no alloy, Weep, nor seek for consolation ; Let the heaven-sent droplets flow, They are hints of mighty secrets We are wiser than we know. in. Thou, who in the noon-tide brightness Seest a shadow undefined ; Hear'st a voice that indistinctly Whispers caution to thy mind : Thou, who hast a vague foreboding That a peril may be near, E'en when Nature smiles around thee, And thy Conscience holds thee clear, THE ANGEL AND THE MOURNERS. 13 Trust the warning look before thee Angels may the mirror show, Dimly still, but sent to guide thee We are wiser than we know. Countless chords of heavenly music, Struck ere earthly Time began, Vibrate in immortal concord Through the answering soul of man : Countless rays of heavenly glory Shine through spirit pent in clay On the wise men at their labours, On the children at their play. Man has gazed on heavenly secrets, Sunned himself in heavenly glow, Seen the glory, heard the music, We are wiser than we know. THE ANGEL AND THE MOURNERS. A LITTLE child, beneath a tree, Sat and chanted cheerily A little song, a pleasant song, Which was she sang it all day long '* When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, But a good God reigns over all ! " There passed a widow by the way, Moaning in the face of day : There were tears upon her cheek, Grief in her heart too great to speak ; Her loved one died but yester-morn, And left her in the world forlorn. 14 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. III. She stopped and listened to the child, That looked to Heaven and, singing, smiled ; And saw not, for her own despair, Another lady, young and fair, Who, also passing, stopped to hear The infant's anthem ringiner clear. For she, but few sad days before, Had lost the little babe she bore ; And grief was heavy at her soul, As its sweet memory o'er her stole, And showed her, while her tears fell fast, How beautiful had been the past. And as they stood beneath the tree Listening, soothed, and placidly, A youth came by, whose sunken eyes Spake of a load of miseries ; And he, arrested like the twain, Stopped to listen to the strain. Death had bowed the youthful head Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : Her marriage robes were fitted on, Her fair young face with blushes shone, But fever smote her in her bloom, And bore her to the pitiless tornb. And these three listened to the song, Silver-toned and sweet and strong, Which that child, the live-long day, Chanted to itself in play :