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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 W\/^0j ^^ 
 
 ON THE NORTH WIND, 
 
 THISTLEDOWN.
 
 ON THE NORTH WIND, 
 
 THISTLEDOWN. 
 
 BY 
 
 •THE HOK MRS. WILLOUGHBT. 
 
 HENRY S. KING and Co. 
 
 05, COENHILL AND 12, PaTERNOSTKR lloW, LoXDON. 
 
 1874. .
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 583^ 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER, 
 
 CHIEF OF CLAN COMYN. 
 
 (died 1866.) 
 
 *,>0 C l^j '.J
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 ROLOGUE 
 
 Lady Alice. An Idyl 
 Margaret 
 Euphemia. A Highland Sketch 
 Pakt I. The Home and the Hero 
 II. The Heroine . 
 in. The Shieling . 
 IV. Mairi 
 v. The Book 
 VI. The Red Stag 
 vn. The Garden . 
 viix. Wherefore ? . 
 
 IN RHYTmi AWD RHYJ^IE. 
 
 The Water Kelpie 
 
 After the '45 (Jacobite) 
 
 The Beetle 
 
 A Water-Lily 
 
 Oscar 
 
 Elspeth 
 
 Page 
 
 1 
 
 7 
 
 33 
 
 55 
 66 
 74 
 80 
 88 
 94 
 116 
 127 
 
 159 
 165 
 169 
 172 
 175 
 178
 
 Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Amor Vincit Omnes 
 
 The Lovers' Cairn 
 
 The Sphinx 
 
 Dreams 
 
 The Sand Hills of Culbin 
 
 With Music 
 
 Memory . 
 
 The Garden of Scotland 
 
 "Hame" . 
 
 To Lily . 
 
 To Blanche 
 
 The Boneless 
 
 A Valediction 
 
 The Nine of Diamonds 
 
 Song 
 
 On a July Morning 
 
 Mackenzie's Farewell . 
 
 Duchess Constance 
 
 A Poet 
 
 Fragment, and a Portrait
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 STOOD upon tlie summit of a hill, 
 And sang untx) the winds my un- 
 taught song. 
 Then pray'd them each to bring a 
 little gift, 
 In token that my ditty pleasured them. 
 
 I waited, and they came, and brought their gifts ; 
 The tender South bore breath of orange groves, 
 And blew the myrtle petals to my feet ; 
 The attar-scented East brought rose-leaf showers. 
 Sandal-wood chips, and sleepy poppy-flowers ; 
 The Western Zephyr wafted spicy sighs. 
 And rare exotic blooms of wondrous dyes ; 
 On the North Wind came — Thistledown ! 
 
 B
 
 2 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I sent my song again into tlie world — 
 Not this time sung^ but written in a book, 
 And named the volume from the northern gift. 
 
 Oh ! my true North, — land of my people and 
 
 my love, — 
 Would that my tones could sound as loud and 
 
 free. 
 Hymning thy glories to a listening world. 
 As the grand accents of harmonious dead 
 That, like the organ in cathedral aisle. 
 Roll mightily on, from their days to our times. 
 Still gathering power in each reverberation. 
 Would that my voice might ring among thy hills, 
 Murmur thy woods, and lilt adown thy streams 
 In numbers worthy of thy perfect charms ; 
 A faithful homage, from a filial child. — 
 
 Do I not dedicate my song to the'e 
 In naming one, who deep within his soul 
 Held thee interr'd, as with thy soil his dust 
 Now mingled lies ? Who held his life fulfilled 
 Only, when in thy service every hour 
 Of work was spent, and every pleasure day
 
 PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 Perfect enjoyment only, — when from morn till eve. 
 He revelPd 'mong thy beauties to the full. — 
 
 And thou — his home and mine, his forbears home. 
 His own especial corner of the north, — 
 Their remnant of possessions erewhile vast. 
 The little spot and particle of earth 
 We worship most of all ! Whose sticks and stones 
 Own sacred separateness to our eyes 
 From other sticks and stones throughout the globe ; 
 To thee some numbers, not perhaps all vain, 
 Pertain, within the pages of my book : 
 Deem them, dear home, only the vapour-cloud 
 That rises from the burning of my love, — 
 Unquenchable, through varied scenes and years, — • 
 Unchangeable, above earth's other loves. 
 
 Blow forth, oh, floating words, Hke thistledown ; 
 Wind from the j^orthland, aid them with thy breath. 
 Until their slender shafts can penetrate some 
 
 hearts. 
 And plant therein the praises of our land.
 
 TO 
 
 ALINE THOROLD, 
 
 MY SISTEE, IN LAW AND IN LOVE^ 
 
 31 in|cri6E 
 
 THE THEEE SUCCEEDING TALES.
 
 LADY ALICE. 
 
 An Idyl. 
 
 H ! come into the pleasaunce, AlicBj 
 Alice ! for the flowers 
 Are wakening to the early summer sun, 
 The mavis sings upon the laurel bough, 
 And glossy merles supply their chirping broods 
 With writhing spoils from off the dewy lawn ! 
 The world looks fresh and bright, this fair June 
 morn." 
 She came, my Lady Alice, at his call 
 Out on the terrace, through the open door 
 That look'd thereon, from out her sitting-room. 
 " Donald, you're early ; breakfast is not due 
 For yet another hour, — my father sleeps ;
 
 8 LADY ALICE. 
 
 I only rose to catch a morning sky 
 To put into my sketch of yesterday/' 
 
 " Ne'er heed the pictured sky, — it is rank waste 
 Moping so fair a morn within four walls ; 
 Come out and see what progress they have made 
 With the new garden, by the ruined kirk ! " 
 
 I watch'd them go, and smiled unto myself. 
 And wonder'd if my lord her father knew 
 What seem'd to me most plain anent the two. 
 The earl had lost his wife long years ago, — 
 She was a kindly lady, — I, her maid. 
 Lost a good mistress then, for I was born 
 To better things, but Poortith's chilling blast 
 Had blown sore on me when my father died ; 
 And when obliged to quit the Manse, my home. 
 The countess gave me one, and let me choose 
 For my own self the life that now I led. 
 
 I loved her Alice for her mother's sake. 
 My bonnie wean ! and she is bonnie still. 
 When, coming to my cottage on the hill. 
 She lets me kiss the sweet but shaded brow. 
 And stroke the silken locks, wherein I found.
 
 LADY ALICE. 9 
 
 Only tiie other day, one long grey hair. 
 She's eight and thirty now, — ah me ! the day 
 When I begin my tale she was nineteen. 
 She's blithe and happy still, even as then. 
 Beloved by all who come across her path. 
 Folks often wonder'd why she seem'd so cold 
 To every lad who sought her girlhood's love. 
 But she and I, when by my cottage-fire 
 Our chairs drawn close beside the ingle- neuk. 
 Or out the door the summer evening long. 
 Watching the sea all shining in the sun. 
 Before he sinks behind the western hills. 
 Speak of a time well mark'd to her and me. 
 Though few but I know of the dreary cloud 
 That time has left on all my darling's life. 
 
 Alice had sisters twain, — by many years 
 Older than she, — and both of them were wed : 
 And the young lord her brother, with his wife. 
 Lived in the south, and only came at times 
 To the old home within the distant north. 
 
 So Alice might have been an only child, 
 And work'd her own sweet fancy day by day. 
 You'd find her loit'ring on the river bank.
 
 10 LADY ALICE. 
 
 Her fisliing-rod in hand, — or oftener yet 
 Beneath some great tree planted, with her brush 
 Trying to make her paper tell the tale 
 Of summer leaves, — or deeply-colour'd stream 
 That put to shame the lassie's dark-brown eyes. 
 
 And oftentimes, when harvest days were past, 
 And all the woodlands took the colour up 
 That left the fields, bereft of golden grain, 
 She would ride out upon a red-gold horse. 
 And through the woods on gold larch-needles tread. 
 The birk trees dripping gold about her head. 
 Her gold-brown tresses floating on the wind ; 
 While by her side her deer-hound Romach ran ; 
 A bonnie sight enow, — and so they deem'd 
 Who passing, cried a blessing on her face. 
 She aye was good to all, both great and poor. 
 And unto one, I thought, most kind of all ! 
 In those bright days when she was but nineteen. 
 
 Not far from where my Alice had her home 
 Sir Malcolm Graeme, an ancient northern laird. 
 Dwelt with his sons, — two cantie lads they were, 
 Like Alice, motherless, but of late years,
 
 LADY ALICE. 11 
 
 For both could mind upon their motlior well ; 
 While the girl's first breath was my lady's last. 
 
 I often thought that had those mothers lived 
 They would have been well-pleased with the 
 
 aspect 
 Of matters 'twixt young Donald and the girl. 
 
 Some six and twenty years the lad had seen, 
 And for the last two sat in parliament 
 To represent the county where we lived. 
 
 He bided much in London, that gay world 
 I well knew when the countess was alive, 
 For ev'ry year we spent a certain time 
 Amid the racket of the weary town : 
 And glad was I enough, I mind me well. 
 To change the murky streets for sunny woods 
 And see again our lovely Highland home. 
 
 And glad was I, my lord did not incline 
 To take his daughter, in these later years. 
 Without a mother's care alone to brave 
 The dangers manifold of such a place. 
 
 But I was speaking now about the boys. 
 Malcolm was only younger by one year 
 Than Donald, and perhaps a prettier man ;
 
 12 LADY ALICE. 
 
 Dark-brow' d was he, and strong-made, though 
 
 not tall 
 Like lithe-limb'd Donald of the yellow hair. 
 Malcolm was much away — a sailor he. 
 But ev'ry now and then he got him back 
 And at Glen-Rafford spent some happy months 
 Of which we — ^at the Towers — aye claimed a part. 
 He was a quiet lad, his eyne deep set 
 Seem'd often to be looking far away 
 Ayont the near world to some distant dream. 
 Or to a future that, unknown to us. 
 Shaded his spirit with a mist of thought. 
 When Donald laugh'd with Alice loud and free, 
 Malcolm would smile a wee, and then return 
 To his own thoughts, till with some boyish prank 
 His brother roused him fairly, then would he 
 Laugh with them 'gainst himself, and join their 
 
 play. 
 
 That morn of June, when I begin my tale, 
 The three bairns had their breakfast with my 
 
 lord. 
 And then they came to Lady Alice's room.
 
 LADY ALICE. 13 
 
 A dainty room, all furnished to her taste ; 
 
 The walls of pearl-grey tint were starred in gold. 
 
 With paintings hung, and moulded figures 
 
 white 
 Shone out on velvet brackets, of a blue 
 That match'd the satin curtains shrouding half 
 The great bow windows looking to the lawn. 
 
 On all the many tables through the room 
 Lay books and work ; in eVry corner flowers, 
 And flowery patterns ran o'er all the chairs ; 
 While by the window, coolly deck'd with green, 
 Stood one big cage of birds, her chiefest care. 
 
 I sat here often, — Hwas the ear?s desire 
 That my young lady should not by herself 
 Eeceive the lads within her sitting-room. 
 
 In his young days, he said, things were more 
 strict. 
 And the new fashions startled him at times, 
 When out from his retirement he would go — 
 On rare occasions — into outer life. 
 That life that he, since nineteen years, forsook. 
 He said, " He missed the courtesies of old. 
 The girls were forward, and the young men bold.
 
 14 LADY ALIOB. 
 
 That gentlewoman seem'd a thing of fame. 
 As near exploded as that ancient name ; 
 Lassies aped lads in talk and actions both. 
 And none thought shame thereof, — he took his 
 
 oath. 
 While manners shoVd as free in state saloon, 
 As 'twixt a house-wench and a serving-loon!" 
 
 I quote my lord^s own words. My bonnie bairn 
 Thought no more of Nurse Jessie than her birds. 
 And never felt my presence a restraint. 
 So now I took my knitting to a chair 
 And click'd away at stockings for the earl. 
 While listening to their music: — Alice sang. 
 And Malcolm too, right well and pleasantly. 
 And Donald touched the notes with master hand. 
 
 This was their song, that lovely summer day. 
 
 " Maid with the breeze- tossed hair. 
 
 Where art thou roaming 
 
 Out on the muir-land bare 
 
 In the sad gloaming ? 
 Why should I tell why I wander alone ? 
 All have their troubles, and mine is mine own !
 
 LADY ALICE. 15 
 
 " Bird of the rosy breast^ 
 
 Why" art thou crying^ 
 
 Loriij — by that empty nest. 
 
 While spring is flying ? 
 Why should I tell how my pleasure is flown ? 
 All have their troubles, and mine is mine own ! 
 
 . '' Wave of the wintry sea, 
 
 Rising and swelling, 
 
 Moaning so drearily. 
 
 What tale art telling ? 
 Why should I tell thee what meaneth my moan ? 
 All have their troubles, and mine is mine own. 
 
 " The maiden she wanders so sad and so lone. 
 The birdie she mourns o'er her nestlings all 
 
 flown. 
 The wave on the beach ever maketh a moan. 
 
 And care's for the few and the many : 
 Sorrow and pain to existence belong. 
 There's woe to the frail, there are tears to 
 
 the strong, 
 And sympathy seldom endureth for long. 
 So tell not your troubles to any ! "
 
 IG LADY ALICE. 
 
 ff 
 
 " But wliy ? " I criedj when ended was their strain, 
 " So sad a song, my dears, I like it not, 
 And to my ears its meaning ringeth false ; 
 For it is not yourself alone you harm 
 When proudly locking trouble in your breast, 
 You show a cold brow to a kindly friend ; 
 Chilling to ice the warmth in others' hearts. 
 And checking sympathy they fain would yield. 
 
 IVe often heard my grey-hair'd father say, 
 (That most God-fearing, pious minister. 
 Whose death, untimeous, as we called it then. 
 Had cast his children, bare, upon the world :) 
 That sympathy is near the noblest gift 
 Sent by the Lord on high to bless mankind ; 
 Though seen but once in its right perfect state. 
 When God-in-man came down and walk'd on 
 
 earth. 
 Yet 'tis a gift within the reach of all, 
 A blessed gift to yield and to receive. 
 So close inwrought with God-like charity 
 That one without the other cannot be." 
 
 Alice and Donald spoke not. Malcolm turn'd 
 His dreamy eyes on me in calm assent.
 
 LADY ALIOE. 17 
 
 "You^re rights Nurse Jessie. Sympathy is 
 good 
 To give, — and to possess, — for life without its spell 
 Would only be a tale of selfishness, 
 And self thrown back on self consumes itself. 
 For I am sure that we should share our woes 
 E'en as our joys, for our and others' weal. 
 And he who shi-inks from claiming it, can scarce 
 Yield sympathy to others. No good thought 
 Or deed, comes quite to nought ; so I believe 
 Each kindly word of comfort from our lips. 
 Or even pitying glance from tender eyes, 
 Is borne by holy spirits up aloft 
 Where the recording angel writes it down 
 To our account before the Throne of God." 
 
 We all sat quiet after Malcolm ceased 
 And meditated on his words awhile. 
 Till Donald broke the silence, minding him 
 Of certain fishing plans, and so they went ; 
 While Alice joined me in some household work. 
 And seem'd more still and thoughtful than her 
 wont. 
 
 And thus a time of sunny summer days 
 
 C
 
 ]8 LADY ALIGE. 
 
 Passed on, and Donald had returned to town_, 
 While Malcolm bided still, and every day 
 Almost, on some pretext, was at the Towers, 
 Sometimes with Alice, sometimes with my lord. 
 
 And whiles, I fancied Malcolm^ s dreaminess 
 Grew more apparent, Alice joked him sore 
 Upon it, and would ask him if he dozed. 
 
 Then did a vexing thought come in my mind ; 
 If Donald loved the girl, — and I felt sure 
 (Almost) he did, — what would become of it 
 If Malcolm loved her too ? For though the child 
 Had never told me, and perhaps herself 
 Scarce knew it, yet I saw her precious love 
 Was Donald^s, when he'd claim it from herself. 
 And so, at times, I fear'd for what might be. 
 
 Fll overpass some months, where nothing 
 chanced 
 Save that I grew assured of Malcolm's love 
 For Alice ; but the lassie guess'd it not. 
 
 One heaven-born day in sweet October time. 
 When the first snows powder'd the distant hills. 
 And all the fair woods glow'd in sun-like hues
 
 LADY ALICE. 19 
 
 Scarlet and gold, till dazzled eyes rejoiced 
 In resting on the forests of dark pine 
 That on the higher grounds^ in sombre green, 
 Contrasted with the wood-land brilliancy ; 
 
 My Lady Alice chose this certain day 
 For an excursion to a wild hill loch 
 Eight miles from us. Her sisters, with their weans, 
 Were at the Towers, and many of their friends ; 
 And all the young folk welcomed Alice^s plan. 
 With them, Nurse Jessie, to arrange the meal, 
 And the Glen-RaflFord lads, of course, they took. 
 Fair lay thy face. Loch IST^Ault, that autumn day. 
 Thy pictured banks were mirror'd in the flood , 
 Still as their very selves. No light wind soughed 
 Among the Scottish firs that crown'd thy rocks, 
 The wild-fowl paddled fearless on thy breast, 
 A lazy heron watch'd his gliding prey. 
 The russet roe-deer came and drank their fill. 
 And all seem'd peaceful as our peaceful life. 
 
 Ochone ! I ken, no storm-cloud overhead 
 Had shadow'd thee, — no pelting rush of rain 
 Had troubled thy calm waters as this day 
 Brought shade and trouble to my darling's life.
 
 20 LADY ALICE. 
 
 But I am havering, and must tell my tale. 
 It was about mid-day when we arrived 
 And all the party scatter'd until lunch. 
 Breaking the silence with their merry noise. 
 Some took the boat, a few sat down to sketch. 
 Others bore off the children for a romp, 
 While Alice, with a sister, and the Graemes, 
 Wander'd in search of cranberries and flowers. 
 I found a spot whereon to lay their feast. 
 Then sat me down to read till they return^. 
 
 At the appointed hour they all troop'd back. 
 All, — save my child and Malcolm. Donald said 
 TheyM parted from them lately in the wood. 
 
 Luncheon was nearly over ere they came. 
 And Alice join'd me as I sat apart. 
 Saying she'd eat with me, but nought she ate ; 
 And I could see the tears were brimming yet 
 Within her eyes ; but made not as I saw. 
 
 The afternoon was spent much like the mom 
 Save that I noticed Malcolm by himself 
 Wander'd the woods, while Alice feign'd to 
 
 sketch, 
 Except when time by time she spake some words
 
 LADY ALIOE. 21 
 
 To Donald and her sisters by her side. 
 When we returned that e'en 'twas almost darkj 
 Malcolm came up to me ere he went home 
 (I saw his face work as he wrung my hand,) 
 And bade me, — not a good-night, — but good-bye ! 
 " Farewell, good Jessie ; may we meet again ! 
 God bless you, guard sweet Alice." And he 
 went. 
 Dear gentle lad, I have not seen him syne. 
 'Twas two days later that I learn'd the news 
 Of Malcolm — that he'd gone to wait his ship 
 And see some relatives before he sail'd 
 A fortnight hence to very distant lands. 
 
 She said she knew, when I told Alice this. 
 I guessed what chanced upon that autumn morn 
 At fair Loch N'Ault, but Alice told me nought. 
 — Donald went south to see his brother go, — 
 Came back, and as of yore was much with us, 
 And ever spoke of Malcolm, heeding not 
 That Alice seem'd the subject to avoid ; 
 But praised in loving terms the absent one. 
 He knew not, I was sure, of what had pass'd. 
 
 Winter set in, and whiles I thought it odd,
 
 22 LADY ALICE. 
 
 That Donald had not spoken of his love, 
 And I could see she wonder'd too, thereat. 
 
 But I made great excuses to myself, 
 And thought he waited only just to know 
 His brother safe from perils of the sea, 
 Safe at his destined haven. Or perhaps 
 Sweet Alice dreading e'er to show too much 
 Showed all too little of her inner heart, 
 And let his hope scarce overcome his fear. 
 — Well, time ran on, and Yule-tide came around 
 With tidings blithe of Malcolm safe and well. 
 His brother and Sir Malcolm dined at Yule, 
 Bringing the news. The letter Donald read 
 To Alice ; dwelling much on parts that show'd 
 The purity and worth of Malcolm's mind. 
 
 Yet, what was in his own, he told her not. 
 Alice grew almost fretful in her pain, 
 — I thought he surely might take courage now; 
 But soon my wonderment was at its height. 
 For Donald left the glen for Germany — 
 At the behest, he said, of certain friends 
 Who needed much his travelling company. 
 
 My darling droop'd and pined, till I besought
 
 LADY ALICE. 23 
 
 That she would take up heart and e'en accept 
 Such sympathy as her old nurse could give. 
 
 She cried upon my shoulder as she told 
 How Malcolm loved her, but she'd said him nay, 
 For she loved Donald ; '' and I can but think 
 He loves me too, especially of late. 
 He seems the happiest in my company. 
 And talks aye of his brother, whom he loves 
 Devotedly, and knows I love him too 
 As my own brother, though as nothing more ! 
 
 And yet, he will not ease my doubt and pain 
 Giving me liberty to show my love. 
 And making us both happy by one word. 
 
 — Why is this ? Jessie." I could only say 
 All would come right in time, for in my heart 
 I had no real doubt of Donald's love. 
 For who could ken her without loving her ? 
 Both douce was she, and bright, gentle tho' gay, 
 WeU-learned too, and bonnier by far 
 Than any maiden I had yet beheld. 
 And so, I doubted not aU would be well. 
 The lassie's happiest moments now, were those 
 When old Sir Malcolm visited the Towers,
 
 24 LADY ALICE. 
 
 Or Alice to Glen-Rafford took lier course 
 To cheer his loneliness^ she told my lord. 
 
 Oh ! heartsome spring, that e'en to aged eyes^ 
 Brings hope and pleasure, how I welcome thee 
 When the last snow-wreath cedes her freshened 
 
 place 
 To the sweet snow-bells on the sprouting lawn. 
 When the bare larch displays her crimson flowers. 
 When beech-buds burst into their wond'rous 
 
 green, 
 And birkens change to green their purplish glow ; 
 — I sit without, against my garden pale. 
 And listen to the laverock's early song. 
 Watching her wild flight through the sunny air. 
 And wonder when my aged soul shall soar 
 Beyond the bird, and come to earth no more. 
 
 One April e'en, the earl, his child and I 
 Sate in the big saloon ; what time I taught 
 Alice to spin, for we had just return'd 
 From several visits in the North and West, 
 Where one of Alice's friends had given her 
 A spinning-wheel ; so by the curtain'd depths
 
 LADY ALICE. 25 
 
 Of a far window sat my bairn with me 
 Waiting the lamps, while by the dim-lit hearth. 
 The earl half slept, reflected half on nought ! 
 We^d heard Sir Malcolm Grsevae was in the 
 
 South 
 And therefore started when the door unclosed 
 And gave him entrance : he perceived us not, 
 But walked right past us, up unto my lord. 
 
 " Malcolm ! you here ? I heard you were away j 
 But Fm right glad to see you, sit you down 
 And tell us all the news from London town ! " 
 — Thus as he spoke he rose, drew nigh a chair, 
 Stirr'd into flame the smouldering coal-heap'd fire. 
 And to his friend he turned with cheery smile. 
 Sir Malcolm sat him down with ne'er a word. 
 And oh ! but his grey head was bowed low. 
 The fire-light glow'd in something on his cheek 
 I trow was not a drop of April rain. 
 
 " Why man, what ails ye, you look sore cast 
 
 down. 
 Good God ! I trust no ill news from the sea ? 
 Speak ! Quick ! " The old man said, " My sons 
 
 are well ;
 
 26 LADY ALICE. 
 
 But rather had I seen him 'neath the stone 
 That covered his dead mother from my sight. 
 Than ken her eldest born had brought this ill 
 Upon the honour of his ancestors ! 
 Donald is wedded, sir. I scarce can bring 
 My lips to tell whereon his choice has fallen." 
 
 — They had forgotten us ; I placed my arm 
 Around her waist and drew poor Alice close. 
 She never show'd she felt, she was so still. 
 
 Sir Malcolm then continued, " Do you mind 
 Some years ago I ask'd for your advice 
 Concerning Donald and a certain girl. 
 My forester's daughter, in whose company 
 He stayed too much for her weal or his own ; 
 And, following your advice, sent him abroad. 
 Meantime the girl (a flighty jade, they say,) 
 Fled from her home, and went from bad to worse ; 
 Till Donald found her some short time ago. 
 And, through a far-fetchM sense of honour, made 
 Himself her husband — to his endless shame ! 
 Oh ! I could curse him — curse the evil hour 
 When he saw light that show'd him to this deed \" 
 
 My lord arose, and took the old man's arm.
 
 LADY ALICE. ?7 
 
 Speaking some words in low and gravest tones. 
 And led him ben. I drew my breath again. 
 And turn'd in fear to Alice, for her weight 
 Hung heavy on my arm. Alas ! the child 
 Had lost all sense of pain or anything. 
 I carried her dead-fainting to her room. 
 
 Long^ long it was before she woke again, 
 And when she came to life, appeared like one 
 For whom this world had nothing more in store. 
 
 And so for many days continued she. 
 Striving, poor bairn, to show before the earl 
 Some of her ancient life and cheerfulness. 
 
 But when he noticed something was amiss, 
 (How little men can read a woman^s mind !) 
 And questioned me, what could I say but this ? — 
 " I thought my lady was not over strong. 
 Needed companionship, or needed change." 
 
 Her sisters came, some cousins, and young 
 friends ; 
 My darling kept her secret from them all. 
 And e'en to me she rarely spake of him 
 Who fiU'd her mind; but when she did, no word 
 Of anything but kindness pass'd her lips.
 
 28 LADY ALICE. 
 
 Yet she grew weak, and faded gently still. 
 Till they determined we should leave the Towers. 
 
 And so we went abroad the summer through . 
 And Alice grew more like herself, except 
 The one great difference — girlhood gone for aye. 
 
 Another spring had come and well-nigh passed 
 When to my dear there came from foreign parts 
 A close-writ letter — 'twas from Malcolm Graeme. 
 
 '' Oh ! Alice/' thus he wi-ote, " I cannot tell 
 How long my strength will now enable me 
 To write some matters that you ought to know. 
 
 '' Tour solitary education places you 
 In a position unlike other girls — 
 So, knowing not to whom else to confide 
 The telling of these facts, I tell yourself. 
 
 " I try not to exonerate to you 
 My brother's conduct, yet may not refrain 
 From placing his behaviour in a light 
 Wherein it cannot have appear'd to you. 
 I saw him lately, and now understand 
 All matters that seem'd strange to me before. 
 
 '' Oh ! pure and holy, to your innocent soul
 
 tADY ALICE. 29 
 
 An act like his must wear its blackest garb ; 
 But judge him gently^ dear, his early sin 
 Has brought him life-long sorrow for reward. 
 
 " We brothers, knowing you for all our lives. 
 Both loved you, (who can wonder ?) I, perhaps. 
 Most deeply; seeing this, my brother made 
 A gen'rous resolution to resign 
 His hopes, and help me to obtain your heart. 
 
 " I might have felt, my absent, dreamy ways 
 Were far less calculated to attract 
 A woman's love than Donald's brilliant parts, — 
 But love and hope are ever wedded dreams ; 
 And when you said me nay within the wood. 
 And told me that my brother had your heart, 
 I felt as if some dark astonishment 
 Had fallen on my spirit like a pall. 
 And bring myself I could not to confess. 
 Even to Donald, this my misery. 
 Ah me ! had I remember'd at the time 
 My own belief in shared sympathy. 
 
 And open'd him my heart 
 
 I went away, and Donald, keeping true 
 To his resolve, employed his time with you
 
 30 LADY ALICE. 
 
 In saying all that most was to my praise^ 
 Until at length, deceived by certain signs^ 
 He felt assured my cause with you was good. 
 
 " But he, meantime, had trusted him too far, 
 And felt revive his but half- vanquished flame; 
 So, faithful still to me, sought an excuse, 
 And placed himself beyond temptation's power. 
 
 " He travell'd far and wide, until at last 
 Somewhere — I know not where — he met the girl 
 Whom in his early days he'd caused to sin ; 
 And, part from power she still had over him. 
 Part from a sense of some atonement due. 
 He took the step that causes us such pain. 
 
 " I felt that (knowing from you what I knew) 
 You would be suffering too, and marvelling much 
 At Donald's conduct, when he told me this ; 
 For well I know how blind is real love. 
 And you could hardly tell that he would seek 
 All your attention in his brother's cause. 
 
 " Forgive me, if I've err'd in writing this. 
 Ere you receive it, Alice, this my hand 
 Will be as cold as was your love for me ; 
 For I am dying, Alice, of a wound
 
 LADT ALICE. 31 
 
 Dealt in a native skirmish some days since ; 
 The next mail hence will tell you of my death. 
 
 '' Forget us both^ as causing aught of pain ; 
 But mind us in your prayers — ay, even me ; 
 For who can tell, in worlds where we may go, 
 We dead, that prayer shall not avail us yet ? 
 One God is over all — I will not think 
 That any prayer to Him is thrown away, 
 Whether its object walks this earth, or not. 
 
 " Be kind to our poor father, for the blow 
 Of Donald's marriage has despoil'd his life 
 Of all the sweetness of its later years. 
 Love of my life, farewell ! I grudge thee not, 
 For all its pangs, the love I have for thee. 
 Its influence ennobled all my life. 
 And sheds its comfort on my early death. — 
 The blessing of a dying man is thine : 
 I tryst thee, Alice, in a happier world.'^ 
 
 What can the old nurse say, to end a tale 
 More fairly than this letter endeth it ? 
 
 Sir Malcolm and the earl alike are dead ; 
 Alice lives with her brother and his wife.
 
 32 LADY ALICE. 
 
 And to their children is a precious friend. 
 
 She often seeks my cottage on the hill 
 Where upon all the sadd'ned past we speak. 
 
 Sir Donald and his dame live aye abroad. 
 And strangers fill the old Glen-Rafford home. 
 
 There is a grave within the green kirk yard 
 Where they laid Malcolm, when they brought 
 
 him back; 
 And ne'er a week can pass, but Alice lays 
 A handful of fresh flowerets at his head. 
 And often kneels my dearie there and prays 
 For Donald, living, and for Malcolm, dead.
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Evil is wrought by want of thought 
 As well as want of heart. — (Hood.) 
 
 I^EVER told the tale, she said, 
 
 while yet they lived 
 Who could be harm'd by the repeat- 
 ing of it ; 
 
 But years have pass'd, since they have left me here 
 Alone, to tide in patience o'er the time 
 That yet remains to keep us septate. — 
 
 To you, my child, I tell it, in the hope 
 That inexperience, thoughtlessness in you 
 May be instructed through the experience 
 Bought by long hours of bitter, bitter tears, 
 And longer years of quiet dreamlike grief. 
 That were my portion through that weary time. 
 
 D
 
 34 MARGARET. 
 
 God knows, I thought no harnij for I was young 
 And some said wild, as summer birds are wild 
 With the fresh spirits and the routh of life. 
 And ignorance of ill, that seems to be 
 The portion of the few in this cold world. 
 
 It is not through the hard designing knave. 
 Or the deceitful, cold, and selfish soul. 
 That ill aye comes, that loves or friends are 
 
 parted ; 
 But why should want of thought, of judgment, 
 
 that alone 
 Ripe years can bring, be doubly cursed to some 
 In making them the instruments to cause 
 A sorrow, that perhaps no time can heal. 
 To those they most would serve ? 
 
 God knows alone ! 
 We can but bow, and take His chastisements 
 In any form He may see best to send. — 
 
 She was my sister, child ; in my long life 
 It may be I have seen a fairer face 
 As men call fair, but never to my heart 
 A face so spake. The tender liquid glance 
 Of her soft eyes is ^fore my vision yet ;
 
 MABGABET. 35 
 
 The auburn curls fell tangled on her neck 
 In wild luxuriance that no care could tame. 
 The mobile lips, though chiselFd with an art 
 Vying the fairest stone by sculptor wrought. 
 Yet shamed the marble in their constant chancre, 
 Betraying thoughts before their utterance. 
 And each expression seem'd most beautiful. 
 
 Above me one good head at least she stood, 
 But bore her stature well, sweet matronhood 
 Lent to her figure yet a special grace. 
 Subduing, softening, every girlish charm. 
 
 Yes ! I did love her, and my dearest thought 
 Is, that whatever pain unwittingly 
 I may have caused her, in the long gone days. 
 Yet afterward she told me e'en with tears 
 That I had been a sunbeam in her life. 
 For all the past. 
 
 He was her husband, — dark. 
 Comely and tall, but nay ! I need not dwell 
 On his appearance, for it lent no cue 
 To himself. He had talents that in some 
 Would make a fame, but he was indolent : 
 Witty and pleasant too in conversation.
 
 36 MABGABET. 
 
 And much sought after in society. 
 
 He farm'd a little land on the east coast 
 Of Scotland — more for pastime as he said 
 Than for the good it brought him, as indeed 
 He persevered in nought for any time. 
 
 Their home was mine, our mother late was dead;, 
 And Kate, my second sister, kept the house 
 Of an old great-aunt, near our market-town. 
 Distant some seven miles. Kate had scant love 
 For me, I knew the fact, though not the cause 
 Till afterwards ; and then I found that one 
 Who erst had gained her heart, had sought my 
 
 hand : 
 And so she hated me, and wrought me woe. 
 
 Ours was a pleasant home, for Margaret 
 Could make a dungeon pleasant if she chose, 
 And helping with her children and the cares 
 Of household labours made the time pass well. 
 And I could feel I miss'd my mother less 
 Than I had thought to do. And Eeginald 
 Was all a brother should be, as I deemed 
 Who ne'er had one before. He liked my cheer- 
 ful ways.
 
 MABGABET. 37 
 
 Admired my music, loved my singing best 
 He said, of any amateur he yet had heard. 
 I read a book and asVd his mind upon it. 
 Or he would seek my fancy on a flower ; 
 And. we would argue, laugh, and joke, the while 
 Sweet Margaret workM; joining from time to 
 
 , time 
 Our pleasant chat, and smiled encouragement. 
 
 Kate was a frequent comer to the house. 
 And I, who fear'd no ill, would welcome her. 
 And sister-like, endeavour to o'ercome 
 The evident dislike she bore to me. 
 
 So months passed on, and winter drew anigh; 
 And with the time a thought occurr'd to me. 
 That Margaret had changed in some degree. 
 Was troubled, anxious, and unlike herself. 
 Would sit and watch me, and then Eeginald, 
 And fail'd to join our laughter or our talk 
 As she was wont. I ponder' d much on this. 
 And soon began to wonder if 'twas I 
 Who had offended her, and watch'd myself. 
 But could perceive no mind of ill in me. 
 
 It grew upon her, soon she came not oft
 
 38 MABGABET. 
 
 Into the room where Reginald and I 
 
 Were wont to sit in hoars of idleness : 
 
 And she and Kate would hold long talks together. 
 
 And Kate came oftener^ and frown'd on me, 
 
 AVith reprobation ill conceaFd ; for what 
 
 I knew not. Hers was a bitter tongue. 
 
 And well I knew when she conceived a spite 
 
 She never spared or tired in her research 
 
 After a means and manner of revenge. 
 
 The winter came, I could not choose but see 
 In the short days, when we were more indoors. 
 That it was I who troubled Margaret ; 
 And so I spoke one day to Reginald : 
 
 " Do you perceive aught wrong with Margaret ? 
 I sometimes think I have oflFended her. 
 And yet I know not how, nor will she tell. 
 When I have tried to question her ! " 
 
 He sat 
 And never spoke. Then forced an awkward 
 
 laugh, 
 Said that I fancied things, that Margaret 
 Was whelmed with household cares, and that I 
 knew
 
 MAEGABET. 39 
 
 All women could not be as gay as I. 
 
 But something in his manner troubled me^ 
 And from that time his presence seem'd to be 
 Almost restraint. It chanced about this time 
 That I, to please a certain distant friend, 
 Had drawn, as I believed successfully, 
 A little, vision of myself — on ivory — 
 Through a kind mirror medium. Here it is. 
 Judge if those laughing eyes, and rose-bud lips. 
 That short-curl'd wildness of abounding hair 
 Could have belong^ to me. But so it was ; 
 And, finisliM, I had sent it to the town. 
 For fitly framing in a velvet case. 
 They kept it long, I thought, and so, one morn 
 When Reginald at breakfast said that he 
 Must hie him to the town, I, passing him 
 Upon the stairs, requested he would ask 
 What had delay'd my picture. Straight he turned 
 And look'd into my eyes with a strange look, 
 While from his inner vest he slowly drew 
 The painting. " Constance, here it is !" he said, 
 And held it out before my startled gaze ! 
 
 I felt the angry blood mount to my cheek
 
 40 MABGABET. 
 
 More from his manner^ than the action, then ; 
 And passionately ask'd, '' What did it there ?" 
 " It has lived here/' he said, " for past a week." 
 
 I stay'd to hear no more, but snatch'd the case. 
 And flying up the stairs, I blindly rush'd 
 Into the first half-open door, I saw ; 
 And locking it behind me, on the floor 
 I sank in torrents of repentant tears. 
 
 I saw it all, — why had I been so blind ? 
 Oh ! Margaret, Margaret, has thy noble soul 
 Received this blow through me who loved thee so ? 
 I did not see it, sister ; blame me not. 
 But blame that shallow nature that forgets 
 Comparison between thyself and me 
 Who am unworthy e'en to be thy slave. 
 
 I thought he was my brother, could I dream 
 That other feelings might arise in him 
 Than those I felt ? Ah me ! ah me ! the loss — 
 A brother's friendship, and a sister's trust ! 
 
 And then I conn'd the past, and sought to see 
 If I had said or done some foolish things 
 That might have led him on : but nought I found 
 In mine own conduct that could be reproved
 
 MABGABET. 41 
 
 For aught save want of caution^ only that 
 When viewed beside the fact that now I knew! 
 
 Alas ! if innocent souls must suffer for 
 Their innocence, with pains as great as guilt 
 Itself could bring, would we not rather choose 
 To know the worst that we ourselves could do, 
 That at. the least we might choose means and 
 
 measure. 
 The when, on whom, and where to work the ill 
 It seems to be the fate of some to work. 
 Instead of winning thus a double pain. 
 Hurting ourselves in harming those we love ? 
 
 And as I thought and wept, and searched my 
 heart, 
 A sound of voices made me look around ; 
 And soon I spied a cupboard in the wall, 
 Whose open door had left a mere partition 
 'Twixt this room and the next. I knew that Kate 
 Had come to stay a night, and had that room ; 
 One voice was hers, the other Margaret's, 
 
 I could not choose but listen, or betray 
 My hiding-place, and grief, and swollen eyes.
 
 42 MABGABET. 
 
 They shat the door, and seemM to carry on 
 Some conversation they had held before. 
 
 " Not yet," Kate said, " I would not tell her yet, 
 Till you have further proof of this her guilt." 
 
 " Her guilt !" cried Margaret, and her sweet 
 voice shook, 
 " I cannot, will not, think the child to blame. 
 At least with ill intent ! you must be wrong ; 
 I would you had not told me of this thing." 
 
 '' Not told you, Margaret ! Can you tamely see 
 Constance thus make a fool of Reginald ? 
 You know that he is weak, and in her hands 
 He seems a very toy !" " Hush !" spoke the wife, 
 " He is my husband, and whatever his faults, 
 I must not hear them lightly thus discussed ; 
 And Constance hitherto has proved herself 
 Well worthy trust." 
 
 " In all but this," urged Kate, 
 " Perhaps ; but had you mark'd the glances, smiles, 
 The thousand little cares she tenders him 
 'Neath the disguise of friend's, or sister's, love ; 
 You would know her to blame, for men are weak 
 And mouldable as wax in women's hands,
 
 MABGABET. 43 
 
 And Reginald was aye susceptible." 
 
 Then sounded Margaret^ s voice, so faint with 
 tears. 
 That I the latter sentence only caught : 
 
 " Oh ! what a task, to judge ^twixt husband, 
 sister ! — - 
 But, are. you right, one or both must be wrong." 
 
 '' Watch yet a while," said Kate, '^ and you 
 will see 
 That I have acted best for all of you : 
 You are too gentle, dear, or else too weak. 
 For I could have sent Constance from the house 
 With half the provocation you receive ! " 
 
 They said but little more, and left the room. 
 I thought awhile, and then made up my mind : 
 The first chance, I would speak to Reginald. 
 It came that evening. Margaret, as her wont. 
 Went up to hear the children say their prayers, 
 Kate followed, and my courage sinking low 
 At thought of being left with Reginald, 
 I soon arose ; but going to the door — 
 I had to pass his chair, and felt my hand 
 Seized with a grip I could not well withstand ;
 
 44 MABGABET. 
 
 So stayed there^ panting, half in rage, half fear. 
 
 " Constance/^ he said, " have you forgiven me, 
 Or are you angry ^bout the picture still ? 
 You knew I valued it, ^twas so like you ! " 
 And then the storm of injured wrath in me 
 Burst forth in words that I could not control ; 
 I told him he had done me deeper ill 
 Than were I his most bitter enemy. 
 Misjudged my actions, put a heart in me, 
 That I could ne^er have of myself conceived, 
 Wounded my faith, and taught me to mistrust 
 All seeming good in men, for evermore. 
 
 And oh ! my sister ! could his faithless soul 
 But realize what this must be to her, 
 No punish'd cur should crawl more abjectly 
 At her dear feet, and plead the emptiness 
 Of his poor nature, as a sole excuse ! ! 
 
 And more I said, unheeding that he tried 
 At times to stop me with some word of Kate ; 
 But even Kate was ^neath my notice now, 
 I saw but Margaret. Then I marked his eye 
 Dwell on a locket he had given me. 
 Suspended to my watch. I wrcnch'd it off.
 
 MABGAEET. 45 
 
 And dasli'd it on the table at his side, 
 Crying I loathed the very trinket for his sake ! 
 He took it up, and broke the fragile toy 
 Into small fragments in his great strong hands. 
 And hurPd them in the grate ; then walked away 
 Straight to the window, and stood glaring out 
 Into the blackness of the starless night ; 
 While I pass'd from the room, with stately step 
 That never faltered for all the woe 
 Oppressing me, until I got upstairs, 
 Where I gave headlong way to my despair. 
 
 Another long day pass'd, I could not hide 
 The misery that seem'd part of myself, 
 And Kate and Margaret watch'd : exchanging 
 
 looks, 
 Kate look'd triumphant, Margaret pitiful 
 When I explain'd my head was aching sore. 
 And Reginald I never saw at all. 
 For he had started early to the mart. 
 Nor would return till late. When evening came 
 I went, still pleading headache as excuse. 
 Early to bed, (or rather to my room
 
 46 MABGABET. 
 
 For rest was not for me,) and throwing off 
 My dress, and wi-apping round my trembling form. 
 To still the shaking that came not from cold j 
 I cower'd by the fire, and tried to think. 
 
 I do not know how long I ponderM there. 
 The wandering thoughts would scarce arrange 
 
 themselves, 
 I heard the wheels when Reginald came home 
 Crunch on the gravel-drive, my sisters pass 
 Slowly along to bed, in converse deep. 
 The servant's step when closing up the house. 
 Then stillness ; all, as in a far vague dream. 
 
 Then thoughts came more distinctly, and a plan 
 Half-form'd till then, assumed a definite shape. 
 
 Kate loved me not, misjudged me, but I hoped 
 I could convince her, I was not to blame 
 As she imagined ; then would she have ruth 
 And let me take her place beside our aunt. 
 While she took mine, at least until I saw 
 My future plainer ; here I must not stay ! 
 
 My head was on my knees, the dying fire 
 Dropp'd a last fading ember now and then : 
 I thought, and pray'd to be directed right.
 
 MABGAEET. 47 
 
 ^Ylien my door open'd slowly^ and a form 
 In long white garments stood before my eyes, 
 And coming to me, fell upon her knees, 
 Breathing her soul out in one bitter cry : 
 
 " Oh ! Constance, God forgive . . . !" " Stay ! 
 Margaret," 
 (For it was she) I cried ; firm in my arms 
 I raised "her straight, and with kind force impelled 
 Her to a chair, then kneeling by her side 
 My head upon her lap, I let her speak. 
 
 But her first words astonished me. She said, 
 " My husband told me all ; I might not dream 
 That Kate could e^er have shown so false a 
 
 heart. 
 He told me, Constance, that your pleasant ways. 
 Your care of him, and gentle sister's love. 
 Were marked to him by Kate as certain signs 
 That you had cherish'd feelings in your breast 
 Wrong, towards him, from any one but me. 
 That you had loved him ere he wedded me. 
 And mourned your slighted heart-love day by day. 
 
 And all this, Constance, not in honest words 
 As I repeat them, but by thousand hints,
 
 48 M AEG ABET. 
 
 And sigliSj and ' Poor dear Constance ! ' and^ 
 
 ' How sad 
 To see her lonely thus^ yet try to cheer ! ' 
 And ' Never would she marry any one. 
 Because — ' and then a telling pause, or shrug 
 Of dolorous shoulders, or pathetic face ; 
 And so the mischief work'd, until at last 
 My husband fell, from pity, into love ! 
 Yes ! harder task had never wife to do. 
 Than to confess this bitter humbling pain \" 
 
 I did not move ; for worlds I would not look 
 Into her face, when Margaret spoke these words. 
 She said, '' When Kate had done this harm to me 
 She came to me, with falser pity still, 
 And told me that you sought my husband's love. 
 And bade me watch. I could not choose but see 
 All was not well, and that he gave to you 
 What should be mine of thought and sympathy ; 
 But till this night I never knew the truth ! " 
 
 She had begun with tears, but grew so calm 
 As she proceeded, that I felt surprised 
 Almost, to hear her voice break here, and feel 
 The smother'd sob that shook my resting-place.
 
 MABGABET. 49 
 
 " He told me of your painting, of your words, 
 And his own weakness. Oh ! my poor dear love. 
 How can I comfort you ? my faithful love 
 Is nothing now to you ; yet I will strive 
 To make you prize it as you did of yore, 
 Not for mine own sake, but because I know 
 Its strength alone can fiU your empty life." 
 
 It was my turn to weep. '^ No thought of self. 
 Oh ! noble soul/' I said, " is in thy breast ; 
 Thou canst not see that thou hast more to give. 
 Than ever one like him can understand ! " 
 
 She heard me not, her mind was far away : 
 And so we sat as night wore on, until 
 She roused herself, and took my low-laid head 
 In both her hands, and look'd into my face : 
 
 " Child, we must part, at least till this has worn 
 From out our lives." " I know it well," I sigh'd ; 
 And then I told her all that I had felt 
 And seen and heard throughout the wretched 
 
 days; 
 And of the plan I form'd, now brought to nought 
 Through our discovery of Kate's treachery. 
 But sudden broke a newer light on me ! 
 
 E
 
 50 MABGAEET. 
 
 A friend late spoke to us of one wlio sought 
 A fitting guardian of her children's weal 
 In her enforced absence. So we talked this 
 
 o'er, 
 And settled that we would consider it. 
 And question further. Then my sister said, 
 Her husband with the dawn would be away 
 To England, anent matters on the farm ; 
 And would be absent days ; so we could make 
 All definite arrangements in the time. 
 
 My Margaret left me. 
 
 Kate went home next day. 
 And we were glad, her presence was but pain. 
 
 A few sad days, and all our plans were made, 
 Another few, and I was on my road 
 To try the lot, a sister's cruelty 
 Had forced upon me. Ah ! my child, the world 
 Is cold to tempt when all seems dark before. 
 And not a gleam lights up the retrospect 
 Save what is blurr'd out by a mist of tears. 
 
 Four years did pass before we met again. 
 Sweet Margaret and I. She told me then
 
 M AUG ABET. 51 
 
 That when her husband said farewell the morn 
 After that night, he wept like any child, 
 As she thought, penitent ; but I, more hard 
 In judging, saw self-pity in his tears. 
 
 Oh ! is it so ? when noble natures mate 
 With grosser earth, in utter self-abandonment of 
 
 love, 
 That we, who look on marvelling to see 
 Such inequality in soul and soul 
 Are only blind ; and that the nobler mind 
 Can penetrate, with vision made acute 
 Through lustre-light of love, past all the crusts 
 Of earthliness, unto the higher part 
 Existing in all things by God created ? 
 Or else, does perfect love itself create 
 That which itself requires ; an attribute 
 Laid on some chosen being, all things else 
 Taking for granted, marking only that. 
 Moulding all else to that imagining 
 Which in the truth, exists but in itself. 
 
 My sister said she hoped I soon would make 
 My home with her ; for Reginald had seen
 
 52 MABGABET. 
 
 His foolish fancy die an early death. 
 
 But ne'er to me their house could be the same. 
 
 I knew besides that Margaret alone 
 
 Kept things together in their simple home ; 
 
 For Eeginald spent more than e'er he made, 
 
 Fritter'd his time, lost money on the farm 
 
 And was no use to any one on earth. 
 
 So I preferred to win my livelihood 
 And met with kindness aye, where'er I went. 
 
 For I have found, that much neglected dame. 
 The " governess," can of herself do much 
 To render matters more endurable ; 
 ChiUing though her position aye must be 
 In some degree, among the very best, 
 Yet would she meet each kind advance half-way. 
 Where proffer' d her, and not draw stiffly back 
 In proud humility, while fencing her position 
 'Gainst friend and foe alike in cold disdain. 
 Colder indifference, and forget to give 
 The sympathy herself desires to claim ; — 
 She oft would force affection and respect, 
 No longer stand a needful incubus, 
 A tolerated martyr in a home,
 
 MABGABET. 53 
 
 But might become as indispensable. 
 
 In friendly value to a family. 
 
 As any cbild who has enjoyed her care. 
 
 Later, when things grew worse with Margaret, 
 I often help'd her from my little store 
 Of savings ; and when Reginald fell ill 
 With the long illness, ending in his death, 
 I went to her and shared her many cares. 
 And comforted the few remaining years 
 She had of life. When our old great aunt died 
 She shared ^twixt Kate and me her worldly gear. 
 
 Kate took her share abroad, and lives there still. 
 And I put mine at interest, while I earn'd 
 Enough for my own wants, but when the time 
 Of Margaret's troubles came, the doubled sum 
 Served amply for our quiet way of life. 
 Her elder children both were settled well 
 Before she died, in homes themselves had made. 
 The younger two live with me on the farm. 
 And shall possess it, when my weary head 
 Is laid by Margaret's in the near kirk-yard. 
 " Have I forgiven Kate ? " Oh ! what am I ?
 
 54 MABGABET. 
 
 That I should clierisli feelings of revenge, 
 After long years, when she who had been wrong'd 
 Most cruelly, harbour'd no bitter thought 
 Against the one who marr'd our peaceful life. 
 
 And you, my child, who hear this simple tale 
 From my old lips, take this into your heart : 
 That want of thought has often caused more ill 
 Than want of feeling. Had I sought 
 Enjoyment less, a possible future more, 
 Kate had not found a means so easily 
 To drive a trouble home into my life.
 
 E U P H E M I A. 
 
 A HIGHLAND SKETCH. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 The Home and the Hero. 
 X a fair vale on the shores of the 
 
 ocean-swept west^ 
 'Neath the kind shelter of hills^ in 
 the bosom of woodlands. 
 Fronted by pastures and lawn that divide it from 
 ocean, 
 Stands there a home looking on to the Isles 
 of the West. 
 Sung to by waves of the mighty Atlantic, that 
 
 rolling
 
 66 E UPEEMIA. 
 
 On to the sands, ever seem to be seeking the 
 
 pastures ; 
 Sheltered from westerly winds by the kind 
 
 guardian isles, 
 Saved in great part from the moisture excessive 
 
 pertaining 
 Unto that coast, by the storm-warding hills of 
 
 the islands. 
 Balmy and soft are the zephyrs that whisper 
 
 the woods 
 On a fair morning in autumn, when bright are 
 
 the gardens ; 
 Sunlio-ht is bathinof the hills, shadows nestle in 
 
 corries, 
 Nature hath open\l her hand in erecting that 
 
 home. 
 Some years agone, it recks not were they few, 
 
 were they many. 
 Lived there a Chief, with his wife, and their sons 
 
 and their daughters, — 
 Chief of a clan that existed scarce more than 
 
 in name ; 
 Yet he was proud of his name, as in days of its 
 
 glory.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 57 
 
 Valued its Chiefsliip above either title or lucre, 
 
 Owed it, he said, to no man, either ruler or king! 
 Well had he chosen his wife, a fair dame and a 
 
 stately, 
 And they were bless'd with three sons and three 
 daughters — six children 
 Not to be match'd, as they deem'd, in the 
 country around. 
 Fair were the maidens, and stalwart the lads in 
 
 their bearing. 
 One was a soldier, one studied the law, and the 
 youngest — 
 Ian, the third of their sons — is the theme of this 
 tale. 
 
 " Never again, oh hills ! may ye behold him 
 Striding from stone to stone to gain your 
 
 height, 
 Making his path the rugged water-courses. 
 Scanning the corrie with his keen hawk-eye ; 
 While through the sharp October air the music 
 Of the dun monarch's challenge greets his ear,
 
 58 E UP HE MIA. 
 
 And his rough deer-hound strains upon the 
 
 leash. 
 Striving to smother low impatient whines. 
 Never again beside the dark swift river. 
 Bending to spear a salmon^s glistening side 
 Can he be seen, or with his rod exploring 
 The deep pooFs treasures on a soft June eve ; 
 Ne'er on the muirland, never on the ocean. 
 Flushing the covey, or steering on the gale ; 
 For he is not, — the cairn hath risen o'er him, — 
 And the home he loved shall see his face no 
 
 more." 
 
 They say his life was wasted, doubtless they are 
 
 right ; 
 But man may waste himself in varied ways. 
 All waste is evil, yet methinks more ill is wrought. 
 To physical and moral health more harm. 
 By him who would prefer the reeking atmosphere 
 Of cities, spending there his fairest years, — 
 A town-vaew'd faineant, a gnat upon the stream. 
 Lounging away the day, gambling the night; 
 A patron of theatrical burlesque.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 59 
 
 A bored and joyless fritterer of Time, 
 Harbouring- no thought or wish to explore and 
 
 help 
 The misery and want that lie beneath his foot. 
 He surely nigher unto heaven attains, who for 
 
 his field 
 Of sport- the open face of perfect Nature seeks. 
 Before whose sight the sunlight spreads and plays 
 All unimpeded over plain and sea, — 
 Who sits alone upon the shoulder of a hill, 
 Waiting his prey ; while all the pale-hued East 
 Develops glowing tints of rose and gold, 
 And the world smiling, gives the Sun good morn. 
 Of power superior, the Presence he must feel. 
 Even despite his worser self, who on the breast 
 Of mighty ocean games with waves and winds ; 
 Who steers ^mong icebergs prism-hued, and views 
 The works and ways of all the countless denizens 
 And creatures of the deep. Who would pursue 
 The great Leviathan for unctuous spoils, and 
 
 catch a glimpse 
 Into his grand mysterious life ; perchance 
 
 beholding that
 
 60 E UPHEMIA. 
 
 Of which some whalers tell^ — reveaFd so rarelj^ 
 
 to so few^ 
 The vastest thing that lives, and lives to feed — 
 The huge sperm-whale, they say, at bottom of 
 
 the sea. 
 This, rising rarely into human ken, displays 
 A pulpy, milk-hued map of such extent. 
 Overspreading all the surface of the waves. 
 That scarce the astonish'd sight can render to 
 
 the mind 
 These furlongs of a living unity. 
 
 Again, the man can scarce ignore a sense 
 Of God-made manhood, who, across a plain. 
 Leaving the very breeze to whistle in despite. 
 Is borne by fleetest courser ; who in woods lies by 
 In ambush hidden, while th' unconscious game 
 Foil'd on its own grounds by superior wile. 
 Feeds on — unrecking of its enemy. 
 Meseems, the very brutes, whose way of life's 
 
 displayed 
 To the keen Nimrod in his sporting quests. 
 Are fairer studies for his inner self than most 
 Sharing his nature in the poison'd town.
 
 BUFHEMIA. 61 
 
 Let them proclaim this life for earth all wasted 
 TJnto our eyes ; but who may dare to judge 
 That Charity Most Infinite declares 
 A soul thus damned. There are^ who humbly deem 
 A chance beyond the boundary yet exists 
 For human souls. There are, who humbler yet, 
 Lay erring treasures at the feet of Christ, 
 And pray above the tomb. 
 
 * H= * * * 
 
 Sleeping in silvery moonlight lies the sea. 
 With scarce the motion of a maiden's breast 
 Eising and falling in a dreamless slumber. 
 
 Not a breath 
 Stirs the deep woodlands in their solemn rest. 
 And one belated sea-bird — to the stars 
 Weirdly complaining — breaks alone the stillness. 
 
 On such a night, beneath a wond'rous sky, 
 That seem'd to justify the Grecian sage 
 In naming Heaven a lofty, solid vault, — 
 Blue as the " lapis lazuli,^' fleck'd with clouds, 
 Silver instead of gold ; and inlaid o'er 
 With diamond stars, 'rounding a pearly moon,
 
 62 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 (A jewell'd flooring, fitted for the feet 
 Of winged servants waiting on their King ;) 
 Wander'd young Ian, deep immersed in thought 
 That breaking from his lips, found vent in words. 
 '' Oh ! quiet night, lend this tumultuous heart 
 The soothing influence of your heavenly peace ! 
 Restore my soul, arrange my restless fancies, 
 ^Twas in this hope I sought your spell to-night. 
 Does one, whose light in yonder window 
 
 gleams, 
 Guess for a moment, that impatient steps 
 Wander the beach so late, because of her, — 
 That now a life, erst tranquil, is disturbed 
 For sensed reckoning, through her witching face ? 
 And how I will not sleep, for that they say, 
 Nature in charity provideth that the dreams 
 Of those who brood all day on one engrossing 
 
 thought. 
 Should cease by night to hold the self-same 
 
 thought. 
 Lest the brain burst overcharged ! 
 But ah ! to me — 
 A struggling slave of love — such benefit
 
 EUPHEMIA. 63 
 
 Would yield no joy, — for I would deem those 
 
 hours 
 "Wasted and lost, when I lose sight of her ! 
 
 Nay ! I am mad. Axe these my brave resolves; 
 Can I, while cherishing unguarded thoughts, 
 Hold to that promise wrested late from me, — 
 That I would keep my feelings in control 
 And never show her aught, — for her dear sake. 
 For her dear sake ! and how am I to think 
 My fond self-flatterings were wholly vain ; 
 And that I never woke within her breast 
 A pulse responsive to my ardent flame ? 
 
 How great they deem what seems to me so 
 small. 
 The wretched barrier 'twixt my love and me ; 
 It is a farce ; if she love me, a crime. 
 Bringing up dead, of many hundred years. 
 To ruin two young lives ! What boots it now 
 If those my forbears, in a bye-gone time 
 Murder'd and fought with higher hand than 
 
 most, 
 Own'd larger lands, syne elder date than many, 
 Challenged a king, contested for a crown.
 
 64 EUPHE3IIA. 
 
 And left their name a mark in history ? 
 
 What boots it now^ — I say — and why should we 
 
 Drag out our little three-score years and ten 
 
 In separate misery, — all because I know 
 
 My grandsires^ grandsires did possess — a Name I 
 
 What reason is in love ? Can I contend 
 And argue with my heart that noble birth 
 Should seek out circumstances parallel — 
 In choice of fitting mate ? and lay thereon 
 (The circumstances, not the soul), a spread of 
 
 love 
 Like butter spread on bread ? 
 
 Oh ! sweet Euphemia, how thy lowly birth. 
 In thee, would grace the noblest family 
 The world e'er saw, — was the world not so blind. 
 And now, I must try to cease loving thee — 
 A useless task ; and harder yet, must cease 
 To seek within thine eyes the tender glow 
 Of love awakened, answering to my love. 
 Ah ! God, the honour and obedience due 
 To parents, ordered by Thee, 
 Seems hard at times to reconcile 
 E'en with Thyself, — for this my love.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 65 
 
 Pure in itself, inspired by one so pure. 
 
 Can surely emanate from Heaven alone : 
 
 And I am taught — to cherisli it is wrong ! — 
 
 There is injustice somewhere, teach me where ; 
 
 Else will I deem Creation out of tune. 
 
 Believe that vengeance to our nature's due. 
 
 And doubt the mercy of Divinity/' 
 
 He utter'd these distracted sentences 
 
 Half to himself, half loud — as challeno-insr 
 
 The cold indifferent moon to answer his distress ; 
 
 Then striding hastily along the shore. 
 
 The boy (he scarce was more) endeavoured to 
 
 compose 
 His mind ; and in a while did so succeed 
 That, vowing inwardly to watch himself, 
 • He turn'd him tVards his home, and soon, 
 
 despite 
 His woe, in weariness succumbed to sleep.
 
 ee EUPHEMIA. 
 
 PAUT II. 
 
 The Heeoine. 
 
 ]ET ye your mind for a space in the 
 Garden of Beauty, 
 Let its eyne satiate themselves with a 
 feast of her sple^idours. 
 Bid it confess how her rule spreadeth over the 
 spheres. 
 Great hath her influence been on the minds of all 
 
 people, 
 Specially greatest when vested in form of a. 
 woman ; 
 It is a platitude doubtless, a saying oft said. 
 But natheless most true, that a fairness of 
 
 feature and form 
 Aye numbereth more victims than mental per- 
 fection hath gained. 
 The sphinx-typed Queen of the Nile, the dark- 
 brow'd Assyrian,
 
 EUPHEUIA. &1 
 
 Troy's Duchess Helen, or Caledon's mucli-injured 
 
 Mary, 
 Bore each their part in subverting of men and of 
 
 nations, 
 Chiefly through power of the beautiful mask 
 
 that each own'd. 
 Many another known name, whether true, whether 
 
 fabled, 
 Beareth this fact in her story, and plainly attesteth 
 Chiefly is reach'd through his vision, the road 
 
 to man's heart. 
 Curious it is to mark how Beauty's manifold 
 
 blossoms 
 Each win admirers, as different as they in their 
 
 species ; 
 Each work their diff'rent impressions on dififerent 
 
 men. — 
 Stands the voluptuous rose 'mid her throng of 
 
 adorers. 
 Snow-white camelias, like stately and cold-cut 
 
 patricians 
 Chni, while they charm ; — the sensual glow of 
 
 the tulip
 
 08 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 Vies with the dahlia, recalling black eyne, and 
 
 jet tresses 
 Melting and darkling beneath their en wreathed 
 
 profusion. 
 Claiming, commanding, the gaze of the wor- 
 shipping crowd. 
 Sweet are the violets, coy as the flower of a 
 
 hamlet. 
 Gentle and love-like the lilies, pure maidens in 
 
 seeming, 
 Touch-me-not thistle — enguarding her tender- 
 
 hued heart — 
 While the fair blue-bell, like Scotland's own 
 
 song-renown'd lassies, 
 Blue-eyed and comely — can please like the 
 
 queens of the garden. 
 
 Win such devotion and praise, as the queens 
 
 of the throng. 
 ***** 
 
 Down, where the river wandering to the sea 
 Parted, and flow'd in two streams o'er the land — 
 One stream as deep and black as any Styx, 
 And one so shallow, that with kilted skirt
 
 EUPHEMIA. 69 
 
 The girl that tended cows along the bank 
 Could wade across, and only wet her feet : 
 These, ere they joined again to stem the sands. 
 Formed a small island, cover'd most with furze, 
 A few old stunted birks, and alder stumps. 
 And some coarse grasses. 
 
 One calm autumn day, 
 Nearly a week since love-lorn Ian paced 
 In sad soliloquy along the beach, 
 A maiden sat, and seVd, upon the isle. 
 
 She was most lovely, with a loveliness 
 That captivated all, whatever their sex, 
 Age or degree — a very sweet blue-bell ; — 
 Tall, slight and graceful, with a well-poised head 
 That turned as proudly on her slender neck 
 When startled by a fancied sound of steps, 
 As ever head of watchful mountain hind ; 
 Or droop'd again like her own emblem flower 
 Over her work ; so low, as near to hide 
 The sudden fading of the expectant flush 
 That play'd upon her brow one moment syne. 
 Yet had the sudden turning of that head 
 ReveaFd, had mortal soul been there to gaze.
 
 70 E UP HEM I A. 
 
 So mucli of fine- wrought features^ tender mouth, 
 And grey deep eyes, by long dark lashes veiFd ; — 
 Such thoughtful calmness, reigning over all, — 
 Appealing, past her beauty, from her soul. 
 That fain might any gazer well have been 
 To see that face again, and yet again. 
 
 Euphemia Cameron was humbly born. 
 Her father work'd a little moorland farm 
 While yet he lived, but since two years or three 
 Her brother and his family replaced 
 Old Cameron, and wrought upon the croft. 
 Euphemia was a sort of waiting-maid 
 To the chiefs daughters ; — several years before 
 Her father's death — she then a little lass — 
 Had left his lowly roof — and had up-grown 
 To lovely womanhood, in lan's home. 
 
 The chiefs good lady loved the blooming child. 
 And treated her with something more of care 
 Than her position warranted. For she. 
 Attracted firstly by the unusual style 
 Of Phemie's beauty (so brief-named at home) , 
 Then, by the evident fact, that she possess'd 
 A mind superior to her humble state.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 71 
 
 Took her to be a playmate for her girls — 
 Whose life was somewhat lonely in those days — 
 And let her share their education in 
 Such studies as she deem'd would serve her best 
 Some day to take the teaching of a school. 
 Phemie betray'd a mark'd acquiring power^ 
 And made the very most of what she learned ; 
 For His as if the keener northern air 
 Sharpen'd the wits of Scotland's peasant folk, 
 Enduing them with capabilities 
 Of grasping knowledge in a fuller meed 
 Than thicker-pated yokels of the south. 
 So Phemie studied with her mistresses, 
 First as a child, and then in elder days ; 
 And oft surpass'd them in the friendly race 
 When clear-brain'd reasoning and perception 
 
 shrewd 
 Were call'd in requisition. 
 
 So she lived 
 In the chiefs household — loved among them all. 
 
 A twelvemonth and a half had nearly gone, 
 Since Ian, inclining to no settled work. 
 Had left his studies, and abode at home ;
 
 72 E UPHEMIA. 
 
 Indulged with injudicious fondness aye 
 By his adoring- mother — who could see 
 In him no fault, save lately she accused 
 Him of a disposition to frequent 
 All places where Euphemia might be met. 
 For lounging grounds in leisure times at home ; 
 And though she never for a moment dream'd 
 That any serious fancy took the boy. 
 Yet she, aware that young men^s idleness 
 Wrought maidens ill, began to take alarm, 
 And fear'd lest harm might happen to her charge. 
 She therefore warned him, with decided show 
 , Of motherly command, to mind his sport. 
 Or turn his thoughts, for once, towards his books. 
 And let his sisters — and their peerless maid — 
 Pursue their walks without his company. 
 Hardly had startled Ian dared reply ; 
 But gave the promise that his mother sought. 
 Scarce understanding it, for only now 
 Began he to feel sure how matters lay 
 Deep in his heart, and that the perfect face 
 First, then the character and noble mind 
 Of this Euphemia, peasant, serving-maid.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 73 
 
 Had won the largest love he had to give. 
 
 Poor Ian ; wandering on the lonely beach. 
 The night that followed on his mother^s words ; 
 He felt as if he'd known it long ago, 
 This smouldering love, why had it seem'd so 
 
 strange 
 To rise -and face it when his parent spoke ? 
 Why had he then, as taken by surprise. 
 Given a promise he could never keep ? 
 And so he wearied out his soul with cares. 
 With wonderments and fears ; then gat him home^ 
 And, tired with trouble, slept in peace at last.
 
 74 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 The Shieling. 
 
 AR o'er tlie hill-tops that lie at the back 
 of the vale, 
 Passing away o'er a tract of intense 
 desolation. 
 Where the heap'd boulder stones speak of past 
 natm'e-convulsions, 
 And the smoothed fragments of rock tell their 
 tale of the ice. 
 Where the inviting morass tempts the foot of the 
 
 passer. 
 Leaving the arid brown grass, and the dead 
 stunted heather. 
 Only to prove for a moment its carpet of green. 
 Where the lorn lochan lies darkling in half-hid 
 
 recesses. 
 Clear and profound — with the efts playing games 
 in its crannies.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 75 
 
 While tlie red moss on its bank glows like 
 recent-shed blood — 
 Blood of the stag who had drunk of its stillness 
 
 in morning. 
 Leaving the print of his tracks by the brink. 
 And slow-soaring 
 Hovers the raven above, with his ominous croak. 
 
 Passing away o^er this tract of intense 
 desolation, 
 Can be attained a lone corrie — the largest of 
 numbers, — 
 Like a wedge cut with a huge jagged knife 
 in the rock. 
 Rugged its sides, inaccessible mostly to foot- 
 steps ; 
 But at their base lies the grass — all Arcadian in 
 richness, 
 Sloping away in fair pastures, where congregate 
 deer, 
 Down to a silver-clear loch, fed by manifold 
 waters.
 
 76 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 Brimming with, argent-scaled trout, most noble 
 in flavour, 
 Pink-flesh'd, and fit for tlie palates of magnates 
 and kings. 
 
 Round from tlie corrie, a little conceaFd by the 
 
 rising 
 Of a large heath-cover'd mound, near the edge 
 
 of the waters, 
 Ian had raised him a bothy of peat and 
 
 rough stones; 
 Turf'd o'er at top, with sods lapping one on 
 
 the other. 
 Till from the mound it could scarce at a glance 
 
 be dissever'd : 
 Scant was the plenishing, scanty the comforts 
 
 within ; 
 Earth was its flooring, and piled turfs were used 
 
 as a table, 
 Turfs form'd the seats, and a couch of cut bloom- 
 
 cover'd heather 
 Placed dead bloom upwards, and cover'd all 
 
 o'er with a rug,
 
 EUPHEMIA. 77 
 
 Served for a bed in the corner. Some deer-hides 
 
 and sheep-skins 
 Lay on the floor — chiefly fronting the hearth- 
 stone — where smoulder'd 
 Peat, and the roots of the moss-buried primeval 
 
 pine. 
 One pane of glass served this primitive room for 
 
 a window, 
 Scarcely the door fitted close into roughly-hewn 
 
 lintels. 
 Scarcely the reek could escape through its hole 
 
 in the roof; 
 Yet was its lord prouder far of his barbarous 
 
 dwelling. 
 Built by himself, than if hirelings in thousands 
 
 had rear'd it 
 Stone upon stone by the grandest conceptions 
 
 of art. — 
 Here he would spend days and weeks in pursuit 
 
 of his quarry — 
 Sometimes alone, and at others attended by 
 
 Angus, 
 Son of a herd, a favorite companion to Ian.
 
 73 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Thither theyM bring what of food might 
 appease their requirements, 
 Help'd by their guns, with old Lufra and Ryno, 
 the deer-hounds. 
 None at his home kenn'd the site of the wild 
 corrie hut. 
 Thither he'd come, as in hiding, when rated his 
 
 father 
 At his long idlesse and ways of uncivilization. 
 Leaving the mother to battle his part with 
 her spouse. 
 Hither he came, with the weight of his love laid 
 
 upon him 
 When morninof had dawned on the nio'ht of his 
 passion and sorrow ; 
 And here he linger'd long days, all alone with 
 his pain. 
 
 Ah ! they may rave, who have number'd their 
 two-score of winters. 
 How, in their elder souls, deeper sinks leaded 
 affliction
 
 EUPHEMIA. 79 
 
 Than in young hearts, for whom life and ita 
 
 troubles are new. 
 But tell ye them, though each back's fitted right 
 
 to its burden, 
 Yet the spring shoot shrivels sooner 'neath blast 
 
 from the nor'ard 
 Than the strong plant that has bent to the 
 
 gales of a year. 
 Yes, they may talk of the passion of man in his 
 
 manhood. 
 Slightingly scoff at " calf-love," — at the love of 
 
 a youngling ; 
 Sneer at a flame that may fade ere its fuel con- 
 sumes : 
 Yet was the love of our sire for hia bride in fair 
 
 Eden, 
 When all was pure, and still fresh from the hand 
 
 of the Father, 
 Only the love of a heart in its young virgin 
 
 prime.
 
 80 E UPHEMIA. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Mairi. 
 
 UPHEMIA sat, and sew^d upon her isle, 
 Now eident at her seam, now list'ning 
 keen 
 
 To any sound that topp'd the river's song ; 
 Until the expected voice caU'd out her name. 
 And, lilting loud a strain of Gaelic tune, 
 Adown the bank there swung a woman's form. 
 Who, raising high a skirt (erst none too long), 
 Splash'd boldly through the stream in strong- 
 built boots. 
 And left a watery track upon the stones 
 She cross'd, ere dropping down by Phemie'sside. 
 " Oh ! see. Miss Mairi, how you've wet your 
 
 feet — 
 A little common care . . . " — " Whist ! Phemie, 
 
 lass, 
 I'm strong enough to bear a dampen'd sole, 
 I hope, so spare your lecture, save your breath
 
 EUPHEMIA. 81 
 
 To read our book, I've brought it, look you 
 
 here/' 
 So saying, lan's eldest sister drew 
 A book from out her pouch, and tossing it 
 In Phemie's lap, imperious cried, " Begin ! " 
 But Phemie gently doff'd the soaking boots, 
 Stripp'd stockings off, and spread them in the 
 
 sun. 
 And wiped the white feet with her handkerchief. 
 While Mairi, half submitting, with a smile, 
 Curl'd them to dry within her petticoat, 
 And lounged at length beneath an alder-bush. 
 An odd, uncommon girl, this Mairi Dhu ; 
 A thistle in her wild luxuriant life. 
 Peculiar beauty, touch-me-not disdain ! 
 Hot, brimm'd with Scottish pride, and quick to 
 
 take 
 Offence when she conceived her feelings 
 
 wrong' d ; 
 But true at heart, a constant faithful friend, 
 Abounding both in love and sympathy. 
 A sort of Highland gipsy, quite untamed 
 In ways and notions. She resembled most 
 
 o
 
 82 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Her youngest brother in the family, 
 But joined his ardour for an outdoor life. 
 His almost passionate nature-clinging, and 
 The craving after " sport " that ruled his soul. 
 With an appreciation even intense 
 Of inner culture ; and a love of books, 
 Books controversial chiefly, for her mind 
 Leaned to an argumentative turn, and she enjoyM 
 The proving of a fact, by some deep mind 
 Disproved the morrow, in another book. 
 By a mind just as deep ; and yet herself 
 Formed other theory, half in contradiction. 
 In inward combat with her lecturers. 
 No mean adept was she at what they term 
 The gentle art. Old Isaac would have stared 
 If, swift transported from the slumb'rous tide 
 Of English streams, he^d seen the Highland maid 
 Wielding her rod (no toy !) and following, 
 Not always hy the river, a hooked fish. 
 Beheld her standing patient hour by hour 
 Watching the wavy flood, until her eyes, 
 'Wilder'd, saw stones upon an opposite hill 
 Running the adverse way, like driven sheep.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 83 
 
 'Twas said, that once a well directed shot 
 From lan^s borrowed gun had done to death 
 A noble stag ; but when she came to view 
 Her handiwork anear, the piteous glance 
 Of dying royalty so smote her heart. 
 She sobbed the whole way home, and not again 
 Would take a tool so murderous in her grasp. 
 
 She would profess at times to care no whit 
 For poets and their works, — yet seem'd to choose 
 Extracts in prose works most poetical. 
 And read them with their music in her voice. 
 
 She took delight (her sisters being cast 
 In other mental mould, and younger too. 
 By years than she,) in making Phemie share 
 Her curious studies, and the steadier cast 
 Of thought, and better-balanced judgment of the 
 
 girl 
 Did much to check the too free theories 
 That Mairi by herself was apt to form. 
 
 They loved each other dearly, though the maid. 
 With an instinctive delicacy, seemed 
 To mark the line between their social states 
 More definitely than at times approved
 
 84 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Her mistress utterly. But never once 
 In tlie discussions — disagreements oft 
 These studies caused — Euphemia did forget 
 The vast distinction 'twixt their relative births ; 
 And^ if the somewhat hasty lady grew 
 Hot and excited in her eager views. 
 And rather flatly contradictory, 
 Euphemia, gently proud, would drop the word 
 And leave her mistress prancing on the field 
 Of their late argument, till by some quiet speech 
 Of afterwards, Miss Mairi could perceive 
 That her maid Phemie was not quite convinced. 
 Though silenced, of the error of her views. 
 And then the generous girl would ramp and fume 
 At what she calPd Phemie's punctiliousness. 
 And at her own sad domineering ways. 
 
 '' Dear Phemie, Pm afraid I'm very rude, 
 Do let's begin again, and say your say, 
 And never heed my rough impatient words ! " 
 Who, smiling with a radiant smile that lit 
 Her whole face, would respond in tender kind. 
 
 Mairi in person, form'd a contrast mark'd 
 To fair Euphemia, she was short, strong-built,
 
 EUPHEMIA. . 85 
 
 And so dark 'mong her liglit-complexion'd kin 
 That one and all had named her '' Mairi Dhu." 
 A curious face, of almost Orient type — 
 Low forehead, much infringed on by black hair, 
 Black as a hill-hemmed lochan, glancing blue 
 Where the light finds a spot amid the shades : 
 Long dark-brown eyes, o^er which the weighty 
 
 lids 
 Hung languishingly, with their wealth of lash. 
 When she dream'd, pensive, but had power to 
 
 flare 
 Into indignant life, or glint, when mirth 
 Called them to action. Marked and thick-drawn 
 
 brows 
 Met nearly on her forehead, — whence the nose 
 Straightly descended, without dip or break 
 To swelling nostrils curPd. Her mouth was 
 
 large. 
 Wide, and expressive, — showing a double row 
 Of gleaming teeth whene'er she spoke or smiled : 
 Short chin and narrow jaw, that hurried up 
 In sudden stroke, to meet large shapely ears. 
 And a complexion underlined with brown.
 
 86 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Througli wliicli the rich blood mantled rarely 
 
 bright ; 
 Completed an appearance that would stand 
 Fitly in place,;— in Oriental garb — 
 Within the streets of any Syrian town. 
 
 They form'd a pretty picture — these two 
 
 girls ; 
 Euphemia sat, half-raised upon a bank. 
 Leaning against the white boles of a birk. 
 The sun-light making gleams upon her hair 
 And dress, — (of some grey clinging stuff, ) — a 
 
 shawl 
 Thrown o'er her head at home, had fallen off 
 And made a spot of scarlet on the grass. 
 Mairi lay at her feet — enwrapped in shade. 
 With deep green alders 'twixt her and the sun; 
 Her dark face turn'd up to the cloudless sky. 
 The only light about herein her eyes. 
 She wore a garb of blue, as deep as night, 
 (A summer's night ! ) and on her loose- tied 
 
 hair 
 Sat, looped with golden broach, coquettishly 
 A crimson bonnet — '' useful," joked her sire.
 
 EU PEE MIA. 87 
 
 " To scare the red deer all from out the glen." 
 Above their heads, a laverock mounting 
 high 
 Melodious trill'd, to drown the moulit's cries 
 That, crowding on the beach in hostile feast, 
 Eeveird on spoils left by retiring tides. 
 
 The river sang her bubbling tune beneath 
 Their seat, — a gentle wind from off the sea 
 Made a soft rustle 'mong the alder leaves. 
 And stirr'd the witherM grasses on the isle : 
 The distant bleating of the scattered flock 
 Dotting the hill behind them ; the soft voice 
 Of Phemie as she read, in gentle tones, 
 Form'd a harmonious whole of pleasant 
 
 sounds, — 
 Lending an oral sweetness to the hour.
 
 88 
 
 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 PART V. 
 The Book. 
 
 -^j^^llHE ffirls read on, in turn and turn about — 
 ^^.-j^^y. The volume — Mairi^s choice, of course. 
 
 was one 
 Of those that break at seasons on the world 
 With curious views and explanations of 
 What no one ever thought to doubt before ; 
 The whole imbued with much religious light 
 (Or rather darkness) — here a touch of heav'n. 
 And there an inquisition into hell, — 
 With peeps into the spirit-world ; — the whole 
 Writ in a compass of two hundred leaves. 
 
 These startle a few souls, and may evoke 
 Slight written controversies, spoken doubts ; 
 And, passing through a couple of editions, 
 Unrevolutionising aught, are laid 
 Upon some upper shelf and soon forgot !
 
 EUPEEMIA. 89 
 
 Mairi was reading, when she reached a point 
 That hinged upon the life beyond this life. 
 " Phemie," she cried, and let the volume fall, 
 " With best intent, I can't believe in hell ! " 
 
 Surprised, Euphemia looked up from her work 
 Inquiringly, and ask'd her mistress " Why ?" 
 
 " Fm thinking less of brimstone and of flames 
 Than the eternity of punishment ! 
 For see," she said, '' I speak in reverence. 
 Our God is just, and also merciful ; 
 We're put into this world sans our consent. 
 And many a one who draweth nigh his end, 
 Would, weighing the enjoyment 'gainst the pain. 
 Doubt if his rise to being was a fact. 
 That, prescient, any for himself would choose. 
 So, put into this world without our leave. 
 We taste our pains and pleasures seventy years 
 A little more or less. We lead a life 
 Not very evil, yet removed from good : 
 And, counting one as perfect happiness. 
 The other, as eternal pain and woe ; 
 In justice, are we fit for heaven ? — and 
 In mercy, are wo doom'd to hell ?"
 
 90 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 '' Oh ! meddle not^ my dear, witli theories 
 Too deep to fathom in om' tiny span. 
 The longest life is far too brief to rend 
 From top to hem th^ impenetrable veil 
 'Twixt us and the Hereafter. Seems to me 
 That if for eighty years we studied deep. 
 Resting at last on some philosophy 
 Well-argued — deeply proved to our content, 
 (Argued by man, — proved without help of God ;) 
 One other year of life — or even that ray. 
 That mystic gleam, that in the last dread strife. 
 Lights parting spirits out this nether world ; 
 Sh all rob our past of its fallacious depth. 
 And cause us wail, " Oh ! Lord, I am not wise ! " 
 She paused, and Mairi mused. — 
 
 Said Phemie then, 
 " See yonder craggy steep, where boulders grey 
 And treacherous bogs impede the mounting step : 
 How vain the ascent would prove to him who 
 
 sought 
 To pry into some mystery of clouds 
 Far overhead, while he who guided well 
 Each heeding footfall with a heedful eye
 
 E UP HE MIA. 91 
 
 Should view his cloud-world from a summit safe ; 
 
 Mairi ! our duties lie beneath our feet, 
 Not ours to pry into that far beyond. 
 For, if right wrought, they fill our hearts, and time. 
 And claim us wholly. 
 
 We owe duties twain. 
 One towards God, one towards our brother-man. 
 And, seeming separate, these yet are one : 
 For if we serve God's creatures He is served. 
 And serving whom we do deny ourselves. 
 Which self-denial brings us to His Peace, 
 The Peace that does most truly indicate 
 
 A perfect state 
 
 Oh ! how we greet and fret. 
 And cry, 'It's hard, it's hard ! ' and wildly clutch 
 At earth's fleet pleasures as they pass us by ; 
 Like one who cries for kail-yards, when anear 
 Lies the short painful path that, once o'ercome. 
 Shall bring him to a kingdom all his own." 
 
 " But Phemie, Phemie, can we struggle on 
 Without the certainty of that reward ? 
 What if some wise and learned of our day 
 Should hold the Truth, and this brief world be all!
 
 92 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 ('Tis not my tliouglitj but I'm nor learned nor 
 wise) ." 
 
 " Nay, lady mine/' said Phemie, and her voice 
 Half pleading, half pathetic, made appeal 
 Deep as her words, " it often seems to me. 
 The great and learned men you speak about 
 Lose sight of what the Lord reveals to babes 
 Like me. They look too far, and miss 
 The plain solution ready to their hand. 
 
 There can be but one Tutor for our souls. 
 One to instruct us what we need to know. 
 One Guide and Leader for our daily work ; 
 And as an earnest that we shall be taught. 
 And that He'll lead, if only we will call 
 This Tutor, Guide, bestows on us a gift. 
 On us, who yearn and struggle to believe, 
 His greatest gift to earth, the power of Prayer. 
 
 Were I a great and clever man, I'd give 
 advice 
 That none could contravene, I'd answer thus — 
 ' Wear Faith's steel breast-plate like a little 
 
 child, 
 Whose father clasps it on to save the breast
 
 EUPEEMIA. 93 
 
 From Doubt's sharp shafts, which shafts it is 
 
 unwise 
 To brave with Reason's leathern vest alone ; 
 Avoid all books of profitless surmise, 
 All vexed questions ; whensoever you may ; 
 But if, in studying Scriptui'e, passages 
 Occur, that shake your very faith in Faith ; 
 Seek not, to solve them. Science' mighty tomes 
 Or long years' labours of the fuU-brain'd sage. 
 For complications, falsities, are in each ; 
 They're human like yourself. But take God's Book 
 And lay it 'fore its Author on your knees. 
 And occupy the time that you would spend 
 Seeking solutions in an earthly store. 
 Using the voice in prayer that you would use 
 For asking knowledge from a fellow-man. 
 In gaining what you seek from God himself. 
 And soon or late, as He shall deem it fit. 
 You'll get your perfect answer, without fail." 
 
 Then Mairi, half astonish' d at the girl. 
 Who spoke with kindling fervour in her eyes 
 So unlike her accustom'd quiet, said : 
 
 " I think, dear, that you're nearer to the truth
 
 94 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Than most, now I would think upon your words 
 And so I'll leave you, and walk home alone." 
 She rose and kiss'd her maid, then walk'd 
 
 away, 
 Pass'd barefoot through the stream, and reach'd 
 
 the bank, 
 Where, pausing to reclad her dripping feet. 
 She, waving back to Phemie, moved from sight. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 The Red Stag. 
 
 OME WARDS he turned, from his hut at 
 
 the foot of the corrie 
 A fter his self-imposed banishment, mourn- 
 ful, but calmer ; 
 Dreading, yet longing to see her, his darling, 
 again ; 
 Slowly he clomb up the foot-hold that led to the 
 summit.
 
 EUPEEMIA. 95 
 
 (Pathway it could not be named), foUoVd close 
 
 by the deer-hounds. 
 Till he had vanquished its height, when ad- 
 vancing- a step, 
 Partly with hunter-like instinct, to spy out for 
 
 quarry. 
 Sate he himself with his back to a rock, and with 
 
 kerchief 
 Wiped the heat-drops from his brow, and drew 
 
 breath for a apace. 
 Ian look'd out on the landscape that glittered 
 
 before him 
 Bathed in the earliest freshness of life-givinor 
 
 morning ; 
 Even his occupied soul must go out to its charm. 
 Far 'neath his feet stretch'd the tussocky moor 
 
 plain, heath-cover'd. 
 Jewelled with emerald morasses, and pale sapphire 
 
 lochans. 
 Threaded with silver its length, by the course 
 
 of a burn. 
 All this vast undulate plain form'd a sort of 
 
 raised plateau ;
 
 96 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Out 'yond its edge^ Ian gazed on the mountains 
 
 before him, 
 Purple with distance, but shading to gold at 
 
 their base, 
 Where he could catch harvest-gleams of the 
 
 strath's cultivation, 
 Where his fair home lay 'twixt them and himself; 
 
 to his left hand 
 Lay the bright sea, shining up to the sky, but 
 
 so calm 
 That all its currents were mapp'd out distinct on 
 
 the surface. 
 And the peak'd hills of those old-Storied islands 
 
 rose sheerly 
 With their first dazzling snow-caps from waters 
 
 like glass, 
 Eound to the right, the land roughly ascended — 
 
 ignoring 
 Rocks, clefts, and corries, that sought to obstruct 
 
 its intention 
 (So it would seem) of concealing more hills and 
 
 more sea. 
 That, well he knew, could he turn from his course 
 
 to behold them.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 97 
 
 Ian could see from the top of the envious rising. 
 
 Sat he entranced a short space, and floated his 
 brain through 
 
 Fragments of song, that had bm^st from their 
 utterers spontaneous 
 
 'Mid scenes like this, and he strung these toge- 
 ther, and croon'd them 
 
 To an old lilt whose author had borrowed his 
 music 
 
 Partly from waters and winds and the cries of the 
 sea birds. 
 
 Ian's Song. 
 
 " Peace lieth over the land. 
 Oh ! sons of the warriors, basking in idleness, 
 Stretch your vast limbs, and if supple the muscles, 
 Rise from your sloth, leaving drink to the ancients: 
 
 Peace lieth over the land. 
 Therefore arise and speed well to the westward, 
 Low lies in caverns the ghost of the tempests. 
 Dry are the streams, for the eyes of the mourners 
 
 Fill them no more. 
 
 H
 
 98 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Seek ye tlie place of his lair. 
 Pass o'er the moss, free from ambush of foemen, 
 Down to the corrie, where dark brown hinds linger. 
 Hold ye the breath of your nostrils and spy him. 
 
 Fix the strong shaft to the bow ! 
 Lo ! each proud antler lies prone on the greensward 
 Like a great branch that the lightning has smitten ; 
 See how the dark-brown ones speed o'er the hill 
 line. 
 
 Drive the black knife to his heart : 
 Then away — back with the spoil and the trophy 
 Brandish'd aloft, 'fore the eyes of the maidens. 
 Call for the banquet, and call for the bards. 
 
 Peace lieth over the land." 
 
 Ended his song, and he joy'd, of his trouble 
 
 oblivious 
 A while, with the sun of the world peeping in 
 
 to his soul. 
 Then back as a stab through mem'ry of woe struck 
 
 the darkness ; 
 And he rose with a sigh like a groan, that half 
 
 startled
 
 EUPHEMIA. 99 
 
 Old Lufra^ who lay sleeping sound in the sun- 
 beams anear ; 
 That brought, from an ill-advised chace, young 
 Eyno, her offspring. 
 Panting and dreading the chiding, he felt was 
 deserved. 
 Now writhed he near, crouching low, grinning 
 
 much deprecation. 
 And slunk to his dam, surprised that his fault 
 pass'd unnoticed. 
 Thinking, sly dog, he look'd innocent, and at 
 his ease. 
 Listening to nothing, that wond'rous intenseness 
 
 of silence 
 Reigning around him, remained Ian still for a 
 moment. 
 Then, with his hounds at his heels, sadly moved 
 on his way. 
 
 Passing away o'er the tract of extreme deso- 
 lation. 
 
 Leading him seawards, to go by the shieling of 
 Angus,
 
 100 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Whom lie ■would see on some matters of sport- 
 ing portent ; 
 Ian went off the straight track^ and descended 
 
 the hill- side, 
 Strode o'er the level, at pace that kept trotting 
 
 beside him 
 Lufra and Ryno. O'ercame the hunter the 
 
 lover 
 Within him, when marking some deer away to 
 
 the eastward, 
 Turn'd he aside, and ascended a mound to behold 
 
 them ; 
 Then in a dip, not eighty yards surely beyond 
 
 him, 
 Saw he a sight that made every pulse throb 
 
 through his body. 
 Arrested his breathing, and rooted him firm to 
 
 the spot. 
 
 Lo, in the hollow, where a crystal spring 
 Nourished the grass, and kept it bright and green. 
 Lay a great stag, reposing at his ease. 
 Calmly unconscious of a foeman near.
 
 EUPHE3IIA. 101 
 
 A little breeze had sprung from the south-east, 
 And scent and sound were both behind his ken ; 
 He lay and meditated on the verdant feast. 
 Or dozing, dreamed of hind loves drawing near. 
 
 As Ian gazed upon the royal head. 
 Wide-spread, deep- cupped, brow-antlers straightly 
 
 dropp'd 
 Low on the forehead, broad and massive back, 
 The regal carriage of his stately horns, 
 And more than usual redness of his coat, 
 Fringed all about his neck, with coarse dark mane ; 
 He recognized him straightway for the lord 
 Of certain far-off corries, rarely seen 
 In reach of home, and vainly marked for death 
 By Ian, as by others. For they told 
 Strange tales of him among the foresters. 
 How that he'd lived for more than mortal years. 
 This Fiagh Buadh, lead and steel defied. 
 Costing them many and many a weary tramp ; 
 And how he should live, " till a stricken lad 
 By water slew him." So the saying ran. 
 But Ian had no time to think on this. 
 For the great beast bestirr'd his mighty form.
 
 102 EVFREMIA. 
 
 Rose, stretch'd himself, mark'd Ian, turned, and 
 
 fled. 
 This move was more than young dog-blood 
 
 might bear ; 
 The hounds, restrain'd by lan^s back-turnM 
 
 palm. 
 Had hitherto, with priced ears, low-dropp'd 
 
 tails. 
 And quivering nostrils, view'd the entrancing 
 
 sight. 
 N'o moment longer could young Ryno bear. 
 And heedless of his master's whistle, he. 
 With belly to the earth, tore wild away. 
 
 His parent stayed a second, as in doubt. 
 Took one step forward, stood with air-poised foot. 
 Then, with a spring that cleared some yards of 
 
 ground. 
 Was soon behind the two retreating forms. 
 
 The lad loved both his hounds, and well he knew 
 The mettle and endurance of the dam 
 Descended to her son. Thus dreaded he 
 Temptation so unusual might call 
 Unusual exertion from the dogs.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 103 
 
 If it -were possible that they could run 
 So swift a deer to bay, they might be slain 
 In the last combat, or might venture leaps 
 Among the seaward rocks, and so get maimed. 
 
 One attribute that Fiagh Ruadh own'd 
 (So said the hill-folk) was a fiendish guile 
 In leading his pursuers by false tracks. 
 Setting them out of reckoning, wind or way. 
 Placing them in a strait, then slicing off. 
 And disappearing, how or where, none knew. 
 
 All this flash'd rapidly through lan^s mind, 
 And taking no time to deliberate. 
 He hitch'd his kilt up tightly, and then ran. 
 
 Away, away they raced, the stag and hounds ; 
 And Ian soon lost sight of them, behind 
 The hillocks, rocks and risings of the land. 
 
 He sped on boldly nathless, till his breath 
 Utterly failed him ; then he paused awhile, 
 Took bearing from a hillock, saw three specks 
 Vanishing down the last plain to the sea ; 
 And having filVd his lungs, started again. 
 
 This he repeated many times, a rest 
 For breathing time, a run, and rest again ;
 
 104 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 Until at length the ocean lay beneath 
 His very feet, the intervening rocks 
 Neither so high nor steep but he might climb 
 Adown their crags, and reach the stony shore. 
 But where were stag and hounds ? No vestige 
 showed 
 Of one or others, aU was solitude. 
 He must have ta'en too straight a line, for they 
 Had likely cut across, to where the waves. 
 Washing inshore, did form a little bay. 
 On which the land sloped less precipitous. 
 
 He turnM, and walk'd more slowly up the 
 coast. 
 Wondering the while what might have chanced 
 
 the dogs. 
 And marvelling they had pursued so long. 
 So thinking, Ian looked out to the sea. 
 And saw, some distance from the rock-bound 
 
 shore, 
 Three specks, that seem'd to gyrate round and 
 
 round. 
 Then draw together, forming but one spot 
 Upon the surface of the calm blue deep.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 105 
 
 He hurried on, stiR on, with, rapid feet. 
 Until he could distinguish what he sought. 
 
 The stag had struck out boldly in the waves, 
 Followed by his pursuers both, who seized 
 The first chance of a grip behind the ear. 
 And there they hung, on either side, half toVd, 
 Half swimming, pertinacious in their hold. 
 
 Ian sprang forward, climb'd the low cliffs 
 down. 
 How, he scarce knew, and noting on the sand 
 The marks of hurrying hoofs and paws, he threw 
 His jacket off, kicked '' brogs" he cared not where, 
 And with his skean ^twixt his teeth, he rushM 
 Into the ripple, and was soon afloat. 
 
 The stag perceived him, and struck out to sea, 
 But Ian saw he labour' d heavily, 
 Encumber'd by the hounds, appear'd distressed. 
 And made no way at all. And still they hung. 
 Those hounds, like memories of past-wrought 
 
 crimes. 
 Death-griping at his life. A moment more 
 The lad had reach'd the trio, and essay' d 
 To swim so close, that he might deal a wound
 
 106 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 With tlie bright, flashing blade; but the deer 
 
 baulked 
 His venture, every time that he approach'd. 
 By twisting round. At last he turn'd again, 
 And this time made for shore, a move that quite 
 Frustrated lan's hopes ; for on its feet 
 The stag, he knew, was far beyond his match. 
 Then, on a sudden, came the prophesy 
 Into his mind, " Until a stricken lad 
 By water slays him/^ " Stricken, ay, and sore ! 
 Than luckless love what wound more merciless ?" 
 He cried aloud. " Then mine the fulfilment. 
 And Fiadh Ruadh dies, and by my hand ! " 
 
 He made a side rush, and o^er Lufra^s head. 
 Into the beast's neck drove the shining blade. 
 The red blood spurted into Lufra's eyes, 
 She lost her hold, and, wilder' d, made for land. 
 Astonish'd, weaken'd by the flow of life, 
 That pour'd from out the wound, the poor brute 
 
 ceased 
 Its efibrts to do more than keep afloat. 
 And Ian, getting to the other side, 
 Struck yet a stronger blow behind the ear.
 
 EUPEEMIA. 107 
 
 The stag's large eyes expressed a wild despair, 
 And scarcely could he keep his nostrils up 
 Above the water, redden'd with his gore. 
 Eyno still held his hold, though o'er his nose 
 And forehead stream'd a flood from out the 
 
 hole. 
 A moment yet, and then the large eye film'd. 
 When Ian swam an ear, and seizing hold 
 Of one brow-antler, gave a final stab, — 
 Then tow'd, as best he might, his prize ashore. 
 But never Ryno loosed his gleaming fangs. 
 Until he felt the bottom with his feet. 
 
 'Twas all the lad could do, to drag the weight 
 Of the huge beast beyond all reach of tide ; 
 This done, he sank exhausted on the beach, 
 AVith hardly strength to triumph o'er his work. 
 He sat and rested, till he felt the chill 
 Of soaking garments penetrating to 
 The very bone. So rose he and walk'd home. 
 Calling at Angus' cottage by the way. 
 To give the astonish'd gillie some account 
 Of what had chanced, and orders how to deal 
 With head and venison, lying on the shore.
 
 108 EUPEBMIA. 
 
 His mother sat within her sitting-room, 
 And rose enraptured when her son came in. 
 " You naughty truant, I had thought you lost, 
 But Angus told us you were on the hill ; 
 Come to the light, and let me look at you." 
 Then, startled at the plashy sound his feet 
 Made as he pass'd up to her through the room. 
 She cried, " Why, boy, your brogs are surely wet. 
 And your kilt's soaking; where can you have 
 been?" 
 
 She stood with hand on either shoulder, while 
 Her loving eyes looked up into his face. 
 
 Then Ian 'gan to tell the history. 
 And she, delighted, went and call'd her spouse. 
 And made him recommence his tale ; but ere 
 The lad concluded, did a shiver run 
 All through him, and he dropped into a chair. 
 The mother, troubled, frighted, sent for wine, 
 And made him drink, then bore him to his room. 
 And laid him, non-resisting, on his couch. 
 
 Some time elapsed before he rose again ; 
 Nature rebelFd against the strain : his chace. 
 His sudden chill, and silent-harbour'd grief.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 109 
 
 Had put upon her. So lie toss'd through, days 
 And nights of fever on a weary bed. 
 Mother and sister tending heedfully. 
 
 When at length, convalescent, he arose. 
 And moved from out his chamber, came the girls. 
 His younger sisters, prattling (half subdued 
 By Mairi's warning finger and soft step) , 
 Of all they^d done since they had seen him last. 
 How they had ta'en his deerhounds for a walk. 
 The day they went with Phemie up the glen 
 By the new path, " for Phemie did love dogs," 
 And how their mother bade them neatlv mark, 
 'Gainst his recovery, stockings she had knit 
 For Ian, but that '^ Phemie marked them best. 
 Therefore she did it, when we went to fish ; 
 So mind that you admire them/' And yet 
 Again, " that Phemie gathered half the flowers 
 In the bright glass we sent you yesterday." 
 
 Each mention of her name sent lan's blood 
 Careering through his frame, and burn'd his 
 
 cheek. 
 For he was feeble yet, and barely strove. 
 E'en before Mairi, to control his looks.
 
 110 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 That evening Mairi ask'd him quietly, 
 If he had any knowledge that he dream'd 
 Much in his feverish sleeps, and talk'd aloud. 
 
 He started, flushed, then ask'd, " What did I 
 say; 
 Was it coherent, did they understand ? " 
 " Not much," replied his sister ; " but a name 
 Occurr'd so often, that it told me most. 
 Ian, you love Euphemia ? " " Ay, God help 
 
 me, ay, 
 I do ;" and hiding all his face within his arms, 
 Stretch'd out upon the table where he sat. 
 In utter weakness, Ian sobb'd aloud ! 
 
 " Poor boy, poor darling, I have guess'd it long 
 On Phemie^s part, but hardly thought on yours 
 That it was more than boyish idleness. 
 And — " Here she stojoped surprised, for Ian 
 
 raised. 
 In sudden haste, his pale and tear-stain'd face. 
 With an expression undefinable. 
 Exclaiming, " On her part?" "Yes, dear, on 
 
 hers," 
 Said Mairi, wondering; '^but she does not think 
 
 I
 
 EUPHEMIA. Ill 
 
 Her love betrayed itself ; nor shall she know. 
 
 Poor girl, how plainly I can read her heart. 
 
 'Twas but at times that she, unconsciously. 
 
 Showed such deep interest, when I talk'd of you. 
 
 Or changed the subject hastily, and blushed ; 
 
 And other little signs that, through my love 
 
 For her and you, I easily construed. 
 
 But, oh ! I fear'd (forgive me, brother mine) 
 
 That you had acted cruelly, as men 
 
 Are often wont to do (cold-hearted fiends, 
 
 I hate their trait'rous sex !) , and taught the girl 
 
 To love you, for amusement^s sake alone. 
 
 ''But once, especially, in troubled hour 
 Of feverish sleep, I heard you speak her name 
 So tenderly, with broken words of love. 
 That I have watch'd since, and perceived in you 
 The signs I saw in her. I^m glad of it ! " 
 
 " Glad of it, Main ! '' Ian said. " Oh, could 
 You only know the grief it has caused me." 
 And then he told her all — his mother's words. 
 His promise, wakening him to thorough sense 
 Of how he loved, his lonely wretchedness. 
 Without the knowledge even that his love
 
 112 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Had a return. " But now/' he added, "jou 
 Have given me comfort, courage, hopefulness ; 
 That promise, that I had no right to make. 
 Must be recalFd, and Phemie shall be mine ! " 
 
 Mairi caress' d and spoke him soothingly : 
 " You're weak yet, brother, try and rest a bit. 
 Lest this excitement throw you back again ; 
 Await we what evolves ! " And so she went. 
 And left him to his thoughts. She dreaded most 
 Her father in the matter, for the chief 
 Had two great hobbies, which he never spared. 
 On matters matrimonial ; one, the union 
 Of blood relations, stoutly he contemned ; 
 E'en second cousinhood was out the pale, 
 With him, of bearable degrees ; he said 
 All families should struggle to increase 
 Connection, blood was blood, and ties once made 
 Needed no strengthening till the third degree. 
 And only then, if spirits uncontroll'd — 
 O'erpass'd their pride, and forced it so to be ! 
 
 But, as for brethren's children joining hands 
 In Hymen, .... by the family was told 
 With bated breath, the fact that some years past
 
 EUPEEMIA. 113 
 
 A niece and nephew, favourites until then. 
 
 Meeting beneath his roof, had loved and wed : 
 
 And since that day, their names from out his lips 
 
 Had never slipp'd, nor dared his children speak 
 
 Of either culprit in his presence. If 
 
 He had a voice in Parliament, he^d brino-. 
 
 He often swore, a bill t' illegalize 
 
 Future first-cousin marriages. They wasted time 
 
 O'er deceased-wife's sisters, when a fact 
 
 So much more crying, so against the health 
 
 And weal of future beings, pass'd unremedied ! 
 
 His other hobby, ridden quite as hard 
 Was what his daughter dreaded in this case. 
 ^' 'No one should marry higher than his state, 
 No one should marry lower than his birth ! " 
 
 What he deem'd higher than his state, none knew, 
 Unless 't might be a reigning Prince, of blood 
 No meaner than the Stuarts, for he held 
 The eagle-plume worn for eight hundred years, 
 A grander head-gear than the strawberry leaves 
 Of modern dukedoms built within the last 
 Two centuries. He often would misquote 
 The famous words of Burns, triumphantly, 
 
 I
 
 114 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 '' The rank is but the sovereign's stamp. 
 The hlood 's the gold, for a' that ! " ^ 
 
 To marry lower than one's birth, he said 
 Was simply handing down a deathless shame 
 To unborn generations, ne^er a man 
 Who represented an old family, or bore 
 An ancient name, held either for himself. 
 But merely stood in trust for those that should 
 Succeed him ; so his special duty lay 
 In keeping them as pure as pure could be. 
 
 Therefore did Mairi fear paternal wi-ath 
 Would fall on Ian, when their father knew 
 How evilly astray his heart had gone. 
 Thus she determined not to say a word 
 To either parent, but to bide her day. 
 And see what Time and Providence would bring. 
 
 Mairi, within herself, unconsciously 
 Perhaps, and through her inexperience. 
 Was just a shade, a revolutionist. 
 
 ^ " The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
 The man 's the gold — for a' that." 
 
 Burns.
 
 EUPEEMIA. 115 
 
 Her sense of justice led her to condemn 
 Many accepted customs, ways and facts. 
 And like some older, wiser than hers3lf, 
 Wish'd to condense within the years she^d ken 
 The change and work of centuries. She saw 
 No reason why a marriage should not be 
 'Twixt Phemie and her brother. "Before God 
 They^re equal, let the world scoff as it pleased. 
 Love levelled all; she^d make as good a wife. 
 In wife's true sense, as any high-born dame : 
 A perfect gentlewoman she, in mind and ways. 
 And then," thought Mairi, with a woman's twist 
 And contrariety in argument, " his blood 
 Is blue enough, the world may surely know. 
 To qualify deficiencies in hers !" 
 
 Of course he needs must work ! and then a qualm 
 Came o'er her, as she thought of lan's mode 
 Of life heretofore, and if the bands of love 
 Would bind him strongly to more useful ways 
 For any length of time. But she had faith 
 In Phemie's influence, and so she plann'd and built 
 Air-castles, or air-cottages, where she 
 Should often stay, and help to train the minds
 
 116 EU PEE MIA. 
 
 Of lan^s cliildren, teach them how to fish. 
 To read books out their depth, to catch and mount 
 The half- wild ponies ; row and steer, and swim, 
 And all the varied learnings that she knew. 
 Until her dreamings seemed realities. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 The Gaeden. 
 
 EATH the September sun, bright'ning 
 
 away to its dying, 
 Bloom'd the fair garden at zenith of 
 colour and glory ; 
 Each separate blossom, forth-giving her sweet- 
 est perfume 
 Or gayest hue, as a grateful good-night to the 
 
 sunbeams. 
 Lay in the borders and beds, or stood upright 
 and stately, 
 MassM in confusion symmetrical, artfully wild.
 
 EUPEEMIA. 117 
 
 There, fairy ribbons, enlacing in blue, brown and 
 
 orange, 
 Parterres of silver, with jewels of every colour. 
 
 Asters, verbenas, geraniums, daisies, in crowds 
 Dotting their surfaces ; edged the sea-shell 
 
 cover'd pathways ; 
 While standard roses, up-rising from mignonette 
 
 carpets. 
 Breathed their enchanting scents through the 
 
 calm evening air. 
 Seem'd as the ground sought to vie with the hues 
 
 of the sunset, 
 Gold, primrose, crimson, the clouds that spread 
 
 West o'er the azure. 
 Glory below on the earth, and above, in the sky. 
 Yet the chief pride of the garden, its prominent 
 
 splendour. 
 Was a rose-hedge that ran through it, from east 
 
 end to west end ; 
 Gemm'd with magnificent flowers, the whole 
 
 autumn through. 
 Cream, flesh, and salraon-hued, shading through 
 
 bufi", pink and orange,
 
 118 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Hanging great heads, gleaming brightly through 
 
 dark glossy foliage. 
 Half opened buds — vying worthily with the 
 
 full blooms. 
 Queen of the Roses ! when Fame gives thy glory 
 
 to Dijon, 
 Tell her, no niggard art thou of the wealth of thy 
 
 beauty. 
 Blowing for plains of fair France, and for vales 
 
 of the North. 
 Speak of the far Highland strath, where the eyes 
 
 of adorers 
 Feast on thy glories from June into dying Oc- 
 tober ; 
 Where the red Rowan breathes love-sighs for 
 
 thee o'er the wall, 
 And the sweet Heather, for thee — by her lover 
 
 abandoned 
 Peeps through the garden-gate shyly, and 
 
 whispers the wild-bee, 
 (Still to her faithful), ^^The Rowan's in love 
 
 with the Rose."
 
 EUPEEMIA. 119 
 
 The second day that Ian ventured out 
 To test his new-gain'd strength by exercise. 
 He turned into the garden by himself — 
 And slowly paced beside the long rose-hedge. 
 Then, passing up a side walk, where a wall 
 Of dead beech-branches offer'd clino^ing: hold 
 To flowery clustering masses of sweet-peas. 
 Stretching far o'er his head, he 'gan to pluck 
 A bunch for Mairi ; purple, rose and white : 
 When suddenly, a woman's voice in song 
 Stirring the silence, broke upon his ear ; 
 He glanced athwart the sprays of leaves, and saw 
 Euphemia gathering roses, on the hedge ! 
 
 Wildly his heart beat, and his hand so shook 
 That all the gather'd flowers strew'd the ground, 
 And with the other hand he clutch'd a bough 
 To steady him, crushing regardlessly 
 The fairest sweet white blossoms twining there. 
 Like some base soul (not soul ! are souls not pure, 
 The immortal, Godlike, spirit-part in us ? 
 For some do hold that utter wickedness, 
 Forfeiting soul — is merged in nullity, 
 And nullity hath never part in God,
 
 120 • EUPHEMIA. 
 
 And where God is — can never be all base^ 
 So where all baseness lies can be no soul ;) 
 Like some base creature then — who in his haste. 
 And dreading lest a new desire should slip 
 Through some discovered ancient memory 
 From out his grasp ; with ruthless hand does crush, 
 And earthward throw the blossoms of the past. 
 Once-treasured friendships, recollections, loves. 
 In view of what his eye and fancy craves. 
 (Not Ian this ! the mere similitude 
 Occurs in recollecting what has been.) 
 
 Euphemia sang" a weird pathetic song 
 In broken snatches, low- voiced, but so clear 
 That every word was heard where Ian stood : 
 ^Twas an old Scottish ballad — and ran thus. 
 
 Phemie's Song. 
 
 '' My love is dead to me — she wept and cried 
 With twisted hands enwrapped in sad white hair, 
 
 Despairinglie, despairinglie. 
 But yet ane hour — and I had been a bride.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 121 
 
 The red red blood that stains my bridal gear 
 Is all the stream that pour'd from out his' heart, 
 
 TJnquenchedlie, unquenchedlie, 
 They pierced his true heart through, with cruel 
 spear. 
 
 A year has pass'd, and I have wander'd syne 
 With winter snows upon my brown, brown hair. 
 
 Unceasing-lie, unceasinglie. 
 My love — my lad — my love that ne'er was mine. 
 
 Oh ! Love, why yieldst thou such a throbbing 
 
 throe ? 
 Because the Lord Christ suflfer'd not thy pains ? 
 
 Unsanctified, unsanctified. 
 By His enduring, oh ! thou weary woe ! 
 
 Oh ! lay me on the moss, and let me die ! 
 This stounding heart will silence presentlie. 
 
 All deathfullie, all deathfullie. 
 Then shroud me, coffin me, and put me bye."
 
 122 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 As the last notes sigh'd on the scented air, 
 Phemie, her hands brimmed o'er with roses, left 
 
 the hedge 
 And moved out on the walk — as if in doubt 
 Of where she next would go. Then Ian left 
 His shelter, and advanced to where she stood. 
 Framing some praises of the heavenly e'en. 
 How beautiful she look'd, the rosy light 
 Of parting sun-rays lit her peaceful face 
 And gold-shot head, until she almost shone 
 Out like a haloed saint among the flowers. 
 Holding a rose oblation to her breast : 
 A stake-doom'd martyr bearing flame-born 
 
 blooms. 
 The soft grey dress made fitting harmony 
 To scarlet, yellow, green, that framed her round. 
 And she came on, with quiet step and calm — 
 Emotionless to all appearance, save 
 That colour left her face ; and with a voice 
 So steady, though so low, replied to him ; 
 That, had her lover loved a little less. 
 And look'd more coolly for a hopeful sign 
 From her, — he might have tasted blank despair.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 123 
 
 Meeting embodied Destiny^ where he 
 Had trusted to be met by radiant Hope ! 
 
 " A lovely night, indeed, sir, and I'm glad 
 To see you able to enjoy it, too ! " 
 
 No word that moment could poor Ian speak ; 
 The old familiar intercourse they'd held, — 
 On his side half-admiring patronage, — on hers 
 A friendship all respectful, though at ease. 
 Had vanish'd quite into a long-gone past. 
 
 No Chastelard could shake before the glance 
 Of outraged royalty, as Ian shook 
 Before the soft dream of Euphemia's eyes. 
 He pass'd beside her down the shell-strewn path. 
 And neither spoke, while through Euphemia's 
 
 brain 
 Rush'd with a sickening certainty, the thought 
 That now the moment came when veil'd disguise 
 Must fall from both their minds. 
 
 She knew him well. 
 The maiden ; knew that he was none of those 
 Mean triflers, who to while the time away 
 That hangs all heavy on their empty souls. 
 Raise up fictitious passions in their breasts
 
 124 E UP HE MI A. 
 
 By dint of mucli imagining, and deem 
 The weak sensation (in these modern days 
 Oft by a silly word weakly expressed) 
 That tickles them at moments, licenses 
 The apeing of an honest wooer's ways • 
 Making them dangerous, by so much the more 
 That they can coldly watch their art's effect. 
 And suit their manners to the victim's mind, 
 Unhamper'd by true love's timidity. 
 
 She knew not, innocent ! some men of earth 
 Are moved through that in certain women's eyes. 
 Which wakes the mere extern of animal 
 (Stirring no spirit depths or holy hope) 
 Within them ; had she known, she could not put 
 Such ill construction on her wooer's ways. 
 Because her heart, not she, read him aright. 
 
 She found no other syllable to say. 
 Until at length he ask'd her for a rose ; 
 ''Take one," she answer'd ; for her hands were full. 
 
 He took it, never looking in her face. 
 And twisted it in hot and nerveless hands. 
 But gain'd no courage : till in half despair 
 He tried a word, and choked — and tried again.
 
 E UPHEMIA. 125 
 
 " Pliemiej I heard you singing as you stood 
 Gathering roses, — where got you that song ? " 
 She said, " I learnt it as a little bairn, 
 Of one that came from out the Border land." 
 " A singular idea," he said, and pluck'd 
 The ro§e-leaves out unconsciously ; " that love 
 Should be so hard to thole, because the Lord, 
 Who bore the bitterest pains that earth can yield — 
 Desertion, hunger, pain, fear, treachery — 
 Endured not what seems the worst of all. 
 The sad, parch'd craving of a hungry heart 
 For some responsive movement in the soul 
 Attracting it, with straight resistless force. 
 From all that else might comfort or delight. — 
 Oh ! Phemie, do you know what 'tis to love ? " 
 He added rapidly, not looking up. 
 But twitching the last petals from the rose 
 With sudden fingers. 
 
 Murmui^'d her white lips, 
 Some broken words whose import reached him not, 
 But followed by a sob, while to the earth — 
 Not now supported by her trembling hands 
 And heaving breast, — a shower of roses fell.
 
 126 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 She stoop'd to raise fhem — Ian lost his head, 
 
 Threw English, prudence, fear, alike aside ; 
 
 Caught her uprising figure in his arms, 
 
 And pour'd — in glowing Gaelic words, that sound 
 
 So musical from cultivated lips, — 
 
 A perfect flood of protestations, prayers. 
 
 And all the other forms of frantic speech 
 
 Such moments bring, into the maiden^s ear. 
 
 Though trembling sorely, Phemie never stirr'd 
 The little head that lay upon his breast. 
 But wept thereon in silence. " But one word, 
 One kiss, Euphemia, for you love me too — 
 I know you do — oh speak V 
 
 She answered him 
 Something so low, he scarce was justified 
 In deeming it consentment to that kiss ! 
 Another and another ! When a step. 
 And a loud whistle startled them amain. 
 And Mairi enter' d at the further gate. 
 Just as Euphemia, like a wild bird scared. 
 Fled through the nearest. 
 
 Ian, rooted there 
 Where she had left him, stood, till Mairi came
 
 -EUPEEMIA. 127 
 
 And touched him on the shoulder. " Dreaming, 
 
 boy? 
 You must come home, the evening air is sharp ; 
 You're tired, you look as you had seen a sprite \" 
 " IVe seen an angel, Mairi, and she's mine \" 
 
 PART VIII. 
 
 Wherefoee ? 
 
 ING on, oh laverock ! through the sunlit 
 skies. 
 Bring May into September ! spring, ye 
 flowers 
 Into fresh being ! tinkle on, thou stream ! 
 For Hope is rampant. Love is running wild. 
 With rose-crown'd locks, shouting in boyish glee 
 Through the triumphant sense of assured victory. 
 
 " Glorious day, of a life the fairest. 
 
 Seems that all natm'o is glad with me ;
 
 128 EUPREMIA. 
 
 The wind's soft breath hath a tender meaninor, 
 From every flower a new joy I'm gleaning, 
 There's love in the hum of the passing bee ! 
 
 The svin-rays glancing on rippling river 
 
 Recall the ripple on lint- white hair. 
 Forget-me-nots, in marshy land blowing. 
 Are azure eyes with the love-light glowing. 
 And birds are trilling sweet praise in air. 
 
 Round about, all the world is laughing ; 
 
 The chafiinch chirping on hazel bough. 
 The ousel sporting 'mong alder shadows. 
 And cattle browsing in daisy meadows. 
 
 Know where my footsteps are hurrying now. 
 
 Dreams and hopes in the past lie dying. 
 
 Like harvest seeds sown in early spring ; 
 I find their fruits in my love's fulfilling. 
 For the maid I love to be loved is willino-. 
 For the pledge of a golden spousal ring/' 
 
 If Ian sang not in these measured strains
 
 EUPHEMIA. 129 
 
 The rapture in his breast^ if rhythmic song 
 Burst not from him^ as down the river side 
 He passed in joyaunce on the ensuing morn. 
 It was because the thoughts sped far too fast 
 Through his excited brain, and in those days — 
 Those tame, prosaic days in which he walk'd — 
 The Poet Muse withheld th^ inspiring fire. 
 And forced e^en lovers to express their bliss 
 In language practical, and ruled as far 
 As possible by strictest common sense ! 
 
 Perhaps he thought in Gaelic (for the tongue 
 Was drawn by Ian through his baby-milk. 
 And English to his sisters and himself 
 Was quite a second language. 
 
 Intercourse 
 With Angus and the people, gave him back 
 What he in school times might have chanced to 
 
 lose 
 Of fluency.) The grand and simple speech. 
 Adapted to the moment^s flood of joy. 
 Had then attuned itself to poesy. 
 
 Be't as it may, His sure no blither step. 
 No gayer heart than lan's, passed that day 
 
 K
 
 130 E UPHEMIA. 
 
 Beside a river in the whole wide land. 
 
 He knew Euphemia loved him, ^twas enough. 
 All minor troubles smoothed themselves at once 
 In his exultant mind. The whole long night 
 Had been devoted to the utmost flow 
 Of happy musings. 
 
 Mairi sought him out 
 After her parents both had gone to rest ; 
 Found him still dressed, and dreaming o'er the 
 
 ■ fire. 
 And sat up with him, talking matters o'er. 
 But hardly bringing him to contemplate 
 A difficulty in the future. She, 
 Sanguine almost as he, could scarcely still 
 Some few misgivings ; for they had not told 
 Even their mother what that day occurred. 
 And Ian vow'd he'd fortify himself 
 With further talk to Phemie ere he spoke. 
 
 His sister told him, that at certain hour 
 Of early morning, Phemie always sat 
 And pHed her needle on the river-isle. 
 
 So Ian strode along the grassy brink, 
 Fill'd with delicious visions, till a turn
 
 EUPHEMIA. 131 
 
 Show'd him the island, and a shape he knew 
 Standing, as if expectant, on its soil. 
 
 " My darling, mine ! " he utter'd half aloud, 
 Quickened his pace, and sprang from stone to 
 
 stone. 
 Reaching the spot where she had stood but then. 
 
 Euphemia, when she saw her lover pass 
 The stream, had turned some further steps upland 
 And stood quite still, one little hand out- stretch' cl, 
 Grasping, as for support, the old bent birk, 
 Nor look'd in his direction. Ian rush'd 
 Towards her, with a cry of wild delight. 
 
 She raised the other hand, and with a sign, 
 A gesture of repulsion, waved him back. 
 
 " Euphemia ! what ? ah yes," he said, " I see, 
 I am so rough, incautious ; pardon, dear ! 
 I frighted you, with thoughtless vehemence." 
 And, as he spoke, advanced more quietly. 
 
 Again that sign, " Sir, Mr. Ian, stay ! " 
 The voice was Phemie's, for she moved her lips, 
 But how unlike the gentle music-tone 
 Of yesterday ; how pale and sunk her cheeks. 
 Now that he came to look at her anear.
 
 132 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 How dark the hollows round those shining eyes ! 
 And Ian saw she shook from head to foot^ 
 Propping her form against the trunk^ as if 
 The tree alone kept her from falling. He, 
 Poor lad, stood wonder-struck. " What has 
 
 mischanced ? 
 Oh ! Phemie, speak ; you drive me nearly mad ! " 
 
 The voice, so unlike Phemie's, spoke again : 
 " You took me by surprise, sir, yester-e^en, 
 I did not think to meet you, or I had 
 Placed greater guard upon myself, and then 
 You look'd so ill yet, and I felt such grief 
 To think IM caused you trouble ! Let it be 
 As if our last night's meeting ne'er had been ! " 
 
 " What mean you, Phemie ? " 
 
 " I can hardly tell 
 What I mean now or say, except that I 
 Have acted wrongly, and must right the wrong." 
 
 In accents almost harsh with wondering pain 
 Ian exclaimed — " You speak in riddles, child. 
 Am I to understand " . . " Alas," she cried, 
 " Do but forgive me, for my task is hard. 
 And understand that, when you spoke of love.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 133 
 
 I err'd in listening, err'd in giving you 
 The liberty to treat me as you did ! " 
 
 His face flush'd hot. " You do me cruel wrong, 
 Euphemia, hear me, as I swear, by all 
 That I do most hold sacred, by my name. 
 My Hieland blood, my parents, by my home ! 
 Ay, by your own sweet face, that not a thought 
 Upholding you in less than purest honour, 
 Not a wish regarding you, that angels 
 Throned in Paradise might sigh to know, 
 Has ever reign'd one moment in my breast. 
 
 You know me, lassie, know that I am wild. 
 Idle, and reckless, soil'd with many faults. 
 But still, you'll do me justice in your mind. 
 And own me honest ? 
 
 As my worshipp'd wife 
 You will regret and marvel that you could. 
 But for a moment, doubt my perfect truth. 
 And in the pleasant tenour of our life 
 Learn, through our love, to know me better still. 
 Speak, dear one, are you happy in the thought?" 
 He had approached, and now possessed himself 
 (She non-resisting) of her cold limp hand.
 
 134 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 " Your words are very sweet/' she said at 
 length, 
 " I could not stay their flow, for not again 
 May I delight in them. 
 
 I never laid 
 An ill intent upon your actions, nor 
 Believed you other than an honourable 
 And noble gentleman. And, therefore, sir. 
 My task is harder. Hear and pity me.'' 
 
 She trembled so, that Ian put his arm 
 About her waist. She seem'd to notice nought. 
 But stood with drooping head, proceeding thus, 
 
 " I may seem bold in speaking thus to you, 
 I have no choice, because it must be said. 
 The word that parts us twain for evermore. 
 
 I knew you loved me, long, long, time ago. 
 Perhaps before you kenn'd yourself. At first 
 I hoped it was the fleeting fancy of a boy : 
 After a time, alas ! insensibly 
 The knowledge grew so precious to my soul. 
 That even when my better judgment warn'd 
 Me to pursue the wisest course, and fly, 
 I felt all paralyzed ; besides, I knew
 
 EUPEEMIA. 135 
 
 There was no home to fly unto, for mine 
 Had been your own since I was but a bairn. 
 
 My brother had enough to do to fill 
 The six wee gaping mouths beneath his roof ; 
 I might have found another servant-place 
 Perhaps ; but how could I account to her. 
 Your noble mother, for such conduct ? Then 
 Her kindness reared me in a state so far 
 Superior to my actual station, that I shrank 
 From all the humiliations, knocks, and rubs 
 That I ^mong strangers must perforce endure. 
 I might have found, in time, some good 
 pretext. 
 And hidden away, till months of absence cured 
 The pain in you.^^ 
 
 A bitter mocking laugh 
 Burst here from Ian. " Months of absence, ay. 
 So easy cured — it matters not — go on ! " 
 
 She look'd up pleadingly — '' Oh ! if you knew. 
 What this costs me j you took me unawares 
 Last evening in the garden, ^twas so long 
 Since we had met, you look'd so ill, so changed, 
 That I forgot the line I meant to lead.
 
 136 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 And lost myself, and caused you double pain 
 Avowing feelings that I'd hoped to hide." 
 
 '' You do not love me, Phemie, never love 
 Could teach you thus to speak to me ! " 
 
 '' Not love ! 
 Not love him ! Oh, my God ! if trees and 
 
 flowers. 
 And the wee insects, birds, or silver stream. 
 The witnesses of many long lone hours. 
 Could only speak, and tell him how I love ! 
 How often I have call'd upon his name. 
 And wept to hear my own voice speak it ; how 
 I have sat here at seasons, and day-dreamed 
 What might have been, had things been difierent. 
 Our stations equal, or the world more kind. 
 
 Not love ! Oh, Ian, Ian, 'tis my love 
 That speaks, not I, in what Fm saying now." 
 
 He held her tightly clasp'd against his breast. 
 And all her fortitude at once gave way ; 
 She sobb'd and cried in hopeless agony 
 For some few moments, heedless of caress 
 Or consolations. 
 
 Then she disengaged
 
 EUPHEMIA. 137 
 
 Herself from his embrace, and stood aloof : 
 
 '^ I owe your mother all I am and know. 
 She has been aye to me a gracious friend ; 
 Withheld no kindness, good, or benefit. 
 
 Can I, in common gratitude for this. 
 Steal what alone she would withhold, and take 
 Her dearest child from her ? Your father, too, 
 Your kinsfolk all — you do not realize 
 How painful such a step would be to them/' 
 
 He put in eagerly, " If that is all. 
 My mother loves me far too well to stand 
 'Twixt me and happiness. She can persuade 
 (In time to come, perhaps, but certainly 
 In time) my father to be reconciled 
 Unto our marriage. Mairi feels for you 
 A sister's love already.'' 
 
 " Stay," she said, 
 "Those are your people, now there comes yourself. 
 You, sir, are born of old and noble blood. 
 Of certain present standing in the world, 
 With all the prestige of high lineage. 
 
 I do not doubt, in after years, that you 
 Will tire of idleness, and find that life
 
 138 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Means something more than sport ; 
 
 That other tools 
 Than rod and gun afford amusement, that 
 A wanderer's life is very profitless. 
 And then you'll settle down, and turn your brain 
 And talents (you have plenty) to account ; 
 Perhaps revive the old historic fame, 
 And bring your family once more to front 
 Th' admiring land : a river swelling high 
 In growing might, from out the half-dried course 
 Of this its present, a new thriving branch. 
 With you for its beginning, spreading forth 
 Into the space of time, luxuriant. 
 
 Perhaps yourself to fill some ofiice high 
 In state, work weal to thousands, spread abroad 
 The influence of a high and holy life. 
 
 Should either course be yours, your lot must be 
 Shared by some noble lady, who would make 
 A fitting mother for a noble line, 
 A worthy partner for a foremost place. 
 
 Believe me, sir, you do not see it now. 
 But some day it might strike you sore and hard. 
 For certain things the world will not forgive.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 139 
 
 I'm young, poor, ignorant, but this I ken, 
 A gentleman, who weds a peasant wife. 
 Puts not her only, but himself, and those, 
 Those that come after, in a false, false place. 
 And lays inevitably open to the scoff 
 And sneer of many — all the tenderest spots 
 Beyond his hearth- stone ; lets the cruel world 
 Intrude its finger 'mong the dearest things 
 That make home sacred. 
 
 Ian, let me say 
 And not offend you, that the day might come 
 When, gaird and wounded through your wife — 
 
 myself. 
 In all such things, you'd wish the deed undone 
 And think old pleasure hardly worth fresh pain." 
 
 " And if my choice went after none of these 
 High aspirations ? If I mean to lead 
 No great ambitious life, but seek to earn 
 Enough for our two wants, and live with you, 
 Phemie, a happy loving life, — What say you 
 then ? " 
 
 "This sir, that none shall say (forgive my pride) , 
 I dragg'd a gentleman from high estate
 
 140 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 Down to my humble level — profiting 
 By what they'd name a passing boyish love ! " 
 " Phemie ! you're hard and chill, and love me 
 not!" 
 He broke out passionately — " Here I stand 
 And listen to cold-blooded arguments 
 All tending to one end, you love me not ! 
 Tell it me straight, I'd bear it better so ; 
 This prolonged explanation tortures m.e." 
 And then more gently — " Yes, I see it all, 
 I took you by surprise, and so you spoke 
 Words that repenting you'd unsay, and what 
 I deem'd a sweet confusion — born of love 
 Was nothing but embarassment : is't thus ? 
 You care nought for me, tell me so ! " 
 
 '' Ah me ! " 
 She sigh'd, " if that belief would spare you pain. 
 Believe it, dear." He stamp'd his foot in wrath, 
 " You mock me, Phemie. Oh ! for mercy's sake 
 Tell me you spoke to try me, dearest love ; 
 I cannot bear it ; if you knew my heart 
 You would repent your words, I love you so ! 
 I ask so very little in return :
 
 EUPHEMIA. 141 
 
 I^d wait a whole year, two, or any time 
 With just a future hope. 1^11 learn a trade. 
 Dear Phemie, work as hard as any man 
 Born to the task ; I'll give up friends and home 
 And cross the seas with you, and only ask 
 The guBrdon of your love for my reward. 
 . Or, Phemie, (do not speak) if you have doubts. 
 Some foolish doubts, that you do love me less 
 Than you deem should be, than I love you, dear. 
 Trust me — ere long — to win your heart entire ; 
 m prove me worthy of it — do not fear.'' 
 
 Euphemia laid her hand upon his arm, 
 And raised two swimming eyne to meet his own, 
 
 " Ian — my own dear love — for only once 
 The first and last time I must call him thus ! 
 My own, own, love, I well believe your heart 
 Would bid you now do wonders for my sake. 
 But I have often heard — a wife won — worn 
 Is somewhat different from a sweetheart wooed ; 
 You do not calculate the strong effect 
 Your kinsfolk's anger might have on your mind 
 In after days. You love me now, I feel. 
 But when my youth is gone, and when this face
 
 142 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Has lost the beauty you so oft have praised, 
 With the hard-working life we needs must lead 
 To win even bread, if I should know 
 Myself a drag upon your still fresh years, 
 A bar between yourself and all your kin, 
 The living wrecker of your life, Fd pray 
 For death in every breath that I should draw. 
 
 Ian — farewell — a little patience, dear. 
 And you/' . . . He threw her hand from off his 
 
 sleeve. 
 And stood defiant. " Hah ! you'd tell me, that 
 A little patience — soon would work that cure 
 You spoke of lately ? Woman, do you know 
 What a man's heart is made of, that you throw 
 These insults in my teeth ? " 
 
 His breast heaved up 
 With a big, bursting sob, and then the storm 
 Of pent-up passion found a vent in tears. 
 
 " The coldness of your patience crushes me ; 
 Oh, Phemie, Phemie, how my ruin'd life 
 Will haunt your own in memory, when you know 
 How cruelly you've dealt with me ; you'll find 
 How faithless your unfaith in me has been !
 
 EUPHEMIA. 143 
 
 I'd bid farewell to home and friends for you. 
 Without one backward thought, I said ; but now, 
 Without you, for a wild and hunter's life 
 Vl\ leave them equally. I'll roam the wilds. 
 And strive, among the beasts that I pursue. 
 To hunt remembrance, till the thought is slain 
 That such an hour as this has ever been." 
 He paused, half breathless, and restrain'd 
 himself 
 With effort, and the weeping girl stretch'd out 
 Her close-clasp'd hands towards him. 
 
 " Before God, 
 I love you, Ian ; no unfaith in you. 
 No selfish fear as to my future fate 
 Has ruled my course. But what avails it now 
 To speak more words ? We're parting. 
 Let it be, Ian, in kindness, give me one goodbye, 
 Tell me you understand, or else forgive." 
 
 " I've nothing to forgive ; you love me not, 
 And that you cannot help, I fancy : for this word, 
 'Tis your own choice, Euphemia, /are you well /" 
 
 He moved as if to go, then sudden turn'd, 
 And saw her standing with her arms outspread,
 
 144 EUPEEMIA. 
 
 Head forward bent, strained eyes, and parting lips. 
 That tried in vain, it seemed, to say farewell. 
 
 Another moment, and the memory 
 Of a last passionate embrace, a shower 
 Of mad, hot kisses, and a yearning face. 
 Dark with its misery, ^twixt her and heaven, 
 Was all that told her of that agony. 
 Another moment, and Euphemia lay 
 Inanimate, beneath her favourite tree. 
 
 *«^ ^^ ■J' «t* 
 
 *^ ^* •T* T* 
 
 And still the sun shone brightly as before, 
 And still the laverock caroU^d blithe on high. 
 And still the insects hummed, and sea-birds cried; 
 The distant flocks were noisy on the hill. 
 Creation wore the happy smile of yore : 
 Only the river, changing in its song. 
 Bore a sad burden to the dreamy waves, 
 A chanted requiem, sounding like " Farewell ! " 
 
 As Mairi came along the path that led 
 Down to the river, she stood still to meet 
 Her brother, who strode up with hiuTied steps. 
 And passM her with a hasty, '' No, not now \" 
 Though she had fain detainM him. After him.
 
 EUPHEMIA. 145 
 
 Surprised and frighted, Mairi stared, then sped 
 In search of Phemie, to the river-isle. 
 
 She raised the swooning girl, and soon restored 
 Her consciousness by dousing water, brought 
 From the near river in a hollow' d cap, 
 Over her face and bosom. Slowly rose 
 The heavy eye-lids, and the lifeless eyes 
 Stared vacantly at Mairi. Slowly too 
 Their light return'd ; she said, " Is Ian gone ? " 
 " I met him now ; what have you done ? he 
 
 rush'd 
 Past like a storm, and. never stay'd to speak." 
 
 Euphemia sat up, looked around, and passed 
 Her hand across her eyes, to clear their cloud. 
 
 " Oh, my head's weary, and my heart so hurts 
 I would it could be cut from out my breast. 
 What have I done ? Oh, Mairi, I so pray 
 And trust, my duty ; but it's hard, it's hard. 
 
 I told him that I cannot be his wife ; 
 And he has left me, thinking me so cold. 
 Heartless and cruel. Oh in time perhaps 
 He'll thank me, but will never, never know 
 What this has cost me ! " 
 
 L
 
 146 EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Mairi, until now. 
 Was kneeling by her maid, but at tbese words 
 " I cannot be his wife," sprang on her feet. 
 And restlessly paced to and fro, in sheer 
 Astonishment. 
 
 " Refused him ? When I know 
 How dear you hold him ! " 
 
 " Ay ! " the girl replied. 
 And then she made exertion to repeat. 
 In broken accents, what they both had said ; 
 And how she dreaded that he would not see 
 Her real motive. 
 
 " But even I, dear child," 
 •His sister said, " who know your mind so well. 
 Can scarcely comprehend your action, why 
 You have refused to share my brother's lot ; 
 Unless you fear my parents' anger more 
 Than lan's anguish ? You are lowly born. 
 True, but youVe never lived among your folk, 
 Have shared our home, our education, all ! 
 Your very mode of thought indeed's our own. 
 Your beauty, dear, would set you far above. 
 In very seeming, all our kin can boast !
 
 E TIP HE MI A. 147 
 
 I do not preach rebellion Against the wish 
 Of lan^s parents ; but the boy is dear. 
 Most dear to me, and I do think the weal 
 Of his whole life depends on you alone." 
 
 "Ah ! " Phemie said, " ^tis rarely so with men ; 
 Their lives permit the nursing of a woe 
 Less than our own ; he^ll suffer for a while. 
 And then, his sport or work, his family. 
 Another love, who kens, will fill his life." 
 
 " And yours ? " ask'd Mairi. " Mine is in 
 the hands 
 Of Him Whose guidance I have humbly sought 
 In this day^s work. ^Tis that I truly love 
 Your brother Ian that I will not be 
 A burden on him, that he shall not feel 
 (If his be transient love) in future days 
 Ashamed of what his early choice had been. 
 
 Seems, I remember (how my head stounds) that 
 He spoke some wild words, of a hunter's life 
 Led far from home ; it would not last him long. 
 But Mairi, may be, it were better that 
 You should keep him aside you for a time ; 
 And I'll go elsewhere until he decides
 
 148 EUPREMIA. 
 
 On some profession, for it smites me sore 
 That I have helped, unknowingly, to cause 
 His prolonged idlesse." 
 
 Mairi said she hoped 
 The wild words were but wind, but that her mind 
 Misgave her much ; she only knew too well 
 How Ian had surrendered to this love 
 His entire being. Then she wrapp'd her cloak 
 Around Euphemia, having ascertain'd 
 That she could walk, and led her o'er the stream; 
 Then bade her slip into the house, and rest. 
 Till she herself return'd, upon her bed. The girl 
 Trod home with weary feet ; and Mairi took 
 A long far-stretching walk into the glen. 
 
 In two hours' time she sought the house again 
 And, passing by the stables, casually 
 Enquired, if Ian had been lately seen ? 
 
 " It's nigh two hours. Miss Mairi, since he left. 
 Dan drove him in the dog-cart o'er the hill. 
 He had his luggage with him." 
 
 Nothing more 
 Stay'd she to hear — but sought her mother's room 
 With sickening soul. Her mother only said
 
 EUPHEMIA. 149 
 
 She heard that errant boy had fled again, 
 She knew nought else ! 
 
 But after several days 
 The news came home, that Ian had ta^en ship 
 And sojight the Far West hunting-grounds. 
 
 He bade 
 His mother ask of Main what she would. 
 Bade Mairi dwell but lightly on his grief, 
 And named no early period of return. 
 
 The sunny glows of those September days 
 Pass'd on, and wintry gales blew o'er the shores; 
 The yelloVd leaves swirl'd gamely on the lawn 
 In hurried chase, the dull brown garden beds 
 Lay bared of bloom and fairy colours, all 
 The hills turned dun and grey, and the bright world 
 Was garb'd for winter. 
 
 Winter on some hearts 
 Had fallen too, with ne'er a hope of spring 
 
 Succeeding 
 
 I had a dream : 
 (The teller of this story dream'd a dream,) 
 Or had, belike, a vision, far ahead
 
 loO EUPHEMIA. 
 
 Into the future of those characters 
 
 Whose lives are thinly sketched upon these leaves. 
 
 Oh ! social rules and states, ye have overmuch 
 To answer for, in crooking all the lot 
 Of lives; but trouble is so common, that our 
 
 hearts 
 Have scarcely room to hold all Pity's needs. 
 And few perceive how many things need change. 
 
 Were tales like this one rare, the coldest souls 
 Must send a very fountain to the eyes. 
 And move the mass, perchance, to alter laws. 
 Laws, mortal-made and God-allowed (for why ? 
 For why ? in reverence, not in doubt, I humbly 
 
 ask,) 
 That dim fair hues, jar music to discord. 
 And make a world that might be good and bright 
 A very purgatory of panting souls ! 
 
 But trouble is so common. Scarce an eye 
 Will mark this sketch, whose owner could not 
 
 show 
 In his experience some facts e'en as sad. 
 Some poor souls crusVd by social sloth's, — 
 " Amen !"
 
 EUPHEMIA. 151 
 
 And yet, how can we solve the manifold 
 And vexed questions found on every hand ? 
 The men who rise to rectify the world 
 Make just as slight impression on its time 
 As red-breasts^ footprints on a field of snow. 
 Wealth, poverty, good, evil, states of high and low. 
 Stand much the same to every real intent 
 Now on the earth, as thousand years ago. 
 
 Full often, seeking to eflFect a change. 
 We tell ourselves that pure philanthropy 
 Governs our motives ; when the motive takes 
 Its hidden root in some deep selfishness, 
 And we would make the whole land^s mechanism 
 Suit our peculiar case. 
 
 Examine deep, 
 ye woi'ld-rulers, ere you alter things ; 
 Be truly sure that you forget yourselves. 
 
 No perfect guider of a nation^s life 
 Should, as a man, exist ; but abnegate 
 His very being for the masses^ weal : 
 Not even fame is fair ambition there ; 
 But that were noble, by the common case. 
 Place, pocket, power, ....
 
 152 BUPBEMIA. 
 
 And Patriotism ? where ?^ 
 The profluent reformer, who would take 
 Upon himself to make world-matters fit, 
 Forgets seeing this, he loses sight of that. 
 Another profluent reformer, noticing 
 Th^ omission, makes the latter his domain. 
 And still forgets what this " that" hinges on. 
 A third imagines he's attaint the root 
 Of vast amendments, and instructs the crowd. 
 From out of which some untuned voice upsprings 
 Proving him blind as those that went before. 
 
 And forty thousand profluent reformers 
 Thus only leave a chaos doubly fused. 
 Endeavouring by the inadequate illume 
 Of earthly reason to blend earthly things. 
 
 These all appear as if a band of men 
 Essay'd to join their varied styles of art. 
 And paint a mighty picture, say, a fight ! 
 One paints the victors, one the horses, one 
 The chariots, while another limns the arms 
 Of wild combatants, and a fourth conceives 
 
 1 Written in 1873.
 
 E UP HE 21 1 A. 153 
 
 His hand t' excel in sketching out the forms 
 
 Of dying and of dead ; another takes 
 
 Part in the landscape, and so on, until, 
 
 Close to the picture, the beholder says, — 
 
 " This .detail's good, that well- conceived,'' but 
 
 when 
 He stands out at a distance to embrace 
 The subject as a whole, finds the effect 
 Is marr'd by total want of unity. 
 
 We must be patient, brother men, and trust 
 That om- dim vision shall one day see clear : 
 The world goes on quite fast enough alone. 
 Why should we seek to speed it to its end ? 
 Why should we force the wisdom of poor time 
 To cope with questions of eternity ? 
 
 Cease struggling to fit matters to our eyes. 
 And feel that what we cannot understand. 
 In questions social, as religious, shall 
 Be clear'd up later. Our own interest lies 
 Less in the scheme of our three score and ten 
 And other seventies that follow on. 
 Than in that vaster scheme of unseen life 
 That follows after. Pray we up to that.
 
 154 EUPBEMIA. 
 
 And for the rest^ thougli striving to fulfil 
 His will in all, bide patiently God's time. 
 
 I saw the hunter scouring all the wilds 
 Of those vast western plains, where roam afar 
 The countless herds, untamed and masterless, 
 Of horned thousands. These his chosen prey, 
 Seemed as if here alone he found a rest, 
 A peaceless rest, pursuing or pursued : 
 Oblivion from the gnawing throbbing pain. 
 The sense of deep injustice to his love. 
 And unbelief in hers and her, that wore 
 His very heart. Except a chosen few 
 Occasional companions of his sport. 
 Men, brave and tameless as the game they sought. 
 He shunn'd his kind, and lived the hunter's life 
 For many unmark'd cycles of the years 
 Wherein my vision fail'd. 
 
 I saw again, a surging swarthy mass 
 With myriad thunders on the deaden'd plain ; 
 A sea of tossing horns, ferocious eyes 
 Beneath the shaggy brows, with lurid glare 
 Out-peering. Charging on, uncountable,
 
 EUPHEMIA. 155 
 
 Until my gaze them lost, amid the cloud 
 
 Of dust, and steam from blood-red nostrils sped. 
 
 They pass, and staggers madly fi-om their trodden 
 
 track 
 A wounded horse, death-struck and riderless. 
 With lagging limbs that scarce can follow on 
 The frantic hurry that would bid them speed. 
 
 And nothing more ? 
 Or only this ! — A lonely prairie grave, 
 A few heap'd stones, by rude though kindly hands, 
 A letter home, a weary time of tears ? 
 
 And what for him, beyond the prairie grave ? 
 A clearer vision into what had been ? 
 A fairer hope for times that were to come ? 
 A real rest, a perfect peace, a love 
 That swallow'd memory ? 
 
 God only knows ! 
 I saw Euphemia, with an angel face. 
 And snow-white wings (that I alone could see) , 
 Leading an angel's life, until the time 
 Should come to her, when, severing the slight bond 
 That bound her soaring spirit to this earth
 
 156 EUPBEMIA. 
 
 The tand of God should take her to Himself. 
 I saw her working in her brother's home, 
 Replacing their dead mother to his babes, 
 And by her very presence shedding light 
 And tranquil happiness around his hearth. 
 One memory, not wholly pain, that filFd her breast 
 Made her look forward to this world's farewell ; 
 And she and Mairi, fast as ever friends. 
 Spoke often yet of life beyond the tomb, 
 Of unknown worlds where their beloved now 
 
 wonn'd,^ 
 Of justice, and of mercy. 
 
 And God's love ! 
 
 ^ Wonn'd, lived.
 
 IX RHYTHM AND RHYME.
 
 THE WATER KELPIE. 
 
 H ! but he was a bonnie black horse 
 That stood in the market-place, 
 An^ he was as black as black can be, 
 Wi^ a deep-red licht that glanced in 
 his ee' 
 In the pride of his glorious race. 
 
 And great his voice, that bonnie black horse, 
 
 Like the sound of a waterfall. 
 When he lifted up his head and neighed 
 The folk in the town were a' afi-aid, 
 
 As it pierced through bower and hall. 
 
 There stood a man, by the bonnie black horse, 
 And held him wi^ a rein :
 
 160 THE WATER KELPIE. 
 
 And he was as swart as the autumn sloe, 
 And dressed in red from top to toe. 
 And the people gazed amain. 
 
 There came that day, to the bonnie black horse, 
 
 A-riding through the town. 
 With a following rare of young and old, 
 And all his soldiers and esquires bold, 
 
 A knio'ht of dark renown. 
 
 o 
 
 Who, when he spied the Bonnie black horse, 
 
 Speer'd nought, but call'd for gold. 
 And into the hand of the groom who stood 
 By the beast, in the dress that seemM dyed in blood, 
 A heavy sum he told.^' 
 
 They led him away, the bonnie black horse. 
 
 And tied him in a stall. 
 And the stranger groom he said, wi' a laugh, 
 " Give him water, as much as he likes to quaff, 
 
 An^ ye^ll please him best of all.^' 
 
 They cared for him weel, that bonnie black horse, 
 And gave him of food the best.
 
 THE WATER KELPIE. 161 
 
 But he snorted wi' glee when they brought him 
 
 his pail. 
 And splash'd himseP o'er from the head to the tail 
 With a never-failing zest. 
 
 When they pass'd the ford with the bonnie black 
 horse 
 
 They scarce could get him over. 
 For he'd turn himself in the stream about. 
 And roll and splash like a salmon or trout. 
 
 And his flanks with water cover. 
 
 There came a day, when the bonnie black horse 
 
 Was ta'en forth out his stable, 
 " Sure never a master had such a steed \" 
 Quoth the knight ; " now bear me in this my need 
 
 As fast as thou art able ! " 
 
 He bore him well, that bonnie black horse, 
 
 All through the live-long day, 
 He carried him swift as the winter wind. 
 And the foes were left far, far behind. 
 
 As they sped along their way. 
 
 M
 
 162 THE WATEB KELPIE. 
 
 But still must lie speed, the bonnie black horse. 
 
 Though the sky was over- cast — 
 With the storm-clouds lowerin' more and more. 
 And they near'd the sound of a torrent^s roar 
 
 As the e'en was closing fast. 
 
 " Oh ! why do ye champ, my bonnie black horse. 
 
 And pull so at your rein ? 
 And why do ye fret yourself white wi' foam. 
 When every step bears ye further from home 
 
 And ye never may see it again !" 
 
 But he fretted and pulled, the bonnie black horse. 
 
 And tossM his shapely head. 
 And flung to the gale his rippling mane. 
 And the knight he spoke and caress'd in vain. 
 
 As well might he call to the dead. 
 And the sound of the water grew near, more near. 
 And the voice of the wind was drear, more drear, 
 '' Can this that I feel be fear, be fear ? 
 
 And whence doth it spring ?" he said. 
 When they came in sight o' the torrent's course 
 No mortal hand could hold that horse.
 
 THE WATER KELPIE. 163 
 
 For lie seem'd possessed vn' a demon force, 
 
 And plunged in the watery bed. 
 The drumlie waters they boil and rave — 
 How meets the gay knight such an awsoine grave 
 As swirl and eddy and wave on wave 
 
 Pass over his doomed head ? 
 He struggled and turn'd to the bonnie black horse 
 
 To help him in his need ; 
 But it grew so mirk he could scarcely see. 
 And he felt, though he battled right manfullie. 
 
 That death mote be his meed. 
 " Oh ! where are ye, my bonnie black horse ?" 
 
 But answer gat he none. 
 Save a yell that curdled his very blood, 
 And a monster head rose over the flood 
 
 With eyne that fiercely shone. 
 And a deep red cavern yawning wide. 
 With sword-like teeth on ilka side. 
 " Ah me ! the Kelpie Demon," cried 
 The knight, and his strength was gone. 
 
 " I prized ye weel, oh ! bonnie black horse !" 
 He moanM with his latest breath ;
 
 164 THE WATEB KELPIE. 
 
 " And sure a black shame it was and sin 
 To shut a demon that form within, 
 And give me a cruel death." 
 
 And the Water Kelpie laugh'd in his might. 
 And splash'd and gamboll'd the live-long night. 
 Oh ! woe betide the luckless wight 
 
 Who meets him at his play. 
 Oh ! when ye buy a coal-black steed. 
 See that he be not a nameless breed. 
 Else it may be your fearfu^ meed 
 
 To be the Kelpie^s prey.
 
 AFTER THE ^45. 
 
 (Jacobite.) 
 
 ET others sing their Ladye's name 
 With many a term of praise. 
 Or boast of deeds, and warriour fame. 
 In fairest minstrel lays. 
 
 But I will choose a nobler theme 
 As I stand on this southern shore j 
 
 And watch the red sun^s fading beam 
 As Pve watch'd it oft before ; 
 
 And I moan to the sea that rolls so deep 
 
 Between my love and me. 
 And I long to lay me down and sleep 
 
 By Scotland's grassy lea.
 
 166 AFTER THE '45. 
 
 My land ! my love ! 'neath the tyrant's yoke 
 
 Thou'rt bending mournfully. 
 My tortured heart has well-nigh broke. 
 
 As I think of thy misery. 
 
 And oh ! I am sick of the gale that brings 
 The scent of the orange flowers. 
 
 And I weary of hearing the song it sings 
 Through the blossoming myrtle bowers. 
 
 And I pine for the wail of the northern blast. 
 And the odour of sweet heather-bell ; 
 
 Where those stately firs their shadows cast 
 O'er the verdant bracken dell. 
 
 Culloden ! from thy bloody field 
 
 Uprose a wild lament ; 
 Broken was Scotland's spear and shield. 
 
 Her kins' an exile sent. 
 
 -'to 
 
 Her noblest hearts all lying low 
 Bathed in each other's blood ; 
 
 Rank upon rank, before the foe 
 Had fallen as they stood.
 
 AFTER TEE '45. 167 
 
 Ah me ! I live, who had sought to rest 
 
 ■ 'Neath my country's heathery sod ; 
 
 And flee with her bravest and her best 
 
 To the arms of the Patriot's God. 
 
 Still, I watch the shadows gathering fast 
 
 Across the silent sea ; 
 And I pray that peace may come at last 
 
 To Scotland and to me.
 
 THE BEETLE. 
 
 ING Herod he sate in liis kinglye 
 state. 
 And a cruel vow voVd lie. 
 By his royal throne, spite of Judah'3 
 moan. 
 Not a boy-babe spared mote be. 
 
 A Jewish peasant sow'd one morn 
 
 His grain, broadcast and free. 
 And he stood to spy — for there passed him by 
 
 A humble familie. 
 
 An ass, by a man of elder years 
 
 Led well and carefullie. 
 And a maiden mild, with a little Child 
 
 A-seated on her knee.
 
 THE BEETLE. 169 
 
 " If soldiers ask/^ tlie stranger said, 
 
 " Did there pass a familie ? " 
 Ye shall say, " They pass'd when this corn was 
 cast 
 
 In seed o'er land and lea ! " 
 
 The peasant rose with the early dawn 
 
 And a wondrous sight saw he. 
 For the corn he had sown, in the night was grown 
 
 As ripe as ripe could be. 
 
 There went a band of armed men 
 
 As he gazed right wondringlie. 
 To slaughter red that band was led. 
 
 By centurion of high degree. 
 
 " Oh ! tell me true, thou peasant man. 
 
 And tell me true," quoth he, 
 " If there pass'd this way, about yesterday, 
 
 A little familie ? " 
 
 " Oh ! soldier bold,'' the peasant said, 
 (All a-quakinge answer'd he,)
 
 170 THE BEETLE. 
 
 When the corn was sowinge, that ye see growinge, 
 There pass'd a familie. 
 
 '' An ass, that a man of elder years 
 
 Led sure and carefullie. 
 And a maiden mild, with a little Child, 
 
 And His face — it haunteth me ! 
 
 " For there was a light in His baby-smile 
 
 I never before did see ; 
 And there shone a glow around His brow 
 
 That dazzled my eyne ! " said he. 
 
 " Enough, enough ! " the centurion cried, 
 
 (And he laughed out heartilie,) 
 " This dreamer's tale can nought avail 
 
 To the purpose that here seek we." 
 
 Then wild away on their forward road 
 
 Went the soldiers speedilie. 
 When out on their track crept a beetle, black 
 
 As the spot from whence came he !
 
 THE BEETLE. 171 
 
 And high he raised his sooty head 
 
 And screamed in fiendish glee, 
 " It was yesterday that they went this way. 
 
 The man he deceiveth thee ! " 
 
 But a passing angel waved his wing, 
 And blew back the words o'er the lea, 
 
 And they thought they heard the chirp of a bird 
 A- sitting on neighbouring tree. 
 
 They passed on their quest, but they found them 
 not. 
 
 That holy familie. 
 And the Virgin mild and her Blessed Child 
 
 To Egypt safe did flee. 
 
 Oh ! beetle, black beetle, a cursed fame 
 On thy race was brought by thee ; 
 
 And the people tell that he comes from hell 
 Whenever a beetle they see !
 
 A WATER-LILY. 
 
 OW sad a ruin^ once fair lily-flower, 
 Art thouj the fleeting treasure of an 
 hour : 
 CulFd from the placid bosom of a lake, 
 Where scarce a whispering zephyr dared to shake 
 Thy virgin form with tender amorous sighs, 
 Gazing thou sat'st all wistful at the skies. 
 As if the looks of aught so fair and pure 
 No earth^s attractions might from heaven allure. 
 Thou from thy liquid couch wert rudely torn 
 To please my fancy, for one evening worn ; 
 Then toss'd aside, when, on some passing whim, 
 I placed thy bloom, now scentless, crushed and 
 
 dim 
 Into a book that scarce e'er saw the light.
 
 A WATEB-LILY. 173 
 
 Witli musings philosophically trite 
 
 On the sad fate that thou with others sharest. 
 
 The sure decay and death of all earth^s fairest. 
 
 But yesterday I turn'd the volume o'er 
 And found thy corpse, charming mine eyes no 
 
 more; 
 Almost had left the ruin lying there 
 With thoughts like Swift's, " Only a woman's 
 
 hair ; " 
 When, 'mong the pages I espied by chance 
 Some verses that had 'scaped my careless 
 
 glance, 
 Written by one, on whom thy beauty's spell 
 As on my soul, with tender influence fell ; 
 More able he — than I — to sing thy praise. 
 So, penn'd the tribute lying 'fore my gaze. 
 And then I smiled, and hail'd the omen sweet 
 Senses and heart that seem'd alike to greet. 
 I thought the blacken'd wreck that 'fore me lay 
 Show'd a dead shape of wasting mortal clay, 
 Its beauty gone, and dust to dust returning ; 
 A fate that waiteth all, nor needeth learning. 
 From the dead flower, with feelings half of pain.
 
 174 A WATEB-LTLY. 
 
 I turn'd^ and read the living verse again ; 
 And as its lauding numbers touched my sense 
 A second meaning emanated thence. 
 And almost whisperM me : 
 
 " The spirit-part am I 
 Of that earth's child, that seem'd born but to die, 
 As, when some beauteous life hath pass'd away. 
 The soul shall rise from trammels of decay. 
 Fair to abide, when memory hath jflown 
 From hearts and havens erewhile deem'd her own, 
 Thus, though the lily's grace is lost to thee. 
 Yet, lady, lives its spirit still in me ! 
 So rule thy living, pure as erst yon bloom. 
 That, when the terror-king proclaims thy doom. 
 Though, like the lily, outer form must die. 
 The spirit's inner grace shall live for aye."
 
 OSCAR. 
 
 N Sphinx-like attitude recumbent. 
 With amber eye-dcepa gleaming lam- 
 bent, 
 Bared teeth, in grinning welcome 
 shining 
 'Neath a black muzzle's crimson lining ; 
 
 The thud of pleased tail, that, beating 
 On velvet carpet, gives me greeting. 
 And satin ears in prick'd attention, 
 Mark mental heed and apprehension ; 
 
 Oh ! say, is this the life of pleasure 
 For thee, that grisly form to measure
 
 176 OSGAB. 
 
 Within a stately " drawing-room/' 
 On brilliant piles from Persia's loom ? 
 
 Or, cross the smiling meadows racing, 
 In vain pursuit the red hares chasing. 
 Or watching patiently for hours 
 Some burrow, where the rabbit cowers. 
 
 Hath thy dog-instinct ever taught thee 
 
 To miss the land from whence I brought thee ? 
 
 Or hast thou drunk of canine Lethe, 
 
 Nor cravest for the mountain heathy. 
 
 The craggy vale, and snow-swelFd river. 
 
 The corrie where the dun deer fought thee 
 
 At valiant bay ? thy nostrils quiver 
 
 No more, the ocean gales inhaling. 
 
 Thy ears no longer mark its wailing. 
 
 Doth the fair English landscape, swelling 
 
 To hazy uplands, whence forth- welling 
 
 Flow stilly streams, through the changeless 
 
 greenery 
 Of yon rich southern pastoral scenery —
 
 OSCAR. 177 
 
 Weary tliy siglit^ and wake desires 
 
 To burn thy breast with quenchless fires ? 
 
 Ah ! no, thou soulless beauty, never 
 The land that thou hast lost for ever 
 Shall sweep across thy memory's dream, 
 To pain thee with its by-gone glory ; 
 The past betrays to thee no gleam. 
 To thee the North can lend no story. 
 
 On velvet rug to lay thy head 
 Is softer than a bracken bed. 
 The full-heap'd platter lying there 
 A daintier. meal than kennel fare. 
 
 Safely, the forest king may lead 
 His hinds in greenest glens to feed 
 Unfearing ; for thy voice now thrills 
 No longer the eternal hills. 
 Nay, basking in the English sun, 
 Thou liest, as if life's task was done. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 On thy content in admiration 
 I look, half envying the sensation. 
 
 N
 
 ELSPETH, 
 
 Y the brink of the bounding river. 
 
 On the shore of the shimmering 
 
 seas, 
 I call on my Elspeth ever. 
 
 And nothing replies but the breeze. 
 With the roar and the rush of the water, 
 
 And the wash of the whelming waves, 
 Came that pibroch wail as they brought her 
 
 To lie with her dead in their graves. 
 Adown the snow-garb'd mountain 
 
 Pass'd my darling slowly by. 
 To the skirl of the shrilly death-strain ; 
 
 Feet first, and shoulder high. 
 For miles and miles that morning 
 
 Through the drifts and the blinding storm,
 
 ELSPETH. 179 
 
 Despite the wild winds' warning-, 
 
 They bore the coffin'd form 
 Of Elspeth, mj bride long-plighted. 
 
 To her tomb by the moaning sea, 
 A bride to death united, 
 
 But sever'd, but severed from me. 
 They told, on the hilFs high shoulder 
 
 How the gale tore off the pall. 
 And how, 'mid drift and boulder 
 
 They had let the cofEn fall. — 
 Thrice, 'gainst the tempest fighting, 
 
 The bearers' feet did fail. 
 And the rough deals disuniting 
 
 Had burst at seam and nail. 
 They had striven with twine to bind them 
 
 But some planks had fallen away 
 Where the searchers could not find them, 
 Nor dared linger, for the day 
 Was waning, so when aweary 
 
 And late they reach'd the shore. 
 It chanced the face of my dearie 
 
 Greeted my eyes once more.
 
 180 EL 8 PETE. 
 
 Oh ! wide the dark hair floated 
 
 From her tumbled burial gear, 
 As if the tempest gloated 
 
 On the raven masses there. 
 And, as seeking her eyne to cozen 
 
 From their deep and wakeless rest. 
 He had scatter'd rain-drops frozen 
 
 On her eye-lids and brow and breast. 
 " Struggle no more, oh ! Spirit 
 
 Of storms, to withhold his prey 
 From the tomb, for he must inherit 
 
 His kindred dust and clay. 
 If my great love could not hold her, 
 
 Deem ye your passion and power 
 Is stronger to clasp and enfold her, 
 
 Cheating Death and the grave of their hour ? 
 Oh peace \" And the Spirit hearken'd, 
 
 And hush'd o'er the ocean's breast. 
 And as the even darkened 
 
 We laid her to her rest ; 
 Uncoffin'd and all shrouded 
 
 With the clinging cerements round,
 
 ELS PETE. 
 
 181 
 
 And the face witli the black locks clouded 
 Like the corpse of a maiden drown'd. 
 
 And I laid my heart for her pillow, 
 And I cried a parting* prayer 
 
 That the wind and the ocean^s billow 
 Should chant me her Eequiem there.
 
 AMOR VINCIT OMNES. 
 
 " Ich habe genossen das irdiscbe Gliick, 
 Ich habe gelebt und geliebet." — Schiller. 
 
 EACH me thy love^ for this unresting 
 
 heart 
 Claimed heretofore exemption from 
 
 the dart 
 
 Of Eros ; sailing on untroubled sea^ 
 Love seemed a far-off dream^ a phantasy. 
 Now peace is o^er, my dream of rest is o^er. 
 Weary my soul, weary my heart and sore ; 
 Speak but a word, and let me know thee mine — 
 Till thou dost speak, I'll not vouchsafe a sign ! 
 Teach me love's arts ; a maid unlearn'd am I, 
 Teach me to look, teach me to droop, to sigh ; 
 Deep in my breast thine every word I treasure.
 
 AM OB V IN GIT OMNES. 183 
 
 Dream on eacli glance, and hardly seek to measure 
 If that thy love is deep and true as this 
 Burning within me, my life's woe or bliss. 
 
 King of my hope, I do not mean to doubt 
 Thee or thy troth; though yet in words un- 
 
 plighted ! 
 Hath not thy dark eye's earnestness declared. 
 Seeking my glance, that drops almost affrighted, 
 More than I once could wish ; but famish'd now 
 All for thy love, ray proud hard soul can bow 
 Humbly to wish for words, to make me sure 
 That thou art mine beyond all earth's allure.
 
 THE LOVERS' CAIRN. 
 
 (at GLENFERNESS on FINDHORN, MORAYSHIRE, N. B.) 
 
 HY couldna the corbie o' dark Den- 
 mark 
 Bide at hame in's nest o'er the wide, 
 wide sea ? 
 He needs must harry the fairest land 
 That ever was kenn'd in historie. 
 
 Alack ! she was the bonniest maid. 
 That daughter of Moray's Chief and Lord ; 
 Alack ! he was the bonniest lad 
 That ever in Danesland drew a sword. 
 
 Where'er there stood corn, or men, or toun. 
 The Danes they harry, and kill, and burn ;
 
 THE LOVEBS' CAIBN. 185 
 
 But when \h.e luck it left their side. 
 The Moray men gied them a like return. 
 
 A dungeon mirk on Loch-in-Dorbh 
 Held fast the Sea King's youngest son. 
 And there, through pity's gentle power. 
 The young Malvina's love he won. 
 
 " Oh ! where is there a bonnie page 
 ■ Will loot us out the castel wa' ? 
 An' where '11 I find a trusty boat 
 To carry me, my love, and a' ?" 
 
 " Oh ! weel ken I a secret way ! 
 
 An' I can find a trusty boat. 
 
 Wherein ye twa, and the bonnio grey horse. 
 
 To yonder side can safely float." 
 
 The sea-men were for peace, for peace, 
 
 The Moray loons were not for war ; 
 
 Said the Chiefs, " We'll marry our bairns together. 
 
 An' bum, and harry, and kill no more."
 
 186 THE LOVEBS' CAIRN. 
 
 '' Go bring to me mj daughter fair. 
 An' fetch me out young Fergus here, 
 An' ca' the priest to marry them fast, 
 Wi' feasts, and dances, and all good cheer." 
 
 Then loud out spak the bonnie page 
 (An' he leuch) , " The corbie's ta'en the doo ; 
 They went in a boat, wi' the fine grey horse, 
 An' they are far awa' e'en noo' 
 
 ,' " 
 
 " To boat ! to horse !" cried Moray's Lord ; 
 " We'll take them ere they reach the sea !" 
 " To boat !" and syne " To horse \" he cried; 
 " He'll ride the best who keeps pace wi' me !" 
 
 " Oh ! wherefore do we ride sae fast ? 
 An' whereto are we boun ?" quo' she ; 
 " Oh ! we'll find a ship on the Moray shore. 
 An' ye'll sail for Denmark wi' me !" quo' he. 
 
 They hae stay'd their steed by the Findhorn's 
 
 bank. 
 And lichted doun to rest a while ;
 
 TEE LOVERS' CAIBK. 187 
 
 He lias gi'en her kisses fu' mony and sweet. 
 And she has gi^en him her winsome smile. 
 
 " Oh ! mount and ride, my love/' she said, 
 " For my father comes wi' his henchmen bold !" 
 And they heard the tramp on the far-off muir, 
 And the speat on Findhorn darkly roll'd. 
 
 The horse he fear'd the water's rage. 
 And he started back wi' a snort, and stood ; 
 But the prick o' a dirk it garr'd him spring. 
 And he sank wi' his bvirden in Findhorn's flood ! 
 
 Loud, loud was the water kelpie's roar, 
 And the corbie croak' d his warning vain ; 
 But the river roU'd on to the distant sea. 
 And the gude grey horse was seen never again. 
 
 On Ferness' bank, when the sun was low. 
 Two lovers lay on the cold, wet ground ; 
 His arm was claspit about her waist, 
 And her golden hair wrapp'd his neck around.
 
 188 THE LOVERS' GAIBN. 
 
 " Oh ! wae is me for mj sair, sail* haste. 
 And wae is me for the weird I dree. 
 And wae/' said he, '' for the twa young lives 
 That never again restored can he." 
 
 They buried them down by the water side. 
 They buried the twa in ae deep deep grave. 
 And the maidens shed fu' mony a tear 
 O'er Malvina the fair, and Fergus the brave !
 
 THE SPHINX. 
 
 OD of a byegone age, in calm magni- 
 ficence 
 Guarding the precincts of those de- 
 sert tombsj 
 Lonely he sits ; not time nor hand profane 
 Have reft his stately head of its dread majesty, 
 Nor veiFd the out-look of those solemn eyes 
 That gaze out, over and beyond, the world. 
 
 Can they declare the age is dead that lives in 
 thee ? 
 Oh, Sphinx ! the thousand thousands that have 
 
 here beheld thee 
 Are gone to dust ; the hands that made, that 
 marred,
 
 190 THE SPHINX. ' 
 
 He that adored, and he that scoff'd are gone ; 
 And thou remainest still. 
 
 But thou must die ! 
 Thou whom I most could worship, by whose side 
 I feel a very worm : the day will come 
 When that fierce sun that gilds thee morn and 
 
 eve. 
 The gentle moon that beams with splendour soft 
 Upon thy nightly vigils, shall their last hour see. 
 
 Then thou too. Sphinx, must die ; 
 Must die, when desert sands and earth and sea 
 Shall yield their prey, to live that other life 
 Thou canst not know. 
 
 For what art watching ? When the last sun 
 sheds 
 His dying beam on all that once was fair ; 
 Will He, who bade all watch, bring rest to thee ? 
 
 Emblem of vigilance, the Christian world 
 May take example from thy stedfaat mien. 
 Sleepless at eve, at cock-crowing, at morning 
 Watching and waiting, patient and enduring, 
 As if the Saviour's words were spoke to thee. 
 
 We, who received the promise of His coming.
 
 THE SPHINX. 191 
 
 Who fain would claim the great reward of love 
 And live with Him, when all this earth is not, 
 Are shamed by thee, a stone ! 
 
 Brethren, arise ! 
 And with your eyne, earth marred, but heedful, 
 
 watch. 
 With desert sands of sorrow silting round, yet 
 
 watch, 
 Lest when He knocks the Lord should find us 
 sleeping — • 
 " For as I say to you, I say to all. 
 
 Watch!"
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 HAD a dream. That every bird on 
 the greenwood tree 
 Sang winter and summer alike 
 tender lie ; 
 That every cloud on a sunset sky 
 
 Had a radiance pure that never could die : 
 But it was a dream. 
 I had a dream. That lily and rose were always 
 
 gay, 
 
 And bloom'd in December^ and bloomed in 
 
 May; 
 That every soul whom I calFd a friend 
 Was mine from the dawn till the long day^s 
 
 end : 
 
 But it was a dream.
 
 THE SAND HILLS OF CULBIN/ 
 
 ON THE MORAY FIRTH, 
 
 HE Sabbath morn was fair, was fair — 
 And the sky was clear and blue ; 
 And the wee waves glinted in the sun, 
 As the moulits o'er thera flew. 
 
 ' This curious feature in the landscape of Moray is worthy 
 of notice here. The sand hills occupy a large space of 
 ground on the shores of the Moray Firth, below the town 
 of Forres, and cover what was once a fine estate ; the very 
 name of whose proprietors has now passed from the history 
 of the county. 
 
 The following particulars contain the pith of the almost 
 miraculous circumstances entailing the destruction of the 
 estate. Egidia Moray — heiress of Culbin — married in the 
 fifteenth century. Sir Thomas Kynnaird, of that ilk. The 
 estate of Culbin descended to her second son, Walter. It
 
 194 SAND HILLS OF GULBIN. 
 
 The lads and lasses all around 
 Were deckit in their best. 
 
 And a' the folk right joyful haiPd 
 Their weekly Sabbath rest. 
 
 Fair Culbin lay aneath the sun. 
 The sweetest spot of all ; 
 
 consisted of about 3,600 acres, and tlie rental in 1693 was 
 given at £2,720 Scots, — 640 bolls of wheat, ditto of bear, 
 (barley) ; ditto of oats ; ditto of oatmeal ; also salmon fishings 
 on the river Findhorn. So fertile was the spot that it was 
 named " The Granary of Moray." In 1695, Alexander — last 
 of the Kynnairds of Culbin — petitions the Scottish Parlia- 
 ment, for relief of cess and taxes, " showing that where the 
 two best parts of his estate of Culbin by an ine^-itable fatality 
 was quite ruined and destroyed, occasioned by great and 
 vast heaps of sand (which had over-blown the same) so that 
 there was not a vestige to be seen of his manner place of 
 
 Culbin, yards, orchards, and mains thereof and 
 
 the small remainder of his estate, which yet remained vm- 
 covered was exposed to the like hazard, and the sand daily 
 orainino- ground thereon, where through he was like to run 
 the hazard of losing the whole," &c., &c. 
 
 A friend — the Count d'Albanie — told me that during his 
 residence in Morayshire, early in this century, he once, 
 returning from a search after seals, saw two chimneys of 
 the buried house peering above its sandy grave ; a north-
 
 SAND HILLS OF GULBIN. 195 
 
 And the gardens bloom'd wi' blossoms bright 
 Down to the low sea-wall. 
 
 The barns and sheds were burstin* fu' — 
 For the fields wei'e cleared of corn, 
 
 And the wee birds sang a hymn of praise 
 To the bonnie Sabbath morn. 
 
 easterly gale had been blowing. He also remembers being 
 told by an old woman who was about ninety years of age 
 when he knew her, in 1824, that in her father's time it was 
 common to see the " lums " (chimneys) of the house, after 
 a storm, but the lighter breezes soon silted the sand over 
 them again. The twig of an apple-tree was seen at a later 
 date, that put forth leaves and flowers every spring. 
 
 My uncle. Colonel Gordon Gumming, also told me that 
 in or about the year 1845, he distmctly saw the brown 
 mould furrows of a ploughed field laid bare after a severe 
 gale. A story obtains of a field of barley ready for cutting 
 being covered in one night to the depth of 2 ft. Also 
 that the servants' buildmgs and dwelling house were 
 covered in one day. There is no reason alleged why the 
 sand first began to encroach in 1676, and not before that 
 date ; but the estate was gone in 1695. 
 
 Tlie ballad to which this note is appended contains a 
 popular account of the reasons for so sudden and marvellous 
 a catastrophe, and no doubt otlier wild legends could be 
 rescued from their fast shrouding oblivion, with many facts 
 interesting to those who delight in the wonders of nature.
 
 196 SAND HILLS OF CJJLBIN. 
 
 Oh ! Culbin's laird's a fearsome chiel — 
 And no mortal soul fears he ! — 
 
 He scoffs at word of Heaven's Lord 
 And wi' ill he mak's richt free. 
 
 " Oh ! can ye leave the cards and dice — 
 An' leave the bluid red wine ? 
 
 An' come to the kirk wi' me, Kynnaird, 
 To pray for my sins — and thine ? " 
 
 " Get oot ! get oot ! ye silly wife ! 
 
 What care I for kirk or thee ? 
 An' even till the Monday morn 
 
 We'll play, my grieve an' me ! " 
 
 ^' Your grieve, he's going to the kirk. 
 Where his wife's already gane ! 
 
 An' gif ye'll play this day, Kynnaird, 
 It's sure ye'll play yer lane ! " 
 
 Oh ! then Kynnaird leuch loud and lang ; 
 " Ye fule wife, say your say I
 
 SAND HILLS OF GULBIN. 19/ 
 
 For I would play wi' the Diel liimseP, 
 Until the Judgment Day ! " 
 
 There cam' a clap o' thunder loud. 
 
 An' a chappin' at the door ; 
 And ere they turn'd, a black, black man 
 
 Stood out upon the floor. 
 
 The grieve he ran frae out the house. 
 
 And the servants folio w'd fast ; 
 But the gudewife she went out and pray'd 
 
 'Mid the raging Northern blast. 
 
 Oh ! where is now the bright blue lift ? 
 
 Dark is the sky and land ; 
 And where are now the gardens fine ? — 
 
 Shrouded in drifting: sand ! 
 
 '& 
 
 " The wind is blowing loud, gudeman. 
 An' the sand drifts frae the shore ; 
 
 I've call'd ye twice and thrice, gudeman. 
 An' I ca' ye now once more."
 
 198 SAND HILLS OF GULBIN. 
 
 "■ Ye call again in vain, old wife. 
 For I'm winning the red, red gold ! 
 
 An' though my hands are hard and strong. 
 It's burning in my hold." 
 
 And loud and fiercer blew the wind. 
 And the sand was to the door ; 
 
 The woman rush'd out o'er the land. 
 And wept and cried full sore. 
 
 Tlie wind it blew, and the sand it flew. 
 All through the mirk, mirk night ; 
 
 But the darksome guest, he play'd his best 
 For a soul, by the taper's light. 
 
 The morning dawn'd, the wind went down. 
 And the sand it blew no more; 
 
 For a' the country round about 
 Was like a vast sea-shore. 
 
 And 'neath the sand that fearfu' game 
 
 Is play'd and play'd alway ; 
 For the Deil and Culbin are sitting there 
 
 Until the Judgment Day !
 
 WITH MUSIC. 
 
 WOULD fold my life in music^ I 
 
 would live 
 WrappM inharmonic empyrean; sleep 
 
 and wake 
 
 ^Mid sounding melody : — if my soul in joy 
 Grateful would rise to throw her praise aloft. 
 Let her in happy consonance express 
 That whelming bliss ; or if the sombre pall 
 Of grief doth shroud my spirit, bid them tune 
 To dreamy cadence, joy^s own requiem. 
 In numbers like the wailing wind doth send 
 Presaging tempest through November woods. 
 
 Oh ! in my latest hour 
 When, like crab-hermit from his out-grown shell, 
 This soul shall struggle forth ; 1 do beseech
 
 200 WITH MUSIC. 
 
 That senses fading from earth's consciousness 
 May die to music, and celestial throngs 
 May send their Hallelujahs to absorb 
 The faint terrestrial strain that bears aloft 
 A soaring soul. Association gives 
 An added charm to music memories : — 
 Recur my thoughts to three ecstatic evens 
 MelodiouSj in my past : I note them down. 
 
 Evening I. 
 
 I WAS in a church in Paris, and I went 
 To hear, of great Lablache, the 
 daughter sing ; 
 Her powers for holy charity were lent ; 
 
 Yet, sweet within mine ear those accents seem 
 to ring 
 Pouring before God's Throne melodious offering. 
 
 The church was crowded, and the wax-lights 
 gleam'd 
 With soft subduing glimmer on the scene.
 
 WITH MUSIC. 201 
 
 Save on the darksome nook that I had deem'd 
 
 A fitting place to hear and see^ unseen. 
 Where nought my thoughts absorbed from Heaven 
 could wean. 
 
 Loud peaPd the organ, and the o'er-arch^d aisle 
 Rang till the sound was trebled ; 
 
 Then, on the hearkening air 
 One soKtary voice rush'd forth; the while 
 She sang, all other notes were hushed. 
 
 She seemed in sooth to bear 
 Our souls aloft on streams of melody. 
 
 She ceased, and childhood's voice took up the 
 
 strain, 
 A very Angel-chorus answering Seraph's song ; 
 Canorous rolls the organ forth again. 
 And manhood's full deep tones the glorious sounds 
 
 prolong 
 In volumed wealth of heavenly Psalmody. 
 I thought within myself that night that to my soul 
 
 was given 
 A glimpse of more than Earth's delight, an insight 
 
 into Heaven.
 
 202 WITH MUSIC. 
 
 Evening II. 
 
 iND now behold a different scene, a vast 
 hall, filPd with light. 
 
 Where Britain's witching daughters, in 
 rich attire and bright. 
 Sate with their lords and lovers in box, in tier, or 
 
 stall. 
 To see and hear (and to be seen) , appeared they 
 
 one and all. 
 The latest opera held her swaj, singers of world- 
 wide fame. 
 Who made a land from sea to sea echo their 
 
 mighty name 
 Were there that night to thrill and charm the 
 
 heedful, brilliant throng 
 With all that scenery, gesture, garb, can lend 
 
 t' impassioned song. 
 I listen'd to the entrancing tones that made my 
 
 heart rejoice. 
 As every corner of the place rang to a glorious 
 
 voice ;
 
 WITH MUSIC. 203 
 
 My bosom tlirobb'd witli pity, and my eyes 
 
 brimm'd o'er with tears 
 As human love became the theme, with all its 
 
 pains and fears. 
 For I too loved, dear neighbouring lips soft 
 
 whispered in mine ear 
 Blending with actual melody, words women love 
 
 to hear ; 
 My soul desired no other joy than what the pre- 
 sent brought, 
 Xo retrospective glance, or dream ; in past, or 
 
 future, sought ! 
 All earth seem'd music, life one song, one strain 
 
 of love and bliss. 
 Dreams could not represent to me a fairer hour 
 
 than this : 
 Oh ! evening blest, thy memory about my heart 
 
 is twined. 
 And ever, through those cadences, revert ye to 
 
 my mind. 
 Was this the music that I loved the best ? 
 
 Something divine must be in happiness so pure, 
 All my life long, close-lock'd within my breast. 
 The memory of that evening shall endure.
 
 204 WITH MUSIC. 
 
 Evening III. 
 
 RODE upon thy banks, oh flowing river, 
 
 and I check'd 
 
 My horse's step to gaze into thy stream. 
 
 And listen to the babble of thy waters, light I 
 
 recked 
 
 Of dying day's declining in my fond, fair dream. 
 
 A dream of bye-gone times, oh ! northern river, 
 joyous days 
 When life was young and grief unknown ; 
 meantime 
 Blent merle and cushat-dove their wooing lays. 
 And drowsily the bees humm'd in the scented 
 lime. 
 
 Oh ! rarely sang thy waters, beauteous river, and 
 the trees 
 Rustled in time, and whisper'd sweet in tune ;
 
 WITH MUSIC. 205 
 
 All gracious nature join'd the sense and soul to 
 please, 
 I fain liad lingered there from noon till noon. 
 
 While meditating thus, I sudden heard 
 A distant pibroch wail wake farthest air ; 
 
 And every strongest passion in me stirr'd ; 
 I hardly marvelFd how came minstrel there ! 
 
 Nearer approach'd and swelFd that wild lament. 
 
 That plaintive magic-music of my land, 
 A' d birds, and trees, and waters, in one pleading 
 chorus lent 
 Their voices to the strain so weird, so sad, so 
 grand. 
 
 Perchance some piper, errant through the wood. 
 Reminded by the forest scenery round. 
 
 Had tuned that sore complaint o'er Flodden's 
 blood. 
 The noblest air in Scottish treasury found, 
 
 I never knew, it passed ; its eerie score, 
 
 Dissolving, left me lone ; and my strung heart
 
 206 WITH 31 US I G. 
 
 Relax'd again to feel bereft and sore, 
 
 As did she from some loved possession part. 
 
 I thought, when vanished was that hour, and gone. 
 
 " I am a woman, but I can declare 
 That, with that instrument to urge me on 
 
 What men might do, I, weak, would almost 
 dare ! 
 
 Listen ! when I am dying let them bear me 
 
 To thy loved brink, oh river. 
 That, in my latest moments I may hear thee 
 
 Singing thy dear song ever. 
 
 And bid the Pioh-Mohr play one wild lilt o'er me. 
 
 Ere life's last chord be rivon. 
 That on the wings of my land's minstrelsy, 
 
 I may leave Earth for Heaven."
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 AIL ! gentle memory — to the human 
 
 soul 
 Dearest, most faithful friend ; to thee 
 
 all greeting ; 
 Call back the hours so swiftly, sadly, fleeting ; 
 Keep all the past beneath thy sure control. 
 Keep all the past ! its pleasure and its sorrow. 
 Sorrow that brought a blessing in her train. 
 Pleasures whose like we ne^er may see again — 
 On our inscrutable, mysterious morrow. 
 Call back the dead — oh ! bid them once more 
 
 lighten 
 Earth^s darksome day, that brings to them no fear ; 
 They shed for us no bitter anguishM tear : 
 Bid them return one weary hour to brighten.
 
 208 MEMORY. 
 
 Bring back the scenes where all of JN^ature's fairest 
 Did once enthral the charm'd and dazzled eyes ; 
 Scenes that could make the holiest thoughts arise 
 In minds where now the holy thought is rarest. 
 Bring back the words, still are their echoes ringing 
 Within the hearts that once responsive beat, 
 Yet, through thy spell, those hearts may bound to 
 
 meet 
 Accents long hushM, from loving bosoms spring- 
 ing. 
 Hail ! then, to Thee, thou voice of other days ; 
 When 'mid life's billows toss'd by adverse winds 
 Let us retrace the wanderings of our minds. 
 And sail again with thee the bye-gone ways.
 
 THE GARDEN OF SCOTLAISTD. 
 
 HAVE beheld, on some fair autumn 
 even. 
 The sun behind the western hills 
 descending-, 
 
 Attendant clouds o'er all the expanse of heaven, 
 Crimson, gold, purple, in one glory blending ; 
 The smiling world around to mine entranced gaze 
 Lay, flooded with the light of those departing rays. 
 
 Azure the western hills, till where their snow-clad 
 tips 
 
 Had caught the hue of the refulgent beam. 
 Then blush'd their peaks like beauty's ruby lips 
 
 Pouting to meet the kiss of Sol's last gleam.
 
 210 GARDEN OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Northward, where pointed Morven like Vesuvius 
 
 rose 
 The warmth had fled, and coldly white lay the 
 
 new-fallen snows. 
 
 I have beheld that rich and fertile plain 
 
 Stretching away to the blue bordering firth. 
 
 The fields scarce lighten'd of the wealth of grain 
 That lately gilded all the laughing earth : 
 
 While a voluptuous zephyr wafted softly by, 
 
 Of busy reaper bands the song or joyous cry. 
 
 Here, bushy clumps diversified the scene. 
 
 There, dark pine forests lent their sombre hue 
 In telling contrast to the meadow's green ; 
 
 And copses, where together mingling grew 
 Trees of the greenwood, clothed in autumn's rich 
 
 array. 
 The funeral splendour decking her divine but 
 dying day. 
 
 The russet oak, the amber-tinted beech. 
 
 And scarlet gean,^ all blent in glorious maze. 
 
 ' Gean — the wild cherry.
 
 GABDEN OF SCOTLAND. 211 
 
 Back'd by the bleak and silent moorland reach, 
 
 Whose faded blooms still showed a purply haze. 
 And spake of summer's glory in the day gone by 
 Ere yet she dress'd her couch, and laid her down 
 to die. 
 
 And, further East, the yellow sand hills la}^, 
 
 Coveiing a space between the land and sea, 
 Where Culbin's ^ fair estate in bye-gone day 
 Boasted its share of meadow-land and lea : 
 Poor spot ! thy tombing hillocks emblem a feeble 
 
 mind 
 That ever shifteth mould and form with every 
 changing wind. 
 
 I have beheld ! and oh ! my hungering eyes 
 Absent, I seal ; lest meaner visions thrust 
 
 Their petty beauties 'twixt me and the prize 
 Of memory, to which I do entrust 
 
 That inmost shrine where Thou, the priestess of 
 its fane 
 
 Shalt in unrivall'd majesty and adoration reign. 
 
 1 Culbin. Vide BaUad : " Sand Hills of Culbin."
 
 212 GABBEN OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Fair, Moray-land, art thou, and passing fair ; 
 Worthy a minstrel's highest, purest lays. 
 Worthy of deepest number, grandest air. 
 Yet hath no bard sung paeans to thy praise ! 
 Rich is the land where gleams the silvern Tweed, 
 And lovely is the winding course of Tay ; 
 Moray ! thy beauty boasts as full a meed. 
 And well might wake as loud a strain as they. 
 l^J^ature hath cast her gifts with no unsparing hand 
 O'er shores and mountains of the glorious West, 
 Yet hath reserved for this far Northern strand 
 Jewels of price, her richest and her best. 
 Shades of departed bards ! who of fair Caledon 
 Have sung, and moved the land from shore to shore. 
 Are ye all vanish' d, and for ever gone ? 
 
 Awake ! and gaze around that land once more. 
 But sing not now of darksome Lochnagar, 
 Nor stay the Tweed and winding Tay to view. 
 Seek not the Western mists and mountains far. 
 But onward to the North — not " dark " though 
 " true," *— 
 
 * " Dark and true and tender is tlie North." — Tennyson.
 
 GAB.DEN OF SCOTLAND. 213 
 
 On to the North, dear Scotland's garden bower, 
 And let your wreathed verse on every tree be 
 
 hung. 
 .... Hush'd are the bards, silent their voices' 
 
 power — 
 Shalt thou remain, sweet Moray, still unsung ? 
 
 I tune my humble lyre, and bid the Echo hush. 
 Lest she prolong too far my feeble strain ; 
 And carry wide the lilt o'er brake and bush 
 That I have tried to sing, — mayhap in vain.
 
 " HAME. 
 
 " In die Heimatli moclit' icli wieder. Aber bald !" 
 
 German Song. 
 
 AREWELLj — yet wherefore speak 
 that word 
 
 When all my best' I leave with thee ? 
 
 I may awa' to other lands, — 
 Do thou my heart's true keeper be. 
 There^s joy in every field and brae 
 That minds me o' thy pastures green. 
 An' love in every wimpling burn 
 That sings me of thy beauty's sheen. 
 Bringing me messages frae thee 
 The north wind soughs through forest glades ; 
 Not for a day within my breast 
 The memory of thy beauty fades.
 
 ''HAMEr 215 
 
 No songster on the leafy spray, 
 1^0 river thundering to the sea, 
 No scent of tree, or moss, or flower. 
 But breathes a tale of love and thee. 
 No friends so dear within my breast 
 As those whose forms I link wi' thine. 
 And he should be my first and best 
 Whose love for thee is kin to mine. 
 Far I may wander, mony lands 
 May spread their treasures to my gaze. 
 But aye I'll shew them, that wi^ me 
 Comparison exalts thy praise. 
 They tell me that to me thou^rt lost — 
 So be it ; only keep my heart. 
 Poor gift to lay before thy shrine. 
 But none maun claim frae thee a part ! 
 If I must distant die from thee. 
 My spirit shall return and wait 
 Amang the airts I dearest loe 
 A summons to the heavenly gate.
 
 TO LILY. 
 
 AID^ be thy name thine emblem 
 
 through this life, 
 Fair as the lily, do thou bide as 
 
 pure; 
 Pass through this world, ^mid its unrest and strife. 
 Into the Garden where thy rest is sure. 
 God calls thee now, while youth is fresh and fair ; 
 Look thou to Him, and lean on Him alone. 
 Bearing thy cross, if cross be thine to bear. 
 Mourning not joys thou deem'st too quickly 
 
 flown. 
 Earth^s joys are brief, her cares but for a day. 
 Her love must fade, her friendships must be riven. 
 Learn thou in youth to wait and watch and pray. 
 Learn oioiv to seek thy happiness in heaven.
 
 TO BLANCHE. 
 
 PEAKETH thy name of inward 
 purity ? 
 Blanclie, in tlie deep recesses of thy 
 heart 
 
 Love may repose in sweet security. 
 Knowing in thee no meaner things have part. 
 
 Mould to thy name thy life, be pure in all ; 
 Pure in thy path, thy hope, thy faith, thy love. 
 So may thy soul rise to the Spirit's call 
 White as the pinions of His emblem dove.
 
 THE BONELESS. 
 
 I^^^^^WAS a moonshine night, at the fall 
 of the year, 
 When the heather was dead and the 
 bracken was sere ; 
 And the weird oaks were spreading each knotted 
 
 arm 
 With barely a leaf to keep them warm ; 
 And the river was rolling down after a speat. 
 And the night was fair, and the hour was late. 
 
 Two shepherds were taking their homeward way 
 After the work of their toilsome day — 
 Mayhap the lads had been making too free 
 With a routh o^ the heart-warming barley bree !
 
 TEE BONELESS. 219 
 
 For they had taken a circuit wide^ 
 And found themselves by the river side. 
 
 They saw, by the light of the bright moonbeam, 
 A man on the opposite bank of the stream ; 
 They knew by the gait, and the step so proud, 
 And the voice that was singing so blithe and loud, 
 That young Evan Dhu had not been in vain 
 A-wooing his love in her home on the plain. 
 
 They saw him turn in by the warlock^s den, 
 And wonder'd what took him through yon dark 
 
 glen, 
 For few would e^er wander that bank by night. 
 And fewer the glen seek in broad daylight ! 
 They heard the last notes of the pibroch gay 
 He sang as he turned up the darksome way. 
 
 The sullen sound of the water below 
 Broke the stillness alone — and they turned to go. 
 But hark ! what a fearsome and heart-rending yell 
 Came forth from the heart of that dark rocky dell !
 
 220 THE BONELESS. 
 
 As tlioj stood half-distracted with fear at the 
 
 sound, 
 Young Evan sprang forth with a rush and a 
 
 bound. 
 
 What follows his footsteps ? What phantom of 
 
 evil? 
 Is it man ? is it woman ? is't bird, beast, or 
 
 devil ? 
 A cloud that was passing that moment aboon 
 Obscured the bright face of the round full moon, 
 And scarce could the terrified shepherds descry 
 The Thing that seemed after young Evan to fly ! 
 
 It moved as if rolFd or propell'd by the wind. 
 And its form might bespeak it of human kind. 
 Save that never a thing born of woman had been 
 Of shape so appalling or fearsome, I ween ! 
 ^Twas, the shepherds declared in a trembling tone, 
 A being- of flesh, but sans muscle or bone. 
 
 Its arms waved now over, now round its huge pate. 
 And its legs trailed the earth, as if leaden their 
 weight,
 
 TEE BONELESS. 221 
 
 Or toss'd right and left, as though wild the wind 
 
 blew — 
 And all seemed disjointed, and all seemed askew ; 
 Two balls of red fire in the j ell j- like head 
 Shone out with a lustre by hell furnace fed. 
 
 To the edge of the rock, impetuous speeding. 
 On rushes the youth, his steps never heeding ; 
 One splash, and the turbid stream closed o^er his 
 
 head, 
 And Divie^s dark waters were Evan Dhu's bed ! 
 Full sadly and long did fair Katherine mourn. 
 For the laddie she loved, who would never 
 
 return. 
 
 On the high rocky bank the monster had stayed 
 His course, for an instant his form stoop'd and 
 
 swayed. 
 And wheeling about, he turned him then. 
 And was lost in the gloom of the ten-ible glen. 
 Fast away fled the shepherds, nor backward did 
 
 look 
 Till each found himself by his own iugle-neuk.
 
 222 
 
 TEE BONELESS. 
 
 And oft as the tale through the country they told, 
 At the bare recollection their blood would run cold, 
 And close to their lovers the maidens would press, 
 The mothers forget e'en their babes to caress. 
 And the priests, they would patter their "Aves" 
 
 anew 
 At the tale of the Boneless and young Evan Dhu !
 
 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 " Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath, 
 
 Dass man vom Liebsten, was man hat, muss scheiden." 
 
 Von Feuchtersleben. 
 
 HERE is a river in the North countrie 
 That rises ^mong the purple western 
 
 hills, 
 Bidding farewell to Phoebus when 
 he sleeps. 
 And takes her stedfast way towards the East, 
 The Land of Morning, where she joins the sea : 
 And to my craving eyes is lost, lost for this earth : 
 But whiles I think the sea's her Paradise, 
 And that, through her oft- varied song. 
 Like a melodious theme, that aye recurs. 
 Breaking again through some great Music Play;
 
 224 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 One same strain runs- — Excelsior ! 
 
 Thus slie leaves night, and rises to the dawn. 
 
 Oh, river ! singing through the golden woods 
 Of my lost land : thou art so dear to me 
 That many wonder ; but among thy stones 
 A granite boulder lies, diflfering nought 
 In sight from all the rest. If it were split 
 There is a tiny cavity within, in it a little heart ; 
 ^Tis mine. Like the strange tales 
 The miners tell of finding hidden toads 
 Eeveal'd, when shattered by their blasts 
 Lie rock- formations of a bye-gone age. 
 And so it was, leaving my ancient home 
 
 I left my best in keeping of the stream. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When we do part from friends upon this earth 
 We say, " Farewell, well meet where newer birth 
 Shall lend a radiance ne'er before conceived 
 To love, that even here we had believed 
 Was perfect.'' So we may not rave at death, 
 He takes our dearest treasures, for a time ! 
 His power can still the pulse, and steal the breath 
 Of life here only, and our mortal race
 
 A VALEDICTION. 225 
 
 At longest is so shorty we scarce can prove 
 The depth and lastingness of earthly love. 
 
 But there are partings sore as those of death, 
 Minus the consolations faith imparts 
 To his bereavements ; chains that broken here 
 Cannot be mended in that loftier sphere. 
 
 There are some joys that verily to this earth 
 Belong alone ; for if our dreams of heaven 
 Approach the real, in however slight 
 Or feeble a degree, we must believe 
 That all the fairest aspects of our world 
 Shall be eclipsed by times so infinite 
 In endless glory and entirest joy. 
 That all tears shall be dried, all loves united, 
 All wounds be heal'd, and every sorrow cease, 
 ^Neath the eternal radiance of a sun 
 Taking its lustre from the Face of God. 
 
 So, loves and loveliness of here below 
 Will be out-gloried by the sacred ray 
 That, penetrating every heaven-blessed heart. 
 Shall lend oblivion to the old dead life. 
 
 But Thou, my heart's best idol, dearest loved. 
 My fair terrestrial Paradise, my Home ; 
 
 Q
 
 226 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 Not shrined in my heart, because my heart 
 Is shrined in thee, deep in thy loveliness. 
 Thee I have lost, when learning most to love ; 
 I shall not find thee in that other world. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, the dreams of other days. 
 That made thee first and best, can still be 
 mine; 
 
 Farewell, farewell, the tendVest minstrel lays 
 That wake my lute, shall evermore be thine. 
 I sometimes gasp, as dreaming I inhale 
 The early morning breeze, the western gale 
 Pine-perfumed with the breath of sombre woods. 
 That play'd about my temples as I raised 
 My window sash, and looked out on the lawn 
 Flower spangled ; and all glittering with dew, 
 Those glorious morning's of autumnal days. 
 
 I sometimes wake, on solemn winter nights. 
 Half dreaming that my horse^s deadened tread 
 Falls on the golden carpet of the woods. 
 Fir-needles, and the tear-shaped birken leaves ; 
 Where, oh, how oft ! for many a blissful hour 
 Fve roamed alone ; and murmuring far beneath 
 RolFd the great river ^tween its red rock walls.
 
 A VALEDICTION. 227 
 
 Sending its clear brown waters (deeply brown 
 As eye of Arab maid on Egypt^s plains) 
 Down to tlie azure sea. Pve folloVd on 
 To where the scene would change, and stately oaks 
 Crowned fair green pastures, and o'erhung the 
 
 stream, 
 And herons rose with lazy moving wings 
 And flapp'd away, uttering their eerie cry 
 As I approached ; and squirrels peeping forth 
 From the embowering foliage overhead. 
 Defiant quii*kM, or scampering down the trunk 
 Whisk'd bushy tails, and mocked my horse^s speed. 
 
 I see again the highlands of the West, 
 Snow-crowned, and rosy with the evening sun. 
 Guarding the glorious landscape at their feet ; 
 The autumn tinted woods, the deep blue firth. 
 The waving line of yellow sand, the moors. 
 And all that makes that Northern land so fair ; 
 And oh, the weary yearning of my soul. 
 That owns but one vast longing — to be there. 
 
 Again farewell, a wither'd garland clings 
 Around thy bowers, of hopes and visions 
 cherish'd
 
 228 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 Only to fade. A melody yet rings 
 
 Clear through my brain^ telling of joys now 
 peris Vd. 
 
 Parted are we, my Home, and ^tis for ever ; 
 
 Peace! foolish heart, that so regretful beats ; 
 Cease, mournful strains of bird and tree and 
 river, 
 
 Troubling my soul with unforgotten sweets. 
 
 Blend with your choir, oh, angel-throng of 
 heaven. 
 
 These earthly strains that struggle to ascend, 
 Bearing a heart, by mortal longings riven. 
 Into the Home where, all assoiled and shriven. 
 
 Her restless cravings find a restful end.
 
 THE NINE OF DIAMONDS. 
 
 After the battle of Ciilloden the Diike of Cumberland 
 is supposed to have written an order on the back of this 
 card for dispatching the wounded Highlanders. 
 
 AFTER CULLODEN, 1746. 
 
 Y love gied me a bonnie flower, 
 An^ a gowden ring sae sma' ; 
 But the flower it faded yestermorn, 
 An' the ring it brak in twa ! 
 My heart it stounds wi' a bitter pain, 
 
 As, like the ring, it sune wad break. 
 An' my life is wither' d like the rose. 
 For my bonnie laddie's sake. 
 
 Oh ! his locks were like the yellow gowd. 
 An' his cheeks like the rose's sheen —
 
 230 THE NINE OF DIAMONDS. 
 
 But his hair's noo' drabbled a,' wi' bluid. 
 Pale his lips^ an' closed his e'en. 
 There wasna aince a likelier lad 
 
 That march'd Clan Chattan's ranks 
 among. 
 An' ne'er across a lealer breist 
 Macpherson's plaid was flung. 
 
 His God, his king, his chief, an' me 
 
 He served, an lo'ed sae weel ; 
 Noo they hae lost a follower true. 
 An' I a lover leal. 
 
 He served his king in the battle field. 
 His chief in the muckle castel ha' ; 
 He served them weel, in joy and dule. 
 An' his God abeen them a' ! 
 
 There's mony a lad in Badenoch flies 
 
 When Cluny's call goes forth ; 
 An' mony a heart's for God an' the king, 
 Frae the south to the far, far north. 
 But woe is me — ochone-a-ri ! — 
 
 That am left to cry, an' sab my lane,
 
 THE NINE OF DIAMONDS. 231 
 
 For it's never a one that can comfort me 
 For the life sae falsely ta'en. 
 
 Oh ! dule fa' bluidy Cumberland — 
 
 Dule fa' his evil heart ! 
 An' may he dree a deathly weird, 
 That garr'd sae mony part. 
 
 An' dule o'ertak the Sassenach loon 
 
 That stabb'd my Ewen 'fore my e'en. 
 Till the bluid ran red as the traitor's coat, 
 On the grass that aince was green. 
 
 Oh ! dule fa' bluidy Cumberland, 
 
 That traitor dark and grim ; 
 I'd rather thole my ain sair grief 
 Than change my place wi' him. 
 But woe is me — ochone-a-ri ! — 
 
 Baith ear' and late I sab my lane ; 
 For there's never a soul can comfort me. 
 But the God that hears my mane.
 
 SOKG. 
 
 ^WAS on a fair May morning, when first 
 ^' I met my love ; 
 
 1^ ^3 '/^l The birds were blithely chanting, 
 bright shone the sun above. 
 Oh, hey ! oh, hey ! ^twas a damosel gay. 
 To thee, my sweet, I am flying, list, list, my 
 
 hearths wild crying. 
 While every pulse doth throb for thee, canst 
 thou, dear maid, love me ? 
 
 She spake kind words of greeting, show'd fair 
 
 and good and true. 
 That her bent was aye deception, how little then 
 
 I knew. 
 Oh, hey ! oh, hey ! she was fickle as gay !
 
 SONG. 233 
 
 Oh, maiden, thou wert deceiving; no girl in future 
 
 believing, 
 I'll scoff and mock at woman's faith, and love no 
 
 more till death. 
 
 But ah ! again beguiling, fair woman resumed 
 
 her sway, 
 My heart boVd 'neath her magic, my vows forgot 
 
 were they. 
 Oh, hey ! oh, hey ! true, tender, and gay ; 
 Dear heart, I yield to thee gladly, I love thee, 
 
 love thee so madly ; 
 The past with me is all forgot, I seek no other lot 
 Than to share thine, true, tender, and gay !
 
 ON A JULY MORmNG. 
 
 H, ladye love, when erst the morn 
 Respondeth to the sun's caressing, 
 Raise from thy couch of snowy lawn 
 The form its downy cushions 
 pressing. 
 
 Don kirtle, shoon, and come away 
 To join me in the old yew-alley. 
 
 Where hardly peeps the new-born day, 
 And loving night-birds lingering dally. 
 
 Pass we there-through, and tread the meads 
 That buttercups and cowslips sprinkle, 
 
 To where, among the cress and weeds. 
 The wandering waters softly tinkle.
 
 OA' A JULY MOBXING. 235 
 
 Where water-slirews at thee are peeping 
 With eyne as black and bright as thine, 
 
 And silver sparkling fish are leaping, 
 Joying in early morning-shine. 
 
 We'll wander on to where the stream, 
 
 An'ested in her gentle flowing. 
 Swells to a haunt for perch and bream. 
 
 And virgin lys luxuriant growing. 
 
 I'll twine a garland for thy head. 
 
 To drip their diamonds through the tresses, 
 In midnight veil aroimd thee spread, 
 
 Stirr'd by the zephyrs' fond caresses. 
 
 Then home I'll lead my crowned queen. 
 With step as light as e'er bent daisies, 
 
 And many a kiss I'll win, I ween, 
 Among the bowery woodland mazes.
 
 MACKENZIE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 WEITTEN FOE A LAMENT SO NAMED. 
 
 OFT lie the mist-wreaths, the hill- 
 tops adorning-. 
 And sweetly the autumn wind sighs 
 o'er the muir ; 
 But, ochone ! to my soul all nature is mourning. 
 And scarce can my spirit her anguish endure. 
 Wearily, wearily, wandering ever. 
 
 Drearily, drearily, morning and e'en; 
 Parting for aye, returning, ah ! never 
 
 To thee, my loved hame, where sae lang 
 I hae been. 
 
 Deep in the corrie the wild deer is belling, 
 And answering echoes his challenge return ;
 
 MACKENZIE'S FA BE WELL. 237 
 
 Wild screams the earn o'er iier aerial dwellingr. 
 Where the dark crags tower heavenward, 
 gloomy and stern. 
 Never, oh ! nevermore roaming sae blithe 
 and free. 
 Recking of naught save the jojs of to-day; 
 Mony a woe to bear, mony an ill to dree. 
 Wearily henceforth I tread my lorn way. 
 
 Charlie, my lord and king ! where art thou lying ? 
 Stretch'd in some bothy, on rude heather bed. 
 Or 'fore thy foes like a hunted stag flying ; 
 No rest on earth for that young royal head ! 
 Could I but ken thee safe, lichten'd my 
 woe would be, 
 Lichten'd the burden that scarce I can 
 bear; 
 Now, e'en the thought of thee adds to mine 
 agony. 
 And to the wild winds I cry my despair. 
 
 Shades of my forefathers ! gather and hearken 
 To this my lament as it floats on the gale.
 
 238 MACKENZIE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 While events deep shadows the fair landscape 
 darken, 
 And I take the last look of my ain native vale. 
 Rise, oh, ye dead ! from each cold earthy 
 pillow ; 
 Rise, for none else bids a farewell to me ; 
 Ere morn riseth bright, on the wild storm- 
 toss'd billow. 
 The last of your race a lone exile will be.
 
 DUCHESS CONSTANCE. 
 
 f^^^^^^^HE dancing Spring bedecks the 
 meads 
 With golden glows^ with silver 
 sheen ; 
 
 Flowers break, and greener grows the green 
 Where her touch falls or footstep treads. 
 
 And fresher, fairer, year by year, 
 The Hebe nymph our vision wakes ; 
 E'en hoary Age's thirst she slakes 
 
 With draughts to adolescence dear. 
 
 So, Duchess Constance, on my soul 
 The springtide of thy beauty gleams. 
 As fresh, as if to dull my dreams 
 
 No clouds could lower or cycles roll.
 
 240 DUGHE88 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Oh^ woman ! comeliness like thine 
 Can laugh at seasons^ mock at years ; 
 Nor younger fairs competing fears 
 
 Who rise with lesser light to shine. 
 
 But, Dachess Constance, teach these maids 
 The graciousness of thine address ; 
 And tell them Beauty charmeth less 
 
 Bereft of Courtesy's sweet aids. 
 
 My thoughts revert to bye-gone hour, 
 When first there broke upon my sense 
 Thy loveliness' omnipotence. 
 
 The fragrance of thy beauty's flower. 
 
 Unsatisfied, my hungry gaze 
 
 Had rested on those reckon'd fair. 
 And, flitting, left them lightly there. 
 
 With scarcely faint approving praise. 
 
 Then, as before the kindly fire 
 
 Of springtide's sun, fleets wintry blast, 
 In radiance of thy smile, so pass'd 
 
 The winter of my baulk'd desire.
 
 BUG RES 8 CONSTANCE. 241 
 
 I do not know if thou art good, 
 
 I do not care if thou be wise, 
 
 I only look into thine eyes. 
 And watch thy lips' all- varying mood. 
 
 But worth and wisdom cannot lack. 
 Or else thyself belies thy face. 
 Where grace and kindliness I trace. 
 
 Like blooms that gem Spring's vernal track. 
 
 Oh ! Duchess Constance, faithful yet 
 
 To childhood's first ideal, I 
 
 In staunch and true idolatry 
 Have held thee throned where erst wert set. 
 
 Smile on my world ; and bid it glow 
 
 Eesponsive to the ambient beams 
 
 That emanate from thee, as teems 
 The fresh year bright with bloom and blow. 
 
 £
 
 A POET. 
 
 HAT is a poet ? He who takes 
 A formless lute, and sudden breaks 
 Upon the silence of the world 
 With spoken music, wildly hurl'd 
 Now in huge numbers down the steep 
 Of lowest Hades' dreadful deep. 
 With thund'rous echoes rending spheres, 
 And wringing e'en from devils tears ; 
 Now with celestial measures soaring. 
 And ^fore Jehovah's footstool pouring 
 In tides of praise, through time to roll. 
 The fulness of a brimming soul. 
 Who celebrates the hero's name 
 In trumpet-tones and blasts of fame. 
 Or murmurs through a woodland dell. 
 In notes as sweet as Philomel
 
 A POET. 243 
 
 Trills 'mid the mystic shades of nighty 
 
 Some lover's tale of fond delight ; 
 
 Who makes great actions doubly great 
 
 Through forceful language ; stamps a state 
 
 To all posterity with fame 
 
 Of poet-yielded praise or blame. 
 
 What is a poet ? He that shows 
 To Fancy's eye the ruby glows 
 Of western sun-deaths^ when the earth 
 Yields to Night's arms her widow'd worth ; 
 Or bids Imagination dwell^ 
 By weird word-painting's magic spell. 
 On bosky groves or forest wild. 
 Whose depths by man stand undefiled. 
 Save where the poet, God-endued, 
 Seeks (mentally) their solitude. 
 Who shows the ocean's grandest plight 
 When billows wrestling in affright. 
 To 'scape from Boreas' rude wrath. 
 Roll each o'er each in spume and froth. 
 In tumult wilder, madder than 
 The gambols of Leviathan.
 
 244 A POET. 
 
 Who leads the mind througli dreamy meads. 
 
 Where the bright streamlet gently leads 
 
 Her rippling way among the flowers 
 
 Down to the river-naiad's bowers ; 
 
 Who brings before the soul's fain sight 
 
 Some image of a moment bright. 
 
 When love's new promptings lend fresh grace 
 
 To fairy form, to seraph's face. 
 
 And make the poet's portrait seem 
 
 Th' ideal of a twilight dream. 
 
 What is a poet ? That is he 
 Who some few souls shall know to be 
 One shade more tender than his kind — 
 More capable in all to find 
 The glories of Omnipotence 
 In all their richest, highest sense : 
 Who from his deep humanity 
 Conceives a fuller charity. 
 And for each living thing below 
 Bids holy sympathy to flow 
 In largest meed : whose gentle heart 
 Shall sufl'er if a creature smart.
 
 A POET. 245 
 
 When daisies 'neath a mower's scythe 
 Do pleading fall, shall inly writhe : 
 He who can feel the keenest joy. 
 And knows of bHss without alloy, 
 But oft must bear in full the pain 
 That lights on others like summer rain. 
 This is the poet's self — rejoice 
 When with this soul he owns — a Yoice.
 
 FRAGMENT, AE"D A PORTRAIT. 
 
 From ^' Friends/' a Domestic Dialogue. 
 {Not published.) 
 
 Wife. 
 
 ES, you will deem me rather less than 
 wise. 
 And think my '^^ friends" have been 
 a curious set ; 
 But, ah ! the memories of Auld Lang Syne, 
 The fact of their association with 
 Those scenes and moments of my loved home- 
 life. 
 Explain one half their charm, and then, you 
 know.
 
 FRAGMENT. 247 
 
 My idealistic follj does the rest. 
 
 I cliose tHem very ill, I had no wit, 
 A foolish girl, half dreamy and half wild ; 
 With most exalted notions of the worth 
 And poetry of kin humanity. 
 
 I was not satisfied with common-place 
 And usual men and women of to-day. 
 No struggling Sintram, erring Launcelot, 
 No Dante, craving to be taught — for me ? 
 But FtV^i7-teacher, Arthur, Montfaucon, 
 My men, my women all Cornelia, Beatrice, 
 Dorcas, or mother of the Maccabees ! 
 And when I found these not within my ken, 
 I laid their attributes on those I knew. 
 And lived ^mong heroes, heroines, in a dream. 
 
 I loved them so, I wonder now to think 
 That any heart had so much room for many : 
 I fashioned glorious characters and souls. 
 All god-like, in ill-regulated brain. 
 And laid these coined attributes on those 
 Whose only claim to any such could lie 
 In my slight knowledge of their inner selves.
 
 248 FRAGMENT, AND 
 
 All ! when my thoughts run back through 
 misty years^ 
 And these come crowding thickly, how I joy 
 Over the friends that only died, for they 
 At least are haloed round by lights of death ; 
 While those that I have lost through sin, by 
 
 change. 
 Seem lost for other worlds as well as this ! 
 
 ^« ^^ T^ ^* 
 
 Husband. And now, poor Mary Trevor ends 
 
 the list 
 Of these mistaken '^ friends." My wife, the 
 
 term 
 Is a misread one : mere acquaintanceship 
 (According to my light) has been by you 
 Exalted, through imagination's power. 
 Into the second grandest self-elected tie 
 Our life admits. A spouse, a friend, 
 God leaves to our own choice, and well we 
 
 prove. 
 In choosing, blindness and incompetence. 
 When we to passion or vague inclination trust 
 Matters so truly sacred. Tell me now.
 
 A POBTBAIT. 249 
 
 Not all you loved have proved unworthy thus ? 
 
 Wife. Oh ! no^ my world is not entirely bad ; 
 There are some planets still upon my sky 
 Whose lustre gains by time and tiial's tests. 
 And steady observation. You shall judge 
 If this description paints her portrait right. 
 
 " She stands alone, a very queen of women, 
 Such as scarce in the great imagining 
 Of noblest authors graces written page, 
 Or swells the list of history's heroines. 
 
 Tangible, visible, among us still 
 She lives, and sheds the lustre of herself 
 Alike on all. She is not one 
 Of those who veil their depth of nothingness 
 With quiet semblance of infinity ; 
 Those calm, cold women that some men admire 
 (Betraying thus, in many instances, 
 Their ignorance of the sex) . 
 
 Nay, as she is. 
 So does she truly show ! Brimming with 
 
 mirth 
 At times, and carrying all before the flow 
 Of her great spirits : innocently pleased
 
 250 FRAGMENT, AND 
 
 With homage that she wins, amused as easily 
 As any child, in simple-heartedness. 
 
 Her noble face 
 Is fitting index to her gracious mind ; 
 Cheerful or brilliant as occasion calls 
 The emotion forth ; but in repose 'tis sad. 
 Curiously sad, a sense that ever lurks 
 In greatest souls, as if their mightiness 
 Embraced and felt the woes of all mankind, 
 And held so much of heaven, that the cloa- 
 Detaining them on earth, at moments painM. 
 
 Charitable she, and sympathetic. 
 Generous and tolerant to all the world 
 In a degree that forces from the world 
 Lenience in turn, to such slight faults as cause 
 Her virtues yet to show more palpable ; 
 As the slight surface shades relieve the snow. 
 Else would its brightness blind us. 
 
 A Christian in a Christian's fullest sense. 
 Forgiving, loving, and a faithful friend. 
 
 What can I say, more, than that face, form, 
 gait
 
 A POET BAIT. 251 
 
 Belong unto her character, fair, noble, free ? 
 
 And when I think of her, I feel that life 
 Is worth possessing, if for this alone, 
 
 That I am privileged to call her — Friend ! '' 
 
 THE END. 
 
 CHISWICK l-RESS : — PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AJJD WILKINS, 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
 
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 EUCLID SIMPLIFIED IN METHOD AND LANGUAGE. Being 
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 THE AFRICAN CRUISER. A Midshipman's Adventures on the West - 
 Coast. A Book for Boys. By S. 'Whitcliurcll Sadler, R.N., Author of -''^ 
 " Marshall Vavasour." With Three Illustrations. Crown 8vo. Price 3^-. 6rf. I 
 
 "A capitalsforyof youthful adventure .... Sea- I "Sea yarns have always been in favour with \ 
 loving boys will find few pleasanter gift books this boys, but this, written in a brisk style by a thorough V 
 season than ' The African Cruiser.' "—Hoh>: ' sailor, is crammed full of adventures."— rjV^fj-. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 BRAVE MEN'S FOOTSTEPS. A Book of Example and Anecdote for 
 Young People. By the Editor of "Men wllO have Risen." With Four IHus- 
 trations, by C. Doyle. Crown 8vo. Price 35. 6ci. 
 
 "A readable and instructive volume."— .Favj- 1 win the favour of those who, in choosing- a gift for 
 
 miner. a boy, would consult his moral development as 
 
 " The little volume is precisely of the stamp to I well as his temporary pleasure."— iPa(/)'^<''f/r'''V*'''. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 PLUCKY FELLOWS. A Book for Boys. By Stephen J. Mac Kenna, 
 With Six Illustrations. Crown 8vo. Price 3^. 6d. 
 
 'I This is one of the very best ' Books for Boys' " A thorough book for boys. . . written through- 
 
 which have been issued this yeax."— Morning out in a manly straightforvvard manner that is sure 
 .Advertiser. to win the hearts of the children."— i.»«a'o;< Society^ 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 GUTTA-PERCHA WILLIE, THE WORKING GENIUS. By 
 Georg-e Macdonald. With Nine Illustrations by Arthur Hughes. Crown 8vo, 
 Price 3i. 6d. 
 
 " The cleverest child we know assures us she has | will, we are convinced, accept that verdict upon 
 read this story through five times. Mr. Macdonald | his little work as final."— 5/«Ai/o/-. 
 
 THE TRAVELLING MENAGERIE. By Charles Camden, Author 
 of "Hoity Toity." With Ten Illustrations by J. Mahoney. Crown Svo. y. 6d. 
 " A capital little book .... deserves a wide ( " A ^ cry attractive siory."— Public Opinion. 
 circulation among our boys and girls." — Hour. | 
 
 THE DESERT PASTOR, JEAN JAROUSSEAU. Translated from 
 the French of Eug-ene Pelletan. By Colonel E. P. De L'Hoste. In fcap. 
 8vo, with an Engraved Frontispiece. New Edition. Price 3.^. 6d. 
 
 " A touching record of the struggles in the cause 
 of religious liberty of a real man." — Graphic. 
 
 " There is a poetical simplicity and picturesque- 
 ness ; the noblest heroism ; unpretentious religion ; 
 
 THE DESERTED SHIP. A Real Story of the Atlantic. By Cupples 
 Howe, Master Mariner. Illustrated by Townley Green. Cr. Svo. Price 3^. 6d. 
 
 " Curious adventures with bears, seals, and other 
 Arctic animals, and with scarcely more human 
 Esquimaux, form the mass of material with which 
 
 pure love, and the spectacle of a household brought 
 up in the fear of the Lord . . . ."—Illustratect 
 Londo}i Ne7L's. 
 
 the story deals, and will much interest boys who 
 liave a spice of romance in their composition."— 
 
 HOITY TOITY, THE GOOD LITTLE FELLOW. By Charles 
 
 Camden. With Eleven Illustrations. Crown Svo. Price 3^-. 6rf. 
 
 _ " Relates very pleasantly the history of a chann- | tliem to do right. There are many shrewd lessons 
 mg little fellow who meddles always with a kindly | to be picked up in this clever little story."— Public 
 disposition with other people's affairs and helps | Opinion. 
 
 THE BOY SLAVE IN BOKHARA. A Tale of Central Asia. By 
 David Ker, Author of "On the Road to Khiva," &c. Crown Svo, with 
 Illustrations. Price 5^. 
 
 SLAVONIC FAIRY TALES. From Russian, Servian, Polish, and 
 Bohemian Sources. Translated by John T. Naake, of the British Museum. Crown 
 Svo. With Four Illustrations. Price 5.?. 
 
 " A most choice and charming selection ■ and thirteen Servian, in Mr. Naakd's modest but 
 
 The tales have an original national ring in them, ! serviceable collection of Slavonic Fairy Tales. 
 and will be pleasant reading to thousands besides Its contents are, as a general rule, well chosen, 
 children. Yet children will eagerly open the and they are translated witli a fidelity which 
 pages, and not willingly close them, of the pretty deserves cordial praise . . . Before taking leave 
 \Q\umc"— Standard. of his prettily got up volume, we ought to mention 
 
 "English readers now have an opportunity of that its contents fully come up to the promise held 
 becoming acquainted with eleven Polish and eight out in its preface." — Academy. 
 Bohemian stories, as well as with eight Russian 
 
 65, Corn hill ; &* 12, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 Works Published by Henry S. Xing 6^ Co., 
 
 17 
 
 Books for the Young and for Lending Librares — continued. 
 
 WAKING AND 
 
 WOMANHOOD. 
 
 WORKING; OR, FROM GIRLHOOD TO 
 
 By Mrs. Gr. S. Keaney. Cr. Svo. With a Frontispiece. 5^-. 
 
 AT 
 
 By Stephen J, 
 
 SCHOOL WITH AN OLD DRAGOON. 
 
 Mac Kenna. Crown 8vo. With Si-x Illustrations. Price 5^. 
 
 ' Mr. Mac Kenna's former work, ' Plucky Fellows,' 
 
 *' Consisting almost entirely of startling stories of 
 military adventure . . . Boys will find them suffi- 
 ciently exciting reading." — Times. 
 
 "These yarns give some very spirited and in- 
 teresting descriptions of soldiering in various parts 
 of the world." — Spectator. 
 
 is already a general favourite, and those who read 
 the stories of the Old Dragoon will find that he lias 
 still plenty of materials at hand for pleasant tales, 
 and has lost none of his power in telling them well." 
 • — Standard, 
 
 FANTASTIC STORIES. Translated from the German of Kichard 
 Lieander, by Paulina B. Granville. Crown Svo. With Eight full-page Illustra- 
 tions, by M. E. Fraser-Tsrtler. Price ^s- 
 
 " ' Fantastic ' is certainly the right epithet to 
 apply to some of these strange tales." — Examiner. 
 
 "Short, quaint, and, as they are fitly called, fan- 
 tastic, they deal with all manner of subjects." — 
 Citardia?!. 
 
 Third Edition. 
 
 STORIES IN PRECIOUS STONES 
 
 Six Illustrations. Crown Svo. Price 5^", 
 ' A series of pretty tales which are half fantastic, 
 
 By Helen Zimmern. With 
 
 half natural, and pleasantly quaint, as befits stories 
 intended for the young^."' — Daily Tele^^raph, 
 '*A pretty little book which fanciful young per- 
 
 sons will appreciate, and which will remind its 
 readers of many a legend, and many an imaginary 
 virtue attached to the gems they are so fond of 
 weLiring'."^/'t'j-/. 
 
 THE GREAT DUTCH ADMIRALS. By Jacob de Liefde. 
 
 8vo. With Eleven Illustrations by Townley Green and others. Price 55-. 
 
 ' A really good book." — Standard. 
 
 Crown 
 
 *' May be recommended as a wholesome present 
 for boys. They will find in it numerous tales of 
 adventure." — AChommn. 
 
 A really excellent book." — Spectator, 
 
 THE TASMANIAN LILY. By James Bonwick. Crown Svo 
 
 With Frontispiece. Price ^s. 
 
 " An interesting and useful work." — Hour. 
 
 " The characters of the story are capitally con- 
 
 cei^■ed, and are full of those touches which give 
 them a natural appearance." — Public Opinion^ 
 
 MIKE HOWE, THE BUSHRANGER OF VAN DIEMEN'S 
 
 IjAND. By Jaraes Bonwick. Crown 8vo. With a Frontispiece. Price 5^. 
 
 " He illustrates the career of the bushranger half I are. to say the least, exquisite, and his representa- 
 a century ago ; and this he does in a liighly credit- tions of character are very marked." — Edinburgh 
 able manner ; his deUneations of life in the bush Coiira)it. 
 
 PHANTASMION. A Fairy Romance. By Sara Coleridg-e. With an 
 Introductory Preface by the Rig-ht Hon. Lox'd Coleridge of Ottery S. 
 Mary. A new Edition. In i vol. Crown Svo. Price yj. 6d. 
 
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 and surrounded by supernatural beings." — Morn- 
 ing- Post. 
 
 •' This delightful work . . . We would gladly have 
 
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 with a feeling of regret that the repast was at an 
 end." — yanity Fair. 
 
 " A beautiful conception of a rarely-gifted mind." 
 — E.xa miner t 
 
 LAYS OF A KNIGHT-ERRANT IN MANY LANDS. By Major- 
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 Si.x Illustrations. I'rice 7^. (>d. 
 
 Pharaoh Land. | Home Land. | \Vonder Land. 1 Rkine Laivl. 
 
 " A collection of pleasant and well-written 
 stanzas . . . abounding in real fun and luunour." 
 — Literary World. 
 
 " The conceits here and there arc really very 
 annising." — Standard. 
 
 BEATRICE AYLMER AND OTHER TALES. By Mary M. Howard, 
 
 Author of " Brampton Reciory." i vol. Crown Svo. Price Cs, 
 
 "These tales possess conside able merit."— I " A neat and chatty little volume."— //.'irr. 
 Court yonrnal. | 
 
 65, Cortihill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Row, Lojidon.
 
 1 8 Works Published by Henry S. .King &> Co., 
 
 WORKS BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 THE CABINET EDITION. 
 
 INIessrs. Henry S. King & Co. have the pleasure to announce that 
 they are issuing an Edition of the Laureate's works, in Ten Monthly 
 Volumes, foolscap 8vo, entitled " The Cabinet Edition," at Half-a- 
 Crown eaeh, which will contain the whole of Mr. Tennyson's works. 
 The first volume is illustrated by a beautiful Photographic Portrait ; 
 and the other volumes each contain a Frontispiece. They will be 
 tastefully bound in Crimson Cloth, and will be issued in the 
 following order : — 
 
 Vol. Vol. 
 
 1. EAEIY POEMS. 
 
 2. ENGLISH IDYLLS & OTHER POEMS. 
 
 3. LOCKSLEY HALL & OTHER POEMS. 
 
 4. AYLMER'S FIELD & OTHER POEMS. 
 
 5. IDYLLS OF THE KING, 
 
 6. IDYLLS OF THE KING. 
 
 7. IDYLLS OF THE KING. 
 
 8. THE PRINCESS. 
 
 9. MAtTD AND ENOCH ARDEN. 
 10, IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Volumes I. to IV. are now ready. 
 Subscribers' names received by all Booksellers. 
 
 T/it' other forms in which Mr. TcnnysoiCs Works are published are : — 
 
 PRICE, 
 i. d. 
 
 POEMS. Small 8vo 9 
 
 MAUD AND OTHER POEMS. Small 8vo 5 o 
 
 THE PRINCESS. Small 8vo 50 
 
 IDYLLS OF THE KING. Small 8vo 7 o 
 
 ., ,, Collected. Small Bvo 12 o 
 
 ENOCH ARDEN, &c. Small 8vo 60 
 
 THE HOLY GRAIL, AND OTHER POEMS. Small 8vo 7 o 
 
 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Small 8vo S o 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE ABOVE WORKS. Square Svo, cloth e.xtra . • 5 o 
 
 SONGS FROM THE ABOVE W^ORKS. Square 8vo, cloth extra . . ..50 
 
 IN MEMORIAAL Small Svo 60 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION OF MR. TENNYSON'S WORKS. 6 vols. Post Svo, each 10 6 
 
 POCKET VOLUME EDITION OF MR. TENNYSON'S WORKS. 11 vols., in 
 
 neat case ............... 50 o 
 
 » gilt edges 55 o 
 
 THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. A Series of Songs. 
 
 By Alfred Th.nnvson. With Music by Arthur Sullivan. 410, cloth, gilt extra 21 o 
 
 POEMS. Illustrated Edition, 4to 21 o 
 
 65, Cornhill ; &> 12, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 Works Published by Henry S. King & Co., 
 
 19 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 FOUR ELEGANT POETICAL GIFT BOOKS: 
 LYRICS OF LOVE, From Shakspeare to Tennyson. Selected and arranged 
 
 by "W. Davenport Adams, Junr. Fcap. 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, 3.?. 6d. 
 
 " We cannot too lii^^hly conuiieiui this work, de- [ "Carefully selected and elegantly got up . . It 
 lightful in its contents and so pretty in its outward is particularly rich in poems from living writers." — 
 sidrjTnuy^s."'—^tatuiayd. ' yohn Butt. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT'S POEMS. Red-line Edition. Hand- 
 
 somely bound. With Illustrations and Portrait of the Author. Price "js. td, A Cheaper 
 Edition, with Frontispiece, is also published. Price 3.^. 6i/. 
 
 These are tJi£ only cojnpUte English Editions sanctioned by the Aiitlwr, 
 
 " Of all the poets of the United States there is no tion." — Acadeivy. 
 one who obtained the fame and position of a classic 
 earher, or has kept them long^er, than WiUiani 
 Cullen Bryant . . . A sinjjularly simple and straiy^ht- 
 forward fashion of verse. Very rarely has any 
 writer preserved such an even level of merit 1 
 throughout his poems. Like some other American 
 poets, Mr. Bryant is particularly happy in transla- I 
 
 ** We are .^lad to possess so neat and eleijant an 
 edition of the works of the most thoughtful, grace- 
 ful, and Wordsworthian of American poets.'' — 
 
 I British Quarterly Rnieit'. 
 
 \ " Some of the purest and tenderest poetry of this 
 generation . . . Undoubtedly the best edition of the 
 
 ' poet now in existence." — Glas£;-07v Ke^vs, 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS. Collected and 
 
 Fcap. Svo. Elegantly bound. Price 3.^. 6d. 
 
 " Mr. Dennis has shown great judgment in this 
 selection." — Satitrday Rez'ie^v. 
 
 " An exquisite selection, a selection which every 
 lover of poetry will consult again and again witli 
 
 Arranged 
 
 by John Dennis, 
 
 delight. The notes are very useful. . . The volume 
 is one for which EngUsh literature owes Mr. Dennis 
 the heartiest thanks." — S/'Cctator, 
 
 Second Edition. 
 
 HOME-SONGS FOR QUIET HOURS. By the Rev. Canon R. H. 
 Baynes, Editor of '* Lyra Anglicana," &c. Fcap 8vo. Cloth extra, 35. t>d. 
 
 " All the pieces breathe the spirit of true poetry, 
 and are characterised by deep religious feeUng." 
 — Leeds Mercury, 
 
 "A tasteful collection of devotional poetry of a 
 very high standard of excellence. The pieces are 
 short, mostly original, and instinct, for the most 
 part, with the most ardent spirit of devotion." — I 
 Standard. j 
 
 " A very valuable and attractive hatch of most J 
 readable verses . . . This collection is one of con- 
 
 siderable power, and will l)e certain to be appre- 
 ciated by that large and increasing class which 
 loves sacred poetry." — C/turck Herald. 
 
 " A most acceptable volume of sacred poetry ; a 
 good addition to the gift books of the season." — 
 Kork. 
 
 " These arc poems in which everj* word has a 
 meaning, and from which it would be unjust to 
 remove a stanza . , . Some of the best pieces in 
 the book arc anonymous." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 %* The above four books may also be hod handsomely bound in 
 Morocco with gilt edges. 
 
 THE DISCIPLES. A New Poem. 
 
 Edition, with some Notes. Crown Svo. 
 
 By Mrs. Hamilton King-. 
 
 Price 7.?. 6d. 
 
 Second 
 
 '* A higher im]»ression of the imaginative power could scarcely deny to ' Ugo Bassi' the praise of 
 
 of the writer is given by the objective truthfulness being a work worthy in every way to live . . . The 
 
 of the glimpses she gives us of her master, help- style of her writing is pure and simple in the last 
 
 ing us to understand how he could be regardecl degree, and all is natural, truthful, and free from 
 by some as a heartless charlatan, by others as an i the slightest shade of obscurity in tho'jght or dic- 
 
 inspired saint." — .'Icadewy. tion . . . The book altogether is one that merits 
 
 "Mrs. King can write good verses. The de- 
 
 scription of the capture of the Croats at Mcstre if, 
 extremely spirited ; there is a pretty picture of the 
 road to Rome, from the Abruzzi, and another of 
 J'alermo." — yltheftteutn. 
 
 "In her new volume Mrs. Kinghas farsurpasscd 
 her previous attcmj»t. Hvcn the most hostile critic 
 
 unciualified admiration and praise." — Daily Tele- 
 Sraph. 
 
 " Throughout it breathes restrained passion and 
 lofty sentiment, which flow out now and then as a 
 stream widening to bless the lands into powerful 
 music," — British Quarterly Rcvien.'. 
 
 ASPROMONTE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Kdition. Cloth, ^s. dd. 
 
 By the same Autlior. Second 
 
 "Tlic volume is.nnonymons, but tlicrc isnofa'vnn 
 for the .luthor to be nstiaiucd of it. The ' Poems 
 of Italy ' are evidently inspired by t'enuine enthu- 
 siasm in tlic cause espoused ; and one of them. 
 
 ' The lixccutiou of Felice Orsini,' has much poetic 
 merit, the event celebrated being told with tlra- 
 malic force." — Alhctta'titn, 
 
 " The verse is fluent and free." — Hpfctalor. 
 
 65, Corn hill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Ro7C', London.
 
 IVorks Published by Hauy S. King a^ Co., 
 
 Poetry — continued. 
 
 30NGS FOR MUSIC. By Foiu- Friends. 
 Square crown £vo. Price 5J. 
 
 CONTAINING SONGS BY 
 
 Reginald A. Gatty. Stephen H. Gatty. 
 
 Greville A. Chester. Juhana H. Ewing. 
 
 "A charming gift-book, which will be very 
 popular with lovers of poetry." — jfohn Bull. 
 
 '' The charm of sirnpUcity is manifest through- 
 out, and the subjects are well chosen and suc- 
 cessfully treated." — Rock. 
 
 " One of the most deli.?htful books of verse ot 
 the season." — .Mirror. 
 
 " The collection is pleasing and varied." — //i:d- 
 der^'Jielii Chronicle. 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN'S POETICAL 
 WORKS. Collected Edition, in 3 Vols., 
 price bs. each. Vol. I. contains, — " Bal- 
 lads and Romances;" " Ballads and Poems 
 of Life," and a Portrait of the Author. 
 
 Vol. II.—" Ballads and Poems of Life ;" 
 "Allegories and Sonnets." 
 
 Vol. III.—" Cruiskeen Sonnets ; " " Book 
 of Orm ;" " Political Mystics." 
 
 " Holding, as Mr. Buchanan does, such a con- 
 spicuous place amongst modern writers, the read- 
 ing public will be duly thankful for this handsome 
 ecfition of the poet's -works." — Civil Service 
 Gazette. 
 
 " Taking the poems before us as experiments, 
 we hold that they are very full of promise ... In 
 the romantic ballad, Mr. Buchanan shows real 
 power." — Hour. 
 
 " If Mr. Buchanan were an unknown poet, this 
 volume would be amply sufficient to establibh his 
 reputation among all lovers of true poetry," — 
 Liverpool Albion. 
 
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 lected edition to every admirer of Mr. Buchanan s 
 poetry." — Glasgcu Xeii's. 
 
 rHOUGHTS IN VERSE. Small crown 
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 This is a Collection of Verses expressive 
 of religious feeling, written from a Theistic 
 stand-point, 
 
 "All who are interested in devotional verse 
 should read this tiny volume." — Acadony. 
 
 ON THE NORTH WIND— THISTLE- 
 DOWN. A Volume of Poems. By the 
 Hon. Mrs. Willougliby. Elegantly 
 bound, fcap. 8vo. 
 
 PENELOPE AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By Allison Hughes. Fcap. Svo. 
 
 POEMS. By Annette P. 0. Knight. Fcap. 
 Svo. Cloth. Price <^s. 
 
 " The pleasant writer of these pleasant pages 
 excels chiefly in poetical imagery, in tracing' the 
 analysis of mind and matter, and in giving beauti- 
 ful expression to the most beautiful feelings of our 
 nature."- Standard. 
 
 COSMOS. A Poem. Svo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 Subject. — Nature in the Past and in the Pre- 
 sent. — Man in the Past and in the Present. — The 
 Future. 
 
 NARCISSUS AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By E. Carpenter. Fcap. Svo. $s. 
 
 *'In many of these poems there is a force of 
 fency, a grandeur of imagination, and a power of 
 poetical utterance not by any means common in 
 these days." — Standard. 
 
 POEMS. By Augustus Taylor. Fcap. Svo. 
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 A TALE OF THE SEA, SONNETS, 
 AND OTHER POJSMS. By James 
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 " .Mr. Howell has" a keen perception of the 
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 and wiU probably receive, a warm reception."— 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM 
 THE GREEK AND LATIN POETS, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. By R. B. 
 Boswell, M.A. Cvon. Crown Svo. 5i. 
 
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 very high merit. . . . For sweetness and regu- 
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 Churchman. 
 
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 EASTERN LEGENDS AND STORIES 
 IN ENGLISH VERSE. By Lieu- 
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 "There is a rollicking sense of fun about the 
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 SONGS FOR SAILORS. By Dr. W. C. 
 
 Bennett. Dedicated by Special Request 
 to H. R. H. the Duke of Edinburgh. 
 Crown Svo. 3.?. (>d. With Steel Portrait 
 and Illustrations. 
 
 An Edition in Illustrated paper Covers. 
 Price IS. 
 
 WALLED IN, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By the Rev. Henry J. Bulkeley. Crown 
 
 Svo. s.r. 
 
 " A remarkable book of genuine poetry." — 
 Evening Standard. 
 
 "Genuine power displayed." — Examiner. 
 
 " Poetical feeling is manifest here, and the 
 diction of the poem is unimpeachable." — Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 SONGS OP LIFE AND DEATH. By 
 John Payne, Author of " Intaglios," 
 "Sonnets," "The ]\Iasque of Shadows," 
 etc. Crown Svo. 5^. 
 
 " The art of ballad-writing has long been lost 
 in England, antl Mr Payne may claim to be its 
 restor^ir. It is a perfect delight to meet with such 
 a ballad as ' May Margaret ' in the present 
 volume. ' — Jl'estmijtster Review. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 VIGNEiTTES IN RHYME AND VERS 
 DE SOCIBTE. By Austin Dobson. 
 
 Fcap. Svo. $5. 
 
 " Clever, clear-cut, and careful." — Athcr.cruni. 
 
 "As a writer of Vers de Societe, Mr. Dobson 
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 " Lively, innocent, elegant in expression, and 
 graceful in fancy." — Morjiiu^ Post. 
 
 IMITATIONS FROM THE GERMAN 
 OF SPITTA AND TERSTEGEN. 
 By Lady Durand.. Fcap. Svo. 4^-. 
 
 " A charming little volume. , . Will be a very 
 valuable assistance to peaceful, meditative souls." 
 — Chtn-ch Herald. 
 
 65, Conihill ; cS"^ 12, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 T Forks Published by Heniy S. King 6^ G?., 
 
 21 
 
 Poetry — contimied. 
 
 ON VIOIi AND FLUTE. A New Volume 
 of Poems, by Edmund W. Gosse. With 
 a Frontispiece by W. B. Scott. Svo. 5J. 
 *' A careful penisal of his verses will show that 
 he is a poet. . . His song' has the c^rateful, mur- 
 muring' sound which reminds one of the softness 
 and deUciousness of summer time. . . . There is 
 much that is good in the vohime.'' — Spectator. 
 
 EDITH ; DR. Love and Life in Cheshire. 
 By T. Ashe, Author of " The Sorrows of 
 Hj'psipyle," etc. Sewed. Price ^d. 
 
 '*A really fine poem, full of tender, subtle 
 touches i)f feelingf." — Manchester Xeu'S. 
 
 " Pregnant from beginning to end with the re- 
 sults of careful observation and imaginative 
 power." — Chester Chronicle. 
 
 GOETHE'S FAUST. A New Translation in 
 Rime. By C. Kegan Paul. Crown 8vo.' 6^. 
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 that has yet been produced. . . "—Exatniner. 
 
 "Mr. Paul is a zealous and a faithful inter- 
 preter." — Saturday Rt^cieii'. 
 
 THE INN OF STRANGE MEETINGS, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. By Mortimer 
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 " Abounding in quiet humour, in bright fancy, 
 in sweetness and melody of expression, and, at 
 times, in the tenderest touches of pathos.'' — 
 Graphic. 
 
 "Mr. Collins has an undercurrent of chivalry 
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 humoured banter which is the special character- 
 istic of his verse." — Athe7icEii}n. 
 
 EROS AGONISTES. ByE.B.D. Crown 
 
 Svo. 3.f. td. 
 
 " It is not the least merit of these pages that 
 they are everywhere illumined with moral and 
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 brightest, purest character."' — Standard. 
 
 CALDERON'S DRAMAS. Translated from 
 the Spanish. Ey Denis Florence Mac- 
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 " The lambent verse flows with an ease, spirit, 
 and music perfectly natural, liberal, and har- 
 monious." — Spectator. 
 
 "It is impossible to speak too highly of this 
 beautiful work. * — Month. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. PAUL'S. By the 
 Rev. G. B. Howard. Fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 SONNETS, LYRICS, AND TRANSLA- 
 TIONS, By the Rev. Charles Turner. 
 Cr. Svo. 4^-. 6d. 
 
 "Mr. Turner is a jjenuine poet; his song is 
 sweet and jmrc, beautiful in expression, and often 
 subtle in thought."— /'«// Ma/t Gazette. 
 
 " The light of a devout, gentle, and kindly 
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 telligence irradiates these thoughts." — C0ntern- 
 P^rary Review. 
 
 THE DREAM AND THE DEED, AND 
 OTHER POEMS. By Patrick Scott, 
 Author of ** Footpaths between Two 
 "Worlds," etc. Fcap. Svo. Cloth, 5^. 
 
 ** A bitter and able satire on the vice and follies 
 of the day, literary, social, and political.*' — .Stan- 
 dard, 
 
 "Shows real poetic power coupled wfth evi- 
 dences of satirical cnerg>*," — lidinburgh Daily 
 Review. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. First 
 Series. By a New Writer. Fcp. Svo. 55-. 
 
 " Thc^a poems will assuredly take high rank 
 among the class to which they belong." — British 
 Quarterly Reznew, April ist. 
 
 "No extracts could do justice to the exquisite 
 tones, the felicitous phrasing and delicately 
 wrought harmonies of some of these poems." — 
 A'o'icofi/ormist. 
 
 "A purity and dehcacy of feeUng like morning 
 air." — Graphic. 
 
 Second Edition. 
 SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. Second 
 Series. By the Author of " Songs of Two 
 Worlds." Fcap. Svo. 5^. 
 
 " In earnestness and sweetness the author may 
 be pronounced a worthj' disciple of Henry V'anghan 
 .... Instinct with a noble purpose and high ideal 
 .... The most noteworthy poem is the ' Ode on a 
 Spring Morning,* which has somewhat of the 
 charm of ' L" Allegro ' and ' II Penseroso.' It is 
 the nearest approach to a masterpiece in the col- 
 lection. We cannot find too much praise for its 
 noble assertion of man's resurrection." — Saiurdny 
 Review. 
 
 " A real advance on its predecessor, and con- 
 tains at least one poem (* The Organ Boy') of 
 gr.^at originality, as well as many of much beauty 
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 rarely offends the ear with false notes."— Pall 
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 — Stirttdarti, 
 
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 65, Cornhill ; d^ 12, Paternoster Row, London.
 
 Wo?-ks Published by Henry S. King 6^ Co., 
 
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 OMAN'S A RIDDLE; ok, Baby 
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 Author of " When George III. was King." 
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 65, Cornhill ; &> \2, Paternoster Pow, London.
 
 Works Published by Henry S. King &> Co., 
 
 23 
 
 TiCTlOK— continued. 
 
 CHESTERLEIGH. By Ansley CoByers. 
 
 3 vols. Crown Svo. 
 
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 &^ 
 
 12, 
 
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 24 
 
 Works Piihlished by Henry S. 
 
 Xing 
 
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 65, Cornhill ; 6^ 12, Paternoster Row, London,
 
 Works Published by Henry S. King &> Co., 25 
 
 THEOLOGICAL. 
 
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 Works Published by Henry S. King 6- Co., 
 
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