470S 
 
 T( 
 
 Gal'way 
 
 Creed of love
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ! ■ 
 
 i
 
 ^'' 
 
 M 
 
 ^\
 
 THE CREED OF LOVE 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 VERE VISCOUNTESS GALWAY 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 BY MESSRS. HATCHARD 
 PICCADILLY, LONDON 
 
 1895
 
 ?K 
 
 To 
 THS F%TSfNiT)S I LOVS. 
 
 9180£0
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE CREED OF LOVE 
 
 I 
 
 HER PROFILE 
 
 5 
 
 SUCCESS 
 
 7 
 
 PARTING AND MEETING 
 
 9 
 
 TFUTH AND THE MAN 
 
 lO 
 
 love's palm 
 
 13 
 
 isolden's liebestod 
 
 14 
 
 AN AMULET 
 
 17 
 
 women's RIGHTS .... 
 
 19 
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER . 
 
 21 
 
 THE STORY OF THE ROSES 
 
 23 
 
 love's VICTIMS 
 
 27 
 
 A FINNISH TRAGEDY 
 
 29 
 
 FROM THE RUBAIYAT 
 
 • 32 
 
 ALL souls' day .... 
 
 . .38 
 
 THE SACRIFICE 
 
 • 39 
 
 AN AFGHAN VENGEANCE . 
 
 42 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 . 46
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A MINIATURE ..... 
 LARES AND PENATES 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF DUFFERIN AND AVA 
 FEDERATION ..... 
 SAVONAROLA . . . . , 
 FESTINA LENTE .... 
 ST. HELENA 
 
 FAGE 
 
 49 
 52 
 55 
 58 
 63 
 
 65 
 68
 
 THE CREED OF LOVE. 
 
 TWO suns of love make day of human life.' 
 So says the poet sage, but may we not 
 Still further go, and add th' eternal too ? 
 Love is the consecration of the world, 
 The best of earthly things we may know here, 
 As love divine, commiserating men, 
 Saved a world lost, so perchance even ours, 
 Feeble and immature, we know it is. 
 Sometimes contains an element, a spark, 
 Which now may glow, and now may seem extinct, 
 But all the while vitality retains ; 
 This love, which oft demands self-sacrifice. 
 And friendship true, where passion enters not 
 E'en self-effacement, all for love's dear sake; 
 All these the thorns, round the sweet rose of love, 
 Which makes Its blossom priceless. 
 In days gone by, brave knights went nobly forth ; 
 
 B
 
 ( 2 ) 
 
 And did great deeds, to please their ladies fair ; 
 
 They fought the Paynim, and they freed the slave, 
 
 Beneath the symbol of the Cross they strove. 
 
 It is not ours to do such deeds to-day, 
 
 The times are changed, for better and for worse. 
 
 More learned we than our forefathers were. 
 
 But is the world the better ? Tell me that ! 
 
 Belief in little, be it good or bad ; 
 
 And like the Church that Mighty Voice rebuked, 
 
 We must admit we're ' neither cold nor hot.' 
 
 Although the world may. Love can never change, 
 
 And, being eternal, it can never die ; 
 
 If we believe Love died to save the world, 
 
 For Love's own sake, for no ulterior aim, 
 
 But very pity of us fallen men, 
 
 Shall we not firmly cherish the fair hope, 
 
 This power of love we hold is given us 
 
 To help and strengthen those we hold most dear ? 
 
 Maybe, they never know, and never guess 
 
 Our life, our prayers, enfold them safe alway ; 
 
 Our thoughts are with them oft, their joys our joy. 
 
 Their sorrows ours, in weal and woe alike, 
 
 Without a thought of ill, and asking nought 
 
 But what is for their welfare. 
 
 This may be never known, and better so, 
 
 Because the world, the prurient, vulgar world,
 
 ( 3 ) 
 
 The world of vice and passion, envy, spite. 
 
 And all that's hateful, cannot understand, 
 
 And would not, if it could. 
 
 Fair flowers are soon destroyed by careless hands, 
 
 So from the world, in casket of our hearts. 
 
 Treasure we up our love, and keep it hid. 
 
 It may indeed be our sweet privilege 
 
 To suffer for that love, or even die 
 
 (For better die to live, than live to die). 
 
 But that's accorded to a chosen few. 
 
 Still if we steadfast keep the goal in sight. 
 
 Scorning the lets and hindrance of this world. 
 
 The time will come when we must pass away. 
 
 And good and evil done shall sifted be. 
 
 That love will surely evermore endure. 
 
 That faith will hold, and those we so loved here. 
 
 Will then rejoin us, by some sweet power held 
 
 As by th' invisible chain our fancy weaves. 
 
 What Heaven may be, we cannot even guess, 
 
 But where our love there is our treasure hid ; 
 
 And lonely we, in fair Elysian fields. 
 
 Without the souls we bound unto our own 
 
 With bonds so sacred. It may be. 
 
 Though absent in the flesh, our spirits may 
 
 Permitted be o'er those dear ones to watch. 
 
 And help them in their need, unguessed by them.
 
 ( 4 ) 
 
 But carrying on the spirit of the love 
 
 Though for the moment severed. 
 
 So pray we to the Love that giveth all, 
 
 So hope we from the Love that knoweth all, 
 
 Creator of that Love which bindeth us 
 
 In his own time to bring us to that Love 
 
 That, lost ourselves, we 'may therein be found.
 
 HER PROFILE. 
 
 A wealth of golden hair, with chestnut shades, 
 Which ripples back, with lovely little curls, 
 Behind the shell-shaped ear it dare not hide ; 
 The broad low brow, as snowy white and soft 
 As ever were the wings of Venus' doves. 
 Shows up the firmly pencilled eyebrow dark ; 
 The little nose is straight, and if the tip 
 Is chisel'd off, 'tis but to show the more 
 The generous nostril and its shapely curve ; 
 The eye full hazel, sometimes light, now dark, 
 According to the owner's passing mood, 
 And set in full beneath the envious lid, 
 Which raised, reveals the circling iris large : 
 On meeting mine the pupil so expands 
 It, in the iris each in each seems merged. 
 Till that soft eye is dark as Eastern maid's, 
 The eyelash long, and thick, and jetty black. 
 The lower curled upon the ivory cheek, 
 A study quite divine in black and white. 
 The lip is short, the mouth like Cupid's bow, 
 Geranium lips reveal the little teeth.
 
 ( 6 ) 
 
 Firm, white, and even they ; 
 
 A smile, a laugh as merry as a child's 
 
 Reveals a dimple in the cheek I love ; 
 
 A perfect curve sweeping from ear to chin 
 
 Gives dignity and charm to this fair face ; 
 
 So does the neck so beautifully set, 
 
 And kissed by tendril curls just at the nape. 
 
 Far whiter it than are the rows of pearls 
 
 Which nestle there. A shoulder gleams 
 
 Through shrouding veil of even filmiest gauze 
 
 And here my profile ends ! 
 
 I
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 You ask me for the secret of success, 
 
 And asking this you set a question hard. 
 
 Join you much tact to perfect self-control : 
 
 If you'v^e succeeded, it is due to this ; 
 
 if you have failed, it's merely want of this 
 
 (But failure is a word I do not love). 
 
 Add but the touchstone of tenacity. 
 
 And you must win, if Heaven has given you brains 
 
 To know your measure ; that's where most folk fail. 
 
 To seize your moment always ready be ; 
 
 It may be you must handle it with care. 
 
 Or grasp it like a nettle — you must judge. 
 
 Be all things to all men, but always true 
 
 To your own standard, never budge an inch 
 
 For any one, when once you know you're right. 
 
 Make sure what is your goal, then fix your mind 
 
 Upon it, and let nothing intervene. 
 
 Never say die, once only can we die, 
 
 Early or late, accident, fell disease, 
 
 Better the former, but 'tis as God wills ! 
 
 Will not success bring happiness ? Why that
 
 ( 8 ) 
 
 Is quite another story. Only this, 
 
 No pleasure lies in failure. Take your choice. 
 
 Few citadels are carried the first rush, 
 
 And failure once may mean next time success, 
 
 If you both patience have, and strategy. 
 
 Thus, any way, it must solidify 
 
 Your character ; that is something gained. 
 
 I will not say success means happiness, 
 
 Or what is happiness, until I'm dead. 
 
 Ah ! then I cannot answer. We must wait.
 
 •PARTING AND MEETING. 
 
 We said but little. Is there much to say 
 When one you love is going for years away ? 
 One only feels a desperate regret : 
 If thus to part why had one ever met ? 
 
 Yet this is folly. Life with love lived out 
 Were better left unlived, without a doubt. 
 Why should we pine for an existence grey, 
 And not enjoy the sunshine whilst we may ? 
 
 But though our words are few, our thoughts mean much. 
 When, for the last time, a dear hand we touch. 
 Perhaps it's but a hand-clasp and a sigh 
 Amongst a careless crowd. Oh, Love ! good-bye ! 
 
 So he is gone, and I must here remain, 
 Ah, those left lonely suffer greatest pain. 
 The chequered years pass by, of trifles rife 
 Which after all make up the Book of Life. 
 
 And he returned at last, and so we met: 
 
 I heard him whisper, with a vague regret, 
 
 ' It must be quite ten years come next December, 
 
 She once was pretty, if I quite remember.'
 
 10 
 
 TRUTH AND THE MAN. 
 {From the ' Talmud.^) 
 
 The Angels clustered round the great white Throne, 
 
 The flight arresting of their mighty wings, 
 
 Of countless tints, pearl, iridescent, white, 
 
 Before the presence of the All-Adored. 
 
 The world was perfect, finished, new create, 
 
 No spot nor blemish could be found therein 
 
 In bird, or beast, or flower ; all was there 
 
 To joy the senses or delight the eye 
 
 Except the crown of ail Creation — Man. 
 
 So the All-Father mused upon his work, 
 
 Satisfied he that it was fair and good. 
 
 Then from the elements of earth evolved 
 
 A newer form, and different from all else. 
 
 It lay before the Glory on the Throne 
 
 Untouched as yet by vital spark of Life, 
 
 Like perfect marble statue it lay there. 
 
 Inanimate, waiting the Father's will : 
 
 This graceful form of symmetry expressed 
 
 His latest mark of love and favour sent. 
 
 The Angel forms with loving interest bent 
 
 Over the silent thing, and then they cried,
 
 ( II ) 
 
 And the bright morning stars the song took up, 
 
 ' A being, O God, create, on earth to sing 
 
 Thy praise, as we do ever sing it here.' 
 
 Then other Angels came, and fain implored : 
 
 ' Hear us. Almighty King, create no more. 
 
 Lest the«weet harmony enjoyed on earth 
 
 Like that in Heaven, should ever be destroyed.' 
 
 Then came an Angel with great pinions white. 
 
 And sweetest face, who forward lowly bent. 
 
 ' O Father dear, make him as Thou,' it prayed ; 
 
 ' With heavenly pity I will fill his heart. 
 
 That for his sympathy for all on earth, 
 
 In loving him, so shall they love Thee more.' 
 
 So spake kind Mercy's Angel, but with tears 
 
 An Angel, with soft pinions like a dove's. 
 
 Knelt humbly there before the Mercy-Seat, 
 
 With piteous accents to the Presence there 
 
 The Angel fair of Peace beseeching cried, 
 
 ' Create him not, O God ! Thy peace disturbed. 
 
 Confusion, horror, war, will blot the earth ! 
 
 Thou wilt no longer find a peaceful spot 
 
 'Mongst all Thy works on earth.' 
 
 In trumpet-tones then Justice' Angel spoke, 
 
 Folding his gorgeous, iridescent wings. 
 
 Excelling the gay peacock in their sheen, 
 
 And sheathing 'fore the Father his great sword :
 
 ( 12 ) 
 
 ' But Thou wilt judge him, God, and thus must he 
 
 Unto my sway, as others, subject be.' 
 
 Then came Truth's Angel, with bright burnished wings, 
 
 Swift borne on them towards the Throne of Light, 
 
 And in imploring accents yet besought, 
 
 ' Pause, O great God of Truth, in sending man 
 
 To the dear earth, thou sendest falsehood too.' 
 
 So all the Angels ceased, and in high Heaven 
 
 There fell a silence, broken at the first 
 
 By rustling sound of wings, but soon it merged 
 
 Into a silence deep as that of death. 
 
 And ever waxed the glory on the Throne, 
 
 Till glowed a spendour, dazzling, wonderful ; 
 
 And from its radiant midst, a still small voice 
 
 Made itself heard 'mongst all that glorious host. 
 
 Which no man ere could number. It spake thus : 
 
 ' O Truth, with Man thou too to earth shalt go. 
 
 Remaining yet a denizen of Heaven, 
 
 To ever float betwixt the earth and here, 
 
 A sweet connecting link between the two 
 
 For evermore.' So ceased the voice. 
 
 Then lovely Truth caught up the silent form, 
 
 And bore it far away to earth's fair fields ; 
 
 Tenderly laid it 'neath a spreading tree. 
 
 The vital spark was placed on Adam's lips. 
 
 And thus it was he woke in Paradise.
 
 13 
 
 LOVE'S PALM. 
 
 Love is a Palm, at first a tiny plant, 
 
 The soil that suits it best is Happiness, 
 
 Give it but that and it will grow apace ; 
 
 Feed well its roots, and it will spathes put out 
 
 Vigorous and strong. Give it the Sun of Love 
 
 And it will shoot across the fair blue sky 
 
 Its feathery branches. 
 
 But, charming Lovers, mind you ever this. 
 
 Just one sharp frost, and you may find your Palm 
 
 No more as you would have it, strong and fair. 
 
 But sickly, pinched and yellow, dying fast. 
 
 The frost of cold indifference has reached 
 
 Its heart. Alas! the truth is all too plain, 
 
 It ne'er will grace Love's Garden fair again.
 
 H 
 
 ISOLDEN'S LIEBESTOD. 
 
 Thrice happy Iseult. Though you loved and lost, 
 You lost to gain. Death was more kind than Life, 
 And in that Death you triumphed ; he you loved 
 Sent for you in his need, and swift you came 
 As the white sail which love and pity spread 
 Would bear you to his side : naught but the hate 
 Of her your namesake (but your bitter foe) 
 Baffled your purpose, though it missed its mark. 
 When Tristan, wounded, cried, "' See you the sail — 
 Iseult's white sail, who comes to bring me life ? ' 
 In jealous hate she hissed, ' The sail is black,' 
 Though white hued as the milky-breasted swan 
 It clave the waters blue, as well she saw, 
 But he, crying aloud, ' Iseult, my love. 
 The love I trusted, hast t/iou broken faith ? 
 Hast i/toi^ forgotten ? What is life to me ?' 
 With groans despairing, turned him to the wall. 
 And whispering ' Iseult ' with his latest breath 
 Stretched himself out and died. So she, 
 Our Irish Iseult, flying to his side. 
 Found but the corpse of him, her only love.
 
 ( 15 ) 
 
 What was King Mark to her, or marriage vows, 
 
 What was the other Iseult standing there ? 
 
 Why less than nothing ; for her thoughts flew back 
 
 To happy days at her old father's Court 
 
 In distant Erin, where as youth and maid 
 
 They to each other all in all had been. 
 
 She ne er remembered in the lapse of years 
 
 What was all past and gone, of faith forgot, 
 
 But, as a woman loving heart and soul, 
 
 Forgave him everything. 
 
 Careless of life, heedless of aught on earth, 
 
 She threw her arms about the lifeless clay 
 
 With a despairing cry that filled the room. 
 
 She kissed the glazing eyes, whose chiefest joy 
 
 Had been her queenly self, the lips, scarce cold, 
 
 Whose earliest love vows had been hers alone ; 
 
 Thus Death, being moved by sight of so much woe, 
 
 Laid his kind hand on her. One pang, one kiss 
 
 And her soul sped over the silver sea 
 
 To him she loved. So they were joined again, 
 
 Although in Life, in Death divided not. 
 
 So she, Iseult, the wife, the jealous one. 
 
 Was left with nothing but the senseless clay 
 
 Of him she loved and her she hated most. 
 
 So interlaced the two, that to their rest 
 
 They were together laid.
 
 ( i6 ) 
 
 Pity we Iseult live, not Iseult dead, 
 Most happy she, in that she Hved to love. 
 Twice happy she, since for that love she died, 
 Thrice happy Tristan and Iseult the fair ; 
 For the great mind who made the world and us 
 So rich in music, ga.ve j/ou lasting fame. 
 As long as music lives, to make our hearts 
 Throb and vibrate, and waft our souls away 
 To the far realms of subtlest harmony. 
 So will the great Isolden Liebestod 
 Delight and speak to those who understand, 
 And turn our minds through the long ages back 
 Unto the days when Iseult lived and loved, 
 And left a tender story. 
 
 I
 
 17 
 
 AN AMULET. 
 
 A CHARM you've given me to always wear 
 From distant Egypt. I shall prize it much, 
 Although the charm that ever warms my heart 
 Is just the basilisk of your own eyes, 
 And the dear voice I love to call my name. 
 This little scarab of a turquoise blue, 
 What are the figures meant to represent 
 That I see engraved upon its base ? 
 Tell me, are these Osiris, Isis, old 
 Horemkhu, Thoth, or Pset the Terrible, 
 Anubis, Psakt, the godlike Cat or Dog, 
 Nephtys, or even ' Nilus' ancient worm,' 
 Thus pictured forth ? Has it been found 
 In mummy case of ancient Queen or King, 
 Lapped in the sere clothes that encase the dead 
 In some dark quiet tomb of countless age. 
 Until unearthed by robber Arab hands ? 
 Maybe, some priest deep learned, and well versed 
 In all the wisdom of the mystic East, 
 Who read the stars as though they were a book. 
 Whose lore foresaw the future, knew the past, 
 
 C
 
 ( i8 ) 
 
 And magic practised, once its master was, 
 
 Though dying in the end like other men. 
 
 (For what is science pitted 'gainst King Death ?) 
 
 Against a soldier's heart it may have beat, 
 
 A general learned in the art of War 
 
 And also that of Love. Many a koss 
 
 It journeyed over Ethiopian sands 
 
 Against the might of Babylon's great hosts 
 
 And Fair Semiramis, the valued gift 
 
 Of one who sighed and prayed for him at home. 
 
 It may have once belonged to some dark maid, 
 
 Who only used the magic of her eyes 
 
 Three thousand years ago to gain her aim 
 
 And win it as a love-gift. What a tale 
 
 This little keepsake might to us reveal 
 
 If it could speak, I will wear it aye, 
 
 And love it ever for its donor's sake, 
 
 As well as for its own. Such gifts are worth 
 
 Ten million times their value in Love's eyes. 
 
 I
 
 19 
 
 WOMEN'S RIGHTS. 
 
 What noise is this that irritates our nerves ? 
 
 Wherefore this throng of women, eager faced, 
 
 Loud voiced, and arguing, all of them at once 
 
 (At this I marvel not, 'tis woman's way). 
 
 Not lovely these, for Beauty it would seem 's 
 
 Conspicuous by its absence, so is charm. 
 
 I try to grasp the catchwords of their speech, 
 
 ' Rights,' ' Wrongs,' ' Equality with Man,' 
 
 ' A Vote,' ' The Franchise,' ' The same law for both,' 
 
 Was ever such a catalogue before .-' 
 
 Mistaken souls, go home and ponder well 
 
 The golden lessons dear Dame Nature taught, 
 
 Women we are whether we will or no 
 
 So wherefore try to masquerade as men. 
 
 In many ways we have the better part. 
 
 The good we have why should we cast away ? 
 
 We have done more to civilise the world 
 
 Than have the men. Indeed, for countless years 
 
 Our mission's been to help and humanise, 
 
 To soothe, to bless, to elevate mankind. 
 
 And make each generation following on
 
 ( 20 ) 
 
 More worthy and more useful. We must set 
 
 Examples bright as are the evening stars, 
 
 And loved and loving pass along Life's ways. 
 
 Some rights there are, I grant you, and these rights 
 
 I would not only swift demand, but take. 
 
 Give me a right to make the house I love 
 
 The happiest spot for those I love still more ; 
 
 Give me the right to love and to be loved, 
 
 By right of sympathy with each and all, 
 
 Give me a right to choose and keep my friends, 
 
 For what is life without the Sun of Love ? 
 
 Give me a right to call the poor my friends. 
 
 For friendship is the sweetest thing on earth : 
 
 Give me the right to make my children's lives 
 
 As sweet and free from care as well may be ; 
 
 Draw other bonds still closer and more close, 
 
 And as sound seed in fertile soil well till'd 
 
 Assurance gives of harvest's golden grain, 
 
 So, scorning all that's poor, and mean, and small, 
 
 Make life more full as speed the passing years, 
 
 Till, on the day fixed for my passing hence, 
 
 I claim as right the full six feet of earth 
 
 Where all are equal. After that 
 
 Nought but the clemency for which we pray. 
 
 Such are our Rights, such is the end of them.
 
 21 
 
 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER. 
 
 They bid me be your Fairy Godmother ; 
 
 What shall I say? 
 What are the gifts I must endow thee with 
 
 On thy Hfe's way ? 
 
 Responsibility I own is heavy, 
 
 And I must pause 
 And give respect and due consideration 
 
 To Nature's laws. 
 
 First I would have thee good, though never goody, 
 
 Endowed with tact. 
 Alas ! I feel it was the quality 
 
 That Eve so lack'd. 
 
 Of beauty I will give thee a full measure, 
 
 But not too much, 
 For half earth's trouble and vexation 
 Is caused by such. 
 
 Full meed of health be thine, the greatest blessing 
 
 I can bestow ; 
 Enough of wealth, to save that care and trouble 
 
 Too many know.
 
 ( 22 ) 
 
 The jewel of contentment I will give thee 
 
 And spirits high, 
 I never heard of one who felt the better 
 
 For moons to sigh. 
 
 The crowning gift I keep until the latest, 
 
 I give thee charm ; 
 But use not this a woman's best possession 
 
 To others* harm. 
 
 And now I think I've well endowed thee, dearest, 
 
 With all you need, 
 So the last words I'd say before I vanish 
 
 Are just ' God speed.'
 
 23 
 
 THE STORY OF THE ROSES. 
 
 You ask me to give you a rosebud 
 From the basket gathered to-day, 
 But it's an invidious selection 
 When you think what the roses say. 
 What ! you've nev^er known the old story, 
 And never have heard it said, 
 What mean their different colours, 
 Pale, yellow, white, or red ? 
 
 In old, old days, when the world was young 
 
 And the garden of earth was fair. 
 
 And hell was empty— for men were good, 
 
 So the Devil had no fun there, 
 
 He walked abroad (as he perhaps does now) 
 
 In a temper not all serene, 
 
 To mischief make, to study mankind. 
 
 And see all there was to be seen.
 
 ( 24 ) 
 
 He noticed 'mongst all the blossoms fair 
 
 That graced the terrestrial bowers, 
 
 For beauty and perfume loved alike, 
 
 The roses were favourite flowers. 
 
 He hobbled off with his cloven hoof 
 
 To the lowest depths of dread Hell, 
 
 A sinister smile on his visage vile. 
 
 He'd a scheme which he thought promised well. 
 
 A potion he brewed, and back he flew, 
 And when all men sound sleeping were. 
 With potions he watered the roses then 
 And beguiled them with promises fair. 
 The roses with hearts orange-tinted. 
 Bring the love of gold or power, 
 And hard as iron the dominant will 
 Which seeks nothing but wealth's rich dower. 
 
 The roses so velvety crimson 
 
 Are passion's deep symbol and hue. 
 
 And shame and sorrow, and even crime, 
 
 Their votaries will aye pursue. 
 
 The brighter pink roses are love-gifts ; 
 
 When Satan (the fiend) interferes 
 
 (We know it too often will happen) 
 
 Love brings nought but trouble and tears.
 
 ( 25 ) 
 
 The pale tea roses are friendship's own, 
 But even here's sometimes a smart 
 And heart-ache, and secret trouble gnaws, 
 For the dearest of friends must part ; 
 And the thorns that cruelly wound us 
 And wiUi which these buds are e'er set 
 Are the fears that at a distance 
 Our friends may be apt to forget. 
 
 But when he came to the sweet white rose, 
 
 She said, ' I'll have nothing from you, 
 
 My earthly life is the briefest one, 
 
 But I have a duty to do. 
 
 My blossoms so white will to-morrow 
 
 On a maiden's bier gently lay, 
 
 And with the evening sunset so bright 
 
 We will end this Life's little day.' 
 
 So thus Satan retired baffled 
 As far as the fair white rose went. 
 But the potion worked in the others 
 And they gave forth far sweeter scent. 
 How much the sin of the world is due 
 To the rose and the Devil's brew 
 I really can't unfathom at all, 
 I but whisper the tale to you.
 
 ( 26 ) 
 
 You ask for a rose from my basket, 
 I know not which owe yoii would say ; 
 But as / have told you the story 
 I'll just choose you the one to-day. 
 I'll have nothing of gold or passion, 
 I'm not certain about the pink. 
 So I offer a pale tea rosebud, 
 Will you take it, do you think ?
 
 27 
 
 LOVE'S VICTIMS. 
 
 Ah ! Love is as old as the hills they say, 
 Yet for some it was born but just yesterday 
 And will be dead by to morrow — 
 A God-given gift to all lovers true ; 
 But to the heedless, and they're not few, 
 'Tis a fruitful source of sorrow. 
 
 Love shows no mercy, its victims lie 
 In serried ranks ; whether fight or fly, 
 Your doom is sealed from the minute 
 The blind God loosens his lethal dart 
 And the golden shaft has pierced your heart, 
 No matter if you would will it. 
 
 'Gainst King or Kaiser his hand's not stayed, 
 Cophetua's here with his beggar maid ; 
 And in immutable sequence. 
 From the dullest clown to the wisest brain 
 Which has mastered all that man may attain. 
 Nay ! Here is the greater frequence.
 
 ( 28 ) 
 
 There is Love as light as summer air, 
 
 Which passing, scarce leaves a warm breath there 
 
 On the flowers it kissed so lightly. 
 
 It easy comes, it as lightly goes, 
 
 As the daisies which now are tightly closed 
 
 Will to-morrow bloom so brightly. 
 
 There's the love that scorches and burns and sears, 
 
 It will last for months, it may last for years. 
 
 Ah, me ! 'tis the shirt of Nessus. 
 
 No martyr ere suffered more poignant pangs. 
 
 The more so if Jealou.sy's poison-fangs 
 
 Heart gnawing must aye oppress us. 
 
 It comes to the young, it comes to the old. 
 From friendship it ripens to love untold, 
 Of love at first sight they whisper. 
 The Pearl of great price or Damnation sure. 
 The joy of the world, or the sirens' lure. 
 And the parting lovers' Mizpah ! 
 
 Oh, be it blessing, or be it our curse, 
 
 Our lives were empty or something worse 
 
 Were it not for Love's refining. 
 
 So drag we exultant our golden chain, 
 
 If reap we the pleasure, then scorn we pain, 
 
 Life's far too short for repining.
 
 ( 29 ) 
 
 A FINNISH TRAGEDY. 
 
 On the f^c, shores of Bothnia's distant gulf 
 
 A while I tarried some short years ago, 
 
 And by some chance, acquaintance there I made 
 
 With a young girl, only a few months wed ; 
 
 Blue-eyed, fair-haired, and slim, and very shy, 
 
 Counting perchance some eighteen summers then. 
 
 Her husband, vulgar, most unpleasing man, 
 
 Treated her like his chattel or new toy 
 
 As pleased his fancy coarse. His sixty years 
 
 He carried none so well. Ah ! the poor child, 
 
 I pitied her with all my heart and soul, 
 
 She loathed him so, that coarse, repellant man. 
 
 She had a cousin, one Carl Ericsson, 
 
 Who owned a boat, and traded here and there 
 
 Amongst the towns that fringe the Bothnian Gulf, 
 
 A Swede was he, and active, fair and tall, 
 
 And how she loved him, liow her face lit up 
 
 When his firm footfall on the gravel path 
 
 Announced his coming. He loved Thora too. 
 
 She had been sold, to pay her father's debts, 
 
 To the old man, alas ! who called her wife,
 
 ( 30 ) 
 
 When Ericsson was far away at sea, 
 
 And nothing knew of what had passed at hom° 
 
 (My story is as old as are the hills). 
 
 The day he came, there was a stormy scene ; 
 
 But for a time things smoothly seemed to go, 
 
 And if she and her Carl were sometimes seen 
 
 With skates and sleigh, why they just cousins were, 
 
 And she was young, and winter days are drear. 
 
 The boat was beached, her husband better loved 
 
 To count his wealth in the dark general store, 
 
 And so that lengthy winter passed away. 
 
 The summer came at last, the brig was gone, 
 
 And Ericsson, of course, was gone in her ; 
 
 But Thora now sat listless in the house. 
 
 And nought would rouse her from her lethargy, 
 
 Though now and then she started, as if one 
 
 Had whispered something awesome in her ear. 
 
 One summer's night, lit by the midnight sun. 
 
 Their house roused others by the cries of pain 
 
 That issued thence. The neighbours, rushing in. 
 
 Found the old man in torture ; writhing there 
 
 In agonies he died. Thora seemed 
 
 As one entranced, and evil whispers grew ; 
 
 So they examined the last cup he drank, 
 
 And there the fatal arsenic was found ! 
 
 Never a word was uttered by his wife,
 
 ( 31 ) 
 
 Until she came before her country's Judge, 
 
 And questioned was if she accomplice had. 
 
 She gasped and started, Hke some timid fawn ; 
 
 But when they pressed her sore with questions hard, 
 
 She murmured, 'None.' 'Twas but to hide her shame, 
 
 She knew he would have killed her and the child 
 
 Had he but known ! This was her poor defence. 
 
 So, proved unfaithful wife and murd'ress both, 
 
 The last dread sentence of the law was passed. 
 
 The people whom she oft had helped and nursed 
 
 In need or sickness now like tigers rose, 
 
 Growling as if they'd seek for her heart's blood. 
 
 Setting aside all justice and the law 
 
 That strict forebore to kill two lives in one ; 
 
 Judges and executioners they were. 
 
 They dragged her to the hill behind the town. 
 
 And burnt her there. That beacon bright 
 
 Guided Carl's ship, and brought him safely home, 
 
 To face this modern tragedy.
 
 32 
 
 FROM THE RUBAIYAT— VERSE 70. 
 
 ' My soul returned to me 
 And answered, "Thou thyself art Heaven and HelP" 
 
 I STOOD upon a wind-swept peak alone, 
 Enwrapt in stress and storm unutterable ; 
 For I in wandering far had lost my way 
 Seeking the happiness I could not find. 
 The forces of the earth and air let loose 
 Filled all that desolate spot with fearful din, 
 Until a whirlwind caught me where I stood 
 And swept me from my foothold, carrying me 
 Outwards and onwards through the murkest night, 
 Till I had left the storm and stress behind. 
 And through the morning mists which curv'd away. 
 More delicate than ever maiden's veil. 
 The sun rose in a primrose-tinted sky. 
 Changing from rose to blue. I found myself 
 In a green valley carpeted with flowers, 
 Where noble trees upreared their stately forms. 
 Beneath their shade, the white anemones 
 Spread out their starry breadth and fairy forms
 
 ( 33 ) 
 
 The orchis pushed its purple-headed bloom 
 Through the grass blades and their luxuriant growth; 
 The violet scented every little nook, 
 Whilst on the borders of the crystal brook, 
 Which ever softly murmured down the vale, 
 The wild forget-me-not peeped up with shy eyes blue. 
 A fringe of trees and shrubs, a noble gate, 
 Whose open doors invited strangers in 
 And ample promise gave of garden fair. 
 Enticed me in, a trespasser indeed. 
 Shyly I entered and remained entranced, 
 For, from the marble pavement where I stood. 
 Stretching away as far as eye could reach, 
 Rose terrace upon terrace, statue decked. 
 And 'neath the shade of cypress and of yew 
 Cool fountains splashed, with pleasant soothing sound, 
 The ilex and arbutus shining green, 
 The tamarisk and feathery bamboo, 
 Made a deep background for the lighter joys 
 That clothed the foreground. Myriad roses bloomed 
 Of every shade, and fair delphiniums blue 
 Shot up towards the even bluer sky. 
 The velvet pansy at the lily's feet. 
 Which turned its broad-rayed petals up to Heav'n, 
 And scenting all, rivalled the sweet tube rose. 
 The cannas flaunt their gay flamingo flowers, 
 
 D
 
 ( 34 ) 
 
 And waterlilies, golden, white, and pink, 
 Sail on the bosom of the pools that gleam 
 Amidst the trees, which promise soothing shade. 
 The paths are greenest turf, clean-shaven, trim. 
 Recessed I see a curving marble seat, 
 White glistening in the brilliant noonday sun, 
 A tiny temple sacred to the doves, 
 Which coo, and coo, and here delight to dwell, 
 Of marble white, all colourless 'twould be 
 But for the clematis. Corinthian shafts. 
 Which slender spring to bear the arching roof, 
 Are here and there wound with a tendril fair, 
 Pressing its purple stain upon the white. 
 The brilliant parroqucts and parrots green 
 Chatter away amongst the fruits and flowers 
 And now and then indulge in circling flights 
 For the pure joy of living. Pleased I see 
 Not far ahead of me a building fair, 
 A Bara Dari, welcome resting place 
 Where I may sit and dream away a while. 
 Hastening my steps, I near and nearer draw. 
 Sweet sounds of music issue thence to greet 
 The weary wanderer. Sweet lute and lyre 
 Blend each with each, and ever blending still 
 With voices soft conspire to lure me near. 
 That music sweet thus slowly drew me in.
 
 ( 35 ) 
 
 As snake by charmer ever must be drawn, 
 
 A room of marble cool, the jewelled walls 
 
 In wondrous patterns cunningly were wrought ; 
 
 The chunam ceiling was itself inlaid 
 
 With little mirrors. All was beautiful. 
 
 And 'neath the dome, in basin oval-shaped 
 
 And sculptured in the marble flooring fine, 
 
 A sparkling fountain played and cooled the air. 
 
 Beside the fountain, on a cushioned seat. 
 
 Sat one whose merry eyes with wonder gazed 
 
 At the fair trespasser, red-handed caught. 
 
 He drew me down beside him, kindly tried 
 
 To rid me of my fears. They vanished soon 
 
 Beneath the magic of his voice and look. 
 
 That thrill magnetic, and which has no name, 
 
 Entered my soul, and all the world was gold. 
 
 Never the fruit of the Hesperides 
 
 Was fair as that of which we did partake ; 
 
 The juice of grape was nectar from his hands. 
 
 But sweeter far to me his eyes, his voice. 
 
 Stealing my soul whether I would or no, 
 
 Till, in a maze of joy, I lost myself. 
 
 And still the music's strain first rose, then sank, 
 
 Men's deeper bass the antiphone took up, 
 
 Answered by sweet girl-voices far away ; 
 
 Whilst from above, I know not whence it came,
 
 ( 36 ) 
 
 Young boys in lovelier canticles replied. 
 
 Ah ! Life and Love are good — and so I slept. 
 
 Down, down, down, down. 
 
 Will nothing stop me ? Vainly I clutch at space, 
 
 At empty forms which only mock my pain ! 
 
 I sink to depths unfathomably deep. 
 
 Alone, always alone. What torture this 
 
 Silence, the silence which you even feel, 
 
 Wrapped in grey mists impenetrable, thick. 
 
 Falling through space ! Launched into depths unknown, 
 
 With every nerve, alas ! keen strung to feel 
 
 The nameless pain which cannot be defined. 
 
 At last I hang suspended in vast space, 
 
 Enveloped in an ever-moving mist 
 
 Which never breaks, but always weaves itself 
 
 Into terrific shapes, each one more weird 
 
 Than was its predecessor. Loud I cry 
 
 With horror, and my own voice mocks me back. 
 
 I shuddering sink to silence, I hid my face 
 
 In my own hands, and then, alas for me ! 
 
 The long array of deeds ill done unwinds. 
 
 No crimes, perhaps, but the unending roll 
 
 Of little sins long since forgot by me ; 
 
 But dread remorse seized me in iron clutch, 
 
 And I drank deep of this his gruesome cup.
 
 ( 37 ) 
 
 Vainly I writhe, I cannot free myself 
 
 From the just penalty. I cannot pay. 
 
 Despair has laid his hand upon my heart, 
 
 And I throw out my hands, I scarce know why, 
 
 In abject supplication. 
 
 Raising myhead, it seems a gleam of light 
 
 Pierces the darkness that environs me. 
 
 I gaze, and gaze, and gazing still I pray, 
 
 Till from the whirl and swirl of those black clouds 
 
 Which seemed to choke me, a far distant star 
 
 Evolves itself from the dispersing mists. 
 
 So small and faint I scarce its form discern ; 
 
 But hope eternal springs, and as I watch 
 
 Adown the slender shaft of light it casts 
 
 A shadowed form descends. The emblem dear 
 
 Of hope, salvation, and the other world 
 
 Where we would be. Joyful this cross I grasp, 
 
 And clinging, feel that I am safe at last, 
 
 Whilst angel-voices whisper in my ear, 
 
 ' He knows about it all, He knows, He knows !'
 
 ( 38 ) 
 
 ALL SOULS' DAY. 
 
 Of ail the days which garnered mal<e the year 
 
 This one the most pathetic seems to me. 
 
 This day is set aside by holy Church 
 
 In memory of those 'hose task is o'er, 
 
 Whose course is run. And we, 
 
 The transient creatures of this little day, 
 
 Can we not spare a thought, a passing prayer, 
 
 For those poor souls, our predecessors here. 
 
 It is so hard and drear to be forgotten quite. 
 
 They once were sentient, lived to love and hate, 
 
 But now they're gone, and scarce their names survive. 
 
 To-morrow's feast we honour all the saints 
 
 Who live in glory and we bless their names. 
 
 But on this dull and darkling autumn day. 
 
 When falling leaves and overladen skies 
 
 Give naught to hope for brilliancy beyond. 
 
 Remember we the dead. A prayer, a tear. 
 
 May well be theirs to-day. A tender thought 
 
 Keeps green the garden of our heart, and faith, 
 
 The vine whose tendrils ever upward climb. 
 
 Will early leaves put forth to meet hope's spring.
 
 39 
 
 THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 I STROUJd one day through Amber's marble hall, 
 
 Roaming in this direction, then in that, 
 
 PuU'd oranges within the garden fair, 
 
 The sweetest fruit, but palling on the taste ; 
 
 The custard apple too of many pips, 
 
 Of mangoes we regretted there were none. 
 
 Entranced I stood before the ' Heaven's Gate,' 
 
 The loveliest entrance that I ever saw. 
 
 I gazed awhile upon the glassy lake 
 
 And the black log-like forms upon its banks, 
 
 The sacred, and the dreaded crocodiles 
 
 Which glided in and slowly sank from view, 
 
 And there remained embedded in the mud. 
 
 To wait the coming of the thirsty man 
 
 Or thirstier beast, unknowing victims they. 
 
 I long admired the lovely Schish Mahal, 
 
 Its marble carving, and the inlaid work 
 
 Of precious stones so beautifully wrought, 
 
 And tiny mirrors cunningly let in ; 
 
 I mused on ancient glories, long since past. 
 
 When Rajahs mighty once loved well to dwell
 
 ( 40 ) 
 
 Within this Palace fair, deserted now, 
 Excepting always the grey ' Bandur Logue,' 
 Who chatter in the shady sisheem trees, 
 A feckless people, though we oft are told 
 They distant cousins are. I wend my way 
 Up and towards the Kala Devi shrine ; 
 This holy place no beauty great can boast, 
 For it is small and poor, both mean and low, 
 And in the slight recess that forms the shrine 
 Upon a platform raised you soon discern 
 A hideous idol, black, misshapen, old. 
 With a large ruby in its forehead placed ; 
 Its head is set on crooked. Tales they tell 
 Are up to just a century ago 
 Here human sacrifices had offered been, 
 Till, when the gentle British rule set in, 
 This horror, once for all, was stern put down. 
 So furious was the Goddess at the change, 
 That crooked has her head been ever since. 
 I heard behind me such a piteous bleat. 
 And there between two men, a tender kid, 
 Wearing a a crown of yellow marigolds. 
 And nibbling at the blades of grass that sprang 
 Between the stones, a guileless victim came. 
 An older Priest, with keen and cruel face, 
 Bearing the heavy sacrificial knife,
 
 ( 41 ) 
 
 Came next, and others too. 
 
 I sickened, for unerring instinct told 
 
 How many human Hves that blade had reft. 
 
 I could not bear to see them kill the kid, 
 
 Though still in dreams I see the blood-flecked sand, 
 
 And the glazed eyes, which once were clear and 
 
 bright, 
 Though then I fled.
 
 42 
 
 AN AFGHAN VENGEANCE. 
 
 My Afghan hunting-knife. Why, yes, indeed. 
 
 It came from near the AH Musjed Fort ; 
 
 Its ancient blade has got a story grim 
 
 (It may have others, but this one I know), 
 
 And you shall hear it if you care to know. 
 
 That foot-long knife, with edge as razor keen, 
 
 Belonged to Ishak Khan, who lived and held 
 
 A plot of land some miles from Jamrood Fort. 
 
 His Persian wife died young, but with him left 
 
 A daughter fair, the apple of his eye 
 
 And cynosure of all who saw her charms. 
 
 The headman of the village Ishak was, 
 
 A man of consequence, with words of weight. 
 
 'Twas he who kept the mud tower in repair, 
 
 Well stored with army rifles, stolen oft 
 
 From out the ever-hated British lines. 
 
 That power supreme which ever interferes. 
 
 Upsetting ruthlessly the ancient ways. 
 
 ' The peace must aye be kept,' Jo Hookum! Why.? 
 
 For years and years a blood feud deep had been 
 
 Between Ishak's own village and the next. 
 
 I
 
 ( 43 ) 
 
 And many points of honour were involved, 
 
 And many a hated foe had bit the dust. 
 
 The men all stayed at home well armed, 
 
 So that the ground be till'd the women went, 
 
 From fear of harm they always were exempt ; 
 
 No matter how the marksman fired across 
 
 From tower to tower, they were free from harm. 
 
 Amina often loved to go with them, 
 
 Although she had no thought of work, not she ; 
 
 Her father was a man of substance, so 
 
 Hired stout wenches all the work to do : 
 
 So she did nothing but amuse herself. 
 
 And blacken with dark kohl her pretty eyes. 
 
 And deck herself with silks from Cabul's mart, 
 
 Phulkari worked. Those soft and tiny hands. 
 
 With pretty fingers henna tipped and slim. 
 
 Were surely never made to dig and delve, 
 
 But still she liked the others' company. 
 
 She wandered one hot evening by the dwindling stream, 
 
 Which somehow seemed a little draught to make, 
 
 And weary, on a patch of sun-baked grass, 
 
 Thoughtless of harm, curled herself up and slept 
 
 Beneath the shade of everlasting hills. 
 
 Mirza Ahmed, son of the chief that ruled 
 
 The village that with hers vendetta had, 
 
 When evening twilight fell and rifle shots
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 Ceased, because evening's gathering gloom 
 Stood 'twixt the marksman and his victim sure, 
 Strolled up the borders of that Baca stream, 
 And found the loveliest maiden ever seen 
 Soundly asleep beneath the evening stars. 
 'Twas not the only time he met her there. 
 For oft Amina's form might have been seen, 
 When twilight and the sunset kissed and met. 
 Flitting away, in filmy yashmak wrapped. 
 Towards the nook beside the little stream 
 Where he impatient watched, and so they met ; 
 And if they say a stolen kiss is sweet, 
 Why how divinely sweet must theirs have been, 
 For well they knew the stake for which they played 
 Was just a game of hide and seek with death ! 
 
 One starlight night, when colder winter days 
 Had powdered fresh the Himalayan snows 
 Till silver 'neath the winter stars they shone, 
 Amina, closely veiled, had crept away 
 Unseen, she thought, for oft before she'd been 
 And never dreamed suspicion was awaked. 
 So to the well-known, well-loved trysting place 
 And Mirza Ahmed's arms she swiftly flew, 
 As lightly as a happy bird takes wing. 
 Not seeing the dark form that dogged her steps. 
 
 I
 
 ( 45 ) 
 
 From out the shade of the o'erhanging rock 
 
 Her lover sprang, her graceful form to meet ; 
 
 But just as in a fond embrace they met 
 
 A jarring voice smote terror in their hearts : 
 
 ' Mine enemy, and have I found you out ? 
 
 Take that — and that' 
 
 And then the keen knife flashed from out its sheath 
 
 Its fill to drink, but not that Ishak meant. 
 
 Throwing herself across her Mirza's breast, 
 
 As downward plunged the fatal glittering knife, 
 
 Amina's was the spirit that it loosed. 
 
 One look, one sigh. In the fond arms 
 
 Of her heart-broken lover she expired. 
 
 Because she valued Love at more than Life, 
 
 The passing traveller sees a chunam shrine 
 
 Erected after to her memory. 
 
 And well may spare a moment's thought profound 
 
 Of admiration to the name of one, 
 
 Though she was fair and frail she loved right well. 
 
 So may she rest m peace. My Afghan knife 
 
 Hangs on that nail. It once was Ishak Khan's.
 
 ( 46 ) 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 Lashed to a heavy stanchion there we stood, 
 Or else we had been torn away, and swept 
 Into the hungry seas which raved and roared 
 Around us in their fury. 
 
 Chasms around us yawned, followed by waves 
 Which towered mountains high ; indeed it seemed 
 They must o'erwhelm us : our good ship indeed 
 Still fought her way along, the engines' throb 
 Was lost in all the turmoil, but stout hearts 
 That set the danger as at less than naught 
 Nerved the strong arms to guide her on her way. 
 A shock ! a crash ! a rending, splitting noise ! 
 And, in a second's agony, we know 
 Our dreadful doom. The breakers' deafening roar 
 Proclaim the dread vicinity unseen 
 Of the sharp reef on which we just have struck. 
 We swift undo our lashings, and we fight 
 Our painful way to gain the upper bridge, 
 Clinging together ; bruised, exhausted, we 
 Reach it at last, and then we realise 
 The vastness of the horror. As we gaze
 
 ( 47 ) 
 
 The noble ship, so pounded by the seas, 
 
 Divides in twain, and all the hinder part 
 
 With many a hundred souls just backward glides, 
 
 And swift engulphed it disappears from view ! 
 
 The rocket apparatus mocks the hopes 
 
 Of the survivors. We are just too far, 
 
 Though bravest hearts and loving, skilful hands 
 
 Are doing all that science may suggest 
 
 To save us from our seeming certain end. 
 
 Yet, one by one, our friends are swept away, 
 
 And we are left to face our fate alone. 
 
 He whispers, ' Love, will you but trust in me, 
 
 And I will try and bring you to the shore.' 
 
 One long fond kiss, one prayer, and hand in hand. 
 
 We spring into the swirling vortex there. 
 
 Our life-belts buoy us up, but save us not 
 
 From the strong waves which thresh us like a flail. 
 
 Till one, more cruel than were all the rest. 
 
 Severs our hold, and we are torn apart ; 
 
 As russet autumn leaf is blown about 
 
 The sport of every passing gust that blows, 
 
 So am I tossed, first this way and then that. 
 
 Beaten and wounded, shaken, hurt and torn, 
 
 I see my love again, just out of reach : 
 
 We try to grasp each other, but are borne 
 
 Further apart. I cry in vain his name.
 
 ( 48 ) 
 
 Then all sense leaves me, and I nothing know, 
 
 Though I am cast at last upon the shore, 
 
 And kind hands draw me into safety. 
 
 As long hours pass, the struggle back to life 
 
 Proclaims me victor, battling with grim Death. 
 
 The first of thoughts and questions is for him. 
 
 And when I see the kindly heads bowed down, 
 
 Averted, and a rugged, toil-worn hand 
 
 Wiping away the tear it cannot hide, 
 
 I grasp the hideous truth — he gone, I left. 
 
 Never to meet again in this fair world 
 
 No longer fair to me. 
 
 Why was I saved from sudden, welcome death ? 
 
 When I'd no fear within his loving arms, 
 
 To cruel Life, which I alone must face. 
 
 A lonely life's a live-long agony, 
 
 A loveless life is living martyrdom. 
 
 Those who have never loved can never know ! 
 
 To those who have, a world without the sun 
 
 Is cheerful to a life with Love gone out, 
 
 And the grey wilderness of time to face 
 
 Without the ever-radiant guiding star 
 
 Which all illuminates. It's well indeed 
 
 For them, forsooth, to talk of faith and hope. 
 
 But it is I who have to dree my weird. 
 
 I
 
 49 
 
 A MINIATURE. 
 
 Who is this lady fair in ruff and coif ? 
 
 By Hilliard painted, or I much mistake, 
 
 A beauty of the days when James the First 
 
 Misgovern'd England, thereby laying up 
 
 A plenteous store of trouble for his son. 
 
 I somehow seem to know those soft brown eyes, 
 
 That brilliant skin and lovely little mouth. 
 
 I have it now ! It can no other be 
 
 Than Frances, wife of Essex' noble Earl, 
 
 The loveliest and the lightest of that Court, 
 
 Which was not famous for austerity. 
 
 Ah ! what a tragedy hangs round her name ! 
 
 There was a hag. Turner her name, I think, 
 
 That lived in those days near St. Paul's Churchyard, 
 
 Who dealt in unguents and in perfumes sweet,
 
 ( so ) 
 
 And Spanish gloves, and just the hundred things 
 
 With which no well-dressed woman could dispense. 
 
 So Turner's house the fashion soon became, 
 
 And was the gay resort of half the Court. 
 
 Thus assignations here were often made, 
 
 And secrets dark, which kept had better been. 
 
 Endowed her with a rich Pactolean stream. 
 
 And ever rich, and richer, soon she grew 
 
 Turning these follies to her own account. 
 
 One night, it was both dark and very late. 
 
 There came a lady closely masked to seek 
 
 Dame Turner, and she would not be refused ; 
 
 She said it was a case of life or death. 
 
 None knew what had transpired between the two. 
 
 Bearing a vial small the lady fair 
 
 Crept ghostlike from the house, leaving behind 
 
 The price of a man's life, a guerdon rich. 
 
 Sir Thomas Overbury's sudden death 
 
 Startled the careless and the giddy Court, 
 
 For that he died of poison none could doubt. 
 
 And all well knew that he had come between 
 
 The brilliant Countess and her latest love, 
 
 I think 'twas Carr. In olden days 
 
 Of form and ceremony there was none 
 
 In such a flagrant case. Turner's arrest, 
 
 Confession full under ' peine forte et dure',
 
 ( 51 ) 
 
 Disclosed enough to bring her to her doom, 
 
 Though the far greater criminal escaped 
 
 In Essex' Countess. Yet she pictured looks 
 
 As gentle as a softly plumaged dove, 
 
 And doubtless lived to reach a green old age, 
 
 And point the moral : ' Do not be found out' 
 
 I
 
 ( 52 ) 
 
 LARES AND PENATES. 
 
 The Day is done, so comes the pleasant hour 
 
 Of twilight, when it's neither light nor dark, 
 
 The lamp not lit, the fire a glowing mass 
 
 Whose lambent flamelets quickly come and glow, 
 
 Then sink away to nothing but a spark. 
 
 The post is gone, the day's work past and done, 
 
 I nestle 'midst my cushions, idle thoughts 
 
 Chasing each other through my lazy head 
 
 As I lie here, and watch the firelight gild 
 
 My little room, and all the things I love, 
 
 The coloured prints on neutral coloured walls. 
 
 Rare Bartolozzis, Morlands, Kaufifmanns hang. 
 
 My books, dear friends, well bound in shelves four 
 
 high. 
 Upon their velvet top a hundred toys 
 Fond recollections bring. A portrait hangs there of 
 
 my Sama bird : 
 A treasured offering from a Rajah's hands, 
 A photoed group from shores of Tegernsee, 
 My Russian icon and an Afghan knife 
 I've worn patowa shooting after bear 
 And sambhur, too. An olden lacquered desk
 
 ( 53 ) 
 
 Laden with china blue. My Bechstein next 
 
 Covered with silk from far Peshawur brought : 
 
 One's own piano is a faithful friend, 
 
 It knows one's joys, one's woes, it tunes its chords 
 
 To suit our moods, or be they grave or gay ; 
 
 It knows '(5ne's loves, one's hates, as no one else ; 
 
 It comforts sorrow, emphasises joy, 
 
 And scalding tears ne'er harm its ivory keys. 
 
 An old Dutch cabinet my china holds 
 
 In Worcester painted many a year ago, 
 
 And gathered by me from far distant spots. 
 
 Along the wall there runs a narrow shelf 
 
 Whence eyes of dear sun-pictured friends meet mine, 
 
 My crucifix, some silver trifles rare, 
 
 A mirror from Bayreuth, two quainter still 
 
 Steels polished, sent by friends from far Japan. 
 
 My lute and rapier in a corner hang 
 
 (I wore them once in playing Romeo) ; 
 
 And there's my picture too, more madcap I, 
 
 In cloak and doublet. There, a silken ball 
 
 Of black and ruby-tan, my spaniel lies. 
 
 Karma, the idol of our hearth and home. 
 
 My room is decked with palms and orchids gay, 
 
 Borrowed from out ' the garden that I love,' 
 
 A bunch of roses, and some violets, sweet 
 
 As is their namesake — my one daughter, too.
 
 ( 54 ) 
 
 Then comes the bureau, high heaped with the toil 
 
 I love so well. Many and many hours 
 
 I sit and write, and in far distant lands Ml 
 
 I commune with dear friends, though far away, Tj 
 
 And keep the Lamp of Friendship burning bright, " 
 
 As I glance up, more faces smile at me. 
 
 And from the centre, his, whose name is mine. 
 
 Close by our son on roughest pony sits. 
 
 Upon a hunt intent — a sportsman small 
 
 But keen, as we would have him. Ah ! I see 
 
 The Finnish river Uleo. What happy days 
 
 We spent encamped upon its fir-clad banks. 
 
 Far, far away from what we call the World ! 
 
 I will not set down all the list of things. 
 
 Enough, the room is mine ! I love it well. 
 
 And happy hours unnumbered here have spent, 
 
 And, if they may have sometimes chequered been. 
 
 Why, shades throw up the higher lights, we know. 
 
 So long I live amongst the ones I love, 
 
 I care for little else, my only fear 
 
 Is, lest / should remember, t/iej/ forget.
 
 ( 55 ) 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF DUFFERIN AND AVA. 
 
 To him, whose splendid talents have been given 
 
 In service of his country and his Queen, 
 
 We would our tribute, feeble though it be. 
 
 Lay at his feet. Such patriots as these 
 
 Arise from time to time to make the world 
 
 Remember that the England of to-day 
 
 Is great in the possession of such sons. 
 
 As long as they exist so must her star 
 
 In the ascendant be. Why, he has served 
 
 In Turkey, Egypt, Russia, and he reigned 
 
 In Canada — so twined the maple leaf 
 
 In one fair crown with leaves of English oak. 
 
 An exile, at the call of duty still. 
 
 From his loved Irish home and interests there, 
 
 At the Queen's word he on his shoulders took 
 
 The awful weight responsibility 
 
 Brings to each Indian Viceroy. 
 
 There fell to him the Herculean task 
 
 To swift repair the damage infinite 
 
 Wrought by his predecessor's policy. 
 
 Reverse all this, soothe the false visions raised 
 
 I
 
 ( 56 ) 
 
 In native minds, mischievous chimeras. 
 
 Why should some men, unknowing of the needs 
 
 Of this great India, choose to ignore those 
 
 Who've given their lives to one long exile here. 
 
 They talk, forsooth, even in Parliament, 
 
 On matters grave, their knowledge but a gloss 
 
 Of unlinked pedantry — mere ignorance. 
 
 But when Lord Dufferin left fair India's shores 
 
 And watched the blue Ghauts sinking in the east. 
 
 He left behind him work, how bravely done ! 
 
 And though he brought an added name to that 
 
 On which so much of lustre long had shone. 
 
 He left his country richer by a land 
 
 Fertile and good on distant Burmese shores. 
 
 But far beyond all this, a memory fair 
 
 Of pain relieved and misery assuaged. 
 
 All this the doing of the gracious dame 
 
 Whose name and his are one, and ever must, 
 
 As long as Indian history survives. 
 
 Remembrance carry in a charmed link 
 
 Of love and gratitude together wove. 
 
 A little rest in Rome, and then again 
 
 Another move. Work, heavy, sometimes light. 
 
 Our friends so near, in that fair land of France, 
 
 Have ever found the courteous gentleman. 
 
 Who represents so well our interests there.
 
 ( 57 ) 
 
 Whose wit and charm they cannot well resist, 
 Can have the firm hand hid in velvet glove. 
 And we, whose admiration ever grows 
 As time rolls by, can only breathe the wish 
 That he may be for many years to come 
 The cynosTire of all the cultured world, 
 Spared to the country he has served so well, 
 And to his friends a source of joy and pride.
 
 ( 58 ) 
 
 FEDERATION. 
 
 Here in our tiny island, kissed by each whispering 
 
 breeze, 
 That Hes safe, zone encircled, vvathin its purple seas, 
 A kingdom, a thousand years ago, our fathers built 
 
 firm and fast. 
 And bequeathed it to their children as long as the 
 
 world should last. 
 
 What changes are made since that kingdom was 
 
 founded in years gone by ! 
 What wonders wrought in the centuries that quickly 
 
 seem to fly ! 
 Men come and go, but the principle remains unaltered 
 
 still, 4 
 
 That the stoutest race is bound to survive and rule 
 
 by sheer force of will.
 
 59 
 
 We have sent our sons to the ends of the earth their 
 
 luck and fortune to try, 
 And the sun never sinks on the country where the 
 
 English flag does fly. 
 It may be fain, it may be shine — you will ever find 
 
 them there, 
 The stalwart sons of England, both ready to do or 
 
 dare. 
 
 With messages from friends at home the plunging 
 
 steamships race, 
 The bonds that bind far hearts to ours ne'er bow to 
 
 time or space. 
 Our merchandise sails every sea, afar its vessels roam, 
 For that vast market of the world whose centre rests 
 
 at home. 
 
 In India we have built a realm, the glory of the world, 
 From the Khyber unto Burmah the British flag's 
 
 unfurled. 
 By our settlements in distant lands we've made the 
 
 slave trade cease. 
 And British ships and British guns are guarantees of 
 
 peace.
 
 6o 
 
 Beneath the Australian gum-trees our kinsmen make 
 
 their home, 
 They own herds in countless thousands, the cry is 
 
 * Still they come,' 
 Where the gold-reef yields its nuggets, let the times 
 
 be bad or good, 
 With ever- varying fortune our English friends have 
 
 stood. 
 
 An empire new is rising in Afric's scant-known veldt. 
 Evolved by that brain and talent of which we proud 
 
 have felt : 
 They may talk of Africander and the rights of the 
 
 sulky Boer, 
 But that Empire's English-peopled, and absorption 
 
 though slow is sure. 
 
 The maple-leaf of Canada embellishes our crown, 
 Its fertile plains send golden crops the broad St. 
 
 Lawrence down. 
 And even drear Newfoundland, in fog-banks thickly 
 
 curled. 
 Its quota never fails to send to this market of the 
 
 world.
 
 ( 6i ) 
 
 Though the Stars and Stripes are flying where the 
 
 English ensign flew, 
 The colours bright that kiss the winds are still red, 
 
 white and blue. 
 We admire their independence, they remember whence 
 
 they sprung, 
 Our cousins live across the sea and speak the English 
 
 tongue. 
 
 O'er islands far the Southern Cross hangs in the 
 sapphire sky, 
 
 And the laden dhows amongst them their busy 
 labours ply. 
 
 There, too, the English speech prevails, the British 
 power has sway. 
 
 And the wholesome rule of Englishmen makes count- 
 less tribes obey. 
 
 We all of us are kindred, separation's all we fear, 
 Why throw away the good we have for ills we well 
 
 may fear? 
 Why break the chain of union that links us firmly 
 
 yet 
 To a past so crowned with honour ? Why strive we 
 
 to forget ? 
 
 t
 
 ( 62 ) 
 
 I speak not to little England, to the coward few who 
 
 crave 
 To see our country ruined, who would dance upon 
 
 her grave ; 
 Who know not patriotism, who would their land 
 
 disown, 
 The friends of every nation, every country but their 
 
 own. 
 
 Heart of our heart, bone of our bone, let it never be 
 
 said that you 
 Will be cleft from your mother country, which loves 
 
 and is loved by you. 
 Let us clasp our hands the closer and the bands still 
 
 tighter draw, 
 That bind us one to another from furthest shore to 
 
 shore.
 
 ( 63 ) 
 
 SAVONAROLA. 
 
 A SPARE-ascetic form in monkish garb, 
 Of eloquence supreme, a tongue of fire 
 That lashed like scorpions ; a nature fine, 
 But hard, unbending ; as the years drew on 
 Seeing in the adversaries with whom he strove 
 All of the evil, little of the good. 
 Ambitious, dauntless to a fault, was he; 
 Of Mother Church an ever-faithful son, 
 But stubborn, stiff-necked, and untractable. 
 In firm belief that what he did was right, 
 He chose a hard, drear, thankless part, indeed. 
 Trying to stem the vices of his time, 
 And making Florence good as she was fair, 
 Set an example to the whole known world. 
 His strength of purpose saved him from the trap 
 Set by his enemies : it came to nought ; 
 But though he did not pass the lane of fire 
 Built up by wicked hearts and cruel hands. 
 The mental tortures that he passed, strong soul, 
 Within the precincts of his narrow cell 
 ■ Surpassed e'en Dante's circling Inferno.
 
 ( 64 ) 
 
 For in the agony preceding death 
 
 Poor outraged nature — never he himself — - 
 
 Denied his hope, his power, his work, his all, 
 
 So that at last he such admissions made 
 
 That he apostate seemed. The rack, the cord. 
 
 The liars were — but never that strong man. 
 
 Far more a martyr he than many were. 
 
 For his belief in his own self was gone. 
 
 Thus when the flames, the gibbet, brought at last 
 
 Death and oblivion, they were far more kind 
 
 Than any friend. Five hundred years indeed 
 
 Have well nigh passed since that last dreadful scene 
 
 On the Piazza Vecchio, when in death 
 
 Frate Girolamo found peace at last, 
 
 And left us worldings here to muse upon 
 
 A curious treatise written ere he died, 
 
 Del Arte del ben Morire. His form 
 
 With many others of those moving times 
 
 Stand out as vivid on the canvas broad 
 
 Of the world's history, as if the brush 
 
 Of memory had lately limned them there, 
 
 And so we dream of him who's past and gone, 
 
 And lovely Florence as she was and is.
 
 ( 6s ) 
 
 FESTINA LENTE. 
 
 A DISSERTATION. 
 
 Of all the detestable things in the world 
 I think good advice is the worst, 
 But a maxim sound is a useful friend, 
 And may come in last or first. 
 
 You may force the pace, or ride your race. 
 As science or skill dictates. 
 And we all of us know the Gallic ' viotl 
 ' All comes to him that waits.' 
 
 If you nurse your horse, though the scent be hot, 
 And the stout fox sinks his wind. 
 You will floor them all when you reach the brook 
 And leave them all behind. 
 
 When you're sent in to bat eighth wicket down, 
 Don't go in for hitting free ; 
 Play a cautious game, break the bowling down, 
 And the game will be yours, you'll see.
 
 ( 66 ) 
 
 In golf very careful iron play 
 
 May collar the driving stroke, 
 
 It's certainly useless your temper to lose 
 
 Because your best club's broke. 
 
 When the driven grouse came swift down wind, 
 And your gun the loud echoes awoke. 
 If perchance you did happen to miss with the smooth 
 You * wiped ' your own eye with the choke. 
 
 A moderate sailor at best am I, 
 But I know when to shorten sail, 
 And prefer bare sticks and all snug aloft 
 In a nor'-nor'-easterly gale. 
 
 When a couple of young 'uns together you put, 
 You will meet with dire mishap 
 If you over-rate the power of your arms 
 And the strength of the kicking strap. 
 
 When in a patowa you wait for big game, 
 Crouching low on the soft warm sand. 
 It's well to know that your rifle's right, 
 And your hunting-knife ready to hand.
 
 I 
 
 ( 67 ) 
 
 With a salmon be sure that your tackle will hold, 
 Be sure of the strain that you feel ; 
 Don't be in a hurry to give him the butt 
 When you hear the first whirr of the wheel. 
 
 Our life's at best a difficult game, 
 As we most of us find in our day, 
 But we certainly like to score the points, 
 When we take up our hand to play. 
 
 If you hold bad cards all the worse for you. 
 But a keen satisfaction you'll feel 
 If that jade, fickle fortune, upon you will smile, 
 And a bumper you win, the last deal. 
 
 Don't cross the path of a woman in love, 
 
 Or who fancies she is — it's the devil. 
 
 Better stick your hand 'twixt the tree and the bark, 
 
 Love and money's the source of most evil. 
 
 There's just one stayer we can't outstay, 
 We musi bow to Nature's laws. 
 And the odds, after all, are a million to none 
 In the end on Pallida Mors.
 
 62, 
 
 ST. HELENA. 
 
 Of all the figures that on history's page 
 Has left its mark, the one whose tragic end 
 Stirs my heart most the first Napoleon's is. 
 Has any traveller 'mongst you ever seen 
 The prison island, where the last sad act 
 That closed the wretched drama acted was ? 
 Hot, sandy, bleak and barren, small and drear, 
 More worthy of the fear his foes displayed 
 Than of the Emperor-exile prisoned there — 
 The Eagle that had soared to such great heights. 
 Heights which perchance none ever reached before 
 Save the fierce Lion, Alexander Great, 
 Sikander, as they call him in the East, 
 When he waged war against King Porus' hosts, 
 And dyed the waters of swift Indus red. 
 As fear makes cowards, so the cowards here 
 
 ^
 
 ( 69 ) 
 
 Dared grant him nothing, this great Emperor-King. 
 
 A few old friends, counted upon your hands, 
 
 And one the bravest, for of frailer sex, 
 
 Brought but her love to save him from despair. 
 
 They did their best to make life bearable ; 
 
 But he, foFsaken by both wife and child, 
 
 Eat out his heart in solitude profound. 
 
 Master of Europe once, and now condemned 
 
 To this ! His eyes turned towards * La belle France,' 
 
 His thoughts aye musing on the ' might have been,' 
 
 A torture which perchance we all have felt ; 
 
 But as the strength is so is the degree 
 
 Of suffering, separately meted out. 
 
 Did his thoughts turn to Italy and those 
 
 His first campaigns, with fairest laurels crowned, 
 
 When he, as France's Consul, fought — and won. 
 
 And when a few short hours might be snatched 
 
 From cares of war he flew to Josephine, 
 
 His faithless wife, till then his only love? 
 
 Does he now dream of famous Austerlitz 
 
 And Jena ? Perchance of his family, 
 
 Whom he had loved beyond their just desert. 
 
 Who grasped at crowns and gold, and then, as rats 
 
 Will ever leave the doomed and sinking ship, 
 
 So each in turn betrayed their generous friend. 
 
 Do his thoughts still stray back to the great war,
 
 ( 70 ) 
 
 From Iser's blood-stained banks, that march superb, 
 
 Which brought his armies to the Sparrow Hills, 
 
 From which they saw the Kremlin's towers rise, 
 
 The countless minarets and cupolas 
 
 Of Moscow old, a vision fair indeed ? 
 
 The dark cloud lowers. Think of that dread retreat. 
 
 Of Leipsic, too ; and how the ' Vielle Garde ' 
 
 So nobly laid their lives down for his sake 
 
 At Ouartre Bras. And then came Waterloo, 
 
 That awful day, when the two strongest heads 
 
 In Europe set the battle in array, 
 
 Of life regardless, so they fought it out. 
 
 He was so ill just then, and who could guess 
 
 That Blucher and his veterans would get up 
 
 And help to win that ne'er-forgotten day ? 
 
 Then the surrender, and the blank suspense 
 
 As to his destination. Elba ? No ! 
 
 But what was this the hecatomb of men. 
 
 Which made half Europe but a cemetery ? 
 
 That rose in serried ranks, and filled his dreams. 
 
 Not only they, but mothers, sisters, wives 
 
 Come crying to his feet, to ask for those 
 
 Their dearest, and the household breadwinner. 
 
 Dearth ! Pestilence ! accessories of war, 
 
 Filed by, and passing, cried ' Napoleon ! ' , 
 
 If ever man a purgatory endured,
 
 ( 71 ) 
 
 Before he trod the narrow gate of death, 
 'Twas this once mighty man. But still his foes 
 Strait kept him in that treeless, sunbaked hell 
 Till nature could no longer bear the strain, 
 And the strong soul was freed by death at last. 
 His ashes^lie within the ' Invalides,' 
 Peace be with them, and with his spirit too, 
 If he would have it. This we cannot tell.
 
 London Hatchards, Piccadilly.
 
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