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 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 The great popularity of Eric Mackays " Love Letters of a 
 Violinist" has given rise to a demand for a select and attractive 
 edition of his other poetical works. Hence the publication of the 
 present volume, -which includes many new lyrics not to be found 
 in any other collection, together with the tirst published portrait 
 of the Author. 
 
 • t ■ 
 
 483345 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 I * 
 
 * » • <
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A lover's litanies: 
 
 FIRST LITANY — VIRGO DULCIS . 
 SECOND LITANY — VOX AMORIS . 
 THIRD LITANY— AD TE CLAMAVI 
 FOURTH LITANY— GRATIA PLENA 
 FIFTH LITANY— SALVE REGINA . 
 SIXTH LITANY — BENEDICTA TU . 
 SEVENTH LITANY — STELLA MATUTINA 
 EIGHTH LITANY — DOMINA EXAUDI 
 NINTH LITANY— LILIUM INTER SPINAS 
 TENTH LITANY— GLORIA IN EXCELSIS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 II 
 21 
 31 
 41 
 51 
 6l 
 
 71 
 
 8l 
 
 91 
 IOI 
 
 GLADYS THE SINGER : 
 
 CANTO FIRST Ill 
 
 CANTO SECOND 130 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS: 
 
 ANTEROS 151 
 
 ODE TO THE RISING SUN 156 
 
 THE WAKING OF THE LARK 160 
 
 A BALLAD OF KISSES 163 
 
 MARY ARDEN 164 
 
 THE LADY OF THE MAY l6q
 
 VI 
 
 Contents 
 
 ► 
 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ZULALIE .... 
 
 
 
 
 171 
 
 BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO 
 
 
 
 
 
 173 
 
 A PR \\ ER FOR LIGHT 
 
 
 
 
 
 177 
 
 MIRAGE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 179 
 
 A SONG OF SERVITUDE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 183 
 
 SYLVIA IN THE WEST 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 1 Li'ANORE .... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 194 
 
 THE STATUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 195 
 
 PABLO DE SARASATF. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 197 
 
 PRO PATRIA 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 THE LITTLE GRAVE . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 207 
 
 A DIRGE . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 209 
 
 DAISIES OUT AT SEA 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 211 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 I. ECSTASY 
 
 II. VISIONS . 
 
 III. THE DAISY 
 
 IV. PROBATION 
 V. DANTE . 
 
 VI. DIFFIDENCE 
 
 VII. FAIRIES . 
 
 VIII. SPIRIT LOVE 
 
 IX. AFTER TWO DAYS 
 
 X. BYRON . 
 
 XI. LOVE'S AMBITION 
 
 XII. LOVE'S DEFEAT 
 
 XIII. A THUNDERSTORM 
 
 XIV. IN TUSCANY 
 XV. A HERO . 
 
 XVI. REMORSE 
 
 AT NIGH 
 
 r 
 
 
 
 217 
 
 218 
 
 219 
 
 220 
 221 
 222 
 223 
 224 
 225 
 226 
 227 
 228 
 229 
 23O 
 231 
 232
 
 Contents. 
 
 XVII. THE MISSION OF THE BARD 
 XVIII. DEATH . 
 XIX. TO ONE I LOVE 
 XX. EX TENEBRA. 
 
 XXI. VICTOR HUGO 
 XXII. CYNTHIA 
 
 XXIII. PHILOMEL 
 
 XXIV. THE SONNET KING 
 XXV. TOKEN FLOWERS 
 
 XXVI. A VETERAN POET 
 XXVII. A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND 
 
 VU 
 
 PAGE 
 233 
 234 
 235 
 236 
 
 237 
 233 
 
 239 
 240 
 241 
 242 
 243
 
 jfirst Xitans. 
 
 VIRGO DULCIS.
 
 tftrst Xitanv?. 
 
 VIRGO DULCIS. 
 
 O THOU refulgent essence of all grace ! 
 
 thou that with the witchery of thy face 
 Hast made of me thy servant unto death, 
 
 1 pray thee pause, ere, musical of breath, 
 And rapt of utterance, thou condemn indeed 
 My venturous wooing, and the wanton speed 
 
 With which I greet thee, dear and tender soul 
 From out the fulness of my passion-creed. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am so truly thine that nevermore 
 
 Shall man be found, this side the Stygian shore, 
 
 So meek as I, so patient under blame, 
 
 And yet, withal, so minded to proclaim 
 
 His lifelong ardour. For my theme is just : 
 
 A heart enslaved, a smile, a broken trust, 
 
 A soft mirage, a glimpse of fairyland, 
 And then the wreck thereof in tears and dust.
 
 12 ffirst Xftang. 
 
 in. 
 
 THOU wast not made for murder, yet a glance 
 May murderous prove : and beauty may entrance, 
 More than a siren's or a serpent's eye. 
 And there are moments when a smothered sigh 
 May hint at comfort and a murmured "No" 
 Give signs of "Yes," and Misery's overflow 
 
 Make tears more precious than we care to tell, 
 Though, one by one, our hopes we must forego. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I SHOULD have shunned thee as a man may shun 
 His evil hour. I should have curst the sun 
 That made the day so bright and earth so fair 
 When first we met, delirium through the air 
 Burning like fire ! I should have curst the moon 
 And all the stars that, dream-like, in a swoon 
 Shut out the day, — the loved, the lovely day 
 That came too late and left us all too soon. 
 
 v. 
 
 I looked at thee, and lo ! from face to feet, 
 I saw my tyrant, and I felt the beat 
 Of my quick pulse. I knew thee for a queen, 
 And bowed submissive ; and the smile serene 
 Of thy sweet face revealed the soul of thee. 
 For I was wounded as a man may be 
 
 Whom Eros tricks with words he will not prove ; 
 And all my peace of mind went out from mc.
 
 Wrcto Shilcts. 13 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, why didst cheer me with the thought of bliss, 
 And wouldst not pay mc back my luckless kiss ? 
 I sought thy side. I gave thee of my store 
 One wild salute. A flame was at the core 
 Of that first kiss ; and on my mouth I feel 
 The glow thereof, the pressure and the seal, 
 As if thy nature, when the deed was done, 
 Had leapt to mine in lightning-like appeal. 
 
 VII. 
 
 IF debts were paid in full I might require 
 More than my kiss. I might, in time, asp : re 
 To some new bond, or re-enact the first. 
 For once, thou know'st, the love for which I thirst. 
 The love for which I hungered in thy sight, 
 Was not withheld. I deemed thee, day and night, 
 Mine own true mate, and sent thee token flowers 
 To figure forth the hopes I'd fain indite. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Is this not so? Canst thou defend, in truth, 
 The sunlike smile with which, in flush of youth, 
 Thou didst accept my greeting,— though so late,- 
 My love-lorn homage when the voice of Fate 
 Fell from thy lips, and made me twice a man 
 Because half thine, in that betrothal-plan 
 
 Whereof I spake, not knowing how 'twould be 
 When May had marred the prospects it began ?
 
 H fffrst Xltanp. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Canst thou deny that, early in the spring, 
 When daisies drooped, and birds were fain to sing-, 
 We met, and talked, and walked, and were content 
 In sunlit paths ? An hour and more we spent 
 In Keats's Grove. We lingered near the stem 
 Of that lone tree on which was seen the gem 
 
 Of his bright name, there carven by himself; 
 And then I stooped and kissed thy garment's hem. 
 
 x. 
 
 I GAVE thee all my life. I gave thee there, 
 In that wild hour, the great Creator's share 
 Of mine existence ; and I turned to thee 
 As men to idols, madly on my knee ; 
 And then, uplifted by those arms of thine, 
 I sat beside thee, warmed with other wine 
 
 Than vintage balm ; and, mindful of thy blush, 
 I guessed a thought which words will not define. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I told thee stories of the days of joy 
 When earth was young, and love without alloy 
 Made all things glad and all the thoughts of things. 
 And like a man who wonders while he sings, 
 And knows not whence the power that in him lies, 
 I made a madrigal of all my sighs 
 
 And bade thee heed them ; and I joined therewith 
 The texts of these my follies that I prize.
 
 \Divgo SHilcfs. 15 
 
 XII. 
 
 I SPOKE of men, long dead, who wooed in vain 
 And yet were happy, — men whose tender pain 
 Was fraught with fervour, as the night with stars. 
 And then I spoke. of heroes' battle-scars 
 And lordly souls who rode from land to land 
 To win the love-touch of a lady's hand ; 
 
 And on the strings of thy low-murmuring lute 
 I struck the chords that all men understand. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I sang to thee. I praised thee with my praise, 
 E'en as a bird, concealed in sylvan ways, 
 Ma}- laud the rose, and wish, from hour to hour, 
 That he had petals like the empress-flower, 
 And there could grow, umvinged, and be a bud, 
 With all his warblings ta'en at singing-flood 
 
 And turned to vagaries of the wildest scent 
 To undermine the meekness in her blood. 
 
 Xl v. 
 
 Ah, those were days ! That April should have been 
 My last on earth, and, ere the frondage green 
 Had changed to gold, I should have joined the ranks 
 Of dull dead men who lived for little thanks 
 And made the most thereof, though penance-bound. 
 I should have known that, in the daily round 
 Of mine existence, there are griefs to spaie, 
 But joys, alas ! too few on any ground.
 
 16 ffirst Xttang. 
 
 xv. 
 
 And here I stand to-day with bended head, 
 My task undone, my garden overspread 
 With baneful weeds. Am I the lord thereof? 
 Or mine own slave, without the power to doff 
 My misery's badge ? Am I so weak withal, 
 That I must loiter, though the bugle's call 
 
 Shrills o'er the moor, the far-off weltering moor, 
 Where foemen meet to vanquish or to fall ? 
 
 xvi. 
 
 Am I so blurred in soul, so out of health, 
 That I must turn to thee, as if by stealth, 
 And fear thy censure, fear thy quick rebuff, 
 And thou so gentle in a world so rough 
 That God's high priest, the morn-apparelled sun, 
 Ne'er saw thy like ! Am I indeed undone 
 
 Of life and love and all? and must I weep 
 For joys that quit me, and for sands that run ? 
 
 XVII. 
 
 To-MORROw's dawn will break ; but Yesterday, 
 Where is its light ? And where the breezes' play 
 That swayed the flowers ? A bird will sing again, 
 But not so well. The wind upon the plain, 
 The wintry wind, will toss the groaning trees ; 
 But I, what comfort shall I have of these, 
 
 To know that they, unloved, have lost the Spring, 
 As I thy favour and my power to please ?
 
 Dirtio Dulcis. 17 
 
 xvur. 
 
 I SHOULD have learnt a lesson from the songs 
 Of woodland birds discoursing on the wrongs 
 Of madcap moths and bachelor butterflies. 
 I should have caught the cadence of the sighs 
 Of unwed flowers, and learnt the way to woo, 
 Which all things know save I, beneath the blue 
 
 Of Heaven's great dome ; for, undesired of thee, 
 I have but jarred the notes that seemed so true. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I SHOULD have told thee all I meant to tell, 
 
 And how, at Lammas-tide, a wedding-bell 
 
 Rang through my sleep, mine own as well as thine ; 
 
 And how I led thee, smiling, to a shrine 
 
 And there endowed thee with the name I bear ; 
 
 And how I woke to find the morning-air 
 
 Flooded with light. I should have told thee this, 
 And not concealed the theme of my long prayer. 
 
 XX. 
 
 BUT I was timid. Oh, my love was such 
 I scarce could name it ! Trembling over-much 
 With too much ardour, I was moved at length 
 To mere mad utterance. In a blameful strength 
 I seized thy hand, to scare thee, as of old 
 Dryads were scared ; and calm and icy-cold 
 
 Thine answer came : " I pray thee, vex me not ! " 
 And all that day 'twas winter on the wold. 
 
 B
 
 Seconfc Xitanp. 
 
 VOX AMORIS.
 
 Seconfc Xitanp. 
 
 VOX A MORIS. 
 
 Vouchsafe, my Lady ! by the passion-flower, 
 And by the glamour of a moonlit hour, 
 And by the cries and sighs of all the birds 
 That sing o'nights, to heed again the words 
 Of my poor pleading ! For I swear to thee 
 My love is deeper than the bounding sea, 
 
 And more conclusive than a wedding-bell, 
 And freer-voiced than winds upon the lea. 
 
 II. 
 
 In all the world, from east unto the west, 
 There is no vantage-ground, and little rest, 
 And no content for me from dawn to dark, 
 From set of sun to song-time of the lark ; 
 And yet, withal, there is no man alive 
 Who for a goodly cause to make it thrive, 
 
 Would do such deeds as I would gird me to 
 Could I but win the pearl for which I dive.
 
 22 Second Xttanp. 
 
 in. 
 
 It is thy love which, downward in the deep 
 
 Of far-off visions, I behold in sleep, — 
 
 It is thy pearl of love which in the night 
 
 Doth tempt my soul to hopes I dare not write, — 
 
 It is this gem for which, had I a crown, 
 
 I'd barter peace and pomp, and ermined gown ; 
 
 It is thy troth, thou paragon of maids ! 
 For which I'd sell the joys of all renown. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I WOULD attack a panther in its den 
 To do thee service as thy man of men, 
 Or front the Fates, or, like a ghoul, confer 
 With staring ghosts outside a sepulchre. 
 I would forego a limb to give thee life, 
 Or yield my soul itself in any strife, 
 In any coil of doubt, in any spot 
 Where Death and Danger meet as man and wife. 
 
 It is my solace, all my nights and days, 
 To pray for thee and dote on thee always, 
 And evermore to count myself a king 
 Because I earned thy favour in the spring. 
 Oh, smile on me and call me to thy side, 
 And I will kneel to thee, as to a bride, 
 
 And yet adore thee as a saint in Heaven 
 By God ordained, by good men glorified !
 
 Vox. Hmoris. 23 
 
 VI. 
 
 I will acquaint thee with mine inmost thought, 
 And teach thee all I know, though unbesought, 
 And make thee prouder of a poet's dream 
 Than wealthy men are proud of what they seem. 
 If thou have trust therein, if thou require 
 Service of me, or song, or penance dire, 
 I will obey thee as thy belted knight, 
 Or die to satisfy thy heart's desire. J 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah ! thou hast that in store which none can give 
 
 Save thou alone ; and I am fain to live 
 
 To watch the outcome of so fair a gift, — 
 
 To see the bright good morrow loom and lift, 
 
 And know that thou, — unpeered beneath the moon,- 
 
 Untamed of men, — untutored to the tune 
 
 Of lip with lip, — wilt cease thy coy disdain 
 And learn the languors of the loves of June. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All that I am, and all I hope to be, 
 
 Is thine till death ; and though I die for thee 
 
 Each day I live ; and though I throb and thrill 
 
 At thoughts that seem to burn me and to chill 
 
 In my dark hours, I revel in the same ; 
 
 Yet I am free of hope, as thou of blame, 
 
 And all around me, wakeful and in sleep, 
 I weave a blessing for thy soul to claim.
 
 24 Second Xitans. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh, by thy radiant hair and by the glow 
 
 Of thy full eyes, — and by thy breast of snow, — 
 
 And by the buds thereof that have the flush 
 
 Of infant roses when they strive to blush, — 
 
 And by thy voice, melodious as a bell 
 
 That rings for prayer in God's high citadel, — 
 
 By all these things, and more than I can urge, 
 I charge thee, Sweet ! to let me out of hell ! 
 
 Is it not Hell to live so far away 
 
 And not to touch thee, — not by night or day 
 
 To be partaker of one smile of thine, 
 
 Or one commingling of thy breath and mine, 
 
 Or one encounter of thine amorous mouth ? 
 
 I dwell apart from thee, as north from south, 
 
 As east from western ways I dwell apart, 
 And taste the tears that quench not any drouth. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Why wouldst thou take the memory of a wrong 
 To be thy shadow all the summer long, 
 A thing to chide thee at the dead of night, 
 A thing to wake thee with the morning light 
 For self-upbraiding, while the wanton bird 
 Invests the welkin ? Ah, by joy deferred, — 
 
 By peace withheld from me, — do thou relent 
 And dower my life to-day with one love-word !
 
 Woj Smorie. 25 
 
 XII. 
 
 WOULDST thou, Cassandra-wise, oppress my soul 
 With more unrest, and, Hebe-like, the bowl 
 Of festal comfort for a moment raise 
 To my poor lips, and then avert thy gaze ? 
 Wouldst make me mad beyond the daily curse 
 Of thy displeasure, and in wrath disperse 
 
 That halcyon draught, that nectar of the mind, 
 Which is the theme I yearn to in my verse ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oh, by thy pity when so slight a thing 
 As some small bird is wounded in the wing, 
 Avert thy scorn, and grant me, from afar, 
 At least the right to love thee as a star, — 
 The right to turn to thee, the right to bow 
 To thy pure name and evermore, as now, 
 
 To own thy thraldom and to sing thereon, 
 In proud allegiance to mine earliest vow. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It were abuse of power to frown again 
 When, all day long, I gloat upon the pain 
 Of pent-up hope, my joy and my distress, — 
 While the remembrance of a mute caress 
 Given to a rose,— a rose I plucked for thee, — 
 Seems as the withering of the world to me. 
 
 Because I am unloved of thee to-day, 
 And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea,
 
 26 5econfc Xitang. 
 
 xv. 
 
 I'll not believe that eyes so bright as thine 
 Were meant for malice in the summer-shine, 
 Or that a glance thereof, though changed to fire, 
 Could injure one whose spirit, like a lyre, 
 Has throbbed to music of remembered joys, — 
 The pride thereof, and all the tender poise 
 
 Of trust with trust, — the symphonies of grief 
 Made all mine own, — and Faith which never cloys. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 How can it be that one so fair as thou 
 Should wear contention on a whiter brow 
 Than May-day Dian's in her hunting gear ? 
 I'll not believe that eyes so holy-clear 
 And mouth so constant to its morning prayer 
 Could mock the mischief of a man's despair 
 
 And all the misery of a moment's hope 
 Seen far away, as mists are seen in air. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 How can a woman's heart be made of stone 
 And she not know it? Mine is overthrown. 
 I have no heart to-day, no perfect one, 
 Only a thing that sighs at set of sun 
 And beats its cage, as if the thrall thereof 
 Were freedom's prison or the tomb of love ; 
 
 As if, God help me ! there were shame in truth, 
 And no salvation left in realms above.
 
 IDoj Smorte. 27 
 
 xvm. 
 
 I once could laugh, I once was deemed a man 
 
 Fit for the frenzies of the dead god Pan, 
 
 And now, by Heaven ! the birds that sing so well 
 
 Move me to tears ; and all the leafy dell, 
 
 And all the sun-down glories of the West, 
 
 And all the moorland which the moon has blest, 
 
 Make me a dreamer, aye ! a coward, too, 
 In all the weird expanse of mine unrest. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 It is my curse to see thee and to learn 
 
 That I must shun thee, though I blaze and burn 
 
 With all this longing, all this fierce delight, — 
 
 Fear-fraught and famished for a suitor's right ; 
 
 A right conceded for a moment's space 
 
 And then withdrawn as, amorous face to face, 
 
 I dared to clasp thee and to urge a troth 
 Too sovereign-sweet for one of Adam's race. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I AM a doom-entangled mirthless soul, 
 Without the power to rid me of the dole 
 Which, day by day, and nightly evermore 
 Corrodes my peace ! Oh, smile, as once before, 
 At each wild thought and each discarded plea, 
 And let thy sentence, let thy suffrance be 
 
 That I be reckoned till the day I die 
 The sad-eyed Singer of thy fame and thee !
 
 XT b f r XftaitB. 
 
 AD TE CLAM A VI.
 
 XTbirfc %itaii£. 
 
 AD TE CLAM AVI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Again, O Love ! again I make lament, 
 And, Arab-like, I pitch my summer-tent 
 Outside the gateways of the Lord of Song. 
 I weep and wait, contented all day long 
 To be the proud possessor of a grief. 
 It comforts me. It gives me more relief 
 
 Than pleasures give ; and, spirit-like in air, 
 It re-invokes the peace that was so brief. 
 
 II. 
 
 It speaks of thee. It keeps me from the lake 
 
 Which else might tempt me ; and for thy sweet sake 
 
 I shun all evil. I am calmer now 
 
 Than when I wooed thee, calmer than the vow 
 
 Which made me thine, and yet so fond withal 
 
 I start and tremble at the wind's footfall. 
 
 Is it the wind? Or is it mine own Past 
 Come back to life to lure me to its thrall ?
 
 Gbirfc Xttang. 
 
 in. 
 
 I LONG to rise and seek thee where thou art, 
 And draw thee amorous to my wakeful heart 
 That beats for thee alone, in vague unrest. 
 I long to front thee when thou'rt lily-dressed 
 In white attire, — e'en like the flowers of old 
 That Jesus praised ; and, though the thought be bold, 
 I'm fain to kiss thee, Sweetheart ! through thy hair, 
 And hide my face awhile in all that gold. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I will not say what more might then be done, 
 
 And how, by moonlight or beneath the sun, 
 
 We might be happy. In a reckless mood 
 
 I've talked of this ; and dreams and many a brood 
 
 Of tongue-tied fancies have my soul beset. 
 
 I will not hint at fealty or the fret 
 
 Of lips untrue, or anger thee therein, 
 Or call to mind one word thou wouldst forget. 
 
 v. 
 
 I SHOULD withhold my raptures were I wise ; 
 I should not vex thee with my many sighs, 
 Or claim one tear from thee, though 'tis my due. 
 I should be silent. I should cease to sue ! 
 Sorrow should teach me what I failed to learn 
 In days gone by ; and crossed at every turn 
 
 By some new doubt, new-born of my desires, 
 I should suppress the pangs with which I burn.
 
 && Zc Clamavi. 33 
 
 VI. 
 
 I am an outcast from the land of love, 
 And thou the Queen thereof, as white as dove 
 New-sped from Heaven, and fine and fair to see 
 As coy Queen Mab when, out upon the lea, 
 She met her master and was loved of him. 
 Thou art allied to long-haired cherubim, 
 And I a something undesired of these, 
 With woesome lips and eyes for ever dim. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I WAS ordained thy minstrel, but alas ! 
 I dare not greet thee when I see thee pass ; 
 I scarce, indeed, may hope at any time, 
 To work my will, or triumph in a rhyme 
 To do thee honour ; no, nor make amends 
 For unsought fervour, in the tangled ends 
 
 Of my despair. How sad, how dark to me 
 All things have grown since thou and I were friends ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It is the fault of thy despotic glance, 
 
 It is the memory of a day's romance 
 
 When, true to thee, though taunted for my truth, 
 
 I dared to solemnise the joys of youth 
 
 In one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say ! 
 
 Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May, 
 
 I lost the right to live, as heretofore, 
 Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day. 
 
 c
 
 34 Gbirfc Xitans. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Summer's Pride ! I loved thee from the first, 
 And, like a martyr, I was blest and curst, 
 
 And saved and slain, and crowned and made anew, 
 A grief-glad man, with yearnings not a few, 
 But no just hope to win so fair a troth. 
 
 1 should have known how one may weep for both 
 When lovers part, poor souls ! beneath the moon, 
 
 And how Remembrance may outlive an oath. 
 
 The nymphs, I think, were like thee in the glade 
 Of that Greek valley where the wine was made 
 For feasts of Bacchus ; for I dream at night 
 Of those creations, kind and calm and bright ; 
 And in my thought, unhallowed though it be, 
 The sun-born Muses turn their gaze on me, 
 
 And seem to know me as a friend of theirs, 
 Though all unfit to serve them on my knee. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They lived and sang. They died as visions die, 
 
 Supreme, eternal, offshoots of the sky, 
 
 Made and re-made, undraped and draped afresh, 
 
 To glad the earth like phantoms made of flesh, 
 
 And yet as mist-like as delusions are ! 
 
 They stood beside Achilles in his car ; 
 
 They knew the gods and all their joysome deeds, 
 And all the chants that sprang from star to star.
 
 Hi> He Clamavi. 35 
 
 XII. 
 
 The myths of Greece, the maidens of the grove, 
 The dear dead fancies of the days of Jove, 
 Why were they banned ? Oh, why in Reason's name, 
 Were they abolished ? They were good to claim, 
 And good to dream of, and to crown with bays, 
 Far-seen of men, far-shining in the haze 
 
 Of withering doubts. They were the world's elect, 
 As thou art mine, to bow to and to praise. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Night after night I see thee, in my dreams, 
 As fair as Daphne, with the morning beams 
 Of thy bright locks about thee like a cloak, — 
 Fair as the young Aurora when she woke 
 At Pha^thon's call, athwart the mountain-heights. 
 I see thee radiant in the summer nights, 
 
 And, bosom-packed with frenzies unrepressed, 
 I thrill to thee in Slumber's soft delights. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I SEE thee pout. I see thee in disdain 
 Look out, reluctant, through the falling rain 
 Of thy long hair. I feel thee close at hand. 
 I note thy breathing as I loose the band 
 That binds thy waist, and then to waking life 
 I backward start ! Despair is Sorrow's wife ; 
 And I am Sorrow, and Despair's mine own, 
 To lure me on to madness or to strife.
 
 36 £btr£> OLftanv?. 
 
 xv. 
 
 My sex offends thee, or the thought of this ; 
 
 For I did fright thee when I flecked a kiss 
 
 With too much heat. I should have bowed to thee, 
 
 And left unsaid the word, deception-free, 
 
 Which, like a flash, illumed the love within. 
 
 My wilfulness was much to blame therein ; 
 
 But thou wilt shrive me, Sweet ! of mine offence, 
 If passion-pangs be deemed so dark a sin. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh, give me back my soul that with the same 
 I may achieve a deed of poet-fame, 
 Or die belauded on the battle-field ! 
 There's much to seek. My hand is strong to wield 
 Weapon or pen. If thou consent thereto 
 Deeds may be done. If not, thine eyes are blue 
 And Heaven is there, — a twofold tender shrine 
 Whose wrath I fear, whose judgment still I rue ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 I AM but half myself. The life in me 
 Is nigh crushed out ; and, though I seem to see 
 Glory, and grace, and joy, as in the past, 
 They are but shadows on the cozening blast, 
 And dreams of devils and distorted things, 
 And snakes coiled up that look like wedding rings, 
 And faded flowers that once were fit for wreaths 
 In bygone summers and in perished springs.
 
 21D Zc Clamavi. 37 
 
 XVII 1. 
 
 There is a curse in every garden place, 
 And when, at night, the lily's holy face 
 Looks up to God, it seems to chide me there. 
 The very sun with all his golden hair 
 Is ill at ease, and birth and death of day 
 Bring no relief ; and darkly on my way 
 
 My memory comes, — the ghost of my Delight- 
 To fret and fume at woes it cannot slay. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Oh, bid me smile again, as in the time 
 When all the breezes seemed to make a chime, 
 And all the birds on all the woodland slopes 
 Had trills for me, and seemed to guess the hopes 
 That warmed my heart. O thou whom I adore ! 
 How proud were I, — though wounded bitter-sore 
 
 By shafts of doubt, — if, in default of love 
 I could but win thy friendship as of yore. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then were I blest indeed, and crowned of fate 
 As kings are crowned, as bards in their estate 
 Are rapture-fraught, re-risen above the dust. 
 Then were I torture-proof, and on the crust 
 Of one kind word, though as a pittance thrown, 
 I'd live for weeks ! My tears I would disown, 
 
 And pray, contented with my discontent, 
 As hermits pray when storms are overblown.
 
 jfourtb Xitans. 
 
 GRATIA PLENA.
 
 jfourtb Xitanis?. 
 
 GRATIA PLENA. 
 
 -&?!&- 
 
 Oh, smile on me, thou siren of my soul ! 
 That I may curb my thoughts to some control 
 And not offend thee, as in truth I do, 
 Morning, and noon and night, when I pursue 
 My vagrant fancies, unallowed of thee, 
 But fraught with such consolement unto me 
 As may be felt in homeward-sailing ships 
 When wind and wave contend upon the sea. 
 
 ll. 
 
 Dower me with patience and imbue me still 
 With some reminder, when the night is chill, 
 Of thy dear presence, as, in winter-time, 
 The maiden moon, that tenderly doth climb 
 The lofty heavens, hath yet a beam to spare 
 For doleful wretches in their dungeon-lair ; 
 E'en thus endow me in my chamber dim 
 With some reminder of thy face so fair !
 
 42 jfourtb Xttang. 
 
 in. 
 
 Quit thou thy body while thou sleepcst well, 
 
 And visit mine at midnight, by the spell 
 
 That knows not shame. For in the House of Sleep 
 
 All things are pure ; and in the silence deep 
 
 I'll wait for thee, and thou, contrition-wise, 
 
 Wilt seek my couch and this that on it lies, 
 
 This frame of mine that lives for thee alone 
 As palmers live for peace that never dies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It were a goodly thing to spare a foe 
 And kill his hate. And I would e'en do so ! 
 For I would kill the coyness of thy face. 
 I would enfold thee in my spurned embrace 
 And kiss the kiss that gladdens as with wine. 
 Yea, I would wrestle with those arms of thine, 
 
 And, like a victor, I would vanquish thee, 
 And, tyrant-like, I'd teach thee to be mine. 
 
 For, what is peace that we should cling thereto 
 If war be wisest ? If the death we woo 
 Be fraught with fervour there's delight in death ! 
 There is persuasion in the tempest's breath 
 Not known in calm ; and raptures round us flow 
 When, like an arrow through the bended bow 
 Of two fond lips, the quivering dart of love 
 Brings down the kiss which saints shall not bestow.
 
 <3ratia plena. 43 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE soldier dies for country and for kin ; 
 He dies for fame that is so sweet to win ; 
 And, part for duty, part for battle-doom, 
 He wends his way to where the myrtles bloom ; 
 He gains a grave, perchance a recompense 
 Beyond his seeking, and a restful sense 
 
 Of soul-completion, far from any strife, 
 And far from memory of his land's defence. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Be this my meed,— to die for love of thee, 
 As when the sun goes down upon the sea 
 And finds no mate in all the realms of earth. 
 I, too, have looked on Nature in its worth 
 And found no resting-place in all the spheres, 
 And no relief beyond my sonnet-tears, — 
 
 The soul-fed shudderings of my lonely harp 
 That knows the gamut now of all my fears. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I wear thy colours till the day I die : 
 
 A glove, a ribbon, and a rose thereby, 
 
 All joined in one. I revel in these things ; 
 
 For, once an angel, unarrayed in wings, 
 
 Came to my side, and beamed on me, and said : 
 
 " I love thee, friend ! " and then, with lifted head, 
 
 Gave me a rose on which the dew had fallen ; 
 And, like the flower, she blushed a virgin-red.
 
 44 ffourtb Xitanv. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I FOUND the glove down yonder in the dale. 
 I knew 'twas thine ; its colour, creamy-pale, 
 Filled me with joy. " A prize ! " I cried aloud, 
 And snatched it up, as zealous then, and proud, 
 As one who wins a knighthood in his youth ; 
 And I was moved thereat, in veiy sooth, 
 
 And kissed it oft, and called on kindly Heaven 
 To be the sponsor of mine amorous truth. 
 
 x. 
 
 I earned the ribbon as we earn a smile 
 For service done. I helped thee at the stile ; 
 And so 'twas mine, my trophy, as of right. 
 Oh, never yet was ribbon half so bright ! 
 It seemed of sky-descent, — a strip of morn 
 Thrown on the sod, — a something summer-worn 
 To be my guerdon ; and, enriched therewith, 
 I followed thee, thy suitor, through the corn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I TROD on air. I seemed to hear the sound 
 Of fifes and trumpets and the quick rebound 
 Of bells unseen, — the storming of a tower 
 By imps audacious, and the sovereign power 
 Of some arch-fairy, thine acquaintance sure 
 In days gone by ; for, all the land was pure, 
 As if new-blest, — the land and all the sea 
 And all the welkin where the stars endure.
 
 Oratia plena. 45 
 
 XII. 
 
 We journeyed on through fields that were a-glow 
 ■ With cowslip buds and daisies white as snow ; 
 And hand in hand, we stood beside a shrine 
 At which a bard, whom lovers deem divine, 
 Laid down his life ; and, as we gazed at this, 
 There seemed to issue from the wood's abyss 
 
 A sound of trills, as if, in its wild way, 
 A nightingale were pondering on a kiss. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A lane was reached that led I know not where, 
 Unless to Heaven, — for Heaven was surely there, 
 And thou so near it ! And within a nook 
 A-down whose covertness a noisy brook 
 Did talk of peace, I learnt of thee my fate ; 
 The word of pity that was kin to hate, — 
 
 The voice of reason that was reason's foe 
 Because it spurned the love that was so great ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But I must pause. I must, from day to day, 
 Keep back my tears, and seek a surer way 
 Than Memory's track. I must, with lifted eyes, 
 Re-shape my life, and heed the battle-cries 
 Of prompt ambition, and be braced at call 
 To do such deeds as haply may befall, 
 
 If, freed of thee, and chartered to myself, 
 I may undo the bonds that now enthrall.
 
 46 fourth Xttanp. 
 
 XV. 
 
 SHALL I do this ? I shall ; and thou shalt see 
 Signs of rebellion. I will turn to thee 
 And claim obedience. I will make it plain 
 How many a link may go to form a chain, 
 And each a circlet, each a ring to wear 
 I will extract the sting from my despair 
 
 And toy therewith, as with a charmed snake, 
 That, Lamia-like, uprears itself in air. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Or is my boast a vain, an empty one, 
 And shall I rue it ere the day is done ? 
 Will hope revive betimes ? Or must I stand 
 For evermore outside the fairyland 
 Of thy good will ? Alas ! my place is here, 
 To muse and moan and sigh and shed my tear, 
 
 My paltry tear for one who loves me not, 
 And would not mourn for me on my death-bier. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Oh, get thee hence, thou harbinger of light ! 
 
 That, like a dream, dost come to me at night 
 
 To haunt my sleep, and rob me of content, 
 
 So true-untrue, so deaf to my lament, 
 
 I must forego the pride I felt therein. 
 
 Aye, get thee hence ! And I will crush the sin, 
 
 If sin it be, that prompts me, night and day, 
 To seek in thee the bliss I cannot win.
 
 <3ratia plena. M 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Or, if thou needs must haunt me after dark, 
 Come when I wake. The oriole and the lark 
 Are friends of thine ; and oft, I know, the thrush 
 Has trilled of thee at morn and even-blush. 
 And flowers have made confessions unto me 
 At which I marvel ; for they rail at thee 
 
 And call thee heartless in thy seemlihood, 
 Though queen-elect of all the flowers that be. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Nay, heed me not ! I rave ; I am possessed 
 
 By utmost longing. I am sore oppressed 
 
 By thoughts of woe ; and in my heart I feel 
 
 A something keener than the touch of steel, 
 
 As if, to-day, a danger unforeseen 
 
 Had tracked thy path, — as if my prayers had been 
 
 Misjudged in Heaven, or drowned in demon-shouts 
 Beyond the boundaries of the coasts terrene. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But this is clear ; this much at least is true : 
 I am thine own ! I doat upon the blue 
 Of thy kind eyes, well knowing that in these 
 Are proofs of God ; and down upon my knees 
 I fall subservient, as a man in shame 
 May own a fault ; albeit, as with a flame, 
 I burn all day, abashed and unforgiven, 
 And all unfit to touch the hand I claim 1
 
 tfitth Xlta-ng. 
 
 SALVE REGINA. 
 
 D
 
 jftftfo Xitany. 
 
 SALVE REGINA. 
 
 Glory to thee, my Queen ! whom far away 
 My thoughts aspire to, — as the birds of May 
 Aspire o' mornings, — as in lonely nooks 
 The gurgling murmurs of neglected brooks 
 Aspire to moonlight, — aye ! as earth aspires 
 When through the East, alert with wild desires, 
 
 The rapturous sun surveys the welkin's height, 
 And flecks the world with witcheries of his fires. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, I should curb my grief. I should entone 
 No plaint to thee ; no loss should I bemoan ! 
 I should be patient, I, though full of care, 
 And not attempt, by bias of a prayer, 
 To sway thy spirit, or to urge anew 
 A claim contested. For my days are few ; ' 
 My days, I think, are few upon the earth 
 Since I must shun the joys I would pursue.
 
 52 ffiftb XttaiiE. 
 
 in. 
 
 I am not worthy of the Heaven I name 
 When I name thee ; and yet to win the same 
 Is still my dream. I strive as best I can 
 To live uprightly on the vaunted plan 
 Of old-world sages. But I strive not well ; 
 And thoughts conflicting which I cannot quell 
 Make me despondent ; and I quake thereat, 
 As at the shuddering of a doomsday bell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To die for thee were more than my desert ; 
 To live for thee to keep thee out of hurt 
 And, like a slave, to wait upon thy will 
 Were more than fame. And lo ! I nourish still 
 A sense of calm to feel that thou, at least, 
 Art sorrow-free and honoured at the feast 
 
 Which Nature spreads for all contented minds ; 
 And that for thee its splendours have increased. 
 
 V. 
 
 I stand alone. I stand beneath the trees, 
 I guess their thoughts ; I hear them to the breeze 
 Say tender nothings ; and I dream the while 
 Of thy white arms, and thy remembered smile, 
 When, in a spot like this, a year a-gone, 
 I saw thee stoop to pluck from off the lawn 
 A wounded bird that peered into thy face 
 As if it took thee for the nymph of dawn !
 
 Salpc IRcgina. 53 
 
 \ i. 
 
 Oh, can it be, as friends of thine affirm, 
 That thou'rt a fairy, — that, from term to term, 
 Month after month, beloved of all good things, 
 Thou'rt seen in forests and in meadow rings 
 Girt for the dance ? or like an Oread queen 
 Arrayed for council ? For the woods convene 
 
 Their dryad forces when the nights are clear, 
 And nymphs and fawns carouse upon the green. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The crescent moon, the Argosy of heaven, 
 Veers for the west across the Pleiads seven, 
 And, out beyond the ridge of Charles's Wain, 
 It seems to come to mooring on the main 
 Of that deep sky, as if awaiting there 
 An angel-guest with sunlight in her hair, 
 
 A seraph's cousin, or the foster-child 
 Of some centurion of the upper air. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Is it thy soul ? Has Cynthia called for thee 
 In her white boat, to take thee o'er the sea 
 Where suns and stars and constellations bright 
 Are isles of glory, — where a seraph's right 
 Surpasses mine, and makes me seem indeed 
 A base intruder, with a coward's creed 
 
 And not an angel's, though a Christian born 
 And pledged always to serve thee at thy need ?
 
 54 fftftb Xftanis. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou'rt sleeping now ; and in thy snowy rest,- 
 In that seclusion which is like a nest 
 For blameless human maids beheld of those 
 Who come from God, — thou hast in thy repose 
 No thought of me, — no thought of pairing-time. 
 For thou'rt the sworn opponent of the rhyme 
 
 That lovers make in kissing ; and anon 
 My very love will vex thee like a crime. 
 
 x. 
 
 But day and night, and winter-tide and spring, 
 
 Change at thy voice ; and when I hear thee sing 
 
 I know 'tis May ; and when I see thy face 
 
 I know 'tis Summer. Thou'rt the youngest Grace, 
 
 And all the Muses praise thee evermore. 
 
 And there are birds who name thee as they soar ; 
 
 And some of these, — the best and brightest ones,- 
 Have guessed the pangs that pierce me to the core. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thou art the month of May with all its nights 
 And all its days transfigured in the lights 
 Of love-lit smiles and glances multiform ; 
 And, like a lark that sings above a storm, 
 Thy voice o'er-rides the tumult of my mind. 
 Oh, give me back the peace I strove to find 
 
 In my last prayer, and I'll believe that Hope 
 Will dry anon the tears that make it blind.
 
 Salve IRccUna. 55 
 
 XII. 
 
 There's none like thee, not one in all the world ; 
 No face so fair, no smile so swect-impearled, 
 And no such music on the hills and plains 
 As thy young voice whereof the thrill remains 
 For hours and hours, — belike to keep alive 
 The sense of beauty that the flowers may thrive. 
 
 Or is't thy wish that birds should fly to thee 
 Before the days of April's quest arrive ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THOU'RT noble-natured ; and there's none to stand 
 So meek as thou, or with so dear a hand 
 To ward off wrong. For Psyche of the Greeks 
 Is dead and gone ; and Eros with his freaks 
 Has bowed to thee, and turned aside, for shame, 
 His useless shaft, not daring to proclaim 
 
 His amorous laws, and thou so maiden-coy 
 Beneath the halo of thy spotless name ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But dreams are idle, and I must forget 
 All that they tend to. I must cease to fret, 
 Moth as I am, for stars beyond the reach 
 Of mine up-soaring ; and in milder speech 
 I must invoke thy blessing on the road 
 That lies before me, — far from thine abode, 
 
 And far from all persuasion that again 
 Thou wilt accept the terms of my love-code.
 
 ffiftb Xftattfr 
 
 XV. 
 
 SWEET ! forgive me that from day to day 
 
 1 dream such dreams, and teach me how to sway 
 .My fluttering- self, that, in forsaken hours, 
 
 I may be valiant, and eschew the powers 
 Of death and doubt ! I need the certitude 
 Of thine esteem that I may check the feud 
 
 Of mine own thoughts that rend and anger me 
 Because denied the boon for which I sued. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Teach me to wait with patience for a word, 
 And be the sight of thee no more deferred 
 Than one up-rising of the vesper star 
 That waits on Dian when, supreme, afar, 
 She eyes the sunset. And of this be sure, 
 As I'm a man and thou a maid demure, 
 
 Thou shalt be ta'en aside and wondered at, 
 Before the gloaming leaves the land obscure. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thou shalt be bowed to as we bow to saints 
 In windowed shrines ; and, far from all attaints 
 Of ribald passion, thou, as seemeth good, 
 Wilt smile serenely in thy virginhood. 
 Nor shall I know, of mine own poor accord, 
 Which thing in all the world is best to hoard, 
 
 Or which is worst of all the things that slay : 
 A woman's beauty or a soldier's sword.
 
 Salve IRcgina. 57 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I grieve in sleep. I pine away at night. 
 I wake, uncared for, in the morning light ; 
 And, hour by hour, I marvel that for me 
 The wandering wind should make its minstrelsy 
 So sweet and calm. I marvel that the sun, 
 So round and red, with all his hair undone, 
 
 Should smile at me and yet begrudge me still 
 The sight of thee that art my worshipped one ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I COUNT my moments as a cloistered man 
 
 May count his beads ; and through the weary span 
 
 Of each long day I peer into my heart 
 
 For hints of comfort ; and I find, in part, 
 
 A self-committal, and a glimpse withal 
 
 Of some hew menace in the rise and fall 
 
 Of days and nights that are the test of Time 
 Though Fate would make a mockery of them all. 
 
 XX. 
 
 There's a disaster worse than loss of gold, 
 Worse than remorse, and worse a thousand-fold, 
 Than pangs of hunger. 'Tis the thirst of love,— 
 The rage and rapture of the ravening dove 
 We name Desire. Ah, pardon ! I offend. 
 My fervour blinds me to the withering end 
 
 Of all good counsel, and, accurst thereby, 
 I vaunt anew the faults I cannot mend.
 
 Sf£tb Xitans. 
 
 BENEDICTA TU.
 
 Sljtb Xitanv?. 
 
 BENEDICTA TU. 
 
 -e»A'*- 
 
 I tell thee, Sweet ! there lives not on the earth 
 A love like mine in all the height and girth 
 And all the vast completion of the sphere. 
 I should be proud, to-day, to shed a tear 
 If I could weep. But tears are most denied 
 When most besought ; and joys are sanctified 
 
 By joys' undoing in this world of ours 
 From dusk to dawn and dawn to eventide. 
 
 II. 
 
 Wert thou a marble maid and I endowed 
 With power to move thee from thy seeming shroud 
 Of frozen splendour,— all thy whiteness mine, 
 And all the glamour, all the tender shine 
 Of thy glad eyes,— ah, God ! if this were so, 
 And I the loosener, in the summer-glow, 
 
 Of thy long tresses ! I were licensed then 
 To gaze, unchidden, on thy limbs of snow.
 
 62 Sijtb Eftanv?. 
 
 in. 
 
 I WOULD prepare for thee a holy niche 
 In some new temple, and with draperies rich, 
 And flowers and lamps and incense of the best, 
 I would with something of mine own unrest 
 Imbue thy blood and prompt thee to be just. 
 I would endow thee with a fairer trust 
 
 Than mere contentment, and a dearer joy 
 Than mere revulsion from the sins of dust. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A BAND of boys, with psaltery and with lyre, 
 And Cyprian girls, the slaves of thy desire, 
 Would chant and pray and raise so wild a storm 
 Of golden notes around thy sculptured form 
 That saints would hear the chorus up in Heaven, 
 And intermingle with their holy steven 
 
 The sighs of earth, and long for other cares 
 Than those ordained them by the Lord's Eleven. 
 
 v. 
 
 I WOULD approach thee with a master's tread 
 And claim thy hand and have the service read 
 By youthful priests resplendent every one ; 
 And in thy frame the blood of thee would run 
 As warm and sound as wine of Syracuse. 
 And all that day the birds would bear the news 
 
 In far directions, and the meadow-flowers 
 Would dream thereof, love-laden, in the dews.
 
 JGcncfcfcta £u. 63 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then, by magnetic force, — the greatest known 
 This side the tomb, — I would athwart the stone 
 Of thy white body, in a trice of time, 
 Call forth thy soul, and woo thee to the chime 
 Of tinkling bells, and make thee half afraid, 
 And half aggrieved, to find thyself arrayed 
 In such enthralment, and in such attire, 
 In sight of one whose will should not be stayed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And, like Pygmalion, I would claim anon 
 A bride's submission ; and my talk thereon 
 Would not perplex thee ; for the sense of life 
 Would warm thy heart, and urge thee to the strife 
 Of lip with lip, and kiss with pulsing kiss, 
 Which gives the clue to all we know of bliss, 
 
 And all we know of heights we long to climb 
 Beyond the boundaries of the grave's abyss. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The dear old deeds chivalrous once again 
 Would find fulfilment ; and the curse of Cain 
 Which fell on woman, as on men it fell, 
 Would fly from us, as at a sorcerer's spell, 
 And leave us wiser than the sophists are 
 Who love not folly. Night should not debar, 
 Nor day dissuade us, from those ecstacies 
 That have Anacreon's fame for guiding-star.
 
 6 4 Si£tb Xftan\>. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Aye ! thou wouklst kneel and seek in me apace 
 
 A transient shelter for thine amorous face 
 
 Which then I'd screen ; and thou to me wouldst turn 
 
 With awe-struck eyes, and cling to me and yearn, 
 
 With sighs full tender and a touch of fear. 
 
 And, like a bird which knows that spring is near, 
 
 And, after spring, the summer of sweet days, 
 Thou wouldst attune thy love-notes in mine ear. 
 
 x. 
 
 Or, fraught with feelings near akin to hate, 
 Thou wouldst denounce me ; and, like one elate, 
 Thou wouldst entwine me in thine arms so white, 
 As soldier-nymphs, with rapt and raging sight, 
 Made war with spearsmen in the vales of song, — 
 The vales of Sparta where, for right or wrong, 
 
 The gods were potent, and, for beauty's sake, 
 Upheld the tourneys of the fair and strong. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I would not seem too wilful in the heat 
 
 Of our encounter, or with sighs repeat 
 
 Too fierce a vow. I would throughout confess 
 
 Thy murderous mirth, thy conquering loveliness, 
 
 And then subdue thee ! Tears would not avail 
 
 Nor prayer, nor praise ; and, flushed the while or pale, 
 
 Thou shouldst be mine, my hostage in the night, 
 Without the option of a moment's bail.
 
 JQcncDtcta £u. 65 
 
 XII. 
 
 THOU shouldst be mine ! My hopes, from first to last, 
 Would win their way ; and, lithe and love-aghast, 
 And all unnerved, thou wouldst, as in a dream 
 Entreat my pardon ! I would callous seem 
 To thine out-yearning. I would cast on thee 
 A questioning look, and then, upon my knee, 
 
 I would surrender to that face of thine 
 Which is the great world's wonder unto me. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Heaven ! could this be done, and I fulfil 
 One half my wish, and curb thee to my will, 
 
 1 were a prompter and a prouder man 
 
 Than earth has known since light-foot lovers ran 
 For Atalanta, loved of men and boys. 
 I were a kaiser then, a king of joys, 
 
 And fit to play with high-begotten pomps 
 As children play with pebbles or with toys. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O Golden Hair ! O Gladness of an Hour 
 
 Made flesh and blood ! O beauteous Human Flower 
 
 Too sweet to pluck, and yet, though seeming-cold, 
 
 Ordained to love ! I pray thee, as of old, 
 
 Be kind to me. I saw thee yesternight, 
 
 And for an instant I was urged to plight 
 
 My troth again ; for in thy face I saw 
 
 What seemed a smile evoked for my delight. 
 
 E
 
 66 Stjtb 24tang. 
 
 xv. 
 
 RE-GRANT thy favour ! Take me by the hand 
 And lead me back again to thine own land, 
 The nook supreme, the sanctum in the glen 
 Where pixies walk, — unknown to peevish men 
 And shrew-like women whom no faith uplifts ! 
 Show me the place where Nature keeps the gifts 
 
 She most approves, and where the song-birds dwell, 
 And I'll forego the land of little thrifts. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The moon is mother and the sun is sire 
 
 Of those young planets which, with infant fire, 
 
 Have late been found in regions too remote 
 
 For quicklier search ; and these, in time, will dote 
 
 And whirl and wanton in the realms of space. 
 
 For there are comets in the nightly chase 
 
 Who see strange things untalked of by the bards 
 And earth herself has found a trysting-place. 
 
 xvir. 
 
 And so 'tis clear that sun and moon and stars 
 Are linked by love ! The marriage-feast of Mars 
 Was fixed long since. 'Tis Venus whom he weds. 
 'Tis she alone for whom he gaily treads 
 His path of splendour ; and of Saturn's ring 
 He knows the symbol, and will have, in spring, 
 A night-betrothal, near the Southern Cross ; 
 And all the stars will pause thereat and sing.
 
 aScncOfcta £u. 67 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 What wonder, then, what wonder if to-day 
 I, too, assert my right, in roundelay, 
 To talk of rings and posies and the vows 
 That wait on marriage ? 'Tis the wild carouse 
 Of soul with soul athwart the sense of touch. 
 'Tis this uplifts us when, with fever-clutch, 
 
 The world would claim us ; and our hopes revive 
 In spite of fears that daunt us over-much. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Lips may be coy ; but eyes are quick, at times, 
 To note the throbbings that are hot as crimes, 
 And fond as flutterings of the wings of doves. 
 For he is blind indeed who, when he loves, 
 Doubts all he sees ; — the flickering of a smile, 
 The Parthian glance, the nod that, for awhile, 
 
 Outbids Elysium and is half a jest, 
 And half a truth, to tempt us and beguile. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thine eyes have told me things I dare not speak ; 
 And I will trust the track they bid me seek, 
 Yea, though it lead me to the gates of death. 
 The wind is labouring. It is out of breath, — 
 lielike for scampering up the hill so fast 
 To say all's well with thee ! And, down the blast, 
 
 I seem to hear the sounds of serenades 
 That swell from out the song-fields of the past.
 
 Seven tb XitanvN 
 
 STELLA MATUTINA.
 
 Scvcntb %ttan\\ 
 
 STELLA MATUTINA. 
 
 — e»7S5— 
 
 ARISE, fair Phoebus ! and with looks serene 
 Survey the world which late the orbed Queen 
 Did pave with pearl to please enamoured swains. 
 Arise ! Arise ! The Dark is bound in chains, 
 And thou'rt immortal, and thy throne is here 
 To sway the seasons, and to make it clear 
 
 How much we need thee, O thou silent god ! 
 That art the crowned controller of the year. 
 
 II. 
 
 And while the breezes reconstruct for thee 
 The shimmering clouds ; and while, from lea to lea, 
 The great earth reddens with a maid's delight, 
 Behold ! I bring to thee, as yesternight, 
 My subject-song. Do thou protect apace 
 My peerless one, — my Peri with the face 
 That is a marvel to the minds of men, 
 And like a flower for humbleness of grace.
 
 72 Scvcntb Xitan^. 
 
 in. 
 
 The earth which loves thee, or I much have erred, 
 The glad, green earth which waits, as for a word, 
 The sound of thee, — up-shuddering through the 
 
 morn, — 
 The restive earth is pleased when Day is born, 
 And soon will take each separate silent beam 
 As proof of sex, — exulting in the dream 
 
 Of joys to come, and quickened and convulsed, 
 Year after year, by love's triumphant theme. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A THOUSAND times the flowers in all the fields 
 Will bow to thee ; and with their little shields 
 The daisy-folk will muster on the plain. 
 A thousand songs the birds will sing again, 
 As sweet to hear as quiverings of a lute ; 
 And she I love will sing, for thy repute, 
 
 Full many a song. She sings when she but speaks ; 
 And when she's near the birds should all be mute. 
 
 O MY Beloved ! from thy curtained bed 
 Arise, rejoice, uplift thy golden head, 
 And be an instant, while I muse on this, 
 As nude as statues, and as good to kiss 
 As dear St. Agnes when she met her death, 
 Unclad and pure and patient of her breath, 
 
 And with the grace of God for wedding-gown, 
 As many an ancient story witnesscth.
 
 Stella /Ifcatutfna. 73 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE bath, the plunge, the combing - of the hair, 
 All this I view, — a sight beyond compare 
 Since Daphne died in all the varied charms 
 Of her chaste body, — rounded regal arms. 
 And shape supreme, too fair for human gaze, 
 But not too fair to win the mirror's praise 
 
 That throbs to see thee in thy deshabille 
 And loves thee well through all the nights and days. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I SEE thee thus in fancy, as in books 
 A man may see the naiads of the brooks, — 
 As one entranced by potions aptly given 
 May see the angels where they walk in Heaven, 
 And may not greet them in their high estate. 
 For who shall guess the riddle wrought of Fate 
 Till he be dead ? And who that lives a span 
 Shall thwart the Future where it lies in wait ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And now to-day a word I dare not write 
 Starts to my lips, as when a baffled knight 
 Withholds a song which fain he would repeat ; 
 For lo ! the sense thereof is passing sweet, 
 And, like a cup that's full, my heart is filled 
 With new desires and quiverings new-distilled 
 From old delights ; and all my pulses throb 
 As at the touch of dreams divinely-willed.
 
 74 Seventh Uttanv. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Who talks of comfort when he sees thee not 
 
 And feels no fragrance of the happy lot 
 
 Which violets feel, when called upon to lie 
 
 On thy white breast ? And who with amorous eye 
 
 Looks at the dear tomb of the shuddering flowers, 
 
 The two-fold tomb where daintily for hours 
 
 They droop and muse, — who looks, I say, at these 
 And will not own the witchery of thy powers ? 
 
 Who speaks of glory and the force of love, 
 And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove ! 
 With all the coyness, all the beauty-sheen, 
 Of thy rapt face ? A fearless virgin-queen, — 
 A queen of peace art thou ! — and on thy head 
 The golden light of all thy hair is shed 
 
 Most nimbus-like and most suggestive, too, 
 Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded. 
 
 XL 
 
 THOU'RT Nature's own ; and when a word of thine 
 
 Rings on the air, and when the Voice Divine 
 
 We call the lark upfioats amid the blue, 
 
 1 know not which is which, for both are true, 
 
 Both meant for Heaven, though fostered here below. 
 
 And when the silences around me flow, 
 
 1 think of lilies and the face of thee 
 Which hath compelled my manhood's overthrow.
 
 Stella Abatutfna. 75 
 
 XII. 
 
 O BLUE-EYED Rapture with the radiant locks ! 
 O thou for whom, athwart the fever-shocks 
 Of life and death and misery and much sin, 
 I'd sell salvation ! There's a prize to win 
 And thou'rt its voucher ; there's a wonder-prize, 
 Unknown till now beneath the vaulted skies, 
 
 And thou'rt its symbol ; thou'rt its essence fair, 
 Its full completion formed adoring- wise ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yes, I will tell thee how I love thee best, 
 And all my thoughts of thee shall be confessed 
 And none withheld, not e'en the witless one 
 Which late I harboured when the mounting sun 
 Burst from a cloud, — the moon a mile away, 
 As if in hiding from the lord of day, — 
 
 As if, at times, the moon were like thyself, 
 And feared the semblance of a master's sway. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I LOVE thee dearly when thine eyes are dim 
 
 With unshed tears ; for then they seem to swim 
 
 In liquid blessedness, and unto me 
 
 There comes the memory of a god's decree 
 
 Which said of old :— " Be all men evermore, 
 
 All men and maids whose hearts are passion-sore, 
 
 Acclaimed in Heaven ! " and all day long I muse 
 On hope's divine and deathless prophet-lore.
 
 76 Seventh Xitanv?. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I loyk thee when the soft endearing flush 
 Invades thy face, and dimples in the blush 
 Bespeak attention, — as a rose's pout 
 Absorbs the stillness when the sun is out, 
 And all the air retains the glow thereof. 
 In all the world there is not light enough 
 
 Nor sheen enough, all day, nor any warmth, 
 Till thou be near me, armed with some rebuff! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And how I love thee when thy startled eyes 
 Look out at me, enrapt in that surprise 
 Which marks an epoch in the life I lead, — 
 As if they guessed the scope of Eros : creed 
 And all the mirth and malice of his wiles. 
 For it is wondrous when my Lady smiles, 
 
 And all the ground is holy where she treads, 
 And all the air is thrilled for many miles ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 In every mood of thine thou art my joy, 
 
 And, day by day, to shield thee from annoy, 
 
 I'd do the deeds that slaves were bound unto 
 
 With stabs for payment, — shuddering thro' and thro' 
 
 With their much labour ; and I'd deem it grand 
 
 To die for thee if, after touch of hand, 
 
 I might but kiss thee as a lover doth ; 
 For I should then be king of all the land.
 
 Stella Abatutfna. n 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But Father Time, old Time with Janus-face 
 Looks o'er the sphere, and sees no fitting place 
 For thine acceptance ; for the thrones of earth 
 Are much too mean, and in thy maiden worth 
 Thou'rt crowned enough, and throned in very sooth 
 More than the queens who lord it in their youth 
 
 O'er men's convictions ; and he names thy name 
 As one beloved of Nature and of Truth. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hl; sees the nights, he sees the veering days, 
 The sweet spring season with its hymn of praise, 
 The summer, frondage-proud,— the autumn pale, — 
 The winter worn with withering of the gale, — 
 All this he sees ; and now, to-day, in June, 
 He, too, recalls that rapturous afternoon 
 
 When all the fields and flowers were like a dream, 
 And all the winds the offshoot of a tune. 
 
 XX. 
 
 So I will cease to clamour for the past, 
 
 And seek suspension of my doubts at last, 
 
 In some new way till Fate becomes my friend. 
 
 I will regain the right to re-defend 
 
 The love I bear to thee, for good or ill. 
 
 For though, 'tis said, our griefs have power to kill, 
 
 Mine let me live, in mine unworthiness, 
 That, spurned of thee, my lips may praise thee still !
 
 DOMINA EXAUDI.
 
 Eigbtb Xitanp. 
 
 DO MI N A EXAUDI. 
 
 It seems a year, and more, since last we met, 
 
 Since roseate spring repaid, in part, its debt 
 
 To thy bright eyes, and o'er the lowlands fair 
 
 Made daffodils so like thy golden hair 
 
 That I, poor wretch, have kissed them on my knees ! 
 
 Forget-Me-Nots peep out beneath the trees 
 
 So like thine eyes that I have questioned them, 
 And thought thee near, though viewless on the breeze. 
 
 II. 
 
 It seems a year ; and yet, when all is told, 
 
 'Tis but a week since I was re-enrolled 
 
 Among thy friends. How fairy-like the scene ! 
 
 How gay with lamps ! How fraught with tender sheen 
 
 Of life and languor ! I was thine alone : — 
 
 Alert for thee, — intent to catch the tone 
 
 Of thy sweet voice, — and proud to be alive 
 To call to heart a peace for ever flown.
 
 82 Eicibtb Xitam?. 
 
 in. 
 
 Had I not vext thee, as a monk in prayer 
 May vex a saint by musing, unaware, 
 On evil things ? A saint is hard to move, 
 And quick to chide, and slow, — as I can prove,- 
 To do what's just ; and yet, in thy despite, 
 We met again, we too, at dead of night ; 
 And I was hopeful in my love of thee, 
 And thou superb, and matchless, in the light. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I FELT distraught from gazing over-much 
 At thy great beauty ; and I feared to touch 
 The dainty hand which Envy's self hath praised. 
 I feared to greet thee ; and my soul was dazed 
 And self-convicted in its new design ; 
 For I was mad to hope to call thee mine, 
 
 Aye ! mad as he who claims a Virgin's love 
 Because his lips have praised her at a shrine. 
 
 V. 
 
 I saw thee there in all the proud array 
 Of thy young charms, — as if a summer's day 
 Had leapt to life and made itself a queen, — 
 As if the sylphs, remembering what had been, 
 Had missioned thee, from out the world's romance, 
 To stir my pulse, and thrill me with a glance : 
 And once again, allowed, though undesired, 
 I did become thy partner in the dance.
 
 Domina jErau&f. 83 
 
 VI. 
 
 I bowed to thee. I drew thee to my side 
 
 As one may seize a wrestler in his pride 
 
 To try conclusions, — and I felt the rush 
 
 Of my heart's blood suffuse me in a blush 
 
 That told its talc. But what my tongue would tell 
 
 Was spent in sighs, as o'er my spirit fell 
 
 The silvery cadence of thy lips' assent ; 
 And every look o'er- ruled me like a spell. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O devil's joy of dancing, when a tune 
 
 Speeds us to Heaven, and night is at the noon 
 
 Of all its frolic, all its wild desire ! 
 
 O thrall of rapt illusions when we tire 
 
 Of coy reserve, — and when the moments pass 
 
 As pass the visions in a magic glass, 
 
 And every step is shod with ecstasy, 
 And ever)' smile is flecked with some Alas ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Was it a moment or a merry span 
 
 Of years uncounted when convulsion ran 
 
 Right through the veins of me, to make me blest 
 
 And yet accurst, in that revolving quest 
 
 Known as a waltz, — if waltz indeed it were 
 
 And not a fluttering dream of gauze and vair 
 
 And languorous eyes ? I scarce can muse thereon 
 Without a pang too sweet for me to bear !
 
 84 Etobtb Xttanis. 
 
 IX. 
 
 By right of music, for a fleeting term, 
 
 Mine arms enwound thee and I held thee firm, 
 
 There on my breast, — so near, yet so remote, 
 
 So close about me that I seemed to float 
 
 In sunlit rapture, — touched I know not how 
 
 By some suggestion of a deeper vow 
 
 Than men are 'ware of when, on Glory's track, 
 They kneel to angels with uplifted brow. 
 
 x. 
 
 And lo ! abashed, I do recall to mind 
 All that is past : — the yearning undefined, — 
 The baulked confession that was like a sob — 
 The sound of singing and the gurgling throb 
 Of lute and viol, — meant for many things 
 But most for miser)' ; and a something clings 
 Close to my heart which is not wantonness, 
 Though, wanton-like, it warms me while it stings. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The night returns, — that night of all the nights ! 
 
 And I am dowered anew with such delights 
 
 As memory feeds on ; for I walked with thee 
 
 In moonlit gardens, and there flew to me 
 
 A flower-like moth, a pinioned daffodil, 
 
 From Nature's hand ; and, out beyond the hill, 
 
 There rose a star I joyed to look upon 
 Because it seemed the star of thy good will.
 
 5>omfna Bsau&f. 85 
 
 XII. 
 
 We sat beneath the trees, as well thou know'st, 
 Within an arbour which a summer's boast 
 Had made ambrosial ; and wc loitered there 
 Some little space, the while upon the air 
 Uprose the fragrance of uncounted flowers. 
 Ah me ! how weird a tryste was that of ours ! 
 
 And how the moon looked down, so lurid- warm, 
 Athwart the stillness of the frondage-towers ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I seemed to feel thy breath upon my cheek ; 
 I vainly searched for words I longed to speak, 
 But could not utter lest the sound thereof 
 Should scare away the elves that wait on love. 
 And when I spoke to thee 'twas of the spot 
 Where we were seated, — things that mattered not, — 
 Uncared for things, — the weather, — the new laws ! 
 And, sudden-loud, the wind assailed the grot. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A little bird was warbling overhead 
 
 As if to twit me with the word unsaid 
 
 Which he, more daring, when the sun was high, 
 
 Trilled to his mate ! He knew the tender "why" 
 
 Of many a pleading, and he knew, meseems, 
 
 The very key-note to the lyric dreams 
 
 Of all true poets when, by love impelled, 
 They search the secrets of the woods and streams.
 
 86 Bigbtb Xftang. 
 
 XV. 
 
 'TlS sure that summer, when she reared the bower 
 And arched the roof and gave it all the dower 
 Of all its leaves, and all the crannies small 
 Where wrens look through, — 'tis sure that, after all, 
 Summer was kind, and meant to make for me 
 A shriving-place, — a lighthouse on the sea 
 
 Of all that verdure, — that, beneath the stars, 
 I might receive one quickening glance from thee. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh ! had I dared to whisper in thine ear 
 My heart-full wish, undaunted by the fear 
 Of some rebuke : — a flush of thy fair face, 
 A lifted hand to tell me that the place 
 Was fairy-fenced, and guarded as by flame. 
 Oh ! had I dared to court the word of blame, — 
 
 That's good for me, no doubt ! at every turn, — 
 My life to-day were chastened by the same. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But I was conscious of a sudden ban 
 Hurled from the zenith. I was like the man 
 Who scaled Olympus, with intent to bring 
 New fire therefrom, and dared not face the King 
 Of thought and thunder. I was full prepared 
 For thy displeasure, — for the past was bared 
 
 To mine on-looking ; and, with faltering tongue, 
 I left my languorous meanings undeclared.
 
 2)omina Bi'auM. 87 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 LOST Occasion ! what a thing art thou : — 
 
 A three-fold key, — the when, the where, the how, — 
 The past, the present and the future tense, — 
 All thrown aside. For what ? A witless sense 
 Of some compunction ! When the hours are bold 
 Reason is shy ; and rapture, seeming-cold, 
 
 Makes mute surrender of its dearest chance, 
 And all for fear of doubts that might be told. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 BUT could we meet, oh ! could we meet again 
 On some such night, unseen upon the plain, 
 I'd rob thee, Lady ! of a tardy smile. 
 
 1 would do this ; and, for a breathing-while, 
 I would assert a sinner's right to pray, 
 
 A sinner's right to choose, as best he may, 
 
 His patron-saint ; and I would kneel to thee, 
 And call thee mine, and dote on thee for aye ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 And then in summer, when the hours are mad, 
 And all the flowerets in the fields are glad, 
 And all the breezes, like demented things, 
 Outspeed the birds with sunlight on their wings, 
 In summer, aye ! in summer's glorious time, 
 I may perchance be pardoned for the crime 
 
 Of my much love, and win thy benison 
 Ere yet the year has reached its golden prime !
 
 IRtntb OLitans. 
 
 LILIUM INTER SPINAS.
 
 

 
 IFUntb Xitanp. 
 
 LILIUM INTER SPINAS. 
 
 Dearest and best of maidens, whom the Fates 
 Have dowered with beauty, whom the glory-gates 
 Have shown so splendid in my waking sight, 
 Is't well, thou syren, thus to haunt the night 
 And grant no mercy, none from week to week 
 All through the year? Is't well my soul to seek 
 
 And shun my body? Is't throughout ordained 
 That thou should'st spurn a love so tender-meek ? 
 
 II. 
 
 1 1 is my joy to praise thee, — 'tis my pride 
 E'en thus to greet thee though anew denied 
 The chance of wisdom, and for this, who knows ? 
 I shall be counted, ere the season's close, 
 A time-pcrverter. Yes ! I shall be shamed, 
 And frowned upon, and day by day proclaimed 
 
 A foe to virtue, though, in seeking thee, 
 I seek the goal that Virtue's self hath named.
 
 92 Wintb Xttang. 
 
 in. 
 
 O LlLY mine ! Lily tipped with gold 
 And welkin-eyed for angels to behold 
 When down on earth ! Is't well to stand apart 
 And gaze at me and gently break my heart 
 Without one word? Is't well to seem alway 
 So grieved to see me, when, at fall of day, 
 
 Thou dost accept the reverence of mine eyes, 
 But not the homage that my lips would pay ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, give me back again, at midnight hour, 
 
 As in the circuit of that starlit bower, 
 
 The right to talk with thee, and be thy friend, — 
 
 The right, in some wild way, to make an end 
 
 Of my submission, or to re-bestow 
 
 My troth on thee, — despite the overthrow 
 
 Of all my dreams, that were my constant care, 
 Though less to thee than flakes of alien snow. 
 
 I will unveil my meanings one by one, 
 And tell thee why the bird that loves the sun 
 Loves not the moon, though conscious of her fame. 
 For he's the soul of truth, in his acclaim, 
 And knows not treason ! And of like intent 
 Are all my yearnings, too, when I lament. 
 
 And, though I say it, there's no troubadour 
 Has lov'd as I, since Cupid's bow was bent.
 
 Xiltum 3ntcr Spinas. 93 
 
 VI. 
 
 I have been wed in sleep, and thou hast been 
 Mine own true bride, — the swooning summer-queen 
 Of my heart-throbs. I have been wed in jest ! 
 I have been taken wildly to thy breast, 
 And then repelled, and made to feel the ire 
 Of eager eyes that have the strange desire 
 
 To rack my soul, — a-tremble in the dark, — 
 But not the will to aid me to aspire. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I SHOULD have died the instant that I heard 
 
 Thy vow in slumber, — when a whispered word 
 
 Made me thy master, — for I did receive 
 
 Thy full surrender, and I'll not believe 
 
 That all was false ; or that my dreaming-power 
 
 Was given for nought. The Future may devour 
 
 The facts of earth, but not its phantasies, 
 And not the dreams we dream from hour to hour. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 OH, thou'lt confess that love from man to maid 
 Is more than kingdoms, — more than light and shade 
 In sky-built gardens where the minstrels dwell, 
 And more than ransom from the bonds of Hell. 
 Thou wilt, I say, admit the truth of this, 
 And half relent that, — shrinking from a kiss, — 
 Thou didst consign me to mine own disdain, 
 Athwart the raptures of a visioned bliss.
 
 94 IRintb Zitaiig. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I'LL seek no joy that is not linked with thine, 
 No touch of hope, no taste of holy wine, 
 And, after death, no home in any star 
 That is not shared by thee, supreme, afar, 
 As here thou'rt first and foremost of all things ! 
 Glory is thine and gladness and the wings 
 
 That wait on thought when, in thy spirit-sway, 
 Thou dost invest a realm unknown to kings. 
 
 x. 
 
 I will accept of thee a poison-bowl 
 
 And drink the dregs thereof, — aye ! to the soul, — 
 
 And sound thy praises with my latest breath ! 
 
 I was a pilgrim bound for Nazareth, 
 
 But when I knew thee, when I touched thy hand, 
 
 I changed my purpose ; and to-day I stand 
 
 Thine amorous vassal, though denounced afresh 
 And warned away, unkisscd, from Edenland. 
 
 XL 
 
 O Flower unequalled here from morn to morn ! 
 
 Is't well, bethink thee, with a rose's thorn 
 
 To deck thyself, thou lily ! and to seem 
 
 So irresponsive to my passion-dream ? 
 
 Is't a caprice of thine to look so proud, 
 
 And so severe, athwart the shining cloud 
 
 Of thy long hair? And shall I never learn 
 How least to grieve thee when my vows are vowed ?
 
 Xtlium 3ntcr Spinas. 95 
 
 XII. 
 
 The full perfection of thy face is such 
 That, like a child's, it seems to know the touch 
 Of some glad hour that God has smiled upon. 
 There is a whiteness whiter than the swan, — 
 A singing sweeter than the linnet's note; 
 But there is nothing whiter than thy throat, 
 
 And nothing sweeter than thy tender voice 
 When, love-attuned, it skyward seems to float. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 LlLY and rose in one ! To find thy peer 
 Exceeds belief, all through the varying year ; 
 For chance thereof, and hope thereof, is none. 
 There comes no rival to the rising sun, 
 And none to thee ! — no rival to the moon 
 That sets in Venice on the far lagoon, 
 
 And none to thee, thou marvel of the months, 
 That art the cynosure of night and noon ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 YES, I will hope. I will not cease to turn 
 
 My thoughts to thee, and cry to thee, and yearn, 
 
 As one in Hell may lift enamoured eyes 
 
 To some sweet soul beyond the central skies 
 
 Whose face has slain him ! For 'tis true, I swear 
 
 I have been murdered by thy golden hair, 
 
 And by the brightness of those fringed orbs 
 That are at once my joy and my despair.
 
 96 Tttfntb XftaiiE. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Winter is wild, — but spring will come again. 
 
 And there's compunction in the fever-pain 
 
 Which earth endures, when, clamorous down the steep, 
 
 The wind out-blows the curse it cannot keep. 
 
 And so, belike, thy scorn of me may change 
 
 To something fairer than the fated range 
 
 Of dole, and doubt, and pity, and reproof ; 
 And then my sighs may cease to seem so strange. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 P'OR thou and I will meet and not be foes, 
 E'en as the rue may stand beside the rose 
 And not affront it, — as a lonely tree 
 May guard a shrine and not upon the lea 
 Be deemed obtrusive, — as an errant knight 
 May serve the sovereign of his soul's delight 
 
 And not, thereby, be deemed of less account 
 Than he who keeps her daily in his sight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Ah, spurn me not that in the world of men, 
 Amon^ the wielders of the sword and pen 
 I have, as 'twere, detractors by the score, — 
 No ! spurn me not for faults that I deplore 
 And fain would alter, — though, if I were wise, 
 I'd blunt the edge thereof in some disguise 
 
 Approved of thee ! For I've a kind of hope 
 That we'll be friends again ere summer dies.
 
 Xilium 3ntcr Spinas. 97 
 
 KVIII. 
 
 If this be true I'll greet thee with such fire 
 That thou wilt throb thereat, as throbs a lyre, 
 And give thine answer, too, without restraint, 
 And neither frown at me nor fear a taint 
 In my much zeal, that knows not any pause 
 But, night and day, is constant to the laws 
 Of its own making, and is fain to prove 
 How leagued it is throughout to Honor's cause. 
 
 XI x. 
 
 I will conceal from thee no thought of mine. 
 All will be clear as signing of a sign 
 On marriage-scrips ; and, though I tell thee so, 
 The seas and streams of earth shall cease to flow 
 Ere thou shalt find, in this world or the next, 
 A love so proud, a faith so firmly sexed, 
 
 As this of mine. For thou'rt the polar star 
 To which I turn as minstrel to his text. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But woe's the hour ! My heart is wounded sore, 
 And soon may cease to take, as heretofore, 
 Such keen delight in tears that comfort not, 
 But evermore do seem to leave a blot 
 On sorrow's teaching ! Shall I muse thereon 
 One season more, till hope and faith be gone ? 
 
 Or must I look for comfort up in Heaven 
 And then be slain by thee as night by dawn ?
 
 XTentb Xitanp. 
 
 GLORIA IN EXCELSIS.
 
 Ucnth litany, 
 
 GLORIA IN EXCELSIS. 
 
 -esssss- 
 
 O Love ! O Lustre of the sunlit earth 
 That knows thy step and revels in the worth 
 Of thy much beauty ! Is't thy will anew, 
 Famed as thou art, to marvel that I sue 
 With such persistence, and in such unrest, 
 Amid the frenzies of my passion-quest? 
 
 Wilt look ungently, and without a tear, 
 On all the pangs I bear at thy behest ? 
 
 ll. 
 
 MORNING and eve I cease not, when I kneel 
 To my Redeemer for my spirit's weal 
 And for my body's, — as becomes a man,— 
 Morning and eve I cease not in the span 
 Of all my days, O thou Unconquered One ! 
 To pray for thee, and do what may be done 
 
 To re-acquire the friendship I have lost, 
 Which is the holiest thing beneath the sun.
 
 io2 Zcnth Xltam?. 
 
 in. 
 
 FOR what is fame that with so loud a voice 
 
 O'ersways the nations ? What the random choice 
 
 Of sight and sound which makes the place we fill 
 
 So fraught with good, so redolent of ill ? 
 
 Where is the thunderstorm of yesternight 
 
 That shook the clouds ? And where the levin's blight 
 
 That spake of chaos and the Judgment Day ? 
 And where the wisdom of a king's delight ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Could I be kissed of thee, or crowned of men, 
 I'd choose the kiss. I'd be ordained then 
 Lord of myself, and not the slave I seem 
 To each new doubt ! — Our tryste was like a dream 
 And yet 'twas true ; for oft, by wonder-chance, 
 We find the path to many a bright romance, 
 And many a tilt and tourney of dear love 
 In which the brave are vanquished by a glance. 
 
 To lie alone with thee one little hour, 
 
 And cling to thee as flower may cling to flower, 
 
 With no rough thought beyond the peace thereof, - 
 
 To be thy comrade, and to don and doff 
 
 The little chain that hangs about thy neck, — 
 
 To do all this, my Fair One ! and to fleck 
 
 Thine eyes with kisses, were a righteous deed, 
 And not a thing for Love to hold in check.
 
 Gloria in Brcclsfs. 103 
 
 VI. 
 
 Nay, there are dimples which I long to taste, 
 And there's a girdle fit for Phoebe's waist 
 Which I would loosen ; for I have the skill 
 To handle lilies ; and, by Venus' will, 
 I'd handle thee, and comfort thee therein. 
 For love's a sacrament I'd die to win, 
 
 And not a toy nor yet a subterfuge ; 
 And not a pitfall for the feet of sin. 
 
 vn. 
 
 The searching suddenness of thy blue eyes, — 
 The flash thereof,— the fire that in them lies, — 
 All this I yearn to, — all the soul of thee 
 Shown in thy looks, as though to solace me 
 In some disaster portioned out as mine. 
 Where thou abidest, where thy limbs recline, 
 
 Where thou'rt absorbed in silence or in prayer, 
 There stands a throne, there gleams a fairy shrine. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I am, indeed, more subject to thy sway 
 
 Than trees are subject, in their tender way, 
 
 To earth's great king revolving round the sphere. 
 
 I am thy suffering servant all the year ; 
 
 And when I wake thy name is on my lips, 
 
 And when I sleep I feel thy finger-tips 
 
 Pressed on mine eyes, as if thy wraith were there, 
 To save my soul from night's entire eclipse.
 
 io4 Zcntb Xitans. 
 
 IX. 
 
 TILL I have hoard from thee my doom of death 
 I shall be proud to serve thee with my breath, 
 And with my labour, and be thine withal 
 As Man is God's, — content with any thrall 
 That's bound in thee, — content with any lot 
 That's linked with thine, in some secluded spot 
 Which thou hast loved, O Lady ! in the past, 
 And where remorse and wrong will find us not. 
 
 x. 
 
 To know thee fair, ah God ! how sweet is this ; 
 To find thee wavering, and to grasp in bliss 
 Only the dream of thee, how sad the while ! 
 And yet, by reason of a moment's smile, 
 How grand to hope, how gracious to forget ! 
 Thou false to me ? Thou heedless of a debt 
 
 Of love's incurring? Nay, by Juno's crown, 
 Thy snow-white hand shall be my guerdon yet ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 The spirit-love that leads us to the soul 
 Athwart the body as its fairest goal, — 
 The love that lives in languor undefined 
 And yet is strong, — the love that can be kind 
 And yet aggressive as a soldier's blade, 
 Keen to the hilt, entranced and not afraid, — 
 This is the love that will survive the death 
 Of all endowments which the years have made.
 
 Gloria in Ejcclste. 105 
 
 XII. 
 
 WlLT frown at this ? Wilt chide me ? Wilt appeal, 
 As some are wont, when lovers, out of zeal, 
 O'erstep the bounds of wisdom which hath ceased 
 To win men's praise? The Matins of the East 
 Sung by the lark, — the Credo of the Cloud 
 Which oft he trills in confirmation proud 
 
 Of his great love, — all this were mine excuse 
 If I could sing as he, so dawn-endowed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 For I'd be welcome, then, where'er thou art, 
 And gladden thee and play as prompt a part 
 As Romeo played with Juliet at his breast. 
 Who loves not love, who hates to be caressed, 
 Is Nature's bane ; and I'll denounce him, too. 
 For he's a foe to all that's just and true 
 
 In earth and Heaven ; and when he seeks a joy, 
 His quest shall fail, — his hand shall miss the clue. 
 
 xiv. 
 
 We know these things. We know how dark a word 
 
 May let in light, and how the smallest bird 
 
 May mix the morn with music till we think 
 
 The fire-lit air is wine for us to drink, — 
 
 And every drop salvation, — every sound 
 
 A Muse"s whisper, — all the flower-full ground 
 
 A fancy-carpet fit for knights to tread 
 When on their way to Arthur's Table Round.
 
 io6 Zcnth Xttanw 
 
 XV. 
 
 A FOOL, a fool is he who'll not up-raise 
 His hands in prayer, athwart the danger-days 
 Which come to all. For he, when waxen old, 
 Will search the past and find it callous-cold ; 
 And all the future, too, will freeze for him. 
 Nor shall he weep aright when tears bedim 
 
 His desperate, doleful eyes that know not faith ; 
 And he shall hear no chants of cherubim. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 I was bewitch'd of late ! My soul had met 
 Some fearful doom ; and there had dropt a threat, - 
 A curse belike, — from lips of Atropos. 
 There had been done a deed of spirit-loss 
 Which did o'erwhelm me as I paused thereat. 
 But now 'tis shunn'd ; and where a Tremor sat 
 Now sits a Hope ; and where a gulf was seen 
 Now stands a mount as grand as Ararat. 
 
 XVII, 
 
 The rose is silent, and the lily dumb 
 For Man alone. He sees them when they come 
 Blest from the soil : but what they mean thereby, 
 And what they dream of, when they front the sky, 
 Eludes his learning. Yet the birds can tell. 
 Moths talk to flowers : and breezes in the dell 
 Hear more confessions than we men reveal ; 
 And oaks and cedars love each other well.
 
 Gloria In lEjcclste. 107 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 In woodland places where the grass is lit 
 With lamp-like flowers, I seem to see thee flit 
 On azure wings, as if to bless the glade ; 
 For, everywhere, thy form in shine and shade 
 Doth come and go, conversant, — as I deem, — 
 With Nature's whims. For thou'rt of great esteem 
 
 In fairy haunts ; and elves and fays confess 
 How sweet thou art, my Love ! and how supreme. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Diana's self was not more virgin-proud. 
 The maiden-moon, new-seated on a cloud 
 Which seems her throne where she receives the stars,— 
 The moon who holds her court beyond the jars 
 Of land and sea, — the moon, the vestal moon, 
 Has kept thee cold since the transcendant noon 
 Of that wild day when I thy hand did claim, 
 And when thy lips refused me their boon. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But thoughts are free ; and mine have found at last 
 
 Their apt solution : and, from out the past, 
 
 There seems to shine as 'twere a beacon-fire. 
 
 Yea, all the land is lit with large desire 
 
 Of lambent glory ; all the quivering sea 
 
 Is big with waves that wait the Morn's decree, 
 
 As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile 
 Athwart the splendors of my dreams of Thee !
 
 GLADYS THE SINGER.
 
 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Canto tfirst. 
 
 Ye who have known the pangs that lovers know, 
 The tears, the tremors, and the sovereign glow 
 Of some enthralment fresh from Fairyland, 
 And, therewithal, the sprites, who in a band 
 Uphold', unseen, the courtship of true men, — 
 
 ye bright souls ! for whom, with faltering pen, 
 
 1 trace, e'en now, this tale of love and pride, 
 Accept, I pray you, safe and sanctified, 
 
 My lovers twain who fared not righteously ! 
 For you have loved as they in their degree 
 And hoped as they, and sighed as they have done, 
 And sought the folly which is barred to none, 
 But stands and smiles and waits for us alway. 
 And lo ! I note the things that, day by day, 
 You guard and foster, with enravished eyes, 
 And how you count the toys of your emprize : — 
 The keepsake-flower,— the curl that's passion-dear,- 
 The scented scroll that's read from year to year.
 
 U2 CMaC^s tbe Singer. 
 
 And while I note these things and muse thereon 
 I think of those sweet souls beyond the dawn 
 Whose love was flame. O deathless ! O ye dead ! 
 Are ye well met ? Have ye no tears to shed 
 Not e'en for joy ? Is love not worth a kiss 
 Up there in Heaven ? A mere seraphic bliss 
 Fit for a saint ?— God help us then each one ! — 
 And you, my brothers, you this side the sun, 
 Who love true-love, believe this much of me, 
 That I have worshipped Love upon my knee 
 And almost feared it. I have trembled too 
 In my much joy ! A glove,— a ribbon's hue,— 
 Have moved me strangely ; and in lonely hours, 
 In empty chambers, and in starlit bowers, 
 I have as 'twere enthroned a sainted Grief, 
 And paid it homage. Have you found relief 
 In tears and dreams,— as I have done full oft, — 
 And not been proud or perjured when, aloft, 
 A lark has seemed to trill the loved one's name ? 
 I pray you all, by Love's resistless flame, 
 Accept of me this tale which now is told. 
 For there's no shame in Truth ; and Hope's a-cold 
 That has no dreams to feed it. . . . 
 
 Far away 
 There stood, in years gone by, athwart the spray 
 That dashed the sea-born crags, a lordly tower ; 
 And, down the valley,— offshoot of its dower,— 
 A lowly cot embowered in such a nook 
 As lured Apollo when, with pipe and crook, 
 He wooed Acantha. And within its walls 
 A nymph was sheltered whom a Legend calls
 
 <5IaDv?s tbc Singer. "3 
 
 Gladys the Singer, — one of those elect 
 
 And fond fair women whom the world has decked 
 
 With Dead Sea laurels. 
 
 He who owned the land 
 
 Was young and rich and lavish of his hand, 
 
 And well he knew the bower, aye ! as the kite 
 
 May know the dove-cot ; and a-down the height 
 
 He strode alone, one lustrous autumn-day, 
 
 Brain-sick with fancies such as warp the sway 
 
 Of Eros' children ; and his steps he turned 
 
 To where the cottage stood amid the burned 
 
 And withering foliage. But, beside the same, 
 
 He paused in doubt ; and, with a kindling shame, 
 
 Half glad, half sad, he heard a matin song 
 
 Sung, as it seemed, by One who did belong 
 
 To angel-choirs. And, as he drained the draught 
 
 Of that sweet voice,— as soul and body quaffed 
 
 The nectarous notes, — a something from his eyes 
 
 Fell like a film, and all the earth and skies 
 
 And all the frondage of the forest way 
 
 Re-took the raptures of the month of May. 
 
 And in his thought he roamed beside the stream 
 
 Where she had led him, — where the golden gleam 
 
 Of her bright hair had crowned the tender grace 
 
 Of her lithe body,— and her matchless face 
 
 Had made him mad ! For, vision-like, he stood 
 
 Alone with her in Heaven, and found it good, — 
 
 Found it the one sweet thing of all things known, 
 
 To sit with her at twilight, all alone, 
 
 In halcyon spots, — the universe their own. 
 
 H
 
 U4 ©la&ss tbe Singer. 
 
 A bowery nook, a sea-side lonely cave, 
 
 These were his haunts, and more he did not crave ! 
 
 But now he loitered near the very shrine 
 
 Of this loved soul, and heard her voice divine 
 
 Peal out supreme. — He opened with a smile 
 
 The querulous door, and stood,, a breathing-while, 
 
 Straight in her sight. . . . 
 
 She rushed into his arms 
 Tear-lit with joy, and glowing in the charms 
 Of white surrender : " O my Love ! my Love ! 
 So true, so gentle, so insured above 
 All time and distance ! I have yearned for thee 
 As earth for summer, as the lonely sea 
 For midnight stars ; and now thou'rt here at last, 
 I mean to cling to thee, and hold thee fast, 
 Aye ! as a chain might do, I mean to cling 
 Fast round thy soul, and sphere thee like a ring. 
 What ! not one word ? And gloomy, too, and chill, 
 On this bright day? O Roland ! thou art ill, 
 And wilt not tell me ! Thou'rt convulsion-pale, 
 And in thy gaze I read the dismal tale 
 Of some foreboding. O my dearest one ! 
 My life, my death, my All beneath the sun ! 
 In God's good name I charge thee make it clear 
 What makes thee sad? And if thou need a tear 
 Seek it in me. — for I have learnt the way 
 To shed more tears than thou wilt need to-day." 
 
 "Kay, Gladys, nay !" with smiles he answered her, 
 '"Tis much ; 'tis nothing ! Some unwonted stir 
 In household matters. — Words are empty things. 
 Why should they hurt ? If Faithfulness had wings
 
 GlaOps tbe Singer. 115 
 
 'Twould quit me now ; 'tis here, and thou art She. 
 Nay, sit thee down, and I will yield to thee 
 My sure confession." 
 
 Gladys, with a look 
 Half frown, half smile, obeyed him ; yet she shook 
 As shakes an aspen when the winds are hushed, 
 And all the meadow-lands are sunset-flushed. 
 And he ? Remorse was with him ; and apart 
 He stood absorbed. Should he consult his heart ? 
 Or serve ambition ? He had won the soul 
 Of this sweet woman, and to his control 
 His words had swayed her. Should he put to scorn 
 The threats and frets and sneers which, all the morn, 
 Had marred his peace?— Aye ! should he, as a knight 
 In olden time had done for his delight, 
 Accept, revere, enshrine, and re-endow 
 This blue-eyed wonder with his marriage-vow ? 
 He stilled a sigh, and turned to her, and spake : — 
 " Thou know'st, O Gladys ! for thine honour's sake, 
 And for thyself that art as Heaven to me, 
 I would not break the oath which unto thee 
 My lips have sworn. But I, too long I fear, 
 Have stood between thy life and that career 
 Which waits for thee, — as Silence in the dales 
 Waits, after dark, for songs of nightingales ! 
 I should have warned thee. In my heart I knew 
 That tedious hours, and sorrows, not a few, 
 Would be thy meed, if here thou didst prolong 
 Thy tell-tale absence from the world of song." 
 
 She heard abashed. Was he indeed possessed 
 Of foregone knowledge, though so late confessed ?
 
 m6 <3laD\?s tbe Singer. 
 
 Or was he wearied of their sylvan bliss ? 
 
 She mused an instant in the fear of this ; 
 
 And then, without a sign, she drooped her head 
 
 And wept outright,— such tears as children shed 
 
 When, 'mid a storm, they hear their parents pray. 
 
 Women are stronger than we care to say, 
 And when they weep they conquer more than men 
 With sword or sceptre ; for they bind us then 
 With weak, warm hands, as with a festal wreath. 
 Let those who draw the sword from out its sheath, 
 And those who sit and stare on gilded thrones, 
 Beware of Woman ! She, in all the zones 
 And all the courts of earth, and all its bowers, 
 Is queen elect of all the golden hours. 
 She is the ruler whom the rulers know, 
 And when she wills a thing, in joy or woe, 
 In health or sickness, or remorse or sin, 
 The high-born knight must bow to her therein. 
 'Twas so to-day when, with a mute caress, 
 She spake her trust, and, clothed in courtliness, 
 Made known her fears, — and this with such a mien, 
 And such sweet fervour, and so bright a sheen 
 Of pout and blush, that, for a moments space, 
 He gazed, relenting, on her radiant face, 
 And loathed himself ; and trembled at her glance, 
 And vowed to God that his was evil chance 
 To do this thing, and in his very shame 
 To fear to name it, though in Honour's name. 
 
 He eyed her face, the brighter for the rush 
 Of those quick tears ; and kissed away the blush 
 That warmed her cheek as with a rose's stain, 
 And then re-kissed it to its place again.
 
 <3la^3 the Singer. "7 
 
 So weak she seemed and yet so strong withal, 
 
 And so exacting, that, within her thrall, 
 
 Man as he was, he felt the force in him 
 
 Melt into misery, and a tear bedim 
 
 His traitorous gaze ; for he was one of those 
 
 Who fear the scoffs of beauty more than blows. 
 
 But she could mark the menace and the drift 
 
 Of thoughts unuttered, and her soul could sift 
 
 Sound from the sense thereof; and thus she 
 
 spake : 
 "O Roland ! O my Master ! for thy sake 
 I have been stabbed by doubts and lain awake 
 Night after night, to dream of wayward things, — 
 A moth's lament, a flower with folded wings, 
 An April daisy turned into a screen 
 For elfin lovers, and the face serene 
 Of my dead sister, who, though like to me 
 As flakes of snow are like the foam at sea, 
 Would thrust me back, full soon, could she behold 
 My fall"n estate, and all my promise-gold 
 Turned into dust,— I mean the pride I had 
 In mine own self, ere doting made me mad. 
 Ah, gracious God ! how glad were I to pass, 
 Young as I am, beneath the churchyard grass, 
 If, but an instant, ere I went that way, 
 I might re-win the right I had to pray ! " 
 
 But he, soft-smiling, gazed on her, and stood 
 Silent apace, as one, within a wood, 
 Haunted by pixies at the swooning-hour 
 Of birds and bushes, when the moon has power. 
 Aye ! as a man entranced, when night is done, 
 May note the world's betrothal to the sun,
 
 us ©laCws tbc Singer. 
 
 E'en so he watched her, with a pent-up sigh, 
 
 And thus addressed her : — "Thou'rt too young to die, 
 
 And much too fair. Who knows it more than thou ? 
 
 But mark me, Sweet One ! for I lie not now, 
 
 Nor have I lied to thee at any time, 
 
 Or wronged in thought the holy wedding chime, 
 
 Or spurned an oath, or feared a promise-ring. 
 
 No ! I have thought no lie, nor would I bring 
 
 Sorrow to thee or shame, or make thee rue 
 
 The rapt confession of thine eyes of blue, 
 
 When first I saw thee in the Long-Ago 
 
 Of this year's May, as blameless as the snow 
 
 Which makes its eyrie on a mountain's crest. 
 
 Beauty is thine and Music, and the quest 
 
 For power and wealth and all the joys of fame 
 
 And all the rhapsodies that, round a name, 
 
 Burst into splendour to possess a world ! 
 
 Glory is thine, and on thy lips impearled 
 
 A smile so sweet, so lustrous in its mirth, 
 
 That none has known, till now, upon the earth, 
 
 A dream so true, a joy so fair to see." 
 
 "A dream. — a joy ? Ah, thou canst flatter me ! " 
 She rippled forth, in answer to his speech, 
 " Hut I am here, to hide me, out of reach, 
 If thou upbraid me, — as I know thou wilt, — 
 For my much trust,— itself a kind of guilt. 
 Am I attaint, or guiltless in thy sight, 
 For my day-dreams ?" 
 
 He answered her aright : — 
 " I am not worthy of so grand a boon 
 As thy great love ; for not the sun and moon,
 
 6la&\?6 tbc Singer. "9 
 
 And not the stars, in all their course, have known 
 
 Such gem-like joy ; and I would fain atone, 
 
 If thou permit me, by a prompt assent 
 
 To all thy dreams, for Art's aggrandisement ; 
 
 Aye ! have thee robed, and see thee crowned again, 
 
 As Music's Queen,— returned to her domain." 
 
 "Music's domain?" she cried. "Nay, that is 
 done. 
 For lo ! I love thee as a kneeling nun 
 Loves, in the circuit of her little cell, 
 The pictured face of Christ who conquered Hell. 
 E'en so I love thee, Sweetheart ! and I swear, 
 By God's own mouth, and by His auburn hair, 
 That I will slay thee if thou'rt false to me !" 
 Therewith she flushed as red as roses be 
 And sprang to him, and quavered in her voice. 
 " O Love ! " she cried, " O Roland ! O my Choice ! 
 Sorrow be mine, not thine, if I offend. 
 It seems I vex thee ! Shall I make an end, 
 Here, in this place, with this thy jewelled knife, 
 At once of loving and of loveless life ? 
 Winter is wild. The storm may want a wife. 
 And I am friendless as a foundering ship ! 
 The hours recoil ; the monstrous moments slip 
 Fast through my fingers, while I count the beads 
 Of my poor life,— the rosary of my deeds 
 Good, bad, and selfish, and the joy therein 
 Which oft 1 found, undaunted by the sin,— 
 If sin it be,— which brought me to thy side. 
 I loved thee, Roland ! as, at eventide, 
 The lowly daisy, in her hood of green, 
 Loves the set sun,— and keeps her face unseen
 
 120 (MaDgs tbc Singer. 
 
 Through all the drowsy hours of sainted night, 
 
 Till dawn restores the Loved One to her sight. 
 
 Oh ! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, 
 
 Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire. 
 
 I can be made to feel the pangs of death, 
 
 And yet be constant to the quest of breath, — 
 
 Our poor, pale trick of living through the lies 
 
 We name Existence, when that 'something' dies 
 
 Which we call Honour. Many and many a way 
 
 Can I be struck, or fretted, night and day, 
 
 In some new fashion, or condemned the while 
 
 To take for food the semblance of a smile, 
 
 The left-off rapture of a slain caress, 
 
 And ' Yes ' for ' No, ' and ' No' perchance for ' Yes. ' 
 
 Ah ! well I see, of comfort there is none, 
 
 And no completion of the faith begun, 
 
 When moon and star, and swift- ascending sun, 
 
 Brought joy to me, and made me, as I wis, 
 
 The thing I am, soul-famished for a kiss." 
 
 He raised her hand, and kissed it, as a king, 
 For some cold vow, might do so staid a thing. 
 But as he kissed her, — careful as the snow 
 Which falls on flowers, — she frowned, and murmured 
 
 low : — 
 " Too kind, — good Sir ! " and dashed away a tear, 
 And waved him back, as mindful to appear 
 Nor grave nor gay, nor bashful in her mind ; 
 And, far away, the wailing autumn wind 
 Sobbed o'er the sea, alone and unconfined, — 
 Like some poor lover, whom the nights and days 
 Have robbed alike of triumph and of praise.
 
 (Ma&BS tbe Sinflct. I21 
 
 " O friend ! " he answered, " I am much to blame. 
 I taught thee this ; I taught thee how to name 
 Sorrow and sin and suffering ; and for thee 
 I brought myself to sue, aye ! on my knee, 
 To my proud sire. O Gladys ! wouldst thou guess, 
 His rude retort, his smile of bitterness ? 
 Nay, hear me, Gladys !" 
 
 With a frown she drew 
 A quick, hot breath, and looked him through and 
 
 through, 
 And then replied :— " I gave thee all I had, — 
 My youth, my truth, my life, and all things glad, 
 All thoughts of love, all hopes of peace to come, 
 And only kept away my sorrows' sum, — 
 My tears and fears and sighs, and all the shame 
 That burnt the bays of what I deemed my fame. 
 If still remembered in the world of men, 
 If honoured still beyond this desert-glen 
 Where now we've met, I care not. I am dead 
 To all delights with which my soul I fed, 
 And all ambitions in the realm of art, 
 And all the fond desires that were a part 
 Of my young life, before I came to thee. " 
 
 "What need," he answered, "here beside the 
 sea, 
 Where Art and Nature have the world for friend, 
 What need, my Love ! of tears that come to end 
 Full soon for lovers, — and for women first ? 
 What need hast thou for rancour, or for thirst 
 Of things withheld unkindly, — who shall say ! — 
 Or hid from sight, or haply kept away
 
 122 $la2>gs tbc Singer. 
 
 For some good purpose ?" And he bent his head 
 And moved his lips, and, with a word unsaid, 
 Looked at her straight. 
 
 " O God ! " she stammered out, 
 " Can such things be ? Nay, Sir, beyond a doubt, 
 You men are just ; but, by your tardy leave, 
 We women, too, may learn, while we deceive, 
 To preach like you ! — 'Twas Adam tempted Eve ! 
 He bade her eat. He tempted her to fall, 
 And then denounced her ! " And, with this recall 
 Of her past life, she lifted up her face, 
 As one who sees a snake a-near the place 
 She thought secure ; and flashed a proud disdain 
 On his mute wonder and the look of pain 
 With which he eyed her ; and she spake again : — 
 "Men have their rights, I know, and thou hast 
 
 thine, 
 To break the bowl and squander all the wine ! 
 But tell me, quick, thy father's final word, 
 And what, in shame, to-day thine ears have heard?" 
 
 His faltering lips made answer to her quest : — 
 " He was unjust, and stern, and ill at rest, 
 But clear, emphatic, certain of his power. 
 ' Thou must dismiss,' he said, 'this very hour, 
 All thoughts of love till I permit the same.' 
 And, with a cold aspersion on thy fame, 
 He wrung my heart with words I will not name." 
 
 Sudden as fire she started to her feet : 
 "And thou ?" she cried, "Thine answer to the heat 
 ( >f this distemper ? " Like a craven man 
 He hung his head, and blushed as he began
 
 (Slacks tbc Singer. 123 
 
 Some stuttering words. " I am controlled," he 
 
 said, 
 " By claims of kindred, which the quick and dead 
 Alike have bowed to. For my father's sake, 
 For mine and his, I must at once partake 
 Of his fell purpose, and restore thy troth, 
 And claim of thee mine own mistaken oath, 
 This, and no less." 
 
 " No less ?" she swift replied. 
 "This,— and no less? Well, well, I must have 
 
 died 
 Some time to-day ! I must have met my death 
 Some minutes since, or, with thy cruel breath, 
 Thou hadst not dared,— in presence of my corse,— 
 To rack my soul with word of this divorce. 
 But leave me quickly, for the dead are proud, 
 And murdered oaths are safest in a shroud ! 
 I hate thee, Roland ! and my hate is such 
 I would not soil my finger with a touch 
 Of thy white body, though to touch it now 
 Made me an Empress. O thou traitor, thou ! 
 Traitor to me and mine,— if mine there be 
 In days hereafter, — O thou sad-to-see, 
 And dark and dread pale spectre of the thing 
 I loved and feared and reverenced as a king ! 
 Nay, I have eyes. I see thee. I can trace 
 The coward blush that lurks about thy face, 
 And fears its colour, — fears to show itself, 
 Lest it should wear the livid look of pelf, 
 Or mark thy cheek with some detested blot. 
 I know thy purpose, though thou tell it not :
 
 i24 OlaCws tbe Singer. 
 
 To wed hereafter, — for Ambition's sake,- 
 Some high-born dam< 
 Thy thirst of power. 1 ' 
 
 Some high-born dame with gold enough to slake 
 
 He made a quick retort : 
 " No bride for me, in good or ill report, — 
 In all the round of all my nights and days." 
 But with a withering look she met his gaze, 
 As she would stab him with that very knife 
 Whereof she spake, ere yet a word of strife 
 Had sprung between them ; and she raised her head 
 And flashed contempt. "Thou art some serf," she 
 
 said, 
 " Stol'n in the night from some marauder's shed, 
 And made to take the place, — a place belied, — 
 Of son and heir, — a castle's foolish pride ! 
 But One who knows all things beneath the sun 
 Hath frowned on thee, and sees what thou hast done ; 
 And all thy heart is bared to Him to-day, 
 And all thou say'st, — and all thou still wouldst say." 
 
 She paused an instant with a weary thought 
 That he might scatter all her doubts to nought, — 
 All her distress, and all the throbs of pain 
 That worked within her ; and she spake again : — 
 " O thou dried soul whom once I deemed a man, 
 Monarch of men, and mine for all the span 
 Of our two lives, in this world and the next, 
 O thou weak boaster of a brainless text, 
 Fitter to fill a trench than be the curse 
 Of one more summer, or to move me worse 
 Than now thou mov'st me ! Nay, I hate thee not. 
 Who hates the worm ? Who hates the canker-blot
 
 <3laJ>£s tbc Singer. 125 
 
 On some poor tree ? I see thee as thou art. 
 I sound thy depths. I read thee to the heart. 
 I find thee shallow as a clamorous rill 
 That wends its way, uncalled for, down a hill ! " 
 As thus she spake, his face from white to red, 
 And red to white, as of a man half dead, 
 Grew famine-featured while he looked at her, 
 And owned the mastery and the fitful spur 
 Of her wild anger ; and was nigh to sue 
 For absolution, as his passion-due. 
 But, like a standard-pole whose flag is down, 
 Or like the base usurper of a crown, 
 He stood erect, and, clothed in his deceit, 
 Eyed her aghast, as one who would retreat 
 In some sleek way, if, ere proceeding thence, 
 He might be pardoned for his Love's offence. 
 
 " One word ! " she answered to his mute appeal, 
 " One further word ! " And then, as she would 
 
 reel, 
 Or swoon, or die, or do some deadly thing, 
 She clutched the air, as men at sea may cling, 
 Wrecked as they are, to some discarded rope. 
 She ached towards him with a kind of hope, 
 And then dismissed it, and in accents weak, 
 And tears held back, continued thus to speak : — 
 "Thou know'st all women well, — thou oft hast 
 
 said ; 
 Thou know'st not me. Go, know thyself instead, — 
 What man thou art, how false and how unjust 
 To Nature's test, and Knighthood's holy trust. 
 I loved thee not ! I loved a foolish dream 
 That looked like thee. I saw thee in the gleam
 
 126 ©lafcvs tbc Singer. 
 
 Of some bright thought ; I deemed thee such an one 
 
 As minstrels sing of, when they drape the sun, 
 
 And make him Man, to crown him with a crown ! 
 
 Thou wast the flower of all the world's renown 
 
 In my glad sight ; but now, to see thee there, 
 
 I seem to see the wraith of some despair, — 
 
 A thing so rude, so robber-like in plan, 
 
 I would not have thee for my serving-man ! 
 
 Aye, aye, 'tis so !— I swear by God's delight 
 
 When with His hand He parted day and night, 
 
 And by the stars, and by the saints of heaven, 
 
 That I repent me of my girlhood given 
 
 To thy rude touch ! All evil thee beset, 
 
 Thou blight of morning ! All remorse and shame 
 
 Possess thy soul, and sap the ancient fame 
 
 Of thy great house ! I was too frail a thing, 
 
 Too quickly won, — too impotent to sting, — 
 
 A fair-haired frailty with attractive eyes, — 
 
 A doll,— a puppet, — something from the skies 
 
 For thy caressing, and belike in time 
 
 For thy denouncing, as a minute's crime 
 
 Done up in silk ! But should'st thou, for thy peace, — 
 
 If peace it be, — should'st thou, ere autumn cease, 
 
 Require a toy, a heart to play withal, 
 
 An unwed wife to answer to thy call, — 
 
 Say I was proud, and spurned thee from my side ; 
 
 Say that the love between us snapped and died, 
 
 As dies a tune, as snaps the strained chord 
 
 Of some wild harp, — too weak to be restored. 
 
 Nay ! say this, too : I claim no part in thee, 
 
 For I would liefer trust a wave at sea,
 
 (3ladv?5 tbc Singer. 127 
 
 A pent-up fire, a raging famished bear, 
 
 Than thy false heart ! — I loved thy raven hair ; 
 
 I hate it now. I loved thy hand so white, 
 
 Thy face, thy form, — thy flattery, day and night, — 
 
 And thy dark eyes and alabaster brow ; 
 
 Be God my witness how I hate them now ! " 
 
 He stood transfixed ; he quivered as he heard ; 
 He made as he would speak some ruffian word, 
 Some word uncased by torture from his soul, 
 Beyond the boundaries of his blood's control. 
 But with a groan he conquered this intent, 
 And smiled on her, as some reflex is sent 
 From westward skies, at waning of the day, 
 When winds of winter spurn the clouds away. 
 " Let us be friends/' he urged, with lifted head, 
 "For Love's sweet sake, for Love that was not 
 
 dead 
 That night in June !— for Love that lured us on 
 To deeds that wrecked us on the shores of dawn ! 
 E'en for that love, I say, be generous now, 
 And grant some liking, though the Fates allow 
 Small time for rapture. Say ! shall this be done, 
 And we forget the dream that made us One ?" 
 
 " Hence ! Quit my sight ! " she cried ; and with her 
 hand 
 She waved him back, — white-heated fair and grand, 
 As some sweet lady whom a clown has vexed, — 
 " Awav, — thou boor ! " 
 
 One moment, and the next, 
 He stood full-height ; and then, with half a stare, 
 And half a scowl, out-sauntered in the air.
 
 i2S (Blacks tbe Singer. 
 
 " She must be mad," he thought. And, slow, retraced 
 His measured steps, athwart the shingly waste. 
 But she leapt forward, like a stricken deer, 
 With one great cry, brow-beaten in her fear, 
 And yet transformed to something half divine. 
 For Love had torn the darkness for a sign, 
 And, sharp within her soul, a something stirred 
 Like wounded wings of some imprisoned bird. 
 
 " Come back ! Come back ! " she cried, and open 
 
 flung 
 The near-shut window, where the roses hung 
 In their torn wreaths, " Come back and learn from me 
 What no man knows, — what haply unto thee 
 May bring content." But, shuddering tamely there, 
 The wild cry fell ; and through her gold-like hair 
 Her face looked out as on a winter's night 
 The icy moon looks down through vapours white. 
 " Come back ! " she cried to that retreating form 
 Which heard her not ; and weird, and wan, and 
 
 warm, 
 She craned her neck to note the path he took, 
 And swayed herself, as sways beside a brook 
 A lonely willow on a breathless day ; 
 And with her lips she made as she would say : — 
 '■ I was thy faithful wife, though wed in sport 
 As wives were wedded once in Arthur's court. 
 Yet heed my plea ! Two hearts are knit in one 
 In my poor frame." 
 
 But utterance found she none ; 
 And, ere ecstatic she could shape the words, 
 And waft them forth as Summer wafts the birds,
 
 ©la&ss tbc Sinner. 129 
 
 For joy, for memory, or for griefs control, 
 Her face convulsed, and o'er her tottering soul 
 The storm-cloud burst ; and tears shut out the light. 
 
 And so it came to pass, in her despite, 
 That he ignored the secret, sad and sweet, 
 Wherewith she ached at ever)' pulse's beat ; 
 And, later on, the breezes told the flowers 
 How One who must have wept for many hours 
 Fled through the wood. It was some sprite, — they 
 
 said, — 
 A nymph, a naiad, — One who, as she fled, 
 O'er-ruled her grief, and watched, with aching sight, 
 The blood-red moon go down into the night.
 
 Canto Scconfc. 
 
 Again the spring-time with its songs of love 
 Had come and gone ; again the cooing dove 
 Had called its nestling on the sheenful breeze ; 
 Again the waves of the careering seas 
 Assailed the coast with shouts of wild acclaim, 
 What time the winter-wind, in ocean's name, 
 Hurled out defiance ; and the queen of heaven, 
 The maiden-moon, entranced or in a sweven, 
 Paced up the sky, from autumn unto spring, 
 Unclaimed of men, uncrowned of any king, 
 And only loved aright by loveless maids. 
 And once again the rapture of the glades, — 
 The rout and revel of the spring-decades, — 
 Had filled and thrilled the air with such delight 
 As makes a tourney of the day and night 
 When gale confronts with gale at equinox, 
 And all the cliffs, and all the seaward rocks 
 Have thuds of joy ! Again the forest yearned 
 For sight of summer, and the roses burned 
 On many a hedge, whereon the mounting sun 
 Put forth his trophies. For the world had won 
 The right to cling thereto, as, golden-fleeced, 
 The rapt Hyperion leapt from out the East.
 
 (BlaC»v?s tbc Singer. i3> 
 
 Earth and the sky had called him ; and the land 
 Had smiled, expectant ; and the ocean-strand 
 Had bared her bosom to the sun's caress ; 
 And wind and wave had counted tress on tress 
 Of his long hair, and made a chant thereof 
 Warm, aye ! and wanton as the songs of love 
 Which all men know. And soft the breezes crept 
 From rock to rock, where over-night had slept 
 A white sea-fog, and where, in summer days, 
 The blue hare-bell would sound the Maker's praise 
 In chimes unheard by pedants, but aright 
 (messed at by bards. — The hill was all alight 
 With blazing furze, that keeps the sun in sight, 
 And seems to thrill with sunshine after dark ; 
 And, far away, the lilting of the lark, 
 The prophet-bird, the singer of the dawn, 
 Invested Heaven, as if its mate had gone 
 Straight through the sky, and must be ravished 
 back. 
 
 And lo ! dishevelled, on the upland track, 
 A weary woman with a load of joy, — 
 A Phceban gift, — a bright-eyed baby-boy, 
 With clustering curls ! And she who bore the child 
 Was fair and comely, though with something wild 
 In her blue eyes, and something in her gait 
 That spoke of watchfulness endured of late, 
 As if the ghost of terror had pursued 
 Her faltering steps, and agony, at feud 
 With fairer things, had sapped within her mind 
 The girlish thoughts that linked her with her kind. 
 
 " Here let us rest," she sighed, as on a knoll 
 She bent her down, " and I will ease my soul
 
 132 GHa&BS the Sincicr. 
 
 Of half its weight, and ease my body, too, 
 
 Of its fond burden. For I tell thee true, 
 
 Mine own sweet babe ! that, in this heart of mine. 
 
 Are tears unnumbered, sharper than the brine 
 
 Of salt sea-winds, and fiercer than the flames 
 
 Of crater fires ; and there are fitful names, — 
 
 If I could find them, — for my many blames. 
 
 Dost see, my Roland ! yonder on the ridge, 
 
 This side the forest, near the broken bridge, 
 
 That princely tower? The keys thereof are ours, — 
 
 If we demand them, — all the roofs and towers, 
 
 Yea, all the landscape, all the shining land, 
 
 All ours for ever, if we lift a hand. 
 
 But shall we lift it ? Shall we make appeal 
 
 To one who hates us, — one who will not kneel 
 
 For God's high quittance, — and, beyond his pelf, 
 
 Has nought to love, or pray for, but himself?" 
 
 While thus she parleyed with the tender elf 
 Who called her " Mother," and was all she had 
 This side eternity, to keep her glad. 
 Shudders oppressed her, and there came a sound 
 Of leaves and twigs in ear-shot of the mound 
 Where she was throned. And lo ! towards her 
 
 came 
 A faggot-woman, old and cold and lame, 
 Who seemed the ghost of some dead winter's day 
 Returned to life, to lead the world astray, 
 And mar good thoughts. 
 
 The beldam looked at her. 
 And snarled, aggressive, as a famished cur
 
 6lac>\?s tbc Sincicr. ^i 
 
 Which no man loves. "Wilt do a deed for me," 
 The girl inquired, "and earn an honest fee 
 This heyday morn ? I see thou wilt do this ; 
 For thou art pleased, as when a dream of bliss 
 Comes to a child. Aye ! aye ! the world is sad. 
 I know 'tis so ! But gold will make thee glad." 
 With this she tore a leaflet from a book, 
 And wrote as follows, while her bosom shook 
 With fears untold : — 
 
 " If thou remember now 
 A dream long dead,— a broken, foolish vow, — 
 A poor, pale ghost who, in the years gone by, 
 Was known as Gladys,— quit thy turret high, 
 And seek, this day, the place thou knowest well : 
 The Witches* Cave, the ante-room of Hell,— 
 If Heaven and Hell be one thing and the same, 
 And hope a snare, and misery but a name ! 
 I have a lustrous jewel here with me 
 Which bears thy mark ; a thing so fair to see 
 That many a man of pride would sell for this 
 All things he hath, and all his chance of bliss 
 In worlds far off. But yet, oh ! read me right, 
 And heed me well. This is no fool's delight, 
 And no poor treasure from the marts of men, 
 Which now I speak of ; for a poet's pen, 
 A painter's brush, a sculptor's art divine, 
 Alone were fit to vaunt this gem of mine. 
 A rapturous burst of music at a shrine 
 Might make it clear, and earth would under- 
 stand ! 
 But I must place it in a surer hand
 
 134 ©la&BS tbc Singer. 
 
 Than this I write with ; and I pray thee now, 
 If thou remember still a midnight vow 
 Which once was thine, — which God and I alone 
 Heard thee pronounce, albeit in under-tone, — 
 Come with the dame ; but come as comes a man 
 Who clears a path for Crcsar in the van 
 Of utmost truth." 
 
 Herewith she tied the scrip, 
 And kissed it fondly with revering lip, 
 As one, in prayer, may kiss a holy thing, — 
 And therewithal she smiled as dryad Spring 
 May smile on Winter when the months are young, 
 And re-addressed, with her persuading tongue, 
 That aged dame : — " Go, take with thee, I pray, 
 This scroll I give thee, and in haste convey 
 To yonder tower. Its master knows I'm here, 
 And he will come to where the sea-weed sere 
 Thrills to the blast, and hisses to the sea : — 
 But make no further talk of mine or me, 
 Save this alone : — Thou'st seen me on my way 
 To find a cavern where, from clay to day, 
 Strange things were planned. He knows what I 
 
 would say ! 
 Hence, then, and quickly ; and return with him." 
 
 The ancient woman, cold in every limb 
 And twitched by palsy, with a feeble laugh, 
 Made mouths at her, and fumbled with her staff, 
 And named high God ! The world's a-full of such :— 
 Women and men, unseemly to the touch, 
 Unkempt, uncanny, girt about with woe, 
 And smirched with mud, who yet are proud to know
 
 ©la&Y>s tbe Singer. 135 
 
 Some far-off Duke, who threats them with a rod 
 And claims their toil. E'en so she talked of God ! 
 
 But when she'd gone that other caught the boy 
 Quick in her arms as one may catch a toy, 
 And called it " King," and " Sweetheart," and enlaced 
 1 [er fair fond arms around him, tender- faced ; 
 And he whose eyes in rapture seemed to float 
 Caught at the chain that pended from her throat, 
 And played therewith, and seized, and opened wide, 
 A golden trinket, where a face of pride 
 Looked out in smiles, as faces in a dream 
 Invest the darkness and absorb the beam 
 Of some set sun ; and thus that woman fair 
 Resumed her talk, and covered with her hair 
 The baby-face which looked into her own : — 
 " He is thy father, child ! though all unknown, 
 Thine unkind father who, in summers flown, 
 Made me his plaything ! Oh, he'll make thee great, 
 And treat thee as a lord of high estate ! 
 There ! weep not, Sweet ! My tears are foolish 
 
 ones. 
 All hopes are sound ; all fathers love their sons. 
 And thine will love thee when he comes to-day 
 And scans thy face, and mine so far away ! " 
 
 These latter words she spoke beneath her breath ; 
 And as she paused a pallor, like to death, 
 Came o'er her face. There seemed to surge to her 
 The far-off sound of some sea-sepulchre, 
 The thud of waters, and the thrill of tides 
 In lonely haunts, where Ocean over-rides 
 Her ghastly wrecks.
 
 136 (Slacks tbc Singer. 
 
 She swooned into herself, 
 With eyes out-staring to a broken shelf — 
 Of piled-up cloud, on which the sun had smiled ; 
 And then, with feverous haste, she snatched the 
 
 child 
 Forth from its couch among the flow' rets fair, 
 And bore it seaward, and was quickly there 
 In that same nook whereof she wrote the name, — 
 The Witches' Cave, — the landmark of a shame 
 She loved more dearly when the worst was known 
 Than halcyon bards, or kings upon a throne, 
 Love their dominions ; and within the niche, 
 All poor with weeds, she placed the jewel rich 
 Whereof she spake. 
 
 The child into a trance 
 Of loveliest sleep had fall'n ; and now, askance 
 She gazed upon it, as she wrapped it round 
 In her red scarf, and laid a packet bound 
 With golden thread beside it ; and, with tears, 
 Kissed it in silence,— lest the dimpled fears, 
 There hushed in slumber, should awake to pry 
 And thwart her purpose. 
 
 Ah ! 'twere sweet to die, 
 To save from drowning, or to snatch from fire 
 This life-long treasure ; but, in penance dire, 
 To leave it thus ? To thrust it on its sire, 
 And then to shun it ? And for what ? A dream, — 
 A chance, — a hope, — a certitude, — a beam 
 Of far-off light ! " He will be poor," she thought. 
 " If I live on ; but rich, and richly taught,
 
 <3Ia&\}a tbc Singer. 137 
 
 And fondly cared for, if I die for him. 
 
 So let me fare, God ! where none may dim 
 
 Dead people's eyes, and let Thy will be willed, 
 
 E'en as the tempest in the night was stilled 
 
 At Thy Son's coming ! " And she bowed her head, 
 
 And wept afresh, as weeps, when day is dead, 
 
 A sunset cloud ; and, shuddering and abyssed 
 
 In her own soul, re-touched the child and kissed, 
 
 With desolate dull moaning of wild pain ; 
 
 And, like a woman with the curse of Cain 
 
 Full in her heart, out-leapt into the sun 
 
 And sought the ocean. 
 
 All her hair undone, 
 And pale and proud, with bosom-folded hands, 
 She stood in water on the woeful sands, 
 And, ankle-deep, surveyed the glittering sea, 
 What time the wind uprose upon the lea. 
 " O God !" she murmured, as she waded in, 
 " Take Thou my soul ; absolve me of my sin, 
 And make me fit to join, when I am gone, 
 The ranks of those who wait, unfrowned upon. 
 In deathful shades, in hope to reconcile 
 Their clamorous past with Thine eternal smile ! " 
 
 She turned her gaze to shoreward, and awhile 
 Shed tears that scathed her, as they struggled through 
 Their eyelids' fringe ; and, for a space or two, 
 She paused inert. " I will be brave," she said, 
 And journeyed on, " I will confront the dead, 
 In true-love fashion ! I will smile to-day, 
 And sing the songs of madness born in May,
 
 ijS <Ma£>£9 tbc Sincicr. 
 
 The mirth of madness when the world was young, 
 
 And flower and field and ford had found a tongue ; 
 
 And each created thing had tuned its voice 
 
 To praise its Maker. For I die by choice. 
 
 I go to meet the ghosts of my despairs, 
 
 My murdered hopes, my unregarded cares ! 
 
 No man has wrought my death ! — no woman's guile 
 
 Has seared my soul." 
 
 Then, — with a kind of smile 
 That twitched her mouth and saddened all her face, 
 She sang the song of Death's abiding-place : 
 A song of sorrow which, in days gone by, 
 Her lute had thrilled to, — sigh with cadence-sigh 
 New knit in chorus. But to-day the sea, 
 The wind-struck sea, made all its chords agree 
 With that one rapture ; and the sounds thereof 
 Were sad to hear as sighs that speak of love. 
 
 Song. 
 
 There is a land beyond the rising moon. 
 
 A land of peace which all the angels know ;- 
 A floating wonder, like a dream of June, — 
 The joys whereof will greet me in my swoon. 
 
 n. 
 
 A white sea-bird, a sea-gull overhead, 
 
 Will chirp at me to twit me with a doubt, 
 But I shall smile upon my foamful bed, 
 And all the waves will know that I am dead.
 
 ©la&ija tbc Stncicr. 139 
 
 in. 
 
 The sun, all day, will see me where I go, 
 
 And, one by one, the stars will peep at me, 
 And I shall soon be whitened like the snow, 
 And weird and wild with wandering to and fro. 
 
 By this the water, bubbling to her knees, 
 Broke into ripples, which the venturous breeze 
 Edged as with lace, — so dainty was the foam. 
 A wintry wind had combed it like a comb ; 
 But this light breeze, careering o'er the spray, 
 Turned it to silver 'mid the roundelay 
 Of that lone creature on her foam-ward way. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Love, my Master, O my Chosen One, 
 
 O thou to whom my thoughts, to-day, are turned 
 
 1 stand out here with all my cravings done, 
 And all my fevers quenched beneath the sun. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am not mad ; nor am I,— as I seem, — 
 
 The ghost of gladness or the bane thereof. 
 I hear the shouts of men as in a dream, 
 And, far away, the sea-bird's sudden scream. 
 
 in. 
 
 I am the wicked rose that loved the Dark, 
 And lost its colour, aye ! its blushing power,
 
 i4o (Blafrvs tbc Singer. 
 
 And therewithal its kinship to the lark ! 
 I am the night-wind's, and I bear its mark. 
 
 '6 ' 
 
 But now the water, — clamouring to the ends 
 Of her long hair, — appeared to make amends 
 For its late calm ; and lashed her on the side. 
 It was the buffet of the clamorous tide, 
 The full tide, ebbing now, that sought the sea, 
 As late the beach was sought, — a moment's glee 
 Whipped into foam ! But, unaffrayed at this, 
 She smiled and said : — " It was an ocean-kiss ; 
 This, and no more." And, with an aching heart, 
 She sang, — with rapture that was once a part 
 Of her stage life, — by men remembered well, — 
 The silvery cadence of her ocean-knell. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O SWEET, my Son ! my darling ! dead to me, 
 
 But saved for him, as flowers are saved for God ; 
 How like a fete-day will thy finding be 
 When I'm at rest out yonder in the sea. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Thou art the one sweet thing on all the earth, 
 
 The pride of summer and the winter's balm ; 
 A glimpse of Heaven, — a glory from thy birth, — 
 Without a peer in sadness or in mirth.
 
 ©latnis tbc Sinner. mi 
 
 hi. 
 
 Had I a thousand lives instead of one, 
 
 A thousand deaths to die to cancel thine, 
 I'd give them all, aye ! freely as a nun 
 Gives all she hath for great Jehovah's Son. 
 
 And, fever- fraught, with wildly streaming hair, 
 She tossed these notes ecstatic through the air. 
 
 Song. 
 
 This is the end of all my many fears, 
 
 And this the charter of my right to die, — 
 To seek a solace out beyond the spheres, 
 And kill the scandals of my twenty years. 
 
 ll. 
 
 This is my penance, this ! and my delight, 
 To sail the deep for searching of a tomb, 
 And, through the mirk, the madness of the night 
 
 Up to the waist she stood in that expanse 
 Of wan sea-water, piteous in her glance, 
 And weary-limbed, and shuddering to the soul. 
 For, far away, she eyed the ocean-goal 
 Whereto she thirsted with so wan a lip, — 
 The straight sea-line whereto a fleecy ship
 
 M2 Gla&v>s tbc Singer. 
 
 E'en now made way with homeward-sailing men ; 
 
 And all the blood within her faltered then. 
 
 " Shall I go back," she thought, " and claim my boy, 
 
 And dare the worst of all the world's annoy, — 
 
 And front his father, and confide in him ? 
 
 Shall I do this, and turn me from the rim 
 
 Of this dark wave, now bearing full on me, 
 
 And seek a dwelling far from any sea, 
 
 Unknown to him ?" 
 
 She staggered from the wave 
 That reeled about her like a rolling grave, 
 And swerved aside to give it passage clear. 
 "O God !" she mused, half palsied in her fear, 
 " I have o'erstepped my doom ; and now for this 
 I shall be tumbled in the seething hiss 
 Of tides tumultuous, and a Nothing be, 
 A wide-eyed Nothing on the doubtful sea ! " 
 
 Therewith she met the breakers' dark advance, 
 Which seemed to tilt and turn to her, askance. 
 And one of these assailed her with the shocks 
 Of foam-fed wrath, and hurled her on the rocks 
 And dragged her down, low-gurgling in the strain 
 Of imminent death, and roared at her amain ; 
 And made more havoc of her shining hair 
 Than lovers' hands which murder while they spare : 
 Wild, wanton hands of wooers like the one 
 For whom, to-day, she died beneath the sun, 
 In fierce enthralment. But she rose anew 
 Prone on her back, aghast, and pale of hue. 

 
 ©laCws tbc Siinicr. 143 
 
 And out to sea,— a lifeless thing, and mild, 
 With oozing lips, and eyes that ever smiled, 
 She slowly drifted,— soon to face the stars, 
 And soon to front the moon athwart the bars 
 Of feathery cloud and opal-tinted mist ; — 
 But nevermore on earth should she be kissed, 
 And nevermore be seen in any lands, 
 And nevermore be touched by baby-hands ! 
 
 Meantime the child abandoned in the cave 
 Lay locked in slumber, spared by wind and wave, 
 And snugly-housed as birds are, in the bliss 
 Of their nest-thrall, though near a precipice, 
 Or rock-suspended in an Alpine wood. 
 And lo ! at entrance of the cave there stood 
 A silent man, with white and wistful face, 
 Who seemed to know the secrets of the place 
 And all the hopes which lit it, lantein-wise. 
 
 He paused an instant, and, with eager eyes, 
 Peered in the grot, but saw no woman there, 
 Only the child, which gave him stare for stare, 
 And clenched its fist, new-wakened out of sleep ; 
 And, as he entered, he was like to weep 
 With thoughts contentious. 
 
 He undid the scroll, 
 And read these words : "O Roland ! O my soul ! 
 Lord of my life, my Liege, my King of Men '. 
 If thou be he who met me in the glen, 
 And not a dream, a phantom, or a fiend, 
 Accept of me this boy that I have screened 
 From birth tiil now, and take him to thyself, 
 And love him as a Ghibcline, or Guelf,
 
 i44 ©laCws tbc Sincicr. 
 
 May love his heir. Our Saviour said, of old, 
 
 ' Forbid them not ! ' and took into His fold 
 
 All tender babes, and blessed them with His Steven, 
 
 And called them God's elect, the loved of Heaven, 
 
 Whom none on all the earth should drive away 
 
 From His anointing, nightly or by day ! 
 
 In life I erred ; in death I make it clear 
 
 How much I loved thee, — more than honour dear, 
 
 And more than wealth, which is the bane of youth, 
 
 When, canker-like, it makes a lie a truth, 
 
 And truth a lie, and hope a thing morose. 
 
 I am not brave ; and yet, if one so close 
 
 To Death's domain may dare to speak of Life, 
 
 I know not fear. I am the Ocean's wife. 
 
 I am the wife of every wanton wave 
 
 That cares to touch me, though it will not save. 
 
 Vet hear, oh, hear my plea ! My time will come. 
 
 This babe of ours will speak when I am dumb, 
 
 This baby-face entreat thee, with a smile, 
 
 To think of me, and pray for me the while, 
 
 As one enduring things that will endure. 
 
 And, O my Love ! of this, at least, be sure : — 
 
 I love thee still, — for I will call thee mine 
 
 One moment more ! The place beyond the brine, 
 
 The place that I shall know when I am dead, 
 
 Will not affright me when my breath is sped. 
 
 And lo ! I ask thy pardon ere I die. 
 
 Meekly I crave it. For I made reply 
 
 In words unseemly ; and I pray thee now 
 
 Forget, forgive ! All wrongs I disallow ; 
 
 Yea, all my griefs, and all the blame thereof, 
 
 And all the pangs that seemed to wait on love.
 
 <3lai>\2s tbc Singer. 145 
 
 Oh, heed me, Roland ! Heed me, and, to-day 
 
 Let me be glad, and cast my doubts away 
 
 As all unfit to share my dreams of thee. 
 
 And do thou pause ere thou condemn in me 
 
 The headlong fault which guides me. Is't a sin ? 
 
 If so, God help me ! Is't a fury-din 
 
 Of mere mad waves, and no assured repose 
 
 Beyond all these ? I know not ; for the shows 
 
 Of life and death and darkness touch me not, 
 
 As oft they touched me ere I trod the spot 
 
 Of our first meeting. But I yearn at last 
 
 To this one hope, — new-looming from the past, — 
 
 That thou'lt remove all scandal from the boy, 
 
 When, — by my death, — I rid thee of annoy 
 
 Henceforth forever ! He will win his peace 
 
 And thou thy comfort ; and, till summers cease, 
 
 And winters weary of their woeful chace, 
 
 He will be thine. Oh ! when he grows apace 
 
 Let him be shown the picture of my face, — 
 
 The face I wore when I was loved of thee, — 
 
 And say I died, unhurt, beside the sea, 
 
 Not in the sea itself, — 'twould injure him 
 
 To know too much ! In cloisters cold and dim 
 
 Let laggards frown, but let the wise be gay ! 
 
 I want my boy to laugh from day to day, 
 
 And smile at Fear, and torture not himself 
 
 With baleful thoughts. And yet, to bring him 
 
 pelf, 
 I die unblest, unprayed-for, in the flash 
 Of one wild moment ! If the deed be rash, 
 I do't in pity, not uncomfortcd ; 
 For God, they say, protects when one is dead 
 
 K
 
 140 ©la&gs tbc Singer. 
 
 One's only child '. And thou? Forgive me, Dear ! 
 
 And love my boy, — when I'm no longer here 
 
 Aye, tell him, Roland ! tell him that I died 
 A natural death, — and blessed thee like a bride, 
 And called on God to guard thee evermore ! " 
 A shuddering sob convulsed him to the core 
 At these last words. " My wife ! my winsome wife ! 
 Mine and not mine ! My wife !" and then, at strife 
 With his own grief, he fell before the child, 
 And kissed and clasped him, and, in accents wild, 
 Called him his Angel, his predestined one, 
 And bore him out triumphant to the sun, 
 And stilled his cries by clamouring to the blast : 
 " Come back ! Come back ! " and turned a face 
 
 aghast 
 To that old hag, who croaked upon the sands. 
 
 And what the sequel of the love-demands 
 Of that lorn letter ? Day by day, for weeks, 
 The wifeless man, with sad and sunken cheeks, 
 Sailed o'er the deep ; and sought, in silent bays, 
 And lonely creeks, the wooed and wished-for gaze 
 Of stranded Gladys ; but he gained thereby 
 Naught but despair, and shame that cannot die, — 
 Shame and despair and blistering of the soul 
 Burnt through by tears, — as though some burning coal 
 Had fallen therein ! He was the fool of Time 
 And, — like a man for whom in every chime 
 Outrings a knell, — he quaffed the wine of hope, 
 And found it poison. All his thoughts did grope 
 In undu^ graves ; and earthward and by sea, 
 No man was found on foot, or on his knee, 

 
 <3laCn?s tbc Sincjer. M7 
 
 At home, — abroad, — in sanctum or in pit 
 
 Of lowliest labour, so untimely knit 
 
 To thoughts of dole. And still the large-eyed corse 
 
 Veered out to sea, as blind as his remorse, — 
 
 As deaf as danger, and as stiff and cold 
 
 As lopped-off limbs of trees upon the mould. 
 
 Yet she was hallowed by the nights and days 
 
 Of heavenward calm, and reddened by the rays 
 
 Of pitying suns, and looked at, after dark, 
 
 By Lady Dian in her crescent-bark. 
 
 Aye ! she was cradled, for a week and more, 
 
 On Ocean's breast, and then, amid the roar 
 
 Of waves up-shuddering to the star-lit skies, 
 
 Torn down in wrack, where Silence underlies 
 
 All hopes and fears and frailties of the sod, 
 
 This side the sanctum of the joys of God !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 15 1 
 
 A NT EROS. 
 
 This is the feast-day of my soul and me, 
 For I am half a god and half a man. 
 
 These are the hours in which are heard by sea, 
 
 By land and wave, and in the realms of space, 
 The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span, 
 
 And give me power to sway the human race. 
 
 II. 
 
 1 am the king whom men call Lucifer, 
 I am the genius of the nether spheres. 
 
 Give me my Christian name, and I demur. 
 
 Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice. 
 Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears 
 
 I salt the earth which gladdens at my voice. 
 
 in. 
 
 I am old Anteros ; a young, old god ; 
 
 A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch. 
 But 1 can turn my crutch into a rod, 
 And change my rod into a crown of wood. 
 
 Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch, 
 And plays with poisons till he makes them good.
 
 .Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The sun, uprising with his golden hair, 
 
 Is mine apostle ; and he serves me well. 
 Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare, 
 Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought, 
 
 Has pined for love ; and wanderers out of hell, 
 And saints from heaven, have known what I have 
 taught. 
 
 v. 
 
 Great are my griefs ; my joys are multiplex ; 
 
 And beasts and birds and men my subjects are ; 
 Yea, all created things that have a sex, 
 And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere ; 
 
 All these, and more, proclaim me from afar, 
 And sing my marriage songs from year to year. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There are no bridals but the ones I make ; 
 
 For men are quickened when they turn to me. 
 The soul obeys me for its body's sake, 
 And each is formed for each, as day for night. 
 
 'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee 
 To win the wisdom of a fool's delight. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down, 
 
 And birds have blabbed it to the winds of heaven. 
 
 The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town, 
 
 Lovers have sung the songs that I have made. 
 Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven, 
 
 Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade.
 
 iHMsccllancous poems. 153 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O men ! O maidens ! O ye listless ones ! 
 
 Ye who desert my temples in the East, 
 Ye who reject the rays of summer suns, 
 And cling to shadows in the wilderness ; 
 
 Why are ye sad ? Why frown ye at the feast, 
 Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove, 
 A joy that crushes and a love that stings, 
 
 A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove, 
 
 A thing of nothing born of less than nought — 
 Why in your hearts do ye desire these things, 
 
 Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought ? 
 
 x. 
 
 See, see ! I weep, but I can jest at times ; 
 
 Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away. 
 The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes 
 Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown. 
 
 I am the god for whom all maidens pray, 
 But none shall have me for herself alone. 
 
 XI. 
 
 No ; I have love enough, here where I stand, 
 To marry fifty maids in their degree ; 
 
 Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band, 
 
 And every bride the proxy of a score. 
 Want ye a mate for millions ? I am he. 
 
 Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore.
 
 154 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 XII. 
 
 O men ! O masters ! O ye kings of grief ! 
 
 Ye who control the world but not the grave, 
 What have ye done ft) make delight so brief, 
 Ye who have spurned the minstrel and the lyre ? 
 
 I will not say : " Be patient." Ye are brave ; 
 And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 There shall be traitors in the court of love, 
 And tears and tortures and the bliss of pain. 
 
 The maids of men shall seek the gods above, 
 
 And drink the nectar of the golden lake. 
 
 Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain ; 
 
 They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 They shall be taught the songs the sirens know, 
 The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry, 
 
 The secrets of the south and of the snow, 
 
 The wherewithal of day, and death, and night. 
 O men ! O maidens ! pray no prayer for me, 
 
 But sing to me the songs of my delight. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear, 
 And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven. 
 
 And let the singers, with a voice of cheer, 
 
 Announce my name to all the ends of earth ; 
 And let my servants, seventy times and seven, 
 
 Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth !
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 15s 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame, 
 Seize all the souls of men for sake of me. 
 
 For I will have Contention put to shame, 
 
 And all the hearts of all things comforted. 
 There are no laws but mine on land and sea, 
 
 And men shall crown me when their kings are dead.
 
 156 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 HYMN TO THE RISING SUN. 
 
 O mighty Orb that on the Morning's brow- 
 Dost shine, all-seeing, in the plenitude 
 Of thine up-rising ! O thou joy of earth ! 
 Look down and bless the day that's new-ordained, 
 And let the paeans of the pomp of spring 
 Be thine forever, O thou lordly One ! 
 
 That hast the Orient for thy crowning-place 
 And all the welkin for thy way of grace. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sea is thine, the shores thereof are thine, 
 And all the haunts of men all through the zones ; 
 Yea, each created thing through all the years, 
 All things are thine to make thee paramount ; 
 And there's no essence known, by sea or land, 
 That is not quickened by the sight of thee ; 
 No ! there is nothing, earthward or in air, 
 Which loves thee not with love beyond compare. 
 
 in. 
 
 O first-born on the mountains ! O thou sun 
 That art a portent and a prodigy,
 
 Miscellaneous ipocms. 157 
 
 And evermore dost measure time and space ! 
 
 We turn to thee to see thee as thou art — 
 
 How fair, how constant, and how girt with beams, 
 
 And how exultant in thine azure tent, 
 
 When, one by one, the stars confess thy power, 
 And leave thee all the landscapes for a dower. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bless thou the hills, the rivers and the plains, 
 The founts, the forests, and the foaming sea ; 
 And each and all thy suppliants here below ! 
 Through all the seasons of thy setting-time, 
 Bless thou the winds which are thy messengers ; 
 And in thy rising bless thou every field, 
 
 And every harvest which thou shinest on, 
 And every soul who claims thy benison. 
 
 O planet prince ! O glory born of night 
 
 That out of night dost come to sway the world ! 
 
 Behold we love thee as the Titans loved, 
 
 When thou didst bear a god's name under Heaven. 
 
 For thou'rt the Regent of the King of Kings, 
 
 And his exponent through the centuries ; 
 
 And all thy ways are wondrous as of old 
 
 When Sappho praised thee with her harp of gold. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A laureate bird is thine in every grove, 
 In all the fields thou hast thy troubadours.
 
 158 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 A thousand times the lark has trilled to thee, 
 And waked the woods in April and in May ; 
 A myriad times and more his skyward notes 
 Have drenched the summer with the dews of song, 
 And made, as 'twere, a feast-time overhead 
 For bards to boast of when the days are dead. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thou proud and pure ! Thou keeper of the keys 
 Of East and West which are thy heritage, 
 Where thou,— at soaring and at setting-time, — 
 Dost hold a mansion, well-beloved of men, 
 Whereof the roofs are jasper and red light. 
 O jocund king ! transcendent, un-afraid, 
 
 And unassailed by storms throughout the land, 
 Look down and bless the oceans thou hast spanned. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Bless thou the workers and the men of thought, 
 The work they do, the wonders of the lute, 
 And all the whisperings of the woods and streams ! 
 For thou'rt the wearer of the clouds of morn, 
 And where thou art the hours are golden-winged, 
 And where thy servants are thy fame is great, 
 
 And where thy singers are, in bower and town, 
 The hearts of men respond to thy renown. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hear us, Light Giver ! and from dawn to dusk 
 Be thou the fiery signal of much joy !
 
 Miscellaneous ipocms. 159 
 
 Unfurl thy banners beauteous on the hills, 
 And let the flash thereof, — thy blazonry, — 
 Be Hope's fore-runner in the reddening meads. 
 O Sire of Seasons ! Monarch of the Months ! 
 Illume, uplift us, here upon the sod, 
 And lead our lives from Nature up to God.
 
 160 /iiMsccllancous poems. 
 
 THE WAKING OF THE LARK. 
 
 I. 
 
 O BONNIE bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost pre- 
 pare thee — 
 As poets do whose thoughts are true,— for wings that 
 will upbear thee ; 
 
 Oh ! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird, 
 Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred ? 
 Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the 
 golden meadows ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his 
 
 song to sorrow, 
 And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on 
 the morrow ; 
 
 But thou art not a prophet, thou, 
 If naught but joy can touch thee now ; 
 If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of 
 Nature's anguish. 
 
 in. 
 
 Oh ! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, though 
 poor and slighted, 
 
 The songs we love are those we hear when love is un- 
 requited.
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 161 
 
 But thou art still the slave of dawn, 
 And canst not sing till night be gone, 
 Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine 
 and quiver. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his 
 
 splendour, 
 
 And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that 
 
 should attend her. 
 
 The moon, so sad and silver-pale, 
 
 Is mistress of the nightingale ; 
 
 And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the 
 
 darkness. 
 
 v. 
 
 For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of 
 
 thine outpouring ; 
 And thou'rt as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet 
 flooring. 
 
 The daisy, with its hood undone, 
 The grass, the sunlight, and the sun — 
 These are the joys, thou holy one ! that pay thee for 
 thy singing. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, hush ! Oh, hush ! how wild a gush of rapture in 
 
 the distance, — 
 
 A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's 
 
 assistance ; 
 
 A sound that wells from happy throats, 
 
 A flood of song where beauty floats, 
 
 And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem 
 
 to cross a river. 
 
 I.
 
 162 Miscellaneous ipocms. 
 
 VII. 
 
 This is the advent of the lark — the priest in grey 
 
 apparel — 
 Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer 
 carol ; 
 
 This is the prelude to the lay 
 The birds did sing in Caesar's day, 
 And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's 
 creation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love 
 
 elated, 
 Oh ! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be 
 consecrated ; 
 
 Till from the gateways of the morn, 
 The sun, with all his light unshorn, 
 His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the 
 lofty heavens !
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 163 
 
 A BALLAD OF KISSES. 
 
 I. 
 
 THERE are three kisses that I call to mind, 
 And I will sing their secrets as I go. 
 
 The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, 
 
 Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know ; 
 As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow. 
 
 II. 
 
 The second kiss, ah, God ! I feel it yet, 
 
 And evermore my soul will loathe the same. 
 
 The toys and joys of fate I may forget, 
 But not the touch of that divided shame : 
 It clove my lips ; it burnt me like a flame. 
 
 in. 
 
 The third, the final kiss, is one I use 
 
 Morning and noon and night ; and not amiss. 
 
 Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse ! 
 And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss, 
 Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss.
 
 164 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 
 
 MARY ARDEN. 
 
 O thou to whom athwart the perished days, 
 And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze, 
 Behold ! I greet thee with a modern rhyme, 
 Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, 
 To solemnise the birth-day of thy son. 
 
 II. 
 
 And who was he who flourished in the smiles 
 Of thy fair face? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles, 
 Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known 
 As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone 
 Of all the seas and all the lands of earth. 
 
 in. 
 
 He was un-famous when he came to thee, 
 But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, 
 And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, 
 A week before the wondrous month of May ; 
 And God therein was gracious to us all. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He loved thee, Lady ! and he loved the world ; 
 And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurled ;
 
 Miscellaneous lpocms. 165 
 
 And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born 
 Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn, 
 In all the far-off cycles yet to come. 
 
 He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, 
 A hundred mottoes from immortal lips ; 
 And, year by year, we smile to keep away 
 The generous tears that mind us of the sway 
 Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof. 
 
 VI. 
 
 His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, 
 The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece 
 Of grand endeavour ; aye! the thunder-roll 
 Of words majestic, which from pole to pole 
 Have borne the tidings of our English tongue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He gave us Hamlet ; and he taught us more 
 Than schools have taught us ; and his fairy-lore 
 Was fraught with science ; and he called from death 
 Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath 
 
 Of their great passion that has filled the spheres. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He made us know Cordelia, and the man 
 Who murdered sleep, and baleful Caliban ; 
 And, one by one, athwart the gloom appeared 
 Maidens and men and myths who were revered 
 In halcyon days, before the earth was sad.
 
 1 66 Miscellaneous ipoems. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Aye ! this is true. It was ordained so ; 
 He was thine own, three hundred years ago ; 
 But ours to-day, and ours till earth be red 
 With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead 
 And clays and nights be scattered like the leaves ! 
 
 x. 
 
 It was for this he lived, for this he died : 
 To raise to Heaven the face that never lied, 
 To lean to earth the lips that should become 
 Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb, 
 And all the firm, fine body turned to clay. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives 
 Of perished maids and uncreated wives, 
 And gave them each a space wherein to dwell ; 
 And for his mother's sake he loved them well, 
 And made them types, undying, of all truth. 
 
 XII. 
 
 O fair and fond young mother of the boy 
 Who wrought all this— O Mary ! — in thy joy 
 Didst thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, 
 He turned to thee, that his would be the best 
 Of all men's chanting since the world began ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Didst thou, O Mary ! with the eye of trust 
 Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 167 
 
 Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, 
 And all the pride therein that should be won 
 By toilsome men, content to be his slaves ? 
 
 x 1 v. 
 
 Didst thou, good mother ! in the tender ways 
 That women find to fill the fleeting days, 
 Behold afar the Giant who should rise 
 With feet on earth, and forehead in the skies, 
 To write his name, and thine, among the stars ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 I love to think it ; and, in dreams at night 
 I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, 
 With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, 
 As if to draw him back from out the storm, — 
 A child again, and thine to nurse withal. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, 
 And big, bright eyes, — far- searching in the air 
 For thy sweet babe, — and, in a trice of time, 
 I see the boy advance to thee, and climb, 
 And call thee il Mother ! " in ecstatic tones. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yet, if my thought be vain — if, by a touch 
 Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch — 
 Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit ! and endow 
 My heart with fervour while to thee I bow 
 Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.
 
 i6S .Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For,— though so seeming-bold in this my song, — 
 I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng 
 Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scanned, afar, 
 The famed effulgence of that eastern star 
 
 Which ushered in the Crowned One of the heavens. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass 
 Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, 
 As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son 
 Endowed with life, but with the look of one 
 
 "Who knows the nearest way to some new grave. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush 
 Of thy full beauty, while the mother's " Hush ! " 
 Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair 
 Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare 
 Because a tiny hand had toyed therewith ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Oh ! by the June-tide splendour of thy face 
 When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace 
 Did leap and laugh, — O Mary ! by the same, 
 I bow to thee, and magnify thy name, 
 
 And call thee England's Pride for evermore.
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 169 
 
 THE LADY OF THE MAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 O STARS that fade in amber skies 
 Because ye dread the light of day, 
 
 O moon so lonely and so wise, 
 
 Look down, and love my Love alway ; 
 Salute the Lady of the May ! 
 
 11. 
 
 O lark that soarest in the light 
 To hail thy lord in his array, 
 
 Look down ; be just ; and sing aright 
 For one who claims thy song to-day 
 To greet his Lady of the May. 
 
 ill. 
 
 " O lady ! lady ! " sings the lark, 
 " Thy lover's hest I do obey ; 
 
 For thou art splendid after dark, 
 
 And where thou smilest, there is day ; 
 And thou'rt the Lady of the May. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " The nightingale's a friend of mine, 
 And yesternight she flew my way. 
 
 'Awake,' she cried, 'at morning shine, 
 And sing for me thy blithest lay 
 To greet the Lady of the May.
 
 i7° .Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 " ' And tell her, tell her, gentle one, 
 While thou attun'st thy morning lay, 
 
 That I will sing at set of sun 
 Another song for thy sweet fay, 
 Because she's Lady of the May.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 "And, lo, I come," the lark in air, 
 
 Self-poised and free, did seem to say ; 
 
 " I come to greet thy lady's hair, 
 I come athwart the beams of day 
 To laud thy Lady of the May." 
 
 vir. 
 
 Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well ! 
 For all thou say'st and still wouldst say,- 
 
 And for the thoughts which Philomel 
 Intends to trill, in roundelay, 
 To greet my Lady of the May. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 We two (my Love and I) are one, 
 And so shall be, for aye and aye. 
 
 Go, take my homage to the sun, 
 And bid him shine his best to-day 
 To crown my Lady of the May !
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 171 
 
 ZULALIH. 
 
 I am the sprite 
 
 That reigns at night ; 
 My body is fair for man's delight ! 
 
 I leap and laugh 
 
 As the wine I quaff, 
 And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 
 
 11. 
 
 I curse and swear 
 
 In my demon-lair ; 
 I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair. 
 
 I madden the old, 
 
 I gladden the bold, 
 And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 
 
 ill. 
 
 Of churchyard stone 
 
 I have made my throne ; 
 My locks are looped with a dead man's bone. 
 
 Mine eyes are red 
 
 With the tears I shed, 
 And I am the queen of Astrofelle.
 
 i72 Miscellaneous ipoems. 
 
 iv. 
 
 In cities and camps 
 
 I have lighted my lamps, 
 My kisses are caught by kings and tramps. 
 
 With rant and revel 
 
 My hair I dishevel, 
 And I am the queen of Astrofelle. 
 
 My kisses are stains, 
 Mine arms are chains, 
 
 My forehead is fair and false like Cain's. 
 My gain is loss, 
 Mine honour is dross, — 
 
 And I am the queen of Astrofelle !
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 173 
 
 BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO. 
 
 See where Beethoven sits alone— a dream of days 
 elysian, 
 
 A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision — 
 
 The man who strikes the potent chords which make 
 the world, in wonder, 
 
 Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouth- 
 piece of the thunder. 
 
 II. 
 
 He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is 
 
 breaking ; 
 He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no 
 
 forsaking ; 
 And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a 
 
 token, 
 He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever 
 
 spoken. 
 
 in. 
 
 He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his 
 
 seclusion, 
 Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad 
 
 confusion ;
 
 i74 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a 
 
 declamation, 
 That all true lovers of the earth have claimed him of 
 
 their nation. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him, 
 And, Romeo like, he sought to die that she might then 
 
 adore him ; 
 But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not 
 
 been proven, 
 And would not change her name for his — Guiciardi 
 
 for Beethoven. 
 
 O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a 
 
 world has treasured ! 
 O sovereign of a grander realm than man has ever 
 
 measured ! 
 Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast 
 
 gained, in glory, 
 The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal 
 
 story. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all 
 
 men discover 
 To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover ; 
 A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring 
 
 ocean, 
 And bid the stars discourse to trees in words of man's 
 
 emotion.
 
 Miscellaneous ipoems. 175 
 
 VII. 
 
 A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the 
 
 seasons, 
 Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's 
 
 immortal reasons ; 
 A bard who knows no life but this : to love and be 
 
 rejected, 
 And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the 
 
 elected. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O poet heart ! O seraph soul ! by men and maids 
 
 adored ! 
 O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid 
 
 forehead ! 
 We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our 
 
 gladness, 
 To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown 
 
 thee in thy sadness. 
 
 IX. 
 
 An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance, 
 
 Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made 
 Despair a science. 
 
 Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large 
 vibration, 
 
 It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubila- 
 tion.
 
 176 /nbiscellaneous poems. 
 
 O Sire of Song ! Sonata-King ! Sublime and loving 
 
 master ; 
 The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in disaster ; 
 In thee were found the fires of thought — the splendours 
 
 of endeavour, — 
 And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and 
 
 for ever !
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 177 
 
 A PRAYER FOR LIGHT. 
 
 Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die, — 
 The light of love, the love-light of the sky, — 
 That I, at length, may see my darling's face 
 
 One minute's space, 
 
 II. 
 
 Have I not wept to know myself so weak 
 That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek, 
 The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold 
 
 Her locks of gold ? 
 
 in. 
 
 Have I not sworn that I will not be wed, 
 But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed ? 
 The soul can see, — for souls are seraphim, — 
 
 When eyes are dim ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, hush ! she comes. I know her. She is nigh 
 She brings me death, true heart, and I will die. 
 She brings me love, for love and life are one 
 
 Beyond the sun. 
 
 M
 
 178 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 This is the measure, this, of all my joys : 
 Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise. 
 Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know 
 
 Which path 1 go. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I cannot die if thou be not a-near, 
 
 To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere. 
 
 O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath 
 
 Kiss me to death !
 
 Miscellaneous fftoems. 179 
 
 MIRAGE. 
 
 Tis a legend of a lover, 
 
 'Tis a ballad to be sung, 
 In the gloaming, — under cover, — 
 By a minstrel who is young ; 
 By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with 
 his tongue. 
 
 II. 
 
 I, who know it, think upon it, 
 
 Not unhappy, though in tears, 
 And I gather in a sonnet 
 All the glory of the years ; 
 And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance 
 disappears. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ah ! I see her as she faced me, 
 
 In the sinless summer days, 
 When her little hands embraced me, 
 And I saddened at her gaze, 
 Thinking, Sweet One ! will she love me when we walk 
 in other ways ?
 
 iSo Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Will she cling to me as kindly 
 
 When the childish faith is lost ? 
 Will she pray for me as blindly, 
 Or but weigh the wish and cost, 
 Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she 
 has crossed ? 
 
 Oh ! I swear by all I honour, 
 
 By the graves that I endow, 
 By the grace I set upon her, 
 That I meant the early vow, — 
 Meant it much as men and women mean the same 
 thing spoken now. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But her maiden troth is broken, 
 
 And her mind is ill at ease, 
 And she sends me back no token 
 From her home beyond the seas ; 
 And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks 
 me on her knees. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yes, for pardon freely granted ; 
 
 For she wronged me, understand. 
 And my life is disenchanted 
 As I wander through the land, 
 With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a 
 band.
 
 Miscellaneous ipoems. 181 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Hers was sweetest of sweet faces, 
 Hers the tenderest eyes of all ! 
 In her hair she had the traces 
 Of a heavenly coronal, 
 Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight 
 could not fall. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She was fairer than a vision ; 
 
 Like a vision, too, has flown. 
 I who flushed at her decision, 
 Lo ! I languish here alone ; 
 And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine 
 own. 
 
 x. 
 
 Not for her, sweet sainted creature ! 
 
 Could I curse her to her face ? 
 Could I look on form and feature, 
 
 And deny the inner grace ? 
 Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And I told her, in mad fashion, 
 
 That I loved her, — would incline 
 All my life to this one passion, 
 And would kneel as at a shrine ; 
 And would love her late and early, and would teach 
 her to be mine.
 
 1 82 /HMsccllancous fl>ocms. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now in dreams alone I meet her 
 With my lowly human praise : 
 She is sweeter and completer, 
 And she smiles on me always ; 
 But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early 
 days.
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 1S3 
 
 A SONG OF SERVITUDE. 
 
 THIS is a song of serfs that I have made, 
 
 A song of sympathy for grief and joy : — 
 The old, the young, the loved and the betrayed, 
 All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed. 
 
 II. 
 
 There are no tyrants but the serving ones, 
 
 There are no servants but the men who rule. 
 The Captain conquers with his army's guns, 
 But he himself is conquered by his sons. 
 
 in. 
 
 What is a parent but a daughter's slave, 
 
 A son's defender when the lad is ill ? 
 The great Creator loves the good and brave, 
 And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The son is servant in his father's halls, 
 
 The daughter is her mother's maid-o'-work. 
 The welkin wonders when the ocean calls, 
 And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls.
 
 iS4 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 There are no " ups " in life, there are no " downs," 
 
 For " high " and " low " are words of like degree ; 
 He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns, 
 He is a king though nameless in the towns. 
 
 VI. 
 
 None is so lofty as the sage who prays, 
 
 None so unhigh as he who will not kneel. 
 The breeze is servant to the summer days, 
 And he is bowed-to most who most obeys. 
 
 VII. 
 
 These are the maxims that I take to heart, 
 
 Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own ; 
 Love well thy work ; be truthful in the mart, 
 And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate, 
 Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth. 
 Make friends with death ; and God who is so great, 
 He will assist thee to a nobler fate. 
 
 IX. 
 
 None are unfit to serve upon their knees 
 
 The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear. 
 The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees, 
 And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees.
 
 /DMsccllancous poems. 185 
 
 x. 
 
 All things are good ; all things incur a debt, 
 
 And all must pay the same, or soon or late. 
 The sun will rise betimes, but he must set ; 
 And Man must seek the laws he would forget. 
 
 XI. 
 
 There are no mockeries in the universe, 
 
 No false accounts, no errors that will thrive. 
 The work we do, the good things we rehearse, 
 Are boons of Nature basely named a curse. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "Give us our daily bread !" the children pray, 
 
 And mothers plead for them while thus they speak. 
 But " Give us work, O God !" we men should say, 
 That we may gain our bread from day to day. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 'Tis not alone the crown that makes the king ; 
 
 'Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind. 
 The lark who soars so high is quick to sing, 
 And proud to yield allegiance to the spring. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall, 
 Athwart the dangers of the day's behests ; 
 Oh, let's not shirk, at joy or sorrow's call, 
 The service due to God who serves us all !
 
 1 86 /DMeccllancous poems. 
 
 SYLVIA IN THE WEST. 
 
 What shall be done ? I dare not pray ; 
 
 Nor shall I stint the pangs I feel. 
 If prayers could alter night to day, — 
 
 Or black to white, — I might appeal ; 
 I might attempt to sway thy heart, 
 And prove it mine,— or claim a part. 
 
 II. 
 
 I might attempt to urge on thee 
 At least the chance of some redress, — 
 
 An hour's revoke, — a moment's plea, — 
 A smile to make my sorrows less. 
 
 I might perchance be taught, — in time, — 
 
 To blush for hope, as for a crime ! 
 
 in. 
 
 But thou art stone, though soft and fleet,- 
 A statue, not a maiden, thou ! 
 
 A man may hear thy bosom beat 
 When thou hast sworn an idle vow. 
 
 But not for love, no ! not for this ; 
 
 For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss.
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 187 
 
 [V. 
 
 I mean, thy friends will sell thy love, 
 As loves are sold in England, here. 
 
 A man will buy my golden dove, — 
 I doubt he'll find his bargain dear ! 
 
 He'll lose the wine ; he'll buy the bowl, 
 
 The life, the limbs, but not the soul. 
 
 So, take thy mate and all his wealth, 
 And all the joys that wait on fame. 
 
 Thou'lt weep, — poor martyred one ! — by stealth. 
 And think of me, and shriek my name ; 
 
 Yes, in his arms ! And wake, too late, 
 
 To coax and kiss the man you hate. 
 
 VI. 
 
 By slow degrees, from year to year, 
 From week to week, from night to night, 
 
 He will be taught how dark and drear 
 Is bartered love, — how sad to sight 
 
 A perjured face ! And he'll be driven 
 
 To compass Hell, — and dream of Heaven ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But stand at God's high altar there, 
 With saints around thee tall and sweet, 
 
 I'll match thy pride with my despair, 
 And drag thee down from glory's seat. 
 
 Yea, thou shalt kneel ! Thy head shall bow 
 
 As mine is bent in anguish now.
 
 i8S Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 What ! for thy sake have I forsworn 
 
 My just ambition,— all my joy, 
 And all my hope from morn to morn, 
 
 That seemed a prize without alloy ? 
 Have I done this ? I have ; and see ! 
 I weep wild tears for thine and thee. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But I can school my soul to strength, 
 And weep and wail as children do ; 
 
 Be hard as stone, yet melt at length, 
 And curb my pride as thou canst, too ! 
 
 But I have faith, and thou hast none ; 
 
 And I have joy, but thine is done. 
 
 x. 
 
 No marriage-bells ? No songs, you say ? 
 
 No flowers to grace our bridal morn ? 
 No wine ? No kiss ? No wedding-day? 
 
 I care not ! Oaths are all forsworn ; 
 And, when I clasped thy hand so white, 
 1 meant to curse thee, girl, to-night. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And so 1 shall, — oh ! doubt not that. 
 
 At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice. 
 When screams the owl, when swoops the bat, 
 
 When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice. 
 And thou shalt hear ! — Aye, by my troth, 
 One song will suit the souls of both.
 
 /DMsceUancou0 poems. 189 
 
 XII. 
 
 I curse thy face ; I curse thy hair ; 
 
 I curse thy lips that smile so well, 
 Thy life, thy love, and my despair, 
 
 My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell ; 
 My soul and thine ! — Ah, see ! though black, 
 I take one half my curses back. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 For thou and I were formed for hate, 
 For love, for scorn ; no matter what. 
 
 I am thy Fere and thou my Fate, 
 And fire and flood shall harm us not. 
 
 Thou shalt be killed and hid from ken, 
 
 And fiends will sing thy requiem then. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet think not Death will serve thy stead ; 
 
 I'll find thy grave, though walled in stone. 
 I'll move thy mould to make my bed, 
 
 And lie with thee long hours alone : — 
 Long, lifeless hours ! Ah, God, how free, 
 How pale, how cold, thy lips will be ! 
 
 xv. 
 
 But graves are cells of truth and love, 
 And men may talk no treason there. 
 
 A corpse will wear no wedding-glove, 
 A ghost will make no sign in air.
 
 190 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 But ghosts can pray ? Well ! let them kneel ; 
 They, too, must loathe the love they feel. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ah me ! to sleep and yet to wake, 
 To live so long, and yet to die ; 
 
 To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake, 
 And yet no peace to gain thereby ! 
 
 What have I done ? What left unsaid ? 
 
 Nay, 1 will count my tears instead. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Here is a word of wild design. 
 
 Here is a threat ; 'twas meant to warn. 
 Here is a fierce and freezing line, 
 
 As hot as hate, as cold as scorn. 
 Ah, friend ! forgive, — forbear my rhymes, 
 But pray for me, sweet soul ! sometimes. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Had I a curse to spare to-day, 
 (Which I have not) I'd use it now. 
 
 I'd curse my hair, to turn it grey ; 
 I'd teach my back to bend and bow 
 
 I'd make myself so old and thin 
 
 That I should seem too sad to sin.
 
 jTBtsccllancous poems. 191 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And then we'd meet, we two, at night ; 
 
 And I should know what saints have known. 
 Thou wouldst not tremble, dear, for fright, 
 
 Or shriek to meet me there alone. 
 I should not then be spurned for this, 
 Or want a smile, or need a kiss. 
 
 xx. 
 
 I should not then be fierce as fire, 
 
 Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife ; 
 My heart would throb with no desire, 
 
 For care would cool the flush of life ; 
 And I should love thee, spotless one, 
 As pilgrims love some holy nun. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ah, queen-like creature ! smile on me ; 
 
 Be kind, be good ; I loved thee much. 
 I thank thee, see ! on bended knee ; 
 
 I seek salvation in thy touch. 
 And when I sleep I watch thee come, 
 And both are wild, and one is dumb. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart ; 
 
 I kiss thy lips and call thee mine. 
 Of thy sweet soul I form a part, 
 
 And my poor soul is part of thine. 
 Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! 
 But let me be thy servant now.
 
 192 /nMscclIaneous poems. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 What ! did I curse thy golden hair ? 
 
 Well, then, the sun will set at noon ; 
 The face that keeps the world so fair 
 
 Is thine, not his ; he darkens soon. 
 Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn, 
 And day departs when thou art gone. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Oh ! had I groves in some sweet star 
 
 That shines in Heaven the whole night through, — 
 A steed with wings, — a golden car, — 
 
 A something wild and strange and true : — 
 A fairy's wand, — an angel's crown, — 
 I'd merge them all in thy renown. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 I'd give thee queens to wait on thee, 
 And kings to kneel to thee in prayer, 
 
 And seraph-boys, — by land and sea, — 
 To do thy bidding,— earth and air 
 
 To pay thee homage, — all the flowers, — 
 
 And all the nymphs in all the bowers. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And this our love should last for aye, 
 
 And we should live these thousand years. 
 
 We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day, 
 And make the tour of all the spheres. 
 
 We'd do strange things ! Sweet stars would shine, 
 
 And Death would spare my love and thine.
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 193 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But these are dreams ; and dreams are vain ; 
 
 Mine most of all,— so heed them not. 
 Brave thoughts will die, though men complain, 
 
 And mine was bold ! 'Tis now forgot. 
 Well ; let me bless thee, ere I sleep, 
 And give thee all my joys to keep. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I bless the house where thou wast born, 
 And every bower that's thine of right, 
 
 And even* hour from flush of morn 
 To death of day, — for thy delight. 
 
 I bless the sunbeams as they shine, 
 
 So like those golden locks of thine ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes, 
 Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair, 
 
 The light that shines in summer skies, — 
 In garden walks when thou art there, — 
 
 And all the grass beneath thy feet, 
 
 And all the songs thou singest, Sweet ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But blessing thus, — ah, woe's the day ! — 
 I know what tears I shall not shed, 
 
 What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they. 
 What bells will ring when I am dead. 
 
 Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou ! 
 
 But let me be thy minstrel now. 
 
 N
 
 i94 /HMsccllaneous Ipoems. 
 
 ELI A NO RE. 
 
 i. 
 
 The forest flowers are faded all, 
 
 The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, 
 
 Eh'anore ! 
 I turn to thee, as to a bower : — 
 Thou breathest beauty like a flower, 
 Thou smilest like a happy hour, 
 
 Eh'anore ! 
 
 ll. 
 
 I turn to thee. I bless afar 
 
 Thy name, which is my guiding-star, 
 
 Eh'anore ! 
 And yet, ah God ! when thou art here 
 I faint, I hold my breath for fear. 
 Art thou some phantom wandering near, 
 
 Eh'anore ? 
 
 in. 
 
 Oh, take me to thy bosom fair ; 
 Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, 
 
 Eh'anore ! 
 There let me lie when I am dead 
 Those morning-beams about me spread, 
 The glory of thy face o'erhead, 
 
 Eh'anore !
 
 .Miscellaneous poems. 195 
 
 THE STATUE. 
 
 I. 
 
 See where my lady stands, 
 Lifting her lustrous hands, — 
 
 Here let me bow. 
 Image of truth and grace ! 
 Maid with the angel-face ! 
 Earth was no dwelling-place 
 
 For such as thou. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah, thou unhappy stone, 
 Make now thy sorrows known 
 
 Make known thy longing. 
 Thou art the form of one 
 Whom I, with hopes undone, 
 Buried at set of sun, — 
 
 All the friends thronging. 
 
 in. 
 
 Thou art a Vision bright 
 Lost out of Heaven at night, 
 
 Far from thy race. 
 Oft when the others dance, 
 Come I, with wistful glance, 
 Fearful lest thou, perchance, 
 
 Leave the dark place.
 
 196 jfllMsccllancous ipoeme. 
 
 IV. 
 
 No ! thou wilt never flee, 
 Earth has a charm for thee ; — 
 
 Why should we sever ? 
 Years have I seen thee so, 
 Making pretence to go, 
 Lifting thine arms of snow, — 
 
 Voiceless for ever ! 
 
 Here bring I all my cares, 
 Here dream and say my prayers 
 
 While the bells toll. 
 O thou beloved saint ! 
 Let not my courage faint, 
 Let not a shame, or taint, 
 
 Injure my soul !
 
 Miscellaneous fl>ocms. 197 
 
 PABLO DE SARAS ATE. 
 
 Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face, 
 And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace, 
 But are not sad with sadness of the years, 
 
 Or hints of tears ? 
 
 11. 
 
 He is a king, or I mistake the sign, 
 A king of song, — a comrade of the Nine, — 
 The Muses' brother, and their youngest one, 
 
 This side the sun. 
 
 in. 
 
 See how he bends to greet his soul's desire, 
 His violin, which trembles like a lyre, 
 And seems to trust him, and to know his touch, 
 
 Beloved so much ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 He stands full height ; he draws it to his breast, 
 Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest, — 
 A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end, — 
 
 To be his friend. 
 
 v. 
 
 And who can doubt the right it has to lie 
 So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh, 
 And there to shake its octaves into notes 
 
 With bird-like throats ?
 
 198 flSlscellancous ipocms. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah ! see how deftly, with his lifted bow, 
 He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe, 
 And wakes the wailing of the sprite withit 
 
 ithin 
 That knows not sin. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A thousand heads are turned to where he stands, 
 A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands, 
 And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north, 
 
 A shout breaks forth ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 It is the welcome that of old was given 
 To Paganini ere he joined in Heaven 
 The angel-choirs of those who serve aright 
 
 The God of Light. 
 
 IX. 
 
 It is the large, loud utterance of a throng 
 That loves a faith-employed, impassioned song ; 
 A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,- 
 
 Yet keeps us glad. 
 
 x. 
 
 For look ! how bearded men and women fair 
 Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer, 
 And half are shamed in their so mean estate, 
 
 And he so great !
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 199 
 
 XI. 
 
 This is the young Endymion out of Spain 
 Who, laurel-crowned, has come to us again, 
 To re-intone the songs of other times 
 
 In far-off climes ; 
 
 XII. 
 
 To prove again that Music, by the plea 
 Of all men's love, has linked from sea to sea 
 All shores of earth in one serene and grand 
 
 Symphonic land. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oh ! hush the while ! Oh ! hush ! A bird has sung, 
 A Mayday bird has trilled without a tongue, 
 And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight 
 
 For sheer delight. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A phantom bird ! 'Tis gone where all things go— 
 The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow, 
 The hopes we nursed, the dead things lately passed — 
 
 All dreams at last. 
 
 xv. 
 
 The towers of light, the castles in the air, 
 The queenly things with diamonds in their hair, 
 The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art — 
 
 All these depart.
 
 ;oo Afecellaneoua lpocms. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 They seemed to live ; and lo ! beyond recall, 
 They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall, 
 And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismissed, 
 
 Though glory-kissed. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 O pride of Spain ! O wizard with a wand 
 More fraught with fervours of the life beyond 
 Than books have taught us in these tawdry days, 
 
 Take thou my praise. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Aye, take it, Pablo ! Though so poor a thing, 
 'Twill serve to mind thee of an English spring 
 When wealth, and worth, and fashion, each and all, 
 
 Obeyed thy thrall. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lark that sings its love-song in the cloud 
 Is God-inspired and glad, — but is not proud, — 
 And soon forgets the salvos of the breeze, 
 
 As thou dost these. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The shouts, the praises, and the swift acclaim, 
 That men have brought to magnify thy name, 
 Affect thee barely as an idle cheer 
 
 Affects a seer.
 
 Miscellaneous ipocms. 201 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But thou art ours, O Pablo ! ours to-day, 
 Ours, and not ours, in thy triumphant sway ; 
 And we must urge it by the right that brings 
 
 Honour to kings. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Honour to thee, thou stately, thou divine 
 And far-famed minstrel of a mighty line ! 
 Honour to thee, and peace, and musings high, 
 
 Good-night ! Good-bye !
 
 202 Miscellaneous ff>ocms. 
 
 PRO P ATRIA. 
 
 AN ODE TO SWINBURNE. 
 
 [" We have not, alack ! an ally to befriend us, 
 And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us. 
 Let the German touch hands with the Gaul, 
 And the fortress of England must fall. 
 
 Louder and louder the noise of defiance 
 Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance, 
 And bids us beware, and be warned, 
 As abhorred of all nations and scorned." 
 
 — A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Sminbtirne.] 
 
 I. 
 
 NAY, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again, 
 
 And curb the tumults that are born in thee, 
 That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain 
 To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Are we not Britons born, when all is said, 
 
 And thou the offspring of the knightly souls 
 Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested, 
 And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head ? 
 
 in. 
 O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath 
 
 Hast found the way to flout thy fathers' flag, 
 Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith, 
 To seem to triumph in thy country's death ?
 
 /Miscellaneous poems. 203 
 
 IV. 
 
 If none will plead for us, if none will say 
 
 How much thy Muse has wronged us in its thought, 
 Tis I will do it ; I will say thee nay, 
 And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay ! 
 
 We own thy prowess ; for we've learnt by rote 
 Song after song of thine ; and thou art great. 
 But why this malice ? Why this wanton note 
 Which seems to rush like lava from thy throat ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell, 
 
 We knew he feared us more than he contemned. 
 He flecked with fire each sentence as it fell, 
 And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And we were proud of him, as France was proud ; 
 
 Aye ! called him brother, though he loved us not. 
 And all were thrilled when,— ruthless from a cloud,- 
 The bolt of death outstretched him for a shroud. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, 
 But less than he as spokesman of his Land. 
 For thou hast railed at thine, to do it wrong, 
 And called us coward though our faith is strong.
 
 204 rtfctsccllancous poems. 
 
 IX. 
 
 England a coward ? O thou five foot five 
 
 Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest ! 
 Is she not girt with glory and alive 
 To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive ? 
 
 x. 
 
 Thou art a bee,— a bright, a golden thing 
 
 With too much honey ; and the taste thereof 
 Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting 
 Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh, thou hast wronged us ; thou hast said of late 
 
 More than is good for listeners to repeat. 
 Nay, I have marvelled at thy words of hate, 
 For friends and foes alike have deemed us great. 
 
 XII. 
 
 We are not vile ! We, too, have hearts to feel ; 
 
 And not in vain have men remembered this. 
 Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel, 
 And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assailed 
 By wave and wind ; for bluster kills itself, 
 But rocks endure. And England has prevailed 
 Times out of number, when her foes have failed.
 
 /Miscellaneous poems. 205 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found, 
 
 Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun. 
 And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round, 
 And he was king of men, though never crowned. 
 
 XV. 
 
 He loved the gracious earth from east to west, 
 
 And all the seas thereof and all its shores. 
 But most he loved the homestead he possessed, 
 And, right or .wrong, his country seemed the best. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 He was content with Albion's classic land. 
 
 He loved its flag ; he veiled its every fault. 
 Yes ! he was proud to let its honour stand, 
 And bring to light the wonders it had planned. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Do thou thus much ; and deal no further pain ; 
 
 But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth 
 And sooner let the life in thee be slain, 
 Than strike at One who strikes thee not again. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Thy land and mine, our England, is erect, 
 
 And like a lordly thing she looks on thee, 
 And sees thee numbered with her bards elect, 
 And will not harm the brow that she has decked.
 
 206 /Miscellaneous ipocms. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare 
 Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird 
 May make much music in the summer air, 
 And how a curse may turn into a prayer. 
 
 xx. 
 
 Take back thy taunt, I say ; and with the same 
 
 Accept our pardon ; or,— if this offend, — 
 Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name. 
 We have our country still, and thou thy fame !
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 207 
 
 THE LITTLE GRA VE. 
 
 A little mound of earth 
 
 Is all the land I own : 
 Death gave it me, — five feet by three, 
 
 And marked it with a stone. 
 
 11. 
 
 My home, my garden-grave, 
 
 Where most I long to go ! 
 The ground is mine by right divine, 
 
 And Heaven will have it so. 
 
 in. 
 
 For here my darling sleeps, 
 Unseen, — arrayed in white, — 
 
 And o'er the grass the breezes pass, 
 And stars look down at night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Here Beauty, Love, and Joy, 
 
 With Her in silence dwell, 
 As Eastern slaves are thrown in graves 
 
 Of kings remembered well.
 
 20S /DMscellaneouB poems. 
 
 But here let no man come, 
 My mourning rights to sever. 
 
 Who lieth here is cold and dumb, 
 Her dust is mine for ever !
 
 Miscellaneous poems. 209 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 Art thou lonely in thy tomb ? 
 Art thou cold in such a gloom ? 
 Rouse thee, then, and make me room, 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Phantoms vex thy virgin sleep, 
 Nameless things around thee creep, 
 Yet be patient, do not weep, — 
 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 in. 
 
 be faithful ! O be brave ! 
 Nought shall harm thee in thy grave ; 
 Let the restless spirits rave, 
 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 When my pilgrimage is done, 
 When the grace of God is won, 
 
 1 will come to thee, my nun, — 
 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 o
 
 2ro Miscellaneous ipoems. 
 
 v. 
 
 Like a priest in flowing vest, 
 Like a pale, unbidden guest, 
 I will come to thee and rest, — 
 Miserere Domine !
 
 /llMsccllancoua poems. 211 
 
 DAISIES OUT AT SEA. 
 
 These are the buds we bear beyond the surf, — 
 
 Enshrined in mould and turf, — 
 To take to fields far off, a land's salute 
 
 Of high and vast repute, — 
 The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire, 
 Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire, 
 But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire. 
 
 11. 
 
 O bright and gracious things that seem to glow 
 
 With frills of winter snow, 
 And little golden heads that know the sun, 
 
 And seasons half begun, 
 How blithe they look, how fresh and debonair, 
 In this their prison on the seaward air, 
 On which no lark has soared to improvise a prayer. 
 
 in. 
 
 Have they no memory of the inland grass, — 
 
 The fields where breezes pass, 
 And where the full-eyed children, out at play, 
 
 Make all the land so gay ? 
 Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear, 
 Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier, 
 In far-off English homes, beloved by all men here?
 
 212 flStocellarieoufl ipocms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 gems of earth ! O trinkets of the spring ! 
 
 The sun, your gentle king, 
 Who counts your leaves and marshals ye apace, 
 
 In many a sacred place, 
 The godlike summer sun will miss ye all, 
 For he has fostered all things, great and small, 
 Yea, all good things that live on earth's revolving ball. 
 
 v. 
 
 But when, on deck, he sees with eye serene 
 
 The kirtles, tender-green, 
 And fair fresh faces of his hardy flowers, 
 
 How will he throb for hours, 
 And wish the lark, the laureate of the light, 
 Were near at hand, to see so fair a sight, 
 And chant the joys thereof in words we cannot write. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, 1 have loved ye more than may be told, 
 
 And deemed it fairy-gold, — 
 And fairy-silver, — that ye bear withal ; 
 
 Ye are so soft and small, 
 
 1 weep for joy to find ye here to-day 
 
 So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, 
 In our good ocean-ship, whose bows are wet with 
 spray. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ye are the cynosure of many eyes 
 
 Bright-blue as English skies, — 
 The sailor's eyes that scan ye in a row, 
 
 As if intent to show
 
 /llMsccUancous ipocms. 213 
 
 That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower 
 Which sails the seas, in sunshine and in shower, 
 Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not 
 devour. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, 
 
 As one may send a toy 
 To children's children, bred in other lands 
 
 By love-abiding hands. 
 And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam 
 To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, 
 Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore 
 to roam. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In England's name, in Shakespeare's,— and in ours, 
 Who bear these trusted flowers, — 
 
 There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, 
 A rush and roar of notes, 
 
 As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds ; 
 
 And they who till the ground and tend the herds 
 
 Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in 
 
 words. 
 
 x. 
 
 For England's sake, for England once again, 
 
 In pride and power and pain, 
 For England, aye ! for England in the girth 
 
 Of all her joy and worth, 
 A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined, 
 And uncontrolled wild shout upon the wind, 
 Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human- 
 kind !
 
 SONNETS.
 
 Sonncte. 217 
 
 1. 
 
 ECSTASY. 
 
 I cannot sing to thee as I would sing 
 
 If I were quickened like the holy lark 
 With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, 
 
 Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark 
 Renewed in rapture in the reddening air. 
 
 A thing of splendour do I deem him then, 
 A feathered frenzy with an angel's throat, 
 A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 
 
 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men. 
 He fills me with such wonder and despair ! 
 
 I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, 
 As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun. 
 Oh ! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, 
 
 And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright !
 
 :i8 Sonnets. 
 
 ii. 
 VISIONS. 
 
 The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, 
 And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, 
 
 And infant naiads bathing in the rill, 
 
 And dryad maids that dance upon the green, 
 And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen 
 
 They wear in summer, when the winds are still. 
 
 He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, 
 And sees Creation through its mask terrene. 
 
 The dead are wise, for they alone can see 
 As see the bards, — as see, beyond the dust, 
 The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just. 
 
 There is no comfort in the bitter fee 
 
 That scholars pay for fame. True sage is he 
 
 Who doubts all doubt, and takes the soul on trust.
 
 Sonnets. 219 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 111. 
 
 See where it stands, the world-appointed flower, 
 
 Pure gold at centre, like the sun at noon, — 
 A mimic sun to light a true-love bower 
 
 For fair Queen Mab, now dead or in a swoon, 
 
 Whom late a poet saw beneath the moon. 
 It lifts its dainty face till sunset hour, 
 As if endowed with nympholeptic power, — 
 
 Then shuts its petals like a folding tune ! 
 I love it more than words of mine can say, 
 
 And more than anchorite may breathe in prayer. 
 
 Methinks the lark has made it still his care 
 To brag of daisies to the lord of day. 
 Well ! I will follow suit, as best I may, 
 
 Launching my love-songs on the summer air.
 
 22o Sonnets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 PROBA TJON. 
 
 Could I, O Love ! obtain a charter clear 
 
 To be thy bard, in all thy nights and days, 
 I would consult the stars, from year to year, 
 
 And talk with trees, and learn of them their ways, 
 And why the nymphs so seldom now appear 
 
 In human form, with rapt and earnest gaze ; 
 
 And I would learn of thee why Joy decays, 
 And why the Fauns have ceased to flourish here. 
 I would, in answer to the wind's "Alas !" 
 
 Explain the causes of a sorrow's flight ; 
 I would peruse the writing on the grass 
 
 Which flowers have traced in blue and red and 
 white ; 
 And, reading these, I would, as from a pen, 
 Read thoughts of thine unguessed by other men !
 
 Sonnets. 221 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 He lived and loved ; he suffered ; he was poor ; 
 But he was gifted with the gifts of Heaven, 
 And those of all the week-days that are seven, 
 
 And those of all the centuries that endure. 
 
 He bowed to none ; he kept his honour sure. 
 He followed in the wake of those Eleven 
 Who walked with Christ, and lifted up his Steven* 
 
 To keep the bulwarks of his faith secure. 
 
 He knew the secrets of the singing-time ; 
 
 He tracked the sun ; he ate the luscious fruit 
 Of grief and joy ; and with his wonder-lute 
 
 He made himself a name in every clime. 
 The minds of men were madly stricken mule, 
 
 And all the world lay subject to his rhyme ! 
 
 * Steven, a voice ; old word revived.
 
 222 Sonnets. 
 
 VI. 
 
 DIFFIDENCE. 
 
 I CANNOT deck my thought in proud attire, 
 
 Or make it fit for thee in any dress, 
 Or sing to thee the songs of thy desire, 
 In summer's heat, or by the winter's fire, 
 
 Or give thee cause to comfort or to bless. 
 
 For I have scanned mine own unworthiness, 
 And well I know the weakness of the lyre 
 
 Which I have striven to sway to thy caress. 
 Yet must I quell my tears and calm the smart 
 
 Of my vext soul, and steadfastly emerge 
 
 From lonesome thoughts, as from the tempest's 
 surge. 
 I must control the beating of my heart, 
 And bid false pride be gone, who, with his art, 
 
 Has pressed, too long, a suit I dare not urge.
 
 Sonnets. 223 
 
 VII. 
 
 FAIRIES. 
 
 GLORY endures when calumny hath fled ; 
 
 And fairies show themselves, hi friendly guise, 
 To all who hold a trust beyond the dead, 
 
 And all who pray, albeit so worldly-wise, 
 
 With cheerful hearts, or wildly-weeping eyes. 
 They come and go when children are in bed 
 
 To gladden them with dreams from out the skies, 
 And sanctify all tears that they have shed ! 
 Fairies are winged for wandering to and fro. 
 
 They live in legends. They survive the Greeks. 
 Wisdom is theirs ; they live for us and grow, 
 
 Like things ambrosial, fairer than the freaks 
 Of signs and seasons, which the Fates bestow, 
 
 Or fires of sunset on the mountain-peaks.
 
 224 Sonnets. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 SPIRIT LOVE. 
 
 How great my joy ! How grand my recompense ! 
 
 I bow ; I praise ; I keep thee in my sight. 
 I call thee mine, in love, though not in sense 
 To share with thee the heritage immense 
 
 Of holy dreams which come to us at night. 
 For, through the medium of the spirit-lens, 
 
 We see the soul, in its primeval light, 
 
 And Reason spares the hopes it cannot blight. 
 It is the soul of thee, and not the form 
 
 And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep. 
 It is thyself. The body is the storm, 
 
 The soul the star beyond it in the deep 
 
 Of Nature's calm. And yonder on the steep 
 The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm !
 
 Sonnets. 225 
 
 IX. 
 
 AFTER TWO DAYS. 
 
 Another night has turned itself to day, 
 
 Another day has melted into eve, 
 And lo ! again I tread the measured way 
 
 Of word and thought, the twain to interweave, 
 
 As flowers absorb the rays that they receive. 
 And, all along the woodland where I stray, 
 I think of thee, and of the Ides of May, 
 
 And sorrow soothes the soul it would bereave. 
 Nor will I fear that thou, so far apart, 
 
 So dear to me, so fair, and so benign, 
 Wilt un-desire the fealty of a heart 
 
 Which evermore is pledged to thee and thine, 
 And turns to thee, in regions where thou art, 
 
 To hymn the raptures of thy face divine !
 
 226 Sonnets. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 He was a god descended from the skies 
 
 To fight the fight of Freedom o'er a grave, 
 
 And consecrate a hope he could not save ; 
 For he was weak withal, and foolish wise. 
 Dark were his thoughts, and strange his destinies, 
 
 And oftentimes his life he did deprave. 
 But all do pity him, though none despise. 
 
 He was a prince of song, though sorrow's slave. 
 He asked for tears, — and they were tinged with fire j 
 
 He asked for love, and love was sold to him. 
 
 He looked for solace at the goblet's brim, 
 And found it not ; then wept upon his lyre. 
 He sang the songs of all the world's desire, — 
 
 He wears the wreath no rivalry can dim !
 
 Sonnets. 227 
 
 XI. 
 
 LOVE'S AMBITION. 
 
 I MUST invoke thee for my spirit's good, 
 And prove myself un-guilty of the crime 
 
 Of mere self-seeking, though with this imbued. 
 
 I sing as sings the mavis in a wood, 
 Content to be alive at harvest-time. 
 
 Had I its wings I should not be withstood ! 
 But I will weave my fancies into rhyme, 
 And greet afar the heights I cannot climb. 
 
 I will invoke thee, Love ! though far away, 
 And pay thee homage, as becomes a knight 
 Who longs to keep his true-love in his sight. 
 
 Yea, I will soar to thee, in roundelay, 
 
 In shine and shower, and make a bold assay 
 Of each fond hope, to compass thee aright.
 
 228 Sonnets. 
 
 XII. 
 
 LOVE'S DEFEAT. 
 
 Do what I will I cannot chant so well 
 As other men ; and yet my soul is true. 
 
 My hopes are bold ; my thoughts are hard to tell, 
 But thou canst read them, and accept them, too, 
 Though, half-abashed, they seem to hide fiom 
 view. 
 
 I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow shell ; 
 
 And why ? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, 
 And when I count the woes that must ensue. 
 
 But for this reason, and no other one, 
 
 I dare to look thy way, and bow my head 
 
 To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, 
 Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed 
 With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, 
 
 Unnumbered tears, till life or love be done !
 
 Sonnets. 229 
 
 xm. 
 A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT. 
 
 The lightning is the shorthand of the storm 
 
 That tells of chaos ; and I read the same 
 
 As one may read the writing of a name, — 
 As one in Hell may see the sudden form 
 
 Of God's fore-finger pointed as in blame. 
 How weird the scene ! The Dark is sulphur-warm 
 With hints of death ; and in their vault enorme 
 
 The reeling stars coagulate in flame. 
 And now the torrents from their mountain-beds 
 
 Roar down unchecked ; and serpents shaped of 
 mist 
 Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads ; 
 
 And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, 
 Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, 
 
 And shake the air like Titans that have kissed !
 
 230 Sonnets. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 IN TUSCANY. 
 
 Dost thou remember, friend of vanished days, 
 How in the golden land of love and song, 
 
 We met in April in the crowded ways 
 Of that fair city where the soul is strong, 
 
 Aye ! strong as fate, for good or evil praise ? 
 
 And how the lord whom all the world obeys, — 
 The lord of light to whom the stars belong, — 
 Illumed the track that led thee through the throng ? 
 
 Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, 
 Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, 
 How all the air was flooded as with wine ? 
 
 And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, 
 
 Pealed out sweet notes ? I live to tell the tale. 
 But thou ? Oblivion signs thee with a sign !
 
 Sonnets. 231 
 
 XV. 
 
 A HERO. 
 
 THE warrior knows how fitful is the fight, — 
 
 How sad to live, — how sweet perchance to die. 
 Is Fame his joy ? He meets her on the height, 
 
 And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry ; 
 
 His eyes are wet ; our own will not be dry. 
 Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, 
 When he survives to serve his Land aright 
 
 And make his fame the watchword of the sky. 
 In all our hopes his love is with us still ; 
 
 He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve. 
 
 His acts are just ; his word we must believe, 
 And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill 
 To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill. — 
 
 Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve !
 
 232 Sonnets. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear ; 
 
 And if I loved thee well in days gone by, 
 And if I kissed, and trifled with thy hair, 
 
 And crowned my love, to prove the same a lie, 
 
 My doom is this : my joy was quick to die. 
 The chain of custom in the drowsy lair 
 Of some slain vision, is a weight to bear, 
 
 And both abhorred it, — thou as well as I. 
 Ah, God ! 'tis tearful-true ; and I repent ; 
 
 And like a dead, live man I live for this : — 
 
 To stand, unvalued, on a dream's abyss, 
 And be mine own most piteous monument. 
 
 What ! did I rob thee, Lady, of a kiss ? 
 There, take it back ; and frown ; and be content !
 
 Sonnets. 233 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE MISSION OF THE BARD. 
 
 He is a seer. He wears the wedding-ring 
 
 Of Art and Nature ; and his voice is bold. 
 He should be quicker than the birds to sing, 
 
 And filled with frenzy like the men of old 
 Who sang their songs for country and for king. 
 
 Nothing should daunt him, though the news were 
 told 
 
 By fiends from Hell ! He should be swift to hold 
 And swift to part with truth, as from a spring. 
 
 He should discourse of war and war's alarm, 
 And deeds of peace, and garlands to be sought, 
 
 And love, and lore, and death, and beauty's charm, 
 And warlike men subdued by tender thought, 
 And grief dismissed, and hatred set at naught, 
 
 And Freedom shielded by his strong right arm !
 
 234 Sennets. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 DEA TH. 
 
 It is the joy, it is the zest of life, 
 
 To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, 
 Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, 
 
 And not a serpent with a look of guile, 
 
 But one who greets us with a seraph's smile,- 
 An angel-guest to tend us after strife, 
 And keep us true to God when fears are rife 
 
 And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile. 
 He walks the world as one empowered to fill 
 
 The fields of space for Father and for Son. 
 
 He is our friend, though morbidly we shun 
 His tender touch, — a cure for every ill. 
 
 He is the king of peace, when all is done. 
 Earth and the air are moulded to his will.
 
 Sonnets. 235 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TO ONE I LOVE. 
 
 Oh, let me plead with thee to have a nook, 
 
 A garden nook, not far from thy domain, 
 That there, with harp, and voice, and poet-book, 
 
 I may be true to thee, and, passion-fain, 
 
 Rehearse the songs of nature once again : — 
 The songs of Cynthia wandering by the brook 
 
 To soothe the raptures of a lover's pain, 
 And those of Phyllis with her shepherd's crook ! 
 I die to serve thee, and for this alone, — 
 
 To be thy bard-elect, from day to day, — 
 I would forego the right to fill a throne. 
 
 I would consent to be the famine-prey 
 Of some fierce pard, if ere the night were flown 
 
 I might subdue thee to my spirit-sway.
 
 236 Sonnets. 
 
 XX. 
 
 EX TENEBRA. 
 
 The winds have showered their rains upon the sod, 
 And flowers and trees have murmured as with lips. 
 
 The very silence has appealed to God 
 
 In man's behalf, though smitten by His rod. 
 'Twould seem as if the blight of some eclipse 
 Had dulled the skies, — as if, on mountain tips, 
 
 The winds of Heaven had spurned the life terrene, 
 And clouds were foundering like benighted ships. 
 
 But what is this, exultant, unforeseen, 
 
 Which cleaves the dark ? A fearful, burning thin^ ' 
 Is it the moon ? Or Saturn's scarlet rinsr 
 
 Hurled into space ? It is the tempest-sun ! 
 It is the advent of the Phceban king 
 
 Which tells the valleys that the storm is done !
 
 Sonnets. 237 
 
 XXI. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 Victor the King ! alive to-day, not dead ! 
 
 Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand 
 
 A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, 
 But all unfit to deck so grand a head. 
 
 It is the outcome of a neighbour land 
 Denounced of thee, and spurned for many years. 
 It is the token of a nation's tears 
 
 Which oft has joyed in thee, and shall again. 
 
 Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain, — 
 These are the flo.vers we spread upon thy hearse. 
 We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse ; 
 
 We call thee friend ; we ratify thy reign. 
 Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, 
 But thou thy tomb hast turned into a throne !
 
 238 Sonnets. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 CYNTHIA. 
 
 Lady Moon, elect of all the spheres 
 To be the guardian of the ocean-tides, 
 
 1 charge thee, say, by all thy hopes and fears, 
 
 And by thy face, the oracle of brides, 
 
 Why evermore Remorse with thee abides ? 
 Is life a bane to thee, and fraught with tears, 
 
 That thus forlorn and sad thou dost confer 
 With ghosts and shades ? Perchance thou dost 
 
 aspire 
 To bridal honours, and thy Phoebus-sire 
 
 Forbids the banns, whoe'er thy suitor be ? 
 Is this thy grievance, O thou chief of nuns ? 
 
 Or dost thou weep to know that Jupiter 
 Hath many moons — his daughters and his sons — 
 
 And Earth, thy mother, only one in thee ?
 
 Sonnets. 2 39 
 
 xxm. 
 
 PHILOMEL. 
 
 Lo, as a minstrel at the court of Love, 
 
 The nightingale, who knows his mate is nigh, 
 Thrills into rapture ; and the stars above 
 
 Look down, affrighted, as they would reply. 
 
 There is contagion, and I know not why, 
 In all this clamour, all this fierce delight, 
 
 As if the sunset, when the day did swoon, 
 
 Had drawn some wild confession from the moon. 
 Have wrongs been done ? Have crimes enacted been 
 To shame the weird retirement of the night ? 
 
 O clamorous bird ! O sad, sweet nightingale ! 
 Withhold thy voice, and blame not Beauty's queen. 
 
 She may be pure, though dumb : and she is pale, 
 And wears a radiance on her brow serene.
 
 24o Sonnets. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 THE SONNET KING. 
 
 Petrarch ! I am here. I bow to thee, 
 Great king of sonnets, throned long ago, 
 
 And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me, 
 And miser-like, enamoured of my woe, 
 I reckon up my teardrops as they flow. 
 
 1 would not lose the power to shed a tear 
 
 For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign. 
 
 I would not be so base as not complain 
 When she I love is absent from my sight, 
 No, not for all the marvels of the night, 
 
 And all the varying splendours of the year. 
 Do thou assist me, thou ! that art the light 
 
 Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere, 
 To make a May-time of my sorrows slain.
 
 Sonnets. 241 
 
 xxv. 
 
 TOKEN FLOWERS. 
 
 Oh, not the daisy, for the love of God ! 
 
 Take not the daisy ! Let it bloom apace, — 
 Untouched alike by splendour or disgrace 
 
 Of party feud ! Its stem is not a rod ; 
 
 And no one fears, or hates it, on the sod. 
 It laughs, exultant, in the Morning's face, 
 And everywhere doth fill a lowly place, 
 
 Though fraught with favours for the darkest clod. 
 
 'Tis said the primrose is a party flower, 
 And means coercion, and the coy renown 
 Of one who toiled for country and for crown. 
 
 But, in the circuit of my Lady's bower, 
 
 It means content, a hope, a golden hour. 
 Primroses smile ; and daisies cannot frown !
 
 242 Sonnets. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A VETERAN POET. 
 
 I KNEW thee first as one may know the fame 
 Of some apostle, — as a man may know 
 The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow. 
 
 I hailed thee prince of poets ! I became 
 
 Vassal of thine, and warmed me at the flame 
 Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow 
 With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show, 
 
 And all the splendours, Master ! of thy name. 
 
 But now, a man revealed, — a guide for men, — 
 I see thy face and clasp thee by the hand ; 
 And though the Muses in thy presence stand, 
 
 There's room for me to loiter in thy ken. 
 
 O lordly soul ! O wizard of the pen ! 
 
 What news from God? What word from Fairyland?
 
 Sonnets. 243 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A PRAYER FOR ENGLAND. 
 
 Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call, — 
 By whom we live, — on whom our hopes are built, — 
 Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt, 
 
 Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall 
 
 Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall ! 
 Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt, 
 When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt, 
 
 And keep it strong when traitors would appal. 
 
 Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen 
 
 And sword and buckler of our England's might, 
 
 That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene, 
 May fade away, as fades a winter's night. 
 
 Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen. 
 Wilt Thou not help us, Lord ! to find the Light ?
 
 PRINTED BV BALLANTYNEj HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
 
 Small square cW, price Five Shillings, 
 
 Love Letters of a Violinist. 
 
 By ERIC MACKAY. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The appearance of this book of 'Love Letters' in a time so matter- 
 of-fact as our own must be regarded in some sort as a literary pheno- 
 menon. We find ourselves lifted at once by the author's genius out of 
 this England of to-day, and are transported into an atmosphere as rare 
 and ethereal as that of the poet of Vaucluse. . . . Who the Laura of this 
 modern Petrarch may be is not discovered, but it may be asserted that 
 her lover has told his passion in numbers of exquisite melody, and has 
 soumlcd in her ear every note in the whole gamut of love— its hopes, its 
 despair, its ultimate triumph."— Morning Post. 
 
 "It -were much to be wished that the generality of modern erotic poets 
 would take example by Eric Mackay ; then might they learn that, by 
 the true poetic soul, human passion may be so treated as to elevate it to 
 a pure and spiritual force, instead of being degraded into mere animalism. 
 The volume is a striking one. The verse is powerful and original, both 
 in form and substance. . . . Passion is, indeed, the theme at opening ; 
 but the mere earthly is so subtly elevated and advanced through the 
 several gradations of the poem, that, at the climax, it is merged in the 
 truest and noblest love of man for woman." — The Graphic. 
 
 " Eric Mackay will probably be numbered with the choice few whose 
 n.imes are destined to live by the side of such poets as Keats. . . . His 
 epithets are quite unconventional and his conceptions entirely original.' 
 — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " The ' Love Letters ' of Eric Mackay are the handiwork of a brilliant 
 metrical artist and poet born. ... A beautiful and passionate work — 
 its beauty that of construction, language, imagery— its passion charac- 
 teristic of the artistic nature. . . . The poem is quite original, its 
 manner Elizabethan. . . . Eric Mackay is a natural lyrir-t with a 
 singing faculty, and a novel metrical form such as few lyrists have at 
 command."— E. C. Stedman, in "Victorian Poets," Edit. 1887.
 
 ZTbc Xoto6 Scries. 
 
 Under this title Messrs. Regan Paul, Trench, 
 T/RUBNER & Co. are publishing a limited number of 
 volumes per annum, which they believe will appeal to a 
 wide class of readers. 
 
 Each volume will be, as far as possible, complete in itself, 
 and will have some important feature to distinguish it 
 from any other edition that may be extant. 
 
 It will be the aim of the Publishers to make this Series 
 a Pantheon of Literature which shall contain nothing but 
 gems of the finest quality, and it loill contain copyright 
 'works not hitherto accessible in cheap form, as well as 
 reprints of older works of approved excellence, with such 
 additions or improvements upon other editions as to make 
 than original in many important features. 
 
 The Publishers limit themselves to no period of the 
 world's literature, and to no special branch or country ; 
 but they will endeavour to select from all that is good the 
 best. 
 
 In fixing the price at 3 r. 6d. per volume, they will be 
 enabled to create and keep up a high standard of excellence 
 in the technical production of the series. Each volume 
 will contain about 300 pages, pott Svo, and will be well 
 printed en specially made paper, while, in some instances, 
 illustrations by well-known artists will be added. The 
 binding will be in two styles — (1) an artistically designed 
 cloth cover in gold and colours, with gilt edges ; and 
 (2) half parchment, cloth sides, with gilt top, uncut. In 
 addition to this ordinary issue, the publishers will print 
 for book-lovers a limited number of large-paper copies on 
 Dutch hand-f/iade paper, which will be numbered, price 
 1 2s. 6d. per volume, net.
 
 Z\k Xotos Series. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 ORIGINAL TRAVELS 
 
 AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF 
 
 BARON MUNCHAUSEN. 
 
 Illustrated by Alfred Crowquill. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 These tales have bee?i before the public for more 
 than a hundred years. The first edition, published 
 in Lo?idon in 1785, 7/iet with immediate success, and 
 since that time numberless editions have appeared 
 in almost all languages. 
 
 So far as is known of their origin, the compiler 
 of this book drew largely o?i his recollections of the 
 strange tales invented for the amusement of his 
 boon companions by Baron Munchausen of Boden- 
 weder^ who died in 1797. The Baron's reputation 
 as a teller of good stories appears to have been well 
 established, he had travelled widely, and was much 
 oiven to entertaining his friends with recitals of 
 his original and surprising adventures. 
 
 The publishers have prepared the Lotos edition of 
 this work in the hope that a handy edition, well 
 printed and tastefully bound, will be acceptable to 
 a large number of those who still appreciate a work 
 that has given pleasure and am 11 seme 11 1 to genera- 
 tions of readers throughout the world.
 
 Zhc Xotos Series. 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 THE BREITMANN BALLADS. 
 
 By Charles G. Leland. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 With a New Preface and additional Poems. 
 
 This edition of the " Breitmann Ballads" con- 
 tains several new poems not included in any 
 previous collection, and the author has added a 
 new preface in which he says : " Though twenty 
 years have passed since the first appearance of the 
 '■Breitmann Ballads^ in a collected form, the 
 author is deeply gratified— and not less sincerely 
 grateful to the public — in knowing that Hans still 
 lives in many memories, that he continues to be 
 quoted wlic u writers wish to illustrate an exuber- 
 antly joyous ' barly,' or ladies so very fashionably 
 dressed as to recall ' de maidens mit nodings on,' 
 and that no inconsiderable number of those who 
 are '■beginning German'' continue to be addressed 
 by sportive friends in the Breitmann dialect as a 
 compliment to their capacity as linguists. For as 
 a young medical student is asked by anxious 
 intimates if he has got as far as salts, I hare 
 heard inquiries addressed to tyros in Teutonic 
 whether they had mastered these songs?
 
 XT be Xotos Scries. 
 
 VOLUME III. 
 
 ESSAYS ON MEN AND BOOKS 
 
 SELECTED FROM THE EARLIER WRITINGS OF 
 
 LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 With Critical Introduction and Notes 
 Ry Alexander H. Japp, LL.D., F.R.S.E. 
 
 Vol. I.— Introductory ; Lord Clive ; John Milton ; Earl of 
 Chatham ; Lord Byron. 
 
 I [ 7/7/ Portraits. 
 
 Dr. Japp, in his introduction, writes: — "He (Mac- 
 au/ay) does not, save in exceptional cases, remain 
 lo7ig with the man who suggests the subject ; he 
 passes with a few hurried steps from the person to 
 the influences around him, and re-creates for us 
 the world in which he moved, with all its secret 
 tendencies, its hidden life and motive, as well as 
 its manners, its outward air and aspect. He read 
 everything ; but he had also the art to bring remote 
 tilings together, and thus made them doubly en- 
 lightening and illustrative. 
 
 "• Mae, a/lay's style le?it itself readily to this kind 
 of effort. It is questionable if so much history was 
 ever written in so unpretending a form. I?i these 
 essays we have the history of England from the 
 days of Queen Elizabeth in its most striking periods. 
 No wonder that the Sibylline leaves, as Moore 
 called them, by some native virtue in them, claimed 
 to be brought together: they form one of the most 
 magnificent contributions to history — the more at- 
 tractive that they are so far from being formal, and 
 from being conceived after the dry, old-fashioned 
 style of history? 
 
 4
 
 ZTbe %otos Series. 
 
 VOLUME IV. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF ASIA ; 
 
 Ok, THE GREAT RENUNCIATION. 
 
 ( Mahtibhinishkramana. ) 
 
 Being the Life and Teaching of Gautama, Prince of India, 
 and Founder of Buddhism. 
 
 (As told in Verse by an Indian Buddhist.) 
 
 By Sir Edwin Arnold, M.A., K.C.I.E., C.S.I. , &c. &c. 
 
 II 'ith Portrait and Illustrations. 
 
 Extract from Preface.—"/ have sought^ by the 
 medium of an imaginary Buddhist votary* to depict 
 the life and character and indicate the philosophy of 
 that noble hero and reformer, Prmce Gautama of 
 India, the founder of Buddhism. 
 
 " A generation ago little or nothing was known in 
 Europe of this great faith of Asia, which had never- 
 theless existed during twenty-four centuries and at 
 this day surpasses, in the number of its followers 
 and the area of its prevalence, any other form of 
 creed. Four hundred and seventy millions of our 
 race live and die in the tenets of Gautama ; and the 
 spiritual dominions of this ancient teacher extend, 
 at the present time, from Nepaul and Ceylon, over 
 the whole Eastern Peninsula, to China, Japan, 
 Thibet, Central Asia, Siberia, and even Swedish 
 Lapland. India itself might fairly be included in 
 this magnificent Empire of Belief; for though the 
 profession of Buddism has for the most part passed 
 away from the land of its birth, the mark of 
 Gautama s sublime teaching is stamped incfjaccably 
 upon modern Brahmatiism, and the most character- 
 istic habits and convictions of the Hindus are clearly 
 due to the benign ittfluence of Buddhds precepts? 
 
 5
 
 Z\K %oto5 Series. 
 
 VOLUME VI. 
 THE MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES 
 
 AND 
 
 RARE CONCEITS 
 
 OF 
 
 MASTER TYLL OWLGLASS. 
 
 Newly Collected, Chronicled, and Set Forth in our 
 English Tongue. 
 
 By Kenneth R. H. Mackenzie, 
 
 Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries. 
 
 And ■ Idorned with Many most Diverting and Cunning 
 Devices by Alfred Crowquii.i.. 
 
 lb 
 
 A NEW EDITION. -Q 
 
 Extract from First Preface.— "-Among the folk- 
 books of the German nation tiot one has obtained so 
 general a circulation as that now presented in an 
 English form. . . . It has been deemed worthy, as 
 by the Appendix may be perceived, of being translated 
 into French, Dutch, Danish, Polish, nay, even He- 
 brew, and honoured by being reprinted on every kind 
 of paper, good and bad. A favourite among I In- 
 young for its amusing and quaint adventures, and 
 a study among those who strive, by the diligent com- 
 parison of different eras of national literature, to 
 arrive at a due appreciation of national character, 
 l-'.ul en Spiegel, or Owlglass the boor (peasant), pos- 
 sesses a peculiar value for the old."
 
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