-mi:' % ^^^r^^^. PAGE A Reflection 56 A Relic .... 57 When Love and I were Young 61 Prithee Madam . 64 Promises .... 66 Love is Enough . 75 Song 78 Caroline .... So After the Holiday 87 A Debt of Honour 90 Good-bye .... 95 A Lost Love .... 96 A Farewell .... 99 Love Questionings 100 Love's Rejoinder . 102 Rondeau 105 Sl^i^cdlancougf poemjS* Giotto's Campanile and Bells of Florence Rain Aoede Spring ........ Poesy 109 113 122 125 126 CONTENTS. vn PAGE Early Summer on the Mediterranean 129 A Modern Miserere ..... . 136 The Modern Sphinx . . 142 The End of the Argument . • 147 The Bishop Exhorteth the Sick IN Hospital • 151 Two Sermons . I5S Creeds ..... 164 Work • 174 Time and Eternity 176 A Popular Character . 177 Money's Worth . . i8r The Man without an Enemy . 182 Prove all Things iss In Memoriam .... 186 A Little Girl in a Garden . 190 EUPHROSYNE 192 Compensation .... 195 The Glow-Worm . . . ' . 197 A Villanelle .... 199 Carlyle 201 At Darwin's Grave 202 Broken Cisterns .... 203 Righteousness .... 205 vni CONTENTS. St^aralj. Marah . • . • Second Sight Forsaken Broken Strings . •« Nothing is here for Tears The Rest that remaineth The Death of Summer Autumn Song Plaited Thorns . The Doubting Heart . Footsore The Soul's Atlantis . Song .... The Blackbird Heimweh The Old Story . Gathering the Fragments A Leave-Taking . Rondeau A Message . Out of the Darkness . PAGE 208 209 212 215 217 220 222 225 227 231 233 236 242 244 247 250 . 253 . 254 . 256 . 257 • 259 ^ongg of gatrotu B '• There is the famous stream (winkling in the sun. What stream and valley was ever so be-sung ! You wonder at first why this has been, but the longer you look the less you wonder." Hoiae Subsecivae, — Dr. John Brown. A SONG OF YARROW. September, and the sun was low, The tender greens were flecked with yellow, And autumn's ardent after-glow Made Yarrow's uplands rich and mellow. Between me and the sunken sun, Where gloaming gathered in the meadows, Contented cattle, red and dun. Were slowly browsing in the shadows. And out beyond them Newark reared Its quiet tower against the sky, -^ As if its walls had never heard Of wassail-rout or battle-cry. SONGS OF YARROW. O'er moss-grown roofs that once had rung, To reiver's riot, Border brawl, The slumberous shadows mutely hung, And silence deepened over all. Above the high horizon bar A cloud of golden mist was lying, And over it a single star Soared heavenward as the day was dying. No sound, no word, from field or ford, Nor breath of wind to float a feather, While Yarrow's murmuring waters poured A lonely music through the heather. In silent fascination bound, As if some mighty spell obeying, The hills stood listening to the sound, And wondering what the stream was saying. A SONG OF YARROW. What secret to the inner ear, What happier message was it bringing, With more of hope, and less of fear, Than men dare mix with earthly singing ? Earth's song it was, yet heavenly growth — It was not joy, it was not sorrow — A strange heart-fulness of them both The wandering singer seemed to borrow. Like one that sings and does not know, But in a dream hears voices calling. Of those that died long years ago, And sings although the tears be falling. Oh Yarrow ! garlanded with rhyme That clothes thee in a mournful glory, Though sunsets of an elder time Had never crowned thee with a story, — SONGS OF YARROW. Still would I wander by thy stream, Still listen to the lonely singing, That gives me back the golden dream Through which old echoes yet are ringing. Love's sunshine ! sorrow's bitter blast ! Dear Yarrow, we have seen together ; For years have come, and years have past Since first we met among the heather. Ah ! those, indeed, were happy hours When first I knew thee, gentle river; But now thy bonny birken bowers To me, alas, are changed for ever ! The best, the dearest, all have gone, Gone like the bloom upon the heather, And left us singing here alone, Beside life's cold and winter weather. A SONG OF YARROW. I, too, pass on, but when I'm dead Thou still shalt sing by night and morrow, And help the aching heart and head To bear the burden of its sorrow. And summer flowers shall linger yet Where all thy mossy margins guide thee ; And minstrels, met as we have met, Shall sit and sing their songs beside thee. A REIVER'S RIDE. Oh day of days, when we were young 1 With hearts that laughed at wind and weather, That day, the gathered guests among, When you and I, while songs were sung. Each to a ready saddle sprung, And rode into the rain together. An endless, fruitless feud, I wot, With vengeance vowed in every weather. Between the Cessfords and the Scott, A foolish quarrel, long begot. Had barred our love ; we argued not, But rode into the rain together. A REIVER'S RIDE. What though the skies were frowning black, And dark and sunless was the weather, And heaven was filled with driving rack, We thought not once of turning back, That day we left the beaten track. And rode into the rain together. Loud clanged the windy gates above. And yet through all the howling weather, Soft as the murmur of a dove. We only heard low words of love, As foot to foot and glove to glove. We rode into the rain together. Our way was long, and bleak, and bare — A trackless road in wintry weather — We swam the Tweed beyond Traquair, And follow will, who follow dare ; One tried it and we left him there, And rode away in rain together. lo SONGS OF YARROW. Though tempests blew and waters beat, We heeded neither wind nor weather, But held our way through driving sleet, O'er rocky stream and sinking peat. For love was strong and life was sweet. That day we rode in rain together. Right onward in a wild delight, For few could follow in such weather, We never slacked our steady flight, Till down from Minchmuir's misty height Fair Ettrick Forest lay in sight. As we rode in the rain together. Where Yarrow's reddening waters roared — A rugged ride in stormy weather — AVhere late our gallant king restored The outlawed lands of Newark's lord. By Hangingshaw we crossed the ford. Still riding in the rain together. A REIVER'S RIDE. ii Till on by Ettrick's deeper flood, While fierce and fiercer raged the weather, We reached the Chapel in the Wood,^ And there beneath the holy rood, Our sacred promises made good, That night we rode in rain together. Once more to saddle, for our ride Was eastward yet through darkening weather, Till home beyond sweet Teviot's tide. We rode in moonlight side by side, And happier bridegroom, happier bride. There never rode in rain together. But days have come and days have gone. With summer suns and winter weather, When now I ride, I ride alone — The grass upon your grave has grown. And many a weary year has flown, Since we two rode in rain together. ^ Seleschirke. 12 SONGS OF YARROW. Young Norman has the eyes and brovv- His mother's son in any weather, And Lilian has your lips, I trow ; And oh how oft their faces now Bring back the day we made our vow, And rode into the rain together. DEATH IN YARROW. It's no the sax month gane, Sin' a' our cares began — Sin' she left us here alane, Her callant and gudeman. It was in the Spring she dee'd, And now we're in the fa' ; And sair we've struggled wi't, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. 14 SONGS OF YARROW II. An awfu' blow was that — The deed that nane can dree ; And lang and sair we grat For her we couldna see. I've aye been strong and fell, And can stand a gey bit thraw ; But the laddie's no hissel' Sin' his mother gaed awa'. III. In a' the water-gate, Ye couldna find his marrow — There wasna' ane his mate In Ettrick Shaws or Yarrow But he hasna now the look. He used to hae ava ; He's grown sae little buik Sin' his mother gacd awa'. DEATH IN YARROW. 15 IV. I tak' him on my back, In ilka blink o' sun, Rin roun' about the stack, And mak'-believe it's fun. But weel he kens, I warrant. There's something wrang for a', He's turned sae auld farrant Sin' his mother gaed awa'. V. For when he's play'd his fill, I canna help but see. How he draws the creepie stool Aye the closer to my knee ; And he turns his muckle een To the picter on the wa', Wi' a face grown thin and keen. Sin' his mother gaed awa'. i6 SONGS OF YARROW. VI. I mak' his pickle meat — And I think I mak' it weal; And I warm his Httle feet, When I hap him i' the creel ; And he kisses me fu' couthie, For he downa' sleep at a', Till he hauds up his bit mouthie, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. VII. And then I dander oot, When I can do nae mair, And walk the hills aboot, I dinna aye ken where ; For my hairt's wi' ane abune, And the ane is growin' twa, He's dwined sae sair, sae sune, Sin' his mother gaed awa'. DEATH IN YARROW. 17 VIII. And now the lang day's dune, And the nicht's begun to fa', And a bonnie harvest mune Rises up on Bowerhope Laiy. It's a bonnie warlt this, But it's no' for me at a', For a' thing's gane amiss Sin' his mother gaed awa'. LOVE IN YARROW. I. You tell me I am losing time, I'm taking life too lightly, My lamp let flicker into rhyme Which should be burning brightly ; That I have left life's serious call For something more alluring, Mistaking the ephemeral For that which is enduring. This change, my friend, that you have seen, May seem to you mysterious. With me, however, it has been Well thought upon and serious. LOVE IN YARROW. 19 I too have burned the midnight oil, In painful soul-debating, I too have turned the stubborn soil You now are cultivating. I gave it up because I found 'Twas mostly self-delusion, Word-spinning in an endless round That yielded no conclusion. I'm sick of philosophic search Into the roots of being. The strain to see from earthly perch What lies beyond earth's seeing, I've dropped Hfe's riddles, every one, That wind and warp the soul of us ; The children, dancing in the sun, Are wiser than the whole of us. SONGS OF YARROW. You tell me, too, that thought is thin That knows alone life's gladness ; " Eyes cannot rightly see within Till sanctified by sadness." There's less of wisdom, friend, than sound, In the pedantic folly That deems those views of life profound Because they're melancholy. Whence is the source of all our life, Whence has been, shall be ever? The sweetener of our mortal strife, The Godhead's living river? The eternal waters from above No taints of sadness borrow, The perfect wisdom, perfect love, It never knew a sorrow. LOVE IN YARROW. 21 God's gladness is but light afar, That streams the world over, It washes now the farthest star, And gilds this field of clover. What man, depicting heaven's abode. Would give it sorrow's features ? On earth, too, they are likest God, The happiest of His creatures. In this our morbid, meddling age Of peevish introspection, We feed too much upon the page That nourishes dejection. You're gaining something from your books, No doubt ; but in addition. You're losing, too, your old good looks And happy disposition. 22 SONGS OF YARROW. Where, think you, will this brooding end ? Already you look phthisical ; You're paying with your health, my friend, For studies metaphysical. Then take an older man's advice, Come out into the garden, Leave morbid self-analysis And psychologic burden. For who would burrow like a mole, And seek the dark in day-time. Or rest content with winter's dole When he could laugh in May-time? Come out and rest your wearied eyes ; Trust me you'll never rue it ; Read nature's book in field and skies, As happier creatures do it. LOVE IN YARROW. 23 Throw up, my friend, your fallacy That gladness must be shallow ; Come, close your books for once with me, And let your mind lie fallow. There's Galawater, Yarrow's vale. Or Ettrick near beside us, We're but an hour from Teviotdale, Tweed's pleasant stream to guide us. Come, one or other let us choose, Sound health demands these pauses ; And possibly your gloomy views Have but material causes. 'Twixt want of health and doleful thought There's often correlation, Solemnity sometimes is nought But sluggish circulation. 24 SONGS OF YARROW. Life's highest glimpses still are caught Where blood is warm and wealthy ; Unhealth begets unhealthy thought — The thoughts of health are healthy. A truce to preaching. Let us go, We'll talk no more of sorrow, We'll get the horses out, and know Once more the braes of Yarrow. II. He met his fate on Yarrow braes, Small blame to me or credit ; I could not move him from his ways,— An unseen trifle did it. Love's eyes with dewy light suffused, Dealt out from silken lashes. The fire that always has reduced Philosophy to ashes ! LOVE IN YARROW. 25 Philosophy, said I ? Alas ! The girl but gave a toss of her Delightful head ; then presto, pass ! And where was our philosopher ? No knight that ever lived in song, Or groaned beneath love's arrow, More keenly felt the fatal prong In ballad-haunted Yarrow. By sweet St. Mary's slopes of green, The god waylaid and tricked him. And on my word I've seldom seen A more ridiculous victim. Philosophers are easily crazed ; At first he did not show it. But wandered for a week half-dazed, And then he turned poet. 26 SONGS OF YARROW. Such poems too, for workmanship — Much worse than ever I did — Two rondeaus on her upper Hp And one upon her eyeUd. • He tried again his studious joys When comfortably married, But when his pretty wife brought boys. Philosophy miscarried. 'Twas that which dealt the final blow, And fairly closed the portals On his philosophy ; and now He's much like other mortals. For out of books, from which before He built his melancholy, His boys build castles on the floor. And play at rolly-polly. LOVE IN YARROW. 27 Oh, great are the Philosophies ! But deep are Nature's Forces ! — To-day, I saw him on his knees, They said the game "was horses." AN APPEAL FROM YARROW.^ And is it true ? And will they come With pick and spade and barrow, To dig a grave beneath the hills For thy dear waters, Yarrow ? Where Scott and Wordsworth sang the songs Whose echoes still are ringing ; The valley where " the Shepherd " heard His deathless " skylark " singing. Oh touch it not ; it fills the heart With memories that harrow, To think that we shall hear no more Thy babbling music, Yarrow. 1 Written whilst a Bill to supply Edinburgh and district with water taken from Yarrow was before Parliament. AN APPEAL FROM YARROW 29 Where every step is holy ground, Enshrined in Border story ; Here, sacred to a lover's vows, And there, to battle gory. Where, down by Deuchar's dowie houms, The bravest knight in Yarrow Fell, fighting on the bloody sward, All for his "winsome marrow." Where Cockburn's widow sat beside Her murdered hero weeping, " The moul' upon his yellow hair " Her woman's fingers heaping. Where Margaret and her lover fled — Black Douglas and the seven On ringing hoofs behind them roared Their mad appeals to heaven. 30 SONGS OF YARROW. Where not a stream that glides between Gray rocks with mosses hoary, But seems to babble to the air The burden of its story. The Lake 1 oh let not that be made A thing of pipes and sluices ; Let something live for beauty's sake, Unmixed with baser uses. Still let it live in fancy's heart, A haunt for happy fairies, And make no wretched reservoir Of lovely lone St. Mary's. Disturb not thou its silent deeps. Nor yet its gleaming shallows, The heavenly rest upon its breast, The memories it hallows. AN APPEAL FROM YARROW. 31 The place is more to us than you, Who have been goers, comers ; For we have Hved our lives in it — Its winters and its summers. We knew it all when we were young, And that sets memory sighing, For now, with bairns about our knees. The valley where we're dying. Oh touch it not ! but let it be As nature has arrayed it, As softening time has sanctified, And poet's fancy made it. A vale where world-weary feet May come to rest or roam in ; Where pilgrim love has found so much, And we have found a home in. AUTUMN LEAVES. What sadness clothes the falling year When skies are red and woods are sere, And joys are fled that late were here, And only mournful winds are calling, When sorrow's song is heard for mirth, — For saddest thoughts have sweetest birth When autumn leaves are falling. 'Twas down beside the Fairy Well, Alone came gentle Isobel To meet her lover in the dell. When evening winds were softly calling. No other sound in earth or air Disturbed the silence everj'where, While autumn leaves were falling. AUTUMN LEAVES. 33 And where she came the golden sheen Of arrowy sunset struck between Thick autumn branches red and green, While through them all the winds were caUing; And all around her and above — Dead symbols of a summer's love — The autumn leaves were falling. Whatever way she chose to take, The woodland for her beauty's sake Showed lovelier, and strove to make (While gentle winds were softly calling) A picture that might well beseem The vision of some Danae dre^^, The gold about her falling. At length, beside the well she came, And there with trembling heart aflame, 'Twixt maiden love and maiden shame D 34 SONGS OF YARROW. (The whispering winds around her calling) She listen'd, till through lips apart She heard the beating of her heart, While autumn leaves were falling. And waiting in that lonely place, A trouble falls upon her face, For evening shadows grow apace, And murmuring winds are round her calling. The hour is past ! why comes he not? Can love like summer be forgot When autumn leaves are falling? Ah never ! never ! love abides Through life and death, though all besides Should perish in earth's shifting tides, And restless winds for ever calling. Love bears a life from May to May Beyond the roach of earth's decay. Though autumn leaves be falling. AUTUMN LEAVES. 35 " The way is long that he must ride, The Tweed is running deep and wide Where he must pass " — She will not chide Though darkling winds are round her calling. " Has he not waited many a night For her, and watched the waning light While autumn leaves were falling?" Thus as she pleaded, through the wood A horse sprang riderless, and stood Splashed to the girths in foam and blood The shuddering winds about it calling : With quivering flanks and face of pain It shook a broken bridle rein Where autumn leaves were fallinsr. She gazed until there seemed to rise A blinding mist before her eyes, While overhead, far up the skies. 36 SONGS OF YARROW. She heard the winds of heaven calling, Till sound and sight and all did seem To mix and melt into a dream AV'here autumn leaves were falling. Where restless waters whirl and rave In foam around the Druid's Cave, They found him by the lonely wave, The moaning winds about him calling — And her through morning light they trace To where upon her upturned face The autumn leaves are falling. Beneath the quiet churchyard sod, Where shadowy beeches wave and nod To winds that are the breath of God, Through Life and Death for ever calling. Where all our loves and sorrows run, Their graves are lying in the sun, And autumn leaves are falling. RETREAT IN YARROW. dobb's linn. In the green bosom of the sunny hills, Far from the weary sound of human ills, Where silence sleepeth, Where nothing breaks the still and charmed hours, Save whispering mountain stream that 'neath the flowers For ever creepeth. In the green bosom of the sunny hills, There let me live : where dewy freshness fills The stainless sky, — Where, out of very love, the mighty breeze That wildly wanders over heaving seas Lies down to die. 38 SONGS OF YARROW. There let me live, there let me watch on high Wild winter send adown the stormy sky His howling crew. Or when from heaven in the perfect time Great summer sheddeth in her rosy prime Joy-tears of dew. My teachers are the hills ; no truth that feigns A subtle wisdom drawn from weary brains With laboured care, But n^ure's teaching, that from daisied sod To lark-sung heights can find the love of God •Plain written everywhere. My God is in the hills ; and men have left Earth's temples, when of house and home bereft In truth's desjjair, To seek among the hills, in hunted bands, God's higher temple never built with hands, And found it there. RETREAT IN YARROW. 39 Oh silent Hills, Oh everlasting Hills ! Whether the summer clothes or winter chills Thy holy brow ! Worshipping God for ever, while the breath Of man dies out on meat that perisheth, How beautiful art thou ! The restless fevered wave of human life Is echoing down the ages, but the strife Disturbs not thee. Oh mountain ! sending up thy ceaseless prayer, Fervently silent, through the charmed air Of heaven's blue sea. The birth, the glory, or the fall of nations Is naught to thee ! delirious generations Ceasing never ! Rave onward, and thou heedest not the chase. But lookest up serenely in the face Of God for ever ! Lotie Poems (LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC) ** a CrotDU io not eTompanj? ; 9nli JFaces arc h\it a (Sallcrp of 15)icturc0 ; 9nti Znlhe hut a ^inc&Iins €2mbaU, hjl;ete tfjcre 10 no 3Lotic/' — Bacon. CONVALESCENT IN LONDON. {Husband loquitur^ Give me your hand, my darling, and be near me. So, I've been ill, and raving too, they say ; I'm better and can speak now, sit and hear me — My head was clear when I awoke to-day. How strange ! through all my fever I've been dreaming Of days when we were children, you and I, Romping in sun and wind, with faces beaming By those sea-pastures 'neath a northern sky. It seemed so real, my soul must have been there. Leaving behind this fevered frame of mine ; I felt and saw things plainly, breathed sea air. And watched the light upon the far sea-line. 44 LOVE POEMS. How they have haunted me, these dear retreats, A thought, a flower, a sound, would set me free, Beyond the reek and roar of London streets, To those sweet silent pastures by the sea. ( Wife loquitur^ There ! there ! you must not talk. The dear old places, So full of memories for you and me, We'll see again the old, the kindly faces. And wander in the fields beside the sea. {JJusband loquitur.) How is it, growing old, that what we've seen In earliest days should cling to memory yet. When all the interval of life between. Compared to that, seems easy to forget? How life in which we've fought, and fagged, and striven, Looked back upon, should be but empty noise ; CONVALESCENT IN LONDON. 45 While far behind it, like the hills of heaven, Stand out the days when we were girls and boys ? Happy the life whose youth was in the sun, And kept from canker in the budding tree ; I thank my God that ours was so begun. On those dear sunny fields beside the sea. Our hopes are but our memories reversed ; 'Twere heaven enough, dear heart, for you and me To live again the life we once rehearsed In those bright stainless fields beside the sea. *&' Well ! well ! I will be quiet, — calm your fears, 'Tis doctor's orders, and I must agree. Good-night, my darling, kiss me — What? In tears? You too have loved the fields beside the sea. HER BEAUTY. Beautiful? Nay, beauty's self! What with her can I compare ? Not all the light on Hebe's cheek, Or Daphne's golden hair — Her beauty so surpasses aught That poet-lover ever thought Eyes that open slowly wide, Largely lit with tender blue ; Careless of the world beside, Eyes that read me through — Striking deep divincst chords Of most unutterable words. HER BEAUTY. 47 Eyes that have a richer flow Of richer words than words can tell : I would ever have it so — Words might break the spell ; Eloquence that speaketh thus Maketh speech ridiculous. But lo ! her voice ! my heart stands still, All life's leaping pulses stop That hungry love may drink his fill, And never lose a drop. O ! I could sit by such a door And watch the steps for evermore. Voice that haunts me like a psalm When the singers every one, Ceasing, leave the soul behind Though the song be done : A chant in some cathedral pile That wreathes about the fretted aisle. LOVE'S EXPOSITORS. How is it that in all the earth, All that is beautiful in birth Or being, seems a part of her ? The waters seem to lisp her name, Winds whisper it, and all things claim To be my love's interpreter. The birds all sing of it. The flowers Must know these secret thoughts of ours. The very air seems laden so With music of unburdened speech, That lies for ever out of reach, Yet follows me where'er I go. LOVE'S EXPOSITORS. 49 Singing, she passed me in the wood But yesterday j unseen I stood, And all things stood to see her pass. The wild flowers laughed beneath her tread, I thought the very earth was glad To have her shadow on the grass. Birds followed her, and all things bent The way her blessed footsteps went. And watched her to the very last. The winds sank down and only sighed, And eager daisies, open-eyed, Stared after her until she passed. A SUMMER SONG. Sitting on the breezy height Of the topmost bough, Bird ! O bird ! my bonnie bird, What singest thou ? What the secret of thy heart, Tell me, bird, now ? I have come thy woods among, All alone here. Just to give my heart a tongue Without stint or fear, — Come to sing my soul out, Bird, where none may hear. A SUMMER SONG. 51 My song is love, is love, is love ! Bird, what is thine ? A whisper falls, O bonnie bird, Down the sweet sunshine, That softly tells me word for word Thy song is mine. O bird, but love is sweet, sweet. Sweet for me and you, So sweet that I could sit and sing A song for ever new, — Could sit beside thee, bonnie bird. The whole day through. ENDYMION. Last night, on Latmos as I stood alone, With eyes uplifted on the jewell'd height Of holy heaven, the golden dream came on — The dream that dims the sight. But opens other eyes, past life's extreme, On regions where the soul can rise unbound To those strange heights where earth becomes a dream And dreams are solid ground. My soul was led into a silent land Of shadowy-thoughted beauty, still and sweet — Led ever onward by an unseen hand That brought me to her feet. ENDYMION. 53 I knew she stood beside me, though my eyes To earthly things were bUnded everywhere ; I knew when sight came back, without surprise That I should see her there. She spoke, and ere I knew my dream had grown To gorgeous melting masses, like the clouds That veil Olympus when the day lies down In gold and purple shrouds. Through gulfs of misty music darkness fled In broken waves that tumbled into space : A moon-like dawn struck upward overhead — And we were face to face. Assuredly, unless the gods had sworn To mortal weakness, sending from above A more than mortal strength, I had not borne That rapture of her love. 54 LOVE POEMS. But suddenly my nature knew a change — A subtle change. I drank at every breath The ether of a life all new and strange Beyond the grasp of death. Beneath her eyes asunder broke the bars, My soul was lifted up, as from deep caves The climbing ocean clutches at the stars With hungry heaving waves. From deeper depths than earthly bliss can know, I felt my life drawn upward like a flame. When, bending over me to kiss my brow. She called me by my name. " Endymion ! I am here ! Arise ! Rejoice !" Ah then, the outstretched heavens, and this we call The earth, to me were empty, and her voice Was ringing through them all ! ENDYMION. 55 Hear me, ye gods ! while yet I offer up Another prayer for that hour ; for I — Since I have tasted the immortal cup — Must drink again or die. Oh gather up thy golden reins, and lash The hours to moments through the startled sky, Great Helios ! Strike till all thy team shall flash From maddened hoof to eye — Till falls that blessed hour of fading light. What time thy chariot in the western sea Hath cooled its wheels of fire, and holy night Brings back that dream to me. A REFLECTION. Within my lady's eyes I find the whole Of love's sweet moods reflected perfectly. First, there's the sweet serenity of soul, The rapturous rest, and deep felicity Love only knows : love that has reached its goal Of full and final peace, and has no more It can desire. Eyes, in whose holy rest Lie deeps of light unfathomed, and outpour A beauty so serene and self-possessed, It sanctifies the soul to look at them. I look again, and lo ! like summer air. That wakens into flame a sleeping river, Laughter has taken them with light so rare, It would content me well to look for ever. A RELIC. Only a woman's right-hand glove, Six and three-quarters, Courvoisier's make — For all common purposes useless enough. Yet dearer for her sweet sake. Dearer to me for her who filled Its empty place with a warm white hand — The hand I have held ere her voice was stilled In the sleep of the silent land. Only a glove 1 yet speaking to me Of the dear dead days now vanished and fled, And the face that I never again shall see Till the grave give back its dead. 58 LOVE POEMS. An empty glove ! yet to me how full Of the fragrance of days that come no more, Of memories that make us, and thoughts that rule Man's life in its inmost core. The tone of her voice, the pose of her head — All, all come back at the will's behest ; The music she loved, the books that she read — Nay, the colours that suited her best. And oh ! that night by the wild sea shore, "With its tears, and its kisses, and vows of love. When as pledge of the parting promise we swore, Each gave a glove for a glove. You laugh ! but remember though only a glove, And to you may no deeper a meaning express, 1 o me it is changed by the light of that love To the one sweet thing I possess ! A RELIC. 59 Our souls draw their nurture from many a ground ; And faiths that are different in their roots, Where the will is right and the heart is sound, Are much the same in their fruits. Men get at the truth by different roads, And must live for the part of it each one sees ; You gather your guides out of orthodox codes, I mine out of trifles Uke these. A trifle, no doubt ; but in such a case, So bathed in the light of a life gone by. It has entered the region and takes it place With the things that cannot die ! This trifle to me is of heavenly birth ; No chance, as I take it, but purposely given To help me to sit somewhat looser on earth And closer a little to heaven. 6o LOVE POEMS. For it seems to bring me so near, — oh so near, To the face of an angel watching above — That face of all others I held so dear, With its yearning eyes of love ! WHEN LOVE AND I WERE YOUNG. Oh starry nights and golden days ! Oh wondrous land of wild amaze ! Through which life's echoes rung ; Fierce fervours filled the earth and sky, We knew not whence, we cared not why, When Love and I were young. But this we knew, the time was blest, That sweet was waking, sweet was rest, That earth's fair blossoms flung A dreamy fragrance through the land Where we two wandered, hand in hand, When Love and I were young. 62 LOVE POEMS. And all the wondrous world was new. And faith was strong, and love was true, Unskilled in heart and tongue ; Untaught of wrong in any wise, The heart lay open in the eyes, When Love and I were young. Let caution shake her callous head When all her weary rules are read, And moral ranges rung ! The wine of life, its tears, its mirth, Were glorious vintages of earth, When Love and I were young. I counsel not to any wrong ; In every life there's joy and song, If it be rightly sung ; Beshrew the blockhead that would teach That all is wrong within the reach, When Life and Love are young WHEN LOVE AND I WERE YOUNG. 63 The carping world may preach and cry, I care not how they buzz and He, The stinging and the stung ; I hold their wisdom and their ways As hollow yet as in the days When Love and I were young. Let art and commerce, church and state, All that the world holds good and great, Have each their praises sung ; I'll swear, denounce it as you please, That life was holier than these. When Love and I were young. Good-bye ! good-bye ! they fade and die ; Out of the past I hear the cry. The hearts to mine that clung ! If all anathemas were hurled, I'd take their hand against the world. If Love and I were young. PRITHEE MADAM. Prithee madam, what are you, That you accept with scorning Love that is honourable, true. And constant, night and morning, Exacting it as beauty's due ? Beauty lures, but love must bind ; And beauty's long unkindness. Although that love were ten times blind, Cures him of his blindness — Gives him back his lucid mind. PRITHEE MADAM. 65 Though love, it seems, less pleases you Than admiration endless, You'll find in such a retinue Much that is cold and friendless, Flatterers many, lovers few. With these I neither sigh nor weep, I only give you warning, That for the future you must keep For some one else your scorning ; I'm sick of it. Good-morning ! PROMISES. Mayton Meadow, ^rd October, Mo?iday, midnight I. Clara, dear, I can think I see you sitting, half in wonder, half in fear, With this letter I am wTiting, in your hand, Wondering what should make me write in the middle of the night, And you guess and guess, and cannot understand. II. And I will leave you guessing, dearest, till you guess it out What mightily important news I have to speak about, PROMISES. 67 That at this unearthly season I should write ; Why I should find no better time to write my firiend a letter Than just close upon the middle of the night, III. Ah ! before I say another word, I can feel you guess it now, I can see the sudden thought that lifts a finger to your brow And kindles your sweet face with quick surprise : Yes ! darling, your good guessing has just saved me from confessing ; I can see the truth just dawning in your eyes. IV. You remember of our promise to each other, Clara mine. When we came from school together, in the spring of fifty-nine 68 LOVE POEMS. (Oh that dreary Milburn Junction, where we parted, Where the heartless shrieking train bore you off in \sind and rain. And left me on the platform broken-hearted). V. Our written vow that should be sacred, and in sacred honour kept, That we should tell our plighted hour, should tell '■'■before we slept" (These the words, for I remember every line) ; And now you know the reason why I write at such a season : You kept your promise, darling ; I keep mine. VI. His name I need not tell you — you foretold it once before, Just a year since. You remember of that walk upon the shore, PROMISES. 69 When on horseback he accosted you and me, When with faultless intuition, you then whispered your suspicion. You were right, though I said nothing— it is he. VII. It is he. (Oh, yet the thought will haunt me, even in my bliss. Had God but ruled the issue to another end than this, Had his love upon another been to fall ; Oh to whom such fate is given, thou dear God send down from Heaven Thine own comfort, for His sake that loved us all.) VIII. Well, to-day his younger brother, Alexander, came of age, So at night they held a monster gathering down at Fernytage, 70 LOVE POEMS. Where, of course, he was dispenser of the cheer, With his way so frank and hearty, life and soul of all the party, Looking handsomer than ever, Clara dear, IX. We had been dancing full an hour, when I, to have a rest, Took advantage of the Lancers going on (which 1 detest). When he came and stood beside me near the door — Asked if I would dance the next in a voice that seemed perplexed. And a manner I had never seen before. Well, we hardly had begun (it was a waltz : your aunt was playing) When he asked me I I pretended not to know what he was saying. PROMISES. 71 For the noise just at the time was running high, And you know how aunty jingles out that glorious waltz of GungTs : Oh that tune will haunt me, Clara, till I die. XI. For with slow deliberate whisper he repeated it again. Till he knew that I had heard him and escape was all in vain ; Oh I thought that every moment I would fall, And I felt that had I spoken but one word I should have broken Into tears, and stood confessed before them all. XII. And as we danced along I hardly knew where I was going, I seemed to hear the music of another world flowing 72 LOVE POEMS. To the feet of shadows flitting to and fro ; And, far out of earthly reaching, seem'd to hear a voice beseeching, Through the echo of a name that I should know. XIII. Till at length, with senses reehng, past the power of thought or feeling. Hearing ever but the accents of a passionate appealing, I entreated him that he would let me go ; But with firmer voice than ever he only whispered " Never, Till you answer me that question — Yes or No?" XIV. At that moment any other word than "Yes" I could have spoken, Though what I said I know not — something meaningless and broken ; PROMISES. Ti Yet all at once he ceased to ask me more, And I heard through noise and whirling only " Thank you, thank you, darHng," When suddenly he stopped just at the door. XV. I was upstairs in a moment, where I locked the door behind me, Oh, relief to be alone at last, where nobody could find me, — To be again secure from every eye ; I could keep my heart no more, so sat down just on the floor And, I hardly need to tell you, had a cry. XVI. Of course I never dreamt of going down again to dance, So put on my shawl and bonnet, waiting till I had a chance 74 LOVE POEMS. Of slipping down when nobody was there, "WTien I found, to my amazement, he was sitting in the casement, Waiting for me at the window in the stair — XVII. Waiting for me coat-and-hatted, so I could not choose but go, And in walking home together — well — I did not answer "No"; Oh, Clara, dearest Clara, how I love him ! I could lie in death's embrace leaning over that dear face, And shed my very soul in tears above him. LOVE IS ENOUGH. Oh come away from earthly noise ; WTiat are all its shallow joys When love has lit the heart ?— the light that renders Earth's best gifts but tinsel splendours, And all her prizes but the toys Of full-grown children. Unto you and me Love, love alone is the reality — All beside but empty roar, The barren billows of a bellowing sea Breaking for ever on a heedless shore — Mere noise ; no more, no more. Then come away and let it be ; Love is enough for you and me. 76 LOVE POEMS. Yea, though the world's foundations rock And stagger to the final shock, And earth be swallowed in the sea ; Though Nature's laws should break their trust, And bring the worlds to primal dust — If only love be left — as so it must — It is enough for you and me. Love that lifts us, love that dowers With purer riches higher powers ! That purges vision to the starry sight Of things immortal ! love that showers Upon the poorest life a grander light Than bathes this earth of ours. Oh to be thus for evermore ! With her head upon my breast, My little bird in her chosen nest Of circling arms, at rest, at rest ; Forgetting all we have possest, LOVE IS ENOUGH. ']^ Learning alone love's lore ; To hold for ever in embrace The speechless beauty of her face ; Ever striving to divine The heavenly things her eyes are saying Looking into mine. Those eyes of hers, that are to me My arguments for immortality ; For what but something gifted, something crown'd With godlike motive and eternal years, Could fill, without a word, without a sound, To shaking fulness Love's immortal cup With language that the spirit only hears — Bringing its speechless treasures up From those unfathomable spheres That lie far down beneath the source of tears. SONG. I SAT with her hand in mine, Last night when the sun went down, Our hearts were full of love's light divine, The light of life and the crown ; My soul spoke only to hers, And the listening heavens above. While up through her eyes for ever Answer'd the speechless river Of her love. No word between us arose — Wherefore at all the need ? For what are words to the heart that knows It loves, and is loved indeed? SONG. 79 But I sware in my heart for her, To the listening heavens above, While up through her eyes for ever Answer'd the speechless river Of her love. CAROLINE. Yes, that whisper you let fall In a flash revealed it all ; But your hint I must respectfully decline- For I still accept that " No " That you gave me years ago, As a final overthrow, Caroline. CAROLINE. 8 1 II. But your secret, never fear, I shall keep it, Carry dear, If 'twere only for the sake of " Auld Langsyne;" I could never now abuse it, Only, if I should refuse it, I'm afraid you must excuse it, Caroline. III. But you're sure to find, dear Carry, Some one else that you can marry, With a temper more compatible than mine ; You're superb in that pale pearl, And you're yet a pretty girl When your hair is well in curl, Caroline. G 82 LOVE POEMS. IV. With that exquisite soprano, And your touch on the piano, Not to mention other talents quite as fine, Your success should be complete ; Then, those eyes when they entreat, Might bring emp'rors to your feet, Caroline. But you must not hope to see Further worship now from me, For I cannot kneel again at the old shrine ; Though the temple, I concede,, Is still very fine indeed, I have somewliat changed my creed, Caroline. CAROLINE. 83 VI. Things are not with you and me What they were at twenty-three ; I'm now thirty {entre nous, you're twenty-nine) ; And you know as hearts grow older They will sometimes too grow colder, And, in short, run out of solder, Caroline. VII. Then, again, folk's views will alter ; Now the matrimonial halter Looks to me, if not more earthly, less divine ; Things look hardly quite so rosy ; Do you know I'm dropping poesy ? And — fact is, I'm getting prosy, Caroline. 84 LOVE POEMS. VIII. You think now I'll do you credit ; Tell me, has the world said it ? Or has the thought in any part been thine ? I am curious to know To whose offices I owe The good word that's changed you so, Caroline. IX. I can't think what it can be That has brought you back to me, I should like to hear the reasons you assign ; But we need not now debate What can ne'er affect our fate, For the change comes now too late, CaroUne. CAROLINE. 85 X. Yes, too late. Love's not a flower One can grow at any hour (At any rate it is not so with mine) ; And when reared with careful pain, It is killed with wind and rain, It will hardly come again, Caroline. XI. Ah ! the ghostly past, you see, Raises up 'twixt you and me A vague something that mere words will not define ; I can see through closed lids Something standing that forbids (Hearts have eyes as well as heads), Caroline. 86 LOVE POEMS. XII. But, away with vain regret, You, I know, will soon forget ; As for me, about past days I can't repine ; Though they touched a tender string, I was honest, and they bring Not the vestige of a sting, Caroline. XIII. But, dear Carry, have a care In your next petite affaire, For this little imp of Love we call divine ; This little high and mighty Wayward whelp of Aphrodite Will sometimes turn and bite ye, Caroline. AFTER THE HOLIDAY. What shall I do for the wrong I have done her ? Why did she hide her heart so long ? And never gave warning or word I had won her, Till reading together that farewell song ? Oh would that of parting we never had spoken ; She might have forgot it, and all been well, And the passion-cloud passed overhead unbroken — But how could I hinder it ? How could I tell ? How could I know what her heart was concealing ? She laughed at love-making the whole day long ; With never a hint of more serious feeling, How could I know I was doing her wrong ? 88 LOVE POEMS. Was she cheating herself with her own delusion Right up to that moment when reading alone, To her maidenly shame and my utter confusion, The tear-gates burst and the mask was thrown ? Then what could I do with her head on my shoulder ? Her great gray eyes looking up into mine ! what was I thinking of not to have told her ? — Yet how to have done so ? She made no sign. 1 thought she was jesting, as I was doing ; That our walks and our talks and our readings in rhyme, Our stately politeness, and pastoral wooing, Were only employments for holiday time. Oh heart of a woman ! for who can sound it ? How hard but to touch it, even in play, And leave it exactly the same as you found it, Without something added or taken away. AFTER THE HOLIDAY. 89 To think that an unforeseen trifle Hke this Should hamper a soul in a serious sense, Propounding a question for bale or for bliss, So full of a deathless consequence ! Is Love only Fate with a different name ? 'Twere better to know it before we begin, Than suddenly find that the carefuUest game Is out of our hands when the heart comes in ? The act of a moment ! a word ! a touch ! — Too kindly a look in the eyes — may be Just a scruple put into the scales too much. And the balance is struck in eternity ! A DEBT OF HONOUR. Stand back ! and let me forward there ; Stand back, I say ! I cannot brook The salaried stranger's well-meant prayer, And hackney'd phrases from the book. Across the corpse of him I loved ; Stand back, and keep official grief For those who need it, or approv't ; — To me it cannot give relief. One little moment I will crave. One little moment let me speak ; I cannot stand beside his grave In silence, or my heart will break. A DEBT OF HONOUR. 9^ Forgive me if I seem to take Your priestly ofRce thus away ; The sole excuse that I can make — I have the larger debt to pay. He stood beside me in my need, A tested friend when friendship breaks — The test that shakes the Christless creed, Forsaking what the world forsakes. 'Tis right that I should tell, who know What few could know or understand, How great he was when here below. Who now sits down at God's right hand. For his was not the good that turns Its grandest side to earthly eyes. Rather the steady flame that burns Within the secret sanctuaries. 92 LOVE POEMS. No, friend, you could not know him much ; You judged him right, his views were broad ; He shunn'd the shackles — would not touch What circumscribed the Church of God. You did not see the heart that yearn'd Beyond the Hmits of your creed, But half suspected, half discern'd, The sowing of the holier seed. The fire that leaps from heart to heart In silent lightnings flashed abroad, That worketh not by clerkly art. But soweth on the winds of God. 'Tis true, you could not well be friends In higher matters, you and he ; Too blind, perhaps, to present ends, He failed to see what you could see. A DEBT OF HONOUR. 93 He valued low those kinds of truth Creed-guarded, labelled well, and priced ; Trade-marked, and paid for; no, in sooth, He had not so conceived of Christ. But where in wretchedness it lay, Struck dumb with lips and eyes aghast, His goodness gave him right of way Where you, friend priest, have seldom passed. Yes, Truth has many a carpet knight — The wordy warrior in dispute May well look here on him whose fight Was hand to hand, and foot to foot. Who stormed a citadel of lies, Who cut his way through privileged wrong With that sublime self-sacrifice Of his, as pure as it was strong. 94 LOVE POEMS. Who ready at the highest call Rushed madly on opposing spears, And died upon the breaking wall, The victor's triumph in his ears — The victor's shout, the victor's frown, And yet I know, when this man fell. Truth shuddered ! and a peal ran down Of laughter terrible in hell ! Sleep on, brave heart ! Thy soul has fled Where earthly arrow may not reach ; When angels come to claim the dead, They'll find thy body in the breach. GOOD-BYE. We stood together while the bell was ringing, There in the busy station by the sea ; Near us, a soldier's wife in tears was clinging Close to her husband's side. No word said we, But looking both away, our own eyes met : A quick confusion took me, and a blush Went up her lovely eyes and face, but yet No word was spoken, till there came a rush Of hurrying feet, and in the buzz and crush I held her hand a moment ; I forget What then was said, for speaking was cut short By first, the engine's whistle, then a snort ; The train was off! and I had time to find My luggage, with my heart, — was left behind. A LOST LOVE. Good-bye, my love that was ; my love that is, If love could live on earthly food alone. When all the starry wonder that is his Is faded out and gone ; For you liis robes of light are worn away, A common creature now, made of the common clay. The word, the gesture, the unconscious touch, That love with such a meaning could endow, The little kindnesses that meant so much — All, all are vanished now; The haggard present, like a mocking fiend, Points at the past, and cries, " For you the fruit is gleaned." A LOST LOVE. 97 Stand still, and let me see once more the eyes That broke upon me like the dawn of day, The glorious creature, clad in angel's guise, That stole my heart away ; The face that once looked fondly into mine, And set my clinging soul ablaze with love's new wine. Oh was I robbed alike of sense and sight ! These months, when every trifle gave a theme To keep love's altar burning day and night ; Or was it all a dream ? Can that which once was true be true no more ; Or was it but truth's mask some evil demon wore ? Those summer rambles with a favourite book, The music that made love an open scroll, Those swift interpretations of a look That flashed from soul to soul ; H 98 LOVE POEMS. Those rapturous encounters of the mind, When thought leaps up to thought, and leaves the word behind. But wherefore speak ? Let's break the unholy ban, Since thou hast torn away the sacred root. Which differentiates the heart of man From instinct of the brute ; Since love's most hallowed portion may not be. Give whom you will the rest, — Good-bye, 'tis not for me. A FAREWELL. Farewell ! yet not for ever ! When at last The world has worn its weary servant out, A bait no longer worth its while to cast Across the seething rout, Come back to me. Though all the world should flout, Come back ! and I will help thee with thy load. The saddening years may yield the better thought, And tears for thy first love bring back thy heart to God. LOVE QUESTIONINGS. (A SONG.)^ Ask me no more, for Love can never show A reason why her heart should come or go ; That mine doth beat for thee is all I know — Ask me no more. Ask me no more, dear heart — Love reasons none ; Nay, Reason's self, beneath Love's mightier sun, Abandons all her reasons, one by one — Ask me no more. ■^ After Thomas Carew, 1 580-1639. LOVE QUESTIONINGS. loi Ask me no more ; but say, if we could know Whence all Love's secret subtle sources flow — Answer me, sweet, would Love be sweeter so ? — Ask me no more. Ask me no more ; like flowers beneath the sod That wait for summer, Love in its abode Beyond our utmost will is moved of God — Ask me no more. LOVE'S REJOINDER. Why do I love you ? Why do rivers run ? Why does the north wind rage, the south wind sigh ? Why loves the earth to bask beneath the sun ? These follow but their nature, so do I. How do the flowers love — every flower its season ? Why loves the far-off hill its opal mist ? The birds sing out their love, but give no reason — It is enough for these that they exist. As comes in spring the murmur of the dove, As song of lark that cleaves the summer sky, My heart goes out to thee, my love, my love, And I can give no better reason why. LOVE'S REJOINDER. 103 It is not for your beauty, nor for pleasure, Your matchless body, nor your balanced mind ; For each of these is but an earthly measure For that which leaves earth's measures all behind. Love, life, and death are of the things that come Without our will, our effort, or our art ; In their unbidden presence man is dumb, For these are masters never man could thwart. What do we know of love ? — its why, or whence ? We only know it flashes from the gloom Of things outside our sanction or our sense ; And when it does we stand beside our doom. Under the rich man's roof, or poor man's rafter, When love has entered in, for ill or well, That moment stamps itself on man's hereafter, Whatever name he gives it — heaven or hell. I04 LOVE POEMS. For though it cannot be but love's first seed Should fall on earthly soil, and earth must handsel it, Transplanted into man's immortal creed, Time may defy eternity to cancel it. And though love lies concealed in blinding light That baffles reason, mocks the poet's prayer For power to tell its infinite depth and height, Content, we still can breathe its blessed air. Let it suffice for you and me, that each Heart knows its secret, loves it not less well, Because it lies too deep, too dear for speech — It would be less than love if we could tell. RONDEAU. When I am dead, and all my heart's distress Lies in the sweet earth's green forgetfulness, I care not, love, if all the world go by My quiet grave without a word or sigh, If thou but think of me with gentleness. World's praise or blame is nothing, hit or miss : Love is alone the measure of our bliss, And safe within love's heart my name will lie When I am dead. To thee, my darling, all will seem amiss. Till gentle time shall help thee to dismiss Death's gloom ; for that, too, has its time to die, And sorrow's thought grows hallowed by-and-bye. Take courage, then, dear suffering heart : Read this When I am dead. a^iscellancou0 Poems GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE AND BELLS OF FLORENCE. What magic hangs about thee, dear old tower, That when I look upon thee, face to face, Thy beauteous presence wields a mystic power That binds me to the place? Something beyond thy sweet and simple beauty — Something beyond thy more than human voice, That seems to speak to all of love and duty — Bidding the world rejoice. A something more than strikes the outward ear Wells through thy mellow music, driving hence All earthly thoughts, till heaven's voice I hear Touching the inner sense. no MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A fitting voice for thee, thou white-robed angel, Standing in marble purity so fair. For ever sending forth thy sweet evangel Up through the summer air. Could I but tell the world what thou art saying. And in some strong undying way unload Thy rapture, — all that thou art singing, praying, In the sweet light of God ! Art thou of earth, or one of heaven's choir, Holding a consecrated soul up there, Uplifting to the heaven of thy desire Thy voice of song and prayer ? Tell us — for thou art nearer God than us, And hast communion of thine own — what balm Of hidden love is at thy heart that thus Attunes thy holy psalm ? GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE. m Or say, Art thou a poet, one who borrows The fire of heaven to wing his words with power, And sitteth, singing his immortal sorrows, Up in his heart's white tower? Say, Art thou one of that immortal throng — One giving all for nothing he can take ; Who thankless drains a bleeding heart of song For this poor world's sake ? Thou hast a poet's power upon me, and, Beneath thy hallow'd voice, sweet tears are shed ; And willing memory at thy command Gives back her buried dead. Again my soul is bathed as if with dew Of that sweet time that brings a heavenly mood, And gathers round it all it ever knew Of beautiful and good. 112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Again the past, at thine enchantment, brings Her keys, and all my soul within me waits, While heavenly troops of long-forgotten things Pass through the golden gates. Ring on ! ring out your riches, holy bells ! The weary world has need of all your song ; Your soothing voice of saintly sorrow tells No tale of earthly wrong. Ring on ! ye lead us to the higher life ; Though hearts are sere, and sorrowing eyes are wet. We follow you, or, dying in the strife, Shall win the heavens yet. RAIN. Rain ! rain ! Oh, sweet Spring rain ! The world has been calling for thee in vain Till now, and at last thou art with us again. Oh, how shall we welcome the gentle showers, The baby drink of the first-bom flowers. That falls out of heaven as falleth the dew. And touches the world to beauty anew. Oh, rain ! rain ! dost thou feel and see How the hungering world has been waiting for thee? How every crack of the earth drinks down With lips that but late were haggard and brown ? How streamlets whisper, and leaves are shaken, And winter-sleeping things awaken, 114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And look around them, and rub their eyes, And laugh into life at the glad surprise ; How the tongues are loosened that late were dumb. For " the time of the singing of birds has come ;" How every tender flower holds up, In trembling balance, its tiny cup, To catch the food that in sultry weather, Must hold its little life together. Oh blessings on thee, thou sweet Spring rain, That callest dead things to life again ! Rain ! rain ! Oh, Summer rain ! Tell me why dost thou complain, And streak with tears my window-pane ? Say, sweet Summer, why disguise In Winter's garb thy bright blue skies ? Tell me, why should'st thou be weeping, When all the world else is keeping RAIN. 115 Holiday? When every sound Is calling on thee to keep the round, The chatter of swallows beneath the eaves, The breezy music of murmuring leaves ; While sitting unseen in the odorous larches The blackbird sends out through the tasselled arches That song of his, with the deep-long note, As if pouring his soul through his open throat, And hark ! that voice, the sweetest of all The singers in earth's glad madrigal. The streamlet that dances down the hill, To her own sweet voice, at her own sweet will. In again ! out again ! leaping along. Her music is motion, her motion a song. The stones about her feet rejoice. Touched by the magic of that voice. Through ferny-throated fissures gargling. Of waters into waters warbling. Nay, the sun himself, despite thy fears, ii6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Is peeping and laughing through thy tears. Come, come, sweet Summer, and dry thine eyes ; But still through her tears the Summer replies — *' Alas, 'tis not for me to know Why these sad tears of mine should flow, Why joy should fill the heart as full As sorrow does, and overrule The soul like this. My life, as thine, Moves to an influence divine — Bound by the same mysterious bond To the life behind it, and life beyond. And so compassed about with its hopes and its fears. That looking for laughter it falls upon tears — Yea, and out of its sorrow and sore dismay Oft finding the path to a brighter day. Then suffer awhile these tears to flow, The after heavens will be clearer so." So sang the Summer as the sweet rain fell ; But the source of her sorrow she could not tell. RAIN. 117 • Rain ! rain ! Wild Winter rain ! Hark at the winds how they howl again As the rushing waters come down amain, And lash, and wrestle, and A\Tithe, and hiss — The fiends must be loose in a night like this. As for me, I am taking the grim delight Of facing the elements in their might. Up here alone, and at such an hour (It is near midnight in the minster tower). On the great cathedral wall I stand. Holding like death with either hand. Watching the stormy demons fight (God help the houseless in such a night). Though I cling to the feet of the hugely colossal Proportions of Angelo's giant apostle ; Though I stand by the base of the big stone piers That have borne the shock and the passion of years, — The stones that have held, high up in the air, Ii8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The great bell tower for centuries there, — Yet I tremble to think, as the storm grows apace, That some night the pillars will fall from their place And Merciful God ! what a flash was there ! How it seemed to leap out of the central stair And light for a moment with lurid fire Every point of the great north spire, Then danced down the roof from shelf to shelf. While I had not a hand to cross myself; And close on the back of it, over and under, Leapt up in a moment the quick, short thunder Till the earth seemed to reel, as if inwardly shaken With dread at the thought of a life forsaken — As if God had thrown up the reins of the world. And given it away to be hustled and hurled Heedless along as the winds compel. Whether the road be to heaven or hell ! Like a maniac robbed of reason and will, W'iih never a law of its own to fulfil ! RAIN. 119 But there goes my cowl ! and I stand headbare ; I durst not lift my hand to my hair, For should I let go for a moment — pshaw ! I'm over the roof like a bundle of straw For the storm-fiends to hoot at, and batter and ban, And St. Clement's is short of a sacristan. So I cling to the legs of St. Peter, in stone (He's a rock up here, let the heathen rage on) ; Ay, would that I had the heretic here. With his mouthing omniscience and creedless sneer, An hour on the roof might bring to a pause His placid expoundings of Nature's laws, And teach him the diffrence in heaven's own way 'Twixt God the potter and Man the clay. But hark up there, in the minster tower The big bell booms out the midnight hour. While the storm leaps up as if ready to fight, That none but himself shall be heard to-night ; For out of the twelve I heard but four. I20 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, The wind ran away with the rest in a roar, And battered and beat them about the spire ; And, clashing and tossing them higher and higher, Tore them to shreds, far up in the air, Till they died out at last in a yell of despair ; And the torrent still pours on the roof like a river, As if heaven had decreed it should rain for ever, Till the grinning stone devil on the western spout Through his huge red throat sends the waters out With a glut and a gurgle that seems to say, " I like it, I like it — storm away 1" While over his head, in his niche up there, With eyes uplifted in endless prayer, Kneels godly Augustine, just as when He pleaded on earth for the souls of men. His gaze seems to pierce through the lurid levens Far into the plains of the restful heavens, With the greatness about him, and calm control. The silent repose of a sovereign soul. RAIN. 121 As I look on his face I seem to hear His grand old prayer, serene and clear — " Blest be the storm, whatever it be, That drives us at last, O God ! to Thee." And the words I so often have sung and said Seemed to strike anew as I bowed my head To the sweetest of saints and the best of men. And my heart responded "Amen ! Amen !" AOEDE. Bend thou thine eyes on me, Sweet Poesy, and give me of thy grace ; I leave the blustering world and turn to tliee, To seek the holy smile upon thy face : Without thee life were wretched and forlore — Touch thou my heart once more. The world is heedless now, And careth not to watch thy beauteous ways ; They cannot see the light upon thy brow, As did thy worshippers in olden days : Gone, like a dream, thy sacred Helicon, And all the light thereon ! AOEDE. 123 Thy grove, thy shaded well, No more remembered in the world's cold sense, Oh teach thou me, thy servant, yet to dwell Within the reach of thy sweet influence ; Nor grovel down into the soul that feeds Only on mortal needs ! If all thy songs be sung. The blame is ours : the world is changed and old; But thou, a maid immortal, ever young. Thou changest not — thou wilt not yet be cold To such as love thee in the heart's true way — Then stay, sweet goddess, stay ! They live that love thee yet. Here, at thy feet, beholding such an one. Accept his vows : though all the world forget, He swears that while within his veins shall run The blood of life, that life is only thine, By all thy ways divine ! 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I'd rather live with thee A creedless life — like those that long ago Crowned thee with flowers in vine-trailed Thessaly — Than join with men that creep their creeds below, Clothing in sanctity their mammon lies And hideous uncharities ! I'd rather live apart In poverty — of all the world unknown — Might I but hear thy voice within my heart The while I walked in summer woods alone. I care not what blind fortune shall assign If thou art only mine. SPRING. I STAND alone among the pines in May, In that sweet time when earliest bees are humming, And birds are loudest on the budding spray, And Summer sends in front a glorious day To tell the longing year that she is coming. Her heart is full because of her delay : So full that she must weep sweet dews, that fall In blissful tears through all the lonely night. Oh Thou Eternal Source of our delight, Creator and Controller of it all ! I thank Thee here, that I, Thy creature too, A world-worn weary heart, can rest awhile. And worship Thee, as Thy dumb creatures do, In silent thankfulness that knows no guile. POESY. Poesy, I love thee. Earth, in endless praise of thee, Of all the sweet wild ways of thee, Sings for ever ! And my song Is but another in the throng. To tell thee how we love thee. Listen to the singing now Pouring from the topmost bough That waves its green above thee ! Downward to thy dewy feet Where low voices mix and meet, And winds among the grasses sweet Whisper that we love thee. POESY. Minstrel mine, I hear thee ; All that loving praise of thine, All those Hquid lays of thine, I have seen them, I have heard. Now I give thee thy revrard, Poet, dost thou hear me ? I will not mock thee with a name, Thankless gift of earthly fame, No other joy a-near thee. I will give thee love for love, I will keep thy heart above, And in thy sorrow cheer thee. 127 I will give thee heavenly food To sustain the poet's mood, Wine and oil and holy meat, That will make thy memory sweet : Poet, never fear me. 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. When the days are dark and drear I will keep thy vision clear ; And in the world's ungrateful fight I will keep thy heart aright : Poet, dost thou hear me ? EARLY SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. Under the shade of an olive tree, In a garden with flowers aglow, Whose terraces slope to the shining sea, Which lies like a mirror below, I lie full length on a tiger skin — With a skin of my own well browned — The palms of my hands tucked under my chin, And my elbows stuck in the ground. The garden where you, love, and I have been So many an hour together, Watching the blue sea's changing sheen In the bright Bas-Alpine weather. K I30 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. So soft an air creeps through the trees, The small leaves tremble none — Enough just to break with a tempering breeze The heat of a southern sun. The gray old olive around me throws A glamour of golden gloom, And the air is rich with the breath of the rose, The jasmine and orange bloom. You remember the walk you were wont to admire, With its roses each side of the way, Wliere the pathway ends in a fountain of fire — The golden acacia ! 'Tis there I lie, as in days before, And dream to the ocean's sound, As the billows come in on the tidelcss shore, With a sea-voice deep and round. SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. 131 'Twixt wave and wave, as the voices float, Such motionless pauses lie, I can hear the faint cicala's note. And the laden bee go by. And ever again a louder roll — A wave with a voice of its own — Comes in with the cry of its breaking soul, And dies in a long sea-moan. But out in mid-ocean, miles from the shore. It is still as still can be, Leagues upon leagues, an opal floor. Of the great unbroken sea — As fair as when creation's rod Rested from its employ, When the morning stars and the sons of God Sang together for joy. 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I rest my eyes where, thin and fine, And far as sight can see, The utmost belt of the faint sea-line Touches eternity. And the soul passing out, as it were in a dream, Sees all the world anew. And things unsought for flash and gleam Within its widened view. And I think of the kingdoms the sea has seen In the distant days of yore, Of the pomps and the splendours that once have been- Now silent for evermore. The long-dead dynasties of old — Phcenicia, Greece, and Rome, And Tyre, that carried her purple and gold Athwart the Cyprian foam. SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. 133 Of Egypt's glory, great awhile, Ere she of passionate breath, The dread, sweet serpent of old Nile, Hugged Antony to death. Before the voice of Greece was hushed In war's discordant peal. And all her lyric heart lay crushed Beneath great Caesar's heel. Days when the tuneful world was peace, And happier deeds were sung, When all the golden isles of Greece With rhythmic numbers rung. O waters of the rich-isled East ! 'Twas thou that gave them birth, And rocked upon thy sunny breast The great ones of the earth. 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Where red ^gean fruits hang ripe, Or where the streamlet pours Soft music to a shepherd's pipe On fair Sicilian shores. 'Twas there the immortals spoke, and then The words that cling and climb, They echo yet in the hearts of men, And shall to the end of time. Thy song, wherever song takes root, Shall find a vernal birth AVith that great language which has put Its girdle round the earth. And all who use the mighty tongue Of England still look back Where thou across the sea of song Hast left thy shining track. SUMMER ON THE MEDITERRANEAN. 135 But hark ! the nightingale's voice has come, And echoes on peach and pine, And a beetle goes by with the louder hum That tells of the day's decline. A breeze comes out of the cloudy tower Where the sky and the ocean meet, And the sea-floor breaks into blossom and flower At the touch of invisible feet. My dream dissolves like the breaking light On the wind-struck mirror below. And I cry to the sea " Good-night, good-night !" As I rise to my feet and go. A MODERN MISERERE. (The Bishop, returning from a Science Congress, ruminates.) O Lord, our times arc cold and dead, Religion but a world's show, Where truth is starved, and hope is fled, And faith is burning low. The wisdom of the sweet old days Is trodden in the common ways. Miserere Domine ! No doctrine but the kind that's grown To-day hath any man received : It must be noisy and new-blown Before it is believed - A MODERN MISERERE. 137 The ripened thought that ruled the past Is losing hold and faUing fast. Miserere Domine ! Truth, Lord, is crucified afresh Upon the modern cross of science, If not with mangling of the flesh. With all the old defiance, — With just the same ingenious art And moral blindness of the heart. Miserere Domine ! And we must join the vulgar fray, And e'en be taught how truth can grow By men who have forgot to pray In blind desire to know. Lord ! how the devil still can harden With that old apple of the garden ! Miserere Domine ! 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The garden, said I ? that, alas, Has long been cast without the pale Of modern creeds ; effete and crass, At best an old wife's tale, With all its promise, all its glory, Pruned down to make a children's story. Miserere Domine ! They think to break Thy word, forsooth, By picking here and there a hole ; They scratch the husk of Eden's truth, And think to reach its soul. They do not see the sword of flame Still standing at the gate the same. Miserere Domine ! Good Lord ! that men should sit and burn Beneath the philosophic doubt, The learned logic that would turn Heaven's secrets inside out ! A MODERN MISERERE. 139 And re-arrange our holy things In self-complacent vapourings. Miserere Domine ! To sit and listen by the hour (And feel half guilty by connivance) To bland concessions of God's power, His forethought and contrivance, — The maunderings of the pious hack Who pats creation on the back. Miserere Domine ! Or worse, stuffed out with science' saws, A boasted age's educator, God's creature proving from God's laws That there is no Creator ! The things that owe to Thee their force Turned round to spurn the primal source Miserere Domine ! 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Disciples of the modern schools, Whose culture scorns the common herd Of miracle-believing fools, That all along have erred And still obstruct the world's advance With antiquated ignorance. Miserere Domine 1 Philosophers, who laugh at faith. And all its miracles despise. Though miracles of life and death Stare daily in their eyes. In faiths that give Thy word the lie, How fond is their credulity ! Miserere Domine ! Oh teach us. Lord, before we fall Too utterly away from Thee, That knowledge is not all in all. That in our wisdom we A MODERN MISERERE. 141 May all things know, and yet for us Our souls be poor as Lazarus. Miserere Doniine ! Lord, strike not yet. It cannot be But this is temporary froth, Upheavings of a troubled sea : Earth-darkness, which the growth Of thy sweet light will purge away And chasten to the perfect day. Miserere Domine ! THE MODERN SPHINX. O, RIDDLE hard of solving, ceaseless orb of life revolving, All-creating, all-dissolving, whence and whither dost thou run? Canst thou hear earth's song of gladness ; cry of pain, and death, and sadness ; All the mirth and all the madness of this world be- neath the sun? With its crowds deceived, deceiving, still the old false hopes believing. Every step beyond retrieving, leading downward to the grave ; THE MODERN SPHINX. 143 With its endless life-stream flowing, myriads coming, myriads going. Death but reaps what life is sowing, as the wave blots out the wave. With its crowds believing nothing, taking earth with all its loathing, As the spirit's highest clothing, and the final end of all; Judging man's immortal nature but a dream's distorted feature, Seeing nothing in his stature over things that breed and crawl. Must we take the cold and bloodless creed of the con- tented godless. The fruitless, flowerless, budless graft 01 Reason's boasted seed, 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. While the old, " Yea, God hath spoken," stript of all its heavenly token. Is cast aside and broken to make room for man's new creed ? Can we give our hearts' compliance to this fate-bound creed of science, With its sneer of cold defiance, holding prayer a wasted breath. While deaf to all appealing, every stroke the wheel is dealing Sends its crowds of victims reeling into dust of dream- less death ? Or, shall we seek soul-quarter in the miserable charter Of a low, degrading barter — joys of heaven and pains of hell ? As if the god-given banner of a man's immortal honour, With a price affixed upon her, were a thing to buy and sell ! THE MODERN SPHINX. 145 Shall we bow beneath the preaching of the church's garbled teaching, With its farce of heavenly reaching over lines it must not pass? With its multiform complexion ; every fierce and wrang- ling section Self-asserting a perfection that's denied it in the mass. Quacks that pour their paid -for thunder through the gates of fear and wonder, Shall we tear their creeds asunder, toss the fragments to the skies ? Priests and preachers leave behind us, with the windy words that blind us. Till the light can hardly find us through the mesh of twisted lies ? 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Silence, babbler ! close beside thee there's a higher word to guide thee, — All the creeds that chafe and chide thee are but dust of passing strife ; Over all earth's fleeting phases, clashing doctrine, swelling phrases, God the simpler standard raises of the creed that was a Life. That win stand though churches crumble ; when the system-mongers stumble In their own distracted jumble, that at least will never fall. And when science-doctors scout thee, priests denounce, or bigots flout thee. Fold the simpler faith about thee, and act justly by them all. THE END OF THE ARGUMENT. I AM a woman, you Have man's strong vision : yet it may be said What we see we see clearly, though our view Be limited. I feel that I am right. And yet t'were vain in me your creed to call In question ; I will hope, on closer sight. That after all We differ but in word, We recognise one God by different name ; And surely hair's-breadth reasoning is absurd Where faith's the same ? 148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. We bow to one great Cause, One all-pervading Power from sky to sod : You call it Nature, Force, Eternal Laws, — I call it God. You see Him in the power That guides the floating worlds through utmost space, And in their shining courses every hour Keeps all in place. You search his works about In ways we women scarce can understand, Till Earth and Air give all their secrets out At your command. Faith is enough for me. But men must know — must watch the Light that plays Under and over all things like a sea. I read his ways THE END OF THE ARGUMENT. 149 In every bird that sings, In every tangled branch of budding twig, — For surely God is God of little things As well as big. The cold clear light men lay On things like these is more than ours ; but then, Though we grope darkly, we can find the way As well as men. God knows we cannot bring Such light as yours to teach us what is true, And, knowing this, makes faith an easier thing For us than you. And if we reach one end. If we with all our searching find out Him, To fight about the road — and with my friend — Were idle whim. ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But should earth's wisest showing End not in this, where all true wisdom must, I leave it ; it is not of Heaven's bestowing. And I can trust. THE BISHOP EXHORTETH THE SICK IN HOSPITAL. (the semi-delirious one replieth.) Oh saintly soul-salver, I know you well ! You're a gospel prophecy come to light, The sign and the wonder the Scriptures foretell When Christianity's husk and shell Will threaten its heart like a blight. The day of false prophets who show the road, In a world deceiving and being deceived, When the truth shall be trampled and overtrod, When Mammon shall sit in the temple of God, And his lie will be believed. 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Nay, keep your temper, and hear me out — A word for a word, it is but fair-play — Since I've heard with attention most devout Your censure of me, — too true, no doubt, — You must hear what I have to say. If you're only amused there is something gained, And a debt is paid you have honestly earned ; For think of the times you have entertained Whole churchfuls of people who never complained. But suffered you unconcerned. To me you were better, you're as good as a play AVhen the temper is up and the lungs are loud. And the bag-fox sinner is out and away. To be worried once more in the face of day Before an admiring crowd. THE SICK MAN'S ANSWER. 153 But to fight an abstraction is no great game Compared to a sinner in concrete fact ; So I freely forgive the professional flame, And the roughness of tongue with which you blame, Though myself am the sinner attacked. A sinner, alas, I allow ; but then Wherever 'tis made is the charge not true ? Are there any exceptions ? Say one in ten ? No ! this is the jacket which fits all men. Then pray, sir, what are you ? Are you more than a man, and have you no share In the every-day dangers besetting us all ? Will you open your Bible and show me where Your warrant is found for the judge's chair, And exemption from the Fall ? 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Wherein is the likeness to Christ, I pray, In an act Uke this, in which you track A sick fellow-wayfarer's suffering clay, Till you've hunted him down, and brought him to bay. Helpless, and on his back? And talk of his sins to the man you have tracked- Of whose prior existence you hardly knew ; Do the sinner's misfortunes absolve your act ? Or think you, because my body is racked, My soul is disabled too? In health as in sickness my sins I avow, And pray for their pardon while flesh endures ; They are more, far more, than enough, I trow ; But I shall not add to their number now By encouraging you in yours. THE SICK MAN'S ANSWER. 155 Oh I wrong you not ! I know your place — You're a worldling doing the work of a saint ; But in me you have wholly mistaken your case : You must go elsewhere with your holy grimace And your sepulchre coat of paint. The Church as a part of the world you know : It's a business you have at your fingers' ends, — Its inward machinery outward show, How the funds are raised, and the side-winds blow, And the general policy tends. Its earthly competitors, how they are led — To interests like these you are more than awake ; In these you have work for your worldly head ; But here, as you sit by a sick man's bed, You are simply a huge mistake. 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I acknowledge your gifts, and your practical mind, — Your eloquence too in its proper field ; But the still small voice, and the words that bind, With Christ's own fetters, a man to his kind, To you is a secret sealed. Though you speak with the tongue of angels and man, Work wonders, move mountains, give all to the poor, There's a grace you want, shrinks them all to a span : Believe it or not, there's a flaw in your plan — Foundations are insecure. But who shall convince my Lord Bishop of sin ? What has he to repent of, or confess ? He's already attained — there is nothing to win : To the Church he is spotless without and within, And all men acquiesce. THE SICK MAN'S ANSWER. 157 You are angry ? ah, well, as you go through the street, Though your brow is black, and your lip is curled, There is plenty to solace you, — words more sweet ; 'Twill be Rabbi ! and Rabbi ! from all you meet — You are back to your Church in the world TWO SERMONS. "The church bell, which elsewhere calls people together to worship God, calls them together in Scotland to listen to a preach- vient.'''' — Isaac Taylor. No. I. You take too much upon you, friend ; You speak in far too firm a tone Of others' sins, for one who has A human nature of his own. I highly prize your moral worth, Your sterling virtues pure and strong ; But whether these sliould give you ground To frown upon the weak and wrong TWO SERMONS. 159 I question much. Bethink yourself, — You still are human after all, And therefore should not quite forget You too are liable to fall. You need not preach a Christian creed With any hope men's souls to win. If in your heart you do not feel Some sense of fellowship in sin. And even although the bulk of men Were poor and weak where you are strong, You'd better try to lead them right Than scold them when you deem them wrong. You hurt your office and your power By taking ground so high as this ; The world will not be led by such Hard self-sufficing righteousness. i6o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. You but provoke its criticism, And feed it with the very food That keeps it living in the \\Tong, Though you may think you're doing good. The truths you teach may be the best, And yet the teaching fail in merit ; Christ's truth itself may yet be taught With something of the devil's spirit. No. IL ( Ancien regime ; but not dead yet. ) His text was one that gave him room To fume, and fulminate, and make The house of God a house of gloom, — A text to make the sinner quake. Corruption was the theme of it. And Hell the lurid gleam of it. TWO SERMONS. i6i Mankind, he preached, were poisoned through ; Corrupt without, corrupt within, Black was the universal hue, — " In short," said he, " the rock of sin On every side has wrecked you all. Moral and intellectual." With Calvinistic pessimism He found all hopeful creeds unfit, And plucked, according to his schism, The sourest plums from Bible writ. And tried to palm them off on us, With solemn croak cacophonous. And as he argued — pulpit-perched — A gracious God indorsed his views, I turned my eyes away, and searched For children's faces in the pews. I felt I must not look at him For fear I threw the book at him. M i62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. He proved each man from head to foot A mass of putrefying sore, Thoughts festering in a heart of soot, Sin oozing out at every pore. The body and the soul of us, The Devil had the whole of us. He loved his theme, 'twas clear enough For all the rottenness and dirt And rank defilement of the stuff, — One felt he had the thing at heart. He hugged it so, and handled it And dressed it up, and dandled it. Then plunging past the gates of death He mixed the sinner's awful cup. Till hot and red he stopt for breath, And mopped the perspiration up. If terror could re-fashion us. He did not spare the lash on us. TWO SERMONS. 163 I saw him when the task was done, His gown and morals packed away, His deep self-satisfaction won. His reeking supper on the tray ; And looking through the smoke of it, 'Twas then I saw the joke of it. The pious wrath, the wordy run, From every mouth too glibly poured, Which makes us feel that we have done Some special service for the Lord. Oh the deceiving seed of it ! The tongue without the deed of it ! CREEDS. The truths that everybody sees, Dear friend, let's rather think on these Than dwell upon the differences. Why should religion run to seed Upon the borders of a creed On which no two men are agreed, When there's so much of common land Where honest men can take a stand. And shake each other by the hand, — A blessed land of pastures green And quiet waters, where unseen The soul can rest herself between CREEDS. 165 The struggles of life's battle storm, And hide her from the earthly worm Of her distresses multiform ; — A land — earth's heritage — that lies In all men's hearts, in all men's eyes, An ever-smiling paradise ! Why labour so to ferret out Those arguments that writhe about And nourish only strife and doubt ? Let's rather with a wise decision Stamp out the points that breed division And bring God's truth into derision. They live but in the truth's disguise, They have no savour of the skies. And feed no soul-necessities. 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The points on which we disagree Are but the fruits of that old tree That poisoned our humanity — Diseases of an earthly state ; If we can only trust and wait We'll lay them down at heaven's gate. Why then insist upon them here, Till all that honest men hold dear Becomes the butt of sceptic sneer ? We are not blameless : who can tell How much this sin of ours may swell The numbers of the infidel ? A sin not less the full of shame That it affects a holy flame And preaches in Religion's name. CREEDS. 167 Alas ! alas ! the early day Ere truth waxed wise enough to stray From her Divine simplicity ; When men could say to one another, Where Christians first were wont to gather : " Behold them ! how they love each other." If the reverse, men now should take For truth, although his heart should break, What answer could the Christian make ? 'Mid all this broken unity, This Devil's opportunity Of modern mock community. This creed idolatry ; this thrall That nourishes an endless brawl And lives on true Religion's fall, — i68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Let's strike it out, it cannot be ; But there is somewhere, could we see, A broader base of unity, — Some simpler test of good and true, No subtlety that looks askew And changes with the point of view, — A creed that does not strive or cry. Nor vaunt its own sufficiency By giving all dissent the lie ; That breeds no spirit rank and rife Full fed upon those seeds of strife. That poison all its highest life ; That urges not the greatest good Of greatest numbers, as it should ; But teaches rather to exclude. CREEDS. 169 And lays upon the soul a load Unbearable : a human code That half obscures the truth of God, With systems crossed and counter-crossed, Where philosophic labours lost Feed only reason's fools at most. But more, if it were understood, The question is not "If we should?" We could not do it if we would ; We could not shape a standard creed To serve all time and every need, And be to all the truth indeed. For truth confined to mortal pages, Conforming still to different gauges. Is different truth in different ages. I70 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Judge by ourselves, dear friend, and say. Are the beliefs of life's young May The same with those we hold to-day ? Not so, alas ! they faint and fade, Or live in memory to upbraid For all the foolish vows we made. Yet think not, friend, your creeds among, That those fond faiths when we were young Are worthless things because unsung To psalms on Sundays, or because Your full-grown code of bloodless laws Has gained a longer-faced applause. Take care, in your creed-righteousness, Your head's best wisdom has not less Of God than your heart's foolishness. CREEDS. 171 They were not lost, those early years, Ere faith had drawn on wisdom's fears — I see them yet through half-shed tears. But mark, I do not justify Those fervent faiths of youth — not I ; It is but right that they should die. But then should he whose creed is made Of colours that can change and fade To something different each decade — Should he who cannot make a rule To guide himself be yet the fool Who hopes to put the world to school ? No, no, dear friend ; let others seek A short-lived fame amongst the weak Who live to hear each other speak 172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In measured phrases smooth and bland, That prove conclusions out of hand On points fools only understand. But we — if we must build a creed — Let's base our faith on what we need, And not on niceties that feed The spirit's lust with earthly meat Of doctrines dipt all trim and neat, In which to glass our own conceit, And give to some particular view Applause so racked beyond its due, Its very truth is hardly true. We need not look so far abroad For ground select and seldom trod To caper in the sight of God. CREEDS. 173 All that the wisest man can teach, Though he were gifted with the speech Of angels, lies not out of reach Of him who seeks the better part In the clear light and simple art God gives unto an upright heart. WORK. " In the sweat of thy brow," etc. Blest work ! If ever thou wert curse of God What must His blessing be ? Drier of tears, Man's surest comforter when his abode Is clothed about with sorrow and soul-fears, When clouds and darkness gather on the road Till all his land of promise disappears. And he sees nothing in the coming years But aimless wandering with a heavy load. He will not hear thy wiser counsellings Till all earth's counsel fails : then thou art knovvn,- An angel, then, with healing on thy wings, Bringing from heaven a peace that is thine own. Before thy lesser cross his fears are dumb, He sings and works whatever fate may come. WORK. II. "If any man will do, — he shall know." — ^John vii. 17. Thou school of life, and only education Worth the having. All that is elsewhere taught Is but the dilettante fringe of thought : Thou art the centre of its inspiration. Wherever thou with holiness art sought Men find in thee an onward revelation Clearing the way. Before thy busy hands Error — and error's friend, confusion — flies. And slowly lifting melancholy eyes. Through half shed tears, arrested Sorrow stands And smiles in thy sweet face : oh who can tell The deep unspoken worship thou hast brought ; Praise, prayer, and duty sweetly interwrought ; The idler is the only infidel 1 TIME AND ETERNITY. What matters it to us, who are immortal, Which side o' the grave we stand on, when we know That what the world calls death is but the portal Leading to life again ? 'Tis but to go Across a gurgling river in the dark, Hanging on God ; and but a moment so, Till we are over, where we disembark And enter life afresh. 'Tis basely \\Tong We should so meanly understrike the mark As measure life by years ; and all along Busy ourselves, arranging little schemes That death will dash to pieces, when we might Be building, far above these earthly dreams, Houses that stand for ever in God's light. A POPULAR CHARACTER. A CLEVER fellow, wide awake, The world allows that he can take Measure of most things — no mistake ! Don't humbug him with moral prose ; Without the " whej-eivithal " it goes For next to nothing. Oh, he knows ! He knows the world and all its ways ; Your " theory " deserves all praise — " A pity that it never pays !" Oh yes, he knows, sees through and through it, Admits you're right — the way you view it, He would advise you to pursue it. N 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But he, you see, must gain his end, Although, in gaining, he offend Or even sacrifice a friend. There is not any one condition He will not swallow for position, And gratify a weak ambition. No ditch too dirty or too deep ; No means too humble, road too steep : For where he cannot walk he'll creep. Most courteous, too ; where'er he can, Becomes all things to every man — If it will only help his plan. Most affable, but all a trick ; Where he has power he'll bite and kick- Where he has not he'll cringe and lick. A POPULAR CHARACTER. 179 And yet this wretched creeping creature Measures universal nature By the height of his own stature, And thinks, because he waits the tide For filthy scraps, all men beside Are similarly occupied. With those who not for golden shower Will stoop to dodge and serve the hour, — He puts it down to want of power ; And yet, a man of means and place — A moral man, a man of grace — One reads it in the world's face ! Oh, friend, you are a great success — A man whom fortune seems to bless ; But just allow me to confess, i8o MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. If you could have a verdict found That all the world believed you sound : Look ! there's the door — get out, you hound ! MONEY'S WORTH. Religion, did you say ? The man has none : 'Tis but religion's husk — a mere convention. He goes to church, and there the matter's done — Rehgion is no part of his intention. He looks upon it as a priest's invention — A mere ecclesiastical spring-gun — To frighten silly folks to condescension. He joins the Church because he hates contention And, just to make his soul as safe as any, Takes out a policy against hell-fire : A shrewd investment, costing not a penny Either in shape of premium or duty. To him religion stands for nothing higher : The cheapness of the bargain is the beauty. THE MAN WITHOUT AN ENEMY. A LITTLE shabby shuffling devil, Half a coward, half a drivel, To whom one hardly can be civil. A mind that every trifler leads, Whose thoughts, however good the seeds, Can never ripen into deeds. The first that stops him on the street Convinces him, until he meet A second, who will straight defeat The first ; and so he walks among Men's thoughts, till every change be rung Within the compass of the tongue. THE MAN WITHOUT AN ENEMY. 183 A mental mush of meek concessions, And blotting-paper half-impressions, Sum up the creature's brain possessions. His life's a sickly consultation, An endless, aimless alternation, A lukewarm hell of hesitation. Ransack the man from top to toe His whole anatomy will show No certainty of Yes or No. Survey him round and round about, Look through him, turn him inside out, — There's nothing there but rags of doubt. And even these change with the wind — Not one that's strong enough to bind The floating masses of his mind. 1 84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Buckets of watery locution, Infinitesimal dilution Of one weak drop of resolution. His mind can never keep its hold With strength enough to make him bold To strike, until the iron's cold. He stands at gaze upon life's brink, But dare not enter ; can but shrink. And wonder what the world would think. And there, amid his coward fancies, Whilst he is balancing his chances, We must leave him, — Time advances. PROVE ALL THINGS. You talk of soul, good sir, but where's the proof? The proof, I say, you have a soul at all ? Where is its visible action ? On what stuff Do you sustain it ? What if I should call Its life in question ? Body I can see, A mortal case that should contain a soul, And upon which you lavish all and whole. Your every thought. But think how you would be If fleshly life, with all its hungry roll Of wants, were struck away. No more again To eat, or drink, or sleep ; the remnant then, Is't not grotesquely inconceivable ? Can you imagine life of these bereft ? Your body gone, pray, what the devil's left ? IN MEMORIAM. Wild winter morn, whose dawning brings The whisper, " Henry Renton's dead," Oh beat not thou thy sorrowing wings Because a gentle soul has fled. Though earth should groan from pole to pole In travail like a thing distressed, Far out beyond the storm his soul Hath entered on its quiet rest, A rest well honoured, nobly won, And yet, what loss to living men — In all their work beneath the sun Thy hand shall never help again. IN MEMORIAM. 187 A death like thine hath called a truce, Heard round about thee many a mile, And men forget their daily use To stand beside thy grave awhile To pay that honour due to one Who bore the battle brunt of life, And ranked a second unto none Where conscience called him to the strife ; Who freedom's flag hath never bowed, But single-handed dared to stand Unmoved before the bellowing crowd In Caffre or in Christian land. Though strong within thy special sphere, No straitened cultus bound thee down, Or stained thy courage with a fear Of coward's caution, church's frown. i88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Thy latest deed — when time was brief — Proclaimed aloud thy higher call To preach a union of belief, Through wider charity, to all. Great to the end, when life's last ray Gave notice of impending doom, Thy dying effort was to lay Thy laurel on a brother's tomb : A brother fallen on the field — ^ That valiant soldier, strong and true, Who hid behind his dazzling shield A heart the world never knew ; Who strove to reach the higher law, The central light of all the creeds. And struck straight out at all he saw That robbed true freedom of her needs. ^ The late Alexander Russel, of the Scotstnait. IN MEMORIAM. 189 Farewell, kind heart ! thy battle's o'er, Thy spirit gone to Him who gave ; 'Mongst honours paid thee many more, We lay a song upon thy grave. A LITTLE GIRL IN A GARDEN. There ! there she bounds ! a footstep light as wind, Unstained of earth, a daughter of the skies, Her floating hair with summer flowers entwined. The blue of summer's heaven in her eyes. Around her every movement summer girds A sense of sunshine as she leaps along ; The sweet-brier hedge is full of singing birds. But not more full than is her heart of song. Twixt summer and her soul there seems to run A power to feel together, and confer, Binding their lives more closely into one By language known but to the flowers and her. A LITTLE GIRL IN A GARDEN. 19 r The blackbird more than sings to her — it speaks ; The plane-tree whispers to her all it knows ; The secret of the rose is on her cheeks, And on her brow the lilies shed their snows. Oh mystery of mysteries ! Can it be That this fair soul must take the common way ? Learn what the world learns, taste life's bitter tree, And reach the gates of death by slow decay ? Oh Thou that took the children in Thine arms. And blessing them drew all men by the deed, Guide Thou her every step through life's alarms, And help her in her bitter hour of need. Let some of the sweet summer of her days Remain with her to gladden life's last hour, Till passing with the sunset's dying rays She falls asleep in Thee, a sleeping flower. EUPHROSYNE. Because the gods have so apparell'd thee, Spirit of loveliness and light 1 Sweet-lipp'd, blue-eyed, and golden-curl'd thee In sudden beauty, dazzling mortal sight ; Tell me, fine spirit — Is it right That thou, all heedless of another's pain, Should'st bound through life, a crystal river, Leaping onwards to the main — Leaping, laughing ever ; Fast binding with a golden-linked thrall The charmed hearts and eyes of all ? I charge thee, answer me, fine sprite : Say — Is it right ? EUPHROSYNE. 193 Letting thy level glances fall With sudden strength electrical ; Launching thy winged smile with arrowy power Through finest thrills of glittering laughter-shower, A slanting sunbeam through the summer rain, Piercing the blood and brain ; I charge thee stand and answer, thing of light Say^Is it right? Dost thou not know That oftentimes unconscious laughter flings Her silver fingers o'er the hidden strings, Or waketh with the rustle of her wings A silent sleeping woe ? Hast thou not heard That noblest souls, beyond a thought of guile, Pierced by the golden-shafted smile That heedless beauty gave, o 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Have maddened from the bridle of control Through dark disaster, with the burning coal Of a devouring sorrow in their soul Chasing them to the grave ? Laugh ! laugh again, sweet spirit, laugh : I would not have thee sorrowful. But, oh ! Remember thou that in this world below, Hid in the cup of life that thou must quaff, Are bitter drops of woe, — That, when the dark day cometh, thou With trusting heart and quiet uplift brow. Dauntless and pure as now. Must take thy sister Sorrow by the hand ; And she will teach thee, in her holy fears, Earth's dearest joys, like heavenly rainbows, stand Upon a bridge of tears. COMPENSATION. They took him from his fellows — marked him out For kingdom ; on a nation's worship set His glittering throne, and crowned him with a shout. But yet, alas ! but yet, God was not mocked. The world could not disarm The silent enemy within the breast, That undermining of the unseen worm, — The worm that will not rest. 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. II. They cast him out in anger ; called him mad, Scorned him, and made his tender heart a whet To sharpen idle wit. Oh it was sad. But yet, thank heaven ! but yet, He was not friendless, for where'er he trod, Warm words fell round him in sweet summer showers, Down from the starry silences of God, Up from the lips of flowers. THE GLOW-WORM. By night a diamond in the grass, Its very light obscures its form ; When day's effulgence comes, alas ! What is it but a worm ? And what art thou on wings of light Threading with fire the darkness lonely ? A dazzling mystery by night ! — By day an insect only ! And thou, fair moon, that rul'st on high. When night's black curtains all are drawn. What seemest thou in sunlit sky ? An empty spectre, wan ! 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 'Tis thus the poet's thought is known By all who feel the mystic thrall, — Read me by light that is mine own, Or read me not at all. A VILLANELLE. Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee, And slowly seeks a deepening bed, I stand alone, a blighted tree. From me no more, as all men see. Shall bud go forth, or leaf be shed, Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee, Since that wild night of storm, when she From all her happy kindred fled, I stand alone, a blighted tree. Deep in the night she came to me, Hands clenched above her fallen head, Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee. 200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And holding still the fatal key Of that grim secret, dark and dread, I stand alone, a blighted tree. Before the black pool held its dead, I heard the last wild word she said ! — I stand alone, a blighted tree, Where Tweed flows down by Cadonlee. CARLYLE. AFTER READING HIS POSTHUMOUS REMINISCENCES. Is this the ripened utterance of the Sage ? The voice made holier, coming from the sod Of him we ahnost deemed a demigod. The Poet and the Prophet of his age, Could this great soul find room upon his page For all the petty venom of the road ? Uphoarding the unholy heritage Till he himself was safe in death's abode ? Oh ! let us prove these shafts that pierce and sting From some crazed loophole of his brain were shot. Blind arrows from the irresponsible string Of some wild marksman, mad, and knew it not. Let death condone the errors of a king — Lay them beside his bones, and let them be forgot. AT DARWIN'S GRAVE. (WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 26TH APRIL I 88 2.) Not many years ago, the popular shout Was "Atheist !" and critics, well at ease. With such a godly-seeming world to please. Still found in all he wrote the dreaded " Doubt." A day, when every little pulpit spout Spat venom at our English Socrates — He heard them as one hears the wind i' the trees, And turned to work his Revelation out. And now, the self-same world, true to its laws, Brings to his grave its tinsel and its strife, To blur a blameless name with rank applause, And make his death less lovely than his life ; He should have sanctified earth's common sod, This quiet working worshipper of God. BROKEN CISTERNS. If thou art honest, do not seek repose Upon the world's approval. Do not stir To gain her smile. She only flatters those Who stoop to flatter her. The wanton mistress of a godless race, Whose love is lies, whose heart is dead and cold. Whose slippery favour and whose foul embrace Is daily bought and sold. If thou art honest, heed not thou her blame, But let her grind her teeth, and foam, and shriek ; Her power to bless or curse an honest name On either side is weak. 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Yet strong enough to be a deadly snare To him who fears her hate, loves her applause, And waits upon her judgments : oh beware. And trust not thou her laws. If thou art honest, then thou hast a law That is thine own ; listen to that alone. Hold thou the world's opinion at a straw, And scathelessly pass on. RIGHTEOUSNESS. It is an easy thing to side with those, In politics, religion, anything. Whose inconsiderate opinion throws Their faith to fierce extreme. Or quarrelling With such unreasoning madness, rashly bring Your forces to an argument that grows To equal discord on the opposite string : But to remain self-centred, and to cling To one's own conscience, and uphold the right 'Gainst friends and foes alike ; to take a stand And be suspected upon every hand. Unloved, forsaken ; yet in hell's despite To strike for truth. Though heaven should pass away, This is the man of God, the world's true stay. ^aral) MAR AH, When Miriani's timbrels struck the chords of faith. And all the joyous world was glad with her, I gathered up my grief without demur, I would not be the heart that hindereth The happy world by one unhappy breath, So took my way into that land of Shur, Where every well that man may touch or stir Is bitter with the bitterness of death. Footsore by day — iti dreams by night — / trod That dewless desert. In its treacherous calms Death shadows fell upon mc, deep and broad. Till struggling on I reached the golden palms Of Elim. Singing there, some men of God Bound up my bleeding feet and gave me alms. SECOND-SIGHT. There cometh a time in the life of man When earth's realities strike him less, When the facts of the senses seem nothing, and when The matters that move him beyond his ken Are the only things that impress. Some sorrow perhaps has searched him through, And burned away in its cleansing fires Life's baser belongings, and kindled anew Those higher life-lights that strike out of view The earth and its low desires. When life but lives for its hoUer sake, The lamp in a temple where no voice sings But in prayer and praise ; those wings that make :io MARAH. That wafting about us, which keeps us awake To the sense of invisible things. A time when a man in the world's keen eyes Seems fallen behind on the busy road, — Seems making a senseless sacrifice ; And yet he knows that his heart is wise In the sight of the searching God. The world's weak wisdom has taken flight ; Things earthly near him, and heavenly far, Are suddenly seen in an equal light. And divested of argument, dumb in his sight, Stand out for what they are. Slink out of his way, ye vendors of lies ; By a light not yours he can read you through, Oh hollow of heart ! and oh worldly wise ! The things you would carefully screen from his eyes Are the things that are thrust on his view. SECOND SIGHT. 211 And to you, O soul, where the vision is shown, It may come but once in your earthly strife ; Mark well what it says to you, make it your own, Beat it out into prayer, ere the angel has flown. And gird it about your life. FORSAKEN. We built our nest in the sun, \Miere the sweet west winds were blowing, We counted our nestlings every one, — \\'hat wonder glad tears would sometimes run ? We could not help their flowing. We dreamt no sorrow was near. And in all the glad earth's showing, We saw no thing in the world to fear, For we held our love as the one thing dear Of all the world's bestowing. FORSAKEN. 213 Child, and mother, and wife, — What care they how the world is going ? We closed our doors on the outward strife, The closer to cling to the heart's own life, And set it in fairer showing. So fair was our path and sweet, So daily the dearer growing, We heard not the march of the muffled feet, Nor thought of the shadow we soon should meet, Or the death-dart he was throwing. Alas for the years that lie Between Love's reaping and sowing ! A tender flower 'neath a smiling sky — Then clouds and darkness and it must die, Though it rend a heart in the goinj. ig- Oh God ! Is it wrong that we Should follow our soul's best knowing ? 2 14 MARAH. That we should have prayed for light from Thee, And choosing the way that was fair to see, Chose not the path of Thy showing. Or Lord, did the edict go forth — From an infinite mercy flowing, To order for us a desolate hearth And pluck by the roots love's life upon earth, That in heaven it might be growing ? Oh help us to bear Thy will ; And whatever Thy hand be strowing, Give us power to endure it, and strength to sit still, In the rooted assurance it cannot be ill Since it comes of Thy bestowing. BROKEN STRINGS. My harp is turned to mourning, And all we've sung and said, The joyous words, sung o'er and o'er, We may not sing them any more. My harp is turned to mourning — For gladness, tears instead. And all its echoes answer me, "My Love is dead!" We sit together sorrowing, My fingers o'er thee spread, But all in vain ; they will not come — The old chords now are dead and dumb. 2i6 MARAH. We sit together sorrowing, And bow the fallen head, — The only song that we can sing, "My Love is dead !" Oh harp ! why are we living ? Why should we longer tread The songless world ? but hasten on, And follow where our hearts have gone. Oh harp ! why are we living When all our song has fled ? Thy strings are broken, and my heart,— " My Love is dead ! " "NOTHING IS HERE FOR TEARS." Samson Agonistes. Why should we walk in sorrow day by day, Because from all our paths thy life hath fled ? That life is more than ours in every way ; Yet knowing this, we speak of thee as " dead," And pitying, sigh " Alas ! " and shake the head ; Our words but touch the surface, the appearing — How strangely must they sound in thy new hearing. Keep sorrow for ourselves, 'tis not for thee ! " Holier and Happier !" were the words that passed Thy dying lips, when from thine agony The loving Lord on whom thy cares were cast 2l8 MARAH. Stretched out his arms and took thee at the last ! — Thy words, when earth was fading into night And heaven was breaking on thy new-born sight. " HoHer and Happier !" from the Hps of one Whose soul, half-way to heaven while it spoke, Heard through the golden gates the Lord's " Well done," And smiling in death's face, laid down its yoke ; Not all thy great heart's sorrow, nor the stroke Of death's dark utter agony, could quell The deep unshaken faith that all was well. " Holier and Happier !" — now thy pain is o'er — Are words that speak of peace, and breathe a balm Enshrining all thy memory, more and more. In such unclouded rest of heavenly calm ; They come to us like words from some high psalm Begun on earth, but ending otherwhere, Where sorrow follows not, nor any care. "NOTHING IS HERE FOR TEARS.'= 219 Within thy great new kingdom, oh my Love ! Forget not those that, waiting, stand without ; We are so poor, and thou so far above The cares of Time and all the earthly rout, The purest cannot utterly cast out, — Oh keep thy promise, bear with us and wait, Thou first that we shall look for at the gate. THE REST THAT REMAINETH. I FRET no more — wherever death shall take thee There must be heaven about you where you go ; Nothing can change, nor death itself unmake thee, And God that made thee good will keep thee so. Thy heaven was not to seek in some far region Apart from what on earth thy heart had known, For even here we named thee with the legion Of those whom God hath chosen for his own. No fancied heaven was thine, of unknown fashion, Cut off from life, but near us every day ; Thy love and truth, and God-like great compassion, Shed light divine upon our common way. THE REST THAT REMAINETH. 221 And simple things men daily set their eyes on Were vassals in the kingdom of thy love, To bring within earth's lowliest horizon Remembrance of the nobler Hfe above. Some glad, God-chosen place beyond death's danger, Some holier, happier home, is surely thine ; Where goodness is thou canst not be a stranger, Whilst there is room in heaven for stars to shine. No light like thine can die in God's dominion ; And though He summon thee to worlds unknown. Wherever thou art borne on death's dark pinion. The resting-place must still be near the Throne. THE DEATH OF SUMMER. Summer is dead ! Last night the northern blast Smote into ice within her dewy eyes The light of life. And as her spirit past, The breaking morn, struck through with death's surprise, With passionate tears and burdensome sad sighs, Called her by name, and raised her fallen head — But called in vain ; too late ! — Summer is dead ! Yes, she is dead that was so beautiful ; She that had love for ever in her face. And mirth that could betray the wisest fool To laughter, — She that filled so sweet a place In all our hearts, — has run her earthly race. THE DEATH OF SUMMER. 223 All that is left of her on earth lies low, Waiting her winter winding-sheet of snow. And now there is such silence in the air, It seems as if the pulse of all that is Were stricken suddenly with mute despair, Knowing that she is dead ; and all things miss. In some blind way, their long accustomed bliss. Earth's voices, all — the winds, the waterflow, The song of all her birds — is hushed and low. Silence upon the hills : and on the mere Motionless shadows of the silent trees ; If any wind there moves, it moves in fear, — A sharp short shudder, waking memories That fall like falling leaves upon a breeze, — So gently moving, it might be earth's sigh That so much loveliness should ever die. 124 MARAH. So with Thy sorrowing world we plead, O Lord ! Because of joys that come but do not stay ; Our waiting hearts are sick with hope deferred, — Bright hope that turns to miserable clay. And gives us nothing but it takes away. Speed Thy good time, O Lord ! when all shall know The summer that shall come, and shall not go. AUTUMN SONG. Wearily wails the winter wind, With the sad dead leaves before it flying, As it mourns for the summer it leaves behind In all its beauty dying. And wearily sighs this heart of mine. With its life's dead hopes around it falling, And its brief bright hours of sweet sunshine Gone past beyond recalling. But hark ! I hear through the moaning hours ig, A whispered hope of a bright day coming When the world again will be clothed with flowers, Glad bees about them humming. 2 26 MARAH. Be still my soul, and strong thy hand Beneath the cross thou moanest under, For we yet shall stand in the new God-land, When the world has broken asunder. PLAITED THORNS. " By these things men live, and in all these things is the life of my spirit." — Isa. xxxviii. i6. I SUFFERED Pain, — such pain as takes the soul, And wrestles with it, as it were the prey Of struggling devils, mad beyond control ; — Such pain that in its pauses night and day, I clung to God in prayer, and a sigh That^He would let me die : And lo ! while yet I cried in my distress That even in death my soul might be released. Pain seemed to sicken in its own excess. For then it stalked away, a thing appeased ; And sainted smiling of a heavenly face Filled up the empty place. !28 MARAH. I suffered Doubt, — those pangs of deep disgrace Stinging the faithless soul that has allowed Loose fiends to point their fingers in his face, Till he forgets God's goodness in a cloud Of foul suggestions — pride's presumptuous leaven, That shuts the door of heaven. Worn out with pain of endless questionings, I fell asleep, and in a dream-like show Saw dying faces straining after things It were no profit any soul should know; I cried to God ; my tempters fled away Like devils in dismay ! I suffered Loss, — loss inconsolable. I could not reason it, or think it out, Or ask God anything, — could only feel That life had passed away in one wild shout, And left me dumb for ever, sitting there, Stroking his yellow hair. PLAITED THORNS. 229 The past was gone : the very chairs seemed new ; Familiar things upon the walls and floor Looked strange. The western window's well-known view Had light upon't I never saw before. And all things spoke to me in one low breath, That only whispered, " Death." I sat with heavy heart and idle hands. Feeding on memory many a weary night, WTien lo ! across the darkly gleaming lands Of wondrous death, clad all about with light, My loss came back, and gave me joy for tears, Consuming all my fears. I suffered Hate, — slow hate that bides its time. Watching occasion with the famished eyes Of brutes that watch for prey ; suckling in slime Its hideous offspring, black-mouthed calumnies. Surely, I argued, this is evil seed, A wrong without remede. 2 30 MARAH. So, looking not for comfort out of this, Think how I gladly welcomed him who showed That even here I was not profitless, — Man's wrath but wrought in me the will of God Yea, that the smiling heavens could find a use Were hell itself let loose ! I suffer Death, — where all earth's suffering ends. But now I fear not, for I know heaven's way. Behind black sorrow's night God's angel stands. Waiting the dawn of an eternal day. Since these dark doors but open into light. Come closer, Death, and smite. THE DOUBTING HEART. I. Oh weary life, so dark, so difficult. Were ever thy fair promises made good ? Why scatterest thou, and with a breath so rude, The hopes that bade our youthful hearts exult ? Oh Power Supreme, that work'st in ways occult, Why bring to dust the fruit that was our food. Making a desert where such sweet things stood ? — Why tempt us on to life's so poor result, Through this all-sickening gulf that lies between The will to do, and the accomplished deed ? Down, doubting heart, whate'er thy cross has been, Have faith, if nothing else should form thy creed. AVhat are thy deeds to whom thy heart is seen ? Trust Him who leads thee, and He still Avill lead. 2 32 MARAH. II. Faith, wider faith, alone will give thee peace ; Only believe it is His way with thee, And in that light constrain thy soul to see Life's crosses. Then, but not till then, shall cease Their power to make the burden of life's lease A weight of weary years. Still it is He Even when thou canst not read the dark decree, For blinding tears that evermore increase. The greater sorrow shall more greatly win ; 'Tis not for nothing that the soul is driven Through God-appointed fires of doubt or sin ; The best-loved souls may be the most forgiven, With Him who guardeth well the life within, And breaks the heart on earth, to make it His in heaven. FOOTSORE. O HEAVENLY rcfugc of my soul, Jerusalem ! I come to thee, A fainting wanderer at thy gates A weary soul that would be free. On every side cast down, oppressed, A breaking heart within my breast, Would God that I could reach thy rest, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O thou the spirit's only home, Jerusalem ! to thee I cry ; The thought of thee alone can give The power to live, the strength to die. 234 MARAH. Through earthly snare, past sorrow's night, Till faith be merged in perfect sight, O lead me by thy higher light, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O holy mother of us all, Jerusalem ! that I were there, — That I could lay my burden down, And reach at last thy blessed air ; Where weary feet no more shall stray, And grief and pain shall melt away In splendour of thy perfect day, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! O city of the Christ of God, Jerusalem ! to thee I come : In thee alone the rest is found Where death is dead, and sorrow dumb ; FOOTSORE. 235 Where God Himself shall wipe away All tears, and change our bitter lay To singing in thy courts for aye, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem O gladdening vision of my soul, Jerusalem ! Within the skies Thy streets of gold, thy gates of pearl, Are evermore before mine eyes. Where'er I go, in church or street. The light above thy mercy's seat. The deathless song about thy feet, Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! THE SOUL'S ATLANTIS. I. Earth-weary and earth-worn, I laid me do\vn with prayer for heaven's safe keeping, And tossed upon my bed, till in the morn God's answer came with sleeping. I dreamt earth's fight was done, The evil vanquished, and the battle over. And I lay resting 'neath a summer sun, Half hid in waving clover. Deep in the heart of things, And outward to the spirit's infinite longings, God's gift of peace came down on blissful wings, Filling with happy throngings THE SOUL'S ATLANTIS. 237 The great glad pulse of life, Till not a thought was left of earth's bequeathing ; The very winds forgot their ancient strife, And moved with holier breathing, — A rest so deep and sweet — No more again for ever to be broken — For wrong was dead, and sealing its defeat The Almighty God had spoken. The prophet's word was truth. And all the good of holiest books we read in Had come to pass, and earth's immortal youth Begun again in Eden. The promised land at last ; The pledge of a new earth and a new heaven Stood now fulfilled, and all earth's bitter past Forgotten and forgiven. / :38 MARAH. Beneath the smile of God Earth's strife was dumb, and all its doubt and error Fled from before his face, a broken cloud Of guilty things in terror. And all was His again, Perfect and pure as in its first creation ; A world baptized anew with holy rain Of his regeneration. Old things had passed away, No creature but possessed some inward token That made him heaven's for ever from that day In words that were not spoken. One heart in all the world. One worship without taint of earthly leaven, Whose one great cloud of altar incense curled Far up the fragrant heaven. THE SOUL'S ATLANTIS. 239 One voice, and one alone, Flowing right onward in a mighty river Of one clear song to Him upon the throne, For ever and for ever. And bliss was so complete I wept for joy, to think the world's weeping Was done at last, and that the weary feet Were safe in heaven's keeping. II. While heavenly echoes yet Were in mine ears, sleep changed to bitter waking ; As in upon a trusting heart's blest heat The world's cold light is breaking. And all my dreaming ceased, — I rose and drew aside the window awning ; Far outward in the shivering iron east A gray cold day was dawning. 240 MARAH. The world's dead wall of stone Beside me yet, with all its old hard features, The bloodless rock we break our hearts upon, Earth's miserable creatures. Down in the hurrying street I joined the silent faces workward setting. No time to dream for us, for we must eat And feed our own begetting. No time to dream for us, Life's grim necessities around us gaping, t With tongues that are forever clamorous, Whate'er our souls be shaping. But yet for me and you. Oh burdened friend unknown, wherever breathing. Somewhere a world must be whose good and true Is not of earth's bequeathing, — THE SOUL'S ATLANTIS. 241 Somewhere a life unseen With nobler strife than but to clothe and feed us ; These hopes that lighten sorrow's dark demesne Are sent not to mislead us. And though the world should mock, Still guard the hope, believing God doth send it, Let thou no demon doubt of earth's vile stock Enter thy heart to rend it. God promises no dreams. The heavens are real — it is the earth that's dreaming ; To earth again return her wisest schemes, To dust her fairest seeming. And when the end shall come, When rending heavens from reeling earth shall sever, That dream shall rise from out the final doom To set no more for ever. SONG. Lay not thy treasure at my feet ; I cannot give thee love for love : My life with all it had of sweet Belongs to one in heaven above. The heart that with the strength of youth Has truly loved in days before, Can love again on earth in truth No more, no more, — On earth again no more. The flower tliat's dying at the root, Though summer woo it o'er and o'er, Can never yield its flower or fruit — 'Twill bud again on earth no more ; SONG. 243 And love whose root is in the grave, Though love may seek it as before, Can give what once on earth it gave No more, no more, — On earth again no more. Then take thy treasure unto one Who yet can fitly love bestow. And with it all that I can give Of blessing wheresoe'er it go. But as for me, I wait for him Who waits me on life's farther shore ; For once again on earth I love No more, no more, — On earth again no more. THE BLACKBIRD. AT SUNSETTING. Lonely singer, tell to me, What is it that aileth thee And makes thy song so dreary ? Tell me, am I right or wrong. Art thou singing sorrow's song ? Is thy heart a-weary ? Dost thou hold within thy breast Longings of a wild unrest That never can be spoken ? Has some bird-angel of thy love Taken wing, the heavens above, And left thee here, heartbroken ? THE BLACKBIRD. 245 How comes it that thy lonely lay Gives but to the dying day All its sweet sad singing ; And that thy music, gentle bird, Is silent, or but faintly heard, When all the woods are ringing? Say, does thy heart, like mine, but sing Of others' earthly suffering, And pity's accents borrow. That thou, to all the world unknown, May clothe a suffering of thine own. And soothe an inward sorrow? Oh sacred be the soul's regret : It brings the sweetest singing yet — Deeper than love's laughter. The highest bliss is incomplete That is not made more heavenly sweet By tears that follow after : 246 MARAH. From secret sources strangely fed, The singer's heart is comforted Beyond this world's dreaming ; Behind earth's curtain of seen things He hears a voice that ever sings, And sees the flutter of glad wings Through darkest shadows gleaming. HEIMWEH. There lies a valley lost to sight, Yet dearer far than all we see, Its memory makes earth-darkness light And sets the prisoned spirit free ; — A valley with a purer sky Than earth's serenest air can show, \Vhere not a sorrow, not a sigh, Can enter from the world below. No weary world of strife and sin, With death's dread shadow at the close ; But once those blessed fields within Life leaves behind its earthly woes. 248 MARAH. The valley where our loved and lost Are waiting for us till we come, When life's dark ocean-path is crossed, And heavenly voices call us home. Oh sacred sorrow ! sacred love I Twin guardians of the higher life, Teach me, and lift my soul above The world's distracting cares and strife. Watch thou the gateways of my heart. Lest evil angels enter in And rob me of the better part, The higher place my soul would win. Oh save me from the world's desires ; In all its paths that lie in wait. Oh shame thein with thy holy fires, And purify and consecrate. HEIMWEH. 249 And when heaven's higher light is screened, — When sick at heart I faint and fall, And life seems but a mocking fiend, A hollow mask deluding all, — Oh then let memory enter in And take possession, heart and head, To purify from self and sin, And keep me worthy of the dead. Until that valley lost to sight Shall rise unto the perfect day. And heaven's renewed and conquering light Shall chase the clouds of death away. THE OLD STORY. A DARK-EYED daughter of the south Across our northern border came, With quiet brow, and most sweet mouth And eyes that held a tender flame. The Saxon stopt his merry troll To look at her — ay, lack-a-day ! He looked at her, and for his soul He could not turn his eyes away. That speechless parley, years ago. Between the black eyes and the blue. But why repeat what all men know ? — The old, old story, ever new. THE OLD STORY. 251 And so they lived, and loved, and died, And passed away into the night ; Like names upon the sand, the tide Came up and washed them out of sight. Their girls are women ; stalwart sons Are seeking each his own career ; And so the restless world runs From day to day, from year to year. Lord, what a speck of time is life ! 'Tis but a children's holiday ; We play at houses, man and wife. Till, one by one, we're called away. It is not long for any ; some Have hardly tried an earthly flight Before their little faces come To kiss us for the long "good night." 2 52 MARAH. There must be life beyond earth's bound- Its very briefness here compels Our faith to seek a surer ground : Life would not have a meaning else. Oh break for me, thou second birth ! The bar that keeps us from our dead ; For I am weary of the earth, And fain would have the riddle read. GATHERING THE FRAGMENTS. A LITTLE faded photograph, And a curl of golden hair, With half a dozen broken toys Beside an empty chair. — O God ! is this the whole that's left Out of a life so fair ? A LEAVE-TAKING. Once more I leave The land that holds thy dear dead heart ; And though it cannot be but I should grieve, We do not part. These tears I shed Make sorrow's vision strong and clear. The dead are not far from us : Thou art dead, And thou art near. And though I go Where sunny southern waters wave, While northern winds shall beat the Winding snow About thy grave, — A LEAVE-TAKING. 255 My heart is fed By faith that tempers every tear. The living may forsake us : Thou art dead, And thou art near. RONDEAU. When April comes through sun and gloom, And tempts from winter's willing womb The life that gladdens flower and tree, The frisking lambs are on the lee. And linnets in the budding broom. All happy living things for whom Our kindly mother-earth makes room, Seem happier in their new-born glee When April comes. Alas ! alas ! its fairest bloom Is poor and powerless to illume The darkness which it brings to me ; Henceforth, in all my years to be, I plant fresh flowers about a tomb When April comes. A MESSAGE. I LAY aAvake the whole night through, With that old sorrow at my breast, Which, spite of all that I could do, Still came between me and my rest. Thinking of those that are no more. My soul went back to death's wild wonder. Sounding the gulf from shore to shore, That keeps our hearts asunder ; Bearing the burden life assigns To him who spends his dearest breath Upon the land where no sun shines, And faints beside the gates of death. Worn out and weary of the night, I watched the eastern window awning:. 258 MARAH. Where first would come the welcome light To tell me day was dawning. And as I watched, a little bird Came twittering to my window-sill, And sang as if its happy word Would make me glad against my will. It gave a voice to what was dumb, And quenched in tears my burning sorrow ; It seemed some unknown heart had come To bid my own good-morrow. And loud and louder as it sang, I seemed to hear a holier strain When from the east the dawning sprang, And smote the glittering window-pane. I questioned not, I rose from bed, I felt my life new courage taking ; That bird was sent me from the dead To keep my heart from breaking. OUT OF THE DARKNESS. What means this wondrous world of ours ? In heaven she wanders night and day, The circuit of her ceaseless powers, With suns to light her on her way. Now all her mighty mountain towers Roll into darkness, one by one, And now her bosom decked with flowers Is heaving upwards to the sun ; Now floating through the azure lake Of summer ; then anon she hears The brooding tempest rise and wake The crashing thunder of the spheres. 26o MARAH. Can all this grandeur cease to be ? And can this world have only been, By some inscrutable decree, The herald of a world unseen ? Can we, earth's creatures of a day. Who live and die upon her breast, — Men formed and fashioned of her clay, — Alone have life beyond the rest? Strange thought ! Oh who can understand That voice — a whisper at the most — Which brings us from a far-off land, The sense of something we have lost ? Is earth itself not rich with dreams Of unknown oceans, golden-isled. For those who hold the holier gleams And elder instincts of the child ? OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 261 Turn where we will, 'tis all the same — The trackless wind, the heaving sea. The mighty rivers : all we name Are emblems of eternity. Ask of the snow-clad mountain peak What means the world ? no voice replies ; The hoary summit does not speak. But points thee mutely to the skies. Nay more ; stand there amid the snows. And strain to listening all thy powers, And hear the language no man knows, The murmur of a world not ours. Until these outer voices find The inner hearing of the man, And wake that power within his mind, That bridges more than reason can. 262 MARAH. The thoughts within our hearts all move To one conclusion : Life must lead To higher ground than we can prove ', Else wherefore should these voices plead? Take this, the truth all truths above : He never held the sacred fire Who knew the limits of his love, Nor wished it vaster, holier, higher. And then, when death takes those away Who stood beside us in the strife. Ah then ! shines out the great new day, The one reality of life. At that dread touch the threatening cloud, Once black with doubt, dissolves in dew, And all earth's voices sing aloud The song that maketh all things new. OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 263 Roll on with all thy mortal freight ! Roll upward in the heavenly blue, Oh wondrous world ! By day and night We know the land we travel to. In every sunset's golden flight, The purple domes, the shining spires, The long sweet fields of level light. We see the home of our desires. THE END. Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series 4939 ^'-^^UfAl I i CK^ 3 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 366 529 ■^:'m