H. HOULDJNG. THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 'crfL JUtkfL L^fo^y^y \S~% cc I Photo: Leslie Shawerosx, lilach-burn. /£t~*~C XT Rhymes and Dreams, Legends of Pendle Forest, And other Poems. BY HENRY H0ULD1NG. "Rude rhymes, the which a rustic Muse did weave In savage soil, far from Parnasso Mount, And roughly wrought in an unlearned loom." — Spenser. JURM.EY Published 1))- I!. Moore, for the Joint Committee of the Literary and Scientific Club and the Literal}- and Philosophical Society. MDCCCXCV. BURNLEY : B. MOORE, PRINTER, BRIDGE STREET. ?R H n tj PRELIMINARY NOTE. MAN Y of our poets have lived amidst, and been inspired by, scenes of grandeur or of historic interest, to which our town can lay few claims. We have no mighty mountains forever uplifting their snow-clad peaks above the clouds. The surge and roar of the "ancient sea : ' falls not upon our inland ears. We have no great river bearing upon its tides richly laden Argosies from strange and far- off lands. Elsewhere have the great events of our national history been played out. Some faint echoes do reach our ears from the dim past, it is true, and it is also true that we have our Pendle Hill, our Boulsworth, our Ilambledon, our moorland heights, at the feet of which nestle many a lonely dell or flowery glade. But these have found no place in the wandering artist's portfolio, and we have the happiness to possess no "Guide Book." But that our hills, and streams and valleys, and the common experiences of our workday life can inspire love and the beautiful expression of high and tender thoughts, this volume will abundantly prove. In the belief that what Mr. Houlding has written is worthy of a foremost place in our local literature, the Committee send forth this edition of his poems, confident that Burnley men at home and abroad will prize the work of one "Who has found love in huts where poor men lie, Whose daily teachers have been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills." The Committer. S37. CONTENTS. PREFACE PAGE ix RHYMES AND DREAMS. TIMES AND FLOWERS 3 SUMMER SKIES .... 5 BY THE RIVER .... 8 AUTUMN LEAVEs .... 11 IN A STONY DELVE 13 THE SONG OF BRUN 17 A FOREST DREAM 25 THE SNOW-SPIRITS (EXTUTSTLK I .IOOR 29 IN THE WOOD .... 33 KNOTGRASS 36 A DARK DAY (NETHERWOOD) 39 PRIMROSES .... 41 MEETING STREAMS 44 UNDER THE SNOW 46 FORGETFULNESS . 50 SUNRISE .... 53 SUMMER DAYS 55 CHANCE .... 57 HAUNTED • 58 SHADOWS .... . 60 NIGH 1 COMETH . 61 AN UNKNOWN BOURNE • 63 VI CONTEXTS. NIGHTSHADE 64 WHITHER . 66 A STILL SMALL VOICE • 67 BY WAYS UNKNOWN . ■ 69 EDEN .... ■ 7i A LONELY RIVER • 72 VIATICUM • 73 INWARD LIGHT . 74 THE KING'S GARDEN . • 77 ASPHODELS . 79 RHYMES AND DAYS. CHILDHOOD 85 BOYHOOD S6 FRIENDSHIP S7 ASPIRATION 88 EVENSONG .... 89 AFTER MANY YEARS 90 A PORTRAIT 9i THE LOST PILGRIM 92 THE DEAD YEARS 93 FOREBODINGS 94 ACCUSATION 95 HUMILITY .... 96 AN OLD BOOK 97 MY GARDEN 98 WASTE PLACES 99 A ST IR 100 BROTHER AND sis PER IOI III. W'ENl.Y LOVE . 102 ( 1 IMPENSA1 ION 103 BEREAVEMENT 104 REGRETS .... 105 CONTENTS. WAITING VISION REALITY EVANGELIST YORICK ORSINI . AT HURSTWOOD A KEEPSAKE FORGETMENOT EVENING SHADOW THE TWO SPIRITS A NIGHT-WATCH . A SONG OF REST A SONG OF HEROES LULLABY TJEAN . A MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN 'T WAS SUNSHINE STILL WI THE LOCKET A DREAM OF THE PAS I THE TRUMPETS ARE SOUND A REQUIEM A MEETING BENISON BOON . AT REST IF I REMEMBER CLEOPATRA . A QUESTION OF IMMORTALI LOCH ACHRAY DALMAl.I.Y . A TRUE FORGETMENOT 1'H T NG FY HKK Vll 1 06 IO7 IOS IO9 I II "3 114 "5 118 119 120 121 123 125 129 132 134 135 138 139 140 142 i45 147 147 148 150 152 154 i55 158 160 Mil CONTENTS. A QUARTETTE 162 A BIRTHDAY RHYME .... . 164 ON A CERTAIN POEM .... . 166 A SILYER WEDDING 170 A MEMORY . 172 A CENOTAPH . 176 A RHYME OF JUBILEE .... . 184 FOR A "PENNY READING " . • 193 EPILOGUE 196 PROLOGUE . 20I FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING . 206 ESSAYS IN BLANK VERSE. FAIRY FANCIES . 217 MOONRISE . 222 INVOCATION . 224 THE RIDGE OF SNOW .... . 226 A WALK TO RED LEES . 229 LEGENDS OF PENDLE FOR EST. MALKIN TOWER • 237 FRIAR DORIEN • 251 THE \\ nil E WITCH .... . 260 THE WEIRD WOMAN ..... . 290 FRAGMENTS. HARK MORNINGS .... • 3*3 THE MOON ■ 314 GREETINGS . 3.6 ADMER : A MYM ERY .... ■ 317 NOTES • 321 PREFACE. [ have been asked to give some account of these dreams. But it is not easy to render an account of one's dreams to those who have no dreams of their own, or to those whose dreams are of a different tribe and kindred. I have already given some reminiscences of the conditions of life in Burnley fifty years ago, and of that sweeter life of nature that lies so close to it, and which compensates us for much of its ugliness and squalor, in two papers which I read some years ago before the members of the Literary and Scientific Club, and which are printed in the Society's Transactions, under the title of "Local Glimpses." I must refer the curious to these essays as some help to the interpretation of such of the pieces contained in this volume, as seem to need any. Something, however, I may say here, briefly, as becomes a preface. This little volume is the outcome of much solitary communion with nature, and of much reading of very few books. My intercourse with nature has been limited in its range, by the hills that surround Burnley, to a few haunting rambles in the valleys of the Brun, the Calder and Pendle Water, and a few holiday excursions to the ridges and among the recesses of the moors. It is there I have come face to face with nature — its beauty and mystery — and having once seen that, we shall see no X PREFACK. more, though we wander the wide world over. My reading has been as limited. Much reading of many books is only for those who have much leisure. For those whose time and opportunities are absorbed in " the busy street and the narrow life," much reading of very few books may serve as well. With Shakespeare for his friend and companion, one may " know more of man " than all the books of philosophy can tell us ; with Wordsworth and Emerson for his daily teachers, one may see more of nature from his own back-door, than another who has travelled over the Alps and seen the sun rise over the islands of the " utmost sea." I cannot speak at length here of these books of mine, but they have had much to do with my dreams ; and though they don't explain, they in some measure account for them. I had learnt some- thing of the same lesson from other books. There were voices crying in the wilderness before the great voices could be heard clearly above the rest— poets, critics, preparers of the way ; Hazlitt, Coleridge, Shelley, Leigh Hunt — my "Evangelist" of forty years ago. These led the way to Wordsworth, and Wordsworth to Emerson. I learnt from Wordsworth that the beauty we see in nature we " half create," that there is in nature "A presence that disturbs us with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused." And this thought is more than echoed by Emerson in such passages as these : — "The beauty of these fair objects is imported into them from a metaphysical and eternal spring." "The mind is part of the nature of things." "The spirit that suffices quiet hearts, that seems to come forth to such from every dry knoll of sere grass, from PREFACE. X) every pine-stump and half-imbedded stone, on which the dull March sun shines, comes forth to the poor and hungry, and such as are of simple taste." "We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In every landscape the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth. The stars at night look down on the brownest, homeliest common with all the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt." There is no " exaggeration of local scenery " in this book, no set descriptions. Nature is not "scenery ;" it is something ideal and divine. But I may say a word or two about my old walks and Burnley's " ancient neighbourhood," for it is also written that "the mind loves its old home." Fifty years ago, Towneley Park, as we called it, was feathered down to the old lodge with pines and sycamores, with woods of " oak, and elm and the bonny birch tree." "Meeting hazels darkened" over the stream, whose banks were not walled in as they are now, and the road went right away past clumps and avenues of great trees, past the hall, through Causey-end Wood, and out at the gate where the great oak stands that has stood there for so many centuries. There was a wood, in those days, on the Bacup Road, above Easden Clough — a mile-long avenue of larch trees, where the wild birds sang, and the wind chanted its eternal litanies; and where that "happiest of men," of whom Emerson speaks, who has "learnt from nature the lesson of worship," might have walked as in cathedral aisles. Burnley Wood was a country hamlet. Moseley Hill was further away than it is now. The sylvan approaches to Heasandford began at the old well Xll PREFACE. near the " Brig o' Brown." Pendle stands where it did ; but there was not the same smoke-cloud then between the village and the hill. We had not so many long streets to pass before we could see the dappled shadows of "that hill sublime." There were rural walks, where now there are railways. There were wells of pure water by the waysides, where the thirsty villagers could drink without peril of microbes. There was a beautiful waterfall over- hung with bracken and brambles, where now there is a colliery. I see it in my dreams. I see the clear stream lapsing down over the rocks, among the mosses and ferns. I see the " midges" dancing over it in the shadow of the trees. The composition of these poems covers, with wide intervals, a period of over forty years. Dates are appended to the two last sections, " Essays in Blank Verse" and " Legends of Pendle Forest." indicating the period at which the pieces were written. The poems in sonnet form at the beginning of " Rhymes and Days" and many other pieces of the same section belong to the same period. Others are of later date, as also are the poems in the first section. These " Rhymes and Dreams," as I have called them, are mainly occupied with one theme — the mystery of nature, and the beauty. They are not transcripts of scenery, but reflexes of the Vision, by which the wanderer in time is "on his way attended;" and of certain momentary glimpses that come to us, "In vacant or in pensive mood, And flash upon that inward eye, Which is the Miss of solitude." II. II. POEMS. RHYMES AND DREAM5. The rounded world is fair to see, Nine times folded in mystery. — Emerson. The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. — Wordsioorth. TIMES AND FLOWERS. HpHE meadow was full of sunshine And blossoming cups of gold, And the warm, sweet breath of summer flowers, When life was a summer old. The valley was white with star-blooms And May-flowers pale and fair, And the clouds were white in the azure noon, When a dreaming boy came there. The blue vetch grew in the hedgerow, And wild briar blushed above, When a youth walked into the greenwood And pulled him a rose for love. 4 TIMES AND FLOWERS. Between the yellowing lindens The tree of darkness grew, When a man came out of the bride-chamber And gathered him slips of yew. The purple heather was fading On moorland ridges brown, When an old man wandered across the fell, As the lingering day went down. Untrodden in all the pathways, The flowers are left to die, And the moon comes over the lonely hill, And a moaning wind goes by. SUMMER SKIES. " For the world was from the beginning beautiful." — Emerson pVERMORE a dream will haunt me, Under these resplendent skies, Fitter to o'er-roof the angels, Or the pure-lived deities, Than these earthward-gazing mortals, Caring for their lives of care, Seldom with uplifted faces Yearning for diviner air. What care they for all the glories Of the cloud-rack sunward driven, For the sapphire portals opening On the infinitudes of heaven ? Even those who, " with the vision And the faculty divine," Seek to pierce the veiling splendour, O SUMMER SKIES. Seek the temple's inner shrine, What behold thev ? What do children Gazing on the flowers behold Of the mystery that lurketh 'Neath the azure and the gold? For they see as children only That the earth is fair with flowers, And the heavens are built divinely By the good eternal powers. Evermore the world is lovely. With bright streams and shadowing woods, Yellow fields and purple moorlands, Where the silent spirit broods ; Lovely is the blue horizon. And the ether soft and clear, And the silver hills of cloudland, And the white moon's wandering sphere ; Morning dawns in mists of amber, Evening sets in seas of gold, And the hollow dark revealeth Night and all its glories old. Such a house for gods to dwell in, Builded high in space and time, Ne'er was seen in prophet's vision, Ne'er was sung in poet's rhyme. And we walk about and wonder. SUMMER SKI I While the ages roll away That shall foster nobler races, Worthier of the ni°:ht and dav ; Worthier to read the cypher, Worthier to know the sign That in flower and star proclaimed! Earth is heaven, and heaven divine ; In the fulness ot the asons, Worthier to realise, Dreamer, more than all thou dreamest. Under these ethereal skies ! BY THE RIVER. WALKED in a lonely place, Where ferns and mosses grow, Where, with a wild and pendulous grace, The tall sedge droopeth low, Over the brim of the river. I climbed the rugged wall Of rocks, so grey and old, Where sits the sceptred hawkweed tall, With all its crowns of gold, Over the brim of the river. I lay beneath the trees And heard the low winds sigh For the far, forgotten centuries, Whose summer suns went by, Over the brim of the river. BY THE RIVER. I saw on either side The cliffs shut in the scene, And the evening clouds above them glide, And the moon look down between, Over the brim of the river. I heard the cuckoo wake The echoes of the hill ; I heard the wild-bird in the brake The woods with music fill, Over the brim of the river. I waited, till the moon Grew brighter, and the air Still, save for the mystic rune The low wind murmured there, Over the brim of the river ; Save for the peaceful sound Of the waters as they rolled, Filling the vale above, around, As it had done of old, Over the brim of the river ; lO BY THE RIVER. I waited, till afar, So lonely and serene, Looked large and bright the evening star, Adown the dark ravine, Over the brim of the river. I waited, lingering still, In that enchanted dell, And the thoughts that did my spirit fill My tongue can never tell, As I walked by the lonely river. AUTUMN LEAVES. f WALK where withered leaves are blown Beside the mountain stream, alone, As once in happy days gone by — So bright, so sweet, so swift to die — I walked with one across whose dreams Will come, perchance, far-wandering gleams And murmurs from these northern streams ; In whose sweet voice there was a tone Of rippling music like their own, And in whose heart a sympathy With nature's nameless mystery, That like a brooding spirit dwells By these lone streams and mountain dells A sympathy too rarely found ; And now where withered leaves around My feet by autumn winds are blown, 12 AUTUMN LEAVES. I walk, as I have walked, alone, Thinking of all that I have known, Of gentle natures, one or two, Who knew the places that I knew, Who lingered briefly as the flowers, That leave us to the wintry hours And leafless woods, where low winds sigh Take voices of the years gone by; Whose fallen leaves, yellow and grey, Are trodden in the grass to-day, To mingle, ere the linnet sings, With dust of unremembered springs. ©i£) ' SCO* •' < w IN A STONY DELVE. " And where the long street roars has been The stillness of the central sea." — Tennyson. I N a stony delve outside the town I sat an hour ere the sun went down, And I heard the wash of an ancient sea, In a time long dead, o'er its sandy bed Surge to and fro, to the music slow Of winds and of tides that ebb and flow ; For so of old the rocks were laid, In motion and music, in shimmer and shade, And the moon came over the wave to see, And the sun looked down rejoicingly, And the stars were ablaze with jubilee, When the solid frame of the hills was made. 14 IN A STONY DELVE. And I saw of old how the stones were wrought, How the sun, and the wind, and the waters brought The living germ, how the lichen crept On the barren ledge, and the mosses slept In the morning mists of a thousand years ; While to and fro the waters go, And day and night the soft winds blow, Until the time of the flower appears, And the time of the singing of birds in the tree : And he, on whose coming all creatures wait, The tread of whose foot as he cometh late Is felt on the shore of the lonely sea, He cometh who is, and was to be, The shaping hand and the voice of thought ! I sat in the delve as the sun went down. And I heard the clink the hammers made, When they builded the town of the s< -a sand brown, As the stones were wrought and the courses laid Over the bed of the buried shore, Where the tides of the sea had been before, And the stones in the wall of houses tall Heard the words of men in the street, I [eard the echoes of passing feet, As friends, and lovers and neighbours meet, IN A STONY DELVE. 1 5 Where the sea-bird once would come and go, With the wash of the waters to and fro. I sat in the delve as the sun went down. Where the sea had left the sand-stone brown, And a sound as of waves made symphony With the sound of the words of men unknown, With music of peace, and clamour of strife, And voice of women and men who prayed, Of prophets proclaiming eternal life, And the silver laughter of boy and maid, And songs of love, and songs of the soul. And hymns and anthems that seemed to roll Out of the depths of a deeper sea. Whose tides are the races of men to be, On whose shores I seem to sit alone And watch them coming by ways unknown, Coming and going and seeking their own, Lords of the sea, and lords of the land, Of the vocal thought and the toiling hand. And I saw in the delve of that ancient sea How all that is or seemeth to be, Is but for a time and passes away : How man, too, cometh and must not stay : And my soul was sad as I wandered down 1 6 IN A STONY DELVE. In the twilight cold to my house in the town, My house that is builded of sea-sand brown ; And a weird mist rose from the darkening stream Under the wan moon's watery gleam, And a moaning of winds came over the moor, And the lights died out in the homes of the poor. But in deep of night, when the winds were still, And the crescent moon had gone over the hill, I look'd up from the street, and the wonder sweet, So new and so old, was revealed again, — For the mist-cloud grey had melted away. And over the roofs and the graves of men, And over the delve of that ancient sea, The stars were ablaze with jubilee ! THE SONG OF BRUN.i I N the time before the hills Heard the wandering hunter's horn, Ere the valley had a name, Or the forest had a bourne. When the wolf was on the fell And the fox was in the bush, When the white moon woke the owl And the red dawn heard the thrush, Heard the linnet in the tree On the bank above the pool, Where the wren had made her nest Down among the mosses cool. Then my little streamlet sang As it sings to me to-day, To the wandering bee and bird Softly sang its roundelay. 1 8 THE. SONG OF BRUN. Lonely for a thousand years, Through the brake the waters crept, Singing in the lonely dell, Where the sylvan shadows slept ; Singing to the red-rose briar, Singing to the heathery scar, Singing to the soaring lark, Singing to the evening star ; Singing to the wintry cloud, Singing to the summer noon, Singing to the lonely night, Darkening o'er a crescent moon ; Singing to the wind that sang To the solitary tree, With the singing wind it went Singing to the lonely sea. In the hollow of the hills Went my merry moorland burn, Talking all the summer through To the summer-scented fern, THE SONG OF BRUN. 1 9 To the slender sedges wild, To the nodding harebell blue, To the bending willow-herb And the bending willow too ; Talking in the forest glade To the tall, red campion flower, To the hawkweed, golden crowned, Buttressed on its rocky tower ; Whispering to the grassy fringe Of the white-flower-freckled lea, Murmuring to the foxglove bells And the dim anemone. So it went by heath and holme, Seeking still its kindred streams, Like a wandering voice that goes Singing through a land of dreams ; Through a lone and happy clime To a lone and wondrous sea, Singing as it sings to-day Of a wondrous mystery. 20 THE SONG OF RRUN. Summer birds of wandering wing Came to nestle in the trees ; Plumed seeds from far-off wilds Floated down the autumn breeze Halcyons of azure mail From the willowy pools went by Herons flew from mountain meres Through the solitary sky : Swallows skimmed the reedy marsh ; Ravens swooped adown the gale ; Falcons from their kingly hills Skirted all the hollow vale. All the nestling valley heard Sylvan music of the prime : I Irani the bell of noontide be< . And the beetle's drowsy chime ; Heard on summer's balmy winds Voices come and pass away, I [eard the lonely cuckoo bird Sing the song he sings to day ; THE SONG OF BRUN. 21 Heard the shrill-voiced ouzel-cock Piping in the bushes low ; Heard the stock-dove's gentle coo On the soft wind come and go ; Heard through all the lonely stream Sing its lonely mystery Of a past and passing time, And a time that is to be : Heard all these as one sole sound ; Heard all voices but the one, For whose coming all the hills, Waiting, watch the patient sun : Heard at last a voice that comes Through the vale to meet the morn ; Heard a shout upon the hills ; Heard at last the hunter's horn ! Summer comes and summer goes, Winter goes to come again, And a storm is on the hills, Thunder and the driving rain. 22 THE SONG OF BRUN. Summer breezes from the south Come to meet the northern snows, Storms of winter from the sea Come the way the west wind blows. On the hills the driving rain, Through the glen the torrents sweep, Bearing down their mountain spoil Roaring, moaning to the deep. Roaring, moaning goes the burn, Moaning to the wintry noon, Moaning to the lonely night Darkening o'er a crescent moon. All night long the torrent moans Through the hollow vale forlorn, Till with sunrise come again Echoes of a wandering horn ! Echoes come and pass away, Winding through the forest drear, Sudden voices which the wolves In their ancient caverns hear ; THE SONG OF ERUN. 23 Savage voices of the chase Answer clear from scar to scar, To the centuries of peace Heralding the years of war. Mighty chieftains of the spear, Tribe with tribe at ruthless feud, Slayers of the wolf are slain, By a fiercer foe subdued. Chiefs of battle on the plain Lay at rest their mighty bones ; Bearded priests with rites of blood Bring the fire and pile the stones. Still the little moorland burn To the moorland bracken sings, Where the buried ashes lie Of the old forgotten kings. Sings its unforgotten song Of the old forgotten years, When the mists of morning fled From the gleam of Roman spears ! 24 THE SONG OF ERUN. Of a past and passing time, So the brown burn sings, and so Will it sing, in time to come, To the men who come and go ! A FOREST DREAM. ^ING soft and low, wild forest stream, Flow softly singing through my dream, For in my dream the world is fair, And in the golden summer air Old Pendle lifts his ridge sublime, A tower among the towers of time, Lone looking through the ages drear O'er many a path of ancient fear, Where once an outcast gray and worn, Came on his pilgrimage forlorn, And there ascending took his stand And saw a far celestial land. ^Yild forest stream, I wander slow, And in thy song, so sweet and low, I hear far echoes of the prime, Responsive, through the dream of time, To prophet's prayer and poet's rhyme. 26 A FOREST DREAM. Far-wandering from that summit grey The dreaming prophet passed away, As a cloud passes from the day : Far-wandering, in as rapt a mood, A bard of nature's solitude, Who knew the mystery of the hills, The power, the presence that fulfils Lone places with a lonely light, Far-looking knew the lonely height, Steep rising over moorlands dun Between him and the setting sun, On Rylstone as he wandered slow In visions of the Silver Doe, What time a sound of gladsome power From Bolton's old monastic tower Rang wide around from fell to fell, A wondrous tale the echoes tell, And listening Pendle owns the spell. A glory from the sun comes down, Clothing that Steep so bare and brown, And time lias erowned it with a crown ; But over these a mystic gleam Shines on me from the poet's dream, And over these a light of Cod burns where thai outcast's feet have trod. A FOREST DREAM. 27 Sing softly still, and gently flow, Wild stream, beside thee as I go In forest ways I seem to know, Down to a river winding there, Through sylvan valleys wide and fair, And flowing westward to the sea By homes of ancient mystery, Lone, lovely, but of evil fame, Where once a mighty minstrel came, Masking awhile in shepherd's weed, And piping on his oaten reed To forest folk a forest rhyme, Preluding to the golden time When, with a wandering Redcross knight And a king's daughter robed in white, Undaunted by enchantments drear, With song and silver harpings clear, He journeyed from this wizard bourne Far into " fairy lands forlorn." Wild stream, thy song is soft and low, Thy voice is with me as I go, A voice that in the desert sings The lonely mystery of things, And in the blue and golden noon, And the wan wonder of the moon, 28 A FOREST DREAM. And in the watches of the star, Through the still forest weird and far, Carols wild music of the prime, A burden of the dawn of time, A burden of the years untold, The lapse of suns and summers old, The fleeting glory on the hill, The patient power abiding still, And all the glamour and the gleam Of things that be not what they scum, And dreams that bards and prophets dream. In the far forest, soft and low, ^\'ilcl stream, I hear thee singing so A song the world will never know ! THE SNOW=SPIRITS. (EXTWISTLE moor.) HpHE snow has come in the cold, dim night, Silently falling, so soft and white, On the sleeping hills, and the frozen streams, And the woods, at rest in their winter dreams. Out of the cloud that came out of the sea Cometh the beautiful mystery, For the spirits that live in the upper air, And fashion all shapes and marvels there, The spirits of God that give us boon, Awoke in the white mists under the moon, And all night long, in the cold moonshine, They moved unseen through the vapours fine, Weaving a soft and silvery fleece To cover the earth with comfort and peace ; For they know that a spirit is slumbering there, Earth-born, but akin to the spirits of air, That lieth adream through the wintry hours, And nurseth the germs of the unborn flowers: 30 THE SNOW-SPIRITS. And out of the cloud, and out of the sea, Moved by a wonderful sympathy, They bring the soft and comforting snow To cover the spirit that rests below. And there in the churchyard dark and deep, Where the nameless children of Lethe sleep, Where, under the roots of the flowers, the mould Is the dust of those who were loved of old ; Softly and tenderly over the dead A pure, white pall the spirits have spread, And the air is hushed, as a mother mild Hushes the song for her sleeping child, Which she knows will awaken with bright clear eyes : Do the spirits know that the dead will rise— The spirits that live in the upper air- That they cover the graves with such tender care? I )o they remember the nameless bones That have lain for ages beneath the stones ? I )o they pity and love, as they love the flowers That will bloom again in the summer hours, The hearts and faces whose hopes and tears I lav hen buriedanddead for a thousand years? Do they know the mystery hidden there Of death, that once was love and prayer ? THE SNOW-SPIRITS. 3 I Did they hear, as they passed through the snow- cloud cold, The prayers that ascended to heaven of old ? Do they know the answer that none may know, That they cherish the dust that lies below ? Oh, fear not the spirits will do thee harm, That work in the wintry clouds their charm : Go boldly forth on the frozen hill And up the valley, so silent and still ; Go wander alone on the moorlands wild, Where terrace on terrace the snow-heaps are piled ; Go where the wind of the north may beat Thy fever'd brow with its arrowy sleet; If thou art wearied of life and its woe, Go out on the homeless desert of snow, And the spirits that live in the frozen air Will come to thy spirit and comfort thee there, As they comfort the flowers in their wintry nest, As they comfort the dead in the graves that rest, As they comfort the weary of heart and limb Who drowsily swoon in snow-wastes dim, While the frozen and feathery softness lies Like a thin white dream on the frozen eyes ! As they comfort these they will comfort thee, If with fearless footstep and spirit free, 32 THE SNOW-SPIRITS. Thou goest alone on the bleak hill side, And over the snow-lands trackless and wide, Leaving behind thee the noise and strife Of the busy street and the narrow life ; Not fearing nor hoping and having no care, Asking not, seeking not, breathing no prayer, Loving not anything here below, But loving only the white, pure snow, Full of wonder, and worship and laud, For the miracle wrought by the angels of God, The angels of beauty and mystery That live in the clouds, that rise out of the sea : Thus, if thou comest, and comest alone, The spirits will know thee, and make thee their own, Will know thee and love thee, and give thee a sign, And the sense of an infinite peace shall be thine ; And the trouble that wearies, the sorrow that kills, Shall lie light on thy heart, as the snow on the hills ! IN THE WOOD. I F it be true I cannot tell That spirits in the forest dwell, . But walking in the wood to-day, A vision fell across my way ; Not such as once, beneath the green O'er-hanging boughs, I should have seen ; But in the tranquil noontide hour, And in the crimson campion flower, And in the grass I felt a power ; And every leaf of herb and tree Seemed like a voice that greeted me, Saying, ' Not to ourselves alone We live and die making no moan. The sunshine and the summer showers, And the soft dews of night are ours ; We ask no more than what is given ; Our praise and prayer is leaf and bloom, 34 IN THE WOOD. And day and night our sweet perfume Like incense rises up to heaven ; Thus our sweet lives we live alone, We come and go and make no moan.' And so out of the wood I went, Thinking, I too will be content With day and night, with good and ill. Submissive to the heavenly will ; The power that gives to plant and tree Its bound and limit, gave to me Just so much love and so much life, And whatsoever peace, or strife, Or joy, or sorrow, may be mine, Is bounded by a law divine. I cannot do the things I would, I cannot take the boundless good Which love might bring or heart desire, And though to heaven my thoughts aspire, 'T is only given me to behold, Far off, its spheres of living gold. The little orb on which I ride Around the sun in circuit wide, Is all an unknown land to me And waters of an unknown sea. The narrow bourne wherein I move, This little world of hate and love, IN THE WOOD. 35 Within whose set diurnal round By strongest fate my feet are bound, Has light upon it from afar. As when a dungeon's iron bar Crosses the splendour of a star. This home of memory and care, This cave of thought, this cell of prayer, This House of Life in which I dwell. Is vast as heaven and deep as hell, And what it is I cannot tell. Of this alone my mind is sure — ■ That in my place I must endure To work and wait, and bide mine hour, And take the sunshine and the shower ; Content to know the world is fair, Though life is rooted fast in care ; To watch the far-off lights of heaven, Yet ask no more than what is given ; Content to take what nature brings Of all inexplicable things, Content to know what I have known, And live and die and make no moan. KNOTGRASS. "And the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon." —Comus. I WANDER'D far o'er dale and down, By many a brave, historic town, And many a home of old renown. I went, from morn to eventide, Through leafy lanes, and by the side Of quiet farms and pastures wide ; by hedge-row elm and churchyard yew, By poplars shooting to the blue, By hills whereon the rock-rose grew ; By village green and garden trim, By river broad with sedgy brim, By mossy bourne of woodlands dim. KNOTGRASS. Nine days I went with footsteps bold, Through cities strange and kingdoms old, From bourne to bourne, from wold to wold. Nine days and nights, without a care, I sought with wonder everywhere If aught was strange, if aught was fair. And one fair marvel that I found, Under a bank with beeches crowned, Was knotgrass covering all the ground. Of all rare things I chanced to meet, Was none so fresh, and strange and sweet, As that green carpet to my feet. Soft-pacing under leafy tent, For half an endless hour I went Along that pathway, "dew-besprent." 'T was worth the lonely leagues to see That glimpse of sylvan mystery— That little fringe of elfin lea, 38 KNOTGRASS. Where, on the moonlight-hallowed green, Night-tripping fays, in glimmering sheen Of mystic pageantries, had been. And this was far — so far away ! And now 't was but the other day I found where thick the knotgrass lay, As soft as that to walk upon, As fit for court of Oberon, And yet not half a league from Brun ! Twice five long years had passed, or more, Since I had wandered kingdoms o'er, To find what flourished near my door, As fresh and green : 'T is even so As through the busy world we go, With eager eyes to see and know- How oft we miss what lieth low ! A DARK DAY. (XETHERWOOD.) HpHERE are no daisies in the grass Through which I walk to-day, Nor do I hear the little burn That sings beside the way. There is no fragrance in the breeze, That comes from woodlands old, No glory in the kingcups fine That flush the field with gold ; The violet and ladysmock To-day I do not see, Nor yet the white flower of the thorn Nor vet the willow-tree. 40 A DARK DAY. I heard the lark sing yesterday That all the world was fair, Now there's a shadow on the earth And darkness in the air. There are no whispers in the wood, No glamour in the skies, No splendour on the forest falls, Nor on the river lies. Round me I look on moorlands dim, A solitude so vast, Ridge behind ridge, hill beyond hill, And there — behold at last A lonely summit far away, One hill, the last of seven, As it might be a cloud, a mist, Touched with a gleam of heaven. All else is dark but where I see The far-off glory shine — And if the darkness is my own, So is the splendour mine ! PRIMROSES. " What is good for a bootless bene ?" — Wordsworth. If thou art weary of sorrow, If thou art weary of strife, Of all the noises of folly, And all the madness of life ; — Arise in the early dawning, Hasten thy feet and go Down to the briery dingle Where the primrose-blossoms blow. If thou art weary of watching Faces so haggard and grey, Sordid, and callous, and cunning, Passing thee day by day ; Faces furrowed, and careworn, And loveless as thine own ; Eyes that look out upon thee From the depths of a trouble unknown : 42 PRIMROSES. If thou art weary of pity For the ways of human-kind, For the pride of the rich that are poorer Than beggars kinless and blind, For the pride of knowing that knows not, For the boastful science of fools, For the rattle and prattle of emptiness, And the wisdom of the schools ; If thou art weary of folly, Weary of wisdom's strife, Weary of knowledge that cannot know The mystery of life ; — Arise in the early dawning, Hasten thy steps away, And learn in the briery dingle What the primrose-blossoms say. If thou art weary of reading All that is said and done, The doleful tale of sorrow and death Since the making of the sun ; How the people perish in myriads, By famine, and fire, and flood, Fighting the battles of guile and greed, In toil, and tears, and blood ; PRIMROSES. 43 If thou art weary of praying For the light of a milder day, That peace may yet be on the earth Ere the heavens have passed away, That greed may not always triumph, Nor cunning for ever rule, Nor the gilded hoop of honour ring The forehead of a fool ; If thou art weary of sorrow, Weary of earth-born care, Weary of pride and folly, Weary of bootless prayer ; — Arise in the early dawning, Hasten thy feet and go, And learn in the briery dingle What the primrose-blossoms know ! MEETING STREAMS. KNOW a place of meeting streams, Where the pure waters flow, And in a sylvan valley make Sweet music as they go. These waters flow where wild-flowers grow The tufted ferns between, And underneath the forest boughs, With all their waving green. And oft when to that lonely place I fly from evil dreams, I linger, listening to the sound, One sound of many streams. And, lingering, I seem to hear, Far inward and divine, A voice, as if the soul of things Were singing unto mine. MEETING STREAMS. 45 I know a place of meeting streams Where the dark waters flow Through a close-peopled town, and make Strange music as they go. By sordid homes and alleys dim, By haunts of crime and wrong, These waters flow, and as they go They sing the same sweet song. They whisper of the solitude In moorland valleys found, They sing a song of violets Hid in the mossy ground. They sing all day the old sweet song To woodland wanderers dear, But in the busy hum of men No soul hath ears to hear. Only when night is on the streams And silence in the street, Lingering, I listen for that song Where the dark waters meet : And, listening, I seem again To hear the mystic tone, — As if a kindred spirit sang, And sang to me alone. UNDER THE SNOW. HpHE flowers, blue, golden and red, And the leaves of each beautiful tree Are dead — and the summer is dead ; And all that the poet can see Is withered and shrivel'd and grey, And sere with the sereness of death, Its beauty is turned to decay, Its odour exhaled like a breath. The beautiful summer is dead ; And the poet who listeneth hears The wail of the wind overhead. Like a voice that is sobbing in tears ; He hears the low sound of the rain As it weeps for each beautiful thing, For the flowers that it fostered in vain, And fed with the sweetness of spring ; UNDER THE SNOW. 47 But when darkness is over the sky And the poet is resting in sleep, When the wind has forgotten to sigh, And the rain has forgotten to weep, From the moon^silver'd mist and the cloud, The spirits that work in the night Have woven a beautiful shroud To cover the dead from his sight ; And when he walks forth on the morrow, In paths where he useth to go, At once he forgetteth his sorrow In that beautiful vision of snow ! The flowers, blue, golden and red, And the leaves of each beautiful tree, But not of the summer that's dead, The eye of the poet can see, As under the snow they lie deep, And wait for the winds of the spring To awaken them out of their sleep, When the lark is beginning to sing. The celandine, first to unfold Its prodigal leaves to the day, And laugh with its petals of gold, Ere the snows have half melted away ; 48 UNDER THE SNOW. The wind-flower that droops in the shade, Like a vestal white-hooded and pure, That hardly to heaven upraiseth her head Or lifteth her eyelids demure ; The purple, pale flower, that comes With the cuckoo's earliest call ; The bell where the wild bee hums ; And the wild rose — fairest of all That blooms in the garden of God ; The orchis that springeth afar ; The daisy that loveth the sod ; The flower that is named of a star ; And whatever is lovely or rare That haunteth the wood or the rill, That maketh the fields of our childhood fair, Or abides in the cleft of the hill ; Not dead, but asleep — they are dreaming In the darkness of earth, and they know That the brightness of heaven is beaming O'er that beautiful vision of snow ! The flowers, blue, golden and red, And the leaves of each beautiful tree Are dead — and they also are dead, The friends we shall never more see ; As tin: flowers, in their beauty they died, Whose odour exhales like a breath, UNDER THE SNOW. 49 And all that is left of their strength and their pride Is sere with the sereness of death. The children of beauty are dead ; And the poet who listeneth hears The wail of the wind overhead, Like a voice that is sobbing in tears ; He hears the low sound of the rain, As it weeps for each beautiful one, For the love that was fostered in vain, For the sweetness of life that is gone. And when darkness is over the sky, And the poet is resting in sleep, When the wind has forgotten to sigh, And the rain has forgotten to weep, Though out of the mist and the cloud, The spirits that work in the night Have woven a beautiful shroud To cover the dead from his sight — Yet he knows that the sleep that they sleep Is not like the sleep of the flowers, Whose dreams into beauty will leap With the sunshine of spring, and its showers ; And when he walks forth on the morrow, In paths where he useth to go, There lieth a shadow of sorrow On that beautiful vision of snow ! FORGETFULNESS. IT was an old man and a child Who gathered flowers in woodlands wild ; Eager-looking and intent, Through the wilderness they went, Together now, and now asunder, Lost to everything but wonder Of the marvels which they found Scattered o'er the enchanted ground. Clothing every green recess With primeval loveliness. Where, beneath the sheltering trees, Bloom the white anemones, Where the primrose-clusters grow, And the sweet wood-violets blow, There I overtook the child, And his eyes were soft and wild. And his tiny hands were full ( )f these blossoms beautiful, FORGETFULNESS. 51 While his hasty feet pursued Through the mazes of the wood Every little wandering gleam Beckoning through that sylvan dream. " Little wanderer, tell me now, Among these flowers what seekest thou ?" Looking up with wondering glee, Strangely thus he answered me : " My Father, who is ever kind, Hath brought me here that I might find A fairy child, who doth abide Among the flowers in forests wide ; His name is Hope ; and everywhere I seek him through these vistas fair." A little further on I found That old man stooping to the ground And gathering hyacinths, which he, With tassels of the alder tree, Did make into a posy gay, And here and there a budding spray Of tender green and sedges wild, And, as he gave it to the child, He looked from him to me and smiled Sadly, and yet his eyes were kind : " I knew," he said, " that we should find 52 FORGETFULNESS. Whatever in this wood we sought, And so my little boy I brought That he might gather flowers with me, And wandering on from tree to tree He has found Hope as thou may'st see : For me, too, not in vain the hours Have passed among these leaves and flowers." " For thee ? Hast thou found Hope ?" said I, " Nay, nay, not so," he made reply ; " Yet am I thankful none the less — I only sought Forgetfulness !" SUNRISE. XT EVER have the poets told us All the glory of the morning. As a soul might stand in heaven Drinking of the living fountains, I have stood again before it, Seen the glory of the vision, Left behind the clouds and darkness, And low -creeping mists of sorrow. Many years have I been living In the valley down below there, Wandering in dark ways and fighting With the shadows and the phantoms, With the dreams and evil demons That know not the blessed morning ; Many years until my footsteps Had forgot the holy mountains Where the blessed morning cometh, Like a vision out of heaven, 54 SUNRISE. When the silver gates are loosened And the golden splendour streamed) From the tranquil summits, looking Out on life's eternal morning. So I came and saw the sunrise, Saw the faint, far-coming splendour, And I said, when life is over, And the darkness and the shadows Fall away, as from these summits Fall the heavy mists and vapours Of the night, shall we awaken From our dreams of sin and sorrow To a light above the darkness Filling all the heavens with splendour ; Shall we see each other's faces, Full of peace and full of wonder, Wonder that we had not known it, That the prophets had not told us Half the marvel of the story, How the heavens are close above us, How the shadows are but shadows, Of the old eternal morning. SUMMER DAYS. A LITTLE nook of wilderness, Between the meadow and the river, Where two erewhile together came, And one will come no more forever. The rustic bridge, the narrow road, The seat upon the fallen pine, The whisper of the summer woods, So sweet, but not so sweet as thine. A little wild-flower long ago Among the tangled grasses grew,- — So many things are dead since then, How should not that be withered too ? Here where we sat I sit alone, Watching until the sun goes down, For though 't is summer time to-day, To-morrow will the woods be brown. 56 SUMMER DAYS. ' Year after year,' the poet sang, Year after year the spirit sighs, And summer days will come again, And suns will set in summer skies, — But to this bourne of wilderness Between the meadow and the river, Will any come because we came, And say, — They come no more forever! CHANGE. HpHE tree is the same, But I am not he who came At mornings, at noons and at eves, Looking up with delight at the beautiful leaves, At the summer green and the autumn gold, In the times oi" old. HAUNTED. A LL night, as one who dreameth, I lay in a room alone, And ever the chimes were chiming, And ever a wind would moan. I lay in a haunted chamber, And I saw in the darkness there A face that was fairer than life or love And sadder than my despair. And I said, as one who crieth To God with prayerful breath, " Hast thou no angel of pity, But only the angel of death ?" I lay as one who dreameth, And out of the silence came A voice whose music throbbed like fire Through all my listening frame. HAUNTED. 59 " Yea, death is an angel of pity, He will bring thy heart to mine, And till that angel calleth thee My soul shall wait for thine." And in the cold, white morning I knelt and asked a boon, " Madonna, pray that He may send The angel of pity soon !" SHADOWS. /"\UT of the old house into the new — - Heed not the shadows that beckon and mourn ; Leave them alone to the sorrows they knew ; Never to them or the sorrows return. Ah, but the shadows are everywhere, Still to thy footsteps their footsteps are true ; What if the shadows should follow thee there Out of the old house into the new ! NIGHT COMETH. PHE day is dying, The voices cease, The night brings silence, And silence peace. The coming and going Is at an end, The meeting and parting, ' My friend,'—' My friend ! ' The faithful fingers Begin to tire, A wan face watches A dying fire. The sleepless vigils, The lonely tears, Are buried away In the silent years, 62 NIGHT COMETH. The toil is ended, The duty done, The passion wasted, The patience won. The ways are lonely, The farewell said, The night is silent, The day is dead. AN UNKNOWN BOURNE. jy'IND voice, and so sweet, Dear moments, so fleet, Sad parting, to meet At an unknown bourne. Light dies o'er the fell, Low winds through the dell Are sighing farewell From an unknown bourne. Sad voice, that must pray, Till dawn rises grey, And winds die away To an unknown bourne. Sweet patience is best, Sweet slumber is blest, So wayfarers rest At an unknown bourne. NIGHTSHADE. "And out of the good of evil born Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn." Emerson. AS I went by a wayside lonely I found a trodden flower, An outcast of the wilderness, And I took it for my dower. It was not fair to look upon, As the world of fairness deems, But to him who knows its secret It gives the power of dreams. It lives not in the summi r. Win 'ii the sky is blue and bright, But when the year is dying, And it blooms in the shade of night. NIGHTSHADE. 65 It is poor, and prone and barren, A weed of waste and shame, It shrinks away from the sunshine, But it fills the dark with flame. It haunts not in the meadow Among the cups of gold, But creeps below the hagthorntree, Where the homeless wind blows cold. Not in the lordly woodlands, Nor in the gardens fair, Among the glad red roses, They do not find it there. Nor with the pale, proud lilies Has it been known to dwell, But where the lost, sad outcasts go Down through the gates of hell. Not knowing why, I took it From the dust beneath my shoon, And, knowing now, I prize it Beyond the sun and moon ; For, though foul, and weird and loathsome, To all the world it seems, To him who knows its mystery It gives the power of dreams. WHITHER? /"\UR hearts abide in patience, Knowing the end will come ; Our tired footsteps wander, Until they find a home. Our eyes grow dim with watching And weary of their quest ; Weary, but uncomplaining, We journey to our rest. Through life and death we journey, Through all the barren years, Beneath the silent heavens That smile upon our tears ; We come forth out of darkness And into darkness go, — But whence, O soul, and whither, Not even the angels know ! A STILL 5MALL VOICE. f} SOUL, I said to my soul one day, Thou goest with me a toilsome way ; Art thou not weary of all that is done, Of all that is suffer'd, beneath the sun ? Art thou not tired of the strife and hate, And the terrible ways of the unknown fate, Of labour and endless misery For the myriads who breed, and feed and die, And know no glory in earth or sky ? Art thou not tired of thine own poor share Of the tangle of thought, of the burden of care, Of the blind world's hope and its blind despair ; Of truth that is ever one half a lie ; Of the poor, proud virtue that sitteth so high And says to its God, ' I am Thine, and they Who grovel beneath in the mire and clay Belong to the Devil that ruleth below ?' — Art thou not weary of all that we know, Of science that bringeth the world to light, An empty bubble blown in the night, 68 A STILL SMALL VOICE. By Whom it hath never a name to name ! Of all that we do for love or fame, By passion driven, at duty's call, Art thou not weary, my soul, of all ? And my soul made answer, — Nay, not so ! There is something more which thou dost not know. Thou speakest as one in a troubled dream Of things that are not what they seem. With thee in the world there is sorrow and sin, And passion and pain, but here within, In the life I live with God apart, There is peace beyond the prayer of thy heart. I know how dark are the ways of thy feet, Where terror, and strife and agony meet, Where thou wanderest far on a hopeless quest, Now praying for light, now longing for rest, Now stumbling on, thou knowest not where, Bearing thy burden of thought and care. But think not that evil is evil alone, That sorrow is only that sorrow may groan. If all were all that thine eyes can see, If thought had never a mystery, What comfort could'st thou ask of me — What hope that all will yet be well ? — Thou knowest I know what I may not tell, BY WAYS UNKNOWN. A WANDERING outcast seeks his home, From far-off climes his footsteps roam, He seeks it over land and sea, Yet knows not where that home may be ; He meets his kindred far and near, Who seek like him that home so dear ; He hears their voices in the street, So sweet — so more than music sweet ! He knows them by their faithful eyes, That greet his own with glad surprise ; Wistful he lingers by the way, And fain by theirs his feet would stay, But each must wander forth alone, And find his home by ways unknown. He cannot tell how this should be, But such he knows is heaven's decree, He murmurs not at destiny ; And when one whispers, ' stay awhile ! He answers, with a loving smile, 70 BY WAYS UNKNOWN. ' Not here, not here, may we who meet A moment now with weary feet, With feet however weary, rest ; Go thou upon thy lonely quest, Far parted as from east to west, Although our wandering feet must turn, We journey to the self-same bourne, As these horisons, wide and vast, Meet in one shining heaven at last, So thy true heart and mine, my friend, Shall meet where life's dim pathways end.' And when the wanderer is come Alone and weary to his home, 'T is said he knows it not, but lies Down on the threshold, and his eyes Are dark with slumber, and in sweet And tranquil rest his pilgrim-feet Are folded, and his soul has peace : And so bis lonely wanderings cease ; And dreaming by the silent door That all the weary quest is o'er, Behold, the spirits of bis kin Come forth,— and bear the dreamer in ! EDEN. A MONG the distant mountains, Beneath the setting sun, There is a lonely Eden Where peace may yet be won. And deep within the forest There bloom enchanted bowers, Beyond the gleaming vistas, Where joy may yet be ours. And by the winding river, Far-shining in the west, There is a Land of Beulah, Where wandering souls may rest. O, if we could but find it, By forest or by stream, That land, that lonely Eden, And find it not a dream ! A LONELY RIVER. f WAIT by a lonely river, I walk in a lonely land, Where skies are fair forever And all the hills are grand. &* Where skies are fair forever, I stand in the lonely ways, I come and go by a river, In glamour of nights and days. I wait by a lonely river, I hear the waters roll, And sweet will be forever The music in my soul. Where skies are fair forever And all the hills arc grand, I come and go by a river, That sings in a lonely land. VIATICUM. V^OU go to morning service, I wander by the way ; You love to hear the preacher, I what the wild-birds say. You in the solemn singing A sweet assurance find, I hear an ancient prophecy Whose voice is in the wind. To you the Book is holy, The promise of His word, Sacred to me the solitude Wherein I meet my Lord. You in the chancel kneeling, To God in Christ draw near, I go alone — to Him alone— And find the Comforter. INWARD LIGHT. ^OLE star that in the sunset burns, The hour, but not the dream, returns, My dream of years gone by, When the white glory of thy ray Seemed of a purer, lovelier day Than this of earth and sky. Thou art not now a presence fair, A living splendour of the air, A sentinel of heaven, To whom a nearer glimpse of Him Who hides beyond the ether dim Than to our life is given. I cry not with a lonely cry That thou art nearer the Most High, Who buildeth there alone, Beyond the utmost void, and far Beyond the glimmer of a star, I lis solitary throne. INWARD LIGHT. 75 And yet I walk not in the night Unvisited of purest light, To cheer my lonely way ; But not from rolling orb, or sphere, From radiant cloud, or azure clear, Descends the mystic ray. And what this hallowed light may be, From what far bourne it comes to me, To me is all unknown : A sudden gleam, a glory sweet, Is often with me in the street And when I walk alone. I may not know, I cannot tell How in my soul it comes to dwell, Or how it comforts me : 'T is not in thought or vision rare, 'T is not in language to declare Its pure felicity. Some say it is a living beam Of inmost heaven, and some a dream That leads we know not where, But where it leads me I must go, No light in all this night of woe Like this to me is fair. 76 INWARD LIGHT. Star of the soul ! my way is dark, But if at times thy kindling spark With mystic radiance shine, My pain is peace, my sorrow prayer, And deeper than my deep despair A sympathy divine. THE KING'S GARDEN. T IERE are flowers of light in the King's Garden, White flowers of a land unseen, There are flowers of peace in the King's Garden, And paths of peace between. I know not where is the King's Garden, , But this I surely know, Soft fragrance of its heavenly blooms Haunts me where'er I 210. There is no way to the King's Garden Far down in the dawning white, No way in the paths of the setting sun, Nor under the stars of night ; But over the wild and over the wold, When the winds of God blow free, From tranquil bowers in the King's Garden Sweet balms are borne to me. 78 THE king's garden. There is no gate to the King's Garden, No lofty bourne or bound, No beaten path or perilous O'er that enchanted ground ; But I walk in the light of the King's Garden, And all the ways are sweet With fragrance of its heavenly flowers Around my weary feet. ASPHODELS. " That's for thoughts.'' — Shakespeare. I BROUGHT my flowers to the market, For market-folk to prize, Dear as the love of faithful hearts, The light of faithful eyes : I brought the flowers I had gathered In many a haunted dell, Under the purple mornings, Into the street to sell : Some in midsummer dreams had seen The forest fairies dance, And some a charmed life had known In gardens of romance ; 8o ASPHODELS. Some in blind ways of fear and strife Of painful thought were born, Some found a home in desert caves, Where sorrow lives forlorn ; And some had comforted the feet That rest beneath the sod ; And some had kissed the pilgrim shoon, Sweet with the dews of God ; Some knew the song of the evening star, The song of the stars of prime, The song of winds that sing of the sea, Of the sea that sings of time ; And some had heard a sylvan pipe, In years when love was a child, And some the harps of wandering bards Upon a homeless wild. I had gathered some in the sunshine Of lost and lovelier years, And some in a time of solitude, And some in a place of tears. ASPHODELS. 8 1 From many a holy mountain, From many a fairy grove, I brought them to the market-folk To sell my flowers for love : Far-wandering weeds of Eden, Pure blooms of Arcady, All for a little price of love, If any love might be. But they were poor of aught but gold, No other price had they, And for a sordid boon they took And threw my flowers away. Lilies of light and loveliness They cast into the street, Garlands of Eros and the Muse Were dust beneath their feet. So sadly from the market-place, Where Mammon buys and sells, I go along my lonely way, And gather Asphodels. RHYMES AND DAYS. What see'st thou else, in the dark backward and abysm of time ? " — Shakespeare. CHILDHOOD. J HT IS well that Childhood has its own delight, That unto common things it can impart The freshness and the joy of its own heart ; As the young dawn to the grey mists of night Lends beauty not their own. Even with such light Upon them do my earliest memories start From the dark past ; familiar things, a part Of common life, yet do they seem as bright As gleams from some pre-natal paradise ; Such are my first maternal memories, The daisied grass, the woodland walks that seem, Though now well known, like places in a dream, Far in a world of faerie mystery, — For such was this untrodden world to me. BOYHOOD. l-l E is a very Quixote, and will fleet The time in dreams, and dreaming he will see Come riding forth the knights of chivalry, With golden helm, and plume of victory ! And in another mood, he oft will sit Whole summer days beneath the forest trees, Weaving romances, talking poesies : 'T is his prerogative all that Fancy sees To realise, and still, as comes the fit, Be Alexander o'er the world prevailing, Bright-armed Achilles the great Hector quailing, Ulysses through the dim sea ever sailing, The lonely Crusoe in his island-hold, Or the poor Pilgrim to the City of Gold. FRIENDSHIP. J HP IS nature's finest, rarest harmony, When souls congenial think and speak of things For which the wise world cares not, and each brings His mind's chief treasures for the mutual eye Of kindred thought to brood on lovingly : Book-memories dear and sweet imaginings That soar on speculation's fearless wings Through all the universe of mystery And marvel wide, of human hope and fear. Eugene ! such pleasures pure with thee alone My spirit 'mid life's alien throng hath known ; And do we live and not regret that year Should follow year, and thought's rich harvests lie Ungathered, or the spoil of each dull passer by. ASPIRATION. \\7HOSE thoughts in sympathy with nature * * move In all her forms, whoever, wonder-eyed, Finds constant pleasure in her marvels wide, Still seeking to exalt himself above Low cares, and blind pursuits, and selfish love, And sensual sloth, although by fate denied To gain in seats of academic pride Thy classic lore, O Muse, if thou approve And teach him all the mysteries divine Of sense and soul, albeit all unknown To the world's praise or blame, he may to thine Inspiring harmonies attune his own Self-pleasing thoughts and intuitions fine, " Making sweet solace to himself alone." EVENSONG. J Hp IS better, sweet, to lose, yet still adore thee, Than to have found thee not the soul I sought. Thine image, as I last beheld thee, wrought By memory's wizard power, is before me. 'T was evening in the church, through windows dim Streamed the rich gold of sunset, the loud hymn Up-pealing like the song of Seraphim. And on thy lovely face that sunset shone, And o'er thy vestments, and upon thy hair, And thou who wert before so passing fair Seemed now an angel, singing in the sun. That vision pure will never pass away, Time that will change thee, never can decay The summer brightness of that Sabbath day. AFTER MANY YEARS. AND we have met thus after many years ; Have met as strangers, and have parted so, Without a word of all our hopes and fears Since parting last, a weary while ago. I know 't is vain to mourn that parting now, 'T was well for thee — and me — for we had need Of that cold fortitude that does endow Cold hearts with care of all that worldlings heed. That dream of ours, that time, is dead and gone, The hopes are dead on which we then did live, And I am now content to be alone ; Yet for our poor dream's sake, I could but grieve That we, who once each others' hearts did know, Should meet as strangers — parting even so. A PORTRAIT. CO like, so sweet, so beautiful is this Fair semblance in its pure serenity, That I do seem her very self to see ; And yet fond, faithful memory doth miss Many a transient gleam of loveliness, — The light that speaks and kindles in the eye, The earnest glance of quiet sympathy, The bright, frank smile, that would sometimes express More than the subtilest language can disclose Of feeling's intricate life, and yet how fair, In its expression of the still repose Of a most womanly soul, this portrait shows : So like, so beautiful, and gazing there Who would not dream of love — and who for care would care ! THE L05T PILGRIM. HpHERE was a Pilgrim once, whose journey lay Through climes of various aspect, some were fair And full of all delight, some wild and bare, Fear-peopled, mountain regions, by the way Where furies haunt and vultures seek their prey ; Behoved him then in all things to prepare That he might wisely do, not rashly dare. But the poor fool was tempted to delay In those soft climes, wasting his heart away In blind pursuit of pleasure, boasting vain He would at his own time make bold essay Upon those deserts and their bourne attain : Ah, surely folly never will grow old — His bones are bleaching on the mountains cold! THE DEAD YEARS. LOOK not behind thee, turn thou not thine eye To the dead past, for there thou wilt behold All the dead years, like corpses, stark and cold, Lie withering in the moonless winds that sigh Through the dark realm of mortal destiny. They came to me, and on their plumes of gold Bore golden boon ; they greeted me with bold, And boundless, and most glorious prophecy ; They gave me gifts that did to me appear Divine — love, genius, all-sympathy — The key of Heaven and Hades. Woe is me ! The gold plumes^ faded, as each dying year Passed, and, with mocking wail and maniac stare, Turned its dead face unto the starless air ! FOREBODINGS. I F from the steep ascent of thirty years I could look forward to the time to come, Would the dim shape of the on-speeding doom Fulfil my hopes, or justify my fears ? Vain question : if in the future aught appears Uncertain, leave it to its friendly gloom, Nor seek to frame in fancy thine own tomb. There is a certainty that still upbears The soul like a great ship amid the sea, Whose calm course mocks the waves' inconstancy. It is the law on which all being rides ; It is the power that in all change abides ; It is the Soul of things — the Soul of me- lt is the one, the only certainty. ACCUSATION. \\/HY dost thou blame me that I have not v been Friends with the world, living as other men, Accepting all its discipline of pain, Sharing in its rough toils, nor deeming mean Its homely pleasures ? But the way serene Is not through these, which all may not attain. For some there be the higrh a;ods do ordain To wander lonely in the world, wherein They have been cast too early, or too late ; Nature that frames the oak to bear the weight O Of stormy centuries, and sometimes showers On the dead year unseasonable flowers, To wither there ; thus orders man's estate : Therefore accuse not me — nor will I Fate. HUMILITY. DO not judge the world : how should I so ? That many good and lovely things there be Even in its dreariest wastes of misery, And in its dens of selfish pride, I know. And yet I would that fate had bid me go Some quiet path from all its tumult free, In the sweet valley of Humility, Not far from where immortal flowers blow, In many a muse- and fairy-peopled dell At foot of Parnass, from whose steeps sublime I might hear strains of song that ever swell Around each genius-haunted pinnacle ; Or in sweet commune fleet the hallowed time With visitants from its serenest clime. AN OLD BOOK. i"\LD Book, of many legends thou hast told, Yet thine own secret keepest passing well ; Sly, monkish teacher in thy cloistered cell, That only what is written dost unfold, And thine own hidden knowledge keep'st like gold, That Mammon guards with many a niggard spell. Ah, if I could but win thee now to tell Of the sage beards communed with thee of old, And all that passed between you of dark lore, Forbidden ; or of beauty's bower retired, Where white hands clasped thee, where bright eyes admired And made thee proud with tears, lips whispered o'er Thy words in music, lips that might have fired The souls of all the anchorites of yore. 97 MY GARDEN. CAREWELL! I have delayed me here too long In this poor garden of my idleness, Seeking to rear its lowly flowers in peace, When all around me clamoured the fierce throng Of toiling multitudes ; and now among Its pleasant paths with careless feet they press, As though they deemed it but a wilderness Of weeds ; and now they hurry me along, Trampling my fences frail. 'Twas the world's wrong, And mine, from the great doom to shrink afraid, That bindeth man to man for mutual aid, Trifling with selfish aims ; while with a strong And steadfast heart I should have joined the strife Through which man struggles to a nobler life. WASTE PLACES. \VTHY do the silver archways of the morn, Why do the radiant sunsets rise up-piled In splendour above splendour, o'er the wild, Untrodden wastes, the solitudes forlorn ; Or build their golden roofs, as if in scorn, O'er clownish heads ; why sleep the moonbeams mild In alpine vales ; where eyes have never smiled Upon their beauty, why are wildflowers born ; While many an eye is pining to behold The glory that is ever-more unseen In lonely places, desolate and cold ? Why has it thus with beauty ever been, That it shall never, never, be the dower Of those who love it most, most feel its heavenly power ? A 5TAR. A STAR shines on me from the darkening ■**■ years, Amid the wintry solitude appears A presence clothed in beauty's brightest dress, And with its pure and perfect loveliness Awakes my spirit from its dream of pain, That on the wearied wings of hope would fain Soar from night of its despair afar Towards the sphere of that self-radiant star. And should it vanish from the tranquil air, Ere I ascend above the storm, to where, Serenely gliding on its path of light, Its presence maketh beautiful the night ; Yet still I shall not all in vain have striven, If its ray guide me to a calmer heaven. BROTHER AND SISTER. IT was thy life-long prayer, this side the tomb That you should meet once more : 'T was not to be ; That sister dear, who in thy memory Was still a maiden in her village home, Far off, unseen, lived all her years to come And died, by children mourned unknown to thee. O Love, O Death, the end of all we see, But not of all we cannot see, the dumb, Dim world of dream and prophecy ! Must love like this be unfulfilled for ever ? Or are there holier fields, a happier sky, Upon the far shore of that dark, cold river, Where these true hearts have met at last and found That endless love with endless life is crowned ? HEAVENLY LOVE. IF it be human for the Human Heart To express the passion of its grief in prayer And we may hope that they, who once did care For our well-being here, may still have part In the eternal Providence ; if they, By heaven permitted, still may seek to be Helpers of those for whom undyingly Their love still burns ; then gladly would I pray To thee, O sorrow-sainted Mother, mine, Doing and suffering much, who still did hold Thy soul obedient to the law divine, In all life's troubles, dark and manifold : If Heaven is Love, as saints and sages say, Thine is of Heaven, and will not pass away. COMPENSATION. AST of thy father's children, thou hast passed The threshold of the years of womanhood: A mingled yarn — good, evil, evil, good — Thou find'st this life in which our lot is cast. Even youth is not all flowers and summer shining, And there are flowers that whither ere their prime ; Bid brief farewell then to the morning time, And go upon thy way without repining. For in the coming years is compensation For whatsoe'er shall with the past decay, Those influences of a maturer day That gladden and exalt the humblest station ; Ripening the impulsive feelings of the mind To thoughtful sympathy with all mankind. BEREAVEMENT. P\EAR Child ! of much the mournful past did lJ hold Of most sweet promising, thou sole remain ; Last severed link of a time-broken chain, That erst did bind affections manifold Of loving hearts, now silent in the mould, Too soon by death's fast following arrows slain ; Thy coming was a joy, thy going pain ; For being here, in thee I did behold A vision of the past, thy every tone, Though wording present meanings, told alone Of those departed ones whom we shall see About us never more ; thou wert a light, In whose soft radiance things o'er which the night Had gathered were revealed again to me. REGRETS. A ND now thy voice is silent as a dream — 'T was but a moment, and 't is heard no more — And silence shrouds the grave as heretofore. Thy brief, bright coming was a transient gleam That did the past from the past time redeem. 'T is gone, I am alone, and, as before, Remaineth nought of all that precious store Of things departed, but an outworn theme, Which brooding memory unto sorrow sings, Of old, familiar, half-forgotten things, Of passionate regrets and pitying tears, Impatient thoughts of that old, happy time, And prayer — that thou mayest in thy coming prime Find recompense for thy bereaved years. WAITING. T^HE night was dark with clouds, the heavy * rain Flooded the silent street, against the pane Drifted the storm, a wide wind rose around The roof and eaves, with wonder-waking sound ; And now it was a low hymn for the dying, A wailing for the dead, a sad voice crying To the mute heavens, and now an answering tone, As of one singing to the stars alone A song of sweet and solemn mystery. So came the wind and went alternately, For now again round the dark eaves 't would moan, Whispering its secret to the earless stone ; And in the pause of the storm they came and said, As we sat silent, listening, — " She is dead ! " VISION. ^INCE then a vision in my mind has been A form all white and silent I have seen Of one lying alone who erst beguiled Many an hour in talk with us and smiled As the good only smile who ever wear White hope when others wrap them in despair. And out in the dark night, around the room Where she is lying cold, that wind will come, Wailing ; and now, methinks, it seemeth why ; And so when it upriseth to the sky, Like the far rushing of angelic wings, I listen for the mystery it sings ; And though nor joy, nor sorrow, as before — ■ Yet answereth it my hope — and answereth more. REALITY. 7VI Y fears were more than the reality, — The silence-sealed lip, the sunken eye, The pallid, frozen cheek, the forehead cold, These were what I had dreaded to behold : But when the shroud was lifted in mute awe, I saw not these, and yet the dead I saw : But the still aspect where no trace of care Now lingers, all so passionless and fair, And the deep silence, and the dreamless ease, The quiet of an unimagined peace, The perfect calm, without or pulse or breath, Revealed the presence of benignest death, — The great, white angel of the tranquil mien, That brooded there, with shadowy wing serene EVANGELIST. TPHE holiest aspect of angelic light, That veils its spiritual loveliness Before the mystery of God, could less Move my deep heart with reverence than the sight Of this beloved face with all delight. Without a guide, through doubt's dark wilderness I stumbled in blind fear, with meaningless And babbling tongues that call amid the night Confused, with phantoms of unreal woe Haunted, until his voice rose clear and low, And musical with thoughts that come and go Between man's heart and heaven, and led me where, Above the mists of error and despair, The light of heavenly hope makes all things fair. IIO EVANGELIST. II. And so with sweet, sad tears mine eyes are dim, For gazing on this countenance divine, By all rare powers and feelings moulded fine, I think 't is all I e'er shall see of him Who from dark teachings did my heart redeem, Who from his high removed sphere to mine Shed influences that hallow and refine ; Soothing my sadness with some cheerful theme, Or with some high, immortal tale, inwrought With rarest fancy and with purest thought; And more — oh, infinitely more — whose bold, Yet consecrated hand, did all remove From sweet religion's name the jargons old ; For all his creed was this — that God is love. YORICK. " One writ with me in sour misfortune's book." — Shakespeare. A LAS, poor Yorick ! oft would'st thou repeat These mournful words in a self-soothing tone, " Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron ! " Dark days were thine, companionships unmeet ; Falsehood and fear perplexed thy wandering feet ; The far-off ways of light to thee were known, But thou had'st not the strength to walk alone, Nor friend to help with counsel wise and sweet. And the blind guides, whose eyes are like the night, Who call light darkness and the darkness light, What help hadst thou to hope from such as they ? What hope to cheer thee on thy lonely way ? Save this, the last sad refuge of despair, At the blind end of things, that peace is there ! 112 YORICK. II. So thou did'st say, " peace waits us " in the grave ; When no kind voice was near to soothe and bless, This was thy only hope — thy hopelessness ! — The one poor boon which thou of heaven did'st crave. And this last prayer of broken hearts, the slave Of creeds as dark as they are pitiless, Would dare deny to human wretchedness, Denying God's good will and power to save. But we — We know so little, and the wise Are dumb before these awful mysteries — But we may hope that sorrow such as thine May hide from love's own tears a Love Divine ; May be a blindness on the spirit thrown From a too inward radiance of its own ! ORSINI. 1858. OW lies Orsini's head ! Justice hath claimed Her victim and revenge is satisfied, By the cold hand of death the heroic pride Of that unquailing spirit has been tamed ! Ye, who have sat around your fires and blamed The fierce and reckless deed for which he died, Which tyrants execrate and slaves deride, Think of his wrongs whene'er his crime is named; Think of his wanderings, hunted by the foes Who fill the dungeons of his native land With all her best and bravest, of the woes Of hopeless durance, while his fettered hand Yearned to avenge the cause of Italy — Content for her to live, for her to die ! AT HURST WOOD. 1~\ID Colin Clout walk here beside the Brun, Musing his shepherd rhymes? And is it true These were the hills, the " wasteful hills," he knew — Bleak Pendle, Boulsworth, Thievely, Hambledon? Is this small stream the Muses' Helicon ; These valleys low the " savage soil " where grew That flower of poesy, which, with the few That never fade, looks upward to the sun, Filling the world with fragrance ? Never owned Nor Greece nor Italy a sweeter flower, So golden-petal'd, radiant, richly zoned In the green leafage of its fairy bower;— Yet Colin, piping on his oaten reed, Poor Colin found it here— a forest weed ! O O O 5 l- (/) x D X 4 UJ (A D O I 0) cc u w z Id a. A KEEPSAKE. I F thou wouldst keep with care A treasure rich and rare Of all sweet things and fair, — The memories of the dead Our love has hallowed ; All brightness in the past Time has not quite o'ercast ; What visitings there be Of living sympathy, Of friendship and of love; All influences that move The world's humanity As winds upon the sea ; AYhatever nature yields Of the fair life of fields, The leafy rest of woods, The mountain solitudes, Il6 A KEEPSAKE. Or the serene of heaven ; Whatever more is given Unto the poet's eye Than life's reality, Fairer than nature's glory, More marvellous than story, Of deeper truth than aught Into pure knowledge wrought By man's aspiring thought, And to whose good the best That love deems holiest Is but a childhood's learning, — Symbol, and dream, and yearning By which the poet teaches What science never reaches — Of fairy life and lone, Of wonder-lands unknown, Of spirit-realms afar Beyond the furthest star, Where care and sorrow cease And life is love and peace. If these to thee are dear Let them have record here, That so, this book of thine May be the priceless shrine A KEEPSAKE. 117 Of all sweet memories ; And keep, for sake of these, What else would only be A poor — Remember me ! FORQETMENOT. CHE gave me of her hair A little shining curl That hung behind her ear, White — whiter than the pearl. Silent, with drooping lids, The precious gift she brought, And with its braid was twined The blue forgetmenot. That little flower is dead This many and many a year, But on the silken tress The light is soft and clear. 'Tis well- love's symbol there 1 can at w ill restore, but not one thread of wandering gold Ever forever more ! EVENING SHADOWS. TPHE evening shadows fall Athwart the pathways old, Where underneath the branches broad Of these fair trees we stroll'd, In years that come no more. I listen to the same Still murmur of the stream, Whose soft, low burden haunted us — The music of a dream That will return no more. The last note of the thrush I hear — the beetle's drone — The rustle of my own slow steps — But ah ! the silvery tone Of that dear voice no more. Trembles the star of eve From the same azure skies, But its ethereal loveliness, Mirror'd in lovelier eyes, I shall behold no more. THE TWO SPIRITS. T^HERE is a spirit in thine eyes, A spirit of sorrow and tears, That seems to mourn for the destinies That come with the coming years. But another spirit is in thy voice, And it says to the spirit of tears, ' There is joy in the present and I rejoice, And hope in the coming years.' May the spirit of joy abide with thee To the end of the coming years, That so thy life may never be Alone with the spirit of tears ! A NIQHT=WATCH. WATCH the night alone, With the shadows I remember, And the rain beats dark December, And the night-winds moan. And the shadows come and sro, Phantom shapes upon the ceiling, Phantom faces by me stealing, As the fire burns low. As the dying embers fall, Shapes and shadows dim and fleetinj Come with old, familiar greeting, Sad and silent all. And sometimes it may be, When the night is dead and lonely, That my own dark shadow only Keeps its watch with me. 122 A NIGHT-WATCH. And out there in the rain, While around the world is dreaming, Comes a wistful face, soft gleaming, To the window pane. And out there in the blue, Over lonely hills wide ranging, Go my faithful friends, unchanging, True, forever true. So fleet the phantoms grey, They are lovely but unreal, Youthful hopes and dreams ideal, Passing swift away. And so I watch alone, With the shadows I remember, And the rain heats dark December, And the night-winds moan. A SONG OF REST. \\/HEN the day's work is done Shall not the toiling one Go to his quiet home, There to find rest ? When the long night is come Shall he not rest ? "When the cold limbs are stark, When the shut eye is dark, When the closed ear is dead, Is there not rest ? When the last prayer is said Is there not rest ? Harder the toil has been, Longer the day between Dawning and dark to thee. Sweeter the rest, Calmer the night shall be, Deeper the rest. 124 A SONG OF REST. What though the fortunate, Mocking thy meaner fate, Flaunt thee with idle state, Taking their rest, ' T is but an hour to wait, Thou shalt have rest. Fear not thy destiny, Heed not the zealot's cry, Leave him alone to rave, Go to thy rest ; Sweet will the wild grass wave Over thy rest. A SONG OF HEROES. 1857. VVTE need not search the scrolls of time Or old historic lands For deeds of daring more sublime Than English hearts and hands Have wrought in India's fiery clime, Oppressed by servile bands Of foes, whose more than rebel crime Reeks from their myriad hands. Nor need we go to those old days When chivalry arose, And knightly valour did amaze Our ancient Paynim foes ; For ne'er might warlike feats outblaze, In brightest glory, those On which an Indian sun doth gaze, From Himalayan snows. 126 A SONG OF HEROES. Since Richard Cceur-de-Lion's sword His foes with terror struck ; Since Cromwell gave the battle-word O'er Dunbar's sea-bound rock ; Since Wellington's calm voice was heard ; Mid cannon's earthquake shock ; No soldier's name our hearts has stirred Like thine, bold Havelock ! Hope of the brave, when dangers lower — Be still their guiding star ! Remember those in peril's hour, From friends and help afar, Women and babes who shrieking cower In tears and blood — nor spare — But strike with sword of vengeful power, O thunder-bolt of war ! For Havelock, bravest of the brave ; Wilson, of Delhi won ; For Eyre, the scourge of many a si Whose crimes have stained the sun ; For noble Inglis who did save Our Lucknow garrison ; Shout ! But be silent o'er the grave Of Neil and Nicholson. A SONG OF HEROES. 127 Chamberlain, our Murat the bold ; Greathed, Greatheart shall be ; Lawrence and Wheeler, Romans old, Who died when Rome was free ; And in the lists of fame enrolled, The name of Willoughby Shall rank with his who backward rolled Porsenna's chivalry ! But let these haughty vauntings cease ! For far, O Skene, above The proudest tales of Rome and Greece, Thy pass of death shall prove. Song, legend, history, no piece Of passion has to move The human soul like that wild kiss Of anguish and of love, Which thou didst give to her who stood Undaunted by thy side, When, all athirst for lust and blood, The banded traitors tried Their strength in vain — the rebel brood Were baffled, while the tide Of onset bravely you withstood — And then — as bravely — died ! 128 A SONG OF HEROES. Yet not alone to names so great I dedicate the lay ; But to the humblest soldier's fate Who, in that perilous fray, Shall strike one stroke for those who wait, In mangled heaps, the day When robed priests in solemn state Their burial rites shall say. 'T is said the chivalry of old We never more shall see, That we have made the idol gold Our only deity : Yet still, I trust, beat hearts as bold 'Neath garbs of low degree, As e'er 'neath armour's princely fold Throbb'd high for victory ! They rest in peace who bravely fell ! And honoured to all time, Their names shall be the magic spell Of many a deathless rhyme. And when the bards their stories tell, In epic page sublime, By English voices shall the tale Be sung in every clime. LULLABY. " Mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on/' — Shakespeare. P\EATH met my darling in the street, And lifted up his little feet And bore him, singing lullaby, And softly murmured, ' Come with me, And let me kiss thee on the face And lay thee in a quiet place, From danger far and far from fear, That wait around thy footsteps here. Thou knowest not and canst not know The weary road thy feet would go, Too rough, and perilous and wild For such as thee, my gentle child. 129 130 LULLABY. Come, let us go, I have a nest, Quiet and safe, where thou shalt rest. Come, let us go, and make our home Where fear and danger cannot come In that still house where I abide — The way is dark, the world is wide ! ' And so Death took him from my door, And I who mourned now mourn no more ; In pity took him, as it seems, From evil and from evil dreams, Shadows that meet me by the way, That walk with me from day to day, And weary me with clamour vain For him who will not come again : For all so soon as death was gone, Came Sorrow, making bitter moan, And look'd at me with hollow eye ; And then pale Pain came wandering by, And spectral Fears, and sordid Cares, Mischances, Agonies, Despairs, All shapes of misery and strife That haunt about the ways of life, Came crying out on Death, that he Should thus have come so suddenly To steal the little life away That would have been so sweet a prey. LULLABY, 131 ' Nay rest thee darling,' then said I, ' Surely 't is better far to lie Asleep with Death, if God so please, Than walk with shadows such as these ! ' P/EAN. CING Prean for the rescued one, Come sing it soft and low, Kiss the pale lips of endless peace, And bid farewell and go. He will not feel the burning tears, He will not hear the psalm, His cold feet touch the silent land, The stillness and the calm. He will not tread the way of pain Our weary feet have worn, The way of fear, by which we go To meet him at the bourne. We walk through perils dark and strange, And stumble as we go, We see, and do, and suffer wrong That he will never know. P.tAX. 133 Sing paean, and bring wood-flowers wild To lay upon his breast, And softly bear our loved one home Where loves and sorrows rest. Sing for his ransom and release From mortal fear and fate, A paean of eternal peace, And bid farewell and wait. A MIGHT=HAVE = BEEN. f SAW an old man, thin and grey, Who sat like a shadow beside the way : His eyes were the saddest that ever were seen. I said, " What dost thou here, my friend ? " "I am thinking," he said, " of a Might-have-been, And waiting; here for the end." '6 " Hast thou nothing to do, old man," said I, " I have nothing to do," he said, "but die," " Hast thou nothing to love ? " You should have seen His eyes, as he answered me, " My friend, My love was only a Might-have-been, And here I wait for the end." 'TWAS SUNSHINE STILL WITH THEE. TPEN years — bright years — around our feet Thy feet have wandered free, And howsoever dark our path, ' T was sunshine still with thee. A little spot of light — thy life — Those dark days did enfold Whose shadows, though they touched thy head, Dimmed not its sheen of gold : A little flower, that in the time Of the cold winds we cherished ; Our sad hearts then were glad — and yet ' T was all that had not perished : A chord that once made music sweet. With chords of answering tone. And, now that the) are silent, >m,us Its melody alone : 136 'twas sunshine still with thee. Such hast thou seemed, so sweet, so bright, So happy heretofore ; And such if thou might'st ever be, We would not ask for more. We love thee for thy happiness, We love thy joy to share, We love thee for thy soft, brown eyes And for thy shining hair. We love thee, love, for all thou art, And hast been in the past ; We love thee for thy love, and shall, While love and life may last. And for another love — that lies With silence and a pall— For that poor, buried might-have-been We love thee more than all ! Our prayers availed not then — Ah, love, Thine eyes are very fair ! And in their orbs 1 see a light That laughs at my despair. 'twas sunshine still with thee. 137 So, though my song may seem too sad, It shall not end in sorrow, — Hope smiles at me from thy dear face, With such a bright good-morrow. THE LOCKET. TPHAT wither'd leaf in the locket, That leaf of a wither'd flower, Now dead, and dry, and scentless, Hath still a marvellous power : It brings a day that is dark Into the light once more, And a sad, sweet smile on a face That is lingering at the door : It makes the long, long past Seem present, and close, and warm ; That wither'd leaf in the locket, Carried about like a charm ! A DREAM OF THE PAST. FROM the noise of the strife, from the battle of life, I turn, through the desolate years, To the church of the vow that is holier now, For the love that is hallowed by tears. To live in the faith that is faithful to death, We vowed at the altar divine, And still, as I kneel in the spirit, I feel A hand that is resting in mine. A moment — no more — and the vision is o'er, The dream of the past and the tears ; To the noise of the strife, to the battle of life, I turn, from the desolate years. THE TRUMPETS ARE SOUNDING. HP HE trumpets are sounding, the heroes are * falling, Fighting and falling, foeman and friend, Let us go up to the front with the foremost, Let us go faithfully on to the end. Fighting or falling, victor or vanquished, Still the war goes gallantly by, You who are shouting the noisy paeans Are but waiting your turn to die. Each to his place in the hour of danger, Each in his place to stand or fall, Asking no question when, or wherefore, Each to be ready — and that is all. Some on the lonely hill-top looking Wearily out in the twilight dim, Some in the thick of the battle bleeding, Crushed and broken in life and limb. THE TRUMPETS ARE SOUNDING. 141 All around is the noise of the striving, Fierce, harsh voices and dying wails, Not for pity may any spare thee, Only the strength of the strong avails. Well for thee, if friends are near thee, Loving and helping all they can ; Well for thee, though foes are round thee, If thou can'st do and die like a man. Not for thy life thy life was given, But to be spent in the strife of souls; One way there is to the gates of heaven, And o'er it the tumult of conflict rolls. The trumpets are sounding, the heroes are falling, Fighting and falling, foeman and friend, Let us go up to the front with the brave ones, Let us go faithfully on to the end. A REQUIEM. " He must not float upon his watery bier unwept." —Lycidas. | ONG before the limbs are weary, Long before the day is done, Or the eyes are dim with gazing On the glory of the sun ; Ere the heart has felt a burden, Ere the feet have found a snare, Ere the light of hope had left him Walking in the shadow — care ; While the pathways of his being Lay before him, stretching far Underneath the noonday brightness, Underneath the evening star ; A REQUIEM. 143 As the friendly faces greet him, As the friendly voices cheer, As the gladness of the tumult Rings like music in his ear ; Even then the shadow passes, Even then the darkness falls- Like a sudden trumpet pealing, Even then the angel calls ! He has heard it and is silent, And a smile is on his cheek, And upon his lips the burden Of the words he may not speak. Strange should come to him the message For which others watch and pray, Bowed beneath a weight of sorrow, Weary of the night and day ! Strange that eyes so bright with promise Should be now so dark with sleep ! Stranger still they should not answer To the tears of those who weep ! 144 A REQUIEM. What is this, that we should murmur ? What is this that we should groan ? Do the dead know any sorrow ? Do the mute lips ever moan ? Life ! Has life so sweet a slumber ? Seems he not supremely blest, Having found what we are seeking — Rest ? Nay, something more than rest ! A MEETING. Written on hearing that R. W. Emerson was coming to England, 1873. YVTITHIN a quiet homestead far away Sat a lone wight who to himself did say: — The brave American is coming here, My prophet of the western hemisphere ; Coming to England, to the holy land Which Shakspere, Cromwell, Milton made so grand To all the ages. Taking down his book, I turn its treasured pages o'er and look For the old texts, the precious sayings there, And read, and read again, and breathe a prayer, That I might see this man, this Emerson ; Or, if high God would grant so great a boon, Carlyle and him together when they meet. Seldom in this world do such voices greet, '45 146 A MEETING. Whose trumpet tones have rung so clear and high, Proclaiming man's immortal destiny, Proclaiming that God's truth is not a lie For priests to conjure with, that still His word, If the soul will but listen, may be heard Within the soul, and from the lips of men, His prophets, whom He sendeth once again, And still again will send, till man is freed From bondage to a dark and soulless creed, From bondage to a blind and brute despair, That seeth not the Presence everywhere, In which we walk unweeting ! Oh, ye two, Who still bear witness that this truth is true, That howsoever high the heavens appear, The spirit of the Living God is near To every soul of man, 't were grand to see That meeting, and in reverent mood to be Partakers of its high communion. But what is this? Have I not seen and known The truths ye teach, the vision ye have shown ? And in the presence of the Allgood, the Allfair, Have I not met — shall I not meet you there ! BENISON. A BENISON be thine, true heart, Who came true hearts to bless, A pledge of love for all thy love, And all thy faithfulness. BOON. A BLESSING on the day, my child, A benison for thee, As full of boon as thy dear love Has been a boon to me. AT REST. TPHEY lie at rest, the weary ones For whom we mourned in days gone by, Who lived that we might live, and then Lay down to die. They lie at rest, the little ones Who smiled and prattled at our knees, And then were seen on earth no more — We mourn for these. But more for those, with hopeless eyes Who watch and wait for rest, we mourn, Who live through life a life of pain, With patient scorn. Who wait but that the end may come That brings to sorrow its surcease, And pray for death — because they deem That death is peace. AT REST. 149 For these we mourn until the hour When God shall grant their poor request, And weary with the weary ones They lie at rest. IF I REMEMBER. I F I remember the beautiful face, If still they haunt me, the soft, dark eyes, The gentle greeting, the gentle smile, What then must be thy memories, Part of whose life has passed away With her who hand in hand with thee Wandered together where life's brief day Dawns in the fields of our infancy ? If I regret that these can fill No more with their beauty a fleeting hour, That the lips of love have been kissed by death, And the soft lids closed like a frozen flower— What then to thee, to whom those eyes Were part of the light of every morrow, Is the shadow now on thy path that lies That was not always a path of sorrow ? IF I REMEMBER. J 5i If I remember, can'st thou forget The days before that shadow fell, When love, and beauty, and joy were hers, And hope was with thee, and all was well ? Yet the path of thy future may be as bright With the brightness of hope as it was before, And love, and beauty, and all delight — If thou could'st remember the past no more ! CLEOPATRA. Suggested by a painting attributed to Michael Angelo HpHE revels are ended, The glory is fled, The voices are silent And Antony — dead ! O Charmian, O Iras, The darkness is come, The dancers are weary, The music is dumb. The gods give to Cassar The world and its powers, But love and the triumph Of love has been ours. CLEOPATRA. 153 The mouth of the serpent Of Nile at my breast Is sweet as thy kisses To kiss me to rest. And softer than slumber On love-weary eyes, When wan day is dying, This death-shadow lies. The vanquished is victor, The captive is free — Octavius will triumph, But not over me ! A QUESTION OF IMMORTALITY. To one who sneeringly doubted his own. A SKEST me, art thou immortal ? I neither know nor care. I only know the soul's immortal, And cometh everywhere. Ask thy soul, man, if thou hast one, And cease thy foolish quest. Thou art not sun- thou hast one? Wei) Thou'rt likely to know best ! LOCH ACHRAY. 2 MAY 20, 1877. A N old, familiar scene, This little mountain mere, These woods to me have been, For many a silent year ; A picture in a room, A glimpse of sun and shade, Brown heath and forest gloom, By painter's pencil made ; A dream of summer skies On Highland peaks unknown, A rest for weary eyes That wait and watch alone ; A dream, a name — -no more,— Till this fair morn of spring Upon the sylvan shore I hear the mavis sim ■ji ■ 156 LOCH ACHRAY. Music is in the brake And sunshine in the trees, And my enchanted lake Is rippling in the breeze ! I tread the daisied grass, And by the mossy burn I wander up the pass, Among the budding fern : By peak and plain I stray, I leave the lonely glen, I take my homeward way, Ne'er to return again. The wild wood-bird will sing Under the mountain hoar, And gentle winds will bring The ripple to the shore ; But not a voice to me Will come from lake or hill, No music from the tree, No murmur from the rill. LOCH ACHRAY. 157 So little I bring home To what I had before ;— A picture in my room, A name — a dream : — no more ! DALMALLY. " Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool I, when I was at home I was in a better place. But travellers must be content." As You Like It. /"VH, grand are the hills looking over Dalmally, And green are the forests and fair, And tranquil the streams that run down in the valley, And lovely the flowers that grow there ! And there by the way-side the tavern is cozy, Inviting the stranger to stay, And there is the waiter who bringeth 'the rosy,' And there is the bill you've to pay. There, foot-worn and weary, you rest from your roam in Y\ "ho come with no cares but your own, You quietly puff your cigar in the gloaming, And tipple your toddy alone. DALMALLY. J 59 But if you come there with a comrade unquiet, Who grumbles and growls at his lot, Who turns up the tip of his nose at the diet, And findeth no peace in the pot ; For you will no rest be, though never so weary, No ' ease at your inn ' will you find ; The vale will be dark and the hills will be dreary, And dismal the state of your mind. And should you come there with a couple of franions Who quarrel like dogs o'er a bone, It's fifty to one you will curse your companions, And wish you had come there alone. For, grand though the hills be that look o'er Dalmally, And green though the forests and fair, If with quarrelsome cronies you come to the valley, You may have a ' row ' even there ! And you who seek peace among mountains and flowers, Wherever your footsteps may roam, You'll seek it in vain in the happiest bowers — If you set off without it from home. A TRUE FORQETMENOT. 'VE roamed thro' woods and meadows wide, I've wandered oft in gardens gay, And many a lovely flower I've seen, And gather'd many a sweet bouquet. Red is the rose and sometimes white, The lily like the snow new driven, And in the tulip may be seen All colours of the bow of heaven. Sweet is the briar, whose name is sweet, And sweet also the violet, And thyme, and mint, and marjoram, And wall-flower and the mignonette. But not a flower in all the world Can match in beauty or in bloom This paragon of Flora's art : Its rounded grace — its soft perfume ! A TRUE FORGETMENOT. l6l I ask not that the red, red rose Or snow-white lily be my dower — All that I dared not ask I have, In this my cream-white cauliflower. Thanks, lady, for the souvenir, Thrice happy in whose humble pot Descends the culinary flower, The only true Forgetmenot ! A QUARTETTE. Written in a Lady's Album \*/"ITHIN this little book Immortal lines you read, By your most famous wights, For wit and daring deed. A journey, all on foot, To famous London city Has proved how brave they are, — These pages prove how witty. The Duke can soar aloft In verse sublime and strong, Or stoop to mushrooms, when he lists "To check the vein of song." A QUARTETTE I 6 The General cannot soar, His heels no pinions bear, For once sharp fate, as Hamlet says, Did "set a blister there." The gay Lieutenant next Comes briskly to the fore, Whose merry jests have often set The table in a roar. Mine Ancient jesteth not — A silent sort of man — Yet thus to please a fair ladye He does the best he can. 6 msm^m34 m^& A BIRTHDAY = RHYME. V/'ES, the weather's very cold, and the Muse is * very mournful, And the " Duke " you may be sure, would be very, very scornful, If I were to compose a verse or two in prose, With a tinkle at the endings that everybody knows — Because he could do it better, or his Muse, if he would let her, Although it is a task that he does not often set her. And though for "friends to part " is a sadness to the heart, Yet, as vulgar folk would say, it is quite another start, When old chums meet together, who have seen a deal of weather, And worn a deal of leather, a-roaming o'er the heather, To talk of good old has-been, and sit and puff their smoke, And unearth the dismal pun and the venerable joke : A BIRTHDAY-RHYME. 1 65 And sure 't would be a pity, if the muse so wise and witty, Couldn't find it in her heart to sing a random ditty ; And the bard, if such a bard there be, would be a ninny, If he could not tune his precious pipes and turn a rhyme for Minnie, On a high day such as this is, and wish a thousand blisses, All good that life possesses, and a wealth of household kisses, For the maiden young and fair, and the mother debonair, And the " General " a-sitting in his old arm chair. So here's honour to the day, to the lassie bright and gay, Be her's the true heart-gladness that will never pass away. May the summer of her life be as cloudless as the spring, May sorrow never touch her with its dark and heavy wing. So prays " mine Ancient" and the rest will join him in his prayer, The " Duke " and the " Lieutenant," and also the ex-Mayor : Here's to your health and happiness ! and when the toast is done, Let's hope the merry alderman will crown it with a pun. ON A CERTAIN POEM, 4 Published in a certain paper, without the knowledge or consent of the Editor. W/'H ATS this, ye auld "s neck-drawing dog?' Behind my chair you " came incog, And played on me a cursed brogue, Black be your fa' "- And gave my dignity " a shog, 'Maist ruined a'." I'm not so fain as you might think To answer you with pen and ink, Or file and fashion, link by link, An idle rhyme ; It may be I'm too near the brink And bourne of time. ON A CERTAIN POEM. 167 And there are other reasons why " My Muse," as you say " is so shy," We'll talk them over by and bye Before the end, Before the days have all gone by, My trusty friend. Let us be thankful we have known The Muse at all, in this dark zone Of factory-fumes, this Acheron Of soot and sin ; That we have tasted pure ozone, Parnassian ! You've had your Burns, you have him still ; I have my Shakespeare, my sweet Will ; Pure fountains from the heavenly hill, And blest are they Who of such waters drink their fill In life's brief day. " The Editorial chair is hard ?" — Well, it's not just a throne, my Bard, But while it wins some small regard Fra' chiels like you, I take it kindly, as reward For service due. 1 68 ON A CERTAIN POEM. Both you and I have sat on stools Of harder wood, with harder tools Than pen or pencil : in such schools, The truth to tell, Without much aid of bookish rules, We learned to spell. We learned to read, we learned the song The Muses sing ; we learned ere long The sacred lore of right and wrong ; We did abide The battle where the foe was strong ; We took our side ; We fought together. Let it go. You make no brag of that, I know ; Patient you bore the dastard blow, With cheer sublime, Then turned on the retreating foe " A routh o' rhyme." And still you sing your songs of cheer, You care not though the critics sneer. Why should you? Humble souls sincere Accept the lay : You pipe away from year to year, A minstrel gay. ON A CERTAIN POEM. 1 69 So should it be, my festive spark ; We never weary of the lark, And in this world of care and cark We need your gladness, For sure the world is all too dark For songs of sadness. And mine were sad, and sad enough, Oh, very melancholy stuff, A farthing rushlight in the snuff, By sorrow tended, Till in the socket with a puff 'T was fitly ended. But sad or glad, my trusty frere We've been good friends for many a year, And with a " frater feeling" dear, United still, We'll gather in some far off sphere, Wi' Rab and Will ! A SILVER WEDDING. WOW swift time flies on silver wings To the silver wedding-day, How silver sweet the time-voice sings Upon that silver way. How happy they, with silver crown Who crown the happy years, Where from the hill-top looking down Another dawn appears. Another dawn, a restful time, And restful be the way, By which you " toddle down " the hill To the " golden " wedding day. " Entire affection " speedeth time, But time is never old To those lie brings on silver wings Into the years of gold. A SILVER WEDDING. I 7 I Another dawn will yet arise, For mornings never cease ; And close upon the evening time Will come the dawn of peace. A MEMORY 5 Of Edmund Spenser and George Fox. [ PASSED through wonderful valleys Where wealth had built its towers, Where din of crank and wheel was heard Through all the sun-bright hours ; Where busy men were scheming In dim and dusty rooms, And simple folk were moiling All day in the deafening looms : And in the stony roadways, Where crowding feet would come, 1 heard the mingling echoes, The clash and clamour, and hum : A MEMORY. 17; And all above the valleys A dismal cloud hung low, Poisoning the rain, and sunshine, And all sweet winds that blow : And I saw in all men's faces One craft of a cunning brain, In all men's voices I heard one speech Whose sweetest word was 'gain.' There was but one dream in every mind, In every heart one care — And few had thought of the sunshine That lives in the summer air. And few had thought for the mystic gleam That kindles the poet's rhyme, That bums in the prophet's burning prayer Through all the night of time. And I asked an ancient moiler, As he walked beside me there, If ever he heard a poet's song Or the voice of a prophet's prayer. 174 A MEMORY. And he said he heard the parson Of the parish once-a-week, But for bard or prophet, wellaway, Of them he could not speak. And I asked if no wandering minstrel Through the valleys ever trod, And if never had stood on the glorious hills The feet of a knight of God. And the moiler stared with puzzled look And ne'er a word would he say, But I saw the scorn in his cunning eye As he laughed and walked away. Then I turned again through the roadways And sought in a dusty nook, Where, under the frowning gables, Was many an ancient book ; And there I read of a minstrel, A bard of the olden time, Who in these valleys nursed his youth And planned his glorious rhyme; A .MEMORY. 175 And there I read of a wandering seer, A prophet of the soul, Whose prayer went up from yonder hill That looks towards the pole : And I mused, as the crowd went by me, If one poor moiler there Had heard of that minstrel's wondrous song, Or that old prophet's prayer. A CENOTAPH. 6 APRIL 23BD, 1864. What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones The labour of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under astar-y-pointing pyramid. Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment I last built thyself a livedong monument ; And so sepulcrcd in such pomp doth lie That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. — Milton. VA/THI happy radiance rose this April morn, Three hundred years ago, When, on the banks of that delightful stream — The willowy Avon, that with whispering flow- Now creeps through woodland shadows, now doth glow A CENOTAPH. I 77 Bright in the sun among the meadow flowers, Now glassing in it's depths some pastoral scene, And now reflecting Warwick's feudal towers ; There where the humble village spire doth stand To which the pilgrims turn from every land ; There in the quiet, cool, auspicious hours, While nature robed the earth in freshest green, Shakespeare was born. And there his infancy was nursed, and there With flowers his childhood played ; And through the leafy lanes and meadows fair A glorious boy he strayed. And there in youthful sport the woodlands hoary He roamed with each bold spirit of the time, Who, like the shepherds of the ancient story, 'Mongst whom Apollo came with veiled glory, Knew not the godhead of that brow sublime. And there a man he lived, and night and day Visited him in their sweet, alternate sway ; And there he died : And there his tomb is found : And that low spot of earth is more renowned Than all the monuments of human pride. In temples reared by any mortal hand Do we his mighty Cenotaph behold ? 178 A CENOTAPH. Among the tombs of princes doth it stand, In marble or in gold ? Ah, no ! but in the temple of the mind, Upreared sublime, by his own genius wrought, His monumental effigies we find, Enduring with the eternities of thought ! No sacerdotal gloom around it lowers, No night of ignorance ever darkens there, Where in the light of nature upward towers That structure fair. And Nature owns it ; Nature on it showers The sunlight of her own eternities : " The pyramids of man are dust," she cries, " But this is mine ; and with my work shall bear An equal rank, even with my stars and flowers." Low on its adamantine base around Are fiendish shapes and aspects of the earth : There brutal Caliban, of monstrous birth, Grovels beneath his torturers on the ground : There the pale Hecat's crew Their fatal poisons brew : There open-eyed conspirators are seen In whispering talk ; There lust, and cruelty, and hate, and fear, Cunning, and treachery, appear ; There madness mopes and raves ; A CENOTAPH. I 79 There the blood-boltered ghosts of murdered men Rise from untimely graves. And next in place are all the aspects shown Of human folly, from the Athenian boor, With ass's head and ears, through knave and clown, Now to the verge of idiotcy down, Now upward ranging to the feathery brain Of nimble-witted foppery. Never sure Was foolery writ on any face so plain As upon these ; save some that we have known. And never shall we see such fools again As we have met in Arden many a day, Sicilia's Court, or in Illyria, Denmark, or where the towers of Venice rise. Yet these and more are there, Who mingled much of wisdom with their jest : And in his tavern chair, Falstaff, so fat, so witty, and so wise, Sits hia;h above the rest. '&. And after these, as by enchantment wrought, The enchanted isle, full of all sweetest sound, And Ariel's song echoing the rocks around, And coral-bedded seas, by magic taught Along the haunted shore To heave, and dash, and roar. l8o A CENOTAPH. And fairy-land with all its bowers of green, And Oberon's court is seen, And that fair Indian child, Titania's train, and all the revels wild Held on the moonlit sward ; And Theseus in the woods of Attica, Hunting the boar and pard. And here, behold, a shepherd's holiday, With Florizel, and Perdita the fair Weaving her garlands of immortal flowers. There, breathing tranquil air, Are those who dwell in Arden's peaceful bowers, Fleeting the happy hours Beneath the shadows of the forest old, As in the age of gold. And over these the stately forms are seen Of kings with royal mein ; Heroes and statesmen old, And forms sublime of Greek and Roman mould; The Trojan warrior and his Grecian foe, Ulysses' thoughtful eyes and Nestor's locks of snow : Coriolanus, haughty, brave, austere ; Cassius and Brutus, patriot souls severe ; Imperial Coesar, fearless, calm and wise ; Marc Antony, who forfeited the prize Of Rome and empire for the Egyptian's eyes. A CENOTAPH. l8l And next in order, see, The knightly race of English chivalry ; Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Salisbury, Suffolk, York, are there, Whose names are household words, and many more Who fought with them that day at Agincourt, And after, when the white rose and the red Heaped many an English field high with the noble dead. And, lo, a matchless sight ! Like some " entire and perfect chrysolite " Of sculptured loveliness is yon fair band ; Beauty and pleasure, breathing happy breath " Beauty and anguish, walking hand in hand The downward way to death." Lo, Beatrice, with flashing wit and eyes ; Hero's mute woe ; Miranda's glad surprise ; Imogene's truth ; Viola's patient sighs ; Sweet Rosalind, and gentle Celia ; The lovely lady, " married to the Moor ;" Sad Isabel, Hermione, and poor Love-crazed Ophelia ; And, see, a radiance from the portal breaks Of yonder tomb, that opens on the night, " Eor there lies Juliet, and her beauty makes That vault a feasting presence, full of light !" 1 82 A CENOTAPH. High over these again, Crowning with glory all that work sublime, Stand the colossal men Who strove with fate, and passion, and the blind Furies whose haunts are in the human mind ; Majestic forms, enduring to all time; Timon, that soul of fierce Titanic hate Whose curses fall like oracles of fate. Shylock, the stubborn and unpitying Jew ; That Hunchback who the sleeping princes slew; The Moor, so loving, jealous, cruel, kind ; Macbeth, who murdered sleep ; and she whose form Still walks beside him like a fate ; and blind Old Lear, whose awful grief outstorms the storm ; Romeo, poor Juliet's heavenly Romeo, The immortal minion of love and woe ; And he, as madness wild, as wisdom sane, As nature's self profound — Hamlet the Dane! What monument was ever yet designed, Wrought out of nature or the human mind ; What pyramids, or parthenons, or domes ; What palace towers, what gorgeous abbey-glooms; What Phidian grace to Grecian marbles given ; What Titian hues, what Raphael dreams of heaven ; A CENOTAPH. I 83 What pomp of mingling harmonies, that roll Their waves of rapture through the listening soul ! Of the poetic muse, what legends fine, Homeric gods or heroes half divine ; Dantean terrors of the gulf profound, Or mystic lights that star the godhead round : Miltonic wars, where giant angels fight Or fall with ruin from the plains of light ; What work of genius, wrought with highest aim, And consecrate to everlasting fame, Can match with this that bears our wisest Shakespeare's name ? A RHYME OF JUBILEE. 7 JANUARY 1883. \ LITTLE stream began to flow Among the wild hills long ago, A little well which hands of toil Had scooped out of the barren soil, And two or three who thirsted there Drank of the waters sweet and fair, Drank as they rested from the strain Of nervous hand and busy brain, Drank and were glad, as men who find, Wandering in deserts lone and blind, A little nook of wild fern growing, Whereby a blessed fount is flowing. Or say, a little seed was sown, Where erst the summer flowers had grown In meadows to our fathers known ; A RHYME OF JUBILEE. 1 85 "The Meadows," as we still must say, Although no grass grows there to-day, But there this seed was scattered then, By faithful hands of humble men, Whose flowers to-day are gathered far, Wherever faithful toilers are ; Flowers fairer than were ever seen On lonely hills, in valleys green, And lovelier fruit than that whose gold Was guarded by the dragon old ; And this grows free for all to eat, " The best of Pan's immortal meat," So sweet is thought, and knowledge sweet. Or say, a little light alone Out of a cottage window shone, At first a thin and trembling ray Shot through the night-mist dim and grey, And two or three with wondering eyes Saw the soft light and watched it rise, And like a beacon burn afar, Until the lamp became a star ! A star that blesses humble ways, That hallows toil and toilsome days ; And thousands follow now that light, Who walked in peril of the night 1 86 A RHYME OF JUBILEE. Of ignorance, so blind and drear, Where myriads perish in their fear. Lo, now, where'er the poor man turns That glorious light around him burns, Which poor men kindled long ago. Lo, now, the flowers that round us blow, The plantings of a poor man's care, Make all our pathways sweet and fair. Lo, now, a river, wide and grand, Upon whose banks ten thousands stand, And those who pass from land to land. Is this the little well that burst Up in " The Meadows," scarce at first Enough for those poor men athirst ! So speak we of beginnings old, Dark years that into bright years rolled And brought us what we have.— Behold ! " Look round ;" so still it must be said To those who ask about the dead, Who did good work that must endure, Who laid the strong foundations sure. A RHYME OF JUBILEE. 1 87 What need I tell to those who know — You who have seen the long years go, Who saw the little done before Still added to the little more ? And you who stand as in the prime And promise of a happier time, " Look round you," so I still must say, You children of the coming day, Look round with proud and happy glance At all your fair inheritance. What have you here ? Light, learning, store Of gathered science, and the lore Of ages past — art — poetry — And more, for more than these must be — The perfect freedom of the free. For what is knowledge but a chain, A burden upon heart and brain, To men afraid of liberty. For this our fathers fought of old, Right faithful men were they and bold, Right faithful, too, the men who stood Together, working for our good, And watching, amid doubts and fears, The slow results of fifty years. The men who added stone to stone, Who built what now is all our own, Who added book to book, and brought 1 88 A RHYME OF JUBILEE. The hoarded wealth of human thought, And teachers wise, and day by day Laboured themselves, till they were grey, Laboured, and taught, and passed away. Shall we not own the mighty debt ? Shall we these faithful men forget, , Now that we crown the work they did ? Honour and gratitude forbid ! Here in this temple where we stand Shall we not praise the building hand ? Shall we not bless the head that planned ? Shall we not name the honoured name ? Shall we not give the giver fame ? Look through the mist of fifty years, And, lo, the gentle face appears Of Thomas Booth ; I see him stand, A leader in the little band Who laid the first foundations down Of that great edifice we crown. Who next out of the darkened days Answers our proud appeal of praise ? A faithful worker, kind and strong, Who laboured earnestly and long, With free good will. Methinks, I hear A voice out of the past ring clear — A RHYME OF JUBILEE. 1 89 "When you have built a house," said one, " And fair to look at in the sun, Worthy this cause so good and grand, Oh, leave a niche for Sutherland !" Although that niche is empty yet, Not here, not now, must we forget The name of one who wrought so well. Yet of another let me tell, Who did good work that will endure, Who knew the rede of science pure, Who taught and loved the legends old That round the rustic hearth are told, And linger on the haunted wold ; Who called again the ghosts of war To lift the lance and urge the oar Along the banks of lonely Brun : For all this faithful labour done, How much we owe to Wilkinson. How much to these, how much to thee, The friend of light and liberty, Who trusted truth to make men free ; The faithful life, the generous hand, The kind good heart, the head that planned, In its benevolence sublime, Large blessings for the coming time, 190 A RHYME OF JUBILEE. Whose generations here shall turn, Long as the lamps of science burn, To gladden many a humble lot, While thousands bless the name of Scott. Another name I have to name Of those who wrought nor thought of fame, Of those who did the cause befriend, Who knew the work, but not the end ; Good men, and true, and strong, were they ; And he who left us yesterday, Was he not strong — was he not wise — The man whose memory we prize Before all others for the light He made around him in the fight ? For in that time of fifty years Did we not strive with doubts and fears, With hollow friends and bitter foes ? And when the angry zealots rose To rend in twain our peaceful band, How strong and fearless did he stand, Whose voice was still a voice of power, Whose very presence was a tower, Built firm on simple rectitude : And for a sure and solid good, If any work to him did seem, He would not leave it for a dream. A RHYME OF JUBILEE. igi Some say the wisest of the wise Are they who see what nearest lies About their feet, nor go astray, Nor ever stumble by the way ; Of such was he. You know the name, You know the record without blame Of William Miller Coultate. when Shall we behold his like again. These for the old time's sake we name. There may be some with equal claim We name not, men content to know The work was good and let it go, Content to know it will not die. So wrought they in the years gone by ; And so we crown their work and say, Well done ! But is it finished ? Nay, Each willing worker of to-day Will say, the work is but begun ; Ask Brumwell, Greenwood, Anningson, Ask Thompson, Colbran, Foden, too, That faithful worker, tried and true ; And you — if'f appeal to you — Is there one free and generous heart Not ready from this day to start Upon another fifty years ? For if in darkness, doubts, and fears, 192 A RHYME OF JUBILEE. The little seed by poor men sown To all these grand results has grown, Shall you, who look with hope before, Not take good courage to do more ? The good work done has been well done ; The work to do is well begun • Out of the past a little light ; And in the future prospects bright And goodly, opening far away The promise of a perfect day ! Behold! the night and morning meet; Behold ! the past and future greet ; And young and old rejoice to see This glad and solemn Jubilee ! FOR A "PENNY READING. Given in the Mechanics' Institution, Burnley, in honour of the Marriage of the Princess Royal with Prince Frederick William of Prussia, January 25th, 1S5S. I N her high palace, amid pomp and gold, Our Queen to-night her festive court doth hold For her fair daughter, on whose nuptial state, Grace, beauty, genius, wealth and power do wait, Her genii of the lamp. She wills — and see, Around her glows the bright emblazonry ! On every hand heraldic splendours shine, Hues that the painter's art has made divine, And sculpture's godlike forms that seem to bless, With tranquil eyes, her living loveliness. Rapt poesy upon her state attends, And the high Tragic Muse unto her bends, *93 194 FOR A 'PENNY READING. And Comedy, with laughter-lighted face, Lends to the gorgeous scene her mimic grace, And the gay spirit of the dance is there, And music trembling through the perfumed air ! Nor there alone — in many a proud saloon Will the bright lamps outwatch the waning moon, And many a stately hall to-night will be A scene of rare fantastic revelry, Where youth and beauty meet in festal bands, Throughout the breadth of these historic lands, To celebrate a marriage that combines In happy union two Imperial lines, While every belfry-tower in honour rings Of the fair daughter of a hundred kings ! But not to princely domes confined alone This loyal homage to our ancient throne ; For many a lowlier roof will see to-night Its festive gathering of faces bright, In honour of this royal bridal day, And of our gracious Queen, whose gentle sway Is a free land's inestimable dower Of wise restriction and of temperate power ; And though our own among the lowliest be, Yet may it not the; less enjoyment see, While our poor services to-night we lend, For your amusement, to this loyal end, FOR A PENNY READING. 195 And in rude fashion, on our little stage, Mimic the humours quaint of youth and age ; Craving your kind indulgence while we strive Unto imaginary forms to give Life, motion, voice; and that you still may be Mindful of this, that in these efforts we — Though imperfections mar the passing scenes — Have done our utmost with our little means. EPILOGUE Spoken at a Dramatic Performance given in the Theatre Royal, Thursday, January 4th, 1866, under the patronage of Alderman Robinson, Mayor, for the benefit of the Burnley Cricket Club. /^NCE on a time there was an age of steel, " Ere human statute purged the gentle weal," When the strong arm and daring heart alone Against contending swords could hold its own, When knaves and fools by force were kept in awe, When strength and valour were the only law ; Then rough and savage as the times might be, The hearts of men were full of chivalry, Then beauty, if the ancient songs say sooth, Was guarded on its way by knightly truth, In bower or greenwood ever walked secure Erom foul defaming tongue or eyes impure EPILOGUE. 197 But times have changed, and wrong and insult now, If they but wear the sanctimonious brow, May pass unchallenged, or may even chance To win the loud acclaim of ignorance. Behold, where late appeared the matchless grace Of two fair beings of ethereal race ; On either's face beauty and genius sit, And in their eyes the fires of love are lit, And both are crowned ; one with the light supreme Of poetry and passion's burning dream : And pleasure's rose and wit's unvalued gem The other wears — a peerless diadem. Upon the first attend in awful state All the dread ministers of human fate, — Anger, with eyes in their own lightnings blind, And trembling fear that starts at every wind, Revenge, with dripping sword, and dumb Despair, And Horror shrieking with uplifted hair ; Malignant Envy, and unholy Hate, And holiest Love is there, on whom doth wait Sorrow forever like a shadowy fear, "And Pity dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear." Around the other dance a festive train, Lovely as shapes that haunt the poet's brain, — 198 EPILOGUE. Mirth, with quick laughter in her voice and eye, And Fancy crowned with flowers that never die, Wit, with her sparkling glance and merry wiles, And the arch Humour, with her softer smiles, And Cheerfulness with roseate bloom is there, "And Joy enchanted smiles and waves her golden hair ! " Attended thus came those fair sisters, born Above the reach of ignominious scorn, Above the reach of foul, calumnious wrong, And heralded by " music's golden tongue," And heralded by many a deathless song. They came to bless, to elevate, to soothe, To cheer the weariness of toil, to smooth The wrinkles on the rugged brow of care, With fantasies of mirth and visions rare, With high and innocent pleasures to allure The wandering steps of youth from ways impure. 'Twas thus they came, — and how were they received ? Oh, be it not for very scorn believed ! 'Tis true the winning grace, the genial smile, Drew audience and attention for awhile, But the first warmth of welcome soon grew cold, Indifference came, and envious foes, grown bold, EPILOGUE. 199 From tongue to tongue the whispered slander flew, And gathering strength and fury as it grew, Burst in a howl of bigotry and rage On those twin Muses of the buskined stage, And Tragedy bowed low her haughty head, And from her sister's face the roseate smiles have fled. Who first withstood this rude assault of shame ? Who threw the shelter of his potent name, Like a strong shield, by knightly hand extended, O'er beauty innocent and unbefriended ? 'Twas he, the first in place, who fills the chair Of civic dignity, our honoured Mayor. He o'er fanatic hate awhile prevailed, And at his presence cant and folly quailed. But not to one unaided arm we trust To lay this rabble rout low in the dust, Let them come on, we will not quail with fear With such a host as are assembled heife. To you, ye heroes of the bat and ball, Ye gallant champions of the club, I call ; To you the Tragic and the Comic Muse Call for assistance, nor will you refuse, Like knights who sheltered beauty in distress, Around them here to-night you nobly press, 200 EPILOGUE. And swear your bats their best defence will be Against the tomahawks of bigotry. Thus shall you gain the favour of the "gods," And win your matches 'gainst the mightiest odds, And thus the Tragic Muse shall cease to mourn, And all the grace of Comedy return : For at your presence, lo ! they rise again, And come to honour you with all their train ! You in whose ready help they gladly see The spirit of the ancient chivalry, The strength and valour that of old defended The weak, the beautiful, the unbefriended, And against brute and bigot force did dare- To shelter all was beautiful and fair. PROLOGUE Written for the opening of the winter season at the Theatre Royal, Burnley, December 3rd, 1866. A LTHOUGH 't is four long months since last we met, Like Hamlet's ghost, we're not forgotten yet. I see it in the smiling faces round ; I hear it in the glad, applauding sound. And now, to own the soft impeachment true — Neither have we ourselves forgotten you, And your past favours, — for, although we hear You can, at times, be very cold, severe, Unjust, and everything, in fact, alarming, To us your generosity's quite charming. I should be glad if anyone could tell Whether 't is true that we deserve so well ; 202 PROLOGUE. Or that your favours on our efforts rest Only because we always do our best. However this may be, 'twill not be vain, As we have pleased, to hope to please again. "I could a tale unfold," — but then you will Prefer, no doubt, to read it in "the bill," — Of all that we intend, and if we do it "Blazes of triumph" will be nothing to it. But this is boasting, and upon my word, I did not think of being so absurd ; Because you know so well what we can do In drama, and burlesque, and ballet too. If you remember Ariadne's grace, And the strange gambols of the Satyr race ; If you remember, too, the Widow Twankay, Aladdin's mother, loving, lean, and lanky ; And, amongst other things, if you have not A certain "Little Treasure" quite forgot ; And still retain some faint and dim reflection Of "The Rough Diamond" in your recollection, You'll give us credit, if for nothing more, Yet for the power to please you as before. And granting this, we'll answer for the rest, As we intend to "better what was best ;" If but to quit the favours you have shown, And out of simple gratitude alone. PROLOGUE. 203 Time was that here the drama had no place, Save whence it took some tarnish of disgrace ; A wooden building, like a booth or tent, Where often rather wooden people went To hear, perhaps, a very wooden play, With wooden players; mind, I do not say That this was always so, — sometimes it chanced That sparks of genuine thought or feeling, glanced Athwart that wooden gloom, with fitful glare, And lit all eyes with pleasure even there. Now, what a transformation in the scene ! Here might the wand of Harlequin have been, For lo, a little theatre, all gay, With lights, and music, and the piled array Of happy faces, where you may enjoy, Entirely free from all that can annoy Your finer sense, the drama's wondrous range Of wit, and thought and passion sweet and strange ; Behold its shining scenes of human life, Pleased and instructed by the mimic strife ; And learn a lesson higher than the schools In the good-natured wisdom of its fools. Now for ourselves. We come, if so you choose, To give you pleasure — simply to amuse. Our only aim and purpose is in this, — 204 PROLOGUE. "We are no orators, as Brutus is." By this I mean, of course, we do not preach ; Such things are quite beyond our utmost reach. We only seek to tickle you with laughter, Or draw a tear, perhaps, the moment after. If we beguile an hour or two away, After the anxious labours of the day, — If at our bidding sorrow's eye undims, And toil relaxes all his weary limbs, — If we can smooth away one wrinkle there, Upon that brow so deeply lined with care ; If we can give the rude, uncultured mind Some newer thought, some feeling more refined; If we can dimple innocence with smiles, And make even guilt forget its own deep wiles ; If we can add one pleasure to the day, Or charm one trouble from the heart away, It is enough — we seek to do no more Than, let us hope, we oft have done before. And if we can amuse without offence To nature, virtue, truth, or innocence, We can do much — for, take it as a rule, To do this well, you must not be a fool. Yet more than this has oft been done, they say, With "guilty creatures sitting at the play. PROLOGUE. 205 At least, I think you've heard of such a thing, How once it caught "the conscience of a king." To these high issues we make no pretence : 'T is true that in our most extravagance We follow nature, who to our surprise, Finds even in folly wisdom for the wise. For those who cannot see it, there's no way But to enjoy the fun as best they may. Should you do that, it matters little here, If you're a fool or a philosopher. Be merry and wise, too, if you can be so, But still be merry whether wise or no ; So may we for your liberal favours call, And wish a "merry Christmas" to you all. sum FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. Prologue read at an Amateur Dramatic Performance given in the Mechanics' Institution for the beneiit of the Victoria Hospital, February, 1SS6. *"PHE world is but a stage — you know the saying — A stage where every man some part is playing. As here between the wings the actors make Their entrances, and there their exit take, So on the wings of time, for time hath wings, On which he flies, as every poet sings, Life's pageant passes, beggars, cads and kings. Men are but mouthing players, says Macbeth, The heroes of an hour of mortal breath, Mere walking shadows, and they come and go Much like the figures in a puppet-show. Even so, we say, life passes, so it ends, As when the curtain on a play descends. FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. 207 And if the world be but a stage, what then ? Is life not real, are the men not men ? Is pain not true, and human suffering ? And heartache, is there really no such thing ? And if pain's real, is not pleasure so ? Is there no difference between weal and woe, Between the comfort and the rich man's gold And homeless want that shivers in the cold ? All these are not less real, though we say They're but the shows and pageants of a play. What's real, what's unreal, who can know? The hoarded treasure melts away like snow, Though barred and buried in a brazen tower, And guarded strong by all the thrones of power. What's real ? Empires fall and pass away, But the deep thought of old is ours to-day, And love and pity will not know decay, Though love and pity live but in a play. The world's a stage: why then the world should be Almost as real as Antigone, As real as the tears Cordelia shed, Or Lear's that burn and "scald like molten lead." The world's a stage : why then the world's as true As Hamlet is, as sweet with morning dew As Arden was, when Rosalind lived there And jested with Orlando, and as fair As that Italian garden, hushed and trim, 208 FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. Where the wan lilies and the violet's dim Trembled to hear the sound of Romeo's feet And Juliet's voice of love, so " silver sweet." But such a stage as that would scarce be real, You'll say, or what then shall we call ideal, If these are not so ? Call them what you please, They touch, they charm, they give us calm and ease, And pleasure pure ; they help us as we go Upon a weary way ; could they do so Were they less real than the world we know ? The ideal then is real, shall we say, In life itself and in the life-like play ? They are, at any rate, so near allied, We ever meet them going side by side, As through the fairy forests, white as snow, The gentle Una with St. George did go ; And as these helped each other by the way With counsel and with comfort, so do they. Life is a battle — but the Redcross goes With Una by his side against his foes ; Life is a battle — but Cordelia bright Moves through the tumult like a shape of light. As in the play, so is it in the world, Where the red flag of war has been unfurled, There shall we see the white-cross banner flying, There pity helps the wounded and the dying. FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. 209 In the Greek play, among the warrior dead, Antigone, by heavenly pity led, Went forth alone ; but now where foe meets foe To every battlefield a thousand go On the same errand, with as pure intent, As that on which the high-souled Theban went. Thus pity helps the world, a fair ideal, And the play helps to make that pity real, And thus the play would help us still, if we Could make it worthy of humanity, As Shakespeare did, and even, be it said, With all its faults and sins upon its head, The play still helps the world, and brightens it With pleasant fancies, feeling, sense and wit, And makes the burden easier to bear Of mortal suffering and human care. The world's a battle field, but not alone Where the gun thunders and the trumpet's blown ; In every house and home, in every street Where comes the hurrying sound of human feet, Are heard the cries of victory and defeat ; The strife is never ending, day or night, But weary warriors, resting from the fight, May haply find, while sitting at a play, Some word of cheer to help them on the way. But the poor toiler, fallen at his task, The stricken woman and the child, you ask, 2 TO FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. How should the play help these ? " The play's the thing Wherein to catch the conscience of a king." Why should not then its voice so far prevail To win the generous ear, the heart assail, Of such as yet may give some help to those Who seek to ease the weight of human woes And smooth the lot of toil, who would provide A House where pain and anguish may abide, Till rest and skill have made the wounded whole, Or kindly death released the suffering soul ? The world's a stage — a warfare — what you will, Only let each his place, his part fulfil, As we would ours to-night, with boon intent To give a noble work encouragement, The gift of rich men to the poor, or say, Of those who thrive and prosper by the way To those who fall, and without help would lie In all the cruel crowd that hurries by, Heedless though that one live, or this one die. And so the play may even be a mean Of helping these, a kindly go-between From you to them, in their necessity, Carrying the gathered boon you bring to see The play, in pity's name. And why not so ? In pity's name, now ages long ago, The fathers and the founders of the play FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. 211 Did they not plead the cause I plead to-day ? Did they not teach the wealthy and the great That they should help all those of low estate Who fell, unfriended and unfortunate, In the world's bitter war? And did not he, The greatest of them all, for all who be In dire extremes of pain and poverty, Did he not make for such the mighty claim, " That we should shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just?" So in the play Our wisest Shakespeare spake, so speaks today, As if to you for sympathy appealing, As if to those who build your House of Healing, To all who give so nobly, at the call Of those who work so nobly, and to all Who have this gracious boon for toilers won, It is as if his kind voice said, " well done !" Scorn not the play then, nor the players scorn, They help the ideal, out of which is born All that in all the world is worthiest, Victoria Hospital among the rest. Scorn not the play, the players, there may be Much in them both with which we don't aaree, But so there is in everything we see. In all things human good and evil grow Together, but not therefore should we throw Them both away together, false and true. 212 FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. That's common, and : t is very easy too. But not perhaps the wisest thing to do. So, though some say that our good people are, Oh, much too good to build a theatre, Or when 't is built to call it by that name, Though they do say it is one all the same, Yet that shall not prevent nor you nor me From reading Shakespeare, nor from going to see The players on occasions, as select As this, for instance, when we may expect Performances that will be quite correct, And where the comedy is free, I take it, From all offence, unless you choose to make it. But that I should not say, nor do I need Before an audience like this to plead Either for the play or the players; 'tis most clear, That these things, by your very presence here, You heartily approve. And there is yet Another matter we must not forget, For which our gratitude is most sincere : You all do know — strange as it may appear — That even on occasions such as this Our friends the amateurs have prejudice To fight against. It may be, and indeed, Is, no doubt honest, but narrow, and they need Your help against the feeling we deplore : FOR A HOUSE OF HEALING. 213 And that they have. And this — and this still more Will reassure the simple and the sage — You know the actors and their little stage Are under " most distinguished patronage." ESSAYS IN BLANK VERSE. 1848 1858 FAIRY FANCIES. DENEATH a roof of immemorial trees That over-arch a pathway older still, I walked along the sylvan aisles, moss-paven, And while mine ear drank in the leafy hush, Of whispering silence born, that seemed to fill The tranced spaces of the wood, I mused That such a sweet and perfect solitude Should hold no higher life, should be alone The haunt of beast and bird, when 't were most fit For rarest spirits a serene abode. So much I mused of those traditions old, Which, if ne'er true to the sense, unto the soul Are true forever ; that the woods were haunted By woodland spirits who in grots and groves Wove their free measures to the mystic pipings Of old Silenus ; for so it was reported By those to whom they graciously revealed 2l8 FAIRY FANCIES. Their hallowed haunts. But the quaint fauns And satyrs dwelt not so remote as these, For many a shepherd had been startled out Of noontide slumbers in the tranquil woods By their wild-echoing laughter, and at times Had seen their grotesque visages out-peeping From the rank underwood, and oft had heard, Home wandering through the shadowy woods at night, Feared by the loneness, the far distant sound Of their immortal pipings, 'mazed, while they Answered each other from their hidden bowers In strains with which the eternal Pan himself Had dared to challenge song's celestial sire. And he, the shepherd-god, whose power encircled The living universe, peculiarly Delighted in the solemn woodlands, where, Although unseen his mystic form divine, His awful presence was revealed, what time The mute winds slept on the broad leafy couch Of mighty oaks vaulting the charmed air, And conscious nature held her breath in awe ; When suddenly thorough the gloom profound A wondrous whisper floated, wildering The worshipping ear with sweet oracular tone : Owned all things that mysterious utterance, FAIRY FANCIES. 219 The windless forest waved spontaneous homage, And the earth trembled at the voice of Pan ! Nor mused I mindless of time's later birth, The elfin-forms our ancestors beheld In every forest, every ' greene shawe.' To them the woodlands were not solitudes, But fairy palaces where oft were seen Fantastic revels 'neath the gleaming moon, While spirit-echoes filled the arched shade, Faint as the lingering cadences that die Among the wind-harp's strings. But silent all And disenchanted now the sylvan scene ; The woodman plies all day his lonely task, Day after day, night after night, comes home, While moon and star-beams glimmer through the trees ; No fairy tale brings he ; and men of the world Being too enrounded with the throng of life, And seldom walking in the antique woods, Have long forgotten all their old-world lore. Even those who fancy-charmed delight to roam 'Neath darkening branches, even these, although Their eyes have fed upon the fair creations Of dreamland, and their ears have been attuned Unto the singing of the heavenly Muse, Are blind unto those shapes of wonderment — 2 20 FAIRY FANCIES. Are deaf to the remotest echoings Of that strange minstrelsy — which in the thrall Of their enchantments held the bodily sense Of shepherds and of clowns whose simple lives Were the beginnings of humanity ! Thus mused I in the solitary wood ; And though not all unmindful that the shapes Once tenanting its dusky loneliness ' Might be but shadows of a twilight world ; And, albeit, not forgetful that we now Dwell in the presence of a purer light By science shed over the daedal earth, In whose divine effulgence are revealed Beauty, and power, and marvel and delight In natures erst obscure ; and that the woods In this calm light to the intellectual eye Appear, indeed, temples divinely framed, Most fitted by their natural solitude To inspire high-pondering spirits with a sense Of adoration's solemn ecstasies ; Yet from these thoughts my mind reverted still, Heedless awhile of present influences, And wrapt in half oblivious reverie, Towards those dim enchantments of the past ; l';irtly because they seemed there to hold Ancestral claim upon my reverence, FAIRY FANCIES. 221 And partly for the love of loveliness, Wherein these legends so transcend the world. MOONRISE. r WALKED beneath the calm, autumnal trees; I wandered through the mute, deserted woods : I saw the sunset and the evening star Come out above the tops of the dark pines In the clear tranquil blue ; I lingered there, Wrapt in the quiet beauty of the hour, Watching the shifting lights and underglooms, And listening to the sighing, sea-like sound Of winter-boding winds. I waited still Until the twilight deepened into dark And the great moon had risen — the constant moon, That ever watches with her patient smile The nightly slumbers of her sister sphere. There is one glory of the setting sun ; There is another glory of the moon, When far beyond the white cloud canopy, MOONRISE. 22- She lifts her lonely head among the stars, And fills the earth with wonder, and the air With wonder, and the underworld with peace. INVOCATION. HpHOU spirit of the living universe, Nature, mysterious name ! be thou to me A comforter, as thou hast ever been, Soothe me with thy all-gentle influences, Uplift my soul above the thralls of time Unto thy regions of eternal calm, And I will be thy faithful acolyte, My temple shall be thy blue canopy, My altar there the earth-uplifted hills, My robed priest the ministering sun, From flowery censers shall my incense rise, The birds shall chant my matins, the free winds Shall sing as listeth them my even-song, And thou, the oracular intelligence Of this thy starry universe, descend, With intuitions from the infinite Of God where thou abidest evermore, With inspirations and sweet prophecies, IX VOCATION. 225 Visit thy worshipper, that so my feet May fail not in thy service, that my heart, Where sordid cares too oft have dwelt supreme, May render at all seasons homage due Of solemn reverence, and mused praise, And fancies high, and aspirations pure ! THE RIDGE OF SNOW. lill Y Friend and I together o'er the ridge Of Pendle roamed; like hardy mountaineers We scaled the steeps of snow ; the winds of the north Against our faces like a battle rushed, With myriad edges keen, but up we pressed, Trampling the snow beneath adventurous feet And challenging the wind with laughter-shouts. Ha, ha ! 'twas rare, to breast the current strong Of that aerial river, sweeping up The snow in crystals of white, wintry splendour Innumerable, until all the air Shimmer'd with ice-beams, and t was rare to see The weird devices which the frolic wind Had wrought fantastic in the drifted snow : Here a volute curled such as might have crowned Ionian column ; clustered there a wreath Fit for Olympian victor ; towered a crest Achilles might have don'd to daunt old Troy ; THE RIDGE OF SNOW. 227 And, lo, a cave with icy tapestries, Which the fine needle of the frost had wrought In such a web of wildering loveliness As fairies weave to curtain dreams withal ! A cell of pearl, with crystal stalactites And constellated gems ! no nymph o' the sea In the green waters ever found its like Wherein to listen to the mystic song Old ocean ever murmurs ; but a grot Such as might Dian choose wherein to rest Her white, smooth limbs and dream her pure, cold dreams Beneath the waiting moon. And the moon waits, But not for Dian — lonely is the hill O'er which, as o'er a Titan's tomb, she seems Her heaven-sad vigil keeping ! For the night, Her ancient nurse, she waits, her handmaid still, Who thrones the sad queen mid her stars, till proud Of her restored pomp she smiles. We, too, Might there have lingered till the sun, declining Over the sea, that seemed a path of light Between the dim, blue mountains far away, To happy islands of Elysian calm, Had cleft the waters with his fiery wheels, Stabling his steeds within those caverns cold, That with the boom of ocean's myriad waves Resound forever — and old Night had come 2 28 THE RIDGE OF SNOW. Out of her hall of shadows in the east ; Had not tired limbs now warned us to return To where the snug fireside would give repose And leisure to talk o'er what we had seen, And comfortably wonder how all looked 'Neath the cold gleam of starshine, when for each Tremulous point and brilliant orb of gold In the vast pomp and glory of heaven-dome, A thousand gems would glisten on the hill Of dazzling diamond and purest pearl, And westward, lo, all silvery and serene, The crescent moon crowning the silent scene ! > Li -J LJ Z o ui O Q O -J Q -I O A WALK TO RED LEES IN WINTER TIME. SILENTLY in the silence of the night 1 he thick snow fell ; till all the quiet street Was smooth and trackless as the farthest hill, Whose whiteness glimmers in the white moon- shine. Where'er it lay the wintry ground became A pathway fit for feet angelical ! Whether around the porch with sculptured heads Of saints adorned, beneath which worshipping throngs With humble footsteps pass ; or the dark mill Where, with hoarse pants and mutterings harsh and deep, Toils the blind Titan, Steam — the slave of wealth, The tyrant of the millions who sweat In fulsome rooms, while the sun shines without, In summer on the broad, green woods and fields, In winter on the snow ; or whether it lies Around the doors of shops, thence to be swept. 230 A WALK TO RED LEES. A thing that can be neither bought nor sold, With little heed how beautiful it makes, With its so peerless purity, the hard, Black flags, where nothing half so fair, So bright, through the long year hath ever lain : Or down the stifling alley, close and foul, Around the homes of crime and infamy, Where its white stainlessness might win even hearts Corrupted with the loathliest taint of sin Back to the cleanest paths of virtue, save That the deep curse of ignorance makes them blind ! O full of saddest pity 't is, to those Who feel how near to some diviner world Our human nature lies, the thought that here The very impress of the tiny feet Of children on the spotless ground should be But the first track of footsteps that must go Downward forever to still darker depths Of hate and error, farther from the lights Of divine knowledge — which is all divine- That shine in the serene heights where mortal life Touches the shores of immortality ! Yet here, amid the filthiest dens of vice, The white snow with as blanched a smoothness lies As where the violet sleeps beneath the sward. A WALK TO RED LEES. 23 1 Thither, ere breaks the dawn, let us away — And as through yet untrodden streets we pass, Where here and there lights gleam across the snow From windows where the inmates are astir Long ere the bell with iron clangour tolls That calls them to their toil, we look, and, lo ! Those tasteless rows of dull formality, — The dwellings of the poor — Oh, give them not The rural name of cottage ! — that have made Our streets like barrack-buildings, where the throngs Of labour eat and sleep between the hours Of drill mechanical — and our dark towns Unpicturesque and mean — even these square cells Look beautiful, for over them the quaint, Fantastic architecture of the snow Has built its buttresses, its architraves, Scrolls, columns, arches, gables, pent-house roofs, And clusters like the tracery of flowers Carved by the keen frost wind beneath the eaves. And now we pass the church, around whose walls The drifts are piled like marble bastions, And to whose pinnacles the white flakes cling Like delicate parasites. The Catholic fane, 232 A WALK TO RED LEES. Named of the Virgin, where her image stands Sandaled and crowned with snow ! To the old Lodge With its grey towers we come. Ah ! many a year Has passed away since in its rooms we slept, To us so quaint and dim ; or lay awake, Hushed to a wondering stillness by the roar Of winds through the tall pine trees. Seldom now We pass its gates, but we behold the shapes Of those who have been dead so many years, Walking in that old garden, passing in And out of those old doors, in the old hall Sitting between the great screen and the fire. How sad and lonely is the house wherein The dead remain ; where shadows walk from room To room, with noiseless feet; where children plaj Whose laughter is unheard : where voices call Through silent chambers on beloved nanus ! Now on its roof a battlement of snow Rises o'er that of stone, dazzlingly pure. Once in the room beneath, there lay the form Of a young maiden, delicate and fair ;— In the old winters, when the snow lay thick As it does now, on tower, and tree and shrub, And round the mullioned window wreathed itselt A WALK TO RED LEES. 233 In shapes fantastical, and the same moon Silvered its pearly lustre, in the soft And curtained twilight of that room she slept, While not a sound disturbed her breathings calm ; And there she died : — yet doth she lie there still, Tranquil, and pure, and pale and beautiful As she who slumbered for a hundred years In the old legend which our childhood loved. Along the stream, against whose bank the snows Rise in sheer upright cliffs, and here and there Beetle o'er caves of ice ; across the fields, On whose smooth surface eddying winds have left Tracks as of waves upon the ribb'd sea-sand, Or sweeping curves, such as the midnight fays Upon the gleaming, argent floor might leave, As in wild dance their shadowy footsteps move, In her high zenith while the moon shines cold !— Beneath the trees that wear a fleecy robe As lovely as the foliage of spring, And up the hill we pass, until at length, The summit gained, behold a prospect broad, Of hill and dale, o'er which the golden dawn Without a cloud is breaking. Wide above, Its crescent gleams with tints ethereal, Arched o'er a wider wilderness of snow ! LEGENDS OF PENDLE FOREST. 1848 1858. Thou hast discovered some enchantment old." — Shelley. "Upon the eastern side of yon dark hill Whose broad ridge frowns o'er Clitheroe's castled pride And these monastic solitudes, the still Abodes of ancient peace, lies lone and wide A haunted region, wild and terrible. Where spirits nor of earth nor heaven abide, And, ruling o'er the dim, unhallowed air. Enslave to fierce desires the dwellers there." — Friar Dorien. MALKIN TOWER. " Child Roland to the dark tower came." -Old Ballad. ^/"HERE the drifting shadows rolled Over Pendle, drear and lone, Midway on the barren wold, Midway in the ages old, Stood a time-worn keep of stone. Wild weeds grow and weeds of bane By the Forest's lonely way, But of that dark Tower remain Stead nor stone on steep or plain, But a memory void and vain, And a legend old and grey. 238 MALKIN TOWER. Wise in all forbidden lore, Master of the mystic wand, Lord of many spells, who bore Evil sway in Malkin hoar, Was the Wizard Hildebrand. Dwarfish Hugo, treacherous loon Waited on his wicked will, Waited not for hire or boon, For an hour that cometh soon Is he watching, waiting still. And the white maid Imobel, Daughter of the Wizard doure, On her feet there is a spell, In her chamber she doth dwell, Lonely, in the lonely Tower. Shut within that Tower of bale, How should any know her doom ? How should any help avail ? How should Roland of the vale Know the hour when he must come ? MALKIN TOWER. 239 Love is strong, and strong is hate, But the Wizard's evil power Wise to know and slow to wait, Cruel as relentless fate, Lords it in that evil hour. Hovering o'er that Tower of stone, Night-birds bode with brooding wings, Watching in her bower alone, Till the gloaming grey is gone, Thus the hapless maiden sings : Mary Mother, maiden mild, Bring me to thy blessed Child, Pray, and say, and sing for me, Miserere, Domine ! Mary Mother, Queen of Heaven, Sing for me thy angels seven, Pray, and say, and sing for me, Miserere, Domine ! Comes a footstep to the door — Is it Hugo, or her sire ? The Wizard ! bent with age and hoar, With haggard eyes that evermore Roll, burning with a restless fire. 240 MAI. KIN TOWER. Thrice he waves his wand around, Thrice he weaves the mighty spell, And, while in tranced slumber bound, He lifts her softly from the ground, And bears her to his secret cell. Angels guard her tranquil sleep, Hovering on white wings ! But mark- Is it Hugo that does creep So stealthily along, and peep Ever forward through the dark ? Noiselessly the Dwarf goes past, With his shambling feet all bare, Now he glideth slow, now fast, Now stands motionless, and last Crouches by the turret stair. Now he turns, with treacherous hands Unbars the postern of the Tower ; In the dark a dark form stands, And Roland of the vale demands " Are all things ready for the hour ? MALKIN TOWER. 24 1 I dared thee once, I trust thee now ; As thou hast said so let it be." The Dwarf replies, with sullen brow, " The love of Imobel seek'st thou, And I to hell have made a vow — It is enough — come follow me ! Thou knowest all, — it is the night His forfeit soul that he may save, With many a dark and damned rite, He seeks to take the life he gave ! The hour of doom is come — the light Is burning and the steel is bright — " " Why then do we linger, slave !" " Slow and sure — wouldst thou provoke All the fury of his spell, The waving wand's avenging stroke, The swift, keen curses that invoke To his aid the powers of hell ! Hadst thou felt — But listen now — If thou hold thy lady dear— Neither Imobel nor thou Ever leave this den, I trow, Once he waves that rod of fear ! " 242 MALKIN TOWER. " I will dash it from his hand ! " " Aye, or perish ! — and then bear Thy prize away." " And Hildebrand ? " " I fear no wizard without wand, Leave the dotard to my care." " Harm him not ! " " Ho, ho, not I, The devil will take him off my hand ! I'll have steeds the postern nigh Matching hell for fieetness — Fly With the maiden where they stand." Mary keep thee, Imobel, In this hour of fear and fate ; Roland wight and Hugo fell Now the turret stair do sc; One for love, and one for hate. Another moment and they dare The Wizard in his den, and, lo, In the midnight of her hair, Imobel lies lifeless there, Still as marble, white as snow. MALKIN TOWER. 243 Captive to enchantments drear, Sinless in a dream of sin, Powers of darkness hovering near, All without, a nameless fear — Blessed Mary's peace within. Horror-blinded Hildebrand, Muttering spell and weaving charm, Watches pale the wasting sand, Sees he not that daring hand Raised to strike the wizard-wand From his weak and palsied arm ? No — 'tis done — and Hugo dare Seize him now in grip of hate ; Roland down the gloomy stair Does the spell-bound maiden bear Swiftly through the postern gate. Champing fierce the fiery bit, Horses there stand ready dight ; Twin-born demons of the pit, And their lamping eyes are lit With fires o' the fen, that flare and flit About the moors at dead of night. 244 MALKIN TOWER. Swift he mounts the mighty steed, Foremost of the fiery twain, For life, and love and loving heed, Eager to prove his utmost speed And give him all the impatient rein. Then towards the postern he, Curbing with unwilling hand, Looks for Hugo — can it be Him who comes so hastily ? Heavenly powers — 'tis Hildebrand How he 'scaped Dwarf Hugo's might, By what desperate charm and deep, Roland, on that fearful night, Heeds not, but with arrowy flight Plunges headlong down the steep ! Stormy is the night and dark, Darker still it gathers o'er him, Black without a star, and hark, How the fiend-winds howl and bark ! Not his horse's head before him MALKIN TOWER. 245 Can he see, save for the flashes Of his brute and burning eyes, Yet o'er moor and mere he dashes, Where his feet the brown burn washes, Holding safe his holy prize. For he hears the Wizard doure Chasing him on Hugo's steed, Desperate to appease the infernal power, O'ertake the midnight, murdering hour, And from impending doom be freed. Fly the swift, pursuing fate ! Urge amain that wondrous horse — Heedless, if for one hour's date, Holding still that lightning rate, Speeds he on his furious course. How the weird winds storm and swell, And with fiend-like fury beat On Roland and on Imobel, Yet he shields her close and well, Wrapt in rest from head to feet. 246 MALKIN TOWER. Well for her the triple charm, Dark-inwoven, dreamless, deep, All unfearful she of harm, All unfeeling of the storm Buffeting her gentle sleep. Well for him his daring soul, For the night-hags far and near, Imp, and ghoul and phantoms foul, Troop and gibber, shriek and howl, Exulting in the mad career. Do not these his heart afear ? On his cheek that moment fell A storm of rain-blown tresses dear ; And his heart beats high and clear, Unappalled by ugliest hell. So the doom-driven desperate twain Through the dreary Forest go, Not a rood does either gain, Though the first the first remain, Close behind him echoes plain The hoof-thunder of his foe. MALKIN TOWER. 247 Whither, whither do they speed ? Roland neither knows nor cares. If a while his mighty steed Keep him of the fiend ahead, Through the darkness on he dares. Like a storm o'er flood and fell, Headlong as the bolt of heaven, On they drive, as though one will Of fiend or fury urged them still, To one doom of darkness driven. Hoof to hoof ! — But can it be ? In his perilous career Roland's steed sinks prone — and he Forward thrown upon his knee, Holds the tranced maiden there. Desperate then, with sudden bound, He turns to face the coming doom. Fiercely turns — but wide around All is still, and not a sound Comes across the pathless gloom ! 248 MALKIN TOWER. Round he stares, with breathless heed- Whither sped the Wizard drear ! Where the steed, whose fiery speed Failed him at his utmost need ? All the phantoms, all the fear, Vanish like dreams into the night- And the dark and triple charm Passes from the maiden bright, As the doom-driven Wizard wight Passes with the passing storm. And with wide and wondering eyes Imobel, so still and fair, Sees the midnight moon arise, Sees a dream of starry skies, And a new enchantment there. "Roland!" "Imobel!" And, lo, How trustingly the white arms cling: Now, plighting hand in hand, the)' go By woodland ways the)' seem to know, Where steep crags o'er the pathway throw The shadow of an eagle's wing ' MALKIN TOWER. 249 And through the narrow pass they roam, Far down the deep, romantic dale ; Where, in a wild, sequestered home, The maiden's cheek again will bloom, And parting sorrow never come To her or Roland of the Vale ! Who is Lord of Malkin now, Where the lonely Tower doth stand ? Never more that Tower of woe Lord or habitant did know, Since the doom of Hildebrand. Lord or habitant, save whom 'Tis not meet that I should name, For, when nights with tempest loom, From that lonely turret-room Flashes far a ghastly flame. And amidst the wild alarm, When lightnings fall with many a jag, A spectral horseman's shadowy form Driveth with the driving storm, From Malkin Tower to Eagle's Crag ! 250 MALK1N TOWER. So sung the legendary rhyme, A bard who loved the moorland vale, The haunted bourne, the barren clime, The shadows of that hill sublime, The Forest, where he found the tale. 1 >■ bl CD m > < X 5 >•* < u l- < o u o z < X I- z U a. S 0, FRIAR DORIEN. " Where have you been, sister?" " Sister, where you?" —Macbeth. pRIAR Dorien, a holy man was he ; Of all the monks of Whalley there were few Whom the old Abbot loved so brotherly ; For ever walked he in obedience due To saintly discipline, and still would be Foremost in all good offices, a true Servant of Christ, in word, and thought, and deed, And never missed an ave or a creed. To early matins cheerfully he hied, And oft would linger in the twilight dim, After the last, low cadences had died Up the long aisles of the sweet vesper hymn ; The services of every holy-tide Full well he knew, and much it soothed him To join the choral chant when prayers were said, And solemn masses offered for the dead. 252 FRIAR DORIEN. In the calm, blissful sunset — long ago, With him the good old Abbot many times Measured the mossy pathway to and fro Of the o'er-arching avenue of limes, Between the Calder, gliding smooth and slow, And the dark porch o'er which the ivy climbs ; And ere the western clouds grew dun and pale On the grey sky, the monk had told his tale. "Good Father! 'tis not well that we should call Back to the mind its memories of pain, Save when before thee in confessional We kneel for absolution from the stain Of fore-committed sin ; and yet withal, I at thy bidding will live o'er again A dreary time ; albeit, I may seem As one who talketh of some hideous dream. "Upon the eastern side of yon dark hill, Whose broad ridge frowns o'er Clitheroe's castled pride, And these monastic solitudes — the still Abodes of ancient peace— lies lone and wide, A haunted region, wild and terrible, Where spirits nor of earth nor heaven abide, And, ruling o'er the dim, unhallowed air, Enslave to fierce desires the dwellers there. FRIAR DORIEN. 253 "A savage land ! From yonder hill it takes The name of Pendle Forest — known afar For the dark deeds of fierce demoniacs, Who, leagued with Sathanas, wage evil war On all whom innocence or virtue makes Fit objects of their hate: no baleful star, No charmed essence, no malignant hour, But these dread beings can command its power." "Full well I know," the Father Abbot said, "That land of fear, that realm of sorcery ! And surely that steep mountain rears its head To shelter these abodes of piety From powers unblest." And here in holy dread He crossed himself and told his rosary, And the good Dorien crossed himself as well, And thus in gentle tones resumed his tale. "The joys of youth — ah benedicite ! How frail, how vain, how swiftly they are- gone, And yet how they endure in memory ! So shall I ne'er forget the sylvan Brun Where as a child I played, a boy with free And fearless footsteps roamed from sun to sun, Where wandering in youth I found a dream That threw enchantment round that lonely stream. 254 FRIAR DORIEN. "'Twas love. O Father! I to thee have told In sad confession all my errors past ; What boots it, then, that I again unfold, How, driven by adverse fate, I sought the last Refuge of hope among those warriors bold, Who on the fields of France made death aghast With slaughter ; whence with booty I returned, While eager hope within my bosom burned. "I rode through rich domains of wood and wold, Yet still before me rose the cottage dear Where Anabel dwelt with her mother old ; Until at length, far in the distance clear, The sable bulk of Pendle I behold, And urge my steed, for night is gathering near ; Impatient love the nearest path will dare, So towards that haunted Forest on I fare. "But as I passed beneath the steep ascent, Darkness o'er all the dreary prospect fell : Not such a night as now from heaven is sent Upon these solitudes monastical, Slow, tranquil, soothing, and beneficent ; But sudden, dense and supernatural, O'er all the gloomy air with black mists blent, While howling winds to howling winds did moan Through all that region desolate and lone ! FRIAR DORIEN. 255 "Yet on through that enchanted Forest wide I took my fearless course, with little care How spectral shadows might around me glide, My starting steed how impish horrors scare, Upon the phantom-winds though witches ride With hootings dire far up the starless air, My eager love not even these appal, Nor the black mists built round me like a wall. " Mile after mile, through dangerous paths obscure, And darkness still o'er all the charmed ground ! Till, of my further course at length unsure, I curbed my weary steed and gazed around ; Just then, a lurid ray of light impure Streamed fitfully athwart the gloom profound, And with impatient spur my steed I turned Towards where that red beacon fiercely burned. "Ere long unto a dark and lonely Tower I came, of aspect horrible and grim, As though the spell of some malignant power Had built with curses every turret dim ! All black and silent as the midnight hour, Save for the topmost loophole's ghostly gleam, — Till suddenly, from wall, and roof and rafter, There burst shrill sounds of wild, unearthly laughter. 256 FRIAR DORIEN. "I had an amulet of mickle might, Of wondrous virtues it was wrought, I ween ; 'Twas given to me. by a dying knight Whose comrade in the war I erst had been ; He said its power from every evil sprite Would still defend me. When that hideous din Had sunk again to silence, with one hand I grasped this charm, the other my good brand, "And sought the entrance of that gloomy den, A portal like a cavern's yawning mouth : Within, a monstrous hound, with frightful mane And flaming eyes and ghastly jaws uncouth, Stood glaring ! Horror held my footsteps then, But oh ! The wondrous amulet was sooth ; The fiend shrunk from it with a baffled howl Into the darkness, where I heard him growl. "Anon, I found the turret's winding stair. And, groping up, at every turn I came Upon some sudden horror unaware ! A hooded shadow, lit with eyes of flame ; A weeping corpse, with murder in its hair ; A phantom face, that never seemed the same ; A gorgon blind, with serpents in its eyes ; And nightmares huge, and impish atomies ! FRIAR DORIEN. 257 "But oh ! the wondrous, potent amulet — These forms infernal vanished as I clomb. But no phantasmal shapes were those that set Mine eyes astare i'the wind-rocked turret room, But the weird sisters of the Forest, met To frame their dark conspiracies of doom, Their deeds of impious revenge to tell, On all who might provoke those hags of hell. "And thus it chanced I came upon them then In exultation fierce. ' Ha, ha ! ' cried one, 'From Raven's Nest, i'the Vale of Todmorden, Hither away beneath a misty moon, I took the crow's flight over moor and fen ; And I bring ye news, rare news ; — the miller's son Whom I frighted a' nights with a haunting horrible sound, Deep in the pool beside the mill lies drowned.' "Another came from Eagle's Crag, she said, Where she had sat in semblance of an owl, Blinking and hooting her enchantments dread, And filling the thick air with poisons foul, That rack with torture every nervy thread, And fill with fever-phantasies the soul, Till she saw pass through the dismal dell below, Breathing that venom-dew, — her mortal foe. 258 FRIAR DORIEN. "And then a ghastly shape, withered and blear, Leapt like a palsy from behind the flame ! With dotard accents and malignant leer, Screaming — 'Ha, beldames! wist ye whence I came ? Tis not for nought that ye behold me here; Ye knew the cottage, and ye knew the dame, And eke the winsome Anabel, I trow, — That lonesome cottage will be lonelier now ! "'Yon dull imp Madge in my despite would pray Before the cross that stands in Brunshaw Lane, And when I pinched and pined her all the day, Stole off at night to yonder meddling twain Who dared to rate me for a witch, and say I was a cruel stepdame thus to train The innocent child ; — ha, ha ! they little knew Whose vengeance on their heads they rashly drew. "'For standing there, I cursed them in my hate, Not with vain words, but with as dire a spell As e'er was woven in the loom of fate, That wrought even as the banning accents fell, The mother died while the night-ravens sat Croaking upon the roof, and Anabel Did slowly craze and dwindle, peak and pine, And died, ere hours were numbered nine times nine. FRIAR DORIEN. 259 '"Is't not a dainty tale ? If ye want proof, Up, sisters, on the wing and follow me !' Again yelled out the laughter, while aloof I stood as in a trance of agony, While all that cursed crew through the rent roof Did vanish, shrieking their infernal glee ; And still I stood there trembling in the cold, For well I knew of whom the tale was told. "O Father Abbot ! urge me not to tell The desolation of that fearful morn, When all too true I found that dream of hell, And standing in the ruined hut forlorn Vowed to devote in some monastic cell My life and wealth to heaven, that those I mourn I may remember still when prayers are said, And solemn masses offered for the dead." "Thy tale," the Abbot said, "is strange, my son, And yet, I trow, 'tis not more strange than true, For in that dark, enchanted Tower 'tis known, Those hags of mischief many a witch-charm brew, With which they scatter misery and moan ; — The saints defend us from the unholy crew !" And as they passed the ivied gateway, old, The solemn convent bell for Vespers tolled. THE WHITE WITCH. Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand, The downward slope to death." — Tennyson. A TALE of the times of old — when Pendle Hill Looked o'er a lonely region, wild and bare, Where the white smoke of hamlet or of farm Was seldom seen amid the silent waste Of bosky mere, brown moor or marish green : Far in the north the hills of Westmorland Rise like Hadean alps, and in the west A low coast stretches, where the desolate sea That washes Mona and the Cumbrian shores Dashes its wild, unharboured waves in foam : A land of many streams whose fountains rise Where morning rises on the moors, and flow Towards the sunset, down the rocky glens THE WHITE WITCH. 26 1 And through the hollow valleys, tenantless, Save by the wild fox that hath made its den Beneath the cliffs, or where the lonely hern, Watched by the hawk, is watching in the pool, With rushes fringed and tall green water-flags : Of old the eternal stars had mirrored there Their pure, essential fires. Midway between These sheltered vales remote and that bleak hill, Upon the sylvan slopes of one of these Wild mountain burns, a lonely mansion reared Its gabled roof among o'er-shadowing woods Of pine, and sycamore and yew trees old, Beneath whose branches the swart, twilight elves Unseen might hold their state. A lonely place, Where dwelt a lonely lady, beautiful, Reserved and stately as a crowned queen : The Sorceress, Magdalen ! Her proud, fair face The golden prime of early womanhood Had scarcely sobered, ere in fatal hour And fiery stress of passion she had bent Rebellious to the dark rebellious powers, Offering her heritage of heavenly bliss That they for some brief while to her might yield Obedience, doing her imperious will. The years of her proud sway were numbered, yet, Ere half their course, Azrael had numbered her's, And she must die. 262 THE WHITE WITCH. This lady had a child, Sole offspring of a most unhappy time, That should have been most happy, loved, as she Alone could love whose heart was now a void, Deep, silent, like a hollow alpine gulf Whose craggy darkness one sole star illumes ! A child in years, in innocence, with all Her mother's pride of feature and of form, But softened into beauty like the moon, With all her still severity of soul, Equal to mighty darings, and yet pure As the white snows of Atlas that upbear The destinies of heaven. A glorious child ! Walking through time's dark labyrinths of fear With angel instincts — such was Agatha. Within a wide and tranquil chamber, lit With taper dim that hideth not the light Of moonbeams falling through the diamond panes Of the deep oriel on the oaken floor, Kneels Agatha beside the dying Witch— Her mother, beautiful and so beloved ! A silver Crucifix whereon was graven The incarnate Lord of everlasting Love, Hung round her white neck by a crimson band, Silken, with clasps of gold. This she uplifts In her pure hands and prays, and as she prays, THE WHITE WITCH. 263 Her voice so sweet, her seraph-pleading tones Throb with the broken music of despair. For, ah ! her mother prays not; cannot pray. Some Evil Power broods o'er her like a cloud, Shutting out heaven : and there she lies aghast, With fixed gaze and panting sobs of pain. Some vague and threatening horror ! Agatha, Becoming conscious of that Presence dark, Looks up towards it, then with sudden cry, She buries her blanch'd face upon the bed, While the strong tremor of her grief shakes loose Her gleaming hair, whose mass of clustering gold Shieldeth her innocent head from that dim Fear; And in low voice where love and misery blend Their tones together in strange unison, She mourneth, "Mother, mother, mother mine, Is there no power in heaven to avert The destinies of hell ? Has Christ, who gave His heart to the sharp spear of agony, Not so much love as one weak heart can hold, Who would give all her everlasting hopes For thy lost soul?" Thus 'plains she in her woe. Impatient of her anguish, she would dare To break its spell, the darkest doom of all. Unweeting she, poor child, how terrible The ordeal she has challenged. Well for her, That on her gentle heart such trial fierce Will never be imposed. But say not so ! 264 THE WHITE WITCH. For while she lieth prone in her despair, She feels that mystic Presence darkening Above her head, while shadowy whispers strange Come to her ear alone. "Give soul for soul — Thy soul for her's — and I will take the spell From off her tongue — the curse from off her heart. Make her bond thine ! Take off the Cross thou wearest And swear no mortal hand shall e'er restore it — And that shall be the sign." Motionless there Lies Agatha, as though that dreadful voice Had frighted from her heart the pulse of life. A dreary time she lies ; and in that room Dead silence reigns, as though the powers of air Were waiting her resolve. At length she hears Her mother's faint, quick breaths begin to fail, And in that moment of intensest hush She rises slowly, calmly, deadly pale ; And with her cold, fair fingers steadily She takes that crimson thread from her white neck, And, bending o'er her mother tenderly, In silence vows the vow, and lays the Cross Upon her dying bosom. "I" is enough ! With a faint smile of peace upon her face, A prayer upon her lips and in her heart, Departed then the soul of Magdalen ! THE WHITE WITCH. 265 II. Who now is so forlorn as Agatha, In that dark house, day after day alone ; From morning, when the cold and scornful light Laughs in the weak, wan eyes of misery, Till evening like a slow, stern jailor comes And shuts her in with darkness and despair. Night after night alone, while fiend-driven winds Howl thro' the desolate pines, in mockery Of all her mute, unutterable woe ; Or while they sleep, star-charm'd, on the broad slopes Of legend-haunted Pendle, undisturbed, Save by some lonely night-bird's maniac-scream ; And o'er the house, whose walls are echoless As charnel vaults, the nightmare, silence, broods, Whose spell lies heavy on her beating heart, And her hushed breathings, regular and slow. No faintest whisper that dead stillness breaks, No soft tones vibrate through the listening air, No gentle voices through the tranquil rooms Shall ever call the name of Agatha ; Never in book, or song or legend old, Did any read, or hear or dream of one 266 THE WHITE WITCH. So young, so beautiful, so lost as she ! Tears 'have been shed ere now in the olden time,' But not on her their comforting dews may fall, Or soothe her unparticipated grief. No earthly sympathy, no heavenly hope Are hers ; alone, and utterly forlorn She must remain in her deserted home : Yet not alone ; ah, would it were but so — For, O ye pitying saints of heaven ! and thou Compassionate Maid ! to whom 'all woful cry,' Tho' ye have all forsaken her, tho' shunned By men and angels, she is not alone. She bears the burden of her mother's sin, Her mother's punishment, forevermore : The burden of a Presence that makes dark The golden day, and thickens night with fear. That Evil Power broods o'er her like a cloud, Shutting out heaven : — the dark Familiar — The ever-present, ministering Fiend — Slave of the bond — or angel of the doom That from her mother's soul she freely took And laid upon her own. Poor Agatha ! What should she do with the forbidden powers Of sorcery — the agencies of hell, Who never hated any living thing, Nor had a wish save one — to be beloved. Yet still it haunts her —shadowy now and dim THE WHITE WITCH. 267 It seems before her — now behind her moves An unseen Terror — sometimes in the gloom Of evening, as she paces restlessly The darkening rooms, two fiery eyes will burn Fiercely through hers ; or sitting weary down, With vacant eye fixed on the vacant air, That ghastly Incubus is crouching too, And from the clinging horror come again Those shadowy whispers strange : she feels, not hears, The supernatural tones that fascinate As with a weird, unearthly melody. " Once among the sons of morning Seraph-born Azazil stood ; In his haughty spirit scorning All who scorned his servitude ; Who preferred to heavenly bliss Freedom in the vast abyss. Who on wide and daring pinions, Through infinitudes of thought, Through the unexplored dominions Of eternal darkness, sought Fate's high secrets — which to find Yearneth still the immortal mind : 2 68 THE WHITE WITCH. All who dared transcend the vision Of the narrow realms of light ; Dared to pass from homes Elysian, To the yawning gulfs of night, Where the infinite profound Looms above, beneath, around : These the spirits of perdition, Deemed Azazil in his pride, — The dark angels whom ambition In rebellious league allied ; Till to outer darkness driven, Exiled from the thrones of heaven. But, though all the mysteries hidden In the fathomless obscure, Could not move to thoughts forbidden That proud Seraph's soul secure, Love could tempt him to resign Heaven for pleasures more divine. For among the angelic powers Whom the light of mortal eyes Drew from the ethereal towers Of their vaunted paradise, With the maids of earth to dwell,— Seraph-born Azazil fell ! THE WHITE WITCH. 269 Fell — but not to fabled regions, Where, in fires Hadean chained, Expiate the rebel legions The ambition that disdained Heaven —the heaven he left unmourned, Descending to the abyss he scorned. Since, through starry glooms he fareth, On, from world to world, he flies, And wherever beauty weareth Sorrow in her radiant eyes, Woos her soul to pleasures high, To delights that never die. He full many a spell divineth Sullen minds from grief to lure — If for love the maiden pineth, Haunted with ideals pure, She shall learn its words of fire From lips of passionate desire. If dark dreams of melancholy, Or of supernatural fear, Bind her soul with spells unholy, To Azazil let her ear, Her thoughts, her heart, surrendered be, ' And from that moment she is free ; 270 THE WHITE WITCH. Fables old of Hell and Heaven Shall perplex her faith no more ; Unto her it shall be given With the immortals to explore Mysteries of essential being, Known unto the gods all-seeing. If her soul, intensely yearning, Claim Seraphic sympathies, Where the farthest stars are burning In the deep abysmal skies, She shall roam on wings of light Through nameless Edens of delight. The sweet dreams that mortals never Realize of human love, Or of joys that reign for ever, Crowned and garlanded above, Show like shadows, faint and dim, To her beloved of Seraphim ! Who would brood o'er earthly sorrow, Who to earthly love would bend, Who of hope would comfort borrow, When in accents that descend On the heart like balmy dews Seraph-born Azazil woos! THE WHITE WITCH. 27 1 The dark voice ceased, like a rich tune that dies Upon the ear of sorrow unconsoled : Bewildered was the soul of Agatha. Her poor thoughts wandered through its sophistries Like thirsty bees that haunt the poison-flowers They dare not taste. Sometimes the sweet, sad tones With tears of a strange sympathy would fill Her weary eyelids ; then a white, cold fear Would creep around her heart, as thought recurr'd To that dark Presence, to the death-bed dark It made so ghastly ; till upon her mind, Perplexed with conflict of emotions wild, Almost to madness, that sweet smile of peace Which on her mother's dying face had shone, With most ineffable meanings, came again, Came like an inspiration, as the voice Ceased, and with silence a repose so deep And sudden o'er her spirit soft descends, That sinking back upon her cushioned seat She slept with breathings calm. Rest, Agatha, Devoted child of a strange destiny ! And may the slumbers o'er thy spirit stealing, As white death beautiful, as death serene And dreamless be. Sleep on, thou poor forlorn : 272 THE WHITE WITCH. For, lo, upon thy patient features mild The same sweet smile of peace thy mother wore Of most ineffable meanings — when she died ! THE WHITE WITCH. 273 III. O, for the wizard wand of Archimage, Potent o'er airy messengers, to send A sprite down deep to Morpheus, where he lies In drowsy glooms of his Hadean hall, Wrapt in eternal silence, for a draught Of Lethe's soothing waters, or the fumes Of deep-hued poppies that enrich the mists Of that Tartarean stream with odours bland, To deepen and prolong the slumbers kind That lull the senses of lost Agatha ! But from this short oblivion she will wake To years of mute and patient agony, And, side by side with her self-chosen doom, Shall measure her predestined course to the end So swift and terrible. And yet through all, And under all the weight of mortal fear, Shall grow in beauty up to womanhood ; Shall seek, even in her utter hopelessness, To live in deeds of charity ; to bend Even the powers of darkness to her aims, Beneficent and pure. 274 THE WHITE WITCH. In those dark times, When evil powers were rife through all the land, Was Pendle Forest famed, even as of old Dodona's ancient wood, as the chief haunt Of supernatural influence; for there The fellest brood of fear that ever wrought, By means infernal, deeds of cruelty Were numerous as the birds of night, with whom They made their haunts, and took strange flights afar, Through the dim air, to ghastly rites obscene. These many a deed of hate had wrought around Agatha's lonely home, till she was moved By sore constraint of pity to compel That dread Familiar, — waiting still to yield His evil service— grudgingly to obey Her pure behests of love;— those hags of hell To baffle, and their deeds of sin subvert, By agencies as potent as their own. Thus many innocent and helpless souls Were rescued from malicious cruelty, And fierce inflictions dire and terrors wild. And now the fame of Agatha, her life Of loneliness in that deserted house, Her most immaculate beauty— wherein some Beheld a higher grace than mortal mould THE WHITE WITCH. 275 Might wear, unclothed with heavenly sanctity — Her nameless doom of sorrow, and that power, Strange, yet beneficent, at which who most Blessed it did wonder most — spread far and wide ; And all who felt the power of spells malign, Racking the frame with anguish, wasting slow The life-blood drop by drop, or all the soul Darkening with weird enchantments horrible, Sought the White Witch, for such the name she bore In hut and hall, where'er her power was known, And she restored them to the peaceful flow Of happy bueath, and pulse unthrobbed with pain. At length, defeated, baffled, desperate, Those hags of spite conspired a deadly charm, More swiftly, terribly inevitable, Than ever Hecat brewed in the midnight air To fright the world with pestilence and death. But leave we those dark beings to their foul Conspiracies of hate, and turn again To the doomed maid forlorn. In that old house, Loneliest of all the lonely rooms, was one Haunted with shadows of a happier time, Wherein there stood an antique cabinet, Whereon were carved wing'd angels with clasped hands 276 THE WHITE WITCH. And supplicating eyes, and underneath Grim, monstrous heads, grinning with features wild Of fiendish phantasy ; above were placed Caskets and silver vessels, objects rare Of quaint device, — priceless with memories old; And over all the silver Crucifix Which, with its crimson band and clasps of gold, Had hung there since the death of Magdalen. ' Twas like an altar-place, where solemn prayers Are offered up, and fuming censers waved With spiced incense burning. Here would come That solitary maid, and kneel before The God whose love her love had forfeited For long sad hours, — yet not her saddest hours; For though she could not pray, though not a word Her lips could frame to ease her yearning heart, Yet she would kneel, and gaze and feel the peace Of calm and heavenly influences descend From that cross-tortured form, those angels mild, And from the shadowy shapes of human love That haunted there, on her so desolate heart. Oh, had I gold to buy some painter's skill To paint me Agatha, kneeling there alone, With beautiful eyes serene and forehead pure, Crowned with her bright, seraphic hair, and mute THE WHITE WITCH. 277 Enchanted lips that seemed to wait the touch Of angel fingers opening them to prayer ! One eve she came not at the accustomed time, And o'er the cabinet the Crucifix Gleams not as heretofore. Where is it gone ? And where is Agatha ? It is the night When that dark charm is wrought which all the land Shall desolate with a swift, nameless curse ; — And she is gone to brave those witches dark In their own haunts, and baffle all their spite By one last resource. Through the homeless ways Of darkness, through the dreary haunted glens Of Pendle Forest, she is roaming on — Through stormy winds, heavy with midnight mists That drench her tangled hair and silken stole, And her wan cheeks and lips that coldly kiss The falling tress, all comfortless and chill, Driven by the gusty storm. For weary miles — For weary, weary miles, she wanders on, In silence and in solitude, through bleak Untrodden paths, and wild forsaken wastes, Encompassed with unknown and shadowy fears, Yet all serene within, with eye serene, The Pilgrim of Compassion passes on — A sacrifice if need be to the rage Of those revengeful. Hark, upon the wind ! 278 THE WHITE WITCH. She hears a rush as if of rustling wings : The hags are hastening to their rendezvous ; Though wingless they, yet swift and far their flight. And hark again, mid yells and hootings dire, She hears a cry, "Wilt ride, White Witch, wilt ride ! Up here, up here, or thou wilt be belated !" And on they pass, and on she passes too, Undaunted, and with high resolved will ; She too hath power o'er airy ministers, And to despise that power, for holier means To-night are hers, which she will trust alone. So through the moonless mist she journeys on, Till to the desecrated steep she comes Of Pendle, hoary hill of evil fame, And as she climbs, with eager step, and breath Panting, and eye of preternatural fire, She hears the witch-chant intermittently Borne on the wind, and hastens up, her heart With big throbs pulsing. Now she gains the top— And lo, a lurid flame, round which there dance Gaunt forms, with eyes demoniac, and fierce grins, With frenzied chattering, idiot gestures foul, Whinings insane, impish, blood-chilling leers, Horrible rampings, nightmare ghastliness ! And all the gorgon terrors bedlam sin THE WHITE WITCH. 279 Can borrow from the fiends. These round the flames, Illumining fitfully their contortions wild, Dance dismally, howling this chorus bleak : — On the top of Pendle old, Pendle Hill, so dark and cold, Round about the bale-fire sing, In the seething cauldron fling, Mixt in magical proportions, Reptile poisons, imp abortions ; All the bitter weeds of death Gathered on the blasted heath, When the moon is in her cave, Or beneath the heaviest wave Of the deadly, wreck-strewn deep Where the slimy monsters creep ; Mineral essences malign Gnome-distilled i'the pestilent mine ; Noxious exhalations foul Which the midnight-wandering ghoul From the reeking tomb doth bring, , While the corpse is festering ; Curses ending with the breath On the grinning field of death ; Maniac moan and murder yell ; — Relics only fit for hell, 280 THE WHITE WITCH. Relics rare of crime and sin, Throw the reeking cauldron in : And a meteor downward hurled From a red and burning world, Finishes the deadly spell ; Who a mightier charm can tell ? Till a mightier charm be found Dance again the mystic round ! The incantation ceased ; and now amidst That horrid brood of sin stands Agatha, With shining hair back-streaming luridly, And countenance as fiercely beautiful As the doom-angel's whose shrill voice of wrath Shall tremble the firm stars. "Behold," she cried, And held aloft the silver Crucifix ! All shrunk appalled, though some had menace dared, Watching with hate and fear, as still she cried "O, ye benighted, abject race and scorned ! Behold a mightier than your mightiest charms, Though brewed in the deep pit of Acheron ! Thus do I prove its power !" and suddenly She plunged it in the Stygian clement. — At once, fire, cauldron, witch-charm, all Vanished with hissing fumes ; and that grim crew, THE WHITE WITCH. 28 1 Confounded, vanquished, panic-stricken, fled — Fled through the impure air with hideous screams, And o'er the dark hill night resumed her sway. 282 THE WHITE WITCH. IV. How calm — how cold — how beautiful — is death ! To those who dwell upon its tranquil rest — Its deep, deep rest, perfect and full of peace : A peace so far beyond what life affords In stillest solitudes, or slumbers holy, That, longing to forsake the world and all Its tiresome, turbulent insanities, Its restless dreams of care, we fain would seek In death's cold shadow peace, and only peace. To her of whom is told this tale of teen, Death had not this fair aspect, had not this Immortal atmosphere of grand repose ; But like a brooding terror threatened still With darker fears her dark and Tearful life. Her life was like a dream whose haunting shapes Are but the shadows of an unknown woe, That even now shall wake the sleeper up To some intenser horror. Even now — For the dark hour approaches when the soul Of Magdalen was forfeit to the bond Whose burden Agatha must bear alone : THE WHITE WITCH. 283 And she prepares to meet the coming doom Inevitable, with rigid soul severe Of patient, uncomplaining hopelessness. To whom should she complain, uplifted thus In high, immortal sorrow far above The reach of mortal sympathy ? To whom ? Earth could not credit her great grief ; and heaven Its golden ladder has updrawn, and now Celestial influences no more descend, No more ascend like angels plumed with prayer. And can it be that one so white, so pure, So full of every high and heavenly grace, Shall be cast off for ever without aid From all the thousand watchers of the skies ? Will heaven remain serene and undisturbed — Will not a wing be ruffled, not a foot, Sandalled with fire, be lifted ? — By one way, And only one, do mortal spirits fallen Enter the heavenly homes, and that one way She closed forever when the Crucifix She took from off her breast and vowed the vow That human hand should ne'er replace it there. She knew the forfeit then, the doom she knew, Accepted willingly without reserve, So without hope she bears it evermore. She would not any portion of the price Should be unpaid which her heroic heart 284 THE WHITE WITCH. Grudged not to offer for her mother's soul, Lest, from secure abodes of peace down-hurled To self-imposed destiny, be driven The twice redeemed ! No, let the dark hour come Whose fixed fate her sleepless heart abides. O Time ! remorseless slave of Destiny, Not fleeter o'er the hill the shadows fly Of wind-swift clouds, than by thee driven the hours Through day and night, in quick, alternate change, Pass o'er that house of doom where Agatha Waits with a wasting pulse and waning eye. Without, the winds in inarticulate tones Utter a weird, unearthly prophecy To all the groaning pines, that in the light Of the dim evening nod their sombre heads, Like dark-robed priests, to some primeval fear Offering strange rites insane. And, see, the moon 1 las risen broad and dim behind the trees : Ere it attain its zenith, in that dark And lonely pile the doom will be complete, That shall give all its mute, unhallowed walls To bats, and owls and ruining winds, until THE WHITE WITCH. 285 From gabled roof to deep foundation stone, No vestige shall remain to tell a tale Of haunting terrors to the after times. Who is that sitting in the room alone ? Still dwells the soul within that wasted form ? In that thin, shadowy shape still beats the heart Compassionate and pure? Breathes that worn frame, Etherial in its very ghastliness — Or is she dead ? It is the room where stands The cabinet of olden memories, But now not hallowed by the blessed Cross That whilom gleamed thereon. Its angel forms, With hands uplift in prayer, are lost i' the gloom ; But underneath, where pallid moonbeams creep, The fiendish heads are grinning — Is she dead ? This is no tale of ordinary moan ; Of death and sweetly solemn memories That haunt the peaceful sepulchre, and build Upon its wormy hollowness high hopes, Immortal aspirations. 'Tis a chant To fill with dreary wail Hadean glooms And wake the echoes of the vast abyss To exultation fierce, unless 'twere sung In heaven to heavenly harmonies, by soft 286 THE WHITE WITCH. Angelic voices modulated sweet With saintly tones of human tenderness, In low, ineffable pleadings, it might move Divine compassion. No, she is not dead. Tho' like a marble sorrow sculptured there She sits, her face upturned amid the gloom, White, white and cold, her lips move murmuringly, While in half consciousness her weary thoughts Are wandering in the past. She whispers low, — " Mother ! how lonely is this fearful house — Tis haunted, mother ! in the storm, in the night, The Forest women came, but when they looked Upon the silver Crucifix I wore They fled with such dire screams that all aswoon I fell, and when I woke could never find My sweet Cross more. Pray, mother, pray to God, That he may send an angel down to seek It o'er the world. Or teach me how to pray — A fearful life they lead who cannot pray To the sweet saints ! They say I am a witch. O mother, come to me, and let us talk Of the old times of peace before I die." Thus her subverted faculties, meanwhile, Wandered, perplexed by wild unearthly fears : But soon restored to her accustomed calm She felt again the burden of her grief; THE WHITE WITCH. 287 She felt the mystic Presence darkening Above her head, waiting the dreaded hour, So fast approaching, to envelope all Her being with its horror, shutting in And bearing down her spirit to the abodes Of endless wail ! Yet what in those low realms More terrible than is the torturing fear, The freezing agony, of her suspense. But now the end is near. The midnight moon Scarce slants her beams through the deep oriel. 'Tis Agatha's last hour — and never more Shall she behold those once familiar walls, Hallowed with childhood's memories ; no more Shall gaze upon the moonbeams, white and wan As her own face, and all as cold, as cold ! And never more shall feel the sunlight fall Upon her golden hair, now silvery dim In the white glimmer of the moon, and all Wandering about her shoulders like a dream. The hour glides on, and as it passes slow The dreadful Presence closes round her still, Shutting out light, and air, and consciousness Of aught but pain and sorrow — closer yet — Darker and more intense it gathers there — Till in a swoon of fear she loses quite All sense of outward being, save of that 2 88 THE WHITE WITCH. Which darkens all her soul with endless night ; While deepens more the agony within, Beneath whose weight her weary soul shall sink To the abysmal gloom. But from this trance Of terror she at length awakes — to what ? To find her fear a dread reality ? To find her dream a dream ? This is no dream. " Mother!" she murmurs low, as if she knew Her mother near, as if her mother's hand Were laid upon her hair. This is no dream. Upon her bosom whose last pulse is faint With the fast ebbing life, a hand is laid That strikes through all her frame a fiery thrill Of strange emotions sweet, consuming there The frozen, stagnant fear ; and as the glow Of long forgotten peace, ineffable, Sinks down, deep, deep into her desolate soul, She lifts her weak and wavering hands in prayer, And with a joy purer than seraphs feel Presses unto her dying heart once more The Cross of her Redeemer — thus restored — But by no mortal hand ! From the infinite heights Of heavenly compassion had her love And innocence this favour won, to balk The powers of darkness and subvert the doom Her love had dared — her innocence had borne ! THE WHITE WITCH. 2 89 Mom dawns aslant the pines with golden beams, And through the antique oriel, lighting up The cabinet of olden memories And the winged angels with clasped hands of prayer. And now it gilds the silver Crucifix Whose crimson band runs like a ruddy vein Around the marble neck of Agatha ; And shines upon her' sleeping face, and sheds A glory round her hair, and o'er her form Ethereal lustres — till her slumbers seem More beautiful than any earthly sleep — Yet what more earthly than the sleep of death — Yet what more heavenly ? For upon her face, So wondrous, wondrous fair, and on her lips, Her poor, pale lips, the old, old smile has left Its most ineffable meanings ! So she lies — With her thin fingers frozen round the Cross — In that dim room of shadowy shapes and dreams : How long ? O ye, whose hearts have truly felt The love, the pity of this legend old — Whose memories have still some calm recess, Sacred to the ideal forms that glide Out of the poet's shaping phantasy — Let that lone figure lie forever there, With cold hands folded o'er her dreamless heart, In the white beauty of immortal death ! THE WEIRD WOMAN. "A sort of allegory, of a soul, A sinful soul, possessed of many gifts." — Tennyson. /^NCE, in a pathless and primeval glen, Through which a torrent ploughed its narrow course, And down its deep, sepulchral hollows ran, Plunging from rock to rock with murmurings hoarse, From the deep heart of Pendle, where its source In sunless caverns with the gnomes did hide ; There, in the passage of the mountain force, Under the shadow of a steep hill side, A wondrous Witch did far from human kind abide. THE WEIRD WOMAN. 29 1 Her dwelling was an ancient tower, all hoar And massive as an old Cyclopean wall, Built in the times unknown to mortal lore, By those who to their aid had dared to call The powers that hold the elements in thrall ; For its huge blocks by human means alone Were never reared ; old as the hills, and all As undecayed, though thousand storms had blown Against its rugged sides, with grey moss over- grown. Into this gloomy house no light could creep, Save by a narrow portal, seeming more Like a deep fissure cloven in the steep Front of a solid rock than any door For human feet to pass, and from of yore, No mortal foot the secret ways had trod Of that dark cell or its unhallowed floor, Until this Witch had made it her abode, That she might there defy the laws of man and God. And far within the darkness there, 'tis said, A fearful chasm yawned, like that of old Oracular in Delphi, where that maid, The Pythoness, inhaled the vapours rolled Out of the depths beneath, and thence foretold, 292 THE WEIRD WOMAN. In rapt, prophetic fury, things to come ! A craggy gulf Avernian which did hold The mysteries of Hecat and of doom, And led through grisly shades to Pluto's realms of gloom. Within this den the Sorceress dwelt, and there Did seek to fathom all the mysteries deep Which give to mortals power in earth and air, And o'er the spirits that forever sweep Through stellar glooms, and o'er the gnomes that creep Amid the elemental life below — And o'er the fiends ! And thus she strove to heap Forbidden lore in her proud heart, and know The powers that sway the world and weave its wondrous show. She knew the secret name of every star, And all their influence o'er the sons of clay ; And from their mystic motions could declare What destiny the powers to whom we pray Had pre-ordained the inevitable day : She knew the virtues all earth's flowers do store Within their silken cells, and legends say She had distilled the juice of many more, By shadow)' fingers culled on Lethe's silent shore. THE WEIRD WOMAN. 293 In these the powers she found of spells malign, Of soothing anodynes, nepenthes rare, Of opiates bland, of vaporous ethers fine, Whose power might with the magic herbs compare Medea gathered in the moonlight air, — • For ere the passing years one shadow threw Upon the whiteness of her forehead fair, With these she could at will her youth renew, Her beauty, such as ne'er in mortal form we view. Not all the powers that magic ever found In witch's cauldron, or Lethean pool, Or night weeds gathered on enchanted ground, Each 'neath its baleful star, have that control Over the passions of the human soul As heaven-born beauty hath, too oft of hell And hell's dark agencies the unhallowed tool By dark subversion made, and doth avail To lure the heart astray, when fate and folly fail. This knew the Enchantress — and, in haughty scorn, Held far aloof from all the vulgar crew Of night-hags that on winds of darkness borne Flock to their foul, infernal rendezvous ; She dwelt alone, remote from mortal view, 294 THE WEIRD WOMAN. By nobler means aiming at nobler ends, Not holier, but less hateful, for she knew Whate'er the range of human thought transcends, To which for aye in vain the aspiring spirit tends. Nought recked she of the herd of common men, Nor upon their low fate did spend the hours Of her strange life in that secluded glen, Holding dark converse with the Hadean powers ; But to her secret subterranean bowers Those purer souls she sought to lure alone, "Whose daring aspiration ever towers Above this low terrene, to them made known The mystic wonders hid in her dark cell of stone. These, by her potent arts enticing, she — Weaving around them many a subtle spell, By force of soul-deluding gramarye — Would draw at length to her enchanted cell, To their bewildered senses would reveal The splendours of her beauty, mystic bright, A loveliness whose marvels none may tell, lilling the tranced soul with strange delight, And sweet ideal love, and longings infinite ! THE WEIRD WOMAN. 295 And when this failed, as sometimes it might be, To win them to her dark, imperious sway, She would unto their spell-bound phantasy Visions of beauty and of power display From ages past, or worlds that far away Beyond the great star-kingdoms ever rise, Or lead them through the underworld, where they Forgot earth, air and overarching skies, Wandering for evermore through dead eternities. And thus abode, in solitary pride, The Witch, communing with her own deep mind, In which were treasured all the marvels wide Of space, and time and being unconfined, And she would summon, by her arts refined, The wandering sprites wherever they might be, Who to her bidding came on every wind And did her errands over land and sea, Or to the sunless bourne of drear immensity ! 296 THE WEIRD WOMAN. II. Who cometh through the Forest from afar ? A youth, with aspect pale and eager eye That gleams beneath his dark hair like the star On which he gazes in the western sky. " Lead me, oh, lead me thither, ere I die, Bright symbol of the element divine That burns within me, my mortality, Consuming all, until this soul of mine Shall seek its kindred spheres, with them and thee to shine." "What seekest thou in Pendle's haunted bound?" " O wandering voice, I may not answer thee !" " A vaunt, avaunt, from this enchanted ground !" " O threatening voices, not the furies three, Nor all the region powers shall baffle me." " Come hither, hither ! fear not, come away!" " O sweet, O soft, aeolian melody, That would my wear)' footsteps lead astray, The goal before me lies, I cannot, dare not stay." THE WEIRD WOMAN. 297 A rocky path leads up the mountain glen — Way-weary wanderer hast thou strength to climb ? Oh, what are rocks of adamant to men Whose souls are formed for destinies sublime ! In the still hour of placid eventime, With bleeding feet, and wild dishevelled hair, Before that house, all hoar with ages' rime, He stands alone, while Hesper, large and fair, Throbs like a heart of fire down through the twilight air. He stands alone and panting — from his breast Draws forth a Scroll, where, in each mystic line, Unutterable meanings are expressed, Secrets that make humanity divine ! And thus he spake : — •" By every sacred sign, That here revealeth what to mortals may Be spoken never — ere yon star decline Behind the summit of the mountain grey, Come forth ! the spell I use thou canst not disobey." He held the Scroll aloft, and pointed still Unto the sinking star, which even then Trembled upon the verge of the dark hill ; But ere it sunk behind it, from her den The Witch came forth — fierce as a tigress when 298 THE WEIRD WOMAN. Rushing upon her foes, she threatening flies To seize the Scroll, and it perforce had ta'en, But the youth stood erect with dauntless eyes And with unshaken grasp her utmost power defies. Her mightiest charms of no avail he knew While still he held that mystic Scroll secure ; And though, all fiercely beautiful, she grew A gorgon dread, with snaky locks impure, And threatening terrors thronged the air, obscure With preternatural gloom, and every sound Of fear assailed him, he did all endure ; And when her dark spells passed he looked around, — And, lo, — a woman kneeling, weeping on the ground ! And she was beautiful beyond compare, Beyond all mortal beauty beautiful ; Beneath the shadow of her floating hair Her white breasts heaved like waves beneath the full, White moon; no shape marmoreal, By god-like sculptor carved, was half so fair ; Beyond all mortal moan ineffable, The passion of her eyes uplifted there, Dark, fathomless, forlorn, as her divine despair THE WEIRD WOMAN. 299 And when she spoke her voice was like a dream Of love in some far world, remote, and mild, And lone, and lovely, such as poets deem, Where Echo mourns her sorrows to the wild, And wandering spirits, from heavenly spheres exiled, Sing, floating down the hollow vast of night : "Thou hast prevailed, O gifted, glorious child : I know not what thou art, or by what right Thou dost usurp my star, my power, my love, my light, My very soul." She stood erect and calm, And yielded up to him her wand of spells — "Receive thou this, dread stranger, as the palm Of thy great victory o'er her who dwells Remote from man in subterranean cells ; Whate'er above or underneath may be Obeys her strong enchantment, that compels All other power in earth, or air, or sea — All things submit to her who now submits to thee." Silent the stranger stood — filling his heart With her ethereal beauty, whereunto The touch of human sorrow did impart A power her proud defiance never knew Spirits of loftiest nature to subdue : 3°° THE WEIRD WOMAN. Of what avail, when 'neath that touch her own Strong will was broken ? Silently he drew The Enchantress now towards that cell of stone, Where she no more must dwell amidst her spells alone. And as they paused before the portal dim, She murmured low,— "My spirits, ye are free ! Ye, who through ocean's heaving vastness swim, And build your coral bowers beneath the sea; Who in the cavernous earth work silently; Who dance upon the lonely moonlit wold ; Who flit like light from star to star, and ye Who dwell amidst Hadean shadows old, Beyond the utmost bourne of Lethe, dark and cold. "No more shall ye obey my dread commands— On eager pinions shall ye speed no more, To bring me gems and gold from distant lands, From distant realms mysterious treasures pour At my proud feet— the hidden paths explore Of nature and of supernatural things ; Revealing secrets that no human lore Dreams ever in its dark imaginii No prophet shadows forth, no sacred poet sings. THE WEIRD WOMAN. 30I "My empire over you is passed away — The wide dominions my imperious mind Did from its secret throne of spells survey, By no dark doubts or shadowy fears confined, Whose intimate intelligence combined The present with the future and the past, Wherein I dwelt apart from human kind, My faery realms, so beautiful and vast, Are vanished like a dream, from which I wake at last, "To what I know not ; knowing this alone, — That I who felt not mortal hope nor fear, Who, far from human sympathies, had grown Proud, strong and self-sustained, stand trembling here In doubt and dread of what may next appear To shake into the dust my ruined pride." She spoke, and turned towards the wanderer, And through the dark and narrow porch they glide, While night descends o'er all that region wild and wide. And through the stillness of the starlit air These voices float, from hill, stream, rock and tree, — "Spirits, rejoice, the Woman, dread and fair, Restores us to our ancient liberty." 'Away, away, upon the winds so free!" •J02 THE WEIRD WOMAN. "Down to the caverns where the Titans dwell." "Back to old Nereus, his children we !" "And we to the Pandean woods." "Farewell ! The wand has lost its power, and silent is the spell." THE WEIRD WOMAN. III. Upon a throne of amethyst and gold The Enchantress sat ; and round her might be seen Splendours of starlit gems, and treasures old, And silver shapes, and essences serene ; All lovely things that in the world have been, Or in its dreams ; and over all there fell A glamour as of moonlight's pearliest sheen ; Earth-fuming incense filled that faery cell, And Pan made music there, tuned to the sea- god's shell. As one ashamed of all her lonely state And selfish pride she sat, while at her feet Reclined the youth, with earnest eyes, sedate And full of sorrow, full of passion sweet, While in low, pleading tones he thus did greet That Weird Woman : — "Queen of this bright bower ! Oh, yet awhile retain thy radiant seat, Let me behold thee on thy throne of power, In all the matchless grace of thy serenest hour. 304 THE WEIRD WOMAN. "Knowest thou not, then," she said, in mournful tone, "My beauty only with my power may last ;— That all my being hung on that alone— And seest thou not they both are waning fast, Now that my magic arts have from me passed ? And yet for what life has been mourn not I, But what it might have been." The youth, aghast, Started from where he sat— "Must thou, too, die? And is it thus we share each other's destiny ? "For mine own death I was prepared alone; Yet for myself did hope, and will for thee :— The Scroll, the mystic Scroll ! Its teachings known, We yet may find the secret that shall be A spell of life-renewing potency. List ! until briefly I to thee have told My story, full of doom and mystery, And, as the purposes of fate unfold, Let us remain through all fearless, and calm and bold. "Know that I too with loftiest aims have striven, Apart from human sympathies have stood, Seeking the power by knowledge only given ; At midnight's starry prime 'twas mine to brood O'er secrets which the mighty dead have wooed THE WEIRD WOMAN. 305 Out of the dull, unconscious depths of fate ; Like thee, forbidden paths have 1 pursued Beyond the limits of our mortal state, Into the formless void of essence increate ! "Thus in my intellectual pride alone I dwelt, by mortal wishes unsubdued ; For all the powers of life to me were known, Or so I deemed, when to my solitude There came an ancient hermit, mild and good; The stately man with grave majestic look, Calm and inscrutable before me stood ; And, bearing in his hand this wondrous Book, With slow, oracular voice the solemn silence broke. '"Proud searcher of the mysteries of life, Explorer of the paths of destiny, Aspirer after powers by which its strife With the material elements may be Thought's rugged path to immortality ! Thou knowest much, and much unknown remains, Of secrets that, no mortal eye doth see, Save when the Power that rules the world ordains, And not the least of these this sacred Book contains. -, 6 THE WEIRD WOMAN. '"If thou would'st read the secret written here, Renounce thy magic arts, nor dwell alone ; Seek thou the distant Forest, wild and drear. Seek the Weird Woman in her cave of stone! When she its mighty influence too shall own, Then read — and learn the destiny divine, Else to your proud, impassive hearts unknown For evermore.' — Henceforth the Scroll was mine, — And earnestly I gazed upon each mystic line. "In vain — my knowledge nought availed me then, And yet an influence from the Book there came, That led me forth among the homes of men ; My power renounced, forgotten all my fame, Again I felt the feeling and the flame Of human love and pity for mankind. As I still wandered on, I heard thy name— And from that moment, with impetuous mind, I sought through dangerous paths thy secret haunts to find. "Through dangerous paths, through forests terror haunted, Unaided by mine ail, alone I passed ! And though die ardent spirit was undaunted, My mortal strength began to fail at last; I felt that life was ebbing from mi- fast, THE WEIRD WOMAN. 307 When these grey hills rose darkly on my view : The rest thou knowest — how with desperate haste I called thee forth, and o'er thy spirit too The Scroll's mysterious power wrought feelings strange and new. "My strength begins to fail — my tale is o'er — Let us the charmed words together read, Whose power our fainting souls may yet restore, To human life and love our spirits lead ; Or whatsoever doom he there decreed, Haste we to know it, Being bright and fair ; I would not from its dread control be freed, If I with thee the future still may share, As thus beside thee now its unknown powers I dare!" Thus speaking, he unfurled the mighty Book, And then upon its writing mystical, All eagerly and pale, with fixed look, They gazed. And, lo ! the fading splendours 1 fell Into deep darkness through that silent cell : Save that a faint, white lustre jingers where Those twain so beautiful, by some strong spell O'er-mastered, still upon that writing stare, With eager eyes to read the heavenly secret there. 308 THE WEIRD WOMAN. And still they gaze, with blank yet wistful eyes, On characters all darkly sybiline— Until, at length, a gleam of glad surprise Doth in their eyes and on their faces shine ;— And still they read —and as they read entwine Their arms around each other lovingly! Then, with a smile of rapturous joy, divine, They look upon each other— and so die- And darkness like a shroud enfolds them peacefully ! It may be in the guise of hermit grey, That some kind saint took pity on those twain. Who in forbidden paths had gone astray. And from pursuits so perilous and vain Thus led them back to hope and peace again, By the soft touch of human sympathy ; It may be that that writing did contain A spell so sacred sweet that they must die To read and understand its heavenly mystery ! The legend sayeth not— but this is sure, That when the morning on those mountains grey Arose, and slanted down that glen obscure The pale effulgence of its earliest ray, The dwelling of the Witch had passed away, THE WEIRD WOMAN. 309 And nought was there save heaps of mossy stone, O'er which the streamlet dashed its snowy spray, That to the quiet hills maketh its moan, Whose lonely rocks since then no other sound have known. So must it ever be that whosoe'er In solitude would dwell above mankind, Seeking alone to know the supreme fair, And in imaginary realms would find, Or in the pure abstractions of the mind, Humanity's sole solace and delight, Rebels against the heavenly powers, who bind The meanest atom to the infinite, And on the poorest weed shower down celestial light. And though they build their speculative towers High o'er the human throngs that toil below, And proudly revel in ideal bowers, Where the strong gusts of passion never blow ; Indifferent to human weal or woe ; Yet when their high-raised thought shall reach the skies, A touch, a breath, its pride shall overthrow. Even from the meanest impulse they despise, And nature vindicate her holiest energies. FRAGMENTS. "Some waif, washed up with the strays and spars, Which ebbtide shows to the shore and the stars, Weed from the water, grass from a grave, A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme."' —Swinburtie. DARK MORNINGS. f LOVE not more the golden dawns of spring Than these dark mornings of the year's decline, These grey November mornings, when day's orb, As though unwillingly he left the skies Of happier climes, slow rises with a frown. Nor do I cease to frequent my old walks, My old, loved walks, to watch the gradual light Kindle the dawn, quenching the stellar fires, Till heaven is void, except for some lone star Whose silver ray upon the horizon's rim Intensely trembles; or where overhead, Supremely calm, the flaming Jupiter Steadies his bright car in the midst of heaven ! THE MOON. •• What is there in thee, moon, that thou should'sl move My heart so potently ?" — Keats. AND thus I stood in spirit worshipping, While the swift dark did silently uprear In starry spaces night's unmeasured dome, A temple huge, and worthy to he hallowed By so serene a presence ; thus I gazed, Enamoured of that supreme loveliness. Till my heart owned the idolatry of old That builded glorious fanes to that fair moon, As to a beautiful goddess, with white robes, And silver bow, and arrows glittering keen, Celestial guardian of all pure thoughts, And naming her the Chastity of heaven ! THK .MOON. 3*5 Or did a human sympathy inspire That face, so sad in its tranquillity As though some angel, from his sphery guard Down stooping, sorrowed o'er a world of woe ? Oh, whatsoe'er Imagination feigned to recognise In that impassive countenance serene, My heart still worshipped, worshipped even with tears, That heavenly symbol, that uplifted ark. The unveiled shekinah of a mystic Power, The divine Tenderness, the essential Love, That zones eternity. GREETINGS. TPHOU wert a wanderer on the hills, my friend: The "power of hills" was on thee, and the power Of the great poet, him of Rydal Mere. To thee the noble books, the kingly bards, To thee "the far off ways of light," were known. Of such as thou were Yorick and Eugene- Bear greetings to the "far celestial land !" ADMER: A MYSTERY. " Thou shall know the mystic song Chanted when the sphere was young." — Emerson. Y^HERE is Admer, the beautiful child ? Moaneth his mother by night and day, And his sisters kneel in the church and pray For the dear little brother, so gentle and mild, Whom the weird Woman has stolen away. On a lonely moor, so pathless and dim, In a lonely house, in a lonely room, Admer is reading a Book of Doom, And over the Book, and over him, There stands a Woman, wondrous fair, And her eyes are as stars in the twilight air, 3i 8 admer: a mystery. And her voice is sweet, as she whispers low The words of an unknown tongue, the lore Of the Book, she has brought him there to know, The speech he must learn to speak before He can talk with her and her friends ; and soon Admer can read the mystic Rune. " Who are these that come and go, In the still rooms and the garden there, Among the roses and lilies fair, Down in the wood where the sunsets glow ? Do they talk to the trees of things unknown ? Do they walk with spirits, or walk alone ? " And the Woman weird made answer slow, " Admer, thy time is come to know." And she led him forth in the garden fair. And a wild eyed boy, with shining hair, Came to him and greeted him rapturously : "Admer, my brother, we welcome thee! Thou shalt learn a heavenly mystery. Our sister, the Witch, whom the dark world fears And hates, as it hated us in the years When I and my brothers abode with men. Has taught thee the lore she taught us then, A.DMER: A MYSTERY. 319 When she brought us away from the servile throng, Who flatter the cunning and toil for the strong. Thou art one of us ! " And there came a crowd Of happy children, who sang aloud : " We were the victims of falsehood and fear, Till the weird Woman brought us here To the lonely house on the moorland lone, To the garden and wood where we live with our own." And they led him away in the woodland old, Where a mystic Child, with a harp of gold, Was singing to himself alone A song the world has never known. And the words were the words of the Book of Doom, Which the children read in the lonely room, Taught by the Woman to sing and say, The weird Woman who stole them away ; And the music sweet only they may hear Who have followed her footsteps without fear : And the meaning divine no bard can tell In the language of men who buy and sell ; For the song is the song of the angels seven, And the strings of the harp are the stars of heaven ! 320 VDMER : A MYSTERY. And into the forest there came a Knight, All armed in steel, as glittering bright As the bright, blue fire of the summer star, And his voice was a trumpet that called to war, That called to war for the children dear, Who are held in the bondage of falsehood and fear. And Admer heard it, and said, " Shall I go With the steel-clad Knight against his foe ?" " His foe and mine," said the Woman weird ; "Follow the Knight ! and be not afeard." And she gave him a sword of steel and gold, Which she had brought from an armoury old,— " For the sake of the children, take this with thee, And follow the Knight who will set them free- In the name of the heavenly mystery !" NOTES. NOTE I, PAGE 17. ' The Song of Br it 1 1.' The Bruiij or Burn, which gives its name to Burnley, rises on the moors beyond Hurstwood and Extwistle, and flows through scenes of great natural beauty, in the neighbourhood of which many remains of Roman and prehistoric times have been discovered. NOTE 2, PAGE 1 55. ''Loch Achray^ This and the following piece are memorials of a short visit to the Trossachs and the neighbouring Highlands, in May, 1877. The view of Ben Venue over the loch is very fine, and had the effect of inspiring one of my companions, who, either from emulation or in a spirit of ridicule, composed the following quatrain, on the spot. Ben Venue ! O Ben Venue ! I've heard of you severest strictur', 1 thought you was a reg'lar do, But now I find — you're like my pictur' ! NOTE 3, PAGE l62. 'A Quartette: This poem refers to a certain Quixotic journey, or tramp, to London in 1866, an account of which appeared in the Burnley Advertiser, and was published the 32 2 NOTES. year following in booklet form under the title "From Lancashire to London on Foot." The "quartette" were my friends Dr. Dean, Mr. Joshua Rawlinson, Mr. Thomas Nowell and myself. Our travelling names, as I may call them— "The Duke," "The General," "The Lieu- tenant," and "Mine Ancient," were taken from The Merchant of Venice, but have no reference to anything in the play. They were simply used as a convenient mode of referring to certain personal characteristics and incidents of the journey. " Knotgrass," (page 36) is a reminiscence of the same journey. NOTE 4, PAGE l66. ' On a certain Poem, &?c.' The poem here referred to will be found in " Local Rhymes," published in 1S90, by my old friend, Mr. I Ienry Nutter. NOTE 5, PAGE 172. 'A Memory, J-v.' Burnley is not without its high historic associations. It is now generally admitted (see Craik, Grossart, and other authorities) that Spenser's visit to the " North country," in 1574, was to Hurstwood, or some of the neighbouring homesteads of the Spenser clan. For the wanderings of orge Fox — "my unfortunate George!" (Carlyle) - through the Pendle country and over the top of Pendle Hill, in the year 1652, see "George Fox's Journal," Sewel's "History of the people called Quakers," and James Mackay's -'Pendle Hill in History and Literature." NOTES. 323 These historic memories are woven into another web in the "Forest Dream" {page 25), together with Words- worth's recognition of Pendle Hill from Norton Tower in " The White Doe of Rylstone." NOTE 6, PAGE I76. 'A Cenotaph.' This piece was written for one of the "Penny Readings" given in connection with the Mechanics' Institution, on the 2 1st April, 1864. note 7, PAGE 184. './ Rhyme of Jubilee.' The Jubilee for which this rhyme was composed was held in the first week in January, 18S3, to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the Mechanics' Institution. The names of the four working men who "well and truly laid" the corner stone of this noble institution, in the shape of a cottage library in the ''Meadows," were William Wood, Thomas Booth, — Yates and — Leeming, all employed at Maryland's foundry. "They did good work that will endure, They laid the strong foundations sure " ERRATA. Preface, page xii, line 16, delete "last," and read ''the two sections entitled, &°c." Page 15, line 8, for "voice," read "voices" "And the voices of women and men who prayed." Page 162, line 3, for "your," read "four" "By four most famous wights." Page 189, line 15, for "oar," read "car," line 17, for "this," read "his." Page 278, line 22, for "chattering," read " chatter ings." THE COMMITTEE. Joshua Rawlinson, j. p. , Chairman. Fred. J. Grant, j.p. J. Langfikld Ward, m.a. Alfred Strange, j.p. Alderman Greenwood, j.p. W. Lewis Grant. Rev. T. Leyland. t. Brown, m.d. , j.p. James Kay, j.p. Fred. H. Hill. Jas. Lancaster. W. Lancaster, Junr. W. Thompson. H J. Robinson, k.a., m.r.c.s. W. T. Fullalove. J. Whittaker, j.p. (Nelson). Henry Nutter. Tattersall Wilkinson. J. W. Kneeshaw. P. J. Roberts, f.g.s. T. Booth. J. Bradshaw. G. Hindle. J. Gordon. Robt. Radcliffe. Coun. W. E. Hacking. Wm. Smithson. W. Grime. S. AUSTERBERRY. F. C. Long. M. Tattersall. J. Vann. L. Heal. J. Crook. T. G. Crump, b.a., m.b., \ !T //on. : John Allen, ! LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. Road Aitken, James, Spring Grove, Barrowford Allen, Helen, 24, Queensberry Road Allen, John, 24, Queensberry Road Alston, Albert, 9, Grimshaw Street Altham, Councillor J. L. , Beechwood Altham, P. H., Beechwood Anningson, Dr. Thirkell, in, Cleethorpe Grimsby Armistead, Alderman William, 61, Colne Road Ashworth, Ashworth, 41, Danes House Road Ashworth, Edwin, 6, Sackville Street Ashworth, James, 33, Bridge Street ... Ashworth, William, Centre, Nelson ... Aspinall, William, 108, Todmorden Road Austerberry, Stocks, 65, Curzon Street Balderston, W., 128, Railway Terrace, Padiham Baldwin, Councillor John, Hazel Mount Bardsley, Isaac, 96, Mount Pleasant Street, Oldham Barlow, Joseph A., 1, Accrington Road Barnes, John, 14, Rosehill Terrace Baron. Arthur, 193, Manchester Road Baron, Alderman John, J.P., 179, Manchester Road Barrett, Councillor Charles, Yorkshire St ice; Bayne, Councillor Thomas, Ighten Grange Beecham, Harry, 33, Brunswick Street Beecham, Richard, 62, Crowther Streel Bell, Edward, 25, Fair Mew Road Bell, Thomas, 43, Ormerod Read Bell, J. J. Howard, M.I.J. , Exprei ' Berry, E. , I, Helena Streel berry, James, Brookside Berry, William, Commercial Hotel, Coal .*'■. Bibby, Councillor Jas. , 24, Westgate Birnie, J., 81, Todmorden Road Bond, D., County Police Station, Bank Parade Booth, Thomas, 19, Plover Street VOLS. Booth, William, 5, Ferguson Street, Halifax Boys, Richard, St. James' Street Bradley, John, Sunnyholme Bradshaw, John, 42, Yorkshire Street Bradshaw, Richard, Market Place Brierley, Wynford, Carr Road, Nelson Brotherton, H., 3, St. James' Row Brotherton, Lawrence, 7, Ormerod Road ... Broughton, Robert, 23, Market Street Brown, John, m.d., j.p., Bank Parade Brown, J., 29, Ormerod Road Brown, James, 416, Colne Road Brumbley, Charles, 58, Master Street Bulcock, Henry, Manchester Road Burgess, Henry, 58, Manchester Road Burnett, W. H., Brae Side, Blackburn Burnley Church Institute Burnley Co-operative Society Burnley Mechanics' Institution Burrows, Alderman, J.P., Ashleigh, Colne Road Burrows, B., Bookseller, Burnley Wood Post Office Butler, Edwin, 24, Gisburne Road, Barrowford Butterfield, John, 41, Ormerod Road Butterworth, John, j.i'., Oak Bank Butterworth, S., 57, Todmorden Road Campbell, S., "Fighting Cocks Inn," Mereclough Carrington, Councillor Albert, 65, Ormerod Read ... Chadwick, Hitchon, L.R.C.P., l.r.c.s, 43, Oxford Road Chadwick, Win,, 71, Colne Road Chew, John, 24, Holme Road Chew, William, 32, Aqueduct Street Clark, Henry, 169, Woodside Clement, Leonard, Forest Villa, Nelson Collinge, fames, St-. James' Street Collinge, "j. S., J. P., Park House Collinge, Alderman W , J.P. Cooke, Thomas, 152, Colne Road Cooke, Samuel, S, Carlton Road Cornish, J. E., Bookseller, 16, St. Ann's Square, Manchester Coulston, William, Bookseller, Victoria Buildings ., Coupe, Edward, 7, Siddall Street, Hopwood, Heywood Cowell, J., 56, St. James' Street Cowell, William, Orchard Place Cowgill, Bryan, 48, Manchester Road Crawshaw, E., 9, Tollington Park, London, N. Cronkshaw's Hotel, Burnley Cronkshaw, John, Alden, Merlin Road, Revidge Blackburn Crook, Campbell, 64, Albion Street Crook, Joules, 23, Townley Street Crook, Thomas, 132, Manchester Road Crossley. Arthur, Carlton Road Crump, T. G. , b.a. , m.b., 62, Prospect Terrace Cunliffe, Thomas, 33, Co-operation Street, Bacup Davies, Rev. T. R., 10, Ormerod Road Davies, T. , Bookseller, 86, Manchester Road, Nelson Dean, John, 12, Smalley Street Dean, Thomas, m.d. , 84, Manchester Road Dickinson, Councillor D. D. , 39, Trafalgar Road Dickinson, Alderman Wm„ J. P., Palatine Square Duckett, James, J. P. , Woodleigh Duckworth, Joshua, 20, St. Matthew's Street Dunkerley, V., 87, Todmorden Road Eastwood, J. W., 27, Rowley Street Easton, William, 28. St. James' Street Edmondson, Allan, 23, Thurston Street Edmondson, John M., 14, Yorkshire Street Edmundson, Marmaduke, 59, Rectory Road Ellershaw, John, 14, Waterloo Avenue. Blackpool Emmott, Councillor II., 9, Knightsbridge Grov< Evans, William, 144, Parkinson Street Farrer, W. T. , 1, Brooklands Avenue Foden, C. M., J. p., Sefton Terrace Forrest, A. J., Barcroft Hall Foster, George, Yorkshire Street Foulds. Geo. Hy. , 69, Tarleton Street Folds, James, Brunshaw Fox, S. C , South Wales Echo, Cardiff Fullalove, W. T., Olive Mount Gill, George, Woodleigh Gledhill, Joseph, 1, Hunslet Street Golden, M. D., Fair Yiew Road Gordon, Joseph, Scar Cottage ( h'aham. W. W. , 99, St. James" S Grant, Arthur, 14, Palatine Square Grant, F. J., j. P., Bank Field e Grant, Wm. Lewis, 24, Carlton Road... Gray, N. P., J. P., Healey Grove Gray, Robert, M.I.J., 20, Tabor Street Greenwood, Alderman James, J.P., Manchester Road Greenwood, Joseph, 192, Padiham Road Grime, Wm., 42, Williams Road Grocott, Ralph. S, Hammerton Street Gutteridge, J. D., 85, Rectory Road Hacking', Councillor W. E., 7, Hurling Lane... Hall, William, 147, Accrington Road Halliwell, William E. , 10, Market Street Halstead, A , Blackpool Times, Blackpool Halstead, J., 8, Rectory Road Halstead, Lawrence, 3, Burnley Road, Worsthorne Handsley, Robert, j.p. , Reedley Lodge Hargreaves, Henry, Albion Terrace ... Hargreaves, W. Carey, J. P., Bankrield Villa Harrison, Ben, Curzon Street Harrison, J. Dilworth, Manchester Road Harrop, Joseph, 96, Manchester Road.. Hartley, James, ia, Ormerod Road Hartley, J. T. , 22, Nelson Square Hartley, R., J. P., 62, Colne Road Hartley, Thomas, Liver) 1 Stables, Church - Hartley, William, Thorn Hill Harwood, T. H., M.D., Wilfield House Haslarh, T., Healey Mount Hayes, B. , 159, St. James' Street Healey, T.. 15, Orlands Rd., Clapham, London, s.w Heap, Frederick, i72,Todmorden Road Heap, James, 45, Colne Road Heap, Lawrence, 1 10, New Hall Street hi. Mrs. M. A , 99, Rectory Road I leys, G., 49, Manchester Road, Hapton [leys, N Arcade, Colne Hey. W. 1 1.. I laze! Mount, Nelson Hill, Fred II., Thorn Hill Hindle, George, 22. Gillowe Street 1 Hilton, J., 36, ("alder Vale Ri I In , Thos., J. i'., Ashl Id Hodgson, J., l.r.c.p., L.R.C.S., Ganuow . Hodkin, George, 5, Ormerod Road Holden, S I, 38, Accrington Road Ilolgate, Janies, I, Albert Street Holgate, Thomas, 23, Colne Road Holmes, Councillor D., j. p., 43, Bankhouse Street Holmes, J. P., 22, Regent Street, Bacup 1 Holmes, Tames, 35, Murray Street 1 Holt, R. C, f.r.c.s. , Byerden House 1 Hopwood, W. T. , 103, Castle Street 1 Horn, J. S., Palatine Square 1 Home, J. H., m.i. j., 72, Belvedere Road 1 Horner, Mrs., 54, Rectory Road 1 Houlding, Edward, Central Mill 4 Howard, Wm. R., London and Midland Bank, Ltd. 1 Howarth, George, 100, Hollingreave Road 1 Howker, Enoch, 62, Leyland Road 1 Howker, Percy, 68, Belvedere Road 1 Howorth, John, J.P., Park View 1 Hudson, J. , 95, Spencer Place, Leeds 1 Hudson, Sam., 17, Bridge Street 1 Jackson, Thomas, Junr., l.d.s., 23, Hargreaves Street 1 Jee, Charles, 91, Manchester Road 2 Jobling, A., 59, Ormerod Road 1 Johnson, Edwin, Manchester Road 1 Jones, Edward, 70, Prospect Terrace 1 Judson, Timothy, 71, Church Street 1 Kay, James, J.P., Towneley Villa 12 Kay-Shuttleworth, The Right Hon. Sir U. J., Bart., m.p., Gawthorpe Hall 1 Keighley, Alderman G., j.p. , Woodrield House ... 1 Keighley, Gilbert, 25-27, Nicholas Street 1 Keighley, Samuel, 25-27, Nicholas Street 1 Kneeshaw, J. W. , 31, Todmorden Road 1 Lancaster, Alderman Alfred, j.p. , Fern Bank 4 Lancaster, James, 27, Carlton Road 4 Lancaster, William, Junr., 25, Carlton Road 4 Landless, Thomas, Colliery Office Latham, Norman, 2i6,Colne Road Lawson, Fielden, 2, Newton Street Leaver, Arthur, 1, Broughton Street Lee, J. R. , Spring Terrace, Ilabergham Leeming, John, 16, Thursby Road Leyland, Rev. T. , Oldham Long, Frank C, 6, Plover Street Lonsdale, John, Manchester Road, Nelson Lord, Amos, 10, Newton Street Lord, E., 5, Albion Street Lord, Lawrence, 66, Devonshire Road Lord, William, Accrington Road Lupton, Albert, Holme View Lupton, Arthur., Holly Mount Lupton, Joseph T. , Carlton Road Lupton, Alderman W., j. p., Trafalgar House Mackenzie, James, m.d., Bank Parade ... Mackie, John S., 79, Coal Clough Lane ... Maxwell, Thomas, 3, Rosemount Terrace, Newchurch McCandlish, A. Stones, Cornholme ... McCullough, James, Greeley, Colorado, U.S.A. McFarlane, Councillor S., Holme View Metcalfe, Councillor George, 120, Colne Road.. Middleton, William, 60, Heath Street Miles, Rev. H. P., Lyndhurst, New Jersey, U.S. A Mitchell, Alderman C, J.P. (Mayor) Mitchell, Hy., 12, Clegg Street Monk, Josiah, Brookfoot Farm, Padiham ... Moore, Benjamin, J.P., 20, Palatine Square Moore, Isaac, 7, Briercliffe Road Moss, Rev. R. Waddy, Didsbury College ... Mozley, Henry, 432, Colne Road Nevins, W. J., 66, Coal Clough Lane Nightingale, William, Shakespeare Terrace Norman, Edwin, Knightsbridge Grove Nowell, Thomas, Healey Grange Nutter, Henry, Darwin House, Colne Road Ogden, George C. , Thorn Hotel O'Hagan, Lady, Towneley Hall Oldham, John, 1 1 2, Parkinson Street Parker, W. II., 21, Portland Street, Nelson Parkinson, Alderman \V., M*., Clevelands Phillips, |. W., j.r Brown Hill Pickles, I. F., 2, Oxford Road Pickup, Peter, 40, Westgate , J., Borough Brewery Pomfret, Thomas, 28, Wilfield Pollard, Thomas, 10, Bankhouse S Preston, Thomas, 92, Manchester, Road Pritchard, Thomas, 18, Palatine Square Procter, Richard, Oak Mi unit, Westgate Proctor, John, 45, Rectory Road Race, Joseph, j.p., 12, Nelson Square Radclitie, Robert, 11, Accrington Road Ramsbottom, William, 4, Helena Street Rawcliffe, G. B. , The Sycamores Rawcliffe, James Hawkins, Manchester Road Rawlinson, Joshua, J. P., Oak Bank Riley, Holden, 53, Ormerod Road Roberts, Councillor T. H., Brooklands Avenue Roberts, P. E. , Ethendune, Nelson Roberts, P. J., f.g.s., Bacup Robinson, Arthur, 53, Langham Street, Blackburn Robinson, II. J., b.a. , m.r.c.s., Hargreaves Street Robinson, James H.,l.r.c. p. ik s. (Ed.), i. Carr Road Nelson Robinson, John, 134, Accrington Road Robinson, Sarah Ann, 1, Gawthorpe Street, Padiham Robinson, Rev. W. , Woodleigh Robinson, W. Parker, 138, Accrington Road Routh, Thomas, 71, Parkinson Street Rycroft, John, 92, Every Street, Nelson Sandy, T. G., Junr. , Limefield, Brierfield Scott, George, 70, Burnley Road, Bacup Scowby, Francis, Craven Bank Senior, Prof., Queen's College, Galway, Ireland Shepherd, James, 56, Leyland Road Simpson, -Robert, Rose Cottage Slater, Joseph, 39, St. James : Street Slater, William, Woodnook Smeed, Sidney, M.I.J. , 28, Byerden Street Smith, A. H., Red Lion Street Smith, James, Highfield Terrace Smith, James, 6, Brougham Street Smith, J. R. , Padiham District Council Office .. Smith, John, 64, Ainsworth Street, Blackburn .. Smith, Thomas, 122, Hollingreave Road Smith, T. P., 9, Manchester Road Smithson, J. B. , Temperance Hotel, Leyburn YVensleydale Smithson, William, 98, Belvedere Road ... Southern, Walter, Palace House Spencer, Samuel, 70, Tentre Street Stanhope, The Hon. Philip. M.P., 3, Carbon Gardens London, S.W Stanworth, Smith, iS, Westgate Stanworth, William, 35, Howsin Street Steer, Charles, Clifton, Bristol Strange, Alfred, J. p., Greenfield House Stroyan, Mrs., Brunshaw Road Stuttard, E. , Mason"s Arms Stuttard, Luther, 57, Burns Street Sutcliffe, David, Daisy Cottage Sutcliffe, James, Bull Hotel Sutcliffe, John, 94, Manchester Road Sutcliffe, Robert, 21, Market Street Suthers, A., Public Baths Tanner, W. H., 25, Charlotte Street Tattersall, Arthur, Independent Press, Cambridge ... Tattersall, J. F., Bickley, Kent Tattersall, Martin, Colne Road Taylor, Tom, 12, Hebrew Road Thompson, James, 328, Padiham Road Thompson, James W. , J. p. , Oak Bank Thompson, William, Park Side Thornber, Councillor Caleb, 38, Colne Road Thornber, Sharp, Green Hill Terrace Thornber, Alderman T., J. P., The Hollins Thornton, J., J. P., The Poplars Thornton, Joseph, Temperance Hotel, Bridge Street Thorp, Thomas, Manchester Road Thursby, Sir John Hardy, Bart., Ormerod House Thursby, J. O. S., J.P., Bank Hall Vann, Joseph, 140, Abel Street Varley, Henry, Manchester Road Waddington, J. C, The Ridge Waddington, Thomas, 9, Albion Terrace Waddington, W. Angelo, Richmond Lodge, Bowdon Walmsley, George, J. P., Tar leton House Walton, Robert, 66, Rectory Road Ward, J. Langfield, m.a., Manchester Road Watson, A. A., 1.. k.c.p., Holme View Watson, J., 74, Railway Street, Nelson Watson, Lawrence, c.c, 4, Park Road, Middlesborough West, Councillor John, Carlton House Whittaker, l)is. Coun. Henry, Hibson Road, Nelson Whittaker, John, J. P., The Woodlands, Nelson 1: Whittaker, William, 25, Knightsbridge Grove Wild, Robert, 38, Standish Sti Wilkinson, Tattersall, Clough Croft Farm Williams, John, 357, Padiham Road Witham, Councillor William, J. P., Rockwood ■od, Thomas. 114, Whall 1 ••■ Woodhouse, Lister, Town Hall, Birkenhead Yates, John, 132, Accrington Road 1 - 500 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L < J-;)2)/<-8,'57i,CS680s4)444 HmilrHng - U809 Rhymes and Hllr drp.zmx nrr 9. q iqkq PR 1*809 Hllr UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 376 155 8