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 31953LU SENT ON ILL FEB 28 2003 U. C. BERKELEY LD 21-95m^ll,'50(2877sl6)476 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY