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 }.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 7; .,4c, . ^^ ISqS- 
 
 LEAVES FROM THE OLIVE MOUNT.
 
 LEAVES FROM THE OLIVE MOUNT. 
 
 ^OClllS 
 
 BT 
 
 CATHERINE FRANCES B. MACREADY. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY. 
 
 1860.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Straxgewavs & Walden (late G. Barclay), Piinters, 
 
 2S Oiistle St. Leicester Sq.
 
 
 (Lo mi) Jfatbcr. 
 
 Foil ever loved, revered, — my heart's first friend, — 
 
 Tender as love itself, and true as truth, 
 
 I would that men might see thee ^vith my eyes, 
 
 Know thee as I have Imown — then should fame's wreath 
 
 (Bound on thy brows of yore) new semblance take, 
 
 And show thee halo'd w^th celestial light ! 
 
 Yet I, who Imow thee best, and have enshrined 
 
 Thy virtues in my soul, shaU feeblest prove 
 
 To sj)eak, how dear tliy worth ! — That which has been 
 
 Most noble in tliee, never can be kno^^'n. 
 
 Oh, loving lips, long silent in the grave, 
 
 Could but the old life warm them for a s]iace. 
 
 How would they echo now my poor applause I 
 
 And oh, if this adventurous tongue can boast 
 
 The transcript of one pure intent, true thought, 
 
 Or generous aspiration, unto thee 
 
 Alone be praise ! All good my life can show 
 
 Is of thy teaching, and in offering thee 
 
 This lowly tribute of my grateful love, 
 
 God Imows, I give thee but thine own again I 
 
 C. F. M. 
 
 824200
 
 In prefixing the title to this little volume, the Author 
 is desirous of disclaiming all pretension to dogmatic 
 assumption, having made use of it simply in allusion to 
 the religious sentiment pervading the following poems.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER . 
 
 THE IMAGE OF THE TRfTH 
 
 THE WOODEN CROSS . 
 
 CHRIST 
 
 THE ANGEL OF LOVE . 
 
 SPRINGS IN THE DESERT 
 
 THE SIBYLS PROPHECY 
 
 HEAVEN ? . 
 
 CONSOLATOK 
 
 ICHABOD 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE HAND 
 
 THE POET . 
 
 DOMENIC . 
 
 TO CECILE . 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 7y 
 
 82 
 
 84 
 
 88 
 
 02 
 
 1)7 
 
 101 
 
 106 
 
 117 
 
 120 
 
 127 
 
 l:3G
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 in L.ues '• To mv Father," v. U,for '• tungue ' read "pen. 
 I'age U, V. v.). for " lUiUke that" read " unlike to that." 
 Pa^e 20, V. U.yor " to beloved" rea'l " to be loved." 
 
 — ^ , 
 
 And bid the drooping Geuius of their doom 
 
 Doff liis darlc robes, and to their sight reveal, 
 
 White -winged, an angel of benignant mien. 
 
 Hearken then, stricken and bereaved ones I 
 
 Ye, that have loved and lost ; — whose lorn hearts ache 
 
 With load of mom-nful memories — to whose eyes 
 
 All radiant sights grow dim thro' mist of tears — 
 
 Quicken yom* long-dnlled senses, for, behold, 
 
 " The wilderness is gladdened, and the birds 
 
 B
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Faint hope is mine with these o'er-plaintive strains 
 
 To charm the children of prosperity, 
 
 Win tears from eyes as yet milearned to weep, 
 
 Or touch bUthe hearts : But, for their sakes, who long 
 
 Have lived on life's dark side, fain would I draw 
 
 Some drops of balm from sorrow's bitter cup ; 
 
 And bid the drooping Genius of their doom 
 
 Doff Ms dark robes, and to their sight reveal, 
 
 White -A\dnged, an angel of benignant mien. 
 
 Hearken then, stricken and bereaved ones I 
 
 Ye, that have loved and lost; — whose lorn hearts ache 
 
 With load of mournfid memories — to whose eyes 
 
 All radiant sights grow dim thro' mist of tears — 
 
 Quicken your long-dulled senses, for, behold, 
 
 " The wilderness is gladdened, and the birds 
 
 B
 
 2 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Break forth in singing I " Oh, that I might tune 
 My voice to their sweet notes ; then should my song 
 Steal, Syren-like, thro' aU your inmost souls. 
 And unaware beguile them of their griefs I 
 
 To see before and after — loiow too much, 
 And yet too little — suffer in excess, 
 And taste of joy the veriest ecstasy — 
 Hope, yearn, and strain for what to others' eyes 
 Are shadows, fashions of a fevered dream — 
 Love with a love, before whose fires the light 
 Of human passion flickers faint and dim, — 
 Such is the poet's lot ; — and such was thine, 
 Thou child of Light, aspiring Naamah I 
 Well did thy name become thee, for thou wast, 
 Ev'n from thy day of birth, " the Beautiful ; " 
 As fair as are the stars on summer night, 
 As pure as earliest snowdrops, — delicate 
 As the frail gossamer a breath can stir. 
 All, earth could boast of rare and fortunate. 
 From her first dawn of life, was Naamah's. 
 For tho' long since beyond her memory's reach 
 Both parents died, her uncle, cold and stern 
 To all beside, had lavished tenderness 
 Upon his orphan chai-ge ; had been to her 
 Father and mother, guardian, friend, and guide, 
 All ties in one : and in due time designed 
 To bind her yet more closely in his love
 
 THE PASSION FLOWEH. 3 
 
 By marriage with his heir and favourite son. 
 
 Youth, health, and hope, and wealth and high estate, 
 
 Rich promise for the future, — all were hers, — 
 
 Yet dull and slow of soul are they, who judge 
 
 The heart's content by outward shows of bliss. 
 
 We have a world within, \\'ith sun and stars 
 
 And seasons of its own, — where tempests rage 
 
 Ofttimes, and all is darkness and dismay, 
 
 Whilst o'er our visible hfe no trouble lies, 
 
 But west winds blow, and softening showers descend, 
 
 And all is calm, as Eden ere the fall. 
 
 Oh, then, be tender with thy blame or scorn, 
 
 If haply thou art one to probe the deeps 
 
 Of this mysterious being, called our soul. 
 
 So full of natural sadness, and so prone 
 
 To murmur, whatsoe'er its mortal lot, — 
 
 From earliest years, a strange and silent child, 
 
 Of mood so mild and still, was Naamah, 
 
 She moved hke one, upon whose spirit weighs 
 
 A sense of wonder, mystery, and awe. 
 
 Her large, bright, questioning eyes still seemed to ask 
 
 The meaning of the world without her soul. 
 
 So much unlike the world she found within. 
 
 Aye -SATapt in musings and surmisings vague 
 
 That found no vent, from day to day she grew 
 
 More soul-perplexed and sad, until her mind 
 
 Was like to work and wear itself away, 
 
 A shadow seemed to lie upon her hfe,
 
 4 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 O'ercasting all she saw, and thought, and felt. 
 
 Death seemed too distant — death, that could not fail 
 
 To chase the darkness, and beyond disclose 
 
 The world of cheerful peace, for which she pined. 
 
 So passed her childhood ; but her fourteenth year 
 
 Had scarcely daAvned, when lo I there seemed to break 
 
 A sudden radiance on her inward life. 
 
 As if some soid-awakening spirit moved 
 
 Upon the slumb'ring waters of her mind. 
 
 And made its foimtains bubble forth afresh. 
 
 Her tongue was loosed; — her long so silent lips 
 
 Gave forth a gush of such rare eloquence, 
 
 That she became a wonder to herself; 
 
 So strange it seemed and sweet to find the thoughts, 
 
 Long cold and dead, awake to warmth and life, 
 
 And fill the air arovmd with melodies. 
 
 Now might her lute be heard at eventide, 
 
 And voice low murmuiing in plaintive rhjTnes ; 
 
 Her ghding form be seen at earhest da^\^l 
 
 Low bending o'er her flowers, to watch their cups 
 
 Just opening to the sun : but most she loved 
 
 To ponder books of sad or grave import. 
 
 And picture to her mind in various shapes 
 
 Man's mournful destiny, and school her heart 
 
 To look on sorrow as our portion here. 
 
 Thus deeming hfe a struggle and a cross 
 
 To fight out bravely, patiently to bear, 
 
 She ever strove to fix her thoughts beyond
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER, 
 
 This visible world, and garner up lier love 
 
 In that all-tender and eternal Heart, 
 
 Whence all love flows; — until wathin her grew 
 
 Such certainty of things unseen, — she lived 
 
 In presence of some breathing sanctity. 
 
 And kejjt her eyes still steadfast turned towards 
 
 The Hght, that radiates from th' Eternal mind. 
 
 All theories of prophet, bard, and sage, 
 
 Her ardent mind explored, from every source 
 
 Deducing truth, how deep soe'er imbued 
 
 And fouled Avith falsehood, as the miner clears 
 
 The costly jewel from its bed of clay ; — 
 
 Probed to their origin men's various creeds 
 
 And superstitions, not A\ith bigot scorn 
 
 To shudder at their sad deformities, 
 
 But A\ith a lowly reverence for her kind, 
 
 And the discerning eye of piety. 
 
 That sees thro' every faith, howe'er involved 
 
 In darkness and corruptions, traces faint. 
 
 Dim shadowings of the One Eternal Truth. 
 
 Thus was her Ufe in all enjoyments rich 
 
 Of healthful, pure, and elevating Idnd ; 
 
 A life so innocent and beautiful, 
 
 So guarded from aU taint of worldliness, 
 
 It seemed, as on some hallowed eminence 
 
 Her ark had rested, far above the earth, 
 
 Girt round with harmonies and airs of Heav'n.
 
 6 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 When Naamah from dreamless slumber "woke, 
 The morn of her betrothment, sunlight streamed 
 Thro' her green-curtained casement in long streaks 
 Of emerald on the floor, and odours faint 
 Stole thro' the open lattice of sweet-brier 
 And clustering jessamine — and singing birds 
 Greeted her ears with chorus of blithe notes 
 And strains mellifluous — tiU, with heart brim full 
 Of grateful ecstasy, she clasped her hands, 
 And cried — " Oh God I how beautiful is life I " 
 Scarce sixteen summers Naamah might count 
 On this auspicious morn. She Imew some change 
 Was stealing over life, yet Imew not what, 
 Half pleasant, half perplexing, to a heart 
 That love as yet had touched not. She had lived, 
 As lives a child A^-ithin its parents' home, 
 Lo\'ing her cousins with a sister's love, 
 Scarce Imomng which,' if either, she loved best ; 
 Too happy in the present, much to care 
 For promise of more happiness to come. 
 'Twas near the close of spring, the morning wind 
 Blew soft and cool, when Naamah, attired 
 In silken robe, like some fair queen of May, 
 Came forth, as was her wont, to walk at dawTi. 
 She paced the long stone terrace, looking out 
 Upon the wood-crowned hills with blue mists veiled 
 (Which slow the sun dispersed), and distant sea, 
 That sparlded thro' the openings of the trees.
 
 THE I'ASSION FLOWER. 
 
 On each side beds of flowers and velvet lawn 
 
 Greeted her eyes, — while delicately wreathed 
 
 With many-tinted ivy, from the wall 
 
 Of the old mansion graceful creepers hung. 
 
 Yet spring was almost ended, and she marked, 
 
 Half sadly, how so soon the golden chains 
 
 Of the laburnum, broken, shed their gems. 
 
 With pale syringa petals, on the groimd. 
 
 " Thus, beauty and decay, and life and death. 
 
 On this strange earth are blended 1 " murmured she ; 
 
 When, close at hand, a deep-toned tender voice 
 
 Accosted her, and turning, she beheld 
 
 Her cousin Wilfred — "All too sad," he said, 
 
 " Such thoughts for such a season, my sweet bride I 
 
 The fairest morning greets thee, harbinger 
 
 Of fairer yet to come 1 I would not meet 
 
 The future, bright with promise as it seems. 
 
 In mood of childish mirth; yet fain would see 
 
 The Hght of sober gladness in thine eyes, 
 
 On thy dear lips a smile ; for life with thee 
 
 Shall be as bright as this spring morning, love, 
 
 And calm as summer evening after showers I " 
 
 The colour deepened on the maiden's cheek, 
 
 A flush of candid joy : " How sweet," she said. 
 
 " Are words of hope from thee 1 Methought of late 
 
 Some sorrow lay upon thee ; thou wast gro^^^l 
 
 So still and silent, and thy brow oft Imit 
 
 In troublous meditation : clouds no more
 
 8 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Obscure thy cheerful soul, and joyfully 
 I hail thee prophet of good times to be 1 " 
 " Ev'n so, my Naamah ; yet this bright morn, 
 "V^Tiich binds us by so close a tie, foreruns 
 To-morrow, when reluctantly I bid 
 Adieu, for many a day, to all I love. 
 Thou knowest how ardently my father's hopes 
 Are fixed on me to raise his honoured name 
 To yet more honour; — how I do aspire. 
 By toil and constancy, in future days 
 To lay a wreath of fame at his loved feet. 
 For this I leave thee, certainly assured 
 To prove, in truth to him, more true to thee : 
 And tho' debarred thy presence, in my dreams 
 I shall behold thy beauty, see thee smile 
 In fond approval of my studious choice. 
 Then wonder not, that care and serious thought 
 Intrade upon my wonted buoyant mood. — 
 Besides, the thought of her, whom all too ill 
 I loved when mth us, oft revisits me, 
 Checldng too eager mirth ; and ere we part, 
 'Tis ev'n of her, beloved, that I woidd speak. 
 Sometimes I smile, but oftener sigh, to think 
 How in my early boyhood I have looked 
 With envy on my brother Gabriel's lot, 
 "VSTio, being weak in health from infancy. 
 Was kept at home and dehcately reared, 
 "VMiile I was forced to fight my way alone
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Tliro' rough scliool life. — Night after night I lay- 
 Dejected, picturing to my fancy home, 
 Its treedom and delights ; and thought, how hard 
 To con my tasks the long hot summer day, 
 "VMiilst Gabriel gambolled in the fields at \vi\l, 
 Or sat in shady nook beside the stream. — 
 I loved my brother, yet I envied him ; 
 And loathed myself the while, and writhed in vain 
 To free myself (as from a haunting fiend) 
 From this same griping passion. Yet it lived 
 And burned \vithin me, and I trembled, lest 
 By word, or look, or gesture unawares, 
 I might betray my secret shame. Alas I 
 I knew not, there were eyes, I could not blind, 
 Too slow to read their meaning, oftentimes 
 Fixed on me full of tears, wdth such a look, 
 As should have awed the demon from my heart, 
 And left it free to penitence and love I 
 Oh, gentle Niiamah, hast thou not marked, 
 Wlien all around was wrought to noisy mirth, 
 And a low deep-draAATi sigh would startle us, 
 How, laughter checked, all loolcs would sudden turn 
 Towards my mother, filled \^-ith wonderment ? 
 Those sighs have long foimd echo in my heart : 
 God loiows, how mournful is their memory I 
 'Twas the last summer of her Hfe, she sat, 
 One sunny afternoon, beneath the porch 
 Where grows the Passion Flower ; a pang of grief
 
 10 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Shot tliro' my heart at sight of her changed face, 
 Till then unmarked its wanness : close I Imelt 
 Beside her, bending down my head to hide 
 The tears that blinded me : she, tenderly 
 Interpreting my silence, passed her arm 
 Aromid my neck, and drew me to her heart. 
 Oh, horn- to be remembered, — after hope. 
 Ambition's glowing dreams, and all of earth 
 Most fair and dear, are faded from my thoughts I 
 In her long wasted hands she folded mine. 
 And clasped them close, and fixed her eyes, intent 
 With looks of pleading love, npon my face. 
 ' Thou art thy father's well-beloved,' she said, 
 * The son, in whom his soul delights : — Thy voice 
 And presence so resembhng his, I seem 
 To gaze upon the image of his youth 
 Renewed in thee ; ah, as thou hast encroached 
 Upon thy feebler brother's share of love. 
 And seest him poor, wherein thou most art rich, 
 Thyself fill up the void, and be to him 
 In tenderness as brother, parent, guide, 
 Companion, all in one : curb his wild thoughts, 
 Strange phantasies, and gently win his mind 
 To sober exercise and wise pursuits. 
 That he may grow in thy dear father's love, 
 WTio deems him vain and indolently bent ; 
 (Too harshly judging him I) therefore do thou, 
 For my poor memory's sake, at all times seek
 
 TIIK PA8SI0X FLOWER. 11 
 
 To shield thy brother from cold looks, and scorn, 
 
 And stern rebuke ; — for grief in one so frail 
 
 Would wear away the slender threads of life, 
 
 And lay him early at his mother's side.' 
 
 Her looks are graven on my heart ; her tones, 
 
 Like voices of the unseen world, Anbrate 
 
 Upon my inward sense unceasingly 1 
 
 For this, in absence I would fain bequeath. 
 
 To thee this sacred trust, loved Niiamah, 
 
 Beseeching thee (as thou wast ever prone 
 
 To kindly offices) that thou wilt be 
 
 As guardian saint to my poor Gabriel, 
 
 And by the fair example of thy life 
 
 Attract him upwards to the paths of truth. 
 
 Such feet as his and thine were formed to tread I " 
 
 With doA^nicast eyes, as one abashed by sense 
 
 Of her o\m faihngs. and in tremulous tone. 
 
 The -wiUing Niiamah her promise gave. 
 
 And now they neared the house, and paused beneath 
 
 The porch, where wreathes the Passion Flower, — 
 
 " Wear this 
 Among thy braids of auburn hair, beloved," 
 Said Wilfred, reaching out his hand to cull 
 The fairest blossom ; when an eager voice 
 Cried, close behind them, " Wilfred, hold thine hand I 
 Pluck not, touch not the balefid Passion Flower I 
 'Twas planted by an enemy, and reared 
 By th' e\dl genius of our house : "v\Tong not
 
 12 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Thy bride with such a gift on such a morn I " 
 " Away with thy wild fancies, Gabriel !" 
 Eetumed the elder brother, " in my heart 
 I hold it dear, this sacred Passion Flower ! 
 My mother taught me as a child to trace 
 "Within its cup the cross and crown of thorn, 
 Which one day must be borne by all who live. 
 Heed him not, Naamah ; ev'n as these leaves 
 Unfold their glories 'neath the mid-day sun, 
 So shall thy life, like this propitious morn, 
 Be ripened into splendour at its noon." 
 
 The sounds of festival had died away. 
 The farewells spoken : Wilfred pensive stood, 
 In the grey dawn, beside his mother's grave. 
 Behind him rose the time-stained sombrous pile. 
 Which late had rung to song and merriment. 
 Now silent as a tomb. Enchantment sure, 
 The scene of yesternight ; the shining halls, 
 Fair fonns, that moved in gem-embroidered vest 
 To sound of music, as their voices sweet. 
 Gay as their hopes — it seemed, a magic wand 
 Had wafted all that fairy world away, 
 WTiile memory mocked the victim of the spell, 
 Now waked to sigh o'er life's illusive dreams I 
 Low bending, Wilfred plucked with reverent hand 
 A glowing hearts-ease from his mother's grave. 
 And pressed it to his lips. " Oh, if thou still
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 13 
 
 Lovest me, motlier ! if my feeble prayers 
 
 Yet reach thee where thou art, give me, I pray, 
 
 Thy blessing ere I go 1 Too well thou loiow'st, 
 
 With all my good intent, how frail I am, 
 
 And prone to err. — How still the world doth lie I 
 
 Methinks I feel thy breath upon my cheek, 
 
 Hear thy low sigh responsive on the air I 
 
 Farewell, beloved spot! thou home, Avhere hope 
 
 And memory dw^ell ! within thy shelf ring walls 
 
 She sleeps, my heart's dear all — my love — my bride, — 
 
 My wife that shall be I Sleep — sleep on — sweet soul I 
 
 God give thee rest — such rest, as angels know, 
 
 "Who love and sin not I I am sad at heart. 
 
 To think how long the days and nights ^^•ill be, 
 
 Ere I shall see thy face I" Thus Wilfred spoke, 
 
 Cast one fond ling' ring look on all around. 
 
 And turned upon his way reluctantly. 
 
 But hope was young within him, and his feet 
 
 Still pressed the soil of Eden. — 'Tis most true, 
 
 Like our first parents in the spring of life, 
 
 (Girt in with flowers and breathing perfumed air,) 
 
 We deem ourselves in some fair Paradise, 
 
 Till sin or sorrow with a sword of flame 
 
 Dispels the flatt'ring dream, and drives us forth 
 
 To meet the rude realities ^\•ithout, 
 
 And toil and weep from morn till evening's close, 
 
 ^^llen feeble rays of hope beyond this earth 
 
 Fall from the silent and mysterious stars.
 
 14 THE PASSION FLOWEK. 
 
 Into the world went \Yilfred ; from his home — 
 
 His qniet happy home — that purer world, 
 
 "VSliere he could hear God's voice among the trees, 
 
 Or in the murmuring rivulet, and read 
 
 His lessons in aU good and lovely things, 
 
 Into that other world, by evil made 
 
 A blot in God's creation ; which throughout 
 
 Was good in the beginning, until man 
 
 With tainted breath marred all he breathed upon '. 
 
 Oh, man I too vain and stubborn to obey 
 
 The wholesome laws of nature, which alone 
 
 Decree thee health, and peace, and happiness. 
 
 See what a web thou'st woven round thyself 
 
 Of shadows and deceptions I thro' what maze 
 
 Of follies, and hypocrisies, and lies. 
 
 Thou hast doomed thy better self with fruitless toil 
 
 To seek that truth, which, sunlike, shed its light 
 
 So bountiful upon thee at thy birth I 
 
 Ah, how unlike that, which thou call'st Kfe, 
 
 The hfe, which God ordained thee ! hadst thou been 
 
 But the meek child, that follows trustingly 
 
 Its father's voice, how gently might thy days 
 
 Have ghded by from childhood to old age I 
 
 How tenderly His hand, that placed thee here 
 
 (\Mien thine appointed mission was fulfilled) 
 
 Had drawn thee to himself, thy being's source I 
 
 But thou woiddst not ; and lo 1 thine history 
 
 Is writ in blood and tears 1 and the same voice,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWEn. 16 
 
 That on the doomed city woe denounced 
 
 Of old time, still is heard condemning thee, 
 
 Thou world at enmity with Truth and God! 
 
 Ye rulers I that so high above your kind 
 
 Sit royally enthroned, and on the poor 
 
 " Bind heavy burdens grievous to be borne," 
 
 Have ye not ears to hear it ? Sounds it not 
 
 Above the treacherous praises of mean men, 
 
 Who curse you in their hearts, the while they praise ? 
 
 Ye priests, that in your arrogance block up 
 
 The entrance to God's kingdom I ye blind guides. 
 
 That miss yourselves " the straight and narrow way," 
 
 And suffer none to find it, — steals it not 
 
 Athwart the stormy music of the choir, 
 
 Vain repetitions, chant monotonous 
 
 Of babbling worshippers, even in your souls 
 
 Saying, " Your new moons and your solemn feasts 
 
 I utterly abhor ; nor dwell I here 
 
 In temple made with hands, but in that heart. 
 
 That wox'ships me in spirit and in truth ?" 
 
 Oh, Caiaphas' disciples, and not Christ's, 
 
 That in His name (who plied a lowly trade 
 
 Long years in Nazareth, and lived on earth 
 
 A wand'rer, minist'ring to despised wants 
 
 In haunts obscure, amid forsaken souls) — 
 
 Now dwell in palaces and make long prayers, 
 
 Exhorting to obedience, and to faith 
 
 In your misrule, the poor beguiled crowd,
 
 16 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 That gape in ignorant wonder at your feet I 
 
 \Mien ye shall lay aside your worldly pomps, 
 
 Forsake the throne, whereon, in God's own house, 
 
 Your presence gives the lie to all ye teach 
 
 Of Christian meekness, — when ye shall bring down 
 
 Your pampered yvilLs, and with your own hands work 
 
 The meanest offices of charity. 
 
 Call Christ your master then, and only then I 
 
 Alas I all flesh has erred and gone astray I 
 
 Men's doctrine and opinions rule mankind, 
 
 And e\'il, good, and good is evil called ; 
 
 And he, who would not taint his purer soul 
 
 In the foul atmosphere of worldly men, 
 
 Mi:st stand aloof in God's own armour dight, 
 
 And work in lonely strength his upward way. 
 
 Such brave intent had Wilfred — steadfastly 
 
 Amid the muddy waters of the world 
 
 To make himself a channel clean and pure. 
 
 And steer his course ■\\ithin it : so to live 
 
 Among men, but not of them, ardently 
 
 "VYithin his ]\Iaster's ^dneyard labouring 
 
 Thro' the mid heat and burden of the day. 
 
 At length weU-eamed success his efforts cro\Mied ; 
 
 Applause beyond expectance greeted him. 
 
 In science, art, and all fair enterprise 
 
 He won the i:)alm ; while young men chafed, and old 
 
 Wearied not praising him ; and mothers sighed, 
 
 And eyed liim enviously, ^^ith wi.'stful hope,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 That God miglit give them such a son as he I 
 The \\i8e and good, (choice spirits of the earth.) 
 Proclaimed him of their brotherhood, and paid 
 Dehghted homage to a youth, so rich 
 In all the excellence of ripened years. 
 Fain had they sometime shared his leisure hours 
 But "Wilfred, conscious of his frailty, feared 
 To face the flatt'ring aspect of his fame, 
 Lest, dazzled unawares, his soul should stoop 
 From lofty heights of modesty to pride. 
 So, as in sanctuary enshrined, he Hved — 
 Fanning ambition to a holy flame ; — 
 The gentle presence of his living love, 
 And his dead mother's spirit haunting him. 
 Still prompting high endeavour— pointing out 
 To peacefid home and pleasures innocent, 
 His guerdon in the future : thus fulfilled 
 The utmost promise of his sanguine youth. 
 The years of his probation wore away. 
 
 Meanwhile a free bUthe life had Gabriel led 
 In Naamah's companionship ; at will 
 FoUowdng his fancies, ofttimes wand'ring lone 
 O'er heath and moor from morn till fall of eve ; 
 Among the rocks by moonlight, lulled his soul 
 To the low music of the rippling sea. 
 A joyous child of nature : one, who dwelt 
 Too much apart from human sympathy
 
 18 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 In Ms own world : his father oft from home, 
 
 His priestly tutor loving more to wdeld 
 
 The sword of controversy, than to guide 
 
 His wapvard charge up learning's steep ascent ; 
 
 None seemed to care which way he wander'd, how 
 
 His hours were spent, poor youth, save Naamah, 
 
 "V^liom \^'ilfred's parting tenderness had bound 
 
 In promise to befriend him. Guilelessly 
 
 She strove that promise to fulfil, nor deemed 
 
 (As stronger natures still the weaker sway) 
 
 The change, she sought to work in Gabriel's soul. 
 
 Wrought in her own, attuning it to his 
 
 In perfect harmony. Day after day. 
 
 What keen dehght was theirs, when side by side 
 
 On greensward bank rfechned, they conned the page 
 
 Of old romance, — rare tales of chivalry. 
 
 And fairy lore — until the scene around 
 
 Seemed all alive with fancied forms of knights. 
 
 And high-born dames in gorgeous quaint attire ; 
 
 While white plumes danced, and jewelled corslets 
 
 gleamed 
 Between the trees, and every shrub and flower 
 To them was consecrate, the favoured haunt 
 Of elf and fay, — each moss-grown well and spring 
 And gurgling brook the choice resort of nymph, 
 Or soulless water-sprite I How pleasing sad. 
 Moved by the bard's enchanting art, to weep 
 With gentle Tancred his Clorinda's fate.
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 19 
 
 Or with forlorn Erminia wand'ring lone, 
 
 The prey of hopeless love I To blend their sighs 
 
 O'er Ketrarch's plaintive strains in jtraise of her, 
 
 The gold-haired Laura, cold embodiment 
 
 Of the diAane idea in his mind I 
 
 Ofttimes at evening, when the A^•ind's sweet breath 
 
 Had cooled the air, in a small pleasure-boat 
 
 They drifted out upon the tranquil sea. 
 
 And sat, in silence musing, till the shades 
 
 Of twilight gathered round the tall grey cliffs, 
 
 And dimmed the distant shore ; such calm supreme 
 
 Their souls pervaded, — sense of solemn awe. 
 
 As though some spirit mighty and benign 
 
 Brooded upon the deep ; or He, who trod 
 
 Erect the stormy waves of Galilee, 
 
 Had left His viewless track upon the sea. 
 
 And lulled its heavings in profoimd repose. 
 
 Such hours of bliss, serene, imspeakable. 
 
 Snatched from the dull routine of daily life. 
 
 Brief foretaste seemed of that sublimer state. 
 
 Towards w^hich our yearnings tend I How beautiful 
 
 Was Gabriel's face in moments such as these ! 
 
 But most, when in the chapel, soul-enwrapt. 
 
 With Avondrous sldU he waked the organ-tones, 
 
 While mellowed hght thro' painted windows streamed 
 
 Upon his rare pale features, lumi n ous 
 
 With inspiration's glow-, a transient gleam 
 
 Of such seraphic radiance, as might bless
 
 20 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 The eyes of Raphael in ecstatic trance, 
 
 Or Milton in his dreams of Paradise I 
 
 WTiy thrills thy bosom, Naamah, and tears 
 
 Fill thy clear eyes ? Ah, me I some lips there are 
 
 With power to frame our imfomied fancies, give 
 
 Onr vague emotions utterance ; some eyes, 
 
 Interpreting and answering with a look 
 
 Of mutual exaltation and despair 
 
 Our soul's aspirant questionings, and moods 
 
 Of deep despondency I by such great gift 
 
 Are poets, like their father-prophets, made 
 
 " Revealers of the thoughts of many hearts." 
 
 Yet sunshine aaiII not always last : and oft, 
 
 "VMien Gabriel chanced to meet his father's gaze 
 
 Fixed on him full of scorn and stem reproof, 
 
 His fragile frame would droop, his cheek grow wan, 
 
 Sunken and haggard, lustreless his eye ; 
 
 His blithe soul seemed to shrink and \A'ither up 
 
 As it were blighted, and the springs of joy 
 
 All dried within him. Silent, motionless, 
 
 Dejected, he would sit ; or, if he spoke, 
 
 His dirge -like tones would wring her to the heart. 
 
 " Leave me, sweet Naamah," he oft would say, 
 
 " I was not made hke Wilfred to beloved. 
 
 The heir of fame and honours ; on my birth 
 
 No star of promise shone. I feel my life 
 
 Is strung on such a frail and feeble thread, 
 
 A breath would part it : wherefore should I live ?
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 21 
 
 To live unloved is but to fill the place 
 
 Of worthier spirits, and to cumber earth, 
 
 Methinks we never wholly love our friends, 
 
 Until they die. Ah, then we cease to think, 
 
 That e'er they vexed or grieved us ; nothing lives 
 
 But memory of their tenderness and truth 
 
 And patience towards us. Would that I were dead I 
 
 Then would my father's heart in pity melt ! 
 
 Then haply he would love me, and the thought, 
 
 That, tho' unworthy, I was still his son, 
 
 Would draw a blessing down upon my grave. 
 
 Dost weep ? Weep not, land sister 1 never bend 
 
 Thy fair head to the earth for my poor sake. 
 
 I thought not to beguile thee of a sigh. 
 
 And for thy precious tears, such eyes as thine 
 
 Were never made to weep, save tears of joy 1" 
 
 Bodes it not ill, beneath the Passion Flower 
 To sit in silence, Avhile the village bells 
 Make merry music for the heir's return ? 
 Have the years sped too swiftly, or is he, 
 Once held so dear, no longer welcome home ? 
 Where are the voices eloquent with love, 
 And sparkhng looks, that should have greeted him, — 
 WeU-earned reward of one so brave and true ? 
 Kings not the question thro' thy shudd'ring soul, 
 Unhappy Naamah ! while up thy cheeks 
 And o'er thy bended brow the burning blush
 
 22 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Quick mantles ? Ali, not years, not a long life 
 
 Of human bliss, had recompensed the pangs 
 
 Of that distressful hour I With trembling frame 
 
 Heart-sick the maiden sat ; till Gabriel, 
 
 All anguish-stricken, like to one that starts 
 
 From some wild dream, in passionate accents cried, 
 
 " Have I not loved him ? Answer, Naamah I 
 
 Thou Icnow'st how gladly, but for his dear sake, 
 
 I had lain quiet in my mother's grave I 
 
 What was this vacant, loveless world to me, 
 
 Save when his presence, like a spot of green, 
 
 Gladdened Hfe's desert ? now, as if my soul 
 
 Were stained mth some foid sin, I shrink and woithe 
 
 At thought of meeting him I Oh, pity me ! 
 
 My heart will burst, my brain seems all on fire ! 
 
 God knows, too late / love thee, and too well I " 
 
 Pale, statue -like, sat Naamah: — the past 
 
 Before her fancy vividly arose 
 
 With glare reproachful I all its happy days 
 
 (Of aspect late so fair and innocent) 
 
 Seemed haunted by the ghost of broken vows. 
 
 Till then unheeded quite. No word she spoke, 
 
 But pressed her damp cold hands ixpon her brow 
 
 To quell the agony, that burned within, 
 
 " Look not so strangely ; speak, I pray thee, speak, 
 
 Beloved Naamah I — I cannot bear 
 
 To see thee thus. Fear not ; this passion dire, 
 
 "VMiich racks my soul, shall never hurt thy peace I
 
 THE TAHSION FLOWER. 23 
 
 No 1 by my faith in thy sweet self, thy truth, 
 Thy saintly i>nrity, this hour I swear, 
 I wiUily from thee, hide my stricken life, 
 Wliere never sight or thoiight of me shall give 
 Thy heart one pang. Oh, love 1 oh, misery '. 
 Know'st thou not, I would die to save thee pain I " 
 
 " Then leave me not 1" said Niiamah, her voice 
 Half-choked Avith sobs. " Thou know'st not what thou 
 
 say' St. 
 If it be guilt to love thee, then am I 
 Past pardon guilty, — wretched beyond cure I 
 When with thy brother first I plighted troth, 
 Alas, I knew not what it was to love 1 
 And tho' my sin be great, forsake me not ! — 
 How can I bear the weight of it alone ? 
 Far better, happier, side by side to lie 
 On death's cold bosom, than to live apart, 
 Now that my soid is grafted upon thine. 
 To see thee, hear thee, speak to thee no more, 
 Would be no more to hear, to speak, to live '." 
 
 The lark was flutt'ring up the evening sky, 
 StartUng the silent air from time to time 
 With its delicious music ; farewell rays 
 Of dying sunlight pierced the tall tree -tops, 
 And tinged the upland slopes, while de^\7 mists 
 Crept o'er the vale beneath. Past wood and stream,
 
 24 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 By the green hill-side, filled with happy thoughts, 
 Slow wended Wilfred, pausing oft, to greet 
 After long absence each famiUar scene, 
 To love and hope and memory consecrate. 
 His pace he quickened as the massive front 
 Of the old mansion cheered his longing sight. 
 Now thro' the dark'ning avenue, — across 
 The lawn, — by beds of closing flowers — 
 He hurried, breathless with expectancy ; 
 Sprung on the terrace, gained the open door, 
 And the next moment in his father's arms 
 Close locked, with blessings tremulous, could feel 
 The old man's tears and kisses on his face. 
 
 The lamps are lighted in the old oak hall. 
 With costly cheer the table spread, festooned 
 The lofty walls with flowers and garlands green, 
 To grace the wanderer's return. With eyes 
 Brim-full of love his father gazed on him, — 
 " Why grow thy lips so wdiite ? what ails my son ? 
 Behold, thy bride, thy brother, welcome thee 1 
 Speak to him, daughter 1 Gabriel, give him joy 
 For all the honour he has won our house. 
 Himself its cliiefest praise and ornament I " 
 None moved; none spoke; a gloom mysterious seemed 
 To gather thro' the chamber; trouble sat 
 On each young brow\ With wonder Wilfred marked 
 The fever-spot that glowed on Gabriel's cheek,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 25 
 
 His eye's unnatural restless brilliancy, 
 His dry-hot hands and vague perturbed look, 
 \^^lilfi. Nclaniah all pale, with circlets dark, 
 The trace of passionate tears, around her eyes, 
 Perplexed him with a thousand nameless fears. 
 He cast on each, by turns, im})loring looks, 
 Well-nigh bewildered : not a word, a smile, 
 In answer to his fond appeal I ah, nie I 
 \Miat mute despair was his, when, unawares, 
 A glance of mutual pity and dismay 
 Exchanged between the lovers, startled liim 
 To recognition of the fatal truth I 
 How ghastly grew his cheek I his qui v' ring lip I 
 Red gleams of angry fire flashed from his eye I 
 A chilling tremor ran thro' all his frame, 
 His limbs waxed icy cold — the hall, the lights, 
 All fonns familiar swam before his eyes — 
 His reason for a moment stunned by stroke 
 Of such unlooked-for, overwhelming doom I 
 He sprang upon his feet with look distraught. 
 And staggered out into the cool night air. 
 
 Ah, "Wilfred ! whither wilt thou go — dispelled 
 Thy summer dream of love ? — waked \\dth rude start 
 To face the keen blasts of this wnntry world, 
 And find the flowers all gone ? Away I away I 
 How far he heeds not: blackest darkness seems 
 To press upon his sight, — the atmosphere
 
 26 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Is clogged, and stifles liim ; he gasps for breath. ; 
 Air, air, and hght I he leapt the outer wall, 
 Rushed dowoi the steep with headlong speed, across 
 The meadows and the stony flats, climbed up 
 The perilous cliffs whose crags o'erhang the sea, 
 TiU, faint and panting wdth the toil, he lay- 
 On the green turf that crowmed the precipice ; 
 Discordant passions preyed upon his soul. 
 Love, envy, agony of blighted hopes. 
 Hatred and Avrath (hke goading fiends) possessed 
 His gentle nature, loath to entertain 
 Such hellish visitants. Worn out at last 
 A stupor fell upon him, giving place 
 After a while to a deep sleep, and dream 
 Of softening influence : he thought, he lay 
 Within the well-lmowTi chamber, where he slept 
 In happy boyhood : close beside the bed 
 His mother, bending down, stood watching him; 
 Her eyes were fixed on his, so large and blue, 
 So like his brother Gabriel's I her hair 
 In long pale ringlets touched the coverlid. 
 He longed to call her " mother," but his tongue 
 Refused its utterance ; lovingly he sought 
 To clasp her, but his arms were stiff and weak. 
 And in the fruitless effort he awoke. 
 
 " Oh thou of days remembered I dost thou come 
 With thy sweet looks to chide, or comfort me ?"
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 27 
 
 The moon is risen : the earth beneath its beams 
 Grows beautiful as fairy land I the sea 
 Amojig the rocks makes muraiur musical. 
 Thou grand consoler, Nature I speak to him I 
 Teach him, how slight a thing is human life. 
 With all its loves and anguish, in the scale 
 Of Being infinite I how shrink its cares, 
 Its vain concemments, empty promises, 
 In presence of the solemn night, the sea. 
 That, imaging eteniity, rolls on, 
 (From earliest dawn of immemorial time, 
 \Mien first God's Spirit moved upon its face,) 
 While generations of mankind decay.
 
 28 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 How sorrowful is life ! ah, how unlike 
 
 Its morning expectation ! long ere noon 
 
 The sMes are clouded, and the heavy rain 
 
 Beats down the flowers to perish in their bloom I 
 
 Men say, it is God's curse, that, like a blight, 
 
 Has fallen upon the earth, and turned to gall 
 
 All it may bear of sweetness ; — 'tis God's curse, 
 
 That disappoints life's glorious promises, 
 
 And makes our natural instincts, even our hope 
 
 And love, a source of shame and agony ! 
 
 Thus they arraign His gentle providence 
 
 For all the nameless iUs themselves have wrought, 
 
 And mock Him with lip-service, saying " God " 
 
 (^liich meaneth good), " Lift up thy vengeful hand, 
 
 Wliich presseth sore and weighs us down to hell." 
 
 As if 'twere possible for good to curse. 
 
 Or love to hate, or mercy to revenge,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 29 
 
 Or God, who is Himself the Soul of Good, 
 And Love, and Mercy, to do aught but bless I 
 His Yfjy chastisements are blessings, sent 
 In token of His presence I everyAvhere 
 Is heav'n, where He is I there alone is hell, 
 "Wliere not a murmur of His voice is heard, 
 A vestige of His glory seen, nor felt 
 An emanation of His peace. Behold, 
 How beautiful are all things He has made I 
 How marvellously ordered I from the vast, 
 In measureless expanse beyond our ken, 
 Ev'n to the insect atom, that eludes 
 Our straining vision I Life itself was joy. 
 As God ordained it, to all things that live ; 
 To the \\dld beast, that in its freedom ranged 
 Gigantic forests, tracts immensurate 
 Of marsh and A\ilderness ; th' innocent birds. 
 Nature's interpreters, that in their songs 
 Convey her silent gratitude to heaven. 
 And the rare insect tribes that buzz around. 
 Delighted in the summer's balmy air, — 
 All, all were happy, until murderous man 
 Their rights invaded, and %\-ith tyrant hand 
 Brought death and discord on the peaceful earth. 
 From men's vile passions springs the only curse 
 That desolates the world, and dooms his soul 
 To self-created hell ; they only come 
 Between him and the blessing breathed by God
 
 30 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 On all His works; — they form the dark abyss, 
 
 That mortal from immortal life divides, 
 
 "VSliieh else were one ; death but the bright ascent, 
 
 The Patriarch's ladder leading to the skies I 
 
 "WTiat more, man, could parent do for child, 
 
 Than God has done for thee, His graceless son ? 
 
 He made thee strong of limb, and beautiful 
 
 In form and aspect, pure in heart and mind, 
 
 And placed thee in a paradise of peace 
 
 And healthful joys ; and when thou didst break loose 
 
 From His just laws, and on thy wretched race 
 
 Entailed unnumbered woes and agonies, 
 
 He sent His saving Spirit in the guise 
 
 Of Mary's gentle child. His Holy One 
 
 In himian garb with heavenly grace endued, 
 
 To teach thee how, ev'n yet, thou might' st restore 
 
 His image in thyself, and make the earth 
 
 Once more the Eden of its earlier years. 
 
 Ah me I how changed were this, our sad estate, 
 
 If, (Christ our Master,) we as brethren dwelt 1 
 
 How sorrow, separation, pain, and death 
 
 Would lose their bitterness, could we but know, 
 
 That, members of one suffering family, 
 
 Each for the other felt, and wept, and prayed I 
 
 How soon the songs of mourning would be hushed. 
 
 And strife would cease, and strains of peace and love, 
 
 " The turtle's voice," be heard in every land I 
 
 But for poor mortals, prodigals, that long
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 31 
 
 Have left their Father's mansion, hope is vain 
 
 Of such blest change : Thy chosen servants, Lord 1 
 
 Thy prophets they have scourged and mocked, and 
 
 stoned, 
 And fur Thy last, the ^Mighty One, who spake 
 As ne'er nian spake, has He not been to them 
 " But as a very lovely song of one. 
 That hath a j^leasant voice, and jjlayeth well 
 Upon an instrument ? for with their ears 
 They hear his words, — hear, but they heed them not 1 ' 
 
 All night the wakeful Naamah had paced 
 Her chamber, hstening eager for the sound 
 Of Wilfred's footsteps in the court beneath. 
 Hoping, yet dreading his return. Her heart 
 Was tilled with troublous thoughts and vague alann^ 
 For him — herself — but most for Gabriel. 
 " Now will his brother's love, so dearly prized, 
 Be turned to gall and jealous enmity ! 
 And I have robbed liim of his only friend I 
 Even I — ill-fated one 1 whose love does seem 
 Ever to draw most misery on the head. 
 It most would bless '. — Sure, if unmttingly 
 I err against that good, which mles my life 
 (To whom the first place in my heart is due), ^ 
 
 'Tis even in the ecstasy of love 
 I feel for him — for Gabriel'. — Oh, Thou, 
 That hast made him so beautiful and wise,
 
 32 . THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 And worthy to be loved, be pitiful, 
 
 If that my weak iU-guided heart at times 
 
 Break loose from thy cahn influence, and burn 
 
 With fires of love too fierce and turbulent ! 
 
 WTiat would I — would I not endure for him? 
 
 Even the loss of that which fills my life, 
 
 His love, his presence I ay, and more than these, 
 
 (Last, dearest solace I) my own love for himl" 
 
 Wearied with watching, Naamah at length 
 
 Unbarred her casement, leaning out to cool 
 
 Her burning forehead in the fresh night air. 
 
 " Oh Kfe I what hast thou to outweigh in bhss 
 
 The pain of hours hke these ? Ye gentle stars, 
 
 That make the night far lovelier than day. 
 
 How thro' the darkness, that hems in my soul. 
 
 Your rays have stern with reassuring light I 
 
 I feel the stillness (like God's presence) pass 
 
 Into my spirit I Oh, thou most fair night. 
 
 The very soul of him I love doth seem 
 
 Expressed in thee 1 so dreamy, bright, and cahn, 
 
 Of influence easier felt than understood, 
 
 Unutterably lovely and benign I " 
 
 But soon the scene was changed — clouds coursed the 
 
 Slv}- — 
 
 The shadows darkened, and the stars went out. 
 The anxious mood returned on Naamah, 
 And when at length the dawn broke dismal grey. 
 And still no Wilfred came, she TVTung her hands ;
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 33 
 
 " His father's heart will hreak for love of him !" 
 
 How will she meet the old man's mournful looks, 
 
 Herself the source of so much misery ? 
 
 With stealthy treafl, as fearing to arouse 
 
 The slumb'ring household, she her chamber left. 
 
 Stole do^^^l the stairs, and pausing at the door 
 
 Of Gabriel's study, thought she heard a sob. 
 
 She listened, — all was silent; — warily 
 
 The latch she lifted, and beheld \\athin 
 
 Her lover at his desk \^^th folded arms. 
 
 And head bowed do\\Ti despondently: — all damp 
 
 And lustreless his light gold curls, the veins 
 
 High swoU'n upon his pale and feverish hands. 
 
 His breathing quick and faint. To Naamali 
 
 The very embodiment of grief he seem'd — 
 
 Her heart yearned towards him vnth compassionate love. 
 
 She drev/ near noiselessly, and laid her hand. 
 
 All trembling, tenderly upon his arm : 
 
 Aroused by her soft touch he started up. 
 
 His haggard eyelids steeped with recent tears. 
 
 His fair cheek pale and sunken, — gazed on her 
 
 (As he would speak and could not) v^ith a look 
 
 Heart-rending of remorse, and love, and pain, 
 
 And placed an open letter in her hand. 
 
 The sight of Wilfred's well-la^o^^^l characters 
 
 Awoke fresh sorrow in her o'er-wTought mind. 
 
 Her head drooped down, as she were fain to hide 
 
 From him, whose love she had so dearly bought,
 
 34: THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 The pangs, that love now cost her : — large warm drops 
 Fell from her eyes, and blistered all the page, 
 "VSliile thus with fearful breathless haste she read. 
 
 " I cannot wTite to Naamah. Do thou 
 Bid her farewell for me, and take this ring, 
 The token of her faith once pledged to mine, 
 Henceforth thine o\\ii. Oh, if the sight of it 
 Give thee but half the joy it gave to me, 
 I somewhat am repaid for my great loss 
 In thy yet greater gain. — Some tears, alas I 
 The page have blotted — human eyes must weep I 
 Yet never heed them, Gabriel. For me, 
 I do believe in God, not Destiny — 
 Nor blame, nor question aught, nor owe thee grudge 
 For that which He has given, not thou usurped. 
 As yet I cannot meet thee as I would — 
 I've written to our father, praying him 
 To smile upon thy love, and prosper it. 
 And ev'n so soon as I can school my heart 
 To think of Naamah as of thy wife, 
 I will return to the beloved hearth, 
 And greet her as my sister. So, farewell 1 " 
 
 She clasped the letter to her throbbing breast : 
 Enwrapt she stood, as if the words had wrought 
 A change throughout her soul, and touched therein 
 A latent spring of thought serene and brave.
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 3o 
 
 " So good I 80 grand I so merciful 1 " she said ; 
 " He is not one of us, but, as a saint 
 Ensliilned in his o\\ii sanctity, looks down, 
 Forbearing and compassionate on those, 
 Whose frail and feeble powers must ever fail 
 To reach the heights of sucli rare nobleness I 
 Have we not wept enough, my Gabriel? 
 And who are we, that we should weep for him ? 
 So far above our pity, placed aloft 
 Our load-star, heav'nward still to beacon us ? 
 Aye, rather daily let us seek to prove 
 Ourselves more worthy in his sight, and show, 
 Such high example was not set in vain I" 
 
 Low at her uncle's feet bent Naamah, 
 With tearful eyes and pleading hands upraised, 
 In hope to soothe the old man's wrathful mood. 
 But prayers nor tears availed : ^^^th gestures fierce 
 He spumed her from him, — "Hence, inconstant girl I 
 Falsest of thy false sex I — where are thine eyes, 
 Thy soul, thy senses ? dost thou dream, or rave. 
 Thus to cast off the noblest gentleman. 
 The Idndest, bravest, for a wayward boy, 
 A thing of wMms and fancies, weak and vain, 
 And fickle as thyself? It cannot be 
 But that thou wilt repent 1 — thy plighted vows, 
 Duty and honour, urge thee to keep faith 
 With my dear Wilfred. Naamah, be wdse I
 
 36 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Ev'n now, wilt thou but yield thy stubborn will, 
 
 Forsake the foohsh youth that has beguiled 
 
 Thy better sense (and is as far outshone 
 
 By Wilfred, as the stars are by the sun), 
 
 I -will forgive, forget, and take thee back, 
 
 Child, daughter, darhng of my heart, once more." 
 
 — In broken accents answered Naamah : 
 
 " Alas : that I should live to give thee pain, 
 
 That hast been father, mother, all in all. 
 
 Tender beyond all thought and good to me ! 
 
 I would I might obey thee I but my love 
 
 Will not be servant to my will. In vain 
 
 I have prayed day and night, that God would warm 
 
 My heart towards Wilfred : I have sorely striven 
 
 Against this most unhappy love I bear 
 
 To him, thou lovest not I oh, he had need, 
 
 That one at least on this unpitying earth 
 
 Should call him ' friend I ' and, as I do believe 
 
 My love for him is holy, God-inspired, 
 
 So blush I not to own it. Heav'n and earth 
 
 May know that I love Gabriel, as I love 
 
 AU that is innocent, and fair, and wise ! 
 
 Oh, just to all but him I thou dost him \^Tong, 
 
 Most bitter WTong 1 Couldst thou but read his soul 
 
 As I have read it, thou wouldst find therein 
 
 Such store of \Aisdom, nobleness, and truth, 
 
 Thou woxddst be fain to worship him like me !" 
 
 — Now burned the old man's ire beyond control :
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 37 
 
 " Begone ! ungrateful and rebellious girl I 
 False to thyself, to Wilfred, and to me I 
 The fate I had hoped for thee was far too high 
 For thy mean spirit. Go : and if thou canst, 
 Console th^e for the friend, whom thou hast lost, 
 In him, whom thou hast chos'n I For Gabriel, 
 His mother's wealth is his : — let him begone. 
 And take thee with him, faithless as thou art I " 
 
 There was no bridal feast, nor gaudy show, 
 Nor glitt'ring troop of guests, to grace the day 
 Of Gabriel's marriage \Aith his Niiamah. 
 Yet lovelier, tenderer pair ne'er plighted troth 
 Before God's altar. 81ie, in pure white robe. 
 With myrtle-leaves and lilies in her hair, — 
 Her eyes, — thro' tears of blended joy and grief. 
 That sweet content expressed, — were fixed on him, 
 Her life's protecting angel, Gabriel I 
 His presence filled her soul, nor needed she 
 A crowd of gaping \\'itnesses to mark 
 How dear she loved him : 'twas enough, that heav'n 
 And earth smiled on them, that the morning sun 
 Shone halo-like upon her lover's brow. 
 And tinged the walls and marble floor with gold : 
 And, as they passed out from the chapel door, 
 The flowers upon their pathway seemed to bend 
 Their heads in greeting, and the hghtsome song 
 Of birds rmig all around them, omens sure
 
 38 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Of peace and blessing on their married life. 
 
 " Farewell, beloved borne I familiar haunts, 
 
 To childhood's sports and youth's romantic hours 
 
 So long devote I — full loath we are to leave 
 
 Thy leafy groves and bowers! — and wheresoe'er 
 
 Our feet may wander o'er this desolate earth, 
 
 In dreams and waldng thoughts, -with grateful love. 
 
 Thine exiled children will remember thee I" 
 
 Hard by the Abbey Church in ancient days 
 Rose the grey walls of Morton Priory ; 
 Its very name now grown an old wife's tale. 
 For vestige none remains to mark the spot, 
 "VMiere once the venerable building stood. 
 Still, are you one, whose fancy loves to pore 
 O'er times long past, and tales of antique date, — 
 There is the orchard, and the clear still pool, 
 Scarce changed methinks since the dark-hooded friars 
 GHded beneath the trees, or paused at noon 
 To trace the shadows of their rosaries 
 Reflected in the stiU and liquid pool. 
 Now, hidden in the orchard, ivy-grown, 
 And twined with clematis, a cottage stands, 
 A pleasant rural dwelling-place, fit haunt 
 For votary of solitude and peace. 
 There might you live, and dream your days away, 
 All undisturbed, save by the songs of birds, 
 Or by the tolling of the Abbey-bell
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 30 
 
 At morn or fall of eve : a sweeter spot, 
 
 Or more, serene, methinks you conld not find I 
 
 To thjft obscure retreat, far, far away 
 
 From kindred, home, and friends, came Gabriel 
 
 With hia fair bride ; and, oh I on this sad earth 
 
 Was never human pair so blest as they I 
 
 Shut out from the world's tumult, safe from care, 
 
 Discord, and strife, their glad days glided on : 
 
 Each in the other finding all content, 
 
 They needed none beside their bliss to share. 
 
 Said Gabriel. " Our life has long been blest 
 
 With special joys 1 Yet this does overpass 
 
 All thought or hope my heart had nursed, and makes 
 
 The earth too much, as if it ne'er had lost 
 
 Its primal benediction I favoured thus, 
 
 Let us not deem this simny season given 
 
 But to enjoy : the longest life is short. 
 
 And each hour precioiis I if we sow not now 
 
 Good seed, what harvest shall we reap but shame, 
 
 Wlien God shall judge our labours at the last?" 
 
 With such sincere intent, night after night, 
 
 Until the lamp burnt low, did Gabriel hold 
 
 High converse ^^•ith the spirits of the past, 
 
 Pore o'er the classic page, imtil his eyes 
 
 Waxed dim with too much toil, and the red spot 
 
 Burned on his cheek ; and then would Naamah 
 
 Chide him by turns, and pray him rest awhile, 
 
 Lest his too ardent spirit should outwear
 
 40 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 The feeble frame that held it. " Never plead 
 
 With those distressful looks and those moist eyes 
 
 Against the promptings of my holier hours !" 
 
 — Thus would he answer : " Trust me, love, high thoughts 
 
 (WTiich are but Virtue's semblance, not herself) 
 
 Suffice not without fruit of holy deeds. 
 
 Thus poets cheat themselves ; too oft content 
 
 With fair resolves and lofty utt'rances, 
 
 Discerning wisdom, yet themselves unwise, 
 
 As 'twere enough to feel and luiow the right, 
 
 Teach it to others, worship it in words, 
 
 Do all, but practise it. We have great need 
 
 To be for ever pondering our estate. 
 
 That are of yesterday, and nothing know. 
 
 For we may climb the highest heaven of thought, 
 
 The boundless fields of speculation range. 
 
 Drink living waters at Truth's fountain-head, 
 
 And yet fall headlong from our proud ascent. 
 
 To end in darlaiess even as we began ! 
 
 True faith is of the heart ; a spark of fire. 
 
 Lit by that central sun, that animates 
 
 And soul-inspires the universe I a spark 
 
 Feeble at first, and kindled to a flame. 
 
 Not by ecstatic fancies, heavenward bursts 
 
 Of aspiration — no : nor yet by flights 
 
 Of lofty intellect, but godly lives, 
 
 And child-like following of His law, who taught 
 
 ' Obey, and by obedience rise to faith 1'
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 41 
 
 Long, silent, ponder'd Xaamah his words, 
 
 And laid tliem up like jewels in her mind — 
 
 Prieeless — wherewith to pave her heavenward way. 
 
 She grew more earnest ever ; cumbered not 
 
 Like Mavtha, with much serving, yet each day 
 
 She failed not in her ministry of love 
 
 To all around her. Household cares, that sit . 
 
 So comely upon woman, homeliest acts 
 
 Of peace and kindness, trivial charities, 
 
 Assimied in her the rank of loftier deeds, 
 
 Graced and exalted by the high intent 
 
 With which she wrought them. She had chos'n indeed 
 
 The " better part " with Mary : every thought, 
 
 And word, and action of her simple life 
 
 Was, as it were, a prayer, a song of praise, 
 
 A Uvely sacrifice of love to Heaven. 
 
 It might be said of her, that all day long 
 
 She sat " in spirit " at the feet of Christ, 
 
 Pond'ring His teachings and obeying them. 
 
 She tended with untiring tenderness 
 
 The sick and poor, and taught the village school, 
 
 And gathered round her upon holidays 
 
 A group of merry cliildren in the fields. 
 
 And showed them games, and sung them pleasant songs, 
 
 And simple hjonns : ofttimes would tales repeat 
 
 Of Christ among the flowers of Palestine, 
 
 And how He loved all gentle things, and blessed 
 
 The little children clustered at His knee.
 
 42 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Nor feared slie in abodes of guilt and shame 
 
 To plant her delicate feet, and 'mong the lost 
 
 (Long sunk in infamy) to speak of hope, 
 
 And ]ieace, and restoration to God's love : 
 
 Herself the soul of purity, whose breath 
 
 (As 'twere an angel's) cleared the tainted air, 
 
 Diffusing sense of sanctity around. 
 
 She deemed it not reproach to stand alone, 
 
 As Christ stood, vnth the wretched and the vile, 
 
 And plead His promises of better Hfe. 
 
 Nor scorn, nor chaste reproof upon her lip, 
 
 But beaming thro' the tears in her mild eyes 
 
 Compassion lowly, tender, womanly. 
 
 Oft w^ould she take within her owti the hand 
 
 Of some poor erring sister, bowed to earth 
 
 With sense of wrong and hopeless misery : 
 
 Oft would she kneel beside her, flushed -^ith zeal 
 
 Affectionate, and in heart-soothing tones 
 
 (All strange to such forlorn one) bid her trust 
 
 In Him, who "wrote upon the ground," — whose w^ords 
 
 (Amid the cruel and bloodtliirsty throng. 
 
 Fiends panting for their prey) struck awe and shame 
 
 Into each coward self-accusing heart, — 
 
 "■ Let him that has not sinned, first cast a stone I" 
 
 " Not one, but all have erred I in secret some — 
 
 And some in open day — and nought of guilt, 
 
 \'\Tiether of thought or deed, is hid from God, 
 
 \Mio reads the heart. Therefore will thou and I,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWEn. 43 
 
 J']ach for the other, jtray, each needing aid 
 
 And pity and forgiveness at His hand, 
 
 \Vlu»- having nnade us, Icnows how frail we are." 
 
 By such devout and meek endeavour, oft 
 
 Had she Raised up a hapless fallen one 
 
 From most degraded depths of \\Tetchedne8s, 
 
 Into the healthful blessed atmosphere 
 
 Of godly life. Nor wonder 'twas, that such. 
 
 Scorned outcasts — scarce discerning good from iU — 
 
 For the first time beholding Virtue's self 
 
 So fair in mortal lineaments expressed, 
 
 Should grow enamoured of its loveliness, 
 
 And strive \Aath trembhng hearts to frame their lives 
 
 In faint and dim similitude \vith hers. 
 
 Thus Naamah her unobtrusive works 
 
 Of piety pursued ; thus, rich in grace 
 
 Of mind and mien, she grew from year to year, 
 
 Lajang up store of recollections bright, 
 
 Sure comforters against the e\i\ days. 
 
 \Miere tiini our thoughts in all distress and pain, 
 WTien mortal love deceives us ? when the leaves, 
 \Miich hope puts forth so green and fresh in spring, 
 Lie in dead heaps upon our path, long ere 
 The summer's ended ? Life is dull and cold — 
 The heav'ns look gloomy grey — one spot alone 
 (To our sad fancies) on the dreary earth 
 Seems bright with sunbeams — even that hallowed mount,
 
 44 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Whereon of old the gracious lips proclaimed 
 
 A blessing on the mourner ! Our wan eyes 
 
 Strain towards it thro' their tears, as though thereon 
 
 They might ev'n now behold Him, the Beloved, 
 
 The world's great Comforter, in light enthroned 
 
 Breathing forth consolations, speaking peace 
 
 To all perturbed and sorrow-laden souls. 
 
 Thou Royal City I where uprose of yore 
 
 The Golden Temple gorgeous in the sun, 
 
 Now in the " Waihng Place " thy children sit, 
 
 And moan thy beauty and their glory gone I 
 
 Above thy yellow garland-wreathed walls 
 
 The minarets, glitt'ring in the clear blue air, 
 
 Attest the Moslem sway o'er thee, thou tomb 
 
 Of martyr-prophets, proud Jerusalem ! 
 
 Thy melancholy memories well accord 
 
 With Wilfred's pensive meditative mood. 
 
 As up the " Mournful Way " towards Calvary 
 
 He paces, learning patience at each step 
 
 From thought of One, who trod that way before. 
 
 A pilgrim to the city of the past. 
 
 In quest of peace and fortitude, he came ; 
 
 And while around him sounds of strife arose, 
 
 ("WTiere Moslem, Jew, and Christian, " eye for eye " 
 
 And " tooth for tooth," still strive for mastery,) 
 
 He heard within the silence of his soul 
 
 The voice divine, that in the Temple courts 
 
 Announced the advent of the reign of love.
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 45 
 
 Beneath the shadowy archways, (1oa\ti among 
 The tomhs by Kedron's stony bed, along 
 ThffHone ravine of Siloam's weed-gro\vn pool, 
 He felt the presence of the " Blessed One I" 
 Ling'ring at eve beneath the hoary trees 
 Of desolate Gethsemane, till rose 
 The yellow moon above the lofty ridge 
 Of Ohvet, in fancy he conld trace 
 The gentle Master's faintly-shadowed form, 
 Low bending 'neath the covert of the rocks, 
 In still communion with His Father, God ! 
 In that yet lovely land of gardens, groves 
 Of orange and pomegranate ; where the vine 
 Hangs out its purple fruit, the white brier-rose 
 And graceful cyclamen grow wild, his heart 
 Now opened to a world of grateful thoughts 
 And exquisite sensations. On the plain, 
 WTiere once the city of the Palm-tree stood. 
 By Jordan's waters consecrate, he sought. 
 In pure and pious contemplation wrapt. 
 The spirit of the God-like Nazarene. 
 
 Meanwhile how fared it in the lone retreat, 
 Wliere Niiamah and her loved Gabriel dwelt ? 
 The yellow rays of parting sunlight shone 
 Thro' the thick -clust' ring orchard trees, and o'er 
 The quaint-cut garden walks : the evening air 
 Stirred the tall rushes at the water's brink.
 
 46 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Sighed o'er the sleepy flowers, and wand'ring past 
 
 The cottage casement rose -embowered, awoke 
 
 Wild strains of wailing music, breathing through 
 
 ^olian strings. Upon the daisied bank, 
 
 That slopes down to the clear transparent pool, 
 
 The wedded lovers sat, their tempers tuned 
 
 Accordant with the stiUness of the hour. 
 
 A mournful shade on Gabriel's brow had fallen, 
 
 Unmarked by iSTaamah, till with a sigh 
 
 He broke the long dead silence, and thus spoke, — 
 
 " How this poor life of mine doth run to waste, 
 
 Bearing no fruit of all the days and years 
 
 I have toiled on, aspiring I hope w^as mine, 
 
 To sing one song at least of love and truth, 
 
 Ere my hps close for ever. Oh, to leave 
 
 Some sign, however feeble, just to show 
 
 That we have been I that we have loved and wept, 
 
 And sinned, and been forgiven, and sinned again. 
 
 Frail, loving, suffering souls, such as we see 
 
 Living and dpng round us every day ! 
 
 Thus to live after Hfe, perchance be loved 
 
 By some sad lonesome spirit kin to ours, 
 
 To draw forth drops of pity warm and bright 
 
 From gentle eyes, or wake in worldlings' breast 
 
 Thoughts of some friend long lost, or early love 
 
 (Grateful and soul-reviving as a breath 
 
 Of cool sweet-scented wind to burning brow 
 
 Of pilgrim in the desert) such, (so far
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 47 
 
 Above my powers, ambition bade me soar I) 
 
 Such my fond hopes have been ; but I shall die, 
 
 And" my frail bark in its brief course will stir 
 
 No ri^jple on the surface of the sea. 
 
 Sleep, woary longings, that wear out my life I 
 
 Regrets, that feed like cankers on my heart, 
 
 Impatient strife with doom I have I not learned 
 
 The lesson of my utter notliingness ? 
 
 Stumbled in darloiess, and stretched out my arms 
 
 (!hild-like towards the Parent Intinite, 
 
 And jjrayed some angel power might bear me up 
 
 From the black chaos where I gro])e in vain, 
 
 And place mj-^ weary feet on heights serene, 
 
 Where God's broad daylight shines eternally I" 
 
 How sunk her heart within her, as he spoke I 
 
 Fond Na.amali, to deem thy woman's love 
 
 Could be to him all his love is to thee I 
 
 Thou leam'st the humbling lesson, which thy sex. 
 
 All, soon or late, must learn — that love, which makes 
 
 Thy smn of Ufe, is but a part of his. 
 
 Thy hope, thy faith, thy very being tend 
 
 Towards him, its centre ; all thy soul's desires 
 
 Ey him are bounded — his are infinite — 
 
 Unresting — lost in the vmseen, uulaiowni. 
 
 " Still murmuring I still regretful '." answered she ; 
 
 " Earth must be void indeed of fair and good, 
 
 So soon to disenchant thee I few and brief 
 
 Thy years have been. Oh, Gabriel I oh my love !
 
 48 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Dost thou regret the gladsome days of old ? 
 
 Deemest thou wedded life faint recompense 
 
 For thy lost freedom ? if I weary thee 
 
 With my excess of fondness, I will sit 
 
 Patient all day, nor ever move my lips 
 
 To say * I love thee.' I -mW fix my eyes 
 
 On the dull earth, nor raise them once to meet 
 
 Thy looks, Avhich are to me as morning light. 
 
 As the first flush of spring, or whatsoe'er 
 
 Most welcome is, and cheering I I will die — 
 
 Pass from thy memory, and leave thee free 
 
 To choose another friend, rather than live 
 
 And be to thee no more as I have been 1" 
 
 E'en as she spoke, ere answer might be given. 
 
 With hasty footsteps rustling among the grass 
 
 A messenger arrived, most welcome guest I 
 
 Bringing glad news of absent friends and home, 
 
 And, dearer still, a letter from the East, 
 
 From the loved wand'rer, Wilfred. With a cry 
 
 Of joy, upstarted Gabriel from the groxmd. 
 
 Pressed it all eager to his ardent lips, 
 
 And brake the seal. How fondly Naamah 
 
 Watched his eyes brighten, and his pale cheek glow 
 
 Dehghted, as he read : " Oh, blessed hour I 
 
 Thrice -blessed letter, fraught with happy n«vs I 
 
 Most blest the hand, that penned it I Naamah, 
 
 Rejoice ! no more from henceforth to be sad I 
 
 Moved to more gentle thoughts by Wilfred's prayers,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 49 
 
 Our father pardons, welcomes us once more 
 
 To the old home, there ■\^^th him to await 
 
 And greet my brother, after long delay 
 
 Ev'n now bound homeward. I shall see his face I 
 
 Hear that dear voice of his I press his warm hand I 
 
 Clasp him once more — my Wilfred ! friend of friends ! 
 
 Beyond expression excellent and dear ! 
 
 Lift up thine eyes, sweet wife I Ah, dost thou weep ? 
 
 Tears of delight ! Yet weep not, lest they bring 
 
 To mind sad thoughts ; for I have seen such drops 
 
 Too oft in sorrowful seasons on thy cheek, 
 
 To see them start unmoved at hour hke this." 
 
 See Wilfred now, from shores of Palestine, 
 After his weary absence, bound for home ! 
 'Twas afternoon, and some brief hours must bring 
 Once more the wand'rer to his native land. 
 He leaned against the ship-side, lost in thought, — 
 The sea was lulled, and hushed the -w-inds awhile. 
 Impatient longing had outstripped the hour, 
 And wafted him in fancy to liis home. 
 His father's voice already welcomed him — 
 And Gabriel's smile — and Niiamah's fond eyes. 
 He saw them all before him as of old — 
 His brother's arm close-locked in hers (Ms wife 
 That should have been) — "Ah, me I what pangs are 
 
 these 
 That shoot along my heart, and shake my frame ? 
 
 E
 
 to 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 What I can the ghost of buried love arise 
 
 After its long death -sleep to torture me ? 
 
 Oh, mother, I am weary of this strife 1 
 
 In my glad dawn of yoiith, thou know'st my prayer 
 
 Was still for ' love ' — sweet ' love : ' but times are 
 
 changed, 
 This life is all too sad — my heart is sick — 
 My prayer is now for ' rest ! '" A breath of wdnd 
 Blew soft and cool across the young man's brow — 
 And cleared the air — and crept along the sea, 
 \ATiose mournful murmur low responded, " Rest." 
 
 Meanwhile a crowd of glitt'riag guests were met, 
 To bid him welcome to his father's halls. 
 Light streamed from the taU casements, and the sound 
 Of music from within on the night wind 
 Was wafted to far distance — heard perchance 
 With wonder, 'twixt the pauses of his dream, 
 By some toil-wearied traveller, asleep 
 On couch of heather by the lone road-side. 
 The costly halls A\ith countless lustres shone, 
 And the broad mirrors many a radiant group 
 Reflected of fair dames and maidens gay, 
 (With flutt'ring garments and pearl-wreathed hair,) 
 And forms of stately lords, and loiights, who paid 
 Due homage to the lovely and the young. 
 Rare perfumes from the orangery stole 
 On the delighted sense — mingled by turns
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 51 
 
 With scent of heliotrope and lilies faint, 
 
 Wafted thro' the open casement from beneath, 
 
 WliertJ, as the clouds passed fitful o'er the moon, 
 
 The garden half in light and shadow lay. 
 
 Ne'er scene enchanted of Arabian Tales 
 
 More gorgeous showed — nor Houri, seen in dreams 
 
 By love-lorn Moslem poet, might compare 
 
 With Naamah, in robes of silken gauze, 
 
 The white rose and the blue forget-me-not 
 
 Twined in the wavy tresses of her hair, 
 
 Smiles on her lip, dimpling her dainty cheek. 
 
 And sparkling in her eyes ; — such eyes I so soft, 
 
 And dark, and deep, you might for ever peer 
 
 Into their orbs, and yet not reach the depths 
 
 Of thought and love within them I Oh, to hear 
 
 Her bird-like voice ringing mth laugh and song I 
 
 Mark the light motions of her fairy form I 
 
 You would have thought, that earth had changed its hues, 
 
 That pain and grief had never, ne'er coidd touch 
 
 So delicate a creature ! Yet so Hke 
 
 Her o\vn sweet self methinks she scarcely seemed 
 
 Amid earth's tinsel shows and vanities. 
 
 As when her daily duties she fulfilled 
 
 In simple garb, with sober cheerful mien, — 
 
 One, to whom life at once was grave and bright. 
 
 And Gabriel, where was he ? from side to side 
 
 She cast her longing looks in search of him, 
 
 Turned at each sound of steps behind her own
 
 S3. THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 In expectation to beliold Ms face, 
 
 Beaming delight lapon her. Wrought at last 
 
 To vague forebodings at his long delay, 
 
 And urged by yearning love, from out the throng 
 
 Of dazzling guests she passed, and swift as light 
 
 Above, below, by winding galleries sped 
 
 Thro' empty-sounding chambers, calling him 
 
 In chiding tones distressful, pausing oft 
 
 Deluded by the echoes, many-toned 
 
 That rimg around — " Alas, why lingers he ?" 
 
 Fears and misgivings straight begin to rise, — 
 
 Her free step faltered, and a mist of tears 
 
 Clouded her sight, when, hark I a welcome sound 
 
 Of feet approaching ! — that impetuous tread 
 
 She knew full well, and in a moment more 
 
 Her Gabriel stood before her, with flushed cheek, 
 
 And fixed look, hke one that walks in sleep, 
 
 Peopling the air with phantoms of his brain. 
 
 " Ah, wherefore meet we thus ? is this thy love ?" 
 
 She cried in plaintive tones ; " At such an hour, 
 
 "VSTien, of thy presence reft, life's pulses beat 
 
 With faint and joyless motion thro' my frame, 
 
 And all bright scenes look pale and lustreless 
 
 To my dimmed eyes ? Ah, speak ! what evil chance 
 
 (For such it needs must be, not thy neglect) 
 
 Hath robbed me thus of thy loved company?" 
 
 Startled at sight of her, the colour fled 
 
 From Gabriel's face, leaving it mortal pale.
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. . o3 
 
 He shuddered faintly — glanced around, as though 
 
 By fearful memories disquieted — 
 
 Then spoke in hurried tone and tremidous : 
 
 " Oh, Naamah, I fear some evil doom 
 
 Hangs o'er our house I the clouds are gathering round, 
 
 Maldng night black without. Hour after hour 
 
 I watched upon the chapel tower for sign 
 
 Of sail upon the sea, some token sure 
 
 Of Wilfred's coming. Sick with hope deferred, 
 
 The air growm chill, at length I hasted down 
 
 And made towards the house. Slow dra\ving near 
 
 In the grey dusk, beneath the southern porch, 
 
 Surprised I saw my brother, arm outstretched 
 
 In act to pluck the Passion Flower (even so 
 
 I saw him once before) ; with cry of joy 
 
 I darted forth to clasp him in my arms, 
 
 \Mien all at once he vanished I — Well I laiow, 
 
 Such fancies bode not good 1 — and oh I so like 
 
 The vision seemed — I could have sworn 'twas he '. " 
 
 — '• Thou troubled dreamer, cast thy fears aside I" 
 
 Said Naamah, — " Ere long w4U Wilfred's self 
 
 Be here to laugh at thy dark auguries I 
 
 Are tliese fit looks of greeting ? clear thy brow, 
 
 And ev'n for love's sake look thyself again I 
 
 Ah, gladden A\'ith thy presence this poor heart, 
 
 That pines \sithout thee ! Paradise itself 
 
 Woidd seem a barren waste, of thee bereft I"
 
 64 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Tlie night grew dark and darker, — winds arose ; 
 Storm-threatening signs appeared from time to time ; 
 A gradual chill crept thro' the festive hall, 
 Filling all hearts ■with doubt and sad surmise, 
 Till with grave looks, and farewells mute, the guests 
 Dispersed, ere the first stroke of midnight tolled. 
 At length with awful crash the thunder broke I 
 The rain came down in torrents I wTestling winds 
 Shook the strong house, and tore the aged trees, 
 "VMiile forked lightning, arm of quiv'ring fire. 
 Brought blast and desolation far and near. 
 The old Lord, trembling, to his chamber went. 
 To plead with Heav'n in terror for his son. — 
 The servants, awe -struck, in the upper rooms 
 Crowded, to watch the issue of the storm. 
 Within the porch, all silent, Gabriel stood — 
 His arm clasped Naamah's; — his eyes were raised, 
 As fain to pierce the darkness, and discern 
 Some trace of pitying Providence beyond. 
 " Why start you, love ?" low whispered Naamah, 
 And, shudd'ring, closer to her husband clung. 
 " I heard a sound as of distress at sea I 
 Hark I there again! — Hold, Naamah, thine hand I 
 Thou shalt not stay me 1" — All in vain she urged, 
 'Twas but the thunder rolling up from far ; 
 In vain with frantic love she clasped him round. 
 With one strong wrench he tore him from her grasp, 
 And ere the cry of anguish broke, was gone,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 55 
 
 Lost in the chaos of the storm without. 
 
 Long anxious hours unhajipy Naamah 
 
 The desolate chambers paced, until the lights 
 
 Sunk flick' ring to their sockets, and died out. 
 
 She wandered up and dowTi the hall, the stairs, 
 
 And corridors, like some remorseful ghost. 
 
 That could not rest. The wreath, that bound her hair, 
 
 Now shed its faded rose-leaves o'er her neck. 
 
 And do^^'n her snow-white vest : — a living corpse 
 
 Unearthly fair, with flowers for burial strewn. 
 
 She seemed. — Ah me I less piteous to behold 
 
 Was Jephtha's child amidst her weeping maids 
 
 Upon the mountains, where she silent sat, 
 
 Wan, anguish-stricken, Desolation's self. 
 
 Bewailing her stern doom, while balmy %Ainds 
 
 Swept sighing past her AAith a mournful sound. 
 
 And o'er her raiment and her raven hair 
 
 The glist'ring dew-drops shone like angels' tears. 
 
 Will it ne'er end ? the dismal night ? — it moves 
 
 With leaden pace, and long ere morning breaks. 
 
 The storm is lulled, the raging winds abate, 
 
 And thro' the opening clouds faint moonlight streams 
 
 Athwart the marble pavement of the hall. 
 
 Silvers the cold Avhite images around. 
 
 And sheds its lurid melancholy beams 
 
 Upon the Magdalen of sculptured stone. 
 
 Behold the sorrowing genius of thy house I 
 
 Weeps it not with thee, Naamah ? the tears
 
 56 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Are frozen on its cheek ! excess of grief, 
 And liumLleness, and j^atience, is expressed 
 In that pale face ; those downcast eyes, that gaze 
 Unutterably tender, full of trust. 
 Upon the blessed emblem of the cross. 
 Misfortune's child, rest thou thine owti thereon I 
 
 The day was dawning faintly : — w^earied out, 
 Within an upper chamber on a couch 
 At length poor Naamah in slumber simk. 
 But rest was not for her : — ere long the tramp 
 Of strange and hurried footsteps startled her. 
 She strove to still the beatings of her heart, 
 And held her breath, and listened eagerly. 
 Oh, direful moments of suspense ! they came 
 Yet near and nearer, — up the avenue — 
 Along the terrace, — gained the vestibule. — 
 Low-murmuring voices reached her from beneath : — 
 She clasped her hands, — " 'Tis he ! 'tis Gabriel !" 
 Sprung from the couch, and, light as winged Love, 
 Sped down the stairs, and stood within the hall. 
 
 'Twas thronged -with faces strange, — that seemed 
 to her 
 Like faces in a dream : — she paused awhile. 
 Perplexed and speechless, — then, with eager air 
 xVnd sense of chill heart-siclmess, forced her way 
 Among the crowd, that in the centre stood,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 57 
 
 And sudden saw, with eyes incredulous, 
 
 Close at her feet, upon a hier outstretched 
 
 The corpse of Wilfred : — ah, how pale he looked 1 
 
 How calm, and fair, and stately in his death I 
 
 His dark brown dripping locks in tangles fell, 
 
 Leaving his forehead bare, and eyes, whose lids 
 
 The sea's soft kiss had sealed for evermore. 
 
 ( )ne cold dead hand hung down, and touched the ground ; 
 
 The other — locked in Gabriel's, who lay 
 
 Half fainting on the floor, with fallen head 
 
 Upon his brother's breast — a woful sight, 
 
 Almost as deathUke as the dead itself I 
 
 See, father, where he lies, thy beautiful son ! 
 Dear witness of thine early halcyon days. 
 Thro' childhood, boyhood, youth, from first to last 
 Of his short life, all thy fond soul could wish I 
 8ons, that have wrung their parents' hearts with grief, 
 Brought desolation to the peaceful hearth, 
 Thronged with blithe faces ; — fouled their once fair 
 
 names 
 Witli deep-dyed ineradicable stains, — 
 Guilt-branded outcasts — such — live on, and drain 
 The very dregs of miserable life ; 
 While thy good son — tliine aged heart's delight — 
 Thy first beloved, — thy friend, — thine all in all. 
 In youth's fuU prime lies lifeless at thy feet 1 
 Weep not so sorely I — what, if those dear eyes
 
 58 
 
 THE PA8SI0N FLOWER. 
 
 No more shall meet thine own in filial love I 
 Those closed lips answer not thy piercing cry 
 Of lamentation ; — he is still thy son I 
 A crown of honour to thy hoary head I 
 As near to thee in death, — part of thyself, — 
 As in the hour of joy, when first he lay 
 Clasped to thy hreast. Not for a season God 
 Gave thee him, but for ever I if awhile 
 He hide thy treasure from thee, patiently 
 Resign it to His keeping, nor believe, 
 Because thou seest it not, 'tis less thine otiti I
 
 59 
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 PART nx. 
 
 " How wonderful is life I from first to last 
 
 A mournful, hopefiil, awful mysterj' 1 
 
 Then, wherefore we (who know that nothing here 
 
 Is as it seems, and daily, hourly mocked 
 
 By outward semblances, mistake, misjudge. 
 
 And backward read the all-beneficent laws 
 
 That rule creation), wherefore shoidd we deem 
 
 His absence, as it were, some grievous ill 
 
 Inflicted but to torture us in vain ? 
 
 All sights deceive us I that which is most fair, 
 
 And most unlovely to corporeal sense, 
 
 Ahke illusion I Oh, if hill and stream, 
 
 Sunshine and tempest, glorious human forms, 
 
 And flowers — beloved with love of H\ang things — 
 
 And the blue sides themselves, which we call Heav'n, 
 
 Are not as we conceive them, just it were 
 
 To deem, that mortal life, and pain, and death,
 
 60 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 Are but disguises worn by some great good. 
 
 That bides a blessing in a seeming curse. 
 
 I do believe, behind the murldest cloud 
 
 There is an angel's face, — aye, and a voice 
 
 Of love and pity in the thmider's roar, — 
 
 And in the loss of him, that was so dear, 
 
 And brave, and beautiful, a loftier gain 
 
 To him and us, than our poor hearts, pent up 
 
 In this obscure abode, can dream or guess ! 
 
 Then, Gabriel, lift thine eyes, and look on her, 
 
 To whom the sight of thy despair doth make 
 
 This life a desolation ! See, the sun 
 
 Yet pours its beams on this bereaved earth I 
 
 All is not lost, while loveliness and love, 
 
 Howe'er despoiled, are left — and more than these 
 
 Sustaining thoughts of Christ, and prayers, that bring 
 
 The angels do^vn of patience and of peace." 
 
 He hears not her sweet voice. With drooping head, 
 And hstless arms down hmig, and glassy eyes 
 That gaze on vacancy, for days he sat 
 A Hving form, forsaken of its soul. 
 Beside him Naamah, disconsolate. 
 Knelt, gazing on him with beseeching looks, 
 And called him by a thousand tender names, 
 And leaned her head against his heart, and sighed, 
 The saddest sigh e'er parted human lips. 
 Oft would she lift his motionless cold hands,
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. CI 
 
 And fold tliem in lier onii, and fondly strive 
 
 To warm them A\'ith her kisses and her tears. 
 
 But all was vain to rouse him ; till, at length, 
 
 It chanced, his father (who for years had nursed ' 
 
 A strange indifference to his youngest son), 
 
 Perceiving his sad plight, with wistful looks 
 
 (\Mnle tears ran down his cheeks) drew near, and laid 
 
 His furrowed hand 'mong Gabriel's golden curls. 
 
 A ray of love illumed the young man's face, — 
 
 He looked up \\'ith a transient smile, and leaned 
 
 His pallid cheek against his father's breast. 
 
 " 8tay by me, father : I so love to feel 
 
 Thy hand upon me, hear thee call me ' son I ' — 
 
 God knows, I cannot fiU his place that's gone, — 
 
 Yet bear with me awhile, and when I die, 
 
 Remember not how wajTvard I have been, 
 
 How all unworthy: — but. oh. think of me 
 
 As one, Avho loved thee meekly, silently, 
 
 And prized thy love above all earthly things ! " 
 
 Days, weeks, and months were numbered — but no 
 more 
 The flush of health returned to Gabriel's cheek. 
 A melancholy cahu possessed his soul, 
 Unnatural at his years, and with the hopes 
 He might have cherished still of life and love. 
 He sat with Naamah on summer days 
 Beside the porch, or near his brother's grave. —
 
 62 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 And the' she sang to him, and wearied not 
 
 To win him from his grief by mute appeals, 
 
 And prayers, and numberless endearing ways, 
 
 And womanly devices, — never more 
 
 His once so buoyant mood revived, — the hopes. 
 
 The cares of earth, had died out in his heart. 
 
 By mem'ry of his brother all absorbed. 
 
 " Mourn not for me, loved Naamah," he said, 
 
 " The strife has lasted long, but now I rest. 
 
 It was a fearful time when Wilfred died ; 
 
 I scarcely can recall its agony, 
 
 And how I writhed beneath the stroke of doom I 
 
 I used to long for night, such hope I had. 
 
 That in the darkness I might see his face. 
 
 I called his name, and prayed him come to me 
 
 But for one moment — once again to look 
 
 On those beloved lineaments. Alas I 
 
 How vain such expectation, to discern 
 
 With bodily eyes of spiritual semblance aught, 
 
 Reversing nature's all-wise law, that suits 
 
 Our senses to the sights and sounds alone 
 
 Of this material earth, denying us 
 
 A ghmpse beyond ; and tho' the spirit-world 
 
 Be all around, far nearer than we deem, 
 
 'Tis only death can rend the fleshly veil 
 
 That bhuds us, and disclose it to our view. 
 
 In this probationary state how just, 
 
 That we should learn the lesson patiently
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 63 
 
 It hath to teach us, taking as they come 
 
 Or good or ill, for ill itself is good 
 
 That- is not guilt-entailed, but is from God. 
 
 I therefore am content to trust and wait : 
 
 Assured that He, in His best time, will lift 
 
 The scales from off my spirit's eyes, and change 
 
 This mortal darloiess to immortal hght." 
 
 Sore wept poor Naamah. " No more !" ahe said ; 
 
 " I cannot bear it now — so mournful strange 
 
 And ominous thy tones I so Uke the luiell 
 
 Of dying love 1 Alas ! how thou art changed 
 
 From thy so lovely self of former days 1 
 
 Thy brother in his death did steal thy heart 
 
 From all that once possessed it, making us 
 
 Mere abjects, of our only treasure reft. 
 
 Art thou thus eager to be gone '? to leave 
 
 Thy poor companion ? dost thou think to find 
 
 In other worlds a love moi'e true than mine, 
 
 WTio, ere I left thee lonely in thy griefs, 
 
 Had bartered half the blessedness above ?" 
 
 " Nor yearnings, nor resistance," answered he, 
 " Can change, dear heart, th' unchangeable 1 I feel 
 The hand of doom is on me. Never think 
 I am not loath to leave thee I art thou not 
 Heart of my heart, my life of life, my heav'n. 
 As thou wast ever ? thou didst make this world 
 Only too pleasant and too dear to me
 
 64: THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 And oh I when I am parted from thy side, 
 And thou dost weep — alas I I Imow thou wilt! 
 Let thy sweet heart take comfort in the thought, 
 That Death, so dreaded distant, drawing near 
 Breathes on the soul with effluence divine. 
 Until the atmosphere around is fraught 
 With sense of peace unutterably sweet. 
 Beguiling us so gently out of hfe, 
 That unawares we find ourselves in heav'n. 
 I know my end is near — last night I saw 
 Once more my brother standing in the porch, 
 With hand towards the Passion Flower upraised. 
 He gathered it for me : it is the flower, 
 That all the angels in their bosoms wear. 
 Since Christ's tears fell upon it, as He bowed 
 His head in anguish at Gethsemane." 
 
 " Ah, fold me to thy heart once more — once more 
 Let me die with thee, Gabriel I should there be 
 No heav'n, no life to come, and we must lie 
 Inanimate clods, slow crumbling into dust — 
 All the sweet memories of our life, hke stars. 
 Gone out for ever — all our tender love, 
 Our joys, and sorrows, wishes, hopes and prayers, 
 Become a blank, as tho' they ne'er had been — 
 Tho' nature, and this wonderful fair world. 
 Which we so dear have loved, no token keep 
 Of our brief frail existence — I fear not
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 65 
 
 To go ■uith thee into eternal night I 
 
 To be as thou art, whatsoe'er thou be — 
 
 Nothi'ilg, if thou art nothing I even this 
 
 Rather than Kfe without thee, which were death 
 
 In its worst shape — despair accompanied I 
 
 Wherefore should health thus glow throughout my frame, 
 
 While thine droops hourly ? and my pulse beat strong, 
 
 While thine is faint ? Alas ! thy lips are pale : 
 
 The flush is fading from thy cheek I not yet — 
 
 I cannot yet part with thee, my soid's love I 
 
 Still strain me close and closer to thy brenst — 
 
 Death shall not have the heart to part us thus I" 
 
 Mysterious, silent death I w'hose unseen touch 
 Transforms this N-ivid, soul-expressive frame 
 Into a wax-like image, cold as stone, 
 Inimitably, pale and motionless : 
 A somewhat, that doth seem to appertain 
 Neither to earth nor heaven I — not terrible, 
 Yet awful to behold ! the sight of thee 
 Doth teach us, — more than all the books e'er -wTit. — 
 And certify (as tho' attested audibly 
 By voice of God) that this corporeal shape, 
 — So wonderful and delicately wrought — 
 Is but the garment, which we wear on earth. 
 Turn, Naamah I ne'er hang upon that lifeless clay. 
 As thou wert grown to marble clasping it I 
 It cannot see thee — hear thee — answer thee I —
 
 GG THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 It is not Gabriel, more than are the clouds, 
 Tliat sometime veil the sun, the sun itself. 
 Seek him henceforth in the still air around — 
 Among the flowers, and all sweet things he loved : 
 Believe him close beside thee, in the hamits 
 Of happy days departed : wheresoe'er 
 Is nature's aspect lovely and serene, 
 Thou likehest art the influence to feel 
 Of his blest spirit breathing love on thine. 
 Peerless he was I ev'n from his birth endow'd 
 AVith heav'nly gifts. As some rare fragile plant, 
 Torn from more genial soil, may haply bloom 
 While summer lasts : but, when bleak w^nds set in. 
 Is nipped and blighted, — his frail flower of life 
 Exjianded in the wamith of hope and love, 
 But when chill sorrow touched it, shrank apace, 
 Waxed wan, and withered. Even as thy gain 
 In love like his was great, so, Naamah, 
 Thy grief is in its loss I Seek where thou wilt, 
 Thou canst not find another Gabriel I 
 Nor if, methiuks, one charming past compare — 
 Fair as Endjonion, Avhen the goddess first 
 Eyed him with looks enamoured — eloquent, 
 Gentle and wise, shoidd seek thy love to win 
 With promises of Ufe's most rare delights, 
 Wouldst thou one moment swerve from loyalty 
 To thy dead love, more lovely to thy thoughts 
 (Ev'n in his garb of frail humanity)
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. G7 
 
 Than the first angel of the hijjjhest 8})here. 
 
 For love like thine, true love, (which in this world 
 
 Of counterfeits and falsehoods, is as rare 
 
 As true religion, or aught else of truth) 
 
 So hallows, elevates, and sanctifies 
 
 The image at its shrine, encircling it 
 
 With radiance mystical, that, as a veil. 
 
 Conceals its natural semblance, and, apart 
 
 From grosser idols worshipped for a day, 
 
 In the heart's " Holy of HoUes " hides it safe 
 
 With thoughts of God associate — such true love 
 
 Can neither change with time, nor die with death I 
 
 \Mioe'er would lure an angel do^^^^ to dwell 
 
 In mortal tenement, must people it 
 
 With fit associates for such heavenly guest : 
 
 And who aspires true love to entertain — 
 
 God's love — our pledge of immortality — 
 
 Must beautify the temple of his heart 
 
 With store of wisdom, gentle thoughts and good, 
 
 And amiable affections : — faith and peace 
 
 And all the \'irtues must inhabit it: — 
 
 So it may seem a mansion fair, and meet 
 
 For that celestial visitant, — too pure 
 
 To breathe infected air, too bright to dwell 
 
 In dark abode with spirits base and foul. 
 
 Now hope had well-nigh died in Xaamah, — 
 But that the Great Good, which is still most near
 
 68 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 When needed most, in this her strait extreme 
 
 Let in a flood of glory thro' the gloom — 
 
 And crave her heart new lease of hfe and love 
 
 In that most wondrous gift of gifts — a child. 
 
 Mysterious messenger of promise I late 
 
 In fellowship with angels I Mystic sense 
 
 Of rev'rend awe athwart the rapture steals 
 
 Of thy impassioned mother, as she cons 
 
 Thy tiny form so wonderfully framed, 
 
 And smiles exultingly to find thy hand, 
 
 Tho' ne'er so small, can clasp her finger round. 
 
 bliss midreamed I no more is Gabriel dead I 
 
 He lives in this his son, — soul of his soul, — 
 
 That wiU grow up to look, and move, and speak. 
 
 And grace the earth, ev'n as its father did I 
 
 " 0, my child's soul, in thy mysterious course 
 
 From th' unimagined regions whence thou art. 
 
 Perchance thy father's spirit breathed on thee 1 
 
 His love encircled thee, even as now 
 
 My feeble arms 1 Perchance be bade thee bear 
 
 Some token of his pity and his love 
 
 To thy bereaved mother I my child, 
 
 Couldst thou but speak 1 or I might kiss thy lips, 
 
 And find it there, or read it in thine eyes. 
 
 Or hear it in the murmurs of thy sleep, 
 
 'Ere earthly influences quite wear out 
 
 Its impress on tbeel" As a link new wrought 
 
 Between herself and Heav'n this infant seemed
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 69 
 
 To Naamah, — Day-star, that ushered in 
 
 Her soul to land of promise I Nor l)rooked she 
 
 One moment from her jealous arms to part 
 
 The precious burden : morning, noon, and night, 
 
 Its presence was as influence divine — 
 
 Refreshing — renovating. ' T was a j oy 
 
 Too exquisite to last : and NUamah, 
 
 (Wliile strangers shook the head with boding sigh) 
 
 In her blind passion, heeded not how frail 
 
 The thread, to which that little life was hung. — 
 
 Not till, with pallid lips and languid eye. 
 
 The babe lay stretched upon its fever bed, 
 
 ]\Ioaning in its unquiet sleep, — quailed she 
 
 Before the omens of impending doom : — 
 
 Not tiU the breath had ceased to wann its lips, 
 
 Its tiny heart to beat, and small hot hands 
 
 Grew damp within her own, could hope forego, 
 
 That this last overwhelming agony 
 
 Might yet be turned aside. Ah, who 
 
 Can speak her ultimate despair, — who paint 
 
 In li\ang colours what she was, — how looked, — 
 
 How moved, — how lived, — and died not midemeath 
 
 The weight of such accumulated woes ? 
 
 Crushed down by the sore anguish, days she lay 
 
 Unconscious of aught romid her, — like to die : 
 
 Oft in delirious wand' rings courting death. 
 
 And calling on the dead -n-ith cravings wild 
 
 To draw her after them, — a grievous time 1
 
 70 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 But when the siclmess waned, and she awoke 
 To sense of outward things, and saw once more 
 Tills beautiful earth in all its spring attire, — 
 The trees and \n\\n in earliest emerald green, — 
 And felt warm sunshine everywhere, — it seemed, 
 That Nature wore the old enchanted look 
 It used to wear ; and her once ardent love 
 Returned for birds, and flowers, and all sweet sounds, 
 That thrilled her now -sAdth meaning deep and strange, 
 Like voices echoing from the angel-world. 
 
 The clods were green beneath the chapel wall. 
 Where Gabriel and his infant son were laid. 
 Beside them Wilfred and his mother slept — 
 All one in life, not parted in their deaths. 
 There scarce was spot in all the world so still I 
 The insects' buzz, and waving to and fro 
 Of the tall, feathery, yellow-crested grass, 
 Were all the somids that stirred its solitude. 
 The garden-walks were fragrant still with flowers, 
 And strewn in spring-time with the shell-Hke leaves 
 Of the pink chestnut blossom ; the gold fruit 
 And clust'ring bells of the arbutus hung 
 Year after year upon their dark green boughs, 
 As if no change had fallen upon the place, 
 No footfall and no pleasant voice was hushed. 
 Alas ! as one by one we drop away. 
 And in the jjlaces, where we once were known.
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. i 
 
 Are kno\\Ti no more, how feebly felt the void 
 
 Our absence makes, — how soon our very names 
 
 BecomB a memory, cherisheil silently 
 
 By those few hearts that loved ns I — Earth blooms on, 
 
 Mourning not, heeding not the mjTiad dead, 
 
 \Miose grave she is I All flesh is grass indeed I 
 
 Now ofttimes on the terrace might be seen 
 The old man, leaning on his daughter's ann, 
 Come forth wth trembling steps to feel the warmth 
 Of the glad sun at noon. His rev'rend head 
 Was bowed \\nth years and sorrows ; but for her, 
 The tears, yet warm upon her cheek, had left 
 Unmarred its loveliness, and glanced her eye 
 With ever-var\ang meaning, a.s of old. 
 How tenderly she guided his weak steps I 
 How gently stroked the wrinlded hand, that lay 
 On her sustaining arm I — She would oft gaze 
 With fond, imploring looks into his face. 
 And smile her old bright smile, then weep to see 
 The old man feebly strive wth quiv'ring lips 
 To smile in answer. It would almost seem 
 She had forgotten her o^^^^ griefs, so much 
 Remembering his, and sorrowed more for him 
 And his dead sons, than for herself, and all 
 The world of love she lost in Gabriel. 
 So yoimg, — so full of graces, — so bereft 
 Of all, that makes Kfe precious '. — Yet forbear
 
 72 THE PASSION FLOWER. 
 
 To pity her, ye prosperous I upon wliom 
 Tlie plenitude of earthly bhss is poured, — 
 Hope, recomjiensed affections, store of friends. 
 And home with fair and happy faces thronged I — 
 She would not give the memories of her past 
 For all your present joys 1 Her heart doth hold 
 Within itself a heav'n of lovely thoughts 
 And consolations, — aU-sufficiiig faith, 
 That nothing is in vain, but shall reveal 
 In the unknown hereafter purposes 
 Of love and wisdom never deemed of here. 
 How happier far, like Naamah, to lose 
 The human semblance of the soul we love, 
 And know, that henceforth neither time, nor chance, 
 Nor change, nor life, nor death, can intervene 
 To part that soul from ours 1 — How happier far 
 Than (in this treacherous and uncertain world, 
 Where ofttimes dark and stormy evenings close 
 The mildest summer's day) year after year 
 To know no severance, but hve on and love, 
 Till love perchance wear out, and the warm heart 
 Beat faint and dull to that same voice, whose sound 
 Once thrilled its pulses with keen ecstasy : 
 Or (poisoned at the core by venomed tongues 
 That envy, shame, and foul suspicion breed) 
 From cold estrangement grow to rancorous hate, 
 And scorn, and wrath, and vengeful lusts against 
 The object of its sometime passionate love
 
 THE PASSION FLOWER. 73 
 
 And slavish ailoration. Even so 
 
 Th' iji;norant })agan tramples under foot 
 
 The' idol, he once served on hended laiees. 
 
 It is the living whom we 've ceased to love, 
 
 Not tlie beloved dead, are lost to us. 
 
 By such high faith was Naamah upheld 
 
 In her extremest hour of agony ; 
 
 And her life's sun, that seemed as it had set 
 
 In darlmess on the day her loved ones died, 
 
 Rose on the morrow with more mellowed light, 
 
 But cheeringly as ever. AU bright things 
 
 And lovely, as di\'ining her great need, 
 
 Combined to bless and soothe her, till the void, 
 
 Made in her heart by absent love, was filled 
 
 Witli sights and soimds of beauty and of peace, 
 
 And rare imaginings of future joys. 
 
 — The faint winds lingered romid her, — fond to breathe 
 
 With freshening balm upon her fevered brow : — 
 
 The tiny waves of the vast slumbrous sea. 
 
 That sparkled in the sun wdth rainbow tints. 
 
 Crept towards her as in reverence, fain to Idss 
 
 Her feet or garment's fringe. The very stars 
 
 Seemed to grow brighter, as she gazed on them — 
 
 And on the wings of birds that fluttered by 
 
 Between her and the deeji blue vault of heav'n, 
 
 She felt, as if her Gabriel's spirit past 
 
 Joyous and free, and left upon the air 
 
 Silent, invisible tokens of his love.
 
 74 THE PASSION FLOWEn, 
 
 Sweet dreams she liad, wherein night after night, 
 She met him face to face, and heard him speak — 
 And (Hnked her hand in his) went wand'ring on 
 Thro' endless sxiimy paths and greensward ways, 
 While seraph music sounded in her ear, 
 And Christ with looks beatified arose, 
 And pointed upward to th' eternal skies. 
 
 Farewell, fair Naamah I thou hast fulfilled 
 Meekly thy destiny, hast borne the cross 
 Of Him, who now consoles thee with His peace ! 
 Heaven's light is all around thee, and thy heart, 
 With hope renewed, as in its glorious spring. 
 Doth yet confess that " life is beautiful ! " 
 See, where the ominous Passion Flower lies dead 1 
 Hear the blest voices calling thee from far : 
 'VMiile starry -vested angels wait to bear 
 Thy sainted soul to some serener sphere I
 
 75 
 
 THE IMAGE OF THE TRUTH. 
 
 EARTH I how quicldy all things sweet, 
 All precious, pure, and hright, 
 
 "NMien borne upon thy bosom, pale, 
 And lose their sweetness quite I 
 
 O man ! perverting all things good, 
 
 Degrading all things great, 
 Interjireting the loftiest truths 
 
 To suit thy low estate I 
 
 How quickly to the infant soul 
 
 Thy breath a taint imparts, 
 And 8aints have scarcely walked by thee 
 
 With uncorrupted hearts I 
 
 WTien One at last. di\nnely good. 
 To bless thy world was giv'n. 
 
 And teach, thro' lowliness and love. 
 The nearest road to Heav'n,
 
 7G THE IMAGE OF THE TRUTH. 
 
 'Twas felt, that God was come to earth, 
 
 For man ne'er spoke as He : 
 But proud men scoffed, and scorned His law 
 
 Of simple charity I 
 
 And when His face was seen no more, 
 His friends and followers said, 
 
 " Lest men forget the truths He taught, 
 And deem our loved one dead. 
 
 Now let us raise an Image fair, 
 
 The likeness of His grace. 
 That we may still delight our souls 
 
 By gazing on His face I — 
 
 And place it in the open plain, 
 
 \Miere sorrowful and poor 
 May gather round, and rest beneath 
 
 Its shadow eveimore I" 
 
 They made the Image spotless white 
 
 Of goodly marble stone, 
 And nought so fair before or since 
 
 In all the earth was known I 
 
 But others came, — " And build," they said, 
 
 " A temple for its shrine : 
 'Tis meet from vulgar gaze to hide 
 
 An Image so divine !
 
 THE IMAGE OF THE TRUTH. 77 
 
 And place a priest before the door 
 
 To hear the j)Llgriin8' prayer, 
 And grant thoni just a glance \nthin 
 
 Upon the glory there I " 
 
 Then, east and west, adorers came ; 
 
 And one with other vied, 
 Erecting each his separate shrine 
 
 To Him, all deified : 
 
 Till roimd and round the sacred spot 
 
 Innumerous tem]ilcs rise, 
 And hide the Image in the midst 
 
 For ever from men's eyes. 
 
 Some huilt of stone, some gold-inwTought, 
 
 And on each front engraved, — 
 " Who seeks the truth elsewhere, is lost ; — 
 
 "WTio seeks it here, is saved I" 
 
 Presumptuous boast I while none contains 
 
 The Image pure and white. 
 And pilgrims roam from shrine to shrine 
 
 In vain to find the right I 
 
 Yet Icnow we. man nor time can change 
 
 The ever-hallowed spot, 
 WTiere stands the Image of the Truth, 
 
 Altho' we find it not 1 —
 
 78 THE IMAGE OF THE TRUTH, 
 
 Tho' brave men have been, who have fought 
 
 Thro* prejudice and pride 
 To find again that Image fair, 
 
 And in the struggle died, 
 
 The veil shall yet be rent in twain, — 
 
 The Holy Place revealed, 
 "VMiere falsehood all too long has dared 
 
 To keep the truth concealed I
 
 7'J 
 
 THE WOODEN CROSS. 
 
 'Tis a little wooden Cross ; — 
 Nothing worth you see ; — 
 
 Yet I love it very dearly, 
 For he gave it me, 
 
 Long ago, in summer time : 
 
 I was young and \\'ild ; 
 He, a very saint in goodness, 
 
 Brave, and wsc, and mild. 
 
 " 'Tis a wooden Cross, — no more ;" 
 
 Flatteringly he spake, — 
 " Yet I love you, take it, keep it 
 
 For a poor man's sake I" 
 
 Ah, those lips so eloquent I 
 
 I can see them now, 
 And the sudden glory lighting 
 
 Up his cheek and brow I
 
 80 THE WOODEN CROSS. 
 
 Poor ! yet he had made me rich ! 
 
 Love, from such as he, 
 Was a fitter gift for angel. 
 
 Than for one like me I 
 
 On my neck he botmd the Cross, 
 Blessing me the while ; — 
 
 Such a tender, mournful meaning 
 In his voice and smile I 
 
 And I never saw him more. 
 
 Never heard again 
 Tones, whose mem'ry still makes music 
 
 In my heart and brain. — 
 
 It was well perhaps he died : — 
 
 Better far to be 
 In the grave, methought, than suffer 
 
 Half my misery I 
 
 But the Cross, the wooden Cross, 
 
 On my bosom lay. 
 And I kissed and wept upon it 
 
 Twenty times a day : 
 
 Till there came the thought of Him, 
 
 Suiferer di\ine ! 
 Unto whose great weight of anguish, 
 
 \Miat were griefs hke mine ?
 
 THE WOODEN CROSS. 
 
 81 
 
 And a quiet, strange and sweet, 
 
 O'er my being stole, 
   Like the breath of some good angel 
 Passing o'er my soul. 
 
 Years of pain, how quickly sped '. — 
 
 Near my grave I stand. 
 Straining thro' the misty evening 
 
 Toward the spirit-land ! — 
 
 Lay the Cross upon my breast, 
 
 When in death I lie ; — 
 Do not break the spell, that binds it 
 
 To my destiny I 
 
 Emblem of my hope and love, 
 Balm to soothe and save. 
 
 Let me take my treasure with me 
 To the grave !
 
 82 
 
 CHRIST. 
 
 Tho' the joys, that now delight thee, 
 
 Faint may wax and tame, 
 
 I am still the same. 
 
 The' the hearts, that say they love thee, 
 
 Turn to cold and strange, 
 
 I can never change I 
 
 Tho' the hopes, that cheer thy spirit, 
 
 Pass like shadows frail. 
 
 Mine can never fail. 
 
 Tho' thy bosom's best affections 
 
 Wrong and falsehood sever, — 
 
 Mine endure for ever I 
 
 Tho' life's promise disappoint thee, 
 All thy toil and pain 
 Spend themselves in vain, —
 
 CHRIST. 8 
 
 Tho' the world look coldly on thee, 
 Spurn, and scorn thy faith, — 
 " T am true till death I 
 
 Tlio' it leave thee tossed and Hhijiwrecked 
 
 On a stranger land, 
 
 I am still at hand : 
 
 Come, thou poor, forsaken one, 
 
 By grief and wrongs oppressed, 
 
 " I vAl\ give thee rest I" 
 
 Am not T the " Rock of Ages?" 
 Found thy faith on me, 
 Tliat cannot moved be : 
 Then let all the powers of darlcness 
 Seek to bruise and break thee, 
 I am with thee, oh, believe me. 
 " I will never leave thee, 
 Nor forsake thee I" 
 
 o
 
 84 
 
 THE ANGEL OF LOVE. 
 
 On noiseless wing, one starry night 
 
 From her blest home above 
 Down, dove-like, came that Angel bright, 
 
 Whose care is human Love. 
 
 A rose upon her bosom lay, 
 
 Fresh cuUed from Eden's bowers ; 
 
 Unlike the rose, whose sweets decay 
 On this sad earth of ours. 
 
 Within its cup is foimd a balm 
 
 For love's severest pain ; 
 Desponding hearts to raise and calm. 
 
 And give them hope again. 
 
 Where Jordan's tranquil waters shine 
 Beneath the sun's warm rays. 
 
 Two sisters fair of Hebrew line 
 Had passed their quiet days.
 
 THE ANGEL OF LOVE. 
 
 In mutual love an<l virtue Llest, 
 Tliey scarce had dreamed of woe, 
 
 Till hopeless ])assion marred their rest, 
 And forced their tears to flow. 
 
 Both loved, alas 1 a Cliristiau Imight, — 
 Both shared an equal pain : — 
 
 For C'hristian vow no Jew may plight — 
 They knew, they loved in vain 1 
 
 Nor angry thought, nor envious strife, 
 
 Stirred either gentle breast : 
 Each woiild have yielded love and life 
 
 To make the other blest ! 
 
 The gracious Angel was not slow 
 
 Those sisters' griefs to feel. 
 Nor ever wept for human woe, 
 
 She did not strive to heal. 
 
 The sisters watched in speechless dread 
 
 Her radiant shape appear : 
 " Fear not ; my name is Love," she said ; 
 
 " And peace my mission here. 
 
 No sigh, how faint, how sad soe'er. 
 
 Is heard in vain on high : 
 A balm of power divine I bear 
 
 To soothe and sanctify. 
 
 85
 
 86 THE ANGEL OF LOVE. 
 
 To her, who loves A\ath deepest love, 
 This flower of life be given ; 
 
 It has been reared by saints above, 
 And bathed in dews of Heaven." 
 
 The Angel to the elder spake ; 
 
 '' What canst thou, wilt thou, do 
 Or bear for thy beloved one's sake. 
 
 To Y>Yove thy love is tnie ? " 
 
 " Oh, doubt it not," the maiden cried 
 '■ All joys would I resign, 
 
 So I were sometimes at his side. 
 And dared to call him mine I 
 
 My father's land, my sister's home, 
 Mine ancient creed forego. 
 
 With him on distant shores to roam, 
 And share his weal and woe I 
 
 No other bliss below, — above, — 
 No other hope be given ! 
 
 Life were not life without liis love, 
 i:\nd, with it, earth were heaven I" 
 
 The Angel to the younger spake : 
 " \Miat, maiden, wilt thou do 
 
 Or suffer for thy loved one's sake, 
 To prove thy love is true?"
 
 THE ANGEL OF LOVE. 
 
 " I love him well," the maid replied ; 
 
 " And much would I resign, 
 Xo be for ever at his side, 
 
 And Icnow his heart was mine. 
 
 My father's creed is dearer yet, — 
 Mine ancient race and name : 
 
 Then break my heart, ere I forget 
 The Israel, whence I came I 
 
 Yet tho' my vows I may not break 
 
 To share his happier fate, 
 To deeds of love, for his loved sake. 
 
 My days I consecrate. 
 
 No other love tliis heart shall share, 
 To his for aye consigned ; — 
 
 No tliought of evil enter, where 
 His image is enshrined I 
 
 But I the sick and poor will tend, — 
 
 My life an offering make 
 In trust, that Heaven on him may send 
 
 A blessing for my sake I" 
 
 The Angel smiled : " The Rose is thine : 
 
 Such love is love indeed : 
 So love, — so live : and love divine 
 
 Eternal be thy meed I "
 
 88 
 
 SPRINGS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 I PACE the long-deserted rooms, 
 
 Still striving to recall 
 The sound of footsteps on the staiTs, 
 
 Or voices in the hall. 
 
 Along the walks, and up the la\\'n, 
 
 I Avander every day ; 
 And sit heneath the mulherry's shade, 
 
 "VMiere naost we loved to play. 
 
 No stir of feet the stiUness breaks, 
 
 No dear familiar tone, — 
 Since, taking each her separate way, 
 
 They left me here alone. 
 
 To love them, and their love to share, 
 
 Was life and joy to me ; 
 I was the eldest of the house ; 
 
 My sisters, they were three.
 
 / 
 
 SPRINGS IN THE DESERT. 89 
 
 As one, who marks the bud unfold 
 A flower of radiant hue, 
 ,. I marvelled day by day to find 
 How beautiful they grew I 
 
 I knew them pure, and fit for life, 
 
 If earthly life were given ; 
 And oh, T Iniew, if they should die. 
 
 They were as fit for heaven. 
 
 Our childhood was a merry time ; 
 
 And grief, if grief we knew. 
 Seemed only sent, like rain, to make 
 
 The flowers spring up anew. 
 
 We parted ; one to lortlly halls 
 
 In foreign climes was led ; 
 WTiere love each day some new delight 
 
 O'er her life's pathway shed. 
 
 The other chose a lowlier lot, 
 
 A poor man's home to share. 
 To cheer him at his daily toil, 
 
 And soothe his daily care. 
 
 The last and youngest, — where is she? — 
 I thought she would have stayed 
 
 To talk ^^^th me of other days 
 Beneath the mulberry's shade.
 
 90 SPRINGS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 I loved her, as a mother loves, 
 
 And nightly on my breast 
 She laid her fair and gentle head, 
 
 And sung herself to rest. 
 
 I knevv' she could not find her peer 
 
 Among the sons of clay ; 
 Yet how I wept, when angels came 
 
 To take my flower away ! 
 
 And years have passed, — long silent years. 
 
 Since first I dwelt alone 
 Within the old deserted house, 
 
 Whence so much love was gone I 
 
 I was not, like my sisters, fair, 
 
 Nor light of heart as they : 
 I always knew, that mine would be 
 
 A lowly, lonely, way. 
 
 But they, who deem my portion hard. 
 Know not, that wells are found 
 
 In deserts wild, whose silent streams 
 Make green the parched ground. 
 
 There 's not a blade of grass, — a leaf, — 
 
 A breath of summer air, 
 But stirs my heart with love for Him, 
 
 Who made this earth so fair.
 
 SPRINGS IN THE DESERT. 91 
 
 And many a lowly friend have I, 
 
 Or sick, or satl of heart ; 
 Wlio hails my comin<^ steps with joy, 
 
 And sighs when I depart. 
 
 No day is ever long ; and night 
 
 Some gentle spirit hrings 
 To whisper thoughts of other worlds, 
 
 And of diviner things. 
 
 And if, when evening shadows fall, 
 
 I sad or lonely feel, 
 I kneel me down in that same room, 
 
 Where we four used to kneel — 
 
 And there I say the ev'ning prayer, 
 
 We four were wont to say : — 
 Tlie very place hath power to chann 
 
 All gloomier thoughts away 
 
 I have a thousand niem'ries dear 
 
 And quiet joys untold ; 
 For God hut takes His gifts away, 
 
 To give them back tenfold !
 
 92 
 
 THE SIBYL'S PEOPHECY : 
 
 WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 So fair a night was not, since Eve first slept 
 Beneath the stars in balmy Paradise. 
 AH evil powers enchained in slumber lay — 
 "VMiile from the outspread wings of angels came 
 An holy influence down, awakening hope. 
 In sad and weary hearts, of some great good 
 Unknown, mysterious, dawning on the world I 
 Now hushed were all melodious sounds — no note 
 Of bird or insect's hum ; dead silence reigned 
 Through favoured Tempe's vale, save where the breeze 
 With fitfiil sighings stirred the trembling leaves. 
 The crisped dew lay twinkling on the grass — 
 And the tall trees their clust'ring shadows cast 
 O'er Peneus' moonlit stream ; when by its shores 
 To wander forth a band of poets came. 
 Strange sense of awe, and expectation vague.
 
 THE SIBYL S PROPHECY. 
 
 93 
 
 Filled all their hearts, and chained their tuneful tongues :— 
 
 They raised inqnirinj? glances to the sides — 
 
 No^~ started, breathless, list'ning for the tones 
 
 Of fancied voices home upon the wind 
 
 Or on the murmuring tide ; when, lo 1 a sound 
 
 Of sweet strange music stole upon the air, 
 
 Like those wild melodies, which winds awake 
 
 Low breathing through ^Eohan strings. They heard ! 
 
 With one accord they hailed the gracious soimd I 
 
 " It is the signal of the prophetess I 
 
 At yonder shrine she holds her midnight watch, 
 
 And summons us, her sons in sacred lore. 
 
 To hold, through her, communion with the skies." 
 
 With marble front, all glistening in the moon. 
 
 The solitary temple grandly stood, 
 
 Where never soiuid of tumult, mirth, or grief, 
 
 Disturbed the stilhiess consecrate to heaven. 
 
 There, 'neath its porch, her long dark locks unbound, 
 
 With aspect pale and wrapt, and starry eyes, 
 
 The Sibyl stood, and, as with rev'rend mien 
 
 The poet band approached, a radiant smile 
 
 Lit up her face mth love and joy divine. 
 
 " Oh, Sons," she said, " and children of the Ught ! 
 
 Have ye not heard strange whisp'rings in the air, 
 
 And rustlings as of footsteps 'mong the trees ? 
 
 Seen in the moonbeams faces from the dead, 
 
 And felt witlun mysterious pulses throb 
 
 Through all your being ? 'tis a wondrous night :
 
 94 THE sibyl's prophecy. 
 
 To-nicrlit this time-worn world is boni anew ! 
 
 A God takes human shape, and comes with power 
 
 Invincible, resistless, to subdue. 
 
 And purify, and elevate the earth ! 
 
 The consummation of our blissful dreams, 
 
 The golden age revives, the age of peace ! 
 
 All hail ! thoii chosen, best beloved of Heaven, 
 
 That shalt -^-ith thy philosophy divine 
 
 Convert manldnd, and lift them to the gods ! 
 
 Mighty regenerator I mightier far 
 
 In lowliness, than Irings upon their thrones ! 
 
 Mighty in life to love, and bless, and save — 
 
 Mightiest in death, that conquers all but thee I " 
 
 The Sibyl paused — her rapture -kindled eyes 
 
 Grew dim with tears, as if some sudden grief 
 
 Had chilled her heart ; and with dejected tone 
 
 She thus resumed — " Oh, transports quickly past! 
 
 Oh, earth I what canker hides within thy heart 
 
 To taint all good, and blight the buds of hope ? 
 
 Oh, man I what curse is thine, when Heaven itself 
 
 Shall fail to hft thee to diviner life ? 
 
 The law of ^^'isdonl, innocence, and peace 
 
 (Bequest of Deity) is scarcely passed 
 
 Into men's hands, but strifes and discords rise. 
 
 And hate is Idndled at the name of love ! 
 
 Vain disputations, cavillings profane, 
 
 Displace heroic deeds, and lives subhme. 
 
 And make the holy Truth of none effect.
 
 THE sibyl's pkophecy. 93 
 
 The followers of the godlike Lawgiver 
 
 In countless sects div-ide, and fill the earth 
 
 WitTi wars and persecutions, sconi and hate, 
 
 Torture and death in every direful shape, 
 
 That heaVt of fiend conceives, or hell can frame. 
 
 Each deems itself supreme, and curses deals 
 
 On all beside, monopolising heaven, 
 
 And that free love, that yearns o'er all who live I 
 
 Oh, gentle Light 1 that through our darlaiess gleamed, 
 
 Art thou, then, quenched in Wood ? Oh, soul of Love, 
 
 Has hate already driven thee from earth 
 
 Back to thy native seat among the stars ? 
 
 Men Ivuow thee not — an Idol they have framed 
 
 In their o\\-n likeness (oh, how unlike thee 1), 
 
 And called it Truth ; an incoherent scheme 
 
 (After the fashion of their ignorance framed). 
 
 To mystify the mind and leave it void. 
 
 Thy consolations they have changed to threats, 
 
 Thy promises of hfe to fears of death ; 
 
 For deeds of justice, piety, and ruth, 
 
 Are pomps, and feasts, and vain solemnities I 
 
 Th' mid}-ing spirit of thy Love, that seelis 
 
 An habitation in the human heart, 
 
 Wanders forlorn, dejected through the earth, 
 
 Or haunts the altar, where thy blood was spilt. 
 
 To mourn that such a sacrifice di\'ine 
 
 Had not been offered for a worthier world. 
 
 Weep, gentle poets 1 aye, and gods will weep
 
 9(5 THE sibyl's prophecy. 
 
 To find so frustrated their liigli intents 
 
 Of charity to man. Yet, all not lost ; 
 
 For He who conaes, Truth's grand Interpreter, 
 
 Shall found e'en yet His Idngdom upon earth 
 
 Immutable, eternal as Himself. 
 
 A dazzling vision rises on my sight ! 
 
 I see the golden portals wide imfold, 
 
 And crowds, all garlanded in vestments bright, 
 
 Are entering in. From east and west they come. 
 
 Of every sect and nation under heaven, 
 
 The pure, and good, and true, from whose chaste lips 
 
 Nor curse nor slander fell : who lived in peace, 
 
 And on whose brows — His name (the Kingdom's King)- 
 
 Shines out inscribed in star-like characters ! 
 
 " Oh, haste ye, poets ! cast your bays aside. 
 For virtue henceforth Avins the palm of fame I 
 Go, consecrate the flame divine to Him 
 From whom it emanates — the Eternal Good. 
 So ye among the chosen band may be 
 UnowTied of men, but registered above 
 As champions for the Idngdom of the Truth I "
 
 97 
 
 HEAVEN ? 
 
 QUESTION AND REPLY. 
 
 Oh rich man I 'mid the splendours of thy state 
 
 Uneasy still, still nuinnuriiig at thy fate, 
 
 With all, that earth can yield of rare and bright, 
 
 To charm thy soul, thy senses to delight, 
 
 For lack of labour languidly oppressed, 
 
 On couch voluptuous vainly courting rest, — 
 
 Untried by actual griefs, yet rarely free 
 
 From fancy's self-inflicted misery, — 
 
 \Miat is that good, — thy far-off fond desire, — 
 
 That dream of Heaven, to which thy hopes aspire ? 
 
 " Oh, whatsoe'er doth least resemble thee, 
 
 Thou dull and irksome earth, were heav'n to me I 
 
 Some distant world, where dreams of mortal bliss 
 
 Revive no more the memory of this, — 
 
 Its hollow shows, — vain mimicry of joy, — 
 
 Its pomps that sicken, — and its sweets that cloy I" 
 
 H
 
 98 HEAVEN? 
 
 Oil ! poor man. reared in squalor, gloom, and care, 
 For thee, life's bitter portion is to bear, — 
 To toil with wearied limbs for wages scant, 
 Yet still to hear thine infant's wail of want 1 
 Kacldng thy heart, now glares, thro' the dim light 
 That face (how changed!) which once so cheered thy sight'. 
 Death haunts thee in dire shape and grim despair, 
 At home, abroad, for ever, everywhere : 
 Yet even thou dost sometime lift thine eyes, 
 Straining with misty vision toward the skies : 
 Hast thou no vague, fond hope of some bright home 
 Eeserved for thee and thine in worlds to come ? 
 
 " Among the ' many mansions,' fair and blest, 
 ^^'ithin our ' Father's house' I pray to rest 1 
 "VMiere equal bliss and equal honour wait 
 The rich and poor, the lowly and the great. 
 V^Tiere children's sobs no more my rest may break, 
 Nor hungry looks reproach me when I wake 1 
 Where its young strength my spirit may regain, 
 And the dull load be lightened from my brain, — 
 And hearts, that here my cup of sorrow share, 
 Shall drink ^^-ith me of joys immortal there !" 
 
 Thou, for the long -lost dead, that mournest yet. 
 On whose sad life the sun of love is set, 
 That sitt'st forlorn, abstracted, — -with pale eyes 
 Feeding thy griefs on dreams and memories.
 
 HEAVEN? 99 
 
 Thy Heaven 't will he to meet the looks once more, 
 To hear the voice, that channeil thy life of yore I — 
 Voice, that will welcome thee in rapturoua tone, 
 To that blest land, where partings are unknown I 
 
 O sage I that fain beneath the midnight skies 
 Would solve the mystery of mysteries, 
 Unfold the secret, mighty and sublime. 
 Denied to man from immemorial time; 
 The Heaven for which thou yeamest is, to know 
 The past, the future, — all things, high and low — 
 Explore the mjTiad worlds, that roimd us roll. 
 And w^orld as wondrous in the human soul, — 
 Pierce to the universal central sun, 
 WTiere, imapproached, dwells th' Eternal One I — 
 To such dread heights thy soaring soul aspires 
 In worship, winged with infinite desires I 
 
 Thou child of genius I — poet I — prophet ! — seer 1 — 
 That with love -darting, dauntless eye dost peer 
 Into the depths profoimd of life and death, 
 What wondrous visions startle thee beneath ? 
 Thy light of truth on life's illusions shine, 
 And teach us somewhat of the life divine I 
 Alas ! ev'n thou canst yield no sure reply — 
 Thy fait' ring accents into silence die. 
 In vain has fancy soared, and reason striv'n 
 To gain some nearer insight into Heav'n, —
 
 100 HEAVEN? 
 
 The vnsest angel from the worlds of bliss 
 May teach us many things, — but oh I not this. 
 Yet Imow we, the Omniscient Good, (towards whom 
 We yearn thro' doubt and death's apparent gloom) 
 Had never given us sight of sun or star, 
 Faint glimpses of the myriad worlds afar, — 
 Vague hope of joys, which have no being here. 
 Were we not born to some diviner sphere 1
 
 101 
 
 CONSOLATOR. 
 
 Benoni, " son of sorrow," — rightly named, 
 
 Thou orphaned, widowed, childless, — all bereaved ! 
 
 Lift up thy drooping eyelids, swoll'n with grief. 
 
 From the ungrateful earth, that drinks thy tears, 
 
 And gives thee back but breathings of decay 1 
 
 The beautiful gay sjtring is gone ; the grass 
 
 All worn, and parched, and withered, thirsts for rain 
 
 The crumpled, crumbling leaves fall noiselessly 
 
 Thro' the dead sultry air among the shrubs. 
 
 The white stock fades, and faint campagnola 
 
 Grows colourless, and droops for lack of dew. 
 
 The lark sings not, but the imprisoned dove 
 
 Coos to her mate complainingly, perchance 
 
 Lamenting her lost nest among the woods. 
 
 AH nature mourns with thee, most desolate ! 
 
 Too desolate to heed its s}Tnpathy, 
 
 Or aught beside thine all-engrossing griefs I 
 
 Thou art as one, to whom long since was giv'n
 
 102 CONSOLATOR. 
 
 A garden, grown ^^^tll plants of promise rare, 
 
 Exceeding delicate ; and, doomed to see 
 
 Thy loveliest flowers, just bursting into bloom, 
 
 Uprooted one by one and flung aside, — 
 
 Witli Avildered looks, despairing, impotent, 
 
 Stand'st gazing on the ruin at thy feet I 
 
 Oh, melancholy spirit of the past, 
 
 That haunts each scene famihar, peopled late 
 
 With living forms, and echoing to the tones 
 
 Of blessed voices I Oh, thou tomb-like house, 
 
 The winds, that creep along thy panels, sound 
 
 Like phantom waihngs o'er sepulchred joys ! 
 
 The instruments of music, silent, rust ; 
 
 And flowers, that decked the haU, are faded ; cold 
 
 Fair hands that culled them ! — On the wall still hangs 
 
 The picture of Christ's face ; — methinks the eyes, 
 
 That glanced of old in mild admonishment, 
 
 Now beam thro' tears a tenderness divine I 
 
 Benoni, once so blithe, now smitten sore 
 
 With dearth of all love's wealth ! — the good, the pure, 
 
 The beautiful are hidden from thine eyes ! 
 
 What need of knell to help such souls to Heaven, 
 
 Or monument to boast in vulgar gaze 
 
 Their graces and thy griefs ? or aught beside. 
 
 With which jDoor man deludes himself, in hope 
 
 To ease the wounds, that nothing here can heal ? 
 
 This life is full of sorrow I Are we not, 
 
 " Sure as the sparks fly upward," bom to weep ?
 
 CONSOLATOR. 103 
 
 \^^len mother Eve first gazed in wonderaient 
 
 Upon her eldest born, and fondly deemed, 
 
 That cliildren to their parents' hearts mnst prove 
 
 Exhaustless source of comfort and delight, 
 
 She grateful' named her infant — Cain, " a gift." 
 
 Too soon, by vigils early and late, by griefs 
 
 And crowding cares, her expectations fomid 
 
 All frail and vain ; and smarting with the pangs 
 
 Of disappointed hopes, what wonder she 
 
 Should call her next child — Abel, " Vanity '. " 
 
 She erred, as err her children after her ! 
 
 We have not heart to face our destiny 
 
 In its true colours, — fain would overlay 
 
 The prospect of our future with false lights 
 
 And rainbow hues inconstant, — till the storm 
 
 Brealvs o'er the scene and sweeps them all away. 
 
 Earth holds worse woes than sorrow such as thine : 
 
 On all sides round thee Rachel's voice is heard. 
 
 See life-long ties dissevered, broken hearts, 
 
 That cannot brook the coldness of a friend, 
 
 Homes grown thro' discord hell-hke, — happy hearths, 
 
 WTiere once sweet eyes looked love, made desolate 
 
 By sin and shame, that outlives life itself I 
 
 Hear the lorn mother's wail, that waits in vain 
 
 Her prodigal's return, — the bitter cry 
 
 Of souls awaked to conscioxisness of guilt. 
 
 That, maddened beyond human sufferance. 
 
 Rush headlong upon self-inflicted death I
 
 104 
 
 CONSOLATOR. 
 
 Distracted hearts repeat the patriarch's plaint — 
 
 " Woiild I had died, ev'n in mine hour of birth, 
 
 Then had I quiet lain, and been at rest I " 
 
 80, will not we : Benoni 1 hft tliine eyes, — 
 
 Shake ofP thy trouble, clear thy sense, and note 
 
 The " still small voice," that rises in the east 
 
 From Nazareth's lowly valley, and floats on, 
 
 Eternal and melodious, — heard above 
 
 The wliirlwind and the thunder, reaching out 
 
 To worlds and systems infinite, — beyond 
 
 Vibrating thro' the silences of space. 
 
 " Blessed are ye that mourn ! come unto me. 
 
 Ye heavy^-laden I weep not for the dead. 
 
 That are not dead, but sleep and shall awake I — 
 
 Ah, fear not, Httle Flock, this world of death ; 
 
 For ye are mine, that am the Way, the Truth, 
 
 The Life ; and I the world have overcome I " — 
 
 The rain has fallen, and the earth revives : 
 
 The dripping branches of the trees are stirred 
 
 By evening winds, and thro' their leaves the sun 
 
 Shines warm and mellowed on thine eyehds wan. 
 
 See where the gold and purple heart's-ease springs 
 
 Close at thy feet, all filled with dew, like some 
 
 Dear faithful friend, that smiles on thee through tears I 
 
 Ah, gather up the fragments that remain 
 
 Of broken joys ! although hfe's treasure-house 
 
 Is much despoiled, the jewels snatched away 
 
 Shall be restored in twofold preciousness,
 
 CONSOLATOR. 105 
 
 Or when or where we know not ; as He wills 
 Who, (when the waves of this world's agony 
 BealTDn our fragile bark of hfe, and nigh 
 Would overwhelm it,) walks in light 
 Upon the foaming waters, and u})lift8 
 His voice Divine, " 'Tis I, he not afraid I "
 
 106 
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 " Oh, wherefore is my mother's face 
 
 So sad and wan ?" I said : 
 And when she sighed, " Thy father, child I" 
 
 I knew, that he was dead. 
 
 Upon her bosom, three months old, 
 
 My baby brother lay : 
 " And you must be his mother, child, 
 
 When I am called away. 
 
 The glory of my life lies low 
 
 Beneath the churchyard sod ; 
 Then take my son, to sorrow born, 
 
 And name him Ichabod." 
 
 I took him from her dying arms. 
 
 And in my anguish cried, 
 " Love is the curse of life ! of love 
 
 My gentle mother died !
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 107 
 
 1 will not love, save this young child, 
 
 This orphaned Ichabod ; 
   And, as I give my heart to him, 
 So give I liis to God. 
 
 Nor dream of joy shall tempt us here, 
 Where naught to last is given. 
 
 But all our thoughts, and hoi>e, and love, 
 Shall wing their way to Heaven I" 
 
 Years past, — I bore him in my arms, 
 Till active, grown, and strong. 
 
 We played together in the fields 
 With laughter, dance, and son^ 
 
 ig; 
 
 And every night his little prayers 
 
 He said beside my knee ; 
 And oh, whate'er is best in life 
 
 My brother was to me ! 
 
 And when the seal of manhood first 
 
 Was set upon his brow. 
 Upon the altar-steps he took 
 
 Th' irrevocable vow, 
 
 And decked him in the priestly robe, 
 And all his days consign' d 
 
 To bear the Cross of Him, who died 
 In love to human kind.
 
 108 ICHABOD. 
 
 So beautiful, so grand he stood 
 In those too sanguine days ; 
 
 I sigh to think how proud I was, 
 "WTien all men spoke his praise I 
 
 WTiat blessed days in works of love 
 
 And tranquil joy we spent, 
 Our hearts at peace with all the world, 
 
 And with ourselves content !. 
 
 At ev'n we walked beside the sea 
 
 To watch the setting sun, 
 And breathe the fresh cool evening breeze, 
 
 \\Tien all our toil was done. 
 
 Oh, wherefore, sorrow, didst thou take 
 
 A form so frail and fair 
 To lay my pride vnth chast'ning low. 
 
 And change it to despair ? 
 
 WTien first I marked her sweet sad face 
 
 And meek uplifted eyes, 
 I took her for some messenger 
 
 Of mercy from the skies ! 
 
 The pomps of earth weighed heavily 
 
 Upon a form so light, — 
 The daughter of an Earl was she, 
 
 Betrothed to a Knight.
 
 ICHABOD. 109 
 
 Oh, fatal was the clay, when first 
 
 Across our path she trod. 
 For she was in her beauty's prime, 
 
 And so was Ichabod ! 
 
 And, free from guile, nor fear of sin. 
 
 Nor danger marred tlieir rest. 
 Till friendship' 8 flame unconscious grew 
 
 To love in either breast. 
 
 As blind I trusted in his strength. 
 
 Till time its frailty proved, 
 So mad I writhed with grief and shame, 
 
 When first I laiew they loved. 
 
 Cold horror seized the luckless maid, 
 
 Eemorse and wild dismay. 
 To find her heart, \inweeting, drawn 
 
 Thus fearfully astray. 
 
 I knew the anguish of her soul, — 
 
 But what was that to me ? 
 I had nor pity, thought, or care, 
 
 Save, Ichabod, for thee I " 
 
 The organ-tones had died away. 
 
 The midnight mass was o'er ; 
 I stood upon the altar-step, 
 
 She knelt upon the floor-
 
 110 ICHABOD. 
 
 Her forehead touched the marble stone, 
 Her hands were dasped in prayer : 
 
 The dying himps threw fitful gleams 
 Upon her golden hair. 
 
 And as she raised her face to Heav'n, 
 
 So sad, and wan, and meek, 
 The Saints themselves had wept to see 
 
 The tears upon her cheek I 
 
 But I, — her cold hands crushed in mine, 
 I coidd have laid her dead I — 
 
 " Thou serpent in an angel's form, 
 God judge thy sins'." I said. 
 
 " He was the chosen of his Lord I 
 
 A seal was on his brow, — 
 But thou the temple hast profaned, 
 
 And laid his glory low I " 
 
 She clasped my knees, — " Oh, curse me not 1" 
 With frenzied sobs she pray'd, 
 
 " But bid me Uve, or bid me die. 
 And thou shalt be obeyed I " 
 
 " Go, bid thy bridal guests," I said, 
 " And wed thine injured knight, 
 
 And hide thy fatal mtcheries 
 For ever from our sight ! "
 
 ICHABOD. Ill 
 
 Oh, lightly lay the morning dew 
 
 On grass, and flower, and tree ; 
 And softly crept tlie summer breeze 
 
 Across the deep blue sea I 
 
 And village maidens, far and near, 
 Brought wreaths and garlands gay, 
 
 To strew beneath the young bride's feet 
 Upon her marriage day. 
 
 I saw the church with faces thronged, 
 
 I saw the hapless maid, 
 A victim in her bridal robe 
 
 For sacrifice arrayed I 
 
 I saw my brother's pallid lips 
 
 Convulsive move in prayer ; 
 His ashen brow and sunken cheek, 
 
 And eyes, that looked despair ! 
 
 I heard him seal wnth hollow voice 
 
 The everlasting vow : — 
 " And God be thanked," I said, " his soul 
 
 Is s&fe from evil now I " 
 
 I hurried from the fatal spot : 
 
 I dared not stay to see 
 My idol humbled to the dust 
 
 In silent agony !
 
 112 ICHABOD, 
 
 I sat down to the bridal feast 
 
 Witliiii the castle waU : 
 But pale and silent were the guests, 
 
 And gloom hung over all. 
 
 The bride upon her chair of state, 
 
 Ajrayed in gems of gold. 
 With front erect and fixed look 
 
 Sat speechless, cahn, and cold. 
 
 They called her name, and chafed her hands. 
 
 And loosed her jewelled vest ; 
 But life nor lingered on her lip, 
 
 Nor fluttered at her breast ! 
 
 The guests shrunk back; the bridegroom raved 
 Like one with grief gone wild ; 
 
 The wretched father wrmig his hands, 
 And called upon his child. 
 
 We bore her to the bridal bed, 
 And robed her limbs in white ; 
 
 And thro' the darkened chamber lamps 
 Were burning day and night. 
 
 We ■RTeathed her brow with orange-flowers, 
 
 With roses strewed her o'er, 
 TUl mortal bride had never looked 
 
 So beautiful before I
 
 ICHABOD. 113 
 
 We knelt lieside her grave and wept, 
 
 " Thy will be doue, O God!" 
 •-Theu up I rose, and hnrried home 
 To comfort Ichahod. 
 
 I sought him high and low ; explored 
 
 The empty house in vain ; 
 I called him in despairing tones ; 
 
 He answered not again ! 
 
 O'er liill, and dale, and moorland wide, 
 
 Like some distracted ghost, 
 That never rests, in hope to gain 
 
 The heav'n too early lost. 
 
 I wander' d, even to barren wastes. 
 
 By human foot untrod. 
 And made the rocks and caves resound 
 
 The name of Ichabod I 
 
 I paced the noisy city streets 
 
 With weary foot and sore. 
 But no man asked me whence I came. 
 
 Or oped to me his door ! 
 
 The night was dark \^'ith A\-iud and rain, 
 
 Upon the bridge I stood ; 
 With rushing sound beneath me rolled 
 
 The river's angry flood. 
 
 I
 
 114: ICHABOD. 
 
 I saw the threat'ning clouds above, 
 The threat'ning tide below : 
 
 " There is no refuge, God," I said, 
 " Save death, to whom I go ! " 
 
 Upon the verge of fate I hung, — 
 When lo I a sudden gleam 
 
 Of moonlight thro' the darlmess broke. 
 And ghstened on the stream I 
 
 And in its silver rays I saw 
 The pale and lovely face 
 
 Of her, whom long ago I deemed 
 A messenger of grace. 
 
 The flowers yet hung upon her robe. 
 And wreathed her golden hair, 
 
 And lingered on her lips the smile, 
 That holy angels wear. 
 
 I smik repentant to the earth, 
 And prayed in lowly plight, 
 
 That God would stiU be near my soul, 
 And keep His Heav'n in sight. 
 
 " And I vnW seek thy grave," I said, 
 " Thou monitress di%T[ne, 
 
 And tame my proud, rebellious heart 
 To patience such as thine I "
 
 ICHABOD. 115 
 
 'Tm'rs evening, and the summer sun 
 
 Was fading in the west ; 
 I stood among the low green graves, 
 
 WTiere lay the dead at rest. 
 
 I marked the sculptured tomb, where death 
 
 Long since received the bride, 
 And all o'ergrowai vnth turf and flowers 
 
 A lowly grave beside ! 
 
 A marble Cross above it stood 
 
 To guard the sacred sod. 
 And there with wond'ring joy I read 
 
 The name of Ichabod I 
 
 I flung my arms about the Cross 
 
 With tears and lasses vain. 
 As if the cold hard stone could sjteak. 
 
 And answer me again 1 
 
 " thou, too much my crown of life 1 
 
 Thou Idol of my heart, 
 Too late upon thy grave I learn, 
 
 How frail a thing thou art I 
 
 Too late deplore the cruel vow. 
 
 That marred thy hapless past, 
 To curses all earth's blessings turned. 
 
 And broke thy heart at last !
 
 IIG ICHABOD. 
 
 Presumptuous Priest ! such vows profane 
 
 The hallowed laws of God ! 
 Bear witness many a blighted soul, 
 
 Like my poor Ichabod I "
 
 117 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. 
 
 " How varied are life's flowery ways 
 
 By varied pleasures strown I 
 But there, where Duty points the track, 
 
 Is happiuess alone I " 
 
 Thus musing as, in fancy, far 
 My footsteps seemed to stray, 
 
 Methought some strange mysterious power 
 Impelled them on their way. 
 
 It was a shady path I trod, 
 
 Yet heautiful to see ; 
 For there were flowers upon the turf, 
 
 And birds in every tree. 
 
 I loved the flowers, their form, their hue. 
 Their fragrance faint and rare ; 
 
 I loved the birds, whose pleasing strains 
 Harmonious filled the air I
 
 118 THE SHADOW OP THE HAKD. 
 
 The clust'ring shadows of the trees 
 
 Upon the ground were cast ; 
 They seemed to change their forms each time 
 
 A breath of wind went past. 
 
 And, strange ! methought, as if the path 
 Were some good angel's care, 
 
 The figure of a Hand I traced 
 Among the shadows there ! 
 
 A Hand, that ever pointed me 
 
 Along that lonely way, 
 A way so happy, strange 'twould seem. 
 
 That I should wish to stray ! 
 
 Yet oft, too oft, I knew not whence, 
 Gay sounds would meet mine ear 
 
 Of music, mirth, and revelry, 
 And I would pause to hear. 
 
 And thro' the trees, on either side 
 My shady path, wotdd gleam 
 
 Bright eyes and glittering forms, such sights 
 As happy lovers dream. 
 
 And they would caU in wily tones, 
 That sounded sweet and low, 
 
 And wave to me their snow-white arms, 
 Until I longed to go !
 
 THE SHADOW OP THE HAND. 11!* 
 
 But while that Shadow of the Uand 
 
 Upon the greensward lay, 
 I could not turn to right or left, 
 
 A charm was on the way ! 
 
 I felt beneath that hallowed spell 
 
 New life my being thrill, 
 And all things lovely seemed to take 
 
 A lovelier semblance still ! 
 
 The air breathed purer ; from the flowers 
 
 A rarer fragrance given. 
 And thro' the leaves above I saw 
 
 The blue and quiet heaven I 
 
 All was so sweet ^^•ithin that path, 
 
 I could not from it stray, 
 Nor leave that Shadow of the Hand, 
 
 Heav'n-sent to point my way. 
 
 There may be simnier paths afar. 
 
 With flowers more bright and rare, 
 But what of them, unless that Hand 
 
 Have cast its Shadow there ? 
 
 Not fortime's brightest beams I ask 
 
 About my path to play. 
 If Duty A^ath its guiding hand 
 
 But point my onward way I
 
 120 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Deck thyself in splendour, Earth ! 
 
 Thy most gorgeous hues display ! 
 
 Hill and dale, 
 
 Mountain and vale, 
 
 All in green 
 
 Of spring-time seen. 
 
 Celebrate the glorious day 
 
 Of the Poet's birth ! 
 
 All around 
 Sweet music sound 
 Soul-entrancing harmony ! 
 Mingle in tone 
 The sea's soft moan 
 With the faint and tender sigh 
 Of winds that play 
 On its bosom all day. 
 Till stars arise 
 In evening skies, 
 Then, awed by the stillness, die away.
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Birds, yom- sweetest songs awake ! 
 Into strains of rapture "break 
 For the Poet's sake 
 On his day of birth I 
 Borne his soul on seraph wings, 
 Messages from Heaven he brings 
 To the sons of earth I 
 
 Poet, with thy dreamy eyes, 
 Deejily Uue Hke southern skies ! 
 Golden curls, in clusters bright. 
 On thy brow a crown of Ught ! 
 Parted lips, that seem to sigh 
 With some inward melody, 
 That from ont thy heart's profound 
 Seeks to vent itself in sound, — 
 Exile of a lovelier sphere, 
 Come I reveal its wonders here I 
 
 See him in his radiant youth 
 With sublime ambition fired, — 
 Holy confidence inspired. 
 Girt m armour of God's truth 1 
 
 Of spirit meek yet bold, 
 And resolute to uphold 
 Freedom's fair cause against a world of foes- 
 In his owTi might 
 
 121
 
 122 THE rOET. 
 
 He stood to fight 
 
 For the clear tn;th thro' false and hollow shows ; 
 
 The worship of his heart like incense rose 
 
 Morning and noon and night — 
 
 His hfe was one long hymn of praise — 
 
 And wheresoe'er 
 
 He turned his gaze 
 
 On forms of earth and sea and air, 
 
 The light divine 
 
 Still seemed to shine 
 
 Upon him everywhere. 
 
 He saw God in the sun, — the sea, — 
 On mountain heights, in valleys low, — 
 In all the simplest things that he, 
 From stars that glow 
 With feehle ray. 
 To flowers that hlow 
 But one short day. 
 
 Thro' the whole earth he seemed to trace 
 In all its majesty and grace 
 Th' expression of his Maker's face ! 
 
 Love filled his soul to overflow : — 
 He hfted up his voice in song, — 
 Now sweet and low. 
 Now deep and strong, 
 His melodies were borne along
 
 THE POET. 123 
 
 Into all lands, 
 
 Reaching remotest strands, 
 
 Echoing the wildest, loneliest haunts among. 
 
 Now with tender melting strain 
 He soothed the suff'rer's pahi ; — 
 The heart love-lorn 
 With anguish torn 
 He won to hope again. 
 And now with voice of thunder he awoke 
 The sluml)'ring soiils of men, 
 The hermit in his lonely cave, 
 The captive in his li\dng grave, 
 The million poor, that groan 
 Beneath the despot's yoke, 
 The monarch on his throne. 
 Tyrant ahke and slave, 
 AU, awe-struck, heard the mighty tone 
 Of this inspired One. 
 
 As all true poets sing, he sung, 
 Of liberty — the cause di\ine — 
 And fearless taught God's truth. 
 He pleaded for the laws benign 
 Of peace and love and ruth. 
 Men said : " He hath an Angel's tongue, 
 'Tis wonderful to hear I " 
 And crowding round from far and near
 
 124 THE POET. 
 
 With loud acclaim his praises rung, 
 And poured their flatt'ries in his ear. 
 
 Of rich, and poor, and high, and low. 
 The idol he became. 
 Young hearts would glow. 
 And tears would flow 
 At mention of his name. 
 He reached the loftiest pinnacle of fame — 
 A giddy height, 
 WTiere few, too few, alas I have stood upright ! 
 
 The world's applause hke poison stole 
 Sure working thro' his inmost soul. 
 By slow degrees he felt arise 
 A mist between him and the sMes ; 
 And in the mist he seemed to trace 
 In vivid likeness his owm face ; 
 And wheresoe'er 
 He turned his gaze 
 On forms of earth, and sea, and air. 
 The mist still seemed to settle there. 
 
 He saw no more God's image — but his own. 
 The rainbow 
 And the sunset's glow — 
 The grass and flowers
 
 THE POET. 
 
 125 
 
 And fragrant showers, — 
 
 Hill, lake, and wood, 
 
 Fountain and flood, 
 
 All tilings, tho' beautiful and good, 
 
 Could teach him nothing now. 
 
 Gdd spoke to him no more : 
 
 He heard alone 
 
 His own voice in the water's roar, 
 
 And in the sand's low moan. 
 
 V am -glory, worldly fame 
 
 The idols of his heart became, — 
 
 And in his mind 
 
 (To nature's influence cold and dead) 
 
 With petty cares and thoughts enshrined 
 
 His owTi vain self he worshipped in God's stead. 
 
 Above, below, on whatsoe'er 
 He gazed of earth, and sea, and air. 
 The mist would rise 
 Before his eyes 
 And show his own face everywhere. 
 
 His once sweet voice discordant grew, — 
 He sung no more the beautifid and true, — 
 But poured out a wild strain 
 Of discontents and yearnings vain, 
 The morbid workings of a brain, 
 That colours all things in its o\vn dark hue.
 
 126 THE POET. 
 
 How is lie fall'n from his height, 
 The once aspirant son of light I 
 His joyless strains delight no more 
 The crowds, that thronged his path before ; 
 He is passed out of sight 
 And memory of men — 
 Nor ever will he sing again 
 The songs, that charm'd the world of yore I 
 
 0, Poet I in this dark and perilous clime. 
 This world of death and time — 
 With snares beset, without, within, 
 Wouldst thou the crown of fame immortal win, 
 Close up thine ears to aught of praise or blame, 
 Which men may heap upon thy name 1 
 Say, fearless, that thou hast to say I 
 And turning not to left or right, 
 But keeping God in sight — 
 Go calmly on thy way. 
 So, a true poet, prophet, shalt thou be — 
 Nor mist shall rise 
 To cheat thine eyes — 
 And hide the Sun — thv God — from thee I
 
 127 
 
 DOMENIC. 
 
 " Lights of the world," far Bhining, where are they ? 
 
 WTio are they, set on hallowed eminence ^ 
 
 To beacon souls, that thro' this night of life 
 
 Are yearning towards the d&vm ? that, in the midst 
 
 Of this confused, distractive whirl and war 
 
 Of good and iU, — these soul-obstructing clouds 
 
 That dim our being, — shine hke stars of hojx? 
 
 Serene, eternal o'er tempestuous time ? 
 
 Oh rare and lonely prophets of the truth, — 
 
 (Like Him, the Great Anointed) that arise 
 
 In lowliest comers of the earth, to make 
 
 Faint sign in life, but, dying, leave behind 
 
 A blaze of light all ages to illume, — 
 
 Bear \vitness, how, by men cast out and scorned, 
 
 Your martyr spirits wander lone, — unloved — 
 
 Sent out from God's own ark, hke the poor dove, 
 
 "VMien on the briny waste she sought in vain 
 
 Some spot of green to rest her wearied wing I
 
 128 
 
 DOMENIC. 
 
 For men are wedded to their idols still : 
 
 Still fond, beneath some weak disguise to veil 
 
 The awful eyes of truth, that pierce the soul 
 
 And lay its inmosts bare, — would rather grope 
 
 In darlmess among shadows, than step forth 
 
 Faithful and brave into the open day, 
 
 Casting aside those shackles tyrannous 
 
 Of custom, circumstance, opinion, -uTought, 
 
 And in the sight of angels ministrant 
 
 Steer straight and strong their God-directed course. 
 
 "How long, Lord, how long?" — when he, the last. 
 
 The youngest of the chosen band, stood forth, 
 
 Girt with an hundred graces, to unfold 
 
 His hallowed mission, — ah ! what sound arose 
 
 Of hope and exultation, that in him 
 
 Had dawned an era of new hfe on earth. 
 
 The long-expected reign of charity I 
 
 — A fair and saintly soul had Domenic. 
 
 Aspiring and inspired : at times perchance 
 
 All overfill of human tenderness, 
 
 And even to weakness pitiful : stiU prone 
 
 To pray for sinners, rather than upbraid. 
 
 Most bountiful of nature, — fain to hold 
 
 All being in that world of love, his heart. 
 
 And still have love to spare. A joyous light 
 
 Was wont to play aromid his brow in youth, 
 
 \'\Tiich paled and faded, when, — his soul oppressed 
 
 By sense of his high daA^Tiing destiny, —
 
 DOMENIC. 129 
 
 He, like his master, sought in solitude 
 
 New revelati(.in and new strength from heaven. 
 
 He pojidered j)itiful the truuhlous state 
 
 Of tliis poor woi'ld, — so fair to outward sight, 
 
 God<-gifted with all nature's loveliness, 
 
 Fit hahitation for an angel race : — 
 
 He pondered, heart-sore, man's ingratitude, 
 
 Whose recldess passions change to very hell 
 
 This seeming paradise. From haunts deep hid 
 
 Of crime and wretchedness, thro' every range 
 
 Of orders and societies of men, 
 
 His mind exjilored, for some redeeming sign, 
 
 Some gei-m of hotter life, — but all in vain ; 
 
 The same sad picture rose on every side, — 
 
 The powerful few oppress, — the milhon j>oor. 
 
 Enslaved by ignorance, from time to time 
 
 Goaded to madness, earthquake -like, break forth 
 
 To wreak on tyrants quick and dire revenge I 
 
 Ah I where religion's reconciling sway, 
 
 All WTongs adjusting, healing mutual wounds, 
 
 Forbearing, bearing ever 1 grown a name — 
 
 An empty sound, which but as prelude serves 
 
 For harsher discords, vindicatini; oft 
 
 Earth's foulest passions with a show of heaven, 
 
 Like "whited sepulchres on dead men's bones!" 
 
 O world, nigh hopelessly to ill resigned, 
 
 Wherein such monstrous and distorted fruit 
 
 Can grow — from parent tree so wondrous fair 
 
 K
 
 130 DOMENIC. 
 
 By springs divine in God's own Eden reared I 
 
 Sore sighed dejected Domenic, yet spake 
 
 In resolute mild tone : "I will go forth 
 
 Strong in thy patience and thy love, dear Lord, 
 
 And preach once more thy law of peace to men I 
 
 Upon the tombs of thy rejected saints, — 
 
 By all the toils and sorrows consecrate 
 
 Of prophet and apostle — by thine own 
 
 Long-siiffering life, thy death compassionate, 
 
 Thyself divine — I will invoke, adjure 
 
 Their stubborn hearts to melt, their hands to join, 
 
 And prayers ascend in Christian brotherhood I " 
 
 "VNTien first the voice of Domenic arose 
 
 Deep-toned and clear, and startling among men 
 
 (As 'twere from other worlds a sudden sound 
 
 Of warning — mournful, merciful,) a thrill 
 
 Of awful rapture struck from heart to heart, — 
 
 Crowds gathered round, all earnestness to catch 
 
 The faintest murmur of his eloquent lips, 
 
 To note each fitful change from mild to stem, 
 
 Alternate light and shade o'er lineaments. 
 
 That angels might have loved to gaze upon 1 
 
 They clasped their hands, and prayed and sobbed by 
 
 . turns. 
 And deemed all goodness possible — and cried, 
 " A proj/uet has arisen ! " But Domenic 
 Well knew, that he who is to-day " a God " 
 To-morrow is a " murderer " among men,
 
 nOMENIC. 131 
 
 And heard tlicir jn-aisos as the sound of mnds, 
 
 Wliose soothing sighs at dawti may ha])ly change 
 
 To howHngs ere the night. He to his task 
 
 Devoutly turned, — deaf to the luring voice 
 
 Of ease and pleasure, — blind to all fair sights. 
 
 That pressed upon his path, — dead even to dreams 
 
 Of innocent endearments, — lawful joys. 
 
 And peaceful home dehghts : — he, strong and true 
 
 To his divine behest, in youth's full prime 
 
 Took up his cross, and left the world beliind ! 
 
 Early and late, wherever sick or sad. 
 
 Or poor or guilty, needed help and prayer, 
 
 Counsel and consolation, there was he — 
 
 A faithful witness in his daily life, 
 
 That priests are ministers, not masters, sent 
 
 By Him, their Lord, who washed His servants' feet. 
 
 But evermore each day it wrung his heart 
 
 To mark, how man from man would stand aloof, 
 
 Nor join in social joys and gen'rous acts, 
 
 Nor worship side by side their common Lord 
 
 For sake of some distinction frail and nice, 
 
 Some trifling difference in form or creed. 
 
 Oh 1 cursed conceit, wliich makes each man conceive 
 
 Himself the special care and pride of Heav'n I 
 
 More cursed still the fruit, such temper bears 
 
 In shameful strifes and discords blasphemous I 
 
 With pious ardour, aye from shrine to shrine 
 
 Went Domenic ; — wherever knee was bowed
 
 132 DOJIEXIC. 
 
 For sake of Christ, — wherever mass was sung 
 Or prayer upraised, — beneath cathedral dome, 
 In way-side chapel and conventicle, 
 In most despised haunt, where two or three 
 Were gathered in the name of Him he loved, 
 AVith s}Tnpathy all worshippers among 
 He Imelt, and prayed, and j)leaded stiU for peace 
 And brotherly commimion ; — firm in trust 
 To form at last an Universal Church 
 In " imity of spirit," not of creed. 
 In " bonds of peace and righteousness of life." 
 Vague hope, poor Domenic I On every side 
 Now rose the rulers and the priests of men 
 In murmurings against him, " "VMio is this ? " 
 They cry : — " Bold innovator, that would turn 
 All hearts against us ? lawless brealdng do\ATi 
 The ancient barriers between creed and creed ? 
 Presumptuous, that would cool our holy ire 
 Against the foes of Heaven I that speaks of peace 
 Where peace is not, nor can be I — dares upbraid 
 The rich with arrogance and selfishness, 
 And plead the poor man's cause I if he prevail. 
 All pomp, all privilege for us, is lost — 
 Dominion, glory, hopelessly o'erthrown I " — 
 What fate had Domenic such foes among ? 
 With -withering accusation, taunt and scoff, 
 They strove to blight his fame : thereby to break 
 His gentle spirit : — but as one, who sees
 
 DOMENIC. 1 3 
 
 And hears, yet heeds not, he his course pursued 
 
 Unshrinking, unreviling, — nor betrayed, 
 
 Save by the deep'ning jtallor of his cheek, 
 
 The'waning histre of his resolute eye. 
 
 How sharp the serpent stung. Dismayed, enraged 
 
 To iind his fortitude resist their spleen. 
 
 With cries of " heretic" and " infidel," 
 
 They stiipt him of his priestly robe, (that robe, 
 
 \Miich he became so well I) and drove him forth 
 
 With sconi and curses to the wilderness. 
 
 Forlorn, heart-broken, wandered Domenic, — 
 
 His fruitless labours ended, — all his hopes 
 
 Of man's regeneration crushed and dead. 
 
 Thro' bleak unldndly soUtudes, afar 
 
 From so\ind or sight of living thing, — on, on. 
 
 Towards desolation and despair, he went, 
 
 Till da^Tied in view the wild sea-shore, and fell 
 
 Upon his ear its murmur, like the tones 
 
 Of some familiar friend, who still is true 
 
 Wlien all else fails us : — wasted, wan, and weak 
 
 With toil and anguish, like a wearied ghost 
 
 That seeks its sepulchre, he grateful svmk 
 
 Upon the soft cool sand, and closed his eyes, 
 
 As courting sleep or death : the gentle sea 
 
 With plaintive moanings soothed his soul and sense. 
 
 WTien lo I all sudden starthng, on the air 
 
 Broke forth a sigh of such distressful soimd, 
 
 As might have waked an answer from the stones I 
 
 yo
 
 134 DOMENIC. 
 
 Slow on his side turned Domenic, and saw, 
 
 Or deemed he saw, with mazed dreamful eyes, 
 
 A maiden, wondrous beautiful and strange. 
 
 Who sat upon a rock in woeful plight. 
 
 With clasped hands and wand' ring yellow hair ; 
 
 And looks exceeding sorrowful and sweet. 
 
 " Be comforted," she said, " thou noble heart I 
 
 Last, bravest champion of a cause sublime I 
 
 The memory of thy martyrdom shaU live 
 
 Sure worldng among men I The seed once sown, 
 
 StiU hope we for the harvest I Look on me ; 
 
 For whom so well and wisely thou hast striven I 
 
 The angel of the Catholic Church am I, 
 
 Who watched on Calvary the awful hour, 
 
 "V^Tien earth was rent, and graves disclosed their dead - 
 
 Who sat beside the sepulchre, and stood 
 
 Among the twelve on day of Pentecost I 
 
 Since when, ah me I o'er all the earth in vain 
 
 I seek for sanctuary ; — on every side 
 
 The soimds of strife and tumult greet mine ear : 
 
 Each man is set against his neighbour. — "VMiere 
 
 The blest communion ? where the Christian Church, 
 
 WTiose all-embracing heart is charity ? 
 
 Ah, happy thou I whose sun, already set. 
 
 Shall rise on worlds di\ane, whilst I am doomed 
 
 An outcast here till my appointed day. 
 
 When love and peace \dctorious must resume 
 
 O'er man their lost supremacy ! " No more
 
 DOMENIC. 135 
 
 Her voice, aye fainter gro\\Ti, heard Domenic ! 
 The calm, cokl sleej) of death had wrapt his Hmbs : 
 Now. rose the moon, and, veiled heneath its beams, 
 All pale and grand he lay, — until the sea 
 (Like some fond mother yearning o'er her child) 
 With low funereal munnurs tenderly 
 Lifted the corpse, and gave it burial due 
 Among the gorgeous trophies of the deep.
 
 136 
 
 TO CECILE. 
 
 Grace, peace, and love, crown all thy life with light I 
 Bless thee, as with thy lovely presence thou dost bless 
 All hearts around thee I Give thee full content 
 Of all, thou deem'st most dear and beautiful ! 
 And, if some choicest gift, precioiis past price, 
 The bountiful angels hold in store for one 
 They worthiest deem, such gift of gifts be thine ! 
 Then shalt thou be as blithe as thou art good, 
 Meek, wise, and tender ; and the grace of youth, 
 That clings to thee like love, shall never fade, 
 But year by year thy spiritual being show 
 More radiant, as its outward garb grows dim ! 
 A blessing on thy fair and innocent face I 
 And on thy sunny hair, and the mild light 
 Of thy kind eyes ; and oh, if wish, or hope. 
 Or prayer of love avails, thou shalt be blest ! 
 
 C. F. B. M. 
 
 London ; — Stkangeways & Walden (late G. Barclay), Printers, 
 28 Castle Street, Lsicester Square.
 
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