;l-fW:4:'iyt}^j^>j.>^':. ,' ;> THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Lately Publijhed, price ^s. , or with Plates on Indiaj Js. 6d. ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK THE EE AND THE fMSASP A FABLE IN VERSE BASIL MONTAGU PICKERING 196 PICCADILLY LONDON W. //-^. PHILIP OF KONIGSMARKT, AND POEMS. r PHILIP OF KONIGSMARKT, AND POEMS. BY MARESCO PEARCE, B. A. ALDI LONDON : BASIL MONTAGU PICKERING, 196, PICCADILLY. W. 1863. PR CONTENTS. HILIP of Konlgsmarkt. A Tragedy Sonnets : — On the Beach, near Lyme Regis After Storm in Summer " The child unquestioning treads his father' path" The Alps, between Munich and Salzburg " The moon had risen in haste, and left her zone' Farewell ..... Tears ..... " Come, dearest, for a while apart" Pure Love ..... Forbidden Love The Puritan's Daughter The Last Night The Maiden and the Lilies Love and Death Song ..... The Portrait .... Page I 107 109 1 IT 113 "5 116 124 127 130 132 136 188 196 198 200 201 -1 /i/IOe/iO VI Contents. Doubt More Doubts Old Love Letters " As when a great oak dieth, that in life " Song in Sorrow . Love Convent Thoughts . The Echo in the Baptistery of Pisa A Fragment Horace. Second Epode A Magdalen The Artist's Child . The Starling To the Memory of a Painter Only San Miniato Margaret, A Retrospect Thfe Shrine by the Wayside " The moon had left the throbbing sea " Page 203 204. 205 206 207 211 218 225 229 234 242 245 252 254 256 257 261 314 ■522 PHILIP OF KONIGSMARKT. A TRAGEDY. K B DRAMATIS PERSON.E. Philip of Konigsmarkt {Colonel of Hanoverian Guards). GusTAV, his friend (Captain in ditto). Elector of Hanover. Crown Prince [afterwards George I. of England), Guards, among them two Italians in Countess Platen's pay. Courtiers. Servant. Sophie Dorothee, wife of Crown Prince. Mary Dillon, her favourite attendant. Countess Platen, Mistress of the Elector. Maids of Honour. PHILIP OF KONIGSMARKT. A TRAGEDY. ACT I. Scene L A garden under the Princess's Apartments^ at night. Enter Mary Dillon and Gustav from opposite sides. Mary. vELL, Signer Capitano, here you are at last; I got your letter, and admired your impudence in expect- ing me to stand out in the cold and damp for the sake of seeing you. And, pray, what brings you 4 Philip of Konigsmarkt . and the Count back again to Hanover ? No good — I dare say. GUSTAV. Let me get my breath, and I'll answer as many questions as you like to put. But first, I must thank you for coming to-night, though I knew you would j — and then, O, what have we come back for ? Why we are tired of one kind of war, and so are here to wage another. Mary. What, with an artillery of sighs and ogles, eh ? GuSTAV. Yes, and one in which I don't know if we shall triumph in the end, but we've got sadly worsted at starting. Mary. Ah, that's one of your military manoeuvres, to draw the enemy from his intrenchments. But suppose the said enemy were to keep snug in his Philip of Kbnigsmarkt. 5 (or her) stronghold, and decline to follow you, you'd cut but a sorry figure, I fancy. GUSTAV. Oh, she'll follow fast enough. Mary. Will she ? GuSTAV. Why, Mary dear, if you knew anything of the code of honour, you'd be aware that in every duel, while the principals are engaged, the seconds get up a fight on their own account ; and you must know that Mars and Venus have but one code of laws between them ; so I mean to lay siege to your heart, while the Count — Mary. Hush I O my dear, kind, noble mistress ! why has he come back to tempt her ? I had almost rather that his great blue eyes were closed for ever than looking into — those that, alas, don't 6 Philip of Konigsmarkt . know how to frown at him ; and his abominably handsome Hps were — anywhere rather than so dangerously near hers — I wish I were in her place — GUSTAV. Do you ? Mary. I'd teach my inferiors to respect me ! and, if they dared to talk to me of love, I'd, I'd — GuSTAV. You'd, you'd bear it with equanimity, I dare say — for, look you, a Princess, after all, is but a woman, and it isn't being made love to that puts them out of temper. And supposing now that you were a princess, and that a presentable fellow, like myself, for example, were to give you a kiss like this — what would you do, eh ? There's no law against it that I ever heard of. I'll ask my cousin, the councillor, whether there's any penalty for kissing a princess. Philip of Konigsmarkt . 7 Mary. Do try and be serious, and tell me what you know of this unhappy affair. GUSTAV. Know — well, all I know is that Philip, like me, is really in love ; unlike me though, it's not for the first time — for I swear by all that's solemn, that I never even looked on woman, till your loved image— Mary. There, that'll do, go on — Gustav. How can I go on, if you stop me in that way ? I declare you've spoilt my pet speech that I com- posed as I came along. Well, I was going to observe that he really is in love, as am I, only that / never — Mary. Will you go on about the Count ? 8 Philip of K'dnigsmarkt. GUSTAV. I will, I will — Well then we're both in love. I'll make my meaning plainer by speaking in a metaphor. Our mouths water for two peaches, that hang against a wall (I'm obliged to suppose a wall) ; a good, ripe, rosy cheeked one, mine is, bless it, and well within my reach. Mary. Don't make too sure. GuSTAV. Once for all, will you not interrupt me ? Mine, I repeat, is within my reach ; while his — (it's not half so plump and juicy looking as mine, either) — his is so high up, that he must make a tremendous jump to get at it, and then he has a very good chance of bringing the wall about his ears. You see how well the wall comes in now. Mary. Oh, you men, you men ! All you think of is Philip of Konigsmarkt . g the risk the Count runs, — and you forgot my dear lady, that is indeed a fruit so precious and delicate, that a touch might rub off the bloom and leave a mark. Who is he, that he should dare to look so high, and think to pluck such fruit ? GUSTAV. Listen, there he is — I thought he wouldn't be long before he came. [The Count Philip is beard singing in the garden. Song. The night bird is singing in the brake, love. To his mate in the nest ; And I will sing to thee till thou wake, love. Till thou wake from thy rest. The moon walketh on in starry mazes, . Like a queen among flowers ; These shall never fade away, like the daisies, Nor shall love such as ours. lo Philip of Konigsmarkt . Mary. Ah, he has a sweet voice, more's the pity. I wish he had a quinzy. GUSTAV. Why if he had, she'd only come out all the sooner to nurse him. Do you think now, dear, that a woman's love depends on a man's lungs ? Look how fond you are of me, and yet / never sang you such pretty songs. Mary. No, that you certainly never did j hush 1 Song {^continued). Come forth, O beloved, in thy glory, For the morn cometh soon j Come forth among the trees that are hoary In the pale rays of the moon 1 Mary. Come forth ! of course she will, poor thing. Dear me, what fools we women are, to be sure. Philip of Kofiigsmarkt. 1 1 Song (^continued). The robins, love, are sleeping in the shadows, Each nest a dewy cup ; And the daisies, love, were sleeping in the meadows, Till the fairies woke them up ; But the jasmine at thy chamber ever keepeth Faithful watch through the night ; Breathing perfume to my darling, as she sleepeth. And sweet visions of delight. GUSTAV. Well, I never thought of talking about birds' nests and jasmine, when I was courting ; but all ways in love seem to lead to the same end. Song [continued). that I were as the jasmine to clamber To her window there above, 1 would woo her till she answer'd from her chamber. Till she answer'd to my love. 12 Philip of Konigsmarkt. GUSTAV. That's what he'll be doing presently, unless I'm very much mistaken. Mary. There, she's coming out into the balcony ; we'll watch at the garden gate, and warn them in case of surprise ; between ourselves, too, perhaps it's just as well we shouldn't see them. GuSTAV. Come along then, dear, I shall take a leaf out of the Count's book, and sing you such pretty songs about birds' nests and jasmine. — We've been courting on false principles all this time, I dare say ; anyhow, there'll be no harm in be- ginning over again. Mary. Come along, and don't talk nonsense. GuSTAV. One kiss, and I will — Philip of Konigsmarkt. 1 3 Mary. There, that's enough, — now come along, do. \^Exeunt. {The Princess in the balcony^ the Count in the garden. Princess. Philip, am I sleeping or awake ? For your sweet voice so mingled with the dreams 1 dream'd of you, that, when I half awoke, And heard your song, I thought that still I slept ; And, when it ceased, I tried to sleep again, To dream, and hear again. Count. Nay, my Princess, This is no dream, but sweet reality j I am no vision of your sleeping brain, But your own Philip, come to whisper you What you do know so well, yet love to hear, 14 Philip of Konigsmarkt , How that I love you better than my life ; Nay, so much better, I would give my life, To save you from a heart-ache. Princess. But you know How precious 'tis to me, and you shall keep it, If only for my sake , but, Philip, dearest, You must not stay, and yet I lack the words To bid you go. It seems so very hard, When I have wearied so to have you here, That I must drive you from me ; yet I must. Not for your sake, but mine, — for should they find you Then would they kill you, and my heart should die. Count. Nay, I will go ; but ere I go, my queen. Will climb into your balcony, and stay A moment's space, and kiss the delicate hand Philip of Konigsmarkt. 15 That shineth, like a lily, in the moon. \_He climbs into the balcony. Princess. O, Philip, what is this that you have done ? God 1 should they find you ! Count. Do you fear to die } Look, dearest, if they find me we will die. There is a subtle poison in this phial, That kills if one but taste ; this will I drink. And you, my own, shall kiss my poison'd lips, And drink the deadly moisture from my mouth. And we will die together, — lips to lips. But pale not, who should find me ? do you think Your burly lord would leave his painted mistress To waste a thought on you ? Princess. He is my husband. i6 Philip of Konigsfnarkt, Count. Nay, my Princess, nay, he is not your husband j Too true it is ye made a mutual compact Before God's altar, to be man and wife ; But such holds good, so long as both respect Their plighted troth ; if one should break his vow He frees the other, therefore you are free. But, more than this, when we were little children, And wander'd in the woods on summer eves, I call'd you "little wife," and you me " husband ;" And, one day, you remember, I did fashion A tiny ring out of a daisy stalk, And put it on your finger ; but it broke, And you did cry, and I did kiss your tears. Say was there ever purer love than this ? If ever love was heaven-born, was not ours ? And can this cursed greed, and base ambition. That gave you to another, part the souls That God united ? Heaven forbid it. Philip of Konigsmarkt. ly Princess. Philip, There are two children here who call me " Mother," And should I leave them, they would ask for me, " Where is our mother ?" and one should shake his head, As at a guilty thing we speak not of; And they should blush, unknowing shame them- selves. My children for their mother's. Pity me. For I am very weak, and I do love you, God knows how dearly, therefore pity me, And leave me, Philip. Count. Fare you well, sweet lady, I'll try to love you, as you would be loved ; I'll worship you ; and you shall be to me, As some fair image of a holy saint, c 1 8 Philip of Konigsmarkt. 'Twere sacrilege to touch ; and guard the shrine, That holds my idol, from the baser world ; — Good-night. Princess. Good-night. — O, Philip, now I think I love you even better than before j God bless you for it, Philip, fare you well. [ He kisses her hand^ descends from balcony^ and exit. Scene II. Count Philip, sitting on a bench in the parky is discovered by the Countess Platen. Countess. ^AN I believe my eyes ? can this be he. The gay Count Philip, sitting here alone. Moody as " Melancholy " on the tomb Philip of Kmigsmarkt. 1 9 Of Medici at Florence ? How is this ? Hath woman, then, presumed to frown at last ? Is it some silly girl who dares refuse To give her heart for a brief loan of yours ; Or burgher's wife, who thinks a month of pleasure Too dearly purchased at a life's remorse ? Or sit you thus, with brows that frown in thought. Ripening some project, that shall hand your name To latest days, the Conqueror of hearts ? Say, is it so, fair Count? or do you sio-h. Another Alexander, that the world Hath nothing left to conquer ? Count. Pardon me, I do assure you, Madam, I was thinking — I really forget what. — Countess. I have it, Count — You have been losing heavily of late. 20 Philip of Konigsmarkt . Nay, do not shake your head. The whole world knows it. Believe me, you're too fortunate in love. To hope for luck at cards. You know the proverb ; But, I have money — Do not frown at me — I would not vex you — but you need not blush To borrow of a friend — Sure better this Than of some crafty and usurious Jew. Count. Madam, you do mistake me, I assure you ; I have not lost beyond my power to pay. And, if I had, I trust I'm not the man To publish my vexation to the world. But, pardon me, dear madam, if I leave you Somewhat abruptly ; but it groweth late. And I have an engagement — Countess. Certainly. Philip of Kmigstnarkt . 2 1 I should be grieved to keep the lady waiting. Count. {Aside.) Plague on the woman ! {Aloud.) There's no lady. Countess. What? Count Philip, is this true ? Count. How ? is it true ? I've told you so ; but if there were or no, What would it matter ? Countess. Matter ? O my Philip ! Nay, I must tell you what is in my heart. I love you, Philip j do not look so cold, — I love you with the deep love of a woman ; This is no fleeting fancy of a girl That hardly knows her mind, before it change. O Philip, when the heart is young and soft, It takes impressions easily as wax, 22 Philip of Konigsmarkt. And each effaces other; — but, alas, When grown to womanhood, it takes the stamp Of one loved form, and cannot crush it out. But bears the impress with it to the grave. And I do love you ; do not frown at me, I cannot bear to see you frown at me ; Nay, hear me, I am favourite of the Elector, And I have but to ask, and he would give me All wealth and honours, more than heart can wish ; And these should be love offerings for my Philip. And you should have promotion in the army, And glory such as soldiers love ! but hear me, — If you will none of these, then will I leave My all but regal honours for your sake. Wealth, houses, titles, all I fling away. To follow you, my Philip, through the world. Count Pardon me, madam, this can never be ; Philip of Konigsmarkt. 22 My heart is not my own, I cannot give That which is not my own. Countess. Philip, Philip ! I did not think that I could fall so low : O love, upon my knees I pray you love me. Only so very little. One kind look Would cheer my heart, as some unlooked-for ray Cheers a rain-beaten flower. Count. 1 pray you, rise, Dear Countess, I do really pity you ; But more I cannot. It were cruel kindness To lull your heart to sleep with feigned love ; Such sleep hath saddest waking. Countess. Ay, it hath ; And I am now awake, for I have dreamed A cursed, foolish dream. Pity me. Count ! 24 Philip of Konigsmarkt . Nay, keep your pity, it may be you'll need it For other than for me. What ! you have dared To spurn my love, and trample on my heart, And now you talk of pity ? Knovv^ you then, That those who deeply love, can hate as deeply, And I have power, you dare not brave my hate ! But you are smiling, Philip ; ah, you know I was but jesting when I spoke of hate. You are too brave to tremble at my threats. And so you'll try to love me, won't you, Philip ? You'll give me back a little of my love. O, do not shake your head ; what have I done That you should goad me thus to madness, Philip ? Count. Nay, madam, pardon me — it cannot be : I grieve to say it — but it cannot be — 'Tis my last word. Countess. Be it so, Count Philip ! Philip of Konigsmarkt, 25 It may be that you fear not for yourself; But there is one is dearer than yourself, Leave me to find her out ; and then, and then — It shall go hard, but I will find the means To drag her down to infamy — farewell. \_Exit. Count. Most amiable Countess, fare you well — Thank God she's gone ! If women only knew How men do loathe these favours thrust upon them. They'd be less prodigal ! To think that I Could love a painted Jezebel like that ! A thing of paste and patches ! Or that I Could fling away that rosebud for this fungus ! Yet I half pitied the old doting fool, To see her kneel, and whimper on my hand, The while adown her rosy cheeks the tears Had traced their channels. She, too, once so proud, 26 Philip of Kmigsmarkt. Who brow-beats the Electress in her palace ! most sweet Countess ! Did she think her threats Would drive me into love ? Nay, that indeed Were taking hearts by storm — and yet, and yet 1 tremble at her anger, lest it reach The innocent head of my own, own Princess. Spite of myself I dread that tongue of hers ! A woman's like a serpent ; for her tongue Is her sole weapon, and it makes a wound That leaves the venom in it. O, should she Find who her rival is, and whisper poison Into the dull ear of the sottish Prince, He might — O God, I cannot think of it ! So brutal is he in his drunken fury ; Heaven grant me patience. O, to think of her, My priceless pearl, and given to such a swine ! My peerless lily, doomed to pine and die 'Mongst noisome docks and nettles ! O my God, Philip of Kmigsmarkt. 27 It shall not be ; but I will steal the pearl And give it worthier setting ; and I'll plant My flower in some fair garden, where the sun, The great bright sun of love shall shine on her, And she shall drink the honey'd dews of love. I dare not dream such bliss, and yet it might be. Had I but. half the courage of a man ! \_Exit. 28 Philip of K'dnigsmarkt. ACT II. Scene I. The Street^ Gustav and Mary meeting. GUSTAV. ELL, this is lucky, you've saved me a walk J I was just going to see you. Mary. I'm sorry I can't return the compliment. But, pray why are you wrapped in a cloak, as if it were January ? Gustav. Why, darling ? Well, I thought it was going to rain ; — indeed, I think it is now j besides, it's very chilly ; don't you think so ? Philip of Konigsmarkt . 29 Mary. No, I don't. That's all nonsense ; you're not generally so much afraid of the weather, — look, sir, there's hardly a cloud to be seen, Gustav, you're hiding something, what is it ? GUSTAV. Nay, dear, I swear — Mary. I will see {opens his cloak and sees his arm bound up in surgical bandages'). Oh, Gustav, dearest, you're wounded [cries). Gustav. Don't cry, there's a dear ; I only had a little accident this morning, — was thrown from my horse, that's all ; but it's nothing, upon my honour. Mary [sobbing). I don't believe a word ; you've been fighting again, you monster ; about some girl too, I've no 30 Philip of Konigsmarkt. doubt; but you'll be killed some day, and then / won't cry for you. GUSTAV. Well, darling, if you'll only leave off crying noWj and be reasonable, I'll tell you all about it. It was about a lady, certainly, but not one you need be jealous of; one of our fellows spoke rather too freely about the Princess, so I stopped his mouth by running him through the body ; but the doctor says he'll get over it, as I've not touched a vital part. But, my dear girl, you must remember you are to be a soldier's wife, and you mustn't cry about such a scratch as this. Look here, dear, I've got something for you j here's a ring for your pretty little finger. Mary. O, Gustav dear, how can I thank you ? GuSTAV. Ah, you know how well enough ; that's my Philip of Konigsmarkt. 3 1 own dear little Mary. But, stop, I've got something else, not for you though, this time. Here's a letter from the Count to the Princess. Mary. Poor thing ! she'll be glad enough to get it ; and yet I wish from my heart he wouldn't write to her. I've no patience with Philip ; and if I thought it would do any good, I'd never lose an opportunity of saying the most ill-natured things of him to the Princess. GUSTAV. I wish you'd persuade her to run away with him, and then we'd all four of us go to England, or some other out-of-the-way place, and make the happiest little colony in the world. Mary. Well, I confess I don't think, anybody could blame her much if she did. You don't know what she suffers at the hands of that wretched 32 Philip of Konigsmarkt. husband of hers ; do you know, not long ago he struck her ? GUSTAV. For God's sake, dear, don't tell me about it, you'll drive me wild. O, how I wish he were anything but the Crown Prince, that I might send my rapier through his heart (if he's got any), and then Philip should marry his widow. Mary. But, in the meanwhile, as he is the Crown Prince, and as that is out of the question, what are we to do ? This love of theirs is sure to be found out soon, and then, — I dare not think of the consequence ! GusTAV. Well, dear, I've thought over the matter in all its bearings, and I can see but one of two ways out of the difficulty. — She must either give him up altogether, or run away with him ; Philip of Konigsinarkt . 33 him ; I know you're going to tell me it's very wrong, and all that sort of thing, so it is, no doubt j but it's death to both of them to go on as they do now ; and, moreover, it's a question I can't settle, whether carrying on this mockery of allegiance to a husband you detest is not as immoral as the other alternative. Mary. O, Gustav, you must not reason in this way, it's awfully wicked. GuSTAV. Ah, that's one of your English prejudices. Anyhow, dear, you'd better give her the letter at once 3 so I'll say good-bye ! Mary. Good-bye, — I shall see you again soon ? GuSTAV. Never fear, dearest. — Au revo'ir. [Exeunt. D 34 Philip of Konigsmarkt^ Scene II. Count Konigsmarkt's house. The Count, alone^ singingy with his lute. Song. •F it is, as in love, or in sorrow, It seems, that thy tone Is thy soul, O my lute, let it borrow Some notes from my own. As the sun doth its hue to the sky give. The sky to the sea, So my love, or its echo, will I give, My lute, unto thee. Thy soul, till my fingers had skill'd it. Was silent, my lute ; Philip of Konigsmarkt, 35 And mine, till love touch'd it and thrill'd it, My own too was mute. Now my soul hath a voice, let it cleave then To thine for relief; Thou canst joy with its gladness, O grieve then Awhile with its grief. I cannot sing, my lute is out of tune. Or else my heart is.— O my peerless queen ! I wonder has she got my letter yet ? Would I were there, my sighs should back my prayers. My tears should melt her gentle heart to yielding ; But now she is alone, and the old thoughts. The cold world's logic, like an icy stream. Shall flood her heart and chill it ; freeze again What love had well-nigh thaw'd, as alpine snows. That yield to the warm kisses of the sun. Freeze up again at night. How strange it seems 36 Philip of Konigsmarkt . That thoughts like these can reach a heart like hers, So poor a breath can blast so fair a flower. Yet so it is ; though innocent herself, She fears the judgment of an unjust world j She trembles lest the adder tongues of spite Should hiss at her ; she fears those cursed women Who seem to think this damning vice in others A virtue in itself, or dream that virtue Is purchased at the cost of charity. O, if the angels sing when sinners weep. How do the devils joy when angels fall ! But this were not to fall, 'twere but to raise Her body to her soul, — a resurrection From that cold grave of love wherein she lies. For she was mine, from earliest childhood mine ; And though a thousand priests were paid to mumble Their blessings on her cursed union Philip of KoJiigsmarkt . 37 They could not take her soul away from me, To whom God gave it, — God is more than man, The soul than is the body, — therefore I Own more of her, and by a higher title, Than he to whom man gave her. Enter GusTAV. Well, Gustav, You gave my letter into Mary's hand ? Gustav. Yes, Philip. Count. Thanks, for this and for the zeal With which you back'd my cause ; but you'll forgive me If I should think you almost over-zealous. We cannot cut the throats of all the babblers j And failing this, your conduct, my Gustav, Would rather fan suspicion than allay it. 38 Philip of Konigsmarkt. We must be cautious. It were just as well That you spoke less with Mary in the street ; I'm sure you'll pardon me, but people know That you're my Damon, I another Pythias ; They know, too, Mary's love for the Princess ; Meet her at night, beneath the linden trees. Or where you will, but in the open street Meet her, Gustav, as mere acquaintance meet, You understand, with bows of cool indifference, And talk about the weather — what you will. You'll tell her this, and she'll not be offended ; She knows how many, and how precious lives Hang on our prudence. GuSTAV. Philip, let me laugh ; I should have look'd for wisdom from a fool, Or candour from a courtier, just as soon As prudence from your lips. But, trust me. Count, Philip of Konigsmarkt. 39 I've come on purpose here to preach a sermon From your own text ; I only wish that you Were half as cautious as I mean to be ; And as for Mary, she's the soul of prudence. I'll pass her, if it please you, in the street, And make amends in private. But for you. This serenading cannot last much longer ; And I've been urging Mary all this morning, And more than half persuaded her, to use What influence she hath with the Princess To cut this Gordian knot. Count. Thanks, dear Gustav, I thank you both, and hope with all my heart That she may have success where I have fail'd. GuSTAV. Well, I'm on duty at the palace, Philip, And so must say good-bye. 40 Philip of Konigsmarkt . Count. Good-bye, Gustav. \_Exeunt. Scene III. The Palace of Herrnhausen, The Elector and the Countess Platen on one side of the door^ and several Courtiers on the other. Elector. ^HAT news, my lovely Countess ? what is this That brings you from Mount Plaisir at this hour ? You, who were never known to rise till noon, A very Cleopatra you for indolence. Who, sipping cofFee, chatting with your friends, Or watching the mad circlings of the flies. Or strip of living blue between the curtains. Where leaves and tendrils sparkle in the sun. Philip of Konigsmarkt . 41 Do cheat the day of half its wonted hours, You here at Herrnhausen before noon ! With eyes all bloodshot, too, as though with weeping, Or sleeplessness, or both ! what is it. Countess ? Countess. Nothing, your Highness, I assure you, nothing. But I was restless, and have hardly slept, I really know not why, but being so Am come to seek for consolation here Upon the bosom of the man I love. First Courtier. Here's old Platen come all the way from Mount Plaisir in the morning, to seek consolation on the Elector's waistcoat. Second Courtier. The dear little innocent, is she though ? Third Courtier. What's in the wind ? Listen again. 42 Philip of Konigsmarkt . Elector. That's kind, my Platen, and I thank you for it. But, tell me, is there nothing I can do To prove my thanks ? Have you no nephew novi^ Who seeks commission in my guards ? no cousin Who craves some vacant living ? Is it so ? I know how good you are to your relations ; And mine shall be the task, in serving them To show my love for you. First Courtier. Confound them I they get all the good things. I was looking out for the next vacant living myself. Second Courtier. You'd make a pretty parson, you would. First Courtier. Pray, why not I as well as another ? Second Courtier. Why, you believe in nothing, and I always thought a modicum of faith was de rigueur. Philip of Konigsmarkt. 43 First Courtier. Not a bit of it, — on the contrary ; that's just what fits me for the post. My mind is an empty vessel, into which you may pour any amount of orthodoxy. There's no old wine there, to dis- agree with the new, and burst the bottle ; be- sides, do you suppose I wouldn't swallow faith, like a bolus, if I could get any good by it ? Hush! Countess. It is not that ; 'Twas nothing but my love hath brought me here, You know, my Prince, the love I bear to you ; I could not be your wife ; nay, God is witness, I would not you had stoop'd so low as I am ; — But I could follow you throughout the world. Could watch your looks, forestall your lightest wish. And be your slave. And all for this, my Prince, 44 Philip of Konigsmarkt. I've borne the slights and scornings of the world. No words can tell what such as I endure ; But then the prize is greater than the pain, When, having wept and waited all alone. The sun at length shall dawn upon our night. And shine on the poor flower that faints for him. Ours are no duty kisses, like the wife's. And cold as duty is. She hath her pride. Her name, and all the honours of her lord ; We have our love, and that sufficeth us. But O, if such as I may dare to say it. Unworthy as we are, we make our own His honour whom we love ; — ourselves have none ; But, like a dog that dies without a murmur To save the hand that strikes it, so are we. They scorn us, and we heed it not ; nay rather, As being proof of love, we welcome scorn ; — But, should they lightly speak of him we love. Philip of KoJiigsmarkt. 45 Or dare to taint the honour of his house, They take our sun from heaven, and rob our souls Of their one jewel ; so that we shall die. If we be weak ; revenge, if we be strong,, Elector. Madam, I know your love ; and from my heart I thank you : but my honour, pardon me, Is safe in my own keeping. Countess. O my Prince, Think you I doubt your honour ? That doth shine Bright as the sun in heaven. But, as the sun May be eclipsed by the speckled moon. That draws her light and glory from the sun. So may her shame, who owes whate'er she hath Of fame to you, eclipse your princely honour. O pardon me — 'tis nothing but my love 46 Philip of Konigsmarkt, That makes me bold. Your love is as a rock To which my heart is anchor'd \ lost it that, Then all indeed were lost; — yet this I risk, Risk even your love, to save your honour, Prince ; And, now that I have dared to say so much, I will not shirk my duty. Hear me then : — She, whom you honour'd more than all the world. And gave her to your son to be his wife, Forgetful of her duty, and his name. Forgetful of the glory of your house. Hath paid back shame for honour ; — Prince, I tell you. Her paramour is Philip Konigsmarkt. Elector. Madam, Fll not believe it. I have heard The idle tongues that wag about a court Have dared to link their names, but did not think Philip of Koiiigsmarkt . 47 That such as you could stoop so low as this, To be the slanderers' mouth-piece I — Shame on you! My Konigsmarkt, my paragon of guardsmen ! The very soul of honour ! — And my child, For I do love her as she w^ere my child ! First Courtier. Why, he's like Balaam, she vi^anted him to curse her enemies, and lo ! he doth nothing but bless them. Second Courtier. Well, all I can say is, that if he's Balaam, the Crow^n Prince is Balaam's ass. Third Courtier. That shows, my friend, your ignorance of the Scriptures, for Balaam's ass was chiefly remark- able for speaking, and no one can accuse a Crown Prince of loquacity, who never opens his mouth but to put something into it. Listen again. 48 Philip of K'dnigsmarkt. Countess. You wrong me, Prince, you wrong me, dearest lord! What motive but my zeal could make me speak. Zeal for my Prince's honour ? Think again ; If you should take away my love from me, Then should I die in silence. You to me Are as a god : and that which you have given That may you take away. But, when I see them Bringing foul shame upon the man I love, Hurting my Prince's honour, I will speak. And, look you, this is no mere calumny, I have the proofs — such damning proofs of wrong As neither he nor she would dare to answer. He comes beneath her balcony at night ; Nay, climbs up to her window ; but to-day He sent a letter to her, fixing, doubtless, Philip of Konigsmarkt . 49 Some meeting for to-night. Do you, my Prince, Place a few guards beneath her garden wall, And you shall know if I have slander'd them, And know that I have risk'd and said so much Because the honour of your princely house Is dearer to me even than my life. Farewell, my noble Prince ; may God forgive you For those harsh words that you have spoke to one Who lives but for your love. Elector. Madam, farewell. \_Exeunt. 50 Philip of Konigsmarkt. Scene IV. The Princesses Apartments. Princess and Mary. Princess. MARY, I am sad, and sick at heart ; Sing me, sweet Mary, for your voice, like David's, Can drive the fiend of sadness from my soul. Mary. What shall I sing ? Princess. Do you remember, dear ? The other day you sang a foolish song, A silly love-song, and it ended with Something about a harebell and a bee. Mary. Oh, I remember, this was it, I think. Philip of Konigsmarkt, 5 1 Song. {He.') Come to my heart, my own, Feel how it beats for you ; Come, and I'll whisper alone, alone, A something as sweet as true. Come to my arms, my love, See how they tremble — do ; O, were I an angel above, above, I'd barter heaven for you Feel how my pulses beat. Ask me not, darling, why ; And, as for my secret sweet, my sweet,. You know it as well as I. {She.). There's a bee in a wild harebell. Where honey and dew-drops glisten, Hath he too a secret to tell, to tell To her,, that she seems to listen ? 52 Philip of Kmigsmarkf. He swings in the perfumed cup, And whispers his passionate vow ; But the honey he drinketh it up, all up, She knoweth his secret now. {He.) *' O sweet is life," he saith, " And to drink of thy sweets at will j But to die of thy honey'd breath, such death, My flower, were sweeter still." {She.) And the harebell doth but sigh ; But he laughs, that roving bee, " I will drink her poor heart dry, and fly To the lily that waits for me." {He.) " I shall die of grief," she thinks, " Of honey and love bereft ; " Philip of Konigsmarkt . 53 But the butterfly comes, and drinks, and drinks What honey the bee hath left. {She.) And he hath splendid wings, Of purple, and red, and gold. And women are weak, poor things, poor things. And the moral is trite and old. [Count Philip h heard singing in the garden. But the bee hath flown, hath flown, From the cup of the wild harebell. He hath found the lily alone, alone. The lily that loves him well. And into her heart hath crept. Till her white arms fold him over. And the honey'd tear she hath wept, hath wept. Is the welcome she gives her lover. 54 Philip of Konigsmarkt . \^rhe Count enters. I would I were the bee, my own Princess, To creep into that Hly heart, and dwell there. For ever and for ever. Princess. O my Philip, I knew that you would come again to-night. Not from your letter only, but my heart ; I feel your coming ere I see your face. Just as the sky at morning, ere the sun Rise from his bed, doth feel his presence near. And all that loving breast doth flush for joy. But tell me, Philip, what are these new fears Of which your letter speaks ? Count. O, my own love, God knows I would not fright you without cause; — But all our path of love is hedged with peril : Philip of Kdnigs?narkt. z^^ It is as 'twere a bridge of sweet flowers, thrown Across a precipice. But listen, dearest ; — The peril cometh on us, yet we stay j We see it coming, yet we flee not from it — We flee it not, though flight were life indeed, And this is death indeed — the soul's death first. And then the body's. Princess. Be content, my Philip, You have my soul, what signifies the rest ? [Mary, who had gone out^ re-enters in haste. Mary. Count Philip, you are watch'd. Two men are station'd, Arm'd to the teeth, before the garden gate. Princess. Fly, fly, my Philip ! 56 Philip of Konigsmarkt. Count. Do not fear for me — ■ They shall not see me — I will climb the wall, And leap the ditch, and make across the fields. This is some plot of that old Countess Platen. Beware her, dearest. Princess. O, I will, I will. But fly, or they will take you. Count. Sweetest love. Think, if you would, I need not fly you thus, But day and night be near you. Princess. Leave me now. And save your life, my Philip, for my sake — It is the dearest boon that you can give me — Good night, good night. Philip of Kbnigsmarkt. ^j Count. Until to-morrow, love, Good night. O say it once, a moment, thus — Your heart to mine — Good night. \_He descends from the balcony^ and exit. Princess. Save him, my God ! See, he hath reach'd the ground, and cross'd the lawn, And now hath climb'd the wall. He waves his hand — *' Good night!" Now he is gone. Pray for him, Mary; For you are pure, and need not fear to pray, And maybe God will bless him for your prayers. 58 Philip of Konigsmarkt. Scene V. The Elector's Palace at Herrnhausen. The Elec- tor and Philip Konigsmarkt. Elector. ^f OUNT PHILIP, I am glad that you are here, For I have much to tell you. There is one Hath crept into my heart, and nestled there, A little robin in a wither'd tree ; And if you steal my robin I shall die. For I am old, and have not long to live ; And if it be that I have dream'd a dream. So sweet a dream it was, I fain would die. If that might be, unwaken'd. Hear me, then, I speak not as a monarch to his subject, But as an old man, pleading for his child — Philip of Konigsjnarkt. 59 The child of his old age. — Say she is innocent, 'Twould break my heart to think her aught but pure. Count. Prince, she is innocent, as God is just. Elector. I knew it ; thank you. Count. Give me your hand, It is a brave man's hand, the hand of one Who would not wish to break an old man's heart. And drag her down to ruin whom he loves. But you must go, for her sake, you must go. To save her name from base and sland'rous tongues, That spit their venom at her ; for the sun May be obscured and darken'd by the smoke Of noisome weeds ; and this infernal slander Would blight an angel's fame, and stain the robe Of innocence herself, and by your presence You give the slanderer a weapon. Count, 6o Philip of K'dnigsmarkt. To wound her name withal. You'll leave to-night See, I have here a letter for the Prince, Frederic Augustus, of the imperial army, Herein I do intreat the Prince to place you Upon his staff, and give you full occasion To gain the glory that you love so much ; And so my darling shall be saved, and you Shall win your spurs. You'll start at once. Count. My Prince, You'll give me till to-morrow ? Elector. No, to-night ; You must not see her, Count, before you go. Count. It shall be so, your Highness. Fare you well [Exit. [An interval of a few months is supposed to take place between the second and third acts^ during which the campaign is concluded. ) Philip of Konigsmarkt . 6 1 ACT III. Scene I. A room in the Countess Platen's house of Mount Plalsir. Countess alone. Servant brings in a letter. Servant. jADAM, a servant of Count Konigs- markt Hath brought this letter, and will wait an answer. Countess. Tell him to wait. And look you, see you give him The best of meat and drink — whate'er he asks : Now you may leave me. \^Exit Servant. 62 Philip of Kojiigsmarkt. What ! the Count come back, And warning me the first of his arrival ! I see it now, my prodigal return'd Hastens to ask forgiveness. Thank you, Philip, You will not find me cruel ; yet indeed I might have guess'd as much j I might have known The seed of love sown in such fruitful soil Would bear some fruit at last. — O I have sown In bitter tears, to reap in fuller joy. O Philip, my own Philip, how I love thee ! This note shall be the first link in the chain, The strong love-chain, to bind us heart to heart. Yet it were well perhaps to frown at first, To seem, a little cruel, lest he deem His conquest all too easy ; till at length My love shall burst all barriers, like a torrent, And I will bid him take his fill of love. Philip, I kiss the note your hand hath press'd ; Philip of Konigsmarkt. 63 How my hand trembles as I open it ! Poor foolish hand, and foolish, fluttering heart. Be still, and let me read. — Why, what's this ? — " Madam?"— That would seem cold were it not diffidence — " You have a certain ribbon, that was bound About the colours of my regiment " — Well, if I have, why does he plague me now About a foolish ribbon ? — " This is mine ; It was the prize of some athletic games ; And given me by the Princess. Pray you, madam. Return it by the bearer of this letter. And all shall be forgiven." Death and fury I He dares to mock me thus ! this cursed ribbon — And given him by the Princess. O, my God ! Am I to be their go-between I is he To trample on my heart to reach to hers ? " And all shall be forgiven," generous Count ! 64 Philip of Konigsmarkt. As though not he, but /, had done the wrong. But patience, patience, do not break, my heart ; And I will give thee vengeance for thy love. Let me read on. What's this ? — " forgiven" — well ?— "If not, and you refuse to give it up, Look to yourself, for I have sworn to have it. Yours, as you answer, Philip Konigsmarkt." A challenge to a woman ! gallant Count ; Poor fool ! I have thee now. With this blue ribbon I'll bait a hook to catch thy life withal ! O God, to think that I could once have stoop'd To ask this shallow trifler for his love ! It drives me mad to think it. — Thank you, Philip, You saved me from myself; why, this same love Levels all intellects ; and makes a woman Hang on the vapid mouthings of her lord. With bated breath, as on an oracle. Philip of K'dnigsmarkt^ 6^ But that's all over now, and I'm awaken'd From a brief, foolish dream. — Revenge, revenge, It is the nobler passion. Let me think — This woman's brain of mine is all confused — ■ I must be careful not to rouse suspicion j But lull his heart to sleep with promises. How shall I write ? will this do ? — " Dear Count Philip, I thank you for your letter, though its tone Was hardly kind or courteous ; for indeed I know not how I have offended you, My only fault was loving you too well. To this I must plead guilty, and the shame To have my love rejected ; but for this I think that you should rather pity me. Than crush me with your anger. — For the ribbon, I know not quite where I have laid it, Philip ; But when I find it, I will send it you ; And, though it grieve me that you value so F 66 Philip of Konigsmarkt. A present from another than from me, I will bear this, and more than this, from you." How shall I sign myself? Ah, this will do — " Yours ever, spite of all your cruelty, The Countess Platen." Now then, Konigs- markt, Look to your arms, for you and I are match'd. And you'll have need of them. \Rings. Enter Servant. You'll give this letter To the Count's servant. \^Exit Servant. Now, then, for my plans. — 'Tis well that I obtain'd from the Elector That order for Count Konigsmarkt's arrest ; If ever he revisit the Princess I have him in my clutches — then, indeed. It shall go hard but I will mar their joy. But first to see the guards ; 'tis well again I took those two Italians in my pay — Philip of Kmiigsmarkt. 67 They'll silence him, and I will silence them. But what if he be grown more circumspect, And come not as of old, or at a time When least expected ? I must lure him then ; — If I could only ask him in her name — But he'd detect the forgery ; and I Should be a laughing-stock for both — What's that ? [Mary heard singing in the Street. Song. There's a sound in the summer trees, That the dew-drops christen. There's a voice in the summer trees — Listen, listen. Through the moonlit haze they glisten, Like the islands in fairy seas ; But, O, there's a sound that's more than these — Listen, listen. 68 Philip of Konigsmarkt. 'Tis the voice of my own, my own, Calling, calling ; And I must to him alone, alone, While the dews are falling, falling. While the dews are falling. Countess. Why, that's Miss Dillon — Mary, as they call her, — Of all the world, the person suited best To be my instrument. I'll call her in. {Calls. Good day, sweet Mistress Mary ; may I beg You'll turn aside, and spend an hour with me. I've news to tell, that you were loth to lose — News of the army — where a friend of yours Doth battle like a Paladin of old. Mary. Good morrow. Madam. (yfj/V|EAR relics, that I must destroy ; As though my heart could thus forget That once ye made it leap for joy, And make it throb for sorrow yet. Dear little notes ! some mystic power Still tells me what was lurking there, That this one sent a bud or flower. And this one held a lock of hair. I clung to you, when all was gone, The last young bird to leave the nest. My heart is empty now, and lone, For ye must go, like all the rest. 2o6 [S when a great oak dieth, that in life Hath drunk up all the virtue of the soil. Leaving it barren — so my love is dead, That drank up all the love-springs in my heart, So that no other love may grow therein. Oh, it were better, like some stunted flower, That never breathed the warm breath of the sun, Ne'er to have breathed the perfumed breath of love. So bitter is it to have " loved and lost." 207 SONG IN SORROW. ING to me, O my love, For my heart is heavy within me. Sing to me, O my love, Sweet music, that may win me From the gloomy demon of thought, That firm in his arms hath wound me. Sing, till thy voice hath wrought, hath wrought Its rapturous spell around me. * Sing me of gallant knights. That whisper'd in ladies' bowers j Or sing me of breezy heights Of purple and golden flowers ; 2o8 Song in Sorrow. Where the stately forests listen To the monotone chaunt of the sea ; And the heath-bell wakes, and her tear-drops glisten. As she yields her sweets to the bee. Or sing me a fairy tale, Some foolish wild romance ; How at night, in the moonbeams pale, The fairies meet and dance ; Marking with tiny rings Their haunts in the woodland dells ; And hurrying home, when the skylark sings. To sleep in the fox-glove cells. Or sing me of paynim giant, And of lady with golden hair. On her own true love reliant, That his arm will save her there; So fig in Sorrow. 209 Or of high-born damsel, keeping Her watch in lonely tower ; Or of love-lorn maiden, a-weeping, weeping, Like hare-bell after a shower. Or sing me a solemn strain ; And tell how the heroes die. When over the trampled plain The bleeding warriors lie ; Or sing of the angel band. From home and friends departed, The wounded to nurse with tenderest hand, And to comfort the broken-hearted. Or sing me of all thou art, My treasure, my joy, my own ; . Sing, till my beating heart Keep time with thy tremulous tone. p 210 Song in Sorrow. Sing, till thy lustrous eyes With diamond tear-drops shine ; Sing, till the voice of my soul arise, And mingle, and die with thine. 21 I LOVE. ^ AN'S soul is like a ship, that in the night Towards some fatal shore Is drifting more and more, No pilot there to guide her course aright ; And those old charts that once had power to save From rocks, and shoals of doubt, That lie her course about, No longer trusted ; but the wilful wave Sports with her for awhile, and drags her to the grave. O love, thou art the haven of the soul ! And to thy beacon's spark We steer our labouring bark. 2 1 2 Love. For there is peace, when angry billows roll ; There, in thy sheltering bosom we may lie ; And, safe from every gale, Repair each shatter'd sail. And hear the hungry surges sweeping by. Where gentlest ripples play, and softest breezes sigh. There the glad sun is shining all day long ; While in the woody vales Full-throated nightingales Do make the air to tremble with their song. And there the stray dove that hath lost his nest. Beneath thy sheltering shore Shall fear the storm no more, But smooth the ruffled plumage of his breast, And fold his weary wing, and sleep, and be at rest. Love. 2 1 3 And there the queenly moon, at close of day, Doth from her silver crown Scatter the jewels down Upon the heaving bosom of the bay ; While, through the silent watches of the night, The amorous summer breeze Doth woo the sleeping trees With softest whispers, and with kisses light, Till all their leaves awake to tremulous delight. Yet are there some, who linger there awhile, And shield them from the storm Within thy bosom warm ; But should the heaven look bright, and ocean smile, They launch once more upon the treacherous main ; To quench in busy marts The fire of their young hearts ; 214 Love. And, when in age they seek thee, 'tis in vain : Of them that left thee once thou art not found again. And some there are who scorn thy choicest treasures j And steal the fruits and flowers That deck thy fragrant bowers. To waste in vain delights and idle pleasures. But all their sweets shall turn to bitterness ; For ev'n thy grapes let fall Not wine, but bitter gall, When hands unhallow'd do their juices press j And thou art found a curse, that most hast power to bless. And there are some, who seek thee painfully. With sighs, and bitter tears. In youth, and riper years. To rest them for a little ere they die j Love. 2 1 5 Oh, not for them the perfumed branches wave Above the golden beach That tiny ripples reach ; But all alone the joyless sea they brave, Until they find at length the shelter of the grave. Love, thou art sweetest in the early spring ; When in thy rocky dells Are violets and bluebells, And honeysuckles climb, and thrushes sing ; And all the earth is wet with early showers. When even the sun appears. As shining through his tears, And there are tears within the blushing flowers. And tears of love are shed in thy delicious bowers. And when in Summer, blinded by the heat. And weary with the oar. We seek thy kindly shore. Even then, O love, thou hast a welcome sweet. 2 1 6 Love. There we may rest upon some mossy root j And all our cares forget, Where beauty lingers yet, And vernal bloom is changed to summer's fruit, And roses blossom still, though nightingales are mute. Then cometh winter, when the nights are dreary ; And all the sleepless trees Moan to the bitter breeze, And toss their bony arms, as they were weary ; Then only they who in the spring did come May find a shelter still From northern tempest chill. All else upon the ruthless ocean roam. Their only haven death, the grave their only home. Love. 2iy love, my spring is over, and the flowers Have wither'd one by one. And now the summer sun Hath driven all the birds to sheltering bowers. The nightingales are silent, yet the lark Still to the morning sky Poureth sweet melody. And still thy beacon shineth through the dark, A kind and welcome light to my benighted bark. Oh, may I reach thee ere the winter blast Sweep o'er the surging sea. In blackest terror free. And split the sail, and snap the trembling mast. 1 may have slighted thee in spring, when o'er The ocean's heaving breast The breezes sank to rest. And lazy ripples crept along the shore : Oh, may I reach thee now, I will not leave thee more. 2l8 CONVENT THOUGHTS. [NDER the cypress-trees, That stand in order stately and tall, Gazing over the convent w^all. And drinking the evening breeze. That blov/eth over the Arno vale, A nun was seated, haggard and pale. And uttering thoughts like these. Oh, a w^eary fate ! Dragging the tedious days along. With matins, and compline, and evensong. And vigils early and late ; Or a walk in the convent garden trim With the lady abbess, stately and prim ; I that could love, or hate ! ^ Convent 'Thoughts. 219 Oh, a weary time ! Here in the convent, alone, alone, Wearily, wearily making moan 1 Oh, that I could climb Into the cypress-branches, and gaze On the valley that lies in a golden haze, With its belts of cedar and lime ! Better I could not hear Voices that come to me over the hill, When the sun goes down, and the air is still. Ringing so joyous and clear ; Voices from vineyard and olive grove. Of laughter and song, and whisper of love, A sound so strangely dear. Better I had not heard Those two young lovers whispering near me. So near, I dreaded lest they should hear me. As I drank in every word j 220 Convetit noughts. Till my heart beat quick with fancied blisses, And my cheeks burnt hot with fancied kisses, And all my blood was stirr'd. And then when they ceased, and I Heard not the night-bird's passionate singing. Nor the convent-bell in the turret ringing. But each fond word and sigh A voice in my heart was still repeating. With every pulse still wildly beating. With the thoughts that would not die. Why was I born to miss The passions that other women know, The joy of loving, or even the woe That Cometh of too much bliss ? For an hour of such sweet joy and sorrow, Of tears to-day, and smiles to-morrow, I would give up a life like this. Convent Thoughts. 221 Had I but known the charm Of a true love, I could have yielded My soul unto him, who would have shielded His darling from all harm ; Then, in each doubt and tribulation, His love had been my consolation, My confidence, his arm. One hour of love were worth Whole years of a life like this, one hour Would gladden my heart, as a summer shower Gladdens the parched earth. It would cheer me even when sad and old As the year looks back, when the nights are cold. To the spring, and the violets' birth. None ever loved in vain : Even when love is unrequited, And hope is dead, and the heart is blighted. Sweet thoughts will still remain : 2 22 Convent Thoughts. And the memory of some kind, loving word, In the silent night-time faintly heard, Will soothe a life-long pain. Love is more prized and dear Than is, our life, for love shall never Die vf'\t\\ our death, but live for ever. Though all forgotten here. All have loved once, even she w^ho seems The loneliest, wakens, perchance, in dreams. Some love in a far-ofF sphere. Surely such love must be all A sw^eet devotion, calm and high. For such is the soul in its extasy ! Alas that such pure ideal May soothe, though it cannot satisfy. Oh, I must love, or I shall die, A love that is human and real. Convent 'Thoughts. 222 Surely my heart speaks truly, When it tells me of unknown joys and sweets, And of vague delights, till it beats, it beats. With vagrant thoughts unruly. That I try to stifle in vain, in vain ! The petals cannot be closed again. When the flower is open'd newly. I cannot but love, not I, Even as the lark must soar in heaven. And the nightingale sing in the woods at even, And the great sun shine in the sky ; As the eye must see, and the tongue must speak, My heart must love, or it will break ! Must love, or I shall die ! Alas, that it cannot be ! No — I must back to tell my beads, I can only think when no one heeds. 224 Convent Thoughts. And sorrow when none may see : And then to my cell till break of day, To try to sleep, and to try to pray. Oh, so wearily, wearily ! 225 THE ECHO IN THE BAPTISTERY OF PISA. iTRIKE those notes again, In the same slow measure, For they woke a pain, Mingled so wich pleasure, I would count them o'er like a miser's treasure. As a golden dream, When the sleeper waketh, In the morning's beam Still sweet music maketh, Soft, and very sweet, like distant sea that breaketh. 2 26 The 'Echo in the Even so come stealing, In those simple notes, Thoughts of vaulted ceiling. Where the music floats, Most marvellous and svv^eet, as from young angel throats. Angel voices calling From the marble dome. Rising now and falling Harmonised they come. Like voices heard in dreams of half-forgotten home. Listen how the single Notes that she and I Utter, meet and mingle. And make harmony. Like souls divided here, that meet again on high ; Baptistery of Pisa. 227 Purified, descending, Freed from earthly leaven, Like the praises blending Over sins forgiven, When simple tones of earth are glorified in heaven. Sweet is memory, bringing Thoughts of happier days. Coming back, and singing Snatches of old lays. Until the heart is lost in most delicious maze. Like the scent, that clingeth Unto roses dead ; Like a child that bringeth Flow^ers to grace the head Of a cherish'd form, w^hen the soul is fled 228 Echo in the Baptistery of F is a. So, o'er heart that droopeth, Old with wasted powers, Childlike memory stoopeth. Bringing, in sad hours, Far-ofF voices faint, and scents of faded flowers. 229 A FRAGMENT. SIT at a window smoking, High over a seething street, Where the tall black houses echo The fall of a thousand feet. And the crowd, like a sightless giant. Beneath me staggers and reels. To the hum of a thousand voices, And the crash of a thousand wheels. And a thousand eager faces. Alike of the young and old, Hurrying hither and thither. In the frenzied fight for gold. 230 A Fragment, And over the world are atoms As eager and fierce as these ; Climbing over each other, Like mites in a mouldy cheese ; And over the world there echoes The selfsame feverish cry — " Let me but gather a heap Of guineas before I die ! " Strange — for no gold can purchase A moment of life or health ; But the poor man dies in his poverty, And the rich man dies in his wealth ; And the work-house buries the poor. While the bones of the noble and rich Are swaddled in silks and velvets, Like butterflies drown'd in a ditch. A Fragjnent. 231 Yet still they pick up money At the price of honour and blood ; And the poor man pockets with thanks The halfpenny flung in the mud ; And the rich, to be richer still, Will flatter, and cringe, and lie ! Is it only to ride in state In a plume-deck'd hearse when he die ? Bah ! the moral is stale. Stale, and the dullest know it ; And to rave at the wealth he covets Is the role of the hungry poet. Nay, but is death ennobled By an army of mutes in scarves ? And is life made better or happier By coaches and footmen's calves ? 232 A Fragment. Surely the prize is paltry, Be it ever so nobly won ; Sure labour is better than wealth, As a legacy left to a son. Better the mine of diamonds Than a jewel, though costly and bright ; Better the sun in heaven Than gas or electric light ; Better than letters or music Is the man that speaks and sings ; And better is honest labour Than the money that labour brings. Let us work and live for to-day ; He's better who scribbles or digs Than the wretch who hoards his money. Or spends it in flunkies and gigs. A Fragment. 233 Let us work and live for to-day, And the morrow shall shift for itself; — Ere the morrow shall dawn — who knows ? The urn may be laid on its shelf. " Nay, but I work for my children, I toil for the babes I rear ;. My son, sir, shall sit in parliament. My daughter shall marry a peer ; « " And I shall have founded a family" — " Nay, then, 'twere hard to reproach The father who drives a barrow That his children may ride in a coach." Yet fame were a nobler object To work for, early and late ; Though fame is only a pillory, Where the little fling mud at the great. 234 HORACE. Second Epode. LEST is he who lives contented On the fields his fathers rented, Like the men who lived and labour'd in the happy days of old ! Not for him the usurer's treasures, Not for him the city's pleasures, While his oxen plough the acres that his fathers loved to hold. Careless, though the battle's thunder Wake to glory, blood, and plunder ; Careless, though the ocean rages, and the angry billows roar, Second Epode. 235 Careless, though the mart be teeming With its speculators scheming ; Careless, though the crowd be cringing at the proud patrician's door. But he loves the wild vine flinging Tender branches fondly clinging. In the chaste embrace of wedlock, to the poplar high and pale j And to hear the cattle lowing By the rivers gently flowing, Where the mountains rise in glory round his own ancestral vale. Or amid his fruits to linger, Graft and prune with careful finger ; Or to cull the fragrant honey from the hollow trees and rocks ; 236 Horace. Or his gentle aid to render To the young lambs weak and tender, Or to shear the heavy fleeces from the mountain- roaming flocks. Or, when autumn, fair and blushing. Rich in apples ripe and gushing. Heralds plenty o'er the valleys with a smile and with a nod. Then his luscious pears he musters. With the vine's purpureal clusters, And he lays them with a blessing on the altar of his god. Praising the benignant powers. Guardians of bis fruits and flowers. Soft reclining 'neath the branches, weaving gar- lands over-head j Second Epode. 237 Lying in a dreamy slumber, While the doves their sorrows number, And the streamlet prattles idly with the pebbles in its bed. Then, when winter snows are falling. Dogs and men about him calling, He with arts and arms primeval tracks the wild- boar to his lair; Spreads his nets in brakes and bushes For the fruit-devouring thrushes. Or displays, with mighty boasting, crafty crane or timid hare. Who could feel his spirit blighted With affection unrequited, With a frugal wife to meet him, when his daily work is done ? — 238 Horace. Such as Sabine hills excel in ; Such as dark-hair'd maidens, dwelling Where the parch'd Apulian mountains glow- beneath a southern sun. Thanks to her the logs are burning For her simple lord's returning ; She it is that milks the kine, and leads them to the well-known stall ; She the fragrant cask that broaches As his welcome step approaches ; She that cheers the frugal banquet with a smile of love for all. Not the shell-fish, sweetest daughter Of Lucrinus' crystal water ; Not the turbot, pure as snow-flake, not the rosy- tinted char, Second Epode. 239 (Should the winds in wild commotion, Lowering o'er the eastern ocean, Kindly waft to Roman tables strangers welcome as they are j ) Not the bird from Afric's mountains, Not the quail from Helle's fountains, With a flavour more delicious could my hungry belly fill. Than the fragrant berry shining 'Mid the olive branches twining ; Or the wholesome dock, or mallow, dress'd with her sweet woman's skill. Then how sweet the festal morning Of great Terminus returning. When the lamb and kid are slaughter'd for the banquet of the day. 240 Horace. Sweet the frugal master's pleasure, As he counts his bleating treasure Hastening homeward from the pastures by the old accustom'd way. Sweet to view the cattle trooping, With their languid heads down-drooping. As they drag the plough inverted, slowly winding o'er the lea: And his troop of servants, which is Such a sign of household riches. Ranged around the polish'd lares. O how happy, they and he ! Thus old Alphius ends his singing, And aside his ledger flinging. Swears he'll cut the broker's business, and be off to wood and wold ; Second Epode. 241 But a tempting speculation D s his sage determination, And the calends find the poet more a usurer than of old. 242 A MAGDALEN. HE sunlight was slanting Through purple and red ; And the white-robed were chanting The prayers for the dead ; The organ was pealing From pavement to roof; And a woman was kneeling And weeping aloof. Aloof, and dejected, Alone, and forlorn ! Her garment, neglected, Was draggled and torn. A Magdalen. 243 The rich ones pass'd by her, Their proud steps she felt ; But no one came nigh her, Where lowly she knelt. They shrank from her raiment, As though from pollution ; They came with the payment That claims absolution. O surely unkindly They shrank from her touch ! She had loved but too blindly, And trusted too much. If the sinful thus hate her, And spurn her away. Can her sinless Creator Be gentler than they ? 244 ^ Magdalen. But God that is holy, From out of the crowd Had chosen the lowly, Rejecting the proud \ So the merchant and banker Had paid, and were shriven ; But her sins, that were ranker. Were purged and forgiven. 245 THE ARTIST'S CHILD. AKE him away from the palette, my Willie, my darling one ! ^^j^^^ Take him away from the palette, and bid him gambol and run. Or sport with the neighbours' children, or bask in the noonday sun. God keep him from being a genius ! I'd choose him to dig or sweep ; Or out in the purple meadows with his brothers to sow and reap, Or deep in the earth to labour, like ant in an earthy heap. 246 The Artist's Child. God keep him from being a poet, from dreaming of things too high ; From seeing a golden vision, to wake to the children's cry, When they cry to their father for bread, and he may not make reply. Take him away from the palette, darling, and teach him to plough ; And to eat, like Adam of old, his bread of the sweat of his brow. God, had they left me thus, I mJght have been happy now ! But the foolish, gossiping neighbours, as soon as the work was o'er. And the silent shadows crept from the mountains over the moor, Wonder'd and gazed at the figures I chalk'd on the cottage door. lihe Artist's Child. 247 " Ah, the boy is a genius, too good for the plough or the loom ! " So they sent me off to the city, to paint in a dismal room, That I peopled with ghostly figures, as the twilight died in the gloom. So I painted my first great picture, and made my first success ; And took thee, Mary dearest, to wife ; for how could I guess That the morning of joy must die in a night of bitterness ? And then our Mary was born, our child with the violet eyes. Deep and tender and true, as the dying light in the skies, Our darling, who under the turf in the far-oft churchyard lies. 248 The Artist's Child, And then our troubles began j for Mary was ailing and weak, And we carried her down to the sea for awhile, but ere she could speak, The angels took her away ; and we thought our hearts would break. Oh, it's hard to work for fame, but harder to work for bread. When the heart is, oh so weary, and the hand is heavy as lead. And the eyes are dim with crying for a little child that is dead. But the critics praised my work, though the patrons wouldn't buy ; They said my painting was sad, my art was gloomy and high ; " Give to us something cheerful and light," so I said that I'd try. The Artisfs Child. 249 Cheerful and light ! O God, or ever the grass had grown On the little mound of earth ; or the woodbine had cover'd the stone, Where our tiny flower with the violet eyes was sleeping alone ! I might have known I should fail ; and I fail'd, and had to bear The smile of pitying praise, that's worse than an honest sneer j And that with the doctor's bill, and the studio rent in arrear ! Oh then the weary struggle, the weary struggle and strife ! Anything paltry and mean that would bring me bread for my wife 1 I cared no more for art, but I cared for my darlings' life. 250 The Artist's Child. I cringed to the critics and dealers, and ask'd them to come and dine, And praised their vapid wit, and their daughters vulgar and fine ; And they came, and ate my dinners, and sneer'd at my painting and wine. It fail'd, Mary, it fail'd, and I'm broken-hearted at last. I dare not look to the future ; and I'm mad when I think of the past ; And the hand of death is on me, Mary, I'm dying fast. You'll be better off when I'm gone, dearest, for they'll be kind to you then. God ! how sorrow has changed me, for you remember me when I wouldn't have left my darlings to the mercy of other men. The Artist's Child. 251 But poverty stifies pride, love, poverty stifles pride ! Now I must leave you to God, and maybe He will provide Something for you and Willie, dearest, when I shall have died. ' But take him av/ay from the palette, Mary, and teach him to plough ; And to eat, like Adam of old, his bread of the sweat of his brow. Anything better than dying as I am dying now. 252 THE STARLING. |ENTLE, kindly starling, That bringeth to his darling. With kisses and fondest whisperings, Worms, and other delicate things. That, out with the old, hoarse-throated rooks, He findeth in fragrant furrow'd nooks ; And percheth on her cage. Her captive grief to assuage With plenty of cheery chatterings. There's a touch of sorrow in all he sings ; Like the smile, that again and again I've seen on a gentle woman's lips. When tears have wetted her eyelash tips. The angel-smile, that all in vain Would stifle a sudden sob of pain. The Starli?ig. 253 Gentle, loving starling ! O that my own darling Could fly from her home away, away ! With a love as tender and true as thine ; And whisper, and nestle her breast to mine, And tell me half that she longs to say. I would sit in my dungeon all day long. And listen at night For her footstep light, And the passionate notes of her throbbing song And she'd press her delicate lips to the bars. And kiss me through, As the starlings do. And be, oh so happy, under the stars 1 -^^m^ 54 TO THE MEMORY OF A PAINTER. \E is gone, he, the brave and single- hearted ! Where his old friends have buried him, he lies ; And another great spirit is departed. To receive, sure, his guerdon in the skies. Though the hand had grovi^n weaker and more weakly. Still the brave man labour'd at his art ; But the wrong he bad learn'd to bear so meekly. Though it couldn't make him murmur, broke his heart. To the Memory of a Painter. 255 He is gone where the mighty ones are humbled ; He is gone with his honour, and his pride. He had stood where the mighty ones have stumbled ; But he couldn't learn to pander, so he died. But the widow he hath left here to languish. Let her joy that the bitterness is past ; For if here he found sorrow and great anguish, Surely there he is comforted at last. 256 ONLY. NLY a woman's face, In the dark night and cold ; But oh the ghost of a vanish'd grace, And the pitiful tale it told ! Wrapp'd in a ragged shawl, (Why was it not her shroud ?) It look'd as white as the moon at night. Through a rift in a driving cloud. Only a few pence, And a few kind words addressing ; And all they brought was a grateful thought. And a poor lost woman's blessing ! 257 SAN MINIATO. ERE'S a little sketch I made, While my darling gather'd flowers, And we wander'd in the shade That the ancient walls and towers Flung across the peopled plain. And the Arno seaward creeping ; Like to death that without pain Passeth o'er a maiden sleeping. Oh how often she and I, When my painter's work was done, From the crested convent nigh Watch'd the death-scene of the sun. 258 San Miniato. Watch'd him dying lone and grand, Lone and sad he seem'd to us. " We will die, love, hand in hand ! Death were surely sweeter thus. " Die ! 'tis but to sleep for ever, Lip to lip, and heart to heart ! What hath death that it should sever Those whom life hath fail'd to part ? " See, the widow'd Earth is turning To the pale face of the moon. Cold are now those glances burning. Loved too dearly, lost too soon. " See, she dons her robe of sorrow. Weeping tears of sweetest dew, He shall rise again to-morrow, And her love be born anew. San Miniato. 259 " Listen, dearest, to the sighing Of the cypress, low and sweet ; And the murmur, never dying. Of the city at our feet. ** Every passion, every feeling, Songs of love and cries of fear. Harmonized hy distance, stealing. Make a strange, sweet music here. ** See, the golden moon is steering Proudly up the purple skies ; See, one little star is peering Down with half-awaken'd eyes. *' I could linger here reclining, Seeing nothing far and wide. But the stars above me shining. And my darling by my side. 26o San Miniato. " With our hearts together beating, Breathing your delicious breath ; And our lips in kisses meeting, I could languish unto death. " But the city lights are gleaming Through the white mist at our feet. We have had enough of dreaming : One more kiss, love, long and sweet : " And to-morrow we will wander By the streamlet you may see. Gleaming in the moonlight yonder. Underneath Fiesole." 26l MARGARET. A RETROSPECT. Part I. ERE it is, the dear old garden, Wasted now, but lovely yet j With its borders weed-encumber'd, And its alleys green r.nd wet. Still some roses bloom neglected, Still some woodbine-tendrils wave, Sadly sweet, as daisy blossoms On a poor, neglected grave. Still the old armorial bearings Stand in melancholy state. Like the pride that flaunts in tatters On the ruin'd entrance-gate. 262 Margaret. You remember how I sketch'd it, With its guardian figures grim ; And the stately elms that border 'd The broad alley, swept and trim ; Half concealing the tall gables. And the gray and wrinkled tower, Where the pigeons ever circled. And the clock clang'd out the hour ; And the portal, rose-embower'd. Where the porter, worthy soul. To the gentry gave admittance. And to beggars gave a dole. And the mullion'd window, peering Through the grizzled ivy boughs. Like the eye of some old giant From beneath his shaggy brows ; Margaret. 263 And the hall with roof of timber, And high windows richly dight : And the quaint and curious armour, Never used since Worcester fight ; And the stifi:' ancestral portraits. Shepherd ladies fair and slim. Statesmen looking wise and solemn. Warriors looking bold and grim. And the spacious oaken staircase. And the chamber long and dark ; And the chapel of St. Herbert, 'Mid the beeches in the park. Ruin now, and desolation Both in hall and chapel reign. Broken are the twisted chimnies. Rusted is the gilded vane ; 264 Margaret. Silent the old clock, while o'er it Ivy tendrils trail and climb. But the brave old race departed, What have they to do with time ? Here too all my hopes were blighted. Like those rosebuds on their stem ; Here my heart was changed by sorrow, As the frost hath wither'd them. Fittest scene for saddest musing ; Here then will we sit and think. Here uncoil the chain of memory. Thought by thought, and link by link. It was twenty years last April, When we left the smoky town. With its endless crowd and bustle. And its houses dull and brown. Margaret. 265 We were sick of the old study, Where the plaster walls display'd Yards of canvas, all discolor'd With effects of light and shade. Where I sketch'd chaotic fancies. Never doom'd to see the light ; While you plann'd the famous system That should set ^he world aright ; Where we forged the bolts of thunder, Heralds of the coming storm. That should work the grand Millennium Of our socialist Reform. You would lead the world to Wisdom, By appeals to head and heart ; I would raise it up to Virtue By the aid of lofty art. 266 Margaret. We would sweep the mouldy systems To the limbo whence they are — Tremble, parsons, in your pulpits ! Tremble, lawyers, at the bar 1 But the parsons and the lawyers Pass'd unconscious by the door, Heedless of the shafts we fashion'd On our dingy second-floor. Well, we laugh at these illusions. That the world has put to rout. Now our hands have learn'd to tremble. And our hearts have learn'd to doubt. But the world is changing round us. Men no longer drink and fight. Settling in the cool of morning Drunken quarrels made at night. Margaret. 267 Thieves no more are hang'd for stealing ; Wayside gibbets stand no more, Bearing rows of rotting corpses, Like the rats on stable door ; And our fathers, could we see them, We should deem them rude and strange ; For the world is changing round us. Though not we have wrought the change. Not the poet in his closet. But the craftsman at his trade j Not the painter with his palette, But the navvy, with his spade. Yes, the man of thews and sinews ; Then, when he has clear'd the way. Comes the preacher with his sermon, Comes the poet with his lay. 2 68 Margaret. Thus the finer spirits finish What the stronger arms began ; And a road lies through the desert, Levell'd for the march of man. Well, I said, we left the city, Weary of its dust and noise. Weary of its fruitless labours. Weary of its fruitless joys ; Weary of our student orgies, With their waste of wit and wine ; Weary of our loves, forgetting Each in turn had seem'd divine. Left the town, and pass'd the suburbs, Where the villas stand in ranks ; Till we found the primrose blossoms Growing in the daisy banks j Margaret. 269 Till we saw the young corn springing In the fields to left and right, Heard by day the thrushes singing, And the nightingales by night. And our hearts, awaken'd newly. Drank in every sight and sound. As a child's heart wakes, and wonders At the glories spread around. You remember how we wander'd Through the woods, and by the rills. And where hamlets nestle snugly In the hollows of the hills. How I sketch'd the feudal castles. Bringing back the olden time ; How you learn'd the ancient legends, Learn'd, and shaped them into rhyme. 270 Margaret. How you sang of opening blossoms, Call'd them maidens young and coy, Longing, trembling yet to open All their hearts to love and joy. How we talked of love and friendship. Though of love we knew no more Than know children of the ocean, That have sported on the shore ; For the foolish love-caprices Of our boyhood were as far From a true and living passion, As a marsh-light from a star. " Love," we sang, " is like the blossom. Breathing perfume from the lime ; Blooming in the summer season. Dying in the winter time ; Margaret. 271 " Friendship, like the solemn fir-tree, Rooted in the moorland bare. When the leaves are dead and fallen, Then the robins shelter there. *♦ Love is like a wayward streamlet, Coming down from rocky hill ; Now a fierce, destructive torrent. Now a tiny, plashing rill ; " Friendship, like a placid river, Flowing on through valleys wide. Ships and barges heavy laden Bearing on its ample tide. " Love is like a comet, blinding With its strange and sudden light ; Friendship like the pole-star, guiding Watchful seamen night by night." 272 Margaret, Thus we chatted in our wisdom, Measuring in our tiny span All the deep, mysterious workings Of the inmost soul of man. 'Twas the first and sad reaction In the mind that sought the light ; That had swept the ghosts and fairies Of its childhood out of sight. Gone the tales of paynim giants. Knights and ladies ; gone, in sooth, Lessons sweet of matchless courage. Deathless love, and spotless truth. 'Twas the spirit waking sadly From its childhood's golden dreams ; When its world of fruits and flowers But a wasted desert seems. Margaret. 273 'Twas the first, cold doubt arising, Like a snow-cloud, chill and dense ; 'Twas the mustering of the forces. For the fight of faith and sense. Later on, when sense has brought us Weary heart, and aching brain, Comes the banish'd faith of childhood. With its joy and peace again ; Then the old man gathers sadly What the youth hath cast away, Tottering home with feeble footsteps, Never more to doubt or stray. It was evening, you remember, When we reach'd the craggy brow, Where the oaks, and silver beeches Slept in sunset, then as now. T 274 Margaret. We were tired of painful climbing Up the mountain's further side, In the mighty shadow, stretching O'er the landscape far and wide : And we gladly reached the summit. Gladly, on the rugged crest. Deep among the ferns and mosses, Flung us down to gaze and rest. For the sun was setting slowly. Underneath the western sky. Glaring on the beauty round him With his eager, dying eye : And the valley lay beneath us. Sleeping in a purple shade : And the thrushes trill'd a welcome Out of every glen and glade. Margaret. 275 And the beeches seem'd to murmur Xo the gentle summer breeze, While the river mourn'd responsive To the murmur of the trees. We could see it toss'd and fretted Into many a foamy wreath, Through a maze of tangled branches, In the dark glen, far beneath : And beyond it lay the Castle, Flank'd vi^ith limes and mighty elms, Seeming like some monarch hoary. Gazing on his feudal realms. And, still further, lay the village. In the shadow of the church ; And the thrushes sang a welcome. In the woods of oak and birch. 276 Margaret. Oh, the wondrous, wondrous beauty ! Oh, the calm delicious hour, Coming back, through years of sadness, With a strange and mystic power ! Like the face of dear companion. Loved and lost in early life, Coming back, like angel vision. In a world of doubt and strife ! But the sun was dying, dying. Like a king upon his bed ; And the golden-tissued curtains Closed in splendour round his head. Then we rose, and left the mountain, Climbing down from ridge to ridge, Down to where the river flashes Underneath the granite bridge : Margaret. 277 Till we reach'd the " Golden Dragon," Shelter'd by its ancient oak j Where, beneath the choral branches, Village worthies sit and smoke. There we rested, eating gladly Of the hostel's homely fare j Then, on beds that smelt of heather, Slept, till song-birds woke the air. ^ Part II. HESE two trees, that whisper o'er us, Whose fond branches twine and wreathe. Where the robins love to nestle. And soft summer winds to breathe — 278 Margaret. These we planted here together, She and I, one Autumn morn ; Tender vows and burning kisses Spoke our love, when they were born. 'Twas a foolish fancy, doubtless ; We were foolish then and fond : Love had spread a glory round us. And we could not look beyond. Nay, perhaps 'twas truest wisdom, This our folly, that could bring Higher good than sages dream of, In the love that poets sing. Well, we sat, and watch'd the shadows Creeping o'er the velvet lawn. Creeping o'er the timid daisies, Pale as lingering stars at dawn. Margaret. 279 And she bent her head, and whisper'd, In her soft and gentle speech, *' Let us plant two trees together. Let us bend them each to each. " They shall grow a living token Of our love from day to day ; As our hearts have grown together, Oh, my dearest, so shall they." Then we planted them together, In the garden side by side ; And they grew, and flourish'd greatly ; Throwing branches high and wide ; Twining fondly round each other. Bough to bough, and stem to stem : And our hearts had grown together. Mine and Margaret's, like to them. iSo Margaret. Oh, my Margaret ! how I loved her, From the morn I saw her pass. With a bunch of golden cowslip, Gather'd in the jewell'd grass. I was sketching the old gateway ; And I watch'd her sweet surprise, As she stood and wonder'd at me. With her large mysterious eyes. But I made as though I saw not ; For I long'd that she should stay. And I fear'd my gaze would scare her. Like a timid fawn, away. Then she crept on tiptoe nearer. Like a robin hardly tamed, With her little mouth half open. Blushing, as though half ashamed. Margaret. 281 Still I made as though I saw not, But I watch'd her none the less ; Till I heard her frighten'd breathing, And the rustling of her dress j Then I rose, as if to greet her ; But she blush'd a deeper red ; Blush'd, and, scarce a glance bestowing. Through the beeches turn'd and fled : And I watch'd her fleeting figure With the deep, enraptured gaze Of a saint, who sees a vision Of a glory, as he prays. And I waited, long'd, and waited, But she came not back again ; And my heart was beating strangely, With a dull, unmeaning pain. 282 Margaret. It could hardly be I loved her, Who had never named her name ; But her going left me lonelier Than I had been ere she came. So a golden beam of sunlight, Streaming through an open door, Dies, and leaves a lonely chamber Sadder, lonelier than before. So the skylark's hymn at morning. After every throbbing close. Fills the air with deeper stillness Than before the music rose. You remember, that same evening, As we stroll'd upon the green, How I told you all the story Of the vision I had seen. Margaret. 283 How I seized my paints and brushes ; Vowing I would die, or trace Something of her woman's beauty, Something of her childlike grace ; Something of her deep blue eyes, and Something of her tresses brown, That, beneath her garden bonnet, Fell in wavelike masses down ; Floating like some angel pinion. That the breeze of morning stirs, Though I doubt if angel ever Own'd a foot so small as hers. Then you laugh'd and said, " Some other Angel should you chance to meet. Where will be this angel vision. With its hair and tiny feet ? 284 Margaret. " Come, I leave this place to-morrow, For a letter came to-day- Calling me to other duties, That no longer brook delay. " And I warrant, ere a fortnight You'll have ceased to think of her. And have found some other angel, She, some other worshipper." But I would not, so you left me. Left, and took your Kate to wife ; And we both have floated downward On the crowded stream of life j Floated, each on divers currents That have met again at last ; Each, a link that binds the other To the dreamland of the past. Margaret. 285 You would weary, did I tell you All our love, and how it grew From a foolish, passing fancy, i To a passion deep and true. For, alas, the seed of love was Sown upon a virgin soil j And the tree had grown and blossom'd. And the roots had, coil by coil. Wound about our hearts, or ever We had thought of danger near ; For we never dream'd our fondness Was a passion we should fear. But one evening, late in summer, I and Margaret walk'd alone On the terrace, where the lichen Gilds the quaintly carved stone. 286 Margaret. And I spoke. My voice, it may be, Trembled, though I knew not why : " I am going — I must leave you ; And I'm come to say good bye. " And to thank you and your father For the kindness you have shown Unto one who came among you Uninvited, and unknown. " And I've brought you, as a token Of my gratitude, the view That I sketch'd of the old gateway. That same morn I met with you." So I gave it ; but she trembled. And her face grew white, and flush'd, Then our eyes met ; and my passion, Like a sudden torrent, rush'd Margaret. 287 Up from out my soul, and issued In exceeding bitter cry. " O my Margaret, hear me, hear me ! I must speak, or I shall die ! " I have loved you, oh so dearly. Since the day I saw you first ; And have chain'd my tongue to silence. When my heart was like to burst. *' Nay, I know there lies between us A great gulf, a social sea — That I cannot rise to you, love. And you may not stoop to me. " And I'd sworn to kill this folly. Though my heart should die as well ; Or at least to love in silence. Though such silence seem'd a hell. 288 Margaret. " Nay, you must not blame me, dearest. For a love so deep and true. As the daisies love the sunshine, So my heart must w^orship you." Then she answer'd very sadly, With a face as w^hite as stone, " O God, help me, for I love you ! And my life is not my own. *■'■ Leave me, leave me, O my dearest. For I dare not tell you all ; Come to-morrow, in the twilight. Underneath the orchard wall." So she left me, watching, watching. While the moon arose on high, Trampling out the stars that met her. In her triumph through the sky. Margaret. 289 And my passions raged within me, Like the fiend that haunted Saul ; But a mighty exultation Rose triumphant o'er them all. " Margaret loves me ! yes, she loves me !. Surely it were well to gain Such a love, and die to-morrow ; Should I thus have lived in vain ? " Margaret loves me ! So will I, then, Like the stately moon above, Trample down the social barriers That would keep me from my love." Then arose the chill reaction. Stealing over brain and heart — " Fool, that pratest in thy folly ! Think of her and what thou art. u 290 Margaret. " Thou, a paltry, nameless painter, Is it well that thou aspire To a child of proudest lineage, Daughter of a Norman sire ? " He that gave thee kindest welcome. Bade thee in his halls to stay ; Thou, that earnest, and hast stolen His sweet Margaret's heart away. " Is it well ?" And then I answer'd, " It is well that I have done — Man would keep our hearts asunder, God hath will'd that they be one. " What are fashion and convention ? Bastard offspring of to-day ! Love is Godborn, and eternal. And it shall not pass away ! Margaret. 291 " As the firmament is wider Than a suckling infant's span. So the law of God is holier Than an ordinance of man." To the orchard in the twilight, Came I back to watch and wait ; Where the chestnuts, turning golden, Shade the ivy-crested gate ; And I saw her come towards me ; And I thought my heart would burst : And we clasp'd our hands together. Though we neither spoke at first. But we stood, and gazed a moment, Each into the other's face ; Then our hot lips clung together, In a passionate embrace. 292 Margaret. And we did as other lovers, Who at twihght meet and kiss ; Sighs, and whispers incoherent, Made the sum of all our bliss. But we thought ourselves in heaven And no doubt 'twas sweet to sip. As a bee from summer roses. Honey from her rosy lip ; And to clasp my Margaret to me, Closer, closer, more and more, Till our two hearts beat together, As our souls were one before. But across her face a sorrow Pass'd, like cloud across the sun ; And the tear-drops trickled slowly From her eyelids, one by one. Margaret. 293 Then I pray'd, with thousand kisses, By our passion deep and true, She would tell me all her sorrow, That my heart might sorrow too. But she answer'd, crying wildly, *' Not to-night, oh, not to-night ! Love me now, but hide the future. Hide it, dearest, out of sight ! " Were it well to talk of sorrow. Love, on such a night as this ?" Then she seal'd my lips to silence With a long, long, throbbing kiss. And the while the stars were watching. With the stately planets seven. Like the eyes of loving angels. Peering through the chinks of heaven. 2 94 Margaret. And the moon was sailing slowly, Through the firmament on high, Like a ship 'mid starry islands, In the ocean of the sky. But a voice was calling " Margaret," In the garden far and near ; And she knew it was her father, And she paled and shook for fear ; As an aspen pales and shivers When it feels the thunder blast ; When the sun that wont to cheer it From the tempest shrinks aghast. " One more kiss, and I must leave you. Love, to dream of strange delight ! Meet me at this hour to-morrow — Yet another, now, good night." Margaret. 295 So the summer changed to autumn ; And I met her day by day j And she told me all her sorrow, And I kiss'd her tears away. But I found it was a sorrow Even kisses fail'd to cure, Such that she, with all the solace Of her love, could scarce endure. " Many years ago," she told me, " I, as yet a thoughtless girl, Was affianced by my father To the grandson of an earl.