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 : 
 <l When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all ! " 
 
CHIRON ; OR, THE BEAUTY OF DEATH. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The widow's lips impulsive moved ; 
 The mother's grief, though unreproved, 
 Softened as her trembling tongue 
 Repeated what the infant sung ; 
 And the sad lover, with a start, 
 Conned it over to his heart. 
 
 And though the child if child it were, 
 And not a Seraph sitting there 
 Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 
 Went on their way resignedly, 
 The song still ringing in their ears ; 
 Was it music of the spheres ? 
 
 x. 
 
 Who. shall tell ? They did not know. 
 But in the midst of deepest woe 
 The strain recurred when sorrow grew, 
 To warn them, and console them too : 
 " When the wind blows, the blossoms fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all ! " 
 
 CHIRON; OR, THE BEAUTY OF DEATH. 
 
 '* LIFE ! Life ! oh give me Life, thou parent Sun ! 
 
 That pourest it in floods in every ray 
 
 From thy divine supernal countenance, 
 
 That I may be coeval with thyself 
 
 And look at Knowledge as I would at thee, 
 
 Undazzled, unconsumed, insatiable ! 
 
 Life ! Life ! oh give me Life ; Eternal Sea ! 
 
 That borest Aphrodite in thy womb, 
 
 Immortal as thyself ! Oh give me Life, 
 
 That I may sail upon the waves of Time 
 
 To havens of Eternity ! Thou Earth ! 
 
 Dear Mother Earth ! be kindly to thy son, 
 
l6 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 And teach me, guide me, aid me how to pluck 
 The seeds of Knowledge scattered o'er thy breast, 
 In weed and grass and flower and rind and fruit, 
 In everything that grows ! I pine to learn 
 By patient study of the morns and noons/- 
 By deep seclusion of the eves and nights, 
 By constant intercourse with thee and thine, 
 The mysteries of Life ! 
 
 O trembling stars, 
 
 That in the frostful winter nights infuse 
 Visions of beauty to the yearning soul ! 
 Let me, with reverent eyes and bended knee, 
 Enter the outer porch, and catch a gleam 
 Of your occult, unspoken secrecies ! 
 Life throbs eternally through all your spheres, 
 And one pulsation of the immensity, 
 One tidal flow of the incessant wave 
 Of such deep Ocean, would extend my span 
 From seventy to seven times seventy years, 
 And seven times those ! O dread profundity 
 Of knowledge that mine earnest eyes would pierce 
 .That my immortal soul imprisoned here 
 Would measure in the flesh ! Is there no hope 
 That I can drop my plummet to your depths ? 
 That I can shoot my arrow to your heights ? 
 That I can swathe and circumscribe and bound 
 The wisdom that you hide ? Extend my days, 
 My strength, my life, my soul, or let me die 
 One of the human, common herd and crowd, 
 As careless and as valueless as they ! " 
 
 Thus Chiron's plaint resounded on the shore, 
 Chiron the Centaur Chiron, King of men 
 Chiron, no monstrous birth, half man, half steed, 
 But godlike and Titanic first that tamed 
 The wild unbridled horse, and rode his back, 
 Firm fixed as Fate, or strong unchangeable Will 
 Misnamed the Centaur by the foolish folk 
 Of dull Bceotia : thus his mournful words 
 Commingled with the anthems of the winds, 
 Quivering amid the hoarse responsive boughs 
 
CHIRON ; OR, THE BEAUTY OF DEATH. I 7 
 
 Of perishing oaks, a thousand summers old ; 
 
 Thus rose it 'mid the psalm of waterfalls, 
 
 With fitful music, sadder than their own, 
 
 And still the cry was, " Life ! oh give me Life ! 
 
 If trees may live for countless centuries, 
 
 Why shall not /? If Ocean's voice to-day 
 
 Sounds as it sounded at the birth of Time, 
 
 Why should my voice be hushed, mine utterance quenched 
 
 To-morrow in the tomb ? " 
 
 1 1 is prayer was heard : 
 The sunshine and the sun-impregnate Air 
 Shed life into his pores and arteries ; 
 The Sea gave healing for the wounds of Time ; 
 The Earth distilled its balsams for all ill 
 That flesh can suffer from the darts of Death ; 
 And every tree, and herb, and bulb, and flower 
 Bared to his earnest eyes its inmost heart, 
 And said, " O Man of transitory years, 
 Rejuvenescence, Health, and Beauty dwell 
 In every outburst of the teeming Spring 
 In every flower that God permits to grow, 
 In every tender leaflet of the field, 
 In every dew-drop on the rose's cup ; 
 And all are thine." 
 
 He saw he plucked ! 
 He drank and ate, and felt in all his limbs 
 Immortal Strength and Youth ! Time passed him by 
 And left no wrinkle on his cheek or brow, 
 No dimness in his eye, and in his step 
 No faltering such as curbs the sons of men, 
 And teaches them how humble they should be 
 In presence of the swift approaching doom 
 That blows them from the Earth, like leaf from branch. 
 The world was his, and all its privilege 
 To love, to do, to suffer, and to know ; 
 And loving, doing, knowing, suffering much, 
 To rise to godlike heights, and be of gods 
 Equal and peer. 
 
 Alas ! alas for him ! 
 
 He had not bargained for his youth of heart ; 
 And that grew old. He had not thought to crave 
 
 c 
 
1 8 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 For sweet renewal of his sympathies, 
 
 For lighting of Imagination's fire, 
 
 For flowering of Affection, ever fresh 
 
 As Earth's young daisies when the Springtime leaps 
 
 Jocund from Southern skies to Northern meads ! 
 
 Alas for him, that would be overwise ! 
 
 He had the body of Youth, but not the soul ; 
 
 And all his Knowledge, plucked from Heaven's own gate, 
 
 Served but to show him how its utmost range 
 
 Was but the long-day crawling of a snail 
 
 Over the lowest step of countless steps 
 
 That lead to the Eternal vestibule 
 
 Of God's great Temple dreamed of by the sage 
 
 In fitful visions of disordered sleep, 
 
 But never seen by dwellers on the Earth. 
 
 " O fool ! " he said. " O worse than mortal fool ! 
 To drag the chain of flesh, and link myself 
 To such encumbrance and imprisonment, 
 When at the end of short appointed Time 
 I might have known the freedom of the spheres, 
 And been the real god whose part I play 
 With piteous masquerade ; and humbly sat 
 At God's own footstool ; knowing what I knew 
 By God's permission and God's recompense ! 
 
 "Father's Supreme ! I supplicate for Death ! 
 Death is Thy law ; no evil to the just, 
 No sorrow to the wise. I never prayed 
 So ardently and clamorously for Life 
 As now I pray for Death ! Oh, let me die, 
 And sink into the quiet common grave 
 With mine earth-vesture as the raindrop sinks 
 Into the grateful bosom of the sod. 
 My soul shall live again the life ordained 
 In the Soul's Universe ; not prisoned here 
 A wing-clipped eagle a dark-grubbing mole 
 A limpet on the rock a barren stone 
 Weltering unheeded on the shore of Time ! " 
 
 Long, long he suffered ere his prayer was heard : 
 Great was his crime, great was his punishment. 
 
 Studies from the Antique. 
 
NAPOLEON AND THE SPHINX. 1 9 
 
 NAPOLEON AND THE SPHINX. 
 
 BENEATH him stretched the sands 
 
 Of Egypt's burning lands ; 
 The desert panted to the sweltering ray ; 
 
 The camel's plashing feet, 
 
 With slow, uneasy beat, 
 Threw up the scorching dust like arrowy spray ; 
 
 And fierce the sunlight glowed, 
 
 As young Napoleon rode 
 Around the Gallic camp, companionless that day. 
 
 High thoughts were in his mind, 
 
 Unspoken to his kind ; 
 Calm was his face his eyes were blank and chill ; 
 
 His thin lips were compressed, 
 
 The secrets of his breast 
 Those portals never passed, for good or ill ; 
 
 And dreaded yet adored 
 
 His hand upon his sword, 
 He mused on Destiny, to shape it to his will. 
 
 in. 
 
 "Ye haughty Pyramids ! 
 
 Thou Sphinx ! whose eyeless lids 
 On my presumptuous youth seem bent in scorn ; 
 
 What though thy form has stood 
 
 Coeval with the Flood, 
 Of all earth's monuments the earliest born ; 
 
 And I, so mean and small, 
 
 With armies at my call, 
 Am recent in thy sight as grass of yester-morn ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 * * Yet in this soul of mine 
 Is strength as great as thine, 
 O dull-eyed Sphinx that would'st despise me now ; 
 
20 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Is grandeur like thine own, 
 
 O melancholy stone, 
 With forty centuries furrowed on thy brow ! 
 
 Deep in my heart I feel 
 
 What Time shall yet reveal, 
 That I shall tower o'er men, as o'er these deserts thou ! 
 
 " I shall upbuild a name 
 
 Of never-dying fame, 
 My deeds shall fill the world with their renown : 
 
 To all succeeding years 
 
 The populous hemispheres 
 Shall pass the record of my glories down ; 
 
 And nations yet to be, 
 
 Surging from Time's deep sea, 
 Shall teach their babes the name of great Napoleon. 
 
 " On History's deathless page, 
 
 From wondering age to age, 
 New light and reverence o'er that name shall glow : 
 
 My deeds already done 
 
 Are histories begun, 
 Whose great conclusion centuries shall not know. 
 
 O melancholy Sphinx ! 
 
 Present with Future links, 
 And both shall yet be mine. I feel it as I go !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 Over the mighty chief 
 
 There came a shadow of grief ; 
 The lips gigantic seemed to move and say, 
 
 " Know'st thou his name that bid 
 
 Arise yon Pyramid ? 
 Know'st thou who placed me where I stand to-day ? 
 
 Thy deeds are but as sand, 
 
 Strewn on the heedless land : 
 Think, little mortal, think ! and pass upon thy way ! 
 
THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL. 21 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Pass, little mortal, pass ! 
 
 Grow like the vernal grass ; 
 The autumn sickle shall destroy thy prime ! 
 
 Bid nations shout the word 
 
 Which ne'er before they heard, 
 The name of Glory, fearful, yet sublime ; 
 
 The Pharaohs are forgot, 
 
 Their works confess them not : 
 Pass, Hero ! pass, poor straw upon the gulf of Time !" 
 
 THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.* 
 
 HARK ! how the furnace pants and ro.irs, 
 Hark ! how the molten metal pours, 
 As, bursting from its iron doors, 
 
 It glitters in the sun. 
 Now through the ready mould it flows, 
 Seething and hissing as it goes, 
 And filling every crevice up 
 As the red vintage fills the cup : 
 
 Hurra I the work is done ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Unswathe him now. Take off each stay 
 That binds him to his couch of clay, 
 And let him struggle into day : 
 
 Let chain and pulley run, 
 With yielding crank and steady rope, 
 Until he rise from rim to cope, 
 In rounded beauty, ribbed in strength, 
 Without a flaw in all its length : 
 
 Hurra I the work is done I 
 
 * When this ballad was written, the author had not read Schiller's 
 poem on the same subject, or it is possible that he would not have 
 incurred the risk of a comparison. 
 
22 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 III. 
 
 The clapper on his giant side 
 
 Shall ring no peal for blushing bride, 
 
 For birth, or death, or new-year tide, 
 
 Or festival begun ! 
 A nation's joy alone shall be 
 The signal for his revelry ; 
 And for a nation's woes alone 
 His melancholy tongue shall moan : 
 
 Hiirra ! the work is done ! 
 
 Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear, 
 His long loud summons shall we hear, 
 When statesmen to their country dear 
 
 Their mortal race have run ; 
 When mighty monarchs yield their breath, 
 And patriots sleep the sleep of death, 
 Then shall he raise his voice of gloom, 
 And peal a requiem o'er their tomb : 
 
 Hurra ! the work is done ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Should foemen lift their haughty hand, 
 And dare invade us where we stand, 
 Fast by the altars of our land 
 
 We'll gather every one : 
 And he shall ring the loud alarm, 
 To call the multitudes to arm, 
 From distant field and forest brown, 
 And teeming alleys of the town : 
 
 Hurra ! the work is done ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 And as the solemn boom they hear, 
 Old men shall grasp the idle spear, 
 Laid by to rust for many a year, 
 And to the struggle run ; 
 Young men shall leave their toils or books, 
 Or turn to swords their prun ing-hooks ; 
 
THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL. 23 
 
 And maids have sweetest smiles for those 
 Who battle with their country's foes : 
 Hurra I the work is done ! 
 
 And when the cannon's iron throat 
 Shall bear the news to dells remote, 
 And trumpet-blast resound the note, 
 
 That victory is won : 
 When down the wind the banner drops, 
 And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops, 
 His sides shall glow with fierce delight, 
 And ring glad peals from morn to night : 
 
 Hurra I the work is done ! 
 
 But of such scenes forbear to tell 
 May never War awake this bell 
 To sound the tocsin or the knell ; 
 
 Hushed be the alarum gun ; 
 Sheathed be the sword ! and may his voice 
 But call the nations to rejoice 
 That War his tattered flag has furled, 
 And vanished from a wiser world. 
 
 Hurra I the work is done ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Still may he ring when struggles cease, 
 Still may he ring for joy's increase, 
 For progress in the arts of peace, 
 
 And friendly trophies won ; 
 When rival nations join their hands, 
 When plenty crowns the happy lands, 
 W T hen knowledge gives new blessings birth, 
 And freedom reigns o'er all the earth. 
 
 Hurra ! the work is done ! 
 
24 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 MIST. 
 
 [Inscribed to a very popular but very incomprehensible poet.] 
 
 ONE day I walked through mist and haze of cloud ; 
 
 I could not see the sunshine in the sky ; 
 I heard a mountain torrent pealing loud, . 
 
 But could not see it, though I knew 'twas nigh ; 
 I wandered on the sullen ocean-shore, 
 
 But could not see the wrinkles on its face, 
 And only knew 'twas ocean by its roar, 
 
 So dense the vapour lay on all the place. 
 Heavily on hill and plain 
 Hung moisture, neither dew nor rain ; 
 The birds were silent in the darkling bowers, 
 And not a shadow fell to mark the hours : 
 Ghost-like paced about the men, 
 
 Through ghostly alleys, speaking low ; 
 And every object on my ken 
 
 Was vague, and colourless, and slow. 
 I asked a native what the land might be. 
 " The land," he said, " of heavenly Poesy." 
 " And who are these that wander up and down ? " 
 " Poets," he said, "of great and high renown." 
 " And art thou of them ? " " No not so," he sighed ; 
 " I'm but a critic." " Tell me," I replied, 
 " What kind of poesy these poets make. 
 
 If they be makers, as true poets are, 
 And whether from the clouds their hue they take, 
 
 And sing without the light of sun or star." 
 
 " We want no sunshine here," the critic said, 
 
 " Nor wholesome light, nor shape too well defined ; 
 There needs no radiance for the drowsy head, 
 
 Nor vulgar common-sense for sleepy mind. 
 Our nerves are very finely strung, 
 
 And much emotion would destroy them quite ; 
 And if a meaning start to page or tongue 
 
 Of our great poets, when they speak or write, 
 
MIST. 25 
 
 They swathe and swaddle it in pompous rhyme, 
 
 And darken counsel with vain words ; 
 And girls, green-sickly, children of the clime, 
 
 Proclaim it lovely as the chant of birds, 
 And write it in their albums, or rehearse, 
 
 With lisping chatter, the delightful verse. 
 
 Sickly sickly are our bards ; 
 
 The rose-tree gall is surely fair, 
 Ay, fairer to our faint and dim regards 
 
 Than healthy roses flaunting in the air. 
 Most lovely is our daily languishment, 
 
 Our sweet half- consciousness, our listless ease, 
 Our inchoate discourse magniloquent, 
 
 Through which we see the surging mysteries 
 Of Time and Life, Eternity and Death ; 
 
 Or think we see them ; is it not the same ? 
 Death is a mist, and Life is but a breath, 
 
 And Love a cloudy, ever-flickering flame." 
 
 " Then," I rejoined, " the poets of this land, 
 Misty and mystic, hard to understand, 
 Do not desire, like Shakspeare of old days, 
 To reach the popular heart through open ways ; 
 To speak for all men ; to be wise and true, 
 Bright as the noon-time, clear as morning dew, 
 And wholesome in the spirit and the form ? " 
 
 " Shakspeare !" he answered, "may his name endure ! 
 But what is he to us? Our veins are warm 
 
 With other blood than his, perchance as pure. 
 Each for his time ! our time is one of Mist, 
 And we are misty, love us those who list." 
 
 He said, and disappear'd ; and I took ship, 
 And left that cloudy land ; and sailing forth 
 
 I felt the free breeze sporting at my lip, 
 
 And saw the Pole-star in the clear blue north, 
 
 And all the pomp of heaven. Right glad was 1, 
 
 Bareheaded to the glory of the sky ! 
 
26 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 WINIFRED. 
 
 i. 
 
 SWEET Winifred sits at the cottage door, 
 The rose and the woodbine shadow it o'er, 
 And turns to the clear blue summer skies 
 The clearer blue of her soft young eyes 
 Turns to the balmy wind of the south 
 Her feverish, supplicating mouth, 
 To ask from Heaven and the sunny glow 
 The health she lost long, long ago. 
 
 The rose on her cheeks is rose too red, 
 
 The light in her eyes is lightning sped, 
 
 And not the cairn and steady ray 
 
 Of youth and strength in their opening day ; 
 
 Her hands are lily -pale and thin, 
 
 You can see the blood beneath the skin ; 
 
 Something hath smitten her to the core, 
 
 And she wastes and dwindles evermore. 
 
 She thinks, as she sits in the glint o' the sun, 
 That her race is ended ere well begun, 
 And turns her luminous eyes aside 
 To one who asks her to be his bride 
 Invisible to all but her, 
 Her friend, her lover, her worshipper ; 
 Who stretches forth his kindly hand, 
 And saith what her heart can understand. 
 
 " Winifred ! Winifred ! be thou mine, 
 Many may woo thee, many may pine 
 To win from thy lips the sweet caress ; 
 But thou canst not give it, or answer "yes." 
 
WINIFRED. 27 
 
 There is not one amid them all, 
 To whom if the prize of thyself should fall, 
 Who would not suffer more cruel pain 
 Than would ever spring from thy disdain. 
 
 "Only to me canst thou be given, 
 
 The bridegroom sent to thee from Heaven ; 
 
 Come to me ! Come ! Thy dower shall be 
 
 The wealth of Immortality. 
 
 Eternal youth, perennial joy, 
 
 And Love that never shall change or cloy, 
 
 All shall be thine the hour we wed, 
 
 Sweet Winifred ! Be mine ! " he said. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Take me ! " she answered with faint, low breath : 
 " I know thee well. Thy name is DEATH. 
 I've looked on thy merciful face too long 
 To think of thee as a pain or wrong. 
 I know thou 'It keep thy promise true, 
 And lead me life's dark portals through, 
 Up ! up ! on wings to the starry dome, 
 Up ! up to Heaven ! my bridal home." 
 
 He laid his hand on her trembling wrist, 
 Her beautiful coy, cold lips he kissed ; 
 And took her away from sister and brother, 
 From sorrowing sire and weeping mother ; 
 From all she loved. With a smile she went, 
 Of peace and patience and sweet content. 
 'T\vas but life's vesture laid in the sod, 
 'Tvvas Life itself at the throne of God ! 
 
28 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE BLIND MAN'S FIRESIDE. 
 
 TALK to me, oh ye eloquent flames, 
 
 Gossips and comrades fine ! 
 Nobody knows me, poor and blind, 
 
 That sit in your merry shine. 
 Nobody knows me but my dog ; 
 
 A friend I've never seen, 
 But that comes to my call, and loves me 
 
 For the sympathies between. 
 
 'Tis pleasant to hear in the cold, dark night, 
 
 Mounting higher and higher, 
 The crackling, chattering, sputtering, spattering 
 
 Flames in the wintry fire. 
 Half asleep in the corner, 
 
 I hear you prattle and snap, 
 And talk to me and Tiny, 
 
 That dozes in my lap. 
 
 You laugh with the merriest laughter ; 
 
 You dance, you jest, you sing, 
 And suggest in the wintry midnight 
 
 The joys of the coming Spring. 
 Not even the lark on the fringe of the cloud, 
 
 Nor the thrush on the hawthorn bough, 
 Singeth a song more pleasant to hear 
 
 Than the song you're singing now. 
 
 Your voices are all of gladness : 
 
 Ever they seem to say, 
 After the evening morning ! 
 
 After the night the day ! 
 After this mortal blindness 
 
 A heavenly vision clear ! 
 The soul can see when the eyes are dark ; 
 
 Awake ! let the light appear ! 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ST. MARC. 29 
 
 : FESTIVAL OF ST. MARC. 
 
 DURING THE AUSTRIAN OCCUPATION OF 
 VENETIA. 1855. 
 
 I. 
 
 THROUGH the old city 
 
 The gondolas crawl, 
 Sable and doleful 
 
 And coffin-like all. 
 Bright though the sunshine, 
 
 And blue though the skies, 
 Deep over Venice 
 
 A shadow there lies. 
 Day cannot cover it, 
 Death watches over it, 
 
 With his dim eyes. 
 
 ii. 
 The broad Canal azzo 
 
 Is quiet as glass, 
 O'er its calm waters 
 
 The gondolas pass ; 
 So dimly, so smoothly, 
 
 So sadly they go, 
 Wer't not for the morning 
 
 That glitters below, 
 You'd fancy Styx river 
 
 And Charons that row. 
 
 Each lordly palazzo 
 
 That borders the stream, 
 Like something remembered, 
 
 Or seen in a dream, 
 Stands lovely, but ghostlike, 
 
 And he who looks on 
 Imagines the vision 
 
 Must change, or be gone. 
 
30 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 The ripple behind him, 
 
 Or plash of the oar, 
 Scarce breaks the reflection 
 
 Of palace and shore ; 
 It quivers a moment, 
 
 And sleeps as before. 
 So clear is the mirror, 
 
 That shadow and stone 
 Seem equally silent, 
 
 And lifeless and lone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And yet 'tis a holiday ! 
 
 Hark to the bells 
 The old Campanile 
 
 With melody swells. 
 From pestilent alleys, 
 
 Dark, narrow, and warm, 
 Across the Rialto 
 
 The multitudes swarm. 
 The bridges four hundred 
 
 Are teeming with life ; 
 The maid and the lover, 
 
 The husband and wife, 
 The master and servant, 
 
 The old and the young, 
 Gome forth to the sunshine, 
 
 The joy-bells are rung ; 
 St. Marc's fair Piazza 
 
 Feels warmth on its breast, 
 A flash of enjoyment 
 
 Comes breaking its rest. 
 The corpse has been quickened, 
 
 It stretches its limbs : 
 Float banners ! sound music ! 
 
 Swell aves and hymns ! 
 
 V. 
 This hour, if no other, 
 
 Shall Venice be gay ; 
 St. Marc is her patron, 
 
 And this is his day. 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ST. MARC. 31 
 
 His temple and basilisk 
 
 Opens its doors, 
 And round the high altar 
 
 The multitude pours. 
 Be of it, and enter ! 
 
 And leave until morn 
 The halls of the Doges 
 
 So dim and forlorn. 
 Why linger with shadows, 
 
 When substance is fled 
 The living are with us 
 
 Come out from the dead ! 
 
 Vainly ! oh, vainly ! 
 
 Their works are around 
 Their deeds and memoria 
 
 Encumber the ground. 
 Ten centuries whisper, 
 
 And start from the stones 
 Greeks, Romans, Venetians, 
 
 Dominions and thrones ; 
 Their heroes still crimson 
 
 With blood which they spilt, 
 Their doges empurpled 
 
 With glory and guilt, 
 Gleam out from the casement 
 
 They stand by the wall, 
 They start from the Duomo 
 
 They brood over all. 
 
 'Tis holiday ! holiday ! 
 
 Festival dear, 
 Beloved of the people, 
 
 And first of the year. 
 Old Venice rejoicing 
 
 Kneels down at the shrine, 
 And prays for protection 
 
 And favour divine ; 
 
32 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Leaves trouble behind it- 
 Shuts business at home, 
 
 To hear the Archbishop 
 Sing mass in the Dome. 
 
 Archbishop and Cardinal 
 
 Lo ! he appears 
 Arrayed in his purple, 
 
 A king 'mid his peers 
 But laden, deep laden, 
 
 O'erladen with years ! 
 He totters, he trembles 
 
 He creeps to his place, 
 His eighty dark winters 
 
 Beshading his face. 
 They robe him and crown him 
 
 They kneel at his feet, 
 And bishops and deacons 
 
 Their aves repeat. 
 Old, withered, and feeble, 
 
 They nod as they go, 
 Their eyes lacking lustre, 
 
 Their heads white as snow ; 
 And incense is scattered, 
 
 And music is poured, 
 And voices are blended 
 
 In praise to the Lord. 
 
 Be calm, oh, my spirit ! 
 
 What though at the shrine 
 The prayers which they utter 
 
 May differ from thine ? 
 A thought may unite them 
 
 A thought unexpressed 
 Inspiring and lifting, 
 
 And filling the breast. 
 The form of the worship 
 
 Is rind on the bole ; 
 The fruit of religion 
 
 Is Love in the soul. 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ST. MARC. 33 
 
 Oh ! selfish and wayward ! 
 
 Oh ! fancy run wild ! 
 That will not and may not 
 
 Be trained like a child, 
 But wanders and frolics, 
 
 Like breeze on the hill, 
 To cloudland or daisy, 
 
 Wherever it will. 
 It sails with the music 
 
 To seas without bound ; 
 It floats in the sunshine, 
 
 In darkness is drowned ; 
 It climbs the high organ 
 
 Up mountains of sound ; 
 Now hears the white pinions 
 
 That ruffle the air, 
 And voices angelic 
 
 That mingle in prayer ; 
 Then earthwards descending, 
 
 Goes gathering flowers, 
 And welcomes the cuckoo 
 
 Returned to the bowers ; 
 Then launched upon waters, 
 
 Goes down on the streams 
 To regions ecstatic 
 
 Of slumbers and dreams. 
 
 x. 
 
 Breathe gently, sweet Music ! 
 
 Sound faintly afar ! 
 Fall, melody, softly, 
 
 Like light from a star ! 
 Melt, harmonies, lovingly ! 
 
 Fuse into one, 
 Like dew-drops on rose leaves, 
 
 Like dawn in the sun ; 
 Like friends re-united 
 
 When perils are passed ; . 
 Like lovers, long parted, 
 
 Made happy at last ; 
 Dissever to mingle 
 
 Like fond lips, when coy, 
 
34 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 And blend all your echoes 
 
 In Beauty and Joy ! 
 In Beauty ? aye ever ! 
 
 But Joy nevermore ! 
 The music is mournful 
 
 As waves on the shore, 
 As streams that are falling, 
 
 As moan of the wind, 
 Or whisper of angels 
 
 Who pity mankind. 
 
 Oh, Music enchantress ! 
 
 Thy magic instil ! 
 I yield thee my spirit 
 
 To guide at thy will ! 
 Thy thoughts shall impress me- 
 
 Thy meanings be mine, 
 Clear-voyant ; deep-diving 
 
 I see the Divine 
 Time, Space, and Obstruction 
 
 No longer control, 
 And vision elysian 
 
 Comes down to my soul ! 
 
 And what were thy visions, 
 
 Oh, dreamer of dreams ? 
 The daylight came prying, 
 
 And dulled them with beams. 
 Too shapeless for Reason, 
 
 Though born in its light, 
 They paled into phantoms 
 
 In Memory's night. 
 Dim phantoms of banners 
 
 For conquest unfurled, 
 Of brows bright with diamonds, 
 
 Of bosoms empearled, 
 Of Venice, the mistress 
 
 And Queen of the world ; 
 Of argosies laden 
 
 With damask and gold, 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ST. MARC. 35 
 
 Of tributes barbaric 
 
 From kingdoms grown old ; 
 Of spousals fantastic 
 
 And rings in the tide ; 
 Of Venice the bridegroom, 
 
 And Ocean the bride, 
 So mingled together 
 
 That nought could divide ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then changing and fading, 
 
 And thawing to death, 
 'Mid tearful lamenting 
 And tardy repenting, 
 
 That struggled for breath. 
 'Mid sobbings of women 
 
 And voices of wail, 
 And grief-laden echoes 
 
 Borne far on the gale ; 
 'Mid headless Falieros, 
 
 Each ghost in its shroud, 
 That paced round the Duomo, 
 
 Unseen by the crowd ; 
 'Mid prisoners clanking 
 
 Their chains as they crept, 
 And maids who dishevelled 
 
 Their hair as they wept ; 
 While louder and clearer, 
 
 And rising to fall, 
 A dirge and a requiem 
 
 Were heard over all ; 
 A dirge for dead Venice, 
 
 So fair in decay, 
 A sigh for the glory 
 
 Departed for aye 
 Desolate ! Desolate ! 
 
 Faded away ! 
 
 Venice, April \ 1855. 
 
36 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 PROTEUS; QR, THE METAMORPHOSES 
 OF GENIUS. 
 
 A STUDY FROM THE ANTIQUE. 
 
 ALONE upon the melancholy shore, 
 Between the ebb and flow 
 Rolling and surging evermore, 
 Sat Proteus on a jutting rock 
 Cushioned with tangle and sea-hair 
 And listened to the moan and shock 
 Of crested billows, white as snow, 
 That flashed upon the sand-reach, smooth and bare, 
 Their serried armour bright, 
 Like mail-clad horsemen keen for fight 
 And mastery of the unoffending land ; 
 He sat, with chin supported on his hand; 
 And mused on mysteries dim-seen 
 Even of immortal eyes to men unknown 
 The mighty riddle what the world might mean ; 
 Silent he sat, and all alone. 
 
 And as he dreamed, his thoughts took bodily shape, 
 Fresh, fair, and buxom on the beach, 
 Their fragile hands linked each in each 
 All happy to 'escape 
 
 From buffeting and thraldom of the waves, 
 And twilight of their ocean caves, 
 The Oceanides came forth to play, 
 Bare-footed in the light of day, 
 And float their loose robes on the gale 
 That bulged far off the home-returning sail. 
 
 He heard the music of their dance, 
 He saw their shiny feet upon the sand, 
 Then wearied, he dismissed them with a glance 
 And motion of his hand, 
 
PROTEUS; OR, THE METAMORPHOSES OF GENIUS. 37 
 
 And summoned in their stead, 
 In her immortal loveliness sea-born, 
 A thousand odours round her shed, 
 Great Aphrodite, rosier than the morn, 
 Richer than summer, sweeter than the spring, 
 Brighter than day, kinder than gods or men ; 
 With love that held all nature in her ken, 
 And overflowed on every living thing. 
 
 And with her came each Muse and Grace, 
 Radiant from Heaven with clear cerulean eyes 
 And he beheld them face to face, 
 And spake to them of mysteries 
 Of Love, the Regent of the skies, 
 Lord paramount of all beneath the moon, 
 Whom gods obey, and men adore, 
 Whose praise Earth sings to sea and shore, 
 While all the stars repeat the eternal tune, 
 Love Paramount and Love for everrnore ! 
 
 Anon he summoned by his voiceless will, 
 There on the sea-beach salt and chill, 
 Dodona's groves and odoriferous gloom, 
 And Tempe's vale 'with all its wealth of bloom, 
 Bceotia with its pastures green, 
 Arcadia with its mountain screen, 
 Gardens and orchards, bosks and lawns, 
 And joyous Pan, with all his nymphs and fauns. 
 
 Loud o'er the wave their laughter rang, 
 The wild deer gambolled, and the blithe birds sang, 
 Till Proteus shut his eyes and waved them off 
 From the denuded sands and bare sea trough ; 
 For he had communed with the gods too long, 
 And his heart wearied with a yearning strong. 
 For converse and companionship of mind, 
 With erring, suffering, struggling humankind. 
 
 Obedient to his call 
 
 Came lovely women in their joyous youth, 
 Brave men, and sages who had died for Truth, 
 Or lived to plant its banner on the wall ; 
 Came little children, ruddy as the rose, 
 
38 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Came young Ambition with its brain of fire, 
 
 Came old Ambition, withered in desire, 
 
 But fresh for vengeance on opposing foes ; 
 
 Came jesters with their arrowy tongues gall-tipped, 
 
 And grave buffoons, large-paunched and heavy-lipped ; 
 
 Came kings and Pharaohs weary of their crowns, 
 
 Envious of ploughmen who could sleep, 
 
 Envious but yet ashamed to weep 
 
 At better fortune of contented clowns ; 
 
 Came beggars leaning on their staves ; 
 
 Came careless, uncomplaining slaves, 
 
 And slaves in whose hot blood the slavery ran 
 
 Like maddening poison goading all the man 
 
 To quick revolt ; came Misery, gaunt and bare, 
 
 Full of remorseful secrets ; came Despair, 
 
 Silent or querulous, or moaning low ; 
 
 Came lovers laden with deep joy or woe ; 
 
 Came rich men, weary that they should endure 
 
 Evils as many as the wearier poor ; 
 
 Came Youth that longed for death, and Age forlorn 
 
 That clung to life yet grieved that it was born. 
 
 And Proteus saw and loved them, all and each ; 
 Imbibing knowledge from their pain, 
 As trees fruition from the rain. 
 And all that human agony could teach, 
 Or human joy impart, 
 He studied with full mind and fuller heart, 
 Till he became a world, all worlds containing, 
 And bore the heavy burden uncomplaining, 
 And thought the thoughts that throb and burn 
 In all the planets as they turn, 
 
 Thoughts immortal universal perfect as the spheres above, 
 Death in Life but Life for ever and Eternity of Love ! 
 
 The wondering people gathered on the shore 
 And watched the pageant as it rolled, 
 Projected from his mind, and said, " Behold 
 The many shapes he taketh evermore ! 
 He is not one, but many. Let us cry 
 Aloud to rouse him where he sitteth dumb, 
 And bid him speak to us, and prophesy 
 Of glooms and glories of the days to come. " 
 
A THRENODY FOR A BELOVED ONE. 39 
 
 But Proteus, when he saw they would intrude 
 Upon the full heart of his solitude, 
 Gathered the vagrant mists around his face, 
 And clad himself in cloud, and disappeared ; 
 And when again they looked upon his place, 
 Watching the vapours as they curled and cleared, 
 They saw him not ; but heard, far off, at sea, 
 A voice that said, " O, men ! ye know not me, 
 And never can. What I may tell, I tell ; 
 But seek not you to pierce the inscrutable : 
 God's secrets are His own." 
 
 Humbled and sad, 
 
 They went their way, while from the white sea-rim, 
 And all the shore, echoed a choral hymn 
 Of mingled grief and joy. That song sublime 
 Fills all true poets' souls ; and shall till end of Time. 
 
 A THRENODY FOR A BELOVED ONE. 
 
 i. 
 
 SINCE first I lost her, oh, my heart's best treasure ! 
 There hath been darkness on the weary day ; 
 A throbbing anguish in the purest pleasure 
 Pleasure ! Ah, no ! Its fair face passed away 
 With hers still fairer ; and its glancing robe, 
 Mist- woven, vanished from the globe. 
 I look upon the light of morn, 
 And wonder, utterly forlorn, 
 How it can break when she's no longer here ; 
 And when the young buds blow 
 Rose-tipped or white as snow, 
 There seems a want of Pity in our sphere, 
 That Nature's self should not refuse 
 The sunshine and the dews, 
 When she, her sweetest child, 
 So young and undefiled, 
 No longer breathes upon the vernal air 
 The fragrance of her unforgotten bloom 
 Lost ! lost for ever, in the tomb, 
 That never yet had habitant so fair. 
 
40 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 II. 
 
 Come Day ! Come Night ! 
 I note your changes, heedless of them all ; 
 For evermore, betwixt you and my sight, 
 A sweet face, with a coronal 
 Of glory, heavenly bright, 
 Looks down upon me, tinting the long hours 
 With a celestial paleness. Sleeping, waking, 
 Ever I see it : till my eyes drop showers, 
 And make the vision brighter by my weeping ; 
 Brighter but still more sorrowful to see, 
 Except when Night lies gently on my brain, 
 And Sleep restores her to my soul again, 
 As Death Sleep's sister shall in days to be, 
 If Day be word or thing, in God's Eternity. 
 
 Where are my once high thoughts that soared sublime 
 My purpose brave ; 
 
 The hopeful glow and fervour of my prime ? 
 Low in her grave ! 
 
 Most little and most mean appear to me 
 All that the world can offer me again. 
 Wealth is a froth-bell on a billowy sea, 
 And power, and pride, and all the gauds of men, 
 Mere tricks and shadows. Were I Earth's sole king, 
 To rule all nations by my high behest, 
 Nor I, nor they, nor all their wealth, could bring 
 My lost beloved living to my breast. 
 Why could I not have known, ere forth she went 
 To that angelic land where she appears 
 In her full glory, that she was but lent 
 For brief, brief space a halo 'mid my tears ? 
 That in each moment of her perished years 
 I might have poured upon her radiant head 
 More wealth of Love than ever heart of man 
 Poured upon mortal ? Let my tears be shed. 
 No one shall comfort me ! And no one can ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Was she so like an angel in pure guise, 
 That thou shouldst take her, ere her time, O Death ! 
 
A THRENODY FOR A BELOVED ONE. 41 
 
 To join her sisterhood in Paradise ? 
 
 Or was the earth too balmy with her breath, 
 
 Too radiant with the light 
 
 Drawn from the Infinite, 
 
 And concentrated on her innocent lips, 
 
 That thou shouldst pass, with this too dire eclipse, 
 
 And rob us of her beauty ? 'Twas unjust 
 
 To Earth and Heaven to lay her in the dust, 
 
 Ere she had shown us all her wealth of bloom, 
 
 Only to feed the avaricious tomb ! 
 
 Lo ! Misery, through long days 
 
 Clasps her lean hands and prays 
 
 That on her head may all thy shafts be hurled. 
 
 Lo ! Age and pain implore 
 
 That thou wouldst ope thy door, 
 
 And let them ooze into the painless world ! 
 
 Why spare them ? They would bless thy power, 
 
 But mine own sweet and early blossoming flower 
 
 Adorned the forest, and made bright the place 
 
 Where we beheld her in her youthful grace. 
 
 The poison weeds grow rank, and taint the air, 
 
 While the sweet violets fade, and rose and lily fair. 
 
 Methinks the spirits of the sainted dead, 
 Whom in their lives we loved, are with us still, 
 That all around our paths their light is shed ; 
 Pervading witnesses, who at their will 
 Know all we think or do. Let us be pure. 
 Let us not give their Immortality 
 Reason for sorrow or shame. Let us endure 
 Calmly, though sadly, the all-wise decree 
 That took them from us : and instead of flowers 
 To strew upon their graves, or tombs high- piled, 
 Let us bestow on them unsullied hours, 
 And innocent thoughts, and actions undefiled. 
 
 A Man's Heart. 
 
42 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF ADAM, ALONE IN 
 PARADISE. 
 
 " L'aria, la terra e 1'acqua e d'amor piene." PETRARCH. 
 
 FATHER, hear ! 
 
 Thou know'st my secret thought ; 
 Thou know'st with love and fear, 
 
 1 bend before Thy mighty throne, 
 
 And before Thee I hold myself as nought. 
 But then ! I'm in the world alone, 
 
 All desolate upon the earth, 
 And when my spirit hears the tone, 
 
 The soft song of the birds in mirth, 
 When the young nightingales 
 
 Their tender voices blend, 
 When from the flowery vales 
 
 Their hymns of love ascend ; 
 Oh ! then I feel there is a void for me, 
 
 A bliss too little in this world so fair ; 
 To Thee, O Father, do I flee, 
 
 To Thee for solace breathe the prayer. 
 
 And when the rosy morn 
 
 Smiles on the dewy trees, 
 When music's voice is borne 
 
 Far on the gentle breeze ; 
 When o'er the bowers I stray, 
 
 The fairest fruits to bring, 
 And on Thy shrine to lay 
 
 A fervent offering ; 
 Father of many spheres ! 
 
 When bending thus before Thy throne, 
 My spirit weeps with silent tears, 
 
 To think that I must pray alone. 
 
THE PRAYER OF ADAM, ALONE IN PARADISE. 43 
 
 And when at evening's twilight dim, 
 
 When peaceful slumber shuts mine eyes, 
 And when the gentle seraphim 
 
 Bend from their bright homes in the skies : 
 When angels walk the quiet earth, 
 To glory in Creation's birth ; 
 Then, Father, in my dreams I see 
 
 A gentle being o'er me bent, 
 Radiant with love, and like to me, 
 
 But of a softer lineament : 
 I strive to clasp her to my heart, 
 
 That we may live and be but one 
 Ah, wherefore, lovely beam, depart, 
 
 Why must I wake and weep alone ? 
 
 Almighty, in Thy wisdom high, 
 Thou saidst, that when I sin I die : 
 And once my spirit could not see 
 How that which is could cease to be ; 
 Death was a vague unfathomed thing, 
 
 On which the thought forbore to dwell, 
 But Love has oped its secret spring, 
 
 And now I know it well ! 
 To die, must be to live alone, 
 Unloved, uncherished, and unknown, 
 Without the sweet one of my dreams 
 
 To cull the fragrant flowers with me, 
 To wander by the morning's beams, 
 
 And raise the hymn of thanks to Thee. 
 
 But, Father of the earth, 
 
 Lord of this boundless sphere, 
 If 'tis Thy high unchanging will 
 
 That I should linger here ; 
 If 'tis Thy will that I should rove 
 
 Alone, o'er Eden's smiling bowers, 
 Grant that the young birds' song of love, 
 
 And the breeze sporting 'mong the flowers, 
 May to my spirit cease to be 
 A music and a mystery ! 
 
 Grant that my soul no more may feel 
 The soft sounds breathing everywhere ; 
 
44 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 That Nature's voice may cease to hymn 
 
 Love's universal prayer : 
 For all around, on earth or sea, 
 And the blue heaven's immensity, 
 Whisper it forth in many a tone, 
 And tell me I am all alone ! 
 
 - The Hope of the World. 
 
 THE TWO BOOKS. 
 
 A LOVER and his lass 
 Lay reading on the grass 
 A book of olden story, 
 Of love, and grief, and glory. 
 The maiden's eyes were bright 
 With pity and delight, 
 And strayed not from the book, 
 E'en for a casual look 
 At him her life's dear lord 
 Beside her on the sward ; 
 But read, with lips apart, 
 
 The too entrancing tale that thrilled through all her 
 heart. 
 
 The lover's eyes twin thieves 
 Stole glances from the leaves 
 Now to those milk-white shoulders, 
 The charm of all beholders ; 
 Now to those sunny eyes, 
 Blue-bright as Paradise ; 
 Now to her streaming curls, 
 Or ruby- covered pearls, 
 Whence issued sweeter breath 
 Than west wind scattereth ; 
 Then to her dainty hand, 
 Or little fairy feet, star-twinklers in the land. 
 
THE DAISIES. 45 
 
 III. 
 
 *' Ah well-a-day ! " quoth he, 
 " Thy book's no book for me. 
 The page I read is rarer, 
 And tenderer, and fairer ; 
 For thine contains, at best, 
 Life's shadows Love's unrest ; 
 But mine contains all truth, 
 All beauty and all youth, 
 All feelings fond and coy, 
 And deep and passionate joy. 
 Be books upon the shelf ! 
 My stories are thine eyes ; my poem is THYSELF ! 
 
 THE DAISIES. 
 
 i. 
 MY heart is full of joy to-day, 
 
 The air hath music in it ; 
 Once more I roam the wild-wood way, 
 
 And prize the passing minute ; 
 The balms of heaven are on my cheek, 
 
 My feet in meadow mazes. 
 Let me alone, and I will speak 
 
 My blessings on the daisies. 
 
 I have not seen for half a year, 
 
 Sore pent in cares and labours, 
 These gems of earth, these blossoms dear, 
 
 These free and gladsome neighbours ; 
 They smile upon me as of old, 
 
 Through Memory's shifting phases. 
 My blessings on your white and gold, 
 
 Ye well-beloved daisies ! 
 
 ill. 
 
 I love ye for yourselves alone, 
 Ye bright perennial comers ; 
 
46 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 
 Ye ease my brow of winters known, 
 
 And crown my locks with summers. 
 Ye give me back the thoughts of youth, 
 
 Its feelings and its phrases, 
 Its careless joys, its simple truth. 
 
 My blessings on the daisies ! 
 
 If only once each- hundred springs 
 
 Ye bloomed the long grass under, 
 The crowd, with all its priests and kings, 
 
 Would thrcng to see and wonder : 
 Religion's self would kneel and pray, 
 
 And hymn your Maker's praises ; 
 But you, ye blossom every day ! 
 
 My blessings on the daisies ! 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF WINE. 
 
 A THOUGHT FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 OLD Father Noah sat alone 
 
 Within his tent at morn, 
 With such a shadow on his face 
 
 As spoke a heart forlorn. 
 " What ails thee, Noah ? " said a voice, 
 
 Like soft, sweet music poured ; 
 And Noah, looking up, beheld 
 
 The angel of the Lord. 
 " Forgive me, Lord ! " he said, and sighed, 
 
 " If wrongfully I think, 
 But I am thirsty, nigh to death, 
 
 And know not what to drink ! " 
 
 " To drink ? " the gracious angel said ; 
 "See, where the streamlets run, 
 
THE ORIGIN OF WINE. 47 
 
 And all the gladsome waters leap, 
 
 Rejoicing, to the sun." 
 " 'Tis true, dear Lord ! but thought recalls 
 
 The mournful myriads drowned 
 Brave men, fair women, lovely babes, 
 
 And cattle of the ground. 
 I loathe all water for their sakes 
 
 The beautiful, the young 
 It tastes of blood, it smells of death ; 
 
 'Tis poison to my tongue ! " 
 
 The radiant angel's lovely face 
 
 Shone bright with heavenly fire : 
 " Noah, such pity for mankind 
 
 Beseems their second sire. 
 Wait till I come ! " Like lightning flash 
 
 He vanished up the skies, 
 And like a lightning flash returned, 
 
 Ere Noah raised his eyes. 
 " Take this," he said, and held aloft 
 
 A vine-stock branching fair : 
 " Heaven's noblest gift to humankind, 
 
 Entrusted to thy care. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Go, plant it on the sunny hills ; 
 
 For health and length of days, 
 And press its fruit for joyous drink, 
 
 And the Creator's praise. 
 It bears no taint of pain or death, 
 
 And fails not to impart 
 Strength to the body and the mind, 
 
 And gladness to the heart. 
 But curse not water, e'en in thought, 
 
 God's blessing most benign, 
 Fountain of beauty and of life, 
 
 Mother of men and wine." 
 
48 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE DEATH-SONG OF THALIESSIN. 
 
 I HAVE a people of my own. 
 
 And great or small, whate'er they be, 
 'Tis Harp and Harper, touch and tone 
 
 There's music between them and me. 
 
 II. 
 
 And let none say, when low in death 
 The soul-inspiring minstrel lies, 
 
 That I misused my hand or breath 
 For favour in the people's eyes. 
 
 Whate'er my faults as mortal man, 
 Let foes revive them if they must ! 
 
 And yet a grave is ample span 
 
 To hide their memory with my dust ! 
 
 But give, oh ! give me what I claim, 
 The Harper's meed, the Minstrel's crown - 
 
 I never sang for sake of Fame, 
 Or clutched at baubles of renown. 
 
 I spoke my thought, I sang my song, 
 Because I pitied, felt, and knew ; 
 
 I never glorified a wrong, 
 
 Or sang approval of th' untrue. 
 
 And if I touched the people's heart, 
 Is that a crime in true men's eyes, 
 
 Or desecration of an art 
 
 That speaks to human sympathies ? 
 
THE WAYSIDE SPRING IN ALABAMA. 49 
 
 As man, let men my worth decry ; 
 
 As Harper, by my harp I stand, 
 And dare the Future to deny 
 
 The might that quivered from my hand. 
 
 VIII, 
 
 A King of Bards, though scorned and poor, 
 I feel the crown upon my head, 
 
 And Time shall but the more secure 
 My right to wear it. I have said. 
 
 THE WAYSIDE SPRING IN ALABAMA. 
 
 BONNIE wayside burnie, 
 
 Tinkling in thy well, 
 Softly as the music 
 
 Of a fairy bell; 
 To what shall I compare thee, 
 For the love I bear thee, 
 
 On this sunny day, 
 Bonnie little burnie 
 
 Gushing by the way ? 
 Thou'rt like to fifty fair things, 
 Thou'rt like to fifty rare things, 
 Spring of gladness flowing, 
 
 Grass and ferns among, 
 Singing all the noontime 
 
 Thine incessant song ; 
 Like a pleasant reason, 
 Like a word in season, 
 Like a friendly greeting, 
 Like a happy meeting, 
 Like the voice of comfort 
 
 In the hour of pain, 
 Like sweet sleep long vanished 
 
 Coming back again : 
 
50 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Like the heart's romances, 
 Like a poet's fancies, 
 Like a lover's visions 
 
 Of his bliss to be ; 
 Like a little maiden 
 
 Crowned with summers three, 
 Romping in the sunshine, 
 
 Beautiful to see ; 
 Like my true-love's accents 
 
 When alone we stray, 
 Happy with each other, 
 
 Through the meads of May, 
 Or sit down together 
 In the wintry weather 
 
 By the cheery fire, 
 Gathering in that circle 
 
 All this world's desire, 
 Hope and love and friendship, 
 And music of the lyre ! 
 
 Bonnie little burnie 
 
 Wimpling through the grass, 
 Time shall never waste thee, 
 
 Or drain thy sparkling glass ; 
 And were I not to taste thee 
 
 And bless thee as I pass, 
 'Twould be a scorn of Beauty, 
 'Twould be a want of Duty, 
 'Twould be neglect of Pleasure 
 So come thou little treasure ! 
 
 I'll kiss thee while I may, 
 And while I sip thy coolness 
 
 On this sunny day, 
 I'll bless thy Gracious Giver, 
 Thou little baby River 
 
 Gushing by the way ! 
 
 Magnolia Grove, near Mobile, 
 
 Alabama, U.S. March, 1858. 
 
TRUE PIETY. 51 
 
 TRUE PIETY. 
 
 " O PIETY ! O heavenly Piety ! 
 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 that supernal crown, 
 Is lord and sovereign of himself and Fate, 
 And angels are his friends and ministers. 
 
 " Clad in that raiment, ever white and pure, 
 The wayside mire is harmless to defile, 
 And rudest storms sweep impotently by. 
 
 " The pilgrim wandering amid crags ancj. pits, 
 Supported by that staff shall never fall : 
 He smiles at peril and defies the storm. 
 
 " Shown by that clue, the doubtful path is c|ear, 
 The intricate snares and mazes of the world 
 Are all unlabyrinthed and bright as day, 
 
 " Sweet Piety ! divinest Piety ! 
 She has a soul capacious as the spheres, 
 A heart as large as all Humanity. 
 
 " Who to his dwelling takes that visitant, 
 Has a perpetual solace in all pain, 
 A friend and corqforter in every grief. 
 
 " The noblest domes, the haughtiest palaces, 
 That know not her, 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." 
 
 Frotn " Egertq" 
 
52 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE NOBLE SPIRITS. 
 
 [To the memory of Patric Park, sculptor, Alexander Mackay, journa- 
 list, Angus Bethune Reach, poet and novelist, William North, poet, and 
 William Gray, poet.] 
 
 ALAS ! for the Noble Spirits that have fought and passed 
 
 away 
 
 In the stern and grim life-battle, in the morning of their day, 
 Panting, struggling, perishing in the sulphur of the fray ! 
 
 How many and how gallant, I have seen them at my side, 
 Their bright eyes flashing glory from the strength of a world 
 
 defied, 
 In the blaze of their ambition, and the splendour of their 
 
 pride ! 
 
 Alas ! for the noble spirits ! they knew not no, not one, 
 The pang and the fret and the fever of the course 'twas 
 
 theirs to run - 
 The pang and the fret and the fever, under the partial sun. 
 
 They thought the world was with them and understood their 
 
 ^pain, 
 
 Their hunger of distinction, their hope of heights to gain 
 On the topmost crest of the mountain, the watch-tower of the 
 
 plain. 
 
 They thought if their youthful voices could reach the toiling 
 
 crowd, 
 That the good and the brave would answer in echoes long 
 
 and loud, 
 That would stir the hearts of the humble, and humble the 
 
 hearts of the proud. 
 
 They thought if the world would listen to a new immortal 
 
 rhyme, 
 
 Tender and strong and hopeful, or earnest and sublime, 
 That they might be the Shakspeares and Miltons of their 
 
 time. 
 
THE NOBLE SPIRITS. 53 
 
 They thought their teeming fancy could stock the world anew, 
 
 With nobler art-creations than poet ever drew 
 
 With passionate romances and tales of the wild and true. 
 
 They thought that Earth and Ocean and the free rejoicing 
 
 air, 
 
 The heights of human passion and the depths of its despair, 
 Should have no hidden secrets that they might not declare. 
 
 They thought the bounds of Science were wide as earth and 
 
 heaven, 
 
 And that to them, high-daring, the privilege was given 
 To pierce the outer circle, and soar above the levin, 
 
 Up to the founts of Knowledge beyond the starry zone, 
 Where Nature works her wonders, inscrutable, alone, 
 And the blaze of Noon seems darkness at the footstool of 
 her throne. 
 
 They thought their names should glitter in the history of man, 
 The seers and standard-bearers of a new and better plan 
 Than sages ever dreamed of since human grief began. 
 
 They thought alas! what matters? Their thoughts were 
 
 but as dreams, 
 Or wasted seeds, borne seaward in the roaring of the 
 
 streams, 
 To take no root in the furrows where Earth's full harvest 
 
 gleams. 
 
 The world misunderstood them, or never cared to know, 
 And took no heed of the treasure they panted to bestow 
 In prodigal profusion of bounteous overflow ; 
 
 And set them, the great- hearted, to drudgery obscure, 
 To toil for daily bread with the poorest of the poor, 
 'Mid pain and sorrow and anguish, and bonds that slaves 
 endure. 
 
 It set them steeds of Heaven with wings from their 
 
 shoulders spread, 
 To plough the stubborn clay-lands, with aching heart and 
 
 head, 
 Or to drag the city chariots, or the hearses of the dead. 
 
54 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 It broke their heart and spirit, till they pined and died 
 
 away 
 Some chafing and resentful, like the wild deer driven to 
 
 bay ; 
 Some patient and forgiving, and weary of the day. 
 
 Some in the open market, that all the world might see 
 
 The sin and shame and sorrow that thing like this should be ; 
 
 Some in remote dim corners, "under the wild-wood tree." 
 
 Some with their fine brain shattered and jangled out of gear 
 By the rude hand of Affliction, and weight of Toil severe, 
 That crushed the Soul's dome palace, and dulled its lustre 
 clear. 
 
 Some with the bread untasted, that, had it come when 
 
 earned, 
 Might have given the flickering life-light the oil for which it 
 
 yearned, 
 And sent it spire-like upward, rejoicing as it burned. 
 
 Some with a bold defiance through all neglect and scorn, 
 And a Hope which grew Conviction, that judges yet unborn 
 Would pluck their names from the darkness where they had 
 sunk forlorn, 
 
 And write them large and splendid on the muster-roll of 
 
 Fame, 
 
 Amid the old Immortals, that glow like living flame 
 On the broad front of the Ages, eternally the same. 
 
 Ay ! that the cruel millions in swift approaching hours 
 Would throng to their graves remorseful and cover them 
 
 with flowers, 
 And say, " They died too early their heritage is ours : 
 
 " Ours are their teeming fancies their songs of hope and 
 
 cheer, 
 That .stir our hearts like clarions when the battle draweth 
 
 near 
 The shock of Truth with Falsehood, when Right shall at 
 
 last appear." 
 
THE TWO HOUSES. 55 
 
 Alas for the Noble Spirits ! alas for the crowd ingrate ! 
 That is deaf to its benefactors, though early and long and 
 
 late 
 They preach in the high and byways to men of all estate 
 
 Too ignorant and sordid to care for truth sublime ; 
 That love but the chink of money at Morn or Even time, 
 Or the senseless jest and laughter of mountebank and mime. 
 
 Alas for the Noble Spirits ! the young, the true, the brave ! 
 No tear-drop for their sorrow, no tombstone for their grave, 
 Shall atone for the wrong you've done them, O crowd that 
 would not save ! 
 
 O crowd without a conscience ! Their fitful race is run ; 
 They have fought and bled and suffered under the partial 
 
 sun : 
 And you misunderstood them ; and slew them every one. 
 
 THE TWO HOUSES. 
 
 "'TwiLL overtask a thousand men, 
 
 With all their strength and skill, 
 To build my lord ere New Year's eve 
 
 His castle on the hill." 
 "Then take two thousand," said my lord, 
 
 " And labour with a will." 
 
 They wrought, these glad two thousand men, 
 
 But long ere winter gloom, 
 My lord had found a smaller house, 
 
 And dwelt in one dark room : 
 And one man built it in one day, 
 
 While the bells rang ding, dong, boom ! 
 Shut up the door ! shut up the door! 
 
 Shut up the door till Doom ! 
 
56 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE BRIONY WREATH. 
 
 I TWINED around my true love's brow, 
 
 Amid her dark brown hair$ 
 A wreath of Briony from the hedge, 
 
 With rings and berries fair ; 
 And called her "Lady Briony $" 
 
 And darling of the air. 
 
 II. 
 We walked like children, hand in hand, 
 
 Or oh the meadow-stile 
 Sat down, not seeking happiness, 
 
 But finding it the while 
 Iri Love's Unconscious atrhosphere, 
 
 Or sunlight of a smile. 
 
 in. 
 " Sweet Lady of my heart," I said, 
 
 '* Thou chid'st me m the morn, 
 For talking of the ' worthless weeds ' 
 
 With unconsidered scorn ; 
 But now, for bonnie Briony 's sake, 
 
 The chiding shall be borne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " So pleasant are its tendril-rings, 
 That twist and curl and twine ; 
 
 So graceful are its 1-eaves and fruit 
 Amid those locks of thine ; 
 
 Henceforth to me shall Briony 
 Be equal of the Vine." 
 
 v. 
 
 * ' But not for sake of me ! " she said ; 
 
 " I'd have thee just and true, 
 And love the wild weeds for themselves, 
 
 Sweet babes of sun and dew, 
 As virtuous as the Rose herself, 
 
 Or Violet blushing blue. 
 
THE BRIONY WREATH. 57 
 
 " Of all the weeds, and bounteous buds, 
 That drink the summer shower, 
 
 And lift their blossoms through the corn, 
 Or smile in hedge and bower, 
 
 I plead the cause ; come hear the tale 
 And love them from this hour. 
 
 VII. 
 
 * ' You've called me Lady Briony ; 
 
 Behold my sisters bright, 
 My fair companions of the wood, 
 
 Who love the morning light, 
 Valerian, Saffron, Camomile, 
 
 And Rue, and Aconite ; 
 
 " The golden Mallow of the Marsh, 
 The Hemlock, broad and rank, 
 
 The Nightshade, Foxglove, Meadow-sweet, 
 And Tansy on the bank, 
 
 And Poppy with her sleepy eyes, 
 And Water-Iris dank. 
 
 " Are they not fair? Despise them not !- 
 They soothe the couch of pain ; 
 
 They bring divine forgetfulness 
 To calm the stormy brain ; 
 
 And through the languid pulse of life 
 Drop healing, like the rain. 
 
 x. 
 
 " There's not a weed, however small, 
 That peeps where rivers flow, 
 
 Or in the bosom of the woods 
 Has privilege to grow, 
 
 But has some goodness in its breast, 
 Or bounty to bestow. 
 
58 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 " And if they poison ; ours the fault 
 Behold, their green leaves wave, 
 
 And seem to sigh as men go past, 
 Wayfarers to the grave ; 
 
 " Use us unwisely, we may kill, 
 Use wisely, and we save." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Their virtues and their loveliness 
 Are none the less their own, 
 
 Because men fail to seek them out, 
 Or miss them when they're shown ; 
 
 And if they're common, so is light, 
 And every blessing known. " 
 
 " Well pleaded, Lady Briony ! 
 
 Th'ou'rt good as thou art fair ; 
 And were there no one in the copse, 
 
 I'd kiss thy lips, I swear ! " 
 Her laugh rang merry as a bell 
 
 " Well, kiss me, if you dare ! " 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 HEAVILY the rain-drops 
 
 Smote the pane ; 
 On the housetop hoarsely 
 
 Creaked the vane : 
 The wind came battering by, 
 Like fierce artillery 
 
 Against a town ; 
 Or with a fitful wail 
 Crept through the leafless vale 
 
 Or moorland brown. 
 
THE INTERVIEW. 59 
 
 In that wintry midnight, 
 
 Through the gloom, 
 I beheld a vision 
 
 In my room ; 
 
 I shuddered at the sight, 
 Its face in ghastly light 
 
 Familiar shone ; 
 And all its heart lay bare 
 As a landscape in the air, 
 
 Mine own ! mine own ! 
 
 'Twas my face before me, 
 
 Pallid-hued ; 
 'Twas mine eyes beheld me 
 
 Where I stood, 
 Pointing its fingers thin, 
 This thing, with hideous grin, 
 
 And angry start, 
 
 Exclaimed, "Thou knowest much j 
 Knowest thou this, I touch?' 
 
 And touched its heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With a flash electric, 
 
 It became 
 Palpable before me 
 
 Like a flame ; 
 And I could read and see 
 Its inmost mystery, 
 
 And breach of law ; 
 Its guilty passion strong, 
 Its weakness hidden long, 
 
 And blackest flaw. 
 
 v. 
 
 Perfidies unnumbered ; 
 
 Secrets dire, 
 Written out and burning 
 
 As with fire ; 
 
6o IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 The motives of a life, 
 Laid bare as with a knife, 
 
 Through quivering flesh ; 
 Dead things that no man knew, 
 Most wretched, but most true, 
 
 Revived afresh. 
 
 All my love and madness ; 
 
 All my guilt ; 
 All my tears of anguish 
 
 Vainly spilt ; 
 My agonies and fears ; 
 The skeletons of years ; 
 
 My hopes entombed ; 
 My crimes ; my broken truth ; 
 Up from the deeps of youth 
 
 Before me loomed. 
 
 " Hide it, cruel spirit, 
 
 Or I die ! 
 J Tis too vile to look at 
 
 With life's eye ! " 
 I covered up my face ; 
 Between me and its place 
 
 Came mist and cloud : 
 " And is this heart, my heart 
 So foul in every part ? " 
 
 I groaned aloud. 
 
 Light broke in upon me 
 
 From afar ; 
 And faith in God, high-shining 
 
 Like a star. 
 
 And when I looked again, 
 I saw, amid the stain 
 
 Of that frail clay, 
 A glow of pure desire 
 A spark of heavenly fire 
 
 Burning alway. 
 
THE MUSICIAN. 6 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Shall I sit lamenting ? 
 
 Ah, not so ! 
 Sympathy and pity 
 
 For men's woe, 
 A love surpassing death, 
 A calm but humble faith, 
 
 To me are given ; 
 Accuser ! in this hour 
 My heart defies thy power, 
 
 With strength from Heaven ! " 
 
 THE MUSICIAN. 
 PART I. EARTH-SORROWS. 
 
 THE melodies ! the harmonies ! 
 
 They fall from my fingers free, 
 Like rain where the tree-tops quiver, 
 Like hail on the rippling river, 
 
 Like sunbeams on the sea. 
 And there are thoughts within them, 
 
 And fancies fresh and young ; 
 But, alas ! I cannot utter them 
 
 For failure of my tongue. 
 The melodies, the harmonies, 
 
 Unspoken and unsung ! 
 
 I would I were a poet, 
 
 And that my thoughts could reach 
 The magic and the mystery 
 
 And affluence of speech ; 
 That I might tell my secrets 
 
 And all that I could teach ; 
 Or that some kindly minstrel, 
 
 With thoughts akin to mine, 
 Would deign to sit beside me, 
 
 And help me to entwine 
 
62 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 My music with his language 
 
 Into a chain divine, 
 That men might bind their hearts with, 
 
 Like a trellised vine. 
 
 But the melodies ! the harmonies ! 
 
 They die as they are born, 
 With none to understand them ; 
 So sweetly as I planned them, 
 
 In my joy forlorn ! 
 The breath of an emotion 
 
 And a happy pain, 
 They drop on the wide, wide ocean, 
 
 Like the useless rain ; 
 And when I would revive them, 
 
 I look for them in vain. 
 
 PART II. HELL-PAINS. 
 
 Oh, vile, vile catgut-scrapers, 
 
 Tormentors of sweet Sound, 
 That bruise her, and destroy her, 
 
 My queen, my goddess crowned ! 
 What has dear Music done, 
 
 She that so loveth us, 
 Ye bloodless and stone-hearted, 
 
 That you should use her thus ? 
 Each movement of your arms 
 
 Goes through me like a pang ! 
 Ye trumpet and horn-blowers, 
 
 There's death in every twang ! 
 'Twas surely Satan schooled you, 
 
 And well you've learned your parts, 
 To vex, to plague, to torture 
 
 Our unoffending hearts ! 
 
 You could not be more cruel, 
 
 If, wielding barbs and prongs, 
 You dug them in my bosom, 
 
 And called the misery, songs ! 
 My ear is wrenched and bleeding 
 
 At every note you make ; 
 Be silent oh, be silent 
 
 For heavenly pity's sake ! 
 
THE MUSICIAN. 63 
 
 What would I give ! what tribute 
 
 Of worship and of tears, 
 If Song, as I have dreamed it, 
 
 Could flow on my happy ears ! 
 If one one only singer, 
 
 Amid this peopled earth, 
 Could understand my music 
 
 As I who gave it birth ; 
 Such as my soul designed it ! 
 
 Alas ! 'tis vain to seek ; 
 Men sing, and the hot blood rushes 
 
 In madness to my cheek, 
 And women tear my heart out, 
 
 As they squeal, and scream, and shriek. 
 
 Come, bore in my ear with corkscrews ! 
 
 Make every nerve a knot, 
 And pierce my brain with needles, 
 
 If pain must be my lot ; 
 But cease, oh ! cease, in mercy, 
 
 This misery supreme, 
 That Hell can never equal ! 
 
 And let me lie and dream 
 That to my soul, long-suffering, 
 
 Will due reward be given, 
 My music sung by angels 
 
 Amid the choir of Heaven ! 
 
 PART III. HEAVEN-JOYS. 
 
 O Music ! my delight ! 
 
 My soul's supremest joy ! 
 Let me lie to-night, to-night, 
 
 On thy bosom coy ! 
 Let me lie all night awake, 
 
 Embalmed in thy honey breath, 
 That wafts me up to Heaven, 
 
 In a wild ecstatic death. 
 Up ! up ! above the stars 
 
 With thee I float ! I soar ! 
 
64 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 To the shadow of God's throne ! 
 
 To the world-bespangled floor ! 
 Where sit the white-robed seraphs, 
 Singing for evermore ! 
 
 Music ! oh, my Life ! 
 How beautiful art thou ! 
 
 With the Love in thy deep, deep heart, 
 And the Wisdom on thy brow ! 
 
 As I 'play with the golden hair 
 
 That falls o'er thy shoulders fair, 
 I deem that every thread 
 
 To my toying fingers given, 
 Is a ray of sunlight spread, 
 
 Or a string from the Harp of Heaven. 
 
 1 feel thy beating heart, 
 
 And know, sweet lady mine, 
 That it throbs to the march of worlds, 
 
 With a harmony divine. 
 I touch ; but dare not kiss thee, 
 
 For the glow of thy burning eyes, 
 Lest I should yield my spirit 
 
 In my speechless ecstasies, 
 And be slain like a mortal lover 
 
 Who dares to raise his thought 
 To the beauty of a goddess, 
 
 Loving, but lightning-fraught ! 
 
 Yet, since I'm born to die, 
 
 And to float into the Past, 
 Let me die on thy beating bosom, 
 
 My Bride, my first and last ! 
 Drinking thy whispered rapture, 
 
 Let me faint upon thy breast, 
 And melt away in echoes, 
 
 Immortal with the blest! 
 
THE FORTRESS. 65 
 
 THE FORTRESS. 
 
 " WHAT art thou building, building, 
 
 So lofty to behold, 
 With the silver and the gilding, 
 
 The ivory and the gold, 
 And porphyry columns rising 
 
 Like trees in the forest old ? 
 
 " Why place thy marble basements 
 So deep in the cold earth's veins, 
 
 And thy towers and window-casements 
 So high o'er the steeple fanes, 
 
 And why those ponderous portals 
 With iron bolts and chains ? 
 
 * ' And why those guards and warders 
 With horn and signal calls, 
 
 And far on thy furthest borders 
 The moats and brazen walls ; 
 
 Dost fear invading robbers, 
 Or the foeman in thy halls ? " 
 
 " I build a house of splendour, 
 Where, in the world's despite, 
 
 I may force the hours to render 
 Their tribute of delight ; 
 
 A fort on the hill-top shining 
 Far seen like a star at night. 
 
 14 1 dread nor thief nor foeman ; 
 My board shall teem with cheer, 
 
 When hunger bids, shall no man 
 Be scorned or stinted here, 
 
 But I raise these gates and turrets 
 To guard me from a Fear. 
 
 "To guard me safe-enfolden 
 
 Like a seed at the apple-core ; 
 
66 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Oh, bolts and barriers golden, 
 Keep well the outer door, 
 
 That SORROW may not enter 
 To sting me as of yore ! " 
 
 " Oh fool, in thy lordly palace ! 
 
 Oh fool, with bolts and bars ! 
 Thou'lt find her in thy chalice, 
 
 She'll float on the wild-wind cars ; 
 She'll glide in the air thou breathest, 
 
 She'll smite thee from the stars ! 
 
 " She'll come to thee in the morning 
 When the light of day streams in, 
 
 She'll sit with thee in the evening, 
 Thou fool and child of sin ! 
 
 And whisper at thy pillow, 
 And claim thee of her kin. 
 
 " In spite of all thy building, 
 And all thy warders stout, 
 
 And all thy gold and gilding, 
 
 She'll hedge thee round about : 
 
 Heart-purity, and goodness, 
 Alone shall keep her out. " 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 DAWN without cloud, thou happy Day ! 
 Earth's fairest creature comes this way ; 
 And yet, O Sun, thou need'st not shine, - 
 Her beauty's light surpasses thine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Be silent, harpsichord and lute ; 
 She sings, and Music should be mute, 
 And take a lesson from her voice, 
 How best to soothe us or rejoice. 
 
LOVE IN HATE. 67 
 
 Sweet-scented Lily, sweeter Rose, 
 Let all your blushing petals close : 
 What boots your odours to expand, 
 When she comes breathing in the land ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Delay, O Time, when she is near, 
 Change every minute to a year ; 
 And when she's gone, let seasons pass 
 Fleeter than moments in thy glass. 
 
 v. 
 
 Delay ! nor do my heart a wrong ; 
 Go rob the sad, who deem thee long, 
 And give me, while my love is by, 
 The produce of the larceny. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Take from the wasteful of thy joy 
 The days and hours that they destroy, 
 And pile them as my passion bids, 
 Like stones of steadfast pyramids. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But when she goes O wayward Time ! 
 To linger is capricious crime ; 
 So spur the steed, and slack the rein, 
 And gallop till she comes again ! 
 
 LOVE IN HATE, 
 i. 
 
 ONCE I thought I could adore him, 
 Rich or poor, beloved the same ; 
 
 Now I hate him and abhor him, 
 Now I loathe his very name ; 
 
 Spurned at when I sued for pity, 
 Robbed of peace and virgin fame. 
 
68 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 If my hatred could consume him, 
 Soul and body, heart and brain ; 
 
 If my will had power to doom him 
 To eternity of pain ; 
 
 I would strike and die, confessing 
 That I had not lived in vain. 
 
 Oh, if in my bosom lying, 
 
 I could work him deadly scathe ! 
 Oh, if I could clasp him dying, 
 
 And receive his parting breath 
 In one burst of burning passion 
 
 I would kiss him into death ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 I would cover with embraces 
 
 Lips that once his love confessed, 
 
 And that falsest of false faces, 
 Mad, enraptured, unrepressed ;] 
 
 Then in agony of pity 
 
 I would die upon his breast ! 
 
 MELODIES AND MYSTERIES. 
 
 WOULDST thou know what the blithe bird pipeth, 
 
 High in the morning air ? 
 Wouldst thou know what the bright stream singeth, 
 
 Rippling o'er pebbles bare ? 
 Sorrow the mystery shall teach thee, 
 
 And the words declare. 
 
 Wouldst thou find in the rose's blossom 
 
 More than thy fellows find ? 
 More in the fragrance of the lily 
 
 Than odour on the wind ? 
 Love Nature, and her smallest atoms 
 
 Shall whisper to thy mind. 
 
BY THE RHINE. 69 
 
 Wouldst thou know what the moon discourseth 
 
 To the docile sea ? 
 Wouldst hear the echoes of the music 
 
 Of the far infinity ? 
 Sorrow shall ope the founts of knowledge, 
 
 And heaven shall sing to thee. 
 
 Wouldst thou see through the riddle of Being 
 
 Further than others can ? 
 Sorrow shall give thine eyes new lustre 
 
 To simplify the plan ; 
 And love of God and thy kind shall aid thee 
 
 To end what it began. 
 
 To Love and Sorrow all Nature speaketh ; 
 
 If the riddle be read, 
 They the best can see through darkness 
 
 Each divergent thread 
 Of its mazy texture, and discover 
 
 Whence the ravel spread. 
 
 Love and Sorrow are sympathetic 
 
 With the earth and skies ; 
 Their touch from the harp of Nature bringeth 
 
 The hidden melodies ; 
 To them the eternal chords for ever 
 
 Vibrate in harmonies. 
 
 BY THE RHINE. 
 
 [On the departure of the Emperor Napoleon III. to take the command 
 of the French army for the invasion of Germany, 1870.] 
 
 I STOOD, at sunset, thoughtful and alone, 
 On the Cathedral tower of high Cologne, 
 And heard the pleasant Rhine make murmurous moan ; 
 
 Heard it in pauses of more opulent sound 
 
 That swayed beneath, above me, and around, 
 
 In storms and thunderous harmonies profound : 
 
70 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 Drum-beat, and trumpet-blast, and tocsin-boom, 
 And, clear through all, like lightning 'mid the gloom, 
 The voice of multitudes, invoking Doom. 
 
 " O Rhine ! " I said, " fair river gliding by, 
 Betwixt green banks, beneath a lucent sky, 
 Blue-bright as love-glance from a maiden's eye ; 
 
 " Why do the frantic people rage and roar, 
 To trample down the harvests on thy shore, 
 And clot thy vine-clad hills with festering gore ? 
 
 " O Rhine ! sad Rhine ! fair Rhine ! predestined Rhine ! 
 
 The Cleopatra of an age malign, 
 
 Is man's the fascination, or is't thine ? 
 
 "Art thou so passion-prompting, so adored, 
 That mighty monarchies, with lustful sword, 
 Must die to win thee Life's too great reward ? " 
 
 " Ask not unconscious Nature ! ask of ME ! " 
 Said a sad voice : " Examine, and thou'lt see 
 Man's friend who was and is and yet shall be." 
 
 I looked, and lo ! beside me where I stood 
 I saw betwixt me and the multitude 
 (Insurgent, restless, clamouring for blood) 
 
 A mighty Angel with a radiant face ; 
 Clear-eyed, large browed, and of supernal grace, 
 But stern as Justice on the Judgment Place. 
 
 Upon his forehead glowed a burning crown ; 
 Famine and fever darted from his frown ; 
 His fiery footsteps trod the nations down. 
 
 His right hand waved aloft Ithuriel's spear, 
 And when he spake, with accents ringing clear, 
 The frenzied people hushed their strife to hear. 
 
 *' Unhappy men ! " he said, " whose passions blind 
 Break every wholesome law that God designed, 
 And planted, seed-like, in the human mind ; 
 
BY THE RHINE. 71 
 
 " Behold in War no creature of your hate, 
 Born at your bidding, on your foes to sate 
 The reckless vengeance of impending Fate ; 
 
 " No aider and abettor of your lust 
 
 Of ' glory ' (falsely called) ; no prop to trust 
 
 In feuds infernal with your fellow-dust : 
 
 " No friend to your ambition, O ye Kings, 
 And Popes, and Emperors ! who pull the strings 
 That move the puppets whence Dominion springs ! 
 
 " No friend of yours, O peoples ! mad as they, 
 Who hate your brothers, if they learn to pray 
 In speech that differs from your ' yea ' and ' nay.' 
 
 " Trust not in ME ! I dwell at God's right hand, 
 And wield His two-edged sword and flaming brand, 
 The arbiter of Fate that He has planned. 
 
 " And if -I draw it in the wicked's name, 
 
 My sword is true to God from whence it came 
 
 The double sword of Justice and of Shame ! 
 
 " Shame for the Wrong, and Justice for the Right ; 
 For guilt, the punishment ; through darkness, Light ! 
 These are th' eternal issues of the fight. 
 
 " These shape my purpose when the people roar, 
 Like waves tumultuous on the rocky shore ; 
 These slumber in my ends for evermore. 
 
 " I smite for God, and for His Holy Peace ! 
 And, till men's love and knowledge shall increase, 
 And Earth grow wise, mine arm shall never cease ! 
 
 " Still shall my legions thunder o'er the sod, 
 
 Still shall my hand wield Fate's avenging rod, 
 
 Still shall my judgments speak the Doom of God ! " 
 
72 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 THE SISTER SPIRITS. 
 
 AN INVOCATION FOR CHRISTMAS, DURING THE FRANCO- 
 GERMAN WAR, 1870. 
 
 I. 
 
 FLOAT to us ! fly to us ! beautiful spirits ! 
 
 Come to our hearts with the peal of the chimes ! 
 
 Come, Christian Charity ! 
 
 Earth's greatest rarity ; 
 
 Dark in thine absence with sorrows and crimes ! 
 What though the poets and preachers extol thee ! 
 Men's evil passions reject thee with scorn ; 
 
 Angel ! be near us, 
 
 To bless and to cheer us ; 
 Come to us ! come, on the wings of the Morn ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Float to us ! fly to us ! white-robed and lovely one ! 
 Greatly we need thee, Earth's hope and desire ; 
 
 Come, gentle Peace, again, 
 
 Never to cease again 
 Come to our counsels to guide and inspire ! 
 War, the exultant, rides rough o'er the nations, 
 Burning the cities unpeopling the dells ; 
 
 Stay him ! O Charmer ! 
 
 Consoler ! Disarmer ! 
 And ring out his doom on thy jubilant bells ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Float to us ! fly to us ! beautiful spirits, 
 Charity, Peace, and Good-will to Mankind. 
 
 Long have we waited, 
 
 Forlorn and belated, 
 
 And groped amid darkness, bewildered or blind ; 
 Waited and wept, with our harps on the willows ! 
 Sad, not despairing though silent, not dumb : 
 
 Come on the morning air, 
 
 Come on the voice of prayer, 
 Come on the Christmas chimes lovely ones, come ! 
 
A DEFIANCE TO OLD AGE. 73 
 
 LIVING WORTH : A CHORUS OF GREAT 
 CRITICS. 
 
 WHOM shall we praise ? 
 
 Let's praise the dead ! 
 In no men's ways 
 Their heads they raise, 
 
 Nor strive for bread 
 With you or me, 
 So, do you see? 
 
 We'll praise the dead ! 
 Let living men 
 
 Dare but to claim 
 From tongue or pen 
 
 Their meed of fame, 
 We'll cry them down, 
 Spoil their renown ; 
 Deny their sense, 
 Wit, eloquence, 
 Poetic fire, 
 All they desire. 
 Our say is said, 
 Long live the dead ! 
 
 A DEFIANCE TO OLD AGE. 
 
 THOU shalt not rob me, thievish Time, 
 Of all my blessings, all my joy; 
 
 I have some jewels in my heart 
 Which thou art powerless to destroy. 
 
 Thou mayst denude mine arm of strength, 
 And leave my temples seamed and bare ; 
 
 Deprive mine eyes of passion's light, 
 And scatter silver o'er my hair ; 
 
74 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 But never, while a book remains, 
 And breathes a woman or a child, 
 
 Shalt thou deprive me whilst I live, 
 Of feelings fresh and undefiled. 
 
 No, never while the Earth is fair, 
 And Reason keeps its dial bright, 
 
 Whate'er thy robberies, O Time, 
 Shall I be bankrupt of delight. 
 
 Whate'er thy victories on my frame, 
 Thou canst not cheat me of this truth 
 
 That though the limbs may faint and fail, 
 The spirit can renew its youth. 
 
 So, thievish Time, I fear thee not ; 
 Thou'rt powerless on this heart of mine. 
 
 My precious jewels are my own, 
 'Tis but the settings that are thine ! 
 
 THE SHIP. 
 
 A KING, a Pope, and a Kaiser, 
 
 And a Queen most fair was she- 
 Went sailing, sailing, sailing, 
 
 Over a sunny sea. 
 And amid them sat a Beggar, 
 
 A churl of low degree ; 
 And they all went sailing, sailing, 
 
 Over the sunny sea. 
 
 And the King said to the Kaiser, 
 And his comrades fair and free, 
 
 " Let us turn adrift this Beggar, 
 This churl of low degree ; 
 
LIVING GREATNESS. 75 
 
 For he taints the balmy odours 
 
 That blow to you and me, 
 As we travel, sailing, sailing, 
 
 Over the sunny sea." 
 
 in. 
 
 " The ship is mine" said the Beggar, 
 
 That churl of low degree ; 
 t( And we're all of us sailing, sailing, 
 
 To the grave, o'er the sunny sea. 
 And you may not, and you cannot, 
 
 Get rid of mine, or me ; 
 No ! not for your crowns and sceptres, 
 
 And my name is DEATH ! " quoth he. 
 
 LIVING GREATNESS. 
 
 TO ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 1850. 
 
 LEND me thine eyes, Posterity ! A cloud 
 Gathers between my vision and the men 
 Whose voices echo o'er this breathing world. 
 Lend me thy sight : lend me thy placid soul, 
 Free of this mean contemporaneous scorn, 
 That I may know what mighty spirits walk 
 Daily and hourly in my company, 
 Or jostle shoulders in the common crowd, 
 The thinkers and the workers of the Time. 
 
 I'm sick of Apathy, Contempt, and Hate, 
 And all the blinding dust which Envy stirs 
 To shroud the living lustre from our sight. 
 Lend me thine eyes, grateful Posterity ! 
 Upon the hill-tops I would stand alone, 
 Companion of the vastness, and keep watch 
 Upon the giants passing to and fro, 
 vSmall to the dwellers in the vales beneath, 
 But great to me. Oh, just Posterity, 
 
76 IN SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 I strive to penetrate thy thought ; to soar 
 Beyond the narrow precincts of To-day, 
 And judge what men now wanting crusts of bread 
 Shall in thy book stand foremost, honour crowned ; 
 What scorned and persecuted wretchedness 
 Shall shine, the jewel on a nation's brow ; 
 And what unfriended genius, jeered, impugned, 
 Shall fill the largest niche of Pantheons. 
 
 I would behold, daily, for my delight, 
 The clear side of the greatness, the full size, 
 Shape, glory, majesty, of living men. 
 Why should our envy dim the orbs of heaven ? 
 Why should our malice dwarf the giant's height ? 
 Our scorn make black the white robes of the sage ? 
 Lend me thy sight, I will see marvels yet, 
 Gold in the dust, and jewels in the mire ! 
 
LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 WHAT "BIG BEN"* SAID TO LONDON 
 AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 I SAT by the open window, 
 
 And watched the lights on the stream, 
 Flickering, floating, fleeting, 
 
 Like fancies in a dream, 
 And heard Big Ben from his belfry 
 
 Lift up his voice sublime, 
 And peal o'er the mighty city 
 
 His sorrowful midnight chime. 
 
 II. 
 
 And I thought as the tones were carried 
 
 On the wild wind-currents down 
 Over the sleeping, waking, weeping, 
 
 Revelling, murderous town, 
 That Ben to my ear confided 
 
 The meaning of his song, 
 With all its pity, all its warning, 
 
 And all its hate of wrong. 
 
 * The Great Bell in the Clock Tower, at the Houses of Parliament, 
 Westminster. 
 
 77 
 
78 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Perchance none listened but I, 
 
 As he spoke to the thoughtless crowd, 
 Telling it things to exalt the lowly, 
 
 And lower the pride of the proud : 
 Telling it things of Life and Death, 
 
 With a boom that seemed to pray, 
 And mingle reproach with a benediction, 
 
 In a dirge for the dying day. 
 
 " ONE ! " and the sound rang loud and clear, 
 
 " May Heaven her sin forgive her ! 
 She hath gone ! " he saith, " gone to her death 
 
 In the hush of the rolling river. 
 She hath fled from hunger, and scorn, and shame, 
 
 And the town's polluting touch : 
 And though she hath sinned, look kindly on her. 
 
 Hath she not suffered much ? " 
 
 "Two ! THREE ! and FOUR ! " "Ay, more and more, 
 
 They sink into graves, forlorn ! 
 The starving wretches who cumber the earth 
 
 And weep that they were born. 
 Some by razor, and some by rope, 
 
 By swift or by slow decay ; 
 And all go down to the pitying dust ; 
 
 Out of the world, and the way ! " 
 
 11 Boom FIVE and Six ! " "Let the wicked rejoice, 
 
 And worship their guilty gold ! 
 Let the bright eyes glow ! let the wine cups flow ! 
 
 Let the mirth be uncontrolled ! 
 To-day's their own. Let them alone ! 
 
 The crime and the doom are one, 
 And all comes right in the pale moonlight, 
 
 If not in the glare of the sun. " 
 
WHAT "BIG BEN" SAID TO LONDON. 79 
 
 VII. 
 
 11 Ring SEVEN and EIGHT ! " " Oh ! sons of Fate, 
 
 That wither, and pine, and die, 
 Because Good Fortune knows you not, 
 
 Or scorns as she passes by ; 
 Give scorn for scorn ! The mind's the man. 
 
 The soul, not the flesh, is first. 
 And self-respect is a kingly crown, 
 
 When Fortune does her worst." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Ring NINE and TEN ! " " Oh ! women and men, 
 
 That grovel, and creep, and crawl, 
 Drinking and feeding, wedding and breeding, 
 
 Think well if this be all ! 
 Think of the heritage of the soul, 
 
 Nor quench in low desire, 
 The light of your higher nature 
 
 And the spark of a heavenly fire. 
 
 " Ring out ELEVEN ; to Earth and Heaven ! " 
 
 " Hear it, ye brave and true ; 
 Be brave, and true, and good to the end, 
 
 Whatever the world may do. 
 The tears you shed shall be healing balm, 
 
 Your wounds shall make you strong, 
 And the plaint of your lamentation 
 
 Grow into heavenly song 1 " 
 
 X. 
 
 " Sound forth, oh solemn MIDNIGHT ! " 
 
 * l Sleep, overwearied brain ! 
 Sleep Innocence ! sleep Madness ! 
 
 Sleep Misery and Pain ! 
 . In God's great loving-kindness, 
 
 So broad, so high, so deep ! 
 Nothing's more welcome, nothing's more lovely, 
 
 Nothing's so good as sleep !" 
 
8o LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh ! mournful Ben, in thy belfry lone 
 
 Toning the Psalm of Life, 
 Of the good and the bad, the merry, the sad,- 
 
 And the peace that follows strife. 
 Thy voice is a voice in deserts, 
 
 On the shores of the gloomy river ; 
 Time speaks in vain to the busy world 
 
 For ever and for ever ! 
 
 INVISIBLE COMPANIONS. 
 
 WHENE'ER through Gray's Inn porch I stray, 
 I meet a .spirit by the way, 
 He wanders with me all alone, 
 And talks with me in undertone. 
 
 The crowd is busy seeking gold, 
 It cannot see what I behold ; 
 I and the spirit pass along 
 Unknown, unnoticed, in the throng. 
 
 While on the grass the children run, 
 And maids go loitering in the sun, 
 I roam beneath the ancient trees, 
 And talk with him of mysteries. 
 
 The dull brick houses of the square, 
 The bustle of the thoroughfare, 
 The sounds, the sights, the crush of men 
 Are present, but forgotten then. 
 
 I see them, but I heed them not ; 
 I hear, but silence clothes the spot ; 
 All voices die upon my brain 
 Except that spirit's in the lane. 
 
INVISIBLE COMPANIONS. 8 1 
 
 He breathes to me his burning thought, 
 He utters words with wisdom fraught, 
 He tells me truly what I am 
 I walk with mighty Verulam. 
 
 He goes with me through crowded ways, 
 A friend and mentor in the maze, 
 Through Chancery Lane to Lincoln's Inn, 
 To Fleet Street, through the moil and din. 
 
 I meet another spirit there, 
 A blind old man with forehead fair, 
 Who ever walks the right-hand side, 
 Towards the fountain of St. Bride. 
 
 Amid the peal of jangling bells, 
 Or people's roar that falls and swells, 
 The whirl of wheels and tramp of steeds, 
 He talks to me of noble deeds. 
 
 I hear his voice above the crush, 
 As to and fro the people rush ; 
 Benign and calm upon his face 
 Sits Melancholy, robed in grace. 
 
 He hath no need of common eyes, 
 He sees the fields of Paradise ; 
 He sees and pictures unto mine 
 A gorgeous vision, most divine* 
 
 He tells the story of the Fall, 
 He names the fiends in battle-call, 
 And shows my soul, in wonder dumb, 
 Heaven, Earth, and Pandemonium. 
 
 He tells of Lycidas the good, 
 And the sweet lady in the wood, 
 And teaches wisdom high and holy, 
 In mirth and heavenly melancholy. 
 
 And oftentimes, with courage high, 
 He raises Freedom's rallying cry ; 
 And, ancient leader of the van, 
 Asserts the dignity of man 
 
82 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Asserts the right with trumpet tongue, 
 That Justice from Oppression wrung, 
 And poet, patriot, statesman, sage, 
 Guides by his own a future age. 
 
 With such companions at my side 
 I float on London's human tide ; 
 An atom on its billows thrown, 
 But lonely never, nor alone. 
 
 THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 
 
 LATE or early home returning, 
 
 In the starlight or the rain, 
 
 I beheld that lonely candle 
 
 Shining from his window-pane. 
 
 Ever o'er his tattered curtain, 
 
 Nightly looking, I could scan, 
 
 Aye inditing, 
 
 \V riting writing, 
 
 The pale figure of a man ; 
 
 Still discern behind him fall 
 
 The same shadow on the wall. 
 
 Far beyond the murky midnight, 
 
 By dim burning of my oil, 
 
 Filling aye his rapid leaflets, 
 
 I have watched him at his toil ; 
 
 Watched his broad and seamy forehead, 
 
 Watched his white industrious hand, 
 
 Ever passing 
 
 And repassing ; 
 
 Watched and strove to understand 
 
 W T hat impelled it gold, or fame 
 
 Bread, or bubble of a name. 
 
 Oft I've asked, debating vainly 
 In the silence of my mind, 
 What the services he rendered 
 To his country or his kind ; 
 
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 83 
 
 Whether tones of ancient music, 
 
 Or the sound of modern gong, 
 
 Wisdom holy, 
 
 Humours lowly, 
 
 Sermon, essay, novel, song, 
 
 Or philosophy sublime, 
 
 Filled the measure of his time. 
 
 No one sought him, no one knew him,' 
 Undistinguished was his name : 
 Never had his praise been uttered 
 By the oracles of fame. 
 Scanty fare and decent raiment, 
 Humble lodging, and a fire 
 These he sought for, 
 These he wrought for, 
 And he gained his meek desire ; 
 Teaching men by written word 
 Clinging to a hope deferred. 
 
 So he lived. At last I missed him ; 
 
 Still might evening twilight fall, 
 
 But no taper lit his lattice 
 
 Lay no shadow on his wall. 
 
 In the winter of his seasons, 
 
 In the midnight of his day, 
 
 'Mid his writing, 
 
 And inditing, 
 
 Death had beckoned him away, 
 
 Ere the sentence he had planned 
 
 Found completion at his hand. 
 
 But this man, so old and nameless, 
 Left behind him projects large, 
 Schemes of progress undeveloped, 
 Worthy of a nation's charge ; 
 Noble fancies uncompleted, 
 Germs of beauty immatured, 
 Only needing 
 Kindly feeding 
 
 To have flourished and endured ; 
 Meet reward in golden store 
 To have lived for evermore. 
 
84 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Who shall tell what schemes majestic 
 
 Perish in the active brain ? 
 
 What humanity is robbed of, 
 
 Ne'er to be restored again ? 
 
 What we lose, because we honour 
 
 Overmuch the mighty dead, 
 
 And dispirit 
 
 Living merit, 
 
 Heaping scorn upon its head ? 
 
 Or perchance, when kinder grown, 
 
 Leaving it to die alone ? 
 
 UNKNOWN ROMANCES. 
 
 OFT have I wandered when the first faint light 
 
 Of morning shone upon the steeple-vanes 
 Of sleeping London, through the silent night, 
 
 Musing on memories of joys and pains ; 
 And looking down long vistas of dim lanes 
 
 And shadowy streets, one after other spread 
 In endless coil, have thought what hopes now dead 
 
 Once bloomed in every house, what tearful rains 
 Women have wept, for husband, sire, or son ; 
 
 What love and sorrow ran their course in each, 
 And what great silent tragedies were done ; 
 
 And wished the dumb and secret walls had speech, 
 That they might whisper to me, one by one, 
 
 The sad true lessons that their walls might teach. 
 
 Close and forgetful witnesses, they hide, 
 In nuptial chamber, attic, or saloon, 
 
 Many a legend sad of desolate bride, 
 
 And mournful mother, blighted all too soon, 
 
 Of strong men's agony, despair, and pride, 
 And mental glory darkened ere its noon. 
 
THE MOWERS. 85 
 
 But let the legends perish in their place, 
 
 For well I know where'er these walls have seen 
 Humanity's upturned and heavenly face, 
 
 That there has virtue, there has courage been ; 
 That e'en 'mid passions foul, and vices base 
 
 Some ray of goodness interposed between. 
 Ye voiceless houses, ever as I gaze, 
 
 This moral flashes from your walls serene. 
 
 THE MOWERS. 
 
 AN ANTICIPATION OF THE CHOLERA, 1848. 
 
 [Nothing finer than this poem is to be found in ^Eschylus. Revs, 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY.] 
 
 DENSE on the stream the vapours lay, 
 Thick as wool on the cold highway ; 
 Spongy and dim, each lonely lamp 
 Shone o'er the streets so dull and damp ; 
 The moonbeam could not pierce the cloud 
 That swathed the city like a shroud. 
 There stood three Shapes on the bridge alone, 
 Three figures by the coping-stone ; 
 Gaunt, and tall, and undefined, 
 Spectres built of mist and wind ; 
 Changing ever in form and height, 
 But black and palpable to sight. 
 
 " This is a city fair to see," 
 Whispered one of the fearful three ; 
 " A mighty tribute it pays to me. 
 Into its river, winding slow, 
 
 Thick and foul from shore to shore, 
 The vessels come, the vessels go, 
 
 And teeming lands their riches pour. 
 It spreads beneath the murky sky 
 .A wilderness of masonry ; 
 
86 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Huge, unshapely, overgrown, 
 Dingy brick and blackened stone. 
 Mammon is its chief and lord, 
 Monarch slavishly adored ; 
 Mammon sitting side by side 
 With Pomp, and Luxury, and Pride ; 
 Who call his large dominion theirs, 
 Nor dream a portion is DESPAIR'S. 
 
 " Countless thousands bend to me 
 
 In rags and purple, in hovel and hall, 
 And pay the tax of Misery 
 
 With tears and blood, and spoken gall. 
 Whenever they cry for aid to die, 
 I give them courage to dare the worst, 
 And leave their ban on a world accursed. 
 I show them the river so black and deep, 
 They take the plunge, they sink to sleep ; 
 I show them poison, I show them rope, 
 They rush to death without a hope. 
 Poison, and rope, and pistol-ball, 
 Welcome either, welcome all ! 
 I am the lord of the teeming town 
 I mow them down, I mow them down!" 
 
 " Ay> thou art great, but greater I," 
 The second spectre made reply ; 
 " Thou rulest with a frown austere, 
 Thy name is synonym of Fear. 
 But I, despotic and hard as thou, 
 Have a laughing lip, an open brow. 
 I build a temple in every lane, 
 I have a palace in every street ; 
 And the victims throng to my doors amain, 
 And wallow like swine beneath my feet. 
 To me the strong man gives his health, 
 The wise man reason, the rich man wealth ; 
 Maids their virtue, youth its charms, ' 
 And mothers the children in their arms. 
 Thou art a slayer of mortal men 
 Thou of the unit, I of the ten ; 
 
THE MOWERS. 87 
 
 Great thou art, but greater I, 
 
 To decimate humanity. 
 
 'Tis / am the lord of the teeming town 
 
 / moiv them down> I menu them down ! " 
 
 "Vain boasters to exult at death," 
 
 The third replied, "so feebly done ; 
 I ope my jaws, and with a breath 
 
 Slay thousands while you think of one. 
 All the blood that Coesar spilled, 
 
 All that Alexander drew, 
 All the host by "glory" killed, 
 
 From Agincourt to Waterloo, 
 Compared with those whom I have slain, 
 Are but a river to the main. 
 
 " I brew disease in stagnant pools, 
 And wandering here, disporting there, 
 
 Favoured much by knaves and fools, 
 I poison streams, I taint the air ; 
 
 I shake from my locks the spreading Pest, 
 
 I keep the Typhus at my behest ; 
 
 In filth and slime I crawl, I climb ; 
 
 I find the workman at his trade, 
 
 I blow on his lips, and down he lies ; 
 
 I look in the face of the ruddiest maid, 
 And straight the fire forsakes her eyes 
 She droops, she sickens, and she dies ; 
 
 I stint the growth of babes new-born, 
 
 Or shear them off like standing corn ; 
 
 I rob the sunshine of its glow, 
 
 I poison all the winds that blow ; 
 
 Whenever they pass, they suck my breath, 
 
 And freight their wings with certain death. 
 
 'Tis / am the lord of the crowded town 
 
 / mow them down, I mow them down I 
 
 " But great as we are, there cometh one 
 
 Greater than you greater than I, 
 To aid the deeds that shall be done, 
 To end the work that we've begun, 
 
 And thin this thick humanity. 
 
88 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 I see his footmarks east and west, 
 
 I hear his tread in the silence fall, 
 He shall not sleep, he shall not rest 
 
 He comes to aid us one and all ! 
 Were men as wise as men might be, 
 They would not work for you, for me, 
 For him that cometh over the sea ; 
 But they will not heed the warning voice. 
 The Cholera comes, rejoice ! rejoice ! 
 He shall be lord of the swarming town, 
 And mow them dcnvn^ and mow them down ! 
 
 THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 
 1849. 
 
 [It may be necessary to inform the reader unacquainted with London, 
 that the church of St. Sepulchre is close to the gaol of Newgate, and 
 that its bell was formerly tolled when a criminal was to be executed. 
 Few will need to be reminded that the three stories related are not 
 fabulous.] 
 
 " DIDST ever see a hanging?" "No, not one, 
 
 Nor ever wish to see such scandal done. 
 
 But once I saw a wretch condemned to die : 
 
 A lean-faced, bright-eyed youth, who made me sigh 
 
 At the recital of a dream he had. 
 
 He was not sane, and yet he was not mad : 
 
 Fit subject for a mesmerist he seemed ; 
 
 For when he slept, he saw ; and when he dreamed, 
 
 His visions were as palpable to him 
 
 As facts to us. My memory is dim 
 
 Upon his story, but I'll ne'er forget 
 
 The dream he told me, for it haunts me yet, 
 
 Impressed upon me by his earnest faith 
 
 That 'twas no vision, but a sight which Death 
 
 Opened his eyes to see, an actual glimpse 
 
 Into the world of spectres and of imps 
 
 Vouchsafed to him on threshold of the grave. 
 
 List ! and I'll give it in the words he gave : 
 
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE. 89 
 
 " * Ay, you may think that I am crazed, 
 
 But what I saw, that did I see. 
 
 These walls are thick, my brain is sick, 
 
 And yet mine eyes saw lucidly. 
 
 Through the joists and through the stones 
 
 I could look as through a glass : 
 
 And, from this dungeon damp and cold, 
 
 I watched the motley people pass. 
 
 All day long, rapid and strong, 
 
 Rolled to and fro the living stream ; 
 
 But in the night I saw a sight 
 
 I cannot think it was a dream. 
 
 II < Old St. Sepulchre's bell will toll 
 At eight to-morrow for my soul ; 
 
 And thousands, not much better than I, 
 
 Will throng around to see me die ; 
 
 And many will bless their happy fate 
 
 That they ne'er fell from their high estate, 
 
 Or did such deed as I have done ; 
 
 Though, from the rise to the set of sun, 
 
 They cheat their neighbours all their days, 
 
 And gather gold in slimy ways. 
 
 But my soul feels strong, and my sight grows clear, 
 
 As my death-hour approaches near, 
 
 And in its presence I will tell 
 
 The very truth, as it befell. 
 
 " ' The snow lies thick on the house-tops cold, 
 
 Shrill and keen the March winds blow ; 
 
 The rank grass of the churchyard mould 
 
 Is covered o'er with drifted snow ; 
 
 The graves in old St. Sepulchre's yard 
 
 Were white last night when I looked forth, 
 
 And the sharp clear stars seemed to dance in the sky, 
 
 Rocked by the fierce winds of the north. 
 
 " ' The houses dull seemed numb with frost, 
 The streets seemed wider than of yore, 
 And the straggling passengers trod, like ghosts, 
 Silentlv on the pathway frore ; 
 
90 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 When I looked through that churchyard rail, 
 And thought of the bell that should ring my doom, 
 And saw three women, sad and pale, 
 Sitting together on a tomb. 
 
 " ' A fearful sight it was to see, 
 As up they rose and looked at me. 
 Sunken were their cheeks and eyes ; 
 Blue-cold were their feet, and bare ; 
 Lean and yellow were their hands ; 
 Long and scanty was their hair ; 
 And round their necks I saw the ropes 
 Deftly knotted, tightly drawn ; 
 And knew they were not things of earth, 
 Or creatures that could face the dawn. 
 
 " * Seen dimly in the uncertain light, 
 
 They multiplied upon my sight ; 
 
 And things like men and women sprung 
 
 Shapes of those who had been hung 
 
 From the rank and clammy ground. 
 
 I counted them I knew them all, 
 
 Each with its rope around its neck, 
 
 Marshalled by the churchyard wall. 
 
 The stiff policeman, passing along, 
 
 Saw them not, nor made delay ; 
 
 A reeling bacchanal, shouting a song, 
 
 Looked at the clock and went his way ; 
 
 A troop of girls with painted cheeks, 
 
 Laughing and yelling in drunken glee, 
 
 Passed like a gust, and never looked 
 
 At the sight so palpable to me. 
 
 I saw them heard them felt their breath 
 
 Musty and raw and damp as death ! 
 
 " * These women three, these fearful shapes, 
 Looked at me through Newgate stone, 
 And raised their fingers, skinny and lank, 
 Whispering low in undertone : 
 " His hour draws near, he's one of us, 
 
THE PHANTOMS OF ST. SEPULCHRE. c;i 
 
 His gibbet is built, his noose is tied ; 
 They have put his date on the coffin-lid : 
 The law of blood shall be satisfied. 
 He shall rest with us, and his name shall be 
 A by- word and a mockery. " 
 
 " ' I whispered to one, " What had'st thou done ? " 
 
 She answered, whispering, and I heard 
 
 Although a chime rang at the time 
 
 Every sentence, every word, 
 
 Clear above the pealing bells : 
 
 " I was mad, and slew my child ; 
 
 Better than life, God knows, I loved it ; 
 
 But pain and hunger drove me wild, 
 
 Scorn and hunger, and grief and care ; 
 
 And I slew it in my despair. 
 
 And for this deed they raised the gibbet ; 
 
 For this deed the noose they tied ; 
 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 
 And the law of blood was satisfied." 
 
 " ' I said to the second, " What didst thou? " 
 
 Her keen eyes flashed unearthly shine. 
 
 ' * I married a youth when I was young, 
 
 And thought all happiness was mine ; 
 
 But they stole him from me to fight the French ; 
 
 And I was left in the world alone, 
 
 To beg or steal, to live or die, 
 
 Robbed of my stay, my all, my own. 
 
 England stole my lord from me, 
 
 I stole a ribbon, was caught and tried ; 
 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 
 And the law of blood was satisfied. " 
 
 " ' I said to the third, " What crime was thine ? " 
 
 " Crime ! " she answered, in accents meek, 
 
 " The babe that sucks at its mother's breast, 
 
 And smiles with its little dimpled cheek, 
 
 Is not more innocent than I. 
 
 But truth was feeble, error was strong ; 
 
 And guiltless of a deed of shame, 
 
 .Men's justice did me cruel wrong. 
 
92 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 They would not hear my truthful words ; 
 They thought me filled with stubborn pride ; 
 And I hung and swung in the sight of men, 
 And the law of blood was satisfied." 
 
 " * Then one and all, by that churchyard wall, 
 
 Raised their skinny hands at me ; 
 
 Their voices mingling like the sound 
 
 Of rustling leaves in a withering tree : 
 
 " His hour has come, he's one of us ; 
 
 His gibbet is built, his noose is tied : 
 
 His knell shall ring, and his corpse shall swing, 
 
 And the law of blood shall be satisfied." 
 
 " ' They vanished ! I saw them, one by one, 
 With their bare blue feet on the drifted snow 
 Sink like a thaw, when the sun is up, 
 To their wormy solitudes below. 
 Though you may deem this was a dream, 
 My facts are tangible facts to me ; 
 For the sight glows clear as death draws near 
 And looks into Eternity.' " 
 
 MAY MARY. 
 
 " WHAT ! is it you, May Mary ? 
 
 You, in this tawdry gown ? 
 With painted cheeks and hollow eyes, 
 An outcast in this wretched guise, 
 
 A victim of the town ? 
 
 IT. 
 Oh, Mary ! sad May Mary ! 
 
 Five little years ago, 
 I saw you on the village green, 
 A bashful maiden of sixteen. 
 
 As pure as falling snow. 
 
MAY MARY. 93 
 
 " Oh, desolate May Mary ! 
 
 Your face was blooming then, 
 Your laugh rang merry in our ears, 
 And lovely both in smiles and tears, 
 
 You won the hearts of men. 
 
 " You drew all eyes, May Mary ! 
 
 We looked upon your face, 
 And could not choose but breathe a prayer 
 That Heaven would shield you with its care 
 
 And light you with its grace. 
 
 " How are you fallen, May Mary ! 
 
 You are the scorner's mark ; 
 There is a cloud upon your fame, 
 There is a blight upon your name, 
 
 Your light has turned to dark. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "And oh, forlorn May Mary ! 
 
 It grieves me to behold 
 The woe that guilt has brought on you, 
 The change that grief has wrought in you- 
 
 It makes my blood run cold. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " But yet, take courage, Mary, 
 
 God's mercy long endures ; 
 My God is God of all who mourn. 
 Repent amend your heart shall turn ; 
 
 Forgiveness shall be yours." 
 
 " Alas ! " said sad May Mary, 
 
 " My dearest hopes are gone ; 
 No chance is left to my desire, 
 I am down-trodden in the mire, 
 My days of joy are done. 
 
94 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 " Mine is the old, old story 
 
 I foolishly believed ; 
 I gave my heart in joy and pain ; 
 But loving, was not loved again ; 
 
 Abandoned and deceived. 
 
 x. 
 
 "Yet I, e'en I, May Mary, 
 
 A target set for scorn, 
 And clinging to a desperate life, 
 Neither a maiden nor a wife, 
 
 Despised, undone, forlorn, 
 
 " I, even I, was happy ! 
 
 But three short months ago, 
 I had a child, a lovely child, 
 Fair-haired, blue-eyed, most sweet and mild, 
 
 A blessing in my woe. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " The little creature prattled 
 
 With soft, angelic words ; 
 It made me think of days gone by, 
 Of village bowers, a cloudless sky, 
 
 And songs of happy birds. 
 
 XIII 
 
 "It had a sense God save it 
 
 To mine superior far ; 
 It drew me from the wrong to right ; 
 In utter darkness 'twas a light, 
 
 A beacon and a star. 
 
 ' ' I was most weak and sinful ; 
 
 I listened to Despair ; 
 When frenzied thoughts possessed my brain, 
 Gin was the solace of my pain, 
 
 The soother of my care. 
 
MAY MARY. 95 
 
 XV. 
 
 "The little creature saw it ; 
 
 'Twas sane when I was mad ; 
 And said such things, I wondered oft 
 To hear that infant voice so soft 
 
 Breathe goodness to the bad. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " It made me love lost Virtue, 
 
 It cheered my darkest day, 
 It was a vision in my rest, 
 It was a floweret in my breast, 
 
 It drove my guilt away. 
 
 XVII 
 
 "The child is dead : May Mary 
 
 But lives its loss to moan ; 
 The only thing that loved her here 
 Has gone to Heaven her heart is sear, 
 
 She walks the world alone ! " 
 
 xvni. 
 
 " God help thee, sad May Mary ! 
 
 Though guilt on guilt be piled, 
 The heart may hope to be forgiven 
 That patiently confides in Heaven, 
 
 And loves a little child. 
 
 " Look up ! forlorn May Mary, 
 And kiss the chastening rod ! 
 Thy child has only gone before, 
 Amid the seraphs that adore, 
 It pleads for thee to God." 
 
96 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 LOUISE ON THE DOOR-STEP. 
 
 HALF-PAST three in the morning ! 
 
 And no one in the street 
 But me, on the sheltering door-step 
 
 Resting my weary feet ; 
 Watching the raindrops patter 
 
 And dance where the puddles run, 
 As bright in the flaring gaslight 
 
 As dewdrops in the sun. 
 
 IT. 
 
 There's a light upon the pavement 
 
 It shines like a magic glass, 
 And there are faces in it, 
 
 That look at me, and pass. 
 Faces ah ! well remembered 
 
 In the happy Long- Ago, 
 "When my garb was white as lilies, 
 
 And my thoughts as pure as snow. 
 
 in. 
 
 Faces ! ah yes ! I see them 
 
 One, two, and three and four 
 That come on the gust of tempests, 
 
 And go on the winds that bore. 
 Changeful and evanescent 
 
 They shine 'mid storm and rain, 
 Till the terror of their beauty 
 
 Lies deep upon my brain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One of them frowns ; / know him, 
 With his thin, long snow-white hair, 
 
 Cursing his wretched daughter 
 That drove him to despair. 
 
LOUISE ON THE DOOR-STEP. 97 
 
 And the other, with wakening pity 
 
 In her large tear-streaming eyes, 
 Seems, as she yearned toward me, 
 
 To whisper " Paradise." 
 
 V. 
 
 They pass they melt in the ripples, 
 
 And I shut mine eyes that burn, 
 To escape another vision 
 
 That follows where'er I turn : 
 The face of a false deceiver 
 
 That lives and lies, ah me ! 
 Though I see it in the pavement, 
 
 Mocking my misery ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 They are gone ! all three quite vanished ! 
 
 Let nothing call them back ! 
 For I've had enough of phantoms, 
 
 And my heart is on the rack ! 
 God help me in my sorrow ! 
 
 But there in the wet, cold stone, 
 Smiling in heavenly beauty, 
 
 I see my lost, mine own ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 There on the glimmering pavement, 
 
 With eyes as blue as morn, 
 Floats by the fair-haired darling 
 
 Too soon from my bosom torn ; 
 She clasps her tiny fingers 
 
 She calls me sweet and mild. 
 And says that my God forgives me, 
 
 For the sake of my little child. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I will go to her grave to-morrow, 
 
 And pray that I may die ; 
 And I hope that my God will take me 
 
 Ere the days of my youth go by. 
 
 H 
 
98 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 For I am old in anguish, 
 And long to be at rest, 
 
 With my little babe beside me, 
 And the daisies on my breast. 
 
 A CONFABULATION. 
 
 SMITH SPEAKS. 
 
 DEAR Brother Brown, if we could take 
 
 Such liberty with Time, 
 As just to back his fatal clock, 
 
 . To mark our early prime. 
 When we were barely twenty-three, 
 
 And prodigal of youth, 
 And thought all women were divine, 
 
 All men the souls of truth ; 
 If we could feel as then we felt, 
 
 And know what now we know, 
 We'd take more pleasure than we did 
 
 Twice twenty years ago. 
 
 BROWN REPLIES. 
 
 Dear Brother Smith, I'm not so sure ; 
 
 'Tis heart that keeps us young, 
 And heart was ever ignorant 
 
 Since Eve and Adam sprung. 
 And if we knew in youthful days 
 
 As much as when we're old, 
 I fear that heart would turn to stone, 
 
 And blood run very cold. 
 Yet none the less, for sake of life, 
 
 Though life should bring me woe, 
 I'd gladly be the fool I was 
 
 Twice twenty years ago. 
 
A CONFABULATION. 99 
 
 JONES DISAGREES. 
 
 Dear Smith and Brown, of parted hours 
 
 Your talk is void and vain, 
 They're gone God wot ! Let's bless our lot ! 
 
 They cannot come again. 
 Each age has its appointed joy, 
 
 And each its heavy load ; 
 And I for one would not retrace 
 
 My footsteps on the road. 
 I know no Time but present Time, 
 
 And if the vintage flow 
 And we enjoy it why recall 
 
 Twice twenty years ago ? 
 
 I know I've had my share of joy, 
 
 I know I've suffered long ; 
 I know I've tried to do the right, 
 
 Although I've done the wrong. 
 I know 'mid all my pleasures past, 
 
 That sleep has been the best, 
 And that I'm weary, very weary, 
 
 And soon shall be at rest. 
 Yet all the same I cling to life, 
 
 < 'To be "is all I know; 
 And if I'm right, I knew no more 
 
 Twice twenty years ago. 
 
 YOUNG ROBINSON RECAPITULATES. 
 
 You dear old humbugs, Jones and Smith, 
 
 Thou dear old humbug, Brown, 
 You live like oysters, though not half 
 
 So useful to the town. 
 I'll lead a nobler life than yours, 
 
 While yet my youth remains, 
 And gather up a store of gold 
 
 To heal old Age's pains. 
 You've had your pleasures as you went 
 
 In driblets thin and small, 
 I'll have my pleasures in the lump, 
 
 Quintessence of them all ! 
 
100 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 I'll carve and care, I'll stint and spare, 
 
 And heap up sum on sum, 
 To make myself a millionaire 
 
 Before old Age shall come. 
 I'll flaunt the rich, I'll feed the poor, 
 
 And on the scroll of Fame, 
 So large that all the world may read, 
 
 I'll write my honest name ! 
 
 CHORUS OF THE OLD PHILOSOPHERS. 
 
 Yes ! Fool ! and when you're old as we, 
 You'll find, on verge of death, 
 
 That little pleasures are the best, 
 And Fame not worth a breath ! 
 
 WATERLOO BRIDGE, 1841. 
 
 [Written before the publication of Hood's "Bridge of Sighs."] 
 
 UPON the solitary bridge the light 
 Shone dim ; the wind swept howling on its way, 
 And tower and spire stood hidden in the gray 
 Half-darkness of the raw and rainy night. 
 When one still young and fair, with eyes mad-bright, 
 Paced up and down, and with a look of woe, 
 Gazed on the waters gliding black below, 
 Or the dull houses looming on her sight, 
 And said within herself, " Can I endure 
 Longer this weight of misery and scorn? 
 Ah, no! Love-blighted sick at heart and poor; 
 Deceived undone and utterly forlorn ! 
 Why should I live ? forgive me, Lord ! " she cried, 
 Sprang sudden to the brink, dashed headlong down an< 
 died ! 
 
THE SOULS Ot THK CHIIDR^V. IOI 
 
 THE SOULS OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 [Soon after the appearance of this poem, H.R.H. Prince Albert 
 deputed Her Majesty's physician, the late Sir James Clark, to call 
 upon the Author, and request his permission to reprint it for cheap and 
 gratuitous circulation among the people, in aid of the great cause of 
 the education of the poor children of the multitude which did not 
 receive the sanction of Parliament until more than twenty years after- 
 wards. The permission was cheerfully and thankfully granted ; and by 
 the warm and intelligent efforts of Sir James Clark, and the assistance 
 and sympathy of the Prince, 20,000 copies were circulated all over the 
 country in a cheap form. 
 
 A copy of this poem was sent anonymously to George Combe, the 
 eminent philanthropist, and author of "The Constitution of Man." 
 He at once recognised the writer, and wrote next day, saying, " I have 
 received ' The Souls of the Children,' a poem which, I think, could 
 come from no pen but yours. It breathes your sweet versification and 
 beautiful, tender, yet philosophical spirit, and I thank you for it 
 sincerely. It came under a blank cover ; and, if you did not write it, 
 I thank God that England has another poet like you."] 
 
 " WHO bids for the little children, 
 
 Body, and soul, and brain ? 
 Who bids for the little children, 
 
 Young, and without a stain ? 
 Will no one bid," said England, 
 
 " For their souls so pure and white, 
 And fit for all good or evil, 
 
 The world on their page may write?" 
 
 " We bid," said Pest and Famine, 
 
 " We bid for life and limb ; 
 Fever and pain and squalor 
 
 Their bright young eyes shall dim. 
 When the children grow too many, 
 
 We'll nurse them as our own, 
 And hide them in secret places, 
 
 Where none may hear their moan." 
 
102 LO'NDON LYRICS. 
 
 "Ibid," said Beggary, howling, 
 
 "I bid for them, one and all ! 
 I'll teach them a thousand lessons 
 
 To lie, to skulk, to crawl ! 
 They shall sleep in my lair, like maggots, 
 
 They shall rot in the fair sunshine ; 
 And if they serve my purpose, 
 
 I hope they'll answer thine." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " And I'll bid higher and higher," 
 
 Said Crime with wolfish grin, 
 " For I love to lead the children 
 
 Through the pleasant paths of sin. 
 They shall swarm in the streets to pilfer. 
 
 They shall plague the broad highway, 
 Till they grow too old for pity, 
 
 And ripe for the law to slay. 
 
 " Prison and hulk and gallows 
 
 Are many in the land, 
 'Tvvere folly not to use them, 
 
 So proudly as they stand. 
 Give me the little children 
 
 I'll take them as they're born, 
 And feed their evil passions 
 
 With misery and scorn. 
 
 VI. 
 
 11 Give me the little children, 
 
 Ye good, ye rich, ye wise, 
 And let the busy world spin round, 
 
 While ye shut your idle eyes ; 
 And your judges shall have work, 
 
 And your lawyers wag the tongue, 
 And the gaolers and policemen 
 
 Shall be fathers to the young. 
 
THE SOULS OB' THE CHILDREN. 103 
 
 "I and the Law, for pastime, 
 
 Shall struggle day and night ; 
 And the Law shall gain, but I shall win, 
 
 And we'll still renew the fight : 
 And ever and aye we'll wrestle, 
 
 Till Law grow sick and sad, 
 And kill, in its desperation, 
 
 The incorrigibly bad. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "I, and the Law, and Justice, 
 
 Shall thwart each other still ; 
 And hearts shall break to see it ; 
 
 And innocent blood shall spill ! 
 So leave, oh, leave the children 
 
 To Ignorance and Woe 
 And I'll come in and teach them 
 
 The way that they should go." 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Oh, shame !" said true Religion. 
 
 " Oh, shame that this should be ! 
 /'// take the little children, 
 
 I'll take them all to me : 
 I'll raise them up with kindness 
 
 From the mire in which they're trod ; 
 I'll teach them words of blessing, 
 
 I'll lead them up to God." 
 
 x. 
 
 "You're not the true Religion," 
 
 Said a Sect with flashing eyes ; 
 "Nor thou," said another scowling, 
 
 '* Thou'rt heresy and lies. " 
 " You shall not have the children," 
 
 Said a third with shout and yell ; 
 " You're Antichrist and bigot 
 
 You'd train them up for hell." 
 
104 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And England, sorely puzzled 
 
 To see such battle strong, 
 Exclaimed, with voice of pity, 
 
 " Oh, friends, you do me wrong ! 
 Oh, cease your bitter wrangling ; 
 
 For, till you all agree, 
 I fear the little children 
 
 Will plague both you and me." 
 
 XII. 
 
 But all refused to listen ; 
 
 Quoth they" We bide our time ; " 
 And the bidders seized the children 
 
 Beggary, Filth, and Crime ; 
 And the prisons teemed with victims, 
 
 And the gallows rocked on high ; 
 And the thick abomination 
 
 Spread reeking to the sky. 
 
 THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. 
 
 i. 
 
 AROUND the board the guests were met, the lights above 
 
 them beaming, 
 And in their cups, replenished oft, the ruddy wine was 
 
 streaming ; 
 Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright, their hearts 
 
 with pleasure bounded, 
 The song was sung, the toast' was given, and loud the revel 
 
 sounded, 
 I drained a goblet with the rest, and cried, " Away with 
 
 sorrow ! 
 
 Let us be happy for to-day ; what care we for to-morrow ? " 
 But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, and slumber deep 
 
 came o'er me, 
 And, 'mid the whirl of mingling tongues, this vision passed 
 
 before me. 
 
THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER. 105 
 
 Methought I saw a Demon rise : he held a mighty bicker, 
 Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er with floods of 
 
 burning liquor, 
 Around him pressed a clamorous crowd, to taste this liquor, 
 
 greedy, 
 But chiefly came the poor and sad, the suffering and the 
 
 needy ; 
 
 All those oppressed by grief or debt, the dissolute, the lazy, 
 Blear-eyed old men and reckless youtl^s, and palsied women 
 
 crazy ; 
 " Give, give ! " they cried, " Give, give us drink, to drown 
 
 all thought of sorrow ; 
 If we are happy for to-day, what care we for to-morrow ? " 
 
 in. 
 
 The first drop warmed their shivering skins, and drove 
 
 away their sadness ;. 
 The second lit their sunken eyes, and filled their souls with 
 
 gladness ; 
 The third drop made them shout and roar, and play each 
 
 furious antic ; 
 The fourth drop boiled their very blood ; and the fifth drop 
 
 drove them frantic. 
 " Drink!" said the Demon, "Drink your fill! drink of 
 
 these waters mellow ; 
 They'll make your eyeballs sear and dull, and turn your 
 
 white skins yellow ; 
 They'll fill your homes with care and grief, and clothe your 
 
 backs with tatters ! 
 They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts ; but never mind ! 
 
 what matters? 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Though Virtue sink, and Reason fail, and social ties dis- 
 sever, 
 
 I'll be your friend in hour of need, and find you homes for 
 ever ! 
 
 For I have built three mansions high, three strong and 
 goodly houses, 
 
 To lodge at last each jolly soul who all his life carouses. 
 
106 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 tf, it is a spacious house, to all but sots appalling, 
 Where, by the parish bounty fed, vile, in the sunshine 
 
 crawling, 
 The worn-out drunkard ends his days, and eats the dole of 
 
 others, 
 A plague and burthen to himself, an eyesore to his brothers. 
 
 v. 
 
 *' The second is a lazarhouse, rank, fetid, and unholy ; 
 Where, smitten by diseases foul and hopeless melancholy, 
 The victims of potations deep pine on the couch of sad- 
 
 ness, 
 Some calling Death to end their pain, and some imploring 
 
 Madness. 
 The third and last is black and high, the abode of guilt and 
 
 anguish, 
 And full of dungeons deep and fast, where death-doomed 
 
 felons languish : 
 
 So drain the cup, and drain again ! One of my goodly houses 
 Shall lodge at last each jolly soul who to the dregs ca- 
 
 rouses ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 But well he knew that Demon old how vain was all his 
 
 preaching, 
 The ragged crew that round him flocked were heedless of 
 
 his teaching ; 
 Ev'n as they heard his fearful words, they cried, with shouts 
 
 of laughter, 
 "Out on the fool who mars to-day with thoughts of the 
 
 Hereafter ! 
 We care not for thy houses three ; we live but for the 
 
 present ; 
 And merry will we make it yet, and quaff our bumpers 
 
 pleasant." 
 Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak, and, lifting 
 
 high his bicker, 
 " Body and soul are mine ! " said he ; " I'll have them both 
 
 for liquor. " 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 107 
 
 LUCIFER IN LONDON, 
 
 AND HIS REFLECTIONS ON LIFE, MANNERS, AND THE 
 PROSPECTS OF SOCIETY. 
 
 " Write the vision, and make it plain . . . that he may run that 
 readeth it. ... The vision is for an appointed time, but at the end 
 it shall speak, and not lie." Habakkuk ii. 2, 3. 
 
 I. LUCIFER REBUKES Six. 
 
 I, LUCIFER, son of the morning, 
 
 Wander unseen through the highways 
 
 To study the crowd as it passes. 
 
 None heed me. Though mean in apparel, 
 
 I need not to beg or to borrow, 
 
 And hold up my head self-reliant, 
 
 Prouder than they, if not better. 
 
 I've a brain if I have not a conscience, 
 
 With a longing and craving to know 
 
 How the wheels of the universe go 
 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them^ woe I 
 
 II. 
 
 Amazed at their greed and their folly, 
 
 I ask, not expecting an answer, 
 
 " Where are the statesmen and rulers 
 
 Who study the Past and the Present, 
 
 To make the way smooth for the Future ? 
 
 Where are they, where ? The Fates know not. 
 
 Old Yesterday sleeps in its ruins, 
 
 To- Day, its degenerate offspring, 
 
 Utters its pitiless maxim, 
 
 1 Each for himself and no other. ' 
 
 Maxim I love, and would not overthrow. 
 
 Woe to the people! woe to them^ .woe / 
 
108 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 III. 
 
 " I look to the preachers and teachers, 
 
 The guides and the lights of men's conduct, 
 
 And find them self-seeking and worldly, 
 
 And haters of every opinion 
 
 That swerves by a hair from the doctrine 
 
 That feeds them and clothes them and warms them. 
 
 Their homilies goad me to anger, 
 
 Or send me to merciful slumber. 
 
 Men thirst with the thirst of the spirit, 
 
 But the clerical fountains are frozen, 
 
 And the waters refuse to flow 
 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 " I mix with the crowd to discover 
 The innermost thoughts of the many, 
 And find that they're evermore drifting 
 To darkness and deep desolation, 
 Or vortex of dastard denial 
 Of everything good, except Money ! 
 Money's the god which they worship, 
 The power of all powers and dominions, 
 The sum of all truths which they know ; 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! 
 
 v. 
 
 " Church-going, respectable traders, 
 Who flourish in sight of the people, 
 Are robbers of widows and orphans, 
 And make gentle Charity's self 
 The accomplice and cloak of their plunder 
 Then settle their gains on their spouses, 
 That, after short shadowy penance, 
 Their lines may be cast in fair places, 
 Where the corn and the wine overflow 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 109 
 
 VI. 
 
 " 'Twas I who first taught them I know it 
 
 That Gold was the Be-all and End-all 
 
 Of little man's little existence ; 
 
 That fifty per cent, or a hundred 
 
 Was earth's chiefest joy, and that * Shoddy ' 
 
 And Swindle and Sham and Deception, 
 
 False weight and false measure and poison, 
 
 Were bright little rills, ever running 
 
 To swell the great river of riches 
 
 Flowing and flowing and ever to flow 
 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I see with a fervent approval 
 That reverence follows not merit, 
 That genius is treated as folly, 
 That virtuous grey hairs have no honour, 
 That sneering and cynical laughter 
 Are ready to undermine all things, 
 That vice is not vice with full pockets, 
 That swindling, if greatly successful, 
 Is much too exalted for censure, 
 Condoned by the high and the low 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " And I laugh to myself, well contented, 
 To see the quick-coming Hereafter 
 Of storm and convulsion and earthquake, 
 That shall topple to earth the deceptions 
 That lift up their sun-tinted turrets, 
 Defiant of Fate and of Justice. 
 I hear the first wail of the tempest, 
 And rumbling of fire subterranean 
 Certain to burst, and to overflow 
 Woe to the people ! woe to them, woe ! " 
 
110 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 II. HE SURVEYS THE EMPIRES. 
 i. 
 
 THE kingdoms of earth are my kingdoms ; 
 I love to roam thoughtfully through them, 
 To study the ways of my subjects, 
 My people, my slaves, my disciples ! 
 They know not that / am their master, 
 But think with my thoughts notwithstanding, 
 And do my behests as I bid them ! 
 And ever, for ever, the currents flow ; 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! it surges below ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The nations that boast of their freedom, 
 And flatter themselves by believing 
 That government dwells on their voices, 
 Are governed by gabbling impostors 
 Who tickle their ears with vain phrases, 
 Empty of purpose and meaning, 
 Except to deceive and delude them, 
 And lead them to shame and dishonour, 
 And merited overthrow ; 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! it trembles below ! 
 
 I enter the councils of princes, 
 I talk with great heroes and statesmen, 
 Who think they can twist round their fingers 
 The threads of a web unentangled, 
 And weave it exact to their pattern. 
 They know not that Fate is a weaver 
 Far defter than they, who regards not 
 Their wefts or their woofs, or their darnings, 
 Or how the entanglements grow. 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! it rumbles below ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 I study the empires, and wonder 
 How the youth and the bloom of their people 
 Should arm, or be armed, by the million 
 To kill, or be killed in the conflicts 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. Ill 
 
 Of my very good servant, Ambition, 
 That goads itself mad for dominion, 
 And thinks that a conqueror's fancy 
 Outvalues the blood that he squanders. 
 Poor fools of mankind ! it is so, ever so ; 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! it smoulders below ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Outspreading their beautiful banners, 
 
 And flashing aloft in the sunshine 
 
 Their sabres, their lances, their rifles ; 
 
 The trumpets loud sounding, the war horses bounding 
 
 At scent of the carnage approaching ; 
 
 I see the proud hosts as they muster, 
 
 And think that sad Industry, wailing, 
 
 Must pay with its sweat for the splendour 
 
 And glory and pomp of the show. 
 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! it crackles below ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 The rulers are many and mighty 
 Who fight in my cause and uphold it. 
 Blind, blind are they all ; self-reliant 
 Though ne'er a proud monarch among them 
 Who would not be bankrupt to-morrow 
 If nations abandoned their vices, 
 And ceased to pay taxes for poisons, 
 For alcohol, opium, tobacco 
 My gifts, in a bountiful overflow. 
 Upheaval ! upheaval ! and fast-coming woe ! 
 
 Water ! the beautiful water ! 
 God gave it for strength and for healing. 
 'Twas / that perverted the blessing, 
 And taught foolish men to despise it 
 For sake of the potions that madden ! 
 The lesson was easy of teaching, 
 And easier far in the learning ; 
 
112 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 They cling to and worship the poisons 
 That mow down the ripe generations. 
 Let the world go as it listeth to go, 
 ' Tis all for my glory ; woe to it y woe ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Folly ! Delusion ! and Madness ! 
 
 Jealousy ! Hatred ! Corruption ! 
 
 These are the rulers of nations, 
 
 These are the guides of the people. 
 
 Perhaps it is well ! Were it other, 
 
 The people would breed in such myriads 
 
 That earth could no longer contain them ! 
 
 Merciful plagues and their vices 
 
 Thin their thick numbers ! 'tis so, ever so ! 
 
 lam the monarch ! Woe to them, woe I 
 
 III. HE VISITS THE' POOR AND THE RICH. 
 
 CLAD in the garb of a workman, 
 Lucifer, stalwart and grimy, 
 Stood at the bar of a ginshop 
 To drink with the dregs of the people, 
 And talk in their blasphemous jargon ! 
 Slang from their lips belched incessant, 
 Like smoke from a pestilent furnace, 
 Darkening the place ; but 'twas music 
 To Lucifer's ears, and he loved it. 
 
 Thither came fathers, degraded, 
 
 Who took no more heed of their offspring 
 
 Than midges that dance in the sunshine, 
 
 Or swine that lie bare on the dunghill ; 
 
 Manlike in nothing but muscle, 
 
 Kickers and bruisers of women, 
 
 They maimed without purpose of slaying, 
 
 And only to vent on the feeble 
 
 The merciless strength of their beast-hood. 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 113 
 
 III. 
 
 Thither came desperate women, 
 Squalid, grey-headed viragoes, 
 Bloated with brandy and passion, 
 Unwomanly ; worse than unmanly. 
 And younger ones, lewd and tempestuous, 
 Screaming and yelling, and cursing, 
 Or clutching meanwhile to their bosoms 
 Babes, whose pale faces, Death, coming, 
 Had marked with his merciful finger. 
 
 And Lucifer laughed, well contented, 
 To think of the growth of his empire, 
 Built and sustained by the folly 
 And crime of the poor and the lowly. 
 Then, checking his thought, he reflected : 
 * ' Not only the poor are my servants ; 
 The rich, and the great, and the mighty 
 Have vices as gross as the meanest, 
 And serve at my throne as devoutly." 
 
 v. 
 
 Thus deeming, he slowly betook him 
 To change his attire, and be ready 
 To share in the revels, more costly, 
 Of reckless and carnal unreason. 
 He saw, and enjoyed, and applauded 
 The passionate folly of manhood ; 
 And youths' heated blood, boiling frantic, 
 Selling or pawning the future 
 For price of a present enjoyment 
 Shared with the brutes, and as transient 
 As shadow of wings on the water. 
 
 Fair shone the lights as he entered 
 The palace of animal pleasure ; 
 Bright were the eyes and the glances 
 Of graceful and fairy-like women. 
 
114 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Squandering for wage of pollution 
 
 Their youth and the bloom of their beauty, 
 
 Heedless of penalty coming 
 
 On the arrowy shafts of To-morrow. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " If tears were of kin to my nature," 
 Thought Lucifer, glancing around him, 
 "I'd weep for those poor little sinners 
 That rush headlong down to perdition ; 
 But laughter is wiser than weeping, 
 And suits me a thousand times better. 
 So, pretty ones, dance and be merry ; 
 Make the Morn bright with enjoyment, 
 Nor care for the Night that approaches ! ' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "Wilt dance with me, fair one?" he whispered 
 
 To one in full flush of her girlhood, 
 
 Lissome and radiant and stately ; 
 
 Lovely enough for an Empress, 
 
 But cast away, trod on the pavement, 
 
 The slave and the toy of the spendthrifts, 
 
 Who filled her hot palm with their guineas, 
 
 The price of the shameless caresses 
 
 She lavished on all who could buy them. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And they danced 'mid the throng of spectators, 
 Whirling and twirling, lascivious, 
 Till, faint with the joyous excitement, 
 He led her away to the wine-cup, 
 High-brimmed with exhilarant liquor ; 
 Then, giving her gold by the handful, 
 He bade her farewell, and retreated, 
 To gloat over human unreason. 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 1 15 
 
 IV. LUCIFER AND BLUE RUIN. 
 
 i. 
 
 ONCE more at the porch of a palace, 
 
 Where GIN was the idol and fetish 
 
 That grovelling multitudes worshipped, 
 
 Lucifer lingered an instant. 
 
 A blear-eyed and staggering drunkard 
 
 Asked him, in name of the Devil, 
 
 To spare him the price of a * ' quartern " 
 
 To deaden the pangs of his hunger. 
 
 Lucifer bought and presented 
 
 The draught he so piteously craved for. 
 
 II. 
 
 It wrought in the brain of its victim ; 
 Who, raising the glass he had emptied 
 Aloft 'twixt his eye and the gaslight 
 That streamed with faint ray o'er the pavement, 
 Stuttered and stammered and hiccoughed 
 His love and his thanks to the nectar 
 That warmed his cold flesh for an instant ; 
 Wild were his words, but coherent, 
 Despairing, exultant, and fearful ; 
 And Lucifer listened, delighted. 
 
 THE OLD REPROBATE'S HYMN TO " BLUE 
 RUIN." 
 
 in. 
 
 " Ruin, my love, Saint Ruin ! 
 
 Comforting, warm, and strong ; 
 Blue Ruin, my heart's delight, 
 
 We've known each other long ! 
 Since first a starving outcast, 
 
 I trod the pitiless town, 
 You've nourished me and clad me, 
 
 And helped me up, when down. 
 
Il6 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Ruin, my love, Blue Ruin ! 
 
 When the cold winds searched my bones, 
 You wrapped me up like a mantle, 
 
 Arid smoothed the rough hard stones. 
 When hunger racked my vitals, 
 
 And bread was not to be had, 
 You always came to the rescue, 
 
 And saved me from going mad ! 
 
 v. 
 
 * ' Ruin, my love, Saint Ruin ! 
 
 When wearied of my life, 
 I've thought of the cold deep river, 
 
 The laudanum and the knife ; 
 A night with you by my pillow 
 
 Was never spent in vain ; 
 You quickened the blood in my pulses ! 
 
 You brought back hope again ! 
 
 " Ruin, Saint Ruin, Blue Ruin ! 
 
 You've been my steady friend ; 
 Though I'm told, and I believe it, 
 
 You'll be false to me in the end ; 
 That you'll steal away my reason, 
 
 And level me to a brute, 
 And that if you spare my senses, 
 
 You'll cripple me hand and foot. 
 
 ' ' Ruin, my love, Blue Ruin ! 
 
 I care not if you do ; 
 I'll take the chance, I'll run the risk, 
 
 Whether you're false or true ! 
 As yet you've never failed me, 
 
 And I've proved and tried you long, 
 In grief and desperation, 
 
 In agony and wrong. 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 117 
 
 VIII. 
 " Ruin, my love, Blue Ruin ! 
 
 I'll stick to you to the last, 
 And if I die to-morrow, 
 
 What matters ? the Past is passed ! 
 Death comes but once, and I fear not 
 
 His cold but merciful touch ; 
 To die is to sleep in quiet 
 
 To live is to suffer much. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' * Ruin, my love, Blue Ruin ! 
 
 I've lived a wretched life ; 
 You've been my law and my gospel, 
 
 My peace in the midst of strife. 
 I'll gladly die a martyr 
 
 Saint Ruin ! fill my cup ! 
 And I'll leave the world contented 
 
 With a curse, as I drink it up ; 
 
 x. 
 
 1 ' With a curse on myself and the Devil, 
 
 Without a prayer to God ; 
 Without more hope than the pebble 
 
 That rots on the senseless clod. 
 Or if a hope be left me 
 
 To float on my latest breath, 
 'Tis the hope that soul and body 
 
 May sink to eternal death ! " * 
 
 V. HE SETS UP A BANK. 
 i. 
 
 LUCIFER, son of the morning, 
 Thinking how great were the traders 
 Who kept little shops and grew wealthy 
 By giving false weight and short measure, 
 Cheap-buying, dear-selling impostors, 
 
 * "Blue Ruin," "Old Tom," and "Cream of the Valley" are the 
 popular names among the lower classes of the metropolis and *f the 
 great cities of the Empire for Gin. 
 
Il8 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 Resolved that he'd go into business 
 And cheat, like respectable people ! 
 He'd do his full best to make money, 
 Though murder should lurk in the viands 
 He vended as harmless and wholesome. 
 
 Yes, gold, mighty gold, might be handled 
 
 By any unscrupulous trader 
 
 Who'd deftly adulterate all things, 
 
 The food and the drink, or the garments 
 
 He sold to the credulous people 
 
 Who brought him their hardly earned shillings 
 
 The prospect was bright, and it pleased him ; 
 
 Perhaps he'd become, if he prospered, 
 
 A juror and payer of taxes, 
 
 A free, independent elector, 
 
 A prop of the State and the Senate. 
 
 ill. 
 
 u Alas ! " he bethought himself quickly, 
 'Twould take many years to accomplish, 
 And Time calls me back into Tophet, 
 Of which I'm the Lord and the Master, 
 From which I've been tempted to wander. 
 So I'll set up a Bank of Deposit, 
 Give eighteen per cent. , perhaps twenty, 
 To lure the poor dupes to destruction, 
 And dazzle the covetous people 
 With profits too great to be honest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " A beautiful bait for the greedy ! 
 
 If ten per cent, sorely would tempt them 
 
 To dig up the bones of their fathers 
 
 And grind them, for sale to the farmers 
 
 As potent manure for potatoes, 
 
 They'll surely be hungry for twenty ! 
 
 I'll pay them one pleasant instalment, 
 
 And then, disappearing for ever, 
 
 With eighty per cent, in my coffers, 
 
 I'll leave them to groans and repentance, " 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 
 
 V. 
 
 And Lucifer did as he threatened ! 
 
 Before many months had passed over, 
 
 He'd ruined some hundreds of widows, 
 
 Some hundreds of elderly spinsters, 
 
 Some hundreds of struggling poor parsons 
 
 Overburdened with sons and with daughters, 
 
 And dragged into dense destitution 
 
 A crowd of too credulous people, 
 
 Who thought themselves honest, but knew not 
 
 That greed was as vile as deception. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He left a bad name in the City. 
 
 But what should he do with his money ? 
 
 He'd throw it away in the gutter ! 
 
 Or, better, he'd send it, free-handed, 
 
 With pious anonymous letters, 
 
 To Hospitals, Churches, and Chapels, 
 
 Or give it away, with a chuckle, 
 
 In cartloads of tracts for the heathen ! 
 
 He laughed a loud laugh of approval 
 
 To think what a tribute he'd render 
 
 To the vice he most fervently cherished 
 
 Hypocrisy aping Religion ! 
 
 VI. HE BECOMES A CRITIC. 
 
 i. 
 
 LUCIFER, son of the morning, 
 Resolved to become a reviewer, 
 And write for the Weekly Malignant, 
 A journal of smart defamation, 
 Polished and grave and aggressive ; 
 Admired by the envious and spiteful 
 And elderly cynics, case-hardened ! 
 Was not his style vitriolic ? 
 Could he not slander in jesting ? 
 Twist a clear truth from its purpose ? 
 And rather find blemish than beauty ? 
 Yes ! Yes ! A reviewer predestined ! 
 Who, e'en when an angel in Heaven, 
 Presumed to find fault with his Maker ! 
 
120 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 II. 
 
 " The rules of the business are simple," 
 He said to himself as he pondered. 
 ' ' Rule First : Every author's inferior 
 To him who sits judge to condemn him 
 For daring to write and to publish. 
 Rule Second: If brimful of genius 
 The poet has written a poem 
 That's likely to live through the ages, 
 The critic, if true to his calling, 
 Must hint with polite innuendo 
 That if it be good, which is doubtful, 
 It would have been fifty times better 
 If the author had only thought proper 
 To ask for the critic's opinion 
 Before he consented to publish ! 
 
 in. 
 
 " Rule Third : If a poem be vapid, 
 Inane and detestable doggrel, 
 You must praise it as noble and lofty, 
 The gem of all gems ever fashioned ! 
 This method, though fools do not know it, 
 Offends the judicious, and tempts them 
 To groan with contempt for the rhymer, 
 And double contempt for the critic. 
 Rule Fourth : When reviewing a novel, 
 Run over the story and spoil it 
 By bald, unconnected narration ; 
 And thus you shall damage the author 
 The choicest of sports for the critic ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Rule Fifth : If the book be a storehouse 
 
 Of wisdom or wit, it is easy 
 
 To urge that the wisdom is borrowed. 
 
 ' Nothing new,' you know, ' under the sunshine ! 
 
 That the wit is all stolen and threadbare ; 
 
 That the facts are not worth the repeating, 
 
 And here and there wrong, as the critic 
 
 Could very well prove, if it pleased him. 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 121 
 
 V. 
 
 " There are other good rules quite as simple 
 
 To guide the self-conscious reviewer 
 
 And help him to scandalize letters, 
 
 And greatly discourage the writers 
 
 Whose works are the pride of a nation. 
 
 Noble's the task, and I love it ; 
 
 I'll write for the Weekly Malignant! " 
 
 He did as he said, and was happy, 
 
 If happiness dwelt in his nature. 
 
 He praised now and then, but his praises 
 
 Wrought far greater harm than his censure. 
 
 But he did a good deed for his journal, 
 
 And doubled its sale in a fortnight. 
 
 Such gall and such venom were charming ! 
 
 But ah ! not for him to be useful ; 
 
 So he gave up his office disgusted, 
 
 And, writing no more, was delighted 
 
 To hear that the Weekly Malignant, 
 
 Grown honest, was held to be stupid ; 
 
 That snarlers and cynics despised it, 
 
 And voted it prosy and dreary ! 
 
 VII. HE GOES TO THE DERBY. 
 
 LUCIFER, son of the morning, 
 In splendid barouche, with four horses, 
 Drove out with a bevy of damsels 
 To Epsom, the morn of the Derby. 
 Fair, free and fast were his comrades, 
 Eager and reckless for pleasure ; 
 Chaste as Aspasias or Phrynes ; 
 Queens in their way, and most queenlike 
 If wickedness signified queendom. 
 
122 LONDON LYRIC'S. 
 
 II. 
 
 Loud were the shouts of the people, 
 As rattled the wheels of his chariot 
 Through dusty highways overcrowded. 
 " There goes a fool and his money ! 
 A duke it may be, or a marquis ! 
 There goes a Turk with his harem ! 
 There goes a jolly good fellow, 
 I'd bet on the horse that he bets on ! " 
 Such were the cries of the rabble 
 As he drove on among them, rejoicing. 
 
 III. 
 
 Crack went his whip as he passed them, 
 And, smiling with courteous politeness, 
 He thought himself loved of the people. 
 Was he not wealthy and reckless ? 
 Slave to his whim and his women ? 
 And still greater slave to his horses? 
 Did he not squander his guineas 
 In drinking and betting and gambling, 
 As freely as clouds scatter raindrops ? 
 What more could the multitude ask for ? 
 And so he drove onward, triumphant, 
 Envied, admired, and applauded. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lucifer thought, as the women 
 Laughed and made bets, and were merry 
 With foaming champagne that, unstinted, 
 Freed their loose tongues from the trammels 
 That decent convention imposes, 
 What friends to his cause were the horses ! 
 \Vhat grist to the mills of perdition 
 They brought without knowledge of evil ! 
 And he said to himself, "Honest creatures ! 
 " They're mighty supports of my kingdom." 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 123 
 
 V. 
 
 Then looking around on the myriads 
 All gathered together in honour 
 Of demi-god Chance and god Marrfmon, 
 He thought, if the earth could but open 
 And swallow them up ! what a riddance 
 Of pitiful idiots and swindlers, 
 Brainless or heartless, and reckless, 
 Would be made for Humanity's clearance ! 
 
 He grinned with delight at the notion, 
 
 Till, wearied of horses and women, 
 
 Weary of Lust too aggressive, 
 
 Weary of vulgar Aspasias, 
 
 And Lesbias, and Chloes, and Phrynes, 
 
 Too lewd and too coarse for his humour, 
 
 He whirled away out of the rabble, 
 
 And said to himself : " This great nation 
 
 Prays in its churches and chapels 
 
 For a kingdom to come. It is coming ! 
 
 That kingdom is mine^ and I know it ! " 
 
 VIII. HE GIVES A SUPPER AND PROPOSES A TOAST. 
 
 LUCIFER, son of the morning, 
 Summoned his friends to a supper, 
 Such as a second Apicius 
 Might envy to give, or partake ot. 
 Twenty fair women, resplendent, 
 In flush and full bloom of their beauty, 
 Twenty proud noodles to meet them, 
 Young, middle-aged or decrepid, 
 But frisky enough in their dotage 
 To parody passions extinguished 
 By lapse of the years they had wasted, 
 Answered his call, and felt honoured 
 To meet his distinguished approval, 
 And help him to squander his riches, 
 
124 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And they all met together, expectant 
 Of luxury, varied and regal, 
 To flatter and pamper their senses, 
 Lights that were brighter than sunshine, 
 Delicate fruits out of season, 
 Flowers that were costly as jewels, 
 Music by deftest performers, 
 Songs by the sweetest of singers 
 That bountiful guineas could purchase, 
 All were provided, unsparing. 
 
 III. 
 
 The savoury meats were perfection, 
 The wines were of vintages rarest, 
 And born of the grapes that had ripened 
 When vineyards were kissed by the comet 
 On hill-slopes Burgundian and golden, 
 And castle-crowned crags of the Rhineland. 
 Bright flashed the eyes of the women, 
 Their tongues rendered supple by bumpers 
 And spur of the joyous excitement 
 That eddied and reeled all around them. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At head of his bountiful table 
 
 Lucifer suddenly slumbered. 
 
 His guests, too polite to disturb him, 
 
 Continued to drink and make merry, 
 
 The women controlling their laughter, 
 
 The men talking " horse " to each other, 
 
 Or whispering low to their neighbours : 
 
 " He sleeps and he snores, the ' old buffer ' ; 
 
 He'll wake by-and-by like a giant, 
 
 Refreshed by the whiff of oblivion, 
 
 And at it again with new vigour." 
 
 v. 
 
 One minute he slept, and a vision 
 Passed over his somnolent spirit. 
 He dreamed that the earth had grown barren, 
 That women no longer bore children, 
 
LUCIFER IN LONDON. 125 
 
 That trees spread no leaves to the summer, 
 That orchards were sapless and fruitless, 
 That vineyards were dry as the stubble, 
 And only one goblet of liquor 
 Remained to the desolate nations ; 
 He drank it and drained to the bottom ! 
 
 He laughed in his sleep and awakened, 
 And, seizing the wine -cup before him, 
 Unfolded his dream to his comrades, 
 And said, 'mid loud volleys of laughter, 
 * ' Fill ! fill up your glasses in bumpers, 
 And let us drink madly together 
 One toast ! 'Tis the first I have offered. 
 Fill it up ! Fill it up ! Overflowing ! 
 With hip, hip, hurrah ! loud resounding, 
 The noblest of toasts ever honoured ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " We'll drink to mankind and their vices, 
 Their errors, their crimes, and their follies ; 
 And may a new Deluge o'erwhelm them 
 And leave not a Noah existing 
 With power to continue the species ! 
 Or better, far better, may Sodom 
 Rekindle the fires of destruction 
 With myriad-fold force, and consume them, 
 Their temples, their towers, and their cities, 
 And leave not a vestige behind them ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 * * A capital toast, " said a marquis, 
 
 With lovely false teeth and white whiskers, 
 
 And juvenile wig fairly fitting, 
 
 Though giving the lie to his forehead. 
 
 And they all of them drank it, loud laughing ; 
 
 And pretty ones, simpering and smiling, 
 
 Said, twirling their fans, "How eccentric 
 
 Our excellent host is this evening ! " 
 
 " How pretty ! how charming ! " said Lesbia, 
 
 "And oh, what a beautiful supper ! " 
 
126 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 THE FAIR SERPENT. 
 
 I LOOK o'er the midnight pavement, 
 
 " And the pricking of my thumbs " 
 Tells me, before I see it, 
 
 That something wicked comes. 
 It winds, it trails, it hisses, 
 
 It flashes in the light, 
 And gleams with its many colours 
 
 Through the darkness of the night. 
 A serpent, woman-headed, 
 
 With loose and floating hair. 
 Beware, O fool ! how you touch it 
 
 Beware for your soul, beware ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis beautiful to look at, 
 
 As it rustles through the street, 
 But its eyes, though bright as sunshine, 
 
 Have the glow of hell's own heat ; 
 And worse than the deadly upas 
 
 Are the odours of its breath : 
 Its whispered words are poison, 
 
 Its lightest touch is death 
 Death to the heart's affection, 
 
 Robbery blight despair ; 
 Pass on, O fool ! and scorn it, 
 
 And beware for your soul, beware ! 
 
 Many a noble bosom 
 
 Has that scaly serpent stung, 
 With the darting of its eye-light, 
 
 And the witchery of its tongue ; 
 And to feed it and amuse it, 
 
 And pamper its greedy maw, 
 Many a goodly heirship 
 
 Has gone like the ice in thaw 
 
IN THE VILLA. 127 
 
 Fortune and wide dominion 
 
 Have melted into air. 
 Pass on, O fool ! nor touch it, 
 
 And beware for your soul, beware ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Twill dance, and frisk, and gambol 
 
 As long as you pipe and pay, 
 But as soon as your purse is empty, 
 
 'Twill turn on you and slay. 
 'Twill murmur soft sweet music, 
 
 To draw you to its mesh, 
 And coil about you fondly, 
 
 To feed upon your flesh. 
 Beware of this flaunting Gorgon, 
 
 With the snakes in her wavy hair ! 
 Beware, O fool, how you touch her 
 
 Beware for your soul, beware ! 
 
 IN THE VILLA. 
 
 THE maids are laughing down below, 
 
 Their wage both high and sure, 
 And sometimes if they think at all, 
 
 They think they're very poor : 
 They groan that they've no cash to buy 
 
 Red ribbons for their hair, 
 Or tawdry silks, to walk abroad 
 
 On Sundays when it's fair. 
 
 II. 
 
 Poor little grief! 'Tis all they know ; 
 
 While he, the master sad, 
 Sits in his study all alone, 
 
 And thinks he's going mad. 
 
128 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 His fortunes dwindle day by day, 
 
 His credit's at an end, 
 And his last hope has failed him thrice 
 
 The " friendship " of a friend. 
 
 ill. 
 
 To-morrow Ruin's bolt will fall 
 
 On his predestined head, 
 When, bankrupt, desolate, and shamed, 
 
 He'll wish that he were dead. 
 The girls will get another place, 
 
 And giggle as before, 
 While he will sink into the depths, 
 
 Or pass the prison door, 
 Perhaps to die well that were best ! 
 
 The world wags evermore ! 
 
 SHADOWS IN THE STREETS. 
 
 THROUGH the rush of the roaring city 
 
 I roam by night or day, 
 With memories sad or pleasant 
 
 Companions of my way. 
 I mix with the crowd of people, 
 
 And following where they tread, 
 I watch them trample and jostle, 
 
 And fight with hand or head, 
 In the still recurring battle 
 
 For gold or daily bread. 
 
 II. 
 
 I pass the populous houses 
 In terrace or street or square, 
 
 I hear the rattle of chariots 
 
 And the sounds of life on the air ; 
 
 And up at the curtained windows 
 Where the flaring gaslights glow, 
 
THE TICK OF THE CLOCK. 1 29 
 
 I see 'mid the flitting shadows 
 
 Of the guests that come and go, 
 The paler and dimmer shadows 
 
 Of the ghosts of the Long Ago. 
 
 III. 
 Here died a patriot statesman, 
 
 High-priest of Freedom's cause, 
 And here a mighty poet 
 
 Who shaped a nation's laws ; 
 Here flourished Wit and Beauty, 
 
 And Learning, wide of ken, 
 And here a world's great teacher, 
 
 The lightnings of whose pen 
 Laid bare the hidden secrets 
 
 Too vast for common men. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And all the busy houses, 
 
 By these no longer trod, 
 Seem to my gaze like tombstones 
 
 Inscribed to them and God. 
 Their memories float around me, 
 
 And shed o'er many a spot 
 Made dark by the blinding Present 
 
 That heeds or knows them not 
 The haze of their bygone glories, 
 
 Death-veiled, but unforgot. 
 
 THE TICK OF THE CLOCK. 
 
 EVERY tick of the clock 
 Beckons us to depart, 
 Robs us of life and youth, 
 And pushes us to the grave. 
 On, without ceasing, on ! 
 Pushes us to the grave, 
 Over a yawning chasm 
 No wider than a hair, 
 
130 LONDON LYRICS. 
 
 But never to be repassed 
 
 By foot of mortal man 
 
 Or flight of an angel's wings 
 
 Pushes us on, in light or gloom, 
 
 On, on for ever, to the world beyond the tomb. 
 
 Every tick of the clock 
 
 Is a greeting of the Past 
 
 To the Future newly born, 
 
 A farewell of To-day 
 
 To the Past that is no more ; 
 
 A universe of Time, 
 
 Containing in itself 
 
 Yesterday as its germ, 
 
 To-day as its perfect flower 
 
 To-morrow as its fruit ; 
 
 But neither of them ours. 
 Except to draw a feeble breath 
 On the mournful and weary road that leads us down 
 to death. 
 
 Every tick of the clock 
 
 Makes a notch in the doom of kings 
 
 And of empire hoary grey 
 
 With the dust of a thousand years, 
 
 And proud with the pride of strength 
 
 That has borne a thousand shocks, 
 
 And thinks, in its high conceit, 
 
 That in a world of change 
 
 No change can trouble its rest, 
 
 Or shake it to the dust, 
 
 And tells, with dull monotonous sound, 
 
 That empires fade like men, and cease to cumber the 
 ground. 
 
 'Twas but the tick of a clock 
 That sent Assyria down 
 A wreck on the billowy time ; 
 That shook out Egypt's pride, 
 
THE TICK OF THE CLOCK. 131 
 
 As the winnower shakes the chaff ; 
 
 That jostled imperial Rome 
 
 Out of her haughty seat, 
 
 And spilt the wine of her power 
 
 Like raindrops in the dust ; 
 
 That crumpled Byzantium up 
 
 Like a straw in a strong man's hand, 
 And that yet shall shatter a thousand thrones 
 Built high to reproving Heaven, on mounds of human 
 bones. 
 
 v. 
 
 'Twill be but a tick of the clock, 
 
 O Britain ! land supreme, 
 
 When thou art rotten and ripe, 
 
 That shall hustle thee to the earth ; 
 
 That shall prick the bubble of France 
 
 As with Ithuriel's spear, 
 
 And that yet in the striding time, 
 
 Young giant of the West, 
 
 So insolent in thy strength 
 
 And thy ignorance of the past, 
 
 Shall rip thee into shreds, 
 And parcel out thy wide domain 
 'Mid a hundred chiefs and conquerors, to rob, and 
 rule, and reign ! 
 
 Oh mournful tick of the clock, 
 Sounding, though none may heed, 
 The knell of all that live, 
 And ringing the bridal chime 
 Of the Future with the Past. 
 Be thou for ever my friend, 
 And I, though I toil and moil 
 Shall be greater and happier far 
 Than Caesar on his throne, 
 And fear nor Life nor Death, 
 Content when my summons comes 
 
 To doff the perishing garb of clay, 
 
 And soar on the wings of the morning light to the 
 dawn of another day. 
 
VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY. 
 
 [The late Honble. Charles Sumner, Senator for Massachusetts, in the 
 Congress of the United States, wrote of this poem, that it " stirred his 
 heart with generous enthusiasm, and was prophetic of the abolition of 
 Slavery." It was first published in 1846.] 
 
 MEN of thought ! be up and stirring, 
 
 Night and day : 
 Sow the seed withdraw the curtain 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 Men of action, aid and cheer them, 
 
 As ye may ; 
 
 There's a fount about to stream, 
 There's a light about to beam, 
 There's a warmth about to glow, 
 There's a flower about to blow ; 
 There's a midnight blackness changing 
 
 Into grey ! 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 
 Once the welcome light has broken, 
 
 Who shall say 
 What the unimagined glories 
 
 Of the day ? 
 What the evil that shall perish 
 
 In its ray ? 
 
 Aid the dawning, tongue and pen 
 Aid it, hopes of honest men ; 
 Aid it, paper aid it, type 
 Aid it, for the hour is ripe, 
 
 132 
 
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 133 
 
 And our earnest must not slacken 
 
 Into play. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 
 Lo ! a cloud's about to vanish 
 
 From the day ; 
 And a brazen wrong to crumble 
 
 Into clay. 
 Lo ! the Right's about to conquer, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 With the Right shall many more 
 Enter smiling at the door ; 
 With the giant Wrong shall fall 
 Many others, great and small, 
 That for ages long have held us 
 
 For their prey. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY ! 
 
 WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 
 
 WHAT might be done if men were wise 
 What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, 
 Would they unite 
 In Love and Right, 
 And cease their scorn of one another ? 
 
 Oppression's heart might be imbued 
 With kindling drops of loving-kindness, 
 And Knowledge pour, 
 From shore to shore, 
 Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 
 
 All Slavery, Warfare, Lies, and Wrongs, 
 All Vice and Crime might die together ; 
 And wine and corn, 
 To each man born, 
 Be free as warmth in summer weather. 
 
134 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 The meanest wretch that ever trod, 
 The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 
 
 Might stand erect 
 
 In self-respect, 
 And share the teeming world to-morrow. 
 
 What might be done ? This might be done, 
 And more than this, my suffering brother- 
 More than the tongue 
 E'er said or sung, 
 If men were wise and loved each other. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE TIME. 
 
 DAY unto day utters speech 
 Be wise, O ye nations ! and hear 
 What yesterday telleth to-day, 
 What to-day to the morrow will preach. 
 A change cometh over our sphere, 
 
 And the old goeth down to decay. 
 A new light hath dawned on the darkness of yore, 
 And men shall be slaves and oppressors no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hark to the throbbing of thought, 
 In the breast of the wakening world : 
 
 Over land, over sea it hath come. 
 The serf that was yesterday bought, 
 To-day his defiance hath hurled, 
 No more in his slavery dumb ; 
 
 And to-morrow will break from the fetters that bind, 
 And lift a bold arm for the rights of mankind. 
 
THE VOICE OF THE TIME. 135 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark to the voice of the time ! 
 The multitude think for themselves, 
 
 And weigh their condition, each one. 
 The drudge has a spirit sublime, 
 And whether he hammers or delves, 
 He reads when his labour is done ; 
 And learns, though he groan under penury's ban, 
 That freedom to think is the birthright of man. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But yesterday thought was confined ; 
 To breathe it was peril or death, 
 
 And it sank in the breast where it rose ; 
 Now, free as the midsummer wind, 
 It sports its adventurous breath, 
 
 And round the wide universe goes ; 
 The mist and the cloud from its pathway are curled, 
 And glimpses of glory illumine the world. 
 
 The voice of opinion has grown : 
 
 'Twas yesterday changeful and weak, 
 
 Like the voice of a boy ere his prime, 
 To-day it has taken the tone 
 Of an orator worthy to speak, 
 
 Who knows the demands of his time, 
 And to-morrow will sound in oppression's cold ear 
 Like the trump of the seraph to startle our sphere. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Be wise, oh ye rulers of earth ! 
 
 And shut not your ears to his voice, 
 Nor allow it to warn you in vain : 
 True Freedom of yesterday's birth 
 Will march on its way and rejoice, 
 And never be conquered again, 
 The day has a tongue, aye, the hours utter speech, 
 Wise, wise, will ye be if ye learn what they teach. 
 
136 VOICES FROM THE CROWD 
 
 LET US ALONE. 
 
 MANY and yet our fate is one, 
 
 And little after all we crave 
 Enjoyment of the common sun, 
 
 Fair passage to the common grave ; 
 Our bread and fire, our plain attire, 
 
 The free possession of our own. 
 Rulers, be wise ! and kings and czars, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 II. 
 
 We have a faith, we have a law ; 
 
 A -faith in God, a hope in man ; 
 And own, with reverence and awe, 
 
 Love universal as His plan. 
 To Charity we bow the knee, 
 
 The earth's refiner and our own. 
 Bigots, and fighters about words, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 The world is the abode of men, 
 
 And not of demons stark and blind ; 
 And Eden's self might bloom again, 
 
 If men did justice to mankind. 
 We want no more of Nature's store 
 
 Than Nature meant to be our own. 
 Masters and gerente of the earth, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 Your meddling brought us grief and care, 
 And added misery day by day ; 
 
 We're not so foolish as we were, 
 Nor fashioned of such ductile clay; 
 
LET US ALONE. 137 
 
 Your petty jars, your wicked wars, 
 
 Have lost their charm, the gilding's gone : 
 
 Victorious marshals, vaulting kings, 
 Let us alone kt us alone. 
 
 v. 
 
 Though dwellers in a little isle, 
 
 We bear no hate to other lands, 
 And think that Peace might rule the earth 
 
 If we and others joined our hands. 
 In Reason's spite why should we fight ? 
 
 We'll war no more we're wiser grown. 
 Quibblers and stirrers up of hate, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 White man or black, to us alike ; 
 
 Foemen of no men we will live, 
 We will not lift our hands to strike, 
 
 Or evil for advantage give. 
 Our hands are free to earn their fee, 
 
 Our tongues to let the truth be known ; 
 So despots, knaves, and foes of right, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Great are our destinies : our task, 
 
 Long since begun, shall never end 
 While suffering has a boon to ask, 
 
 Or truth needs spokesmen to defend ; 
 While vice or crime pollute the time, 
 
 While nations bleed, or patriots groan. 
 Rulers, be wise ! and meddling fools, 
 
 Let us alone let us alone. 
 
138 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 ETERNAL JUSTICE. 
 
 ["Tous les homines qui ont des idees plus n6bles que celles de leurs 
 contemporains sont traites de fous." The ABB& DE LAMENNAIS, in 
 a letter to the author.] 
 
 THE man is thought a knave, or fool, 
 
 Or bigot, plotting crime, 
 Who, for the advancement of his kind, 
 
 Is wiser than his time. 
 For him the hemlock shall distil ; 
 
 For him the axe be bared ; 
 For him the gibbet shall be built : 
 
 For him the stake prepared. 
 Him shall the scorn and wrath of men 
 
 Pursue with deadly aim ; 
 And malice, envy, spite, and lies 
 
 Shall desecrate his name. 
 But Truth shall conquer at the last, 
 
 For round and round we run ; 
 And ever the Right comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is Justice done. 
 
 Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, 
 
 Cheerily to and fro ; 
 Trust to the impulse of thy soul, 
 
 And let the poison flow. 
 They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay 
 
 That holds a light divine, 
 But they cannot quench the fire of thought 
 
 By any such deadly wine. 
 They cannot blot thy spoken words 
 
 From the memory of man, 
 By all the poison ever was brewed 
 Since time its course began. 
 
ETERNAL JUSTICE. 139 
 
 To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored, 
 
 So round and round we run ; 
 And ever the Truth comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is Justice done. 
 
 Plod, Friar Bacon, in thy cave ; 
 
 Be wiser than thy peers ; 
 Augment the range of human power, 
 
 And trust to coming years. 
 They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed, 
 
 And load thee with dispraise ; 
 Thou wert born five hundred years too soon 
 
 For the comfort of thy days ; 
 But not too soon for humankind. 
 
 Time hath reward in store ; 
 And the demons of our sires become 
 
 The saints that we adore. 
 The blind can see, the slave is lord, 
 
 So round and round we run ; 
 And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong, 
 
 And ever is Justice done ! 
 
 Keep, Galileo, to thy thought, 
 
 And nerve thy soul to bear ; 
 They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring 
 
 From the pangs of thy despair ; 
 They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide 
 
 The sun's meridian glow ; 
 The heel of a priest may tread thee down, 
 
 And a tyrant work thee woe ; 
 But never a truth has been destroyed : 
 
 They may curse it and call it crime ; 
 Pervert and betray, or slander and slay 
 
 Its teachers for a time ; 
 But the sunshine aye shall light the sky, 
 
 As round and round we run ; 
 And the Truth shall ever come uppermost, 
 
 And Justice shall be done. 
 
140 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 And live there now such men as these 
 
 With thoughts like the great of old ! 
 Many have died in their misery, 
 
 And left their thought untold ; 
 And many live, and are ranked as mad, 
 
 And placed in the cold world's ban, 
 For sending their bright far-seeing souls 
 
 Three centuries in the van. 
 They toil in penury and grief, 
 
 Unknown, if not maligned ; 
 Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn 
 
 Of the meanest of mankind ! 
 But yet the world goes round and round, 
 
 And the genial seasons run ; 
 And ever the Truth comes uppermost, 
 
 And ever is Justice done ! 
 
 TO ONE WHO WAS AFRAID TO SPEAK 
 HIS MIND ON A GREAT QUESTION. 
 
 SHAME upon thee, craven spirit ! 
 
 Is it manly, just, or brave, 
 If a truth have shone within thee, 
 
 To conceal the light it gave ; 
 Captive of the world's opinion 
 
 Free to speak, but yet a slave ? 
 
 All conviction should be valiant ; 
 
 Tell thy truth, if truth it be ; 
 Never seek to stem its current ; 
 
 Thoughts, like rivers, find the sea ; 
 It will fit the widening circle 
 
 Of Eternal Verity. 
 
TO ONE AFRAID TO SPEAK HIS MIND. 141 
 
 Speak thy thought if thou believ'st it, 
 
 Let it jostle whom it may, 
 E'en although the foolish scorn it, 
 
 Or the obstinate gainsay : 
 Every seed that grows to-morrow 
 
 Lies beneath a clod to-day. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If our sires, the noble-hearted, 
 
 Pioneers of things to come, 
 Had like thee been weak and timid, 
 
 Traitors to themselves, and dumb, 
 Where would be our present knowledge ? 
 
 Where the hoped Millennium ? 
 
 Where would be triumphant Science, 
 Searching with her fearless eyes, 
 
 Through the infinite Creation 
 For the soul that underlies 
 
 Soul of Beauty, soul of Goodness, 
 W'isdom of the earth and skies ? 
 
 Where would be all great inventions, 
 Each from by-gone fancies born, 
 
 Issued first in doubt and darkness, 
 Launched 'mid apathy and scorn ? 
 
 How could noontime ever light us, 
 But for dawning of the Morn ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Where would be our free opinion, 
 Where the right to speak at all, 
 
 If our sires, like thee mistrustful, 
 Had been deaf to duty's call. 
 
 And concealed the thoughts within them,- 
 Lying down for fear to fall ? 
 
142 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 VIII. 
 Though an honest thought, outspoken, 
 
 Lead thee into chains or death 
 "What is Life compared with Virtue ? 
 
 Shalt thou not survive thy breath ? 
 Hark ! the future age invites thee ! 
 
 Listen ! trembler, what it saith ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 It demands thy thought in justice, 
 Debt, not tribute, of the free ; 
 
 Have not ages long departed 
 
 Groaned and toiled and bled for thee ? 
 
 If the Past have lent thee wisdom, 
 Pay it to Futurity ! 
 
 THE ABOLITION BY GREAT BRITAIN 1 
 
 OF SLAVERY IN HER COLONIAL 
 
 POSSESSIONS. 
 
 GRAND and auspicious was that happy time 
 
 When Britain rose, majestic and sublime ; 
 
 Armed with the strength that only arms the just, 
 
 The light of Truth flashed from her eyes august ; 
 
 Wide o'er the earth her mighty hands she spread, 
 
 While rays of glory beamed about her head 
 
 The listless nations started and awoke, 
 
 As with loud voice the cheering words she spoke : 
 
 " No more," she cried, " no more, thou teeming earth, 
 
 For me or mine shalt thou to slaves give birth ; 
 
 No more for me shall helots till the soil 
 
 Stripes their reward, and pain and hopeless toil ; 
 
 No more shall slaves produce vile wealth for me 
 
 Joy ! Afric, joy ! thy swarthy sons are free ! 
 
 Hear, all ye nations ! hear the voice of truth, 
 
 And wake to pity and redeeming ruth ; 
 
 The wealth is cursed that springs from human woe, 
 
 And he who trades in men is Britain's foe : 
 
FALSE HERO-WORSHIP. 143 
 
 Freedom, God's gift, was kindly meant for all 
 Poor suffering slaves ! this hour your fetters fall ! " 
 Earth, as she heard the loud majestic voice, 
 Shouted reply, and bade her sons rejoice : 
 The wise and good of every clime and caste 
 Hailed a fair future, fairer than the past, 
 And pictured fondly, in the coming time, 
 Less blood and tears, less misery and crime. 
 Great was the boon, and pledge of thousands more 
 Herald of peace and days of bliss in store ! 
 
 The Hope of the World. 
 
 FALSE HERO-WORSHIP. 
 
 ALAS for men ! that they should be so blind, 
 And laud as gods these scourges of their kind ! 
 Call each man glorious who has led a host, 
 And him most glorious who has murdered most ! 
 Alas ! that men should lavish upon these 
 The most obsequious homage of their knees 
 The most obstreperous flattery of their tongue 
 That these alone should be by poets sung 
 That good men's names should to oblivion fall, 
 But those of heroes fill the mouths of all 
 That those who labour in the arts of peace, 
 Making the nations prosper and increase, 
 Should fill a nameless and unhonoured grave, 
 Their worth forgotten by the crowds they save 
 But that the leaders who despoil the earth, 
 Fill it with tears, and quench its children's mirth, 
 Should with their statues block the public way, 
 And stand adored as demi-gods for aye ! 
 False greatness ! where the pedestal for one 
 Is on the heads of multitudes undone. 
 False admiration ! given, not understood ; 
 False glory ! only to be gained by blood ! 
 
 The Hope of the World. 
 
144 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 THE THREE PREACHERS. 
 
 THERE are three preachers, ever preaching, 
 
 Filled with eloquence and power : 
 One is old, with locks of white, 
 Skinny as an anchorite ; 
 
 And he preaches every hour 
 With a shrill fanatic voice, 
 
 And a bigot's fiery scorn : 
 " BACKWARD ! ye presumptuous nations ; 
 
 Man to misery is born ! 
 Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer 
 
 Born to labour and to pray ; 
 BACKWARD ! ye presumptuous nations 
 
 Back ! be humble and obey ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 The second is a milder preacher ; 
 
 Soft he talks as if he sung ; 
 Sleek and slothful is his look, 
 And his words, as from a book, 
 
 Issue glibly from his tongue. 
 With an air of self-content, 
 
 High he lifts his fair white hands : 
 "STAND YE STILL ! ye restless nations ; 
 
 And be happy, all ye lands ! 
 Fate is law, and law is perfect ; 
 
 If ye meddle, ye will mar : 
 Change is rash, and ever was so : 
 
 We are happy as we are. " 
 
 Mightier is the younger preacher, 
 
 Genius flashes from his eyes ; 
 And the crowds who hear his voice, 
 Give him, while their souls rejoice, 
 Throbbing bosoms for replies. 
 
THE THREE PREACHERS. 145 
 
 Awed they listen, yet elated, 
 
 While his stirring accents fall : 
 "FORWARD ! ye deluded nations, 
 
 Progress is the rule of all : 
 Man was made for healthful effort ; 
 
 Tyranny has crushed him long ; 
 He shall march from good to better, 
 
 And do battle with the wrong. 
 
 " Standing still is childish folly, 
 
 Going backward is a crime : 
 None should patiently endure 
 Any ill that he can cure ; 
 
 ONWARD ! keep the march of Time. 
 Onward ! while a wrong remains 
 
 To be conquered by the right ; 
 While Oppression lifts a finger 
 
 To affront us by his might ; 
 While an error clouds the reason 
 
 Of the universal heart, 
 Or a slave awaits his freedom, 
 
 Action is the wise man's part. 
 
 v. 
 
 " Lo ! the world is rich in blessings : 
 
 Earth and Ocean, flame and wind, 
 Have unnumbered secrets still, 
 To be ransacked when you will, 
 
 For the service of mankind ; 
 Science is a child as yet, 
 
 And her power and scope shall grow, 
 And her triumphs in the future 
 
 Shall diminish toil and woe ; 
 Shall extend the bounds of pleasure 
 
 With an ever-widening ken, 
 And of woods and wildernesses 
 
 Make the homes of happy men. 
 
 L 
 
146 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 " ONWARD ! there are ills to conquer, 
 
 Daily wickedness is wrought, 
 Tyranny is swoln with Pride, 
 Bigotry is deified, 
 
 Error intertwined with Thought. 
 Vice and Misery ramp and crawl ; 
 
 Root them out, their day has passed ; 
 Goodness is alone immortal ; 
 
 Evil was not made to last ! 
 ONWARD ! and all Earth shall aid us 
 
 Ere our peaceful flag be furled." 
 And the preaching of this preacher 
 
 Stirs the pulses of the world ! 
 
 OLD OPINIONS. 
 
 ONCE we thought that Power Eternal 
 
 Had decreed the woes of man ; 
 That the human heart was wicked 
 
 Since its pulses first began ; 
 That the earth was but a prison, 
 
 Dark and joyless at the best, 
 And that men were born for evil, 
 
 And imbibed it from the breast ; 
 That 'twas vain to think of urging 
 
 Any earthly progress on. 
 Old opinions I rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought all human sorrows 
 
 Were predestined to endure ; 
 That, as men had never made them, 
 
 Men were impotent to cure ; 
 That the few were born superior, 
 
 Though the many might rebel ; 
 Those to sit at Nature's table, 
 
 These to pick the crumbs that fell ; 
 
OLD OPINIONS. 147 
 
 Those to live upon the fatness, 
 These the starvelings, lank and wan. 
 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters / 
 Get you gone ! get you gone f 
 
 Once we thought that holy Freedom 
 
 Was a cursed and tainted thing ; 
 Foe of Peace, and Law, and Virtue ; 
 
 Foe of Magistrate and King ; 
 That all vile degraded passion 
 
 Ever followed in her path ; 
 Lust and Plunder, War and Rapine, 
 
 Tears, and Anarchy, and Wrath ; 
 That the angel was a cruel, 
 
 Haughty, blood-stained Amazon. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone ! get you gone ! 
 
 Once we thought it right to foster 
 
 Local jealousies and pride ; 
 Right to hate another nation 
 
 Parted from us by a tide ; 
 Right to go to war for glory, 
 
 Or extension of domain ; 
 Right, through fear of foreign rivals, 
 
 To refuse the needful grain ; 
 Right to bar it out till Famine 
 
 Drew the bolt with fingers wan. 
 Old opinions I rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone I get you gone I 
 
 Once we thought that Education 
 
 Was a luxury for the few ; 
 That to give it to the many 
 
 Was to give it scope undue : 
 That 'twas foolish to imagine 
 
 It could be as free as air, 
 Common as the glorious sunshine 
 
 To the child of want and care : 
 That the poor man, educated, 
 
 Quarrelled with his toil anon. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone I get you gone ! 
 
148 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Old opinions, rags and tatters ; 
 
 Ye are worn ; ah, quite threadbare ! 
 We must cast you off for ever ; 
 
 We are wiser than we were : 
 Never fitting, always cramping, 
 
 Letting in the wind and sleet, 
 Chilling us with rheums and agues, 
 
 Or inflaming us with heat. 
 We have found a mental raiment 
 
 Purer, whiter, to put on. 
 Old opinions ! rags and tatters ! 
 
 Get you gone / get you gone ! 
 
 DAILY WORK. 
 
 WHO lags for dread of daily work, 
 And his appointed task would shirk, 
 Commits a folly and a crime ; 
 
 A soulless slave a paltry knave 
 A clog upon the wheels of Time. 
 With work to do, and store of health, 
 The man's unworthy to be free, 
 
 Who will not give, that he may live, 
 His daily toil for daily fee. 
 
 No ! Let us work ! We only ask 
 Reward proportioned to our task : 
 We have no quarrel with the great ; 
 
 No feud with rank with mill or bank 
 No envy of a lord's estate. 
 If we can earn sufficient store 
 To satisfy our daily need : 
 
 And can retain, for age and pain, 
 A fraction, we are rich indeed. 
 
 No dread of toil have we or ours ; 
 
 We know our worth and weigh our powers ; 
 
 The more we work the more we win : 
 Success to Trade ! Success to Spade ! 
 
 And to the corn that's coming in ! 
 
DOWN ! DOWN ! LOW DOWN ! 149 
 
 And joy to him, who o'er his task 
 Remembers toil is Nature's plan ; 
 
 Who, working, thinks and never sinks 
 His independence as a man. 
 
 DOWN ! DOWN ! LOW DOWN ! 
 
 THOU art down ! low down 
 
 In the desecrating dust, 
 Without a prop to aid thee, 
 
 Or a friend in whom to trust ! 
 Trust to thyself, forlorn one, 
 
 Stand upright on the sod, 
 And, asking help from no one, 
 
 Secure the help of God ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Although to-day be stormy, 
 
 To-morrow may be fair ; 
 To hope is pious duty, 
 
 'Tis wicked to despair ! 
 If honest pride support thee, 
 
 And conscience keep thee whole, 
 Fate's arrows may be blunted 
 
 By armour of the soul ! 
 
 When in the deadly struggle 
 
 Of hand and heart and brain, 
 Thy foothold seems to fail thee, 
 
 Arise and fight again ! 
 Turn sorrow into solace, 
 
 And in their own despite, 
 Compel thy foes to aid thee 
 
 To conquer in the Right. 
 
150 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though day be long in breaking, 
 
 The sun must rise at last 
 Blue sky may cheer the Noon-time, 
 
 Though Morn be overcast ! 
 Fight on ! Fight on ! Fight ever ! 
 
 Thou'lt learn the truth ere long, 
 That God, and Man, and Heaven, and Earth, 
 
 Are allies of the strong ! 
 
 AN INVOCATION IN AID OF A 
 GREAT CAUSE. 
 
 COME forth from the valley, come forth from the hill, 
 
 Come forth from the workshop, the mine, and the mill, 
 
 From pleasure or slumber, from study or play, 
 
 Come forth in your myriads to aid us to-day : 
 
 There's a word to be spoken, a deed to be done, 
 
 A truth to be uttered, a cause to be won. 
 
 Come forth in your myriads ! Come forth every one ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Come, youths, in your vigour ; come, men, in your prime ; 
 Come, age, with experience fresh gathered from Time ; 
 Come, workers ! you're welcome ; come thinkers, you must ! 
 Come thick as the clouds in the midsummer dust, 
 Or the waves of the sea gleaming bright in the sun ! 
 There's a truth to be told, and a cause to be won 
 Come forth in your myriads ! Come forth every one ! 
 
HTHINYHAND AND BUSY BRAIN. 151 
 
 THE COMING TIME. 
 
 " What shall I do to be for ever known, 
 And make the age to come mine own." 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 WHAT thou shalt do to be for ever known ? 
 
 Poet or statesman look with steadfast gaze, 
 
 And see yon giant Shadow 'mid the haze, 
 Far off, but coming. Listen to the Moan 
 That sinks and swells in fitful undertone, 
 
 And lend it words, and give the shadow form ; 
 And see the Light, now pale and dimly shown, 
 
 That yet shall beam resplendent after storm. 
 Preach thou their coming, if thy soul aspire 
 
 To be the foremost in the ranks of fame ; 
 Prepare the way with hand that will riot tire, 
 
 And tongue unfaltering, and o'er earth proclaim 
 The Shadmv, the ROUSED MULTITUDE ; the Cry, 
 "JUSTICE FOR ALL I" the Light, TRUE LIBERTY. 
 
 HORNYHAND AND BUSY BRAIN. 
 
 How now, Hornyhand, 
 
 Toiling in the crowd, 
 What is there in thee or thine 
 That thou scornest me and mine, 
 
 Looking down so proud ? 
 Thou'rt the bee ! and I'm the drone ! 
 
 Not so, Hornyhand ! 
 Sit beside me on the sward ; 
 
 Where's the need to stand ? 
 And we'll reason, thou and I, 
 'Twixt the green grass and the sky. 
 
152 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou canst plough and delve, 
 
 Thou canst weave and spin, 
 On thy brow are streaks of care, 
 Iron-grey 's thy scanty hair, 
 
 And thy garment 's thin ; 
 Were it not for such as thou, 
 
 Toiling morn and night, 
 Luxury would lose its gauds, 
 
 And the land its might ; 
 Mart and harbour would decay, 
 Tower and temple pass away. 
 
 in. 
 
 Granted, Hornyhand ! 
 
 High's the work you do ; 
 Spring-time sowing, autumn tilth, 
 And the red wine's lusty spilth, 
 
 Were not but for you. 
 Art and arms, and all the pride 
 
 Of our wealth and state, 
 Start from Labour's honest hands, 
 
 Labour high and great, 
 Sire of Plenty, friend of Mirth, 
 Master of the willing Earth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet, good Hornyhand, 
 
 Why shouldst thou be vain ? 
 Why should builder, ploughman, smith, 
 Boastful of their strength and pith, 
 
 Scorn the busy brain ? 
 Working classes, self-bedubbed ! 
 
 As if none but they 
 Laboured with incessant toil, 
 
 Night as well as day, 
 With the spirit and the pen, 
 Teachers, guides, and friends of men ! 
 
NIL ADMIRARI. 153 
 
 V. 
 
 Drones there are, no doubt ; 
 
 Yet not all who seem : 
 Flesh and blood are not the whole, 
 There 's a honey of the soul, 
 
 Whatsoe'er thou deem. 
 Is the man who builds a book, 
 
 That exalts and charms, 
 Not as good as he who builds 
 
 With his brawny arms ? 
 What were Labour but for Thought? 
 Baseless effort, born of nought ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Many a noble heart, 
 
 Many a regal head, 
 Labours for our native land 
 Harder than the horniest hand 
 
 For its daily bread. 
 Painter, poet, statesman, sage, 
 
 Toil for humankind, 
 Unrewarded but of Heaven, 
 
 And the inner mind. 
 Thou recantest ? So ! 'Tis done ! 
 Pass from shadow into sun ! 
 
 NIL ADMIRARI. 
 
 " NOT to admire is all the art he knows," 
 
 Unhappy wretch ! that quarrels with his eyes, 
 
 And treats his kindly senses as his foes, 
 And makes a howling desert of the skies ! 
 
 Not mine ! not mine ! the heartless self-conceit 
 That fills the vacuum which he calls his mind ! 
 
 I'd rather think the beggars in the street 
 Were gods and goddesses than I'd be blind. 
 
T54 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 I'd rather deem the daisies in the grass 
 
 Were rose and lily scattering odours round, 
 
 Than close mine eyes, insensate, as I pass 
 To all the beauty hallowing the ground. 
 
 I'd rather think the pebble on the beach 
 A priceless pearl or ruby in the mart, 
 
 Than chill the warmth of sympathetic speech, 
 Or banish faith and fancy from my heart. 
 
 Let me admire the noble and the true, 
 
 The good, the brave, in high or low estate, 
 
 Nor strive to dim or circumscribe my view, 
 Lest I should see the virtuous and the great ; 
 
 Lest I should see them, and be forced to own 
 That life had something more divine than pelf, 
 
 And that beneath heaven's high o'erarching zone 
 Earth might have some one nobler than myself ! 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE MAMMONITES. 
 
 Six days we give thee heart and brain ; 
 In grief or pleasure, joy or pain, 
 Thou art our guide, O god of Gain ! 
 
 And on the seventh, although we kneel 
 
 At other altars, and conceal, 
 
 For fashion's sake, the love we feel ; 
 
 'Tis but our outward looks that pray ; 
 Our inward thoughts are far away, 
 And give thee homage night and day. 
 
 Though often at a purer shrine 
 Our thoughts and actions disincline, 
 We're never hypocrites at thine. 
 
THE PRAYER OF THE M AMMONITES. 155 
 
 Oh, no ! we love thee far too well, 
 More than our words can ever tell, 
 With passion indestructible. 
 
 When thou art kind, all Earth is fair, 
 Men's eyes incessant homage glare, 
 Their tongues perennial flatteries bear. 
 
 But when thou frownest, all men frown ; 
 We dwell among the stricken-down, 
 The scum and by-word of the town. 
 
 Though we are good, and wise and true, 
 Deprived of thee, men look askew : 
 We have no merit in their view. 
 
 Though we have wit and eloquence, 
 The world denies us common sense, 
 If thou no golden shower dispense. 
 
 But mean, bad, stupid, all the three 
 It matters not whate'er we be, 
 We have all Virtue, having thee. 
 
 Men hold us in their hearts enshrined, 
 To all our faults their eyes ai^e blind, 
 We are the salt of humankind. 
 
 If we are old, they call us young ; 
 And if we speak with foolish tongue, 
 The praises of our wit are sung. 
 
 If we are ugly, gold can buy 
 Charms to adorn us in the eye 
 Of universal flattery. 
 
 If we are crooked, we grow straight 
 If lame, we have Apollo's gait, 
 Seen in thy light, O Potentate ! 
 
156 VOICES FROM THE CROWD. 
 
 Shine on us, Mammon, evermore 
 Send us increase of golden store 
 That we may worship and adore ; 
 
 And that by look, and voice, and pen 
 
 We may be glorified of men, 
 
 And praise thy name. Amen ! Amen. 
 
INTERLUDES 
 AND UNDERTONES. 
 
 1884. 
 
 GONE! 
 
 " GONE is the freshness of my youthful prime ; 
 
 Gone the illusions of a later time ; 
 
 Gone is the thought that wealth is worth its cost, 
 
 Or aught I hold so good as what I've lost ; 
 
 Gone are the beauty and the nameless grace 
 
 That once I worshipped in dear Nature's face ; 
 
 Gone is the mighty music that of yore 
 
 Swept through the woods or rolled upon the shore ; 
 
 Gone the desire of glory in men's breath 
 
 To waft my name beyond the deeps of Death ; 
 
 Gone is the hope that in the darkest Day 
 
 Saw bright To-morrow with empurpling ray ; 
 
 Gone, gone all gone, on which my heart was cast ; 
 
 Gone, gone for ever, to the awful PAST ; 
 
 All gone but LOVE ! " 
 
 Oh, coward to repine ! 
 Thou hast all else, if LOVE indeed be thine ! 
 
 VERSE AND POETRY. 
 
 VERSE is but fire that crackles on the ground, 
 Or from a parlour grate sheds warmth around ; 
 But Poetry's the lightning-flash on high, 
 When thunder rides exultant o'er the sky, 
 And bursting clouds disclose, all rent and riven, 
 The awful pomp and majesty of Heaven. 
 
158 INTERLUDES AND UNDERTONES. 
 
 WEAPONS. 
 
 BOTH swords and guns are strong, no doubt, 
 
 And so are tongue and pen, 
 And so are sheaves of good bank notes, 
 
 To sway the souls of men. 
 But guns and swords, and piles of gold, 
 
 Though mighty in their sphere, 
 Are sometimes feebler than a smile, 
 
 And poorer than a tear. 
 
 GREAT AND SMALL. 
 
 THER.E is nor great nor small in Nature's plan, 
 Bulk is but fancy in the mind of man ; 
 A raindrop is as wondrous as a star, 
 Near is not nearest, farthest is not far ; 
 And suns and planets in the vast serene 
 Are but as midges in the summer sheen, 
 Born in their season, and that live and die 
 Creatures of Time, lost in Eternity. 
 
 THE HAMMER. 
 
 THE red-hot iron on the anvil lay, 
 
 'Twas I, wasting my fiery soul away. 
 
 A heavy hammer in a brawny hand, 
 
 Fell hard upon me, grievous to withstand, 
 
 And from the iron, rushing fierce and fair, 
 
 Ten thousand sparks lit up th' embracing air. 
 
 The metal was my soul ; the hammer-blows 
 
 Afflictions and calamities and woes ; 
 
 The flashing sparks were gems from sorrow wrung ; 
 
 Thoughts, fancies, hopes, and all the songs I've sung. 
 
NO ENEMIES. 159 
 
 PEBBLES. 
 
 '* WHAT are the pebbles, old Father Time, 
 Thou'rt throwing in the river, 
 
 Thy river that flows without a tide 
 For ever and for ever ? " 
 
 " Pebbles ? " said Time. " Yes, pebbles they are- 
 Empires, kingdoms, thrones, 
 
 Heroes and poets whose fame was wide 
 As the circle of the zones ; 
 
 I cast them all in my rolling flood 
 That sparkles in the sun, 
 
 A little splash in the mighty stream 
 A bubble, and all is done ! " 
 
 LOST REVERENCE. 
 
 GIVE back, O World ! O Fate ! O Time ! 
 
 The priceless jewel of our sires, 
 Lost in the modern slush and slime 
 
 Where Mockery crawls and never tires ! 
 Give back the Reverence for the old, 
 
 The great, the brave, the good, the true, 
 That speech affirmed, that manner told, 
 
 That eyes revealed, if words were few : 
 Give, give us back, O kindly Fate ! 
 
 The power to cherish and revere ; 
 Love is a nobler guide than Hate, 
 
 There is no wisdom in a sneer ! 
 
 NO ENEMIES. 
 
 You have no enemies, you say ? 
 
 Alas ! my friend, the boast is poor ; 
 He who has mingled in the fray 
 
 Of duty, that the brave endure, 
 
l6o INTERLUDES AND UNDERTONES. 
 
 Must have made foes ! If you have none, 
 Small is the work that you have done, 
 You've hit no traitor on the hip, 
 You've dashed no cup from perjured lip, 
 You've never turned the wrong to right, 
 You've been a coward in the fight. 
 
 FANCIES. 
 
 " WHENCE come your beautiful fancies? 
 
 From the earth or the heavens above ? " 
 "From neither ! " the poet replied, " they stream 
 
 From the eyes of the woman I love ! 
 There are far more thoughts in her sunny glance 
 
 Than stars in the midnight skies ! " 
 " You're a fool ! " said his friend. " Perhaps I am ! 
 
 What's the good of being wise ? 
 I would not change this folly of mine, 
 
 No, not for an Empire's prize ! " 
 
 A WIFE'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 LOVELY one ! lovely one ! vanished for ever, 
 
 But fresh in my heart evermore, 
 I gaze on thy soul-speaking likeness, 
 
 And strive, in my thought, to restore 
 The beauty and grace that are hidden 
 
 In Death's evanescent eclipse, 
 And cheat my fond eyes by believing 
 
 I see the sweet smile on thy lips. 
 I kiss them, as if they were living 
 
 With mine to commingle their breath 
 And feel in the strength of my weakness 
 
 That Love is the Master of Death. 
 
OWNERSHIP. l6l 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 YOUR education is complete, you think ? 
 
 Dunce that you are ! and dunce you're doomed to be 
 As long as, dabbling on the shallow brink, 
 
 You think you're sailing on the wide, wide sea. 
 I've striven to know, and, rinding knowledge sweet, 
 
 Have learned a hundred times as much as you, 
 And yet I feel I've only wet my feet, 
 
 While all broad ocean stretched before my view. 
 
 A LOVE EXTRAVAGANZA. 
 
 GROW greener, grass, where the river flows- 
 
 Her feet have pressed you : 
 Blow fresher, violet ! lily ! rose ! 
 
 Her eyes have blessed you. 
 Sing sweeter, birds upon the trees, 
 
 Her ears have heard you : 
 Sound up to heaven, ye harmonies ! 
 
 Her hands have stirred you ! 
 
 OWNERSHIP. 
 
 I AM the owner of Beauty ! 
 
 In every curve and line, 
 I claim it ; I possess it 
 
 By right of a power divine ! 
 I'm not the lord of the vineyard, 
 
 But I drink the noble wine ; 
 I draw no rent from the acres, 
 
 But the lovely landscape 's mine. 
 Volumes and pictures and statues, 
 
 In rich men's palaces shine ; 
 I can neither buy nor sell them, 
 
 But they're mine in the spirit mine ! 
 
 M 
 
162 INTERLUDES AND UNDERTONES. 
 
 MY FELLOW-CREATURES. 
 
 You love your fellow-creatures ? So do I, 
 But underneath the wide paternal sky 
 Are there no fellow-creatures in your ken 
 That you can love, except your fellow-men ? 
 Are not the grass, the flowers, the trees, the birds, 
 The faithful beasts, true-hearted without words, 
 Your fellows also, howsoever small ? 
 He's the best lover who can love them all. 
 
 TO A SECTARIAN ASTRONOMER. 
 
 "An undevout astronomer is mad," 
 
 Sang the great Poet. Is it not as sad 
 
 To think, star-gazing, that the God of Love 
 
 Who launched the glorious orbs that roll above, 
 
 Who peopled earth, and tuned the heavenly choirs 
 
 Will damn us all to everlasting fires, 
 
 Except the few who think themselves th' Elect, 
 
 To enter Heaven through keyhole of a Sect ? 
 
 Answer me that astronomer purblind ! 
 
 Nor think the stars too small for all mankind. 
 
 THE ICONOCLASTS. 
 
 REVILE him, decry him ! he's better than you ! 
 Disparage and scorn him, he's noble and true ! 
 He has wrought the dull marble to beauty sublime, 
 He has poured his full soul into passionate rhyme, 
 He has written a book that shall comfort the poor, 
 As long as our language and name shall endure ! 
 He is high ! pull him down ! and if dogs in the night 
 That howl at the moon for her beautiful light, 
 Can harm the fair planet that vexes their ken, 
 Oh, then ye shall damage him, then, my boys, then ! 
 
GREAT AUTHORITIES. 163 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 " WHO is this?" said the Moon 
 
 To the rolling Sea, 
 " That wanders so gladly, or madly, or sadly, 
 
 Looking at thee and me ? " 
 
 Said the Sea to the Moon, 
 
 " 'Tis right you should know it, 
 This wise good man 
 
 Is a wit and a poet ; 
 But he earns not, and cannot, 
 
 His daily bread, 
 So he'll die 
 
 By-and-by, 
 And they'll raise a big monument 
 
 Over his head ! " 
 
 Said the bonnie round Moon to the beautiful Sea, 
 " What fools the men of your Earth must be ! " 
 
 HEAVEN AND HELL. 
 
 Is Heaven a place, or state of mind ? 
 
 Let old experience tell ! 
 Love carries Heaven where'er it goes, 
 
 And Hatred carries Hell. 
 
 GREAT AUTHORITIES. 
 
 THREE swine lay wallowing in the mire, 
 
 As fat as farmer could desire ; 
 
 When one pig to the other said, 
 
 " Dost see the warm sun over head ? 
 
164 INTERLUDES AND UNDERTONES. 
 
 Men call him great and wondrous fine, 
 Noble, glorious, and divine ; 
 In my opinion, men are wrong, 
 And pile their epithets too strong." 
 
 "And in mine, too," said pig the second ; 
 " The sun's less mighty than he's reckoned. 
 'Tis true he flares, and gives us light, 
 But then he disappears at night ! 
 And, to my thought, more lovely far 
 Is the pale moon, or evening star, 
 They are not fierce enough to kill, 
 We can look at them when we will ; 
 But not at him, so proud and hot, 
 He'd strike us blind as soon as not." 
 
 " I quite agree," said pig the third ; 
 " Of course, his merits all have heard ; 
 But no one tells of his disgrace, 
 The intemperate blotches on his face ! 
 The fevers and the plagues he sends, 
 In short, he's flattered by his friends ! 
 He's bright, no doubt, and all the rest, 
 But to my thinking, gaslight 's best ! " 
 
 THE GENTLE TYRANT. 
 
 GIVE all your love, or none of it, 
 
 I claim nor more nor less, 
 The whole wide empire of your heart 
 
 To hold and to possess. 
 I brook no partial share in what 
 
 Should be entirely mine ; 
 He scorns divided loyalty 
 
 Who rules by right divine. 
 
 No shade of love that went before, 
 No fancy e'en must stand 
 
AN ADIEU. 165 
 
 Betwixt me and the perfect truth 
 
 I covet at your hand. 
 'Tis all, or nothing, that I crave, 
 
 And if your thought rebel, 
 Friendship may linger if it will, 
 
 But Love must say farewell ! 
 
 AN ADIEU. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, sweet Sorrow, 
 
 Until to-morrow, 
 And then we shall dwell together again ; 
 
 I've known thee long, 
 
 Like a mournful song, 
 
 Till thou'st grown a part 
 
 Of my innermost heart, 
 And a nestling bird on my pillow of pain. 
 
 Sweet little Sorrow, 
 
 Come back to-morrow, 
 I've learned to love thee remain, remain ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 SINCE the sweet knowledge I possess, 
 
 That she I love is mine, 
 All nature throbs with happiness, 
 
 And wears a face divine. 
 The woods seem greener than they were, 
 
 The skies are brighter blue ; 
 The stars shine clearer, and the air 
 
 Lets finer sunlight through. 
 Until I loved I was a child, 
 
 And sported on the sands ; 
 But now the ocean opens out, 
 
 With all its happy lands. 
 
 The circles of my sympathy 
 
 Extend from Earth to Heaven : 
 I strove to pierce a mystery, 
 
 And lo ! the clue is given. 
 The woods, with all their boughs and leaves 
 
 Are preachers of delight, 
 And wandering clouds in summer eves 
 
 Are Edens to my sight. 
 My confidants and comforters 
 
 Are river, hill, and grove. 
 And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deep, 
 
 And all that live and move. 
 
 165 
 
THE BEAUTIFIER. 167 
 
 III. 
 
 O friendly hills ! O garrulous woods ! 
 
 sympathising air ! 
 
 many-voiced solitudes ! 
 
 1 know my love is fair. 
 
 1 know that she is fair and true, 
 And that from her you've caught 
 
 The changeful glories ever new, 
 
 That robe you in my thought. 
 Grief, from the armour of my heart, 
 
 Rolls off like rustling rain : 
 'Tis life to love ; but double life 
 
 To be beloved again. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFIER. 
 
 TELL me, ye waving Woods and throbbing Ocean, 
 Ye Hills and Streams, ye Landscapes glowing fair, 
 
 Why in my heart ye wake such new emotion ? 
 And ye, O Skies ! with all your worlds, declare 
 
 What is the secret, deep, untold delight, 
 
 Unknown before, that fills me in your sight ? 
 
 There came an answer to my thoughts appealing, 
 When she I love looked upward to my face ; 
 
 Her eyes were fountains bright with new revealing, 
 The sweet interpreters of Nature's grace ; 
 
 And when she spoke, I pressed her lips impearled, 
 
 And knew 'twas Love that beautified the world. 
 
1 68 SONGS. 
 
 CHEER, BOYS! CHEER! 
 
 THE DEPARTING EMIGRANTS. 
 [Music by Henry Russell.] 
 
 CHEER, boys ! cheer ! no more of idle sorrow, 
 
 Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way ! 
 Hope points before, and shows the bright to-morrow, 
 
 Let us forget the darkness of to-day ! 
 So farewell, England ! Much as we may love thee, 
 
 We'll dry the tears that we have shed before ; 
 Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune ? 
 So farewell, England ! farewell evermore ! 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! for England, mother England ! 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! the willing strong right hand, 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! there's work for honest labour 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! in the new and happy land ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! the steady breeze is blowing, 
 
 To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast ; 
 The world shall follow in the track we're going, 
 
 The star of empire glitters in the west. 
 Here we had toil and little to reward it, 
 
 But there shall plenty smile upon our pain, 
 And ours shall be the mountain and the forest, 
 And boundless prairies ripe with golden grain. 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! for England, mother England ! 
 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! united heart and hand ! 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! there's wealth for honest labour- 
 Cheer, boys ! cheer ! in the new and happy land ! 
 
TO THE WEST ! TO THE WEST! 169 
 
 TO THE WEST! TO THE WEST! 
 
 THE DEPARTING EMIGRANTS. 
 
 To the West ! to the West ! to the land of the free, 
 Where mighty St. Laurence rolls down to the sea, 
 Where a man is a man, if he's willing to toil, 
 And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil. 
 Where children are blessings, and he who hath most, 
 Hath aid for his fortune and riches to boast ; 
 Where the young may exult, and the aged may rest, 
 Away, far away, to the Land of the West ! 
 
 To the West ! to the West ! where the rivers that flow, 
 Run thousands of miles, spreading out as they go ; 
 Where the green waving forests that echo our call, 
 Are wide as old England, and free to us all : 
 Where the prairies, like seas where the billows have rolled, 
 Are broad as the kingdoms and empires of old ; 
 And the lakes are like oceans in storm or in rest, 
 Away, far away, to the Land of the West ! 
 
 in. 
 
 To the West ! to the West ! there is wealth to be won, 
 
 The forest to clear is the work to be done : 
 
 We'll try it, we'll do it, and never despair, 
 
 While there's light in the sunshine and breath in the air. 
 
 The bold independence that labour shall buy, 
 
 Shall strengthen our hands and forbid us to sigh. 
 
 Away ! far away ! let us hope for the best, 
 
 And build up new homes in the Land of the West ! 
 
1 70 SONGS. 
 
 TUBAL CAIN. 
 
 OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might 
 
 In the days when earth was young ; 
 By the fierce red light of his furnace bright 
 
 The strokes of his hammer rung ; 
 And he lifted high his brawny hand 
 
 On the iron glowing clear, 
 Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers, 
 
 As he fashioned the sword and spear. 
 And he sang " Hurra for my handiwork ! 
 
 Hurra for the Spear and Sword ! 
 Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well, 
 
 For he shall be King and Lord ! " 
 
 To Tubal Cain came many a one, 
 
 As he wrought by his roaring fire, 
 And each one prayed for a strong steel blade 
 
 As the crown of his desire ; 
 And he made them weapons sharp and strong, 
 
 Till they shouted loud for glee, 
 And gave him gifts of pearl and gold, 
 
 And spoils of the forest free. 
 And they sang " Hurra for Tubal Cain, 
 
 Who hath given us strength anew ! 
 Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire, 
 
 And hurra for the metal true ! " 
 
 But a sudden change came o'er his heart 
 
 Ere the setting of the sun, 
 And Tubal Cain was filled with pain 
 
 For the evil he had done ; 
 He saw that men, with rage and hate, 
 
 Made war upon their kind, 
 
TUBAL CAIN. I 71 
 
 That the land was red with the blood they shed 
 
 In their lust for carnage, blind. 
 And he said " Alas ! that ever I made, 
 
 Or that skill of mine should plan, 
 The spear and the sword for men whose joy 
 
 Is to slay their fellow-man ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 And for many a day old Tubal Cain 
 
 Sat brooding o'er his woe ; 
 And his hand forbore to smite the ore, 
 
 And his furnace smouldered low. 
 But he rose at last with a cheerful face, 
 
 And a bright courageous eye, 
 And bared his strong right arm for work, 
 
 While the quick flames mounted high. 
 And he sang * ' Hurra for my handiwork ! " 
 
 And the red sparks lit the air ; 
 "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;' 
 
 And he fashioned the First Ploughshare ! 
 
 v. 
 
 And men, taught wisdom from the Past, 
 
 In friendship joined their hands, 
 Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, 
 
 And ploughed the willing lands ; 
 And sang " Hurra for Tubal Cain ! 
 
 Our stanch good friend is he ; 
 And for the ploughshare and the plough 
 
 To him our praise shall be. 
 But while Oppression lifts its head, 
 
 Or a tyrant would be lord, 
 Though we may thank him for the Plough, 
 
 We'll not forget the Sword ! " 
 
172 SONGS. 
 
 THE MILLER OF THE DEE. 
 
 [Air: "The Jolly Miller."] 
 I. 
 
 THERE dwelt a miller hale and bold, 
 
 Beside the river Dee ; 
 He wrought and sang from morn to night, 
 
 No lark more blithe than he ; 
 And this the burthen of his song 
 
 For ever used to be, 
 " I envy nobody, no, not I, 
 
 And nobody envies me ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 ' * Thou'rt wrong, my friend ! " said old King Hal, 
 
 ' ' Thou'rt wrong as \vrong can be ; 
 For could my heart be light as thine, 
 
 I'd gladly change with thee. 
 And tell me now what makes thee sing 
 
 With voice so loud and free, 
 While I am sad, though I'm the King, 
 
 Beside the river Dee ? " 
 
 in. 
 The miller smiled and doffed his cap : 
 
 " I earn my bread," quoth he ; 
 "I love my wife, I love my friends, 
 
 I love my children three ; 
 I owe no penny I cannot pay ; 
 
 I thank the river Dee, 
 That turns the mill that grinds the corn, 
 
 To feed my babes and me." 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Good friend ! " said Hal, and sighed the while, 
 
 " Farewell ! and happy be ; 
 But say no more, if thou'dst be true, 
 That no one envies thee. 
 
SEASONS AND REASONS. 173 
 
 Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, 
 
 Thy mill my kingdom's fee ! 
 Such men as thou are England's boast, 
 
 O miller of the Dee ! " 
 
 THE BLESSED RAIN. 
 
 MY love took shelter under the tree 
 
 From rain, the summer rain. 
 And I, by love made bold and free, 
 
 Took shelter with her in the lee 
 Of the wide, high-spreading chestnut-tree, 
 
 And blessed the rain, the rain. 
 Quoth I, ** Dost think the storm will pass ? " 
 Quoth she, " I''m but a silly lass." 
 Quoth I, "True love hath rainbow-light." 
 Quoth she, " Most beautiful and bright." 
 Quoth I, " My love is hard to tell." 
 Quoth she, " Come close, I'll listen well ! " 
 Oh, rain ! oh, rain ! 
 Oh, blessed rain ! 
 No sunshine ever shall come again, 
 So dear to me as that stormy rain ! 
 
 SEASONS AND REASONS. 
 
 I LOVE my love in Spring-time, 
 
 For beauty fresh as May, 
 For cheeks like early roses, 
 
 For eyes as bright as day ; 
 For breath like balm of lilies, 
 
 For smiles like sunrise clear ; 
 I love my love in Spring-time, 
 
 And love her all the year. 
 
174 SONGS. 
 
 I love my love in Summer, 
 
 For promise warm and true, 
 For truth, like noon-day, throwing 
 
 A light o'er old and new ; 
 For wealth of bloom and freshness, 
 
 And shady comfort near ; 
 I love my love in Summer, 
 
 And love her all the year. 
 
 ill. 
 
 I love my love in Autumn, 
 
 For fruit of gentle deeds, 
 For wisdom to be garnered, 
 
 To serve our future needs ; 
 For virtues ripening ever, 
 
 Like harvests full in ear ; 
 I love my love in Autumn, 
 
 And love her all the year. 
 
 I love my love in Winter, 
 
 For charities untold, 
 For warmth of household welcome, 
 
 For looks that thaw the cold ; 
 For harmless mirth and pastime, 
 
 As rich as Christmas cheer ; 
 I love my love in Winter, 
 
 And love her all the year. 
 
 SONGS WITHOUT WORDS. 
 
 SONGS without words ! Through forest leaves they quiver, 
 With softer cadence tune the torrent's roar, 
 
 They mingle whispers with the rippling river, 
 And sport in billows on the stormy shore. 
 
WHO SHALL BE FAIREST? 175 
 
 II. 
 Songs without words ! How often have I sung them, 
 
 In the fresh noontide of my life's young day, 
 When hopes were free, as if kind Heaven had flung them, 
 
 Plenteous as daisies on the lap of May. 
 
 III. 
 Songs without words ! How often lonely musing, 
 
 Fanned by the breath of morn or evening skies, 
 Have Joy and Music, mutely interfusing, 
 
 Throbbed in my veins and sparkled in mine eyes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Songs without words ! How oft in Love's pure gladness, 
 Her hand in mine, we've looked sweet songs unsung, 
 
 Of deeper joy and more entrancing sadness 
 Than e'er found accents on a mortal tongue ! 
 
 WHO SHALL BE FAIREST? 
 
 [Music by Frank Mori.] 
 
 I. 
 
 WHO shall be fairest ? 
 
 Who shall be rarest ? 
 Who shall be first in the songs that we sing ? 
 
 She who is kindest 
 
 When Fortune is blindest, 
 Bearing through winter the blooms of the spring ; 
 
 Charm of our gladness, 
 
 Friend of our sadness, 
 Angel of Life, when its pleasures take wing ! 
 
 She shall be fairest, 
 
 She shall be rarest, 
 She shall be first in the songs that we sing ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Who shall be nearest, 
 Noblest, and dearest, 
 Named but with honour and pride evermore ? 
 
1 76 SONGS. 
 
 He, the undaunted, 
 
 Whose banner is planted 
 On Glory's high ramparts and battlements hoar ; 
 
 Fearless of danger, 
 
 To falsehood a stranger, 
 Looking not back while there's Duty before ! 
 
 He shall be nearest, 
 
 He shall be dearest, 
 He shall be first in our hearts evermore ! 
 
 THE LAST QUARREL. 
 
 THE last time that we quarrelled, love, 
 
 It was an April day, 
 And through the gushing of the rain 
 That beat against the window pane, 
 
 We saw the sunbeams play. 
 The linnet never ceased its song, 
 
 Merry it seemed, and free ; 
 1 Your eyes have long since made it up, 
 
 And why not lips ? " quoth he. 
 You thought I thought and so 'twas done 
 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The next time that we quarrel, love, 
 
 Far distant be the day 
 Of chiding look or angry word ! 
 We'll not forget the little bird 
 
 That sang upon the spray. 
 Amid your tears as bright as rain 
 
 When Heaven's fair bow extends, 
 Your eyes shall mark where love begins 
 
 And cold estrangement ends. 
 You'll think I'll think and, as of old, 
 
 You'll kiss me, and be friends. 
 
THE GOOD TIME COMING. 177 
 
 THE GOOD TIME COMING. 
 
 [Music by Henry Russell.] 
 
 [The late George Dawson, of Birmingham the eloquent preacher and 
 lecturer adopted this poem as a hymn to be sung at the religious 
 services of his church, substituting the word " yet " for "boys."J 
 
 THERE'S a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 We may not live to see the day, 
 But earth shall glisten in the ray 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 
 
 But thought's a weapon stronger ; 
 We'll win our battle by its aid ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The pen shall supersede the sword, 
 And Right, not Might, shall be the lord 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind, 
 
 And be acknowledged stronger ; 
 The proper impulse has been given ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 War in all men's eyes shall be 
 A monster of iniquity 
 
 In the good time coming : 
 Nations shall not quarrel then, 
 
 To prove which is the stronger ; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Hateful rivalries of creed 
 Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 
178 SONGS. 
 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride, 
 And flourish all the stronger ; 
 
 And Charity shall trim her lamp ; 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 And a poor man's family 
 Shall not be his misery 
 
 In the good time coining. 
 Every child shall be a help, 
 
 To make his right arm stronger ; 
 The happier he the more he has ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Little children shall not toil, 
 Under, or above the soil, 
 
 In the good time coming ; 
 But shall play in healthful fields 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; 
 And every one shall read and write ;- 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 The people shall be temperate, 
 And shall love instead of hate, 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 They shall use and not abuse, 
 
 And make all virtue stronger. 
 The reformation has begun ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming : 
 Let us aid it all we can, 
 Every woman, every man, 
 
 The good time coming. 
 Smallest helps, if rightly given, 
 
 Make the impulse stronger ; 
 'Twill be strong enough one day ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
THE GIN-FIEND. 179 
 
 THE GIN-FIEND. 
 
 THE Gin- Fiend cast his eyes abroad, 
 
 And looked o'er all the land, 
 And numbered his myriad worshippers 
 
 With his bird-like, long right hand. 
 He took his place in the teeming street, 
 
 And watched the people go ; 
 Around and about, with a buzz and a shout, 
 
 For ever to and fro ; 
 ' And it's hip ! " said the Gin-Fiend, "hip, hurra ! 
 
 For the multitudes I see, 
 Who offer themselves in sacrifice, 
 
 And die for the love of me ! " 
 
 II. 
 There stood a woman on a bridge, 
 
 She was old, but not with years 
 Old with excess, and passion, and pain, 
 
 And she wept remorseful tears 
 As she gave to her babe her milkless breast ; 
 
 Then, goaded by its cry, 
 Made a desperate leap in the river deep, 
 
 In the sight of the passers-by ! 
 ' And it's hip ! " said the Gin-Fiend, " hip, hurra ! 
 
 She sinks ; but let her be ! 
 In life or death, whatever she did, 
 
 Was all for the love of me ! " 
 
 There watched another by the hearth, 
 
 With sullen face and thin ; 
 She uttered words of scorn and hate 
 
 To one that staggered in. 
 Long had she watched, and when he came 
 
 His thoughts were bent on blood ; 
 He could not brook her taunting look, 
 
 And he slew her where she stood. 
 
l8o SONGS. 
 
 " And it's hip ! " said the Gin-Fiend, "hip, hurra f 
 
 My right good friend is he ; 
 He hath slain his wife, he hath given his life, 
 And all for the love of me ! " 
 
 And every day, in the crowded way, 
 
 He takes his fearful stand, 
 And numbers his myriad worshippers 
 
 With his bird-like, long right hand ; 
 And every day, the weak and strong, 
 
 Widows, and maids, and wives, 
 Blood- warm, blood-cold, young men and old, 
 
 Offer the Fiend their lives. 
 And it's hip ! " he says, "hip ! hip ! hurra ! 
 
 For the multitudes I see, 
 Who sell their souls for the burning drink, 
 
 And die for the love of me ! " 
 
 COULD WE RECALL DEPARTED JOYS. 
 
 [Air : Old English.] 
 
 I. 
 
 COULD we recall departed joys, 
 
 At price of parted pain, 
 Oh, who that prizes happy hours 
 
 Would live his life again ? 
 Such burning tears as once we shed, 
 
 No pleasures can repay ; 
 Pass to oblivion, joys and griefs ! 
 
 We're thankful for To-day ! 
 
 II. 
 Calm be the current of our lives, 
 
 As rivers deep and clear : 
 Mild be the light upon our path, 
 
 To guide us and to cheer. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. l8l 
 
 The streams of joy that burst and foam 
 
 May leave their channels dry, 
 And deadliest lightnings ever flash 
 
 The brightest in the sky. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 [Air : " Begone ! Dull Care ! "1 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT ! good-night ! 
 The chimes ring loud and clear ; 
 
 Good-night ! good-night ! 
 A new-born day is near. 
 Our mirth has rung, we've danced and sung, 
 
 Our eyes have gleamed delight ; 
 The day has passed, we part at last ; 
 To each and all, Good-night ! 
 
 Sleep ! gentle Sleep ! 
 Thy robe o'er nature lies ! 
 
 Sleep ! gentle Sleep ! 
 Steal softly on our eyes. 
 And not alone to us be known 
 
 Thy blessings calm and deep ; 
 To pain and care be free as air, 
 And soothe them, gentle Sleep ! 
 
 ill. 
 
 Dreams ! happy Dreams ! 
 That right life's balance wrong ; 
 
 Dreams ! happy Dreams ! 
 Your kind deceits prolong. 
 Give poor men gold, make young the old, 
 
 Show slaves where Freedom beams ; 
 And shed a light on Sorrow's night, 
 Ye recompensing Dreams ! 
 
1 82 SONGS. 
 
 Good-night ! good-night ! 
 The chimes give warning clear ; 
 
 Good-night ! good-night ! 
 A new-born day is near. 
 Our mirth has rung, we've danced and sung, 
 
 Our eyes have gleamed delight ; 
 The day has passed, we part at last ; 
 To each and all, Good -night ! 
 
 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 [To the Old Gaelic Melody.] 
 
 FAREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to the glens, 
 To the streams and the corries, the Straths and the Bens- 
 Farewell, oh farewell, to thy beautiful shore, 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! 
 No longer mounts upwards the smoke of our fires, 
 No longer for us are the homes of our sires, 
 No bread for the winning comes in at the door 
 Lochaber ! Lochaber I Farewell evermore ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In the days that are gone, in the old happy time, 
 Brave men were the glory and wealth of the clime ; 
 But the grouse and the deer need the kail-yards of yore- 
 And we'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
 Right gladly we'd cling to thee, land of our birth ! 
 And fight for thee ! die for thee ! pride of the Earth ! 
 But men without hope are as drift on the shore. 
 Lochaber ! Lochaber ! Farewell evermore ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, its cloud-covered Bens, 
 Its clear wimpling burnies, its bonnie green glens, 
 The holy, the desolate, beautiful shore 
 We return, we return, to Lochaber no more ! 
 
THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANTS. 183 
 
 Farewell, oh farewell ! and wherever we roam, 
 Thy name shall be symbol and watchword of home, 
 The echo of joys that no time shall restore- - 
 Lost! lost! with Lochabtr I Lost I lost I evermore! 
 
 THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANTS. 
 
 [Music by Charles Mackay.] 
 I. 
 
 COME away ! far away ! from the hills of bonnie Scotland ; 
 Here no longer may we linger on the mountain or the 
 
 glen ; 
 
 Come away ! why delay ? far away from bonnie Scotland ; 
 Land of grouse and not of heroes ! land of sheep and not 
 
 of men ! 
 Mighty hunters, for their pastime, 
 
 Needing deserts in our shires, 
 Turn to waste our pleasant places, 
 
 Quench the smoke of cottage fires. 
 
 Come away ! why delay? Let us seek a home denied us, 
 O'er the oceans that divide us from the country of our 
 sires. 
 
 Come away ! far away ! from the river, from the wild wood ; 
 From the soil where our fathers lifted freedom's broad 
 
 claymore ; 
 
 From the paths in the straths, that were dear to us in child- 
 hood ; 
 From the kirk where love was plighted in the happy days 
 
 of yore ! 
 Men and women have no value 
 
 Where the Bruce and Wallace grew ; 
 And where stood the clansman's shieling, 
 
 There the red-deer laps the dew. 
 
 Come away ! far away ! But to thee, O bonnie Scotland, 
 Wheresoever we may wander, shall our hearts be ever 
 true ! 
 
184 SONGS. 
 
 III. 
 Far away ! far away ! in the light of other regions 
 
 We shall prove how much we love thee to our children yet 
 
 unborn ! 
 
 Far away ! far away ! we shall teach them our allegiance 
 To thy name and to thy glory, thou beloved though 
 
 forlorn ! 
 At recital of thy greatness 
 
 Shall our warmest fervour swell ; 
 On the story of thy sorrow 
 
 Shall our fondest memories dwell. 
 
 Far away ! why delay ? We are banished from our Scot- 
 land, 
 
 From our own, our bonnie Scotland ! Fare thee well ! 
 oh ! fare thee well ! 
 
 SCOTLAND'S NAME AND FAME. 
 
 DEAR brother Scots, from John o'Groats 
 
 To Teviotdale and Yarrow, 
 And you, who thrive in other lands 
 
 Because your own's too narrow, 
 When round the board kind faces gleam, 
 
 And friends are blithe before us, 
 Be this the toast we honour most, 
 
 With " Auld lang syne " for chorus, 
 " Scotland's name ! Scotland's fame ! 
 
 Scotland's place in story ! 
 Scotland's might ! Scotland's right, 
 
 And immortal glory ! " 
 
 We'll not forget the present time, 
 
 That all too quickly passes, 
 Our wives and weans, and absent friends, 
 
 Brave men, and bonnie lasses, 
 
THE SCOTTISH VOLUNTEERS. 185 
 
 But still the toast we'll honour most, 
 
 When parting looms before us, 
 And joining hands in friendship's bands, 
 
 We raise the hearty chorus, 
 Is " Scotland's name ! Scotland's fame ! 
 
 Scotland's place in story ! 
 Scotland's might ! Scotland's right, 
 
 And immortal glory ! " 
 
 THE SCOTTISH VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 UNDAUNTED men of Scotland ! 
 
 They said our blood was cold, 
 That nothing now could rouse us 
 
 Except the love of gold ; 
 That Trade and Wealth, not Freedom, 
 
 Was all our thought and aim, 
 And all the glory of our sires 
 
 The shadow of a name. 
 Shout forth the bold denial 
 
 With hearty British cheers, 
 And rifle crack that shall not slack ! 
 
 So SAY THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 Undaunted men of Scotland, 
 
 If any foe alive 
 Be fool enough to think so, 
 
 Why let him think and thrive. 
 But if his folly lead him 
 
 To try us where we stand, 
 Each man shall be as good as three 
 
 To guard his native land. 
 Come one, come ten, come thousands, 
 
 With swords and guns and spears, 
 Where ten shall come, not two shall go, 
 
 So SAY THE VOLUNTEERS ! 
 
1 86 SONGS. 
 
 THE RETURN HOME. 
 
 [Air : " Balance a Straw."] 
 
 THE favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, 
 And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds ; 
 The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, 
 And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by, 
 
 And faintly stealing, 
 
 Booming, pealing, 
 Chime from the city the echoing bells ; 
 
 And louder, clearer, 
 
 Softer, nearer, 
 
 Ringing sweet welcome, the melody swells ; 
 -And it's home ! and it's home ! all our sorrows are past- 
 We are home in the land of our fathers at last. 
 
 How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain, 
 
 In fancy we roamed through thy pathways again, 
 
 Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, 
 
 through the corn, 
 And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn ; 
 
 And 'mid the wild wood, 
 
 Dear to childhood, 
 Gathered the berries that grew by the way ; 
 
 But all our gladness 
 
 Died in sadness, 
 
 Fading like dreams at the dawning of day ; 
 But we're home ! we are home ! all our sorrows are past 
 We are home in the land of our fathers at last. 
 
 We loved thee before, but we'll cherish thee now 
 With a deeper emotion than words can avow ; 
 Wherever in absence our feet might delay, 
 We had never a ioy like the ioy of to-day ; 
 
DYING. 187 
 
 And home returning, 
 
 Fondly yearning, 
 Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore, 
 
 England ! England ! 
 
 Beautiful England ! 
 
 Peace be around thee, and joy evermore ! 
 And it's home ! and it's home ! all our sorrows are past 
 We are home in the land of our fathers at last. 
 
 DYING. 
 
 A CHORUS OF ANGELS. 
 I. 
 
 COME away ! come away ! Life is too sad for thee ; 
 
 Chill are its winds on thy delicate breast ! 
 Earth is too rude for thee Heaven shall be glad for thee 
 Come away, lovely one : come to thy rest ! 
 
 Low in thy narrow bed, 
 
 Lay down thy gentle head ; 
 Give back to mother Earth all she can crave : 
 
 All thy mortality, 
 
 Doomed to finality, 
 Leave it behind in the dust of the grave. 
 
 II. 
 Come away ! come away ! Earth is not meant for thee : 
 
 Beautiful spirit, mount up to the sky ! 
 Men who have lost thee shall mourn and lament for thee, 
 Thou shalt rejoice in thy glory on high. 
 Spread thy bright wings, and soar 
 Spotless for evermore ; 
 
 Sin-stained no longer, but white and forgiven : 
 Heir of infinity, 
 Robed in divinity, 
 Come away, happy one come up to Heaven ! 
 
l88 SONGS. 
 
 VANITY LET IT BE. 
 
 THROUGH wild-wood valleys roaming, 
 
 A maiden by my side, 
 I vowed to love her evermore, 
 
 My beautiful, my bride. 
 " All is vanity ! vanity ! " 
 
 A wise man said to me : 
 I pressed my true love's yielding hand, 
 
 And answered frank and free 
 " If this be vanity, who'd be wise ? 
 
 Vanity let it be I" 
 
 I sat with boon companions, 
 
 And quaffed the joyous wine, 
 We drank to Worth with three times three, 
 
 To Love with nine times nine. 
 " All is vanity ! vanity ! " 
 
 Said Wisdom, scorning me : 
 We filled our goblets once again, 
 
 And sang with hearty glee 
 " If this be vanity, Hip ! Hurrah ! 
 
 Vanity let it be ! " 
 
 A CHRISTMAS GLEE. 
 
 PLEASANT is the sound of the waves upon the shore, 
 Racing and rejoicing, and rolling evermore ; 
 Pleasant is the chant of the torrent on the hill, 
 Singing to the lowlands all the midnight chill ; 
 Pleasant is the tune of the north wind, ringing sharp, 
 Playing on the forest as a maiden on a harp ; 
 
COME IF YOU DARE ! 189 
 
 But pleasanter and merrier the gurgling of the wine, 
 Where Wit and Wisdom gather, and the eyes of Beauty 
 
 shine ; 
 Where the glasses clink as treble to the bass of our " Ha ! 
 
 Ha!" 
 Fill the bumpers up again ! " Hip ! Hip ! Hip ! Hurrah ! " 
 
 COME IF YOU DARE! 
 
 A SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 COME if you dare, loud vaunting foeman ! 
 Come if you dare to our isles of the sea ; 
 Come if you dare, soldier or yeoman ! 
 We'll give you a welcome befitting the free. 
 Our rifles are ready, our aim shall be steady, 
 We'll show you the teeth of the wolf in its lair, 
 
 And give the full strength of you 
 
 Graves the full length of you ; 
 Yes ! every man of you, Come if you dare ! 
 
 Come if you dare, reivers and raiders ! 
 
 Come if you dare to our beautiful shore ; 
 
 Come if you dare, saucy invaders ! 
 
 Many or few, you'll return nevermore ! 
 
 One purpose shall fire us, one thought shall inspire us, 
 
 Each bullet we drive shall be true to a hair ; 
 
 We'll give the full strength of you 
 
 Graves the full length of you, 
 Yes ! every man of you, Come if you dare / 
 
19 SONGS. 
 
 HAL AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 [Air: Old English.] 
 
 I. 
 HAL had a plot of garden-ground, 
 
 And when his work was done, 
 He loved to sit beneath the trees, 
 
 And watch the setting sun. 
 And thither came the friends he loved, 
 
 'Twas Tom, and Dick, and Ben ; 
 Quoth Hal, " We've oft been happy here, 
 
 And so we shall again ! 
 
 II. 
 " No store have we of worldly wealth, 
 
 But we are sages all ; 
 And if our fortunes are not great, 
 
 Our wishes are but small. 
 When we began to earn our bread, 
 
 Our years were four and ten, 
 And since that day we've paid ourVay, 
 And so we shall again ! 
 
 in. 
 " We never hide the truth we feel, 
 
 To flatter rich or poor ; 
 And stoutly bear, as men should do, 
 
 The griefs we cannot cure. 
 And if like others we have erred, 
 
 Or stumbled now and then, 
 WVve always held our heads erect, 
 And so we shall again ! 
 
 *' With cheerful hearts we've plodded on, 
 
 Through many a stormy day ; 
 Enjoyed the light, and loved the right, 
 And plucked the flowers of May. 
 
I LAY IN SORROW, DEEP DISTRESSED. 191 
 
 We've clone our best, and hoped the rest, 
 
 Though poor, yet honest men ; 
 And always found our pathway clear, 
 
 And so we shall again ! " 
 
 I LAY IN SORROW, DEEP DISTRESSED. 
 
 [Translated into German by Herr August Bolz ; and into French by 
 Sir J. G. Tollemache Sinclair, Bart.] 
 
 I LAY in sorrow, deep distressed : 
 
 My grief a proud man heard ; 
 His looks were cold, he gave me gold, 
 
 But not a kindly word. 
 My sorrow passed, I paid him back 
 
 The gold he gave to me ; 
 Then stood erect and spoke my thanks, 
 
 And blessed his Charity. 
 
 I lay in want, in grief and pain : 
 
 A poor man passed my way ; 
 lie bound my head, he gave me bread, 
 
 He watched me night and day. 
 How shall I pay him back again, 
 
 For all he did to me ? 
 Oh, gold is great, but greater far 
 
 Is heavenly Sympathy ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 JOHN SMITH'S PHILOSOPHY 
 AS EXPLAINED TO JOHN BROWN. 
 
 [Music by Charles Mackay.] 
 
 I. 
 
 I'VE a guinea I can spend, 
 
 I've a wife, and I've a friend, 
 And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown ; 
 
 I've a cottage of my own 
 
 With the ivy overgrown, 
 And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown ; 
 
 I can sit at my door 
 
 By my shady sycamore, 
 Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown ; 
 
 So come and drain a glass 
 
 In my arbour as you pass, 
 And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown. 
 
 II. 
 
 I love the song of birds, 
 
 And the children's early words, 
 And a loving woman's voice, low and sw r eet, John Brown ; 
 
 And I hate a false pretence, 
 
 And the want of common sense, 
 And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown ; 
 
 I love the meadow flowers, 
 
 And the briar in the bowers, 
 And I love an open face without guile, John Brown ; 
 
 And I hate a selfish knave, 
 
 And a proud, contented slave, 
 And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown. 
 
 in. 
 
 I love a simple song 
 
 That awakes emotions strong, 
 And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown 5 
 
 And I hate the constant whine 
 
 Of the foolish who repine, 
 And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown ; 
 
LITTLE, BUT GREAT. 193 
 
 But even when I hate, 
 
 If I seek my garden gate, 
 And survey the world around me and above, John Brown, 
 
 The hatred flies my mind, 
 
 And I sigh for humankind, 
 And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So, if you like my ways, 
 
 And the comfort of my days, 
 I will tell you how I live so unvexed, John Brown ; 
 
 I never scorn my health, 
 
 Nor sell my soul for wealth, 
 Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown 
 
 I've parted with my pride, 
 
 And I take the sunny side, 
 For I've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown ; 
 
 I keep a conscience clear, 
 
 I've a hundred pounds a-year, 
 And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown ! 
 
 LITTLE, BUT GREAT. 
 
 A TRAVELLER through a dusty road, 
 
 Strewed acorns on the lea ; 
 And one took root, and sprouted up, 
 
 And grew into a tree. 
 Love sought its shade at evening time, 
 
 To breathe its early vows, 
 And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, 
 
 To bask beneath its boughs. 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, 
 
 The birds sweet music bore ; 
 It stood a glory in its place, 
 
 A blessing evermore ! 
 
 o 
 
194 SONGS. 
 
 II. 
 
 A little spring had lost its way 
 
 Amid the grass and fern ; 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, 
 
 Where weary men might turn ; 
 He walled it in, and hung with care 
 
 A ladle at the brink, 
 He thought not of the deed he did, 
 
 But judged that toil might drink. 
 He passed again and lo ! the well, 
 
 By summers never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 
 
 And saved a life beside. 
 
 in. 
 
 A dreamer dropped a random thought, 
 
 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new, 
 A simple fancy of the brain, 
 
 But strong in being true ; 
 It shone upon a genial mind, 
 
 And lo ! its light became 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, 
 
 A monitory flame. 
 The thought was small its issue great : 
 
 A watch-fire on the hill, 
 It sheds its radiance far adown, 
 
 And cheers the valley still ! 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd 
 
 That thronged the daily mart, 
 Let fall a word of Hope and Love, 
 
 Unstudied from the heart ; 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown 
 
 A transitory breath 
 It raised a brother from the dust, 
 
 It saved a soul from death. 
 O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! 
 
 O thought at random cast ! 
 Ye were but little at the first, 
 
 But mighty at the last ! 
 
HONEST OLD WORDS. 195 
 
 FALL, OH! FALL. 
 
 i. 
 FALL, oh ! fall, ye words of anger, 
 
 Like the leaves when autumn blows, 
 Like the May-blooms in the river, 
 
 Like the moonlight on the snows ! 
 Fall like seed in barren places, 
 
 Fall like raindrops in the sea, 
 Idle words, foredoomed to perish, 
 
 Lost between my love and me ! 
 
 II. 
 But, ye words of lovingkindness, 
 
 Fall like grateful summer rain, 
 Like the heat on frozen waters, 
 
 Like sweet music heard in pain ! 
 Like the dew on opening roses, 
 
 Like the acorn from the tree j 
 Fall, ye accents of affection, 
 
 Fruitful to my love and me I 
 
 HONEST OLD WORDS, 
 
 OF old, a " spade " was called a " spade " ! 
 
 By simples and by sages j 
 A "workman" did his honest "work," 
 
 And "servants" earned their "wages." 
 A "man" was title of respect, 
 
 Whenever virtue named it ; 
 There was but one of higher worth, 
 
 And lovely " woman " claimed it. 
 But now we masquerade with words, 
 
 The truth a great offence is, 
 And desecrate our good old tongue 
 
 By pride and false pretences. 
 
196 SONGS. 
 
 We shame the language of our sires, 
 
 We talk so mild and meekly, 
 We've " operatives " for working-men, 
 
 Who draw their "salaries " weekly. 
 Our "lady" takes the place of "wife,' 
 
 That word so true and hearty ; 
 And every "man" 's a "gentleman," 
 
 Unless we call him * ' party. " 
 The "shopman" hates the name of "shop," 
 
 And, by perversion, later, 
 The man who digs a railway trench 
 
 Is called a " navigator." 
 
 in. 
 Oh, give us back our ancient speech ! 
 
 It had a soul of beauty ; 
 And let us do our daily " work," 
 
 And think it pleasant duty. 
 Let's earn our "wages," as of old, 
 
 The word can never harm us ; 
 Let 's love our "sweethearts " and our " wives,' 
 
 And own that ' * women " charm us. 
 So shall our actions, like our words, 
 
 Be void of affectation ; 
 And "truth" be "truth," and "man " be "man," 
 
 Throughout the British nation, 
 
 LOVING IN VAIN. 
 
 AND wouldst thou from thy passionate heart 
 
 Expel the light divine, 
 Because another's heart disdains 
 
 The glory born in thine ? 
 Ah, no ! true Love repays itself, 
 
 Whatever may befall ; 
 And hearts that scorn to love in vain, 
 
 Have never loved at all. 
 
EARL NORMAN AND JOHN TRUMAN. 197 
 
 II. 
 
 The light of Heaven is heavenly light, 
 
 Though on the mire it lie, 
 And rains, though scattered on the sand, 
 
 Were nurtured in the sky ! 
 O'er thankless wilds and barren seas 
 
 The stars and planets burn, 
 And Love, if it be pure and true, 
 
 Can love without return. 
 
 EARL NORMAN AND JOHN TRUMAN. 
 
 " THROUGH great Earl Norman's acres wide, 
 
 A prosperous and a good land, 
 'Twill take you fifty miles to ride, 
 
 O'er grass, and corn, and woodland. 
 His age is sixty-nine, or near 
 
 And I'm scarce twenty-two, man, 
 And have but fifty pounds a-year 
 
 Poor John Truman ! 
 But would I change ? I' faith ! not I ; 
 
 Oh, no, not I, says Truman ! 
 
 " Earl Norman dwells in halls of state, 
 The grandest in the county ; 
 
 Has forty cousins at his gate, 
 To feed upon his bounty. 
 
 But then he's deaf; the doctor's care- 
 While I in whispers woo, man, 
 
 And find my physic in the air 
 Stout John Truman ! 
 
 D' ye think I 'd change for thrice his gold ? 
 Oh, no, not I, says Truman ! 
 
 "Earl Norman boasts a gartered knee 
 
 A proof of royal graces ; 
 I wear, by Nelly wrought for me, 
 A silken pair of braces: 
 
198 SONGS. 
 
 He sports a star upon his breast, 
 
 And I a violet blue, man 
 The gift of her who loves me best 
 
 Proud John Truman ! 
 I 'd be myself and not the Earl 
 
 Oh that would I, says Truman ! " 
 
 From " The Lump of Gold.' 
 
 TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 Music by Sir Henry R. Bishop.] 
 
 IF Fortune, with a smiling face, 
 
 Strews roses on our way, 
 When shall we stoop to pick them up ? 
 
 To-day ', my love, to-day. 
 But should she frown with face of care, 
 
 And talk of coming sorrow, 
 When shall we grieve, if grieve we must ? 
 
 To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
 
 II. 
 
 If those who've wronged us own their faults, 
 
 And kindly pity pray, 
 When shall we listen and forgive ? 
 
 To-day, my love, to-day. 
 But if stern Justice urge rebuke, 
 
 And warmth from Memory borrow, 
 When shall we chide, if chide we dare ? 
 
 To-morrow, loz>e, to-morrow. 
 
 If those to whom we owe a debt 
 Are harmed unless we pay, 
 
 When shall we struggle to be just ? 
 To-day, my love, to-day. 
 
A POOR MAN'S SONG. 199 
 
 But if our debtor fail our hope, 
 
 And plead his ruin thorough, 
 When shall we weigh his breach of faith ? 
 
 To-morroiv, love, to-morrow, 
 
 IV. 
 
 If Love, estranged, should once again 
 
 His genial smile display, 
 When shall we kiss the proffered lips?- 
 
 To-day, my love, to-day. 
 But if he would indulge regret, 
 
 Or dwell with bygone sorrow, 
 When shall we weep, if weep we must ? 
 
 To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
 
 v. 
 
 For virtuous acts and harmless joys 
 
 The minutes will not stay : 
 We've always time to welcome them 
 
 To-day, my love, to-day. 
 But care, resentment, angry words, 
 
 And unavailing sorrow, 
 Come far too soon, if they appear 
 
 To-morroiV) love, to-morrow. 
 
 A POOR MAN'S SONG. 
 
 MY fathers toiled for daily bread, 
 
 I live and love on Labour's fee, 
 And so, I fear, when all is said, 
 
 I'm but a man of low degree. 
 For Pride will flaunt, and Wealth will vaunt, 
 
 And say, * ' This creature's not as we ; 
 He labours hard for scant reward ; 
 but a churl of low degree," 
 
200 SONGS 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet, if Wealth will cheat and lie, 
 
 And Pride will soil its pedigree, 
 What right have they to block the way, 
 
 And scorn me for my low degree ? 
 I've yet to learn that Wealth can turn 
 
 The wrongful to the rightful plea ; 
 Or how a knave a fool or slave, 
 
 Can be a man of high degree. 
 
 ill. 
 
 If never since my days began 
 
 I did the thing that should not be, 
 Or lied to woman or to man, 
 
 I'm not a churl of low degree. 
 If Honour fire, and Truth inspire, 
 
 And Independence make me free, 
 Pass, paltry Pride, on t'other side ! 
 
 I top you with my high degree ! 
 
 SAY NO MORE THAT LOVE DECEIVES. 
 
 [Air: "Old English," arranged by Sir H. R. Bishop.] 
 
 SAY no more that Love deceives ; 
 
 Love, that's worthy of the name, 
 Hopes, confides, endures, believes 
 
 In all fortune still the same, 
 
 Born with Truth, as heat with flame. 
 If through the heart that Love might fill, 
 
 One thought of change or falsehood rove, 
 Our tongues may name it what they will ; 
 'Tis earthly feeling, 
 Its taint revealing ; 
 But, ah ! we may not call it Love, 
 
THE WINES. 201 
 
 II. 
 
 Selfish Pleasure often wears 
 
 Love's pure raiment for disguise ; 
 And the mask that Fancy wears, 
 
 Seems like Love to careless eyes, 
 And Folly round Indifference flies. 
 But Love itself is ever true ; 
 
 No guile profanes his radiant face ; 
 His robes are of celestial hue : 
 
 From heaven descending, 
 O'er mortals bending, 
 He points to Heaven, his dwelling-place. 
 
 THE WINES. 
 
 WHENCE comest thou, 
 
 O lady rare, 
 With soft blue eyes 
 
 And flaxen hair, 
 And showers of ringlets 
 
 Clustering fair ? 
 And what hast thou got 
 
 In that bowl of thine ? 
 " I come," quoth she, 
 
 " From the beautiful Rhine, 
 And in my bowl 
 
 Is the amber wine. 
 Pure as gold 
 
 Without alloy, 
 Mild as moonlight, 
 
 Strong as joy ; 
 Taste, and treasure it 
 Drink, but measure it 
 
 Thirty boy !" 
 
202 SONGS. 
 
 And who art thou 
 So ruddy and bright, 
 
 With round, full eyes 
 Of passionate light, 
 
 And clustering tresses 
 Dark as night ? 
 
 And what hast thou drawn 
 From the teeming tun ? 
 
 " I come," quoth she, 
 ' ' From the blue Garonne, 
 
 Where the vines are kissed 
 By the bountiful sun, 
 
 And the regal Claret, 
 Kind, though coy, 
 
 Flushes the hills 
 With purple joy. 
 
 Taste, and treasure it 
 
 Drink, but measure it- 
 Thirsty boy ! " 
 
 ill. 
 
 And whence art thou, 
 
 With bounding tread, 
 With cheeks like morning, 
 
 Rosy red, 
 And eyes like meteors, 
 
 In thy head ? 
 And what dost thou pour 
 
 Like jewelled rain ? 
 " I come," quoth she, 
 
 "From the sunny plain, 
 And bear a flagon 
 
 Of bright Champagne, 
 Age's cordial, 
 
 Beauty's toy, 
 Dancing, glancing, 
 
 Wine of joy. 
 Taste, and treasure it 
 Drink, but measure it 
 
 Thirsty boy ! " 
 
THE WOODMAN. 203 
 
 IV. 
 
 And whence art thou, 
 
 With panting breast, 
 With zone unloosened, 
 
 Hair untressed ; 
 And eyes like Juno's 
 
 Love possessed? 
 And what doth thy purple 
 
 Flagon hold ? 
 " I come," quoth she, 
 
 4 'From the Hills of Gold,* 
 And offer thee Burgundy 
 
 Bright and bold, 
 Wit inciter, 
 
 Quick not coy 
 Gladdening, maddening, 
 
 Juice of joy. 
 Touch it warily, 
 Drink it charily 
 
 Thirsty boy ! " 
 
 THE WOODMAN. 
 
 [Air: "Down among the Dead Men." 
 
 FIVE hundred years the royal tree 
 
 Has waved in the woods his branches free ; 
 
 But king no longer shall he stand, 
 
 To cast his shadow o'er the land ; 
 
 The hour has come when he must die : 
 
 Down upon the green earth let him lie. 
 
 * La Cote d'Or. 
 
204 SONGS 
 
 II. 
 
 No more beneath his spreading boughs 
 Shall lovers breathe their tender vows ; 
 No more with early fondness mark 
 Their names upon his crinkled bark, 
 Or idly dream and softly sigh : 
 Down upon the green earth let him lie. 
 
 in. 
 
 The lightning stroke has o'er him passed, 
 And never harmed him, first or last ; 
 But mine are strokes more sure, I trust, 
 To lay his forehead in the dust ; 
 The hatchet falls, the splinters fly : 
 Down upon the green earth let him lie ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But yet, although I smite him down, 
 And cast to earth his forest crown, 
 The good old tree shall live again, 
 To plough deep furrows o'er the main, 
 And flaunt his pennant to the sky : 
 Down upon the green earth let him lie ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Full-breasted to the favouring breeze, 
 He shall be monarch of the seas, 
 And bear our Britain's triumphs far, 
 In calm or tempest, peace or war ; 
 'Tis but to live that he must die : 
 Down upon the green earth let him lie ! 
 
YOUTH'S WARNING. 205 
 
 LOVE'S QUESTIONS AND REPLIES. 
 
 I SEND a question to my dear 
 
 Each morning by the lark, 
 And every night the nightingale 
 
 Brings answer ere the dark. 
 The question needs no other words, 
 
 And this is the reply 
 "I'll love thee, clearest, while I live, 
 
 And bless thee if I die." 
 
 II. 
 I send a message by the rose, 
 
 It says, " Thou breathing grace, 
 Thy modest virtue, like this flower, 
 
 Spreads fragrance round thy place." 
 The lily brings the answer meet : 
 
 " O thou whom I adore, 
 My heart is spotless as these leaves, 
 
 And loves thee evermore." 
 
 YOUTH'S WARNING. 
 
 i. 
 
 BEWARE, exulting youth, beware, 
 
 When life's young pleasures woo, 
 That ere you yield you shrive your heart, 
 
 And keep your conscience true ! 
 For sake of silver spent to-day, 
 
 Why pledge to-morrow's gold ? 
 Or in hot blood implant Remorse, 
 
 To grow when blood is cold ? 
 If wrong you do, if false you play, 
 
 In summer among the flowers^ 
 You must atone, you shall repay, 
 
 In winter among the showers. 
 
206 SONGS. 
 
 II. 
 
 To turn the balances of Heaven 
 
 Surpasses mortal power ; 
 For every white there is a black, 
 
 For every sweet a sour. 
 For every up there is a down, 
 
 For every folly, shame ; 
 And retribution follows guilt, 
 
 As burning follows flame. 
 If wrong you do, if false you play, 
 
 In summer among the flowers , 
 You must atone,) you shall repay ^ 
 
 In winter among the shower s t 
 
 O YE TEARS! 
 
 [Music by Franz Abt and Sir Henry R. Bishop.] 
 
 YE tears ! O ye tears 1 that have long refused to flow, 
 
 Ye are welcome to my heart, thawing, thawing, like the 
 snow } 
 
 1 feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring, 
 And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! I am thankful that ye run j 
 Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. 
 The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, 
 And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all. 
 
 ye tears ! O ye tears ! till I felt you on my cheek, 
 
 1 was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak. 
 
 Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and 
 
 free, 
 And know that I am human by the light of Sympathy. 
 
DREAMING 1 IDLY DREAMING ! 207 
 
 IV. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! ye relieve me of my pain ; 
 The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again : 
 Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, 
 It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land. 
 
 There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, 
 And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. 
 Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago 
 O ye tears ! happy tears ! I am thankful that ye flow ! 
 
 DREAMING! IDLY DREAMING! 
 
 DREAMING ! idly dreaming ! 
 
 In the summer bovvers, 
 Came a whisper stilly 
 From the rose and lily 
 
 And the meadow flowers : 
 " Though we bloom to woo you," 
 
 Seemed the voice to sigh, 
 " Leave, oh, leave us growing, 
 Or, like wild-winds blowing, 
 
 Touch, and travel by ! 
 Beauty shrinks from selfish capture, 
 Love is short that lives on rapture ; 
 
 If you gather us, we die ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 Waking ! sadly waking ! 
 
 In the moil and strife, 
 Came a prompter quiet 
 Through the wild -world riot, 
 
 And the storm of life : 
 11 Joys and pleasures tempt us," 
 
 Seemed the voice to sigh, 
 
208 SONGS. 
 
 "But, unwisely taken, 
 From their branches shaken, 
 
 All their glories fly. 
 Bright and fair, with colours golden, 
 By our longing hearts beholden, 
 
 When we gather them, they die ! ' 
 
 "I LOVE MY LOVE." 
 
 i. 
 
 WHAT is the meaning of the song 
 
 That rings so clear and loud, 
 Thou nightingale amid the copse 
 
 Thou lark above the cloud ? 
 What says thy song, thou joyous thrush, 
 
 Up in the walnut-tree ? 
 " I love my Love, because I know 
 
 My Love loves me." 
 
 II. 
 What is the meaning of thy thought, 
 
 O maiden fair and young ? 
 There is such pleasure in thine eyes, 
 
 Such music on thy tongue ; 
 There is such glory on thy face 
 
 What can the meaning be ? 
 " I love my Love, because I know 
 
 My Love loves me." 
 
 III. 
 O happy words ! at Beauty's feet 
 
 We sing them ere our prime ; 
 And when the early summers pass, 
 
 And Care comes on with Time, 
 Still be it ours, in Care's despite, 
 
 To join the chorus free 
 1 ' I love my Love, because I know 
 
 My Love loves me." 
 
THE BLUE SKY. 2OQ 
 
 THE BLUE SKY. 
 
 Tis true that youthful hopes deceive, 
 
 But ever the flowers return with Spring ; 
 That tenderest love has cause to grieve, 
 
 But still when the young birds pair they sing. 
 The west winds play with the leaves of May, 
 
 And the peach hangs ripe on the garden wall ; 
 And the blossoms grow and the fountains flow, 
 
 And the bright blue sky bends over all. 
 
 Though love may fade with the early prime, 
 
 As the cowslips fade on the fallow lea, 
 Yet Friendship cheers the face of time, 
 
 As the sunshine gilds the apple-tree ; 
 The morning's pain may be evening's gain, 
 
 And sometimes 'mid the flowers we fall ; 
 And the sun for thee is the light for me, 
 
 And the bright blue sky bends over all. 
 
 in. 
 
 The Reason lives when Fancy dies, 
 
 For the season's blessings never fail ; 
 And Winter oft has brighter skies 
 
 Than April with her sleet and hail. 
 Our joys and cares are wheat and tares, 
 
 And our griefs, when ripe, like the fruit must fall ; 
 And come what will, 'tis justice still, 
 
 For the bright blue sky bends over all. 
 
210 SONGS. 
 
 A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
 
 [A new song to an old tune.] 
 
 " A MAN'S a man," says Robert Burns, 
 
 " For a' that, and a* that ; " 
 But though the song be clear and strong, 
 
 It lacks a note for a' that. 
 The lout who'd shirk his daily work, 
 
 Yet claim his wage and a' that, 
 Or beg when he might earn his bread, 
 
 Is not a man for a' that. 
 
 II. 
 If all who " dine on homely fare " 
 
 Were true and brave and a' that, 
 And none whose garb is " hodden grey 
 
 Was fool or knave and a' that, 
 The vice and crime that shame our time 
 
 Would disappear and a' that, 
 And ploughmen be as good as kings, 
 
 And churls as earls for a' that. 
 
 But 'tis not so ; yon brawny fool, 
 
 Who swaggers, swears, and a' that, 
 And thinks because his strong right arm 
 
 Might fell an ox and a' that, 
 That he's as noble, man for man, 
 
 As duke or lord and a' that, 
 Is but an animal at best, 
 
 And not a man for a' that. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A man may own a large estate, 
 Have palace, park, and a' that, 
 
 And not for birth, but honest worth, 
 Be thrice a man for a' that. 
 
A MAN S A MAN FOR A THAT. 
 
 And Sawnie, herding on the moor, 
 Who beats his wife and a' that, 
 
 Is nothing but a brutal boor, 
 Nor half a man for a' that. 
 
 It comes to this, dear Robert Burns, 
 
 The truth is old and a' that, 
 " The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that." 
 And though you'd put the self-same mark 
 
 On copper, brass, and a' that, 
 The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, 
 
 And will not pass for a' that. 
 
 " For a' that and a' that, 
 
 'Tis soul and heart and a' that 
 That makes the king a gentleman, 
 
 And not his crown for a' that. 
 And whether he be rich or poor, 
 
 The best is he, for a' that, 
 Who stands erect in self-respect, 
 
 And acts the man for a' that. 
 
HIGHLAND GATHERINGS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE ISLES. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP. 
 
 UP to the ixiountain ! ere the morn be late, 
 And farewell Wisdom, in her robes of state ; 
 We'll bid her welcome, with her travelling suit, 
 Her ashen staff, her knapsack, and her flute ! 
 Up to the mountain ! to the very cope ! 
 Over the moorlands up the breezy slope ; 
 Or down in dells, beside the rippling brooks 
 In their green furrows through the loveliest nooks 
 To their top fountains, whence, meandering slow, 
 They bound in beauty to the vales below ! 
 Up to the mountain, in the air and sun, 
 For health and pleasure to be wooed and won ! 
 
 How cheerily the voices of the morn 
 Rise as we go ! The lark has left the corn, 
 And sings her glad hosannas to the day ; 
 The mavis trolls his rich notes far away ; 
 While, from th' awakened homestead far adown, 
 Come floating up the murmurs of the town. 
 Hark to the day's shrill trumpeter, the cock ; 
 The bark of hounds ; the bleating of the flock 
 The lowing of the milk-o'erburdened kine ; 
 And laugh of children ; sweetest music mine. 
 212 
 
THE MOUNTAIN-TOP. 213 
 
 Upwards, still up ! and all these sounds expire 
 In the faint distance, save that, mounting higher, 
 We still can hear, descending from the cloud, 
 The lark's triumphal anthem, long and loud. 
 Or far away, a wanderer from the bowers. 
 Rifling for sweets the now infrequent flowers. 
 A solitary bee goes buzzing by, 
 With livery coat, and bundle at his thigh ; 
 With honest music, telling all that will, 
 How great a worker rambles on the hill, 
 
 A streamlet gushes on the mountain-side, 
 It yields a draught to men of sloth denied ; 
 Unknown to all who love the easy street 
 Better than crags where cloud and mountain meet, 
 Unprized, untasted in the plodding town, 
 Where limbs grow rusty upon beds of down. 
 Let no man say he has outlived delight 
 Who has not climbed the mountain's topmost height, 
 And found far up, when faint with toil and heat, 
 A little fountain oozing at his feet, 
 And laid him down upon the grass or stones, 
 At his full length, to rest his weary bones, 
 And drink long draughts at the delicious spring, 
 Better than wine at banquet of a king : 
 And when refreshed, and grateful for the gift, 
 To fill his pocket-flask with prudent thrift, 
 Then bathe his hands and face, and start again 
 With keener pleasure, purchased by a pain. 
 
 Upwards, still upwards, lies the arduous way ; 
 But not still upward must our vision stray ; 
 In climbing hills, as in our life, we find 
 True Wisdom stops at times, and looks behind 
 Stops to survey the progress she has made, 
 The sunny levels and the flowery shade, 
 Or difficulties passed. Thus, as we go, 
 We pause to view the loveliness below, 
 Or note the landscape widening as we climb, 
 New at each turn, and variously sublime. 
 
 How bountiful and kind is Heaven to man ! 
 What ceaseless love pervades the wondrous plan ! 
 
2 14 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 Each sense, each faculty, and each desire, 
 To those who humbly hope while they aspire, 
 Is a perpetual source of secret joy, 
 If Reason prompt and hallow its employ ; 
 And all God's noblest gifts are most profuse, 
 And simplest joys grow exquisite by use. 
 I never see the landscape smiling fair, 
 Without delight that seems too great to bear ; 
 I never turn from man's to Nature's face, 
 Without a pleasure that I cannot trace ; 
 I never hear the tempest in the trees, 
 Without mysterious throbs of sympathies ; 
 I never hear the billows on the shore, 
 Without a secret impulse to adore ; 
 Nor stand, as now, upon the quiet hills, 
 Without a mild religious awe, that fills 
 My soul with raptures I can not express, 
 Raptures, not peace a joy, not happiness. 
 
 THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL. 
 
 ["The old Norse kings, when about to die, had their body laid into 
 a ship ; the ship sent forth with sails set, and slow fire burning in it, 
 that, once out at sea, it might blaze up in flame, and in such manner 
 bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean." 
 CARLYLE'S Hero Worship.} 
 
 " MY strength is failing fast," 
 
 Said the Sea-king to his men ; 
 c ' I shall never sail the seas 
 
 Like a conqueror again. 
 But while yet a drop remains 
 Of the life-blood in my veins, 
 Raise, oh, raise me from the bed ;- 
 Put the crown upon my head ; 
 Put my good sword in my hand ; 
 And so lead me to the strand, 
 Where my ship at anchor rides 
 Steadily ; 
 
THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL. 215 
 
 If I cannot end my life 
 In the bloody battle-strife, 
 Let me die as I have lived, 
 
 On the sea." 
 
 II. 
 
 They have raised King Balder up, 
 
 Put his crown upon his head ; 
 They have sheathed his limbs in mail, 
 
 And the purple o'er him spread ; 
 And amid the greeting rude 
 Of a gathering multitude, 
 Borne him slowly to the shore 
 All the energy of yore 
 From his dim eyes flashing forth 
 Old sea-lion of the North ; 
 As he looked upon his ship 
 
 Riding free. 
 
 And on his forehead pale 
 Felt the cold, refreshing gale, 
 And heard the welcome sound 
 Of the sea. 
 
 "Hurra ! for mighty Balder ! 
 
 As he lived, so he will die ! 
 
 Hurra ! hurra ! for Balder ! " 
 
 Said the crowd as he went by. 
 " He will perish on the wave, 
 Like the old Vikinger brave ; 
 And in high Valhalla's halls 
 Hold eternal festivals ; 
 And drink the blood-red draught 
 None but heroes ever quaffed, 
 With Odin and the spirits 
 
 Of the free. 
 
 In the fire, or in the wreck, 
 He will die upon the deck, 
 And be buried like a monarch 
 
 Of the sea." 
 
2l6 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 Old Balder heard their shouts 
 
 As they bore him to the beach ; 
 And his fading eye grew bright 
 
 With the eloquence of speech, 
 As he heard the mighty roar 
 Of the people on the shore, 
 And the trumpets pealing round 
 With a bold, triumphal sound, 
 And saw the flags afar 
 Of a hundred ships of war, 
 That were riding in the harbour 
 
 Gallantly. 
 
 And said Balder to his men 
 And his pale cheek flushed again 
 " I have lived, and I will die 
 
 On the sea." 
 
 v. 
 
 They have borne him to the ship 
 With a slow and solemn tread ; 
 They have placed him on the deck 
 
 With his crown upon his head, 
 Where he sat as on a throne ; 
 And have left him there alone, 
 With his anchor ready weighed, 
 And the snowy sails displayed 
 To the favouring wind, once more 
 Blowing freshly from the shore ; 
 And have bidden him farewell 
 Tenderly ; 
 
 Saying, " King of mighty men, 
 We shall meet thee yet again, 
 In Valhalla, with the monarchs 
 Of the sea." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Underneath him in the hold 
 
 They had placed the lighted brand 
 
 And the fire was burning slow 
 As the vessel from the land, 
 
THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL. 217 
 
 Like a stag-hound from the slips, 
 
 Darted forth from out the ships ; 
 
 There was music in her sail 
 
 As it swelled before the gale, 
 
 And a dashing at her prow 
 
 As it cleft the waves below, 
 And the good ship sped along, 
 
 Scudding free. 
 
 As on many a battle morn 
 
 In her time she had been borne, 
 To struggle, and to conquer 
 
 On the sea. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And the King with sudden strength 
 
 Started up, and paced the deck, 
 With his good sword for his staff, 
 
 And his robe around his neck ; 
 Once alone, he waved his hand 
 To the people on the land ; 
 And with shout and joyous cry 
 Once again they made reply, 
 Till the loud exulting cheer 
 Sounded faintly on his ear ; 
 For the gale was o'er him blowing, 
 
 Fresh and free ; 
 
 And ere yet an hour had passed 
 He was driven before the blast, 
 And a storm was on his path, 
 
 On the sea. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And still upon the deck 
 While the storm about him rent, 
 
 King Balder paced about 
 
 Till his failing strength was spent. 
 
 Then he stopped awhile to rest 
 
 Crossed his hands upon his breast, 
 
 And looked upward to the sky 
 
 With a dim but dauntless eye ; 
 
2l8 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 And heard the tall mast creak, 
 And the fitful tempest speak, 
 Shrill and fierce, to the billows 
 
 Rushing free ; 
 
 And within himself he said, 
 " I am coming, O ye dead ! 
 To join you in Valhalla, 
 
 O'er the sea. 
 
 "So blow, ye tempests blow, 
 
 And my spirit shall not quail ; 
 I have fought with many a foe ; 
 I have weathered many a gale ; 
 And in this hour of death, 
 Ere I yield my fleeting breath 
 Ere the fire now burning slow 
 Shall come rushing from below, 
 And this worn and wasted frame 
 Be devoted to the flame 
 I will raise my voice in triumph, 
 
 Singing free ; 
 To the great All-father's home 
 I am driving through the foam, 
 I am sailing to Valhalla, 
 
 O'er the sea. 
 
 x. 
 
 * ' So blow, ye stormy winds 
 
 And ye flames ascend on high ; 
 In the easy, idle bed 
 
 Let the slave and coward die ! 
 But give me the driving keel, 
 Clang of shields and flashing steel ; 
 Or my foot on foreign ground 
 With my enemies around ! 
 Happy, happy, thus I'd yield, 
 On the deck or in the field, 
 My last breath, shouting on 
 
 ' To Victory ! ' 
 
THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL* 219 
 
 But since this has been denied, 
 They shall say that I have died 
 Without flinching, like a monarch 
 Of the sea." 
 
 XI. 
 
 And Balder spake no more, 
 
 And no sound escaped his lip ; 
 And he looked, yet scarcely saw 
 
 The destruction of his ship ; 
 Nor the fleet sparks mounting high, 
 Nor the glare upon the sky; 
 Scarcely felt the scorching heat 
 That was gathering at his feet, 
 Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him 
 
 Greedily. 
 
 But the life was in him yet, 
 And the courage to forget 
 All his pain, in his triumph 
 
 On the sea. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Once alone a cry arose, 
 
 Half of anguish, half of pride, 
 As he sprang upon his feet, 
 
 With the flames on every side. 
 " I am coming ! " said the King, 
 " Where the swords and bucklers ring- 
 Where the warrior lives again 
 With the souls of mighty men 
 Where the weary find repose, 
 And the red wine ever flows ; 
 I am coming, great All- Father, 
 Unto thee ! 
 
 Unto Odin, unto Thor, 
 And the strong, true hearts ol yore 
 I am coming to Valhalla, 
 
 O'er the sea." 
 
220 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Red and fierce upon the sky, 
 
 Until midnight, shone the glare, 
 And the burning ship drove on 
 
 Like a meteor of the air. 
 She was driven and hurried past, 
 'Mid the roaring of the blast. 
 And of Balder, warrior-born, 
 Naught remained at break of morn, 
 On the charred and blackened hull, 
 But some ashes and a skull ; 
 And still the vessel drifted 
 
 Heavily, 
 
 With a pale and hazy light, 
 Until far into the night, 
 When the storm had spent its rage 
 On the sea. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then the ocean ceased her strife 
 
 With the wild winds lulled to rest, 
 And a full, round, placid moon 
 
 Shed a halo ^on her breast ; 
 And the burning ship still lay 
 On the deep sea, far away ; 
 From her ribs of solid oak 
 Pouring forth the flame and smoke ; 
 Until, burnt through all her bulk 
 To the water's edge, the hulk 
 Down a thousand fathoms foundered 
 
 Suddenly, 
 
 With a low and sullen sound ; 
 While the billows sang around 
 Sad requiems for the monarch 
 Of the sea. 
 
THE DANCE OF BALLOCHROY 221 
 
 THE DANCE OF BALLOCHROY. 
 
 " IF e'er you wooed a loving maid, 
 And having won her, you betrayed, 
 Beware Lord Edward, thoughtless boy, 
 Nor pass the hills of Ballochroy. 
 
 Hi 
 
 " For there, 'tis said, the livelong nights 
 The sward is trod by elves and sprites, 
 And shadowy forms of maids departed, 
 And ghosts of women broken-hearted. 
 
 in, 
 
 " And aye they dance a mystic round 
 Upon these knolls of haunted ground, 
 And sing sweet airs till break of day, 
 To lure the traveller from his way. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Though if your soul from guilt be clear, 
 Ride boldly on ; you need not fear ; 
 For pleasant sounds, and sights of joy, 
 Shall hem you round on Ballochroy. 
 
 V. 
 
 "But if you've brought a maid to death 
 By guileful words and breach of faith, 
 Shut ear and eye, nor look behind, 
 Nor hear their voices on the wind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "They'll seek your senses to entrance 
 They'll woo you to their airy dance ; 
 And press, with winning smiles and quips, 
 Their melting kisses to your lips. 
 
222 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 "And every kiss shall be a dart 
 
 That through your lips shall pierce your heart ; 
 
 For short the life and short the joy 
 
 Of those who dance on Ballochroy." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Lord Edward laughed his words to scorn 
 11 1 must be wed to-morrow morn ; 
 Your idle tale I may not hear ; 
 I cannot linger from my dear." 
 
 IX. 
 
 He gave the reins to his dapple grey, 
 And o'er the mountain rode away ; 
 And the old man sighed, ' * I wish him joy 
 On the haunted hills of Ballochroy ! " 
 
 And three miles west, and three miles north, 
 Over the moorland went he forth, 
 And thought of his bonny blushing May, 
 The fairest maid of Oronsay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And he thought of a lady dead and gone 
 Of Ellen, under the kirk-yard stone ; 
 And then he whistled a hunting-song 
 To drown remembrance of a wrong. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But still it came. " Alas ! " thought he, 
 " I fear she died for love of me : 
 Soft be her sleep in the fresh green sod 
 I trust her spirit is with her God. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " But to-morrow is my bridal day 
 With the bonnie Rose of Oronsay ; 
 From her no fate my soul shall sever, 
 So let the past be past for ever." 
 
THE DANCE OF BALLOCHROY. 223 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And still he whistled his hunting-tune, 
 Till high in the heavens arose the moon, 
 And had no thought but of future joy, 
 Till he came to the hills of Ballochroy. 
 
 xv. 
 
 And there, beneath a birken-tree, 
 He found a lady fair to see, 
 With eyes that might the stars eclipse, 
 And a smile upon her ripe red lips. 
 
 Her garments seemed of azure bright, 
 Her dainty hands were rosy white, 
 And her golden hair so long and sleek, 
 Fell clustering o'er each glowing cheek. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He gazed upon this bonnie May, 
 Fairer than Rose of Oronsay, 
 Fairer than Ellen, dead and gone, 
 Or any maid the sun shone on. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " O lady dear ! the night is chill, 
 The dews are damp upon the hill, 
 A fitful wind begins to moan 
 What brings thee here so late alone ? " 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lady blushed, and on her tongue 
 Timid the faltering answer hung 
 " I have come for thee, dear lord," she said, 
 And on his arm her hand she laid. 
 
 xx. 
 
 " For I have loved thee long and well, 
 More than a maiden ought to tell, 
 And I sit beneath this birken-tree 
 To pass one hour of love with thee." 
 
224 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He sprang from his steed of dapple grey, 
 And at the lady's feet he lay ; 
 Her lily hand in his he pressed, 
 And leaned his head upon her breast. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Her long fair tresses o'er him hung, 
 As round his neck her arm she flung ; 
 Her beauty charmed both touch and sight- 
 His pulse beat quicker with delight : 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " O lady dear ! these eyes of mine 
 Never saw beauty like to thine ! 
 Those loving lips, oh, let me kiss ! 
 Never was rapture like to this ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She smiled upon him as he spoke, 
 And on his ear these accents broke ; 
 " Deep was the love for thee I bore 
 Thou shalt be mine for evermore. 
 
 " Come to my bower 'tis fair to see, 
 And all prepared, dear lord, for thee ; 
 Come ! " and such smiles her face suffused, 
 He had been stone had he refused. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 His heart was full, his reeling brain 
 Felt the sharp pleasure prick like pain ; 
 And his eyes grew dim with love and joy 
 On the haunted hills of Ballochroy. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 On every side above below 
 He heard a strain of music flow, 
 Dying in murmurs on his ear, 
 Gentle and plaintive, soft and clear. 
 
THE; DANCE OF BALLOCHHQY. 335 
 
 XXVIIJ. 
 
 Anon a bolder voice it took, 
 Till all the air with music shook^* 
 A full, inspiring, martial strain, 
 Heaving like waves upon the main. 
 
 XXIX, 
 
 Amid the tangling flowers and grass 
 The fitful echoes seemed to pass ; 
 And then it sank, and sweet and slow, 
 Mingled the notes of joy and woe ; 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then changed again : a jocund lay 
 Rose 'mid the tree-tops far away ; 
 And brigk and light, and tuned to pleasure, 
 Floated in air the merry measure. 
 
 xxxi, 
 
 And nearer as the rapture came, 
 
 He felt its power in all his frame ; 
 
 His pulse beat quick, his eyes grew bright, 
 
 His limbs grew supple with delight. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 With throbbing heart and loving look, 
 The lady by the hand he took ; 
 And as she smiled, her fairy feet 
 Moved to the measure brisk and sweet. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He would not if he could, resist, 
 Her beauty wrapped him like a mist ; 
 And gliding with her, kind yet coy, 
 They danced the dance of Ballochroy. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 He clasped her round the dainty waist, 
 Their glowing hands were interlaced ; 
 And now they glided now they flew 
 And tripped in circles o'er the dew, 
 
226 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And still the music sounded high 
 The full free tide of harmony ; 
 Responsive still to every note 
 Their nimble footsteps seemed to float. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 And now they bounded, now they tripped, 
 With panting pleasure, open-lipped, 
 And brisker, merrier, louder still 
 Sounded the music o'er the hill. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Faint with the joy, he craved delay ; 
 But no his limbs refused to stay, 
 And danced impulsive to the sound, 
 And traced a circle on the ground. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 There seemed a film before his eyes 
 He saw new shapes of beauty rise ; 
 They seemed to gather at the tune 
 Between him and the western moon. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 In robes of azure and of green, 
 Amber and white, and purple sheen 
 A troop of maidens young and fair, 
 With sparkling eyes and flowing hair. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And as before his sight they passed, 
 Each maid seemed lovelier than the last, 
 And smiled upon him as he came, 
 With looks of love, and eyes of flame. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Then smoothing back their tresses bright, 
 They joined their fingers long and white. 
 And lightly shook their sparkling feet 
 To the glad measure as it beat. 
 
THE DANCE OF BALLOCHROY. 
 
 XLII, 
 
 And as the fairy round they danced, 
 And now retreated, now advanced, 
 Their noiseless footsteps on the sod 
 Left a green circle where they trod. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Like dragon-flies upon a stream, 
 Or motes upon a slanting beam, 
 They parted met retired entwined, 
 Their loose robes waving in the wind. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Transparent as the network light 
 Spun by the gossamer at night, 
 Through every fold each rounded limb 
 Shone warm and beautiful, but dim. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Dazzled and reeling with delight, 
 He turned away his aching sight, 
 Then fell exhausted in a swoon, 
 In the full radiance of the moon. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Not long endured his soul's eclipse ; 
 He felt warm kisses on his lips, 
 And heard a voice in accents clear 
 Breathe a soft whisper in his ear, 
 
 XLVI I. 
 
 " Rise, my dear lord ! shake off this trance, 
 
 And join my sisters in their dance ; 
 
 'Tis all to give thee joy they play ; 
 
 My hand shall guide thee come away ! " 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 He rose ; her bright eyes brighter shone, 
 Raining kind looks to cheer him on ; 
 While the celestial music still 
 Rolled its glad echoes o'er the hill. 
 
228 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And once again the dance they twined 
 They seemed like feathers on the wind 
 Their hands they waved, their feet they twirled 
 They ran, they leaped, they tripped, they whirled. 
 
 But as he danced his eyes grew dim, 
 His blood ran thick through every limb ; 
 And every face, so fair and bright, 
 Appeared distorted to his sight. 
 
 The lustre of their eyes was gone, 
 Their cheeks grew wrinkled, pale, and wan ; 
 Their fair plump arms grew shrivelled skin, 
 Their voices hoarse, and sharp, and thin. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Bloodshot and blear, and hollow-eyed, 
 Each raised her finger to deride ; 
 And each, more hideous than the last 
 Chattered and jabbered as she passed. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And with discordant yell and shout, 
 
 They wheeled in frantic droves about, " 
 
 And gibing, in his visage, scowled, 
 
 And moaned, and shrieked, and laughed, and howled. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Again he fell in speechless dread ; 
 And then came one with drooping head, 
 And looks all pity and dismay, 
 And gazed upon him where he lay. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Her glancing eyes were black as jet, 
 Her fair pale cheeks with tears were wet ; 
 And beauty, modesty, and grace 
 Strove for the mastery on her face. 
 
THE DANCE OF BALLOCHROY. 2 29 
 
 LVI. 
 
 He knew her well ; and, as she wept, 
 A cold, cold shudder o'er him crept : 
 'Twas Ellen's self ! ah, well he knew 
 That face so fair that heart so true ! 
 
 LVII. 
 
 He felt her tear-drops fall and flow, 
 But they were chili as melted snow ; 
 Then looking on her face, he sighed, 
 Felt her cold kiss, and shivering died ! 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Next day, with many an anxious fear, 
 His father sought him far and near ; 
 And his sad mother, old and grey, 
 Wept with the bride of Oronsay. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 They found his body on the knoll, 
 And prayed for mercy on his soul ; 
 And his bride a widow's weeds put on, 
 And mourned Lord Edward, dead and gone, 
 
 LX. 
 
 If you have brought a maid to death 
 By guileful words and breach of faith 
 In weal or woe, in grief or joy, 
 Beware the hills of Ballochroy ! 
 
23 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 THE WRAITH OF GARRY WATER. 
 
 " Go, Evan ! go ; the heart you swore 
 In weal and woe alike to cherish, 
 
 You've broken by your cold deceit, 
 And thrown upon the world to perish. 
 
 II. 
 
 " A woman's curse is hard to bear 
 But may be turned, if love endeavour ; 
 
 But the curse of a man with hoary hair, 
 It weighs upon the soul for ever. 
 
 in. 
 
 " And for the wrong that you have done, 
 Upon your head all sorrow gather. 
 
 And in your soul, for evermore, 
 Deep sink the curses of a father ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 The old man bared his grey, grey head, 
 And clasped his withered hands together j 
 
 And Evan curled his lip in scorn, 
 And rode his way across the heather. 
 
 V. 
 
 "Why should I heed this dotard's words ? 
 
 The needle from the pole will vary 
 And time will wear and hearts will change ; 
 
 I love no more his bonnie Mary. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' * I trust that happy she may be, 
 Nor pine with sorrow overladen. 
 
 And she may love another man, 
 And I will love another maiden." 
 
THE WRAITH OF GARRY WATER. 231 
 
 VII. 
 The night was fair the moon was up 
 
 The wind blew low among the gowans ; 
 Or fitful rose o'er Athol woods, 
 
 And shook the berries from the rowans. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Evan rode through Garry strath, 
 
 And quite forgot the old man's daughter ; 
 
 And when he came to Garry stream, 
 It ran a red and roaring water. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The summer rains had fallen fast, 
 
 The voice of streams made music merry ; 
 
 And brae-side burnies leaped and danced, 
 And mingled in the tide of Garry. 
 
 And Bruar raised a joyful shout, 
 
 And Tilt to Ben-Y-Gloe resounded ; 
 
 And Tummel in his pride of strength, 
 Down to his fall, rejoicing, bounded. 
 
 Green were the birks on Garry braes, 
 
 Soft through their leaves the moon was peeping ; 
 And 'mid the heather on the rock, 
 
 There sat a bonnie maiden weeping. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Her kirtle seemed of velvet green ; 
 
 Her robes were azure, loosely flowing ; 
 Her eyes shone bright amid her tears ; 
 
 Her lips were fresh as gowans growing. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 1 ' What brings thee here, my lily-flower ? 
 
 High on the strath the storm winds tarry ; 
 The night is chill the hour is late ; 
 
 Why weep'st thou by the banks of Gariy ? " 
 
232 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The maiden raised her tearful eyes, 
 And with her silvery voice replying, 
 
 Said, smoothing back her yellow locks, 
 And speaking low and softly sighing : 
 
 xv. 
 
 " Though dark and swift the waters pour, 
 Yet here I wait in dool and sorrow ; 
 
 For bitter fate must I endure, 
 
 Unless I pass the stream ere morrow. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 4 ' Oh ! aid me in this deep distress, 
 Nor seek its causes to unravel ; 
 
 My strength, alas ! is weak at best, 
 And I am worn with toil and travel." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Though swift," said Evan, "is the flood, 
 My good bay mare is strong and steady ; 
 
 So trust thee, lassie, to my care, 
 And quickly mount and make thee ready. 
 
 " For one glance of those eyes of blue, 
 Thy bonnie burden I will carry ; 
 
 For one kiss of those honey lips, 
 I'll guide thee o'er the raging Garry. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " What is it ails my good bay mare ? 
 
 What is it makes her start and shiver ? 
 She sees a Kelpie in the stream, 
 
 Or fears the rushing of the river ! 
 
 " Ah, coward jade ! but heed her not, 
 For, maiden dear, we may not tarry ; 
 
 The beast has swum a swifter flood ; 
 I'll see thee safely through the Garry." 
 
WRAITH OF GARRV WATER. 23 3 
 
 XXI. 
 
 They mounted on the good bay mare 
 But vainly Evan strove to guide her ; 
 
 Through all her frame a terror crept 
 She trembled at her bonnie rider. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then as she heard the maiden's voice, 
 And felt her gentle fingers pat her, 
 
 She gave a neigh as loud and shrill 
 As if an evil sprite had sat her. 
 
 And with a desperate bound she sprang 
 High from the bank into the current ; 
 
 While sounds of laughter seemed to mix 
 Amid the roaring of the torrent. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The waters rushed in eddying whirls, 
 And dashed the foam-drops o'er the heather ; 
 
 And winds that seemed asleep till then, 
 Let loose their fury all together. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Down down the awakened tempest blew 
 And faster down the flood came pouring 
 
 And horse and riders, overwhelmed, 
 Sank 'mid the rush of waters roaring. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But on the surface of the flood, 
 
 Her yellow locks with spray-fall dripping, 
 The maiden with the kirtle green 
 
 And azure robe, came lightly tripping. 
 
 And now she sank, now rose again, 
 
 And dashed the waves in rain-like shiver ; 
 
 Then lay afloat, or tiptoe stood 
 
 Upon the foam-bells of the river i * 
 
234 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 And laughed the while, and clapped her hands - 
 
 Until at last the storm subsided, 
 When, like a gleam of parting light, 
 
 Away upon the mist she glided. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And Evan's corpse at morn was found, 
 Far down by Tummel, pale and mangled, 
 
 His features bruised by jutting rocks, 
 His auburn curls with gore entangled. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Few were the mourners at his grave, 
 
 But 'mid them two a sire and daughter ; 
 
 And loud she sobbed, and loud she wept, 
 Though tenderly her sire besought her. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 11 He loved me, and he did me wrong," 
 She said, '* and darkened all my morrow ; 
 
 But in his grave Resentment sleeps, 
 While Love survives to feed on Sorrow." 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF GLEN ARAY. 
 
 WE passed the bridge with tramping steeds, 
 
 The waters rushed below, 
 Down from the gorges of the hills 
 
 We heard the torrents flow. 
 But louder than the roar of streams 
 
 We rode as hurried men, 
 The footfalls of our cavalcade 
 
 Re-echoed through the glen. 
 
THE BRIDGE OF GLEN ARAY. 235 
 
 II. 
 
 We sang and shouted as we went, 
 
 Our hearts were light that day, 
 When near the middle of the bridge 
 
 A shrill voice bade us stay. 
 We saw a woman gaunt and old 
 
 Come gliding up the rocks, 
 With long bare arms, and shrivelled face, 
 
 And grey dishevelled locks. 
 
 III. 
 
 She seized my bridle suddenly, 
 
 The horse stood still with fear 
 Her hand was strong, and bird-like long 
 
 Her eye was piercing clear. 
 41 Oh, shame ! " she said, " oh, cruel shame ! 
 
 To ride so fierce and wild, 
 The clatter of your horses' hoofs 
 
 Will wake my little child. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Oh, hush ! oh, hush ! I pray you, hush ! 
 I ask no other boon 
 
 No word be said and softly tread 
 The child will waken soon. 
 
 I die of noises all day long, 
 From Morn till Even-blush, 
 
 Not for my sake, but hers, I pray- 
 Hush ! if you're Christians, hush ! " 
 
 v. 
 
 Much wondered we to hear her words, 
 
 But Hugh, our guide, looked on : 
 " Poor soul ! " he said, " we'll do our best 
 
 To earn her benison. 
 'Twill cost no trouble to be kind : 
 
 Good Chrystie, let us through, 
 We will not wake your sleeping child, 
 
 But pray for her and you." 
 
236 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She slowly let the bridle fall 
 
 " Ride on your way," she said 
 "But oh, be.silent ! noise like yours 
 
 Disturbs both quick and dead." 
 And then she slid among the rocks ; 
 
 We saw not where she went, 
 But turned to Hugh our anxious eyes, 
 
 Inquiring what she meant. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Poor thing ! " he said, while forth we rode 
 
 As if we trod on snow, 
 " Her brain is turned by sore mischance 
 
 That happened long ago. 
 Her age was scarcely twenty then, 
 
 But what it now may be 
 Is somewhat difficult to fix, 
 
 Between fourscore and three. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 11 Though now she's ugly as a witch, 
 
 She was a beauty then, 
 And with her gentleness and grace 
 
 She won the hearts of men. 
 And Donald Bain won hers, and sought 
 
 The hand she freely gave ; 
 They married ; but before a year 
 
 She wept upon his grave. 
 
 "A little babe was left behind, 
 
 A fairy thing, 'tis said, 
 With soft blue eyes and golden hair, 
 
 And cheeks of cherry red. 
 It grew in beauty every day, 
 
 The maid was two years old, 
 The darling of her mother's life, 
 
 A pleasure to behold. 
 
THE BRIDGE OF GLEN ARAY. 237 
 
 X. 
 
 ' One day she wandered to the stream- 
 It was the time of floods 
 
 Perchance she chased the butterfly, 
 Or plucked the yellow buds. 
 
 She lost her footing on the brink ;- 
 The mother heard the cry, 
 
 And sprang to save, but all too late J 
 The flood ran roaring by. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " She saw the little face and hands, 
 
 Then leaped into the foam, 
 To snatch it from impending death, 
 
 And bear her darling home. 
 In vain ! in vain ! oh, all in vain ! 
 
 The neighbours gathered round, 
 They saved the mother from the deep 
 
 The little child was drowned. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " And since that day past fifty years- 
 She's lingered by the stream, 
 
 And thinks the babe has gone to sleep, 
 And dreams a happy dream. 
 
 She fancies it will soon awake, 
 With blue eyes twinkling, mild 
 
 Unchanged by half a century, 
 And x still a little child. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Beside the waters where it sank 
 
 She sits the livelong day, 
 Her eyes upon the eddies fixed, 
 
 That round the boulders play ; 
 And spreads to dry upon the rocks 
 
 The clothes which it shall wear, 
 The little frock, the tiny shoes, 
 ribbons for its hair, 
 
238 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 11 She loves deep silence ; blessed with that, 
 
 She feeds on empty hope, 
 And daily nerves a broken heart 
 
 With misery to cope. 
 The pitying friends who bring her food, 
 
 All speak in whispers low, 
 And never argue with the thought 
 
 That cheers her in her woe. 
 
 xv. 
 " For she is harmless as a babe, 
 
 Though mad, as you may see ; 
 God save our senses, one and all ! " 
 
 * * Amen ! Amen ! " said we. 
 Such 'was the tale, and all that day 
 
 Such sympathy it woke, 
 I turned to chide each rising noise, 
 
 And whispered as I spoke. 
 GLEN ARAY, 
 
 INVERNESS-SHIRE, 1855. 
 
 MACLAINE'S CHILD; 
 OR, THE CLANSMAN'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF LOCH BUY, MULL. 
 I. 
 
 " MACLAINE, you've scourged me like a hound ! 
 You should have struck me to the ground ; 
 You should have played a chieftain's part 
 You should have stabbed me to the heart ; 
 
 II. 
 
 " You should have crushed me into death ! 
 But here I swear, with living breath, 
 That for the wrong which you have done 
 I'll take my vengeance on your son 
 
MACLAINE'S CHILD. 239 
 
 III. 
 
 " On him, and you, and all your race ! " 
 He said, and bounding from the place, 
 He seized the child with sudden hold 
 A smiling infant three years old. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, starting like a hunted stag, 
 He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag, 
 And reached o'er many a wide abyss 
 The beetling seaward precipice. 
 
 And leaning o'er its topmost ledge, 
 He held the infant o'er the edge. 
 " In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain, 
 No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 With flashing eye and burning brow 
 The mother followed, heedless how, 
 O'er crags with mosses overgrown, 
 And stair-like juts of slippery stone. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But midway up the rugged steep, 
 She found a chasm she could not leap, 
 And, kneeling on its brink, she raised 
 Her supplicating hands, and gazed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "Oh, spare my child, my joy, my pride ; 
 Oh, give me back my child ! " she cried ; 
 " My child ! my child ! " with sobs and tears 
 She shrieked upon his callous ears. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "Come, Evan," said the trembling chief, 
 His bosom wrung with pride and grief, 
 " Restore the boy, give back my son, 
 And I'll forgive the wrong you've done." 
 
240 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 (( I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! 
 You've injured me before the clan, 
 And nought but blood shall wipe away 
 The shame I have endured to-day," 
 
 And as he spoke he raised the child, 
 To dash it 'mid the breakers wild, 
 But at the mother's piercing cry 
 Drew back a step, and made reply : 
 
 XU. 
 
 ** Fair lady, if your lord will strip, 
 And let a clansman wield the whip, 
 Till skin shall flay and blood shall run f 
 I'll give you back your little son." 
 
 XJii. 
 
 The lady's cheeks grew pale with ire, 
 The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire j 
 He drew a weapon from his breast, 
 Took aim, then dropt it sore distrest. 
 
 XIV. 1 
 
 " I might have slain my babe instead. 
 Come, Evan, come," the father said, 
 And through his heart a tremor ran ; 
 " We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 
 
 xv. 
 
 "Wrong unavenged I've never borne," 
 Said Evan, speaking loud in scorn ; 
 " You've heard my answer, proud Machine, 
 I will not fight you think again ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The lady stood in mute despair, 
 With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; 
 She moved no limb, she spoke no word, 
 he could but look upon her lord, 
 
MACLAINES CHILD. 241 
 
 He saw the quivering of her eye, 
 Pale lips, and speechless agony 
 And doing battle with his pride, 
 " Give back the boy I yield," he cried. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A storm of passion shook his mind. 
 Anger, and shame, and love combined ; 
 But love prevailed, and, bending low, 
 He bared his shoulders to the blow. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " I smite you," said the clansman true ; 
 11 Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! 
 For by yon Heaven that hears me speak, 
 My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek." 
 
 But Evan's face beamed hate and joy ; 
 Close to his breast he hugged the boy ; 
 " Revenge is just ! revenge is sweet ! 
 And mine, Loch Buy, shall be complete." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock 
 He threw the infant o'er the rock ; 
 Then followed with a desperate leap, 
 Down fifty fathoms to the deep, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 They found their bodies in the tide ; 
 And never till the day she died 
 Was that sad mother known to smile ; 
 The Niobe of Mulla's Isle. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They dragged false Evan from the sea, 
 And hanged him on a gallows tree j 
 And ravens fattened on his brain. 
 To sate the vengeance of Maclaine. 
 
242 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 THE SHOAL OF WHALES. 
 
 CALM and unruffled is the bay, 
 There is not even a breath at play, 
 To make a ripple in the sun, 
 That, since this summer-day begun, 
 Has shown the Hebridean isles 
 A cloudless visage, bright with smiles. 
 On the low rocks that fringe the sea 
 The brown dulse welters lazily ; 
 The sea-gulls hovering, milky white, 
 Display their pinions to the light, 
 And dart and wheel with sudden cry, 
 Or drop like snow flakes from the sky. 
 
 II. 
 
 The minister is in the Manse, 
 
 His open Bible on his knees ; 
 His daughters in the garden walk, 
 
 And prune their stunted apple-trees, 
 
 By high walls sheltered from the breeze 
 That comes salt-laden from the beach ; 
 Or lift the tender floweret's stalk 
 
 Which rains have beaten to the ground ; 
 Or guard their solitary peach 
 
 From birds, by network round. 
 
 ill. 
 
 The fisher's wife beside her door 
 Sits mending nets, and crooning o'er 
 
 Some old sad Gaelic lay ; 
 And children paddle in the brine, 
 Or watch the fair white sails that shine 
 
 In sunlight o'er the bay, 
 Or hide and seek 'mid boats that lie, 
 Keel upwards, on the beach to dry. 
 
THE SHOAL OF WHALES. 243 
 
 IV. 
 
 Peace broods upon that Western isle ; 
 
 When a lone fisher on the strand, 
 Loitering along with vacant smile, 
 
 Suddenly stops, and with his hand 
 Shades his face from the light of the skies, 
 And summons his soul into his eyes, 
 To look if his sight deceives him not ; 
 
 Lo ! there where sky and ocean blend ! 
 He fixes his gaze upon the spot 
 
 The glittering cascades ascend 
 Twenty feet high then rustle down 
 On the backs of the monsters, bare and brown ; 
 Again and again he sees them roll 
 There are whales in the bay a shoal ! a shoal ! 
 
 v. 
 
 In the fulness of his joy, his face 
 
 Reddens and his quick eager shout, 
 Echoing over that silent place, 
 
 Calls the inquiring people out. 
 " The whales ! " he cries and to behold 
 Come the youthful and the old ; 
 Come the feeble and the strong ; 
 
 Men and women and girls ; with boys 
 That, whether for right or whether for wrong, 
 
 Delight in the tumult and the noise ; 
 Rushing down with trampling feet, 
 And cries that the echoing hills repeat. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And now the uproar thicker grows 
 From side to side the clapper goes 
 In the kirk bell, as if its power 
 Had been redoubled for this hour ; 
 As if in such a cause inspired, 
 
 It summoned with gladness all the flock ; 
 And flags are waved, and guns are fired, 
 
 And bonfires kindled on the rock ; 
 And that lone isle of the Western sea 
 Prepares for a day of jubilee. 
 
244 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 1 ' Leviathan ! Leviathan ! " 
 
 The minister cries, and shuts his book ; 
 And though a man of peace is he, 
 As a preacher of the Word should be, 
 
 He takes his musket from a nook, 
 Rusty and old ; and hastes away 
 To join his people in the bay. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 His daughters fair have saddled their steeds, 
 
 Two young ponies sleek and brown ; 
 And with flashing eyes and streaming hair, 
 
 And heads uncovered, have galloped down 
 To see the sport perchance to share. 
 Old men have left their usual place 
 By warm firesides, to join the chase, 
 And one bedridden, half-crazy soul, 
 
 Has started up at the people's roar, 
 And the joyous cry, "A shoal ! a shoal ! " 
 
 And hobbled on crutches to the door, 
 To envy the limbs of the passers-by, 
 And watch the sport with kindling eye. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The women have left their spinning-wheels, 
 
 Their hose, their nets, their fishing-creels, 
 
 And armed themselves with pikes and staves 
 
 To follow the monsters of the waves. 
 
 Fifty boats at least are ready 
 
 With rowers strong and helmsmen steady, 
 
 To drive the whales into shallow water, 
 
 And dye the beach with the blood of slaughter. 
 
 x. 
 
 Merrily ring the bells 
 
 Merrily wave the flags 
 Merrily shout the people 
 
 That watch upon the crags. 
 
THE SHOAL OF WHALES. 245 
 
 Merrily row the boats 
 
 Merrily swell the sails 
 And merrily go the islanders 
 
 To chase the mighty whales. 
 And quietly prays the preacher 
 
 For a blessing and reward 
 Upon harpoon and musket, 
 
 Upon the spear and sword, 
 That shall slay the great Leviathan, 
 
 For the glory of the Lord ! 
 
 And steady steady steady 
 
 Until their backs appear ; 
 And ready ready ready 
 
 With the musket and the spear ! 
 Behold the spouts upheaving, 
 Their sides the water cleaving 
 A shot is fired and a sudden roar 
 Proclaims approval on the shore ; 
 And barbed harpoons with lengthening twine 
 Are launched unerring o'er the brine, 
 And the waterspouts, that a minute ago 
 Were clear as the discongealing snow, 
 Rise ruddy in air like founts of wine ; 
 And the wounded whales, in their agony, 
 Plunge in fury through the sea, 
 And lash the waters into froth, 
 Blood-crimsoned by their pain and wrath. 
 
 XII. 
 
 In vain ye struggle luckless whales ! 
 
 Your numbers were a score 
 But ten of you shall not escape 
 
 To swim the salt seas more ! 
 For ye have come to a needy land. 
 
 And to a perilous shore, 
 Where they will turn your bones to wealth - 
 
 Make coinage of your spoil, 
 And give their virgins when they wed 
 
 A dowry of your oil $ 
 
246 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 Where men will sit around their hearths 
 
 Reposing from their toil, 
 And long that every day may see 
 Such slaughter and such revelry, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Again again the muskets ring, 
 And scare the sea-birds on the wing ; 
 And not a shot is fired this day 
 That fails to reach its mark and slay. 
 Strong hands impel the heavy spear, 
 
 Or drive the double-edged harpoon ; 
 And the fair bay, whose waters clear 
 
 Were stainless underneath the moon, 
 Shall roll to-night a darker flood, 
 And see it billows streaked with blood. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Tis done the unequal strife is o'er 
 The dying whales are driven ashore ; 
 
 And long ere setting of the sun, 
 Their carcasses are hauled to land ; 
 And, stretched unwieldly on the sand, 
 
 Men count the prizes they have won ;- - 
 Twelve monsters huge, whose bones shall bring 
 
 Enjoyment for the wintry nights, 
 Whose oil shall make the wretched sing, 
 
 And fill the needy with delights. 
 And round about the children go, 
 With gladness filled to overflow, 
 To hear the joyous bells resound, 
 And see the bonfires blazing round. 
 
 XV. 
 
 This night shall mirth be unrestrained, 
 The blood in quicker pulses driven ; 
 
 And many a flowing cup be drained, 
 And many a loving pledge be given ; 
 
 And even the minister himself 
 
 Shall lay his Bible on the shelf, 
 
 And join his elders o'er a bowl 
 
 To drink a welcome to the shoal. 
 
THE KELPIE OF CORRIEVRECKAN. 247 
 
 And every dweller in the isle 
 Shall hold a festival the while, 
 And mark in memory's tablets clear 
 This day the fairest of the year. 
 
 THE KELPIE OF CORRIEVRECKAN. 
 
 [This story is a common one in the Hebrides, and among all the 
 northern nations of Europe. Some of the incidents bear a resemblance 
 to the Danish ballad of " The Wild Waterman," a translation of which 
 was made into German by Goethe.] 
 
 HE mounted his steed of the water clear, 
 
 And sat on his saddle of sea-weed sere ; 
 
 He held his bridle of strings of pearl, 
 
 Dug out of the depths where the sea-snakes curl. 
 
 IT. 
 
 He put on his vest of the whirlpool froth, 
 Soft and dainty as velvet cloth, 
 And donned his mantle of sand so white, 
 And grasped his sword of the coral bright. 
 
 ill. 
 
 And away he galloped, a horseman free, 
 Spurring his steed through the stormy sea, 
 Clearing the billows with bound and leap 
 Away, away, o'er the foaming deep ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 By Scarba's rock, by Lunga's shore, 
 By Garveloch isles where the breakers roar, 
 With his horse's hoofs he dashed the spray, 
 And on to Loch Buy, away, away ! 
 
248 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 On to Loch Buy all day he rode, 
 Antl reached the shore as sunset glowed, 
 And stopped to hear the sounds of joy 
 That rose from the hills and glens of Moy. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The morrow was May, and on the green 
 They'd lit the fire of Beltan E'en, 
 And danced around, and piled it high 
 With peat and heather and pine-logs dry. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A piper played a lightsome reel, 
 And timed the dance with toe and heel ; 
 While wives looked on, as lad and lass 
 Trod it merrily o'er the grass. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Jessie (fickle and fair was she) 
 Sat with Evan beneath a tree, 
 And smiled with mingled love and pride, 
 And half agreed to be his bride. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Kelpie galloped o'er the green- 
 He seemed a knight of noble mien, 
 And old and young stood up to see, 
 And w r ondered who the knight could be. 
 
 x. 
 
 His flowing locks were auburn bright, 
 His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes flashed light ; 
 And as he sprang from his good grey steed, 
 He looked a gallant youth indeed. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And Jessie's fickle heart beat high 
 As she caught the stranger's glancing eye ; 
 And when he smiled, "Ah well," thought she, 
 * * I wish this knight came courting me ! " 
 
THE KELPIE OF CORRIEVRECKAN. 249 
 
 XII. 
 
 He took two steps towards her seat 
 <( Wilt thou be mine, O maiden sweet ? " 
 He took her lily-white hand, and sighed, 
 " Maiden, maiden, be my bride ?" 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And Jessie blushed, and whispered soft 
 ' ' Meet me to-night when the moon's aloft ; 
 I've dreamed, fair knight, long time of thee 
 I thought thou earnest courting me." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 When the moon her yellow horn displayed, 
 Alone to the trysting went the maid ; 
 When all the stars were shining bright, 
 Alone to the trysting went the knight. 
 
 xv. 
 
 " I have loved thee long, I have loved thee well, 
 Maiden, oh more than words can tell ! 
 Maiden, thine eyes like diamonds shine : 
 Maiden, maiden, be thou mine ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Fair sir, thy suit I'll ne'er deny 
 Though poor my lot, my hopes are high ; 
 I scorn a lover of low degree 
 None but a knight shall marry me." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He took her by the hand so white, 
 And gave her a ring of the gold so bright ; 
 " Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine 
 Maiden, maiden, now thou'rt mine ! " 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 He lifted her up on his steed of grey, 
 And they rode till morning away, away 
 Over the mountain and over the moor, 
 And over the rocks, to the dark seashore 
 
250 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " We have ridden east, we have ridden west 
 I'm weary, fair knight, and I fain would rest. 
 Say, is thy dwelling beyond the sea ? 
 Hast thou a good ship waiting for me ? " 
 
 " I have no dwelling beyond the sea, 
 
 I have no good ship waiting for thee : 
 
 Thou shalt sleep with me on a couch of foam, 
 
 And the depths of the ocean shall be thy home." 
 
 .XXL 
 
 The grey steed plunged in the billows clear, 
 And the maiden's shrieks were sad to hear. 
 " Maiden, whose eyes like diamonds shine, 
 Maiden, maiden, now thou'rt mine ! " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Loud the cold sea-blast did blow, 
 As they sank 'mid the angry waves below 
 Down to the rocks where the serpents creep, 
 Twice five hundred fathoms deep. 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 At morn a fisherman sailing by 
 Saw her pale corse floating high : 
 He knew the maid by her yellow hair 
 And her lily skin so soft and fair. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Under a rock on Scarba's shore, 
 Where the wild winds sigh and the breakers roar, 
 They dug her a grave by the water clear, 
 Among the sea-weed salt and sere. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And every year, at Beltan E'en, 
 The Kelpie gallops across the green 
 On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind, 
 With Jessie's mournful ghost behind. 
 
THE FALL OF FOYERS. 251 
 
 I charge you, maids, whoe'er you be, 
 Conquer your pride and vanity ; 
 And ere on change of love you reckon, 
 Beware the Kelpie of Corrievreckan. 
 
 THE FALL OF FOYERS, 
 
 LOCH NESS, INVERNESS-SHIRE. 
 
 WET with the spray of this transcendant river, 
 Upon this crag, with mosses covered o'er, 
 I love to stand, and listen to the roar 
 
 Of waters bursting down the rocks for ever 
 
 Dashed into rainbows where the sunbeams quiver. - 
 The sound of billows as they beat the shore, 
 Or thunder leaping on the hill-tops hoar, 
 
 Till the firm earth beneath its footsteps shiver, 
 
 Is not more awful than thy flood, O Foyers ! 
 Roaring 'mid chasms like an escaping sea. 
 Alone, and silent, in thy presence vast, 
 
 Awed, yet elated, the rapt soul aspires, 
 Forgetting all its meaner longings past, 
 
 To hold high converse, intimate, with thee. 
 
 Yes ! all unmindful of the world without, 
 My spirit with thee, and mine eyes in thrall 
 
 To thy great beauty, swathing me about, 
 
 To me thy voice breathes peace, majestic Fall ! 
 Envy and pride, and warring passions all 
 
 Hatred and scorn, and littleness of mind, 
 
 And all the mean vexations of mankind, 
 
 Fade from my spirit at thy powerful call. 
 
252 HIGHLAND GATHERINGS. 
 
 I stand before thee reverent and dumb, 
 And hear thy voice discoursing to my soul 
 
 Sublime orations tuned to psalmody 
 High thoughts of peril met and overcome 
 
 Of Power and Beauty and Eternity, 
 And the great God who bade thy waters roll ! 
 
 FOYERS BEFORE THE FALL. 
 
 ERE this commotion wakens in thy breast, 
 
 Or these stern rocks call forth thy hidden powers, 
 How gently, Foyers, thou passest all thine hours ! 
 
 Now loitering where the linnet builds its nest, 
 
 Or in green meadows where the cattle rest 
 Lingering, and singing to the birken bowers, 
 And heather-bells and all the woodland flowers 
 
 That bare their bosoms to the fragrant west. 
 
 So the great minds that soar to heights sublime, 
 And win in peril all the world's applause 
 
 By thoughts of wisdom and courageous deeds, 
 
 Are aye the same that, in a calmer time, 
 Conform them to the sweet domestic laws, 
 And sport with happy children in the meads. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 THE BARD'S FIRST LOVE AND HIS 
 LAST. 
 
 WHEN I was young, unwise and free, 
 And dreamed of things that could not be 
 This side of man's mortality, 
 
 I loved a maid of heavenly birth, 
 Friend of my sorrow and my mirth, 
 The queen and paragon of earth. 
 
 Sweet was the music of her tongue, 
 
 Upon her lips all music hung, 
 
 And streamed abroad like sunlight flung. 
 
 I gathered fragrance from her sighs, 
 And through the glory of her eyes 
 Had glimpses into Paradise. 
 
 My heart was quick to understand j 
 She took me, childlike, by the hand, 
 And wandered with me through the land j 
 
 Through meadow-paths at break of morn, 
 When dews hung gem-like on the thorn, 
 And from the clouds above the corn 
 
 The lark poured music like a shower ; 
 Through forest glade to wild-wood bower, 
 Leaf- sheltered for the noon- tide hour ; 
 
 253 
 
254 EPILOGUE. 
 
 O'er upland tracts of virgin snow, 
 Where timid rivers learn to flow, 
 And leap to reach the world below ; 
 
 Up to the mountain's topmost peak, 
 Breasting the wild winds blowing bleak, 
 With flashing eye and rose-red cheek ; 
 
 Up to its very crest and crown, 
 Men and their madness far adown, 
 Heaven and its glories all our own ; 
 
 We wandered heedless of the roar 
 Of Commerce weltering on the shore, 
 Buzzing and whirling evermore ; 
 
 And there we'd sit from Noon to Night, 
 Her smile my joy, her eyes my light, 
 Enraptured in the Infinite ; 
 
 Or mused on things above the ken 
 Of the dumb-sorrowing herd of men, 
 Unuttered by their tongue or pen. 
 
 But chiefly loved my Love and I, 
 When thunder clomb the Evening sky, 
 And shrill sea-gusts came piping by, 
 
 To sit upon the sea-beach lone, 
 And list the wild waves' undertone 
 The low soft melancholy moan, 
 
 As if the Deep's deep heart did plain, 
 And throb with memories of pain : 
 Remorseful for Earth's children slain 
 
 For their reliance most unwise, 
 On placid seas and favouring skies, 
 To float and waft their argosies : 
 
 The weird-like music of the sea 
 Disclosed its mournful mystery, 
 And sjpake in words to her and me, 
 
THE BARD'S FIRST LOVE AND HIS LAST. 255 
 
 Which took the rhythm of keens and runes, 
 That sank or swoll in plaintive tunes, 
 Such as corpse -watching beldam croons, 
 
 Forlornest 'mid the troop forlorn 
 That weep some widow's eldest-born 
 Untimely from her bosom torn. 
 
 Lulled by that chant and hymn sublime, 
 We'd read some book of ancient time, 
 Of love and agony and crime ; 
 
 And wonder if our dull To-Day 
 Had heart for passions great as they, 
 To lift to torture or to slay : 
 
 If Love were ready as of old 
 To yield dominion, glory, gold, 
 All power, all joy, all bliss untold, 
 
 For sake of Love. If mortal Hate, 
 Immortal grown, and fixed as Fate, 
 Could guard its throne inviolate, 
 
 Though heavenly Mercy should implore 
 To stay the vengeance which it bore, 
 And make it human as before. 
 
 Nor wondered long, nor long inquired, 
 But to the city, domed and spired, 
 Retraced our steps, and never tired 
 
 To mingle with the human throng, 
 To learn the weakness of the strong, 
 Or lure that led the righteous wrong ; 
 
 The meanness of the great and proud, 
 The greatness of the meanest, bowed 
 In foulest corners of the crowd ; 
 
 The sameness, evermore the same, 
 
 Of human glory, human shame, 
 
 And all that men most praise or blame. 
 
256 EPILOGUE. 
 
 In every clime and every age, 
 And written on the living page, 
 As man's perpetual heritage. 
 
 Till worn and wearied and deprest 
 By study of that sharp unrest, 
 Each day the morrow's palimpsest, 
 
 We'd dry our gathering tears, and say 
 " This is no place for us to stay ; 
 Let us be merry, and away ! " 
 
 in. 
 
 And then she'd wave a mystic wand, 
 And with one motion of her hand 
 Waft us afar to Fairyland, 
 
 Untrammelled, unconfmed, to roam, 
 With Elf or Dryad, Sylph or Gnome, 
 Or sportive Nereid of the foam ; 
 
 To talk with spirits of the glade, 
 And nymphs of river and cascade, 
 And fairy folk of greenwood shade ; 
 
 To sail with Mab on fleeciest shred 
 Of morning cloudlet overhead, 
 Three minutes ere the sun upsped ; 
 
 To scale the rainbow's sevenfold height, 
 Its mingling stairs of roseate light, 
 And twist its colours into white. 
 
 Or when the Night came darkening down, 
 And gray had deepened into brown 
 On the small ant-hill of the town. 
 
 To steer witch-fashion through the gloom, 
 Astride with Hecate on a broom, 
 With sea and sky for elbow-room, 
 
 And hear no sound of humankind, 
 Nought but the rushing of the wind, 
 Or roll of thunder far behind ; 
 
THE BARD'S FIRST LOVE AND HIS LAST. 257 
 
 Or higher up the deeps of Heaven, 
 By wilder freaks of fancy driven, 
 Above the anvils of the levin, 
 
 To seize the streaming Northern lights, 
 And flaunt them from the Polar heights 
 To cheer the gloom of Arctic nights. 
 
 Idle I seemed, but was not so, 
 Filled with a fierce desire to know, 
 I would examine all below : 
 
 Study all Art, all Science probe, 
 Were it as solid as the globe, 
 Or flimsy as a midge's robe ; 
 
 Would, without weariness or pause, 
 Dive into principles and laws ; 
 And, mounting from effect to cause, 
 
 For mine and for my Love's behoof, 
 Would track to utmost verge of proof 
 The web of Nature, warp and woof. 
 
 Each modern light or ancient lore 
 I would examine and explore 
 Through narrow chink or open door. 
 
 Whatever since the world began 
 
 Had been discussed or dreamed by man 
 
 I would investigate and scan ; 
 
 And all for her, mine other soul, 
 My light of life, my being's goal, 
 Essence,, quintessence, part and whole. 
 
 And yet not so ; to me far more 
 Than all the teeming earth could pour, 
 Alike my blossom and my store 
 
 She knelt with me at holier shrine, 
 And took my homage all divine 
 To offer to her GOD and mine ; 
 
258 EPILOGUE. 
 
 With adoration's silent awe, 
 
 To GOD from whom our breath we draw, 
 
 The Light, the Life, the Love, the Law. 
 
 v. 
 
 So passed my youth's delicious time, 
 My budding spring, my fruitful prime, 
 And all my thoughts took shape in rhyme. 
 
 And then my wizard harp I strung, 
 And o'er the chords my ringers flung, 
 And bade men listen as I sung. 
 
 Few heard me when the mandate went, 
 Though to their throbbing hearts I sent 
 The lightnings of my firmament. 
 
 The arrowy words with purpose strong 
 That told the tale of human wrong, 
 And Justice sure, though tarrying long ; 
 
 Th' ennobling song that cheered the poor, 
 And taught the wretched to endure 
 The griefs that Love alone could cure. 
 
 But larger audience came at last 
 Their hearts my sea ; my words the blast 
 That lashed their billows as I passed, 
 
 And curled the waters into spray 
 In the clear sunshine of the day, 
 That gleamed and sparkled in the lay. 
 
 And men awarded me the fame 
 
 That I would snatch to crown my name, 
 
 The lambent wreath of flickering flame, 
 
 That round my temples twined and bowed, 
 And marked me out above the crowd 
 As one with deeper grief endowed 
 
 Than they could bear : as one who knew 
 
 Intenser joy ; whose keener view 
 
 Could pierce the outer darkness through 
 
THE BARDS FIRST LOVE AND HIS LAST. 259 
 
 Down the abyss of Time to see, 
 
 And strive in words that GOD made free 
 
 To unfold a mighty mystery. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All this I was, all this I did ; 
 
 And Time that o'er my temples slid 
 
 Seemed but to pile the pyramid 
 
 Of my renown ; but never told 
 That I was growing poor and old, 
 And could not live for lack of gold. 
 
 And when mine eyes, that opened late 
 To smallness of mine own estate, 
 Surveyed the powerful and the great, 
 
 I found that meaner men than I, 
 Mere feeders in the human sty. 
 Without my gifts or purpose high, 
 
 My love, my conscience, or my wit, 
 Were called on judgment-seats to sit, 
 Or found in senates audience fit : 
 
 That some, my friends of early day, 
 The comrades of my work or play 
 In joyous boyhood's lusty May, 
 
 Had riches teeming to their will ; 
 I not enough to eat my fill, 
 Or pay my tailor's humble bill. 
 
 That they were counted great and wise, 
 The cynosures of Beauty's eyes ; 
 And I a beggar in disguise, 
 
 Who had no right at Nature's board, 
 
 Or claim to tangible reward 
 
 Of corn or wine, around me stored. 
 
 And that 'twas still the people's faith 
 That Fame, the flotsam of their breath, 
 Sufficed for Life as well as Death : 
 
260 EPILOGUE. 
 
 And that an epitaph alone 
 
 Was more than ample to atone 
 
 For all the wrongs the Bard had known ; 
 
 For every proud man's disrespect, 
 For all a life's adventure wrecked, 
 For scorn, for hunger and neglect. 
 
 I struck my wild harp once again, 
 But not in anger, though in pain, 
 And sang one melancholy strain, 
 
 With beating pulse and throbbing brow, 
 
 The last mine energies allow, 
 
 The mournful song I'm singing now. 
 
 So write the tomb's recording scrawl, 
 If such poor tribute may befall : 
 ''''He lived and died ; and this was all. 
 
 And yet not all: he did his best, 
 By Hope inspired \ by Love possessed. 
 To make men better. Let him rest ! " 
 
 A POET'S DREAM OF HIS POEMS. 
 
 'TWAS in the starry midnight, 
 
 The wind was whirling low, 
 And the tall pine-trees replying, 
 
 As it rocked them to and fro, 
 When half awake, half sleeping, 
 
 I thought that I was dead, 
 And floated to the gates of Heaven, 
 
 With angels at my head. 
 
 II. 
 Angels ; ah, well I knew them ! 
 
 Pleasant and fair and kind ; 
 Things of my own creation, 
 
 And children of my mind. 
 
A POET'S DREAM OF HIS POEMS. 261 
 
 I looked upon their faces, 
 
 And on their sunny wings, 
 Their eyes as bright as Summer, 
 . Their breath like balm of Springs. 
 
 HI. 
 
 And some of them were smiling 
 
 Like innocence when glad ; 
 And some were grave and pensive, 
 
 With tearful eyes and sad. 
 But all of them were lovely ; 
 
 They were no more than seven ; 
 And they floated me and wafted me, 
 
 And carried me to Heaven. 
 
 11 And are ye all?" I whispered, 
 
 Betwixt a smile and tear, * 
 ** Out of a thousand, only seven, 
 
 To make my light appear ? 
 Out of a thousand, only seven, 
 
 To shine about my name, 
 And give me what I died for, 
 
 The heritage of fame ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " said a stately angel, 
 
 Responsive to my thought, 
 " We're all the future Time shall know 
 
 Of what your hand hath wrought ; 
 Your gay green leaves, and flowers of song, 
 
 You've flung them forth broadcast ; 
 But like the bloom of parted years, 
 
 They've gone into the past. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " But we, though no one knows us, 
 
 Shall echo back your tones 
 As long as England's speech shall make 
 
 The circuit of the zones. 
 
262 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Think not your fate unhappy ! 
 
 To live to future time, 
 In noble thoughts and noble words, 
 
 Is destiny sublime." 
 
 " Angels of grace and beauty ! " 
 
 I rubbed mine eyes and sighed, 
 "A dream ! a dream ! a pleasant dream ! 
 
 Of vanity and pride. 
 A sleeping thought ! a waking doubt ! 
 
 If only one remain, 
 To cheer and elevate my kind, 
 
 I have not lived in vain." 
 
 THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE : LIVING. 
 
 WHAT shall we give him who teaches the nations, 
 
 And cheers the sad heart with the magic of song, 
 Now melting to sorrow subsiding to patience, 
 
 Or pealing like thunder in hatred of wrong ? 
 What shall we give him for spreading, like Homer, 
 
 A halo of light o'er the land of his birth 
 Augmenting its glory, embalming its story, 
 
 And sowing its language like seed o'er the earth ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Give him ? The scorn of the rich and exalted ! 
 
 If virtuous, ignore him ; if erring, assail ! 
 Proclaim when he stumbled ! make known how he halted, 
 
 And point with his follies your venomous tale. 
 Give him ? Neglect and a crust for his pittance ; 
 
 And when he is dead, and his glory lives on, 
 A stone o'er his grave shall be all the acquittance 
 
 The nation shall pay to the greatness that's gone ! 
 
THE BARD'S GRAVE, 263 
 
 THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE : DEAD. 
 
 THE Great King scorned the poet 
 
 A hundred years ago, 
 And the man of might despised him, 
 
 And the Sage refused to know ; 
 And Beauty, clad in purple, 
 
 Had not a smile to throw 
 On one so poor and humble, 
 
 Singing his joy and woe. 
 
 But the Great King's crown is shattered, 
 
 The Captain's sword is rust, 
 The worm is in Beauty's roses, 
 
 And the Sage lies low in dust ; 
 And they're all of them forgotten, 
 
 Save by their God we trust ! 
 But the Song and the Singer flourishes 
 
 In the memory of the just ! 
 
 THE BARD'S GRAVE.* 
 
 WHEN my soul flies to the great Giver, 
 
 Friends of the bard ! let my dwelling be 
 By the green bank of that rippling river, 
 Under the shade of yon tall beech-tree. 
 Bury me there, ye lovers of song, 
 
 When the prayers for the dead are spoken, 
 With my hands on my breast, 
 Like a child at rest, 
 And my lyre in the grave unbroken ! 
 
 * " This little poem pleases me more than I can tell. It is better 
 its simplicity than the finest of fine writing : " Samuel Rogers, A uth 
 of" Tlie Pleasures of Memory" 
 
264 EPILOGUE. 
 
 There untouched by the plough or harrow, 
 
 Let the grave of the Minstrel be, 
 Where the bank is green and the stream is narrow, 
 Under the shade of yon tall beech-tree ! 
 
 TWO SPIRITS OF SONG. 
 
 Two Spirits sat beside me 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 Luminous each and lovely 
 
 In a haze of roseate light : 
 One azure-eyed and mild, 
 
 With hair like the burst of morn, 
 And one with raven tresses, 
 
 And looks that scorched with scorn, 
 And yet with gleams of pity 
 
 To comfort the forlorn. 
 
 And the one, blue-eyed, said, "Poet ! 
 
 Who singest to the crowd, 
 Sing high and ever higher, 
 
 Sing jubilant and loud, 
 In the highways and the byways, 
 
 In the forest and the mart, 
 The song of hope and gladness, 
 
 To cheer the poor man's heart ; 
 And prove that Faith is Fortune, 
 
 And Love the better part. 
 
 ill. 
 
 " Sing joyously ! sing ever ! 
 
 Sing all that's fresh and fair. 
 Sing fountains in the desert ! 
 
 Sing healing in the air ! 
 Sing light that sleeps in darkness ! 
 
 Sing Hope that dwells in doubt ! 
 
TWO SPIRITS OF SONG. 
 
 Sing God, the great All-comforter, 
 Who guides us in and out, 
 
 And, with eternal beauty, 
 Enswathes us round about. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Sing cheerily, sing ever, 
 
 That, if the world be bad, 
 It teems with joys and duties 
 
 To make the good man glad ; 
 The joys of true affection, 
 
 The duties bravely met, 
 That grow to pleasures daily, 
 
 And shine like diamonds set 
 In many-tinted lustre 
 
 On Virtue's coronet. 
 
 v. 
 
 " Sing joyously, sing ever, 
 
 That Right, which seems to fall, 
 Rises again in glory, 
 
 And triumphs over all ; 
 That mists may hide, but cannot 
 
 Destroy the light of day ; 
 That, though the noon be clouded, 
 
 J Tis noon though all gainsay ; 
 That Wrong is for the moment, 
 
 And Right for ever and aye ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Not such," said the other Spirit, 
 
 " Be the burthen of thy song ! 
 Lift up thy voice, O Poet ! 
 
 And sound it loud and long, 
 To stir the nation's pulses, 
 
 And warn both high and low, 
 Of the day of desolation 
 
 That cometh sure, if slow 
 When the storm shall overtake them, 
 
 And toss them to and fro. 
 
266 EPILOGUE. 
 
 VII. 
 
 '* Arouse the slumbering people 
 
 With words of living flame, 
 And touch their hearts, grown callous, 
 
 Till their cheeks burn red with shame. 
 Speak out, clear-forth, to the vicious, 
 
 The ignorant and the base ; 
 Tell them to look around them, 
 
 And not to the highest place, 
 If they'd shun the wrath of God, 
 
 And the lightnings of His face. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 * Tell them, if they are vile, 
 
 They court the oppressor's sword, 
 To smite, and not to spare them, 
 
 In the judgments of the Lord ; 
 That Freedom, high and holy, 
 
 And worthy of the State, 
 Rewards no sordid nation, 
 
 Where the little and the great 
 Are worshippers of money, 
 
 And love it early and late 
 
 ' Love it beyond their honour, 
 
 Love it beyond the law, 
 And cling to it, and bend to it, 
 
 With deep, mysterious awe ; 
 And think no man so lowly 
 
 As he of noblest mould, 
 Who values truth and virtue 
 
 Above his neighbour's gold, 
 Nor cares, if independent, 
 
 For the hunger or the cold. 
 
 x. 
 
 ' Ay tell the world's high teachers, 
 
 Who jest, and jibe, and jeer, 
 And scoff in their paltry fashion 
 At all which men revere, 
 
TWO SPIRITS OF SONG. 267 
 
 That realms are ripe and rotten, 
 
 And fester to decay, 
 When the cynic sneer and laughter 
 
 Of creatures such as they 
 Usurp the place of wisdom 
 
 And no man says them nay. 
 
 : When the Hero and the Prophet, 
 
 The Poet and the Sage, 
 Are fools in the worldly wisdom 
 
 Of a gross and carnal age ; 
 When men go grubbing money, 
 
 And think of nought beside, 
 And women sell their beauty, 
 
 And none will be a bride 
 Unless for ostentation 
 
 And the trappings of her pride. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' In time like this, O Poet, 
 
 Why dally with thy power, 
 And sing thy pleasant fancies 
 
 Like bird in summer bower ? 
 Speak up, clear-forth, loud-voiced, 
 
 To nobler rhymes than these, 
 Till the music of thine anger 
 
 Shall roll like billowy seas 
 Swollen with the wrath of God 
 
 On men's idolatries." 
 
 And I said, ' ' O lovely Spirits ! 
 
 Kindred in thought and will, 
 Hover around me ever, 
 
 And guide and teach me still. 
 Ye are not two, but one 
 
 Two in the form and speech, 
 But one in the inner purpose 
 
 And the holy truths ye teach, 
 That fuse your hearts together, 
 
 And link you each in each. 
 
268 EPILOGUE. 
 
 ' Ye bid me love the Right, 
 
 And scorn and hate the Wrong ; 
 The love and hate are human, 
 
 And both are in my song. 
 Dark Spirit, forsake me not ! 
 
 But thou of the sunny hair, 
 Keep nearer and be dearer, 
 
 And through my voice declare 
 The good beyond the evil, 
 
 The Hope above Despair." 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 
 STAY with me, Poesy ! playmate of childhood ! 
 
 Friend of my manhood ! delight of my youth ! 
 Roamer with me over valley and wild-wood, 
 
 Searching for loveliness, groping for truth. 
 Stay with me, dwell with me, spirit of Poesy, 
 
 Dark were the world if thy bloom should depart, 
 Glory would cease in the sunlight and starlight, 
 
 Freshness and courage would fade from my heart. 
 
 n. 
 Stay with me, comfort me, now more than ever, 
 
 When years stealing over me lead me to doubt, 
 If men, ay, and women, are all we believed them 
 
 When we two first wandered the glad earth about ! 
 Stay with me, strengthen me, soother, adorner, 
 
 Lest knowledge, not wisdom, should cumber my brain, 
 Or tempt me to sit in the chair of the scorner, 
 
 And say, with sad Solomon, all things are vain. 
 
 Stay with me, lend me thy magical mirror, 
 Show me the darkness extinguished in light, 
 
 Show me to-day's little triumph of Error 
 
 Foiled by to-morrow's great triumph of Right. 
 
AN INVOCATION. 269 
 
 Stay with me nourish me, robe all creation 
 
 In colours celestial of amber and blue. 
 Magnify littleness glorify commonness 
 
 Pull down the false, and establish the true. 
 
 Stay with me, Poesy ! Let me not stagnate ! 
 
 Despairing with fools, or believing with knaves, 
 That men must be either the one or the other, 
 
 Victors or victims ! oppressors or slaves ! 
 Stay with me, cling to me ! while there is life in me ; 
 
 Lead me, assist me, direct and control ; 
 Be in the shade what thou wert in the sunshine, 
 
 Source of true happiness, light of my soul ! 
 
INDEX. 
 
 A. 
 
 Abolition of Slavery . . . 
 Adieu, An 
 
 PAGE 
 
 142 
 165 
 140 
 13 
 
 253 
 263 
 262 
 167 
 i73 
 28 
 209 
 234 
 
 g 
 
 69 
 
 168 
 
 T 5 
 
 188 
 132 
 189 
 IS* 
 98 
 
 1 80 
 
 Down ! Down ! Low Down 
 Dream of the Reveller, The. 
 Dreaming, Idly Dreaming . 
 Dying : a Chorus of Angels 
 
 E. 
 
 Earl Norman and John Tru- 
 man 
 
 PAGE 
 
 149 
 104 
 207 
 187 
 
 197 
 161 
 138 / 
 
 126 
 i95 
 251 
 
 1^3 
 1 60 
 *9 
 65 
 
 21 
 252 
 
 l6 4 
 
 I 
 179 
 
 181 
 177 
 i57 
 
 158 
 
 163 
 
 190 
 
 158 
 
 Afraid to Speak his Mind . 
 Angel and the Mourners, The 
 
 B. 
 
 Bard's First Love and his 
 Last The 
 
 Education 
 
 Bard's Grave, The'. . . . 
 Bard's Recompense, The 
 Beautifier, The 
 Blessed Rain, The. . . . 
 Blind Man's Fireside, The . 
 Blue Sky The . . 
 
 Eternal Justice 
 
 F. 
 
 Fair Serpent, The .... 
 Fall, oh ! Fall 
 Fall of Foyers, The . . . 
 False Hero Worship . . . 
 Fancies 
 
 Bridge of Glen Aray, The . 
 Briony Wreath, The . . . 
 By the Rhine . 
 
 Festival of St. Mark, The . 
 Fortress, The 
 Founding of the Bell, The . 
 Foyers before the Fall . . 
 
 G. 
 
 Gentle Tyrant, The . . 
 Geraldine . . 
 
 C. 
 
 Cheer, Boys, Cheer . . . 
 Chiron . . 
 
 Christmas Glee, A . . 
 Clear the Way 
 Come if You Dare .... 
 Coming Time, The. 
 Confabulation, A .... 
 Could we Recall Departed 
 
 Gin Fiend The .... 
 
 
 Good Time Coming, The 
 
 D. 
 
 Daily Work 
 Daisies The .... 
 
 t 
 
 221 
 4 8 
 
 73 
 
 Grave of Robert Burns, At 
 the . 
 
 Great and Small .... 
 Great Authorities .... 
 
 H. 
 
 Hal and his Friends . . . 
 Hammer, The 
 
 Dance of Ballochroy, The . 
 Death-song of Thaliessin, 
 The .... 
 
 Defiance to Old Age, A . 
 
INDEX. 
 
 271 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 166 
 
 163 
 183 
 195 
 151 
 
 162 
 58 
 80 
 
 5 
 127 
 
 268 
 
 150 
 191 
 192 
 
 208 
 
 247 
 
 9 
 
 176 
 136 
 82 
 193 
 75 
 73 
 182 
 
 J 59 
 96 
 161 
 67 
 
 205 
 196 
 107 
 
 238 
 
 210 
 92 
 
 68 
 172 
 24 
 
 Mountain-top, The . . . 
 Mowers The * . . . 
 
 PAGE 
 212 
 
 85 
 
 61 
 
 162 
 
 19 
 153 
 Si 
 159 
 
 146 
 161 
 206 
 
 J 59 
 88 
 
 ^ 3 
 260 
 
 199 
 42 
 
 154 
 36 
 
 186 
 
 200 
 I8 4 
 185 
 214 
 
 173 
 IO2 
 
 128 
 
 74 
 242 
 72 
 
 174 
 
 101 
 
 144 
 39 
 129 
 
 Heaven and Hell . . . . 
 Highland Emigrants, The 
 Honest Old Words. . . . 
 Horny Hand and Busy Brain 
 
 I. 
 
 Iconoclasts, The . . . . 
 Interview, The 
 Invisible Companions . . 
 Invisible Crown, The . . . 
 In the Villa 
 
 
 My Fellow Creatures . . . 
 
 N. 
 Napoleon and the Sphinx . 
 
 Noble Spirits, The . . . . 
 No Enemies 
 
 0. 
 
 Invocation, An 
 
 Invocation in Aid of a Great 
 Cause, An 
 I Lay in Sorrow . . . . 
 I Love my Love 
 
 J. 
 
 John Smith's Philosophy. . 
 
 K. 
 
 Kelpie of Corrievreckan,The 
 l&ng and the Nightingales, 
 The 
 
 Ownership 
 O Ye Tears ! 
 
 P. 
 
 Pebbles 
 
 Phantoms of St. Sepulchre, 
 The 
 
 Poet The 
 
 Poet's Dream of his Poems, A 
 Poor Man's Song, A . 
 Prayer of Adam, The . . . 
 Prayer of the Mammonites, 
 The 
 
 L. 
 Last Quarrel, The . . . . 
 
 
 R. 
 
 Return Home, The . . . 
 
 S. 
 
 Say no More that Love De- 
 ceives 
 
 Light in the Window, The . 
 Little but Great . 
 
 Living Greatness . . . . 
 
 Lochaber no more . . . . 
 
 Louise on the Door-step . 
 Love Extravaganza, A . . 
 Love in Hate 
 
 Scotland's Name and Fame 
 Scottish Volunteers, The . 
 Sea-king's Burial, The . . 
 Seasons and Reasons . . . 
 Sectarian Astronomer, To a 
 Shadows in the Streets . . 
 Ship, The 
 Shoal of Whales, The. . . 
 Sister Spirits, The . . . . 
 Songs without Words . . . 
 Souls of the Children, The . 
 
 T. 
 
 Three Preachers, The . . 
 Threnody for a Beloved One 
 Tick of the Clock, The . . 
 
 Love's Questions and Re- 
 plies 
 
 Loving in Vain 
 
 Lucifer in London . . . . 
 
 M. 
 
 Maclaine's Child . . . . 
 Man's a Man for a' That, A 
 May Mary . . 
 
 Melodies and Mysteries . . 
 Miller of the Dee, The . . 
 Mist 
 
272 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 To-day and To-morrow . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 198 
 
 To the West ! to the West 
 
 . 169 
 
 True Piety 
 
 
 Two Books, The . . . 
 
 5 1 
 
 44 
 
 Two Houses, The . . . 
 
 55 
 
 Two Spirits of Song . . 
 TubalCain 
 
 264 
 . 170 
 
 U. 
 
 
 Unknown Romances . . 
 
 . 84 
 
 V. 
 
 Vanity let it be . . 
 Verse and Poetry . 
 Vision, A .... 
 Voice of the Time . 
 
 66 
 
 W. 
 
 1'AGE 
 
 Waterloo Bridge .... 100 
 Wayside Spring in Alabama, 
 
 The ........ 49 
 
 Weapons ....... 156 
 
 We are Wiser than we Know 12 
 What Big Ben said to Lon- 
 
 don ........ 77 
 
 What Might be Done . . . 133 
 
 Who Shall be Fairest . . 175 
 
 Wife's Portrait, A . . . . 160 
 
 Wines, The ...... 201 
 
 Winifred ....... 26 
 
 Woodman, The ..... 203 
 
 Wraith of Garry Water, The 230 
 
 Y. , 
 
 134 I Youth's Warning 
 
 205 
 
 Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBR 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borro 
 This book is DUE on the last date star 
 
 
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 SENT ON ILL 
 
 FEB 28 2003 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY 
 
 LD 21-95m^ll,'50(2877sl6)476 
 
THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY