THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE MUSIC OF MY HEART 
 
 RY 
 
 ARTHUR BENNETT 
 
 MANCHESTER 
 
 Palmeh & Howe, 73, 75, and 77, Princess Sti n i 
 don: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. 
 
 1889
 
 PRINTED 13Y JAMES 'WOOD, SANKEY sTTiEKT. 
 WARRINGTON.
 
 /^r 
 
 ^■ysz 
 
 *>*LS 
 
 To 
 William Sharp, 
 
 General Editor of "Jhe Canterbury Poets," 
 ^Author of "Life of j-Ieine," "PyOmantic ^allads, 
 
 ETC., 
 
 J PLespectfully Jnscribe this Volume, 
 
 Jn Admiration of j-lis Writings, 
 and 
 
 WlTH pRATITUDE FOR JVlANY FRIENDLY 
 
 Words of Litep^ap^y Pounsjl. 
 
 881832
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Prefatory Note ... 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 Albion 
 
 Cambria, (written at midnight on the .summit of 
 
 SNOWDON.) ... ... 
 
 Caledonia, (written aboard the "clansman," 
 during an autumn cruise among the 
 hebrides.) 
 
 Erin, (suggested by a magnificent sunset, wit- 
 nessed FROM THE DECK OF THE "TYNWALD," 
 AS she LEFT THE QUIET WATERS OF CAELING- 
 FORD LOUGH.) 
 
 ■'There's A Good Time Coming" 
 
 "How Joyful It Is ! " 
 
 The Young Philosopher 
 
 "Cod Save Ireland!" 
 
 Lines Written For The First Page Of A 
 Poetry Album ... 
 
 In Phcenix Park 
 
 On Croagh Patrick ... 
 
 Soul-Solace 
 
 The Moon And The Sea. (Blackpool, 4th. octo- 
 BBB, 1884.) 
 
 Dreaming And Working 
 
 On The Death Of A Dog 
 
 •'The Days That Are No More" 
 
 Lines Addressed To A Young Lady Who Said 
 That She Did Not Like Kissing, By A 
 Young Gentleman Who Didn't Believe 
 Her 
 
 AGE 
 
 9 
 
 13 
 
 16 
 20 
 
 2S 
 31 
 35 
 39 
 42 
 
 40 
 48 
 53 
 5G 
 
 59 
 62 
 
 65 
 71 
 
 71
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Message Or The Stars ... ... ... 76 
 
 The Human Hope ... ... ... ... ... 79 
 
 The Hero Of Kartoum ... ... SI 
 
 The Heart's Unbelief ... ... ... ... 91 
 
 The Crisis, (written in may, 1885, when, owing 
 to the serious difficulties which had 
 arisen ix regard to the delimitation of 
 the afghan frontier, another war with 
 russia was anticipated.) ... ... ... 93 
 
 Forget Me Not! .. 96 
 
 Books ... 98 
 
 The White Pose 104 
 
 The Battle Of Hastings 107 
 
 "The Parting Of The Ways" 115 
 
 If The World Were Kuled By Love 121 
 
 The Inexplicable Sex ... ... ... ... 123 
 
 The Silent Voice, (written on the death of the 
 right hon. w. e. forster. esq., m.p., which 
 occurred on the oth. april, 1886, ix the 
 same week as the introduction of the home 
 
 rule bill.) ... ... ... 126 
 
 The City's Greeting, (written on the visit of 
 the queen to liverpool, in may, 18s6, 
 to open the exhibition.) ... ... ... 129 
 
 At The Shipperies. 1886 132 
 
 To Dr. Woelfert, The German Aeronaut, On 
 Hearing Of The Collapse Of Dis Balloon 
 
 At " The Shipperies" 135 
 
 Beloved Eyes ... .. ... ... ... 137 
 
 The People's Answer, (written on the eve of 
 
 the election 01" 1886.) ... ... ... 138 
 
 The Olympian Picnic Ill
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 To Miss Marion L. Taylor, Beino A Flower 
 From The Garland Of Poesy Worts- By 
 The Bards Of "The Olympic" For "The 
 
 Queen Of The Tournament" 145 
 
 The Blameless Life, (written on the death of 
 the earl of iddesleigh, which resulted 
 from heart disease, on the 12th. january, 
 1887, but was popularly supposed to haye 
 been precipitated by the ingratitude of 
 a portion of the party which he had 
 done so much to recommend to the ap- 
 proval of the nation.) ... ... ... 146 
 
 Primrose Day. 1887 149 
 
 Trifling Triplets, Being A Series Of Rhyming 
 Rejoinders To The Quaint Questions In 
 A Querist's Album ... ... ... ... 152 
 
 The Queen's Jubilee, 21st. .Tine, 1887 155 
 
 Two Triolets, (for an album.) 158 
 
 To My Friend, Richard Le Gallienne, Author 
 Of " My Ladies' Sonnets And Other 'Vain 
 And Amatorious' Verses, With Some Of 
 
 Grayer Mood" 159 
 
 Ballade Of Apple Blossoms ... 163 
 
 Proem, (written for the first issue, on the 
 1st. september, 1888, of "sunrise : a weekly 
 
 paper for the people".) 165 
 
 In Doubt 168 
 
 The Two Kings, (to my frifnd, w.s.r., in ad- 
 miration OF THE PATIENCE AND COUHAGE WITH 
 WHICH HE IS BEARING A grievous and 
 
 protracted affliction.) 169 
 
 Ballade Of The Heart's Winter 173 
 
 AuRevoik! 175
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 The poems of which this volume consists have 
 been written in leisure moments, and at varying 
 intervals, during the last eight years ; and the 
 majority have already seen the light through the 
 medium of divers magazines and papers. The 
 whole of them have now been subjected to a 
 careful revision. In several of the earlier pieces 
 I discovered blemishes which nothing short of 
 their absolute reconstruction would have re- 
 moved ; but, as one has naturally a fondness for 
 the firstlings of his fancy, and as I was desirous, 
 as far as possible, of preserving their identity, 
 I have, for the most part, contented myself 
 with such minor alterations as were unavoid- 
 able ; and I am only too conscious of the fact
 
 X PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 that, in spite of these emendations, they are 
 still manifestly the productions of a novice in 
 the art of minstrelsy. 
 
 Where I have touched upon current events, 
 I have endeavoured to look at them from a 
 loftier standpoint than that of mere party. It 
 would be a degradation to Poesy to associate 
 her with a faction, and the harp was never 
 intended for the hustings. But it may well 
 ring out its warning when the public honour 
 is endangered ; and, in the hour of peril, seek 
 to awaken in the heart of the nation somewhat 
 of the olden fire. 
 
 With the more serious pieces have been 
 intermingled several of an opposite tendency ; 
 and the sudden changes " from grave to gay, 
 from lively to severe," will doubtless impress 
 some "melancholy Jaques" with a sense of in- 
 congruity. But that which has not any charm for 
 the Jaqueses may possibly interest the Rosalinds
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. XI 
 
 and the Celias, if it be my gootl fortune to 
 number sueh among ray readers; and the verses 
 which are unpalatable to the philosopher may 
 perhaps prove not displeasing to the fair. 
 
 A.B. 
 
 Brueke, 
 
 Warrington, 
 
 loth. November. l&SS
 
 /
 
 THE MUSIC OF MY HEART. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 There is a charm in Poesy 
 
 Beyond the power of telling ; 
 She is a spirit from the sky, 
 
 In realms terrestrial dwelling; 
 Disclosing diamonds in the dew, 
 
 And mermaids in the ocean ; 
 And the unfathomable blue 
 
 Above the storm's commotion. 
 
 Translating into tender words 
 
 The sighs in snowy bosoms — 
 The music of the brooks and birds, 
 
 The breathing of the blossoms ; 
 The veil that shrouds futurity, 
 
 With smiles, asunder flinging, 
 Till in the wildernesses we 
 
 Can see the roses springing.
 
 14 PRELUDE. 
 
 Oh ! sweet it is the lyre to take 
 
 And chant of Nature's beauty ; 
 Or strike it till, with chords awake, 
 
 It calls the world to duty ; 
 Sublime to sing the songs of hope 
 
 For our beloved nation — 
 Hope for the moody misanthrope, 
 
 And hope for all creation. 
 
 And sweet it is to sweep the strings 
 
 When ruby lips desire it ; 
 Imagination's swiftest wings 
 
 Are spread, should they require it. 
 Maidens are queens, to genuine bards, 
 
 With glory in their glances ; 
 And more the praise their smile awards 
 
 Than gold the poet fancies. 
 
 To offer homage to the fair, 
 
 Muse on the great star-splendour, 
 Weave wreaths to deck the hero's hair, 
 
 And keep the world's heart tender; 
 Rouse men to aspirations high, 
 
 And make Utopias real — 
 Such is the minstrel's destiny, 
 
 And such my own ideal.
 
 PRELUDE. 15 
 
 And when, with this intent, the lyre 
 
 I tune in hours of leisure, 
 My very soul seems all on fire 
 
 With unimagined pleasure. 
 What if I never win the bays 
 
 To loftier singers given ? 
 For him whose heart is in his lays 
 
 To merely sing is heaven. 
 
 And from my heart my music flows, 
 
 And if the world should flout it, 
 Poor is the praise the world bestows, 
 
 And I can do without it ; 
 But at my feet the daisies spring, 
 
 God's sunshine gleams above me ; 
 And so "for those I love" I sing, 
 
 " I sing for those who love me."
 
 ALBION. 
 
 Came a man of aspect dreary, 
 
 In a time of tribulation ; 
 
 And, in tones of evil omen, 
 
 Dismal eras he predicted 
 
 For the darling of the ocean, 
 
 Sacred to the bravest, fairest, 
 
 Noblest of earth's sons and daughters ; 
 
 Home of freedom, bright tiara 
 
 On the great earth's brow. 
 
 "Ancient nations," quotb the prophet. 
 
 Who, like Albion, were exalted, 
 
 Would have scoffed at him who told them 
 
 Of the doom that was impending ; 
 
 For their hearts grew proud within them 
 
 As the bounds of empire broadened, 
 
 And they deemed themselves immortal ; 
 
 But, amid their idle boasting, 
 
 Suddenly the night descended. 
 
 And so Albion in the mantle 
 
 Of the darkness shall be folded ; 
 
 And her flag, sublimely floating 
 
 Where the icebergs stand, like phantoms, 
 
 And the sun forgets his shining,
 
 ALBION. 17 
 
 " And above the maze of islands 
 Where the winds with spice are laden, 
 Shall not keep itself unsullied ; 
 And the regions where, beneath it, 
 Corn and wine and milk abounded, 
 And the forge was redly flaming, 
 And the looms were all in motion, 
 Shall relinquish their allegiance, 
 And, in dreadful indignation. 
 Continents reject her ruling. 
 From the universal waters 
 Shall her argosies be driven, 
 And the races scarce remember 
 That, of old, she bore the title, 
 ' Mistress of the Seas ! ' " 
 
 Up arose a youthful patriot, 
 With an eye wherein a fire flashed, 
 And a form robed in enthusiasm, 
 And, in silver tones majestic, 
 Thus he made reply. 
 " Shame upon such weak forebodings ! 
 Though the times are full of trouble, 
 And the shadow of the tempest, 
 Like a ghost, is grimly rising, 
 Shall we quail before its fury, 
 Or, like men, prepare to meet it? 
 Greece and Rome would ne'er have fallen 
 If their sons had said they should not;
 
 1 8 ALBION. 
 
 " And, while millions in our borders 
 Feel the flame within them burning 
 At the mention of the greatness 
 Of the island of their fathers ; 
 While traditions that, like trumpets, 
 Stir the heart to emulation, 
 Round our hills in music linger, 
 And are whispered by the woodlands, 
 And repeated by the rivers ; 
 While we all may live in freedom, 
 And, in living, learn to love it, 
 Albion cannot fall ! 
 No proud foe shall tread the valleys 
 That our sires with blood defended ; 
 Or shall rob us of the regions 
 Where the plains are robed in plenty, 
 And the ancient laws are cherished, 
 And the ancient language spoken ; 
 And no pomp of lordly vessels, 
 Clad in steel, and with the thunder 
 In their throats, shall sail triumphant 
 And usurp our old dominion 
 Of the azure main. 
 Sooner than our mother's glory 
 Should, with lapse of time, be tarnished, 
 All the children she has nurtured 
 On the bosom which is heaving 
 With a thousand thoughts heroic
 
 ALBION. 1 9 
 
 " In her name would die ! 
 
 Die we will, should Fate require it ; 
 
 But, while breath is in our bodies, 
 
 While our hands can wield a sabre, 
 
 Or our lives be consecrated 
 
 To the service of the nation, 
 
 Never shall she fall ! "
 
 CAMBRIA. 
 
 (written at midnight on the summit 
 of snowdon.) 
 
 Scaling the desolate hills in the glow and the 
 glamour of sunset, 
 
 Marvellous visions of loveliness, reaching the misty 
 horizon, 
 
 Broke on my wandering gaze like a trance on the 
 soul of the sleeper. 
 
 Azure of skies overarching, and lakes that were 
 shrouded in shadow ; 
 
 Pinnacles shining with snow, the stainless bequest 
 of the winter ; 
 
 Gleaming expanses of ocean, and gloom of mysteri- 
 ous valleys ; 
 
 Outlines of dim, distant islands — the silver of minia- 
 ture rivers ; 
 
 Flash of swift waters descending, and garments of 
 shimmering vapour, 
 
 Flung by the clouds o'er the cliffs of a terrible 
 chaos of mountains, 
 
 Girdled the height that 1 gained with a splendour 
 which baffles description.
 
 CAMBRTA. 21 
 
 Then, as the darkness approached, and, at last, to 
 
 the arms of the billows, 
 The orb of the morning, retiring, illumined their 
 
 faces with blushes ; 
 While the orb of the eve, in her whiteness, crept 
 
 hazily up from the eastward, 
 A halo encompassing each that was wrought of the 
 
 hues of the rainbow ; 
 And, in the zenith, the stars issued forth from the 
 
 tents of the twilight, 
 Thoughts of the land that beneath me lay sleeping 
 
 in grandeur supernal 
 Stole to my soul, and my spirit awoke to a wonder- 
 ful vision. 
 As, under the spell of the moonbeams, I revelled in 
 
 dreamily musing 
 O'er the unspeakable glories that stretched, in a 
 
 magical prospect, 
 Far past the range of the eye, though endued with 
 
 the sight of the eagle, 
 On the environing mountains, their sceptres like 
 
 meteors flaming, 
 I saw, in the infinite glimmer, the Cambrian mon- 
 arches departed. 
 Towering above them, was Arthur, the valiant, the 
 
 wise and the blameless, 
 Heart in his eloquent gaze, and a king in the form 
 
 of his features ;
 
 2 2 CAMBRIA. 
 
 And there was the resolute Gryffyth, in courage akin 
 
 to the lion, 
 Who dreaded not uttermost battle with Harold, if 
 
 so he might safeguard 
 The hills and the dales that he loved with a passion 
 
 which made him heroic ; 
 There was the doughty Llewellyn, as bold as when 
 
 warring with Edward ; 
 And there were the bards to whose numbers, inspired 
 
 with a fury terrific, 
 Legions of fierce mountaineers thundered on to the 
 
 spears of their foemen, 
 Laughing at death, and despising the prowess that 
 
 sought to enslave them — 
 Uriens, Cadwallos, and Hoels, a host of harmonious 
 
 harpers. 
 These, in the sheen of the starlight, methought held 
 
 a mystical conclave, 
 Till, from the depths of far valleys — from hillside 
 
 and seaside and moorland, 
 Flocked, in impalpable thousands, the sons of the 
 
 Cambrian nation, 
 Making prostrations evincing the homage they 
 
 yielded to greatness. 
 Then, with the might of a storm, in the mountains 
 
 sonorously rising, 
 The shades of the monarchs harangued them, and 
 
 bade them be true to their duty,
 
 CAMBRIA. 2 3 
 
 And rampart the realm with their weapons, should 
 
 ever the threat of aggression 
 Be flung at its crags, or a finger be lifted to limit 
 
 its freedom. 
 When the weird voices were ended, a sound of in- 
 spiriting harpings 
 Thrilled o'er the hills, and, amid the assembly of 
 
 Cambrian sovereigns, 
 Forms more familiar I sighted — the kings of the 
 
 home of my fathers ; 
 And, chief of the gathering, Harold, and *William, 
 
 and Henry, and Edward — 
 No wild war-glare in their glances, but love and 
 
 regard and alliance — 
 The monarchs of envious races, the feuds of the 
 
 past unremembered, 
 Vowing eternal goodwill, while the ghosts of the 
 
 multitude gazing 
 Murmured applause ; and, from far, like the sound 
 
 of the sea at a distance, 
 Albion's children responded with musical murmur 
 
 of voices ; 
 And I knew that the nations were one ; that the 
 
 summons for freedom to rally 
 Was a summons to rally ivith us, for a freedom that 
 
 each of us cherish — 
 
 * William the First, Henry the Third, ami Edward the First.
 
 24 CAMRRIA. 
 
 A summons to stand by our side and confront all 
 
 the lands, if 'twere needed 
 To guard our delectable isle from the foot of the 
 
 haughty invader ; 
 And, in our society, tread in the path that is sacred 
 
 to Progress ; 
 And rouse the dull Earth from its torpor, and lead it 
 
 to Liberty's temple, 
 And from its tired limbs strike the shackles, and into 
 
 its bosom breathe comfort; 
 And show it how olden dissensions and horrible 
 
 feuds internecine 
 May vanish for aye, and the realms that once wrath- 
 
 fully wielded the war-axe, 
 And rushed into battle with hate in their voices, 
 
 their quarrels forgetting, 
 May live in sweet unison, one evermore in all noble 
 
 endeavour, 
 And rivals alone in their zeal for the weal of the 
 
 world.
 
 CALEDONIA. 
 
 (WRITTEN ABOARD THE " CLANSMAN," DURING 
 AN AUTUMN CRUISE AMONG THE HEBRIDES.) 
 
 "O Caledonia! stern and wild," I here, 
 Amid thy mighty rocks, and beauteous isles, 
 And flowing stretch of land and sea and sky, 
 Where Mother Nature wears her grandest robe, 
 Would sing thy praise. Thy sons are like their hills 
 In hardihood, in strength, in steadfastness. 
 We, sons of Albion, would hail ye, brothers, 
 And vow, with you, to cherish more and more 
 The bonds of love and mutual sympathy 
 Which long have held possession of our souls. 
 And if, as would-be prophets sometimes say, 
 Dark clouds o'erhang Britannia's sacred shores ; 
 And should opposing forces rush to wrest 
 The heritage of freedom from the free, 
 They'll find us ready, and your hands and ours, 
 By Cambrian hands assisted sturdily,
 
 26 CALEDONIA. 
 
 Shall hurl the shivering enemy away, 
 
 Cursing the day he saw the light, as back 
 
 These rugged mountains hurl the foaming waves. 
 
 Would that our bruised and bleeding sister, Erin — 
 
 Self-bruised, in some degree, perhaps— would cease 
 
 To idly sorrow over dying wrongs, 
 
 And join the league that we, and ye, and they 
 
 Who cluster round Eryri's feet, have sworn 
 
 To keep inviolate till doom shall strike ! 
 
 Erin, we trust thou wilt ! We three are one ! 
 
 Be of the group ! United, we'll maintain 
 
 Our spreading Empire's ancient majesty 
 
 Uninjured, spite of croaker's doleful tales, 
 
 And madly misanthropic fear of fall, 
 
 Until the giant world grows hoar with years, 
 
 And Time himself begins to think of death. 
 
 Why wilt thou linger in the bitter cold, 
 
 And gnaw, inflexible, thy heart away 
 
 With futile pinings for a lone career 
 
 Which could but end in huger woe ? To-day, 
 
 Where Scottish hearts are beating loyally, 
 
 I think of future glories that await 
 
 A fourfold nation ; and I breathe the hope 
 
 That, as the sunshine from these mountain tops 
 
 Bids the thick mists begone, so speedily 
 
 Our triple love for thee shall dissipate 
 
 The lowering clouds that long have girt thy shores ; 
 
 That thou, whose generous sons are brave as these
 
 CALEDONIA. 27 
 
 'Mong whose delightful glens I glide entranced, 
 In this, the land of mountain and of flood, 
 May'st leave the tracks which lead down to the 
 
 dark, 
 And, with thy sisters three, espouse the right, 
 And tread the paths of peace and liberty.
 
 ERIN. 
 
 (suggested by a magnificent sunset, wit- 
 nessed FROM THE DECK OF THE " TVNWALD," 
 AS SHE LEFT THE QUIET AVATERS OF CARLING- 
 FORD LOUGH.) 
 
 A vessel bounding o'er a billowy waste, 
 
 A range of rugged mountains on her stern, 
 
 And, over them, where slowly in the west 
 
 The sun was vanishing, a crimson sky. 
 
 Strange was the scene, but stranger were the 
 
 thoughts 
 Of one who paced the vessel silently, 
 While vaguer grew the landscape on the lee, 
 And night in storm descended. Thus he mused, 
 As, in a trance, he eyed the awesome glow, 
 And drank his fill of the weird loveliness. 
 "The universe is full of parables ; 
 And in the unimaginable light 
 Which sheds its splendour on the purple peaks 
 That fade behind me, I can darkly read 
 The tragic story of sweet Erin's shame. 
 Her sun has set in anger, and her skies 
 Are fiercely flaming — not with sunset fires,
 
 ERIN. 29 
 
 " But with the red glare of the burning home ; 
 Her haunted hills grow crimson — not with tints 
 Shed from the chariot of the Lord of Day, 
 But with the blood of murder ; and a night 
 Deeper than Nature's broods above the land." 
 
 The voyager was sad. Again he mused, 
 And chanced to recollect how some averred 
 That, when the sun set redly, 'was a sign 
 Of a fair day ; and straightway, as he gazed, 
 " A change came o'er the spirit of his dream : " 
 The night of blood was past, and Morning peeped 
 Above the haggard mountains radiantly, 
 And, in the beam, what marvels were revealed ! 
 Assassination's deadly knife was sheathed, 
 And Agitation's frenzied tongue was dumb. 
 The League's fell power was broken, and no 
 
 more 
 The name of Freedom served to shelter crime. 
 The owners and the tillers of the soil 
 Were both secure, and lived in mutual love ; 
 For wiser ruling had, with lapse of years, 
 Healed the old sores, and " centuries of wrong " 
 Were but remembered nightmares. Justice bore 
 A kingly sceptre now. The very fields 
 Were greener than aforetime, and the realm, 
 In sooth, an " Emerald Isle." Her valiant sons 
 And comely maids, their miseries forgot, 
 Were even braver and more beautiful
 
 30 ERIN. 
 
 Than in the days of eld. No clamour rose 
 Against their brethren on fair Albion's shore. 
 The twain were as one family at last — 
 Were one in their devotion to the law, 
 One in their homage to the common throne, 
 One in their strife to swell the Empire's fame, 
 And one in proud regard for liberty : — 
 Were bound by silken bonds more strong than 
 
 steel — 
 The bonds of loyalty, the bonds of love, 
 The bonds of holy zeal to win the world 
 To honour, virtue, peace and righteousness. 
 
 The vision faded from the western sky, 
 The lonely peaks grew shadowy, the shores 
 Were hidden in the darkness, and the waves 
 Sobbed as they felt its melancholy sway ; 
 But, to the dreaming voyager, the dream 
 Yet burned with more than visionary hues, 
 And in the future mystically merged, 
 A vivid and divine reality.
 
 "THERE'S A GOOD TIME COMING." 
 
 " There's a good time coming." — Yes ! 
 On the balmy zephyr's wing, 
 
 Through the sweet and sunny air, 
 Steals the smiling form of Spring, 
 To a world that was always fair ; 
 But, in Winter's sad caress, 
 
 Had cried, with a piteous prayer, 
 For the vanished Eden-happiness, 
 For the bliss the angels share. 
 
 But the hoary Winter stands aghast, 
 To his icy sceptre feebly clinging, 
 
 For the scent of flowers is floating past, 
 And he hears the linnets singing. 
 
 And the earth shall again be a paradise, 
 "With no serpent's trail of slime ;" 
 
 And the heroes who have vanquished Vice, 
 And fought with the grisly monster, Crime, 
 
 Shall be lulled by Eolian harmonies, 
 And walk in a purrr clime.
 
 32 " there's a good time coming." 
 
 But their hearts were heavy as, wearily, 
 
 They climbed the hills along the road ; 
 And the winter winds howled drearily, 
 
 And they carried a weary load — 
 A load of dreams they counted hollow, 
 
 And cares that tortured them like fire ; 
 But the upward path they were fain to follow- 
 
 They were bent on climbing higher. 
 
 And they rested upon this rock, 
 
 That the Truth would yet prevail ; 
 And they grandly withstood the shock 
 
 Of many a boisterous gale ; 
 And they made the most of the radiant hours 
 That even in winter often shone, 
 When their faith began to fail ; 
 And they thanked the Eternal Powers 
 
 That the snowdrop grew, though the 
 warmth was gone, 
 And the ivy laughed at the hail. 
 But their work moves swiftly on ! 
 They shall gain the meed they merit ; 
 And, though their hair be hoary, 
 And their faces worn and pale, 
 The humblest of them shall inherit 
 The guerdon and the glory. 
 
 Oh, yes ! " there's a good time coming " — 
 A time we've awaited long ;
 
 "there's a good time coming." 33 
 
 And the ghosts of the ancient sorrow 
 To their graves shall grimly throng ; 
 For the knell of woe is booming, 
 
 And I hail the blest to-morrow 
 When the heavens shall thrill with song. 
 
 Ah ! fair shall the dawning be, 
 
 And the tears shall then be few ; 
 And, at sunrise, we shall see 
 
 The diamonds in the dew. 
 
 Despair itself shall learn to laugh, 
 And Hope shall kiss the brows of Madness ; 
 
 And every son of man shall quaff, 
 
 With thirsty lip, the wine of gladness. 
 
 The love-lorn maid who, in anguish, sighs, 
 
 By the faithless swain forsaken, 
 Her face suffused with a strange surprise, 
 
 From her misery shall waken, 
 And shall wipe her liquidly-luminous eyes, 
 
 And a tenderer troth be taken. 
 
 And the souls that shrank from the nipping frost 
 Shall bathe in the balm of the buds of June : 
 And gentle lives no more be crossed, 
 Nor on Time's waters roughly tossed, 
 Like waves 'neath the angry moon.
 
 34 "there's a good time coming." 
 
 And in his temple Mars shall shiver, 
 And cast his crimson crown away, 
 
 His fierce dominion fled for ever — 
 His former glory gone for aye. 
 
 And Peace, with lilies in her bosom, 
 
 And honeysuckles in her hair, 
 Shall bid the desert-places blossom 
 
 And the white robes of harvest wear. 
 
 And Tyranny, with looks of wonder, 
 Shall watch the ancient fetters fall ; 
 
 And realms be linked whom oceans sunder, 
 And men, at last, be brothers all.
 
 "HOW JOYFUL IT IS!" 
 
 Garibaldi died with the window of his room open, 
 while the sun was setting hehind Corsica. Before the last 
 agon} r began, a bird alighted, singing, on the window-sill. 
 The veteran saw it and stammered, " Quanto e allegro!' 1 '' 
 (" How joyful it is!") 
 
 " How joyful it is ! " 
 Thus murmured Garibaldi, as he lay 
 
 Awaiting the last agony, and gazed, 
 From out his open window, at the play 
 
 Of crimsoning wavelets, where Apollo blazed 
 Like one transfigured, as he paused to write, 
 
 Before departing, on the azure sky, 
 That stars would glisten through the silent night, 
 
 And sunrise follow it eternally ; 
 While on the lattice lit a little bird, 
 
 And told its rapture to the passing breeze 
 So tunefully that, as the hero heard 
 
 Its unpremeditated melodies, 
 Great gladness seized him, though his end drew 
 near, 
 
 And at his elbow yawned the hungry tomb ; 
 For Hope was hovering in the atmosphere, 
 
 On wings of splendour, banishing the gloom.
 
 36 "how joyful it is!" 
 
 " How joyful it is ! " 
 Humanity may imitate the dead, 
 
 And cheerily the syllables repeat — 
 They flash, like jewels, through the tears we shed, 
 
 And blossom into bluebells at our feet. 
 For, from the dawn of earliest infancy, 
 
 To trusting spirits, life abounds with joy : 
 The babe that listens to the lullaby, 
 
 The smiling maiden and the blithesome boy 
 Exemplify the utterance ; the youth, 
 
 Eager to travel the untrodden ways, 
 His face suffused with pleasure, owns the truth 
 
 Which manhood echoes with a shout of praise, 
 And feeble age acknowledges in song, 
 
 Though, on the locks once raven, winter lies — 
 Joy in green foliage ; in the fragrant throng 
 
 Of flowers, forget-me-nots of paradise ; 
 In the weird mountains, crowned with wreaths of 
 snow, 
 
 And in the valleys sacred to the free ; 
 In the gay arch of Iris, and the glow 
 
 Of Luna's silver lamp of mystery. 
 
 " How joyful it is ! " 
 Joy in the kisses and the tender sighs 
 
 Of ardent lovers ; in sweet household cares ; 
 In children's laughter, and in sparkling eyes, 
 
 And in good deeds — the holiest of prayers.
 
 "HOW JOYFUL IT IS ! " 37 
 
 And friendship is another name for bliss, 
 
 Whose gentle fascination all may know ; 
 And joy is offspring of the harmonies 
 
 That from the inmost soul of being flow 
 As from the heart of Israfel. From things 
 
 Inanimate — the woods, the winds, the streams ; 
 From human voices, and the magic strings 
 
 Where lissom fingers wander, till it seems 
 As if an Amphion struck the chords, there steals 
 
 The sylph called Music, the embodiment 
 Of all we dream of joy, whose voice appeals 
 
 To the tired mortal, in life's battle spent, 
 With wondrous visions of Elysium, 
 
 Beneath whose healing trees the blest abide ; 
 And thrills the bard, who, though the crowd be 
 dumb, 
 
 In words of flame, sings of the rising tide 
 Of knowledge, freedom, love, for all mankind — 
 
 Superior joys for earth's most joyous ones ; 
 And, for the weary bosom of the hind, 
 
 Divine sufficing and unshadowed suns. 
 
 " How joyful it is ! " 
 Like Garibaldi, at the gate of Death 
 
 Our pallid lips may still, in triumph, form 
 The words; the favoured few, whose every-breath 
 
 Is luxury, and the unsheltered swarm
 
 38 "how joyful it is!" 
 
 Of toilers — each may find in life a zest, 
 
 And somewhat of the jubilation prove 
 That froths its woe like wine ; and each, in quest 
 
 Of happiness, though fields of ether move, 
 Fired by the story of the realm afar 
 
 With seas of chrysolite and diamond spires ; 
 And, through Imagination's "gates ajar," 
 
 Catch the faint music of the heavenly lyres. 
 There's joy for all — the young, the strong, the old ; 
 
 For man and woman, and for rich and poor ; 
 Fountains of crystal spring from sands of gold 
 
 Amid the desert places ; to allure 
 The human heart and fill it with delight, 
 
 The firmament is mystically strewn 
 With constellations, and the earth is dight 
 
 In rainbow garments, and the hoarse bassoon 
 Of ocean thunders one great symphony ; 
 
 Life is impregnate with strange ecstasies ; 
 The very dying may exult to die, 
 
 For Death may lead them to the radiant slues.
 
 THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 " Philosophy's not popular, 
 And, in the dull world's eyes, 
 
 The masher, with his choice cigar, 
 Deserves a lady's sighs 
 
 " More than the man who up the height 
 
 Of dim Parnassus strays, 
 And wanders, speechless with delight, 
 
 In Wisdom's flowery ways. 
 
 "What cares the modern cricketer 
 
 For humbug such as that ? 
 He thinks him crazy to prefer 
 
 An epic to a bat. 
 
 "The fair admire him even less, 
 And all their actions show it ; 
 
 They like the latest thing in dress 
 More than the latest poet ; 
 
 " Love tennis more than Tennyson, 
 
 And tattle more than truth ; 
 Deny the bard the benison 
 
 Breathed on the brainless youth
 
 4 o 
 
 THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 " With easy manners, careless gait, 
 
 And collars duly high — 
 Deaf to the voices of the great, 
 
 Blind to the flashing sky. 
 
 "And hence the maiden I adore 
 
 In vain I seek to win ; 
 For all the wealth in Wisdom's store 
 
 She doesn't care a pin. 
 
 " I speak of Spenser, and she yawns ; 
 
 Of Homer, and she nods ; 
 Of dewy eves, and rosy dawns, 
 
 And Hellas and its gods — 
 
 " She only strokes, with fingers white, 
 
 The pet upon the rug ; 
 And, poet as I am, to-night, 
 
 I'd rather be a pug! 
 
 " I tell her of old Pan's decease ; 
 
 Of Hector's deeds sublime ; 
 Of Jason and the Golden Fleece — 
 
 She murmurs, ' How's the time ? ' 
 
 " I talk of science and of art, 
 
 And other topics deep ; 
 And I discover, with a start, 
 
 That she is half asleep.
 
 I 
 
 THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER. 41 
 
 " She disregards such themes divine — 
 
 What next shall I essay ? 
 I'll press her pretty lips to mine, 
 
 And kiss her, if I may ! " 
 
 'Twas done ! — she tried to frown ; but lo ! 
 
 With smiles her face was lit ; 
 In fact, she seemed to like it so 
 
 That he repeated it. 
 
 '• You do not care for poetry, 
 
 Or philosophic bliss ?" 
 The answer sparkled in her eye : 
 
 " I'd rather have the kiss ! "
 
 " GOD SAVE IRELAND ! 
 
 God save Ireland from enemies outside her borders and 
 from those within ! God save Ireland from cruel men of 
 whatever class, be they— and I trust there are very few — 
 grasping landlords and rack-renting landlords, or be they 
 dishonest tenants, or midnight marauders ! God save 
 Ireland from the pestilence that walketh at noon and the 
 terror that stealeth at night ! And I believe that God will 
 save Ireland, for, with all her faults, there is that amount 
 of virtue amongst the Irish people ; there is that love of 
 their country, that love and devotion of men to their 
 families, that willingness to sacrifice for them, which are 
 abiding and homely virtues that do much to save a country, 
 and to enable God's laws to be respected ; and, with the 
 earnest desire that God may save Ireland, I thank you for 
 having heard me. — Right Hon. W. E. Forstcr, Esq., M.P., 
 at Tullamore, 6th. March, 1882. 
 
 He stood erect, facing an angry crowd 
 In raving treason trained, and schooled in scowls 
 By glib-tongued traitors to their country's cause. 
 Who hated him and the immortal realm 
 Whose honour was his daily care, whose smile, 
 In peril, his unspeakable reward. 
 And though, while he was talking, to his heart 
 The bullet might have whistled deathfully, 
 His manly visage showed no sign of fear. 
 Well had he worked for Erin, but the meed 
 Of praise he merited was unbestowed. 
 Nay, Calumny's foul lips on him had cast
 
 " GOD SAVE IRELAND ! " 43 
 
 The venom of vile slanders ; and the voice 
 
 Of the misguided multitude assailed 
 
 The hero with fierce epithets of scorn. 
 
 But, as some rock, about whose granite base 
 
 The waves howl madly, lifts its rugged crest, 
 
 Amid the clamour, unappalled to heaven, 
 
 He stood unmoved, a form majestical. 
 
 While hoarse rebellion thundered through the land, 
 
 And towered above it with unchanged resolve 
 
 To stop the quarrel of the centuries. 
 
 And now, unarmed, he meets the gloomy throng 
 Whose weal he lived for, but who misconstrued 
 Their benefactor, greeting him with frowns 
 And words of hatred ; and, at intervals, 
 Base innuendoes darkly muttering. 
 In burning tones, he told them of the sins 
 That stained their cause ; denounced dishonesty ; 
 Rebuked the cowardice that sheltered Crime, 
 And kept the felon from the doom decreed ; 
 And branded murder as the thing deserved. 
 Next he discoursed of happier days to be — 
 Of Albion's love for Erin, and her wish 
 To ease the anguish of the ancient wounds, 
 And pour in oil and wine, and from her face 
 Wipe off the traces of the former tears ; 
 Until the stern, gesticulating crowd, 
 Awed by the presence of an Englishman 
 Who knew no flinching, listened and were dumb.
 
 44 " GOD SAVE IRELAND ! " 
 
 Then, with a fervor which awoke their cheers, 
 
 He murmured, " God save Ireland ! " and was gone. 
 
 With Forster's earnestness, the prayer to-day 
 Is breathed by every English citizen, 
 And " God save Ireland ! " is her sister's cry. 
 Teach her poor sons the curse the assassin brings 
 Upon their isle. Incline her wealthier ones 
 To loftier lives and larger charities, 
 And bid her humbler children strive to pay 
 Their proper dues. From midnight massacres 
 Good Lord deliver them, and evermore 
 From evil hide them with Thy mighty shield. 
 From Famine's wolfish eyes, from pestilence, 
 May they be free. May disaffection cease, 
 And Treason hide its hideous head in shame. 
 Let Erin's sons be loyal to the law, 
 And what they hold as harsh in it will die 
 When Crime dies. Then, in the approaching days, 
 Shall Erin rise from out her wretchedness. 
 Her children's virtues that, in darkness, shone 
 Like stars conspicuous— their love of home, 
 Their strong devotion to the kith and kin 
 That make home holy, and the ardent fires 
 Of inextinguishable patriotism, 
 Shall glow with rarer brightness ; and fond hands 
 And loving hearts for weeping Erin weave 
 A golden destiny. Albion and she
 
 "god save Ireland!" 45 
 
 Shall meet in mutual embrace ; the kiss 
 Of reconciliation, strangely sweet, 
 Shall bind two nations, henceforth only one, 
 In bonds unbreakable. 
 
 "God save Ireland!" 
 Yes ; God will !
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR THE FIRST PAGE 
 OF A POETRY ALBUM. 
 
 You ask me here to write my name, 
 And for this page to mould a rhyme ; 
 
 But how shall I presume to claim 
 A place among the bards sublime 
 
 Of whose best thoughts, it seems to me, 
 
 An album is the treasury ? 
 
 For here Eve's daughters, half divine, 
 Will trace the words that shall not die ; 
 
 Then turn, and, to these words of mine, 
 A favouring smile perchance deny; 
 
 And if my lines displeasing be 
 
 In their bright eyes — ah, woe is me ! 
 
 And here my friends, a host of youths 
 With strong right arms, and hearts as 
 brave, 
 
 Will chronicle melodious truths 
 
 That bloom from many a poet's grave ; 
 
 And I am loth unworthily 
 
 To figure in such company.
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR ALBUM. 47 
 
 Here haply Tennysonian strains 
 
 Will mingle with the song of Keats ; 
 
 A Spenser's silvery refrains, 
 
 A Shakespeare's verse may deck these 
 sheets — 
 
 How feeble will my rhymings be 
 
 In such renowned company ! 
 
 My song grows dull in such an air, 
 
 And I intrude amid their bays ; 
 For musical beyond compare 
 
 Are all their genius-laden lays. 
 It is presumptuous in me 
 To join such noble company ! 
 
 And yet, in spite of all I've said, 
 
 Your beaming eyes my song inspire ; 
 
 The critiques of the fair I dread. 
 But their approval I desire ; 
 
 At least they'll judge me leniently — 
 
 I'll join the goodly company !
 
 IN PHCENIX PARK. 
 
 I sauntered through a realm of trees, 
 And shrubs, and flowers, and verdant lawns- 
 
 The scent of hawthorn on the breeze, 
 And, in its shelter, herds of fawns ; 
 
 And, nigh at hand, white mansions, 'mid 
 Sweet gardens — catching, now and then, 
 
 The murmur of a city, hid 
 
 By rustling leaves from human ken. 
 
 And, southwards, in a line of blue, 
 
 Were revelations of the hills ; 
 And everywhere the vivid hue 
 
 Of all the foliage that fills 
 
 The arms of June and makes her fair ; 
 
 But, wandering beneath its shade, 
 My roving fancy void of care, 
 
 A sudden awe my footsteps stayed ; 
 
 For in my path two crosses, wrought 
 
 Of rugged pebbles, I espied ; 
 And here I knew two comrades fought 
 
 With fiends, and here they nobly died.
 
 IN PHCENIX PARK. 49 
 
 And thereupon, as in some play 
 That moves towards a tragic close, 
 
 The picture slowly passed away, 
 And soon a darker scene arose. 
 
 'Twas spring, and every budding grove 
 
 With emeralds began to glow ; 
 Calm filled the skies that beamed above, 
 
 Balm brooded on the fields below. 
 
 And Peace, to tearful Erin's shores, 
 
 Had turned to tenderly dispel 
 Her misery ; and, 'mid the roars 
 
 Of welcome that, like music, fell 
 
 On their glad ears, her * heralds came, 
 Through streets of faces wreathed with 
 smiles, 
 
 The sister nation's love to claim — 
 To soothe the greenest of the isles ; 
 
 To fling ajar the prison doors, 
 
 And set her captive children free ; 
 
 To right her wrongs, and heal her sores, 
 And banish her disloyalty. 
 
 * Earl Spencer and Lord Frederick Cavendish.
 
 50 IN PHCENIX PARK. 
 
 The festive day draws near its end ; 
 
 But still, for him, that storm of cheers 
 Is echoing as, with * a friend, 
 
 One of the twain his mansion nears, 
 
 His bosom full of holy zeal 
 
 To usher in serener days. 
 I see them come, stalwart and leal, 
 
 And in their path the sunlight plays ; 
 
 And from the thickets, loud and clear, 
 There swells the carol of the birds ; 
 
 And in the golden atmosphere 
 
 There dwells a joy too deep for words. 
 
 When lo ! I notice in their track, 
 
 With glittering knives, a murderous crew ; 
 Their hands are raised for the attack — 
 
 They fall on Burke — the other, true 
 
 In death as life — oh, scion meet 
 To grace the annals of thy sires ! — 
 
 Leaps to the rescue, darts to greet 
 The deadly blows ; and all the fires 
 
 * Mr. Burke.
 
 IN PHCENIX PARK. 5 I 
 
 That stir the souls of England's brave 
 Are in the scorn with which he speaks, 
 
 And in his manly strife to save 
 
 His wounded comrade from the cliques 
 
 Who war with daggers, love the dark, 
 And plot in devil-conclave dire ! 
 
 But vain are all his blows ; and stark 
 In death lies Burke, and equal ire 
 
 Wields the bright steel that seeks his breast. 
 
 Futile his struggles — from his heart 
 The crimson flows ; and soon, at rest, 
 
 He lies who played the hero's part, 
 
 Beside the friend he died to save. 
 
 But both shall live in men's regard, 
 And both shall find a hallowed grave 
 
 In Britain's love — a rich reward 
 
 In Erin's dawning happiness. 
 
 And now a scaffold I can see ; 
 And some, who wear the felon's dress, 
 
 Arc launched into eternity.
 
 52 IN PHCENIX PARK. 
 
 And Justice balances her scales, 
 
 And then on heaven to witness calls, 
 
 How Crime is crushed, and Right prevails ; 
 And so the shadowy curtain falls. 
 
 And when, once more, I watch it rise, 
 To Tara's harp, a triumph-song 
 
 Is thrilling ; and, with eager eyes, 
 I seem to gaze upon a throng 
 
 Of doughty men and charming dames, 
 Proud of a nation blest by Fate, 
 
 Freed from its wrongs, cleansed of its shames, 
 To Peace and Wisdom consecrate. 
 
 For in yon pillar, close at hand, 
 
 From whose gray ashes, carved on high, 
 Soars the young Phoenix, for the land 
 
 I read a kindred destiny.
 
 ON CROAGH PATRICK. 
 
 One summer morn, I clomb the peak 
 By saintly Patrick whilom trod, 
 Crowned by a simple shrine to God, 
 
 Where earth's tired souls the Father seek:- 
 
 The mountain whence, at his decree, 
 
 So venerable legends tell, 
 
 From Frin's shores, as by some spell, 
 The serpents fled mysteriously. 
 
 A lordly summit, with a host 
 
 Of island children at his feet ; 
 
 Like Tritons stern, or Nereids sweet, 
 They clustered all along the coast. 
 
 And brother mountains, grim and old, 
 Stood watching them from far away : 
 In distant groups, white houses lay, 
 
 Like lambs within a giant's fold, 
 
 Or dotted o'er some mighty field, 
 
 With lakes to drink in ; and dim clouds, 
 Like ghosts, slid by in silent crowds, - 
 
 And, vanishing, again revealed
 
 54 ON CROAGH PATRICK. 
 
 The purple skies, the hills, the isles, 
 And the immeasurable deep, 
 Whose waters sang themselves to sleep, 
 
 Or softly rippled into smiles. 
 
 Viewed from this height, the under-land 
 Had lost its flaws, and grown more fair, 
 And gained in amplitude ; and where, 
 
 To those below, the iron hand 
 
 Of Poverty was darkly spread, 
 
 And earth was barren, heaven unkind, 
 And, on the breath of every wind, 
 
 There rose fierce wailings for the dead, 
 
 A sunny landscape met the eye, 
 As fair as that from Pisgah seen — 
 A huge circumference serene 
 
 Of promise and felicity. 
 
 And, straightway musing, I discerned 
 How life in this found embleming : 
 Ah, me ! who to its levels cling, 
 
 In their despondency, have learned
 
 ON CROAGH PATRICK. 55 
 
 How doubly bitter is the bane : 
 They stumble over open graves, 
 See corpses in the shining waves, 
 
 And, on the fields, the curse of Cain. 
 
 But, to the man with strength to climb 
 The summits of the hills of faith, 
 The human woe, the blight of death, 
 
 The stony regions red with crime, 
 
 The waves, with crests in anger curled, 
 Are hidden by a golden haze ; 
 And he is privileged to gaze 
 
 On grander visions of the world. 
 
 In verdure clad, its moorlands lie, 
 Fortunate Islands throng the main ; 
 And, over all the human pain, 
 
 Hangs, like a dome, the azure sky.
 
 SOUL-SOLACE. 
 
 We look into the past ! some with strong sighs 
 
 For vanished bliss, and fond rememberings 
 
 Of lips of nectar lost eternally ; 
 
 Some with the consciousness of misspent years, 
 
 Ignoble thoughts, unworthy deeds, and lives 
 
 Aimless, or aiming for an evil goal ; 
 
 Whilst even the best of us have much to mourn — 
 
 Neglect of golden opportunities, 
 
 Half-hearted service, ghostly visitings 
 
 From One whose bony fingers bear a scythe, 
 
 Visions that faded rainbow-like, and lo ! 
 
 At horrid intervals, Despair's dark form 
 
 Grim-wandering in a dreary world. The voice 
 
 Of Memory murmurs of Elysian days 
 
 Departed ; or recalls the aching hours 
 
 Whose recollected emptiness doth add 
 
 To the present void. 
 
 Let fall the curtain, then ! 
 The past t's past ! God cannot alter it ! 
 Why thus lament the irremediable ? 
 Though olden friends prove false, or leave the 
 scenes
 
 SOUL-SOLACE. 57 
 
 Their smiles have sanctified ; or lie asleep 
 
 In death's inexplicable silentness, 
 
 The stars still glisten and the skylarks sing, 
 
 And love still lives, and love is born oflove. 
 
 And, if our feet have left the narrow path 
 
 Which, winding upwards, leads to lasting peace, 
 
 That path is still existent ; and, though rent 
 
 With many a thorn, and wending wearily. 
 
 They still may gain its quiet and its rest. 
 
 It is not meet to idly waste to-day 
 
 In vain regrets for wasted yesterdays, 
 
 And self-inflicted penance for the past. 
 
 Let us be brave, and resolutely seek 
 
 To win again whate'er was good in it — 
 
 To shun its pitiable slips ; and strive 
 
 To make the shadowy future musical 
 
 With our accordant laughter, as we train 
 
 The flowers of life, and trample on its weeds, 
 
 And slay the vices that, with siren-tongue, 
 
 Misled us; till, with lapse of time, we see 
 
 The ruby sunshine banishing the fogs 
 
 That chill the pulses of this shuddering sphere. 
 
 Right must prevail, and Wrong is doomed to die. 
 
 Egyptian darkness cannot last for aye. 
 
 The trusting soul, at midnight, may discern 
 
 Upon the summits of the eastern hills, 
 
 Glad Faith and Hope, like radiant cherubim, 
 
 Heralding with songs the morn. And, if we wurk
 
 58 SOUL-SOLACE. 
 
 To aid the holy cause, and wait awhile, 
 Crime shall turn pale and perish, and Despair, 
 On sable wing, sink hellwards gloomily, 
 And sounds of joy inhabit every wind, 
 And life become one bright perspective, closed 
 With glimpses of illimitable heaven.
 
 THE MOON AND THE SEA. 
 {Blackpool, 4th October, i 88+.) 
 
 'Tis night ! The moon is at the full, 
 
 A globe of silver in a dome 
 Star-spangled ; and the breeze is cool 
 
 That wanders from its ocean-home — 
 
 The home that lies asleep below 
 
 The yellow splendour of the strand , 
 
 And softly glistens in the glow 
 
 That floods with light the listening land. 
 
 And there is music on the beach, 
 
 And all the eve is fraught with calm ; 
 
 And lips are moved to gracious speech, 
 And human hearts breathe out a psalm. 
 
 But look ! where yonder shadow glides 
 Across the silver of the sphere ! 
 
 It spreads and thickens till it hides 
 
 The affrighted orb ; the night grows drear
 
 60 THE MOON AND THE SEA. 
 
 And hark! the tide crawls up the shore ; 
 
 Voices of moan are in its waves ; 
 And awful is its whispered lore — 
 
 It tells of wrecks, it talks of graves. 
 
 A brooding silence haunts the sky, 
 The very stars turn pale and swoon ; 
 
 And nigher steals the ocean's sigh, 
 
 And denser darkness swathes the moon. 
 
 And earth is emblemed in the scene ! 
 
 Man's orbs of hope know like eclipse ; 
 His brightest prospects oft have been 
 
 Obscured ; and yet, from human lips, 
 
 Break wailings weird as those which tell 
 
 The secrets of the solemn sea — 
 r h\\e o'er heaven's light vague shado 
 Earth's voices moan mysteriously. 
 
 Bitter the moaning, sad the sky — 
 
 The tides are tears, the shade a shroud. 
 
 Black shadows, will ye never fly ? 
 Waves, must ye always wail aloud ? 
 
 ./Eons have dawned and fled for aye, 
 And still strange darkness covers man ; 
 
 Old Time himself is growing gray — 
 Still eyes are wet and cheeks are wan.
 
 THE MOON AND THE SEA. Ol 
 
 Must it be ever so ? I cry, 
 
 When, slow, the dismal shadow shifts ; 
 Shines out the silver disk on high, 
 
 The horror fades, the nightmare lifts ; 
 
 Ebbs the hoarse tide, and faintlier steal 
 Its whispers up the broadening shore ; 
 
 And all the clouded stars reveal 
 Their dazzling faces, as before. 
 
 And, from my heart, the shadow slides, 
 And earth's woe-voices seem to sleep ; 
 
 Fair omen in the zenith rides, 
 
 A splendour sparkles on the deep ; 
 
 Gloom flies the azure firmament ; 
 
 Heaven's lamps wax brighter, ami, below, 
 The tide of human tears is spent — 
 
 I note the ebb, I miss the flow. 
 
 Earth's eyes flash joy as yonder spheres 
 Flash light, earth's sobs to silence sink, 
 
 As, dreaming of the golden years, 
 I wander by the ocean's brink.
 
 DREA.MING AND WORKING. 
 
 'Twas Christmas Eve, methought, and I was 
 dreaming ; 
 
 Strange fancies entered my rejoicing soul ; 
 And I beheld a second Eden gleaming 
 
 From torrid woodlands to the frozen pole. 
 
 The spirit of the Christ had seized the nations — 
 Peace and goodwill had overflown all lands ; 
 
 The skies were thrilling with the exultations 
 Of god-like men, in number as the sands 
 
 That gird the billows of the awful ocean, 
 No longer slaying each his fellow-man ; 
 
 But linked by love, unstirred by war's commotion, 
 Strong earth to till, free the blue heaven to scan. 
 
 Hushed was the wail of Slavery's bemoaning ; 
 
 Silent the broken sob of Poverty ; 
 And stilled the anguish of the captive's groaning, 
 
 And dumb the voice of human misery. 
 
 Disease had vanished, like a hideous vision, 
 And Wrong from his high eminence was hurled ; 
 
 And music sounded, and an age Elysian, 
 
 Soft as the sunrise, dawned upon the world.
 
 DREAMING AND WORKING. 63 
 
 With unknown gladness all the birds were singing, 
 The clouds were gilded with unwonted gold ; 
 
 Serener fountains in the air were flingine: 
 A rain of jewels, and from Nature relied 
 
 A mighty paean, louder than the thunder, 
 Sweet as the song of the far seraphim. 
 
 I listened, for my soul was smit with wonder — 
 I started, woke, and lo ! it was a dream. 
 
 And, round the house, a mournful wind was 
 roaming ; 
 
 And ceaselessly the feathery flakes of snow 
 Fell on a silent form that, in the gloaming, 
 
 Homeless and hopeless, wandered to and fro. 
 
 About the icy streets the waifs were straying, 
 In city cellars shivering infants cried ; 
 
 In every alley foodless ones were praying 
 For the dry morsel that the Fates denied. 
 
 To me, the wind with harmony was haunted — 
 " Peace and goodwill " pealed from a hundred 
 bells ; 
 
 No joy to them the mellow chiming granted — 
 It mocked their misery, the notes were knells ! 
 
 Then, in the room, an angel, to my seeming, 
 Stood by my side and whispered in mine ear :
 
 64 DREAMING AND WORKING. 
 
 " Dost thou desire fulfilment of thy dreaming ? 
 And would'st thou have the silver dawn appear 
 
 "Where the long darkness of the midnight 
 lingers ? 
 
 Then clothe the naked — give the hungry food ; 
 And, with warm impulse and unwearied fingers, 
 
 Go bravely forth, intent on doing good. 
 
 " 'Tis not by picturing the distant morning, 
 And dreaming of the glory that shall be, 
 
 That we shall gain it ; but by boldly scorning 
 The thought of self, and struggling manfully 
 
 "To lessen all the weight of human anguish. 
 To dry the weeping eyes, the sick to soothe ; 
 
 To offer solace to the souls that languish, 
 And show the ignorant the paths of truth. 
 
 "And while, in every steeple, bells are ringing 
 Of 'peace on earth' and of 'goodwill to men,' 
 
 And cheerily the choristers are singing 
 
 The heavenly song, awake and work ; and then 
 
 "The dream will glow with purpose, and shall 
 heighten 
 
 The hope that makes the humblest toil a joy ; 
 And in thy path a paradise shall brighten, 
 
 And earth claim kinship with the starry sky."
 
 ON THE DEATH . OF A DOG. 
 
 A letter to hand ! With pleasure 'tis scanned, 
 
 Till I come to an item of news 
 That is matter for grief, and darkens the leaf 
 
 Which intently I haste to peruse. 
 
 To honour the dead, bards ransack the head, 
 
 And their Pegasus furiously flog, 
 And elegies frame which endow them with fame : 
 
 / sing of the death of a dog. 
 
 But the Muse is not proud ! From the mystical 
 Cloud 
 
 She stoops to the Primrose that blows 
 
 By the rivulets brim, and shares in the hymn 
 
 Which it sings as it silverly flows. 
 
 And, if sunward she hasten on pinions that glisten, 
 
 And starward deliciously roam, 
 She does not disdain on the earth to remain, 
 
 And is fond of " The Old House at Home." 
 
 The Sofa was sung, and its praises have rung, 
 Ever since, from the lips of rhe wise ; 
 
 And an ancient Arm-chair, in the hands of the 
 fair, 
 Brings the rain from the heart to the eyes.
 
 66 ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 
 
 The mellow-tongued Gray wrote a musical lay 
 
 Deploring the death of a Cat, 
 His genius revealing, our sympathies stealing ; 
 
 " And what could be nicer than that ? " 
 
 A Mouse was the theme — pray, ladies, don't 
 scream ! 
 
 I know your objection to vermin ! — 
 To which Burns tuned his lyre with the usual fire ; 
 
 And I think I may safely determine, 
 
 If the public declare that an ancient Arm-chair 
 
 Is a subject befitting a singer — 
 If cats may be lauded, and field-mice applauded, 
 
 My harp in a Dog's praise to finger. 
 
 To return to the billet, if, reader, you will it ; 
 
 It hails from an intimate friend ; 
 And it tells how a pet I can never forget 
 
 Has come to a tragical end ; 
 
 How a terrier true, having little to do, 
 Left the parlour and ventured outside ; 
 
 Saw something like meat, and proceeded to eat — 
 'Twas poison, alas ! and he died. 
 
 He Toby was hight, and was the delight 
 Of three nineteenth-century Graces, 
 
 Who treated him well, as the writer can tell, 
 And were frequent and loud in his praises.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 67 
 
 And, with due gratitude for the delicate food 
 
 That often his palate would please ; 
 For his place on the rug, and the feminine hug, 
 
 And the seat on his mistresses' knees, 
 
 He always obeyed each beautiful maid, 
 
 Wherever she wandered would go ; 
 Was worthy reliance, and barked a defiance 
 
 If he only imagined a foe. 
 
 I have mentioned his food : 'twas unusually good, 
 
 If not very good for digestion ; 
 But he never demurred, though one thought it 
 absurd 
 
 To see him devour, without question, 
 
 Tomatoes and coffee and Everton toffee, 
 Cakes, chocolate, oysters and ham, 
 
 Soups, salads and stews, shrimps, sugar, cachous, 
 And pickles and jellies and jam. 
 
 He was partial to pheasant, thought sausages 
 pleasant, 
 Liked nuts, and, mirabile dictu ! 
 He would eat orange pips with a smack of the 
 lips — 
 " Hold ! " somebody cries ; "I convict you
 
 68 ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 
 
 Of cramming — in vain you seek to explain ; 
 
 We are not to be easily flammed ; 
 Orange pips, my good sir ? " That is what 
 I aver — 
 
 / cram not — 'twas Toby who crammed. 
 
 Unlike the low-bred, and the commonly fed — 
 The terriers whose tastes need refining , 
 
 He could hear people strum without looking 
 glum, 
 Or warble their worst without whining. 
 
 And, while soft strains were stealing from piano 
 to ceiling, 
 And melody hung in the air, 
 Gripped by the forepaws, 'mid the general 
 applause, 
 He would dance — this I'm ready to swear ! 
 
 For Toby could waltz, though not without faults, 
 
 My candour compels me to add ; 
 His motions lacked grace, and his pitiful face 
 
 Would look : " You are really too bad ! " 
 
 But 'tis time I should end, for I cannot pretend 
 
 A tithe of his virtues to number. 
 "Every dog has his day," and then passes away 
 
 To the regions of infinite slumber ;
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 69 
 
 Unless we allow, as the Indians avow — 
 The brave m/-skinned wights of the west — 
 
 That dogs may arise, and, 'neath happier skies, 
 Roam the flower-spangled fields of the blest. 
 
 And, if dogs be immortal, and pass the dark 
 portal 
 
 Of death, and as dogs rise again, 
 He will merit a place with the best of his race, 
 
 And celestial biscuits obtain. 
 
 His deeds were not great ; it was not his fate, 
 
 Like Gelert's, a child to protect ; 
 But he aye did his duty to hearth, " home and 
 beauty" — 
 
 What more could his nation expect ? 
 
 And, friends, I regret the death of your pet, 
 And the letter I close with a sigh ; 
 
 For my memory strays to the halcyon days 
 That shall dwell in my heart till I die. 
 
 And, in fancy. I come from the tedious hum 
 Of the town, as the twilight descends 
 
 A fortunate guest, to the place I love best — 
 To the pleasant old house of my friends. 
 
 The lamp has been lit, and together we sit, 
 Shut out from the cares of the world ;
 
 70 ON THE DEATH OF A DOG. 
 
 And our bliss is complete, and there, at our feet, 
 A terrier lies cosily curled. 
 
 And we talk and we laugh, and, too quickly by 
 half, 
 The moments of merriment flee ; 
 There are smiles on the faces of each of the 
 Graces, 
 The faces of each of the three, 
 
 And Toby awakes, and is feasted with cakes, 
 
 And again, as in vision, I see, 
 Through the haze of the years and the mist of 
 my tears, 
 
 The home that was heaven to me.
 
 "THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.' 
 
 As o'er the sky of summer steals the cloud, 
 As o'er the rich day-glory draws the night, 
 
 As harvest-fields by sudden storms are bowed, 
 As adders crawl where flowery ways invite, 
 
 As thoughts of winter mock the joys of June, 
 As dreams of terror shake the calm of sleep, 
 
 As mists obscure the splendour of the moon, 
 As lie the dead beneath the sapphire deep — 
 
 So the delight of man is mixed with pain ; 
 Across life's landscape, frequent shadows 
 come ; 
 And eyes that glow the blinding tears retain, 
 And hearts are aching, though the lips are 
 dumb. 
 
 For, in the moments consecrate to bliss, 
 When life seems music and pure revelry. 
 
 The brain is tortured by such memories 
 As crush the mirth and bid the music die*
 
 72 "the days that are no more 
 
 » 
 
 Stands there young manhood, feigning to rejoice 
 In whispered converse with that lissom belle — 
 
 'Tis only feigning, for the chosen voice, 
 
 When last he heard it, breathed the word, 
 " Farewell ! " 
 
 Behold the maid, who, to entrancing airs, 
 Moves sylph-like, while gallantry speaks her 
 praise : 
 
 Ah ! she is happy ? Grief her bosom tears — 
 False is the lover of the former days. 
 
 Yon twain ! — how pleased they view the festive 
 
 halls, 
 
 Laugh with their guests and mix among the gay ; 
 
 Hush ! o'er the scene the gloom of midnight falls ! 
 
 Where is their firstborn ? In the churchyard 
 gray ! 
 
 Distance for aye has sundered kindred souls, 
 Inconstancy has seared the tender breast, 
 
 Dark Death has stolen the beloved-tolls, 
 In every heart, a knell for those at rest. 
 
 We miss the magic of remembered speech, 
 We lack the looks in the accustomed eyes ; 
 
 We see the shadows, but in vain we reach 
 To clasp them and appease our agonies.
 
 "THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE." 73 
 
 Keen is the anguish of the sense of loss, 
 
 Bitter the void left when the loved are flown ; 
 
 But let us nobly bear the destined cross, 
 And walk with courage, if we walk alone. 
 
 For joy, though intermingled with regret, 
 Like ivy, nestles round the heart of man ; 
 
 Nor has the utmost wrath of winter yet 
 Sufficed to sever them since time began. 
 
 And joy increases, pain grows ever less — 
 
 Heart-aches shall end in the bright days to be, 
 
 Elim arise in the world's wilderness, 
 And human moaning turn to melody.
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY 
 
 WHO SAID THAT SHE DID NOT LIKE 
 
 KISSING, BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN 
 
 WHO DIDN'T BELIEVE HER. 
 
 What ! not like kissing ? Really, 'tis surprising ! 
 
 Such an assertion simply startles me, 
 And half upsets my confident surmising 
 
 That all the girls esteemed it ecstasy. 
 
 What ! not like kissing ? Kissing writes the poet, 
 Revives fair Eden in this world of woe ; 
 
 'Twas Byron said it, and he ought to know it — 
 He loved the ladies, as his verses show. 
 
 What ! not like kissing ? I myself, enchanted 
 By such experience as the Fates have given, 
 
 Can vouch it thrilling, and my memory's haunted 
 Bv dreams of kisses that were sweet as heaven. 
 
 You don't like kissing ? What is more delightful ? 
 Red lips in contact — 'tis supremest bliss !
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 75 
 
 I know old maids and " sich" pretend it's 
 frightful— 
 The grapes are sour — they lack the chance to 
 kiss. 
 
 What! not like kissing? Come, she must be 
 chaffing ! 
 A wealth of mischief sparkles in her eye ; 
 She smiles, looks charming— ah ! I see she's 
 laughing ; 
 She says she doesn't, but I mean to try.
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE STARS. 
 
 Brightly the lamps of the city gleamed ; 
 
 Over the river a splendour streamed ; 
 
 The gloom was gleaming with points of flame, 
 
 And, out of the blackness, a glory came ; 
 
 And the winds were hushed, and the air was cold, 
 
 And ever above me, in silence, rolled 
 
 The glimmering, golden stars. 
 
 But, while I gazed on the scene below. 
 I thought of the mighty city's woe ; 
 And I knew that the earthly darkness hid 
 Hot brows, red eyes, bruised hearts ; that amid 
 The glamour, the glisten, the pageantry, 
 A sob went up to the shrouded sky, 
 And tingled to the stars. 
 
 And I said : " Ye orbs, that, night by night, 
 O'er the fields of space diffuse your light, 
 And vie with the lamps that mortals trim 
 When the Evening conies in her garments dim, 
 In the depths of the darkness pierced by you, 
 Are there other faces wet with the dew 
 Of tears, ye host of stars ?
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE STARS. 77 
 
 '"Neath the gloom of the city, though grandly lit, 
 
 By the fading ashes in anguish sit 
 
 Women who weep and wring their hands ; 
 
 For the Famine-Spectre fiercely stands 
 
 At the empty board, and they vainly cry 
 
 For help in their utter misery — 
 
 Is it thus with you, O stars ? 
 
 " Do your fair ones barter themselves for gold ? 
 Is love in your regions bought and sold ? 
 Arc hearts that the heavens seemed to mate 
 Ever kept apart by an iron Fate 
 Within the bounds of your shining shores ? 
 Is Mammon the god the crowd adores 
 In the coruscating stars ? 
 
 " Does Disease come, gibbering ghastlily, 
 To rob the liquid and luminous eye 
 Of its hidden fire, and to steal the rose 
 That in the cheeks of your maidens glows ? 
 Does the skeleton, Death, bid your strongest 
 
 quake, 
 And a ghoulish and horrible banquet make 
 
 On the sons of the flashing stars ?" 
 
 *e 
 
 I paused, and a faint and far reply, 
 Soft as the gentle zephyr's sigh,
 
 78 THE MESSAGE OF THE STARS. 
 
 Weirdly stole to my spirit's ear, 
 Low and lute-like, yet strangely clear ; 
 And, as I listened, my pulses thrilled, 
 And my soul with a sudden calm was filled, 
 And I thanked the radiant stars. 
 
 For I heard them say that the human tears 
 Would to jewels turn in the after-years ; 
 That the universe's woe would wane, 
 And its cries be hushed, and its infinite pain, 
 In the aeons to be, find a sweet surcease, 
 And life be music and joy and peace, 
 
 On earth, and amid the stars.
 
 THE HUMAN HOPE. 
 
 " And it is not a dream of a fancy proud, 
 
 With a fool for its dull begetter : 
 There's a voice at the heart that proclaims aloud, 
 
 ' We are born for a something Better ! "' 
 
 " Mope : " Lytton's " Poems and Ballads of Schiller." 
 
 When the world seems weighted with care and sin, 
 
 And dark clouds obscure the heaven, 
 And I hear the universal din 
 
 Of humanity, anguish-riven, 
 The thought of Schiller comes like balm, 
 
 And I own myself his debtor 
 As I breathe the words, with a sense of calm, 
 
 " ' We are bom for a something Better ! ' 
 
 When I grieve over human littleness, 
 And the herd of ills that track us— 
 
 Think how things curse that were meant to bless- 
 How the red joy-juice of Bacchus 
 
 May hide a serpent to sting and slay, 
 Or a fiend the soul to fetter, 
 
 With faith unshaken, I cheerily say : 
 " ' We are born for a something Better ! '
 
 80 THE HUMAN HOPE. 
 
 When I see men worship the Calf of Gold, 
 
 Though the stars are earthward peeping, 
 And the daily knell of the death-bell tolled, 
 
 And the weary millions weeping, 
 With aching bosom, I sadly sigh ; 
 
 But each star is a shining letter 
 In the words which flame on the gloomy sky 
 
 " We are born for a something Better ! " 
 
 When, in fancy, 1 hear the cannon crash, 
 
 And the battle-bugle shrilling, 
 And watch the glittering falchions flash, 
 
 And the crimson blood distilling, 
 1 dare to dream of a dawning age, 
 
 For this world of beauty fitter, 
 When the nations shall no longer rage — 
 
 They " are bom for a something Better ! " 
 
 And I know that the sorrows that haunt mankind, 
 
 And the countless forms of error. 
 Are doomed to vanish, on wings of wind, 
 
 By the sunrise smit with terror ; 
 That the centuries wait for the monster, Hate, 
 
 And in chains have they sworn to set her ; 
 And the night grows bright, as I cry, elate, 
 
 "' We are born for a something Better ! ' "
 
 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 A time of unimaginable crisis ! 
 
 Brave garrisons encircled by fierce foes 
 Along the stream that, towards the home of Isis, 
 
 Through dreamy deserts mystically flows! 
 
 What craft can compass their emancipation ? 
 
 What art arrest rebellion's rising flame ? 
 Who shall allay the public agitation ? 
 
 Men called for Gordon, and the hero came ! 
 
 He came at once, a lighter duty leaving, 
 
 To face fresh fortunes bv the Nile's far wave ; 
 
 And, readily the nation's trust receiving, 
 Went proudly forth the garrisons to save. 
 
 His aim was noble— peaceful was his mission, 
 But there was danger in the path he trod ; 
 
 And England thrilled as, in admiring vision, 
 She saw him start, imbued with faith in God. 
 
 Through arid leagues of hostile country riding, 
 He gains, at last, the distant city's wall ; 
 
 And its inhabitants, in him confiding, 
 
 Cast off their fears, and grateful prisoners fall
 
 8z THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 Prostrate before the man who strikes asunder 
 Their chains, and bids them gaze upon the day ; 
 
 And half the world looks on in silent wonder, 
 And millions name him when they kneel to pray. 
 
 And all seems well until the growing legions 
 Who rally round the Mahdi make a move, 
 
 Emerging grimly from remoter regions, 
 The valour of the infidel to prove ; 
 
 And, gradually, in dark array, beleaguer, 
 
 The affrighted city, prophesying ill ; 
 But bold is he, and for the battle eager, 
 
 And meets them with indomitable will. 
 
 The aid he asks for from beyond the ocean — 
 The helping hand of those who rule the state — 
 
 He asks in vain, but his sublime devotion 
 War cannot lessen or neglect abate. 
 
 *Two trusty friends, with equal ardour burning, 
 Stand by him in his perils manfully : — 
 
 They stand together, every danger spurning, 
 A hero-trio, with a purpose high — 
 
 A hero-trio, born to live in story — 
 A hero-trio, 'mid a traitor band ; 
 
 * Colonel Stewart and Mr. Power.
 
 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 83 
 
 The destined heirs of everlasting glory, 
 Most worthy children of the fatherland. 
 
 For spies were in their camp, and half who carried 
 The uniform of warriors cowards were ; 
 
 On every side the capital was harried, 
 
 And some gave way to feelings of despair. 
 
 Not so the three, for British blood was flowing 
 Within their veins, and towers of strength were 
 they, 
 
 The ancient virtues of their nation showing, 
 Sage in the council — fearless in the fray. 
 
 But soon his comrades, sailing down the river 
 With messages, * anticipate his doom. 
 
 Alas ! their clasp of sympathy shall never 
 Solace again the Bavard of Kartoum. 
 
 *-&' 
 
 Alone amid his armies, half forsaken 
 
 By craven statesmen who reject his schemes, 
 
 He guards the city still, with soul unshaken. 
 Nor ever of surrender basely dreams. 
 
 Rulers of England, why this hesitation ? 
 
 The danger thickens, and the moments fl\ ■ 
 Oh ! if ye would escape the reprobation 
 
 Of all the ages, do not let him die ! 
 
 * Stewart and Power, despatched to Berber "to communicate con- 
 cerning the Soudan," wen wrecked near Boni Island, and after 
 wardw enticed ashore and murdered.
 
 84 THK HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 More deadly grows the fury of the fighting, 
 Within the walls conspiracies are rife ; 
 
 The grain is failing, and the foe, uniting, 
 Look fiercely forward to the final strife. 
 
 # 
 
 At last, the silence of the Nile is broken — 
 A great flotilla cleaves the silver stream ; 
 
 By those who man it, Spenser's tongue is spoken — 
 They come, with hearts that glow and eyes that 
 gleam, 
 
 To aid him, and, inspired by emulation, 
 
 Each seeks to be the first to reach the place ; 
 
 To share the honour of his liberation, 
 
 And swell the chorus of the hero's praise. 
 
 But direr grows the prospect of disaster — 
 The grain is eaten — yea, the dogs devoured ; 
 
 Ply sturdily your willing oars — row faster ; 
 The shadow of catastrophe hath lowered 
 
 Long o'er the city and its chief devoted — 
 The crisis nears — row readily, ye brave, 
 
 Or soon the flag that on the palace floated 
 Shall droop, in tatters, over Gordon's grave.
 
 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 85 
 
 From post to post he wends, with eyes unsleeping ; 
 
 In every street his manly voice is heard ; 
 A multitude of souls are in his keeping, 
 
 And hang, distracted, on his lightest word. 
 
 And every hour that stirring word is wanted 
 To tell them that assistance draweth nigh ; 
 
 For Famine stalks Kartoum, and he is haunted 
 By whispers of impending treachery. 
 
 But many, with the sternness of the stoic. 
 
 Defy the agony of hunger's throes, 
 And grasp their guns, and still, with hearts heroic, 
 
 The armies of the enemy oppose. 
 
 a- 
 
 And now, amid the yellow deserts, glisten 
 Avenging bayonets ; to martial strains 
 
 The solitudes of Ethiopia listen, 
 
 And English soldiers muster on her plains. 
 
 Half mad with thirst, their bodies enervated 
 By weary marches under scorching skies, 
 
 They meet the foe with courage unabated 
 When, in their might, its dusky legions rise 
 
 A way across the wilderness refusing ; 
 
 And twice they vanquish warriors as the sand
 
 86 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 In number, but, in nobly winning, losing 
 Heroes lamented by the fatherland. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The bloody strife is o'er ; upon the water 
 
 Steamers await their coming ; and some glide, 
 
 In triumph, from the dreadful scene of slaughter, 
 Eager to rally to their comrade's side. 
 
 And loud resounds the realm's congratulation, 
 And hearts beat proudly, and men's hopes are 
 high ; 
 
 And the world watches, dumb with expectation, 
 To see them succour him who scorned to fly. 
 
 But, while they sail, they hear an awful mutter, 
 Swelling to thunder as they near Kartoum ; 
 
 And, on the shore, the scowling natives utter 
 Black words that tell them of the city's doom. 
 
 Their hopes grow faint — they urge their course 
 unceasing ; 
 
 They speed towards the goal of their desires ; 
 Is it in vain they yearn for his releasing ? 
 
 In vain the valour that each bosom fires ? 
 
 At last, a glimpse of palms their spirit gladdens ; 
 Against the blue of heaven, white walls are seen :
 
 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 87 
 
 They nearer draw ; but ah ! what horror saddens 
 The brows of those who battle for their Queen ? 
 
 No flag of England floats above the palace ! 
 
 No plaudits greet them as their boats draw nigh ! 
 Dresrs of disaster lurk within the chalice 
 
 That whilom foamed with wine of victory ! 
 
 From either bank of the eternal river, 
 A shower of shot whistles a welcoming ; 
 
 The hiss of shells sets all the air ashiver, 
 Defiant voices from the ramparts ring, 
 
 Waves on the wind the banner of the Prophet, 
 Reeks from the earth the savour of red blood : 
 
 The ancient city is a very Tophet — 
 
 Fanatics stand where England's hero stood ! 
 
 * 
 
 * "Too late," indeed ! For, worn with futile waiting, 
 Their bodies bent, their hearts bowed down 
 with grief, 
 The leaden moments only aggravating 
 
 Their misery, despite their dauntless chief, 
 
 " The exact circumstances o£ the fall of Kartouin and the death 
 of Gordon are still a matter of dispute. The version adoptecLhero is 
 that which is Riven in Major Kitchener's official notes upon tu« 
 enbject.
 
 SS THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 Is it a wonder that the people faltered, 
 
 And begged him from the struggle to refrain 
 
 That some he trusted with the rebels paltered, 
 No longer able to endure the strain ? 
 
 Or when, with weary eyes, they saw an ocean 
 Of their fierce foes advancing, in the night, 
 
 Towards the city walls, that strange commotion 
 Possessed their souls, and, in the sudden fight, 
 
 Unnerved them ? — that the little strength 
 remaining 
 After the horrors of their war with Fate, 
 Was insufficient ; and the rebels, gaining 
 
 The ditches, filled them ; stormed the Western 
 Gate, 
 
 And overpowered the soldiers left to guard it, 
 And through the awe-struck streets rushed 
 deathfully, 
 
 Like a black wave, with nothing to retard it, 
 Or like a tempest o'er a quiet sky ; 
 
 While others to the Boori Gate came stealing, 
 And sought to seize it by a swift attack ? 
 
 But, from its portals impotently reeling, 
 Their broken forces crowded darkly back ;
 
 THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 89 
 
 Thev could not make an entrance, and their 
 madness 
 
 Expended all its hail of blows and failed, 
 Until their allies came, with shouts of gladness, 
 
 And in the rear the garrison assailed. 
 
 Meantime, to Gordon crept the tardy warning 
 That those he trusted from the rebels flew ; 
 
 And from the palace, in the early morning, 
 He calmly issued, with a faithful few 
 
 Inspired by his example, to discover 
 
 That all his prowess could no more avail ; 
 
 The die was cast — the hero's work was over, 
 And on the breezes came the sound of wail, 
 
 The tramp of many warriors, and the roaring 
 Of voices thirsting after human blood, 
 
 That from the streets, in ruddy streams out- 
 pouring, 
 Gave the grim vultures promise of rich food. 
 
 And scarcely had the valiant soldier sallied 
 Tutu the open, with his soul aflame, 
 
 Leading the little company who rallied 
 Around him in his danger, than they came
 
 go THE HERO OF KARTOUM. 
 
 Across a band of fierce fanatics, striding, 
 
 Red-handed, through the ruin they had wrought ; 
 
 And with wild cries the English name deriding, 
 And vowing vengeance on the man they sought, 
 
 A.nd, finding, at his breast their weapons levelled, 
 Till, riddled with their shot, he proudly fell ; 
 
 Then rushed to further massacre, and revelled 
 In one huge carnage, like the fiends of hell, 
 
 And turned the roads to rivulets of slaughter, 
 Surrounding ghastly islands of the slain ; 
 
 While, in the rebel camp across the water, 
 A hideous paean drowned a shriek of pain. 
 
 Where now was he who, through long months of 
 waiting. 
 
 Had stood alone and kept a realm at bay ? 
 The folly of his country expiating, 
 
 Dead on the bloody street the martyr lay. 
 
 But his example shall endure for ever, 
 
 To shame the coward and to fire the brave ; 
 
 And England, in her heart of hearts, shall never 
 Forget the hero in his nameless grave.
 
 THE HEARTS UNBELIEF. 
 
 Oh, no ! I never will believe 
 
 That wealth denotes the worth of man ; 
 That riches roguery retrieve, 
 
 Or free the fool from Wisdom's ban, 
 Or make the miser more than little ; 
 
 Or that the full purse compensates, 
 In Reason's eyes, one jot or tittle 
 
 For icy hearts or empty pates. 
 
 Oh, no ! I never will believe 
 
 That love from love of lucre springing, 
 Upon life's pilgrimage, will weave 
 
 Rose garlands whose aroma, clinging, 
 Will perfume all the air we breathe, 
 
 And make our very grief seem sweet ; 
 And, in the winter days, bequeath 
 
 The fragrance of the summer heat. 
 
 Oh, no ! I never will believe 
 That honesty is less than wise, 
 
 Whatever woes the soul aggrieve — 
 Though fickle Fortune should despise 
 
 The man who merits all her guerdon, 
 And Knavery in chariots ride,
 
 92 THK HEARTS UNRELIEF. 
 
 While Rectitude must bear the burden 
 Of angry wind and adverse tide. 
 
 Oh, no ! I never will believe 
 
 That "ignorance is bliss" abiding ; 
 That it is folly to receive 
 
 The light the ages are providing 
 To guide the mind that, cramped and chained, 
 
 Will fail to grasp the glowing sky ; 
 And, by the bigot's hand restrained, 
 
 Be forced to crawl, though born to fly. 
 
 Oh, no ! I never will believe 
 
 That Hate is half so strong as Love ; 
 Or that the hopes to which men cleave, 
 
 In agony, will phantoms prove ; 
 Or, in the issue of the battle 
 
 Betwixt the giants, Right and Wrong, 
 That Right shall hear the death-knell rattle, 
 
 While Wrong roars out the triumph-song. 
 
 But, in my soul, I do believe 
 
 That tender hearts are more than money; 
 And Love too noble to deceive, 
 
 Or sell for gold its Eden-honey ; 
 That Error is a ghost which fears 
 
 The distant footsteps of the Day; 
 And Right, through all the rolling year:, 
 
 Moves on to universal sway.
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 (WRITTEN IN MAY, 1885, WHEN, OWING TO THE 
 SERIOUS DIFFICULTIES WHICH HAD ARISEN IN 
 REGARD TO THE DELIMITATION OF THE AFGHAN 
 FRONTIER, ANOTHER WAR WITH RUSSIA WAS 
 ANTICIPATED.) 
 
 Russia, beware ! We want not war — 
 
 Justice is all the realm requires ; 
 And, so ye grant it, be it far 
 
 From us to kindle Discord's fires. 
 But we have duties to fulfil — 
 
 On us the fate of millions lies ; 
 Nor shall we scruple blood to spill 
 
 To guard the Empire's destinies. 
 
 Russia, beware ! The idle dream 
 
 That Britain's power has passed away 
 Shall vanish in the battle-gleam, 
 
 Where sabres flash and trumpets bray. 
 If what in fairness we demand 
 
 Your arrogance decline to yield, 
 Resolved we are, on sea and land, 
 
 Unto the death the sword to wield.
 
 94 THE CRISIS. 
 
 Russia, beware ! The men who fell 
 
 At Crecy and at Agincourt 
 Have children in whose bosoms swell 
 
 Hearts flinchless as the hearts of yore ; 
 And, ere to arms ye fiercely fly, 
 
 'Twere well your history to scan : 
 Hark ! from the past the warning cry : 
 
 " Have ye forgotten Inkermann ? " 
 
 Russia, beware ! With us allied 
 
 Are warriors countless as the stars ; 
 And we shall battle side by side 
 
 With India's thronging sons of Mars : 
 Not false, as ye have madly guessed, 
 
 To us who labour for their weal ; 
 But ready, at the Queen's behest, 
 
 Their honour with their lives to seal. 
 
 Russia, beware ! To lend us aid 
 
 Troops leave the far antipodes ; 
 And with Britannia's sons arrayed 
 
 Are soldiers from across the seas. 
 And, should we need it, there will come 
 
 Brave legions from the Land of Snow, 
 Who pant to hear the throbbing drum, 
 
 And charge, with us, the common loe.
 
 THE CRISIS. Q5 
 
 Russia, beware ! From every zone, 
 
 In time of peril, shall arise 
 Armies who make our strife their own, 
 
 And thirst to share our victories. 
 One spirit shall inspire the breast 
 
 Of all who love Victoria's laws ; 
 And all the Empire's sons attest, 
 
 With blood, the justice of our cause.
 
 FORGET ME NOT! 
 
 A token in this little keepsake see 
 
 Of a friend's wishes for your future weal — 
 A friend across whose faithful memory 
 
 Your words and looks and ways are wont to 
 steal 
 With strange enchantment, and whose daily path 
 
 Your presence has with added radiance fraught ; 
 And, 'mid the glamour of life's aftermath, 
 Forget me not ! 
 
 Forget me not ! Never can / forget 
 
 The merry voice and the expressive eyes 
 That flashed with mischief when our glances 
 met ; 
 The wit that sparkled in your prompt replies ; 
 The graceful form, the conversation coy, 
 
 The smile that a rare fascination wrought, 
 The interviews impregnated with joy — 
 Forget me not !
 
 FORGET ME NOT ! 
 
 I trust that often in the future we 
 
 May meet as in the sunny days gone by, 
 
 And jest with all the olden jollity, 
 
 While happily the golden moments fly ; 
 
 But, if this ardent wish of mine prove vain, 
 Should Fate refuse me such a pleasant lot, 
 
 And if but seldom we should meet again, 
 Forget me not ! 
 
 97
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 Ye varied volumes that adorn the shelves 
 
 Of my beloved library, to me 
 
 How dear ye are — the telescopes of truth — 
 
 The guides that indicate the narrow path 
 
 Of wisdom — the nepenthe for all woes — 
 
 The finger-posts that point to paradise. 
 
 Friendship is strangely sweet, but frequently 
 
 Its grasp is hollow, and its tongue deceives ; 
 
 And those we trusted, and whose faithfulness 
 
 We fancied proof against all chance or change, 
 
 Will leave us helpless in the evil day. 
 
 Not so with ye ! Alike in weal or woe 
 
 Your precious balm ye meetly minister. 
 
 If poor, possessing ye, we're rich indeed ; 
 
 If rich, ye make us richer ; if bereft 
 
 Of those we clung to as the ivy clings 
 
 To the strong stone, still may we cling to ye 
 
 For counsel, aid and mighty solacing — 
 
 Ye never fail ! 
 
 And sweet is ardent love, 
 Which realizes what we dream of heaven ; 
 And fascinating are the perfect shapes
 
 BOOKS. 99 
 
 Of those by Nature fashioned to enchain 
 The mind of man — the Venuses that lure 
 The coldest by their irresistible charm. 
 But ah ! too often, dazzled by their smiles, 
 We wend with them through By-path Meadows, 
 
 smooth 
 And easy to the heedless wanderer, 
 But leading to the dungeons of Despair, 
 Where some have languished in such loneliness 
 As seems to eat the very heart away. 
 In life, the fair are fickle, and the eyes 
 That beam the brightest also wound the worst. 
 But, in your sacred covers, we may gaze 
 On Guineveres divinely beautiful, 
 Nor know the pang of Guineveres proved false ; 
 Admire the grace of exquisite Ettarre, 
 Nor feel young slighted Pelleas' agony ; 
 Or find a gentle Enid, endlessly 
 Loyal to him who loved her. 
 
 'Tis our lot, 
 Perchance, in this dull clime, to lack the luck 
 To meet with those who claim our sympathies, 
 And have the wishes and the wings to soar. 
 In vain we seek the simple fellowship 
 Of kindred spirits; and we inly chafe 
 To escape the Lilliputian tribe who buzz 
 Inanities in our o'erwearied ears, 
 And mingle with a larger race, whose aim
 
 100 BOOKS. 
 
 Is somewhat loftier than the lust of gold. 
 
 We turn to you, and all the greatest minds 
 
 Of all the ages stoop to talk with us. 
 
 We can commune with Homer ! Virgil tunes, 
 
 For our behoof, his echoing chords again ; 
 
 And Dante tells his melancholy tale. 
 
 For us, Cervantes plies his ready quill, 
 
 And Chaucer quaintly sings, and Shakespeare 
 
 speaks, 
 And Milton rolls his thunder ! At onr call 
 Flock orators, philosophers and bards — 
 The ancient sages, and the master minds 
 Of later eras — eager to unlock, 
 For us, the lore of every time and tongue ; 
 And we may " enter on our list of friends " 
 Names written as in star-fire on the scroll 
 Of deathless fame ! 
 
 The world is wonderful ; 
 How bright the dews are, and how sweet the 
 
 breath 
 Of honeysuckles, clustering creamily 
 In lonely places where the thrushes sing. 
 Sweet is the babble of the rivulet, 
 Through leafy mazes slowly murmuring, 
 By banks of bluebells ; and that voice is sweet 
 Which haunts us as we linger by the sea. 
 And what magnificence is in the clouds — 
 What marvel in the"mountains — in the lamps
 
 BOOKS. IOI 
 
 Which blaze for ever through the night's domain 
 What revelations, and what mystery ! 
 We are encompassed by a thousand forms 
 Of loveliness ; but underneath it all 
 Lies the keen sting ; and, from the frequent pain, 
 We yearn to fly to fancied scenes afar, 
 And there, like Arthur, heal us of our wounds. 
 Ye are enchanters ! We invoke your aid, 
 And lo ! we are transported to the shores 
 "Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly ;" reach the land 
 Where blooms the lotos ; tread the happy isles 
 Along whose coasts old Triton sounds his horn ; 
 Walk by the margin of the silver streams 
 Where laughing naiads veil their limbs divine ; 
 Or watch the nymphs reclining robelessly, 
 In the lush woodlands, on soft beds of flowers. 
 Then, sorrowing, from the journey we return 
 To face life's trials, and the lot lament 
 That in its harshness so belies our dreams. 
 Romance gives place to dull reality ; 
 And, notwithstanding the supremest joys 
 That in the fabric of the actual world 
 Are woven, for more perfect joys we pine, 
 And crave the glamour of the ideal world. 
 Again to you we look, and all our souls 
 Pulsate with hope the while we read of realms 
 kike that revealed by wandering Hythloday,
 
 102 BOOKS. 
 
 Where men were ruled with wisdom, and all strove 
 Together for the weal of all ; or note 
 Atlantis, nestling 'mid the ocean foam ; 
 Or, from the palace of Queen Mab, behold 
 The glory of a renovated sphere. 
 For, as we read, within the heart grows strong 
 The thought that man may make the earth as fair 
 As ever poet dreamed it or sage feigned ; 
 And all the voices of the wise and good 
 Proclaim the possibility, and vow- 
 That grander laws than Solon's shall be framed 
 To elevate the nations ; and the lips 
 Of History teach us that, from age to age, 
 The race grows nobler. Yesterday the fool 
 Laughed at the vision realised to-day. 
 To-day the cynic lamentably scoffs, 
 Exhibiting his imbecility, 
 
 At hopes which, next day, their fulfilment find. 
 And oh ! prophetic tomes, if tenderly 
 I love you, and am fain to tell my love, 
 Because ye are the friends that never fail ; 
 Because ye give me access to the bowers 
 Of peerless beauty, and invoke the great 
 From every quarter of the spinning globe 
 To be my comrades and my counsellors ; 
 Because ye lead me to the fabled haunts 
 Of gods and heroes in creation's prime, 
 And make me master of the shadowy lore
 
 BOOKS. IO3 
 
 Of utmost eld — I prize ye most because 
 Your magic leaves are luminous to me 
 With visions of "an awful rose of dawn " 
 Which fires the confines of the universe, 
 And tinges hell's dire caves, and, turning gold, 
 Climbs the cerulean skies ; and, in the beam, 
 I see humanity, with weary feet, 
 Lay down its burden, and the sad world swing 
 To music onwards everlastingly.
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 The maid was fair and the youth was fond — 
 'Tis a favourite theme for a tender lay — 
 
 And their hearts seemed linked by a silver bond 
 That would link them still when their heads 
 were gray. 
 
 But the world is strange, and the life of man 
 With shadows darkened, with sorrows crossed ; 
 
 And the day that with pomp of sunrise began, 
 At eve, may be troubled and tempest-tossed. 
 
 And souls that awake to a dawn of bliss, 
 May gaze, at noon, on a clouded sky; 
 
 While lips that have thrilled to the morning kiss 
 May quiver with sorrow when night is nigh. 
 
 He went intent on a tete-a-tete, 
 
 And to secret music his pulses moved ; 
 
 For as blithe as the linnet that meets his mate 
 Was the lover at meeting the maid he loved. 
 
 She welcomed him, and their talk flowed on 
 Merrily as the streamlet flows ;
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 105 
 
 And the gladness-hour had almost gone 
 When a jesting word to his tongue arose. 
 
 She bade him desist ; but, playfully, 
 
 Thinking she jested, he breathed it again ; 
 
 The joke was as harmless as joke could be, 
 Yet it somehow kindled the maid's disdain. 
 
 For she flushed as she heard it, and then let fall 
 A foolish sentence which spoke her ire ; 
 
 But it woke the pride that sleeps in us all, 
 And mingles the wine of life with fire. 
 
 'o 1 
 
 Hot was the anger that flashed in his eyes, 
 Great was the rage that glowed at his heart ; 
 
 And he looked at the maid with a dumb surprise, 
 But his look said loudly, " We twain must part ! " 
 
 And he turned to go, though the thought of parting 
 Was the bitterest thought in the world to him ; 
 
 And the tears to his lashes were almost starting, 
 And the day grew dark and the sunshine dim. 
 
 She saw, and then softly murmured, " Stay ! 
 
 I did not mean it ! — 'Twas said in haste ! " 
 And a smile as sweet as a morn in May 
 
 From her visage the anger-wrinkles chased.
 
 106 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 And from her bosom a rose she took, 
 White and fragrant, and proffered it. 
 
 Could he resist the witching look ? 
 Did not her accents the maid acquit ? 
 
 Was not the flower a tender token 
 Of sorrow for syllables she recalled ? 
 
 The words should be treated as if unspoken — 
 His soul should no longer by anger be thralled. 
 
 Faded the frown from his gloomy brow — 
 He clasped the rose, and forgave the giver ; 
 
 And he framed, in his heart of hearts, a vow 
 To treasure the gift for ever and ever.
 
 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 In the autumn's pomp, I, musing, came 
 
 To Senlac, while the trees 
 With a thousand hues were all aflame 
 As they fluttered in the breeze ; 
 While the autumn glory hung 
 
 In the enamoured air, 
 And the sun his golden largess flung 
 Of splendour everywhere. 
 
 But I thought of an autumn long ago, 
 
 When these hills with weapons gleamed ; 
 And the haughty feet of a foreign foe, 
 To my brooding fancy, seemed 
 Again to shake the sward ; 
 
 And, as I mused, I sighed ; 
 For I stood on the hills where William warred, 
 On the field where Harold died. 
 
 I saw the confident advance 
 
 Of the Conqueror's chivalry ; 
 Saw the armour glitter, the war-steeds prance, 
 
 And the sacred banner fly ;
 
 108 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 Heard* the giant minstrel sing 
 
 As defiantly he rode 
 His taunts in the Saxon ear to fling, 
 
 Till he bit the bloody sod. 
 
 And I saw the valorous array 
 Recoil from the hero band 
 Who held the doughtiest at bay 
 In their love of fatherland ; 
 Who, in glorious phalanx formed, 
 
 All the Norman hosts defied, 
 And laughed, though they like locusts swarmed, 
 On the field where Harold died. 
 
 Once more I saw the fiery clash 
 
 Of the many and the few ; 
 Saw the rage in the eyes of the warriors flash 
 As the battle-fury grew ; 
 
 Saw William's war-steed slain, 
 And the dauntless rider fall, 
 And the hopes of the invaders wane, 
 And a shudder smite them all, 
 
 Till they fled, in horrible dismay ; 
 
 While Saxon hearts beat high, 
 As, with added zeal, they turned to slay 
 
 The foes of liberty. 
 
 * The famous Taillefer, who preceded the Norman army, "tossing 
 his sword in the air and catching it again while he chaunted the song 
 of Roland."
 
 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. IOQ 
 
 But lo ! their fallen lord 
 
 Another horse bestrides, 
 And they rally at his thrilling word, 
 
 And follow where he sruides. 
 
 iV 
 
 His voice is heard above the roar 
 
 Of the flying armament, 
 As he plunges into seas of gore, 
 On victory intent. 
 
 There is magic in the sound, 
 
 And their hearts grow strong again ; 
 And fearfully they heap the ground 
 With the bodies of the slain. 
 
 And some assail the Saxon bands 
 
 Whom lofty breastworks shield ; 
 And some the living wedge which stands 
 Out in the open field. 
 The first in haste recoil ; 
 
 The others feign retreat, 
 And over the empurpled soil 
 They crowd with flying feet. 
 
 And triumph lights the Conqueror's brow, 
 
 For the wedge is in their wake, 
 Its steady phalanx broken now ; 
 And all the hillocks quake 
 
 As his haughty knighthood turn 
 And charge the scattered host ;
 
 110 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 And the Saxon hearts within them burn, 
 For they deem the battle lost. 
 
 Yet, back to back, the charge they bear, 
 
 And all their foes defy, 
 Their flashing axes in the air 
 Still whirling deathfully ; 
 
 And, with their weapons bright, 
 
 A remnant carve a lane 
 To life, and, struggling up the height, 
 The battered breastworks gain. 
 
 But the furious Normans follow fast, 
 
 And hurl their whole array 
 Upon the stronghold ; and, at last, 
 The outer lines give way ; 
 And, awed, they now behold 
 
 The inner breastworks rise, 
 Manned by the boldest of the bold, 
 With fury in their eyes. 
 
 And the baffled enemy fall back 
 From the gloomy barricades ; 
 And in vain is the thunder of the attack, 
 And the lightning of their blades ; 
 For those inner breastworks hide 
 
 Gurth, Leofwine, the king ; 
 And around the flag stern warriors bide, 
 Still bent on conquering.
 
 THE RATTLE OF HASTINGS. I I I 
 
 And if, till the shades of night shall fall, 
 
 And the sun sink in the main, 
 They can still preserve that quivering wall, 
 Their monarch yet may reign. 
 And the stormy throng they dare 
 
 As the rock resists the wave ; 
 And the faintest-hearted heroes arc, 
 And the very cowards brave. 
 
 And the Norman arrows, falling low, 
 Their spite on the ramparts spend ; 
 For they mock the wrath of the raging foe, 
 And the Saxon host defend. 
 And William's spirits fail : 
 
 Has his prowess lost its spell ? 
 Are his wily schemes without avail, 
 And the free invincible ? 
 
 But a thought is in his fertile mind — 
 
 If aloft his archers aim, 
 The murderous arrows their mark may find, 
 And victims fiercely claim. 
 And many a fateful shaft 
 
 Comes whistling through the air; 
 And soon fresh triumph crowns his craft, 
 And the death-birds wait their fare.
 
 112 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 For an arrow strikes King Harold's eye, 
 
 And his royal blood grows chill ; 
 And the Normans rush more mightily 
 Up the slopes of the crimson hill, 
 And around the ramparts surge 
 Like an ocean, mad with ire, 
 And against them all their forces urge, 
 Till they win their heart's desire. 
 
 For the valiant Saxon warriors strew, 
 
 Like leaves, the grisly field ; 
 And the living, though their souls are true, 
 And their weapons still they wield, 
 Are powerless to protect 
 
 The barriers tottering fast ; 
 But, with souls on fire and brows erect, 
 They struggle to the last. 
 
 And, one by one, they grandly die — 
 
 Not a foot is turned to flee ; 
 And their flag still floats, in the evening sky, 
 Above them stainlessly. 
 Each slays ere he is slain ; 
 
 Each, sinking, smites the foe ; 
 And the sunset splendours slowly wane, 
 And the stars begin to glow.
 
 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. I 1 3 
 
 And behold, the lordliest expire ! 
 
 Round the flag they proudly fall ; 
 And the blows they deal in death are dire — 
 'Tis another Roncesvalles ! 
 Look, the laughing Leofwine 
 
 To his mother earth is given ; 
 And then dies Gurth, while the sad stars shine 
 Approvingly from heaven. 
 
 And from its staff the Normans tear 
 
 The banner of the free, 
 And rear the Norman standard there 
 With shouts of victory ; 
 And the Saxon cause is lost, 
 
 And William gains a throne ; 
 And the camp resounds with the haughty 
 boast, 
 And a noble realm is won. 
 
 On the field where the kingly Harold died, 
 
 Mine eyes grow strangely wet ; 
 But the tears are tears of untold pride, 
 And I banish my regret ; 
 
 For, from Harold's grave, have come 
 
 New heroes numberless, 
 To guard each sod of the island home, 
 And its holy quietness.
 
 114 THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 
 
 And, as I pace this hallowed ground, 
 
 My blood breaks into flame ; 
 For a million Harolds could be found 
 To save the soil from shame ; 
 
 And mine eyes grow strangely bright — 
 
 With the dead I am allied ; 
 And /, to the death, would gladly fight 
 For the field where Harold died.
 
 "THE PARTING OF THE WAYS." 
 
 On a fateful day, with a mind at ease, 
 A young man met a charming maid ; 
 
 And, pleased with her, he sought to please, 
 Till he found, at length, that his heart had 
 strayed. 
 
 For there was that in her beaming eye, 
 In the glossy curls of her raven hair, 
 
 In her voice, replete with melody, 
 
 And the smile which made her doubly fair, 
 
 In the lissom figure, the little hand, 
 
 Which stirred his breast with a vague commotion, 
 And allured his soul as the laughing land 
 
 Lures the silver tides of the restless ocean. 
 
 And over his spirit a spell she threw, 
 
 Till he seemed to breathe in a realm enchanted. 
 Ah, friend, 'tis a phantom you thus pursue, 
 
 And the face by which you are fondly haunted 
 
 May work you havoc, so have a care ! 
 
 She can softly smile and smoothly speak ; 
 But the smile may end in your life's despair, 
 
 And lead to an issue you did not seek !
 
 Il6 "the parting of the ways." 
 
 But he could not think that one so sweet 
 Would be the source of his final pain ; 
 
 And whenever they happened to merrily meet, 
 New links she would rivet in Love's bright chain. 
 
 Her ways were coy — she would draw him on, 
 And then repulse him, and damp his zeal ; 
 And the light that from under white eyelids 
 shone — 
 That into his innermost heart could -steal — 
 
 Would sometimes change all causelessly 
 
 To a look of scorn ; and the musical tongue. 
 
 Whose faintest whisper had filled him with joy, 
 On whose simplest saying he erst had hung, 
 
 In tones of harshness, would mockingly frame 
 Sentences shattering his airy dreams. 
 
 But, when she had deadened the altar-flame 
 Of his ardent passion, the olden gleams 
 
 In her eyes would sparkle and rouse it again ; 
 
 And her gentle words would strangely move him, 
 And fall like balm on his weary brain, 
 
 Till he half believed she had learned to love him. 
 
 Sometimes he would suddenly feign to go, 
 But a single word would call him back ;
 
 "the parting of THE WAYS." 117 
 
 Sometimes, to give her a quid pro quo, 
 Speak angrily, and she would lack, 
 
 For a little while, his earnest face ; 
 
 And then she would send him some tender sign ; 
 And his sorrowing steps he would soon retrace, 
 
 And worship again at the selfsame shrine. 
 
 And, day by day, in spite of all, 
 
 On his heart her image indelibly grew, 
 
 Till she held him in irresistible thrall, 
 
 And he could not choose but begin to woo, 
 
 And to utter the words that are never mistaken, 
 And to look the looks that are understood ; 
 
 And, as by soft breezes green leaves are shaken, 
 His soul was swayed by her every mood. 
 
 And gradually she, for a time eschewing 
 
 The earlier coldness and coquetry, 
 Lent a listening ear to his ardent wooing; 
 
 And her glances told him that, by-and by, 
 
 If he persevered, he might attain 
 
 The thing that he counted as dear as life ; 
 
 And as lord of her young affections reign, 
 And call the maiden his darling wife.
 
 I 1 8 "THE parting of the ways. 
 
 Her lot was humble — his aims were high ; 
 
 Her purse was empty — his hopes were great ; 
 From the peaks of a gilded destiny 
 
 Her father had fallen, unfortunate, 
 
 While his had risen and stood secure, 
 With coffers full of the yellow ore : 
 
 The maiden was what the world calls poor — 
 The man was the heir to a golden store ; 
 
 And his mind was large, and he dreamt of fame, 
 And he knew that, in the after-days, 
 
 His voice would be greeted with loud acclaim, 
 And the lips of men would speak his praise. 
 
 But he held that better than fame or gold 
 Were love and honour and happiness ; 
 
 And that all the money that ever was told, 
 Of itself, was impotent to bless. 
 
 And, though he felt that the shallow brood 
 Of earth's little ones would haste to hiss, 
 
 If the love increased, and a ring ensued, 
 And that fools would call it foolishness, 
 
 He had learned to treasure the winsome girl 
 So mightily that, if she had willed it,
 
 "THE PARTING OF THE WAYS." I 19 
 
 He was ready his pride to the winds to hurl, 
 And to clasp to his bosom the one who had 
 thrilled it, 
 
 And, with her, to dare the frigid faces 
 
 Of former friends, and the dull world's scorn ; 
 
 And to lift her up to the lofty places 
 
 That the father filled when the maid was born. 
 
 And he confidently deemed, at last, 
 
 That the germ of love in her heart was sown, 
 
 And was rooted there and would ripen fast, 
 And be safely garnered within his own. 
 
 But the Future's secrets we cannot tell, 
 And it mocks our efforts to read its lore ; 
 
 And the more we fancy that all is well, 
 
 When the tempest gathers, we grieve the more. 
 
 And the hopes we cherish are phantasies, 
 
 And our brightest visions are doomed to die ; 
 
 And some demon covets the fleeting bliss 
 That fades for ever beneath the sky. 
 
 For, when next he called on the maid he loved, 
 Her words were cool and her looks were strange ; 
 
 And a dark misgiving his spirit moved, 
 
 For he marked in her manner the signs of change.
 
 120 "THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 
 
 Unkind were her accents — no smile at meeting 
 Shone from the depths of her liquid eyes ; 
 
 Where was the warmth of the olden greeting, 
 And the subtle charm of the old replies ? 
 
 He failed to fathom a mood like this, 
 
 And he burned with an inward sense of wrong, 
 
 For he could not think that the fault was his ; 
 And he rose to leave her, but love was strong, 
 
 And he paused a moment tenderly, 
 
 And gentle words from his sad lips flowed : 
 
 It was all in vain, and he said, " Good-bye ! " 
 And turned to follow a lonely road. 
 
 But earth is dreary when hope is dead, 
 And life is bitter when love decays ; 
 
 And with speechless sorrow he bowed his head, 
 And he wept at " the parting of the ways."
 
 IF THE WORLD WERE RULED 
 BY LOVE. 
 
 I trow that human misery 
 
 Is born of human hate ; 
 The evils in our own hearts lie 
 
 That we ascribe to Fate ; 
 For the tears of woe would cease to flow, 
 
 And the clouds of care would move, 
 And the welkin ring with the songs we'd sing, 
 
 If the world were ruled by love. 
 
 The ingleside where strife is heard, 
 
 And Envy makes its moan ; 
 Where hasty is the mother's word, 
 
 And harsh the father's tone, 
 And angrily the young reply, 
 
 A Bethany would prove, 
 Whose Guest at even was the King of Heaven, 
 
 If the world were ruled by love. 
 
 The poor, who, threescore years and ten, 
 
 Arise and toil and weep, 
 And curse their heritage, and then 
 
 Fall wearily asleep ;
 
 122 IF THE WORLD WERE RULED BY LOVE. 
 
 While, blithe and bland, throughout the land 
 
 The lords of leisure rove, 
 Their wants supplied, would cease to chide. 
 
 If the world were ruled by love. 
 
 The realms that rush, with fiery eyes, 
 
 To battle thunderingly, 
 And mock our dreams of paradise 
 
 With the echoing bugle-cry, 
 No more would rave, and blood-wine crave, 
 
 And call on the gods above 
 To sanctify their butchery, 
 
 If the world were ruled by love. 
 
 But the world would a very Eden be, 
 
 Where the angels well might home ; 
 Its music the voice of the flashing sea, 
 
 And the sky for its sapphire dome ; 
 Its pangs at rest, its children blest, 
 
 With Peace, like a silver dove, 
 A vision fair in the sinless air, 
 
 If the world were ruled by love.
 
 THE INEXPLICABLE SEX. 
 
 I sing the sex by every poet sung 
 
 Since language first in music left the tongue — 
 
 The inexplicable sex who cook our dinners, 
 
 And have the power tc make us saints or sinners ; 
 
 To smooth the wrinkles on the brow of Care, 
 
 Or, peradventure, help to plant them there ; 
 
 Who steal our hearts, play havoc with our purses, 
 
 Inspire our odes, and animate our curses. 
 
 They're riddles everlastingly unread — 
 
 Unhappy single, not content when wed, 
 
 Exclaims the cynical Elijer GofF; 
 
 But, unlike him, I did not wish to scoff — 
 
 My humble duty is to sound their praises, 
 
 And laud them ever with mellifluous phrases ; 
 
 Though, like Elijer, and like many more, 
 
 I marvel at them when I most adore, 
 
 And cannot fathom these sweet mysteries, 
 
 The root of ill, the spring of human bliss. 
 
 In them, hypocrisy itself can charm : 
 
 It makes our young devotion doubly warm, 
 
 Draws while it drives, lures while it whispers "Go ! " 
 
 Means "Yes! " when sternliest it answers "No ! " 
 
 Request a kiss — at once a negative 
 
 Their lips of coral sternly frame ! — but if 
 
 You note their eyes, the answer there belies" it, 
 
 And he who doubts me, well, suppose he tries it?
 
 124 THE INEXPLICABLE SEX. 
 
 Ah, their bright eyes ! who can withstand their 
 
 gleams ? 
 The fire of passion, and the light of dreams, 
 The liquid tenderness of love, the flash 
 Of mischief— these the heart of stone would 
 
 "mash." 
 This verb in Webster you will fail to find— 
 'Twas for "the lexicon of youth" designed. 
 Excuse it ! Slang, I know, is almost crime 
 To ears polite ; but then, I lacked a rhyme ! 
 The ladies, surely, can but pardon me, 
 For even my satires end in eulogy ; 
 And here, I do not hesitate to hold 
 That, as the diamond shames the shining gold, 
 They shame all gems the universe can yield, 
 And I adore them ! Willingly I'd wield 
 A pen to help them, if their cause lacked aid, 
 As, whilom, in their names, men drew the blade. 
 But now, "the pen is mightier than the sword." — 
 I thank thee, Lytton, for that thrilling word ! 
 Earth yet shall own its utter truthfulness, 
 And Richlieu's wisdom readily confess, 
 And owning, put the rusty sabre by ! — 
 Fled are the olden days of chivalry ; 
 But still, as ever, men would boldly fight, 
 Ay, with war-weapons, if 'twere requisite, 
 As well as pens and paper, to defend 
 The damsels at whose feet the proudest bend
 
 THE INEXPLICABLE SEX. I ±5 
 
 In homage. But I wander from my theme. 
 
 When I commenced, how little did I deem 
 
 That I should thus rush into rhapsody — 
 
 Sing pens and paper and knight-errantry, 
 
 Whose object was to sing the gentle sex ; 
 
 And haply some delightful maid perplex 
 
 With stale quotations from a splendid bard. 
 
 And I must pause ; or, losing my reward — 
 
 The smiles I trust bright faces will bestow — 
 
 In fancy, hear a rising mutter : " Oh ! 
 
 We dearly wish that from Parnassus he 
 
 Would topple, and so cease his poesy, 
 
 Or sing our praises still ! We do not care 
 
 To learn what Buhver Lytton thought of war ! " 
 
 Alas ! they mock at our philosophies, — 
 
 Logic is lacking in their sweet replies ; 
 
 But all the sage's wisdom fails to move 
 
 The soul like their soft murmurings of love. 
 
 They are not angels, for they have not wings ; 
 
 Nor would the strange habiliment that clings 
 
 About their forms — their elevated heels, 
 
 Their hairpins, whalebone, rustling silks and steels 
 
 Become the character — whoever yet 
 
 Pictured an angel in a crinolette ? 
 
 But, if not angels, they are dearer far 
 
 To manhood than the glistening angels are ; 
 
 And, verily, to them the power is given 
 
 To gild the drear earth with the light of heaven.
 
 THE SILENT VOICE. 
 (written on the death of THE RIGHT HON. 
 
 W. E. FORSTER, ESQ., M.P., WHICH OCCURRED ON 
 
 THE 5TH OF APRIL, 1 886, IN THE SAME WEEK AS 
 
 THE INTRODUCTION OF THE HOME RULE BILL.) 
 
 I. 
 
 A sturdy voice is silent, and to-day, 
 With inexpressible regret, the land 
 Laments a leader. The assassin's hand 
 
 Quivered to smite him, and his stony way 
 
 Was hedged with daggers ; yet he lived to play 
 The accustomed part, and in the senate stand, 
 No honeyed whisperer, with accents bland, 
 
 But thunder-throated in the wordy fray. 
 
 Alas ! Death's appetite is strangely keen, 
 And not in daggers only is his power; 
 
 He robs the Empire, in remorseless greed, 
 Of one with brain alert, and conscience clean, 
 And heart unspotted, at an evil hour: 
 
 Heaven send us others of the rugged breed !
 
 THE SILENT VOICE. I 27 
 
 II. 
 
 No servile follower of the human sheep 
 
 Was he for whom the nation makes its moan ; 
 
 Bold as a lion, he could stand alone 
 Amid his muttering crowd of friends, and keep 
 The path of Liberty, the while asleep 
 
 Her ancient guardians seemed, or careless 
 grown — 
 
 He would not, with the multitude, condone 
 The acts of those who held our honour cheap. 
 
 Oh ! that from out his hallowed tomb might spring 
 More citizens of his heroic mould ; 
 Whose reason was their guide, who dared to 
 flout 
 The mandates of the rival cliques, and cling 
 To truth and freedom as to purest gold, 
 Heedless of foolish Faction's fury-shout. 
 
 III. 
 
 He loved the poor, and strove to make them wise, 
 And gave them glimpses of the palace-halls 
 Where Knowledge holds eternal festivals ; 
 
 He loved the oppressed, and, wheresoe'er their cries 
 
 Resounded, they could claim his sympathies ; 
 He loved the Empire, and, with trumpet-calls, 
 Exhorted her to unity — he falls 
 
 While Treason's clamour rends the very skies.
 
 128 THE SILENT VOICE. 
 
 But he has gained our love ; and, weepingly, 
 We gather, in the crisis of our fears, 
 
 To load the wailing breezes with his praise ; 
 And vainly ask : "Why did the veteran die 
 When needed most ? " while, shedding useless 
 tears, 
 We leave him, crowned with everlasting bays
 
 THE CITY'S GREETING. 
 
 (written on the visit of the queen to 
 
 liverpool, in may, 1 886, to open the 
 
 exhibition.) 
 
 Welcome the Queen of the chief of the nations, 
 Hail to the monarch whom millions adore ; 
 
 Rend the blue welkin with loud acclamations, 
 Ye bells on the breezes your music outpour ; 
 
 Let the flags flutter from mast and from steeple, 
 The thoroughfares flash with their mottoes of fire, 
 And greetings prevail on the lips of the people, 
 And sound from the strings of the jubilant lyre ! 
 
 Why should her presence awake such emotion ? 
 
 Why at her name should the city rejoice ? 
 Are crowns in themselves worth this heartfelt 
 devotion, 
 
 This glory of banners, this tumult of voice ?
 
 130 THE CITY'S GREETING. 
 
 No ! 'Tis the woman that calls for our praises 
 More than the monarch, though splendid her 
 throne ; 
 She might wear on her brow a white garland of 
 daisies, 
 Relinquish her palace, and sojourn alone 
 
 In the shade of the hawthorn, where woodbine was 
 clinging 
 Around the rude porch of some rustical cot ; 
 And still would the bard link her name with his 
 singing, 
 And still men would love her, whatever her lot. 
 
 For she cares for her subjects, and shares in their 
 sadness ; 
 Exults in their triumphs, and pities their tears ; 
 Laments with their grief, and is glad with their 
 gladness ; 
 And hence she is welcomed with tempests of 
 cheers. 
 
 And yet she holds sway o'er an Empire extending 
 Where glittering icefields encircle the pole ; 
 
 Where the waves of the Ganges with ocean are 
 blending, 
 And the tides of the south round a continent roll.
 
 THE CITY'S GREETING. 131 
 
 But her sceptre commanding she always has wielded 
 As one who was proud to reign over the free ; 
 
 She has held it as holy, its honour has shielded, 
 And in equity ruled as the Queen of the Sea. 
 
 And though the Omega of systems once cherished 
 Were writ on the heavens in letters of flame ; 
 
 Though thrones and dominions had utterly perished 
 She would still wear a crown in the Temple of 
 Fame.
 
 AT THE SHIPPERIES. 
 1886. 
 
 This is an age of vast advancement ; we 
 Of such a truth have ample illustration ; 
 
 Its silent witnesses mankind may see 
 In all the borders of our little nation. 
 
 But nowhere is the fact more evident 
 
 Than in the palace with the lofty portals 
 
 Where Liverpool, on noble works intent.. 
 
 Has stored strange tokens of the might of mortals 
 
 Amid majestic courts, in wonder trod 
 By visitors from many a varied region ; 
 
 From the bright homeland, and from realms abroad, 
 More than I wot of, for their name is legion ; 
 
 Who, entering, in miniature, descry 
 
 Swift ships on ocean's utmost waters sailing, 
 
 That laugh at Boreas and his blasts defy, 
 
 And scorn the billows in their envious railing ; 
 
 And learn how, once, it took a weary while 
 To cross, in terror, over seas contracted, 
 
 And perilously glide from isle to isle, 
 Paying the toll the elements exacted ;
 
 AT THE SHIPPERIES. I 33 
 
 How, presently, man overcame the wrath 
 
 Of whirlpools, adverse tides, and winds opposing ; 
 
 And how his vessels made themselves a path 
 Through unimagined deeps, new worlds 
 disclosing ; 
 
 Until the boundless waste of waters ceased 
 
 To form a gulf humanity to sever ; 
 And, as the wisdom of the realms increased, 
 
 Became a link uniting them for ever. 
 
 And, further on, they saw how, gradually, 
 The vehicles arranged for their inspection, 
 
 In indescribable diversity, 
 Betraying their inherent imperfection 
 
 As means by which to triumph over space, 
 Were all excelled by Nature's mighty forces ; 
 
 And then, along illimitable ways, 
 
 Man proudly rode with engines for his horses , 
 
 And how the giant, Steam, became content, 
 On shore and sea new energies displaying, 
 
 With lapse of years, to own his rule, and lent 
 A ready service, him with speed conveying, 
 
 While Father Time, aghast, toiled on behind, 
 Through continents a thousand leagues asunder,
 
 134 AT THE SHIPPERIES. 
 
 Chasing the viewless chariots of the wind 
 Across the prairies with a voice of thunder. 
 
 How, product of this contact of the lands, 
 
 The one exchanged its treasures with the other 
 
 And, joining in the process friendly hands, 
 Began to own its neighbour as its brother. 
 
 And hence were met, in genial rivalry, 
 The children of a multitude of races ; 
 
 Each country anxious that the rest might see 
 Its arts, and eager to evoke their praises. 
 
 And, further still, they saw a bulky form 
 Struggling to soar, and dimly prophesying 
 
 Of man's impending lordship of the storm, 
 And wingless creatures wonderfully flying ; 
 
 And learned how progress knew no limiting ; 
 
 And if, no more by deeds of blood demented, 
 Blind man his latent faculties would bring 
 
 To strive for peaceful victories, contented 
 
 To follow Knowledge to her utmost caves, 
 And cease from wars that leave the ages gory, 
 
 A myriad unknown powers would be his slaves, 
 And earth and air and ocean chant his glory.
 
 TO DR. WOELFERT, THE GERMAN AERO- 
 NAUT, ON HEARING OF THE COLLAPSE 
 OF HIS BALLOON AT "THE SHIPPERIES." 
 
 The other day I met thee, and I heard, 
 
 From thine own lips, of troubles manifold ; 
 Of disappointments, and of hope deferred, 
 And evil fortunes not to be controlled ; 
 But thou, despite discouragements, wert bold, 
 And in thine accents there was no despair ; 
 Thou wert resolved to navigate the air, 
 Though winds were contrary and men were cold. 
 
 To-day, I notice that mishap once more 
 Hath harshly visited thine enterprize ; 
 And how the monster that was made to soar, 
 And bear its master towards the purple skies, 
 Was blown astray, scorning its slender ties ; 
 And, presently collapsing, thou wert fain, 
 In peril of thy life, the earth to gain, 
 And sadly leave it, for it would not rise. 
 
 And so thy hopes are doubly shattered now ; 
 
 And dullards the endeavours will deride 
 Of him who bravely sought to show them how; 
 
 Amid the ambient atmosphere to glide,
 
 I 36 TO DR. WOELFERT, THE GERMAN AERONAUT. 
 
 And with the lordly eagle to divide 
 
 His realm ; and they will marvel at the mind 
 That rashly strove to leave the earth behind : 
 
 It is their nature — / refuse to chide ! 
 
 Nay, I would honour thee ! I call to mind 
 
 What was the fate of earlier pioneers ; 
 How grand old Galileo was maligned ; 
 How Stephenson was met with idle jeers ; 
 How all the great ones of the vanished years 
 Who dared to hint that they possessed a plan 
 Designed to benefit their fellowman 
 Were sagely welcomed with the people's sneers. 
 
 Take heart ! Look forward to the days to be ! 
 
 Old Galileo swells the scroll of Fame, 
 And Stephenson has triumphed ; and for thee 
 An equal lot may be reserved. Thy aim 
 May yet be realized, and loud acclaim 
 
 Await thine efforts. Thou maj'st yet defy 
 The whirlwinds in their awful majesty, 
 And build thyself "an everlasting name."
 
 BELOVED EYES. 
 
 Beloved eyes, whose liquid glow- 
 Hides secrets I am fain to know ; 
 
 Whose light outshines the rarest gem 
 That fires the golden diadem, 
 Another glance on me bestow ; 
 
 Ye set my soul on flame, and show. 
 Beneath a brow that shames the snow, 
 Bright as the star of Bethlehem, 
 Beloved eyes. 
 
 Out of your gleam, the hours seem slow, 
 But, in it, like a dream they go ; 
 
 A strange enchantment lives in thorn, 
 And, born of you, upon the stem 
 Of trees of earth, heaven's blossoms blow. 
 Beloved eves.
 
 THE PEOPLE'S ANSWER. 
 (written on the eve of the election of 
 
 1886.) 
 
 For ages had Britannia foiled 
 
 The machinations of her foes ; 
 The wise had wrought, the strong had toiled, 
 
 The brave had borne the brunt of blows 
 To baffle all who dared assail 
 
 The white-cliffed shrine of liberty, 
 Till haughty tyrants, turning pale, 
 
 Quaked at the sound of her decree. 
 
 Secure at home, the lords of lands 
 
 Where gold was strown and diamonds blazed, 
 The isles obeying our commands, 
 
 Our banner at the pole upraised, 
 A galaxy of realms was proud 
 
 The virtues of our rule to own ; 
 And continents of freemen bowed 
 
 In homage at the selfsame throne.
 
 THE PEOPLES ANSWER. I 39 
 
 And millions craved a closer tie, 
 
 And sought a firmer bond to frame, 
 Eager to share our destiny 
 
 And swell the triumphs oi' our name. 
 But. even while the yearning grew, 
 
 A shadow entered at the door ; 
 And suddenly Britannia knew 
 
 A danger never known before. 
 
 The sister isle resolved to wreak 
 
 Revenge on us for old misrule ; 
 And some we trusted, growing weak 
 
 And feeble-hearted, played the fool, 
 And leagued their forces with the foe, 
 
 And swore to snap the golden chain 
 Forged by our fathers, long ago, 
 
 To make one nation of the twain. 
 
 But others, truer to their trust, 
 
 And deaf to threats and blind to bribes, 
 Believed in simply being just ; 
 
 And felt, despite a thousand gibes, 
 That Erin could not fairly claim 
 
 To leave our side and walk alone ; 
 And in the senate urged the same, 
 
 And by their zeal the battle won.
 
 I40 THE PEOPLE'S ANSWER. 
 
 And now a greater struggle nears — 
 
 The ancient cries are cast aside, 
 The party spirit disappears, 
 
 The rival leaders are allied. 
 They ask the people in their might 
 
 To vindicate the stand they made ; 
 To give to Erin what is right, 
 
 But see the law shall be obeyed ; 
 
 To grant her freedom, but refuse 
 
 To tamper with our unity, 
 Or, in a fit of folly, lose 
 
 The fairest emerald of the sea ; 
 Whose sons have helped our own to build 
 
 An empire, with their blood aud brain ; 
 And by their deeds of valour thrilled 
 
 The centuries, and shall again. 
 
 The stake is great ! Must Britain yield 
 
 To-day to treachery within, 
 Who never on the battle-field 
 
 Unsheathed her sword except to win ? 
 "No " ! thunder those of Shakespeare's line ; 
 
 "If we be just, we need not fear; 
 Nor will we, in despair, resign 
 
 An isle who rule a hemisphere ! "
 
 THE OLYMPIAN PICNIC. 
 
 There has, for some years, been published in London 
 a periodical known as ' ' Young Folks Paper, ' ' which 
 numbers, among its multitude of readers, many "children 
 of a larger growth." One of its leading features has 
 always been the encouragement of amateur writers in 
 their efforts to obtain admission to the world of letters ; 
 and a considerable portion of the paper, under the title 
 of "The Literary Olympic," has recently been reserved 
 for their especial benefit. in this appear the produc- 
 tions of an increasing band of youthful authors, s< :ne of 
 whom are rapidly rising to eminence in wider Helds. 
 Several of them had gradually the good fortune to 1 3come 
 personally intimate ; and, in course of time, the n imber 
 had attained to such respectable dimensions that a series 
 of picnics was suggested in order to facilitate their nter- 
 ehange of opinions on congenial topics. On the 2nd of 
 August, 1886, when I had the pleasure of participating 
 in one of these literary gatherings, over twenty of us, from 
 various parts of the kingdom, drove from London to West 
 Wickham, calling, on the way, at the residence oi Mr. 
 Jame> Henderson, the proprietor of the paper in question, 
 and of "Funny Folks," "Scraps" and three other 
 well-known weeklies, where we met the Editors and 
 others distinguished in literature and art. As it was in 
 "Young Folks " that my own earliest literary aspirations 
 met with sympathy,* the occasion was, to me, peculiarly 
 interesting ;and, upon my return, I ventured to attempt to 
 celebrate it in the lines which follow. The allusion in 
 the fourth verse, is to Miss Marion L. Taylor (now Mrs 
 Arthur St. J. Adcock); a lady whose pretty rhymes have 
 v, (in for her, from her fellow-contributors, the name of 
 "Queen of the Riddle Tournament," a corner of the 
 paper devoted to a metrical joust of wit and ingenuity 
 which gives rise to much amusement. 
 
 ■ m thanks are flue to Mr. Henderson for permission to 
 include, in the present volume, several pieces which firht appeared 
 in the roluuuiH of ' Yoiuik Folks," and the copyright OJrwhich 
 '•< longed to him.
 
 142 THE OLYMPIAN PICNIC. 
 
 It is sweet to meet, 'mid the jarring throng 
 
 Who their faces earthwards turn, 
 With the nobler spirits who speak in song, 
 
 And whose hearts within them burn 
 As they dream of a vanished paradise, 
 
 And pine for a purer air — 
 To intermingle with the wise, 
 
 And " the feast of reason" share ; 
 And this lot was mine not long ago, 
 
 For, with such as these, I spent 
 A few bright hours where the daisies grow, 
 
 And on honey the bees are bent. 
 
 From the roar of the city that rules the land, 
 
 They drove on a rainy morn ; 
 But I'm bold to say that a cheerier band 
 
 Has never laughed care to scorn. 
 There were youthful tellers of marvellous tales, 
 
 And bards who yearned to soar 
 To the mystical heights where the vision fails, 
 
 And the mind can but adore. 
 There were men on the threshold of life, who 
 flushed 
 
 At the mention of future fame ; 
 And soft-eyed maidens, who rosily blushed 
 
 As they owned to a kindred aim.
 
 THE OLVMPIAN PICNIC. 143 
 
 At a beautiful mansion they paused to take 
 
 The hand of a " trusty friend," 
 With a soul for talent, who sought to make 
 
 A ladder it might ascend ; 
 To greet the guides who had shown them how 
 
 To tread the thorny ways 
 That beset the toiler whose weary brow 
 
 Shall be one day crowned with bays ; 
 And the authors whose stories, in days of old. 
 
 Had made their young eyes shine ; 
 And from their lips, at parting, rolled 
 
 The music of " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 Away from the hospitable roof, 
 
 Enshrined in trees and flowers ; 
 From the men who had laboured for their behoof, 
 
 And encouraged their dawning powers, 
 They merrily rode, as the glittering rain 
 
 Fled from the genial sun, 
 Or in diamonds clung to the nodding grain, 
 
 Its morning duty done — 
 They rode to a field where the grass was green, 
 
 And the clouds a pavilion rare : 
 Ah! the winds were hushed and the heavens 
 serene, 
 
 For the Riddling Queen was there.
 
 1 44 THE OLYMPIAN PICNIC. 
 
 Many the quips and cranks that passed, 
 
 And the smiles in glowing eyes, 
 And the glances towards the woodlands cast, 
 
 Or up to the infinite skies, 
 As the jest gave place to a soberer word. 
 
 And they talked of the books they had read, 
 The scenes they remembered, the songs they had 
 heard, 
 
 And the thoughts of the deathless dead ; 
 Till, at last, they left for the mighty town, 
 
 And the evening shadows fell ; 
 And above them a million stars looked down 
 
 As they bade each other farewell.
 
 TO MISS MARION L. TAYLOR, BEING 
 A FLOWER FROM THE GARLAND OF 
 POESY WOVEN BY THE BARDS OF "THE 
 OLYMPIC" FOR "THE QUEEN OF THE 
 TOURNAMENT." 
 
 Queen of our little realm of minstrelsy, 
 
 The sweetest singer of a sweet-voieed throng-, 
 
 Methinks the angels must commune with thee, 
 And what they tell thou utterest in song.
 
 THE BLAMELESS LIFE. 
 
 (written on the death of the earl of 
 iddesleigh, which resulted from heart dis- 
 ease, on the i2th january, i 887, but was pop- 
 ularly supposed to have been precipitated 
 by the ingratitude of a portion of the party 
 which he had done so much to recommend 
 to the approval of the nation.) 
 
 I. 
 
 The lofty task is over ! Suddenly 
 
 From Death's harsh fingers sped the fatal dart, 
 
 To find a lodging in a noble heart, 
 And call a tear to every honest eye. 
 His soul was pure ; he scorned to vilify 
 
 The men from whom he differed ; he would start 
 
 From wrong in horror ; and he stood apart 
 As one who never made an enemy. 
 
 " The elements " so sweetly mixed in him 
 That all the world might look on him and say 
 " 'This was a man' " — a veritable knight,
 
 THE BLAMELESS LIFE. 1 47 
 
 Whose shield no breath of calumny could dim ; 
 Who, in the thickest tumult of the fray, 
 
 Without reproach or fear, maintained the right. 
 
 II. 
 
 He was too noble for these sordid days 
 
 Of clap-trap patriots, hungering for a name, 
 And staking Empires in the desperate game 
 
 They play to win the empty spoils of place ; 
 
 His sole ambition was to serve his race, 
 Regardless of the multitude's acclaim 
 Preferring duty to the trump of Fame, 
 
 And death to any shadow of disgrace. 
 
 His was " the white flower of a blameless life," 
 And worthily he wore it to the last. 
 
 No stain was on its petals, though the air 
 Was black with slander and was torn with strife ; 
 No leaf was withered by the baleful blast 
 That killed the promise of the lives less fair. 
 
 III. 
 
 Neglected to appease precocity, 
 
 Not long he lingered ere the shaft was sped 
 That called him to the kingdoms of the dead ; 
 
 And, standing by the sepulchre, we see
 
 »4& THE BLAMELESS LILL. 
 
 How great beyond comparison was he 
 Who grandly followed and who meekly led, 
 And was as good as he was talented, 
 
 A perfect type of ancient chivalry. 
 
 Alack-a-day ! 'tis late to own his worth 
 When over him the funeral music swells, 
 And tears are useless, and remorse is vain. 
 I hear a voice repeating " earth to earth," 
 And hearken to the tolling of the bells — 
 We " shall not look upon his like again ! "
 
 PRIMROSE DAY. 
 
 1887. 
 
 Once again, from emerald copses, burst the 
 
 messengers of Spring ; 
 Once again, o'er naked Nature, flowers a fair 
 
 mantle fling ; 
 Once again, to greet the throstle, the bewildered 
 
 primrose wakes, 
 And the brook, its fetters broken, all its wonted 
 
 music makes. 
 
 And, ere yet the gloomy curtains of the darkness 
 
 have been drawn 
 By the rosy-fingered Eos, radiant goddess of the 
 
 dawn, 
 To the woods and lanes, with singing, I can sec 
 
 the rustics wend, 
 That the land may wear a token, and the earth 
 
 its tribute send 
 
 To the memory of the statesman loved aforetime, 
 
 worshipped now, 
 Loyal to his Queen and country, as his enemies 
 
 allow,
 
 150 PRIMROSE DAY. 
 
 If an enemy remaineth ; for the mists of hate have 
 
 fled, 
 And the lips that mocked the living speak with 
 
 reverence of the dead. 
 
 Since "the silver cord" was loosened, six eventful 
 
 years have gone, 
 And the flag where "Peace with Honour" once, in 
 
 dazzling letters, shone 
 Has been trampled on by traitors, stained with 
 
 needless human gore, 
 Flouted by the men who feared it in the happier 
 
 days of yore. 
 
 And Britannia still is troubled ; and his trumpet- 
 tongue might well 
 
 Lend its wisdom to the senate, and, like some 
 enchanter's spell, 
 
 Banish all the clouds that gather, and the lions 
 that arise 
 
 In the steep and rugged pathway where the 
 nation's duty lies. 
 
 We forget he wore the colours of a party, for we 
 
 know — 
 If, amid the olden wrangles, some denied that this 
 
 was so —
 
 THE PRIMROSE DAY. I 5 I 
 
 That he sought the Empire's glory, as a hundred 
 
 deeds attest, 
 And a patriot's heart was beating in his bosom — 
 
 let him rest ! 
 
 And the littleness of faction let us each forswear 
 
 for aye ; 
 Let the truce to our mad warfare which ennobles 
 
 Primrose Day 
 Culminate in perfect concord, and the yellow 
 
 blossom be, 
 Not a brief memento merely, but a pledge of 
 
 unity. 
 
 J 
 
 Let Impcrium et Libcrtas ! " from our throats in 
 
 thunder break, 
 Till the foes of England tremble, and the friends 
 
 of treason quake, 
 And the shibboleths that smother strong-voiced 
 
 Freedom's thrilling cry, 
 Sink to silence in the sunshine of a happier 
 
 destiny !
 
 TRIFLING TRIPLETS, BEING A SERIES 
 OF RHYMING REJOINDERS TO THE 
 QUAINT QUESTIONS IN A QUERIST'S 
 
 ALBUM. 
 
 What virtue do you most esteem ? 
 
 Courage the greatest virtue seems to me. 
 Define briefly your ideal man. 
 
 Sans peur ct sans ?-eproche that man must be, 
 Define briefly your ideal ivoman. 
 
 And fair as Eve and staunch as Enid she. 
 What do you consider the most beautiful thing in nature ? 
 
 The form Pygmalion reproduced in stone. 
 What is your idea of the greatest earthly happiness ? 
 
 A heart to " love me for myself alone." 
 Also your greatest misery ? 
 
 To dream of gladness and to find it flown. 
 What is the vice you most detest ? 
 
 Hypocrisy I hate — 'twas born of hell ! 
 What peculiarity can you most tolerate? 
 
 I do not know, and therefore cannot tell. 
 Ynur favourite amusement. 
 
 To breathe soft nothings to some damosel. 
 Your favourite study. 
 
 My favourite stud} from Apollo came.
 
 TRIFLING TRIPLETS. I 53 
 
 Your favourite historical hero. 
 
 Harold, the monarch with the deathless name. 
 Your favourite historical heroine. 
 
 The Maid of Saragossa, dear to Fame. 
 Your favourite hero in fiction. 
 
 Tom Pinch, who won the homage of my youth. 
 Your favourite heroine in fiction. 
 
 Tom Pinch's sister, charming little Ruth. 
 Your favourite novelist, and your most admired poet. 
 
 Dickens, and Shelley, champion of the truth. 
 What is your favourite piece of poetry ? 
 
 The noble "Vision of the Man Accurst." 
 Whom do you consider the greatest living orator ? 
 
 Coercion's critic, who himself coerced. 
 Which opera do you most admire ? 
 
 Of twenty favourites, "Carmen" shall be first. 
 What musical i?istrument do you like best ? 
 
 The violin lifts me to heaven's gate. 
 What musical composer do you like best ? 
 
 Handel, whose melodies might conquer Fate. 
 What is your opinion of the girl of the period ? 
 
 A nymph in corsets, with an empty pate. 
 What is your opinion of the young man of the period ? 
 
 A gaitered biped, with a dearth of brains. 
 At zvhal age should a man marry ? 
 
 When he to years of soberness attains. 
 At what age should a woman marry ? 
 
 Before the freshness of her beauty wanes.
 
 154 TRIFLING TRIPLETS. 
 
 Is a lady justified in concealing her age ? 
 
 Sometimes in that she finds her only chance. 
 Should it he the ladies' prerogative to pop the question ? 
 ■ Never, till swallows swim and cockles dance. 
 Do you believe in love at first sight ? 
 
 Who can foretell the issues of a glance ? 
 Do you believe in marrying for love and working for 
 money ? 
 
 Marry for love, or matrimony spurn. 
 Were you ever in love ? and, if so, how often ? 
 
 Excuse the answer — that is my concern ! 
 What coloured eyes and hair do you most admire ? 
 
 Dark, as a rule, though each have had their turn. 
 Name your pet fioiver. 
 
 My pets are many, but the rose is one. 
 Name your pet colour. 
 
 The crimson splendour of the setting sun. 
 Name your pet animal. 
 
 The dog that meets me when the day is done. 
 Your favourite proverb. 
 
 Who walks "with wise men shall" himself "be 
 wise " 
 Your favourite quotation . 
 
 '"He aims too low who aims beneath the skies." 
 Your age next birthday. 
 
 Rhyme fails me in the last of my replies.
 
 THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE, 
 21st June, 1887. 
 
 The maid who, fifty years ago, 
 
 With tears assumed a splendid crown, 
 
 And softly prayed for grace to grow 
 More worthy of its old renown, 
 
 Has worn it well, and wakes to see 
 
 The morning of her jubilee. 
 
 But fifty years are big with fate, 
 
 And thrones have risen and fallen since then ; 
 Yet still she keeps her ancient state, 
 
 Her truest realm the hearts of men. 
 Her life lives down disloyalty, 
 And Love proclaims her jubilee. 
 
 Pure as the lily has she moved 
 
 In the " fierce light" that smites the throne ; 
 And Slander, " like a thing reproved," 
 
 From her clear eyes abashed hath flown. 
 No venomed voice of calumny 
 Is heard upon her jubilee.
 
 156 THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE. 
 
 Meet mate for Albert, like her spouse, 
 She labours for the common weal ; 
 
 And every man of us allows 
 
 The queenliness her deeds reveal — 
 
 The Mother of her People she, 
 
 Well may they keep her jubilee ! 
 
 The hungry her white hands have fed, 
 The poor her golden largess share ; 
 
 And, in the presence of the dead, 
 
 Her words have eased the heart's despair. 
 
 All sorrow claims her sympathy — 
 
 Heaven smile upon her jubilee ! 
 
 But she hath felt the fangs of Pain — 
 
 An Albert lost, an Alice low, 
 A Leopold by the Spoiler ta'en — 
 
 Ah, queens are not exempt from woe ! 
 Thrones cannot baffle Death's decree — 
 Tears glisten in the jubilee ! 
 
 But they are only rainbow tears — 
 Love turns their crystal into flame ; 
 
 And, through the vanished fifty years, 
 In all her griefs, her subjects came 
 
 And shared their monarch's misery. 
 
 To-day they share her jubilee.
 
 THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE. 1 57 
 
 They honour her because she sways 
 Her royal sceptre as she should ; 
 
 Because, through all her length of days, 
 Her aim as been her people's good ; 
 
 Because they feel that they are free 
 
 They sing the song of jubilee. 
 
 • 
 
 They honour her as loftiest 
 Of all the ladies in the land ; 
 
 Because her glory is confessed 
 
 Wherever Freedom's children stand ; 
 
 Because of realms that bow the knee 
 
 And swell the song of jubilee. 
 
 They honour her for equal laws, 
 And as an English monarch's due ; 
 
 But most they honour her because 
 Thev feel she is a woman too. 
 
 'Tis that which makes a world agree 
 
 To celebrate her jubilee !
 
 TWO TRIOLETS. 
 (for an album.) 
 
 I. 
 
 The space is small — I'll utilize it, 
 And try my hand at triolets — 
 
 A trivial form, but don't despise it ! 
 
 The space is small — I'll utilize it. 
 
 Meek is the daisy, but men prize it 
 Above the yellow sun-flower's blaze ; 
 
 The space is small — I'll utilize it, 
 And try my hand at triolets. 
 
 II. 
 
 If I should fail, forgive me, Lily; 
 
 If I succeed, I claim a kiss. 
 It may be you will think me silly — 
 If I should fail, forgive me, Lily. 
 Outside the winter wind is chilly, 
 
 A lady's scorn more icy is ; 
 If I should fail, forgive me, Lily; 
 
 If I succeed, I claim a kiss.
 
 TO MY FRIEND, RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MY LADIES' SONNETS AND 
 
 OTHER 'VAIN AND AMATORIOUS' VERSES, 
 
 WITH SOME OF GRAVER MOOD." 
 
 "Do me not the wrong 
 To think that in a bookman's roundelay 
 The deepest in my being finds a tongue. 
 
 For if perchance some music should be mine, 
 I would fling forth its notes like a fierce sea, 
 
 To wash away the piles of tyranny, 
 To make love free and faith unbound of creed. 
 
 Oh ! for some power to fill my shrunken line, 
 And make a trumpet of my oaten reed." 
 " The Bookman 7 s Avalon." 
 
 Thou hast the music, friend, if thou wilt use it, 
 And "like a fierce sea" thou may'st fling it forth; 
 
 What if the hollow multitude refuse it ? 
 There shall be those to recognize its worth ; 
 
 Nor will the coming centuries accuse it 
 
 When its high message has redeemed the earth.
 
 l6o TO MY FRIEND. RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 
 
 Of love thou singest, and thou singest sweetly ; 
 
 And pleasant is thy " bookman's roundelay ; 
 And few possess the art to put more neatly 
 
 The compliments which youth is fain to pay ; 
 But let thy mission fill thee more completely, 
 
 To lead thy fellows in the wiser way. 
 
 I know, my friend, the fervor of thy yearning 
 To rive the fetters that oppress thy kind — 
 
 Not Shelley's soul with purer fire was burning 
 To free that prisoner, the human mind, 
 
 And bid it soar, its ancient bondage spurning, 
 And give new eyesight to a race half blind. 
 
 I know that in the moments consecrated 
 To dreamful silence and to thoughts divine, 
 
 When evening falleth, and thine heart seems mated, 
 By some strange secret, to the tuneful Nine, 
 
 And every fibre in thy frame related 
 
 To waves that wander and to stars that shine ; 
 
 When from their shelves look down, with smiling 
 
 faces, 
 The "Elzevirs " of thy delicious song, 
 
 And lamplight dallies with the well-filled cases,
 
 TO MY FRIEND, RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 1 6 1 
 
 And the red embers seem to find a tongue, 
 And shadows flicker in mysterious places, 
 Thou art not heedless of thy brother's wrong ; 
 
 Thou art not mindless of the sad world's weeping 
 Thou art not careless of the wan world's cry* 
 
 Into the chambers of thy soul comes creeping 
 The monotone of human misery — 
 
 Yet from thy reed no trumpet blast comes leaping 
 To which a thousand trumpets might reply. 
 
 Sing on in sonnets of Eve's white-limbed daughters, 
 And weave fresh ballads of both backs and books, 
 
 "Down by the summer sea," whose wash of waters 
 Is sweeter in some rosy maiden's looks ; 
 
 Where Mammon's curse the sense of beauty 
 slaughters, 
 Or seated in the cosiest of " Nooks ;" 
 
 But do not doubt thy power to sing in thunder — 
 To stir our pulses and our chains to break ; 
 
 To fill the dullard with a noble wonder, 
 And bid the sleeper suddenly awake, 
 
 And, through the realms a thousand leagues 
 asunder, 
 Rouse man to labour for great Duty's sake.
 
 1 62 TO MY FRIENDS. 
 
 Sing on of freedom from the creeds that bind us— 
 From the harsh curse of Custom's tyranny ; 
 
 Sing of the lot for which the Fates designed us— 
 Of faith untrammelled, and of love made free, 
 
 That we may weary of the vales behind us, 
 And climb the mountains that we dimly see, 
 
 Sing what thou feelest, and the Master-Singer, 
 The god Apollo, shall assist the strain ; 
 
 And Israfel shall teach thee how to finger 
 The reed whose music is no longer " vain ; " 
 
 And in men's ears the melody shall linger 
 Till Eden's glory lights the earth again.
 
 BALLADE OF APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Alone together, you and I 
 
 Within the sunny orchard lay, 
 And watched the clouds across the sky, 
 Like choirs of angels dimly stray ; 
 God's minstrels piped on many a spray, 
 
 Or floated past on drowsy wing — 
 'Twas in the merry month of May, 
 And apple blossoms spoke of spring. 
 
 And sweet I found it thus to lie, 
 
 The willing slave to your soft sway, 
 And, prompted by your sympathy, 
 The secrets of my soul betray ; 
 Yet there was much I could not say. 
 And there is more I dare not sing ; 
 But you were blithe and I was gay 
 When apple blossoms spoke of spring.
 
 164 BALLADE OF APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 No Philistines were standing by, 
 Our tender dalliance to survey ; 
 The thrushes might have heard us sigh — 
 We heeded not such friends as they : 
 The birds no confidence bewray — 
 They are content with carolling ; 
 And so the moments slipped away, 
 
 While apple blossoms spoke of spring. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 Lady, the rosy blooms decay — 
 
 We know not what the years will bring ; 
 But Love was lord upon the day 
 
 When apple blossoms spoke of spring.
 
 PROEM. 
 (written for the first issue, ON SEPT. I, 1888, 
 
 OF "SUNRISE : A WEEKLY PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.") 
 
 The clouds are breaking, the world is waking, 
 All dumb with wonder the nations lie, 
 
 The mountains redden, the ocean blushes, 
 A glory flushes the eastern sky. 
 
 In the midnight eerie men's hearts were weary, 
 And the earth was dreary, and life was dark ; 
 
 And, in senseless slaughter, their blood like water 
 Was spilled with only the stars to mark. 
 
 They dreamt of Aidenn, but, heavy-laden. 
 Both man and maiden awoke to weep ; 
 
 For their magic dreaming was idle seeming, 
 
 And the hopes they cherished were hard to keep. 
 
 And, though earth was teeming with milk and honev, 
 For lack of money, the millions died 
 
 Of sheer starvation in many a nation 
 
 Where shrines were reared to the Crucified.
 
 1 66 PROEM. 
 
 And cruel fevers and plagues devoured them, 
 And envy soured them, and the}' were slaves 
 
 To a fierce unreason, and lost in hazes, 
 
 And under the daisies they dug their graves. 
 
 And from their sorrow some sought to borrow 
 Surcease by draining the goblet dry ; 
 
 And found their sadness had turned to madness, 
 And slew each other and knew not why. 
 
 Iiut some for ever, with strong endeavour, 
 Were grandly working, their eyes aglow ; 
 
 And they told the realms that the gloom would 
 vanish, 
 And the sunrise banish the night of woe. 
 
 But the many mocked at the message spoken, 
 And asked a token, and craved a sign ; 
 
 And in vain they waited, for the earth seemed fated 
 In endless misery to pine. 
 
 Yet still they laboured with souls undaunted, 
 Though the night was haunted with things of 
 shame ; 
 
 And they dared all evils, and men and devils, 
 Till the darkness trembled and sunrise came .
 
 PROEM. 167 
 
 The clouds are breaking, the world is waking, 
 The ghosts are quaking, the shadows fly ; 
 
 The gloom is riven with the fires of heaven — 
 Take heart, my brothers, the day is nigh !
 
 IN DOUBT. 
 
 A week ago, my heart was like a bird 
 At nesting-time, and sang in its delight ; 
 The hours were golden and the skies were 
 bright, 
 
 Elysian breezes in the branches stirred, 
 
 Eolian harps in every wind I heard, 
 
 And darkness tarried, and the balmy night 
 Came, like a spell, to put my fears to flight, 
 
 And all my love was told without a word. 
 
 To-day, my heart is heavy, and I miss 
 The glory I discovered everywhere. 
 
 The thing that I had lived for may not be : 
 I dreamed you loved me, and the thought was 
 bliss ; 
 But now I doubt it, and, in my despair, 
 The earth I sang of is a hell to me.
 
 THE TWO KINGS. 
 
 (to my friend, w. s. r., in admiration 
 
 of the patience and courage with which 
 
 he is bearing a grievous and protracted 
 
 affliction.) 
 
 " Learn to suffer without complaining." 
 
 The Emperor Frederick. 
 
 Within your chamber, as the shadows lengthened, 
 
 And the dim twilight fell, 
 We talked together, and my heart was strengthened 
 
 By what you had to tell. 
 
 Through the long years, it had been yours to 
 languish 
 Upon a bed of woe, 
 The daily martyr to such hours of anguish 
 As words are weak to show, 
 
 Your earnest eyes towards the window turning 
 
 With looks of mute appeal ; 
 For you were young, and all your soul was yearning 
 
 The air of heaven to feel ;
 
 170 THE TWO KINGS. 
 
 To ramble through the meadows, pink with daisies, 
 
 When rooks were on the wing, 
 And, in the leafy woodland's sunlit mazes, 
 
 To hear the blackbirds sing ; 
 
 Our sports to share, and mingle in the blisses 
 That come to favoured swains — 
 
 To taste the rapture of a maiden's kisses, 
 The pleasure of love's pains. 
 
 I told you that I marvelled how you bore it — 
 
 Your face seemed glorified ; 
 A smile of manly fortitude passed o'er it, 
 
 And bravely you replied. 
 
 You said that it was hard, but you were trying 
 
 To suffer silently, 
 Like him who ruled, through dreary months of 
 dying, 
 
 The realm beyond the sea, 
 
 Buoyed by the voice of Duty, clear and ringing, 
 
 Nerved by a heart of steel, 
 All thought of weakness to the four winds flinging, 
 
 And able to conceal,
 
 THE TWO KINGS. 171 
 
 From the world's eyes, the agony which slew him 
 
 Before his work was done ; 
 In life we loved him, but in death we knew him 
 
 Both king and kingly one. 
 
 Ah ! friend, like you, 1 pondered on the story 
 
 Of Frederick's patient reign, 
 Whose throne was mighty, but whose truest glory 
 
 Was greater than to gain 
 
 The dazzling sceptre and the huge dominion — 
 
 He was a king by birth ; 
 But his best title, in the world's opinion, 
 
 Was in his simple worth. 
 
 And you, like him, have borne, " without 
 complaining," 
 
 A burden strange to bear ; 
 And his is loosened — yours is still remaining, 
 
 But nothing of despair 
 
 Preys on your soul ; no feeble words are spoken 
 
 Which idly question Fate ; 
 The years steal on, and still, with trust unbroken, 
 
 You resolutely wait
 
 1-jZ THE TWO KINGS. 
 
 The lot appointed, whether it be gladness, 
 
 And health and strength again ; 
 Or whether it be weary months of sadness, 
 
 And one dull round of pain. 
 
 And there are many who no thrones inherit, 
 
 Or golden baubles bright, 
 But who are kings by reason of their merit, 
 
 And of diviner right. 
 
 And if, within the blue expanse above us, 
 
 Where the soft starlight glows, 
 A place there be where there are gods that love us, 
 
 And where the good repose, 
 
 Your pain shall cease, and angels, full of pity, 
 From their high seats come down 
 
 To bid you welcome to the Shining City, 
 And you shall wear a crown.
 
 BALLADE OF THE HEART'S WINTER. 
 
 When apple blossoms spoke of spring 
 
 And thrushes piped on every tree, 
 My lady's praise I sought to sing, 
 Inspired by my felicity ; 
 For Love was lord and blithe were we 
 
 As, side by side, we fondly lay : 
 My lyre has lost its melody — 
 
 There's winter in my heart to-day. 
 
 Within a home where I was king, 
 
 And she was queen, by Love's decree, 
 My heart's best wishes blossoming, 
 In rosy vision, I could see ; 
 And there were children at my knee, 
 With sunny smiles and voices gay ; 
 And heaven was mine, for mine was she — 
 There's winter in my heart to-day.
 
 174 BALLADE OF THE HEART'S WINTER. 
 
 Six months have flown on idle wing, 
 
 And, where the blooms hung balmily, 
 I see the luscious fruitage cling, 
 And harvests waving, rich and free. 
 My harvest is of misery ; 
 
 My rosy dream has passed away — 
 
 Ah, God, to think that it should be ! 
 
 There's winter in my heart to-day. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 But spring returns, and shadows flee, 
 And love like mine defies decay ; 
 
 And sunshine may come back to me — 
 There's winter in my heart to-day.
 
 AU REVOIR ! 
 
 Two words of parting by the lips are spoken, 
 
 And strangely linger in the human ear — 
 "Adieu ! " and "Au revoir ! " With voices broken 
 
 We say the one ; the other with a tear, 
 Perchance, we utter, but we swiftly borrow 
 
 Hope from the future, and our brows are calm ; 
 A rainbow flashes through the mists of sorrow, 
 
 And Marah's bitter waters turn to balm. 
 
 "Adieu ! "— " Good-bye ! "—To part, mayhap, for 
 ever; 
 
 As storms the ivy from the tree may tear, 
 So Fate two souls may endlessly dissever, 
 
 And bid them eat the ashes of despair. 
 But "Au revoir! " has solace in its sadness — 
 
 "Adieu!" indeed, but not "Adieu" for aye!— 
 "Adieu until we meet again" in gladness, ~ 
 
 Under the sunlight of some happier day !
 
 176 AU REVOIR ! 
 
 'Tis not "Adieu !" the mother whispers, weeping, 
 
 As forth her son goes from the genial home 
 Into life's harvest, eager for the reaping, 
 
 Ready rough seas to sail, far realms to roam ; 
 To face earth's perils with a heart undaunted, 
 
 And seek success, as knightly Percivale, 
 Through regions by dim forms of horror haunted, 
 
 Followed the splendour of the Holy Grail. 
 
 Oh ! not "Adieu! " the lover falters, leaving 
 
 The maid crowned queen within his constant 
 breast ; 
 In that dark hour, his mind is busy weaving 
 
 Dreams of reunion, and the dreams bring rest. 
 And not "Adieu!" the maiden answers, sighing, 
 
 As in his arms he clasps her thrillingly ; 
 Beyond the looming void her thoughts are flying — 
 
 He shall return "in the sweet by-and-by." 
 
 They softly breathe an "Au revoir ! " and parting 
 
 Loses for them the keenness of its pain ; 
 They see bright visions in life's path upstarting — 
 
 They leave each other — they will meet again. 
 Whether or no the dreams shall find fruition, 
 
 Ever the fond heart dreams the dreams anew ; 
 Man murmurs "Au revoir! " by intuition, 
 
 And love is loth to frame the word "Adieu ! " 
 
 J. WOOD, PRINTER, SANKEY STREET, WARRINGTON.
 
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