m,^mu^$^maLjmm^m.^msmm '5yK »' \ -%.* I FANNT T SONNETS AND POEMS. BY CLAUDE ^ DUVAL, MANCHESTER : ABEL HEYWOOD AND SON, 56 & 58, OLDHAM STREET. LONDON : SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 3)7 F3 TO MY FRIEND, WILLIAM WHITAKEE. JHeaton Chapel, June, 1880. 058 Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive in 2007 witii funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.arcliive.org/details/fannysonnetspoemOOduvarlcli CONTENTS. SONNETS : T II.— To Fanny III IV V.—To Fanny VI VII VIII. IX X.— Agnes . . . XI. ... XII XIII.— JuHa... XlV.—Julia XV XVI XVII.— Anna ... XVIII. — Remembrances of Arundel XIX XX. ... XXI PAGE. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 , 13 14 15 16 17 18 , 19 20 . 21 CONTENTS. XXII.... XXIII. . XXIV.... XXV. . XXVI.... POEMS : After the Battle A Ringlet of Her Silken Hair Why does thy Cheek O'erjBLow May-Nig-ht Anna. — Long Ago My Home The Dying Warrior Comfort in Grief Adelheid Phantoms Julia My Betrothed Parting for Greece Despondency Oh ! Were I Like a Fairy The Bridegroom Request Dream and Reality ... Last Night I had a Dream of Thee.. By the Arun PAGE. 22 . 23 24 . 25 26 27 29 .31 33 35 37 39 42 45 47 52 55 59 62 64 66 70 72 74 76 CONTENTS. Vll. PAGE. The Prisoner's Dream 78 When Spring Buds 85 My Dream ... 87 Blackbird's Song 95 To My Home 99 Aunt Emily 102 On the Cliff 106 Hannibal Ill Countess Donar — My Father's Tale 114 Thy Will be Done ... 128 Someone Kissed Me in my Dream 142 In the Park 145 Fanny 148 My Burial 155 Looking Back 157 S O K" N" E T S As men oft doubt what on some foreign land With strange fantastic customs they have read^ Thus wond'ring at myself I shake my head, As at some tale I fail to understand. Those lips I used to kiss are mute, the hand That fondled me so oft is cold and dead ; Like phantoms all my dreams and hopes have fled. Or passed away, like raindrops in the sand. Through fate I am for evermore estranged From all to which my heart was wont to cling ; Far from my home another I have grown ; My ways, ideas, and desires are changed. And e'en the tongue in which my songs I sing Was, in my teens, to me a tongue unknown. SONNETS. II. TO FANNY. So many days and months — yea ! years are gone Since I fled from thy face, and far away I thought I might forget thee soon, but, nay, I must remember thee, and thee alone. I always fancy thou art still my own, And first love's passion, like the glowing ray Of southern skies, is burning night and day JDeep in my heart that thou, but thou hast known. Could I behold once more thy features dear. And press thee once, but once upon my heart, And listen to thy voice so sweet and clear ; Upon thy forehead shed a soothing tear. Then all my grief and sorrow would depart, And all the silent woe of many a year. m. Farewell, ye visions that so sweetly smiled ; Farewell, ye phantom^ all that once I blessed ; Farewell, ye dreams of love I liked the best, No longer tempt my heart that ye beguiled. Oh ! could I only be once more a child, And lean my head upon my mother's breast, That there I might forget, in happy rest. Some bitter hours of struggle drear and wild. It is so sweet to rest in mother's arm ; Her gentle voice lulls soothingly to sleep ; Her tender love doth comfort and relieve. And makes forget all sorrow, woe, and harm ; Her love that dwelleth in the heart so deep. Is that one love that never will deceive. SONNETS. IV. Why dost thou mingle in my dreams again. And fix again thy burning eyes on me ? Thy features that one time I craved to see, Awaken now but sorrow and disdain. When I was led away by passion's rein And thy beguiling charms, I longed to be Caressed by bliss-bestowing dreams of thee, — My blood ran hotter then from vein to vein. Thy fatal pow'r is gone, the flame that thou Mysteriously once rousedst in my breast, Has ceased to burn my heart with glowing rays. I yearn no more to dream of thee, for now My soul dehghts in dreams of home the best ; Of thee I dreamed too much in bygone days. TO FANNY. The dreary struggle that I fought is o'er ; My bosom*s wound begins to heal, the wind That kindled fatal flames of passion blind, Has ceased with all the grief and woe I bore. My heart, that anguish- stricken throbbed before, Beats peacefully again, it has resigned — And thou, whose charms enchanted once my mind, PARTING FOR GREECE. Farewell, farewell, thou northern shore, My friendly home for many a year, Once to my heart so dear, so dear, But now so gloomy, sad and drear, Thee I shall leave for evermore. Farewell, farewell, I long to see The land renowned in days of old For noble virtues, not for gold ; And where man's heart— stout, brave and bold- Beat proud in intrepidity. As in a happier time gone by I shall once more have rest and peace ; My bosom's ruthless pang shall cease When those fair olive hills of Greece Arise before the wondering eye. 60 POEMS. Oh ! what a comfort, what a bhss, To see the silvery moonhght gleam There over bright Kephissos' stream, To dream a melancholy dream By Athens' old Akropolis. Oh ! thought so soothing, I shall dwell There with the shades of Phidias, Of noble Kallikratidas, And him who in the famous Pass With his three hundred Spartans fell. There I shall roam where over his Far-famed immortal Marathon With brighter halo shines the sun ; I shall roam where he breathed who won The day by wave-bound Salamis. Around me there the shades will be Of all whose friends the Muses were ; Of those whom Pallas wise and fair Endowed with virtues high and rare, Bestowing immortality. 61 Oh ! Hellas, how for thee I crave ; Thou wast my cherished dream of yore, To greet thee I yearn more and more — Receive me kindly on thy shore, And grant me when I die a grave. 62 DESPONDENCY. My weary spirit craves to quit a life Which is for me a cruel endless strife ; I can depart without regret, for I Have neither friends nor parents ; have no wife That would, for fashion's sake, weep when I die. I am a burden to myself, I see, Begotten by strange whim of Destiny ; Like beasts, I nothing for my own can claim Except sky, air, and light, and misery As long as I must pant in human frame. How happy those I loved ! they all have gone To rest beneath the grass, but I alone Am left, and why ? to linger here below Like some old crumbling weather-beaten stone, Corroded slowly by dust, rain and snow. POEMS. 68 And rescue from my state I can see none, In anguish I shall toil and linger on Till death, the kind deliverer, appear To tear the net of misery round me spun, And free me ever from all doubt and fear. 64 OH ! WERE I LIKE A FAIRY. Oh ! were I like a fairy, Then I would abide alone And select a lofty linden For my shady summer- throne, There I would by friendly moonlight Watch the happy zephyrs play, Hear what in a loving whisper They to blossoms softly say; That I might, that I might Speak in their melodious accents To my love, to my love. Were I like some swift- winged creature Underneath the sunny sky ; Could I kiss the fairest flowers, Like a bee or butterfly, I would never touch a flower, Never take a perfumed kiss, But would whirl there where a blossom Blooms that gives me greater bliss ; That I might, that I might Sip from rosy lips the honey Of my love, of my love. Oh ! were I like a spirit, Like a spirit free and light, To her, over hill and valley, I would take mine airy flight. I would, as a guardian angel. Evermore near her abide, And into her soul by night-time, As a radiant sunbeam glide ; That I might, that I might Brighten with sweet dreams the slumber Of my love, of my love. Warningcamp, Dec. 28th, 1872. 66 POEMS. THE BEIDEGROOM. I. *' You are such a wayward and whimsical girl To tremble and weep, and to faint thus away, You ought to rejoice, for remember an Earl, An Earl leads you to the altar to-day." •^^ Oh, mother, you know the distress of my soul. The pang in my bosom compels me to weep ; For have I not plighted my heart unto Paul, Whose memory haunts me awake and asleep ?" ** And doth your Paul's mem'ry still madden your head ? You know he went rashly to war, and he met With death in the fight, now since he is dead. You no more should think of the past, but forget." ^' Oh, mother, your cruel words made him depart. You loved him so well, but the Earl then beguiled You with gold, and his gold has dazzled your heart, You have sold lor riches and title your child.'* 67 *' Remember, remember, you wayward young girl. That life would have brought but trouble and strife ; For Paul, aye! was poor; as the wife of the Earl You will revel in all the pleasures of life." '' To revel in pleasures and wealth I disdain. For riches and titles my heart does not crave ; Life's pleasures and riches are fleeting and vain ; For Paul my soul yearns, and I long for a grave." "It badly behoves you to speak in this way. And upbraid your mother, methinks who knows best What befits her daughter, and she must obey — Whate'er it may be — her mother's behest." Thus speaketh the mother — and hark ! from the spira It merrily chimes, for up ride from the glade The Earl and his vassals in glittering attire, He cometh to lead to the altar the maid. 68 II. The halls of the castle on wood-belted height With joyful voices and music resound, The sparkling windows reflect back the light On the rustling leaves of the elm-trees around. With lords and fair ladies in pompous array The tables are girded, and side by side There sit, as though Autumn to 'gentle May Were wedded, the Earl and his beautiful bride . They render her homage, they vie to beguile Her time with frolic away, and they raise Their glasses in mirth, but a sorrowful smile Alone is her answer to homage and praise. ' My love, do no longer cast down thus your eyes, Hark ! cymbals and trumpets enticingly call To the dance — fair ladies and barons arise — Cheer up, love, and rise, let us open the ball." POEMS. 69 Thus he speaks ; but, lo ! what a change has come o'er Her face — to what does she thus listen ? her eyes Are gazing mysteriously towards the door ; *' Oh ! thou comest to fetch me!" she suddenly cries. And she starts from her seat, and rushes away To the door, — and behold ! a shadow doth glide Through the hall, and they see with awe and dismay, How the shadow swiftly approaches the bride. And they meet, and the phantom draweth her nigh, And her arms round its neck she lovingly links ; Then a kiss — and the ghost is gone — with a sigh The bride dead upon the marble floor sinks. Arundel, April, 1873. 70 POEMS. REQUEST. Do not forget when death has closed mine eyes, And ere ye lay me in the narrow shrine, To clasp those songs which she once seemed to prize In my right hand, for they are songs of mine. Do not forget to press the lock of hair That she once as a token gave to me, Into my left, and place it gently where A heart stands still that beat so faithfully. Bear me to rest amid the day's farewells, When robins sing their slumber-song, and round In all the villages the evening bells Greet night's approach with melancholy sound. And lay me low close to that shady spot Where she who bore me sleeps beneath the moss ; Upon my tomb plant a forget-me-not, And at my head erect a simple cross. POEMS. 71 Do not engrave on it in showy signs My name to tell that there to rest I went, Nor any of my sorrow-breathing lines ; A broken harp be all its ornament. Arundel, May, 1873. 72 DREAM AND REALITY. Dream, if thou wilt be happy, for a life That hath no dreams is but a fruitless strife, Our happiness dwells in sweet dreams enshrined, Awake but grief, regret and woe we find. How are in life's short spring our dreams so sweet, However quickly they away may fleet ; Those woe-beguiling sunny dreams we dream, When hope and joy bright in our bosoms beam. I too had dreams, fair dreams in days gone by. Dreams most delightful to the heart and eye. That oft I wish they might still now beguile My drear existence with their sunny smile, In fairy land I too have dwelled one time ; Have dwelled 'mid phantoms airy and sublime. All seemed to cherish me and to caress My soul and senses with their loveliness. Out of their number for my own I chose, One comely as a May-month's budding rose, It often charmed mine eyes and warmed my heart ; I dreamed it never would from me depart. But I awoke, reality soon tore That phantom from my heart for evermore. Perhaps another now enjoys its charms And revels dream-beguiled in tender arms ; May he be happy as I used to be, And may his happiness ne'er from him flee. For joy and bliss abide in dreams enshrined. When waking, grief alone and woe we find, Dreams of past dreams are still my chiefest zest. Though I have lost what I methought possessed. Arundel, May, 1873. 74 POEMS. LAST NIGHT I HAD A DEEAM OF THEE. Last night I had a dream of thee, my heart Cheered up like earth when touched by spring-sun rays, Thou wast again for me, not what thou art. But what thou seemedst in my better days. Yea ! I beheld thee, as I oft of old Beheld thy features with delight, when thou Wast mine, and beamedst as the wave of gold Which gracefully bedecks thy stately brow. That dream has charmed away for evermore All anger and resentment from my breast. Revived the love which once for thee I bore, And makes anew thy mem'ry dear and blessed. It took me back to one of those sweet hours, One of those hours of unforgot delight My heart enjoyed when 'neath those lilac bow'rs We lonely sat by moonlit summer night. POEMS. 75 Like then I held thy waist clasped in mine arm, Like then the stars on high looked friendly on, Like then our souls seemed by some wondrous charm Harmoniously to melt away in one. Like then thou softly whispering didst confide Thy bosom's secret woe and joy to me, Like then the moments seemed too fast to glide, Like then I slowly homeward went with thee. Like then we paused before the gate, and thou Laidst lovingly thy head upon my breast. And while thou whisperedst, like of old, a vow. Upon thy lips the farewell kiss I pressed. And with that kiss, whose sweetness still I seem To taste with rapture, I awoke at last In tears of bliss from that dehghtful dream Which has redeemed my sufi"erings of the past. Arundel, June, 1873. 7,6 POEMS. BY THE ARUN. September 11th, 1873. We met one day by chance as travellers meet ; I know no more what made me choose my seat Just so that I beheld her face and eyes ; At first, and how could it be otherwise ? We both were silent, unaware of me She seemed and gazed methought in reverie Upon the brook that through the lowland streamed And golden in the dying sunlight gleamed. At last — I have forgotten how — I broke The silence, for a little while we spoke Of things from which, though void of interest For others, we derived the sweetest zest. And as thus time was flying fast away. Our theme had altered, and we had to say So much one to the other, we exchanged — As souls congenial that by fate estranged Meet and at once discern they are akin — POEMS. 77 Our thoughts and all the secrets within Our hearts, enraptured with each other we Weened that our lot one day the same would be. Fallacious hope ! one fatal word disclosed That fortune's will had otherwise disposed. Scarce had away that word's vibration died, When nameless gloom and sadness seemed to glide Into our souls, our speech would then no more Flow from our lips as richly as before. And soon there reigned again 'twixt her and me Deep silence as at first, but furtively We gazed one at the other now and then, As were our eyes afraid to meet, and when At last we had to part, her hand I took And pressed it fervently, and with a look That spoke of sorrow and profound regret. That we must part, yet more that we had met, We severed silently, too well we knew We should not have another interview. Arundel, January 7th, 1874. 78 P0EMS7 THE PRISONER'S DREAM. Before the tower's lattice He stands and looks in gloom Adown where dusky jasmine And balmy roses bloom. Below the limpid brooklet Winds murmuring along, The thrush beneath the foliage Sings his melodious song. The evening sun emblazons The hills afar and streams Upon the silver cloudlets Its purple-woven beams. Down in the village chapel The bell so softly rings, With sweet harmonious music The day to rest it sings. 79 Around the towering castle Its echoes sound again ; He listens, and he fancies He hears a homely strain. And boundless anguish seizes His bosom, the desire To see once more his country- Burns like corroding fire. Behind the lofty mountains There lies his home so far, He cannot hasten thither For wounds and prison's bar. Into the hazy distance He looks with longing eyes, Till night, in starry garment. Hides mountains, fields and skies. 80 POEMS* That does not fail to soften His anguish, that bestows Upon him blissful comfort And brings him sweet repose. And as now slumber-fettered His body resting lies, To distant well-known regions Away his spirit flies. His father and his mother His eyes again behold. His brothers and his sisters And all the friends of old. They ask, amid caresses, Why, where, and how from home,. From father far and mother He thus so long could roam. POEMS. 81 Then all his strange adventures To them he does relate, And how he has in battle Met with most cruel fate. How he for years has lingered In unrelenting pain, How now he feels so gladsome To be at home again. The aged father presses Upon his breast his boy, Who, thrilling with emotion, Sheds soothing tears of joy. His mother draws him nearer, That son for whom she bore Woe, grief and anguish, nestles Close to her heart once more. 62 That makes him feel so happy, There, in his mother's arm, ^He loses all remembrance Of sorrow, pain and harm. To be anew united To her so sweet doth seem, And in his dream he dreameth Another blissful dream. For hark ! strange wondrous voices And music soft he hears, He weens a strain from heaven Resoundeth in his ears. Whilst he with transport listens To that supernal chime. His spirit wanders gently Back to an olden time. 88 Upon his mother's bosom, A happy child once more, Lulled by her voice he nestles. As he was wont of yore. In glorious dreams he revels Thus until night is done, And mountains, fields and^ waters Glow in the morning sun. His smiling face it kisses To waken him from sleep, But he no more awakens, His slumber is too deep. He hears the rill no longer Purl through the shady vale, His ear no more can listen To thrush and nightingale. 84 POEMS. His wounds are healed, in anguish And pain he lingers here No longer, for his spirit Has soared to brighter sphere. Thence he retumeth never On earth again to dwell, But down he looketh kindly On those who loved him well ; Who do not know that homeward The longed-for son has gone To glory everlasting Before the Father's throne. Arundel, Fbbkuary, 1874. POEMS. 85 WHEN SPRING BUDS. When Spring buds earth's beauty eclipses A maid's in her sheenest array, Time weaves and unweaveth her garment And withers her glories away. Fair blossoms and blooms breathe their perfume Over dell, meadow, mountain and glade, But Time biddeth lilies and lilac. And roses and jessamine fade. The butterfly revels in sunshine, And sparkles blue, golden and red. But Night spreads her veil, and flow'rs' darling Droops sadly its wings and is dead. Sweet songsters make garden and forest Resound with melodious lay. But Autumn and Winter will silence Their voices, soft, longing, or gay. 86 POEMS. Life's Spring, too, with woe, joy and sorrow, Dreams, hopes and desires in our hearts, Buds brightly enshrined in a halo, Too soon, yea, too soon it departs. Earth's Spring will come back in due season With butterflies, songsters and flow'rs. But nought can charm back life's delightful Short Spring with its rapturous hours. Ramsgate, May, 1874. POEMS. 87 MY DREAM. One night, while listening moodily Unto the west wind's sighs, Grief-soothing sleep stole over me And closed my weary eyes. And as my body slumber-chained Indulged in sweet repose. My restless soul, no more detained. Quick from its prison rose. And then a wondrous dream I had, As ne'er I dreamed before — So like those legends I had read, Dim legends weird of yore. In some mysterious land I seemed 'Mid linden trees to roam. The sun in softest glory beamed From heaven's azure dome. ^8 POEMS. Bright butterflies round blossoms whirled Of beauteous shape and hue, Along a limpid brooklet purled And gleamed like morning dew. A lay of purest melody Float through the air I heard, Such wondrous accents could not be Notes of an earthborn bird. He sang a song of long ago, A song of golden years, He sang a song of joy and woe, He sighed of love and tears. And as I listened to that song Of times that are no more, Remembrances began to throng Deep in my bosom's core. 89 My fancy wandered back to days When by my father's side I listened to the blackbird's lays At summer sunset-tide. I thought how he had guided me When I was still a boy, And how from earth he suddenly Rose to the realms of joy. And as I thought of him who slept — Far from all miseries, — Beneath the moss, a rustling swept The foliage of the trees. I raised involuntarily Mine eyes, and dread and awe Unspeakable crept over me When I my father saw. 90 POEMS. For could a man whom long ago This earth had ceased to claim, Return and wander here below Anew in mortal frame ? But as the phantom pow'r of dreams Is marvellous and strange, And often in a moment seems To work most wondrous change : Thus too my fear and awe soon passed, I kissed my father's cheek, Upon his breast he clasped me fast, And I began to speak. " Whence comest thou, dear father, pray ? Tell me what can it mean, That thou so long, so long away From all thy loves hast been ? 91 My heart has with affliction sore . Longed after thee in vain, I fancied I should nevermore Behold thy face again." " Far from that land," he then replied, '* I come, where those who well Loved thee, my son, now all abide. And where thou too shalt dwell. There shineth still in lustre on That spotless sun that o'er The denizens of Eden shone La sinless days of yore. Night, sorrow, woe and all that grieves Men here are there unknown, With joy alone the bosom heaves In yon untainted zone." i)2 POEMS. And as I asked " Dear father, pray, How cam'st thou in that land Of light and bliss, — where is the way ?" He smiled and seized my hand. " Come, let us," said he, with a sigh, " Part from this grove serene," — We left the place, and soon mine eye Beheld another scene. The golden sun no longer shone, And in the heavens far The pallid moon looked dimly on, And here and there a star. I could discern at left and right. Half hid in midnight gloom. Full many a cross and marble white. And cypress-tree and tomb. POEMS. 93 And on I went with bated breath And melancholy mood Till, mid the sainted realms of death, Before a grave we stood. No marble stone, no cross adorned That spot, but bent in gloom, A lonely weeping-willow mourned There o'er the sacred tomb. When I beheld the tree that decked The place of lasting rest Down streamed a flood of tears unchecked, And sobs upheaved my breast That tree I planted there one day, A token of my woe, When 'mid the death-bells' dirges they Had laid my father low. ^4 POEMS. As tears on tears were streaming fast, My father left my hand, " Behold," he said, ** This way I passed Into the blissful land." These weighty words he slowly spoke, And sudden bursts of light That o'er his solemn features broke, Screened him and dazed my sight. And when I oped mine eyes anew. That brilliant light was gone, And vanished had my father too. In night I stood alone. And whilst I sadly pondered on. As o'er some mystic theme. The church clock's sharp, shrill, thrilling *' one ' Aroused me from my dream. Ramsgate, May, 1874. POEMS. 95 BLACKBIRD'S SONG. How can sometimes a trifling thing Be to man's heart so dear ! How firmly to his mem'ry cHng And often claim a tear ! When from the woods mild breezes bring Bird-accents to mine ear, I cannot hear a blackbird sing Without a passing tear. It was one early morn in June, Beneath dark lofty trees I loitered, humming some old tune And lost in reveries. 96 POEMS. When all at once a voice I heard, A voice that cried for food, The wee voice of a tiny bird That close to me I viewed. Poor thing, he had not down enough To keep his body warm, And then, the stony ground, so rough, And dewy, did him harm ; He looked with sad imploring eye^-i At me, as if to say : **Pray, give me food, or else I die. Give me a nest I pray." I took him home, made him a nest And fed him with my hand, And ever what he liked the best Was there at his command. And days and weeks of time's swift wing Away thus quickly flew Until this little helpless thing The loveliest blackbird grew. 97 My shoulder was his favourite seat, He looked so gay and bright, His voice so joyous and so sweet Was my supreme delight. He came and listened to my word — That playful charming thing, He was the happiest, happiest bird That ever I heard sing. But oh ! one clear November day When on my hand I had My little darling, warbling, gay, He all at once looked sad. He ceased to sing, death's icy chill Came o'er him suddenly, His eyes, while dimmed by death, gazed stilt Despairingly at me. Beneath a sheltering cherry-tree I buried him in gloom. And there he slumbers peacefully Now in his little tomb. ^8 POEMS. His brothers' songs may there be heard On sunny days again, But for my little darling bird Their songs will sound in vain. How can sometimes a trifling thing Be to man's heart so dear ! How firmly to his mem'ry cling And often claim a tear! When from the woods mild breezes bring Bird-accents to mine ear, I cannot hear a blackbird sing Without a passing tear. In remembrance of my darling bird which I found in Arundel Park, on the 17th of June, 1872, and lost on the 8th of November, in the same year. 99 TO MY HOME. How many, oh how many dreary years shall go ; How many, oh how many bitter tears shall flow ! Until mine eyes in ecstacy once more Can dwell on thee, my sunny native shore. Yea ! fair thou art, the billow that caresses thee Sings softer cradle songs whose homely strain Would lull to slumber all that here distresses me, And make my heart feel glad and young again. Thy spring buds richer, and in brighter glory blooms Thy summer in whose tranquil twilight hours Mysteriously full many an olden story looms Around thy hoary castles' walls and towers. Thy torrents through the valleys grandly- wilder stream^ Thy light-winged zephyrs breathe a purer balm. Thy groves and gardens in the moonlight milder gleam,, And in thy forests reigns a holier calm. 100 POEMS. In bolder majesty thy hills and mountains rise And bathe their heads in pure ethereal blue, Thine is Vaucluse, and thine the Sorgue all fountains' prize, That weeps of love, strong, hapless, chaste and true. Thy minstrels' matchless lays in loftier metre flow, Home of the troubadour and valiant knight, Upon thy maidens' cheeks the roses sweeter glow, Their eyes shine softer than the starry light. Thy evening bells" woe-stilling music deeper rings, And in thy shady gardens of the dead The bird more tunefully unto the sleeper sings Who free from sorrow dreameth in his bed. Land of my childhood, night and day I sigh to flee For ever from this bleak unfriendly shore, Home of my fathers, yea ! fain would I die to see And taste thy glories' charms but once, once more. POEMS. 101 But ere that morn shall glimmer, many a year will go ; — Aye ! many a year I feel and bitter tear will flow Till thee again I view, my fair Provence, Unrivalled jewel in the crown of France. Ramsgate, May, 1874. 102 POEMS. AUNT EMILY. REMEMBRANCES OF MY CHILDHOOD, TOULON, 1853, She was a very strange old maid, My father's sister Emily — At least thus all who knew her said, And such she once appeared to me ; To any question her reply Was e'er ** Something of days gone by." I wondered why she was so grey — For my dear mother's hair was gold — And when I asked her, '* Auntie, pray. What makes you look so strange and old ? "" She sadly gave me the reply : " My child, something of days gone by." POEMS. lOS Oft she was lost in reverie, A tear then quivered in her eye, And when I asked ** Aunt Emily, Whatever makes you dream and sigh ? '* She sadly gave me the reply : ** My child, something of days gone by." She loved to read some letters that She must have kept full many a year, And when I wondering asked her ** What Kead you so often, auntie dear? " She sadly gave me the reply : *' My child, something of days gone by." I saw her open now and then A locket she was wont to wear Close to her gentle heart, and when I asked ** What keep you hidden there, Dear aunt ? " she sadly did reply : ** My child, something of days gone by." 104 One morn she could not leave her bed — Alas ! she ne'er would rise again ; And when I, sorrowful and sad, Asked *' Aunt, what causes you such pain ? " She sadly gave me the reply : *' My child, something of days gone by." Before her soul left earth, she seemed So cheerful, for a splendour bright And radiant o'er her features beamed, Like some celestial glorious light ; Her last words whispered in a sigh : *' Something of days long since gone by." As long as I was but a boy, I often wondered how a thing Of yore could banish all one's joy And to one's heart so strangely cling, And now I know well how, and why One oft thinks but of days gone by. POEMS. 105 And should you ask me why so strange I have become, and why I Hve So lonely, or what such a change Brought over me, I can but give To you my maiden aunt's reply : — Alas ! something of days gone by. 106 POEMS. ON THE CLIFF. When from the wood- clad mountains The last faint gleams have fled, And night's gold-spotted mantle O'er land and sea is spread ; Then 'mid my gay companions I sad and weary feel, And from the realms of pleasure Away I often steal ; Upon the cliff which rises — A white resplendent mass — Above the sighing ocean, Full many an hour I pass. Mine eye fixed on the waters, 'Neath heaven's boundless dome,, I let my restless fancy To other regions roam ; And whilst of purer pleasures And joys I dream and thinks 107 My bosom's cares and sorrows In Lethe's river sink ; — For there comes oft a whisper Far from across the sea, Borne on the glistening billows And zephyrs' wings to me. It is, me thinks, a message From some mysterious land, So weird it sounds, and solemn. Supernal, sweet, and grand. It sings like siren-voices And geems to sigh and weep And tell me of the glories Hid in the wondrous deep. It fills my soul with rapture. The ocean, far and near Grows even as a mirror. Transparent, crystal-clear ; Lost in delight and transport, I, with my spirit's eyes. See in that brilliant mirror Another world arise. 108 POEMS. The stars down in the ocean Pour forth gigantic streams Of golden- silvery lustre Till all unite their beams. Their interwoven splendour Waves like a sea of light Whose mild unearthly radiance Allures and charms the sight. It quivers, gleams and shimmers Till dim and faint it grows ; And wonders then still greater To me the water shows ; Amid dissolving vapours Below a plain I view, And brooklets, groves and meadows With flowers of rainbow hue. Half hid in blooming gardens A city I behold With lofty noble churches. And slender spires of gold ; And hosts of saintly creatures, In shining garments dight, POEMS. With features calm, transfigured, As by celestial light ; They move, like pious pilgrims Unto some sacred shrine, On to the churches slowly In solemn, silent line. And all the hallowed mansions Their stately doors unfold, And through the portals enter The multitudes untold ; Then bursts of holy music Sweep spell-like deep and air, Majestic, tuneful voices Re-echo everywhere ; It swelleth loud and louder With soul-o'erpowering sway. And in vibrations softer It sweetly dies away. Round that mysterious city Clouds phantom-like I see. Enshrouding groves and gardens In misty drapery. 110 POEMS. The graceful spires and temples Have vanished, and again The waters of the ocean Lull in their sighing strain ; Night's golden eyes are peeping Again with placid gleam Upon the world which dreameth The old, old wonder- dream. That world-dream will continue, Through countless ages last Till with its joys and sorrows The Universe has passed ; Then, 'stead of dreams and fancies, Hopes and desires will he One blissfulness-bestowing. Divine Eeality. That thought fills me with gladness And longing, for my heart Tells me that mine existence Forms of that dream a part. POEMS. Ill HANNIBAL. Poets have, in lines immortal, Eulogized and glorified Valiant Hector, who so nobly For his city fought and died. Many a one has praised the hero Who for Sparta, world-renowned. Fell with his three hundred warriors, Honour-laden, glory-crowned ; They have duly decked with laurels Him who won the hottest race. And whose mighty grave -hill towered Proud and high in beauteous place. Lyre of the Castihan Homer, Thine accords will evermore Through the fair land of the evening Whisper ** El Campeador." Brightly shines in taintless lustre That great Scandinavian's shield, 112 POEMS. Who his faith in bloody battle Sealed with death on Luetzen's field.. Other grand and famous warriors Are the poet's pride and boast ; But of all immortal heroes Hannibal I love the most ; Hannibal, the Carthaginian, Brightest paragon of all, Though by destiny forbidden To avert his city's fall. Never was by mortal mother More illustrious chieftain born Than he who, through good and evil,. Kept what he as boy had sworn. Never has with cruel vengeance He his victory defiled. Great he was, yea I even greater When no longer fortune smiled. Vain have Boma's hate and slander Striven to pollute his fame ; Koma, that with terror stricken, Quailed before his mighty name. lis Roma that, like spectre-haunted, Throbbed in slavish fear and throe, Till his spirit, never broken. Dwelled no longer here below. And the monuments erected To him by no mortal hand, Will, to his immortal glory, Witnesses for ever stand. Live he shall, as long as lordly Eagle o'er the Alpine heads, Soaring through aerial regions. His majestic pinions spreads. Live he shall as long as Trebia's And Ticinus' torrents flow. And around the Trasumenus Zephyrs o'er the olive blow. Live he shall, as long as glorious Shines the sun, and dust and rain Sweep o'er those whose ashes mingle With the dust in Cannae's plain. Ramsgate, November, 1874. 114 COUNTESS DONAR. MY FATHER'S TALE. EEMEMBRANCES OF 26tH OF MAY, 1866. Leave off thy work, my son, the twilight harms Thine eyesight ; take thy chair, and place it close Here by my side, for I must speak to thee. Impress upon thy mind, and ponder on The story I am going to relate. Thou shouldst have known it long ago, yet thou Wast then too young, and so I did not wish To fill thy mind with superstitious fear. But now thou art a man, and as we soon Must sever, and we ne'er may meet again — For I am old and frail — I think it right That thou shouldst know an awful strange event Which happened years ago, and earnestly Remindeth that the spirits of all those Whose hearts were full of vanity and pride, POEMS. 115 Forgetting Him who ruleth over us, Are not allowed to sleep the sleep of death, But doomed to wander nightly here below. Eleven years ago, my son, I held The office of a pastor in that place That kindly Providence to us assigned, When fate had made us quit our sunny home. Well dost thou know its name, although thine eyes Ne'er saw it, for thou wast then privileged To dwell among those venerable men Who watched o'er thee to shape and train thy mind. A charming spot that little hamlet was, With pleasant gardens and delightful walks. Resounding with the melodies of birds. A grove of venerable elm and oak That crowned the summit of a lonely hill Hid in its midst an ancient convent's walls. The light- winged bats' and nightbirds' fav'rite haunts ; And proud and grand rose o'er the humble huts A handsome castle with four stately tow'rs. 116 POEMS. Some distance from the village, on the west, There stretches duskily in endlessness An olden forest, to whose sombre shades An avenue of lofty linden leads. Between the village and the forest lies. Hard by the north side of the avenue, A sacred spot, — *' the Garden of the Dead ;" — It forms a spacious square, enclosed by walls Scarce four feet high, so that the wand'rer's eye Can see the crosses which adorn the graves ; And at each corner, and at right and left Of its low gate, a granite pillar stands Surmounted by a gilded metal globe. But on the side where passes by the road. The time-worn wall is lined with dusky pines, Whose boughs have woven in the course of time A texture that no eye can penetrate. That row of trees is interrupted there. Where by the iron gate the path begins Which leads the pilgrim to his last abode. And parts in two the Garden of the Dead. 117 Now, hamlet, castle, fields, and woods around Belonged unto Count Donar in that time. The last descendant of a famous race That bright had shone through many centuries. A handsome man he was, and kind and large The heart that in his manly bosom beat ; And all who knew him loved and honoured him. Within his castle ruled his beauteous wife Whom he adored, for though she had been wooed By many an earl and duke of high renown — On him she had bestowed her heart and hand. She was adorned with every outward charm And grace, and all the fascinating gifts That on a woman nature can bestow, And men are wont in women to admire. She would have been her noble consort's bHss Had she possessed a tender feeling heart. But she was vain, and proud of rank and name, And looked upon the low disdainfully. Her time she wasted in the fleeting taste Of all those pleasures riches can afibrd ; 118 POEMS. Her hall resounded every winter night With strains of music and the graceful step Of dancers gaily dressed* Amidst a host Of crafty parasites and flatterers On whom she lavished recklessly her gold, She loved to Hsten to the songs that praised Her matchless beauty's charms, or eulogized The sentimental verses which she penned. And so she ever shunned all earnest thought, Seemed unaware that once the day must come When He, who sees our good and evil deeds. Commands us to appear before His face. Her good, but too indulgent Count's requests Had been in vain, yea ! e'en the sudden death Of her two sons, the father's pride, had failed To turn her mind to Him, before whose throne She would be summoned unexpectedly. One winter night she had retired to rest As usual, and lay in slumber's arms. When all at once in terror she awoke, 119 All shivering with wet and icy cold. A sudden blast had opened with a clash A window that had carelessly been closed, And V7hirled the snow upon her breast and face. Next morn she strove in vain to leave her couch ; A fatal fever seized upon her nerves ; In spite of her devoted husband's care, And all that art could do, her end drew near. Yet, though she by his drooping head and tears, And his request to pray to Him on high. Ought to have felt that now her hour had come, She haughtily refused to pray to Him Who can appease the throbs of agony. And when I, bidden by the Count, approached To speak to her, as ministers of God Must speak to those who are about to die, And offered her the sacramental cup, She wildly rose upon her couch and screamed : *' Out of my sight ; I will not, cannot die ! " And with the words, ** I will not, cannot die,'^ She sank upon her pillow and was dead. 120 They laid her low a few days afterwards. Her grave lies by the wall where ends the path That parts the Garden of the Dead in two. About two months had waned, when all at once The Count, who hitherto had borne his grief With resignation, seemed to have become Another, for he looked so strange, and spoke And acted strangely, as a man whose mind Is wandering. Strange rumours went abroad ; The Countess — people whispered — was denied That sleep that ends when Heaven's trumpet calls. Her spirit haunted every night — they said — The castle, and disturbed her husband's rest. One day he left the hamlet, nevermore Again 'mong us to dwelL A stranger came And took possession of the fine estates. He was not like the Count — indifferent To art and nature's beauty, soon he changed The gardens, groves and shady walks to fields. In course of time the rumours which about 121 The Countess through the village went, expired ; And people seemed to think of her no more. It was upon one calm October night, The moon shone full in placid brilliancy, Some stars were twinkling on the cloudless sky, Thy mother had already gone to rest And slumbered peacefully ; but I sat still, Wake in my room before an open book And pondered o'er a passage, when my thoughts Were interrupted by a noise without. Attentively I listened, and I heard A heavy carriage, which drove slowly up And stopped before the gate, and wondering Who called so late, for it was midnight time, I hurried downstairs, oped the door, and saw An aged man just stepping from a coach. As soon as he beheld me, he approached. Saluting me with that deep reverence That country people show to ministers. When asked what his late visit's reason was. 122 POEMS. He fervently entreated me to come And see his dying master who desired To pray with me, that comforted by pray'r He fearlessly might meet the fatal hour When soul and body sever, one to face The Judge, the other to return to dust. The dying man's abode T ascertained Lay in the forest, by the road which runs Through its whole length, from north to south, and meets The avenue that to the village leads. Now, as that avenue of linden trees — Whose roots oft bare of soil wind o'er the road In many places — hinders carriages From passing speedily and smoothly on, And, as the night was chilly, I resolved To walk the avenue, and told the man To drive on gently, and to wait for me There where the roads hard by the forest meet, And where I, by all means, should join him soon. But then the old man shook his head, and said : POEMS. 123^ *' It is not good to walk so late alone, For midnight — people say — is no one's friend. Yet you know better, sir, you see I am An ignorant old superstitious man, And have oft queer ideas in my brain ; I will obey your orders and drive on, And wait for you at the appointed spot." And, saying this, he started, but I smiled At his strange superstitious fear, and went Into thy mother's chamber to inform Her of the duty which called me from home. Then after I had said farewell to her, And kissed thy sister slumb'ring on her arm, I went away, proceeding speedily. The solemn silence, reigning everywhere. Was interrupted only now and then By the discordant gloomy screams of owls Which round the moonlit castle-towers whirled. Well, I pressed forward, lost in earnest thoughts. Reflecting o'er the nothingness of life, And had just reached the Garden of the Dead, 124 POEMS. Whose hoary wall was near unto my right, When all at once another seemed to move On close by me, but on the grave-yard side. Behind the trees I heard a lady's foot Step gently o'er the turf, together with The feeble rustling of a silken dress That lightly touched the needles of the pines. And as involuntarily I paused. The steps and rustling of the silken dress Were heard no more ; — whilst wond'ring what could be The reason of that noise, and as I looked At left, and looked before me and behind. The thought arose it might have been my dog Which on my walks oft followed me from far, And so I called him, but no dog appeared. Believing then I must have had some strange Illusion of my senses, I went on Again as usual, but scarcely had I moved when I once more distinctly heard Behind the dusky pines a lady's foot Step gently o'er the turf, together with 125 The feeble rustling of a silken dress That lightly touched the needles of the pines. Then, thinking that some evil-minded man Had come with bad intentions, I prepared For self-defence, and looking hard at right, Whence that weird noise proceeded, I advanced And reached the gate — and there ! — most awful sight — My blood froze in my veins, I felt my hair Stand up on end, out of my forehead oozed Drops of cold sweat, for by the iron gate Stood Countess Donar, dead nine months before. The moonlight shone upon her pallid face ; She stared with strange, wide open eyes at me, As would she say " Whence thou so late by night ! " In wild dismay I strove to flee at first, Yet stupor-stricken stood I firm and fast ; For some mysterious power held me back. Bewildering my senses through and through. But He, my son, who watches over all, In His great mercy soon restored the light Of reason to my soul, and loosed the weight 126 POEMS. That held my feet in bonds, and, looking down, I went on slowly, hearing as before The same step o'er the turf, together with The feeble rustling of the silken dress That lightly touched the needles of the pines. But when I reached the wall's extremity I heard a clash as if the iron gate Were shut by some one in an augry mood. Then all was quiet ; passing quicker on I found the man at the appointed place ; He fixed his eye on me inquiringly, But I told him to haste ; we ne'er exchanged A word till by his master's house we stood. Surrounded by his family I found The dying man ; his weeping wife led me Unto his bedside ; he departed hence A few hours later, peaceful and resigned. Just as far in the east the autumn sun Was rising, I reached home, and gently stepped Into thy mother's room, who lovingly Watched o'er thy sister, who was slumb'ring still. 127 But scarcely bad she seen me, when she screamed, *' Oh, heavens ; pray, what has befallen thee ! " And, as I accidentally looked round, A glance that at the glass I cast, revealed That in that midnight hour I had become An altered man — my hair was white as snow. 128 THY WILL BE DONE. The evening sun emblazons With floods of golden light The dusky oak trees' summits That crown the Alpine height. The heaven- towering mountains Stretch like some misty veil Their dim gigantic shadows Already o'er the dale. They bear down in the hamlet, Along the beech-lined road, A weary way-worn pilgrim Unto his last abode. In thrilling doleful accents The church-bells sigh and ring,. Responding to their dirges Deep solemn voices sing : — POEMS. 129 How happy those Who after grief In long repose Find sweet relief. In narrow shrine, In arms of sleep No more they pine, No more they weep. For sorrows cease ' Beneath the grass. But rest and peace Shall never pass. How happy he Beneath the moss. Who patiently Has borne his cross ,* 130 POEMS. Who after strife And woe gone by The crown of life Shall wear on high. Yea ! happy all Whom He from here Above doth call To brighter sphere. They shall behold On thrones of light The Saints of old, Arrayed in white, And hear the throng Of sacred choirs Burst through the song Of sainted lyres : — POEMS. 131 ** Thy will be done, Thy will be done ; Glory, glory, glory Unto Thee, great Father be, Thou wast from eternity, As Thou art and e'er shalt be. Holy, holy, holy. Thou wast ere the hoary Time and universe begun ; Thou wast from eternity With Thine only loving Son, And Thou shalt for ever be Holy, holy, holy,— Thy will be done." Thus sound the solemn voices Vibrating through the dell. And with them harmonizes The melancholy knell. 182 POEMS. Where on the lofty mountain The gloomy forest ends, With quickened step a wanderer Down to the village wends. His heart is swelled with gladness. He sings a cheerful song, He does not hear the dirges That moan the dell along. Across the briny ocean, In lands far, far from here, 'Mid strangers he has laboured And toiled full many a year. Now with abundant guerdon For travail, pain and toil, Fair winds have swiftly wafted Him back to native soil. POEMS. 133 And on he strideth singing Till he beholds at last The vale o'er which the mountains Their misty shadows cast. With moistened eye he gazes Upon the tranquil dell, Where those for whom he laboured, In humble cottage dwell. How will his aged father And mother thrill with joy When on their throbbing bosoms Again they clasp their boy. How will the maidens marvel And all his boyhood's mates, When he his strange adventures In foreign lands relates. 184 Hark ! hark ! there rings A strain below, It weeps and sings Like whispered woe^ It quivers through The air like sighs. And rises to The dim grey skies. It wails and groans, It pants aud throbs. It heaves and moans, And gasps and sobs. As to the strains he listens That through the silence breaks His heart that felt so gladsome Begins to heave and ache. POEMS. 135 For evening bells' sweet music Are not the tunes he hears, Their notes have never sounded So sad in former years. And on he passes slowly, In woe unspeakable, Deep in his heart re-echoes The tolling of the knell. In sadness lost he reaches His hamlet, and behold ! There stands the homely cottage Still as it stood of old. The two dark pine-trees also That once his father's hand In days of yore there planted Still in the garden stand. 136 O'erhung by dusky ivy, The little windows seem To twinkle through the foliage At him as in a dream. In prey of strange emotions By him ne'er felt before, He moveth slowly onward And halteth by the door. But hesitates to enter, And wends in nameless gloom Unto the leaf-screened window To peep into the room. Yet there no living creature He doth behold or hear, The old clock's dreary tick-tack Alone falls on his ear. 137 And as he sighing gazes Around, his searching eye Beholds a village maiden That swiftly passes by. *' Stop, stop, a little moment," He says, ** my maiden dear. Perchance thou know'st what people Live in the cottage here." Hark ! hark ! there rings And weeps again, And tolls and sings The dismal strain. It quivers through The air like sighs, And rises to The dim grey skies. 138 POEMS. It wails and groans, It pants and sobs, It heaves and moans, And gasps and throbs. " This cottage stands forsaken,'* The maiden doth reply, '* Those who lived here together Both in the churchyard lie. They bore the woman yonder To rest three months ago, The man died broken-hearted, Just now they laid him low.'* So says the maid and hurries Away, aloud he sobs. With pungent quick pulsations His bosom wildly throbs. 139 But swiftly on dark pinions The messenger of death Descendeth, and his features He fans with icy breath. The wanderer's senses vanish, Dim shades sink on his eyes, He totters, falls, and dying In his last prayer sighs : " Father, King of Glory, Have mercy on Thy son, Lift up my soul to heaven. Thy will, Thy will be done." The church-bells toll no longer. Away has died the strain Whose melancholy music Has sung the dirge for twain. 140 POEMS. But through dell, air and mountains Accords of echoes throng, Subdued like spirits' whisper, They softly sing the song : — " Thy will be done. Thy will be done, Everlasting Father, Who Thine own Around Thy throne In due time dost gather. Glory, glory, glory Unto Thee for ever be, Thou wast from eternity As Thou art and e'er shalt be, Holy, holy, holy. Thou wast ere the hoary Time and universe begun, Holy, holy,Jioly. 141 Thou wast from eternity With Thine only loving Son, And Thou shalt for ever be Holy, holy, holy,— Thy will be done. Manchesteb, May 27th, 1875. 142 POEMS. SOMEONE KISSED ME IN MY DEEAM, Someone kissed me in my dream, Grasped me, clasped me, pressed me tightly, Someone's eyes transparent gleam As of yore on me shone brightly. On my shoulder leaned a head, Leaned again as in the olden Times that have for ever fled — Someone's head with ringlets golden. On my heart with woe oppressed I another heart felt throbbing. On my breast I felt a breast Heaving heavily with sobbing. On my faded cheek once more Glowed a cheek whose tender pressure Made my bosom as of yore Glad with woe and sad with pleasure. 143 And again I heard a breath, Heard sweet words half sighed, half spoken, Words of love and faith till death, Words of faith ne'er to be broken. Mine I called her as of old. Softest words in whispers saying, Whilst my fingers through the gold Of her ringlets' maze were straying. And again, whilst overjoyed As of old in sunnier season. Serpent's hiss and bite destroyed Suddenly my bliss by treason. As of old I felt again From my dream in tears awaking, All the throe and puugent pain Of a heart with sorrow breaking. 144 POEMS. So she came — comes many a night- Ah ! in vain I ask the reason, For she, once my soul's delight, Marred my happiness by treason. And fain would in dreams I kiss Even now her silken tresses, Tremble dreaming with the bliss Of her kisses and caresses ; But that serpent's bite of yore Stings through every dream and slumber. Stirring in my bosom's core Sleeping sorrows' nameless number. 27th December, 1875. POEMS. 145^ IN THE PARK. On the twenty- second day In the lovely month of May, I sat with my heart's loved lady 'Neath an elm-tree dark and shady — 'Neath an elm-tree shady-dark, In the blossom-scented park. And from every tree and bush Blackbird, nightingale, and thrush Warbled forth in sweetest metre Songs of joy and love, but sweeter Than the melody of birds Chimed my fair love's whispered words. Deeper than the roses' glow Was her soft cheeks' blossom's blow, And the waving of her tresses 'Mid the zephyr-wind's caresses Breathed around me sweeter bliss Than round roses zephyr's kiss. 146 POEMS. In the mirror of her eyes, Blue and soft like cloudless skies, Milder than the May-moon gleaming, On me with affection beaming. Mine eyes drank a happiness, Like the ocean fathomless. Lost in bliss three hours I passed, Matchless hours that fled too fast. Hours I ever shall remember. Though for evermore love's ember. Rising once to flames so bright. Died long since in chilling night. When in lovely month of May, On the twenty- second day. Birds again sang songs of gladness, I once more, but lost in sadness. Pondered, lonesome 'neath the elm In the blossom- scented realm. POEMS. 147 And the mem'ry of her voice That once made my heart rejoice, Echoed thin like serpents' hisses ; The remembrance of her kisses, Once my soul's supreme delight, Stung my core like serpent's bite. Twelve months since I little guessed Whom upon my breast I pressed, Little that vile bosom's pressure Made my heart thus thrill with pleasure, That I clasped lewd limbs, for gold To the highest bidder sold. June 6th, 1876. 148 POEMS. FANNY. SHEFFIELD, 1870. I. Dost thou still remember that time When free from sorrow and woe, Our hearts beguiled by dreams sublime Knew heaven on earth below ? Dost thou remember those Eden hours We passed in the moonlit dale, Listening there 'mid perfumed flow'rs To the song of the nightingale ? . Dost thou remember that linden tree Where often we met alone, Where thou whisperedst softly to me Thou wouldst be for ever my own ? POEMS' 149 Dost thou remember the vows of thine My soul was eager to hear ? Ah ! that sweet voice and those accents divine Seem yet to resound in mine ear. Dost thou remember that sainted spot Where last thine eye beamed on me ? Dost thou still keep the forget-me-not And the ring then I gave to thee ? Dost thou remember that golden time, Those days of sunshine and glow, When rapturous dreams and hope sublime Made a heaven on earth below ? Spring and summer return as of yore, And nightingales warble in May, But our spring returneth no more. Too soon it has faded away. 150 POEM» Bright hope and sweet joy have flown, Have passed like the waves of a stream, The heart forsaken mourneth alone — All, alas ! was but a dream. Arundel Park, May 7th, 1873. 151 II. HAEBORNE, NEAR BIRMINGHAM. Is it a fancy ? Can it be truth, That the golden moments of yore That deHghted the days of my youth, Should rise in their splendour once more ? Is it reality ? Ah ! may I well Believe my soul ? Doth the time Of nine years ago, like a wondrous spell, Eise again with those visions sublime ? Is it a dream ? Nay, it is no dream — No dream, for do I not see Those eyes that in love on me used to beam, Shine again as of yore upon me ? It is no dream, for do I not clasp That lovely form that of old Yainly I oft had striven to grasp And to retain in my hold ? 152 POEMS. It is no dream, for do I not hear That voice that nine years ago Fell like music upon mine ear, And filled me with joy and woe ? It is no dream, for have I not passed Many an hour in bright bliss ? Have not her lips on mine closing fast Made me thrill with many a kiss ? Have not my fingers tremblingly strayed Again through her ringlets' gold, Whilst her own so matchlessly played Those tunes I loved well of old ? Nine years of woe and sorrow are gone ; Nine years of gloom and pain Seem now like a dim dull dream to have flown- And all, all is sunshine again. Haetborne, Sunday, March 16th, 1879. 153 III. HEATON CHAPEL. Wonderful, bright was the bliss, and sublime That when the years numbered nine, Began in my heart for the second time In all its glory to shine. But my joy was too bright long to last, Unrivalled in brilliancy. Like a meteor it blazed, and has passed — For fate had grown jealous of me. Fate has now made for evermore twain Those two that ought to be one ; Now we never can meet again Till time has ceased to roll on. But, though lost for ever thou art. Yea ! evermore lost for me ; This I feel well, that ever my heart Will cling but to thee, but to thee. 154 POEMS. Yea ! cleave and cling unto thee will I fast In spite of the nameless wrong ; My sole love thou wast, my first love and last — And first love is matchlessly strong. Weep I will now, and seek for relief In the mournful strains of my harp ; Sing I will too, to soften my grief — And my grief is bitter and sharp. Sing of thee and those memories sweet I will till I breathe my last breath ; Until my sad heart has ceased to beat, Until I am wedded to death. And then I will, sleeping in narrow shrine — Forgetting the deep, sharp, old woe — Dream but of those wonderful dreams of mine. That twice cheered my heart here below. Sunday, April 27th, 1879. 155 MY BURIAL. One night I dreamed that I was dead, My soul saw how they bore My weary body to the bed Where sorrows are no more. Behind the shrine wherein I slept, Upon the gloomy bier, My father in affliction wept Full many a bitter tear. With woe my mother's bosom throbbed And heaved a pray'r of sighs, In agony my sister sobbed. Dim were my brother's eyes. In earnest talk my friends were lost, One whispered "Yea ! 'tis best ; Too much on life's wild ocean tossed He yearned for peace and rest." 156 POEMS. *' That wound of his has ceased to smart- Faith twice vowed, twice betrayed Had poisoned his confiding heart " — The other sadly said ; ** Yea, well he loved, and he loved still When dying ; he forgave " — The third said, "Wonder if she will Come once to see his grave." While sorrow-laden thus they spoke. Away my vision fled, Remembrance-stung in tears I woke And wished that I were dead. Heaton Chapel, Sept. ISth, 1879. POEMS. 157 LOOKING BACK. In remembrance of days that have perished, Some days full of sunshine and glow, In the mem'ry of what I most cherished And ever shall prize here below ; In remembrance of all the sweet pleasure I felt, and the joys deep and bright When I loved with a love beyond measure Strong, true and as pure as the light ; — To comfort my heart in its sadness. To forget the unspeakable wrong That marred my soul's heavenly gladness When my faith in her faith was most strong ; To quench the wild pain that corroded My heart like tongues cruel and sharp, To stifle the wrath that exploded, I often of old tuned my harp. 158 At the time wlien the evening gold lingers, In spring when the nightingale sings, I loved to muse lone, while my fingers Passed tremblingly over its strings. 'Mid flow'rets that dreamily Hstened — In wonderment lost — to the tune, I played till the rivulet glistened In the silvery light of the moon. And the whispers that plaintively trembled, And the echoes that sighed of my fate, Were songs sad and sweet, and resembled The blackbird's that mourns for his mate ; Yet they soothed and ne'er failed to deliver My heart from the nameless wild throe. Like a draught sipped from Lethe's deep river That hushes man's sorrows and woe. Like nepenthe they banished the sombre Ideas that saddened my breast, And my eyelids grew heavy with slumber, And I relished the blessings of rest. POEMS. 169 Briglit dreams with full many a story- Delighted my soul and unrolled In beautiful scenes all the glory And charm of some dead hours of old. But oft when my bosom throbbed wilder, And I brooded revenge in my grief, Forgetting past bliss, then those milder Soft strains brought no longer relief. Then the dusky fresh groves and glad fountains I scorned in my wrath, and fled deep There where 'mid the woody wild mountains The torrents' waves angrily leap. And at the weird music of thunder And the flashes of lightning that split The gigantic proud oak-trees asunder I rejoiced and loved lonely to sit. And tunes ever shriller and sharper In my maddening anger were torn From the strings, till the harp and the harper At length grew dull, weary and worn. 160 And the slumber that followed was broken By visions strange, dismal and drear, Words of old that in love once were spoken Eang thin through my dream in mine ear. In my wrath I imagined I hated With all the deep hatred of hell ; When the storm in my breast had abated I felt that I loved but too well : Yet my love was not after the fashion Of the world, was no common desire, My love was the soul's love, lewd passion Never stained its ethereal fire. I ever resisted temptation. Kept clean and controlled heart and mouth, Though the fairest of many a nation I met in north, east, west, and south. The charm of sweet face and fair body. The ring of soft voice left me cold ; My soul's sole delight was the study Of the wonderful dead times of old, POEMS. 161 My spirit seemed dreamlike transplanted To the realms of the classical ground, Where my fancy would wander enchanted With all the great mem'ries around. Yea ! around me they hovered like airy Weird phantoms in mystery draped, As if touched by the wand of some fairy. They grew substance, and body, and shaped. All the marvels that long, long since ended. Ancient scenes full of grandeur and awe. Long since to oblivion descended, In immaculate lustre I saw. There Athens rose clad in chaste splendours^ There the sun over Marathon beamed. With liberty's gallant defenders The billows round Salamis teemed. In the distance Thermop^ylae's hoary Dim mass told of him and his brave Three hundred who, laden with glory. Dream the happiest dream in their grave. 162 And the Parthenon stood as beholden Of yore by the marvelling eye, In beauty and pride on the olden Grey rock 'neath a matchless blue sky ; And my spirit saw throng round its portals — Whilst ravished by Sapphic accords — Vast numbers of laurel-wreathed mortals, Some with lyres in their hands, some with sword And a voice, with an echo tremendous. Swept the sea, swept land, mountains and air ; And, behold, in proportions stupendous. Stood unrivalled the Parthenon there. And the hosts whispered gladly and lowly. Well they knew whence proceeded the call ; On they moved, and their throng filled the holy Vast realm of the glory-decked hall. No woman's false laughter derided The Olympian spell of the place, Where Pallas Athene presided. Chaste, calm, full of wisdom and grace. POEMS. 163 And the eyes of my soul wept delighted, And my spirit rejoiced to behold As a laurel-wound garland united All the great of the dead times of old. Sweet Helikon, hoary Parnassus, Had sent there their numberless crowd ; Him I saw o^ whom Halikarnassus, And the Muses may justly be proud. And the greatest of ancient comedians Stood there with strange fire in his eyes ; I beheld the three matchless tragedians, With lyres shaped in wonderful wise. On a throne of white marble, far whiter Than the first soft untrodden white snow, With a halo of light around, brighter Than the rays when at noontide they glow, I beheld the most noble of singers, Seven cities' pride, glory, and boast. Whose mighty lyre's echo still lingers Like a spell over land, sea, and coast. 164 POEMS. With features grand, noble, and solemn — Like spirits that ponder and brood — At the foot of a towering column Thukydides, Xenophon stood. And Socrates taught and astounded His hearers with wonderful lore, Whilst Plato divine there expounded A doctrine ne'er heard of before. He who spoke once in voices of thunder 'Gainst the vile Macedonian lord — That broke the old freedom asunder With the edge of his treacherous sword — Stood there like some god elevated, Full of dignity, angry and proud, In marvellous wise he debated. And appealed to the hearts of the crowd. ^ Him I saw who had struggled and striven In virtues his city to raise By the excellent laws he had given, Lakedaemon's bright glory and praise ; POEMS. 165 And the grand world-renowned legislator As a god 'mid the sages there stood, And Perikles too, the creator Of Athenian splendour I viewed. Whilst my spirit's eyes searched, I detected Him through whose incomparable skill The Parthenon had been erected Upon the remembrance-thronged hill. The great mortal T saw who had lavished New life upon her who of old By the gods in a storm had been ravished, Transmuted to stone dead and cold. As my soul still on fancy's wing hovered O'er the scene full of lustre and awe, Piythagoras there I discovered, And great Archimedes I saw ; At Parrhasius' canvass astounded Gazed Zeuxis and yielded the palm, And Apelles, whose art once confounded The courtiers, stood grand there and calm. 16G All the heroes of battle there mustered, All the heroes of freedom and right, Eound Pallas Athene they clustered In armour most brilliant and bright. Their features flashed courage and anger, And their bright eyes shot glances like darts, As had the shout, din, clash and clangour Of fight stirred the core of their hearts. There shone he for whom Thetis the waters Had left to bewail the loved boy. O'er whom laurelled Apollo's nine daughters Wept nine days and nine nights before Troy ; Whose ashes now slumber and mingle With those of Patroklos renowned. In the grave that high over the shingle Stands proud, immortality-crowned. Agamemnon's, his flaxen-haired brother's Face I saw, and on Nestor I gazed. On Antilochos, more than all others For filial piety praised. 167 In the flush of his strength, in the flower Of youth Neoptolemos shone, And mighty, in battle a tower Rose Aias there, Telamon's son. My soul saw the noble Messenians, Whose glory two fortresses tell. Great Spartans, immortal Athenians, 'Neath whose swords the barbarians fell ; Their chieftains all stood there surrounded By the radiant lustre of fame, Whilst the echoes of ages resounded With many an illustrious name. And mine eyes in great ecstacy greeted Two heroes of god-like renown, By fate once most cruelly treated, Now decked with most glorious crown. Though strangers they had been invited. For great deeds they had wrought here below^ Of nectar they tasted delighted, Since Lethe had banished their woe. 168 One, the glory and pride of the daughters That of yore had adorned the fair East, Had left old Skamander's bright waters To join as a friend the great feast. Yea ! Hector I saw in full splendour, 'Mid stars a most beautiful sun. Proud Ilion's gallant defender. In valour exceeded by none. The other's keen glances resembled The eagle's that soars through the air, Kome's citizens often had trembled At the sound of his name in despair. "When a boy he had vowed on the altar To hate Rome till he breathed his last breath, Not once in his life did he falter. His word he had kept till his death. — In visions like these I would revel, In revels like these take delight. And my soul soared high over the level Of the world in fantastical flight. 169 To its joys I had been but a stranger, I possessed in my bosom a source Of joys of my own, and no danger. Grief or woe made me swerve from my course. Yea ! oft have I wondered if any Man or woman besides me, forsooth, Here below could have witnessed so many Strange changes since earliest youth. My father's tongue was not my mother's. That I speak, in my teens not my own ; A tongue it was unto my brothers, Father, mother, and sisters unknown. Far south where the midland-sea's waters Sigh like some majestical choir Of the charms of those raven-haired daughters That inspired once the troubadour's lyre — There the light of the world mine eyes greeted Full thirty- six summers ago ; Away there mine infancy fleeted As a dream free from sorrow and woe. 170 When a child I would never take pleasure In pastimes by children most prized, And those innocent sports boys most treasure And value, I ever despised. I would shun scenes of mirth, joy, and laughter ^ They never delighted my soul ; But in dreams I indulged, striving after Some vague and fantastical goal. Dim legends of fancy -born glories Made me thrill with unspeakable joy, And listen to mystical stories I would with delight when a boy. By the shore of the sea I would ponder, By the seashore I lonely would roam, And the hazy weird regions of wonder And dreamland I chose for my home. Thus twelve of my summers had vanished, And another mild May-month came forth ^ When whimsical destiny banished Those I loved to the realms of the north. POEMS. 171 All the links with the bright south were broken, And the tongue that for more than twelve years 'Neath a matchless soft sky I had spoken Re-echoed no more in mine ears. And another whose accents first sounded Discordant when matched with my own, And my delicate nerves oft confounded Became mine when four seasons had flown. Soon the land of dark forests I cherished — Soon the land of ideas I blessed, Though the mem'ry of home never perished. But lived on — a bright dream in my breast. Soon the love for dim legends and stories Delighted my fancy no more. But the passion blazed forth for the glories, For the grandeur of classical lore. There those beauties and charms I discovered That transfigured the days of my life. As spirits unseen round me hovered. And bore me through struggle and strife. 172 POEMS. But behold ! all at once when eleven Years had vanished, there blew a strange breath, On swift pinions descended from heaven. The angel of sorrow and death. A cypress- wreath decked his dark tresses, A pale lily he held in his hand, And he lavished his chilling caresses On the young and the old in the land. When my loved ones to e'erlasting slumber, When my loved ones to death had been wed, From my home dull, forsaken and sombre, In deep sorrow for ever I fled ; And the life of a pilgrim, a iipver I lived, felt no longing for rest. Crossed many a sea, wandered over Many lands in north, east, south, and west ; Heard the sad and sweet songs of the daughters That dwell round the Don, have been tossed On the brow of those treacherous waters That Leander for Hero's sake crossed. POEMS. 173 Father Nile sighed, as slowly he glided Of sad change, he alone without change, And the Pyramids* silence confided Me a story fantastical- strange. By the banks of the Tiber I pondered Over grandeur for evermore gone, By Kephissos' stream sadly I wondered At the lustre for evermore flown ; Mine eyes have beholden the sainted Eemains of great Phidias' art, I have breathed where Euripides painted • The innermost depths of the heart. I have mused 'neath the whispering willows That by the white Vistula stand, I struggled with death in the billows That hiss foaming round Heligoland, And after three years full of danger, A life full of labour and toil, I greeted — a wandering stranger — The realms of fair Albion's soil. 174 POEMS. Here it was in the year eighteen hundred And seventy, when in my breast My soul from my being was sundered ; For such was fate's cruel behest. On the fourteenth day — well I remember. — In April it was, when my heart Overflowed with a bliss that September Saw like a strange vision depart. And I sorrowed four years in succession. And I struggled four years to forget, Though I knew that the longed-for possession Meant repentance in store, and regret ; Though the gulf 'twixt our souls was the distance That separates heaven from hell, First impressions had linked mine existence To her name like some magical spell. Though the deep admiration soon dwindled, Yet long after the spell of that name, And the passion and flame she had kindled. Burned on through my fibres the same. POEMS. 175 Yea ! the mem'ries of all those sweet pleasures Of a love that was noble and pure Remained in my bosom like treasures Whose possession ne'er fails to allure. From the mem'ries of first admiration, That shone through my night like bright dreams Sprang forth all my sweet inspiration, Were born many fanciful dreams ; Then often my anger relented, And forgetting the treason and wrong, The heart in my bosom repented Of those songs that in wrath I had sung. And in shady green groves unbeholden. To my harp dreaming clasped in my arm I confided those olden, those golden Strange mem'ries unparalleled charm. Then my spirit no longer seemed saddened. And my heart felt most holy and calm. As had it been soothed, healed, and gladdened By the magic of Gilead's balm. 176 POEMS. Thus I sang while the years slowly vanished All my songs, and most songs for her sake,. Till I said to my soul : *' Let be banished That spell, and thy bonds strive to break. Thy weakness shake off, for the number Of years we have wasted is four ; Let thy passion for evermore slumber. Her mem'ries shall haunt us no more. " Tear the web she has artfully woven, Tear the threads of the net she has spun,. For those who in spirit are cloven, Must never in body be one. He, whose love is a purified passion. He, whose love is a love without stain, And she, who loves after the fashion Of the world, must for ever be twain." This I said, and my only endeavour Was to free my poor heart from the hold Of that powerful spell, and for ever To bury those mem'ries of old. 177 On a nail that with age had grown rusty, My true harp hung, forgotten, alone, Till its tuneful bright strings had waxed dusty, Till the spider's abode it had grown. And the days and the months thus waned slowly Till five years with their seasons had passed, And I weened in my heart I had wholly Forgotten, had conquered at last ; But destiny turned to derision The hopes and the fancies I reared When once more like a magical vision To my wondering eyes she appeared. Though nine winters the world had grown older, Though nine years since we parted had fled, Though I fancied my blood had waxed colder, The love I weened dead, was not dead ; It burst forth as if quickened and bidden To rise to new life by some god. As shall rise one day those who lie hidden Fast asleep 'neath the sheltering sod. / 178 Yea ! I saw her again in the splendour Of those charms that once dazzled my sight And once more as of old that fair slender Form I clasped on my heart with delight. As of olden a show'r of caresses Enraptured mine innermost core, And the gold of her sunny soft tresses I twined round my fingers once more. And I said to my harp : *' Lo ! forsaken Thou hast lain now full many a year, From thy dreams, from thy torpor awaken, Yea ! awaken glad tidings to hear ; For those two who were cloven asunder By fate, shall no longer be twain, And of triumph a song, joy and wonder Thou shalt sing in most rapturous strain." And a flow of divine inspiration Made me thrill with mellifluous throng. And I sang in my heart's exultation Of my bliss my most musical song ; POEMS. 179 ! Sang anew of the heavenly pleasure, Of my hopes and my visions sublime ; For mine was again that sweet treasure That I owned in the happy old time. But the days of my second bright season, Those few days of new sunshine and glow. As of olden were darkened by treason, And my joy turned to sorrow and woe. Those dear words of true love that were spoken. Those sweet whispers of faith that were sighed. As of yore were forgotten, were broken, And my heart once more cruelly tried. And once more, as of old disenchanted. Of the sweetest of visions discrowned, My spirit in agony panted. And I craved for rest under the ground. Yea ! I craved for a lonesome spot under The grass, longed to sleep in the deep Till aroused by the judgment- day's thunder. When the dead rise to life from their sleep. 180 Tills I wished when my mind was delivered To the throbs of most merciless pain, When once more from my harp lowly quivered A dirge of most sorrowful strain ; When my heart, as of old, well nigh faltered 'Neath the weight of the woe in my breast, And I waxed wroth with fate that had altered My designs — now I know — for my best — l'\))' our sjmits ivould ever have wrangled Had we once in the flesh been made one ; Problematical fate disentangled The net she had matchlessly spun. Yea ! fate looked upon me with meekness, Fate gave me the comfort I sought, And endowed me with strength in my weakness. To win the long fight that I fought. And the sceptre she queen-like had wielded For nine years, and the spell of her sway To whose power my heart twice had yielded. Have vanished for ever away. POEMS. 181 Though her face since I oft have beholden In the splendour of beauty, my heart Quailed no more with delight as of olden 'Neath the siren-like charm of her art — And now, since the story is written Of my love, the sole love in my life, My bosom no longer feels bitten By the mem'ries of sorrow and strife. Now my spirit unfettered has risen As of old to most glorious state Since the bar of that magical prison Was broken by mystical fate. Now again in those pleasures I revel That of yore were my chiefest delight, Now my soul soars once more o'er the level Of the world in fantastical flight. And my heart that in agony panted Through nine years, now feels lusty and sound,. While my fancy once more roams enchanted O'er the realms of the classical ground. MANCHESTER : ABEL HEYWOOD A^D SON^ PRINTERS. ^v. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. MAY 2 1968^ ^