THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Library
 
 /d
 
 MISS PROCTER'S POEMS 
 Cabinet Coition
 
 THE COMPLETE 
 POETICAL WORKS OF 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE 
 
 PROCTER 
 
 i>, 
 
 Cabinet CUitton 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 (jCfte iiiUcrsiDc press, Cambridge
 
 English 
 Reading Ro< 
 
 PR 
 Stfl 
 A-i 
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 THE few personal items to be gleaned regarding the life 
 and work of the author of the poems contained in this vol- 
 ume were affectionately recorded by Charles Dickens in an 
 article printed in The Atlantic Monthly for December, 1865, 
 and reprinted herewith as an introduction. The collection 
 of poems is believed to be complete, including as it does 
 A Chaplet of Verses, with Miss Procter's special introduction 
 to that group. 
 
 Autumn, 1899.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 LEGENDS AMD LYRICS. A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 FIRST SEBIES. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY I 
 
 ECHOES 5 
 
 A FALSE GE'NIUS 6 
 
 MY PICTURE 6 
 
 JUDGE NOT 7 
 
 FRIEND SORROW 8 
 
 ONE BY ONE 8 
 
 TRUK HONORS . 9 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION 14 
 
 THE THREE RULERS 15 
 
 A DEAD PAST 16 
 
 A DOUBTING HEART 16 
 
 A STUDENT 17 
 
 A KNIGHT-ERRANT 18 
 
 LINGER, GENTLE TIME 19 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND 19 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 24 
 
 Now 25 
 
 CLEANSING FIRES 25 
 
 THE VOICE or THE WIND 26 
 
 TREASURES 27 
 
 SHINING STARS 28 
 
 WAITING 28 
 
 THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR 29
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 BE STRONG 30 
 
 GOD'S GIFTS 81 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT 32 
 
 THE ANGEL OK DEATH 39 
 
 A DREAM 40 
 
 THE PRESENT 41 
 
 CHANGES 41 
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAT 41 
 
 A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER 42 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE 42 
 
 GIVE ME THY HEART 43 
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN 45 
 
 VOICES OF THE PAST 48 
 
 THE DARK SIDE 48 
 
 A FIRST SORROW 49 
 
 MURMURS 49 
 
 GIVE 50 
 
 MY JOURNAL 50 
 
 A CHAIN 52 
 
 THE PILGRIMS 53 
 
 INCOMPLETENESS 53 
 
 A LEGEND OF BRZGENZ 54 
 
 A FAREWELL 57 
 
 SOWING AND REAPING 57 
 
 THE STORM 58 
 
 WORDS 59 
 
 A LOVE TOKEN 60 
 
 A TRYST WITH DEATH 60 
 
 FIDKLIS 61 
 
 A SHADOW 62 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY 62 
 
 A CROWN OF SORROW 71 
 
 THK LESSON OF THK WAR 71 
 
 THE Two SPIRITS 72 
 
 A LITTLE LONGER 74 
 
 GRIKF 75 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME 77 
 
 A PARTING 78 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATK 79 
 
 PHANTOMS 80 
 
 THANKFULNESS 80
 
 CONTENTS. ix 
 
 HOME-SICKNESS . , 81 
 
 WISHES 82 
 
 THE PEACE or GOD 83 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE 83 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS 86 
 
 ILLUSION 87 
 
 A. VISION 88 
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE 89 
 
 THE SETTLERS 90 
 
 HUSH! 91 
 
 HOURS 92 
 
 THE Two INTERPRETERS 93 
 
 COMFORT 94 
 
 HOME AT LAST 95 
 
 UNEXPRESSED 96 
 
 BECAUSE 97 
 
 REST AT EVENING 97 
 
 A RETROSPECT 98 
 
 TRUE OK FALSE 99 
 
 GOLDEN WORDS 101 
 
 LEGEKBS AND LYRICS. A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE 105 
 
 ENVY 114 
 
 OVER THE MOUNTAIN 114 
 
 BEYOND . 115 
 
 A WARNING 116 
 
 MAXIMUS 117 
 
 OPTIMUS 118 
 
 A LOST CHORD 119 
 
 Too LATE 119 
 
 THE REQUITAL 120 
 
 RETURNED " MISSING" 121 
 
 IN THE WOOD 123 
 
 Two WORLDS 123 
 
 A NEW MOTHER . 124 
 
 GIVE PLACE 131 
 
 My WILL 132 
 
 KING AND SLAVE 133
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 A CHANT 1S3 
 
 DREAM-LIFE 136 
 
 REST 135 
 
 THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE 137 
 
 THE CARVEE'S LKSSON 138 
 
 THREE ROSES 139 
 
 MY PICTURE GALLKRY 140 
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN 142 
 
 NEVER AGAIN 143 
 
 LISTENING ANGELS 144 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS 145 
 
 PHILIP AND MILDBED 146 
 
 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 I. FROM " LAVATF.R " 153 
 
 II. FROM " PHANTASTES " 153 
 
 IIL FROM " LOST ALICE " 154 
 
 IV. FROM * * * 154 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE 155 
 
 A CHANGELING 157 
 
 DISCOURAGED 158 
 
 IF THOU COULDST KNOW 159 
 
 THE WARRIOR TO HIS DEAD BRIDE 159 
 
 A LETTER 160 
 
 A COMFORTER 162 
 
 UNSEEN 164 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE op AUTUMN 165 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE 165 
 
 THE WIND 172 
 
 EXPECTATION 173 
 
 AN IDEAL 174 
 
 OUR DEAD 175 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER 176 
 
 THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL 178 
 
 A CONTRAST 179 
 
 THE BRIDE'S DREAM . 181 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BIDDING 182 
 
 SPRING 183 
 
 EVENING HYMN 184 
 
 THE INNEK CHAMBER 185 
 
 HEARTS 185 
 
 Two LOVES 187 
 
 A. WOMAN'S LAST WORD 187
 
 CONTENTS. rd 
 
 PAST AMD PRESENT . 188 
 
 FOB THE FUTURE .... ll'J 
 
 A CHAPLET OF VERSES. 
 
 INTRODUCTION 195 
 
 THE ARMY OF THE LORD 199 
 
 IKE STAR OF THE SEA 202 
 
 THE SACRED HEART 202 
 
 THE NAMES OF OUR LADY 204 
 
 A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS 205 
 
 KYRIE ELEISON 207 
 
 THE ANNUNCIATION 208 
 
 AN APPEAL 208 
 
 THE JUBILEE OF 1850 210 
 
 CHRISTMAS FLOWERS 211 
 
 A DESIRE 212 
 
 OUR DAILY BREAD 214 
 
 THREEFOLD 214 
 
 CONFIDO ET CONQUIESCO 215 
 
 ORA PRO ME 215 
 
 THE CHURCH IN 1849 216 
 
 FISHERS OF MEN 216 
 
 THE OLD YEAR'S BLESSING 217 
 
 EVENING CHANT 218 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 219 
 
 OUR TITLES 220 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS 221 
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY 222 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR 226 
 
 MILLY'S EXPIATION 231 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR 239 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUCEM 240 
 
 A LEGEND 240 
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS 241 
 
 A BKGGAR 244 
 
 LINKS WITH HEAVEN . 245 
 
 HOMELESS 240 
 
 INDEX OP FIRST. LINES 249 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES . . 255
 
 AN INTRODUCTION. 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 IN the spring of the year 1853, 
 I observed, as conductor of the 
 weekly journal, HOUSEHOLD 
 WORDS, a short poem among the 
 proffered contributions, very dif- 
 ferent, as I thought, from the 
 shoal of verses perpetually set- 
 ting through the office of such a 
 periodical, and possessing much 
 more merit. Its authoress was 
 quite unknown to me. She was 
 one Miss MARY BERWICK, 
 whom I had never heard of ; and 
 she was to be addressed by let- 
 ter, if addressed at all, at a cir- 
 culating library in the western 
 district of London. Through 
 this channel, Miss Berwick was 
 informed that her poem was ac- 
 cepted, and was invited to send 
 another. She complied, and be- 
 came a regular and frequent con- 
 tributor. Many letters passed 
 between the journal and Miss 
 Berwick, but Miss Berwick her- 
 self was never seen. 
 
 How we came gradually to 
 establish, at the office of House- 
 
 hold Words, that we knew all 
 about Miss Berwick, I have nev- 
 er discovered. But, we settled 
 somehow, to our complete satis- 
 faction, that she was governess 
 in a family ; that she went to 
 Italy in that capacity, and re- 
 turned ; and that she had long 
 been in the same family. Wfc 
 really knew nothing whatevei 
 of her, except that she was re- 
 markably business-like, punctual, 
 self-reliant, and reliable : so I 
 suppose we insensibly invented 
 the rest. For myself, my moth 
 er was not a more real person 
 age to me, than Miss Berwicl 
 the governess became. 
 
 This went on until December 
 1854, when the Christmas num- 
 ber, entitled The Seven Poor 
 Travellers, was sent to press. 
 Happening to be going to dine 
 that day with an old and dear 
 friend, distinguished in literature 
 as BARRY CORNWALL, I took 
 with me an early proof of that 
 number, and remarked, as 1
 
 XIV 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 laid it on the drawing-room ta- 
 ble, that it contained a very 
 pretty poem, written by a cer- 
 tain Miss Berwick. Next day 
 brought me the disclosure that I 
 had so spoken of the poem to 
 the mother of its writer, in its 
 writer's presence ; that I had no 
 such correspondent in existence 
 as Miss Berwick ; and that the 
 name had been assumed by Bar- 
 ry Cornwall's eldest daughter, 
 Miss ADELAIDE ANNE PROC- 
 TER. 
 
 The anecdote I have here not- 
 ed down, besides serving to ex- 
 plain why the parents of the late 
 Miss Procter have looked to me 
 for these poor words of remem- 
 brance of their lamented child, 
 strikingly illustrates the hon- 
 esty, independence, and quiet 
 dignity of the lady's character. 
 I iiad known her when she was 
 very young ; I had been hon- 
 ored with her father's friendship 
 when I was myself a young as- 
 pirant ; and she had said at 
 home, " If I send him, in my 
 own name, verses that he docs 
 not honestly like, either it will be 
 very painful to him to return 
 them, or he will print them for 
 papa's sake, and not for their 
 own. So I have made up my 
 mind to take my chance fairly 
 with the unknown volunteers " 
 
 Perhaps it requires an edi- 
 tor's experience of the profound- 
 ly unreasonable grounds on 
 
 which he is often urged to ac- 
 cept unsuitable articles such 
 as having been to school with 
 the writer's husband's broth- 
 er-in-law, or having lent an al- 
 penstock in Switzerland to the 
 writer's wife's nephew, when 
 that interesting stranger had 
 broken his own fully to appre- 
 ciate the delicacy and the self- 
 respect of this resolution. 
 
 Some verses by Miss Procter 
 had been published in the BOOK 
 OF BEAUTY, ten years before 
 she became Miss Berwick. With 
 the exception of two poems in 
 the CORNHILL MAGAZINE, two 
 in Goon WORDS, and others in 
 a little book called A CHAPLKT 
 OF VERSES (issued in 1862 for 
 the benefit of a Night Refuge), 
 her published writings first ap- 
 peared in HOUSEHOLD WORDS, 
 or ALL THE YEAR HOUND. 
 The present edition contains 
 the whole of her Legends and 
 Lyrics, and originates in the 
 great favor with which they 
 have been received by the pub- 
 lic. 
 
 Miss Procter was born in Bed- 
 ford Square, London, on the 
 30th of October, 1825. Her 
 love of poetry was conspicuous 
 at so early an age, that I have 
 before me a tiny album made 
 of small note-paper, into which 
 her favorite passages were co\>- 
 icd for her by her mother's hand 
 before she herself could write.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 xv 
 
 It looks as if she had carried it 
 about as another little girl might 
 have carried a doll. She soon 
 displayed a remarkable memory, 
 and great quickness of apprehen- 
 sion. When she was quite a 
 young child, she learnt with fa- 
 cility several of the problems of 
 Euclid. As she grew older, she 
 acquired the French, Italian, and 
 German languages, became a 
 clever piano-forte player, and 
 showed a true taste and senti- 
 ment in drawing. But, as soon 
 as she had completely vanquished 
 the difficulties of any one branch 
 of study, it was her way to lose 
 interest in it, and pass to an- 
 other. While her mental re- 
 sources were being trained, it was 
 not at all suspected in her family 
 that she had any gift of author- 
 ship, or any ambition to become 
 a writer. Her father had no 
 idea of her having ever attempted 
 to turn a rhyme, until her first 
 little poem saw the light in 
 print. 
 
 When she attained to woman- 
 hood, she had read an extraor- 
 dinary number of books, and 
 throughout her life she was al- 
 ways largely adding to the num- 
 ber. In 1853 she went to Turin 
 and its neighborhood, on a visit 
 to her aunt, a Roman Catholic 
 lady. As Miss Procter had her- 
 self professed the Roman Catho- 
 lic faith two years before, she 
 entered with the greater ardor 
 
 on the study of the Piedmontese 
 dialect, and the observation of 
 the habits and manners of the 
 peasantry. In the former, she 
 soon became a proficient. On 
 the latter head, I extract from 
 her familiar letters, written home 
 to England at the time, two 
 pleasant pieces of description. 
 
 A BETROTHAL. 
 
 " We have been to a ball, of 
 which I must give you a descrip- 
 tion. Last Tuesday we had just 
 done dinner at about seven, and 
 stepped out into the balcony to 
 look at the remains of the sun- 
 set behind the mountains, when 
 we heard very distinctly a band 
 of music, which rather excited 
 my astonishment, as a solitary 
 organ is the utmost that toils up 
 here. I went out of the room 
 for a few minutes, and, on my 
 returning, Emily said, ' Oh ! that 
 band is playing at the farmer's 
 near here. The daughter is 
 Jiuncee to-day, and they have a 
 ball.' I said, ' I wish I was 
 going ! ' ' Well,' replied she, 
 ' the farmer's wife did call to 
 invite us.' ' Then I shall cer- 
 tainly go,' I exclaimed. I ap- 
 plied to Madame B., who said 
 she would like it very much, 
 and we had better go, children 
 and all. Some of the servants 
 were already gone. We rushed 
 away to put on some shawls,
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and put off any shred of black 
 we might have about us (as the 
 people would have been quite 
 annoyed if we had appeared on 
 such an occasion with any 
 black), and we started. When 
 we reached the farmer's, which 
 is a stone's throw above our 
 house, we were received with 
 great enthusiasm ; the only draw- 
 back being that no one spoke 
 French, and we did not yet speak 
 Piedmontese. We were placed 
 on a bench against the wall, and 
 the people went on dancing. 
 The room was a large white- 
 washed kitchen (I suppose), with 
 several large pictures in black 
 frames, and very smoky. I dis- 
 tinguished the Martyrdom of 
 Saint Sebastian, and the others 
 appeared equally lively and ap- 
 propriate subjects. Whether 
 they were Old Masters or not, 
 and if so, by whom, I could not 
 ascertain. The band were seated 
 opposite us. Five men, with 
 wind-instruments, part of the 
 band of the National Guard, 
 to which the farmer's sons be- 
 long. They played really ad- 
 mirably, and I began to be afraid 
 that some idea of our dignity 
 would prevent my getting a part- 
 ner ; so, by Madame B.'s advice, 
 I went up to the bride, and offered 
 to dance with her. Such a hand- 
 some young woman ! Like one 
 of Uwins's pictures. Very dark, 
 with a quantity of black hair, 
 
 and on an immense scale. The 
 children were already dancing, 
 as well as the maids. After we 
 came to an end of our dance, 
 which was what they call a 
 Polka-Mazourka, I saw the bride 
 trying to screw up the courage 
 of herjianctf to ask me to dance, 
 which after a little hesitation he 
 did. And admirably he danced, 
 as indeed they all did, in ex- 
 cellent time, and with a little 
 more spirit than one sees in a 
 ball-room. In fact, they were 
 very like one's ordinary partners, 
 except that they wore ear-rings 
 and were in their shirt-sleeves, 
 and truth compels me to state 
 that they decidedly smelt of gar- 
 lic. Some of them had been 
 smoking, but threw away their 
 cigars when we came in. The 
 only thing that did not look 
 cheerful was, that the room was 
 only lighted by two or three oil- 
 lamps, and that there seemed to 
 be no preparation for .refresh- 
 ments. Madame B., seeing this, 
 whispered to her maid, who dis- 
 engaged herself from her part- 
 ner, and ran off to the house ; 
 she and the kitchen-maid pres- 
 ently returning with a large tray 
 covered with all kinds of cake? 
 (of which we arc great consum- 
 ers and always have a stock), 
 and a large hamper full of bot- 
 tles of wine, with coffee and 
 sugar. This seemed all very 
 acceptable. The fiancee was
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 xvii 
 
 requested to distribute the eata- 
 bles, and a bucket of water being 
 produced to wash the glasses in, 
 the wine disappeared very quick- 
 ly, as fast as they could open 
 the bottles. But, elated I sup- 
 pose by this, the floor was sprin- 
 kled with water, and the mu- 
 sicians played a Monferrino, 
 which is a Piedmontese dance. 
 Madame B. danced with the 
 farmer's son, and Emily with 
 another distinguished member of 
 the company. It was very fatigu- 
 ing, something like a Scotch 
 reel. My partner was a little 
 man, like Perrot, and very proud 
 of his dancing. He cut in the 
 air and twisted about, until I 
 was out of breath, though my 
 attempts to imitate him were 
 feeble in the extreme. At last, 
 after seven or eight dances, I was 
 obliged to sit down. We stayed 
 till nine, and I was so dead beat 
 with the heat that I could hardly 
 crawl about the house, and in 
 an agony with the cramp, it is 
 so long since I have danced." 
 
 A MARRIAGE. 
 
 " The wedding of the farmer's 
 daughter has taken place. We 
 had hoped it would have been in 
 the little chapel of our house, 
 but it seems some special per- 
 mission was necessary, and they 
 applied for it too late. They all 
 said, This i the Constitution. 
 
 There would have been no diffi- 
 culty before ! ' the lower classes 
 making the poor Constitution 
 the scape-goat for everything they 
 don't like. So, as it was impos- 
 sible for us to climb up to the 
 church where the wedding was 
 to be, we contented ourselves 
 with seeing the procession pass. 
 It was not a very large one, for, 
 it requiring some activity to go 
 up, all the old people remained 
 at home. It is not the etiquette 
 for the bride's mother to go, and 
 no unmarried woman can go to 
 a wedding, I suppose for fear 
 of its making her discontented 
 with her own position. The 
 procession stopped at our door, 
 for the bride to receive our con- 
 gratulations. She was dressed 
 in a shot silk, with a yellow 
 handkerchief, and rows of a 
 large gold chain. In the after- 
 noon they sent to request us to 
 go there. On our arrival we 
 found them dancing out of doors, 
 and a most melancholy affair it 
 was. All the bride's sisters were 
 not to be recognized, they had 
 cried so. The mother sat in the 
 house, and could not appear. 
 And the bride was sobbing so 
 she could hardly stand ! The 
 most melancholy spectacle of all 
 to my mind was, that the bride- 
 groom was decidedly tipsy. He 
 seemed rather affronted at all the 
 distress. We danced a Monfer- 
 rino ; I with the bridegroom,
 
 XV111 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and the bride crying the whole 
 time. The company did their 
 utmost to enliven her by firing 
 pistols, but without success, and 
 at last they began a series of 
 yells which reminded me of a 
 set of savages. But even this 
 delicate method of consolation 
 failed, and the wishing good-by 
 began. It was altogether so 
 melancholy an affair that Ma- 
 dame B. dropped a few tears, and 
 I was very near it, particularly 
 when the poor mother came out 
 to see the last of her daughter, 
 who was finally dragged off be- 
 tween her brother and uncle, with 
 a last explosion of pistols. As 
 she lives quite near, makes an 
 excellent match, and is one of 
 nine children, it really was a 
 most desirable marriage, in spite 
 of all the show of distress. Al- 
 bert was so discomfited by it, 
 that he forgot to kiss the bride 
 as he had intended to do, and 
 therefore went to call upon her 
 yesterday, and found her very 
 smiling in her new house, and 
 supplied the omission. The 
 cook came home from the wed- 
 ding, declaring she was cured 
 of any wish to marry ; but I 
 would not recommend any man 
 to act upon that threat and make 
 her an offer. In a couple of 
 days we had some rolls of the 
 bride's first baking, which they 
 call Madonna's. The musicians, 
 it seems, were in the same state 
 
 as the bridegroom, for, in escort- 
 ing her home, they all fell down 
 in the mud. My wrath against 
 the bridegroom is somewhat 
 calmed by finding that it is con- 
 sidered bad luck if he does not 
 get tipsy at his wedding." 
 
 Those readers of Miss Proc- 
 ter's poems who should suppose 
 from their tone that her mind 
 was of a gloomy or despondent 
 cast would be curiously mistaken. 
 She was exceedingly humorous, 
 and had a great delight in hu- 
 mor. Cheerfulness was habitual 
 with her, she was very ready at 
 a sally or a reply, and in her 
 laugh (as I remember well) there 
 was an unusual vivacity, enjoy- 
 ment, and sense of drollery. She 
 was perfectly unconstrained and 
 unaffected : as modestly silent 
 about her productions as she 
 was generous with their pecuni- 
 ary results. She was a friend 
 who inspired the strongest- at- 
 tachments ; she was a finely sym- 
 pathetic woman, with a great 
 accordant heart and a sterling 
 noble nature. No claim can be 
 set up for her, thank God, to the 
 possession of any of the conven- 
 tional poetical qualities. She 
 never by any means held the 
 opinion that she was among the 
 greatest of human beings ; she 
 never suspected the existence of 
 a conspiracy on the part of man- 
 kind against her ; she never rec-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 xix 
 
 ognized in her best friends her 
 worst enemies ; she never culti- 
 vated the luxury of being misun- 
 derstood and unappreciated ; she 
 would far rather have died with- 
 out seeing a line of her compo- 
 sition in print, than that I should 
 have maundered about her, here, 
 as " the Poet," or " the Poet- 
 ess." 
 
 With the recollection of Miss 
 Procter as a mere child and as a 
 woman fresh upon me, it is nat- 
 ural that I should linger on my 
 way to the close of this brief 
 record, avoiding its end. But, 
 even as the close came upon her, 
 so must it come here. 
 
 Always impelled by an intense 
 conviction that her life must not 
 be dreamed away, and that her 
 indulgence in her favorite pur- 
 suits must be balanced by action 
 in the real world around her, 
 she was indefatigable in her en- 
 deavors to do some good. Nat- 
 urally enthusiastic, and conscien- 
 tiously impressed with a deep 
 sense of her Christian duty to 
 her neighbor, she devoted herself 
 to a variety of benevolent objects. 
 Now, it was the visitation of the 
 sick that had possession of her; 
 now, it was the sheltering of the 
 houseless ; now, it was the ele- 
 mentary teaching of the densely 
 ignorant; now, it was the raising 
 up of those who had wandered 
 and got trodden under foot ; 
 now, it was the wider employ- 
 
 ment of her own sex in the gen- 
 eral business of life ; now, it was 
 all these things at once. Per- 
 fectly unselfish, swift to sympa- 
 thize and eager to relieve, she 
 wrought at such designs with a 
 flashed earnestness that disre- 
 garded season, weather, time of 
 day or night, food, rest. Under 
 such a hurry of the spirits, and 
 such incessant occupation, the 
 strongest constitution will com- 
 monly go down. Hers, neither 
 of the strongest nor the weak- 
 est, yielded to the burden, and 
 began to sink. 
 
 To have saved her life, then, 
 by taking action on the warning 
 that shone in her eyes and 
 sounded in her voice, would 
 have been impossible without 
 changing her nature. As long 
 as the power of moving about 
 in the old way was left to her, 
 she must exercise it, or be killed 
 by the restraint. And so the 
 time came when she could move 
 about no longer, and took to her 
 bed. 
 
 All the restlessness gone then, 
 and all the sweet patience of her 
 natural disposition purified by 
 the resignation of her soul, she 
 lay upon her bed through the 
 whole round of changes of the 
 seasons. She lay upon her bed 
 through fifteen months. In all 
 that time, her old cheerfulness 
 never quitted her. In all that 
 time, not an impatient or a quer-
 
 XX 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ulous minute can be remem- 
 bered. 
 
 At length, at midnight on the 
 2d of February, 1864, she turned 
 down a leaf of a little book she 
 was reading, and shut it up. 
 
 The ministering hand that had 
 copied the verses into the tiny 
 album was soon around her neck, 
 and she quietly asked, as the 
 clock was on the stroke of one : 
 " Do you think I am dying, 
 mamma 1 " 
 
 " I think you are very, very 
 ill to-night, my dear." 
 
 " Send for my sister. My 
 feet are so cold. Lift me up ! " 
 
 Her sister entering as they 
 
 raised her, she said : " It has 
 come at last ! " And with a 
 bright and happy smile looked 
 upward, and departed. 
 Well had she written : 
 
 Why Bhouldst thou fear the beautiful 
 
 angel, Death, 
 Who waits thee at the portals of the 
 
 skies, 
 Ready to kiss away thy struggling 
 
 breath. 
 Ready with gentle hand to close thine 
 
 eyes? 
 
 Oh, what were life, if life were all? 
 
 Thine eyes 
 Are blinded by their tears, or thou 
 
 wouldst see 
 Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off 
 
 skies, 
 And Death, thy friend, will give them 
 
 all to thee.
 
 LEGENDS AND LYRICS, 
 
 A BOOK OF VEKSES. 
 FIRST SERIES.
 
 MATILDA M. HAYS. 
 
 " Our tokens of love are for the most part barbarous. Cold and lifeless, 
 because they do not represent our life. The only gift is a portion of thy- 
 self. Therefore let the farmer give his corn ; the miner, a gem ; the 
 sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; and the poet, his poem." 
 EMEKSON'S Essays. 
 
 A. A. P. 
 
 May, 1858.
 
 LEGENDS AOT) LYEICS. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 THROUGH the blue and frosty 
 
 heavens 
 Christmas stars were shining 
 
 bright ; 
 Glistening lamps throughout the 
 
 City 
 
 Almost matched their gleam- 
 ing light ; 
 
 While the winter snow was ly- 
 ing, 
 And the winter winds were 
 
 sighing, 
 
 Long ago, one Christmas 
 night. 
 
 While, from every tower and 
 
 steeple, 
 Pealing bells were sounding 
 
 clear, 
 
 (Never with such tones of glad- 
 ness, 
 Save when Christmas time is 
 
 near,) 
 Many a one that night was 
 
 merry 
 
 Who had toiled through all 
 the year. 
 i 
 
 That night saw old wrongs for- 
 given, 
 
 Friends, long parted, recon- 
 ciled ; 
 
 Voices all unused to laughter, 
 Mournful eyes that rarely 
 
 smiled, 
 Trembling hearts that feared the 
 
 morrow, 
 
 From their anxious thoughts 
 beguiled. 
 
 Rich and poor felt love and 
 blessing 
 
 From the gracious season fall ; 
 Joy and plenty in the cottage, 
 
 Peace and feasting in the hall ; 
 And the voices of the children 
 
 Ringing clear above it all ! 
 
 Yet one house was dim and dark- 
 ened ; 
 
 Gloom, and sickness, and de- 
 spair, 
 
 Dwelling in the gilded chambers, 
 Creeping up the marble stair, 
 Even stilled the voice of mourn- 
 ing, 
 For a child lay dying there.
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Silken curtains fell around him, 
 Velvet carpets hushed the 
 tread, 
 
 Many costly toys were lying, 
 All unheeded, by his bed ; 
 
 And his tangled golden ringlets 
 Were on downy pillows spread. 
 
 The skill of that mighty City 
 To save one little life was 
 
 vain, 
 One little thread from being 
 
 broken, 
 
 One fatal word from being spo- 
 ken ; 
 
 Nay, his very mother's pain, 
 And the mighty love within her, 
 Could not give him health 
 again. 
 
 So she knelt there still beside 
 
 him, 
 She alone with strength to 
 
 smile, 
 Promising that he should suffer 
 
 No more in a little while, 
 Murmuring tender song and 
 
 story 
 Weary hours to beguile. 
 
 Suddenly an unseen Presence 
 Checked those constant moan- 
 ing cries, 
 Stilled the little heart's quick 
 
 fluttering, 
 
 Raised those blue and won- 
 dering eyes, 
 
 Fixed on some mysterious vision, 
 With a startled sweet sur- 
 prise. 
 
 For a radiant angel hovered, 
 
 Smiling, o'er the little bed ; 
 White his raiment, from his 
 
 shoulders 
 Snowy dove - like pinions 
 
 spread, 
 
 And a starlike light was shining 
 In a Glory round his head. 
 
 While, with tender love, the an- 
 gel, 
 
 Leaning o'er the little nest, 
 In his arms the sick child fold- 
 ing, 
 
 Laid him gently on his breast, 
 Sobs and waitings told the moth- 
 er 
 That her darling was at rest. 
 
 So the angel, slowly rising, 
 Spread his wings, and through 
 
 the air 
 Bore the child, and, while he 
 
 held him 
 
 To his heart with loving care, 
 Placed a branch of crimson 
 
 roses 
 Tenderly beside him there. 
 
 While the child, thus clinging, 
 
 floated 
 Towards the mansions of the 
 
 Blest, 
 
 Gazing from his shining guar- 
 dian 
 
 To the flowers upon his breast, 
 Thus the angel spake, still smil- 
 ing 
 On the little heavenly guest :
 
 THE AN G EDS STORY. 
 
 Know, dear little one, that 
 
 Heaven 
 
 Does no earthly thing disdain, 
 Man's poor joys find there an 
 
 echo 
 
 Just as surely as his pain ; 
 Love, on earth so feebly striv. 
 
 ing. 
 Lives divine in Heaven again ! 
 
 " Once in that great town below 
 us, 
 
 In a poor and narrow street, 
 Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; 
 
 Gentle aid, or pity sweet, 
 Never m life's rugged pathway 
 
 Guided h c * poor tottering feet. 
 
 " AH the striving anxious fore- 
 thought 
 That should only come with 
 
 age 
 
 Weighed upon his baby spirit, 
 Showed him soon life's stern- 
 est page ; 
 Grim Want was his nurse, and 
 
 Sorrow 
 Was his only heritage. 
 
 ' All too weak for childish pas- 
 times, 
 
 Drearily the hours sped ; 
 On his hands so small and trem- 
 bling 
 
 Leaning his poor aching head, 
 Or, through dark and painful 
 
 hours, 
 Lying sleepless on his bed. 
 
 " Dreaming strange and longing 
 
 fancies 
 
 Of cool forests far away ; 
 And of rosy, happy children, 
 Laughing merrily at play, 
 Coming home through green 
 
 lanes, bearing 
 
 Trailing boughs of blooming 
 May. j 
 
 " Scarce a glimpse of azure heav- 
 en 
 Gleamed above that narrow 
 
 street, 
 
 And the sultry air of summer 
 (That you call so warm and 
 
 sweet) 
 
 Fevered the poor orphan, dwell- 
 ing 
 In the crowded alley's heat. 
 
 " One bright day, with feeble 
 
 footsteps 
 
 Slowly forth he tried to crawl, 
 Through the crowded city's path- 
 ways, 
 
 Till he reached a garden-wall, 
 Where 'mid princely halls aad 
 
 mansions 
 Stood the lordliest of all. 
 
 " There were trees with giant 
 
 branches, 
 Velvet glades where shadows 
 
 hide ; 
 There were sparkling fountains 
 
 glancing, 
 
 Flowers, which in luxuriant 
 pride
 
 4 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 Even wafted breaths of perfume 
 To the child who stood out- 
 side. 
 
 " He against the gate of iron 
 Pressed his wan and wistful 
 
 face, 
 Gazing with an awe-struck pleas- 
 
 ure 
 
 At the glories of the place ; 
 Never had his brightest day- 
 
 dream 
 
 Shone with half such won- 
 drous grace. 
 
 " You were playing in that gar- 
 
 den, 
 
 Throwing blossoms in the air, 
 
 Laughing when the petals floated 
 
 Downwards on your golden 
 
 hair; 
 And the fond eyes watching o'er 
 
 you, 
 And the splendor spread before 
 
 you, 
 
 Told a House's Hope was 
 there. 
 
 "When your servants, tired of 
 seeing 
 
 Such a face of want and woe, 
 Turning to the ragged orphan, 
 
 Gave him coin, and bade him 
 
 go. 
 Down his cheeks so thin and 
 
 wasted 
 Bitter tears began to flow. 
 
 " But that look of childish sor- 
 row 
 On your tender child-heart 
 
 fell, 
 And you plucked the reddest 
 
 roses 
 From the tree you loved so 
 
 well 
 Passed them through the stern 
 
 cold grating, 
 
 Gently bidding him ' Fare- 
 well!' 
 
 " Dazzled by the fragrant treas- 
 ure 
 
 And the gentle voice he heard, 
 In the poor forlorn boy's spirit, 
 Joy, the sleeping Seraph, 
 
 stirred ; 
 
 In his hand he took the flowers, 
 In his heart the loving word. 
 
 " So he crept to his poor garret ; 
 Poor no more, but rich and 
 
 bright, 
 
 For the holy dreams of child- 
 hood 
 Love, and Rest, and Hope, 
 
 and Light 
 
 Floated round the orphan's pil- 
 low 
 
 Through the starry summer 
 night. 
 
 " Day dawned, yet the visions 
 
 lasted ; 
 
 All too weak to rise he lay ; 
 Did he dream that none spako 
 
 harshly,
 
 ECHOES. 
 
 All were strangely kind that 
 
 day? 
 
 Surely then his treasured roses 
 Must have charmed all ills 
 
 away. 
 
 And he smiled, though they 
 
 were fading ; 
 One by oue their leaves were 
 
 shed ; 
 ' Such bright things could never 
 
 perish, 
 They would bloom again,' he 
 
 said. 
 When the next day's sun had 
 
 risen 
 
 Child and flowers both were 
 d^ad. 
 
 "Know, dear little one! our 
 
 Father 
 
 Will no gentle deed disdain : 
 Love on the cold earth begin- 
 ning 
 
 Lives divine in Heaven again, 
 While the angel hearts that beat 
 
 there 
 
 Still all tender thoughts re- 
 tain '' 
 
 So the angel ceased, and gently 
 
 O'er his little burden leant ; 
 While the child gazed from the 
 
 shining, 
 Loving eye? that o'er him 
 
 bent, 
 
 To the blooming roses by him, 
 Wondering what that mystery 
 meant. 
 
 Thus the radiant angel answered, 
 And with tender meaning 
 
 smiled : 
 " Ere your childlike, loving 
 
 spirit, 
 
 Sin and the hard world defiled, 
 God has given me leave to seek 
 
 you, 
 I was once that little child ! " 
 
 * * # * 
 In the churchyard of that city 
 Rose a tomb of marble rare, 
 Decked, as soon as Spring awak- 
 ened, 
 With her buds and blossoms 
 
 fair, 
 
 And a humble grave beside it, 
 No one knew who rested there. 
 
 ECHOES. V 
 
 STILL the angel stars are shining, 
 Still the rippling waters flow, 
 But the angei-voic is silent 
 That I heard so long ago. 
 Hark ! the echoes murmur 
 low, 
 
 Long ago ! 
 
 Still the wood is dim and lonely, 
 Still the plashing fountains 
 play, 
 
 But the past and all its beauty, 
 Whither has it fled away 1 
 Hark ! the mournful echoes 
 
 Fled away !
 
 6 
 
 MY PICTURE. 
 
 Btill the bird of night complain- 
 
 eth, 
 (Now, indeed, her song is 
 
 pain,) 
 
 Visions of my happy hours, 
 Do I call and call in vain ? 
 Hark ! the echoes cry again, 
 All in vain ! 
 
 Cease, echoes, mournful echoes! 
 Once I loved your voices well ; 
 Now my heart is sick and weary 
 Days of old, a long farewell ! 
 Hark ! the echoes sad and 
 dreary 
 
 Cry farewell, farewell ! 
 
 A FALSE GENIUS. 
 
 I SEE a Spirit by thy side, 
 Purple-winged and eagle-eyed, 
 Looking like a heavenly guide. 
 
 Though he seem so bright and 
 
 fair, 
 
 Ere thou trust his proffered care, 
 Pause a little, and beware ! 
 
 If he bid thee dwell apart, 
 Tending some ideal smart 
 In a sick and coward heart ; 
 
 In self-worship wrapped alone, 
 Dreaming thy jxx>r griefs are 
 
 grown 
 More than other men have known; 
 
 Dwelling in some cloudy sphere, 
 Though God's work is waiting 
 
 here, 
 And God deigneth to be near ; 
 
 If his torch's crimson glare 
 Show the evil everywhere, 
 Tainting all the wholesome air ; 
 
 "While with strange distorted 
 
 choice, 
 
 Still disdaining to rejoice, 
 Thou wilt hear a wailing voice ; 
 
 If a simple, humble heart 
 Seem to thee a meaner part 
 Than thy noblest aim and art ; 
 
 If he bid thee bow before 
 Crowned Mind and nothing more, 
 The great idol men adore ; 
 
 And with starry veil enfold 
 Sin, the trailing serpent old, 
 Till his scales shine out like gold ; 
 
 Though his words seem true and 
 
 wise, 
 
 Soul, I say to thee, Arise, 
 He is a Demon in disguise ! 
 
 MY PICTURE. 
 
 STAND this way more near the 
 
 window 
 By my desk you see th< 
 
 light 
 
 Falling on my picture better 
 Thus I see it while I write !
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 Who the head may be I know 
 
 not, 
 
 But it has a student air ; 
 With a look half sad, half stately, 
 Grave sweet eyes and flowing 
 hair. 
 
 Little care I who the painter, 
 How obscure a name he bore ; 
 
 Nor, when some have named 
 
 Velasquez, 
 Did I value it the more. 
 
 As it is, I would not give it 
 For the rarest piece of art ; 
 
 It has dwelt with me, and lis- 
 tened 
 To the secrets of my heart. 
 
 Many a time, when to my garret, 
 
 Weary, I returned at night, 
 It has seemed to look a wel- 
 come 
 
 That has made my poor room 
 bright. 
 
 Many a time, when ill aud sleep- 
 
 " less, 
 I have watched the quivering 
 
 gleam 
 
 Of my lamp upon that picture, 
 Till it laded in my dream. 
 
 When dark days have come, and 
 
 friendship 
 Worthless seemed, and life in 
 
 vain, 
 That bright friendly smile has 
 
 sent me 
 Boldly to my task again. 
 
 Sometimes when hard need has 
 
 pressed me 
 
 To bow down where I depise, 
 I have read stern words of coun- 
 sel 
 In those sad, reproachful eyes. 
 
 Nothing that my brain, imagined, 
 Or my weary hand has 
 
 wrought, 
 
 But it watched the dim Idea 
 Spring forth into armed 
 Thought. 
 
 It has smiled on my successes, 
 Raised me when my hopes 
 
 were low, 
 And by turns has looked upon 
 
 me 
 
 With all the loving eyes I 
 know. 
 
 Do you wonder that my picture 
 Has become so like a friend ? 
 
 It has seen my life's beginnings, 
 It shall stay and cheer the 
 end! 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 . 
 JUDGE not ; the workings of his 
 
 brain 
 And of his heart thou canst 
 
 not see ; 
 What looks to thy dim eyes a 
 
 stain, 
 
 In God's pure light may only 
 be
 
 s 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 A scar, brought from some well- 
 won field, 
 
 Where thou wouldst only faint 
 and yield. 
 
 The look, the air, that frets thy 
 
 sight, 
 
 May be a token, that below 
 The soul has closed in deadly 
 
 fight 
 
 With some infernal fiery foe, 
 Whose glance would scorch thy 
 
 smiling grace, 
 And cast thee shuddering on thy 
 
 face ! 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise 
 Maybe the angel's slackened 
 
 hand 
 
 Has suffered it, that he may rise 
 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things, 
 
 May henceforth learn to use his 
 
 wings. 
 
 And judge none lost ; but wait 
 
 and see, 
 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of 
 
 pain 
 And love and glory that may 
 
 raise 
 This soul to God in after days ! 
 
 S/ 
 
 FRIEND SORROW. 
 
 Do not cheat thy Heart and tell 
 
 her, 
 " Grief will pass away, 
 
 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 And forget to-day." 
 
 Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 
 Tell her that the lesson taught 
 
 her 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 Cheat her not with the old com- 
 fort, 
 
 " Soon she will forget," 
 Bitter truth, alas ! but matter 
 
 Rather for regret; 
 Bid her not " Seek other pleas- 
 ures, 
 
 Turn to other things " ; 
 Rather nurse her cage'd sorrow 
 
 Till the captive sings. 
 
 Rather bid her go forth bravely, 
 
 And the stranger greet ; 
 Notas foe, with spear and buckler, 
 
 But as dear friends meet : 
 Bid her with a strong clasp hold 
 her, 
 
 By her dusky wings, 
 Listening for the murmured 
 blessing 
 
 Sorrow always brings. 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 ONE by one the sands are flow- 
 ing, 
 
 One by one the moments fall ; 
 Some are coming, some are go- 
 ing; 
 
 Do not strive to grasp them 
 all.
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 One by one thy duties wait 
 
 thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to 
 
 each, 
 
 Let no future dreams elate thee, 
 Learn thou first what these 
 can teach. 
 
 One by one (bright gifts from 
 
 Heaven ) 
 
 Joys are sent thee here be- 
 low ; 
 
 Take them readily when given, 
 Heady too to let them go. 
 
 One by one thy griefs shall meet 
 
 thee, 
 
 Do not fear an arme'd band ; 
 One will fade as others greet 
 
 thee ; 
 
 Shadows passing through the 
 land. 
 
 Do not look at life's long sor- 
 row ; 
 See how small each moment's 
 
 pain, 
 
 God will help thee for to-mor- 
 row, 
 So each day begin again. 
 
 Every hour that fleets so slowly 
 Has its task to do or bear ; 
 
 Luminous the crown, and holy, 
 When each gem is set with 
 care. 
 
 Do not linger with regretting, 
 Or for passing hours despond ; 
 
 Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
 Look too eagerly beyond. 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's 
 
 token, 
 Reaching heaven ; but one by 
 
 one 
 Take them, lest the chain be 
 
 broken 
 Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Is my darling tired already, 
 
 Tired of her day of play 1 
 Draw your little stool beside me, 
 
 Smooth this tangled hair away. 
 Can she put the logs together, 
 
 Till they make a cheerful 
 
 blaze 1 ? 
 
 Shall her blind old Uncle tell 
 her 
 
 Something of his youthful 
 
 Hark ! The wind among the 
 
 cedars 
 Waves their white arms to and 
 
 fro; 
 I remember how I watched them 
 
 Sixty Christmas Days ago : 
 Then I dreamt a glorious vision 
 Of great deeds to crown each 
 
 year; 
 Sixty Christmas Days have found 
 
 me 
 
 Useless, helpless, blind an4 
 here !
 
 10 
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 Yes, I feel my darling stealing 
 
 Warm soft fingers into mine : 
 Shall I tell her what I fancied 
 
 In that strange old dream of 
 
 mine? 
 I was kneeling by the window, 
 
 Reading how a noble band, 
 With the red cross on their 
 ; breastplates, 
 
 Went to gain the Holy Land. 
 
 While with eager eyes of wonder 
 
 Over the dark page I bent, 
 Slowly twilight shadows gath- 
 ered 
 
 Till the letters came and went ; 
 Slowly, till the night was round 
 
 me; 
 Then my heart beat loud and 
 
 fast, 
 For I felt before I saw it 
 
 That a spirit near me passed. 
 
 Then I raised my eyes, and, 
 
 shining 
 Where the moon's first ray 
 
 was bright, 
 
 Stood a winge'd Angel-warrior 
 Clothed and panoplied in 
 
 light : 
 
 So, with Heaven's love upon him, 
 
 Stern in calm and resolute will, 
 
 Looked St. Michael, does the 
 
 picture 
 Hang in the old cloister still 1 
 
 Threefold were the dreams of 
 
 honor 
 
 That absorbed my heart and 
 brain; 
 
 Threefold crowns the Angel 
 
 promised, 
 
 Each one to be bought by pain : 
 While he spoke, a threefold bless- 
 ing 
 
 Fell upon my soul like rain. 
 HELPER OF THE POOR AND SUF- 
 FERING ; 
 VICTOR IN A GLORIOUS 
 
 STRIFE ; 
 
 SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM : 
 Such the. honors of my life. 
 
 Ah, that dream ! Long years 
 
 that gave me 
 
 Joy and grief as real things 
 Never touched the tender memory 
 Sweet and solemn that it 
 
 brings, 
 
 Never quite effaced the feeling 
 Of those white and shadowing 
 wings. 
 
 Do those blue eyes open wider ? 
 Does my faith too foolish 
 
 seem? 
 Yes, my darling, years have 
 
 taught me 
 
 It was nothing but a dream. 
 Soon, too soon, the bitter knowl- 
 edge 
 
 Of a fearful trial rose, 
 Rose to crush my heart, and 
 
 sternly 
 Bade my young ambition close. 
 
 More and more my eyes wcro 
 
 clouded, 
 
 Till at last God's glorious 
 light
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 11 
 
 Passed away from me forever, 
 And I lived and live in night. 
 
 Dear, I will not dim your pleasure, 
 Christmas should be only 
 gay: 
 
 In my night the stars have risen, 
 And I wait the dawn of day. 
 
 Spite of all I could be happy ; 
 
 For my brothers' tender care 
 Jn their boyish pastimes ever 
 
 Made me take, or feel a share. 
 Philip, even then so thoughtful, 
 
 Max so noble, brave, and tall, 
 And your father, little Godfrey, 
 
 The most loving of them all. 
 
 Philip reasoned down my sorrow, 
 Max would laugh my gloom 
 
 away, 
 Godfrey's little arms put round 
 
 me 
 
 Helped me through my drea- 
 riest day ; 
 
 While the promise of my Angel, 
 Like a star, now bright, now 
 
 pale, 
 
 Hung in blackest night above me, 
 And I felt it could not fail. 
 
 Years passed on, my brothers 
 
 left me, 
 Each went out to take his 
 
 share 
 
 In the struggle of life ; my por- 
 tion 
 
 Was a humble one to bear. 
 Here I dwelt, and learnt to wan- 
 der 
 
 Through the woods and fields 
 alone, 
 
 Every cottage in the village 
 Had a corner called my own 
 
 Old and young, all brought their 
 
 troubles, 
 Great or small, for me to 
 
 hear; 
 
 I have often blessed my sorrow 
 That drew others' grief so 
 
 near. 
 
 Ah, the people needed helping 
 Needed love (for Love and 
 
 Heaven 
 
 Are the only gifts not bartered, 
 They alone are freely given) 
 
 And I gave it. Philip's bounty 
 
 (We were orphans, dear) made 
 
 toil 
 Prosper, and want never fastened 
 
 On the tenants of the soil. 
 Philip's name (O, how I gloried, 
 
 He so young, to see it rise !) 
 Soon grew noted among states- 
 men 
 
 As a patriot true and wise. 
 
 And his people all felt honored 
 To be ruled by such a name ; 
 I was proud too that they loved 
 
 me ; 
 Through their pride in him it 
 
 came. 
 He had gained what I had longed 
 
 for, 
 I meanwhile grew glad am 
 
 pay, 
 
 'Mid his people, to be serving 
 Him aud lucui, 111 some poor 
 way.
 
 12 
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 How his noble earnest speeches 
 
 With untiring fervor came! 
 
 HELPER OF THE POOR AND 
 
 SUFFERING ; 
 
 Truly he deserved the name ! 
 Had my Angel's promise failed 
 
 me ? 
 Had that word of hope grown 
 
 dim? 
 Why, my Philip had fulfilled 
 
 "it, 
 And I loved it best in him ! 
 
 Max meanwhile ah, you, my 
 
 darling, 
 
 Can his loving words recall 
 'Mid the bravest and the no- 
 blest, 
 Braver, nobler, than them 
 
 all. 
 How I loved him ! how my heart 
 
 thrilled 
 When his sword clanked by 
 
 his side, 
 
 When I touched his gold em- 
 broidery, 
 Almost saw him in his pride ! 
 
 So we parted ; he all eager 
 
 To uphold the name he bore, 
 Leaving in my charge he 
 
 loved me 
 Some one whom he loved still 
 
 more : 
 
 I jnust tend this gentle flower, 
 I must speak to her of him, 
 For he feared Love btill is 
 
 fearful 
 
 That his memory might grow 
 dim. 
 
 I must guard her from all sor- 
 row, 
 I must play a brother's part, 
 
 Shield all grief and trial from 
 
 her, 
 
 If it need be, with my heart. 
 Years passed, and his name 
 
 grew famous ; 
 We were proud, both she 
 
 and I ; 
 
 And we lived upon his let- 
 ters, 
 While the slow days fleeted by. 
 
 Then at last you know the 
 
 story, 
 
 How a fearful rumor spread, 
 Till all hope had slowly faded, 
 And we heard that he was 
 
 dead. 
 Dead ! O, those were bitter 
 
 hours ; 
 Yet within my soul there 
 
 dwelt 
 A warning, and while others 
 
 mourned him, 
 Something like a hope I felt. 
 
 His was no weak life as mine 
 
 was, 
 
 But a life, so full and strong 
 No, I could not think he per- 
 ished 
 Nameless, 'mid a conquered 
 
 throng. 
 
 How she drooped ! Years pass- 
 ed ; no tidings 
 
 Came, and yet that little flame 
 Of strange hope within my 
 
 spirit 
 
 Still burnt on, and lived the 
 same. 
 
 Ah! my child, our hearts will 
 
 fail us, 
 
 When to us they strongest 
 seem :
 
 TRUE HONORS. 
 
 13 
 
 I ran look back on those hours 
 
 As a fearful, evil dream. 
 She had long despaired ; what 
 
 wonder 
 That her heart had turned to 
 
 mine? 
 
 Earthly loves are deep and ten- 
 der, 
 Not eternal and divine ! 
 
 Can I say how bright a future 
 
 Rose before my soul that day ? 
 0, so strange, so sweet, so tender ! 
 
 And I had to turn away. 
 Hard and terrible the struggle, 
 
 For the pain not mine alone ; 
 I called back my Brother's spirit, 
 
 And I bade him claim his own. 
 
 Told her now I dared to do 
 
 it 
 
 That I felt the day would rise 
 When he would return to glad- 
 den 
 My weak heart and her bright 
 
 eyes. 
 And I pleaded pleaded stern- 
 
 iy- 
 
 In his name, and for his sake : 
 Now, I can speak calmly of it, 
 Then, I thought my heart 
 would break. 
 
 Soon ah, Love had not de- 
 ceived me, 
 (Love's true instincts never 
 
 err,) 
 Wounded, weak, escaped from 
 
 prison, 
 He returned to me, to her. 
 
 I could thank God that bright 
 
 morning, 
 When I felt my Brother's 
 
 gaze, 
 That my heart was true and 
 
 loyal, 
 As in our old boyish days. 
 
 Bought by wounds and deeds of 
 
 daring, 
 
 Honors he had brought away ; 
 Glory crowned his name my 
 
 Brother's ; 
 Mine too ! we were one that 
 
 day. 
 
 Since the crown on him had 
 fallen, 
 
 " VICTOR IN A NOBLE STRIFE," 
 
 I could live and die contented 
 With my poor ignoble life. 
 
 Well, my darling, almost weary 
 
 Of my story 1 Wait awhile ; 
 For the rest is only joyful ; 
 
 I can tell it with a smile. 
 One bright promise still was left 
 me, 
 
 Wound so close about my soul, 
 That, as one by one had failed me, 
 
 This dream now absorbed the 
 whole. 
 
 " SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM," 
 
 Ah, my darling, few and rare 
 
 Burn the glorious names of 
 
 Poets, 
 
 Like stars in the purple air. 
 That too, and I glory in it, 
 That great gift my Godfrey 
 won ;
 
 14 
 
 A WOMAWS QUESTION. 
 
 I have my dear share of honor, 
 Gained by that belove'd one. 
 
 One day shall my darling read 
 
 it; 
 
 Now she cannot understand 
 All the noble thoughts that 
 
 lighten 
 Through the genius of the 
 
 land. 
 
 I am proud to be his brother, 
 Proud to think that hope was 
 
 true ; 
 Though I longed and strove so 
 
 vainly, 
 What I failed in, he could do. 
 
 I was long before I knew it, 
 
 Longer ere I felt it so ; 
 Then I strung my rhymes to- 
 gether 
 
 Only for the poor and low. 
 And, it pleases me to know it, 
 
 (For I love them well indeed,) 
 They care for my humble verses, 
 
 Fitted for their humble need. 
 
 And, it cheers my heart to hear 
 
 it, 
 
 Where the far-off settlers roam, 
 My poor words are sung and 
 
 cherished, 
 Just because they speak of 
 
 Home. 
 
 And the little children sing them, 
 (That, I think, has pleased me 
 
 best,) 
 
 Often, too, the dying love them, 
 For they tell of Heaven and 
 
 So my last vain dream has fadod ; 
 (Such as I to think of fame !) 
 Yet I will not say it failed me, 
 For it crowned my Godfrey's 
 
 name. 
 
 No ; my Angel did not cheat me, 
 For my long life has been 
 
 blest ; 
 
 He did give me Lore and Sor- 
 row, 
 
 He will bring me Light and 
 Rest. 
 
 ^ WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 BEFORE I trust my Fate to thee, 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 
 Before I let thy Future give 
 Color and form to mine, 
 
 Before I peril all for thee, question 
 thy soul to-night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor 
 
 feel 
 
 A shadow of regret : 
 Is there one link within the Past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 Or is thy Faith as clear and free 
 as that which I can pledge to 
 thee? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmesJ 
 
 dreams 
 
 A possible future shine, 
 Wherein thy life could hence- 
 forth breathe, 
 
 Untouched, unshared by mine* 
 If so, at any pain or cost, O, tel/ 
 me before all is lost.
 
 THE THREE RULERS. 
 
 15 
 
 Look deeper still. If thou canst 
 
 feel 
 
 Within my inmost soul, 
 That thou hast kept a portion 
 
 back, 
 While I have staked the 
 
 whole ; 
 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, 
 but in true mercy tell me so. 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfil ? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 Speak now lest at some fu- 
 ture day my whole life 
 wither and decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature 
 
 hid 
 
 The demon-apirit Change, 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 On all things new and 
 
 strange ? 
 
 It may not be thy fault alone 
 but shield my heart against 
 thy own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand 
 
 one day 
 And answer to my claim, 
 
 That Fate, and that to-day's mis- 
 take- 
 Not thou had been to 
 blame ? 
 
 Some soothe their conscience 
 thus ; but thou wilt sure- 
 ly warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay, answer not, I dare not 
 
 hear, 
 
 The words would come too 
 late; 
 
 Yet I would spare thee all re- 
 morse, 
 So, comfort thee, my Fate 
 
 Whatever on my heart may fall 
 remember, I would risk 
 it all! 
 
 THE THREE RULERS. 
 
 I SAW a Ruler take his stand, 
 And trample on a mighty land; 
 The People crouched before his 
 
 beck, 
 
 His iron heel was on their neck, 
 His name shone bright through 
 
 blood and pain, 
 His sword flashed back their 
 
 praise again. 
 
 I saw another Ruler rise : 
 
 His words were noble, good, and 
 
 wise; 
 
 With the calm sceptre of his pen 
 He ruled the minds and thoughts 
 
 of men : 
 Some scoffed, some praised, 
 
 while many heard, 
 Only a few obeyed his word. 
 
 Another Ruler then I saw : 
 Love and sweet Pity were his 
 
 law ; 
 The greatest and the least had 
 
 part
 
 16 
 
 A DOUBTING HEART. 
 
 (Yet most the unhappy) in his 
 
 heart : 
 
 The People, in a mighty band, 
 Rose up, and drove him from 
 
 the land! 
 
 A DEAD PAST. 
 
 SPARE her at least : look, you 
 
 have taken from me 
 The Present, and I murmur not, 
 
 nor moan ; 
 The Future too, with all her 
 
 glorious promise ; 
 But do not leave me utterly 
 
 alone. 
 
 Spare me the Past : for, see, she 
 
 cannot harm you, 
 She lies so white and cold, 
 
 wrapped in her shroud ; 
 AH, all my own ! and, trust me, 
 
 I will hide her 
 Within my soul, nor speak to 
 
 her aloud. 
 
 I folded her soft hands upon her 
 
 bosom, 
 And strewed my fiowers upon 
 
 her, they still live : 
 Sometimes I like to kiss her 
 
 closed white eyelids, 
 And think of all the joy she 
 
 used to give. 
 
 Cruel indeed it were to take her 
 
 from me ; 
 She sleeps, she will not wake 
 
 no fear a&rain : 
 
 And so I laid her, such a gentle 
 
 burden, 
 Quietly on my heart to still its 
 
 pain. 
 
 I do not think that any smiling 
 
 Present, 
 Any vague Future, spite of all 
 
 her charms, 
 Could ever rival her. You know 
 
 you laid her, 
 Long years ago, then living, in 
 
 my arms. 
 
 Leave her at least : while my 
 
 tears fall upon her, 
 I dream she smiles, just as she 
 
 did of yore ; 
 As dear as ever to me, nay, it 
 
 may be, 
 Even dearer still, since I have 
 
 nothing more. 
 
 A DOUBTING HEART. 
 
 WHERE are the swallows fled ? 
 
 Frozen and dead, 
 Perchance upon some bleak and 
 
 stormy shore. 
 O doubting heart ! 
 Far over purple seas, 
 They wait, in sunny ease, 
 The balmy southern breeze, 
 To bring them to their northern 
 homes once more. 
 
 Why must the flowers die ? 
 Prisoned they lie
 
 A STUDENT. 
 
 17 
 
 In the cold tomb, heedless of 
 
 tears or rain. 
 O doubting heart ! 
 They only sleep below 
 The soft white ermine snow, 
 While winter winds shall 
 
 blow, 
 
 To breathe and smile upon you 
 soon again. 
 
 The sun has hid its rays 
 These many days ; 
 Will dreary hours never leave 
 
 the earth 1 
 doubting heart ! 
 The stormy clouds on high 
 Veil the same sunny sky, 
 That soon (for spring is 
 
 nigh) 
 
 Shall wake the summer into 
 golden mirth. 
 
 Fair hope is dead, and light 
 
 Is quenched in night. 
 What sound can break the si- 
 lence of despair 1 
 O doubting heart ! 
 Thy sky is overcast, 
 Yet stars shall rise at last, 
 Brighter for darkness past, 
 And angels' silver voices stir the 
 
 A STUDENT. 
 
 OVER an ancient scroll I bent, 
 Steeping my soul in wise con- 
 tent, 
 
 Nor paused a moment, save to 
 
 chide 
 A low voice whispering at my 
 
 side. 
 
 I wove beneath the stars' pale 
 
 shine 
 
 A dream, half human, Half divine; 
 And shook off (not to break the 
 
 charm) 
 A little hand laid on my arm. 
 
 I read ; until my heart would 
 
 glow 
 With the great deeds of long 
 
 ago; 
 Nor heard, while with those 
 
 mighty dead, 
 Pass to and fro a faltering tread. 
 
 On the old theme I pondered 
 
 long, 
 The struggle between right and 
 
 wrong ; 
 I could not check such visions 
 
 high, 
 To soothe a little quivering sigh. 
 
 I tried to solve the problem 
 Life; 
 
 Dreaming of that mysterious 
 strife, 
 
 How could I leave such reason- 
 ings wise, 
 
 To answer two blue pleading 
 eyes? 
 
 I strove how best to give, ana 
 when, 
 
 My blood to save my fellow- 
 men,
 
 18 
 
 A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 
 
 How could I turn aside, to look 
 At snowdrops laid upon my 
 book? 
 
 Now Time has fled the world 
 
 is strange, 
 Something there is of pain and 
 
 change ; 
 My books lie closed upon the 
 
 shelf; 
 I miss the old heart in myself. 
 
 I miss the sunbeams in my 
 
 room, 
 It was not always wrapped in 
 
 gloom : 
 I miss my dreams, they fade 
 
 so fast, 
 Or flit into some trivial past. 
 
 The great stream of the world 
 
 goes by ; 
 None care, or heed, or question, 
 
 why 
 
 I, the lone student, cannot raise 
 My voice or hand as in old days. 
 
 No echo seems to wake again 
 My heart to anything but pain, 
 Save when a dream of twilight 
 
 brings 
 The fluttering of an angel's 
 
 wings \ 
 
 A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 
 
 THOUGH he lived and died among 
 
 us, 
 Yet his name may be enrolled 
 
 With the knights whose deeds of 
 
 daring 
 Ancient chronicles have told. 
 
 Still a stripling, he encountered 
 Poverty, and struggled long, 
 
 Gathering force from every effort,' 
 Till he knew his arm wa* 
 strong. 
 
 Then his heart and life he of 
 
 fered 
 To his radiant mistress, 
 
 Truth ; 
 Never thought, or dream, or fai- 
 
 tering, 
 
 Marred the promise of his 
 youth. 
 
 So he rode forth to defend her, 
 And her peerless worth pro- 
 claim ; 
 
 Challenging each recreant doubt- 
 er 
 Who aspersed her spotless 
 
 First upon his path stood Igno- 
 rance, 
 
 Hideous in his brutal might; 
 Hard the blows and long tic 
 
 battle 
 Ere the monster took to flight. 
 
 Then, with light and fearless 
 
 spirit, 
 
 Prejudice he dared to brave; 
 Hunting back the lying craven 
 To her black sulphureous 
 cave.
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 19 
 
 Followed by his servile minions, 
 Custom, the old Giant, rose; 
 
 Yet he, too, at last was conquered 
 By the good Knight's weighty 
 blows. 
 
 Then he turned, and, flushed with 
 
 victory, 
 
 Struck upon the brazen shield 
 Of the world's great king, Opin- 
 ion, 
 And defied him to the field. 
 
 Once again he rose a conqueror, 
 And, though wounded in the 
 
 fight, 
 
 With a dying smile of triumph 
 Saw that Truth had gained 
 her right. 
 
 On his failing ear re-echoing 
 Came the shouting round her 
 
 throne ; 
 
 Little cared he that no future 
 With her name would link his 
 own. 
 
 Spent with many a hard-fought 
 
 battle, 
 
 Slowly ebbed his life away, 
 And the crowd that flocked to 
 
 greet her 
 
 Trampled on him where he 
 lay. 
 
 Gathering all his strength, he 
 
 saw her 
 Crowned and reigning in her 
 
 pride; 
 
 Looked his last upon her beauty, 
 Raised his eyes to God, and 
 died. 
 
 LINGER, O GENTLE TIME. 
 
 LINGER, gentle Time, 
 Linger, O radiant grace of bright 
 
 To-day ! 
 Let not the hours' chime 
 
 Call thee away, 
 
 But linger near me still with 
 fond delay. 
 
 Linger, for thou art mine ! 
 What dearer treasures can the 
 
 future hold ? 
 What sweeter flowers than 
 
 thine 
 
 Can she unfold ? 
 What secrets tell my heart thou 
 hast not told ? 
 
 O, linger in thy flight ! 
 For shadows gather round, and 
 
 should we part, 
 A dreary, starless night 
 
 May fill my heart, 
 Then pause and linger yet ere 
 thou depart. 
 
 Linger, I ask no more, 
 Thou art enough forever thou 
 
 alone ; 
 What future can restore, 
 
 When thou art flown, 
 All that I hold from thee and call 
 my own ? 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 I HAVE seen a fiercer tempest, 
 Known a loader whirlwind 
 blow ;
 
 20 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 I was wrecked off red Algiers, 
 
 Six-and-thirty years ago. 
 Young I was, and yet old sea- 
 men 
 
 Were not strong or calm as I ; 
 While life held such treasures for 
 
 me, 
 I felt sure I could not die. 
 
 Life I struggled for, and saved 
 
 it; 
 Life alone, ar4 nothing 
 
 more ; 
 Bruised, half dea^, alone and 
 
 helpless 
 
 I was cast upon the shore. 
 I feared the pitiless rocks of 
 
 Ocean ; 
 So the great sea rose, and 
 
 then 
 
 Cast me from her friendly bosom, 
 On the pitiless hearts of men. 
 
 Gaunt and dreary ran the moun- 
 tains, 
 With black gorges, up the 
 
 land ; 
 
 Up to where the lonely Desert 
 Spreads her burning, dreary 
 
 sand : 
 In the gorges of the mountains, 
 
 On the plain beside the sea, 
 Dwelt my stern and cruel mas- 
 ters, 
 The black Moors of Barbary. 
 
 Ten long years I toiled among 
 
 them, 
 Hopeless as I used to say ; 
 
 Now I know Hope burnt within 
 
 me 
 
 Fiercer, stronger, day by day : 
 Those dim years of toil and sor- 
 row 
 
 Like one long, dark dream ap- 
 pear; 
 
 One long day of weary wait- 
 ing, 
 Then each day was like a year. 
 
 How I cursed the land, my pris- 
 on; 
 
 How I cursed the serpent sea, 
 And the Demon Fate that show- 
 ered 
 
 All her curses upon me ; 
 I was mad, I think God pardon 
 Words so terrible and wild 
 This voyage would have been my 
 
 last one, 
 For I left a wife and child. 
 
 Never did one tender vision 
 
 Fade away before my sight, 
 Never once through all my slav- 
 ery, 
 
 Burning day or dreary night ; 
 
 In my soul it lived, and kept me, 
 
 Now I feel, from black despair, 
 
 And my heart was not quite 
 
 broken, 
 
 While they lived and blest me 
 there. 
 
 When at night my task was over, 
 I would hasten to the shore ; 
 
 (All was strange and foreign in- 
 land, 
 Nothing I had known before ;}
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 21 
 
 Strange looked the bleak moun- 
 tain passes, 
 Strange the red glare and black 
 
 shade, 
 
 And the Oleanders, waving 
 To the sound the fountains 
 made. 
 
 Then I gazed at the great Ocean, 
 Till she grew a friend again ; 
 And because she knew old Eng- 
 land, 
 
 I forgave her all my pain : 
 So the blue still sky above me, 
 With its white clouds' fleecy 
 
 fold, 
 And the glimmering stars (though 
 
 brighter), 
 
 Looked like home and days of 
 old 
 
 And a calm would fall upon me, 
 Worn perhaps with work and 
 
 pain, 
 The wild, hungry longing left 
 
 me, 
 
 And I was myself again : 
 Looking at the silver waters, 
 Looking up at the far sky, 
 Dreams of home and all I left 
 
 there 
 Floated sorrowfully by. 
 
 A fair face, but pale with sor- 
 row, 
 With blue eyes, brimful of 
 
 tears, 
 
 And the little red mouth, quiver- 
 ing 
 With a smile, to hide its fears ; 
 
 Holding out her baby towards me, 
 From the sky she looked on 
 me; 
 
 So it was that last I saw her, 
 As the ship put out to sea. 
 
 Sometimes (and a pang would 
 
 seize me 
 That the years were floating 
 
 on) 
 I would strive to paint her, aL 
 
 tered, 
 
 And the little baby gone : 
 She no longer young and girlish, 
 The child standing by her 
 
 knee, 
 And her face more pale and 
 
 saddened 
 With the weariness for me. 
 
 Then I saw, as night grew darker, 
 
 How she taught my child to 
 
 pray, 
 Holding its small hands together, 
 
 For its father, far away ; 
 And I felt her sorrow, weighing 
 
 Heavier on me than my own, 
 Pitying her blighted spring-time, 
 
 And her joy so early flown. 
 
 Till upon my hands (now hard- 
 ened 
 With the rough, harsh toil of 
 
 years) 
 
 Bitter drops of anguish falling, 
 Woke me from my dream, to 
 
 tears ; 
 
 Woke me as a slave, an outcast, 
 Leagues from home, across the 
 deep;
 
 22 
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 So though you may call it 
 
 childish 
 So I sobbed myself to sleep. 
 
 Well, the years sped on, my 
 
 Sorrow, 
 Calmer, and yet stronger 
 
 grown, 
 
 Was my shield against all suffer- 
 ing, 
 
 Poorer, meaner than her own. 
 Thus my cruel master's harsh- 
 ness 
 
 Fell upon me all in vain, 
 Yet the tale of what we suffered 
 Echoed back from main to 
 main. 
 
 You have heard in a far country 
 
 Of a self-devoted band, 
 Vowed to rescue Christian cap- 
 tives 
 
 Pining in a foreign land. 
 And these gentle-hearted stran- 
 gers 
 Year by year go forth from 
 
 Rome, 
 In their hands the hard-earned 
 
 ransom, 
 To restore some exiles home. 
 
 I was freed : they broke the 
 
 tidings 
 
 Gently to me : but indeed 
 Hour by hour sped on, I knew 
 
 not 
 What the words meant I 
 
 was freed ! 
 
 Better so, perhaps ; while sorrow 
 (More akin to earthly things) 
 
 Only strains the sad heart's 
 
 fibres, 
 
 Joy, bright stranger, breaks 
 the strings. 
 
 Yet at last it rushed upon me, 
 And my heart beat full and 
 
 fast; 
 What were now my years of 
 
 waiting, 
 
 What was all the dreary past ? 
 Nothing to the impatient 
 
 throbbing 
 
 I must bear across the sea : 
 Nothing to the eternal hours 
 Still between my home and 
 me! 
 
 How the voyage passed, I know 
 
 not; 
 Strange it was once more to 
 
 stand 
 
 With my countrymen around me, 
 
 And to clasp an English hand. 
 
 But, through all, my heart was 
 
 dreaming 
 Of the first words I should 
 
 hear, 
 
 In the gentle voice that echoed, 
 Fresh as ever, on my ear. 
 
 Should I see her start of wonder, 
 
 And the sudden truth arise, 
 Flushing all her face and light- 
 ening 
 The dimmed splendor of her 
 
 eyes ? 
 Oh ! to watch the fear and 
 
 doubting 
 Stir the silent depths of pain,
 
 HOMEWARD BOUND. 
 
 23 
 
 And the rush of joy then 
 
 melting 
 Into perfect peace again. 
 
 And the child ! but why re- 
 member 
 
 Foolish fancies that I thought ? 
 
 Every tree and every hedge-row 
 
 From the well-known past I 
 
 brought ; 
 
 I would picture my dear cottage, 
 See the crackling wood-fire 
 
 burn, 
 
 And the two beside it seated, 
 Watching, waiting, my return. 
 
 So, at last we reached the harbor. 
 
 I remember nothing more 
 Till I stood, my sick heart throb- 
 bing, 
 
 With my hand upon the door. 
 There I paused I heard her 
 
 speaking ; 
 Low, soft, murmuring words 
 
 she said ; 
 Then I first knew the dumb 
 
 terror 
 I had had lest she were dead. 
 
 It was evening in late autumn, 
 
 And the gusty wind blew chill ; 
 Autumn leaves were falling round 
 
 me, 
 
 And the red sun lit the hill. 
 Six-and-twenty years are van- 
 ished 
 Since then, I am old and 
 
 gray, 
 
 But I never told to mortal 
 What I saw, until this day. 
 
 She was seated by the fire, 
 
 In her arms she held a child, 
 Whispering baby-words caress- 
 ing, 
 And then, looking up, she 
 
 smiled ; 
 Smiled on him who stood beside 
 
 her 
 
 Oh ! the bitter truth was told, 
 In her look of trusting fondness 
 I had seen the look of old ! 
 
 But she rose and turned towards 
 
 me 
 (Cold and dumb I waited 
 
 there) 
 With a shriek of fear and terror, 
 
 And a white face of despair. 
 He had been an ancient com- 
 rade, 
 
 Not a single word we said, 
 
 While we gazed upon each other, 
 
 He the living : I the dead ! 
 
 I drew nearer, nearer to her, 
 
 And I took her trembling hand, 
 Looking on her white face, look- 
 ing 
 That her heart might under. 
 
 stand 
 All the love and all the pity 
 
 That my lips refused to say, 
 I thank God no thought save 
 
 sorrow 
 
 Rose in our crushed hearts 
 that day. 
 
 Bitter tears that desolate mo- 
 ment, 
 Bitter, bitter tears we wept,
 
 24 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 We three broken hearts together, 
 While the baby smiled and 
 
 slept. 
 Tears alone no words were 
 
 spoken, 
 
 Till he till her husband said 
 That my boy, (I had forgotten 
 The poor child,) that he was 
 dead. 
 
 Then at last I rose, and, turning, 
 Wrung his hand, but made no 
 
 sign; 
 And I stooped and kissed her 
 
 forehead 
 
 Once more, as if she were mine. 
 Nothing of farewell I uttered, 
 
 Save in broken words to pray 
 That God would ever guard and 
 
 bless her, 
 Then in silence passed away. 
 
 Over the great restless ocean 
 
 Six-and-twenty years 1 roam ; 
 All my comrades, old and weary, 
 
 Have gone back to die at home. 
 Home ! yes, I shall reach a 
 haven, 
 
 I, too, shall reach home and 
 
 rest; 
 I shall find her waiting for me 
 
 With our baby on her breast. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 WHAT is Life, father 1 " 
 
 " A Battle, my child, 
 Where the strongest lance may 
 fail, 
 
 Where the wariest eyes may be 
 
 beguiled, 
 And the stoutest heart may 
 
 quail. 
 Where the foes are gathered on 
 
 every hand, 
 
 And rest not day or night, 
 And the feeble little ones must 
 
 stand 
 In the thickest of the fight." 
 
 " What is Death, father ? " 
 
 " The rest, my child, 
 When the strife and the toil are 
 
 o'er; 
 The angel of God, who, calm 
 
 and mild, 
 
 Says we need fight no more ; 
 Who, driving away the demon 
 
 band, 
 Bids the din of the battl 
 
 cease; 
 Takes banner and spear from 
 
 our failing hand, 
 And proclaims an eternal 
 peace." 
 
 "Let me die, father ! I tremble, 
 
 and fear 
 
 To yield in that terrible 
 strife ! " 
 
 " The crown must be won for 
 
 Heaven, dear, 
 In the battle-field of life : 
 My child, though thy foes are 
 
 strong and tried, 
 He loveth the weak and small ; 
 The angels of heaven are on tly 
 
 side, 
 And God is over all ! "
 
 CLEANSING FIRES. 
 
 25 
 
 NOW. 
 
 RISE ! for the day is passing, 
 And you lie dreaming on ; 
 The others have buckled their 
 
 armor, 
 And forth to the fight are 
 
 gone : 
 A place in the ranks awaits 
 
 you, 
 Each "man has some part to 
 
 play; 
 The Past and the Future are 
 
 nothing, 
 
 In the face of the stern To- 
 day. 
 
 Rise from your dreams of the 
 
 Future, 
 Of gaining some hard-fought 
 
 field; 
 
 Of storming some airy fortress, 
 
 Or bidding some giant yield ; 
 
 Your Future has deeds of glory, 
 
 Of honor (God grant it may !) 
 
 But your arm will never be 
 
 stronger, 
 Or the need so great as To-day. 
 
 Rise ! if the Past detains you, 
 Her sunshine and storms 
 
 forget ; 
 No chains so unworthy to hold 
 
 you 
 
 As those of a vain regret : 
 Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever ; 
 Cast her phantom arms away, 
 Nor look back, save to learn the 
 
 lesson 
 Of a nobler strife To-day. 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing ; 
 The sound that you scarcely 
 
 hear 
 
 Is the enemy marching to bat- 
 tle : 
 
 Arise ! for the foe is here ! 
 Stay not to sharpen your weap- 
 ons, 
 
 Or the hour will strike at last, 
 When, from dreams of a coming 
 
 battle, 
 You may wake to find it past ! 
 
 CLEANSING FIRES. 
 
 LET thy gold be cast in the fur- 
 nace, 
 Thy red gold, precious and 
 
 bright ; 
 
 Do not fear the hungry fire, 
 With its caverns of burning 
 
 light ; 
 And thy gold shall return more 
 
 precious, 
 Free from every spot and 
 
 stain ; 
 
 For gold must be tried by fire, 
 As a heart must be tried by 
 pain '. 
 
 In the cruel fire of Sorrow 
 
 Cast thy heart, do not faint or 
 wail ; 
 
 Let thy hand be firm and steady, 
 Do not let thyspirit quail : 
 
 But wait till the f.riai is over, 
 And take thy heart ag lin ;
 
 THE VOICE OF' THE WIND. 
 
 For as gold is tried by fire, 
 So a heart must be tried by 
 pain ! 
 
 I shall know by the gleam and 
 
 glitter 
 
 Of the golden chain you wear, 
 By your heart's calm strength 
 
 in loving, 
 Of the fire they have had to 
 
 bear. 
 
 Beat on, true heart, forever ; 
 Shine bright, strong golden 
 
 chain ; 
 
 And bless the cleansing fire, 
 And the furnace of living pain ! 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE 
 WIND. 
 
 LET us throw more logs on the 
 
 fire! 
 We have need of a cheerful 
 
 light, 
 And close round the hearth to 
 
 gather, 
 
 For the wind has risen to-night. 
 With the mournful sound of its 
 
 wailing 
 It has checked the children's 
 
 glee, 
 
 And it calls with a louder clamor 
 Than the clamor of the sea. 
 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 Let us listen to what it is saying, 
 Let us hearken to where it has 
 
 For it tells, in its terrible crying, 
 
 The fearful sights it has seen. 
 
 It clatters loud at the casements, 
 
 Round the house it hurries on, 
 
 And shrieks with redoubled fury 
 
 When we say, " The blast is 
 
 gone ! " 
 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 It has been on the field of battle, 
 Where the dying and wounded 
 
 lie; 
 And it brings the last groan they 
 
 uttered, 
 And the ravenous vulture's 
 
 cry. 
 It has been where the icebergs 
 
 were meeting, 
 And closed with a fearful 
 
 crash : 
 On shores where no foot has 
 
 wandered 
 
 It has heard the waters dash. 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 It has been on the desolate ocean 
 When the lightning struck the 
 
 mast ; 
 It has heard the cry of the 
 
 drowning, 
 
 Who sank as it hurried past ; 
 The words of despair and an- 
 guish, 
 That were heard by no living 
 
 ear, 
 
 The gun that no signal answered, 
 It brings them all to us here. 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind !
 
 TREASURES. 
 
 27 
 
 It has been on the lonely moor- 
 land, 
 
 Where the treacherous snow- 
 drift lies, 
 Where the traveller, spent and 
 
 weary, 
 Gasped fainter and fainter 
 
 cries; 
 
 It has heard the bay of the blood- 
 hounds 
 On the track of the hunted 
 
 slave, 
 The lash and the curse of the 
 
 master, 
 
 And the groan that the cap- 
 tive gave. 
 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 It has swept through the gloomy 
 
 forest, 
 Where the sledge was urged 
 
 to its speed, 
 Where the howling wolves were 
 
 rushing 
 On the track of the panting 
 
 steed. 
 Where the pool was black and 
 
 lonely, 
 It caught up a splash and a 
 
 cry. 
 
 Only the bleak sky heard it, 
 And the wind as it hurried by. 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 Then throw more logs on the 
 
 fire, 
 
 Since the air is bleak and 
 cold, 
 
 And the children are drawing 
 
 nigher, 
 For the tales that the wind 
 
 has told. 
 
 So closer and closer gather 
 Round the red and crackling 
 
 light ; 
 And rejoice (while the wind is 
 
 blowing) 
 
 We are safe and warm to- 
 night. 
 
 Hark to the voice of 
 the wind ! 
 
 TREASURES. 
 
 LET me count my treasures, 
 All my soul holds dear, 
 
 Given me by dark spirits 
 Whom I used to fear. 
 
 Through long days of anguish, 
 And sad nights, did Pain 
 
 Forge my shield, Endurance, 
 Bright and free from stain ! 
 
 Doubt, in misty caverns, 
 'Mid dark horrors sought, 
 
 Till my peerless jewel, 
 Faith, to me she brought. 
 
 Sorrow, that I wearied 
 Should remain so long. 
 
 Wreathed my starry glory, 
 The bright Crown of Song. 
 
 Strife, that racked my spirit 
 Without hope or rest,
 
 28 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 Left the blooming flower, 
 Patience, on my breast. 
 
 Suffering, that I dreaded, 
 Ignorant of her charms, 
 
 Laid the fair child, Pity, 
 Smiling, in my arms. 
 
 So I count my treasures, 
 Stored in days long past, 
 
 And I thank the givers, 
 Whom I know at last ! 
 
 SHINING STARS. 
 
 SHINE, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On a world of pain ! 
 See old Time destroying 
 
 All our hoarded gain ; 
 AH our sweetest flowers, 
 
 Every stately shrine, 
 All our hard-earned glory, 
 
 Every dream divine ! 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 On the rolling years ! 
 
 See how Time, consoling, 
 Dries the saddest tears, 
 
 Bids the darkest storm-clouds 
 . Pass in gentle rain, 
 
 While upspring in glory 
 Flowers and dreams again ! 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On a world of fear ! 
 See how Time, avenging, 
 
 Bringeth judgment here : 
 Weaving ill-won honors 
 
 To a fiery crown ; 
 
 Bidding hard hearts perish ; 
 Casting proud hearts down. 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 
 
 On the hours' slow flight ! 
 See how Time, rewarding, 
 
 Gilds good deeds with light; 
 Pays with kingly measure ; 
 
 Brings earth's dearest prize ; 
 Or, crowned with rays diviner, 
 
 Bids the end arise ! 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 " WHEREFORE dwell so sad and 
 lonely 
 
 By the desolate sea-shore, 
 With the melancholy surges 
 
 Beating at your cottage door ? 
 
 " You shall dwell beside the 
 
 castle 
 Shadowed by our ancient 
 
 trees ; 
 And your life shall pass on 
 
 gently, 
 
 Cared for, and in rest and 
 ease." 
 
 " Lady, one who loved me dearly 
 Sailed for distant lands away ; 
 
 And I wait here his returning 
 Hopefully from day to day. 
 
 " To my door I bring my spin- 
 ning, 
 
 Watching every ship I see; 
 Waiting, hoping, till the sunset 
 
 Fades into the western sea.
 
 THE CRADLE-SONG OF THE POOR. 
 
 29 
 
 " After sunset, at my casement, 
 
 Still I place a signal light ; 
 He will see its well-known shin- 
 ing 
 
 Should his ship return at 
 night. 
 
 " Lady, see your infant smiling, 
 With its flaxen curling hair, 
 
 I remember when your mother 
 Was a baby just as fair. 
 
 " I was watching then, and hop- 
 ing: 
 Years have brought great 
 
 change to all ; 
 
 To my neighbors in their cot- 
 tage, 
 To you nobles at the hall. 
 
 " Not to me, for I am waiting, 
 And the years have fled so 
 fast, 
 
 I must look at you to tell me 
 That a weary time has past ! 
 
 " When I hear a footstep coming 
 On the shingle years have 
 
 fled 
 
 Yet amid a thousand others, 
 I shall know his quick, light 
 tread. 
 
 When I hear (to-night it may 
 
 be) 
 
 Some one pausing at my door, 
 I shall know the gay, soft ac- 
 cents, 
 
 Heard and welcomed oft be- 
 fore ! 
 
 " So each day I am more hopeful, 
 He may come before the night ; 
 
 Every sunset I feel surer 
 
 He must come ere morning 
 light. 
 
 " Then I thank you, noble lady, 
 
 But I cannot do your will : 
 Where he left me he must find 
 
 me, 
 
 Waiting, watching, hoping, 
 still ! " 
 
 THE CRADLE-SONG OF 
 THE POOR. 
 
 HUSH ! I cannot bear to see thee 
 
 Stretch thy tiny hands in vain ; 
 
 Dear, I have no bread to give 
 
 thee, 
 Nothing, child, to ease thy 
 
 pain ! 
 When God sent thee first to bless 
 
 me, 
 Proud, and thankful too, was 
 
 I; 
 
 Now, my darling, I, thy mother, 
 Almost long to see thee die. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou 
 
 art weary ; 
 
 God is good, but life is 
 dreary. 
 
 I have watched thy beauty fading, 
 And thy strength sink day by: 
 
 day, 
 Soon, I know, will Want and 
 
 Fever 
 Take thy little life away.
 
 30 
 
 BE STRONG. 
 
 Famine makes thy father reckless, 
 Hope has left both him and 
 
 me; 
 
 We could suffer all, my baby, 
 Had we but a crust for thee. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou 
 
 art weary ; 
 
 God is good, but life is 
 dreary. 
 
 Better thou shouldst perish early, 
 Starve so soon, my darling 
 
 one, 
 Than in helpless sin and sorrow 
 
 Vainly live, as I have done. 
 Better that thy angel spirit 
 With my joy, my peace, were 
 
 flown, 
 Than thy heart grew cold and 
 
 careless, 
 
 Reckless, hopeless, like my 
 own. 
 
 Sleep, my darling, thou 
 
 art weary ; 
 
 God is good, but life is 
 dreary. 
 
 I am wasted, dear, with hunger, 
 
 And my brain is all opprest, 
 I have scarcely strength to press 
 
 thee, 
 
 Wan and feeble, to my breast. 
 
 Patience, baby, God will help us, 
 
 Death will come to thee and 
 
 me, 
 
 He will take us to his heaven, 
 Where no want or pain can be. 
 Sleep, my darling, thou 
 
 art weary ; 
 
 God is good, but life is 
 dreary. 
 
 Such the plaint that, late and 
 
 early, 
 
 Did we listen, we might hear 
 Close beside us, but the thun- 
 der 
 
 Of a city dulls our car. 
 Every heart, as God's bright 
 
 Angel, 
 
 Can bid one such sorrow cease ; 
 God has glory when his children 
 Bring his poor ones joy and 
 peace! 
 
 Listen, nearer while she 
 
 sings 
 
 Sounds the fluttering of 
 wings ! 
 
 X/BE STRONG. 
 
 BE strong to hope, O Heart ! 
 
 Though day is bright, 
 The stars can only shine 
 
 In the dark night. 
 Be strong, O Heart of mine, 
 
 Look towards the light ! 
 
 Be strong to bear, O Heart ! 
 
 Nothing is vain : 
 Strive not, for life is care, 
 
 And God sends pain ; 
 Heaven is above, and there 
 
 Rest will remain ! 
 
 Be strong to love, O Heart ! 
 
 Love knows not wrong ; 
 Didst thou love creatures 
 even, 
 
 Life were not long ; 
 Didst thou love God in heaven, 
 
 Thou wouldst be strong !
 
 GOD'S GIFTS. 
 
 GOD'S GIFTS. 
 
 GOD gave a gift to Earth : a child, 
 Weak, innocent, and undefiled, 
 Opened its ignorant eyes and 
 smiled. 
 
 It lay so helpless, so forlorn, 
 Earth took it coldly and in scorn, 
 Cursing the day when it was 
 born. 
 
 She gave it first a tarnished 
 
 name, 
 
 For heritage, a tainted fame, 
 Then cradled it in want and 
 
 shame. 
 
 All influence of Good or Right, 
 All ray of God's most holy light, 
 She curtained closely from its 
 sight. 
 
 Then turned her heart, her eyes 
 
 away, 
 
 Ready to look again, the day 
 Its little feet began to stray. 
 
 In dens of guilt the baby played, 
 Where sin, and sin alone, was 
 
 made 
 The law that all around obeyed. 
 
 With ready and obedient care, 
 He learnt the tasks they taught 
 
 him there; 
 Black sin for lesson, oaths for 
 
 prayer. 
 
 Then Earth arose, and, in her 
 might, 
 
 To vindicate hei injured right, 
 Thrust him in deeper depths of 
 night ; 
 
 Branding him with a deeper 
 
 brand 
 Of shame, he could not under. 
 
 stand, 
 The felon outcast of the land. 
 
 God gave a gift to Earth : a child, 
 Weak, innocent, and undefiled, 
 Opened its ignorant eyes and 
 smiled. 
 
 And Earth received the gift, and 
 
 cried 
 Her joy and triumph far and 
 
 wide, 
 Till echo answered to her pride. 
 
 She blessed the hour when first 
 
 he came 
 To take the crown of pride and 
 
 fame, 
 Wreathed through long ages for 
 
 his name. 
 
 Then bent her utmost art and 
 
 skill 
 To train the supple mind and 
 
 will, 
 And guard it from a breath of ill. 
 
 She strewed his morning path 
 
 with flowers, 
 And Love, in tender dropping 
 
 showers, 
 Nourished the blue and dawning 
 
 hours.
 
 32 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 She shed, in rainbow hues of 
 
 light, 
 A halo round the Good and 
 
 Right, 
 To tempt and charm the baby's 
 
 sight. 
 
 And every step, of work or play, 
 Was lit by some such dazzling ray, 
 Till morning brightened into 
 day. 
 
 And then the World arose, and 
 
 said, 
 
 Let added honors now be shed 
 On such a noble heart and head ! 
 
 O World, both gifts were pure 
 
 and bright, 
 
 Holy and sacred in God's sight : 
 God will judge them and thee 
 
 aright! 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 A SMILING look she had, a figure 
 
 slight, 
 With cheerful air, and step both 
 
 quick and light ; 
 A strange and foreign look the 
 
 maiden bore, 
 That suited the quaint Belgian 
 
 dress she wore ; 
 Yet the blue, fearless eyes in her 
 
 fair face, 
 And her soft voice, told her of 
 
 English race ; 
 And ever, as she flitted to and 
 
 fro, 
 
 She sang, (or murmured, rather,) 
 
 soft and low, 
 Snatches of song, as if she did 
 
 not know 
 That she was singing, but the 
 
 happy load 
 Of dream and thought thus from 
 
 her heart o'erflowed : 
 And while on household cares 
 
 she passed along, 
 The air would bear me fragments 
 
 of her song ; 
 Not such as village maidens sing,, 
 
 and few 
 The framers of her changing- 
 
 music knew ; 
 Chants such as heaven and eartli 
 
 first heard of when 
 The master Palestrina held tho 
 
 pen. 
 But I with awe had often turned 
 
 the page, 
 Yellow with time, and half dfc 
 
 faced by age, 
 And listened, with an ear not. 
 
 quite unskilled, 
 While heart and soul to the 
 
 grand echo thrilled ; 
 And much I marvelled, as her 
 
 cadence fell 
 From the Laudate, that I knew 
 
 so well, 
 Into Scarlatti's minor fugue, 
 
 how she 
 
 Had learned such deep and sol- 
 emn harmony. 
 But what she told I set in rhyme, 
 
 as meet 
 To chronicle the influence, dim 
 
 and sweet,
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 33 
 
 'Neath which her young and in- 
 nocent life had grown : 
 
 Would that my words were sim- 
 ple as her own. 
 
 Many years since, an English 
 
 workman went 
 Over the seas, to seek a home in 
 
 Ghent, 
 Where English skill was prized ; 
 
 nor toiled in vain ; 
 Small, yet enough, his hard- 
 earned daily gain. 
 He dwelt alone, in sorrow, or 
 
 in pride. 
 He mixed not with the workers 
 
 by his side ; 
 He seemed to care but for one 
 
 present joy, 
 To tend, to watch, to teach his 
 
 sickly boy. 
 Severe to all beside, yet for the 
 
 child 
 He softened his rough speech to 
 
 soothings mild; 
 For him he smiled, with him each 
 
 day he walked 
 Through the dark, gloomy 
 
 streets ; to him he talked 
 Of home, of England, and 
 
 strange stories told 
 Of English heroes in the days of 
 
 old; 
 And (when the sunset gilded 
 
 roof and spire) 
 The marvellous tale which never 
 
 seemed to tire : 
 How the gilt dragon, glaring 
 
 fiercely down 
 
 From the great belfry, watching 
 
 all the town, 
 Was brought, a trophy of the 
 
 wars divine, 
 
 By a Crusader from far Palestine, 
 And given to Bruges ; and how 
 
 Ghent arose, 
 And how they struggled long as 
 
 deadly foes, 
 Till Ghent, one night, by a brave 
 
 soldier's skill, 
 Stole the great dragon ; and she 
 
 keeps it still. 
 One day the dragon so *t is 
 
 said will rise, 
 Spread his bright wings, and 
 
 glitter in the skies, 
 And over desert lands and azure 
 
 seas 
 Will seek his home 'mid palm 
 
 and cedar trees. 
 So, as he passed the belfry every 
 
 day, 
 The boy would look if it were 
 
 flown away ; 
 Each day surprised to find it 
 
 watching there, 
 Above him, as he crossed the 
 
 ancient square, 
 To seek the great cathedral, that 
 
 had grown 
 A home for him mysterious 
 
 and his own. 
 
 Dim with dark shadows of 
 
 the ages past, 
 St. Bavon stands, solemn and 
 
 rich and vast ; 
 The slender pillars, in long 
 
 vistas spread,
 
 34 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 Like forest arches meet and close 
 
 o'erhead ; 
 So high that, like a weak and 
 
 doubting prayer, 
 Ere it can float to the carved 
 
 angels there, 
 The silver clouded incense faints 
 
 in air : 
 Only the organ's voice, with peal 
 
 on peal, 
 Can mount to where those far-off 
 
 angels kneel. 
 Here the pale boy, beneath a low 
 
 side-arch, 
 Would listen to its solemn chant 
 
 or march ; 
 
 Folding his little hands, his sim- 
 ple prayer 
 Melted in childish dreams, and 
 
 both in air : 
 While the great organ over all 
 
 would roll, 
 Speaking strange secrets to his 
 
 innocent soul, 
 Bearing on eagle-wings the great 
 
 desire 
 Of all the kneeling throng, and 
 
 piercing higher 
 Than aught but love and prayer 
 
 can reach, until 
 Only the silence seemed to listen 
 
 still ; 
 Or gathering like a sea still more 
 
 and more, 
 Break in melodious waves at 
 
 heaven's door, 
 And then fall, slow and soft, in 
 
 tender rain, 
 Upon the pleading, longing 
 
 hearts again. 
 
 Then he would watch the rosy 
 sunlight glow, 
 
 That crept along the marble floor 
 below, 
 
 Passing, as life does, with the 
 passing hours, 
 
 Now by a shrine all rich with 
 gems and flowers, 
 
 Now on the brazen letters of a 
 tomb, 
 
 Then, leaving it again to shade 
 and gloom, 
 
 And creeping on, to show, dis- 
 tinct and quaint, 
 
 The kneeling figure of some 
 marble saint : 
 
 Or lighting up the carvings 
 strange and rare, 
 
 That told of patient toil, and 
 reverent care ; 
 
 Ivy that trembled on the spray, 
 and ears 
 
 Of heavy corn, and slender bul- 
 rush spears, 
 
 And all the thousand tangled 
 weeds that grow 
 
 In summer, where the silver riv- 
 ers flow; 
 
 And demon - heads grotesque, 
 that seemed to glare 
 
 In impotent wrath on all the 
 beauty there : 
 
 Then the gold rays up pillared 
 shaft would climb, 
 
 And so be drawn to heaven, at 
 evening time. 
 
 And deeper silence, darker shad- 
 ows flowed 
 
 On all around, on)/ the windows 
 glowed
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 35 
 
 With blazoned plory, like the 
 
 shields of light 
 Archangels bear, who, armed 
 
 with love and might, 
 Watch upon heaven's battle- 
 ments at night. 
 Then all was shade ; the silver 
 
 lamps that gleamed, 
 Lost in the da ylight, in the dark- 
 
 uess seemed 
 Like sparks of fire in the dim 
 
 aisles to shine, 
 Or trembling stars before each 
 
 separate shrine. 
 Grown half afraid, the child 
 
 would leave them there, 
 And come out, blinded by the 
 
 noisy glare 
 That burst upon him from the 
 
 busy square. 
 
 The church was thus his home 
 
 for rest or play ; 
 And as he came and went again 
 
 each day, 
 The pictured faces that he knew 
 
 so well 
 Seemed to smile on him welcome 
 
 and farewell. 
 
 But holier, and dearer far than all, 
 One sacred spot his own he loved 
 
 to call ; 
 Save at mid-day, half hidden by 
 
 the gloom ; 
 The people call it The White 
 
 Maiden's Tomb : 
 For there she stands ; her folded 
 
 hands are pressed 
 Together, and laid softly on her 
 
 breast, 
 
 As if she waited but a word to 
 
 rise 
 From the dull earth, and pass to 
 
 the blue skies ; 
 Her lips expectant part, she holds 
 
 her breath, 
 As listening for the angel voice 
 
 of death. 
 None know how many years have 
 
 seen her so, 
 Or what the name of her who 
 
 sleeps below. 
 And here the child would come, 
 
 and strive to trace, 
 Through the dim twilight, the 
 
 pure, gentle face 
 He loved so well, and here he oft 
 
 would bring 
 Some violet-blossom of the early 
 
 spring, 
 
 And, climbing softly by the fret- 
 ted stand, 
 Not to disturb her, lay it in her 
 
 hand ; 
 Or, whispering a soft, loving 
 
 message sweet, 
 Would stoop and kiss the little 
 
 marble feet. 
 So, when the organ's pealing 
 
 music rang, 
 He thought amid the gloom the 
 
 Maiden sang ; 
 With reverent, simple faith by 
 
 her he knelt, 
 And fancied what she thought, 
 
 and what she felt ; 
 " Glory to God," re-echoed from 
 
 her voice. 
 And then his little spirit would 
 
 rejoice ;
 
 36 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 Or when the Requiem sobbed 
 
 upon the air, 
 His baby tears dropped with her 
 
 mournful prayer. 
 
 So years fled on, while childish 
 
 fancies past, 
 The childish love and simple faith 
 
 could last. 
 The artist-soul awoke in him, the 
 
 flame 
 Of genius, like the light of Heaven, 
 
 came 
 Upon his brain, and (as it will, 
 
 if true) 
 It touched his heart and lit his 
 
 spirit, too. 
 His father saw, and with a proud 
 
 content 
 Let him forsake the toil where 
 
 he had spent 
 His youth's first years, and on 
 
 one happy day 
 Of pride, before the old man 
 
 passed away, 
 He stood with quivering lips, and 
 
 the big tears 
 Upon his cheek, and heard the 
 
 dream of years 
 Living and speaking to his very 
 
 heart, 
 The low, hushed murmur at the 
 
 wondrous art 
 
 Of him who with young, trem- 
 bling fingers made 
 The great church-organ answer 
 
 as he played ; 
 And, as the uncertain sound grew 
 
 full and strong, 
 
 Rush with harmonious spirit- 
 wings along, 
 
 And thrill with master-power 
 the breathless throng. 
 
 The old man died, and years 
 
 passed on, and still 
 The young musician bent his 
 
 heart and will 
 To his dear toil. St. Bavon now 
 
 had grown 
 More dear to him, and even more 
 
 his own ; 
 And as he left it every night he 
 
 prayed 
 A moment by the archway in the 
 
 shade, 
 Kneeling once more within the 
 
 sacred gloom 
 Where the White Maiden 
 
 watched upon her tomb. 
 His hopes of travel and a world- 
 wide fame, 
 Cold Time had sobered, and hia. 
 
 fragile frame ; 
 Content at last only in dreams 
 
 to roam, 
 Away from the tranquillity of 
 
 home ; 
 Content that the poor dwellers 
 
 by his side 
 Saw in him but the gentle friend 
 
 and guide, 
 The patient counsellor in the 
 
 poor strife 
 
 And petty details of their com- 
 mon life, 
 Who comforted where woe and 
 
 grief might fall,
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 Nor slighted any pain or want as 
 
 small, 
 But whose great heart took in 
 
 and felt for all. 
 
 Still he grew famous ; many 
 
 came to be 
 
 His pupils in the art of harmony. 
 One day a voice floated so pure 
 
 and free 
 Above his music, that he turned 
 
 to see 
 What angel sang, and saw before 
 
 his eyes, 
 What made his heart leap with 
 
 a strange surprise, 
 His own White Maiden, calm, 
 
 and pure, and mild, 
 As in his childish dreams she 
 
 sang and smiled ; 
 Her eyes raised up to Heaven, 
 
 her lips apart, 
 And music overflowing from her 
 
 heart. 
 But the faint blush that tinged 
 
 her cheek betrayed 
 No marble statue, but a living 
 
 maid ; 
 Perplexed and startled at his 
 
 wondering look, 
 Her rustling score of Mozart's 
 
 Sanctus shook ; 
 The uncertain notes, like birds 
 
 within a snare, 
 Fluttered and died upon the 
 
 trembling air. 
 
 Days passed ; each morning 
 
 saw the maiden stand, 
 Her eyes cast down, her lesson in 
 her hand, 
 
 Eager to study, never weary, 
 
 while 
 Repaid by the approving word 
 
 or smile 
 Of her kind master; days and 
 
 months fled on ; 
 One day the pupil from the choir 
 
 was gone ; 
 Gone to take light, and joy, and 
 
 youth once more 
 Within the poor musician's hum 
 
 ble door ; 
 
 And to repay, with gentle, hap- 
 py art, 
 
 The debt so many owed his gen- 
 erous heart. 
 And now, indeed, was one who 
 
 knew and felt 
 That a great gift of God within 
 
 him dwelt ; 
 One who could listen, who could 
 
 understand, 
 Whose idle work dropped from 
 
 her slackened hand, 
 While with wet eyes entranced 
 
 she stood, nor knew 
 How the melodious winged hours 
 
 flew; 
 Who loved his art as none had 
 
 loved before, 
 Yet prized the noble, tender spirit 
 
 more. 
 While the great organ brought 
 
 from far and near 
 Lovers of harmony to praise and 
 
 hear, 
 Unmarked by aught save what 
 
 filled every day, 
 Duty, and toil, and rest, years 
 
 passed away :
 
 38 
 
 A TOMB IN GHENT. 
 
 And now by the low archway in 
 
 the shade 
 Beside her mother knelt a little 
 
 maid, 
 Who through the great cathedral 
 
 learned to roam, 
 Climb to the choir, and bring her 
 
 father home ; 
 And stand, demure and solemn 
 
 by his side, 
 Patient till the last echo softly 
 
 died; 
 Then place her little hand in his, 
 
 and go 
 Down the dark winding stair to 
 
 where below 
 The mother knelt, within the 
 
 gathering gloom 
 Waiting and praying by the 
 
 Maiden's Tomb. 
 
 So their life went, until, one 
 
 winter's day, 
 Father and child came there 
 
 alone to pray, 
 The mother, gentle soul, had fled 
 
 away ! 
 Their life was altered now, and 
 
 yet the child 
 Forgot her passionate grief in 
 
 time, and smiled, 
 Half wondering why, when 
 
 spring's fresh breezes came, 
 To see her father was no more 
 
 the same. 
 Half guessing at the shadow of 
 
 his pain, 
 And then contented if he smiled 
 
 again, 
 
 A sad, cold smile, that passed in 
 
 tears away, 
 As reassured she ran once more 
 
 to play. 
 And now each year that added 
 
 grace to grace, 
 Fresh bloom and sunshine to the 
 
 young girl's face, 
 Brought a strange light in the 
 
 musician's eyes, 
 As if he saw some starry hope 
 
 arise, 
 Breaking upon the midnight of 
 
 sad skies. 
 It might be so : more feeble 
 
 year by year, 
 The wanderer to his resting-place 
 
 drew near. 
 One day the Gloria he could 
 
 play no more, 
 Echoed its grand rejoicing as of 
 
 yore; 
 His hands were clasped, his weary 
 
 head was laid, 
 Upon the tomb where the White 
 
 Maiden prayed ; 
 Where the child's love first 
 
 dawned, his soul first spoke, 
 The old man's heart there 
 
 throbbed its last and broke. 
 The grave cathedral that had 
 
 nursed his youth, 
 Had helped his dreaming, and 
 
 had taught him truth, 
 Had seen his boyish grief and 
 
 baby tears, 
 And watched the sorrows and 
 
 the joys of years, 
 Had lit his fame and hope with 
 
 sacred rajs,
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 
 
 39 
 
 And consecrated sad and happy 
 
 days, 
 Had blessed his happiness, and 
 
 soothed his pain, 
 Now took her faithful servant 
 home again. 
 
 He rests in peace : some trav- 
 ellers mentien yet 
 
 An organist whose name they 
 all forget. 
 
 He has a holier and a nobler fame 
 
 By poor men's hearths, who love 
 and bless the name 
 
 Of a kind friend ; and in low 
 tones to-day 
 
 Speak tenderly of him who 
 passed away. 
 
 Too poor to help the daughter 
 of their friend, 
 
 They grieved to see the little pit- 
 tance end ; 
 
 To see her toil and strive with 
 cheerful heart, 
 
 To bear the lonely orphan's 
 struggling part ; 
 
 They grieved to see her go at 
 last alone 
 
 To English kinsmen she had 
 never known : 
 
 And here she came ; the foreign 
 girl soon found 
 
 Welcome, and love, and plenty 
 all around, 
 
 And here she pays it back with 
 earnest will, 
 
 By well-taught housewife watch- 
 fulness and skill ; 
 
 Deep in her heart she holds her 
 father's name, 
 
 And tenderly and proudly keeps 
 
 his fame ; 
 And while she works with thrifty 
 
 Belgian care, 
 Past dreams of childhood float 
 
 upon the air ; 
 
 Some strange old chant, or sol- 
 emn Latin hymn, 
 That echoed through the old 
 
 cathedral dim, 
 When as a little child each day 
 
 she went 
 To kneel and pray by an old 
 
 tomb in Ghent. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 
 
 WHY shouldst thou fear the 
 
 beautiful angel, Death, 
 Who waits thee at the portals 
 
 of the skies, 
 
 Ready to kiss away thy strug- 
 gling breath, 
 
 Ready with gentle hand to 
 close thine eyes ? 
 
 How many a tranquil soul has 
 
 passed away, 
 Fled gladly from fierce paiu 
 
 and pleasures dim, 
 To the eternal splendor of the 
 
 day; 
 
 And many a troubled heart 
 still calls for him. 
 
 Spirits too tender for the battle 
 
 here 
 
 Have turned from life, its 
 hopes, its fears, its charms ;
 
 40 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 And children, shuddering at a 
 
 world so drear, 
 Have smiling passed away 
 into his arms. 
 
 He whom thou fearest will, to 
 
 ease its pain, 
 Lay his cold hand upon thy 
 
 aching heart : 
 Will soothe the terrors of thy 
 
 troubled brain, 
 
 And bid the shadow of earth's 
 grief depart. 
 
 He will give back what neither 
 
 time, nor might, 
 Nor passionate prayer, nor 
 
 longing hope restore, 
 (Dear as to long-blind eyes re- 
 covered sight,) 
 
 He will give back those who 
 are gone before. 
 
 0, what were life, if life were 
 
 all ? Thine eyes 
 Are blinded by their tears, or 
 
 thou wouldst see 
 Thy treasures wait thec in the 
 
 far-off skies, 
 
 And Death, thy friend, will 
 give them all to thee. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 ALL yesterday I was spinning, 
 Sitting alone in the sun ; 
 
 And the dream that I spun was 
 
 so lengthy, 
 It lasted till day was done. 
 
 I heeded not cloud or shadow 
 That flitted over the hill, 
 
 Or the humming-bees, or the 
 
 swallows, 
 Or the trickling of the rill. 
 
 I took the threads for my spin- 
 ning, 
 
 All of blue summer air, 
 And a flickering ray of sunlight 
 
 Was woven in here and there. 
 
 The shadows grew longer and 
 
 longer, 
 
 The evening wind passed by, 
 And the purple splendor of 
 
 sunset 
 Was flooding the western sky. 
 
 But I could not leave my spin- 
 ning, 
 For so fair my dream had 
 
 grown, 
 
 I heeded not, hour by hour, 
 How the silent day had flown. 
 
 At last the gray shadows fell 
 
 round me, 
 And the night came dark and 
 
 chill, 
 And I rose and ran down th 
 
 valley, 
 And left it all on the hill. 
 
 I went up the hill this morning 
 To the place where my spin. 
 
 ning lay, 
 There was nothing but glistening 
 
 dew-drops 
 Remained of my dream to-day.
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. 
 
 41 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 Do not crouch to-day, and wor- 
 ship 
 The old Past, whose life is 
 
 fled; 
 
 Hush your voice to tender rever- 
 ence ; 
 Crowned he lies, but cold and 
 
 dead : 
 
 For the Present reigns our mon- 
 arch, 
 With an added weight of 
 
 hours ; 
 
 Honor her, for she is mighty ! 
 Honor her, for she is ours ! 
 
 See the shadows of his heroes 
 Girt around her cloudy 
 
 throne ; 
 
 Every day the ranks are strength- 
 ened 
 
 By great hearts to him un- 
 known ; 
 Noble things the great Past 
 
 promised, 
 Holy dreams, both strange and 
 
 new ; 
 
 But the Present shall fulfil them, 
 What he promised she shall do. 
 
 She inherits all his treasures, 
 
 She is heir to all his fame, 
 And the light that lightens round 
 her 
 
 Is the lustre of his name ; 
 She is wise with all his wisdom, 
 
 Living on his grave she stands, 
 On her brow she bears his laurels, 
 
 And his harvest in her hands. 
 
 Coward, can she reign and con- 
 quer 
 
 If we thus her glory dim ? 
 Let us fight for her as nobly 
 
 As our fathers fought for him. 
 God, who crowns the dying ages, 
 
 Bids her rule, and us obey, -*- 
 Bids us cast our lives before her, 
 
 Bids us serve the great To-day. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 MOURN, O rejoicing heart ! 
 
 The hours are flying ; 
 Each one some treasure takes, 
 Each one some blossom breaks, 
 
 And leaves it dying ; 
 The chill dark night draws near, 
 
 Thy sun will soon depart, 
 
 And leave thee sighing ; 
 Then mourn, rejoicing heart, 
 
 The hours are flying ! 
 
 Rejoice, O grieving heart ! 
 
 The hours fly fast; 
 With each some sorrow dies, 
 With each some shadow flies, 
 
 Until at last 
 The red dawn in the east 
 
 Bids weary night depart, 
 
 And pain is past. 
 Rejoice then, grieving heart, 
 
 The hours fly fast ! 
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND 
 PRAY. 
 
 STRIVE ; yet I do not promise 
 The prize you dream of to-day
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 Will not fade when you think 
 
 to grasp it, 
 
 And melt in your hand away ; 
 But another and holier treasure, 
 You would now perchance dis- 
 dain, 
 
 Will come when your toil is over, 
 And pay you for all your pain. 
 
 Wait ; yet I do not tell you 
 
 The hour you long for now 
 Will not come with its radiance 
 vanished, 
 
 And a shadow upon its brow ; 
 Yet far through the misty future, 
 
 With a crown of starry light, 
 An hour of joy you know not 
 
 Is winging her silent flight. 
 
 Pray ; though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears, 
 May never repay your pleading, 
 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful 
 
 tears ; 
 An answer, not that you long for, 
 
 But diviner, will come one 
 
 day; 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it, 
 
 Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 
 
 A LAMENT FOR THE 
 SUMMER. 
 
 MOAN, O ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 Summer has fled, 
 The flowers have closed their 
 tender leaves and die ; 
 
 The lily's gracious head 
 All low must lie, 
 
 Because the gentle Summer 
 now is dead. 
 
 Grieve, O ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 Summer lies low ; 
 The rose's trembling leaves will 
 
 soon be shed, 
 For she that loved her so, 
 Alas ! is dead, 
 
 And one by one her loving 
 children go. 
 
 Wail, O ye Autumn Winds ! 
 
 She lives no more, 
 The gentle Summer, with her 
 
 balmy breath, 
 Still sweeter than before 
 When nearer death, 
 
 And brighter every day the 
 smile she wore ! 
 
 Mourn, mourn, O Autumn 
 
 Winds, 
 
 Lament and mourn ; 
 How many half-blown buds must 
 
 close and die ; 
 
 Hopes with the Summer born 
 All faded lie, 
 
 And leave us desolate and 
 Earth forlorn ! 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 No name to bid us know 
 
 Who rests below, 
 No word of death or birth,
 
 GIVE ME THY HEART. 
 
 43 
 
 Only the grass's wave, 
 Over a mound of earth, 
 Over a nameless grave. 
 
 Did this poor wandering heart 
 
 In pain depart 1 
 Longing, but all too late, 
 
 For the calm home again, 
 Where patient watchers wait, 
 
 And still will wait in vain. 
 
 Did mourners come in scorn, 
 
 And thus forlorn 
 Leave him, with grief and shame, 
 
 To silence and decay, 
 And hide the tarnished name 
 
 Of the unconscious clay ? 
 
 It may be from his side 
 
 His loved ones died, 
 And, last of some bright band, 
 
 (Together now once more,) 
 He sought his home, the land 
 
 Where they had gone before. 
 
 No matter, limes have made 
 
 As cool a shade, 
 And lingering breezes pass 
 
 As tenderly and slow, 
 As if beneath the grass 
 
 A monarch slept below. 
 
 No grief, though loud and deep, 
 
 Could stir that sleep ; 
 And earth and heaven tell 
 
 Of rest that shall not cease, 
 Where the cold world's farewell 
 
 Fades into endless peace. 
 
 GIVE ME THY HEART. 
 
 WITH echoing steps the wor- 
 shippers 
 
 Departed one by one ; 
 The organ's pealing voice was 
 
 stilled, 
 
 The vesper hymn was done ; 
 The shadows fell from roof and 
 
 arch, 
 
 Dim was the incensed air, 
 One lamp alone, with trembling 
 
 ray, 
 Told of the Presence there ! 
 
 In the dark church she knelt 
 
 alone ; 
 
 Her tears were falling fast ; 
 " Help, Lord," she cried, " the 
 
 shades of death 
 Upon my soul are cast ! 
 Have I not shunned the path of 
 
 sin, 
 
 And chosen the better part? " 
 What voice came through the 
 
 sacred air ? 
 " My child, give me thy Heart ! " 
 
 " Have I not laid before Thy 
 
 shrine 
 My wealth, O Lord ? " she 
 
 cried ; 
 " Have I kept aught of gems or 
 
 gold, 
 
 To minister to pride ? 
 Have I not bade youth 'sjoys retire, 
 And vain delights depart 1" 
 But sad and tender was the 
 
 voice, 
 " My child give me thy Heart f "
 
 44 
 
 GIVE ME THY HEART. 
 
 " Have I not, Lord, gone day by 
 
 day 
 Where Thy poor children 
 
 dwell ; 
 And carried help, and gold, and 
 
 food? 
 
 O Lord, Thou knowest it well ! 
 From many a house, from many 
 
 a soul, 
 
 My hand bids care depart " : 
 More sad, more tender was the 
 
 voice, 
 " My child, give me thy Heart ! " 
 
 " Have I not worn my strength 
 
 away 
 
 With fast and penance sore ? 
 Have I not watched and wept ? " 
 
 she cried ; 
 "Did Thy dear Saints do 
 
 more? 
 Have I not gained Thy grace, 
 
 O Lord, 
 And won in Heaven my 
 
 part t " 
 
 It echoed louder in her soul, 
 " My child, give me thy Heart ! 
 
 "For I have loved thce with a 
 
 love 
 
 . No mortal heart can show ; 
 A love so deep, my Saints in 
 
 heaven 
 
 Its depths ran never know : 
 When pierced and wounded on 
 
 the Cross, 
 Man's sin and doom were 
 
 mine, 
 
 I loved thee with undying love, 
 Immortal and divine ! 
 
 " I loved thee ere the skies were 
 
 spread ; 
 
 My soul hears all thy pains ; 
 To gain thy love my sacred 
 
 Heart 
 
 In earthly shrines remains : 
 Vain are thy offerings, vain thy 
 
 sighs, 
 
 Without one gift divine ; 
 Give it, my child, thy Heart to 
 
 me, 
 And it shall rest in mine ! " 
 
 In awe she listened, and the 
 
 shade 
 
 Passed from her soul away ; 
 In low and trembling voice she 
 
 cried, 
 
 " Lord, help me to obey ! 
 Break Thou the chains of earth, 
 
 O Lord, 
 
 That bind and hold my heart ; 
 Let it be Thine, and Thine 
 
 alone, 
 Let none with Thee have part. 
 
 " Send down, O Lord, Thy sa- 
 cred fire ! 
 
 Consume and cleanse the sin 
 That lingers still within its 
 
 depths : 
 
 Let heavenly love begin. 
 That sacred flume Thy Saints 
 
 have known, 
 Kindle, O Lord, in me, 
 Thou above all the rest forever, 
 And all the rest in Thee." 
 
 The blessing fell upon her soul ; 
 Her angel by her side
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 45 
 
 Knew that the hour of peace was 
 
 come; 
 
 Her soul was purified : 
 The shadows fell from roof and 
 
 arch, 
 
 Dim was the incensed air, 
 But Peace went with her as she 
 
 left 
 The sacred Presence there ! 
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 A LITTLE past the village 
 
 The Inn stood, low and white ; 
 Green shady trees behind it, 
 
 And an orchard on the right ; 
 Where over the green paling 
 
 The red-cheeked apples hung, 
 As if to watch how wearily 
 
 The sign-board creaked and 
 swung. 
 
 The heavy-laden branches, 
 
 Over the road hung low, 
 Reflected fruit or blossom 
 
 From the wayside well below ; 
 Where children, drawing water, 
 
 Looked up and paused to see, 
 Amid the apple-branches, 
 
 A purple Judas-Tree. 
 
 The road stretched winding on- 
 ward 
 
 For many a weary mile, 
 So dusty, foot-sore wanderers 
 
 Would pause and rest awhile ; 
 And panting horses halted, 
 
 And travellers loved to tell 
 
 The quiet of the wayside inn, 
 The orchard, and the well. 
 
 Here Maurice dwelt ; and often 
 
 The sunburnt boy would stand 
 Gazing upon the distance, 
 
 And shading with his hand 
 His eyes, while watching vainly 
 
 For travellers, who might need 
 His aid to loose the bridle, 
 
 And tend the weary steed. 
 
 And once (the boy remembered 
 
 That morning many a day, 
 The dew lay on the hawthorn, 
 
 The bird sang on the spray) 
 A train of horsemen, nobler 
 
 Than he had seen before, 
 Up from the distance galloped, 
 
 And halted at the door. 
 
 Upon a milk-white pony, 
 
 Fit for a faery queen, 
 Was the loveliest little damsel 
 
 His eyes had ever seen : 
 A serving-man was holding 
 
 The leading rein, to guide 
 The pony and its mistress, 
 
 Who cantered by his side. 
 
 Her sunny ringlets round her 
 
 A golden cloud had made, 
 While her large hat was keeping 
 
 Her calm blue eyes in shade ; 
 One hand held fast the silken 
 reins 
 
 To keep her steed in check, 
 The other pulled his tangled 
 mane, 
 
 Or stroked his glossy neck.
 
 46 
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 And as the boy brought water, 
 
 And loosed the rein, he heard 
 The sweetest voice that thanked 
 him 
 
 In one low gentle word ; 
 She turned her blue eyes from 
 him, 
 
 Looked up, and smiled to see 
 The hanging purple blossoms 
 
 Upon the Judas-Tree ; 
 
 And showed it with a gesture, 
 Half pleading, half command, 
 
 Till he broke the fairest blossom, 
 And laid it in her hand ; 
 
 And she tied it to her saddle 
 With a ribbon from her hair, 
 
 While her happy laugh rang 
 
 Like silver on the air. 
 
 But the champing steeds were 
 rested, 
 
 The horsemen now spurred on, 
 And down the dusty highway 
 
 They vanished and were gone. 
 Years passed, and many a trav- 
 eller 
 
 Paused at the old inn-door, 
 But the little milk-white pony 
 
 And the child returned no 
 
 Years passed, the apple-branches 
 A deeper shadow shed ; 
 
 And many a time the Judas-Tree, 
 Blossom and leaf, lay dead ; 
 
 When on the loitering western 
 
 breeze 
 Came the bells' merry sound, 
 
 And flowery arches rose, and 
 
 flags 
 And banners waved around. 
 
 Maurice stood there expectant : 
 
 The bridal train would stay 
 Some moments at the inn-door, 
 
 The eager watchers say ; 
 They come, the cloud of dust 
 draws near, 
 
 'Mid all the state and pride, 
 He only sees the golden hair 
 
 And blue eyes of the bride. 
 
 The same, yet, ah, still fairer ; 
 
 He knew the face once more 
 That bent above the pony's neck 
 
 Years past at that inn-door : 
 Her shy and smiling eyes looked 
 round, 
 
 Unconscious of the place, 
 Unconscious of the eager gaze 
 
 He fixed upon her face. 
 
 He plucked a blossom from the 
 
 tree, 
 
 The Judas-Tree, and cast 
 Its purple fragrance towards the 
 
 Bride, 
 
 A message from the Past. 
 The signal came, the horses 
 
 plunged, 
 
 Once more she smiled around : 
 
 The purple blossom in the dust 
 
 Lay trampled on the ground. 
 
 Again the slow years fleeted, 
 Their passage only known 
 
 By the height the Passion-flower 
 Around the porch had grown;
 
 THE WAYSIDE INN. 
 
 47 
 
 And many a passing traveller 
 Paused at the old inn-door, 
 
 But the bride, so fair and bloom- 
 ing. 
 The bride returned no more. 
 
 One winter morning, Maurice, 
 
 Watching the branches bare, 
 Rustling and waving dimly 
 
 In the gray and misty air, 
 Saw blazoned on a carriage 
 
 Once more the well-known 
 
 shield, 
 The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis 
 
 Upon a silver field. 
 
 He looked was that pale wo- 
 man, 
 
 So grave, so worn, so sad, 
 The child, once youngand smiling, 
 
 The bride, once fair and glad ? 
 What grief had dimmed that 
 glory, 
 
 And brought that dark eclipse 
 Upon her blue eyes' radiance, 
 
 And paled those trembling lips ? 
 
 What memory of past sorrow, 
 
 What stab of present pain, 
 Brought that deep look of an- 
 guish, 
 
 That watched the dismal rain, 
 That watched (with the absent 
 spirit 
 
 That looks, yet does not see) 
 The dead and leafless branches 
 
 Upon the Judas-Tree ? 
 
 The slow dark months crept on- 
 ward 
 Upon their icy way, 
 
 Till April broke in showers, 
 And Spring smiled forth in 
 May ; 
 
 Upon the apple-blossoms 
 The sun shone bright again, 
 
 When slowly up the highway 
 Came a long funeral train. 
 
 The bells tolled slowly, sadly, 
 
 For a noble spirit fled ; 
 Slowly, in pomp and honor, 
 
 They bore the quiet dead. 
 Upon a black-plumed charger 
 
 One rode, who held a shield, 
 Where stars and azure fleurs-de- 
 lis 
 
 Shone on a silver field. 
 
 'Mid all that homage given 
 
 To a fluttering heart at rest, 
 Perhaps an honest sorrow 
 
 Dwelt only in one breast. 
 One by the inn-door standing 
 
 Watched with fast - dropping 
 
 tears 
 The long procession passing, 
 
 And thought of bygone years. 
 
 The boyish, silent homage 
 
 To child and bride unknown, 
 The pitying, tender sorrow 
 
 Kept in his heart alone, 
 Now laid upon the coffin 
 
 With a purple flower, might 
 
 be 
 
 Told to the cold, dead sleep 
 er; 
 
 The rest could only see 
 A fragrant purple blossom. 
 
 Plucked from a Judas-Tree^
 
 43 
 
 THE DARK SIDE. 
 
 VOICES OF THE PAST. 
 
 You wonder that my tears should 
 
 flow 
 In listening to that simple 
 
 strain ; 
 That those unskilful sounds 
 
 should fill 
 
 My soul with joy and pain : 
 How can you tell what thoughts 
 
 it stirs 
 Within my heart again ? ( 
 
 You wonder why that common 
 
 phrase, 
 
 So all unmeaning to your ear, 
 Should stay me in my merriest 
 
 mood, 
 
 And thrill my soul to hear : 
 How can you tell what ancient 
 
 charm 
 Has made me hold it dear ? 
 
 You marvel that I turn away 
 From all those flowers so fair 
 
 and bright, 
 And gaze at this poor herb, till 
 
 tears 
 
 Arise and dim my sight : 
 
 You cannot tell how every leaf 
 
 Breathes of a past delight. 
 
 You smile to see me turn and 
 
 speak 
 With one whose converse you 
 
 despise ; 
 You do not see the dreams of old 
 
 That with his voice arise : 
 How can you tell what links have 
 
 made 
 Him sacred in my eyes ? 
 
 O, these are Voices of the Past, 
 Links of a broken chain, 
 
 Wings that can bear me back to 
 
 Times 
 Which cannot come again ; 
 
 Yet God forbid that I should lo^e 
 The echoes that remain ! 
 
 THE DARK SIDE. 
 
 THOU hast done well, perhaps, 
 
 To lift the bright disguise, 
 And lay the bitter truth 
 
 Before our shrinking eyes ; 
 When evil crawls below 
 
 What seems so pure and fair, 
 Thine eyes are keen and true 
 
 To find the serpent there : 
 And yet I turn away ; 
 
 Thy task is not divine, 
 The evil angels look 
 
 On earth with eyes like thine. 
 
 Thou hast done well, perhaps, 
 
 To show how closely wound 
 Dark threads of sin and self 
 
 With our best deeds are found, 
 How great and noble hearts, 
 
 Striving for lofty aims, 
 Have still some earthly chord 
 
 A meaner spirit claims ; 
 And yet although thy task 
 
 Is well and fairly done 
 Methinks for such as thou 
 
 There is a holier one. 
 
 Shadows there are, who dwell 
 Among us, yet apart,
 
 MURMURS. 
 
 49 
 
 Deaf to the claim of God, 
 
 Or kiudly human heart ; 
 Voices of earth and heaven 
 
 Call, but they turn away, 
 And Love, through such black 
 night 
 
 Can see no hope of day ; 
 And yet our eyes are dim, 
 
 And thine are keener far : 
 Then gaze till thou canst see 
 
 The glimmer of some star. 
 
 The black stream flows along 
 
 Whose waters we despise, 
 Show us reflected there 
 
 Some fragment of the skies ; 
 'Neath tangled thorns and briers, 
 
 (The task is fit for thee,) 
 Seek for the hidden flowers, 
 
 We are too blind to see ; 
 Then will I thy great gift 
 
 A crown and blessing call ; 
 Angels look thus on men, 
 
 And God sees good in all ! 
 
 A FIRST SORROW. 
 
 ARISE ! this day shall shine, 
 
 Forevermore, 
 To thee a star divine, 
 
 On Time's dark shore. 
 
 Till now thy soul has been 
 
 All glad and gay : 
 Bid it awake and look 
 
 At grief to-day ! 
 
 No shade has come between 
 Thee and the sun ; 
 
 . Like some long childish dream 
 Thy life has run : 
 
 But now the stream has reached 
 
 A dark, deep sea, 
 And Sorrow, dim and crowned, 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 
 Each of God's soldiers bears 
 
 A sword divine : 
 Stretch out thy trembling hands 
 
 To-day for thine ! 
 
 To each anointed Priest 
 God's summons came : 
 
 Soul, he speaks to-day, 
 And calls thy name. 
 
 Then, with slow reverent step, 
 
 And beating heart, 
 From out thy joyous days 
 
 Thou must depart. 
 
 And, leaving all behind, 
 
 Come forth alone, 
 To join the chosen band 
 
 Around the throne. 
 
 Raise up thine eyes be strong, 
 
 Nor cast away 
 The crown that God has given 
 
 Thy soul to-day ! 
 
 MURMURS. 
 
 WHY wilt thon make bright 
 music 
 
 Give forth a sound of pain ? 
 Why wilt thou weave fair flowers 
 
 Into a weary chain ?
 
 60 
 
 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 Why turn each cool gray shadow 
 
 Into a world of fears ? 
 Why say the winds are wailing ? 
 
 Why call the dew-drops tears ? 
 
 The voices of happy nature, 
 And the Heaven's sunny 
 gleam, 
 
 Reprove thy sick heart's fancies, 
 Upbraid thy foolish dream. 
 
 Listen, and I will tell thee 
 
 The song Creation sings, 
 From the humming of bees in 
 
 the heather, 
 To the flutter of angels' wings. 
 
 An echo rings forever, 
 
 The sound can never cease ; 
 
 It speaks to God of glory, 
 It speaks to Earth of peace. 
 
 Not alone did angels sing it 
 To the poor shepherds' ear ; 
 
 But the sphered Heavens chant it, 
 While listening ages hear. 
 
 Above thy peevish wailing 
 
 Rises tliat holy song ; 
 Above Earth's foolish clamor, 
 
 Above the voice of wrong. 
 
 No creature of God 's too lowly 
 To murmur peace and praise : 
 
 When the starry nights grow 
 
 silent, 
 Then speak the sunny days. 
 
 So leave thy sick heart's fancies, 
 And lend thy little voice 
 
 To the silver song of glory 
 That bids the world rejoice. 
 
 GIVE. 
 
 SEE the rivers flowing 
 
 Downwards to the sea, 
 Pouring all their treasures 
 
 Bountiful and free : 
 Yet to help their giving 
 
 Hidden springs arise ; 
 Or, if need be, showers 
 
 Feed them from the skies \ 
 
 Watch the princely flowers 
 
 Their rich fragrance spread, 
 Load the air with perfumes, 
 
 From their beauty shed : 
 Yet their lavish spending 
 
 Leaves them not in dearth, 
 With fresh life replenished 
 
 By their mother earth ! 
 
 Give thy heart's best treasures, - 
 
 From fair Nature learn ; 
 Give thy love and ask not, 
 
 Wait not a return ! 
 And the more thou spendest 
 
 From thy little store, 
 With a double bounty. 
 
 God will give thce more. 
 
 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 IT is a dreary evening ; 
 
 The shadows rise and fall : 
 With strange and ghostly 
 changes, 
 
 They flicker on the wall. 
 
 Make the charred logs burn 
 
 brighter ; 
 I will show you, by their blaze,
 
 MY JOURNAL. 
 
 51 
 
 The half-forgotten record 
 Of bygone things and days. 
 
 Bring here the ancient volume ; 
 
 The clasp is old and worn, 
 The gold is dim and tarnished, 
 
 And the faded leaves are torn. 
 
 The dust has gathered on it, 
 There are so few who care 
 
 To read what Time has written 
 Of joy and sorrow there. 
 
 Look at the first fair pages ; 
 
 Yes, I remember all : 
 The joys now seem so trivial, 
 
 The griefs so poor and small. 
 
 Let us read the dreams of glory 
 That childish fancy made ; 
 
 Turn to the next few pages, 
 And see how soon they fade. 
 
 Here, where still waiting, dream- 
 ing, 
 
 For some ideal Life, 
 The young heart all unconscious 
 
 Had entered on the strife. 
 
 Sec how this page is blotted : 
 What, could those tears be 
 
 mine? 
 
 How coolly I can read you 
 Each blurred and trembling 
 line ! 
 
 Now I can reason calmly, 
 And, looking back again, 
 
 Can see divinest meaning 
 
 Threading each separate pain. 
 
 Here strong resolve how bro- 
 ken ; 
 
 Rash hope, and foolish fear, 
 And prayers, which God in pity 
 
 Refused to grant or hear. 
 
 Nay, I will turn the pages 
 To where the tale is told 
 
 Of how a dawn diviner 
 
 Flushed the dark clouds with 
 gold. 
 
 And see, that light has gilded 
 The story, nor shall set ; 
 
 And, though in mist and shadow, 
 You know I see it yet. 
 
 Here well, it does not matter, 
 I promised to read all ; 
 
 I know not why I falter, 
 
 Or why my tears should fall ; 
 
 You see each grief is noted ; 
 
 Yet it was better so 
 I can rejoice to-day the pain 
 
 Was over, long ago. 
 
 I read my voice is failing, 
 But you can understand 
 
 How the heart beat that guided 
 This weak and trembling hand. 
 
 Pass over that long struggle, 
 Read where the comfort came, 
 
 Where the first time is written 
 Within the book your name. 
 
 Again it comes, and oftener, 
 Linked, as it now must be, 
 
 With all the joy or sorrow 
 That Life may bring to me.
 
 52 
 
 A CHAIN. 
 
 So all the rest you know it : 
 Now shut the clasp again, 
 
 And put aside the record 
 Of bygone hours of pain. 
 
 The dust shall gather on it, 
 I will not read it more : 
 
 Give me your hand what was 
 
 it 
 We were talking of before ? 
 
 I know not why but tell me 
 Of something gay and bright. 
 
 It is strange my heart is h'cavy, 
 And my eyes are dim to-night. 
 
 A CHAIN. 
 
 THE bond that links our souls 
 
 together ; 
 Will it last through stormy 
 
 weather ? 
 
 Will it moulder and decay 
 As the long hours pass away ? 
 Will it stretch if Fate divide us, 
 When dark and weary hours 
 
 have tried us ? 
 
 0. if it look too poor and slight, 
 Let us break the links to-night ! 
 
 It was not forged by mortal 
 
 hands, 
 Or clasped with golden bars and 
 
 bands ; 
 Save thine and mine, no other 
 
 eyes 
 
 The slender link can recognize : 
 In the bright light it seems to 
 
 fade 
 
 And it is hidden in the shade ; 
 While Heaven nor Earth have 
 
 never heard, 
 Or solemn vow, or plighted word. 
 
 Yet what no mortal hand could 
 
 make, 
 
 No mortal power can ever break ; 
 What words or vows could never 
 
 do, 
 
 No words or vows can make un- 
 true; 
 
 And if to other hearts unknown 
 The dearer and the more our own, 
 Because too sacred and divine 
 For other eyes, save thine and 
 mine. 
 
 And see, though slender, it is 
 
 made 
 Of Love and Trust, and can they 
 
 fade? 
 While, if too slight it seem, to 
 
 bear 
 The breathings of the summer 
 
 air, 
 We know that it could bear the 
 
 weight 
 
 Of a most heavy heart of late, 
 And as each day and hour flew 
 The stronger for its burden grew. 
 
 And, too, we know and feel again 
 It has been sanctified by pain, 
 For what God deigns to try with 
 
 sorrow 
 
 He means not to decay to-mor- 
 row ; 
 
 But through that fiery trial last 
 When earthly ties and bonds arc 
 past;
 
 IN C OMPLETENESS. 
 
 53 
 
 What slighter things dare not 
 
 endure 
 Will make our Love more safe 
 
 and pure. 
 
 Love shall be purified by Pain, 
 And Pain be soothed by Love 
 
 again : 
 
 So let us now take heart and go 
 Cheerfully on, through joy and 
 
 woe; 
 No change the summer sun can 
 
 bring, 
 
 Or the inconstant skies of spring, 
 Or the bleak winter's stormy 
 
 weather, 
 For we shall meet them, Love, 
 
 together ! 
 
 THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 THE way is long and dreary, 
 The path is bleak and bare ; 
 Our feet are worn and weary, 
 But we will not despair. 
 More heavy was Thy burden, 
 More desolate Thy way ; 
 Lamb of God who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Have mercy on us. 
 
 The snows lie thick around us 
 In the dark and gloomy night ; 
 And the tempest wails above us, 
 And the stars have hid their 
 
 light ; 
 
 But blacker was the darkness 
 Hound Calvary's Cross that 
 
 day ; 
 
 O Lamb of God who takest 
 
 The sin of the world away, 
 
 Have mercy on us. 
 
 Our hearts are faint with sorrow, 
 Heavy and hard to bear ; 
 For we dread the bitter morrow, 
 But we will not despair : 
 Thou knowest all our anguish, 
 And Thou wilt bid it cease, 
 O Lamb of God who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Give us Thy Peace ! 
 
 INCOMPLETENESS. 
 
 NOTHING resting in its own 
 
 completeness 
 Can have worth or beauty : but 
 
 alone 
 Because it leads and tends to 
 
 further sweetness, 
 Fuller, higher, deeper than its 
 
 own. 
 
 Spring's real glory dwells not 
 in the meaning, 
 
 Gracious though it be, of her 
 blue hours ; 
 
 But is hidden in her tender lean- 
 ing 
 
 To the Summer's richer wealth 
 of flowers. 
 
 Dawn is fair, because the mists 
 
 fade slowly 
 Into Day, which floods the world 
 
 with light ;
 
 54 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 Twilight's mystery is so sweet 
 
 and holy 
 Just because it ends in starry 
 
 Night. 
 
 Childhood's smiles unconscious 
 graces borrow 
 
 From Strife, that in a far-off fu- 
 ture lies ; 
 
 And angel glances (veiled now 
 by Life's sorrow) 
 
 Draw our hearts to some belove'd 
 eyes. 
 
 Life is only bright when it pro- 
 
 ceedeth 
 Towards a truer, deeper Life 
 
 above; 
 Human Love is sweetest when it 
 
 leadeth 
 To a more divine and perfect 
 
 Love. 
 
 Learn the mystery of Progression 
 
 duly : 
 Do not call each glorious change, 
 
 Decay ; 
 But know we only hold our 
 
 treasures truly, 
 When it seems as if they passed 
 
 away. 
 
 Nor dare to blame God's gifts 
 
 for incompleteness ; 
 In that want their beauty lies: 
 
 they roll 
 Towards some infinite depth of 
 
 love and sweetness, 
 Bearing onward man's reluctant 
 
 soul. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 GIRT round with rugged moun- 
 tains 
 
 The fair Lake Constance lies ; 
 In her blue heart reflected 
 
 Shine back the starry skies ; 
 And, watching each white cloud 
 let 
 
 Float silently and slow, 
 You think a piece of Heaven 
 
 Lies on our earth below ! 
 
 Midnight is there : and Silence, 
 
 Enthroned in Heaven, looks 
 
 down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, 
 
 Upon a sleeping town : 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city 
 
 Upon the Tyrol shore, 
 Has stood above Lake Constance 
 
 A thousand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers, 
 
 From off" their rocky steep, 
 Have cast their trembling shadow 
 
 For ages on the deep : 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, 
 
 A sacred legend know, 
 Of how the town was saved, one 
 night, 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred. 
 
 A Tyrol maid had fled, 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, 
 
 And toil for daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted 
 
 So silently and fast, 
 Seemed to bear farther from he* 
 
 The memory of the Pa*t.
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 55 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters, 
 
 Nor asked for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new 
 ones, 
 
 Their speech seemed no more 
 
 strange ; 
 And when she led her cattle 
 
 To pasture every day, 
 She ceased to look and wonder 
 
 On which side Bregenz lay. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, 
 
 With longing and with tears ; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
 
 In a deep mist of years ; 
 She heeded not the rumors 
 
 Of Austrian war and strife ; 
 Each day she rose, contented, 
 
 To the calm toils of life. 
 
 Yet, when her master's children 
 
 Would clustering round her 
 
 stand, 
 She sang them ancient ballads 
 
 Of her own native land ; 
 And when at morn and evening 
 
 She knelt before God's throne, 
 The accents of her childhood 
 
 Rose to her lips alone. 
 
 And so she dwelt : the valley 
 
 More peaceful year by year ; 
 When suddenly strange portents 
 
 Of some great deed seemed 
 
 near. 
 The golden corn was bending 
 
 Upon its fragile stock, 
 While farmers, heedless of their 
 fields, 
 
 Paced Up aud i>-'*wn in talk. 
 
 The men seemed stern and al- 
 tered, 
 
 With looks cast on the ground; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, 
 
 The women gathered round ; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, 
 
 Or work, was put away ; 
 The very children seemed afraid 
 
 To go alone to play. 
 
 One day, out in the meadow 
 
 With strangers from the town, 
 Some secret plan discussing, 
 
 The men walked up and down. 
 Yet now and then seemed watch- 
 ing 
 
 A strange uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the 
 trees, 
 
 That stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled, 
 
 Then care and doubt were fled ; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted ; 
 
 The board was nobly spread. 
 The elder of the village 
 
 Rose up, his glass in hand, 
 And cried, " We drink the down- 
 fall 
 
 Of an accursed land i 
 
 " The night is growing darker, 
 
 Ere one more day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foemen's strong- 
 " hold, 
 
 Bregenz shall be our own ! " 
 The women shrank in terror, 
 
 (Yet Pride, too, had her part,) 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden 
 
 Felt death within her heart.
 
 56 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 Before her stood fair Bregenz ; 
 
 Once more her towers arose ; 
 What were the friends beside her ? 
 
 Only her country's foes! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk, 
 
 The days of childhood flown, 
 The echoes of her mountains, 
 
 Reclaimed her as their own ! 
 
 Nothing she heard around her, 
 (Though shouts rang forth 
 
 again,) 
 
 Gone were the green Swiss val- 
 leys, 
 
 The pasture, and the plain ; 
 Before her eyes one vision, 
 
 And in her heart one cry, 
 That said, " Go forth, save Bre- 
 genz, 
 And then, if need be, die ! " 
 
 With trembling haste and breath- 
 less, 
 
 With noiseless step, she sped ; 
 Horses and weary cattle 
 
 Were standing in the shed ; 
 She loosed the strong, white 
 
 charger, 
 
 That fed from out her hand, 
 She mounted, and she turned 
 
 his head 
 Towards her native land. 
 
 Out out into the darkness 
 
 Faster, and still more fast ; 
 Thesmooth grassflies behind her, 
 
 The chestnut wood is past ; 
 She looks nj) ; clouds arc heavy : 
 
 Why is her steed so slow ? 
 Scarcely the wind beside them 
 
 Can pass them as they go. 
 
 " Faster ! " she cries, " fast- 
 er!" 
 
 Eleven the church-bells chime: 
 "O God," she cries, help Bre- 
 genz, 
 
 And bring me there in time ! " 
 But louder than bells' ringing, 
 
 Or lowing of the kine, 
 Grows nearer in the midnight 
 
 The rushing of the Rhine. 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters 
 
 Their headlong gallop check 1 
 The steed draws back in terror, 
 
 She leans upon his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness ; 
 
 The bank is high and steep; 
 One pause he staggers for- 
 ward, 
 
 And plunges in the deep. 
 
 She strives to pierce the blacknes^ 
 
 And looser throws the rein ; 
 Her steed must breast the waters 
 
 That dash above his mane. 
 How gallantly, how nobly, 
 
 He struggles through the foam. 
 And see in the far distance 
 
 Shine out the lights of home ! 
 
 Up the steep banks he bears her, 
 
 And now, they rush airain 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz 
 
 That tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz, 
 
 Just as the midnight rings, 
 And out comes serf and soldier 
 
 To meet the i>ews she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight 
 Her battlements are maimed;
 
 SOWING AND REAPING. 
 
 57 
 
 Defiance greets the army 
 That marches on the land. 
 
 And if to deeds heroic 
 
 Should endless fame be paid, 
 
 Bregenz does well to honor 
 The noble Tyrol maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are van- 
 ished, 
 
 And yet upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises, 
 
 To do her honor still. 
 And 'there, when Bregenz women 
 
 Sit spinning in the shade, 
 They see in quaint old carving 
 
 The Charger and the Maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, 
 
 By gateway, street, and tower, 
 The warder paces all night long 
 
 And calls each passing hour ; 
 "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he 
 cries aloud, 
 
 And then (O crown of Fame !) 
 When midnight pauses in the 
 skies, 
 
 He calls the maiden's name ! 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 FAREWELL, O dream of mine ! 
 
 I dare not stay ; 
 The hour is come, and time 
 
 Will not delay : 
 Pleasant and dear to me 
 
 Wilt thou remain ; 
 No future hour 
 
 Brings thee again. 
 
 She stands, the Future dim, 
 
 And draws me on, 
 And shows me dearer joys, 
 
 But thou art gone ! 
 Treasures and Hopes more fair 
 
 Bears she for me, 
 And yet I linger, 
 
 O dream, with thee ! 
 
 Other and brighter days 
 
 Perhaps she brings ; 
 Deeper and holier songs 
 
 Perchance she sings ; 
 But thou and I, fair time, 
 
 We too must sever : 
 O dream of mine, 
 
 Farewell forever ! 
 
 SOWING AND REAPING. 
 
 Sow with a generous hand ; 
 Pause not for toil or pain.; 
 Weary not through the heat of 
 
 summer, 
 Weary not through the cold 
 
 spring rain ; 
 
 But wait till the autumn comes 
 For the sheaves of golden 
 grain. 
 
 Scatter the seed, and fear not, 
 A table will be spread ; 
 
 What matter if you are too weaiy 
 To eat your hard - earned 
 bread ! 
 
 Sow, while the earth is broken, 
 For the hungry must be fed.
 
 58 
 
 THE. STORM. 
 
 Sow; while the seeds are lying 
 In the warm earth's bosom 
 
 deep, 
 And your warm tears fall upon 
 
 it, 
 They will stir in their quiet 
 
 sleep ; 
 And the green blades rise the 
 
 quicker, 
 
 Perchance, for the tears you 
 weep. 
 
 Then sow ; for the hours are 
 
 fleeting, 
 
 And the seed must fall to-day ; 
 And care not what hands shall 
 
 reap it, 
 Or if you shall have passed 
 
 away 
 
 Before the waving cornfields 
 Shall gladden the sunny day. 
 
 Sow ; and look onward, upward, 
 Where the starry light ap- 
 pears, 
 Where, in spite of the coward's 
 
 doubting, 
 Or your own heart's trembling 
 
 fears, 
 
 You shall reap in joy the harvest 
 You have sown to-day in tears. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 THE tempest rages wild and 
 
 high, 
 The waves lift up their voice and 
 
 cry 
 
 Fierce answers to the angry 
 sky, 
 
 Miserere Dvmine. 
 
 Through the black night and 
 
 driving rain 
 A ship is struggling, all in 
 
 vain, 
 
 To live upon the stormy main ; 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The thunders roar, the light- 
 nings glare, 
 
 Vain is it now to strive or dare ; 
 A cry goes up of great despair, 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The stormy voices of the main, 
 The moaning wind and pelting 
 
 rain 
 Beat on the nursery window 
 
 pane : 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Warm curtained was the littlo 
 
 bed, 
 Soft pillowed was the little 
 
 iiead ; 
 " The storm will wake the child," 
 
 they said : 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Cowering among his pillow. 1 
 white 
 
 He prays, his blue eyes dim with 
 fright, 
 
 " Father, save those at sea to- 
 night! " 
 
 Miserere Domine.
 
 WORDS. 
 
 The morning shone all clear and 
 
 gay, 
 
 On a ship at anchor in the bay, 
 
 And on a little child at play, 
 
 Gloria tibi Domine ! 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 WORDS are lighter than the 
 
 cloud-foam 
 
 Of the restless ocean spray ; 
 Vainer than the trembling shad- 
 ow 
 That the next hour steals 
 
 away. 
 By the fall of summer rain-drops 
 
 Is the air as deeply stirred ; 
 And the rose-leaf that we tread 
 
 on 
 Will outlive &, word. 
 
 Yet, on the dull silence breaking 
 With alightning flash, a Word, 
 Bearing endless desolation 
 On its blighting wings, I 
 
 heard : 
 Earth can forge no keener 
 
 weapon, 
 
 Dealing surer death and pain, 
 And the cruel echo answered 
 Through long years again. 
 
 I have known one word hang 
 
 starlike 
 
 O'er a dreary waste of years, 
 And it only shone the brighter 
 Looked at through a mist of 
 tears; 
 
 While a weary wanderer gath- 
 ered 
 Hope and heart on Life's dark 
 
 way, 
 
 By its faithful promise, shining 
 Clearer day by day. 
 
 I have known a spirit, calmer 
 Than the calmest lake, an^ 
 
 clear 
 As the heavens that gazed upon 
 
 it, 
 
 With no wave of hope or fear; 
 But a storm had swept across 
 
 it, 
 And its deepest depths were 
 
 stirred, 
 
 (Never, never more to slumber,) 
 Only by a word. 
 
 I have known a word more gentle 
 Than the breath of summer 
 
 air; 
 In a listening heart it nestled, 
 
 And it lived forever there. 
 Not the beating of its prison 
 
 Stirred it ever, night or day ; 
 Only with the heart's last throb- 
 bing 
 Could it fade away. 
 
 Words are mighty, words art 
 
 living : 
 Serpents with their venomous 
 
 stings, 
 Or bright angels, crowding round 
 
 us, 
 With heaven's light upon their 
 
 wings : 
 Every word has its own spirit,
 
 60 
 
 A TRYST WITH DEATH. 
 
 True or false, that never dies ; 
 Every word man's lips have ut- 
 tered 
 Echoes in God's skies. 
 
 A LOVE TOKEN. 
 
 Do you grieve no costly offer- 
 ing 
 
 To the Lady you can make ? 
 One there is, and gifts less worthy 
 
 Queens have stooped to take. 
 
 Take a Heart of virgin silver, 
 Fashion it with heavy blows, 
 
 Cast it into Love's hot furnace 
 When it fiercest glows. 
 
 With Pain's sharpest point trans- 
 fix it, 
 
 And then carve, in letters fair, 
 Tender dreams and quaint de- 
 vices. 
 Fancies sweet and rare. 
 
 Set within it Hope's blue sap- 
 phire, 
 
 Many-changing opal fears, 
 Blood-red ruby-stones of daring, 
 
 Mixed with pearly tears. 
 
 And when you have wrought and 
 
 labored 
 
 Till the gift is all complete, 
 You may humbly lay your offer- 
 ing 
 At the Lady's feet. 
 
 Should her mood perchance ba 
 gracious, 
 
 With disdainful, smiling pride, 
 She will place it with the trinkets 
 
 Glittering at her side. 
 
 A TRYST WITH DEATH. 
 
 I AM footsore and very weary, 
 But I travel to meet a Friend: 
 
 The way is long and dreary, 
 But I know that it soon must 
 end. 
 
 He is travelling fast like the 
 whirlwind, 
 
 And though I creep slowly on 
 We are drawing nearer, nearer, 
 
 And the journey is almost done 
 
 Through the heat of many sum 
 
 mers, 
 Through many a springtime 
 
 rain, 
 Through long autumns and weary 
 
 winters, 
 
 I have hoped to meet him, in 
 vain. 
 
 I know that he will not fail me, 
 So I count every hour chime, 
 
 Every throb of my own heart' 
 
 beating, 
 That tells of the flight of Time. 
 
 On the day of my birth he 
 
 plighted 
 His kingly word to me :
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 61 
 
 f have seen him in dreams so often, 
 That I know what his smile 
 must be. 
 
 have toiled through the sunny 
 
 woodland, 
 Through fields that basked in 
 
 the light; 
 And through the lone paths in 
 
 the forest 
 I crept in the dead of night. 
 
 I will not fear at his coming, 
 Although I must meet him 
 alone ; 
 
 He will look in my eyes so gently, 
 And take my hand in his own. 
 
 Like a dream all my toil will 
 
 vanish, 
 When I lay my head on his 
 
 breast : 
 
 But the journey is very weary, 
 And he only can give me rest ! 
 
 FIDELIS. 
 
 You have taken back the promise 
 
 That you spoke so long ago ; 
 Taken back the heart you gave 
 me, 
 
 I must even let it go. 
 Where Love once has breathed, 
 Pride dieth : 
 
 So I struggled, but in vain, 
 First to keep the links together, 
 
 Then to piece the broken chain. 
 
 But it might not be so freely 
 
 All your friendship I restore, 
 And the heart that I had taken 
 
 As my own forevermore. 
 No shade of reproach shall touch 
 you, 
 
 Dread no more a claim from 
 
 me: 
 But I will not have you fancy 
 
 That I count myself as free. 
 
 I am bound by the old promise ; 
 What can break that golden 
 
 chain? 
 Not even the words that you have 
 
 spoken, 
 
 Or the sharpness of my pain : 
 Do you think, because you fail 
 
 me 
 And draw back your hand to. 
 
 day, 
 That from out the heart I gave 
 
 you 
 My strong love can fade away ? 
 
 It will live. No eyes may see it ; 
 
 In my soul it will lie deep, 
 Hidden from all ; but I shall feel 
 it 
 
 Often stirring in its sleep. 
 So remember, that the friendship, 
 
 Which you now think poor 
 
 and vain, 
 Will endure in hope and patience, 
 
 Till you ask for it again. 
 
 Perhaps in some long twilight 
 
 hour, 
 
 Like those we have known of 
 old,
 
 62 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 When past shadows gather round 
 
 you, 
 And your present friends grow 
 
 cold, 
 You may stretch your hands out 
 
 towards me, 
 Ah ! you will I know not 
 
 when 
 
 I shall nurse my love and keep it 
 Faithfully, for you, till then. 
 
 A SHADOW. 
 
 WHAT lack the valleys and 
 
 mountains 
 
 That once were green and gay ? 
 What lack the babbling foun- 
 tains? 
 
 Their voice is sad to-day. 
 Only the sound of a voice, 
 Tender and sweet and low, 
 That made the earth rejoice, 
 A year ago ! 
 
 What lack the tender flowers ? 
 
 A shadow is on the sun : 
 What lack the merry hours, 
 That I long that they were 
 
 done ? 
 
 Only two smiling eyes, 
 That told of joy and mirth ; 
 They are shining in the skies, 
 I mourn on earth ! 
 
 What lacks my heart, that makes 
 it 
 
 So weary and full of pain, 
 That trembling Hope forsakes it, 
 
 Never to come again ? 
 
 Only another heart, 
 Tender and all mine own, 
 In the still grave it lies ; 
 I weep alone ! 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 MY Life you ask of? why, yoi 
 
 know 
 
 Full soon my little Life is told ; 
 It has had no great joy or woe, 
 For I am only twelve years old. 
 Erelong I hope I shall have been 
 On my first voyage, and wonder ' 
 
 seen. 
 
 Some princess I may help to frea 
 From pirates on a far-off sea ; 
 Or, on some desert isle be left, 
 Of friends and shipmates all bereft 
 
 For the first time I venture 
 
 forth 
 From our blue mountains of thr 
 
 north. 
 My kinsman kept the lodge that 
 
 stood 
 Guarding the entrance near the 
 
 wood, 
 By the stone gateway gray and 
 
 old, 
 
 With quaint devices carved about, 
 And broken shields ; while drag- 
 ons bold 
 Glared on the common worlJ 
 
 without : 
 
 And the long trembling ivy sprar 
 Half hid the centuries' decay. 
 In solitude and silence grand
 
 THE BAILOR BOY. 
 
 The castle towered above the 
 
 land : 
 The castle of the Earl, whose 
 
 name 
 (Wrapped in old bloody legends) 
 
 came 
 Down through the times when 
 
 Truth and Right 
 Bent down to arme'd Pride and 
 
 Might. 
 He owned the country far and 
 
 near ; 
 And, for some weeks in every 
 
 year, 
 (When the brown leaves were 
 
 falling fast 
 And the long, lingering autumn 
 
 past,) 
 He would come down to hunt 
 
 the deer, 
 
 With hound and horse in splen- 
 did pride. 
 
 The story lasts the live-long year, 
 The peasant's winter evening 
 
 fills, 
 
 When he is gone and they abide 
 In the lone quiet of their hills. 
 
 I longed, too, for the happy 
 
 night, 
 When, all with torches flaring 
 
 bright, 
 The crowding villagers would 
 
 stand, 
 
 A patient, eager, waiting band, 
 Until the signal ran like flame, 
 " They come ! " and, slackening 
 
 speed, they came. 
 Outriders first, in pomp and 
 
 state, 
 
 Pranced on their horses through 
 
 the gate ; 
 Then the four steeds as black a* 
 
 night, 
 All decked with trappings blue 
 
 and white, 
 Drew through the crowd that 
 
 opened wide, 
 The Earl and Countess side by 
 
 side. 
 The stern grave Earl, with for 
 
 mal smile 
 And glistening eyes and stately 
 
 pride, 
 
 Could ne'er my childish gaze be- 
 guile 
 From the fair presence by his 
 
 side. 
 The lady's soft sad glance, her 
 
 eyes, 
 
 (Like stars that shone in sum- 
 mer skies,) 
 
 Her pure white face so calmly bent, 
 With gentle greetings round her 
 
 sent ; 
 Her look, that always seemed to 
 
 gaze 
 Where the blue past had closed 
 
 again 
 Over some happy shipwrecked 
 
 days, 
 With all their freight of love and 
 
 pain : 
 
 She did not even seem to see 
 The little lord upon her knee. 
 And yet he was like angel fair, 
 With rosy cheeks and golden 
 
 hair, 
 That fell on shoulders white as 
 
 snow :
 
 64 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 But the blue eyes that shone below 
 His clustering rings of auburn 
 
 curls 
 Were not his mother's, but the 
 
 Earl's. 
 
 I feared the Earl, so cold and 
 
 grim, 
 
 I never dared be seen by him. 
 When through our gate he used 
 
 to ride, 
 M/ kinsman Walter bade me 
 
 hide; 
 
 He said he was so stern. 
 So, when the hunt came past 
 
 our way, 
 
 I always hastened to obey, 
 Until I heard the bugles play 
 The notes of their return. 
 But she, my very heart-strings 
 
 stir 
 Whene'er I speak or think of 
 
 her, 
 The whole wide world could 
 
 never see 
 
 A noble lady such as she, 
 So full of angel charity. 
 
 Strange things of her our 
 
 neighbors told 
 
 In the long winter evenings cold, 
 Around the fire. They would 
 
 draw near 
 And speak half-whispering, as in 
 
 fear; 
 As if they thought the Earl 
 
 could hear 
 
 Their treason 'gainst his name. 
 They thought the story that his 
 
 pride 
 
 Had stooped to wed a low-born 
 
 bride, 
 
 A stain upon his fame. 
 Some said 'twas false; there 
 
 could not be 
 
 Such blot on his nobility : 
 But others vowed that they had 
 
 heard 
 
 The actual story word for word, 
 From one who well my larty 
 
 knew, 
 And had declared the story true. 
 
 In a far village, little known 
 She dwelt so ran the tale - 
 
 alone. 
 A widowed bride, yet, oh! fo 
 
 bright, 
 Shone through the mist of grie'^ 
 
 her charms ; 
 They said it was the loveliest 
 
 sight 
 
 She with her baby in her arms 
 The Earl, one summer morning, 
 
 rode 
 By the sea-shore where she 
 
 abode ; 
 Again he came that vision 
 
 sweet 
 
 Drew him reluctant to her feet. 
 Fierce must the struggle in his 
 
 heart 
 Have been, between his love and 
 
 pride, 
 Until he chose that wondrous 
 
 part, 
 
 To ask her to become his bride. 
 Yet, ere his noble name she bore, 
 He made her vow that nevermore 
 She would behold her child again,
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 65 
 
 But hide his name and hers from 
 
 men. 
 The trembling promise duly 
 
 spoken, 
 All links of the low past were 
 
 broken ; 
 
 And she arose to take her stand 
 Amid the nobles of the land. 
 Then all would wonder could 
 
 it be 
 
 That one so lowly born as she, 
 Raised to such height of bliss, 
 
 should seem 
 
 Still living in some weary dream ? 
 'T is true she bore with calmest 
 
 grace 
 
 The honors of her lofty place, 
 Yet never smiled, in peace or joy, 
 Not even to greet her princely 
 
 boy. 
 
 She heard, with face of white de- 
 spair, 
 The cannon thunder through the 
 
 air, 
 That she had given the Earl an 
 
 heir. 
 Nay, even more, (they whispered 
 
 low, 
 
 As if they scarce durst fancy so,) 
 That, through her lofty wedded 
 
 life, 
 No word, no tone, betrayed the 
 
 wife. 
 Her look seemed ever in the 
 
 past; 
 Never to him it grew more 
 
 sweet ; 
 The self-same weary glance she 
 
 cast 
 Upon the greyhound at her feet, 
 
 As upon him, who bade her 
 
 claim 
 The crowning honor of his name. 
 
 This gossip, if old Walter 
 
 heard, 
 He checked it with a scornful 
 
 word : 
 
 I never durst such tales repeat ; 
 He was too serious and discreet 
 To speak of what his lord might 
 
 do; 
 
 Besides, he loved my lady too. 
 And many a time, I recollect, 
 They were together in the wood ; 
 He, with an air of grave re- 
 spect, 
 And earnest look, uncovered 
 
 stood. 
 And though their speech I never 
 
 heard, 
 (Save now and then a louder 
 
 word,) 
 
 I saw he spake as none but one 
 She loved and trusted durst have 
 
 done ; 
 For oft I watched them in the 
 
 shade 
 That the close forest branches 
 
 made, 
 Till slanting golden sunbeams 
 
 came 
 And smote the fir-trees into 
 
 flame, 
 
 A radiant glory round her lit, 
 Then down her white robes 
 
 seemed to flit, 
 Gilding the brown leaves on the 
 
 ground, 
 And all the waving ferns around.
 
 66 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 While by some gloomy pine she 
 
 leant 
 And he in earnest talk would 
 
 stand, 
 
 I saw the tear-drops, as she bent, 
 Fall on the flowers in her 
 
 hand. 
 Strange as it seemed and seems 
 
 to be, 
 
 That one so sad, so cold as she, 
 Could love a little child like me, 
 Yet so it was. I never heard 
 Such tender words as she would 
 
 say, 
 And murmurs, sweeter than a 
 
 word, 
 
 Would breathe upon me as I lay. 
 While I, in smiling joy, would 
 
 rest, 
 For hours, my head upon her 
 
 breast. 
 Our neighbors said that none 
 
 could see 
 In me the common childish 
 
 charms, 
 
 (So grave and still I used to be,) 
 And yet she held me in her arms, 
 In a fond clasp, so close, so tight, 
 I often dream of it at night. 
 She bade me tell her all, no 
 
 other 
 My childish thoughts e'er cared 
 
 to know : 
 
 For I I never knew my moth- 
 er; 
 
 I was an orphan long ago. 
 And I could all my fancies pour, 
 That gentle, loving face before. 
 She liked to hear me tell her 
 
 all; 
 
 How that day I had climbed the 
 
 tree, 
 To make the largest fir-cones 
 
 fall; 
 
 And how one day I hoped to be 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea, 
 She loved to hear it all ! 
 
 Then wondrous things she 
 
 used to tell, 
 Of the strange dreams that she 
 
 had known. 
 I used to love to hear them 
 
 well, 
 
 If only for her sweet low tone, 
 Sometimes so sad, although I 
 
 knew 
 That such things never could be 
 
 true. 
 
 One day she told me such a tale 
 It made me grow all cold and pale, 
 The fearful thing she told ! 
 Of a poor woman mad and wild 
 Who coined the life-blood of her 
 
 child, 
 And, tempted by a fiend, had 
 
 sold 
 The heart out of her breast for 
 
 gold. 
 But when she saw me frightened 
 
 seem, 
 She smiled, and said it was a 
 
 dream. 
 When I look back and think of 
 
 her, 
 My very heart-strings seem to 
 
 stir ; 
 How kind, how fair she was, how 
 
 good, 
 I cannot tell you. If I could,
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 67 
 
 You, too, would love her. The 
 
 mere thought 
 Of her great love for me has 
 
 brought 
 Tears in my eyes : though far 
 
 away, 
 
 It seems as it were yesterday. 
 And just as when I look on high, 
 Through the blue silence of the 
 
 sky, 
 Fresh stars shine out, and more 
 
 and more, 
 
 Where I could see so few before ; 
 So, the more steadily I gaze 
 Upon those far-off misty days, 
 Fresh words, fresh tones, fresh 
 
 memories start 
 
 Before my eyes and in my heart. 
 I can remember how one day 
 (Talking in silly childish way) 
 I said how happy I should be 
 Jf I were like her son, as fair, 
 With just such bright blue eyes 
 
 as he, 
 And such long locks of golden 
 
 hair. 
 A strange smile on her pale face 
 
 broke, 
 And in strange, solemn words 
 
 she spoke : 
 " My own, my darling one, 
 
 no, no ! 
 
 I love you, far, far better so. 
 I would not change the look you 
 
 bear, 
 Or one wave of your dark brown 
 
 hair. 
 The mere glance of your sunny 
 
 eyes, 
 Deep in my deepest soul I prize 
 
 Above that baby fair ! 
 
 Not one of all the Earl's proud 
 
 line 
 In beauty ever matched with 
 
 thine ; 
 And, 't is by thy dark locks thou 
 
 art 
 Bound even faster round 'my 
 
 heart, 
 
 And made more wholly mine ! " 
 And then she paused, and weep- 
 ing said, 
 " You are like one who now is 
 
 dead, 
 
 Who sleeps in a far-distant grave. 
 O, may God grant that you may 
 
 be 
 
 As noble and as good as he, 
 As gentle and as brave ! " 
 Then in my childish way I cried, 
 "The one you tell me of who died, 
 Was he as noble as the Earl ? " 
 I see her red lips scornful curl, 
 I feel her hold my hand again, 
 So tightly, that I shrink in 
 
 pain, 
 
 I seem to hear her say, 
 " He whom I tell you of, who 
 
 died, 
 
 He was so noble and so gay, 
 So generous and so brave, 
 That the proud Earl by his dear 
 
 side 
 
 Would look a craven slave." 
 She paused ; then, with a quiv- 
 ering sigh, 
 She laid her hand upon my 
 
 brow : 
 ' Live like him, darling, and to 
 
 die.
 
 68 
 
 TEE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 Remember that he tells you now, 
 
 True peace, real honor, and con- 
 tent, 
 
 In cheerful, pious toil abide ; 
 
 That gold and splendor are but 
 sent 
 
 To curse our vanity and pride." 
 
 One day some childish fever 
 
 pain 
 Burnt in my veins and fired my 
 
 brain. 
 Moaning, I turned from side to 
 
 side ; 
 
 And, sobbing in my bed, I cried, 
 Till night in calm and darkness 
 
 crept 
 
 Around me, and at last I slept. 
 When suddenly I woke to see 
 The Lady bending over me. 
 The drops of cold November rain 
 Were falling from her long, damp 
 
 hair , 
 Her anxious eyes were dim with 
 
 pain ; 
 
 Yet she looked wondrous fair. 
 Arrayed for some great feast she 
 
 came, 
 With stones that shone and burnt 
 
 like flame ; 
 Wound round her neck, like some 
 
 bright snake, 
 
 And set like stars within her hair, 
 They sparkled so, they seemed 
 
 to make 
 
 A glory everywhere. 
 I felt her tears upon my face, 
 Her kisses on my eyes ; 
 Ami a strange thought I could 
 
 not trace 
 
 I felt within my heart arise ; 
 And, half in feverish pain, I 
 
 said : 
 " O if my mother were not 
 
 dead ! " 
 And Walter bade me sleep ; but 
 
 she 
 
 Said, " Is it not the same to thee 
 That 7 watch by thy bed ? " 
 I answered her, " I love you, 
 
 too; 
 
 But it can never be the same ; 
 She was no Countess like to you, 
 Nor wore such sparkling stones 
 
 of flame." 
 
 the wild look of fear and 
 
 dread ! 
 The cry she gave of bitter woe 1 
 
 1 often wonder what I said 
 
 To make her moan and shudder 
 so. 
 
 Through the long night she tend- 
 ed me 
 
 With such sweet care and charity. 
 
 But I should weary you to tell 
 
 All that I know and love so well : 
 
 Yet one night more stands out 
 alone 
 
 With a sad sweetness all its own- 
 
 The wind blew loud that drea 
 ry night : 
 
 Its wailing voice I well remem- 
 ber ; 
 
 The stars shone out so large and 
 bright 
 
 Upon the frosty fir-boughs white, 
 
 That dreary night of cold Deccny 
 her. 
 
 I saw old Walter silent stand,
 
 THE SAILOR EOT. 
 
 Watching the soft, white flakes 
 
 of snow 
 
 With looks I could not under- 
 stand, 
 
 Of strange perplexity and woe. 
 At last he turned and took my 
 
 hand, 
 And said the Countess just had 
 
 sent 
 To bid us come ; for she would 
 
 fain 
 See me once more, before she 
 
 went 
 
 Away never to come again. 
 We came in silence through the 
 
 wood 
 
 (Our footfall was the only sound) 
 To where the great white castle 
 
 stood, 
 With darkness shadowing it 
 
 around. 
 Breathless, we trod with cautious 
 
 care 
 Up the great echoing marble 
 
 stair ; 
 Trembling, by Walter's hand I 
 
 held, 
 
 Scared by the splendors I be- 
 held : 
 Now thinking, " Should the Earl 
 
 appear ! " 
 
 Now looking up with giddy fear 
 To the dim, vaulted roof that 
 
 spread 
 
 Its gloomy arches overhead. 
 Long corridors we softly passed, 
 \My heart was beating loud and 
 
 fast,) 
 A.nd reached the Lady's room at 
 
 last : 
 
 A strange, faint odor seemed to 
 weigh 
 
 Upon the dim and darkened air ; 
 
 One shaded lamp, with softened 
 ray, 
 
 Scarce showed the gloomy splen- 
 dor there. 
 
 The dull red brands were burn- 
 ing low, 
 
 And yet a fitful gleam of light 
 
 Would now and then, with sud- 
 den glow, 
 
 Start forth, then sink again in 
 night. 
 
 I gazed around, yet half in fear, 
 
 Till Walter told me to draw 
 near : 
 
 And in the strange and nicker- 
 ing light, 
 
 Towards the Lady's bed I crept ; 
 
 All folded round with snowy 
 white, 
 
 She lay ; (one would have said 
 she slept ; ) 
 
 So still the look of that white face, 
 
 It seemed as it were carved in. 
 stone, 
 
 I paused before I dared to place 
 
 Within her cold white hand my 
 own. 
 
 But, with a smile of sweet sur. 
 prise, 
 
 She turned to me her dreamy 
 eyes ; 
 
 And slowly, as if life were pain, 
 
 She drew me in her arms to lie: 
 
 She strove to speak, and strove 
 in vain ; 
 
 Each breath was like a long- 
 drawn sigh.
 
 70 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY. 
 
 The throbs that seemed to shake 
 
 her breast, 
 The trembling clasp, so loose 
 
 and weak, 
 
 At last grew calmer, and at rest ; 
 And then she strove once more 
 
 to speak : 
 My God, I thank thee, that my 
 
 pain 
 
 Of day by day, and year by year, 
 Has not been suffered all in vain, 
 And I may die while he is near. 
 I will not fear but that Thy 
 
 grace 
 
 Has swept away my sin and woe, 
 And sent this little angel face, 
 In my last hour, to tell me so." 
 (And here her voice grew faint 
 
 and low,) 
 " My child, where'er thy life may 
 
 go, 
 To know that thou art brave and 
 
 true, 
 Will pierce the highest heavens 
 
 through, 
 
 And even there my soul shall be 
 More joyful for this thought of 
 
 thee." 
 She folded her white hands, and 
 
 stayed ; 
 
 All cold and silently she lay : 
 I knelt beside the bed, and 
 
 prayed 
 The prayer she used to make 
 
 me say. 
 
 I said it many times, and then 
 She did not move, but seemed 
 
 to be 
 
 In a deep sleep, nor stirred again. 
 No sound woke in thesilent room, 
 
 Or broke the dim and soleum 
 
 gloom, 
 Save when the brands that burnt 
 
 so low, 
 
 With noisy, fitful gleam of light, 
 Would spread around a sudden 
 
 glow, 
 Then sink in silence and in 
 
 night. 
 
 How long I stood I do not know : 
 At last poor Walter came, and 
 
 said 
 (So sadly) that we now must 
 
 go, 
 And whispered, she we loved 
 
 was dead. 
 He bade me kiss her face once 
 
 more, 
 
 Then led me sobbing to the door. 
 I scarcely knew what dying 
 
 meant, 
 
 Yet a strange grief, before un- 
 known, 
 Weighed on my spirit as we 
 
 went 
 And left her lying all alone. 
 
 We went to the far North once 
 
 more, 
 To seek the well - remembered 
 
 home 
 Where my poor kinsman dwelt 
 
 before, 
 Whence now he was too old to 
 
 roam ; 
 And there six happy years we 
 
 past, 
 
 Happy and peaceful till the last; 
 When poor old Walter died, and 
 
 he
 
 THE LESSON OF THE WAR. 
 
 71 
 
 Blessed me and said I now might 
 be 
 
 A sailor on the deep blue sea. 
 
 And so I go ; and yet in spite 
 
 Of all the joys I long to know, 
 
 Though I look onward with de- 
 light, 
 
 With something of regret I go ; 
 
 And young or old, on land or 
 sea, 
 
 One guiding memory I shall 
 take, 
 
 Of what She prayed that I might 
 be, 
 
 And what I will be for her 
 sake! 
 
 A CROWN OF SORROW. 
 
 A SORROW, wet with early tears 
 Yet bitter, had been long with 
 
 me; 
 
 I wearied of this weight of years, 
 And would be free. 
 
 I tore my Sorrow from my heart, 
 
 I cast it far away in scorn ; 
 Right joyful that we two could 
 part, 
 
 Yet most forlorn. 
 
 I sought (to take my Sorrow's 
 
 place) 
 Over the world for flower or 
 
 gem; 
 
 But she had had an ancient grace 
 Unknown to them. 
 
 I took once more with strange 
 
 delight 
 My slighted Sorrow ; proudly 
 
 now 
 
 I wear it, set with stars of light, 
 Upon my brow. 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE 
 WAR. 
 
 1855. 
 
 THE feast is spread through 
 
 England 
 
 For rich and poor to-day ; 
 Greetings and laughter may be 
 
 there, 
 
 But thoughts are far away ; 
 Over the stormy ocean, 
 
 Over the dreary track, 
 Where some are gone, whom 
 
 England 
 Will never welcome back. 
 
 Breathless she waits, and listens 
 
 For every eastern breeze 
 That bears upon its bloody wings 
 
 News from beyond the seas. 
 The leafless branches stirring 
 
 Make many a watcher start ; 
 The distant tramp of steed may 
 send 
 
 A throb from heart to heart. 
 
 The rulers of the nation, 
 The poor ones at their gate, 
 
 With the same eager wonder 
 The same great news await. 
 
 The poor man's stay and comfort, 
 The rich man's joy and pride,
 
 72 
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 Upon the bleak Crimean shore 
 Are fighting side by side. 
 
 The bullet comes and either 
 
 A desolate hearth may see ; 
 And God alone to-night knows 
 where 
 
 The vacant place may be ! 
 The dread that stirs the peasant 
 
 Thrills nobles' hearts with 
 
 fear ; 
 Yet above selfish sorrow 
 
 Both hold their country dear. 
 
 The rich man who reposes 
 
 In his ancestral shade, 
 The peasant at his ploughshare, 
 
 The worker at his trade, 
 Each one his all has perilled, 
 
 Each has the same great stake, 
 Each soul can but have patience, 
 
 Each heart can only break ! 
 
 Hushed is all party clamor ; 
 
 One thought in every heart, 
 One dread in every household, 
 
 Has bid such strife depart. 
 England has called her children ; 
 
 Long silent the word came 
 That lit the smouldering ashes 
 
 Through all the land to flame. 
 
 O you who toil and suffer, 
 
 You gladly heard the call ; 
 But those you sometimes envy, 
 
 Have they not given their all ? 
 O you who rule the nation, 
 
 Take now the toil-worn hand : 
 Brothers you are in sorrow, 
 
 In duty to your land. 
 
 Learn but this noble lesson 
 Ere Peace returns again, 
 
 And the life-blood of Old Eng. 
 
 land 
 Will not be shed in vain. 
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 1855. 
 
 LAST night, when weary silence 
 
 fell on all, 
 And starless skies arose so dim 
 
 and vast, 
 I heard the Spirit of the Present 
 
 call 
 Upon the sleeping Spirit of 
 
 the Past. 
 Far off and near, I saw their 
 
 radiance shine, 
 And listened while they spoke 
 
 of deeds divine. 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 My deeds are writ in iron ; 
 
 My glory stands alone ; 
 A veil of shadowy honor 
 
 Upon my tombs is thrown , 
 The great names of my heroes 
 
 Like gems in history lie ; 
 To live they deemed ignoble, 
 
 Had they the chance to die ! 
 
 The Spirit of the Present. 
 
 My children, too, are honored ; 
 
 Dear shall their memory be 
 
 To the proud lands that own 
 
 them ; 
 Dearer than thine to theej
 
 THE TWO SPIRITS. 
 
 73 
 
 For, though they hold that sa- 
 cred 
 
 Is God's great gift of life, 
 At the first call of duty 
 
 They rush into the strife! 
 
 Tfo Spirt of the Past ! 
 
 Then, with all valiant precepts 
 
 Woman's soft heart was 
 
 fraught ; 
 " Death, not dishonor," echoed 
 
 The war-cry she had taught. 
 Fearless and glad, those mothers, 
 
 At bloody deaths elate, 
 Cried out they bore their chil- 
 dren 
 
 Only for such a fate ! 
 
 The Spirit of the Present. 
 
 Though such stern laws of honor 
 
 Are faded now away, 
 Yet many a mourning mother, 
 
 With nobler grief than they, 
 Bows down in sad submission : 
 
 The heroes of the fight 
 Learnt at her knee the lesson, 
 
 " For God and for the Right! " 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 No voice there spake of sorrow : 
 
 They saw the noblest fall 
 With no repining murmur; 
 
 Stern Fate was lord of all. 
 And when the loved ones per- 
 ished, 
 
 One cry alone arose, 
 Waking the startled echoes, 
 
 " Vengeance upon our foes ! " 
 
 The Spirit oftfte Present. 
 
 Grief dwells in France and Eng- 
 land 
 
 For many a noble son ; 
 Yet louder than the sorrow, 
 
 < Thy will, O God, be done ! " 
 From desolate homes is rising 
 
 One prayer, " Let carnage 
 
 cease ! 
 On friends and foes have mercy, 
 
 O Lord, and give us peace ! * 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Then, every hearth was honored 
 
 That sent its children forth, 
 To spread their country's glory, 
 
 And gain her south or north. 
 Then, little recked they numbers, 
 
 No band would ever fly, 
 But stern and resolute they stood 
 
 To conquer or to die. 
 
 The Spirit of the Present. 
 
 And now from France and Eng- 
 land 
 
 Their dearest and their best 
 Go forth to succor freedom, 
 
 To help the much oppressed; 
 Now, let the far-off Future 
 
 And Past bow down to-day, 
 Before the few young hearts that 
 hold 
 
 Whole armaments at bay, 
 
 The Spirit of the Past. 
 
 Then, each one strove for honor. 
 Each for a deathless name ;
 
 74 
 
 A LITTLE LONGER. 
 
 Love, home, rest, joy, were 
 
 offered 
 
 As sacrifice to Fame. 
 They longed that in far ages 
 Their deeds might still be 
 
 told, 
 
 And distant times and nations 
 Their names in honor hold. 
 
 The Spirit of the Present. 
 
 Though nursed by such old 
 
 legends, 
 
 Our heroes of to-day 
 Go cheerfully to battle 
 
 As children go to play ; 
 They gaze with awe and won- 
 der 
 
 On your great names of pride, 
 Unconscious that their own will 
 
 shine 
 In glory side by side ! 
 
 Day dawned ; and as the Spirits 
 
 passed away, 
 Methought I saw, in the dim 
 
 morning gray, 
 The Past's bright diadem had 
 
 paled before 
 The starry crown the glorious 
 
 Present wore. 
 
 A LITLLE LONGER. 
 
 A LITTLE longer yet a little 
 
 longer, 
 Shall violets bloom for thee, and 
 
 sweet birds sing ; 
 
 And the lime-branches, where 
 soft winds are blowing, 
 
 Shall murmur the sweet promise 
 of the Spring ! 
 
 A little longer yet a little 
 longer, 
 
 Thou shalt behold the quiet of 
 the morn ; 
 
 While tender grasses and awak- 
 ening flowers 
 
 Send up a golden mist to greet 
 the dawn ! 
 
 A little longer yet a little 
 longer, 
 
 The tenderness of twilight shall 
 be thine, 
 
 The rosy clouds that float o'er 
 dying daylight, 
 
 Nor fade till trembling stars be- 
 gin to shine. 
 
 A little longer yet a little 
 
 longer, 
 Shall starry night be beautiful 
 
 for thee ; 
 And the cold moon shall look 
 
 through the blue silence, 
 Flooding her silver path upon the 
 
 sea. 
 
 A little longer yet a little 
 
 longer, 
 Life shall be thine ; life with its 
 
 power to will ; 
 Life with its strength to bear, to 
 
 love, to conquer, 
 Bringing its thousand joys thy 
 
 heart to fill.
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 75 
 
 A little longer yet a little 
 
 longer, 
 The voices thou hast loved shall 
 
 charm thine ear ; 
 And thy true heart, that now 
 
 beats quick to hear them, 
 A little longer yet shall hold them 
 
 dear. 
 
 A little longer yet joy while 
 
 thou mayest ; 
 Love and rejoice ! for time has 
 
 naught in store : 
 And soon the darkness of the 
 
 grave shall bid thee 
 Love and rejoice and feel and 
 
 know no more. 
 
 A little longer still Patience, 
 
 Beloved : 
 A little longer still, ere Heaven 
 
 unroll 
 The Glory, and the Brightness, 
 
 and the Wonder, 
 Eternal, and divine, that waits 
 
 thy Soul ! 
 
 A little longer ere Life true, im- 
 mortal, 
 
 (Not this our shadowy Life,) will 
 be thine own ; 
 
 And thou shall stand where 
 winged Archangels worship, 
 
 And trembling bow before the 
 Great White Throne. 
 
 \ little longer still, and Heaven 
 
 awaits thee, 
 And fills thy spirit with a great 
 
 delight ; 
 
 Then our pale joys will seem a 
 
 dream forgotten, 
 Our Sun a darkness, and our 
 
 Day a Night. 
 
 A little longer, and thy Heart, 
 
 Belove'd, 
 Shall beat forever with a Love 
 
 divine ; 
 And joy so pure, so mighty, so 
 
 eternal, 
 No creature knows and lives, will 
 
 then be thine. 
 
 A little longer yet and angel 
 
 voices 
 Shall ring in heavenly chant 
 
 upon thine ear ; 
 Angels and Saints await thee, 
 
 and God needs thee : 
 Belove'd, can we bid thee linger 
 
 here ! 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 AN ancient enemy have I, 
 And cither he or I must die ; 
 For he never leaveth me, 
 Never gives my soul relief, 
 Never lets my sorrow cease, 
 Never gives my spirit peace, : 
 For mine enemy is Grief ! 
 Pale he is, and sad and stern ; 
 And whene'er he cometh nigh, 
 Blue and dim the torches burn, 
 Pale and shrunk the roses turn ; 
 While my heart that he has pierced 
 Many a time with fiery lance, 
 Beats and trembles at his glance :
 
 76 GRIEF. 
 
 Clad in burning steel is he, 
 All my strength he can defy ; 
 For he never leaveth me 
 And one of us must die ! 
 
 I hare said, " Let ancient sages 
 Charm me from my thoughts of 
 
 pain ! " 
 
 So I read their deepest pages, 
 And I strove to think in vain ! 
 Wisdom's cold, calm words I 
 
 tried, 
 
 But he was seated by my side ; 
 Learning I have won in vain ; 
 She cannot rid me of my pain. 
 
 When at last soft sleep comes 
 
 o'er me, 
 
 A cold hand is on my heart ; 
 Stern sad eyes are there before 
 
 me ; 
 
 Not in dreams will he depart : 
 And when the same dreary vision 
 From my weary brain has fled, 
 Daylight brings the living phan- 
 tom, 
 
 He is seated by my bed, 
 Bending o'er me all the while, 
 With his cruel, bitter smile, 
 Ever with me, ever nigh ; 
 And either he or I must die ! 
 
 Then I said, long time ago, 
 " I will flee to other climes, 
 I will leave mine ancient foe ! " 
 Though I wandered far and 
 
 wide 
 Still he followed at my side. 
 
 And I fled where the blue waters 
 Bathe the sunny isles of Greece ; 
 
 Where Thessalian mountains riso 
 Up against the purple skies ; 
 Where a haunting memory liv- 
 
 eth 
 
 In each wood and cave and rill ; 
 But no dream of gods could help 
 
 me, 
 He went with me still ! 
 
 I have been where Nile's broad 
 
 river 
 
 Flows upon the burning sand ; 
 Where the desert monster brood- 
 
 eth, 
 Where the Eastern palm-trees 
 
 stand ; 
 
 I have been where pathless forests 
 Spread a black eternal shade ; 
 Where the lurking panther hiding 
 Glares from every tangled glade ; 
 But in vain I wandered wide, 
 He was always by my side ! 
 
 Then I fled where snows eternal 
 Cold and dreary ever lie ; 
 Where the rosy lightnings gleam, 
 Flashing through the northern 
 
 sky ; 
 
 Where the red sun turns again 
 Back upon his path of pain ; 
 But a shadowy form was witlj 
 
 me, 
 I had fled in vain .' 
 
 I have thought, " If I can gaze 
 Sternly on him he will fade, 
 For I know that he is nothing 
 But a dim ideal shade." 
 As I gazed at him the more, 
 He grew stronger than before !
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 
 
 77 
 
 Then I said, " Mine arm is strong, 
 I will make him tarn and flee " ; 
 I have struggled with him long 
 But that could never be ! 
 
 Once I battled with him so 
 That I thought I laid him low ; 
 Then in trembling joy I fled, 
 While again and still again 
 Murmuring to myself I said, 
 " Mine old enemy is dead ! " 
 And I stood beneath the stars, 
 When a chill came on my frame, 
 And a fear I could not name, 
 And a sense of quick despair, 
 And, lo ! mine enemy was 
 there ! 
 
 Listen, for my soul is weary, 
 Weary of its endless woe ; 
 I have called on one to aid me 
 Mightier even than my foe. 
 Strength and hope fail day by 
 
 day ; 
 
 I shall cheat him of his prey ; 
 Some day soon, I know not when, 
 He will stab me through and 
 
 through ; 
 
 He has wounded me before, 
 But my heart can bear no 
 
 more ; 
 Pray that hour may come to 
 
 me, 
 
 Only then shall I be free ; 
 Death alone has strength to take 
 
 me 
 
 Where my foe can never be ; 
 Death, and Death alone, has 
 
 power 
 To conquer mine old enemy ! 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF TIME. 
 
 THE tender, delicate Flow- 
 ers, 
 I saw them fanned by a warm 
 
 western wind, 
 
 Fed by soft summer show- 
 ers, 
 Shielded by care, and yet, (O 
 
 Fate unkind !) 
 Fade in a few short hours. 
 
 The gentle and the gay, 
 Rich in a glorious Future of 
 
 bright deeds, 
 Rejoicing in the day, 
 Are met by Death, who sternly, 
 
 sadly leads 
 Them far away. 
 
 And Hopes, perfumed and 
 
 bright, 
 So lately shining, wet with dew 
 
 and tears, 
 
 Trembling in morning light ; 
 I saw them change to dark and 
 
 anxious fears 
 Before the night ! 
 
 I wept that all must die 
 " Yet Love," I cried, " doth live, 
 and conquer death " 
 And time passed by, 
 And breathed on Love, and 
 killed it with his breath 
 Ere Death was nigh. 
 
 More bitter far than all 
 It was to know that Love could 
 change and die !
 
 78 
 
 eternity, 
 And conquers all ! " 
 
 A PARTING. 
 
 For the fair vision that adorned 
 youth 
 
 Hush ! for the ages call, Jfortne tair vision tnataaornea 
 
 " The Love of God lives through my youth 
 
 eternity, And glorified so many happy 
 
 A .,i st/-\nstiiAi*c! oil i ** vciirs 
 
 A PARTING. 
 
 WITHOUT one bitter feeling let 
 
 us part, 
 And for the years in which 
 
 your love has shed 
 A radiance like a glory round 
 
 my head, 
 
 I thank you, yes, I thank you 
 from my heart. 
 
 I thank you for the cherished 
 
 hope of years, 
 A starry future, dim and yet 
 
 divine, 
 Winging its way from Heaven 
 
 to be mine, 
 
 Laden with joy, and ignorant of 
 tears. 
 
 I thank you, yes, I thank you 
 
 even more 
 
 That my heart learnt not with- 
 out love to live, 
 But gave and gave, and still 
 
 had more to give, 
 From an abundant and exhaust- 
 less store. 
 
 I thank you, and no grief is in 
 
 these tears ; 
 
 I thank you, not in bitterness 
 but truth, 
 
 Yet how much more I thank you 
 
 that you tore 
 At length the veil your hand 
 
 had woven away, 
 Which hid my idol was a thing 
 
 of clay, 
 
 And false the altar I had knelt 
 before. 
 
 I thank you that you taught me 
 
 the stern truth, 
 (None other could have told 
 
 and I believed,) 
 That vain had been my life, 
 
 and I deceived, 
 
 And wasted all the purpose of 
 my youth. 
 
 I thank you that your hand 
 
 dashed down tbe shrine, 
 Wherein my idol worship I 
 
 had paid ; 
 Else had I never known a soul 
 
 was made 
 
 To serve and worship only the 
 Divine. 
 
 I thank you that the heart I casf 
 
 away 
 
 On such as yon, though bro 
 
 ken, bruised, and crashed, 
 
 Now that its fiery throbbing i 
 
 all hushed, 
 Upon a worthier altar I can lay
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE- 
 
 79 
 
 I thank you for the lesson that 
 
 such love 
 Is a perverting of God's royal 
 
 right, 
 That it is made but for the 
 
 Infinite, 
 
 And all too great to live except 
 above. 
 
 I thank you for a terrible awak- 
 ing, 
 
 And if reproach seemed nidden 
 in my pain, 
 
 And sorrow seemed to cry on 
 
 your disdain, 
 
 Know that my blessing lay in 
 your forsaking. 
 
 Farewell forever now : in peace 
 
 we part ; 
 And should an idle vision of 
 
 my tears 
 Arise before your soul in aftei 
 
 years, 
 
 Kemember that I thank you fron* 
 my heart ! 
 
 THE GOLDEN GATE. 
 
 DIM shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty stair they climb, 
 The cloudy stair that upward leads to where the closed portals shine, 
 Round which the kneeling spirits wait the opening of the Golden Gate. 
 
 And some with eager longing go, still pressing forward, hand in hand, 
 And some, with weary step and slow, look back where their Belove'd 
 
 stand : 
 Yet up the misty stair they climb, led onward by the Angel Time. 
 
 As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that floods the very air 
 Is but the shadow from within, of the great glory hidden there : 
 And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows pass within the gate. 
 
 As one by one they enter in, and the stern portals close once more, 
 The halo seems to linger round those kneeling closest to the door : 
 The joy that lightened from that place shines still upon the watcher's 
 face. 
 
 The faint low echo that we hear of far-off music seems to fill 
 
 The silent air with love and fear, and the world's clamors all grow still, 
 
 Until the portals close again, and leave us toiling on in pain. 
 
 Complain not that the way is long : what road is weary that leads there? 
 But let the Angel take thy hand, and lead thee up the misty stair, 
 And then with beating heart await the opening of the Golden Gate
 
 BO 
 
 THANKFULNESS. 
 
 PHANTOMS. 
 
 BACK, ye Phantoms of the Past; 
 
 In your dreary caves remain : 
 What have I to do with memories 
 
 Of a long-forgotten pain ? 
 
 For my Present is all peaceful, 
 And my Future nobly planned : 
 
 Long ago Time's mighty billows 
 Swept your footsteps from the 
 sand. 
 
 Back into your caves ; nor haunt 
 me 
 
 With your voices full of woe ; 
 I have buried grief and sorrow 
 
 In the depths of Long-ago. 
 
 See the glorious clouds of morn- 
 ing 
 Roll away, and clear and 
 
 bright 
 
 Shine the rays of cloudless day- 
 light : 
 
 Wherefore will ye moan of 
 night 1 
 
 Never shall my heart be bur- 
 dened 
 With its ancient woe and 
 
 fears ; 
 
 I can drive them from my pres- 
 ence, 
 
 I can check these foolish 
 tears. 
 
 Sack, ye Phantoms ; leave, O 
 
 leave me, 
 To a new and happy lot ; 
 
 Speak no more of things de- 
 parted ; 
 
 Leave me for I know ye 
 not. 
 
 Can it be that 'mid my gladness 
 
 I must ever hear you wail, 
 Of the grief that wrung my 
 
 spirit, 
 
 And that made my cheek so 
 pale? 
 
 Joy is mine ; but your sad 
 voices 
 
 Murmur ever in mine ear : 
 Vain is all the Future's promise, 
 
 While the dreary Past is here. 
 
 Vain, O worse than vain, the 
 
 Visions 
 That my heart, my life, would 
 
 fill, 
 
 If the Past's relentless phantoms 
 Call upon me still ! 
 
 V THANKFULNESS. 
 
 MY God, I thank Thee who hast 
 made 
 
 The Earth so bright ; 
 So full of splendor and of joy, 
 
 Beauty and light ; 
 So many glorious things are here, 
 
 Noble and right ! 
 
 I thank Thee, too, that Thou 
 
 hast made 
 Joy to abound ;
 
 HOME-SICKNESS. 
 
 81 
 
 So many gentle thoughts and 
 deeds 
 
 Circling us round, 
 That in the darkest spot of Earth 
 
 Some love is found. 
 
 I thank Thee more that all our joy 
 
 Is touched with pain ; 
 That shadows fall on brightest 
 
 hours ; 
 
 That thorns remain ; 
 So that Earth's bliss may be our 
 
 guide, 
 And not our chain. 
 
 For Thou who knowest, Lord, 
 
 how soon 
 
 Our weak heart clings, 
 Hast given us joys, tender and 
 
 true, 
 
 Yet all with wings, 
 So that we see, gleaming on high, 
 Diviner things ! 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou 
 
 hast kept 
 
 The best in store ; 
 We have enough, yet not too 
 
 much 
 
 To long for more : 
 A yearning for a deeper peace, 
 Not known before. 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that here 
 
 our souls, 
 
 Though amply blest, 
 Can never find, although they 
 
 seek, 
 
 A perfect rest, 
 Nor ever shall, until they lean 
 On Jesus' breast ! 
 
 HOME-SICKNESS. 
 
 WHERE I am, the halls are 
 
 gilded, 
 Stored with pictures bright 
 
 and rare ; 
 
 Strains of deep melodious music 
 Float upon the perfumed 
 
 air : 
 Nothing stirs the dreary silence 
 
 Save the melancholy sea, 
 Near the poor and humble cot- 
 tage, 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, the sun is shining, 
 And the purple windows glow, 
 Till their rich armorial shadows 
 Stain the marble floor be- 
 low : 
 
 Faded autumn leaves are trem- 
 bling 
 
 On the withered jasmine-tree, 
 Creeping round the little case- 
 ment, 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, the days are passing 
 O'er a pathway strewn with 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 Song and joy and starry pleasures 
 Crown the happy, smiling 
 
 hours : 
 
 Slowly, heavily, and sadly, 
 Time with weary wings must 
 
 flee, 
 Marked by pain, and toil, and 
 
 sorrow, 
 Where I fain would be !
 
 WISHES. 
 
 Where I nm, the great and noble 
 
 Tell me of renown and fame, 
 And the red wine sparkles highest, 
 
 To do honor to my name : 
 Far away a place is vacant, 
 
 By a humble hearth, for me, 
 Dying embers dimly show it, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am are glorious dream- 
 ings, 
 
 Science, genius, art divine ; 
 And the great minds whom all 
 
 honor 
 Interchange their thoughts 
 
 with mine : 
 A few simple hearts are waiting, 
 
 Longing, wearying, for me, 
 ar away where tears are falling, 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 Where I am, all think me happy, 
 
 For so well I play my part, 
 None can guess, who smile 
 around me, 
 
 How far distant is my heart, 
 Far away, in a poor cottage, 
 
 Listening to the dreary sea, 
 Where the treasures of my life 
 are, 
 
 Where I fain would be ! 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 ALL the fluttering wishes 
 Caged within thy heart 
 
 Beat their wings against it, 
 Longing to depart, 
 
 Till they shake their prison 
 With their wounded cry ; 
 
 Open wide thy heart to-day, 
 And let the captives fly. 
 
 Let them first fly upward 
 
 Through the starry air, 
 Till you almost lose them, 
 
 For their home is there ; 
 Then, with outspread pinions, 
 
 Circling round and round, 
 Wing their way wherever 
 
 Want and woe are found. 
 
 Where the weary stitcher 
 
 Toils for daily bread ; 
 Where the lonely watcher 
 
 Watches by her dead ; 
 Where, with thin, weak fingers, 
 
 Toiling at the loom, 
 Stand the little children, 
 
 Blighted ere they bloom ; 
 
 Where, by darkness blinded, 
 
 Groping for the light, 
 With distorted conscience, 
 
 Men do wrong for right ; 
 Where, in the cold shadow, 
 
 By smooth pleasure thrown, 
 Human hearts by hundreds 
 
 Harden into stone ; 
 
 Where on dusty highways, 
 
 With faint heart and slow, 
 Cursing the glad sunlight, 
 
 Hungry outcasts go ; 
 Where all mirth is silenced, 
 
 And the hearth is chill, 
 For one place is empty, 
 
 And one voice is still.
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 83 
 
 Some hearts will he lighter 
 
 While your captives roam 
 For their tender singing, 
 
 Then recall them home ; 
 When the sunny hours 
 
 Into night depart, 
 Softly they will nestle 
 
 In a quiet heart. 
 
 THE PEACE OF GOD. 
 
 WE ask for Peace, Lord ! 
 
 Thy children ask Thy Peace ; 
 Not what the world calls rest, 
 
 That toil and care should cease, 
 That through bright sunny hours 
 
 Calm Life should fleet away, 
 And tranquil night should fade 
 
 In smiling day ; 
 It is not for such Peace that we 
 would pray. 
 
 We ask for Peace, O Lord ! 
 
 Yet not to stand secure, 
 Girt round with iron Pride, 
 
 Contented to endure : 
 Crushing the gentle strings 
 That human hearts should 
 
 know, 
 Untouched by others' joy 
 
 Or others' woe ; 
 Thou, O dear Lord, wilt never 
 teach us so. 
 
 We ask Thy Peace, O Lord ! 
 Through storm, and fear, and 
 
 strife, 
 To light and guide us on, 
 
 Through a long, struggling 
 life: 
 
 While no success or gain 
 
 Shall cheer the desperate fight, 
 Or nerve, what the world calls, 
 
 Our wasted might : 
 Yet pressing through the dark- 
 ness to the light. 
 
 It is Thine own, O Lord, 
 Who toil while others sleep ; 
 
 Who sow with loving care 
 What other hands shall reap 
 
 They lean on Thee entranced, 
 In calm and perfect rest . 
 
 Give us that Peace, O Lord, 
 Divine and blest, 
 
 Thou keepest for those hearts 
 who love Thee best. 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND 
 DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 IF the dread day that calls thee 
 
 hence 
 Through a red mist of fear 
 
 should loom, 
 (Closing in deadliest night and 
 
 gloom 
 
 Long hours of aching, dumb sus- 
 pense,) 
 
 And leave me to my lonely 
 doom, 
 
 I think, beloved, I could see 
 In tliy dear eyes the loving 
 
 light 
 Glaze into vacancy and night,
 
 84 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 And still say, " God is good to 
 
 me, 
 
 And all that He decrees is 
 right." 
 
 That, watching thy slow strug- 
 gling breath, 
 
 And answering each imperfect 
 sign, 
 
 I still could pray thy prayer 
 
 and mine, 
 
 And tell thee, dear, though this 
 was death, 
 
 That God was love, and love 
 divine. 
 
 Could hold thee in my arms, 
 
 and lay 
 Upon my heart thy weary 
 
 head, 
 And meet thy last smile ere it 
 
 fled; 
 
 Then hear, as in a dream, one say, 
 " Now all is over, she is 
 dead." 
 
 Could smooth thy garments with 
 
 fond care, 
 And cross thy hands upon thy 
 
 breast, 
 And kiss thine eyelids down 
 
 to rest, 
 
 And yet say no word of despair, 
 But, through my sobbing, " It 
 is best." 
 
 Could stifle down the gnawing 
 
 pain, 
 
 And say, " We still divide our 
 life, 
 
 She has the rest, and I the 
 
 strife, 
 And mine the loss, and hers the 
 
 gain : 
 My ill with bliss for her is 
 
 rife." 
 
 Then turn, and the old duties 
 
 take 
 Alone now yet with earnest 
 
 will 
 Gathering sweet, sacred traces 
 
 still 
 
 To help me on, and, for thy sake, 
 My heart and life and soul to 
 fill. 
 
 I think I could check vain, weak 
 
 tears, 
 And toil, although the 
 
 world's great space 
 Held nothing but one vacant 
 
 place, 
 And see the dark and weary 
 
 years 
 Lit only by a vanished grace. 
 
 And sometimes, when the day 
 
 was o'er, 
 Call up the tender past 
 
 again : 
 
 Its painful joy, its happy pain, 
 And live it over yet once more, 
 And say, "But few more 
 years remain." 
 
 And then, when I had striven 
 
 my best, 
 
 And all around would smiling 
 say,
 
 LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE. 
 
 " See how Time makes all 
 
 grief decay," 
 Would lie down thankfully to 
 
 rest, 
 And seek thee in eternal day. 
 
 But if the day should ever 
 
 rise 
 It could not and it cannot 
 
 be 
 
 Yet, if the sun should ever see, 
 Looking upon us from his skies, 
 A day that took thy heart from 
 me ; 
 
 If loving thee still more and 
 
 more, 
 
 And still so willing to be blind, 
 I should the bitter knowledge 
 
 find, 
 
 That Time had eaten out the core 
 Of love, and left the empty 
 rind ; 
 
 If the poor lifeless words, at last, 
 (The soul gone, that was once 
 
 so sweet,) 
 Should cease my eager heart 
 
 to cheat, 
 
 And crumble back into the past, 
 And show the whole a vain 
 deceit ; 
 
 If I should see thee turn away, 
 And know that prayer, and 
 
 time, and pain, 
 Could no more thy lost love 
 
 regain, 
 
 Than bid the hours of dying day 
 Gleam in their mid-day noon 
 again; 
 
 If I should loose thy hand, and 
 
 know 
 That henceforth we must 
 
 dwell apart, 
 
 Since I had seen thy love de- 
 part, 
 
 And only count the hours flow 
 By the dull throbbing of my 
 heart ; 
 
 If I should gaze and gaze in vain 
 Into thine eyes so deep and 
 
 clear, 
 And read the truth of nil my 
 
 fear 
 Half mixed with pity for my 
 
 pain, 
 
 And sorrow for the vanished 
 year; 
 
 If, not to grieve thee overmuch, 
 I strove to counterfeit disdain, 
 And weave me a new life again, 
 Which thy life could not mar, or 
 
 touch, 
 
 And so smile down my bitter 
 pain ; 
 
 The ghost of my dead Past would 
 
 rise 
 And mock me, and I could 
 
 not dare 
 
 Look to a future of despair, 
 Or even to the eternal skies, 
 For I should still be lonely 
 there.
 
 86 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 All Truth, all Honor, then would 
 
 seem 
 Vain clouds, which the first 
 
 wind blew by ; 
 All Trust, a folly doomed to 
 
 die; 
 
 All Life, a useless, empty dream ; 
 All Love since thine had 
 failed a lie. 
 
 But see, thy tender smile has cast 
 My fear away : this thought of 
 
 mine 
 Is treason to my Love and 
 
 thine ; 
 For Love is Life, and Death at 
 
 last 
 Crowns it eternal and divine ! 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 As strangers, you and I are 
 
 here ; 
 
 We both as aliens stand 
 Where once, in years gone by, I 
 
 dwelt 
 
 No stranger in the land. 
 Then while you gaze on park 
 
 and stream, 
 Let me remain apart, 
 And listen to the awakened 
 
 sound 
 Of voices in my heart. 
 
 Here, where upon the velvet lawn 
 The cedar spreads its shade, 
 
 And by the flower-beds all around 
 Bright roses bloom and fade, 
 
 Shrill merry childish laughter 
 rings, 
 
 And baby voices sweet, 
 And by me, on the path, I hear 
 
 The tread of little feet. 
 
 Down the dark avenue of limes, 
 
 Whose perfume loads the air, 
 Whose boughs are rustling over- 
 head, 
 
 (For the west-wind is there,) 
 I hear the sound of earnest talk, 
 
 Warnings and counsels wise, 
 And the quick questioning that 
 brought 
 
 Such gentle, calm replies. 
 
 Still the light bridge hangs o'er 
 
 the lake, 
 
 Where broad-leaved lilies lie, 
 And the cool water shows again 
 The cloud that moves on 
 
 high ; 
 And one voice speaks, in tones 
 
 I thought 
 
 The past forever kept ; 
 But now I know, deep in my 
 
 heart 
 Its echoes only slept. 
 
 I hear, within the shady porch, 
 
 Once more, the measured 
 
 sound 
 Of the old ballads that were read, 
 
 While we sat listening round ; 
 The starry passion-flower still 
 
 Up the green trellis climbs ; 
 The tendrils waving seem to 
 keep 
 
 The cadence of the rhymes.
 
 ILLUSION. 
 
 87 
 
 I might have striven, and striven 
 in vain, 
 
 Such visions to recall, 
 Well known and yet forgotten ; 
 now 
 
 I see, I hear, them all ! 
 The Present pales before the Past, 
 
 Who comes with angel wings ; 
 As in a dream I stand, amidst 
 
 Strange yet familiar things ! 
 
 Enough ; so let us go, mine eyes 
 
 Are blinded by their tears ; 
 A voice speaks to my soul to-day 
 
 Of long-forgotten years. 
 And yet the vision in my heart, 
 
 In a few hours more, 
 Will fade into the silent past, 
 
 Silently as before. 
 
 ILLUSION. 
 
 WHERE the golden corn is bend- 
 ing, 
 
 And the singing reapers pass, 
 Where the chestnut woods are 
 
 sending 
 Leafy showers upon the grass, 
 
 The blue river onward flowing 
 Mingles with its noisy strife, 
 
 The murmur of the flowers 
 
 growing, 
 And the hum of insect life. 
 
 I from that rich plain was gazing 
 Towards the snowy moun- 
 tains high, 
 
 Who their gleaming peaks were 
 
 raising 
 Up against the purple sky. 
 
 And the glory of their shining, 
 Bathed in clouds of rosy 
 
 light, 
 
 Set my weary spirit pining 
 For a home so pure and 
 bright ! 
 
 So I left the plain, and weary, 
 Fainting, yet with hope sus- 
 tained, 
 Toiled through pathways long 
 
 and dreary 
 
 Till the mountain-top was 
 gained. 
 
 Lo ! the height that I had taken, 
 As so shining from below, 
 
 Was a desolate, forsaken 
 Region of perpetual snow. 
 
 I am faint, my feet are bleeding, 
 All my feeble strength is worn, 
 
 In the plain no soul is heeding, 
 I am here alone, forlorn. 
 
 Lights are shining, bells are toll 
 
 ing, 
 
 In the busy vale below ; 
 Near me night's black clouds 
 
 are rolling, 
 
 Gathering o'er a waste of 
 snow. 
 
 So I watch the river winding 
 Through the misty fading 
 plain,
 
 88 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Bitter are the tear-drops blind- 
 ing, 
 
 Bitter, useless toil and pain, 
 Bitterest of all the finding 
 That my dream was false and 
 vain ! 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 GLOOMY and black are the cy- 
 press-trees, 
 Drearily waileth the chill night 
 
 breeze. 
 The long grass waveth, the tombs 
 
 are white, 
 And the black clouds flit o'er the 
 
 chill moonlight. 
 Silent is all save the dropping 
 
 rain, 
 When slowly there cometh a 
 
 mourning train ; 
 The lone churchyard is dark and 
 
 dim, 
 And the mourners raise a funeral 
 
 hymn. 
 
 " Open, dark grave, and take 
 
 her; 
 
 Though we have loved her so, 
 Yet we must now forsake her, 
 Love will no more awake her : 
 
 (O bitter woe!) 
 Open thine arms and take her 
 To rest below ! 
 
 " Vain is our mournful weeping, 
 
 Her gentle life is o'er ; 
 Only the worm is creeping, 
 
 Where she will soon be sleeping 
 
 Forevermore : 
 Nor joy nor love is keeping 
 
 For her in store ! " 
 
 Gloomy and black are the cy- 
 press-trees, 
 
 And drearily wave in the chill 
 night breeze. 
 
 The dark clouds part and the 
 heavens are blue, 
 
 Where the trembling stars are 
 shining through. 
 
 Slowly across the gleaming sky, 
 
 A crowd of white angels are pass- 
 ing by. 
 
 Like a fleet of swans they float 
 along, 
 
 Or the silver notes of a dying 
 song. 
 
 Like a cloud of incense then: 
 pinions rise, 
 
 Fading away up the purple skies. 
 
 But hush ! for the silent glory is 
 stirred 
 
 By a strain such as earth has 
 never heard : 
 
 " Open, O Heaven ! we bear 
 
 her, 
 
 This gentle maiden mild, 
 Earth's griefs we gladly spare 
 
 her, 
 From earthly joys we tear her, 
 
 Still undefiled ; 
 
 And to thine arms we bear her, 
 Thine own, thy child.
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 89 
 
 " Open, O Heaven ! no morrow 
 
 Will see this joy o'ercast, 
 No pain, no tears, no sorrow, 
 Her gentle heart will borrow ; 
 
 Sad life is past ; 
 Shielded and safe from sorrow, 
 At home at last." 
 
 But the vision faded and all was 
 still, 
 
 On the purple valley and distant 
 hill. 
 
 No sound was there save the wail- 
 ing breeze, 
 
 The rain, and the rustling cy- 
 press-trees. 
 
 PICTURES IN THE FIRE. 
 
 WHAT is it you ask me, darling 1 
 All my stories, child, you 
 
 know ; 
 I have no strange dreams to tell 
 
 you, 
 Pictures I have none to show. 
 
 Tell you glorious scenes of travel ? 
 
 Nay, my child, that cannot be, 
 I have seen no foreign countries, 
 
 Marvels none on land or sea. 
 
 Yet strange sights in truth I 
 
 witness, 
 
 And I gaze until I tire ; 
 Wondrous pictures, changing 
 
 ever, 
 As I look into the fire. 
 
 There, last night, I saw a cavern, 
 Black as pitch ; within it lay, 
 
 Coiled in many folds, a dragon, 
 Glaring as if turned at bay. 
 
 And a knight in dismal armor 
 On a winged eagle came, 
 
 To do battle with this dragon : 
 And his crest was all of flame. 
 
 As I gazed the dragon faded, 
 And, instead, sat Pluto 
 
 crowned 
 
 By a lake of burning fire ; 
 Spirits dark were crouching 
 round. 
 
 That was gone, and lo! before 
 me, 
 
 A cathedral vast and grim ; 
 I could almost hear the organ 
 
 Peal along the arches dim. 
 
 As I watched the wreathed pil- 
 lars, 
 
 Groves of stately palms arose, 
 And a group of swarthy Indians 
 
 Stealing on some sleeping foes. 
 
 Stay : a cataract glancing bright- 
 
 ty 
 Dashed and sparkled ; and be 
 
 side 
 
 Lay a broken marble monster, 
 Mouth and eyes were staring 
 
 wide. 
 
 Then I saw a maiden wreathing 
 Starry flowers in garlands 
 sweet
 
 THE SETTLERS. 
 
 Did she see the fiery serpent 
 That was wrapped about her 
 feet? 
 
 That fell cras/iing all and van- 
 ished ; 
 
 And I saw two armies close, 
 I could almost hear the clarions, 
 
 And the shouting of the foes. 
 They were gone ; and lo ! hright 
 angels, 
 
 On a barren mountain wild, 
 Raised appealing arms to Heaven, 
 
 Bearing up a little child. 
 
 And I gazed, and gazed, and 
 
 slowly 
 
 Gathered in my eyes sad tears, 
 And the fiery pictures bore me 
 Back through distant dreams 
 of years. 
 
 Once again I tasted sorrow, 
 With past joy was once more 
 
 gay. 
 
 Till the shade had gathered 
 
 round me 
 And the fire had died away. 
 
 THE SETTLERS. 
 
 Two stranger youths in the Far 
 
 West, 
 Beneath the ancient forest 
 
 trees, 
 
 Pausing, amid their toil to rest, 
 Spake of their home beyond 
 the seas ; 
 
 Spake of the hearts that beat so 
 
 warmly, 
 Of the hearts they loved so 
 
 well, 
 
 In their chilly Northern country. 
 " Would," they cried, " some 
 
 voice could tell 
 Where they are, our own beloved 
 
 ones ! " 
 They looked up to the evening 
 
 sky 
 
 Half hidden by the giant branch- 
 es, 
 
 But heard no angel-voice re- 
 ply. 
 
 All silent was the quiet evening ; 
 
 Silent were the ancient trees ; 
 
 They only heard the murmuring 
 
 song 
 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 That gently played among 
 The acacia-trees. 
 
 And did no warning spirit an- 
 swer, 
 
 Amid the silence all around : 
 " Before the lowly village altar 
 
 She thou lovest may be found, 
 Thou, who trustest still so blind- 
 
 iy, 
 
 Know she stands a smiling 
 
 bride ! 
 Forgetting thee, she turncth 
 
 kindly 
 
 To the stranger at her side. 
 Yes, this day thou art forgotten, 
 Forgotten, too, thy last fare- 
 well, 
 
 All the vows that she has spoken, 
 And thy heart has kept so welL
 
 HUSH! 
 
 91 
 
 Dream no more of a starry fu- 
 ture, 
 
 In thy home beyond the seas ! " 
 But he only heard the gentle sigh 
 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 So softly passing by 
 The acacia-trees. 
 
 And vainly, too, theother, looking 
 Smiling up through hopeful 
 
 tears, 
 Asked in his heart of hearts, 
 
 " Where is she, 
 She I love these many years ? " 
 He heard no echo calling faintly : 
 " Lo, she lieth cold and pale, 
 And her smile so calm and saintly 
 Heeds not grieving sob or 
 
 wail, 
 Heeds not the lilies strewn upon 
 
 her, 
 
 Pure as she is, and as white, 
 Or the solemn chanting voices, 
 Or the taper's ghastly light." 
 But silent still was the ancient 
 
 forest, 
 
 Silent were the gloomy trees ; 
 He only heard the wailing sound 
 
 Of the summer breeze, 
 That sadly played around 
 The acacia-trees ! 
 
 HUSH! 
 
 " I CAN scarcely hear," she mur- 
 mured, 
 
 " For my haart beats loud and 
 fast, 
 
 But surely, in the far, far dis- 
 tance, 
 
 I can hear a sound at last." 
 " It is only the reapers sing- 
 ing. 
 As they carry home their 
 
 sheaves ; 
 And the evening breeze has 
 
 risen, 
 
 And rustles the dying 
 leaves." 
 
 ' Listen ! there are voices talk- 
 ing." 
 Calmly still she strove to 
 
 Yet her voice grew faint and 
 
 trembling, 
 And the red flushed in her 
 
 cheek. 
 " It is only the children 
 
 playing 
 Below, now their work is 
 
 done, 
 And they laugh that their 
 
 eyes are dazzled 
 By the rays of the setting 
 sun." 
 
 Fainter grew her voice, and 
 
 weaker, 
 
 As with anxious eyes she cried, 
 
 " Down the avenue of chestnuts, 
 
 I can hear a horseman ride." 
 
 " It was only the deer that 
 
 were feeding 
 In a herd on the clove* 
 grass.,
 
 92 
 
 HOURS. 
 
 They were startled, and fled 
 
 to the thicket, 
 As they saw the reapers 
 pass." 
 
 Now the night arose in silence, 
 Birds lay in their leafy nest, 
 And the deer couched in the 
 
 forest, 
 
 And the children were at rest : 
 There was only a sound of 
 
 weeping 
 From watchers around a 
 
 bed, 
 
 But Rest to the weary spirit, 
 Peace to the quiet Dead ! 
 
 HOURS. 
 
 WHEN the bright stars came out 
 
 last night, 
 
 And the dew lay on the flow- 
 ers, 
 
 I had a vision of delight, 
 A dream of bygone hours. 
 
 Those hours that came and fled 
 
 so fast, 
 
 Of pleasure or of pain, 
 As phantoms rose from out the 
 
 past 
 Before my eyes again. 
 
 With beating heart did I behold 
 A train of joyous hours, 
 
 Lit with the radiant light of old, 
 And, smiling, crowned with 
 flowers. 
 
 And some were hoars of childish 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 A mimicry of pain, 
 That through their tears looked 
 
 for a morrow 
 They knew must smile again. 
 
 Those hours of hope that longed 
 
 for life, 
 
 And wished their part begun, 
 And ere the summons to the 
 
 strife 
 
 Dreamed that the field wag 
 won. 
 
 I knew the echo of their voice, ' 
 The starry crowns they wore ; 
 
 The vision made my soul rejoice 
 With the old thrill of yore. 
 
 1 knew the perfume of their 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 The glorious shining rays 
 Around these happy, smiling 
 
 hours 
 Were lit in bygone days. 
 
 O stay, I cried, bright visions, 
 
 stay, 
 
 And leave me not forlorn ! 
 But, smiling still, they passed 
 
 away, 
 Like shadows of the morn. 
 
 One spirit still remained, and 
 
 cried, 
 
 " Thy soul shall ne'er for- 
 get ! " 
 
 He standeth ever by my side, 
 The phantom called Regret!
 
 THE TWO INTERPRETERS. 
 
 93 
 
 But still the spirits rose, and 
 
 there 
 
 Were weary hours of pain, 
 And anxious hours of fear and 
 
 care 
 Bound by an iron chain. 
 
 Dim shadows came of lonely 
 
 hours, 
 
 That shunned the light of day, 
 And in the opening smile of 
 
 flowers 
 Saw only quick decay. 
 
 Calm hours that sought the 
 
 starry skies 
 
 For heavenly lore were there; 
 With folded hands and earnest 
 
 eyes, 
 I knew the hours of prayer. 
 
 Stern hours that darkened the 
 
 sun's light, 
 
 Heralds of coming woes, 
 With trailing wings, before my 
 
 sight 
 From the dim past arose. 
 
 As each dark vision passed and 
 spoke, 
 
 I prayed it to depart : 
 At each some buried sorrow woke 
 
 And stirred within my heart. 
 
 Until these hours of pain and 
 
 care 
 
 Lifted their tearful eyes, 
 Spread their dark pinions in the 
 
 air, 
 And passed into the skies. 
 
 THE TWO INTERPRET- 
 ERS. 
 
 THE clouds are fleeting by, fa- 
 ther ; 
 
 Look, in the shining west, 
 The great white clouds sail on- 
 ward 
 
 Upon the sky's blue breast. 
 Look at a snowy eagle, 
 
 His wings are tinged with red, 
 And a giant dolphin follows 
 
 him, 
 With a crown upon his head ! " 
 
 The father spake no word, but 
 
 watched 
 
 The drifting clouds roll by; 
 He traced a misty vision too 
 
 Upon the shining sky : 
 A shadowy form, with well- 
 known grace 
 Of weary love and care, 
 Above the smiling child she 
 
 held, 
 Shook down her floating hair. 
 
 " The clouds are changing now, 
 
 father, 
 Mountains rise higher and 
 
 higher ! 
 And see where red and purple 
 
 ships 
 
 Sail in a sea of fire ! " 
 The father pressed the little hand 
 
 More closely in his own, 
 And watched a cloud-dream in 
 
 the sky 
 That he could see alone :
 
 94 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 Bright angels carrying far away 
 
 A white form, cold and dead, 
 
 Two held the feet, and two bore 
 
 up 
 
 The flower-crowned, drooping 
 head. 
 
 " See, father, see ! a glory floods 
 
 The sky, and all is bright, 
 And clouds of every hue and 
 shade 
 
 Burn in the golden light. 
 And now, above an azure lake, 
 
 Rise battlements and towers, 
 Where knights and ladies climb 
 the heights, 
 
 All bearing purple flowers." 
 
 The father looked, and, with a 
 
 pang 
 
 Of love and strange alarm, 
 Drew close the little eager child 
 
 Within his sheltering arm ; 
 From out the clouds the mother 
 
 looks 
 
 With wistful glance below, 
 She seems to seek the treasure 
 
 left 
 
 On earth so long ago ; 
 She holds her arms out to her 
 
 child, 
 
 His cradle-song she sings: 
 
 The last rays of the sunset gleam 
 
 Upon her outspread wings. 
 
 Calm twilight veils the summer 
 sky, 
 
 The shining clouds are gone ; 
 In vain the merry laughing child 
 
 Still gayly prattles on ; 
 
 In vain the bright stars, one by 
 one, 
 
 On the blue silence start, 
 A dreary shadow rests to-night 
 
 Upon the father's heart. 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 HAST thou o'er the clear heaven 
 
 of thy soul 
 Seen tempests roll? 
 Hast thou watched all the hopes 
 
 thou wouldst have won 
 Fade, one by one ? 
 Wait till the clouds are past, 
 
 then raise thine eyes 
 To bluer skies. 
 
 Hast thou gone sadly through a 
 
 dreary night, 
 And found no light, 
 No guide, no star, to cheer thec 
 
 through the plain, 
 
 No friend, save pain 1 
 
 Wait, and thy soul shall see, 
 
 when most forlorn, 
 Rise a new morn. 
 
 Hast thou beneath another's stern 
 
 control 
 
 Bent thy sad soul, 
 And wasted sacred hopes and 
 
 precious tears? 
 Yet calm thy fears, 
 For thou canst gain, even from 
 
 the bitterest part, 
 A stronger heart.
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 9ft 
 
 Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with 
 
 some sudden blow ? 
 Let thy tears flow ; 
 But know when storms are past, 
 
 the heavens appear 
 More pure, more clear ; 
 And hope, when farthest from 
 
 their shining rays, 
 For brighter days. 
 
 Hast thou found life a cheat, and 
 
 worn in vain 
 Its iron chain ? 
 Has thy soul bent beneath earth's 
 
 heavy bond ? 
 Look thou beyond ; 
 If life is bitter there forever 
 
 shine 
 Hopes more divine. 
 
 Art thon alone, and does thy 
 
 soul complain 
 It lives in vain? 
 Not vainly does he live who can 
 
 endure. 
 
 O be thou sure, 
 That he who hopes and suffers 
 
 here, can earn 
 A sure return. 
 
 Hast thou found naught within 
 
 thy troubled life 
 Save inward strife ? 
 Hast thou found all she promised 
 
 thee, Deceit, 
 And Hope a cheat ? 
 Endure, and there shall dawn 
 
 within thy breast 
 Eternal rest ! 
 
 HOME AT LAST. 
 
 CHILD, do not fear ; 
 We shall reach our home to- 
 night, 
 For the sky is clear, 
 
 And the waters bright; 
 And the breezes have scarcely 
 
 strength 
 To unfold that little cloud, 
 
 That like a shroud 
 Spreads out its fleecy length ; 
 
 Then have no fear, 
 As we cleave our silver way 
 Through the waters clear. 
 
 Fear not, my child ! 
 Though the waves are white and 
 
 high, 
 And the storm blows wild 
 
 Through the gloomy sky ; 
 
 On the edge of the western sea, 
 
 See that line of golden light, 
 
 Is the haven bright 
 Where home is awaiting thee ; 
 
 Where, this peril past, 
 We shall rest from our stormy 
 
 voyage 
 In peace at last. 
 
 Be not afraid , 
 
 But give me thy hand, and see 
 How the waves have made 
 
 A cradle for thee. 
 Night is come, dear, and we shall 
 
 rest; 
 So turn from the angry skies, 
 
 And close thine eyes, 
 And lay thy head on my breast :
 
 96 
 
 UNEXPRESSED. 
 
 Child, do not weep ; 
 In the calm, cold, purple depths 
 There we shall sleep. 
 
 UNEXPRESSED. 
 
 DWELLS within the soul of every 
 Artist 
 
 More than all his effort can ex- 
 press ; 
 
 And he knows the best remains 
 unaltered ; 
 
 Sighing at what we call his suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Vainly he may strive; he dare 
 not tell us 
 
 All the sacred mysteries of the 
 skies ; 
 
 Vainly he may strive, the deep- 
 est beauty 
 
 Cannot be unveiled to mortal 
 eyes. 
 
 And the more devoutly that he 
 listens, 
 
 And the holier message that is 
 sent, 
 
 Still the more his soul must 
 struggle vainly, 
 
 Bowed beneath a noble discon- 
 tent. 
 
 No great Thinker ever lived and 
 taught you 
 
 All the wonder that his soul re- 
 ceived; 
 
 No true Painter ever set on 
 
 canvas 
 All the glorious vision he con. 
 
 ceived. 
 
 No Musician ever held your 
 spirit 
 
 Charmed and bound in his me- 
 lodious chains, 
 
 But be sure he heard, and strove 
 to render, 
 
 Feeble echoes of celestial strains. 
 
 No real Poet ever wove in num- 
 bers 
 
 All his dream ; but the diviner 
 part, 
 
 Hidden from all the world, spake 
 to him only 
 
 In the voiceless silence of his 
 heart. 
 
 So with Love : for Love and Are 
 
 united 
 Are twin mysteries; different, yet, 
 
 the same : 
 Poor indeed would be the love 
 
 of any 
 Who could find its full and per 
 
 feet name. 
 
 Love may strive, but vain is the 
 endeavor 
 
 All its boundless riches to un- 
 fold; 
 
 Still its tenderest, truest secret 
 lingers 
 
 Ever in its deepest depths un- 
 told.
 
 REST AT EVENING. 
 
 97 
 
 Things of Time h,ave voices : 
 speak and perish. 
 
 Art and Love speak ; but their 
 words must be 
 
 Like sighings of illimitable for- 
 ests, 
 
 And waves of an unfathomable 
 
 BECAUSE. V 
 
 IT is not because your heart is 
 
 mine mine only 
 Mine alone ; 
 It is not because you chose me, 
 
 weak and lonely, 
 For your own ; 
 Not because the earth is fairer, 
 
 and the skies 
 Spread above you 
 Are more radiant for the shining 
 
 of your eyes 
 That I love you ! 
 
 It is not because the world's per- 
 plexed meaning 
 Grows more clear; 
 And the Parapets of Heaven, 
 
 with angels leaning, 
 Seem more near ; 
 And Nature sings of praise with 
 
 all her voices 
 Since yours spoke, 
 Since within my silent heart, 
 
 that now rejoices, 
 Love awoke ! 
 
 Nay, not even because your hand 
 
 holds heart and life ; 
 At your will 
 
 Soothing, hushing all its discord, 
 
 making strife 
 Calm and still ; 
 Teaching Trust to fold her wings, 
 
 nor ever roam 
 From her nest ; 
 Teaching Love that her securest, 
 
 safest home 
 Must be Rest. 
 
 But because this human Love, 
 though true and sweet ' 
 Yours and mine 
 Has been sent by Love more ten- 
 der, more complete, 
 More divine ; 
 That it leads our hearts to rest 
 
 at last in Heaven, 
 Far above you ; 
 Do I take you as a gift that God 
 
 has given 
 And I love you ! 
 
 EEST AT EVENING. 
 
 WHEN the weariness of Life is 
 ended, 
 
 And the task of our long day is 
 done, 
 
 And the props, on which our 
 hearts depended, 
 
 All have failed or broken, one 
 by one ; 
 
 Evening and our Sorrow's shad- 
 ow blended, 
 
 Telling us that peace is now be- 
 gun.
 
 98 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 How far back will seem the sun's 
 
 first dawning, 
 And those early mists so cold and 
 
 gray! 
 Half forgotten even the toil of 
 
 morning, 
 And the heat and burden of the 
 
 day : 
 Flowers that we were tending, 
 
 and weeds scorning, 
 All alike withered and cast away. 
 
 Vain will seem the impatient 
 heart, which waited 
 
 Toils that gathered but too quick- 
 ly round ; 
 
 And the childish joy, so soon 
 elated 
 
 At the path we thought none else 
 had found ; 
 
 And the foolish ardor, soon 
 abated 
 
 By the storm which cast us to 
 the ground. 
 
 Vain those pauses on the road, 
 each seeming 
 
 As our final home and resting- 
 place ; 
 
 And the leaving them, while 
 tears were streaming 
 
 Of eternal sorrow down our 
 face; 
 
 And the hands we held, fond 
 folly dreaming 
 
 That no future could their touch 
 efface. 
 
 All will then be faded : night 
 will borrow 
 
 Stars of light to crown our per- 
 fect rest ; 
 
 And the dim vague memory of 
 faint sorrow 
 
 Just remain to show us all was 
 best, t 
 
 Then melt into a divine to-mor- 
 row : 
 
 O how poor a day to be so blest! 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 FROM this fair point of present 
 
 bliss, 
 
 Where we together stand, 
 Let me look back once more, 
 
 and trace 
 
 That long and desert land, 
 Wherein till now was cast my lot, 
 and I could live, and thou 
 wert not. 
 
 Strange that my heart could beat, 
 
 and know 
 
 Alternate joy and pain, 
 That suns could roll from east 
 
 to west, 
 
 And clouds could pass in rain, 
 And the slow hours without thee 
 fleet, nor stay their noiseless 
 silver feet. 
 
 What had I then ? a Hope, that 
 
 grew 
 
 Each hour more bright and 
 dear,
 
 TRUE OR FALSE. 
 
 99 
 
 The flush upon the eastern skies 
 That showed the sun was 
 
 near : 
 Now night has faded far away, 
 
 my sun has risen, and it is 
 
 day. 
 
 A dim Ideal of tender grace 
 
 In my soul reigned supreme ; 
 Too noble and too sweet I 
 
 thought 
 
 To live, save in a dream ; 
 Within thy heart to-day it lies, 
 and looks on me from thy 
 dear eyes. 
 
 Some gentle spirit Love I 
 
 thought 
 
 Built many a shrine of pain ; 
 Though each false Idol fell to 
 
 dust, 
 
 The worship was not vain, 
 But a faint, radiant shadow cast 
 back from our Love upon 
 the Past. 
 
 And Grief, too, held her vigil 
 
 there ; 
 
 With unrelenting sway 
 Breaking my cloudy visions 
 i down, 
 
 Throwing my flowers away : 
 I owe to her fond care alone 
 that I may now be all thine 
 own. 
 
 Fair Joy was there, her flut- 
 tering wings 
 At times she strove to raise ; 
 
 Watching through long and pa- 
 tient nights, 
 Listening long eager days : 
 
 I know now that her heart and 
 mine were waiting, Love, to 
 welcome thine. 
 
 Thus I can read thy name 
 
 throughout, 
 
 And, now her task is done, 
 Can see that even that faded Past 
 
 Was thine, beloved one, 
 And so rejoice my Life may be all 
 consecrated, dear, to thee. 
 
 TRUE OR FALSE. 
 
 So you think you love me, do 
 
 you? 
 
 Well, it may be so ; 
 But there are many ways of lov- 
 ing 
 
 I have learnt to know. 
 Many ways, and but one true 
 
 way, 
 
 Which is very rare ; 
 And the counterfeits look bright- 
 est, 
 Though they will not wear. 
 
 Yet they ring, almost, quite 
 
 truly, 
 
 Last (with care) for long ; 
 But in time must break, may 
 
 shiver 
 At a touch of wrong :
 
 100 
 
 TRUE OR FALSE. 
 
 Having seen what looked most 
 real 
 
 Crumble into dust ; 
 Now I chose that test and trial 
 
 Should precede my trust. 
 
 I have seen a love demanding 
 
 Time and hope and tears, 
 Chaining all the past, exacting 
 
 Bonds from future years ; 
 Mind and heart, and joy and 
 sorrow, 
 
 Claiming as its fee : 
 That was Love of Self, and 
 never, 
 
 Never Love of me ! 
 
 I have seen a love forgetting 
 
 All above, beyond, 
 Linking every dream and fancy 
 
 In a sweeter bond; 
 Counting every hour worthless, 
 
 Which was cold or free : 
 That, perhaps, was Love of 
 Pleasure, 
 
 But not Love of me ! 
 
 I have seen a love whose pa- 
 tience 
 
 Never turned aside, 
 Full of tender, fond devices ; 
 
 Constant, even when tried ; 
 Smallest boons were held as vic- 
 tories, 
 
 Drops that swelled the sea : 
 That I think was Love of 
 
 Power, 
 But not Love of me J 
 
 I have seen a love disdaining 
 Ease and pride and fame, 
 Burning even its own white pin- 
 ions 
 
 Just to feed its flame ; 
 Reigning thus, supreme, trium- 
 phant, 
 
 By the soul's decree ; 
 That was Love of Lore, I 
 
 fancy, 
 But not Love of me ! 
 
 I have heard or dreamt, it 
 may be 
 
 What Love is when true ; 
 How to test and how to try it, 
 
 Is the gift of few : 
 These few say (or did I dream 
 it?) 
 
 That true Love abides 
 In these very things, but always 
 
 Has a soul besides. 
 
 Lives among the false loves, 
 knowing 
 
 Just their peace and strife ; 
 Bears the self-same look, but al- 
 ways 
 
 Has an inner life. 
 Only a true heart can find it, 
 
 True as it is true, 
 Only eyes as clear and tender 
 
 Look it through and through. 
 
 If it dies, it will not perish 
 By Time's slow decay, 
 
 True Love only grows (they tell 
 
 me) 
 Stronger, day by day :
 
 GOLDEN WORDS. 
 
 101 
 
 Pain has beea i/s friend and 
 comrade ; 
 
 Fate it can defy ; 
 Only by its own sword, sometimes 
 
 Love can choose to die. 
 
 And its grave shall be more 
 noble 
 
 And more sacred still, 
 Than a throne, where one less 
 worthy 
 
 Reigns and rules at will. 
 Tell me then, do you dare offer 
 
 This true Love to me ? . . . 
 Neither you nor I can answer ; 
 
 We will wait and see ! 
 
 GOLDEN WOKDS. 
 
 SOME words are played on 
 golden strings, 
 
 Which I so highly rate, 
 I cannot bear for meaner things 
 
 Their sound to desecrate. 
 
 For every day they are not -meet, 
 Or for a careless tone ; 
 
 They are for rarest, and most 
 
 sweet, 
 And noblest use alone. 
 
 One word is POET : which is 
 
 flung 
 
 So carelessly away, 
 When such as you and I have 
 
 sung, 
 We hear it, day by day. 
 
 Men pay it for a tender phrase 
 Set in a cadenced rhyme : 
 
 I keep it as a crown of praise 
 To crown the kings of time. 
 
 And LOVE : the slightest feel- 
 ings, stirred 
 
 By trivial fancy, seek 
 Expression in that golden word 
 
 They tarnish while they speak. 
 
 Nay, let the heart's slow, rare 
 decree, 
 
 That word in reverence keep ; 
 Silence herself should only be 
 
 More sacred and more deep. 
 
 FOREVER : men have grown at 
 length 
 
 To use that word, to raise 
 Some feeble protest into strength, 
 
 Or turn some tender phrase. 
 
 It should be said in awe and fear 
 By true heart and strong will, 
 
 And burn more brightly year by 
 
 year, 
 A starry witness still. 
 
 HONOR : all trifling hearts are 
 
 fond 
 
 Of that divine appeal, 
 And men, upon the slightest 
 
 bond, 
 Set it as slighter seal. 
 
 That word should meet a noble foe 
 
 Upon a noble field, 
 And echo like a deadly blow 
 
 Turned by a silver shield-
 
 102 
 
 GOLDEN WORDS. 
 
 Trust me, the worth of words is 
 
 such 
 
 They guard all noble things, 
 And that this rash irreverent 
 
 touch 
 
 Has jarred some golden 
 strings. 
 
 For what the lips have lightly 
 
 said 
 
 The heart will lightly hold, 
 And things on which we daily 
 
 tread 
 Are lightly bought and sold. 
 
 The sun of every day will bleach 
 The costliest purple hue, 
 
 And so our common daily 
 
 speech 
 Discolors what was true. 
 
 But as you keep some thoughts 
 apart 
 
 In sacred honored care, 
 If in the silence of your heart, 
 
 Their utterance too be rare ; 
 
 Then, while a thousand words 
 repeat 
 
 Unmeaning clamors all, 
 Melodious golden echoes sweet 
 
 Shall answer when you cull.
 
 LEGENDS AND LYRICS 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSES. 
 SECOND SERIES.
 
 LEGENDS AND LYEICS. 
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 THE lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, 
 Half weary with a listless discontent. 
 The flickering giant-shadows, gathering near, 
 Closed round me with a dim and silent fear. 
 All dull, all dark ; save when the leaping flame, 
 Glancing, lit up a Picture's ancient frame. 
 Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night, 
 My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light, 
 Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint, 
 A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint, 
 The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace 
 A world of sorrow in the patient face, 
 In the thin hands folded across her breast : 
 Its own and the room's shadow hid the rest. 
 I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers stirred, 
 Till an old legend that I once had heard 
 Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom 
 Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room 
 
 In the far south, where clustering vines are hung; 
 Where first the old chivalric lays were sung ; 
 Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France 
 Angel and knight and fairy, called Romance, 
 I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread 
 Upon the earth ; blue summer overhead, 
 Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare, 
 Without a breath to stir its sultry air. 
 All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush 
 Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush
 
 106 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Upon the beach ; where, glittering towards the strand, 
 The purple Mediterranean kissed the land. 
 
 All still, all peaceful ; when a convent chime 
 
 Broke on the raid-day silence for a time, 
 
 Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, 
 
 In deeper silence and more utter peace. 
 
 So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white, 
 
 Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight, 
 
 The Convent lay, one who had dwelt for long 
 
 In that fair home of ancient tale and song, 
 
 Who knew the story of each cave and hill, 
 
 And every haunting fancy lingering still 
 
 Within the land, spake thus to me, and told 
 
 The Convent's treasured Legend, quaint and old : 
 
 Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, 
 Still more concealed where the white convent stood, 
 Borne on its perfumed wings the title came : 
 " Our Lady of the Hawthorns " is its name. 
 Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day, 
 Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray. 
 Before that -con vent shrine, the haughty knight 
 Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight ; 
 For humbler cottage strife or village brawl, 
 The Abbess listened, prayed, and settled all. 
 Young hearts that came, weighed down by love or wrong, 
 Left her kind presence comforted and strong. 
 Each passing pilgrim, and each beggar's right 
 Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night. 
 But, more than this, the Nuns could well impart 
 The deepest mysteries of the healing art ; 
 Their store of herbs and simples was renowned, 
 And held in wondering faith for miles around. 
 Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate, 
 Found help and blessing at the convent gate. 
 
 Of all the nuns, no heart was half so light, 
 No eyelids veiling glances half as bright, 
 No step that glided with such noiseless feet, 
 No face that looked so tender or so sweet,
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 107 
 
 No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear, 
 
 No heart to all the others half so dear, 
 
 So surely touched by others' pain or woe, 
 
 (Guessing the grief her young life could not know,) 
 
 No soul in childlike faith so undefiled, 
 
 As Sister Angela's, the " Convent Child." 
 
 For thus they loved to call her. She had known 
 
 No home, no love, no kindred, save their own. 
 
 An orphan, to their tender nursing given, 
 
 Child, plaything, pupil, now the Bride of Heaven. 
 
 And she it was who trimmed the lamp's red light 
 
 That swung before the altar, day and night ; 
 
 Her hands it was whose patient skill could trace 
 
 The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace ; 
 
 But most of all, her first and dearest care, 
 
 The office she would never miss or share, 
 
 Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet, 
 
 To place before the shrine at Mary's feet. 
 
 Nature is bounteous in that region fair, 
 
 For even winter has her blossoms there. 
 
 Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best, 
 
 By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed. 
 
 In pomp supreme the countless Roses passed, 
 
 Battalion on battalion thronging fast, 
 
 Eacli with a different banner, flaming bright, 
 
 Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white, 
 
 Until they bowed before a newborn queen, 
 
 And the pure virgin Lily rose serene. 
 
 Though Angela always thought the Mother blest 
 
 Must love the time of her own hawthorn best, 
 
 Each evening through the year, with equal care, 
 
 She placed her flowers ; then kneeling down in prayer, 
 
 As their faint perfume rose before the shrine, 
 
 So rose her thoughts, as pure and as divine. 
 
 She knelt until the shades grew dim without, 
 
 Till one by one the altar lights shone out, 
 
 Till one by one the Nuns, like shadows dim, 
 
 Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn ; 
 
 Her voice then led the music's winged flight, 
 
 And " Ave, Maris Stella" filled the night.
 
 108 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 But wherefore linger on those days of peace ? 
 
 When storms draw near, then quiet hours must cease. 
 
 War, cruel war, defaced the land, and came 
 
 So near the convent with its breath of flame, 
 
 That, seeking shelter, frightened peasants fled, 
 
 Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread. 
 
 Till after a fierce skirmish, down the road, 
 
 One night came straggling soldiers, with their load 
 
 Of wounded, dying comrades ; and the band, 
 
 Half pleading, yet as if they could command, 
 
 Summoned the trembling Sisters, craved their care, 
 
 Then rode away, and left the wounded there. 
 
 But soon compassion bade all fear depart, 
 
 And bidding every Sister do her part, 
 
 Some prepare simples, healing salves, or bands, 
 
 The Abbess chose the more experienced hands, 
 
 To dress the wounds needing most skilful care ; 
 
 Yet even the youngest Novice took her share. 
 
 To Angela, who had but ready will 
 
 And tender pity, yet no special skill, 
 
 Was given the charge of a young foreign knight, 
 
 Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger slight. 
 
 Day after day she watched beside his bed, 
 
 And first in hushed repose the hours fled : 
 
 His feverish moans alone the silence stirred, 
 
 Or her soft voice, uttering some pious word. 
 
 At last the fever left him ; day by day 
 
 The hours, no longer silent, passed away. 
 
 What could she speak of? First, to still his plaints, 
 
 She told him legends of the martyred Saints ; 
 
 Described the pangs, which, through God's plenteous grace, 
 
 Had gained their souls so high and bright a place. 
 
 This pious artifice soon found success 
 
 Or so she fancied for he murmured less. 
 
 So she described the glorious pomp sublime, 
 
 In which the chapel shone at Easter time, 
 
 The Banners, Vestments, gold, and colors bright, 
 
 Counted how many tapers gave their light ; 
 
 Then in minute detail went on to say, 
 
 How the High Altar looked on Christmas-day :
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 109 
 
 The kings and shepherds, all in green and red, 
 
 And a bright star of jewels overhead. 
 
 Then told the sign by which they all had seen 
 
 How even nature loved to greet her Queen, 
 
 For, when Our Lady's last procession went 
 
 Down the long garden, every head was bent, 
 
 And, rosary in hand, each Sister prayed ; 
 
 As the long floating banners were displayed, 
 
 They struck the hawthorn boughs, and showers and showers 
 
 Of buds and blossoms strewed her way with flowers. 
 
 The knight unwearied listened ; till at last, 
 
 He too described the glories of his past ; 
 
 Tourney, and joust, and pageant bright and fair, 
 
 And all the lovely ladies who were there. 
 
 But half incredulous she heard. Could this 
 
 This be the world ? this place of love and bliss ! 
 
 Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm, 
 
 That never failed to bring the gazer harm ? 
 
 She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened still, 
 
 And still the knight described with all his skill 
 
 The glorious world of joy, all joys above, 
 
 Transfigured in the golden mist of love. 
 
 Spread, spread your wings, ye angel 'guardians bright, 
 
 And shield these dazzling phantoms from her sight ! 
 
 But no ; days passed, matins and vespers rang, 
 
 And still the quiet Nuns toiled, prayed, and sang, 
 
 And never guessed the fatal, coiling net 
 
 Which every day drew near, and nearer yet, 
 
 Around their darling ; for she went and came 
 
 About her duties, outwardly the same. 
 
 The same ? ah, no ! even when she knelt to pray, 
 
 Some charmed dream kept all her heart away. 
 
 So days went on, until the convent gate 
 
 Opened one night. Who durst go forth so late ? 
 
 Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread, 
 
 Two silent, shrouded figures passed and fled. 
 
 And all was silent, save the moaning seaS, 
 
 That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze 
 
 That sighed among the perfumed hawthorn-trees.
 
 310 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 What need to tell that dream so bright and brief, 
 
 Of joy uncheckered by a dread of grief? 
 
 What need to tell how all such dreams must fade, 
 
 Before the slow, foreboding, dreaded shade, 
 
 That floated nearer, until pomp and pride, 
 
 Pleasure and wealth, were summoned to her side, 
 
 To bid, at least, the noisy hours forget, 
 
 And clamor down the whispers of regret. 
 
 Still Angela strove to dream, and strove in vain ; 
 
 Awakened once, she could not sleep again. 
 
 She saw, each day and hour, more worthless grown 
 
 The heart for which she cast away her own ; 
 
 And her soul learnt, through bitterest inward strife, 
 
 The slight, frail love for which she wrecked her life, 
 
 The phantom for which all her hope was given, 
 
 The cold bleak earth for which she bartered heaven ! 
 
 But all in vain ; would even the tenderest heart 
 
 Now stoop to take so poor an outcast's part ? 
 
 Years fled, and she grew reckless more and more, 
 Until the humblest peasant closed his door, 
 And where she passed, fair dames, in scorn and pride, 
 Shuddered, and drew their rustling robes aside. 
 At last a yearning seemed to fill her soul, 
 A longing that was stronger than control : 
 Once more, just once again, to see the place 
 That knew her young and innocent ; to retrace 
 The long and weary southern path ; to gaze 
 Upon the haven of her childish days ; 
 Once more beneath the convent roof to lie ; 
 Once more to look upon her home and die ! 
 Weary and worn her comrades, chill remorse 
 And black despair, yet a strange silent force 
 Within her heart, that drew her more and more 
 Onward she crawled, and begged from door to door. 
 Weighed down with weary days, her failing strength 
 Grew less each hour, till one day's dawn at length, 
 As first its rays flooded the world with light, 
 Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright,
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. HI 
 
 And where, amid the leafy hawthorn wood, 
 
 Just as of old the quiet cloister stood. 
 
 Would any know her ? Nay, no fear. Her face 
 
 Had lost all trace of youth, of joy, of grace, 
 
 Of the pure, happy soul they used to know 
 
 The novice Angela so long ago. 
 
 She rang the convent bell. The well-known sound 
 
 Smote on her heart, and bowed her to the ground. 
 
 And she, who had not wept for long, dry years, 
 
 Felt the strange rush of unaccustomed tears ; 
 
 Terror and anguish seemed to check her breath, 
 
 And stop her heart. O God ! could this be death ? 
 
 Crouching against the iron gate, she laid 
 
 Her weary head against the bars, and prayed : 
 
 But nearer footsteps drew, then seemed to wait ; 
 
 And then she heard the opening of the grate, 
 
 And saw the withered face, on which awoke 
 
 Pity and sorrow, as the portress spoke, 
 
 And asked the stranger's bidding: " Take me in," 
 
 She faltered, " Sister Monica, from sin, 
 
 And sorrow, and despair, that will not cease ; 
 
 O, take me in, and let me die in peace ! " 
 
 With soothing words the Sister bade her wait, 
 
 Until she brought the key to unbar the gate. 
 
 The beggar tried to thank her as she lay, 
 
 And heard the echoing footsteps die away. 
 
 But what soft voice was that which sounded near, 
 
 And stirred strange trouble in her heart to hear ? 
 
 She raised her head ; she saw she seemed to know 
 
 A face that came from long, long years ago : 
 
 Herself; yet not as when she fled away, 
 
 The young and blooming novice, fair and gay, 
 
 But a grave woman, gentle and serene : 
 
 The outcast knew it, ivhat she might have been. 
 
 But, as she gazed and gazed, a radiance bright 
 
 Filled all the place with strange and sudden light; 
 
 The Nun was there no longer, but instead, 
 
 A figure with a circle round its head, 
 
 A ring of glory ; and a face, so meek, 
 
 So soft, so tender. . . . Angela strove to speak,
 
 112 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 
 
 And stretched her hands out, crying, " Mary mild, 
 
 Mother of mercy, help me ! help your child ! " 
 
 And Mary answered, " From thy bitter past, 
 
 Welcome, my child ! O, welcome home at last! 
 
 I filled thy place. Thy flight is known to none, 
 
 For all thy daily duties I have done ; 
 
 Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung, and slept ; 
 
 Didst thou not know, poor child, thy place was kept f 
 
 Kind hearts are here ; yet would the tenderest one 
 
 Have limits to its mercy : God has none. 
 
 And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet, 
 
 But yet he stoops to give it. More complete 
 
 Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet, 
 
 And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven 
 
 Means crowned, not vanquished, when it says, 'Forgiven!" 
 
 Back hurried Sister Monica ; but where 
 
 Was the poor beggar she left lying there ? 
 
 Gone ; and she searched in vain, and sought the place 
 
 For that wan woman, with the piteous face : 
 
 But only Angela at the gateway stood, 
 
 Laden with hawthorn blossoms from the wood. 
 
 And never did a day pass by again, 
 
 But the old portress, with a sigh of pain, 
 
 Would sorrow for her loitering : with a prayer 
 
 That the poor beggar, in her wild despair, 
 
 Might not have come to any ill ; and when 
 
 She ended, " God forgive her ! " humbly then 
 
 Did Angela bow her head, and say, " Amen ! " 
 
 How pitiful her heart was ! all could trace 
 
 Something that dimmed the brightness of her face 
 
 After that day, which none had seen before ; 
 
 Not trouble but a shadow nothing more. 
 
 Years passed away. Then, one dark day of dreaa 
 Saw all the Sisters kneeling round a bed, 
 Where Angela lay dying ; every breath 
 Struggling beneath the heavy hand of death. 
 But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek, 
 She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak
 
 A LEGEND OF PROVENCE. 1]3 
 
 In sorrowing love they listened ; not a sound 
 Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round. 
 The very tapers' flames were scarcely stirred, 
 In such hushed awe the Sisters knelt and heard. 
 And through that silence Angela told her life : 
 Her sin, her flight ; the sorrow and the strife, 
 And the return ; and then clear, low, and calm, 
 " Praise God for me, my sisters " ; and the psalm 
 Rang up to heaven, far and clear and wide, 
 Again, and yet again, then sank and died ; 
 While her white face had such a smile of peace, 
 They saw she never heard the music cease ; 
 And weeping Sisters laid her in her tomb, 
 Crowned with a wreath of perfumed hawthorn bloom. 
 
 And thus the Legend ended. It may be 
 Something is hidden in the mystery, 
 Besides the lesson of God's pardon shown, 
 Never enough believed, or asked, or known. 
 Have we not all, amid life's petty strife, 
 Some pure ideal of a noble life 
 That once seemed possible 1 Did we not hear 
 The flutter of its wings, and feel it near, 
 And just within our reach ? It was. And yet 
 We lost it in this daily jar and fret, 
 And now live idle in a vague regret. 
 But still our place is kept, and it will wait, 
 Ready for us to fill it, soon or late : 
 No star is ever lost we once have seen, 
 We always may be what we might have been. 
 Since Good, though only thought, has life and breath, 
 God's life can always be redeemed from death ; 
 And evil, in its nature, is decay, 
 And any hour can blot it all away ; 
 The hopes that lost in some far distance seem, 
 May be the truer life, and this the dream.
 
 114 OVER THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 ENVY. OVER, THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 HE was the first always: For- 
 tune 
 
 Shone bright in his face. 
 I fought for years; with no ef- 
 fort 
 
 He conquered the place : 
 We ran ; my feet were all bleed- 
 ing, 
 But he won the race. 
 
 Spite of his many successes, 
 Men loved him the same ; 
 
 My one pale ray of good for- 
 tune 
 Met scoffing and blame. 
 
 When we erred, they gave him 
 
 pity, 
 
 But me only shame. 
 
 My home was still in the shadow, 
 
 His lay in the sun : 
 I longed in vain : what he asked 
 
 for 
 
 It straightway was done. 
 Once I staked all my heart's 
 
 treasure, 
 We played and he won. 
 
 Yes , and just now I have seen 
 
 him, 
 
 Cold, smiling, and blest, 
 6aid in his coffin. God help 
 
 me ! 
 
 While he is at rest, 
 I am cursed still to live : even 
 Death loved him the best. 
 
 LIKE dreary prison walls 
 
 The stern, gray mountains 
 
 rise, 
 Until their topmost crags 
 
 Touch the far gloomy skies -. 
 One steep and narrow path 
 
 Winds up the mountain's 
 
 crest, 
 And from our valley leads 
 
 Out to the golden West. 
 
 I dwell here in content, 
 
 Thankful for tranquil days ; 
 And yet my eyes grow dim, 
 
 As still I gaze and gaze 
 Upon that mountain pass, 
 
 That leads or so it seems 
 To some far happy land, 
 
 Known in a world of dreams. 
 
 And as I watch that path 
 
 Over the distant hill, 
 A foolish longing comes 
 
 My heart and soul to fill, 
 A painful, strange desire 
 
 To break some weary bond ; 
 A vague unuttcred wish 
 
 For what might lie beyond ! 
 
 In that far world unknown, 
 
 Over that distant hill, 
 May dwell the loved and lost, 
 
 Lost yet belove'd still ; 
 I have a yearning hope, 
 
 Half longing, and half pain, 
 That by that mountain pass 
 
 They may return again.
 
 BEYOND. H5 
 
 Space may keep friends apart, 
 
 Death has a mighty thrall ; 
 There is another gulf 
 
 Harder to cross than all ; 
 Yet watching that far road, 
 
 My heart beats full and fast : 
 If they should come once more, 
 
 If they should come at last ! 
 
 See, down the mountain-side 
 
 The silver vapors creep ; 
 They hide the rocky cliffs, 
 
 They hide the craggy steep, 
 They hide the narrow path 
 
 That comes across the hill : 
 O foolish longing, cease, 
 
 O beating Heart, be still 1 
 
 BEYOND. 
 
 WE must not doubt, or fear, or dread, that love for life is only given, 
 And that the calm and sainted dead will meet estranged and cold in 
 
 heaven : 
 O, Love were poor and vain indeed, based on so harsh and stern a 
 
 creed. 
 
 True that this earth must pass away, with all the starry worlds of 
 
 light, 
 
 With all the glory of the day, and calmer tenderness of night ; 
 For in that radiant home can shine alone the immortal and divine. 
 
 Earth's lower things her pride, her fame, her science, learning, 
 wealth, and power 
 
 Slow growths that through long ages came, or fruits of some con- 
 vulsive hour, 
 
 Whose very memory must decay Heaven is too pure for such as they. 
 
 They are complete : their work is done. So let them sleep in end- 
 less rest. 
 
 Love's life is only here begun, nor is, nor can be, fully blest ; 
 It has no room to spread its wings, amid this crowd of meaner things. 
 
 Just for the very shadow thrown upon its sweetness here below, 
 The cross that it must bear alone, and bloody baptism of woe, 
 Crowned and completed through its pain, we know that it shall rise 
 again.
 
 116 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 So if its flame burn pare and bright, here, wh,ere our air is dark and 
 
 dense, 
 
 And nothing in this world of night lives with a living so intense ; 
 When it shall reach its home at length how bright its light ! how 
 
 strong its strength ! 
 
 And while the vain weak loves of earth (for such base counterfeits 
 
 abound) 
 Shall perish with what gave them birth their graves are green and 
 
 fresh around, 
 No funeral song shall need to rise for the true Love that never dies. 
 
 If in my heart I now could fear that, risen again, we should not know 
 What was our Life of Life when here, the hearts we loved so much 
 
 below, 
 I would arise this very day, and cast so poor a thing away. 
 
 But Love is no such soulless clod : living, perfected it shall rise 
 Transfigured in the light of God, and giving glory to the skies : 
 And that which makes this life so sweet shall render Heaven's joy 
 complete. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 PLACE your hands in mine, dear, 
 With their rose-leaf touch : 
 
 If you heed my warning, 
 It will spare you much. 
 
 Ah ! with just such smiling 
 
 Unbelieving eyes, 
 Years ago I heard it : 
 
 You shall be more wise. 
 
 You have one great treasure, 
 
 Joy for all your life ; 
 Do not let it perish 
 
 In one reckless strife. 
 
 Do not venture all, child, 
 In one frail, weak heart ; 
 
 So, through any shipwreck, 
 You may save a part 
 
 Where your soul is tempted 
 I Most to trust your fate, I 
 
 TJhere, with double caution, j 
 ' Linger, fear, and wait. 
 
 Measure all you give, still 
 Counting what you take : 
 
 Love for love, so placing 
 Each an equal stake.
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 117 
 
 Treasure lore ; though ready 
 
 Still to live without. 
 In your fondest trust, keep 
 
 Just one thread of doubt. 
 
 Build on no to-morrow ; 
 
 Love has but to-day : 
 If the links seem slackening, 
 
 Cut the bond away. 
 
 Trust no prayer nor promise ; 
 
 Words are grains of sand : 
 To keep your heart unbroken, 
 
 Hold it in your hand. 
 
 That your love may finish 
 
 Calm as it begun, 
 Learn this lesson better, 
 
 Dear, than I have done. 
 
 Years hence, "perhaps, this warn- 
 ing 
 
 You shall give again, 
 In just the self-same words, dear, 
 
 And just as much in vain. 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 MANY, if God should make 
 
 them kings, 
 Might not disgrace the throne 
 
 He gave ; 
 
 How few who could as well fulfil 
 The holier office of a slave ! 
 
 I hold' him great who, for Love's 
 
 sake, 
 
 Can give, with generous, ear- 
 nest will, 
 
 Yet he who takes for Love's 
 
 sweet sake, 
 
 I think I hold more generous 
 still. 
 
 I prize the instinct that can 
 
 turn 
 From vain pretence with proud 
 
 disdain ; 
 
 Yet more I prize a simple heart 
 Paying credulity with pain. 
 
 I bow before the noble mind 
 That freely some great wrong 
 
 forgives ; 
 
 Yet nobler is the one forgiven, 
 Who bears that burden well, 
 and lives. 
 
 It may be hard to gain, and still 
 To keep a lowly steadfast 
 heart ; 
 
 Yet he who loses has to fill 
 A harder and a truer part. 
 
 Glorious it is to wear the crown 
 Of a deserved and pure suc- 
 cess ; 
 He who knows how to fail has 
 
 won 
 
 A Crown whose lustre is not 
 less. 
 
 Great may he be who can com- 
 mand 
 And rule with just and tender 
 
 sway; 
 
 Yet is diviner wisdom taught 
 Better by him who can obey.
 
 118 
 
 OP TIM US. 
 
 Blessed are those who die for 
 
 God, 
 And earn the Martyr's crown 
 
 of light ; 
 
 Yet he who lives for God may be 
 A greater Conqueror in His 
 sight. 
 
 OPTIMUS. 
 
 THERE is a deep and subtle snare 
 Whose sure temptation hardly 
 
 fails, 
 Which, just because it looks so 
 
 fair, 
 Only a noble heart assails. 
 
 So all the more we need be strong 
 Against this false and seeming 
 
 Right ; 
 Which none the less is deadly 
 
 wrong, 
 Because it glitters clothed in 
 
 light. 
 
 When duties unfulfilled remain, 
 
 Or noble works are left un- 
 planned, 
 
 Or when great deeds cry out in 
 vain 
 
 On coward heart and trembling 
 hand, 
 
 Then will a seeming Angel 
 
 speak : 
 ' The hours are fleeting great 
 
 the need 
 
 If thon art strong and others weak, 
 Thine be the effort and the deed. 
 
 " Deaf are their ears who ought 
 
 to hear ; 
 Idle their hands, and dull their 
 
 soul; 
 
 While sloth, or ignorance, or fear, 
 Fetters them with a blind control. 
 
 " Sort thou the tangled web 
 
 aright ; 
 Take thou the toil, take thou the 
 
 pain : 
 
 For fear the hour begin its flight, 
 While Itight and Duty plead in 
 
 vain." 
 
 And now it is I bid thee pause, 
 Nor let this Tempter bend thy will ; 
 There are diviner, truer laws 
 That teach a nobler lesson still. 
 
 Learn that each duty makes its 
 
 claim 
 
 Upon one soul : not each on all. 
 How, if God speaks thy Brother's 
 
 name, 
 Dare thou make answer to the 
 
 call? 
 
 The greater peril in the strife, 
 The less this evil should be done ; 
 For as in battle, so in life, 
 Danger and honor still are one. 
 
 Arouse him then : this is thy 
 
 part : 
 Show him the claim ; point out 
 
 the need ;
 
 TOO LATE, 
 
 119 
 
 And nerve his arm, and cheer 
 
 his heart; 
 Then stand aside, and say, " God 
 
 speed ! " 
 
 Smooth thou his path ere it is 
 
 trod ; 
 Burnish the arms that he must 
 
 wield ; 
 And pray, with all thy strength, 
 
 that God 
 May crown him Victor of the 
 
 field. 
 
 And then, I think, thy soul shall 
 
 feel 
 
 A nobler thrill of true content, 
 Than if presumptuous, eager zeal 
 Had seized a crown for others 
 
 meant. 
 
 And even that very deed shall 
 
 shine 
 
 In mystic sense, divine and true, 
 More wholly and more purely 
 
 thine 
 Because it is another's too. 
 
 A LOST CHORD. 
 
 SEATED one day at the Organ, 
 I was weary and ill at ease, 
 
 And my fingers wandered idly 
 Over the noisy keys. 
 
 I do not know what I was playing, 
 Or what I was dreaming then ; 
 
 But I struck one chord of music, 
 Like the sound of a great 
 Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight, 
 Like the close of an Angel'? 
 Psalm, 
 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit 
 With a touch of infinite calm. 
 
 It quieted pain and sorrow, 
 Like love overcoming strife ; 
 
 It seemed the harmonious echo 
 From our discordant life. 
 
 It linked all perplexed meanings 
 Into one perfect peace, 
 
 And trembled away into silence 
 As if it were loth to cease. 
 
 I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
 That one lost chord divine, 
 
 Which came from the soul of the 
 
 Organ, 
 And entered into mine. 
 
 It may be that Death's brigl/ 
 angel 
 
 Will speak in that chord agaii% 
 It may be that only in Heaven 
 
 I shall hear that grand AmeH. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 HUSH ! speak low ; tread softly: 
 Draw the sheet aside ; 
 
 Yes, she does look peaceful ; 
 With that smile she died.
 
 120 
 
 THE REQUITAL. 
 
 Yet stern want and sorrow 
 
 Even now you trace 
 On the wan, worn features 
 
 Of the still white face. 
 
 Restless, helpless, hopeless, 
 Was her bitter part ; 
 
 Now how still the Violets 
 Lie upon her Heart ! 
 
 She who toiled and labored 
 
 For her daily bread ; 
 See the velvet hangings 
 
 Of this stately bed. 
 
 Yes, they did forgive her ; 
 
 Brought her home at last ; 
 Strove to cover over 
 
 Their relentless past. 
 
 Ah, they would have given 
 Wealth, and home, and pride, 
 
 To see her just look happy 
 Once before she died ! 
 
 They strove hard to please her, 
 But, when death is near, 
 
 All you know is deadened, 
 Hope, and joy, and fear. 
 
 And besides, one sorrow 
 Deeper still one pain 
 
 Was beyond them : healing 
 Came to-day in vain ! 
 
 If she had but lingered 
 Just a few hours more ; 
 
 Or had this letter reached her 
 Just one day before ! 
 
 I can almost pity 
 
 Even him to-day ; 
 Though he let this anguish 
 
 Eat her heart away. 
 
 Yet she never blamed him ; 
 One day you shall know 
 
 How this sorrow happened ; 
 It was long ago. 
 
 I have read the letter ; 
 
 Many a weary year, 
 For one word she hungered, 
 
 There are thousands here. 
 
 If she could but hear it, 
 Could but understand ; 
 
 See, I put the letter 
 In her cold white hand. 
 
 Even these words, so longed for, 
 
 Do not stir her rest ; 
 Well, I should not murmur, 
 
 For God judges best. 
 
 She needs no more pity, 
 
 . But I mourn his fate, 
 
 When he hears his letter 
 
 Came a day too late. 
 
 THE REQUITAL. 
 
 LOUD roared the Tempest, 
 Fast fell the sleet ; 
 
 A little Child Angel 
 Passed down the street, 
 
 With trailing pinions, 
 And weary feet.
 
 RETURNED" MISSING: 
 
 121 
 
 The moon was hidden ; 
 
 No stars were bright; 
 So she could not shelter 
 
 In heaven that night, 
 For the Angels' ladders 
 
 Are rays of light. 
 
 She beat her wings 
 At each window-pane, 
 
 And pleaded for shelter, 
 But all in vain ; 
 
 ' Listen," they said, 
 " To the pelting rain ! " 
 
 She sobbed, as the laughter 
 And mirth grew higher, 
 
 " Give me rest and shelter 
 Beside your fire, 
 
 And I will give you 
 Your heart's desire." 
 
 The dreamer sat watching 
 
 His embers gleam, 
 While his heart was floating 
 
 Down hope's bright stream 
 ... So he wove her wailing 
 
 Into his dream. 
 
 The worker toiled on, 
 Fqr his time was brief; 
 
 The mourner was nursing 
 Her own pale grief; 
 
 They heard not the promise 
 That brought relief. 
 
 But fiercer the Tempest 
 
 Rose than before, 
 When the Angel paused 
 
 At a humble door, 
 
 And asked for shelter 
 And help once more 
 
 A weary woman, 
 
 Pale, worn, and thin, 
 With the brand upon her 
 
 Of want and sin, 
 Heard the Child Angel 
 
 And took her in. 
 
 Took her in gently, 
 
 And did her best 
 To dry her pinions ; 
 
 And made her rest 
 With tender pity 
 
 Upon her breast. 
 
 When the eastern morning 
 Grew bright and red, 
 
 Up the first sunbeam 
 The Angel fled ; 
 
 Having kissed the woman 
 And left her dead. 
 
 RETURNED " MISSING." 
 
 (FIVE TEARS AFTER.) 
 
 YES, I was sad and anxious, 
 But now, dear, I am gay ; 
 
 I know that it is wisest 
 To put all hope away : 
 
 Thank God that I have dona 
 
 so, 
 And can be calm to-day 1
 
 122 
 
 IN THE WOOD. 
 
 For hope deferred you know 
 
 it 
 
 Once made my heart so sick : 
 Now, I expect no longer; 
 
 It is but the old trick 
 Of hope, that makes me tremble, 
 And makes my heart beat 
 quick. 
 
 All day I sit here calmly ; 
 
 Not as I did before, 
 Watching for one whose footstep 
 
 Comes never, never more. . . . 
 Hush ! was that some one pass- 
 ing, 
 
 Who paused beside the door ? 
 
 For years I hung on chances, 
 Longing for just one word ; 
 
 At last I feel it : silence 
 Will never more be stirred. . . 
 
 Tell me once more that rumor 
 You fancied you had heard. 
 
 Life has more things to dwell on 
 Than just one useless pain, 
 
 Useless and past forever ; 
 But noble things remain, 
 
 And wait us all : ... you too, 
 
 dear, 
 Do you think hope quite vain ? 
 
 All others have forgotten, 
 'T is right I should forget, 
 
 Nor live on a keen longing 
 Which shadows forth re- 
 gret : . . . 
 
 Are not the letters coming ? 
 The sun is almost set. 
 
 Now that my restless legion 
 Of hopes and fears is fled, 
 
 Reading is joy and comfort . . . 
 . . . This very day I read, 
 
 O, such a strange returning 
 Of one whom all thought 
 dead ! 
 
 Not that / dream or fancy, 
 You know all that is past ; 
 
 Earth has no hope to give me, 
 And yet Time flies so fast 
 
 That all but the impossible 
 Might be brought back at last. 
 
 IN THE WOOD. 
 
 IN the wood where shadows ar 
 
 deepest 
 
 From the branches overhead, 
 Where the wild wood-strawber- 
 ries cluster, 
 
 And the softest moss is spread, 
 I met to-day with a fairy, 
 
 And I followed her where she 
 led. 
 
 Some magical words she uttered, 
 
 I alone could understand, 
 For the sky grew bluer and 
 
 brighter ; 
 While there rose on either 
 
 hand 
 
 The cloudy walls of a palace 
 That was built in Fairy-land.
 
 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 123 
 
 And I stood in a strange en- 
 chantment ; 
 
 I had known it all before : 
 In my heart of hearts was the 
 
 magic 
 Of days that will come no 
 
 more, 
 
 The magic of joy departed, 
 That Time can never restore. 
 
 That never, ah, never, never, 
 Never again can be : 
 
 Shall I tell you what powerful 
 
 fairy 
 Built up this palace for me ? 
 
 It was only a little white Violet 
 I found at the root of a tree. 
 
 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 GOD'S world is bathed in beauty, 
 God's world is steeped in light ; 
 
 It is the self-same glory 
 
 That makes the day so bright, 
 
 Which thrills the earth with 
 
 music, 
 Or hangs the stars in night. 
 
 lid in earth's mines of silver, 
 Floating on clouds above, 
 
 Ringing in Autumn's tempest, 
 Murmured by every dove, 
 
 One thought fills God's creation, 
 His own great name of Love ! 
 
 In God's world Strength is 
 
 lovely, 
 And so is Beauty strong, 
 
 And Light God's glorious 
 shadow 
 
 To both great gifts belong ; 
 And they all melt into sweetness, 
 
 And fill the earth with Song. 
 
 Above God's world bends 
 
 Heaven, 
 With day's kiss pure and 
 
 bright, 
 Or folds her still more fondly 
 
 In the tender shade of night ; 
 And she casts back Heaven's 
 
 sweetness, 
 In fragrant love and light. 
 
 God's world has one great echo ; 
 Whether calm blue mists ar*v 
 
 curled, 
 
 Or lingering dew-drops quiver, 
 Or red storms are unfurled ; 
 The same deep love is throbbing 
 Through the great heart o/ 
 God's world. 
 
 Man's world is black and bligh' x 
 
 ed, 
 Steeped through with self an d. 
 
 sin ; 
 And should his feeble purpose 
 
 Some feeble good begin, 
 The work is marred and tainted 
 By Leprosy within. 
 
 Man's world is bleak and bitter; 
 
 Wherever he has trod 
 He spoils the tender beauty 
 
 That blossoms on the sod,
 
 124 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 And blasts the loving Heaven 
 Of the great, good world of 
 God. 
 
 There Strength on coward weak- 
 ness 
 
 In cruel might will roll ; 
 Beauty and Joy are cankers 
 
 That eat away the soul ; 
 And Love O God, avenge it 
 
 The plague-spot of the whole. 
 
 Man's world is Pain and Terror ; 
 
 He found it pure and fair, 
 And wove in nets of sorrow 
 
 The golden summer air. 
 Black, hideous, cold, and dreary, 
 
 Man's curse, not God's, is there. 
 
 And yet God's world is speaking : 
 Man will not hear it call ; 
 
 But listens where the echoes 
 Of his own discords fall, 
 
 Then clamors back to Heaven 
 That God has done it all. 
 
 O God, man's heart is darkened, 
 He will not understand ! 
 
 Show him Thy cloud and fire ; 
 And, with Thine own right 
 hand, 
 
 Then lead him through his desert, 
 Back to Thy Holy Land ! 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 .2 WAS with my lady when she 
 
 died : 
 I it was who guided her weak hand 
 
 For a blessing on each little 
 
 head, 
 Laid her baby by her on the 
 
 bed, 
 Heard the words they could not 
 
 understand. 
 
 And I drew them round my 
 
 knee that night, 
 Hushed their childish glee, and 
 
 made them say | 
 
 They would keep her words 
 
 with loving tears, 
 They would not forget her 
 
 dying fears 
 Lest the thought of her should 
 
 fade away. 
 
 I, who guessed what her last 
 
 dread had been, 
 Made a promise to that still, 
 
 cold face, 
 That her children's hearts, at 
 
 any cost, 
 Should be with the mother 
 
 they had lost, 
 When a stranger came to take 
 
 her place. 
 
 And 1 knew so much ! for I had 
 lived 
 
 With my lady since her child- 
 hood : known 
 What her young and happy 
 
 days had been, 
 
 And the grief no other eyes 
 had seen 
 
 I had watched and sorrowed for 
 alone.
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 125 
 
 Ah ! she once had such a happy 
 
 smile ! 
 1 had known how sorely she was 
 
 tried : 
 Six short years before, her eyes 
 
 were bright 
 As her little blue-eyed May's 
 
 that night, 
 When she stood by her dead 
 
 mother's side. 
 
 No, I will not say he was un- 
 kind ; 
 
 But she had been used to love 
 
 and praise. 
 He was somewhat grave, 
 
 perhaps, in truth, 
 Could not weave her joyous, 
 smiling youth 
 
 Into all his stern and serious 
 ways. 
 
 She, who should have reigned a 
 
 blooming flower, 
 First in pride and honor, as in 
 
 grace, 
 She, whose will had once ruled 
 
 all around, 
 Queen and darling of us all, 
 
 she found 
 Change indeed in that cold, 
 
 stately place. 
 
 Yet she would not blame him, 
 
 even to me, 
 Though she often sat and wept 
 
 alone ; 
 But she could not hide it near 
 
 her death, 
 
 When she said with her las* 
 
 struggling breath, 
 " Let my babies still remain my 
 own ! " 
 
 I it was who drew the sheet aside, 
 When he saw his dead wife's 
 
 face. That test 
 Seemed to strike right to his 
 
 heart. He said, 
 In a strange, low whisper, to 
 
 the dead, 
 
 "God knows, love, I did it for 
 the best ! " 
 
 And he wept O yes, I will be 
 
 just 
 When I brought the children to 
 
 him there, 
 Wondering sorrow in their 
 
 baby eyes ; 
 And he soothed them with his 
 
 fond replies, 
 Bidding me give double love and 
 
 care. 
 
 Ah, I loved them well for her 
 
 dear sake : 
 
 Little Arthur, with his serious air; 
 May, with all her mother'* 
 
 pretty ways, 
 Blushing, and at any word of 
 
 praise 
 
 Shaking out her sunny golde> 
 hair. 
 
 And the little one of all poo 
 child ! 
 
 She had cost that dear and pre- 
 cious life.
 
 126 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 Once Sir Arthur spoke my 
 lady's name, 
 
 When the baby's gloomy chris- 
 tening came, 
 
 And he called her " Olga like 
 my wife ! " 
 
 Save that time, he never spoke 
 
 of her : 
 He grew graver, sterner, every 
 
 day ; 
 And the children felt it, for 
 
 they dropped 
 Low their voices, and their 
 
 laughter stopped, 
 While he stood and watched them 
 
 at their play. 
 
 No, he never named their moth- 
 er's name. 
 
 But I told them of her: told 
 
 them all 
 She had been ; so gentle, good, 
 
 and bright ; 
 
 And I always took them every 
 night 
 
 Where her picture hung in the 
 great hall. 
 
 There she stood : white daisies 
 
 in her hand, 
 And her red lips parted as to 
 
 speak 
 With a smile; the blue and 
 
 sunny air 
 Seemed to stir her floating 
 
 golden hair, 
 And to bring a faint blush on 
 
 her cheek. 
 
 Well, so time passed on ; a year 
 
 was gone, 
 And Sir Arthur had been much 
 
 away. 
 Then the news came ! I shed 
 
 many tears 
 When I saw the truth of all 
 
 my fears 
 Rise before me on that bitter 
 
 day. 
 
 Any one but her I could have 
 
 borne ! 
 But my lady loved her as her 
 
 friend. 
 Through their childhood and 
 
 their early youth, 
 How she used to count upon 
 
 the truth 
 Of this friendship that would 
 
 never end ! 
 
 Older, graver than my lady was, 
 Whose young, gentle heart on 
 
 her relied, 
 She would give advice, and 
 
 praise, and blame, 
 And my lady leant on Mar- 
 garet's name, 
 
 As her clearest comfort, help, and 
 guide. 
 
 I had never liked her, and I 
 
 think 
 That my lady grew to doubt her 
 
 too, 
 Since her marriage ; for she 
 
 named her less,
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 127 
 
 Never saw her, and I used to 
 
 guess 
 
 At some secret wrong I never 
 knew. 
 
 That might be or not. But now, 
 
 to hear 
 She would come and reign here 
 
 in her stead, 
 With the pomp and splendor 
 
 of a bride : 
 Would no thought reproach 
 
 her in her pride 
 With the silent memory of the 
 
 dead 1 ? 
 
 So, the day came, and the bells 
 rang out, 
 
 And I laid the children's black 
 
 aside; 
 
 And I held each little trem- 
 bling hand, 
 
 As I strove to make them un- 
 derstand 
 
 They must greet their father's 
 new-made bride. 
 
 Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave 
 
 and stern, 
 And his lady's eyes might well 
 
 grow dim, 
 When the children shrank in 
 
 fear away, 
 Little Arthur hid his face, and 
 
 May 
 Would not raise her eyes, or 
 
 speak to him. 
 
 When Sir Arthur bade them 
 greet their " mother," 
 
 I was forced to chide, yet proud 
 
 to hear 
 
 How my little loving May re- 
 plied, 
 
 With her mother's pretty air 
 of pride, 
 
 " Our dear mother has been dead 
 a year ! " 
 
 Ah, the lady's tears might well 
 
 fall fast, 
 As she kissed them, and then 
 
 turned away. 
 She might strive to smile or 
 
 to forget, 
 But 1 think some shadow of 
 
 regret 
 Must have risen to blight her 
 
 wedding-day. 
 
 She had some strange touch of 
 
 self-reproach ; 
 For she used to linger day by 
 
 day, 
 By the nursery door, or garden 
 
 gate, 
 With a sad, calm, wistful look, 
 
 and wait 
 Watching the three children at 
 
 their play. 
 
 But they always shrank away 
 
 from her 
 When she strove to comfort tiieir 
 
 alarms,
 
 128 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 And their grave, cold silence 
 
 to beguile : 
 
 Even little Olga's baby-smile 
 Quivered into tears when in her 
 arms. 
 
 I could never chide them : for I 
 
 saw 
 How their mother's memory grew 
 
 more deep 
 In their hearts. Each night I 
 
 had to tell 
 Stories of her whom I loved 
 
 so well 
 When a child, to send them off 
 
 to sleep. 
 
 But Sir Arthur O, this was 
 
 too hard ! 
 He, who had been always stern 
 
 and sad 
 In my lady's time, seemed to 
 
 rejoice 
 Each day more ; and I could 
 
 hear his voice 
 Even, sounding younger and 
 
 more glad. 
 
 
 He might perhaps have blamed 
 them, but his wife 
 
 Never failed to take the children's 
 
 part : 
 She would stay him with her 
 
 pleading tone, 
 
 Saying she would strive, and 
 strive alone, 
 
 Fill she gained each little way- 
 ward heart. 
 
 And she strove indeed, and 
 seemed to be 
 
 Always waiting for their love, 
 
 in vain ; 
 Yet, when May had most her 
 
 mother's look, 
 
 Then the lady's calm, cold ac- 
 cents shook 
 
 With some memory of reproach- 
 ful pain. 
 
 Little May would never call her 
 mother : 
 
 So, one day, the lady, bending 
 
 low, 
 Kissed her golden curls, and 
 
 softly said, 
 
 " Sweet one, call me Marga- 
 ret, instead, 
 
 Your dear mother used to call 
 me so." 
 
 She was gentle, kind, and pa- 
 tient too, 
 
 Yet in vain : the children held 
 
 apart. 
 Ah, their mother's gentle 
 
 memory dwelt 
 
 Near them, and her little or- 
 phans felt 
 
 She had the first claim upon 
 their heart. 
 
 So three years passed ; then the 
 
 war broke out ; 
 And a rumor seemed to spread 
 
 and rise;
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 129 
 
 First we guessed what sorrow 
 
 must befall, 
 Then all doubt fled, for we 
 
 read it all 
 In the depths of her despairing 
 
 Yes ; Sir Arthur had been called 
 
 away 
 .To that scene of slaughter, fear, 
 
 and strife, 
 Now he seemed to know with 
 
 do ul >le pain 
 The cold, bitter gulf that must 
 
 remain 
 To divide his children from his 
 
 wife. 
 
 Nearer came the day he was to 
 
 sail, 
 Deeper grew the coming woe 
 
 and fear, 
 When, one night, the children 
 
 at my knee 
 Knelt to say their evening 
 
 prayer to me, 
 I looked up and saw Sir Arthur 
 
 near. 
 
 There they knelt with folded 
 
 hands, and said 
 Low, soft words in stammering 
 
 accents sweet ; 
 In the firelight shone their 
 
 golden hair 
 And white robes : my darlings 
 
 looked so fair, 
 With their little bare and rosy 
 
 feet! 
 
 There he waited till their low 
 
 " Amen ! " 
 Stopped the rosy lips raised for 
 
 " Good night ! " 
 Drew them with a fond clasp, 
 
 close and near, 
 As he bade them stay with 
 
 him, and hear 
 Something that would make his 
 
 heart more light. 
 
 Little Olga crept into his arms ; 
 Arthur leant upon his shoulder ; 
 
 May 
 Knelt beside him, with her 
 
 earnest eyes 
 
 Lifted up in patient, calm sur- 
 prise, 
 
 I can almost hear his words to- 
 day. 
 
 " Years ago, my children, years 
 
 ago, 
 When your mother was a child, 
 
 she came 
 From her Northern home, 
 
 and here she met 
 Love for love, and comfort for 
 
 regret, 
 In one early friend, you know 
 
 her name. 
 
 " And this friend a few years 
 
 older gave 
 Such fond care, such love, that 
 
 day by day 
 The new home grew happy, 
 
 joy complete,
 
 130 
 
 A NEW MOTHER. 
 
 Studies easier, and play more 
 
 sweet, 
 
 While all childish sorrows passed 
 away. 
 
 "And yonr mother fragile, 
 like my May 
 
 Leant on this deep love, nor 
 
 leant in vain. 
 
 For this friend (strong, gener- 
 ous, noble heart!) 
 Gave the sweet, and took the 
 bitter part, 
 
 Brought her all the joy, and kept 
 the pain. 
 
 " Years passed on, and then I 
 saw them first : 
 
 It was hard to say which was 
 
 most fair, 
 Your sweet mother's bright 
 
 and blushing face, 
 Or the graver Margaret's state- 
 ly grace ; 
 
 Golden locks, or braided raven 
 hair. 
 
 " Then it happened, by a 
 
 strange, sad fate, 
 One thought entered into each 
 
 young soul : 
 Joy for one if for the other 
 
 pain; 
 Loss for one if for the other 
 
 gain : 
 One must lose, and one possess 
 
 the whole. 
 
 " And so this this what they 
 
 cared for came 
 And belonged to Margaret : was 
 
 her own. 
 But she laid the gift aside, to 
 
 take 
 Pain and sorrow for your 
 
 mother's sake, 
 And none knew it but herself 
 
 alone. 
 
 "Then she travelled far away, 
 and none 
 
 The strange mystery of her ab- 
 sence knew. 
 Margaret's secret thought was 
 
 never told : 
 
 Even your mother thought 
 her changed and cold, 
 
 And for many years I thought 
 so too. 
 
 " She was gone ; and then your 
 
 mother took 
 That poor gift which Margaret 
 
 laid aside : 
 Flower, or toy, or trinket, 
 
 matters not : 
 What it was had better be 
 
 forgot . . . 
 It was just then she became my 
 
 bride. 
 
 " Now, I think May knows the 
 
 hope I have. 
 Arthur, darling, can you guess 
 
 the rest ?
 
 GIVE PLACE. 
 
 131 
 
 Even my little Olga under- 
 stands 
 
 Great gifts can be given by 
 
 little hands, 
 
 Since of all gifts Love is still the 
 best. 
 
 Margaret is ray dear and hon- 
 ored wife, 
 And I hold her so. But she 
 
 can claim 
 From your hearts, dear ones, 
 
 a loving debt 
 
 I can neither pay, nor yet for- 
 get : 
 You can give it in your mother's 
 
 "Earth spoils even Love, and 
 
 here a shade 
 On the purest, noblest heart may 
 
 fall: 
 Now your mother dwells in 
 
 perfect light, 
 She will bless us, I believe, 
 
 to-night, 
 She is happy now, and she knows 
 
 all." 
 
 Next day was farewell, a day 
 
 of tears ; 
 
 Yet Sir Arthur, as he rode away, 
 And turned back to see his 
 
 lady stand 
 
 With the children clinging to 
 her hand, 
 
 as if it were a happy 
 day. 
 
 Ah, they loved her soon ! The 
 
 little one 
 
 Crept into her arms as to a nest ; 
 Arthur always with her now ; 
 
 and May 
 Growing nearer to her every 
 
 day : 
 
 Well, I loved my own dear 
 lady best. j 
 
 GIVE PLACE. 
 
 STARRY Crowns of Heaven 
 
 Set in azure night ! 
 Linger yet a little 
 
 Ere you hide your light : 
 
 Nay; let Starlight fade 
 away, 
 
 Heralding the day ! 
 
 Snow-flakes pure and spotless, 
 
 Still, O, still remain, 
 Binding dreary winter, 
 
 In your silver chain : 
 
 Nay ; but melt at once 
 and bring 
 
 Radiant sunny Spring ! 
 
 Blossoms, gentle blossoms, 
 
 Do not wither yet ; 
 Still for you the sun shines, 
 
 Still the dews are wet : 
 
 Nay ; but fade and wither 
 fast, 
 
 Fruit must come at last J
 
 132 
 
 MY WILL. 
 
 Joy, so true and tender, 
 Dare you not abide ? 
 Will you spread your pinions, 
 Must you leave our side ? 
 Nay ; an Angel's shin- 
 ing grace 
 Waits to fill your place ! 
 
 MY WILL. 
 
 SINCE I have no lands or houses, 
 
 And no hoarded golden store, 
 
 What can I leave those who love 
 
 me 
 When they see my face no 
 
 more? 
 
 Do not smile ; I am not jesting, 
 Though my words sound gay 
 
 and light, 
 
 Listen to me, dearest Alice, 
 I will make my Will to-night. 
 
 First for Mabel, who will 
 
 never 
 
 Let the dust of future years 
 Dim the thought of me, but keep 
 
 it 
 Brighter still : perhaps with 
 
 tears. 
 In whose eyes, whate'er I glance 
 
 at, 
 Touch, or praise, will always 
 
 shine, 
 Through a strange and sacred 
 
 radiance, 
 
 By Love's Charter, wholly 
 mine; 
 
 She will never lend to others 
 Slenderest link of thought I 
 
 claim, 
 
 I will, therefore, to her keeping 
 Leave my memory and my 
 name. 
 
 Bertha will do truer service 
 To her kind than I have 
 
 done, 
 So I leave to her young spirit 
 
 The long Work I have begun. 
 Well ! the threads are tangled, 
 
 broken, 
 
 And the colors do not blend, 
 She will bend her earnest striving 
 
 Both to finish and amend : 
 And, when it is all completed, 
 Strong with care and rich with 
 
 skill, 
 Just because my hands began 
 
 it, 
 She will love it better still. 
 
 Ruth shall have my dearest 
 
 token, 
 
 The one link I dread to break, 
 The one duty that I live for, 
 She, when I am gone, will 
 
 take. 
 
 Sacred is the trust I leave her, 
 Needing patience, prayer, and 
 
 tears ; 
 I have striven to fulfil it, 
 
 As she knows, these many 
 
 years. 
 Sometimes hopeless, faint, an^ 
 
 weary, 
 Yet a blessing shall remain
 
 A CHANT. 
 
 133 
 
 With the task, and Ruth will 
 
 prize it, 
 For my many hours of pain. 
 
 What must I leave you, my 
 
 Alice ? 
 
 Nothing, Love, to do or bear, 
 Nothing that can dim your blue 
 
 eyes 
 With the slightest cloud of 
 
 care. 
 
 I will leave my heart to love you, 
 
 With the tender faith of old ; 
 
 Still to comfort, warm, and light 
 
 you, 
 Should your life grow dark or 
 
 cold. 
 No one else, my child, can claim 
 
 it; 
 Though you find old scars of 
 
 pain, 
 
 They were only wounds, my dar- 
 ling, 
 
 There is not, I trust, one 
 stain. 
 
 Are my gifts indeed so worthless 
 
 Now the slender sum is told? 
 
 Well, I know not : years may 
 
 bless them 
 
 With a nobler price than gold. 
 Am I poor ? ah no, most 
 
 wealthy, 
 Not in these poor gifts you 
 
 take, 
 But in the true hearts that tell 
 
 me 
 
 Tou will keep them for my 
 sake. 
 
 KING AND SLAVE. 
 
 IF in my soul, dear, 
 
 An omen should dwell, 
 Bidding me pause, ere 
 
 I love thee too well ; 
 If the whole circle 
 
 Of noble and wise, 
 With stern forebodings, 
 
 Between us should rise ; 
 
 I will tell them, dear, 
 
 That Love reigns a King, 
 Where storms cannot i*each him, 
 
 And words cannot sting ; 
 He counts it dishonor 
 
 His faith to recall ; 
 He trusts ; and forever 
 
 He gives and gives all ! 
 
 I will tell thee, dear, 
 
 That Love is a Slave, 
 Who dreads thought of freedom, 
 
 As life dreads the grave ; 
 And if doubt or peril 
 
 Of change there may be, 
 Such fear would but drive him 
 
 Still nearer to thee ! 
 
 A CHANT. 
 
 " Benedictus qui venit in nomine Do- 
 mini." 
 
 WHO is the Angel that cometh? 
 
 Life! 
 Let us not question what he 
 
 brings, 
 Peace or Strife ;
 
 134 
 
 A CHANT. 
 
 Under the shade of his mighty 
 
 wings, 
 One by one, 
 Are his secrets told ; 
 
 One by one, 
 Lit by the rays of each morning 
 
 sun, 
 Shall a new flower its petals 
 
 unfold, 
 With the mystery hid in its 
 
 heart of gold. 
 We will arise and go forth tc 
 
 greet him, 
 
 Singly, gladly, with v,ne ac- 
 cord ; 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of tat. Lord ! " 
 
 Who is the Angel ihttt cometh ? 
 
 Joy! 
 Look at his glittering rainbow 
 
 wings, 
 No alloy 
 Lies in the radiant gifts he 
 
 brings ; 
 
 Tender and sweet, 
 He is come to-day, 
 
 Tender and sweet : 
 While chains of love on his 
 
 silver feet 
 Will hold him in lingering fond 
 
 delay. 
 But greet him quickly, he will 
 
 not stay, 
 Soon he will leave us ; but 
 
 though for others 
 All his brightest treasures are 
 stored, 
 
 ; Blessed is h& that cometh 
 In tht name of cho Lord ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Who .s the Angel that cometh ? 
 
 Pain! 
 Let us arise and go forth to greet 
 
 him ; 
 
 Not in vain 
 Is the summons come for us to 
 
 meet him ; 
 He will stay, 
 And darken our sun ; 
 
 He will stay 
 
 A desolate night, a weary day. 
 Since in that shadow our 
 
 work is done, 
 And in that shadow our 
 
 crowns are won, 
 Let us say still, while his bitter 
 
 chalice 
 Slowly into our hearts ia 
 
 poured, 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh ? 
 
 Death ! 
 But do not shudder and do not 
 
 fear; 
 
 Hold your breath, 
 For a kingly presence is drawing 
 
 near, 
 
 Cold and bright 
 
 Is his flashing steel, 
 
 Cold and bright
 
 REST. 
 
 135 
 
 The smile that comes like a 
 
 starry light 
 To calm the terror and grief 
 
 we feel ; 
 He comes to help and to save 
 
 and heal : 
 Then let us, baring our hearts 
 
 and kneeling, 
 
 Sing, while we wait this An- 
 gel's sword, 
 " Blessed is he that cometh 
 
 In the name of the Lord ! " 
 
 DREAM-LIFE. 
 
 LISTEN, friend, and I will tell 
 
 you 
 Why I sometimes seem so 
 
 glad, 
 
 Then, without a reason, chang- 
 ing, 
 
 Soon become so grave and 
 sad. 
 
 Half my life I live a beggar, 
 Ragged, helpless, and alone ; 
 
 But the other half a monarch, 
 With my courtiers round my 
 throne. 
 
 Half my life is full of sorrow, 
 Half of joy, still fresh and 
 new; 
 
 One of these lives is a fancy, 
 But the other one is true. 
 
 While I live and feast on glad- 
 ness, 
 
 Still I feel the thought remain, 
 This must soon end, nearer, 
 
 nearer, 
 
 Comes the life of grief and 
 pain. 
 
 While I live a wretched beggar, 
 One bright hope my lot can 
 
 cheer ; 
 Soon, soon thou shalt have thy 
 
 kingdom, 
 
 Brighter hours are drawing 
 near. 
 
 So you see my life is twofold, 
 Half a pleasure, half a grief; 
 
 Thus all joy is somewhat tem- 
 pered, 
 And all sorrow finds relief. 
 
 Which, you ask me, is the real life, 
 Which the dream, the joy, 
 or woe "? 
 
 Hush, friend ! it is little matter, 
 And, indeed I never know. 
 
 REST. 
 
 SPREAD, spread thy silver wings, 
 
 O Dove ! 
 And seek for rest by land and 
 
 sea, 
 
 And bring the tidings back to me 
 For thee and me and those I 
 
 love.
 
 136 
 
 REST. 
 
 Look how my Dove soars 
 far away ; 
 
 Go with her, heart of mine, 
 I pray ; 
 
 Go where her fluttering silver 
 pinions 
 
 Follow the track of the crim- 
 son day. 
 
 Is rest where cloudlets slowly 
 
 creep, 
 And sobbing winds forget to 
 
 grieve, 
 
 And quiet waters gently heave, 
 As if they rocked the ship to 
 
 sleep ? 
 Ah no! that southern vapor 
 
 white 
 Will bring a tempest ere the 
 
 night, 
 And thunder through the 
 
 quiet heaven, 
 
 Lashing the sea in its angry 
 might. 
 
 The battle-field lies still and cold, 
 While stars that watch in silent 
 
 light 
 
 Gleam here and there on weap- 
 ons bright, 
 In weary sleepers' slackened 
 
 hold; 
 Nay, though they dream of no 
 
 alarm, 
 One bugle sound will stir that 
 
 calm, 
 And all the strength of two 
 
 great nations, 
 
 Eager for battle, will rise and 
 arm. 
 
 Pause where the Pilgrims' day is 
 
 done, 
 Where scrip and staff aside are 
 
 laid, 
 
 And, resting in the silent shade, 
 They watch the slowly sinking 
 
 sun. 
 Ah no ! that worn and weary 
 
 band 
 Must journey long before they 
 
 stand, 
 With bleeding feet, and hearts 
 
 rejoicing, 
 
 Kissing the dust of the Holy 
 Land. 
 
 Then find a soul who meets at 
 
 last 
 
 A noble prize but hard to gain, 
 Or joy long pleaded for in vain, 
 Now sweeter for a bitter past. 
 Ah no ! for Time can rob her 
 
 yet, 
 
 And even should cruel Time 
 
 forget, 
 Then Death will come, and, 
 
 unrelenting, 
 Brand her with sorrowful long 
 
 regret. 
 
 Seek farther, farther yet, O Dove! 
 Beyond the Land, beyond the 
 
 Sea, 
 There shall be rest for thee and 
 
 me, 
 For thee and me and those I 
 
 love. 
 
 I heard a promise gently fall, 
 I heard a far-off Shepherd cab
 
 THE TYRANT AND THE CAPTIVE. 
 
 137 
 
 The weary and the broken- 
 hearted, 
 
 Promising rest unto each and 
 all- 
 
 It is not marred by outward 
 
 strife, 
 
 It is not lost in calm repose, 
 It heedeth neither joys nor woes, 
 Is not disturbed by death or life ; 
 Through, and beyond them, 
 
 lies our Rest : 
 Then cease, O Heart, thy 
 
 longing quest ! 
 
 And thou, my Dove, with sil- 
 ver pinions 
 
 Flutter again to thy quiet 
 nest! 
 
 THE TYRANT AND THE 
 CAPTIVE. 
 
 IT was midnight when I listened, 
 And I heard two Voices 
 
 One was harsh, and stern, and 
 
 cruel, 
 
 And the other soft and weak : 
 Yet I saw no Vision enter, 
 
 And I heard no steps depart, 
 Of this Tyrant and his Cap- 
 tive, . . . 
 Fate it might be and a Heart. 
 
 Thus the stern Voice spake in 
 
 triumph : 
 w I have shut your life away 
 
 From the radiant world of na- 
 ture, 
 
 And the perfumed light of day. 
 You, who loved to steep your 
 
 spirit 
 
 In the charm of Earth's de- 
 light, 
 
 See no glory of the daytime, 
 And no sweetness of the 
 night." 
 
 But the soft Voice answered 
 
 calmly : 
 " Nay, for when the March 
 
 winds bring 
 Just a whisper to my window, 
 
 I can dream the rest of Spring; 
 And to-day I saw a swallow 
 
 Flitting past my prison bars, 
 And my cell has just one corner 
 Whence at night I see the 
 stars." 
 
 But its bitter taunt repeating, 
 
 Cried the harsh Voice : 
 
 " Where are they, 
 All the friends of former hours, 
 
 Who forget your name to-day ? 
 All the links of love are shattered, 
 
 Which you thought so strong 
 
 before ; 
 And your very heart is lonely, 
 
 And alone since loved no 
 
 But the low Voice spoke still 
 lower : 
 
 " Nay, I know the golden chain 
 Of my love is purer, stronger, 
 
 For the cruel fire of pain :
 
 138 
 
 THE CARVERS LESSON. 
 
 They remember me no longer, 
 But I, grieving here alone, 
 
 Bind their souls to me forever 
 By the love within my own." 
 
 But the Voice cried : " Once 
 remember 
 
 You devoted soul and mind 
 To the welfare of your brethren, 
 
 And the service of your kind. 
 Now, what sorrow can you com- 
 fort ? 
 
 You, who lie in helpless pain, 
 With an impotent compassion 
 
 Fretting out your life in vain." 
 
 " Nay " ; and then the gentle 
 
 answer 
 Rose more loud, and full, and 
 
 clear : 
 
 "For the sake of all my brethren 
 
 I thank God that I am here ! 
 
 Poor had been my Life's best 
 
 efforts, 
 Now I waste no thought or 
 
 breath, 
 
 For the prayer of those who suf- 
 fer 
 
 Has the strength of Love and 
 Death." 
 
 THE CARVER'S LESSON. 
 
 TRUST me, no mere skill of sub- 
 tle tracery, 
 
 No mere practice of a dexter- 
 ous hand, 
 
 Will suffice, without a hidden 
 
 spirit, 
 
 That we may, or may not, 
 understand. 
 
 And those quaint old fragments 
 
 that are left us 
 Have their power in this, 
 
 the Carver brought 
 Earnest care, and reverent pa- 
 tience, only 
 
 Worthily to clothe some noble 
 thought. 
 
 Shut then in the petals of the 
 
 flowers, 
 Round the stems of all thb 
 
 lilies twine, 
 Hide beneath each bird's or 
 
 angel's pinion, 
 
 Some wise meaning or some 
 thought divine. 
 
 Place in stony hands that pray 
 
 forever 
 Tender words of peace, and 
 
 strive to wind 
 Round the leafy scrolls and 
 
 fretted niches 
 
 Some true, loving message to 
 your kind. 
 
 Some will praise, some blame, 
 
 and, soon forgetting, 
 Come and go, nor even pause 
 
 to gaze ; 
 Only now and then a passing 
 
 stranger 
 
 Just may loiter with a word 
 of praise.
 
 THREE 
 
 But I think, when years have 
 
 floated onward, 
 And the stone is gray, and 
 
 dim, and old, 
 And the hand forgotten that 
 
 has carved it, 
 
 And the heart that dreamt it 
 still and cold ; 
 
 There may come some weary 
 
 soul, o'erladen 
 With perplexed struggle in 
 
 his brain, 
 Or, it may be, fretted with life's 
 
 turmoil, 
 
 Or made sore with some per- 
 petual pain. 
 
 Then, I think those stony hands 
 
 will open, 
 
 And the gentle lilies overflow, 
 With the blessing and the lov- 
 ing token 
 
 That you hid there many 
 years ago. 
 
 And the tendrils will unroll, 
 
 and teach him 
 How to solve the problem of 
 
 his pain ; 
 And the birds' and angels' 
 
 wings shake downward 
 On his heart a sweet and 
 tender rain. 
 
 While he marvels at his fancy, 
 
 reading 
 
 Meaning in that quaint and 
 ancient scroll, 
 
 ROSES. 139 
 
 Little guessing that the loving 
 
 Carver 
 
 Left a message for his weary 
 soul. 
 
 THKEE ROSES. 
 
 JUST when the red June Roses 
 blow 
 
 She gave me one, a year ago. 
 
 A Rose whose crimson breath 
 revealed 
 
 The secret that its heart con- 
 cealed, 
 
 And whose half-shy, half-tender 
 grace 
 
 Blushed back upon the giver's 
 
 face. 
 
 A year ago a year ago 
 To hope was not to know. 
 
 Just when the red June Roses 
 
 blow 
 I plucked her one, a month 
 
 ago: 
 
 Its half-blown crimson to eclipse, 
 I laid it on her smiling lips ; 
 The balmy fragrance of the south 
 Drew sweetness from her sweet- 
 er mouth. 
 Swiftly do golden hours 
 
 creep, 
 To hold is not to keep. 
 
 The red June Roses now are 
 
 past, 
 This very day \ broke the last,
 
 140 
 
 MY PICTURE GALLERY. 
 
 And now its perfumed breath is 
 hid, 
 
 With her, beneath a coffin-lid ; 
 
 There will its petals fall apart, 
 
 And wither on her icy heart : 
 At three red Roses' cost 
 My world was gained and lost. 
 
 MY PICTUEE GALLERY. 
 
 You write and think of me, my 
 
 friend, with pity ; 
 While you are basking in the 
 
 light of Rome, 
 Shut up within the heart of this 
 
 great city, 
 Too busy and too poor to leave 
 
 my home. 
 
 You think my life debarred all 
 
 rest or pleasure, 
 Chained all day to my ledger 
 
 and my pen ; 
 Too sickly even to use my little 
 
 leisure 
 To bear me from the strife and 
 
 din of men. 
 
 Well, it is true ; yet, now the 
 
 days are longer, 
 At sunset I can lay my writing 
 
 down, 
 
 And slowly crawl (summer has 
 
 made me stronger) 
 Just to the nearest outskirt of the 
 
 town. 
 
 There a wide Common, black- 
 ened though and dreary 
 
 With factory smoke, spreads 
 outward to the West ; 
 
 I lie down on the parched-up 
 grass, if weary, 
 
 Or lean against a broken wall 
 to rest. 
 
 So might a King, turning to 
 
 Art's rich treasure, 
 At evening, when the cares of 
 
 state were done, 
 Enter his royal gallery, drinking 
 
 pleasure 
 Slowly from each great picture, 
 
 one by one. 
 
 Towards the West I turn my 
 
 weary spirit, 
 And watch my pictures : one 
 
 each night is mine. 
 Earth and my soul, sick of day's 
 
 toil, inherit 
 A portion of that luminous 
 
 peace divine. 
 
 There I have seen a sunset's 
 
 crimson glory, 
 Burn as if earth were one great 
 
 Altar's blaze;
 
 WF PICTURE GALLERY. 
 
 141 
 
 Or, like the closing of a piteous 
 
 story, 
 Light up the misty world with 
 
 dying rays. 
 
 There I have seen the clouds, 
 
 in pomp and splendor, 
 Their gold and purple banners 
 
 all unfurl; 
 There I have watched colors, 
 
 more faint and tender 
 Than pure and delicate tints 
 
 upon a pearl. 
 
 Skies strewn with roses fading, 
 fading slowly, 
 
 While one star trembling watched 
 the daylight die ; 
 
 Or deep in gloom a sunset, hid- 
 den wholly, 
 
 Save through gold rents torn in 
 a violet sky. 
 
 Or parted clouds, as if asunder 
 riven 
 
 By some great angel, and be- 
 yond a space 
 
 Of far-off tranquil light; the gates 
 of Heaven 
 
 Will lead as grandly to as calm 
 a place. 
 
 Or stern dark walls of cloudy 
 
 mountain ranges 
 Hid all the wonders that we knew 
 
 must be; 
 
 While, far on high, some little 
 white clouds' changes 
 
 Revealed the glory they alone 
 could see. 
 
 Or in wild wrath the affrighted 
 clouds lay shattered, 
 
 Like treasures of the lost Hes- 
 perides, 
 
 All in a wealth of ruined splen- 
 dor scattered, 
 
 Save one strange light on distant 
 silver seas. 
 
 What land or time can claim the 
 
 Master Painter, 
 Whose art could teach him half 
 
 such gorgeous dyes ? 
 Or skill so rare, but purer hues 
 
 and fainter 
 Melt every evening in my western 
 
 skies. 
 
 So there I wait, until the shade 
 
 has lengthened, 
 And night's blue misty curtain 
 
 floated down ; 
 Then, with my heart calmed, and 
 
 my spirit strengthened, 
 I crawl once mor^ back to the 
 
 sultry town. 
 
 What Monarch, then, has nobler 
 
 recreations 
 Than mine ? Or where the great 
 
 and classic Land
 
 142 
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN. 
 
 Whose wealth of Art delights the 
 
 gathered nations 
 That owns a Picture Gallery half 
 
 as grand ? 
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN. 
 
 I HAD a Message to send her, 
 To her whom my soul loved 
 
 best; 
 
 But I had my task to finish, 
 And she was gone home to 
 rest. 
 
 To rest in the far bright heaven : 
 
 O, so far away from here, 
 It was vain to speak to my dar- 
 ling, 
 
 For I knew she could not 
 hear ! 
 
 I had a message to send her, 
 So tender, and true, and 
 sweet, 
 
 I longed for an Angel to bear it, 
 And lay it down at her feet. 
 
 I placed it, one summer evening, 
 On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast ; 
 
 But it faded in golden splendor, 
 And died in the crimson west. 
 
 I gave it the Lark, next morning, 
 And I watched it soar and 
 soar; 
 
 But its pinions grew faint and 
 
 weary, 
 
 And it fluttered to earth once 
 more. 
 
 To the heart of a Rose I told it ; 
 And the perfume, sweet and 
 
 rare, 
 Growing faint on the blue bright 
 
 ether, 
 Was lost in the balmy air. 
 
 I laid it upon a Censer, 
 
 And I saw the incense rise ; 
 
 But its clouds of rolling silver 
 Could not reach the far blue 
 skies. 
 
 I cried, in my passionate long 
 
 ing: 
 " Has the earth no Angel 
 
 friend 
 
 Who will carry my love the mes- 
 sage 
 
 That my heart desires to 
 send 1 " 
 
 Then I heard a strain of music, 
 So mighty, so pure, so clear, 
 
 That my very sorrow was silent, 
 And my heart stood still to 
 hear. 
 
 And I felt, in my soul's deep 
 
 yearning, 
 
 At last the sure answer stir : 
 "The music will go up to 
 
 Heaven, 
 And carry my thought to her."
 
 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 143 
 
 It rose in harmonious rushing 
 Of mingled voices and strings, 
 
 And I tenderly laid my message 
 On the Music's outspread 
 wings. 
 
 I heard it float farther and far- 
 ther, 
 In sound more perfect than 
 
 speech ; 
 
 Farther than sight can follow, 
 Farther than soul can reach. 
 
 And I know that at last my 
 
 message 
 Has passed through the golden 
 
 gate: 
 
 So my heart is no longer rest- 
 less, 
 And I am content to wait. 
 
 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 " NEVER again ! " vow hearts 
 
 / when reunited, 
 
 I " Never again shall Love be 
 cast aside ; 
 
 Forever now the shadow has de- 
 parted ; 
 
 Nor bitter sorrow, veiled in 
 scornful pride, 
 
 Shall feign indifference, or affect 
 disdain, 
 
 Never, O Love, again, never 
 
 again 
 
 " Never again ! " so sobs, in bro- 
 ken accents, 
 
 A soul laid prostrate at a holy 
 shrine, 
 
 " Once more, once more forgive, 
 
 O Lord, and pardon, 
 My wayward life shall bend to 
 love divine ; 
 
 And nevermore shall sin its 
 whiteness stain, 
 
 Never, O God, again, never 
 again ! " 
 
 " Never again ! " so speaketh 
 
 one forsaken, 
 In the blank desolate passion 
 
 of despair, 
 " Never again shall the bright 
 
 dream I cherished 
 Delude my heart, for bitter 
 
 truth is there, 
 The angel, Hope, shall still thy 
 
 cruel pain 
 Never again, my heart, never 
 
 again 
 
 " Never again ! " so speaks the 
 
 sudden silence, 
 When round the hearth gathers 
 
 each well-known face, 
 But one is missing, and no future 
 
 presence, 
 However dear, can fill that 
 
 vacant place ; 
 Forever shall the burning 
 
 thought remain, 
 " Never, beloved, again ! never 
 
 again ! "
 
 144 
 
 LISTENING ANGELS. 
 
 " Never again ! " so but beyond 
 
 our hearing 
 Ring out far voices fading up 
 
 the sky ; 
 Never again shall earthly care 
 
 and sorrow 
 Weigh down the wings that 
 
 bear those souls on high ; 
 " Listen, O earth, and hear that 
 
 glorious strain, 
 Never, never again ! never 
 
 again ! " 
 
 LISTENING ANGELS. 
 
 BLUE against the bluer heavens 
 Stood the mountain, calm and 
 
 still, 
 Two white Angels, bending 
 
 earthward, 
 Leant upon the hill. 
 
 Listening leant those silent An- 
 gels, 
 
 And I also longed to hear 
 What sweet strain of earthly 
 
 music 
 Thus could charm their ear. 
 
 I heard the sound of many trum- 
 pets 
 In a warlike march draw 
 
 nigh; 
 
 Solemnly a mighty army 
 Passed in order by. 
 
 But the clang had ceased ; the 
 
 echoes 
 
 Soon had faded from the hill ; 
 While the Angels, calm and ear. 
 
 nest, 
 Leant and listened still. 
 
 Then I heard a fainter clamor, 
 Forge and wheel were clashing 
 near, 
 
 And the Reapers in the meadow 
 Singing loud and clear. 
 
 When the sunset came in glory, 
 And the toil of day was o'er, 
 
 Still the Angels leant in silence, 
 Listening as before. 
 
 Then, as daylight slowly van. 
 
 ished, 
 And the evening mists grew 
 
 dim, 
 
 Solemnly from distant voices 
 Rose a vesper hymn. 
 
 When the chant was done, and 
 lingering 
 
 Died upon the evening air, 
 From the hill the radiant Angels 
 
 Still were listening there. 
 
 Silent came the gathering dark- 
 ness, 
 Bringing with it sleep and 
 
 rest; 
 
 Save a little bird was singing 
 Near her leafy nest.
 
 GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 145 
 
 Through the sounds of war and 
 
 labor 
 
 She had warbled all day long, 
 While the Angels leant and lis- 
 tened 
 Only to her song. 
 
 But the starry night was com- 
 ing: 
 
 When she ceased her little lay, 
 From the mountain-top the An- 
 gels 
 Slowly passed away. 
 
 GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 GOLDEN days where are they ? 
 
 Pilgrims east and west 
 Cry ; if we could find them 
 
 We would pause and rest : 
 We would pause and rest a little 
 From our long and weary 
 
 ways : 
 Where are they, then, where are 
 
 they 
 Golden days * 
 
 Golden days where are they ? 
 
 Ask of childhood's years, 
 Still untouched by sorrow, 
 
 Still undimmed by tears : 
 Ah, they seek a phantom Future, 
 Crowned with brighter, starry 
 
 rays ; 
 Where are they, then, where are 
 
 they 
 Golden days ? 
 
 Golden days where are they ? 
 
 Has Love learnt the spell 
 
 That will charm them hither, 
 
 Near our hearth to dwell ? 
 
 Insecure are all her treasures, 
 
 Eestless is her anxious 
 
 gaze: 
 Where are they, then, where are 
 
 they 
 Golden Days ? 
 
 Golden days where are they ? 
 
 Farther up the hill 
 I can hear the echo 
 
 Faintly calling still : 
 Faintly calling, faintly dying, 
 In a far-off misty haze : 
 Where are they, then, where are 
 
 they 
 Golden days ?
 
 146 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 LINGERING fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly; 
 
 Voice of bird and forest murmur, insect hum and quivering spray, 
 Stir not in that quiet hour : through the valley, calm and stilly, 
 
 All in hushed and loving silence watch the slow departing Day. 
 
 Till the last faint western cloudlet, faint and rosy, ceases blushing, 
 And the blue grows deep and deeper where one trembling planet 
 
 shines, 
 
 And the day has gone forever then, like some great ocean rushing. 
 The sad night wind wails lamenting, sobbing through the moan- 
 ing pines. 
 
 Such, of all day's changing hours, is the fittest and the meetest 
 
 For a farewell hour and parting looks less bitter and more blest ; 
 Earth seems like a shrine for sorrow, Nature's mother voice is 
 
 sweetest, 
 
 And her hand seems laid in chiding on the unquiet throbbing 
 breast. 
 
 Words are lower, for the twilight seems rebuking sad repining, 
 And wild murmur and rebellion, as all childish and in vain; 
 Breaking through dark future hours clustering starry hopes seem 
 
 shining, 
 
 Then the calm and tender midnight folds her shadow round the 
 pain. 
 
 So they paced the shady lime-walk in that twilight dim and holy, 
 
 Still the last farewell deferring, she could hear or he should say ; 
 Every word, weighed down by sorrow, fell more tenderly and 
 
 slowly 
 
 This, which now beheld their parting, should have been their 
 wedding-day.
 
 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 147 
 
 Should have been : her dreams of childhood, never straying, never 
 faltering, 
 
 Still had needed Philip's image to make future life complete ; 
 Philip's young hopes of ambition, ever changing, ever altering, 
 
 Needed Mildred's gentle presence even to make successes sweet. 
 
 This day should have seen their marriage ; the calm crowning and 
 assurance 
 
 Of two hearts, fulfilling rather, and not changing, either life : 
 Now they must be rent asunder, and her heart must learn endurance, 
 
 For he leaves their home, and enters on a world of work aud strift 
 
 But her gentle spirit long had learnt, unquestioning, submitting, 
 To revere his youthful longings, and to marvel at the fate 
 
 That gave such a humble office, all unworthy and unfitting, 
 
 To the genius of the village, who was born for something great. 
 
 When the learned Traveller came there who had gained renown at 
 
 college, 
 
 Whose abstruse research had won him even European fame, 
 Questioned Philip, praised his genius, marvelled at his self-taught 
 
 knowledge, 
 Could she murmur if he called him up to London and to fame ? 
 
 Could she waver when he bade her take the burden of decision, 
 Since his troth to her was plighted, and his life was now her own ? 
 
 Could she doom him to inaction 1 could she, when a new-born vision 
 Rose in glory for his future, check it for her sake alone ? 
 
 So her little trembling fingers, that had toiled with such fond pleasure, 
 Paused, and laid aside, and folded the unfinished wedding gown ; 
 
 Faltering earnestly assurance, that she too could, in her measure, 
 Prize for him the present honor, and the future's sure renown. 
 
 ) 
 
 Now they pace the shady lime-walk, now the last words must be 
 
 spoken, 
 Words of trust, for neither dreaded more than waiting and delay ;
 
 148 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Was not love still called eternal, could a plighted vow be 
 
 broken ? 
 See the crimson light of sunset fades in purple mist away. 
 
 " Yes, my Mildred," Philip told her, " one calm thought of joy and 
 
 blessing, 
 
 Like a guardian spirit by me, through the world's tumultuous stir, 
 Still will spread its wings above me, and now urging, now repressing, 
 With my Mildred's voice will murmur thoughts of home, and love, 
 and her. 
 
 " It will charm my peaceful leisure, sanctify my daily toiling, 
 
 With a right none else possesses, touching my heart's inmost string ; 
 And to keep its pure wings spotless I shall fly the world's touch, 
 
 soiling 
 
 .Even in thought this Angel Guardian of my Mildred's Wedding 
 Ring. 
 
 " Take it, dear ; this little circlet is the first link, strong and holy, 
 Of a life-long chain, and holds me from all other love apart ; 
 
 Till the day when you may wear it as my wife my own mine 
 
 wholly 
 Let me know it rests forever near the beating of your heart." 
 
 Dawn of day saw Philip speeding on his road to the Great City, 
 Thinking how the stars gazed downward just with Mildred's patient 
 eyes; 
 
 Dreams of work, and fame, and honor struggling with a tender pity, 
 Till the loving Past receding saw the conquering Future rise. 
 
 Daybreak still found Mildred watching, with the wonder of first 
 sorrow, 
 
 How the outward world unaltered shone the same this very day ; 
 How unpitying and relentless busy life met this new morrow, 
 
 Earth, and sky, and man unheeding that her joy had passed away. 
 
 Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to meet her, 
 With the life within departed that had given them each a soul ; 
 
 And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to greet her ; 
 For Grief spread its shadowy pinions, like a blight upon the whole.
 
 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 149 
 
 Jar one chord, the harp is silent ; move one stone, the arch is shattered ; 
 
 One small clarion-cry of sorrow bids an armed host awake ; 
 One dark cloud can hide the sunlight ; loose one string, the pearls 
 
 are scattered ; 
 
 Think one thought, a soul may perish j say one word, a heart 
 may break ! 
 
 Life went on, he two lives running side by side ; the outward seeming, 
 And the truer and diviner hidden in the heart and brain ; 
 
 Dreams grow holy, put in action ; work grows fair through starry 
 
 dreaming ; 
 But where each flows on unmingling, both are fruitless and in vain. 
 
 Such was Mildred's life ; her dreaming lay in some far-distant region, 
 All the fairer, all the brighter, that its glories were but guessed ; 
 
 And the daily round of duties seemed an unreal, airy legion, 
 Nothing true save Philip's letters and the ring upon her breast. 
 
 Letters telling how he struggled, for some plan or vision aiming, 
 And at last how he just grasped it as a fresh one spread its wings ; 
 
 How the honor or the learning, once the climax, now were claiming, 
 Only more and more, becoming merely steps to higher things. 
 
 Telling her of foreign countries : little store had she of learning, 
 So her earnest, simple spirit answered as he touched the string ; 
 
 Day by day, to these bright fancies all her silent thoughts were turning, 
 Seeing every radiant picture framed within her golden King. 
 
 O poor heart ! love, if thou wiliest ; but, thine own soul still possessing, 
 Live thy life : not a reflection or a shadow of his own : 
 
 Lean as fondly, as completely, as thou wiliest, but confessing 
 That thy strength is God's, and therefore can, if need be, stand 
 alone. 
 
 Little means were there around her to make farther, wider ranges, 
 Where her loving gentle spirit could try any stronger flight ; 
 
 And she turned aside, half fearing that fresh thoughts were fickle 
 
 changes, 
 That she must stay as he left her on that farewell summer night
 
 150 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Love should still be guide and leader, like a herald should have risen, 
 Lighting up the long dark vistas, conquering all opposing fates ; 
 
 But new claims, new thoughts, new duties found her heart a silent 
 
 prison, 
 And found Love, with folded pinions, like a jailer by the gates. 
 
 Yet why blame her ? it had needed greater strength than she was given 
 To have gone against the current that so calmly flowed along ; 
 
 Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain and dew of heaven, 
 And her nature was too passive, and her love perhaps too strong. 
 
 The great world of thought, that rushes down the years, and on- 
 ward sweeping 
 
 Bears upon its mighty billows in its progress each and all, 
 Flowed so far away, its murmur did not rouse them from their 
 
 sleeping ; 
 
 Life and Time and Truth were speaking, but they did not hear 
 their call. 
 
 Years flowed on ; and every morning heard her prayer grow lower, 
 
 deeper, 
 
 As she called all blessings on him, and bade every ill depart, 
 And each night when the cold moonlight shone upon that quiet sleeper, 
 It would show her ring that glittered with each throbbing of her 
 heart. 
 
 Years passed on. Fame came for Philip in a full, o'erflowing 
 measure ; 
 
 He was spoken of and honored through the breadth of many lands, 
 And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were only pleasure, 
 
 As if fame were only honor, when he laid them in her hands. 
 
 Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result expected, 
 For how could it fail, since merit *and renown go side by side ? 
 
 And the neighbors, who first fancied genius ought to be suspected, 
 Might at last give up their caution, and could own him now witli 
 pride. 
 
 Years flowed on. These empty honors led to others they called better, 
 He hud saved some slender fortune, and might claim his bride at last
 
 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 151 
 
 Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled by the letter 
 That now made her future certain, and would consecrate her past. 
 
 And he came : grown sterner, older changed indeed : a grave 
 reliance 
 
 Had replaced his eager manner, and the quick short speech of old : 
 He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance ; 
 
 He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold. 
 
 Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes, and lis- 
 tened 
 
 To her calm, soft voice, relating all the thoughts of these long years ; 
 And if Mildred's heart was heavy, and at times her blue eyes glistened, 
 
 Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears. 
 
 Autumn with its golden cornfields, autumn with its storms and showers, 
 Had been there to greet his coming with its forests gold and brown ; 
 
 And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the year's last flowers, 
 When he left the quiet village, and took back his bride to town. 
 
 Home, the home that she had pictured many a time in twilight, 
 
 dwelling 
 
 On that tender, gentle fancy, folded round with loving care ; 
 Here was home, the end, the haven ; and what spirit voice 
 
 seemed telling, 
 That she only held the casket, with the gem no longer there ? 
 
 Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint and weary, 
 For a hope deferred, and sadder still to see it fade and fall ; 
 
 Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow sick and dreary, 
 Then to find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain of all. 
 
 What was wanting ? He was gentle, kind, and generous still, 
 
 deferring 
 
 To her wishes always ; nothing seemed to mar their tranquil life : 
 There are skies so calm and leaden that we long for storm-winds 
 
 stirring, 
 There is peace so cold and bitter, that we almost welcome strife. 
 
 Darker grew the clouds above her, and the slow conviction clearer 
 That he gave her home and pity, but that heart and soul and mind
 
 152 PHILIP AND MILDRED. 
 
 Were beyond her now ; beloved her, and in youth he bad been near her, 
 But he now had gone far onward, and had left her there behind. 
 
 Yes, beyond her : yes, quick-hearted, her Love helped her in revealing 
 It was worthless, while so mighty ; was too weak, although so strong ; 
 
 There were courts she could not enter, depths she could not sound ; 
 
 yet feeling 
 It was vain to strive or struggle, vainer still to mourn or long. 
 
 He would give her words of kindness, he would talk of home, but 
 seeming 
 
 With an absent look, forgetting if he held or dropped her hand ; 
 And then turn with eager pleasure to his writing, reading, dreaming, 
 
 Or to speak of things with othere that she could not understand. 
 
 He had paid, and paid most nobly, all he owed ; no need of blaming ; 
 
 It had cost him something, maybe, that no future could restore : 
 In her heart of hearts she knew it ; Love and Sorrow, not complaining, 
 
 Only suffered all the deeper, only loved him all the more. 
 
 Sometimes then a stronger anguish, and more cruel, weighed upon 
 
 her, 
 That, through all those years of waiting, he had slowly learnt the 
 
 truth ; 
 
 He had known himself mistaken, but that, bound to her in honor, 
 He renounced his life, to pay her for the patience of her youth. 
 
 But a star was slowly rising from that mist of grief, and brighter 
 Grew her eyes, for each slow hour surer comfort seemed to bring; 
 
 And she watched with strange sad smiling how her trembling hands 
 
 grew slighter, 
 And how thin her slender finger, and how large her wedding-ring. 
 
 And the tears dropped slowly on it, as she kissed that golden token 
 With a deeper love, it may be, than was in the far-off past ; 
 
 And remembering Philip's fancy, that so long ago was spoken, 
 Thought her Ring's bright angel guardian had stayed near her to 
 the last.
 
 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 158 
 
 Grieving sorely, grieving truly, with a tender care and sorrow, 
 Philip watched the slow, sure fading of his gentle, patient wife ; 
 
 Could he guess with what a yearning she was longing for the morrow, 
 Could he guess the bitter knowledge that had wearied her of life 1 
 
 Now with violets strewn upon her, Mildred lies in peaceful sleeping ; 
 
 All unbound her long, bright tresses, and her throbbing heart at rest, 
 And the cold, blue rays of moonlight, through the open casement 
 creeping, 
 
 Show the ring upon her finger, and her hands crossed on her breast 
 
 Peace at last. Of peace eternal is her calm, sweet smile a token. 
 
 Has some angel lingering near her let a radiant promise fall ? 
 Has he told her Heaven unites again the links that Earth has broken 1 
 
 For on Earth so much is needed, but in Heaven Love is all ! 
 
 BORKOWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 I. FROM "LAVATER." 
 
 TRUST him little who doth raise 
 To one height both great and 
 
 small, 
 And sets the sacred crown of 
 
 praise, 
 Smiling, on the head of all. 
 
 Trust him less who looks 
 
 around 
 To censure all with scornful 
 
 eyes, 
 
 And in everything has found 
 Something that he dare de- 
 spise. 
 
 But for one who stands apart, 
 Stirred by naught that can 
 befall, 
 
 With a cold, indifferent heart, . 
 Trust him least and last of 
 all. 
 
 II. FROM "PHANTASIES." 
 
 I HAVE a bitter Thought, a 
 
 Snake 
 That used to sting my life to 
 
 pain. 
 
 I strove to cast it far away, 
 But every night and every day 
 It crawled back to my heart 
 again ! 
 
 It was in vain to live or strive, 
 To think 01 sleep, to work or 
 
 pray ; 
 At last I bade this thing accursed
 
 154 
 
 BORROWED THOUGHTS. 
 
 Gnaw at my heart, and do its 
 
 worst, 
 And so I let it have its way. 
 
 Thus said I, " I shall never fall 
 Into a false and dreaming 
 
 peace, 
 And then awake, with sudden 
 
 start, 
 
 To feel it biting at my heart, 
 For now the pain can never 
 cease." 
 
 But I gained more ; for I have 
 
 found 
 
 That such a snake's enven- 
 omed charm 
 
 Must always, always find a part, 
 Deep 4n the centre of my heart, 
 Which it can never wound or 
 harm. 
 
 It is coiled round my heart to- 
 day. 
 It sleeps at times, this cruel 
 
 snake, 
 And while it sleeps it never 
 
 stings : 
 
 Hush ! let us talk of other things, 
 Lest it should hear me and 
 awake. 
 
 III. FROM "LOST ALICE." 
 
 YES, dear, our Love is slain ; 
 In the cold grave forevermore it 
 
 lies, 
 Never to wake again, 
 
 Or light our sorrow with ita 
 
 starry eyes : 
 And so regret is vain. 
 
 One hour of pain and dread, 
 We killed our Love, we took its 
 
 life away 
 With the false words we 
 
 said ; 
 And so we watch it, since that 
 
 cruel day, 
 Silent, and cold, and dead 
 
 We should have seen it 
 
 shine 
 Long years beside us. Time an 1 
 
 Death might try 
 To touch that life divine, 
 Whose strength could every other 
 
 stroke defy 
 Save only thine and mine 
 
 No longing can restore 
 Our dead again. Vain are the 
 
 tears we weep, 
 And vainly we deplore 
 Our buried Love : its grave lies 
 
 dark and deep 
 Between us evermore. 
 
 IV. FROM * * * 
 
 WITHIN the kingdom of my 
 
 Soul 
 
 I bid you enter, Love, to-day ; 
 Submit my life to your control, 
 And give my Heart up to your 
 
 sway.
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 155 
 
 My Past, whose light and life is 
 
 flown, 
 Shall live through memory for 
 
 you still ; 
 Take all my Present for your 
 
 own, 
 And mould my Future to your 
 
 will. 
 
 One only thought remains apart, 
 And will forever so remain ; 
 There is one Chamber in my 
 heart 
 Where even you might knock in 
 
 A haunted Chamber : long ago 
 I closed it, and I cast the key 
 Where deep and bitter waters 
 
 flow, 
 Into a vast and silent sea. 
 
 Dear, it is haunted. All the 
 
 rest 
 Is yours ; but I have shut that 
 
 door 
 
 Forever now. 'T is even best 
 That I should enter it no more. 
 
 No more. It is not well to stay 
 With ghosts ; their very look 
 
 would scare 
 Your joyous, loving smile 
 
 away ; 
 So never try to enter there. 
 
 Check, if you love me, all regret 
 That this one thought remains 
 apart : ' 
 
 Now let us smile, dear, and for- 
 get 
 
 The haunted Chamber in my 
 Heart. 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 THOTJ hast done well to kneel 
 
 and say, 
 " Since He who gave can take 
 
 away, 
 And bid me suffer, I obey." 
 
 And also well to tell thy heart, 
 That good lies in the bitterest 
 
 part, 
 And thou wilt profit by her smart. 
 
 But bitter hours come to all : 
 When even truths like these will 
 
 pall, 
 Sick hearts for humbler comfort 
 
 call. 
 
 Then I would have thee strive tc 
 
 see 
 
 That good and evil come to thee. 
 As one of a great family. 
 
 And as material life is planned, 
 That even the loneliest one must 
 
 stand 
 Dependent on his brother's 1 
 
 hand ; 
 
 So links more subtle and more fine 
 Bind every other soul to thine 
 In one great brotherhood divine.
 
 156 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE. 
 
 Nor with thy share of work be 
 
 vexed ; 
 Though incomplete, and even 
 
 perplext, 
 It fits exactly to the next. 
 
 What seems so dark to thy dim 
 
 sight 
 
 May be a shadow, seen aright, 
 Making some brightness doubly 
 
 bright. 
 
 The flash that struck thy tree 
 no more 
 
 To shelter thee lets Heaven's 
 blue floor 
 
 Shine where it never shone be- 
 fore. 
 
 Thy life that has been dropped 
 
 aside 
 Into Time's stream, may stir the 
 
 tide 
 In rippled circles spreading wide. 
 
 The cry wrung from thy spirit's 
 
 pain 
 
 May echo on some far-off plain, 
 And guide a wanderer home 
 
 again. 
 
 Fail yet rejoice ; because no 
 less 
 
 The failure that makes thy dis- 
 tress 
 
 May teach another full success. 
 
 It may be that in some great 
 
 need 
 Thy life's poor fragments are 
 
 decreed 
 To help build up a lofty deed. 
 
 Thy heart should throb in vast 
 content, 
 
 Thus knowing that it was but 
 meant 
 
 As chord in one great instru- 
 ment ; 
 
 That even the discord in thy 
 
 soul 
 
 May make completer music roll 
 From out the great harmonious 
 
 whole. 
 
 It may be, that when all is light, 
 Deep set within that deep de- 
 light 
 
 Will be to know why all wa* 
 right ; 
 
 To hear life's perfect music rise, 
 And, while it floods the happy 
 
 skies, 
 Thy feeble voice to recognize. 
 
 Then strive more gladly to fulfil 
 Thy little part. This darkness 
 
 still 
 Is light to every loving will. 
 
 And trust, as if already plain 
 How just thy share of loss and 
 
 pain 
 Is for another fuller gain.
 
 A CHANGELING. 
 
 157 
 
 I dare not limit time or place 
 Touched by thy life : nor dare I 
 
 trace 
 Its far vibrations into space. 
 
 One only knows. Yet if the fret 
 Of thy weak heart, in weak re- 
 gret 
 Needs a more tender comfort yet : 
 
 Then thou mayst take thy lone- 
 liest fears, 
 
 The bitterest drops of all thy 
 tears, 
 
 The dreariest hours of all thy 
 years; 
 
 And through thy anguish there 
 
 outspread, 
 May ask that God's great love 
 
 would shed 
 Blessings on one beloved head. 
 
 And thus thy soul shall learn to 
 
 draw 
 Sweetness from out that loving 
 
 law 
 That sees no failure and no flaw, 
 
 Where all is good. And life is 
 
 good, 
 
 Were the one lesson understood 
 Of its most sacred brotherhood. 
 
 A CHANGELING. 
 
 A LITTLE changeling spirit 
 Crept to my arms one day : 
 
 I had no heart or courage 
 To drive the child away. 
 
 So all day long I soothed her, 
 And hushed her on my breast; 
 
 And all night long her wailing 
 Would never let me rest. 
 
 I dug a grave to hold her, 
 A grave both dark and deep ; 
 
 I covered her with violets, 
 And laid her there to sleep. 
 
 I used to go and watch there, 
 Both night and morning 
 too : 
 
 It was my tears, I fancy, 
 That kept the violets blue. 
 
 I took her up : and once more 
 I felt the clinging hold, 
 
 And heard the ceaseless wailing 
 That wearied me of old. 
 
 I wandered, and I wandered, 
 With my burden on my breast, 
 
 Till I saw a church-door open, 
 And entered in to rest. 
 
 In the dim, dying daylight, 
 Set in a flowery shrine, 
 
 I saw the Virgin Mother 
 Holding her Child divine. 
 
 I knelt down there in silence, 
 And on the altar-stone 
 
 I laid my wailing burden, 
 And came away alone.
 
 158 
 
 DISCOURAGED. 
 
 And now that little spirit, 
 That sobbed so all day long, 
 
 Is grown a shining Angel, 
 With wings both wide and 
 strong. 
 
 She watches me from Heaven 
 With loving, tender care, 
 
 And one day she has promised 
 That I shall find her there. 
 
 DISCOURAGED. 
 
 WHERE the little babbling 
 
 streamlet 
 
 First brings forth to light, 
 Trickling through soft velvet 
 
 mosses,' 
 
 Almost hid from sight ; 
 Vowed I with delight, 
 " River, I will follow thee, 
 Through thy wanderings to the 
 Sea!" 
 
 Gleaming 'mid the purple heather, 
 Downward then it sped, 
 
 Glancing through the mountain 
 
 gorges, 
 
 Like a silver thread, 
 As it quicker fled, 
 
 Louder music in its flow, 
 
 Dashing to the vale below. 
 
 Then its voice grew lower, gen- 
 tler, 
 And its pace less fleet, 
 
 Just as though it loved to linger 
 Round the rushes' feet, 
 As they stooped to meet 
 Their clear images below, 
 Broken by the ripples' flow. 
 
 Purple Willow-herb bent over 
 
 To her shadow fair ; 
 Meadow-sweet, in feathery clus- 
 ters, 
 
 Perfumed all the air ; 
 
 Silver-weed was there, 
 And in one calm, grassy spot, 
 Starry, blue Forget-me-not. 
 
 Tangled weeds, below the waters, 
 Still seemed drawn away ; 
 
 Yet the current, floating onward, 
 Was less strong than they ; 
 Sunbeams watched their play, 
 
 With a flickering light and shade, 
 
 Through the screen the Alder? 
 made. 
 
 Broader grew the flowing River ; 
 
 To its grassy brink 
 Slowly, in the slanting sun-rays, 
 
 Cattle trooped to drink ; 
 
 The blue sky, I think, 
 Was no bluer than that stream, 
 Slipping onward, like a dream. 
 
 Quicker, deeper then it hurried, 
 Rushing h'erce and free ; 
 
 But I said, " It should grow 
 
 calmer 
 
 Ere it meets the Sea, 
 The wide purple Sea,
 
 THE WARRIOR TO HIS DEAD BRIDE. 
 
 159 
 
 Which I weary for in vain, 
 Wasting all my toil and pain." 
 
 But it rushed still quicker, fiercer, 
 
 In its rocky bed, 
 Hard and stony was the pathway 
 
 To my tired tread ; 
 
 " I despair," I said, 
 " Of that wide and glorious Sea 
 That was promised unto me." 
 
 So I turned aside, and wandered 
 Through green meadows near, 
 
 Far away, among the daisies, 
 Far away, for fear 
 Lest I still should hear 
 
 The loud murmur of its song, 
 
 As the River flowed along. 
 
 Now I hear it not : I loiter 
 
 Gayly as before ; 
 Yet I sometimes think, and 
 
 thinking 
 
 Makes my heart so sore, 
 Just a few steps more, 
 And there might have shone for 
 
 me, 
 Blue and infinite, the Sea. 
 
 IF THOU COULDST KNOW. 
 
 I THINK if thou couldst know, 
 O soul that will complain, 
 
 What lies concealed below 
 Our burden and our pain ; 
 
 How just our anguish brings 
 Nearer those longed-for things 
 We seek for now in vain, 
 I think thou wouldst rejoice, and 
 not complain. 
 
 I think if thou couldst see, 
 
 With thy dim mortal sight' 
 
 How meanings, dark to thee, 
 
 Are shadows hiding light ; 
 
 Truth's efforts crossed and 
 
 vexed, 
 
 Life's purpose all perplexed, 
 
 If thou couldst see them right, 
 
 I think that they would seem al) 
 
 clear, and wise, and bright 
 
 And yet thou canst not know, 
 And yet thou canst not see ; 
 Wisdom and sight are slow 
 
 In poor humanity. 
 If thou couldst trust, poor soul, 
 In Him who rules the whole, 
 Thou wouldst find peace and 
 
 rest : 
 
 Wisdom and sight are well, but 
 Trust is best. 
 
 THE WARRIOR TO HIS 
 DEAD BRIDE. 
 
 IF in the fight my arm was strong, 
 And forced my foes to yield, 
 
 If conquering and unhurt I came 
 Back from the battle-field, 
 
 It is because thy prayers have 
 
 been 
 My safeguard and my shield.
 
 160 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 My comrades smile to see my arm 
 Spare or protect a foe, 
 
 They think thy gentle pleading 
 
 voice 
 Was silenced long ago ; 
 
 But pity and compassion, love, 
 Were taught me first by woe. 
 
 Thy heart, my own, still beats 
 
 in Heaven 
 
 With the same love divine 
 That made thee stoop to such a 
 
 soul, 
 
 So hard, so stern as mine, 
 My eyes have learnt to weep, be- 
 loved, 
 Since last they looked on thine 
 
 I hear thee murmur words of 
 
 peace 
 
 Through the dim midnight air, 
 And a calm falls from the angel 
 
 stars 
 
 And soothes my great de- 
 spair, 
 The heavens themselves look 
 
 brighter, love, 
 Since thy sweet soul is there. 
 
 And if my heart is once more 
 
 calm, 
 
 My step is once more free, 
 It is because each hour I feel 
 Thou praycst still for me ; 
 Because no fate or change can 
 
 come 
 Between my soul and thee. 
 
 It is because my heart is stilled, 
 Not broken by despair, 
 
 Because I see the grave is bright, 
 And death itself is fair : 
 
 I dread no more the wrath of 
 
 Heaven, 
 I have an angel there ! 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 DEAR, I tried to write you such 
 
 a letter 
 As would tell you all my heart 
 
 to-day. 
 Written Love is poor ; one word 
 
 were better ; 
 Easier, too, a thousand times, to 
 
 say. 
 
 I can tell you all : fears, doubts 
 
 unheeding, 
 While I can be near you, hold 
 
 your hand, 
 Looking right into your eyes, 
 
 and reading 
 Reassurance that you understand. 
 
 Yet I wrote it through, then 
 
 lingered, thinking 
 Of its reaching you, what hour, 
 
 what day ; 
 Till I felt my heart and courage 
 
 sinking 
 With a strange, new, wondering 
 
 dismay. 
 
 " Will my letter fall," I wondered 
 sadly, 
 
 " On her mood like some dis- 
 cordant tone,
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 161 
 
 Or be welcomed tenderly and 
 
 gladly? 
 Will she be with others, or alone ? 
 
 " It may find her too absorbed to 
 
 read it, 
 Save with hurried glance and 
 
 careless air : 
 Sad and weary, she may scarcely 
 
 heed it ; 
 Gay and happy, she may hardly 
 
 care. 
 
 " Shall I dare I risk the 
 
 chances?" slowly 
 Something was it shyness, 
 
 love, or pride ? 
 Chilled my heart, and checked 
 
 my courage wholly ; 
 So I laid it wistfully aside. 
 
 Then I leant against the case- 
 ment, turning 
 
 Tearful eyes towards the far-off 
 west, 
 
 Where the golden evening light 
 was burning, 
 
 Till my heart throbbed back 
 again to rest. 
 
 And I thought : " Love's soul is 
 
 not in fetters, 
 Neither space nor time keeps 
 
 souls apart ; 
 Since I cannot dare not 
 
 send my letters, 
 Through the silence I will send 
 
 my heart. 
 
 " If, perhaps now, while my 
 
 tears are falling, 
 She is dreaming quietly alone, 
 She will hear my Love's far echo 
 
 calling, 
 Feel my spirit drawing near her 
 
 own. 
 
 " She will hear, while twilight 
 
 shades enfold her, 
 All the gathered Love she knows 
 
 so well, 
 Deepest Love my words have 
 
 ever told her, 
 Deeper still all I could never 
 
 tell. 
 
 " Wondering at the strange, 
 
 mysterious power 
 That has touched her heart, then 
 
 she will say : 
 ' Some one whom I love, this 
 
 very hour, 
 Thinks of me, and loves me, far 
 
 away.' 
 
 " If, as well may be, to-night 
 has found her 
 
 Full of other thoughts, with 
 others by, 
 
 Through the words and claims 
 that gather round her 
 
 She will hear just one half- 
 smothered sigh ; 
 
 " Or will marvel why, without 
 her seeking, 
 
 Suddenly the thought of me re- 
 curs;
 
 A COMFORTER. 
 
 Or, while listening to another 
 
 speaking, 
 Fancy that my hand is holding 
 
 hers." 
 
 So I dreamed, and watched the 
 stars' far splendor 
 
 Glimmering on the azure dark- 
 ness, start, 
 
 While the star of trust rose bright 
 and tender, 
 
 Through the twilight shadows of 
 my heart. 
 
 A COMFORTER. 
 
 " WILL she come to me, little 
 
 Effie, 
 Will she come in my arms to 
 
 rest, 
 And nestle her head on my 
 
 shoulder, 
 
 While the sun goes down in 
 the west? 
 
 " I and. Effie will sit together, 
 All alone, in this great arm- 
 chair : 
 
 Is it silly to mind it, darling, 
 When Life is so hard to bear ? 
 
 " No one comforts me like my 
 
 Effie, 
 
 Just I think that she does not 
 try, 
 
 Only looks with a wistful won- 
 der 
 
 Why grown people should 
 ever cry ; 
 
 " While her little soft arms close 
 
 tighter 
 
 Round my neck in their cling- 
 ing hold : 
 Well, I must not cry on your 
 
 hair, dear, 
 
 For my tears might tarnish 
 the gold. 
 
 " I am tired of trying to read, 
 
 dear; 
 It is worse to talk and seem 
 
 gay: 
 There are some kinds of sorrow, 
 
 Effie, 
 It is useless to thrust away. 
 
 " Ah, advice may be wise, my 
 
 darling, 
 
 But one always knows it be- 
 fore; 
 And the reasoning down one's 
 
 sorrow 
 
 Seems to make one suffer the 
 more. 
 
 "But my Effie won't reason, 
 
 will she ? 
 Or endeavor to understand ;
 
 A COMFORTER. 
 
 163 
 
 Only holds up her mouth to kiss 
 
 me, 
 
 As she strokes my face with 
 her hand. 
 
 "If you break your plaything 
 
 yourself, dear, 
 Don't you cry for it all the 
 
 same? 
 
 I don't think it is such a com- 
 fort, 
 
 One has only one's self to 
 blame. 
 
 " People say things cannot be 
 
 helped, dear, 
 But then that is the reason 
 
 why; 
 For if things could be helped or 
 
 altered, 
 
 One would never sit down to 
 cry: 
 
 x. 
 
 " They say, too, that tears are 
 
 quite useless 
 
 To undo, amend, or restore, 
 When I think how useless, my 
 
 Effie, 
 
 Then my tears only fall the 
 more. 
 
 XI. 
 
 All to-day I struggled against 
 
 it; 
 
 But that does not make sor- 
 row cease ; 
 
 And now, dear, it is such a 
 
 comfort 
 To be able to cry in peace. 
 
 " Though wise people would call 
 that folly, 
 
 And remonstrate with grave sur- 
 prise; 
 
 We won't mind what they say, 
 
 my Effie ; 
 We never professed to be wise. 
 
 " But my comforter knows a 
 
 lesson 
 Wiser, truer than all the 
 
 rest : 
 
 That to help and to heal a sor- 
 row, 
 
 Love and silence are always 
 best. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Well, who is my comforter, 
 
 tell me ? 
 Effie smiles, but she will not 
 
 Or look up through the long 
 
 curled lashes 
 
 That are shading her rosy 
 cheek. 
 
 " Is she thinking of talking fishes, 
 The bluebird, or magical tree t
 
 164 
 
 UNSEEN. 
 
 Perhaps I am thinking, my dar- 
 ling, 
 Of something that never can be. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " You long don't you, dear ? 
 
 for the Genii, 
 Who were slaves of lamps and 
 
 of rings ; 
 And, I I am sometimes afraid, 
 
 dear, 
 I want as impossible things. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " But hark ! there is Nurse call- 
 ing Effie ! 
 
 It is bedtime, so run away ; 
 And I must go back, or the 
 
 others 
 Will be wondering why I stay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " So good night to my darling 
 
 Effie; 
 Keep happy, sweetheart, and 
 
 grow wise : 
 There 'a one kiss for her golden 
 
 tresses, 
 And two for her sleepy eyes." 
 
 UNSEEN. 
 
 THERE are more things in 
 Heaven and Earth than we 
 
 Can dream of, or than nature 
 understands ; 
 
 We learn not through our poor 
 
 philosophy 
 What hidden chords are touched 
 
 by unseen hands. 
 
 The present hour repeats upon 
 its strings 
 
 Echoes of some vague dream we 
 have forgot ; 
 
 Dim voices whisper half-remem- 
 bered things, 
 
 And when we pause to listen 
 answer not. 
 
 Forebodings come : we know not 
 
 how, or whence, 
 Shadowing a nameless fear upon 
 
 the soul, 
 And stir within our hearts a 
 
 subtler sense 
 Than light may read, or wisdom 
 
 may control. 
 
 And who can tell what secret 
 
 links of thought 
 Bind heart to heart ? Unspoken 
 
 things are heard, 
 As if within our deepest selves 
 
 was brought 
 The soul, perhaps, of some un- 
 
 uttered word. 
 
 But, though a veil of shadow 
 
 hangs lietween 
 That hidden life and what we see 
 
 and hear, 
 Let us revere the power of the 
 
 Unseen, 
 And know a world of mystery is 
 
 near.
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 165 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 OF 
 
 NOTHING stirs the sunny si- 
 lence, 
 Save the drowsy humming of 
 
 the bees 
 Round the rich ripe peaches 
 
 on the wall, 
 And the south-wind sighing 
 
 in the trees, 
 And the dead leaves rustling 
 
 as they fall : 
 While the swallows, one by 
 
 one, are gathering, 
 All impatient to be on the 
 
 wing, 
 
 And to wander from us, seek- 
 ing 
 
 Their beloved Spring ! 
 
 Cloudless rise the azure heavens ! 
 Only vaporous wreaths of 
 
 snowy white 
 Nestle in the gray hill's 
 
 rugged side ; 
 And the golden woods are 
 
 bathed in light, 
 Dying, if they must, with 
 
 kingly pride : 
 While the swallows, in the 
 
 blue air wheeling, 
 Circle now an eager, flutter- 
 ing band, 
 
 Ready to depart and leave us 
 For a brighter land ! 
 
 But a voice is sounding sadly, 
 Telling of a glory that has 
 been; 
 
 Of a day that faded all too 
 
 fast : 
 See afar through the blue air 
 
 serene, 
 Where the swallows wing 
 
 their way at last, 
 And our hearts perchance as 
 
 sadly wandering, 
 Vainly seeking for a long- 
 lost day, 
 
 While we watch the far-off 
 swallows, 
 
 Flee with them away ! 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A 
 LIFE. 
 
 YES, it looked dark and dreary, 
 
 That long and narrow street : 
 Only the sound of the rain, 
 
 And the tramp of passing feet, 
 The duller glow of the fire, 
 
 And gathering mists of night, 
 To mark how slow and weary 
 
 The long day's cheerless 
 flight! 
 
 Watching the sullen fire, 
 Hearing the dismal rain, 
 
 Drop after drop, run down 
 On the darkening window 
 pane : 
 
 Chill was the heart of Alice, 
 Chill as that winter day,
 
 166 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 For the star of her life had risen 
 Only to fade away. 
 
 The voice that had been so 
 
 strong 
 
 To bid the snare depart, 
 The true and earnest will, 
 
 The calm and steadfast heart, 
 Were now weighed down by sor- 
 row, 
 Were quivering now with 
 
 pain ; 
 The clear path now seemed 
 
 clouded, 
 And all her grief in vain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Duty, Right, Truth, who prom- 
 ised 
 
 To help and save their own, 
 Seemed spreading wide their pin- 
 ions 
 
 To leave her there alone. 
 So, turning from the Present 
 
 To well-known days of yore, 
 She called on them to strengthen 
 And guard her soul once 
 more. 
 
 She thought how in her girlhood 
 
 Her life was given away, 
 The solemn promise spoken 
 
 She kept so well to-day ; 
 How to her brother Herbert 
 
 She had been help and guide, 
 And how his artist nature 
 
 On her calm strength relied. 
 
 How through life's fret and tur- 
 moil 
 
 The passion and fire of art 
 In him was soothed and quick- 
 ened 
 
 By her true sister heart ; 
 How future hopes had always 
 
 Been for his sake alone ; 
 And now what strange new 
 
 feeling 
 Possessed her as its own ? 
 
 Her home each flower that 
 breathed there, 
 
 The wind's sigh, soft and low, 
 Each trembling spray of ivy, 
 
 The river's murmuring flow, 
 The shadow of the forest, 
 
 Sunset, or twilight dim s 
 Dear as tbey were, were dearer 
 
 By leaving them for him. 
 
 And each year as it found her 
 
 In the dull, feverish town, 
 Saw self still more forgotten, 
 
 And selfish care kept down 
 By the calm joy of evening 
 
 That brought him to her sid tt , 
 To warn him with wise counsel, 
 
 Or praise with tender pride 
 
 Her heart, her life, her future, 
 Her genius, only meant 
 
 Another thing to give him, 
 And be therewith content.
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 167 
 
 To-day, what words had stirred 
 her, 
 
 Her soul could not forget ? 
 What dream had filled her spirit 
 
 With strange and wild regret ? 
 
 To leave him for another, 
 
 Could it indeed be so? 
 Could it have cost such anguish 
 
 To bid this vision go ? 
 Was this her faith ? Was Her- 
 bert 
 
 The second in her heart ? 
 Did it need all this struggle 
 
 To bid a dream depart ? 
 
 And yet, within her spirit 
 
 A far-off land was seen, 
 A home, which might have held 
 her, 
 
 A love, which might have 
 
 been. 
 And Life not the mere being 
 
 Of daily ebb and flow, 
 Put Life itself had claimed her, 
 
 And she had let it go ! 
 
 Within her heart there echoed 
 
 Again the well-known tone 
 That promised this bright future, 
 
 And asked her for her own : 
 Then words of sorrow, broken 
 
 By half-reproachful pain : 
 And then a farewell, spoken 
 
 In words of cold disdain. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Where now was the stern pur- 
 pose 
 
 That nerved her soul so long ? 
 Whence came the words she 
 
 uttered, 
 
 So hard, so cold, so strong? 
 What right had she to banish 
 
 A hope that God had given ? 
 Why must she choose earth's 
 
 portion, 
 And turn aside from Heaven ? 
 
 To-day ! Was it this morning * 
 
 If this long, fearful strife 
 Was but the work of hours, 
 
 What would be years of life ? 
 Why did a cruel Heaven 
 
 For such great suffering call ? 
 And why O still more cruel ! 
 
 Must her own words do all ? 
 
 Did she repent ? O Sorrow ! 
 
 Why do we linger still 
 To take thy loving message, 
 
 And do thy gentle will ? 
 See, her tears fall more slowly, 
 
 The passionate murmurs cease, 
 And back upon her spirit 
 
 Flow strength, and love, and 
 peace. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The fire burns more brightly, 
 The rain has passed away, 
 
 Herbert will see no shadow 
 Upon his home to-day :
 
 168 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 Only that Alice greets him 
 With doubly tender care, 
 
 Kissing a fonder blessing 
 Down on his golden hair. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE Studio is deserted, 
 
 Palette and brush laid by, 
 The sketch rests on the easel, 
 
 The paint is scarcely dry ; 
 And Silence who seems always 
 
 Within her depths to bear 
 The next sound that will utter 
 
 Now holds a dumb despair. 
 
 So Alice feels it : listening 
 
 With breathless, stony fear, 
 Waiting the dreadful summons 
 
 Each minute brings more 
 
 near : 
 
 When the young life, now ebb- 
 ing, 
 
 Shall fail, and pass away 
 Into that mighty shadow 
 
 Who shrouds the house to-day. 
 
 But why when the sick-cham- 
 ber 
 
 Is on the upper floor 
 Why dares not Alice enter 
 
 Within the close-shut door ? 
 If he her all her Brother, 
 
 Lies dying in that gloom, 
 
 What strange mysterious power 
 Has sent her from the room 't 
 
 It is not one week's anguish 
 
 That can have changed her so ; 
 Joy has not died here lately, 
 
 Struck down by one quick 
 
 blow; 
 But cruel months have needed 
 
 Their long relentless chain, 
 To teach that shrinking manner 
 
 Of helpless, hopeless pain. 
 
 v. 
 
 The struggle was scarce over 
 
 Last Christmas eve had 
 
 brought ; 
 The fibres still were quivering 
 
 Of the one wounded thought, 
 When Herbert who, uncon- 
 scious, 
 
 Had guessed no inward strife 
 Bade her, in pride and pleasure, 
 
 Welcome his fair young wife. 
 
 Bade her rejoice, and smiling, 
 Although his eyes were dim, 
 Thanked God he thus could pay 
 
 her 
 
 The care she gave to him. 
 This fresh bright life would brin^ 
 
 her 
 
 A new and joyous fate 
 O Alice, check the murmur 
 That cries, " Too late ! too 
 late ! "
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 169 
 
 VII. 
 
 Too late! Could she have 
 known it 
 
 A few short weeks before, 
 That his life was completed, 
 
 And needing hers no more, 
 She might sad repining ! 
 
 What "might have been " for- 
 get; 
 " It was not " should suffice us 
 
 To stifle vain regret. 
 
 He needed her no longer, 
 
 Each day it grew more plain ; 
 First with a startled wonder, 
 
 Then with a wondering pain. 
 Love : why, his wife best gave it ; 
 
 Comfort : durst Alice speak 
 Or counsel, when resentment 
 
 Flushed on the young wife's 
 cheek. 1 ? 
 
 No more long talks by firelight 
 
 Of childish times long past, 
 And dreams of future greatness 
 
 Which he must reach at last ; 
 Dreams, where her purer instinct 
 
 With truth unerring told, 
 Where was the worthless gilding, 
 
 And where refine'd gold. 
 
 Slowly, but surely ever, 
 Dora's poor jealous pride, 
 
 Which she called love for Her- 
 bert, 
 Drove Alice from his side ; 
 
 And, spite of nervous effort 
 To share their altered life, 
 
 She felt a check to Herbert, 
 A burden to his wife. 
 
 This was the least ; for Alice 
 
 Feared, dreaded, knew at length 
 How much his nature owed her 
 
 Of truth, and power, and 
 
 strength ; 
 And watched the daily failing 
 
 Of all his nobler part : 
 Low aims, weak purpose, telling 
 
 In lower, weaker art. 
 
 And now, when he is dying, 
 
 The last words she could hear 
 Must not be hers, but given 
 
 The bride of one short year. 
 The last care is another's ; 
 
 The last prayer must not be 
 The one they learnt together 
 
 Beside their mother's knee. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Summoned at last : she kisses 
 
 The clay-cold stiffening hand . 
 And, reading pleading efforts 
 
 To make her understand, 
 Answers, with solemn promise, 
 
 In clear but trembling tone, 
 To Dora's life henceforward 
 
 She will devote her own. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now all is over. Alice 
 Dares uot remain to weep.
 
 170 
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 But soothes the frightened Dora 
 
 Into a sobbing sleep. 
 The poor weak child will need 
 her : . . . 
 
 O, who can dare complain, 
 When God sends a new Duty 
 
 To comfort each new Pain ! 
 
 III. 
 i. 
 
 THE House is all deserted 
 
 In the dim evening gloom, 
 Only one figure passes 
 
 Slowly from room to room ; 
 And, pausing at each doorway, 
 
 Seems gathering up again 
 Within her heart the relics 
 
 Of bygone joy and pain. 
 
 There is an earnest longing 
 
 In those who onward gaze, 
 Looking with weary patience 
 
 Towards the coming days. 
 There is a deeper longing, 
 
 More sad, more strong, more 
 
 keen : 
 
 Those know it who look back- 
 ward, 
 
 And yearn for what has been. 
 
 At every hearth she pauses, 
 Touches each well - known 
 chair ; 
 
 Gazes from every window, 
 Lingers ou every stair. 
 
 What have these months brought 
 Alice 
 
 Now one more year is past ? 
 This Christmas eve shall tell us, 
 
 The third one and the last. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The wilful, wayward Dora, 
 
 In those first weeks of grief, 
 Could seek and find in Alice 
 
 Strength, soothing, and relief. 
 And Alice last sad comfort 
 
 True woman-heart can take 
 Had something still to suffer 
 
 And bear for Herbert's sake. 
 
 Spring, with her western breezes, 
 
 From Indian islands bore 
 To Alice news that Leonard 
 Would seek his home once 
 
 more. 
 
 What was it, joy, or sorrow? 
 What were they, hopes, or 
 
 fears ? 
 That flushed her cheeks with 
 
 crimson, 
 And tilled her eyes with tears ? 
 
 He came. And who so kindly 
 
 Could ask and hear her tell 
 
 Herbert's last hours ; for Leon. 
 
 ard 
 Had known and loved him 
 
 well. 
 
 Daily he came ; and Alice, 
 Poor weary heart, at length,
 
 THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. 
 
 171 
 
 Weighed down by others' weak- 
 ness, 
 Could lean upon his strength. 
 
 Yet not the voice of Leonard 
 
 Could her true care beguile, 
 That turned to watch, rejoicing, 
 
 Dora's reviving smile. 
 So, from that little household 
 
 The worst gloom passed away, 
 The one bright hour of evening 
 
 Lit up the livelong day. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Days passed. The golden sum- 
 mer 
 
 In sudden heat bore down 
 Its blue, bright, glowing sweet- 
 ness 
 
 Upon the scorching town. 
 And sights and sounds of country 
 
 Came in the warm soft tune 
 Sung by the honeyed breezes 
 
 Borne on the wings of June. 
 
 One twilight hour, but earlier 
 Than usual, Alice thought 
 She knew the fresh sweet fra- 
 grance 
 Of flowers that Leonard 
 
 brought ; 
 
 Through opened doors and win- 
 dows 
 
 It stole up through the gloom, 
 And with appealing sweetness 
 Drew Alice from her room. 
 
 Yes, he was there ; and, pausing 
 
 Just near the opened door, 
 To check her heart's quick beat- 
 ing, 
 She heard and paused still 
 
 more 
 
 His low voice Dora's an- 
 swers 
 
 His pleading Yes, she knew 
 The tone the words the ac- 
 cents; 
 She once had heard them too. 
 
 " Would Alice blame her ? " 
 
 Leonard's 
 
 Low, tender answer came : 
 " Alice was far too noble 
 
 To think or dream of blame." 
 " And was he sure he loved 
 
 her ? " 
 
 " Yes, with the one love given 
 Once in a lifetime only, 
 
 With one soul and one heav- 
 en ! " 
 
 Then came a plaintive mur- 
 mur, 
 
 " Dora had once been told 
 That he and Alice " "Dear- 
 est, 
 
 Alice is far too cold 
 To love ; and I, my Dora, 
 
 If once I fancied so, 
 It was a brief delusion, 
 
 And over long ago."
 
 172 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 Between the Past and Present, 
 
 On that bleak moment's height, 
 She stood. As some lost trav- 
 eller, 
 
 By a quick flash of light 
 Seeing a gulf before him, 
 
 With dizzy, sick despair, 
 Keels backward, but to find it 
 
 A deeper chasm there. 
 
 The twilight grew still darker, 
 The fragrant flowers more 
 
 sweet, 
 
 The stars shone out in heaven, 
 The lamps gleamed down the 
 
 street ; 
 And hours passed in dreaming 
 
 Over their new-found fate, 
 Ere they could think of wonder- 
 ing 
 Why Alice was so late. 
 
 She came, and calmly listened ; 
 
 In vain they strove to trace 
 If Herbert's memory shadowed 
 
 In grief upon her face. 
 No blame, no wonder showed 
 there, 
 
 No feeling could be told ; 
 Her voice was not less steady, 
 
 Her manner not more cold. 
 
 They could not hear the anguish 
 That broke in words of pain 
 
 Through the calm summer mid- 
 night, 
 
 " My Herbert mine again ! " 
 Yes, they have once been parted, 
 
 But this day shall restore 
 The long-lost one: she claims 
 
 him ; 
 
 " My Herbert mine once 
 more ! " 
 
 Now Christmas eve returning 
 
 Saw Alice stand beside 
 The altar, greeting Dora, 
 
 Again a smiling bride ; 
 And now the gloomy evening 
 
 Sees Alice pale and worn, 
 Leaving the house forever, 
 
 To wander out forlorn. 
 
 Forlorn nay, not so. Anguish 
 
 Shall do its work at length ; 
 Her soul, passed through the fire, 
 
 Shall gain still purer strength. 
 Somewhere there waits for Alice 
 
 An earnest, noble part ; 
 And meanwhile God is with 
 her, 
 
 God, and her own true heart! 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 THE wind went forth o'er land 
 
 and sea, 
 Loud and free ;
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 173 
 
 Foaming waves leapt up to 
 
 meet it, 
 Stately pines bowed down to 
 
 greet it ; 
 
 While the wailing sea 
 And the forest's murmured sigh 
 
 Joined the cry 
 
 Of the wind that swept o'er land 
 and sea. 
 
 The wind that blew upon the sea 
 
 Fierce and free, 
 Cast the bark upon the shore, 
 Whence it sailed the night be- 
 fore 
 
 Full of hope and glee ; 
 And the cry of pain and death 
 
 Was but a breath, 
 
 Through the wind that roared 
 
 upon the sea. 
 
 The wind was whispering on the 
 
 lea 
 
 Tenderly ; 
 
 But the white rose felt it pass, 
 And the fragile stalks of grass 
 
 Shook with fear to see 
 All her trembling petals shed, 
 
 As it fled 
 
 So gently by, the wind upon 
 the lea. 
 
 Blow, thou wind, upon the sea 
 
 Fierce and free, 
 And a gentler message send, 
 Where frail flowers and grasses 
 
 bend, 
 On the sunny lea' 
 
 For thy bidding still is one, 
 
 Be it done 
 
 In tenderness or wrath, on land 
 or sea ! 
 
 EXPECTATION. 
 
 THE King's three daughters 
 
 stood on the terrace, 
 The hanging terrace, so broad 
 
 and green, 
 Which keeps the sea from the 
 
 marble Palace : 
 There was Princess May, and 
 
 Princess Alice, 
 
 And the youngest Princess, 
 Gwendoline. 
 
 Sighed Princess May, " Will it 
 
 last much longer, 
 Time throbs so slow and my 
 
 Heart so quick ; 
 And O, how long is the day in 
 
 dying ! 
 Weary am I of waiting and 
 
 sighing, 
 For Hope deferred makes the 
 
 spirit sick." 
 
 But Princess Gwendoline smiled 
 
 and kissed her : 
 " Am I not sadder than you, my 
 
 Sister 1 
 
 Expecting joy is a happy pain. 
 The Future's fathomless mine of 
 
 treasures,
 
 174 
 
 AN IDEAL. 
 
 All countless hordes of possible 
 
 pleasures, 
 Might bring their store to my 
 
 feet in vain." 
 
 Sighed Princess Alice as night 
 grew nearer : 
 
 " So soon, so soon, is the day- 
 light fled ! 
 
 And O, how fast comes the dark 
 to-morrow, 
 
 Who hides, perhaps, in her veil 
 of sorrow 
 
 The terrible hour I wait and 
 dread ! " 
 
 But Princess Gwendoline kissed 
 
 her, sighing : 
 " It is only Life that can fear 
 
 dying ; 
 
 Possible loss means possible gain. 
 Those who still dread are not 
 
 quite forsaken ; 
 But not to fear, because all is 
 
 taken, 
 Is the loneliest depth of human 
 
 pain." 
 
 AN IDEAL. 
 
 WHILE the gray mists of early 
 
 dawn 
 
 Were lingering round the hill, 
 And the dew was still upon the 
 
 flowers, 
 
 And the earth lay calm and 
 still, 
 
 A winged Spirit came to me, 
 Noble, and radiant, and free. 
 
 Folding his blue and shining 
 
 wings, 
 
 He laid his hand on mine. 
 I know not if I felt, or heard 
 
 The mystic word divine, 
 Which woke the trembling air 
 
 to sighs, 
 
 And shone from out his starry 
 eyes. 
 
 The word he spoke within mj 
 
 heart 
 
 Stirred life unknown before, 
 And cast a spell upon my soul 
 
 To chain it evermore ; 
 Making the cold, dull earth look 
 
 bright, 
 
 And skies flame out in sapphire 
 light. 
 
 When noon ruled from the heav- 
 ens, and man 
 Through busy day toiled on, 
 
 My Spirit drooped his shining 
 
 wings ; 
 His radiant smile was gone ; 
 
 His voice had ceased, his grace 
 had flown, 
 
 His hand grew cold within my 
 own. 
 
 Bitter, O bitter tears I wept, 
 Yet still I held his hand, 
 
 Hoping with vague unreasoning 
 
 hope : 
 I would not understand
 
 OUR DEAD. 
 
 175 
 
 That this pale Spirit nevermore 
 Could be what he had been before. 
 
 Could it be so ? My heart stood 
 
 still. 
 
 Yet he was by my side. 
 I strove ; but my despair was 
 
 vain ; 
 
 Vain too was love and pride. 
 Could he have changed to me 
 
 so soon ? 
 My day was only at its noon. 
 
 Now stars are rising one by one, 
 
 Through the dim evening air ; 
 
 Near nib a household Spirit waits, 
 
 With tender loving care ; 
 He speaks and smiles, but never 
 
 sings, 
 
 Long since he lost his shining 
 wings. 
 
 With thankful, true content, I 
 
 know 
 
 This is the better way ; 
 Is not a faithful spirit mine 
 Mine still at close of 
 
 day ? . . . 
 
 Yet will my foolish heart repine 
 For that bright morning dream 
 of mine. 
 
 OUR DEAD. 
 
 NOTHING is our own : we hold 
 
 our pleasures 
 Just a little while, ere they are 
 
 fled: 
 
 One by one life robs us of our 
 
 treasures ; 
 Nothing is our own except our 
 
 Dead. 
 
 They are ours, and hold in faith- 
 ful keeping, 
 
 Safe forever, all they took away. 
 
 Cruel life can never stir that 
 sleeping, 
 
 Cruel time can never seize that 
 prey. 
 
 Justice pales ; truth fades ; stars 
 
 fall from heaven ; 
 Human are the great whom we 
 
 revere : 
 No true crown of honor can be 
 
 given, 
 Till we place it on a funeral bier. 
 
 How the Children leave us : and 
 
 no traces 
 Linger of that smiling angel 
 
 band ; 
 Gone, forever gone ; and in their 
 
 their places 
 Weary men and anxious women 
 
 stand. 
 
 Yet we have some little ones, 
 
 still ours ; 
 They have kept the baby smile 
 
 we know, 
 Which we kissed one day, and 
 
 hid with flowers, 
 On their dead white faces, l<?ng 
 
 ago.
 
 176 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 
 
 When our Joy is lost and life 
 
 will take it 
 Then no memory of the past 
 
 remains ; 
 Save with some strange, cruel 
 
 sting, to make it 
 Bitterness beyond all present 
 
 pains. 
 
 Death, more tender - hearted, 
 
 leaves to sorrow 
 Still the radiant shadow, fond 
 
 regret : 
 We shall find, in some far, bright 
 
 to-morrow, 
 Joy that he has taken, living yet. 
 
 Is Love ours, and do we dream 
 we know it, 
 
 Bound with all our heart-strings, 
 all our own ? 
 
 Any cold and cruel dawn may 
 show it, 
 
 Shattered, desecrated, over- 
 thrown. 
 
 Only the dead Hearts forsake us 
 never ; 
 
 Death's last kiss has been the 
 mystic sign 
 
 Consecrating Love our own for- 
 ever, 
 
 Crowning it eternal and divine. 
 
 So when Fate would fain besiege 
 
 our city, 
 Dim our gold, or make our 
 
 flowers fall, 
 
 Death, the Angel, comes in love 
 
 and pity, 
 And, to save our treasures, claims 
 
 them all. 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 
 
 I WILL not let you say a Wo- 
 man's part 
 Must be to give exclusive love 
 
 alone ; 
 Dearest, although I love you so, 
 
 my heart 
 
 Answers a thousand claims 
 besides your own. 
 
 I love what do I not love ? 
 
 earth and air 
 Find space within my heart, 
 
 and myriad things 
 You would not deign to heed are 
 
 cherished there, 
 And vibrate on its very in- 
 most strings. 
 
 I love the Summer with her ebb 
 
 and flow 
 Of light, and warmth, and 
 
 music, that have nurst 
 Her tender buds to blossoms . . . 
 
 and you know 
 
 It was in summer that I saw 
 you first.
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER. 
 
 177 
 
 I love the Winter dearly, too, . . . 
 
 but then 
 
 I owe it so much ; on a win- 
 ter's day, 
 
 Bleak, cold, and stormy, you re- 
 turned again, 
 
 When you had been those 
 weary months away. 
 
 I love the Stars like friends ; so 
 
 many nights 
 I gazed at them, when you 
 
 were far from me, 
 Till I grew blind with tears .... 
 
 those far-off lights 
 Could watch you, whom I 
 longed in vain to see. 
 
 I love the Flowers ; happy hours 
 
 lie 
 Shut up within their petals 
 
 close and fast : 
 You have forgotten, dear; but 
 
 they and I 
 
 Keep every fragment of the 
 golden Past 
 
 I love, too, to be loved ; all lov- 
 ing praise 
 Seems like a crown upon my 
 
 Life, to make 
 It better worth the giving, and 
 
 to raise 
 
 Still nearer to your own the 
 heart you take. 
 
 I love all good and noble souls ; 
 
 I heard 
 
 One speak of you but lately, 
 and for days, 
 
 Only to think of it, my soul was 
 
 stirred 
 
 In tender memory of such 
 generous praise. 
 
 I love all those who love yon; 
 
 all who owe 
 Comfort to you : and I can 
 
 find regret 
 Even for those poorer hearts 
 
 who once could know 
 And once could love you, and 
 can now forget. 
 
 Well, is my heart so narrow, 
 
 I, who spare 
 Love for all these ? Do I not 
 
 even hold 
 
 My favorite books in special ten- 
 der care, 
 
 And prize them as a miser 
 does his gold ? 
 
 The Poets that you used to read 
 
 to me 
 While summer twilights faded 
 
 in the sky ; 
 But most of all I think Aurora 
 
 Leigh, 
 
 Because because do you 
 remember why ? 
 
 Will you be jealous 1 Did you 
 
 guess before 
 I loved so many things ? 
 
 Still you the best : 
 Dearest, remember that I love 
 
 you more, 
 
 O, more a thousand times, 
 than all the rest !
 
 178 
 
 THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE 
 FAITHFUL SOUL. 
 
 FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH 
 LEGEND. 
 
 THE fettered Spirits linger 
 
 In purgatorial pain, 
 With penal fires effacing 
 
 Their last faint earthly stain, 
 Which Life's imperfect sorrow 
 
 Had tried to cleanse in vain. 
 
 Yet, on each feast of Mary 
 
 Their sorrow finds release, 
 For the Great Archangel Mi- 
 chael 
 
 Comes down and bids it cease ; 
 And the name of these brief 
 
 respites 
 Is called " Our Lady's Peace." 
 
 Yet once so runs the Legend 
 When the Archangel came, 
 
 And all these holy spirits 
 
 Rejoiced at Mary's name, 
 
 One voice alone was wailing, 
 Still wailing on the same. 
 
 And though a great Te Deum 
 The happy echoes woke, 
 
 This one discordant wailing 
 Through the sweet voices 
 broke : 
 
 So when St. Michael questioned, 
 Thus the poor spirit spoke : 
 
 " I am not cold or thankless, 
 Although I still complain ; 
 
 I prize our Lady's blessing, 
 Although it comes in vain 
 
 To still my bitter anguish, 
 Or quench my ceaseless pain. 
 
 " On earth a heart that loved me 
 Still lives and mourns me 
 there, 
 
 And the shadow of his anguish 
 Is more than I can bear ; 
 
 All the torment that I suffer 
 Is the thought of his despair. 
 
 " The evening of my bridal 
 Death took my Life away ; 
 
 Not all Love's passionate plead- 
 ing 
 Could gain an hour's delay. 
 
 And he I left has suffered 
 A whole year since that day. 
 
 " If I could only see him, 
 
 If I could only go 
 And speak one word of comfort 
 
 And solace, then I know 
 He would endure with patience, 
 
 And strive against his woe." 
 
 Thus the Archangel answered : . 
 
 " Your time of pain is brief, 
 And soon the peace of Heaven 
 
 Will give you full relief; 
 Yet if his earthly comfort 
 
 So much outweighs your grief) 
 
 " Then through a special mercy 
 I offer you this grace, 
 
 You may seek him who mourni 
 
 you, 
 And look upon his face, 
 
 And speak to him of comfort 
 For one short minute's space
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 179 
 
 " But when that time is ended, 
 Return here, and remain 
 
 A thousand years in torment, 
 A thousand years in pain : 
 
 Thus dearly must you purchase 
 The comfort he will gain." 
 
 The Lime-trees' shade at evening 
 Is spreading broad and wide ; 
 
 Beneath their fragrant arches, 
 Pace slowly, side by side, 
 
 In low and tender converse, 
 A Bridegroom and his Bride. 
 
 The night is calm and stilly, 
 
 No other sound is there 
 Except their happy voices : 
 
 What is that cold bleak air 
 That passes through the Lime- 
 trees, 
 
 And stirs the Bridegroom's 
 hair? 
 
 While one low cry of anguish, 
 Like the last dying wail 
 
 Of some dumb, hunted creature, 
 Is borne upon the gale : 
 
 Why does the Bridegroom shud- 
 der 
 And turn so deathly pale ? 
 
 Near Purgatory's entrance 
 The radiant Angels wait; 
 It was the great St. Michael 
 
 Who closed that gloomy gate, 
 When the poor wandering spirit 
 
 Came back to meet her fate. 
 
 " Pass on," thus spoke the An- 
 gel: 
 " Heaven's joy is deep and 
 
 vast; 
 Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, 
 
 For Heaven is yours at last ; 
 In that one minute's anguish 
 Your thousand years have 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 CAN you open that ebony Cas- 
 ket ? 
 
 Look, this is the key : but stay, 
 Those are only a few old letters 
 Which I keep, to burn some 
 day. 
 
 Yes, that Locket is quaint and 
 
 ancient ; 
 
 But leave it, dear, with.the ring, 
 And give me the little Portrait 
 Which hangs by a crimson 
 string. 
 
 I have never opened that Casket 
 Since, many long years ago, 
 
 It was sent me back in anger 
 By one whom I used to know. 
 
 But I want you to see the Por- 
 trait : 
 
 I wonder if you can trace 
 A look of that smiling creature 
 
 Left now in my faded face.
 
 180 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 It was like me once ; but re- 
 member 
 
 The weary, relentless years, 
 And Life, with its fierce brief 
 
 tempests, 
 
 And its long, long rain, of 
 tears. 
 
 Is it strange to call it my Por- 
 trait? 
 
 ' Nay, smile, dear, for well you 
 may, 
 
 To think of that radiant Vision 
 And of what I am to-day. 
 
 With restless, yet confident long- 
 ing, 
 How those blue eyes seem to 
 
 gaze 
 
 Into deep and exhaustless treas- 
 ures, 
 All hid in the coming days. 
 
 With that trust which leans on 
 
 the Future, 
 And counts on her promised 
 
 store, 
 Until she has taught us to 
 
 tremble 
 
 And hope, but to trust no 
 more. 
 
 How that young, light heart 
 
 would have pitied 
 Me now if her dreams had 
 
 shown 
 
 A quiet and weary woman 
 With all her illusions flown. 
 
 Yet I who shall soon be rest 
 
 ing, 
 And have passed the hardest 
 
 part 
 Can look back with a deeper 
 
 pity 
 
 On that young, unconscious 
 heart. 
 
 It is strange ; but Life's currents 
 
 drift us 
 
 So surely and swiftly on, 
 That we scarcely notice the 
 
 changes, 
 
 And how many things are 
 gone : 
 
 And forget, while to-day absorbs 
 
 us, 
 
 How old mysteries are un- 
 sealed ; 
 
 How the old, old ties are loosened, 
 And the old, old wounds are 
 healed. 
 
 And we say that our Life is fleet- 
 ing 
 Like a story that Time has 
 
 told; 
 But we fancy that we we 
 
 only 
 Are just what we were of old. 
 
 So now and then it is wisdom 
 To gaze, as I do to-day, 
 
 At a half-forgotten relic 
 
 Of a Time that is passed away
 
 THE BRIDE'S DREAM. 
 
 181 
 
 The very look of that Portrait, 
 The perfume that seems to 
 
 cling 
 
 To those fragile and faded let- 
 ters, 
 And the Locket, and the Ring, 
 
 If they only stirred in my spirit 
 Forgotten pleasure and pain, 
 
 Why, memory is often bitter, 
 And almost always in vain ; 
 
 But the contrast of bygone hours 
 Comes to rend a veil away, 
 
 And I marvel to see the stranger 
 Who is living in me to-day. 
 
 THE BRIDE'S DREAM. 
 
 THE stars are gleaming ; 
 
 The maiden sleeps, 
 What is she dreaming ? 
 
 For see she weeps. 
 By her side is an Angel 
 
 With folded wings ; 
 While the Maiden slumbers, 
 
 The Angel sings : 
 He sings of a Bridal, 
 
 Of Love, of Pain, 
 Of a heart to be given, 
 
 And all in vain ; 
 (See, her cheek is flushing, 
 
 As if with pain ;) 
 He telleth of sorrow, 
 
 Regrets and fears, 
 And the few vain pleasures 
 
 We buy with tears ; 
 
 And the bitter lesson 
 We learn from years. 
 
 The stars are gleaming 
 
 Upon her brow : 
 What is she dreaming 
 
 So calmly now 1 
 By her side is the Angel 
 
 With folded wings ; 
 She smiles in her slumber 
 
 The while he sings. 
 He sings of a Bridal, 
 
 Of Love divine ; 
 Of a heart to be laid 
 
 On a sacred shrine ; 
 Of a crown of glory, 
 
 Where seraphs shine ; 
 Of the deep, long rapture 
 
 The chosen know 
 Who forsake for Heaven 
 
 Vain joys below, 
 Who desire no pleasure, 
 
 And fear no woe. 
 
 The Bells are ringing, 
 
 The sun shines clear, 
 The Choir is singing, 
 
 The guests are here. 
 Before the High Altar 
 
 Behold the Bride ; 
 And a mournful Angel 
 
 Is by her side. 
 She smiles, all content 
 
 With her chosen lot, 
 (Is her last night's dreaming 
 
 So soon forgot?) 
 And oh, may the Angel 
 
 Forsake her not ! 
 For on her small hand 
 
 There glitters plain
 
 182 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BIDDING. 
 
 The first sad link 
 
 Of a life-long chain ; 
 And she needs his guiding 
 
 Through paths of pain. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BIDDING. 
 
 NOT a sound is heard in the 
 
 Convent ; 
 
 The Vesper Chant is sung, 
 The sick have all been tended, 
 The poor nun's toils are ended 
 Till the Matin bell has rung. 
 All is still, save the Clock, that 
 
 is ticking 
 
 So loud in the frosty air, 
 And the soft snow, falling as 
 
 gently 
 As an answer to a prayer. 
 
 But an Angel whispers, 
 
 " Sister, 
 You must rise from your 
 
 bed to pray ; 
 
 In the si lent, deserted chapel, 
 You must kneel till the 
 
 dawn of day ; 
 For, far on the desolate 
 
 moorland, 
 So dreary, and bleak, and 
 
 white, 
 There is one, all alone and 
 
 helpless, 
 In peril of death to-night. 
 
 " No sound on the moorland to 
 
 guide him, 
 No star in the murky air ; 
 
 And he thinks of his home and 
 
 his loved ones 
 
 With the tenderness of de- 
 spair ; 
 He has wandered for hours in 
 
 the snow-drift. s 
 
 And he strives to stand \n 
 
 vain, 
 And so lies down to dream of 
 
 his children, 
 And never to rise again. 
 Then kneel in the silent 
 
 chapel 
 
 Till the dawn of to-mor- 
 row's sun, 
 And ask of the Lord you 
 
 worship 
 For the life of that desolate 
 
 one ; 
 And the smiling eyes of his 
 
 children 
 Will gladden his heart 
 
 again, 
 And the grateful tears of 
 
 God's poor ones 
 Will fall on your soul like 
 rain ! 
 
 " Yet, leave him alone to perish, 
 And the grace of your God 
 
 implore, 
 With all the strength of your 
 
 spirit, 
 
 For one who needs it more. 
 Far away, in the gleaming city, 
 Amid perfume, and song, and 
 
 light, 
 
 A soul that Jesus has ransomed 
 Is in peril of sin to-night.
 
 SPRING. 
 
 183 
 
 "The Tempter is close beside him, 
 
 And his danger is all forgot, 
 And the far-off voices of child- 
 hood 
 Call aloud, but he hears them 
 
 not; 
 He sayeth no prayer, and his 
 
 mother 
 
 He thinks not of her to-day, 
 And he will not look up to 
 
 heaven, 
 
 And his Angel is turning 
 away. 
 
 " Then pray for a soul in peril, 
 A soul for which Jesus died ; 
 Ask, by the cross that bore Him, 
 And by her who stood beside ; 
 And the Angels of God will 
 
 thank you, 
 And bend from their thrones 
 
 of light, 
 
 To tell you that Heaven rejoices 
 At the deed you have done to- 
 night." 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 HARK ! the hours are softly call- 
 ing, 
 
 Bidding Spring arise, 
 To listen to the rain-drops falling 
 
 From the cloudy skies, 
 To listen to Earth's weary 
 
 voices, 
 Louder every day, 
 
 Bidding her no longer linger 
 
 On her charmed way ; 
 But hasten to her task of beauty 
 
 Scarcely yet begun ; 
 By the first bright day of Summer 
 
 It should all be done. 
 She has yet to loose the fountain 
 
 From its iron chain ; 
 And to make the barren moun- 
 tain 
 
 Green and bright again ; 
 She must clear the snow that 
 lingers 
 
 Round the stalks away, 
 And let the snow-drop's trem- 
 bling whiteness 
 
 See the light of day. 
 She musf. watch, and warm, and 
 cherish 
 
 Every blade of green, 
 Till the tender grass appearing 
 
 From the earth is seen ; 
 She must bring the golden crocus 
 
 From her hidden store ; 
 She must spread broad showers 
 of daisies 
 
 Each day more and more. 
 In each hedge-row she must 
 hasten 
 
 Cowslips sweet to set ; 
 Primroses in rich profusion, 
 
 With bright dew-drops wet, 
 And under every leaf, in shadow 
 
 Hide a violet ! 
 Every tree within the forest 
 
 Must be decked anew ; 
 And the tender buds of promise 
 
 Should be peeping through, 
 Folded deep, and almost hidden, 
 
 Leaf by leaf beside,
 
 184 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 What will make the Summer's 
 
 glory, 
 
 And the Autumn's pride. 
 She must weave the loveliest car- 
 pets, 
 
 Checkered sun and shade, 
 Every wood must have such path- 
 ways, 
 
 Laid in every glade ; 
 She must hang laburnum 
 
 branches 
 
 On each arche'd bough ; 
 And the white and purple lilac 
 
 Should be waving now ; 
 She must breathe, and cold winds 
 
 vanish 
 
 At her breath away ; 
 And then load the air around her 
 
 With the scent of May ! 
 Listen then, O Spring ! nor 
 
 linger 
 
 On thy charmed way ; 
 Have pity on thy prisoned flowers 
 
 Wearying for the day. 
 Listen to the rain-drops falling 
 
 From the cloudy skies ; 
 Listen to the hours calling, 
 Bidding thee arise. 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 THE shadows of the evening 
 hours 
 
 Fall from the darkening sky ; 
 Upon the fragrance of the flowers 
 
 The dews of evening lie ; 
 
 Before thy throne, O Lord of 
 
 heaven, 
 
 We kneel at close of day ; 
 Look on thy children from on 
 
 high, 
 And hear us while we pray. 
 
 The sorrows of thy servants, 
 Lord, 
 
 O do not thou despise ; 
 But let the incense of our prayers 
 
 Before thy mercy rise ; 
 The brightness of the coming 
 night 
 
 Upon the darkness rolls : 
 With hopes of future glory chaso 
 
 The shadows on our souls. 
 
 Slowly the rays of daylight fade ; 
 
 So fade within our heart 
 The hopes in earthly love andjoy, 
 
 That one by one depart : 
 Slowly the bright stars, one by 
 one, 
 
 Within the heavens shine ; 
 Give us, O Lord, fresh hopes in 
 Heaven, 
 
 And trust in things divine. 
 
 Let peace, Lord, thy peace, O 
 
 God, 
 
 Upon our souls descend ; 
 From midnight fears and perils, 
 
 thou 
 
 Our trembling hearts defend ; 
 Give us a respite from our toil, 
 Calm and subdue our woes ; 
 Through the long day we suffer, 
 
 Lord, 
 O give us now repose !
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 185 
 
 THE INNER CHAMBER. 
 
 IN the outer Court I was singing, 
 Was singing the whole day 
 
 long; 
 From the inner chamber were 
 
 ringing 
 Echoes repeating my song. 
 
 And I sang till it grew immortal ; 
 
 For that very song of mine, 
 When re-echoed behind the Por- 
 tal, 
 
 Was filled with a life divine. 
 
 Was the Chamber a silver round 
 Of arches, whose magical art 
 
 Drew in coils of musical sound, 
 And cast them back on my 
 heart? 
 
 Was there hidden within a lyre 
 Which, as air breathed over 
 
 its strings, 
 Filled my song with a soul of 
 
 fire, 
 
 And sent back my words with 
 wings ? 
 
 Was some seraph imprisoned 
 
 there, 
 
 Whose Voice made my song 
 complete, 
 
 And whose lingering, soft de- 
 spair 
 
 Made the echo so faint and sweet ? 
 
 Long I trembled and paused, 
 
 then parted 
 The curtains with heavy fringe ; 
 
 And, half fearing, yet eager- 
 hearted, 
 
 Turned the door on its golden 
 hinge. 
 
 Now I 
 
 in the court once 
 
 sing 
 more, 
 
 I sing and I weep all day, 
 As I kneel by the close-shut 
 
 door, 
 For I know what the echoes say. 
 
 Yet I sing not the song of old, 
 Ere I knew whence the echo 
 came, 
 
 Ere I opened the door of gold ; 
 But the music sounds just the 
 
 Then take warning, and turn 
 
 away ; 
 Do not ask of that hidden 
 
 thing, 
 
 Do not guess what the echoes say, 
 Or the meaning of what I sing. 
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 A TRINKET made like a Heart, 
 dear, 
 
 Of red gold, bright and fine, 
 Was given to me for a keepsake, 
 
 Given to me for mine-
 
 186 
 
 HEARTS. 
 
 And another heart, warm and 
 tender, 
 
 As true as a heart could be ; 
 And every throb that stirred it 
 
 Was always and all for me. 
 
 Sailing over the waters, 
 
 Watching the far blue land, 
 1 1 dropped my golden heart, dear, 
 I Dropped it out of my hand ! 
 
 It lies in the cold, blue waters, 
 Fathoms and fathoms deep, 
 
 The golden heart which I prom- 
 ised, 
 Promised to prize and keep. 
 
 Gazing at Life's bright visions, 
 So false, and fair, and new, 
 
 I forgot the other heart, dear, 
 Forgot it and lost it too ! 
 
 I might seek that heart forever, 
 I might seek and seek in 
 vain ; 
 
 And for one short, careless hour, 
 I pay with a life of pain. 
 
 n. 
 
 THE Heart ? Yes, I wore it 
 As sign and as token 
 
 Of a love that once gave it, 
 A vow that was spoken ; 
 
 But a love, and a vow, and a 
 
 heart 
 Can be broken. 
 
 The Love ? Life and Death 
 Are crushed into a day, 
 
 So what wonder that Love 
 Should as soon pass away, 
 
 What wonder I saw it 
 Fade, fail, and decay ? 
 
 The Vow ? why what was it t 
 It snapped like a thread ; 
 
 Who cares for the corpse 
 When the spirit is fled ? 
 
 Then I said, " Let the Dead rise 
 And bury its dead, 
 
 " While the true, living future 
 Grows pure, wise, and strong." 
 
 So I cast the gold heart 
 I had worn for so long 
 
 In the Lake, and bound on it 
 A Stone and a Wrong ! 
 
 m. 
 
 LOOK, this little golden Heart 
 Was a true-love shrine 
 
 For a tress of hair ; I held them, 
 Heart and tress, as mine, 
 
 Like the Love which gave the 
 token : 
 
 See, to-day the Heart is broken !
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 187 
 
 Broken is the golden heart, 
 Lost the tress of hair ; 
 
 Ah, the shrine is empty, vacant, 
 Desolate and bare ! 
 
 So the token should depart, 
 
 When Love dies within the heart. 
 
 Fast and deep the river floweth, 
 
 Floweth to the west ; 
 I will cast the golden trinket 
 
 In its cold dark breast : 
 Flow, O river, deep and fast, 
 Over all the buried past ! 
 
 TWO LOVES. 
 
 DEEP within my heart of hearts, 
 
 dear, 
 
 Bound with all its strings, 
 Two Loves are together reigning, 
 Both are crowned like Kings ; 
 While my life, still uncomplain- 
 ing. 
 Rests beneath their wings. 
 
 So they both will rule my heart, 
 dear, 
 
 Till it cease to beat ; 
 No sway can be deeper, stronger, 
 
 Truer, more complete ; 
 Growing, as it lasts the longer, 
 
 Sweeter, and more sweet. 
 
 
 One all life and time transfigures ; 
 
 Piercing through and through 
 
 Meaner things with magic splen- 
 dor, 
 
 Old, yet ever new : 
 This so strong and yet so 
 
 tender 
 Is ... my Love for you. 
 
 Should it fail, forgive my 
 doubting 
 
 In this world of pain, 
 Yet my other Love would ever 
 
 Steadfastly remain ; 
 And I know that I could never 
 
 Turn to that in vain. 
 
 Though its radiance may be 
 
 fainter, 
 
 Yet its task is wide ; 
 For it lives to comfort sorrows, 
 Strengthen, calm, and guide, 
 And from Trust and Honor bor- 
 rows 
 All its peace and pride. 
 
 Will you blame my dreaming, 
 
 even 
 
 If the first were flown ? 
 Ah, I would not live without it, 
 
 It is all your own : 
 And the other can you doubt 
 
 it? 
 Yours, and yours alone. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 WELL the links are broken, 
 All is past ;
 
 188 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 This farewell, when spoken, 
 
 Is the last. 
 I have tried and striven 
 
 All in vain ; 
 Such bonds must be riven, 
 
 Spite of pain, 
 And never, never, never 
 
 Knit again. 
 
 So I tell you plainly, 
 
 It must be : 
 I shall try, not vainly, 
 
 To be free ; 
 Truer, happier chances 
 
 Wait me yet, 
 While you, through fresh fancies, 
 
 Can forget ; 
 And life has nobler uses 
 
 Than Kegret. 
 
 All past words retracing, 
 
 One by one, 
 Does not help effacing 
 
 What is done. 
 Let it be. O, stronger 
 
 Links can break ! 
 Had we dreamed still longer 
 
 We could wake, 
 Yet let us part in kindness 
 
 For Love's sake. 
 
 Bitterness and sorrow 
 
 Will at last, 
 In some bright to-morrow, 
 
 Heal their past ; 
 But future hearts will never 
 
 Be as true 
 
 As mine was is ever, 
 Dear, for you .... 
 
 Then must we part, when 
 
 loving 
 As we do ? 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 "LINGER," I cried, " O radiant 
 
 Time ! thy power 
 Has nothing more to give ; life 
 
 is complete : 
 Let but the perfect Present, hour 
 
 by hour, 
 Itself remember and itself repeat- 
 
 " And Love, the future can 
 
 but mar its splendor, 
 Change can but dim the glory of 
 
 its youth ; 
 Time has no star more faithful 
 
 or more tender 
 To crown its constancy or light 
 
 its truth." 
 
 But Time passed on in spite of 
 
 prayer or pleading, 
 Through storm and peril ; but 
 
 that life might gain 
 A Peace through strife all other 
 
 peace cxc-ceding, 
 Fresh joy from sorrow, and new 
 
 hope from pain.
 
 FOR THE FUTURE. 
 
 189 
 
 And since Love lived when all 
 
 save Love was dying, 
 And, passed through fire, grew 
 
 stronger than before : 
 Dear, you know why, in double 
 
 faith relying, 
 I prize the Past much, but the 
 
 Present more. 
 
 FOR THE FUTURE. 
 
 I WONDER did you ever count 
 The value of one human fate ; 
 Or sum the infinite amount 
 Of one heart's treasures, and 
 
 the weight 
 Of Life's one venture, and the 
 
 whole concentrate purpose 
 
 of a soul. 
 
 And if you ever paused to 
 think 
 
 That all this in your hands I 
 laid 
 
 Without a fear : did you 
 not shrink 
 
 From such a burden ? half 
 
 afraid, 
 
 Half wishing that you could di- 
 vide the risk, or cast it all 
 aside. 
 
 While Love has daily perils, 
 such 
 
 As none foresee and none con- 
 trol ; 
 
 And hearts are strung so that 
 
 one touch, 
 Careless or rough, may jar the 
 
 whole, 
 You well might feel afraid to 
 
 reign with absolute power 
 
 of joy and pain. 
 
 You well might fear if 
 
 Love's sole claim 
 Were to be happy: buttrueLove 
 Takes joy as solace, not as aim, 
 And looks beyond, and looks 
 
 above ; 
 
 And sometimes through the bit- 
 terest strife first learns to 
 live her highest life. 
 
 Earth forges joy into a chain 
 Till fettered Love forgets its 
 
 strength, 
 Its purpose, and its end ; 
 
 but Pain 
 
 Restores its heritage at length, 
 And bids Love rise again and be 
 
 eternal, mighty, pure, and 
 
 free. 
 
 If then your future life should 
 
 need 
 A strength my Love can only 
 
 gain 
 Through suffering, or my heart 
 
 be freed 
 Only by sorrow from some 
 
 stain, 
 Then you shall give, and I will 
 
 take, this Crown of fire for 
 
 Love's dear sake. 
 September 8, 1860.
 
 A CHAPLET OF VEKSES.
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE BENEFIT OF 
 
 THE PROVIDENCE ROW NIGHT REFUGE 
 
 FOB 
 
 HOMELESS WOMEN AND CHILDREN.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 THERE is scarcely any char- 
 itable institution which should 
 excite such universal, such un- 
 hesitating sympathy, as a Night 
 Refuge for the Homeless Poor. 
 
 A shelter through the bleak 
 winter nights, leave to rest in 
 some poor shed instead of wan- 
 dering through the pitiless streets, 
 is a boon we could hardly deny 
 to a starving dog. And yet we 
 have all known that in this coun- 
 try, in this town, many of our 
 miserable fellow-creatures were 
 pacing the streets through the 
 long weary nights, without a 
 roof to shelter them, without 
 food to eat, with their poor rags 
 soaked in rain, and only the bit- 
 ter winds of Heaven for compan- 
 ions ; women and children utter- 
 ly forlorn and helpless, either 
 wandering about all night, or 
 crouching under a miserable 
 archway, or, worst of all, seek- 
 ing in death or sin the refuge 
 denied them elsewhere. It is a 
 marvel that we could sleep in 
 peace in our warm, comfortable 
 
 homes with this horror at our 
 very door. 
 
 But at last some efforts were 
 made to efface this stain upon 
 our country, public sympathy 
 was appealed to, and a few 
 " Refuges " were opened, to shel- 
 ter our homeless poor through 
 the winter nights. 
 
 In the autumn of 1860 there 
 was no Catholic Refuge in the 
 kingdom ; and excellent as were 
 the Protestant Refuges, their re- 
 sources were quite inadequate to 
 meet the claims upon them. 
 
 In this country, as we all 
 know, the very poorest and most 
 destitute are in many cases 
 Catholics ; and doubtless our 
 Priests, to whom no form of sin 
 or sorrow is strange, must see in 
 a special manner, and in innu- 
 merable results, the sufferings, 
 dangers, and temptations of the 
 homeless. The Rev. Dr. Gil- 
 bert therefore resolved to open a 
 Catholic Night Refuge in his 
 parish, and to his zealous charity 
 and unwearied efforts are due
 
 196 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the foundation and success of the 
 PROVIDENCE Row NIGHT REF- 
 UGE FOR HOMELESS WOMEN 
 AND CHILDREN ; the first Cath- 
 olic Refuge in England or Ire- 
 land, and still the only one in 
 England. 
 
 The Sisters of Mercy had long 
 been aiding their pastors in the 
 schools of the parish, and when 
 this new opening for their char- 
 ity was suggested to them, they 
 unhesitatingly accepted a task, 
 worthy indeed of the holy name 
 they bear. They were seeking 
 for some house more suitable for 
 a Convent than the one they 
 had hitherto occupied in Broad 
 Street ; and when Dr. Gilbert 
 saw the large stable at the back 
 of 14 Finsbury Square, he felt 
 that here was a suitable place 
 for his long-cherished plan of a 
 Night Refuge. It was separated 
 from the house by a yard, and 
 opened on a narrow street at tbe 
 back, already called, with a hap- 
 py appropriateness, Providence 
 Row. To Finsbury Square 
 therefore the community re- 
 moved, and it was not long be- 
 fore the stable was fitted up with 
 wooden beds and benches, the 
 few preparations were completed, 
 and on the 7th of October, 1860, 
 the Refuge was opened. At 
 first there were but fourteen beds, 
 but contributions flowed in from 
 Protestants as well as Catholics, 
 and in February, 1861, thirty- 
 
 one more beds were added, mak- 
 ing in all forty-five. But ta 
 many of the poor women have 
 children with them, rarely less 
 than sixty persons are each night 
 admitted. Up to the present 
 time, fourteen thousand seven 
 hundred and eighty-five nights' 
 lodgings have been given, with 
 the same number of suppers and 
 breakfasts. 
 
 From six to eight are the 
 hours of admission ; but this ig 
 indeed a needless rule, for a 
 crowd of ragged women, with 
 pale, weary children clinging to 
 them, are waiting patiently long 
 before the doors are opened, and 
 the place is filled at once. 
 
 Means for washing are given 
 them, they rest themselves in 
 warmth, light, and peace, and al 
 eight o'clock each person receives 
 half a pound of bread and a 
 large basin of excellent gruel. 
 Night prayers are said by one 
 of the Sisters, and then the poor 
 wanderers lie down in their rude 
 but clean and comfortable beds. 
 They have the same meal in the 
 morning. 
 
 Those who come on Saturday 
 evening remain till Monday, re- 
 ceiving on Sunday, besides tho 
 usual breakfast and supper, an 
 extra half-pound of bread, and a 
 good supply of meat soup. 
 There is no distinction of creed ; 
 Protestants and Catholics are 
 alike admitted. There are but
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 197 
 
 two conditions of admittance, 
 that the applicants bo homeless 
 and of good character. This is 
 the only Refuge which makes 
 character a condition ; and it is 
 found that, in spite of all pre- 
 cautions, much harm arises in 
 the other Refuges to the young 
 and innocent, from the bad lan- 
 guage and evil example of the 
 degraded class with whom they 
 are brought in contact. 
 
 Each evening (and on Sun- 
 days more fully) simple instruc- 
 tions on the Catechism are given 
 by one of the Sisters ; but this 
 the Protestants do not attend ; 
 they frequently ask leave to be 
 present, but it is not permitted, 
 (without the special permission 
 of one of the clergy,) as the in- 
 structions on the practice of our 
 faith would be to them compara- 
 tively useless and unmeaning. 
 
 The temporary shelter and 
 food which is given in Provi- 
 dence Row is not the only, per- 
 haps often not the greatest, bene- 
 fit bestowed upon the poor for- 
 lorn inmates. They find advice, 
 sympathy, and help from the 
 kind Sisters ; and the very tell- 
 ing their troubles to one who is 
 there to serve and tend them, 
 not for any earthly reward, but 
 from Christian love and pity, 
 must be a rest to their weary 
 hearts, a comfort in their sore 
 waut and distress. It is touch- 
 ing to see their eager desire to 
 
 be allowed to help the Sister in 
 the cleaning, cooking, etc., and 
 the half-ashamed thankfulness 
 with which they watch her busied 
 in their service. 
 
 One of the Nuns sleeps every 
 night in the Refuge, and no un- 
 ruly sound, no whisper of mur- 
 mur or disrespect, ever rises 
 against her gentle sway. Nay, 
 even more, when she has the 
 sad task of selecting among the 
 waiting crowd the number who 
 may enter, choosing generally 
 those with children and those 
 who have not applied before, the 
 rest submit without a murmur. 
 Though the little ones are hard- 
 ly counted, but creep in by their 
 mothers' sides, there are still 
 many sometimes thirty or 
 forty nightly turned away for 
 want of space. They have had 
 a glimpse of warmth and light, 
 and then it is the cruel office of 
 the kind Nun to bar the door 
 against them ; but no angry 
 word, no remonstrance, meets 
 her sorrowful refusal ; they turn 
 once more to their weary wan- 
 derings in the dark, bleak streets. 
 And so will many have to do, 
 night after night, until the Ref- 
 uge is enlarged. The present 
 space will hold no more beds, 
 but to build an additional dor- 
 mitory is the earnest desire and 
 intention of Dr. Gilbert. 
 
 No salaries are received by ar/ij 
 who liave charge of tlie Refuge.
 
 198 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Among the many causes for 
 gratitude we have to our good 
 Religious, surely it is not one 
 of the least, that what we can 
 spare in the cause of charity 
 goes solely and directly to its 
 object; the more difficult and 
 more perfect share of the good 
 work being taken by them out 
 of love to God and his poor. 
 
 The Refuge is open from the 
 month of October to April. 
 
 It is placed under the special 
 patronage of Our Blessed Lady, 
 and Blessed Benedict Labre. 
 
 May the Mother who wan- 
 dered homeless through inhos- 
 pitable Bethlehem, and the Saint 
 who was a beggar and an out- 
 cast upon the face of the earth, 
 watch over this Refuge for the 
 poor and desolate, and obtain 
 from the charity of the faithful 
 the aid which it so sorely needs. 
 
 I may add, that donations for 
 the Refuge will be thankfully 
 received by the Rev. Dr. Gilbert, 
 22 Finsbury Circus, or by the 
 Rev. Mother, at the Convent, 14 
 Finsbury Square, E. C. 
 
 We all meditate long and 
 often on the many kinds of suf- 
 ferings borne for us by our Bless- 
 ed Redeemer; but perhaps, if 
 we consider a moment, we shall 
 most of us confess, that the one 
 we think of least often, the one 
 we compassionate least of all, is 
 the only one of which he deigned 
 to tell us himself, and for which 
 he himself appealed to our pity 
 in the Divine complaint, "The 
 foxes have holes, and the birds 
 of the air have nests, but the 
 Son of Man has not where to lay 
 his head." 
 
 A. A. P. 
 
 May, 1862.
 
 A CHAPLET OF VEESES. 
 
 THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 
 
 To fight the battle of the Cross, Christ's chosen ones are sent, 
 Good soldiers and great victors, a noble armament. 
 They use no earthly weapon, they know not spear or sword, 
 Yet right and true and valiant is the army of the Lord. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Fear them, ye mighty ones of earth ; fear them, ye demon foes ; 
 Slay them and think to conquer, but the ranks will always close : 
 In vain do Earth and Hell unite their power and skill to try, 
 They fight better for their wounds, and they conquer when they die. 
 
 The soul of every sinner is the victory they would gain ; 
 They would bind each rebel heart in their Master's golden chain : 
 Faith is the shield they carry, and the two-edged sword they bear 
 Is God's strongest, mightiest weapon, and they call it Love and 
 Prayer. 
 
 Where the savage hordes are dwelling by the Ganges' sacred tide, 
 Through the trackless Indian forests, St. Francis is their guide ; 
 Where crime and sin are raging, to conquer they are gone ; 
 They do conquer as they go, for St. Philip leads them on.
 
 200 THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 
 
 v. 
 
 They are come where all are kneeling at the shrines of wealth and 
 
 pride, 
 
 And an old and martyred Bishop is their comrade and their guide : 
 To tell the toil-worn negro of freedom and repose, 
 O'er the vast Atlantic's bosom they are called by sweet St. Rose. 
 
 They are gone where Love is frozen, and Faith grown calm and cold, 
 Where the world is all triumphant, and the sheep have left the fold, 
 Where His children scorn His blessings, and His sacred Shrines 
 
 despise, 
 And the beacon of the warriors is the light in Mary's eyes. 
 
 The bugle for their battle is the matin bell for prayer ; 
 And for their noble standard Christ's holy Cross they bear ; 
 His sacred name their war-cry, 't is in vain what ye can do, 
 They must conquer, for your Angels are leaguing with them too. 
 
 Would yon know, O World, these warriors ? Go where the poor, 
 
 the old, 
 
 Ask for pardon and for heaven, and you offer food and gold ; 
 With healing and with comfort, with words of peace and prayer, 
 Bearing His greatest gift to man, Christ's chosen priests are there. 
 
 Where sin and crime are dwelling, hid from the light of day, 
 And life and hope are fading at Death's cold touch away, 
 Where dying eyes in horror see the long-forgotten past, 
 Christ's servants claim the sinner-, and gain his soul at last. 
 
 Where the rich and prond and mighty God's message would defy, 
 In warning and reproof His anointed ones stand by : 
 Bright are the crowns of glory God kecpeth for His own, 
 Their life one sigh for heaven, and their aim His will aloue.
 
 THE ARMY OF THE LORD. 201 
 
 XI. 
 
 And see sweet Mercy's sister, where the poor and wretched dwell, 
 
 In gentle accents telling of Him she loves so well ; 
 
 Training young hearts to serve their Lord, and place their hope ia 
 
 Heaven, 
 Bidding her erring sisters love much and be forgiven. 
 
 And where in cloistered silence dim the Brides of Jesus dwell, 
 Where purest incense rises up from every lowly cell, 
 They plead not vainly, they have chosen and gained the better part, 
 And given their gentle life away to Him who has their heart. 
 
 And some there are among us the path which they have trod 
 Of sin and pain and anguish has led at last to God : 
 They plead, and Christ will hear them, that the poor slaves who pine 
 In the bleak dungeon they have left, may see His truth divine. 
 
 O, who can tell how many hearts are altars to His praise, 
 
 From which the silent prayer ascends through patient nights and 
 
 days : 
 
 The sacrifice is offered still in secret and alone, 
 O World, ye do not know them, but He can help His own. 
 
 They are with us, His true soldiers, they come in power and might; 
 Glorious the crown which they shall gain after the heavenly fight; 
 And you, perchance, who scoff, may yet their rest and glory share, 
 As the rich spoil of their battle and the captives of their prayer. 
 
 O, who shall tell the wonder of that great day of rest, 
 
 When even in this place of strife His soldiers are so blest : 
 
 World, O Earth, why strive ye 1 join the low chant they sing, 
 
 " O Grave, where is thy victory ! O Death, where is thy sting ! "
 
 202 
 
 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 THE STAR OF THE SEA. 
 
 How many a mighty ship 
 
 The stormy waves o'erwhelm ; 
 Yet our frail bark floats on, 
 
 Our Angel holds the helm : 
 Dark storms are gathering round, 
 
 And dangerous winds arise, 
 Yet see ! one trembling star 
 
 Is shining in the skies ; 
 And we are safe who trust in 
 
 thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 A long and weary voyage 
 
 Have we to reach our home, 
 And dark and sunken rocks 
 
 Are hid in silver foam ; 
 Each moment we may sink, 
 
 But steadily we sail, 
 Our winged Pilot smiles, 
 
 And says we shall not fail : 
 And so we kneel and call on 
 
 thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 Yes, for those shining rays 
 
 Shall beam upon the main, 
 Shall guide us safely on, 
 
 Through fear and doubt and 
 
 pain: 
 
 And see the stormy wind 
 Our little sail has caught, 
 The tempest others fear 
 
 Shall drive us into port : 
 Through Life's dark voyage we 
 
 trust in thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 The shore now looms in sight, 
 
 The far-off golden strand, 
 Yet many a freight is wrecked 
 
 And lost in sight of land ; 
 Then guide us safely home, 
 Through that last hour of 
 
 strife, 
 And welcome us to land, 
 
 From the long voyage of 
 
 life : 
 
 In death and life we call on thee, 
 Star of the Sea ! 
 
 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 WHAT wouldst thou have, O 
 soul, 
 
 Thou weary soul ? 
 Lo ! I have sought for rest 
 On the Earth's heaving breast, 
 
 From pole to pole. 
 Sleep I have been with her, 
 
 But she gave dreams ; 
 Death nay, the rest he gives 
 
 Rest only seems. 
 Fair nature knows it not 
 
 The grass is growing ; 
 The blue air knows it not 
 
 The winds are blowing : 
 Not in the changing sky, 
 
 The stormy sea, 
 Yet somewhere in God's wide 
 world 
 
 Rest there must be. 
 Within thy Saviour's Heart 
 
 Place all thy care,
 
 THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 203 
 
 And learn, O weary soul, 
 Thy Rest is there. 
 
 What wouldst thou, trembling 
 soul? 
 
 Strength for the strife, 
 Strength for this fiery war 
 
 That we call Life. 
 Fears- gather thickly round ; 
 
 Shadowy foes, 
 Like unto armed men, 
 
 Around me close. 
 What am I, frail and poor, 
 
 When griefs arise ? . 
 No help from the weak earth, 
 
 Or the cold skies. 
 Lo ! I can find no guards, 
 
 No weapons borrow ; 
 Shrinking, alone I stand, 
 
 With mighty sorrow. 
 Courage, thou trembling soul, 
 
 Grief thou must bear, 
 Yet thou canst find a strength 
 
 Will match despair ; 
 Within thy Saviour's Heart 
 
 Seek for it there. 
 
 What wouldst thou have, sad 
 soul, 
 
 Oppressed with grief? 
 Comfort : I seek in vain, 
 
 Nor find relief. 
 Nature, all pitiless, 
 
 Smiles on my pain ; 
 I ask my fellow-men, 
 
 They give disdain. 
 I asked the babbling streams, 
 
 But they flowed on ; 
 
 I asked the wise and good, 
 
 But they gave none. 
 Though I have asked the stars. 
 
 Coldly they shine. 
 They are too bright to know 
 
 Grief such as mine. 
 I asked for comfort still, 
 
 And I found tears, 
 And I have sought in vain 
 
 Long, weary years. 
 Listen, thou mournful soul, 
 
 Thy pain shall cease ; 
 Deep in His sacred Heart 
 
 Dwells joy and peace. 
 
 Yes, in that Heart divine 
 
 The Angels bright 
 Find, through eternal years, 
 
 Still new delight. 
 From thence his constancy 
 
 The martyr drew, 
 And there the virgin band 
 
 Their refuge knew. 
 There, racked by pain without, 
 
 And dread within, 
 How many souls have found 
 
 Heaven's bliss begin. 
 Then leave thy vain attempts 
 
 To seek for peace ; 
 The world can never give 
 
 One soul release : 
 But in thy Saviour's Heart 
 
 Securely dwell, 
 No pain can harm thee, hid 
 
 In that sweet cell. 
 Then fly, O coward soul, 
 
 Delay no more : 
 What words can speak the joy 
 
 For thee in store 1
 
 204 
 
 THE NAMES OF OUR LADY. 
 
 What smiles of earth can tell 
 Of peace like thine 1 
 
 Silence and tears are best 
 For things divine. 
 
 THE 
 
 NAMES OF 
 LADY. 
 
 OUR 
 
 THROUGH the wi4e world thy 
 children raise 
 
 Their prayers, and still we see 
 Calm are the nights and bright 
 
 the days 
 
 Of those who trust in thee. 
 
 Around thy starry crown are 
 wreathed 
 
 So many names divine : 
 Which is the dearest to my heart, 
 
 And the most worthy thine 1 
 
 Star of the Sea : we kneel and 
 
 pray 
 When tempests raise their 
 
 voice ; 
 Star of tiie Sea ! the haven 
 
 reached, 
 We call thee and rejoice. 
 
 Help of the Christian : in our need 
 Thy mighty aid we claim ; 
 
 If we are faint and weary, then 
 We trust in that dear name. 
 
 Our Lady of the Rosary : 
 What name can be so sweet 
 
 As what we call thee when we 
 
 place 
 Our chaplets at thy feet. 
 
 Bright Queen of Heaven : when 
 
 we are sad, 
 
 Best solace of our pains ; 
 It tells us, though on earth we 
 
 toil, 
 Our Mother lives and reigns. 
 
 Our Lady of Mount Carmel : thus 
 Sometimes thy name is known ; 
 
 It tells ns of the badge we wear, 
 To live or die thine own. 
 
 Our Lady dear of Victories : 
 We see our faith oppressed, 
 
 And, praying for our erring land, 
 We love that name the best. 
 
 Refuge of Sinners : many a soul, 
 By guilt cast down, and sin, 
 
 Has learned through this dear 
 
 name of thine 
 Pardon and peace to win. 
 
 Health of the Sick : when anxious 
 
 hearts 
 
 Watch by the sufferer's bed, 
 On this sweet name of thine they 
 
 lean, 
 Consoled and comforted. 
 
 Mother cif Sorrows : many a heart 
 Half broken by despair 
 
 Has laid its burden by the cross, 
 And found a mother there.
 
 A CHAP LET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 205 
 
 Queen of all Saints : the Church 
 
 appeals 
 
 For her loved dead to thee ; 
 She knows they wait in patient 
 
 pain 
 A bright eternity. 
 
 Fair Queen of Virgins : thy pure 
 
 baud, 
 
 The lilies round thy throne, 
 Love the dear title which they 
 
 bear 
 Most that it is thine own. 
 
 True Queen of Martyrs : if we 
 
 shrink 
 
 From want, or pain, or woe, 
 We think of the sharp sword 
 
 that pierced 
 Thy heart, and call thee so. 
 
 Mary : the dearest name of all, 
 The holiest and the best ; 
 
 The first low word that Jesus 
 
 lisped 
 Laid on His mother's breast. 
 
 Mary, the name that Gabriel 
 
 spoke, 
 
 The name that conquers hell : 
 Mary, the name that through 
 
 high heaven 
 The angels love so welL 
 
 Mary, our comfort and our 
 hope, 
 
 O may that word be given 
 To be the last we sigh on earth, 
 
 The first we breathe in heaven 
 
 A CHAPLET OF FLOW- 
 ERS. 
 
 DEAR, set the casement open, 
 The evening breezes blow 
 
 Sweet per/umes from the flowers 
 I cannot see below. 
 
 I can but catch the waving 
 Of chestnut boughs that pass, 
 
 Their shadow must have covered 
 The sun-dial on the grass. 
 
 So go and bring the flowers 
 I love best to my room, 
 
 My failing strength no longer 
 Can bear me where they bloom. 
 
 You know I used to love them, 
 But ah ! they come too late, 
 
 For see, my hands are trembling 
 Beneath their dewy weight. 
 
 So I will watch you weaving 
 A chaplet for me, dear, 
 
 Of all my favorite flowers, 
 As I could do last year. 
 
 First, take those crimson roses, 
 How red their petals glow ! 
 
 Red as the blood of Jesus, 
 Which heals our sin and woe. 
 
 See in each heart of crimson 
 A deeper crimson shine : 
 
 So in the foldings of our hearts 
 Should glow a love divine.
 
 206 
 
 A CHAP LET OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Next place those tender violets, 
 Look how they still regret 
 
 The cell where they were hid- 
 den, 
 The tears are on them yet. 
 
 
 
 How many souls His loved 
 ones 
 
 Dwell lonely and apart, 
 Hiding from all but One above 
 
 The fragrance of their heart. 
 
 Then take that virgin lily, 
 How holily she stands ! 
 
 You know the gentle angels 
 Bear lilies in their hands. 
 
 Yet crowned with purer radiance 
 A deeper love they claim, 
 
 Because their queen-like white- 
 ness 
 Is linked with Mary's name. 
 
 And now this spray of ivy : 
 You know its gradual clasp 
 
 Uproots strong trees, and towers 
 Fall crumbling in its grasp. 
 
 So God's dear grace around us 
 With secret patience clings, 
 
 And slow, sure power, that 
 
 loosens 
 Strongholds on human things. 
 
 Then heliotrope, that turncth 
 Towards her lord the sun, 
 
 Would that our thoughts as 
 
 fondly 
 Sought our belove'd One. 
 
 Nay, if that branch be fading, 
 Cast not one blossom by, 
 
 Its little task is ended 
 And it does well to die. 
 
 And let some field flowers even 
 Be wreathed among the rest, 
 
 I think the infant Jesus 
 
 Would love such ones the best 
 
 These flowers are all too bril. 
 
 liant, 
 So place calm heart's-ease 
 
 there, 
 
 God's last and sacred treasure 
 For all who wait and bear. 
 
 Then lemon-leaves, whose sweet- 
 ness 
 
 Grows sweeter than before 
 When bruised, and crushed, and 
 
 broken, 
 
 Hearts need that lesson 
 more. 
 
 Yet stay, one crowning glory, 
 All His, and yet all ours ; 
 
 The dearest, tenderest thought of 
 
 all, 
 Is still the Passion-flower's. 
 
 So take it now, nay, heed not 
 My tears that on it fall ; 
 
 I thank Him for the flowers, 
 As I can do for all. 
 
 And place it on the altar, 
 
 Where oft, in days long flown, 
 
 I knelt by His dear Mother, 
 And knew she was my own.
 
 KYRIE ELEISON. 
 
 207 
 
 The bells ring ont her praises, 
 The evening shades grow 
 dim; 
 
 Go there and say a prayer for me, 
 And sing Our Lady's hymn. 
 
 While I lie here, and ask her 
 help 
 
 In that last, longed-for day 
 When the Beloved of my heart 
 
 Will call my soul away. 
 
 KYRIE ELEISON. 
 
 IN joy, in pain, in sorrow, 
 
 Father, Thy hand we see ; 
 But some among Thy children 
 
 Deny this faith and Thee. 
 They will not ask Thy mercy, 
 
 But we kneel for them in 
 
 prayer ; 
 Are they not still Thy children ? 
 
 Pity, O God ! and spare. 
 Thy peace, O Lord, has never 
 
 On their desolate pathway 
 
 shone, 
 Darkness is all around them : 
 
 Kyrie Eleison ! 
 
 For them the starry heavens 
 No hymn of worship raise ; 
 
 For them, earth's innocent flow- 
 ers 
 Breathe not Thy silent praise ; 
 
 In heaven they know no Saviour, 
 No Father, and no Friend, 
 
 And life is all they hope for, 
 And Death they call the end ; 
 
 Their eyes, O Lord ! are blinded 
 To the glories of the sun, 
 
 To the shining of the sea-star 
 Kyrie Eleison ! 
 
 By the love Thy saints have 
 
 shown Thee, 
 And the sorrows they have 
 
 borne, 
 Leave not these erring creatures 
 
 To wander thus forlorn. 
 By Thy tender name of Sa- 
 viour, 
 
 The name they have denied ; 
 By Thy bitter death and passion, 
 And the Cross which they de- 
 ride; 
 
 By the anguish Thou hast suf- 
 fered, 
 
 And the glory Thou hast won ; 
 By Thy love and by Thy pity 
 Christe Eleison ! 
 
 Pray for them, glorious seraphs, 
 
 And ye, bright angel band, 
 Who chant His praises ever. 
 
 And in His presence stand ; 
 And thou, O gentle Mother, 
 
 Queen of the starry sky ; 
 Ye Saints whose toils are over, 
 
 Join your voices to our cry, - 
 In Thy terror or Thy mercy, 
 
 Call them ere life is done, 
 For His sake who died to save 
 them, 
 
 Kyrie Eleison !
 
 208 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 THE ANNUNCIATION. 
 
 Hovr pure, and frail, and white, 
 The snowdrops shine ! 
 
 Gather a garland bright 
 For Mary's shrine. 
 
 For, born of winter snows, 
 
 These fragile flowers 
 Are gifts to our fair Queen 
 
 From Spring's first hours. 
 
 For on this blessed day 
 
 She knelt at prayer ; 
 When, lo ! before her shone 
 
 An Angel fair. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " thus he cried, 
 
 With reverent fear : 
 She, with sweet wondering eyes, 
 
 Marvelled to hear. 
 
 Be still, ye clouds of Heaven ! 
 
 Be silent, Earth ! 
 And hear an Angel tell 
 
 Of Jesus' birth, 
 
 While she, whom Gabriel hails 
 
 As full of grace, 
 Listens with humble faith 
 
 In her sweet face. 
 
 Be still, Pride, War, and Pomp, 
 Vain Hopes, vain Fears, 
 
 For now an Angel speaks, 
 And Mary hears. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " lo, it rings 
 
 Through ages on ; 
 " Hail, Mary ! " it shall sound, 
 
 Till Time is done. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " infant lips 
 
 Lisp it to-day ; 
 " Hail, Mary ! " with faint smilo 
 
 The dying say. 
 
 " Hail, Mary ! " many a heart 
 
 Broken with grief, 
 In that angelic prayer 
 
 Has found relief. 
 
 And many a half-lost soul, 
 
 When turned at bay, 
 With those triumphant words 
 
 Has won the day. 
 
 " Hail, Mary, Queen of Heav. 
 en ! " 
 
 Let us repeat, 
 And place our snowdrop wreath 
 
 Here at her feet. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 " THE IRISH CHURCH MISSION 
 FOR CONVERTING THE CATH- 
 OLICS." 
 
 SPARE her, O cruel England ! 
 
 Thy Sister lieth low ; 
 Chained and oppressed she licth, 
 
 Spare her that cruel blow.
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 209 
 
 We ask not for the freedom 
 
 Heaven has vouchsafed to thee, 
 Nor bid thee share with Ireland 
 
 The empire of the sea ; 
 Her children ask no shelter, 
 
 Leave them the stormy sky ; 
 They ask not for thy harvests, 
 
 For they know how to die : 
 Deny them, if it please thee, 
 
 A grave beneath the sod : 
 But we do cry, O England, 
 
 Leave them their faith in God ! 
 
 Take, if thou wilt, the earnings 
 
 Of the poor peasant's toil, 
 Take all the scanty produce 
 
 That grows on Irish soil, 
 To pay the alien preachers 
 
 Whom Ireland will not hear, 
 To pay the scoffers at a Creed 
 
 Which Irish hearts hold dear : 
 But leave them, cruel England, 
 
 The gift their God has given, 
 Leave them their ancient worship, 
 
 Leave them their faith in 
 Heaven. 
 
 You come and offer Learning, 
 
 A mighty gift, 't is true ; 
 Perchance the greatest blessing 
 
 That now is known to you. 
 But not to see the wonders 
 
 Sages of old beheld 
 Can they peril a priceless treas- 
 ure, 
 
 The Faith their Fathers held ; 
 For in learning and in science 
 
 They may forget to pray, 
 God will not ask for knowledge 
 
 On the great judgment day. 
 
 When, in their wretched cabins, 
 
 Racked by the fever pain, 
 And the weak cries of their chil- 
 dren 
 
 Who ask for food in vain ; 
 When starving, naked, helpless, 
 
 From the shed that keeps them 
 
 warm 
 
 Man has driven them forth to 
 perish, 
 
 In a less cruel storm ; 
 Then, then, we plead for mercy, 
 
 Then, Sister, hear our cry ! 
 For all we ask, O England, 
 
 Is leave them there to die ! 
 Cursed is the food and raiment 
 
 For which a soul is sold ; 
 Tempt not another Judas 
 
 To barter God for gold. 
 You offer food and shelter 
 
 If they their faith deny : 
 What do you gain, O England, 
 
 By such a shallow lie 1 .... 
 We will not judge the tempted, 
 
 May God blot out their 
 
 shame, 
 He sees the misery round them, 
 
 He knows man's feeble frame ; 
 His pity still may save them, 
 
 In His strength' they must trust 
 Who calls us all His children, 
 
 Yet knows we are but dust. 
 
 Then leave them the kind tend- 
 ing 
 Which helped their childish 
 
 years ; 
 
 Leave them the gracious comfort 
 Which dries the mourner's 
 tears ;
 
 210 
 
 THE JUBILEE OF 1850. 
 
 Leave them to that great mother 
 In whose bosom they were 
 
 born ; 
 Leave them the holy mysteries 
 
 That comfort the forlorn : 
 And, amid all their trials, 
 
 Let the Great Gift abide, 
 Which you, O prosperous Eng- 
 land, 
 
 Have dared to cast aside. 
 Leave them the pitying Angels 
 
 And Mary's gentle aid, 
 For which earth's dearest treas- 
 ures 
 
 Were not too dearly paid. 
 Take back your bribes, then, 
 
 England, 
 
 Your gold is black and dim, 
 And if God sends plague and 
 
 famine, 
 They can die and go to Him. 
 
 THE JUBILEE OF 1850. 
 
 [The titles of the " Island of Saints " 
 and the " Dower of our Lady," though 
 more frequently applied to Ireland, 
 were often given to England in former 
 times.] 
 
 BLESS God, ye happy Lands, 
 For your more favored lot : 
 
 Our England dwells apart, 
 Yet O forget her not. 
 
 While, with united joy, 
 This day you all adore, 
 
 Remember what she was, 
 
 Though her voice is heard no 
 
 more. 
 
 Pray for our desolate land, 
 Left in her pride and pow 
 
 er . 
 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower. 
 
 Look on her ruined Altars ; 
 
 HE dwelleth there no more : 
 Think what her empty churches 
 
 Have been in times of yore ; 
 She knows the names no longer 
 
 Of her own sainted dead, 
 Denies the faith they held, 
 And the cause for which they 
 
 bled. 
 Then pray for our desolate 
 
 land, 
 
 Left in her pride and pow- 
 er : 
 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower ! 
 
 Pray that her vast Cathedrals, 
 
 Deserted, empty, bare, 
 May once more echo accents 
 Of Love, and Faith, and 
 
 Prayer ; 
 
 That the holy sign may bless us, 
 On wood, and field, and plain, 
 And Jesus, Mary, Joseph, 
 May dwell with us again. 
 Pray, ye more faithful na- 
 tions, 
 
 In this most happy hour : 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower
 
 CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 
 
 211 
 
 Beg of our Lord to give her 
 
 The gift she cast aside, 
 And in His mercy pardon 
 
 Her faithlessness and pride : 
 Pray to her Saints, who worship 
 Before God's mercy Throne ; 
 Look where our Queen is dwell- 
 ing, 
 
 Ask her to claim her own, 
 To give her the proud titles 
 Lost in an evil hour : 
 She was the Isle of Saints, 
 She was Our Lady's Dower. 
 
 CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 
 
 THE Earth is so bleak and de- 
 serted, 
 
 So cold the winds blow, 
 That no bud or no blossom will 
 
 venture 
 
 To peep from below ; 
 But, longing for springtime, 
 
 they nestle 
 Deep under the snow. 
 
 O, in May how we honored Our 
 
 Lady, 
 
 Her own month of flowers ! 
 How happy we were with our 
 
 garlands 
 
 Through all the spring hours ! 
 All her shrines, in the church or 
 
 the wayside, 
 Were made into bowers. 
 
 And in August her glorious 
 
 Assumption ; 
 
 What feast was so bright ! 
 What clusters of virginal lilies, 
 
 So pure and so white ! 
 Why, the incense could scarce 
 
 overpower 
 Their perfume that night. 
 
 And through her dear feasts of 
 
 October 
 
 The roses bloomed still ; 
 Our baskets were laden with 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Her vases to fill : 
 Oleanders, geraniums, and myr* 
 
 ties, 
 We chose at our will. 
 
 And we know when the Purifi- 
 cation, 
 
 Her first feast, comes round, 
 The early spring flowers, to greet 
 
 it, 
 
 Just opening are found ; 
 And pure, white, and spotless, 
 
 the snowdrop 
 Will pierce the dark ground. 
 
 And now, in this dreary Decem- 
 ber, 
 
 Our glad hearts are fain 
 To see if Earth comes not to help 
 
 us ; 
 
 We seek all in vain : 
 Not the tiniest blossom is coming 
 Till Spring breathes again.
 
 212 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 And the bright feast of Christmas 
 
 is dawning, 
 And Mary is blest ; 
 For now she will give us her 
 
 Jesus, 
 
 Our dearest, our best, 
 And see where she stands, the 
 
 Maid-Mother, 
 Her Babe on her breast ! 
 
 And not one poor garland to give 
 
 her, 
 
 And yet now, behold, 
 How the Kings bring their gifts, 
 
 myrrh, and incense, 
 And bars of pure gold : 
 And the Shepherds have brought 
 
 for the Baby 
 Some lambs from their folds. 
 
 He stretches His tiny hands to- 
 wards us, 
 
 He brings us all grace ; 
 And look at His Mother who 
 
 holds Him, 
 The smile on her face 
 Says they welcome the humblest 
 
 gifts 
 In the manger we place. 
 
 Where love takes, let love give ; 
 
 and so doubt not : 
 Love counts but the will, 
 And the heart has its flowers of 
 
 devotion 
 
 No Winter can chill ; 
 They who cared for " good-will " 
 
 that first Christmas 
 Will care for it still. 
 
 In the Chaplet on Jesus and 
 Mary, 
 
 From our hearts let us call, 
 At each Ave Maria we whisper 
 
 A rosebud shall fall, 
 And at each Gloria Patri a lily, 
 
 The crown of them all ! 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 O, TO have dwelt in Bethlehem 
 When the star of the Lord 
 
 shone bright ! 
 
 To have sheltered the holy wan- 
 derers 
 On that blessed Christmas 
 
 night ; 
 
 To have kissed the tender way- 
 worn feet 
 
 Of the Mother undefiled, 
 And, with reverent wonder and 
 
 deep delight, 
 
 To have tended the Holy 
 Child ! 
 
 Hush ! such a glory was not for 
 
 thee; 
 But that care may still be 
 
 thine ; 
 For are there not little ones still 
 
 to aid 
 For the sake of the Child di- 
 
 vine? 
 Are there no wandering Pilgrims 
 
 now, 
 
 To thy heart and thy home to 
 take?
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 213 
 
 And are there no mothers whose 
 
 weary hearts 
 
 You can comfort for Mary's 
 sake 1 ? 
 
 O to have knelt at Jesus' feet, 
 And to have learnt His heav- 
 enly lore ! 
 
 To have listened the gentle les- 
 sons He taught 
 On mountain, and sea, and 
 
 shore ! 
 While the rich and the mighty 
 
 knew Him not, 
 To have meekly done His 
 
 will : 
 Hush ! for the worldly reject Him 
 
 yet, 
 You can serve and love Him 
 
 still. 
 Time cannot silence His mighty 
 
 words, 
 And though ages have fled 
 
 away, 
 
 His gentle accents of love divine 
 Speak to your soul to-day. 
 
 O to have solaced that weeping 
 
 one 
 Whom the righteous dared 
 
 despise ! 
 To have tenderly bound up her 
 
 scattered hair, 
 And have dried her tearful 
 
 eyes ! 
 Hush ! there are broken hearts 
 
 to soothe, 
 And penitent tears to dry, 
 
 While Magdalen prays for you 
 
 and them, 
 
 From her home in the starry 
 sky. 
 
 O to have followed the mournful 
 
 way 
 
 Of those faithful few forlorn I 
 And grace, beyond even an an- 
 gel's hope, 
 The Cross for our Lord have 
 
 borne! 
 To have shared in His tender 
 
 mother's grief, 
 
 To have wept at Mary's side, 
 To have lived as a child in her 
 
 home, and then 
 In her loving care have died ! 
 
 Hush ! and with reverent sorrow 
 
 still, 
 
 Mary's great anguish share ; 
 And learn, for the sake of her 
 
 Son divine, 
 
 Thy cross, like His, to bear. 
 The sorrows that weigh on thy 
 
 soul unite 
 With those which thy Lord 
 
 has borne, 
 
 And Mary will comfort thy dy- 
 ing hour, 
 Nor leave thy soul forlorn. 
 
 O to have seen what we now 
 
 adore, 
 And, though veiled to faithless 
 
 sight, 
 To have known, in the form that 
 
 Jesus wore, 
 The Lord of Life and Light J
 
 214 
 
 THREEFOLD. 
 
 Hush ! for He dwells among us 
 
 still, 
 
 And a grace can yet be thine, 
 Which the scoffer and doubter 
 
 can never know, 
 The Presence of the Divine. 
 Jesus is with His children yet, 
 For His word can never de- 
 ceive ; 
 
 Go where His lowly Altars rise, 
 And worship, and believe. 
 
 OUR DAILY BREAD. 
 
 GIVE us our daily Bread, 
 
 O God, the bread of strength! 
 For we have learnt to know 
 
 How weak we are at length. 
 As children we are weak, 
 
 As children must be fed ; 
 Give us Thy Grace, Lord, 
 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread, 
 
 The bitter bread of grief. 
 We sought earth's poisoned feasts 
 
 For pleasure and relief; 
 We sought her deadly fruits, 
 
 But now, O God, instead, 
 We ask Thy healing grief 
 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread 
 To cheer our fainting soul ; 
 
 The feast of comfort, Lord, 
 And peace, to make us whole : 
 
 For we are sick of tears, 
 
 The useless tears we shed ; 
 
 Now give us comfort, Lord, 
 To be our daily Bread. 
 
 Give us our daily Bread, 
 
 The Bread of Angels, Lord, 
 By us, so many times, 
 
 Broken, betrayed, adored : 
 His Body and His Blood ; 
 
 The feast that Jesus spread : 
 Give Him our life, our all 
 
 To be our daily Bread ! 
 
 THREEFOLD. 
 
 MOTHER of grace and mercy, 
 
 Behold how burdens three 
 Weigh down my weary spirit, 
 
 And drive me here to Thee. 
 Three gifts I place forever 
 
 Before thy shrine : 
 The threefold offering of my love, 
 
 Mary, to thine ! 
 
 The Past : with all its memories, 
 
 Of pain that stings me yet ; 
 Of sin that brought repent- 
 ance; 
 
 Of joy that brought regret. 
 That which has been : forever 
 
 So bitter-sweet 
 I lay in humblest offering 
 
 Before thy feet.
 
 OS A PRO ME. 
 
 215 
 
 The Present : that dark shadow 
 
 Through which we toil to-day ; 
 The slow drops of the chalice 
 
 That must not pass away. 
 Mother ! I dare not struggle, 
 
 Still less despair : 
 I place my Present in thy hands, 
 
 And leave it there. 
 
 The Future : holding all things 
 
 Which I can hope or fear, 
 Brings sin and pain, it may be, 
 
 Nearer and yet more near. 
 Mother ! this doubt and shrink- 
 ing 
 
 Will not depart, 
 Unless I trust my Future 
 
 To thy dear Heart. 
 
 Making the Past my lesson, 
 
 Guiding the Present right, 
 Ruling the misty Future, 
 
 Bless them and me to-night. 
 What may be, and what must be, 
 
 And what has been, 
 In thy dear care forever 
 
 I leave, my Queen ! 
 
 CONFIDO ET CONQUI- 
 ESCO. 
 
 " Scit ; potest ; vult : quid est quod 
 timeamus ? " S. IGNATIUS. 
 
 FRET not, poor soul : while doubt 
 
 and fear 
 Disturb thy breast, 
 
 The pitying angels, who can see 
 
 How vain thy wild regret must be, 
 
 Say, Trust and Rest* 
 
 Plan not, nor scheme, but 
 
 calmly wait ; 
 His choice is best. 
 While blind and erring is thy 
 
 sight, 
 
 His wisdom sees and judges right, 
 So Trust and Rest. 
 
 Strive not, nor struggle: thy 
 
 poor might 
 Can never wrest 
 The meanest thing to serve thy 
 
 will ; 
 
 All power is His alone : Be still, 
 And Trust and Rest. 
 
 Desire not : self-love is strong 
 
 Within thy breast ; 
 And yet He loves thee better still, 
 So let Him do His loving will, 
 
 And Trust and Rest. 
 
 What dost thou fear ? His wis- 
 dom reigns 
 Supreme confessed ; 
 His power is infinite ; his love 
 Thy deepest, fondest dreams 
 
 above ; 
 So Trust and Rest. 
 
 ORA PRO ME. 
 
 AVE MARIA ! bright and pure, 
 Hear, O hear me when I pray !
 
 216 
 
 FISHERS OF MEN. 
 
 Pains and pleasures try the pil- 
 grim 
 
 On his long and weary way ; 
 Fears and perils are around 
 me, 
 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 Mary, see my heart is burdened, 
 Take, O take the weight away, 
 Or help me, that I may not mur- 
 mur 
 
 If it is a cross you lay 
 On my weak and trembling heart, 
 but 
 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 Mary, Mary, Queen of Heaven ! 
 
 Teach, O teach me to obey : 
 Lead me on, though fierce temp- 
 tations 
 
 Stand and meet me in the way ; 
 When I fail and faint, my mother, 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 Then shall I if thou, O Mary, 
 Art my strong support and 
 
 stay 
 
 Fear nor feel the threefold danger 
 Standing forth in dread array ; 
 Now and ever shield and guard me, 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 When my eyes are slowly closing, 
 And I fade from earth away, 
 And when Death, the stern de- 
 stroyer, 
 
 Claims my body as his prey, 
 Claim my soul, and then, sweet 
 Mary, 
 
 Ora pro me. 
 
 THE CHURCH IN 1849. 
 
 O MIGHTY Mother, hearken ! for 
 
 thy foes 
 
 Gather around thee, and ex- 
 ulting cry 
 That thine old strength is gone 
 
 and thou must die, 
 Pointing with fierce rejoicing to 
 
 thy woes. 
 
 And is it so ? The raging whirl- 
 wind blows 
 No stronger now than it has 
 
 done of yore : 
 Rebellion, strife, and sin have 
 
 been before ; 
 The same companions whom thy 
 
 Master chose. 
 We too rejoice : we know thy 
 
 might is more 
 When to the world thy glory 
 
 seemeth dim ; 
 Nor can Hell's gates prevail to 
 
 conquer Thee, 
 Who hearest over all the voice 
 
 of Him 
 
 Who chose thy first and great- 
 est Prince should be 
 A fisher on the Lake of Galilee. 
 
 FISHERS OF MEN. 
 
 TUB boats are out, and the storm 
 
 is high; 
 
 Wo knee) OD the shore and 
 pray.
 
 THE OLD YEARS BLESSING. 
 
 217 
 
 The Star of the Sea shines still in 
 
 the sky, 
 And God is our help and stay. 
 
 The fishers are weak, and the 
 
 tide is strong, 
 And their boat seems slight 
 
 and frail ; 
 But St. Peter has steered it for 
 
 them so long, 
 
 It would weather a rougher 
 gale. 
 
 St. John the Belove'd sails with 
 
 them too, 
 And his loving words they 
 
 hear ; 
 So with tender trust the boat's 
 
 brave crew 
 Neither doubt, or pause, or fear. 
 
 He who sent them fishing is with 
 
 them still, 
 And He bids them cast their 
 
 net ; 
 And He has the power their boat 
 
 to fill, 
 So we know He will do it yet. 
 
 They have cast their nets again 
 
 and again, 
 
 And now call to us on shore ; 
 If our feeble prayers seem only 
 
 in vain, 
 
 We will pray and pray the 
 more. 
 
 Though the storm is loud, and 
 
 our voice is drowned 
 By the roar of the wind and 
 
 sea, 
 We know that more terrible 
 
 tempests found 
 Their Ruler, O Lord, in Thee! 
 
 See, they do not pause, they are 
 
 toiling on, 
 
 Yet they cast a loving glance 
 On the star above, and ever anon 
 Look up through the blue ex- 
 panse. 
 
 O Mary, listen ! for danger is 
 
 nigh, 
 And we know thou art near 
 
 us then ; 
 For thy Son's dear servants to 
 
 thee we cry, 
 Sent out as fishers of men. 
 
 O, watch, as of old thou didst 
 
 watch the boat 
 On the Galilean lake, 
 And grant that the fishers may 
 
 keep afloat 
 
 Till the nets, o'ercharged, shall 
 break. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR'S BLESS- 
 ING. 
 
 I AM fading from you, 
 But one draweth near, 
 
 Called the Angel-guardian 
 Of the coming year.
 
 218 
 
 EVENING CHANT. 
 
 If my gifts and graces 
 
 Coldly you forget, 
 Let the New- Year's Angel 
 
 Bless and crown them yet. 
 
 For we work together ; 
 
 He and I are one : 
 Let him end and perfect 
 
 All I leave undone. 
 
 I brought Good Desires, 
 Though as yet but seeds ; 
 
 Let the New- Year make them 
 Blossom into Deeds. 
 
 I brought Joy to brighten 
 
 Many happy days ; 
 Let the New- Year's Angel 
 
 Turn it into Praise. 
 
 If I gave you Sickness, 
 If I brought you Care, 
 
 Let him make one Patience, 
 And the other Prayer. 
 
 Where I brought you Sorrow, 
 Through his care, at length, 
 
 It may rise triumphant 
 Into future Strength. 
 
 If I brought yon Plenty, 
 
 All wealth's bounteous charms, 
 Shall not the New Angel 
 
 Turn them into Alms ? 
 
 I gave Health and Leisure, 
 Skill to dream and plan ; 
 
 Let him make them nobler ; 
 Work for God and Man. 
 
 If I broke your Idols, 
 
 Showed you they were dus*, 
 Let him turn the Knowledge 
 
 Into heavenly Trust. 
 
 If I brought Temptation, 
 
 Let sin die away 
 Into boundless Pity 
 
 For all hearts that stray. 
 
 If your list of Errors 
 Dark and long appears, 
 
 Let this new-born Monarch 
 Melt them into Tears. 
 
 May you hold this Angel 
 Dearer than the last, 
 
 So I bless his Future, 
 
 While he crowns my Past. 
 
 EVENING CHANT. 
 
 STREW before our Lady's Picture 
 Roses, flushing like the sky 
 
 Where the lingering western 
 
 cloudlets 
 Watch the daylight die. 
 
 Violets steeped in dreamy odors, 
 Humble as the Mother mild, 
 
 Blue as were her eyes when 
 
 watching 
 O'er her sleeping Child.
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 219 
 
 Strew white Lilies, pure and spot- 
 less, 
 Bending on their stalks of 
 
 "green, 
 
 Bending down with tender pity, 
 Like our Holy Queen. 
 
 Let the flowers spend their fra- 
 grance 
 On our Lady's own dear 
 
 shrine, 
 While we claim her gracious 
 
 helping 
 Near her Son divine. 
 
 Strew before our Lady's picture 
 Gentle flowers, fair and sweet ; 
 
 Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and 
 
 Sorrow, 
 Place, too, at her feet. 
 
 Hark ! the Angelus is ringing, 
 Ringing through the fading 
 light, 
 
 In the heart of every Blossom 
 Leave a prayer to-night. 
 
 All night long will Mary listen, 
 While our pleadings fond and 
 deep 
 
 On their scented breath are rising 
 For us while we sleep. 
 
 Scarcely through the starry si- 
 lence 
 
 Shall one trembling petal stir, 
 While they breathe their own 
 
 .sweet fragrance 
 And our prayers to Her. 
 
 Peace to every heart that loves 
 
 her! 
 
 All her children shall be blest : 
 While She prays and watches for 
 
 us, 
 We will trust and rest. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 THE moon that now is shining 
 
 In skies so blue and bright, 
 Shone ages since on Shepherds 
 
 Who watched their flocks by 
 
 night. 
 
 There was no sound upon the 
 earth, 
 
 The azure air was still, 
 The sheep in quiet clusters lay 
 
 Upon the grassy hill. 
 
 When lo ! a white-winged Angel 
 
 The watchers stood before, 
 And told how Christ was born 
 on earth, 
 
 For mortals to adore ; 
 He bade the trembling Shepherds 
 
 Listen, nor be afraid, 
 And told how in a manger 
 
 The glorious Child was laid. 
 
 When suddenly in the Heavens 
 Appeared an Angel band, 
 
 (The while in reverent wonder 
 The Syrian Shepherds stand.)
 
 220 
 
 OUR TITLES. 
 
 And all the bright host chanted 
 Words that shall never cease, 
 
 Glory to God in the highest, 
 On earth good-will and peace ! 
 
 The vision in the heavens 
 
 Faded, and all was still, 
 And the wondering shepherds 
 left their flocks, 
 
 To feed upon the hill : 
 Towards the blessed city 
 
 Quickly their course they held, 
 And in a lowly stable 
 
 Virgin and Child beheld. 
 
 Beside a humble manger 
 
 Was the Maiden Mother mild. 
 And in her arms her Son divine, 
 
 A new-born Infant, smiled. 
 No shade of future sorrow 
 
 From Calvary then was cast ; 
 Only the glory was revealed, 
 
 The suffering was not passed. 
 
 The Eastern kings before him 
 
 knelt, 
 
 And rarest offerings brought ; 
 The shepherds worshipped and 
 
 adored 
 The wonders God had 
 
 wrought : 
 They saw the crown for Israel's 
 
 King, 
 
 The future's glorious part : 
 But all these things the Mother 
 
 kept 
 And pondered in her heart. 
 
 Now we that Maiden Mother 
 The Queen of Heaven call ; 
 
 And the Child we call our Jesus, 
 
 Saviour and Judge of all. 
 But the star that shone in Beth- 
 lehem 
 Shines still, and shall not 
 
 cease, 
 
 And we listen still to the tidings, 
 Of Glory and of Peace. 
 
 OUK TITLES. 
 
 ARE we not Nobles ? we who 
 
 trace 
 
 Our pedigree so high 
 That God for us and for our race 
 
 Created Earth and Sky, 
 And Light and Air and Time 
 
 and Space, 
 To serve us and then die. 
 
 Are we not Princes ? we who 
 
 stand 
 
 As heirs beside the Throne ; 
 We who can call the promised 
 
 Land 
 
 Our Heritage, our own ; 
 And answer to no less command 
 Than God's and His alone. 
 
 Are we not Kings ? both night 
 
 and day, 
 
 From early until late, 
 About our bed, about our way, 
 
 A guard of Angels wait ; 
 And so we watt:h and work and 
 
 pray 
 In more than royal state.
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 221 
 
 Are we not holy ? Do not start : 
 It is God's sacred will 
 
 To call us Temples set apart 
 His Holy Ghost may fill : 
 
 Our very food . . . . O hush, my 
 
 Heart, 
 Adore IT and be still ! 
 
 Are we not more ? our Life shall 
 be 
 
 Immortal and divine. 
 The nature Mary gave to Thee, 
 
 Dear Jesus, still is Thine ; 
 Adoring in Thy Heart, I see 
 
 Such blood as beats in mine. 
 
 O God, that we can dare to fail, 
 And dare to say we must ! 
 
 O God, that we can ever trail 
 Such banners in the dust, 
 
 Can let such starry honors pale, 
 And such a Blazon rust ! 
 
 Shall we upon such Titles bring 
 The taint of sin and shame ? 
 
 Shall we, the children of the 
 
 King 
 Who hold so grand a claim, 
 
 Tarnish by any meaner thing 
 The glory of our name ? 
 
 MINISTERING ANGELS. 
 
 ANGELS of light, spread your 
 
 bright wings and keep 
 Near me at morn : 
 
 Nor in the starry eve, nor mid- 
 night deep, 
 Leave me forlorn. 
 
 From all dark spirits of unholy 
 
 power 
 
 Guard my weak heart, 
 Circle around me in each peril- 
 ous hour, 
 And take my part. 
 
 From all foreboding thoughts 
 
 and dangerous fears, 
 Keep me secure ; 
 Teach me to hope, and through 
 
 the bitterest tears 
 Still to endure. 
 
 If lonely in the road so fair and 
 
 wide 
 
 My feet should stray, 
 Then through a rougher, safer 
 
 pathway guide 
 Me day by day. 
 
 Should my heart faint at its un- 
 equal strife, 
 O still be near ! 
 Shadow the perilous sweetness 
 
 of this life 
 With holy fear. 
 
 Then leave me not alone in this 
 
 bleak world, 
 Where'er I roam, 
 And at the end, with your bright 
 
 wings unfurled, 
 O take me home !
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 THERE are many shrines of Our 
 Lady, 
 
 In different lands and climes, 
 Where I can remember kneeling 
 
 In old and beloved times. 
 
 They arise now like stars before 
 
 me, 
 Through the long, long night 
 
 of years ; 
 Some are bright with a heavenly 
 
 radiance, 
 
 And others shine out through 
 tears. 
 
 They arise too like mystical flow- 
 ers, 
 All different, and all the 
 
 same, 
 
 As they lie in my heart like a gar- 
 land 
 
 That is wreathed round Mary's 
 name. 
 
 Thus each shrine has two conse- 
 crations ; 
 
 One all the faithful can trace, 
 But one is for me and me only, 
 
 Holding my soul with its grace. 
 
 I. 
 
 A shrine in a quaint old Chapel 
 
 Defaced and broken with years, 
 
 Where the pavement is worn 
 
 with kneeling, 
 
 And the step with kisses and 
 tears. 
 
 She is there in the dawn of morn- 
 ing, 
 When the day is blue and 
 
 bright, 
 
 In the shadowy evening twlighti 
 And the silent, starry night. 
 
 Through the dim old painted win- 
 dow 
 The Hours look down, and 
 
 shed 
 
 A different glory upon her, 
 Violet, purple, and red. 
 
 And there in that quaint old 
 Chapel 
 
 As I stood one day alone 
 Came a royal message from Mary. 
 
 That claimed, my life as her 
 
 II. 
 
 I remember a vast Cathedral 
 Which holds the struggle and 
 
 strife 
 
 Of a grand and powerful city, 
 As the heart holds the throb of 
 a life. 
 
 Where the ebb and the flow of 
 
 passion, 
 
 And sin in its rushing tide, 
 Have dashed on that worn stone 
 
 chapel, 
 Dashed, and broken, and died. 
 
 And above the voices of sorrow 
 And the tempter's clamorous 
 din,
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 223 
 
 The voice of Mary has spoken 
 And conquered the pain and 
 the sin: 
 
 For long ages and generations 
 Have come there to strive and 
 
 to pray ; 
 She watched and guided them 
 
 living, 
 
 And does not forget them to- 
 day. 
 
 And once, in that strange, vast 
 City 
 
 I stood in its great stone square, 
 Alone in the crowd and the turmoil 
 
 Of the pitiless Southern glare ; 
 
 And a grief was upon my spirit, 
 Which I could not cast away, 
 
 It weighed on my heart all the 
 
 night-time, 
 And it fretted my life all day. 
 
 So then to that calm, cool refuge 
 I turned from the noisy street, 
 
 And I carried my burden of sor- 
 row 
 And left it at Mary's feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 I remember a lonely chapel 
 With a tender claim upon me ; 
 
 It was built for the sailors only, 
 And they call it the Star of the 
 Sea. 
 
 And the murmuring chant of the 
 
 Vespers 
 
 Seems caught up by the wail- 
 ing breeze, 
 And the throb of the organ is 
 
 echoed 
 By the rush of the silver seas. 
 
 And the votive hearts and the 
 
 anchors 
 
 Tell of danger and peril past ; 
 Of the hope deferred and the wait- 
 ing. 
 
 And the comfort that came at 
 last. 
 
 I too had a perilous venture 
 On a stormy and treacherous 
 
 main, 
 
 And I too was pleading to Mary 
 From the depths of a heart in 
 pain. 
 
 It was not a life in peril, 
 
 O God, it was far, far more ! 
 And the whirlpool of Hell's 
 
 temptations 
 
 Lay between the wreck and the 
 shore. 
 
 Thick mists hid the light of the 
 
 beacon, 
 And the voices of warning 
 
 were dumb ; 
 
 So I knelt by the Altar of Mary, 
 And told her Her hour was 
 come.
 
 224 
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 For she waits till Earth's aid for- 
 sakes us, 
 Till we know our own efforts 
 
 are vain ; 
 And we wait, in our faithless 
 
 blindness, 
 
 Till no chance but her prayers 
 remain. 
 
 And now in that seaside chapel 
 
 By that humble village shrine 
 
 Hangs a heart of silver, that tells 
 
 her 
 
 Of the love and the gladness 
 of mine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There is one far shrine I remem- 
 ber 
 
 In the years that are fled away, 
 Where the grand old mountains 
 
 are guarding 
 The glories of night and day. 
 
 Where the earth in her rich, glad 
 
 beauty 
 Seems made for our Lady's 
 
 throne, 
 And the stars in their radiant 
 
 clusters 
 Seem fit for her crown alone. 
 
 Where the balmy breezes of sum- 
 mer 
 On their odorous pinions bear 
 
 The fragrance of orange-blos- 
 soms, 
 
 And the chimes of the Convent 
 prayer. 
 
 There I used to ask for Her bless- 
 ing 
 As each summer twilight was 
 
 gray; 
 
 There I used to kneel at her Altar 
 At each blue, calm dawn of 
 day. 
 
 There in silence was Victory 
 
 granted, 
 
 And the terrible strife begun, 
 That only with Her protection 
 Could be dared, or suffered, or 
 won. 
 
 If I love the name of that Altar, 
 And the thought of those days 
 
 gone by, 
 
 It is only the Heart of Mary 
 And my own that remember 
 why. 
 
 V. 
 
 Where long ages of toil and of 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 And Poverty's weary doom, 
 Have clustered together so closely 
 That life seems shadowed with 
 gloom, 
 
 Where crime that lurks in the 
 
 darkness 
 And vice that glares at the day
 
 THE SHRINES OF MARY. 
 
 225 
 
 Make the spirit of hope grow 
 
 weary, 
 And the spirit of love decay, 
 
 Where the feet of the wretched 
 
 and sinful 
 
 Have closest and oftenest trod, 
 Is a house, as humble as any, 
 Yet we call it the House of 
 God. 
 
 It is one of our Lady's Chapels ; 
 And though poorer than all 
 
 the rest, 
 Just because of the sin and the 
 
 sorrow, 
 I think she loves it the best. 
 
 There are no rich gifts on the 
 
 Altar, 
 
 The shrine is humble and bare, 
 Yet the poor and the sick and the 
 
 tempted 
 
 Think their home and their 
 heaven is there. 
 
 And before that humble Altar 
 Where Our Lady of Sorrow 
 stands, 
 
 I knelt with a weary longing, 
 And I laid a vow in her hands. 
 
 And I know, when I enter softly 
 And pause at that shrine to 
 
 pray, 
 That the fret and the strife and 
 
 the burden 
 Will be softened and laid away, i 
 
 And the Prayer and the Vow that 
 
 sealed it 
 Have bound my soul to that 
 
 shrine, 
 
 For the Mother of Sorrows re- 
 members 
 
 Her promise, and waits for 
 mine. 
 
 It is one long chaplet of memo- 
 ries 
 
 Tender and true and sweet, 
 That gleam in the Past and the 
 
 Distance 
 
 Like lamps that burn at her 
 feet. 
 
 Like stars that will shine forever, 
 For time cannot touch or stir 
 
 The graces that Mary has given, 
 Or the trust that we give to 
 her. 
 
 Past griefs are perished and over, 
 Past joys have vanished and 
 died, 
 
 Past loves are fled and forgotten, 
 Past hopes have been laid aside. 
 
 Past fears have faded in daylight, 
 Past sins have melted in 
 
 tears ; 
 One Love and Remembrance 
 
 only 
 
 Seems alive in those dead old 
 old years.
 
 226 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 So wherever I look in the dis- 
 tance, 
 And whenever I turn to the 
 
 Past, 
 
 There is always a shrine of Mary 
 Each brighter still than the last. 
 
 I will ask for one grace, O 
 
 Mother ! 
 And will leave the rest to thy 
 
 will: 
 
 From one shrine of thine to an- 
 other, 
 
 Let my Life be a Pilgrimage 
 still ! 
 
 At each one, O Mother of Mercy ! 
 Let still more of thy love be 
 
 given, 
 Till I kneel at the last and 
 
 brightest, 
 
 The Throne of the Queen of 
 Heaven. 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 CALM the city lay in midnight 
 
 silence, 
 Deep on streets and roofs the 
 
 snow lay white ; 
 Then I saw an Angel spread his 
 
 pinions 
 
 Rising up to Heaven to meet 
 the night. 
 
 In his hands he bore two crowns 
 
 of lilies, 
 Sweet with sweetness not of 
 
 earthly flowers, 
 But a coronal of prayers for 
 
 Heaven 
 
 He had gathered through the 
 evening hours ; 
 
 He had gathered in that mighty 
 
 city 
 Through whose streets and 
 
 pathways he had trod, 
 Till he wove into a winter gar- 
 land 
 
 Prayers that faithful hearts 
 had sent to God. 
 
 Through the azure midnight he 
 
 was rising ; 
 As I watched, I saw his upward 
 
 flight 
 Checked by a mighty Angel, 
 
 whose stern challenge, 
 Like a silver blast, rang 
 through the night. 
 
 Then strange words upon the 
 
 silence broke, 
 And I listened as the Angel? 
 
 spoke. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PRATEE8. 
 
 1 1 have come from wandering 
 
 through the city, 
 I have been to seek a garland 
 meet
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 227 
 
 To be placed before His throne 
 
 in Heaven, 
 
 To be laid at His dear Moth- 
 er's feet. 
 
 " I have been to one of England's 
 
 Havens, 
 To a HOME for peace and 
 
 honor planned, 
 Where the kindly lights of joy 
 
 and duty 
 
 Meet and make the glory of 
 the land. 
 
 " There I heard the ring of 
 
 children's laughter 
 Hushed to eager silence ; I 
 
 could see 
 How the father stroked their 
 
 golden tresses 
 
 As they clustered closer round 
 his knee. 
 
 " And I heard him tell, with lov- 
 ing honor, 
 
 How the wanderers to Bethle- 
 hem came, 
 
 And I saw each head in rever- 
 ence bowing 
 
 When he named the Holy 
 Child's dear name. 
 
 " Then he told how houseless, 
 
 homeless, friendless, 
 They had wandered wearily 
 
 and long, 
 Of the manger where our Lord 
 
 was cradled, 
 
 Of the Shepherds listening to 
 our song. 
 
 " As he spoke, I heard his accents 
 
 falter, 
 And I saw each childish heart 
 
 was stirred 
 With a loving throb of tender 
 
 P'ty 
 
 At the sorrowful, sweet tale 
 they heard. 
 
 " As the children sang their 
 
 Christmas carol 
 I could see the mother's eyes 
 
 grow dim, 
 And she held her baby closer, 
 
 feeling 
 
 Most for Mary through her 
 love for him. 
 
 " So I gathered from that home, 
 
 as flowers, 
 All the tender, loving words I 
 
 heard 
 Given this night to Jesus and to 
 
 Mary, 
 
 Look at them, and say if I 
 have erred." 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEEDS. 
 
 " In that very street, at that same 
 
 hour, 
 In the bitter air and drifting 
 
 sleet, 
 Crouching in a doorway was a 
 
 mother, 
 
 With her children shuddering 
 at her feet.
 
 228 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 " She was silent ; who would 
 
 hear her pleading ? 
 Men and beasts were housed ; 
 
 but she must stay 
 Houseless in the great and piti- 
 less city, 
 
 Till the dawning of the winter 
 day. 
 
 " Homeless while her fellow- 
 men are resting 
 Calm and blest: their very 
 
 dogs are fed, 
 Warm and sheltered, and their 
 
 sleeping children 
 Safely nestled in each little bed. 
 
 " She can only draw her poor 
 
 rags closer 
 Round her wailing baby, 
 
 closer hold 
 One, the least and sickliest, 
 
 while the others 
 Creep together, tired, hungry, 
 cold. 
 
 " What are these poor flowers 
 
 thou hast gathered 1 
 Cast such fragile, worthless 
 
 tokens by : 
 Will He prize mere words of love 
 
 and honor 
 
 While His Homeless Poor are 
 left to die ? 
 
 " He has said His truths are all 
 
 eternal 
 
 What He said both has been 
 and shall be, 
 
 What ye have not done to these my 
 
 poor ones, 
 
 Lo ! ye have not done it unto 
 Me." 
 
 Then I saw the Angel with the 
 
 flowers 
 Bow his head and answer, " It 
 
 is well," 
 As he cast a wreath of lilies 
 
 earthward, 
 
 And I saw them wither as they 
 fell. 
 
 Once again the Angel raised his 
 
 head, 
 Smiled and showed the other 
 
 wreath and said : 
 
 THE ANGEL OF PRATERS. 
 
 ' I have been where, kneeling at 
 
 the Altar, 
 Hushed in reverent awe, a 
 
 faithful throng 
 Have this night adored the Holy 
 
 Presence, 
 
 Worshipping with incense, 
 prayer, and song. 
 
 " Everj r head was bowed in lov- 
 ing honor, 
 Every heart with loving awe 
 
 was thrilled ; 
 Earth and things of earth seemed 
 
 all forgotten ; 
 
 He was there and meaner 
 thoughts were stilled.
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 229 
 
 " There on many souls in strait 
 
 and peril 
 Did that gracious Benediction 
 
 fall, 
 With the strength or peace or 
 
 joy or warning 
 He could give, who loved and 
 knew them all. 
 
 " There was silence, but all 
 
 hearts were speaking : 
 When the deepest hush of 
 
 silence fell, 
 
 On the fragrant air and breath- 
 less longing 
 Came the echo of one silver bell. 
 
 " On each spirit such a flood of 
 
 sweetness 
 Broke as we who dwell in 
 
 Heaven feel, 
 
 Then the Adaremus in eternum, 
 Jubilant and strong, rolled 
 peal on peal. 
 
 " They had given holy adoration, 
 Tender words of love and 
 
 praise ; all bright 
 With the dew of contrite tears 
 
 such blossoms 
 
 I am bearing to His throne to- 
 night." 
 
 THE ANGEL OF DEEDS. 
 
 Pause again : these flowers are 
 
 fair and lovely, 
 Radiant in their perfume and 
 
 their bloom ; 
 
 But not far from where you 
 
 plucked this garland 
 Is a squalid place in ghastly 
 gloom. 
 
 " There black waters in their 
 
 luring silence 
 Under loathsome arches crawl 
 
 .and creep, 
 There the rats and vermin herd 
 
 together .... 
 
 There God's poor ones sometimes 
 come to sleep. 
 
 " There the weary come, who 
 
 through the daylight 
 Pace the town, and crave for 
 
 work in vain ; 
 There they crouch in cold and 
 
 rain and hunger, 
 Waiting for another day of 
 pain. 
 
 " In slow darkness creeps the 
 
 dismal river ; 
 From its depths looks up a 
 
 sinful rest ; 
 Many a weary, baffled, hopeless 
 
 wanderer 
 
 Has it drawn into its treacher- 
 ous breast. 
 
 " There is near another River flow- 
 ing. 
 Black with guilt, and deep as 
 
 hell and sin ; 
 On its brink even sinners stand 
 
 and shudder, 
 Cold and hunger goad the 
 homeless in.
 
 230 
 
 THE HOMELESS POOR. 
 
 " Yet these poor ones to His 
 
 heart are dearer 
 For their grief and peril : dear 
 
 indeed 
 Would have been the love that 
 
 sought and fed them, 
 Gave them warmth and shelter 
 in their need. 
 
 " For His sake those tears and 
 
 prayers are offered 
 Which you bear as flowers to 
 
 His throne ; 
 Better still would be the food and 
 
 shelter, 
 
 Given for Him and given to 
 His own. 
 
 " Praise with loving deeds is dear 
 
 and holy, 
 Words of praise will never 
 
 serve instead : 
 Lo ! you offer music, hymn, and 
 
 incense 
 
 When He has not where to lay 
 His head." 
 
 Then once more the Angel with 
 
 the Flowers 
 Bowed his head, and answered, 
 
 " It is well," 
 As he cast a wreath of lilies 
 
 earthwards, 
 
 And I saw them wither as they 
 fell. 
 
 So the Vision faded, and the 
 
 Angela 
 Melted far into the starry sky ; 
 
 By the light npon the eastern 
 
 Heaven 
 
 I could see another day was 
 nigh. 
 
 Was it quite a dream ? O God ! 
 
 we love Him ; 
 All our love, though weak, is 
 
 given to Him ; 
 Why is it our hearts have been 
 
 so hardened ? 
 
 Why is it our eyes have been 
 so dim ? 
 
 Still as for Himself the Infant 
 
 Jesus 
 In His little ones asks food 
 
 and rest, 
 Still as for His Mother He is 
 
 pleading 
 
 Just as when He lay upon her 
 breast. 
 
 Jesus, then, and Mary still are 
 
 with us, 
 Nijrht will find the Child and 
 
 Mother near, 
 Waiting for the shelter we deny 
 
 them, 
 
 While we tell them that we 
 hold them dear. 
 
 Help us, Lord ! not these Thy 
 
 poor ones only, 
 They are with us always, and 
 
 shall be ; 
 Help the blindness of our hearts 
 
 and teach us 
 
 In Thy homeless ones to sui. 
 cor Thee.
 
 MILLT8 EXPIATION. 
 
 231 
 
 KELLY'S EXPIATION. 
 THE PRIEST'S STORY. 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE are times when all these 
 
 terrors 
 
 Seem to fade, and fade away, 
 Like a nightmare's ghastly pres- 
 ence 
 
 In the truthful dawn of day. 
 There are times, too, when be- 
 fore me 
 
 They arise, and seem to hold 
 In their grasp my very being 
 With the deadly strength of 
 
 old, 
 
 Till my spirit quails within me, 
 And my very heart grows cold. 
 
 For I watched when Cold and 
 
 Hunger, 
 Like wild beasts that sought 
 
 for prey, 
 
 With a savage glare crept on- 
 ward 
 Until men were turned at 
 
 bay. 
 
 You have never seen those hunt- 
 ers, 
 Who have never known that 
 
 fear, 
 When life costs a crust, and 
 
 costing 
 
 Even that is still too dear : 
 But, you know, I lived in Ire- 
 land 
 In the fatal famine year. 
 
 Yes, those days are now forgot- 
 ten ; 
 God be thanked ! men can 
 
 forget ; 
 Time's great gift can heal the 
 
 fevers 
 
 Called Remembrance and Re- 
 gret. 
 Man despises such forgetting ; 
 
 But I think the Angels know, 
 Since each hour brings new bur- 
 dens, 
 We must let the old ones 
 
 go, 
 Very weak or very noble 
 
 Are the few who cling to woe. 
 
 As a child, I lived in Connaught, 
 And from dawn till set of sun 
 Played with all the peasant- 
 children, 
 
 So' I knew them every one. 
 There was not a cabin near us, 
 But I had my welcome there ; 
 Though of money-help in those 
 
 days 
 We had none ourselves to 
 
 spare, 
 
 Yet the neighbors had no trouble 
 That I did not know and 
 share. 
 
 O that great estate ! the Land- 
 lord 
 Was abroad, a good man too;
 
 232 
 
 MILLT8 EXPIATION. 
 
 And the agent was not cruel, 
 
 But he had hard things to do. 
 As a child I saw great suffering 
 Which I could not under- 
 stand, 
 
 So I went back aa a man there 
 With redress and helping 
 
 planned ; 
 
 But I found, on reaching Con- 
 naught, 
 There was famine in the land. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Well, I worked, I toiled, I la- 
 bored; 
 So, thank God, did many 
 
 more; 
 But I had a special pity 
 
 For the place I knew before. 
 It was changed ; the old were 
 
 vanished ; 
 Those who had been workers 
 
 there 
 Were grown old now ; and the 
 
 children, 
 With their sunny eyes and 
 
 hair, 
 
 Were a ragged army, fighting 
 Hand to hand with black de- 
 spair. 
 
 There were some I sought out, 
 
 longing 
 
 For the old familiar face, 
 For the hearty Irish welcome 
 To the well-known corner 
 place; 
 
 So I saw them, and I found it. 
 
 But of all whom I had known, 
 I cared most to see the Connors . 
 
 Their poor cabin stood alone 
 In the deep heart of the valley, 
 
 By the old gray fairy stone. 
 
 They were decent people, hold- 
 ing, 
 Though no richer than .the 
 
 rest, 
 
 Still a place beyond their neigh- 
 bors, 
 
 With a tacit, unconfessed 
 Pride it may have been 
 
 that held them 
 From complaint when things 
 
 went ill : 
 I might guess when work was 
 
 slacker, 
 
 But no shadow seemed to chill 
 The warm welcome which they 
 
 offered ; 
 It was warm and cheerful still. 
 
 Yet their home was changed : the 
 
 father 
 
 And the mother were no more; 
 And the brothers, Phil and Pat- 
 rick, 
 
 Kept starvation from the door 
 There were many little faces 
 Gathered round the old hearth- 
 stone ;
 
 MILLT8 EXPIATION. 
 
 233 
 
 Bat the children I had played 
 
 with 
 Were the men and women 
 
 grown ; 
 
 Phil and Patrick, Kate and Milly, 
 Were the ones whom I had 
 known. 
 
 Kate was grown, but little al- 
 tered, 
 
 Just the sunburnt, rosy face, 
 With its merry smile, whose shin- 
 ing 
 Seemed to light the darkest 
 
 place. 
 But all, young and old, held 
 
 Milly 
 
 As their dearest and their best, 
 From the baby orphan-sisters 
 Whom she hushed upon her 
 
 breast, 
 
 She it was who bore the burdens, 
 Love and sorrow, for the rest. 
 
 Yes, I knew the tall slight figure, 
 
 And the face so pale and fair, 
 Crowned with long, long plaited 
 tresses 
 
 Of her shining yellow hair ; 
 She was very calm and tender, 
 
 Warm and brave, yet just and 
 
 wise, 
 Meeting grief with tender pity, 
 
 Sin with sorrowful surprise : 
 I have fancied Angels watch us 
 
 With such sad and loving eyes. 
 
 Well, I questioned past and fut- 
 ure, 
 Heard of plans and hopes and 
 
 fears ; 
 How all prospects grew still 
 
 darker 
 With the shade of coming 
 
 years. 
 
 Milly still deferred her marriage ; 
 
 But the brothers urged of late 
 
 She would leave them and old 
 
 Ireland, 
 
 And at least secure her fate ; 
 Michael pleaded too, but vain- 
 
 iy; 
 
 Milly chose to wait and wait. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Though all liked her cousin Mi- 
 chael, 
 
 He was steady, a good son, 
 
 Yet we wondered at the treasure 
 
 Which his careless heart had 
 
 won. 
 
 Ah, he was not worth her ! Milly 
 Must have guessed our thought 
 
 in part, 
 
 For she feigned such special def- 
 erence 
 For his judgment and his 
 
 heart : 
 
 The deriance and the answer 
 Of instinctive woman's art. 
 
 But my duties would not let me 
 Stay iu one place ; I must go
 
 234 
 
 MILLT8 EXPIATION. 
 
 Where the want and need were 
 
 greatest ; 
 
 So I travelled to and fro. 
 And I could not give the bounty 
 Which was meant for all to 
 
 share, 
 
 Save in scanty portions, counting 
 What each hamlet had to 
 
 bear ; 
 
 po my old home and old com- 
 rades 
 Had to struggle with despair. 
 
 I could note at every visit 
 How all suffered more and 
 
 more ; 
 How the rich were growing 
 
 poorer, 
 
 The poor, poorer than before. 
 And each time that I returned 
 
 there, 
 
 I could see the famine spread ; 
 Till I heard of each fresh horror, 
 Each new tale of fear and dread, 
 With more pity for the living, 
 More rejoicing for the dead. 
 
 Yet through all the bitter trials 
 
 Of that long and fearful time, 
 Still the suffering came untended 
 
 By its hideous sister, Crime. 
 Earthly things seemed grown less 
 potent, 
 
 Fellow-sufferers grown more 
 
 dear, 
 Murmurs even hushed in silence, 
 
 Just as if, in listening fear, 
 
 While God spoke so loud in sor- 
 row, 
 They all felt He must be near. 
 
 But one day I well remember 
 How the warm soft autumn 
 
 breeze, 
 
 And the gladnessof the sunshine, 
 And the calmness of the seas, 
 Seemed in strange unnatural con- 
 trast 
 
 To the tale of woe and dread 
 Which I heard with painful won- 
 der, 
 
 That the agent I have said 
 That he was not harsh or cruel- - 
 Had been shot at, and wae 
 dead. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For I felt in that small hamlet 
 
 More or less I knew them al), 
 And on some I cared for, surely, 
 
 Must this bitter vengeance fall ; 
 But I little dreamed how bitter, 
 
 And the grief how great and 
 
 wide, 
 Till I heard that Michael Connor 
 
 Was accused, and would be 
 
 tried 
 For this base and bloody murder ; 
 
 Then I cried out that they lied ! 
 
 He, who might be weak and reck- 
 less, 
 Yet was gentle and humane ;
 
 MILLYS EXPIATION. 
 
 235 
 
 He who scarcely had the courage 
 
 To inflict a needful pain, 
 Why, it could not be ! And 
 
 Milly, 
 
 With her honest, noble pride, 
 And her faith and love, God help 
 
 her! 
 
 It were better she had died. 
 So I thought, and thought, and 
 
 pondered, 
 
 Till I knew they must have 
 lied. 
 
 There was want and death and 
 
 hunger 
 Near me then ; but this great 
 
 crime 
 
 Seemed to haunt me with its ter- 
 ror, 
 And grow worse and worse 
 
 with time, 
 
 Till I could not bear it longer, 
 And I turned my steps once 
 
 more 
 
 To the hamlet ; did not slacken 
 Till I reached the cabin-door : 
 Then I paused ; I never dreaded 
 The kind welcome there be- 
 fore. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 So I entered. Kate was sitting 
 By the empty hearth ; around 
 Were the children, ragged, hun- 
 gry, 
 
 Crouching silent on the 
 ground. 
 
 But a wail of grief and sorrow 
 Rose, and Katie hid her face, 
 
 Sobbing out she had no welcome, 
 For a curse was on tne place, 
 
 And their honest name was cov- 
 ered 
 With another's black disgrace. 
 
 Then I soothed her; asked for 
 Milly ; 
 
 And was told she was away ; 
 Gone as witness to the trial, 
 
 And the trial was that day. 
 But all knew, so Katie told me, 
 
 Hope or comfort there was 
 
 none ; 
 They were sure to find him guilty, 
 
 And before to-morrow's sun 
 He must die. I dared not loiter, 
 
 For the trial had begun. 
 
 Yet I asked how Milly bore it ; 
 And Kate told me some strangi 
 
 gleam 
 Of wild hope seemed living if 
 
 her, 
 
 But all knew it was a dream . 
 
 Then I mounted ; rode on faster 
 
 Faster still; the way was 
 
 long; 
 
 Hope and anger, fear and pity, 
 Each by turns were loud and 
 
 strong, 
 
 And above all, infinite pity 
 For the sorrow and the wrong.
 
 236 
 
 MILLTS EXPIATION. 
 
 So I rode and rode, and entered 
 
 On the crowded market-place. 
 There was wonder, too, and pity 
 
 Upon many a hungry face ; 
 But I pushed on quicker, quicker, 
 
 Every moment held a fate. 
 As the great town-clock struck 
 midday, 
 
 I alighted at the gate : 
 No, the trial was not over ; 
 
 I was not, thank God, too late, 
 
 For I hoped the chance was 
 
 meagre 
 That my true and earnest 
 
 word 
 
 Might avail him, if the question 
 
 Of his former life was stirred ; 
 
 So the crowd believed : they 
 
 parted, 
 
 Let me take a foremost place, 
 Till I saw a shaking figure 
 
 And a terror-stricken face : 
 Was it guilt, or only terror ? 
 Fear of death, or of disgrace ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But a sudden breathless silence 
 Hushed the lowest whisper 
 
 there, 
 
 And I saw a slight young fig- 
 ure 
 
 Crowned with yellow plaited 
 hair, 
 
 Rise, and answer as they called 
 her; 
 
 Rise before them all, and stand 
 With no quiver in her accent, 
 
 And no trembling in her hand, 
 Just a flush upon her forehead 
 
 Like a burning crimson brand. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Slowly, steadily, and calmly, 
 Then the awful words were 
 
 said, 
 
 Calling God in Heaven to wit- 
 ness 
 
 To the truth of what she said- 
 As the oath in solemn order 
 
 On the reverent silence broke, 
 Some strange terror and misgiv 
 
 ing 
 
 With a sudden start awoke : 
 What fear was it seized upon 
 
 me 
 
 As I heard the words she 
 spoke? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 As she stood there, looking on- 
 ward, 
 
 Onward, neither left nor right, 
 Did she see some deadly purpose 
 
 Buried, hidden out of sight? 
 Did she sec a blighting shadow 
 
 From the cloudy future cast? 
 Or reluctant fading from her 
 
 Right and honor, fading 
 fast
 
 MILLT8 EXPIATION. 
 
 237 
 
 All her youth's remembered les- 
 sons, 
 All the honest, noble past ! 
 
 But her accents never faltered, 
 As she swore the day and 
 
 time, 
 At the hour of the murder, 
 
 At the moment of the crime, 
 She had spoken with the prison- 
 er .... 
 
 Then a gasping joyful sigh 
 Ban through all the court ; they 
 
 knew it, 
 Now the prisoner would not 
 
 die .... 
 
 And I knew that God in Heaven 
 Had been witness to a lie ! 
 
 Then I turned and looked at 
 " Michael ; 
 
 Saw a rush of wonder stir 
 Through his soul ; perplexed, be- 
 wildered, 
 
 He looked strangely up at her. 
 Would he speak ? could he have 
 
 courage ? 
 Where she fell, could he be 
 
 strong ? 
 Where she sinned, and sinned to 
 
 save him, 
 Could he thrust away the 
 
 wrong? 
 
 That one moment's strange re- 
 vulsion 
 Seemed to me an hour long. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And I saw the sudden shrinking 
 In her brothers ; wondering 
 
 scorn 
 
 In the glance they cast upon her 
 Showed they knew she was 
 
 forsworn. 
 They were stern, by want made 
 
 sterner ; 
 But the spot where Milly 
 
 came 
 
 In their hearts was soft and ten- 
 der 
 For her dear and honored 
 
 name : 
 
 Now the very love was hardened, 
 And the honor turned to 
 shame. 
 
 So I left the place, nor lingered 
 
 To see Michael, or to feign 
 Joy where joy was mixed so 
 
 strangely 
 
 Both with pity and with pain. 
 
 Many weeks I toiled and labored 
 
 Far from there, but night and 
 
 day 
 
 One sad memory dwelt beside me, 
 On my heart one shadow 
 
 lay; 
 
 Light was faded, glory tarnished, 
 And a soul was cast away. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It was evening ; and the sunset 
 Glowed and glittered on the 
 seas,
 
 238 
 
 MILLTS EXPIATION. 
 
 When a great ship heaved its an- 
 chor, 
 Loosed its sails to meet the 
 
 breeze, 
 
 Sailing, sailing to the westward. 
 Eyes were wet and hearts 
 
 were sore ; 
 
 Many a heart that left its coun- 
 try, 
 
 Many a heart npon the shore, 
 Knew that parting was forever, 
 Said farewell forevermore. 
 
 In that sad and silent evening, 
 On the sunny, quiet beach, 
 Lingered little groups pf watch- 
 ers, 
 But with hearts too full for 
 
 speech. 
 
 As I passed, I knew so many, 
 That my heart ached too that 
 
 night, 
 
 For the yearning love, that, gaz- 
 ing, 
 Strained to see the last faint 
 
 sight 
 
 Of the great ship, sailing west- 
 ward, 
 
 Down the track of evening 
 light. 
 
 None were lonely though, one 
 
 sorrow 
 Drew that evening heart to 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Only far from all the others 
 One lone woman stood apart. 
 
 There was something in the fig- 
 ure, 
 Tall and slender, standing 
 
 there, 
 
 That I knew yet no, I doubt- 
 ed 
 
 That forlorn and helpless air ; 
 When a gleam of sunset glory 
 Showed her yellow braided 
 hair. 
 
 It was Milly : ere I sought her, 
 One who knew her, standing 
 
 by, 
 
 Said, " Her people sailed from 
 
 Ireland, 
 And she stayed, but none knew 
 
 why. 
 They were strong ; in that far 
 
 country 
 Work such men were sure to 
 
 find; 
 
 They had offered to take Milly, 
 Pressed her often, and been 
 
 kind ; 
 
 They had taken the young chil- 
 dren, 
 Only she was left behind. 
 
 "Michael, too, was with them' 
 
 doubly 
 Had his fame been cleared by 
 
 time ; 
 
 For the murderer, lately dying, 
 Had confessed and owned thi 
 crime :
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 239 
 
 And yet Milly, none knew where- 
 fore, 
 Broke her plighted troth to 
 
 him : 
 Parted, too, with all her loved 
 
 ones 
 For some strange and selfish 
 
 whim." . . . 
 
 O, my heart was sore for Milly, 
 And I felt my eyes grow dim. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 She is still in Ireland ; dwelling 
 
 Near the old place, and alone ; 
 Just the same kind, loving spirit, 
 
 But the old light heart is flown. 
 When the humble toil is over 
 
 For her scanty daily bread, 
 Then she turns to nurse the 
 suffering, 
 
 Or to pray beside the dead : 
 Many, many thankful blessings 
 
 Fall each day upon her head. 
 
 There is no distress or sorrow 
 
 Milly does not try to cheer ; 
 There is never fever raging 
 
 But you always find her near ; 
 And she knows at least I thLnk 
 so 
 
 That I guess her secret pain, 
 Why her Love and why her Sor- 
 row 
 
 Need be purified from stain, 
 Need in special consecration 
 
 Be restored to God again. 
 
 A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 
 
 I BUILT myself a castle, 
 So noble, grand, and fair ; 
 
 I built myself a castle, 
 A castle in the air. 
 
 The fancies of my twilights 
 That fade in sober truth, 
 
 The longing of my sorrow, 
 And the vision of my youth ; 
 
 The plans of joyful futures ; 
 
 So dear they used to seem ; 
 The prayer that rose unbidden, 
 
 Half prayer and half a 
 dream ; 
 
 The hopes that died unuttered 
 Within this heart of mine ; 
 
 For all these tender treasures 
 My castle was the shrine. 
 
 I looked at all the castles 
 That rise to grace the land, 
 
 But I never saw another 
 So stately or so grand. 
 
 And now you see it shattered, 
 
 My castle in the air ; 
 It lies, a dreary ruin, 
 
 All desolate and bare. 
 
 I cannot build another, 
 I saw that one decay ; 
 
 And strength and heart and 
 
 courage 
 Died out the self-same day.
 
 240 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 Yet still, beside that ruin, 
 
 With hopes as deep and fond, 
 
 I waited with an infinite longing, 
 Only I look beyond. 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 
 
 I DO not ask, O Lord, that life 
 
 may be 
 
 A pleasant road ; 
 I do not ask that Thou wouldst 
 
 take from me 
 Aught of its load ; 
 
 I do not ask that flowers should 
 
 always spring 
 Beneath my feet ; 
 I know too well the poison and 
 
 the sting 
 Of things too sweet. 
 
 For one thing only, Lord, dear 
 
 Lord, I plead, 
 Lead me aright 
 Though strength should falter, 
 and though heart should 
 bleed 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 I do not ask, O Lord, that thou 
 
 shouldst shed 
 Full radiance here ; 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I 
 
 may tread 
 Without a fear. 
 
 I do not ask my cross to under- 
 stand, 
 
 My way to see ; 
 Better in darkness just to feel 
 
 Thy hand 
 And follow Thee. 
 
 Joy is like restless day ; but peace 
 
 divine 
 
 Like quiet night : 
 Lead me, O Lord, till perfect 
 
 Day shall shine, 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 THE Monk was preaching . 
 
 strong his earnest word, 
 From the abundance of hi 
 heart he spoke, 
 
 And the flame spread, in every 
 
 soul that heard 
 Sorrow and love and good re- 
 solve awoke : 
 
 The poor lay Brother, ignorant 
 and old, 
 
 Thanked God that he had heard 
 such words of gold. 
 
 Still let the plory, Lord, be 
 
 thine alone," 
 So prayed the Monk, his heart 
 
 absorbed in praise :
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 241 
 
 Thine be the glory : if my 
 
 hands have sown 
 The harvest ripened in Thy 
 
 mercy's rays, 
 It was Thy blessing, Lord, that 
 
 made my word 
 Bring light and love to every soul 
 
 that heard. 
 
 in. 
 
 " O Lord, I thank Thee that my 
 
 feeble strength 
 Has been so blest ; that sinful 
 
 hearts and cold 
 Were melted at my pleading, 
 
 knew at length 
 How sweet Thy service and 
 
 how safe Thy fold : 
 While souls that loved Thee saw 
 
 before them rise 
 Still holier heights of loving 
 
 sacrifice." 
 
 So prayed the Monk : when sud- 
 denly he heard 
 
 An angel speaking thus : 
 " Know, O my Son, 
 
 Thy words had all been vain, 
 
 but hearts were stirred, 
 And saints were edified, and 
 sinners won, 
 
 By his, the poor lay Brother's 
 humble aid 
 
 Who sat upon the pulpit stair 
 and prayed." 
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 FOR A CHILD. 
 
 WHY do you look sad, my Min- 
 nie? 
 
 Tell me, darling, for to-day 
 Is the birthday of Our Lady, 
 
 And Her children should be 
 
 gay- 
 
 What? You say that all the 
 others, 
 
 Alice, Cyril, Effie, Paul, 
 All had got a gift to give Her, 
 
 Only you had none at all. 
 
 Well, dear, that does seem a pity : 
 Tell me how it came about 
 
 That the others bring a present, 
 And my Minnie comes with- 
 out. 
 
 Alice has a lovely Banner, 
 All embroidered blue and 
 gold : 
 
 Then you know that sister Alice 
 Is so clever and so old. 
 
 Cyril has his two camellias ; 
 
 One deep red, and one pure 
 
 white : 
 They will stand at Benediction 
 
 On the Altar steps to-night. 
 
 Effie, steady little EfEe, 
 
 Stitching many an hour away, 
 She has clothed a little orphan 
 
 Ail in honor of to-day.
 
 242 
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 With the skill the good Nuns 
 
 taught her 
 
 Angela herself has made 
 Two tall stems of such real lilies, 
 They do all but smell and 
 fade. 
 
 Then with look of grave im- 
 portance 
 
 Comes our quiet little Paul, 
 With the myrtle from his gar- 
 den : 
 He himself is not as tall. 
 
 Even Baby Agnes, kneeling 
 With half-shy, half-solemn air, 
 
 Held up one sweet rose to Mary, 
 Lisping out her tiny prayer. 
 
 Well, my Minnie, say, how was 
 
 it? 
 Shall I guess? I think I 
 
 know 
 All the griefs. Well, I will 
 
 count them : 
 First, your rose-tree would not 
 blow: 
 
 Then the fines have been so many 
 All the pennies melt away ; 
 
 Then for work I know my 
 
 Minnie 
 Cares so very much for play, 
 
 That these little clumsy fingers 
 Scarcely yet have learnt to sew, 
 
 Still less all the skilful fancies 
 Angela and Alice know. 
 
 Yet my Minnie cant be treated 
 Quite as Baby was to-day, 
 
 When Mamma or Alice gave het 
 Something just to give away. 
 
 Well, my darling, there are many 
 Who have neither time no* 
 skill, 
 
 Gold nor silver, yet they offer 
 Gifts to Mary if' they will. 
 
 There are ways Our Lady 
 
 knows them, 
 And Her children all should 
 
 know 
 
 How to find a flower for Mary 
 Underneath the deepest snow ; 
 
 How to make a lovely garland, 
 Winter though it be and cold ; 
 
 How to buy the rarest offering, 
 Costing something but 
 not gold ; 
 
 How to buy, and buy it dearly, 
 Gifts that She will love to take; 
 
 Nor to grudge the cost, but give it 
 Cheerfully for Mary's sake. 
 
 Docs that seem so strange, my 
 
 darling ? 
 
 Nay, dear, it is nothing new ; 
 All can give Her noble pres- 
 ents, 
 Shall I tell you of a few ? 
 
 What were those the Magi offered, 
 Frankincense and gold n 
 myrrh :
 
 BIRTHDAY GIFTS. 
 
 243 
 
 Minnie thinks that Saints and 
 
 Monarchs 
 Are quite different from her ! 
 
 . . . Sometimes it is hard to listen 
 To a word unkind or cold 
 
 And to smile a loving answer ; 
 Do it and you give Her 
 Gold. 
 
 Thoughts of Her in work or 
 
 playtime, 
 Those small grains of incense 
 
 rare, 
 
 Cast upon a burning censer, 
 Rise in perfumed clouds of 
 prayer. 
 
 There are sometimes bitter fan- 
 cies, 
 
 Little murmurs that will stir 
 Even aloving heart ; but crush 
 
 them 
 And you give Our Lady myrrh. 
 
 Give your little crosses to her, 
 Which each day, each hour 
 befall ; 
 
 They remind Her of Her Jesus, 
 So she loves them best of all. 
 
 Some seem very poor and worth- 
 less, 
 
 Yet however small and slight, 
 Given to her by one who loves 
 
 her, 
 They are precious in her sight 
 
 One may be so hard to carry 
 That your hands will bleed 
 and smart : 
 
 Go and take it to Her Altar, 
 Go and place it in her heart; 
 
 Check your tears and try to love 
 
 it, 
 
 Love it as His sacred will : 
 So you set the cross with jewels, 
 Make your gift more precious 
 still. 
 
 There are souls alas ! too 
 many 
 
 Who forget that Jesus died, 
 Who forget that sin forever 
 
 Is the lance to pierce His side. 
 
 Hearts that turn away from Je- 
 sus; 
 
 Sins that scourge Him and be- 
 tray ; 
 
 Cold and cruel souls that even 
 Crucify Him day by day. 
 
 Ah ! poor sinners ! Mary loves 
 
 them, 
 
 And she knows no royal gen> 
 Half so noble or so precious 
 As the prayer you say for 
 them ; 
 
 Or resign some little pleasure 
 Give it her instead, to win 
 
 Help for some poor soul in peril 
 Grace for some poor heart in 
 sin,
 
 244 
 
 A BEGGAR. 
 
 Mercy for poor sinners, plead- 
 ing 
 For their souls as for your 
 
 own ; 
 
 So you make a crown of jewels 
 Fit to lay before Her throne. 
 
 Flowers, why I should never 
 finish 
 
 If I tried to count them too, 
 If I told you how to know them, 
 
 In what garden-plot they grew. 
 
 Yet I think my darling guesses 
 They are emblems, and we 
 trace 
 
 In the rarest and the loveliest 
 Acts of love and gifts of grace. 
 
 Modest violets, meek snow-drops, 
 Holy lilies white and pure, 
 
 Faithful tendrils herbs for heal- 
 ing 
 If they only would endure ! 
 
 And they will, such flowers 
 fade not ; 
 
 They are not of mortal birth ; 
 And such garlands given to Mary 
 
 Die not like the gifts of Earth. 
 
 Well, my Minnie, can you tell 
 me 
 
 You have still no gift to lay 
 At the feet of your dear Mother, 
 
 Any hour, any day ? 
 
 Give Her now to-day for- 
 ever, 
 One great gift, the first, the 
 
 best, 
 Give your heart to Her, and ask 
 
 her 
 How to give her all the rest. 
 
 A BEGGAR. 
 
 I BEG of you, I beg of you, my 
 
 brothers, 
 
 For my need is very sore ; 
 Not for gold and not for silver 
 
 do I ask you, 
 
 But for something even more : 
 From the depths of your hearts 
 pity let it be 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you whose robes of ra- 
 diant whiteness 
 Have been kept without a 
 
 stain ; 
 Of you who, stung to death by 
 
 serpent Pleasure, 
 Found the healing Angel 
 
 Pain : 
 
 Whether holy or forgiven you 
 may be 
 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you calm souls whose 
 
 wondering pity 
 Looks at paths you never trod :
 
 LINKS WITH HEA YEN. 
 
 245 
 
 I beg of you .who suffer for all 
 
 sorrow 
 
 Must be very near to God 
 And the need is even greater 
 than you see 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you, O children, for He 
 
 loves you, 
 And He loves your prayers the 
 
 best : 
 Fold your little hands together, 
 
 and ask Jesus 
 
 That the weary may have rest, 
 That a bird caught in a net may 
 be set free 
 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of you who stand before 
 
 the Altar, 
 
 Whose anointed hands up- 
 raise 
 AH the sin and all the sorrow of 
 
 the Ages, 
 
 All the love and all the praise, 
 And the glory which was always 
 and shall be 
 Pray for me. 
 
 [ beg of you of you who 
 
 through Life's battle 
 Our dear Lord has set apart, 
 That while we who love the peril 
 
 are made captives, 
 Still the Church may have its 
 
 Heart 
 
 Which is fettered that our souls 
 may be set free 
 Pray for me. 
 
 I beg of yon, I beg of yon, my 
 
 brothers, 
 
 For an alms this very day ; 
 I am standing on your doorstep 
 
 as a Beggar 
 
 Who will not be turned away, 
 And the Charity you give my 
 soul shall be 
 Pray for me ! 
 
 LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 
 
 OUR God in Heaven, from that 
 
 holy place, 
 To each of us an Angel guide 
 
 has given ; 
 But Mothers of dead children 
 
 have more grace, 
 For they give Angels to their 
 God and Heaven. 
 
 How can a Mother's heart feel 
 
 cold or weary 
 Knowing her dearer self safe, 
 
 happy, warm 1 
 How can she feel her road too 
 
 dark or dreary, 
 Who knows her treasure shel- 
 tered from the storm ? 
 
 How can she sin ? Our hearts 
 
 may be unheeding, 
 Our God forgot, our holy 
 Saints defied ;
 
 246 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 But can a mother hear her dead 
 
 child pleading, 
 
 And thrust those little angel 
 hands aside ? 
 
 Those little hands stretched down 
 
 to draw her ever 
 Nearer to God by mother 
 
 love : we all 
 Are blind and weak, yet surely 
 
 she can never, 
 
 With such a stake in Heaven, 
 fail or fall. 
 
 She knows that when the mighty 
 
 Angels raise 
 Chorus in Heaven, one little 
 
 silver tone 
 Is hers forever, that one little 
 
 praise, 
 
 One little happy voice, is all 
 her own. 
 
 We may not see her sacred crown 
 
 of honor, 
 But all the Angels flitting to 
 
 and fro 
 Pause smiling as they pass, 
 
 they look upon her 
 As mother of an angel whom 
 they know, 
 
 One whom they left nestled at 
 
 Mary's feet, 
 
 The children's place in Heav- 
 en, who softly sings 
 
 A little chant to please them, slow 
 
 and sweet, 
 
 Or smiling strokes their little 
 folded wings ; 
 
 Or gives them Her white lilies 
 
 or Her beads 
 To play with : yet, in spite 
 
 of flower or song, 
 They often lift a wistful look that 
 
 pleads 
 
 And asks Her why their moth- 
 er stays so long. 
 
 Then our dear Queen makes an- 
 swer she will call 
 Her very soon : meanwhile they 
 
 are beguiled 
 To wait and listen while She tells 
 
 them all 
 A story of Her Jesus as a child. 
 
 Ah, Saints in Heaven may pray 
 
 with earnest will 
 And pity for their weak and 
 
 erring brothers : 
 Yet there is prayer in Heaven 
 
 more tender still, 
 The little Children pleading 
 for their Mothers. 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 IT is cold, dark midnight, yet lis- 
 ten 
 To that patter of tiny feet !
 
 HOMELESS 
 
 247 
 
 Is it one of your dogs, fair lady, 
 Who whines in the bleak cold 
 
 street ? 
 
 Is it one of your silken spaniels 
 Shut out in the snow and the 
 sleet? 
 
 My dogs sleep warm in their bas- 
 kets, 
 Safe from the darkness and 
 
 snow ; 
 All the beasts in our Christian 
 
 England, 
 
 Find pity wherever they go 
 (Those are only the homeless 
 
 children 
 Who are wanderi ng to and fro ) . 
 
 Look out in the gusty darkness, 
 I have seen it again and again, 
 That shadow, that flits so slowly 
 Up and down past the window- 
 pane : 
 
 It is surely some criminal lurk- 
 ing 
 Out there in the frozen rain ? 
 
 Nay, our criminals all are shel- 
 tered, 
 They are pitied and taught 
 
 and fed : 
 
 That is only a sister-woman 
 Who has got neither food nor 
 bed, 
 
 And the Night cries, " Sin to be 
 
 living," 
 
 And the River cries, " Sin to 
 be dead." 
 
 Look out at that farthest corner 
 Where the wall stands blank 
 
 and bare : 
 Can that be a pack which a Ped- 
 
 ler 
 
 Has left and forgotten there? 
 His goods lying out unsheltered 
 Will be spoilt by the damp 
 night-air. 
 
 Nay ; goods in our thrifty 
 
 England 
 Are not left to lie and grow 
 
 rotten, 
 For each man knows the market 
 
 value 
 
 Of silk or woollen or cotton. . . 
 But in counting the riches of Eng- 
 land 
 I think our Poor are forgotten. 
 
 Our Beasts and our Thieves and 
 
 our Chattels 
 
 Have weight for good or for ill; 
 
 But the Poorare only His image, 
 
 His presence, His word, His 
 
 will; 
 
 And so Lazarus lies at our door- 
 step 
 And Dives neglects him still.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 A little changeling spirit, 157. 
 
 A little longer yet a little longer, 74. 
 
 A little past the village, 45. 
 
 A smiling look she had, a figure slight, 32. 
 
 A sorrow, wet with early tears, 71. 
 
 A trinket made like a Heart, dear, 185. 
 
 All the fluttering wishes, 82. 
 
 All yesterday I was spinning, 40. 
 
 An ancient enemy have I, 75. 
 
 Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep, 221. 
 
 Are we not Nobles ? we who trace, 220. 
 
 Arise ! this day shall shine, 49. 
 
 As strangers, you and I are here, 86. 
 
 Ave Maria ! bright and pure, 215. 
 
 Back, ye Phantoms of the Past, 80. 
 Be strong to hope, O Heart, 30. 
 Before I trust my fate to thee, 14. 
 Bless God, ye happy Lands, 210. 
 Blue against the bluer heavens, 144. 
 
 Calm the city lay in midnight silence, 226. 
 Can you open that ebony Casket, 179. 
 Child, do not fear, 95. 
 
 Dear, I tried to write you such a letter, 160. 
 
 Dear, set the casement open, 205. 
 
 Deep within my heart of hearts, dear, 187.
 
 250 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Dim shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty stair they 
 
 climb, 79. 
 
 Do not cheat thy Heart and tell her, 8. 
 Do not crouch to-day, and worship, 41. 
 Do yon grieve no costly offering, 60. 
 Dwells within the soul of every Artist, 96. 
 
 Farewell, O dream of mine, 57. 
 
 Fret not, poor soul : while doubt and fear, 215. 
 
 From this fair point of present bliss, 98. 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains, 54. 
 Give us our daily Bread, 214. 
 Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees, 88. 
 God gave a gift to Earth : a child, 31. 
 God's world is bathed in beauty, 123. 
 Golden days where are they, 145. 
 
 Hark ! the hours are softly calling, 183. 
 
 Hast them o'er the clear heaven of thy soul, 94. 
 
 He was the first always : Fortune, 114. 
 
 How many a mighty ship, 202. 
 
 How pure, and frail, and white, 208. 
 
 Hush ! I cannot bear to see thee, 29. 
 
 Hush ! speak low ; tread softly, 119. 
 
 I am fading from you, 217. 
 
 I am footsore and very weary, 60. 
 
 I beg of you, I beg of you, my brothers, 244. 
 
 I built myself a castle, 239. 
 
 I can scarcely hear, she murmured, 91. 
 
 I do not ask, Lord, that life may be, 240. 
 
 I had a Message to send her, 142. 
 
 I have a bitter Thought, a Snake, 153. 
 
 I have seen a fiercer tempest, 19. 
 
 I saw a Ruler take his stand, 15. 
 
 I see a spirit by thy side, 6. 
 
 I think ,if thou couldst know, 159.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 251 
 
 I was with my lady when she died, 124. 
 
 I will not let you say a Woman's part, 176. 
 
 I wonder did you ever count, 189. 
 
 If in my soul, dear, 133. 
 
 If in the fight my arm was strong, 159. 
 
 If the dread day that calls thee hence, 83. 
 
 In joy, in pain, in sorrow, 207. 
 
 In the outer Court I was singing, 185. 
 
 In the wood where shadows are deepest, 122. 
 
 Is my darling tired already, 9. 
 
 It is a dreary evening, 50. 
 
 It is cold, dark midnight, yet listen, 246. 
 
 It is not because your heart is mine mine only, 97. 
 
 It was midnight when I listened, 137. 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain, 7. 
 Just when the red June Roses blow, 139. 
 
 Last night, when weary silence fell on all, 72. 
 
 Let me count my treasures, 27. 
 
 Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 25. 
 
 Let us throw more logs on the fire, 26. 
 
 Like dreary prison walls, 114. 
 
 Linger, I cried, O radiant Time ! thy power, 188. 
 
 Linger, O gentle Time, 19. 
 
 Lingering fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly, 146. 
 
 Listen, friend, and I will tell you, 135. 
 
 Look, this little golden Heart, 186. 
 
 Loud roared the Tempest, 120. 
 
 Many, if God should make them kings, 117. 
 
 Moan, O ye Autumn Winds, 42. 
 
 Mother of grace and mercy, 214. 
 
 Mourn, rejoicing heart, 41. 
 
 My God, I thank Thee who hast made, 80. 
 
 My Life you ask of ? why, you know, 62. 
 
 ** Never again ! " vow hearts when reunited, 143.
 
 252 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 
 
 No name to bid us know, 42. 
 Not a sound is heard in the Convent, 182. 
 Nothing is our own : we hold our pleasures, 175. 
 Nothing resting in its own completeness, 53. 
 Nothing stirs the sunny silence, 165. 
 
 O mighty Mother, hearken ! for thy foes, 216. 
 
 O, to have dwelt in Bethlehem, 212. 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing, 8. 
 
 Our God in Heaven, from that holy place, 245. 
 
 Over an ancient scroll I bent, 17. 
 
 Place your hands in mine, dear, 116. 
 Rise 1 for the day is passing, 25. 
 
 Seated one day at the Organ, 119. 
 
 See the rivers flowing, 50. 
 
 Shine, ye stars of heaven, 28. 
 
 Since I have no lands or houses, 132. 
 
 So you think you love me, do you, 99. 
 
 Some words are played on golden strings, 101. 
 
 Sow with a generous hand, 57. 
 
 Spare her at least : look, you have taken from me, 16. 
 
 Spare her, O cruel England, 208. 
 
 Spread, spread thy silver wings, O Dove, 135. 
 
 Stand this way move near the window, 6. 
 
 Starry Crowns of Heaven, 131. 
 
 Still the angel stars are shining, 5. 
 
 Strew before our Lady's Picture, 218. 
 
 Strive ; yet I do not promise, 41. 
 
 The boats are out, and the storm is high, 216. 
 The bond that links our souls together, 52. 
 The clouds are fleeting by, father, 93. 
 The Earth is so bleak and deserted, 211. 
 The feast is spread through England, 71. 
 The fettered Spirits linger, 178.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 263 
 
 The Heart ? Yes, I wore it, 186. 
 
 The House is all deserted, 170. 
 
 The King's three daughters stood on the terrace, 173. 
 
 The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, 105. 
 
 The Monk was preaching ; strong his earnest word, 240. 
 
 The moon that now is shining, 219. 
 
 The shadows of the evening hours, 184. 
 
 The stars are gleaming, 181. 
 
 The Studio is deserted, 168. 
 
 The tempest rages wild and high, 68. 
 
 The tender, delicate Flowers, 77. 
 
 The way is long and dreary, 53. 
 
 The wind went forth o'er land and sea, 172. 
 
 There are many shrines of Our Lady, 222. 
 
 There are more things in Heaven and Earth than we, 164. 
 
 There are times when all these terrors, 231. 
 
 There is a deep and subtle snare, 118. 
 
 Thou hast done well, perhaps, 48. 
 
 Thou hast done well to kneel and say, 155, 
 
 Though he lived and died among us, 18. 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens, 1. 
 
 Through the wide world thy children raise, 204. 
 
 To fight the battle of the Cross, Christ's chosen ones are sent, 199. 
 
 Trust him little who doth raise, 153. 
 
 Trust me, no mere skill of subtle tracery, 138. 
 
 Two stranger youths in the Far West, 90. 
 
 We ask for Peace, Lord, 83. 
 
 We must not doubt, or fear, or dread, that love for life is only given, 
 
 115. 
 
 Well the links are broken, 187. 
 What is it you ask me, darling, 89. 
 What is Life, father ? A Battle, my child, 24. 
 What lack the valleys and mountains, 62. 
 What wouldst thou have, soul, 202. 
 When the bright stars came out last night, 92. 
 When the weariness of Life is ended, 97. 
 Where are the swallows fled, 16.
 
 254 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Where I am, the halls are gilded, 81. 
 
 Where the golden corn is bending, 87. 
 
 Where the little babbling streamlet, 158. 
 
 Wherefore dwell so sad and lonely, 28. 
 
 While the gray mists of early dawn, 174. 
 
 Who is the Angel that cometh, 133. 
 
 Why do you look sad, my Minnie, 241. 
 
 Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, 39. 
 
 Why wilt thou make bright music, 49. 
 
 Will she come to me, little Erne, 162. 
 
 With echoing steps the worshippers, 43. 
 
 Within the kingdom of my Soul, 154. 
 
 Without one bitter feeling let us part, 78. 
 
 Words are lighter than the cloud-foam, 59. 
 
 Yes, dear, our Love is slain, 154. 
 
 Yes, I was sad and anxious, 121. 
 
 Yes, it looked dark and dreary, 165. 
 
 You have taken back the promise, 61. 
 
 You wonder that my tears should flow, 48. 
 
 You write and think of me, my friend, with pity, 140.
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 A Little Longer, 74. 
 Angel of Death, The, 39. 
 Angel's Bidding, The, 182. 
 Angel's Story, The, 1. 
 Angels, Listening, 144. 
 Angels, Ministering, 221. 
 Annunciation, The, 208. 
 Appeal, An, 208. 
 Army of the Lord, The, 199. 
 
 Be Strong, 30. 
 Because, 97. 
 Beggar, A, 244. 
 Beyond, 115. 
 Birthday Gifts, 241. 
 Borrowed Thoughts, 153. 
 Bride's Dream, The, 181. 
 
 Carver's Lesson, The, 138. 
 
 Castle in the Air, A, 239. 
 
 Chain, A, 52. 
 
 Changeling, A, 157. 
 
 Changes, 41. 
 
 Chant, A, 133. 
 
 Chaplet of Flowers, A, 205. 
 
 CHAPLET OF VERSES, A, 191. 
 
 Christmas Carol, A, 219. 
 
 Christmas Flowers, 211. 
 
 Church in 1849, The, 216. 
 
 Cleansing Fires, 25. 
 
 Comfort, 94. 
 
 Comforter, A, 162. 
 
 Confldo et Conquiesco, 215. 
 
 Contrast, A, 179. 
 
 Cradle-song of the Poor, The, 29. 
 
 Crown of Sorrow, A, 71. 
 
 Dark Side, The, 48. 
 Dead Past, A, 16. 
 Desire, A, 212. 
 Discouraged, 158. 
 Doubting Heart, A, 16. 
 
 Dream, A, 40. 
 Dream-Life, 135. 
 
 Echoes, 5. 
 Envy, 114. 
 Evening Chant, 218. 
 Evening Hymn, 184. 
 Expectation, 173. 
 
 False Genius, A, 6. 
 Farewell, A, 57. 
 Fidelis, 61. 
 First Sorrow, A, 49. 
 Fishers of Men, 216. 
 For the Future, 189. 
 Friend Sorrow, 8. 
 From ... 154. 
 From "Lavater," 153. 
 From " Lost Alice," 154. 
 From " Phantastes," 153. 
 
 Give, 50. 
 
 Give me thy Heart, 43. 
 Give Place, 131. 
 God's Gifts, 31. 
 Golden Days, 145. 
 Golden Gate, The, 79. 
 Golden Words, 101. 
 Grief, 75. 
 
 Hearts, 185. 
 Home at Last, 95. 
 Homeless, 246. 
 Homeless Poor, The, 226. 
 Home-sickness, 81. 
 Homeward Bound, 19. 
 Hours, 92. 
 Hush ! 91. 
 
 Ideal, An, 174. 
 
 If thou couldst Know, 159. 
 
 Illusion, 87.
 
 256 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 In the Wood, 122. 
 Incompleteness, 53. 
 Inner Chamber, The, 185. 
 
 Jubilee of 1850, The, 210. 
 Judge not, 7. 
 
 King and Slave, 133. 
 Knight-Errant, A, 18. 
 Kyrie Kleiaon, 207. 
 
 Lament for the Summer, A, 42. 
 
 Legend, A, 240. 
 
 Legend of Bregenz, A, 54. 
 
 Legend of Provence, A, 106. 
 
 LEGENDS AND LYRICS, 1, 103. 
 
 Lesson of the War, The, 71. 
 
 Letter, A, 160. 
 
 Life and Death, 24. 
 
 Life in Death and Death in Life, 83. 
 
 Light and Shade, 155. 
 
 Linger, O Gentle Time, 19. 
 
 Links with Heaven, 245. 
 
 Listening Angels, 144. 
 
 Little Longer, A, 74. 
 
 Lost Chord, A, 119. 
 
 Love Token, A, 60. 
 
 Maximus, 117. 
 Milly's Expiation, 231. 
 Ministering Angels, 221. 
 Murmurs, 40. 
 My Journal, 50. 
 My Picture, 6. 
 My Picture Gallery, 140. 
 My Will, 132. 
 
 Names of pur Lady, The, 204. 
 Never again, 143. 
 New Mother, A, 124. 
 Now, 25. 
 
 Old Year's Blessing, The, 217. 
 
 One by One, 8. 
 
 Optimus, 118. 
 
 Ora pro Me, 215. 
 
 Our Daily Bread, 214. 
 
 Our Dead, 175. 
 
 Our Titles, 220. 
 
 Over the Mountain, 114. 
 
 Parting, A, 78. 
 Past and Present, 188. 
 Peace of God, The, 83. 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem, 240. 
 
 Phantoms, 80. 
 
 Philip and Mildred, 146. 
 Pictures in the Fire, 89. 
 Pilgrims, The, 53. 
 Present, The, 41. 
 
 Recollections, 86. 
 
 Remembrance of Autumn, A, 165. 
 
 Requital, The, 120. 
 
 Rest, 135. 
 
 Rest at Evening, 97. 
 
 Retrospect, A, 98. 
 
 Returned " Missing," 121. 
 
 Sacred Heart, The, 202. 
 
 Sailor Boy, The, 62. 
 
 Sent to Heaven, 142. 
 
 Settlers, The, 90. 
 
 Shadow, A, 62. 
 
 Shining Stars, 28. 
 
 Shrines of Mary, The, 222. 
 
 Sowing and Reaping, 57. 
 
 Spring, 183. 
 
 Star of the Sea, The, 202. 
 
 Storm, The, 58. 
 
 Story of the Faithful Soul, The, 178. 
 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray, 41. 
 
 Student, A, 17. 
 
 Thankfulness, 80. 
 
 Three Evenings in a Life, 165. 
 
 Three Roses, 139. 
 
 Three Rulers, The, 15. 
 
 Threefold, 214. 
 
 Tomb in Ghent, A, 32. 
 
 Too Late, 119. 
 
 Treasures, 27. 
 
 Triumph of Time, The, 77. 
 
 True Honors, 9. 
 
 True or False, 99. 
 
 Tryst with Death, A, 60. 
 
 Two Interpreters, The, 93. 
 
 Two Loves, 187. 
 
 Two Spirits, The, 72. 
 
 Two Worlds, 123. 
 
 Tyrant and the Captive, The, 137. 
 
 Unexpressed, 96. 
 Unknown Grave, The, 42. 
 Unseen, 164. 
 
 Vision, A, 88. 
 
 Voice of the Wind, The, 26. 
 
 Voices of the Past, 48. 
 
 Waiting, 28. 
 Warning, A, 116.
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 257 
 
 Warrior to his Dead Bride, The, 159. 
 Wayside Inn, The, 45. 
 Wind, The, 172. 
 
 Wishes, 82. 
 
 Woman's Answer, A, 176. 
 Woman's Last Word, A, 187. 
 Woman's Question, A, 14. 
 Words, 59.
 
 LBCTROTYPKD AND PRINTSD 
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