J
 
 
 

 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON.
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 
 
 LORD HOUGHTON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 
 
 1863.
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 FADE 
 
 UNSPOKEN DIALOGUE ......... i 
 
 NEVER RETURN ! .......... 5 
 
 PARTED AND MET ......... 10 
 
 FAMILIAR LOVE .......... 13 
 
 STRANGERS YET .......... 15 
 
 A RECOLLECTION .......... 16 
 
 RAPTURE ....... . . . .18 
 
 THE TREASURE-SHIP ......... 19 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE ........ 20 
 
 THE FLOWER OF FRIENDSHIP ....... 23 
 
 FAIR-WEATHER FRIEND ........ 24 
 
 PAST FRIENDSHIP . . ... ..... 26 
 
 NOT TO-MORROW . . . ...... 27 
 
 HALF-TRUTH ........... 29 
 
 RESTORE ..... . . ..... 31 
 
 THE LETTERS OF YOUTH . . . . . . . . 32 
 
 ONE-SIDED TROTH ......... 33 
 
 To SORROW . . . . . .. . .; . . 34 
 
 THE LONG-AGO ........... 35 
 
 SIMPLE SOUNDS .......... 38 
 
 A PRAYER ...... .'. . . . .40 
 
 GHOSTS ............ 41 
 
 SHADOWS ....... .. . , .43 
 
 MOMENTS ............. 46 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD ......... 48 
 
 THE VOICES OF HISTORY . . . ..... . . 50 
 
 THE BARREN HILL . . . > .- * - . -54 
 THE CHRONICLE OF HOPES ........ 56 
 
 THE WORTH OF HOURS . . ......... .58 
 
 1710336
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 TA9E 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 HAPPINESS S9 
 
 THE SPRING AND THE BROOK 60 
 
 LOVE WITHOUT SYMPATHY 61 
 
 ON COWPER'S GARDEN AT OLNEY . . . 61 
 
 ON REVISITING TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE . . . 62 
 
 GOOD INTENTIONS 62 
 
 GRAVE TEMPERAMENTS 63 
 
 ACTION AND THOUGHT 63 
 
 ANIMA MUNDI 64 
 
 CARPE DIEM 66 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH 67 
 
 THE WEARY SOUL 71 
 
 THE WORLD TO THE SOUL ........ 76 
 
 THE PALSY OF THE HEART 78 
 
 THE MARTYRS OF THE MIND 79 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE CONSUMPTIVE HOSPITAL .... 82 
 
 SECOND CHILDHOOD 84 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S SONG 86 
 
 DOMESTIC FAME 88 
 
 IN MEMOKIAM : 
 
 MRS. EDWARD DENISON .go 
 
 MARY AND AGNES BERRY 91 
 
 LADY CAMPBELL 94 
 
 GEORGE VERNON COLEBROKE 95 
 
 ARTHUR AND ELLEN HALLAM 96 
 
 To A MOURNER 97 
 
 REQUIESCAT IN PACE 99, 
 
 A SONG OF THOUGHTS 103 
 
 A CHILD'S SONG 105 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING 106 
 
 THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE 107 
 
 THE VIOLET-GIRL 113 
 
 THE OLD MANORIAL HALl 115 
 
 THE BROOK-SIDE 116 
 
 LABOUR 118 
 
 RICH AND POOR 120 
 
 Cl.ENT HlI.1 121 
 
 ON THE OPENING OF THE FIRST PUBLIC PLEASURE-GROUND 
 
 AT BIRMINGHAM 123 
 
 VBRSICLES 127
 
 Contents. vi 
 
 PALM LEAVES. 
 
 rAox 
 
 THE HAREEM 129 
 
 THE MOSQUE 132 
 
 THE KIOSK . . . . . 135 
 
 THE PERSIAN'S STORY 136 
 
 THE SYRIAN'S STORY 140 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN'S STORY 147 
 
 THE TENT 149 
 
 THE THINKER AND THE POET 152 
 
 Loss AND GAIN 154 
 
 PLEASURE AND PAIN 154 
 
 THE PEACE OF GOD 155 
 
 RABIA .... 157 
 
 THE GREEK AT CONSTANTINOPLE 158 
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 A MONUMENT FOR SCUTARI 163 
 
 ON THE PEACE, MAY, 1856 166 
 
 CHINA, 1857 167 
 
 IRELAND, 1847 167 
 
 ENGLAND'S SUMMER, 1857 168 
 
 COLUMBUS AND THE MAY-FLOWER 172 
 
 AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY 173 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 1863 174 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON 175 
 
 MEMORIALS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 THE ELD ''. . . 177 
 
 GREEK RELIGION . 180 
 
 THE RETURN OF ULYSSES . . . . . ... 183 
 
 OLYMPUS 185 
 
 DELPHI . . . . . 187 
 
 THE TOMB OF LAIUS 189 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF HELICON igo 
 
 MYCENAE 192 
 
 MARATHON 193 
 
 THERMOPYL^ 193 
 
 THE CONCENTRATION OF ATHENS 195 
 
 PELASGIAN AND CYCLOPEAN WALLS ..... 196
 
 viii Contents. 
 
 MM 
 
 VENICE 197 
 
 THE VENETIAN SERENADE 200 
 
 A DREAM IN A GONDOLA 201 
 
 AT VENICE 204 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON OF THE SOUTH 209 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS . . 214 
 
 THE ILLUMINATIONS OF ST. PETER'S 216 
 
 THE FIREWORKS FROM THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO . . 218 
 ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY GWENDOLIN TALBOT WITH 
 
 THE ELDEST SON OF THE PRINCE BORGHESE . . . 218 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS BORGHESE . . . 219 
 
 NAPLES AND VENICE 220 
 
 SWITZERLAND AND ITALY 222 
 
 ON THE CHURCH OF THE MADELEINE, AT PARIS . . . 225 
 
 FRANCE AND ENGLAND 226 
 
 ON MILTON'S COTTAGE, AT CHALFONT ST. GILES . . . 227 
 ANSWER TO WORDSWORTH'S SONNET AGAINST THE KENDAL 
 
 AND BOWNESS RAILWAY 227 
 
 TINTERN ABBEY 228 
 
 ON THE GRAVE OF BISHOP KEN 229 
 
 POEMS. LEGENDARY AND HISTORICAL. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY 231 
 
 PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT .... 239 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE IN THE PYRENEES . 241 
 
 THE PERSECUTION OF THE TEMPLARS 245 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE 248 
 
 THE BROWNIE 252 
 
 BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN 253 
 
 THE FALL OF ALIPIUS 255 
 
 CHARLEMAGNE AND THE HYMN OF CHRIST .... 263 
 
 THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY 269
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 , 1 1 > 1 1 1 
 
 UNSPOKEN DIALOGUE. 
 
 ABOVE the trailing mignonnette 
 
 That dressed the window-sill, 
 A Lady watched, with lips firm-set, 
 
 And looks of earnest will : 
 Four decades o'er her life had met, 
 
 And left her lovely still. 
 
 Not to the radiant firmament, 
 
 Not to the garden's grace, 
 The courses of her mind were bent, 
 
 But where, with sweetest face, 
 Forth from the other window leant, 
 
 The Daughter of the place. 
 
 Thus ran her thoughts : " O, wretched day ! 
 
 When She was born so fair ; 
 Well could I let my charms decay, 
 
 If she were not their heir : 
 I loathe the sunbeams as they play 
 
 About her golden hair. 
 
 I
 
 Unspoken Dialogue. 
 
 "Yet why? She is too good too mild- 
 
 So madly to aspire 
 He is no Boy to be beguiled 
 
 By sparks of coloured fire ; 
 I will not dream a pretty child 
 
 Can mar my deep desire. 
 
 " Her fatherless and lonely days 
 
 Are sere before their time ; 
 In scenes of gaiety and praise 
 
 She will regain her prime, 
 And cease to haunt these wooded ways, 
 
 With sentimental rhyme." 
 
 On to the conscious maiden past 
 Those words without the tongue ; 
 
 Half-petulantly back she cast 
 The glistening curls that hung 
 
 About her neck, and answered fast, 
 "Yes, I am young too young. 
 
 " Yet am I graver than my wont, 
 
 Graver when He is here ; 
 Beneath the glory of his front 
 
 I tremble not with fear, 
 But, as I read, Bethesda's font 
 
 Felt with the Angel near. 
 
 " Must I mate only with my kind, 
 
 With something as unwise 
 As my poor self, and never find 
 
 Affection I can prize 
 At once with an adoring mind, 
 
 And with admiring eyes ?
 
 Unspoken Dialogue. 
 
 " My mother trusts to drag me down 
 
 To some low range of life, 
 By pleasures of the clamo'rous town, 
 
 And vanity's mean strife ; 
 And in such selfish tumult drown 
 
 My hope to be his wife." 
 
 Then darker round the Lady grew 
 
 The meditative cloud, 
 And stormy thoughts began to brew 
 
 She dared not speak aloud, 
 For then, without disguise, she knew 
 
 That rivalry avowed. 
 
 ' ' What is my being, if I lose 
 My love's last stake ? while She 
 
 Has the fair future where to choose 
 Her woman's destiny, 
 
 Free scope those means and powers to use 
 Which Time denies to me. 
 
 " Was it for this her baby arms 
 
 About my neck were flung ? 
 Was it for this I found such charms 
 
 In her uncertain tongue ? 
 Was it for this those vain alarms 
 
 My mother-soul unstrung ? 
 
 " O horrible ! to wish my child 
 
 My sole one left unborn, 
 And, seeing her so meek and mild, 
 
 To hold such gifts in scorn : 
 My nature is grown waste and wild, 
 
 My heart with fury torn."
 
 Unspoken Dialogue. 
 
 Speechless enchanted to the spot 
 
 The girl could scarce divine 
 The whole disaster of her lot ; 
 
 But, without sound or sign, 
 She cried, " O, mother ! Love him not- 
 
 O, let his love be mine ! 
 
 " You have had years of full delight 
 Your girlhood's passion-dream 
 
 Was realized to touch and sight, 
 As bright as it could seem ; 
 
 And now you interpose, like night, 
 Before my life's first gleam. 
 
 " Yet You were once what I am now, 
 You won your maiden prize 
 
 You told me of my Father how 
 You lived but in his eyes : 
 
 You spoke of the perpetual vow, 
 The troth that never dies. 
 
 " Dear mother ! dearer, kinder, far, 
 
 If by my childhood's bed 
 Your care had never strove to bar 
 
 Misfortune from my head, 
 But laid me where my brothers are, 
 
 Among the quiet dead. 
 
 " Ah ! why not die ? This cruel strife 
 
 Can thus thus only cease. 
 Dear Lord ! take home this erring life, 
 
 This struggling soul release ; 
 From Heaven, perchance, upon his wife, 
 
 I might look down in peace."
 
 Never Return! 
 
 That prayer, like some electric flame, 
 
 Struck with resistless force 
 The Lady's agitated frame ; 
 
 Nor halted in its course 
 Till her hard pride was turned to shame, 
 
 Her passion to remorse. 
 
 She spoke her words were very low 
 
 But resolute in tone ; 
 " Dear child ! He comes nay, blush not so 
 
 To have your secret known, 
 'Tis best 'tis best that I should go 
 
 And leave you here alone." 
 
 Then, as his steps grew near and fast, 
 
 Her hand was on the door, 
 Her heart, by holy grace, had cast 
 
 The demon from its core, 
 And on the threshold calm she past 
 
 The Man she loved no more* 
 
 NEVER RE TURN I 
 
 IT was a meeting, such as on this earth 
 The bonds of time and circumstances permit 
 Rarely to those who feel and think as one : 
 A small but " sacred band" wholly made up 
 Of lovers of old friends who had not met 
 For many weary years of some whose names 
 Had to each other been familiar sounds, 
 And who now felt their spirits meet and join 
 At once, like waters and of four who formed
 
 Never Return ! 
 
 Two complete beings, man and woman blent, 
 Ensamples of connubial unity. 
 
 This wondrous concert of internal life 
 Went on beneath the open infinite 
 Of an Italian sky, that varied not 
 More than the peace that dwelt within their souls ; 
 So that when, all at once, before their eyes 
 The lake grew less transparent, and the leaves 
 Of the pale olive less distinguishable, 
 And the hills glow'd like metal, while the snow 
 First turn'd to gold, then red, then deadly white, 
 They were astonished at the flight of time 
 That had not struck one hour within their hearts ; 
 And amid all the riches of that South 
 They grudged the North its solitary charm 
 Of long, long, twilight, mourning bitterly 
 That here the day was ravished from their eyes 
 And bore a world of bliss along with it. 
 At last one rose, one younger than the rest, 
 One before whom life lay a glorious stream 
 Flowing, by right divine, through pleasant lands, 
 Unconscious of the fatal final sea. 
 He stood irradiate with that rosy light, 
 The funeral banner of the fallen sun, 
 Most like an image of incarnate Hope, 
 From whom no night can hide the coming morn. 
 
 Raising one arm in ecstasy, he cried, 
 " Before we leave this consecrated spot, 
 Before this Day of Days is wholly dead, 
 Before the dew obliterates all our steps 
 From this light earth, let us record a vow ! 
 Let us, in presence of these lasting hills, 
 In presence of this day's delicious thoughts, 
 That yet are hardly memory, let us pledge
 
 Never Return ! 
 
 Our hearts together, that on this same day 
 Each rolling year shall see us meet again 
 In this same place, as far as Fate allows. 
 Some may be held away by cruel chance, 
 Some by the great divorcer, none by choice ; 
 And thus, at least for a large lapse of time, 
 One Day shall stand apart from other days, 
 Birth-day of inward Life Love's Holyday 
 The Wedding-day, not of one single pair, 
 But of a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, 
 The Saint's-day, in whose fair recurrent round 
 Each year will circle all its blessedness. " 
 
 With more than ready welcome, with loud glee, 
 Was hailed this happy fancy ; each was prompt 
 To press the other's hand, and, joining round 
 The founder of this mighty festival, 
 To seal the sudden contract all save One. 
 
 This one had gazed on the impassioned youth 
 With tender looks, that to the rest had seemed 
 Fond sympathy, but had far other sense. 
 And now he spoke, at first with trem'lous voice, 
 Softened, as if it passed through inner tears. 
 " O Friends ! dear Friends ! do anything but this : 
 This is a deed to wake the jealous gods 
 Into a cruel vengeance. We are Men ; 
 We live from hour to hour, and have no right, 
 Holding no power, to fetter future years. 
 We may, if Heaven so please, preserve our loves, 
 We may enjoy our interchange of souls 
 Long, and in many shapes of time and fate ; 
 But to this spot, the scene of this To-day, 
 Let us, whate'er befall, never return ! 
 
 " Never return ! If hitherward your path 
 Should chance to lie, when seeking other lands,
 
 Never Return ! 
 
 Spare not the time it takes to circuit round 
 This scene, and gaze upon its face no more. 
 Say, if you will, ' It lies amid the gold 
 The sunset spreads beyond that purple ridge ; ' 
 Say, if you will, ' The atoms of this stream 
 Flow through the place I value most on earth, 
 And bear my yearning heart along with them ;' 
 Say, if you will, ' There rests my Paradise ;' 
 But there, whate'er befall, never return ! 
 
 "Never return ! Should we come back, dear Friend ! 
 As you implore us, we should not return : 
 Came we all back, as Heaven would hardly grant, 
 There must be faded cheeks and sunken eyes, 
 And minds enfeebled with the rack of time, 
 And hearts grown colder, and, it may be, cold. 
 The sun might shine as gorgeous as this noon, 
 And yet find clouds between it and our souls ; 
 The lake might rest like light upon the earth, 
 And but reflect to us sweet faces gone 
 And pictures mournful as the dead below ; 
 The very flowers might breathe a poisonous breath 
 Should we, led by false hope, ever return ! 
 
 " Trust not the dear palladium of the Past 
 Upon the Future's breast. The Past is ours, 
 And we can build a temple of rare thoughts, 
 Adorned with all affection's tracery, 
 In which to keep from contact vile and rude 
 The grace of this incomparable Day. 
 We may, by heart, go through it all again ; 
 We may, with it, give colour, warmth, and form 
 To the black, shapeless mountains far away 
 Calm down the seething, hyperborean, waves 
 To the pure sapphire of this lake, and spread 
 Rose-trellises, across the gloomy front
 
 Never Return ! 
 
 Of blank old dwellings in the distant town ; 
 But we must keep the vision fresh as morn, 
 We must not risk that it should ever lose 
 One of its features of staid loveliness, 
 One of its sweet associated thoughts. 
 Therefore, whate'er befall, never return ! 
 
 " Never return ! Time writes these little words 
 On palace and on hamlet ; strife is vain ; 
 First-love returns not, friendship comes not back, 
 Glory revives not. Things are given us once, 
 And only once ; yet we may keep them ours, 
 If, like this day, we take them out of time, 
 And make them portions of the constant peace 
 Which is the shadow of eternity ! " 
 
 So ended the serene Philosopher ; 
 And to all minds the sad persuasive truth 
 Found an immediate access : the poor youth, 
 Whose spirit was but now a-fire with hope, 
 Cast down his quenched enthusiastic eyes. 
 " Never return !" in many various tones, 
 All grave, yet none wholly disconsolate, 
 Was echoed, amid parting signs of love, 
 As they went on their common homeward way. 
 Silent above, the multitudinous stars 
 Said, " We are steadfast, we are not as Ye." 
 Silent the fields, up to the phantom hills, 
 Said, " We are dreaming of the vanished days 
 Which we shall see again, but Ye no more." 
 So heavy pressed the meditative calm 
 On those full hearts, that all rejoiced to hear 
 The shrill cicala, clittering from below, 
 Call on the fire-flies dancing through the vines.
 
 PARTED AND MET. 
 
 I KNOW not, whether such great power 
 Is in despair, it may be so, 
 But, Myrrha ! ere this ebbing hour 
 Is over, I will try to go : 
 Once more the glory of your form 
 Shall fall upon my path, once more ! 
 And fear not lest the inner storm 
 Should burst the bounds it kept before. 
 
 I have one last, light, boon to pray 
 Do not be mercilessly kind ; 
 Hold back your hand, and turn away 
 Those splendours I must leave behind ; 
 Or arm your eyes with chilly glare, 
 (Though wont to be so burning-bright) 
 Like their far sisters of the air, 
 Which light, but cannot warm, the night. 
 
 But most of all, I could not bear 
 
 From you that mocking word, " Farewell ! "- 
 
 How well my riven heart will fare, 
 
 I think I have not now to tell. 
 
 Be silent, passionless the ghost 
 
 Of your own self a solemn shade, 
 
 Whose form, to others wholly lost, 
 
 In my deep soul, as in a grave, is laid.
 
 Parted and Met. 1 1 
 
 II. 
 
 MY spirit staggered at the sight, 
 
 So painful and so strange, 
 
 I could not think that years had might 
 
 To work such fearful change ; 
 
 And ere I ceased from wondering, 
 
 My tears fell fast and free, 
 
 That wretched, stricken, hopeless thing, 
 
 I dared not call it Thee. 
 
 If I had heard that thou wert dead, 
 
 I hastily had cried, 
 
 " She was so richly favoured, 
 
 God must forgive her pride ; 
 
 My heart lay withered, while the crown 
 
 Of life was fresh upon her, 
 
 I linger still, she has gone down 
 
 In beauty and in honour." 
 
 But now, to see thy living death, 
 
 Power, glory, arts, all gone, 
 
 Thy empire lost, and thy poor breath 
 
 Still vainly struggling on ! 
 
 Alas ! a thought of saddest weight 
 
 Presses and will have vent : 
 
 " Had she not scorned my love, her fate 
 
 Had been so different ! 
 
 " Had her heart bent its haughty will 
 To take me for its lord, 
 She had been proudly happy still, 
 Still honoured, still adored ;
 
 12 Parted and Met, 
 
 The weak love-ties of face and frame 
 Time easily may sever, 
 But I had thought her still the same, 
 As beautiful as ever. 
 
 " She had then felt no shame or sorrow, 
 
 At seeing fall away 
 
 The slaves who mock the god to-morrow, 
 
 They worshipped all day ; 
 
 While I preserved, with honest truth, 
 
 Through every varying stage, 
 
 Her image which adorned my youth, 
 
 To glorify my age." 
 
 And do not treat this thought as light, 
 
 Nor ask with taunting sign, 
 
 " Has then thy life-course been so bright 
 
 That thou canst scorn at mine?" 
 
 Myrrha ! the name of Misery 
 
 Is clear upon rriy brow, 
 
 Yet am I not, nor e'er can be, 
 
 So lorn a thing as Thou. 
 
 He, who for Love has undergone 
 
 The worst that can befall, 
 
 Is happier thousand-fold than one 
 
 Who never loved at all ; 
 
 A grace within his soul has reigned, 
 
 Which nothing else can bring 
 
 Thank God for all that I have gained, 
 
 By that high suffering !
 
 FAMILIAR LOVE. 
 
 WE read together, reading the same book, 
 
 Our heads bent forward in a half-embrace, 
 
 So that each shade that either spirit took 
 
 Was straight reflected in the other's face : 
 
 We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each 
 
 Followed the eye that past the page along, 
 
 With a low murmu'ring sound that was not speech, 
 
 Yet with so much monotony, 
 
 In its half-slumbering harmony, 
 
 You might not call it song ; 
 
 More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices, 
 .Than any customed mood of human voices. 
 Then if some wayward or disputed sense 
 Made cease awhile that music, and brought on 
 A strife of gracious-worded difference, 
 Too light to hurt our soul's dear unison, 
 We had experience of a blissful state, 
 In which our powers of thought stood separate, 
 Each in its own high freedom, set apart, 
 But both close folded in one loving heart ; 
 So that we seemed, without conceit, to be 
 Both one and two in our identity. 
 
 We prayed together, praying the same prayer, 
 But each that prayed did seem to be alone, 
 And saw the other, in a golden air 
 Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne,
 
 14 Familiar Love. 
 
 Becko'ning the kneeler to arise and sit 
 
 Within the glory which encompassed it : 
 
 And when obeyed, the Vision stood beside, 
 
 And led the way through the' upper hyaline, 
 
 Smiling in beauty tenfold glorified, 
 
 Which, while on earth, had seemed enough divine, 
 
 The beauty of the Spirit-Bride, 
 
 Who guided the rapt Florentine. 
 
 The depth of human reason must become 
 As deep as is the holy human heart, 
 Ere aught in written phrases can impart 
 The might and meaning of that extasy 
 To those low souls, who hold the mystery 
 Of the' unseen universe for dark and dumb. 
 
 But we were mortal still, and when again 
 We raised our bended knees, I do not say 
 That our descending spirits felt no pain 
 To meet the dimness of an earthly day ; 
 Yet not as those disheartened, and the more 
 Debased the higher that they rose before, 
 But, from the exaltation of that hour, 
 Out of God's choicest treasu'ry, bringing down 
 New virtue to sustain all ill, new power 
 To braid Life's thorns into a regal crown, 
 We past into the outer world, to prove 
 The strength miracu'lous of united Love.
 
 STRANGERS YET. 
 
 STRANGERS yet ! 
 After years of life together, 
 After fair and stormy weather, 
 After travel in far lands, 
 After touch of wedded hands, 
 Why thus joined ? Why ever met, 
 If they must be strangers yet ? 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 After childhood's winning ways, 
 After care and blame and praise, 
 Counsel asked and wisdom given, 
 After mutual prayers to Heaven, 
 Child and parent scarce regret 
 When they part are strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 After strife for common ends 
 After title of " old friends," 
 After passions fierce and tender, 
 After cheerful self-surrender, 
 Hearts may beat and eyes be met, 
 And the souls be strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 Oh ! the bitter thought to scan 
 All the loneliness of man :
 
 1 6 A Recollection. 
 
 Nature, by magnetic laws, 
 Circle unto circle draws, 
 But they only touch when met, 
 Never mingle strangers yet. 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 Will it evermore be thus 
 Spirits still impervious? 
 Shall we never fairly stand 
 Soul to soul as hand to hand ? 
 Are the bounds eternal set 
 To retain us strangers yet ? 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 Tell not Love it must aspire 
 Unto something other higher : 
 God himself were loved the best 
 Were our sympathies at rest, 
 Rest above the strain and fret 
 Of the world of strangers yet ! 
 
 Strangers yet ! 
 
 A RECOLLECTION. 
 
 I KNEW that I should be his bride, 
 
 And to my tearful eyes 
 Lay that fair future, half descried 
 
 Through a divine surprise : 
 I knew that I should be his wife, 
 
 And that his arm would bend 
 Around me down the walks of life, 
 
 As friend sustaining friend :
 
 A Recollection. 17 
 
 And yet when I beheld him there, 
 
 Amid a joyous throng, 
 Amid the witty and the fair, 
 
 Who knew and prized him long, 
 Amid the comrades of his youth, 
 
 The kinsmen of his line, 
 I almost faltered at the truth 
 
 With which I called him mine. 
 
 I saw they thought that I was proud 
 
 To claim him as mine own, 
 While all my being inly bowed 
 
 As with a weight unknown. 
 For if I dared my heart to place 
 
 Above its own just meed, 
 I might be distanced in a race 
 
 In which the strong succeed ! 
 
 But now that years have rolled away, 
 
 A variegated stream, 
 And, one by one, that bright array 
 
 Has vanished like a dream ; 
 Now that the very name of wife 
 
 Has higher titles earned, 
 I smile to ponder on that strife 
 
 Of feelings undiscerned. 
 
 Ah ! had I known him but as they, 
 How weary might have been 
 
 The intercourse of every day, 
 The rarely-changing scene,
 
 1 8 Rapture. 
 
 The life that over-long may prove 
 For passion or for power, 
 
 But too, too, short for that still love 
 Which blesses every hour. 
 
 RAPTURE. 
 
 BECAUSE, from all that round Thee move, 
 
 Planets of Beauty, Strength, and Grace, 
 
 I am elected to Thy love, 
 
 And have my home in Thy embrace ; 
 
 I wonder all men do not see 
 
 The crown that Thou hast set on me. 
 
 Because, when, prostrate at Thy feet, 
 Thou didst emparadise my pain, 
 Because Thy heart on mine has beat, 
 Thy head within my hands has lain, 
 I am transfigured, by that sign, 
 Into a being like to Thine. 
 
 The mirror from its glossy plain 
 Receiving still returns the light, 
 And, being generous of its gain, 
 Augments the very solar might : 
 What unreflected light would be, 
 Is just Thy spirit without me. 
 
 Thou art the flame, whose rising spire 
 In the dark air sublimely sways, 
 And I the tempest that swift fire 
 Gathers at first and then obeys :
 
 The Treasure-Ship. 19 
 
 All that was Thine ere we were wed 
 Have I by right inherited. 
 
 Is life a stream ? Then from Thy hair 
 One rosebud on the current fell, 
 And straight it turned to crystal there, 
 As adamant immovable : 
 Its steadfast place shall know no more 
 The sense of after and before. 
 
 Is life a plant ? The King of years 
 To mine nor good nor ill can bring ; 
 Mine grows no more ; no more it fears 
 Even the brushing of his wing : 
 With sheathed scythe I see him go, 
 I have no flowers that fa can mow. 
 
 THE TREASURE-SHIP. 
 
 MY heart is freighted full of love, 
 
 As full as any argosy, 
 
 With gems below and gems above, 
 
 And ready for the open sea ; 
 
 For the wind is blowing summerly. 
 
 Full strings of nature's beaded pearl, 
 Sweet tears ! composed in amorous ties 
 And turkis-lockets, that no churl 
 Hath fashioned out mechanic-wise, 
 But all made up of thy blue eyes.
 
 Friendship and Lmv. 
 
 And girdles wove of subtle sound, 
 And thoughts not trusted to the air, 
 Of antique mould, the same as bound, 
 In Paradise, the primal pair, 
 Before Love's arts and niceness were. 
 
 And carcanets of living sighs ; 
 
 Gums that have dropped from Love's own stem, 
 
 And one small jewel most I prize 
 
 The darling gaud of all of them 
 
 I wot, so rare and fine a gem 
 
 Ne'er glowed on Eastern anadem. 
 
 I've cased the rubies of thy smiles, 
 In rich and triply-plated gold ; 
 But this no other wealth defiles, 
 Itself itself can only hold 
 The stealthy kiss on Maple-wold. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE. 
 
 IF I could coldly sum the love 
 That we each other bear, 
 My heart would to itself disprove 
 The truth of what was there ; 
 Its willing utterance should express 
 Nothing but joy and thankfulness. 
 
 4 
 
 Yet Friendship is so blurred a name, 
 A good so ill-discerned, 
 Tliat if the nature of the flame 
 That in our bosoms burned 
 Were treasured in becoming rhymes, 
 It might have worth in after-times.
 
 Friendship and Loz<e. 21 
 
 The Lover is a God, the ground 
 He treads on is not ours ; 
 His soul by other laws is bound, 
 Sustained by other powers ; 
 We, children of a lowlier lot, 
 Listen and understand him not. 
 
 Liver of a diviner life, 
 He turns a vacant gaze 
 Toward the theatre of strife, 
 Where we consume our days ; 
 His own and that one other heart 
 Form for himself a world apart : 
 
 A sphere, whose sympathies are wings, 
 
 On which he rests sublime, 
 
 Above the shifts of casual things, 
 
 Above the flow of time ; 
 
 How should he feel, how can he know 
 
 The sense of what goes on below ? 
 
 Reprove him not, no selfish aim 
 Here leads to selfish ends ; 
 You might as well the infant blame 
 That smiles to grieving friends : 
 Could all thus love, and love endure, 
 Our world would want no other cure. 
 
 But few are the elect, for whom" 
 
 This fruit is on the stem, 
 
 And for that few an early tomb 
 
 Is open, not for them, 
 
 But for their love ; for they live on, 
 
 Sorrow and shame ! when Love is gone :
 
 Friendship and Love. 
 
 They who have dwelt at Heaven's own gate, 
 
 And felt the light within, 
 
 Come down to our poor mortal state, 
 
 Indifference, care, and sin ; 
 
 And their dimmed spirits hardly bear 
 
 A trace to tell what once they were. 
 
 Fever and Health their thirst may slake 
 
 At one and the same stream ; 
 
 The dreamer knows not tfll he wake 
 
 The falsehood of his dream : 
 
 How, while I love thee, can I prove 
 
 The surer nature of our love ? 
 
 It is, that while our choicest hours 
 
 Are closed from vulgar ken, 
 
 We daily use our active powers, 
 
 Are men to brother men, 
 
 It is, that, with our hands in one, 
 
 We do the work that should be done. 
 
 Our hands in one, we will not shrink 
 
 From life's severest due, 
 
 Our hands in one, we will not blink 
 
 The terrible and true ; 
 
 What each would feel a heavy blow 
 
 Falls on us both as autrnnn snow. 
 
 The simple unprestrmptnous sway, 
 By which our hearts are ruled, 
 Contains no seed of self-decay ; 
 Too temperate to be cooled, 
 Our Passion fears no blast of ill, 
 No winter,, till the oae last ciu'IL.
 
 The Flower of Friendship. 23 
 
 And even then no frantic grief 
 Shall shake the mourner's mind, 
 He will reject no small relief 
 Kind Heaven may leave behind, 
 Nor set at nought his bliss enjoyed, 
 When now by human fate alloyed. 
 
 THE FLOWER OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 WHEN first the Friendship-flower is planted 
 Within the garden of your soul, 
 Little of care or thought is wanted 
 To guard its beauty fresh and whole ; 
 But when the full empassioned age 
 Has well revealed the magic bloom, 
 A wise and holy tutelage 
 Alone avoids the open tomb. 
 
 It is not Absence you should dread, 
 For Absence is the very air 
 In which, if sound at root, the head 
 Shall wave most wonderful and fair : 
 With sympathies of joy and sorrow 
 Fed, as with morn and even dews, 
 Ideal colouring it may borrow 
 Richer than ever earthly hues. 
 
 But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere 
 Refresh the desert, hardly brooks 
 The common-peopled atmosphere 
 Of daily thoughts and words and looks ;
 
 24 Fair- Weather Friend. 
 
 It trembles at the bnishing wings 
 Of many' a careless fashion-fly, 
 And strange suspicions aim their stings 
 To taint it as they wanton by. 
 
 Rare is the heart to bear a flower, 
 That must not wholly fall and fade, 
 Where alien feelings, hour by hour, 
 Spring up, beset, and overshade ; 
 Better, a child of care and toil, 
 To glorify some needy spot, 
 Than in a glad redundant soil 
 To pine neglected and forgot. 
 
 Yet when, at last, by human slight, 
 Or close of their permitted day, 
 From the bright world of life and light 
 Such fine creations lapse away, 
 Bury the relics that retain 
 Sick odours of departed pride, 
 Hoard, as ye will, your memory's gain, 
 But leave the blossoms where they died. 
 
 FAIR-WEATHER FRIEND. 
 
 BKCAUSE I mourned to see thee fall 
 From where I mounted thee, 
 Because I did not find thee all 
 I feigned a friend should be ; 
 Because things are not what they seem, 
 And this our world is full of dream,
 
 Fair- Weather Friend. 25 
 
 Because thou lovest sunny weather, 
 Am I to lose thee altogether ? 
 
 I know harsh words have found their way, 
 
 Which I would fain recall ; 
 
 And angry passions had their day, 
 
 But now forget them all ; 
 
 Now that I only ask to share 
 
 Thy presence, like some pleasant air, 
 
 Now that my gravest thoughts will bend 
 
 To thy light mind, fair-weather friend ! 
 
 See ! I am careful to atone 
 
 My spirit's voice to thine ; 
 
 My talk shall be of mirth alone, 
 
 Of music, flowers, and wine ! 
 
 I will not breathe an earnest breath, 
 
 I will not think of life or death, 
 
 I will not dream of any end, 
 
 While thou art here, fair-weather friend ! 
 
 Delusion brought me only woe, 
 
 I take thee as thou art ; 
 
 Let thy gay verdure overgrow 
 
 My deep and serious heart ! 
 
 Let me enjoy thy laugh, and sit 
 
 Within the radiance of thy wit, 
 
 And lean where'er thy humours tend, 
 
 Taking fair weather from my friend. 
 
 Or, if I see my doom is traced 
 
 By fortune's sterner pen, 
 
 And pain and sorrow must be faced, 
 
 Well, thou canst leave me then ;
 
 26 Past Friendship, 
 
 And fear not lest some faint reproach 
 Should on thy happy hours encroach ; 
 Nay, blessings on thy steps attend, 
 Where'er they turn, fair-weather friend !^ 
 
 PAST FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 WE that were friends, yet are not now, 
 
 We that must daily meet 
 With ready words and courteous bow, 
 
 Acquaintance of the street ; 
 We must not scorn the holy past, 
 
 We must remember still 
 To honour feelings that outlast 
 
 The reason and the will. 
 
 I might reprove thy broken faith, 
 
 I might recall the time 
 When thou wert chartered mine till death, 
 
 Through every fate and clime ; 
 When every letter was a vow, 
 
 And fancy was not free 
 To dream of ended love ; and thou 
 
 Wouldst say the same of me. 
 
 No, no, 'tis not for us to trim 
 
 The balance of our wrongs, 
 Enough to leave remorse to him 
 
 To whom remorse belongs ! 
 Let our dead friendship be to us 
 
 A desecrated name, 
 Unutterable, mysterious, 
 
 A sorrow and a shame.
 
 Not To-Morrow! 27 
 
 A sorrow that two souls which grew 
 
 Encased in mutual bliss, 
 Should wander, callous strangers, through 
 
 So cold a world as this ! 
 A shame that we, whose hearts had earned 
 
 For life an early heaven, 
 Should be like angels self-returned 
 
 To Death, when once forgiven ! 
 
 Let us remain as living signs, 
 
 Where they that run may read 
 Pain and disgrace in many lines 
 
 As of a loss indeed ; 
 That of our fellows any who 
 
 The prize of love have won 
 May tremble at the thought to do 
 
 The thing that we have done ! 
 
 NOT TO-MORROW! 
 
 O TERRIBLE To-morrow ! that will come 
 On me, alone and far away from Her, 
 Who was my day, to-day, and every day : 
 To-morrow she will not be by my side, 
 And not to-morrow is as never more. 
 
 As the poor Soul, that images itself 
 Parted from God, its Father, and its Cause, 
 Finds in that very parting all its sin, 
 And in that very parting knows itself 
 Evil and reprobate, and will not hear 
 A single utterance of intrinsic hope :
 
 28 Not To-Morrow! 
 
 So to my heart the world to-come is blank, 
 And not to-morrow is as never more. 
 
 I will not sound the possibilities : 
 
 I will not ask whether in some far time, 
 
 In some far order of the Universe, 
 
 In some far destination of myself, 
 
 We may not meet again ? I only know 
 
 The burden of one thought that bears me down : 
 
 And that to-morrow is as never more. 
 
 Ever and Never -foolish play of words 
 Dancing before the finite mind of man : 
 Our Ever is a sweet successive dream 
 Of wavelets, over which the bounding heart 
 Goes forward 'mid the shoals and rocks of Time, 
 Until it crashes on the fronting shore : 
 Our Never is the Present without Hope, 
 And my next moment is as never more. 
 
 Let the serene Philosopher sit down, 
 Knowing that sorrow is the gift of God, 
 And bid the streams of consolation flow 
 Through the dim arid future : so have I 
 Striven in my time, and conquered in the end. 
 But how can it be good for me to lose 
 My better self, my moral sustenance, 
 One whom I followed in a heaven-ward path, 
 To which I now can see no other clue ? 
 How can it make me better to be shorn 
 Of that within me that can claim to be 
 More than the crystal shining in the rock, 
 More than the blossom withering at my feet ? 
 I low can a man be wiser, if he lose
 
 Half Truth. 29 
 
 All sense that makes the difference between 
 This place and that, this circumstance and that, 
 Between to-morrow's life and never more ? 
 
 I know to-morrow will be as to-day, 
 Sun-rise birds' chirp the stolid hours roll on, 
 Careless of what they crush without a thought 
 That in the world there is a man the less, 
 A mind the less to' engender noble deeds, 
 A heart the less to beat for other men, 
 A soul the less to claim eternal life, 
 For whom to-morrow is as never more. 
 
 What is the presence of continuous pain, 
 Some sharper and some better to be borne, 
 Calling out courage in the patient man, 
 Matched with this absence of the power to love, 
 This loss of that within which can stand up 
 In the broad face of Heaven, and say, "'Tis I, 
 Living and suffering for some secret end 
 Of the mysterious Master of us all :" 
 Is it that I have given away Myself, 
 And know not where to look for it again 
 In any comer of the field of Time, 
 While Not to-morrow is as Never more ? 
 
 HALF TRUTH. 
 
 THE words that trembled on your lips 
 Were uttered not I know it well ; 
 
 The tears that would your eyes eclipse 
 Were checked and smothered, ere they fell :
 
 3 Half Truth. 
 
 The looks and smiles I gained from you 
 Were little more than others won, 
 And yet you are not wholly true, 
 Nor wholly just what you have done. 
 
 You know, at least you might have known, 
 That every little grace you gave, 
 Your voice's somewhat lowered tone, 
 Your hand's faint shake or parting wave, 
 Your every sympathetic look 
 At words that chanced your soul to touch, 
 While reading from some favourite book, 
 Were much to me alas, how much ! 
 
 You might have seen perhaps you saw 
 How all of these were steps of hope 
 On which I rose, in joy and awe, 
 Up to my passion's lofty scope ; 
 How after each, a firmer tread 
 I planted on the slippery ground, 
 And higher raised my ventur'ous head, 
 And ever new assurance found. 
 
 May be, without a further thought, 
 It only pleased you thus to please, 
 And thus to kindly feelings wrought 
 You measured not the sweet degrees ; 
 Yet, though you hardly understood 
 Where I was following at your call, 
 You might I dare to say you should 
 Have thought how far I had to fall.
 
 Restart. 3 1 
 
 And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised, 
 
 I see another's glad success, 
 
 I may have wrongfully accused 
 
 Your heart of vulgar fickleness : 
 
 But even now, in calm review 
 
 Of all I lost and all I won, 
 
 I cannot deem yon wholly true, 
 
 Nor wholly just what you have done. 
 
 RESTORE. 
 
 'TWOULD seem the world were large enough to hold 
 
 Both me and thee : 
 But now I find in space by thee controlled 
 
 No room for me. 
 
 We portioned all between us, as was fair ; 
 
 That time is past ; 
 And now I would recover my lost share, 
 
 Which still thou hast. 
 
 For that old love on which we both did live, 
 
 Keep it who can ! 
 Yet give me back the love I used to give 
 
 To God and man. 
 
 Give me my young ambition, my fresh fire 
 
 Of high emprize ; 
 Give me the sweet indefinite desire 
 
 That lit mine eyes :
 
 32 The Letters of Youth. 
 
 Give me my sense of pleasure ; give me all 
 
 My range of dreams ; 
 Give me my power at sunset to recall 
 
 The noontide's beams ; 
 
 If not my smiles, at least give back my tears, 
 
 And leave me free 
 To weep that all which man and nature cheers 
 
 Is lost with thee ! 
 
 THE LETTERS OF YOUTH. 
 
 LOOK at the leaves I gather up in trembling, 
 Little to see, and sere, and time-bewasted, 
 But they are other than the tree can bear now, 
 For they are mine ! 
 
 Deep as the tumult in an arched sea-cave, 
 Out of the Past these antiquated voices 
 Fall on my heart's ear ; I must listen to them, 
 For they are mine ! 
 
 Whose is this hand that wheresoe'er it wanders, 
 Traces in light words thoughts that come as lightly ? 
 Who was the king of all this soul -dominion ? 
 I ? Was it mine ? 
 
 With what a healthful appetite of spirit, 
 Sits he at Life's inevitable banquet, 
 Tasting delight in every thing before him ! 
 Could this be mine ?
 
 One-Sided Troth. 33 
 
 See ! how he twists his coronals of fancy, 
 Out of all blossoms, knowing not the poison, 
 How his young eye is meshed in the enchantment ! 
 And it was mine ! 
 
 What, is this I ? this miserable complex, 
 Losing and gaining, only knit together 
 By the ever-bursting fibres of remembrance, 
 What is this mine ? 
 
 Surely we are by feeling as by knowing, 
 Changing our hearts our being changes with them ; 
 Take them away, these spectres of my boyhood, 
 They are not mine. 
 
 ONE-SIDED TROTH. 
 
 IT is not for what He would be to me now, 
 If he still were here, that I mourn him so : 
 It is for the thought of a broken vow, 
 And for what he was to me long ago. 
 
 Strange, while he lived and moved upon earth, 
 Though I would not, and could not, have seen him again, 
 His being to me had an infinite worth, 
 And the void of his loss is an infinite pain. 
 
 I had but to utter his name, and my youth 
 Rose up in my soul, and my blood grew warm ; 
 And I hardly remembered the broken truth, 
 And I wholly remembered the ancient charm. 
 
 D
 
 34 To Sorrow. 
 
 I watched the' unfolding scenes of his life, 
 From' the lonely retreat where my heart reposed ; 
 'Twas a magical drama a fabulous strife ; 
 Now' the curtain has fallen, the volume is closed. 
 
 The sense of my very self grows dim, 
 With nothing but Self either here or beyond ; 
 That Self which would have been lost in him, 
 Had he only died ere he broke the bond. 
 
 TO SORROW. 
 
 SISTER Sorrow ! sit beside me, 
 Or, if I must wander, guide me ; 
 Let me take thy hand in mine, 
 Cold alike are mine and thine. 
 
 Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee, 
 Think not I am frightened at thee, 
 Thou art come for some good end, 
 I will treat thee as a friend. 
 
 I will say that thou art bound 
 My unshielded soul to wound 
 By some force without thy will 
 And art tender-minded still. 
 
 I will say thou givest scope 
 To the breath and light of hope ; 
 That thy gentle tears have weight 
 Hardest hearts to penetrate :
 
 The Long- Ago. 35 
 
 That thy shadow brings together 
 Friends long lost in sunny weather, 
 With an hundred offices 
 Beautiful and blest as these. 
 
 Softly takest Thou the crown 
 From my haughty temples down ; 
 Place it on thine own pale brow, 
 Pleasure wears one, why not Thou? 
 
 Let the blossoms glisten there 
 On thy long unhanded hair, 
 And when I have borne my pain, 
 Thou wilt give them me again. 
 
 If Thou goest, sister Sorrow ! 
 I shall look for Thee to-morrow, 
 I shall often see Thee drest 
 As a masquerading guest : 
 
 And howe'er Thou hid'st the name, 
 I shall know Thee still the same 
 As Thou sitt'st beside me now, 
 With my garland on thy brow. 
 
 THE LONG-AGO. 
 
 EYES which can but ill define 
 Shapes that rise about and near, 
 Through the far horizon's line 
 Stretch a vision free and clear : 
 
 D 2
 
 36 The Long- Ago. 
 
 Memories feeble to retrace 
 Yesterday's immediate flow, 
 Find a dear familiar face 
 In each hour of Long-ago. 
 
 Follow yon majestic train 
 Down the slopes of old renown, 
 Knightly forms without disdain, 
 Sainted heads without a frown ; 
 Emperors of thought and hand 
 Congregate, a glorious show, 
 Met from every age and land 
 In the plains of Long-ago. 
 
 As the heart of childhood brings 
 Something of eternal joy, 
 From its own unsounded springs, 
 Such as life can scarce destroy : 
 So, remindful of the prime, 
 Spirits, wand'ring to and fro, 
 Rest upon the resting time 
 In the peace of Long-ago. 
 
 Youthful Hope's religious fire, 
 When it burns no longer, leaves 
 Ashes of impure Desire 
 On the altars it bereaves ; 
 But the light that fills the Past 
 Sheds a still diviner glow, 
 Ever farther it is cast 
 O'er the scenes of Long-ago.
 
 The Long- A go. 37 
 
 Many a growth of pain and care,' 
 Cumbering all the present hour, 
 Yields, when once transplanted there, 
 Healthy fruit or pleasant flower ; 
 Thoughts that hardly flourish here, 
 Feelings long have ceased to blow, 
 Breathe a native atmosphere 
 In the world of Long-ago. 
 
 On that deep-retiring shore 
 Frequent pearls of beauty lie, 
 Where the passion-waves of yore 
 Fiercely beat and mounted high : 
 Sorrows that are sorrows still 
 Lose the bitter taste of woe ; 
 Nothing's altogether ill 
 In the griefs of Long-ago. 
 
 Tombs where lonely love repines, 
 Ghastly tenements of tears, 
 Wear the look of happy shrines 
 Through the golden mist of years : 
 Death, to those who trust in good, 
 Vindicates his hardest blow ; 
 Oh ! we would not, if we could, 
 Wake the sleep of Long-ago ! 
 
 Though the doom of swift decay 
 Shocks the soul where life is strong, 
 Though for frailer hearts the day 
 Lingers sad and overlong,
 
 38 Simple Sounds. 
 
 Still the weight will find a leaven, 
 Still the spoiler's hand is slow, 
 While the Future has its Heaven, 
 And the Past its Long-ago. 
 
 SIMPLE SOUNDS. 
 
 O POWER ! whose organ is the tremulous air, 
 Thou that not only to the accordant sense 
 Unfoldest all a world of harsh and fair, 
 But hast a far diviner influence, 
 Submitting to inscrutable controul 
 The finest elements of human soul ; 
 
 O mystic Sound ! what heart can keep aloof, 
 If summoned to acknowledge thy bland sway, 
 As thou approachest in the golden woof 
 Of luscious harmonies serene or gay? 
 But thou hast moods I would not honour less, 
 Thy simplest forms of moral kingliness. 
 
 Mow did my childish ecstasy burst out, 
 When first I found thy Echoes at my call ! 
 What blithe caprice of whisper, song, and shout, 
 Woke the steep hill and challenged the long wall ! 
 How we did laugh ! I needed from that day 
 Nor other playfellows nor other play. 
 
 Further in life, when thoughts and feelings slept 
 In my heart's tomb, some one particular tone 
 Of common bells has stung me till I wept, 
 And rushed away, oppressed by things foregone ;
 
 Simple Sounds. 39 
 
 For though the hours recalled be bright and glad, 
 Still earnest memory ever will be sad. 
 
 When late I changed the still unpeopled air 
 Of the clear South for this my mother clime, 
 I quivered with delight, as every where 
 Sweet birds in happy snatches hailed the prime ; 
 A throstle's twitter made old walks arise, 
 With lilac-bunches dancing in my eyes. 
 
 What love we, about those we love the best, 
 Better than their dear voices ? At what cost 
 Would one not gather to an aching breast 
 Each little word of some whom we have lost ? 
 And oh ! how blank to hear, in some far place, 
 A voice we know, and see a stranger's face. 
 
 I never hold my truth to God more leal 
 Than when it thunders ; that monotonous roll 
 Has after-lightning potent to reveal 
 Many dark words on Faith's sin-shaded scroll : 
 Talk with a stormy sky, man ! prone to deem 
 That nothing is, because of thine own Dream. 
 
 And now within the hush of evening waves, 
 Cast by light force upon a shingly shore, 
 My Spirit rests ; the ruins and fresh graves 
 That strewed its earthly path here vex no more : 
 Rocked on the soothing surge, its life is all 
 One soft attraction and one mellow fall.
 
 4 o 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 EVIL, every living hour, 
 Holds us in its wilful hand, 
 Save as Thou, essential Power! 
 May'st be gracious to withstand : 
 Pain within the subtle flesh, 
 Heavy lids that cannot close, 
 Hearts that Hope will not refresh, 
 Hand of healing ! interpose ! 
 
 Tyranny's strong breath is tainting 
 Nature's sweet and vivid air, 
 Nations silently are fainting 
 Or up-gather in despair : 
 Not to those distracted wills 
 Trust the judgment of their woes ; 
 While the cup of anguish fills, 
 Arm of Justice ! interpose! 
 
 Pleasures night and day are hovering 
 Round their prey of weary hours, 
 Weakness and unrest discovering 
 In the best of human powers : 
 Ere the fond delusions tire, 
 Ere envenomed passion grows 
 From the root of vain desire, 
 Mind of Wisdom ! interpose!
 
 Ghosts. 4* 
 
 Now no more in tuneful motion 
 Life with love and duty glides ; 
 Reason's meteor-lighted ocean 
 Bears us down its mazy tides ; 
 Head is clear and hand is strong, 
 But our heart no haven knows ; 
 Sun of Truth ! the night is long, 
 Let thy radiance interpose ! 
 
 GHOSTS. 
 
 WHY wilt Thou ever thus before me stand, 
 
 Thou ghostly Past ? 
 Always between me and the happy land 
 
 Thy shade is cast. 
 
 Thou art no midnight phantom of remorse, 
 
 That I would lay : 
 My life has run a plain unnoted course, 
 
 In open day. 
 
 I would enjoy the Present, I would live 
 
 Like one new-born : 
 I value not the gifts Thou hast to give 
 
 Knowledge and Scorn. 
 
 I would, for some short moments, cea,se to judge 
 
 Reckon compare : 
 And this small bliss Thou wilt persist to grudge, 
 
 Still haunting there.
 
 42 Ghosts. 
 
 Thou makest all things heavy with regrets ; 
 
 Too late too soon : 
 My mind is like a sun that ever sets, 
 
 And knows no noon : 
 
 I am become the very fool of time, 
 
 The world for me 
 Has no sure test of innocence or crime ; 
 
 All things may be : 
 
 For every notion that has filled my brain 
 
 Leaves such a trace 
 That every instant it may rise again 
 
 And claim its place. 
 
 Faces and fancies I have cursed or cherished 
 
 Throng round my head ; 
 In vain I call on thee to leave the perished 
 
 To hide the dead. 
 
 Confused and tossed on this ideal sea, 
 
 I hardly keep 
 A sense of weak and maimed identity, 
 
 More than in sleep : 
 
 Save when the Future wins my yearning gaze, 
 
 That shore where still 
 Imagination resolutely stays 
 
 The tide of ill.
 
 43 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 THEY owned their passion without shame or fear, 
 And every household duty counted less 
 Than that one spiritual bond, and men severe 
 Said they should sorrow for their wilfulness. 
 
 And truth the world went ill with them : he knew 
 That he had broken up her maiden life, 
 Where only pleasures and affections grew, 
 And sowed it thick with labour, pain, and strife. 
 
 What her unpractised weakness was to her 
 The presence of her suffering was to him ; 
 Thus at Love's feast did Misery minister, 
 And fill their cups together to the brim. 
 
 They asked their kind for hope, but there was none, 
 Till Death came by and gave them that and more ; 
 Then men lamented, but the earth rolls on, 
 And lovers love and perish as before. 
 
 They seemed to those who saw them meet 
 The worldly friends of every day, 
 Her smile was undisturbed and sweet, 
 His courtesy was free and gay.
 
 44 Shadows. 
 
 But yet if one the other's name 
 In some unguarded moment heard, 
 The heart, you thought so calm and tame, 
 Would struggle like a captured bird : 
 
 And letters of mere formal phrase 
 Were blistered with repeated tears, 
 And this was not the work of days, 
 But had gone on for years and years ! 
 
 Alas, that Love was not too strong 
 For maiden shame and manly pride ! 
 Alas, that they delayed so long 
 The goal of mutual bliss beside. 
 
 Yet what no chance could then reveal, 
 And neither would be first to own, 
 Let fate and courage now conceal, 
 When truth could bring remorse alone. 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
 Of other blood reposes, 
 Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, 
 Amid that wild of roses. 
 
 Beside a northern pine a boy 
 Is leaning fancy-bound, 
 Nor listens where with noisy joy 
 Awaits the impatient hound.
 
 Shadows. 45 
 
 Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, 
 Relaxed the frosty twine, 
 The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, 
 The palm-tree of the pine. 
 
 As soon shall nature interlace 
 Those dimly-visioned boughs, 
 As these young lovers face to face 
 Renew their early vows ! 
 
 She had left all on earth for him, 
 Her home of wealth, her name of pride, 
 And now his lamp of love was dim, 
 And, sad to tell, she had not died. 
 
 She watched the crimson sun's decline, 
 From some lone rock that fronts the sea, 
 " I would, O burning heart of mine, 
 There were an ocean- rest for thee. 
 
 " The thoughtful moon awaits her turn, 
 The stars compose their choral crown, 
 But those soft lights can never burn, 
 Till once the fiery sun is down." 
 
 V. 
 
 I had a home wherein the weariest feet 
 
 Found sure repose ; 
 And Hope led on laborious day to meet 
 
 Delightful close !
 
 46 Moments. 
 
 A cottage with broad eaves and a thick vine, 
 
 A crystal stream, 
 Whose mountain-language was the same as mine 
 
 It was a dream ! 
 
 I had a home to make the gloomiest heart 
 
 Alight with joy, 
 A temple of chaste love, a place apart 
 
 From Time's annoy ; 
 A moonlight scene of life, where all things rude 
 
 And harsh did seem 
 With pity rounded and by grace subdued : 
 
 It was a dream ! 
 
 MOMENTS. 
 
 I LIE in a heavy trance, 
 
 With' a world of dream without me, 
 
 Shapes of shadow dance, 
 
 In wavering bands, about me ; 
 
 But, at times, some mystic things 
 
 Appear in this phantom lair, 
 
 That almost seem to me visitings 
 
 Of Truth known elsewhere : 
 
 The world is wide, these things are small, 
 
 They may be nothing, but they are All. 
 
 A prayer in an hour of pain, 
 Begun in an undertone, 
 Then lowered, as it would fain 
 Be heard by the heart alone ;
 
 Moments. 47 
 
 A throb, when the soul is entered 
 
 By a light that is lit above, 
 
 Where the God of Nature has centered 
 
 The Beauty of Love. 
 
 The world is wide, these things are small, 
 
 They may be nothing, but they are All. 
 
 A look that is telling a tale, 
 
 Which looks alone dare tell, 
 
 When' a cheek is no longer pale, 
 
 That has caught the glance, as it fell ; 
 
 A touch, which seems to unlock 
 
 Treasures unknown as yet, 
 
 And the bitter-sweet first shock, 
 
 One can never forget ; 
 
 The world is wide, these things are small, 
 
 They may be nothing, but they are All. 
 
 A sense of an earnest Will 
 
 To help the lowly-living, 
 
 And a terrible heart-thrill, 
 
 If you' have no power of giving ; 
 
 An arm of aid to the weak, 
 
 A friendly hand to the friendless, 
 
 Kind words, so short to speak, 
 
 But whose echo is endless : 
 
 The world is wide, these things are small, 
 
 They may be nothing, but they are All. 
 
 The moment we think we have learnt 
 The lore of the all-wise One, 
 By which we could stand unburnt, 
 On the ridge of the seething sun :
 
 48 The Men of Old. 
 
 The moment we grasp at the clue, 
 
 Long-lost and strangely riven, 
 
 Which guides our soul to the True, 
 
 And the Poet to Heaven. 
 
 The world is wide, these things are small, 
 
 If they be nothing, what is there at all ? 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 I KNOW not that the men of old 
 
 Were better than men now, 
 
 Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 
 
 Of more ingenuous brow : 
 
 I heed not those who pine for force 
 
 A ghost of Time to raise, 
 
 As if they thus could check the course 
 
 Of these appointed days. 
 
 Still it is true, and over true, 
 That I delight to close 
 This book of life self-wise and new, 
 And let my thoughts repose 
 On all that humble happiness, 
 The world has since foregone, 
 The daylight of contentedness 
 That on those faces shone ! 
 
 With rights, tho' not too closely scanned, 
 Enjoyed, as far as known, 
 With will by no reverse unmanned, 
 With pulse of even tone,
 
 The Men of Old. 
 
 They from to-day and from to-night 
 Expected nothing more, 
 Than yesterday and yesternight 
 Had proffered them before. 
 
 To them was life a simple art 
 
 Of duties to be done, 
 
 A game where each man took his part, 
 
 A race where all must run ; 
 
 A battle whose great scheme and scope 
 
 They little cared to know, 
 
 Content, as men at arms, to cope 
 
 Each with his fronting foe. 
 
 Man now his Virtue's diadem 
 
 Puts on and proudly wears, 
 
 Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, 
 
 Like instincts, unawares : 
 
 Blending their souls' sublimest needs 
 
 With tasks of every day, 
 
 They went about their gravest deeds, 
 
 As noble boys at play. 
 
 And what if Nature's fearful wound 
 
 They did not probe and bare, 
 
 For that their spirits never swooned 
 
 To watch the misery there, 
 
 For that their love but flowed more fast, 
 
 Their charities more free, 
 
 Not conscious what mere drops they cast 
 
 Into the evil sea. 
 
 K
 
 50 The Voices of History. 
 
 A man's best things are nearest him, 
 
 Lie close about his feet, 
 
 It is the distant and the dim 
 
 That we are sick to greet : 
 
 For flowers that grow our hands beneath 
 
 We struggle and aspire, 
 
 Our hearts must die, except they breathe 
 
 The air of fresh Desire. 
 
 Yet, Brothers, who up Reason's hill 
 Advance with hopeful cheer, 
 O ! loiter not, those heights are chill, 
 As chill as they are clear ; 
 And still restrain your haughty gaze, 
 The loftier that ye go, 
 Remembering distance leaves a haze 
 On all that lies below. 
 
 THE VOICES OF HISTORY. 
 
 THE Poet in his vigil hears 
 
 Time flowing through the night, 
 
 A mighty stream, absorbing tears, 
 
 And bearing down delight : 
 
 There resting on his bank of thought 
 
 He listens, till his soul 
 
 The Voices of the waves has caught, 
 
 The meaning of their roll.
 
 The Voices of History. 51 
 
 First, wild and wildering as the strife 
 
 Of earthly winds and seas, 
 
 Resounds the long historic life 
 
 Of warring dynasties : 
 
 Uncertain right and certain wrong 
 
 In onward conflict driven, 
 
 The threats and tramplings of the strong 
 
 Beneath a brazen heaven. 
 
 The cavernous unsounded East 
 Outpours an evil tide, 
 Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest, 
 The chant of shepherd bride : 
 How can we catch the angel-word, 
 How mark the prophet-sound, 
 'Mid thunders like Niagara's heard 
 An hundred miles around ? 
 
 From two small springs that rise and blend. 
 
 And leave their Latin home, 
 
 The waters East and West extend, 
 
 The ocean-power of Rome : 
 
 Voices of Victories ever-won, 
 
 Of Pride that will not stay, 
 
 Billows that burst and perish on 
 
 The shores that wear away. 
 
 Till, in a race of fierce delight 
 Tumultuous battle forth, 
 The snows amassed on many a height, 
 The cataracts of the North : 
 
 E 2
 
 52 The Voices of History. 
 
 What can we hear beside the roar, 
 What see beneath the foam, 
 What but the wrecks that strew the shore, 
 And cries of falling Rome ? 
 
 Nor, when a purer Faith had traced 
 Safe channels for the tide, 
 Did streams with Eden-lilies graced 
 In Eden-sweetness glide ; 
 While the deluded gaze admires 
 The smooth and shining flow, 
 Vile interests and insane desires 
 Gurgle and rage below. 
 
 If History has no other sounds, 
 Why should we listen more ? 
 Spirit ! despise terrestrial bounds, 
 And seek a happier shore ; 
 Yet pause ! for on thine inner ear 
 A mystic music grows, 
 And mortal man shall never hear 
 That diapason's close. 
 
 Nature awakes ! a rapturous tone, 
 
 Still different, still the same, 
 
 Eternal effluence from the throne 
 
 Of Him without a name ; 
 
 A symphony of worlds begun, 
 
 Ere sin the glory mars, 
 
 The cymbals of the new-born sun, 
 
 The trumpets of the stars.
 
 The Voices of History. 53 
 
 Then Beauty all her subtlest chords 
 
 Dissolves and knits again, 
 
 And Law composes jarring words 
 
 In one harmonious chain : 
 
 And Loyalty's enchanting notes 
 
 Outswelling fade away, 
 
 While Knowledge, from ten thousand throats, 
 
 Proclaims a graver sway. 
 
 Well, if, by senses unbefooled, 
 Attentive souls may scan 
 These great Ideas that have ruled 
 The total mind of man ; 
 Yet is there music deeper still, 
 Of fine and holy woof, 
 Comfort and joy to all that will 
 Keep ruder noise aloof. 
 
 A music simple as the sky, 
 Monoto'nous as the sea, 
 Recurrent as the flowers that die 
 And rise again in glee : 
 A melody that childhood sings 
 Without a thought of art, 
 Drawn from a few familiar strings, 
 The fibres of the Heart. 
 
 Through tent and cot and proud saloon, 
 This audible delight 
 Of nightingales that love the noon, 
 Of larks that court the night,
 
 54 The Barren Hill. 
 
 We feel it all, the hopes and fears 
 That language faintly tells, 
 The spreading smiles, the passing tears,- 
 The meetings and farewells. 
 
 These harmonies that all can share, 
 When chronicled by one, 
 Enclose us like the living air, 
 Unending, unbegun ; 
 Poet ! esteem thy noble part, 
 Still listen, still record, 
 Sacred Historian of the heart, 
 And moral nature's Lord ! 
 
 THE BARREN HILL. 
 
 BEKORE my Home, a long straight Hill 
 
 Extends its barren bound, 
 And all who that way travel will 
 
 Must travel miles around ; 
 Vet not the loveliest face of earth 
 
 To living man can be 
 A treasury of more precious worth 
 
 Than that bare Hill to me. 
 
 That Hill-side rose a wall between 
 This world of ears and eyes 
 
 And every shining shifty scene 
 That fancy forms and dyes :
 
 The Barren Hill. 55 
 
 First Babyhood engaged its use, 
 
 To plant a good-child's land, 
 Where all the streams were orange-juice, 
 
 And sugar all the sand. 
 
 A playground of unending sward 
 
 There blest the growing Boy, 
 A dream of labourless reward, 
 
 Whole holidays of joy ; 
 A book of Nature, whose bright leaves 
 
 No other care should need 
 Than life that happily receives 
 
 What he that runs may read. 
 
 Nor lacked there skies for onward youth 
 
 With wayward will to tinge, 
 Sweet sunshine overcast by ruth, 
 
 And storms of golden fringe ; 
 Nor vales that darkling might evoke 
 
 Mysterious fellowship 
 Of names that still to Fancy woke, 
 
 But slumbered on the lip. 
 
 The hour when first that hill I crost, 
 
 Can yet my memory sting, 
 The dear self-trust that moment lost 
 
 No lore again can bring : 
 It seemed a foully broken bond 
 
 Of Nature and my kind, 
 That I should find the world beyond 
 
 The world I left behind.
 
 56 The Chronicle of Hopes. 
 
 But not in vain that hill-side stood, 
 
 On many an after-day, 
 When with returning steps I wooed 
 
 Revival of its sway ; 
 It could not give me Truth where doubt 
 
 And sin had ample range, 
 But it was powerful to shut out 
 
 The ill it could not change. 
 
 And still performs a sacred part, 
 
 To my experienced eye, 
 This Pisgah which my virgin heart 
 
 Ascended but to die ; 
 What was Reality before 
 
 In symbol now may live, 
 Endowed with right to promise more 
 
 Than ever it could give. 
 
 THE CHRONICLE OF HOPES. 
 
 I WOULD not chronicle my life 
 
 By dynasties of joy or pain, 
 
 By reigns of peace or times of strife, 
 
 By accidents of loss or gain : 
 
 The Mopes that nurtured in my breast 
 
 Have been the very wings to me 
 
 On which existence floats or rests, 
 
 These only shall my eras be.
 
 The Chronicle of Hopes. 57 
 
 Whether they rose to utmost height 
 And glistened in the noonday sun, 
 Descending with as full delight 
 When all was realised and won ; 
 Or whether, mercilessly checked 
 By adverse airs and lowering skies, 
 They sunk to earth confused and wrecked 
 Almost before they dared to rise ; 
 
 With equal love I love them all 
 For their own special sakes, nor care 
 What sequence here or there might fall, 
 Each has its sweet memorial share : 
 Let but my Hopes, in coming years, 
 Preserve their long unbroken line, 
 And smiles will shine through any tears, 
 And grief itself be half-divine. 
 
 For not to man on earth is given 
 The ripe fulfilment of desire ; 
 Desire of Heaven itself is Heaven, 
 Unless the passion faint and tire : 
 So upward still, from hope to hope, 
 From faith to faith, the soul ascends, 
 And who has scaled the ethereal cope, 
 Where that sublime succession ends ?
 
 THE WORTH OF HOURS. 
 
 BELIEVE not that your inner eye 
 
 Can ever in just measure try 
 
 The worth of Hours as they go by. 
 
 For every man's weak self, alas ! 
 Makes him to see them, while they pass, 
 As through a dim or tinted glass : 
 
 But if in earnest care you would 
 Mete out to each its part of good, 
 Trust rather to your after-mood. 
 
 Those surely are not fairly spent, 
 That leave your spirit bowed and bent 
 In sad unrest and ill-content : 
 
 And more, though free from seeming harm. 
 
 You rest from toil of mind or arm, 
 
 Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm, 
 
 If then a painful sense comes on 
 ( )f something wholly lost and gone, 
 Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done, 
 
 Of something from your being's chain 
 Broke off, nor to be linked again 
 By all mere Memory can retain,
 
 Sonnets. 59 
 
 Upon your heart this truth may rise, 
 Nothing that altogether dies 
 Suffices man's just destinies : 
 
 So should we live, that every Hour 
 May die as dies the natural flower, 
 A self-reviving thing of power ; 
 
 That every Thought and every Deed 
 May hold within itself the seed 
 Of future good and future meed ; 
 
 Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ 
 Is to develope not destroy, 
 Far better than a barren Joy. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 I. 
 
 BECAUSE the Few with signal virtue crowned, 
 The heights and pinnacles of human mind, 
 Sadder and wearier than the rest are found, 
 Wish not thy Soul less wise or less refined. 
 True that the small delights which every day 
 Cheer and distract the pilgrim are not theirs ; 
 True that, though free from Passion's lawless sway, 
 A loftier being brings severer cares. 
 Yet have they special pleasures, even mirth, 
 By those undreamt-of who have only trod 
 Life's valley smooth ; and if the rolling earth 
 To their nice ear have many a painful tone, 
 They know, Man does not live by Joy alone, 
 But by the presence of the power of God.
 
 60 Sonnets. 
 
 n. 
 
 A SPLENDOUR amid glooms, a sunny thread 
 Woven into a tapestry of cloud, 
 A merry child a-playing with the shroud 
 That lies upon a breathless mother's bed, 
 A garland on the front of one new-wed, 
 Trembling and weeping while her troth is vowed, - 
 A school-boy's laugh that rises light and loud 
 In licensed freedom from ungentle dread ; 
 These are ensamples of the Happiness, 
 For which our nature fits us ; more and less 
 Are parts of all things to the Mortal given, 
 Of Love, Joy, Truth, and Beauty. Perfect Light 
 Would dazzle, not illuminate, our sight, 
 From Earth it is enough to glimpse at Heaven. 
 
 THE SPRING AND THE BROOK. 
 
 IT may be that the Poet is as a Spring, 
 
 That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth, 
 
 Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth 
 
 Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king. 
 
 Still is he but an utte'rance, a lone thing, 
 
 Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth, 
 
 Too often shivering in the thankless dearth 
 
 Of those affections he the best can sing. 
 
 But Thou, O lively Brook ! whose fruitful way 
 
 Brings with it mirror'd smiles, and green, and flowers, - 
 
 Child of all scenes, companion of all hours, 
 
 Taking the simple cheer of every day, 
 
 How little is to thee, thou happy Mind, 
 
 That solitary parent Spring behind !
 
 Sonnets. 61 
 
 LOVE WITHO UT S YMPA THY. 
 
 YES, I will blame thy very height of heart, 
 
 I will conjure thee to remember still 
 
 That things above us are not less apart, 
 
 And mountains nearest to the sun most chill ! 
 
 Well hadst thou held sublime and separate rank, 
 
 Martyr or heroine of romantic times, 
 
 When Woman's life was one poor cloudy blank, 
 
 Lit by rare-gleaming virtues, loves, and crimes. 
 
 But now that every day for thee and me 
 
 Has its own being of delight and woe, 
 
 Come down, bright Star ! from thy perennial vault, 
 
 My earthly path's companion-light to be ; 
 
 And I will love thee more for every fault 
 
 Than for perfections that the angels show. 
 
 ON COWPEKS GARDEN AT OLNEY. 
 
 FROM this forlornest place, at morn and even, 
 
 Issues a voice imperative, ' ' Begone ! 
 
 All ye that let your vermin thoughts creep on 
 
 Beneath the' unheeded thunders of high Heaven ; 
 
 Nor welcome they, who, when free grace is given 
 
 To flee from usual life's dominion, 
 
 Soon as the moving scene or time is gone, 
 
 Return, like penitents unfitly shriven. 
 
 But Ye, who long have wooed the memory 
 
 Of this great Victim of sublime despair, 
 
 Encompassed round with evil as with air, 
 
 Yet crying, ' God is good, and sinful He,' 
 
 Remain, and feel how better 'tis to drink 
 
 Of Truth to Madness ev'en, than shun that fountain's brink.
 
 62 Sonnets. 
 
 ON REVISITING TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 I HAVE a debt of my heart's own to Thee, 
 
 School of my Soul ! old lime and cloister shade ! 
 
 Which I, strange suitor, should lament to see 
 
 Fully acquitted and exactly paid. 
 
 The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights, 
 
 Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree, 
 
 In sweet belated talk on winter nights, 
 
 With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me, 
 
 Such things I owe thee, and not only these : 
 
 I owe thee the far-beaco'ning memories 
 
 Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide 
 
 Of Life where it was narrow, deep, and clear, 
 
 Now cast their brightness from the further side 
 
 On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear. 
 
 GOOD INTENTIONS. 
 
 FAIR thoughts of good, and fantasies as fair ! 
 
 Why is it your content to dwell confined 
 
 In the dark cave of meditative mind, 
 
 Nor show your forms and colours otherwhere ? 
 
 Why taste ye not the beautiful free air 
 
 Of life and action ? If the wintry wind 
 
 Rages sometimes, must noble growth be pined, 
 
 And fresh extrava'gant boughs lopped off by care ? 
 
 Behold the budding and the flowe'ring flowers, 
 
 That die, and in their seed have life anew ; 
 
 Oh ! if the promptings of our better hours 
 
 With vegetative virtue sprung and grew, 
 
 They would fill up the room of living Time, 
 
 And leave the world small space to nourish weeds of crime.
 
 Sonnets. 63 
 
 GRAVE TEMPERAMENTS. 
 
 To live for present life, and feel no crime 
 
 To see in life a merry-morrice craft, 
 
 Where he has done the best who most has laughed, 
 
 Is Youth's fit heaven, nor thus the less sublime : 
 
 But not to all men, in their best of prime, 
 
 Is given by Nature this miracu'lous draught 
 
 Of inward happiness, which, hourly quaffed, 
 
 Seems to the reveller deep beyond all time. 
 
 Therefore encumber not the sad young heart 
 
 With exhortations to impossible joy, 
 
 And charges of morose and thankless mood ; 
 
 For there is working in that Girl or Boy 
 
 A power which will and must remain apart 
 
 Only by Love approached and understood. 
 
 ACTION AND THOUGHT. 
 
 THERE is a world where struggle and stern toil 
 
 Are all the nurture of the soul of man 
 
 Ordain'd to raise, from life's ungrateful soil, 
 
 Pain as he must, and Pleasure as he can. 
 
 Then to that other world of thought from this 
 
 Turns the sad soul, all hopeful of repose, 
 
 But round in weirdest metamorphosis, 
 
 False shapes and true, divine and devilish, close. 
 
 Above these two, and resting upon each 
 
 A meditative and compassionate eye, 
 
 Broodeth the Spirit of God : thence evermore, 
 
 On those poor wanderers cast from shore to shore, 
 
 Falleth a voice, omnipotent to teach 
 
 Them that will hear, " Despair not ! it is I."
 
 ANIMA MUNDI. 
 
 " ANIMA MUNDI " of thyself existing, 
 
 Without diversity or change to fear, 
 
 Say, has this Life to which we cling persisting, 
 
 Part or communion with thy steadfast sphere ? 
 
 Does thy serene eternity sublime 
 
 Embrace the slaves of Circumstance and Time ? 
 
 Could we remain continually content 
 *To heap fresh pleasure on the coming day, 
 Could we rest happy in the sole intent 
 To make the hours more graceful or more gay ; 
 Then must the essence of our nature be 
 That of the beasts that perish, not of Thee. 
 
 But if we mourn, not because time is fleeting, 
 Not because life is short and some die young, 
 But because parting ever follows meeting, 
 And, while our hearts with constant loss are wrung, 
 Our minds are tossed in doubt from sea to sea, 
 Then may we claim community with thee. 
 
 We cannot live by instincts forced to let 
 To-morrow's wave obliterate our to-day 
 See faces only once read and forget 
 Behold Truth's rays prismatically play 
 About our mortal eye, and never shine 
 In one white daylight, simple and divine.
 
 Anima Mundi. 65 
 
 We would erect some Thought the world above, 
 And dwell in it for ever we would make 
 Some moment of young Friendship or First-love 
 Into a dream, from which we would not wake ; 
 We would contrast our Action with Repose, 
 Like the deep stream that widens as it flows. 
 
 We would, indeed, be somewise as Thou art, 
 
 Not spring and bud and flower and fade and fall, 
 
 Not fix our intellects on some scant part 
 
 Of Nature, but enjoy or feel it all : 
 
 We would assert the privilege of a soul, 
 
 In that it knows to understand the Whole. 
 
 If such things are within us God is good 
 
 And flight is destined for the callow wing, 
 
 And the high appetite implies the food, 
 
 And souls must reach the level whence they spring ; 
 
 O Life of very Life ! set free our Powers, 
 
 Hasten the travail of the yearning hours. 
 
 Thou ! to whom old Philosophy bent low, 
 
 To the wise few mysteriously revealed ; 
 
 Thou ! whom each humble Christian worships now, 
 
 In the poor hamlet and the open field ; 
 
 Once an Idea now Comforter and Friend, 
 
 Hope of the human Heart ! Descend ! Descend !
 
 66 
 
 CARPE DIEM. 
 
 YOUTH, that pursuest with such eager pace 
 
 Thy even way, 
 Thou pantest on to win a mournful race : 
 
 Then stay ! oh, stay ! 
 
 Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain ; 
 
 Loiter,- enjoy : 
 Once past, Thou never wilt come back again, 
 
 A second Boy. 
 
 The hills of Manhood wear a noble face, 
 
 When seen from far ; 
 The mist of light from which they take their grace 
 
 Hides what they are. 
 
 The dark and weary path those cliffs between 
 
 Thou canst not know, 
 And how it leads to regions never-green, 
 
 Dead fields of snow. 
 
 Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain 
 
 Which, all too fast, 
 Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain, 
 
 A Man at last.
 
 6 7 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 
 
 No, though all the winds that lie 
 
 In the circle of the sky 
 
 Trace him out, and pray and moan, 
 
 Each in its most plaintive tone, 
 
 No, though Earth be split with sighs, 
 
 And all the Kings that reign 
 
 Over Nature's mysteries 
 
 Be our faithfullest allies, 
 
 All all is vain : 
 
 They may follow on his track, 
 
 But He never will come back 
 
 Never again ! 
 
 Youth is gone away, 
 Cruel, cruel Youth, 
 Full of gentleness and ruth 
 Did we think him all his stay ; 
 How had He the heart to wreak 
 Such a woe on us so weak, 
 He that was so tender-meek ? 
 How could He be made to leani 
 To find pleasure in our pain ? 
 Could he leave us, to return 
 Never again ! 
 
 Bow your heads very low, 
 Solemn-measured be your paces, 
 Gathered up in grief your faces, 
 Sing sad music as ye go ; 
 
 K 2
 
 68 The Flight of Youth. 
 
 In disordered handfuls strew 
 Strips of cypress, sprigs of rue ; 
 In your hands be borne the bloom, 
 Whose long petals once and only 
 Look from their pink-leav&d tomb 
 In the midnight lonely ; 
 Let the nightshade's beaded coral 
 Fall in melancholy moral 
 Your wan brows around, 
 While in very scom ye fling 
 The amaranth upon the ground 
 As an unbelievfcd thing ; 
 What care we for its fair tale 
 Of beauties that can never fail, 
 Glories that can never wane ? 
 No such blooms are on the track 
 He has past, who will come back 
 Never again ! 
 
 Alas ! we know not how He went, 
 
 We knew not he was going, 
 
 For had our tears once found a vent, 
 
 We' had stayed him with their flowing. 
 
 It was as an earthquake, when 
 
 We awoke and found him gone, 
 
 We were miserable men, 
 
 We were hopeless, every one ! 
 
 Yes, He must have gone away 
 
 In his guise of every day, 
 
 In his common dress, the same 
 
 Perfect face and perfect frame ; 
 
 For in feature, for in limb, 
 
 Who could be compared to him ?
 
 The Flight of Youth. 69 
 
 Firm his step, as one who knows 
 He is free, where'er he goes, 
 And withal as light of spring 
 As the arrow from the string : 
 His impassioned eye had got 
 Fire which the sun has not ; 
 Silk to feel, and gold to see, 
 Fell his tresses full and free, 
 Like the morning mists that glide 
 Soft adown the mountain's side ; 
 Most delicious 'twas to hear 
 When his voice was trilling clear 
 As a silver-hearted bell, 
 Or to follow its low swell, 
 When, as dreamy winds that stray 
 Fainting 'mid .^Eolian chords, 
 Inner music seemed to play 
 Symphony to all his words ; 
 In his hand was poised a spear, 
 Deftly poised, as to appear 
 Resting of its proper will, 
 Thus a merry hunter still, 
 And engarlanded with bay, 
 Must our Youth have gone away, 
 Though we half remember now, 
 He had borne some little while 
 Something mournful in his smile 
 Something serious on his brow : 
 Gentle Heart, perhaps he knew 
 The cruel deed he was about to do ! 
 
 Now, between us all and Him 
 There are rising mountains dim,
 
 70 The Flight of Youth. 
 
 Forests of uncounted trees, 
 Spaces of unmeasured seas : 
 Think with Him how gay of yore 
 We made sunshine out of shade, 
 Think with Him how light we bore 
 All the burden sorrow laid ; 
 All went happily about him, 
 How shall we toil on without him ? 
 How without his cheering eye 
 Constant strength embreathing ever ? 
 How without him standing by 
 Aiding every hard endeavour ? 
 For when faintness or disease 
 Had usurped upon our knees, 
 If He deigned our lips to kiss 
 With those living lips of his, 
 We were lightened of our pain, 
 We were up and hale again : 
 Now, without one blessing glance 
 From his rose-lit countenance, 
 We shall die, deserted men, 
 And not see him, even then ! 
 
 We are cold, very cold, 
 All our blood is drying old, 
 And a terrible heart-dearth 
 Reigns for us in heaven and earth : 
 Forth we stretch our chilly fingers 
 In poor effort to attain 
 Tepid embers, where still lingers 
 Some preserving warmth, in vain. 
 Oh ! if Love, the Sister dear 
 Of Youth that we have lost, 
 Come not in swift pity here, 
 Come not, with a host
 
 The Weary Soul. 71 
 
 Of Affections, strong and kind, 
 To hold up our sinking mind, 
 If She will not, of her grace, 
 Take her Brother's holy place, 
 And be to us, at least, a part 
 Of what He was, in Life and Heart, 
 The faintness that is on our breath 
 Can have no other end but Death. 
 
 THE WEARY SOUL. 
 
 THE Soul is wasted with trouble and toil, 
 The evening of Life is damp and chill, 
 She would go back and rest awhile ; 
 She can go back whene'er she will, 
 For' the Poet holds the Past in fee, 
 That shadowy land is all his own, 
 And He, not led by Memory, 
 But as a man that walks alone 
 In gardens long familiar, knows 
 What spots afford the fit repose. 
 
 Surely she will not wander far, 
 Twilight is coming with never a star ; 
 Why may she not return where stands, 
 Broadly towards the westering sun, 
 That proud building of hearts and hands, 
 Castle and Palace all in one, 
 Over the portal named at length, 
 " Successful Manhood's place of strength ? ' 
 There she may traverse court and hall, 
 Up to her favourite turret tall ;
 
 72 The Weary Soul. 
 
 She may recline her aching head 
 
 On her ancestral purple bed, 
 
 There, where at eve so oft she lay, 
 
 I' the deep-embrasured window-bay, 
 
 Giving her vision open reign 
 
 Over the chequered world of plain 
 
 Of hues that rest and hues that pass, 
 
 Sunset and autumn and tinted glass ; 
 
 While the buck's clear bell and the cattle's low, 
 
 And every sound that is heard below, 
 
 Were melted into one murmur soft 
 
 Ere they could reach that couch aloft. 
 
 Witness of that triumphant scene ! 
 Little you know what doom has been : 
 How at a blow the heavens were split, 
 Words on the wall spontaneous writ, 
 As with a pen of burning brass, 
 " Vanitas, omnia Vanitas : "- 
 How disappointment bared her hand, 
 Vivid and red as the levin brand, 
 Struck on the tower's sublimest crown, 
 Shattered the sturdiest buttress down, 
 Till the poor Soul would fain have died 
 'Mid her annihilated pride. 
 Speed her along, tho' night be drear, 
 Night be her cover, for none is here ; 
 Seek her a rest where'er you may, 
 Not in this shelterless decay ! 
 
 There is a bower, a way -side bower, 
 Rich with brede of berry' and flower, 
 Fair to dwell in and behold 
 How the green is turning gold,
 
 The Weary Soul. 73 
 
 Till the leafy screen repeat 
 All the life without the heat : 
 Music comes not here and there, 
 Does not fill, but is, the air : 
 Perfumes delicate and fine, 
 Flower of orange, flower of vine, 
 Take their place, without pretence, 
 In the harmony of sense ; 
 Where the floating spirit dreams, 
 Fed by odours, sounds, and gleams, 
 Of this royal region hight, 
 " Youth's dominion of delight." 
 Why then farther ? why not here ? 
 Soul of sorrow, Mind of fear ! 
 Rest, as thou wert wont to rest, 
 On the swell of Nature's breast. 
 Hear that voice in angel's frame, 
 Singing, " Youth is still the same ; 
 Cheery faces glimpsing round, 
 Limber feet on mossy ground ; 
 Circumstance, the God of clay, 
 We have fairly laughed away, 
 And a power of other face, 
 Hope, is seated in his place. 
 Enter, all that come from far, 
 Poor and naked as ye are ; 
 Very breath is here divine, 
 Bacchus has no need of wine ! " 
 
 " Friends !" the tearful soul replies, 
 " Keep, oh ! keep your Paradise ! 
 Once I gained your happy place, 
 Ardent in the healthy race,
 
 74- The Weary Soul. 
 
 One of many braced together, 
 
 Comrades of the way and weather ; 
 
 Now alone I falter by, 
 
 Youth's the same, but what am I ? 
 
 Just as sweet, as free from cares, 
 
 Are your smiles, but are not theirs : 
 
 When the lips I pressed of old 
 
 Lie beneath the sullen mould : 
 
 When the voices I have known 
 
 In hosannas like your own 
 
 Answer to my yearning call, 
 
 Thin and feeble, if at all ; 
 
 \Vhen the golden locks are grey, 
 
 That made sunshine all my day ; 
 
 When my fibres fall together 
 
 In your genial summer-weather ; 
 
 How can I repose an hour 
 
 In the graces of your bower ? 
 
 How should I take up my rest, 
 
 As a strange unnatural guest, 
 
 In this home of truth, in this 
 
 My retreat of ancient bliss ? 
 
 Blasts of death-impregnate air 
 
 Would, with all the flowers, be there,- 
 
 Storms thro' all the blue be spread 
 
 In thick battalia o'er my head ; 
 
 Pallid looks of friendships broken, 
 
 Phantom words unwisely spoken, 
 
 Thoughts of love and self-reproof 
 
 Mingled in a fearful woof, 
 
 Wishes, when not wished in vain, 
 
 Only realised for pain, 
 
 Things ye could not hear or see 
 
 Would be all my company !"
 
 The Weary Soul. 75 
 
 Disheartened spirit ! thou art then 
 In vain distinct from common men, 
 If all thy weary quest of mind 
 No true abiding-place can find, 
 Whose charms the busy life subdue, 
 And lure it from the outer view ! 
 No region of thy mortal lot 
 Where Peace is native to the spot, 
 Ready to greet, when care-begone. 
 Imagination's pilgrim son. 
 
 Yet onward ; it is well to stray 
 Along this bleak and homeless way, 
 Till thou canst raise thy conscious eyes 
 Where Childhood's Atalantis lies, 
 And recognise that idyl scene, 
 Where all mild creatures, void of awe, 
 Amid field-flowers and mountains green, 
 Fulfil their being's gentle law. 
 
 They will not fear thee ; safe they dwell 
 Within this armless citadel, 
 Embastioned in the self-defence 
 Of self- regardless innocence : 
 On Sin or Sorrow's bosom lingers 
 Each infant head in slumbers bland, 
 Secure the tender tiny fingers 
 Enclasp the dark and withered hand. 
 
 Abysms of thought and sense must be 
 Between those simple souls and thee ; 
 But as the parent is beguiled 
 Into the nature of the child,
 
 76 The World to the Soul. 
 
 So mayst thou, tho' an alien here, 
 By careful duty take thy part 
 In all the feelings that endear 
 The kirtgdom of the virgin heart. 
 
 And thou wilt taste once more the rills 
 Fresh gushing from the eternal hills, 
 And feel delight in living air 
 Without research of when and where ; 
 And hear the birds their song dispense 
 With free descant, on branch and wing, 
 Careless of other audience 
 Than God who made and bade them sing. 
 
 Till haply pausing some noon-day 
 Amid the fairy-people's play, 
 Along thy limbs the stony sleep 
 That rounds our life shall calmly creep, 
 And thou from Present and from Past, 
 And things to come at once be freed, 
 To rest for aye, or wake at last 
 In God's own arms, a child indeed. 
 
 THE WORLD TO THE SOUL. 
 
 SOUL ! that may'st have been divine, 
 Now I claim and take thee mine ; 
 Now thy mortal bliss must be 
 In thy loyalty to me.
 
 The World to the Soul. 77 
 
 Though thou seemest without stain, 
 There is evil in thy grain ; 
 Thou hast tasted of the fruit 
 Of which Knowledge is the root. 
 
 So I must not let thee rest, 
 Lull'd on Faith's maternal breast ; 
 Faith and Fancy mar the plan 
 Of the making of a man. 
 
 So thy tender heart I bare 
 
 To Ambition's frosty air ; 
 
 So I plunge thee deep in doubt, 
 
 That thou may'st grow hard and stout. 
 
 So I bid the eager Boy 
 Sense in every form enjoy ; 
 Stinting not the moment's pleasure, 
 Save to gain some fuller measure. 
 
 Thou wilt lose at last the zest, 
 Thou wilt need some higher quest ; 
 Then I bid thee rise a Man, 
 And I aid thee all I can. 
 
 Fix thee on some worthy aim, 
 Proving danger, fronting shame ; 
 Knowing only friends or foes, 
 As they speed thee or oppose : 
 
 Trampling with thy rapid feet 
 Feelings fond and pleas discreet ; 
 Only for excuses sue 
 In the great things thou canst do.
 
 The Palsy of the Heart. 
 
 If what shone afar so grand, 
 Turn to nothing in thy hand, 
 On, again the virtue lies 
 In the struggle, not the prize ; 
 
 Only rest not : failure-curst 
 Turn to Pleasure at the worst ; 
 That may calm thy conscience-cry 
 Death may give thee peace, not I. 
 
 THE PALSY OF THE HEART. 
 
 I SEE the worlds of earth and sky 
 
 With beauty filled to overflow ; 
 My spirit lags behind the eye 
 
 I know, but feel not as I know : 
 Those miracles of form and hue 
 
 I can dissect with artist skill, 
 But more than this I cannot do, 
 
 Enjoyment rests beyond the will. 
 
 Round me in rich profusion lie 
 
 Nectareous fruits of ancient mind, 
 The thoughts that have no power to die 
 
 In golden poesy enshrined : 
 And near me hang, of later birth, 
 
 Ripe clusters from the living tree, 
 But what the pleasure, what the worth, 
 
 If all is savourless to me !
 
 The Martyrs of the Mind. 79 
 
 I hear the subtle chords of sound, 
 
 Entangled, loosed, and knit anew ; 
 The music floats without around 
 
 But will not enter and imbue : 
 While harmonies diviner still, 
 
 Sweet greetings, appellations dear, 
 That used through every nerve to thrill 
 
 I often hear, and only hear. 
 
 O dreadful thought ! if by God's grace 
 
 To souls like mine there should be given 
 That perfect presence of his face, 
 
 Which we, for want of words, call Heaven, 
 And unresponsive even there 
 
 This heart of mine could still remain, 
 And its intrinsic evil bear 
 
 To realms that know no other pain. 
 
 Better down nature's scale to roll, 
 
 Far as the base unbreathing clod, 
 Than rest a conscious reasoning soul, 
 
 Impervious to the light of God ; 
 Hateful the powers that but divine 
 
 What we have lost beyond recal, 
 The intellectual plummet-line 
 
 That sounds the depths to which we fall. 
 
 THE MARTYRS OF THE MIND. 
 
 HONOUR to the sacred Past ! 
 
 Reverence to the ancient days ! 
 Yet believe them not the last 
 
 That demand your love and praise :
 
 8o The Martyrs of the Mind. 
 
 Think not that the olden story 
 Can within its depth enfold 
 
 All the beauty and the glory 
 That the heart of Man can hold. 
 
 Think not rashly that, because 
 
 Modern life is smooth and fine, 
 'Tis not subject to the laws 
 
 Of the Master's high design : 
 That we less require endurance 
 
 Than in days of coarser plan, 
 That we less demand assurance 
 
 Of the Godhead hid in Man. 
 
 Trust me, Truth is still at war, 
 
 Just as in the hard old time, 
 With a thousand things that are 
 
 Births of woe and food for crime : 
 Still to vindicate the right 
 
 Is a rough and thankless game ; 
 Still the leader in the fight 
 
 Is the hindmost in the fame. 
 
 True, the penal fires are out 
 
 True, the rack in rust has lain 
 But the secret burning Doubt 
 
 And the pangs of Thought remain : 
 True, the mind of Man is free 
 
 Free to speak and write at will, 
 But a power you cannot see 
 
 Still can plague, and waste, and kill.
 
 The Martyrs of the Mind. 81 
 
 Very tame our passions nestle, 
 
 Very even seem our brows, 
 Outward forces rarely wrestle, 
 
 Soft the words the age allows : 
 Incommunicable sadness 
 
 Yet is haunting all the while 
 Yet one day the crouching madness 
 
 Leaps from under all the smile. 
 
 Ours is not the early Faith 
 
 Which our fathers gazed upon, 
 Till the iron gates of Death 
 
 With a golden splendour shone ; 
 We must rest content with Hope, 
 
 Fair to aid, but frail to rule : 
 Gentle Hope ! too weak to cope 
 
 With the villain and the fool. 
 
 Ours the shame to understand 
 
 That the World prefers the lie 
 That, with medicine in her hand, 
 
 She will sink and choose to die ; 
 Ours the agonising sense 
 
 Of the Heaven this Earth might be, 
 If, from their blank indifference, 
 
 Men woke one hour and felt as we ! 
 
 Heroes of the inward strife, 
 
 Whom your spirit cannot prize ; 
 
 Saints of the mysterious life, 
 
 Whom no Church can canonize ;
 
 82 Written for the Consumptive Hospital. 
 
 U nremembered unrecorded 
 They are passing by you now ; 
 
 Other gifts are here rewarded, 
 To far other names you bow. 
 
 Yet the Power appears to-morrow, 
 
 That to-day seems wholly lost, 
 And the reproductive sorrow 
 
 Is a treasure worth the cost : 
 Fate permits no break or suture 
 
 In the' Ideal of Mankind, 
 Weaving out its brightest Future 
 
 From the Martyrs of the Mind. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE CONSUMPTIVE HOSPITAL. 
 
 IF parting hours are ever had 
 
 In reverence among men ; 
 If fierce emotions turn to sad, 
 
 And sins to sorrows then ; 
 If the grave presence of the Last 
 
 The lightest scenes can hallow, 
 Adorn each desert of the Past, 
 
 And deepen every shallow : 
 
 Then, surely, in the hours that rend 
 The spirit from the frame 
 
 In which it dwelt so long, and send 
 The dust to whence it came ;
 
 Written for the Consumptive Hospital. 83 
 
 'Tis, above all things, well that those 
 
 About to go for ever, 
 Should solemnly and calmly close 
 
 Their scene of hard Endeavour ! 
 
 Gladly the soldier falls in strife 
 
 Hailed by his comrades' cheers ; 
 Bravely the wise man yields his life 
 
 Amid familiar tears ; 
 But rare must be his spirit's tone, 
 
 Who, after years repented, 
 Can dare lie down and die alone, 
 
 Neglected, unlamented ! 
 
 Through Faith the yearning eye may fix 
 
 On joys that almost blind, 
 Yet should some gentle feelings mix, 
 
 For what is left behind. 
 And, if both heart and mind grow weak 
 
 In agony or languor, 
 Let the last wandering accents speak 
 
 Of sorrow, not of anger ! 
 
 Oh ! who can tell how far may fly 
 
 Into the world unseen, 
 The record of some pitying sigh, 
 
 Some sympathetic mien : 
 How deep may the abyss be stirred 
 
 Of ghostly recollection ! 
 How long may last one casual word 
 
 Of brotherly affection ! 
 
 G 2
 
 84 Second Childhood. 
 
 Then aid our work ; help us who strive 
 
 To check the' insidious ill 
 That gives to death those most alive, 
 
 And beautifies to kill ; 
 Help us who, at the worst, can sooth 
 
 The heart's last fatal swelling, 
 The' inevitable bed can smooth, 
 
 And light the narrow dwelling. 
 
 While Fortune's favours round you smile, 
 
 'Tis something, even then, 
 To know you helped to reconcile 
 
 A man with brother men ; 
 And when, through waves that round you roll, 
 
 Your heart is hardly faring, 
 'Tis more to think you saved one soul 
 
 From dying God-despairing ! 
 
 SECOND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 TAKE not Childhood's name in vain, 
 Give it not to Him : 
 Can the lees of life retain 
 Bubbles from the brim ? 
 What can Childhood made to deck 
 Time with early flowers 
 Have in common with the wreck 
 Of uncounted hours ?
 
 Second Childhood. 85 
 
 Nothing but the ignorance 
 Not of things unknown 
 But forgotten, like a glance, 
 Vanished, like a tone ! 
 Nothing but the froward will, 
 Now without controul, 
 .Self-absorbed, for good or ill 
 Of body and of souL 
 
 Childhood without dignity, 
 Childhood without grace, 
 Childhood with the sunken eye 
 And the wasted face : 
 Childhood, vain of petty skill, 
 Proud of little lore, . . 
 Yet devoid of power or will 
 To advance to more. 
 
 Oh ! that each of us might die 
 When we're at the best ! 
 Pass away harmoniously 
 To some fitting rest ! 
 No travestied childhood then 
 Could abuse the word, 
 Each would say, a man to men, 
 " I go so wills the Lord." 
 
 Then the Few whose age endured 
 With untarnished worth, 
 Would go down with fame assured, 
 Moral kings of earth :
 
 86 The Old Man' 3 Song. 
 
 Then such memo'ries as the young 
 Now can only claim, 
 Would entrance the loving tongue 
 With the honoured name. 
 
 Then nor Love nor Life would pall, 
 Ere its work was done : 
 Honest tears would freely fall 
 Tears that injure none. 
 Sad indeed to close dear eyes 
 That shall gaze no more ; 
 How much sadder to despise 
 Those revered before ! 
 
 Think not that the world would lose 
 
 By the' arrested heart ; 
 
 All men, at some moment, choose 
 
 The diviner part : 
 
 Happy then to close their lot 
 
 Wheresoever found, 
 
 Garnered up, nor left to rot 
 
 On the' ungenial ground. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
 
 AGE is not a thing to measure 
 By the course of moon or star ; 
 Time's before us ; at our pleasure 
 We may follow near or far :
 
 The Old Man's Song. 87 
 
 Strength and Beauty he has given 
 They are his to take away ; 
 But the Heart that well has striven 
 Is no slave of Night or Day. 
 
 See, upon yon mountain-ridges, 
 How the fir-woods spread between, 
 Reconcile the snow-clad edges 
 With the valley's vernal green : 
 So the lines of grave reflection, 
 You decipher on my brow, 
 Keep my age in glad connexion 
 With the young that nourish now. 
 
 Not that now poetic fire 
 Can along my life-strings run, 
 As when my Memnonian lyre 
 Welcomed every rising sun ; 
 Though my heart no more rejoices 
 In the flashes of my brain, 
 In the freshness of your voices 
 Let me hear my songs again. 
 
 Did I love ? let Nature witness, 
 Conscious of my tears and truth ; 
 Do I love ? O fatal fitness ! 
 Still requiring youth for youth ! 
 Yet, while thought the bliss remembers, 
 All delight is not gone by ; 
 Warm your spirits o'er my embers, 
 Friends ! and leam to love as I.
 
 Domestic Fame. 
 
 O my children ! O my brothers ! 
 If for self I lived too much, 
 Be my pleasures now for others, 
 Every passion now be such : 
 Be the chillness life-destroying, 
 That could make me slow to feel, 
 To enjoy with your enjoying, 
 To be zealous with your zeal. 
 
 Grant me not, ye reigning Hours ! 
 Virtues that beseem the young, 
 Vigour for my failing powers, 
 Music for my faltering tongue : 
 Let me, cheerful thoughts retaining, 
 Live awhile, nor fear to die, 
 Ever new affections gaining, 
 Such as Heaven might well supply. 
 
 JUNE, 1843. 
 
 DOMESTIC FAME. 
 
 WHY is the Grave so silent ? Why is the Tomb so dead ? 
 Wherefore this gloomy secret on each departed head ? 
 
 Why do we name them seldom, and then with voices low, 
 As if some shame were on them, or superhuman woe ? 
 
 Were Death the sleep eternal that some despairing feign, 
 Had never Faith engendered the hope to meet again, 
 
 Still why should this great absence obliterate with its tears 
 The happiest recollections and sympathies of years ?
 
 Domestic Fame, 89 
 
 Oh, no ! Death could not banish the love that lived complete, 
 And passed away untarnished to its celestial seat ! 
 
 Oh, no ! 'tis not the living that we should harshly blame, 
 But that men lightly cherish their pure domestic fame. 
 
 How few leave not behind them some cause to bless the tomb, 
 That mercifully closes, and pardons in its gloom ! 
 
 How few go from us, leaving the thoughts of them so dear, 
 That aye the prayer besets us, " O God ! that they were here ! " 
 
 So that in distant evenings, when joyous faces glow 
 
 About the Christmas fire-light and laughter melts the snow, 
 
 In pauses of the revel, some heart without a fear, 
 
 Will passionately murmur " Ah ! why are they not here ? " 
 
 Or that in weary seasons, when sickness racks the brain, 
 And lordly Reason falters, and Will is only pain, 
 
 Those whom they loved to counsel may mystically hear 
 Their voices leading onwards the path they trod when here : 
 
 Or that in awful moments, when evil seems set free 
 
 To tempt mankind to question what God of Truth there be, 
 
 The sense how they, too, suffered and conquered, serves to cheer 
 The struggler, dimly conscious of spirits watching near. 
 
 Not, then, to Heroes only, to Poet, Statesman, King, 
 Let care of future glory its anxious duties bring j 
 
 There is no name so lowly, that may not raise a shrine 
 Of living hearts, to honour its memory as Divine !
 
 90 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 MRS. EDWARD DENISON. 
 
 'TIS right for her to sleep between 
 Some of those old Cathedral walls, 
 
 And right too that her grave is green 
 With all the dew and rain that falls. 
 
 'Tis well the organ's solemn sighs 
 
 Should soar and sink around her rest, 
 
 And almost in her ear should rise 
 
 The prayers of those she loved the best. 
 
 'Tis also well this air is stirred 
 By Nature's voices loud and low, 
 
 By thunder and the chirping bird, 
 And grasses whispering as they grow. 
 
 For all her spirit's earthly course 
 
 Was as a lesson and a sign 
 How to o'errule the hard divorce 
 
 That parts things natu'ral and divine. 
 
 Undaunted by the clouds of fear, 
 
 Undazzled by a happy day, 
 She made a Heaven about her here, 
 
 And took how much ! with her away. 
 
 SALISBURY, Nov. 1843.
 
 Jn Memoriam. 91 
 
 MARY AND AGNES BERRY. 
 NOVEMBER 27, 1852. 
 
 Two friends within one grave we place, 
 
 United in our tears, 
 Sisters, scarce parted for the space 
 
 Of more than eighty years : 
 And she, whose bier is borne to-day, 
 
 The one the last to go, 
 Bears with her thoughts that force their way 
 
 Above the moment's woe : 
 
 Thoughts of the varied human life 
 
 Spread o'er that field of time 
 The toil, the passion, and the strife, 
 
 The virtue and the crime : 
 Yet 'mid this long tumultuous scene, 
 
 The image on our mind 
 Of these dear women rests serene 
 
 In happy bounds confined. 
 
 Within one undisturbed abode 
 
 Their presence seems to dwell, 
 From which continual pleasures flowed, 
 
 And countless graces fell : 
 Not unbecoming this our age 
 
 Of decorative forms, 
 Yet simple as the hermitage 
 
 Exposed to Nature's storms.
 
 92 In Memoriam. 
 
 Our English grandeur on the shelf 
 
 Deposed its decent gloom, 
 And every pride unloosed itself 
 
 Within that modest room ; 
 Where none were sad and few were dull, 
 
 And each one said his best, 
 And beauty was most beautiful, 
 
 With vanity at rest. 
 
 Brightly the day's discourse rolled on, 
 
 Still casting on the shore 
 Memorial pearls of times bygone 
 
 And worthies now no more : 
 And little tales of long ago 
 
 Took meaning from those lips, 
 Wise chroniclers of joy and woe, 
 
 And eyes without eclipse. 
 
 No taunt or scoff obscured the wit 
 
 That there rejoiced to reign ; 
 They never would have laughed at it 
 
 If it had carried pain. 
 There needless scandal, e'en though true, 
 
 Provoked no bitter smile, 
 And even men-of-fashion grew 
 
 Benignant for awhile. 
 
 Not that there lacked the nervous scorn 
 
 At every public wrong 
 Not that a friend was left forlorn 
 
 When victim of the strong ;
 
 In Memoriam. 93 
 
 Free words expressing generous blood 
 
 No nice punctilio weighed, 
 For deep an earnest womanhood 
 
 Their reason underlaid. 
 
 As generations onward came 
 
 They loved from all to win 
 Revival of the sacred flame 
 
 That glowed their hearts within ; 
 While others in time's greedy mesh 
 
 The faded garlands flung, 
 Their hearts went out and gathered fresh 
 
 Affections from the young. 
 
 Farewell, dear Ladies ! in your loss 
 
 We feel the past recede, 
 The gap, our hands could almost cross, 
 
 Is now a gulf indeed. 
 Ye, and the days in which your claims 
 
 And charms were early known, 
 Lose substance, and ye stand as names 
 
 That history makes its own. 
 
 Farewell ! the pleasant social page 
 
 Is read ; but ye remain 
 Examples of ennobled age, 
 
 Long life without a stain ; 
 A lesson to be scorned by none, 
 
 Least by the wise and brave, 
 Delightful as the winter sun 
 
 That gilds this open grave.
 
 94 In Menioriam, 
 
 LADY CAMPBELL. 
 
 GENTLY supported by the ready aid 
 
 Of loving hands, whose little work of toil 
 
 Her grateful prodigality repaid 
 
 With all the benediction of her smile, 
 
 She turned her failing feet 
 
 To the soft-pillowed seat, 
 
 Dispensing kindly greetings all the while. 
 
 Before the tranquil beauty of her face 
 
 I bowed in spirit, thinking that she were 
 
 A suffe'ring Angel, whom the special grace 
 
 Of God entrusted to our pious care, 
 
 That we might learn from her 
 
 The art to minister 
 
 To heavenly beings in seraphic air. 
 
 There seemed to lie a weight upon her brain, 
 
 That ever pressed her blue-veined eyelids down, 
 
 But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain, 
 
 Nor seam her forehead with the faintest frown : 
 
 She was as she were proud, 
 
 So young, to be allowed 
 
 To follow Him who wore the thorny crown. 
 
 Nor was she sad, but over every mood, 
 To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth, 
 Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood, 
 Of quiet gaiety, and serenest mirth ;
 
 In Memoriam. 95 
 
 And thus her voice did flow, 
 
 So beautifully low, 
 
 A stream whose music was no thing of earth. 
 
 Now long that instrument has ceased to sound, 
 
 Now long that gracious form in earth has lain 
 
 Tended by nature only, and unwound 
 
 Are all those mingled threads of Love and Pain ; 
 
 So let me weep and bend 
 
 My head and wait the end, 
 
 Knowing that God creates not thus in vain. 
 
 GEORGE VERNON COLEBROKE. 
 
 THOU too art gone, and yet I hardly know 
 
 Why thou didst care to go : 
 Thou wert so well at heart, so spirit-clear, 
 
 So heavenly-calm, though here ; 
 But thus it is ; and, it would seem, no more 
 
 Can we, who on the shore 
 Of the loud world still walk, escape the din, 
 
 And lie awhile within 
 The quiet sunlight of thy filmless mind 
 
 And rise refreshed, refined ; 
 Yet am I mild and tempered in my grief, 
 
 Having a sure relief ; 
 For these dear hours on life's dull length were sprent, 
 
 By rarest accident, 
 And now I have thee by me when I will, 
 
 Hear thy wise words, and fill 
 My soul with thy calm looks ; now I can tame 
 
 111 thoughts by thy mere name.
 
 96 In Memoriam. 
 
 Death, the Divorcer, has united us 
 
 With bands impervious 
 To any tooth of Time, for they are wove 
 Of the same texture as an Angel's Love. 
 
 FEBRUARY 23, 1835. 
 
 ARTHUR AND ELLEN HALLAM. 
 
 A BROTHER and a Sister, these two Friends, 
 Cast by fond Nature in one common mould, 
 And waited on by genial circumstance 
 In all their history of familiar love, 
 After a parting of not quite four years, 
 Are peacefully united here once more. 
 
 He first, as best beseemed the manly mind, 
 Tried the dark walk, which has (or seems to have) 
 No portion in the pleasant sun or stars, 
 The breath of flowers or morning-song of birds, 
 The hand of Friendship or the lips of Love. 
 Whether her sad and separated soul 
 Received some token from that secret place, 
 That she might follow him and meet him there, 
 Or whether God, displeased that anything 
 Of good or evil should so long divide 
 Such undefiled and sacred sympathies, 
 Has made them one again before his face, 
 Are things that we perhaps shall never know. 
 
 Say not, O world of short and broken sight ! 
 That these died young : the bee and butterfly 
 Live longer in one active sunny hour
 
 To a Mourner. 97 
 
 Than the poor tortoise in his torpid years : 
 
 The lofty flights of Thought through clear and cloud, 
 
 The labyrinthine ways that Poesy 
 
 Leads her beloved, the weary traverses 
 
 Of Reason, and the haven of calm Faith, 
 
 All had been theirs ; their seamless brows had known * 
 
 The seal of pain, the sacrament of tears ; 
 
 And, unless Pride and Passion and bold Sin 
 
 Are all the rule and reckoning of our Being, 
 
 They have fulfilled as large a task of life 
 
 As ever vete'ran on the mortal field. 
 
 Thus they who gave these favoured creatures birth 
 Deem it no hard infraction of the law 
 Which regulates the order of our race, 
 That they above their offspring raise the tomb, 
 And with parental piety discharge 
 The duties filial love delights to pay : 
 They read the perfect sense of the design 
 In that which seems exception, and they mourn, 
 Not that these dear ones are already gone, 
 But that they linger still so far behind. 
 
 TO A MOURNER. 
 
 SLEEP not you whose hope is dust, 
 
 Love-deserted man ! 
 Or, if feeble body must, 
 
 Seldom as it can.
 
 98 To a Mourner. 
 
 Sleep is kin to Death, they tell, 
 You for this might love it well, 
 But it is a kinsman poor, 
 Hardly gets beyond the door, 
 Never fairly dwells within 
 
 Where they rest and weep not 
 Who are safe from Pain and Sin ; 
 
 Sleep not, Mourner, sleep not. 
 
 Mise'ry spent revives in Sleep, 
 
 Will has no resistance, 
 Anguish delves abysses deep 
 
 In that dream-existence. 
 Then we wake and half-believe, 
 That we may ourselves deceive, 
 That the loss our souls deplore 
 May be but a dream the more ; 
 Till, at one sharp start, we know, 
 
 Though we shriek and weep not, 
 Our reality of woe, 
 
 Therefore, brother, sleep not ! 
 
 But let Sleep some wayward change 
 
 Bring upon our being, 
 Let sweet fancies freely range 
 
 With calm thoughts agreeing : 
 Let sad memory be abused 
 By the pleasure circumfused, 
 And dear forms no more below 
 Softly round us come and go ; 
 Or let time be buried quite, 
 
 And the moments creep not, 
 Though oblivion be delight, 
 
 Still, poor mourner, sleep not !
 
 Requiescat in Pace. 99 
 
 For an Agony will come, 
 
 In the instant waking, 
 Like a dagger driven home, 
 
 Like a nerve in breaking ; 
 Consciousness recovering life 
 But confounds us in the strife, 
 Wholly yielded up to Pain, 
 As when drowned men feel again ; 
 In that rush of gasping thought, 
 
 Wo for them that weep not ! 
 Too, too dearly may be bought 
 
 Such repose oh ! sleep not ! 
 
 Rather think the Evil down, 
 
 Rather weep it out ; 
 Certain grief remits its frown 
 
 Easier than doubt. 
 There are strong yet gentle powers 
 In the growth of many hours ; 
 Sorrow longer-lived will gain 
 Something more of peace than pain, 
 Such as God's still works possess, 
 
 Things that sow or reap not 
 In the world of more and less, 
 
 Live and die, but sleep not. 
 
 REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 
 
 WE have watched him to the last 
 We have seen the dreaded king 
 Smile pacific, as he past 
 By that couch of suffering :
 
 Requiescat in Pace. 
 
 Wrinkles of aggressive years, 
 Channels of recondite tears, 
 Furrows on the anxious brow 
 All are smooth as childhood's now. 
 Death, as seen by men in dreams, 
 Something stem and cruel seems, 
 But his face is not the same, 
 When he comes into the room, 
 Takes the hand, and names the name, 
 Seals the eyes with tender gloom, 
 Saying, " Blessed are the laws 
 To which all God's creatures bend : 
 Mortal ! fear me not, because 
 Thine inevitable friend ! " 
 
 So when all the limbs were still, 
 Moved no more by sense or will, 
 Reve'rent hands the body laid 
 In the Church's pitying shade, 
 With the pious rites that fall, 
 Like the rain-drops, upon all. 
 What could man refuse or grant 
 The spiritual inhabitant, 
 Who so long had ruled within 
 With power to sin or not to sin ? 
 Nothing. Hope, and hope alone, 
 Mates with death. Upon a stone 
 Let the simple name be writ, 
 Traced upon the infant's front 
 Years ago : and under it, 
 As with Christian folk is wont, 
 ''''Requiescat'" or, maybe, 
 Symbol letters, R. I. P.
 
 Requiescat in Pace, 
 
 Rest is happy rest is right, 
 
 Rest is precious in God's sight. 
 
 But if He, who lies below, 
 
 Out of an abundant heart 
 
 Drawing remedies for woe, 
 
 Never wearied to impart 
 
 Blessings to his fellow -men ; 
 
 If he never rested then, 
 
 But each harvest gathered seed 
 
 For the future word and deed, 
 
 And the darkness of his kind 
 
 Filled him with such endless ruth, 
 
 That the very light of truth 
 
 Pained him walking 'mid the blind, 
 
 How, when some transcendant change 
 
 Gives his being boundless range, 
 
 When he knows not time or space, 
 
 In the nearness of God's face, 
 
 In the world of spirits how 
 
 Shall that soul be resting now ? 
 
 While one creature is unblest, 
 
 How can such as he have rest ? 
 
 " Rest in Peace," the legend runs, 
 Rest is sweet to Adam's sons. 
 But can he whose busy brain 
 Worked within this hollow skull, 
 Now his zeal for truth restrain, 
 Now his subtle fancy dull, 
 When he wanders spirit-free 
 In his young immortality ! 
 While on earth he only bore 
 Life, as it was linked with lore,
 
 Requiescal in Pace. 
 
 And the infinite increase 
 Of, knowledge was his only peace ; 
 Till that knowledge be possest 
 How can such a mind have rest ? 
 
 Rest is happy rest is meet 
 For well-worn and weary feet, 
 Surely not for him, on whom 
 Ponderous stands the pompous tomb, 
 Prompt to blind the Future's eyes 
 With gilt deceit, and blazoned lies : 
 Him, who never used his powers 
 To speed for good the waiting hours, 
 Made none wiser for his seeing, 
 Made none better for his being ; 
 Closed his eyes, lest others' woes 
 Should disturb his base repose ; 
 Catching at each selfish zest ; 
 How can he have right to rest? 
 Rather we would deem him driven 
 Anywhere in search of heaven, 
 Failing ever in the quest, 
 Till he learns it is not given 
 That man should by himself be blest. 
 
 Here we struggle with the light, 
 And when comes the fated night, 
 Into Nature's lap we fall, 
 Like tired children, one and all. 
 Day and Labour, Night and Rest, 
 Come together in our mind, 
 And we image forth the blest 
 To eternal calm resigned :
 
 A Song of TTioughts. 103 
 
 Yet it may be that the' abyss 
 Of the lost is only this, 
 That for them all things to come 
 Are inanimate and dumb, 
 And immortal life they steep 
 In dishonourable sleep : 
 While no power of pause is given 
 To the inheritors of Heaven ; 
 And the holiest still are those 
 Who are furthest from repose, 
 And yet onward, onward, press 
 To a loftier godliness ; 
 Still becoming, more than being, 
 Apprehending, more than seeing, 
 Feeling, as from orb to orb 
 In their awful course they run, 
 How their souls new light absorb 
 From the self-existing One, 
 Demiurgos, throned above, 
 Mind of Mind, and Love of Love. 
 
 A SONG OF THOUGHTS. 
 
 LET the lays from poet-lips 
 Shadow forth the speech of heaven, 
 Let melodious airs eclipse 
 All delight to senses given ; 
 Yet to these my notes and words 
 Listen with your heart alone, 
 While the Thought that best accords 
 Makes a music of its own.
 
 104 A Song of Thoughts. 
 
 Ye that in the fields of Love 
 Feel the breath and bloom of spring, 
 While I sing, securely rove, 
 Rest in safety, while I sing. 
 Ye that gaze with vain regret 
 Back towards that holy ground, 
 All the world between forget, 
 Spirit-rocked from sound to sound. 
 
 All indifference, all distrust, 
 From old friendships pass away ! 
 Let the faces of the just 
 Shine as in God's perfect day ! 
 Fix the faintest, fleetest, smile, 
 E'er athwart your path has gleam'd, 
 Take the charm without the wile, 
 Be the Beauty all it seem'd ! 
 
 'Mid the flowers you love the best, 
 Summer pride or vernal boon 
 By your favou'rite light caressed, 
 Blush of eve or glow of noon, 
 Blend the strains of happiest days 
 With the voices held most dear ; 
 Children cast on weary ways ! 
 Rest in peace and pleasaunce here. 
 
 Be the Future's glorious page 
 In my tones to youth revealed ; 
 Let the ruffled brow of age 
 With eternal calm be sealed ;
 
 A Child's Song. 105 
 
 High as Heaven's ethereal cope, 
 Wide as Light's rejoicing ray, 
 Thoughts of memory ! Thoughts of hope ! 
 Wander, wander, while ye may. 
 
 A CHILD'S SONG. 
 
 " I see the Moon, and the Moon sees me, 
 God bless the Moon, and God bless me." 
 
 OLD RHYME. 
 
 LADY Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving ? 
 
 Over the sea. 
 Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ? 
 
 All that love me. 
 
 Are you not tired with rolling, and never 
 
 Resting to sleep ? 
 Why look so pale, and so sad, as for ever 
 
 Wishing to weep ? 
 
 Ask me not this, little child ! if you love me ; 
 
 You are too bold ; 
 I must obey my dear Father above me, 
 
 And do as I 'm told. 
 
 Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 
 
 Over the sea. 
 Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving ? 
 
 All that love me.
 
 io6 
 
 GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING. 
 
 (A CHILD'S SONG.) 
 
 A FAIR little girl sat under a tree, 
 
 Sewing as long as her eyes could see : 
 
 Then smoothed her work, and folded it right, 
 
 And said, " Dear Work ! Good Night, Good Night ! " 
 
 Such a number of rooks came over her head, 
 Crying " Caw ! caw ! " on their way to bed : 
 She said, as she watched their curious flight, 
 " Little black things ! Good Night ! Good Night!" 
 
 The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed : 
 
 The sheep's " Bleat ! bleat !" came over the road : 
 
 All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, 
 
 " Good little Girl ! Good Night ! Good Night ! " 
 
 She did not say to the Sun " Good Night !" 
 Though she saw him there, like a ball of light ; 
 For she knew he had God's time to keep 
 All over the world, and never could sleep. 
 
 The tall pink foxglove bowed his head 
 The violets curtsied and went to bed ; 
 And good little Lucy tied up her hair, 
 And said, on her knees, her favourite prayer. 
 
 And while on her pillow she softly lay 
 
 She knew nothing more till again it was day : 
 
 And all things said to the beautiful sun, 
 
 " Good Morning ! Good Morning ! our work is begun !"
 
 THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE. 
 
 Le bon Dieu me dit "Chante, 
 Chante, pauvre petit." BERANGER. 
 
 I HAVE no comeliness of frame, 
 No pleasant range of feature ; 
 I 'm feeble, as when first I came 
 To earth, a weeping creature ; 
 My voice is low whene'er I speak, 
 And singing faint my song ; 
 But though thus cast among the weak, 
 I envy not the strong. 
 
 The trivial part in life I play 
 
 Can have so light a bearing 
 
 On other men, who, night or day, 
 
 For me are never caring ; 
 
 That, though I find not much to bless, 
 
 Nor food for exaltation, 
 
 I know that I am tempted less, 
 
 And that is consolation. 
 
 The beautiful ! the noble blood ! 
 
 I shrink as they pass by, 
 
 Such power for evil or for good 
 
 Is flashing from each eye ; 
 
 They are indeed the stewards of Heaven, 
 
 High-headed and strong-handed : 
 
 From those, to whom so much is given, 
 
 How much may be demanded !
 
 io8 The Lay of the Humble. 
 
 'Tis true, I am hard buffeted, 
 
 Though few can be my foes. 
 
 Harsh words fall heavy on my head, 
 
 And unresisted blows ; 
 
 But then I think, " had I been bom, 
 
 Hot spirit sturdy frame 
 
 And passion prompt to follow scorn, 
 
 I might have done the same." 
 
 To me men are for what they are, 
 
 They wear no masks with me ; 
 
 I never sicken'd at the jar 
 
 Of ill-tuned flattery ; 
 
 I never mourned affections lent 
 
 In folly or in blindness ; 
 
 The kindness that on me is spent 
 
 Is pure, unasking, kindness. 
 
 And most of all, I never felt 
 
 The agonizing sense 
 
 Of seeing love from passion melt 
 
 Into indifference ; 
 
 The fearful shame, that day by day 
 
 Burns onward, still to burn, 
 
 To' have thrown your precious heart away, 
 
 And met this black return. 
 
 I almost fancy that the more 
 I am cast out from men, 
 Nature has made me of her store 
 A worthier denizen ;
 
 The Lay of the Humble. 109 
 
 As if it pleased her to caress 
 A plant grown up so wild, 
 As if the being parentless 
 Made me the more her child. 
 
 Athwart my face when blushes pass 
 To be so poor and weak, 
 I fall into the dewy grass, 
 And cool my fevered cheek ; 
 And hear a music strangely made, 
 That you have never heard, 
 A sprite in every rustling blade, 
 That sings like any bird. 
 
 My dreams are dreams of pleasantness, 
 
 But yet I always run, 
 
 As to a father's morning kiss, 
 
 When rises the round sun ; 
 
 I see the flowers on stalk and stem, 
 
 Light shrubs, and poplars tall, 
 
 Enjoy the breeze, I rock with them, 
 
 We're merry brothers all. 
 
 I do remember well, when first 
 
 I saw the great blue sea, 
 
 It was no stranger-face, that burst 
 
 In terror upon me ; 
 
 My heart began, from the first glance, 
 
 His solemn pulse to follow, 
 
 I danced with every billow's dance, 
 
 And shouted to their hollo.
 
 The Lay of the Humble. 
 
 The Lamb that at its mother's side 
 Reclines, a tremulous thing, 
 The Robin in cold winter-tide, 
 The Linnet in the spring, 
 All seem to be of kin to me, 
 And love my slender hand, 
 For we are bound, by God's decree, 
 In one defensive band. 
 
 And children, who the worldly mind 
 
 And ways have not put on, 
 
 Are ever glad in me to find 
 
 A blithe companion : 
 
 And when for play they leave their homes, 
 
 Left to their own sweet glee, 
 
 They hear my step, and cry, " He comes, 
 
 Our little friend, 'tis he." 
 
 Have you been out some starry night, 
 
 And found it joy to bend 
 
 Your eyes to one particular light, 
 
 Till it became a friend ? 
 
 And then, so loved that glistening spot, 
 
 That, whether it were far 
 
 Or more or less, it mattered not, 
 
 It still was your own star. 
 
 Thus, and thus only, can you know, 
 How I, even scorned I, 
 Can live in love, tho' set so low, 
 And' my ladie-love so high ;
 
 The Lay of the Humble. \ \ I 
 
 Thus learn, that on this varied ball, 
 Whate'er can breathe and move, 
 The meanest, lornest, thing of all- 
 Still owns its right to love. 
 
 With no fair round of household cares 
 
 Will my lone hearth be blest, 
 
 Never the snow of my old hairs 
 
 Will touch a loving breast ; 
 
 No darling pledge of spousal faith 
 
 Shall I be found possessing, 
 
 To whom a blessing with my breath 
 
 Would be a double blessing : 
 
 But yet my love with sweets is rife, 
 With happiness it teems, 
 It beautifies my waking life, 
 And waits upon my dreams ; 
 A shape that floats upon the night, 
 Like foam upon the sea, 
 A voice of seraphim, a light 
 Of present Deity ! 
 
 I hide me in the dark arcade, 
 When she walks forth alone, 
 I feast upon her hair's rich braid, 
 Her half-unclasped zone : 
 I watch the flittings of her dress, 
 The bending boughs between, 
 I trace her footsteps' faery press 
 On' the scarcely ruffled green.
 
 The Lay of the Humble. 
 
 Oh deep delight ! the frail guitar 
 
 Trembles beneath her hand, 
 
 She sings a song she brought from far, 
 
 I cannot understand ; 
 
 Her voice is always as from heaven, 
 
 But yet I seem to hear 
 
 Its music best, when thus 'tis given 
 
 All music to my ear. 
 
 She' has turned her tender eyes around, 
 
 And seen me crouching there, 
 
 And smiles, just as that last full sound 
 
 Is fainting on the air ; 
 
 And now, I can go forth so proud, 
 
 And raise my head so tall. 
 
 My heart within me beats so loud, 
 
 And musical withal : 
 
 And there is summer all the while, 
 
 Mid-winter tho' it be, 
 
 How should the universe not smile, 
 
 When she has smiled on me ? 
 
 For tho' that smile can nothing more 
 
 Than merest pity prove, 
 
 Yet pity, it was sung of yore, 
 
 Is not so far from love. 
 
 From what a crowd of lovers' woes 
 My weakness is exempt ! 
 How far more fortunate than those 
 Who mark me for contempt !
 
 The Violet- Girl. 
 
 No fear of rival happiness 
 My fervent glory smothers, 
 The zephyr fans me none the less 
 That it is bland to others. 
 
 Thus without share in coin or land, 
 
 But well content to hold 
 
 The wealth of Nature in my hand, 
 
 One flail of virgin gold, 
 
 My Love above me like a sun, 
 
 My own bright thoughts my wings, 
 
 Thro' life I trust to flutter on, 
 
 As gay as aught that sings. 
 
 One hour I own I dread, to die 
 
 Alone and unbefriended, 
 
 No soothing voice, no tearful eye, 
 
 But that must soon be ended ; 
 
 And then I shall receive my part 
 
 Of everlasting treasure, 
 
 In that just world where each man's heart 
 
 Will be his only measure. 
 
 THE VIOLET-GIRL. 
 
 WHEN Fancy will continually rehearse 
 Some painful scene once present to the eye, 
 'Tis well to mould it into gentle verse, 
 That it may lighter on the spirit lie.
 
 114 We Violet-Girl. 
 
 Home yester-eve I wearily returned, 
 
 Though bright my morning mood and short my way, 
 
 But sad experience in one moment earned, 
 
 Can crush the heape'd enjoyments of the day. 
 
 Passing the corner of a popu'lous street, 
 I marked a girl whose wont it was to stand, 
 With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet, 
 And bunches of fresh Violets in each hand. 
 
 There her small commerce in the chill March weather 
 
 She plied with accents miserably mild ; 
 
 It was a frightful thought to set together 
 
 Those healthy blossoms and that fading child : 
 
 Those luxuries and largess of the earth, 
 Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man, 
 And this poor sorry weed cast loosely forth 
 On Life's wild waste to struggle as it can ! 
 
 To me that odo'rous purple ministers 
 Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee, 
 While meanest images alone are hers, 
 The sordid wants of base humanity. 
 
 Think after all this lapse of hungry hours, 
 In the disfurnislied chamber of dim cold, 
 How she must loathe the very scented flowers 
 That on the squalid table lie unsold ! 
 
 Rest on your woodland banks and wither there, 
 Sweet preluders of Spring ! far better so, 
 Than live misused to fill the grasp of care, 
 And serve the piteous purposes of woe.
 
 The Old Manorial Hall. 115 
 
 Ye are no longer Nature's gracious gift, 
 Yourselves so much and harbingers of more, 
 But a most bitter irony to lift 
 The veil that hides our vilest mortal sore. 
 
 THE OLD MANORIAL HALL. 
 
 WHEN She was born I had been long the garde'ner of the Hall, 
 The shrubs I planted with my hand were rising thick and tall ; 
 My heart was in that work and place, and little thought or care 
 Had I of other living things than grew and flourished there, 
 Beneath the happy shelter of 
 The old Manorial Hall. 
 
 At first she came a rosy child, a queen among my flowers, 
 And played beside me while I worked, and prattled on for hours ; 
 And, many a morning, in the plot of ground she called her own, 
 She found an unexpected show of blossoms freshly blown, 
 And sent her merry echoes through 
 Her old Manorial Hall. 
 
 Thus fifteen summers, every day, I tended her and them, 
 I watched the opening of the bud, the shooting of the stem ; 
 And when her childly laughter turned to silent maiden smiles, 
 I felt in Heaven whene'er she passed, and scarce on earth the 
 whiles. 
 
 How could I ever think to leave 
 My old Manorial Hall ? 
 
 One day when Autumn's last delights were nipped by early cold, 
 It fell like Death upon mine ear that She was bought and sold ; 
 
 I 2
 
 Ii6 The Brook- side. 
 
 That some rich lord, she hardly knew, had come to bear away 
 The pride of all the country round the poor man's hope and 
 stay 
 
 The glory and the darling of 
 Our old Manorial Hall. 
 
 I heard her plight to him the troth she could not understand, 
 I saw her weeping turn her head and wave her parting hand ; 
 And from that hour no thing on earth has gone with me but 
 
 wrong, 
 
 And soon I left the Garden and the Home I loved so long : 
 It was a haunted house to me, 
 That old Manorial Hall ! 
 
 And now I wander up and down, I labour as I can, 
 Without a wish for rest or friends, a sorry-hearted man ; 
 Yet at the bottom of my thoughts the saddest lies, that She, 
 With all her wealth and noble state, may none the happier be 
 Than I, the poor old Garde'ner of 
 The old Manorial Hall. 
 
 THE BROOK- SIDE. 
 
 I WANDERED by the brook-side, 
 
 I wandered by the mill, 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow, 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 Nor chirp of any bird, 
 
 But' the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard.
 
 The Brook-side. 117 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree, 
 
 I watched the long, long, shade, 
 
 And as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word, 
 
 But' the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, no, he came not, 
 The night came on alone, 
 The little stars sat, one by one, 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening air passed by my cheek, 
 The leaves above were stirr'd, 
 But' the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 When something stood behind, 
 A hand was on my shoulder, 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew me nearer nearer, 
 We did not speak one word, 
 For' the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard.
 
 LABOUR. 
 
 HEART of the People ! Working men ! 
 Marrow and nerve of human powers ; 
 Who on your sturdy backs sustain 
 Through streaming Time this world of ours ; 
 Hold by that title, which proclaims, 
 That ye are undismayed and strong, 
 Accomplishing whatever aims 
 May to the sons of earth belong. 
 
 Yet not on you alone depend 
 
 These offices, or burthens fall ; 
 
 Labour for some or other end 
 
 Is Lord and master of us all. 
 
 The high-born youth from downy bed 
 
 Must meet the morn with horse and hound, 
 
 While Industry for daily bread 
 
 Pursues afresh his wonted round. 
 
 With all his pomp of pleasure, He 
 Is but your working comrade now, 
 And shouts and winds his horn, as ye 
 Might whistle by the loom or plough ; 
 In vain for him has wealth the use 
 Of warm repose and careless joy, 
 When, as ye labour to produce, 
 He strives, as active to destroy. 
 
 But who is this with wasted frame, 
 Sad sign of vigour overwrought ? 
 What toil can this new victim claim? 
 Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
 
 Labour. 119 
 
 How men would mock her flaunting shows, 
 Her golden promise, if they knew 
 What weary work she is to those 
 Who have no better work to do ! 
 
 And He who still and silent sits 
 In closed room or shady nook, 
 And seems to nurse his idle wits 
 With folded arms or open book : 
 To things now working in that mind, 
 Your children's children well may owe 
 Blessings that Hope has ne'er denned 
 Till from his busy thoughts they flow. 
 
 Thus all must work with head or hand, 
 For self or others, good or ill ; 
 Life is ordained to bear, like land, 
 Some fruit, be fallow as it will : 
 Evil has force itself to sow 
 Where we deny the healthy seed, 
 And all our choice is this, to grow 
 Pasture and grain or noisome weed. 
 
 Then in content possess your hearts, 
 Unenvious of each other's lot, 
 For those which seem the easiest parts 
 Have travail which ye reckon not : 
 And He is bravest, happiest, best, 
 Who, from the task within his span, 
 Earns for himself his evening rest 
 And an increase of good for man.
 
 RICH AND POOR. 
 
 WHEN God built up the dome of blue, 
 
 And portioned earth's prolific floor, 
 
 The measure of his wisdom drew 
 
 A line between the Rich and Poor ; 
 
 And till that vault of glory fall, 
 
 Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame, 
 
 Or saving love be all in all, 
 
 That rule of life will rest the same. 
 
 We know not why, we know not how, 
 Mankind are framed for weal or woe 
 But to the' Eternal Law we bow ; 
 If such things are, they must be so. 
 Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy 
 One truth outshining bright and clear, 
 That Wealth abides in Hope and Joy, 
 And Poverty in Pain and Fear. 
 
 Behold our children as they play ! 
 Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand ; 
 The peasant boy as great and gay 
 As the young heir to gold and land ; 
 Their various toys of equal worth, 
 Their little needs of equal care, 
 And halls of marble, huts of earth, 
 All homes alike endeared and fair.
 
 Clent Hill. 121 
 
 They know no better ! would that we 
 Could keep our knowledge safe from worse ; 
 So Power should find and leave us free, 
 So Pride be but the owner's curse ; 
 So, without marking which was which, 
 Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure, 
 What paupers are the' ambitious Rich ! 
 How wealthy the contented Poor ! 
 
 Grant us, O God ! but health and heart, 
 And strength to keep desire at bay, 
 And ours must be the better part, 
 Whatever else besets our way. 
 Each day may bring sufficient ill ; 
 But we can meet and fight it through, 
 If Hope sustains the hand of Will, 
 And Conscience is our captain too. 
 
 CLENT HILL. 
 
 ABOVE LORD LYTTELTON's HOUSE AT HAGLEY. 
 
 IF you would mount the hill of Clent, 
 
 And read the fair expanse aright, 
 Mount ere the autumn moon has spent 
 
 Her lustre on the tepid night : 
 There on the dewless, close-shorn, grass, 
 
 Remain in vigil' ant repose, 
 Till objects cease to rise or pass, 
 
 But round your central spirit close. -
 
 Clent Hill. 
 
 The moony mist around diffused 
 
 Enlarges all the bounds of space, 
 And sight, delightfully abused, 
 
 Enjoys the new gigantic grace : 
 Though here delusion reigns in vain, 
 
 Where the full-bosomed trees combine 
 With wavy meads that still again 
 
 Meet the far mountain's wavy line. 
 
 No sound disturbs the torpid gleam : 
 
 Sleep, happy vales ! sleep, honest souls ! 
 While nature keeps her moonlight dream, 
 
 No darker your good rest controuls ; 
 Say, rather, meteor stars of hope 
 
 May flash your weary hearts within, 
 Enabling you at morn to cope 
 
 With day's God-guided discipline. 
 
 Yet Night can work as well as Day : 
 
 Behold the' horizon's northern line, 
 Where huge volcanic masses play 
 
 Red flame against the white moonshine ; 
 We cannot hear the furnace-roar, 
 
 Nor see the watchful, earnest, hands 
 That feed the fire and tend the ore, 
 
 Yet feel we what the scene demands. 
 
 For it is thus, and thus alone, 
 
 By banded powers of calm and zeal, 
 
 By toil and silence blent in one, 
 That England shapes her common-weal ;
 
 Opening of the First Pleasure- Ground at Birmingham. 1 23 
 
 Thus to the reeking fires of earth 
 
 An elemental work is given, 
 As pure in purpose, rich in worth, 
 
 As glorifies the orbs of Heaven. 
 
 While our poor souls, by Adam's law, 
 
 Would madden with continuous strife, 
 Nightly from death's abyss we draw 
 
 Regenerate energies of life ; 
 Oh ! dawn the day, that night has none 
 
 That needs no sleep, and asks no rest, 
 When we may labour, like the sun, 
 
 In God's great work complete and blest ! 
 
 OPENING OF THE FIRST PUBLIC PLEASURE- 
 GROUND AT BIRMINGHAM, 
 
 AUGUST, 1856. 
 
 I. 
 
 SOLDIERS of Industry ! come forth : 
 
 Knights of the Iron Hand ! 
 Past is the menace of the North 
 
 That frowned upon our land. 
 We have no will to count the cost, 
 
 No thought of what we bore 
 Now the last warrior's gaze has lost 
 
 The doomed Crimean shore !
 
 1 24 Opening of the First Pleasure- Ground at Birmingham. 
 
 II. 
 
 That shore, so precious in the graves 
 
 Of those whose lustrous deeds 
 Consecrate Balaklava's waves, 
 
 And Alma's flowe'ring reeds ; 
 Where, at some future festival, 
 
 Our Russian foe will tell, 
 How British wrestlers, every fall, 
 
 Rose stronger than they felL 
 
 ill. 
 Now town and hamlet cheer to see 
 
 Each bronzed and bearded man, 
 Or murmur low, " 'Twas such as he, 
 
 Who died at the Redan ! " 
 Rest for his worn or crippled frame, 
 
 Rest for his anxious eye, 
 Rest, even from the noise of Fame, 
 
 A Nation's welcome-cry ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Ye, whose resolute intents 
 
 And sturdy arms combine 
 To bend the' obdurate elements 
 
 Of Earth to Man's design 
 Ye, to your hot and constant task 
 
 Heroically true, 
 Soldiers of Industry ! we ask, 
 
 " Is there no Peace for you?" 
 
 V. 
 It may not be : the' unpausing march 
 
 Of toil must still be yours 
 Conquest, with no triumphant arch, 
 
 Unsung by Troubadours :
 
 Opening of the First Pleasure- Ground at Birmingham. 125 
 
 Yet, as the fiercest Knights of old 
 
 To give "God's Truce" agreed, 
 Cry ye, who are as brave and bold, 
 
 "God's Truce" in Labour's need. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "God's Truce" be their device, who meet 
 
 To-day with generous zeal 
 To work, by many a graceful feat, 
 
 Their brethren's future weal ; 
 From stifling street and popu'lous mart 
 
 To guard this ample room, 
 For honest pleasures kept apart, 
 
 And deck'd with green and bloom. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here let the eye to toil minute 
 
 Condemned, with joy behold 
 The fresh enchantment of each suit 
 
 That clothes the common mould : 
 Here let the arm whose skilful force 
 
 Controuls such, mighty powers, 
 Direct the infant's totte'ring course 
 
 Amid the fragrant bowers. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet all in vain this happy hope, 
 
 In vain this friendly care, 
 Unless of loftier life the scope 
 
 In every mind be there : 
 In vain the fairest, brightest, scene, 
 
 If passion's sensual haze 
 And clouded spirits lie between 
 
 To mar the moral gaze.
 
 1 26 Opening of the First Pleasure- Ground at Birmingham. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He only at the marriage-feast 
 
 Of Nature and of God 
 Sits worthily who sits released 
 
 From sin's and sorrow's load : 
 And then, on his poor window-sill, 
 
 One flower more pleasure brings 
 Than all the gorgeous plants that fill 
 
 The restless halls of kings. 
 
 x. 
 
 All Nature answers in the tone 
 
 In which she is addressed : 
 Beneath Mont Blanc's illumined throne, 
 
 The peasant walks unblessed ; 
 The' Italian struggles in his bonds, 
 
 Beside his glorious sea, 
 And Beauty from all sight absconds 
 
 Which is not wise and free. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So, Friends ! while gentle Arts are wed 
 
 To frame your perfect plan, 
 Broadcast be Truth and Knowledge spread 
 
 O'er this rich soil of Man ! 
 Ideal parks ideal shade 
 
 Lay out with libe'ral hand 
 But teach the souls you strive to aid 
 
 To feel and understand.
 
 127 
 
 VERSICLES. 
 
 AMID the factions of the field of life 
 The Poet held his little neutral ground, 
 And they who mixed the deepest in the strife 
 Their evening way to his seclusion found. 
 
 There, meeting oft the' antagonists of the day, 
 Who near in mute defiance seemed to stand, 
 He said what neither would be first to say, 
 And, having spoken, left them hand in hand. 
 
 I sent my memo'ry out 
 
 To chase a Thought : 
 
 It brought back doubt on doubt, 
 
 But never caught 
 
 The fugitive, who will return some day 
 
 When I've no use for him in work or play. 
 
 The heart that Passion never fired, 
 Of other's Love can nothing tell 
 How can I teach you what's inspired, 
 Unless you are inspired as well ? 
 
 Because your nature can extend 
 Its vision to a needle's end, 
 And you, with self-sufficient air, 
 Announce the wonders you see there,
 
 128 Ver sides. 
 
 You must not murmur that some eye 
 Moulded and trained to range the sky, 
 May read in yon far star as clear 
 As you can spy and potter here. 
 
 Brothers ! if we return you good 
 For evil said or malice done, 
 Doubt not, but in our veins the blood 
 As hot as in your own may run. 
 
 Father ! if bravely we endure 
 The anguish that with Life begins, 
 May'st Thou, to whom all things are pure, 
 Endure our follies and our sins ! 
 
 Eastward roll the orbs of heaven, 
 Westward tend the thoughts of men 
 Let the Poet, nature-driven, 
 Wander Eastward now and then : 
 
 There the calm of life comparing 
 With his Europe's busy fate, 
 Let him, gladly homeward faring, 
 Learn to labour and to wait.
 
 PALM LEAVES. 
 
 THE HAREEM. 
 
 BEHIND the veil, where depth is traced 
 
 By many a complicated line, 
 Behind the lattice closely laced 
 
 With filagree of choice design, 
 Behind the lofty garden-wall, 
 
 Where stranger face can ne'er surprise, 
 That inner world her all-in-all, 
 
 The Eastern Woman lives and dies. 
 
 Husband and children round her draw 
 
 The narrow circle where she rests ; 
 His will the single perfect law, 
 
 That scarce with choice her mind molests ; 
 Their birth and tutelage the ground 
 
 And meaning of her life on earth 
 She knows not elsewhere could be found 
 
 The measure of a woman's worth. 
 
 If young and beautiful, she dwells 
 
 An Idol in a secret shrine, 
 Where one high-priest alone dispels 
 
 The solitude of charms divine :
 
 130 The Hareem. 
 
 And in his happiness she lives, 
 
 And in his honour has her own, 
 And dreams not that the love she gives 
 
 Can be too much for him alone. 
 
 Within the gay kiosk reclined, 
 
 Above the scent of lemon groves, 
 Where bubbling fountains kiss the wind, 
 
 And birds make music to their loves, 
 She lives a kind of faery life, 
 
 In sisterhood of fruits and flowers, 
 Unconscious of the outer strife, 
 
 That wears the palpitating hours. 
 
 And when maturer duties rise 
 
 In pleasure's and in passion's place, 
 Her duteous loyalty supplies 
 
 The presence of departed grace : 
 So hopes she, by untiring truth, 
 
 To win the bliss to share with him 
 Those glories of celestial youth, 
 
 That time can never taint or dim.* 
 
 Thus in the ever-closed Hareem, 
 
 As in the open Western home, 
 Sheds womanhood her starry gleam 
 
 Over our being's busy foam ; 
 Through latitudes of varying faith 
 
 Thus trace we still her mission sure, 
 To lighten life, to sweeten death, 
 
 And all for others to endure. 
 
 * It is supposed to be left to the will of the husband to decide whether 
 his wife should be united to him in a future state : but this does not imply 
 that her happiness after death depends upon him.
 
 The Hareem. 131 
 
 Home of the East ! thy threshold's edge 
 
 Checks the wild foot that knows no fear, 
 Yet shrinks, as if from sacrilege 
 
 When rapine comes triy precincts near : 
 Existence, whose precarious thread 
 
 Hangs on the tyrant's mood and nod, 
 Beneath thy roof its anxious head 
 
 Rests, as within the house of God. 
 
 There, though without he feels a slave, 
 
 Compelled another's will to scan, 
 Another's favour forced to crave 
 
 There is the Subject still the Man : 
 There is the form that none but he 
 
 Can touch, the face that he alone 
 Of living men has right to see ; 
 
 Not He who fills the Prophet's throne. 
 
 Then let the Moralist, who best 
 
 Honours the female heart, that blends 
 The deep affections of the West 
 
 With thought of life's sublimest ends, 
 Ne'er to the Eastern home deny 
 
 Its lesser, yet not humble praise, 
 To guard one pure humanity 
 
 Amid the stains of evil days. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 THE MOSQUE. 
 
 A SIMPLE unpartitioned room, 
 Surmounted by an ample dome, 
 Or, in some lands that favoured lie, 
 With centre open to the sky, 
 But roofed with arch&d cloisters round, 
 That mark the consecrated bound, 
 And shade the niche to Mekkeh turned, 
 By which two massive lights are burned ; 
 With pulpit, whence the sacred word 
 Expounded on great days is heard ; 
 With fountain fresh, where, ere they pray, 
 Men wash the soil of earth away ; 
 With shining mina'ret, thin and high, 
 From whose fine-trelliced balcony 
 Announcement of the hours of prayer 
 Is uttered to the silent air ; 
 Such is the Mosque the holy place, 
 Where faithful men of every race, 
 Meet at their ease, and face to face. 
 
 Not that the power of God is here 
 More manifest, or more to fear ; 
 Not that the glory of his face 
 Is circumscribed by any space ; 
 But that, as men are wont to meet 
 In court or chamber, mart or street,
 
 The Mosque. 133 
 
 For purposes of gain or pleasure, 
 For friendliness or social leisure, 
 So, for the greatest of all ends 
 To which intelligence extends, 
 The worship of the Lord, whose will 
 Created and sustains us still, 
 And honour of the Prophet's name, 
 By whom the saving message came, 
 Believers meet together here, 
 And hold these precincts very dear. 
 
 The floor is spread with matting neat, 
 Unstained by touch of shodden feet 
 A decent and delightful seat ! 
 Where, after due devotions paid, 
 And legal ordinance obeyed, 
 Men may in happy parlance join, 
 And gay with serious thought combine ; 
 May ask the news from lands away, 
 May fix the business of to-day ; 
 Or, with " God willing," at the close, 
 To-morrow's hopes and deeds dispose. 
 
 Children are running in and out 
 With silver-sounding laugh and shout, 
 No more disturbed in their sweet play, 
 No more disturbing those that pray, 
 Than the poor birds, that fluttering fly 
 Among the rafters there on high, 
 Or seek at times, with grateful hop, 
 The corn fresh-sprinkled on the top.* 
 
 * Many of the mosques possess funds dedicated to the support of birds 
 and other animals : one at Cairo has a large boat at the top filled with
 
 134 The Mosque. 
 
 So, lest the stranger's scornful eye 
 Should hurt this sacred family, 
 Lest inconside'rate words should wound 
 Devout adorers with their sound, 
 Lest careless feet should stain the floor 
 With dirt and dust from out the door, 
 'Tis well that custom should protect 
 The place with prudence circumspect, 
 And let no unbeliever pass 
 The threshold of the faithful mass ; 
 That as each Muslim his Hareem 
 Guards even from a jealous dream, 
 So should no alien feeling scathe 
 This common home of public faith, 
 So should its very name dispel 
 The presence of the infidel. 
 
 Yet, though such reve'rence may demand 
 A building raised by human hand, 
 Most honour to the men of prayer, 
 Whose mosque is in them everywhere ! 
 Who, amid revel's wildest din, 
 In war's severest discipline, 
 On rolling deck, in thronged bazaar, 
 In stranger lands, however far, 
 However diffe'rent in their reach 
 Of thought, in manners, dress, or speech, 
 Will quietly their carpet spread, 
 To Mekkeh turn the humble head, 
 And, as if blind to all around, 
 And deaf to each distracting sound, 
 
 corn as fast as it is consumed, and another possessed an estate bequeathed 
 to it to give food to the homeless cats of the city.
 
 The Kiosk. 135 
 
 In ritual language God adore, 
 In spirit to his presence soar, 
 And, in the pauses of the prayer, 
 Rest, as if rapt in glory there ! 
 
 THE KIOSK* 
 
 BENEATH the shadow of a large-leaved plane, 
 
 Above the ripple of a shallow stream, 
 
 Beside a cypress-planted cemetery, 
 
 In a gay-painted trellis-worked kiosk, 
 
 A company of easy Muslims sat, 
 
 Enjoying the calm measure of delight 
 
 God grants the faithful even here on earth. 
 
 Most pleasantly the bitter berry tastes, 
 
 Handed by that bright-eyed and neat-limbed boy ; 
 
 Most daintily the long chibouk is filled 
 
 And almost before emptied, filled again ; 
 
 Or, with a free good-will, from mouth to mouth 
 
 Passes the cool Nargheelee + serpentine. 
 
 So sit they, with some low occasional word 
 
 Breaking the silence in itself so sweet, 
 
 While o'er the neighbouring bridge the caravan 
 
 Winds slowly in one line interminable 
 
 Of camel after camel, each with neck 
 
 Jerked up, as sniffing the far desert air. 
 
 * Story-telling is, now as ever, the delight of the East : in the coffee 
 and summer houses, at the corners of the streets, in the courts of the 
 mosque, sit the grave and attentive crowd, hearing with childly pleasure 
 the same stories over and over again, applauding every new turn of 
 expression or incident, but not requiring them any more than the hearers 
 of a European sermon. 
 
 f The hookah of the Levant
 
 136 The Kiosk. 
 
 Then one serene old Turk, with snow-white beard 
 
 Hanging amid his pistol-hilts profuse, 
 
 Spoke out " Till sunset all the time is ours, 
 
 And we should take advantage of the chance 
 
 That brings us here together. This my friend 
 
 Tells by his shape of dress and peak&d cap 
 
 Where his home lies : he comes from furthest off, 
 
 So let the round of tales begin with him." 
 
 Thus challenged, in his thoughts the Persian dived, 
 
 And, with no waste of faint apologies, 
 
 Related a plain story of his life, 
 
 Nothing adventu'rous, terrible, or strange, 
 
 But, as he said, a simple incident, 
 
 That any one there present might have known. 
 
 THE PERSIAN'S STORY. 
 
 " Wakedi, and the Heshemite, and I, 
 Called each the other friend, and what we meant 
 By all the meaning of that common word, 
 One tale among a hundred one round pearl 
 Dropped off the chain of daily circumstance 
 Into the Poet's hand one luscious fruit 
 Scarce noticed in the summer of the tree, 
 Is here preserved, that you may do the like. 
 
 "The Ramadhan's long clays (where'er they fall 
 Certain to seem the longest of the year) 
 Were nearly over, and the populous streets 
 Were silent as if haunted by the plague ; 
 For all the town was crowding the bazaar, 
 To buy new garments, as beseemed the time, 
 In honour of the Prophet and themselves.
 
 The Kiosk. 137 
 
 But in our house my wife and I still sat, 
 
 And looked with sorrow in each other's faces. 
 
 It was not for ourselves we well could let 
 
 Our present clothes serve out another year, 
 
 And meet the neighbours' scoffs with quiet minds ; 
 
 But for our children we were grieved and shamed ; 
 
 That they should have to hide their little heads, 
 
 And take no share of pleasure in the Feast, 
 
 Or else contrast their torn and squalid vests 
 
 With the gay freshness of their playmates' garb. 
 
 At last my wife spoke out ' Where are your friends ? 
 
 Where is Wakedi ? where the Heshemite ? 
 
 That you are worn and pale with want of gold, 
 
 And they perchance with coin laid idly by 
 
 In some closed casket, or in some vain sport 
 
 Wasted, for want of honest purposes ? ' 
 
 My heart leapt light within me at these words, 
 
 And I, rejoicing at my pain as past, 
 
 Sent one I trusted to the Heshemite, 
 
 Told him my need in few plain written words, 
 
 And, ere an hour had passed, received from him 
 
 A purse of gold tied up, sealed with his name : 
 
 And in a moment I was down the street, 
 
 And, in my mind's eye, chose the children's clothes. 
 
 But between will and deed, however near, 
 
 There often lies a gulf impassable. 
 
 So, ere I reached the gate of the Bazaar, 
 
 Wakedi's slave accosted me his breath 
 
 Cut short with haste ; and from his choking throat 
 
 His master's message issued word by word. 
 
 The sum was this : a cruel creditor, 
 
 Taking the 'vantage of the season's use, 
 
 Pressed on Wakedi for a debt, and swore 
 
 That, unless paid ere evening-prayer, the law
 
 138 The Kiosk. 
 
 Should wring by force the last of his demand. 
 
 Wakedi had no money in the house, 
 
 And I was prayed, in this his sudden strait, 
 
 To aid him, in my duty as a friend. 
 
 Of course I took the Heshemite's sealed purse 
 
 Out of my breast, and gave it to the slave ; 
 
 Yet I must own, oppressed with foolish fear 
 
 Of my wife's tears, and, might be, bitter words, 
 
 If empty-handed I had home returned, 
 
 I sat all night, half-sleeping, in the mosque, 
 
 Beneath the glimme'ring feathers, eggs, and lamps, 
 
 And only in the morning nerved my heart 
 
 To tell her of our disappointed pride. 
 
 She, when I stammered out my best excuse, 
 
 Abashed me with her kind approving calm, 
 
 Saying ' The parents' honour clothes the child.' 
 
 Thus I grew cheerful in her cheerfulness, 
 
 And we began to sort the children's vests, 
 
 And found them not so sordid after all. 
 
 ' This might be turned that stain might well be hid- 
 
 This remnant might be used.' So we went on 
 
 Almost contented, till surprised we saw 
 
 The Heshemite approach, and with quick steps 
 
 Enter the house, and in his hand he showed 
 
 The very purse tied up, sealed with his name, 
 
 Which I had given to help Wakedi's need ! 
 
 At once he asked us, mingling words and smiles, 
 
 ' What means this secret ? you sent yester morn 
 
 Asking for gold, and I, without delay, 
 
 Returned the purse containing all I had. 
 
 But I too found myself that afternoon 
 
 Wanting to buy a sash to grace the feast ; 
 
 And sending to Wakedi, from my slave 
 
 Received this purse I sent you the same morn
 
 The Kiosk. 139 
 
 Unopened.' ' Easy riddle,' I replied, 
 ' And, as I hope, no miracle for me 
 That what you gave me for my pleasure's fee 
 Should serve Wakedi in his deep distress.' 
 And then I told him of Wakedi's fate : 
 And we were both o'ercome with anxious care 
 Lest he, obeying his pure friendship's call, 
 Had perilled his own precious liberty, 
 Or suffered some hard judgment of the law. 
 But to our great delight and inward peace, 
 Wakedi a few moments after stood 
 Laughing behind us, ready to recount, 
 How Allah, loving the unshrinking faith 
 With which he had supplied his friend's desire 
 Regardless of his own necessity, 
 Assuaged the creditor's strong rage, and made 
 His heart accessible to gentle thoughts, 
 Granting Wakedi time to pay the debt. 
 Thus our three tales were gathered into one, 
 Just as I give them you, and with the purse 
 Then opened in the presence of the three 
 We gave my children unpretending vests, 
 Applied a portion to Wakedi's debts, 
 And bought the Heshemite the richest sash 
 The best silk merchant owned in the Bazaar." 
 
 Soon as he ceased, a pleasant murmur rose, 
 Not only of applause, but of good words, 
 Dwelling upon the subject of the tale ; 
 Each to his neighbour in low utte'rance spoke 
 Of Friendship and its blessings, and God's grace, 
 By which man is not left alone to fight 
 His daily battle through a cruel world.
 
 140 The Kiosk. 
 
 The next in order, by his garb and look, 
 A Syrian merchant seemed, who made excuse 
 That he had nothing of his own to tell, 
 But if the adventure of one like himself, 
 Who roamed the world for interchange of gain, 
 Encounte'ring all the quaint varieties 
 Of men and nature, pleased them, it was theirs. 
 
 THE SYRIAN'S STORY. 
 
 " A merchant of Damascus, to whom gain 
 
 Tasted the sweetest when most boldly won, 
 
 Crossed the broad Desert, crossed the' Arabian Gulf, 
 
 Entered with goods the far secluded land 
 
 That Franks call Abyssinia, and became 
 
 The favou'rite and companion of its King. 
 
 And little wonder for to that rude chief 
 
 He spoke of scenes and sights so beautiful, 
 
 Of joys and splendours that had hardly place 
 
 In his imagined Paradise, of arts 
 
 By which all seasons were made sweet and mild. 
 
 In the hot sandy winds and blazing sun, 
 
 He spoke of alleys of delicious shade, 
 
 Of coloured glass that tempered the sharp light, 
 
 Of fountains bubbling up through heaps of flowers, 
 
 And boys and maidens fanning genial airs : 
 
 In the bleak snow-time, when the winds rung shrill 
 
 Through the ill-jointed palace, he pourtrayed 
 
 The Syrian winter of refreshing cool, 
 
 And breezes pregnant with all health to man. 
 
 At last the King no more could hold in check 
 
 The yearning of his heart, and spoke aloud 
 
 ' Friend ! what is now to me my royal state,
 
 The Kiosk. 141 
 
 My free command of all these tribes of men, 
 
 My power to slay or keep alive, my wealth, 
 
 Which once I deemed the envy of all kings, 
 
 If by my life amid these wild waste hills 
 
 I am shut out from that deliciousness 
 
 Which makes existence heavenly in your words, 
 
 If I must pass into my Father's tomb, 
 
 These pleasures all untasted, this bright earth 
 
 To me in one dark corner only known ? 
 
 Why should I not, for some short time, lay by 
 
 My heavy sceptre, and with wealth in hand, 
 
 And thee to guide and light me in my path, 
 
 Travel to those fair countries God-endowed, 
 
 And then with store of happy memories, 
 
 And thoughts, for pauses of the lion-hunt, 
 
 And tales to tell, to keep the evenings warm, 
 
 Return once more to my paternal throne ? ' 
 
 Gladly the merchant, weary with his stay 
 
 In that far land, and fearing lest kind force 
 
 Might hold him priso'ner there for some long time, 
 
 Accepted the proposal, praised the scheme 
 
 As full of wise, and just, and manly thought, 
 
 Recounted the advantages the land 
 
 Would from their King's experience surely draw : 
 
 And ended by determining the day 
 
 When they two should set out upon their road, 
 
 Worthily armed, with ample store of gold, 
 
 And gems adroitly hid about their dress. 
 
 " The day arrived, big with such change of life 
 To this brave Monarch : in barbaric pomp 
 Were gathered all the princes of the race, 
 All men of name and prowess in the state, 
 And tributary chiefs from Ethiop hills.
 
 142 The Kiosk. 
 
 With mingled admiration and dismay 
 They heard the King announce he should go forth 
 To distant nations ere that sun went down ; 
 That for two years they would not see his face ; 
 But then he trusted God he should return 
 Enriched with wisdom, worthier of his rule, 
 And able to impart much good to them. 
 Then to the trust of honorable men 
 Committing sepa'rate provinces and towns, 
 And over all, in delegated rule, 
 Establishing his favou'rite brother's power, 
 Amid applauses, tumults, prayers, and tears, 
 Towards the Arabian Gulf he bent his way. 
 A well-manned boat lay ready on the shore ; 
 A prospe'rous gale was playing on the sea, 
 And after some few days of pleasant sail, 
 From Djedda's port to Mekkeh's blessed walls 
 The Merchant and the King advanced alone. 
 
 " At every step he made in this new world, 
 At every city where they stopped a while 
 On their long journey, with the fresh delight 
 His eye was ravished and his heart was full ; 
 And when at last upon his vision flashed 
 Holy Damascus, * with its mosques, aad streams, 
 A gem of green set in the golden sand, 
 The King embraced his friend ; and, thanking God 
 That he had led him to this heaven, despised 
 The large dominion of his Afric birth, 
 And vowed he'd rather be a plain man there, 
 Than rule o'er all the sources of the Nile. 
 
 * Statius fSylv. i. 6, 14) speaks of Syrian plums, as, " Quod ramis pta 
 germinal Damascus."
 
 The Kiosk. 143 
 
 Thus in Damascus they were safely housed, 
 
 And as the King's gold through the Merchant's hands 
 
 Flowed freely, friends came pouring in amain, 
 
 Deeming it all the fortunate reward 
 
 Of the bold Merchant's venture ; for he spoke 
 
 To none about the secret King, who seemed 
 
 Rather some humble fond companion brought 
 
 From the far depths of that gold-teeming land. 
 
 Oh ! what a life of luxury was there ! 
 
 Velvet divans, curtains of broidered silk, 
 
 Carpets, as fine a work of Persian looms 
 
 As those that in the Mosque at Mekkeh lie ; 
 
 The longest, straitest, pipes in all the East, 
 
 With amber mouth-pieces as clear as air ; 
 
 Fresh sparkling sherbet, such as Franks adore ;* 
 
 And maidens who might dazzle by their charms 
 
 The Sultan seated in his full Hareem. 
 
 The months rolled on with no diminished joys, 
 
 Nay, each more lavish in magnificence 
 
 Than that which went before ; and, drunk with pleasure, 
 
 The Merchant lost all sense and estimate 
 
 Of the amount of wealth he and the King 
 
 Had brought together from that distant clime. 
 
 The gold was soon exhausted, yet remained 
 
 A princely store of jewels, which for long 
 
 Sustained that fabric of enchanted life, 
 
 But one by one were spent and past away ; 
 
 Then came the covert sale of splendours bought ; 
 
 Then money borrowed easily at first, 
 
 But every time extracted with more pain 
 
 From the strong griping clutch of usury. 
 
 But all the while, unwitting of the truth, 
 
 * Our champagne is a favourite sherbet of the East.
 
 144 The Kiosk. 
 
 Without the faintest shadow of distrust 
 Of his friend's prudence, care, or honesty, 
 Taking whatever share of happiness 
 He gave him with an absolute content, 
 Tranquil the Abyssinian King remained, 
 Confiding and delighted as a child. 
 
 " At last the hour came on, though long delayed, 
 When the bare fact before the Merchant's eyes 
 Stood out, that he was ruined without hope ! 
 What could be done ? Not only for himself, 
 But for his friend, that poor deluded King, 
 Become an useless burthen on his hands ? 
 He knew his doors, that guests so lately thronged, 
 Would soon be thronged as thick with creditors ; 
 And he himself, by law, be forced to pay 
 In person, where he had no gold to give : 
 He must escape that very hour but how ? 
 Without one good piastre to defray 
 His cost upon the road, or bribe the porters 
 To set his creditors on some false scent. 
 Then rose a thought within him, and, it seemed, 
 Was gladly welcomed by a sudden start, 
 And a half-cruel, half-compassionate, smile. 
 For straight he sought the Abyssinian King, 
 Whom he found watching with a quiet smile 
 The gold fish in the fountain gleam and glide. 
 He led him, ever ductile, by the hand 
 Down many streets into a close-built court 
 Where sat together many harsh-browed men, 
 Whom he accosted thus : ' Friends, I want gold ; 
 Here is a slave I brought with me last year 
 From Abyssinia ; he is stout and strong, 
 And, but for some strange crotchets in his head
 
 The Kiosk. 145 
 
 Of his own self-importance and fond dreams, 
 Which want a little waking now and then 
 By means that you at least know well to use, 
 A trusty servant and long-headed man ; 
 Take him at your own price I have no time 
 To drive a bargain.' ' Well, so much,' one cried 
 ' So much ' another. ' Bring your purses out, 
 You have bid most, and let me count the coin.' 
 Dumb as a rock the Abyssinian King, 
 Gathering the meaning of the villany, 
 Stood for a while ; then, in a frantic burst, 
 Rushed at his base betrayer, who, his arm 
 Avoiding, gathered up his gold and fled : 
 And the slave-merchant, as a man to whom 
 All wild extremities of agony 
 Were just as common as his daily bread, 
 Shouted, and like a felon in a cage 
 The King was soon forced down by many hands. 
 
 " None know what afterwards became of him : 
 Haply he died, as was the best for him ; 
 And, but rfiat the false Merchant, proud of crime, 
 Oft told the story as a good device 
 And laughable adventure of his craft, 
 The piteous fate of that deluded King 
 Had been as little known to any one 
 As to the subjects of his distant realm, 
 Who still, perchance, expect their Lord's return, 
 Laden with all the wealth of Eastern lands." 
 
 'Twas strange to see how, upon diffe'rent minds 
 The Syrian's tale with diffe'rent meanings fell. 
 One moralised of the vicissitudes 
 
 L
 
 146 The Kiosk. 
 
 Of mortal greatness, how the spider's web 
 Is just as safe from harm and violence 
 As the bright-woven destiny of kings. 
 Another cursed the Merchant for his deed : 
 And a third laughed aloud and laughed again, 
 Conside'ring the strange contrast of the pomp 
 Of that departure from a regal throne 
 And grand commission of so many powers, 
 With the condition of a kennelled slave ; 
 For true it is, that nothing moves to mirth 
 More than the gap that fortune often leaps, 
 Dragging some wretched man along with her. 
 
 To an Egyptian soldier, scarred and bronzed, 
 The duty of narration came the next : 
 Who said, " that soldiers' tales were out of place 
 Told in calm places and at evening hours : 
 His songs required the music of the gun : 
 He could recount a thousand despe'rate feats, 
 Hair-breadth escapes and miracles of war, 
 Were he but cowe'ring round a low watch-fire 
 Almost in hearing of the enemy ; 
 But now his blood was cold, and he was dull, 
 And even had forgot his own wild past. 
 They all had heard had East and West not heard 
 Of Mehemet Ali and of Ibrahim ? 
 It might be that the Great Pasha was great, 
 But he was fond of trade of getting gold, 
 Not by fair onslaught and courageous strength, 
 But by mean interchange with other lands 
 Of produce better in his own consumed ; 
 This was like treason to a soldier's heart ; 
 And all he hoped was that when Ibrahim 
 Sat in his father's seat, he would destroy
 
 The Kiosk. 147 
 
 That flight of locusts Jew, and Greek, and Frank, 
 Who had corrupted Egypt and her power, 
 By all their mercenary thoughts and acts, 
 And sent him there, brave soldier as he was, 
 To go beg service at the Sultan's hand. 
 Yet Ibrahim's heart was still a noble one ; 
 No man could contradict him and not fear 
 Some awful vengeance ; was this story known ? " 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN'S STORY. 
 
 Once, when in Syria he had let war loose, 
 And was reducing, under one strong sway, 
 Druses, and Christians, and Mohammedans, 
 He heard that his last child, the favourite 
 Born of a favou'rite wife, had been let fall 
 By a young careless Nubian nurse, and hurt, 
 So as to cripple it through all its days. 
 No word of anger passed the warrior's lips, 
 No one would think the story on his mind 
 Rested a single moment But due time 
 Brought round his glad return, and he once more 
 Entered his hall, within which, on each side, 
 Long marble stairs curved towards the balcony, 
 Where right and left the women's chambers spread : 
 Upon the landing stood the glad Hareem 
 To welcome him with music, shouts, and songs ; 
 Yet he would not ascend a single step, 
 But cried " Where is the careless Nubian girl 
 That let my child fall on the stony ground?" 
 Trembling and shrieking down one marble flight 
 She was pushed forward, till she reached the floor : 
 
 L 2
 
 148 The Kiosk. 
 
 Then Ibrahim caught her in one giant grasp, 
 
 Dragged her towards him, and one brawny hand 
 
 Tight-twisting in her long and glossy hair, 
 
 And with the other drawing the sharp sword 
 
 Well known at Nezib and at Koniah, 
 
 Sheer from her shoulders severed the young head, 
 
 And casting it behind him, at few bounds 
 
 Cleared the high stair and to his bosom pressed 
 
 The darling wife his deed had just reveng'd. 
 
 O ! he is god-like in his hour of rage ! 
 
 His wrath is like the plague that falls on man 
 
 With indiscriminate fury, and for this 
 
 His name is honoured through the spacious East, 
 
 Where all things powerful meet their just reward." 
 
 The Soldier paused ; and surely some one else 
 Had taken up the burden of a tale ; 
 But at that moment through the cypress stems 
 Shot the declining crimson of the sun 
 Full on the faces of that company, 
 Who for some instants in deep silence watched 
 The last appearance of the ruddy rim, 
 And, little needing the clear warning voice 
 Which issued round the neighbouring minaret, 
 Bidding all earthly thoughts and interests 
 Sink in their breasts as sunk that fiery sun 
 Bowed, old and young, their heads in blest accord, 
 Believers in one Prophet and one God !
 
 149 
 
 THE TENT. 
 
 WHY should a man raise stone and wood 
 
 Between him and the sky ? 
 Why should he fear the brotherhood 
 
 Of all things from on high ? 
 Why should a man not raise his form 
 
 As shelterless and free 
 As stands in sunshine or in storm 
 
 The mountain and the tree ? 
 
 Or if we thus, as creatures frail, 
 
 Before our time should die, 
 And courage and endurance fail 
 
 Weak Nature to supply ; 
 Let us at least a dwelling choose, 
 The simplest that can keep 
 From parching heat and noxious dews 
 Our pleasure and our sleep. 
 
 The Fathers of our mortal race, 
 
 While still remembrance nursed 
 Traditions of the glorious place 
 
 Whence Adam fled accursed, 
 Rested in tents, as best became 
 
 Children, whose mother earth 
 Had overspread with sinful shame 
 
 The beauty of her birth.
 
 I $o 7^? Tent. 
 
 In cold they sought the sheltered nook, 
 
 In heat the airy shade, 
 And oft their casual home forsook 
 
 The morrow it was made ; 
 Diverging many separate roads, 
 
 They wandered, fancy-driven, 
 Nor thought of other fixed abodes 
 
 Than Paradise or Heaven. 
 
 And while this holy sense remained, 
 
 'Mid easy shepherd cares, 
 In tents they often entertained 
 
 The Angels unawares : 
 And to their spi'rits fervid gaze 
 
 The myste'ry was revealed, 
 How the world's wound in future days 
 
 Should by God's love be healed. 
 
 Thus we, so late and far a link 
 
 Of generation's chain, 
 Delight to dwell in tents and think 
 
 The old world young again ; 
 With Faith as wide and Thought as narrow 
 
 As theirs, who little more 
 From life demanded than the sparrow 
 
 Gay-chirping by the door. 
 
 The Tent ! how easily it stands, 
 
 Almost as if it rose 
 Spontaneous from the green or sand, 
 
 Express for our repose :
 
 The Tent. 151 
 
 Or, rather, it is we who plant 
 This root, where'er we roam, 
 
 And hold, and can to others grant, 
 The comforts of a home. 
 
 Make the Divan the carpets spread, 
 
 The ready cushions pile ; 
 Rest, weary heart ! rest, weary head ! 
 
 From pain and pride awhile : 
 And all your happiest memories woo, 
 
 And mingle with your dreams 
 The yellow desert glimme'ring through 
 
 The subtle veil of beams. 
 
 We all have much we would forget 
 
 Be that forgotten now ! 
 And placid Hope, instead, shall set 
 
 Her seal upon your brow : 
 Imagination's prophet eye 
 
 By her shall view unfurled 
 The future greatnesses that lie 
 
 Hid in the Eastern world. 
 
 To slavish tyrannies their term 
 
 Of terror she foretells ; 
 She brings to bloom the faith whose germ 
 
 In Islam deeply dwells ; 
 Accomplishing each mighty birth 
 
 That shall one day be born 
 From marriage of the western earth 
 
 With nations of the morn !
 
 152 The Thinker and the Poet. 
 
 Then fold the Tent then on again ; 
 
 One spot of ashen black, 
 The only sign that here has lain 
 
 The traveller's recent track : 
 And gladly forward, safe to find 
 
 At noon and eve a home, 
 Till we have left our Tent behind, 
 
 The homeless ocean-foam I 
 
 THE THINKER AND THE POET. 
 
 SUNSHINE often falls refulgent 
 After all the corn is in ; 
 Often Allah grants indulgent 
 Pleasure that may guard from sin : 
 Hence your wives may number four ; 
 Though he best consults his reason, 
 Best secures his house from treason, 
 Who takes one and wants no more. 
 
 Nor less well the man once gifted 
 With one high and holy Thought, 
 Will not let his mind be shifted, 
 But adores it, as he ought ; 
 Well for him whose spirit's youth 
 Rests as a contented lover, 
 Nor can other charms discover 
 Than in his absorbing Truth I
 
 The Thinker and the Poet. 153 
 
 But the heaven-enfranchised Poet 
 Must have no exclusive home, 
 He must feel, and freely show it, 
 Phantasy is made to roam : 
 He must give his passions range, 
 He must serve no single duty, 
 But from Beauty pass to Beauty, 
 Constant to a constant change. 
 
 With all races, of all ages, 
 He must people his Hareem ; 
 He must search the tents of sages, 
 He must scour the vales of dream : 
 Ever adding to his store, 
 From new cities, from new nations, 
 He must rise to new creations, 
 And, unsated, ask for more. 
 
 In the manifold, the various, 
 He delights, as Nature's child, 
 Grasps at joys the most precarious, 
 Rides on hopes, however wild ! 
 Though his heart at times perceives 
 One enduring Love hereafter, 
 Glimmering through his tears and laughter, 
 Like the sun through autumn leaves.
 
 154 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 MYRIAD Roses, unregretted, perish in their vernal bloom, 
 That the essence of their sweetness once your Beauty may per- 
 fume. 
 
 Myriad Veins of richest life-blood empty forth their priceless 
 
 worth, 
 To exalt one Will imperial over spacious realms of earth. 
 
 Myriad Hearts are pained and broken that one Poet may be 
 
 taught 
 To discern the shapes of passion and describe them as he ought. 
 
 Myriad Minds of heavenly temper pass as passes moon or star, 
 That one philosophic Spirit may ascend the solar car. 
 
 Sacrifice and Self-devotion hallow earth and fill the skies, 
 And the meanest Life is sacred whence the highest may arise. 
 
 PLEASURE AND PAIN. 
 
 Wno can determine the frontier of Pleasure ? 
 
 Who can distinguish the limit of Pain ? 
 Where is the moment the feeling to measure ? 
 
 When is experience repeated again ?
 
 The Peace of God. 155 
 
 Ye who have felt the delirium of passion 
 
 Say, can ye sever its joys and its pangs ? 
 Is there a power in calm contemplation 
 
 To indicate each upon each as it hangs ? 
 
 I would believe not ; for spirit may languish 
 
 While sense is most blest arid creation most bright ; 
 
 And life may be dearer and clearer in anguish 
 Than ever was felt in the throbs of delight. 
 
 See the Fak&er as he swings on his iron, 
 
 See the thin Hermit that starves in the wild ; 
 
 Think ye no pleasures the penance environ, 
 
 And hope the sole bliss by which pain is beguiled ? 
 
 No ! in the kingdoms those spirits are reaching, 
 
 Vain are our words the emotions to tell ; 
 Vain the distinctions our senses are teaching, 
 
 For Pain has its Heaven and Pleasure its Hell ! 
 
 THE PEACE OF GOD. 
 
 ' The blessed shall hear no vain words, but only the word Peace. 
 KURAN, chap. xix. v. 63. 
 
 PEACE is God's direct assurance 
 
 To the souls that win release 
 From this world of hard endurance 
 
 Peace he tells us only Peace.
 
 156 The Peace of God. 
 
 There is Peace in lifeless matter 
 There is Peace in dreamless sleep 
 
 Will then Death our being shatter 
 In annihilation's deep ? 
 
 Ask you this ? O mortal trembler ! 
 
 Hear the Peace that Death affords, 
 For your God is no dissembler, 
 
 Cheating you with double words : 
 
 To this life's inquiring traveller, 
 Peace of knowledge of all good, 
 
 To the anxious truth-unraveller, 
 Peace of wisdom understood, 
 
 To the loyal wife, affection 
 
 Towards her husband, free from fear,- 
 To the faithful friend, selection 
 
 Of all memo'ries kind and dear, 
 
 To the lover, full fruition 
 Of an unexhausted joy, 
 
 To the warrior, crowned ambition, 
 With no envy's base alloy, 
 
 To the ruler, sense of action, 
 Working out his great intent, 
 
 To the prophet, satisfaction 
 In the mission he was sent, 
 
 To the poet, conscious glory 
 
 Flowing from his Father's face ; 
 
 Such is Peace in holy story, 
 
 Such is Peace in heavenly grace.
 
 RABIA* 
 
 ROUND holy Rabia's suffering bed 
 
 The wise men gathered, gazing gravely 
 
 " Daughter of God ! " the youngest said, 
 Endure thy Father's chastening bravely ; 
 
 They who have steeped their souls in prayer 
 
 Can every anguish calmly bear." 
 
 She answered not, and turned aside, 
 Though not reproachfully nor sadly ; 
 
 " Daughter of God ! " the eldest cried, 
 " Sustain thy Father's chastening gladly, 
 
 They who have learnt to pray aright, 
 
 From pain's dark well draw up delight." 
 
 Then she spoke out, " Your words are fair ; 
 
 But, oh ! the truth lies deeper still ; 
 I know not, when absorbed in prayer, 
 
 Pleasure or pain, or good or ill ; 
 They who God's face can understand 
 Feel not the motions of His hand." 
 
 * Rabia was a holy woman, who lived in the second century of the 
 Hegira. Her sayings and thoughts are collected by many devotional 
 Arabic writers : they are a remarkable development of a Christian 
 mystical spirit early in the history of Islam.
 
 158 
 
 THE GREEK A T CONSTANTINOPLE. 
 
 THE cypresses of Scutari 
 
 In stern magnificence look down 
 On the bright lake and stream of sea, 
 
 And glitte'ring theatre of town : 
 Above the throng of rich kiosks, 
 
 Above the towers in triple tire, 
 Above the domes of loftiest mosques, 
 
 These pinnacles of death aspire. 
 
 It is a wilderness of tombs, 
 
 Where white and gold and brilliant hue 
 Contrast with Nature's gravest glooms, 
 
 As these again with heaven's clear blue : 
 The city's multitudinous hum, 
 
 So far, yet strikes the listening ear, 
 But what are thousands to the sum 
 
 Of millions calmly sleeping here ? 
 
 For here, whate'er his life's degree, 
 
 The Muslim loves to rest at last, 
 Loves to recross the band of sea 
 
 That parts him from his people's past. 
 'Tis well to live and lord o'er those 
 
 By whom his sires were most renowned, 
 But his fierce heart finds best repose . 
 
 In this traditionary ground.
 
 The Greek at Constantinople, 159 
 
 From this funereal forest's edge 
 
 I gave my sight full range below, 
 Reclining on a grassy ledge, 
 
 Itself a grave, or seeming so : 
 And that huge city flaunting bright, 
 
 That crowded port and busy shore, 
 With roofs and minarets steeped in light, 
 
 Seemed but a gaudy tomb the more. 
 
 I thought of what one might have hoped 
 
 From Greek and Roman power combined, 
 From strength, that with a world had coped, 
 
 Matched to the queen of human mind ; 
 From all the wisdom, might, and grace, 
 
 That Fancy's gods to man had given, 
 Blent in one empire and one race, 
 
 By the true faith in Christ and Heaven. 
 
 The finest webs of earthly fate 
 
 Are soonest and most harshly torn ; 
 The wise could scarce discriminate 
 
 That evening splendour from the morn ; 
 Though we, sad students of the past, 
 
 Can trace the lurid twilight line 
 That lies between the first and last, 
 
 Who bore the name of Constantine. 
 
 Such were my thoughts and such the scene, 
 When I perceived that by me stood 
 
 A Grecian youth of earnest mien, 
 Well-suiting my reflective mood, i
 
 160 The Greek at Constantinople. 
 
 And when he spoke, his words were tuned 
 Harmonious to my present mind, 
 
 As if his spirit had communed 
 
 With mine, while I had there reclined. 
 
 " Stranger ! whose soul hath strength to soar 
 
 Beyond the compass of the eye, 
 And on a spot like this can more 
 
 Than charms of form and hue descry, 
 Take off this mask of beauty, scan 
 
 The face of things with truth severe, 
 Think, as becomes a Christian man, 
 
 Of us thy Christian brethren here ! 
 
 " Think of that age's awful birth, 
 
 When Europe echoed, terror-riven, 
 That a new foot was on the earth, 
 
 And a new name come down from Heaven 
 When over Calpe's straits and steeps 
 
 The Moor had bridged his royal road, 
 And Othman's sons from Asia's deeps 
 
 The conquests of the Cross o'erflowed. 
 
 " Think, if the arm of Charles Martel 
 
 Had failed upon the plain of Tours, 
 The fate, whose course you know so well, 
 
 This foul subjection had been yours : 
 Where then had been the long renown 
 
 France can from sire to son deliver? 
 Where English freedom rolling down, 
 
 One widening, one continuous, river ?
 
 'The Greek at Constantinople. 161 
 
 "Think with what passionate delight 
 
 The tale was told in Christian halls, 
 How Sobieski turned to flight 
 
 The Muslim from Vienna's walls : 
 How, when his horse triumphant trod 
 
 The burgher's richest robes upon, 
 The ancient words rose loud ' From God 
 
 A man was sent whose name was John.' * 
 
 " Think not that time can ever give 
 
 Prescription to such doom as ours, 
 That Grecian hearts can ever live 
 
 Contented serfs of barbarous powers : 
 More than six hundred years had past, 
 
 Since Moorish hosts could Spain o'erwhelm, 
 Yet Boabdil was thrust at last, 
 
 Lamenting, from Grenada's realm. 
 
 " And if to his old Asian seat, 
 
 From this usurped unnatu'ral throne, 
 The Turk is driven, 'tis surely meet 
 
 That we again should hold our own : 
 Be but Byzantium's native sign 
 
 Of Cross on Crescentt once unfurled, 
 And Greece shall guard by right divine 
 
 The portals of the Eastern world. 
 
 * Historical. 
 
 t The Turks adopted the sign of the Crescent from Byzantium after 
 the conquest : the Cross above the Crescent is found on many ruins of the 
 Grecian city; among others, on the Genoese castle on the Bosphorus. 
 The Virgin standing on the Crescent is another common sign. 
 
 M
 
 162 TTie Greek at Constantinople. 
 
 " Before the small Athenian band 
 
 The Persian myriads stood at bay, 
 The spacious East lay down unmanned 
 
 Beneath the Macedonian's sway : 
 Alas ! that Greek could turn on Greek 
 
 Fountain of all our woes and shame 
 Till men knew scarcely where to seek 
 
 The fragments of the Grecian name. 
 
 " Know ye the Romans of the North ? 
 
 The fearful race whose infant strength 
 Stretches its arms of conquest forth, 
 
 To grasp the world in breadth and length ? 
 They cry ' That ye and we are old, 
 
 And worn with luxuries and cares, 
 And they alone are fresh and bold, 
 
 Time's latest and most honoured heirs ! 
 
 " Alas for you ! alas for us ! 
 
 Alas for men that think and feel, 
 If once beside this Bosphorus 
 
 Shall stamp Sclavonia's frozen heel ! 
 Oh ! place us boldly in the van, 
 
 And ere we yield this narrow sea, 
 The past shall hold within its span 
 
 At least one more Thermopylae."
 
 OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 A MONUMENT FOR SCUTARI. 
 
 "THE cypresses of Scutari 
 
 In stern magnificence look down 
 On the bright lake and stream of sea 
 
 And glittering theatre of town ; 
 Above the throng, of rich kiosks, 
 
 Above the towers in triple tire, 
 Above the domes of loftiest mosques, 
 
 Those pinnacles of death aspire. " 
 
 Thus, years ago, in grave descant, 
 
 The trave'ller sang those ancient trees 
 That Eastern grace delights to plant 
 
 In reverence of man's obsequies ; 
 But time has shed a golden haze 
 
 Of memory round the cypress glooms, 
 And gladly he reviews the days 
 
 He wandered 'mid those alien tombs. 
 
 Now other passion rules the soul ; 
 
 And Scutari's familiar name 
 Arouses thoughts beyond controul, 
 
 A tangled web of pride and shame ;
 
 164 A Monument for Scutari. 
 
 No more shall that fair word recall 
 The Moslem and his Asian rest, 
 
 But the dear brothers of us all 
 
 Rent from their mother's bleeding breast. 
 
 Calmly our warriors moulder there, 
 
 Uncoffined, in the sandy soil, 
 Once festered in the sultry glare, 
 
 Or wasted in the wintry toil. 
 No verdure on those graves is seen, 
 
 No shade obstructs the garish day ; 
 The tender dews to keep them green 
 
 Are wept, alas ! too far away ; 
 
 Are wept in homes their smiles shall bless 
 
 No more, beyond the welte'ring deep, 
 In cottages now fatherless 
 
 On English mead or Highland steep, 
 In palaces by common grief 
 
 Made level with the meanest room, 
 One agony, and one relief 
 
 The conscience of a glorious doom ! 
 
 For there, too, is Thermopylae ; 
 
 As on the dank /Egean shore, 
 By this bright portal of the sea 
 
 Stood the Devoted as of yore ; 
 When Greece herself was merged in night, 
 
 The Spartan held his honour's meed 
 And shall no pharos shed the light 
 
 To future time of Britain's deed ?
 
 A Monument for Scutari. 165 
 
 Masters of Form ! if such be now 
 
 On sense and powers of Art intent, 
 To match this mount of sorrow's brow 
 
 Devise your seemliest monument : 
 One that will symbolize the cause 
 
 For which this might of manhood fell, 
 Obedience to their country's laws, 
 
 And duty to God's truth as well. 
 
 Let, too, the old Miltonic Muse, 
 
 That trumpeted " the scattered bones 
 Of saints on Alpine mountains," use 
 
 Reveille of forgotten tones ; 
 Let some one, worthy to be priest 
 
 Of this high altar of renown, 
 Write in the tongues of West and East 
 
 Who bore this cross, who wore this crown. 
 
 Write that, as Britain's peaceful sons 
 
 Luxurious rich, well-tended poor, 
 Fronted the foeman's steel and guns, 
 
 As each would guard his household door ; 
 So, in those ghastly halls of pain 
 
 Where thousand hero-sufferers lay, 
 Some smiled in thought to fight again, 
 
 And most unmurmu'ring passed away. 
 
 Write that, when pride of human skill 
 Fell prostrate with the weight of care, 
 
 And men prayed out for some strong will, 
 Some reason 'mid the wild despair,
 
 1 66 On the Peace. 
 
 The loving heart of woman rose 
 
 To guide the hand and clear the eye, 
 
 Gave hope amid the sternest woes, 
 And saved what man had left to die. 
 
 Write every name lowlier the birth, 
 
 Loftier the death ! and trust that when 
 On this regenerated earth 
 
 Rise races of ennobled men, 
 They will remember these were they 
 
 Who strove to make the nations free, 
 Not only from the sword's brute sway, 
 
 But from the spirit's slavery. 
 
 ON THE PEACE, 
 
 MAY, 1856. 
 
 COME in wild Hopes ! that towards the dawning East 
 
 Uprose so high : now be content to stand, 
 
 Like hooded hawks upon the falconer's hand, 
 
 Awhile expectant of the promised feast. 
 
 Peace is proclaimed ! the captives are releast ! 
 
 Yet yearns the exile from the alien strand, 
 
 Yet chafes and straggles Europe's fairest land, 
 
 Untamed by priestly kings or kingly priest. 
 
 O blessed Peace ! if peace were peace indeed, 
 
 Based upon justice and the eternal laws 
 
 Which make the free intent of Man the cause 
 
 Of all enduring thought and virtuous deed. 
 
 But 'tis not so : we know we do but pause, 
 
 Awaiting fiercer strife and nobler meed.
 
 i6 7 
 
 CHINA, 1857. 
 
 THE little Athens from its pillared hill 
 Yet reigns o'er spacious tracts of human mind : 
 Britain, within her narrow bounds confined, 
 Bends East and West to her sagacious will : 
 While, recordless alike for good or ill, 
 China extends her name o'er so much rind 
 Of the round earth, and only stunts mankind 
 To mean desires, low acts, and puny skilL 
 Enormous masses of monotonous life ! 
 Teaching how weak is mere material power 
 To roll our world toward its heavenly goal 7 
 Teaching how vain is each exhausted hour 
 That does not mingle in the mental strife, 
 That does not raise or purify the souL 
 
 IRELAND, 1847. 
 
 THE woes of Ireland are too deep for verse : 
 The Muse has many sorrows of her own ; 
 Griefs she may well to sympathy rehearse, 
 Pains she may soften by her gentle tone. 
 
 But the stark death in hunger and sharp cold, 
 The slow exhaustion of our mortal clay, 
 Are not for her to touch. She can but fold 
 Her mantle o'er her head, and weep and pray. 
 
 O gracious Ruler of the rolling hours ! 
 
 Let not this agony last over long ; 
 
 Restore a nation to its manly powers, 
 
 Give back its suffe'rings to the sphere of Song.
 
 i68 
 
 ENGLAND'S SUMMER, 1857. 
 
 THE echoes of the rage of war 
 
 Fade in the Eastern distance ; 
 " Two years ago " looms very far 
 
 In our well-filled existence : 
 On that broad East, yet more remote, 
 
 We waste not thought or feeling, 
 But muse on British flags afloat, 
 
 And swarthy millions kneeling. 
 
 Week after week the summer sun, 
 
 Undimmed by cloud or shower. 
 With an Italian speed brings on 
 
 The happy harvest hour ; 
 The arts of peace, by plenty nurst, 
 
 Proclaim the world's alliance, 
 Even in the merry trumpet-burst, 
 
 And shouts of gay defiance. 
 
 Then flash along the sentient-wire 
 
 Some words so brief and fearful, 
 That they who hear them scarce desire 
 
 To see their children cheerful : 
 Tidings that through wide Hindostan, 
 
 Where Britain's rule stood surest 
 No life is safe of Christian man, 
 
 The loftiest or the poorest.
 
 England's Summer. 169 
 
 Is it a nation roused to meet 
 
 In arms a strange dominion ? 
 A people maddened by the heat 
 
 Of just or false opinion ? 
 No ; soldiers, cared for as our sons, 
 
 And clothed with England's honour, 
 Have turned their parricidal guns 
 
 With basest craft upon her ! 
 
 Soon things that make young blood run cold 
 
 We whisper, while we tremble ; 
 Or cry " that truths shall not be told 
 
 We to ourselves dissemble ; " 
 And hideous images affright 
 
 Our soul's deep hiding-places, 
 And in our sleep we start at sight 
 
 Of unknown forms and faces. 
 
 Our fair expanse of green and gold 
 
 Can hardly find us grateful, 
 The very sun that could behold 
 
 Such scenes is almost hateful ; 
 Warm rays flare up to cruel heat, 
 
 We sicken and we languish, 
 With those on whose sad heads they beat 
 
 Intolerable anguish ! 
 
 We mark, as comes the breeze of morn 
 
 To freshen and to sweeten 
 The ripples of the oaten corn, 
 
 The billows of the wheaten,
 
 170 England's Summer. 
 
 And feel that not one such sweet breath 
 Can reach where parch'd and tangled 
 
 The earth gives up to wasting death 
 Our brethren foully mangled. 
 
 And oh ! the pangs of those who know 
 
 What never must be spoken 
 Hearts that will bear about the woe 
 
 Of memo'ry until broken : 
 God give them thoughts of those who died 
 
 In Christendom's first ages, 
 The child, the veteran, and the bride, 
 
 The saints of history's pages ! 
 
 For these are Christian martyrs too 
 
 And England's all the dearer : 
 The mighty work she has to do 
 
 These agonies brings nearer ; 
 Conjuring her by that pure blood 
 
 No moment to abandon 
 The task of world-embracing good 
 
 She once has laid her hand on. 
 
 She cannot match the devilish dee;l, 
 
 Nor mate the hideous treason, 
 Her blow is not the traitor's meed, 
 
 But self-defending reason : 
 That will be lavish of its life, 
 
 And hold all cost uncounted 
 Till through the length and breadth of strife 
 
 This peril be surmounted.
 
 England?! Summer. 171 
 
 Then may she pardon only then 
 
 When, shamed and conscience-stricken, 
 The credulous or slothful men 
 
 Who let the horror thicken 
 Who little knew and nothing planned 
 
 The evil bond to sever, 
 Nor dared to burst it with the hand 
 
 Of resolute endeavour. 
 
 Yet while the rulers we condemn, 
 
 Who failed in due prevision, 
 We trust for Britain, as for them, 
 
 In history's great decision, 
 That subject lands more justly ruled, 
 
 And strength more mildly wielded, 
 Had never been, than when befooled 
 
 To noble hopes we yielded ; 
 
 Hopes of a world the force of law, 
 
 The worth of knowledge prizing ; 
 From Heathendom's debasing awe 
 
 To Christian reverence rising ; 
 Hopes of a people struggling forth 
 
 From custom's deep entrancement, 
 Led by the conquerors of the North 
 
 To Freedom's safe advancement. 
 
 Be this an Oriental tale 
 
 By Saxon pride engendered, 
 Hopes for a hundred years may fail, 
 
 Yet not be all surrendered :
 
 172 Columtnis and the May- Flower. 
 
 And now from each distracting scene 
 Of passion fiercely nourished, 
 
 We know what India might have been 
 Had Moslem tyrants flourished : 
 
 So would have been, and yet would be, 
 
 If England shrank from duty. 
 . . Then watch your harvest wealth with glee ; 
 
 Rejoice in Nature's beauty, 
 Making her bounties ministers 
 
 Of toil and self-denial, 
 And Victo'ry's surest harbingers, 
 
 After the fiery trial. 
 
 COLUMBUS AND THE MAY-FLOWER* 
 
 O LITTLE fleet ! that on thy quest divine 
 Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn, 
 Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne 
 A freight of Faith and Hope to match with thine ? 
 
 Say, too, has Heaven's high favour given again 
 Such consummation of desire, as shone 
 About Columbus, when he rested on 
 The new-found world and married it to Spain ? 
 
 Answer Thou refuge of the Freeman's need, 
 Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out, 
 Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt, 
 Thou simple May-Flower of the salt-sea mead ! 
 
 * Written as prefatory stanzas to Hunter's collection concerning the 
 
 Founders of New Plymouth.
 
 An Envoy to an American Lady. 173 
 
 When Thou wert wafted to that distant shore 
 Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odours, met thee not : 
 Stern Nature hail'd thee to a sterner lot. 
 God gave free earth and air, and gave no more. 
 
 Thus to men cast in that heroic mould 
 Came Empire such as Spaniard never knew 
 Such Empire as beseems the just and true ; 
 And at the last, almost unsought, came Gold. 
 
 But He who rules both calm and stormy days 
 Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health, 
 Safe on the perilo'us heights of power and wealth, 
 As in the straitness of the ancient ways. 
 
 AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY. 
 
 BEYOND the vague Atlantic deep, 
 Far as the farthest prairies sweep, 
 Where forest -glooms the nerve appal, 
 Where burns the radiant Western fall, 
 One duty lies on old and young, 
 With filial piety to guard, 
 As on its greenest native sward, 
 The glory of the English tongue. 
 That ample speech ! That subtle speech ! 
 Apt for the need of all and each : 
 Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 
 Wherever human feelings tend. 
 Preserve its force expand its powers ; 
 And through the maze of civic life, 
 In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
 Forget not it is yours and ours.
 
 174 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA, 1863. 
 
 WE only know that in the sultry weather, 
 Men toiled for us as in the steaming room, 
 And in our minds we hardly set together 
 The bondman's penance and the freeman's loom. 
 
 We never thought the jealous gods would store 
 For us ill deeds of time-forgotten graves, 
 Nor heeded that the May-Flower one day bore 
 A freight of pilgrims, and another slaves. 
 
 First on the bold upholders of the wrong, 
 And last on us, the heavy-laden years 
 Avenge the cruel triumphs of the strong 
 Trampled affections, and derided tears. 
 
 Labour, degraded from her high behest, 
 Cries " Ye shall know I am the living breath, 
 And not the curse of Man. Ye shall have Rest- 
 The rest of Famine and the rest of Death." 
 
 Oh, happy distant hours ! that shall restore 
 Honour to work, and pleasure to repose, 
 Hasten your steps, just heard above the war 
 Of wildering passions and the crash of foes.
 
 175 
 
 THE FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 ALL nature is stiff in the chill of the air, 
 The sun looks around with a smile of despair ; 
 'Tis a day of delusion, of glitter and gloom, 
 As brilliant as glory, as cold as the tomb. 
 
 The pageant is passing the multitude sways 
 Awaiting, pursuing, the line with its gaze, 
 With the tramp of battalion, the tremor of drums, 
 And the grave exultation of trumpets he comes. 
 
 It passes ! what passes ? He comes ! who is He ? 
 Is it Joy too profound to be uttered in glee ? 
 Oh, no ! it is Death, the Dethroner of old, 
 Now folded in purple and girded with gold ! 
 
 It is Death, who enjoys the magnificent car, 
 It is Death, whom the warriors have brought from afar, 
 It is Death, to whom thousands have knelt on the shore, 
 And sainted the bark and the treasure it bore. 
 
 What other than He, in his terrible calm, 
 Could mingle for myriads the bitter and balm, 
 Could hush into silence this ocean of men, 
 And bid the wild passion be still in its den ? 
 
 What other than He could have placed side by side 
 The chief and the humblest, that serving him died, 
 Could the blood of the past to the mourner atone, 
 And let all bless the name that has orphaned their own ?
 
 1 76 The Funeral of Napoleon. 
 
 From the shades of the olive, the palm, and the pine, 
 From the banks of the Moskwa, the Nile, and the Rhine, 
 From the sands and the glaciers, in armament dim, 
 Come they who have perished for France and for Him. 
 
 Rejoice, ye sad Mothers, whose desolate years 
 Have been traced in the desert of earth by their tears, 
 The Children for whom ye have hearts that still burn, 
 In this triumph of Death it is they that return. 
 
 And Ye in whose breast dwell the images true 
 Of parents that loved Him still better than you, 
 No longer lament o'er a cenotaph urn, 
 In this triumph of Death it is they that return. 
 
 From legion to legion the watchword is sped 
 " Long life to the Emperor life to tHe dead ! " 
 The prayer is accomplished his ashes remain 
 'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine. 
 
 In dominions of Thought that no traitor can reach, 
 Through the kingdoms of Fancy, the regions of Speech, 
 O'er the world of Emotions, Napoleon shall reign 
 'Mid the people he loved, on the banks of the Seine. 
 
 PARIS, December, 1840.
 
 MEMORIALS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 THE ELD. 
 
 "Tome . . . 
 
 Pushed from his chair of regal heritage, 
 The Present is the vassal of the Past." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 OH, blessed, blessed be the Eld, 
 
 Its echoes and its shades, 
 The tones that from all time outswelled, 
 
 The light that never fades ; 
 The silver-pinion'd memories, 
 
 The symbol and the tale, 
 The soul-enchased melodies 
 
 Of merriment or bale. 
 
 Oh, glory ! that we wrestle 
 
 So valiantly with Time, 
 And do not alway nestle 
 
 In listlessness or crime : 
 We do not live and die 
 
 Irrevocably blind, 
 But raise our hands and sigh 
 
 For' the might we left behind. 
 
 Each goodly sign and mystic letter, 
 That angel -haunted books unfold, 
 
 We cherish more, we know them better, 
 When we remember they are old ; 
 
 N
 
 178 The Eld. 
 
 And friends, though fresh, and hale, and cheerly, 
 
 And young, as annals hold, 
 Yet, if we prize them very dearly, 
 
 We love to call them old. 
 
 Yon scented shrub, I passed it by, 
 
 The youngling of the breeze ; 
 I sat me, sad and soberly, 
 
 Beneath those ancient trees, 
 Whose branches, dight in summer pall, 
 
 Their gloom in moaning wore ; 
 For' they told me of the Eld and all 
 
 The mystery of yore. 
 
 And in the gusts, I thought they pitied 
 
 The falling of the young, 
 The fair, the subtle-wilted, 
 
 Fine limb, and honeyed tongue ; 
 As man, from birth to funeral, 
 
 Were but a tragic mime, 
 And, they the kinsman lineal 
 
 Of the good and olden prime. 
 
 F saw the hoary bulk of ocean 
 
 A' couching on the shore, 
 With' a ripple for its motion, 
 
 And' a murmur for its roar ; 
 I gazed, but not as on the dead, 
 
 But as if Death were held 
 Jn awe, by a thing that slumbered 
 
 In the deep and silent Eld.
 
 The Eld. 179 
 
 The golden school of Eld is rife 
 
 With many a God-sent ray, 
 And jewel-gleams of perfect life, 
 
 Hereditary day ! 
 Alas ! we cannot quite awake, 
 
 But when we feel we dream, 
 That hour, our heart is strong to shake 
 
 The falsities that seem. 
 
 For' our bark is on the angle 
 
 Or a wide and bending stream, 
 Whose bosky banks entangle 
 
 The eye's divergent beam ; 
 The ridgy steeps hide in the way, 
 
 Whither the stream is quest, 
 As on a lake, the mirror'd day 
 
 Repeats its waveless rest. 
 
 How know we, when so clearly still, 
 
 Where' its nether fountains be? 
 That' it welleth in a viewless hill, 
 
 And passeth to the sea ? 
 The tide beneath us ! where it welled 
 
 Dull sense regardeth not, 
 But it was once the tide of Eld, 
 
 And we' have not all forgot. 
 
 Great Art hath bound a diadem^ 
 
 Upon his front serene, 
 Whose every pure and charmed gem 
 
 Bedews him with its sheen ; 
 
 N 2
 
 180 Greek Religion. 
 
 And thus, nor deem it wildly new, 
 Nor slur of idle tongue, 
 
 But true, as God's own words are true, 
 The Eld is alway young ; 
 
 Young as the flush of all-blue light, 
 
 Or eve's imperial eyes, 
 And he who worshippeth aright, 
 
 Shall aye be young and wise, 
 And gentle as the virgin dove 
 
 That primal chaos quelled, 
 With Nature for his ladie-love, 
 
 The daughter of the Eld. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1832. 
 
 GREEK RELIGION. 
 
 COULD we, but for one hour, burst through those gates ada- 
 
 matine, 
 
 Which, as the children of men pass onward in swift generation, 
 Time's dark cavern along, are heavily closing behind them ! 
 Could we but breathe the delight of the time when, fresh in his 
 
 boyhood, 
 
 Out of his own exuberant life, Man gave unto Nature, 
 Till new senses awoke, through every nerve of creation ! 
 Waves of the old yEgean ! I listen your musical ebbing ; 
 Smile to my eye, as you will, with smiles clear-crystal as ever, 
 Bind, in your silvery net, fair capes and embowered islands; 
 But ye can bear no more on your breast that vision of glory, 
 When in the cool moon-dew went forth the imperial revel,
 
 Greek Religion. 181 
 
 Dolphins and pearl-shell cars, of the Queen and the People of 
 
 Ocean ; 
 
 Whose sweet-undulant murmur the homeless mariner hearkened, 
 Over the undulant sapphire, and trembled in glad adoration. 
 
 How were ye voiced, ye Stars ! how cheerily Castor and Pollux 
 Spoke to the quivering seaman, amid the outpouring of tempest I 
 With what a firm-set gaze on the belt triple-gemmed of Orion 
 Looked the serene Greek child, as he thought of the suffering 
 
 giant, 
 
 Panting with sightless orbs for the dawn's miraculous healing ! 
 With what a sigh did he pass from the six proud deified sisters, 
 On to the fate of the fallen, and mourned for the love that 
 
 dethroned her ! 
 
 Not by elaborate charts did he read that book of the Heavens, 
 But to his heart's fine ear it was taught by a heavenly master. 
 
 Now from her window perchance may the maiden of desolate 
 
 Hellas, 
 When with the woes of her love and her land her spirit is 
 
 heavy, 
 
 Yearn to the white-bright moon, which, over the curved horizon, 
 Climbing the air still flushed with the flames of the opposite 
 
 sunset, 
 Seems with affectionate eye to regard her, and weep to her 
 
 weeping ; 
 
 Yet is it now not as when, having pined for Endymion's kindness, 
 She with the mourners of love held personal sympathy ever, 
 When, in the sky's void chasms a wanderer, she to the pilgrim 
 Over the world's sick plain was a dear companion in sorrow. 
 
 Down through the blue-grey thyme, which roofs their courses 
 
 with odour, 
 Rivulets, gentle as words from the lips of Beauty, are flowing ;
 
 1 82 Greek Religion. 
 
 Still, in the dusky ravine, they deepen and freshen their 
 
 waters, 
 
 Still, in the thick-arched coves, they slumber and dimple de- 
 lighted, 
 Catching the full-swelled fig and the deep-stained arbutus 
 
 ruby, 
 
 Still, to the sea's sand-brim, by royally gay oleanders, 
 And oriental array of reeds, they are ever attended ; 
 But they are all dumb forms, unimpregnate with vital emotion, 
 While, from the pure fount-head, no Nymph, her bosom ex- 
 panding, 
 
 Dazzles the way-worn wretch with the smile of her bland bene- 
 diction, 
 
 Giving the welcomed draught mysterious virtue and savour ; 
 While no curious hind in the noon-tide's magical ardour,* 
 Peeps through the blossomy trellice, that over the pool's dark 
 
 crystal 
 
 Guards the immaculate forms of the awful Olympian bathers ; 
 While at the wide stream-mouth never one, one, amorous Triton 
 Breathes to the surge and the tall marsh-blooms euphonious 
 passion. 
 
 These high Temples around, the religious shade of the olive 
 Falls on the grass close-wove ; in the redolent valley beneath us, 
 Stems of the loftiest platain their crowns large-leaved are spread- 
 ing, 
 While the most motley of herds is adorning the calm of their 
 
 umbrage ; 
 
 Yet ye are gone, ye are vanished for ever, ye guardian Beings ! 
 Who, in the time-gnarled trunks, broad branches, and summer 
 enchantment 
 
 * On the mystical power of noon in the appearance of supernatural beings, 
 vide Theocritus, i. 15; Lucan, iii. 422 ; Philostratus, Heroic, i. art 4; Por- 
 phyrius de Antro Nymph, c. xxvi. and xxvii.
 
 The Return of Ulysses. 183 
 
 Held an essential life and a power, as over your members, 
 Soothing the rage of the storm by your piteous moans of entreaty, 
 Staying the impious axe in the paralysed hand of the woodman. 
 Daphne, tremulous nymph, has fled the benignant asylum 
 Which, in the shape of the laurel, she found from the heat of 
 
 Apollo ; 
 Wan Narcissus has languished away from the languishing 
 
 flower ; 
 
 Hyacinth dwells no more in his brilliant abode, and the stranger 
 Reads the memorial signs he has left, with a curious pleasure. 
 
 Thou art become, oh Echo ! a voice, an inanimate image ; 
 W r here is the palest of maids, dark -tressed, dark-wreath&d with 
 
 ivy, 
 
 Who with her lips half-opened, and gazes of beautiful wonder, 
 Quickly repeated the words that burst on her lonely recesses, 
 lx)w in a love-lorn tone, too deep-distracted to answer ? 
 
 What must have been thy Nature, oh Greece ! when, marvellous- 
 lovely 
 Now as it is, it is only the tomb of an ancient existence ? 
 
 THE RETURN OF ULYSSES. 
 
 THE Man of wisdom and endurance rare, 
 A sundry-coloured and strange-featured way, 
 
 Our hearts have followed ; now the pleasant care 
 Is near its end, the oars' sweet-echoed play, 
 Falls on the cliffs of Ithaca's deep bay ; 
 
 The enemy, on whose impetuous breast 
 The hero rode undaunted, night and day, 
 
 (Such was Minerva's power, and Jove's behest) 
 
 Scorns the inglorious strife and lays his wrath to rest.
 
 1 84 The Return of Ulysses. 
 
 And how returns the tempest-tossed ? his prows 
 
 Gay -garlanded, with grand triumphal song ? 
 Leaps he upon the strand, and proudly vows 
 
 Dire vengeance unto all who did him wrong ? 
 
 Not so ; for him, all force and passion strong, 
 And fretful tumult, for a while are o'er, 
 
 He is borne gently, placidly, along, 
 And laid upon his own beloved shore, 
 Even as a wearied child, in quiet sleep once more ! 
 
 There is no part of that archaic Lay, 
 
 That strikes with such resistless power on me, 
 As this pure artist -touch, this tender ray, 
 
 A perfect -simple light of poesy ; 
 
 Not the nice wiles of chaste Penelope, 
 Not the poor pining dog that died of joy, 
 
 Not the grey smoke the wande'rer yearned to see, 
 Whose wavings he had traced, a careless boy, 
 Sweet as they are, for me this preference can destroy. 
 
 Where the "stone distaffs" of the nymphs of old, 
 
 Still make rich trace'ry in the sacred Cave, 
 Where peasants the dark-shadowed Fountain cold, 
 
 Hail by the name the Poet found or gave, . 
 
 Where on the Eagle-height the walls out -brave 
 All time, and only the full-fruited vine 
 
 Trails o'er the home, it may be o'er the grave, 
 Of Him for whom these memories combine, 
 Rest, care-worn mortal ! rest, and let his sleep be thine. 
 
 THIAKE, 1832.
 
 i8 S 
 
 OL YMPUS. 
 
 WITH no sharp-sided peak or sudden cone, 
 Thou risest o'er the blank Thessalian plain, 
 
 But in the semblance of a rounded throne, 
 Meet for a monarch and his noble train 
 To hold high synod ; but I feel it vain, 
 
 With my heart full and passionate as now, 
 To frame my humble verse, as I would fain, 
 
 To calm description, I can only bow 
 
 My head and soul, and ask again, " if that be Thou?" 
 
 I feel before thee, as of old I felt, 
 (With sense, as just, more vivid in degree) 
 
 When first I entered, and unconscious knelt 
 Within the Roman Martyr's sanctuary : 
 I feel that ages laid their faith on Thee, 
 
 And if to me thou art a holy hill, 
 Let not the Pious scorn, that Piety 
 
 Though veiled, that Truth, though shadowy, were still 
 
 All the world had to raise its heart and fallen will. 
 
 Thou Shrine ! which man, of his own natural thought, 
 Gave to the God of Nature, and girt round 
 
 With elemental mightiness, and brought 
 
 Splendour of form and depth of thunde'rous sound, 
 To wall about with awe the chosen ground, 
 
 All without toil of slaves or lavished gold, 
 Thou wert upbuilt of memories profound, 
 
 Imaginations wonderful and old, 
 
 And the pure gems that lie in Poets' hearts untold.
 
 1 86 Olympus. 
 
 God was upon Thee in a thousand forms 
 
 Of Terror and of Beauty, stem and fair, 
 Upgathered in the majesty of storms, 
 
 Or floating in the film of summer air ; 
 
 Thus wert Thou made ideal everywhere ; 
 From Thee the odorous plumes of Love were spread, 
 
 Delight and plenty through all lands to bear, 
 From Thee the never-erring bolt was sped 
 To curb the impious hand or blast the perjured head. 
 
 9 
 
 How many a Boy, in his full noon of faith, 
 
 Leaning against the Parthenon, half-blind 
 With inner light, and holding in his breath, 
 
 Awed by the image of his own high mind, 
 
 Has seen the Goddess there so proudly shrined, 
 Leave for awhile her loved especial home, 
 
 And pass, though wingless, on the northward wind, 
 On to thy height, beneath the' eternal dome, 
 Where Heaven's grand councils wait, 'till Wisdom's self shall 
 come. 
 
 Ours is another world, and godless now 
 Thy ample crown ; 'tis well, yes, be it so; 
 
 But I can weep this moment, when thy brow, 
 Light-covered with fresh hoar of autumn snow, 
 Shines in white light and chillness, which bestow 
 
 New grace of reve'rend loveliness, as seen 
 With the long mass of gloomy hills below : 
 
 Blest be our open faith ! too grand, I ween, 
 
 To grudge these votive tears to Beauty that has been. 
 
 LARISA, 1832.
 
 i8 7 
 
 DELPHI. 
 
 BENEATH the vintage moon's uncertain light, 
 
 And some faint stars that pierced the film of cloud, 
 
 Stood those Parnassian peaks before my sight, 
 
 Whose fame throughout the ancient world was loud. 
 
 Still could I dimly trace the terraced lines 
 Diverging from the cliffs on either side ; 
 
 A theatre whose steps were filled with shrines 
 And rich devices of Hellenic pride. 
 
 Now brightest daylight would have lit in vain 
 
 The place whence gods and worshippers had fled ; 
 
 Only, and they too tenantless, remain 
 The hallowed chambers of the pious dead. 
 
 Yet those wise architects an ample part 
 To Nature gave in their religious shows, 
 
 And thus, amid the sepultures of Art, 
 
 Still rise the Rocks and still the Fountain flows. 
 
 Desolate Delphi ! pure Castalian spring ! 
 
 Hear me avow that I am not as they 
 Who deem that all about you ministe'ring 
 
 Were base impostors, and mankind their prey : 
 
 That the high names they seemed to love and laud 
 Were but the tools their paltry trade to ply ; 
 
 This pomp of Faith a mere gigantic fraud, 
 The apparatus of a mighty lie !
 
 1 88 Delphi. 
 
 Let those that will believe it ; I, for one, 
 Cannot thus read the history of my kind ; 
 
 Remembe'ring all this little Greece has done 
 To raise the universal human mind : 
 
 I doubt not, hierarchs of that plastic race, 
 By faith received and given, could keep alive 
 
 Those awful rites and sanctities of place, 
 Believing where they seemed but to contrive : 
 
 And thus these mighty sympathies, combined 
 With such rare nature as the priestess bore, 
 
 Brought to the surface of her stormy mind 
 Distracted fragments of prophetic lore. 
 
 For, howsoe'er to mortals' probing view 
 Creation is revealed, yet must we pause, 
 
 Weak to dissect the futile from the true, 
 Where vast Imagination spreads her laws. 
 
 So now that dimmer grows the watery light, 
 And things each moment more fantastic seem, 
 
 I fain would seek if still the Gods have might 
 Over the undissembling world of dream : 
 
 I ask not that for me aside be cast 
 The solemn veil that hides what is decreed ; 
 
 I crave the resurrection of the past, 
 That I may know what Delphi was indeed ! 
 
 OCT., 1842.
 
 189 
 
 THE TOMB OF LA I US. 
 
 WHERE Delphi's consecrated pass 
 
 Bceotia's misty region faces,* 
 Rises a tomb-like stony mass 
 
 Amid the bosky mountain-bases ; 
 It seems no work of human care, 
 
 But many rocks split off from one : 
 Laius, the Theban king, lies there, 
 
 His murde'rer CEdipus, his son. 
 
 No pilgrim to the Pythian shrine 
 
 But marked the spot with decent awe, 
 In presence of a power divine, 
 
 O'erruling human will and law : 
 And to some thoughtful hearts that scene 
 
 Those paths, that mound, those browsing herds, 
 Were more than e'er that tale had been, 
 
 Arrayed in Sophoclean words. 
 
 So is it yet, no time or space 
 
 That ancient anguish can assuage, 
 For sorrow is of every race, 
 
 And suffe'ring due from every age ; 
 That awful legend falls to us, 
 
 With all the weight that Greece could feel, 
 And every man is CEdipus, 
 
 Whose wounds no mortal skill can heal. 
 
 * At the " Schiste Hodos," or " Triodos.
 
 190 The Flowers of Helicon. 
 
 Oh ! call it Providence or Fate, 
 
 The Sphynx propounds the riddle still, 
 That Man must bear and expiate 
 
 Loads of involuntary ill : 
 So shall Endurance ever hold 
 
 The foremost rank 'mid human needs, 
 Not without faith, that God can mould 
 
 To good the dross of evil deeds. 
 
 1842. 
 
 THE FLOWERS OF HELICON. 
 
 THE solitudes of Helicon 
 
 Are rife with gay and scented flowers, 
 Shining the marble rocks upon, 
 
 Or 'mid the valley's oaken bowers ; 
 And ever since young Fancy placed 
 
 The Hieron of the Muses here, 
 Have ceaseless generations graced 
 
 This airy Temple year by year. 
 
 But those more bright, more precious, flowers 
 
 With which old Greece the Muses woo'd, 
 The Art, whose varied forms and powers 
 
 Charmed the poetic multitude, 
 The Thought, that from each deep recess 
 
 And fissure of the teeming mind 
 Sent up its odo'rous fruitfulness 
 
 What have those glories left behind ?
 
 The Flowers of Helicon. 191 
 
 For from those generous calices 
 
 The vegetative virtue shed, 
 Flew over distant lands and seas, 
 
 Waking wide nations from the dead ; 
 And e'er the parent plants o'erthrown 
 
 Gave place to rank and noisome weed, 
 The giant Roman world was sown 
 
 Throughout with that ennobling seed. 
 
 And downward thence to latest days 
 
 The heritage of Beauty fell, 
 And Grecian forms and Grecian lays 
 
 Prolonged their humanising spell, 
 Till, when new worlds for man to win 
 
 The' Atlantic's riven waves disclose, 
 The wildernesses there begin 
 
 To blossom with the Grecian rose. 
 
 And all this while in barren shame 
 
 Their native land remote reclines, 
 A mocked and miserable name 
 
 Round which some withered ivy twines : 
 Where, wandering 'mid the broken tombs, 
 
 The remnant of the race forget 
 That ever with such royal blooms 
 
 This Garden of the Soul was set. 
 
 O breezes of the wealthy West ! 
 
 Why bear ye not on grateful wings 
 The seeds of all your life has blest 
 
 Back to their being's early springs? 
 Why fill ye not these plains with hopes 
 
 To bear the treasures once they bore, 
 And to these Heliconian slopes 
 
 Transport civility and lore ?
 
 I9 2 Mycena. 
 
 For now, at least, the soil is free, 
 
 Now that one strong reviving breath 
 Has chased that Eastern tyranny 
 
 Which to the Greek was ever death : 
 Now that, though weak with age and wrongs, 
 
 And bent beneath the recent chain, 
 This motherland of Greece belongs 
 
 To her own western world again. 
 
 1842. 
 
 MYCENAE. 
 
 I SAW a weird procession glide along 
 
 The vestibule before the Lion's gate ;* 
 
 A Man of godlike limb and warrior state, 
 
 Who never looked behind him, led the throng ; 
 
 Next a pale Girl, singing sweet sorrow, met 
 
 My eyes, who ever pointed to a fleck 
 
 Of ingrained crimson on her marble neck ; 
 
 Her a fierce Woman, armed with knife and net, 
 
 Close followed, whom a Youth pursued with smile, 
 
 Once mild, now bitter-mad, himself the while 
 
 Pursued by three foul Shapes, gory and grey : 
 
 Dread Family ! . . . I saw another day 
 
 The phantom of that Youth, sitting alone, 
 
 Quiet, thought-bound, a stone upon a stone. 
 
 1832. 
 
 * !T{TiiAoc rail. Elect. 1391.
 
 193 
 
 MARA THON. 
 
 I COULD believe that under such a sky, 
 
 Thus grave, thus streaked with thunderlight, of yore, 
 
 The small Athenian troop rushed onward, more 
 
 As Bacchanals, than men about to die. 
 
 How weak that massive motley enemy 
 
 Seemed to those hearts, full-fed on that high lore, 
 
 Which, for their use, in his melodious store, 
 
 Old Homer had laid up immortally. 
 
 Thus Marathon was Troy, thus here again, 
 
 They were at issue with the barba'rous East, 
 
 And favou'ring Gods spoke out, and walked the plain 
 
 And every man was an anointed priest 
 
 Of Nemesis, empowered to chastise 
 
 The rampant insolence that would not be made wise. 
 
 1832. 
 
 THERMOPYLAE. 
 
 No parleying with themselves, no pausing thought 
 Of worse or better consequence, was there, 
 
 Their business was to do what Spartans ought, 
 Sparta's chaste honour was their only care. 
 
 First in the outlet of that narrowest pass, 
 
 Between the tall straight cliffs and sullen tide, 
 
 Before his Faithful, stood Leonidas, 
 Before the Few who could not leave his side. 
 
 o
 
 194 Thermopylae. 
 
 Never the hope of such a precious meed 
 
 Upon his most ambitious dreams had shone, 
 
 Through Him the Gods for Sparta had decreed 
 More fame than Athens earned at Marathon. 
 
 And more than this, he knew in that proud hour, 
 How high a price his single Life could claim, 
 
 That in its sacrifice there lay the power 
 Alone to save his father-land from shame, 
 
 Yet was he loth to meet that sacred fate, 
 
 As he there stood, cramped in by rocks and sea, 
 
 He would confront the Persian myriad's weight, 
 And die an unbound Victim, fighting free. 
 
 One more fair field, one last unshackled blow 
 Strong with concentrate vengeance, this was all 
 
 That still remained to fill to overflow 
 The measure of the glory of his fall. 
 
 How He, and They who followed him in love, 
 Went forth and perished, is a tale to tell, 
 
 Such as old Bards to Epic music wove, 
 And so felt he who wrote their Chronicle. 
 
 The symbol Lion, that once stood in stone 
 Over the Lion-hearted, is no more ; 
 
 Where sat the Last, on their sepulchral throne, 
 Is now a thing of antiquarian lore. 
 
 Nor mourn for this, all other truth is vain, 
 But this, to know at heart, that They are there, 
 
 There in the giant cliffs, and perilous plain, 
 Paths, fountains, forest, ocean, every where.
 
 The Concentration oj Athens, 195 
 
 Now let all Thought be Memo'ry, calmly wait, 
 Till clear defined, before thy Spirit's eyes, 
 
 Heroic Dignity, impersonate 
 
 In awful phantoms, silently arise. 
 
 Between the Men who noble deeds have done, 
 
 And every Poet to the end of time, 
 There is a brotherly communion, 
 
 One Father- God has made them both sublime : 
 
 And thus, to Thee, there can be nothing dead 
 Of great things past, they live in thine own will, 
 
 Thou givest them form, they, on thy favoured head, 
 Virtues of earth and Heavenly Love distil. 
 
 THE CONCENTRATION OF ATHENS. 
 
 " Bards who died content on pleasant sward, 
 Leaving great verse unto a little clan." KEATS. 
 
 WHY should we wonder that from such small space 
 
 Of Earth so much of human strength upgrew, 
 
 When thus were woven bonds that tighter drew 
 
 Round the Athenian heart than faith or race ? 
 
 Thus patriotism could each soul imbue 
 
 With personal affections, face to face, 
 
 And home was felt in every public place, 
 
 And brotherhood was never rare or new. 
 
 Thus Wisdom, from the neighbouring Parthenon, 
 
 Down on the Areopagus could fix 
 
 A watchful gaze : thus from the rising Pnyx 
 
 The Orator's inspiring voice could reach 
 
 Half o'er the City, and his solemn speech 
 
 Was as a father's counsel to his son. 
 
 o 2
 
 PELASGIAN AND CYCLOPEAN WALLS. 
 
 YE cliffs of masonry, enormous piles, 
 Which no rude censure of familiar Time 
 Nor record of our puny race defiles, 
 In dateless mystery ye stand sublime, 
 Memorials of an age of which we see 
 Only the types in things that once were Ye. 
 
 Whether ye rest upon some bosky knoll, 
 
 Your feet by ancient myrtles beautified, 
 
 Or seem, like fabled dragons, to unroll 
 
 Your swarthy grandeurs down a bleak hill-side, 
 
 Still on your savage features is a spell 
 
 That makes ye half divine, ineffable. 
 
 With joy, upon your height I stand alone, 
 
 As on a precipice, or lie within 
 
 Your shadow wide, or leap from stone to stone, 
 
 Pointing my steps with careful discipline, 
 
 And think of those grand limbs whose nerve could bear 
 
 These masses to their places in mid air ; 
 
 Of Anakim, and Titans, and of days 
 
 Saturnian, when the spiri't of man was knit 
 
 So close to Nature, that his best essays 
 
 At Art were but in all to follow it. 
 
 In all, dimension, dignity, degree ; 
 
 And thus these mighty things were made to be.
 
 197 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 " The ruler of the Adriatic, who never was infant nor stripling, whom 
 God took by the right hand and taught to walk by himself the first 
 hour." LANDOR. 
 
 WALK in St. Mark's, the time the ample space 
 Lies in the freshness of the evening shade, 
 When, on each side, with gravely darkened face, 
 The masses rise above the light arcade ; 
 Walk down the midst with slowly-tun&d pace, 
 But gay withal, for there is high parade 
 Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass 
 Like varying groups on a magician's glass. 
 
 From broad-illumined chambers far within, 
 Or under curtains daintily outspread, 
 Music, and laugh, and talk, the motley din 
 Of all who from sad thought or toil are sped, 
 Here a chance hour of social joy to win, 
 Gush forth, but /love best, above my head 
 To feel nor arch nor tent, nor anything 
 But that pure Heaven's eternal covering. 
 
 It is one broad Saloon, one gorgeous Hall ; 
 A chamber, where a multitude, all Kings, 
 May hold full audience, splendid festival, 
 Or Piety's most pompous ministerings j
 
 1 98 Venice, 
 
 Thus be its height unmarred, thus be it all 
 One mighty room, whose form direct upsprings 
 To the o'er-arching sky ; it is right good, 
 When Art and Nature keep such brotherhood. 
 
 For where, upon the firmest sodden land, 
 
 Has ever Monarch's power and toil of slaves 
 
 Equalled the works of that self-governed band, 
 
 Who fixed the Delos of the Adrian waves ; 
 
 Planting upon these strips of yielding sand 
 
 A Temple of the Beautiful, which braves 
 
 The jealous strokes of ocean, nor yet fears 
 
 The far more perilous sea, " whose waves are years?" 
 
 Walk in St. Mark's again, some few hours after, 
 When a bright sleep is on each storied pile, 
 When fitful music, and inconstant laughter, 
 Give place to Nature's silent moonlight smile : 
 Now Fancy wants no faery gale to waft her 
 To Magian haunt, or charm-engirded isle, 
 All too content, in passive bliss, to see 
 This show divine of visible Poetry : 
 
 On such a night as this impassionedly 
 
 The old Venetian sung those verses rare, 
 
 " That Venice must of needs eternal be. 
 
 For Heaven had looked through the pellucid air, 
 
 And cast its reflex in the crystal sea, 
 
 And Venice was the image pictured there ;" * 
 
 I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem 
 
 As treading on an unsubstantial dream. 
 
 " Ich horte einen blinden SSnger in Chioggia, der sang, Venedig sey 
 eine ewige Stadt ; der Himmel hiitte sich im Meer gespiegelt und sein 
 Widerscheln w&re Venedig." PLATEN.
 
 Venice. 199 
 
 Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power, 
 Of things that were, and are not ? Is he here ? 
 Can he take in the glory of this hour, 
 And call it all the decking of a bier ? 
 No, surely as on that Titanic tower * 
 The Guardian Angel stands in aether clear, 
 With the moon's silver tempering his gold wing, 
 So Venice lives, as lives no other thing : 
 
 That strange Cathedral ! exquisitely strange, 
 That front, on whose bright varied tints the eye 
 Rests as of gems, those arches, whose high range 
 Gives its rich-broidered border to the sky, 
 Those ever-prancing steeds ! My friend, whom change 
 Of restless will has led to lands that lie 
 Deep in the East, does not thy fancy set 
 Above those domes an airy minaret ? 
 
 Dost thou not feel, that in this scene are blent 
 Wide distances of the estranged earth, 
 Far thoughts, far faiths, beseeming her who bent 
 The spacious Orient to her simple worth, 
 Who, in her own young freedom eminent, 
 Scorning the slaves that shamed their ancient birth, 
 And feeling what the West could be, had been, 
 Went out a Trave'ller and returned a Queen ? 
 
 * The Campanile.
 
 THE VENETIAN SERENADE. 
 
 WHEN along the light ripple the far serenade 
 Has accosted the ear of each passionate maid, 
 She may open the window that looks on the stream, 
 She may smile on her pillow and blend it in dream ; 
 Half in words, half in music, it pierces the gloom, 
 " I am coming Stall but you know not for whom ! 
 Stall not for whom ! " 
 
 Now the tones become clearer, you hear more and more 
 How the water divided returns on the oar, 
 Does the prow of the Gondola strike on the stair ? 
 Do the voices and instruments pause and prepare ? 
 Oh ! they faint on the ear as the lamp on the view, 
 " I am passing Preml but I stay not for you ! 
 Preml not for you ! " 
 
 Then return to your couch, you who stifle a tear, 
 Then awake not, fair sleeper believe he is here ; 
 For the young and the loving no sorrow endures, 
 If to-day be another's, to-morrow is yours ; 
 May, the next time you listen, your fancy be true, 
 " I am coming Sci&r and for you and to you I 
 Sciar and to you ! " 
 
 The Venetian words here used are the calls of the gondoliers : 
 Stall to the right. 
 Preml to the left. 
 Sciur stop the boat.
 
 201 
 
 A DREAM IN A GONDOLA. 
 
 I HAD a dream of waters : I was borne 
 
 Fast down the slimy tide 
 
 Of eldest Nile, and endless flats forlorn 
 
 Stretched out on either side, 
 
 Save where from time to time arose 
 
 Red Pyramids, like flames in forced repose, 
 
 And Sphynxes gazed, vast countenances bland, 
 
 Athwart that river-sea and sea of sand. 
 
 It is the nature of the Life of Dream, 
 
 To make all action of our mental springs, 
 
 Howe'er unnatural, discrepant, and strange, 
 
 Be as the' unfolding of most usual things ; 
 
 And thus to me no wonder did there seem, 
 
 When, by a subtle change, 
 
 The heavy, ample, byblus-wing&d, boat, 
 
 In which I lay afloat, 
 
 Became a deft canoe, light-wove 
 
 Of painted bark, gay-set with lustrous shells, 
 
 Faintingly rocked within a lonesome cove, 
 
 Of some rich island where the Indian dwells ; 
 
 Below, the water's pure white light 
 
 Took colour from reflected blooms, 
 
 And, through the forest's deepening glooms, 
 
 Birds of illuminated plumes 
 
 Came out like stars in summer-night : 
 
 And close beside, all fearless and serene, 
 
 Within a niche of drooping green, 
 
 A girl, with limbs fine-rounded and clear-brown, 
 
 And hair thick-waving down,
 
 A Dream, in a Gondola. 
 
 Advancing one small foot, in beauty stood, 
 Trying the temper of the lambent flood. 
 
 But on my spirit in that spic&d air 
 
 Embalmed, and in luxurious senses drowned, 
 
 Another change of sweet and fair 
 
 There passed, and of the scene around 
 
 Nothing remained the same in sight or sound : 
 
 For now the Wanderer of my dream 
 
 Was gliding down a fable-stream 
 
 Of long-dead Hellas, with much treasure 
 
 Of in working thoughtful pleasure ; 
 
 While the silver line meanders 
 
 Through the tall pink oleanders, 
 
 Through the wood of tufted rushes, 
 
 Through the arbute's ruby-bushes, 
 
 Voices of a happy hymn 
 
 Every moment grow less dim, 
 
 Till at last the slim caique 
 
 (Hollowed from a single stem 
 
 Of a hill-brow's diadem) 
 
 Rests in a deep-dented creek 
 
 Myrtle-ambushed, and above 
 
 Songs, the very breath of Love, 
 
 Stream from Temples reverend-old, 
 
 Porticoes of Doric mould, 
 
 Snow-white islands of devotion, 
 
 Planted in the rose and gold 
 
 Of the evening's aether-ocean ; 
 
 O joyant earth ! beloved Grecian sky .' 
 
 O favoured Wanderer honoured dreamer I ! 
 
 Yet not less favoured when awake, for now, 
 Across my torpid brow
 
 A Dream in a Gondola. 203 
 
 Swept a cool current of the young night's air, 
 
 With a sharp kiss, and there 
 
 Was I all clear awake, drawn soft along 
 
 There in my own dear Gondola, among 
 
 The bright-eyed Venice isles, 
 
 Lit up in constant smiles. 
 
 What had my thoughts and heart to do 
 
 With wild Egyptian bark, or frail canoe, 
 
 Or mythic skiff out of Saturnian days, 
 
 When I was there, with that rare scene to praise, 
 
 That Gondola to rest in and enjoy, 
 
 That actual bliss to taste without alloy ? 
 
 Cradler of placid pleasures, deep delights, 
 
 Bosomer of the Poet's wearied mind, 
 
 Tempter from vulgar passions, scorns and spites, 
 
 Enfolder of all feelings that be kind ! 
 
 Before our souls thy quiet motions spread, 
 
 In one great calm, one undivided plain, 
 
 Immediate joy, blest memories of the dead, 
 
 And iris-tinted forms of hope's domain, 
 
 Child of the still Lagoons ! 
 
 Open to every show 
 
 Of summer sunsets and autumnal moons, 
 
 Such as no other space of world can know, 
 
 Dear Boat ! that makest dear 
 
 Whatever thou com'st near, 
 
 In thy repose still let me gently roam, 
 
 Still on thy couch of beauty find a home ; 
 
 Still let me share thy comfortable peace 
 
 With all I have of dearest upon Earth, 
 
 Friend, mistress, sister ; and when death's release 
 
 Shall call my spirit to another birth,
 
 204 At Venice. 
 
 Would that I might thus lightly lapse away, 
 Alone, by moonlight, in a Gondola. 
 
 AT VENICE. 
 
 NOT only through the golden haze 
 Of indistinct surprise, 
 With which the Ocean-bride displays 
 Her pomp to stranger eyes ; 
 Not with the fancy's flashing play, 
 The traveller's vulgar theme, 
 Where following objects chase away 
 The moment's dazzling dream ; 
 
 Not thus art thou content to see 
 The City of my love, 
 Whose beauty is a thought to me 
 All mortal thoughts above ; 
 And pass in dull unseemly haste, 
 Nor sight nor spirit clear, 
 As if the first bewilde'ring taste 
 Were all the banquet here ! 
 
 When the proud Sea, for Venice' sake, 
 
 Itself consents to wear 
 
 The semblance of a land-locked lake, 
 
 Inviolably fair ; 
 
 And in the dalliance of her Isles, 
 
 Has levelled his strong waves, 
 
 Adoring her with tende'rer wiles, 
 
 Than his own pearly caves,
 
 At Venice. 205 
 
 Surely may -we to simi'lar calm 
 
 Our noisy lives subdue, 
 
 And bare our bosoms to such balm 
 
 As God has given to few : 
 
 Surely may we delight to- pause 
 
 On our care-goaded road, 
 
 Refuged from Time's most bitter laws 
 
 In this august abode. 
 
 Thou knowest this, thou lingerest here, 
 
 Rejoicing to remain ; 
 
 The plashing oars fall on thy ear 
 
 Like a familiar strain ; 
 
 No wheel prolongs its weary roll, 
 
 The Earth itself goes round 
 
 Slower than elsewhere, and thy soul 
 
 Dreams in the void of sound. 
 
 Thy heart, by Nature's discipline, 
 From all disdain refined, 
 Kept open to be written in 
 By good of every kind, 
 Can harmonise its inmost sense 
 To every outward tone, 
 And bring to all experience 
 High reasoning of its own. 
 
 So, when these forms come freely out, 
 And wonder is gone by, 
 With patient skill it sets about 
 Its subtle work of joy ;
 
 206 At Venice. 
 
 Connecting all it comprehends 
 
 By lofty moods of love, 
 
 The earthly Present's farthest ends, 
 
 The Past's deep Heaven above. 
 
 O bliss ! to watch, with half-shut lid, 
 
 By many a secret place, 
 
 Where darkling loveliness is hid, 
 
 And undistinguished grace, 
 
 To mark the gloom, by slow degrees, 
 
 Exfoliate, till the whole 
 
 Shines forth before our sympathies, 
 
 A soul that meets a soul ! 
 
 Come out upon the broad Lagoon, 
 
 Come for the hundredth time, 
 
 Our thoughts shall make a pleasant tune, 
 
 Our words a worthy rhyme ; 
 
 And thickly round us we will set 
 
 Such visions as were seen, 
 
 By Tizian and by Tintorett, 
 
 And dear old Giambellin, 
 
 And all their peers in art, whose eyes, 
 
 Taught by this sun and sea, 
 
 Flashed on their works those burning dyes, 
 
 That fervent poetry ; 
 
 And wove the shades so thinly-clear 
 
 They would be parts of light 
 
 In northern climes, where frowns severe 
 
 Mar half the charms of sight.
 
 At Venice. 207 
 
 Did ever shape that Paolo drew 
 
 Put on such brilliant tire, 
 
 As Nature, in this evening view, 
 
 This world of tinted fire ? 
 
 The glory into whose embrace, 
 
 The virgin pants to rise, 
 
 Is but reflected from the face 
 
 Of these Venetian skies. 
 
 The sun, beneath the horizon's brow 
 Has sunk, not passed away ; 
 His presence is far lordlier now 
 Than on the throne of day ; 
 His spirit of splendour has gone forth, 
 Sloping wide violet rays, 
 Possessing air and sea and earth 
 With his essential blaze.* 
 
 Transpierced, transfused, each densest mass 
 
 Melts to as pure a glow, 
 
 As images on painted glass 
 
 Or silken screens can show. 
 
 Gaze on the city, contemplate 
 
 With that fine sense of thine 
 
 The Palace of the ancient state, 
 
 That wildly -grand design ! 
 
 * The perfect transparency and rich colour of all objects, and their 
 reflections, in southern countries, for some short time after sunset, has an 
 almost miraculous effect to a northern eye. Whenever it has been imi- 
 tated in art, it has been generally pronounced unnatural or exaggerated. 
 I do not remember to have ever seen the phenomenon so astonishingly 
 beautiful as at Venice, at least in Italy.
 
 2o8 At Venice. 
 
 How 'mid the universal sheen 
 
 Of marble amber-tinged, 
 
 Like some enormous baldaquin 
 
 Gay-chequered and deep-fringed, 
 
 It stands in air and will not move, 
 
 Upheld by magic power, 
 
 The dun-lead Domes just caught above 
 
 Beside, the glooming Tower. 
 
 Now a more distant beauty fills 
 Thy scope of ear and eye, 
 That graceful cluster of low hills, 
 Bounding the western sky, 
 Which the ripe evening flushes cover 
 With purplest fruitage bloom, 
 Methinks that gold-lipt cloud may hover 
 Just over Petrarch's tomb ! 
 
 Petrarch ! when we that name repeat, 
 
 Its music seems to fall 
 
 Like distant bells, soft -voiced and sweet, 
 
 But sorrowful withal ; 
 
 That broken heart of love ! that life 
 
 Of tenderness and tears ! 
 
 So weak on earth, in earthly strife, 
 
 So strong in holier spheres ! 
 
 How in his most of godlike pride, 
 While emu'lous nations ran 
 To kiss his feet, he slept aside 
 And wept the woes of man !
 
 Ode. 209 
 
 How in his genius-woven bower 
 
 Of passion ever green, 
 
 The world's black veil fell, hour by hour, 
 
 Him and his rest between. 
 
 Welcome such thoughts ; they well atone 
 
 With this more serious mood 
 
 Of visible things that night brings on, 
 
 In her cool shade to brood ; 
 
 The moon is clear in heaven and sea, 
 
 Her silver has been long 
 
 Slow-changing to bright gold, but she 
 
 Deserves a separate song. 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO THE MOON OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 LET him go down, the gallant Sun ! 
 
 His work is nobly done ; 
 
 Well may He now absorb 
 
 Within his solid orb 
 The rays so beautiful and strong, 
 The rays that have been out so long 
 Embracing this delighted land as with a mystic song. 
 
 Let the brave Sun go down to his repose, 
 
 And though his heart be kind, 
 
 He need not mourn for those 
 
 He leaves behind ; 
 
 He knows, that when his ardent throne 
 Is rolled beyond the vaulting sky, 
 The Earth shall not be left alone 
 In darkness and perplexity.
 
 Ode. 
 
 We shall not sit in sullen sorrow 
 Expectant of a tardy morrow, 
 But there where he himself arose, 
 
 Another power shall rise, 
 And gracious rivalry disclose 
 
 To our reverted eyes, 
 
 Between the passing splendour and the born, 
 Which can the most our happy world adorn. 
 
 The light of night shall rise, 
 
 Not as in northern skies, 
 
 A memo'ry of the day, a dream 
 
 Of sunshine, something that might seem 
 
 Between a shadow and a gleam, 
 
 A mystery, a maiden 
 
 Whose spirit worn and sorrow laden 
 
 Pleasant imaginations wile 
 
 Into a visionary smile, 
 
 A novice veiled in vapoury shrouds, 
 
 A timid huntress, whom the clouds 
 Rather pursue than shun, 
 With faf another mien, 
 Wilt Thou come forth serene, 
 Thou full and perfect Queen, 
 
 Moon of the South ! twin-sister of the Sun I 
 
 Still harboured in his tent of cloth of gold 
 He seems thy ordered presence to await, 
 In his pure soul rejoicing to behold 
 The majesty of his successor's state, 
 
 Saluting thy ascent 
 
 With many a tender and triumphant tone 
 Compassed in his celestial instrument, 
 And harmonies of hue to other climes unknown.
 
 , Ode. 
 
 He too, who knows what melody of word 
 May with that visual music best accord, 
 Why does the Bard his homage now delay ? 
 
 As in the ancient East, 
 
 The royal Minstrel- Priest 
 Sang to his harp that Hallelujah lay 
 Of the Sun-bridegroom ready for his way, 
 So, in the regions of the later West 
 
 This blessed even-tide, 
 Is there no Poet whose divine behest 
 
 Shall be to hail the bride? 
 
 A feeble voice may give an earnest sound, 
 
 And grateful hearts are measured not by power, 
 
 Therefore may I, tho' nameless and uncrowned, 
 
 Proffer a friendly tribute to thy dower. 
 
 For on the midland Sea I sailed of old, 
 
 Leading thy line of narrow rippled light, 
 
 And saw it grow a field of frosted gold, 
 
 With every boat a Shadow in the Bright ; 
 
 And many a playful fancy has been mine, 
 
 As I have watched the shapes thy glory made, 
 
 Glimpsing like starlight through the massive pine, 
 
 Or finely-trellised by mimosa shade ; 
 
 And now I trace each moment of thy spell, 
 
 That frees from mortal stain these Venice isles, 
 
 From eve's rich shield to morn's translucid shell, 
 
 From Love's young glow to Love's expiring smiles ! 
 
 We gaze upon the faces we hold dear, 
 Each feature in thy rays as well defined, 
 As just a symbol of informing mind, 
 As when the noon is on them full and clear ; 
 
 P 2
 
 Ode. 
 
 ,Yet all some wise attempered and subdued, 
 Not far from what to Faith's prospective eyes 
 Transfigured creatures of beatitude 
 From earthy graves arise. 
 
 Those evenings, oh ! those evenings, when with one, 
 
 Then the world's loveliness, now wholly mine, 
 
 I stood beside the salient founts that shone 
 
 Fit frontispiece to Peter's Roman shrine ; 
 
 I knew how fair were She and They 
 
 In every bright device of day, 
 
 All happy as a lark on wing, 
 
 A singing, glistening, dancing thing, 
 
 With joy and grace that seemed to be 
 
 Of Nature's pure necessity ; 
 
 But when, O holy Moon ! thy might 
 
 Turned all the water into light, 
 
 And each enchanted Fountain wore 
 
 Diviner beauty than before, 
 
 A pillar of aspiring beams, 
 
 An ever-falling veil of gleams, 
 
 She who in day's most lively hour 
 
 Had something of composing power 
 
 About her mirthful lips and eyes, 
 
 Sweet folly making others wise, 
 
 Was vested with a sudden sense 
 
 Of great and grave intelligence, 
 
 As if in thy reflex she saw 
 
 The process of eternal law, 
 
 God's conscious pleasure working out 
 
 Through all the Passion, Pain, and Doubt ; 
 
 And thus did She and Thou impart 
 
 Such knowledge to my listening heart,
 
 Ode. 213 
 
 Such sympathies as word or pen 
 Can never tell again ! 
 
 All spirits find themselves fulfilled in Thee, 
 The glad have triumph and the mourning balm : 
 Dear God ! how wondrous that a thing should be 
 So very glorious and so very calm ! 
 The lover, standing on a lonely height, 
 Rests his sad gaze upon the scene below, 
 Lapt in the trance of thy pervading glow, 
 Till pleasant tears obscure his pensive sight ; 
 And in his bosom those long-smothered flames, 
 The scorching elements of vain desire, 
 Taking the nature of thy gentle fire, 
 Play round the heart in peace, while he exclaims, 
 " Surely my Love is out somewhere to-night ! " 
 
 Why art thou thus companionable ? Why 
 Do we not love thy light alone, but Thee ? 
 Is it that though thou art so pure and high, 
 Thou dost not shock our senses, as they be ? 
 That our poor eyes rest on thee, and descry 
 Islands of earth within thy golden sea? 
 
 Or should the root be sought 
 
 In some unconscious thought, 
 That thy fine presence is not more thine own 
 Than are our soul's adorning splendours ours ? 
 
 Than are the energies and powers, 
 
 With which reflected light alone 
 
 Illuminates the living hours, 
 
 From our own wells of being brought, 
 From virtue self-infused or seed of life self-sown ? 
 Thus with ascent more ready may we pass 
 From this delightful sharing of thy gifts
 
 214 Sir Walter Scott at the Tomb of the Stuarts. 
 
 Up to the common Giver, Source, and Will ; 
 
 And if, alas ! 
 
 His daily-affluent sun-light seldom lifts 
 To thankful ecstasy our hearts' dull mass, 
 It may be that our feeble sight 
 Will not confront the total light, 
 That we may love, in nature frail, 
 To blend the vivid with the pale, 
 
 The dazzling with the dim : 
 And lo ! how God, all-gracious still 
 Our simplest fancies to fulfil, 
 Bids us, O Southern Moon, thy beauty hail, 
 In Thee rejoicing and adoring Him. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE 
 
 STUARTS* 
 
 EVE'S tinted shadows slowly fill the fane 
 Where Art has taken almost Nature's room, 
 While still two objects clear in light remain, 
 An alien pilgrim at an alien tomb. 
 
 A sculptured tomb of regal heads discrown'd, 
 Of one heart-worshipped, fancy-haunted, name, 
 Once loud on earth, but now scarce else renown'd 
 Than as the offspring of that stranger's fame. 
 
 * When Sir Walter Scott was at Rome, the year of his death, the his- 
 tory and localities of the Stuarts seemed to absorb all other objects of his 
 interest. The circumstance of this poem fell within the observation of 
 the writer.
 
 Sir Walter Scott at the Tomb of the Stuarts. 215 
 
 There lie the Stuarts ! There lingers Walter Scott ! 
 Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things ! 
 A plain old moral, still too oft forgot, 
 The power of Genius and the fall of Kings. 
 
 The curse on lawless Will high-planted there, 
 A beacon to the world, shines not for him ; 
 He is with those who felt their life was sere, 
 When the full light of loyalty grew dim. 
 
 He rests his chin upon a sturdy staff, 
 Historic as that sceptre, theirs no more ; 
 His gaze is fixed ; his thirsty heart can quaff, 
 For a short hour the spirit -draughts of yore. 
 
 Each figure in its pictured place is seen, 
 Each fancied shape his actual vision fills, 
 From the long-pining, death-delivered, Queen, 
 To the worn Outlaw of the heathe'ry hills. 
 
 O grace of life, which shame could never mar ! 
 O dignity, that circumstance defied ! 
 Pure is the neck that wears the deathly scar, 
 And sorrow has baptised the front of pride. 
 
 But purpled mantle, and blood-crimson'd shroud, 
 Exiles to suffer and returns to woo, 
 Are gone, like dreams by daylight disallow'd ; 
 And their historian, he is sinking too ! 
 
 A few more moments and that labou'ring brow 
 Cold as those royal busts and calm will lie ; 
 And, as on them his thoughts are resting now, 
 His marbled form will meet the attentive eye.
 
 2i6 The Illuminations of St. Peter's. 
 
 Thus, face to face, the dying and the dead, 
 Bound in one solemn ever-living bond, 
 Communed ; and I was sad that ancient head 
 Ever should pass those holy walls beyond. 
 
 THE ILLUMINATIONS OF ST. PETER'S. 
 
 I. 
 
 FIRST ILLUMINATION. 
 
 TEMPLE ! where Time has wed Eternity, 
 
 How beautiful Thou art, beyond compare, 
 
 Now emptied of thy massive majesty, 
 
 And made so faery-frail, so faery-fair : 
 
 The lineaments that thou art wont to wear 
 
 Augustly traced in ponderous masonry, 
 
 Lie faint as in a woof of filmy air, 
 
 Within their frames of mellow jewelry. 
 
 But yet how sweet the hardly-waking sense, 
 
 That when the strength of hours has quenched those gems, 
 
 Disparted all those soft-bright diadems, 
 
 Still in the Sun thy form will rise supreme 
 
 In its own solid clear magnificence, 
 
 Divinest substance then, as now divinest dream. 
 
 II. 
 
 SECOND ILLUMINATION. 
 
 MY heart was resting with a peaceful gaze, 
 So peaceful that it seemed I well could die 
 Entranced before such Beauty, when a cry 
 Burst from me, and I sunk in dumb amaze :
 
 The Illuminations of St. Peter's. 217 
 
 The molten stars before a withering blaze 
 
 Paled to annihilation, and my eye, 
 
 Stunned by the splendour, saw against the sky 
 
 Nothing but light, sheer light, and light's own haze. 
 
 At last that giddying Sight took form, and then 
 
 Appeared the stable Vision of a Crown, 
 
 From the black vault by unseen Power let down, 
 
 Cross-topped, thrice girt with flame : 
 
 Cities of men, 
 
 Queens of the Earth ! bow low, was ever brow 
 Of mortal birth adorned as Rome is now ? 
 
 III. 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 PAST is the first dear phantom of our sight, 
 
 A loadstar of calm loveliness to draw 
 
 All souls from out this world of fault and flaw, 
 
 To a most perfect centre of delight, 
 
 Merged in deep fire ; our joy is turned to awe, 
 
 Delight to wonder. This is just and right ; 
 
 A greater light puts out the lesser light, 
 
 So be it ever, such is God's high law. 
 
 The self-same Sun that calls the flowers from earth 
 
 Withers them soon, to give the fruit free birth ; 
 
 The nobler Spirit to whom much is given 
 
 Must take still more, though in that more there lie 
 
 The risk of losing All ; to gaze at Heaven, 
 
 We blind our earthly eyes ; to live we die.
 
 218 
 
 THE FIREWORKS 
 
 FROM THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO. 
 
 PLAY on, play on, I share your gorgeous glee, 
 
 Creatures of elemental mirth ! play on, 
 
 Let each fulfil his marvellous destiny, 
 
 My heart leaps up and falls in unison. 
 
 The Tower round which ye weave, with elfin grace, 
 
 The modulations of your burning dance, 
 
 Looks through your gambols with a grandsire's face, 
 
 A grave but not reproachful countenance ; 
 
 Ye are the children of a festive night, 
 
 He is the mate of many an hundred years, 
 
 Ye but attest men's innocent delight, 
 
 He is the comrade of their crimes and tears, 
 
 Ye in your joys' pure prime will flare away, 
 
 He waits his end in still and slow decay. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 MARRIAGE OF THE LADY GWENDOLIN TALBOT 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 ELDEST SON OF THE PRINCE BORGHESE. 
 
 LADY ! to decorate thy marriage-mom, 
 Rare gems, and flowers, and lofty songs are brought ; 
 Thou the plain utter' ance of a Poet's thought, 
 Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn :
 
 On the Death of the Princess Borghese. 219 
 
 The name, into whose splendour thou wert born, 
 Thou art about to change for that which stands 
 Writ on the proudest work * that mortal hands 
 Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn. 
 Take it rejoicing, take with thee thy dower, 
 Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new, 
 Being of mind ; may the cool northern dew 
 Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower ! 
 Mingling thy English nature, pure and true, 
 With the bright growth of each Italian hour. 
 
 ROME, May nth, 1835. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS BORGHESE, 
 
 AT ROME, NOVEMBER, 1840. 
 
 ONCE, and but once again I dare to raise 
 
 A voice which thou in spirit still may'st hear, 
 
 Now that thy bridal bed becomes a bier, 
 
 Now that thou canst not blush at thine own praise ! 
 
 The ways of God are not as our best ways, 
 
 And thus we ask, with a convulsive tear, 
 
 Why is this northern blossom low and sere ? 
 
 Why has it blest the south but these few days ? 
 
 Another Basilic, t decked otherwise 
 
 Than that which hailed thee as a princely bride, 
 
 Receives thee and three little ones beside ; 
 
 While the young lord of that late glorious home 
 
 Stands 'mid these ruins and these agonies, 
 
 Like some lone column of his native Rome ! 
 
 * St. Peter's. 
 
 t S. Maria Maggiore, where the Borghese family are interred.
 
 NAPLES AND VENICE. 
 
 OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Naples and her subject bay, 
 Stands Camaldoli, the convent, shaded from the' inclement ray. 
 
 Thou, who to that lofty terrace lov'st on summer-eve to go, 
 Tell me, Poet ! what Thou seest, what Thou hearest, there 
 below ! 
 
 Beauty, beauty, perfect beauty ! Sea and City, Hills and Air, 
 Rather blest imaginations than realities of fair. 
 
 Forms of grace alike contenting casual glance and stedfast gaze,. 
 Tender lights of pearl and opal mingling with the diamond 
 blaze. 
 
 Sea is but as deepen'd aether: white as snow-wreaths sunbeshone 
 Lean the Palaces and Temples green and purple heights upon. 
 
 Streets and paths mine eye is tracing, all replete with clamo'rous 
 
 throng, 
 Where I see, and where I see not, waves of uproar roll along. 
 
 As the sense of bees unnumber'd, burning through the walk of 
 
 limes, 
 As the thought of armies gathe'ring round a chief in ancient 
 
 times, 
 
 So from Corso, Port, and Garden, rises Life's tumultuous strain, 
 Not secure from wildest utter' ance rests the perfect-crystal main.
 
 Naples and Venice. 221 
 
 Still the all-enclosing Beauty keeps my spirit free from harm, 
 Distance blends the veriest discords into some melodious charm. 
 
 OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Venice and her sister isles, 
 Stands the giant Campanile massive 'mid a thousand piles. 
 
 Thou who to this open summit lov'st at every hour to go, 
 Tell me, Poet ! what Thou seest, what Thou hearest, there 
 below. 
 
 Wonder, wonder, perfect wonder ! Ocean is the City's moat ; 
 On the bosom of broad Ocean seems the mighty weight to 
 float: 
 
 Seems yet stands as strong and stable as on land e'er city 
 
 shall, 
 Only moves that Ocean-serpent, tide-impelled, the Great Canal. 
 
 Rich arcades and statued pillars, gleaming banners, burnished 
 domes, 
 
 Ships approaching, ships departing, countless ships in har- 
 bour-homes. 
 
 Yet so silent ! scarce a murmur winged to reach this airy seat, 
 Hardly from the close Piazza rises sound of voice or feet. 
 
 Plash of oar or single laughter, cry or song of Gondolier, 
 Signals far between to tell me that the work of life is here. 
 
 Like a glorious maiden dreaming music in the drowsy heat, 
 Lies the City, unbetokening where its myriad pulses beat. 
 
 And I think myself in cloudland, almost try my power of will, 
 Whether I can change the picture, or it must be Venice still.
 
 222 Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 When the question wakes within me, which hath won the 
 
 crown of deed, 
 Venice with her moveless silence, Naples with her noisy speed ? 
 
 Which hath writ the goodlier tablet for the past to hoard and 
 
 show, 
 Venice in her student stillness, Naples in her living glow ? 
 
 Here are Chronicles with virtues studded as the night with 
 
 stars, 
 Records there of passions raging through a wilderness of wars : 
 
 There a tumult of Ambitions, Power afloat on blood and tears, 
 Here one simple reign of Wisdom stretching thirteen hundred 
 years : 
 
 Self-subsisting, self-devoted, there the moment's Hero ruled, 
 Here the State, each one subduing, pride enchained and passion 
 schooled : 
 
 Here was Art the nation's mistress, Art of colour, Art of stone 
 There before the leman Pleasure bowed the people's soul alone. 
 
 Venice ! vocal is thy silence, can our soul but rightly hear ; 
 Naples ! dumb as death thy voices, listen we however near. 
 
 SWITZERLAND AND ITALY. 
 
 WITHIN the Switzer's varied land, 
 When Summer chases high the snow, 
 You'll meet with many a youthful band 
 Of strangers wandering to and fro :
 
 Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 Through hamlet, town, and healing bath, 
 They haste and rest as chance may call, 
 No day without its mountain-path, 
 No path without its waterfall. 
 
 They make the hours themselves repay, 
 However well or ill be shared, 
 Content that they should wing their way, 
 Unchecked, unreckoned, uncompared : 
 For though the hills unshapely rise, 
 And lie the colours poorly bright, 
 They mould them by their cheerful eyes, 
 And paint them with their spirit's light. 
 
 Strong in their youthfulness, they use 
 The energies their souls possess ; 
 And if some wayward scene refuse 
 To pay its part of loveliness, 
 Onward they pass, nor less enjoy 
 For what they leave ; and far from me 
 Be every thought that would destroy 
 A charm, of that simplicity ! 
 
 But if one blot on that white page 
 
 From Doubt or Mise'ry's pen be thrown, 
 
 If once the sense awake, that Age 
 
 Is counted not by years alone, 
 
 Then no more grand and wondrous things 1 
 
 No active happinesses more ! 
 
 The wounded Heart has lost its wings, 
 
 And change can only fret the sore.
 
 224 Switzerland and Italy. 
 
 Yet there is calm for those that weep, 
 Where the divine Italian sea 
 Rests like a maiden hushed asleep 
 And breathing low and measuredly ; 
 Where all the sunset-purpled ground, 
 Fashioned by those delicious airs, 
 Seems strewed with softest cushions round 
 For weary heads to loose their cares : 
 
 Where Nature offers, at all hours, 
 Out of her free imperial store, 
 That perfect Beauty their weak powers 
 Can help her to create no more : 
 And grateful for that ancient aid, 
 Comes forth to comfort and relieve 
 Those minds in prostrate sorrow laid, 
 Bidding them open and receive ! 
 
 Though still 'tis hardly she that gives, 
 For Nature reigns not there alone, 
 A mightier queen beside her lives, 
 Whorr) she can serve but not dethrone ; 
 For she is fallen from the state 
 That waited on her Eden-prime, 
 And Art remains by Sin and Fate 
 Unscathed, for Art is not of Time.
 
 225 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE MADELEINE, AT PARIS. 
 
 THE Attic temple whose majestic room 
 
 Contained the presence of Olympian Jove, 
 
 With smooth Hymettus round it and above, 
 
 Softe'ning the splendour by a sober bloom, 
 
 Is yielding fast to Time's irreverent doom ; 
 
 While on the then barbarian banks of Seine 
 
 That nobler type is realised again 
 
 In perfect form, and dedicate to whom ? 
 
 To a poor Syrian girl, of lowliest name, 
 
 A hapless creature, pitiful and frail 
 
 As ever wore her life in sin and shame, 
 
 Of whom all histo'ry has this single tale, 
 
 " She loved the Christ, she wept beside his grave, 
 
 And He, for that Love's sake, all else forgave." 
 
 II. 
 
 If one, with prescient soul to understand 
 The working of this world beyond the day 
 Of his small life, had taken by the hand 
 That wanton daughter of old Magdala ; 
 And told her that the time was ripe to come 
 When she, thus base among the base, "should be 
 More served than all the Gods of Greece and Rome, 
 More honoured in her holy memory, 
 
 Q
 
 226 France and England. 
 
 How would not men have mocked and she have scorned 
 
 The fond Diviner ? Plausible excuse 
 
 Had been for them, all moulded to one use 
 
 Of feeling and of thought, but We are warned 
 
 By such ensamples to distrust the sense 
 
 Of Custom proud and bold Experience. 
 
 Thanks to that element of heavenly things, 
 
 That did come down to earth, and there confound 
 
 Most sacred thoughts with names of usual sound, 
 
 And homeliest life with all a Poet sings. 
 
 The proud Ideas that had ruled and bound 
 
 Our moral nature were no longer kings, 
 
 Old Power grew faint and shed his eagle-wings, 
 
 And grey Philosophy was half uncrowned. 
 
 Love, Pleasure's child, betrothed himself to Pain ;- 
 
 Weakness, and Poverty, and Self-disdain, 
 
 And tranquil sufferance of repeated wrongs, 
 
 Became adorable ; Fame gave her tongues, 
 
 And Faith her hearts to objects all as low 
 
 As this lorn child of infamy and woe. 
 
 FRANCE AND ENGLAND. 
 
 O FRANCE and England ! on whose lofty crests 
 The day-spring of the Future flows so free, 
 Save where the cloud of your hostility 
 Settles between and holy light arrests, 
 Shall Ye, first instruments of God's behests, 
 But blunt each other ? Shall Barbarians see 
 The two fair sisters of civility 
 Turn a fierce wrath against each other's breasts ?
 
 Answer to Wordsworth's Sonnet against the Kendal Railway. 227 
 
 No ! by our common hope and being no ! 
 
 By the expanding might and bliss of peace, 
 
 By the revealed insanity of war, 
 
 England and France shall not be foe to foe : 
 
 For how can earth her store of good increase, 
 
 If what God loves to make man's passions still will mar ? 
 
 ON MILTON'S COTTAGE, 
 
 AT CHALFONT ST. GILES, 
 
 Where he remained during the Great Plague. 
 
 BENEATH this roof, for no such use designed 
 
 By its old owners, Fleetwood's banished race, 
 
 Blind Milton found a healthful resting-place, 
 
 Leaving the city's dark disease behind : 
 
 Here, too, with studies noble and refined, 
 
 As with fresh air, his spirits he could brace, 
 
 And grow unconscious of the time's disgrace, 
 
 And the fierce plague of disappointed mind. 
 
 The gracious Muse is wont to build for most 
 
 Of her dear sons some pleasant noontide bower ; 
 
 But for this One she raised a home of fame, 
 
 Where he dwelt safe through life's chill evening hour, 
 
 Above the memo'ry of his Hero lost, 
 
 His martyred brethren and his country's shame. 
 
 ANSWER TO WORDSWORTH'S SONNET AGAINST 
 THE KENDAL AND BOWNESS RAILWA Y. 
 
 THE hour may come, nay must in these our days, 
 When the swift steam-car with the cata'ract's shout 
 Shall mingle its harsh roll, and motley rout 
 Of multitudes these mountain echoes raise. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 Tintern Abbey. 
 
 But Thou, the Patriarch of these beauteous ways, 
 Canst never grudge that gloomy streets send out 
 The crowded sons of labour, care, and doubt, 
 To read these scenes by light of thine own lays. 
 Disordered laughter and encounters rude 
 The Poet's finer sense perchance may pain, 
 But many a glade and nook of solitude 
 For quiet walk and thought will still remain, 
 Where He those poor intruders can elude, 
 Nor lose one dream for all their homely gain. 
 
 TINTERN ABBEY. 
 
 THE Men who called their passion piety, 
 
 And wrecked this noble argosy of faith, 
 
 They little thought how beauteous could be Death, 
 
 How fair the face of Time's aye-deepe'ning sea ! 
 
 Nor arms that desolate, nor years that flee, 
 
 Nor hearts that fail, can utterly deflower 
 
 This grassy floor of sacramental power, 
 
 Where we now stand commu'nicants even We, 
 
 We of this latter, still protestant age, 
 
 With priestly ministrations of the Sun 
 
 And Moon and multitudinous quire of stars 
 
 Maintain this consecration, and assuage 
 
 With tender thoughts the past of weary wars, 
 
 Masking with good that ill which cannot be undone.
 
 229 
 
 ON THE GRA VE OF BISHOP KEN, 
 
 AT FROME, IN SOMERSETSHIRE. 
 
 LET other thoughts, where'er I roam, 
 
 Ne'er from my memory cancel 
 The coffin-fashioned tomb at Frame 
 
 That lies behind the chancel ; 
 A basket-work where bars are bent, 
 
 Iron in place of osier, 
 And shapes above that represent 
 
 A mitre and a crosier. 
 
 These signs of him that slumbers there 
 
 The dignity betoken ; 
 These iron bars a heart declare 
 
 Hard bent but never broken ; 
 This form pourtrays how souls like his, 
 
 Their pride and passion quelling, 
 Preferr'd to earth's high palaces 
 
 This calm and narrow dwelling. 
 
 There with the church-yard's common dust 
 
 He loved his own to mingle ; 
 The faith in which he placed his trust 
 
 Was nothing rare or single ; 
 Yet laid he to the sacred wall 
 
 As close as he was able, 
 The blessed crumbs might almost fall 
 
 Upon him from God's table.
 
 230 On the Grave of Bishop Ken. 
 
 Who was this Father of the Church, 
 
 So secret in his glory ? 
 In vain might antiquarians search 
 
 For record of his story ; 
 But preciously tradition keeps 
 
 The fame of holy men ; 
 So there the Christian smiles or weeps 
 
 For love of Bishop Ken. 
 
 A name his country once forsook, 
 
 But now with joy inherits, 
 Confessor in the Church's book, 
 
 And Martyr in the Spirit's ! 
 That dared with royal power to cope, 
 
 In peaceful faith persisting, 
 A braver Becket who could hope 
 
 To conquer unresisting 1
 
 POEMS. 
 LEGENDARY AND HISTORICAL. 
 
 **fH* . 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 THE windows and the garden door 
 Must now be closed for night, 
 And you, my little girl, no more 
 Can watch the snow-flakes white 
 Fall, like a silver net, before 
 The face of dying light. 
 
 Draw down the curtains every fold, 
 Let not a gap let in the cold, 
 Bring your low seat toward the fire, 
 And you shall have your heart's desire ; 
 A story of that favou'rite book 
 In which you often steal a look, 
 Regretful not to understand 
 Words of a distant time and land ; 
 That small square book that seems so old 
 In tawny white and faded gold, 
 And which I could not leave to-day, 
 Even with the snow and you to play. 
 "^li was on such a night as this, 
 
 Six hundred years ago, 
 The wind as loud and pitiless, 
 
 As loaded with the snow,
 
 232 A Christmas Story. 
 
 A night when you might start to meet 
 A friend in an accustomed street, 
 That a lone child went up and down 
 The pathways of an ancient town. 
 A little child, just such as you, 
 With eyes, though clouded, just as blue, 
 With just such long fine golden hair, 
 But wet and rough for want of care, 
 And just such tender totte'ring feet 
 Bare to the cold and stony street. 
 
 Alone ! this fragile human flower, 
 Alone ! at this unsightly hour, 
 A playful, joyful, peaceful form, 
 
 A creature of delight, 
 Become companion of the storm, 
 
 And phantom of the night ! 
 No gentler thing is near, in vain 
 Its warm tears meet the frozen rain, 
 No watchful ears await its cries 
 On every name that well supplies 
 The childly nature with a sense 
 Of love and care and confidence ; 
 It looks before, it looks behind, 
 And staggers with the weighty wind, 
 Till, terror overpowering grief, 
 And feeble as an autumn leaf, 
 It passes down the tide of air, 
 It knows not, thinks not, how or where. 
 
 Beneath a carven porch, before 
 
 An iron -belted oaken door, 
 
 The tempest drives the cowe'ring child, 
 
 And rages on as hard and wild.
 
 A Christmas Story. 233 
 
 This is not shelter, though the sleet 
 
 Strikes heavier in the open street, 
 
 For, to that infant ear, a din 
 
 Of festive merriment within 
 
 Conies, by the contrast, sadder far 
 
 Than all the outer windy war, 
 
 With something cruel, something curst, 
 
 In each repeated laughter-burst ; 
 
 A thread of constant cheerful light, 
 
 Drawn through the crevice on the sight, 
 
 Tells it of heat it cannot feel, 
 
 And all the fire-side bliss 
 That home's dear portals can reveal 
 
 On such a night as this. 
 How can those hands so small and frail, 
 Empassioned as they will, avail 
 Against that banded wall of wood 
 Standing in senseless hardihood 
 Between the warmth and love and mirth, 
 The comforts of the living earth, 
 And the lorn creature shivering there, 
 The plaything of the savage air ? 
 
 We would not, of our own good will, 
 Believe in so much strength of ill, 
 Believe that life and sense are given 
 To any being under Heaven 
 Only to weep and suffer thus, 
 
 To suffer without sin 
 What would be for the worst of us 
 
 A bitter discipline. 
 Yet now the tiny hands no more 
 Are striking that unfeeling door ;
 
 234 A Christmas Story. 
 
 Folded and quietly they rest, 
 As on a cherub's marble breast ; 
 And from the guileless lips of woe 
 Are passing words confused and low, 
 Remembered fragments of a prayer, 
 Learned and repeated otherwhere, 
 With the blue summer overhead, 
 
 On a sweet mother's knee, 
 Beside the downy cradle-bed, 
 
 But always happily. 
 
 Though for those holy words the storm 
 
 Relaxes not its angry form, 
 
 The child no longer stands alone 
 
 Upon the inhospitable stone : 
 
 There now are two, one to the other 
 
 Like as a brother to twin-brother, 
 
 But the new-comer has an air 
 
 Of something wonderful and rare, 
 
 Something divinely calm and mild, 
 
 Something beyond a human child ; 
 
 His eyes come through the thicke'ning night 
 
 With a soft planetary light, 
 
 And from his hair there falls below 
 
 A radiance on the drifting snow, 
 
 And his untarnished childly bloom 
 
 Seems but the brighter for the gloom. 
 
 See what a smile of gentle grace 
 
 Expatiates slowly o'er his face ! 
 
 As, with a mien of soft command, 
 
 He takes that numbed and squalid hand, 
 
 And with a voice of simple joy 
 
 And greeting as from boy to boy,
 
 A Christmas Story. 235 
 
 He speaks, " What do you at this door? 
 Why called you not on me before ? 
 What like you best ? that I should break 
 This sturdy barrier for your sake, 
 And let you in that you may share 
 The warmth and joy and cheerful fare ; 
 Or will you trust to me alone, 
 And heeding not the windy moan 
 Nor the cold rain nor lightning-brand, 
 Go forward with me, hand in hand ? 
 Within this house, if e'er on earth, 
 You will find love and peace and mirth ; 
 And there may rest for many a day, 
 While I am on mine open way ; 
 And should your heart to me incline, 
 
 When I am gone, 
 Take you this little cross of mine 
 
 To lean upon, 
 
 And setting out what path you will, 
 Careless of your own strength and skill, 
 You soon will find me ; only say, 
 What wish you most to do to-day?" 
 The child looks out into the night, 
 With gaze of pain and pale affright, 
 Then turns an eye of keen desire 
 On the thin gleam of inward fire, 
 Then rests a long and silent while, 
 Upon that brother's glorious smile. 
 You've seen the subtle magnet draw 
 The iron by its hidden law, 
 So seems that smile to lure along 
 The child from an enclosing throng 
 Of fears and fancies undefined, 
 And to one passion fix its mind,
 
 236 A Christmas Story. 
 
 Till every struggling doubt to check 
 
 And give to love its due, 
 It casts its arms about his neck, 
 
 And cries " With You, with You, 
 For you have sung me many a song, 
 Like mine own mother's, all night long, 
 And you have play'd with me in dreams, 
 Along the walks, beside the streams, 
 Of Paradise, the blessed bowers, 
 Where what men call the stars are flowers, 
 And what to them looks deep and blue 
 Is but a veil which we saw through, 
 Into the garden without end, 
 Where you the angel-children tend : 
 So that they asked me when I woke, 
 Where I had been, to whom I spoke, 
 What I was doing there, to seem 
 So heavenly-happy in my dream ? 
 
 Oh ! take me, take me, there again, 
 Out of the cold and wind and rain, 
 Out of this dark and cruel town, 
 Whose houses on the orphan frown ; 
 Bear me the thundering qlouds above 
 To the safe kingdom of your love : 
 Or if you will not, I can go 
 With you barefooted through the snow ; 
 I shall not feel the bitter blast, 
 If you will take me home at last." 
 
 Three kisses on its dead-cold cheeks, 
 Three on its bloodless brow, 
 And a clear answe'ring music speaks, 
 " Sweet brother ! come there now :
 
 A Christmas Story. 237 
 
 It shall be so ; there is no dread 
 Within the aureole of mine head ; 
 This hand in yours, this living hand, 
 Can all the world of cold withstand, 
 And, though so small, is strong to lift 
 Your feet above the thickest drift ; 
 The wind that round you raged and broke 
 Shall fold about us like a cloak, 
 And we shall reach that garden soon, 
 Without the guide of sun or moon." 
 So down the mansion's slippe'ry stair, 
 
 Into the midnight weather, 
 Pass, as if sorrows never were, 
 
 The weak and strong together. 
 
 This was the night before the morn, 
 On which the Hope of Man was born, 
 And long ere dawn can claim the sky, 
 The tempest rolls subservient by ; 
 While bells on all sides sing and say, 
 How Christ the child was born to-day ; 
 Free as the sun's in June, the rays 
 Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze ; 
 Some butterflies of snow may float 
 Down slowly, gliste'ning in the mote, 
 But crystal-leaved and fruited trees 
 Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze ; 
 Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass, 
 
 Transformed from pearly dew, 
 And silver flowers encrust the glass, 
 
 Which gardens never knew. 
 
 The inmates of the house, before 
 Whose iron -fended heedless door,
 
 238 A Christmas Story. 
 
 The children of our nightly tale 
 Were standing, rise refreshed and hale, 
 And run, as if a race to win, 
 To let the Christmas morning in. 
 They find, upon the threshold stone, 
 A little Child, just like their own ; 
 Asleep it seems, but when the head 
 Is raised, it sleeps, as sleep the dead ; 
 The fatal point had touched it, while 
 The lips had just begun a smile, 
 The forehead 'mid the matted tresses 
 A perfect-painless end expresses, 
 And, unconvulsed, the hands may wear 
 The posture more of thanks than prayer. 
 
 They tend it straight in wondering grief, 
 And, when all skill brings no relief, 
 They bear it onward, in its smile, 
 Up the Cathedral's central aisle : 
 There, soon as Priests and People heard 
 How the thing was, they speak not word, 
 But take the usual Image, meant 
 The blessed babe to represent, 
 Forth from its cradle, and instead 
 Lay down that silent mortal head. 
 Now incense-cloud and anthem-sound 
 Arise the beauteous body round ; 
 Softly the carol chant is sung, 
 Softly the mirthful peal is rung, 
 And, when the solemn duties end, 
 With tapers earnest troops attend 
 The gentle corpse, nor cease to sing 
 
 Till, by an almond tree, 
 They bury 'it, that the flowers of spring 
 
 May o'er it soonest be.
 
 239 
 
 PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT. 
 
 FROM Hessen-Darmstadt every step to Moskwa's blazing banks 
 Was Prince Emilius found in fight before the foremost ranks ; 
 And when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast, 
 On Beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last. 
 
 His valour shed victorious grace on all that dread retreat, 
 That path across the wilde'ring snow, athwart the blinding sleet ; 
 And every follower of his sword could all endure and dare, 
 Becoming warriors strong in hope or stronger in despair. 
 
 Now, day and dark, along the storm the demon Cossacks 
 
 sweep, 
 The hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not 
 
 sleep ; 
 No rest, but death, for horse or man, whichever first shall 
 
 tire ; 
 They see the flames destroy but ne'er may feel the saving fire. 
 
 Thus never closed the bitter night nor rose the savage morn, 
 But from that gallant company some noble part was shorn, 
 And, sick at heart, the Prince resolved to keep his purposed way, 
 With stedfast forward looks, nor count the losses of the day. 
 
 At length beside a black-burnt hut, an island of the snow, 
 Each head in frigid stupor bent toward the saddle-bow, 
 They paused, and of that sturdy troop, that thousand banded 
 
 men, 
 At one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten !
 
 240 Prince Emilius of Hessen Darmstadt. 
 
 Of all that high triumphant life that left his German home, 
 Of all those hearts that beat beloved or looked for love to come, 
 This piteous remnant hardly saved his spirit overcame, 
 While memory raised each friendly face and called each ancient 
 name. 
 
 Then were his words serene and firm " Dear brothers it is 
 
 best 
 That here, with perfect trust in Heaven, we give our bodies 
 
 rest ; 
 
 If we have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain, 
 Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in 
 
 vain. " 
 
 Some murmured, others looked, assent, they had no heart to 
 
 speak ; 
 Dumb hands were pressed, the pallid lips approached the callous 
 
 cheek ; 
 They laid them side by side ; and death to him at least did 
 
 seem 
 To come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream. 
 
 Once more lie floated on the breast of old familiar Rhine, 
 His mother's and one other smile above him seemed to shine ; 
 A blesskl dew of healing fell on every aching limb, 
 Till the stream broadened and the air thickened and all was 
 dim. 
 
 Nature had bent to other laws, if that tremendous night 
 
 Passed o'er his frame exposed and worn and left no deadly 
 
 blight ; 
 Then wonder not that when refreshed and warm he woke at 
 
 last, 
 There lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past.
 
 TJie Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube in the Pyrenees. 241 
 
 Soon raising his astonished head he found himself alone, 
 Sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own ; 
 The light increased, the solemn truth revealing more and 
 
 more, 
 His soldiers corses self-despoiled closed up the narrow door. 
 
 That very hour, fulfilling good, miracu'lous succour came, 
 And Prince Emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame. 
 O brave fidelity in death ! O strength of loving will ! 
 These are the holy balsam-drops that woful wars distil. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE IN 
 THE PYRENEES. 
 
 THE marrriage-blessing on their brows, 
 
 Across the Channel seas 
 
 And lands of gay Garonne, they reach 
 
 The pleasant Pyrenees : 
 
 He into boyhood born again, 
 
 A son of joy and life, 
 
 And she a happy English girl, 
 
 A happier English wife. 
 
 They loiter not where Argel^s, 
 
 The chesnut-crested plain, 
 
 Unfolds its robe of green and gold 
 
 In pasture, grape, and grain ; 
 
 But on and up, where Nature's heart 
 
 Beats strong amid the hills, 
 
 They pause, contented with the wealth 
 
 That either bosom fills.
 
 242 The Tragedy of the Lac de Ganbe in the Pyrenees. 
 
 There is a Lake, a small round Lake, 
 High on the mountain's breast, 
 The child of rains and melted snows, 
 The torrent's summer rest, 
 A mirror where the vet e' ran rocks 
 May glass their peaks and scars, 
 A nether sky where breezes break 
 The sunlight into stars. 
 
 Oh ! gaily shone that little lake, 
 
 And Nature, sternly fair, 
 
 Put on a sparkling countenance 
 
 To greet that merry pair ; 
 
 How light from stone to stone they leapt, 
 
 How trippingly they ran ; 
 
 To scale the rock and gain the marge 
 
 Was all a moment's span ! 
 
 " See, dearest, this primaeval boat, 
 So quaint, and rough, I deem 
 Just such an one did Charon ply 
 Across the Stygian stream : 
 Step in, I will your Charon be, 
 And you a Spirit bold, 
 I was a famous rower once 
 In college days of old. 
 
 " The clumsy oar ! the laggard boat ! 
 How slow we move along, 
 The work is harder than I thought, 
 A song, my love, a song !"
 
 The Tragedy of the Lac de Ganbe in the Pyrenees. 243 
 
 Then, standing up, she carolled out 
 So blithe and sweet a strain 
 That the long-silent cliffs were glad 
 To peal it back again. 
 
 He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down, 
 
 And rose in careless pride, 
 
 And swayed in cadence to the song 
 
 The boat from side to side : 
 
 Then clasping hand in loving hand, 
 
 They danced a childish round, 
 
 And felt as safe in that mid-lake 
 
 As on the firmest ground. 
 
 One poise too much ! He headlong fell. 
 
 She stretching out to save 
 
 A feeble arm, was borne adown 
 
 Within that glitte'ring grave : 
 
 One moment, and the gush went forth 
 
 Of music-mingled laughter, 
 
 The struggling splash and deathly shriek 
 
 Were there the instant after. 
 
 Her weaker head above the flood, 
 
 That quick engulfed the strong, 
 
 Like some enchanted water flower, 
 
 Waved pitifully long : 
 
 Long seemed the low and lonely wail 
 
 Athwart the tide to fade ; 
 
 Alas ! that there were some to hear, 
 
 But never one to aid. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 The Tragedy of the Lac de Gaube in the Pyrenees. 
 
 Yet not alas ! if Heaven revered 
 
 The freshly-spoken vow, 
 
 And willed that what was then made one 
 
 Should not be sundered now ; 
 
 If She was spared, by that sharp stroke, 
 
 Love's most unnatu'ral doom, 
 
 The future lorn and uncon soled, 
 
 The unavoided tomb ! 
 
 But weep, ye very Rocks ! for those, 
 Who, on their native shore, 
 Await the letters of dear news, 
 That shall arrive no more ; 
 One letter from a stranger hand, 
 Few words are all the need, 
 And then the fune'ral of the heart, 
 The course of useless speed ! 
 
 The presence of the cold dead wood, 
 
 The single mark and sign 
 
 Of her so loved and beautiful, 
 
 That handiwork divine ! 
 
 The weary search for his fine form 
 
 That in the depth would linger, 
 
 And late success, Oh ! leave the ring 
 
 Upon that faithful finger. 
 
 And if in life there lie the seed 
 Of real enduring being, 
 If love and truth be not decreed 
 To perish unforeseeing ;
 
 The Persecution of the Templars, 245 
 
 This Youth, the seal of death has stamped, 
 No time can wither never, 
 This Hope, that sorrow might have damped, 
 Is fresh and strong for ever.* 
 
 THE PERSECUTION OF THE TEMPLARS. 
 
 THE towe'ring cliffs of Gavarnie, 
 
 Severely closing round 
 
 My onward steps, had seemed to me 
 
 A nation's natural bound : 
 
 The topmost ridge with cloud was bent, 
 
 Save where antique Roland 
 
 Is said the mountain to have rent 
 
 With his gigantic hand. 
 
 The hazy memo'ry of the Knight 
 
 Of Faery suited well 
 
 The huge dimensions of that sight, 
 
 And touched them with his spell ; 
 
 I almost saw the armour glance 
 
 In every chance sun-ray, 
 
 And feathers move and horses prance 
 
 Amid the cata'ract-spray. 
 
 When swift within me rose the thought 
 Of some chivalrous forms, 
 Who bodily here dwelt and fought 
 With worse than Nature's storms ; 
 
 * Mr. and Mrs. Patteson were drowned in the year 1831.
 
 246 The Persecution of the Templars. 
 
 Some hunters of these vales and hills 
 Who stood, themselves, at bay 
 Against the fierce pursuit that kills 
 The honour of its prey : 
 
 The Soldier-monks, whose quaint old Church 
 
 I left at Luz, time-worn, 
 
 Whose records Histo'ry loves to search, 
 
 And searches but to mourn : 
 
 The Warriors of the sacred Grave, 
 
 Who looked to Christ for laws, 
 
 And perished for the faith they gave 
 
 Their Comrades and the Cause. 
 
 They perished, in one fate alike, 
 
 The vete'ran and the boy, 
 
 Where'er the regal arm could strike 
 
 To torture and destroy ; 
 
 While darkly, down the stream of time, 
 
 Devised by evil fame, 
 
 Float murmurs of mysterious crime 
 
 And tales of secret shame. 
 
 How oft when ava'rice, hate, or pride 
 Assault some noble band, 
 The outer world, (that scorns the side 
 It does not understand,) 
 Echoes each foul derisive word, 
 Gilds o'er each hideous sight, 
 And consecrates the wicked sword 
 With names of holy Right !
 
 77ie Persecution of the Templars. 247 
 
 Yet, by these lessons, men awake, 
 
 To know they cannot bind 
 
 Discordant will in one, and make 
 
 An aggregate of mind ; 
 
 For e'en should hearts and hands combine 
 
 In one expressive whole, 
 
 Still brutal force can burst the line 
 
 And dissipate the souL 
 
 For, ever, in our best essays 
 
 At close fraternal ties, 
 
 An evil narrowness waylays 
 
 Our purest sympathies ; 
 
 And love, however bright it burn 
 
 For what it holds most fond, 
 
 Is tainted by its unconcern 
 
 For all that lies beyond. 
 
 Wider oh ! wider every hour, 
 While mortal sight is blind, 
 Vibrates the circle of the power 
 That sanctifies mankind ; 
 Wider oh ! wider, undulate 
 Emotions, that impart 
 To man the grandeur of his fate 
 The glory of his heart, 
 
 And still the earth has many a knight, 
 
 By high vocation bound 
 
 To conquer in enduring fight 
 
 The Spirit's Holy Ground ;
 
 248 The Beggar's Castle. 
 
 And manhood's pride and hopes of youth 
 Still meet the Templars' doom, 
 Crusaders of the' ascended Truth, 
 Not of the empty Tomb ! 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S CASTLE. 
 
 A STORY OF THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 
 
 THOSE ruins took my thoughts away 
 
 To a far eastern land ; 
 Like camels in a herd, they lay 
 
 Upon the dull red sand ; 
 I know not that I ever sate 
 Within a place so desolate. 
 
 Unlike the relics that connect 
 Our hearts with ancient Time, 
 
 All moss-besprent and ivy-deckt, 
 Gracing a lenient clime, 
 
 Here all was death and nothing born, 
 
 No life but the unfriendly thorn. 
 
 " My little guide, whose sunny eyes 
 
 And darkly-lucid skin, 
 Witness, in spite of shrouded skies, 
 
 Where southern realms begin ; 
 Come, tell me all you 've heard and know 
 About these mighty things laid low."
 
 The Beggar's Castle. 249 
 
 The " Beggar's Castle," wayward name, 
 
 Was all these fragments bore, 
 And wherefore legendary fame 
 
 Baptised them thus of yore, 
 He told in words so sweet and true, 
 I wish that he could tell it you. 
 
 A puissant Seigneur, who in wars 
 
 And tournays had renown, 
 With wealth from prudent ancestors 
 
 Sloping unbroken down, 
 Dwelt in these towers, and held in fee 
 All the broad lands that eye can see. 
 
 He never tempered to the poor 
 
 Misfortune's bitter blast, 
 And when before his haughty door 
 
 Widow and orphan past, 
 Injurious words and dogs at bay 
 Were all the welcome that had they. 
 
 The Monk who toiled from place to place, 
 
 That God might have his dole, 
 Was met by scorn and foul grimace, 
 
 And oaths that pierced his soul ; 
 'T was well for him to flee and pray, 
 " They know not what they do and say." 
 
 One evening, when both plain and wood 
 
 Were trackless in the snow, 
 A Beggar at the portal stood, 
 
 Who little seemed to know 
 That Castle and its evil fame, 
 As if from distant shores he came.
 
 250 The Beggar's Castle, 
 
 Like channeled granite was his front, 
 His hair was crisp with rime, 
 
 He asked admittance, as was wont 
 In that free-hearted time ; 
 
 For who would leave to die i' the cold 
 
 A lonely man and awful-old. 
 
 At first his prayer had no reply, 
 Perchance the wild wind checked it, 
 
 But when it rose into a cry, 
 No more the inmates recked it, 
 
 Till where the cheerful fire-light shone, 
 
 A voice out-thundered, " Wretch ! begone." 
 
 " There is no path, I have no strength, 
 
 What can I do alone ? 
 Grant shelter, or I lay my length, 
 
 And perish on the stone ; 
 I crave not much, I should be blest 
 In kennel or in barn to rest." 
 
 " What matters thy vile head to me ? 
 
 Dare not to touch the door ! " 
 " Alas ! and shall I never see 
 
 Home, wife, and children more ? " 
 " If thou art still importunate, 
 My serfs shall nail thee to the gate." 
 
 But, when the wrathful Seigneur faced 
 
 The object of his ire, 
 The beggar raised his brow debased 
 
 And armed his eyes with fire : 
 " Whatever guise is on me now, 
 I am a mightier Lord than thou ! "
 
 TJie Beggar's Castle. 251 
 
 " Madman or cheat ! announce thy birth." 
 
 " That thou wilt know to-morrow." 
 " Where are thy fiefs ? " " The whole wide Earth. " 
 
 " And what thy title?" " SORROW." 
 Then, opening wide his ragged vest, 
 He cried, " Thou canst not shun thy guest." 
 
 He stamped his foot with fearful din, 
 
 With imprecating hand 
 He struck the door, and past within . 
 
 Right through the menial band : 
 " Follow him, seize him, There and there ! " 
 They only saw the blank night air. 
 
 But He was at his work : ere day, 
 
 Began the work of doom, 
 The Lord's one daughter, that fair may, 
 
 Fled with a base-born groom, 
 Bearing about, where'er she came, 
 The blighting of an ancient name. 
 
 His single son, that second self, 
 
 Who, when his first should fall, 
 Would hold his lands and hoarded pelf, 
 
 Died in a drunken brawl ; 
 And now alone amidst his gold 
 He stood, Kadi felt his heart was cold. 
 
 Till, like a large and patient sea 
 
 Once roused by cruel weather, 
 Came by the raging Jacquerie, 
 
 And swept away together 
 Him and all his, save that which time 
 Has hoarded to suggest our rhyme.
 
 252 
 
 THE BROWNIE. 
 
 A GENTLE household Spirit, unchallenged and unpaid, 
 Attended with his service a lonely servant-maid. 
 
 She seemed a weary woman, who had found life unkind, 
 Whose youth had left her early and little left behind. 
 
 Most desolate and dreary her days went on until 
 Arose this unseen stranger her labours to fulfil. 
 
 But now she walked at leisure, secure of blame she slept, 
 The meal was always ready, the room was always swept. 
 
 And, by the cheerful fire-light, the winter evenings long, 
 
 He gave her words of kindness and snatches of sweet song ; 
 
 With useful housewife secrets and tales of faeries fair, 
 
 From times when gaunt magicians and dwarfs and giants were. - 
 
 Thus, habit closing round her, by slow degrees she nurst 
 A sense of trust and pleasure, where she had feared at first. 
 
 When strange desire came on her, and shook her like a storm, 
 To see this faithful being distinct in outward form. 
 
 He was so pure a nature, of so benign a will, 
 
 It could be nothing fearful, it could be nothing ill. 
 
 At first with grave denial her prayer he laid aside, 
 Then warning and entreaty, but all in vain, he tried.
 
 Bertrand du Guesclin. 253 
 
 The wish upgrew to passion, she urged him more and more, 
 Until, as one outwearied, but still lamenting sore, 
 
 He promised in her chamber he would attend her call, 
 When from the small high window the full-moon light should 
 fall. 
 
 Most proud and glad that evening she entered to behold 
 How there her phantom Lover his presence would unfold ; 
 
 When lo ! in bloody pallor lay, on the moonlit floor, 
 
 The Babe she bore and murdered some thirteen years before., 
 
 BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. 
 
 A BRETON BALLAD. 
 I. 
 
 'TWAS on the field of Navarr&te, 
 When Trestamare had sought 
 From English arms a safe retreat, 
 Du Guesclin stood and fought : 
 And to the brave Black Prince alone 
 He yielded up his sword ; 
 So we must sing in mournful tone, 
 Until it be restored ; 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Spin, spin, maidens of Brittany, 
 
 And let not your Litany 
 
 Come to an end, 
 
 Before you have prayed 
 
 The Virgin to aid 
 Bertrand du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend.
 
 254 Bertrand du Guesclin. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Black Prince is a gentle knight ; 
 And bade Du Guesclin name 
 What ransom would be fit and right 
 For his renown and fame ; 
 " A question hard," says he, " yet sine* 
 Hard Fortune on me frowns, 
 I could not tell you less, good Prince, 
 Than twenty thousand crowns." 
 
 III. 
 
 " Where find you all that gold, Sir Knight* 
 
 I would not have you end 
 
 Your days in sloth and undelight 
 
 Away from home and friend : " 
 
 " O Prince of gene'rous heart and just ! 
 
 Let all your fears be stayed ; 
 
 For' my twenty thousand crowns I trust 
 
 To every Breton maid." 
 
 IV. 
 
 And he is not deceived, for we 
 Will never let him pine 
 In stranger towers beyond the sea, 
 Like' a jewel in the mine ! 
 No work but this shall be begun, 
 We will not rest or dream, 
 Till twenty thousand crowns are spun 
 Du Guesclin to redeem. 
 
 v. 
 
 The Bride shall grudge the marriage mom, 
 And feel her joy a crime ;
 
 TJie Fall of Alipius. 255 
 
 The mother' shall wean her eldest-born 
 
 A month before its time ; 
 
 No festal day shall idle by, 
 
 No hour uncounted stand, 
 
 The grandame in her bed shall die 
 
 With' the spindle in her hand. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Spin, spin, women of Brittany, 
 
 Nor let your Litany 
 
 Come to an end, 
 
 Before you have prayed 
 
 The Virgin to aid 
 Bertrand du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend. 
 
 THE FALL OF ALIPIUS. * 
 
 WHEN gentle Gratian ruled the Roman west, 
 And with unvigo'rous virtues thought to hold 
 That troubled balance in perpetual rest, 
 And crush with good intent the bad and bold, 
 The youth Alipius for the first time saw 
 The Mother of civility and law. 
 
 Mother in truth, but yet as one who now 
 
 By her disloyal children tended ill 
 
 Should sit apart, with hand upon her brow, 
 
 Moaning her sick desires and feeble will ; 
 
 So Rome was pictured to the subtler eye, 
 
 That could through words the soul of things descry. 
 
 * Suggested by the Confessions of St. Augustin.
 
 256 The Fall of Alipius. 
 
 But no such vision of the truth had He 
 Who with full heart passed under the old wall, 
 A Roman moulded by that sun and sea 
 Which lit and laved the infant Hannibal. 
 One who with Afric blood could still combine 
 The civic memo'ries of a Roman line. 
 
 To him was Rome whatever she had been, 
 Republican, Cesarean, unforgot, 
 As much the single undisputed Queen, 
 As if the Empire of the East was not, 
 Fine gold and rugged iron fused and cast 
 Into one image of the glorious Past : 
 
 And on a present throne to heaven up-piled, 
 Of arches, temples, basilics and halls, 
 He placed his Idol, while before her filed 
 Nations to gild and glut her festivals ; 
 And of her might the uttera'nce was so loud, 
 That eveiy other living voice was cowed. 
 
 Possessed by this idea, little heed 
 At first he gave the thicke'ning multitude, 
 That met and passed him in their noisy speed, 
 Like hounds intent upon the scent of blood, 
 For all the City was that day astir, 
 Tow'ard the huge Flavian Amphitheatre. 
 
 Yet soon his sole attention grew to scan 
 
 That edifice whose walls might rather seem 
 
 The masonry of Nature than of man, 
 
 In size and figure a Titanic dream, 
 
 That could whole worlds of lesser men absorb 
 
 Within the' embrace of one enormous ortv
 
 The Fall of Alipius. 257 
 
 The mighty tragedies of skill and strife, 
 That there in earnest death must ever close, 
 Exciting palates which no tastes of life 
 Could to a sense of such delight dispose, 
 Swept by his fancy with an hundred names, 
 The pomps and pageantries of Roman games. 
 
 Why should he not pass onward with that tide 
 Of passionate enchantment ? why not share 
 The seeds of pleasure Nature spread so wide, 
 And gave the heart of men like common air ? 
 Why should that be to him a shame and sin, 
 Which thousands of his fellows joy'd to win ? 
 
 But ere this thought could take perspicuous form, 
 His Will arose and fell'd it at a blow ; 
 For he had felt that instinct's fever-storm 
 Lash his young blood to fury long ago, 
 And in the Circus had consumed away 
 Of his best years how many' a wanton day ! 
 
 Till the celestial guardian of his soul 
 Led him the great Augustin's voice to hear, 
 And soon that better influence o'er him stole, 
 A reve'rend master and companion dear, 
 From whom he learnt in his provincial home 
 Wisdom scarce utter'd in the schools of Rome : 
 
 " How wide Humanity's potential range, 
 From Earth's abysses to serenest Heaven, 
 From the poor child of circumstance and change, 
 By every wind of passion tossed and driven, 
 To the established philosophic mind, 
 The type and model of the thing designed :
 
 258 The Fall of Alipius. 
 
 "And how this work of works in each is wrought, 
 By no enthusiast leap to good from ill, 
 But by the vigo'rous government of thought, 
 The unrelaxing continence of will, 
 Where little habits their invisible sway 
 Extend, like body's growth, from day to day." 
 
 By meditations such as these sustained 
 He stoutly breasted that on-coming crowd, 
 Then, as in stupor, at one spot remained, 
 For thrice he heard his name repeated loud, 
 And close before him there beheld in truth 
 Three dearest comrades of his Afric youth. 
 
 O joy ! to welcome in a stranger land 
 Our homeliest native look and native speech, 
 To feel that in one pressure of the hand 
 There is a world of sympathy for each ; 
 And if old friendliness be there beside, 
 The meeting is of bridegroom and of bride. 
 
 What questions asked that waited not reply ! 
 
 What mirthful comment on apparent change ! 
 
 Till the three raised one gratulating cry, 
 
 " Arrived just then ! how fortunate, how strange ! 
 
 Arrived to see what they ne'er saw before, 
 
 The fight between the Daunian and the Moor. 
 
 " One graceful-limbed and lofty as a palm, 
 The other moulded like his mountain-pine ; 
 Each with his customed arms content and calm, 
 In his own nation each of princely line, 
 Two natures sepa'rate as the sun and snow 
 Battling to death to make a Roman show ! "
 
 The Fall of Alipius. 259 
 
 Alipius, with few words and earnest mien, 
 Answered, " That he long since had stood apart 
 From those ferocious pleasures, and would wean 
 Those whom he loved from them with all his heart, 
 Yet, as his counsel could have little power, 
 Where should they meet the morrow, at what hour? " 
 
 Their shafts of mock'ery from his virtuous head 
 
 Fell to the ground, so, using ruder might, 
 
 Amid applauding bystanders, they said, 
 
 " They would divert him in his own despite," 
 
 And bore him forward, while in fearless tone 
 
 He cried, " my mind and sight are still mine own." 
 
 His body a mere dead-weight in their hands, 
 His angry eyes in proud endurance closed, 
 They placed him where spectators from all lands 
 In eager expectation sat disposed, 
 While in the distance still, before, behind, 
 The people gathering were as rushing wind : 
 
 Which ever rising grew into a storm 
 Of acclamations, when, at either end, 
 The combatant displayed his perfect form, 
 Brandished his arms, rejoicing to expend 
 His life in fight at least, at least reclaim 
 A warrior's privilege from a captive's shame. 
 
 As rose before Amphion's notes serene 
 The fated City of heroic guilt, 
 Alipius thus his soul and sense between 
 Imagination's strong defence up-built, 
 With soft memorial music, dreamy strains 
 Of youthful happinesses, loves, and pains.
 
 26o The Fall of Alipius. 
 
 His stony seat seems on the Libyan coast, 
 Augustin on one side, and on the other 
 Monica, for herself beloved, yet most 
 By him regarded as Augustin's mother ; 
 And from far off resounds the populous roar 
 As but the billows booming on the shore. 
 
 Never can He desert the truth he drew 
 
 From those all-honoured lips, never can yield 
 
 To savage appetite, and fresh imbrue 
 
 That soul in filth to which had been revealed 
 
 The' eternal purities that round it lie, 
 
 The Godhead of its birth and destiny. 
 
 Now trumpets clanging forth the last command 
 Gave place to one tremendous pause of sound, 
 Silence like that of some rich-flowe'ring land 
 With lava-torrents raging underground, 
 Scarce for one moment safe from such outbreak 
 As shall all nature to its centre shake. 
 
 And soon in truth it came ; the first sharp blows 
 Fell at long intervals as aimed with skill, 
 Then grew expressive of the passion-throes 
 That followed calm resolve and prudent will, 
 Till wild ejaculations took their part 
 In the death-strife of hand and eye and heart. 
 
 " Habet, Hoc habet, Habet ! " * What a cry ! 
 As if the Circus were one mighty mouth 
 Invading the deep vale of quiet sky 
 With ava'lanche melted in the summer-drouth, 
 Arti'culate tumult from old earth upborne, 
 Delight and ire and ecstasy and scorn ! 
 * He is hit he has got it !
 
 The Fall of Alipius. 261 
 
 Sat then Alipius silent there alone, 
 With fast-shut eyes and spirit far away ? 
 Remained he there as stone upon the stone, 
 While the flushed conqu'eror asked the sign to slay 
 The stricken victim, who despairing dumb 
 Waited the sentence of the downward thumb ? 
 
 The shock was too much for him too, too strong 
 For that poor Reason and self-resting Pride ; 
 And every evil fury that had long 
 Lain crouching in his breast leaped up and cried 
 " Yield, yield at once, and do as others do, 
 We are the Lords of all of them and you. " 
 
 The Love of contest and the Lust of blood 
 Dwell in the depths of man's origi'nal heart, 
 And at mere shows and names of wise and good 
 Will not from their barbaric homes depart, 
 But half asleep await their time, and then 
 Bound forth, like tigers from their jungle-den : 
 
 And all the curious wicker-work of thought, 
 
 Of logical result and learned skill, 
 
 Of precepts with examples inter-wrought, 
 
 Of high ideals, and determinate will, 
 
 The careful fabric of ten thousand hours, 
 
 Is crushed beneath the moment's brutal powers. 
 
 Thus fell Alipius ! He, so grave and mild, 
 Added the bloody sanction of his hand 
 To the swift slaughter of that brother-child 
 Of his own distant Mauritanian land, 
 Seeming content his veiy life to merge 
 In the confusion of that foaming surge.
 
 262 The Fall of Alipius. 
 
 The rage subsided ; the deep sandy floor 
 
 Sucked the hot blood ; the hook, like some vile prey, 
 
 Dragged off the noble body of the Moor ; 
 
 The Victor, doomed to die some other day, 
 
 Enjoyed the plaudits purposelessly earned, 
 
 And back Alipius to himself returned. 
 
 There is a fearful waking unto woes, 
 
 When sleep arrests her charitable course, 
 
 Yet far more terrible the line that flows 
 
 From ebrious passion to supine remorse ; 
 
 Then welcome death, but that the suffe'rers feel 
 
 Wounds such as theirs no death is sure to heal 1 
 
 But the demoniac power that well can use 
 
 Self-trust and Pride as instruments of ill, 
 
 Can such prostration to its ends abuse, 
 
 And poison from Humility distil : 
 
 " Why straggle more? Why strive, when strife is vain, 
 
 An infant's muscles with a giant's chain ? " 
 
 So in his own esteem debased, and glad 
 To take distraction whencesoe'er it came, 
 Though in his heart of hearts entirely sad, 
 Alipius lived to pleasure and to fame : * 
 Sometimes remindful of his youth's high vow, 
 Of hopes and aspirations, fables now. 
 
 When came to Rome his sire of moral lore, 
 That Master, whom his love could ne'er forget, 
 He too a proud Philosopher no more, 
 He too his past reviewing with regret, 
 But preaching One, who Can on man bestow 
 Truth to be wise and strength to keep him so. 
 ' Alipius was appointed Assessor of Justice to the Treasurer of Italy.
 
 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ. 263 
 
 The secret of that strength the Christian sage 
 
 To his regained disciple there unsealed, 
 
 Giving his stagnant soul a war to wage 
 
 With weapons that at once were sword and shield ; 
 
 And thenceforth ever down Tradition glide 
 
 Augustin and Alipius side by side. * 
 
 And in this strength years afterward arose 
 That aged priest Telemachus, who cast 
 His life among those brutalising shows, 
 And died a willing victim and the last, 
 Leaving that temple of colossal crime 
 In silent battle with almighty Time. 
 
 CHARLEMAGNE, AND THE HYMN OF CHRIST. 
 
 "And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of 
 .Olives." MATT. xxvi. 30 ; MARK xiv. 26. 
 
 THE great King Karl sat in his secret room, 
 
 He had sat there all day ; 
 He had not called on minstrel knight or groom 
 
 To wile one hour away. 
 
 Of arms or royal toil he had no care, 
 
 Nor e'en of royal mirth ; 
 As if a poor lone monk he rather were, 
 
 Than lord of half the earth. 
 
 * They went together to Milan, where they were both baptised by St. 
 .Ambrose on. Easter Eve, A.D. 387. Thence they returned to Africa, 
 gind lived in monastic community in their native town of Tagaste. 
 .Alipius afterwards removed to Hippo, and visited St. Jerome in Pales- 
 Itine: he was consecrated Bishop of Tagaste, A.D. 393.
 
 264 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ. 
 
 But chance he had some pleasant company, 
 
 Dear wife, familiar friend, 
 With whom to let the quiet hours slip by, 
 
 As if they had no end ? 
 
 The learned Alcuin, that large-browed clerk, 
 Was there within, and none beside ; 
 
 A book they read, and, where the sense was dark, 
 He was a trusty guide. 
 
 What book had worth so long to occupy 
 
 The thought of such a king, 
 To make the weight of all that sovereignty 
 
 Be a forgotten thing ? 
 
 Surely it were no other than the one, 
 
 Whose every line is fraught 
 With what a mightier King than He had done, 
 
 Conquered, endured, and taught. 
 
 There his great soul, drawn onward by the eye, 
 
 Saw in plain chronicle portrayed 
 The slow unfolding of the mystery 
 
 On which its life was stayed. 
 
 There read he how when Jesus, our dear Lord, 
 To men of sin and dust had given, 
 
 By the transforming magic of his word, 
 The bread of very Heaven ; 
 
 So that our race, by Adam's fatal food 
 
 Reduced to base decline, 
 Partaking of that body and that blood, 
 
 Might be again divine,
 
 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ. 265 
 
 After this wondrous largess, and before 
 
 The unimagined pain, 
 Which, in Gethsemane, the Saviour bore 
 
 Within his heart and brain, 
 
 He read, how these two acts of Love between, 
 
 Ere that prolific day was dim, 
 Christ and his Saints, like men with minds serene, 
 
 Together sung a hymn. 
 
 These things he read in childly faith sincere, 
 
 Then paused and fixed his eye, 
 And said with kingly utte'rance " I must hear 
 
 That Hymn before I die. 
 
 " I will send forth through sea and sun and snows, 
 
 To lands of every tongue, 
 To try if there be not some one which knows 
 
 The music Jesus sung. 
 
 "For I have found delight in songs profane 
 
 Trolled by a foolish boy, 
 And when the monks intone a pious strain, 
 
 My heart is strong in joy ; 
 
 " How blessed then to hear those harmonies, 
 Which Christ's own voice divine engaged ! 
 
 'Twould be as if a wind from Paradise 
 A wounded soul assuaged." 
 
 Within the Empe'ror's mind that anxious thought 
 
 Lay travailing all night long, 
 He dreamed that Magi to his hand had brought 
 
 The burthen of the Song ;
 
 266 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ, 
 
 And when to his grave offices he rose, 
 
 He kept his earnest will, 
 To offer untold guerdons unto those 
 
 Who should that dream fulfil. 
 
 But first he called to counsel in the hall 
 
 Wise priests of reve'rend name, 
 And with an open counte'nance to them all 
 
 Declared his hope and aim. 
 
 He said, "It is God's pleasure, that my will 
 
 Is made the natural law 
 Of many nations, so that out of ill 
 
 All good things I may draw. 
 
 " Therefore this holy mission I decree, 
 
 Sparing no pains or cost, 
 That thus those sounds of dearest memory 
 
 Be not for ever lost. " 
 
 They spake. " Tradition streameth thro' our race, 
 
 Most like the gentle whistling air, 
 To which of old Elias veiled his face, 
 
 Conscious that God was there : 
 
 " Not in the storm, the earthquake, and the flame, 
 
 That troubled Horeb's brow, 
 The splendour and the power of God then came, 
 
 Nor thus he coineth now. 
 
 " The silent water filtereth through earth, 
 One day to bless the summer land ; 
 
 The Word of God in Man slow bubbleth forth, 
 Touched by a worthy hand.
 
 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ. 267 
 
 " Thus, in the memo'ry of some careful Jew 
 
 May lurk the record of a tune 
 Wont to be sung in ceremonial due 
 
 After the Paschal noon ; 
 
 " And thy deep yearning for this mystic song 
 
 May give mankind at last 
 Some charm and blessing that has slept full long 
 
 The slumber of the Past." 
 
 The King rejoiced, and, at this high behest, 
 
 Men, to all toil and change inured, 
 Passed out to search the World if East or West 
 
 That legend still endured. 
 
 What good or ill those venturous hearts befell, 
 
 What glory or what shame, 
 How far they wandered, I have not to tell ; 
 
 Each has his sepa'rate fame. 
 
 I only know, that when the weight of hours 
 
 The prime of mortal heads had bowed, 
 He, slowly letting go his outward powers, 
 
 Spoke from his couch aloud : 
 
 " My soul has waited many a linge'ring year 
 
 To taste that one delight, 
 And now I know at last that I shall hear 
 
 The hymn of Christ to-night. 
 
 " Look out, good friends ! be prompt to welcome home, 
 
 Straight to my presence bring, 
 My messengers, who hither furnished come 
 
 The Song of Christ to sing."
 
 268 Charlemagne, and the Hymn of Christ. 
 
 Dark sank that night, but darker rose the mom, 
 
 That found the western earth 
 Of the divinest presence stripped and shorn 
 
 It ever woke to birth. 
 
 It seemed beyond the common lawful sway 
 
 Of Death and Nature o'er our kind, 
 That such a one as He should pass away, 
 
 And aught be left behind. 
 
 In Aachen Abbey's consecrated ground, 
 
 Within the hollowed stone, 
 They placed the imperial body, robed and crowned, 
 
 Seated as on a throne. 
 
 While the blest spirit holds communion free 
 
 With that eternal quire, 
 Of which on earth to trace the memory 
 Was his devout desire.* 
 
 * It is probable that the hymn sung on this occasion was the Hallel, 
 or part of it. The Hallfel is invariably chanted in all Jewish families on 
 the two first evenings of the Passover, and consists of Psalms 113, 114, 
 115, 116, 117, and 118, and is also read in the synagogue on every day 
 of that feast.
 
 269 
 
 THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY* 
 
 THIS is the record, true as his own word, 
 Of the adventures of a Christian knight, 
 Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword t 
 God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night, 
 Desired, before he gain'd his northern home, 
 To soothe his wounded heart at holy Rome. 
 
 And having found, in that reflected heaven, 
 More than Csesarean splendors and delights, 
 So that it seemed to his young sense was given 
 An unimagined world of sounds and sights ; 
 Yet, half regretful of the long delay, 
 He joined some comrades on their common way. 
 
 The Spring was mantling that Italian land, 
 The Spring ! the passion-season of our earth, 
 The joy, whose wings will never all expand, 
 The gladsome travail of continuous birth, 
 The force that leaves no creature unimbued 
 With amorous Nature's bland inquietude. 
 
 Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life, 
 Little as might be, own'd the tender power, 
 And only show'd their words and gestures rife 
 With the benign excitement of the hour, 
 Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told, 
 In his deep soul was utterly controll'd. 
 
 * The story of Tannhiluser is now so well known through Mr. Julian 
 Fane's and other Poems, that it is unnecessary to repeat the historical 
 notice of former editions : " Der Tannhauser und Ewige Jude " of Grttsse 
 v Dresden, 1861) gives the whole cycle of the Legend. 
 
 t At the conclusion of the last crusade.
 
 270 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 New thoughts sprung up within him, new desires 
 
 Opened their panting bosoms to the sun : 
 
 Imagination scattered lights and fires 
 
 O'er realms before impenetrably dun ; 
 
 His senses, energized with wondrous might, 
 
 Mingled in lusty contest of delight. 
 
 The once-inspiring talk of steel and steeds 
 
 And famous captains lost its ancient zest ; 
 
 The free recital of illustrious deeds 
 
 Came to him vapid as a thrice-told jest ; 
 
 His fancy was of angels penance-bound 
 
 To convoy sprites of ill through heavenly ground. 
 
 The first-love vision of those azure eyes, 
 Twin stars that blessed and kept his spirit cool, 
 Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies, 
 Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool, 
 Unwelcome visitants that stood between 
 Him and the livelier glories of the scene. 
 
 What wanted he with such cold monitors ? 
 What business had he with the past at all ? 
 Well, in the pauses of those clamo'rous wars, 
 Such dull endearment might his heart enthral, 
 But, in this universe of blissful calm, 
 He had no pain to need that homely balm. 
 
 Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight 
 
 He made of moment to demand his stay, 
 
 Where some rare houses, in the clear white light, 
 
 Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay ; 
 
 And bade the company give little heed, 
 
 He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.
 
 The Northern Knight in Italy. 271 
 
 But now at length resolved to satisfy 
 
 The appetite of beauty, and repair 
 
 Those torpid years which he had let glide by, 
 
 Unconscious of the powers of earth and air, 
 
 He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft 
 
 The deepest richness of the sunny draught. 
 
 Eve after eve he told his trusty band 
 
 They should advance straight northward on the morrow, 
 
 Yet when he rose, and to that living land 
 
 Addressed his farewell benison of sorrow, 
 
 With loveliest aspect Nature answer'd so, 
 
 It seem'd almost impiety to go. 
 
 Thus days were gather'd into months, and there 
 
 He linger'd, saunte'ring without aim or end : 
 
 Not unaccompanied ; for wheresoe'er 
 
 His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend, 
 
 A bird-like voice was ever in his ear, 
 
 Divinely sweet and rapturously clear.* 
 
 From the pinaster's solemn-tented crown, 
 From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky> 
 From bare or flowering summit, floated down 
 That music unembodied to the eye : 
 Sometimes beside his feet it seemed to run, 
 Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun. 
 
 * A bird is by no means an uncommon actor in a drama of this kind. 
 It is recorded that, at the Council of Basle, three pious doctors were wont 
 to walk out daily and discuss points of deep theology, but that, as soon as 
 the song of a certain nightingale reached their ears, their argument was 
 inevitably confused ; they contradicted themselves, drew false conclu- 
 sions, and were occasionally very near falling into heresy. The thought 
 struck one of them to exorcise the nightingale, and the devil flew visibly 
 out of a bush, and left the disputants at peace. See also the beautiful 
 story of "The Monk and Bird," in Dean Trench's poems.
 
 272 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear, 
 
 Barriers arose, impermeable, between 
 
 Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear ; 
 
 His life entire was in the present scene ; 
 
 The passage of each day he only knew 
 
 By the broad shadows and the deepening blue. 
 
 His senses by such ecstasy possest, 
 He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side, 
 And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest, 
 Took the first path his eager look descried ; 
 And paused, as one outstartled from a trance, 
 . Within a place of strange significance. 
 
 A ruin'd temple of the Pagan world, 
 
 Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused, 
 
 Art back into the lap of nature hurl'd, 
 
 And still most beautiful, when most abused ; 
 
 A paradise of pity, that might move 
 
 Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love 1 
 
 A very garden of luxurious weeds, 
 
 Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread, 
 
 Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds, 
 
 With vine and ivy draperies overhead ; 
 
 And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells, 
 
 Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels ! 
 
 Amid this strife of vigour and decay 
 
 An Idol stood, complete, without a stain, 
 
 Hid by a broad projection from the sway 
 
 Of winter gusts and daily-rotting rain. . 
 
 Time and his agents seem'cl alike to spare 
 
 A thing so unimaginably fair.
 
 TTie Northern Knight in Italy. 273 
 
 By what deep memo'ry or what subtler mean 
 Was it, that at the moment of this sight, 
 The actual past the statue and the scene, 
 Stood out before him in historic light ? 
 He knew the glorious image by its name 
 Venus ! the Goddess of unholy fame. 
 
 He heard the tread of distant generations 
 
 Slowly defiling to their place of doom : 
 
 And thought how men, and families, and nations 
 
 Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom 
 
 Of Her who stood in desolation there, 
 
 Now lorn of love and unrevered by prayer. 
 
 Beauty without an eye to gaze on it, 
 Passion without a breast to lean upon, 
 Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit, 
 Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone ; 
 So back with vague imaginative pain 
 He turned the steps that soon returned again. 
 
 For there henceforth he eve'ry noon reposed 
 In languor self-sufficient for the day, 
 Feeling the light within his eyelids closed, 
 Or peeping, where the locust, like a ray, 
 Shot through its crevice, and, without a sound, 
 The insect host enjoyed their airy round. 
 
 Day-dreams give sleep, and sleep brings dreams anew ; 
 
 Thus oft a face of untold tenderness, 
 
 A cloud of woe with beauty glistening through, 
 
 Brooded above him in divine distress, 
 
 And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try 
 
 His ready lips, then vanished with a sigh : 
 
 T
 
 274 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 And round him flowed through that intense sunshine 
 Music, whose notes at once were words and tears ; 
 " Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine, 
 Mine were the' Idalian groves of ancient years, 
 The happy heart of Man was all mine own, 
 Now I am homeless and alone alone ! " 
 
 At other times, to his long-resting gaze, 
 Instinct with life the solid sculpture grew, 
 And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze, 
 Till lost within the' impermeable blue ; 
 Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed, 
 Sad-swooning sounds the apparition closed. 
 
 As the strong waters fill the leaky boat 
 
 And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees : 
 
 So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float 
 
 On that serene security of ease, 
 
 Into a torpid meditative void, 
 
 By the same fancies that before upbuoyed. 
 
 His train, though wonde'ring at their changeful lord, 
 
 Had no distaste that season to beguile 
 
 With mimic contests and well-furnished board, 
 
 And even he would sometimes join awhile 
 
 Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away 
 
 From such rude commerce and ignoble play. 
 
 One closing eve, thus issuing forth, he cried, 
 
 " Land of my love ! in thee I cast my lot ; 
 
 Till death thy faithful subject I abide, 
 
 Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot, 
 
 Names that I heed no more, while I possess 
 
 Thy heartfelt luxury of loveliness !"
 
 The Northern Knight in Italy. 275 
 
 That summer night had all the healthy cool 
 That nerves the spirit of the youthful year ; 
 Yet, as to eyes long fixed on a deep pool, 
 The waters dark and bright at once appear, 
 So, through the freshness, on his senses soon 
 Came the warm memo'ries of the lusty noon. 
 
 Such active pleasure tingling through his veins, 
 Quicken'd his pace beneath the colonnade, 
 Chesnut, and ilex to the moon&d plains 
 A bronze relief and garniture of shade, 
 When, just before him, flittingly, he heard 
 The tender voice of that familiar bird. 
 
 Holding his own, to catch that sweeter breath, 
 And listening, so that each particular sound 
 Was merged in that attention's depth, his path 
 Into the secret of the forest wound : 
 The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze, 
 Gave place to dimness and the wild-wood's maze. 
 
 That thrilling sense, which to the weak is fear, 
 
 Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave ; 
 
 So, trusting his harmonious pioneer, 
 
 His heart he freely to the venture gave, 
 
 And through close brake, and under pleached aisle, 
 
 Walked without sign of outlet many a mile. 
 
 When, turning round a thicket weariedly, 
 A building, of such mould as well might pass 
 From graceful Greece to conquering Italy, 
 Rose in soft outline from the silver'd grass, 
 Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd 
 It was no lorn and tenantless abode. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 Children of all varieties of fair, 
 And gaily vested, cluster'd round the portal, 
 Until one Boy, who had not mien and air 
 Of future manhood but of youth immortal, 
 Within an arch of light, came clear to view, 
 Descending that angelic avenue. 
 
 " Stranger ! the mistress of this happy bower," 
 Thus the bright messenger the knight addrest 
 " Bids us assert her hospitable power, 
 And lead thee in a captive or a guest ; 
 Rest is the mate of night, let opening day 
 Speed thee rejoicing on thy work and way." 
 
 Such gentle bidding might kind answer earn ; 
 The full moon's glare put out each guiding star ; 
 He summ'd the dangers of enforc'd return, 
 And now first marvell'd he had roved so far : 
 Then murmur 5 d glad acceptance, tinged with fear, 
 Lest there unmeet his presence should appear. 
 
 Led by that troop of youthful innocence, 
 
 A hall he traversed, up whose heaven-topt dome 
 
 Thick vapours of delightful influence 
 
 From gold and alabaster altars clomb, 
 
 And through a range of pillar 5 d chambers past, 
 
 Each one more full of faerie than the last. 
 
 To his vague gaze those peopled walls disclosed 
 
 Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see, 
 
 Celestial and heroic forms composed 
 
 In many a frame of antique poesy ; 
 
 But, wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall, 
 
 Still Venus was the theme and crown of all.
 
 The Northern Knight in Italy. 277 
 
 There young Adonis scorn'd to yield to her, 
 
 Soon by a sterner nature overcome ; 
 
 There Paris, happy hapless arbiter, 
 
 For beauty barter'd kingdom, race, and home ; 
 
 Save what ^Eneas rescued by her care, 
 
 As the Didonian wood-nymph pictured there. 
 
 But ere he scanned them long, a Lady enter'd, 
 In long white robes majestical array'd, 
 Though on her face alone his eyes were centred, 
 Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd, 
 For every feature he could there divine 
 Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine. 
 
 On his bewilderment she gently smiled, 
 To his confusion she benignly spoke ; 
 And all the fears that started up so wild 
 Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke : 
 It was with him as if he saw through tears 
 A countenance long-loved and lost for years. 
 
 She asked, " if so he will'd," the stranger's name, 
 And, when she heard it, said, " the gallant sound 
 Had often reached her on the wing of fame, 
 Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round ; 
 Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet 
 On noble worth her woman -heart was set." 
 
 Rare is the fish that is not meshed amain, 
 When Beauty tends the silken net of praise ; 
 Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain 
 He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays, 
 Till each self-glorious thought became a charm, 
 For her to work against him to his harm.
 
 278 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 Such converse of melodious looks and words 
 Paused at the call of other symphonies, 
 Invisible agencies that draw the cords 
 Of massive curtains, rising as they rise, 
 So that the music's closing swell reveal'd 
 The Paradise of pleasure there conceal' d. 
 
 It was a wide alcove, thick -wall'd with flowers, 
 
 Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear'd 
 
 Beyond the range of vegetative powers, 
 
 A flush of splendour almost to be fear'd, 
 
 A strange affinity of life between 
 
 Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen. 
 
 Luminous gems were weaving from aloft 
 Fantastic rainbows on the fountain spray, 
 Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft, 
 Profusely heaped beside a table lay, 
 Whereon all show of form and hue increast 
 The rich temptation of the coming feast. 
 
 There on one couch, and served by cherub hands, 
 
 The Knight and Lady banqueted in joy : 
 
 With freshest fruits from scarce discover'd lands, 
 
 Such as he saw in pictures when a boy, 
 
 And cates of flavours excellent and new, 
 
 That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew. 
 
 Once, and but once, a spasm of very fear 
 
 Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold 
 
 Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear, 
 
 And made the royal flowers around upfold 
 
 Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band, 
 
 Like the mimosa touched by mortal hand.
 
 The Northern Knight in Italy. 279 
 
 Then almost ghastly seem'd the tinted sheen, 
 Saltless and savourless those luscious meats, 
 Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene, 
 As one who could command but still entreats, 
 And filling a gold goblet, kissed the brim, 
 And passed it bubbling from her lips to him. 
 
 At once absorbing that nectareous draught, 
 
 And the delicious radiance of those eyes, 
 
 At doubt and terror-fit he inly laughed, 
 
 And grasped her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize ; 
 
 And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew, 
 
 " Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you ! " 
 
 They were alone : the' attendants, one by one, 
 Had vanished : faint and fainter rose the air 
 Oppressed with odours : through the twilight shone 
 The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair, 
 Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell, 
 The will-less, mindless, creature of the spell. 
 
 In the dull deep of satisfied desire 
 Not long a priso'ner lay that knightly soul, 
 But on his blood, as on a wave of fire, 
 Uneasy fancies rode without control, 
 Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem 
 To take the substance of an order'd dream. 
 
 At first he stood beside a public road, 
 Hedged in by myrtle and embower'd by plane, 
 While figures, vested in old Grecian mode, 
 Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train, 
 So strangely character'd, he could not know 
 Were it of triumph or funereal woe.
 
 280 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 For crowns of bay enwreath'd each beauteous head, 
 Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man ; 
 Slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded ; 
 Torch-bearing children mingled as they ran 
 Gleaming amid the elder that uphold 
 Tripods and cups and plates of chased gold. 
 
 But then he marked the flowers were colourless, 
 
 Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves, 
 
 And on the faces sat the high distress 
 
 Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves : 
 
 So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close, 
 
 When the dream changed, but not to his repose. 
 
 For now he was within his father's hall, 
 
 No tittle changed of form or furniture, 
 
 But all and each a grave memorial 
 
 Of youthful days, too careless to endure, 
 
 There was his mother's housewife-work, and there, 
 
 Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair : 
 
 Where, cower'ing low, that ancient woman sat, 
 Her bony fingers twitching on her knee, 
 Her dry lips muttering fast he knew not what, 
 Only the sharp convulsion could he see ; 
 But, as he looked, he felt a conscience dim 
 That she was urging God in prayer for him. 
 
 Away in trembling wretchedness he turn'd, 
 And he was in his leman's arms once more ; 
 Yet all the Jewell' d cressets were out-burn'd, 
 And all the pictured walls, so gay before, 
 Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp, 
 Blotched with green mould and worn by filthy damp.
 
 The Northern Knight in Italy. 281 
 
 Enormous bats their insolent long wings 
 Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow, 
 And shrieked " We cozen'd with our ministerings 
 The foolish knight, and have our revel now : " 
 And worms bestrew'd the weeds that overspread 
 The floor with silken flowers late carpeted. 
 
 His sick astonished looks he straight addressed 
 To her whose tresses lay around his arm, 
 And fervent breath was playing on his breast, 
 To seek the meaning of this frightful charm ; 
 But she was there no longer, and instead, 
 He was the partner of a Demon's bed, 
 
 That, slowly rising, brought the lurid glare 
 Of its fixed eyes close opposite to his ; 
 One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair, 
 Threate'ning his lips with pestilential kiss, 
 And somewise in the fiendish face it wore, 
 He traced the features he did erst adore. 
 
 With one instinctive agony he drew 
 
 His sword, that Palestine remember'd well, 
 
 And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true, 
 
 That down the devi'lish head in thunder fell : 
 
 The effort seem'd against a jutting stone 
 
 To strike his hand, and then he woke alone ! 
 
 Alone he stood amid those ruins old, 
 
 His treas'ury of sweet care and pleasant pain ; 
 
 The hemlock crushed defined the body's mould 
 
 Of one who long and restless there had lain ; 
 
 His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn, 
 
 His hand fresh-blooded, and his sword fresh drawn !
 
 282 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 The eastern star, a crystal eye of gold, 
 Full on the statued form of Beauty shone, 
 Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold, 
 A simple trunk of deftly carven stone : 
 Deep in the grasses that dismember'd head 
 Lay like the relics of the' ignoble dead. 
 
 But Beauty's namesake and sidereal shrine 
 
 Now glided slowly down that pallid sky, 
 
 Near and more near the thin horizon line, 
 
 In the first gush of morning, there to die, 
 
 While the poor Knight, with wilder'd steps and brain, 
 
 Hasten'd the glimme'ring village to regain. 
 
 With few uncertain words and little heed 
 His followers' anxious questions he put by, 
 Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed, 
 For "they must march before the sun was high, 
 And neither Apennine nor Alp should stay, 
 Though for a single night, his homeward way." 
 
 On, on, with scanty food and rest he rode, 
 Like one whom unseen enemies pursue, 
 Urging his favou'rite horse with cruel goad, 
 So that the lagging servants hardly knew 
 Their master of frank heart and ready cheer, 
 In that lone man who would not speak or hear. 
 
 Till when at last he fairly saw behind 
 
 The Alpine barrier of perennial snow, 
 
 He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind, 
 
 His blood in calmer current seem'd to flow, 
 
 And like himself he smiled once more, but cast 
 
 No light or colour on that cloudy past.
 
 TTie Northern Knight in Italy. 283 
 
 From the old Teuton forests, echoing far, 
 
 Came a stern welcome, hailing him restored 
 
 To the true health of life in peace or war, 
 
 Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board ; 
 
 And waters, in the clear unbroken voice 
 
 Of childhood, spoke " Be thankful and rejoice ! " 
 
 Glad as the dove returning to his ark 
 Over the waste of universal sea, 
 He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark, 
 He traced the figure of each friendly tree, 
 And felt that he could never part from this 
 His home of daily love and even bliss. 
 
 And in the quiet closure of that place, 
 He soon his first affection linked anew, 
 In that most honest passion finding grace, 
 His soul with primal vigour to endue, 
 And crush the memories that at times arose, 
 To stain pure joy and trouble high repose. 
 
 Never again that dear and dangerous land, 
 So fresh with all her weight of time and story, 
 Her winterless delights and slumbers bland, 
 On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory, 
 Did he behold : the flashing cup could please 
 No longer him who knew the poison-lees. 
 
 So lived he, pious, innocent, and brave, 
 The best of friends I ever saw on earth : 
 And now the uncommunicable grave 
 Has closed on him and left us but his worth ; 
 I have revealed this strange and secret tale 
 Of human fancy and the powers of bale.
 
 284 The Northern Knight in Italy. 
 
 He told it me, one autumn evening mild, 
 Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree, 
 His dear true wife beside him, and a child, 
 Youngest of many, dancing round his knee, 
 And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes 
 Embalm it, to be known in after-times. 
 
 BRAD3URV AND liVANS, PRINIEKS, WHI1EFRIAKS.